The Burning Land

by John Fletcher

  Matthew touched one quivering wing gently with the tip of a finger and looked up at her, seeking her approval. ‘Ain’t it beautiful, Ma?’

  She was willing, reluctantly, to allow as much. ‘Aye. It’s beautiful, right enough.’

  ‘Must be two inches across, eh? More.’

  She stared down at the strange butterfly. At the boy holding it. He was tall for his ten years, bones well knit. In sunlight his hair held a deep red flame; now, in the gloomy light, it covered his head like a dark cap. He was staring at the butterfly. A helpless, insignificant creature that had been swept far away from its own place and brought down here to their patch of bush in the southeast corner of the vast land. Anger and despair filled her.

  From the north … She had never been there but had heard stories. She put her head next to Matthew’s head and looked where he looked and saw what she knew he was seeing: deep blue waters, a marvel of strange fishes and a land stretching out into the distance, green and fertile and empty and mysterious and inviting and his. All his. That helpless, brilliant creature was their first real journey together and oh she hated it; aye, and him, too, for being caught up in its magic.

  At that moment she sensed she had lost him. She had always known she would eventually, of course. To a woman, maybe. That was to be expected and would not be happening for years anyway. But to a dream …

  ‘Get rid of it,’ she said harshly. ‘An’ get on wi’ choppin’ the wood, else your dad’ll hae something to say when he gets back.’ She still tried to call Andrew dad although she knew it was a doomed effort.

  Matthew turned towards the cabin, cradling the butterfly in his hands.

  ‘I said get rid of it.’

  ‘I do that, it’ll die.’

  ‘Everything dies, give it time.’

  Butterflies, people, love, hope.

  ‘I’ll stick it inside,’ he decided.

  Anger swept her. Defiance, she told herself. Her arm lashed out. She seized his hand and tightened her grip, eyes fixed on his. He was not strong enough to resist. After a minute she relaxed her fingers and stood back.

  He opened his hand, striped scarlet and white where she had squeezed it. They looked at the crumpled remains of the butterfly. No movement, now. A fine sheen of blue dust clung to his fingers.

  He stared up at her, eyes dark and still. She should have known better than expect tears.

  Her own tears lodged in her breast like stones.

  ‘Get awa’ wi’ ye,’ she said. She turned away, eyes burning, and walked back into the cabin.

  Nae this one too, God, she prayed in anguish. I canna bear it. Nae this one too.

  FOURTEEN

  Matthew Curtis, sixteen years old the previous week, stood in the shadowed chapel and stared down at the man facing him.

  The man. As long as Matthew could remember that was how he had thought of him, with fear and resentment. No affection, certainly no love. Any instinct towards either had been extinguished long ago by McLachlan’s harshness and implacability.

  Matthew was almost fully grown. He was tall, with a massive chest and a belly ribbed with muscle. His cheeks were hard with prominent bones. His hair was like a flame. He was a lot bigger than the man and physical fear was gone. Resentment and the habit of submission were all that remained, and the habit was wearing thin.

  He told himself it was for Lorna’s sake he was still here. Somebody had to look out for her. She wasn’t tough enough for the bush. Not surprising—the bush was a bastard if you weren’t bred to it. It wasn’t enough to be strong once or twice, you had to be strong all the time and that wasn’t easy when your husband was McLachlan, an unfeeling son of a bitch who’d never supported anyone in his life. That had been Lorna’s trouble. She had always been alone. It was what broke people in the end.

  It wasn’t easy to turn his back on her after everything she had done for him but he couldn’t stay here forever, not the way things were.

  The chapel smelt of dust and heat. Summer shone through the cracks in the timber walls. Three chairs and a lectern stood in the middle of the dirt floor. Two of the chairs were rough-carved and clumsy, made by someone lacking the skill or perhaps inclination to do it properly. The third chair faced the other two. It was different: properly shaped and carved. Before the third chair stood the small, plain lectern. A book, bound in black leather and edged in gilt, lay open upon it.

  The Book.

