The Great Plains (43 page)

Marcus stood abruptly, the chair toppling backwards, and crossed the floor to the sink. Will had never had a hand raised against him, although Flossy had been partial to the wooden spoon when he was young. He quickly side-stepped out of his father's reach.

‘Will, you're home, how lovely.' Flossy was barefoot in a nightgown, an olive shawl wrapped about her shoulders. She gave no sign of being aware of the recent disagreement and as Marcus backed away she kissed Will on the cheek and poured a cup of tea. ‘Get the brandy for me, will you, love, it's in the top drawer.'

Will did as he was told, watching as his mother poured a good measure of the liquid into the tea. He thought she looked extremely well. There was a glow to her skin and, although she erred on the skinny side, happiness radiated from within her.

‘Marcus dear, can you get home a little earlier tonight, you're always so late?' Gathering her loose hair between her fingers, Floss twisted it over one shoulder. When she pulled her hand away, strands of it fell to the floor.

‘I'll do my best, Floss.'

‘I slept a little better last night, but it's so hard getting used to waking up during the night to feed her.' Tea in hand, Floss wandered back to the bedroom and closed the door.

Will, screwing the top on the brandy bottle, stopped immediately. ‘What was that about?'

‘She lost the baby the night we were broken into,' his father explained. ‘I found her the next morning down by the river. She hasn't been the same since.'

‘The next morning?' Will queried. ‘Where were you?'

‘It was the night I got lost and met up with you and the others on Condamine Station. Don't look at me like that. I had to get the sheep into the village and to the store before daylight.'

Will walked to the bedroom door and listened. He placed his hand on the doorknob.

‘Don't go in there, Will,' his father pleaded, ‘it'll do you no good to see it.'

‘See what?'

Marcus hung his head. There were fresh streaks of grey peppering the crown.

Will opened the door slowly. It creaked on its hinges. The room was dim. It took time to adjust to the light for a blanket was hitched across the window and a kerosene lamp spluttered weakly on the dressing table. There was a length of ribbon sitting on the dresser and a pair of scissors. He remembered the day they'd brought the ribbon home from the store. Will pushed the door a little wider. His mother sat on the edge of the bed. She appeared to be sewing small squares of material together and was immersed in the task. Her fingers worked nimbly and she hummed as she sewed. At her feet were scraps of material and items of clothes, tiny singlets and tops, boys' short pants and shirts. Will guessed the baby clothes were his. Flossy kept singing and sewing. Occasionally she would turn to her left and mumble something as if there were a person sitting on the bed next to her, but apart from the musty smell and disarray in the room, nothing else seemed out of the ordinary.

It was only when Flossy moved to fetch the scissors that Will saw what sat next to her on the bed. It was a pickle jar, an ordinary pickle jar with a screw top lid, but there was something in it. He took a step into the room as his mother continued cutting up squares of material. He peered at the bottle. There was something floating in liquid inside the glass. It was pale and resembled … Will gave a horrified gasp. It was a baby with arms and legs. Flossy turned towards him and smiled beatifically.

‘Peanut's sleeping,' she whispered, holding a finger to her lips.

For a moment Will was too stunned to move.

‘Come back another time,' his mother advised, gently closing the door in his face.

‘I told you,' his father said wearily.

‘Jesus Christ.' Will put a hand to his mouth. ‘You have to get rid of it, throw it away, bury it, it doesn't matter, just get rid of the damn thing. It will send her mad.'

Marcus gave Will a look that suggested the boy was an idiot. ‘And you don't think she's that way already?'

‘I don't know.' Will walked the length of the room. ‘Maybe, maybe it's just a stage of grief, the make-believe thing. It doesn't matter, you still have to get that thing away from her, Dad.'

‘And what if I do?' Marcus countered. ‘What if I throw out the baby and break the jar and your mother thinks I've killed it? What happens then?'

‘I don't know,' Will admitted.

‘Exactly, the doctor said to get rid of it as well but even he doesn't know what effect it will have on your mother.' Marcus took his hat from the peg near the door. ‘At least like this I have Floss near me and there's the chance she could wake up one morning and everything will be fine. Kill the baby and I could make your mother worse.'

