A Changing Land(130)
‘Mungo?’
‘Go get Mister Luke. You tell him –’ Mungo lowered his rifle, wondering how long Angus had been standing there. ‘Tell Luke,’ he hesitated, not willing to bring reality to that which he’d witnessed. ‘Tell him there’s bad blackfellas loose. Tell him –’
‘That my father didn’t come out of the river.’ Angus remained rooted to the spot.
‘Go. Bring him back.’ Mungo helped the boy mount up and then ran back to where he’d left his horse. He still had a job to do and Boxer had told him that no matter what happened to stick with the plan.
Thick tree trunks glided by so close that Angus felt the rough tear of bark on skin. He caught sight of leaves, spider webs and low hanging branches. The ground rushed beneath him. There were ant hills, tufts of grass, rabbit holes and logs; a mob of kangaroos was startled into action. His cramping leg muscles spoke of an interminable time in the saddle and the sky now showed a dull pink where once a grey pall had hung. The moon still watched over him although now it hung low in the sky and storm clouds crossed its path. Soon a light rain began to fall.
Angus prayed for guidance, for strength for his horse; winding his fingers tighter about the reins, he lay down on Wallace’s neck. Beneath his body the long extension of muscles flexed as Wallace’s powerful legs sped them onwards. Wallace’s sweat-heightened aroma seeped into his nostrils until Angus began to imagine that he and the animal were one. He muttered a string of indecipherable words into Wallace’s ear, urging him onwards. A glimpse of a cloudy moon dipping through the trees cleared his thoughts.
‘For my father, for my father,’ he repeated. The phrase became his mantra. ‘Go, Wallace, go.’
There was a loud gasping sound, then the horse whinnied and slowed.
Angus slid from Wallace’s back, his muscles thick with tiredness. ‘Maybe we walk a bit.’ Wallace heaved against the reins, straining to be let alone. He was foaming at the mouth, his hide a gleam of sweat. ‘We have to keep going. We have to.’ Angus burst into tears. ‘Damn horse.’ Wrapping his arms around Wallace’s neck he sunk his face into the pungent hair and sobbed. Wallace stood quietly, his head bowed. ‘Damn horse’. Angus drifted back to the chaos of the river and his father sinking below the watery surface. He tugged once again at the reins and digging his heels into the dirt began to drag Wallace. The horse followed reluctantly, Angus groaning at his effort. They fought this way through acres of timbered country, disturbing sheep and cattle, frightening emus and scattering birds. Angus couldn’t feel his feet anymore. They felt scraped of flesh and moist against the heel and toes of his leather boots.
As the sun rose, Angus led Wallace to the nearest stump and remounted. ‘You have to do this, Wallace. I can’t walk any further,’ he spat bile into the dirt. ‘You have to get me home.’
He wrapped the reins about his hands dug his knees in tightly and jabbed the heels of his riding boots in deeply. Wallace answered by rearing upwards. Angus held fast, patting the horse between the ears. ‘Please, for my father. For Hamish.’
They galloped through trees so quickly that Angus lost all sense of direction. It was only for the red smudge of the rising sun that he knew his course remained reasonably true. Wallace nevertheless could not be steered and when the horse veered savagely to the right it was all Angus could do to hang on. Specks of saliva flew from Wallace’s gaping mouth into his face. His hands were blistered from the leather reins and he was sure the soft inner parts of his thighs were red raw. Yet he gritted through the pain. He needed to find his brother. He needed Luke.
Angus woke as Wallace trotted past the stables, cutting through the orchard to Lee’s vegetable garden. He could see trampled plants, heard Lee’s voice rising in agitation, then he was slipping from Wallace’s sweaty back into Lee’s arms. He glanced over the Chinaman’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, Wallace,’ he mouthed. His beautiful horse collapsed to the ground.
Margaret broke off a wedge of damper and added it to the plate of fried salted mutton.
‘They won’t miss you?’ Luke thought it odd. The girl should be at the homestead. Not that he was complaining. Margaret chewed on a piece of stringy meat, a long black hair stuck stubbornly across her cheeks. The girl picked at a piece of meat deep in her mouth. ‘No.’ Wiping her hand on the bodice of her dress, she walked to the creek’s edge. Having only seen her by the light of the campfire and in the glow of the moon, Luke halted midway in his eating as she stripped. She walked slowly into the creek, her moon-shaped buttocks clenching at the coolness of the water, her back ribboning out from the base of her narrow waist as she stretched, then disappeared beneath the surface. She emerged darkly wet. Water clinging to her shape as she dragged her dress on and returned to sit beside him, her long black hair dripping water down her back, her dress patched with wetness. She picked up the tortoiseshell comb and slipped it into her hair. Margaret nibbled on a piece of damper, watched him watching her. Luke understood the naturalness of her actions. She lived in a realm of unchanging behaviour, where the white man only interrupted what to them was utterly unchangeable. Theirs was a world governed and set out by their ancestors, where everything had its place; the stars, moon, wind, rain, animals and plants.