The Memory Tree Read online

  Matt snorted and turned his back. Fat chance of that.

  Bernie peered in the jeep window again and grinned. ‘Good. You’ve brought the eagle. He puts on quite a show.’

  ‘She does. She puts on a show,’ said Matt through gritted teeth.

  After Bernie left, Matt punched the jeep, startling the falcons. Of all the rotten luck. After the shock of last night he was finding it hard enough to concentrate. And now with this news about Fraser Abbott being at the track? Things had just got ten times worse. Perhaps he should simply pack up and go home. No, he wasn’t ready to face Penny. So he set about preparing Sooty and Sweep for flight.

  Falconry for falconry’s sake was illegal in Tasmania. But it wasn’t illegal to fly raptors for rehabilitation and education. After wing injuries or hospital stays, birds lacked stamina. They needed space to exercise, more space than flight aviaries allowed. Free flying was also the only way to teach orphaned young falcons to take live prey. This resident flock of plump, lazy pigeons presented the peregrines with a perfect opportunity to hone their hunting skills.

  Falconers required the confidence of their haughty birds. This made training a tricky and demanding business. Matt dared not chastise Sooty or Sweep in any way for fear of breaching their trust. But, equally, falcons weren’t inclined to please. He’d never come across any creature more proud or independent than a peregrine – except, perhaps, for Penny.

  To elicit the birds’ cooperation, Matt established daily routines – food rewards at random times, trying to recreate the hit and miss nature of hunting. After many months of training, Sooty and Sweep were moving ever closer to release, their focus subtly shifting. They paid more attention to their surrounds, noticed the overhead shadow of passing birds, kept a close watch on each other as a bonding pair should.

  In a few weeks, Matt would drive them into the ranges to a remote rocky pass bordered by towering cliffs. There he would witness their freedom flight. Though not without regret. Peregrines were swift and courageous, the preferred birds for hawking. Once upon a time, Matt might have presented this expertly trained pair to a duke or a prince – won acclaim for his skill, his finely-tuned falcons, his grasp of the craft. Successful release was a wonderful achievement, but part of him always mourned the loss of these special birds. All that training wasted, overcome by wild spirit, the birds’ singular human connection forever forgotten.

  Sooty and Sweep sat alert on their perches. Matt nodded approval at how they eyed the sky when he removed their hoods. Next, Matt fetched Aquila from the jeep. She’d been raised by carnies who took dodgem cars around agricultural shows. They’d handed her in when she ate their cat. After such a cosmopolitan upbringing, Aquila was quite at home with crowds. Matt used her in free-flight demonstrations on these sorts of occasions, hoping to attract corporate sponsors for the Raptor Rescue Program.

  A few folk began to gather around the jeep.

  ‘They’re peregrines right? What does peregrine mean?’ asked a boy.

  An intelligent question, for a change. ‘It’s from the Latin, Falco peregrinus,’ said Matt. ‘It means wandering falcon.’

  ‘So why are they called raptors?’

  ‘They’re not raptors. They’re just birds,’ said a skinny young woman in heels.

  How disappointed they always were to discover raptors weren’t bloodthirsty dinosaurs chasing Sam Neill around a movie set. Matt frowned and shuffled a little. He was no people person, and shouldered this promotional role with barely disguised distaste.

  ‘Raptors are carnivorous birds with hooked beaks and talons. Birds of prey. The word raptor is also from Latin. Rapio – to seize.’

  ‘Ooh, seize me any time, tiger,’ cooed the skinny one. Her friends giggled.

  Bernie came back over to see what was happening. ‘Will you hurry up and get those hawks flying?’

  Matt glared at him and untethered the falcons. He swung two colourful feathered lures at once. The pair dived in unison and each bird claimed a prize. The crowd clapped. Matt rewarded the falcons with scraps of food. Not too much now. He needed them keen enough to catch a meal.

  Nervous pigeons wheeled in a grey cloud overhead. The flock abruptly split in two and fled the skies above the stand in opposite directions. A faint high-pitched whistle confirmed his fear. Of all the rotten luck. A wild peregrine hurtled from heaven and broadsided a straggling pigeon. Predator and prey crashed to earth in the grassy middle of the racecourse. Nobody else seemed to notice. The pigeons vanished into the distance. Sooty and Sweep chose this moment to fly from their perch up to the grandstand. Bernie beamed – all he saw was a sky clear of pigeons, and the falcons sitting on the roof.

