by Cameron Nunn
“Here goes, Nelson,” I announced.
Nelson looked up without interest. I opened the journal on my lap. The page were white and beautiful like I imagined a newborn child. I placed the bottle of ink on the ground and carefully dipped the black feather in. I paused above the page and a huge drop of ink dropped onto the white and began spreading. “Shit!” It weren’t supposed to be like this. Hesitantly, I brought the nib to the page and began. The writing skidded and skipped but at the end I’d written my name. It weren’t in stone and there weren’t no cathedrals or history books but I’d written my name. I weren’t a number, or just the Boy. I had my name and I could write it, so that after I’d gone, I’d still have existed. Even as a shepherd in the loneliest place on earth, I had a name.
At first I were going to cut the page from the journal and write my name again but to remove it now seemed like a bad omen. I weren’t superstitious like Cain, but when you’re alone for so long, you start to believe that if you change the way you do things, the world might burn up in a ball of fire. I looked at my name again and picked up the quill once more. This time the ink flowed more smoothly, although the lines were crooked and the name turned downwards, like a drunkard staggering home. Once more I wrote it, and then again and again. I don’t know how many times I wrote it, probably hundreds of times before I decided to take it to the cave.
It were the kind of foolishness what would’ve made Kate shake her head but it made sense to me. I’d put my name with the names of the hands on the roof. I’d been there like they had. I’d lived and breathed and loved and hoped. There were a crack what opened up on the side and I pushed the book inside and rested the ink jar and two quills that I’d cut near it. I guess I always intended to come back to write more. It weren’t that I thought my story were finishing, I just never returned.
The summer were hot and dry and the pond had become thick and green. I’d taken to collecting water from a small brook what flowed on the other side of the weir. Mr Harrison had moved more sheep to another area north, where the men had cleared more timber. Some of the older sheep had to be butchered and boiled for tallow. Cain had told me that drought can break a man. Not like a flood what done it instantly. Drought were like the creeping sickness that slowly ate away at you.
It were Jack who brought it all to a reckoning. Jack, who I hated more ’n the Devil himself. Jack could be a talker when he had the audience but most of the time he were too lazy. When he’d deliver rations he’d just drop it where the track met the clearing and leave it for me to discover, if the ants didn’t find their way in first. They love flour and sugar and salt mutton.
I were sitting on my stump when Nelson started his barking. I turned around and I seen Jack moving towards me with that long awkward stride of his. I didn’t want to talk. I knew he were up to mischief because he’d normally dump whatever he had and leave. I’d a bad feeling and I knew Jack were the cause. He were smiling and I’d an urge to punch him then and there.
“You still watching the sheep?”
It were a stupid question, so I ignored him. Maybe he’d go away.
“Got any you fancy?” he sniggered. “I know what you sheep-boys are like.”
“Go to hell.”
“Well, you’ll be pleased to know you won’t be staring at sheep the rest of your life. Mr O’Neill has other plans for you.”
I decided I weren’t going to look up and give him the chance to play out his joke.
“Look at this mob. Wouldn’t get half a quid for the lot as tallow. You see, that’s your problem. You can’t even look after sheep properly. Most of this lot will have to be boiled down and you’re the cause.”
“Go to hell,” I said again.
“Is that all you’ve got to say?” He came around and stood in front of me, sneering. His teeth were black and his breath stunk of baccy. “O’Neill’s not happy. He thinks you’re a worthless shit and you should hear what Cain says. It’s enough to make a whore blush.”
I were ready to punch him now. To see his nose pushed through his face but I sat there. I weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.
“He’s decided to hand you over to the magistrate at Wellington, seeing as you ain’t worth naught. They need some worthless shit to break stones. You’ll have to kiss your fancy girls goodbye.”
I stood up to face Jack and he smiled. He knew he’d got under my skin and he raised his eyebrows.
“You’re full of piss,” I said.
