by Joanna Orwin
≈ THREE
THE SOU’WESTER BLEW all the next day, then died overnight. Hamish woke to stillness. Yawning, he slipped out of bed and pulled the curtains back. The storm had left streaks of snow against the base of the limestone tors. The mountains beyond were painted in winter colours; white snow, grey rock, black shadow, against a bleached sky. He hugged his arms close to his body as the cold seeped through gaps in the window frame.
Movement downstairs and the clanging of the kitchen range door meant that Kirsten was getting breakfast. He could see Tod out in the yard, feeding the dogs. The work had to continue, no matter what the future held. Hamish shed his pyjamas and pulled on thermal underwear then layers of warm clothes. He banged on Tama’s door before running downstairs.
Soon the four of them stood close to the wood range, hands cupped around mugs of tea as they tried to get warm. Hamish watched the pot of rolled oats boiling in slow motion, sending up small spurts of steam. Despite his two pairs of heavy oiled wool socks, he could feel the cold floor under the soles of his feet.
‘I reckon lambing will start in earnest tomorrow,’ said Kirsten, blowing ripples in her tea. ‘So it’ll be all go from then on.’
‘It’s bloody freezing out there,’ said Tod, checking the thickness of the porridge.
‘Brass monkey weather,’ agreed Hamish. ‘Will you need me for long this morning?’
Kirsten shook her head. ‘What’s the matter? Turning soft on me?’
‘Course not. I’m just keen to get the photos underway. Could you guys give me a hand later?’ If the farm really did have to be sold, these holidays would be his only chance to get the photography done. In the back of his mind another idea was taking shape. His discovery would be one way of linking the name MacIntyre to the farm for ever. A sort of tribute to his father.
Kirsten dished up the porridge and smothered it in brown sugar and milk before handing out the bowls. ‘Fair enough. We can all help this arvo.’
Hamish looked at Tama, expecting him to object. But the other boy sat there stolidly spooning porridge into his face. He avoided meeting Hamish’s eye.
‘Awesome,’ said Hamish. ‘After lunch then.’
First though, the ewes. In the back porch, they pulled on Swanndris. The thick green shirts reached to their knees, as warm as wearing horse blankets. Kirsten found a balaclava made of the same wool for Tama. ‘Here, wear this – it’s better than that beanie of yours.’
Outside, the air was so cold Hamish felt as if he was breathing splinters of ice into his lungs. He pulled the balaclava collar up over his mouth. The ring of their boots on the frozen ground and the jingle of the chains as the dogs lunged forward to greet them echoed in the stillness.
Feeding out and checking the pregnant ewes took only a couple of hours. Over the last few days Kirsten and Tod had sorted the mob, leaving those closest to giving birth in the current paddock and moving the rest on. Now the mob was split into five paddocks, each containing ewes likely to give birth about the same time. Before mid morning they returned to the house for the second breakfast of poached eggs on toast that Jane MacIntyre had ready for them.
Hamish had drunk his third cup of tea before he felt properly warm again. He watched Tama polish off yet another slice of toast. The amount he ate, he should be the size of a Sumo wrestler. But he was just a heap of loosely connected bones. That hair made him look really strange. He wondered why Tama didn’t dye it or cut it short. Disguise it somehow. But then again, he was so obviously staunch no one would ever dare call him Goldilocks. Hamish was developing a grudging respect for the town boy. He’d not complained once about the cold or the work, and he tackled everything without hesitation.
Straight after lunch, the four of them sorted out the gear Hamish would need to take his photos. They tied the scaffolding sections and the trestles onto the farm bike trailer and piled the climbing gear into one pack, the camera gear into another. Preoccupied with checking they had everything, Hamish hardly noticed that Tama still wasn’t saying anything.
‘Okay,’ said Kirsten, starting up the bike and gesturing to Tama to get on behind her. ‘Where to, Owl?’
When Hamish had pointed out the direction, Kirsten and Tama set off across the home paddocks to the foot of the slope, leaving the other two to follow on foot with the packs.
The sun was barely visible now, a dull ball of brighter light behind the layer of high thin cloud that had spread across the sky during the morning. The frost hadn’t melted. They left bruised footprints on the frozen grass as they walked across the paddocks.
