A Far Country

by John Fletcher

  In those days she had still wanted to make love with her husband, had been eager for the weight of his body on hers, the hard male thrust of his body inside hers, the sharing and mingling of breath and body, the cries upon the wind as they clung entwined together.

  Then and now, she thought.

  There was a loose pebble by her feet. She leant forward, picked it up and weighed it contemplatively in her hand before tossing it into the void. She watched it fall.

  She remembered when she had last had such a feeling. It had been the evening of her thirty-second birthday, before she had known that Jason existed. The day when Blake had killed the cat.

  Another world. Another lifetime.

  It was not only Jason; this place itself had changed them. It would change them more if she permitted it. That was the key: if she permitted it. Things did change, even the earth had its seasons, but they were not the earth. They had a choice.

  Streams could flow in the desert. If Gavin will not come to me, she thought, I must go to him. I will not permit things to die between us. Easily said, no doubt, but Asta was determined and what she determined she would do.

  She smiled gaily at Alison, filled with joy and, at that moment, faith in a shared future.

  ‘Come,’ she said. ‘Let us enjoy the food we have brought.’

  ‘Two of their women are alone on the cliffs,’ the messenger said.

  It was the opportunity for which they had been waiting yet still Nantariltarra hesitated. To kill the women would mean war. He did not see how they could hope to win yet knew he had no choice.

  The warriors were clad in their fighting paint, white lines forming traditional patterns across the black bodies, spears and woomeras in their hands. They looked expectantly at Nantariltarra.

  He had no wish to kill anyone but there was no way back. With heavy heart he gave the order. ‘Let us go, then.’

  He led the way through the dense covering of bush that fringed the creek.

  Something was troubling Mura, and Jason did not know what it was. Asking him about it did no good: he put on his sullen face and pretended he didn’t know what Jason was talking about.

  They had finished the well and that morning Gavin had set them to building a dam to contain the water that flowed down the creek during the wet season. It was miserable work. Jason was cold, wet and covered in mud and did not appreciate mysteries. It was the first time since coming here that Mura had shut him out. There had to be a reason for it: an important reason, perhaps.

  He had known from the beginning there was bound to be trouble with the clan: not the pin-prick raiding they’d had so far but something more serious. He thought Mura’s furtive behaviour might have something to do with that. It was important to know; if he failed to ask the right question it might mean a spear in the guts.

  He rested his shovel on the ground and looked at Mura working beside him.

  ‘On our way back last night …’

  Mura neither looked at him nor stopped working. The skin over his shoulder muscles gleamed as he drove the shovel into the earth and levered out another dollop of heavy clay to add to the wall that was beginning to take shape.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Nothing happened to me.’

  ‘I was a yard or two ahead of you when we left but you didn’t get back until at least ten, fifteen minutes after I did.’ He watched Mura from the corner of his eye but the black face revealed nothing. ‘Thought maybe someone spoke to you on the way back.’

  Mura chucked another lump of clay to join the other lumps, said nothing.

  Jason said, ‘If anything’s happened that affects me or the people here I reckon I should know about it. Atjika.’

  That stopped Mura, as he had intended.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said atjika,’ Jason said. ‘Mate. You’re my mate. You know that.’

  Mura wiped his face with his hand but would not look at Jason. ‘I know it,’ he said.

  ‘If something’s going on I reckon I’ve the right to know.’

  The chop, chop of the shovel in the heavy ground. Mura paused, wiped his face again.

  ‘You hear me?’ Jason said.

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘So talk.’

  Mura had to choose. Last night, at the meeting to which the feathers had summoned him, he had already chosen by refusing to return to the clan, by deciding to stay here in the camp of the white men. Now, it seemed, he had to choose again and he hated it.

  He looked at Jason. ‘How do you know there’s anything going on?’

  ‘I know.’

  Mura looked intently at the yellow mud before him, the blade of the shovel shining with water.

  ‘The women …’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Maybe they shouldn’t go off by themselves.’

  ‘Why? What’s going to happen to them?’

  Mura shrugged.

  Jason seized his arm. ‘Tell me!’

  For a moment he thought he would get no answer, then, reluctantly, Mura said, ‘That Mrs Matlock, she’s always wandering about. You tell her, she keeps doing that she might meet trouble.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?’

  Beneath the heavy brows the dark eyes showed nothing. ‘Plenty of snakes along the cliffs,’ Mura said.

  ‘Snakes? More like a war party, eh?’

  ‘People are dead,’ Mura said simply. ‘The spirits tell them to kill. You tell Mrs Matlock, better she stay home.’

  ‘And you? Am I going to have to kill you, too?’

  ‘Atjika,’ Mura told him. ‘Like you said: I’m your mate.’

  Jason risked one more question. ‘When?’

  ‘Tell them today. Otherwise it may be too late.’

  ‘Jesus!’ He turned away, paused. ‘Mura …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thanks, eh.’

  Jason climbed up the muddy bank and began to sprint across the paddock towards the house.

  ‘Where you think you’re going?’

  He turned. Hector Gallagher came stumping towards him from one of the lambing pens.

  ‘Looking for Mrs Matlock.’