  The man wore clean, decent clothes much darned—a long-sleeved work shirt once blue but now faded almost white by use and the sun, stiff trousers and heavy boots. His spade beard was streaked with grey and savagely cut. He had thick black hair, also streaked with grey, a pallid complexion harshly lined by disappointment, bitterness and fanaticism, and eyes that flared with a fervour not quite sane.

  Those eyes stared at Matthew now. The man’s hand, blunt-fingered and hard with toil, rested upon the book.

  ‘Have ye memorised the section I gave ye to learn?’

  Matthew’s bare feet were motionless in the cool dust of the floor. ‘No.’

  ‘Is it because ye cannot learn or will not?’

  Matthew said nothing.

  ‘I shall give ye one more hour.’

  He went out. The door creaked shut. Matthew did not go near the book. An hour later the man returned.

  ‘Do ye know it?’

  ‘No.’

  McLachlan nodded, having expected no less. ‘Come awa’ ootside.’

  They went into the harsh sunlight, walking close together, a chain gang of obstinacy, anger and rebellion.

  Far up the valley, through the swimming snakes of heat, the grazing shapes of sheep could be seen. Other men’s sheep. The man never looked in that direction if he could avoid it.

  ‘Take off your shirt.’

  Matthew did so. His skin was milk-white except at hands and throat where it was tanned dark by the sun. His shoulder muscles rippled as he lifted his hands above his head and rested them against the tree that stood just outside the chapel door. He did it without speech or hesitation—he had been through this many times before over the years. This would be the last time.

  The man took his belt, swung it and hit him hard across the back. Once. Twice. Three times. Matthew did not cry out or move but on the sixth stroke he turned, seized the swinging belt in his fist and before McLachlan could recover jerked it away from him.

  ‘No more,’ he said.

  The man stared, face flushed dull red with anger. ‘Ye dare face me and say such a thing? To me, your ain father?’

  Matthew’s heart was beating fast. It was his first rebellion but failure would be a catastrophe. He had to carry it off. His voice was more calm and determined than he felt. ‘You are not my father. I am not going to go on learning pieces out of the Bible just because you say so. I am a man and it’s time you treated me like one.’

  ‘Give … me … my … belt.’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘You’re not hitting me any more. That’s over.’

  He turned and walked out into the bright sunlight, the belt still wrapped about his fist. He half-expected the man to try to stop him. He did not. Matthew went into the house.

  Lorna was there, grey hair scraped back from her face and her hand to her mouth. He gave her the belt.

  ‘It’s his. I nearly threw it in the bush but you’d better have it.’

  ‘Is he …?’

  ‘He’s fine. But he won’t be using this on me any more.’

  ‘Did he say so?’

  He shook his head. Amazingly he managed a smile. ‘He knows what I’ll do to him if he tries.’

  No more was said. He had never expected the victory to be so easy. A week later McLachlan announced, ‘We shall go into town together. Tomorrow.’

  Matthew was surprised. Whenever the man had paid his visits to Jim Jim for supplies he had gone alone.

  ‘It will give ye a chance to see how business is conducted in the town. There are rogues there, as in all towns. Last week ye told me ye
’re a man. Ye’re not but ye’re sixteen years old and I would have ye learn about such things.’

  They took the dray, the man sitting in front, heavy hands on the traces as he guided the horses along what for years now had been an established track used by many waggons other than their own. Matthew sat beside him, bare feet flat on the bed of the dray, his one pair of town shoes, hard, stiff and barely worn, beside him. He had been told to bring them.

  ‘Bare feet in town will tell men ye’re a boy from the bush,’ McLachlan told him. ‘Ye’d think they would go out of their way to help you but it is not so. They will try to take advantage of your ignorance.’

  Matthew did not believe shoes would make any difference. The townspeople would know he was from the bush—where else could he come from?—but had not argued. There were more important things between them than the wearing of shoes.

  ‘There is a man I wish to speak to,’ McLachlan said. ‘Go to the store and wait for me there.’

