The Cedar Tree

by Nicole Alexander

  Joe wrung out a wet facecloth and rested it back on her forehead. ‘Are you listening to me? Can you really not remember when it happened? Was it two days ago? Three?’ he asked. He dabbed butter on the sun blisters covering her face. ‘Stella, are you listening?’

  Her husband was a fool. That was the worst part of being human; one’s ears could never be turned off. Some primal instinct attuned them to every sound. To the danger of predators. To the awareness that there was silence within silence. In her dreams she screwed the lid on the jar and studied the salt within.

  ‘When did it happen, Stella?’ Joe pronounced each word distinctly. ‘Stella?’ He shook her gently.

  All she could recall was a difficulty in standing and the heat of the sun on her shoulders as she’d clutched the baby to her chest. And then later, the bed, soft and loving like a mother’s hug. That’s where Joe had found her. If she attempted to unearth any more of her already buried memory Stella feared that the miniscule threads binding her together might unravel. ‘I couldn’t sit in the station wagon all that way, Joe. Not in this heat.’

  ‘All right. I’ll run you a bath. You’re covered in dirt and—’

  Dirt and sweat and tears. Stella was drowning in it all. The cotton dress she wore was stiff with blood. ‘I close my eyes and hear her crying. I’m sure I’ll hear that sound for the rest of my life.’

  ‘But you told me that she never made a sound.’

  She clutched at his arm. ‘I was strong enough to walk out there, Joe. I crossed the border to the west. Elizabeth saw it too.’

  Joe switched his gaze from his wife to the child in her arms. ‘What did you see, Stella?’

  ‘The light. I saw the light on the salt. It was so crisp and clear I had to shade my eyes.’

  He stroked her cheek as if he truly cared, and in that instant she saw that deep within the man was the greatest good. She realised that he did know the difference between love and hate and good and bad, but what he had not yet learnt was that his own satisfaction came at a cost. He might hold her hand and care for her after the death of her baby, but he’d left her, and she’d lost the baby alone.

  ‘We have to bury her,’ said Joe carefully.

  Stella tightened her hold on the baby girl in her arms. She was wrapped in a towel, a sliver of hair poking up from the gap in the material. She touched the tiny forehead and granules of salt dropped to rest in the folds of the cloth.

  Joe got up from the bed, his shirt dark with perspiration. ‘We can’t delay any longer. It’s too hot.’

  ‘I’ve never left her. Not once. I know what it’s like to be deserted and I’ll never do it to Elizabeth,’ Stella told him.

  He patted her arm and then left the bedroom. Stella listened to his footsteps growing indistinct as he walked from one end of the homestead to the other. He returned with a large container, the one he took with him as a lunchbox when he was out on the property. It was filthy from rolling around in the tray of the truck or being strapped to the motorbike. He sat it on the dressing table and removed the lid. ‘We can put her in one of these, with some ice. I can let the sheep out of the yards and then tomorrow morning, when you’re feeling more rested, we’ll drive to town.’

  ‘No,’ Stella heard herself say. ‘I’m not doing that.’

  Joe sat on the bed next to her. ‘You need to see a doctor and Elizabeth needs a proper burial. You do understand that, don’t you?’

  Stella picked up the glass of water on the table next to the bed and threw it against the wall. ‘No!’

  ‘Well you can’t keep her in that,’ said Joe, his voice a whisper. He gestured to the timber packing case that she’d carried in from one of the outbuildings. She’d lined it with a hessian bag and filled it with salt from the store in the pantry.

  ‘What else could I do?’ said Stella, her lips trembling. ‘You never came back. Even for her.’

  Joe regarded her steadily. ‘You’re going to have a bath.’ He took Elizabeth from her weak arms and placed the child in the cocoon of salt, spooning the grains on top of her until the small bundle was partially covered.

  Stella thought of the Sphinx and the mummified remains beneath the Egyptian desert. Perhaps the same sand and salt that had once crisscrossed great countries and now blasted across their lands had finally begun to chip away at her husband, for he knelt by the crate and started to cry.