  The overseer scowled. ‘You’re here to work, my beauty, not lounge around chattin’ to the ladies.’

  Jason glared, not attempting to conceal his dislike. ‘Two minutes, that’s all.’

  Hector set big fists on his hips and thrust out his chest at Jason. ‘Not two minutes. Not two seconds. You get back to the work Mr Matlock give you.’

  ‘I don’t have time to argue with you,’ Jason said and went to push past him. Hector grabbed him, Jason raised his arm to break Hector’s grip and the burly overseer hit him once, savagely, in the face.

  Jason fell full length on the wet grass, staggered to his feet, nose swelling already, saying thickly through a mouth hot and coppery with blood, ‘Now just a minute …’

  And Hector hit him again in the same place, as savagely as before. Jason felt his nose break in a blinding flash of pain and once again measured his length on the ground.

  He was up even before he knew it. He saw Hector’s expression change from contempt to alarm, then saw nothing, all sensation swept away by a wave of scalding rage. Hector stepped away, trying to evade him, but Jason was all over him, punching, butting and gouging. Hector tripped, they both fell, arms wrapped around each other, rolling to and fro across the ground, until Jason ended on top, knees on either side of Hector Gallagher’s chest, clenched hands driven up to the knuckles in the overseer’s thick neck. Gallagher flung his body from side to side in a frantic attempt to dislodge him but Jason clung on, knees tight, clenched hands tightening inexorably while Hector’s face turned red then purple and the furious eyes stood out of his head.

  A metallic click somewhere behind his head. A voice said something. Caught up in rage, Jason barely heard it.

  Beneath him Hector’s body heaved once again but his strength was going and Jason hung on without difficulty. There was
a deafening explosion and scorching blast of air beside Jason’s ear.

  A voice said, ‘If you don’t let go of him the next one will be through your head.’ Gavin’s voice.

  ‘How old are you now?’ Asta asked.

  ‘Almost fourteen.’

  ‘You will soon be grown.’ Holding up for their shared wonder the mystical experience of being a woman. ‘Growing up in a wilderness. We must make sure you have some education, at least.’

  By education Alison knew that Asta meant book learning. She was not in the least interested. Such information would not help her at all in her life. She sought to change the subject.

  ‘Tell me what things were like when you were a child,’ she asked, not altogether deviously. She liked hearing about Asta’s childhood in Norway, the shivery stories of the old Norse gods.

  ‘You have heard all those old stories before,’ Asta said, pleased nonetheless. ‘What do you want me to tell you?’

  Gavin was spitting with rage. ‘Any more of this behaviour and you can get out, the pair of you.’

  Massaging his neck Hector said, ‘’E’s been a troublemaker since the day ’e come ’ere.’

  He, too, was furious: at Jason for attacking him, at himself for letting it happen, most of all at Gavin for not taking his side as he had expected.

  ‘When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it,’ Gavin said.

  ‘But—’ Jason tried to interrupt.

  ‘And you,’ Gavin said, cutting him off. ‘I told you to dig out the dam. Why are you wandering around over here?’

  ‘I was on my way to warn you,’ Jason said.

  Gavin’s eyes sharpened. ‘What about?’

  ‘I think there may be trouble from the blacks.’ Jason repeated what Mura had said.

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘It may be.’

  Gavin nodded. ‘We’ll take no chances. You,’ he said to Hector, ‘find Blake. The pair of you get out there and warn the shepherds, quick as you can. My cousin, too. He’s out there somewhere. Bring them all back here to help defend the place. When you’ve done that—’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll try a full attack,’ Jason said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s not their way. They’re more likely to try and pick us off one by one. The women in particular. Especially if they’re alone and unprotected.’

  ‘Where’s Mrs Matlock?’ Gavin interrupted. ‘Where’s my wife?’

  ‘That’s why I was going to the house,’ Jason said. ‘To find out.’

  ‘We’ll check. You come with me.’ He turned to Gallagher. ‘What are you waiting for? I told you what to do. Get on with it. And hurry, man!’

  He ran to the house, Jason on his heels, shoved open the door.

  ‘Asta …’

  Silence greeted them, a thin swirl of dust in the empty room.

  ‘Damn!’ He came out into the daylight and saw Mary with her horse in the nearest paddock. ‘Have you seen Asta?’

  ‘She’s taken Alison for a picnic on the cliffs.’ She came to the paddock rail. Her face was anxious. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Blacks on the war path.’

  Her face went white. ‘Oh God …’

  But Gavin had no time to spare for Mary. He turned to Jason. ‘Go and look for them. I’ll stay and keep an eye on things here.’ He thrust his rifle into Jason’s hands. ‘Know how to use this, do you?’

  Jason looked at it, its weight easy in his hands. He had never handled a rifle in his life but felt immediately at home with it. ‘I’ll manage,’ he said.

  ‘Take my horse and get down to the cliffs as quick as you can. Find Mrs Matlock and Alison and bring them back here.’

  Jason was already running for the horse that was tied by a halter to the corner of the barn.

