A Changing Land

by Nicole Alexander

  Two of them wear torn white men’s clothing. Renegades from a station, Luke assumes. The other is tall with a long spear in his hand and alert eyes stare from within the roughness of bark, like skin. He has a wiry beard and a narrow, bony chest, which carries a number of scars thick with age. A possum skin coat, the fur next to his skin, is dragged over one shoulder. Behind the trio a freshly speared bullock kicks its last amid the trees. Luke draws his forefinger tight against the rifle’s trigger, lifts the weapon very slowly. He is ready to shoot. Mungo climbs down from his horse and lifts his empty hands towards the trio. The two renegades carry nullanullas. One blow could crack a man’s head. Luke knows he and Mungo are in a precarious position. Yet his old friend is talking softly and taking a step towards the warrior with the raised spear.

  The black answers with a string of unintelligible words, his eyes a yellow white pricked by brown. He points at Luke as if he were a leper, the horizontal crack of his mouth spitting anger. Luke would rather shoot the man dead. They are wasting time and his gut tells him that this is one black that should be put down. Mungo is still talking when the spear is raised and thrown. Luke manages to fire off a single round at one of the renegades, then his flesh is pierced and he is thrown back out of his saddle as Joseph rears in fright.

  In the kitchen Sarah made coffee for three, strong and black, adding milk and sugar to soften the bite of her own cupful. She couldn’t imagine Shelley showing herself for at least an hour, so Sarah decided to wait to have breakfast with her. On the old pine kitchen table she placed a notepad and pen, a blue and white bowl filled with apples and mandarins and waited for Matt Schipp, Wangallon’s head stockman, to knock at the back door. The kitchen wall clock struck 7.15 a.m. exactly as Matt’s thick knuckles struck the doorframe. By the time Matt was seated, coffee in hand and his signature laconic grin in place, Anthony was already halfway through a crunchy red apple.

  ‘I was about to ask Matt –’ Sarah began, after they’d all commented on the fine morning.

  ‘Can we just discuss a couple of staff issues first, Sarah?’ Anthony interrupted, biting the core of the apple in half and devouring it in two bites.

  Sarah leant back in the wooden chair. Clearly it hadn’t been a question.

  ‘I was hoping young Jack was ready for a step up the ladder.’

  ‘He is,’ Matt answered, swallowing a good mouthful of his coffee. ‘Good kid. Listens well, takes advice.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Sarah agreed. Only last week she had complimented the young jackeroo on the fine job he’d done with the garden. She would be sorry to see him go, even if he was only asked to spend one workday a week giving her a helping hand. ‘Perhaps he could come and help once a fortnight –’

  ‘Take him out with you next time, Matt.’ Anthony spoke over Sarah. ‘Maybe put him in charge of moving that next mob of ewes.’ He reached across the table for another apple. ‘I can’t promote the kid and then send him back into the garden, Sarah.’

  Matt looked from Anthony to Sarah, before reaching for a mandarin. His blunt, perpetually saddle-oil-stained fingernails mangled both the skin of the mandarin and the soft flesh of the fruit.

  ‘I had a look at that fence over at West Wangallon,’ Anthony continued. ‘It must be nearly fifty years old. I thought we could make it one of our winter projects.’

  ‘Matt doesn’t do fencing.’ Sarah winked conspiratorially at their head stockman. Her grandfather hired Matt just before his death and his continued employment on Wangallon hinged on the verbal promise that he would only ever work with stock. Anthony frowned. ‘Matt knows you don’t get to pick and choose your jobs in the bush, Sarah.’

  ‘I’ll send one of the boys over to check the fence,’ Matt offered peaceably, while effectively extricating himself from the job. ‘I’m thinking we’ll need to open the silage pit in a fortnight, start feeding the cows. The early oats we planted will last the steers out until sale time, but we can’t risk shortening their fattening time by adding to their numbers. Probably be worthwhile selling a couple of hundred of those late weaners. And now would be the time to do a pregnancy test, then cull any cows not in calf. As for the sheep –’

  ‘Sounds good to me, Matt,’ Sarah interrupted. It was exactly what she had been thinking over the last few days. ‘I’ve found some corn, we can get it delivered next week and –’

  Anthony scraped his chair back. ‘I’ll think about it. I’m not convinced that we can’t put fifty or so more steers on the oats and I’m not in favour of opening the silage up too soon.’

