Free Crow Country by Kate Constable

them at school?’
    â€˜No, I had them last night when we went to the pub.’
    â€˜Did you leave them there?’
    â€˜Dunno. Can’t remember. Maybe.’
    Ellie raised her magazine. ‘You’d better go and get them then.’
    â€˜Now? But it’s dark!’
    â€˜I’m not made of money, you know. I can’t afford to buy you new gloves every five minutes.’
    â€˜You got a new scarf,’ said Sadie. ‘And a new beanie.’
    â€˜But I haven’t lost them, have I?’
    Sadie muttered, ‘If you hadn’t stayed up all night yakking to David, you wouldn’t be so grumpy.’
    â€˜I beg your pardon?’
    â€˜Nothing.’ Sadie dragged on her parka. ‘I’m going. Probably to be attacked and murdered in the dark . Oh yeah, and frozen . Happy now?’
    â€˜Yes, thanks.’ Ellie turned a page. ‘I love you.’
    â€˜Weird way of showing it.’
    Sadie stomped out into the twilight. A blanket of cold had settled across the plains. David had told her Boort meant ‘smoke on the hill’ in the local Aboriginal language. Smoke was rising now from the odd chimney in town; Sadie could taste it in the back of her throat. She shrank from the idea of walking into the pub all on her own. At least it was Sunday, a quiet night; there’d be hardly anyone there. The soft grey glow of TVs shone from the houses by the lake; in town, the main street was empty.
    Wah-waah, remarked a crow from somewhere in the dusk. Your own fault.
    â€˜Mind your own business, stupid bird,’ muttered Sadie, trudging up the hill, eyes on the pavement. She found her gloves in the gutter outside the pub. They must have fallen from her pocket as she was struggling into her parka on the way home.
    Pulling the gloves onto her icy fingers, she crossed the road and stood for a moment beneath the stern stone soldier. The old shop was closed up and empty, its windows boarded, grass sprouting from the gutters. Sadie lingered, staring. It was bizarre to think that she’d been inside that building in a different time, in a different life.
    Waah . . . waah . . .
    Sadie shivered, and swayed where she stood. As she put out a hand to steady herself against the memorial, a pitch-black tunnel closed around her. Wind rushed in her ears, its howling mingled with the crow’s warning cry. She staggered, almost fell.
    When Sadie straightened up again, she was standing by the kitchen door behind the shop, holding a tin basin in her hands. Automatically she swung her arms to fling out the washing-up water onto Mum’s flower beds, shook the last drops from the basin, and wiped her damp hand on her apron.
    She’d already turned to go back inside when she heard raised voices across the street outside the pub. She paused in the shadows and peered round the side of the building, knowing she couldn’t be seen. She listened, her heart beating hard.
    â€˜You can’t tell me what to do on my own land!’ That was Mr Mortlock’s voice.
    â€˜I’m tellin’ you, it’s wrong! It’s against the Law, all the Laws, you can’t do this thing; you mustn’t do it!’
    It took Sadie a moment to realise that it was Jimmy Raven shouting; Jimmy, whose voice she’d never heard raised in anger.
    â€˜How dare you speak to me like that?’
    The dim figure of Mr Mortlock lunged forward, his hand raised to strike. But Jimmy Raven didn’t flinch or step back; he stood his ground.
    A door swung open and both men turned, blinking in the blaze of golden light. The door creaked shut, and a third figure, shorter than the others, joined them on the footpath.
    â€˜What’s all this, then?’
    A thrill of relief prickled down Sadie’s back. It was Dad; he would sort this out.
    â€˜You keep out of it, Clarry,’ growled Mr Mortlock.
    â€˜Come back inside and have a drink,’ said Clarry. ‘Too cold to stand out here