by Peter Watt
Catherine gave him a quizzical look. ‘You sound like you actually admire my husband.’
‘Don’t misinterpret me, my dearest Catherine,’ he replied smoothly as he sipped the excellent French champagne. ‘I am only saying his kind of values are not my kind. No, I prefer wealth and power as any normal man would to the possibility of a painful death on an obscure battlefield in some godforsaken place. And I think you know that I was right about what I said that night at the dinner your grandfather invited Captain Duffy to. Do you remember?’ Catherine frowned as Norris continued, ‘I told you that we were meant for each other.’
‘That is either arrogance or presumption on your behalf,’ she replied. ‘Either way, you do not know me as you think you do.’
‘Oh, I know how restless you are to find something in your life for yourself. Until now you have borne the duty of a good wife and mother, but that is not you, Catherine. You have always sought to be your own woman, and I think I know just what you want.’
Brett Norris’s eyes seemed to bore into the secret places of Catherine’s being; he spoke with such conviction. Could he really know what she wanted when she was sometimes not sure herself?
‘What do I want then?’ she challenged.
‘You want your grandfather’s estate, which of course I currently own. And furthermore, I suspect that you really want the Hill of Cuchulainn, even more than the house.’ He noted her reaction and smiled triumphantly before continuing. ‘When I purchased your grandfather’s place after the death duties could not be paid, I suppose I always hoped you would take your rightful place as mistress of the house. You would then be able to undertake your dig on the hill and write papers on your findings. I think I am right in saying that the Hill calls you with its ancient Celtic songs of seduction, Catherine Fitzgerald. This miserable country is not your land. You belong back in Ireland with your faerie people.’
Catherine listened to his persuasive words as if in a dream. He really did know what she wanted. ‘What would I need to do to be with my faerie people?’ she asked softly, faintly aware that the man opposite had taken her hand in his own. A soft hand with long tapering fingers, the sensual hand of a man who desired her.
‘You would sell your soul to the devil,’ he answered with a smouldering intensity that made her think he just might be the devil himself. ‘You would return with me to Ireland. If you stay with me for one year I will sign your grandfather’s estate over to you and you alone.’
‘And what of my children?’
‘You would leave them here for one year before they joined you in Ireland. I want just one year to allow you to see how much more of a woman you could be away from all that has taken up your life.’
‘I do not think that I could leave my children under the circumstances you propose.’
‘You could arrange to have them sent to England to finish their education. That is a reasonable suggestion, considering that, as their mother, you would have a say in their future. But for now, why not return to Ireland with me?’
Listening to his words, Catherine was suddenly frightened. But what about Patrick? She found herself thinking of him as dispassionately as if he were a complete stranger. It was then that she admitted to herself – without misgivings – that she no longer loved him. But nor did she love Brett Norris.
‘I will consider what you propose,’ she said quietly, and felt Norris give her hand a gentle squeeze. ‘But if I accept do not presume that I am making any declaration of love for you.’
‘I would make no such presumption. I told you that you were making a pact with the devil.’
Even as he said the words, Catherine made up her mind.
THREE
The old bull’s emaciated frame belied its cantankerous nature. He was full of fight and swung his head, attempting to gore the rider’s horse close on its flank. Ben Rosenblum expected the worst but still swore angrily as he pulled down on the reins to swerve away.
Red dust exploded and his mount hit a knee-high termite nest. The concrete-hard tower held strong and Ben found himself flung into the thick dust as his terrified horse fought to stay upright while avoiding the old scrawny bull. The pain in Ben’s chest spread to the very tips of his fingers as the sky swirled above him in a red haze, and his breath came in ragged gasps. He was not aware of the sound of a horse galloping towards him.
‘He almost got you,’ a voice yelled down. Saul swung himself expertly from the saddle. ‘Are you all right?’
Ben grunted, trying to ease himself into a sitting position. ‘I’m going to shoot that bastard,’ he muttered painfully through the pain. ‘Should have shot him last year, the mongrel.’
