A Changing Land (5 page)

Luke is not sure what part of his body hurts more. He raises his hand and touches the back of his head where it hit a knobbly tree trunk. His skull is sticky; blood and brown hair glaze his fingers. Struggling into a sitting position, he looks grimly at his shoulder. The spear has been pulled free of his flesh. Mungo has worked quickly, pouring liquid from his canvas waterbag to clean the wound, which is bleeding freely. Blood mixes with the brown tinge of creek water.

‘It's not so bad,' Mungo grins.

Luke flinches at the pain as he staggers to his feet. One of the blacks lies a few feet away. The other two have vanished into the trees.

‘They'll be back,' Mungo advises, gesturing with a quick nod of his head at the dead animal. ‘Come.' Mungo helps him onto Joseph, leading him back towards the clearing.

‘They're hungry,' Luke says stiffly, breathing through the throbbing pain.

Mungo scratches his chin thoughtfully. ‘He's a warrior. I've heard of him further north.'

‘He doesn't stay with his people?' Luke, now painfully aware of how fast a spear can fly, considers his team's vulnerability.

‘Some of my people want to return to the old ways. They want their land back.'

The mountains hover above them. Luke shivers at the chill of the wind. In this land everything is about ownership.

At the camp the cook's indistinguishable monologue deteriorates into a string of concerned abuse. Luke checks once on the herd before sitting by the fire. They are feeding out happily. ‘Once everything is watered and rested for an hour or so, we'll walk them onwards. It's another seven or eight miles to the next night camp, Mungo.'

Mungo looks at a grey tail of cloud snaking above, as if questioning Luke's timing.

‘You'll make it. Once the herd sniff the water at the Hanging Hole there'll be no stopping them.' Luke knows Mungo hates making camp at this spot where blackfellas and whites fought last century. When they camp there Mungo hears screams and yells, sees their shadowy forms in battle under the glow of the moon. The worst of Mungo's doctoring is yet to come and Luke grimaces at the thought of their isolation. Although it is Mungo's unstated role to converse with the dark peoples that roam the bush, Luke is aware of a feeling of responsibility towards his old friend. For that reason alone he is pleased to be the one injured.

Mungo flashes his teeth as he pulls Luke's riding coat free of his shoulder and rips open his shirt. A small comb, such as those made for a woman's hair, falls to the ground. Mungo picks it up with a bloody hand, his scraggly nails dark with congealed blood. ‘I tell you about my woman and you?'

Luke gave a pained, lopsided grin. ‘I dream.'

‘Then maybe you keep with you until the spirits answer.' Mungo stuffs the comb inside Luke's coat pocket and frowns as he directs his thoughts to his ministrations. There is a short bladed pocket-knife already positioned in the glowing embers of the fire. The cook, not much for talking now that his morning peace has been ruined by a bloody wounding, pulls a cork from a rum bottle and offers Luke a swig. His eyes watch Luke's bobbing throat. He retrieves the bottle, then, licking his lips, thinks better of it and takes a long swig himself, his eyes white as Mungo lifts the knife from the fire.

Luke turns his head from the glowing blade and grits his teeth. He thinks of the money this sale of cattle will bring; of the supplies that will be purchased. Was a man's death a fair exchange for the continuation of his father's dream? Instead of answering his question Luke thinks of the excitement that would greet the mail when a bolt of fine dress silk or a length of cream-coloured lace arrived. She was the reason he always returned to Wangallon, and why he had become a drover, to get away again.

Mungo pours rum on the open wound and then presses the blade down harshly to cauterise the flesh. ‘You visit your girl in Wangallon Town,' Mungo suggests as a diversion.

Luke growls; he has no girl. The stench of burning skin fills the air as Luke passes out amid a contorted grimace. The cook grunts in disgust and swills more rum. Mungo's pink-tipped tongue flicks with concern as he prods at the red skin surrounding the wound. He looks up at the cook and grins, his teeth a flash of righteousness.