  ‘Great work, mate. Those birds of yours finished the job in record time.’

  There was no point trying to explain what had really happened to a man as dense as Bernie. ‘No problem,’ said Matt. ‘Raptor Rescue is here to help.’ The wild falcon finished her meal, climbed the breeze and disappeared.

  A field of horses swept along the rails. People roared. The ground trembled. Aquila spread her wings and hopped along the perch, proud head bowed. Matt removed her hood. The curious eagle always enjoyed the sight and sound of an audience. Sooty and Sweep hopped a little further away. He’d better bring the hungry falcons down from the roof before they grew too impatient. He reached for the lures. Now, children crowded too close to Aquila. Matt shooed them off. Where was his gauntlet? When he turned around, the falcons were gone.

  A succession of screams rose from the far side of the grandstand. Matt sprinted around the corner. A sign before a roped-off section read Fashions on the Field. Everywhere, ladies in smart frocks, high heels and fancy hats were running for cover. Sooty and Sweep crouched on the dais in proud possession of a pair of plumed bonnets they’d mistaken for lures. Such pandemonium over two harmless little birds. The falcons eyed his approach, wings folded protectively over their hats, eager for their reward. Sweep’s talons crushed a feathery fascinator. Matt edged closer, with clucks and low whistles. Slowly does it. But as he was about to reclaim his birds, an irate steward ran over, flapping a coat, shouting and shooing.

  Sooty and Sweep flew away. Specks in the sky, soon vanishing altogether.

  Matt turned on the man in a fury. ‘Why the devil did you do that? Those birds aren’t ready to fend for themselves.’

  But now there were fresh screams. Matt whirled to see Aquila sail in low flight above the crowd, intent on something, hunting something. He scanned the ground ahead of her flight path.

  There, in the centre of the racecourse. A small white poodle chewed on the remains of the pigeon taken minutes before by the wild falcon.

  Matt raced for the dog, but his mission was hopeless. Aquila soared past Matt’s head, banked and took precise aim. Seconds later her extended talons crushed the pet’s skull. The eagle screeched and stood over the dead poodle, wings spread in defence of her prey. Matt approached with soothing words and rabbit strips. Aquila folded her wings, accepted the offering and consented to step onto Matt’s ungauntleted arm. Razor claws sliced through his cotton sleeve. Bracing against the pain, Matt took her hood from his pocket, slipped it on and fastened her jesses. Angry race officials converged on the pair. Judging discretion to be the better part of valour, Matt hurried back to the jeep, leaving the bloodied corpse of the dog where it lay.

  Matt and Bernie reached the jeep at the same time. ‘I’m shooting that bird,’ said Bernie, ‘and suing you as well. Our anniversary race day ruined. Patrons terrified. Children traumatised …’

  ‘It’s children who are to blame,’ said a third voice. It came from the jeep. Fraser Burns Abbott climbed from the driver’s seat. ‘In particular this child.’ Fraser pulled a sulky-looking boy of about twelve from the back. ‘I saw him untie the eagle’s tether.’

  ‘Brodie?’ said Bernie.

  ‘Sorry, dad,’ the boy mumbled miserably.

  ‘So, seeing it’s your son who’s responsible,’ said Fraser, ‘I believe you owe mine
an apology, eh?’

  Both men looked at Matt, who stood by with the eagle, blood streaming down his arm. ‘There’s still the Fashions On The Field fiasco. Not to mention the cost of two very expensive hats,’ said Bernie.

  Fraser took out his wallet and pressed a wad of notes into Bernie’s hand. ‘That should cover it.’

  Bernie sputtered in protest, but not too hard.

  ‘I’d hate to have to reconsider funding those clubrooms.’

  Bernie conceded defeat and dragged his sulky son off by the collar of his shirt. Fraser laughed as he watched them go.

  ‘I didn’t need your help,’ said Matt, transferring Aquila to the cadge and trying to wrap his injured arm in an old towel, without much success.

  ‘Yes, you did, Matthew. Turn around so we can talk.’

  Matt faced his father, who indicated a nearby bench. He frowned, then sat down. So did Fraser. It was odd to be beside this man again after so many years. Fraser looked older, thinner, smaller. But he retained that brusque, imperious manner that was so irritating – intimidating as well.

  ‘Okay, talk,’ said Matt. ‘But make it quick.’

