by Bonnie Leon
“I’m praying for you and all the others in the district. Don’t be afraid. God’s ’ere, and when you’ve walked through this trouble, you’ll be stronger for it. I’m confident all will be well with the Thorntons.” He smiled kindly.
At sunset Daniel rode into the yard. He nearly staggered up the front steps. His fatigue was profound. Rebecca guessed it was more than physical exhaustion, but rather weariness of his soul.
After Daniel had washed off the day’s dirt and eaten his evening meal, Rebecca convinced him to take a walk with her. Their arms linked, they strolled beneath a dark sky lit only by a wedge of moon and glittering stars. The night was quiet except for chirping cicadas and the distant yip of a dingo.
“I like the evenings here,” Rebecca said, leaning against Daniel.
He gazed into the darkness and then took in a slow, even breath. “I used to. Now even the darkness can’t hide the ruin from my eyes. I see it always.”
He glanced back at the house. Soft lights glowed from the kitchen and parlor. A blush of light came from the upstairs room his parents had once shared. Now only his mother slept there.
“It feels like Douloo is dying. And I can’t save her. I’m losing everything my father and grandfather worked for. Last night I dreamed it had all died, the trees and livestock.” He looked at Rebecca. “You and Joseph, everything. And there was nothing I could do to save you.”
He turned his gaze upward. “I don’t know what to do . . . how do I save our home? I pray and pray and ask God to bring rain and to protect us from ill fortune . . . but he doesn’t hear.”
“I’m sure he does, Daniel. But God’s ways are not our ways.”
Daniel shook his head. “I’m struggling, Rebecca. I’ve done all I can, and still God refuses to rescue us.” Daniel held his arms away from his body. “He’s walked away. And I don’t know why.”
“No. God would never turn his back on his children. His Word says he shall never leave us nor forsake us. It’s his promise to us. And God never breaks a promise.”
Rebecca turned to face Daniel and gripped his arms. “All we can do is surrender Douloo to God. It doesn’t belong to us anyway. It’s his and has been from the moment he created it.”
Daniel gazed at her in the near darkness. “Rebecca, I can’t just give it up. I won’t.” He turned and walked back to the house.
Rebecca stared after him, dread growing inside of her. Something terrible waited for her and Daniel. She knew it.
Wind sighed and dust hung in the air. Daniel pressed his rifle against his shoulder, sited in the young bullock, and then squeezed the trigger. The blast fractured the quiet. The animal dropped.
“That’s the last of ’em,” he said, lowering the gun and walking toward the carcass. “If the rains come soon, some of the rest might make it.” How many times had he hoped and prayed for that? He studied the wasting herd. It would be only days before he’d be forced to destroy more. He reached down, grabbed a hoof and dragged the dead animal to a mound of fly-infested remains.
Woodman stood back, his eyes mournful. He glanced at gathering crows and then picked up a can of kerosene and walked toward the pile of dried cow dung, bones, and skin. “No tucker ’ere,” he said, with a nod at the birds. “They won’t get fat off these, eh?” He walked around the heap of dead animals, dousing them with the kerosene.
Daniel lit a torch and followed Woodman, igniting the animals. Soon the stench of burning hides and flesh permeated the air. He moved back and watched the cremation, bile rising in his throat.
With the hard edge of bitterness cutting into him, he watched his hard work, his hopes, his future burn. Cawing crows darted in and out of drifting smoke. Finally, finding no way to feast, they broke away and disappeared, no doubt in search of other remains. They wouldn’t have far to look.
Daniel moved close to the pile. Leaning away from the flames, he grabbed a hoof and draped the body of an emaciated cow deeper into the fire. Detesting every moment of this repulsive duty, he and Woodman walked around the mound, lifting and shoving animals deeper into the fiery heap.
“Wish they hadn’t wandered so close ta the house,” Woodman said. “I hate burnin’ ’em.”
Daniel leaned on a pitchfork and stared at the house. The smoke and stench would drive his family indoors. Glad Dad’s not ’ere to see this, he thought, then using the pitchfork, he hoisted a cow into the blaze. Angry and disheartened, he plodded around the pile, pushing unburned parts into the fire.
