The Crying Forest by Venero Armanno
1940: A Country Killing
Soon as the truck engine was rattling outside, and he heard his papà hurry into the house calling for Antonio to get out of his bed, Giacomo Mosca—Little Jack to everyone in this new country Australia—slipped from under the sheets and hid himself inside his room’s clothes closet. He waited, heart pounding, then in a minute he’d made a decent fist of changing out of his pyjamas into grimy work clothes and boots.
It was well past midnight; the house previously so quiet was now busy with scurrying feet.
Little Jack had expected something like this. A good farmer like his father didn’t spend an entire afternoon sharpening the blades of a half-dozen axes for nothing. Jack guessed his brother Antonio, at eighteen twice Jack’s age, would be dressed and collecting his rifle. Antonio would stand in front of that intriguingly locked timber cabinet off from the living room, the one holding exactly fifty square cardboard boxes of ammunition. Papà would have the key. Mamma in her nightgown would be fussing around, frightened and tense, cradling the baby. Six-year-old Anna would clutch her skirt. If Jack showed his face Mamma would pull him to her bed-warm body—‘Giacomo, stay here’—because he was far too young to go out night-hunting and animal-culling with the adults. The men went for deer, animals which might appear very pretty but were in fact an introduced species of pest and disastrous for the region’s natural habitat, most especially for all the region’s crops. Everyone would defend those crops with everything they had; after all, what people still said was the longest and most destructive drought in recorded memory had only broken last season—like a miracle, a blessed miracle!—and now was the time for families and their farms to finally prosper.
Tonight Jack would not stay home. Home was the place for women.
‘Look after the house,’ his father had told him, last time a chase was on. ‘Look after the family.’
‘But I want to come.’
‘There’ll be no nightmares for you,’ his father spoke, a man little given to moments of tenderness. Yet he’d then added in a more kindly voice: ‘Not until there have to be, you understand?’
Hunting and shooting in the woods. Jack hadn’t seen any reason to be thinking about nightmares; he simply didn’t understand whatever secrets these adults were carrying.
So tonight while the commotion carried on downstairs he climbed out his bedroom window. He clambered down the side of the house, lost his footing and his grip, and fell the last five or six feet, banging heavily onto his backside. There was a quick shooting pain up into his skull, a momentary dazzling of stars.
Dusting off the seat of his pants, Jack hid in the cool dark, still with his heart beating fast. He judged the distance to his father’s farm truck. The way was mostly unlit but the bright clear night shone with a searchlight of a moon.
Had to be very careful now. Voices at the front door.
‘Antonio, you mind whatever your father tells you.’ That was Little Jack’s mother speaking. ‘No stupidity.’
He sprinted the short distance to the truck, just about willing himself into invisibility, then he clambered fast into its flatbed back. Moments later there was the cough of the engine kicking over, Antonio in the long bench seat beside his father. Little Jack risked a glance before ducking down again. Antonio’s shotgun was in his hands, barrel broken. When they arrived at wherever they were going that barrel would snap into place and the safety catch would be tested; then, off in the forests somewhere the spotlighting and the shooting would begin. Little Jack would finally discover the secrets everyone made it their business to hide from children like him. Adults talked about deer, it was true, but like all the other youngsters of the region Little Jack suspected there was more to these hunts.
Because if it was all just a simple deer cull then why did everyone get so anxious? Little Jack and Paulie Munro, whose father’s farm was three miles away, mulled the problem over often, usually during lunch at the local school.
How many shots do people fire? How many deer do they kill? What else could they be after?
The truck moved off. Maybe in a minute Mamma would go upstairs to check on Little Jack. Like the rest of the family he had his daily chores, collecting warm eggs, milking the cow, slopping the two pigs, and getting to and from school as sharpishly as he could: she’d expect he had slept through this whole ruckus. Maybe the baby would keep her attention. Well, if she did check on him it was too late. Jack was on his way.
