Acacia pycnantha

“Curse Acacia pycnantha.” Its sickly-sweet fragrance seeps into the car, settling deep within my lungs and soul. The nightmarish yellow wattles line the upcoming intersection.

As if possessed, my hand jerks the leather steering wheel, leading me further into the dense brush. For a moment, I debate a U-turn—I’m supposed to be here for my cousin’s future, not my past. Curiosity spurs me on; despite my racing heart, I keep driving.

The smooth ground gives way to hard gravel as the car rattles along the winding trail that coils around the mist-covered Grampian Range. I hurry to close the window; even in winter, the dirt is dry, billowing into the air and mixing with the powdery pollen of wattles.

Dense eucalyptus trees shroud the narrow bend ahead. I lick my lips, dry and sore from constant biting, and swallow back the nerves lodged in my throat, squinting from the pounding behind my eyes—a headache, or was it memories?

I should leave. This was wasting time I didn’t have.

Leaning forward, I surrender and slow the car, searching for what I know lies just beyond. A road.

A road that, if followed, leads up to hell.

Gravel sprays as I brake, pulling into the old bus stop at the base of the mountain. I leave the engine running and re-lock the doors, needing the familiar click that says 'I’m safe and in control'.

An ache coils inside my chest, seeping lower to my gut. I stare at the decaying sign on the ground that once read ‘Haven’s School for Young Ladies.’

A lone caw, deep and grating, echoes through the mountain. I sigh, slinking back into my seat. The melancholy cry of crows was one of the few comforts Haven offered—that and spiderwebs.

In one fluid motion, I’m out of the car, slamming the door shut behind me. I walk toward the sign, instinctively placing a hand over my small yet growing bump. Swiping away the leaf debris with my foot, to reveal faded black letters worn away by the harsh Australian sun.

The sharp tang of bile stings my throat. I exhale, rubbing at the tension in my neck, reminding myself that the past was behind me. Doing this is stupid—didn’t the midwife say anxiety is bad for the baby, anyway? My boots crunch on the stony ground as I turn back—halting.

My mouth dries.

Just a few feet further up the mountain stood a new sign. Metallic dark green with white italic script that spelt: 'Haven’s School for Girls,' followed by a name.

Her name.

My knees go numb as I stumble away; legs dragging with each heavy step. I push back against the flashes of her shuttering in my mind, almost reaching the car. A tree nearby rustles; a crow flaps and caws as it rises high into the mountain mist, disappearing—then I fall.

“Acacia,” Mother Haven snaps; her steely voice wavers with age.

“Sorry, Mother.” I bow my head in required reverence.

“Child." Her tone is slathered in weighted disdain. Though fifteen, without my cycle, I am a child—or perhaps witches have cursed my womb, like they all say.

A cold and wrinkled finger lifts my chin to meet her dark glare. “Hold out your hand.”

My peers don’t dare turn their heads to watch, but I feel their judgmental gazes prickling the back of my neck. It’s always me; I can’t help my cough during pollen season.

Despite fear, I stretch my arms over the small desk, as I know how to—disobedience will only end with the salt of blood between my teeth.

I clench my jaw, focusing on the spiderweb that drapes delicately over the corner beam. I will not cry, I will not be contrary—I will take my lesson like a woman. Before I hear the wattle bush switch slicing through the air, I feel its sting.

One for me to learn and grow.

Two because I ought to know.

Three for health upon my womb.

Four to teach me blood is due.

Five for hiding secret sins.

Six to make me whole again.

Only then do I leave the comfort of spider silk to glance at the new bloodied crisscrosses marking my arms.

Mother Haven twirls the switch between her fingers, searching for the stain that confirms I am whole again. She huffs in satisfaction, then strides away, setting the switch on her desk—to remind us of its bite.

As lessons resume, my anger simmers. Contrary behaviour or not, I glare at the wattle stick, muttering under my breath, “Curse Acacia pycnantha.”

