Facing the Flame

by Jackie French

  The Sunday morning fire brigades’ radio and equipment checks had been more vigorous. Even kids had been taught how to use the hoses, as soon as they were big enough that the force didn’t crash them to the ground. The clinic’s shed was stocked with hay and lucerne to feed penned animals if fire burned not just the paddocks but the high plains where stock ranged in summer. And now they waited, assuming fire would come.

  Maybe Flinty was the only person in the valley now who doubted not that the fire would come — she knew that in her bones or brain, or wherever else knowledge waited when it wasn’t actively needed — but that it would be as bad as she predicted. So much had changed in the past decade. The new highway to the valley meant there would be twenty or more fire trucks there as soon as the wind changed and blew the mountain fire towards them — in a few days, if the brightness of the stars last night had been a guide.

  For unimaginable aeons this land had burned when lightning struck dry trees; had burned till it ran out of fuel, or rain had put it out. For sixty millennia or so, humans had burned careful mosaics, preventing any great conflagration, keeping the fire from land where the species would not recover. Fire-stick farming, white people called it now, pretending to do the same with their ‘burning off’, which too often created both fires and fire-prone landscapes, filled with shrubs that thrived on flames. Ironically the land that white bureaucrats tried to keep safe was now more flammable than it had ever been before. Good intentions without deep understanding could kill.

  Only a handful understood the art of mosaic burning these days and no one around here. Including herself. Rose Clancy had taught her many things, but not the art of how and when to burn.

  Most of what Flinty knew about fighting fire came from the old-time white settlers, like the Macks, the Greens, the Whites: light a fire at the base of the hill to starve a fire burning down it, for fire travels upwards fast, but downhill slowly. Never build on the crest of a hill, for fire leaps from ridge to ridge . . .

  Much was common sense. Common sense, however, was rarely common. Most people were too scared to face the thought that tomorrow might not always be identical to today.

  A hot fire burned even earth. Flinty had seen parts of the mountains where the scorched soil was packed as hard as bitumen, glinting glasslike, where it would take three or four human generations for seeds to wriggle shoots down and eventually take root.

  Flinty sighed. Rock Farm was built of stone and hardwood, with hardwood shutters over the windows. It had survived fire before, as long as there were people to fight for it, extinguishing embers before they had a chance to burn through the roof or window frames.

  The horses were safe, Old Downer already in the Macks’ paddock down by the clinic with the other evacuated stock. It was easier to protect one crowded paddock than many, especially as it was surrounded by a firebreak and away from tall timber.

  Nicholas had promised to move Mountain Lion from the paddock across the river from River View to the evacuation paddocks at Drinkwater if there was fire near Gibber’s Creek. She’d have preferred he went there now, but that would be an imposition — Michael and Nancy would have to hand-feed the stock brought close in to the homestead once the grass in crowded paddocks was gone, and continue to feed them afterwards for weeks or months if the fire came as close as she feared. Best Mountain Lion grazed free while he could — especially as, being a stallion, he couldn’t safely be put in with other horses.

  She hauled herself to her feet. It wasn’t just her back that complained these days, but her knees as well. And knuckles before the rain . . .

  Her knuckles felt fine. There would be no rain. But there would be fire. Possibly, even probably, there would be fire here.

  She did not just love this land. She was part of it, as it was part of her. Without it, Flinty McAlpine would be no more.

  If fire came to her mountain, she knew what she would have to do.

  Chapter 17

  TUESDAY, 7 FEBRUARY 1978

  LU

  Elation vanished at two am, when a possum jumped on her cottage roof from the one next door, waking her from a deep sleep. There was still a vast reality shock when the nighttime darkness didn’t fade. The River View roofs were made of casuarina shingles, someone had said, as if the fact could possibly interest her.

  So she’d spent hours leading a horse around a ring. Big deal. And ridden him around the ring too. She could still feel his warmth, his muscles, the deep connection between horse and rider . . .

