Big Sky

by Melaina Faranda

  ‘Hi guys. This is Aria. She’s going to be our camp cook.’ Elise gave her a friendly wave and Franz gave her a sharp, military-style nod, while Jonathan emitted an appreciative whistle.

  If it had been me, I would have blushed, but Aria thrived on the attention. She pulled up a chair. ‘So what would you all like to eat? I was thinking maybe a spinach and mushroom fettuccine the first night.’

  ‘Sounds delicious,’ Jonathan said, emphasising the word ‘delicious’ as he looked Aria up and down.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ I butted in. ‘This is going to be camp cooking. We can’t carry fresh food with us – it’ll be mainly salt beef and onion stews, damper, tinned fruit and custard.’

  Aria screwed up her nose. ‘So what are the vegetarian options?’

  Options? As if. And as for vegetarian – since when? Then I remembered; three days before the end of term Aria had decided to stop eating meat. Janey Hornsey had said that it helped keep you thin. I felt exactly zero sympathy. ‘You’ll be eating a lot of damper.’

  The screen door opened. Dan came in, holding his hat. His hair was dripping, as if he’d just had a shower.

  Aria’s eyebrows arched and her gestures turned silky and feline, reminding me of the cat we’d briefly had before it lost a battle with a king brown.

  ‘Aria, this is Dan.’

  Dan nodded, flashed her his sweet, crooked smile, and turned to me. ‘Who you got horse-tailing, Skye?’

  I didn’t know. I hadn’t wanted to allocate jobs until I’d met everyone. Now I thought about how Dan had been with Blue Dreamer and guessed he was asking for a reason. Leading the horse plant was an important job. For the next two and a half weeks we were all going to need at least three horses each, on rotation. As the tailer, Dan would lead the horses out and graze them in a holding paddock to ready them for when they needed to be swapped over from day to day.

  ‘Do you want to lead the plant?’ I asked.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Done.’

  Dan grinned. ‘I’ll ride the night horse out crack of dawn to get the horses ready – just save me some bacon.’

  I smiled and then ducked my head to hide my treacherous blush, keenly aware that Aria was staring at me. It was a relief being able to talk with someone who spoke the language and knew what had to be done. It made me feel more confident about leading the muster with a bunch of newbies. There was so much to think about, there were so many things that could go wrong. The mob could rush, someone could get hung up or gored, horses could go down.

  Worst of all, if I stuffed up it could be the tipping point for Bundwarra. With Dan backing me, there was a chance we could actually do it . . .

  But before that happened there was still camp gear to sort in the shed. ‘Come on Aria, we’ve got stuff to do.’

  Aria reluctantly followed. She looked at Dan then me, then Dan again. She smiled at him radiantly, baring small, white, orthodontically enhanced teeth. Her eyes glittered with something I recognised from years spent pitting myself against rogue cattle the unmistakable light of challenge. For the rest of the day I couldn’t shake that look, and it was the last image that flashed across my mind before I fell into a deep and dream-filled sleep, dreading what was to come.

  The next morning I moved about blearily, lazy from the 7am sleep-ins at St Anne’s. I was out of condition. Next term I’d sign up for rowing to reset my body clock for sunrise. I liked the golden stillness before the world woke up.

  I saved some bacon for Dan. The eggs were perfect: sunny side up, with deep sunset yellow yolks. They were from the semi-feral free-range chooks that had survived the goannas and wandered at will, dropping eggs all over: Gran seemed to have a sixth sense for finding them, in old tin cans, or half-cut plastic drums, inside old tractor tyre rims, and at random in the grass – tauntingly close to the straining reach of the dogs’ chains.

  Unable to hear Gran banging around in the kitchen I went outside to search for her. A mob of white corellas squawked and squabbled, flicking up their crests and bobbing to beak up spilt sugar as Gran thumped boxes of kitchen gear into the supply vehicle – a dinged-up geriatric troopie Land Cruiser that had somehow managed to survive Damien’s thrashings. Dad was hobbling stubbornly around, using his plaster cast as ballast as he stacked up swags reeking of must and mildew after being stored during the wet. They loaded barrels of salted beef, onions, potatoes, sweet potatoes, tea, salt, milk powder, tinned fruit, custard powder and enough bags of sugar to give a dentist a heart attack. But at the end of a long day’s mustering there was nothing like hot billy tea with half a bag of sugar stirred into it.

