Claire Byrnes Thesis (PDF 391Kb)

Blood on her hands: a practice-led approach to exploring violent heroines in dystopian fiction

Claire Byrnes

Bachelor of Arts (Creative Writing Production), Queensland University of Technology Graduate Diploma of Library and Information Services, Queensland University of Technology Certificate in Creative Writing (Novel), Stanford University

Submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts

School of Communication, Creative Industries Faculty Queensland University of Technology 2018

Key words

Gender, female, dystopia, violence, Australian literature, science fiction, creative practice.

Abstract

This creative practice-led research project investigates the creation of violent female protagonists in dystopian fiction in order to discover what these type of characters reveal about society’s ideas of gender. The aim of this project was to produce a research product or artefact that was deliberately poetic in presentation in order to encourage readers to consider the complexity of female gender construction at a deeper level. The project does this by incorporating aspects of evocative practice research, action research, and fiction in the research methods.

Through the application of my own creative practice in writing the fictional work,

Swan Song, in conjunction with research and analysis of gender theory and dystopian fiction, including comparative texts by female authors such as Margaret Atwood and

Emily St. John Mandel, violent heroines were revealed to be complex products of their experiences. My research into this area also found traditional gender roles reflect and reinforce the cultural status quo of any given society, and the way gender is constructed can be challenged and redefined. As opposed to being something fixed or intrinsic to the body, gender is imposed on the body in accordance with the cultural values and norms of the society from which the individual was born and raised in.

During the course of my research project, I was primarily interested in constructing a female protagonist who exhibited behaviour and character traits that did not conform to traditional, western norms associated with female gender and femininity. I chose to use dystopian fiction as both the site of research exploration and the means of

disseminating research findings. I made this deliberate choice in order to take advantage of the genre’s elasticity when it comes to depicting a futuristic society and as a way to contribute to the body of work by female authors who explore similar discourses within the broader genre of science fiction. Furthermore, the findings of this research project will contribute to the discourse of gender theory and to the field of Australian literature, particularly to the body of work produced by Australian female authors.

Statement of original ownership

The work contained in this thesis has not been previously submitted to meet requirements for an award at this or any other higher education institution. To the best of my knowledge and belief, the thesis contains no material previously published or written by another person, except where due reference is made.

Signature: QUT Verified Signature

Date: August 2018

Acknowledgements

First of all, I would like to thank my supervisor, Glen Thomas, for his encouragement and perseverance over the years. His insights and good humour have been invaluable. I would also like to thank my husband for his support; Melissa

Parent; and Ellen Thompson for being a wonderful liaison librarian to creative writing students.

Table of Contents Blood on her hands: a practice-led approach to exploring violent heroines in dystopian fiction ...... 1 Key words ...... 2 Abstract ...... 3 Statement of original ownership ...... 5 Acknowledgements ...... 6 Table of Contents ...... 7 Introduction ...... 8 Background ...... 8 Research statement, questions and approach ...... 9 Definition of key terms ...... 12 Methodology ...... 13 Literature and contextual review (including text analysis) ...... 17 Gender theory: Women under construction ...... 17 Dystopian fiction: Under analysis ...... 21 Swan Song: Intersections with the literature ...... 30 Creative piece: Swan Song ...... 31 Chapter One ...... 31 Chapter Two ...... 35 Chapter Three ...... 38 Chapter Four ...... 47 Chapter Five ...... 55 Chapter Six ...... 66 Chapter Seven ...... 72 Chapter Eight ...... 79 Chapter Nine ...... 84 Chapter Ten ...... 90 Synopsis ...... 101 Reflection ...... 105 Conclusion ...... 112 Bibliography (QUT APA Style)...... 114

Introduction

Background

Science fiction and feminism theory have formed what would have once seemed like an unlikely alliance. From the first wave of feminist science fiction authors such as

Marge Piercy, Ursula Le Guin, and Joanna Russ in the 1970s, science fiction, including dystopian fiction, has become a popular genre for female authors to explore issues, such as gender and politics (McBean, 2014, pp. 40-42; Villegas-

Lopez, 2015, pp. 26-27). Science fiction offers female authors an avenue in which

“to challenge the inherent violence of the patriarchal system and to rewrite the script for the ideal society of the future” that was not previously available to them

(Maxwell, 2011, p. 110). The fantastical element of the genre is flexible enough to allow for the fluid representation of gender relations, and as a result the genre has proved to be of particular interest and use to female authors (Tiger as cited in

Watkins, 2012, p. 120). This assertion is supported by a variety of contemporary texts including Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel (2014) and a series of novels by Kass Morgan titled The 100, The 100 – Day 21, The 100 – Homecoming, and The 100 – Rebellion (2013; 2014; 2015; 2016) which have been adapted into a successful television series.

Dystopian fiction, in particular, is experiencing a resurgence of popularity in recent times, which may be attributed to the current political climate of the Western World, with academic forums making particular reference to the election of President

Donald Trump in the United States (Branco, 2017, p. 94). The increased appetite for the genre has seen a shift in reproducing literary content in other formats. For

instance in the past year, Margaret Atwood’s novel The Handmaid’s Tale (1985) was remade in another format, this time as an award-winning television series, which premiered on 26 April, 2017, and has since been renewed for a second season due to go to air in 2018. Orwell’s classic Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949) was also adapted for the theatre by Icke and MacMillan with the play performed in Australia and internationally in 2017, and Washburn’s Mr Burns, a Post-Electric Play was revisited by the Belvoir Street Theatre company during its 2017 program.

Research statement, questions and approach

This practice-led research project utilised the genre of dystopian fiction as both the site of research experimentation and mode of dissemination in order to delve into the construction of female gender in society, with a particular focus on literature produced by female authors.

The project explored the construction of female gender by considering the following questions:

• How can an understanding of the portrayal of violence by female characters

in dystopian fiction by female authors inform the construction of the novel,

Swan Song?

• What does the examination of and creation of violent female protagonists

reveal about the construction of gender in society?

The gap in the research that was identified and explored was what could be revealed by the examination of, and the creation of, violent heroines. Furthermore, how the construct of gender is impacted when women contradict and commit acts at extreme

odds with the idealised version of femininity was also explored. The research findings were further analysed using the theoretical framework of gender theory, which has its roots in feminism theory, and revealed gender to be a societal construct that can be changed.

A practice-led methodology was chosen for the purposes of this research project, as it facilitated the demonstration of “a very specific sort of knowing… that arises through handling materials in practice” (Bolt, 2010, p. 29). Practice-led research has also been defined by Gray (as cited in Haseman, 2010, p. 147), as essentially being research “where questions, problems, challenges are identified and formed by the needs of the practice and practitioners”. Haseman (2010, p. 147) states that those undertaking creative practice research actually practise their way to the resolution of a problem, as opposed to simply thinking their way through it. Specifically in relation to creative writing as a practice of research, during the act of writing itself a space is created “that can serve as springboard for subversive thought”, thus enabling the transformation of social and cultural structures to take place (Dallery, 1989, p.

60). This notion of creative practice-led research, in particular, contributed to the decision to conduct this research project using a practice-led approach.

Furthermore, creative practice research also provides a very specific way of understanding the world based in “material practice” (Bolt, 2010, p. 29). Material practice, also referred to as material thinking, finds that “the materials are not just passive objects to be used instrumentally by the artist, rather the materials and processes of production have their own intelligence that come into play in interaction with the artist’s creative intelligence” (Bolt, 2010, pp.29-30). By employing a

practice-led approach and through the theoretical framework of gender theory, this research project examines and creates violent female protagonists in order to reveal fresh insights into societal gender construction. The project also facilitates a deeper understanding of the portrayal of violence by female characters in dystopian fiction by female authors, which was used to inform the construction of the novel, Swan

Song. In terms of weighting, the creative piece is 21,035 words (approximately 71.4 per cent), with the theoretical component at 8,411 words (approximately 28.6 per cent).

Definition of key terms

Dystopian fiction – This type of science fiction is a cautionary tale of the imagination for the future (Sicher and Skradol, 2006, p. 153). Dystopian fiction characteristically includes ‘willed transformation’ or ‘technological transformation’ as this serves to portray the alternative utopia, which is the opposite of the grim world being depicted (Williams as cited in Milner, 2009, p. 830).

Gender – Gender is the cultural interpretation of sex and is considered to be culturally constructed (Butler, 2007, p. 10). For the purposes of this research project, this is the definition of the term gender that has been applied.

Protagonist – The central (or main) character in literature (Taha, 2002, p. 107).

Science fiction – This is a genre of fiction chiefly concerned with the ‘social implications of scientific and technological development’ (Milner, 2009, p. 830).

Science fiction also features an ‘otherness’ that necessitates ‘an element of discontinuity from realism’ (Williams as cited in Milner, 2009, p. 829).

Violence – The definition of violence being applied for the purposes of this research project is ‘direct violence as the use of physical force to inflict injury or cause damage to a person or property’ (Thomas, 2011, p. 1816). While the concept of violence is recognised as being problematic, the idea of what constitutes violence is not being explored in depth as part of this project.

Methodology

A creative practice-led methodology was used in order to implement this research project. The methods employed during the course of the project sit on the spectrum between evocative practice research and action research (also referred to as effective practice research) (Hamilton and Jaaniste, 2010, pp. 2-6). There were elements of both evocative practice and action research that informed the research process and the development of this final thesis, including both the creative work component and critical exegesis. The project involved both creative practice and textual analysis, with the selected creative practice being creative writing (more specifically, fiction writing).

While evocative practice research is often used as a methodology for those working in the visual arts, I believe it can also lend itself to other research projects of a creative nature. Evocative practice research is a methodology that is used when the research being conducted is driven by individual or cultural concerns that may refer to memory, perception, emotion, social issues or other aspects of the human experience (Hamilton and Jaaniste, 2010, p. 2). Furthermore the goal of evocative research is to generate an artefact that conjures affect and resonance through bringing forth an emotion (Hamilton and Jaaniste, 2010, p.2). As the purpose of the arts is often to provoke or evoke a reaction, research output that is produced in the form of creative works or artefacts is able to increase a critical consciousness, promote reflection, and connect people on visceral levels, all of which are necessary for challenging stereotypes and inspiring social change (Leavy, 2008, p. 14).

One of the main objectives of my research project has been to develop a novel that evokes a powerful emotional response, including compassion and fear, within readers as they engage with the text. Another objective is to cause readers to ask difficult questions of themselves, such as what would they do to survive and what they need to survive. The intent of my creative work and exegesis is also to connect with readers and to challenge and subvert gender stereotypes, through the creation and depiction of a violent heroine.

When an ‘artefact’ is produced through evocative research, the creation may have no direct application and be purposefully poetic in its meaning. The affect the artefact has on those who engage with it is also often unable to be evaluated in specific terms.

While the emotion the artefact elicits may be impossible to articulate fully, the research process can still be rigorous through the application of analytical insights and critical reflection during the creative practice (Hamilton and Jaaniste, 2010, p.

2). My intention is for the prose style of the creative component to be deliberately poetic, while I continue to apply analytical insights and critical reflection throughout the research process.

Evocative practice sits at the opposite end of the spectrum to what may be called action research; however, there are aspects of ‘action research’ that I employed in the execution of my research project (Hamilton and Jaaniste, 2010, p.3-6). I felt similarities could be drawn between the action research approach and the actual process of writing itself; particularly when utilising the ‘reflective practitioner model’ of action research, which cites that the stages of ‘researching, understanding and developing practice’ are in essence ‘reflection in action (i.e. reflection which

takes place while the actions are occurring)’ (Townsend, 2013, pp. 82-83).

Throughout the course of my creative practice research, I drafted a passage of prose

(which was comparable to developing a prototype). I revised the prose and sought feedback (which is comparable to data) from my supervisory team, which I collated and fed back into the project during the various stages of revision. The writing and revision process was by nature cyclical, as it had similar process steps recurring each time until the prose was refined to the point that I was satisfied with it. I then moved on to creating the next passage of prose, and the process began again, with critical reflection feeding into the process to ensure the fiction being crafted continued to be interrogated and finessed for the duration of the project. The cyclical process of action research continued until the completion of the writing project.

Fiction is unique in its ability to function as a tool for researchers to access and express the complexities of the human experience, which is partly informed by the intricate relationship that exists “between the structural contexts within which we operate and our own agency” (Katherine Frank as cited in Leavy, 2008, p. 46).

Fiction has itself been identified as a problem-solving strategy that may be particularly appealing to researchers engaged in studies of feminism or queer theory.

Fiction also has the capacity to reach broader commercial audiences and resonate on deeper levels in comparison to other forms of academic writing (Leavy, 2008, pp.

44-47). It was for these reasons, I decided to use fiction in the design of my research project.

The creative practice of fiction, specifically in the genre of dystopian fiction, was both the site of the research and the mode of dissemination for this research project.

This research approach is reiterated by Leavy (2008, p. 43) who expressly states that fiction can be effectively used as both part of a narrative practice and as a form of representation. As such, it is through the act of experimenting in the writing of dystopian fiction that I hope to evoke a new way of thinking about gender and violence in literature.

Literature and contextual review (including text analysis)

Gender theory: Women under construction

Gender is constructed through the performance and replication of repeated stylised acts of the body over a period of time, which is witnessed by a social audience who in turn perform the acts themselves (Butler, 2007, p. 191). As gender is the effect of the body being styled in a series of recognisable ways, gender cannot be attributed the power of agency or considered a fixed identity (Butler, 2007, p. 191). Gender is also determined based on an understanding of the society’s set of laws, with the body serving “as the instrument through which an appropriative and interpretive will determines a cultural meaning for itself” (Butler, 2007, pp. 11-12).

Feminism theory has informed much of the existing research into gender theory, with

Simone de Beauvoir’s assertion that “one is not born a woman, but rather becomes one” a commonly held argument (Butler, 2007, p. 11). The transformation referred to by de Beauvoir can always be attributed to a cultural compulsion as opposed to a biological one, which further strengthens the argument of gender as being performed.

Furthermore, the consideration of gender as “a norm that can never be fully internalised” adds weight to these assertions (Butler, 2007, p. 192). Gender being regarded as something fluid, rather than fixed or intrinsic, presents a strong argument for the view of gender as being a continuous performance acted out in society.

With gender defined as a performance, the role and depiction of violence in literature becomes even more complex as violence is both equated with power and gendered as

masculine (DeRose, 2005, p. 66). Adding to the complexity of violence being gendered as masculine is that women, including female characters, are often on the receiving end of violence, particularly when the violence takes place in the domestic sphere. Furthermore, when female authors such as Nellie Campobello and Maria

Teresa Leon write violent or “war fiction” and when their female characters are performing acts of violence, the female authors are accused of trespassing on male territory (Linhard, 2003, pp. 32-34). By writing fiction where female characters are perpetrators of violence, the female author is articulating knowledge “presumed to be directly known and lived only by men” (Higonnet, 1993, p. 206). The complexity of depicting violence in literature, particularly when it is inflicted by female characters cannot be underestimated, and often when women characters commit violent acts, these are not told in explicit language but rather conveyed in “veiled and ambiguous passages” (Linhard, 2003, p. 38). There are many intricacies to be analysed in the relationship between gender and violence in literature, with literary works having the capacity to offer up elegant solutions to the problems posed by violence in society

(Cole as cited in Waterman, 2015, p. 1399). Through experimentation with and the construction of a violent heroine in fiction, this research project endeavours to articulate violence and other characteristics that have been traditionally gendered as masculine and attribute these experiences to a female character in order to interrogate the construction of gender.

Female authors have already challenged gender norms using subtle and sophisticated literacy devices. In her short story, “Death by Landscape”, Margaret Atwood (1991, p. 108) subverts gender norms in the narrative setting of a Canadian summer camp where, even by the central character Lois’ own reflections, the girls are expected to

behave like boys and be “blood-thirsty”. At this camp, the girls are encouraged to be rowdy, shout loudly and bang spoons on the tables (1991, pp. 101-103). As an adult,

Lois noted that the girls who excelled at this summer camp were recognisable later in life as they stood with their legs farther apart than usual, possessed a harder handshake, and gave a look that seemed to be “sizing you up, to see if you’d be any good in a canoe” (Atwood, 1991, p. 101). In this short story narrative, girls were given the opportunity to construct their gender performance in such a way that they adopted male attitudes and behaviours, although their deviation from the traditional female gender performance came at a great cost as a young girl called Lucy disappeared.

Another discourse gendered as masculine in Western mythology is “the quest” and its conclusion, which is also referred to as the “spiritual transformation”. The male who embarks on the quest must overcome numerous obstacles, including the resistance of a wayward woman who may be cast as a siren or monster (Raschke,

2012, p. 77). The quest may also depict the rites of passage, where typically a boy must learn the mechanics of how to be a man. In the case of my creative work, Swan

Song, the quest will be adopted for the narrative arc of the hero’s journey; although, contrary to the traditional masculine ‘hero’, this narrative will be centred on the journey of a female protagonist (also referred to as the heroine). There are other examples of the quest narrative with female characters, such as Rey from Star Wars:

The Force Awakens who must embark on a journey to become a Jedi Knight

(Abrams, 2015). Fictional narratives where a female character is ‘the chosen one’ serve to present an alternative to the established order where women and girls are cast in the supporting roles to a man who is on a journey of self-discovery.

