A Changing Land (37 page)

Sarah approached the busker and dropped coins in the hat at his feet. The man stopped singing and spoke to her for long minutes. Jim watched as Sarah laughed and then walked away. He followed her once again, trying to rehearse in his mind what he might say. He would like to talk to her one more time, yet somehow the words wouldn't come and instead he found himself thinking of the eerie night he'd spent in Wangallon Homestead with the sprawling paddocks beyond. When Sarah crossed at the lights, Jim didn't follow. He knew that not only did he not belong in her world, he was unwanted. He shoved his hands in
his trouser pockets as the early afternoon shoppers and hurrying office workers milled around him. He should never have come to Australia at Robert Macken's urging, he decided. He should have listened to his mother.

Hamish looked intently from the dark current of the river to the trees on the far bank, willing the cattle to show themselves. Removing a rope from his saddle, he borrowed both Harry's and Angus's and tied all three ropes together, securing one end to a thick-trunked gum.

Mungo shook his head. ‘Better stay, Boss, mebbe cattle not cross here.'

‘When they cross I want you to return with the cattle,' Hamish ordered. ‘Join them up with the droving mob on the far boundary. I've got Wetherly in charge of them until you arrive, then you're in charge, Mungo. You're boss drover.'

‘Me, Boss? What about Luke?'

‘Luke no longer works here.'

Coiling the length of rope, Hamish walked his horse towards the water. The animal shied and reared up, begrudgingly entering the water under tightened reins and the prick of spurs. The horse found its feet on the sandy bottom and cautiously walked out into
the deepening swirl. The water inched up Hamish's thighs and then the bottom of the river slipped away and the water was running over the horse's back. Hamish urged the animal onwards as his mount swam across, whispering to him, coaxing to him to keep going while simultaneously wondering how fast the water was rising. The rope was still feeding out behind them and although the current carried them diagonally, they landed on the far bank without injury. Hamish egged the horse up the sandy slope and tied the rope around a box tree, ensuring his return. The unmistakeable sound of crunching branches and a rushing tearing sound reverberated along the riverbank. His horse's ears twitched nervously. Hamish signalled to Mungo. The cattle were moving too fast. Something had gone wrong.

He managed to gallop his horse along the sandy riverbank just as the first of the cattle hurtled towards the water. The leaders ran directly into the glassy surface, while others slowed on approach. Some were pushed into the river by the weight of those behind; others thought better of the task ahead and turned either left or right to run along the bank. Casualties were immediate. Two carcasses were floating downstream while a third animal lay on its side on the opposite bank, the animal's hind legs kicking at the sand as cattle scrambled over the top. A number of calves were calling out frantically. Hamish caught sight of Boxer and McKenzie as a single rifle shot sounded. He glanced quickly over his shoulder, unsure of the direction it came from, and then headed to where the rope was tied.

The nulla-nulla hit Boxer between the eyes, the impact driving him from his young colt and sending him sprawling in the grass. Hamish watched his old friend fall to disappear behind the moving cattle. Moving quickly to the rope he charged his horse down the bank. Behind him he heard a scuffle and then a yelp. He glimpsed the butt of Jasperson's rifle and saw a white man drop to the ground.

‘Go,' Jasperson yelled.

Behind him an Aborigine appeared through the trees. Hamish caught sight of a tall warrior with a skin dragged over his shoulder and spurred his horse down the bank. He entered the water as a spear entered his thigh, the impact shunting him sideways. With the spear dangling from his muscle Hamish overbalanced as his horse was swept from under him. With clenching fingers he held tight to the rope. He glanced over his shoulder. Jasperson was darting through the trees, an Aborigine in pursuit. Then the rope went slack and he sank beneath the surface. Hamish splashed uselessly as the current pushed him towards the last of the cattle crossing the river. His one chance was to grab hold of one of the cows, maybe clamber onto a back or hang onto a tail. His chances were slim. The current was pulling at his damaged leg. He tried to swim and gulped at the muddy tide, felt the water bash at the spear still dangling from his thigh. Then he was pulled under again.

Mungo watched in horror as the Boss went under. He ran along the bank, calling to him uselessly while on the far bank Aborigines were running in the same direction. These men weren't trackers. They were renegades. A rifle shot sounded. Mungo dived into the dirt, spitting grit from his mouth as cattle bellowed and lost calves cried out. McKenzie appeared on the far bank, chasing the blacks for a few scant seconds before turning his attention to a body. He dumped it in the water and returned with another, hiding the evidence of their crime. A final body appeared on the riverbank. It too was dragged unceremoniously into the water. With a stab of painful recognition, Mungo watched as Boxer floated away and for the briefest of seconds he had a terrible suspicion that his father was still alive. Lifting his rifle he cocked
it, pointing the barrel across the water directly at McKenzie's stomach. Very slowly he squeezed down on the trigger.

‘Mungo?'

‘Go get Mister Luke. You tell him –' Mungo lowered his rifle, wondering how long Angus had been standing there. ‘Tell Luke,' he hesitated, not willing to bring reality to that which he'd witnessed. ‘Tell him there's bad blackfellas loose. Tell him –'

‘That my father didn't come out of the river.' Angus remained rooted to the spot.

‘Go. Bring him back.' Mungo helped the boy mount up and then ran back to where he'd left his horse. He still had a job to do and Boxer had told him that no matter what happened to stick with the plan.