“Why do you have to be so contrary?” Lomandra whispers from the top bunk—a whisper so soft it could be missed.

“Sister,” I manage, before she whisper-hisses, “Shah! You know I hate it when you call me that.” I hate my given name as much as she hates her new title. But saying such things aloud would be like spitting on Gavriel’s grave—and deserving of sacrifice. Why I was named after the very thing that kept my arms constantly scabbed was beyond me.

“Sorry,” I whisper, disappearing into deep thought. Silence blankets the sleeping quarters as every girl lies on her back beneath their scratchy, thin cotton blankets, tucked and squared, neat and proper.

As Mother says, ‘we behave as ladies, even in sleep.’

“Lomandra?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it hurt…the cycle?” I hold my breath, waiting for her answer. I remember finding her writhing and moaning, her lower dress streaked with crimson. I was terrified, yet too curious to look away. Mother Haven and the other sisters rejoiced, playing the tambourine and flute while they burned her stained sheets atop Gavriel’s grave. But I can’t unsee Lomandra’s glistening eyes, locked onto mine as she danced—stomping to song and crackling fire, red power dripping down her legs, and soaking into the sacred ground.

“Kaykay, go to sleep.” Lomandra’s voice softens. The bed boards above my head squeak as she settles in. Maybe being cursed by witches wasn’t a bad thing. I’d rather be barren than fruitful and in blessed pain.

There was already enough pain.

Dirt irritates my blisters, the sting sharp and unrelenting, but I can’t slow. A woman wears pain with grace—I wasn’t yet a woman, and a contrary grimace means more work and blisters. I continue ploughing the field, pitching my cheeks into a tight smile.

Nearby, a large crow lands, eyeing the carrot seeds Banksia scatters into the rows.

“Shoo, wicked bird,” Banksia snaps, throwing a rock at it. Unbothered, the crow hops barely one foot over, cawing and tilting its head at Banksia, taunting her with its beady eyes.

“Sister Banksia, leave the crow be; it has as much right to be here as you.”

“Of course you would say that. The cursed are drawn to wicked creatures.”

I shrug off her words.

Banksia scans the fields; we are alone, apart from the old sisters weeding the strawberry patch in the distance.

She turns slowly, her blonde hair blowing in the cool breeze. “I heard you the other night.”

I turn from her, hiding my face in shame. Good women don’t have nightmares; they have dreams and visions—but I wasn’t good.

That night, Gavriel visits again.

“Please, I’m so sorry,” I plead, falling to my knees.

Gavriel’s ancient face holds no warmth for me; his lips curl down in disgust as he places his large hand upon my back, forcing my face into the frost-covered grass.

His emanating light suffocates my darkness—I am naked before him, every contrary thought exposed. Every mark of sin upon my arms burns in condemnation. His bare feet fill my vision, a white robe caressing his ankles.

“You are a blight upon my name. Barren and wicked.” His snarl rings in my ears.

“I’m trying…”

He grabs my hair and yanks. “Try harder.”

My eyes snap open as something soft and firm whacks my face—a pillow.

“Acacia, stop! You’ll wake the others,” Lomandra’s voice warns, no longer the gentle whisper of night, but something urgent and desperate.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper back, but the damage is done. On the other side of the room, a bed squeaks, followed by a quiet snicker.

“Step forward, child,” Mother Haven orders, standing at the front of the lesson room; the sharp scissors in her hand glint in the morning sun spearing through the stained-glass panes.

Every tendon in my body tightens as I rise and march to the front, bowing before the small wooden table. I undo my braid, letting my brown hair fall free, and lay both hands flat on either side of the offering bowl.

Then I wait.

“Do you receive Gavriel’s last will as your own?” she asks without looking at me; instead, she watches the thirteen girls, no doubt ensuring everyone pays rapt attention. Anything less would be contrary—and risk joining in my sacrifice.

“I do,” I reply, though inside I wonder—Do I?

