A Changing Land (38 page)

Luke wanted to stay in the warm cocoon of her company. There was a sense of familiarity with her, a wholeness that transcended the boundary between them. She would have to stay here while he went droving once more, however maybe on his return she could join him. He considered the dangers. They would find themselves the unwelcome recipients of taunts and abuse. It would be a hard life for Margaret. He took her slim hands between his, palmed them between his own.

‘They will come looking for me soon,' Margaret whispered.

‘Who?' Luke scanned the creek bank in both directions.

Her eyes misted, turned glassy. ‘The man I am promised to.' Margaret looked at him meaningfully.

A series of images flickered through Luke's brain. A girl with long dark hair meeting Mungo in the paddock, the same girl promised to an elder, the sullen kitchen maid Martha. ‘You're not –' Luke stood abruptly. ‘You're Mungo's woman?' The girl's wet hair curled messily over her shoulder. ‘Why did you do this? Mungo's my friend.'

‘I'm not promised to Mungo,' she almost spat the name, and then sidled nearer to him. ‘If I lie down with you, the son of the Boss, then mebbe they let me be. I can cook for you,' she stoked up the campfire with a few branches. ‘I'm a good cook.'

‘No,' Luke said strongly. He ran his fingers through his hair, remembering Mungo's words by the creek. His friend had decided to leave Wangallon to be with this woman. Had he not told her of his plans? He moved around the campfire, placing the burning timber between them. ‘You have to leave. Mungo will be looking for you.'

Margaret scowled. ‘Mungo has gone with the fox; the white father.' She spat the words out.

Claire arrived on horseback moments later in a flurry of flying dirt. ‘Luke, where have you been?' Angus rode with her. She didn't wait to be assisted down, freeing her feet from the stirrup she dropped to the ground, her long skirts dragging in the sand of the creek bank as she regained her balance. She frowned at Margaret.

‘What are you doing here? Get back to the homestead kitchen.'

Margaret winced at the harsh words and looked to Luke.

At her glance, Claire saw a dark hallway, a dark-haired girl entering her husband's bedroom. ‘Get out of my sight!' she screamed. ‘Don't ever come back to my home, ever.'

Margaret skirted the campfire and took off along the creek, sand spurting out from under her feet.

‘Your father is near death, you must go to him, Luke,' Claire gasped.

Luke whistled for Joseph. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Claire?'

Angus spoke in a garbled voice. ‘At the big river. He went under, Luke,' he gulped. ‘I didn't see him come up. They took cattle, Crawford's.'

‘Be damned, that man,' Luke grabbed his hat.

Willy appeared out of the bush, breathless and sweaty. ‘I know a short cut. Boxer showed me.' He looked from Angus to Luke. It was obvious the boy had been running after Claire and Angus.

Luke rushed to where his saddle sat near the lean-to as Joseph trotted up the creek bank. ‘You should take your mother home, Angus.' He tightened the girth strap. The boy looked ill and Claire little better.

‘Never,' the boy answered.

‘He's ridden half the night,' Claire argued, patting the dappled mare her son rode.

‘He's my father,' Angus replied.

‘Where's your horse, Willy?' Luke asked. He didn't trust Angus being much good to him. The boy looked done in.

Claire dismounted. ‘You can take mine.'

Luke placed his rifle in its holster on the saddle, took his waterbag and stuffed the remains of the half-eaten damper in his saddlebag. He looked about the camp; it was a sorry place seen through her eyes. ‘Sorry, Claire.' It only took a moment in her presence to be reminded of his love for her. ‘I am sorry,' he hesitated, ‘for everything.'

‘Go,' she replied gently. ‘I will walk back to the homestead. It's not more than three miles. It will do me good.'

Luke hesitated.

‘Luke, bring him back to me. Bring my husband home.'

Luke knew then he'd never have won her. ‘I will. I promise.'

He left Claire by his campfire, her figure growing smaller as he raced ahead with Willy and Angus. He left her knowing that one dream was ending and a new unexpected life was soon to begin. His half-brother looked beat. His trouser legs were torn in strips and dried blood showed through on his skin. It took some coercing to get the truth of the story from the boy as they cantered across the paddock, but by the time Angus finished explaining, Luke expected the worst. This was a theft of life-altering consequences. Even if his father was cunning enough to pull it off, would he survive? Luke had a feeling that men were dead already and his formidable father one of the casualties.

