A Waltz for Matilda

by Jackie French

  Then it was gone. The wind was gone. She waited for it to eddy back. But slowly the valley began to fill with air again — real air that you could see through. Air that you could breathe.

  The wind had changed direction. She leaned on her branch, gasping at the fresh air, feeling it seep into her body. The grass in front was black, but it no longer burned. The tops of a few trees still glowed, but that was all.

  She glanced up at the cliffs. Trees shone there too, like strange red skeletons against a black sky. Beside her Mr Sampson leaned over, gasping for breath. Elsie stood next to him, her chest heaving.

  She turned herself around again, and ran panting back up to the house. It was still standing. Tommy’s face peered from the door, his eyes strangely white in an ash-grey face.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he gasped. ‘The shingles caught alight. But we got them. Auntie Love an’ me. We got them out.’

  She looked up. Perhaps a quarter of the roof was gone, the edges blackened. Another hole sagged further along.

  But the main frame of the house was safe. The sheep were safe. And Tommy, Auntie Love, the Sampsons and she were alive.

  She staggered toward one of the buckets. They were empty. Of course they would be empty. She wondered if she had the strength to get to the spring; she felt Tommy press a mug of water into her hands. She drank, and felt the water soothe her mouth and throat.

  She leaned against the wall, gradually feeling her energy come back. Vaguely, she was aware of Tommy, lugging a bucket from the spring; of Mr Sampson and Elsie, drinking beside her; and of Auntie Love incongruously sitting in her accustomed chair on the verandah, as though none of it had happened.

  But it had. She looked around at her house, her poor dear house, with its sagging, blackened roof; at the sheep now out of their rough pen and milling, terrified and baaing; at the scar of black across her valley; and at the fire trees still flaming up on the ridges.

  But the sky showed a thread of blue now. She sniffed the wind. It smelled moister, softer: a wind from the southern snows.

  She looked down at Auntie, saw her nod, agreeing with the question she hadn’t asked.

  ‘It’ll blow the fire the other way,’ said Tommy hoarsely. ‘We’re safe now, ain’t we?’

  Mr Sampson nodded. He looked at Matilda, his expression as always impenetrable.

  ‘What’s wrong? There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’

  ‘Fire’s heading to Drinkwater now.’

  She stared at him. He had spent his life at Drinkwater, tending their sheep, knowing its land. ‘They have enough men to stop it, don’t they?’

  He shook his head. ‘Fire-front will be too big to stop in open country. They’ll burn a firebreak around the house to keep it and the buildings safe. That’s what we did last time.’

  ‘What about the sheep?’

  His face twisted. ‘They won’t have expected the wind change. They’ll bring in what they can. No time to get the rest, not the ones up this far. They’ll —’ He stopped, as though unable or unwilling to say the rest.

  The sheep. The stupid, impossible, trusting sheep. The sheep who followed you, who’d die wool-blind if they weren’t shorn, who’d die if they weren’t dagged and dipped.

  She looked out at her own sheep still huddled together, aware that there had been danger, but not understanding what. Hey You still crouched nearby, keeping them clustered as far up the valley as possible.

  What happened to a sheep in a fire? Did they die of heat or smoke? Or did they burn? She felt weak at what she didn’t know, at what hadn’t happened here.

  ‘We have to help the Drinkwater sheep.’ She looked urgently at Mr Sampson, then at Auntie Love. ‘Could we herd them up here?’

  Mr Sampson shook his head. ‘They’ve never been up here. Reckon they won’t go now, when they’re scared. Have to push them down toward the homestead.’

  Elsie nodded. Matilda looked over at Auntie Love.

  The old woman stared out at the fire-blackened ground. ‘Fire won’t have reached the river yet. Can push ‘em down that way.’

  Tommy stared. ‘Matilda, you can’t face that again. You owe Drinkwater nothing.’

  She took his scarred hand in hers, felt the shock run through his body. ‘Tommy, it’s the sheep. We can’t just let them die.’

