Where would Old Ted live if the place was sold? Mum wouldn’t want him living with them . . . not that Old Ted would want to. Martin thrust the thought away. It was Old Ted’s choice. He didn’t have to make him the offer. He must have worked out where he’d go once the place was sold. Unless he had some crazy idea that Martin would want to farm the place too.
He shot Old Ted a look. He was sitting with his eyes shut, as though he was listening to something. What? The owl was silent now. The breeze down the gorge? The leaves singing to themselves above the water?
Something rustled down in the garden.
‘What’s that?’ demanded Martin, sitting up.
Old Ted didn’t move. ‘Just a wombat. Big Bernie, probably. He’s got a temper like a broody emu and teeth like a great white shark. He’ll try and bite your ankle if you pass him on your way down to the dunny.’
Martin resolved to hold on till daylight. If it was a choice between bursting his bladder and being bitten by a wombat, he’d rather burst his bladder. Or do it out the window. If he got bitten by a wombat, he wouldn’t be able to walk tomorrow — he’d never manage to get round the boundaries . . .
He tried to imagine what it would be like to be rich, to have enough money to do the things you wanted to.
It was hard, living just with Mum. There was never quite enough money for everything you had to have, no matter how hard Mum worked. They hadn’t even got a DVD player till last year. He still didn’t even have a mobile phone. Just about every other kid in his class had one. Martin bet that his baby half-brother down in Adelaide would get a mobile as soon as he could use one. He supposed parents felt differently about spending money on their kids when they were far away.
Why hadn’t Old Ted sold the place before? He could have retired to a fancy beach house on the coast. He could have gone around the world. Maybe he still could. Martin imagined giving Ted a ticket round the world for Christmas — that would get him out of their hair — and maybe a fur coat for Mum, unless she’d rather have a diamond necklace . . . and a big flat-screen TV and new Reeboks every month . . . The owl hooted again, sounding hollow in the misty air. The night air smelt sweet, like apples or . . . like something he had never smelt before.
‘How hard do wombats bite?’ Martin asked Old Ted.
‘Hard,’ said Ted. ‘Teeth like can-openers. They usually don’t though. Big Bernie’s just an old rogue.’
He stood up. ‘Come on. Time to get you into bed. You need an early start tomorrow.’
Martin nodded. He was reluctant to get up. It was so quiet out here. It was as though you had room to think, to dream, without sounds and people getting in your way. Even the air seemed gentle, thick with cold strange scents, so thick they touched his face with perfumed fingertips.
Old Ted saw him pause. Martin smiled at him hesitantly.
‘It’s almost as though the valley was alive,’ he tried to explain. ‘As though it seemed to breathe. As though the trees or the wind is trying to say something, or the rocks a going to shout.’
Old Ted was looking at him strangely. Martin flushed.
‘Mum says I’ve got too much imagination,’ he said apologetically.
Old Ted smiled. For the first time he looked almost happy. He shook his head. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I’m beginning to think you might make it after all.’
TWO
Setting Out
TED HAD BREAKFAST READY when Martin got up. He pushed a chipped blue-and-white plate in front of him, greasy with lamb chops in gravy and tomato.
‘Get it into you,’ muttered Ted. He was quieter this morning. The smile had gone. His white tufts of hair stuck up like a cockatoo’s crest, not slicked down like yesterday. He sat with his elbows on the table as he watched Martin eat, then took the plate and carried it to the sink.
‘You’re sure you know the way to go?’ Ted asked over his shoulder.
‘Yep. It’s easy. Up the gorge, then along the hills at the top, then back to the gorge and down.’
‘You just make sure that’s the way you go. Understand? No matter what happens, just go that way and you’ll be right.’
‘I understand,’ said Martin. ‘But what’s so special about that way? I mean it’s not even the proper farm boundaries.’
‘You just do as I say,’ ordered Ted. ‘Just remember — no matter what, that’s the way you have to follow.’
His face was fierce. Martin blinked. It seemed a lot of fuss about nothing. But if that’s the way Ted wanted it, that’s how it would be. It didn’t matter to him which way he went. Just so long as he got back here. And then . . .