Despite Ben’s regular threats, his son fully knew that his father would not shoot the old bull. The animal had come as a calf with him from Townsville all those years ago when he first took his lease of land. He had named the property Jerusalem in honour of his Jewish roots – and because it was to be his new promised land. But the disastrous economic depression of the ’90s, coupled with one of the severest droughts in the colony’s history, had meant his dreams of success eluded him still. He knew that he should have cut his losses years earlier and walked away, but the property had been settled at the cost of the life of his beloved wife Jennifer. A man does not walk away from that which he loves most.
Saul helped his father to his feet. The young man was himself as hard as the termite nests that dotted the dusty red plain north of the Queensland town of Cloncurry. Sporting a long black beard below the sun-blackened face of an Australian bushman, Saul had known no other life than the gruelling work of a stockman alongside his father. Once he had been sent to live with his wealthy relatives in Townsville, Solomon and Judith Cohen, but he had yearned for the wide open spaces of Jerusalem and made his way back to the property leaving his young sister, Rebecca, and his brother, Jonathan, behind. Saul had no regrets.
While he was helping his father to his feet, two other horsemen galloped over. Terituba, an Aboriginal man of Ben’s age, was a survivor of the terrible war fifteen years earlier when the fiercest of all the Aboriginal tribes, the Kalkadoon, were slaughtered in a pitched battle in the Godkin Ranges north of Cloncurry. Wounded, he had made his way with the remnants of his family to Jerusalem to be employed by the Jewish cattleman. The young man who rode beside him was his only surviving son Jacob, whose name had been bestowed on him by Ben.
‘You bin wrestle with old King,’ Terituba said with a twinkle in his eye as he surveyed the scene. The old bull was now trotting towards the distant and sparsely scattered scrub. ‘You bin lose ’im pight with old King.’
‘Yeah, you old black bastard,’ Ben scowled, looking up at his friend sitting easily astride the mount. ‘Like to have seen you do better.’
‘I bin leave ’im alone, boss. Mebbe I’m smarter than you. Mebbe you too old to go chasin’ old King,’ Terituba said with a chuckle.
Such misfortunes as being unseated in a muster were not uncommon and often the cause of some light-hearted merriment amongst the tough stockmen, both black and white.
Saul could not help joining in the laughter as his cursing father limped after his horse. But he suddenly ceased as he followed his father’s limping chase with worried eyes. Turning to the Kalkadoon man, Saul saw an expression on his normally passive face that mirrored his own.
‘He looks a bit crook,’ Saul said. ‘You think he will be all right?’
‘Me tink ’e should go ’ome,’ the old warrior said softly. ‘Mebbe lie down by an’ by.’
‘I think so too,’ Saul replied softly in the Kalkadoon language, so as not to be overheard. His father had never bothered to learn the language but it had been natural for his son to as he grew alongside his boyhood friend. ‘He has had bad nights with chest pains. I don’t think the fall would have done him any good.’
‘I agree, Bumbil. He a sick man – should be sittin’ in the shade with his woman.’
Terituba used the name given to Saul many years earlier
. It was an honour to be named after the hardy tree that provided so much. For the settlers the wood of the bumbil was used for building material and fence posts. For the Aborigines it was a tree from which were made the wooden weapons of war and hunting. Saul was a man who understood both worlds, and together the old Kalkadoon warrior and young stockman conspired to guide Ben back to the tiny ramshackle homestead that nestled in the encroaching scrub of the dusty plains north of Cloncurry.
When the four men rode in just on sunset they were met by a solitary figure. Standing near the tank stand, a short distance from the bark slab hut that was home for Saul and his father, the well-dressed young man was covered in dust but beamed with delight at the horsemen, who now broke into a gallop to reach him.
‘Hey, Jonathan! What are you doing out here?’ Saul whooped as he brought his mount to a sideways halt beside his brother. ‘You get sick of city life?’ Swinging himself from the saddle, Saul embraced him in a crushing bear hug.