Thick tree trunks glided by so close that Angus felt the rough tear of bark on skin. He caught sight of leaves, spider webs and low hanging branches. The ground rushed beneath him. There were ant hills, tufts of grass, rabbit holes and logs; a mob of kangaroos was startled into action. His cramping leg muscles spoke of an interminable time in the saddle and the sky now showed a dull pink where once a grey pall had hung. The moon still watched over him although now it hung low in the sky and storm clouds crossed its path. Soon a light rain began to fall.

Angus prayed for guidance, for strength for his horse; winding his fingers tighter about the reins, he lay down on Wallace's neck. Beneath his body the long extension of muscles flexed as Wallace's powerful legs sped them onwards. Wallace's sweat-heightened aroma seeped into his nostrils until Angus began to imagine that he and the animal were one. He muttered a string of indecipherable words into Wallace's ear, urging him onwards. A glimpse of a cloudy moon dipping through the trees cleared his thoughts.

‘For my father, for my father,' he repeated. The phrase became his mantra. ‘Go, Wallace, go.'

There was a loud gasping sound, then the horse whinnied and slowed.

Angus slid from Wallace's back, his muscles thick with tiredness. ‘Maybe we walk a bit.' Wallace heaved against the reins, straining to be let alone. He was foaming at the mouth, his hide a gleam of sweat. ‘We have to keep going. We have to.' Angus burst into tears. ‘Damn horse.' Wrapping his arms around Wallace's neck he sunk his face into the pungent hair and sobbed. Wallace stood quietly, his head bowed. ‘Damn horse'. Angus drifted back to the chaos of the river and his father sinking below the watery surface. He tugged once again at the reins and digging his heels into the dirt began to drag Wallace. The horse followed reluctantly, Angus groaning at his effort. They fought this way through acres of timbered country, disturbing sheep and cattle, frightening emus and scattering birds. Angus couldn't feel his feet anymore. They felt scraped of flesh and moist against the heel and toes of his leather boots.

As the sun rose, Angus led Wallace to the nearest stump and remounted. ‘You have to do this, Wallace. I can't walk any further,' he spat bile into the dirt. ‘You have to get me home.'

He wrapped the reins about his hands dug his knees in tightly and jabbed the heels of his riding boots in deeply. Wallace answered by rearing upwards. Angus held fast, patting the horse between the ears. ‘Please, for my father. For Hamish.'

They galloped through trees so quickly that Angus lost all sense of direction. It was only for the red smudge of the rising sun that he knew his course remained reasonably true. Wallace nevertheless could not be steered and when the horse veered savagely to the right it was all Angus could do to hang on. Specks of saliva flew from Wallace's gaping mouth into his face. His hands were blistered from the leather reins and he was sure the soft inner
parts of his thighs were red raw. Yet he gritted through the pain. He needed to find his brother. He needed Luke.

Angus woke as Wallace trotted past the stables, cutting through the orchard to Lee's vegetable garden. He could see trampled plants, heard Lee's voice rising in agitation, then he was slipping from Wallace's sweaty back into Lee's arms. He glanced over the Chinaman's shoulder. ‘Thank you, Wallace,' he mouthed. His beautiful horse collapsed to the ground.

Margaret broke off a wedge of damper and added it to the plate of fried salted mutton.

‘They won't miss you?' Luke thought it odd. The girl should be at the homestead. Not that he was complaining. Margaret chewed on a piece of stringy meat, a long black hair stuck stubbornly across her cheeks. The girl picked at a piece of meat deep in her mouth. ‘No.' Wiping her hand on the bodice of her dress, she walked to the creek's edge. Having only seen her by the light of the campfire and in the glow of the moon, Luke halted midway in his eating as she stripped. She walked slowly into the creek, her moon-shaped buttocks clenching at the coolness of the water, her back ribboning out from the base of her narrow waist as she stretched, then disappeared beneath the surface. She emerged darkly wet. Water clinging to her shape as she dragged her dress on and returned to sit beside him, her long black hair dripping water down her back, her dress patched with wetness. She picked up the tortoiseshell comb and slipped it into her hair. Margaret nibbled on a piece of damper, watched him watching her. Luke understood the naturalness of her actions. She lived in a realm of unchanging behaviour, where the white man only interrupted what to them was utterly unchangeable. Theirs was a
world governed and set out by their ancestors, where everything had its place; the stars, moon, wind, rain, animals and plants.

‘Tell me about when you were little, Margaret.'

Bringing her knees to her chin, her gaze rested on the far side of the creek. ‘We are spirit children.' She wrung her hair out with a series of twists, the brown creek water forming a sodden pool in the sand at her feet. ‘My brothers and sisters came from many places, but we choose this tribe, our mother. They welcome us, love us and care for us. We have many mothers and fathers; we are all sisters and brothers.'

‘So you were loved by and cared for by everyone.' For Luke this was a wondrous concept.

‘We would all play here by the
crick
, sit by our small fires and sing our songs.'

Luke drew a line in the sand with his forefinger. ‘You were lucky.'

‘And you?' She pointed at him, her brown eyes enticing an answer.

His people were the ones that considered themselves civilised. ‘The same.'

‘After a short time,' Margaret continued, ‘the women teach the girls how to gather food. We collect grass seeds, dig for the plants that live under cover of the ground, and capture scurrying creatures. Then we marry and wait for our own spirit children.' Margaret dropped her eyes.