Furthermore, female protagonists who go on a quest must embrace a different type of destiny to what they had expected and, in order to do so, show ‘a certain arrogance that is cultivated in boys and crushed in girls’ (Rosenberg, 2015, December 21). This means when a quest is undertaken by a female protagonist, her inner journey often extends beyond one of a male protagonist, as she must ‘embrace her own importance’ as well as go on an adventure into an unfamiliar world (Rosenberg,

2015, December 21). This shows that while the quest narrative may be traditionally associated with the exploration of masculinity, a quest narrative with a female protagonist can serve as a vehicle to successfully interrogate the construction of gender and femininity.

Traditionally, male initiation rites involved blood and hunting, and marked the passage of time when a boy transforms into a man through learning to view the world from the perspective of an adult male (Raschke, 2012, pp. 75-77). This is in stark contrast to the cultivation of stereotypical feminine sensibilities where pastimes such as weaving and painting were encouraged, and marriage and childbirth were significant markers in a woman’s life (Raschke, 2012, pp. 74-77). However, there is a traditional rite of passage for a girl to become a woman that also involves blood.

Menstruation typically signifies a girl turning into a woman, although menstrual bleeding can be considered more passive because this is something that happens to a person rather than an act being committed by them. In Atwood’s “Death by

Landscape” (1991), when Lucy gets her period for the first time, she sets fire to her sanitary napkin in an act of rebellion, right before she disappears; thus, her rebellious action does not go unpunished. While some sort of transformation may be necessary in order to become a woman, the way in which gender is constructed means the

transition to womanhood can be a fraught and complicated process. The construction of gender in society and its impact on women is the crux of what is being considered and explored in detail in this thesis.

Dystopian fiction: Under analysis

Contemporary female authors, both renowned and new, are producing work that can be categorised as dystopian fiction. Set for the most part on a futuristic dystopian

Earth, St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven (2014) flits from before the fictional Georgia

Flu becomes worldwide news to twenty years into the future when the global pandemic has almost entirely wiped out the human population. The narrative of the novel involves multiple characters with their own narrative thread, including a former child actress, a high-powered executive who was once a comic book artist, a paparazzi photographer turned paramedic, a corporate consultant and a cult leader.

Their narratives interconnect at various points during the novel, with each of the main characters being connected to a famous actor who died on stage the night the

Georgia Flu was deemed to be a global pandemic. In this lawless world, the characters and their struggles are used to pose evocative questions about the environment, contemporary art and what sustains people in the face of their own mortality. For the purpose of my research, I am primarily interested in the construction of the female character, Kirsten Raymonde, who is the unofficial leader of the Travelling Symphony.

In Station Eleven (2014), the Travelling Symphony is a group of actors and musicians who have banded together and wander around the countryside performing

Shakespeare. Raymonde, a long-standing member of the Travelling Symphony, is a thoughtful and violent young woman, who was a child actress in the time before the outbreak of the Georgia Flu. She is a multifaceted character who has committed multiple acts of physical violence, yet also possesses a love of Shakespeare linked to the fact that she was performing in a production of King Lear the night the world changed. While a passion for theatre and a propensity for violent behaviour are not necessarily mutually exclusive, she is not a character who is defined by the violent acts she has committed. Raymonde also searches for and collects artefacts, such as comics, glossy gossip magazines, and books. The artefacts she covets and carries with her are usually connected to memories of her childhood, for example, rare Dr

Eleven comic books and a glass paperweight. The paperweight Kirsten carts around in her bag is a heavy object she has no practical use for, but was gifted to her before the flu pandemic and serves as a tangible connection to the past. The object treasured by Kirsten in Station Eleven is reminiscent of the glass paperweight purchased by

Winston in Orwell’s 1984, which also initially represents the past (1949, p. 145).

Kirsten’s desire to collect relics that remind her of childhood does not preclude her from committing acts of violence, but instead creates a sense of cognitive dissonance for the reader as her childhood is revealed to have been a happy one. The effect of cognitive dissonance, as defined by Duignan (2017, para. 1), creates discomfort in the reader in this instance as Kirsten’s violent behaviour is not typically associated with the female gender nor can her behaviour be easily rationalised as the result of past traumatic experiences in her childhood. Raymonde was only eight years old when the plague of the Georgia Flu wiped out more than 99 per cent of the Earth’s human population; however, her violent behaviour can be attributed to a desire for survival in the twenty years that have passed since the outbreak of the Georgia Flu.

Kirsten has two black knives tattooed on her right wrist and, even though what the tattoos symbolise is not immediately obvious to the reader, the interviewer who asks her about them is aware of their meaning (p.132). The meaning of the tattoos is foreshadowed in the subsequent chapter, when Kirsten reflects on the fact Alexandra, a fifteen year old girl who has joined the Travelling Symphony, may live out her life without ever killing someone (p.133). Despite her early fascination with the illustrations of Dr Eleven comics and other relics from her childhood, Kirsten has turned into a violent character in the years since the Georgia Flu pandemic. The knife tattoos on her wrist are discretely revealed as symbols of the number of murders she has committed (p. 265) with events behind each one explained later on (p. 295). Her knife-throwing skills are revered by the other members of the Travelling Symphony as she is ‘supposedly able to hit the centre of targets blindfolded’ and is never without knives stowed in her belt (p. 267). These skills also show her ability to live on in the face of adversity and illness when the majority of the Earth’s human population, including her own family, have died.

Kirsten changed and matured in the harsh conditions of the new world. She adapted in order to survive and, as a result of her own unique experiences, cultivated traits of emotional detachment and committed acts of violence that are more commonly gendered as traits associated with masculinity. In comparison, her male friend,

August, has made it to Year Twenty without killing anyone (p. 296) and when they are apprehended by a dangerous man known to them as the Prophet and his disciples,

August is the one who is fearful not Kirsten. By contrast, Kirsten is unafraid and clear thinking. She puts the safety of all those who remain of the Travelling

Symphony ahead of her own life, when she decides to step forward and puts herself in harm’s way in order to protect her friends. Kirsten assumes the traditional male role of the hero and protector, despite being the only female character in the pivotal climatic scene of the novel. Her bravery further shows gender is not a precursor to exhibiting behaviours typically associated with masculinity and that these type of assumptions need to be questioned.

Raymonde’s knife-wielding skills, skin markings recording her murders, propensity to commit physical violence, and her heroism place her character at a juxtaposition with the traditional construct of femininity in contemporary society. The creation of a female character with traits and attributes that contradict the ‘performance’ of her own gender (as defined by Butler, 2007, p. 191) combined with a dystopian setting, reveal that gender became more fluid once other contemporary structures, including societal, cultural and structural, had already been broken down.

Station Eleven (2014) also raises questions about the human species and the environment. During a period when other members of the Travelling Symphony vanish, Kirsten is haunted by the emptiness of the landscape, the lack of people, animals and caravans around her, and she contemplates the notion that ‘hell is absence of the people you long for’ (p. 144), as opposed to the commonly-held belief

‘hell is other people’. She considers this idea in the context of existing in a world where there is almost no one still living in it and, at this point, wonders if humanity may ‘simply flicker out’ (p. 148). Her thoughts present human beings as simply another species, and highlight topical environmental and biodiversity issues of today:

“So many species had appeared and later vanished from this earth; what was one

more?” (p.148). Philosophical questions such as these, as well as the inclusion of a violent female character, were of particular interest to my own research as they illuminate the complexities of contemporary structures and the possibilities of what may happen to human beings when such structures are dismantled or destroyed.

Through the analysis of St. John Mandel’s construction of Kirsten Raymonde, I gained a deeper understanding of the portrayal of violence by a female character in the genre of dystopian fiction. This understanding informed the construction of my own violent heroine in Swan Song, as Kirsten Raymonde was a character whose violent acts were tempered with a softer side that she demonstrated in her friendships and in her passion for performing Shakespeare.

St. John Mandel’s approach is softer than the style of Margaret Atwood, who has written numerous novels, short stories and essays framed in dystopian settings, including The Handmaid’s Tale (1985), Oryx and Crake (2004), The Year of the

Flood (2010) and MaddAddam (2013). In The Handmaid’s Tale (Atwood, 1985), the female protagonist, Offred, exists as a reproductive resource of the State due to her ability to bear children. She lives under the control of a totalitarian regime, known as the Republic of Gilead, where state-sanctioned violence is the norm with dissenters hanged in a public gallery referred to as ‘the Wall’ and other frightening punishments for those who attempt to escape are alluded to (Atwood, 1985, pp. 171-175). In this society, women have been reduced to a select number of roles: wives, handmaids, servants, aunts, econowives, or ‘unwomen’ who are banished to the colonies to carry out hard labour and gradually die of radiation. The fictional Republic of Gilead has

been described by Atwood herself as being a logical outcome of the real-world historical events that were set in motion with the appointment of the first government of the United States in the 1780s, which was considered a fundamentalist government (Neuman, 2006, p. 857). The novel has also been described as a critique of the anti-democratic ways inherent in Western society told through the frame of antifascism (Vials, 2015, p. 237).

From the government-issued clothing resembling a red habit to the reduction of the handmaid’s purpose to being that of a walking womb, the female body is under the constant gaze of the reader in The Handmaid’s Tale (1985). The novel’s appropriation of the female body has been described as being similar to other political acts of appropriation and conquest (Kauffman as cited in Rule, 2008, p.

628). The Republic of Gilead also derives its power through the control and containment of female bodies (Rule, 2008, p. 629). While my creative work, Swan

Song, will also explore the appropriation of the female body by a patriarchal system of government, I aim to do so through the construction of a female character whose body is being used as a weapon of the government. As an assassin, the female character’s body has been appropriated for use by the government as she is used to carry out murder and inflict violence on others on a regular basis. The violent purpose that her body has been used for differs greatly from the traditional reproductive and sexual services that women’s bodies are generally sought for in literature where there is a critical focus on the appropriation of the female body.

In The Handmaid’s Tale, violence is inflicted on women with alarming regularity and it is often carried out by the hands of other women. For instance, whilst in training to become a handmaid, Offred’s friend Moira is caught trying to escape. The

aunts inflict wounds on Moira’s feet to the point that she cannot walk then issue a sombre warning to the other women that ‘for our purposes your feet and hands are not essential’ (p. 102). Later in the narrative, Offred attends an event called a

‘salvaging’ that is presided over by an aunt where another handmaid is hanged for undisclosed crimes (p. 288). Women also perpetrate violence on men in retaliation for their crimes against women. One event, referred to as a ‘particicution’, is structured similar to a sporting match and is presided over by an aunt who serves as a referee. Offred witnesses one such event, where handmaids beat a man to death over the alleged rape of a handmaid and the death of a foetus (p. 290-291). While she is horrified by the violent actions of other handmaids and cannot bring herself to join in the violence, the blood lust has seeped off on her and she leaves the event feeling ravenously hungry for red meat and full of desire for sex (p. 293). Offred’s primal response to the violence, including her assertion that “death makes me hungry” (p.

293), is significant because violence as a trigger for sexual desire is not typically associated with women. Her reaction to the violence shows that despite her horror at what she has witnessed, Offred is beginning to exhibit responses similar to the violent mentality of the majority.

As a handmaid, Offred’s personal thoughts and desires are, for the most part, not duly considered by those she comes into contact with. Offred indicates early on that thoughts must be rationed, and that the act of thinking itself is not a beneficial one, particularly in relation to her own survival (p. 17). Being a handmaid is further likened to being in the army, where Offred’s bedroom is the same at every household she has been assigned to (p. 17). Her room always has a chair, bed, and picture of blue flowers but there is never any glass in the picture frame. There is a window with

white curtains that only partially opens and the glass of the window is always shatter- proof (p. 17). The name she has been given also identifies her simply as a subordinate of the Commander to whom she has been assigned – she is ‘of’ his first name. While Offred reminds herself that she was not forced to become a handmaid, given the alternatives the reader understands she did not have much of a choice.

The female body is meticulously examined, dissected and clothed in The

Handmaid’s Tale. Offred’s body is treated as a commodity of the State and clearly marked with a tattoo on her ankle (p. 75). She must wear layers of clothing, resembling a red habit (p. 34; 72); grow her hair long but always hidden (p. 72); not wear makeup (p. 243); and never use hand lotion or face cream (p. 107). Offred reflects on the past when she used to consider her body ‘as an instrument, of pleasure, or a means of transportation, or an implement for the accomplishment of

(her) will’ (p. 83). Now as a handmaid, she is simply a vessel for her uterus (p. 84;

107). Prior to the Republic of Gilead, her personal worth was recognised as being greater than the flesh of her body and her internal organs. Under the totalitarian regime, she has been stripped of her identity and her body has been commodified as a resource for the sole purpose of producing children. This demonstrates the continuous need of those who hold the greatest amount of power in a patriarchal system to exhibit control over women and their bodies in order to repress and diminish their strength.

The depiction of this violent totalitarian regime where women’s bodies are treated as state-owned commodities has been of particular relevance to my research. In my own creative work, I am constructing a heroine whose body had been used as a weapon

for the government. She has committed numerous murders as an employee of the totalitarian state. Like Offred, she is also provided with sleeping quarters that are depersonalised and she is, to a certain extent, deprived of making her own choices.

Similarly, the punishment for disruption and disobedience is ultimately death.

By examining the creation of a futuristic government, where women are repressed and their bodies are turned into commodities, I was further able to explore the idea that gender is constructed and serves as a performance for the hegemonic patriarchal system that is entrenched within Western society. In The Handmaid’s Tale, Offred excels at performing as an obedient handmaid through a ‘stylised repetition of acts’

(Butler, 2007, p. 191); however, her biology may be compromising her ability to conceive a child. In the Republic of Gilead, the inability to bear a child is always the woman’s fault, and it is only a woman’s usefulness that is reduced down to her ability or inability to conceive.

Analysis of the treatment of the female body by a patriarchal society in The

Handmaid’s Tale revealed that a government could legislate and enforce acts to be carried out so traditional gender norms are acted out and reflected within the dominant culture; however, the State cannot control the intrinsic thoughts or desires of an individual. Desire, which is ordinarily viewed through the lens of the male gaze, was utilised within the narrative when Offred’s sexual desire was awakened by an unlawful arrangement facilitated by the Commander’s wife who was determined to fulfil her own maternal desires. Female sexual desire and maternal desire were considered acts of rebellion, although these forms of desire became the driving forces behind the female characters’ actions and could not be completely diminished by the

State. As a result, Atwood’s construction of a violent totalitarian regime where women were repressed and commodified informed my own construction of a female protagonist who exists as a resource of a totalitarian government.

Swan Song: Intersections with the literature

The concept of gender as a performance can be closely examined through the creation of a violent female protagonist in Swan Song, as can the discourses of gender and violence in dystopian fiction. The intention of my research project was to write an evocative novel that challenges the ways in which society thinks about gender. As a female author, I was also interested in exploring the points where existing dystopian literature by other female authors intersects with my own work.

Given the authors of both The Handmaid’s Tale and Station Eleven are also female, I was able to use their work to assist in the placement of my own creative work within the broader context of dystopian fiction written by female authors.

Creative piece: Swan Song

Chapter One

Luna lay down on the flat roof of a former office building, hidden from view, and stared up at the grey sky. The clouds did not drift; instead they clung to the sky like a smear across the Melbourne city skyline. At the heart of the city was an ageing cathedral, grand old Flinders Street Station with its faded yellow entrance, and the much-maligned Federation Square. These buildings remained stubbornly intact despite the years of violence that had overtaken the city streets and virtually cleared out the population.

A gun shot sounded in the afternoon. Luna flinched. It wasn’t an unusual sound, but today it reminded her of the task at hand. She rolled over and her gaze flitted from the clouded sky to the window across the street, but the politician was no longer visible. She adjusted her gun holster, slung her backpack over her shoulder and made for the stairs. The building she had been hiding out in was long deserted by office workers; the only sign of life it saw these days was a cluster of squatters camped out on the fourth floor. Luna was supposed to report them to the Unit, but weariness fogged up her thoughts and weighed her down. She was tired and alone.

Her father had pledged his allegiance to the Unit and disappeared a long time ago, while her first love had spoken out and been imprisoned.

Luna crossed the street and cased the politician’s building. It was a decrepit structure of red bricks, boarded up windows and rusted pipes, seeing out its last days as a hotel, propped up by shame and stubbornness. It was a familiar sight in Section

Seventy, an area known for fringe-dwellers and vagrants that lay west of the city.

She pushed open the front door and went inside. There were no operational elevators 31

any more, except in buildings used by the Executive, so she took the stairs two at a time. Luna paused to listen when she reached the top. The sound of a man weeping unsettled the stillness of the afternoon. There wasn’t much time; soon someone else would come out from hiding to investigate. Luna retrieved a small metal pick from her pocket, and used it to open the door. The politician knelt on the ground, next to the naked body of the young Polynesian woman. Her soft black hair fanned out like a halo beneath her head.

Pandora seemed so small, lying there, the big oaf crouching over her. She was as small as a child, her fine bones folded, her elbows jutting out like wings, wings that would not take her anywhere. Her brown skin was paler in death, her large brown eyes dim, emptied of her secrets. Death had wiped her sorrow away. Pandora lay still, small and placid, innocent almost. It was hard to believe her small body had given birth to a boy. A babe of a boy who was already in the clutches of the Unit.

They would take full possession of him as soon as the job was logged.

