The Burning Land
Page 6
After ten days they changed direction and headed southwest. The sun now rose behind their left shoulders and set to the right of their path; otherwise, nothing changed.
There were times when Lorna thought they had been following the sheep on their meandering way forever, that the rest of their lives would be taken up by this simple repetition of their days: a dream of heat and space, unchanging and unchangeable, extending into a future without end.
After three weeks, they came to the banks of a river, far bigger and wider than anything they had come across before. They decided it must be the Murray.
The two men rode slowly along the riverbank, picking their way between the scours and wash-aways that the water had gouged from the low-lying ground during the last floods. The floods had subsided and the exposed earth was dry but in the channel the water still ran swiftly, tugging at the banks with hungry, sucking noises. The banks were undercut in places and from time to time sections peeled off and fell splashing into the stream.
Andrew reined in Scabbard and looked dubiously at the volume of water. At this point the river was a hundred yards wide.
‘It’s flowing gey fast,’ he said.
Fallen trunks of trees swept past them, twisting and tumbling. Here and there they could see the blink of foam. The gelding jerked his head restively against the bit.
Andrew tilted his hat to the back of his head and scratched his sweaty hair. ‘Must have been heavy rain in the mountains,’ he told George. ‘We’re going to have trouble here.’
They followed the bank for a mile or so and found no improvement, then retraced their steps and tried in the other direction for the same distance. No luck there, either.
They rode back to the waggon, deep in thought.
The two women had put up the big tent and Andrew was pleased to see a billy of water on the boil.
Mary came out of the tent. She saw his expression. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘The river’s running high‚’ he said. ‘I dinna fancy our chances of crossing here.’
He dismounted and walked across to the fire, slapping dust from his clothes.
‘Don’ do that‚’ Mary told him angrily, ‘I don’ want dust in my tea even if you do.’ She followed him. ‘What you goin’ to do, then? Go back?’
He eyed her speculatively, hearing the sharpness in her voice and wondering at its cause. He could see no sign of his wife. Mebbe they’ve had words while we’ve been awa’, he thought.
‘I doubt we’ll be doing that,’ he said.
‘What then? If you won’t go back and we can’t go on? Stay here forever, that it?’
Something had certainly riled her up.
‘The squatter who owns this land wouldna be happy if he thought we were planning on doing that. What we’ll do, we’ll stay here overnight. If we’re lucky, someone will pay us a visit. If he does, he’ll know the crossing points. If that doesna happen, tomorrow morning I’ll take some food and have a look further down the river till I find somewhere we can cross.’
‘What if you don’ find anywhere?’
‘There’s always somewhere.’ He looked around him. ‘Where’s Lorna?’
‘I’m not ’er keeper.’ Voice and eyes sharp as knives in the warm, dust-scented air. Apparently relenting, she said, ‘She went for a walk.’
‘And the boy?’
‘Gone with ’er.’
‘I thought mebbe ye’d thrown her in the river‚’ he said.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘When we went off everything was sweetness and light. We’ve been gone an hour and now I canna open my mouth without you trying to cut my tongue oot.’ He turned to George, who as usual had nothing to say. ‘If I didna know better, I’d say they’d had a squabble, wouldn’t you, George?’
George grinned, shuffling his feet. ‘Somen like that.’
‘None o’ yore business if we ’ave.’
Mary crouched beside the fire, hand raised to shield her face from the heat. She flung a handful of tea into the water as though hoping to poison it.
Andrew set his mouth. ‘It’s my business if an argument spills over onto the rest of us. We’re alone out here. We have to rely on ourselves. We canna afford fights.’
‘Same faces,’ Mary said to the fire. ‘Same thing, day after day. ’Nough to drive you mad.’
‘Aye. Well, ye’ll hae to put up wi’ it a whiles yet.’
‘You think I don’ know that?’
‘Come on, Mary,’ George said awkwardly. ‘Things aren’t so bad.’
‘Don’ you start,’ she said, and went into the tent.
