Echo in the Memory

by Cameron Nunn

  Callum fumbled for what to say next. He shook his head and started awkwardly. “Why do you think I’m going to tell? I’ve got your back.”

  This wasn’t going the way Will thought it would. And he’d said more than he’d wanted to. “Just leave me alone.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “Where’ve you been today?” Pa asked as Will pushed open the gate that afternoon. “Been looking for you to give me a hand.”

  “I’ve been at school. You know that.”

  “Bloody waste of time that is, if you ask me.”

  “Yeah, well I didn’t ask you.”

  Will knew this dance well. It’d become a routine like the carolling magpies in the morning. He’d come home in his school uniform and Pa would ask where he’d been. Will suspected he just liked telling him that school was “a bloody waste of time”. Today Pa was holding the stump of the old clay penny pipe in his hand. The memories would be thick this afternoon.

  The air was hot and heavy. “I need you to give me a hand. I needed you to give me a hand this morning but you’d buggered off. You and Nelson are a pair. You’re never there when I need you.”

  “Well, I’m here now.”

  Will had learned to ignore the complaints. It didn’t matter whether he was there or not. His grandfather had managed to wear a track of complaining, seventy years in the making and he wasn’t going to leave it now.

  His grandfather led him down the dry bank of the creek. There was still a little water, but the banks were steep and sheep who found themselves on the creek bed tended to wander upstream rather than trying to climb back out. Pa had decided to drag dead branches to form a loose barrier and keep the sheep where they could be managed. It seemed a lot of effort in the afternoon sun, but Will knew if he didn’t help, Pa would be out there trying to cut down a whole forest himself.

  “It doesn’t have to be like the weir,” Pa said, as much to himself as Will. “We’re not building it out of bloody stone, just making it strong enough to keep the sheep from wandering.”

  His grandfather spat into his hands and rubbed them together in an action that seemed to be a long-rehearsed baptism before work. They began dragging logs and branches from the far side of the creek where the bush ran right down to the steep bank. There was plenty of timber; it was just a matter of dragging it through the thick undergrowth. His grandfather’s checked shirt was unbuttoned half way and the lean muscles were taut against his bony skeleton. There was something sad and heroic about the way the old man worked. No one had told him he was too weak to be dragging logs. The pile of branches in the creek bed where his grandfather stood trying to arrange them looked pitiful. It was as though they were a symbol of the man himself.

  “What happens if the creek runs dry?”

  Will’s grandfather looked up at him standing high on the bank above. “There are rivers that run under the mountain, so there’s always some water in the creek, but you know that. You’ve seen it.” There was no accusation in the voice, just a sense of agreed understanding. “But you don’t want to go there. It’s dangerous. You might get stuck under the mountain.”

  Pa grunted as he dragged half a tree onto the pile. Will skidded down the bank and grabbed it with him, heaving. His pa straightened and swept away a wisp of white hair that had fallen across his face and then wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Do you want to take a break?” asked Will.

  Pa responded with a dismissive wave of his hand but then put both hands on his knees as though catching his breath.

  “I don’t mind if you want to take a break.”

  “I don’t want this to take all day. That’s what I don’t want.” Pa’s voice had a rasping breathlessness about it. “If you don’t stop bellyaching, I’ll do the whole thing myself.”

  Will rolled his eyes. He reached over to the tree limb that Pa had been dragging. But suddenly Pa groaned and staggered to the left, clutching at his left arm and falling into the piles of branches.

  In spring the sheep had been moved back to the homestead for shearing. Shearers travel in bands – Yorkshiremen, Welshmen, Irish and Scots, all sorts thrust together in one mongrel kind. They are fast, for they get paid by the fleece, more if they take it close and whole. On those days I worked as their tar boy, but I watched and learned from them. I asked Mr O’Neill for a pair of shears and he give me an old pair and said it were fine as long as I didn’t try it on the ram. There are them on the farm what are content to do naught more ’n what’s needed to keep out of the way of Mr O’Neill’s boot. At first I thought it’d be good to see Kate every day but she gave me such a wide berth, as Amos would say, that I began to wish to be back on the run where I knew I’d see her whenever she could slip away on Sundays. I knew it were to stop idle tongues wagging.

  When I returned to the run, what’d briefly been a kingdom of green in spring steadily gave way to a pale brittle yellow as the summer heat baked the hard earth. Even in the shade, the sun were working to its most hateful. Any prig can sit and watch sheep ’til their eyes roll greasy grey. But there were so much more I were keeping alive. When summer came around it’d been a year since I’d first come to Brymedura and for most of that time I nurtured my dream that when I were free I’d set up my own run beyond the counties. Each night I’d plan how Kate and I would do it, and as I watched the sheep during the day my head would tumble with ideas. Sometimes I’d climb high into the bush, above the trees, and look down over the valley and just think.

  It were by accident I found the cave. I’d taken to wandering with Nelson further from the run in the morning. I knew the days Cain or one of the others would come and check on me and make sure I hadn’t gone mad and killed all the sheep. But even then it were near certain that if they weren’t there early in the morning, the day would be mine. It were now too hot to clear any more land, so I took on myself to climb. In the back of my mind I knew I were looking to find a way into that underground river what called to me from below the mountain.