Luna had been sent to take out the politician, but Pandora’s presence was already known to the Unit. She had been marked as a potential casualty, a possible problem, although a dead person was never a problem for the Unit. Perhaps, she was better off this way, Luna thought.

“Who are you?” he asked, his face red and blistered with tears. There was blood on his hands.

“What did you do?”

“It was an accident. My poor little Pandora. I loved her too much.”

He kissed Pandora’s forehead and stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“I must leave. I can’t be found here. Pretend you never saw me. Pretend you found her here all alone. Will you do that?”

Luna pulled out her gun and pointed it at his chest.

He put his hands up in surrender. “Are you a cop?”

“Worse.” Her finger flexed against the trigger. “I’m a shooter.”

The colour drained from his face. “I’m on the list?” His voice quavered. The kill list, usually unspoken, was the harsh population control policy adopted by the

Unit. It was only supposed to be a temporary measure that allowed citizens to register another citizen to be eliminated. There had been strict criteria in the policy’s introduction, although these had lapsed to allow for petty squabbles and revenge as valid reasons for elimination. Citizens could log a list request for the Unit’s consideration every six months. Shooters were the public servants who assassinated those who made the kill list. While the list had only been intended as a temporary measure to curb population growth, its popularity meant the list remained a part of public policy, and population numbers were down to record lows.

Luna, often lauded as the best shooter in the Unit, tilted her head and pulled the trigger. He let out a loud cry, then collapsed next to Pandora. She pulled the trigger once more and he lay quiet and crumpled, a once-mighty eagle torn from the sky. She walked around to where Pandora lay dead on the floor. A bloodied blade lay nearby.

Blood seeped from the wound in the young woman's chest. Luna found herself mesmerised by the colour of it, even though there had been so much bloodshed in her life. She saw the blood, long after skin and surfaces had been scrubbed clean. She saw the blood of men, women and children, those who died from her own trigger and those who fell at the hands of other shooters. She saw the blood

of beasts, birds and dogs; they died from chemical warfare and toxic waste pumped into the waterways. Luna was long past the point where the sight of another creature’s blood had an effect on her.

From the corner of her eye, Luna noticed her own fingers twitch: she was shaking. Luna: the princess of the protective services, maiden of the Unit’s mission, and siren of its contaminated waters was no more. The air in the room was heavy with the stale odour of dust and depression. It tasted metallic. The presence of death rippled in the air around her, as if it had come to collect the souls of the couple who lay on the floor. A cracked mirror hung above a dirty steel basin on one wall. Luna walked over and bared her teeth. Her gums were bleeding. She shuddered and turned on the tap. Cold water spurted out and she let it pool in her cupped hands before tipping some into her mouth. She gargled then spat it back into the sink. She checked her gums again; the bleeding had subsided. She rinsed the sink clean. For a brief moment, she held on to the cool metal rim and closed her eyes.

She had been in love once. He was a young computer hacker who had stolen from Luna, but he hadn’t taken anything anyone could see. No one could tell she had been robbed; to others she looked just the same. Her face was always more shade than sun, but still she barely recognised the face blinking back at her in the mirror with a wan olive complexion, more yolk than honey, skin pulled too taut over the bone, more blade than bend. Luna had been a mysterious and melancholic child who resembled her father’s mother. She was her unknown, unspoken grandmother’s reincarnation; although the Luna of her girlhood was completely gone, she had been moulded and made in the image of the Unit. Luna had become their poster girl for what was possible: intelligence, calculation and violence in the beguiling package of a young woman. She had followed their command without question.

Luna surveyed the room, before closing the door behind her: the couple lay on the floor, a felled beast and his fallen angel.

Chapter Two

Luna raced down the stairs. Adrenalin coursed through her veins, as she ran along the vacant streets, taking short cuts down cobbled laneways and through the deserted strip malls. Every once in a while, she saw someone who didn’t seem to see her: a beggar, a drifter, a lost soul. A middled-aged man with a curved spine, dressed in layers of dirty clothes and a sleeping cap, the city’s own Rip Van Winkle, shuffled along in his own world. A woman with sallow skin and clumps of dirt in her hair sat slumped against a tiled wall in an old shopping mall. Her blue eyes were milky with cataracts. There was a hat with a small sign begging for money pushed out in front of her. Sadness slid its cool finger down Luna’s cheek. She tossed a silver coin into the hat but kept running.

Luna ran to clear the cobwebs from her mind, to shake the shadow from her shoulders, to escape the hold of the Unit. She ran from the politician, from the beautiful young woman with the bleeding chest, from the homeless woman, from the

Unit, and from her family. She listened to her boots thud against the pavement.

The city was different shades of grey. Grime coated the old brickwork.

Greasy food wrappers and scraps collected in the gutters like tumbleweed and choked the air with the stench of garbage. Craters had formed in the roads. Cracks broke up the sidewalk. Shop windows were boarded up with off-cuts of wood and cardboard. Sludge congealed and created an oily film on the surface of the Yarra

River. The streets were deserted.

Years ago, runners would hit the pavement, headphones on, oblivious to the rest of the world, following the thread of the river. Yogis stretched out on the riverbanks, their sinewy bodies saluting the sun. Beautiful people gathered in rooftop bars where they drank glasses of wine in the evenings, as they overlooked the city teeming with people.

People of all ages tied bright knitted scarves around their necks to support their football teams. They worshipped at the temple of the MCG, a once world- renowned sports stadium. They cheered long and loud into their beers, they threw flares and punches, they wore their pride in their voices when they spoke of their city. They lived in Mecca, the Jerusalem of sport. That was the Melbourne of old.

Melbourne of today was bitter, without the colour of life and the religion of sport. The famous MCG had been destroyed by fire. A football fan had tossed a flare in protest of a referee’s decision and it set alight a faulty air-conditioning unit. Fire tore through the seats and the cheap combustible cladding hidden within the building’s structure went up in flames. Many people died. The tragedy was well- known but rarely spoken of any more.

The site of the MCG now served as the Unit’s headquarters. The building was large, multi-storeyed and all different shades of grey. Headquarters was ground zero for the decision-makers, and it was where the shooters slept. Shooters took their directions from the Unit. They could roam all over the city, and its outskirts, in search of their targets and were monitored by electronic tracking devices. Luna kept her tracker clipped over the neckline of her black t-shirt. She always wore black, clothes that formed a second skin beneath her black wind-breaker with its various zipped pockets. All her clothing and possessions were issued by the Unit.

Luna had never known the city and its people to be any other way, although she remembered her father speaking about the Melbourne of the past. When she was a small child, he would never speak of life before the Unit. He was a believer, an enforcer, a devotee to the political cause, although something changed not long before he disappeared. He began going for long drives, talking in a melancholic way about the past that was forbidden, then one day he never came home.

Tears seeped from her eyes as she ran. Luna’s thoughts flitted from her father to her little sister as she ran from the city. She liked to watch Joy in her play pen. Her little face with blue eyes, rosebud lips and drool on her chin, was set in serene concentration as she stacked blocks or played with an old plastic train set. Joy’s play pen had once been Luna’s, although she could not imagine herself as a baby sitting inside it. Luna knew she must have been an infant once upon a time, but there were no photographs. Cameras had once been inbuilt into phones, kept in peoples’ pockets, and used to capture every moment. Photographs had been a common currency of past generations and manipulated to depict the self in a positive way, but there were no longer photographs or pictures of individuals. These had all but disappeared when the Unit dismantled the Internet, and the Unit had stripped people of the right to curate their own lives. No one, save the rogue hackers, had access to this technology anymore. There was no individual, no sense of self; all their lives were now in service to the Unit.

When her father disappeared, Luna was already a shooter. She was the youngest shooter to ever be appointed by the Unit. It was an honour, a privilege, or so her mother had said at the time. Her father gave a small grim smile. “My little moon, be safe.” His little moon, his gypsy daughter, the memory of his own mother reflected back at him in his daughter’s form. Luna, with her shiny black hair, her

golden skin and deep-set dark eyes, resembled her grandmother, a woman from the past whom she’d never met. Her father also had dark hair and golden skin, but possessed clear blue eyes he had only passed on to his youngest daughter, Joy, who already shone as bright as her name.

Luna knew her mother would never leave Melbourne. She was a woman who would refuse to leave her home, even if there were flood waters washing into every room in the house. Luna pictured her mother, crouched on top of the kitchen table holding the creamy white pearl Luna’s father had gifted her in secret, watching the dirty water lap higher and higher. Her mother would drown without a sound.

Her sister, Joy, would be saved by the Unit. She would be protected by the

Unit, until there was no one left. Joy was still a child, but already a brilliant aim with a shotgun. The Unit could always use a shooter, until there was no one left to kill.

Tears pricked her eyes as she ran. Luna couldn’t stand to think of something happening to her little sister, but she also knew Joy would not leave the city without an argument, without a long and painful discussion, and perhaps not even then.

Luna pulled off her tracking device. It winked its small blue light at her, and she tossed it away as hard as she could. There was no turning back now.

Chapter Three

Beyond the sprawl of the city, Luna dropped to her knees and slept in the veil of night. She woke up stiff from sleeping curled up on the ground and kicked off the blanket of dead leaves she had used as a flimsy camouflage. The orange sun was breaking against the horizon. Night retreated and shadows faded into the grey light of dawn. Luna stood up surrounded by towering eucalypt trees with trunks of smoke and leaves like tears. She reached out and touched the smooth silver bark of a

eucalypt. Her own sadness pooled stagnant in her stomach seemed to flow from her into the tree itself. Luna closed her eyes and concentrated on the way the bark felt beneath her fingertips, with its smooth surface broken up by the occasional ridge.

Luna let the tree take hold of her grief. It was too much of a weight to carry, especially on her long journey, for she already knew it would be long.

Luna opened her eyes. She felt as if the trees possessed a purity in the veins of their leaves and in the heart of their trunks. She felt lighter in their presence and she began to walk. Sticks snapped beneath her boots, as she picked up her pace. She would need to make a lot more progress by nightfall.

The hours drained from the day, and the sun’s golden light was already bleeding away at twilight. Luna was tired and once she had made it through the bushland the scenery remained the same; endless empty paddocks, blackened tree stumps burnt out from bushfires, dry grass yellowed from years of drought. The hills rolled into one another. The land had once been the property of men. They had farmed the land, ran horses and slaughtered cattle, harvested orchards of citrus trees, crushed grapes into wine. Her father had told her stories. He went and picked fruit as a wayward teenager. The hard work tore up his hands and turned his muscles to rope. He smiled when he spoke of living in a shed and sleeping in a swag, surrounded by men of all different ages and origins, and her father rarely smiled.

Luna walked for hours, as hazy memories of her father and visions from his stories floated through her mind. Her father had lived near the sea, a long time before he met their mother, a long time before Luna and Joy were born. He wouldn’t speak about his time before the family. It was a time of war, was all he would say. He was a teenage boy during the war, young and careless. He ran away from his family but

when the war was over he found he could not return. He was stuck in the new world, and so he buckled down and made the best of it. He met their mother, Prudence, and started working for the Unit. On the surface, they seemed content, although he still longed for the life he had been so quick to discard, the life where he had a mother, an older brother and a baby sister. He barely remembered his father: the man had been a fisherman, who could never be tied down to a place or a person for too long.

Her father longed for his old life with his old name, Dagon. In his new life, he was called David. He was David married to Prudence. He was a sturdy man, a hard worker, an unremarkable father with two remarkable daughters. David resembled a fossil, only an outline of his former self remained encrusted in dirt.

Luna had long wondered what would happen if her fatherly fossil was taken out and washed clean of his dirt, whether he would crumble into dust or gleam as sharply as a shark’s tooth. She had wanted to be the one standing at the shore, littered with broken shells and shreds of brown seaweed, to witness what would happen when her father returned home. In Melbourne, he was Triton without his conch shell, cast out from his kingdom. He was a man stripped of his power and his promise. He was a man without with his real name. David had made his home in Melbourne, but his birth name had been Dagon and Dagon belonged to the sea.

The sun burned her skin and black spots dappled Luna’s vision. Her father would have returned to the water. He would not have turned inland. She had gone in the wrong direction. He would surely have stayed close to the coast, if he had managed to escape. Her concentration faltered and she tripped. A rusted metal trap, the kind laid out in the past for feral cats, sank its sharp teeth into her ankle.

The accident happened so quickly; the metal piercing her skin, the blood oozing out, a scream deafening to her own ears, and the twitch of her leg. She

whimpered, to let the pain out. She cried, even though no one could hear her, because she wasn’t only crying from the physical pain. Her grief for her father, her former lover, her mother, her sister and finally herself. Her sadness flowed and poured itself over everything: her face, her body, her wound, her past and her future. It ran into the dirt. Luna pressed her cheek into the ground. The musky scent of earth and ants filled her nostrils. Her eyes stung and the strong bitter scent of the ants stunned her senses.

She laughed and licked the salty tears off her lips. Buried beneath the pain, her other senses were waking up. She could smell dirt, ants and dry grass. The heavy bitter concoction of smells clawed at her eyes, although for once the scent was not synthetic or carefully concocted by the Unit. This was not chemically modified food, garbage or pollution. It was the earth and another living creature, a tiny angry insect flooded out by her tears.

Luna felt herself drifting above the pain. She imagined herself starting all over, rebuilding her life, as queen of the insects, dame of the dust. She would begin again, and her name would no longer be Luna. In fact, she would have no need for a name at all. She would be nameless. She would be free. She would empty her mind of its memories, shed her old self, and let the past peel off her like an animal being skinned of its fur. She had walked away, battered, bloodied and burned, but she would rise again, reborn in the red dirt.

Luna woke up to find herself lying on a narrow makeshift bed. As her consciousness prodded at her limbs, she felt a shot of pain in her leg and groaned. She glanced down towards her feet and saw one was slightly raised in a sling of sheets that hung low from a rafter. She was wearing a loose cream dress that didn’t belong to her. The

light was dim, although the room was warm from a smoking pot-bellied stove nearby.

She could not get up and she could not move. Her injured leg was suspended in the sling and her head throbbed from the pungent smell of foreign herbs. There was a thick green paste smeared on the skin of her left leg with bandages wrapped around her wounded ankle. A nervous tremor wrung itself out in her hands. “Hello?”

She called out but her voice fell flat and hoarse. “Help me, please.”

A slight girl with long brown hair and saucer-like blue eyes emerged at the foot of the bed and Luna wondered how long she had been in the room. She was on the cusp of adolescence.

“Hello. What’s your name?”

The girl did not reply: she simply stared at Luna.

“What are you doing in here?” A woman’s voice sliced through the quiet room. “Leave the patient be.”

The woman’s unruly mass of grey curls was the first thing Luna noticed. Her skin was dark and weather-beaten, and her brown eyes were tired. She wore a loose cream dress, similar to the one Luna was dressed in, and her feet were bare and calloused. Everything about this woman’s appearance seemed to be softening with age, except for her voice. It was as sharp as that of a young woman with an axe to grind. “Who are you?” Luna asked.

The woman swept past the girl and peered into Luna’s eyes. “I am no one.”

“Where am I? How did I get here?”

The woman pursed her lips. “A hunting party found you near dead and carried you all the way back here.” Her eyes narrowed. “Usually they return with at least two big kills. This time it was only one – and you.”

Luna frowned. “And where are we exactly?”

“You ask too many questions.”

“I won’t ask you anything more after this. Please just tell me where I am.”

“You are in the outback.”

Luna’s heartbeat skipped: the outback. She had heard stories of the outback.

A place beyond the bushland of red dust and desert, of mountains and dirt tracks. A land of birds with the sweetest songs a person could ever hear, and where animals with thumping paws and swinging tails hopped around on their hind legs and kept their babies in soft pouches in their stomach. Creatures coated in shiny scales with forked tongues slithered across the sand, and beasts with giant mouths of teeth and strong prehistoric bodies sank into muddy riverbanks and baked in the sun. The outback existed in myth and legend. It was a mirage of the great and mighty nature; a remnant of the ancient past.

Luna strained to sit up, but found she couldn’t. The woman placed a hand on

Luna’s shoulder and pressed her back down towards the bed. “Rest. You will have to move soon enough.”

“Where am I?” Luna asked again, even though she knew the answer would be the same.

“I told you – the outback.”

“It’s not possible.”

“And yet you are here.”

Luna swallowed. “The outback is a myth. They told us so.”

“They? They know nothing. You must already know this, otherwise you would not have made it here.”

Luna closed her eyes. Behind her lids, she found herself at the edge of the ocean. The cold water lapped at her feet. Luna shivered, yet she didn’t take a step back towards the dry sand. She stayed perfectly still as the salt water sucked at her skin. The ocean was the deepest, darkest blue. It was the kind of blue that swallowed you up and spat you out, far from anyone or anything. Luna took another step into the sea and the icy water rippled against her skin. With each step she took, the bite of the water seemed to lessen in severity. Her body felt numb and she dived beneath the crest of a wave. Submerged in the salt water, Luna could no longer breathe.

“Wake up! Wake up!”

Luna felt herself being dragged from the water and flung to the shore. She was heavy and water-logged, a piece of driftwood hurled by the waves onto the sand.

Her body was wrung out and wretched. She opened her mouth and gagged, but her stomach was empty. Her throat was dry and her eyes were sore.

The girl crouched beside Luna, with eyes as blue as the ocean. Luna gasped and rolled onto her back. Anxiety washed over her and droplets of sweat sprung to her skin. She felt hot and cold at the same time. “Who are you?” Luna asked.

