Fiction - Island Magazine 117

Silverchair, for heavens sake! Her grandson, Jake, had named him. She’d suggested a change to something more appropriate – Sylvester – but Jake insisted, ‘No, Gran, it’s Silverchair.’ So on this day, by the time Silverchair had deigned to saunter out from under the roses which her neighbour, Helen, struggled to grow along her fence, in spite of the raids of possums and young Brady – I’ll kill that Brady if I catch him! – the sun had dropped lower than Marilyn liked.

Last Wednesday, she’d caught young Brady in the act. There he was, after school, shuffling along head down, kicking at stones and aimlessly pulling the heads off Helen’s roses. Marilyn had waylaid him. ‘Come around the back, Brady, I’ve got something I want you to give to your mother.’

When she came back he’d said, ‘Yer call yer cat Silverchair?’ and gaped at her with something that could almost have been admiration. She’d handed him the bunch, ‘These are for your mother,’ and watched him go off down the path. At the gate he’d paused and buried his nose in the roses. ‘Well, Silverchair,’ she’d grinned at the cat, who couldn’t have cared

The Leake road, a cobra of a road, a writhing, living thing, was hell to drive in the late afternoon when on alternate bends it would rear up, twist its head, spit the sun straight into your eyes and blind you. Even at the height of the day parts of the road were evil. Evil was the only word she had for it, those changes in the atmosphere, as if the temperature had dropped when it hadn’t. As you wound into forest, through Kalangadoo and past the lake, then on through old regrowth, the light hammering at the verticals, it felt as if something had happened there once, a malevolent something that remained embossed on the atmosphere, rather like the remains of words on the second or third page of a notepad. What it was, Marilyn had no idea. Perhaps a visionary could apply some extrasensory graphite shading and define it; but a visionary, Marilyn knew, she definitely was not.

Don never felt the same way about it. ‘Darl,’ he used to say, ‘it’s just an empty road.’ Empty it certainly was. On a week day you could drive the whole forty-five minutes of it and see no more than half a dozen cars, and never any cyclists or hitchhikers. Come to think of it, in the time she’d travelled it regularly, first with Don and now alone, she’d never seen anyone at all; no one on the lake, no tourists, and the spatter of fishing shacks around Kalangadoo always seemed deserted. An empty road. Except, of course, for the dead.

Don said, yes, it was a shame, and hitting a wallaby or wombat or even a big possum could make a hell of a mess of your car; but for Marilyn it was either part, or the whole of the dread, all those creatures, some days every few yards, unmarked or splattered to bloody messes. So much furred pain.

She’d mentioned the dead animals last time she was in town and her son-in-law, Barry, always one for keeping things in perspective, had said dismissively, ‘Just goes to prove there’s still plenty of wildlife about,’ and Marilyn had been quite startled by the remark, which was, after all,

a common one. An irrelevant perspective, she’d found herself thinking, as if one life is not as much life as another; as if each life is not greater than the collective. Did it matter, the shape or species? Was not a life a life, all the same?

Since Don had gone, because of that road, Marilyn drove to Launceston only when she knew an excuse wouldn’t do. On this particular day, her grandchildren were the reason, a concert at the church; little Megan would play ‘Greensleeves’ on the recorder and Jake’s band, The Holy Terrors, was the star turn.

Marilyn had turned away so that he wouldn’t see her lips twitch. She was supposed to hate things like hard rock, that was her role. Age was a role you played for others, but there were limits. When Don had died, her daughter, Michelle, was adamant she move back to town, ‘So we can look after you, Mum.’ Michelle had returned to nursing after Megan had started school, and good for her; but there was something about nurses and looking after that made Marilyn nervous. These days Michelle made her nervous, forever watching her sideways, as if she carried an invisible clipboard and was mentally ticking the boxes, forgets people, has strange ideas, Mum’s losing it. ‘You’ll be lonely, Mum.’ But Marilyn knew she wasn’t losing anything, and as for lonely, she had never been less lonely in her life.

She and Don had moved to the conjoined cottages just out of Swansea with plans to open one as a bed and breakfast. But Don had died. She’d woken one morning to find the bed damp and Don still and cold, strange purple patches growing like lichen on his skin. There was, of course, grief and bewilderment, but after that... Most of the friends she and Don had made since the move were churchgoers like themselves, and she couldn’t have faulted them – sympathetic, supportive. Good people. Good friends if she’d wanted good friends. But she didn’t. She found their sympathy... well... tedious.

