John Brady - Poachers Road

Now Felix felt a cold tension moving into his chest, something he tried to ignore. He knew it was not due to a need to push the car tight to the guardrails. Without thinking about it, he began to count backwards, a countdown to when he guessed they’d be passing the taferl to his father.

“I tell you,” Speckbauer began. “I sure wouldn’t want to meet one of those… ”

He stopped then and looked over.

“Sorry,” he said. “I forgot. Hereabouts…?”

“No, it was near the other end.”

Felix heard the river over the sound of their car’s passage between the rocky walls of the klamm. It still tumbled white and fast, crashing over the rocks in its spring wildness, as they called the melt from the mountains higher up.

The first of the grassy ledges began to appear after several minutes, along with some bushes. Along with the returning brightness glowing at the edges of the precipices above, these were signs the gorge would soon open, drawing them onto the plateaus and folds that led in turn into the higher mountains.

Speckbauer opened a map that he had drawn from the door pocket.

“Remote, you might think,” he murmured. “But not as the crow flies.”

Felix’s count was out by 20. He did not slow as he drew up to the taferl. Nor did he glance at where his father’s car had gone over into the gorge. He was relieved that Speckbauer had missed it, and with sunlight returning to the car’s interior again, he felt the tightness easing. He eased off the pedal at the turn-off to St. Kristoff.

Speckbauer looked up from the map.

“Festring,” said Felix. “That gasthaus, right?”

“Are we at the turn-off already? Did we pass…?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Felix let the car out of gear. He freewheeled almost to a stop while Speckbauer consulted the map.

“No,” said Speckbauer. “We’re going through St. Kristoff, remember?”

“That’s the other way.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you back to Graz in time for the train.”

“I just wanted to point out something. I’m coming back up here tonight, you know.”

Speckbauer gave no sign he’d noticed Felix’s annoyance.

“To my grandparents’ house, to sleep,” Felix added. He pointed to the map. “Right here.”

“A beautiful spot — if this is any indication. I’m keen to see it.

Let’s go.”

With that, Speckbauer jammed the map down between the seat and the arm rest, and he opened his window more. Felix took the hint. He steered the Passat onto the narrow road that led toward St.

Kristoff. There were few breaks in the woods that now surrounded the road that would allow any glimpses of the mountains.

“Quite a place,” said Speckbauer, and let his window down a little. “Tracks, paths, wegs — everywhere.”

The air was much cooler already. Felix tried to remember how many metres St. Kristoff was, 1200-something or 1800-something.

“Tell me something,” Speckbauer said. “Your family goes back a long way here, huh? Both sides?”

“I don’t know how many generations.”

“Not interested in that sort of thing, the family story?”

“Not really.”

“Why did your family leave here? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Felix didn’t answer for several moments. Speckbauer, who had been looking up through the trees for another glimpse of the church and the houses of St. Kristoff, turned to him.

“Am I being too personal?”

“Every family has its things, I suppose.”

Felix slowed when he saw the muddy tracks out onto the pavement. The sound of a chainsaw began to grow louder. He looked down the track that met with the road and caught a glimpse of a white vehicle, then another. One was an Opel Campo pickup.

Maier, he guessed, or one of the men working for him.

“You’re stopping?”

“No. I was just curious. It’s okay, I saw who.”

“In the woods there?”

“Same guy we almost bumped into a few days ago,” said Felix.

“We were on the way up for the anniversary.”

Speckbauer craned his neck to look out Felix’s side.

“You can tell from that thing, that white truck?”

“It’s the guy with the licence to cut here. Maier. I was at school with him, or his family.”

“Is he a friend of yours? Your family’s?”

“No.”

“See? You do know the people up here still then. That’s nice.”

Felix dropped into second again and turned up the steepest section now, barely a metre from a steep drop off. The woods began to peter out, and the high meadows took over more. The sun hit them then. Felix pulled in and came to a stop to let an older couple in a Citroen coming down. He returned a small wave.

“They are?”

“Family Fischbach. They farm two places over from my oma and opa. Well, the next one does. Stephan, I think.”

“Your oma and opa on your father’s side?”

“My mother’s, the Nagls. I only have an opa on Dad’s side.”

Felix pulled out onto the pavement again.

“You know,” Speckbauer said, “this is a beautiful place. One would have to be crazy to leave here.”

Felix’s mind was already ahead on the road out to Festring.

There were 15 or 20 kilometres they’d need to drive on that corkscrew road.

“Crazier to stay,” Felix said. “Believe me.”

Speckbauer still seemed immune from any hint of Felix’s irritation.

“Really? I can understand the attractions of town life, city life.”

Felix said nothing.

“Work of course too,” Speckbauer added. “And a bit of adventure. Not everyone can work a farm, or wants to, I suppose?”

“My mother worked in Graz awhile, before getting married.

She liked it.”

“But your dad, he liked the high country up here, I’ll bet.

Heimat: the homeland, even though…?”

“Even though…?”

“Oh oh,” said Speckbauer. Then after a few moments, he added, “Well, it’s just conversation.”

Felix let the awkwardness curdle more.

“It’s like you said yourself,” Speckbauer added. “Every family has its things. Anyway. Tell me what I’m seeing up here.”

Felix let the Passat freewheel by the lower wall of the graveyard before the road made its last turn up to the village.

He pointed out places: the school, the village square where the May festival, the Maifest, had been held a fortnight ago. The pine boughs that had been attached were still green. Speckbauer asked how old the church was. Felix came up with something persuasive.

He wondered if Speckbauer was now going to ask to see the Kimmel family plot in the graveyard.

“Don’t you want to drop by your grandparents’? Tell them you’ll be by later on, perhaps?”

Felix shook his head.

“They know already. And we’re going out by the other way, aren’t we?”

Felix decided Speckbauer was about to say something, but had held back.

“Well,” said Speckbauer after a while. “What of your father’s side?”

“They don’t farm anymore. I mean he doesn’t, my grandfather.”

“A lifetime of hard work,” Speckbauer said. “No doubt?”

“It was a hard enough life up here,” Felix said. “In the past, I mean.”

“Until recently, would you say?”

“My grandparents could tell you, I suppose.”

“Ach Mein Gott,” Speckbauer said then. “You can’t buy air like this in the city.”

“Uh uh,” said Felix. “Spend a winter up here, when you’re a teenager.”

“Where are teenagers happy, I ask you?”

“Claustrophobic isn’t fun.”

“But it’s your home, still, right? Your ties are here, right?”

“Look. My parents wanted us to go to Uni, and all that.”

“Your father too?”