This year Taj had cut a little tree in her honour, from a plantation in the next valley. The trees grew on the bones of a dead rainforest, clear-felled to make way for the rolling green desert of pines. Taj found evidence of the old forest under his feet: fragments of mahogany, tulipwood, white beech – even a stump of ancient red cedar, three metres across. All premium cabinet timbers. He collected this waste wood and used it to whittle gifts for Jean and her students, and for Kim and her children. A carved cow and calf for Jean. A poodle for Abbey. He fashioned a cricket bat for Jake, from one of the willows that grew as weeds along Cedar Creek. And for Kim, a mahogany figurine of a Peri, the beautiful winged fairies of Nuristan folklore, who represented everything bright and good in nature. He wrapped the gifts and placed them beneath the tree, which was decorated with sprigs of flowering lilly pilly, gumnuts and the colourful fruits of tamarind and blueberry ash. And there they remained.
As Christmas dragged into New Year, his desire to see Kim grew into a kind of nagging background hunger. A homesickness – not for a place, but for a person.
Taj had suffered more than his fair share of homesickness. When he moved to Parun, he’d been homesick for Ariana. When he moved to Kabul, he was homesick for Parun. But although it had taken some time to creep up on him, it was when he moved to England after winning an academic scholarship that he’d suffered the most.
The move from Afghanistan to Leeds plunged Taj into a brand-new fast-paced world of busy streets, endless shops and girls in jeans and short skirts. Overwhelming. Too much to see. What to do? Where to look? The vibrant student town, buzzing with eclectic people and diverse ideas, opened his eyes and his mind. The contrast really hit home the first time his classmates took him out on the town for his birthday – an Afghan restaurant in his honour.
The rather plain sign outside on the street read Kabul Express. The narrow staircase was plastered with clichéd posters of desert scenes, camels, and caravans of Afghan women in traditional dress – no hint of the country’s vast mountainous north. Upstairs was all faded glory – ‘a seventies hotel lounge gone wrong’, his friends called it. Gold accents, black glass, and red fabric seats lined the bar. The food had been good, surprisingly authentic, and speaking Dari to the expatriate owner had eased his homesickness. But in every other respect, it was unlike any night Taj had known.
There was wine, for one thing: copious amounts of cheap chianti, scoffed by the bottleful. And there was talk lasting into the morning, ranging from philosophy to politics, art to religion. ‘Are you a Muslim?’ they asked him.
‘For thousands of years Nuristanis followed an ancient form of Hinduism,’ he told them. ‘In the 1890s a conquering Emir, Rahman Khan, converted the people to Islam by the sword. But swords cannot conquer people’s hearts. Some of us retained our old customs and beliefs in secret.’
‘So you’re a Hindu?’ asked a girl.
‘I said some, not all. Why must you label me? I lost any faith I had long ago.’
‘They say there are no atheists in foxholes,’ said another. ‘When death threatens, everybody prays to some god or another.’
The conversation moved on to a lively debate on the pros and cons of atheism. Taj hadn’t imagined this kind of dazzling intellectual freedom could exist, and he hoped England might become his second home.
But this new life came at a cost. The initial thrill of city-living swiftly waned. He gazed up at a smog-filled, hazy night sky, and wished for inky blackness, for the blazing moon and stars of the Hindu Kush. He walked along the River Aire, flowing meekly within its manicured banks, and wished for a rough slatted bridge, no wider than a man, swinging high above a furious alpine torrent. He ventured into the green and pleasant Yorkshire countryside to view mediaeval abbeys and Norman castles. Yet before long, he was seeking out the wide moors, broad-leaved woodlands and limestone cliffs of national parks. It wasn’t enough, though. He couldn’t connect with this tame landscape. He longed for the wild mountains of home.
After finishing his studies, Taj returned to Afghanistan with a master’s degree in environmental biology and a new understanding of the dangers facing his country’s wilderness. Decades of war had devastated the forests and unique wildlife of Nuristan. Bears, wolves, ibex and snow leopards were being driven to extinction, and when villagers sold pelts and timber rights for a pittance, they also suffered.
