A Changing Land(70)
Lowering himself to the ground, the skin of his thighs sagged into the sand beneath as he sat cross-legged. Above him the depth of the sky seemed to angle downwards, the glow of the spirits flickering with differing degrees of intensity. He longed for the guiding path of the moon, for the brightness that allowed safe passage in the dark, for fair hunting of both land and water creatures. This night was not that time.
Boxer narrowed his eyes, his gaze directed across sluggish water to the far bank of the creek. There was a deeper darkness there. A murky crevice between the trees beyond that beckoned through wisps of unknown movement. His lips moved in unspoken speech, his mind calmed. They had awoken him with the sweat of their need. As he closed his eyes his skin prickled, the wiry hairs standing upright on his sinewy arms. He nodded then, ready. Once one comprehended their presence, their breath of life in all things, fear borne of ignorance settled like the embers of a fire turned to ash. Boxer breathed with the land in and around him. The great heart of mother earth steadied his vision like a soft caress.
Boxer pictured the great sweep of land that was Wangallon. Far beneath him Hamish Gordon rode on horseback flanked by his men and one black, one of Boxer’s own. They were crossing the big river from the land of the Gordon’s to another. A chill wind swept along the mighty waterway. Boxer felt the gust as surely as he rode beside his Boss.
He awoke to the scurry of feet and the screech of laughter, to the flick of sand on his face. Women were stoking fires on the creek’s bank. Children were rushing into the water, screaming with delight. Great streaming curls of water flashed in the muted greens and browns of dawn. The first tinge of light smeared the space above the tree line red with heat. Boxer scraped the sand of the creek from his drooping cheek before scrambling to his feet. Brushing gritty crusts of sleep from his eyes, his filmy sight followed the smear of red as it grew in the lightening sky. It was true then, he thought despondently as he retraced his steps back to his humpy.
There would be blood.
Anthony didn’t wait to be cordially invited inside the jackeroo’s quarters. It was 6.30 am. He knocked twice on the screen door and walked inside. He found Jack in the kitchen, the youth’s bare feet resting on the kitchen table where last night’s dinner plates jostled for space with a recently consumed breakfast of mutton chops, onion gravy and fried egg. The smells hung in the air, competing fiercely with the stench of cigarette smoke and a blazing wood-fire heater.
Jack was stubbing his cigarette out on the rim of an empty beer can, oblivious to his surroundings. The local FM station was turned up to what Anthony suspected was its highest volume.
‘Morning, Jack.’ Anthony sat down nonchalantly and hit the off button on the radio. Jack moved his feet immediately and, as if caught having committed a serious crime, set about clearing the dirty plates.
‘Sorry, Anthony, I wasn’t expecting you.’ Jack placed the plates on the sink.
‘Relax, kid, where’s your guest?’
Jack hovered between the table and the sink, unsure whether he should sit down or start washing up. Eventually he elected to busy himself wiping down the kitchen table with a dishcloth. Crumbs and other assorted bits of food scraps fell onto the floor. ‘Having a shower. He asked me if I’d drive him to the airport, but I told him that Matt and I were …’
Anthony looked automatically through the open door that led out to the small living room and bathroom. ‘Tonight’s plane leaves at 6 pm so you have him in town at lunch and then leave him to his own devices.’ That way, Anthony decided, he was unlikely to cross paths with Sarah at the airport.
Sensing there was more to this than just a friendly visit, Jack asked, ‘Who is he, Anthony?’
Anthony briefly considered laying it all on the line. ‘Someone we don’t want here.’
‘Well, that is a grand way to greet the morning.’ Jim, freshly showered and dressed, was standing in the doorway.
‘Coffee, anyone?’ Jack offered meekly, sensing both men’s eyes boring the other’s like a drill bit. He might be the jackeroo but that didn’t mean he couldn’t pick up when two men wanted to bash the crap out of each other. He made a fuss of filling the kettle at the sink, lit the gas cooktop and sat the kettle on top.
‘Jack here will drive you into town,’ Anthony said casually. ‘There is a plane at six tonight. In the meantime, we’ve got a few things to take care of so you can make yourself at home here, watch a bit of telly or something.’