A Changing Land

by Nicole Alexander

  The view from the hill of Maggie’s youth took in a wedge of flat country and the village of Tongue. Usually she would reach this hilltop after scrambling up its grassy sides, her calves burning with use. It would be then that the dreadful sameness of her life stared back at her. The thousands of rocks which some cataclysmic event had spewed up from the ruins of the earth; the stagnant pools of water lying dank across the flat country, the B&Bs that signalled the yoke of the English and the measly four acres most crofters were expected to survive on.

  Maggie would breathe then, a great lungful of unpolluted air, and cast her eyes across to the adjoining hills at the cairns topping each successive high point, until the furthest mound of rocks looked like an unlit candle on a poorly made cake. The urge to run this route of ancient markers would be so great that Maggie scarcely acknowledged she had made the decision to be punished again by her weary mother. Her feet would take her to one and then two cairns before her brain bargained with her pumping heart to return home.

  Was it so long ago? Maggie asked, stooping to place a fallen rock on the crumbling pile. With a sigh she turned downhill. There were still the breakfast things to be tidied, a pair of Robert’s socks to be darned and the fish man would be calling. They would be having haddock tonight, probably breaded, for being a Friday Robert would call at the local for a few ales and be wanting a bit of a fry up for his dinner.

  She looked at her watch, wondering at the time in Australia. Hoping her boy was with friends; wondering if the getting of the money would be as easy as everyone expected. Jim’s silence from the far side of the world set Maggie’s memory in motion and her ulcer to flare. Inside the house she poured herself a long glass of milk, her hand only briefly hesitating before pouring a good measure of whisky into the glass. She gulped the liquid down, feeling the fresh cow’s milk glaze her tongue and gums with a fatty coating. She hoped Jim would return home soon. With a sob Maggie lent on the kitchen bench, her hands cradling her forehead. The waiting was proving too much for her.

  How had all of this happened when she had only wanted a pair of running shoes?

  The night dripped with the heat of a long day lingering. There was a closeness in the air; a tight constriction existing beyond the mantle of discomfort left by the sun’s blaze. Boxer felt the constraining pressure of the unknown in the droplets of sweat beading his neck, arms and chest. The moisture tracked a path to pool at his stomach, while the wadded blanket cushioning his head from the dirt beneath grew wet from the water seeping along the wrinkled coils of his neck. His hands swiped irritably at the sheen covering the dark skin of his body. The spirits wanted to make their presence known, regardless of Boxer’s inclination.

  Leaving the woman by his side, he crawled awkwardly from the bark humpy. His knees cursed at the clash of bone against bone, nonetheless he managed to stand, his aged slowness masked by the night sky. As his muscles warmed, Boxer’s feet traced the dirt track. He walked nimbly, skirting the edge of the camp, weaving through trees and grass tufts until the creek snaked its scent into his nostrils. When his cracked soles finally sank into the cool, sandy mud he sniffed in recognition. Here, in the dank still of the creek, he breathed in the cloying odour of stagnant water, oozing mud and rotting vegetation. Layered within hovered the remnants of campfires, and the tangy fish scent of mussels. His splayed toes clenched at the sinking softness. The water ebbed at his ankles. If he walked to the left, Boxer knew his feet would be ripped by the mound of opened shells that supplemented the white’s food the tribe was given monthly. To the right, further up around the second bend in the creek, was the women’s sacred place. Directly opposite across the water was what he’d come for.

  Lowering himself to the ground, the skin of his thighs sagged into the sand beneath as he sat cross-legged. Above him the depth of the sky seemed to angle downwards, the glow of the spirits flickering with differing degrees of intensity. He longed for the guiding path of the moon, for the brightness that allowed safe passage in the dark, for fair hunting of both land and water creatures. This night was not that time.

  Boxer narrowed his eyes, his gaze directed across sluggish water to the far bank of the creek. There was a deeper darkness there. A murky crevice between the trees beyond that beckoned through wisps of unknown movement. His lips moved in unspoken speech, his mind calmed. They had awoken him with the sweat of their need. As he closed his eyes his skin prickled, the wiry hairs standing upright on his sinewy arms. He nodded then, ready. Once one comprehended their presence, their breath of life in all things, fear borne of ignorance settled like the embers of a fire turned to ash. Boxer breathed with the land in and around him. The great heart of mother earth steadied his vision like a soft caress.