‘You got everything?’
Martin nodded. He hitched the pack onto his back. It was heavy. The straps pulled at his shoulders. ‘You’re sure it’s all right if I take all this?’
‘Take what you like,’ said Ted. His wrinkles sagged over his chin as he grinned. ‘Take the kitchen sink if you want. Take a luxury cruiser. Anything you want. I don’t mind.’
Martin stared at him. ‘Isn’t it supposed to be difficult?’ he asked.
Ted’s eyes seemed like small bits of sky stuck in his dried-out face. ‘You think what you take’ll make it easier?’
‘Of course,’ said Martin. ‘I mean what’s going to be so hard about it? If I’ve got the tent and sleeping bag and enough food for the whole weekend, and there’s water in the creek — it’s a cinch.’
Ted rubbed the white bristles on his chin. ‘Then you’ll be getting it easy, won’t you?’ he said. ‘Just a little trot up the gorge and along the hills and the place’ll be yours. I probably won’t even be around long to bother you.’
‘Why?’ asked Martin. Maybe Ted wanted to move into town. Maybe this was why he wanted to give the farm away.
‘Because I’ll be dead, of course. Heck, half of me’s just about gone now.’
Martin looked at him. Ted looked like a bone that had been out in the sun for years and had turned to stone. He looked like he’d last forever. But he was eighty-nine . . .
Ted seemed about to say something. Then he stopped. His face had changed suddenly. His eyes were faded, almost misty, like morning light. Almost like they were clouded by old tears.
‘Good luck,’ he said finally. He held out his hand. It felt old and thin when Martin took it, like chicken bones and crackly skin. ‘I hope you make it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Martin. He didn’t know what else to say.
‘Not just for your sake,’ said Ted. ‘For my sake too. For the sake of . . . oh, heck, you’ll find out. I hope you make it. You’re the last chance that we have left.’
‘We?’ But Ted was gone. The door shut behind him. Martin adjusted the straps on his pack and began his walk.
THREE
Up the Gorge
IT WAS EASY WALKING at first. The sun was fat and yellow-green, low in the sky, half hidden by the trees. The shadows were as thick as treacle. A breeze trickled down the creek, still smelling of the night and cool soil from the ridges up above.
Martin admired his Reeboks as he stepped along the track. His father had given them to him for Christmas — the first decent present he’d given him in years, Mum had said, sniffing. They looked very white and new against the pale dry soil.
The track stopped at a deep swimming hole. There wasn’t enough room to walk along the banks. Martin trod gingerly from rock to rock, hoping he wouldn’t slip. It was hard to balance with the pack. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought so much. He bent and drank from the clear water. It tasted of cold and old tin cans, but good. He felt its coolness trickle down his throat. A goanna eyed him from a tattered branch as he began to walk again.
The gorge narrowed swiftly. There were no banks to the creek now. Casuarinas clung to the rocky edges. On the bulging hills above, the bark peeled like wrapping paper off the pale pole-like trees — it was like a forest of long legs without any knees, and leafy underpants above. The world was silent. Silent? The noise of water was everywhere — falling, pushing, s
plashing, twisting, gurgling under rocks. It was so ever-present that it was hardly there at all.
Something flashed from a rock. It was a lizard, mottled green, with bright red flashes at its throat. It stared at him, as though to say, ‘I really am a rock, ignore me and pass on.’
Gradually it got easier. He was learning to balance now, to keep up his momentum as he leapt from rock to rock. The pools were deeper, worn by a million years of flood, dark still pools ruffled by the tiny waterfalls that fed them, cut into the smooth pink rock. The light fell in mottled dapples, yellow-green and almost red as the sunlight wavered through the casuarina needles.
Martin trailed his fingers in the clear cold water. It looked almost blue as it trickled back into the pool. He could see the fat white clouds reflected on the water, skimming over the pale green rock and drifts of casuarina needles below. Should he go for a swim? But he wasn’t here to enjoy himself. Just to get around the boundaries as fast as he could, claim his prize, and head off home. Besides, he’d never swum in a rock pool before. Who knew what might be lurking at the bottom?