  Around the corner of the shed, beneath a twisted eucalypt frozen in a many-limbed dance, Aria trilled with laughter as Jonathan banged on about his guest appearance on McLeod’s Daughters. I could hardly believe it. My injured father and seventy-three year old grandmother were hefting things half their weight.

  ‘Oi! Jonathan, Aria, come and give us a hand.’

  ‘Can’t,’ Aria said. She screwed up her face and crossed her legs. ‘Got to go to the ladies.’

  I wasn’t buying it. Same face she used every time she wanted to get out of prep and then spent twenty minutes sauntering back. ‘Can’t you hold on?’

  Aria shook her head and dashed to the homestead, her dark hair catching the gleam of early sun.

  ‘Looks like you’re it.’

  Jonathan frowned. Fair enough. I’d just interrupted him flirting with Aria. He wasn’t in her league. I pointed him in the direction of the heavier drums of flour and the crowbars, post-hole diggers, spades and axes, and then went to check on whether the radios’ batteries were charged up.

  I thanked Jonathan after he’d finished loading the last drum into the troopie, but he ignored me and stalked back to a plate of congealed eggs and clumps of cold, hard bacon.

  I sighed. Technically, leading a muster was something I knew how to do. I knew the mob, knew how to draft and knew which cattle to pick for market. But did I really know anything about managing people? We hadn’t even started the hard stuff and Jonathan had already made it clear he didn’t like being ordered around. How was I going to maintain authority?

  Back at the truck, Dad was checking the radiator. I fetched some water and was bent head down over the engine when Jonathan staggered out of the homestead with an enormous swag. It looked as if it had been rolled around a body and was stuffed so full the straps weren’t properly secured around the swag, but had been additionally tied with shoelaces.

  Aria trotted into view from behind it.

  I banged my head on the bonnet. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Your gran said not to take my suitcases so I put my clothes in the swag,’ Aria explained. ‘I could only fit half of them in.’

  Jonathan dumped the swag onto the dirt. The laces busted and the swag unfurled and exploded into a heap of delicate lacy bras, knickers, cute satin pyjamas, a bikini, and a toiletry bag big enough to fit my entire wardrobe for the next two and a half weeks.

  Jonathan whistled.

  ‘Go help Dan with the horses!’ I snapped.

  After he’d slouched off, I glared at Aria. ‘We can’t possibly take all this stuff. It’s a muster, not a trip to Bali.’

  Aria pouted. ‘I hate wearing dirty underwear.’

  I gritted my teeth. ‘On a muster everyone gets dirty. The mob kicks up dust. There are no showers. Water is rationed. Sand and dust and crap gets everywhere. Look Aria, if this isn’t what you thought it would be and you don’t want to go that’s okay. You can always go back to Perth.’ My mind raced. I could ask Elise to do the cooking. We’d be down a number, but Aria looked set to be more of a liability than an asset.

  Tears sparkled in Aria’s lashes. ‘You don’t want me.’

  ‘I do,’ I lied. ‘I really do. Promise. I’m just worried that you won’t like it.’

  ‘You mean – won’t be able to take it?’

  I swallowed. Aria sometimes surprised me with rare flashes of ins
ight. Then, to my horror, she started to sob.

  ‘I came all this way to see you.’ She scrabbled around in the swag, tossing her expensive wardrobe all over the ground. ‘I wanted to help you.’

  I didn’t get it. Why was she so determined to come on this rough-and-tumble muster when she could be lushing it up in her very own mansion, with her very own gold credit card, and any number of guys who would leap at the opportunity to take her out?

  Sighing, I crouched to help. I fished a bright pink bra from the pile. It had a fluffy edging of pink down and a row of satin bows. It was a like a case-study on what not to wear on a muster.

  ‘Okay,’ she conceded. ‘Maybe that one can stay behind.’

  I couldn’t help it – I cracked up.

  Aria joined me, her infectious peals merging with the abbreviated cackle of a blue-winged kookaburra. She stared up into the tree. ‘What kind of lame laugh is that?’

  ‘Half a laugh.’