‘Kill the baby?' Will repeated. ‘It's already dead.'

Marcus put his hat on and opened the door. ‘I have to milk the cows. I'll expect you in the stalls.'

Will followed his father outside and watched as he whistled up Perch and headed for the cow paddock. The dog followed obediently, stopping to sniff at the swinging carcass where blowflies feasted noisily, before running after his master. Will knew he should help his father. He'd been given the day off after all. His boots scuffed the verandah boards as he walked backwards and forwards. From inside the house came the sound of his mother's voice. Her singing competed with the buzzing blowflies. Will couldn't believe the mess his father had got them into, he couldn't believe any of it. It was like a bad dream.

At the stables, he saddled Pat. The cows were mooing, Perch barking, his father calling and coaxing softly as if nothing had changed. Will bit his bottom lip. He had his own responsibilities now, a good job, stockmen as mates and the opportunity to make some money. When his father sobered up, Will was positive he'd end the bargain made with Mr Stevens and go back to making an honest living. He had to. Will didn't want a thief for a father or a mad woman for a mother and he sure as heck didn't want to lose his job. As he nudged the mare in the flanks and trotted down the road, Will convinced himself that it was up to his father to make things right again. Hadn't Evan told him that it wasn't right to expect children to care for their parents, especially when they were capable of looking after themselves, and what was the point of giving his father the hard-earned money in the jam tin under his bed? He'd only drink it at the moment. No, it was best that he go back to the station, to his job, to his new life, and let his father sort out the mess that he'd made. It was best that he forget the stealing and the dead baby and the stink of rum on his father's breath and think about other things; like work and the Aboriginals who'd suddenly disobeyed Mr Kirkland and gone walkabout, and the black-haired girl who'd run away.

September, 1935 – on the banks of the Condamine River, Southern Queensland

Abelena edged the black stallion down the banks of the river. It was cool in the shade of the great trees and she slipped from the animal, tethering the horse to a low-lying branch. Removing her shoes at the water's edge, she splashed her face clean, her bare foot treading on something sharp-edged submerged beneath the water. Her hand moved crab-like across the sand until the object was found, a half-shell. Such food had been served aboard the great ship the first night they were aboard, clams and oysters, fish and crab. Abelena studied the pale shell and then, wading into the brown swirl, began to dig in the muddy bottom. Her skirt grew sodden as she worked, her arms ached. She dug and prodded and scraped as she searched the shallows until three river mussels sat at the tide line. It wasn't much but she'd existed on far less in the past.

She built a fire close to the river's edge and, when there were embers for cooking, sat the shells on the glowing coals. Sitting cross-legged on the cool sand, Abelena watched as the mussels slowly turned a grey-black from the heat then she flicked the shells free of the campfire and quickly doused the flames with handfuls of water. Her efforts left a thin white trail of smoke that quickly dissipated as she pushed the blackened bits of wood into the river and then piled sandy mud on the tell-tale spot. The mussels she carried to a tree root where, with the aid of a branch, she bashed at the shells until the creamy insides were revealed. She picked away dirt and shell and bits of bark and plucked the innards clean. They tasted briny and strange, not at all like what she expected.

It was two nights since her leaving. On finding the door to her bedroom unlocked, Abelena had simply gathered her few belongings, found a horse in the stables and ridden away. It had not been her intention to be gone for so long. She simply wanted to show Tobias that she was not his to control, that she would come and go as she pleased while she formulated a plan. But this initial journey had become an exploratory trip and the longer she wandered about this land with its big sky and never-ending plains, the more attune she became with the new surroundings. She wanted to see and smell what this land was like. She wanted to be immersed in the depth and breadth of the animals and plants, to learn what the earth could provide. In knowledge of her surroundings lay survival, a chance for a life beyond the Wades with their confused notions of salvation and their tendency to quickly discard the unwanted.