  Boxer pictured the great sweep of land that was Wangallon. Far beneath him Hamish Gordon rode on horseback flanked by his men and one black, one of Boxer’s own. They were crossing the big river from the land of the Gordon’s to another. A chill wind swept along the mighty waterway. Boxer felt the gust as surely as he rode beside his Boss.

  He awoke to the scurry of feet and the screech of laughter, to the flick of sand on his face. Women were stoking fires on the creek’s bank. Children were rushing into the water, screaming with delight. Great streaming curls of water flashed in the muted greens and browns of dawn. The first tinge of light smeared the space above the tree line red with heat. Boxer scraped the sand of the creek from his drooping cheek before scrambling to his feet. Brushing gritty crusts of sleep from his eyes, his filmy sight followed the smear of red as it grew in the lightening sky. It was true then, he thought despondently as he retraced his steps back to his humpy.

  There would be blood.

  Anthony didn’t wait to be cordially invited inside the jackeroo’s quarters. It was 6.30 am. He knocked twice on the screen door and walked inside. He found Jack in the kitchen, the youth’s bare feet resting on the kitchen table where last night’s dinner plates jostled for space with a recently consumed breakfast of mutton chops, onion gravy and fried egg. The smells hung in the air, competing fiercely with the stench of cigarette smoke and a blazing wood-fire heater.

  Jack was stubbing his cigarette out on the rim of an empty beer can, oblivious to his surroundings. The local FM station was turned up to what Anthony suspected was its highest volume.

  ‘Morning, Jack.’ Anthony sat down nonchalantly and hit the off button on the radio. Jack moved his feet immediately and, as if caught having committed a serious crime, set about clearing the dirty plates.

  ‘Sorry, Anthony, I wasn’t expecting you.’ Jack placed the plates on the sink.

  ‘Relax, kid, where’s your guest?’

  Jack hovered between the table and the sink, unsure whether he should sit down or start washing up. Eventually he elected to busy himself wiping down the kitchen table with a dishcloth. Crumbs and other assorted bits of food scraps fell onto the floor. ‘Having a shower. He asked me if I’d drive him to the airport, but I told him that Matt and I were …’

  Anthony looked automatically through the open door that led out to the small living room and bathroom. ‘Tonight’s plane leaves at 6 pm so you have him in town at lunch and then leave him to his own devices.’ That way, Anthony decided, he was unlikely to cross paths with Sarah at the airport.

  Sensing there was more to this than just a friendly visit, Jack asked, ‘Who is he, Anthony?’

  Anthony briefly considered laying it all on the line. ‘Someone we don’t want here.’

  ‘Well, that is a grand way to greet the morning.’ Jim, freshly showered and dressed, was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Coffee, anyone?’ Jack offered meekly, sensing both men’s eyes boring the other’s like a drill bit. He might be the jackeroo but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pick up when two men wanted to bash the crap out of each other. He made a fuss of filling the kettle at the sink, lit the gas cooktop and sat the kettle on top.

  ‘Jack here will drive you into town,’ Anthony said casually. ‘There is a plane a
t six tonight. In the meantime, we’ve got a few things to take care of so you can make yourself at home here, watch a bit of telly or something.’

  ‘Or something?’ Jim mimicked.

  Jack retrieved two mugs from the beige kitchen cupboard.

  ‘You know I’ll get what’s coming to me,’ Jim stated, pulling on a pair of socks.

  Anthony dearly wanted to tell him that pigs might fly. He watched Jack fiddling with the coffee and sugar.

  ‘I just wanted people to be a bit fair about things,’ continued Jim.

  Anthony had to give the Scot points. He had some nerve with his surprise visit and genuine disappointment with the welcoming committee.

  ‘If I had a written history of the Gordon’s at Wangallon,’ Anthony said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice, ‘I’d gladly give it to you to read. Then you might be a little more understanding.’