Taj found himself in the right place at the right time to secure his dream job – head ranger at Afghanistan’s new Hindu Kush National Park. It encompassed an area twenty-five per cent larger than Yellowstone. Taj was charged with protecting traditional communities inside the park’s borders and recruiting local people in the fight against poachers and illegal logging.
It was there he met Camila, a health worker helping to establish the area’s first medical clinic. She stood out among her darker companions, with pale hair, skin the colour of ivory, green eyes, and a delicate, chiselled face that would have made Botticelli proud. ‘My mother says I’m descended from Alexander The Great,’ she said, when Taj boldly complimented her on her flawless complexion.
‘Alexander the Great himself?’ he’d teased. Alexander’s invading armies were a popular explanation for the presence of fair-skinned people in Nuristan, but it was the first time he’d heard someone claim direct descent from the great man himself.
Camila was beautiful on the inside too: gentle, wise and brave enough to teach girls and women about their rights. Even when it antagonised the corrupt local mullah, who had links with the Taliban. Within a year they were married, and together they made quite a team. Taj’s proudest accomplishment was the Wildlife Hero program he’d started at the local school. He enlisted the children as carers for bear and wolf cubs orphaned by poachers. He sought their help in wildlife mapping projects, and taught them how trees stopped the erosion of rivers and pastures. They in turn taught their parents. Thank god the program had continued after his sudden exit. After all, the future of Nuristan’s wilderness, of all the world’s wildernesses, lay with the next generation.
Taj picked up the little pup playing at his feet, and put him on the seat beside him. He checked that he’d packed the presents for Kim and her children. ‘Come on, Dusty,’ he said, feeling an unfamiliar surge of excitement about the day ahead. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
CHAPTER 14
Kim trailed her fingers along the freshly painted verandah rail. Taj had done a good job. Journey’s End was starting to look cared for again. He certainly was a hard worker, having arrived before she was up. She could hear him hammering away, putting a new roof on the hay shed.
It was as beautiful a morning as she’d ever seen. Diamond-bright. Fragrant with satinwood and peppermint. Above her, the firewheel tree’s crimson flowers sparkled with dewdrops, and a flock of lorikeets burst from its branches in a rainbow of colour. The mountains beyond, framed by the blue span of sky, seemed to hang within reach. Heaven and earth had conspired to create a masterpiece – and yet she found no comfort in all this loveliness.
Just a week into January and she and Jake were already at each other’s throats. At this rate it was going to be a very, very long summer. Kim rubbed a hand over her eyes. She wasn’t proud of herself. How had she let this morning’s argument turn into a shouting match?
Christmas without Connor was always difficult, but this year had been a nightmare. Staying with her parents, with no Daisy to act as a circuit breaker. So much confected cheer, trying to make things fun for the sake of the children.
Her mother believed that the key to happiness was keeping busy, and had arranged all sorts of outings and activities, god bless her. But Kim didn’t want to go to the beach. She didn’t want to swim and make sandcastles and feel the sun on her skin. She didn’t want to play backyard cricket, or even keep score. She didn’t want to have Christmas at all. There was too much sorrow in the ordinary moments. In the fake plastic tree, because Connor wasn’t there to organise a real one. In the empty chair that Jake kept in his fathe
r’s honour at the table. In the confusion over who would carve the turkey. Kim had fled town as swiftly as courtesy allowed.
The children didn’t mind. They’d soon grown bored in Sydney without Daisy’s kids for company. Suburban backyards and city parks had lost their appeal when compared to the joys of running wild in the country. Jake was eager to resume training for his first cricket match with the Tingo Juniors. Abbey couldn’t wait to see the animals. And Kim had hoped things would be better when they got back.
But the tension had followed them home. This morning’s clash with Jake continued the longstanding row that had flared in such an ugly way between them at Christmas and still festered. It was simple. Jake wanted a dog. No, it was more complicated than that. Jake was desperate for a dog, possessed by the idea. For some reason he had it in his head that Kim was buying him a puppy for Christmas. His pain and disappointment when one did not arrive was terrible to see. Yet although Kim would do almost anything for her son she couldn’t give him the thing he most wanted. Not yet. Scout and Connor were inextricably linked in her mind. She could no more replace Scout than she could bring a new man into her life.