Hamish stalked the verandah, pausing occasionally to puff irritably on his pipe. An unseasonal mist, thickened by moist air and cooling temperatures, hung stubbornly about him, obliterating his world. The gravel driveway, the wavering trees, even the flowering shrubs that hedged in Wangallon Homestead were barely visible. From his waistcoat he retrieved his gold fob watch, impatiently noting that only a paltry ten minutes had passed. With a disgusted puff of his pipe he sat heavily in one of the wicker chairs lining the verandah, listening to the household. The distant clang of pots and the stacking of crockery carried sharply in the still air above which hovered the maids' muffled giggling and the deeper intonation of Mrs Stackland, their cook and housekeeper. The combined noise was akin to the drone of a bee. The scent of baking bread was the only agreeable aspect to his sensory disturbance.

‘Hamish?'

Claire is dressed in white muslin from neck to ankle, a fine brocade wrap about her shoulders. Walking sedately behind her is
a rather overfed cat, a tabby that Hamish detests. He glares at the cat, knowing the feeling is mutual.

‘The weather is most unusual,' Claire allows the cat to settle comfortably on her knees.

Hamish scowls. The cat purrs loudly in defiance.

‘It is a nice respite from last week's heat and wind.' Claire's rhythmic stroking makes the tabby's contentment even louder. ‘I seem to recall similar weather conditions led to a poor start last year to the season.' She plucks at a loose strand of cotton on the buttoned wrist of her blouse. She had been born in this most unfathomable of countries, yet fifty-six years on, her daily life, her very subsistence, still depended on the vagrancies of the heavens. To be held to ransom by the gods of the sky had, she decided, been a most humbling experience since her arrival at Wangallon. ‘It is nearing half-past six, Hamish. Soon this slight fog will burn off and Jasperson will be here to drag you off to some distant part of Wangallon. Why don't you eat something?' Hamish was gazing beyond the silhouette of a native tree. Her fingers touched the hard darkness of his hand. He was looking at her like someone awoken from a deep sleep. ‘Take a little tea and some fresh fruit loaf,' she continued. ‘Lee has managed to plead his way into Mrs Stackland's kitchen.'

Hamish pulled his hand free of her touch. Claire smoothed her skirt over her knees, disturbing the cat, who growled softly in reproach. ‘It has been a year of firsts for our great country,' Claire began, hoping there was some suitable topic in which they could both engage. ‘How I would love to have witnessed the great fleet of the United States of America visiting our shores, or seen the first surf carnival held at Manly Beach.'

Hamish stared stonily ahead.

‘And how wonderful an explorer is Douglas Mawson', she persevered. ‘Imagine climbing a 13,000 foot high volcanic cone in Antarctica of all places.' The mist was lifting. Streaks of blue
were interlaced with fluffy balls of white cloud. ‘I've received correspondence from Mrs Oscar Crawford.' Surprisingly, at this, Hamish actually turned his attention to her. Claire seized on the opportunity. ‘My dear, it would seem their eldest, William, has completed his law degree and is travelling north to visit his father. Oscar Crawford has been ensconced next door for the last six months. I do find it strange that he does not hold some gathering to which we might attend. In Sydney they are quite the fashionable couple. Still, perhaps he feels ill-equipped to entertain without the advices of his good wife.'

Hamish rubbed at his moustache. Having already made an offer to purchase Crawford Corner not twelve months prior, he was beginning to see the virtue in Claire's relationship with the Englishman's wife. ‘Mrs Crawford must despair of his ever returning to Sydney.'

‘Indeed, one must wonder at his desire to remain on his holding with his younger daughter now married, his dear wife in Sydney and his sons with little interest in the property.'

Hamish stretched his neck and shoulders. Perhaps the time was at hand to approach the man again. ‘I must agree with you on that account, Claire.'