  The kettle whistled. Jack added a teaspoon of coffee, then water to each mug.

  ‘Understanding?’ Jim’s voice was raised.

  Jack held up a container of milk. ‘Milk?’

  Anthony lowered his voice. ‘I don’t want to argue with you.’ The last thing they needed was a scene in front of the jackeroo. It would be around the district within a few days.

  ‘I’m sure you don’t. You can’t exactly complain about my rights when you’ve got your share and you’re not even a Gordon.’

  At this Jack dropped the mug he’d been about to pass to Jim. ‘Bugger.’

  Considering the events of the last few weeks, Anthony could barely contain himself. Only Jack’s presence stopped him from saying anything further. He walked out of the kitchen onto the gauze enclosed verandah. ‘Jack.’

  Jack skirted past Jim in a flash. He pulled his boots on and stuck his wide-brimmed hat firmly on his head. Anthony held the screen door open for him as he went through.

  ‘You’re not welcome here, Jim, and I’m starting to think that Sarah was right. You shouldn’t be entitled to a bloody cent,’ Anthony growled. Having spent the night alone and with Sarah now en route to Sydney, Anthony had little time for the Gordon wannabe.

  Jim was a nose length from Anthony’s face in an instant. They remained that way for several seconds, Anthony opposite Jim, young Jack looking up from where he stood on the cement path below.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about entitlements. You’ve got your share and the grand house and its contents, just for insinuating yourself with the Gordon family. It’s me by rights that should be having this conversation with you, mate,’ Jim spat, ‘not the other way around.’

  Anthony’s fist collected Jim squarely on his jaw; there was a crack, the force of the blow sent Jim into a flat spin that propelled him through the gauze of the verandah and out onto the small square of lawn where he landed with a thud on his back.

  ‘Damn,’ Jack said with reverence, admiring the great gaping hole in the gauze. ‘Damn!’ He walked over to where Jim lay sprawled on the ground. He was holding his jaw, moaning. Take that, Jack thought savagely, itching to throw in the Wangallon Town boot. He didn’t know exactly what was going on, but he was on Anthony’s side. He ran after him and slid into the passenger side of the Landcruiser.

  Anthony stretched his fingers, felt the pain rip into the back of his hand and down his finger and knew his knuckles were broken. The dust spurted out from beneath the Landcruiser’s rear tyres. ‘We better go find Matt and see when Toby’s going to start mustering the cattle to go on the route.’

  Jack angled his backside into the seat and smiled. Now this was a good day.

  Angus stopped near the entrance to the stables. A brown snake slithered from under a pile of old timber railings, leaving a wiggly track in the soft dirt as it headed towards open country. Its skin was glossy, the body fat. Angus watched until the snake was out of sight. The door to the tack room was open and his father’s saddle was gone. He looked over his shoulder to make sure he was still alone and, selecting a bridle from a peg on the wall, headed to the rear of the stables. Willy was in an adjoining yard brushing one of the mares with a curry comb.

  ‘Are you meant to be here?’ Angus slipped through the timber rails. He’d not seen Willy since their fight over the slingshot.

  Willy turned abruptly, running his hand across a snotty nose. ‘Boxer says I’m to brush down the horses.’

  Angus walked up to the boy. He was standing perfectly still now, the mare nuzzling his shoulder. ‘Do you know where they’ve gone then?’ His hand tightened on the bridle. Jasperson once told him a good stripe with the bit on a bridle would stun any man.

  Willy pointed in the direction of the river. ‘Mebbe that way. Are you going riding?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  They stood staring at each other until Willy returned to his brushing.

  Angus scrambled through two lots of railings and walked across hoof-packed dirt. Standing alone, sniffing the wood of the yards, was the black gelding. Angus had christened him Wallace after William Wallace, the Scottish highlander who attempted to free them from the English. His father approved of his choice, reminding Angus that an animal with such a name would not suffer fools. Well, Angus knew that. He still had a bruise on his bum to prove it. Angus had reminded Wallace that his father was also a highlander, not that this shared allegiance made much difference. To date Angus had managed to stay on once out of seven attempts.