For something was missing, and it wasn’t Don – nothing so simple. She and Don were all right with each other on either side of life’s divide. No, there was something else, buried, a vein, a sappy tree-root of meaning, a succulent knowledge she hadn’t managed to tap yet. Maybe, just maybe, if she lived long enough, she’d find it.

the cottage next door to Helen and Hank, who kept to themselves except for occasional outbursts over Brady and the gratefully accepted offer to feed her cat, and she’d sunk into a state that could almost be called bliss. A guilty bliss at first. Not any more.

Beyond her cottage garden was a stubbly, rock-strewn paddock where sheep grazed, hard land, and beyond that a barren, scree-sharpened rise, sparsely treed. If she climbed to the top, which she did most days, to the east the Hazards rose, legendary, out of the sea; but increasingly Marilyn rarely turned to look to the east for it was the prickly western side that drew her: tufted and scraggy land, thick and shrubby as you pushed into it, not a spot for camera-eyed tourists but private. Here she could sit on her rock and trance out. Here, in her imagination – it must have been in her imagination – she could hear the old people chattering as they moved further inland, kelp bundles stuffed with salted mutton birds strapped to their shoulders, and often, breaking out of her trance, she would find herself looking straight into the eyes of a great forester, a huge kangaroo, still as the rock itself...

She’d told Don about this place when she’d first found it, and about her imaginings. He’d said, ‘Well, you probably can hear them, darling. It’s only a couple of hundred years.’ But he never went there himself, he knew not to. Oh, she had so loved Don. Still did. But she loved him not being there as well, for in solitude, it seemed to Marilyn, she’d discovered another form of intimacy, a rarer form, strange as that seemed.

Recently, Marilyn had stopped watching the news – another departure. She and Don had been keen activists for peace. During the first Gulf war, with their son-in-law, Barry, they’d formed a discussion group at the church and had documented the horrors, those heart-gripping newspaper pictures, those fearful images on screens. It was not that she considered such concerns of her past less important, but she had grown raw-nerved, lost layers of skin, thinned, paled, risen to her own surfaces, developed an acuteness of the senses that hurt to touch. She had stopped watching the news for the sake of her heart. Iraq, Afghanistan, the images, broken bodies strewn on highways and along roads, night after night on the television. And although it was probably absurd, and certainly would have condemned her as unfeeling, or of getting things out of perspective, the images reminded her of the Leake Highway. Or the

Of course there was no one to whom she could express such ideas, not among her acquaintances and certainly not her family. Nothing had brought that home to her more clearly than a Sunday lunch with Michelle and Barry, when, after saying grace, she’d regarded the perfectly roasted leg of lamb and quietly mused, ‘You know, more and more I think I prefer a vegetarian diet.’

Barry had paused mid-chew, gravy on his lower lip, and, indicating the table with his fork, had embarked, gently and with great patience, upon one of his lay preacher diatribes. ‘But Gran darling, you know as well as I that God created the beasts of the field precisely for this purpose. That’s why, in gratitude, we say the grace.’

Beasts of the field. The phrase rang out from the run of words with a discordant clang. She’d heard it often enough, but it had changed. Generalising her objection, she’d said, ‘There are a lot of people these days, Barry, that don’t agree with that.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Barry, ‘I’ve nothing against our vegetarian friends, or even animal liberationists. I’m sure they mean well, but they’re wrong, and I’ll tell you why,’ he was warming up nicely. ‘Not to accept the many species God has given and use them for the purpose for which they were given is ungracious! It’s ungracious, Gran, not to accept the beasts of the field for our meat – and of course the duty of care that goes with that. You know I don’t condone unnecessary slaughter or wanton cruelty.’

At this point, Jake had muttered, ‘You don’t get much crueller, Dad, than eating stuff.’ Then Megan, pushing her plate away, said, ‘I don’t want this,’ and Michelle had glanced first sideways at her mother then warningly at Barry. But Barry was on a roll. ‘Acceptance, gratitude and responsibility. Look at us, Gran, the family, celebrating God’s gifts together after a beautiful morning service of prayer and forgiveness. Here we are...’

