Jane Rawson

She couldn’t say how long she’d been up there before David’s arrival. Time was measured differently those days, if it was measured at all. But it had been thirty years since he’d brought her down here and every summer hotter than the last.

Apparently, some part of me still believed that here in Australia, when it came down to it, governments would step in and protect us. All the evidence is against this belief, of course, but sometimes we hang on to irrational ideas just so we can get on with our day.

Right now, I’m letting go of that belief. Because today we’re faced with a situation where an already existing, cheap-to-produce, simple-to-distribute technology that we need to keep us safe and which it was easy to predict we’d need, just isn’t available. Those without money can’t get it at all. Even those with money are spending half their lives checking websites, going door-to-door, hoping to get their hands on one that they know will be hideously marked up, because the market charges what the market will bear.

Is it pointless to write once more that things are a terrible mess? It would be good if we could write instead, or as well: here is the path to fix it. To write, yes, our house is on fire but also, here is the fire exit or – even better! And if only! – here comes the fire brigade. But what do we write in the section marked ‘how to fix climate change’ when our options are necessarily limited by the sheer bloody-minded inertia of government? 

Humans adapt to shifting baselines; it’s given us the ability to cope with all kinds of things. We take the world as we find it and try to make the most of things as they are. For many of us, our baseline is a landscape depleted of locally indigenous species, homogenised. The species we know about are the iconic ones—kookaburras, koalas and, perhaps, horses. They’re the ones that feel to us as if they belong, even if once they didn’t. Or, as one Tasmanian said to me about a bird that was introduced to the state in the early twentieth century, ‘Kookaburras have always been here, haven’t they?’

During the 2019-20 mainland bushfires, when Tasmania was cool and damp, I was safe. During the coronavirus pandemic, isolated in my cottage at the end of a dirt road on a sparsely populated island at the bottom of the world, I was safe. (By late April, an outbreak in the north-west of the state meant Tasmania had the highest number of coronavirus infections per capita of anywhere in Australia.) Sometime in early April a friend in Melbourne sent me an email. “You must be feeling pretty pleased with yourself. The fires, now this?!”

What does it mean to watch as human society slowly devastates wildlife populations around the world, to watch as climate change–fuelled bushfires, habitat destruction and hunting push them into extinction? What kind of art can make up for what we’ve done? Can any kind of art make it stop?

But how would you even go about writing a novel from an animal’s perspective? There has been a lot of discussion lately about whether authors have the right to write from the perspective of people different to themselves, and those who argue yes generally emphasize how important it is to do your research, to understand the community, the history, the thoughts and feelings of your protagonists. But do we even have any idea what animals know, think and feel?

I was reminded today, by a bug specialist, that many of the specks of dust and grit that we see are actually bugs, mites, bacteria. Disconcerting but also great company. In the lonely looming void that the extinction report draws attention to, it is useful to remember that we are made up of and surrounded by animals and, of course, that we are (super predator) animals ourselves.

In 2019, there will be no Vogel’s literary award. None of the manuscripts – the prize’s press release suggests – were up to scratch: ‘the judges’ decision speaks to their respect for the award and their desire to maintain the excellent standards of previous winning manuscripts.’ In other words: we’d be embarrassed to publish any of the submissions.

‘You’ll need to sign this.’

The woman pushed a piece of paper across the counter to him. Art looked at his brand-new paws, held them up to her in mute confusion.

‘Just use the ink pad,’ she said. ‘It’s legal.’ She paused. ‘You won’t be able to read it, of course, but it summarises what we discussed before the procedure. That you agreed to the Transference of your own free will. That you were offered the option of relocating to the HD Towers and chose Transference instead. That your species was selected without duress.’

For three years I edited the environment pages of the Conversation website. I published article after article about extinction, bee-colony collapse, the last tortoise of its kind, the last rhinoceros of its kind. I thought I knew how badly things were going for animals. I had no idea.

The other day I was trying to write a short story. While procrastinating, I googled ‘How to write a short story?’ The search yielded 1.75 million results, the first being ‘How to write an amazing short story’. This article’s number-one tip was to ‘know what a short story is’, and the author even provided a helpful definition: a short story is just like a story, but short. It shouldn’t be a novel, the article advised, and it should have limited characters. (I assume numerically, but perhaps psychologically. Then I tried to think of a story that had unlimited characters. Vasily Grossman’s Life and Fate came close, but not quite. I concluded that on this basis, all stories are short stories.) ‘Keep it to 3000 words’ was another suggestion. The article went on to urge budding authors to ‘use everyday occurrences to inspire your short stories’. I realised I may have found the perfect guide to writing an archetypal Australian short story. 