  ‘You’ll risk yourself for a mob of sheep?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  Chapter 32

  The land was black. Her feet would hurt, if she let herself feel pain.

  She suspected the moistness in her boots was blood or broken blisters, not perspiration. Above her the burning trees still flickered; the leaves had vanished, only the bark and branches were left to burn. But the trunks were strangely solid — marked by fire, but standing.

  The wind brushed hot again against her face, and once she had to bat away a burning leaf. The fire was a wall of flame and smoke behind them. But this time she had put herself in its path.

  She refused to feel the pain on her face either. Tommy walked on one side of her, Mr Sampson, Elsie and Auntie Love on the other. Somehow Auntie Love had made Hey You stay behind, keeping the sheep penned in the gorge. They should be safe even if the fire swung back, thought Matilda. It had left its own firebreak behind it.

  They were off Moura land now. All of Moura except the valley had burned; Heenans’ too, she supposed. This part of Drinkwater had burned as well.

  But down toward the river the trees were still green. There would be sheep down there; sheep who would be trapped between the fire and the river if a human didn’t tell them what to do.

  Suddenly she saw what happened when sheep burned. This mob must have run together in their panic. Now they lay in a curious clump, most of the wool intact. Only the flesh had burned — the fat, the bones. A single sheep a little way away had done the opposite: the wool had burned, leaving the skin stretched and black and bare, the teeth revealed, yellow and white. A two-tooth, she thought automatically, then forced her mind away.

  Were they insane, trying to beat the flames behind them? The heat has turned my brains, she thought. I should be back home, with my own flock. What if the wind turns again?

  Something moved. For a moment Matilda thought part of the black earth had come to life again, then she realised they were live sheep, their fleeces dark with soot, the only colour the red of their eyes. About six of them clustered together, panting, so dazed they moved obediently as one when Elsie shoved her branch at them, driving them down toward the river.

  Had the sheep outrun the fire? Impossible to tell.

  It was strange, crossing from the land claimed by the fire into the unburned country; it looked as though a giant had drawn a line across the land, and coloured the world black on one side of it. Below them the river twisted, glinting between the trees. Matilda hesitated. The Drinkwater sheep could be anywhere between here and the river.

  ‘We’d better split up. We can round up more of them that way.’

  Mr Sampson nodded. ‘You and the boy go down to the river. We go up this way.’ He gestured into the land of smoke and blackness. ‘Sheep get scared, they can run all over the place.’

  Even as he said it, Matilda realised Mr Sampson was giving her the safest route to Drinkwater. If the flames hit them she and Tommy could wade out into the water. But it made sense too. He and Elsie and Auntie Love knew this land, could find their way even in the smoke.

  She glanced at Tommy. He had come out to help her. Now she was asking him to risk his life just for some sheep. He didn’t even like sheep. He smiled at her.

  It was a smile that said: ‘I know what this means to you. I am here.’

  She wished she had something to say in return. Or perhaps, she thought, Tommy knows just by looking at me too.

  Then suddenly the others were gone, invisible in the haze. She prayed Auntie Love was all right. Surely the native woman, of all people, could find safety if she was unable to keep going.

  Matilda ran down toward the river, Tom
my at her side. The smoke gusted and eddied about her. Suddenly she saw the first lot of sheep, a dozen at least, standing dazed and terrified under one of the big gums; the blackened sheep they were already leading trotted toward their companions.

  ‘Come on! Get on with you! Harrup!’

  The sheep gazed at her, bewildered by the familiar human yells from someone who wasn’t on horseback. They were used to being herded, but not by her.

  ‘You go behind them,’ she yelled to Tommy. ‘I’ll stop them breaking back uphill.’ The stupid creatures were as likely as anything to head right into the fire.

  She spread out her arms and the singed branch. ‘Go on! Garrrrnnn!’

  The sheep began to run. They’re not running just from me, she thought. They were spooked by the wind and smoke, and happy for an excuse to run from it.

