Mice, lizards, bush quail and insects all disturbed into movement by her bike created a sporadic pattern of scampering life amid the tufts of grass. A flat expanse of open country lay ahead, punctuated occasionally by the encompassing arms of the wilga and box trees that dominated the landscape here. Ahead, the edge of a ridge was just visible; a hazy blur of distance and heat shimmering like an island. Soon the rich black soil began to be replaced by a sandier composition, the number of trees increasing, as did the birdsong.
The midmorning sunlight streamed into the woody stand of plants, highlighting saplings growing haphazardly along its edges. They were like wayward children, some scraggly and awkward in appearance, others plump and fresh with youth. Sarah drove the quad slowly, picking her way through the ridge, passing wild-flowers and white flowering cacti. The trees thickening as she advanced deeper. The air grew cooler, birds fluttered and called out; the cloying scent of a fox wafted on the breeze. The path grew sandy and the quad’s tyre tracks became indistinct as the edges collapsed in the dirt. Above, the dense canopy obliterated any speck of the blue sky.
Sarah halted in the small clearing. The tang of plant life untouched by the sun’s rays filled the pine-tree-bordered enclosure. She breathed deeply, revelling in the musky solitude. Through the trees on her right were the remains of the old sawpit. The pale green paint of a steam engine from the 1920s could just be seen. It was here that her grandfather Angus had cut the long lengths of pine used to build the two station-hand cottages on Wangallon’s western boundary. The sawpit, long since abandoned, also marked the original entrance to Wangallon Station. Long before gazetted roads and motor vehicles decided the paths that man could take, horses, drays and carriages bumped through this winding section of the property, straight through the ridge towards Wangallon Town.
Sarah continued onwards. Soon the tall pines began to thin out, the air lost its cool caress and within minutes a glimpse of sky gradually widened to a view of open country. She weaved away from the ridge through a tangle of closely growing black wattle trees and belahs, the thin branches whipping against her face.
She was in the start of the swamp country where a large paddock was cut by the twisting Wangallon River in one corner. The area was defined by scattered trees and bone-jarringly uneven ground. A ridge ran through the paddock and it was here that sandalwood stumps spiked upwards from the ground. Sarah stopped the bike and alighted.
Years had passed since she’d last been in this area alone. It was almost impossible to believe that her beloved brother had died here in her arms over seven years ago. Kneeling, Sarah touched the ground, her fingers kneading the soft soil.
In snatches the accident came back to her. His ankle trapped in the stirrup, his hands frantically clawing at the rushing ground, and then the sickening crunch as he struck the fallen log and the spear-like sandalwood stump pierced his stomach. Sarah swiped at the tears on her cheeks, her breathing laboured. Closing her eyes she heard the shallow rasp of his breath, like the rush of wind through wavering grasses.
Anthony caught up with her a kilometre from Wangallon Homestead. Sarah could tell by the lack of shadow on the ground that she was late. His welcome figure drew closer, just as it had when he had come searching for her and Cameron all those years ago. At the sight of him the tightness across her chest eased. As the white Landcruiser pulled up alongside her quad Sarah leant towards him for a kiss. Her forefinger traced the inverted crescent-shaped scar on his cheek, the end of which tapered into the tail of a question mark. Sometimes the eight years since his arrival at Wangallon only seemed a heartbeat ago.
‘You’re late,’ Anthony admonished.
Sarah sat back squarely on the quad seat. So much for the welcome.
‘I was worried. What’s with all these long rides around the property?’
‘It’s his birthday.’
‘Oh.’ Each passing year Cameron faded a little more from Anthony’s memory. He gave what he hoped was an understanding nod. ‘Been fencing?’ he nodded towards the milk crate. ‘You don’t have to do that stuff you know, Sarah.’
If she expected a few words of comfort, Anthony was not the person to rely on. He rarely delved past the necessary. She gave a weak smile. ‘I am capable of fixing a few wires.’
‘I don’t want you to hurt yourself,’ Anthony replied with a slight hint of annoyance. ‘And what’s with taking off and not letting me know where you’re going or how long you’ll be away?’
