Echo in the Memory

by Cameron Nunn

  Pa picked up his sandwich and began chewing. Gran seemed untroubled by the silence and continued. “I can see that the two of you located Will’s shoe.” Will glanced briefly over at his grandfather who appeared not to be listening. “I’m assuming that was what Will was carrying as you were walking back.”

  “Well it wasn’t going to find itself,” Pa finally mumbled, still chewing. He was still his grumpy self but something had changed. His voice no longer sounded angry, just irritable and grumbling. “Besides,” he added, “I wasn’t about to let him lose a pair of my good boots doing some fool of a thing in the mud.”

  Gran looked over at Will, her eyebrows raised and a slight hint of a smile playing upon her lips. She must have also sensed that there was something different. Will pretended he hadn’t noticed. He wasn’t sure what to expect next but grumbling was infinitely better than shouting. The argument kept replaying itself in Will’s head. He knew he’d gone too far but he was damn sure he wasn’t going back again. He ate the last of his sandwich in silence while Rosie and Gran laid plans for the afternoon.

  Everyone else had finished but Pa chewed slowly on every mouthful, as though it was a thought that had to be considered carefully before being swallowed. As he finished his last mouthful, he dramatically pushed his chair back and announced, “I’ll want the boy to come and give me a hand this afternoon. He seems to think that he can be useful. We’ll see.”

  Gran said nothing but Will thought he saw her hide a smile behind a cough.

  It took another six weeks before we moved the sheep from the north run. Each day a group of us would walk the track what ran alongside the creek from the homestead to the south run. The creek had backed up behind the stone weir in a broad shallow pool what held the lonely blue of the sky.

  Already kangaroos had discovered this were the best drinking spot along the creek. They settled in the shade of the trees what lined the uncleared bank of the other side, reluctantly moving away when we arrived.

  For the next few days we worked to clear the land further into the bush. It were harder work than even building the wall. The trees were like stone and seemed to blunt the axes as soon as they bit into the bark. Cain called them ironbarks. The bigger trees had to be ringbarked and left to die. It’d take a year or more for the trees to slowly bleed to death. I felt somehow guilty as I watched the men slicing the noose around the tree. How long had those trees stood there, a hundred years? But everything in this place were slowly dying. Like the trees, it were just a matter of time.

  I hacked away at the undergrowth around the trees and dragged it to where the bonfire were lit every night. Twice I came across black snakes what raised their heads and then slithered back into the undergrowth.

  “It’s the brown ones you’ve got to worry about,” Cain had told me. “If you get bit by the brown ones, there’s no need to find a doctor. You’ll be dead before we get you back to the homestead.”

  His words were cold comfort and several times I jumped when I thought I seen a stick move. Jack now found a new game to amuse himself. When I were busy dragging briars, Jack would come from behind and call out, “Brown snake!” just loud enough for me to hear. I knew what he were doing, but each time I found myself stiffening. Mr O’Neill caught him doing it once and gave him a kick up the arse for his trouble, but Jack were enjoying himself too much to care.

  As the sun moved down, we dampened the fire and made our way back along the path. Each day it were the same routine. However, it were Sundays what I looked forward to most. There were jobs what had to be done in the morning, but they were all around the homestead. After lunch, we were free to do what we pleased. It were also the day when we got our rum and baccy issue, so most were content to lie in the shade in small groups or by themselves and drink their way back to England or Ireland, at least for a few hours.

  For me, it were my chance to escape with Kate to our secret place above the cave. She didn’t laugh when I told her about my plan to make enough money to return to England a rich man. “When I get my ticket of leave I’m going to get my own run. I’ll be my own boss and the men will call me, Sir. I’ll have a thousand sheep and when I’m rich I’ll sail back to England and buy the whole of London if I’ve a mind.”

  “You’ll need more than a thousand sheep if you’re going to buy London,” Kate reasoned.

  “Maybe I’ll get a million sheep then!” I laughed. “Don’t you ever dream of going back home?”