  ‘Very well. I’m dying, son. Doctors say I may have a year, maybe not …’

  Matt silently digested the news.

  Fraser narrowed his eyes, inspecting Matt’s face. ‘I have a proposition for you.’

  ‘Not interested.’

  ‘Have the companies, Matthew. Have the lot. Burns Timber and Hydro, Hills End Mining, Costain Constructions, their subsidiaries. The board will vote you CEO if you want.’

  Fraser rushed his words as if he’d practised them, as if to spit them out before he changed his mind.

  ‘What’s the catch?’

  ‘No catch. No strings.’

  Matt didn’t believe it. He didn’t believe any of it. His father wasn’t dying. This was some sort of malicious trick, one more attempt to rope him into the stinking family business. Matt stood up, packed the last of his gear into the jeep one-handed, and climbed behind the wheel.

  ‘You’d best get that arm seen to,’ said Fraser, his voice rising a notch.

  Matt turned the engine over.

  Fraser laid a hand on the car. ‘I’ll be damned if I’ll let you leave like this!’

  Matt leaned out the window. ‘You’re damned already, Dad.’

  ‘Pity about that other falcon.’

  This took Matt by surprise. He didn’t think anyone else had spotted the wild bird who’d set off today’s chain of disastrous events.

  Fraser’s eyes blazed with a strange intensity. ‘“Turning and turning in the widening gyre / The falcon cannot hear the falconer; / Things fall apart.”’

  Matt hesitated, then set his jaw, spun the wheel and sped away.

  Chapter 4

  Penny bustled about the table for the umpteenth time, straightening the cloth and rearranging the centrepiece. In a vase, spikes of golden lily and frail snowy pompoms of bushman’s bootlace framed the dramatic heart of crimson waratahs.

  ‘What’s the big deal with this Yank anyway?’ asked Matt, half-amused, half-annoyed by all the fuss. He did not need an impromptu social engagement tonight. He needed time to himself – time to think.

  A cascade of unruly red curls swirled about Penny’s freckled face, and he felt the familiar pull of attraction. How lovely his wife was. She hardly ever wore her hair loose like that anymore.

  ‘Take the dips from the fridge and get three wine glasses. She’ll be here any minute.’

  ‘Jawohl, mein Kommandant. Don’t worry that my arm’s all torn up.’

  ‘It’s your left one, isn’t it? Can you manage with the right?’

  Matt saluted and did as she asked. Penny glanced at the clock, cast an appraising eye over the table and another out the window. Her eyes widened. ‘Sarah’s here. Quick, take this.’ She thrust a heavy glass platter laden with olives, cheese and crackers at him.

  Matt took it awkwardly and, as Penny whipped off her apron, he fumbled and dropped the platter. ‘Sorry, Pen.’ He held out his injured arm by way of explanation.

  Sarah knocked on the door. Penny knelt to retrieve the cracked dish. Grapes rolled across the worn carpet. Chunks of soft cheese clung to bits of fluff. The knock came again. Matt reached for the door. ‘No,’ mouthed Penny.

  Too late. Dr Sarah Deville stepped over the threshold, smiled and shook Matt’s hand. After a full day’s field work she still looked fresh, glamorous even. Penny got to her feet with the salvaged tray, feeling her face flush to match the colour of her hair. She kicked an olive under the couch.

  ‘Just a little accident.’ She forced a smile. ‘Nothing to worry about. Would you like some wine?’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Red, if you have it.’

  Penny escaped into the kitchen with the broken platter, and reappeared with a bottle of wine in one hand and a tea towel in the other. Not one of their regular tea towels, not faded with a stain or two. This one was brand new and more like a mini beach towel. It featured a devil print and boasted a terry towelling thickness worthy of the finest shag pile. She must have raided the souvenir stand.

  Penny used it to give the sparkling glasses on the sideboard a final polish. Matt handed each woman a shiraz and poured one for himself. Sarah was staring at Matt’s bandaged arm, or maybe she wasn’t staring. Maybe she always watched the world with such singular intensity. Matt stopped himself from staring back. Dr Deville was quite a looker.

  ‘This?’ He raised his injured arm. ‘I’m accident-prone, aren’t I, Pen? This is from an eagle.’

  As Sarah went to sit at the table, Penny’s hand dived under her descending rear and wiped the chair with the glorious tea towel. Sarah jumped up like she’d been shot, spilling her drink. Beads of red wine rolled down her cream shirt.