  Gavin ran also: into the house, picking up the gun that he had told Asta always to take with her but that she always forgot. He went back outside and looked about him. Across the paddock Jason, hair flying, head stretched forward over the horse’s neck, was just disappearing over the crest of ground that lay between the farm buildings and the sea. All seemed still, unchanged. Sheep grazed peacefully upon the slope behind the house. Along the creek bed, the undergrowth held its breath.

  From up the hill came the thwuck, thwuck of a spade. With all the excitement Gavin had forgotten about the black boy. He hefted his rifle and walked up the hill towards the sound.

  Jason rode over the brow of the slope and straight into them.

  There were about a dozen of them, loping swiftly across the open ground towards the cliff top. They heard the horse’s hooves on the turf and spun to face him, spears ready. The white paint on the black bodies gleamed like bones. Jason was on them before either he or they could do anything about it. The faces, the painted limbs, were all about him. He had a fleeting impression of spears thin as reeds but deadly, oh yes, he had seen what those spears could do. His mount reared, feeling itself surrounded. He had a second in which to think, So Mura was telling the truth, black bodies scattering, dust blowing in clouds, and he had a glimpse of Nantariltarra’s face, clearly recognisable beneath the paint, as he broke through them. He twisted his neck to look behind him as he rode; he tried to tighten his legs around the horse’s sweating barrel but knew how insecure he was, riding not one of his skills. A couple of spears flew after him and fell harmlessly in the dust. They would certainly have recognised him but he could not tell whether it was this or the fact that he had taken them by surprise that had caused their low-key response.

  Asta and Alison must be somewhere nearby. It was too late to collect them and take them back to the house as Gavin had wanted. Yet if he dismounted and confronted the blacks …

  Body reacted before thought could reason. He hauled in on the reins, bringing the horse sliding and snorting to a halt. He leapt to the ground, rifle in one hand. That should be a help—they knew only too well the power of rifles—or would it? The possession of a gun marked him as an enemy. They had enough spears to take care of a single enemy, rifle or no rifle.

  The war party was thirty yards away. Moving deliberately, Jason raised the rifle above his head, lowered it ceremoniously to the ground before him, straightened, stepped across it to leave it lying behind him on the grass and again raised his hands, empty now, above his head.

  He thought, flesh cringing, if they are going to kill me they will never have a better chance.

  Among the party of blacks, no-one stirred. The massed bodies were a shadow against the light.

  Heart beating suffocatingly in his chest, Jason walked slowly towards them.

  Jason returned with Asta seated on Gavin’s horse, Alison walking at his side. By the time the little party reached the run it was like an armed camp. Gavin came out to meet them, the slab buildings at his back bristling with the muzzles of guns.

  ‘You took your time! If anything had happened—’

  Anxiety had stoked his rage.

  ‘Something did happen. I met a whole war party of them on the cliffs.’

  Gavin stared, unsure whether to believe him or not. ‘Then why …?’

  Aren’t you dead?

  The unspoken words hung between them.

  ‘They knew me.’

  Gavin hated things he could not understand.

  ‘You’d best tell me about it.’

  Jason told him of his meeting with the armed men. ‘I made a deal with them.’

  Gavin eyed him suspiciously, trusting only arrangements he had made himself. ‘What kind of deal?’

  ‘We’ll let them stay, use their traditional hunting grounds, let them take a sheep from time to time. In return they’ll leave us alone.’

  ‘Take my sheep!’ Gavin exploded indignantly. ‘Never, by God!’

  Jason was walking two feet above the ground; it was the second time since his return to the world of white men that he had thought he was dead yet had somehow survived. Not just himself; he had managed to pull this man’s wife and niece from the jaws of
death, too. Now Gavin Matlock was complaining about the odd sheep.

  ‘Seems a cheap price to pay for your wife.’

  Gavin’s eyes sharpened at his tone. ‘I do my own deals. When I want you to act for me I’ll tell you.’

  Jason had thought he would be a hero but heroism, it seemed, was not so easily acquired.

  ‘Would you have preferred us to be killed?’

  ‘I’d have preferred you to use the rifle! That’s why I gave it to you!’

  ‘One rifle against twelve spears? What would be the good of that?’

  Gavin hated being told. ‘Now you listen—’

  Asta said, ‘I cannot believe what I am hearing! Jason saved our lives and now you talk to him as though he is a criminal.’

  Gavin did not look at her. ‘I’ll thank you to stay out of my business, Asta.’ His cold eyes remained fixed on Jason. ‘As for you … Any more arrangements, I’ll make them myself. Understand?’

  ‘One thing I wish to make clear,’ Asta said. ‘I am not your servant nor do I expect to be spoken to like one, least of all in front of the men.’

  Gavin wondered at her cold dignity but was not about to have his wife tell him what he should and should not do. ‘And I do not expect you to interfere when I am talking to them!’ Yet the last thing he wanted was a fight; he decided to appeal to her emotions. ‘I was frightened for you. Can’t you understand that? I had visions of you speared to death! How do you expect me to react?’

  Asta was not so easily placated. ‘The point is we were not dead. We did not know even that there was anything wrong until Jason came down the cliff and told us. He saved our lives, Gavin! And because he promised them a few stupid sheep you treat him like a thief!’