  A slight frown crossed Matt’s weathered face. ‘Any cow in calf needs to begin receiving supplementary silage in a fortnight – in fact the sooner the better. Unfortunately, mate, there’s not much we can do about it.’

  ‘Leave it a week or so longer.’ Anthony drained his coffee. ‘The old girls can scrimmage around for an extra ten days or so. Feeding the silage out should be a last resort.’

  Matt shook his head, pursed his lips together. ‘We don’t know when it’s going to rain and nothing’s going to grow during winter. If you’re hoping that the silage will see us through, it may not; besides, you just can’t feed them that, there are not enough nutrients in it. And if it doesn’t rain then we’ll have to truck weak cattle out on agistment. Sorry, I really think the pit should be opened.’

  Sarah expected to hear a small explosion going off, or the voice of her grandfather telling these two young quarrelling pups to wake up to themselves. Instead she spoke across the tensing silence, explaining that the stock route would be a good option, that they could delay the opening of the pit by five days and then plan to put some of the cows on the road, sixteen hundred or so. The rest could be spread around Wangallon to safely calve, assured of enough feed to get them through until spring when hopefully it would rain.

  ‘There’s no one on the route around here at the moment. And although it’s mainly dry feed, there’s a lot of it and the watering points are all good.’ Sarah gave an encouraging smile to the two silent men.

  Matt was the first to speak. He begrudgingly agreed and offered to call a drover he knew of in Queensland, then he excused himself. Sarah was left facing Anthony across the table.

  ‘Was that necessary?’ Anthony asked, pulling a red cooper’s notebook from his shirt pocket and noting down some figures with a stubby pencil.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘We were talking about the right time to open the silage, now you have us on the stock route in a matter of weeks.’

  Sarah clasped her coffee mug. ‘You can’t try to feed all the stock here, Anthony. We need a contingency plan and waiting until the last gasp when we’re out of feed and the cattle are weak is not an option.’

  Anthony tucked the notebook back in his pocket. ‘Well, you suddenly seem to have developed very strong opinions.’

  Sarah placed their coffee mugs on the kitchen sink. Had she? It seemed like common sense. In her heart Sarah knew her plan was good. And if it stopped Matt and Anthony from agreeing to disagree, there was an added bonus. She thought back to their opening conversation and Jack Dillard’s promotion. ‘So I’m expected to handle the garden as well?’ Sarah rinsed their mugs out and sat them on the sink. She knew he considered big bush gardens a waste of space, time and water. Especially as they rarely had time to enjoy it.

  ‘It amazes me that old Angus employed Matt. He is becoming more like a manager every day and Wangallon doesn’t need two of us.’

  ‘He’s head stockman,’ Sarah reminded him. She wanted to add that Matt wasn’t going anywhere, but now wasn’t the time to explain Matt’s employment terms. Sarah could only imagine the look on Anthony’s face. ‘The man has almost no dexterity left in six of his ten fingers.’ Having caught his fingers in a grain auger years ago, Matt had turned his original agricultural interest from dry land farming to stock work.

  ‘And doesn’t he let us know it.’ Anthony was on the back porch pulling on his riding boots.

  Sarah w
as ready to launch into a polite reminder of her place in the Wangallon feed chain. She was not prepared to give up paddock time to look after the garden and both Anthony and she were meant to be sharing the managerial responsibilities; however the telephone was ringing and Matt could be heard on the two-way radio talking to another stockman about straying cattle. Picking up the telephone, Sarah put her hand over the receiver. There was little point staying annoyed with him. ‘What are you up to this morning?’ The back door slammed in reply. ‘Well great, just great.’ Thank God Shelley liked her sleep-ins. ‘Good morning, Wangallon,’ Sarah spoke into the telephone, sounding happier than she felt.

  Luke is not sure what part of his body hurts more. He raises his hand and touches the back of his head where it hit a knobbly tree trunk. His skull is sticky; blood and brown hair glaze his fingers. Struggling into a sitting position, he looks grimly at his shoulder. The spear has been pulled free of his flesh. Mungo has worked quickly, pouring liquid from his canvas waterbag to clean the wound, which is bleeding freely. Blood mixes with the brown tinge of creek water.

