Journey to the Stone Country

by Alex Miller

  When Les Marra had gone Bo stood looking down at the map spread on the kitchen table. He put his tobacco away and lit the fresh smoke he’d made. He heard the helicopter start up. He screwed the map into a ball and turned and poked it into the firebox of the range. He took a piece of bendy sandalwood and raked the burning map around, pushing the sandalwood in on top of it. The rain began hitting the roof hard, the light failing outside. He stood looking at the fire, smoking his cigarette and listening to the big wind of the stormfront coming down off the Carborough Ranges, rushing through the tall timber on the slopes the other side of the creek. The smoke of the fire blowing back on the first gust, the smell of fragrant sandalwood filling the kitchen. Bo turned. Arner stood in the doorway watching him.

  Arner jerked his head, ‘Trace and Mathew Hearn coming across the creekflat.’

  There was the heavy fuck-fuck-fuck of the helicopter going over, snatching itself into the falling sky. Neither man looked out the window to see how the machine was faring against the storm.

  ‘They coming, eh?’ Bo said. He reached and put more wood in the firebox.

  Arner came in and eased himself onto a bench at the table. He sat watching the flames and sparks dancing and leaping in the firebox, his hands clasped on the tabletop in front of him, his manner serene, reposeful, inward, calm.

  Bo straightened, ‘You hungry?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We’ll have us a feed of them steaks.’ Bo went to the door and stood looking out. They were coming up the rise along the trodden path through the ribbon grass, Mathew Hearn holding the mare to a nervous walk, picking her feet high and dainty through the grey downpour that fell upon them from a green sky, the pony’s tail lashing the air. Trace sitting behind the saddle embracing Mathew, her fingers linked under his chest, her body pressed to his. Lightning stabbing the ridges behind the riders, thunder a continuous cannonade; as if the battle had been joined now and the balance of their fates was set upon its issue; the young people riding in through the storm might have emerged from a past time, mysterious and compelling to themselves, a wisdom in their new belonging, bringing their unaccountable history with them to bear witness to a future that already lived in them.

  Bo watched them. ‘That boy don’t believe in getting the little mare of his out of a walk,’ he said, his tone measuring and approving. ‘What’s he’s saving her for?’

  Arner turned his head and looked at him.

  Bo flicked his cigarette stub out into the rain and came back into the kitchen. ‘A couple of drowned cats them two.’ He bent and reached into a plastic store crate on the floor, lifting out a heavy plastic bag. He set the bag on the table by Arner. ‘You want to peel a few of these spuds while you’re waiting? I’ll make a drink of tea.’ He pointed. ‘The peeler’s there. Do plenty. That Hearn boy eats as much as you do. I’ll mash ’em up with some butter and pepper.’

  They heard the horse whinny as it breasted the rise.

  A Plague of Dogs

  BO STEPPED THROUGH THE OPEN DOOR UNDER THE FIGURE OF THE crucified Christ. The Ranna pondage map was spread on the Madagascar table. The map had been rolled in a tube and was weighted at the corners with volumes of The World Book of Knowledge to prevent it from rolling up again. Bo stood at the table looking down at the map. ‘Them helicopter people paid you a visit, then, John?’

  John Hearn came and stood by his side. ‘Yes they did. Your friend Les Marra explained the project to us. We’d had no idea it was going to happen so soon.’ With his oilstained forefinger he tapped a point on the red line of the road above the spur. ‘That’s us,’ he said, a new enthusiasm in his voice.

  ‘That’s you.’

  They looked at the map together. There were the voices and laughter of Ruth Hearn and Annabelle out in the kitchen preparing morning tea. They might have become neighbours now, and visiting to be a regular thing. Something to be celebrated.

  ‘You would’ve had a useful fall up here out of that storm,’ Bo said, jerking his head towards the bedraggled landscape of scrubby trees and barrenness outside the windows.

  ‘We only caught the edge of it here again. The rain gauge is broken, but I’d say we must have had around thirty points. It was heavier along the ridge further. You had a big fall down there though. We watched it from the windows here. She was black as pitch in the valley.’

  They might have been cattlemen, concerned for the state of their pastures. Something, it appeared, had changed at Zigzag. But this wasn’t it.