“Banksia, step forward and declare Acacia’s sins before the Sisters. Let us weigh and judge them accordingly.”

Banksia’s tall, wide frame rises from the back benches.

“I have witnessed Acacia talking in her sleep. She cries and thrashes, cursing and calling upon the dark Witches to defeat Gavriel and the sisterhood," she says.

I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches.

“Is that all?” Mother Haven asks.

“I have witnessed her talking to crows, feeding spiders, refusing her tonic, and pouring it into the latrine,” Banksia adds, coating each word with self-righteousness.

Lomandra’s expression catches my eye; her gaze holds sadness and disappointment as she shakes her head—that cuts deeper than any scissors can.

“What say the sisterhood?” Mother Haven turns to the old ones.

They whisper among themselves. For a fleeting moment, I hope. I don’t know why; there is never any hope for me. I will always be the outsider, barren and cursed.

The sisters move back to their places.

Sister Grace announces, “The child is guilty; she broke her oath and consorted with evil—a sacrifice is demanded.”

Mother Haven nods and orders them to hold my hands and neck still.

A tremor ripples through my body as I look for the spiderweb. The black stain that mars the white walls—but it’s gone, dusted away.

I search for something, anything, to take my mind elsewhere.

But a tall sister holds my head between her firm hands.

The only things I see are the silver bowl, unblemished walls, and Mother Haven’s glazed stare.

A woman doesn’t cry—she wears her pain with grace.

But I am no woman.

They shear my hair. It comes away in clumps that they place into the bowl.

“Hair is our history. It remembers hidden sins. If we are to be forgiven, we must sacrifice its memory and start again.”

She finishes the final snip while addressing the room.

“The memory of present sin resides in our fingernails. Their growth is a record; the dirt beneath the nails of an oath-breaker is wickedness. And it shall be cut off and cast out.”

“Hold her firm,” she commands over my head to the sisters. The grip on my hands tightens. I hold my breath as someone hands Mother Haven steel nail clippers.

Tears trail down my hot cheeks, steadily plopping into my lap.

Each finger burns and stings as she cuts back right to the skin. She doesn’t move to the next finger until blood shows itself and each fingertip is raw.

My chest feels lighter with every finger done; the pain merges into one, as if casting my hands into raw salt.

When the last bloody finger is done, she turns to the others and declares, “She is clean.”

I look at the crimson smeared across the table and the nail clippings with small bits of skin still attached—tossed inside the silver bowl.

I don’t feel clean.

I just hurt.

For the first time–I’m alive, dancing barefoot atop Gavriel’s grave. Blood flows freely down my legs, dripping onto the headstone and sacred ground. There is no ache of cramps like Lomandra had; mine is a sharp, steady stinging.

The tambourine plays an erratic beat; the flute whistles a tune that holds no words, but I stomp to the hope beating in my chest—my rhythm.

Mother Haven doesn’t smile as she sips her wine—red as a cycle, drunk like water on nights like this. I can’t wait for my first sip. I imagine it rich over my tongue and sweet in my mouth.

We all dance, young and old, sisters to one another—women. The moon glows brilliant white, and somewhere in the distance, a crow's caw echoes.

Everything is perfect.

Then I trip on my own feet–unaccustomed to hours of dancing. I land hard on my back with my dress bunched around my waist, thighs exposed.

It’s a brief moment, barely noteworthy, among the ecstatic joy and glazed eyes of my twirling sisters. But one sees. Eyes—wide. She cackles, pointing at me.

“It’s fake!” she shouts. “She cut her flesh with a blade!” Banksia’s accusation competes with the noise of celebration.

No one reacts.

Mother Haven seems lost in thought, her eyes hollow and focused on the flames. The flute dies mid-note. The tambourine drops to the ground, uttering a final clash.

Banksia shouts again, stepping forward—then falters. She tips sideways, then slowly eases to the ground. I spin. My heart gallops in my throat. Everyone is too still.