She’d tried, she really had. She’d tried so hard to let that little dog go, but she could see him everywhere. Sleeping in the shade of the firewheel tree. Barking comically, half-in and half-out of the doggy door. Making a collection of his favourite sticks on the verandah. She’d tried to strip away these images of him, layer by layer, hoping to reveal a clean place beneath where fresh memories might grow. But the scar tissue ran too deep, and it hurt too much, and she wasn’t brave enough.
Jake would have to wait until she was ready. It wasn’t like he didn’t have any pets. Mel’s unofficial wildlife sanctuary had well and truly overflowed into Journey’s End. Bonnie and Clyde were back on the doorstep the minute they returned from Sydney, along with a few extra additions to the menagerie. Abbey’s shirt currently harboured a baby possum that was curled up next to her heart. Two fledgling magpies lived in Jake’s room, and the bath was home to an injured water dragon, complete with an island of river sand and smooth water-worn rocks for him to hide behind. But her son had his heart set on a dog.
The ring of steel on timber woke the echoes. Jake had graduated from the tomahawk to a light axe, courtesy of Ben. He was taking out his anger on the wood heap. Well, at least he wasn’t taking it out on her. At this rate, there’d soon be no logs left to chop. His fascination with heavy blades troubled her. Axes and angry adolescents were a dangerous mix, and she had the scar on her ankle to prove it.
Yesterday Kim had picked up the axe herself. She wasn’t very good. Couldn’t judge the right place to strike, and wound up just denting the stumps or making useless chips, too small to burn. But she understood her son better for trying. Kim imagined him, red-faced, swinging the blade high and letting it fall, using gravity to increase his power. She could feel the strain in his aching shoulders, the shock in his wrists when steel met wood. Hear his ragged breath. And she suddenly longed to be the one with that axe in her hand. It was what she needed right now.
Abbey came running from the house, prising a bundle of soft grey fur from around her neck. ‘Stop it, Hush, that tickles.’ The little possum took refuge down her pyjama top, provoking a peal of giggles. Abbey held out a handful of glass gems. ‘These are a present for the bower bird. Is Taj here yet? He promised to show me when we got back.’
Kim took a moment to ooh and aah over the shiny blue beads. How on earth could her children have such diametrically opposed opinions of Mr Taj Khan? Kim touched Abbey’s rosy cheek. Tingo had brought her pale, waiflike daughter out into the sunshine. At Journey’s End Abbey slept soundly, ate well and played hard. She even looked different, with her face sporting a healthy layer of dirt, nut-brown skin, and curls brightened to white-gold by the sun.
And Kim had to admit that Taj was a big part of this transformation.
A surprising friendship had sprung up between the shy girl and the quiet handyman. Kim had been uneasy about it at first, finding reasons to stay close, keeping watch like a good mother should. What she discovered touched her deeply. With Taj, Abbey found her voice. The pair talked of frost and rain, of trees and birds, of clouds and rainbows. Of chainsaws and septic tanks and water pumps. They talked of why the sky was blue, and how the forests grew, and where the eagles flew. Taj seemed to enjoy these conversations as much as Abbey did. This unexpectedly tender side of him only added to her curiosity about the man.
The house phone rang and she hurried inside. Maybe it was Telstra or the TV people? At a pinch they could live for a year without television. That might even be good for them. But they couldn’t live without internet access, and the Olympic Games were in August. It would be unfair if the kids couldn’t watch, so Kim had decided to get a satellite dish. The sooner the better. Cranky Jake could use a distraction from arguing with her.
But instead of the hoped-for technician, it was Mel on the phone. ‘Want to come for a drive today?’ she asked. ‘It’ll be fun, I promise. Right up your alley.’
‘Sorry. I’m waiting on a call from the TV people, and Taj is here.’ Kim felt a twinge of guilt. The call could wait, and Taj didn’t need supervision. She could get away if she wanted to. But she was in too dark a place, in no mood to share, and sharing was Mel’s favourite pastime.
