Heart of the Outback

by Lynne Wilding

  Quite illogically, by the time she’d left Aden, she was angry and disappointed more with herself than with him. She had foolishly and romantically embellished Aden with attributes he didn’t possess. And then, without conscious volition, her thoughts had turned to Steve Parrish. She’d smiled as she remembered how well they were getting along now. Steve was real. Genuine.

  Later, the taxi had deposited her outside Meredith O’Connor’s modest home at Bronte for a brief visit before she met Les at Mascot airport. Her friend had squealed with delight at the surprise visit. They had talked non-stop — she’d even told her about Steve, and how the romance with Aden hadn’t worked out. Meredith, now almost eight months gone and with a protruding stomach that could barely fit behind the driver’s seat, had insisted on driving her to the airport.

  Francey’s eyelids opened and she ran the fingers of her right hand through her black hair, untangling the curls. With a stab of surprise she realised that she was looking forward to getting back. To Murrundi. To the harsh plains, the low hills, the rugged lonely land.

  She shook her head and smiled in wonder. Who would believe it? She, a devout city dweller who loved the salty sea breeze on her face and in her hair; who artistically admired the angular shapes and forms of city buildings; enjoyed the jostling, crowded streets and accepted the noises of thousands of people as background music as they scurried about their business was falling in love. With the outback, with the freedom, the starkness and the determination of the people who survived and tried to bend it to their will.

  Pharaoh’s sleek coat glistened with sweat from the hard ride Natalie had given the stallion as she reined in near the stable door late in the afternoon.

  Almost as if he’d been waiting, Mike Hunter came out from the dimness of the stalls and held the bridle as she slid from the huge horse. Natalie took off her leather gloves and ran her hand through her sweat-streaked blonde hair, making it stand up crazily, yet attractively about her longish face.

  “Thanks, Mike,” she said airily as she threw him the reins.

  “Didja have a good ride?”

  “Wonderful. The recent rain has put some water in a few of the creeks and the waterholes. I rode towards the western boundary. I think I gave Pharaoh a work out he’ll appreciate. That horse needs to be ridden hard.” Pharaoh was the fastest of all the horses at Murrundi and everyone knew it.

  “See any feral pigs? Lucky said he saw a pack out that way last week. We don’t want them hanging around with spring only six weeks off. They could have a go during the calving.”

  She thought for a moment, well aware that Mike was hanging on every word. He amused her. She didn’t quite lead him on, but she’d smile and use enough body language to make him think he had an outside chance with her. Hah. Fat chance any man had with her. “No…” She pursed her lips provocatively. “I didn’t see anything other than cattle and a few emus.”

  “CJ called a while ago. He and Les are off to Canberra to see some minister, for the environment, I think. About the Cooktown project. They’ll be away for a couple more days.”

  “Right, thanks for that.” She patted Pharaoh’s neck affectionately. “Time to give you a rubdown, boy, you’ve earned it.” The foreman and stockmen had been told that she wasn’t to be waited on hand and foot. That if she rode Pharaoh she was responsible for watering, feeding and grooming him. Damn CJ and his old-fashioned ideas. When this was all hers, her grey eyes encompassed the sheds, the barns, the back of the homestead, she wouldn’t lift a finger if she didn’t want to.

  “No problem, I’ll do it,” Mike offered. He began to lead the horse around, letting him cool down before he took him to the trough.

  Smiling her thanks she walked away. Men were so predictable. They spent most of their waking hours thinking with their dicks. Even Les, who had a good brain, was clearly besotted with Francey Spinetti. Oh, she’d heard the gossip. Aunt Shellie couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it. She knew about the little altercation between them in the kitchen after Dupre’s party. And then there was CJ, the way he acted around her; attentive, smiling, putting on his well-known charm. It was sickening. The “Spinetti syndrome” as she’d dubbed it, was becoming near endemic amongst the more interesting men. Why, even Steve Parrish, whom she genuinely liked, rather than pretended to like, seemed more then casually interested. What did they see in her? She’d be damned if she could fathom it out.