  Matthew had been inside the Jim Jim store several times but it never ceased to astonish him. Like the town it had grown enormously over the years. The mixture of smells—spices, smoked food, cloth, tanned leather, kerosene—was unlike anything he had experienced before. And the range of goods! Kegs of ale, potted anchovies, leather boots, baby’s clothes, cradles, men’s clothes, women’s clothes, all piled in turmoil and being picked over by half a dozen shoppers.

  Confused by the choice and movement, feeling more and more like the country boy that, despite his shoes, he knew himself to be, Matthew retired to the side of the shop, leant against one of the walls and watched the people and listened to the cats’ chorus of voices as they talked to each other and to Mr Simmons.

  ‘May I help you?’

  Matthew turned. Catriona Simmons was a year younger than himself. He had seen her probably a dozen times over the years but had never spoken to her nor been as close to her as he was now. He looked at her. She was tall for a woman and slender with grey eyes and long blonde hair tied back off her face. She was wearing a long-sleeved grey dress, high-necked and simple, with a fitted bodice and a skirt that hung vertically to the floor. The dress showed something of her figure—graceful and pleasantly developed, if not startling—and his eyes lingered on it appreciatively before he looked back at her face. He saw at once that she had registered the direction of his glance—her expression had not changed but her cheeks were touched with pink.

  An unfamiliar worm of pleasure and excitement crawled through his belly as he looked at her but he was shy too. Apart from Lorna, who of course didn’t count, there had been no women in his life.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Catriona asked again.

  ‘I’m just waiting,’ he said. He thought his voice sounded strange—hoarse, a little breathless.

  ‘I’ll leave you alone then.’

  She was turning away. He didn’t want her to go.

  ‘You work here every day?’ Saying the first thing that came into his head.

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled at him. ‘I know who you are. You’re Matthew McLachlan from Montrose.’

  ‘Matthew Curtis,’ he corrected her.

  A frown puckered her forehead. ‘Aren’t the McLachlans your parents?’

  ‘My parents died long ago. I don’t remember them much.’

  ‘If Mr McLachlan brought you up, I suppose that makes him a sort of parent, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No!’ His violence surprised himself. ‘Lorna—Mrs McLachlan—she’s all right. Not him. I hate him.’

  He had not known he was going to say it. Before she could reply Simmons called sharply to her from the far side of the shop.

  ‘I must go,’ she whispered. But for a moment did not.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you some more,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Catriona!’

  She turned away. ‘Come back later.’

  ‘If I can.’

  McLachlan walked into the shop, saw Matthew and came across to him.

  Simmons himself served them. Matthew felt the weight of the storekeeper’s eyes, speculative and suspicious, but smiled cheerfully and said nothing.

  They bought the stores they needed and put them in the dray. Back inside the shop McLachlan said, ‘I’d like a word wi’ you, Mr Simmons, if you’ve a minute to spare.’

  ‘Always time for a good customer,’ Simmons said unctuously, straightening his white apron.

  ‘Wait for me here,’ McLachlan said.

  The two men went into Simmons’ office and shut the door. Catriona was on the far side of the shop, tidying some clothes. When the office door closed Matthew pushed his way past several customers to get to her.

  ‘I’m back,’ he said and grinned at her.

  She looked him up and down. ‘So?’

  Before he could answer she had swept away, garments in hand, putting them in piles along the shelves.

  He had a moment to feel confused before she returned to him. He looked at her apprehensively and she smiled brilliantly back. His confidence returned but he kept a wary eye on the office door. He knew instinctively it would not do for Simmons or McLachlan to catch them talking.

  ‘I’d like to see you again,’ he said.

  ‘Shh!’ There were several customers in the shop. Catriona’s eyes went around them apprehensively. ‘We can’t talk here,’ she breathed.

  ‘Where then?’

  Again the slight frown puckered her forehead. He resisted the ridiculous impulse to lean forward and rub it away.

  ‘They hold dances every Saturday night at the new shearers’ hall,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll get my cousin Dorian to take me.’

  ‘Will your father agree?’

