by Rachel Leary
Bridget lay awake, could hear Pascoe moving around. There was a crack in the branches on the other side of the river.
Pascoe hissed at Matt, ‘Wake up.’
‘I’m fucking awake.’
‘You hear that?’
‘What?’
‘That were too loud for an animal.’
‘Go fucking shoot it then.’ Matt rolled over, his back to Pascoe.
Pascoe walked down to the creek, stood near the bank looking. She heard him come back again.
Matt sat up. ‘For fuck’s sake, fucking lie down.’
‘They’ll kill us.’
‘Don’t shut up, I’ll kill you myself,’ Matt said.
...
They slogged their way through mud up to their knees. It had been showering most of the morning. Matt yelled ahead to Pascoe, ‘Are you sure you know where the bloody hell you’re going?’
His voice flew back on the wind. ‘This’s the shortest way.’
They had been walking for days. On the way to China, Matt said in the dark, his breath stinking like something dead.
At the end of the plain they stood on a hummock. The plain before them looked like the one they had just crossed: long yellow grass shiny with moisture extending out towards a treed ridge in the distance. Plumes of dark cloud massed above them and soon spat their wet peril. They stood like cattle under a tree that was hardly any shelter at all. Bridget felt the water make it through her clothes, tiny rills of it run down her front. Her hair was soaked through, water dripping off the ends of it. Next to her Sam was standing looking up into the thin canopy, rain falling into his face.
...
The hut was behind a marshland of reeds and the sound of frogs peppered the night. The men—Slambow, Havercock and Canning—as dank and dark as the hut they lived in. Their clothes dark blue and brown, their skin tan with dirt, their faces shadowy and set in harshness, they seemed to have been taken over by the black corners of the hut, to have become of the dirt and shadow, no longer at all separate from it, so that when one of them rose and moved, the fire flicking over his form, he was like a spectre stepping out of darkness. And behind them, even more within the dark than the men, four women, bent over their work, quiet as mounds of dirt. The brown children played mostly outside the hut, thrashed like angry snakes, until one of the men came out, at which they moved further away from the hut, or grew quiet, looked down at the ground, all thrash and buzz gone from their lithe little bodies. Slambow wore a sealskin hat, arms covered with tattoos, hair thick with grease around a scarred face. Havercock also tattooed, dry and brittle-looking, like beached seaweed. Canning, quiet, a faraway look in his eyes and a smile like a waving flag—the only one of the three whose facial muscles bore the memory of mirth.
...
At first glance she thought it was sky, took a moment to realise what she was looking at: water. A lot of water. Water stretching all the way to a hazy horizon. Soon the smell of salt was strong. From up on a rise they could see down over the river that snaked out to the coast, wide at its mouth. Then, there ahead of them was a long stretch of white beach, dunes behind it all the way along except where the river came in.
The river water was still and dark brown, tea tree growing close to its banks. Closer to the beach the river opened out and black swans with red beaks bobbed around, the wind ruffling their feathers. The five of them trekked along the side of the estuary, walked into the wind, their heads down, the sand whipping up into their faces. Huge waves rolled in, the sea a mass of white breakers. ‘They won’t be getting in here in this,’ Henry yelled.
Slambow led them down the beach a long way from the river mouth to a place where the shore became rocky and another river entered. They sat up in the dunes behind the shore out of the howling wind, looked out onto the grey coughing sea. Bridget wanted to get up and run, keep running back towards the plains. Matt would come after her, cart her back here. He was focused on the sea now though, concentrating. She might be able to sneak away. Pascoe had stayed up at the hut, was going back to the road. She could follow him back to the road. Where then though? Where from the road?
She wouldn’t be able to get away anyway. At night, if she so much as moved, he woke up. He’d come after her. She wouldn’t get more than a few yards through the dunes before he’d have hold of her.
The boat was going to New South Wales. She’d find a way to get away from him then, stay in New South Wales. The panic that was in her wanted her moving. But she sat. She sat and the fear turned to heat that spread through her, had her feeling sick.