Marilyn said nothing. She’d picked at a parsnip and thought about the word beast and the word cruelty. She thought too about the word species and how that related to the other two – and she realised that a language she’d once known had not so much changed its meaning but had

It was well past five when Marilyn, dressed in a fresh white shirt and denim skirt, finally turned her little blue Astor left onto the highway. With daylight saving recently finished, the sun was at its worst – damn it. She should have left in the morning as she’d intended, but there was always so much glorious, pleasurable nothing to do; so hard to tear herself away, pack a bag and... change her vocabulary. She settled her sunglasses on her nose and took a deep breath. Forty-five minutes to Campbell Town.

Myron Wiskowski had been heading for the chip mill at Triabunna with his load when he’d heard. The Greenies had the mill surrounded. Yer had to laugh but with all these big company takeovers gobbling up the small contractors, times were tough enough. He’d spent the last several hours hanging around in a lay-by, fighting the urge to smoke and losing, until he got the nod. Bell Bay, in the north. So Myron was on the Leake Highway that afternoon, with his visor pulled down and his dark glasses on and his radio alternately crackling and shouting as it missed and refound the signal. He was not driving particularly fast, no faster than he usually did on this stretch, which was always pretty free of traffic. Relaxed at the wheel, he lit a cigarette and rang Maise, ‘Don’t worry, love, I’ll pick up a pie at Kalangadoo and see you sometime after nine.’

Between the two of them, Marilyn had been the better driver. Don was too easily distracted by the scenery. He’d dawdle along with the few cars and caravans that were travelling in the same direction, banking up behind him until some frustrated chap overtook. Then he’d say, ‘Look at that idiot.’ ‘Well, what can you expect,’ she’d tell him. ‘Step on it.’ There was a delicate balance for speed for this road; an irritated driver overtaking too fast was more likely to hit something, especially at this time when small animals were stirring. She kept her speed up until she reached the winding kilometres sign. Here the forest began.

Approaching the shop she noticed a log truck pulled into the parking bay – no, she didn’t need to stop, the loos were cleaner in Campbell Town and she’d rather not allow that truck the chance to get ahead. Half an

Past the shop and there was the lake, as grey and blank as tarmac, the water resisting the sun, which slithered now between the bars of the trees and waited for her at the next curve – and there it was! For several kilometres Marilyn drove peering into white light and shadow, her eyes watering. Then, up ahead, something on the road moved.

She could see the body of a newly dead brushtail, its little black ears, its muzzle and the gold of its belly fur so fresh. Beyond it, up ahead, a young one, shocked, ran back and forth on the crown of the road.

What did she have? Nothing except for a spare white shirt hung over the back of the passenger seat. That would have to do. Returning to the car, backwards, slowly, she reached in and grabbed the shirt, then holding the shirt in front of her she began her approach again. ‘It’s all right, little one. I won’t hurt you. It’s all right...’

Back on the road having downed a pie, a Cherry Ripe and a coffee, Myron passed the lake and was a few kilometres further on when he noticed, without any particular interest, a little blue sedan pulled off to the side and the driver’s door open. Assuming the driver was taking a piss, he muttered, ‘Idiot, close yer door.’

Myron never liked hitting animals but what could you do? They were all over the place. There was still plenty of wildlife around, that was for sure. He knew a bloke who boasted that he swerved on purpose to hit cats whenever he could, but that was as stupid as swerving to miss a roo – you were likely to lose your load and kill yourself. The same bloke said he’d happily risk a swerve to take out a few Greenies. Myron wasn’t into any of that. He didn’t particularly mind cats and he thought the conservationists had a point – he just wished they’d get his point; if you locked up too much of the forest and closed down the industry, what would he and Maise do, with four kids and an ever-increasing mortgage?

Anyone would have thought, at first, a massive injury to her chest had killed her. The driver of the white Subaru travelling in the opposite direction who was first on the scene, did, for that’s what he saw, a woman flung awkward on the road and the great bloody mess of her upper body, a tangle of flesh and guts and rags as if she’d been ripped open. What he didn’t see, because the clip had come loose and her hair had fanned out, was that the back of her head was missing. Had anyone known, when Mrs Marilyn Forbes hit that road, although she was technically dead, her heart had continued to beat for some moments more, and the apparently shocking trauma to the chest had not of itself been enough to kill her. It appeared worse than it was because of the crushing of the small body she’d been cradling at the time, its little heart fluttering against her own, a young possum wrapped in a white shirt. On impact it had pressed back into her and crushed with her so that two white shirts, not one, were torn and bloodied and what, in fact, was the possum’s little mass of tattered flesh and shattered bone was indistinguishable from her own.

