One day, ballads will boast of the bush’s beauty. One day, descendants will dream of deftly built dwellings, of dense, dark greenery where wild things wait. One day, tales will be told and all will remember how they started in the bush of all places. People will wonder what it was about the trees that teeter and twist, the creatures that cower and kill, and the only company you have being yourself and perhaps your family that makes a man, makes a myth – makes a legend. It is these sentimental sagas, these idyllic imaginings, and these romantic retellings that haze history as it is – as it was. That make us forget that in that bush once lived people – real people, that lived, breathed, and had to fight to keep doing so. But those people …show more content…
“’Go catch something’?” he echoes her earlier words with a grin. “This good enough a ‘something’ for you?” “It’ll do,” she says, but she can’t help but smile, albeit tightly. That night, they eat well. She saws off a sizeable chunk of the creature and tosses it in the pot to the wide-eyed faces of her two children, Margaret and Peter, and the complacent coos of the baby her husband rocks in his arms. The smell of the kangaroo cooking is almost incongruent within their home. There’s something opulent about the rich, meaty aroma – a stark contrast to the dilapidation of the place. For their house is made of just three rooms, all of them built from scratch and from nothing but wood, bark, and sweat. In addition to this, the home has been windswept and otherwise weathered over the years – pieces of bark made brittle and broken by the breeze, planks of wood whisked away by the wind, and ceilings collapsed as if they simply could not take any more of the cruelty that is the force of nature. “What does kangaroo taste like, Ma?” asks Peter, blinking earth-brown eyes up at …show more content…
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. Five bullets, in rapid succession. Only two enter the kangaroo’s body, staining it red; the creature jolts, but doesn’t die. The man swears a blue streak, and breaks into a run, but he knows it’s no use chasing after it. In seconds, the kangaroo is gone. He returns only when almost the whole day has passed – when the sun is starting to sink through the sky. It descends past the stark darkness of the treetops and lower still, until it hovers just above the honey-hued horizon and stays there, threatening to enter its nocturnal slumber but not yet delivering on its promise, as if waiting for the man himself. “Got anything?” Ma asks, but the question is futile. The figure making their way through the trees towards her carries nothing but a gun and the worthless weight of disappointment. “No, are you blind?” The words are teasing, and maybe it’s the distance, but Ma doesn’t see the usual spark of humour in the man’s eyes. “I’d rather be blind than have us go hungry another day.” “I did try.” He’s as contrite as usual, and Ma usually lets it go after this, but a week of going without food does things to people. “Well, trying’s not enough!” she