Beyond the Horizon

by Peter Watt

  ‘I don’t need a ring,’ Juliet said gently. ‘I just need your promise that you will not do anything foolish when you return to the front. My greatest wish is to spend the rest of my life beside you, surrounded by our children and grandchildren. And now that I know your intentions are honourable, I think . . . we should share the same bed tonight.’

  Tom’s heart stuttered, barely able to take in Juliet’s response. He started to reply but Juliet smoothed her fingertips over his lips. ‘Mon amour,’ she whispered, and Tom was lost. He rose, taking Juliet by the hand and leading her into the ancient house that had been built long before Captain Cook sailed to Australia.

  That night they made love and in the early morning light they lay in each other’s arms. They did not speak of the horrors that lay beyond the house and village; they did not acknowledge that death lay between them. Their love was a shield that would protect them from every evil thrown at them by a cruel world.

  *

  When it was time for Tom to return to his platoon the next afternoon, he and Juliet walked arm in arm to the village. The trucks were already waiting to take them to the railway station. Most of the men looked bleary-eyed from too much alcohol and silently loaded their kitbags and rifles into the back of the open-tray vehicles. Dan Frogan did not appear to be as hungover as the rest of the men.

  ‘Mostly behaved themselves last night,’ he said to Tom. ‘Lost a bit of money gambling with those bloody Canadians, though.’

  ‘We have them all?’ Tom asked.

  ‘All present and accounted for,’ Dan said. He glanced over Tom’s shoulder to see Juliet standing at the edge of the men milling to board the trucks. She recognised Dan and smiled at him.

  ‘You old dog,’ Dan chuckled. ‘I wondered where you had disappeared to last night.’

  ‘Juliet has agreed to marry me,’ Tom responded in a guarded tone. ‘I’ll speak to her father when I’m next on leave.’

  ‘Congratulations, Tom. I reckon you couldn’t have picked a better sheila than Juliet.’ He thrust out his hand and shook Tom’s. Then he turned and yelled to the men, ‘Sergeant Duffy is engaged to be married to that beautiful young lady standing over there.’

  An instant shout arose from the men, with ‘You lucky bastard’, from the single men and ‘You’ll be sorry’, from those who were married. Tom could hear in their banter a true warmth, and he knew why he could never desert the men who were just as much his family as any he might have been born with.

  When the men were aboard the trucks, Tom walked over to Juliet and took her in his arms, crushing her to him and kissing her on the lips. A howl of hoots went up from the men. ‘The buggers will be sorry when I get them back to the battalion,’ Tom grinned.

  Tears streamed from Juliet’s eyes as they broke the embrace. She reached up to touch him on the cheek. ‘Remember your promise last night and come back to me,’ she whispered.

  Tom could hear Dan’s shouted warning for him to join the last truck, which was already moving out. Tom ran over to the moving vehicle and hands reached down to haul him aboard. When he was on the tray he looked back at Juliet standing in the village square waving to him. Tom felt his whole being flood with tender emotions, but they were gone in a flash when he noticed a familiar figure standing a few feet behind Juliet.

  ‘Smithers!’ he gasped.

  ‘Yeah, the bastard swung sick leave for another day,’ Dan said. ‘Thought you knew.’

  Tom stared in his shock at the burly man and he could have sworn the evil smile was directed at him.

  7

  The grit stung Matthew’s eyes, and the dust whipped up by the sudden storm covered the Bedouin camp like a smokescreen. The ropes securing Matthew had been replaced with chains. At least the date palm under which he was secured provided shade from the hot sun, and his captors had fed him sufficiently that his health had improved enough that he was thinking of ways of escape.

  Matthew calculated that he had been a prisoner for at least two weeks, and in that time he’d been mostly ignored except for the occasional random beatings by the women, who used thin canes to inflict the punishment. Matthew had learned the interpreter’s name was Aban and he’d asked him why the women beat him for no apparent reason.

  ‘You are an infidel,’ Aban had answered. ‘They do it to humiliate you. You cannot expect any better treatment.’