Daniel thought he heard a baby’s cry coming from the house. Shoving the pitchfork into the ground, he turned and studied his home. It seemed the same as always, sturdy and commanding, rising up in the midst of the flatlands. He’d always believed Douloo could withstand any assault. Now with the stink of burning hides in his nostrils, he was no longer sure. Would the station still be here when Joseph became a man? He turned away and continued his march around the burning heap.
The creases in his black face deeper than usual, Woodman hunkered down and stared at the horizon. “Don’t take the torment, Daniel. Things mean nothin’. We come from the earth naked, and naked we return ta it. Ya ’ave yer family and they ’ave ya—that’s what matters. Ya’ve no need of property.”
“You can’t understand. You never owned anything.”
“The land and what’s on it can’t belong ta a man.”
“The aborigine way isn’t the only way.” Daniel stabbed angrily at another carcass.
“What has yer labor gotten ya, lad?”
Daniel glowered at the smoldering mass. “My grandfather worked and sweated to build this place, and my father after him. I can’t abandon it.”
“Ya can if ya ’ave ta.”
“No. Never.” Daniel shoved the pitchfork through a bloated animal and heaved it toward the inner flames. “I have a family who depends on me. You don’t.”
“That’s not it,” Woodman said. “The land is sacred. It belongs ta no man. Ya may think ya own it, but ya don’t. It does as it wills.”
“I’ll do as I will,” Daniel nearly screamed.
Knowing he had no real power over his life, the panic he’d been holding down threatened to engulf him. What came with each passing day was not his to ordain. He’d tried to release the station to God, but it still felt like his. Hadn’t God given it to the Thorntons? Wasn’t it his to care for?
He glared at Woodman, shocked at the ferocity of his emotions. “Douloo is not aborigine sacred land! It is Thornton land!”
Woodman gazed sadly at Daniel. “The earth belongs ta no man.” His eyes moved to something in the distance. “It has a song. If ya listen ya can ’ear it. It’s the music left by the gods who walked ’ere. They speak ta us.” He looked squarely at Daniel. “And they would say, think of yer family, the people ya love. They’re what matter.”
Daniel sagged, “I’m tired . . . tired of watching Douloo die, tired of praying to a God who doesn’t hear.” Sorrow cut through his middle. “What am I doing wrong?” Daniel was nearly weeping.
“Every day I walk in my father’s shadow. He’s always with me, watching my failure. I can hear his disappointment, his correction. But I don’t know what to do.” Daniel looked down at a half-burned calf; its dead eyes stared back at him. “This is what I have left, this pile of bones and hides.”
“Daniel, think of yer boyhood. Life held more for ya . . . and yer father then.”
Daniel stared at the flames. It was hard to breathe.
“Think of the days with yer dad—the good days. Ya fished and hunted.”
His voice hard, Daniel said, “I remember hard work and failure.”
“No, before that. The days when yer father and ya was close. What was it that mattered ta ya most?”
Daniel thought back. As a boy, he’d always looked forward to outings with his dad. They’d hunted roos, goannas, and dingoes. He’d learned how to track and how to find his way in the vastness of the flats. They’d herded cattle, and his father had shown him how to tell the di
fference between a healthy bullock and a sick one. He’d taught him how to rope and how to brand calves.
There had been family picnics and games. And sometimes on special days his father had played hide-and-seek with him and Elton. When they’d discover their father, he’d leap up, scooping them into his arms. And then he’d chuckle. His laugh had been deep and rich. Daniel smiled at the memory.
“Ya remember, then?” Woodman walked toward Daniel.
“Yeah. I remember.”
Resting a hand on Daniel’s shoulder, Woodman said, “That’s what ya need ta hang on to—the devotion, not the land. Before yer father lost his way, he knew how ta love.”
“He always loved Douloo.”
“Too much. As ya do.”
“No. Loving Douloo was the one good thing he held on to. You can’t love this place too much. It’s all we have, all that will last.”
Woodman squeezed Daniel’s shoulder. “Careful lad, or ya’ll lose sight of what’s real.”
