by Cameron Nunn
“Aye, the spirit world can be powerful strong,” he said at last.
“I don’t understand.”
Cain slowed down to a stop and pulled out the clay pipe he always kept with him. That were always his way of thinking. He’d hold the pipe between his forefinger and thumb as though it gave him some power to gather his thoughts. He shrugged, not indifferent but as if to say there are things what we can’t understand.
That Christmas morning, I’d felt something, an eternal grieving whisper; a lost hope. Then it were gone, dissolved into a thousand years of whispers all vanishing in time.
A voice called out a curse back along the path and I knew the others would catch up with us soon. “I think we’d better get a move on,” said Cain, his soft voice touching my mood.
The south run were smaller than the north. It were a grassy flat, some twenty or thirty acres what joined the river. Twenty or more dead trees stood stiff like giant hands pushing skeletal fingers towards the sky. The grass were near waist-deep in parts, moving with the dry breeze what blew in gusts. The drought, Cain told me, were sucking the life out of the land. Back from the creek, not far from the line of trees what stood as guards marking the edge of the clearing, someone had tried to build a hut from sheets of bark and saplings. One side had collapsed in and the grass grew savage around it, as though it were trying to take back the land.
“Some of the finest land, west of Bathurst,” Cain said. “’Tis Eden itself, is it not?”
As I surveyed its dry emptiness what struck me more ’n anything else were the sheer loneliness of the place. It were only a mile or two from the homestead, but that were eternity when there were no other human voices. For the first time, I began to realise what it would mean to be alone, completely alone. The thought frightened me. There were a small part of me what wanted to be away from others; to have time and space to think. In all my life, I’d never been truly by myself. For the last year I’d been squashed next to every pick-pocket, forger and highwayman what London had coughed up. Now the reality hit me. Out here, I’d be by myself, without another human being to hear me no matter how loud I might ‘ cry out.
“That’s the last lad’s hut,” Cain indicated with his eyes. “Not that it’s much of a hut. Even the savages would laugh to look at it.”
“What happened to the last shepherd? Mr O’Neill says he wandered off, but Jack says the savages ate him.”
Cain spat on the ground as though there were something distasteful in his mouth. “There ain’t no savages round here, I told you that. I wouldn’t believe a word what Jack uttered. What Mr O’Neill says is the truth. He were a turnip-headed, mutton-brained boy, if ever there were one. Why just see the hut he built. What he were doing wandering off into the bush like that, heaven only knows. We looked for him for two days.”
“Only two days?”
“If he weren’t back in two days and we’d not found him, then there were no point in searching further. He were either dead or were on his way back to Sydney, with his mind on one of them fancy ladies there. Either way, he were gone.” Cain abruptly changed the conversation. “See Mr O’Neill’s horse over by the tree?” He pointed some distance where the grass grew greener. “He’ll be down at the creek working out where we are to build the wall.”
Under a large gum, the big chestnut mare were chewing on the grass. She glanced up at us and then returned to eating. When we reached where the horse had been tied, we seen Mr O’Neill staring at the thin stream of water what ran cautiously between the rocks. I could tell the creek must’ve been wide at times judging the span between where we stood on one bank and the crumbling dirt on the other side. Now, it were naught more ’n a ragged line moving between boulders. Even someone as small as me could easily have jumped over it without wetting my heels. But it were also easy to understand why this place had been cleared. In good times, it’d have been easy for the sheep to get to the water from the shallow bank what sloped gentle down into the creek.
“There is the place we need to begin work,” Mr O’Neill said, pointing to a spot where the creek bed narrowed between steeper sides. “If we can dam the creek here, then the area behind should fill nicely. We should only need to build the wall no higher than my hip and there’ll be more ’n enough water in time.”
