The Making of Martin Sparrow

by Peter Cochrane

  He bent low, his hands on his knees. ‘Mort’s gone,’ he said. Amicus was at his side.

  Sparrow got down on his haunches and waited there, quietly, hoping the girl’s fear might settle. He felt the butt end of the axe helve press into the dirt. His eyes were correcting for the dark. He could see her better now in the gloom, the sharp angles of her cheekbones narrowing to that tiny mouth and jaw, the straight hair cut short, it seemed, with some saw-toothed blunt old thing. ‘Mort’s gone, he cannot hurt you now,’ he said.

  60

  First light was probing the cave when Cuff woke to the call of his bladder. He rose with some difficulty, the blood slow to get moving, his senses awry. He steadied himself, his own right hand upon the stenciled palm on the wall. He trod the sandy floor to the lip of the cave, saw thick grey cloud shifting over the gorge, the river below, forcing to the sea, thrashing at the banks and the fringing trees.

  He followed a slender game track northward, watching the spectacle upriver, the spray like low cloud in a copse of ghostly white gums at the far end of the reach.

  Cuff knew, as he slipped and fell, that he should have watched his footing instead of the wild waters on the bend.

  He freefell some thirty feet and crashed arse first onto solid stone and from there tumbled onto the talus below, whereupon his helpless frame slid down a sharply angled declivity and clattered into the base of a coachwood tree and there came to rest on the leaf rot, sloughed in a heap, his body curled somewhat fetally around the trunk.

  He tried to move his legs but the movement visited great pain on his lower back. ‘Here I am.’ He tried to raise himself but the pain was unbearable. He lay still, heaving for breath, blood dripping from a gash on his forehead.

  When they found him they tried to move him, Bea and Sprodd, but he yelped with pain and told them no.

  ‘We gotta get you up,’ said Sprodd.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Cuff. He looked about. ‘Would you kindly retrieve my hat,’ he said to Sprodd.

  They waited while Cuff examined his hat and then they set to roll him onto his back but the slightest movement was too much pain and they relented.

  Sprodd poked about Cuff’s parts until he found the centre of the pain, low down. ‘That’s your tailbone, you’ve broke your tailbone.’

  ‘Of all the damn places to break my tailbone.’

  ‘Only place I know is down there near your arse.’

  The limits of Sprodd’s comprehension never failed to entertain Cuff even in extremis. ‘I mean here, in the damn wilderness.’

  ‘One way or another you gotta walk out o’ here.’

  ‘If it’s your tailbone it will mend,’ said Bea.

  ‘Can you walk?’ said Sprodd.

  ‘I got no choice.’ Cuff pressed his lips together and clenched his teeth and smothered the mighty yelp that rose up from deep within as they got him upright, his legs like mush and his back in sharp spasm. ‘Sweet Jesus,’ he said, and he sucked for air for the air seemed thin and poor and he could not get enough of it.

  They flanked him and he put his arms about them and they took his weight on their shoulders and held him there.

  ‘You’re up, that’s good,’ said Sprodd.

  ‘Cut me a stick.’

  ‘Alright.’

  The stick was more a staff, taller than Cuff, and there was a knobble about shoulder height that permitted the invalid to get a purchase whether with one hand or two.

  Cuff took the staff in two hands, his grip firm on the knobble, and Bea Faa moved away and watched as he shuffled forward, just a few steps, the pain etched on his face. He glanced in the direction of the cave, his possessions up there, haversack, blanket, Thyne Kunkle’s Swedish musket. ‘I doubt I can walk out o’ here,’ he said.

  ‘You got to, Thaddeus, you must.’

  Cuff chuckled. ‘I been dodgin’ the musts all my life and look now.’

  ‘Well, this must is the must of all musts and there’s no dodgin’ it.’

  ‘I gotta sit down, take the weight off.’

  They helped Cuff sit, taking some of the weight as he lowered himself ever so gingerly. He was puffing like he’d run a mile. Dan and Bea sat, flanking the invalid, watching the wild river. ‘You won’t see that in town,’ said Sprodd.

  A blanket of black cloud shifted low over the gorge.

