She looked over her shoulder. Nothing stirred behind those shuttered windows and the sound of his snoring drifted into the sleepy dawn.
With sharp, trembling breaths, she climbed the fence and dropped down into the paddock. Most of the horses were partially broken brumbies and would have meant a swifter escape, but the old mare was her only option. She’d been around for as long as Matilda could remember, and unlike the others could be relied on to return to the home paddock when set free.
The brumbies whickered and tossed their heads, milling back and forth as she approached Mervyn’s bay mare. ‘Shhh, Lady. It’s all right, girl. We’re just going for a ride,’ she whispered, stroking the soft nose.
Lady rolled her eyes and stamped her feet as Matilda grasped her mane and hauled herself painfully on to her back.
‘Whoa there, girl. Calm down,’ she soothed. Matilda’s cheek rested on the twitching neck as she whispered into the pricked ears, but her fingers were tightly woven into the coarse mane. Lady was used to Mervyn’s rough handling and heavy weight – there was no knowing how she would react to this strange behaviour, and Matilda didn’t want to risk being thrown.
With the canvas water bag slung over her back, and the shawl bundle hooked over her arm, she urged the mare forward and opened the gate at the far end of the paddock. Rounding up the others as she would a mob of sheep, she spent precious minutes encouraging the brumbies to leave their grazing and lead her out into the wider pastures of Churinga station.
Once they got a taste for the unexpected freedom they were off, and Matilda grinned as she kicked her heels into Lady’s ribs and galloped after them. They would take a long time to round up, but it should give her a head start. For without a horse, Mervyn had little chance of catching her.
* * *
Thunder rumbled in the distance of his dream and Mervyn tensed, waiting for the flash of lightning and the drum of rain on the corrugated roof. When it didn’t come, he turned over and burrowed more comfortably into the pillows.
Yet sleep, now broken, was elusive, and he found he couldn’t settle. There was something wrong with the image of thunder. Something that didn’t sit easily in his mind.
He opened a bleary eye and tried to focus on the empty bed beside him. There was something wrong about that too – but his head hurt and coherent thought was fogged by the need for a drink. His mouth tasted sour, and as he ran his tongue over his dry lips, he winced from the sting of a deep cut he had no recollection of receiving.
‘Must have fell over,’ he muttered, testing it with his tongue. ‘Mary! Where the hell are you?’ he yelled.
The drummer behind his eyes beat a painful tattoo and he fell back into the pillows with a groan. Bloody woman was never around when she was needed.
He lay there, his mind drifting aimlessly through the fog of pain. ‘Mary,’ he groaned. ‘Get in here, woman.’
There was no answering rat-a-tat-tat of hurrying footsteps, no rattle of pots from the kitchen or bustle of activity in the yard. It was too quiet.
Mervyn rolled off the bed and gingerly stood up. His leg throbbed with the same rhythm as his head, and the wasted thigh muscle trembled as he put his weight on it. Where the hell was everybody? How dare they leave him here like this?
He lurched for the door and threw it open. It crashed against the wall, triggering off a memory that was fleeting and seemed to make no sense. He dismissed it and staggered into the deserted kitchen. He needed a drink.
As the last of the whisky slid down his throat and muffled the drummers in his head, Mervyn took stock of his surroundings. There was no porridge bubbling on the range, no billy steaming, no Mary. He opened his mouth to yell for her – then remembered. Mary was in the ground. Had been for more than two weeks.
His legs suddenly refused to support him, and he slumped into a chair. A coldness swept over him that no amount of whisky could warm as memory returned full force.
‘What have I done?’ he whispered into that terrible silence.
The chair toppled over as he thrust away from the table. He had to find Matilda. Had to explain – to make her understand it was the whisky that had made him do such a thing.
Her room was deserted. The splintered door hanging on one hinge, the bed a bloody reminder of what he’d done. Tears streamed down his face. ‘I didn’t mean it, girl. I thought you was Mary,’ he sobbed.