  More sheep joined the mob. She trotted on one side of them, Tommy bringing up the rear, yelling and waving their arms each time the terrified animals tried to scatter. Now and then the sheep tried to break toward the river, panting.

  She was afraid they would collapse if they didn’t drink — but even more afraid of the flames surging across the land toward them if she let them stop.

  She peered up the slope, hoping to see a glimpse of Auntie Love or the Sampsons. But even the slight hill up from the river hid them from view. She looked back at Tommy. He gave her his twisted grin and a thumbs-up sign.

  The wind was roaring again. It had shifted once more and was no longer just from the south: gusts like blows now came from one direction then another. A fire wind, she thought.

  Where were the flames now? She tried to think. They had been behind her when they started out. But with the changing winds the fire could be uphill from them or even in front … She shut her mind to that. Going forward was their only hope.

  About a hundred sheep bleated and stumbled in front of them now, some black, others still dusty grey. They ran almost like one animal, their woolly backs rippling over the ground. Now and then one would break away, then come running back to be with the mob. It was as though the herd had one mind only and one thought too: stay together, stay together. They would follow whatever she and Tommy signalled now.

  Once again time vanished. There was just the ground, the gusts of wind, the rolling formless mob, her feet, one step after another. Her world was sheep and gasping breaths. Got to keep going, going, going …

  The wind battered her, feeding on the fire’s heat, growing stronger and stronger still. For a moment she thought she might fall, then Tommy’s arm was around her waist, helping her stay upright. They staggered together, supporting each other, the strength of two against the wind. The sheep would keep running now till someone — or something — stopped them.

  She heard the first call but didn’t take it in. It was only when the shout came again that she looked up.

  There above her were the homestead, the cottages, the garden, the dairy and a stretch of dust filled with sheep, a thousand sheep at least, behind a ring of black. A firebreak, just as Mr Sampson had said that they would make.

  Their mob of sheep was racing ahead. She looked at the animals blankly. There was no way she could make them change direction now.

  There was no need. As she stood there swaying, two men on horseback rode down, yelling, cracking their whips. The sheep swerved up the hill, instinctively heading toward the larger mob, staggering over the ring of black to the others.

  ‘You all right?’

  It was Mr Drinkwater. She blinked, unable to answer. He swung his arm down and helped her scramble up onto the horse’s back in front of him.

  ‘Tommy!’ she called, then saw the other rider — James — help him up. She felt the horse move below her, and Mr Drinkwater’s strong arm around her, as they cantered up the hill.

  He reined the horse up in the garden. She slithered off unsteadily. A woman ran over as man and horse vanished back toward the milling sheep. She felt herself shepherded across the gravel yard, through a scullery, then into a kitchen. She sat, and drank water, glass after glass, then stood again. ‘I have to go.’

  The woman stared at her. ‘Leave it to the men.’

  ‘No! My friends are out there. I have to see if they’ve got here too.’

  She was gone before the woman could protest again.

  Chapter 33

  She found Tommy in the courtyard, shoving his way through the milling sheep, his hat gone, burned leaves in his hair, his eyes concerned as he examined her. Tommy. She felt like crying with gratitude. But it was as though her body couldn’t spare the moisture.

  ‘Matilda! Are you hurt?’ Impossible to hear with the bleat of sheep, the batter of the wind, but she guessed the words.

  He hovered anxiously, holding his scarred wrist with his left hand, as though afraid it might inadvertently touch her. She shook her head, looking out past the homestead. Only the land behind them was unburned.

  The flames had passed the treed land now, and were onto what should be bare ground, half a mile away perhaps. But they still looked like a wall, pushed by the wind.

  Could dirt burn?

  ‘There’s water in the kitchen.’

  ‘One of the men gave me a drink.’

  ‘Are the others here yet?’ She had to yell, and even then the words were eaten by the wind.

  He shook his head. ‘Haven’t seen them.’ He nodded over to the ring of men at the edge of the firebreak. The flames were travelling so fast the fire was nearly on them. ‘I’m going over there.’