The men were sent across the creek to the other side, where the hill rose before them. Mr O’Neill used a stick to prod at boulders and indicate which ones he wanted to be carried across to the other side. Some of the boulders were so large it took four of us to carry them. The sun blazed down. Soon I were lathered in sweat and scratched at by every thorn and briar what grew in the thickets, but I weren’t going to complain with Jack nearby. Cain, despite his age, and missing most of the fingers on his left hand, were strong and wiry. His tanned face showed the strain as he lifted, and I worried he might have a turn from the weight.
By the early afternoon, we’d gathered quite a pile of stone. Mr O’Neill looked over each and said which ones he wanted split first. Sean seemed to know what to do, and it were to him Mr O’Neill gave most of his instructions. A line were chipped along the stone and then steel wedges were driven into the crevices until the rock split perfect along the line what had been marked out. It weren’t long before the first square block had been cut.
Cain and I were given the task of smashing other rocks to gravel. It were as backbreaking as cutting the boulders but seemed without reason. I said as much to Cain, but he just winked and said, “Just you wait and see. To be sure, we have the most important task of all.”
When the mound of crushed rock had grown large, Cain stopped and considered it. “I think that should be enough,” he said, and called Mr O’Neill, who walked around, poking it with his stick.
“It’ll do,” he said, without looking at either of us.
Cain began to collect wood. At first he seemed content to collect branches and other bits and pieces, but soon he were searching for logs what we dragged back and piled over the broken stone. When the pile were near as high as us, Cain asked, “So what do you think it looks like?”
“Like a giant bonfire.”
Cain clapped his hands together. “Right, you are! But not just any bonfire.”
It were evening when Cain worked with his flints to start a fire at the base of the mound. He’d cleared all the grass back and dug up the soil before setting it alight. I still had no idea what it were for, but done as I were told.
When the flames began to lick upwards into the night sky, the others stopped working and came and gathered round. Even though the evening were hot, there were something about the fire what drew everyone. Even Mr O’Neill stood, hands on hips, staring into the flames. When the whole thing were alight, Mr O’Neill gave the signal. “Now start burying it, lads. Start from the base and work slowly upwards. We have to keep it burning.”
I followed Cain’s lead as we began to slowly bury the fire. All of us worked steadily around the outside. The fire collapsed in on itself sending sparks upwards like prayers. Still, we worked, digging and covering. It were late in the evening by the time Mr O’Neill said it were enough. Naught remained of the fire except a red glow from the centre of the pile.
I were exhausted. Even in the dark I knew I were filthy, covered in dirt and ash and sweat. I were used to grime. I’d lived in it all my life, but that night it were different. Dirt stuck so deep into every crevice it were difficult to even move my face without feeling it gathering into deep sweaty lines.
“Tomorrow will be easier,” Cain said to me as we camped down for the night in the field, but I were too tired to care.
As I lay down on the canvas roll, I fell fast asleep and dreamed Sarah were calling from beneath the ground.
For five days we camped out on the open ground. More stone had to be gathered but not near as many as we had on the first day. Two of the men worked at splitting and shaping the stone while the rest of us collected them. Several times in the day Mr O’Neill scraped away at the dirt on the mound
to examine the coals what glowed red beneath. It were only on the third day that he ordered the whole thing covered and left.
“It’s limestone,” Cain said.
“So?”
“We burn it down for quicklime.”
I’d no idea what he were talking about.
“When it’s mixed with ash and sand and a bit of water, it dries harder ’n any rock. We’ll use it for mortar in building the weir.”
“Seems a lot of trouble to go through for a bit of mortar.”
Cain laughed with his gap-toothed smile. “You’ll not be saying that when we’ve finished and you see what we’ve done. It’ll still be standing when you and I have long gone. It’ll be here for a hundred years, maybe till Judgement Day itself. ‘Fine weir,’ they’ll be saying. ‘Don’t know who made it’, but it’ll stand for a thousand years, it will.”