  ‘I thought that your people treated a guest with honour,’ Matthew had said.

  ‘You are not only an infidel,’ Aban had replied, ‘but also now a slave, to be bartered or beaten by my master, Abdul-Hamid, as he wishes.’

  ‘What does he intend to do with me?’

  ‘He has sent two of his men to speak with the Ottomans to see what you are worth to them.’

  ‘He would have been better sending his men to General Allenby’s army – they would have paid more for me.’

  ‘My master does not like the Europeans,’ Aban had said with a shrug. ‘The Ottomans will also give him Mauser rifles.’

  Matthew crouched on the ground, covering his face with a rag torn from his shirt to avoid ingesting the fine dust. Thankfully the storm passed over quickly, and soon the Bedouin emerged from their tents to inspect their goods and livestock.

  The next day the tribe packed up and Matthew found himself being dragged behind a camel as the Bedouin moved their livestock to better pastures. He tried not to lose hope. Escape was a possibility, however remote. Matthew was a resourceful man who had been in many tight spots in his life. He would watch and wait and be prepared to escape at the first hint of an opportunity.

  Joanne had finally been able to leave Cairo and travel with an army supply column to Palestine. There she met Saul Rosenblum, who had received a signals order to meet with her in the sacred city of Jerusalem.

  Joanne was never so pleased to see his bronzed and bearded face as now. Saul, dressed in the garb of an Arab Bedouin, strode across the foyer of the hotel with a broad smile on his face.

  ‘He is not dead,’ were his first words of greeting. ‘My intelligence reports that he survived the crash and is now a prisoner of a treacherous jackal by the name of Abdul-Hamid.’

  Joanne felt her knees go weak under her. ‘Oh, Saul, thank you. Your words confirm all that I have prayed for.’ She shook his hand, wishing she could hug the big, burly man in her joy at hearing his words of hope. ‘I knew that a mere aeroplane crash could not kill Matthew. How do we get him back?’

  Saul took Joanne’s elbow and guided her to a quiet corner of the foyer. ‘It will not be easy finding him out there,’ he said. ‘Abdul-Hamid and his people are nomads whose lives have not changed much since Moses crossed the Sinai. They move around a lot and keep to themselves. Thus far he has managed to keep his people out of the war. A desert traveller paid by my people for information said that he saw Abdul-Hamid’s clan travelling east from a well-known waterhole around four days ago. They had a European with them; apparently he was in chains. I am sure it is Matthew; this waterhole is not so far from the area where his plane went down. This is difficult terrain and you had better be prepared to travel on horseback. We may also have to cope with pockets of Turkish resistance.’

  ‘You know from personal experience that I can handle myself, Saul,’ Joanne said quietly. ‘What do we need to mount our expedition? I have access to supplies, arms and ammunition.’

  Saul began to list the supplies necessary to equip a patrol of seven men plus themselves. He intended to take his eldest son, Benjamin, with him; he needed the experience as one day he would become a leader like Saul.

  ‘It will take me twenty-four hours to get everything together. We should be able to depart the city first light the day after tomorrow,’ she said when Saul had finished.

  After approval from her American superiors, Joanne was able to use a letter of authority from Major Wilkins to procure all they needed for at least four weeks in the arid lands west of Jerusalem, and she was even able to get hold of a valuable Maxim and belts of .303 ammunition fo
r the heavy machine-gun. Everything they needed was carefully packed into crates and when they left the next morning they were a small column of fierce-eyed desert fighters trailing a caravan of packhorses with their supplies of food, water and ammunition.

  As they departed Jerusalem’s walls Joanne gazed around her and thought about times long ago when others had ridden out to war from this city. She was travelling in the land of King David and her trained archaeologist’s eye did not miss the significance of the landmarks they passed. Occasionally she would comment to Saul about biblical points of interest, but she realised that he was not a truly religious man but more of a committed nationalist with a dream of establishing a Jewish nation. She remembered that Saul had been born in Australia and clearly much of the land of his birth still remained in his soul, despite his Jewish identity.