  Dad’s big clumping plaster leg made it impossible for him to work the accelerator and clutch, so Gran offered to run Aria out in the troopie to set up camp in the dried riverbed near the drafting yards.

  The camp was a few hours of difficult driving from the station along a rutted, two-wheel track. Fortunately there was another road in from the other side of the property for the meat trucks to come in. The country we’d be mustering was too rough for bikes, so the rest of us would ride our horses. Traditionally, Dan would have ridden out the day before with the plant of twenty horses and the rest of the team would have caught a ride out with the supply vehicle, but this was hardly a traditional muster. To start with, there were two first-timers on board, and Elise and Franz had only worked for a few weeks on another station. That left two of us who knew exactly what we were meant to be doing.

  I thought it best to head from the homestead and start mustering from just beyond the boundaries of the house paddock. It would give the others a chance to practise, and if we missed some of the mob on the first day it wasn’t such a big deal – they were close enough to the homestead for us to get them another time.

  We were going to have to muster, then draft the mob – vaccinating, cutting, dehorning and branding any cleanskins – separate out the weaners, and sort killers to be trucked to the slaughter yards. Mustering and drafting two thousand head of cranky Brahmans over two and a half weeks with an amateur team – no problemo.

  Dan had done a good job of running the horses in with Flash. The team he had selected was impressive. He was unfamiliar with the Bundwarra herd and yet he’d managed to intuit which of the hundred-odd horses in the horse paddock would be best for the job. There were a couple of cranky geldings in there, like Savage and Snakebite, but they were horses with spirit who’d think nothing of rushing at a scrubber bull that had razor sharp horns. Strangely, even those two were docile and on their best behaviour as everyone saddled up. Perhaps it was Dan’s calm, steady presence or maybe they sensed the excitement of adventure and wild riding ahead.

  I saddled up Blue Dreamer and ignored his protests as I tightened the belly strap around his girth. The saddle was a Barcoo with felt lining. Mum had given it to me after I’d won the buck-jumping event in a camp draft. It had taken a week of almost non-stop riding for it to mould to my backside. Now it felt like slipping into old boots.

  When everyone was mounted, I gave the signal and a last wave at Dad who was resting on his crutches beneath a spray of pink bauhinia flowers. At the side of the house, Zippo and Red strained against their chains, flinging themselves forward and being jerked back mid-choke. Some stations used dogs for the muster, but not Bundwarra. Gran was adamant that the cattle were never taught to respect dogs. It made the calves easier pickings for dingoes.

  We trotted through the open gate into a four thousand hectare paddock. Wild country. It was early morning and already stifling hot. Sweat beaded the back of my neck. I tipped my akubra, feeling a tingling rush of adrenaline – the thrill of galloping into the unknown.

  SIX

  A wedge-tailed eagle wheeled above, scouring the baked earth for any poor little marsupial desperate enough to scurry from its burrow. In the distance two distinct rocky outcrops, shaped like giant upside-down ice-cream cones, sprouted from the plain.

  I pulled short on Blue Dreamer’s reins and swung him round so I was facing the others. ‘See the Devil’s Horns? You’ll be able to spot them anywhere from this part of the property. Stay to the right of those, then come up level with them and you’ll cross the first big creek. We’ll meet on the other side. Then we’ll drive the mob together into the holding paddock. Any trouble and we use the radios.’

  Their faces lit up with a mix of fear and excitement.

  I pointed to the distant snaking line of darker green trees across a plain of yellow, crunchy spear grass spiralled to the ground from the knock’em down rains. ‘The river forks and splits, then meets again at a crossing. You’ll find mobs along the riverbanks and at bore points. They tend to stick together and they should move fairly easily if you stay calm. Go slow and don’t spook them. They get cranky in the hotter part of the day. That’s the time to find them some shade and have a smoko to give them a rest. Elise and Franz, you take the left side. Jonathan and I’ll take the right. Dan’s taking the horse plant straight to camp.’

  ‘Everyone clear?’

  Heads nodded beneath an assortment of borrowed battered akubras and a solitary black Stetson. Back at the homestead, Franz had asked about riding helmets. Gran had snorted and said, ‘Just don’t fall off.’ No one wore safety helmets in the northwest. Everyone accepted danger and risk – thrived on it even.