  ‘I reckon we would have had three inches at the homestead. More higher up. The creek ran a fresh.’ Bo ducked his head, pointing through the windows, aiming his hand into the sunless bush, spent clouds hanging low over the ridge, drifting. ‘Them storms always swing away from this country, John, when they hit the spur.’ He spoke with a physical emphasis. ‘They follow the valley up into that Massey Gorge, peter out eventually when they come off the ranges above the coast.’ As he said swing he swung around himself, following his indicating hand, the curve of his body mimicking the progress of storms through the gorges, as if he imagined himself become a storm, his pent-up fury spent along the wild headwaters of the Ranna where he had once ridden with Dougald Gnapun in pursuit of the wild cattle.

  John Hearn watched him. He went, ‘Hmm.’ But whether he expressed appreciation for Bo’s performance or a resistance to his information it was not possible to tell.

  Bo said, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why is that so, do you think, Bo?’

  ‘There’s no why about it, John. That’s just the way it is,’ Bo said emphatically. ‘It’s always been like that. I don’t suppose it’s going to change now neither.’

  John Hearn hesitated before venturing his own opinion, persisting with his offer of a reason for the behaviour of the storms. ‘Well I don’t know about that, Bo. Such a big body of water as this lake is going to be might change the weather pattern.’ He tapped the ponded area on the map with his knuckles, waiting, watching for Bo’s response, something of authority in his manner. ‘Don’t you think?’

  It seemed Bo would not conjecture about the climate. As if he looked into his mind and met a blankness on the matter.

  John Hearn pointed out the window, his finger steady, thumb cocked, his hand made into the shape of a gun, explaining his reasons, wishing to be understood. ‘Once they don’t have the valley to draw them along the gorges any more, the storms might change their direction. They might come straight across the lake.’

  Bo reached and slipped the packet of tobacco from his shirt pocket. ‘They might,’ he allowed grudgingly and looked at the packet then put it back in his pocket again. He took off his hat and rubbed his fingers round the inside of the rim. ‘And they might not.’

  John Hearn laughed, just an edge of derision. ‘Well, I can’t argue with that.’ He looked at the map again. ‘Les said the dam will be full within five years.’

  ‘Les would know.’

  ‘You think I can trust his prediction, then?’

  Bo said nothing.

  ‘Me and Ruth would like to think it’s not an unreasonable estimate. It gives us an idea, you know? A time frame to plan around. Les seemed to know what he was talking about.’

  ‘He does. But that don’t mean a thing like this is a certainty till it’s done.’

  ‘Are there problems?’

  ‘There’s always problems. In my experience. With everything. But I don’t know what they are with this dam. If that’s what you’re asking me.’

  Both men fell silent. There was the sound of motorbikes. The pack of dogs ran out along the road barking and snapping at each other. The boy and girl came into view, riding through the hysterical dogs, their machines trailing a blue haze of exhaust smoke.

  John Hearn said, ‘The dam will give the children a future from this place, Bo. That’s not something we could be sure of before. The dam was only ever a rumour. I think we can forget about those scrubbers. Don’t you?’

  Bo looked at him. ‘I always thought
that was a good idea.’

  Ruth Hearn and Annabelle came in from the kitchen. Ruth said, ‘Running a hostfarm is not the life we came up here for, Bo. It’s easy to have illusions when you’re looking at maps. But maps aren’t reality.’ She asked Bo if he would shift the map and when he had done so she set down the big two-handled teapot on a coaster. Mrs Anderson, the schoolteacher, came in with the boy and the girl and everyone said hello.

  John Hearn said, ‘So, did you find anything interesting at the old homestead, Annabelle?’

  They sat around the table and Annabelle told them about the library of books that had become a termite’s nest and they all listened. She said she had searched for George Bigges’ photographic plates but had not found them. These, she said, would have been a great prize. While Annabelle was telling the story of the books Arner came in. Ellen made a place for him next to her at the table. Arner thanked her gravely and sat down. He took off his dark glasses and hung them at the neck of his T-shirt. The girl passed him a plate of sandwiches. She watched him make his selection then left the plate in front of him.

  ‘Where are Mathew and Tracey?’ Ruth Hearn asked.

  The girl said, ‘Her name’s Trace, Mum, not Tracey.’

  ‘Trace is short for Tracey, dearest.’

  ‘No it’s not.’

  ‘Do you know where they are?’

  The girl looked at Bo. ‘She’s with Mathew. They’re giving Dancer some oats.’