  Benjamin seemed to be more of a true Jewish child of the land. His English was not very good and he knew very little about Australia. The boy was the image of his father and showed no fear, although Joanne thought he must be a little afraid of what was to come. She had come to know Benjamin last year when she had accompanied him to Jerusalem for medical treatment. He had received a serious bullet wound fighting a neighbouring Arab village intent on destroying his family’s fragile community. ‘This will always be the way,’ Benjamin had shrugged when Joanne had said that boys his age in Australia would be safely at school instead of bearing arms. ‘We will always have to fight to survive.’

  Thanks to Wilkins’s letter of authority they were able to pass the numerous British patrols, and eventually they found themselves away from the well-ordered country of irrigated orchards and on the edge of the craggy hills and ravines. That night Joanne lay down under a panorama of stars, thinking about her children and Matthew. She found herself uttering a prayer for his safety and wondered which of the three faces of God was listening in this land of three great religions: Yahweh, Christ or Allah.

  Juliet walked down the cobbled street between the village’s little shops. Ever since Tom had left yesterday she hadn’t been able to think straight; she didn’t know how she was going to teach the children tomorrow. What if Tom did not return? What if he was injured so badly that he was an invalid for the rest of his life? What if the torment she saw in his eyes never faded? She was realistic enough to know that this war did not spare men just because they were in love. At least her parents would be home from the neighbouring village tomorrow and tonight would be her last night alone.

  The sun was still high when Juliet reached the farmhouse. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She was preoccupied by her sadness and did not hear the movement behind her until it was too late. Someone had appeared from the bedroom and the next thing she knew a brawny arm was reaching over her shoulder to put her in a headlock. She attempted to scream and struggle but found that her assailant held her as if she were nothing but a rag doll.

  ‘Don’t go thinking that you should scream or resist me,’ a voice said over her shoulder and she could smell the reek of cheap wine on the man’s breath. ‘Me and you are goin’ to the bedroom for a little afternoon fun.’

  But Juliet did scream and for her defiance felt the arm bite into her throat in a way that cut off her air. Sobbing, she was dragged backwards into the room where she and Tom had made passionate love.

  It was only when her attacker flung her on the bed that she saw his face and she knew real terror. It was an ugly face worsened by the intent in the dead eyes. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Please do not hurt me.’

  But Smithers simply began undoing his trousers. Juliet flung herself from the bed but he was quick and a smashing back-handed blow across her face brought blood to her mouth. She fell back in a daze of red stars, tasting the coppery blood in her mouth.

  Somehow she was able to disconnect from the horror of the rape; it was as if it was happening to someone else, except the physical pain was real. When he was spent he rolled over on his back and laughed, filling the room with his odour. Juliet stared with unseeing eyes at the ceiling.

  ‘Don’t matter if you know who I am,’ Smithers said. ‘’Cos when I get back to the battalion I will be tellin’ everyone what a good time you gave me when your blackfella left you. I’ll be tellin’ the boys what a good romp we had together.’

  Juliet barely heard him. She was too aware of her body, of the stain this monster had left on her. It was as if she had been made dirty and nothing could ever make her clean again.

  Smithers rose from the bed and pulled on his pants. Juliet lay still, praying God would rain destruction down on the room, killing them both.

  ‘Well, girlie, when I get back to the boys I’ll tell them to drop by for a bit of crumpet when they’re next on leave,’ he sneered. ‘Best crumpet in town. I’d stay, but the army needs me back, and I can hardly wait to thank Sergeant Duffy for breaking you in for me.’

  After he had left Juliet lay on the bed, not moving until night had fallen. She rose from the bed and picked up her torn dress. Smithers had left dark bruises on her arms and thighs. She stumbled to the kitchen, where the big tub used for bathing was located. She did not bother to warm the water but simply poured in enough for her to wash herself.

  She scrubbed and scrubbed; she didn’t seem to be able to get clean. When she could remain in the cold water no longer, she stepped out of the tub and dressed herself. She could not bear to think about Tom knowing what had happened; he would not want to marry a woman who had been defiled in this way. She broke down into a fit of sobbing. She wanted just to die, but suicide was a mortal sin. Which left her facing a life sentence without love.

