A flautist played a tune in wavering vibrato, the sweet sound hovering between enlightenment and sorrow. Matt gazed with pride at the people around him – at Fraser and Drake, Lisa and Lucky, the Murphy family. And most importantly at Penny, who was pushing little Ray and Charlotte in their twin stroller. All the people who’d worked so hard to make this day possible were here to celebrate.
A crowd was gathering before the platform, where Premier Hellgrun stood in front of a microphone. ‘The Pallawarra Lone Tree Expo,’ he said, ‘is a permanent exhibition that marks a fundamental shift in Tasmanian forest policy.’ There was a burst of applause. ‘This fresh paradigm unites, at last, both sides of a deeply divisive debate. The wonderful displays you can see around you were created from the body of a single tree. They demonstrate the true importance of value-adding, for employment, and for the environment.’ A bevy of press photographers jostled for the best view. ‘It is with great pleasure that I declare this visionary exhibition … open.’ More applause.
Penny was talking earnestly to a tall, sallow man wearing a bow tie.
‘Let me take the kids,’ said Matt.
She shot him a grateful smile.
Matt and Drake drifted away from the crowd, trying to take it all in. Not only was the beauty of Pallawarra’s timber showcased in the astonishing range of pieces on display, it was featured in the very construction of the vast purpose-built auditorium. Matt gazed up in awe at the high, vaulted ceiling beams. ‘I have to hand it to Fraser. He really came through.’
‘Did you know he made a huge donation to Sustainable Tasmania? It helped us buy loads of advertising. Your dad is the main reason we pulled in so many votes.’
‘So Tasmania is stuck with another party leader with Logan for a surname,’ said Matt, grinning.
The building was packed with traditional wood-crafted furniture, sculptures, bark wall-hangings, toys and musical instruments. It looked like the entire Hills End community was there as well. Young Ben Murphy was patting a sculpted eagle, perched on a stand with wings unfurled, ready to take flight. ‘Don’t touch,’ said Matilda. ‘I’ll tell Dad.’ Ben ran to the dappled rocking horse, its arched neck stippled with the mottle of natural grain. He climbed aboard. ‘You’re too big,’ said Matilda. ‘I’ll tell Dad.’ Ben dashed off to the jewellery display cases, his bossy sister in hot pursuit.
Matt and Drake laughed at the children and went for a wander. Past an inverted timber dome, lined with mirrors, designed to boil water with the reflected rays of the sun. Past a broad dining table made from just two solid planks, cut bark to bark. Past a gallery of Indigenous art. Past a range of stringed instruments: ukuleles, violins, flutes and even a lyre.
An elegant Celtic-style floor harp took pride of place. Children played with rhythm sticks and taut bark tambourines at little wooden tables. Folk music, played on limited edition Pallawarra brand guitars, sounded through loudspeakers. Luthiers plied their trade on a low stage, steaming plywood on jigs to bend it just so, sanding sound boxes to resonate with perfect pitch.
Matt stopped to watch someone string a guitar. He squatted down. ‘Look, kids.’ Little Ray and Charlotte watched solemnly from their stroller as the craftsman threaded the string, looped it under, pulled it taut and wrapped the first wind back over again. Charlotte reached both arms out to her father. ‘Not yet, honey,’ said Matt and they moved on to the indisputable star of the exhibition.
It was as if mighty Pallawarra lived again. His immense bole dominated the entire building. It served as the central pillar, load bearing, giving an unusual organic feel to the architecture. A jagged horizontal gash still scarred the tree where the chainsaws had torn through his twenty-five-metre circumference. Drips of congealed red sap showed where climbing spikes had pierced his trunk like crucifixion nails. Matt marvelled at the logistics. For Pallawarra’s trunk soared, whole again, twenty metres to the domed ceiling and extended many more metres beneath the floor.
Epiphytes sprouted from high cracks and crevices. Swathes of hand-painted butterflies, authentic to the last detail, adorned his stringy bark streamers. Ramps and tunnels let visitors explore his labyrinthine root system, and tiny LED glow-worms lent a magical quality to this underground maze. Child-sized burrows and secret chambers, carved in his base, revealed all sorts of interactive wonders celebrating the life of the tree. Light spilled from strategic ceiling skylights to illuminate the carvings on the bark.
