Echo in the Memory

by Cameron Nunn

  Will didn’t need reminding. He knew it already. They were ugly, bloated birds that fed on anything dead. He’d always hated crows.

  Nelson followed them back through the paddocks to the shed behind the house, yapping at the sheep that mostly ignored her until she got too close. “How many lambs will there be?” Will asked as Nelson yapped.

  “In a good season eight lambs to ten breeding ewes.”

  “And in a bad one?”

  “In a bad season we don’t count.”

  “Why don’t you clear the pasture up where the . . .” he was going to say where the stone dam was but he thought better of it. “Where you found my shoe.”

  “It’d take more than a month of Sundays. You can’t just whack sheep in any old place and hope they’ll sort things out for themselves.”

  “I could help,” said Will. “It wasn’t always like that.”

  “The boy told you that, did he, eh?”

  This was heading towards the conversation that Will had tried so hard to avoid.

  “I’ve told you before, don’t listen to him. You’ve got to shut him out. He’ll mess with your mind until you’re not sure what’s real and what’s not. Trust me, he’s no good.” Pa held Will’s gaze so long that Will looked away. “I’m telling you this for your own good,” he added.

  “But I don’t even know who he is. How can I not listen to him when I don’t even hear him?”

  “Aye, but you know he’s there,” he said as they walked towards the huge shed. “You know he’s there,” he repeated more forcefully the second time.

  “I don’t know.”

  His grandfather stopped in front of the shed and scouted the landscape around them, as though someone might be watching. “Let me show you something.” Pa pushed open the door and stepped inside. “Well, are you coming or not?”

  Will scurried after him. The shed smelt of horses and time. Over at the far bench, where Will had seen him sitting on the first day, Pa pulled out an old biscuit tin. It was as rusted as everything else in the barn but Will could still make out the outline of the parrot eating a biscuit held in its foot. His grandfather levered open the top and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in an old rag. He cleared a space on the bench and laid it down.

  “What is it?”

  “You ask too many questions. Wait and see.”

  Gently, he unravelled the small parcel to reveal a pale object. There was a small half-cylinder with a long broken tube coming out at right angles to the cylinder. On the cylinder someone had carved an ugly face. It was like nothing Will had ever seen before and yet it was as familiar as anything he’d ever owned.

  “What is it?”

  Pa’s voice was emotionless. “You know what it is, just as I know what it is. You’ve felt its shape in your hands before, because it belongs to him, and somehow so do we.”

  “It’s his pipe,” said Will, as he held the bowl neatly between the thumb and the first two fingers of his left hand, though he didn’t know how he knew.

  “It rests so easily there, don’t it? Like you’ve held it a thousand times, even though you’ve never laid eyes on it.” His grandfather gently took it back and began rolling it back up in its cloth. “I found it before I owned the place. I was clearing some land. I had the feeling that I’d been here before. I remembered there was a pipe inside an old stump up on the high ground. It was as though I’d left it there a week ago and suddenly remembered where I’d put it. The stump had disappeared, but I dug around and there it was.

  “I started remembering all sorts of things about this place, things that I never did here before and things before it was a farm and all. I told Lizzie, your gran that is, but she got all worried. She went and got the minister from the church in Canowindra to come and talk to me. He thought I was a bit crazy too. He talked quietly to Lizzie as if I was sick or dying. I knew they were working out what was to be done with me. Lizzie made me see a doctor in Sydney. But I knew there was nothing wrong. I know what doctors can be like. They’re all smiles when they talk to you, and they call you Mr Richards like you’re important, but they can’t wait to start messing with your mind. I worked hard to make him go away, and eventually I didn’t hear from him anymore. I thought he’d gone for good and Lizzie was happy. And then you come and he’s back.”

  They were more words than Pa had strung together in the whole time that Will had been staying at the farm. It was like a creek that had finally burst its banks and was now flowing in all directions across the flat land that had contained it.

  “I didn’t mean to do anything,” Will said quietly.

  “But you’re part of him. He’s back because of you. I sensed it. Sensed it straight away, and Nelson sensed it too.” Pa wiped his hand across his mouth. “But you can’t breathe a word of anything that I told you.”

  Will nodded.

  “They won’t believe you anyway. They’ll say you’re making it up and then they’ll want to take you away. They can’t feel him the way you and me can.”

  For a few seconds, Will wondered whether the whole thing was just his mind playing tricks. Perhaps Pa had planted the idea in his head. Then he remembered the pipe. It was just like Pa had said. He knew it was a pipe even though he’d never seen anything like it. He knew it was his pipe, even down to the sour taste of the tobacco in his mouth. “I don’t understand. Who is he?”

  “I’ve given up asking that question and you should too. They’ll say he don’t exist, that he never existed but we know different, don’t we?”

  “You said he spoke to you.”

  “You know what I mean. It’s as though someone else’s memories have got stuck in time and picked out us. It’s like an echo that just keeps bouncing back. But listen, Boy, you don’t want to go thinking about him, whoever he is. I only showed you the pipe so you know you’re not mad. If you let him, he’ll get you so muddled that you won’t know which way is up. You’ve got to shut him out.”