The old Ford shook and rattled down the one-mile expanse of dirt from the Mosca farmhouse to the road, then it travelled along multiple dusty and ungraded laneways into the dark countryside of this region the Moscas had made their home, known as Grandview.
And now the truck skidded to a stop and Little Jack heard the sounds of men shouting. Other farmers’ trucks were already there. Lanterns and powered bulbs darted through the trees like glowing, excited ghosts.
Still unseen, Little Jack climbed down from the flatback and followed his father and brother, the running men and their swaying lights. Here the trees were so dense, yet alive with activity. He couldn’t tell where they’d ended up when usually he knew just about every corner of the Grandview countryside.
‘They’re trapped!’
‘Lights on them, against a rock wall!’
‘Nowhere to go!’
‘Quick… before they have a chance…’
It was like some over-excited crowd moving into the local showgrounds for the annual fair, except there were no women, no small children, no grandparents. Only men and older teenage boys holding rifles of varying calibres instead of hot dogs and fairy floss. Little Jack recognised almost every single one of these folk, his farmland neighbours.
Mr Bell, tall and gaunt; unfriendly Mr Egan; there was squat Mr Margolin with Mr Bartlett, Mr Taylor, Mr Goddard and Mr Bretzki. Here another Italian, a man from the north, Mr Claudio Cima with his fat and furry drooping moustache everyone made fun of. To the left of him, Finn Westwood, Antonio’s friend from a neighbouring property, now talking just as fast as he always did.
‘They tore up three cows or something, killed the pets too, don’t know whose place. And I didn’t have a clue what was happening until Jim and Joe Hadfield turned up at the front door…’
A handful of teenage boys running. More lights, voices raised.
‘There! See them there?’
Now a clearing, moonlight above, lanterns held aloft and shining. Farm trucks had their headlights trained ahead—some enterprising souls had manoeuvred along a rough forest trail, far off the roads and laneways.
Not deer but a pack of wild dogs, worst scourge of all. So that’s what it was about. Bad for farm animals, killers of anything they could get their teeth into. People said they might even set upon a person walking happy as can be first thing at dawn or on a balmy evening. Dangerous to corner them but there this pack was, gathered against a wall. Coiled and tense, ready to break and bolt, yet blinded in the glare.
‘Jesus, Jack, just look at them!’
It was Paulie Munro, Little Jack’s friend from school. He shouldn’t have been there either; Jack guessed he might have hitched a secret ride as well.
‘Minchia…’ Jack breathed, ‘… shit…’
‘Bloody hell,’ Paulie echoed.
For there were mangy dogs; big ones; small ones; dogs that snarled; dogs that hid behind other dogs; dogs that stared wide-eyed into blinding light and some that only had one eye. All of them, ears pricking at the voices, at the danger, at death. Some trembling with fear, some poised to attack, many more doing both.
‘Must be thirty, forty of the bastards!’
‘What’ll we do?’
‘Shoot!’
Instant volleys of pounding gunfire. Little Jack jumped and he felt Paulie grab his hand.
The two of them stepped forwards for a better look. Antonio was right at the front, firing without let-up, shooting and reloading for the glory of sound and fury. Little Jack’s father was different—and so was Mr Munro, Paulie’s father, also different. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder alternating calm shots.
Steady, aim.
That’s the shot. Now, steady, aim again. Draw the bead.
A rifle’s strong recoil.
Think, aim again. Squeeze the trigger.
Not fast but steady.
Not slow but deadly.
The fumes of gunpowder, the stench of cordite, blood and meat bursting, the terrible dances of death. Bodies torn to literal shreds by slugs and buckshot.
After the deafening roar, lasting less than a minute, a deafening silence. Small whimpers from dying throats then single shots silenced those as well.
A shout.
‘Oh God!’
A silhouette staggered aimlessly. Not the shadow of a dog but of something more terrible, a wounded man. Coming closer, out of a dark nest of trees at the rock wall’s edge.
