A Changing Land(13)
‘Some of my people want to return to the old ways. They want their land back.’
The mountains hover above them. Luke shivers at the chill of the wind. In this land everything is about ownership.
At the camp the cook’s indistinguishable monologue deteriorates into a string of concerned abuse. Luke checks once on the herd before sitting by the fire. They are feeding out happily. ‘Once everything is watered and rested for an hour or so, we’ll walk them onwards. It’s another seven or eight miles to the next night camp, Mungo.’
Mungo looks at a grey tail of cloud snaking above, as if questioning Luke’s timing.
‘You’ll make it. Once the herd sniff the water at the Hanging Hole there’ll be no stopping them.’ Luke knows Mungo hates making camp at this spot where blackfellas and whites fought last century. When they camp there Mungo hears screams and yells, sees their shadowy forms in battle under the glow of the moon. The worst of Mungo’s doctoring is yet to come and Luke grimaces at the thought of their isolation. Although it is Mungo’s unstated role to converse with the dark peoples that roam the bush, Luke is aware of a feeling of responsibility towards his old friend. For that reason alone he is pleased to be the one injured.
Mungo flashes his teeth as he pulls Luke’s riding coat free of his shoulder and rips open his shirt. A small comb, such as those made for a woman’s hair, falls to the ground. Mungo picks it up with a bloody hand, his scraggly nails dark with congealed blood. ‘I tell you about my woman and you?’
Luke gave a pained, lopsided grin. ‘I dream.’
‘Then maybe you keep with you until the spirits answer.’ Mungo stuffs the comb inside Luke’s coat pocket and frowns as he directs his thoughts to his ministrations. There is a short bladed pocket-knife already positioned in the glowing embers of the fire. The cook, not much for talking now that his morning peace has been ruined by a bloody wounding, pulls a cork from a rum bottle and offers Luke a swig. His eyes watch Luke’s bobbing throat. He retrieves the bottle, then, licking his lips, thinks better of it and takes a long swig himself, his eyes white as Mungo lifts the knife from the fire.
Luke turns his head from the glowing blade and grits his teeth. He thinks of the money this sale of cattle will bring; of the supplies that will be purchased. Was a man’s death a fair exchange for the continuation of his father’s dream? Instead of answering his question Luke thinks of the excitement that would greet the mail when a bolt of fine dress silk or a length of cream-coloured lace arrived. She was the reason he always returned to Wangallon, and why he had become a drover, to get away again.
Mungo pours rum on the open wound and then presses the blade down harshly to cauterise the flesh. ‘You visit your girl in Wangallon Town,’ Mungo suggests as a diversion.
Luke growls; he has no girl. The stench of burning skin fills the air as Luke passes out amid a contorted grimace. The cook grunts in disgust and swills more rum. Mungo’s pink-tipped tongue flicks with concern as he prods at the red skin surrounding the wound. He looks up at the cook and grins, his teeth a flash of righteousness.
Hamish stalked the verandah, pausing occasionally to puff irritably on his pipe. An unseasonal mist, thickened by moist air and cooling temperatures, hung stubbornly about him, obliterating his world. The gravel driveway, the wavering trees, even the flowering shrubs that hedged in Wangallon Homestead were barely visible. From his waistcoat he retrieved his gold fob watch, impatiently noting that only a paltry ten minutes had passed. With a disgusted puff of his pipe he sat heavily in one of the wicker chairs lining the verandah, listening to the household. The distant clang of pots and the stacking of crockery carried sharply in the still air above which hovered the maids’ muffled giggling and the deeper intonation of Mrs Stackland, their cook and housekeeper. The combined noise was akin to the drone of a bee. The scent of baking bread was the only agreeable aspect to his sensory disturbance.
‘Hamish?’
Claire is dressed in white muslin from neck to ankle, a fine brocade wrap about her shoulders. Walking sedately behind her is a rather overfed cat, a tabby that Hamish detests. He glares at the cat, knowing the feeling is mutual.
‘The weather is most unusual,’ Claire allows the cat to settle comfortably on her knees.
Hamish scowls. The cat purrs loudly in defiance.
‘It is a nice respite from last week’s heat and wind.’ Claire’s rhythmic stroking makes the tabby’s contentment even louder. ‘I seem to recall similar weather conditions led to a poor start last year to the season.’ She plucks at a loose strand of cotton on the buttoned wrist of her blouse. She had been born in this most unfathomable of countries, yet fifty-six years on, her daily life, her very subsistence, still depended on the vagrancies of the heavens. To be held to ransom by the gods of the sky had, she decided, been a most humbling experience since her arrival at Wangallon. ‘It is nearing half-past six, Hamish. Soon this slight fog will burn off and Jasperson will be here to drag you off to some distant part of Wangallon. Why don’t you eat something?’ Hamish was gazing beyond the silhouette of a native tree. Her fingers touched the hard darkness of his hand. He was looking at her like someone awoken from a deep sleep. ‘Take a little tea and some fresh fruit loaf,’ she continued. ‘Lee has managed to plead his way into Mrs Stackland’s kitchen.’