  “But I need . . . we need to find out who he is. You can’t just say forget about it.”

  “I’ve seen things I don’t want to know about.” And with that Pa pushed his way out of the barn and back into the present.

  The men brought up the first mob of sheep early the next morning. Cain reckoned there were three hundred of them, though how they counted them were a mystery. To be left alone with them twisted a knot in my gut. I could imagine waking up and finding the lot of them dead, or having cleared off somewhere. Cain were more encouraging. He promised he’d come every day for the first few days to make sure everything were alright. After that him, or one of the others, would be along every few days. It were little more ’n a mile or two between the run and the homestead. If there were a real problem, I could always walk for help. Cain’s assurances done little to put my mind at rest. What would Mr O’Neill do if the sheep dropped dead or disappeared?

  We built a rough barricade across the path to stop them wandering back down the track, and soon Cain and the others were ready to leave.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow. The thing to remember is that a shepherd has to get his sheep to know him and get used to him. And at the same time, you’ve got to get to know them,” Cain advised me, assessing the flock what stood huddled together in the centre of the clearing. “Tomorrow, you can tell me how many you’ve named.”

  “You mean I’ve got to name them?”

  Cain chuckled, “Sometimes sheep are quicker on the uptake than the English.”

  I laughed despite feeling like the turnip-head Cain thought I were. When Cain teased, it were always good-humoured. He walked over to the dray and bid me follow.

  “I got some more things for you.”

  “What sorts of things?” I asked.

  “I brought you some seedlings for vegetables. The clearing is mostly flood plain. The soil’s rich and will work well if you turn it and fertilise,” he said as he reached in and hauled out some sacks.

  “What do I want vegetables for?” I’d a deep suspicion of anything
what resembled what sheep and pigs ate.

  “A few weeks eating salted mutton and damper and you’ll be longing for some vegetables. Despite what you English believe, even us Irish eat more ’n potatoes.” He threw the two hessian sacks on the ground and then reached and pulled out a smaller sack made of calico. “And I’ve got something else which I think you might take a liking to.”

  I imagined more vegetables or some other plant only an Irishman would enjoy. Instead, he reached into the white sack and pulled out a squirming pup. It were an ugly white thing with a head what seemed too large for its small body and a dark patch of fur over its left eye and ear.

  “I hope you ain’t suggesting I eat this.”

  “Now only an Englishman would’ve thought such a terrible thing. I were thinking you might like some company out here, apart from three hundred sheep.” He handed the dog to me.

  Shortly after I’d arrived at the homestead, one of the bitches had a litter of nine puppies. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask for one of the pups. There were dogs enough in London what roamed the streets, half wild. Only rich children had pets what they pampered and fed better ’n most of the poor.

  “You’ll need a working dog in time,” Cain said. “The earlier you both get to know the sheep, the better you’ll both work with them.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” I replied, lifting the pup.

  “Well, you could start by saying, ‘thank you,’ but as you’re only an Englishman, I’ll forgive your bad manners. Anyway, I sort of rescued this one. Jack were going to drown the pups for sport. I managed to persuade Mr O’Neill to let me have one before Jack got his hands on them.” He sighed at the thought of the dead puppies. “’Tis a truth that some things have to die for others to live. It’s just the way things are.”

  There were a coldness to the logic of death. I could easily imagine Jack making sport out of killing the helpless pups. The dog looked up at me, his tongue dangling out of one side of its mouth. “With a patch over one eye, I’ll have to name him after Lord Nelson.”

  “’Tis a fine name. If there are any French about, I’m sure Lord Nelson will be only too happy to lick them to death.”

  The next day Cain were back with Sean. “Thought you could use some extra hands.”

  Nelson yapped and jumped about wildly.

  “Are we going to get started on the hut?” I asked, eager to get my own vision under way.

  “All in good time. For the moment the sheep are more important. We’ll be needing to build some hurdles for enclosing them. In good time you’ll see why they’re needed,” Cain said, anticipating my unasked question. “I see you’ve at least been able to keep your dog alive overnight. Who knows, the sheep might even last a week.” He pushed my head as he spoke. “I can’t say the same about the plants I gave you.”

  About a dozen wilted plants lay under the tree where Cain had left them the previous day. “I were going to plant them this morning,” I offered as a way of apology.

  “Aye, well they’ll sure not be planting themselves. You’re going to have to select a plot and turn the soil. And you’ll be needing to think about some sort of fencing. You may not think much of vegetables but you can be sure some of the sheep and roos will take an interest.”

  I picked up what might’ve been a potato, a limp vine sagging from a lump of swollen roots.

  “Will you look at this, Sean,” Cain began. “The lad wouldn’t know which end to stick in the ground. Give it here, you mutton-head.”

  That morning were spent clearing the garden and planting amidst Cain’s prophecies of certain ruin for anything I were to tend. He instructed me on how to water and fertilise the plants at least five times. “If he grows even weeds, it’ll be a sainted miracle,” he offered as his final blessing.