  ‘Like I said before – if we don’t get a big mob this first day it’s not such a big deal. I just want everyone to get a feel for it.’

  Dan gave me his lopsided grin and tilted the brim of his Stetson. ‘See you at camp, Boss.’

  I watched him canter across the spear grass through a graveyard of monolithic termite mounds towards the Devil’s Horns with twenty horses in tow, their manes and tails rippling behind.

  I turned back to Jonathan. ‘Ready?’

  ‘You betcha.’ It was a relief to see that he looked happier now that we were out riding. Perhaps it was the prospect of hunting something down.

  We trotted over to the dark line of trees – mostly acacia with tortured-looking eucalypts erupting from their midst. Ahead, a mob of forty-odd grazed on lanky, broken spear grass. The beasts were all Brahman, grey or red with dowager humps and big, black sloe-eyes. They swung their tails, batting away flies, looking as though they belonged in a field in India where women in bright pink and gold saris would lead them with plaited ropes.

  ‘I’ll go round to the left,’ I called to Jonathan. ‘You stay steady and they’ll be in the bag.’

  We were nearly on them when the cattle caught the scent of the horses. They looked up from their chewing and stood, frozen, uncertain what to do. A big scrubber, with horns that could easily have spanned my outstretched arms, broke away. I remembered what Gran had taught me – if you miss one, you miss the lot.

  Bellowing, the scrubber charged straight at Jonathan. I would have guessed the beast was a mickey – the craziest and most dangerous of them all – even if it hadn’t had such huge horns.

  ‘Get round behind me!’ I ordered. ‘I’ll come up alongside and rope him!’

  Jonathan didn’t move. His horse drew back its ears. Pretty could hold his own in the fray.

  ‘Get a move on!’

  Spurring to action, Jonathan snapped down on the reins and directed Pretty straight at the bull.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I yelled, wheeling around Blue Dreamer to head off the bull from Jonathan and Pretty.

  Jonathan kept charging, as if playing chicken. The mickey rushed towards him, all eight hundred odd kilos of pure muscle bearing down. I waited for the sickening clash as the bull gut-gored Pretty and sent Jonathan flying.

  Jonathan veered at the last minute. Pretty bucked. Jo
nathan held his seat for a good five seconds then fell to the ground.

  The bull turned clumsily and charged.

  Sliding the leather bull strap from my belt, I galloped up alongside the mickey, just as Blue Dreamer and I had done many times before. Except before we’d always had the back-up of an experienced ringer like Damien or Dad. I waited until we were close enough and leapt to the ground. I grabbed the bull’s tail and gave a sharp tug, holding tight. The beast turned its head to go me, and lost balance as it spun. It crashed to the earth. The whites of its eyes rolled and it kicked wildly, trying to get back up. I looped the strap between its flailing hind legs above the hocks. Binding them tight, I threaded the buckle.

  ‘Help me!’ I snarled at Jonathan.

  He stayed put, brushing broken spear grass from his jeans.

  ‘Jonathan!’ I screamed, throwing my whole weight on the mickey’s rump and trying to keep a tight grip on the strap as it heaved and strained to break free.

  ‘You seem to have it under control,’ Jonathan said, rising with painstaking slowness.

  Rage rippled through my body. I shoved the strap at Jonathan. ‘Hold this!’

  Once he took firm hold of the strap, I drew the old timer out of my knife pouch. The knife Dad had given me for my eleventh birthday.

  Veins protruded on Jonathan’s forearms as he strained to keep the bull down.

  I couldn’t resist. ‘Can’t you put any more muscle into it?’

  ‘I thought you’d be man enough for the job, Skye.’

  I wanted to slap him. He might have made a guest appearance on McLeod’s Daughters and owned a Save Bondi’s Blue Gropers T-shirt and worn a single diamond earring, but he was more sexist than most of the blokes on the rodeo circuit. If Damien had been here he would have bashed the crap out of this scrubber so that when it got up it would be so sore and sorry for itself it wouldn’t try and take the mob with it. I had never liked seeing men beat up scrubbers. The two swift operations we performed on them brought suffering enough. I grabbed the horn cutters from my saddle and quickly sawed the mickey’s horns. Each horn fell to the ground with a thud. They were massive and would have been good for Damien’s collection.