It was impossible. A woman that old. It had to be a joke. But Dad wasn’t one for joking much.
Aunt Addie needed something, Dad had said. But what?
Harry looked around him. Which way had Dad said? Back of the hill paddock, up the gully between the second and third hills. Then just keep going till you find it. It’d be even hotter up there, no breeze at all. Who’d want to live up there?
Had he ever come this way before? He couldn’t remember. Surely he must have. He’d come up into the hills lots of times. He must have come this way before …
The sheep looked at him curiously, then looked away, bored by the heat. Humans were only interesting if they carried hay or were followed by dogs.
Gold grass gave way to rocks, leaning out of the hill like they’d fallen backwards and hadn’t managed to rise again. The gully rose in wide sharp lips of stone, ascending in what would be cascades of water when it rained. The rock was dry now, grey instead of brown. A frog creaked hopefully behind a boulder, then was still. There must be damp spots somewhere, thought Harry, looking at the green fringes round the rocks. The musky scent of black snake floated up from the hot rocks. If that frog didn’t watch out it’d be a snake’s dinner, thought Harry.
Up, up, up the rocks. Surely no one could live up here. Dad must be mad.
Maybe that was it. Maybe Dad was going bonkers. You heard of people going bonkers with stress and worry when it wouldn’t rain and the cattle prices were down. Except that cattle prices weren’t bad at the moment, thought Harry, and there was still enough feed. Dad was a good farmer. Even in the bad drought the paddocks weren’t overstocked. There’d still been hay in the shed at the end of the drought, thought Harry proudly. And their pasture was coming back, now that it had finally rained, almost as good as it had been four years before.
More rocks. The gully closed around him. Crikey, you couldn’t even build a hut up here it was so steep, much less live here. What would you do for water? You’d break your ankle every time you went outside.
Suddenly the gully forked. Harry hesitated, wondering which way to go. It was all right for Dad to say, ‘Just keep going till you get there.’ What if he’d forgotten the way? It had been fifteen years since he’d been to Aunt Addie’s, after all.
Straight up or to the left … well, not straight up. No one lived on the top of the hill, you’d see the house miles away. It must be to the left.
Harry turned and began to clamber up again.
It was more level going now, as though this gully ran between the first hill and a higher one above. It was almost flat, but even hotter. Incredibly hot …
The air swam round him. The rock seemed to swim as well. Heat, heat, heat … The hills rose steeply on either side, almost too steep for grass now. It was thinner, longer, almost like hair, ungrazed by sheep or wallaby.
Round a corner, round another — the gully seemed to flatten even further. For the first time water seeped between the rocks, pooling at the lips. The smell of moisture almost overcame the scent of rock.
Another corner and another. Sweat stung his eyes and the world blurred even more. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to have a drink up here, so far from the sheep and roos. He’d bet even the wombats didn’t come up here. No animals at all … He’d only drink a little where it seeped out cool from the crevices, not from the pools. Surely the water wouldn’t be too bad straight from underground.
Harry knelt and touched his fingers to the water. It was colder than he’d expected, like frozen aluminium on your skin. Now if he could catch some water as it seeped down from the rock …
Something flickered in the pool. It was white and large. A cloud, thought Harry dreamily. A cloud reflected in the pool. Then the white thing moved and he saw it wasn’t a cloud at all.
It was an animal. A large animal.
Harry stood up slowly.
The animal looked at him. It was a little shorter than he was, so the green eyes looked almost into his. It was white, pure white, not like a cloud at all. Clouds always had shades of grey and blue. Its tail hung almost to the ground. Its teeth were yellow, stained with grass. Its horn was whiter than its body, twisted round into a straight sharp point.
The unicorn whinnied and bent its head to drink.
Harry wiped his wet hands across his face. He had sunstroke, that’s what it was. He was hallucinating, dreaming in the heat.
Maybe he wasn’t dreaming. Dreams weren’t as real as this. Maybe someone was making a movie. That was it. A movie with a unicorn. You could do all sorts of things with make-up and special effects and computers nowadays. They were making a unicorn movie in the gully and that’s why Dad had sent him here …
It still didn’t make sense.