The girl stood up. “I am no one,” she whispered the same response as the old woman.

Luna stared at the girl. “You are not no one. Tell me – where have you come from?”

The girl backed away from the bed. “I’m not supposed to talk to you, but I thought you were dead.”

Tears spilled down Luna’s cheeks and soaked the pillowcase beneath her head. “I was in the ocean. Please leave me alone.”

When Luna slept again she was not in the tent, she was not in the outback, she was not in the ocean and she was not back in Melbourne. She was nowhere. She was neither hot nor cold. She was neither weighed down by the past nor uplifted by the future. She was outside of everything. She was outside of herself, and so Luna slept for hours.

Luna awoke to find a slow hard ache cramped beneath her abdomen. Her injured leg was still bound and placed in the sling that was tied to a beam in the hut’s ceiling. She felt a wetness leak from her and spread onto the sheet. She twisted to see a stain of blood and queasiness rose up in her throat. The blood wasn’t weeping from a wound, it was a signal that the lining of her uterus had begun to shed itself.

Luna pressed her fingertips into the blood on the mattress. She raised the loose cream dress someone had clothed her in and saw black-coloured clots sticky between her thighs. She gingerly pulled her leg out of the sling then leaned over the side of the bed and vomited bile onto the ground. She fell back onto the mattress and an unfamiliar sense of panic set in. Her body had reverted back to its true menstrual cycle much faster than she would have anticipated. For years she had taken injections that provided her with a myriad of vitamins and also stopped ovulation. All girls were placed on the contraception program and only taken off it when they were about to marry. There was still the occasional child born to an unwed mother, but it was rare and usually occurred when the woman was in the process of getting married or divorced.

Luna’s body had been turned into a weapon: her muscles strengthened, her limbs lengthened and toned, her senses sharpened. Exercise after exercise, her body had conformed to reflect the ideal version of the Unit’s image of a shooter. Initially dismissed due to her gender, Luna was the first female to excel in every training

session and achieve the highest score in every test. She eclipsed the young men early on, and they never caught up. She shone as the dark star of death in their midst. Her father’s name, David, was occasionally mentioned by those who were in senior positions long enough to remember him. He had been considered brilliant, but troubled. Luna, on the other hand, knew how to mask her emotions. It was as if she were on the other side of a glass wall where she could see and hear other people, but she was completely alone. There seemed to be no point in revealing the deep, secret parts of herself to strangers, who were quick to judge and criticise.

As she lay on the bed betrayed by her own body, she felt the invisible mask slip off. Luna covered her face with her hands and closed her eyes. She did not know who she was without the uniform black clothing and the press of a gun against her skin. Who was Luna, if she was no longer a shooter?

Luna stepped out of the tent. Her legs were shaky. The sunlight blinded her for a moment, and she raised her hand to shield her eyes. Her entire body felt stiff and strange, as if it had forgotten how to move. The ground was rough and dry beneath her bare feet. Her left leg was still strapped and wrapped in bandages. She squinted.

There were several huts in a semi-circle, with a fire pit full of grey ash and charred pieces of wood in the centre. Huts of different sizes with walls of corrugated iron sheets, timber sleepers, and tarpaulin. Roofs were thatched with branches and tin, bound together by rope and nails. Scraps: these homes were made of rubbish. Still there were remnants of comfort; a rocking chair under an awning, a brown hammock strung up between a couple of eucalypt trees, hanging baskets brimming with bright yellow desert flowers.

The girl appeared at Luna’s side in an instant; a little shadow. “You’re not supposed to be outside,” she said.

Luna ignored her. The red dirt was warm and grass crunched underfoot.

Beyond the huddle of huts, there were trees. Tall and slender eucalypts with silver trunks that crept like smoke towards the brilliant blue dome of sky. Short and gnarled bushes stayed closer to the ground. Small desert flowers of brilliant yellow, purple, red and black bloomed. The air was thick with the scent of the pollen and bark and heavy with humidity. It buzzed with bird songs and the hum of insects. Luna breathed it all in. She felt her heart open up, deep within.

“Where am I?”

The girl bit her lip. “The outback.”

Luna tilted her face towards the sun and laughed. “The outback.” She laughed again.

Chapter Four

Luna swayed in the hammock, of brown woven cloth, strung up between the trees.

Shade from the trees created patterns of light across her skin. She was turning golden, from baking beneath the sun in the heat of the day. Her ankle no longer throbbed nor wept with blood. The wound had healed with the help of the green ointment. A pale white scar shone near the bone and purple bruises faded to yellow.

Luna drank the bitter tea that tasted of cloves and ate the broth of oats and tough pieces of meat. Foreign fruits were brought to the kitchen in baskets, strange beasts were slaughtered and dragged to the camp for feasts, and unfamiliar seeds were sown

in the vegetable gardens. Her eyelids drooped and the haze of sleep settled over her muddled mind.

Back in Melbourne, there was no hope or faith in anyone or anything. Life under the control of the Unit had seemed an inescapable existence, yet Luna had made it as far as the forgotten farms where she had tripped and fallen, and awoken in a non-existent land. There were moments when unease edged into her thoughts and she wondered if she was in the afterlife, but if that were true then where was everybody else? Where was her father? Luna clung to the fragile belief that if she had escaped and was alive, then he could be as well.

The hammock bumped up against something solid and unexpected. Luna opened her eyes and stared up at the older woman she now knew to be Dot. The woman’s dark eyes bled with understanding. She was a witness to atrocities, of heart and mind, blood and skin, water and earth, and like many witnesses, she was a silent one. Dot bore her witness with a stubbornness that would not wear thin with age. If anything, her stubbornness threaded itself through her character as tightly as a stitch of time embeds in a memory. At some point, the thread ceases to exist, and becomes simply part of the fabric.

Ever since Luna had found herself in the outback, her thoughts had begun to fray as if she had drunk too much punch at a party. Her plastic cup of wine white, summer fruit and soggy mint was always full. She was temporally suspended in a

Southern Cross Christmas: a long, hot yuletide of blue skies, skinny dips and watermelon slices. Luna had never been one for parties. She had left that to her little sister; a girl with blue eyes and blonde hair, and a love of fairy bread, pink plastic jelly sandals and their mother’s precious pearl. Yet in this place, Luna let the light

seep into her spirit and warm her up. She let the brightness of the colours, of the earth, of the outside overwhelm her thoughts and wash away the darkness.

Luna felt the weight on her shoulders lighten, the lens across her vision brighten, and the wall between her and the rest of the world almost disappear.

Dot placed a hand on the hammock and put a stop to the gentle sway of movement.

“You are doing much better.”

Luna stared up at Dot, but said nothing.

“You will soon be able to continue on your journey.”

Luna swallowed. She had not spoken for so long she no longer knew what to say.

“I know what you are,” Dot said. “You cannot stay here.”

“How do you know?” Luna gasped, surprised at herself.

Dot was not as surprised as Luna herself. “Finally, she speaks. See? You are ready to leave.”

“What do you think I am?”

A sad smile twitched on Dot’s lips. “You are a shooter, my dear. A shooter who has caused much sorrow, because it is impossible to be one without inflicting pain.”

Luna bit her lip. “I am not one anymore.”

“They will come for you and I cannot put my people at risk.”

“Your people?”

“My people, my own son to whom I gave birth in a billabong, and my motherless child who has no one but an old crone who took her in and promised to care for her. I would not be doing my duty if I allowed you to stay.”

“Tell me, how could you tell I was a shooter?”

Dot shrugged. “It is in your eyes. You are in pain. I am not referring to your physical injuries, but to those of your heart.”

“What if I don’t want to leave?”

“You will. You are looking for someone and you will remember them.”

“What if it is pointless? Besides, aren’t you safe here? How can anyone find me?”

Dot sighed. “It is not up to me to explain. You must know, as I do, your presence is a danger. You do not belong here.”

“I don’t belong anywhere.”

“You belong in the heart of those who love you.”

Every morning Luna walked to the edge of the community and stood in amongst the trees to do a long series of stretches and poses to build up her strength for her departure. Soon she would walk into the red dust of the desert, and she would keep walking until she stopped to turn around and found the oasis of bushland and alien flowers had vanished.

Luna took her time, stretching and lengthening her muscles, contorting her limbs and holding different poses. She chose a small deep scar on the trunk of a eucalypt tree. Its ghost gum trunk gleamed silver, and the scar was old and dark, all dried out. It was just at Luna’s eye level, so the perfect mark for her to focus on.

With no mechanical objects to count the minutes and hours, time lagged then sped up. There was only the sun that rose in the east and set in the west, to mark the start and end of each day.

Luna stared at the shimmering trunk, with its shard of night embedded in the bark, as she bent her left leg and pressed the sole of her right foot into the side of her left leg. She kept her spine straight as she raised her arms up on either side and joined her palms together so her fingers formed a steeple. Her elbows were unlocked on either side. Gradually her mind emptied, save for the ache that began to build in her left ankle.

When she was recruited as a shooter, the first trainer had taught the new recruits a series of poses so they could maintain intense focus on their targets and train anytime, anywhere. He was a small man with sinewy muscles and a shiny bald head who had been a yoga teacher in another life. He trained them, but he wasn’t a devotee to the cause of the Unit. He did what he had to do to survive. Back then, people occasionally spoke of the past; there were still those around who did not want to forget, so they said more than they should. One morning, Luna arrived at training and there was a new instructor. A younger man, with a buzz cut and no sense of humour. No explanation was given for the change and nothing more was said than

“Good morning, recruits. Let’s get started.”

Luna dared to ask another recruit about it as they were heading to the cafeteria at lunchtime. At first, she thought he hadn’t heard her, then without so much as glance in her direction, he said, “It’s not for us to question.”

“You’re right.” Her response was immediate. She never spoke of unexpected personnel changes again. When someone disappeared, she continued on as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

She wondered why she had been so quick to accept that the Unit was above reproach in the early days. The first instructor had been helping them. He had been using his knowledge for the good of the Unit, but the Unit did not want anyone to

think for themselves. They wanted them to follow instructions, and train others to do the same.

Luna dropped her right foot to the ground. She bent down and rubbed her left ankle, the pink and puffy scar shone bright against her olive skin. She would dress it with more ointment and a fresh bandage after she had finished her exercises. She stood up straight, lengthening her spine, and bent her left leg so her sole pressed into her right knee. Her gaze was fixed on the black mark on the tree trunk as she raised her hands over her head once more.

As Luna walked back to her hut, she heard the warble of a magpie. The black and white bird, with its pointed grey beak and sharp black eyes, was staring straight at her. She was slowly beginning to learn the names of the different animals, not that it would do her much good wherever she ended up. The girl swooped in, from where she was hiding amongst the trees, and scooped the bird up with her hands. She gently stroked the back of the bird’s neck.

“Aren’t you scared he’ll peck you?” Luna asked.

“He knows I won’t hurt him.”

“What about anyone else?”

The girl gave a sly smile. “He’s not a fan of others.”

“I’d never seen a Magpie before I came here.”

“Neither had I.”

“And now he’s your pet,” Luna paused. “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? I mean, what happened to people? Why are things the way they are now?”

The girl studied Luna. “You’re not like the others.”

“What others?”

“Other people – the people who live here in the refuge or the others who pass through. You’re different.”

Luna gave a wry smile. “That’s not the first time I’ve been told that.”

The girl shrugged, but continued to watch Luna without saying anything.

Luna remembered when pets were still allowed and her father bought her a puppy. It was not long after her baby sister was born, and Luna knew what he was trying to do; he was trying to show her they still loved her. Luna loved the puppy. He was small and soft, with yellow fur and a wet black nose. She called him Goldie.

It wasn’t long after, when pets were no longer condoned by the Unit and her father took to going on long drives by himself. There was a loud rap at the front door and Luna hid Goldie in her closet. Luna stood with her head down, as the men in navy police uniforms and black bullet proof vests pushed past her and her mother.

They had guns in holsters jutting out from their hips. Her mother tried to stop them from searching all the rooms. “My husband works for the Unit. There’s really no need.”

“Lady, we all work for the Unit these days.”

Joy was in her cot. She cried, loud and long, as the heavy footsteps sounded throughout the house and the men threw their gruff voices down on her mother. Luna stayed mute. Goldie whimpered in the closet and Luna hoped Joy’s cries would drown out her puppy. For once she was relieved to hear her baby sister cry.

“Please, you’re upsetting my baby.” Her mother pleaded with the men, but they ignored her.

“You’ve been reported. We have to investigate.”

One police officer stood over Luna’s mother, whilst the other pushed past into her parents’ bedroom where Joy lay in her cot and choked on her own cries. He

roughly pushed the baby to one side and yanked off the blanket and bedding. He pulled open drawers and closets. He rifled through papers and tossed aside clothes.

Finally, he barged into Luna’s room. Luna stood still with her head bowed. One officer grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her towards the bed and she gasped without meaning to, without wanting to. Goldie barked; a small high-pitched bark from inside the closet. The man abruptly let go of Luna. He pulled open the closet door and Goldie tumbled out. He barked at the man, as if he knew his owner was in trouble, and the officer grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. Luna reached up to rescue her dog, but the officer struck her down with one swift movement and never let go of the dog. Luna squealed with pain. Goldie barked and squirmed mid-air.

“Mum!” Luna yelled, but her mother said nothing.

The officer stomped through the house, with the puppy stowed under his arm.

He called to his partner who elsewhere in the house. “Found a dog. Let’s go.”

“What were you thinking about?” The girl’s voice chimed in Luna’s memory.

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“You don’t need to keep secrets here.”

“My dog – I was thinking of my dog,” Luna said. “And you’re wrong, I do need to keep secrets here.”

The girl bit her lip. “I meant you don’t need to keep secrets from me.”

Luna shrugged.

The girl took a step closer and whispered. “Take me with you.”

Luna froze. “What do you mean?”

“You’re leaving soon, aren’t you? Please take me with you.”

“I can’t, but why would you ever want to leave?”

“I don’t belong here.”

Luna felt the girl’s blue gaze burrow into her. “What do you mean?”

“My father said he would send for me once it was safe, because I was too young to go with him.”

“You’re still too young.”

“I’m not.”

“Dot said you are her responsibility. She said you are without a mother.”

The girl paused. “My mother is dead, but my father is still alive and so is my brother. They are out there somewhere and I want to find them.”

Luna stepped around the girl and moved towards the huts. The girl reached out and grabbed her arm. The touch sent a current of warmth through Luna’s body.

She hadn’t felt the touch of someone else in so long. Having an old woman tend to her wounded body wasn’t the same; every pat and prod was measured and deliberate.

The fingertips of this girl brushed against her bare skin and it reminded Luna of the nagging pull of her little sister, the touch of kin.

There was an urgency in the girl’s blue eyes. “Please.”

Chapter Five

Men dragged back dead bodies of animals for the Solstice feast. Blood, dark and weeping, from the wounds inflicted by hunting spears and boomerangs. They had been away for some days. The first expedition returned with a red kangaroo, a large animal with a long pointed muzzle and fur the colour of rust, and a wallaby, a much smaller animal with grey and brown mottled markings and black paws. Dot greeted the men. A young woman hung back, waiting to be called over.

Luna stood in the doorway of her hut watching on. Her gaze flitted amongst the men. Their bodies were lean and athletic, and the kangaroo skins and cloths they wore hid very little. Her gaze came to rest on the young man who was the source of

Dot’s attention, her beloved son. He was young and raw, with hungry dark eyes. He had been swaddled in his mother’s strength but he was growing older by the day, and already a man in every other respect.

The young woman ventured closer and was engulfed in Dot’s warm attention.

The older woman approved of her possible daughter-in-law, although the young man’s attention wandered. His eyes flicked towards Luna and caught her watching them, but instead of glancing away, he held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Luna felt her face flush, although she did not look away. Dot frowned at her son and said something that Luna could not hear. He shrugged and his attention returned to his mother. The younger woman smiled uncertainly. He tilted his head towards the other men who were already preparing to skin the animals, and left the two women standing together. Dot scowled and shot a glance in Luna’s direction.

Luna turned back towards her hut, pretending not to see.

In the late afternoon, another hunting expedition returned to the refuge. These men were met with cheers, as one dragged a dead emu and another carried a dead kangaroo over his shoulder. The kangaroo was smaller than the one delivered earlier in the day with blue-grey fur. Her bare muzzle bore similar black and white markings. A joey hopped behind the three men, and two children who had stayed up to greet their father squealed with delight.

Luna swung her legs over the side of the hammock. She got up and walked towards the small crowd of women and children that fanned out around the joey.

Dot, unimpressed with the refuge’s latest resident, begrudgingly ordered the young woman to gather some old bed sheets to serve as a pouch.

“You should have killed him for the children’s dinner.”

The father of the two children ignored the rebuke and ruffled his daughter’s curly hair. “They will grow up soon enough.”

Luna watched on as the young woman bundled the old sheets into the tent where Luna slept.

Dot sighed. “Looks like you have a new room-mate, although it is almost time for you to be on your way.”

Luna peered inside the tent, where the young woman was untangling the sheets. “Leave them,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

The young woman dropped the bundle on the ground and left without a word.

Luna eased herself down to the ground, and sat there with her sore leg out straight and her other leg bent. She pulled at the sheets, guiding them into a circle.

The young man entered the tent unannounced with the joey in his arms. He looked uneasy as he stood there cradling the little animal. “Where do you want him?”