  ‘Bury her here,’ said Stella. ‘In the garden.’

  ‘Without a priest? In unconsecrated ground?’ Joe shook his head, swiping at the tears massing on his cheeks. ‘That goes against our beliefs, Stella. I can’t believe you’d want to do that.’

  ‘After everything that’s happened, do you really think I care about the church’s blessing?’

  Joe placed a palm on the floor, as if steadying himself. ‘You will eventually. When your head’s clearer and you’re feeling better.’

  ‘What good is it to Elizabeth to be dragged to another place? This is her country. This is the only place she’s ever known. This is where she will stay.’

  Joe sighed. ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Stella closed her eyes.

  Chapter 43

  Richmond Valley, 1867

  Cait used to summon the old gods in times of need. Brandon recalled his stepmother sitting outside their hut on a moon-bright evening when his young half-brother Michael was sickly. She’d thrown bits of herbage and moss into a fire, turning the air bitter, specks hovering in the white smoke before being borne away on the breeze. Cait sang while she did this, her body swaying gently, her arms extended, palms facing the sky. She moaned to the gods, begging for their assistance like a druid summoning help from the heavens. Brandon hid like a thief listening to her wailing, his eyes twitching left and right in anticipation of the gods, until his father discovered him and dragged him away. But it seemed to him that Cait’s practice of calling in such powers was not without merit, for the boy survived.

  Brandon wondered what his father would say if he saw him now. It was mid-morning. He’d lit a small fire in the centre of the cedar trees and was fanning it gently with his hat. There were no herbs, nor could he remember the words that his stepmother uttered those long years prior but he thought perhaps that some kindly unseen god might help him make the right decision regarding Hackett’s demands. He threw a handful of McCauley’s tea-tree leaves onto the flames. The slaughterer had told him that they would heal anything.

  He looked up to see Mr Truby standing before him. He smelt of horse and sweat, and dust was smeared across his face. Brandon was used to seeing the gentleman in a black frockcoat strolling or sitting in his garden and had until this minute forgotten that his employer was a squatter who knew land and livestock and the value of both.

  ‘Have we been working you too hard?’ Mr Truby queried.

  Brandon rose. ‘I can’t do much by myself. It takes two men to cut down a tree.’

  Mr Truby stamped out the smouldering twigs with a boot. ‘Can’t have the place burning down,’ he said quietly. ‘Your family have left you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry for the trouble we’ve caused. I suppose you want me to go too.’

  Mr Truby seemed not to hear these words for he turned his attention to his dog, who’d followed him through the trees. ‘McCauley said you had a visitor last night,’ he continued, as if they were discussing the weather. ‘I don’t like uninvited guests.’

  ‘He was a stranger to me,’ explained Brandon hurriedly.

  ‘And tell me, what did this stranger want?’

  Brandon took his hat off and rubbed at his scalp and then pulled it firmly back on his head. He walked a few paces one way and then the other, his stomach tightening as if he were having a fit of gripe. ‘If I tell you, things will go terribly wrong and I’ll lose this job and none of it’s my fault.’

  ‘If you don’t tell me, you’ll be leaving here anyway,’ said his employer.

  Brandon looked at the man with his dusty beard and sharp eyes and then at
the trees which, although so straight and tall, seemed to be crowding down upon him. ‘I’ve been asked to steal a map of your property,’ he finally admitted, with a great exhalation of air.

  Mr Truby had been leaning against a tree trunk, his boot resting on a twisting root, however he straightened at Brandon’s revelation, his shoulders pulling back so that the buttons on his waistcoat strained where they met. ‘For what reason?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  The dog walked to Mr Truby’s side and he absently patted the animal. Brandon thought him very calm considering what he’d just been told. ‘A man does not appear out of the haze and demand an undertaking without having some power to do so. What hold does this person have on you?’

