A Changing Land(142)
A kilometre further on Sarah found Bullet waiting patiently on a fallen log. The dog jumped in the tray and they drove on, their progress slowed by the opening of gates, and Sarah stopping to call out Anthony’s name. She couldn’t understand how Anthony’s wallet came to be in the middle of the road, or why her stomach was feeling increasingly as if it were lined with stone. At the last gateway there were cattle hoofs, quad bike tracks, relatively recent Landcruiser tracks, which appeared to have circled back towards the homestead and … Sarah touched the motorbike track which led through the gateway: Anthony on a motorbike, out this far? It was possible, she supposed. This was the paddock Cameron died in and she gave an involuntary shiver as she thought of Bullet’s agitation, the lost wallet and the stone cold aga she’d arrived home to. ‘At least I have a track to follow,’ she reassured herself as she drove past the ridge, over the river and into Boxer’s Plains.
‘I should have guessed,’ Sarah mumbled as the vehicle bumped out from between the lignum and trees to where the cultivation began. She stopped the vehicle, expecting to hear the rumble of heavy machinery; instead the rustle of leaves and Bullet’s low whine were the only audible noises. The cultivation spread out before her like a chocolate slice, bordered by the browns and greens of timber. Along its edge the bike track was obvious in the soft soil. It must be Anthony, Sarah decided, but it didn’t seem to be particularly auspicious catching up with him on this part of Wangallon. They needed to meet somewhere neutral. ‘The United Nations building perhaps,’ she quipped. Yet for all her sarcasm, things still didn’t seem quite right.
Bullet let out a long howl, which set Ferret off, and together the dogs made such a cacophony of noise that birds, kangaroos, an emu and five head of cattle bounded from the scrub behind them. Sarah experienced a falling sensation, as if she’d entered a deep hole, and then she heard a faint voice, a voice she knew better than her own. She accelerated in a screech of soil and engine revs to drive madly along the edge of the cultivation. The vehicle bumped over logs, careered around trees, the tyres falling down potholes and tree holes, even becoming airborne at times. She gripped the wheel tighter, oblivious to the shower of articles falling from the dash and Ferret’s yelping as she sped over the rough track. She manoeuvred the vehicle through the pushed timber yet to be formed into burnable heaps, and skirted the untouched impenetrable areas. With a desperate yank of the steering wheel Sarah side-swiped the rear-vision mirror off the driver’s door as she angled between a belah tree and the upturned roots of a mighty gum.
Even before the mangled bike appeared at the base of the ironbark tree, Sarah knew that some form of payback was being extracted from her family. Something unmentionable had occurred out here many years ago and the spirits of those affected were seeking retribution. Why else had the 1909 diary entries ceased? Why else were people against any development out here? God, even Toby Williams had an opinion on Boxer’s Plains. It may only have been a gut feeling on her part, however it was strong.
Sarah slammed her foot on the brake, screeching to a halt as the trees closed in, obstructing any further passage. Anthony’s bike lay near an immense tree, a run of rusty wire entangled around the rear tyre. She ran to the bike. Bullet passed her in a flying leap, jumped two logs and ducked through a maze of saplings, leaving Sarah to reconcile the mangled mess of the bike and the drag marks which led further into the dense timber. She ran then, as fast as she could across the uneven ground, noticing that the thickness of the trees began to thin until suddenly there was a wreck of a partially burnt house in front of her and a fox. Bullet was snuffling the animal as if greeting an old friend. Sarah knitted her brows together, then she saw Anthony, sprawled, face down in the dirt.
‘Anthony.’ She dropped to her knees beside him, noticing that one leg was propped out at an angle. Placing her hand on the middle of his back, she half-expected to see bite marks or worse on Anthony’s neck. There was nothing. She turned him over carefully, expecting a groan. Bullet left the fox to join her, whimpering softly. ‘Anthony.’ His hands were freezing, his face blue. Congealed blood matted his forehead and hair. The worst of it was the thin line of blood and saliva that ran from his mouth on movement. ‘Jesus! Anthony, answer me!’ Gingerly Sarah put her cheek to his mouth, dreading not hearing a breath or feeling the moistness of warm air. The slightest zephyr grazed her cheek. ‘Thank God. Thank God.’ Removing her jacket, she placed it over his chest and then wedged her jumper between his head and the cold earth. ‘Watch him,’ she commanded Bullet, who immediately sat by Anthony’s side.