‘Here – borrow my climbing gloves,’ offered Tod, producing the close-fitting polypropylene fingerless mitts. ‘Be pretty tough trying to take photos when it’s this cold.’
‘Cool – thanks, Tod!’ Hamish took the mitts. It wasn’t like his brother to lend any of his gear voluntarily. Even when he did lend something, it was usually with a long lecture about how to look after it, accompanied by threats about what would happen if there was any damage. He was so boring about it that Hamish seldom asked him for the loan of anything.
When they reached the others, Tama was sitting on a rock, smoking as usual. He made no attempt to help as Tod strapped the first trestle on the old pack frame he had rigged up. He didn’t move as Kirsten and Hamish shouldered the ladder sections.
Kirsten looked at him. ‘What about you, Tama? Coming up?’
‘Nah,’ said Tama, stubbing his cigarette out. ‘I’m not going up there. Means nothing to me. That sort of stuff’s best left alone, if you ask me.’
‘Nobody’s asking,’ retorted Hamish. He wasn’t about to let any superstitious guff stop him.
‘Then we’re both happy, bro,’ said Tama, refusing to be provoked.
Secretly relieved that Tama didn’t want to see the rock drawings, Hamish led the way up to the base of the overhang. It was harder than he had thought it would be to hump the sections of ladder up the hill. He and Kirsten struggled up the steep slope, linked together by the awkward lengths of aluminium balanced on their shoulders, their boots constantly slipping on frozen grass and hidden boulders.
Above them, Tod, faster and fitter, was already scrambling up the rock face, intent on setting up anchor points. Almost before they had time to lower their load and recover their breath, his face appeared over the edge of the ledge.
‘Rope!’
Hamish grabbed the ends of the rope as his brother tossed them down. Gingerly, he pulled on them, testing them with his weight. The possibility of the rope breaking when he was halfway up and lumbered with a section of ladder didn’t bear thinking about.
‘It’ll never happen!’ said Tod, accurately reading his mind. ‘I’ve fixed three really solid anchors. They’ll take all the strain we can put on them, no worries.’
He joined them at the bottom. ‘Okay, Kirsten. You set to do the belaying?’ They’d already decided she would be the best one to stay at the bottom while Hamish and Tod climbed the rock face with the loads of gear. She’d often belayed for her brother when he was learning to climb.
Kirsten nodded. She put the harness on and Tod clipped on the belay brake. ‘Just make sure you keep the anchor rope taut all the time.’
‘Chill out,’ said Kirsten. ‘It’s not that long since I did this.’ She made a face at Hamish behind Tod’s back. Hamish grinned.
‘Just checking.’ Tod put on his own harness and attached himself to the rope. ‘I’ll go up first, Owl. You watch closely, get an idea where to put your feet.’
‘Climb when ready!’ Kirsten braced her left foot against the base of the rock, the rope neatly coiled beside her.
‘Climbing!’
Kirsten fed the rope out steadily as Tod made his way up the face. He made the climb look easy, but Hamish could see that the weight of the trestle on his shoulders occasionally pulled his upper body further away from the rock than he would’ve liked.
‘Safe!’ It didn’t take that long for his brother to reach the top. Tod jettisoned hi
s load, then sent the end of the rope back down to Hamish with the harness attached. His turn. His mouth suddenly went dry as he put his feet through the harness.
Kirsten helped him secure the buckles and patted him on the shoulder. ‘All in the name of science, eh, Owl!’
He grinned weakly at her.
‘You’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Climb when ready!’
Hamish swallowed. ‘Climbing!’ His voice was croakier than he would’ve liked. He wasn’t used to climbing on a rope. The weight of the ladder made each move feel as if he had lead on his boots. Suddenly he was glad that Tod was so particular about checking everything out.
‘You’re hugging the rock!’ Tod yelled. ‘Lean back into the harness a bit! I’ll take some of the weight so you can just use your hands for balance. Make your legs do the work.’
Gingerly, Hamish tried to do as Tod said. It did make it easier, but he was sweating before he reached the ledge. He scrambled inelegantly over the top and gulped in air. He must’ve held his breath the whole way up. ‘Safe!’ His voice squeaked and he hoped they would put it down to hormones, not lack of bottle.