  On the other side of the creek the ground rose steady towards the great wall of rock, but further along there were gullies and rifts where smaller creeks trickled into the main one. I knew by now which one led quick to where Kate and I would meet, but I guessed there must be other entrances into the mountain. There were small springs in some places where the water would drip from the rock face, what were alive with the brilliant green of ferns and moss. But were I even an ant I couldn’t have climbed into the mountain.

  I’d passed the place where I found the cave more ’n a dozen times and never noticed it before. If you weren’t searching, you’d never see it. I’d followed a ridge line to a place where it were possible to climb up the cliff. Even though it appeared flat from a distance, it were broken and crumpled when you got up close. There were cracks and rifts torn out and jumbles of boulders that must’ve tumbled down from the ragged face. As the sun moved across, shadows danced in the hollows. It were possible to work your way up through the crevices, and once or twice I climbed to the top. From there I could see the whole valley stretched out and the track what linked it all together. But getting down were more trouble ’n it were worth and once I near slipped and fell. I wondered whether this were what happened to the last boy and that I’d find his bones somewhere along the base of the cliff.

  This day, I were simply wandering, not really looking for naught, when I noticed what I’d first thought were just a small hollow running along one of the cracks. As I peered closer, I seen it went in deeper, into a kind of cave. It were higher ’n any of the springs, so I can’t even tell why I bothered to climb up to it. If I’d stopped to think, my imagination would’ve given me a thousand reasons for not climbing through an opening into darkness, but I’d become so fixed on finding a way into the underground river that reason vanished.

  Getting in were easier than I thought. The handholds in the rock were conveniently struck and the face not so steep at that point. The opening looked like a giant finger had l
ifted a layer off the cliff to peek inside and the triangular crack had been locked into the stone forever. As I climbed in, the cave were bigger ’n it’d appeared from the ground and I wondered why I’d never noticed it before. But I suppose there were thousands of shadows like it all along the face.

  Light from outside entered hesitantly and hung around in gloomy indifference, so it were difficult to see anything at first. A tall man would’ve stooped to get in, but I were able to stand fairly easy at the centre of the opening. As my eyes got used to the light, I quickly realised that the rock narrowed not far in, as though the cliff were squeezing itself closed again. I took two or three steps in and near busted my head on the roof. This weren’t a secret entrance for a stream.

  The ground were loose and sandy. I sat down in the opening of the cave and looked out across the valley and back towards the clearing. From there, the view were near as good as it were from the top of the cliff. I could see the clearing of the south run and even Brymedura with its clusters of buildings and sheds in the distance.

  As I sat there, I began to think. A year can be an eternity. London were like a swirling mist on the Thames, revealing a ship or a dock only to close over it again and make it vanish. My mother, my brother George, even Amos, were no more real than the sídhe who lived in their underground caves. Up here I might be the only person alive in the world. I might be the only person what had ever lived.

  I lay back, propped up on my elbows. I’d have to get back to the valley, to the sheep, to the timber hut and the days what dragged on with the cruel yellow of summer. I could hear Nelson shuffling around below, looking for a way to climb up. “Soon enough,” I called back down. “Soon enough.”

  I looked upwards at the roof with its yellowing greys, the mottled dents and swirls. And then I seen it. At first I thought it were some strange trick of light as the sun entered. I stared harder but the shape remained and grew clearer. There in the roof were the shape of a human hand, like a shadow in reverse, the inside of the shape light and the outside darkened. As I stared I noticed that there weren’t just one but tens and then hundreds, perhaps thousands of hands caught in a ghostly wave.

  I stood up and looked closer. The roof of the cave were filled with them. A few were clear as though they’d just been made, others were fading as though they were being pulled back into the rock which they’d emerged from.

  I’d been thinking about the sídhe, and my first thought were that I’d stumbled upon some magical passageway into the underworld, the type what Cain had told me stories about. But then I heard Kate’s voice. There’s always a logical, more rational explanation for everything. Everything has a reason for being and it’s not magic or stories. Perhaps it were the men from the homestead, Cain and the others who’d come up here and made the marks in the stone. Why would they do that? I couldn’t imagine Mr O’Neill letting them come back time and time again just to make handprints. But there were no other explanation. Who else could’ve been here?

  I put my own hand inside the print. It were larger ’n mine. Four fingers and a thumb. Then another and another and another. Four fingers and a thumb. Some hands were left and others right, never together, never in the same direction. A man’s hand, a child’s hand. At one point there were a small hand of a child, perfectly silhouetted within the shape of a larger one. A father and a child. Four fingers and a thumb. Who were they? People here long ago.

  I were still placing my hand inside different prints, imagining the people who’d made them, when I suddenly realised they weren’t white hands, studded with freckles and stained with sheep. They were black hands.