  ‘Has that scrubber bull of yours paid you another visit yet, Ruth?’ Bo asked.

  Ruth Hearn turned to him, her eyes serious. ‘No, he hasn’t.’ She reached and touched the girl on the arm. ‘Run over and call them, will you, dearest. Tell them it’s on the table.’

  The girl did not move. ‘They’ll be here in a minute.’

  Mrs Anderson said in a reproving voice, ‘Ellen! Did I hear your mother ask you to do something?’

  They watched the girl, waiting to see what she would do. The boy sitting close against his teacher, his gaze on his sister, a spectral presence among them. When Arner shifted, the boy’s eyes darted to him as if he anticipated violence.

  There was the screech of the verandah flywire. Ellen looked up at her mother. ‘See?’ she said.

  Mathew and Trace came and stood in the doorway side-by-side, their shoulders touching. They stood looking into the room.

  Ruth Hearn looked at them. She said quietly, ‘Mathew?’

  John Hearn said, ‘Sit down, the pair of you. There’s plenty of room. Move up everybody. You come and sit over here Trace.’

  No one moved.

  Mathew said, ‘They’re putting men on at the Maryvale cane mill, Dad. I thought I’d go down and try for a job there.’

  There was a silence.

  A flock of crested pigeons flashed through the timber out in the day.

  ‘Can I take the Bedford? I’ll bring her back as soon as I get some wheels in town.’

  John Hearn put a biscuit in his mouth and chewed. He gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Aren’t you going to be busy cutting in the cabin sites with the dozer?’

  Mathew said, ‘That’s way off, Dad. For all we know the dam may not even get built.’

  John Hearn said, ‘It seems very likely to get built.’ He looked at Bo, ‘Wouldn’t you say, Bo?’

  Bo did not react. He was watching Mathew. Seeing this boy who was nearly a man meeting this test.

  Ruth Hearn said in a cold voice, ‘That’s not what Mathew means, John.’

  Mother and son looked at each other.

  ‘I’ll go and put a few things together,’ Mathew said. He turned to Trace and touched her hand as he went out.

  Ruth Hearn stood up. Her cheeks were flushed. She murmured an apology and went out after him. Trace stepped aside to let her through. Ruth did not meet her eyes.

  Ellen looked up at Trace. She smiled and pointed to the vacant place left by her mother.

  Trace didn’t move.

  Bo said, ‘You’d better sit down with us and have a drink of tea, Trace.’

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ she said. She turned and went out.

  Arner placed his hands on the table and raised himself. He stood looking at John Hearn.

  ‘What is it, Arner?’ John Hearn asked, a sadness and concern in his voice.

  ‘I’ll top up the radiator on the truck if that’s okay, Mr Hearn.’

  It was the longest speech Annabelle had ever heard from Arner.

  ‘Sure. Go ahead, Arner.’ John Hearn half stood, gesturing out the window. ‘You’ll find a hose right there by the trough.’

  Arner said, ‘Thanks,’ and he went out.

  Mrs Anderson rose and took the children’s hands and when Ellen would have hung back she pulled her roughly to her side.

  John Hearn watched them go then reached for a sandwich. He changed his mind and pushed the plate away. He looked at Bo. ‘If you want to smoke, Bo, you go ahead.’

  Bo said, ‘Thank you, but I think I’ve just about got out of the habit of smoking inside a house.’

  In another room somewhere there were sudden shouts of anger. It was the voice of Ruth Hearn.

  John looked at Bo and Annabelle. He lifted his shoulders in a gesture of apology and helplessness. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘it’s just not what Ruth’s been dreaming of for the boy, that’s all it is. It’s nothing else. She’s had ideas for Mathew. But I believe she’ll settle down.’

  Annabelle said, ‘Women need time, John.’

  He looked at her gratefully, ‘You think they do?’

  ‘Yes, I believe we mostly do.’

  He gazed at her and cleared his throat, ‘Trace’s family, they wouldn’t be Catholic, I suppose, would they? Not that it matters to me. But it would help Ruth.’

  Ruth Hearn came and stood in the doorway.

  They fell silent, looking at her.

  ‘Can I speak to you, John?’ She had been crying.

  John stood up. ‘Help yourselves to more tea,’ he said quietly. ‘I won’t be a minute.’ He went over and stepped into the next room with his wife.

  They heard Ruth Hearn say in a voice filled with distress, ‘Just go and tell him he can’t do this to us.’