  That was men for you. A woman, on the other hand, was more sensitive to your moods, knew how to get you worked up better than a man too, knew all those little secret places you longed to be touched in — the places men never thought of. And women could satisfy you just as well. Her train of thoughts made her think of Trish, made her feel suddenly horny then lonely. Trish had become the only person she could talk to, really talk to, these days. She missed her, even missed the reproachful, confused looks she got from her when she had a problem or was in one of her black moods.

  Her eyebrows lifted as she spied the earlier subject of her thoughts. Francey sat on the top rail of the breaking-in yard’s fence, taking photos of Billy as he worked on breaking in a three-year-old gelding. Almost noiselessly, Natalie climbed the fence and her quarry, intent on the hullabaloo within — the bucking, snorting, near uncontrollable horse and Billy, who hung on one handed, shouting and whistling — didn’t even notice until she spoke.

  “Hi there.”

  Francey jumped with fright and grabbed the railing beside her for support.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Francey grinned. “My own fault. Guess I got caught up in what Billy’s doing.”

  “He’s one of the best breakers around,” Natalie told her proudly.

  “How long does it take, I mean, to break a horse in?”

  “Depends on the horse. It could take a week, maybe three, maybe longer. Billy’s good because he’s patient and he doesn’t hurt them like some breakers do. Some think fear will do the trick, but Billy uses kindness and he talks soft and low to them most of the time.”

  A couple of stockmen were sitting on the fence on the other side of the yard. Another sat astride a horse inside the yard, ready to help if Billy got thrown or wanted to get off in a hurry. Dust boles from the horse’s hoofs kicked up in the air mingling with angry neighing and snorting as the gelding pitted its will against that of the man, desperately trying to avoid the inevitable: that the man — inferior in strength but superior in intellect — would master him.

  “I’m glad I brought my camera. I think I got a couple of good shots.”

  “You’re right into photography, aren’t you?”

  “It’s more of a hobby, really. Therapeutic. In the past I’ve used it when my brain overloads with work or if I have a mental block with a design. Time out with my camera gets rid of the junk inside and brings back the perspective.”

  “Have you considered exhibiting?”

  “I’m not sure I’m good enough for that.”

  “Perhaps you’ll show me your portfolio one day. I could tell you their worth,” Natalie offered.

  “That’s nice of you. Perhaps. One day.”

  “Well,” Natalie sensed Francey’s uncertainty and honed in on what was perhaps her weakness, “if you’d like to photograph something really special I could show you some wonderful Aboriginal cave paintings.”

  Francey’s eyes widened. “That would be great.” Alison Wontow had told her about the Aboriginals in the area, about their beliefs and how they made use of the land. To photograph something so ancient and rare was something she had never expected to be able to do.

  Natalie smiled sweetly. The bitch had taken the bait. “Well, whenever you’ve got a couple of spare hours. It’s a bit of a ride but nothing you can’t handle considering you’ve been on a muster.” She pretended to think for a moment. “Why not tomorrow afternoon, if you can spare the time.”

  Francey thought. The plans for Cooktown were going well. Ahead of schedule, really, and CJ wouldn’t
be back for another day or two to see the progress. “Yes, that would be perfect.”

  No-one saw them leave the stables the next afternoon. Natalie, slightly in the lead, with Francey following, rode south, off the property of Murrundi Downs station and onto the free range. The late winter’s day was cool, the sky a clear azure except for a patch of white clouds hanging on the western horizon. Francey’s mount, Astra, carried a saddlebag containing two cameras and a tripod plus several rolls of film. Pharaoh carried Natalie, water canteens plus a canvas bag with afternoon tea packed by Alison.