They sat in the dunes for a long time but the ocean kept on being black and lumpy, and only black and lumpy; there was no boat.
As they waited the wind dropped and the moon came up. It was quiet without the roar of the waves, the night clear and still, moon shining gold on black water.
...
For the next four days and nights they camped in the dunes, Henry and Sam going back and forth to the hut, bringing food and water. Sam shot a black swan that they roasted. It was on the fifth day, later in the afternoon, that Sam saw it. A boat, sails full, a good way out from the shore. ‘You beauty,’ Matt said. ‘We’re going, boys! We’re going!’ He was loud now, was jumping around in the sand like a puppy. Sam started hooting and crying. Only Bridget and Henry stood still looking at the boat.
Matt and Sam ran down to the water, Henry walking behind them. Bridget followed them down, stood back near the dunes. It wasn’t coming in. The boat was going past. Matt ran up and down the beach yelling, waving his arms. When it was well gone he sat down in the shallow river that ran across the sand towards the waves. She was a long way behind him but she could see his shoulders shaking, could just hear the low sound of his keening. Sam walked over and stood next to him. Henry sat down where he was, picked up clods of sand and threw them at the water. Bridget watched the boat getting small. She imagined being on it, going back to England; a great roar of longing reached out after it.
...
‘Arseholes. Bastards. Curs and sons of bitches.’ Matt was walking and swearing, ranting about someone in Hobart Town. It had been clear, arranged. He’d paid him. He would kill him. He would fucking kill the mongrel. Why was every bloody person he ever met such an untrustworthy goddamn bugger of a filthy fucking cur?
No one else spoke. Everyone walked.
...
Again the plains rolled out like dough below them, wet and shining. Matt had been quiet for a few hours, his brow knotted in its well-worn frown. He dropped a sack of flour in front of her feet. ‘Make damper.’
She left the sack there, didn’t immediately pick it up. She was sick of him and his orders. Sick of everything about him.
He grabbed the back of her neck, held it hard, his thumb and forefinger biting into her muscles.
He picked up the sack of flour and before she knew what was happening her face was in it. He was pushing the back of her head. She needed to breathe, her nose filled with flour. She needed to cough but couldn’t; there was no room, no air. Flour clogged her throat and a loud rasp came from her.
Suddenly she was released.
She gulped and coughed, held her head.
Henry had the sack, pushed Matt. ‘Easy. Settle down.’
Matt stood there, eyes like a frightened horse.
Her legs were shaking. She needed to sit. Needed to sit.
Matt walked off.
Her legs folded under her and she half sat, half fell where she was.
Henry put a water bladder in front of her face. She took it off him, sat it on the ground. She sat there trying to breathe, looked up to see Sam standing staring at her, mute. She looked away from him.
They took two horses from a big house on a brisk, sunny afternoon, camped just before dark on a rocky hill among trees. It was windy enough for the boughs to crack and for the falling of bark to have Matt on his feet peering through the trees. The horses were restless, stomping and snorting, pulling on their tethers. Matt paced f
or a while and then sat on a fallen log close to where the fire smoked. A moment later one of the dogs barked and Matt was up. He kicked Henry. Henry groaned. ‘Bit of bloody wind.’
‘Shut up. Listen.’
Bridget sat up. There was a noise, faint but audible, from down the slope. Someone had shouted.
Matt was listening intently. She could go. Go now. The men had been discussing crossing the road—it mustn’t be too far away.
She was about to move when Henry got to his feet, gun out. ‘Get the horses!’
There was a flurry of activity. Sam had hold of one of the horse’s bridles and, spooked, it pulled back, wrenching his shoulder. Henry grabbed the reins and a second later was up in the saddle. Matt had one foot in the stirrup of the other horse; as he lifted himself up a shot passed behind the horse. Henry returned fire and now Matt’s horse bolted forward, almost unseating him. He circled back. ‘Get up! Get up!’
There were more voices now, more shouting. ‘We’ve got them, sir. We’ve got them!’
Matt’s hand was out, the palm facing up. She didn’t move.
There was a shot. Caesar whimpered, his hindquarters collapsed into the ground.
