The Memory Tree Read online

  The Memory Tree

  Jennifer Scoullar

  For those fighting to protect the Tasmanian Devil

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Matt spun the wheel hard, navigating another hair-raising bend in the narrow gravel road. He glanced at the clock on the dash. Midnight. His wife called it the witching hour – a time of ghosts and magic. He wasn’t superstitious like Penny, but tonight, hemmed in by the dark forest, he could almost believe it. Matt stifled a yawn and turned on the radio. Music would help him stay awake. He’d been up since dawn.

  What was that? Something swift crossed the corner of his vision and Matt slammed on the brakes. They gave a tortured squeal, but it was too late. He felt the sickening thud of metal on flesh. Matt cursed and stopped the car. Nothing showed in the headlights. No trace of the shadow that had raced across the road.

  Shoulders hunched against the cold, Matt walked back along the corrugated track. The fog was a night shroud swallowing the torchlight. There – sprawled on the rutted roadside. He knelt down and felt its warmth, felt the final fragile flutters of life until the animal was beyond fear or care. It lay quite still now. Blood oozed from its mouth and nose, and moon shadows striped its coat.

  Matt could barely breathe. This couldn’t be. He shook his head, hot tears flowing as the impossible became reality. A dog? No – a phantom.

  Chapter 1

  Penny brushed her long copper-coloured hair, and tugged it back into a practical ponytail. She buttoned her shirt, squeezed into jeans, frowning as she struggled to zip them.

  ‘I’m starting a diet today,’ she said, as usual.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Matt, as always. ‘You’re perfect the way you are.’

  Penny made a face and left the room. He found everything about her irresistible. Her ripe figure, her serious smile, her freckled dimples and clear blue eyes. But Penny couldn’t take a compliment. She never believed him and he didn’t know why. After all, he was no oil painting – tall and fit, for sure, but with an ugly hawkish nose like his father. It made him look arrogant.

  Matt showered, thinking a little about the day ahead and a lot about the night before. He arched his neck and turned up the heat, let the water pummel his shoulders, knock some sense into him. Matt hated secrets, but he couldn’t tell Penny what had happened. It was beyond him.

  He found Penny in the kitchen.

  ‘You’d better boil the kettle again,’ she said, before disappearing into the lounge room with a brush-tailed possum curled around her neck like a stole. ‘Can you muster the pademelons for me?’ Penny asked when she came back in. ‘We’re weighing their joeys this afternoon.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Matt. ‘I promised Bernie to fly the falcons.’ He combed his dark hair with his fingers. The purple bottlebrush outside the window quivered with honeyeaters. The sun shone. A spider wove its web across the sill. How could everything look so normal when nothing was?

  ‘Dr Deville’s coming this morning,’ said Penny. ‘Don’t you want to meet her?’

  Matt put the kettle back on the gas. ‘It can wait.’

  Penny nursed her mug and watched him. ‘You didn’t sleep much last night.’

  That was an understatement. He’d lain restless in the dark, reliving each detail of his heartbreaking accident in the park. Reliving the shock, the amazement – the dreadful guilt and grief. Willing himself to wake from this living nightmare. As head ranger at Binburra National Park he’d pledged to protect it from harm. Instead he’d caused the greatest harm possible. He’d killed a Tasmanian tiger – an animal believed extinct for almost a hundred years.

  The kettle screamed. Matt caught the edge of his hand on the scalding jet of steam and barely felt it. Penny’s questioning eyes bored into him and he tried changing the subject. ‘You’re running an information session this morning, right? What’s this one about?’

  Penny didn’t answer. Then Matt remembered and wished he’d never asked. The Devil Roadkill Count was Penny’s pet project. Binburra was at the forefront of conserving Tasmanian devils. As scavengers, they were particularly vulnerable to being killed by cars. Matt had hit one himself last year – one of Penny’s painstakingly hand-reared orphans. Released with radio collars and a great deal of hope, many perished on the roads within months. ‘How could you be so careless?’ she’d asked him. How indeed.

  Matt kissed his wife and escaped to the verandah.

  Their modest house was perched halfway up the hill above Binburra Wildlife Park’s home compound. Covering several hectares, it stretched out before him under a sky of brilliant blue. The buildings and enclosures were designed to blend seamlessly with the native trees and gardens, providing as natural an environment as possible for their residents. The main focus of the park was the breeding and conservation of Tasmanian devils, but Binburra also housed a wide variety of rescued birds and animals. Some would be rehabilitated and returned to the wild. For those too badly injured to fend for themselves, Binburra provided a permanent home.

  Matt hurried down to the historic shearing shed that he’d converted into a mews. It housed Aquila and the peregrine falcons that he’d be flying today. First he checked on the other raptors: the masked owl with the wire-fence injury; the snow-white goshawk, his leg in a cast; and an old peregrine, blind in one eye, his retina detached by the force of a three-hundred-kilometre-an-hour dive. Last in line was a slim nankeen kestrel, victim of an inebriated and out-of-season duck hunter. Matt frowned as he fed the kestrel a mouse. Her hovering days were over, but at least she could fly from floor to perch now. It was time to move her to the flight aviary. But not today. Today was Hills End Cup Day.