‘Time came when I thought I should see you both. After all, it’s been three years,’ Jonathan replied with some effort. ‘I need to talk to you and Dad. Uncle Solomon sent me.’
Saul stepped back from his brother. The mention of Solomon’s name caused an ominous shiver of concern. It had to be about the property.
‘What’s Uncle Solomon want with us?’ Saul asked suspiciously, but his brother ignored the question as he greeted his father and nodded to Terituba and Jacob.
Ben led the way to the hut to recover a precious bottle of gin he had stored for special occasions, while Terituba and his son led the horses away to be brushed down and yarded. The visit of his son guaranteed the bottle would be emptied that night.
Inside the hut the air was hot and oppressive so once the bottle was found the three men went out to the makeshift verandah, a bark shingle lean-to held up by two rickety posts. They sat down on logs that passed as chairs while the patriarch of Jerusalem poured three tumblers of gin.
‘Mazltov,’ Ben said, raising his glass.
Jonathan cast his father a curious look. ‘I have never heard you say that before, Father,’ he commented. ‘Have you come back to our ways?’
‘Maybe not as much as I should have,’ Ben replied as he took a long swig on the fiery liquid, causing his eyes to water. ‘A man has a lot of time to think out here under God’s heavens.’
Jonathan nodded. He was a devout man who donated to the Synagogue whenever possible. Working in the vast enterprises accumulated by his uncle over the years had made him prosperous. He could easily afford a nice home in one of Brisbane’s more affluent suburbs. Jonathan turned to his brother. ‘Have you also come back to our ways?’
Saul gave his brother a cheeky grin. ‘Me? My religion is Kalkadoon, so I guess you would consider me no better than one of your philistines.’
‘You should not joke about such things, Saul. Our religion is very important to our identity.’
‘Out here most people know me as one of the best stockmen in the district. That’s my identity. Maybe you need religion to know who you are, but I don’t. I know who I am and where I belong.’
Jonathan’s audible sigh of disapproval annoyed Saul. He could be a toffy bastard when he wanted to, he thought. Always wanted to be a city man.
Ben moved to check the animosity between his two sons, who from birth had been like chalk and cheese. ‘How is little Becky?’ he interjected. ‘Has she plans to marry her young man?’
‘Becky is fine. She plans to marry David in six months. He is doing very well in his position in the bank in Brisbane,’ Jonathan replied. ‘The ceremony will be in the Synagogue.’
‘Ahh . . . A Jewish banker then, is her young man,’ Ben said, teasing his serious son. ‘She will be his princess and live a good life.’
Saul was also pleased at the news. Rebecca’s frequent letters to him and his father were treasured documents. He had missed his little sister and often wondered what sort of young woman she had grown into. Did she take after his mother with her long blonde hair and gentle ways?
‘I hope you two will be at the wedding,’ Jonathan said quietly. ‘It would mean a lot to her if you were.’
Saul was about to protest that the property kept them tied down when his father put his tumbler of gin down beside him in the red earth and said in a flat voice, ‘You have come from Solomon to tell us that we are finished. That is why we would be able to go to Becky’s wedding, isn’t it?’
Jonathan’s expression was grim on hearing his father’s unexpected observation. ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Jonathan mumbled. ‘But everyone suffered from the crash. Uncle Solomon stretched himself as far as he could to finance Jerusalem and keep you here. He knows what this place means to you and Saul.’
‘He has been more than generous over the years in extending the loan,’ Ben said with a sigh. ‘I understand that and will always be grateful. I have known for a long time that this day would come. Maybe it is God’s will.’
‘Be buggered!’ Saul exploded. ‘With the war coming in South Africa we could make a lot of money from beef. All we need is a bit more time to pay back everything we owe.’
‘No, Saul!’ his father roared angrily. ‘We do not live on charity. We have our strength and I know you could get work anywhere from here to the Gulf. No, it’s time we learned to cut our losses and pay back what we have lived on for so many years.’
