The Burning Land

by John Fletcher

George opened the gate and the flock began to spill out of the gateway and onto the track. Andrew sat his horse and watched as the tide of animals moved slowly out across the empty plain.

  Sitting between the two women on the seat of the dray, three-year-old Matthew turned to his mother. ‘Daddy’s riding,’ he said. ‘Uncle Andy’s riding. Matthew wants to ride too.’

  ‘You aren’t big enough to ride by yerself,’ Mary told him. ‘You’ll ’ave to grow some first.’

  The boy sulked but in his heart must have known he was not ready for such an adventure. In a few minutes he cheered up and began to chatter about everything that caught his eye.

  ‘Doggies,’ he said, pointing. ‘Doggies.’

  Mary flapped the reins at the bullocks, moving the dray over until they were out on the left flank of the slowly moving flock and as far from the dust as possible.

  As they crested the rise above the river, Lorna turned on the hard wooden seat to look back. A sprinkling of lights was the only sign of life. Lit by the predawn glow the white buildings stood out clearly against the retreating darkness. She could see the dark line of the river making its cool and silent way past the station.

  ‘Many’s the time I’ve walked by yon stream,’ she said to Mary. ‘Will we ever see it again, I wonder?’

  ‘Doubt it,’ Mary said. She flapped the air with the handle of her big stockwhip. ‘Bloody flies,’ she said. ‘Not even light and they’re bothering us already.’

  Her voice sounded strange and Lorna glanced at her. The gathering light shone on her wet cheeks.

  ‘What about it?’ Mary said defiantly. ‘I was there longer than you, remember.’

  Lorna put out her hand to her and they clung together for an instant.

  Matthew watched them with interest. ‘Why Mummy crying?’

  ‘Because she’s a fool.’ Mary dashed her knuckles at her eyes.

  There were more flies now. The sounds and smell of the slowly moving flock came back to them. Even out here on the flank, the dust was bad. Lorna could taste it on her dry lips. Time we stop tonight we’ll look like snowmen, she thought.

  The sun had still not poked its nose above the horizon but ahead, to the southwest, the vast arch of sky was light. Tongues lolling, the dogs twisted and ran, nipping the heels of the slower animals, cutting out any that tried to move off on their own, generally keeping the flock together and pointed in the right direction.

  ‘Look at them dogs,’ Mary said. ‘Never manage without ’em, would we?’

  Through the billowing dust Lorna saw the figure of her husband riding at the head of the milling mob of sheep. He was wearing the tall cabbage palm hat he had adopted in preference to the blue peaked cap with which he had arrived in the country. From the posture of his head she knew he was looking forward, eyes and mind together, into the land that lay ahead. Into the future.

  South of Goulburn the ground began to rise. They had been warned there were high mountains down there, stretching for hundreds of miles, so as soon as they were clear of the township they changed direction and headed west.

  In late afternoon they reached their first river.

  The flock, which they had kept together pretty well during the day, spread out and began to graze on the good grass as the two men rode up to the riverbank to see if they could find somewhere to cross. They were lucky. After less than a mile they found a ford. Andrew rode Scabbard into the water to check the depth. The bottom was firm gravel and even the deepest parts had no more than eighteen inches of water over them. Here and there, dry patches showed above the surface of the stream.

  ‘We’ll be able to cross here, nae trouble,’ he called to George.

  ‘Want to do it now?’

  Andrew looked at the sun, well down in the sky. ‘We’ll stay where we are tonight and take them over first thing. We dinna want to get caught in the dark with only half of them across.’

  To the two women it was wonderful news. They had not expected to be lucky enough to camp by a river their first night out. It meant baths, fresh water, the opportunity to rinse clothes stiff with dust. It lent a cloak of civilisation to what they were doing.

  They took Matthew and walked along the bank until they reached a quiet spot partially shielded by the overhanging branches of trees. They looked about them. There was no one in sight, not that they had expected anyone out here in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘I’ve been afeart o’ this whole business‚’ Lorna said. ‘But this is nice. I canna tell you how glad I am ye’re here too.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be good havin’ to do it on yer own‚’ Mary agreed.