The Subaru driver had reached for his phone, but there was no signal. Turning to his girlfriend who sat, pale, in the passenger seat, he shouted, ‘Get an ambulance’ and jerked his thumb in the direction of Kalangadoo. Then he turned his attention to the driver.

ROBYN FRIEND teaches writing in northern Tasmania. She is the author of numerous short stories, essays and articles, two oral histories, two published novels, Eva and The Butterfly Stalker, and one pending, The Lovers Handbook. She is currently planning her fourth novel.

We called it the Castle Morton Jerry, though I never knew why. Ever since a child I remembered that band of cold thick fog suspended above the river opposite our cove, sometimes all morning until the sun burned it off. When the jerry rolled in like that, you couldn’t see anything. Walking home, you’d reach out your hand and you’d feel a hard object and you’d have to decode what it was, whether it was a gum tree or a fence post or the leathery, nearly round face of Old Stan who jerked awake as he did on that day. ‘Hey!’

‘Sorry, mate,’ when I saw that I’d blundered onto his deck. And when he’d seen who it was and relaxed, at least enough to stop hollering at me for poking him out of his sleep, I said: ‘This jerry – I really do loathe it, you know.’

Old Stan must still have been half asleep because he stared at me almost like he was seeing himself at my age, fourteen, and then he said in a careful voice, ‘You shouldn’t hate it, boy. That’s the same thing as hating what you come out of.’

‘She didn’t hum you this song?’ and his cracked voice warbled through the mist, thinning it a little: ‘So I hauled her into bed and I covered up her head, just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.’

‘Well, maybe she had enough on her hands bringing you up without wanting to go spading about in the past. But if it wasn’t for the jerry you wouldn’t have a nose to pick, none of us would,’ and that’s when Old

You grew up knowing Huonville, but before it became “Hoonville” it was Victoria and before that it had no name that I’m aware of. You’ve got to remember how remote Tasmania was then, before it was woodchip heaven. Believe you me, boy, this place was re-mote. It wasn’t even called Tasmania, it was Van Diemen’s Land. And this valley was one of the re-moter valleys in Van Diemen’s Land. Why, there wouldn’t have been more than three bluestone houses and eleven men in a hundred square miles of thick bush. Mr Gordon – your great-granddad – and his four convict workers; Mr Hacking and his four workers, and my granddad Ralph. All single men of notorious and immoral character, as the Governor in Hobart liked to put it. And in the whole district just one solitary female – Granny Lawrence, a noisy, irritable woman who was lame in one leg and had a fleshy mole on the side of her chin, and a scar on the tip of her crooked nose and over her right eyebrow, and whose rare grin opened on a row of missing teeth. Oh, and sheep. You sure your own Gran never told you anything about this?’

‘Personally speaking, I never believed the stories about Mr Gordon’s riding boots and Granny Lawrence’s soreness at finding traces of a ewe’s back leg in one of them. All I do know, the situation was pretty desperate for a lusty and profligate man. And don’t imagine matters were easier in Hobart. It was common knowledge how Mr Gordon once rode on his horse for three days through the bush in order to dance at a ball – at the Bellevue, I believe – where he was much disappointed to discover that the settlers and officers all had to waltz with each other. You must realise that even in Hobart there were thirty men to every woman. Who knows what desperation would have done to Mr Gordon and the ten other fellas down here if it hadn’t been for the Castle Morton Jerry.

‘Well, like I tell you, things being so desperate on the island at that time, the Governor got in touch with Mrs Elizabeth Fry in London and a committee was formed to send a transport ship to Hobart filled with “desirable, free and single women”. This was the Castle Morton, built in Nova Scotia, 472 tons of copper-sheathed white oak and black birch. On board were two hundred young women, some of them the most beautiful and elegant ever to come to Van Diemen’s Land. Plus a Chaplain, a naval Surgeon and a Matron to keep those women clean and orderly on the

four-month voyage to “Hobart Town on the Derwent” – where they were to enjoy free board and a roof over their head and a lot else beside. Only trouble is, after four months at sea, the Castle Morton got disoriented in a southerly coming up the channel. Instead of sailing into the Derwent, where she was first sighted, she sailed without realising it into the mouth of the Huon nearby. You listening now?’