‘Sorry.’
He scratched his forehead, the action tipping his akubra onto the back of his head. ‘Well, no harm done. Let’s go back to the house and have a coffee.’
‘Would that be a flat white? Latte? Espresso?’
Anthony rolled his eyes. ‘How about Nescafé?’
Bullet barked loudly. ‘Sounds good.’ Sarah pushed her hat down on her head and sped off down the dirt road with Bullet’s back squarely against hers. She slowed when they passed some Hereford cows grazing close to the road. ‘G’day girls,’ she called above the bike’s engine. Bullet whimpered over her shoulder and gave a single bark as they crossed one of the many bore drains feeding their land with water. These open channels provided a maze of life for Wangallon’s stock and Sarah never failed to wonder at the effort gone into their construction nearly a century ago under the watchful command of her great-grandfather Hamish. Shifting up a gear, she raced through the homestead paddock gate to speed past the massive iron workshed and the machinery shed with its four quad-runners, three motorbikes, Landcruisers and mobile mechanic’s truck. Weaving through the remaining trees of their ancient orchard, Sarah braked in a spurt of dirt outside Wangallon Homestead. She smiled, watching as Bullet walked through the open back gate, pausing to look over his shoulder at her.
‘I’m coming.’
Bullet spiked his ears, lifted his tail and walked on ahead.
Hamish Gordon, immaculate in a dark suit, matching waistcoat and necktie, walked his black stallion along the edge of the empty bore drain. He was travelling westward across country that he’d begun to amass nearly fifty years ago and the sight of the black soil radiating from beneath him eased the ache in his lower back. Tree-filtered light dappled the track ahead and splatters of dew danced on fine spider netting nestled between tufts of grass. A breeze parted the glistening leaves of the trees, the noise like the soft shaking of linen, and he felt the breath of life on his face.
Hamish kept the reins taut on the stallion as he surveyed his land. Having once doubted if it were humanly possible for Wangallon to ever mean more to him, this year proved otherwise. His son Angus was now eight and, having fought off the various ills of childhood, Hamish was convinced that at last he had a worthy successor. When the time came, and he supposed it must, although he would fight death like every other foe, Angus would take his father’s place. There was still much for the boy to learn and although Angus retained a child’s capacity for foolishness, Hamish knew anything and anyone could be moulded.
The stallion started at something in the grass. The animal, a flighty newcomer to Wangallon’s stable, backed up at the slightest movement and was yet to take a liking to both bridle and bit. Hamish was determined to teach the horse a measure of respect, for he intended gifting the animal to Angus at Christmas and expected the stallion to display all the attributes of a highly domesticated animal. If he didn’t he’d be gelded. The horse wound its way steadily through the thick stand of ironbark trees. Hamish noticed the lack of grass growing in the densely timbered area and decided at once to have them felled. They could use the timber for a planned dividing fence while simultaneously increasing the stock-carrying capacity with the increase in grass coverage.
‘We’ll use this timber for the fence,’ called Hamish over his shoulder to Boxer, Wangallon’s head stockman.
Boxer rode with his rifle resting across his doeskin thighs, the edge of his pale coat flapping against the chestnut mare’s back. ‘Righto, Boss.’ Spitting out a well-chewed wad of tobacco, he ran hi
s tongue around his mouth, the pink tip of it flicking unsuccessfully at the dark juices dripping down his chin.
Hamish dropped his shoulder to skim the sticky boundary of a bush spider’s domain. The large bulbous body scuttled sideways in useless anticipation as the distant bellowing of a bullock team and a series of whip cracks announced the end of the morning’s ride. A speck of movement appeared in the hazy distance, growing on approach to resemble men. Hamish and Boxer drew level to follow the open channel mounded on each side by dirt. It was a tributary of the main drain that ran east to west and would eventually rejoin another arm some six miles on, watering two grazing paddocks in the process.