  The story Brandon began to formulate was concise and plain, weighted in his favour with honesty, but scant enough in detail not to reveal anything specific. He would say he owed Hackett’s man a large debt from gambling. But when he glanced again at Mr Truby, Brandon knew his employer was aware of his frantic attempts at concoction and so he decided on the truth.

  And so he blurted, ‘They’ve taken Maggie and she’s with child, and if I don’t do what they say they’ll blame me for the farm burnings and I’ll never see her again.’ The words rushed out of him and when he finished he knew that once again his life was about to change.

  ‘And were you involved in the Protestant attacks?’ asked Mr Truby, his tone mild.

  ‘No,’ said Brandon, firmly. ‘On my oath, no. I went to the meeting because everyone expected it of me and I didn’t want Sean going alone. But I had nor wanted no part of the rest of it. I swear. My coming here was not to start another war.’

  ‘Regardless, you’ve found yourself in one,’ Mr Truby said distantly, mopping at the sweat on his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. ‘I will give you the map and in return you will do something for me.’

  ‘Why would you give me the map?’ said Brandon cautiously.

  ‘For the same reason you were considering stealing it. To protect my own interests.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all Brandon said. He could feel the makings of a bargain, as if he were fighting over the worth of his logs with one of the agents down at the wharf. Except that this time, he had nothing to exchange. And that made him uneasy.

  ‘It would be in both our interests to come to an agreement, Brandon. After all, you have just admitted to considering theft while under my employ. Here is what I propose. I will use your name to buy land. To all intents it would be a sponsorship, if you like, as far as the world is concerned, but it would be a dummy agreement. You’d appear to be the landholder and then within a period of time, say three years, you’d sign the land back over to me. It’s a simple transaction. On paper only. No money would ever change hands and of course, apart from your name on the contract the land would always be mine.’

  ‘But why do you need my name?’

  Mr Truby frowned. ‘To ensure the land I currently control remains mine.’

  ‘But what has that to do with a map?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘They want my map, lad, because it clearly shows the surveyed and unsurveyed land that runs along the western boundary of my property. Land developed and worked by me, but available for sale under the new land regulations. John Robertson’s bloody ‘free selection before survey’ scheme essentially means that the whole leasehold area of the colony is up for sale. I imagine this Hackett person thinks it more expedient to steal my map than consult the Lands Department. That way he’ll know in advance exactly which acreage gives him access to water and can apply accordingly. Well, we’ll see about that. I haven’t worked this holding to see a portion of it given away to new settlers. Let them go elsewhere. They can build their bark huts and run their miserable herds on someone else’s hard-won dirt. Not mine.’

  ‘Is it legal, what you’re asking of me?’ said Brandon, finding it difficult to reconcile the sherry-sipping gentleman of past days with this unfamiliar version before him.

  Mr Truby laughed. ‘This from the boy who has Catholic hooligans for friends and was considering theft.’

  ‘I don’t want to do anything wrong.’ Brandon knew he sounded pitiful.

  ‘If you do as I say, I will vouch that you were here the night of the Protestant attacks, and your sister may come and live here with you, until we find her a more suitable situation,’ offered Mr Truby. The Englishman moved through the trees towards the house and Brandon could do nothing else but follow.

  ‘Maggie can come here?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Mr Truby.

  ‘Even if she’s with child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Sean?’ called Brandon.

  Mr Truby spun towards him. ‘Your cousin must never set foot on my land again.’

  As his employer walked on, Brandon lingered in the shade. A willie wagtail dived low to land on the grass where other birds twittered.

  ‘Brandon?’ Mr Truby waited, and Brandon walked reluctantly towards him. ‘When are you to hand over the map?’

  ‘Tomorrow night. I was to leave it behind the cookhouse at the quarters.’

  ‘Good. I shall fetch you a map and you shall put it there,’ said Mr Truby.

  Brandon didn’t respond. He was still contemplating what had been asked of him.

  ‘You’re vacillating. What is there to think of, boy? Your options are narrow, the risk limited on your part and the rewards in your favour.’