‘You’ll be listening real good, I reckon, when you hear what my granddad told me about that altogether memorable day. Ralph watched it all happen. He was settled on the sandspit here when mid-afternoon came through the cold front from hell. A storm blew up and he observed a ship in distress. He didn’t know there were two hundred eligible women on board, including some convicts from the London Female Penitentiary. All he saw was this sailing vessel off Bruny Island dragging her anchors and in danger of being wrecked. The southerly carried the ship past the entrance. Ralph could see she was in great danger. The rapidity of the tide made him fear that she might be forced on the west side of the sandspit and he hoisted a bed-sheet on a pole, but couldn’t keep it up in the violent wind. So he ran to Mr Gordon’s farm and requested two of his men to go with him and make a fire on Bluff Point and another on Norman Cove to guide the ship in.

‘Ralph alerted the crew to the dangers of another sandbar and directed them to sheltered water. He shouted “Starboard!” and they hove round. “Port!” and they did so. He told them: “Let go your anchor!” They did so. And then the gale died down as suddenly as it blew up.

‘The Master who pulled Ralph on board was Mr Henniker. He was sufficiently wary to keep his passengers down below and out of sight until he had ascertained where he had anchored, plus the identity of his young saviour. Beside Mr Henniker stood the Chaplain who had fallen down a hatchway in the gale and dislocated his shoulder. Beside the Chaplain stood the Surgeon and Matron. All four officials stood in a row and stared by the light of Mr Henniker’s lantern at Ralph and the two disreputable-looking figures who had clambered with him on deck, systematic thieves and liars both of them, and both with faces blackened

‘The Master thanked him. Then he said: “I have 198 women on board bound for Hobart who have suffered much seasickness.” And explained that he was most anxious to disembark them after so many months at sea and constant drenching by storms and heat. He looked again uneasily at Ralph’s two companions and then at Ralph. “This is Hobart, right?’’

‘“I was expecting,” the Master said, “I was expecting something bigger.” He had seen through his telescope two clearings and a bark hut. None of his crew had been before to Van Diemen’s Land. He had imagined a bend on the river surrounded by cleared banks covered in buildings.

‘Well, as soon as Ralph rowed ashore he ran helter skelter all the way to Mr Gordon’s house. As it happened, Mr Gordon knew about this Girl Boat and its cargo of Reformers. It was because of the Castle Morton that Ralph found Mr Gordon saddling up, preparing for another long ride through the scrub to Hobart. Even so, his spirits were considerably reduced at the idea of having to compete with 3,000 single men at the wharf. And not only 3,000 men. Also waiting in Hobart were the Ladies’ Committee composed of all the respectable matrons of the colony and excited to inform the passengers of the Castle Morton that their Committee had enabled each and every one of the 198 to be engaged in service and provided for respectfully. There were in addition at the dockside a small squad of police waiting to march the women under guard up Macquarie Street to the government hotel, “The Bellevue”, which had been appointed to house the newcomers. I tell you, lad, the arrival of this ship was a large and significant event, and it caused quite a stir. Once word got out that the Castle Morton had been spotted at the mouth of the Derwent more crowds turned out than for the execution of Matthew Brady. Mr

‘In the night the southerly eased off into a light offshore wind. Early next morning a current of cold air tracked down from the mountains through the gullies and marshes and fed into the river. It hit the warmer water in a tube of dense rolling mist, a big cloud of it that spilled out into the channel and locked the ship in a chill moist fog.

‘On the Castle Morton they woke up to a virtual whiteout. Couldn’t see a thing. They knew it was a beautiful day, bright and sunny outside. But inside the jerry, the Master couldn’t see the Matron shivering across the quarter-deck, leave aside the sourness of her expression. He certainly couldn’t see that they weren’t in Hobart on the Derwent.

‘At eight o’clock that morning Ralph rowed out Mr Gordon and Mr Hacking, both dressed in their neat Sunday best, to the ship. Noise travels over still water. They could hear the coughs below deck as the women put on the new set of clothes that the Matron had issued, the demure uniform to include, of all things, a veil.