  Francey marvelled at the land as they travelled, the aridity of the foothills, the soil and the sparse vegetation even after recent rains. The vastness of the plains that ran as far as one’s visibility went was awe inspiring, as was the remoteness and … the silence. Not a bird nor the sound of any animal other than the horses’ hoofs, intruded upon a quiet so intense one could almost hear one’s own heartbeat. The rich, bold colours of the land and the sky fascinated the aesthete within her. The true deep-blue, the rusty-red of the earth, sometimes reminded her of dried-up blood. She suddenly shivered at the thought, wondering where on earth it had come from. She squinted in the sunlight, knowing that one had to have stamina to survive out here — be mentally and physically strong to withstand the unrelenting land. What was it about the outback that got under one’s skin and into one’s heart? She pondered the question as they trotted then cantered for a while before easing to a more relaxed pace.

  “Let’s give the horses a bit of a run,” Natalie called out.

  “Okay.”

  Francey pushed her borrowed hat down hard on her head, dug her heels into Astra’s flanks and urged her forward as Natalie took off. Clods of earth flew up towards her as the horse broke into a full gallop. She had never seen Pharaoh go flat out before and, God, could the horse run!

  Natalie flattened out over the horse’s neck, she and Pharaoh becoming one as the pace picked up and, to encourage more speed, she flicked the whip against the stallion’s rump. The distance between the two horses grew until Pharaoh was almost out of sight. Glancing back, Natalie saw the gap and slowed her mount. Her smile was triumphant as she waited for Francey to catch up.

  “That wasn’t much of a contest,” Francey complained tongue-in-cheek as she reined in.

  “I guess not. It was more for Pharaoh’s benefit than for ours. He loves to stretch out.” Natalie patted his mane. “Don’t you, boy?” Then she swivelled about in the saddle and looked to the east. “We’re following the old creek bed,” she pointed out a row of spindly eucalypts that denoted water was near, “to a kind of ravine, it’s like a small canyon and is about five kilometres from here. The Aboriginals who lived there about four thousand years ago were called Kalkadoons. They used to hunt and gather in and around the ravine where it was cooler and because a supply of water could usually be found all year round, although the creek bed’s dry now and has been for years. That’s where the Aboriginal paintings are.”

  “You know the place well, then?”

  “Like the back of my hand. Richard and I used to ride there a lot when we were growing up. He was keen on Aboriginal stuff, he even pestered Billy into teaching him how to play the didgeridoo.”

  “Did Richard play it well, the didgeridoo?”

  “No,” Natalie laughed, “he was awful. Mum hated the sound of it so he had to practise out back near the stockmen’s quarters. They didn’t think much of it either.”

  They ambled along, sometimes in companionable silence, sometimes talking casually about the land and its first inhabitants. The topography changed gradually as the afternoon wore on. The foothills became a little higher, the vegetation thicker and Francey began to notice outcrops of huge boulders on either side of the track they followed.

  “We’re coming to the canyon now,” Natalie said. “We’ve time for a good look at the paintings, and for you to take photos. Then we’ll have afternoon tea and head back. Don’t want to be caught away from the homestead after dark. It’s dangerous for the horses and us, what with some of the rough terrain and the wild pigs.”

  It was cooler in the ravine, with the high earth and boulder hills angling narrowly down. A strong breeze blew then eddied, making whistling sounds amongst the trees and rocks. They left their mounts after tying the reins around a stringy bark tree and with Francey toting her photographic equipment, headed up along a narrow track sprinkled with boulders. A rocky overhang jutted out like a protecting umbrella, with the ground slanting up towards the back.

  “This is one of the Kalkadoon’s campsites. See the ash marks in the rock from their fires? Go to the back of the cave. You’ll have to bend over a bit because you’re tall. That’s where you’ll see the paintings. Have fun.”

  “You’re not coming?”

  “I’ve seen them before, lots of times. I’ll make a fire to boil the billy. By the time you’re through the tea should be ready.”

  Francey did as Natalie had instructed and, bent over almost double, she half walked, half crawled to the back of the overhang, where anyone sheltering would have had the most protection. The paintings were there. Almost a hundred random drawings, some etched into the sandstone like an engraving, others painted on with varying shades of ochre and clay which, over time, had begun to fade.

