The Cedar Cutter

by Téa Cooper

  ‘I want you,’ she murmured, then his mouth found her breast, making her body glow and prickle with anticipation. She had such a hunger for him, something she didn’t know existed. Something greedy and desperate.

  She pushed back into the familiar softness of her quilt and raised her legs around his waist. When he entered her a flicker of shock swept through her, making her hands fist on the quilt. She bit back a cry as the pain diminished and desire replaced it.

  Her breath shuddered on a sigh and she turned her lips to the side of his neck and began to move under him. She rose and took him deeper, fell back and drew him into her again. Warmth simmered to heat and their skin grew slick. She arched beneath him and his long, full-throated cry ripped through her and the rage of his blood, the pound of his need became hers.

  Basking in the afterglow, she lay wrapped in his arms half dreaming, a lazy sexual haze clouding her thoughts, while he traced his fingers over her skin as if he couldn’t stop touching her.

  ‘It breaks my heart that I must be leaving you.’

  She buried her face against his shoulder and ignored his words. He’d come back, she knew he would. ‘I love you.’

  ‘And I you. More than you’d be knowing. I’ll be returning, as soon as I make an end of it.’

  ‘I know you will. You promised.’

  ‘Aye and I keep my promises.’ His lips skimmed her face and she drifted asleep, secure in the knowledge that above all else Carrick would keep his word.

  When Roisin next awoke a shimmering path of moonlight lay across the bed, highlighting the planes and angles of his body, turning his skin to alabaster.

  She ran her hand over his flesh, imagining the blood throbbing beneath, across his broad, deep chest to his shoulder, the raised, puckered scar strangely smooth, then down the sculpted muscles of his thighs. When he stirred and murmured her name she kissed him lightly on the lips and nestled in his arms.

  So this was love. Not an aggressive assault in a back alley, or the sordid couplings she’d witnessed at Aunt Lil’s. She didn’t regret one second of the night and whatever the future might bring, she’d hold this memory close. Treasure it, let it strengthen her while she waited for his return, because he would. He’d come back to her once he had made his peace with the past. Rolling over, she moulded her body against his and closed her eyes. His arm snaked around her, pulling her into his embrace.

  ‘If I die right now I’ll die a happy man.’ His words spoken in the stillness and dark of the world they’d created took her by surprise. He turned and gathered her to his chest and they slept away the night cradled beneath her silken quilt.

  The frail light of the winter morning woke her and without opening her eyes she knew he’d gone. They had said their farewell and now she must wait. She could be patient.

  She tucked the quilt around her shoulders and burrowed down and dozed, fixing every moment of the night firmly in her mind to be taken out and cherished like one of Ruan’s treasures during the months that followed.

  Ruan’s squirming body landed on the bed with a thump. ‘Mam, wake up. Wake up. Carrick has gone. Look, look what he left me.’ She rolled over, her hand cradling her fluttering stomach, wondering if she, too, might have a lasting reminder. How she’d love that. Her lips curved in a smile as she imagined his face when he returned. ‘What has he left you, another treasure?’

  ‘His fishing line. Look, his fishing line. I’ll practice every day and when he comes back I’ll catch a hundred fish and we’ll have such a party. I miss him, Mam. I’ll miss him every day until he’s back.’

  ‘And so will I, my darling, so will I.’

  Sixteen

  Carrick slipped through the door and closed it firmly behind him. He’d known leaving would be hard but hadn’t imagined it would be this difficult. Perhaps it was a coward’s way out to leave with the memory of her welcoming body and loving smile. If he’d woken her and she’d cried he’d have come undone. He couldn’t return until he’d cleared the stain from his heart; only then could he offer her everything she deserved. Revenge had sustained him for too long, burned a black hole in his heart as deep as the bastard’s brand on his shoulder. Brigid and Liam’s death had stripped the light from his life, from his very soul. Roisin and Ruan had given it back.

  True to his word as always, Slinger stood ready down at the campsite. The horses were saddled and the two pack animals loaded with saws, axes, ropes and chains.

  ‘Thought I might have to come and drag you out of bed.’ Carrick slapped Slinger across the back and rammed his hat down hard on his head, then pulled the collar of his own jacket up against the biting wind.