‘Make a climber of you yet,’ said Tod kindly, helping him shed his load. ‘You did well to get up before without a rope – that stretch is marginal for bouldering, you know.’ He gave Hamish a friendly punch.
At last they had all the gear up in the rock shelter. Kirsten joined them at the top, managing the climb with an ease that made Hamish envious.
‘So where are these drawings then?’ Tod asked.
Hamish pointed out the drawings and they obediently took it in turns to lie against the wall and look up at them. He could tell they were not sure what all the fuss was about. That suited him fine at this stage.
‘It’ll mean more when you see the photos,’ he said.
‘We’d better get you up there, then,’ said Kirsten briskly, banging the dust from her trousers.
They turned their attention to assembling the scaffolding. Kirsten tested that the camera trolley moved freely on its curtain rail runners, then nodded, satisfied.
‘Awesome!’ said Hamish after trying it himself. ‘I couldn’t have set all this up. Thanks, Kirsten.’
‘Okay on your own now?’ Tod got ready to abseil down. ‘We’ll leave you to it, then.’
Hamish watched Tod and Kirsten safely down, then turned to finish setting up. The afternoon was wearing on. He wouldn’t have much good light left for photography.
Once he’d clambered up onto the platform, he carefully attached the heavy camera to the coupling mechanism Kirsten had welded to the trolley, then slotted in the first film magazine. A final check of the angle of the viewfinder and everything was ready.
Hamish was about to start taking his photos when he heard something move in the scrub down below. Surely the others had left by now? Was there a problem? He scrambled down and went to the entrance of the overhang. Tama had climbed to the base of the rock face. He was standing there, looking up to the shelter.
‘What the hell….’ said Hamish. ‘I thought you didn’t want to come up here?’
Tama shrugged. ‘I don’t. I just wanted to … Nah, forget it. Doesn’t matter.’ He scrambled back down the steep slope, then stopped.
Hamish watched him, baffled. The other boy turned towards him again. He was backlit by the low sun. Hamish couldn’t see his face, just the fiery halo of that hair and the black shape of his body. He was shouting something, but Hamish couldn’t make out all the words. A warning of some sort, he guessed. More superstition.
‘I didn’t know you cared!’ Hamish shouted back, giving him the fingers defiantly.
For a moment, Tama stood still, then he turned away.
Frowning, Hamish waited until he was out of sight before he went back into the shelter. Then he shrugged, dismissing a momentary sense of unease.
Back up on top of the platform, Hamish looked closely at the drawings for the first time. The birdman figure that he’d spotted from the overhang floor dominated the clusters of dots and lines. It was the most distinct image, but he could also make out groups of human stick figures. In each group, one figure appeared to be headless. That seemed a bit odd as all the others had been drawn with the characteristic bulbous heads he’d seen in drawings elsewhere in the area. He couldn’t make anything of the other patterns, but they would become clearer once he’d examined the photos.
Hamish pushed the camera on its trolley to the far end of the rail then checked the viewfinder. That big birdman was dead in the centre. Taking his time, he shot enough exposures to cover the whole area occupied by the main series of rock drawings.
‘That should do it,’ he said out loud as he framed the last shot. His fingers were stiffening with cold despite the climbing mitts Tod had lent him. He fumbled as he took the magazine of film out of the camera. ‘Slowly does it.’ Talking himself through each stage, he disconnected the camera from its coupling and put it in his pack. His legs had stiffened up too and he moved clumsily. As he tried to lower himself down off the platform, his boot slipped off the metal piping.
‘Whoa!’ He grabbed hold of the edge of the platform. Hanging on by one hand and one foot he couldn’t stop his body swinging sideways. He swung towards the rock wall, then rebounded. First his foot collided with the rock, then the pack on his back. He heard something fall. ‘Shit!’
Breathing heavily, he dropped the last metre down to the floor. The camera, he had better check the camera was okay.
But the camera seemed fine. He patted his pockets. Both film magazines were there. That was strange, he could’ve sworn he heard something fall. He stumbled around the rock shelter, his throbbing hands tucked in his armpits in an attempt to warm them. He needed to get going. The photos had taken longer than he thought they would, and the evening shadows from the Sentinels had already spread across the basin.