  It had been incredible. But it only showed her there could be a future for her. It had also shown all too clearly how much she had lost.

  Because, yes, there would be a role for her at Joe’s yards. Office work, assuming she did that typing and shorthand course, even helping break horses in. Maybe, because Joe was kind and loved her as his own daughter, even being part of discussions about bloodlines and what to buy or accept to train.

  But the true work of a training stable? Watching a horse when it was led out into the ring at an auction and knowing, ‘Yes. That’s a goer,’ or ‘Dud,’ despite what the stud breeder and pedigree promised. Watching the trials, seeing how a horse had the will to win, to fire itself beyond any other horse on the track; judging if a jockey should give the horse its head early or hold it back till near the end.

  Racing wasn’t about how fast a horse could go. Most well-bred racehorses were pretty much equal when it came to speed and even stamina. The true skill was knowing them, being able to assess the combination of horse, track, jockey, weather and the other horses to make a winner.

  You had to be able to see to do that. And even if you didn’t, how many owners would trust their horse to a blind trainer?

  She slept at last, then woke with the breakfast bell, showered, carefully placing her clothes exactly so, gliding her hand down the tiles to reach the soap. Three steps and turn left to find the towel . . .

  Once she had shoved all her underwear into a drawer. Now everything was arranged: underpants to the left, bras in the middle, pantyhose over there, all neatly folded so there’d be no tangles.

  Her cane snickered its way along the gravel paths. She heard wheelchairs and feet move back for her. Right of way for the blind girl . . .

  A small rise, and the cane lost contact with the stone edging of the path. She turned right towards the dining hall, her stick sweeping in front of her.

  Boring breakfast. Fruitless day, because Nicholas would be waiting to give her what he thought would be a treat, a ride beyond the yard. And she would take it because she could not bear to miss it, because she needed to get to Mountain Lion again, to do something that meant that for a short while she didn’t need eyes.

  The cane told her the door was open. She tapped her way in.

  The loosely held stick vanished from her hand.

  She stood, thinking. It had vanished up, not from in front of her or sideways . . .

  ‘George!’ she yelled.

  A giggle above her.

  ‘Have you got my cane?’

  ‘No. The monkey has it.’

  ‘Is the monkey named George?’

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘George, give that back to Lu at once. How can she get to breakfast without it?’

  Lu turned automatically towards Matron, then deliberately tried to make it seem as if she was looking at her, eye to eye.

  ‘It’s no trouble at all,’ she said coolly, angry at Matron for thinking she knew what was best for all of them, taunting her with a horse like Mountain Lion just to get rid of her; disciplining George, who did know what he wanted to do, at least for now. George wanted to do what no one else here could manage, despite his useless legs. ‘I’m okay without the cane.’

  She heard George giggle above her and the scuffle as he swung further away among the rafters. Whoever had designed this place had either made it perfect for a monkey boy, or never dreamed a crippled child might head for the ceiling.

  Right. Now she had to manage to get her breakfast
stickless. How many steps had she taken already?

  She tried to visualise, except of course it was not visual. English needed another word. Visionary visual? Four steps this way, and she could walk down to the buffet. Yes, that was it. Slowly, slowly, to give everyone a chance to get their feet or chairs out of the way. Her ears helped now, the chatter at each table, the squeak of wheelchairs and the thud of callipers at the buffet. She reached out a hand.

  Made it. Cereal to the right, trays beyond that. Slowly again, fingers questioning. Tray, cutlery, bowl. Cornflakes, muesli, Weet-Bix always in the same place. She took muesli, found the milk without spilling the whole bottle, reached out to the fruit bowl and took four bananas, turned, walked and hesitated. Which seat was vacant?

  A wheelchair pulled out a few metres away. She followed the noise, stopped where she thought it began, stepped forwards till her legs met the table, carefully not spilling her bowl. Right, tray on table, find a chair. Sit. Find bowl, find cutlery, move them onto the table, put bananas at two o’clock, lean the tray next to her chair legs so no one tripped on it, begin to eat.

