The tires whispered to themselves, a sound of hissing rain.
Beads on a string, cars moved along the highway. Although early, the hard white sun valiantly tried to warm the frozen, rolling landscape and burn away stringy remnants of clinging mist. With shrill squawks, a gaggle of yellow-crested cockatoos flew overhead and settled on massive eucalypt trees beside the carriageway.
Mason adjusted his shades, switched stations to ABC FM Classic, and nodded solemnly to the hypnotic rhythm of Ravel’s Bolero. Not into heavy symphonies, he liked his music light and cheerful. Bolero’s enchanting tempo sent his mind along meandering memory paths. Opera made him wince, but in a quirky way, his heart sang to some of its music. His mom always tuned into 60s and 70s popular stuff, and he inherited her tastes for the oldies. Modern, sharp, acid compositions made him switch stations. When nothing came up on the radio, he replayed favorites stored in his mind.
A silver hatchback roared past him. The decibels of its speakers rivaled an A380 taking off, guaranteed to blow out the driver’s eardrums. He shook his head, not understanding any of it.
A green signboard on the shoulder said Mt. Macedon exit, one kilometer. Bolero finished in a crescendo and the familiar ABC news break broke his reflective reverie.
Past Gisborne, he took the off-ramp onto Mt. Macedon Road and motored down the peaceful arterial. Sheets of mist hung low over paddocks and the sun glinted between white-barked eucalypt branches. Frost painted the grass with crystal on both sides of the road, and the airconditioner whined a little louder to maintain the set temperature.
Before the hill that led into the small township, the local golf course clubhouse stood deserted, although he figured it would fill rapidly with weekend warriors who sought to test their skill against the devilish white ball. Mason liked the small nine-hole course and played when he could tear himself away from the city. Preferably early in the morning during the week when he often had the place to himself, everybody else otherwise at work.
He slowed to sixty, drove past a cluster of old-fashioned houses and stores, and turned right onto the narrow, sleepy Cheniston Road lined with bushy trees and tall gums, providing shade and tranquility. Cottages and larger, more modern houses nestled on mostly half-hectare lots occupied by old-time residents and newly arrived retirees who sought to escape the city pressure cooker. Some owners used larger plots as do-it-yourself hobby farms or held them as investments. Looking at it all, his mood improved as the prevailing sense of peace descended on him. The place did it to him every time.
Mason pulled up before a two-meter steel gate hung on local bluestone columns and gazed with nostalgia at the single-story sandstone dwelling. A chicken wire fence ran around the entire property and gave an uninterrupted view of gently rolling hills falling away behind the house to merge into flatland. On either side, tall pines provided shelter from the neighbors. At nights, lying in bed, window wide open, he always listened as the pines softly whispered to him until everything faded and he slept. During a storm, the sounds were more agitated—hissing surf running up a beach—but they too soothed away the day’s cares.
He opened the gate expecting Cricket to come bounding toward him in welcome, tail held high. His dad disliked cats and never kept pets, a characteristic Mason shared. In a quirky way, Cricket nonetheless warmed to them and often rubbed himself against their legs as they sat on the veranda, purring loudly with satisfaction, knowing he left a bunch of hairs on their trousers. The black tomcat only a fond memory now among other memories tucked away in his memory drawers.
Mason parked the car in front of the double garage and strode up broad sandstone steps to the solid wood doorway. He winced at the chill inside as he disabled the alarm, then busied himself to fire up the wood burner. Chore done, he went to the bathroom to wash up. He put aside the towel and stared at the slim figure in the mirror. Muddy green eyes inherited from Mom gazed back at him above a square jawline and tapered nose. He passed a hand through charcoal hair and a lighter streak that ran along the top of his head and pursed his lips. The streak came in for lots of jibes in primary and secondary school, which forced him to fend off a bully or two. In the kitchen, coffee percolator going, he checked the fridge. Apart from bread and milk, no need for a major shopping outing.
Buttery sunshine streamed through tall back veranda windows and made a bright pool on the polished redgum floor. A gaggle of white cockatoos in the yard pecked around the small vegetable garden. He always planted potatoes, onions, carrots, tomatoes, cabbages, and some herbs, preferring genuine flavor in vegetables he ate. Over the last four years, the garden shrank as his interest to maintain it diminished and work commitments prevented him from coming up. An idyllic weekend retreat, the property still required regular maintenance. He always cleaned during a visit, and a local man took care of mowing and trimming.