  ‘It’s just that Sean and I—’

  ‘There is one other condition. You will remain here on this property for the entire three-year term. You must be seen to be improving the land you’ve purchased and, of course, growing your crops. Or sheep, perhaps,’ he suggested, with a smile. ‘In the meantime, you will deposit the map and then meet me at the stables, for we will be riding to the village today. The sooner this business is settled, the better.’

  ‘But I’m no horseman, Mr Truby.’

  ‘Then a good long stretch in the saddle should rectify that problem. One hour and then we leave,’ said the Englishman. With that, he strode off towards the house.

  Brandon watched him go, still trying to decide between his limited choices. He would be able to save Maggie, but at the cost of Sean. A brutal choice. It was then that he recalled Hetty’s words. If a person wanted something, it had to be taken. His choice was clear.

  Chapter 44

  Brandon could barely sit upright for the pain in his lower back and thighs. Every step jolted his spine, each bone in his back compressing against the next in a series of shudders. He regretted ever wanting to learn how to ride. There was nothing wrong with a man’s feet if he could afford to keep leather on the soles of his shoes. And the great advantage he once supposed could be gained from an increased height mattered little when his concentration was restricted to the narrow track between his mount’s ears.

  ‘Straighten your back. Hold fast with your thighs. Loosen the reins. You ride like a child.’

  Brandon decided that if Mr Truby repeated the refrain one more time, he’d purposely fall from the horse just to rid himself of the man’s impatient instructions. It wouldn’t take much effort. He’d spent the first four miles on the way to the village trying to stay in the saddle as his backside slid continuously from left to right, and the remainder of the way trying to match his movements with the gait of the animal beneath him.

  ‘Shoulders back. Sit up,’ said Mr Truby.

  Brandon ignored the command from the man who sat like a king with his back ramrod straight. He wished for the silence only the forest could bring, with its cool greenery and the music of a muffled breeze.

  ‘You wanted to learn how to ride,’ said Mr Truby.

  ‘Not like this,’ said Brandon.

  ‘I don’t have a sister that needs saving.’

  ‘And I’m not desperate to retain land that isn’t rightfully mine,’ replied Brandon.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Truby, as if satisfied. ‘You do have a backbone.’

  ‘What’
s left of it,’ he complained, easing out the muscles in his shoulders.

  ‘I think we could be friends, if circumstances were different,’ said Mr Truby.

  ‘You mean if I was rich as well.’

  The older man laughed. ‘We are the products of the society we live in.’

  ‘Then it is a messy place,’ said Brandon.

  They rode into the village at noon. In the short time since his leaving, the frames of two new houses were visible, the hammering and yelling of tradesmen competing with the steady hum of the sawmill. Brandon examined the busy street, searching for Sean, hopeful of catching a glimpse of his bluff cousin and discovering if he knew of Maggie’s whereabouts. He hoped Sean had nothing to do with Hackett’s blackmailing, however so much had transpired between them that he was wary of seeing him again. If all unfolded as Brandon hoped and Maggie and he were compelled to live on Truby’s run for a time to fulfil his part of the bargain, then so be it. It would hardly matter to Sean and frankly Brandon knew they needed space between them. Time to sort out their differences. The dream of the three of them remaining together had lost its lustre. Sean would always be his cousin, but Maggie was his only care.

  ‘Have you given thought to what we talked about the other day?’ said Mr Truby.

  Considering the breadth their conversations had taken, Brandon was unsure what his employer was referring to.

  ‘The escaped nun has caused something of a commotion. And the uproar won’t stop with one incident in Lismore. She is on the lecture circuit, sharing her complaints regarding your faith. Making your future even more difficult,’ Mr Truby said pointedly.

  ‘Perhaps I should return to the forest, then.’

  ‘Have you not thought of at least anglicising your surname? Many have done it. I have it on good authority that Mick Cassidy, the head man at the loading dock, was Mick Ó Caiside before he arrived in the Valley.’