“I knew you’d say that. I’ve got a letter from the Commander sent to Mr O’Neill. It says you can be sent whenever he wishes. Mr O’Neill says I’m to show you. But you’re too much of a simpleton to read it, so I guess you’ll have to take my word for it.”
“There’s no letter. You’re piss and wind, Jack. Bugger off while you’ve still got a face.”
Jack sneered and pulled a letter from his pocket and held it out. As I reached for it, he dropped it. “Sorry about that,” he said.
I picked it up and the first thing I seen were the government mark at the top and I thought maybe he were telling the truth.
“It says there in black and white that he’s going to send you.” Jack were grinning like he’d won a fortune.
I could feel the blood drain from my face. I read out loud, “‘Dear Sir, in response to your request for two skilled masons, I am unable to permit it at such time. The barracks is set to become a government store and the convicts are to be relocated back at Bathurst. I realise that an earlier undertaking was given to Mr Harrison by my predecessor . . .’ Jack, I think you brought the wrong letter.”
That were the happiest moment of my life. Jack stood there like he’d been kicked in the bollocks. He were thinking I may just be making it up but he weren’t sure, so he just stood there, his mouth opening and closing like some hideous fish, dragged from the river.
“You think you’re so smart,” he said, but the piss had gone out of him. I knew I’d won.
“I’m just not a half-wit like you, Jack.” Now it were my turn to smile. I wanted him to take a swipe at me so bad.
“So that’s what you and your little Irish whore were up to.”
At first I weren’t sure who he meant.
“Her sneaking off in the bush. I thought you were rutting her proper but you couldn’t even do that. What did you do? Did you read to her? Did you read poetry and tell her love stories? I’m glad I told O’Neill what she were up to. I’m glad he sent your blower away.”
He should’ve run but Jack’s a fool and he didn’t reckon what were coming. I jumped on him and he went down like a stick. He didn’t even throw a punch. I were on top of him and hitting him in the face, hitting as hard as I could. I were killing him. He were the crow and I could feel his face cracking under my fist but I couldn’t stop. He stopped struggling but I couldn’t stop punching him. And then the hate drained and I looked at what I’d done. I climbed off him. If he’s dead, I’ll hang and it’ll all be for naught. Damn you, Jack! I knew he’d be laughing from hell while I hung.
His chest rose a little, and snot and blood bubbled from his nose. I’d an urge to kick the last ounce of life out of him but I held back. Instead I walked down to the green pond and washed my hands. When I got back he’d gone.
I knew I’d sealed my own fate. Jack would tell Mr O’Neill I fell upon him. I could be sent before the magistrate for less ’n I’d done to Jack, but they never came for me. Even so, Jack would have his revenge.
It were two days later when I first smelled the smoke. Sometimes the men would burn out old stumps or clear dry grass for new shoots to come through, so I thought nothing of it. It weren’t until I seen ash lying on what were left of the pond and falling in the slants of the afternoon sun I realised it were more ’n stumps burning. I couldn’t see no smoke but I could smell the burning eucalyptus strong in the air. Nelson could sense it too and wandered restlessly. I were about to head down the track and find out what were happening when Sean turned up.
“Ther
e’s a scrub fire about ten or twenty mile out. Mr O’Neill says it’s naught to worry about but he wants you to pen the sheep and keep them penned until he gives the all clear.”
I nodded. “What do I do if the fire comes here?”
“Mr O’Neill says he’ll send one of the men to get you if the fire gets too close. He wants you to clear as much grass away from the pens as possible. ’Tis not likely the fire will come this far but it’s just to be on the safe side.”
“What about my hut?”
“Ah, you’re a prince worried about his castle. Forget the bloody hut. ’Tis the sheep you’re to look after.” I must’ve looked worried because he added, “Don’t fret, lad, it’s only a precaution.”
