by Peter Watt
Michael drew a cigar from his shirt pocket and lit the end, blowing hazy clouds of grey smoke into the still, late afternoon air as Helen let herself down into the water slowly, allowing its gentle massage to wash away the dust and sweat of the trek. The water caught her long hair sweeping it straight. The sun was losing its bite.
Rising quietly from where he crouched, Michael padded back into the trees. As he walked back up the river he could hear Alex shouting excitedly, obviously struggling with his first big catch.
‘It will get away,’ Alex cried in desperation as the heavy line ran through his hands.
Michael placed the rifle on the ground and stripped down to his trousers. He slid into the water with his knife and felt with his hands for the line. When he found it he followed the line through the tangle until his hand touched the scales of the big fish. It jerked away from him but was caught up on the hook. Taking a breath Michael dropped below the surface, feeling for the wide mouth of the fish. It was a beauty!
Alex watched anxiously. Michael exploded to the surface bringing the fish up with him. The young boy could not restrain himself from jumping up and down in excitement as Michael hauled himself up the bank, dragging the fish with him. It flipped and flopped at Alex’s feet and was as long as the Irishman’s arm, a big, fat fish for the cooking fire.
Michael caught his breath, his shoulders heaving. ‘You got him, boy,’ he said with a grin. ‘Now you have to learn how to cook him.’
When they returned to the camp Helen was dressed and combing her long hair. She greeted them with surprise when she saw the huge fish dangling between them. Alexander’s fixed grin beamed his pride in the catch.
‘A change of diet,’ Michael said as he dropped the fish on the ground in front of her. ‘Alex is going to cook it for us.’
Their eyes met and Helen wondered at the strange smile on the Irishman’s face. She felt a sudden twinge of guilt for her wanton delight in the river and glanced away lest he read her thoughts. There was something about the big man that disturbed her in a way she could not understand. He stood bare-chested to dry off and she could see the scars on his body that marked the violence of his life. She knew very little about Michael O’Flynn except what she had heard from her husband: that he had been a mercenary soldier most of his life and had fought in many wars around the world. When Helen had initially learned that he had been a soldier of fortune she had been horrified, but her husband had been strangely defensive.
But now it was not his violent past that intrigued the young woman so much as his gentle presence and artistic nature. He would often sit in the saddle or around the campfire and sketch a scene with the stub of an old pencil. He carried his many sketches in a battered leather satchel but did not volunteer to show his work.
Michael gutted the big fish and placed it in the coals of the fire while Alex, squatting beside him, watched with acute interest. Helen prepared the damper bread as Michael had shown her at the commencement of the trek. She had grown to like the crusty bread fresh from the heavy, cast iron camp oven and with the fish that Michael dragged from the fire the meal was superb. She could not remember ever tasting fish as delicious and delicate before. The white flesh seemed to melt in the mouth as she picked at it with her fork.
By the time they had finished eating the stars were rising in the sky. Michael lit a kerosene lamp to give them more light. Alex wanted to sit up and enjoy the night but Michael growled that he should make his bed under the wagon and get some sleep. The boy knew not to argue. When he was comfortable Michael tucked him in. ‘Proud of how you didn’t lose the fish today,’ he said gruffly, patting him affectionately on the shoulder. ‘I think I made a good choice in teaming up with you, young Master Macintosh.’
Alex smiled in delight at the praise from the big Irishman and had an impulsive urge to reach up and hug him. But he restrained himself as he knew men did not show emotion like women.
‘Thank you, Mr O’Flynn,’ Alex replied seriously. ‘I wish today would never end.’
‘It won’t,’ Michael said. ‘These kinds of days always stay in your memory, no matter what happens. They are good things to fall back on when things get tough. Always remember that, boy.’
Alex nodded. ‘I always will, Mr O’Flynn. I will always remember you no matter what happens.’
Michael glanced away. ‘I’m not dead yet,’ he said with a choked laugh. ‘And don’t forget to say those damned Protestant prayers Lady Enid is so fond of before you go to sleep.’
Michael rose and was about to walk away when Alex called out to him softly.