  They looked skyward and saw the colours fade from the rim rock as the gloom set in and the rain harried into the canopy above them. Cuff studied the scene upriver, the floodwaters banking on the turn, the battered rocks like polished stone.

  He pressed his fingers into his tailbone. ‘Feels like I’m knifed,’ he said.

  ‘That’s a blessing, you can feel it,’ said Bea.

  ‘A blessing in the guise of sweet agony’.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Air’s so thin I can hardly . . . get enough.’

  Sprodd got up and turned about, searching the escarpment, trying to sight the cave through the timber and the rain.

  Cuff knew what was in Sprodd’s mind. ‘Dan, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You get your wishes in fairy tales Dan, that’s all.’

  ‘Well I wish I was in one now.’

  ‘Give a man his wish you take away his dreams.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Mean’s if we didn’t have wishes we’d have nothin’ come true.’

  ‘I wish you didn’t talk in riddles, that’s what I wish.’

  They sat watching the river, Cuff probing the cut on his forehead, close to the rim of his rescued hat.

  The rapids upstream had thickened to a white froth forcing through the narrows, the sound echoing about the gorge, the river swelling as if some denizen yeast was fermenting in the ooze.

  They sat in a line like gargoyles cut from the stone, hooded in their coats, the rain spilling off their hats.

  They watched wreckage coursing downstream, flood-wrack, scrub and slender saplings, tubers and orchids torn from rock footings, tangles of waterweed and rushes and all manner of dead and rootless understory and, far above, where the cliff tops touched the heavens, the felled rain spewed from cracks and clefts like pours of molten silver in that strange grey light. And the river boomed like cannon.

  ‘There’s a wall o’ water comin’,’ said Sprodd.

  Bea Faa looked upriver and tried to imagine what that meant.

  Sprodd was searching the escarpment for a way to the cave. ‘We got to move.’

  They got Cuff onto his feet, his exhalations fierce out his nose. They let him take the weight on his back and his legs and he did so with all the stoicism he could muster.

  Sprodd handed him the staff and he took hold of it with two hands, his face drained and pale beneath the broad brim of his hat.

  The hammering rain kept on, the river swelling like a reptile engorged.

  Sprodd led the way, Cuff inching along the makeshift path, Bea Faa close behind.

  ‘What I need’s a palanquin,’ said Cuff, loud.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Never mind, Dan, we ain’t got one.’

  Cuff leant against a tree and lowered himself down sucking and hissing. ‘That’s it, no more,’ he said. The rain battered the canopy and mud and leaf litter ran freely about their boots.

  They sat beside him. ‘Air’s so thin,’ he said, again.

  ‘Anything else?’ said Sprodd.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m wetter’n a fish.’

  The rapids now were lost in the depths and the river came down, that cascade shimmering like a molten flow, the glassy form shattering along the banks, the current tearing at the timber, lashing the stone, the water gums bent low, quivering, the eddies piled up with froth and wreckage.

  They got Cuff to his feet and they stood there, Bea and Sprodd, treading the slush beneath their boots, their fingers working the cold from their shoulders.

  Cuff pivoted his upper ha
lf with some care. Studied the traverse.

  Sprodd proffered an opinion. ‘We best get a fire, get you warm.’

  Cuff’s one thought was if he didn’t move now he might never move. He gripped the staff and his arms took some of the weight and he began to tread the ground, hardly lifting his feet, the pain knifing through his flesh.

  They shuffled and scrambled up the slope, helping Cuff as best they could, hardly resting lest the venture stall for good.

  In the cave they made a fire and Sprodd cooked up some real tea, Hai Seng, and they shifted their mugs from hand to hand, warming the free hand on the curvature of the vessel and sipping at the lip as the tea cooled.

  Sprodd gathered some long sticks from the firewood stacked at the rear of the cave and he made a tripod frame and set it close to the fire and he draped their sodden coats upon the frame and periodically he turned the frame so as to favour one coat after another with the heat of the raw flame.

  They ate the last of the hard biscuits and set themselves to wait out the rain, thinking the wait could be long. But late in the day the weather broke. The rain paused and the sun shot shafts of the purest light through cracks in the black sky.

