Brumby Mountain by Karen Wood

side of the bridge was a small township of corrugated-iron houses. There was a white timber church with an orange tiled roof and four perfect square windows along one side. The small belfry reached into a crystal-blue sky. Next to the church was a tired-looking building that Jess guessed was the town hall.
    â€˜Welcome to Mathews’ Flat,’ said Luke, keeping the ute at a slow crawl. He hung an elbow out the window and cast scrutinising eyes over the various buildings, yards and street corners.
    â€˜This is where you were born,’ said Jess with wonder. It was kind of impressive that the place bore his family’s name, or a derivative of it anyway. A name that was on a map was pretty cool. She didn’t know of any town called Fairley, that was for sure.
    â€˜My parents are both buried here,’ he answered. ‘There’s a cemetery nearby, apparently.’ He steered the car around a corner and continued slowly, still gazing about, drinking in every detail of the place.
    They passed half a dozen more houses and continued out of town, heading west. Luke began checking his odometer and after a five-minute drive he pulled over at a rusty forty-four-gallon drum slung on four star pickets. A small wrought-iron gate swung open behind it. Carved into a small timber plank of wood, barely readable, was the property’s name:
    MATTY’S CREEK
    Luke’s face was tight as he stared through the windscreen at what lay beyond. He cut the engine.
    â€˜This is it,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘This is it.’

7
    THE ABANDONED PROPERTY was little more than a sheep paddock, cradled in the shadow of a huge mountain. The fences leaned every which way and a fibro shack, half swallowed by choko vines, looked as though it might fall down any minute. Grey kangaroos grazed peacefully between the house and the front fence. More lay resting under the wide verandah of the house. Beyond that, a creek carved a deep channel through a treeless field. The only sounds were of birds at the creek and the distant bawling of a calf.
    Jess watched Luke. His eyes darted from one thing to another, searching for something that might stir a memory. She followed his gaze, over rainwater tanks, sheets of corrugated iron, coils of fencing wire, tubs, broken machinery.
    He got out of the ute. Jess let him walk through the gate and across the yard before hopping out herself and following at a distance. The smells of eucalyptus and dry grass filled her nostrils.
    â€˜Look at all this crap,’ Luke said, turning back to her. ‘The place is a junkyard.’
    Suddenly he gave a loud mocking laugh. He swore and sank his boot into a tangle of wire that lay strewn across the ground. He kicked over a crate full of empty beer bottles and the sound of their crashing seemed to suddenly fill him with contempt. He laid his boots into everything in his path. Sheets of tin, a stack of old tiles, an oil drum sent rolling, old grease glugging out of it.
    Jess stopped the drum and righted it. ‘Stop it, Luke.’
    But her words went unheard. He picked up a plank of timber and hurled it against the side of a tin shed. Then he grabbed at anything, bricks, rocks, old bottles, and launched them at the shed, sending loud bangs resonating across the valley.
    â€˜Luke, stop it,’ Jess said again. ‘You’re scaring me!’
    Her words halted him abruptly. He drew a long breath and stared fiercely at the house. She saw him fight for control, mouth tight.
    Jess stayed quiet.
    â€˜I don’t remember that ugly house,’ he said in a bitter voice as he began to walk towards it. ‘Dad lived here by himself. Why didn’t I live here with him?’ He was ranting. ‘Why wouldn’t a man want his son to live with him? I don’t get it. Look at all the broken fences. I could have helped him. I could have put new walls on that old shed, I could have propped up that old verandah, strained those corner