Fortune's Son

by Jennifer Scoullar

  In the half-light he came to another creek. There, beneath a screen of pandanus leaves, he found a fern-frond bed trampled flat, still holding the impression of the sleeping dog. Luke curled up in the soft nest and slept.

  Hours later the tigers discovered Luke as they stole, soft-footed, back to the safety of the mountains. The playful cubs, with full stomachs and egos boosted by their first hunt, almost pounced on him as he slumbered. Coorinna called them away just in time. Bear, following a few minutes behind, showed more caution, giving the sleeping man a wide berth.

  In the morning, Luke faintly recalled three inquisitive, twitching noses on little whiskery faces, bright eyes reflecting the moonlight. He thought it a dream. As he tried to rouse himself, the full extent of his predicament hit him. The bone-numbing chill of the Tasmanian highland night had seeped into his body as he slept, fingers of frost stealing his strength, enticing him to lie still just a little longer.

  He tried to move, but his arms and legs were stiff and unyielding. At first he was pleased his shoulder didn’t hurt, until he realised it was simply numb with cold. When circulation returned, it ached again with a vengeance. After several painful minutes of effort Luke coaxed his reluctant limbs to stretch. He clambered uncertainly to his feet, stumbled, and fell hard back to the ground, wondering where on earth his balance was. At last he managed to stand, hands still frozen, feet dead lumps of wood. Stamping toes and rubbing fingers, Luke lurched to the creek to drink. At first his hands didn’t register the bite of icy water in his cupped palms, but soon enough his extremities felt like they belonged to him again.

  As morning sunshine filtered through the gum trees and the pastel sky promised a warm spring day, Luke forgot his misery. An unfamiliar realisation hit him. He was free. Free to freeze, perhaps. Free to starve. Free to succumb to loneliness and madness, but free nonetheless. And he knew that he would not trade the sweetness of this freedom for a lice-ridden bunk, a meagre meal and the doubtful comfort of his cutthroat companions back at the work camp. With no better plan, Luke kept on after Bear.

  For some reason the dog had changed direction. One set of prints had become four or even five. In miry ground below the creek he found the tracks of another large dog and what looked like puppy pug-marks. If Luke read the trail correctly, Bear was following a wild pack, his own tracks always overlapping the others.

  It was with a great deal of apprehension that Luke descended the mountain, aware that by doing so he headed back towards town. His nerves played tricks on him. Once he was so sure he could hear men crashing through the bush that he hid for an hour in a soggy, leech-infested depression behind a rock.

  Eventually the forested slope opened onto a broad, grassy clearing. On its western edge was a ramshackle hut. Luke watched for a long time in the shelter of the trees, until curiosity overcame caution. He abandoned Bear’s trail and hurried to the hut.

  Nobody had lived there for a long time. Grass grew high all around. Sheets of bark lined the crude split-log walls, and wire loops tied the frame together. The weight of native honeysuckle had pulled the door askew, and part of the roof was caved in. Luke didn’t mind. What a stroke of luck!

  He pulled back the creeper and pushed through the rickety door. There was even a rough stone fireplace, mortared with crumbling clay. A rock lay at his feet. He picked it up and wedged it back into the tumble-down chimney. A smile spread over his face. He looked around. A crooked meat safe in one corner. Some dusty boards and a frayed hessian bag. In the bag he found a half-full gunpowder flask, two empty rum bottles and a rusty knife. In another corner lay a battered axe head, some wire, a broken broom and a cast-iron pot. Not much to most, but to Luke it felt like Christmas.

  Dusting them off and trying to ignore his aching hunger, a million uses for each item sprang to mind. He forgot about Bear. He even forgot he was on the run. Luke swept the floor with the old broom. Tomorrow he’d cut a young tree to replace the split handle. He placed the boards on some stones along the wall to make a handy bench. He took the old pot and bottles down to a little creek that bubbled in a gully beside the hut. He washed them and filled them with water. On his way back he picked some early waratahs, his mother’s favourite flowers. He used a bottle as a vase and stood the scarlet blooms on a level stone above the fireplace. It felt like home already.

