A Changing Land(9)

Glancing again at the dressing table, Sarah opened one of the drawers and placed the silver hairbrush safely inside. It was a small step towards accepting that her grandfather was never going to use these items again. She made a promise to herself that during winter she would open the wardrobe and pack his clothes away for good. It was time, Sarah decided. Outside the bedroom window a willy-wagtail fluttered against the glass. The small bird, intrigued by his reflection, hovered momentarily before darting between the glossy green leaves of the hedge. Sarah turned slowly, silently wishing some of her grandfather’s wisdom would seep into her.

In the months of instability and grief following her grandfather’s death, Sarah worked at keeping busy. They all did. There was much to come to terms with. Angus Gordon’s passing left a deep hole in their lives. It was as if a great tree had been rooted out leaving everyone without both direction and stability. Sarah didn’t know when she’d awoken from grief’s stupor. It was as if each new day brought with it a renewed clarity, allowing her mourning to settle into a livable although still tender state. What she did appreciate was the sense of growing maturity within her. She felt ready to embrace the next part of her life, ready to lead Wangallon into the future. In this future there would be children, heirs for Wangallon, and Anthony would be their father: A fifth generation on Wangallon. Sarah knew her ancestors would be pleased.





Luke Gordon hunkered down in his swag and dug his side into the rocky ground beneath. A rock poked at his hip and he thought of his father. He expects the old man would be up by now, his boots striking the wide verandah of Wangallon Homestead as he strides towards the stables. He imagines his bed still warm, a fan of hair with the black–blue gleam of a crow’s wing dark against sun brightened sheets. Though it is still some hours from piccaninny daylight, Luke has been awake intermittently through the night. Aborigines have been following them and despite the steady crawl of exhaustion, he stays alert. Mungo, Boxer’s son, is standing guard with two others. Out there Mungo never sleeps. He stays awake to keep the dark at bay, thinks of the girl he loves and would lie with if given the chance.

Luke hears a rider approaching the camp side of the mob. There is the crackle of twigs and the rustle of leaves as Mungo’s companion arrives to wake the horse-tailer, Percy. There is the familiar sound of boots being pulled on, a coat shrugged into and the splash of urine in dirt. The fire’s still hot and soon Percy is slurping his tea, his swallowing mingling with the lowing bullocks and the tethered night horses tramping the ground.

Percy’s footsteps are clearly heard as he leaves the camp and heads past the night horses to where the day horses are camped. Luke opens his eyes reluctantly. He can smell fresh beef frying as the old cook coughs his lungs up. It is the thought of another thick frost that has him rising quickly to dress; boots, hat and coat. He rubs crystals of sleep from his eyes, stretches the knots in his lower back and relieves himself. A tin basin of water, iced over, sits on a log nearby. Luke cracks the ice with his pocket knife. The water stuns him awake, droplets run like ants between his neck and shirt as dawn begins to rob the countryside of its black silhouettes. The sky grows grey. It will be sometime yet before the sun takes hold of the rim of the earth and tugs itself upwards and into view.

There are grunts as five slumbering forms stir, roll up their bedding and pull on boots. Some drag their bedrolls to the fire’s rim and sit silently beside the warmth.

‘Food’s on,’ the cook calls at the top of his voice.

As boss drover, Luke takes the first plate and pours himself tea, adding two lumps of sugar from the sack where the provisions are stacked. He squats in the dirt, chewing slowly, his pannikin resting on the rocky ground before him. They are past halfway through the trek southward to market. In a month or so he plans to be feeding the bullocks in the valleys. They’ve done the hard part, the real snap of winter, although the mountains tend to curry favour with wind and ice and he will be pleased to be free of their cold shadow. With luck he and his team will reach the markets safely. So far in the near five months they have been on the stock route, their losses have been minimal: six dead, including the one that dislocated its shoulder crossing the gorge yesterday. Luke chews on the hunk of beef, relishing the juices. It’s a fine change from salted mutton. He has told Cook to render up some of the fat for dripping, promised him another day in this same spot.

Behind him the men are silent, concentrating on waking and eating simultaneously. Luke clears small rocks from the dirt, draws a bit of a map with a greasy forefinger. By his reckoning they are about one hundred and fifty miles south-east of Ridge Gully. He’s never been to this town where his mother, Rose, was born, never met his grandmother. Maybe after Christmas he’ll postpone the yearly drive south, venture down that way. If he doesn’t go soon his grandmother will be dead. He thinks about her emporium. It has been like a cool drink on a hot day for most of his adult life; someday the emporium will be his, then he will have an option other than this. Wiping his fingers on his doeskin trousers he remembers his dead brothers, his beloved mother. He loves droving, yet hates it. It gives a man too much time to think.