The tree-edged waterway was her destination and she'd been exploring its surrounds ever since. But of course she should have known that Tobias Wade couldn't leave her alone and so in defiance Abelena stayed away, would have run away forever, but there was no revenge in that, at least not yet.

The first night the search parties traversed the open plains. The next day they combed the river flats, the men's strange accents filtering through the air as they called her name. They hunted for her in circles, crisscrossing the flat country with its treeless horizon, then they returned to the winding river and retraced their steps. They looked for clues in broken branches, crushed twigs and leaves, no doubt expecting footprints, but Abelena left nothing behind. She'd crossed two-thirds of Oklahoma on foot – she knew how to conceal a trail. The men rested in the heat of the day while she rested. They moved and she moved. When they lit campfires she did the same, burying the charred remains in river sand. When they headed towards her she walked the horse into the river and together they swam upstream. They were a noisy lot. It was no great task to keep ahead of them.

This morning Abelena watched their careful wanderings while hidden in the trees, amused when a scraggly bearded stockman ordered the men to turn back, convinced that no girl would ride so far in a strange land. So they turned from the river and spread out to ride across the open plains, leaving Abelena to the strange land, which was now familiar. There were snakes and spiders, wild dogs and pigs, just like Oklahoma. Dazzling coloured birds twitted prettily, giant lizards climbed trees for safety and spiky creatures could be rolled onto their backs with a stick.

Tonight she would once again sleep by the river, watching and listening as the creatures gathered along its banks. The kangaroos and wallabies entranced her, as did the great flightless birds.

‘You should go back. This is not your land.'

Abelena looked across the water to where a young black man stood. He was clothed as a white and for a brief period she guessed the man was a Negro until she noticed his facial features. He was born of this land, not hers. She rose carefully, rubbing her sticky hands clean with a fistful of sand.

‘This is the land of my people. The spirits do not welcome you.'

There was a strength in the boy's voice, a knowing. ‘And yet I have eaten of this place and slept in its arms and have come to no harm,' she replied.

‘You should leave,' the youth repeated. ‘You bring trouble to this place, a power greater than you.'

Abelena had no idea what the boy spoke of.

‘You will be found eventually.'

‘Not if I don't wish to be found,' she called back across the water.

‘No-one can hide forever. Besides, you're a girl.'

‘And you are a scared boy. Go away.' Walking back to the fire Abelena took a bunch of dried sage from her belongings and began to chant. She shook the sage strongly, concealing the trembling in her fingers, aware of a dryness at the back of her throat, of the hair on her arms standing erect. Across the water the boy stood and watched. Abelena sang louder, her voice echoing across the water. She gathered a handful of dirt and let it slowly run through her fingers as her mind grew blank. There was a smell of smoke and sage, of white men and horse sweat, the far bank blurred, the boy was gone. It felt as if her eyes were sliding backwards into her head and she fell to the ground, sicking up the mussels in a spray of vomit that left her feeling weak and sick. Dazed, she wiped her chin. Where had the song come from that she'd chanted? She'd not heard Uncle George sing it before.

‘Well, what have we here?'

Abelena startled at the male voice and, running towards the river, splashed into the water. A rope pinned her arms neatly, pulling her backwards into the current. Wes Kirkland laughed and then told her to stand and be quick about it. She struggled to her feet.

‘Shrewd little piece, aren't you?' Wes commented. ‘You wouldn't know this, Abelena, but I spent many a year tracking the lowlife of Oklahoma with Sheriff Cadell. I believe you're acquainted with him?'

She spat into the dirt.

‘Just when a person thinks they're safe is usually when they get caught. In your case, though, it's a touch more interesting. The Injun in you made you hard to find, but it was the Injun in you that also gave you away. Nice song.'

‘Get this rope off me! When Tobias finds out –'

‘And here I was thinking that you couldn't string a sentence together. As for Tobias, do you really think he'd listen to you? Personally, I think Edmund Wade had the right idea with that electric shock treatment. Yes, sir, in fact I would have flicked the switch myself.' He gave the rope a harsh tug. Abelena fell face down in the water. ‘Get up.'

With difficulty Abelena got to her knees and then her feet.