Something caught his eye when he turned back into the overhang, still flexing his fingers. A shapeless bundle lay against the wall. So he had knocked something off the platform after all. He went to pick it up.
Whatever it was, it didn’t belong to him. At first sight, it looked like an old magpie’s nest, bits of straw and unrecognisable scraps of stuff, all covered in dust and cobwebs. Hamish hesitated, his hand outstretched on the verge of touching it. Then he crouched and gently brushed some of the dust away. His fingers encountered a harsh texture. Sacking of some sort, he thought. Curious, he brushed away the rest of the dust.
‘Hey, hang about. What’ve I got here?’ He spoke out loud. His voice boomed in the stillness of the rock shelter. He glanced around, suddenly ill at ease. For some reason that image of Tama silhouetted against the low sun flashed briefly behind his eyes. He firmly pushed it away. Slowly and carefully, he cleared away the rest of the debris, then sat back on his heels. This was no magpie’s nest. He’d found something man-made. Old too. Very old. It might even be as old as the rock drawings themselves. He must’ve dislodged it from somewhere. He stood up, searching the rock above him. There, tucked into the corner in the deepening shadow. A small ledge or hollow of some sort.
Hamish knew he should stop right now. Leave everything just as it was and contact the authorities. But he couldn’t help himself. His fingers were already delicately probing the folds of dirt-stiffened matting, easing them apart. It seemed to be the remains of a bag of some sort, its sides held firmly on a circle formed by two slender lengths of wood, bent into a hoop and tied. The folds he’d separated were drawn together by a cord at the centre.
‘Oh, where’s the harm?’ Hamish murmured, then teased the knotted cord loose. He inserted his hand slowly into the bag. At first he didn’t think there was anything there. Then his fingers encountered something tucked against the edge where the bag was attached to the frame. A small package of some sort. With infinite care he drew it out. More matting, folded into a square. Protected from the dirt, this matting was clean and still flexible. He opened out the folds, his heart thudding with anticipation.
&nb
sp; Lying there on the scrap of woven flax were several sticks of charred wood and a few coloured pebbles. What a let down. For a moment Hamish wished he hadn’t tampered with his find. It hadn’t been worth it. Then he drew in his breath sharply. Wait a bit! Not wood – charcoal? He looked closer. That was more like it. And the pebbles, two of them were reddish – ochre of some sort? Drawing stuff, maybe? He looked up at the overhang roof, where it was now too dark to see the rock drawings.
‘Has to be,’ he murmured, awestruck. As far as he knew, no one had collected drawing materials definitely associated with a particular piece of rock art. He touched each pebble, hesitating briefly over the one chalky yellowish one that didn’t seem to belong. Then he refolded the matting and slid the small package back into the bag.
Now what? If he let the authorities know, he would lose control of his find and his project. He was more sure than ever that the rock drawings depicted something beyond the usual apparently random collection of figures and patterns. His gut instinct told him this series was different, special in some way. And they were his, he’d discovered them.
He would just put his find back up there in that hollow. No one need ever know he’d already examined it. Hamish gently lifted the bag onto the platform, then climbed back up the trestle. Unable to see properly in the thickening gloom, he felt his way into the corner where his foot had knocked the wall. His groping hand found a definite ledge that sloped back to form a shallow niche. That was it. He put the bag into the niche and patted it down to make sure it was secure. There, no harm done. He scrambled back down to the floor.
It was nearly dark now. Hefting his pack with the heavy camera gear onto his shoulders, he glanced around the rock shelter to check he’d not left anything behind. As he turned to leave, something rolled from under his foot. Oh hell, what now? Impatiently he bent and picked it up.
It was just an oval piece of stone. Absently he ran his fingers over its rounded granular surface. He stopped breathing. Grooves curved across it, curves that were too regular to be natural. The stone had been carved. It was too dark to see, but he was sure. The stone must’ve fallen through a hole in the matting bag. He slipped it into his Swanndri pocket. As soon as he got a chance he’d put it back. It was just a stone.