Daniel pointed his pitchfork at the pile of burning cattle. “That’s what’s real!” He turned slowly, gazing at the land. “Look ’round you. What do you see?”
“Ya ’ave ta look farther. There’s more than what yer eyes tell ya. Listen ta the earth. This day is our time, and we ’ave a song of sorrow. But there are songs from the days that came before and the days ta come. Grand songs that are always ’ere. It’s calling ya, but yer not listening. Ya’ve forgotten how ta listen, Daniel.”
“There’s no music!” Daniel squatted and grabbed up a handful of soil and flung it into the air. “There’s nothing here but dirt and dead bones. How can I make something from that?”
Woodman was silent a long while, and then he said soberly, “Yer grandfather came from the prisons in Moreton Bay, lad. He climbed out of that hole and made his way ’ere. He lived on this land and built it up.” Woodman squared his jaw. “He was tough, that’s true, but he had heart and he knew how ta live. Back then there was a drought, bad as this, but he kept lookin’ for the good, never stopped believin’ that the land would supply. I remember thinkin’ he must be able ta see into the future. He lived as if he knew about the greatness in the days ta come.”
God. He trusted God, Daniel thought. I have no faith.
Woodman looked squarely at Daniel. “There ’ave been many droughts. There will be more. Every one brings death. But the land doesn’t die. It always comes back. Yer grandfather knew that.”
Woodman’s eyes brightened. “I was just a lad when I came ’ere, but I remember yer grandfather. He lived hard and worked hard, but he never lost himself in this place. Yer father did, and now . . . yer doin’ the same. There is more in this life ya’ve been given than Douloo.”
Daniel tried to take in Woodman’s meaning, but all he could think about was how he had failed and how the station was going to die because of him. Woodman couldn’t understand. “You were just a lad. How would you know what my grandfather did?”
Before Woodman could respond, Daniel walked away. He had no idea where he was going, only that he had to walk. He needed to escape the carnage. After a while he stopped and sat beneath a giant ghost gum. Then he sobbed.
“Come on, mum, come with us,” Callie said. “It will be good for ya.”
“I don’t know. I’m worried about Daniel. When Woodman came back he said he and Daniel had an argument and that Daniel had walked off.”
“Woodman wasn’t afraid for ’im was he?”
“He didn’t say so. But I could see he felt restless. I think he’s concerned.”
“Ya don’t ’ave ta worry ’bout Daniel. We can go ta the billabong. I ’eard it’s still a bit green there. That will be nice for a picnic.”
“I’ve seen it. It’s muddy, mostly dried mud.”
“Maybe. But what if Daniel is there, eh?”
“I doubt he is. I think seeing it just makes him more unhappy.”
Callie stared at Rebecca, waiting for her to make up her mind.
“I suppose it’s possible. He could be there. All right. I’ll go, but I have to change. I want to ride.”
Willa chose to remain home. She stayed indoors, away from the acrid smoke that drifted about the house. Rebecca left Joseph in her care.
Rebecca hurried as she saddled Chavive. The stench of the burning carcasses was almost more than she could tolerate. Callie had been right. It would be good to get away from the house.
Callie stood and watched until Rebecca had finished with Chavive. “Would you like to ride?” Rebecca asked. “I’ll help you saddle a horse.”
“No. T’day I want ta walk.”
“I thought you liked riding.”
“Yais. I do. But I feel like walkin’. It will be good ta feel the earth beneath me feet.”
Rebecca and Callie set off with Callie walking alongside Rebecca and Chavive. She carried a dilly bag slung over her shoulder with picnic fare inside.
“It doesn’t seem like a picnic without Joseph and Daniel,” Rebecca said.
“I can go back and get the bybie, mum.”
Rebecca thought a moment. “No. It’s hot, and I’d hate to wake him from his nap. He’ll just be fussy. Besides, Willa enjoys caring for him.”
“Too roight. She does.”
Callie walked slightly ahead of Rebecca, moving with an effortless stride. It looked as if her feet barely touched the ground. She’d once explained that because of her reverence for the earth, she tried to pass through life without disturbing the places where gods had once walked. Although the notion was pagan, Rebecca found it romantic.