The unicorn lifted its wet muzzle from the water and looked at Harry. Its gaze was straight and clear. It tossed its mane, as though to say, ‘come on’, and trotted up the gully. Its hooves clicked sharply on the rock. Harry followed.
Around another bend, and then another. The air was fresher somehow. The gully smelt … strange. Not just the scents of horse and water, but something more, like that stuff Mum squirted in the bathroom sometimes, but different from that, too.
Suddenly the unicorn stopped. Harry stopped as well. The world was shimmering as though it wasn’t real. But it was real. It was.
The gully had opened slightly, so creek flats spread on each side. They were green, impossibly green, the grass like a green blanket spread between the hills. Cliffs rose steeply on three sides, too steep for grass, tufted with ferns about the crevices. A miniature waterfall tumbled from a dark hole halfway up the cliff, dropping to a small dark pool below. The spray drifted through the clearing like tiny specks of sun so the clearing seemed to shiver as they danced.
A hut sat at the far end of the clearing. It was old, like sketches he’d seen in a book at school. The roof was made from wood as well, square slabs like bits of greyish toast, overlapped together. The hut itself was small and square and made from long fat slabs of wood, like they’d been cut from the tree and nailed together willy-nilly. Some sort of vine clambered over every wall, dotted with flowers, like roses, but too fat to be roses, thought Harry. Surely roses didn’t droop and glow like that.
There was no verandah, no windows, no TV aerial or power lines. Just wooden shutters over what must be gaps in the wall, a chimney that smoked small puffs of white, and — the garden.
Why hadn’t he seen the smoke from down below? thought Harry. It didn’t make sense. But nothing here made sense.
Especially not the garden.
Half the clearing was a garden, but a funny garden, not like any that he’d ever seen. It shivered in the sunlight, as though the colours melted with the waterspray.
There were no garden beds, no patches of dark soil, no lawn unless you counted the brilliant green around. Just flowers … and flowers … and more flowers — bursting from the ground in spires of red and blue and yellow, carpets of blues and golds and pinks stretching at their feet. Their colours seemed to float up to the waterspray and merge into the sunlight, so it was hard to see what was garden or sun. A path ran crazily round and through and in between.
A woman stood in the middle of the garden, a basket of peaches tucked under one arm. Her dress was long, almost to her ankles, a sort of straw colour flecked with pink and white. Her hair was brown and curled round her shoulders. Her skin was very clear and white. Her eyes were the same colour as the unicorn’s.
She took a step towards him. ‘Ron,’ she said. She smiled, took a peach out of her basket and before Harry could react she’d thrown it to him. He caught it automatically.
‘It’s the first of the season,’ said the woman. The unicorn whinnied softly. The woman smiled again. ‘One for you as well,’ she said. She tossed another peach to the unicorn. It caught it with its yellow teeth and crunched it carefully, spitting the stone out at its feet. The woman looked at Harry again. ‘Ron?’ she said uncertainly.
Harry shook his head. ‘My
name’s Harry,’ he said. ‘My father’s name is Ron.’
‘Then you’re Ron’s son!’ The woman clapped her hands delightedly. ‘I’m so very pleased! It’s years since Ron was here! So many years … I lose track of time, I think. And here you are, Ron’s son!’
‘Aunt Addie?’ said Harry uncertainly.
‘Yes. I am your Aunt Addie.’ The woman’s smile was clear as the blue flowers.
‘But you can’t be Aunt Addie! Aunt Addie’s old! Dad said …’
Aunt Addie seemed amused. ‘I am Aunt Addie. Come!’
Harry stepped into the shimmering garden.
It was the softness that struck him first. The ground felt soft. The air felt soft, as though it stroked his cheek. Even the sounds seemed softer, muted by the hum of bees, the ripple of the water, as though the flowers whispered in the breeze.
The unicorn stepped after him. Harry glanced up at Aunt Addie, expecting her to shoo it from the garden, before it ate the flowers or trod on something. But the woman simply held out her hand. The unicorn stepped neatly between the flowers and nuzzled at her fingers, then trotted to a bank of green. It began to graze.
Aunt Addie gestured to a seat. It was made of twisted wood, old but not rotted-looking either. ‘Sit you down, sit down,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll bring you a drink. It’s of my own making, and very good this year. You’ll see.’ Her skirts whispered against the flowers as she went into the hut.