  It was pitch dark this late at night and there was something about the Aboriginal weapons mounted on the wall of his library that disturbed George Macintosh deeply. They had been displayed there for many years and they reminded George of the curse that was said to hang over his family. Supposedly an old warrior called Wallarie had cursed the Macintoshes for the violence they had perpetrated against his people. Over the years premature death had stalked the family, but George was not superstitious and did not believe in Aboriginal curses. Bad luck was all it was.

  ‘Damned poppycock,’ he muttered and went back to considering how, with the assistance of an accomplice, he might be able to arrange an accident for his nephew; he figured he’d do away with his sister-in-law at the same time; kill two birds with one stone, as it were. He had already worked on his unwitting wife to write a letter to Giselle inviting her to Sydney for the Christmas break and Giselle had accepted. That was more than six months away, which gave him plenty of time to come up with a suitable scenario to kill both mother and son. Maybe a boating accident on the harbour, George thought. That was one option.

  George rose from behind his desk and went to the liquor cabinet to pour himself a Scotch. Tumbler in hand, he walked to the great window and pulled aside the drapes to stare down on the darkened driveway. He had barely pulled them aside when he felt a sudden change in the room that caused his hair to stand on end. It was as if someone had entered the room and was now standing behind him, watching him curiously.

  For a moment George was frozen with fear. Then he cursed himself for an overactive imagination – it was impossible for anyone to have entered the room without him hearing or seeing them. Slowly, he turned his head; from the corner of his eye he thought he saw a faint shadow shaped like a naked black man. He screamed and the tumbler of Scotch slipped from his hand and crashed onto the floor.

  The shadow was still standing in the corner of the room, and George struggled against fainting. The shadow held a long wooden spear and George sensed he was an Aboriginal warrior. He slumped to his knees as if to beg for mercy.

  Long seconds later, the door burst open and Louise came rushing into the room in her nightdress.

  ‘George, what is the matter?’ she asked, kneeling beside her terrified husband.

  George was shaking uncontrollably. ‘Over there,’ he whispered, pointing behind her. ‘An apparition.’r />
  Louise turned to see what her husband was pointing at. ‘It’s just a shadow on the wall from the tree outside. I have asked the gardener to trim it, but he hasn’t yet had a chance to,’ she chided. ‘You exposed the shadow when you opened the drapes.’

  George stared at the wall and eventually saw that his wife was right. It was nothing more than a shadow, enhanced by the library’s dim lighting. With help from Louise he rose to his feet but he could still feel his hands shaking. Despite the shadow, George was sure something had entered the room. He could not tell his wife this, though; it would make him look weak and foolish.

  ‘I think you can retire now,’ George said coldly, not bothering to thank his wife for her concern. He would follow her upstairs; there was no way he was going to stay in the library a moment longer tonight.

  A tiny speck of a campfire burned on the vast inland plain of brigalow scrub under a spectacular sky of sparkling stars. A dingo howled in the distance, calling to its pack as Wallarie sat cross-legged before the fire, staring into the gently flickering flames. He glanced up at a cluster of stars and identified the one he knew to be his white brother, Tom Duffy, grandfather of his namesake now across the sea in a foreign land. Tom looked down and told Wallarie that his grandson was still alive, but Wallarie knew there was danger coming to the Duffy family.

  Wallarie began his chant. He sang the ancient song taught to him by the elders after his initiation as a warrior into the clan. As he chanted he saw visions rise from the flames and form into pictures in his head. The song continued. It was not his song but the song of the ancients in the Dreaming.

  Wallarie’s spirit was flying high above the earth at a speed beyond even his understanding. In his fear he closed his eyes and when he opened them he was once again in a familiar place. It was a room in one of those whitefella houses. He had once visited Lady Macintosh there many years earlier, and now he was standing staring at the back of a man whose evil permeated the very air he breathed.