  They couldn’t hear John Hearn’s reply, but then Ruth shouted fiercely, ‘Just go and tell him! That’s all I’m asking from you.’

  Annabelle made a face at Bo and whispered, ‘We’ve got to escape!’

  Bo said in a louder than normal voice, ‘He needs to give that woman a bloody good hiding! Every family needs a fight once in a while to clear the air. And I reckon now’s a good time for these Hearns to have one.’ He made an impatient flinging gesture out the window, ‘Get out there with sticks and lay into each other. Kick up some dust. Them dogs would think Christmas had come early.’

  Annabelle leaned close to him and whispered, ‘I bags Mrs Anderson! I’d love to give that woman a thump.’

  ‘Well you could too. Stretch her out on that dust. Clear her head for her. She’d thank you for it.’

  ‘My dad used to tell us you people fought like wild dogs over there at Verbena.’

  ‘Wild dogs? Well we fought when we needed to fight, that’s what we did. We had some real good fights out in front of that big tamarind tree of Grandma’s. I don’t recall your old feller ever getting himself mixed up in one, but he might have, he was always over our way and there’s plenty of things happened there I never knew about. We’d belt each other with sticks till we drew blood. That old Fargo truck we used for spotlighting them wild pigs, we had a fight on the back of her doing forty miles an hour through the bendee there once. Grandma driving like a wild old scrub dasher. Dougald got tipped off and left behind. She kept going and let him lie. He had to walk home. Took him all night. He was pretty sore. Me and dad was getting ready to go out with the horses next morning when Dougald come in and sat down at the table. Grandma said good morning to him and dished him up his breakfast. She might have give him a bit of extra bacon, I can’t remember. But no one said nothing,
only I could see the old man was laughing to himself.’ Bo sat fingering his tobacco, smiling at the memory. ‘The old Dougald was limping for days.’ He sniffed hard. ‘There’s nothing like a good fight.’

  Ruth Hearn’s voice came in sudden angry shouts as she and her husband drew away further into the house.

  ‘That’s what these Hearns need! Get out there and roll around in the dirt and thump the hell out of each other. Things settle back sweetly after a good fight. Before they know where they are they’ll be laughing about it, whatever it is that’s upsetting them.’ He drew breath and said with considerable emphasis, ‘This snipping and wheezing around the place is no bloody good to anyone! They’re angry about something but they’re acting polite. What’s that supposed to mean? They can’t come right out and say nothing! That’s the trouble with these people. It’s got to be all this tippy-toeing around with them, as if someone’s just died of something shameful.’ He turned to Annabelle and said angrily, ‘What’s he mean, It’s not what she’s been dreaming of for her boy? Mathew’s a good boy all right, but this is not what Dougald’s been dreaming of for Trace neither. They don’t know how to ease up, these people.’ He stood up and slipped his tobacco out of his pocket. ‘They’re just too bloody white, Annabellebeck,’ he said, dismissing Ruth and John Hearn with this judgement as people beyond the reach of rehabilitation. Satisfied with his expressed judgement upon the Hearns, he grinned at her and said mildly, ‘I’m going to have a smoke. You coming?’

  They went out together onto the wide verandah with its scatter of woodworking equipment and unwieldy pieces of half-finished native timber furniture. They stood under the eaves by the step looking out towards the machinery sheds on the other side of the clearing. Bo rolled a smoke. Arner was sitting behind the wheel of his truck out in the middle of the yard. He was motionless, gazing ahead through the windscreen. Ready to go. His sunglasses catching a white reflection from the drifting cloud, as if two holes had been drilled through his head and he had no eyes. The beat of his music floating across to them. Annabelle thought how familiar his presence had become for her since Burranbah. He was still a mystery to her, but now he seemed a familiar mystery. The side door of the truck closed and the windows wound up. She could smell the air in the cabin. Dogs nosing around the wheels. Peeing. The pale brindled bitch approached Bo, dragging her hindquarters and whining softly. He spoke to her and she flattened against the dirt and lay gazing at him, her tail sweeping the dust slowly side to side like a windscreen wiper. He licked the paper and stuck it down. ‘You a pussycat or a dog?’ he said. The bitch wriggled closer on her stomach. Bo lit the cigarette and dragged in the smoke. He spat a strand of loose tobacco. The dog looked at it. ‘Trace not sitting in there with Arner.’