Jin sat on her apartment’s kitchen floor, which was also the dining room, living room and bedroom floor, and looked at her bird. It was a blackbird, which she knew because its feathers were black. It had lived with her for 47 days, and now it was dead.

The blackbird was dead because Jin had taped its beak closed the night before. Every evening as the sun set, the blackbird would begin its beautiful song, so every evening just before dusk, Jin would carefully wind the tape around its beak. Once the light was gone she would untape it, but last night she had forgotten.

She had waited three days for him to come home, and during those days she had never worried. If you haven’t done anything wrong, she reasoned, why should you have anything to fear? On the fourth day she got the Telegram. On the fifth day she went to Martin Place to leave a bouquet at his last-known place of breathing, but the Brave Digger there moved her on. Poppies only, he told her, and she looked down at the cluster of pink-grey proteas—he’d always loved proteas, like plump galahs he said—clutching them silently amid the sea of red. 

‘Have you read my book?’

It’s the first thing Julie Koh asks me as she takes a seat in the cosy booth I’ve reserved for us at the exclusive Pancake Parlour in Bourke Street Mall.

Koh looks stunning, as always. She’s wearing a close-fitting pantsuit with fabric custom-made to match the texture of the cover stock from her groundbreaking anthology, BooksActually’s Gold Standard.

Koh slips off her hand-embroidered ‘Julie Koh’s Portable Curiosities’ satin bomber jacket – ‘I know the most darling designer in Mosman – did I tell you I’ve moved to Mosman?’ – and reaches for the menu.

The way it feels, sitting in the library courtyard, and seeing a baby sparrow at your feet, scavenging the crumbs from your crusty roll. The way it feels when a cat, perched on a fence on your way to work, doesn’t flee but instead rubs its head against your hand. When a water dragon tries to steal your lamington outside the Gallery of Modern Art. When a tiny silver-eye crashes into your lounge-room window, breaking its neck, and you cradle its still-warm body, bones full of air. When a hundred seagulls glide high over your house at sunset. When you stand a little too long, looking at the bones and intestines of a dead rat on the railway station platform.  When a ring tail possum totters along a power line above your head as you walk moonlit home from the pub. When a praying mantis looms from a fresh-picked, vase-stuffed bouquet.

The hurricane lantern was flickering more than usual. She checked the gas line but everything seemed fine. Oh blimey, she thought, not the mantle. Last time she’d had to ransack the outdoor shop in town it had been a two-day round trip. ‘Don’t be the mantle, don’t be the mantle…’ At least it wasn’t getting worse. She picked up her pen.

Cox’s Bazaar – sometimes spelled ‘Bazar’ – was named by the British during the time Bangladesh was part of India and under colonial rule. It is often described as the world’s longest sea beach, though some geographers maintain it is outstripped by Australia’s 90 Mile Beach and others in South America.

A few more deliciously factual snippets like this and she could pop herself into bed for the night.

Hailing from Hull, the Housemartins sprang to fame covering a 1960s Motown hit, Caravan of Love. The song’s delightful harmonies and up-beat sentiments made it a sure-fire hit for the summer of 1984. By the end of the 1980s the band had fallen into obscurity and went their separate ways. The band’s rhythm guitarist went on to invent the iPod as a technician at Apple, but never received payment.

She leant back on her chair and stretched her spine, remembered when she’d seen the first of them. He’d been tearing pages from one of the library’s books, cramming them into his mouth, and before she’d even really registered what was going on, before she had time to intervene, the library was full of the things. They’d devoured the lot: 000 General works, computer science and information to 999 Extraterrestrial worlds. She’d fled with one armful of novels, ELIO to EMER: it was all she could save.

She checked the water filter – still plenty in there – poured herself a mug and stepped outside to brush her teeth. Night times were quiet, just the ticket for a walk on the grass, have a look at the stars. She didn’t get out much during the day anymore, so it was nice to stretch the old legs a bit. She spat, rinsed, then drank the couple of mouthfuls of water left in the bottom of the mug. She pulled her coat tighter, popped the empty mug by the door and made her way down the hill to the gate.