She patted the bedding.

He took a couple of steps and gingerly placed the joey into the sheets. The animal wasted no time in clambering away from his captor and burrowing into the bedding. Luna gave a wry smile. “What’s your name?”

“Jacob. What’s yours?”

She hesitated, considering that it was not too late to make up an alias, but she was tired. “Luna.”

Jacob turned to leave, but hesitated in the doorway.

“Yes?” Luna asked.

“Where are you from?”

“Melbourne.”

“What did you do there?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“I heard some things.”

“So men gossip as much as women.”

He smiled. “I don’t know about that.”

“You know many women?” she teased him.

“I know some.”

“Your mother?”

“No – others. Plenty of others.”

Luna patted the ground next to her. “Come sit here.”

He sat down alongside of her. They were so close she could smell the salt on his skin and see the curl of his long lashes. His brown eyes were deep as the abandoned wells at the edge of the city, and full of secrets. He had a small scar on his left cheek, a nick that resembled the sliver of a new moon. Perhaps that is what appealed to her the most, this lunar offering. She kissed his cheek, and sensed a tremor of anticipation.

His face turned towards her and their lips met. It had been a long time since she had been intimate with a man. She pushed him down so he was flat on his back and straddled his hips, pushing the flap of kangaroo skin that he wore out of the way.

Adrenalin flushed all lingering pain out of her system. She lifted her cotton dress and

Jacob grabbed roughly at her pelvis. This would be over quickly, which gave her a different sense of satisfaction. She manoeuvred herself over him and stifled his groans with her palm.

Jacob lay on the ground, obscured by the shadows. Luna rolled off him and in the calm aftermath, she trawled through her memories. She struggled to remember the details of the last time, not that there was anything particularly memorable about the encounter.

It had been with a man and he had been an Executive, high up in the ranks of the Unit. His role was ambiguous, as was often the case of those in sought-after positions. He was older, intelligent, and disconnected from humanity, her usual type.

They first met at a function then saw each other a handful of times after that. She had heard other shooters mention his name in hushed tones. He was both feared and revered. He appeared when least expected, passing by in the corridor.

He kept a room in head office, which was distinctly different to the other rooms she had been in. He had a temperature gauge and had tinkered with it, so the room was cooler than usual. There was a large mahogany desk in the centre and a narrow tallboy, made of the same rich dark wood, in one corner. The head of a deer watched her from the wall with black beady eyes. Luna ran her fingertips along the edge of the desk. She had not touched a piece of furniture that wasn’t made of metal or plastic since she was a small child. The floor was still concrete, but someone had mopped the surface clean. The room had the scent of smoke, different to the chemical odour that permeated the rest of the building.

Her gaze flitted over to the tallboy, a cupboard with a key dangling from the lock. These days, everything was electronic and sensory. Fingerprints and voices unlocked doors, drawers and desks. Luna felt as if she had stepped back in time the moment she entered his room. She stood intrigued by this man, who possessed the power to choose how he wanted his own room. There were other Executives who had their own rooms and barely changed them. Their personal preferences had long

ceased to matter. They simply adopted the style of the Unit with its blank, lifeless presence pervading everything and everyone.

Luna thought of her room back in Melbourne. White walls, with a pale grey undertone, a steel bench attached to the wall, a plastic chair, and a trundle bed that folded into the wall. There was a cavity in the wall with shelves for her clothes; black t-shirts, singlets, jeans, leggings, jacket, beanie, gloves and her boots. It was her assigned room, but it didn’t belong to her. Every item in the room had been assigned to her, all personal possessions had been taken and destroyed by the Unit, as had people. Life and all its intricacies had been cheapened.

She remembered the Executive in his white underpants sitting behind the wooden desk in his room, reading a book from his locked cupboard. Books and magazines were forbidden, and yet he possessed two neat shelves of books, magazines and pamphlets. Science fiction, fantasy realms, literature from decades earlier, magazines with glossy images of female models provocatively entwined with one another. The pages were dog-eared and creased from being well read. Luna remembered staring at the battered spines as she stood with her legs apart bent over the table. Afterwards, he smoked a cigarette, another item of contraband, and let her flick through an old Playboy magazine.

Luna often thought of those books and magazines hidden behind the locked door. She wasn’t much of a reader; at least she hadn’t been as a child when books and magazines were still in circulating libraries. Even then, people weren’t allowed to own copies of books or magazines. All reading materials were endorsed by the

Unit and these were made available in warehouses with rows of bookshelves and computer banks. Books were going out of fashion in the digital age, although there were still purists who preferred to read from the physical page. The community had

been in the midst of a love affair with all things electronic when the Unit came into power and tore down the interwebs.

Jacob stood up and interrupted Luna’s thoughts. “I should go.”

“Yes,” she said in complete agreement, and stood up. She smoothed out the front of her dress, then turned to straighten the sheets. She did this without thinking, even though they had not lain on the bed. She wanted to wash her face and lie down.

She wanted to travel back in time again and inspect her memories, as if they were precious inanimate objects.

He stared at her for a moment, stunned by what he saw as a rebuke. “Is it true what they say – what you are?”

Luna glanced at him. “What do you think?”

His body stiffened, anger flared in his dark eyes, and he spat saliva in her face.

In an instant, she knocked him off balance and kicked him in the stomach with her uninjured foot. He yelped. She straddled him again, as he swung his fists at her, and closed her hands over his throat. He scratched at her face and she sank her teeth into his fingers until she tasted blood. He screamed. Her fingers tightened around his neck. “You want them to come save you from a woman?”

His eyes bulged and he pressed his bloodied fingers up against her chest in an attempt to push her away.

“If I let you go, are you going to try and attack me again?”

He gasped, unable to speak, and tried to turn his head.

“If you try anything I’ll kill you.”

He did not move.

Luna weakened her hold on his throat, although she remained sitting on top of him. He swallowed. She could feel his heart beating fast in his chest and felt a pang of emotion. He was still a boy, a misguided boy who wanted to be a man. She stood up and let him roll away and rise to his feet.

“Get out.” Luna watched him walk away, and felt sadness roll over her.

A celebration of Solstice was being held in the great cave tonight. The pathway, through the bush was lit up with fairy lights and dragonflies, and the ground had been cleared of debris. Little rock wallabies with shiny black eyes and paws too big for their bodies watched from the distance, while large grey kangaroos foraged for food nearby. Snakes slithered through the undergrowth. A night of celebration for the humans was an inconvenience for their fellow nocturnal forest dwellers. Festivities were a meal of tasty scraps, but hours of noise.

People strolled arm in arm and the beat of kangaroo-hide drums and seed maracas vibrated through the air. The music called the townspeople out of their huts, sheds and hammocks to join together in the great cave.

Contentment settled over Luna’s bare shoulders, soft as the yellow handmade shawl that hung loosely across her back and threaded through her slender arms, as she walked towards the cave. She had watched the local women spin threads from silk worms’ sacks and cast them in dyes with ochre colours drawn from the earth.

There were many things Luna could have taken the time to learn – weaving, cooking, killing and distilling – and now it was too late as it was nearly time for her to leave.

Inside the cave was as grand as a ballroom, with small fires casting light on the ancient art painted on the rocky walls. There was a long wooden table laden with meats, berries, bowls of stew and damper bread. Men chanted and danced, beat

drums made of hollowed out wood and animal hide, scattered dust with their hands and feet. Women flocked together, wreaths of flowers in their hair, woven threads tied at their wrists and ankles. Song and laughter rose up, deafening, before it died down again. Luna made her way through the crowded space. She sought out a quiet corner where she could be a spectator. The revellers merged and separated, gorged and drank, danced and sang. Couples kissed. Luna drank mulled red wine and watched. Some revellers ignored her and others hurled daggers with their eyes. She met every sour look with a clear and blank expression, and she kept to herself, out of the way, and yet she remained visible near a cluster of revellers, for she knew that isolation would leave her vulnerable to Jacob’s retribution.

Luna felt the watchful gaze of someone nearby, and tilted her head to discover the girl was watching her. The girl: Dot’s other child, not by bloodline or history, but a product of the older woman’s desire. Dot wanted a daughter to whom she could pass on her crown, her legacy of a safe haven to those who had lost their way. She wanted to protect her brood of foundlings, a set of families woven together so tightly, the Unit chose to ignore their existence, at least for the time being. They left them to their own devices, for they had already forgone technology and bureaucracy, or perhaps it was more accurate to say it had eluded them. Luna pretended not to see the girl, and let her gaze drift back over the joyous revellers.

The night had begun to lag, and the festivities had tipped over with intensity. It was the time before the grey early hours of melancholy set in. Luna’s leg was stiff and she rubbed the scar on her ankle before she set off back to her tent. The dwindling crowd could still be heard, although there were others ahead of her on the path who

were headed for bed. She sighed, a weariness set in, as she knew her journey must begin at first light.

A stick snapped in the darkness and startled her. She turned around and glimpsed a shadow moving amongst the trees. “Who’s there?”

Someone grabbed her from behind and dragged her into the shadows. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear us,” Jacob said, standing in front of her.

She struggled but another man held her back.

Jacob reached out and touched her hair. “You are beautiful.”

Luna tried to pull away and the man tightened his grip.

“I could convince my mother to let you stay.”

“Why would you do that?”

“She wants me to marry soon.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“I could marry you. I want someone who can help us fight those on the outside.”

“Let go of me.”

Jacob nodded towards the man who was restraining Luna, and he relaxed his grip.

She brushed him off. “You could have any woman here.”

“You can fight and you would owe me. I think that’s more valuable than adoration.”

Luna kept her face blank, but realised she had underestimated him.

“You do not belong here but I know you want to stay. I could help make that happen.”

“At a cost.”

He shrugged. “I think you’ve had worse offers.”

She slapped him across the face. “Do not presume to know anything about me.”

Jacob rubbed his cheek. “Get out of here,” he said to the other man, who walked away with a bemused expression on his face.

“You could help us. I have a plan for the refuge.”

Luna swallowed. “To do what?”

“I want to join with other tribes, to create a larger community.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Why not? The way things are going we will always be here, but our numbers are getting smaller and smaller. Our homes are basic; there is no electricity, nothing of value.”

“How do you know about electricity?”

“You think you’re the first visitor we’ve ever had? I’ve heard stories of electric lights, cooking on gas ovens, and computers. I know about the terrible people who rule the cities, and the dangerous people who work for them and terrorise the residents. My mother has heard all the same stories that’s why she’s afraid of you.”

“Dot’s not scared of me.”

“She is scared of what you represent, but I’m not. There have been others passing through, but they’ve all been frightened. They were incapable of helping themselves, let alone anyone else. I have been watching you. I mean, what if you are the one to help us? What if you can bring the future to us?”

Luna felt a pull in her own chest. “You don’t want the future.” She recognised the sadness in his eyes and gently touched his face. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

“I knew you were different.”

“Tell me first, how did you get here? Where does Dot come from?”

He shrugged. “My mother comes from the land.”

“How has she never come across members of the Unit?”

“Her family were living in a small community out here with a few other families when the Unit came into power, and back then they weren’t concerned with what outliers were doing as long as they kept to themselves.”

“So the Unit has just left you all alone?”

“Things are changing. People are changing. My mother thinks we can stay here disconnected forever, but I think Unit is coming whether she likes it or not.”

“I need time to think.”

He nodded and stepped aside.

Luna walked to her tent without looking back. Her bag was already packed for the morning. The refuge was paradise where residents lived out their days in beautiful simplicity, surprisingly unaltered by greed and the cost of technology; although this peace would not last much longer. Waiting until the morning to leave would not help anyone, so she slung her bag over her shoulder and ran from the refuge.

Chapter Six

Daytime beyond the refuge was hotter and brighter than Luna remembered. The dirt beneath her feet was as red as rust. The sun glazed the sand with its heat, even the blue sky overhead burned hot. The endless horizon blurred in the distance. Luna adjusted the yellow scarf covering her head that the women had gifted her as she watched them weave one morning. She had decided to search for the gypsy

stronghold, the rumoured outliers who had fled Melbourne and banded together to form their own kind of army. She had heard whispers of such a group when she was still a shooter.

Back then, Luna had dismissed it as nonsense, a fairy-tale for deserters, but the story had taken shape in her mind as a real possibility. Perhaps her father was with them. It was better to believe him to be a rogue with merry men than a pile of flesh and bone beneath the earth somewhere.

The night before Luna decided to head north-west, using an old compass Dot had stored away. Luna wasn’t even sure if she would recognise this piece of desert if she ever happened to return. Up ahead, a stark black tree struck out against the blistering brightness of the desert landscape. It was a survivor of a bush fire, a testament to the cruel conditions, and the only marker for miles of the crossing into the outback refuge.

She walked up to the tree and placed her palm against the blackened bark of its trunk. Its bitterness rubbed against her skin. The heat of the fire still pulsed from its core. She opened her knapsack and rifled through its contents; a flask of water, slices of cooked kangaroo meat, a loaf of damper bread, and a punnet of fresh berries butted up against a spool of thread, a blade, and a small blanket. There were no other trees around, but Luna wanted to make certain that if she saw this tree again she would know where she was. She pulled the blade from her bag and cut the shape of a crescent moon into the bark of the tree. The moon seemed to blink back at her. Its crude outline defaced the blackened surface, yet she felt a small sense of satisfaction.

This moon was her marker, it was something she could be certain of.

The wind howled across the desert whipping up the sand and stripping her skin of moisture. Through the noise battering her ears, she heard a whistle. The

sound cooed to her through the wind, and she turned around to find the girl running towards her. She flung her arms around Luna’s waist and hugged her. Tenderness flared in Luna’s heart, and when she embraced the girl a tear slipped down her cheek.

“I should send you back,” Luna said.

The girl smiled. “But you won’t.” The girl held up a bulging knapsack. “I’ve brought food and water. There was plenty of food at last night’s feast.”

Luna suppressed a smile. “It will not keep.”

“So we will eat it quickly.”

“Let’s keep walking.” She gave her a sideways glance. “I don’t even know what your name is.”

“It’s Jessie. What’s yours? Dot would only call you the visitor.”

“My name is Luna.”

Sand and dirt formed a crust over their skin. Dust dried out their mouths and their bodies ached. Luna was too hot during the day. Jessie was too cold at night. They were quickly running out of water, but they never spoke of stopping. They never spoke of giving up and letting the animals, whose howls they heard in the dead of night, come and ravage them. Luna wondered if they would one day fall over and slip soundlessly into the afterlife. She wondered if the feral pigs would rip apart their flesh, if the rabid dogs would suck on their marrow, if their bones would scatter across the desert.

They curled up together at night. Luna stroked Jessie’s hair, her soft downy light brown hair. “I don’t know how much longer we will last.” Tears pricked her eyelids. “All of this may have been for nothing. I’m sorry I brought you with me.”

“It was my choice. I sneaked out, remember. Besides, they will find us soon.”

“They?” The word caught in Luna’s throat. She wrapped her arms tighter around Jessie. “Whoever they are, they have long gone. My father, your father, all of the lost men – they have gone and cannot be found. I was wrong to think they could be found.” She kissed the girl’s forehead. “I believed my father was hiding. I believed he had outsmarted them all. I started to think he had joined the group of rogues, of outliers, who exist in the secret conversations of those trapped within the city walls. I couldn’t believe he could be dead and buried somewhere without my knowing.” Luna stared out at the darkness that surrounded them. “I was wrong. He was only a man. A smart, intelligent and thoughtful man, but still just a man.” She breathed in the warmth of the girl’s body. It was only the two of them, out in the wilderness. “We are all nothing to the Unit. My father was nothing. I am nothing.”

“You are not nothing,” Jessie said in her quietly determined voice.

“It doesn’t matter is all I meant. I used to think individuals mattered and now

I realise that they don’t.” Her words shot, low and level, through the night.

Jessie burrowed in closer to Luna.

In the morning, they woke with the sun. It spilt over the horizon, ferocious and orange, turning the blackened sky purple and blue.

For the past few days, their direction had been aimless. Luna no longer knew what she was hoping to find. In the beginning, she had thought there was a tribe of outliers who shifted camp to different spots along the old Murray River. She had been hoping to come upon the waterway, or a person in hiding. Luna would not mind the disappointment so much if she were alone, but Jessie followed her as close as a shadow. The girl’s presence was a flicker of hope that refused to be diminished.

Tonight, she was determined they would find shelter beneath boulders or trees. They would have some sort of protection. Last night they lay out in the open, exposed, and it was too much. Luna felt that if she fell asleep, she may never wake up. The thought kept her hovering on the edge of sleep, gazing over the edge into the abyss of her sub-conscious. She was not safe, out in the open or from herself. She was not safe and she had never, in her life, been solely responsible for keeping another person alive. She glanced at Jessie as they both stood up, unfolding their stiff limbs like marionettes. She had once been a puppet for the Unit, but Jessie was still a child, a gangly girl with big blue eyes that would one day bend men to her will. She was a child, or perhaps she was a newly minted teenager. She had stepped through the metaphorical doorway into her teenage years, and a number of years ablaze with hormones formed a shaky bridge, which she had to cross to reach her twenties.