Some farmers recoil; some gather for a better look, which is just what Little Jack and Paulie do, following at the heels of men too transfixed to notice them.
But who is it? What’s happened?
Shirt drenched. Bleeding holes in a heavily gasping chest. One hole, two. Looks like three.
The man stretches out a hand. Little Jack knows him. Paulie knows him too. He owns that place they call the red house. His name, it means that colour too, red.
‘It’s Mr Rosso!’
‘Shit no!’
‘He must have been—’
‘—in the line of fire.’
‘Got too excited?’
‘Got himself shot!’
Little Jack notices men now backing away, thinking better of being there even as Mr Rosso stumbles closer. He’s blinking fast as if trying to drive away sleep. He cries out once then drops to his knees.
And pitches forwards onto his face.
‘What do we do?’
‘The police—we’ll get Barry from the station.’
‘Wait, just think for a second. Are we to blame?’
‘It was an accident. The volley of gunfire.’
‘Which we promised we’d never do again.’
‘Leave him. We’ll leave him right where he is.’
‘Maybe a good idea…’
Voices so agitated Little Jack imagines his schoolyard at lunchtime with a good fist-fight brewing.
‘Everybody!’ It’s the big deep accent of Claudio Cima. Instead of his familiar migrant tongue now he’s speaking English, and in a voice that shakes with outrage: ‘Be ashamed! One thing we do! We no leave a man dere like dat.’
Paulie’s father is the first to step forwards. Mr Munro goes onto his knees, his face a grim mask. Mr Cima comes to kneel beside him, and so too does Little Jack’s father, Angelo. Their hands roll Mr Rosso onto his back.
Shirt soaked in a wet and glistening blackish-red.
White face. Eyes staring in surprise at nothing.
Dead as dead can be.
A life lost in this forest amidst the bloody odour of all those other lives snuffed out.
Fascinated, Little Jack pushes his way into the gathered circle. Dead ruined dogs are one thing, but what does a dead man’s face look like? Before anyone notices him, Little Jack hears the three men with Mr Rosso whisper to one another:
‘After how he saved us all.’
‘Not him—that wife of his.’
From behind, Little Jack recognises the strong, terse voice of Mr Egan: ‘Not him or Mrs Rosso but the good Lord. Don’t think of it any other way.’
Little Jack’s father finally notices his small son. Antonio turns his head too.
‘The fuck you doing here?’
Someone remembers the thing that brought them there in the first place.
‘The mutts!’
‘What do we do?’
‘Take their heads. Every single one of them. Make sure the bastards stay dead.’
‘What then?’
‘Heads, bodies, all together—one big fire!’
Angelo Mosca, kneeling by the dead man, staring sadly at his youngest boy, says to Antonio, ‘Get your brother out of here. Tell your mother to look after him. Don’t come back.’
Chunking, chopping sounds have already started; Little Jack sees the silhouettes of axes raised, coming down hard. The sight of all that does something to his head and to his stomach.
Then a cry, harsh yet forlorn breaks the night.
Everyone stops as a woman emerges from the shadowed trees. A face Little Jack knows is as beautiful as the moon has been made ugly with fear. She falls beside her husband, covering him. Her long chestnut hair is across Giancarlo Rosso’s bloodied, unmoving chest. When she raises her face, young Signora Agata Rosso’s cheeks are also bloodied.
‘Peasants…’ Mrs Rosso breathes toward everyone gathered there, ‘…so ignorant…’
No one moves. The axes have stopped chopping. Little Jack sees that Mrs Rosso’s crying is done, at least for now, because there’s a change in her. Mrs Agata Rosso’s lips mutter and writhe but there’s no way to understand the strange words she’s speaking. Then her eyes rise and pick him out, Little Jack. He finds himself fixed inside the intensity of that gaze; then he hears words in his head. Words he can understand:
I’ll take you.
A strange warmth pulsates in his chest.
It feels nice.
Before something plunges him into black before anyone can catch him.