Picking up his longneck of beer, Anthony grabbed a glass and walked the length of the homestead to the verandah. He sat tiredly in one of the old squatter's chairs, poured himself a beer and took a long refreshing sip. A swirl of pink masked the late afternoon sky. It was going to be another lengthy night with another ripping frost in the morning. Through the gauze, the garden was still as the chill of the late afternoon crept from air and ground to meet midpoint a couple of feet above the earth. Anthony shivered. The logical idea would be to go inside and watch some telly in the warmth. However, these day's his brain resembled a 7-Eleven store – it wouldn't shut down.

It had taken some time to swallow Matt's unwanted advice, but unfortunately the man was right. The stories and events of the past spoke of manipulation and the type of tenacity that was single-minded and results orientated. Anthony witnessed firsthand Angus's obsessive nature regarding Wangallon: The old patriarch's refusal to hand the mantle of succession to his son Ronald, his
dislike of Ronald's city-bred wife. However, being personally informed that he'd been specifically selected as a future husband for his granddaughter almost ruined Anthony's fledging relationship with Sarah. The insult of being relegated to stud bull status still rankled. Then Angus tried to bind the family together with his will. Anthony took another sip of his beer and stared at the foam. And now Sarah … well Matt was probably right. It wasn't her fault. It was genetic.

Stretching his leg out over the arm of the squatter's chair, Anthony sat his glass on the verandah and drank directly from the beer bottle. He gulped at the yeasty brew, trying to salve more than his thirst. He was lonely and it was a loneliness that spanned weeks. Nothing was the same or as it should be, at least not from his perspective. Every step taken by Sarah to date was akin to her holding a chisel between them. Having tried to meet her halfway by temporarily abandoning the development, he'd been accused of poor financial planning and been spoken to like an employee. Anthony understood Sarah's need to fight Jim, useless though it was, and now her grieving was done it probably was fair that she become more involved in Wangallon's management; however, pulling rank didn't cut it with him.

Anthony didn't want to work in an environment where his management decisions were continually being queried, and they didn't need the likes of Matt Schipp acting as understudy to his role. The question was, could he live with everything the way it was? He loved Wangallon. The property was more than his home, yet he no longer believed living one's life tied to a piece of dirt was all it was cracked up to be. Time changed everything. Sarah's attitude had changed. They were not a team anymore and he doubted his ability to forgive her for recent events. He couldn't help it. He still loved her, probably more than he could ever love anyone. Unfortunately he was beginning to see that it was possible love wasn't enough.

Outside Anthony fed Bullet and Ferret some dog biscuits. Pulling on his heavy jacket he walked down the cement path to the slobbering noise of munching canines. He had a mind to go into town, maybe have a few drinks and a pizza at the Wangallon Town pub. The trouble was that visiting the pub was becoming a dangerous pastime. Anastasia could sniff out a relationship domestic as quickly as any single woman. Last night after closing he hadn't immediately complained when she'd slipped onto his lap and gently prised his mouth apart with her tongue. Although he'd only succumbed for a few minutes, he'd enjoyed it. He felt for his wallet, ran his fingers through his hair and looked back at the old homestead with the outside light glowing and the scent of smoke layering the air from the kitchen Aga. Forget Anastasia, he mumbled. If it went any further the guilt would kill him. It wasn't right. It wasn't the decent thing to do. You needed to finish a relationship before you started another, even if it was just a fling.

The temperature was beginning to drop as he walked towards the worksheds. There was a sneaky southerly gaining momentum. He hadn't seen Matt today. Jack reckoned he had a woman visiting. That was all he needed. A bothersome female disrupting Wangallon's routine. Well he'd give it a week and see how things went. It could just be the excuse he needed to fire the man. Out in the west a layer of pink-tinted cloud travelled in an arrowhead formation to dip at the horizon. Too many hours cooped up during the evening made him maudlin, especially when he was alone. Somehow the house just didn't seem as hospitable when Sarah was away, or perhaps he was just no good at keeping himself company. Better to be outside. His eyes fell on the motorbike. Pulling his gloves from the pocket of his jacket, Anthony kick-started the Yamaha and with a spurt of gravel, headed away from the homestead.