Luna’s thoughts mulled over her own age. She was twenty-four. Age, and the years that measured it, all seemed irrelevant. Luna had turned the corner into the world of adults long ago. After years of training, she had been appointed as a shooter at the age of sixteen, although she had born witness to life and death long before then. She witnessed it, she absorbed it, and when she became a shooter she embraced it. She pulled the trigger and inflicted death, all in the name of the Unit. She gave no words, no condolences, and no peace. She gave nothing and took everything. She ascended through the ranks of the Unit; a new recruit, a scout, a shooter, and finally a shooter beyond reproach. She was held in high regard, spoken of in whispers, and courted by bureaucrats. Her beauty and lack of emotion were admired in equal measures.

Yet when she tossed her tracking device into the dirt, she had thrown it all away. She had knowingly leapt from the highest vantage point, and in her arrogance

she expected to walk away, unbroken, unblemished, unaltered. Her body, her arsenal, her vessel, her means to every end, was not indestructible.

She stopped and gazed towards the glare of the sun. She exhaled, her breath a single shaky note in the desert stillness. Jessie stood next to her.

“I think we should continue straight.” Jessie’s voice, still a girl’s voice, was confident.

Luna wanted to ask her why, what, how. She wanted to know where the confidence was born from. Jessie was no longer a young child, but Luna felt as if she herself was already turning into a crone. Here she was, already used up and ready to be tossed away at the ripe old age of twenty-four.

“Did you know I’m twenty-four?”

Jessie gave her a sidelong glance. “I didn’t. Did you know I’m twelve?”

“I guessed as much.”

Jessie shrugged, “What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t.” Luna walked on. “I was a shooter at sixteen.”

Jessie said nothing.

“Do you know what a shooter is?”

“Everyone does.”

“Do you think differently of me now? Do you regret coming with me?”

“No. It doesn’t matter. You’re a good person.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” Jessie grabbed Luna’s hand.

Luna squeezed Jessie’s hand. “You remind me of my little sister.”

“I never had a sister.”

“I wish I’d paid more attention to mine.”

“I’m glad I’ve got you.”

Luna smiled. “I’m glad I’ve got you too.”

Chapter Seven

Luna awoke stiff and sore from sleeping in a cavity down between the rocks. Jessie was curled up against her, still fast asleep. A fragment of the bright blue sky was pitched above them like a tent. They had been walking for days and there was still no sign of water. Jessie’s eyes fluttered open, although she didn’t speak at first.

“Morning, Jess.”

“Hey.” Jessie started to sit up.

“Watch your head.”

Jessie ducked and clambered out from amongst the rocks. Luna followed her.

“I had a dream we found my dad.”

“We need to find the river Dot spoke about. I think when we find water we will be much closer to finding others who are out here.”

Jessie gave her a sideways glance.

“It makes sense that, if there are others living out here, they will be close to the water supply.”

“Maybe we should be heading towards the ocean instead?”

“We are too far inland now. Besides, the Unit has colonies in Melbourne,

Canberra and Sydney. If we travel back to a coastal track, I think there’s a much greater risk of being captured. I think those who are looking to disappear head inland.”

A tremor moved across Jessie’s bottom lip. “What’s going to happen to us?”

Luna placed her arm around the girl’s shoulders and pulled her close.

Sometimes she forgot her companion was still a child. “Don’t worry, we will be okay. I can protect you.” She rested her cheek against Jessie’s head and stroked the girl’s hair. “You’re much stronger than I was at your age.”

Jessie sniffed. “Do you think we will find my dad?”

“I don’t know, but we can try. Tell me, what’s his name?”

“Everyone used to call him Bird.”

“A nickname. Anything else? Do you know if he was known by any other name?”

Jessie swallowed. “Paul, but no one ever called him that. He used to say not even my grandmother called him by his birth name when she was alive.”

Birth name, the words skimmed across Luna’s mind like a stone bouncing across a lake. Memories surfaced and disappeared in an instant. Once upon a time, each person had a birth name, but these had not been used for years. Names were newly issued by the Unit, and resembled labels. They were often numbers, objects, or virtues. Luna herself had been one of the last babies to have a birth name bestowed on her by her parents. Her father had chosen it, and because he was a senior-ranking official in the Unit, they had used their discretion and allowed her name to remain the same when renaming other infants born around the same time. Every child born from then on had a name attributed to them by the government, and nicknames that complied with the new name laws became commonplace for older citizens. Bird did not exactly adhere to the Unit’s naming convention, but it was a nickname none the less and more acceptable than an old-fashioned name.

“What’s your brother’s name?”

“We called him Tee – short for Twelve.”

“How did you get your name?”

“I think Dot gave it to me. She told me once she had a sister called Jessica.”

“Do you what your name was before that?”

Jessie shook her head. “My dad liked the name Jessie too. He said it was sweeter to have a name given to you by someone who loved you already, than it was to take a label from some government worker.”

“He’s right, and Jessie suits you.”

Jessie wrinkled her nose. “What about you? You’ve never told me who you are looking for.”

Luna shielded her eyes from the sun. “There’s no one out there for me.”

“There must be someone. My father said everyone knew someone who had gone missing.”

“Fine. My dad went missing.”

“Your dad too?”

“Yes. Come on, let’s get moving. Judging from the sun, we need to head this way.”

Red dust, blue sky as far as the eye could see. Luna sighed, her throat was dry and her skin was streaked with dirt. Her long black hair was braided and held off her neck by a scarf. Her skin was burnt and peeling. She had been in the sun for too long, and she as starting to believe that they may never find a water source. Their cask of liquid and store of food had almost run out.

Jessie’s eyes drooped, and her steps slowed to a short shuffle. She could no longer speak, just nod and shake her head. Her brown hair was knotted and her skin was red and cracked. Every night they lay on the ground curled in on each other for

warmth, as the sky turned black and filled with shimmering stars. Coldness crept over them, penetrating their limbs to the bone. Jessie cried, quietly. The emptiness of the night filled with cold air was so heavy it felt as if it could crush her. She reached out and touched Luna, who lay curved in the dirt. With sharp features and shimmering skin, Luna was a sliver of new moon fallen to the ground.

They lay together and Luna wondered if they might die there. They were lost and alone, and there was no one else out there. She thought of Dot and Jacob, and the outback refuge. She remembered tiny brightly coloured wild flowers, nestled in amongst the long grasses. She heard the songbirds at dawn, a shrill sweet melody unfolding through the eucalypt trees.

Luna closed her eyes, and listened to the call of a bird in the distance. It was an urgent call to arms, an impatient twitter. She opened her eyes. The sun was breaking on the horizon. “Do you hear that, Jessie?”

Jessie raised her head. “What?”

“It’s a bird.”

Some time ago, the landscape had changed. Trees sprang up, and the dust hardened into dirt. Luna somehow failed to notice the silent cues.

“I think we are close to water.”

Jessie rubbed her eyes.

Luna’s heartbeat picked up. She heard it again, and this time she heard something else. A low rushing noise. She walked towards the sounds, her eyes searching the landscape until she saw the ground bend downwards. “Thank God,” she breathed. Luna grabbed Jessie’s hand and dragged her towards the river.

Together they slid down into the muddy banks and cupped their hands in the water.

Luna splashed water over her face and Jessie did the same. They laughed and drank.

Luna felt her thirst rise up. She tipped the water pooled in her hands into her lips. “I can’t believe it.”

“I didn’t think we were going to make it.”

“Ye of little faith.”

Jessie scrunched up her nose. “What does that mean?”

“You didn’t believe in us.”

“Did you?”

Luna shrugged. “I was starting to doubt we would make it as well.” She smiled. “But we did.”

Jessie rested against Luna. “We can do this, can’t we?”

“Yes.” Luna kissed the girl’s wet forehead. “I think if your dad’s alive we will find him.”

“What about yours?”

“I gave up on finding him a long time ago, but as long as I’m free there is still hope.”

“Hope for what?”

“For a better life.”

Luna felt her heart open up as she sat on the muddy riverbank with water lapping over her feet. Hope skated across her skin in the form of water droplets. She watched

Jessie splash about at the shallow edge of the river.

“Be careful. It looks like it could get deep very quickly.”

Jessie giggled. “Yeah, yeah.”

Luna cast her gaze towards the river bend where the water continued its journey out of sight. “If there are others out here, it makes sense that they are somewhere along this river.”

Jessie was too entranced by the water to listen to what her companion was saying.

There had been a time when Luna would have been content to never see another soul again. She could have existed completely alone, with only the touch of the trees and the sounds of the song birds as a balm for loneliness. Part of her still yearned to walk alone until she passed out, with the crows to swoop in and pick apart her flesh, letting the wind scatter her bones and the sun burn them to dust. She imagined herself walking until she met the jaws of the ocean. She would swim until her body turned blue and bloated, and the fish nibbled at her limbs and her hair separated from her scalp and floated like seaweed.

“Luna?”

Luna raised her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun. “Yes?”

“What if we build a boat?”

“A boat?” She smiled at the girl. “Now how would we do that?”

Jessie waded over to where Luna sat and flopped down next to her. “I’m being serious.”

Luna squinted. The sun was behind Jessie, lighting up her brown hair.

“Maybe not an actual boat, but a raft.”

Luna looked at the girl’s small, freckled face with her blue saucer-like eyes.

One day she would be a beautiful woman, if they made it that far. Luna felt overcome with sadness: a young girl on her own, far from everyone and everything she knew, desperate to cling on to a woman who had stood apart from others so long

she did not know how to be close to anyone. She reached out and stroked the girl’s cheek with uncharacteristic tenderness. “Tell me why we should build a raft.”

Jessie smiled at the encouragement. “So we can travel faster down the river.”

“That would be ideal, but what can we use?”

“What do you think? You always know what do.”

Luna gazed into the young girl’s face, and saw determination flicker in her eyes. “I would be able to think of something, but so can you.”

“Okay, but you will help me?”

“Yes. Now, you tell me what to do for a change.”

Jessie grinned and pointed towards a branch that had fallen from a nearby tree. It was charred black on one end from a lightning strike. “Go and collect that branch, please, and any others you can find that are about the same size.”

Luna cleared a space for them to work then they got to work. It was not long before they had assembled a motley collection of branches, sticks and twigs. Luna went and cut long grass and spinifex for them to use to bind the branches together.

Jessie managed to hollow out the larger branches to create buoyancy.

They worked for two days. Luna managed to catch and kill rabbits and a bush wallaby for them to eat, as the animals ventured to river to drink.

Jessie started a fire for them so they were able to cook the pieces of flesh. The sticks went up in flames and kept them warm until they went to sleep. It was amazing how quickly their fortunes had changed. The river brought them not only water, but food, warmth and shelter. The water restored them so they could untangle their thoughts and put their minds to work again. When they finished building the raft,

Luna was determined that they would use it to guide themselves down the river.

Chapter Eight

They sat with their legs straddled over the raft, Jessie in front with their belongings strapped to her front and Luna behind paddling with an oar that they had fashioned from a light-weight branch. They bobbed precariously along down the river, as the current picked up speed. The river was wide, dirty and deep. Years of irrigation and dredging had stolen its once unearthly beauty, but a peacefulness remained. They coasted past limestone cliffs, large black and white fish with gaping mouths were barely visible in the water’s depths. Small silver fish skimmed past their legs that dangled in the water. A breeze picked up and ruffled Jessie’s hair. Luna gazed up at white clouds overhead so she almost missed the black shed of corrugated iron nestled in amongst the trees.

“Hey Jess – do you see that shed?”

“Yes! I see it.”

They were not far from the riverbank, as Luna was cautious of straying too far and being at the mercy of the river’s current.

“Be careful, I’m going to steer us over to the bank.”

Jessie sat, perched up front, her attention fixed on the shed. “There’s a man.

Do you see him?”

Luna steered them into the shallow water further along and just out of sight.

“Quick, hop off and help me push the raft up onto the bank, but stay down.”

Together they pushed the raft up onto the bank, and Luna secured the raft as best she could.

“Let’s go and see who it is. Please,” Jessie said.

“I think we should wait and watch for a bit. We cannot assume that everyone is safe to approach.”

Jessie rolled her eyes.

“Let’s wait and see if we can learn more about them.”

“I don’t care who they are.” Jessie turned and started walking towards the shed.

“Jessie! Get back here.”

“No.”

Luna grabbed the girl’s arm.

“Ouch!” Jessie swung around and yanked her arm away. “Leave me alone.

You stay and watch if you want. I’m going to speak to whoever it is.”

Sticks snapped underfoot as Jessie walked and a dog’s bark pierced the eerie silence of the riverbanks.

Jessie froze, bailed up by a snarling black dog.

Luna was behind her. “I’m here.”

Jessie’s lip quivered. “It’s okay,” she whispered to the animal.

A man with long knotted red hair appeared from behind a tree holding a long rusted blade. “What do you want?”

“Call your dog off,” Luna said. “We don’t want any trouble. We saw your shed and my sister got ahead of herself.”

He glanced at Jessie, who looked up at him glassy-eyed.

“It’s been a while since we have seen another person.” Luna swallowed. “She got excited. We are sorry to bother you.”

“Folks are not easy to come by out here,” he said. “Down boy.” The dog instantly went quiet.

“Especially women.”

Luna nodded and placed her hand on Jessie’s shoulder. “We will be on our way.”

“You may as well stay for a bit if it’s another person’s company you’re after.”

Luna frowned. “We don’t want for company.”

“Talking is all. Don’t worry, surly ain’t my type, and neither are kids, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Luna opened her mouth, but closed it again.

“Okay,” Jessie said, before Luna had the chance to decline.

“I suppose it will be okay, just for a little while.”

The man waved them towards the shed. Out front, there were the embers of a recent fire and a rotten sleeper. “Take a seat wherever you like.” He sat down on the sleeper and stretched out his legs.

Jessie sat with her legs crossed nearby and Luna sat on the ground opposite him with her legs stretched out in the dirt.

The dog lay itself down behind the man. “You got a name?” He said to Jessie.

“Jessie. This is Luna.”

Luna shot Jessie a warning look.

“Your sister always this friendly?”

“She has her moments.”

He grinned. “My name’s Cedar, and this is Max.”

Luna supposed no one used their state-assigned names once they escaped from the cities.

“Where are you headed?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Luna said.

Jessie rolled her eyes. “We are looking for my dad.”

“Your dad?” He glanced at Luna. “I thought you were sisters?”

“We have different dads,” Jessie said matter-of-factly.

Cedar raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“Do you know if there is anyone else out here? We haven’t seen anyone for such a long time,” Jessie said.

“There are others – a tribe of them live not far from here.”

“A tribe?” Luna said.

“Yeah, a group of outliers live together, hunt together, and lie together.” He gave Luna a sly smile.

Luna ignored the insinuation. “Where are they from?”

“All over – Melbourne, Sydney, up north.”

“How many?”

“It varies, maybe twenty or so.” Cedar pulled a small calico pouch from his pocket, revealing a stash of bay leaves and tobacco. He rolled one up and lit it.

“Where did you find that?” Luna asked.

Cedar held it out to her. “Do you want a toke?”

Luna reached over and held it between her fingertips. She remembered smoking joints, rolled up tobacco, bay leaves and marijuana, many moons ago in a different life. She placed it between her lips and inhaled, relaxing as the smoke burned down her throat and filled up her lungs.

Cedar leaned forward when she offered it back to him. “For someone who doesn’t want to answer any questions, you sure like asking them.”

“Do the gypsies have a camp?” Jessie said.

“Of sorts.”

Jessie inched closer to him. “Do you know any of them?”

“I have done in the past.”

“Not anymore?” Luna asked.

“I prefer to keep to myself for the most part. I imagine you’re much the same.”

Luna shrugged, refusing to meet his gaze.

“When can we meet them?” Jessie asked.

“Persistent, aren’t you?” Cedar said. “Why not relax for a while?”

Luna gave Jessie a sidelong glance.

The girl was seated at the edge of the fire, prodding the flames with a stick.

She had a determined look in her eyes.

“Jessie?” Luna asked.

She nodded, then tossed the stick and watched as the fire gobbled it up. “I don’t want to miss them, if they’re close by, that’s all.”

Cedar watched them with idle curiosity. “Don’t worry, kid. Out here, no one is in too much of a rush. Get some shut-eye and I’ll point you in the right direction tomorrow.” He stood up and stretched his legs. “I’ll get you something to sleep on.”

“We’re fine,” Luna said.

He ignored Luna and disappeared into the shed, returning with a hessian sack and a matted sheepskin. “It’s not much, but it is better than the ground.”

Jessie accepted the offering. She crept inside the hessian sack and Luna laid the sheepskin over the top of her. “Sleep tight.”

Together, Luna and Cedar sat in companionable silence as night fell over the desert. Luna awoke, as the sun spilt its orange yolk over the horizon and turned the grey light of the early hours yellow. She was somewhat surprised to find herself

alone, with Cedar asleep on the other side of a burnt out fireplace. For all his innuendo, and suggestive remarks, he had kept to himself. Luna rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She could be up and back, before the other two woke up.

Chapter Nine

It was early, but the sun was already climbing quickly and the hot air weighed down upon her. Luna crept through the trees; her right hand touching the knife stowed at her waist, held in place by a leather belt lifted from Cedar’s shed which she considered more of a loan at this point. In the distance, under the glaze of the sun, figures moved. Luna paused and shielded her eyes, but she could not still not make out who or what they were. She moved closer, ducking past the trees until she came to the edge of the bushland and hid behind a large shrub. Through the thicket of leaves, she could make out two men and a woman. They were dressed differently from the other people she had met since fleeing the city. The older man wore a battered leather jacket adorned with faded motorcycle club patches and torn off sleeves, and faded jeans with holes at the knees. He was tall and lanky, with straggly blond hair thinning at the crown. He would not have looked out of place on the streets of Melbourne. When he turned towards the shrub she was hiding behind, Luna saw his weathered skin was decorated with ink. Tattoos had once been popular in mainstream society, until the Unit banned all decorative body art and elective piercings. There was no room for artistic expression under the new regime, and clean skin was mandated. Many people underwent painful and expensive procedures to have their tattoos removed, particularly women. Clean skin was considered a

necessity by women who wanted to live free from daily heckling and abuse by those devoted to the Unit.