  She nodded. ‘As long as I’m with Dorian.’ Her grey eyes regarded him. ‘Will you be able to come?’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he said firmly.

  God knew how, but he would.

  Like most people living in the bush the McLachlans went to bed as soon as it was dark. Early mornings made for early nights; besides, it saved candles.

  The Saturday night after his visit to town Matthew sat on the edge of his bed, fully dressed, listening to the sounds from the rest of the house: a murmur of voices, a cough, a careful closing and locking of door and windows against the chance of passing bushrangers. Finally, a faint creak and sigh as, behind the plank partition that separated the two rooms, the McLachlans climbed into bed. The light went out.

  Matthew counted softly beneath his breath. When he reached a thousand he stood and went to the little window set in the wall beside the bed. Earlier he had stolen butter from the kitchen to grease the rawhide hinges. Now, as he cautiously pushed the window back, it opened without a sound. He squeezed himself through the narrow opening and to the ground. He paused, head on one side as he listened, but all was still. He padded softly across to the stable. He would have walked if he could but town was too far for that.

  The animals shifted, sighing and whickering in their stalls as he opened the door. He paused, looking swiftly over his shoulder at the dark silhouette of the sleeping house, cursing beneath his breath the gentle sounds that punctured the night’s precarious stillness. Nothing moved. He summoned his courage and went in.

  Working surely in the dark, he saddled up his mare Magic and led her silently out into the open. He secured the stable door behind him, and led her for a hundred yards beyond the buildings before vaulting into the saddle. He walked her another hundred yards through the gum trees, hooves muffled by the dust underfoot, before putting her into a trot.

  The shearers’ hall had been built next to the stockyards on the edge of town. When Matthew arrived the space outside the entrance was already crowded with buggies, horses, even the occasional mule. He dismounted and tethered the mare to the topmost rail of the paling fence that ran around the stockyards. A few shadowed figures were gathered about the hall entrance. Through it came the sound of music and the glow of oil lamps.

  A man seated behind a low wooden table just inside the door
looked up as he came in.

  ‘Thripence, mate.’

  Matthew looked at him, not understanding.

  ‘Three pence,’ the man said again, patiently. He had oiled hair flattened down over his ears from a white central parting. ‘You wanner come in, that’s what it gunna cost you.’

  Matthew shook his head impatiently. ‘I don’t have thripence.’

  ‘Then you can’t come in.’

  ‘I’ll pay you later.’

  The man smiled unpleasantly. ‘Bruce from the bush,’ he said. ‘You people are all the same, think you can walk in here like you was civilised and not pay.’

  ‘I’ll pay you later,’ Matthew repeated and walked into the hall.

  ‘No you don’t!’

  The oily-haired man leapt after him, hand outstretched. ‘You pay at the door like everyone else or I’ll chuck you out on your ear!’

  Matthew looked down at him. For the first time he registered what the man was saying. He grinned at the indignant, pop-eyed face that came little higher than his shoulder. ‘You’ll do what?’

  ‘You don’ pay you don’ come in!’ The doorkeeper had assessed Matthew’s size and had obviously decided against violence. He appealed to the people in the crowded room. ‘Only fair, i’n’ it? You lot’s all paid. Why shouldn’t he, eh?’

  For the first time Matthew realised that all conversation had ceased. Everyone in the room was watching him, the faces variously indignant, amused, supercilious. He could see Catriona nowhere.

  Sensing his advantage, the man tried to seize his arm. ‘C’mon, mate. No money, no dance, eh? We don’ want no trouble, do we?’ He said to the audience, ‘Bin drinkin’, tha’s what it is.’

  Matthew shook off the importuning arm. ‘I’ve drunk nothing.’ He said to the people watching him, ‘I didn’t know it cost to come in. I told him I’ll let him have the money later.’

  There was a stir in the corner of the room. A young man came over. He was perhaps five years older than Matthew.

  ‘I’ve got three pence here,’ he said.

  Matthew shook his head. ‘I’ll not take money from a stranger, thank you all the same.’