The tough young stockman turned to his father and saw in his eyes a lost soul, beaten down by the harsh land that surrounded them. ‘What about Terituba and Jacob?’ Saul pleaded. ‘Their women are long dead and they are alone like us.’
‘Old Terituba will never be alone in this land,’ his father said in a tired voice. ‘He belongs out here, whether we exist or not. I learned that from my old friend a long time ago. No, he will continue to live on when we are gone from here. Jacob is probably as good as you as a bushman and with my recommendation will get work on Franklin’s lease. He will be all right.’
‘And me? Where do I go?’
‘You are strong and capable.’ Ben flared at his son’s self-pitying question. ‘My old friend Kate Tracy would get you work if you asked her. She once employed a worthless boy from Sydney and gave him responsibilities far beyond his years. She would do no less for that man’s son whose snivelling makes him just about as bad as I was those years ago.’
Saul bowed his head and fumbled with his broad brimmed hat. His father was right! The inevitable had happened and he could work somewhere else. He did not need to apologise for his weakness to his father, who knew him better than any person on earth.
‘Saul will make preparations tomorrow to go to Townsville,’ Ben said. ‘I will follow soon enough.’
‘Don’t you think you should come with me, Father?’ Jonathan asked gently.
‘No. I have things to do before I leave and it is good that Saul goes ahead to find us a place until we get work. I will be all right. Terituba will be with me. Now we will break bread together and be happy for Becky’s coming happiness. I know your mother would have wanted us to. And then we finish the bottle.’
The three men ate that night and talked of all things except the coming foreclosure on Jerusalem. They drank outside under the magnificent, slowly swirling canopy of southern stars until their heads swam and the stars blurred, arcing streaks across the black velvet sky. Then they slept where they fell in the red dust of the land. Only Ben awoke in the early hours of the morning when he heard the distant mournful sounds and felt the pain grip his chest with its familiar vice-like fingers.
On unsteady legs he tottered towards the silhouette of the big pepper tree and smelt its pungent scent on the cool, early morning air. He crumpled to his knees beside the carefully tended mound that marked his beloved wife’s grave, here at the foot of the tree she had once so lovingly nurtured as a struggling sapling, far from its South American home. A dark shape suddenly appeared at his side out of the night’s shadow.
‘Terituba? I hope that’s you.’
&
nbsp; ‘Yes, boss.’
‘I’m dying, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, boss. Not long to go.’
‘Good. I swore to Jennifer a long time ago that I would never leave her alone out here.’
‘No, old friend of mine. Not good to leave your woman. Her spirit wanders alone waiting for you,’ the old Kalkadoon man answered softly in his language.
It did not matter that the white man did not understand his words. What was important was that his friend would not be alone when he died. He had sensed death very close and knew whose dying it would be. Terituba squatted in the powdery dust a short distance from Ben. He was aware that the old man had a need to be alone with the spirit of his dead wife. Many times over the years, the white man would sit beside the mound and talk to her spirit. Her soul was now the spirit of the spreading tree, with its cooling shade in a land of sparse comfort.
‘My darling Jennifer, I promised that I would never leave you,’ Ben said with tears brimming in his eyes. The gentle tears were not for himself but for the memory of a young girl standing forlorn amongst the tents of the Palmer River gold miners after the terrible floods of ’74. He had been a young man then with the veneer of an independent tough bushman, working alongside Kate Tracy hauling in the desperately needed supplies for the starving miners and their families. The stolid bullocks had crossed rivers swollen by flood, climbed bone-breaking mountains and faced the spears of the fierce Merkin warriors along the way. But his tough veneer had been shattered forever when this frightened and half-starved young woman had come into his life, never to leave his side until the fateful day when a snake had struck, protecting its own young.
He wiped ineffectively at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and sniffed. ‘I have missed you for so long, your laughter and the way you smiled. I have missed you more than you could have ever known.’