  ‘We get on so well together …’

  ‘We do, don’ we?’ Mary squeezed her hand. ‘Us girls gotta stand together. You ’n’ me, it’s all we got.’

  They smiled at each other.

  ‘Wanner go first?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Why don’t we go in together?’

  ‘Mebbe one of us should keep an eye out. In case someone comes.’

  ‘Who’s going to come here?’ But Lorna supposed it made sense.

  Mary kept watch while Lorna, greatly daring, stripped off her top garments and waded out until she was waist deep. The muddy bottom was cool and delicious between her toes. She ducked down until her body was below the surface and pushed her chemise off her shoulders and down to her waist. It was wonderful to feel the cool water against her hot and dusty skin. Coolness and cleanliness soaked into her, swilling out the dust and sweat and fatigue.

  She looked up at Mary. She was sitting on the bank playing with Matthew who was showing her something he had picked up, a pebble or leaf, probably. Lorna pushed her clothes down to her thighs. She stood in the river, feeling the gentle pressure of the water as it ran past her.

  Smiling, she wondered what Andrew would say if he knew that his wife was out here, naked under the open sky.

  When she had finished she pulled her clothes back on. It wasn’t easy but eventually, wriggling, she managed it.

  Mary looked at her as she emerged from the water. ‘Nice?’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘Lucky no one came.’

  Lorna felt the blood hot in her cheeks. ‘Why?’

  Mary looked at her good-humouredly. ‘I’m gunna do the same.’

  She took Matthew and waded out until she was more or less in the spot where Lorna had been. Once again Lorna felt the blood warming her face. She could see Mary quite plainly, the wavering shadow of the long white legs reaching to the bottom.

  Matthew screamed in delight and splashed as Mary ducked him. Up and down in the water the little body went; up and down, while the drops flew and his legs kicked the surface of the stream to foam.

  She did not feel jealous; Lorna told herself. That would be ridiculous. She was as close to them both as anyone could be.

  Mary was calling her. ‘Won’t you take Matthew for me?’

  The firm body was slippery as a fish.

  ‘Put me down, Auntie‚’ he demanded, the masterful man.

  She did so, smiling, and he ran off along the bank, excited, his naked body a blink of light in the gathering dusk.

  When Matthew was born she had thought she would never want a child of her own. She had got over that now. She wished she were pregnant. Perhaps God was punishing her for having such thoughts. But who would not doubt after seeing what a woman had to go through to bear a child? God is a man, she thought. How does he know what a woman feels?

  Andrew would call such thoughts sacrilege.

  She looked back at Mary, up to her waist in the river. She stared. Mary, too, had taken off her clothes but had not bothered to duck down in the water to hide herself. Her naked breasts lolled on the surface of the stream.

  Lorna was shocked. ‘What if someone comes?’

  ‘You’re supposed to be keeping a look out.’ Laughter in her voice. Mary cupped her hands, throwing the water over herself.

  Lorna watched the drops run down the soft white skin. She was embarrassed to see h
er friend naked. At least she had kept herself under the water. She would never have dared stand there as Mary was, body exposed for all to see.

  ‘I dinna ken how you can do that‚’ she said.

  Mary laughed. ‘There’s only you. You seen everything there is to see already.’

  That was true but circumstances then had been different. It seemed brazen for Mary to stand there naked in the gathering dusk. It embarrassed Lorna—but it was more than embarrassment she felt. There was a thickness in her throat as she looked at her friend’s white body, a warm heaviness of limb she neither liked nor understood.

  ‘Ye’d best come out now‚’ she said and was pleased that her voice sounded normal. ‘It’s getting dark.’

  ‘Yair, ma’am.’ But did not move.

  They stood staring at each other, the one on the bank with fists clenched, face flushed, the other with her white body emerging naked from the river.

  Lorna said faintly, ‘If ye dinna come now, I’m going ahead without ye.’

  ‘Coming …’

  Did Lorna imagine the slight smile? It was hard to be sure, the light was almost gone.