‘Now this is what's going to happen. You're going to walk behind me for a couple of miles or more. That way by the time I let you back on that horse you stole you'll be good and quiet and grateful. Do you understand?'

‘My shoes.' She pointed to where they lay.

Wes seemed to give consideration to the request. ‘Nope. We'll say you lost your shoes crossing the river. By the time you get up on that horse again you won't be running away any time soon.'

‘Let me get my things.'

Wes tethered the stolen horse to his, told his mount to get a move on and horse and rider walked up the bank and into the trees, dragging the girl behind.

Abelena screamed and begged for her belongings, for the bag with its herbs and the piece of precious hide. She looked over her shoulder through the trees as the timber closed in and the waterway disappeared from view. It was gone. Left to the bush. The history of the Apache people. The only thing remaining was the izze-kloth around her neck.

The search parties rode in, one by one. Will watched them from the top of the windmill where he was trying to grease the mechanism that squeaked and groaned day and night. Having complained of the noise, Mr Wade had ordered the problem fixed and with all able-bodied men involved in the search, it had fallen to Will to repair it. He quite liked being on top of the world. The country fanned out in all directions and, had the structure been a few feet higher, Will believed it may well have been possible to see the village. It was from this vantage point that he first saw three groups of men galloping cross-country towards two riders who were coming from the direction of the river. Will raced to finish the task assigned to him and began to climb down the windmill, careful of his foothold on the slippery crossbars. Mr Wade had ridden in an hour ago for a meal and a change of clothes. It was the first Will had seen of the man in three days so concerned he'd been at Abelena's disappearance. The owner was already at the front gate of the grand homestead, saddling a fresh horse, while in the distance the stockmen came riding.

On the ground Will waited with the womenfolk, who stood on the opposite side of the road, their eyes shielded from the sun with raised hands. When the search parties reached the middle of the track near the windmill, the stockmen parted and Mr Kirkland appeared from their midst with Abelena mounted by his side. Man and girl walked on towards the house. The stockmen hung back silently.

Abelena was filthy, her long hair matted, her feet bare. The girl sat straight-backed in the saddle, looking neither left nor right, and while Will could feel her pride, he was stunned by the wildness of her beauty. Even the older stockmen stared.

Tobias Wade galloped to the group and, springing off his horse, ran to Abelena's side. He tried to hug her, queried how she was, if she were injured, but the girl shrugged off his embrace, ignored his concerned questioning, deigning only to allow him to help her from the saddle.

The gathered stockmen dropped their chins or busied themselves rolling smokes. The gaggle of women on the side of the road turned away and whispered. Once on the ground Abelena spat in the dirt at Mr Kirkland's feet and began to hobble towards the homestead alone. She was covered in mud.

‘Where was she?' Tobias Wade asked the overseer as he followed the girl's limping progress.

‘Camped by the river,' Wes informed him. ‘She'd lost her shoes.'

‘Well, thank God you found her, Wes.' The two men shook hands. ‘I can't believe she managed to survive out there for three whole days.'

Wes folded his arms so that his hands rested nonchalantly on the front of the saddle. ‘Can't you?'

The question hung. The stockmen grew restless. The two men stared at each other.

Evan gave a cough.

‘You better come inside, Wes.' Tobias Wade's voice was tight. ‘And thanks to all of you for assisting in the search.'

‘Just as long as the young girl's safe and sound,' the head stockman answered on behalf of the men. ‘Take their horses, boy,' he directed Will as Mr Kirkland dismounted and began to walk with Tobias Wade back to the homestead.

‘What was that about?' It was Sprout who asked the question everyone wanted answered.

Evan lit a smoke. ‘I don't like it. Something doesn't feel right.'

Thin-lipped, Nicholson snorted dismissively. ‘It's just women, boss. Women are always trouble.'

‘Well this one sure seems to be,' Evan agreed.

‘She's just a tart,' Nicholson decided. ‘Imagine spitting in the dirt like that.'

Will took the horses and began the walk to the stables as the stockmen rode on ahead of him. The rope on the overseer's horse was covered with mud.