‘Please, Kim. There’s a rainforest nursery holding a closing-down sale and I could really use your expertise as a botanist.’
‘A rainforest nursery?’ Kim had never heard of such a thing.
‘The bloke who runs it – Dougy Henderson – had a stroke. He’s gone to live with his daughter in Taree. Such a shame, all that local knowledge lost. Doug was an old hippy at heart, a grassroots conservationist. For forty years he grew plants endemic to the mid-north-coast forests and sold them on to home gardeners, farmers and land care groups. Now all his stock has to go.’
Kim was intrigued. ‘What are you looking for? Anything in particular?’
‘That’s just it,’ said Mel. ‘I don’t know. There’s a huge eroded gully in my top paddock, the one that abuts the national park. I’ve always wanted to fence that land off and replant it, but Geoff would never agree.’
‘But now you can,’ said Kim.
‘Yes, but I have to know what to plant. I can’t ask Doug anymore, so I thought . . .’
‘There are some candidates right in your own greenhouse,’ said Kim. ‘But you need a broader selection – a mix of fast, medium and slow-growing plants.’
‘Like what?’
‘First you’ll want to establish a forest canopy as quickly as possible. You need quick-growing pioneer species like silky oak, blue fig, red ash and tulipwood.’
‘What then?’
‘Once you have part shade, you can start on your understorey. Smaller rainforest trees like lemon myrtle and tuckeroo. Shrubs like rosewood and pepper bush. Palms and lilies like cordyline, burrawang and cunjevoi. That’s the way to get a naturally layered and diverse forest.’
Mel giggled. ‘You’ll come then?’
‘Yes.’ Kim was laughing at herself now. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Right. Tell Abbey that Nikki’s coming with us.’
‘What about Todd?’
‘Sorry. He’s gone fishing with Geoff. Pick you up in half an hour.’
‘Yay!’ said Abbey when she heard. ‘I get to see Nikki. Do you think Taj will mind if I see the bower bird next time?’
‘I don’t think he’ll mind at all.’
Kim made Abbey breakfast and took some toast outside for Jake. The world had fallen silent. He’d either worked out his frustration or run out of wood. She called him from the back verandah, still astonished at how a voice carried in these mountains. She didn’t really expect him to respond. She’d probably have to go looking. But no, there he was, pelting back from the sheds, covered in dirt. What had he been up to?
Jake accepted the offered toast. He must have forgiven her. The hammering started up again fro
m the hay shed, and another sound too. A soft animal sound, halfway between a yap and a whine. Taj must have brought one of his maremmas with him.
Kim studied Jake’s sun-flushed face. What to do about him? He’d be bored stiff going to look at plants, especially without Todd for company. But she didn’t much like the idea of leaving him alone with Taj either.
‘I’m going with Mel and the girls to look at a nursery,’ she said. ‘Want to come?’
‘Nah.’ Jake’s face showed no trace of his earlier anger. It was a puzzle given his capacity to hold a grudge. ‘I’ll stay and look after the animals.’
Kim considered her options. ‘I don’t want you starting anything with Taj.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’ He was shovelling toast in his mouth so fast she thought he’d choke. ‘Promise.’
‘Thank you, Jake. That means a lot.’ Two pieces of toast left and he took them both. ‘Can you give the joeys their lunchtime feeds? Just warm the bottles in the fridge.’ He nodded. ‘And answer the phone if it rings.’
‘Sure, Mum.’ Jake was already walking away with the toast when something caused him to stop and turn around. Was that a smile? ‘And Mum . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Have fun.’
Kim stared after him. How astonishing. Maybe the mountains were working their magic. Maybe the stress and strain of Sydney was seeping away, taking all that poisonous tension with it, leaving them room to breathe again.
A bold willy wagtail darted down from the firewheel tree right in front of her: Connor’s favourite bird. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you lovely?’ As if in response he danced closer, a poser in a black and white tuxedo, wagging his tail and chanting Sweet pretty creature, sweet pretty creature over and over. ‘Flatterer.’ Tears pricked her eyes, but for once they were happy tears. Journey’s End worked in mysterious ways.
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