I held my breath as long as I could, shut my eyes. When I breathed out, I heard a shifting: a long rustling, a beating of wings that stirred my hair and clattered past—broad harsh feathers, trailing silken ones, pinions that whistled in the air and down that fell softly on my hands. I sat on the floor of the shed, eyes closed, until there was silence.

THE GETTING OF WISDOM

These stories of Inglewell, like the tellers, are hybrids of tales from distant woods and forests. I cannot believe our silky oaks, our ironbarks, the shimmering brigalow are less handsome than those fabled groves, but the stories (even those, like us, half-made here) fit them uneasily.

Once, somewhere between the Coral Sea and the Indian Ocean, a man went wandering. Men do: men with histories to lose, and others who want to find them, digging a little deeper into the earth, looking a little more keenly over their shoulders.

A few passed their knowledge on as a warning; some kept moving ahead of the stories that tracked them, or—like the Damsons—set up boundaries: rules and fences.

Others had easier consciences.

This particular man found his way to Inglewell: Carter’s Crossing, Runagate, Woodwild.

He was unburdened by everything except desire. He wanted what most people want, good or bad: an easy life; a quiet life; occupation of his choice; to live forever or, if that could not be managed, to leave a mark to say he had stood upon the earth, over all who went before.

Doubtless he followed rumours of knowledge: curses and blood, things fenced out (or in). He played on Woodwild’s fears, walked paddocks and hills and scrub until he found mysteries to amuse him, stories towed bedraggled from other lands, lessons unlearned, a scraping of secrets glittering like gold-dust.

He picked up things kicked over in the dirt. He flipped through old books, borrowed advice from others like him. He was determined to seize what he could of the world for himself. He dismantled bright wild things, added to them, forgot them—forgot, too, that men can be taken apart as easily. Once the soul of a man is removed, it can’t be put back again.

At last, he settled in a hidden corner of Inglewell and made himself sons. He was unpracticed, but birds and bones, blood and fire can make something like enough to two wild boys. Always climbing, jumping, shouting for the sky.

Having learned that two wild boys are a life’s endeavour, he tested his skills again and made a wife to care for the boys, and him. She was beautiful, fair as flowers, uncomplaining. She had no choice: flowers are rarely vocal in their objections.