‘“Then I will tell you, Mr Gordon, that never have women been more commodiously accommodated as on this passage. You may be assured that much attention was paid to guard them against evil. From the moment they boarded in Woolwich, I urged upon them the most decorous and orderly conduct and a strict obedience to the regulations which the Chaplain and Matron thought needful to adopt. And this morning I impressed on them, I dare say for the thousandth time, how the Governor will take a truly paternal care of them on their arrival in Hobart Town.”

‘The other officials were keen to follow the Master’s lead and trumpet their own contributions. The Surgeon-superintendent was a long-nosed martinet called Guthrie. He said: “I was asked by Lord Goderich to land them as uncontaminated as they were sent on board. This I have done. No spirituous liquors were allowed, no visitors.”

‘The Matron, who had mustered the women every morning to check their personal health and cleanliness, said: “I think they all have high hopes of marriage to wealthy settlers. Most have already been assigned as general servants. One or two are very bad, but a considerable portion of them are respectable and deserving characters.”

‘Then it was the turn of the Chaplain: “I have told them the measure they have adopted in leaving their native land to go into a foreign country is a matter of vital consequence and under the Divine Blessing it may prove of the greatest benefit, but otherwise the very reverse. By their good conduct or the contrary they will form their own characters.”

‘“Well, let’s get on with it,” said Mr Gordon, enthusiastic to speed along the process of disembarkation. He urged the Master in the strongest and most persuasive terms to remain with his crew on board, and promised to make it his topmost priority to arrange with the port authorities to have the Castle Morton fully provisioned with fresh water, mutton and oysters as soon as the mist dissolved.

‘Relieved to be shot of his charges, the Master ordered the women to be led up on deck and watched them step into Ralph’s whale-boat in groups of ten at a time. They sat with their faces obscured in their veils, their hands resting on their bags, and Mr Gordon and Mr Hacking were most careful to say nothing as Ralph ferried the first party ashore, where a cart and three men waited to escort the women to Hobart, that is to say “Nettlepot”, as Mr Gordon, who came from Cumbria, had baptised his three-roomed establishment.

‘Once on shore, Mr Gordon and Mr Hacking were replaced in the whale-boat by two willing rowers who laboured under the strictest instructions to remain in a state of cemetery silence until they had landed safely every single female. Only on the last journey did it prove impossible for the rowers to contain themselves. Ralph told me how the jerry had barely swallowed the Castle Morton behind them when his two crewmen began touching up the women and trafficking to obtain their services at the lowest penny. If the women couldn’t see them, they knew where their hands were!

‘I won’t go into the disgraceful scenes that were enacted under Mr Gordon’s roof. Let us simply say that the women who came ashore that morning swiftly became acquainted with our habits. But they turned

‘Her name was Harriet Fay. She was the daughter of a Baptist minister from Richmond, a respectable servant and useful, delicate woman whose mistress regretted parting with her and who had been engaged by a gentleman as a governess to his brother’s children in Hobart.

‘As I say, I don’t know what happened over the next days and weeks at “Nettlepot” or at Miles Cottage, which was Mr Hacking’s place, or here at Two Mile Creek where Ralph had taken Mary Malvern, a pert and artful young pencil-maker with a round face who’d been transported on suspicion of stealing fur and fourteen yards of bombazine. I do know that surprisingly many women chose to remain in the valley after the mistake was discovered, and these included Harriet Fay and Mary Malvern. Harriet’s conduct especially was said to disappoint all expectation formed of her in London. When it was known that she was living with some men in the country in an improper way, a delegation was sent by boat, a sort of rescue mission to sail her back to Hobart, but she declined the advice of the Committee, saying: “I’d rather be hanged than leave here.” And after living myself in this same cove for eighty-two years I reckon I know how she felt.

‘So don’t go knocking the jerry, lad. Without it, you’d be piss in the wind. And now help me up. And when you’ve done that you can look behind you. All the time I’ve been talking, it’s been turning into a fine day.’

NICHOLAS SHAKESPEARE His books have been translated into twenty languages, and include In Tasmania, winner of the Tasmania Book Prize, and Secrets of the Sea, set on the East Coast, which was long-listed for the Miles Franklin. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and currently lives in Oxford.

ISSUE NO. 117

WINTER 2009