‘Mr O’Flynn?’
Michael paused. ‘Yes, boy?’
‘Will you ever forget me?’
‘Only if you don’t get to sleep,’ Michael growled gently and walked back to the fire to join Helen who had prepared two mugs of coffee. Michael found a cigar and lit the end from a burning twig. He sat down on a log, sighing with contentment at the nicotine rush the cigar brought on, and looked over to where Helen sat on the opposite side of the fire sipping her coffee. Her hair was clean and dry and reflected the fire’s dancing lights. Michael reached for his battered leather satchel and pulled out a sheet of heavy paper. Bending his head he sketched in silence by the light of the lantern. His face appeared so young and contented as the graphite scratched away at the paper.
When Michael was satisfied he passed his sketch across to Helen with one of the enigmatic smiles she had grown used to. She gasped, almost dropping her mug of coffee when she saw what he had sketched. It was a likeness of her standing full breasted in the river that afternoon, but with little angels around her head.
‘I was not spying on you, Mrs Fellmann,’ Michael said softly before she could comment. ‘I was worried when I returned to the camp and you were not there so I went looking. When I found you in the river I felt that I should not intrude on your privacy. But,’ he continued with a broad smile, ‘as an artist, I could not resist the impulse to sketch what I remembered of an Australian bush nymph in her natural setting.’
Helen slowly looked up at him, blushing, her emerald eyes a turmoil of emotion. Helen knew that she should be angry at his brazen drawing and yet at the same time she felt flattered by his artistic capturing of a beautiful and serene moment in her life. ‘I have seen something like this before,’ she said quietly. ‘It was a sketch my mother treasured above all the jewellery my father gave her. A sketch of her drawn by her lover a long time ago.’
Michael glanced down at the fire. ‘A strange coincidence, Mrs Fellmann,’ he replied unconvincingly.
But Helen persisted. ‘My mother loved that man very much, but lost him to war,’ she continued softly as she gazed across the fire. ‘She never spoke of him to me and all that I have learned was from my Aunt Penelope. Even Aunt Penelope once admitted to loving this mysterious man at one stage in her life. All that I knew of him was that his name was Michael Duffy and that he was an Irishman – just like you, Mr O’Flynn.’
‘That was a long time ago,’ Michael replied sadly as he stared back into her eyes. ‘Fate was never very kind to your mother and I.’
‘Did you love my mother, Mr Duffy?’
Michael bowed his head and poked at the fire with a stick. ‘We were young. I had plans for us to go to America where we could be together away from the restrictions of colonial society. I had planned to be a painter but instead of a paintbrush I ended up spending a lifetime carrying a gun. Many times I would think of your mother and many nights I would cry for what was lost in our lives. But you can only cry so much,’ he added bitterly. ‘After a while I stopped mourning the loss of a love that was never possible. And that was it.’
‘Poor Mr Duffy,’ Helen said with a sigh. ‘So much pain in my mother’s life, and yours. I used to feel ashamed of my mother’s unnatural love for Aunt Penelope but as I have grown older I think I understand how such a thing could be.’
‘Their love was a lot stronger than most that I have known,’ Michael said. ‘Your mothe
r and Penelope were linked by events that came into all our lives after the dispersal on Glen View. Never be ashamed of a love that is not yours.’
Helen stared down at the sketch in her hand. ‘It is truly beautiful and I will always treasure it. But I do not think my husband would understand, so this will remain a secret between us.’
‘Like the other secrets you keep from your husband,’ Michael said.
Startled, Helen glanced up at him. Her eyes were wide with questions and amazement. ‘What do you know of me that you could make such a statement?’
He puffed at the cigar and returned her gaze. ‘That you have a deep sensuality that you do not share with your husband.’
Her mouth fell open. ‘What makes you say such a thing?’ she asked in a frozen heartbeat.
‘A lifetime of living on the edge. Maybe it’s just an artist’s instinct to attempt to capture on the easel that which is the person’s soul. Watching you this afternoon I could see that you felt free amidst the beauty of this special place.’