  ‘Told you I’d be ready. Besides, I want this finished. I’ve got me a nice warm bed waiting and an even warmer woman.’ Slinger winked, tossed him the reins and mounted his own horse.

  And how he envied Slinger. A week or so and he’d be back with a pocketful of money and the future free and clear. ‘So you’ll not be heading up to the Bellinger when we’re through?’

  ‘Someone’s got to stay around and keep an eye on those two. Kill the scandal and make sure they’re not wanting for anything. I’ll think about Bellinger once you get back from your little jaunt.’

  ‘And what makes you think I’ll be coming back?’

  ‘You’ll be back.’ Slinger belted his heels into his horse. ‘Come on, let’s get this job done.’

  By the time the sun had risen above the hills they’d turned off the main track and were heading down into the valley. Old Pella insisted he and Billy Boy would be up at the caves waiting for them. With their help they’d be able to move a lot faster, get in and out sooner, while the bloody overseer and his mate weren’t there. ‘Doesn’t look like anyone’s been through since last time. Billy said he’d be keeping an eye out.’

  ‘Can’t trust the bloody natives, they’re never where they say they’ll be. Gone on one of those walkabouts, more ’n’ like.’

  ‘Old Pella told him we were coming. Wants to make sure we don’t touch their special places.’

  ‘Won’t be their special places anymore. Not if the land’s granted. That bloody overseer’ll be in here and he’ll take the tree before anyone can say bleedin’ redcoat.’

  ‘No one’s taking that tree. It’s mine. Besides, they haven’t had time to get a crew together. We would’ve heard about it. If it were my land I’d take the tree, too, use it to build myself a home. Cedar’s good for houses, keeps the bugs away.’

  ‘It’s also good for coffins. And no one cares whether the bugs stay away once they’re six feet under.’

  Sometimes Slinger could be a morbid bugger. Not coffins. He’d had enough of coffins and misery. Roisin would have her house even if he didn’t make it back. ‘No dray’s come in. The bush is still too thick. We’ll have to clear it so the bullocky can come through and get the timber out.’

  ‘Have you told the bullocky you’ll be wanting him?’

  ‘Nah! Plenty of teamsters passing through who will do the job for a price. Wanted to keep it quiet. I reckon we’ll be using someone else. If the land’s been granted we’re trespassing so we’ll not be wanting anything or anyone to tie us to the place.’

  ‘Bullocky’s all right. He can’t string two words together at the best of times.’

  ‘Just because he doesn’t say much doesn’t make him a halfwit. He’s a good bloke.’

  ‘Could always take it out through Wyong, down to the coast. Might be better and quicker now they’ve clamped down on the licences.’

  ‘I’ve got other plans.’ He’d tell Slinger what he wanted done with the timber once the tree was down.

  ‘Bloody dark in here. The canopy’s as thick as all get out.’

  ‘Nothing’s been cut, that’s why.’

  ‘Nothing to cut.’ Slinger threw aside a tangled vine. ‘Why just the one, then?’

  ‘Old Pella reckons it’s because it’s the king.’

  ‘Blah! Load of rubbish. Will we make it before the light goes?�
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  ‘We’ll make camp up in the caves with Billy Boy. Then get an early start in the morning.’

  ‘I could eat the hind leg off a donkey.’

  ‘Cold mutton and bread tonight unless Billy Boy’s snagged a possum or two.’

  When they reached Billy Boy’s cave the light had turned grey and chilly, and a fine wind stirred the mizzling rain.

  ‘Irish rain for you, mate.’

  ‘Nothing Irish about this rain. It’s not set in. Tomorrow it’ll be fine. Check the sky.’ Red streaks scored the clouds above the rock face, turning the sandstone to orange. ‘I can understand why there’s so many leaving the home country and coming here. They’ve got a better chance. No potatoes, no famine and no bloody rain.’

  ‘Just the natives’ fires, flood and bloody redcoats.’

  ‘Redcoats will be gone soon. Most of them are handing in their commissions and heading for the goldfields, or they’re being sent to Van Diemen’s Land.’