As they approached the billabong, she spotted Daniel sitting beneath a gum tree. “He is here,” she said, urging her horse to a faster pace.
Daniel sat with his back against the tree. He rested his arms on bent legs and stared at what had once been a deep, cool pool. A puddle surrounded by hard, dry mud was all that was left. He glanced at her, then returned to studying the mud hole.
Rebecca brought Chavive to a stop and dismounted. “Daniel?” she said, approaching him. He kept staring. “Daniel, is everything all right?”
Finally he looked at her. His eyes were red rimmed. “No. Nothing’s all right.” He turned his gaze back to the mud hole. “First the animals and then Douloo. That’s how it will be.” He glanced at his hands. “I wish my father were here. He’d know what to do.”
Rebecca knelt beside him. “Tell me how I can help.” She rested a hand on his arm. “None of this is your fault. No one in the district is doing well. Many have moved away, but we’re still here.”
Daniel acted as if he hadn’t heard. He shook his head. “How could I have known—the dry boreholes, the bull . . . ?”
“You couldn’t have,” Rebecca said gently.
“My father would have. He’d have known what to do. Now he watches my failure.”
“No. That’s not what he sees. He’s proud of you. Proud of how hard you’ve worked and how much you love Douloo.”
“And what would he say about the way I’ve let my family down?”
“You haven’t let us down. You’ve loved us and cared for us.” Rebecca sat close to him and rested her head against his arm. “This is the most difficult time we’ve faced. We need to lean on each other and on God.”
“God? I haven’t heard from him lately, nor have I seen him. I don’t believe he lives ’ere anymore.”
Rebecca felt as if she’d been hit across the chest. “You can’t mean that.”
“I don’t know what I mean. I don’t know anything anymore.”
Rebecca had never seen Daniel so discouraged. It frightened her. She searched her mind for something she could say that would help. Knowing she was treading on unstable ground, she took in a breath and gently said, “Daniel, you thought it might be good for me and Joseph to go to Boston. Perhaps we could all go . . . just for a while, until the rains come.”
Daniel stared at her as if he were seeing an apparition. “I can’t leave.” His eyes went to the mud hole. “But I do
think you and Joseph ought to go. And Mum, if I can convince her.”
“I won’t go without you.”
Daniel stared moodily at the ground in front of him, then turned tender eyes on Rebecca. He rested his hand on her cheek. “I love you, Rebecca.”
Her heart aching, Rebecca clasped Daniel’s hand. “We’ll face whatever is to come . . . together.”
Daniel managed a small smile. “Maybe it will rain, eh? And when it does, I’ll build up Douloo again.”
“Douloo doesn’t matter.”
“It does. I’ll make this place work . . . somehow.”
Woodman approached. “I was ’bout ta go, but figured I should tell ya.”
“Tell me what?” Daniel pushed to his feet and helped Rebecca up.
“I got ta go.”
“You’re going on walkabout? Now? In the middle of the worst drought to hit the district?”
Woodman nodded.
“You’ll die. You’ll go out there and die.”
“No. I won’t.” Woodman was silent for a long moment, then added, “And if I do, then that’s how it’s supposed ta be.”
“I need you here. What am I going to do without you?”
“Heard of some men in town lookin’ for a job. Said they’d work cheap.”
“And you think some bloke who doesn’t care about Douloo, who knows nothing about us, can replace you?”
“I gotta go.” Woodman tipped his hat to Rebecca and then turned and walked away.
Daniel threw his hat to the ground. “Woodman!” The aborigine didn’t look back. “Stop! I’m telling you! Stop!” Woodman kept walking. “If you go now . . . well, don’t come back!”
“He’s got ta go,” Callie said quietly.
Woodman moved on, walking steadily until he disappeared into the haze of the afternoon heat.
Daniel drained the last of his tea and handed Rebecca the empty cup. “Time I got to it, then.”
“Can you wait a bit?” Rebecca asked. “I was hoping for a few minutes together on the veranda before you go.”