  “But I am home. This is home.”

  “I mean your real home, in Ireland.”

  “But I was born here in the colony. Ireland would be as foreign to me as the moon.”

  It hadn’t occurred to me New South Wales were really a home for anyone. It were just the place what they sent convicts and men who’d make their fortunes before returning to England. In all my plans, I’d never thought of New South Wales as anything more ’n a prison which I’d eventually make my escape from. “Then this is my home too,” I said finally. “To hell with London! I’ll make my fortune and live here. I’ll build a big white house on a hill and sit there all day and not lift a finger.”

  I told Kate everything about my life. About my mother and about my father who’d gone to sea and not returned. About Bran and Amos and George. About the night I were taken after falling from the roof. About Newgate and the long voyage on the transport. About Cabbage Fists and the rest of the boys. But most of all I told her my stories. I told her like I told them when I were below deck in the cells. Then I made up new stories about the wealthiest man in all the colony and the adventures he had. Kate smiled and corrected small matters. “If you are going to tell stories about New South Wales, then you need to get the details right.”

  Kate were always one for details. She’d ask questions and then tell me how it should be. “You put in the colour and excitement, and I’ll put in the facts,” she’d say. “It’ll be grand when you put your stories in a book.”

  “How can I do that when the person who promised to teach me is such a sluggard that she hasn’t begun the lessons?”

  Kate rolled her eyes. “I haven’t begun the lessons because I was weighing up whether my pupil would be too much of a dullard to learn.”

  I picked up a bundle of dry leaves and threw them at her. In return she scooped up a pile and prepared to hurl them back. I stepped sideways and lost my footing. For a second I hung there, leaning over the hungry blackness of the hole. The full knowledge of what were happening ran through my body. Kate screamed and reached to grab me but it were too late. I disappeared into the darkness.

  Kate screamed again and pushed herself as far over the edge as she dared. Her body were outlined against the bright sky above. She shouted my name and it echoed back up from the blackness.

  “Now ain’t that typical of the Irish. They can’t win a fight so they try to push a man to his death,” I called back.

  “You’re not dead?” Kate screamed.

  “If I were dead, then I wouldn’t be answering you, would I? I’m on a ledge of some sort. There are leaves and stuff down here.” I could see Kate’s head and shoulders outlined against the bright blue sky above. I’d not fallen down far but it were far enough. Even so, the fall might still have injured me if it weren’t for the leaves I landed on.

  “Are you alright? Can you get out?”

  “If I move I might fall off the ledge.” I stretched out my leg and tried to feel what I thought were the edge, but down where I were, the shadows seemed to swallow the light. I could feel the wind move around me in soft swirling eddies and the underground water more clearly.

  “I’ll get Cain and the others. They’ll get you out.”

  “Don’t,” I said evenly. “If your father finds out we’ve been up here alone, he’ll throw me down the rest of the way. Listen to me carefully, Kate. Go back and get some rope. Don’t let the others see what you’re up to. Get some tallow candles and a tinderbox.” I tried to make my voice sound as calm as possible. Kate’s head disappeared and a
shower of leaves fell down on me as she climbed away from the opening.

  “I’ll be back soon,” she shouted as her voice retreated.

  “I’ll be waiting,” I said in reply to nobody but me.

  It were near an hour before Kate returned. Cain had seen her with the rope and wouldn’t let her go until she’d told him the whole story. Now he also hung over the edge.

  “Are you still there?” he called out.

  “Bloody hell,” I cursed. “Did you bring Jack and your father along as well?”

  “It’d be better if she had. How on earth did you think a slip of a girl were going to haul you out of there?” Cain demanded. “How far down are you?”

  “Not far. Throw me down the tinderbox and a candle. I’ll try and see where I am.”

  Cain weren’t convinced throwing a tinderbox down a hole were helpful. I think he thought there might be spirits down there what were best not seen. Even when he did, it took me some time before I could get a candle lit. Where I stood, the leaves were damp from the hole above.