A golden lizard lifted its head as though to drink the sun. A bird called somewhere, its song as long and liquid as the water. Martin began to walk again.
The water bubbled through the rocks, snickering and growling as it fell and twisted. Sometimes it sounded like an engine far off in the gorge; sometimes like a thousand faraway voices. Sometimes it sounded like someone singing a song that had no words.
Slowly the sun rose through the sky, as though it was pulled by strings. The shadows dried from the ground, as though sucked by a giant straw. The breeze collapsed, overpowered by the weight of the sun. Even the birds were quiet now. Martin kept on walking.
‘What the —’
It was a snake, red and black, fat with sunlight, slipping off a rock into the creek. The water turned it silver as it flashed down the rapids and disappeared into a crevice under a submerged rock.
Martin shivered. He wondered if a snake could bite through Reeboks. Surely not . . . but he’d be more careful where he put his feet.
The cicadas were yelling from the ridges now, fierce and high in the growing heat. The rocks were hot beneath his feet, even in his Reeboks. The air swam around him, misty hot, as though the rocks breathed heat and moisture.
Martin wondered what he would’ve been doing at home now. Watching the DVD, maybe, or pounding away at a hand-held computer game, the whole world narrowed to the tiny screen in front of him. The world was too big here. Just him and the sky — stretched like a blue balloon, so tight you could prick it — the broken cliffs, the hot green hills, the scent of water, rock and gum leaves rising up towards the sun. The air seemed thin, suddenly, as though the heat drank all its substance. It was getting hard to breathe. The light seemed as gold as ripened wheat, and just as hard to push through.
This was crazy. It was too hot to walk. That was the problem. He needed some shade. Then he could shelter till afternoon, when the sun would no longer be glaring straight into the gorge, and shadows would soften the world and make it friendly. He must be near the top of the gorge now, surely. Another hour’s walk would see him at the top.
He looked at the sun overhead. It must be nearly midday, he thought. If he started walking again in the cool of the afternoon there’d still be plenty of time to make camp up on the ridge. Plenty of time.
There was a fig tree just ahead, its arms outstretched like a green umbrella over the rocks. Martin parted the branches and stepped into the shadows. The coolness stroked his face. Even the air seemed easier to breathe, heavier with moisture. Martin sighed as he shrugged off his pack, and sat on the leaf-damp rock. He rummaged for his sandwiches and began to eat. Cold lamb from last night, and thick white bread. Not bad. He remembered Old Ted talking about his great-grandma’s bread. Funny man, Old Ted. Imagine making all this fuss about a walk.
Outside the light flickered blue and green above the water, golden as it lifted to the sky. Somewhere a magpie sang, its notes trickling through the sound of water. Martin leant against his pack and closed his eyes.
The magpie changed its song. It seemed to drift with his breathing, soft like a rustle through the trees, deeper like drums or crashing rocks. Other birds must have joined it. Their song was deeper, louder, beating with the wind. They seemed to shake the world. He could feel their song beating through the rock, crashing with the fall of water, cold as the water sipping at his toes.
WATER! MARTIN OPENED HIS EYES. The world had changed. Out beyond the tree the world was brown and grey. How could it have changed in such a little time? Even the air was grey, the rocks were wet and cold, the flooded creek was brown with fierce white edges, beating, lapping at his feet.
Flood! How? It hadn’t rained, he was sure of it. The fig tree wouldn’t shelter him from that! Perhaps a cloudburst further up . . . but the sky had been clear blue . . . He pushed away the branches and stepped out.
The rocks ahead were white with foam, the water sliding and bursting off them. Below it was like a waterfall. The air was thick with strange sweet smells of wombat droppings and rotten leaves and other gatherings of the flood. A band of foam lapped around his feet, retreated, then edged up to his ankles. Martin leapt back.