A mug of hot coffee in hand, Mason slid back the lounge ceiling-high glass panel and stepped into the enclosed veranda now warm from the sun. He dragged over a chair, back and seat made comfortable with tied-on cushions Grandma made, and placed the mug on the heavy table. He pulled out a mild King Edward cigar from his breast pocket and lit up. A couple of satisfying puffs later, he gazed absently into nothing in particular. He never smoked cigarettes, although as a kid, he and his friends tried them for taste. Not for him. He did not like the stink, but enjoyed the aromatic whiff of a cigar.
The cockatoos looked up from their chore when he emerged and went back to teasing the ground. His eyes drifted past the back fence toward patches of old-growth forest and rested on a distant horizon where the air turned fuzzy. Melbourne lay somewhere over there. He could not see it, too far away, but easily pictured its cluster of skyscrapers clawing upward. Another life, another existence.
As his thoughts tumbled, he imagined Gramps Milan sitting on the other side of the table as he often did, old briar clenched between his teeth, bushy eyebrows drawn together in a frown. Mason lifted his mug in acknowledgment.
A magpie swooped over the cockatoo gaggle and they took flight, screeching in protest as they wheeled toward a stand of trees down the hill.
Perhaps he should latch on the trailer and drive off into the bush to look for fallen logs to top up his supply of firewood. Most easy to get at stuff already taken years ago, but lots still remained along lonely forest tracks. Physical work may clear his head and make him forget reality for a while. He took a sip of coffee and decided not to get sweaty. The back shed held enough chopped dry wood to last the winter, and two five-meter-long shoulder-high stacks would see him through at least eight more years. Keep today’s visit focused and intellectual, he told himself.
As a teenager, he liked going into the forest with Gramps to cut timber and haul the plunder home. He enjoyed the earthy forest smells—something different from the usual city odors—listen to the whisper of rustling leaves and the cradling comfort the woods engendered. When he first started work and got a car, an old secondhand Honda hatch, he’d drive up in casual gear and got friendly ribbing from Gramps for looking like a bum. Mason shrugged off the japes.
Warm air drifted in from the lounge as the burner got into its stride. He relaxed and allowed himself to drift into retrospection, home chores be damned. Mt. Macedon’s outback retreat promulgated an atmosphere of tranquility and peace. A far cry from the hectic city lifestyle he lived during the week. The city and work provided the means through which he secured his ongoing financial and retirement needs, but did not fill his soul in the way Gramp’s place did. A job simply fulfilled his economic needs. Well, it did far more than that, he acknowledged grudgingly. People who lived here had their share of problems, everybody did everywhere, and Grandma loved to share local gossip about someone’s misfortune, social or financial, but they seemed to take life’s knocks with a more phlegmatic, philosophical attitude, and smiled readily. If he could somehow instill such an outlook in the city, he’d make a fortune, and along the way push a lot of psychiatrists on the street. Not a bad thing, perhaps, he mused.
Mason remembered one fine weekend—he just turned eight—sitting with Gramps on the back veranda, everybody else amusing themselves in the lounge, when his grandfather chuckled and began a story. Milan had a bagful and found in his young grandson an avid listener. Mason remembered everything, but still loved to be a sounding board and simply be with Gramps. Each telling came with a slight variation, but in essence true. Mason never tried to correct Gramps on a point of inconsistency as changes or additions often provided spice and new detail.
The old man took a puff and started one of his favorite after-war yarns, still picking up the pieces after discharge from the Partisan resistance.
He and a friend, he said with a fond snicker, hid in a cornfield once and watched a crabby, stingy man without a kind bone in his scrawny body guard a small peach tree. He wore a permanent scowl as he walked the Varazdin streets and glared at anyone who greeted him. Children gave him a wide birth and tittered as he stomped by. They threw pebbles at him and scampered away with glee as he raged after them, fist held high.
Hidden by tall corn, the smell of ripe peaches made Milan’s mouth water. The awful man guarded the tree all night, shotgun in lap, sometimes nodding off. Too mean to offer any peaches to his neighbors, he feared they might steal the precious fruit before he could harvest it.
Milan and his friend sneaked into the corn before dawn broke and watched the old sod guard his tree. As the sun came up, golden light filled the open, rolling meadow and the world became a bright, cheerful place, perfect for some devilment.
The old coot stood, looked around warily, and hurried off for a quick breakfast, a familiar routine by now. With no idea when he might return, not wanting to be on the receiving end of a shotgun, Milan and his friend rushed to the peach tree and quickly sawed off two limbs heavy with fruit. The plunder slung over their shoulder, they disappeared into the corn and made for their hiding place.