The bullock team was dragging a wooden one-way plough along the predetermined path of the drain; behind it a wooden tumbling tommy scoop, also bullock drawn, gathered up the loose dirt. Hamish and Boxer rode past the drain-making contraptions. Both plough and scoop would need to make a series of passes before a usable channel appeared. Some distance ahead a team of men straddled the breadth of the drain’s proposed passage, their faces red with fatigue. The rhythmic swing of axes and the dry strike of shovels gave off dull thuds as the men removed the numerous trees and fallen timber that lay in the path of the oncoming machines. Nearby a campfire expelled a stream of smoke into the cold air. Hamish could smell damper cooking.
Boxer rode across to the foreman and there was a gruff order to down tools. The men turned as one to slowly walk forward. Employed specifically to work on the drain, Hamish noted the men were a motley assortment of varying ages. Jasperson, Wangallon’s overseer, had assembled a team of misfits. One wore a stained patterned waistcoat, another sported trousers sheared off roughly below the knees, three wore mismatched trouser braces, while most of their shoes were tied up with twine to stop the soles coming off. The sight of these bedraggled men took Hamish back in time to the steps of The Hill Hotel & Board over forty years ago. Filthy from days spent in the saddle, mourning the loss of his younger brother on the goldfields, he too had experienced the hollow-eyed despair these men carried with them.
Dismounting, Hamish walked across to the campfire, leaving his horse in Boxer’s care. The doughy scent of coal-baked bread competed with skin unaccustomed to water and soap. It was a heady aroma.
‘You the boss then?’ The high-pitched voice came from the waistcoat wearer. The lad fiddled with potatoes in a saddlebag, shifted his eyes like a food-scavenging goanna. Later the potatoes would be wrapped in wet newspaper or bundled into green bark and rested among the fire’s embers for their lunch. The lad was younger than he looked, Hamish surmised. A lathering of dust and sweat covered a line of pustules that ran down the left-hand side of his face like a scar. The lad suffered from the Barcoo rot.
‘I am,’ replied Hamish.
The men jostled uncomfortably. Hands left or entered pockets. There was a low murmur. Hamish knew the look of criminals well enough. He’d seen the chain gangs working at cutting through the heavy rock to build roads down south; winced at the smack of leather against flesh. Some of them stared with open hostility at Boxer. A black with a rifle remained an uncommon sight in these parts and the distrust was plainly evident.
‘If any of you are looking for work after this job is completed, speak to Wangallon’s overseer, Jasperson.’
A murmur spread out from the group like uncomfortably stored flatulence. Hamish would send one of the stockmen out this afternoon with a side of mutton and a couple of extra plugs of tobacco. There were basic ways of ensuring a measure of loyalty. Springing easily into the saddle, the stallion automatically bucked in displeasure. Hamish tugged on the reins, the horse backing up like an unruly child.
‘A man has already offered us work. Doing this,’ the youth pointed at the open drain.
‘What’s your name, boy?’
‘McKenzie.’
‘McKenzie. You would be from Scotland then?’
‘Aye. Born in New South Wales. My father’s family is Scottish.’
‘And your mother’s?’
‘Irish. She died with the having of me, Sir.’
Hamish took another good look at the lad. He was not surprised. ‘Well, McKenzie, which man are you talking about?’
‘He came from over there.’ The boy pointed towards the blue hazed scrub. ‘Said if we was of a mind to head west and cross a big river, we’d be on his boss’s land.’
Hamish knew immediately that the youth referred to Oscar Crawford. His neighbour across the river owned Crawford Corner. The family settled in the area in the 1840s, some years prior to Hamish’s arrival, and as such treated him like a brash newcomer; however, it now appeared they were quite happy to try to poach his men and quite likely his stock as well. This was a subject Hamish knew much about and it would only be a matter of time before they were caught, for they mistook their own arrogance for pride.
‘And you like this work, do you?’ Hamish countered. ‘Breaking your backs every day. Reliving the memory of working under the lash?’ Some of the men glowered at him. ‘I can offer you work if you are able. I’ve fences to be checked and repaired, trees to be felled, cattle and sheep to be mustered. In return you’ll be paid, housed and given your share of station rations. If you can’t do the work then you must leave. We don’t beat or punish our hands, but if you wrong me I’ll shoot you straight.’