  She nodded to show she had understood, then began to follow him. They pushed their way through the sheep to the line of men standing at the edge of the firebreak.

  Most held rakes, others green branches. A pile of more green branches lay on the ground.

  She picked one up, then found Mr Drinkwater beside her. James stood on the other side of him, staring at Matilda as though he had never seen her before. She suddenly realised what she must look like: as black as Tommy, in men’s clothes and filthy at that. Even her hair was probably black. ‘Don’t tell me to go back to the house.’

  Mr Drinkwater hardly looked at her, his eyes on the approaching flames. ‘I wasn’t going to.’

  ‘It’s nearly here.’ James’s eyes were on the flames again.

  Matilda pulled at Mr Drinkwater’s arm. ‘Mr Sampson, Elsie, Auntie Love — I think they’re all still out there with your sheep. We separated so we could find as many as we could.’

  Mr Drinkwater did look at her then. ‘In God’s name, girl, why?’

  In God’s name, she thought, remembering the picture of Jesus and the lambs in Sunday school, so long ago. ‘Because they’re living creatures, not because they’re yours. Please — could you send men out to look for my friends?’

  ‘No.’

  Anger flared with anguish. ‘Just because they’re natives!’

  He bent close to her ear so she could hear above the roar of fire. ‘I would if I could, girl. We’ll look for them. But it’s impossible now.’ He strode off, a branch in his hand, leaving James beside her.

  James yelled above the wind, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go back to the house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She stared at the approaching flames. Mr Drinkwater was right. There was no way anyone could search for others until the fire had passed. Beside her Tommy held his branch like a weapon, his eyes on the fire-front too. The end nearest the river was closest. How many minutes before it was on them? The flames circled more than half the homestead now.

  She moved over to the other edge of the firebreak, staring out into the smoke, hoping to see figures running toward them. The men on either side glanced at her, then turned back to the flames. The leading edge of the fire hit, further down the line.

  She looked that way. The men there seemed to be easily keeping the fire from crossing the firebreak as it ate the land between the homestead and the river.

  Where were the Sampsons and Auntie Love?

  ‘No,’ yelle
d Tommy in her ear.

  ‘What?’

  ‘No, you can’t go and look for them. They could be anywhere.’

  How did he know what she’d been thinking? Perhaps because he had thought the same. Now the tears did come. She felt the salt sting her smoke-reddened eyes. Waste of water.

  Rain, she thought. If we could only call up rain.

  Another gust of smoke swirled down again. She stared into it, wishing so hard for shapes to appear that when they did she didn’t recognise them at first. Sheep, 200 of them perhaps, panting too hard to bleat, and behind them the figures of Elsie and Mr Sampson. She hadn’t known she was holding her breath. She let it out, then realised …

  Auntie Love wasn’t with them.

  Had the old woman collapsed? But Mr Sampson would have carried her! Was she still out shepherding the sheep? She wanted to run to them, to make sure they were unhurt, to ask about Auntie Love.

  But there was no time now. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Drinkwater men helped them behind the firebreak, and pushed the new lots of sheep into the milling mob. And then the flames arrived in force.

  They were shorter than they had appeared before. Knee high perhaps. Just the dirt to burn, she thought, then saw the sheep droppings were flaring too: tiny red nuggets on the dirt. She lashed at them with her branch, saw the red turn into black. All along the line the men were flailing at the flames as well.

  Fire was almost all around them now, the vagrant gusts pushing the beaters this way and that. Burning embers flew above their heads. She hoped that there were enough men stationed to put out any fires around the house. But this was Drinkwater. Of course there were.

  Tommy thrashed his branch on the ground next to her. She was dimly aware of James, his body strong, his face alive and concentrated, working steadily beside her. Where was Bertram? Sheltering closer to the house? She didn’t care.

  Small flames burned around her feet. The firebreak hadn’t stopped the fire, but it made it easier to fight. She stamped on the red tongues with her boots, watched the flames die, then beat down again with her wattle branch. Incredibly it was hardly singed, still able to easily extinguish the tongues of fire.