  Matt drew on a leather gauntlet and fetched the falcons. They hopped onto his arm in return for pieces of rabbit. First Sooty, the tiercel, and then Sweep, the larger female. The blue-black plumage of their heads and upper body gleamed with good health. Their breasts were the colour of rich King Island cream, and delicate buff bands extended with exquisite symmetry to the tips of their short tails. Their gaze, once wan and pale, now flashed clear and bright; eye rings vibrant yellow, golden beaks tipped glossy black. Matt encouraged the birds onto his homemade cadge, a portable frame fitted with perches, and whistled low while hooding them.

  Jake, Binburra’s only full-time keeper, came in with a trolley of road kill to restock the freezer. He was a gentle young man of twenty-five with sandy-blond hair, kind eyes and an impressive work ethic. Matt liked Jake a lot. Usually the two of them would stop for a chat, but today Matt merely grunted at Jake’s cheerful, ‘Good morning,’ and busied himself with the falcons.
r />   Jake finished packing the freezer. ‘You off to the races? It’s a nice sunny day to fly those birds.’

  Matt ignored him, couldn’t even look at him – caught up in an irrational fear that Jake would know what had happened last night if he made eye contact. When it became clear that Matt wasn’t going to respond, Jake shrugged and left with the empty trolley. Matt let out his breath. More than anything, he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. His throat went dry. If he couldn’t even face Jake, how on earth would he face crowds of strangers at the race track?

  Once the peregrines were in the jeep, Matt fetched Aquila. She flew to a low branch at his approach. Matt braced against her weight as she stepped onto his arm, broad wings unfurled. The eagle bent her head, with its striking blonde nape, against his cheek. Matt laughed and rubbed her neck. ‘All right, you floozy, that’s enough. Save some love for Woorawa.’

  With just eighty breeding pairs of giant wedgetails left in the wild, the sub-species was in serious trouble. Fingers crossed, Aquila would bond with Woorawa, a young male arriving next month, and the pair could be released along with the peregrines. But the birds required more free flight sessions before then to regain strength and stamina. Matt rewarded Aquila with a strip of rabbit, she consented to the hood, and they set off in the jeep for a day at the races.

  Chapter 2

  Penny watched the black Audi sweep into the carpark. That had to be her. Its driver, slim, dark-haired and stylish, walked over and introduced herself with a broad American accent. ‘Dr Sarah Deville, UCLA.’ She smiled and shook Penny’s hand a little too hard. ‘I’ve never seen a live devil. Really looking forward to this.’

  Penny began the seminar, standing beneath a banner strung above the whiteboard – Slow Down Between Dusk and Dawn. It was more than a little overwhelming to have the renowned geneticist in the audience. If she pretended Dr Deville wasn’t there, it might help. She cast her eye over the crowd. About thirty. A good number. Dr Deville sat at the back. Penny tried to concentrate.

  ‘Welcome to Binburra Wildlife Park, thirty thousand hectares of World Heritage wilderness high on the rim of Tuggerah Valley. The property originally belonged to a founding member of Tasmania’s environmental movement, Daniel Campbell. His family later bequeathed it to the state, to be gazetted as a national park.’ Penny wet her lips. ‘Binburra pioneered the captive management and breeding of Tasmanian devils. They’re a lonely species – their close relatives already gone – and for the past two decades we’ve been fighting to save the devils themselves from extinction, because a cruel and mysterious disease is set to wipe them out.’

  Penny winced. How stupid she sounded, going through her little spiel when the world expert on the devil genome sat right there in front of her. She tried not to look at Dr Deville and ended up staring slightly to the side, as if there was some sort of fascinating patch on the wall. Two women in the front row were looking sideways now too. For goodness sake, get a grip.

  ‘A virulent contagious cancer known as Devil Facial Tumour Disease – DFTD for short – causes suppurating tumours in the animals. Those affected die agonising deaths within months, starving as disfiguring growths eat away their jaws and choke their throats.’ She cleared her own throat. ‘Binburra provides healthy animals to mainland and overseas zoos. These Project Ark founders are breeding safe from the threat of disease, but our wild devils could soon face extinction.’ She was talking too fast, rushing it. She took a deep, steadying breath. ‘And if we let that happen, nobody will understand, and nobody will forgive us.’

  Penny reached into the box at her feet. She pulled out a squat black creature the size of a small bulldog, with round furry ears – cute like a teddy bear. It sniffed the air. She set the animal on the desk in front of her and it shuffled around to face the audience. With a collective gasp, people shrank back. The devil looked as if a hunk of raw, rotting meat had been slapped along the entire side of its head. Its jaw was disfigured by ulcerating growths that forced its lips apart and protruded through its mouth. A fleshy, bleeding tumour mushroomed from one eye.