He wasn't really sure where he intended to go. It felt great to be free, to have the icy air needling him awake. Soon the brain
deadening effects of the beer subsided and the dirt road consumed his attention. A quick spin, he promised himself, figuring there were a few daylight minutes left. The gate out to the western boundary was open and, worried about boxing stock together, Anthony rode on. The next gate was open as well. He swore under his breath, his cursing increasing in severity when he spotted cow manure on the road. ‘That bloody Toby,' Anthony muttered, accelerating as he continued westward. Obviously Matt forgot to double-check the gates. ‘Typical,' he said loudly, the wind swallowing his words. ‘No doubt he's holed up with his woman.'

With the remnants of the day quickly disappearing, Anthony considered returning to the homestead and swapping his bike for the cruiser. He came to a halt on the road, his legs spread wide for balance. The evening star appeared, and although he was losing the light he wanted to ensure the heifers and bulls were still safe in their respective paddocks. He flicked on the bike's headlight. It wasn't as if he had anyone waiting at home. When he rode off Anthony was unaware his wallet had fallen from his pocket.

Thirty minutes later he reached the Wangallon River and halted at the bridge. A string of twinkling lights filled the sky, merging to become an arc of light. He leant on one leg, the weight of the bike balanced beneath him. Across the wooden span the far side of the river melted into the darkness as a flash of red and white hide disappeared. Anthony rubbed his gloved hands together. ‘Got you'. He crossed the bridge, aware of the void beneath, conscious of an emptiness that went beyond the space between wood and water. Despite his brain telling him to return home, Anthony rode on through the thick lignum, entranced by the sight of fossicking wallabies caught in his headlight.

At night the country looked very different. It was easy to lose your direction without a track to follow, for the darkness and depth of the landscape tended to distort distances and objects, yet it was also an enchanting time to be out. Anthony braked and, turning
off the ignition, swivelled the handlebars from left to right. The beam cut through the dark of the tree-canopied bush, highlighting rabbits, ant hills and a squealing black sow with four little suckers trotting determinedly behind their mother. To his right he heard the familiar bash of heavy bodies travelling through thick scrub. With this sound his trip was rewarded, for the heavy tread of cattle was unmistakeable. Matt and Jack could return in the morning, re-muster the block and then call on the
expert
Toby Williams to pick up the ones missed. Anthony only hoped the bulls weren't boxed up.

He restarted the motorbike, passing kangaroos curled among the grass, a cow camped on the road and an owl perched on fallen timber. So taken was Anthony with his early evening adventure that on reaching the newly developed cultivation he continued on riding around its edge. The enjoyment of this night meander surprised him, especially out here on Wangallon's distant boundary. He revved the bike and leant forward into the wind. His eyes and nose were running from the coldness, the tops of his ears numb. The ground beneath was doughy with moisture and the bike fish-tailed out a couple of times as a line of darkness deeper than the sky rose up in front of him. Anthony felt the change in temperature approaching the tree line. The southerly wind was blocked by the leafy giants and the air grew tranquil and moist. Slowing, he manoeuvred the bike through the timber, cautious of uprooted trees and gaping holes that lay to his left. He could smell the tang of leaves, the earthy heaviness of opened soil and then another scent, the cloying trace of a fox.

His headlight picked out the animal near a hollowed tree trunk. The fox stood with his large front paws grasping the trunk, his eyes focused directly at Anthony. He was a big animal, well fed with a glossy pelt of rusty red. They eyed each other off, each waiting for the other to move first. Anthony revved his bike, the noise reverberating through the trees as the fox crouched in anticipation
and then sprung away into a clearing. Anthony followed, catching glimpses of the fox in his headlight as if playing cat and mouse. Each time Anthony accelerated, the fox disappeared, and when he stopped, the cunning animal provided a flash of tail or an inquisitive tilt of his head. ‘You little bugger,' Anthony grinned, spinning dirt up behind him as the fox dived for a narrow gap between two trees. ‘You win,' he decided as he accelerated out of a sliding turn, only to lose control seconds later.

The bike continued sliding at a rapid pace. Anthony caught sight of an old rusty barbed wire fence and slammed his foot on the ground, trying to find traction. The burn of his thigh muscle as he pushed his boot into the blurring dirt made little difference, and the bike hit the fence at speed, becoming entangled around his ankle, then he was falling, the heat of the bike's exhaust burning into his leg. There was a loud clash of metal hitting wood and then the stunned pain of being smashed into a tree, the bike on top of him.