‘I . . .’ She hesitated and looked away, embarrassed by the Irishman’s acute perceptiveness. Glancing back, she saw him appraising her with a frankness that was not intrusive. She wondered at the thoughts he seemed to release in her mind. ‘I have never known a man to speak as you do, Mr Duffy,’ Helen finally said. ‘It is as if you can see into places no-one else has before.’
‘Ah, but I can because I am old enough to be your father, young lady,’ Michael said with the wisp of a sad smile. ‘Or maybe because for a short while I touched the soul of your mother, and you are very much like her.’
Helen found herself staring at his hands. They were the hands of a man who she suspected had killed many times and yet clearly they were also capable of touching a woman’s body with the gentlest of caresses. They were strong hands.
‘You are a most unusual man,’ Helen said. ‘You are everything my Aunt Penelope described – extremely dangerous to both men and women.’
Michael smiled at her summation of his character. ‘But not to you, Helen,’ he said as he stood and stretched. ‘I will bid you a goodnight.’
She watched him stride away from the light of the fire and could not help but admire the way he moved with the grace of a giant hunting cat.
By mid-morning the next day Karl and Nerambura returned. Karl’s expression reflected his pleasure at finally having met with the people he had been sent by God to minister in the years ahead. The tribesmen had proved to be hospitable and curious at the appearance of the white man amongst them. A gentle people, Karl said. A gentle people in need of his God to save their eternal souls from the damnation of ignorance.
Nerambura said very little. They were not Darambal people and thus not worthy of consideration. His was the pride of his people and when he did speak it was to Michael to tell him that the visit had proved fruitful. The people of the tribe had told him by way of signs that a great sorcerer had passed their way. But he had not stopped with them as they were afraid of his powers.
To Michael it sounded as if they were on the right track in their search for Wallarie. He gave the order to break camp and continue across the plains. Ahead was the frontier town of Cloncurry where they would stop for supplies. Then they would push on to a place south of the killing grounds where many years earlier Wallarie had faced with spear and battle axe the rifles and pistols of the Native Mounted Police, a place where the echoes of an ancient curse rolled in the mineral rich hills of the now-dispersed Kalkadoon warriors.
TWENTY-FIVE
Fenella Macintosh stared at the envelope addressed to her that was lying on a silver salver. Lady Enid smiled at the young girl’s obvious surprise and delight.
‘Young Mr Duffy has finally corresponded it seems,’ Enid said from her chair at the long polished cedar table sipping a cup of tea. ‘It seems that he must be in good health to do so. The letter arrived yesterday whilst you were at school,’ Enid continued with a smile. ‘I would suggest that you open it, young lady.’
Fenella could not tear her eyes away from the crumpled envelope and was almost too frightened to open it.
‘I will, Lady Enid,’ Fenella responded as she picked up the envelope and allowed herself to feel the paper in the palm of her hand. It was as if she was actually feeling the touch of the young man’s hand on hers. ‘I shall read the letter in my room.’
With that she skipped away leaving her great-grandmother alone in the dining room to reflect on the world she now knew in her old age: young people falling in love and a grandson away at a war. Enid had long learned that human nature was not guided by logic as much as it was by passion. The young Queenslander who wrote to her great granddaughter was just such a creature of passion. To leave his mother and a good life to run away to a war defied logic. But that had also been the essential difference between the blood of the Irish Duffys and the Anglo-Scots Macintoshes. Her own family had been ruled more by cold-blooded logic, whereas the Duffys allowed their feelings to guide the events of their lives. The mixing of the two bloods in her grandson’s veins had produced a remarkable man in Patrick. He had proved himself more than simply capable of guiding the family’s vast fortune into the twentieth century; he had taken the enterprises forward into a bigger and brighter future. And yet he still put physical and moral courage above all that was purely mercenary. He was both a man of passion and pragmatism and in his children she could see those same qualities.
Her thoughts were directed to the youngest, Alexander, and the letter that she had received from Mary Cameron of Glen View station informing her of the group’s trek west in search of the old Aboriginal warrior, Wallarie. Enid’s first reaction to the news that her great-grandson had gone on the arduous journey was apprehension. But she had quickly reassured herself that he was with Patrick’s father who she knew would never allow his own grandson to be exposed to danger. In fact, the more she thought about the trek in search of the old Aborigine, the more it seemed all a part of the greater scheme of things.