  ‘Meet Angel,’ said Penny. ‘A motorist killed her mother three years ago and thankfully stopped to check for pouch young. She found two dead babies and Angel here, barely clinging to life. I nursed her round the clock, took her with me everywhere.’ Penny paused to fondle Angel’s misshapen head. ‘Angel stayed with me at the sanctuary until she was eighteen months old. I never met a sweeter, cleverer little devil. In winter she dragged logs to the fireplace, hinting for us to light it. She loved curling up by that fire. And she mothered the younger orphans, carrying them in her mouth if she thought they were in danger, putting them back in their baskets. She really is special. Last year I released her into what we hoped was a safe area of the park. We trapped her in the course of our regular monitoring program two weeks ago … looking like this.’

  A question came from the crowd. ‘How did you know it was her?’

  ‘All our animals are microchipped. But I’d know her anywhere, and she recognised me too, knew I was trying to help.’ Penny kissed Angel’s forehead and stretched out her hind legs, exposing an emaciated abdomen. More gasps from the audience. Three joeys clung to Angel’s belly. ‘Afflicted she-devils are extraordinarily devoted, never abandoning their young. Instead, a mother steadfastly feeds and protects her joeys until the very last moments of her life. We’re just waiting for Angel’s babies to be a few weeks older, closer to weaning. Then we’ll euthanise her.’ Penny tucked Angel’s legs back in as comfortably as she could. ‘You won’t suffer anymore then, sweetheart.’ The devil laid her poor, mutilated head in the crook of Penny’s arm.

  After the seminar, Penny sold a few souvenirs as people left. Sarah Deville stood by, watching a volunteer carry Angel out in a crate. ‘Can you show me a healthy one?’

  ‘Of course. Just let me lock up.’

  * * *

  Penny entered the shady enclosure where Bonny and her babies snored in a hollow log. She beckoned for Sarah to follow.

  Sarah hesitated. ‘Won’t they bite?’

  ‘Our devils are used to handling,’ said Penny. ‘And Bonny here, in particular, is a complete pushover.’ As promised, sleepy Bonny let Penny pull her from the log to show off her four babies.

  ‘Is it true they eat anything?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Pretty much,’ said Penny. ‘We’ve found all sorts of things in their scat. Boot leather, bottle tops, cigarette butts. Even echidna quills. Their stomach acids have a bone-dissolving enzyme.’ Sarah squealed as one little devil ran up Penny’s arm and sat on her shoulder. Penny tickled the baby’s tummy. ‘These joeys really should be independent by now, but little Zoe here is a persistent late suckler, so they’ll stay with mum a bit longer.’ Penny placed Zoe in Sarah’s arms. ‘Some people call baby devils imps,’ she said. ‘For good reason.’

  ‘Where’s her white stripe?’ asked Sarah. ‘The others look like they’re wearing football jerseys.’

  ‘Sixteen percent of devils are melanic – all black.’

  The tiny devil nestled in, examined Sarah’s arm with her wet, pink nose then climbed up to chew her sunglasses. Sarah seemed charmed. ‘Zoe’s adorable, like a cute little kitten with a great big attitude. Nothing like I imagined.’

  Penny couldn’t resist asking. ‘An international expert on devil genetics and you’ve never met one? Isn’t that a bit odd?’

  ‘I suppose so. At home I’m a human cancer geneticist. This devil gig started off as a purely intellectual exercise, but it’s not anymore.’ A flock of emerald rosellas landed in the bottlebrush branches above them. ‘What a beautiful place to work. My lab in Hobart isn’t quite so picturesque. Still, I’d love to show you around it some time.’

  Penny grinned. She’d been silly to worry. Dr Deville was lovely.

  ‘Why not stay back and have dinner with us tonight?’ she said. ‘If we’re going to be working together, we may as well get to know each other.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Sarah. �
��An invitation too good to refuse.’

  Chapter 3

  Matt drove to the Hills End racecourse feeling numb, last night’s tragedy on repeat in his aching head. He missed the turn-off and arrived late, after the first race. Colourful marquees dotted the lawns on either side of the driveway. Crowds of people, with glasses of wine or cans of beer in hand, wandered around the grounds – men in penguin suits and women wearing ridiculous hats. Matt drove past, shaking his head, and parked next to the grandstand. A flock of pigeons circled the sky above. Dozens more cooed and strutted along steel stanchions beneath the roof. When patrons filled the stand, a steady stream of pigeon poo rained down on them. That’s where the peregrines came in. Bernie Dobbs, chairman of the racing committee, walked over and slapped Matt on the back.

  ‘Best get those birds in the air. The stand’s filling up fast.’ Bernie peered in the window at the raptors. ‘Got a surprise for you today, Matt. Our special guest of honour.’ Matt began arranging rabbit strips and lures. ‘Fraser Abbott. He’s donating money to redo the clubrooms. And he’s interested in this hawk stunt of yours.’

  ‘Falcons,’ said Matt. ‘They’re falcons.’

  ‘Catch up with us later in the members’ marquee. Fraser’s expecting you.’