The woman wore a long floral dress and gold bracelets that jangled whenever she moved. Her round face lit up at the sight of a shrub with small purple flowers.

The older man squinted. “Michelle, what are you doing?”

The woman turned towards him, a wistful smile playing on her lips, but as she did so she caught sight of Luna in the bushes. Luna watched, with her heart beating faster, as the woman walked with curiosity towards where she was hiding.

Michelle crouched down and their eyes met through the leaves. Luna stood up, her shoulders pulled back and her chin raised in defiance.

“Who are you?” Michelle said in a childlike voice.

The older man stepped up to stand alongside Michelle, while the younger man, who appeared to be a teenager on closer inspection, straightened up but remained where he was.

“Who are you?” Luna countered.

“We are no one for you to worry about,” the older man said. “A word of warning, you shouldn’t sneak up on people out here.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you alone?”

“No.” Luna hesitated. “I’m with my sister and brother.”

The older man nodded.

An uneasiness settled over Luna. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

He nodded again, but continued to stare at her.

Luna swallowed and took a step backwards.

He did not move, and Luna took this as a sign she was free to leave.

She took a few more steps backwards, before turning and running back through the bush towards camp.

Jessie was seated on a log, her hands cupped around a mug of billy tea, with Cedar’s dog at her feet. She glanced up as Luna arrived. “Where have you been?”

“Exploring.”

“Find anything interesting?”

Luna took a seat next to her on the log. “I came across some other people.”

She bent down and rumpled the dog’s ears. “We have to be more careful. Not everyone is as harmless as Cedar and old Max here.”

Jessie turned to Luna with interest. “Why do you say that? What were they like?”

“Just a feeling. There were three of them – a couple and a teenage boy.”

“They don’t sound scary.”

Luna shrugged. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

Jessie sipped her tea. “What are they doing out here?”

“I don’t know. They weren’t exactly the friendly type.”

“Neither are you.”

Luna smiled. “True.”

Cedar emerged from the shed. “Howdy.”

Jessie giggled.

“Morning,” Luna said.

“Luna met some people,” Jessie blurted out.

Cedar raised an eyebrow. “That right?”

“I came across them is more like it.”

“Did you get their names?”

“They weren’t forthcoming.”

Cedar grinned. “So they didn’t fall for your obvious charms, eh?”

Luna gave him a begrudging smile. “No.”

Jessie leaned forward. “It was a couple with a kid – do you know them?

Surely, there couldn’t be that many people around.”

Cedar shrugged. “Folks keep to themselves out here.”

Footsteps sounded close behind them and a dog barked. Luna flinched, unaccustomed to being caught off guard. They all turned towards the noise to find the older man striding in front of several men, including the teenage boy. The older man held the chain of a snarling yellow dog. Cedar’s old dog shifted to stand in front of his owner.

“Or at least they usually do,” Cedar muttered.

Luna stood up. “What do you want? I gave you no trouble.”

The older man yanked on the chain of his dog. “I like to know who my neighbours are.” He turned towards Cedar. “But you’re not new.”

Cedar didn’t respond.

“Our brother has been staying here by himself. We have been looking for him for a long time,” Luna said.

“That so?” He said to Cedar.

Cedar gave a terse nod.

Jessie was staring up at the older man, a look of faint recognition flickering in her wide blue eyes.

He glanced around the camp, with his gaze coming to rest on the girl. He stared at her for a moment, before shaking his head. “You look like someone –”

“Leave her alone,” Luna said. “I told you. We don’t want any trouble. Leave us be, and we’ll do the same for you.”

“Mind you don’t go on any more walks snooping around where you’re not wanted.”

“I won’t.”

“Keep an eye on her,” he said to Cedar. “You should know by now I will give you grief if you come sniffing around.”

“I’ll talk to her – I’ll talk to both of them,” Cedar said.

The older man’s gaze rested on Jessie’s face again and softened slightly.

“You’re a young one to be out here without your parents. Be careful.”

Jessie nodded, her hands were shaking.

He hesitated. “You remind me of my daughter, or at least the way I remember her.”

A tear rolled down Jessie’s cheek. “Dad, is that you?”

The older man shook his head in confusion. “What did you say?”

“Are you my dad?”

“That’s not possible,” his voice drifted off. “I thought you said this was your sister,” he said to Luna.

Luna put her hand on Jessie’s shoulder. “Jess, I don’t think he is.”

Jessie shrugged her off. “Is it you? You said you’d come back but you never did. Where’s Tee?” She cried, gulping for air.

The older man froze and emotion misted up his blue eyes. “Jessica?”

“Dad?” She took a step towards him.

“It’s me.” He wrapped his arms around her. “I never thought I’d see you again.” He kissed the top of her head.

“Where’s Tee?”

“Your brother isn’t here.” He stroked her hair. “It’s a long story for another day.” He cupped her face in his hands. “It is you, isn’t it?” He smiled. “Those eyes.

They are my Jessica’s eyes, no doubt about it.”

Jessie smiled. “Everyone calls me Jessie now.”

“Jessie,” he repeated, and gently brushed the tears from her cheek with his thumb. “Jessie it is.”

“And this is Luna.”

His face hardened again as he looked over at Luna. “I see.”

“She’s been looking after me.”

Luna swallowed and finally found her voice. “We’ve been looking after each other.”

“What happened to Dot?”

“It’s a long story,” Luna said. “Probably one best left for another time as well.”

The men standing behind the older man began to shift from one foot to the other and talk amongst themselves.

The older man held up his hand. “I’ll tell you all about it when we get back to camp. C’mon Jessie, get your things. We’ve got to get back or they’ll send others out looking for us.”

Jessie frowned. “What do you mean? Aren’t you going to stay with us?”

“Us?”

“Me and Luna.”

“No, I’ve got my own camp.”

Jessie went and stood beside Luna. “I’m not going anywhere without Luna.”

Luna thought her best course was probably to go it alone, the way she had started out. “I don’t know that I’ll be welcome to stay with your father and his friends.”

Jessie grabbed Luna’s hand. “I won’t go without you.”

The older man listened with a degree of detachment, but there was a shrewd look in his blue eyes. “You’re welcome to join us if you want. Not this one though.”

He tilted his head towards Cedar. “Don’t trust him.”

Luna didn’t trust the older man herself, but she was protective of Jessie.

“Okay, but if it doesn’t work out, I want to be allowed to go on my own way, without any trouble.”

“Sure,” he said.

“And I still don’t know what your name is.”

“Out here, it’s Bird.”

Chapter Ten

The tribe was a large, disparate herd of wanderers with loose loyalties. On the surface, their sole commonality was a desire to escape from the Unit, although many were ex-convicts or ex-patients who had been subject to untold atrocities by the Unit.

Their intense distrust of Luna was obvious was soon as she entered their midst, and she knew she would never be one of them. She slept lightly, with one hand on a blade. Her gun had been confiscated when she was taken in at the refuge and, for the first time since leaving Melbourne, she wished it were still in her possession. She began to think more and more of her own family, not only of her father who had

vanished, but of her mother and her sister who lived a world away from the endless red dirt, the burning blue horizon, and the sharpness of the sun with no end in sight.

The tribe took shelter amongst boulders, climbed mountains and slept in crevices. Each and every one of them was thin to the bone, with brittle skin and a glazed look in their eyes. North of their camp, there were long mounds of dirt where those who had not made it were buried. Jessie shuddered when she discovered the mounds.

“Which one is Tee?”

“He’s not here,” her father said.

Luna squeezed Jessie’s hand.

“Where is he?”

“It was a long time ago, Jess.”

“What happened to him?”

Bird sighed, then turned and walked away.

“Why can’t I know what happened?”

“Just leave him be,” Luna said. “Your dad will tell you when he’s ready.” She ruffled the girl’s hair. “Come on, let’s go exploring for a bit.”

Luna watched as Jessie devoured a bowl of stew for dinner. “Jessie, I need to tell you something.”

Jessie swallowed her last mouthful. “What?”

“I’m going home.”

“Home?”

“I’m going back to Melbourne.”

Jessie frowned. “But I thought you ran away?”

“I did.” Luna glanced over at Bird, who was sharpening a knife nearby. “But

I need to see my sister and my mother one last time.”

“What if the bad people catch you?”

“I won’t let them, but if they do so be it.”

Jessie wiped her mouth with the back of her and. “I want to go too.”

Luna smiled and shook her head. “No, you should stay with your dad.”

“I’ll ask Dad.”

“He’ll say no.”

Jessie shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Luna had expected to return to Melbourne alone. Bird said he would travel back with her, because Jessie wanted to go but Luna did not believe him for a moment. He must have some unfinished business with someone. Still, he knew how to drive the abandoned car the tribe had somehow come into possession of and he convinced them to allow him to borrow it. Bird said he had no intention of staying in

Melbourne, and he would return to the tribe, no matter how dangerous.

The car was a red beat-up Toyota with a rusted out bonnet and bald tyres. All of the windows were at least partially wound down. A layer of dirt the colour of rust covered the seats. Bird filled up the fuel tank with petrol from an old jerry can.

“Where did you get that out here?” Luna said.

“You would be surprised what you can find if you know where to look, and what people are willing to give up for information.” He yanked a door open with both hands, surprisingly strong for a thin man. “Your chariot, me lady,” he said, gesturing Jessie towards the back seat.

His daughter grinned, a cloud of dust billowing around her as she scrambled across the seat.

From the driver’s seat, he kicked open the front passenger door. Luna raised an eyebrow. “I could have sat in the back.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

She got in and shut the door. He coaxed the car to start with a wire, and the motor spluttered to an unpromising start. Jessie leaned forward, her small arms reaching around the headrest of Luna’s seat.

Luna squeezed the girl’s hands. She glanced back at her young companion.

“Looks like we’re going on a road trip.”

Jessie giggled. “Dad, turn on the radio.”

“We’ve got wheels but no tunes. You can be our music.”

Jessie collapsed back in her seat and started singing a happy song she’d heard at the refuge.

“Don’t tell me we are going to have to put up with this all the way back home?” Luna said.

Jessie ignored her and continued singing.

They were hurtling across the desert sands when Bird finally said, “You still call Melbourne home, eh?”

Luna stared at the stark landscape that passed them by in a blur. “Yes, I guess

I do.” She stretched her legs out in front of her. “Where are you from?”

“Same place.”

“Melbourne?”

“Yeah, but it ain’t home to me anymore.”

“So, why did you agree to take me back?”

“I’ve got some unfinished business.”

Luna sighed. “Doesn’t everyone?”

He kept his hard gaze fixed on what was in front of them, dodging trees, shrubs and fallen branches, until they hit upon a disused dirt road.

“It’s been so long, since I was in car. Strange, isn’t it? How the familiar becomes a novelty.” Luna closed her eyes. She remembered sitting in the front seat of her father’s car one afternoon. He drove them all the way out to the bay at Altona.

It was west of the city, before the perimeter marks were laid down, when commuters still caught trains to the end of the line, and were free to get on and off on a whim.

Her father’s car was a large sedan and glimmered with a dark blue sheen. A silver lion emblem roared at the front of the car. It was a Holden, the only kind of car her father cared to drive. The seat covers were soft and grey, and in the dashboard compartment there was a faded street directory and an owner’s manual. Her father always kept a packet of mints in the side pocket. That afternoon, they sat on the damp sand and watched the water. The wind whipped through their hair, and carried the cries of the sea gulls far away as the birds dipped in the air above them.

On the way home, her father pulled into a McDonald’s drive-through. Its golden arches no longer lit up with endless electricity and the car park was empty.

“This place used to be popular, would you believe it?” He said it to himself, as much as to his daughter. “There was practically one on every corner.” Luna was too young to remember.

He parked the car in an empty bay, where the road rolled past them. There were hardly any cars on the road anymore. The Unit had introduced an exorbitant fuel tax, eventually pricing cars completely out of the reach of many people.

Her father fished a cheeseburger in a greasy yellow wrapper out of the brown paper bag for Luna. He shook the bag, and the muffled sound of fries murmured to her. She smiled up at him. He balanced the bag on the centre console. They ate their burgers in companionable silence. He always ordered a fillet-o-fish burger, a lemonade and a large serve of fries. Luna devoured her cheeseburger, with its sugary white bun and melted cheese resembling gooey orange plastic. The tomato sauce and pickles were a peculiar blend of sweet and savoury that cloyed with her tastebuds, but she never complained. Luna felt honoured her father had chosen her to accompany him on these meandering car trips down memory lane, and she showed her gratitude by never uttering a word of dissent.

Whenever they arrived home, her mother would ask where they had gone and

Luna would look to her father who would mutter some sort of plausible excuse. The lies he told to her mother always appeared to Luna to be truthful, in their own sort of way. He always spoke as if he believed what he was saying. She learned a great deal by watching and listening to her father.

Her lies were strung together effortlessly and without too much thought.

Fiction that was polished and primped to perfection gave off an unnatural gleam, whereas a lie born from truth drew no attention to itself. Once upon a time, she had been very good at interchanging facts with tales of make-believe, and escaping undetected. She changed her hair, her clothes, and her voice, as needed. Her long black hair was traditionally brushed back into a ponytail and her clothes were black, fitted and Unit-issued, but her role called for her to be flexible. She had a stash of formal dresses, street clothes and lacy lingerie in her wardrobe for assignments that required a little more effort, often a corrupt government official or a cheating

husband. She lied to them, and they lied to themselves; or at least she had before she fled the city.

“Luna?” Jessie said.

She blinked. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“I can tell when you’re lying.”

Luna turned around in her seat and looked at the girl who was sprawled out along the backseat. “You can, can’t you?”

Jessie gave her a quizzical look. “Yep. You’re not really that good at it.”

“I used to be.”

“Probably a change for the best,” Bird said.

Luna flinched, she had forgotten he was there.

“I’m bored,” Jessie said.

“Let’s play a game,” Bird said. “Eye spy with my little eye something beginning with the letter ‘S’.”

As they approached the edge of the suburban wasteland, Luna crawled into the car boot to avoid being recognised in case they were stopped. There would be a warrant out for her arrest by this stage. She closed her eyes as the car bumped along the road, littered with pot holes. She couldn’t hear Jessie and Bird over the spluttering of the engine and the thud of the tyres on the bitumen. The car shook to a stop. She exhaled and tried to listen to the conversation, but the voices were muffled. There was a lengthy pause, then ignition fired up and the vehicle started moving again.

Eventually, Luna heard the churn of the wheels on gravel as they turned off a sealed road. The tyres kicked up dust and gained speed, as they drove along. Luna braced herself against the side of the boot until the car ground to a sudden halt. The boot creaked open and Luna hopped out. They were surrounded by trees, dense and green. The air tasted clean, and the damp scent of mud filled their nostrils.

“Where are we?” Jessie whispered.

“It used to be called the Dandenong Ranges,” Bird said. “You don’t remember coming here as a little kid?”

Jessie frowned. “I don’t think so.”

Bird gave a sad smile. “I suppose you were very young.”

In the distance, there was the sound of rushing water. Luna tilted her head and listened to the soothing sound. “What are we doing here?”

“We need some supplies. I left some things at a cabin in case I ever came back. We need to go the rest of the way on foot.”

Luna raised an eyebrow. “Whose cabin?”

He sighed, as if she was a perplexing child. “It was my grandfather’s cabin.”

“But anyone could be living there now.”

“I doubt it.”

“Well, what about the car?” Luna said.

“We can’t take it with us.”

“It doesn’t seem smart to abandon it.”

“If you want to stay, be my guest.” He tossed the words over his shoulder, as he disappeared amongst the trees.

“Luna, come on –” Jessie said.

Luna glanced back at the car, as she followed them into the forest.

They walked along the dirt track surrounded by trees. Through a cloud of leaves, a black helicopter buzzed across the sky. It had been months since she fled the city.

Days floated past and Luna lost track of time, so it was possible a lot had changed since she had been gone. Ahead of her, Bird and Jessie trekked along the muddy pathway. Dry leaves and debris clumped together, crunching underfoot. A slow rolling nausea, which Luna tried to ignore, churned inside of her stomach. A branch snapped overhead and she glanced upwards, but there was nothing there.

“Wait!” she called to them.

Jessie paused and turned around. “What is it?”

“I don’t think it’s safe in here.”

Jessie frowned.

Luna caught up to her. “I think we should get out of here.”

“Dad!”

Bird ignored his daughter’s plea and kept walking.

Jessie began running towards him. “Dad, wait up –”

“Just listen.” He stopped abruptly and Jessie almost ran into the back of him.

“Careful.”

The path had become wet and slippery, as it clung to the side of the mountain.

Bird inched along it, climbing over boulders and bracing his lean body against the cliff face. The sound of water roared towards them, as they followed him down the mountain and close to the base of the waterfall. The mist dampened their skin and hair. They reached the edge of the billabong and stared upwards at the waterfall.