It was pitch black when Anthony awoke some time later. His gloved hands touched cold, hard metal and he pushed at the object pinning him down, struggling with a haze of memory. Sweat glazed his face. Why was he so cold? Where was he? There was an insistent ache pulsating up his right leg, into his hip, and his chest hurt. He patted at his heavy work jacket, feeling strangely weak. There was a dim patch of light ahead and he focused on the relief of seeing, but nothing substantial materialised. This new world was a pastiche of unknown forms. Twisting his body to be free of the unknown weight, the grab of pain brought understanding. There was a bike pinning him down and the ancient strength of a tree walled behind his back. Anthony's pained clarity forced him to twist his body away from the tree trunk. He squirrelled out from beneath the bike as his useless right leg followed in a squeal of pain.

For a time he lay exhausted in the dirt, his teeth biting his bottom lip as if the movement would take his mind from his leg.
He guessed it was broken in at least one spot. Reaching down to straighten it out a little, he was bombarded with pain. He could stay beneath the tree where at least he was protected from the coming morning's frost or attempt to ride the motorbike home. He crawled painfully to the bike, his nerve endings contorting with pain as his broken leg bumped over uneven ground. If he could strap his leg with a couple of branches and some material he might be able to ride, if he didn't pass out from the pain. Anthony ran his hands over the motorbike's frame, touched the twisted mess that was once handlebars and collapsed, vomiting into the dirt. The few retches in him were matched with pain and a light-headedness. Great, he mumbled through chattering teeth. This was no good, just no good at all. He began crawling in the direction of the fence as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. The shadowy forms of timber, tufts of grass and trees surrounding him.

Anthony placed one hand after another, dragging himself slowly across the rutted ground. Every movement was agony but he couldn't just lie there and hope someone would come looking. No one knew where he was. Eventually his search for timber became an odyssey to keep moving, an odyssey spurred by a knowing. He was aware of something deep within him that wasn't right. It was a sensation that went beyond the excruciating jabs from his leg or the pounding headache that threatened to stop all movement. He was having problems breathing and there was a terrible weakness sucking at his body. At least the pain drew him on, kept him awake and focused. If he could make it to the edge of the cultivation by morning he could rest. Perhaps he could crawl straight across the new cultivation to the bridge. Small steps, he reminded himself, as his face hit dirt for the hundredth time and he spat dry granules from his mouth. Small steps, he repeated, his mind forming the words yet his mouth too tired to speak them.

The dull thud of kangaroos echoed through the trees. There was a slight swish of air through leaves. He sensed open space and relished this slight victory of distance over pain. He grimaced through the final erratic grasps of his hand, his fingers ready to close around newly tilled soil. Instead he reached for loose dirt and looked directly into the eyes of a fox. The animal was very close to him. He sat as if waiting and showed no signs of moving from Anthony's path when he continued onwards. And continue Anthony did, crawling forward as the animal backed away. Crawling forward in the path of the fox he'd followed so carelessly earlier. Was there a lair ahead, Anthony wondered, some hungry cubs waiting to be fed? He was beginning to expect the worst of the quietly patient carnivore, when the remains of a building rose up from the clearing. He paused breathlessly, his mind scrambling to decipher the unknown structure. His eyes traced the fallen roof and the broken gutters. Most of the house was wrecked. The large verandah was about the only element still intact, although the boards were rumpled like an untidy blanket and saplings grew through the wood like spiky chin hairs. Anthony let out a moan of despair. He had no idea where he was. He was lost.

Giving a weak chuckle at the stupidity of his accident, Anthony burrowed his cheek in the dirt, his breath shallow. He could see the fox from where he lay, sitting on the ruined verandah, his head tilted to one side. There was an ancient hitching post to the left of the animal and wavering trees. The ground grew colder. The increasing chill and accompanying shivering began to surpass the excruciating pain in his leg. He prayed silently, wishing for help, wishing to be found. His breath sent bursts of dirt from the ground near his mouth, the same soil creeping steadily into his nose. Anthony sensed that even with the temperature dropping to zero and a nasty frost looming, exposure wasn't his main concern. He tried to turn over, however the earth rose up like a billowing sheet and he collapsed. There was something
seriously wrong and although he could only guess at the extent of his injuries, his eyes pictured a black and white film running to the end of a flickering negative. When the next river of pain struck him, his fingers gripped at the unyielding dirt. ‘Sarah,' he whispered weakly. ‘Come home'.