  Spoon down till it meets muesli. Tilt spoon. Fill spoon. Lift spoon. Wait for drips of milk to drop. Lift spoon to mouth. Open just before the spoon arrives. Place spoon in mouth . . .

  She felt a slight breeze in front of her. ‘I’m sorry,’ said George, above. ‘Here’s your cane.’

  Probably dangling above the table as he hung by his legs. She’d known he’d give it back to her as soon as he’d proved his independence to Matron.

  She reached out slowly, found it, closed her fingers over it, waited for it to drop into her hand, for if she pulled it she might unbalance George. She placed it carefully against the table, then grinned up to where she supposed he was. ‘Want a reward?’

  ‘What?’ The small voice was suspicious.

  ‘A banana. Monkeys love bananas. Bet you can’t get it.’

  ‘Bet I can.’

  She held the banana as high as she could, waiting for Matron’s voice to say, ‘Don’t encourage him, Lu.’

  It didn’t come. Interesting. Either Matron wasn’t there or . . . no, she could smell Matron’s violet perfume . . . She held up the banana.

  Something scuffled above. She heard Matron draw in her breath. But she still didn’t protest.

  ‘Two bananas,’ said George, still from above her.

  She held up another one. Hands met hers briefly, then the bananas were gone.

  ‘Are you sure you’re blind?’ asked George’s voice, close above her, far too close to still be up on the rafters.

  ‘Pretty sure. Why?’

  ‘You act like you can see.’

  It was as if he had given her a small glowing stone on which she could build a future. The joy of it almost made her weep.

  ‘You don’t act like you can’t use your legs,’ she managed. She could hear his breathing, above her left cheek. Feel the faint warmth of it too.

  ‘I can use my legs. I just use them differently.’ Lu heard a rustle vanish upwards.

  Lu turned to the violet perfume. ‘How did he do that? He couldn’t have reached my hand hanging from the rafters.’

  ‘He tied the sleeve of his shirt to a rafter. Tied the other sleeve to his waist and dangled down. He’s just clambered back up,’ said Matron dryly.

  ‘You didn’t stop him!’

  She could almost see the smile. ‘My dear girl, I am far too old to climb up into the rafters. And if I ordered George to come down, he’d have disobeyed. As it is, I only have to reprimand him for one thing this morning — taking your cane.’

  There was amusement in the voice now. Lu suddenly realised how fond Matron was of the kid. Possibly of them all. ‘How do you reprimand a boy who climbs out his window when you try to confine him to a dormitory; who would rather climb than watch TV so telling him he can’t watch his favourite TV show won’t stop him; and, when you ask him to write out I must not climb in the dining hall a hundred times, accidentally leaves out the not? Besides,’ Matron lowered her voice, ‘it’s good for him to climb.’

  ‘Good therapy?’

  Matron sounded surprised. ‘I suppose so. No, I meant . . .’ She pulled out a chair, sat. The others at the table must have gone already, for the room was quiet as she said, ‘It’s hard for kids brought up in an institution to be individuals. To work out who they are, what they want. We do our best, but we are all too aware we can guide them in exactly the wrong direction, with only the best of intentions. It’s a joy when there’s a kid who knows what they love.’

  ‘Like George?’

  ‘I was actually thinking more of Scarlett Kelly-O’Hara. You’ve met her a few times, haven’t you? She lived here for most of her life. She’s studying medicine at Sydney Uni. She has a true passion for it. As for George,’ there was definitely a smile this time, ‘I think the days of circuses and the flying trapeze may be over, but George knows exactly who he is.’

  ‘He may invent a new kind of circus. You never know,’ said Lu.

  ‘No. You never do,’ said Matron. ‘But I suspect that now George knows who he is, and what he loves, he’ll make a way to fit those into whatever he finds in the future. And here’s Nicholas. You need to drink something before you head out,’ she added, matron-like again. ‘Orange juice or pineapple?’