  Shadows danced all around me as the candle swayed and dipped. The ledge I were on were broad and deep, reaching into the darkness behind me. But what I thought were a drop, were a steep tumble of rocks what led downwards towards the sound of running water.

  “I’m going to look around,” I called back.

  “You will not!” Cain cried, “Or I’ll be getting Mr O’Neill up here to give you a hiding.”

  “Sorry, Cain, I can’t hear you very well, down here.”

  “I forbid you to do anything,” called Cain again.

  “Be careful,” Kate shouted.

  “Don’t worry, I will,” I answered.

  “Aye, you can hear well enough when you want to,” Cain growled.

  Cain were in the process of throwing down curses at the turnip-headed, mutton-brained boy who were surely crawling to his death, when Kate threw down the rope and tied the other end to a tree.

  As I climbed down, a world I couldn’t believe began to grow in the flickering of the candle. I slid down the rocks into a cavern bigger ’n the hold of the largest ship. The candle dipped as though it were about to go out and then flared again. The ground weren’t even but tilted heavily towards the darkness. It were wet and difficult to move around without fear of slipping. In all my dreams I couldn’t have imagined what I seen. “You ain’t going to believe this,” I called out. “There’s icicles and they’re made of stone. Millions of them.”

  “Stone icicles. Holy Mother, ’tis a cursed place. Come up before you run into something.”

  “They’re called stalactites,” Kate said. “Can you break one off and bring it up?”

  As I climbed down deeper, it were difficult to hear what were being said, their voices were so muffled. From the murmurs above, I could vaguely hear Cain alternating between prayers and curses. “I’ll not be coming down there to fetch you out,” he shouted every now and then.

  The climb out were hard. I scrambled back up to the place where I’d fallen but there were naught to grab hold of and the only place what seemed possible crumbled as I tried to get a grip. But as they pulled me up I found footholds what weren’t evident before. The rope cut deep under my arms, and my hands and knees were scraped badly against the rock. Leaves and dirt tumbled down on me as I climbed. The thought crossed my mind Cain were doing it on purpose to spite me for climbing further down the hole. By the time I got to the top I were covered in dirt.

  “For the love of Mary, what is it that were worth risking your life?” Cain demanded.

  But Kate had already thrown her arms around me.

  That night, the dreams returned.

  Will was in a corridor that he didn’t recognise. It was dark but not night. What little light there was, was red like blood, casting misshapen shadowy figures up the wall. He was looking for something. For someone. He began pushing open doors only to find empty rooms. Everything was gone. With each room the panic grew. There was smoke. The house was filled with smoke, he realised. He needed to get out but for some reason his legs were being dragged back into the darkness. He was struggling towards the door but the corridor seemed to get longer and longer. As he pushed his way back outside, smoke rolled and twisted around him. He could hear the fire crack and rumble but he couldn’t see where it was. Ash was falling like snow. All else was silent as death. Nothing moved. He had to get away, but where?

  He woke with a start. He was sweating and panting. In the house, he heard Pa calling out and then the voice fell silent. He turned on his side, knowing he wouldn’t sleep again. The house ached in the night and memories moved like shadows outside. He wondered what had woken Pa and knew tomorrow would be hard. Whenever his pa had a nightmare, things seemed to slip back and he was impossible to be around. On those days Pa would be as bad-tempered and as distant as ever. Will had learned that there was no point in trying to spend time with him. Instead he’d disappear and see if Dot needed a hand.

  Since the day with the shoe, something had changed with Pa. There was an understanding between them. Some mornings he’d announce to Will’s grandmother, “The boy will come with me today.” Will tried again and again to remind him that he had a name. Pa would just grunt and go back to calling him Boy or Lad. Will wasn’t always sure if he kept forgetting, or whether he just liked to call him Boy because it suited him. He’d refer to Rosie as the ‘little girl’.