"I drugged them,” Lomandra says, rising from the ground and dusting herself off.

“Drugged?”

“Mother Haven’s pills. I crushed them and mixed them into the wine. You need to hurry—you don’t have long before they stir and cut out your tongue for lying.”

“What?” I stumble to keep up as she storms into the dense brush.

She turns without warning, grabbing the collar of my gown, yanking until we are face to face.

“You need to leave, Acacia—and never come back.”

Her breath is warm against my cheek as she presses a cold torch into my open palm, then points toward the large ironbark tree.

"Behind there is a bag. I packed your clothes, food, and the letters your uncle has been sending.”

I try to step back, but she doesn’t let go. The sound of tearing cotton stops me.

“No. My uncle died. Mother Haven—”

“Mother Haven lied. Your uncle writes every month asking about you,” she says.

I shake my head, my lower lip trembling. “He would’ve come for me.”

Lomandra glances over her shoulder as a log pops in the distant fire.

“Mother has friends in high places. But that’s beside the point. You need to go now and never come back. Acacia, you can never talk about what happens here. Mother will find a way to make it your fault.”

She points to the torch and then over to where the bag is. “I have to tell her you stole them. She will come after you.”

“Come with me,” I blurt out.

I run my fingers over her braided hair. She was the perfect woman, graceful, beautiful.

Lomandra releases me abruptly, retreating back towards the old weatherboard church.

“No,” she says, her voice hard—like metal. “This is my home. You don’t belong here, Acacia. You came here too late. The wild was already in your heart.”

“But Mother Haven, she is a liar…”

Lomandra growls, making the most un-womanly sound, and says, “It’s you! You’re the problem. Too soft to be a woman, too hard to be obedient. Maybe you are cursed… Maybe mother’s right. But I can’t watch them hold you down again. You stir contrary thoughts in me, and I can’t allow that. I’m a woman, Acacia. I will bear Prophet Gavriel’s line. You are still a child.”

Mist uncoils from the dark, surrounding us in wet and cold.

“I saw you cutting yourself—the lengths you’ll stoop to, just to get what you want. You may be wicked, but you’re still my friend, so go, please.”

Lomandra doesn’t cry. She stands there, chest heaving—the only sign she’s as hurt as I am.

Then, without a word, she vanishes into the rustling bush.

A crow bursts into the silent night sky, wings flapping as it soars.

Everything was a lie. All this time, my uncle wrote.

I was wanted.

I wasn't forgotten.

Tears stream down my cheeks as my heart fractures.

The crow’s fading caw is the last thread holding me together—and it snaps.

The phone buzzing in my pocket startles me as the grey sky above comes into focus. My fingers trail against the gravel as I remember where I am. The continuing vibration against my leg melts away the rush of adrenaline. I stand, righting myself—this time, careful to avoid the clump of grass I tripped over.

“Hey, babe, you alright? I’ve been calling for ten minutes. I was starting to worry.” Tarren’s deep voice is thick with concern.

My breath hitches as I re-read the new sign: Principal Lomandra Atkins.

“I’m fine. Just tripped and needed a moment. And yes, I’m okay.” I keep my voice light, not wanting him to worry about me or the baby.

I rub my tummy, looking down at the miracle hidden inside.

“How’s Katie’s wedding planning going? You still coming back tomorrow?” he asks.

Crap. I forgot about my cousin.

I hop into the car, slam the door, and double-lock it before starting the engine. “There’s something I need to finish out here before I come home. Can you do me a favour and look up Lomandra Atkins? Text me what you find.”

Before he answers, my nose twitches. A half-mangled sneeze bursts out—the result of trying not to empty my full bladder.

“What was that?” Tarren laughs.

“Ugh. Allergies,” I groan, adjusting the seat belt under my bump.

“Cats?”

I smirk, driving past the blur of yellow. “No cats—just these bloody Acacia pycnanthas.”