Minutes later, they heard a frantic bellow of rage and a torrent of profanity. The old buzzard had returned and vented outrage when he spied the damaged tree. Later in the morning, a mighty uproar swept through the town as the scandalized man sought to find who took his peaches. The incident generated a lot of local hilarity, everybody figuring the old sod deserved what he got. Nobody admitted anything, of course.
The two culprits gorged on delicious peaches, sharing some with neighbors who never cared where they came from. They merely nodded their thanks with a faint smile of understanding.
The tale finished, Mason laughed softly and shook his head at this wicked deed, clearly picturing the outraged man rampaging around in search of the miscreants. The story always generated a warm glow of deserved justice. From what Gramps said, nobody went to the old man’s funeral.
“I tell you, moj mali stroj—little gadget—although we never regretted what we did, I sometimes felt a little remorseful,” Milan reflected pensively. “The mean devil had it rough during the war. First, he lost a son to the Ustaše, then a wife when the Partisans bombed his house because they thought he was a collaborator.” He took a puff. After a while, he shrugged. “Anyway, the bastard still had the rest of the damned tree.”
The peach episode not the only tale in Gramp’s store of adventures. Like the one when he and two friends caught a stray cat. They halved two walnuts, cleaned them, and proceeded to fill the shells with tar. They stuck the shells to the cat’s paws and let it go. The poor thing tried to gnaw off the annoying shells as it clanged its way along the sidewalk to disappear under a fence. Mason snickered when Milan finished, although he felt a little sorry for the poor cat, vividly picturing its plight. The things young men do…
One of Gramps’ favorites was how, fresh after the grape harvest, he and three friends managed to break into a barrel of new wine.
Several streets from Milan’s house, a neighbor stored four large barrels of newly fermented wine in a backyard barn. Not predisposed to share any of the old stock, he sold the stuff to local bars and supplied parties and wedding functions.
Milan and his buddies often contemplated how to get at the wine. Come late fall, the man would decant the barrels and move the wine to his cellar beyond reach. They huddled behind the barn and sniffed at the enticing aroma of fresh wine longing for a taste. After much debate and rejection of several nutty ideas, they came up with what everybody agreed to be a devilishly cunning plan. They drove a nail into a long pole, filed the end to a point, and tied a rubber hose to the pole that left a meter or so to hang from the end to serve as their instrument of dark deed.
The barn, clad with old boards, had enough gaps to push the pole through to the closest barrel. With patience and determination, they drove the nail into a large cork that plugged the barrel and gently worked it loose. The barrel open, they lowered the rubber hose and sucked until the young wine began to pour out. With no time to waste, they sampled their prize, nudging each other to be next. Head swimming, Milan suggested it would be far too dangerous to linger behind the barn where the old coot could catch them. Everybody clearly pictured the disastrous consequences that may ensue. A hurried retreat to their homes produced several bottles and jugs to be filled and enjoyed at leisure. Plunder safely stored, they replaced the cork and tapped it down.
For some two weeks until the rubber hose could not reach farther into the barrel, Milan and his pals enjoyed a happy time.
When the man eventually came to inspect his barrels, he found one only half full. This naturally set off a cascade of accusations and arguments, everybody denying knowledge of the stolen wine. Some suggested the codger drank it himself and forgot he did it, which generated nasty amusement. If the neighbors saw four youths wandering the streets looking slightly inebriated, no one said anything, figuring the stingy man deserved it.
“He never suspected you and your friends?” Mason ventured.
“Sure did, ti banac. Even came to our house demanding to see our wine bottles. My father sent him packing in short order, of course.” Milan winked at Mason. “You see, even though still young, my dad also liked the old coot’s wine.”
Both burst into hearty laughter.
Other stories Gramps told were more serious.
“Like kids everywhere,” he reflected once, “I liked to listen to my own paternal grandfather regale me with tales of witches and strange goings on. True or not, I found them entertaining. Kolarovec only twenty kilometers from Varazdin where we lived, my parents often visited on a weekend to scrounge a free Sunday lunch from my grandparents. We’d take an old, creaking bus and stop at Jamnik’s Tavern on the road to Maribor, and walk the rest of the way. Allowed to run wild with other kids, I roamed the open fields, played games in the forest, and swam in the nearby Drava. Tired from all the action, I’d sit with Grandpa on the front veranda and bug him to tell me a tale. The way you bug me,” Milan added with a disarming grin. “Anyhow, more often than not, the old man obliged. I remember one particular story…”
A beautiful maiden, his grandpa began as he puffed on his cherry wood pipe, rocking in a favorite rickety chair, often frequented a nearby forest filled with all sorts of wildlife. Long, corn-colored hair fell to her slim waist. Large blue eyes sparkled with laughter and the joy of being alive. Youths from nearby villages came to court her, but the tall, willowy maid repulsed them all, much to the lament of the youths. Of course, this raised all sorts of gossip, and mothers wanting their son marry the maid speculated what may be wrong with her. Some even considered her a witch. When the women demanded to know why the maid never wed, her mother paid them no never mind, which only fueled further speculation. The maid ignored the gossip, the barbed innuendos, and lived a carefree life, preferring the company of her forest friends.