  Angus slipped through the railings. Wallace trotted away. ‘Come on, fella,’ Angus called softly. ‘Come on.’ Having taken his father’s advice to make friends with Wallace, he’d spent the last few days, morning and night, feeding and talking to him. Willy appeared on the other side of the railings with a bucket of chaff. ‘Here,’ he called. ‘Try this.’

  Reluctantly Angus accepted the bucket. As soon as he placed it on the ground Wallace walked forward and began to eat from it. When the horse lifted his head clear Angus slipped the bridle on. ‘Gotcha!’

  Willy opened the gate and Angus led Wallace into a larger yard.

  ‘Jump on him here,’ Willy encouraged. ‘Bareback. You can ride bareback?’

  Angus chewed his lip. He didn’t much like the thought of falling off again. Willy stared at him, his skinny black hands resting on his hips, his bare toes digging into the sand of the yards. Angus was sure he could see the beginning of a smile. Gritting his teeth, he led Wallace to the railings, climbing up until he was level with the horse’s back. The horse was stamping the ground impatiently, snorting and shaking his head.

  ‘Come on,’ Willy encouraged. ‘Get on.’

  Angus hesitated, considered the ramifications of being too scared to continue, before flinging his right leg carefully over the horse’s back. His father had warned him of sudden movements and every muscle tightened expectantly in his body as he grimaced. He took a breath. Wallace barely moved. Shifting his bum into the centre of the horse’s back, Wallace moved strongly beneath him before wheeling from left to right. Angus dug his knees in as he’d been taught, tightened his grip on the reins and turned the horse to his right. Soon they were walking around the yard’s perimeter, his face all gappy eight-year-old grin.

  ‘Faster,’ Willy encouraged, perching himself on the top railing of the yard. ‘Faster.’

  In response Angus touched the horse’s flanks. Wallace increased his speed. Soon he was in a trot. Trees in surrounding paddocks began to blur, the railings whizzed past his legs as Angus bounced lightly up and down.

  ‘Me too,’ Willy cried out. Without waiting for a response, he jumped from the railings when the horse passed by and landed behind Angus. Wallace reared immediately. Angus felt Willy’s hands frantically grabbing his shirt tail, then the boy was gone, Angus clinging to two great handfuls of mane.

  ‘Whoa, Wallace, good Wallace.’ Angus calmed the horse and turned to see Willy rubbing his bum. Wallace snorted and whinnied as Angus slid off his back, patted his nose and removed the bridle. ‘What did you do that for?’

  Willy hunched his shoulders. His arm was bleeding
where it had scraped the timber railings.

  Angus moved to inspect the injury. ‘Come on now.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around the worst of the deep scratch. Willy watched warily, rubbing at his bum.

  ‘Hard, isn’t it?’ Angus bandaged up the wound. A few minutes later Wallace trotted up to nibble at his shirtsleeve. In the distance was a horse and rider. The boys ran to the railings and clambering to the top, looked out towards the west. ‘Wetherly,’ Angus guessed. ‘He rides like he’s on show, so Father says. But where’s he going?’

  Willy hunched his shoulders and then pointed towards the orchard. It looked like Mungo waiting beneath the last of the orange trees, his hat cocked back on his head. Soon one of the maids came into view. With a grin, Angus elbowed Willy in the side and they ran from the stables, their feet soon crunching orange and lemon leaves soft with ruin as the morning sun crisscrossed the land. Angus spotted Luke’s empty camp at the base of a large tree and dived for his swag, Willy landing partially on him.

  ‘Get off,’ he struggled. Ahead Lee was shuffling along the avenue of trees, beyond lay the neatly plotted square of the vegetable garden. One of the maids was in the garden, a basket over her arm. As if on cue Lee began walking towards the maid, his fist flaying the air in agitation, chasing the girl from his domain. Angus and Willy crawled on their stomachs to a tree and then darted to another.

  ‘Ouch.’ Willy extracted a prickly burr from his big toe.

  ‘Shh,’ Angus frowned.

  Margaret’s soft voice drifted across to them. They dropped behind a log as Mungo and Margaret sat at the base of a gum, he with his legs spread long and wide and she with her skirts tucked about her ankles.