  ‘And good riddance to them.’ Slinger tethered the horses and removed the packs, then clambered up into the cave after Carrick. He reached out to the remnants of the fire. ‘No one’s been here for a day or two. No sign of Billy Boy either.’

  Carrick heaved a log under the overhang of the cave and brought it down with a crash, breaking the dead timber into small pieces, then crouched down and eased a packet of Congreves from inside his shirt. He lit the fire, hardly able to summon the patience to wait until morning. The sooner they started the sooner they’d finish. After ten years his patience had worn right through.

  Slinger dragged the remains of the cold mutton from the saddlebag and offered him some. He shook his head. ‘Tea first.’ The thought of eating the cold, greasy mutton turned his stomach. He was getting soft. It didn’t take long for a man to appreciate the comforts of home.

  Pulling a flagon of rum out of his saddlebag, Slinger settled down, gnawing on a bone, more like one of the wild dingoes than a human. He wiped the fat from his mouth with the back of his sleeve. ‘Once you’ve got your King Polai, then what?’

  ‘I told you. I’m going home.’

  ‘Why would you be doing that? Waste of bloody money if you ask me. You must have a fair bit stashed away by now. You could set yourself up right and proper. Or head off to the goldfields. Make a fortune if you’ve got some money behind you. And then there’s Roisin. She’d help pass the nights. Help you leave the old country behind.’

  ‘You stick with your affairs and I’ll stick with mine. I’ve got business to sort out.’

  ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘The unfinished kind.’

  ‘You’re tighter than an emu’s arse.’

  ‘Here.’ Carrick nudged the flagon of rum closer to Slinger. ‘Get some of that into you, then get some sleep. Big day tomorrow. I want to be in there before the sun breaks.’

  ‘Nothing else to do.’

  Carrick unrolled his piece of canvas alongside the fire and lay down, covering his face with his hat. Ireland. Give it six months and he’d be there—less if he picked up a fast ship. As sleep claimed him, he waited for their faces to fill his mind, but all he saw was Roisin, her face in the moonlight, hair spread across the pillow. Fidgeting, he sat up and removed a stone pressed against his back. Smooth and round its colours flickered in the firelight. He spat on it, wiped away the dust, then rubbed it on his shirtsleeve and slipped it into his pocket. One for Ruan. Another treasure. Maybe he’d take him panning for gold, find a bit of real treasure. God he’d miss the lad. Was already missing his mam.

  The grey misty dawn held the promise of a fine spring day. Good cutting weather. He stoked the remnants of the fire, stacked some more wood onto it and set the billy to boil. Excitement swirled in the pit of his stomach. He’d waited so long for this. Not just the tree, knowing it signalled the end of his time in Australia. All the waiting, all the planning. He’d finally have the bugger and he’d stick him. An eye for an eye, like the good book said. None of this turning-the-other-cheek rubbish. The bastard would die. Just the way he’d promised when he’d stood in the dock. He scratched at his shoulder then measured the tea into the billy, shoving his boot into Slinger’s recumbent form. ‘Oi! On yer feet. Time to make a move.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Slinger dragged the canvas over his head and burrowed deeper, like a wombat hiding from rain. The empty rum flagon rolled across the ground. Carrick grinned. That’d make him work faster. He’d finished his ration in one night. No more grog till they were done. Tapping the billy, he stared at the leaves as they settled. Shame he’d not be here to teach the lad a bit about the bush, too. There’d be plenty of time when he got back. A man needed to know the way to survive, and the heritage of the country of his birth.

  ‘On yer feet. Here.’ The tea slopped over the edge of the tin mug as he thrust it into Slinger’s hand.

  ‘Okay! Okay! Give me a minute. You’re bloody keen.’

  ‘Stop whingeing. This’ll line yer pockets for a year or four and buy some pretty ribbons for that girl ye’re so keen on.’

  Slinger took the tea, sipped it and rubbed his hand over his face. ‘Where the hell did that rum come from? It’s a shit load stronger than Maisie’s usual brew.’

  ‘Maybe you drank a load more. No more until the tree’s down.’ Carrick rolled his bed into a compact bundle and secured the ropes, then kicked over the traces of the fire. ‘I’ll saddle the horses.’