  Mary waded slowly to the bank, her body rising clear of the water as the bottom shallowed.

  Lorna’s eyes widened in her face. Mary had pulled her clothes down to her thighs, as Lorna had done, but had made no attempt to cover herself before emerging from the river. Above the tops of her thighs she was naked.

  Lorna knew she was staring. Again there was that moist, languorous feeling that softened her knees and set her body shaking. She should say something, do something, but did not. She stood motionless, breath quick in her throat, as Mary came dripping out of the water and stood before her on the grassy bank.

  Mary said, ‘Anyone would think you’d never seen a naked woman before.’

  Lorna’s mouth was dry. ‘I never have. Not like this.’

  She wanted to turn away, shock and confusion warring in her, but could not. Her limbs seemed paralysed.

  A scream out of the darkness.

  Whatever emotion they had been feeling fled. They stared at each other.

  ‘Matthew!’ Lorna cried. ‘It’s Matthew!’

  She turned and ran along the bank, stumbling over stones, fallen branches, crying, ‘Matthew, where are you?’, feeling a rising tide of horror, of panic, in her throat; thinking, I was supposed to be watching him, I was supposed … praying, Let him be all right, Lord, let him be all right.

  She tripped over a branch lying in the grass, recovered, ran on. Frantic. She did not know where Mary was. She had no time to think of her now. She had visions of Matthew’s naked body stretched out lifeless on the bank, of coming across it in her headlong flight. Instead she found nothing, which was worse.

  She stopped, breath coming fast, breast heaving. How far could he have come? He was only a little boy. Was it possible that he was still ahead of her? Surely not. That meant either he had left the riverbank, which didn’t seem likely, or … he had fallen in.

  ‘Matthew!’ Screaming, frantic with guilt and fear.

  Mary’s figure loomed out of the darkness. Even in her panic Lorna saw that Mary had found time to drag her clothes over herself.

  ‘Haven’t you found him?’ Mary cried.

  ‘I think he must have fallen in.’

  ‘Oh God oh God oh God …’

  Sobbing now, panicking, they ran back along the bank.

  ‘Matthew! Matthew!’

  Lorna saw the raw earth—no more than a scrape on the edge of the bank, a few crumbs of soil poised above the dark water. She could see nothing in the water.

  ‘Matthew!’ She called the name again, hopelessly, throat clogged with tears.

  She didn’t know whether to get down into the water or stay on the bank. Either way, the chances of finding him seemed hopeless.

  She turned to Mary. ‘I’ll hop in the river here. You go back to where we were and come up from that end.’

  She slithered down the bank into the water. The water came almost to her shoulders. The stream had a gentle but perceptible strength. If the boy had fallen in here the current would keep him close to the bank.

  She pushed herself through the water, feet fumbling for foothold. She slipped on the slimy surface of a sunken log, stumbled and went under. For a moment she felt panic, the current suddenly stronger, then was upright again, coughing. She went on.

  She saw nothing. It is hopeless, she thought. Hopeless.

  The water was shallowing, imperceptibly at first, then more steeply. The level sank to her waist, her thighs, her knees. The bottom changed, more gravel now than mud. It must be the ford that Andrew and George had found. Soon the water was just over her ankles, with here and there troughs and holes a foot or two deep into which she stumbled periodically.

  She found him.

  He was lying inert on a bank of gravel, ten feet out from the bank. She picked him up. He was chilly to the touch. He did not move. She thought he was dead.

  ‘Mary‚’ she screamed. ‘I’ve found him!’

  Arms wrapped tight about him, she stumbled awkwardly towards the bank and laid him on the grass.

  Oh God, she prayed. Please grant that he lives. Take me, rather, if you must. He’s just a wee bairn. Don’t take him.

  She was desperate, not knowing what to do.

  She was swamped with rage at a fate that dared do this. For two minutes she had taken her eyes off him. Two minutes, and distracted by his own mother of all things. Now this. The price was too high.