  ‘Need some meat,’ said Sprodd.

  ‘Take Thyne’s gun,’ said Cuff.

  The prospect of using the Swedish flintlock brightened Dan Sprodd considerably. He had wondered if ever he might get to trial that gun for himself. He went to the gun and felt it in his hands and put the stock to his shoulder and sighted a run of sap on a gnarled old bloodwood beyond the cave.

  He primed the gun, readied for the hunt, and he set it back where he’d found it. Then he sat with them again and finished his tea. ‘A duck,’ he said.

  ‘A pheasant would be nice,’ said Bea.

  Their eyes were bloodshot from the smoke. They sat with their eyes shut and listened to the river rushing on, the sound pulsing into the cave like a surge.

  Sprodd brought an armful of firewood from the rear of the cave and dropped it close to hand for Bea to manage. He put on his hat and his coat and picked up his own musket. ‘I reckon I’ll take the gun I know,’ he said.

  He primed the weapon and headed out, northward, taking care not to slip as Cuff had done. The sound of the river filled his head.

  The mist thickened as he made his way towards the ghost gum forest on the turn, drenched in spray, the floodwaters hurtling through timber and stone, the ground a peril of mud and gravel. He walked on.

  Had they been watching from the cave they might have seen Dan Sprodd disappear in the mist well before he took the turn. But they were not watching. The girl was on her knees at the fire, taking in the warmth. Cuff had propped himself up, resting on his elbows, his palms in the grit. He was hungry and cold and he was worried too, not so much about the pain at the point of his tailbone but more the numbness that visited his lower half with all too much frequency.

  They waited, all through the day.

  When Sprodd failed to return Cuff did not know what to do. Darkness was fast coming. If Sprodd did not return he would have to rely on Bea Faa, somehow, to get him home, or at least to fend for him until he could walk. He had no idea how long it took a tailbone to mend. He knew enough about her past to know she was resolute and strong but he worried that hunger might cause her to fit again. In that regard, and all others, she was entirely uncomplaining, but in that regard she was a doubtful quantum too.

  He wished Sprodd would get back with a fat duck or a big goanna, a possum perhaps, or meat of some kind, any kind, so they might sleep dry on a full stomach. ‘Let’s hope he’s not slipped and broke his tailbone,’ he said.

  Bea Faa had not thought much about Sprodd’s failure to return but now, as the twilight began to fade, she worried. She went to the mouth of the cave and stood scanning the timbered slopes to the north.

  Cuff put more wood on the fire.

  The smoke swirled about them and burned their eyes as it rose to the ceiling and plumed before it fled the cave.

  61

  The girl was in no way restrained or shackled. Sparrow put out his hand. She recoiled.

  ‘I will not hurt you,’ he said.

  She did not reply.

  ‘I will make you some tea.’ He pointed to the mouth of the cave. ‘I will set the fire and make you some tea, warm you up.’

  She looked at the mug.

  ‘We have a teapot,’ he said. ‘Way out here, yes, a teapot!’

  Sparrow reckoned the mention of a teapot might make her think about nice things, homely things, for a teapot was an object of cordiality and perhaps even trust. Then he wondered if perhaps she’d know it was Mort’s teapot. If she knew it was Mort’s teapot the effect might not register as he had hoped. He hurried to shift the conversation from the means to the end. ‘I’ll make some tea, just for you,’ he said.

  Her eyes were fixed on him, like those of some creature caught in a trap.

  Sparrow heard the soft pads of Amicus approaching with some caution. He came abreast of Sparrow and stood there, watching the girl.

  Sparrow took the dog by the collar. ‘Don’t be frightened.’

  The girl was wide-eyed, her gaze fixed on the animal.

  ‘He’s got a Latin name. His name is Amicus Amico, that means friend to a friend. You just call him Amicus and he’ll come.’

  The girl did not call the dog.

  ‘Go on,’ he said and he tapped the dog on his rear and the dog went to the girl and sniffed at her knees and licked the back of her hand.

  She did not recoil. She closed her eyes. She stretched out her fingers and Amicus licked her fingers too and in between her fingers, his tongue slurping up the webbing. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  ‘There,’ said Sparrow. He got off his haunches but he kept low, not inclined to tower over the girl. ‘He’ll sit with you, you see?’