He listened to the silence, then sniffed back the tears and stepped into the room. She was probably hiding but he needed to see her, to convince her it had all been a terrible mistake. ‘Where are you, Molly?’ he called softly. ‘Come to Daddy.’ The childhood endearment Mary had used was deliberate – he hoped she might respond to it more easily.
There was still no reply, no rustle to betray her hiding place. He flicked back the soiled sheet and looked under the bed. Opened the heavy wardrobe door and fumbled in its dark, empty recesses. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and tried to think. She must have gone to the barn or one of the other outbuildings.
He limped back into the kitchen, saw the bottle on the table and swiped it to the floor where it crashed with a satisfying explosion of glass. ‘Never again,’ he muttered. ‘Never, ever again.’
His crippled leg dragged his foot on the floor as he hurried for the screen door, and as he was about to step on to the verandah, something caught his eye. It wasn’t something that was there – but something which should have been.
Mervyn stopped and looked at the naked hook, and as he pondered the disappearance of the water bag, other things began to fit into place. The wardrobe had been empty. Matilda’s boots weren’t under the bed, and Mary’s shawl was gone from the bedpost.
The tears dried as remorse and self-pity were replaced by fear. Where the hell was she? And how long had she been gone?
The sun was still rising, its glare hitting his eyes and making his head throb. He rammed his hat low and headed for the barns and outhouses. She had to be here – somewhere. Even Matilda wasn’t stupid enough to run off, not with the nearest neighbours almost a hundred miles away.
He gave a brief thought to the drovers who’d ridden out with the mob a couple of days ago. She might come across them, but they would know to keep their mouths shut if they valued their jobs. Yet it was the idea of her making it to Wilga, and that nosy-parker Finlay and his wife, that truly bothered him. That would be bad enough – but what if she’d headed for Kurrajong and Ethan?
Icy terror made his pulse drum and quickened his shambling walk. He had to find her – and quickly.
Moments later he was approaching the home paddock, saddle and bridle in hand, a fresh water bag sloshing at his back. He was angry and afraid. If Matilda made it to Wilga or Kurrajong then his life at Churinga would be over. Fast talking and lies wouldn’t save him this time.
He crossed the yard and came to an abrupt halt. The home paddock was deserted, the far gate open. The pastures beyond stretched emptily towards the horizon. Rage tore through him as he threw his saddle to the ground. Unlike Ethan Squires, his money didn’t stretch to a ute and without a horse he would never catch the devious little bitch.
He lit a cigarette, then picking up his saddle, fretted and fumed his way through the long grass. She shouldn’t have drunk that whisky and sat on his knee if she hadn’t been willing. If she was old enough for that, then she was old enough for other things. Neither should she have looked so like her ma and treated him like dirt if she didn’t expect to be punished.
And anyway, he thought as he finally reached the open gate at the far end of the paddock, she’s probably not even my daughter. It was obvious something had been going on between Mary and Ethan – and if the rumours were true, it had begun long before Mary had become Mervyn’s wife. That would explain Patrick’s extraordinary offer of Churinga in exchange for his daughter’s marriage to Mervyn, and why Mary and Ethan had plotted to cheat him.
Having convinced himself he’d done nothing wrong, he pushed back his hat and stared moodily into the distance.
Matilda had to be found. She must not be allowed to tell anyone what had happened. They wouldn’t understand. And, besides, it was none of their damn business.
His heated thoughts stilled and he grew tense. Something was moving out there but too far away for him to tell what it could be. He shielded his eyes and watched the dark speck emerge from the shimmering heat haze. The brumby pricked its ears as Mervyn whistled, and after a few nervous twitches of its mane, curiosity drew it into a canter.
Mervyn stood rock steady, waiting for the animal to reach him. The horse was young and had obviously become separated from the herd. He’d found isolation bewildering and had returned to the only place he knew.
Mervyn’s impatience was hard to contain as the horse dithered and twitched just out of reach. He knew from experience that rough handling or sudden noise would make the brumby bolt again so he took time to talk to it, to calm it before saddling up. Once astride, he studied the tracks of the other brumbies and followed them. The churned earth marked their passage well, but after an hour there were separate tracks of a single horse being ridden in a straight line.