  But there were good days as well. Sometimes Pa would show him how to do a task and there was a sense of satisfaction when he managed to do it well. Pa would say, “Just maybe there’s a farmer in you, Boy. Just maybe.” On good mornings, Gran would smile at Will as he left, as if saying, I told you it was just a matter of time before he came around. But things were never as simple as Gran pretended.

  “How did you know about the dam wall?” Pa asked one afternoon while they were repairing feedbags.

  “I’m not sure. I remember when it was being built.”

  Pa said nothing but kept stitching. He grasped the needle and worked it with strength and agility, the sinews and veins on his arms were like ridges of mountains on a brown withered land. Eventually he said, “Not possible. It was built a long time ago, well before I was born.”

  “Then I don’t know.” Will picked up the feedbag that Pa had finished and handed him another.

  “It’s a bad place to go. You mustn’t listen to the boy. He’ll turn you inside out so you’ll never be sure of what’s what,” he said still intent on the stitching.

  “What boy?”

  He stopped and stood straight. “You know.”

  Will wanted to ask a thousand questions but when Pa decided that the conversation was over, he’d just retreat into himself and ignore the world. It was the most unreasonable way of resolving every argument. He didn’t just stop talking about the issue. He just stopped talking altogether. His silence might last anywhere from five minutes to five hours.

  A week after the shoe incident, a pair of brown workboots appeared on the verandah. “You needed some real boots. Real boots,” he said again, as if there were some other kind. “If you’re going to be a farmer, you need real boots.”

  Will went to thank him but he was already walking away. “A man’s got to have decent shoes,” he muttered.

  Will knew that it was his gran who’d done the buying. Pa never left the farm. Even so, Will knew they were a kind of peace offering. It was as close as he could get to saying sorry.

  As weeks passed, they walked the property over and over. Will could see that the farm was steadily falling apart. He wondered if Pa saw it the same way. If he did, he said nothing. Nature was working hard to reclaim its possession. He wondered how long Gran and Pa could keep it up before they had to sell and move somewhere gentler. Will sensed that Pa was the land and the land was Pa. His hands were the brown of the earth, his back the twisted white gums, his face the cracked and weathered cliffs. Will knew that if Pa left, the land would cease to be. He’d die here and his breath would go back i
nto the breeze.

  “Gran, how long have you and Pa lived here?” Will asked one evening when his pa had decided he no longer wanted to speak and had miserably trundled off to his room.

  “Before your father was born and then a bit.”

  “What was it like when you first came?” Will tried again.

  “Goodness, you’re full of questions tonight.” She plunged a pot into the washing up. “The farm’s changed a lot over the years, especially since Pa . . .” she paused. Will knew there were things that she didn’t talk about either. “Since Pa found things a bit more difficult.” She scrubbed the pot more vigorously. “Your grandfather had done lots of odd jobs around the place, on farms and the like. He’d been doing work on this farm for Dot’s grandparents. He got into his head that he was going to buy this bit of land and he pestered them until they sold him the back part of their property. You know what he’s like when he gets an idea in his head.” She laughed as she pushed back a strand of hair with her sudsy hand. “Well, this was the place that we were going to buy and there was no changing it. Your grandfather worked like a navvy building the house and clearing fields. All of this area was mostly scrub until he worked it into pasture. It breaks my heart to see it going to ruin again . . . but what can you do. We’re getting old and nothing will change that. I guess the time will come when he won’t be able to do it anymore.”

  “But Pa loves this place,” Will said. He felt a sudden surge of anxiety about the idea that they’d sell the farm. “It’d kill him to leave!”

  “Hang on a second. You’re about ten steps ahead of yourself. No one said we were going to sell the farm. I suspect they’ll bury us both here,” she laughed and flicked some soap bubbles at him.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “We’re not dead yet, Will. Though I suspect your grandfather will hang around.” She chuckled involuntarily.

  “I mean, really. Do you think someone’s spirit can stay in a place?”