  Next to eat. Fashioning a rough snare from wire, he went back to the creek, where rabbit droppings pointed to a fresh warren. He dug a shallow hole, buried the loop at the base of a springy sapling, fashioned two notched pegs, and hammered them in on either side. Bending the sapling to the ground, he fixed the wire snare to its free end, carefully slotting the slender trunk into the notched peg. A trip-stick, laid across the path and wedged into the notches, completed the trap. Any rabbit knocking the stick would be ensnared and flung into the air.

  Luke returned to the hut and sat down to rest with his back against the wall. Fatigue and hunger were taking their toll. He glanced at the sun sailing high in the sky. Late afternoon at best, and rabbits wouldn’t come out until dusk. His empty stomach couldn’t wait that long. Time to go fishing.

  He baited a bent wire hook with a wriggling worm, unravelled a thread from the hessian sack and tied the line to a stick. Down to the creek he went and promptly caught a plump, spotted trout. Luke stopped to collect bracken root and warrigal greens on the way back to the hut. Now for a fire. Gathering kindling, leaves and dry grass, he poured a tiny portion of gunpowder from the flask onto the rudimentary stone grate. Using the axe head as a flint stone, Luke struck it again and again against the fireplace. Before long sparks flew, igniting the tiny pile of powder with a bright flash. Smoke wafted, followed by flame.

  Luke whooped with delight. Before long, a fire crackled happily in the dusty hearth. Stripped fern root went into the fire to roast. Fish and greens went into the cast-iron pot, balanced on two large rocks either side of the grate. His first meal as a free man. The succulent fish melted off the bone. It was the most delicious meal he’d ever tasted.

  The chill of approaching night nipped the air. Luke gathered bracken and fern fronds, piling them high against the wall away from the gap in the roof. He tested his new bed. Comfortable as the feather mattress at Coomalong.

  As twilight fell, Luke checked his trap. A rabbit dangled in the wire snare. This was too good to be true. Luke hurried to his new home to roast it on a stick. But with darkness came a growing sense of unease. Were they searching for him? Had a reward been posted for his capture? The lurking fear of discovery remained, yet nothing would make him abandon his refuge that night.

  He finished the rabbit, washed his pot, refilled his bottle and snuggled down in his ferny bed. To distract himself from the nagging pain in his shoulder, Luke focused on the waratahs. Bold, fiery flowers – each scarlet torch a mass of individual blossoms. Daniel had told him that waratah was a native word for ‘beautiful’. Luke tried to remember the botanical name. That was it. Telopea from the Greek ‘telepos’, meaning ‘seen from afar’. He gazed at the fire. An echo of the waratah was there in the flames. Red fingers leapt and danced, offering up shapes of animals and trees. The image of a dog glowed brightly and died. Luke’s eyes grew heavy and he slept.

  Hours later, the moon looked over the mountains to see the figure of a giant black dog standing like a statue in the clearing, staring at the hut. Raising his head, Bear sent a howl, long and mournful, into the empty expanse of sky. He took one last lingering look before melting into the shadows, leaving the moon to journey alone across the starry heavens.

  CHAPTER 7

  Dawn drifted down through the hole in the roof. Luke opened his eyes. For a long time he lay, heavy-lidded and sleepy in his ferny bed, savouring the unfamiliar experience of waking in his own time, in his own place. With drowsy satisfaction he reviewed the previous day. He was finally free. Now all he had to do was figure out what came next. Perhaps he’d stay here for a while, let any search die down before moving on. One thought still nagged. He’d lost Be
ar. The big dog would be long gone.

  Luke jumped up, shivering, and grabbed a stick to poke the fire. His shoulder hurt where the bullet had grazed him; a bullet meant for Bear. Thank God it had missed its mark. Hot coals hid under grey ashes, and with the help of a little kindling he coaxed a flame to life. Luke squatted by the fire for a few minutes, warming his hands, then picked up the cast-iron pot and pushed out the door. He should have saved some rabbit for breakfast.

  Morning lay shrouded in a cloud that had crept, ghost-footed, down from the range overnight. Moisture dripped from each leaf and flower and twig. He prayed it would clear to a fine day. Rain, before he fixed the roof, would make life here very difficult indeed.

  Luke stepped onto the grass to empty his bladder. What was that? A movement at the northern end of the clearing stopped his breath. This was it; they’d come for him.