That line headed south – towards Wilga.
* * *
Matilda had given Lady her head and the first few miles were covered swiftly. Now the mare was tiring and they’d slowed to an easy trot. No horse, let alone one as old as Lady, could be expected to gallop far in this heat. It was better to take it easy than to risk her getting injured or blown.
The morning was advanced, the sun high and fierce. Watery mirages shimmered on the parched earth and the silver grass rustled beneath Lady’s hooves. The vast emptiness engulfed them, the sound of its silence coming back as a sibilant echo. If Matilda hadn’t been so intent on escape, she would not have been afraid. For this harsh, beautiful land was as much a part of her as breathing.
Its grandeur piqued her senses, the raw colours jolting some deep part of her that yearned to embrace it – and be embraced by it. Yet within that ancient landscape was the soft beauty of delicate leaves, of pale flowers and ashen bark, the sweet aroma of wattle and pine, and the joyous trill of the skylark.
Matilda shifted on the mare’s back. Her discomfort had grown more intense as the miles lengthened between her and Churinga, but there was no time to rest. She mopped the sweat from her face and adjusted the brim of her old felt hat. The water in the bag was warm and tasted brackish, but despite her thirst, she knew it must be rationed. The nearest water hole was still miles away.
After another long, sweeping search of the horizon behind her still revealed no sign of Mervyn, she settled as best she could on the mare’s broad back and concentrated on the view between Lady’s ears. The steady rhythm of plodding hooves became a lullaby, the heat embracing her in the languid cocoon of carelessness.
The snake had been coiled in a narrow cleft of corrugated earth, hidden from the sun by an overhang of scrub grass. The vibration of the approaching horse had woken it, bringing it sharply alert. Red-brown coils slithered in the dirt as forked tongue flickered and unblinking eyes watched the girl and the horse.
Matilda’s chin rested low and her eyes were heavy-lidded with the enticement of sleep. Her fingers loosened their clutch on the mane as she drooped towards Lady’s neck.
Sharp hoof rang on stony ground. Scrub grass tore. The snake whipped powerful coils, fangs unsheathed, yellow eyes fixed on their target. It struck hard and fast.
The mare reared as venom spewed. Her hooves flashed as she pawed the air and screamed in terror. Wild-eyed, she tossed her head, nostrils flared, back legs dancing over the shale.
Matilda grabbed for the wildly flying mane, her knees and feet instinctively clinging to the animal’s sides.
The mare’s flaying hooves crashed back to earth. Matilda’s grip was torn from the mane and she clung to the sweating, straining neck. Lady reared again to resume the twisting, dancing fight for escape, and Matilda’s desperate efforts to stay on board were over. The red earth rushed to meet her.
Lady pranced on her back legs, eyes rolling, lips peeled back as she trampled the ground. Matilda fought for breath as she rolled away from those crashing, deadly hooves – and all the while wondered where the King Brown had gone.
With a snort and a toss of her head, Lady wheeled around and tore back the way she’d come. Dust rose around her, the earth vibrated with the thud of her hooves, and Matilda was left far behind in a bruised heap. ‘Come back,’ she shrieked. ‘Lady, come back.’
But there was only a cloud of dust tracing the mare’s departure – and eventually even that had disappeared.
Matilda gingerly felt her arms and legs. There seemed to be no bones broken but through the tattered remains of her shirt she could see she was badly grazed. She closed her eyes in an attempt to still the spinning shock of the speed and ferocity of her fall, but the knowledge the snake could be close by meant she had little time to recover.
Hauling herself to her feet, she picked up the water bag and bundle and stood for a moment in the silence. The snake was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t lurking.
‘Pull yourself together,’ she muttered. ‘It’s probably more scared than Lady after all that noise, and long gone by now.’
She settled her hat firmly over her forehead and hitched her belongings over her shoulder as she took stock of her situation. The elliptical rise of blue-grey the Aborigines called Tjuringa mountain was closer now. Wilga lay on the other side of the eucalyptus and pine-covered mountain but she knew it would take many hours’ walking before she would catch first sight of it.
