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She said that if I ever got lost again, I should ask for help, but that I should always ask a woman. Even then, I did not need to be told why. The loss of the Duff children was a media sensation, one of the first of its kind. Men on horseback combed the scrub in heavy rain for over a week. After nine days, the three children were at last located with the assistance of Aboriginal trackers.

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The newspapers went wild. Two years later a book entitled The Australian Babes in the Wood: A True Story Told in Rhyme for the Young was published in Britain, recasting the disappearance as a morality tale for children like me who might be interested in wandering away from the group. From then on, the story of the Duffs came to focus on the middle child, Jane, seven at the time of her disappearance, who was said to have carried her younger brother on her back when he grew exhausted, and to have selflessly used her dress as a blanket to cover both her brothers during the chilly nights.

When Jane died, in , schoolchildren across the state of Victoria organized a coin-donation fund to establish a memorial stone near where the children had been found. The colonial histories of America and Australia are markedly similar. As they did in America, European settlers came to the east coast of Australia first, then looked west.

The landscape resisted complete colonization, so Australians clung to the coast. We still do. Only 15 percent of Australians today live outside the cities and the essentially suburbanized corridor of the eastern seaboard. There might have been a limitless western horizon to walk toward, but there was no romance or freedom in it. The landscape was frightening. Because of this, perhaps, our respective lost-child stories manifested in different ways.

Just as they did in Australia, children got lost in America all the time. American folklore was full of Huck Finns ranging out into the frontier. International law has a term to describe unoccupied territory: terra nullius. When the British arrived in Australia in , they considered the continent to be terra nullius despite over sixty-five thousand years of indigenous habitation. The bush was afforded an agency and humanity that the native people of the continent were not. Our focus was directed instead toward the lost child.

And when a child, especially a female child, wandered out into the frightening landscape, we paid attention. We told those stories until they ascended from newspaper copy to myth. She had set out to walk almost two miles through the Yarra Valley to visit her mother. She never arrived. Men on horseback were called out, as were Aboriginal trackers, but heavy rain had destroyed her tracks. Crosbie was lost for twenty-three days.

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She walked in circles, fell into creeks, stripped off her clothes, and slept in a hollow tree. She ate eucalyptus leaves when she was hungry, but they made her sick. Eventually two men on horseback found her. She was without clothing and her limbs were badly lacerated. She could not have lived another day.

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A year after the disappearance, McCubbin finished one of the most notable works of the Australian Heidelberg school: Lost , a painting that depicts a girl seen from a distance through dense, dun-colored bush. Her hand shields her face. It is unclear whether she is crying, wiping away perspiration, or just pausing. She may not even know she is lost. But the image captures the uncanniness of a schoolgirl alone in the alien, melancholy Australian landscape, and in that melancholy we can locate the root of the horror. As observers, we can see in a way she cannot how she blends with the foliage, how she is about to be engulfed by the bush from which she might never emerge.

How she is both in the landscape and of it. The girl wears thick black tights and a starched pinafore. A straw hat with a black ribbon shades her face. She looks much like the schoolgirls gathered around Hanging Rock. She also looks like me in my winter school uniform, but for her hat, which is white.

When I finished high school, I enrolled at the University of Sydney and lived at home, as many Australians do, for the four years of my degree. In the first year of university I learned to drive, but badly. Mostly I elected to walk. Sydney is a walkable city, but only if you insist on making it so. It is laid out haphazardly, with narrow one-way streets that give way to a vast suburban sprawl spreading north and south and west.

The trains do not run on time. Neither do the buses. In the middle of the night I walked home from Lewisham and Marrickville, and once from Camperdown. These walks were, to my mother, inconceivable. If she discovered that I had walked three miles alone at two in the morning, she was liable to become cross. When she calmed down, she would simply ask me to let her know what time she should expect me.

The only person I knew who had been killed was a girl from my high school who was stabbed by her older sister in their home after an argument over a hair straightener. I knew women who had been assaulted and raped, but always by somebody they knew, and always in ways that were too private and complex and personal to be captured in the newspapers. I took comfort in statistics. It was highly unlikely that any harm would come to me from a stranger on the street. I was more likely to be hurt in a house by a man I knew, a man I trusted.

Besides, I was happiest walking alone late at night. Sometimes that was why I went out in the first place. Not that I was never afraid. Occasionally I was followed, or thought I was being followed. A spike of alarm would rise up through the back of my skull, the adrenaline beginning to rush. But the fact of the fear made me furious. It was a delusion that my mother, my friends, and I had all agreed to live with. It kept us from thinking about other things. She enters an area of the unknown, where both spatial and temporal conditions are disrupted.