Harry craned his head to look inside. A glimpse of a table spread with cloth much the same colour as Aunt Addie’s dress, a bed of pink and white as well, a wooden floor with coloured mats. The door swung shut, then opened as Aunt Addie came out.
She carried an enamelled jug and a thick brown stumpy glass. She handed the glass to Harry, then poured the liquid from the jug. She looked at him expectantly. ‘Try it,’ she said.
He supposed it was all right to drink. Surely Dad would have told him if Aunt Addie was dangerous. It smelt all right.
Harry sipped.
The liquid tasted like flowers, warm and just a little oversweet. A bird sang deep among the trees. A strange bird. He’d never heard a song like that before. Harry blinked. The trees. Why hadn’t he noticed them before? Spreading trees in different shades of green, with broad soft leaves that seemed to welcome sunlight, suck it down.
Harry sipped the drink again. ‘It’s good,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
Aunt Addie looked pleased. ‘Violet cordial,’ she said. ‘I just yesterday uncorked it. Will you have some more?’
Harry shook his head. He felt like he’d swallowed sunlight — and like it might be alcoholic too. ‘Maybe just some water,’ he said.
Aunt Addie nodded at the pool under the waterfall. ‘It’s coolest there,’ she said.
Harry went slowly over to the waterfall and dipped his cup. The water was colder than the cordial. Harry dipped his cup again, then stared back. ‘Hey …’
‘What is it?’ For a moment Aunt Addie looked alarmed.
‘Something’s down there. An eel maybe. Or a snake.’
Aunt Addie laughed. It was a bit like a horse laughing, thought Harry. Maybe if you lived with a unicorn you started to sound a bit like one, too.
‘That be the water sprite.’
‘The what? But they’re just in books!’
‘You read books? It’s good to read books,’ said Aunt Addie. ‘Once I read books all the time. I have no books here though.’
‘Maybe I could bring you some,’ offered Harry.
Aunt Addie seemed to consider. Then she shook her head. ‘They may not be the same,’ she said finally. ‘It’s better not.’
‘But why not?’ began Harry. He stopped. There was something about Aunt Addie that stopped you asking questions. As though what Aunt Addie decided simply was.
‘Dad said you needed something,’ said Harry finally. ‘But he didn’t tell me what. Do you need a hand with something? I’m strong for my age,’ he offered. ‘Do you need firewood? Or something nailed up? I made a new chook house these holidays.’
‘Chook house?’ asked Aunt Addie doubtfully.
‘Yeah, you know. Chooks. Hens,’ said Harry.
‘Ah, hens,’ said Aunt Addie. She seemed to choke down a smile. ‘I have no hens here.’
‘No chooks? What do you do for eggs then?’
‘My friends bring me what I need,’ said Aunt Addie. ‘And I grow what they need in return.’
‘Friends?’ Harry blinked doubtfully. What friends would she have up here? ‘What things do you grow?’ he asked politely.
Aunt Addie’s smile was as bright as the tall golden flowers. ‘Divers things,’ she offered. She gestured at a spire edged with cup-shaped red flowers. ‘Hollyhocks for them to drink from. And foxgloves for them to sleep in. And fairies’ fishing rods to fish with, and clover for their ale.’
‘Hold on a sec,’ said Harry. ‘What are you talking about? Foxgloves to sleep in? What are foxgloves?’
Aunt Addie gestured at some tall pale pinkish purple flowers. ‘These are foxgloves,’ she said.
‘To sleep on? You mean they dry them and make mattresses from them …’
‘They sleep in the flowers!’ laughed Aunt Addie.
‘They what? But no one can sleep in flowers.’
‘Fairies do,’ said Aunt Addie.
Fairies! For a moment Harry thought she meant something else … but she didn’t, he realised. She meant real fairies. ‘Fairies with wings and wands?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Sometimes,’ said Aunt Addie matter-of-factly. ‘Betimes they bring their wands.’
She was barmy. She had to be. Thinking she had fairies in her garden and water sprites …
The unicorn snickered from the grassy bank and tossed its bright horn at the sky.
… and unicorns. She really did have a unicorn. This was real, really real.
‘Do the fairies come often?’ he asked hesitantly.
