The Midden

Jack’s steps were clumsy, slipping on every wet rock and root possible, but Darcy moved as if he had studied the grooved track his whole life. On walks like this, Darcy would tell childhood anecdotes. His memory was impressive. Every branch reminded him of how trees spoke to one another and every bush, the story of why Tassie devils sound the way they do, which his uncle would tell. Jack hung onto every one of his words. Darcy began to speak of his time out on country with his folks.

    “Did you ever—?”

    “No.” Jack replied sharply, the mix of jealousy and yearning clear in his voice. His throat tightened and stomach clenched; if he spoke another word, he wouldn’t have been able to hold back tears. Darcy paused for a second, the only silence for that whole walk, but it didn’t last long.

     “No worries, I’ll have to take you,” he responded with his usual enthusiasm.

     “Alright.” Jack could have cracked a massive smile, but he didn’t want Darcy to see his desperation.

     The walk continued with Darcy’s stories, Jack found it hard to tell if Darcy was oblivious to his ‘outburst’ or if he was intentionally not addressing it. He was glad that Darcy continued.

     It began to spit. Light drops made the leaves tremble. They began to make their way back to the car park, but despite his best efforts, Jack still tripped on every branch, slipped on every rock and almost collided with a fleeing wallaby.

*      *     *

    The sun was like an alarm; Jack’s eyelids glowed orange as if at boiling point; this morning starkly contrasted last week’s damp weather. He began his usual commute to university, deciding to take advantage of the good weather and walk along the patchwork path by the road. The uni came into sight; on the rooftop, a refuge of shrubs and grasses praising the sun. His phone vibrated; it was Darcy. He asked Jack to go up to Woolnorth with him to check out the coast; of course he would go.

     The road was secluded and long, but Darcy kept the conversation going the whole way. They were going to visit the middens along the back of Woolnorth. Darcy had been there many times, but for Jack, this was completely new. Once they got to Bluff Point, they met with Darcy’s uncle who worked at the place. He warned the two to be careful; the property was privately owned, and he was not meant to let them wander alone. He made them promise to stay on track, leaving them to go back to work. Darcy began to lead the way to an overgrown track in the bush surrounding the wind farm, this was the closest Jack had come to turbines; a strange horror and excitement fell on him as they passed the towering, white pillars. The surrounding land was fields of green and yellowed grass, littered with patches of dense bush and trees.

     The coast was walled by the same dense bush that was further inland, and past the wall was a thin strip of sand against the water. The midden was massive. Shells littered the ground. The abalone shells were bigger than anywhere else; Jack was careful not to tread on any. The area felt strangely comforting, familiar. It was his history, despite only hearing it through Darcy’s stories.

     “You know, the women used to get the shellfish. All this woulda been their work,” Darcy said, making a grand gesture toward the midden, “bones here too.” He tiptoed over the bits of shell and bone and picked up a massive abalone shell that was the size of his hand. He swiftly made his way back to Jack and handed him the beauty.

     “You found this?” Jack asked as he cradled the shell in his hands.

     “Yeah, just over there.” Darcy replied triumphantly, his arm stretched out.

     “Could I keep it?”

     Darcy hesitated at the thought, noticeably avoiding eye contact for a few seconds. Darcy rubbed at his neck and looked back to Jack.

    “Aw yeah, guess so. Should be right, I reckon.” He replied with uncertainty woven between each word. They gathered a few more shells that were intact, but none the size of the first one.

    Once Jack got back to his house in the late afternoon, he fetched some old string and driftwood from his small shed. He decided to make a wind chime with the shells collected from the midden earlier, something to hang outside his bedroom window. He finished the piece after a couple hours of delicate work and went to bed early.

    That night, the wind was harsh. His windows rattled in place, and the wind chime clacked violently. Clack clack clack, like the sound of bones, lasting the whole night. The next night was the same, clack clack clack, continuously echoing through the night despite the wind being completely still.

     For the following week, the clacking was constant, wind or not, the sound of colliding bone rang in Jack’s ears all day and night. That evening, the shells were still, their clacks dulled. His stomach sank. The biggest abalone shell was broken. A bit of the thin rim had broken off and fallen to the ground. The horrid feeling, almost like the guilt of breaking someone else’s belongings, sat in the back of Jack’s mind for the rest of that evening. The feeling was like a weighted blanket, tiring him out and lulling him into restless sleep.

     Jack’s blackwood door creaked open, followed by the silhouette of a looming figure. It was tall; an elongated body that was humanoid, long spindly limbs, and ears that drooped almost to its shoulders. Jack heard the groan of the door and woke up. It was just there, standing at the end of his bed, but he wasn’t frightened. He acknowledged it was there, he knew he had disturbed it. It was like it was curious, Jack understood what it wanted, as if it was saying ‘gonna fix this?’ He knew.

     There was still that sense of dread the next morning, but it was met with relief too. Jack now understood Darcy’s hesitation when he asked for the shells; he wished he hadn’t asked at all. Jack grabbed a musty old shirt from his drawers and carefully wrapped the shells as if they were discs of the thinnest glass. He called Darcy and told him that he needed to go back to Woolnorth. So, they made their way to Bluff Point, Jack nursing the folded shirt in his lap, his hands cupping the sides as he retold the dream in vivid detail on the long drive.

    “Sounds like a quinkan I think, a mischievous spirit, seen it in a book back at mum’s. Funny, they are.” Darcy concluded, his tone wasn’t dismissive, but understanding. They met the uncle at the gate again.

     “Back already, boys! Trying to get me fired, are yous?” the uncle said with a comforting smile.

     “Something like that.” Darcy chuckled, ‘Jack seems pretty fond of this place.’ He glanced beside him and smirked. Jack’s face started to burn. He struggled not to feel affronted, but Darcy’s words were true.

    “Aw nice, the midden really is amazing, huh?” The uncle stretched out his arm and waved it in the direction of the turbines. “Right on the other side of the farm you’ll find another gate, through that is the coast, very rocky. You’ll see some hut depressions. You might take an interest in it, Jack.”

    Jack smiled and firmed his grasp on the wrapped shells.

    “Definitely, thank you.” Jack beamed; he could’ve gone in to hug the uncle if he was willing to put the shells down. Darcy glanced at Jack, then turned to his uncle.

    “Well,” he started, slipping his hand across Jack’s shoulder, “reckon we should get to it, Uncle. Shouldn’t be too long, right Jack?” Jack nodded.

    “Alright boys, I’ll see you later then.” The uncle turned to leave. “Ah right!” he exclaimed, swiftly spinning back to look at the boys, “Jack, make sure you don’t hesitate to ask anything, right? You’re keen to learn, keep at it.”

     By the time they got to the beach, the sky had shifted from clear to a blanket of grey. The midden was there waiting, the uneven ground flowing beneath Jack’s feet. I’m here, he thought as he kneeled slowly, the shirt cradled delicately in the crook of his arm. He slipped the shells out and onto the mixture of fine sand, shell and bone. Above, the turbines rotated under the pressure of the maelstrom winds, and the land sat as it always had.