  ‘There was spilt milk on the seat,’ said Penny in a tone of horrified apology. ‘It must have been from when Matt fed Paddy. I didn’t want you to sit on it.’

  Sarah dabbed at her stained front with a paper serviette, and waved away Penny’s offer of help. After a close examination of her chair, she cautiously sat down. An awkward silence ensued. Penny’s embarrassment had rendered her speechless.

  ‘What’s a Yank doing out here, studying our devils?’ asked Matt, trying to help.

  Sarah fixed him with tawny eyes. ‘I visited the Field Museum of Chicago a few years ago and came across this.’ She scrolled through her phone, leaned close and showed him a photo. ‘So peculiar. Like a little mutant wolverine.’

  Penny came around from the other side of the table to see. In the jaundiced glow of a display case sat a stuffed devil. Its heavy head swung a fraction to the right. Tired jaws gaped, weary tongue protruded. Unseeing eyes bore an expression of eternal defeat. Fading forever on its fake rock, surrounded by strands of long-dead grass, the devil was sadness incarnate.

  ‘I was curious about my namesake. Such an interesting study. Do you realise how rare contagious cancers are? There are only three ever recorded.’ Sarah paused for a sip of wine. ‘Canine transmissible tumour, a comparable cancer, was first described a century ago. It’s intriguing to reinterpret that data in light of your devils’ disease.’

  Matt couldn’t help grinning. ‘You’re as weird as my wife.’

  Penny almost choked on her drink. But before long even Matt conceded that cancer was a fascinating malady, at least the way Sarah described it. Malignant cells, cloning themselves in an anarchy of spurned rules, theoretically immortal. But these rogues faced a dilemma. When their host died, so did they. Contagious cancers had learned to cheat death.

  ‘It’s quite a trick,’ said Sarah. ‘Take canine transmissible tumours. Diseased samples from fifty dogs across five continents share identical genetic markers. That means each tumour evolved from one single ancestor, from one diseased cell, in one ancient dog. The oldest lineage of mammalian cells on earth, unchanged for hundreds, maybe thousands of years, achieving eternal life by outliving their original host.’

&nbs
p; ‘Real-life body-snatchers,’ said Penny, going back to her seat opposite Sarah.

  ‘Exactly.’ Sarah finished her wine. ‘By then I was hooked, and spent a year collaborating remotely with a team of Aussie scientists. We finally have a complete map of the devil’s DNA.’

  ‘The holy grail for marsupial biologists,’ said Penny in an awed tone.

  ‘Hardly,’ said Sarah. ‘That gong would go to a complete thylacine genome, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, of course, you’re right.’ Penny may as well have said silly me. Matt had never seen her so starstruck.

  Sarah offered her glass and Matt refilled it. ‘The more I learned about devils, the more I wondered about Tasmania. Somewhere unimaginable, somewhere far beyond the city lights that keep Los Angeles stars permanently at bay.’ Penny sighed. Sarah did have a way with words. ‘Anyway, having a year’s leave up my sleeve, I agreed to head up this devil genotyping project. And that,’ she said, ‘is where you guys come in.’ Sarah flashed an ivory smile. ‘You’re doing some amazing work here at Binburra. But my concern is your insurance devils. I’m not sure your animals have enough genetic variety.’

  ‘We thought Winston did,’ said Penny. ‘Researchers inoculated three of our devils with dead cancer cells, then injected them with live ones.’

  Matt heard the effort in Penny’s voice, the effort to sound professional. She’d cried long and hard the night before that research team came. It didn’t matter that it was for the good of the species in the long run. Those were her babies.

  ‘Two died,’ said Penny. ‘But Winston produced antibodies. He was free of cancer for a whole year. Then they injected him with a different strain. He was fine for six months. The saviour of the species we thought – we hoped. But in July we found two tumours.’ Her voice cracked. ‘It broke my heart.’

  ‘I know about Winston,’ said Sarah.

  Penny’s face fell. ‘Of course you do. Sorry, I—’

  ‘Any resistance is encouraging.’ Sarah’s smile seemed a touch condescending. She took a folder from her bag and produced a chart. ‘I’ve mapped the DNA of one hundred devils statewide. Each colour represents a genetically identical cohort. We don’t have many samples from this region, but those we do have are all in the green group – meaning no genetic diversity at all.’