Then she disappears. Whether or not she is found matters very little. The psychological effect on the community is always the real point, because the lost child is a kind of human sacrifice the culture gives up once in a while in order to vouchsafe its go-getting pursuit of oblivion. Because, Tilley argues, the white-vanishing trope is another way to keep Australians from fully confronting their history. Many of the lost-girl stories—the most long-lasting and potent ones in particular—are about teenagers and young women.

In the second half of the twentieth century, this became overwhelmingly true. There were Marianne Schmidt and Christine Sharrock, the fifteen-year-old girls whose bodies were discovered partially buried on Wanda Beach in There were Yvonne Waters and Raelene Eaton, last seen leaving a pub with three unidentified men in There was Revelle Balmain, who vanished off the street in the Sydney suburb of Kingsford in There was Caroline Byrne, the model whose body was eventually recovered from the bottom of a Sydney seaside suicide spot in There were the Bega schoolgirl murders in , and the Claremont killings the same year, across the country in Perth.

More recently there was Eurydice Dixon, a twenty-two-year-old comedian who was raped, murdered, and found the next morning on the wet grass of a Melbourne football field. These women and girls were all white. The stories began, in Australia, with the wilderness swallowing up its lost white girls, but over time the girls began to fall victim to men. But it was rarely felt that the harsh, unforgiving landscape of the country manifested the savagery of the men who had occupied, settled, and killed upon it.

Rather, the evil of the land that Mademoiselle de Poitiers can see at Hanging Rock was the thing that worked through the men. It is the landscape that is backward in Australia—trees shed their bark instead of their leaves; swans are black; Christmas comes in the summertime. Their solitude is desolation. The heyday of the Australian Gothic was the late nineteenth century, when lost-child stories began to capture the national imagination.

It is an aesthetic of violence and brutality. Twenty years before Freud wrote about the uncanny, Australian authors were busy publishing tales of desecrated burial grounds, bodies dug up from their graves, murder victims returning from the dead to haunt their killers. These stories nearly always occur in the bush, and are seen through the eyes of unsettled settlers in an occulted landscape. But for all that Australian writers, musicians, and filmmakers have continued to elaborate the melancholy of the landscape, it is also a national commonplace that the bush is home to all that is distinct and laudable about the Australian character.

To this day, electioneering politicians go out into the bush every three years to try and connect with the electorate. They praise the egalitarian, hardworking spirit of the bush, and thank the farmers who live there for extracting sugar and wheat and gold from the soil. The work of the bush was done by men and their mates—mates built the farms, drove the sheep, felled the trees.

Such work built character, made Australians eccentric, but pleasantly so—different, but not so different as to look anything less than British with a suntan. But there was no room for women in the mythology of the bush. In , the Reverend Samuel Marsden, concerned about the morality of convicts in Sydney, drew up something he called the Female Register and delivered it to the British government. These lives were often lonely, isolated, and threatened by violence. He had not been married six months. In the fiction published by Australian women during this time, though, the rape and murder that white women were both witnesses to and subjects of remain largely absent.

Instead, the landscape holds menace. Upon investigating the sounds, the party finds neither the Bunyip nor an animal but the corpse of a girl, little Nancy. And now the bell-bird has rung her home. Nancy is the Australian lost girl incarnate: cheerful and symbolic of everything good and innocent about the nation, possessed of a semi-mystical connection to the landscape, and woefully fearless.

Seduced by the bush and believing it trustworthy, she wanders out into the heart of it, and it takes her. Poor Nancy, we are meant to think. She should have been more afraid, less trusting. She should have stayed home, where she belonged. W hen I was thirteen, my father took me back to Hanging Rock. It was spring, but we could barely feel it. By that age, I knew that the story of Picnic at Hanging Rock was fictional, and I considered my previous fascination with the novel sentimental and silly.

I had become as doleful as a teenager as I had been somber as a child.

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We climbed the rock and it was OK. There was nothing mystical about it. In every respect it was just another bush walk in the dun-colored scrub. I looked for no lace. My hair hung over my eyes. There was nobody else about. We sat on benches attached to a wooden table and ate. I quietly ate my lunch, and when we were done my father stood up and walked toward the rubbish bins to throw away the wrappers, his shoulders tight with tension.

At that moment a magpie dove at the back of his head. It came fast and screeching out of a tree. My father ran to the car and I ran after him. The magpie flew off. We sat in the car, breathing heavily. There was blood on the back of his head. He turned the key in the ignition and we drove away. Later we would attribute the attack to it being early spring, when the birds are most protective of their young. She must have had her nest up there, we said. But it also seemed natural, and obvious, that something so strange and unexpected and violent would emerge from the bush at Hanging Rock.