  ‘Coffee,’ said Lu. Coffee was not offered at River View, though she had smelled it from the kitchen, where she supposed the staff drank it — instant, which Joe would laugh at.

  ‘White or black?’

  ‘Black. Thank you.’ She carefully kept the surprise from her voice. Twice today Matron had treated her like a human being and an adult, not a patient and a child.

  ‘I’ll bring some for Nicholas too.’ Matron’s footsteps clicked towards the kitchen.

  Lu grabbed a couple of apples from the fruit bowl before she and Nicholas left the dining hall . . . No, that was what she could have done, a year back. Today she walked slowly, carefully, to the counter, swinging the cane in front of her, found the bowl, located the apples, thrust them in her pockets — because these days she always wore clothes with pockets to leave her hands free to feel the world.

  It was easier crossing the ford today; the water was lower than before. It felt warm about her legs, her jeans clinging to her skin, her boots and socks dangling in her free hand. They stopped on the other side while she put them on again. She couldn’t hear Nicholas do the same — she supposed he didn’t bother with shoes and socks these days. Lucky Nicholas . . .

  She stopped, startled. Lucky to have lost his legs? But he had functional legs, possibly better than real ones. And he could see. Not normal, of course, but normal was overrated, Joe said. A normal horse would never win the Melbourne Cup.

  She heard Mountain Lion stamp as he noticed them, smelled them. Possibly smelled the apples in her pockets too. She held out her hand for the halter. ‘I’ll do it. You stand back.’

  A hesitation, then, ‘Okay.’ The halter was pressed into her open palm. She closed her hand about it.

  She had become disoriented putting on her boots. Mountain Lion was surely watching her as she crossed the paddock in his general direction, swinging her cane in case of tussocks or horse droppings. She could feel his stillness as she walked to where she’d last heard him snort.

  Then, to her delight, there was a low whicker. She heard his hooves swishing through the dry grass as he stepped towards her. He stopped. But by now she could hear his breathing, smell the glorious smell of horse, sunshine and dust, knew that he was standing only a metre away from her.

  She stretched out her hand. He blew on her fingers. Her heart pounded with joy and certainty. Her bond with horses was still there. She could still feel them, understand them, know them. And this strong, extraordinary, wonderful horse accepted her as a calm authority figure in his life.

  She slipped the halter over his ears and headed to the yard.

  She knew the yard was slightly uphill from the river, so took the steepes
t route, not using the cane now, but letting the horse guide her, as she guided him. Mountain Lion walked beside her, neither reluctant nor impatient. She slowed only when she knew she was near the yard, tripping over two tussocks and squishing through one lot of wombat dung on the way.

  He waited at the closed gate. She fumbled as she found the chain and unlatched it — but she knew that if she repeated these actions enough, they would become simple and easy. She led Mountain Lion into the yard and grinned. And kept on grinning.

  She could do this! She could walk into a paddock, catch her horse and lead him to the yard. She stretched out her hand again, patted his neck, then tickled his nose, laughed when he butted her jacket and she pulled out an apple. He ate half of it from her hand, then took the rest, crunching it between his strong teeth.

  She found herself trembling suddenly, in triumph and anticipation mixed with fear. Because today had to be the day she rode Mountain Lion out into the paddock, the two of them, alone.

  She felt along the top rail until her fingers found the brush Nicholas had left on top of the gatepost so she could groom Mountain Lion before he was turned out. Today she wanted to brush him before saddling up. The open, unknown paddock would require a more cautious approach than had been necessary as they walked and trotted around the yard. She would be relying on Mountain Lion; he would be her eyes as well as her steed.

  Nicholas had come over before fetching her and had left the saddle on the top rail near the gate with the bridle hanging from a post beside it. She picked up the bridle and reached out with it in her hand, then felt Mountain Lion nudge her again.

  ‘The other apple is supposed to be a reward,’ she told him.

  The horse snorted in contempt.

  ‘Okay. Eat it now then.’