The wall began to grow, two rows deep. Wherever there were gaps, smaller rocks and mortar were wedged in. By the time the second row were laid, the water were already backing up into a spreading pool. My hands were red-raw from the digging and the lime eating into my skin as we mixed and carried it to where the others were laying the blocks. It took another two days before the whole task were finished.
I stood back feeling like I done something. The weir were now filling with water and I thought about Cain’s words, It’ll stand for a thousand years. Maybe not that long but longer ’n me.
I made it, I said to myself. I built that! Then another thought occurred to me. There will be something left to say I walked the earth. Even if no one knows my name, they’ll know someone were here and somebody built that small dam.
As Will trudged back from Dot’s house, the shoes slipped hopelessly up and down. He knew he’d need to tell Gran that it wouldn’t work. But it wasn’t Gran that he was most concerned about. Gran was with Rosie picking tomatoes around the back of the house.
“If it’s that important, we could drive into Canowindra later in the week,” she said as Will slid his foot back and forth to show her how much room there was. “I still think we can fix it with cotton wool in the toes, but I’ve got to buy some worming drench. We could see if O’Neill’s has any boots your size.”
“O’Neill’s?” Will felt the skin on the back of his neck suddenly crawl.
“I hope you’re not going to tell me that you won’t go into O’Neill’s either,” Gran said. “Your pa has this ridiculous idea that we shouldn’t shop there. To be honest, I don’t think he’s ever set foot in the place.”
Will couldn’t explain why, but he suddenly felt tense. “We shouldn’t do something Pa would hate.”
“If I stopped doing all the things Pa didn’t want me to, we’d be hungry and naked. Half his clothes come from O’Neill’s. I just don’t tell him.”
“I’ve got other shoes at home. Maybe Dad could send a pair?”
“Maybe he could, and maybe it’ll snow at Christmas. I’ve left two messages for him to ring Dot to sort out arrangements. Dot says she hasn’t heard anything.” Gran sighed. “We’ll go the day after tomorrow. Okay?”
Will nodded reluctantly and Gran seemed to feel the matter had been settled. If he couldn’t find his shoe he’d have no choice but to go with Gran. The place where the pool had been was unsettling but it drew him towards it. There was something that both frightened and called him. Now he knew he’d have to go back to where he lost his shoe and keep searching.
Pa was nowhere to be seen outside. He called for Nelson, but there was no response. Along the far side of the creek the trees grew thick, as though the bushland had tumbled down from the cliff face right to the boundary that marked the edge of the farm. They were in a basin and the national park wrapped around them. Gran and Pa’s farm stretched south nearly three kilometres down towards the next wall of cliffs. They’d once farmed a large part of it, Gran had told him, but now it took all their effort to keep the 20 acres near the house fenced and pastured. The rest had reverted to dry scrubby bushland.
Beyond the creek were the gold and grey cliffs of Nangar National Park. “Maybe next year we’ll fix the fencing and see if we can’t get some more pasture in,” Gran had said some days ago as Will had helped her bring in things from the car, but the task was obviously hopeless. “Pa never goes beyond the south fence. There’s enough work to keep him busy at this end of the farm without having to wander into the back blocks.”
Will followed the creek line until he reached the south fence. Even the paddocks were dry and patchy. He could see where Pa had been repairing the fences. A new string of silver wire caught the light. He clambered over the fence in the same place that he’d crossed yesterday, coming back without his shoe. The wires had been pushed down and tied together to make it easier to get through. Even with Pa’s boots slipping up and down it was easier than it’d been the day before in bare feet. Will followed a clear well-worn path alongside the creek. White gums twisted in each direction, their trunks draped in rags of bark. Closer to the creek bed, trees grew in thick clusters that created a tangle of creams and olive greens. There was a hard beauty about the place – in the mountains, in the coarse tussocks of grass and the twisting trunks of the gums. The trees opened up every now and then to reveal the deep cutting that the water had made. It was hard to imagine the meandering trickle ever being a gushing torrent.
