Roost Trail

 

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Trib

Trib’s boots caught loose gravel as he walked away from his motorbike to the edge of the road. The rocks skittled into the gutter—silenced as immediately as they were driven.

Trib looked over the pasture-scape of Lower Granton from the precipice of the embankment—the tributaries, feeding the mill and the cattle and the farmers, running through corduroy fields, groomed with the care that Priest Brandy takes to his hairpiece, out to Feathertop ridge in the distance; three adorning crosses, one taller in the middle, standing like three pickets in a fence. Wet clouds beyond that would soon be a constant feature of the horizon as autumn turned, and winter settled in.

He let his eyes fall to the twisted carcass of the McGill’s car in the brambles and bushes below—the wine of a wheel still spinning punctuating the silence, a door thrown from the wreck sagging between the truck and branch of an Elm. The faint smell of burnt oil rose to meet him. The scent made its way into his system, probing as if trying to find that spot within his memory where it was going to sit forever.

With a last turn, the wheel fell silent, the wind slowing. All seemingly held its breath alongside Trib as he considered the brambles of Granton’s hill side.

 

Shouldering his bag, he began skirting down to the wreck one awkward foot in front of the other, pulse rising. The bare belly of the car grew larger until he reached out and braced himself on the upturned rear bumper. The oil more pungent now. He half collapsed vomiting into the thicket at his feet. Wiping away clingy saliva with his forearm, he grabbed out a tin of white paint and a brush and dropped the bag. 

Collecting himself, he surveyed the scene walking two laps of the car, dodging debris, pulling away from bramble vines catching at his ankles, the paint tin bouncing off his leg. On the third lap, he stopped next to the still attached driver’s side door, steadied his breathing, and, crouching, looked in past the knife-like shards of glass jutting out from the door frame. More vomiting, on hands and knees, brushing glass across the dirt to make room for his hands steadying himself—his eyes reddening began to tear. A few drops pooling at his chin fell to the dirt. The world around continued to hold its breath.

 

Propped up against the car, Trib sat, losing sense of time—watched the wind return; the sun obscure behind clouds; native flocks like spearheads towards the east flying further into the distance. A bird split from the flock and descended into the fields, braving the scarecrows. He had seen before, a bird split from a flock and then the flock follow, arcing around to circle towards the ground, had noted it in his journal. On this occasion he lost sight of the stray bird and the flock disappeared over the ridge.

Standing up, Trib walked to the door caught in the tree around eye level. Dropping the brush, he coerced his finger nails between the lid and the container. His nails strained against the tin lid, dry paint gluing it to the canister.

Holding his breath, he walked back to the car, carefully crawled into the driver’s side window—over the body of the McGill father, grabbing a screwdriver from the centre-console. He fell back out, cutting his wrist on the glass jutting from the doorframe. Sucking at the wound, he returned to the paint tin and cracked the lid, picked up the brush and began to paint.

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Boy

The small pious townships of Granton and Bloomsbury are connected by a 5 mile stretch of arterial country road that holds significance to the people of these communities. Such significance, some might say, that if it weren’t for this road, order, as it stands, might be compromised. Priest Brandy, head councillor of Bloomsbury, considered by many to be the first bringer of ethical and moral wisdom to the region, is known for taking to the soapbox and preaching the reign of belligerence and immorality that would sweep the communities if the road were to fall into decay -- not to shine too poor a light on the old preacher. His heart seems in the right place when considering his more charitable endeavours. Particularly with the young boys of poorer backgrounds on the hills where the shearing sheds are. He’s rumoured to make the 3 mile walk to the north-east pasture country three times a week with local fruit courtesy of Manor’s Groceries and sandwiches of which the Ham was often supplied by Bill Butch the butcher’s boy. If Bobby Butch, young Bill’s father, were to catch him thieving ham again lord knows where that cleaver of his might find itself. Although, one knows that Priest Brandy would put the young lad up if push ever came to shove.

Bloomsbury is situated to the north and Granton to the south, the pass connecting the properties of the McGill’s, old Mr Watergate, the Forest’s, the Trumbo’s, the Kelly’s, and the Manor’s to these townships. And so few people have travelled it since the M98 was built back in ’52, that its name only lives through a ritual of these two communities. It’s unnamed on maps drawn after ’58 and, even back then, was so loosely pencilled in that people often mistook it for a walking track.

 

The name Roost Trail was coined by old Mr Watergate and has since been accepted by the communities. In autumn, after the boys had proven their worth through another arid summer of hard labour in the wool sheds, the final coming of age test is set to begin: A drive of the pass in less than eight minutes. The three months gathering tonne upon tonne of wool in preparation for the cold winter to come culminating in a drive down this winding road.  A second over eight and the young lad wouldn’t be allowed to face Priest Brandy and gain manhood, hence breaking his seasonal gathering of the wool and also being given the right to marry a local lady of the townships.

Old Watergate would sit on his porch, smoking the local Brightleaf tobacco, as young boys, their fathers in the passenger seat, would drive the 5-mile stretch. From this vantage point, all that can be seen of the events is a plume of jetsam and flotsam of the autumnal deciduous trees that line the embankment of the pass.

‘The rooster tails are on the bend.’ An elderly member of the McGill family had commented one day whilst smoking on the porch with Old Watergate, referencing the ark of the leafy debris trailing the cars. It resembling that of the rooster tail, not to mention in colour as well.

‘Yis, indeid… Bess git yur yungest t’ warn priest Brandy. Thur bin tree headed pas’ just t’day.’

And so it was.  