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ Mungo grins.

  Luke flinches at the pain as he staggers to his feet. One of the blacks lies a few feet away. The other two have vanished into the trees.

  ‘They’ll be back,’ Mungo advises, gesturing with a quick nod of his head at the dead animal. ‘Come.’ Mungo helps him onto Joseph, leading him back towards the clearing.

  ‘They’re hungry,’ Luke says stiffly, breathing through the throbbing pain.

  Mungo scratches his chin thoughtfully. ‘He’s a warrior. I’ve heard of him further north.’

  ‘He doesn’t stay with his people?’ Luke, now painfully aware of how fast a spear can fly, considers his team’s vulnerability.

  ‘Some of my people want to return to the old ways. They want their land back.’

  The mountains hover above them. Luke shivers at the chill of the wind. In this land everything is about ownership.

  At the camp the cook’s indistinguishable monologue deteriorates into a string of concerned abuse. Luke checks once on the herd before sitting by the fire. They are feeding out happily. ‘Once everything is watered and rested for an hour or so, we’ll walk them onwards. It’s another seven or eight miles to the next night camp, Mungo.’

  Mungo looks at a grey tail of cloud snaking above, as if questioning Luke’s timing.

  ‘You’ll make it. Once the herd sniff the water at the Hanging Hole there’ll be no stopping them.’ Luke knows Mungo hates making camp at this spot where blackfellas and whites fought last century. When they camp there Mungo hears screams and yells, sees their shadowy forms in battle under the glow of the moon. The worst of Mungo’s doctoring is yet to come and Luke grimaces at the thought of their isolation. Although it is Mungo’s unstated role to converse with the dark peoples that roam the bush, Luke is aware of a feeling of responsibility towards his old friend. For that reason alone he is pleased to be the one injured.

  Mungo flashes his teeth as he pulls Luke’s riding coat free of his shoulder and rips open his shirt. A small comb, such as those made for a woman’s hair, falls to the ground. Mungo picks it up with a bloody hand, his scraggly nails dark with congealed blood. ‘I tell you about my woman and you?’

  Luke gave a pained, lopsided grin. ‘I dream.’

  ‘Then maybe you keep with you until the spirits answer.’ Mungo stuffs the comb inside Luke’s coat pocket and frowns as he directs his thoughts to his ministrations. There is a short bladed pocket-knife already positioned in the glowing embers of the fire. The cook, not much for talking now that his morning peace has been ruined by a bloody wounding, pulls a cork from a rum bottle and offers Luke a swig. His eyes watch Luke’s bobbing throat. He retrieves the bottle, then, licking his lips, thinks better of it and takes a long swig himself, his eyes white as Mungo lifts the knife from the fire.

  Luke turns his head from the glowing blade and grits his teeth. He thinks of the money this sale of cattle will bring; of the supplies that will be purchased. Was a man’s death a fair exchange for the continuation of his father’s dream? Instead of answering his question Luke thinks of the excitement that would greet the mail when a bolt of fine dress silk or a length of cream-coloured lace arrived. She was the reason he always returned to Wangallon, and why he had become a drover, to get away again.

  Mungo pours rum on the open wound and then presses the blade down harshly to cauterise the flesh. ‘You visit your girl in Wangallon Town,’ Mungo suggests as a diversion.

  Luke growls; he has no girl. The stench of burning skin fills the air as Luke passes out amid a contorted grimace. The cook grunts in disgust and swills more rum. Mungo’s pink-tipped tongue flicks with concern as he prods at the red skin surrounding the wound. He looks up at the cook and grins, his teeth a flash of righteousness.

  Hamish stalked the verandah, pausing occasionally to puff irritably on his pipe. An unseasonal mist, thickened by moist air and cooling temperatures, hung stubbornly about him, obliterating his world. The gravel driveway, the wavering trees, even the flowering shrubs that hedged in Wangallon Homestead were barely visible. From his waistcoat he retrieved his gold fob watch, impatiently noting that only a paltry ten minutes had passed. With a disgusted puff of his pipe he sat heavily in one of the wicker chairs lining the verandah, listening to the household. The distant clang of pots and the stacking of crockery carried sharply in the still air above which hovered the maids’ muffled giggling and the deeper intonation of Mrs Stackland, their cook and housekeeper. The combined noise was akin to the drone of a bee. The scent of baking bread was the only agreeable aspect to his sensory disturbance.