Born five years before Australian Federation, Lindsay had grown up visiting Hanging Rock during the summers. Great colonial mansions and English gardens were constructed in the towns, all in view of Hanging Rock. From the very start people mistook it for historical fact. Given that the actual disappearance of the girls is a fact, it is a fascinating problem. For years rumors ascribed the total lack of official records of the case to a fire at the Woodend police station.

But there are no references to missing schoolgirls in The Age , The Argus , or The Woodend Star from February , or from the five years before and after. No schoolgirls ever disappeared from Hanging Rock, but Lindsay behaved as if they had, and that was what made the story all the stranger. As the girls climb the rock, a trancelike strangeness overcomes them. The shot of Miranda is overlaid with an image of the rock in silhouette, as though the girl and the landscape have merged. The girls shed their tights, one dances barefoot upon a boulder, flies flit across bare skin, a lizard slithers by unnoticed.

The film implies that the rock possesses a magnetic pull on the girls, strong enough to remove those thick black tights. Then she gazes upward. But we have no idea what she sees. The scene took many takes to complete, and when Lambert came down from the rock she walked away from the others and into the bush, still in her costume. At that moment, in the corner of my eye, I could see a lady making her way towards me. She was walking across these rough rocks, so I waited for her to navigate them. I realised that it was the author, Joan Lindsay.

I n September , a woman went missing from a busy street in Melbourne. She left in the early hours of Saturday morning to walk home. The walk should have taken ten minutes, but she never arrived.

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Her husband fell asleep waiting for her. The next day the news was full of her disappearance. Her colleagues at the ABC begged on social media for clues to her whereabouts. She was the first item on the television news, the leading article on every news website, the front-page story in the papers. I spent that week almost entirely alone. I was meant to be finishing my honors thesis, but instead I spent the time obsessively thumbing my phone in search of fresh news of the woman who had gone missing.

Something about her story felt personal.

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  • I had spent my childhood visiting my father in neighborhoods all around Brunswick. A few months before Meagher died, I had broken up with a man who lived in Melbourne. We had spent nights drinking on Sydney Road. I had been to the bar Meagher had left that Saturday morning. I described how troubled I was by the story, how I was spending my time refreshing the news and searching for new clues in a case I had become consumed by.

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    In the morning her parents filed a missing-person report. Two days later, a farmer in semirural Prospect noticed his cows circling something in the paddock. She had been beaten and raped. The flesh of her fingers had been opened to the bone. Her throat had been cut.

    She had bled to death in the grass. The city talked about nothing else. A week later, a group of five men were arrested and charged with her murder. She just happened to pass by the wrong place at the wrong time. Delia Falconer, in her book Sydney , recalls her fear of walking alone at night after the murder. My mother, the same age as Cobby, was haunted by the idea of the young woman bleeding to death out there in a paddock, in all that darkness and silence and space.

    Until Jill Meagher was killed, it was Cobby my mother would remind me of whenever she was afraid for my safety. They found Jill Meagher in the bush. The man who killed her was named Adrian Bayley, a brawny redheaded man on parole for the rape of several prostitutes. He had snatched Meagher off Sydney Road and taken her into a neighboring lane.

    She really likes it. Will experiences society as confining as Procrustes' bed. You can feel how much the presence of four walls and a ceiling torments him, how he won't be able to bear it for long. Debra Granik treats the story with a feather-light touch, while still grounding the film in an almost documentary-style reality. She doesn't "hammer things home," she lets things unfold. There's no didactic preaching about the evils of the world as " Captain Fantastic ," another film about a father who chooses to live off the grid with his children, indulged in.

    The critique of society is there in the material, but it's implicit, not explicit. How the culture treats its wounded warriors is a disgrace, but—on the flip side— Tom is a child. She doesn't go to school. The culture needs to care about her too. As Will continues to resist, even in the face of kindness, Tom is almost torn in two, by her curiosity about the world, and her attachment to her father. Ben Foster, always a reliably excellent character actor, gives one of the performances of the year as Will. McKenzie, a young girl with a serious face, seems to have emerged out of real life.

    There isn't a hint of precocious child actress in her. What a discovery she is. These figures remove themselves from the constraints of conformity, refuse the comforts of middle-class life, live by their wits, follow the wind. Will and Tom are so close that the thought of them being separated is shattering. You wonder how they will survive it. Will thinks as long as they are camping in the woods together, his demons will be kept at bay. But the clock is ticking. Tom is growing up. Everyone needs to choose their own way. In "Leave No Trace," Granik creates a specific mood, gloomy and yet redemptive, sometimes simultaneously.

    The redemption is painful, though, because it comes with such a hefty price. This message came to me from a reader named Peter Svensland. He and a fr A video essay about Mortal Engines, as part of Scout Tafoya's ongoing video essay series on maligned masterpieces. Reviews Leave No Trace. Popular Blog Posts Who do you read?