The White Earth by Andrew McGahan

last the land dropped away, and there before him was a small, shallow valley. Beyond it another hill rose to the east, wider and broader, and beyond that he could glimpse yet more hills, receding away under the sky.
    It all seemed to be the same sort of country, scrub and trees and grass, and there was no guessing how many miles it ran, but below him he could see a gravel track. It curled around the slope on which he stood, and then climbed away eastwards. No doubt it came from the sheds and stockyards, and from there it must wander its way into the depths of the property. But what really caught William’s eye was a structure nestled beside the track on the far side of the valley. It was a church. Tiny and white, with a little steeple. And beside the church, fenced in iron, was a cemetery.
    This was something! He tramped down the hill, and then up again. As he approached the church he saw that its weatherboard walls were actually a scabrous grey. The building was just another ruin. Grass grew high around the foundations, the window frames were empty, and the tin roof had fallen in at the far end, where the green leaves of some plant poked out. William studied it all in disappointment. He had never been inside a church, but he had a dim conception of pews and altars, of candles and statues and priests in robes. There would be none of that here. The front steps were broken, and the doors were padlocked shut.
    He moved on to the cemetery gate and edged through. He remembered another graveyard, in Powell, a spreading green lawn where his father lay buried under a rectangle of black stone. William could still see the coffin as it sank into its hole, neat and smooth. This place was different. It was small and very old, the iron fence tangled with bushes, the headstones barely visible amidst tall, shaggy weeds. There were only five graves. The first two were side by side in one corner, marked by leaning headpieces, the writing worn away to a blur. The third grave must have been more recent. It stood alone, the slab cracked and sprouting grass, but the name on the headstone was still legible. ‘Malcolm Jeremy White’. The dates below told that the man had died in 1930, but there were no other messages or clues about him.
    The last two graves were the biggest, with pillars and carved angels to stand guard over them — except that the pillars were broken and the angels had been vandalised, their wings snapped off, their faces staring blankly without noses or lips. But here too the names on the tombstones were still visible. The less impressive of the two read,‘Marjorie Anne White, Beloved Wife of Edward’. The larger said simply,‘Edward Thomas White, of Kuran Station’. William pondered them both. Who were all these Whites, and why were they the only ones buried here? He saw a large hole in the earth, leading down under the two stones. It tunnelled away at an angle, rutted by rain and trailing roots. But it was also smooth in places, as if an animal had burrowed there. He remembered the wild dogs then, his uncle talking about packs of them, howling at the moon. The graveyard no longer felt like a place he wanted to investigate. The day remained bright and warm, and the House was only a few minutes walk away over the rise, but it was so quiet, and he was all alone.
    He left the graves, made his way to the sunken steps of the little church and climbed up carefully. He saw now that the padlock on the doors was broken, hanging loosely on the bolt. William pushed and one of the doors gave a little, scraping against the floor. With another good shove he was able to slide inside. He found himself in a small, empty room with narrow windows and a rubbish-strewn floor. Broken glass crunched beneath his shoes. Something scuffled and scratched above him, and looking up he saw that there was no ceiling, only the open framework that supported sheets of tin. Birds had nested up there. He could see tufts of straw and mud in the corners. The