I penned the sheep like I were told and waited. I thought it were safer to sleep outside in case the fire did come. The birds had gone and there were a quietness in the air, like all the bush were holding its breath and waiting. The next morning the sheep were restless in the pens. I weren’t sure how long I were supposed to keep them in there. Would he tell me when I should let them out? The sheep needed to be watered but I didn’t want to risk Mr O’Neill’s anger if I let them out and they scattered, so I shut my ears to the bleating and continued to hack away at any grass with the scrub hook.
By afternoon the smoke were blowing in thick clouds and ash were falling steadily. The day were darkening fast and I began to think I’d been forgotten. I hurried down the track what ran alongside the creek and Nelson followed. As I ran, the feeling I were alone grew more and more. I had to keep stopping as the smoke twisted over the track.
When I finally got to the homestead, there were a state of confusion. Drays were being loaded with furniture and men were collecting everything of value and carrying it to where Mr O’Neill were shouting orders.
“What’s going on?” I asked Sean, who were moving tools out of the sheds.
“Mr O’Neill wants it all out, ready in case we have to make a run for it. What we can get on the dray, we’re loading now. The rest we’re moving into the open, away from the buildings. You can give us a hand.”
“I’ve got to see Mr O’Neill,” I said. “I don’t know what he wants me to do.”
Mr O’Neill seen me before I reached him. His shirt were open and his clothes marked with soot. “What the hell are you doing here? Why aren’t you with the bloody sheep?”
“I thought you might’ve forgotten.”
“I told you I’d send for you if the fire got too close. Have you penned the sheep?”
“I penned them yesterday.”
“Keep them like that till I tell you to let them out. I want you to get back there and stay back there. I’ll send Jack when it’s all clear.”
“Why Jack?”
“Don’t bloody question me or I’ll boot you so hard you’ll be back there on your arse before you know it.”
I nodded. What else were there to say?
“If you lose the sheep because you don’t follow my instruction, then you’ll know about it.”
I ran back up the track. Why Jack? kept playing in my mind. What if he tells me to loose the sheep and it’s not what Mr O’Neill has said? The fear were writhing like a belly full of snakes.
The fire came that night.
I could hear the cracking of timbers before I seen anything. There were a red glow across the sky and the moon failed to appear. The fire were coming the opposite way to the homestead at the far end of the valley and I realised Mr O’Neill may not know it were now so close. I thought of trying to herd the sheep down the track, but it were too dark and maybe Mr O’Neill were right – they’d be safest in the pens. Then I couldn’t stand it no longer. I weren’t going to stay and be burned to death. To hell with the sheep.
I’d never walked the track in darkness before and now I were trying to run it as fast as I could. Blind panic drove me on to get to the homestead to be with the others. To hell with what Mr O’Neill would think. He could call me goose-livered if he wanted but I had to get away.
In the dark the track seemed much longer. Twice I fell and I wondered if I were still heading the right way. I kept thinking I should be there now.
Ash were falling steady and it were difficult to breathe. When I finally reached the homestead and the outbuildings, I expected men to be moving frantically around the buildings, and Mr O’Neill to be shouting orders. Everything were darkened to a menacing silence. I called out as I ran again but were only met with the echoes of my own cry. Nelson barked beside me.
As I reached the overseers cottage I noticed what at first I thought were a large dog tied up to one of the posts. As I got closer I realised it were the milking goat. Her udder hung large beneath her as she got up. My heart raced. There were still people in the cottage. The goat tugged wildly to get away at my approach. I wanted to put my hand against her muzzle but I were too eager to get inside. Perhaps they were waiting for me. The door hung loose and I barged in.
“Mr O’Neill,” I called, even now aware I weren’t allowed to enter his cottage.
But the house were bare. It’d been stripped. I ran to the main homestead and up the steps, grabbing hold of one of the verandah posts.
“Hello!” I screamed. A wave of smoke broke over me and I gagged and coughed as I called. Panic were gripping me now. It too were silent.
