The long, stiff grass at the base of the gatepost and around the fresh-painted blue mail stand plucked at my dress with tiny claws; the air under the sleek-barked gums felt oily. The gate was newer than the fence; its latch was a half-moon of bent metal hooked over the top bar. It resisted, although it didn’t look secure. Only when I pulled the gate closed after the truck did I see the skull in the hollow of the post. A small skull, beaked, perfectly sized to fit a cupped palm.

I was partly horrified, part fascinated. I knew how smooth the bone would be, frail in the sunshine as lemon flowers. Dreadful morbidity, my mother had said, as I threw the basket of bones and snakeskin onto the fire she’d had me build at the back of the garden. While she stood clear of the sparks, I’d burned Dad’s things. Clothes, books, feathers, all the strange treasures he’d bring back to the house: seedpods and peculiar bits of bone; a bullet Old Pinnicke had dug from the body of a dead pig, the dull metal mushroomed into a flower; petrified wood. There is no need to fill our minds with death and decay, said my mother. She hated physicality, even sweat. Is there, Bettina?

Leaning out the door, Trish yelled, as if we were five, “Megarrity’ll get you, Tina! Get in or get in the tray.”

“There’s a bird skull in the gatepost,” I reported.

“Weirdos,” said Trish.

I got in and we drove on. I couldn’t see a house yet, just a track through an expanse of paddock, a few humped cattle that tossed their heads and trotted toward us, then away, switching their tails. A faint slope to a line of dark trees.

“Gwenda’s a witch,” said Trish casually.

“Self-styled,” said Gary, as if there were gradations. “Herbs and cards.”

“Sometimes she offers to help Dad solve crimes.”

“Has it ever worked?” said Gary.

“What do you think? Look!” Trish pointed. A horse stood stock-still in the paddock. Not a horse. A sculpture. Bits of metal and timber. As we passed, it looked less horse-like, more skeletal, but also as if it was watching us.

“That’s a crime,” said Gary lightly. In spite of his tan, his freckles stood out.

“It’s pretty good,” said Trish. “Horrifying but, you know—art. The things you see from the corners of your eyes.”

“Like the megarrity?”

“If we get stuck here in the dark, Gary Damson, I’ll—”

They bickered. For no good reason, I was comforted. The truck swayed, lumbering into shadow as the track cut across a creek. Its bed was trampled mud, but here and there a patch of water, no larger than a hoof print, shone blue.

VI’S STORY

THE MEGARRITY