  It were then onto the real work. For the next three days we did naught for the hut. It were only on the fourth day, when I’d given up all hope of getting started, that Cain announced, “Well, I suppose we’d better get a start on your grand homestead. Mr O’Neill has decided we’re to return as soon as the hurdles and other things are complete, but I dare say we can squeeze one or two days into setting some timbers before he becomes too troubled by our absence.”

  Cain chose a raised area on the edge of the clearing, some distance away from the sagging ruin of the former hut. Not so high that I’d stay dry if there were a flood, as Cain joked, but hopefully high enough that I wouldn’t find myself halfway down the creek with the first drop of rain.

  The timbers were driven into the ground vertically from split logs, three paces by five. Cain and Sean seemed to know which trees were best for splitting and which would twist and warp. Slowly, the shape of a small rectangle began to emerge, first one wall and then another. Some of the gaps between the timbers were large enough for me to fit my whole hand through but Cain weren’t worried. “As the timber dries, those gaps will get even bigger,” he said as we worked steadily. “That’s where the sheep become your best friend. Mix some shit with the mud and you’ve got God’s own plaster.”

  “I ain’t doing that!” I spat. I hoped Cain were joking.

  “Then you’ll as sure as freeze your arse off in winter and have snakes aplenty to keep you company in summer. When you’re a gentleman, you can get someone else to mix your shit for you, but when you’re a guest of His Majesty, you’ll learn to mix your own.”

  By the end of the second day my small castle had pushed itself out of the earth. Only the roof were still to be added. “Even a mutton-headed Englishman couldn’t get that wrong,” Cain declared, after he’d shown me again and again how to lash the saplings that’d form the frame.

  There were no windows, only a doorway that were yet to hold a door. It weren’t near close to Mr Harrison’s homestead but it were mine. And I had imagination and time. I were determined to build a fireplace using stone and mortar the way Cain had taught me. I’d fill the gaps in between the slabs and then build myself a bed and a table. Already the hut were changing in my mind.

  By the time Sunday arrived I’d near forgotten about my meeting with Kate. I’d become so fixed on finishing the hut the day slipped by unnoticed. I crossed the stream along the top of the weir and stood looking up at the cliff face in the distance. The grey knuckles of the hand looked different from here and I realised I had no sure way of finding a path through the thick branches and gorse bushes back to the meeting point. I thought of walking back down the track towards the homestead and trying to find the track but I didn’t want to be spotted by Mr O’Neill or the others. It were bad enough I weren’t watching the sheep but to be caught with Kate would be the end.

  I tried to keep the great rock finger as my guide. I knew it rose up directly in front of where the homestead stood. Even so, picking the right gully were tricky when approaching it from a different place. Dry stream beds ran down from the cliff and through the tangled bushes. I found if I stuck to them, the going weren’t as hard. Twice I followed stream beds what branched in the wrong direction and found myself heading away from the finger. It were only when I picked up the path what Kate had made, that I knew I were in the right place.

  I hadn’t been there long when Kate arrived. She were out of breath. “I nearly got caught, by my dad and then by Jack. He wanted to know where I was going.”

  I didn’t want to talk about Jack. Even his name were like a canker what ruined our time together. Until it were late in the afternoon, Kate continued to work on my reading. She had the patience of a saint. Each word she’d draw with a stick in the ground and make me repeat it again and again, until I could recognise it straight away and then she’d rub it out with her foot and try a new word.

  As I got to thinking, I worked out that some words are like rocks. They are set and don’t change. They are easy and even I could sound them out after a few lessons. Some are like the trees. They seem firm until the wind blows and they bend and their sound changes. But the hardest of all are the water words. No matter how much you try and sound th
em, they twist and turn each way not making any sense at all. When I told Kate about the words, she laughed. “Only you could imagine words like that,” she said.

  I took to reading the Bible in between lessons. It were not that I’d become religious but it gave me a chance to sound out words. At first, I could only read the rock words. Then the tree words began to take shape. Sometimes, I could sound out words but couldn’t reckon their meaning. I tried to remember them, so I could ask Kate. Once I knew a new word, I’d weave it into my storytelling.

  For near on a year Kate managed to slip away every Sunday unnoticed. Steadily the letters became words and words became sentences. She’d pick out words from one of the books she brought with her and I’d run my coarse finger under the letters sounding them out, each time with more knowing. Even before the summer came round again, the squiggles and lines across the paper were giving up their mysteries. Each night I’d try and read from one of the books Kate lent to me until my eyes grew tired in the dim glow of the tallow candle.

  In the early days, I were slow and often I didn’t reckon the meanings of some words, but more and more I were knowing whole pages, and then whole stories. I liked the books what had stories about animals and magical places. Kate laughed when I told her that. Some books were boring stories about people falling in love and having long, boring conversations. These were the ones what Kate liked to read. She often read the same books over and over again and would say things out of the books, like she were one of the characters. That seemed the silliest thing of all. Since she were little, every time her father would take the wool clip to Sydney he’d bring her back more books. Kate said it were books what helped her to forget she were trapped in the middle of nowhere and would probably die an old spinster out here.