  Following the wallaby tracks, they led the horses deeper into the valley. It was decent land; make a good grant, especially if it did front the Wyong River—give direct access to the coast—great for shipping cedar. Shame there wasn’t any left. Boat from Sydney, smaller one down to the reaches of the Wyong River and you’d be there quicker than the days it took to travel to Morpeth, though the whole bloody world would know where you’d been and where you were going. No, he’d done it right. Taking the route over the mountain to Morpeth and keeping the stands a secret. He gave a harsh bark of laughter.

  ‘Now what?’ Slinger grumbled as he kneed his horse closer and ducked to avoid a low-hanging branch.

  ‘Nothing much. Just thinking it’s a top piece of land. Someone could do well here. Shame there’s no timber left.’

  ‘Reckon the stand we cleared belonged to this grant, too?’

  ‘Aye, without a doubt.’

  ‘Sure no one’s been through here since we were here? The track seems clearer.’

  ‘Don’t think they have. Seen any surveyor’s marks?’

  ‘Nothing in the trees.’

  ‘Keep yer eyes peeled for cairns.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘The piles of stones they use to mark the corners of the grants.’ Not that it mattered whether they’d surveyed the land or not. This was illegal whichever way it was looked at. It was private land now and they had no right to be on it. ‘Give it another half hour and we’ll be there.’ Carrick pointed down to the valley floor. ‘Creek’s down there. Yeah. And look up.’

  As he spoke the sun breached the hills and sent a swathe of light down to the valley floor. The tangle of undergrowth cleared a little as the track wound down to the creek. The thick branches of the huge tree supporting the ever-present tangle of vines cast shadows, interspersed with patches of filtered sunlight, across the uneven ground.

  Carrick drew to a halt and dismounted. ‘We’ll leave the horses and the gear here and decide where to make camp.’ He tethered his horse and moved up the bank. ‘Slinger? You coming?’

  ‘Someone’s been here. On the bank, footmarks.’

  ‘It’ll be Billy Boy and his mates.’

  ‘Billy Boy and his mates don’t wear boots like these.’

  As the words drifted up to him, Carrick’s skin puckered and the hairs on his neck rose, making his skin prickle. He turned and ran his finger across his throat.

  Slinger nodded, acknowledging his sign, and crouching low they crested the rise.

  Above them the giant cedar loomed, a sentinel guarding the forest,
its buttress roots stretching like fingers anchoring it to the land. He tipped his head back and followed the trunk into the canopy, the pink tips of the new leaves and beyond to the patch-worked sky. Only the occasional cry of a whip bird broke the church-like stillness of the place. Not a leaf stirred. The thick absence of sound niggled at his skin. He wiped the sheen of sweat from his face. Something was wrong.

  A hand landed on his shoulder.

  He jumped clear in the air and whipped around. Slinger grinned at him. ‘King Polai got you, has he? Having second thoughts?’

  ‘It’s a magnificent beast, it’ll break my heart to take it down.’

  ‘You’ve said that before. Think of the money. If we don’t take it some other bugger will. You’re right, it’s over two hundred feet. We’ll have to peg it, build a couple of platforms, no way we can cut through that trunk low down. No chance of doing it in a week either, ’specially with no rum.’

  Clambering across the buttress roots, Carrick reached out his hands and pressed his palms flat against the rough bark, spreading his pale and insignificant fingers wide against the dark-pitted bark. Step by step he measured the width of the trunk. The wood at the heart would be the deepest red, worth a fortune.

  He continued sidestepping, counting as he went, craning up to the canopy. Beneath his fingertips the tree’s heart beat fast, the sap flowing through its veins like blood through a man. It’d build a perfect home for Roisin and Ruan, down by the brook. He’d manage with less money, get back quicker.

  Twenty spans and still not even halfway around the trunk, his foot caught and he slid, grappling the bark for purchase as he toppled backwards. Too busy counting, too busy imagining her breathing heart, a home and hearth. Damn it. His ankle turned and he slumped, letting his body roll over the roots until he settled in the leaf litter.