  Francey set the tripod up, wishing she’d brought a portable set of lights with her. She’d have to fiddle with the aperture and the timing mechanism to do these subjects justice. She spent a good three-quarters of an hour filming studies of hoop cranes, skeletonised fish, a flock of emus, a kangaroo in full flight and several stick figures. Representations of humans perhaps, she thought, maybe even an ancient family.

  What she photographed had great meaning for her. This was history. The ancient artists, primitive and simple in their style, may have passed into history but they had left something that endured through time to let those who followed know they’d once been here. She shivered at the symbolism of it all and was more than a little moved. Somehow, the paintings struck an emotional chord within her and she knew this wasn’t the first time she had experienced such unexpected depth of feeling here at Murrundi Downs. Even though she remained at a loss to explain it.

  She stayed until the light began to fade and all the jiggling with the camera settings wouldn’t result in a half-decent shot. Packing up, she made her way down the rocky slope to where Natalie had a rug set out. Plates of cakes and biscuits and two enamel mugs of billy tea steamed invitingly.

  “How did it go?”

  “Wonderful,” Francey said, smiling. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  Natalie smiled back. “My pleasure. You must be hungry after all that activity.” She pointed to the cakes and the tea. “Tuck in, they’re good.” Then, raising her face to the sky she gauged how much daylight was left. “We’ll have to do some hard riding on the way back to beat the dark.”

  Francey nodded in agreement as she enjoyed two cup cakes and dunked a biscuit in her tea, relishing every morsel.

  Afterwards they repacked their horses and Natalie mounted first. She looked down at the remains of the fire and said, “Francey, kick sand over that, will you. There’s not much chance of causing a fire here, but one should do the right thing.”

  Francey did so and then, as she looked up Natalie’s horse suddenly reared, then sprang forward and bolted down the ravine in the opposite direction to which they’d come. The reins were hanging loose and Natalie lurched forward to grab the horse’s mane. Pharaoh was out of control!

  “Natalie!” Francey screamed after her.

  Forgetting the fire, she put her foot in the stirrup and made to mount but to her frustration, the saddle slipped off and fell in a heap beside Astra. Damn. Who had loosened the saddle’s girth? She glanced up again to see Natalie disappearing around the bend in the ravine, holding on for dear life. With a grunt she picked the saddle up and put it on the patient Astra.

  Worried about Natalie she mounted quickly and gave chase. As
she emerged from the ravine she fully expected to see Natalie and Pharaoh somewhere in the distance. She saw nothing and no-one. She stood up in the stirrups to get a better view. Nothing! She shook her head in disbelief. It was as if the earth had opened up and swallowed Natalie and Pharaoh.

  Where could they have got to? Had Pharaoh thrown Natalie? If so, surely she would see some evidence, the horse … a figure on the ground. She scanned the surrounding area, straining her eyes for a glimpse of some movement, some form of life. Nothing remotely human. Then she studied the ground trying to find a trail, hoof prints, anything, but the ground was too rocky. No evidence existed that a horse had passed this way.

  An awareness of the terrible stillness descended on her. She licked her dry lips and frowned. Natalie was an expert horsewoman, she would soon get Pharaoh under control again, and then she’d come back for her. Of course she would. Her blue-green eyes surveyed all she could see. Empty undulating plains, hillocks, straggly gums and spinifex.

  She frowned. Which way was Murrundi?

  What should she do? Don’t panic, was the thought that immediately came to mind.

  Should she wait here or return to the campfire, where Natalie would expect to find her? She looked at her watch. An hour to sunset. Perhaps she should ride out the other end of the ravine and try to work her way back but, which way was back? She didn’t have a clue. She hadn’t paid enough attention to landmarks or anything because Natalie had been her guide. Besides to her, a novice, they all looked pretty much the same. What was it Les had said to her, more then once? That if someone got lost in the bush or became disorientated, they should stay put. That was safer than moving around and perhaps becoming more lost, though she wasn’t sure how she could be more lost than ordinary lost!