As he came to the swampy wetland, the gums gave way to paperbarks and reeds. If it’d been a paddock, it was a long time ago. The track turned suddenly to the right and worked its way along the edge of the marsh towards the hidden stone wall across the creek. Will stopped. There was a sadness about the place, like an abandoned cottage that had collapsed in on its own memories.
He was just about to turn towards where he’d lost his shoe when he saw something move at the edge of the marsh. He went to call out, but thought better of it. The figure that had been squatting down now stood up and moved closer to the water’s edge. The movement was unmistakable. It was Pa, with Nelson sniffed around his feet. Will froze.
Pa was concentrating on something unseen. In his hand he held a long stick with which he prodded at the muddy edge of the swamp. With one long stride he stepped out into the reeds. Will knew exactly where Pa was. He was walking carefully along the stone wall, hidden just below the muddy water that he said he knew nothing about. Every now and then he prodded with the stick or squatted down to examine something. The reeds were long and when he crouched down he disappeared from view.
For the longest time Will couldn’t see him. When Pa finally reappeared, he was covered in mud down his left side. With the same careful precision he made his way back along the wall to the bank. In his hand appeared to be the missing shoe. He didn’t know what was worse – to have lost his shoe, or to have Pa find it. He should have slipped away back down the track but watching his pa locate and walk along the invisible wall had bound him to the spot.
Without looking up, Pa began walking back to the track when Nelson barked with excitement and bounded up to Will. Embarrassment washed over Will. “Were you sent to spy on me?” Pa said as he approached. There was a rough anger in his voice.
“I was going to look for my shoe again.”
“Well, I’ve already found it, haven’t I?”
There was an awkward silence as they both stared at the shoe-shaped blob of mud.
“Thank you.” Will tried again, “You found the wall.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, and dropped the shoe at Will’s feet.
“The wall from when there used to be a pool here, and sheep. You were walking along it. I saw you.”
This time his grandfather hissed, “Did she tell you to come and watch me?” He began to shuffle off angrily.
“No,” Will said almost apologetically and then he remembered Dot’s advice. He called out angrily after his grandfather, “You knew about the wall. You said you didn’t but you did.”
Pa stopped. “Why aren’t you in school?”
Will kicked at
the muddy shoe. “Because I’m stuck here with you. No wonder Dad never wants to visit. No wonder he couldn’t wait to get away from here. From you!”
It was more than Will had meant to say but it clearly hit its mark. His grandfather stopped and straightened. “You know nothing. You know nothing about what happened between me and Robert.” There was venom in his voice.
“No one is ever good enough. I come out to help you and you chuck it back in my face.” Will was shouting now and he didn’t care.
Pa came storming back. “I never asked for your help. I don’t need any help.”
“And I never asked to come to this shithole. You don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself. My mum killed herself. Do you even give a fuck about that? You’ve never even asked about it. Never.” Will had never been so angry. He could feel his whole face throbbing with rage. He wanted to punch the old man so badly. To punch him and keep punching.
Pa looked stunned. Pa opened his mouth and then closed it. Will waited for the blast but nothing happened. Pa just stood there.
Then he said quietly, “You want to make yourself useful? You can start by washing that shoe of yours. And when you’ve finished,” he shot a look at Will’s shoes, “you can go and put my boots back. Exactly where you got them from.”
His grandfather was like a dog who’d been beaten in a fight but was still growling and snarling more for show. “Who told you to put them on anyway?”
“Gran did.”
“They’re too big for you.”
“I know.”
“You look bloody ridiculous.”
“I know,” Will picked up the shoe and they headed back along the path towards home.
“Silly woman. I don’t know what she was thinking.”
They were late for lunch and Pa washed himself from the outside tank before coming inside.
“You were both gone a long time,” Gran ventured as Pa sat down at the table with the others. “I had Rosie banging that pan for a good twenty minutes before I saw you both walking across the paddocks.”