The oldest of the group, a grey-haired man with a matching chest-length beard that carried the scraps of previous meals, pushed his way to the front. ‘Youse can’t shoot nobody these days.’
Hamish patted his moustache as if he were at a Sunday picnic discussing the price of wool. ‘Really?’ The word hung in the air with the threat he intended. Wangallon had a picket-fence-enclosed cemetery for those that carried the Gordon name and hollow logs and shallow diggings for the less compliant. ‘Let Jasperson know of your interest or otherwise.’ He turned his horse, secure in the knowledge that Boxer waited with his rifle at the ready. The old black was a crack shot and would drop four with his carbine before they knew what direction the bullets came from.
‘What is it?’ Hamish recognised the strained look on Boxer’s face. It was a look that in the past had signalled a coming bushfire, a black woman’s murder and the finding of Hamish’s first wife, Rose, dead at the cemetery in the bend of the creek. ‘Well?’ Hamish waited a few impatient seconds. A shadow the shape of wind-blown cloud crossed Boxer’s broad face. ‘Well?’
Hamish struck his spurs against the stallion’s flanks and rode ahead of the ageing black and his unfathomable superstitions. Perhaps the steady crawl of age was beginning to impede the astute intuition relied upon in the past. He should put the old black out to pasture and replace him with one of his sons. Mungo was not Boxer’s eldest son but he was reasonably civilised and certainly benefitted from the many months traversing the great inland stock routes with Hamish’s own son Luke. Aye yes, now there was a manageable arrangement, Hamish decided; although Luke, the boss drover of Wangallon’s cattle, had sent no word as to his progress these last two months. The boy had inherited the same unmanageable attitude as that of his long dead mother and it was a tiresome characteristic to put up with. At least, Hamish reminded himself, he had another son who would inherit Wangallon. In the great scheme of things that was all that mattered.
Sarah lay flat on her stomach, a Pentax camera resting precariously on a log. This was her third attempt at photographing a lone wallaby and it was proving a far more difficult task than anticipated. Having first seen the wallaby some days ago when she and Anthony were returning on horseback from shifting a mob of sheep, she had revisited the spot twice. It was certainly a secluded setting. The remains of timber sheep yards were partially obscured by shady green peppercorn trees and the area backed onto a sandy ridge dense with radiata pine trees. It was the perfect environment for the notoriously shy wallaby.
Sarah’s initial shots showed shafts of sunlight running horizontally through the branches of a peppercorn tree. The sun’s rays gave an almost other-worldly feel t
o the broken timber railings, chest-high clumps of spear grass and red budded cactus trees in the distance. Unfortunately every time she moved to take the picture the wallaby ducked. Anyone would think you were camera shy, Sarah mused, as the light flattened out. Slowly she eased herself up from behind the log and looked through the viewfinder of the camera. The day was diminishing and with the transformation, a spindle of pink gold triangulated its way through the peppercorn’s leaves. A flutter of butterflies rose from the grass and the wallaby, intent on chewing a long stem, turned its small inquisitive head towards Sarah.
Her finger clicked the shutter. The wallaby gave a small noise much like a growl and hopped away. ‘Excellent.’ Sarah jumped up, did a little jig in celebration of capturing what she hoped would be a Kodak moment, and then slipped the Pentax safely back into its carry case. The growl sounded again. Sarah spun around. She was half-expecting to see a wild dog or a pig or maybe even a drop bear, the mythical bush creature Anthony so loved. The noise sounded once more and she looked up to see a koala in a tall gum. Angus, her grandfather, had seen koalas during his lifetime but this was Sarah’s first, and the idea that these sensitive creatures still roamed Wangallon thrilled her. She managed to get a single shot before the koala clambered higher amid the branches.
‘So you found one?’ Anthony appeared astride his horse, Random; so named because it was purely chance if the gelding didn’t try and throw him once a month.
A Changing Land Page 2