Matt released the twins. They toddled to the tree, crawled under a root and peek-a-booed from a low hollow. Matt pointed out Grandpa and Grandma’s names in a heart. Then he showed them Mummy and Daddy’s.
‘Isn’t Mummy clever?’ he said, pointing to the collection of stuffed native animals and birds inhabiting the tree. A brush-tailed possum, baby on board, peered out of its nest. A wombat escaped down its burrow, and a devil played with its joeys. An eagle added a stick to its lofty eyrie. Penny had done a spectacular job. Everybody had, including his own father. They’d all worked together to bring the grand vitality of the Tuggerah to town.
Penny appeared and swept up her delighted children in a bountiful hug.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. The children gazed in rapt attention at her shining face. ‘The amount of interest in my Memento Mori line? Three buyers from Hobart stores have put in orders. And that man in the bow tie, Patrick Duff? He’s the curator of vertebrate zoology at the Hobart Museum. Know what he said?’ Penny was off and running before he could respond, sparkling right along with her jewellery. ‘He said he’s impressed by my work – my devil mounts in particular. He says they’re embarking on a project in conjunction with the university. Cataloguing DNA and restoring mounted specimens.’ Her voice quivered and tracked higher. ‘Thylacines as well. He wants me to consult. They say I have a way with marsupial carnivores.’ Penny punched Matt’s arm in excitement, causing little Charlotte to punch Ray, who started to cry. ‘I’ll actually be a museum consultant.’
Matt rescued Ray. ‘Congratulations, honey.’
McGregor wheeled Fraser’s chair over. He was physically frail now, with the return of the cancer, but his spirit seemed strong and his eyes shone with pleasure. Charlotte and Ray climbed onto his knee and searched his pockets for sherbet bombs. He pretended not to have any, then produced one from behind each child’s ear, to peals of laughter.
‘The museum is lucky to have you,’ said Fraser when he heard Penny’s news. ‘It’s not the other way around. Remember that.’ She hugged him. Hugged the children. Hugged Matt. Hugged the jewellery store sales rep who came to retrieve her.
‘I’ve got the kids,’ said Matt. ‘You go back to your wheeling and dealing.’
Penny gave him a dazzling smile and hurried off.
Fraser was correct; the museum was lucky to have her, more than it knew. Nobody alive was more qualified for the job. For back at Canterbury Downs, in a climate-controlled extension to Fraser’s studio, Penny had restored Theo to life, or so it seemed. He stood at attention, forepaw raised, facing the steel door, ready to flee back to his mountains given half a chance. A security system guarded the room’s concealed entrance, and its existence was known to just four people. It had come at a terrible cost. Sarah was gone, and Matt couldn’t put that right. He would never shed the guilt he felt over her death.
There was something important that he had been able to put right though. With immense perseverance and the use of strategically placed camera traps, he and Penny had discovered precisely how many tigers were using the tunnel in and out of the secret valley. The number exceeded a dozen, more than they could have hoped for.
After hundreds of hours of observations, and months of field work, Matt knew the tigers well. He knew every stripe on each animal; every scar and limp and pawprint and torn ear. He knew their habits and routines, when they climbed up in the evening to go hunting, and when they stole back down to the safety of their valley to sleep.
Last week he’d spent a few days camping up at Tiger Pass. One bright morning, when Matt had established beyond doubt that every animal had safely passed down through the tunnel, he dynamited the rear of Last Stand Cave, just as Luke Tyler had done one hundred and fifty years before him. How proud he was to restore the sanctuary his forefathers had created for the tigers. Their secret was secure once more.
In the basement laboratory at UTAS, a scientist unlocked a tall freezer cabinet. She’d been set the task of reviewing the ground-breaking work of the late Dr Sarah Deville – the brilliant American researcher who uncovered the key to tackling facial tumour disease in devils, and then died in such violent and tragic circumstances.
The scientist commenced her morning’s work, sliding out trays, identifying and cataloguing the samples she found. Each sample was neatly numbered and labelled. Except for one. One curious piece of ear.