  Sparrow backed away. ‘I’ll make some tea then.’ He picked up the trailing corner of the blanket and folded the corner at her feet. ‘You wrap that around, catch your death otherwise,’ he said as he left the cave.

  He got a fire underway and some water warming in the quart pot and soon enough he had water on the boil and the tea pot at the ready.

  He was calmer now, his mind set upon a bright prospect. If he was to recue the girl then Cuff might look more kindly upon him, and upon his needs, most particularly the biggest need of all – to never go back to Prominence, that gaol, never to risk the loss of Amicus, or the gibbet.

  His most recent ruminations on the matter of capital punishment had been decidedly glum. There was every chance he would hang for the destruction of Jug’s boat, if not for the death of Jug. The more he thought about his predicament the more he was certain he was a dead duck if he went back. There was the theft of the game dog too and there were hidden crimes, the killing of Pinney and Peskett, and Mort, doings in the wilderness that likewise weighed heavy in the fear and trepidation department. He saw Amicus at his side and when he swivelled about the girl was there, barefooted, wrapped in her blanket, the tin mug hung on her forefinger.

  She appeared to sway. She did not seem to be a stable entity.

  She could see the corpse across the way, Mort’s feet, those dirty old moccasins plainly in view.

  ‘That’s Mort, and he’s good and dead. I killed him.’

  He took the mug from her finger and he poured the tea and passed her the mug and she took it and stepped away.

  She sat herself down, the blanket pulled tight on her shoulders, a clump of it bunched in her fist.

  Amicus sat close to her. She sipped at the tea and Sparrow watched, hoping for some sign that she liked it. What he noticed was the tremor in her hand.

  She dropped her head onto her chest and her wrist went limp and the tea ran onto the ground and soaked into the dust and she did not seem to notice, or care. Amicus sniffed at the wet ground and licked at a scab on her knee.

  Sparrow glanced at the darkening sky. He listened to the river. ‘We have to go, soon as we c
an.’

  The girl stared long and hard at the shrouded corpse. Sparrow was certain she would ask him how it was that Mort came to be dead, but she did not.

  ‘They shouldn’t have took me,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’ He thought best not to encourage this particular line of thought, bad memories. ‘We have to get you back.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Marty Sparrow. I seen you once at the muster, with Gordy. I got a patch on the bottoms.’ Sparrow realised now the strangeness of his presence, so deep in the fastness. ‘I never did take much to farming,’ he said, and with that he thought best to say no more.

  ‘Gordy’s dead,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Mort killed him . . . you probably know that.’

  He thought then of what she didn’t know. ‘Shug they caught, and they hung him summarily, at Prominence,’ he said. She did not respond. He said nothing of the pony’s head, nor of Shug’s leap into eternity, not least because he didn’t see that leap for himself and he did not want to be the purveyor of outlandish gossip.

  The girl leant forward and put her cheek to the dog’s muzzle and Amicus licked her cheek and when he stopped she put her cheek to his soft ear, the shaggy hair, and held it there.

  ‘There is a constable on the Branch called Mr Cuff, do you know Mr Cuff?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Everybody knows Mr Cuff.’

  ‘Do you like him?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Well, there you are then, we’ll find Mr Cuff.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  In the light of day, gloomy though it was, Sparrow could plainly see the girl’s gaunt condition. ‘You have to eat something,’ he said. The only ration he had was the hard biscuits he’d found in Mort’s pocket. He took the biscuits from his haversack. ‘You can dip these, soften them up.’

  He made some more tea and he half filled the girl’s mug, just half, recalling the tremor in her hand for she was ruined enough without burns on her skin.

  She took the mug of tea and dipped one of the biscuits and held it there in the hot brew, Amicus watching her with some intent. Then she blew on the biscuit till it cooled a little and she put the soaked half in her mouth, closed her eyes, until it crumbled on her tongue. She chewed the crumble ever so slowly and then she washed it down with some tea and she repeated the manoeuvre with the remainder of the biscuit and then she consumed a second biscuit in much the same way.