  Was this where the blacks had lived? No, it were too small for more ’n a few people to gather. Perhaps they came here and watched the land being cleared and tamed, and the sheep being brought. I wondered what they thought when Englishmen had come. Had they wondered about the strangers with white hands?

  That night I lay in the candle glow looking at my hands. They were English hands with a silver scar across my knuckles what I’d brought with me from London. What were the black hands like? Fathers, children, lovers, people with dreams of what they’d become. What became of them?

  It were the longest week before Sunday came and Kate could safely sneak away. Every day I went back to the cave, trying to picture the hands what made the marks. When Sunday came I were there a full hour before our meeting time and Kate were later than usual. She appeared worried and flushed.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. She’d been crying, I thought.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “It’s just my father. He had good news for me.”

  “It can’t be good if you’ve been crying.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “I haven’t been crying. It’s just hot.”

  Kate had a way of closing up when she didn’t want to tell me something and I’d learned there weren’t no point in trying to find out what it were if she’d a mind to keep me out. Amos reckoned women are like the sea. I didn’t know what he meant, but he’d tapped his finger on his nose when he said it like I were meant to understand and so I’d nodded in agreement. Perhaps this is what he meant.

  “I’ve got something I want to show you,” I said trying to steer the conversation.

  “What?” Kate asked, brightening a little.

  “It’s a secret,” I said. “You’ve got to come with me and I’ll show you.”

  Kate looked like she weren’t quite sure but stood up and brushed down her skirt.

  “You’ve got to trust me on this,” I said.

  It were a fair distance from where Kate and I met above the sinkhole. I weren’t sure about finding a quick way, so I led her near back to the creek before we climbed up into the right gully below the ridge line. I thought Kate were going to give up but she never complained. Finally we stood just below the place where it were possible to scramble up the rock face and into the cave.

  “We’re here,” I announced trying to hold the mystery of why I’d brought her here.

  “Where’s here? What’s so special about this place?”

  “Look up.”

  Kate scanned the cliff, unimpressed.

  “Just above you. The cave just up there,” I pointed. “We’re going to go in there.”

  “What for? I’m not climbing up there.”

  “I’ve got to show you what’s inside. It’s not hard to get up there. I’ll go first and give you a hand up.”

  Kate still didn’t look impressed but she agreed to do it. I scrambled up first trying to make it as easy as possible, but I weren’t wearing a skirt, Kate reminded me more ’n once. When she finally got inside, her reaction weren’t at all what I’d expected. She went pale and began backing out so quick she near slipped.

  “What’s wrong?” I said trying to follow her down.

  By the time I reached the ground, Kate had already started to leave. “What’s the matter?”

  “Why did you bring me here?” Kate’s voice were angry and her face flushed red.

  “I thought you’d be interested. Don’t you want to know who made them?”

  “I know who made them and I told you before I didn’t want to talk about them.”

  Her reaction didn’t make sense. She continued walking. My next thought were maybe she were frightened the blacks who made the hands might return and catch us in their cave. “It’s all right,” I called. “Cain says the blacks aren’t here anymore.”

  “Of course they’re not here.” There were real anger in her voice. “Are you stupid or something?”

  “I don’t understand. I just wanted to let you know Cain said there weren’t nothing to be frightened about. I thought . . .”

  “Did he tell you why they’re not about? Did he tell you that as well?”

  “No, I . . .”

  “They’re not here because they’re dead. They killed them all, every one of them. They shot them and the ones that didn’t die straight away, they cut their throats and bashed their skulls with their guns until their brai
ns were spread across the rocks. Did he tell you that? Did he tell you that they cut the throat of a girl who was only eight or nine years old? I seen her eyes and I heard her screaming. I watched them do it and more. Did he tell you Jack and some of the other men cut off fingers to sell in Sydney as charms . . .” She were near screaming now as she spoke. Her face were red and her nose running.

  “But why?”

  “Just because. Because they’re savages. Because they’re not us. Sometimes things just happen. The shepherd boy went missing the same time the blacks returned. They’d been here before and been scared away with the guns but when the boy went missing the men decided to finish them.”

  “The blacks killed the shepherd boy?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. It doesn’t matter, does it? He was gone and the blacks were here.”

  “Does your father know?”

  “Are you stupid? Who do you think gave the orders?”

  “But that ain’t right . . .” I wanted to say it were murder but I weren’t sure if it were, the way Kate were shouting.

  “You don’t understand. They’ve seen what the blacks can do. They were on the Hawkesbury. You’ve got to understand. I’ve seen huts burned to the ground and people speared. Good people. It’s not like killing a white man. They’re savages.”

  I wondered after who Kate were trying to convince most, myself or her. If it didn’t matter, why were she so angry now?

  I looked down at my hands – four fingers and a thumb. “But they’re exactly the same,” I said, holding up my hand. “Four fingers and a thumb.”

  Kate didn’t ask me what I meant and we didn’t speak all the way back. She walked on ahead and I followed. Every now and then I could hear a sniffle and I knew she were crying but there were naught I could say. I could only think of the small hand inside the big one. Father and child. Four fingers and a thumb.