Untranslatable

Lachlan Alexander

12/07/2025

I drag the box of bullets from the dusty shelf in the shearing sheds. The box soft in my grip. Weakened by time. Only two shells left. One falls, bouncing on the cracked concrete and into the corner. Won’t need it. Turn to the locker, swing open the door. Unlatch the rifle. Pull it out. The butt shined by hands with few options.

Outside, I shield my eyes from the glare. Betty rests in the distant paddock. On the red four-wheeler now, the motor growling and threshing toward her. The pasture thicker and longer than I can remember. We once had ninety-five head. Wind stinging my eyes. Smell of shit and eucalyptus.

My daughter used to help me out. Betty was her favourite. Contemplated telling her. She lives in the city now. Call her sometimes. At Easter, she visited with her girlfriend.

‘We don’t say girlfriend, mum,’ she squinted at me.

‘Partner,’ I self-corrected. Said sorry. Felt stupid for saying sorry.

My daughter’s partner, Maddie, adjusted the scarf looped around her thin neck.

‘From the Salvos’ Op Shop,’ Maddie said, registering my interest. Looks warm. The threads Merino. Australian. ‘How’s the farm, Mrs Jones?’

We sat at the dining room table. I poured Earl Grey into our cups, my daughter’s favourite. White tablecloth. Islands of stains. Through the windows, the paddocks flattened and swelled in the Southerly. Hard, cold and salty off Bass Strait. Considered how much to tell them. Balanced spoon on saucer.

‘There’s a new buyer. A big one.’ I swallowed. ‘Japanese.’

‘Ooh, I love Japan,’ said Maddie. ‘Anime. Udon. Ghibli.’ She swapped knowing glances with my daughter. ‘Who’s buying it?’

My daughter watched me. Waiting. Daring me. The hot cross buns cooled.

‘I can’t pronounce the name — all squiggles and lines.’

‘Mum.’ Teacup down. ‘That’s racist.’

The air in the room thinned. Should have let it go, but said, ‘What do you mean, darling?’

‘Can’t you put yourself in their shoes for once?’

I tried topping up my tea. Pot empty. Flecks of tea leaf stuck to wall of cup. Crossed one leg over the other.

Maddie folded the edges of her napkin.

‘Imagine how you’d feel if they couldn’t pronounce your name.’ She pursed her lips at me. Her back hardening against the backrest. Steel in her spine.

‘No risk of it,’ I replied. ‘They’ve got their mob of translators. And lawyers’. iPads like sceptres.

Thinking about those lawyers, I throttle the four-wheeler’s engine down, closing in on Betty. It shudders to a stop. Leave the key in the ignition. They would be in their Tokyo spaceship skyscrapers in their synthetic woollen suits. Not one having set foot on a farm. Never will.

At that thought, I see my daughter standing here between me and Betty. Maddie’s here too. Bless her. Both admonish me for my assumptions. Avert their eyes as punishment.

I would never tell her, but my daughter’s got the right of it. When I feel that old barbed wire uncoil inside my chest, I react. Brace against it like Betty used to when the working dogs came to the paddock gate. Her brethren would posture, tightening into a thick woollen knot. Fortifying themselves.

The buyers, represented by the lawyers, represented by the translators, spoke to me about ‘optimising operations’. Near the shearing sheds. Hands on my hips. They opened the back of their 4×4. A fleet of drones. Cameras attached, blinking green dots. From Tokyo, they said, their colleagues could check water levels, soil pigmentation, and the bellies of the future herd of Angus beef.

Dogs at the gate.

Jumping off the four-wheeler, my knee joints crack on impact. Approach my last Merino. Betty. Livestock Unit #95 in the ‘Notice to Acquire’ contract.

My teeth rake my lower lip as I take in the sight of her. Wool hanging in matted clumps. Patches of skin tented tight over pointy hips. Her breath rattles like stones in a tin. A comb of ribs. Brown crust rims sunken sockets. Thin mucus hangs from nostrils. Fooled myself thinking if I kept her alive, I’d still have my farm. Should have done this long ago, ended her suffering, when the translators requested it.

Without asking permission, the translators took their remote controls and the drones zipped into the sky like invading mosquitoes. My dogs tilted their heads. Upward.

*

Next to Betty, I look up too. Jet scars and white sun and weak moon. Wonder if they left a drone up there. Hope they’re watching. I blow into the chamber of the rifle.

Insert a round. Sleek and beautiful. Pull the bolt into place. Cock it. Hover barrel near her forehead. Glance it. She jerks her head back like a hooked fish. Veins, purple and yellow, pop taut in her neck. A White-faced Heron prods at the grass.

The translators, having returned the drones to the 4×4, shook their iPads at me. Had seen in their viewfinders the last six sheep in the corner of the far paddock. Shielded by the ancient eucalypts. Said I must decommission the remaining inventory. I sold the last five ewes to the abattoirs, but Betty’s too old. Her chops too ropey. Even for dog feed.

Surge of pure hatred for this Japanese company with the name I can’t pronounce. Hate myself for my hate. Wouldn’t feel like this if I had no daughter. She studied the world online. I learned it through calluses. Grip the rifle tighter. Trigger on my finger. Want to forgive myself.

Betty settles. Looks me in my eye.

The shot rings out. Climbs the eucalypts. The Heron pumps its wings. Flees. The spent bullet casing arcs through the air. Lands near my feet. Cradled by the grass. Betty’s head splayed out. Unnatural angle. Blood seeping from the hole in her face.

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First Prize: Lachlan Alexander

Lachlan Alexander lives in a small Australian town called Jan Juc on a eucalyptus-lined road with the Southern Ocean on one side and sheep paddocks on the other. His story about how we remember the dead – Threads of Truth – was shortlisted for the 2025 Commonwealth Short Story Prize. When not writing, he runs on trails, cooks and reads – though not all at once.

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Lachy Alexander’s ‘Untranslatable’ is also appearing in the The Mansfield Readers & Writers’ upcoming 2025 High Country Words Anthology.