 

McGill’s middle son, Boy, sat beside his father drumming lightly on the dashboard. He looked up at his father driving them through the pasture country outside of Granton. Corduroy fields in harvest, long and undulating over softly grading land sprawled to the foot hills of the range that segregates the communities of Granton and Bloomsbury from the greater parts of the region. He looked to the road ahead, noticing the lessons his father had taught him: wide at the entry to the corner, brake late while heal-toe shifting down for additional engine braking, identify and hit the apex of the corner with the front wheel on the corner side, light on the accelerator while firmer and firmer until flat to the floor.

Coming to a small bend in the road, Charlie McGill slowed the car until it was almost at a stop, swung it around, and proceeded through the blinded entrance to Roost Trail, coming to a stop under the shade of an Elm tree. They sat in silence for a moment staring into the pass. Tree roots threatened to push through the ground at the base of their systems, their trunks reaching up to heavens spreading into shelves of rusted foliage preparing the shed for impending winter.

‘Why do the trees shed in autumn when winter is only a month away? Don’t they need their leaves for warmth?’

‘Boy, focus. T’day is ‘ur day. You wanna en’ up like Willy? Pullin wool till ‘ur too old to chew cud with ‘ur own teeth?’

‘Like grandpappy with his cup of teeth beside his bed?’

‘Yer son, like gran’pappy.’

They stepped out of the car and passed each other in front the bonnet. The motor purred spluttered then resumed its purr, pistons firing quietly beneath the inky black facade of the hood. The purr was that of mechanics timed well by Charlie last night in a last minute tinker. He had worked through the early hours of the morning to give his son the best chance at driving the stretch in 8 minutes.

Boy sat down in the driver’s seat waiting in silence. The car of Curtis Moray, reminiscent of a bulldog with its squashed in front-end and utility tray out back, came from behind then stopped with a squall of brakes beside them.

‘Charlie, Boy. You both right?’

‘Yes-sir-ee there Curt.’

‘When ‘ur ready then… Luck to yer’ Boy.’

Turning to Boy, Charlie began the ritual:

Reading from a piece of paper scrolled in the unmistakable handwriting of priest Brandy McGill began to read:

‘Under divine guidance that holds us true, true to each other, true to ourselves, you are to drive this stretch in less than 8 minutes thereby proving your worth as a young man to our communities, thereby proving your dedication to our ways. We have completed the run, your father and I, it is now your turn to prove worth under the eyes of the lord, who fervently guides this hand. To ask of him a safe pass now, a healthy sleep at night and for the well-being of all who make up our communities by the rooster’s crow in the morning. Upon completion, you will be granted the choice of work that is available to your capability, the right to marriage, and an invitation to township meetings where your voice will be heard with the sanctity of those to either side of you.’

‘…’

‘I will….’

‘Ah, I will drive... Amen.’

‘Amen.’

‘…Dad, what is fervently?’

‘Never mind.’ 

Boy pushed on the throttle. The car twisted and rose a little on the suspension with the turbulence of the engine. He apologised for agitating it, soothed it by stroking the wheel. Curt had crossed the road and parked, stepping from the bulldog to take his position as instigator of the drive, transistor radio mic in hand. He gave a slight nod and Boy felt his hands moisten on the wheel. Clutch in, prop into first, feather the rev’s around 5000, wait for the wheels to take then drop the clutch fully until the plume, the roar, the screech of rubber peeling away over tarmac stop, then check the rev’s, hit 8000 and gear up into second, into third, into fourth. The first corner looming ahead. 

 

It wasn’t until six minutes in that Boy made his first mistake. It had been a seamless pass. Old Charlie was sat enjoying the ride, proud of the son he had reared into such a fine driver. They had passed their property and that of old Mr Watergate, and the Forest’s and were now coming up to the tight left hand bend leading around to the entrance of the Trumbo's property -- a peculiar piece of the pass where the embankments steepen on the left side and begin falling away on the right creating a blinded apex for the corner. Boy, watching for the Elm stump, broke late, heel-toeing, fourth, third, second. Pulling hard he led the car through the corner picking out the apex with the front left tire then flared the throttle. The back wheels began sliding out, correcting the steering to counter act the spin the car slid quickly toward the road edge and, with poise at the wheel, he let the gas off, straightening the car as trees streamed toward them. Blue sky, above red blooms, above shaded under story streamed these three mottled colourings in the divers-side window. As soon as he felt he was straight-on he feathered the throttle to the floor, the correction made.

 

In traditional fashion, a large gathering of leaves was spun into the air by the passing car. They fell slowly in a waltz, swaying side to side, some spinning, some tumbling, landing on the tarmac once more. A man lying on the embankment roused himself from the comfort of the under story as the last of the disturbed leaves fell to the ground. Folding the top corner of his page he stashed the book he had been reading in a bag and stood up dusting leafy debris from his jeans. Stepping down the embankment he briefly came to stop on the road. The rearing engine was growing faint and returning were the chorus of birds that had been masked. Donning his helmet he pulled a motorbike from between a couple of thicker bushes and straddled it, simultaneously kicking it into gear. Lightly twisting the handle bar the bike kicked into motion wheeling him away from the corner of the Trumbo property.

He rode slowly down the road, the heart of the bike thrumming beneath, easing through the winding roads of Roost. Coming to the end of the stretch he slowed to an amble. Passed the church, the first thing one is presented with when venturing into Bloomsbury.

Boy was crying into his hands, the larger palm of Charlie lay across his back.

The car was black; the church omnipresent behind them.

 

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