I ran to the shed but when I got there the doors were wide open. Even before I went inside I knew what I’d find. The horses, the buggy, the dray, it were all gone. How long? How long had they been gone? Maybe they’d come back. Maybe they were clearing things out in loads. My first thought were to run after them. Perhaps even now they’d sent someone to fetch me, but I knew in my heart no one were coming. Jack wouldn’t have come. And maybe Mr O’Neill had never sent him.
Then everything changed and I were looking at myself as though in a dream. It were as though time had stopped and I were stepping outside of the hurly-burly. So this were it. This were how I would die. I walked calmly back towards Mr O’Neill’s cottage. The goat were still struggling wildly against the tether. It were all so clear to me. The goat and me were the same; tethered for fear we’d run away. Mr O’Neill and the others would come back when the fire had passed and would see which of us had survived.
I grabbed the leather strap and pulled at the ends until the goat were free. “To hell with you,” I screamed into the smoke. “To hell with you all.”
I weren’t going to give in. I weren’t going to lay down and die. Part of me were calm and fierce determined. I had to get to somewhere safe. I had to try and get to the sinkhole. I looked back towards the track but there were too much smoke to see anything other than the red glow across the treetops.
The winds roared black, rushing from behind as I crossed the creek. It were a hot wind like I never felt before. Like hell had opened its jaws. I still couldn’t see flames but I could feel the heat in the wind as it pressed against my back. I found a pool of water. It were only ankle deep so I dipped my shirt in it and wrapped it around my face. Even as I did my breathing became a little easier. I didn’t know my way in the dark. I might miss the place completely or be overtaken by the flames before I could get there but I were determined. Not just that I wouldn’t die but that I wouldn’t give Jack or Mr O’Neill or Cain the satisfaction.
Instinct more ’n direction kept telling me to climb upwards. Ahead of me, I knew the great finger of cliff loomed. The trees seemed to close together in front of me and I lost the path. It were only when I reached the first of the boulders, that I gained my bearing again and reckoned which direction to turn. As I turned I seen the fire for the first time. Through shadows and smoke, the valley below were stretched across with a line of red like advancing soldiers. Already I could tell it’d crossed the creek where my hut stood and were moving up the mountain to my left. It moved with terrifying speed bursting through the branches and exploding gums before it. The wind picked up further and snarled with animal ferocity. I knew it would be upon me any moment.
The
smoke plunged, wrapped around me, forcing me down to the ground. As I tumbled back around, I were sure I’d found the place where I climbed down to the edge of the hole. It were impossible to keep my eyes open. Even if I might have, the smoke were so thick that nothing seemed familiar. The shirt what stretched across my mouth no longer held off the smoke. The moisture from the creek had dried. Somewhere amidst the roaring, I could hear Nelson bark in a panic. My lungs ached. I were no longer coughing up spit, there were only dry hacking coughs what forced me to gasp more. The weight of the smoke pushed me down and for a moment I lay there in the dry litter and grass. Perhaps I would be dead before the fire burned me. Perhaps the pain wouldn’t be so bad. How long did it take for fire to burn away breath and memory?
It were that thought what roused me. With groping fingers I made my way along, blinded, lungs exploding. The rock dipped away and I knew I were there. The rocks scraped as I scrambled towards the edge of the hole, then tumbled down.
Above, the fire roared in a tempest of flame but I’d already crossed to the underworld. I were part of another place cut off from what were happening above. I heard the sounds of my own gasping filling in the void. Lungs grasping for air, choking. All around me the sídhe whispered in the soft eddies of wind calling me to look at them. Beyond that, in the blackness echoed the sound of water. I dragged myself further downward towards the sound, into the darkness.
The coroner concluded that Will’s grandfather had been dead for more than a day when they found him. It was likely that he was dead even before the search began. Nothing more they could have done, the police said. It was good that the deceased had been located so quickly. The only mystery was how he’d got so far. He was old and he was strange. Old people didn’t always die neatly. What was important was that the case could be neatly concluded. Cause of death, the coroner determined: myocardial infarction as a result of acute restrictive cardiomyopathy. The old man had a heart attack.