Another shot. Sam was up on the horse behind Henry but now he fell to the side. Henry swore. The horse spun around and Sam fell. He groaned, held his hand out to Henry above him. Matt looked down at Sam. He was lying on the ground, his back bleeding. Matt yelled at her again. ‘Get up!’
‘You can’t leave him!’
Another shot came. She stepped forward and the next thing she knew she was pressed against Matt’s back and the dying light was full of the sound of the horse’s hooves striking rock, of the flick of branches.
...
A crack of light showed near the horizon, a great shimmering yolk growing from it. The horses were walking now, their heads low. She took her stiff hand away from Matt’s waist, where it had been clamped for hours, let it drop near her thigh.
They would stop soon and she would be able to get down. She let her head drop. Blood. There was blood all over her hand. Up ahead Henry stopped, turned around and the look on his face confirmed it. ‘Jesus Christ.’
She almost fell as she reached the ground, her legs so unused to taking her weight. Henry took most of Matt’s weight, lowered him down.
‘Need a rest,’ Matt said. His eyes were glassy.
‘Why the bloody hell didn’t you say something?’ Henry looked around. ‘Fuck.’
‘Just need a rest. Get back on. I’ll get back on.’
‘You’re shot in the guts, man.’
‘I’ll be right.’ Matt’s eyes half closed.
‘Stay here with him. I’m going to get someone. You hear me? Stay here with him. Find some water. Can you do that?’ Henry grabbed the horse’s reins.
‘Where are you going? You can’t just leave me here with him.’
‘Don’t go anywhere. Stay here. You better bloody do this, you hear me? You fucking look after him. Look after him.’ He turned the horse, was gone in a shower of soil.
‘Don’t know where he thinks he’s going.’ Talking hurt him, his hand going to his waist.
Matt sat up a bit, lifted his shirt and looked. The wound was dark red in the middle, where there was a hole, brighter towards the edges. The hair of his stomach sticky with blood.
He swore and lay back down.
Bridget walked down the slope and listened, stood seeking the sound of water as golden light spilled over the hills.
He was sitting up, one arm on the ground supporting him, the other one holding the bottom of the horse’s leg. There was a knife on the ground next to him. When he heard her, he stopped, turned around. His mouth was red. The animal flicked its leg. Matt tightened his grip, put his mouth back over the wound he’d made.
He slept. She watched the horse, a trickle of dry blood now underneath the wound on its leg. He had cut the reins of the bridle and used the leather to hobble it. Her mouth was dry; she was dizzy from lack of sleep and food. She patted the horse’s neck, squatted beside it. It looked down at her, curious.
Its flesh was warm against her mouth. She sucked and it lifted its leg in protest, put it down. She tried again. Nothing. Sucked harder this time.
The blood came in a gush, warm and salty in her mouth. After she’d drunk from it she lay on the ground and slept.
When she woke, there was a fly on his left cheek. Matt didn’t flinch. The fly stayed there. It flew off and another one landed on the blood on his shirt and then hovered before landing closer to the middle of the wound.
Bridget stood up. The blue sky had gone, clouds bunched around the middle, more of them coming in now to join the council. She looked up at the rock mass behind them, along the plain towards a stand of trees. His eyes were closed. She stood there staring at him, at the body drained of tension, at the fly above his right eyebrow.
The horse was lying down. It wouldn’t get up. She pulled on its head and it made an attempt. Then its head sunk to the ground again, its eyes closed.
‘Come on. Get up.’
The horse’s belly rose and fell. Its eyes slowly opened and closed again.
Bridget sat looking at the horse. A crow stood on a rock a few yards away watching her, tilting its head this way and that as though trying to solve the puzzle that she was.
She picked up the gun from where it lay next to Matt, put her hands under his shoulder and pushed him up to get the powder horn off him, a small handful left in it.
In the night the horse died. Not long after the devils arrived. She lay against the horse’s cold side battling sleep, ready with a stick to beat the animals off. Sleep claimed her and she woke to find one of them right next to her, pulling at the flesh of the horse’s leg. She hit the animal hard and it squealed and ran off. She could hear them over near Matt. The wet sound of flesh. In the morning light Matt’s side was bright red where they had torn it. There were scrape marks on the ground where the pulling had moved his body.