The flood was still rising! He had to get out of here before he drowned! He had to run. Where? How? Up the cliffs? No one could climb those cliffs. Not here. Maybe further up. But he would never get further up — the flood would lift him, suck him down, smother him with wild wet arms . . .
A boulder crashed into the cliff on the other side, then was torn away again by the water. The flood was getting stronger, faster, higher all the time. He had to escape . . . he had to.
Something screamed. Was it the magpie, laughing at him? Magpies could fly, could laugh at floods and tearing water — magpies could laugh at humans lost in the grinding fury of the gorge.
The noise came again. A high-pitched scream, a distant pleading yell. It came from somewhere up the cliff, from safety, up above. Martin tried to pinpoint the source of the sound. There was something white — not a magpie. It was much too big. Then suddenly he saw it — a face, and flying hair, dark red in two fat plaits, an open mouth yelling something.
He shook his head. He couldn’t hear. The noise was tearing at his head — the crash of rocks, the twisting water and flying fearsome spray.
Something was coming, twisting down. It was a rope. That’s what the girl was trying to say — a rope . . . But it wasn’t a rope — it was a vine, thick and brownish-green. He had to grab the vine . . .
Would it hold him? You couldn’t really swing from vines . . . not in real life. What if it broke? Another boulder crashed below him. The water swirled around him, savage and fierce.
He had no choice. He tried to twist the vine around his wrists. It wouldn’t work. The vine was too thick and tough, not flexible like rope. The face was calling something down again. He tried to hear, but the water choked it off.
Maybe if he just held on. What if his hands slipped? He tried to tie it round his waist. His hands were trembling. The water leapt and splashed his knees. The roaring filled the world.
The face peered down. He nodded, hoping she would understand. The vine grew taut, and slowly, very slowly drew him up.
He never knew that time could be so slow. He hardly seemed to move at all. He tried to grab the cliff to help, but the rock was wet and brittle, the sides were much too sheer.
Upwards — slowly, very slowly. The water seemed to leap up to his feet, as though to draw him back. What if it kept on rising faster than the vine would lift? What if it grabbed him dangling on the vine, and swept him helpless, swaying in its waves? What if the pulling stopped and left him dangling, stuck between the air and water? The vine swayed and bumped him hard against the cliff. His leg hurt. The sharp rock grazed a furrow down his arm.
Suddenly he saw a foothold, a small tree in a crevice. He tried to grab it, and swayed again, but got it on the inward turn. He wedged h
is foot into the ledge, then paused, looking up. It was still steep here, but not so sheer. With a little help from the vine now, he could climb.
Wet soil, held in tiny crevices, small sharp rocks fallen from up above, bird droppings like long white streaks and tiny plants with roots curled round the rocks.
One more stretch. He hauled himself upwards, both hands pulling on the vine, his feet pushing at the stony soil. Nearer . . . nearer . . . then suddenly the world was flat again, and he could stand. His knees shook, and he collapsed onto the ground.
The girl was looking at him. Her hair was tangled like a heap of string on top, falling heavily in dark-red plaits below. Her feet were bare, and dark brown. She was looking at him in fury.
‘You blue-nosed fool! You pile of lizard dung! What in the name of heaven do you think you were doing?’
What was her accent? Irish, with something else as well? He shook his head. He didn’t have the breath to speak. Down below, the water rolled and tumbled, filling the world with its wet sweet scent.
‘If you’d half the sense God gave you, you’d have been out of there this morning. What do you think you’re flaming doing, anyway? What are you? Sheep thief? You’ve no right on this land at all!’
He had recovered his breath now. ‘I’ve every right. This is my land. Or it will be. It’s Old Ted’s . . . my great-grandpa’s. Ted McKillop.’
‘It is not!’ The girl lifted her hands to push away her hair. They were blistered red, red as her hair, he noticed. She must have hurt them on the vine as she pulled him up. He glanced at the ground. So that’s how she’d done it — tied the vine to a tree stump and kept on twining it round to stop it from slipping.
‘This is my place, mine and my ma’s, and no one will say it’s different. You ask anyone round here!’
Walking the Boundaries Page 2