With a trembling sigh she scanned the horizon. Lady was gone but there was still no sign of Mervyn. Matilda lifted her chin and set out. There was water at the foot of Tjuringa, and shelter. If she could make it by nightfall, then she could rest.
* * *
Mervyn was driven by fear and uncertainty as to how much of a start she’d had on him. He dug in his spurs and the horse lengthened its stride, nimble feet racing over the hard, unforgiving ground. The sun was high, and after they’d been travelling for several hours, he knew the brumby was close to exhaustion. He’d ridden hard yet there was still no sign of her, still no dust plume following her trail. He reined in and slid from the saddle.
He could have done with a proper drink but water from the skin bag would have to do. Swilling the leather-tainted water around his mouth, he let it soak into his dry tongue before swallowing it. Then he filled his hat and offered it to the horse. The animal drank deeply, its sides still heaving from the ride, its neck flecked with sweat. When they had both had enough to keep them going, Mervyn rammed the wet, cool hat back on his head and led the horse forward. He would walk for a while in the animal’s shade, and once they’d reached the water hole at the base of Tjuringa, they could cool off and drink all they wanted.
Flies swarmed as heat rebounded off the rough shale and jagged boulders. A hawk floated above the shimmering grassland, an effortless predator in search of prey. Mervyn’s thoughts were grim. Not for him the easy hunt or far-seeing eye of a hawk, but the endless trudge beneath a burning sun for a quarry that had so far out-witted him. The thought of how he would punish her when he did find her was what kept him going. That – and the fear of discovery.
His mind wandered back to Gallipoli. Back to the night he’d crept from the stinking hole in the ground that had become a graveyard for so many of his mates. The night discovery had been averted by his quick thinking and cunning.
He’d been in the thick of things for months, and the blast and crump of Turkish shells jangled in his mind long after the barrage was over. He’d twitched from it, relived every sight and sound of the carnage they had just come through. The stink of cordite and blood was always with him – as was the terror. It made him sweat and shake and cringe in the mud. Maddened him with a claustrophobic panic he could no longer control.
Mervyn remembered how he’d slipped away under cover of darkness, the survivors around him muttering in their sleep, rifle
s hugged to their chests for comfort. He’d scurried through the trenches, working his way further and further from the front line and certain death. Like a hunted animal, he’d searched for a bolt-hole, the merest shelter where the shells couldn’t find him and death no longer rode his back.
Skirting the command post which nestled in a sheltered basin several hundred yards from the beach head, he’d finally found what he’d been looking for. He crawled past a dead body that must have been overlooked by the medics and into a narrow, dank cave where he slumped to the ground, hands over his head, knees drawn to his chin.
Sporadic fire echoed in the walls around him, making him whimper and cringe. He wanted it to go away – to leave him be. He couldn’t bear it any longer.
He didn’t hear the scrape of boots on the cavern floor or see the soldier’s approach.
‘Get up, you lousy coward.’
Mervyn looked up. A bayonet was inches from his face. ‘Leave me,’ he pleaded. ‘I can’t go back up there.’
‘Dirty yellow dingo! I oughta shoot you right here and let you rot.’ The bayonet stabbed the air between them. ‘On yer feet.’
Mervyn’s head was filled with a red haze. Terror of the trenches became secondary to the threat he now faced. The court martial would be swift, the firing squad a certainty. He was cornered. All he could do was attack – and before he realised what he was doing, the rifle he’d carried against the enemy was firing at a fellow Aussie.
The retort bounced off the walls and filled his head. A dull thud in his knee brought him to the floor and he lay stunned for a long moment, wondering what had happened. When the red mist cleared and his senses stopped jangling, he looked across the enclosed space.
The other man was down, rifle discarded beside him. There was no movement, no sound of breathing, and as Mervyn crawled towards him, he realised why. The man had no face. Mervyn’s bullet had blown it away.
Matilda's Last Waltz Page 4