  A mob of wallabies emerged from the mist. Luke exhaled, feeling a little foolish. The idea of wallaby stew took over from his fear, making his stomach clench and his mouth water. The animals cocked their heads, then bounded as one for the forest. Something had startled them. Bear? Luke edged round to where the mob had vanished in the trees. It was hard to get his bearings in the grey blanket of cloud.

  His foot connected with something heavy. It rolled away a little. A useful rock for the chimney restoration project, perhaps? His hands found it on the foggy ground. It felt smooth and hard. Luke picked it up. Then, with a gasp, he dropped the object. A bleached white human skull bounced against his foot, gaping eye sockets staring up at him. Luke stepped back. All round, emerging from the mist, lay more scattered bones. A human femur bore tell-tale teeth marks of some wild animal. He gulped and picked up the skull again to examine it. Apart from a few missing front teeth it was intact. Was this the original owner of the hut?

  Luke tried to convince himself it was good news. He had nothing to fear from a dead man. But a lingering sense of horror remained. His thoughts turned, despite himself, to dark scenarios. Foul play. Murder. Or did the man fall ill far from help? Did the devils, tigers and wild dogs come for him prematurely, feasting on his living flesh, while screams echoed unheard off the granite tors?

  Luke swore aloud. What use was he when his imagination regularly scared the wits out of him? He forced himself to collect the bones into a pile. At the very least they deserved a proper burial, and although he knew nothing of such things, he would do his best. Using the axe head and a stout branch he tried to dig a grave in the stony ground. Time and time again, tree roots and shale caused him to start over. He had to move further and further into the open, where the earth was more yielding and the ground clearer of roots. The task seemed to take forever and, all the while, the skull stared accusingly from atop its stack of bones.

  He’d made good headway when, behind him, a dog barked – too high-pitched for Bear. Luke froze. A man appeared from the forest, rifle raised. At his heels ran a crossbred terrier, yapping furiously. Luke dropped his tools and raised his hands. Competing emotions ran riot through his brain: disappointment, despair, apprehension – even relief. Whatever happened next, death or capture, was out of his hands.

  Minutes ticked by and the standoff continued. Finally the man lowered his gun. ‘And who might you be, young fella?’

  Surely this man knew he was an escapee? Ragged prison clothing, if nothing else, gave the game away. Perhaps he was playing some cruel game of cat-and-mouse by feigning ignorance?

  ‘I asked your name,’ said the stranger. ‘Have you no tongue in your head?’

  Why on earth didn’t he just get on with it? Luke resolved to force his hand, reaching for the axe head lying on the ground. A bullet whizzed past his shoulder. It angered him, made him bold.

  ‘You bloody well know who I am,’ he said. ‘So take me in if you can, or shoot me, but don’t waste my time.’

  The stranger laughed. ‘A word of advice, son. Don’t jump to conclusions. You go round announcing yourself a fugitive to the wrong folks . . . you’re asking for trouble. Me? I take people wholly as I find them, and I ain’t got nothing against you so far. So what say I lower me gun and you step away from that sorry-looking axe head and we have ourselves a friendly talk?’

  As a sign of good faith the stranger placed his rifle on the ground and stepped aside.

  With nothing much to lose, Luke approached him with an outstretched hand. The stranger grinned and Luke took a good look at him – fifty or so, grey beard, untidy silver hair sticking out from under a broad-brimmed rabbit-skin hat. He wore a blue serge shirt and loose moleskin trousers held together with a leather belt. The garb of a trapper, or perhaps a prospector. Cautiously they shook hands.

  ‘Angus. Angus McLeod. What say we retire to that hut? If there’s any chance someone’s gunning for you, lad, you’d best keep out of the open.’

  They passed the pile of bones, topped by the watching skull. Angus doffed his hat and made the sign of the cross.