Enid had always realised that it would take something akin to the patronage of a man like Michael Duffy to teach the shy boy that he was capable of holding his own in the Macintosh empire, rather than being completely dominated by his older brother, George. If anyone could teach Alexander it had to be Michael, who had survived almost impossible odds to eventually return to Australia. With a twinge of remorse Enid remembered the years past when she had seen him as an enemy to be crushed. It was strange how time could change situations and now that very same man could be instrumental to the Macintosh future.
Enid sighed and stared at the tea leaves in the bottom of her cup. There were people who said they could read the future in such leaves. But all Enid could see was an indefinable mess . . . a bit like the future. Was the Aboriginal man who had killed her eldest son and her husband somewhere in the leaves? She doubted that they would find him. He was more myth than real. She had heard all the stories of the legendary, elusive Darambal man who had become a part of the folklore of the frontier. Michael Duffy and his expedition were chasing nothing more than a ghost. But what if he was still alive . . .?
The thought caused her to shiver, as if the window had been left open and a cold draught from the wet, cold winter’s day outside was seeking her out. Could any such meeting resolve the guilt of the family? Could a reconciliation with the old Aborigine – the last of his tribe – take away the terrible curse that had haunted her for forty years? The intangible force had caused so much anguish between her daughter and herself, apart from any other troubles.
In the privacy of her room, Fenella sat at a writing table and slit the envelope carefully with an ornate, brass letter opener. With great care she slid the stained pages free, vaguely aware that she was holding her breath and unfolding the pages as if expecting them to suddenly fly away. She let out her breath and began to read the bold writing that was in pencil. The letter was addressed from a place called Bulawayo and was eight weeks old. Before reading any further, she took an atlas fro
m a shelf on the writing desk and turned to a map of Africa. Fenella had followed the war from newspaper accounts and the names of places such as Ladysmith, Kimberley and Mafeking were as well known to her as the suburbs of Sydney. But Bulawayo was a mystery. Her finger traced a line north to the place on the map marked Rhodesia. She frowned. It was a strange place to write from as the war was further south in the Orange Free State and the Transvaal. But at least Matthew was not in the centre of the fighting like her father. His last letter to them had been posted seven weeks earlier from Pretoria.
She placed the atlas to one side and began to read.
My Dear Miss Macintosh,
I have not written before as I was afraid that you might have forgotten me. I have not forgotten you . . .
‘Silly boy,’ she muttered with a wistful smile. ‘How could I forget you?’
. . . Well, as you can see I am in Rhodesia. Our ship arrived in Cape Town in April and we all thought that we would disembark and go to the front but the ship was rerouted to Beira in Portuguese East Africa where we finally disembarked. The Portuguese were very good to us. The officers were welcomed with a tennis party, afternoon tea and a ball at night at Government House. I was a little homesick I must admit when I saw all the gum trees lining the streets and the houses were like the corrugated houses I have seen in Queensland. We were camped outside of the town in a place that we worked out must have been a swamp in the wet season. The heat, flies and mosquitoes were extremely bad. A lot of the men have gone down with fever. At night some of the New Zealanders, Canadians and our own men would go into town. It did not matter to them whether they had been granted leave or not. I am afraid their antics in town were somewhat boisterous.
We were not long in Beira before we were put on a train to travel to Marandellas about three hundred and eighty miles away. The journey slow but exciting. The land changed very much as we rose up into the mountains. I saw hippopotamus, monkeys in the jungle and one of the boys shot a buck from the train. We had to sit on tarpaulins on the floors of the railway trucks and stops were frequent for firewood for the engine. Sometimes we had to get out and walk so that the engine could get the carriages up steep slopes while the Kaffirs pulled on ropes at the front. I did not mind walking those times as we were able to explore the jungle and sample the wild fruits. There were many beautiful flowers in the jungle and they reminded me of you . . .