No one knew where the maid went when she disappeared into the forest or what she did there, and those who followed her often got lost. She sometimes came home with scratches on her long, supple legs and slim arms, and her parents scolded her. How can she hope to attract a boy looking like that, they said. The scratches came from branches and shrubs, she explained cheerfully, eyes dancing with inner fire.
Milan’s grandfather said he loved to hunt, an old, battered rifle cradled in his arms. He regularly brought home a hare, wild boar, or a deer, always welcomed at the farmhouse by his wife.
One sunny autumn afternoon, his worn Jager percussion rifle slung across the shoulder, a large leather rucksack to hold any game he may catch, he pecked his plump wife on the cheek and declared he would be back in time for dinner. His wife did not mind her husband’s wanderings, knowing he never left chores undone.
He took a familiar worn trail into the forest, and after some time, the warm sun flickering between old birch, oak, and poplar, he took a meandering track that led to a meadow with a small lake tucked against a hillside. He liked the place, one of his favorites, as animals often came to graze on the lush grass and drink, and generally managed to shoot something. Even when he did not, he enjoyed sitting at the forest edge, take an occasional swig of wine from a flask, and listen contentedly to the soft buzz of insects as swallows swooped low over the sleepy meadow.
Suddenly, a graceful doe emerged from the trees some forty meters on his right. She paused, lifted her slender neck, sniffed the air, and slowly made her way toward the lake. Every now and then, she stopped and turned her head on lookout for possible danger. Satisfied, she walked through the tall grass with small, mincing steps.
Grandpa never saw such a beautiful deer, and watched the doe in rapt fascination as she approached the lake. At possibly fifty kilos, she would provide welcomed fresh venison for the table. He picked up the rifle and aimed at the doe’s chest. A quick kill, the animal would not suffer. As he took up the trigger slack, the doe turned and looked directly at him. Even from some 150 meters, he saw her large blue eyes, something most unusual. He took a deep breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger.
The sharp crack caused startled birds into flight, and two hares bounded into thickets across the meadow. Without a sound, the doe dropped to the ground. Milan’s grandfather raced through the grass to inspect his kill.
Chest heaving, he slowed and gaped in shock at what he saw as color drained from his face. He dropped the rifle and stared in startled wonder as the graceful doe turned into a naked young woman, golden hair spilled across full breasts. Bright blood oozed from a wound in the center of her chest. He thought she looked at him then, not with accusation, but resigned acceptance. Then the light faded from her eyes. As he stared at the village maid, her form shimmered, became transparent, and faded. Gradually, the flattened grass rose where she had lain.
Milan’s grandfather said he felt his eyes sting and hot tears warmed his cheeks from deep loss and regret. He knelt beside the spot where the woman laid and sobbed, his heart tearing with pain. He begged forgiveness, knowing the forest had claimed the strange maid. Whether she heard him or not, he thought he saw her enchanting young face, eyes alive with laughter, rosy lips open in a broad smile. Perhaps she did forgive him, because he felt the load of guilt roll off his chest and he stood up with a lighter heart. He took a deep breath and let it out with a soft hiss as he wiped his face with a calloused hand.
He cradled the worn rifle and wearily made his way toward the forest and home, the years heavy on his shoulders. For a long time afterward, the villagers often talked about the strange young maid and wondered what happened to her. A search through the forest revealed an ankle-long green dress the maid used to wear neatly draped across a low branch. Some said she ran away with a youth from another village, but nobody knew for certain.
Mouth clamped on a pipe, Milan’s grandfather declared roughly that he never went hunting again, and his old rifle remained mounted above the fireplace. On long winter afternoons, he sat before the flickering flames and stared at the gun. His wife often asked why he never hunted, sensing something unusual happened on that fateful autumn day, but he refused to say.
Finished, Milan sat in his chair and quietly puffed on his pipe.
“Believe it or not, the way my grandfather told it, I never doubted its truth, ti banac. Strange things happened in his day,” he added gruffly.
Mason shook off the memories, got up, and padded into the kitchen for a refill.