Aunt Addie looked amused. ‘They’re here all the time,’ she said. ‘Look! You see! There they are!’
Something fluttered round the spire of a — what had Aunt Addie called them? Hollyhocks. But it was just a bee. A bee with shimmering wings that glistened blue and silver as they caught the sun.
Harry blinked. The glistening thing was gone.
Aunt Addie’s smile was serene, as though of course he’d seen the fairy, as though unicorns and water sprites were perfectly natural, just like a garden like this was something you saw every day too. She looked at him consideringly. ‘Belike you can help me.’
Harry nodded. ‘Sure. How?’
‘You can help me pick the raspberries.’ Aunt Addie lifted her skirts a little as she brushed past the flowers down the path. Harry followed her uncertainly.
‘Raspberries? I’m not sure. I mean …’
‘You’ve never picked raspberries? For shame.’
‘I don’t think they’d grow down at our place,’ said Harry.
‘There’s no skill to picking raspberries,’ said Aunt Addie kindly. ‘You pick them and you eat them, and what don’t be eaten you put in the basket. You line the basket with leaves first. Raspberries are easily bruised.’
‘I guess they would be,’ said Harry. ‘I mean, I have eaten them. You can buy them frozen at the supermarket in town.’
‘The supermarket?’ said Aunt Addie vaguely. She picked a basket off a branch as they passed under the trees. It was a funny looking basket, thought Harry, a bit lopsided. It looked like it was made of twisted branches instead of cane.
Aunt Addie reached up and picked the broad green leaves. ‘Soft leaves,’ she said to Harry. ‘See how soft they are?’
Harry nodded.
‘Leaves should be soft,’ said Aunt Addie dreamily. ‘Soft and browning when they fall. Don’t you love the leaves when they fall?’
‘Er …’ said Harry.
‘Raspberries,’ said Aunt Addie more matter-of-factly. ‘You take that side and I’ll take this. Don’t be ashamed of eating them n
either. That’s what raspberries are for.’
The raspberries were hot and squishy sweet. It was hard to stop eating them once you started, thought Harry guiltily, as he forced himself to lay some in the basket. After all he was here to help Aunt Addie. That’s what Dad had said. Aunt Addie needed something.
Surely not just help picking the raspberries.
‘Tell me then,’ said Aunt Addie after a while. ‘Tell me about Ron. It’s so strange, thinking of him as your father. Little Ron a father too. Tell me about him.’
‘Er … there’s not much to tell,’ said Harry. What was there to say about Dad?
‘What does he look like now?’ asked Aunt Addie.
‘Well, he’s tall.’
‘He would be tall,’ said Aunt Addie approvingly. ‘He were tall enough back then.’
‘And he farms our place.’
Aunt Addie’s face clouded just a little. ‘Ah yes, the farm,’ she said. She shook her head. ‘Tell me other things,’ she said. ‘He married. Who is your dear mother then?’
‘Mum? She’s just Mum. She works part time at the library in town. That’s how Dad met her. She was new to town …’ It all seemed far away from the flowers and the clearing. ‘Hey, do you really want to hear all this?’
Aunt Addie nodded solemnly. ‘I want to hear,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I’m afeared …’
Afeared? ‘Afraid? Afraid of what, Aunt Addie?’ Unicorns, fairies, water sprites. Maybe there were dragons too … or wizards.
But Aunt Addie was laughing. ‘Of nothing surely. Bless your sweet face, what is there to be afeared of here? I’m silly sometimes, that’s all. I think … but enough of that. Would you like a nuncheon?’
‘A nuncheon?’
‘Vittles, food. You must be hungry,’ said Aunt Addie gently. ‘Walking all that way. I’m grateful. You must tell your father so.’
‘Yes, I’ll tell him. Yes, I’d love something to eat,’ said Harry before he thought about it. Crikey, what would she give him to eat then? Fairy bread or elves’ porridge …
Aunt Addie took the basket, half-filled with raspberries now, and floated up the path again. She gestured to the seat among the flowers. Again she didn’t ask him in. Why not? thought Harry. But it didn’t matter. It was beautiful here in the sun. Beautiful, that was the only word for it. As though the whole world was beauty.
The Book of Horses and Unicorns Page 17