Claire tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. Perhaps later in the day she would wash her hair and perfume the final rinse with a few drops of lavender water. Then when the sun drew close to its midpoint she would fluff the long strands dry in the growing heat before retiring to the drawing room and her quilting. She should discuss dinner with Mrs Stackland. It was possible there was some tasty treat the woman could conjure. While she was not a fan of jugged wallaby, Hamish's favourite dish, she was partial to roasted stubble quail, and a refreshing jelly would be a nice cooling dessert. In the midst of her thoughts Lee shuffled onto the verandah, a large tray clasped between his bony fingers. His knees, bowed by age, stuck out like those of a stick insect
from beneath his tunic and he moved like a man who, although having seen too much, considered it an honour to have done so.

With the tray finally deposited on the wicker table nearest Hamish, he took one sandalled step backwards and grinned. A silver teapot and a fine blue and white patterned cup and saucer sat next to a bowl of sugar, a pad of rich yellow butter and two thick chunks of fruit loaf.

Claire gave Lee a grateful smile. ‘It would seem Lee had similar thoughts regarding your sustenance.'

‘You like?' Lee asked, all grin and horizontal wrinkles. His long bony fingers twisted in and out from beneath each other like garden worms as he snarled at the cat, which, in turn, hissed back. Claire showed her annoyance at this unnecessary exchange by placing her hand proprietarily on the tabby's head.

Hamish prodded the bread, cut a slice in half and smelled it appreciatively before spreading a generous amount of butter over the loaf. He devoured it quickly, licking his fingers as Lee poured the tea. ‘Excellent. You are an extraordinary cook, Lee. Mrs Stackland should be forever grateful for your presence.'

Claire clutched at the cane under her hands. Sometimes she believed her husband cared more for the Chinaman than his own wife. Lee was not an employee, although Hamish provided for his every need. When it pleased him to oversee the kitchen he did just that; if he decided to spend days tending his formidable vegetable garden, that too was acceptable. If Lee was adamant about churning the butter, ensuring it was turned and well-aired in the pantry with the right amount of salt to taste, it was to the household's good fortune and if he chose, as he did, to remain in a one-room bark hut beyond his vegetable patch instead of accepting a more comfortable iron roofed dwelling, well that was his decision too.

Lee snarled at the tabby twice for good measure, bringing his hand down in a chopping movement. The cat jumped from
Claire's lap and Lee's eyelids flattened as his features elongated into a treacherous grin.

‘No, Lee,' Claire reprimanded. Lee bowed his head and took his leave. She was sure that were it not for her presence, cat stew would be on the menu. ‘Will Luke return in time for Christmas?'

‘Of course,' Hamish placated, aware his eldest would be holed up at the Wangallon Town Hotel for a time, no doubt dipping his wick before returning for Christmas.

‘And may we obtain some greenery with which to decorate the verandah's wooden posts? And can we have our own tree, Hamish? As long as it's green and sappy when freshly cut', she argued, ‘it could be carefully trimmed with coloured paper and candles.'

‘Yes, yes.' Why did women need to unburden their minds with every morsel of what comprised their heads? Did he really look that interested? As if cued to relieve him of such tedious examining, his son Angus raced out of the house. His violet eyes flicked to the freedom of the garden and beyond, then he was running towards them, his sandy-coloured hair plastered to his brow with beads of sweat, a slingshot in his hand. Claire placed a restraining arm on Angus, drawing him to her side. Already the child was dishevelled, his hands grimy with dirt. ‘Walk if you please, Angus,' Claire reprimanded. ‘And don't fire at the maids or the cat,' Claire reminded her son.

‘It's like father's,' Angus responded proudly, holding the slingshot towards his mother.

Claire had long since learnt that her husband's early years in the highlands of Scotland did not lend themselves to idle hours of play. They were spent carrying rocks to build fences, shovelling cow manure from their dirt-floored hut during the winter and burying his small sisters, brothers and finally his mother. No wonder he had left his homeland.

‘Come, Angus.' Hamish got to his feet. Angus followed his father without glancing back.

Left alone on the verandah, Claire fluffed her skirts. Her husband and son shared a bond Claire could never be a part of. There was a knowing within them both, an understanding of each other's role within their respective lives. As a mother she knew how fortunate they were to have such a relationship. As a woman it was almost as if she had been abandoned on a barren island, even though she knew their behaviour was not meant to cause pain.