  ‘Rest in peace, Clarry.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘I did. A good bloke, was Clarry. Bit of a hermit. Built this place and lived up here the best part of forty years. Must’ve been seventy if he was a day, but still fit as a fiddle. I’d drop by twice a year, buy his skins, sell them in town. Never saw another soul, did Clarry. Abbott’s foreman let the old man stay in return for watching the sheep sent up here for spring pasture. Clarry protected them from them native wolves. Vicious brutes. Kill thirty sheep a night, they do, just for sport. Follow a man for days through the bush just waiting for a chance to rip out his throat while he sleeps. They drink blood, y’know, like damned vampyres. Used to be plenty around here, but they’re thin on the ground now. Old Clarry snared a fair few in his time – my word, he did.’

  ‘How can you be sure that’s Clarry?’ asked Luke.

  ‘Who else would it be, way out here? But there’s a surer way of telling.’ Angus lifted the skull, indicating the gap in the teeth of the upper jawbone. ‘Clarry had his top front teeth knocked out in a bar fight. Never could say his s’s after that. Yep. This is Clarry all right, no mistake.’

  ‘Abbott’s foreman, you said? You don’t mean Henry Abbott, do you?’

  ‘One and the same. Holds every piece of good ground hereabouts. King of the wool kings and owner of the richest mining leases. King Midas, they call him.’

  Luke’s blood ran cold. Henry Abbott. The man who’d raped his sister, torn his childhood and family apart. Owner of this land. Owner even of the tumbledown shack that Luke wanted to call home.

  In a daze, he followed Angus and his little terrier inside the hut and sat down on the plank of wood rigged up as a makeshift bench. The dog smiled and wagged his tail. Luke patted him. The dog climbed onto his knee. Angus, looking around, gave a long drawn-out whistle.

  ‘Somebody’s given this place a right going over. Stolen everything not nailed down. Likely done Old Clarry in as well. I know what they was looking for, lad, and I don’t reckon they found it, neither. Clarry had a fortune hidden away somewhere. The tight-fisted old bastard made good money from trapping, and he hoarded every penny. Lived off the land, save for what provisions I brought him after selling his skins. Clarry didn’t keep his loot here, though. Stashed in the bush, he told me. Guess nobody’ll ever know now.’

  The little shack took on a more sinister feel as Luke tried to digest this new information. Its owner hadn’t peacefully passed from old age. There was robbery at least and maybe killing as well. And all in the place where every blade of grass, every clod of earth, even the bleached murdered bones themselves belonged to the hated Henry Abbott.

  A long silence ensued. ‘Seems like I’m doing all the talking here, young fella.’ Angus took off his hat. ‘Your turn.’

  Luke pushed the dog from his lap, stood up and moved over to the fireplace, shuffling from foot to foot. What to say? Angus would be able to tell a lot just by looking at him. He wore the sparse beard of youth and, even by bushmen standards, was filthy and bedraggled. Coarse gove
rnment-issue prison clothes. Hands blistered and calloused. Hair oily and matted. Soles near worn out of his shoes.

  ‘Son, you as much confessed to me you was running from the law,’ said Angus. ‘The look of you confirms it. What I want to know is how and why. Seems to me it might make for an entertaining yarn.’

  When Luke started talking, he couldn’t stop. He told Angus everything. From his happy childhood in Hobart to the nightmare of Rebecca’s rape, from his unjust sentencing to his years of brutal incarceration, from his spur-of-the-moment escape to his discovery of the hut, and then his plan to give old Clarry a decent burial.

  Angus gave a whistle, rose to his feet and stood for a long while, staring at the fire.

  ‘That’s some story. Abbott put you in this spot, you say. The same Sir Henry Abbott that owns this town? That owns this here hut we both be standing in?’ Angus whistled again. ‘Blimey, so you’re the fella that knocked his teeth out? Fair dinkum, son, there’s a fair few folks round here’d give you a medal for that. Clarry used to have a good laugh about his own gap-tooth grin. If it’s good enough for his lordship, then it’s good enough for me. They say Sir Henry’s nose was never quite straight again, and that he always smiled with closed lips to hide the flash of gold caps in the front.’ Angus fell into a fit of chuckles. ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing – Abbott doesn’t have many friends around these parts.’ He put on his hat. ‘I suppose you could use a feed, son. Then maybe afterwards we can see about giving old Clarry that funeral, like you planned. Right kind of you, that was.’

  A wave of relief swept over Luke, threatening to turn his legs to jelly. He sat back down.