“Your mum and I used to bring you here when you were a kid. You loved the water.”

“Still do.” Jessie kicked off her shoes and pulled down her jeans, then plunged into the billabong. Her father smiled and followed her lead, leaving his clothes in a pile and jumping into the water. Luna stood at the edge in awe of the water. Jessie beckoned to her, but she shook her head. She took off her shoes and dripped her toes into the fresh water. “Come on,” Jessie said. “Please Luna.” Jessie splashed water towards her.

“She won’t stop until you try it,” Bird said.

“What if I told you I can’t swim?”

Jessie flicked water at Luna. “I don’t believe you. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have wanted to sail a raft down the river.” Jessie stretched a hand out to Luna.

“Come on.”

Luna sighed and, against her better judgement, she peeled off her clothes and plunged into the cold water. Beneath the surface, Luna opened her eyes and watched their pale limbs move. She swam deeper, coming face to face with the gaping mouth of a fish before she shot up to the surface. She gulped in air, then relaxed as her body floated out from under her. Luna’s long black hair spread out like seaweed in the water and her underwear turned translucent, yet she no longer felt self-conscious.

Her olive skin, dry and damaged from many hours in the sun, glistened as it soaked up the water like a sponge. She floated, feeling her concerns dissipate as she stared up at the sky mottled with pale grey cloud.

Jessie swam up to her. “See.”

Luna’s body collapsed below the surface, and she smiled at her friend. “You were right.” She flicked water in the girl’s face. “Don’t get used to it.”

Jessie giggled and flung her arms around Luna.

“Okay, get off me,” Luna said with a smile.

Jessie released her grip and swam over to her father.

Luna swam away, memories of swimming laps flooded her mind as her arms sluiced through the water and her legs kicked sharp and straight behind her.

Swimming laps of the pool was one of their training methods; swimming laps, running track, martial arts, archery, and shooting practice. She was almost surprised to find her body fell into its familiar rhythm so easily. Her muscles remained disciplined and ready to work for her. She swam to the far edge of the billabong and watched Bird climb out of the water. He dried himself off with his t-shirt, then clambered on top of a large boulder. Jessie paddled over to Luna. Droplets of water clung to the girl’s lashes and beaded across her freckled skin. Her blue eyes were bright with happiness. “I want to stay here forever.”

Luna cupped Jessie’s face in her hands and stared at her young companion.

She felt emotion stir within her. “If only we could, my little one.”

“I wish you were my sister,” Jessie said.

“We are sisters. Blood does not even come into it.” Luna lightly touched the

girl’s nose. “Time to go.”

Jessie looked towards her father. “Do you think he’s okay?”

“What do you mean?”

Jessie frowned. “He’s not the way I remember him.”

Luna glanced at wiry man, perched on the rock, staring intently at something above them. “Things are not as easy as they once were. He lost your mother, he lost your brother, and he thought he had lost you.”

“But he won’t say what happened to Tee.”

“I think it may be too painful.” Luna pulled away and started to swim back to the other side.

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Jessie swam fast to keep up. “It’s not supposed to be a race.”

“Who says?” Luna kicked faster, but allowed Jessie to overtake her as they reached the edge of billabong not far from their discarded clothes.

Luna heard a faint buzzing sound overhead, something distinctly mechanical. She paused and searched for something out of place. Bird continued walking ahead of them, sticks snapping beneath his feet, until a small green drone buzzed through branches, coming to hover just above him. Luna swallowed. “Go tell your dad, we have to get out of here. We are being watched.” She pointed towards the drone.

Jessie nodded and ran up to her father. He nodded to acknowledge he had heard her, but seemed unperturbed. Luna caught up to him.

“They will find us, wherever we go,” he said.

“We can try harder to stay out of sight,” she said.

“The cabin isn’t far from here. We both just need to get to where we want to go, and after that it doesn’t matter.”

“What doesn’t matter?” Luna was tired.

“What happens to us – to you or to me – so long as we get there first, will be worth it.”

“Why did you decide to help me?”

“My daughter likes you and I wanted to do something nice for her, and I have my own unfinished business to take care of back in Melbourne.”

Synopsis

A brief synopsis of the remainder of the narrative for Swan Song is as follows:

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Luna, Jessie and Bird continue their journey to Melbourne, despite misgivings, although they decide to split up on arrival and agree to meet back at an abandoned warehouse if they are still uncaptured by twilight. Luna pays a visit to an old contact, who can source anything from anywhere, and trades secret knowledge for tickets aboard a ship bound for New Zealand that night. The contact provides Luna with a bonus piece of information – he has come to believe her father is alive and being held a prisoner in the Unit’s centre block. Shaken with this new knowledge, Luna returns to her childhood home to discover her mother has started an affair with another one of the Unit’s bureaucrats for protection. She also learns her younger sister, Joy, has well and truly become immersed in the party politics of the Unit.

Luna realises neither of them will choose to leave with her.

Bird had indicated he wanted to return to the old apartment building where he lived with Jessie’s mother, in the days before the Unit came to power. He would show

Jessie where they lived together as a family before fleeing the city. However unbeknownst to Luna, Bird leaves Jessie alone and unprotected at the abandoned warehouse in order to seek revenge against another man. When Luna returns to the warehouse the sun is turning black and she discovers Jessie is there alone.

Together they travel to Port Melbourne, where the ship will be departing for New

Zealand. Luna gives Jessie a ticket and instructs her to board the ship alone if Luna does not return in time. She leaves the girl hiding in an old shipping container.

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Luna cannot leave Melbourne forever without trying to find out if her father is still alive, even though she will be put to death if discovered. She manages to slip into the prison complex, and a guard who remembers her and is no longer an ally of the Unit smuggles her into the central block. Once inside, she recognises Bird leaving a cell.

Her confusion turns to horror, as she steps into the cell to find her own father keeled over on the floor and bleeding to death. She begs him to tell her what happened and her father reveals that he was responsible for the death of Bird’s son. He led a group of operatives on a mission to capture and kill Bird, who had gone rogue. Bird had been working as an engineer on top-secret projects when his wife died after a long period of illness. He became convinced that the Unit was somehow responsible for her death and fled the city with his two children. When the operatives tracked Bird down, his son was caught in the cross fire and shot in the chest with a bullet intended for Bird. Despite all this, Bird managed to evade capture and her father had returned to the city a shattered man. He had never forgotten the sight of the boy’s body splayed on the ground and his dirty yellow t-shirt stained with blood. Bird had come to seek revenge for his son. Her father was only surprised retribution had taken him so long.

Her father is relieved to see his eldest daughter is still alive and no longer working for the Unit. He begs her to leave him as the prison block will soon be in lockdown.

He is happy to die knowing that she is no longer brainwashed and may still get to live a life free from the Unit. Luna cannot understand why Bird wanted her father dead. Her father explains that he had an affair with Bird’s wife when she worked as his secretary, and it was their affair that resulted in her death because someone had

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uncovered the secret and put her name on the list. Bird blamed Luna’s father and wanted revenge.

Luna escapes the prison complex with the help of the same guard. She sees the retreating figure of Bird in the distance, and is tempted to follow him. In years gone by, she would have killed him, as she had taken the lives of others for much less.

Although she knows she does not have time to go after Bird and to return to Jessie so they can board the ship to New Zealand. Deep down, she knows the girl will never leave without her. Luna returns to Jessie and together they board the boat with only moments to spare.

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Reflection

I chose to use creative writing practice as the site for my research in order to explore society’s preconceived notions of gender and femininity, and to experiment in building a female character who challenged traditional gender norms.

Originally I came up with the concept of an assassin who operated as a public servant and was one of those responsible for assassinating people who made it on to the kill list. The list was a policy introduced as a form of population control. I decided to construct a female character who was an assassin for the government. In order to make this character as realistic as possible I endeavoured to make her multifaceted, as despite her murderous career I did not want her to appear as a ‘bad’ character. I decided that this character was to have been an assassin for a relatively long period of time, but had become disillusioned. In the development of this character, I was able to build a comprehensive back story that incorporated her childhood, her training, her career, her family and a past love. I found that by creating a disillusioned assassin as the protagonist, there was a more obvious impetus for her hero’s journey. This disillusioned assassin was my character called Luna.

In order to create this character, I considered what her motivations would be, how she would feel about her actions, what had affected her in the past, and what memories continued to haunt her. I wanted to present a character who was both violent and sympathetic, as in reality people who do ‘bad things’ are not necessarily

‘bad people’ to their core. I decided to include her memory of a puppy to indicate a tender side and I included reference to a past love to show that she had once

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possessed the capacity for a deep loving connection with someone other than her immediate family members. I also found that her relationship with Jessie worked on a deeper level than I was expecting, as the introduction of Jessie tapped into Luna’s own childhood memories. In a sense, Jessie became Luna’s surrogate little sister and they behaved like family.

I found what did not work in the development of Luna as a character was the introduction of a romantic interest. It was difficult to introduce both her father and her past lover as significant characters in Luna’s back story, as it felt as if they were competing characters and too much of the narrative was presented in the past. I decided to reduce the role of her former lover in the story and focus on her father, as

I thought Luna’s connection with her father was stronger and more complex. I later tried to introduce Jacob as a potential love interest, but his involvement did not seem to fit well with her character and overcomplicated the projected narrative arc, so I decided to change the role of his character. Jacob is used to reveal Luna’s sexuality and her ability to turn violent when she feels threatened.

As a female assassin, Luna is a character whose motives and propensity for violence form an integral part of her interactions and the way in which others respond to her.

Her occupation sanctions her violent behaviour, although it is her gender that sets her apart from the others. As a result of this discovery, I decided to focus my research efforts on exploring gender construction as opposed to the political aspect of the narrative. Keeping in mind the methodology of evocative practice research and the concept of art challenging society, I endeavoured to construct a female character whose behaviour provoked a mixture of emotions in the reader. In developing this

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character, I was able to expose her to conflict and experiment with her reactions in ways that challenged gender stereotypes.

During the course of this research project, I continued to reflect on Luna’s purpose and motivations. I considered the reasoning behind her actions, as well as the influence of emotion on the choices she made. I discovered that while it is difficult to remove traditional gender assertions unequivocally, incorporating typically masculine behaviours and traits in the composition of a female character resulted in a more multi-dimensional portrayal of human nature, despite the grim dystopian setting.

Luna’s occupation as an assassin makes her a unique female heroine in literature.

While there are numerous novels and films in the marketplace in the action or mystery genre featuring disillusioned male assassins or secret-operative agents, the search for a text with a female assassin as the central protagonist did not elicit many findings, with one recent exception. Red Sparrow (Singer et al., 2018) is a new film, based on a novel of the same title by former CIA operative James Matthews (2013), which centres on a female protagonist who is an assassin. The main character,

Dominika Egorova who is also known as ‘Red Sparrow’, learns to use her body as both a weapon and as a lure to attract and manipulate suspects in order to extract information from them. The film has received mixed reviews and has generated a great deal of debate over whether the film itself is a willing participant in “the grotesque system of sexual subjugation it depicts” (Lodge, 2018, para. 6). In Red

Sparrow the focus on the female body is highly sexualised, which results in an uncomfortable trade-off between the uncommon use of a violent female protagonist

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in a Hollywood studio system film yet at the same time dressing her in revealing clothing and subjecting her to brutal acts of sexual violence at the hands of others.

For all of the film’s failings, Red Sparrow does at least present a heroine who is different to the kind usually seen in mainstream cinema.

Popular novels with male protagonists who fit the mould of special government operatives and violent assassins are much more common and widely accepted. One example is Robert Ludlum’s Jason Bourne (1980), which has since been turned into a series of Hollywood blockbuster films and prior to this, a made-for-television movie. Further to the success of the films and Ludlum’s original novels, subsequent novels featuring Jason Bourne have been written and published by another author after Ludlum’s death. The lack of female protagonists who serve as government agents, and who act independently and of their own volition, strengthened my resolve to present Luna – a disillusioned female assassin – as the heroine of this narrative. I also decided that the creation of Luna as a unique female protagonist would be an ideal site for the exploration, experimentation, and research of gender construction.

In the very early stages of this research project, Tony Abbott was Prime Minister and

Campbell Newman was Queensland Premier. The conservative Australian politics of the day formed the basis for ‘the Unit’, which is the political system alluded to in

Swan Song. I extrapolated on conservative right-wing policies and comments made by Mr Abbott in his earlier incarnation as a Federal Health Minister, and imagined what Australian society may look like in the years to come if right-wing politics

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continued to surge in popularity and find backing in an increasingly conservative community mind-set.

I considered society’s increasing callous approach to its treatment of human beings coupled with effects of climate change on an over-populated planet, and came up with the idea of revenge sanctioned by public policy. Increasing displays of violent behaviour and lack of empathy towards each other are, in effect, able to be harnessed by the ruling government, leading to their manipulation of people for their own ends.

In reality, similar types of narratives are playing out in the Australian media; for instance, there is a situation on Manus Island where the Australian Government has withdrawn resources. Refugees remain living in the facility without food, water or power, and the Papua New Guinea Government is set to take control of the facility and its occupants by force. The Manus Island facility has been used by various

Australian Governments to suit their own political purposes for years, although now that it longer serves them to keep the facility open the occupants have been abandoned.

Another recent media scandal that is relevant to challenging the subordinate position of women in a traditional patriarchal system is the sexual assault revelations about

Hollywood producer Harvey Weinstein (Farrow, 2017, para. 2). Multiple women accused the producer of serious sexual assaults, and more women continued to come forward as time rolled on despite a number signing non-disclosure agreements. The scandal raised awareness of the inappropriate and degrading treatment women are often subjected to, and sparked a social media movement with the #MeToo hashtag being used by millions of women to identify as victims of sexual assault, violence

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and abuse, and to show solidarity with those who had posted their stories online

(Khomami, 2017, paras. 1-3). The #MeToo hashtag has in turn inspired other hashtags by men including #IDidThat and #HowIWillChange, where men have acknowledged inappropriate behaviour (Khomami, 2017, para. 16). The allegations have revealed a much deeper problem that occurs in all sections of society, and does not only affect women working in show business.

Suffice to say the concept of the female body being utilised, colonised, abused or appropriated by others is not new. In Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, Offred and the other handmaidens are used as the Republic of Gilead’s reproductive resources and the jezebels are the State’s prostitutes. The difference between texts such The

Handmaid’s Tale and my novel is that in Swan Song the female protagonist is being used as a weapon of the State. It is not her ability to reproduce, her sexuality, her femininity, or anything else that classifies her as a woman that is being exploited.

Her body has been turned into a weapon and she commits violent acts under government orders. Anti-hero roles of this nature are generally depicted as male characters, so my choice to construct a female assassin provides the narrative with a unique perspective.

Research in gender construction at a time when women’s issues are coming to the fore is an exciting field to be delving into. Many questions are currently being raised in public forums about the imbalance of power in favour of men, and for the first time in a long time female voices are being heard. Time will tell whether this resurgence in interest evolves into a social movement that creates real change and

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more equitable outcomes for women, or whether the dominant patriarchal system remains for most part unchanged.

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Conclusion

Through my research, I found gender resembles an ongoing cultural performance that is cultivated by society from the very beginning of an individual’s life and that the body is the instrument, which is used to express this cultural representation.

Gender is found to be yet another societal construct that is placed on each member of the society from the moment of birth. Furthermore, if the “body is a situation”, as de

Beauvoir suggests (cited in Butler, 2007, p. 11), then my research indicates gender could be considered an identity or construct which is immediately placed upon the body by society. I have found that while gender may be initially determined by the individual’s biology, it does not need to remain fixed. Literature such as Margaret

Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale and Emily St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven gives further weight to the idea that the outward performance of gender norms, compliance with which may be viewed as necessary to survival within that society, can be separated from biology and intrinsic desires. If ever there were a case where the body could be viewed as “a situation”, it is Offred’s plight in The Handmaid’s Tale where her body is used as an instrument by the Republic of Gilead for the purpose of reproduction.

On the other hand, in St. John Mandel’s novel, Station Eleven, the human population has been almost obliterated by the Georgia Flu and society as we know it no longer exists. In this futuristic world, gender and the way people once behaved is barely given a second thought as the living characters cling to a fragile day-by-day existence. While I found the dystopian view presented in Station Eleven to be the complete opposite of the imagined totalitarian regime depicted in The Handmaid’s

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Tale, I discovered that both female protagonists behave in a way belying their circumstances without necessarily conforming to existing Western notions of gender and femininity.

During my research process, I utilised creative practice methods to experiment with the construction of a fictional female character whose behaviours and characteristics did not adhere to the traditional feminine tropes of her gender. A distinctly futuristic dystopian landscape also enabled me to push boundaries and afforded more fluidity with gender representation, because by setting the narrative in the future I was not required to conform to present day expectations of gender.

My writing process, and continued process of analysis and revision of the creative work, led me to the realisation that gender itself does not dictate behaviours or base- level responses. Gender is a deeply embedded societal construct that draws its meaning from the culture within which the individual operates. Similarly, to other societal structures and frameworks, gender can be challenged at an individual level, and redefined at a cultural level. As with many aspects of society, traditional gender performances reflect and reinforce the status quo. Swan Song demonstrates gender conformity, with its set of expected behaviours, mannerisms and wardrobe, may be expressed using the body but that because gender is not intrinsic to the body such conformity can be resisted. My character Luna is an exemplar of such resistance.

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