No sign of Henry. No sign of anyone. The valley was filled with death. She picked up the gun from the ground. Then she stood there looking around, trying to see which way to go.
Dogs’ cries echoed around the valley and the sound of men shouting reached up the slope. For a while they seemed to have been coming up the valley somewhere to her left, but now it sounded like they were almost directly behind her. She could see the mountain’s peak above her, the slope was scrubby and steep and soon she was climbing more than running, rock under her feet giving way and crashing down the slope behind her. She slipped, grabbed a sharp bush that cut her hand. She hoisted herself up again and scrambled over a flat rock then squeezed up through a crevice to an area of loose, smaller rock. She climbed up the side of it and then, when her breath was coming too fast and hard, she stopped, dared to look down. She heard the dogs again but now they seemed to have moved to the right side of the valley and were coming up there towards the foot of the mountain. The cloud was low and it had already started to drizzle.
It was harder to climb now with the rock slippery and she’d come to the steepest part. The peak that was now beginning to be shrouded by cloud was not far above her. Here a spring came out from under one of the rocks. She stopped to drink. She could hear nothing now, but thought she caught a glimpse of the men moving through the trees way below. The cloud was creeping down lower, making its way steadily towards her. She came to a split in the rock shaped like an upside-down V, deep enough for her to fit in.
The weather continued to come in from the other side of the mountain, the clouds darkening. She sat trying to hear through the rain, wondering if they would come up here in this weather. There was no sound now except the howl of the wind across the side of the mountain and the thrashing of the stubby gnarled trees that grew on the slope around her.
She shivered. Darkness came quickly and the storm took hold. If they were coming now, let them come. There was nothing to do but wait.
The storm seemed to possess the strength t
o pick the mountain up and toss it aside. But the mountain held and Bridget held, although she shivered and her mind grew hazy and hunger gnawed at her. There would be no sleep, only this strange drifting as the world of dreams seeped out of the rock with the cold. In the blackness she saw Rose Hadley.
Bridget had been young, there with her family, most of the district out to see it. When the man slipped the noose over Rose’s head Kate had squeezed Bridget’s hand. Barbara’s voice in her ear later: ‘That’s what happens to girls who don’t behave themselves.’
The memory of Rose Hadley taunted her, poked its bony finger at her face. You, it said. You.
Hunger grew sharper, the cold more intense; it curled up in Bridget’s bones and purred with sinister content. She rested her head against rock and waited while the demons came and clawed at her face, her ears, her throat, summoned the dark shapes that rode on the back of hunger, of tiredness, that wheezed and unfurled their long, thin black tongues, whispering their words of possession into her ear. She forced herself to look at them, which they hated, and they retreated, their squeals on the wind. They would be back though. They would be back.
By dawn the rain was light and the wind had settled but the mountain was still cloaked in mist so that Bridget could see only a few feet in front of her. She waited until it lifted then found her way back to the spring she had drunk from before and now instead of being a trickle it spread out over the rocks below it.
She climbed slowly to the top of the mountain that was now clear of cloud. The cold wind blew her wet hair and bit through her coat. The ground dropped off sharply, too sharp to climb down. The wind ripped the clouds across the sky, the hills in the distance in shadow and then light and then shadow again as the clouds passed over them.
She could see nothing moving in the landscape, no sign of the men. But that didn’t mean they weren’t down there somewhere in the trees, waiting.
...
There were four men standing watching her. She was lying at the bottom of a steep drop among leaves. She tried to get up but it hurt. They started talking then. One of them came forward and pointed at her. He pointed again and she looked down to see the powder horn around her neck. She understood he wanted it. She took it off and held it out to him. He grabbed it, thrust another container at her. Water. She drank all of it and he took the container back. He spoke to the man standing behind him then, looked back at her and motioned up the slope. She remembered the fall now, her foot off the side of rock, falling and rolling for a long time.