  For that you kill him? Inside her head, she screamed her protest at God. A moment, that’s all it was. But would not follow the thought too far, for fear of what she might find.

  At home, once, one of the fishing boats had capsized trying to enter harbour. Several men had been taken from the surf. Of those, two had survived. What had they done to them?

  She hesitated, panic still clawing at her, forcing herself to think.

  She remembered a man lying face down in the sand, arms beside his head, head turned to one side, while another man knelt over him and … pressed his back. Pressed his back to get the water out of him. That was it. She remembered the water spewing in streams from his open mouth. Afterwards, he had been fine.

  Still she hesitated. She was scared of making things worse. But how could she make matters worse? If she did nothing Matthew would die.

  Rage washed over her—a great, healing wave. She would not surrender him meekly to death. If she could save him perhaps God would forgive her the momentary lack of attention. Perhaps she could forgive herself.

  She turned the boy face down, head to one side, took a deep breath and placed her hands firmly on his back. The skin was clammy, inert. She began to push, firmly and rhythmically. She felt no response. She might have been kneading dough.

  On and on.

  Mary appeared at the periphery of her vision. Round eyes in a blanched face. ‘Is he …?’

  ‘I dinna ken.’ Lorna’s blonde hair had come loose about her head. She shook it away from her eyes. ‘He was in the shallows … Not breathing …’ The words came intermittently with the rhythm of her moving hands. In … out. In … out. ‘Nothing yet‚’ she said, gasping with effort and dread.

  Matthew was dead. Her hands felt death in the little body. How long had she been working on him? Several minutes at least.

  In … out. In … out.

  Nothing.

  Again the sustaining rage.

  The child was hers. From the first. She had delivered him. Now she had found him. Brought him out of the river. She would not let him go. Would not.

  In … out.

  A pause for breath, one second only. She dashed her hair back with a sweating hand. Went on. This passionate war with death.

  In …

  She felt a ripple beneath her hands. Energy flowed through her. She continued with renewed determination.

  I … shall … no’ … let … him … go.

  The ripple came again. A sudd
en gush of water. The child coughed. More water and a feeble wail, as though he had been aroused from sleep.

  Her eyes stung. Tears ran down her cheeks.

  Safe.

  Dear God …

  When Andrew saw the two women walk out of the darkness into the rosy circle of firelight, his first feeling was one of relief.

  ‘We were beginning to wonder where ye were‚’ he called.

  Then he saw their expressions, the way Lorna was carrying the boy, and immediately he was on his feet. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Matthew fell in the river.’

  Lorna went to the dray, pulled out a blanket and wrapped the boy’s body in it.

  Now George, too, was on his feet. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘He’ll be fine.’ She laid Matthew next to the fire and knelt beside him, rubbing the small hands. ‘He’s cold, that’s all. He’ll soon warm up. Won’t ye, my cherub?’ And kissed the pale forehead.

  Mary went to George and stood with her face pressed against his shirt. George’s arms went around her.

  ‘I couldn’ find ’im.’ Her small voice creaked with tears. ‘I looked an’ looked …’

  ‘How did it happen?’ Andrew asked. His tidy mind would always demand an explanation.

  Lorna pushed her tousled hair off her face. ‘He ran away‚’ she said dully. ‘He fell in the river.’

  Andrew frowned. ‘Surely ye were keeping an eye on him?’

  Lorna watched the fire, eyes blank with exhaustion. If she felt resentment at the question she did not show it. ‘He ran off. As I said. He fell in the river. As I said. We couldna see him. It was dark, man. I went in after him. I found him. Tha’s a’.’

  Andrew was shocked, angry. She had never spoken to him in such a way before, and in front of other people at that. Ye’ve no’ heard the last of this, my girl, he promised himself.

  But for the moment said no more. She was distraught. And the child, after all, was safe.

  SIX

  Day by day they moved west. They saw few people. Occasionally a squatter would turn up at their evening camp to chat and make sure that the mob did not linger to graze on his property. There were no incidents, no trouble. One day followed another in a blur of heat, flies and unchanging scenery.