‘We want tea, we’d best get it ourselves‚’ Andrew said. He wrapped a piece of cloth around his hand, lifted the billy and poured the steaming liquid into a couple of mugs. ‘There’ll be some sugar somewhere.’
He put the billy back on the flame. If the women wanted tea they could help themselves. He spooned sugar heavily into his cup and walked down to the water, sipping the tea as he went.
He remembered what Mary had said. Of course there’d be a place to cross somewhere, he thought irritably. Other people had done it before this. Just a question of finding it, that was all.
He gave no thought to Mary’s bad temper. It was surprising but it was a woman’s nature to be unstable. Leave her be, she’d come round soon enough.
Hand on the tent flap, Mary watched as Andrew walked away towards the river. George stayed by the fire, looking hesitantly first in one direction then the other, not knowing whether to go or stay. Typical. All right, there was room for only one leader and Andy was the man but sometimes it seemed George couldn’t make up his mind about anything.
She thought, I get sick and tired of having to play the man on top of everything else. I’m his wife, aren’t I? I share his bloody bed, not that that adds up to much, not since Matthew was born. I’m Matthew’s mother. Now I got to make the decisions, too. It’s not fair.
It hadn’t been so bad before they left Inverlochrie. George pottering about, never worrying about anything. But she’d had to stir him up, hadn’t she? Had to tell him they’d do better on their own. Be rich, she’d said.
She sighed. George wasn’t the type to be rich. Look at him now. Absolutely lost.
She wished they had never come, George always so useless and Andrew so damn cocky. You had to have someone like that in charge but you could get sick of it, too. She wondered how Lorna put up with it. The same way I do, she thought, because we got no choice. She don’t care for him. I knew that long ago. That time at the river …
She had not forgotten it. If it hadn’t been for Matthew falling in the water … She wasn’t sure if she was sorry that nothing had come of it. Yes I am, she thought rebelliously. I wanted something to happen. Her so shy, not knowing I could see her under the water. So white. And the look on her face when she saw me … I could have laughed. Felt good, her looking at me, knowing what she was feeling. She was excited, too, same as what I was. Still is, in spite of what happened half an hour ago. And all because of last night.
They had rigged a partition down the middle of the tent to give them all a bit of privacy but Mary had still heard what happened on the other side of it, never mind how quiet they tried to be.
Andrew never left her alone. Funny she’d never had a baby.
She hated to hear it, tried to shut the sounds out. It made her hot, stopped her sleeping. Never stopped George sleeping, of course. Slept like a pig, that one.
Last night had been no different from a dozen other times but somehow it had got to her, exciting and sickening her at the same time. She had almost woken George, but what good would that have done? He never looked at her these days.
She had been edgy all today because of it. Then they’d reached the river, the two men had ridden off and they were alone.
First off, they put up the tent. They were so used to doing it they took only a few minutes. They’d collected wood and made a fire. Chatting all the time, same as usual. So
mething had clicked in her and she’d walked up to Lorna and put her arms around her.
For a moment Lorna stood absolutely still, turned to stone. Then she thrust Mary away. ‘No!’
She ran into the tent and Mary followed, knowing that what had started, perhaps on the bank of that first river, perhaps when Matthew had been born, must be resolved now, one way or the other.
Lorna was standing at the far end of the tent with her face turned to the canvas. Mary saw her body was bowstring tight, fists clenched, eyes screwed shut. Her blonde hair gleamed in the shadows.
Tentatively, Mary said, ‘Lorna …’
Lorna shuddered but otherwise did not move.
Mary put her hand gently on Lorna’s taut shoulder. She has lost weight, she thought, feeling how the shoulder blade protruded beneath the cotton dress.
She could not draw back now.
Gently, she caressed the thin shoulder, her heart going out to the girl standing in front of her.
‘The others don’t understand what it’s like,’ she whispered. ‘We’re alone. Jus’ the two of us.’