  ‘Hamish?’

  Claire is dressed in white muslin from neck to ankle, a fine brocade wrap about her shoulders. Walking sedately behind her is a rather overfed cat, a tabby that Hamish detests. He glares at the cat, knowing the feeling is mutual.

  ‘The weather is most unusual,’ Claire allows the cat to settle comfortably on her knees.

  Hamish scowls. The cat purrs loudly in defiance.

  ‘It is a nice respite from last week’s heat and wind.’ Claire’s rhythmic stroking makes the tabby’s contentment even louder. ‘I seem to recall similar weather conditions led to a poor start last year to the season.’ She plucks at a loose strand of cotton on the buttoned wrist of her blouse. She had been born in this most unfathomable of countries, yet fifty-six years on, her daily life, her very subsistence, still depended on the vagrancies of the heavens. To be held to ransom by the gods of the sky had, she decided, been a most humbling experience since her arrival at Wangallon. ‘It is nearing half-past six, Hamish. Soon this slight fog will burn off and Jasperson will be here to drag you off to some distant part of Wangallon. Why don’t you eat something?’ Hamish was gazing beyond the silhouette of a native tree. Her fingers touched the hard darkness of his hand. He was looking at her like someone awoken from a deep sleep. ‘Take a little tea and some fresh fruit loaf,’ she continued. ‘Lee has managed to plead his way into Mrs Stackland’s kitchen.’

  Hamish pulled his hand free of her touch. Claire smoothed her skirt over her knees, disturbing the cat, who growled softly in reproach. ‘It has been a year of firsts for our great country,’ Claire began, hoping there was some suitable topic in which they could both engage. ‘How I would love to have witnessed the great fleet of the United States of America visiting our shores, or seen the first surf carnival held at Manly Beach.’

  Hamish stared stonily ahead.

  ‘And how wonderful an explorer is Douglas Mawson’, she persevered. ‘Imagine climbing a 13,000 foot high volcanic cone in Antarctica of all places.’ The mist was lifting. Streaks of blue were interlaced with fluffy balls of white cloud. ‘I’ve received correspondence from Mrs Oscar Crawford.’ Surprisingly, at this, Hamish actually turned his attention to her. Claire seized on the opportunity. ‘My dear, it would seem their eldest, William, has completed his law degree and is travelling north to visit his
father. Oscar Crawford has been ensconced next door for the last six months. I do find it strange that he does not hold some gathering to which we might attend. In Sydney they are quite the fashionable couple. Still, perhaps he feels ill-equipped to entertain without the advices of his good wife.’

  Hamish rubbed at his moustache. Having already made an offer to purchase Crawford Corner not twelve months prior, he was beginning to see the virtue in Claire’s relationship with the Englishman’s wife. ‘Mrs Crawford must despair of his ever returning to Sydney.’

  ‘Indeed, one must wonder at his desire to remain on his holding with his younger daughter now married, his dear wife in Sydney and his sons with little interest in the property.’

  Hamish stretched his neck and shoulders. Perhaps the time was at hand to approach the man again. ‘I must agree with you on that account, Claire.’

  Claire tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. Perhaps later in the day she would wash her hair and perfume the final rinse with a few drops of lavender water. Then when the sun drew close to its midpoint she would fluff the long strands dry in the growing heat before retiring to the drawing room and her quilting. She should discuss dinner with Mrs Stackland. It was possible there was some tasty treat the woman could conjure. While she was not a fan of jugged wallaby, Hamish’s favourite dish, she was partial to roasted stubble quail, and a refreshing jelly would be a nice cooling dessert. In the midst of her thoughts Lee shuffled onto the verandah, a large tray clasped between his bony fingers. His knees, bowed by age, stuck out like those of a stick insect from beneath his tunic and he moved like a man who, although having seen too much, considered it an honour to have done so.