One of the goats had nibbled yesterday’s factoids. She pulled the tooth-marked sheet off the fence post, held it up to the moonlight. It was alright. It’d do. She reattached it – it should still be enough to satisfy the things if they came hunting. Anything would keep them quiet, she’d learned, as long as it was print on paper. An iPad wouldn’t do. She’d seen Ken try to feed one an iPad during those last desperate days and the thing hadn’t been satisfied at all. Cracked his skull open as fast as blinking, ate every last bit of his brain.

‘Alright then. Alright. Let’s get this sorted out shall we?’ She walked the boundary, pegging pages to the fence every few metres until she could see the main road, then walked back to her shed and shut herself in. She’d found the stone shed, tucked in a hollow behind a little copse of trees, three months after she’d had to leave town. It was perfect. Just one door, easily barred. No windows. It would have been a touch dark and grim, but whoever built it had installed a lovely skylight that made the snug interior quite merry when the sun was out. Sometimes she lay on her back on the floor and watched clouds race by. Really, it was all she did.

She woke to the sun in her eyes and the unmistakeable sound of shuffling and groaning down by the gate. She pulled out the periscope and looked through the skylight. Her factoids were untouched, her shed was surrounded. They hadn’t liked the food she’d left.

She’d known, of course, this day would come. Still, she cried a little as she tore out the final page from her very last book and slid it under the door, as she listened to the wet sound of it being swallowed. The second-last page, the third-last and more all went into their hungry mouths. Seven hours later, when the sun set and the things shuffled off to sleep, 150 pages were gone.

Nothing mattered to them but devouring information. They never gave up. They never died and, anyway, she wasn’t the type to kill a thing. Once this book was gone, the only ideas left would be in her brain. She’d seen what happened to Ken. So she checked the door was properly shut, the gap underneath blocked with an old shirt, and she opened the gas canister wide and curled up with what was left of a good book.

 

He made up his mind: if no one answered by the tenth ring he’d just hang up.
“Hello?”
“Um. Hi. Yes, hello.” He took a breath, tried to deepen his voice. “Is that Jim Czenovic?”
“Speaking.”
“Hello Mr Czenovic. My name is …” he paused, looked at the slip of paper he was crushing in his hand, then made his best guess at a European accent, “Vaughan Ramirez. I’m calling from Agate Recruitment. We’re reviewing references for a Mr Michael Jamieson. Mr Jamieson tells us he worked for you in 2011; is that correct?”
“Sorry, who did you say it was?”
“Vaughan,” he looked again at the paper, “Ramirez. Agate Recruiting. I’m doing a reference check, Mister Czenovic.”

Are you OK? Is everyone OK back there? Alright then, let’s rest here awhile.

First, I want to thank all of you – my fellow Earthians – for being here with me today. You’ve come so far, achieved so much, to be here this afternoon. To the survivors of last summer’s Victorian holocaust, I salute you. Those who made it here after Sydney was cut off from food supplies, who escaped the slaughter of Surry Hills, I can only imagine the horrors you have seen. And the orphans whose parents sacrificed everything to get them here as Brisbane went under, I’m sorry we couldn’t do more for you. All of you have contributed so much to our little community, and I thank you all for your self-sufficiency, your resilience and your undimmed hope. 

For some time, ANZAC Day celebrations have kept the realities of war at arm’s length. Indeed, aside from during the Dawn Service, war barely gets a look in at all. Instead, on ANZAC Day we are encouraged to celebrate the ANZAC spirit.

The Australian War Memorial tells us ‘there is general consensus on what is regarded as the ANZAC spirit.’ It ‘came to stand for the qualities which Australians have seen their forces show in war.’ A complex bundle of qualities, then, you might think, but also much the same as the qualities shown by other forces in war. Bravery might be part of the package and maybe anger, frustration, terror, disabling boredom, loneliness, discomfort, hatred, love, selfishness, selflessness, initiative, blind obedience, wit and stupidity. But actually, no; the War Memorial goes on to tell us that the qualities which make up the ANZAC spirit are ‘courage, ingenuity, good humour and mateship’ and not any of that other stuff. More recently, sacrifice seems to have become part of the mantra: a recent update to the War Memorial’s site about this year’s commemorations says the ANZAC spirit is made up of ‘human qualities of courage, mateship, and sacrifice.’