Lorna was as still as a wild animal in the frozen instant before flight. But listening, listening. ‘Two women together. We got to help each other. There’s no one else. Not in all this empty country. Just us.’
She moved her hand rhythmically as she spoke, stroking. Her throat was full, her eyes brimming with tears. She moved her hand to the gleaming coils of blonde hair. How did Lorna manage to keep it looking so good in all the dust and heat? It even felt clean beneath her caressing palm, clean and cool.
‘Your hair’s beautiful …’
The tightly wound spring snapped. Lorna jerked her head away. ‘Dinna do that!’
Mary took a step forward, reaching. ‘Lorna …’
Lorna scrabbled away from her. ‘It’s wrong to touch me like that!’ Her voice was etched with panic. ‘It’s no’ natural!’
‘What is it, then? If it’s not natural?’
Lorna’s face was buried in her hands. Tears leaked between her fingers. ‘I … I dinna ken.’ Voice muffled, whispering.
‘I care for you,’ Mary said. ‘I … cherish you.’
She could not use the word love, not yet, but it was true. Seeing Lorna poised before her, so afraid, so vulnerable, love was what she felt. But she knew better than to say so, yet.
If she backed off she would lose her, possibly forever.
Once again she laid her hand on the shining hair. Lorna was shaking.
‘Don’ you … cherish me?’
The whisper enfolded them. They stood together, figures in a tableau. A fly came buzzing into the tent, a sudden zip of sound that vanished as it found its way out again.
They did not move.
The whisper, like a leaf gently stirring. ‘Yes …’
Lorna’s hand groped, covered Mary’s hand as it rested on her hair. She turned compulsively to the other woman, eyes blind with tears, mouth wide and keening.
‘Oh yes. But what do we do?’
Just then Matthew came wandering into the tent. ‘Mummy?’
Mary said, eyes still fixed on Lorna’s pleading eyes, ‘Mummy’s busy.’
The boy would not be denied, never had been in his life. Small fist tugging at her skirt. ‘Mummy …’
She had to drag her eyes away. ‘What is it?’ she asked crossly.
But he had wanted only attention.
She looked back at Lorna. They were groping towards a relationship different from anything they had known before. Emotions were so finely balanced that the slightest distraction might ruin everything. The last thing they needed was Matthew interrupting them at this point.
‘Lorna …’
Too late. Lorna turned away, dabbing at her face. ‘The others will be back soon. Andrew mustna find me like this.’
Andrew, Mary thought savagely. Never smiling, always thrusting his God down their throats. Every night his flesh thudding wetly against Lorna’s. Every day his will driving them onwards, not because it was best but because he had decided it was best.
I am as much his prisoner as Lorna is, she thought. We are his property. And hated him for it.
They stood in the entrance of the tent. Outside, it was very bright. The sun gleamed on the surface of the river, a hundred yards distant, like a ribbon of gold beneath the trees. On the far bank, the bush grew to the water’s edge.
Our promised land, Mary thought. That’s what Andy’s always calling it. Him and that God of his. Get sick of hearing his name.
She reached out and took Lorna’s hand but she shook it off, smiling with false brightness, eyes watching the near bank.
‘They’re coming,’ she said.
Sure enough, the men were riding back along the river.
My God they choose their bloody moment, don’t they? thought Mary.
‘I don’t want Andrew to see me like this,’ Lorna said. ‘I’ll go for a walk.’ She wiped her face again. ‘I’ll no’ be long.’
Matthew said, ‘Take me, Auntie.’
‘All right, darling.’ Smiling brightly. Mary watched as Lorna bent down to him, this male child thrusting his way between them. ‘Of course Auntie will take you.’
‘Lorna …’ Helpless, things unravelling.
‘Dinna worry.’ For an instant her hand brushed Mary’s, her eyes, sealed in their bright smile, brushed her face. She turned to the boy, bending over him, beaming falsely. ‘We’ll be quite safe, won’t we? We’ll no’ go far. Come on, darling. Come with Auntie Lorna.’ Gabbling, she turned away.
When Lorna was gone, Mary had sought refuge in the tent. Anger, fear, frustration, filled her. Five more minutes. That was all they had needed. Five miserable minutes.
She heard the sound of hooves as the horses rode up.
No one visited them during the evening and next morning Andrew saddled up.
Before leaving, he got everyone together on the patch of ground in front of the tent. Holding his black-covered Testament in his hand, he stared at them with hot and fervent eyes.
‘Let us give thanks to the Lord for having brought us so far in safety. Let us pray that he will continue to grant us his blessing and a safe passage across this river.’
He knelt. Lorna knelt, too, and, after a pause, George and Mary awkwardly followed suit.
With his mother’s arm clasped firmly around his waist, Matthew stood, finger in mouth, and looked at Andrew kneeling, eyes screwed shut, face lifted to the sky. His high-crowned hat lay in the dust at his side.
‘Mummy …’
‘Shhh!’
‘But Mummy …’
‘Quiet.’ Her voice sharp with tension and embarrassment.
Andrew prayed, ‘Lord God, as thou guided Moses and thy chosen people, so has thou brought us across the hot and empty plains. Grant that with thine aid and comfort we may cross this great river and so enter into the land which thou hast set aside for us. And keep us safe to praise thy glory in this new place. Amen.’
He stood, dusting his knees and his hat. In the same harsh tone in which he had prayed, he said, ‘I’ll go west for a day, mebbe two, see what I can find.’
He climbed into the saddle, settled his hat firmly on his head, and trotted out.
At the riverbank he paused, checking the level of the water. He thought it might have dropped in the night but it was still too high for comfort. If they couldn’t find a ford they would have to ferry everything over the river and two men weren’t enough for that sort of work.
He headed downstream. After the first hour the trees grew closer together and came right to the edge of the bank. Tangles of roots stuck out like wiry birds’ nests over the water before twisting their way back into the bank. Some of them didn’t make it to the bank but went down into the water. Leaves and twigs brought down by the stream formed little islands around the roots.
The river had narrowed, the current flowed even faster. Cakes of froth clung to the tangled roots and, when he dismounted and probed the depths wi
th a piece of broken branch, he found no bottom.
He rode on, the close tangle of trees forcing him away from the river. Several times he stopped to give the horse a rest. Each time he forced his way through the scrub to inspect the river. He wondered why he bothered. They couldn’t even get the mob to the bank here, never mind across the river. The far side looked as thickly wooded as this, or thicker.
That evening he made camp half a mile from the main channel where a billabong gave easy access to water. It wasn’t much of a camp but he didn’t need one. He made a small fire, heated some tea, singed a dried-up piece of kangaroo meat that Lorna had put in his saddlebag, spread a blanket underneath a tree and sat on it while he gnawed at the meat.
By the time he had finished night had fallen. The red coals of the fire cast a rosy glow over the trunks of the trees, the undersides of the branches. The darkness was noisy with the sawing of insects but he had slept alone in the bush times without number and the noises did not trouble him. The mosquitoes were bad but the smoke from the fire helped a little.
He wrapped himself in the blanket and fell asleep.
He awoke before first light. He loved this time of day. You could see nothing, even the horizon was invisible, yet somehow you knew dawn was coming. The leaves hung motionless. The stars were bright, no longer unfamiliar. The burnished arms of the Southern Cross pointed the way onwards across the unseen river.
Another sign.
Andrew lay in his blanket until he could make out the shape of the branches against the lesser blackness of the sky. A constant ripple of bird sound came from the bush around him. When it was light enough to see he got up, moving carefully. He had heard stories of snakes curling up beside men asleep on the ground and biting them when they moved in the morning. He lifted the blanket cautiously, as he did every day. No snakes. He checked his boots for scorpions—none—and pulled them on.
The fire had gone out in the night, its coals drenched with dew, and he was damp and cold. He lit a new fire and crouched over it, warming his hands and as much of his body as the heat would reach while he waited for the billy of water to come to the boil.