She set everything on a tablecloth and then bundled it up. She was tying it to her waist when she noticed the old woman standing in front of the fire.
Go, the old woman said.
Jessie pushed out into the yard and up to the stable. She mounted Houdini and rode him out. She rode up the steep slope and did not look back. She could not tear straight up the mountain in the dark so she zigzagged as far and as fast as she could. The bundle loosened on her waist and she wrestled with it as she rode, tying it tighter, prizing all of its stolen contents. She steered Houdini by his mane and felt a strength pulsing through her arms and across her chest, as if her body was remembering itself as she rode.
As soon as the sun tipped the horizon she tore up the slope. It was only when she reached a solid ridge that she dared to look back down into the valley.
There was no sign of any human presence and she could not see the old woman and the old man’s cottage or any other hut. Below were empty fields but for clusters of trees and the river. The river stretched south and wound its way across cleared paddocks, a measure of how far she had come.
III
THE EARTH, AS I can feel it, is pressed together at points and ruptured in parts. And so events seem to fold into each other, like burial and birth. It’s not like the smooth and undulating beauty of a ribbon streaming out. No. The earth buckles with the stories it holds of all those who have cried and all those who have croaked.
The dying began in 1903 when my mother was nine and then it happened again in 1904 when she was ten. No dream or nightmare could have prepared her.
Life until then was riding horses in and around The Woods and climbing trees and at night lying in her bed and sending out love from each side of the single chalk line that divided her. The horses were real and so were the trees but the chalk line was a thing in her head though she saw it clearly enough, running over her body and over the bed, and she slept knowing that equal parts of her were apportioned to the two people she loved most, her father and Mrs Peel.
They lived in Mrs Peel’s house—Septimus, Aoife and the five children. As a single man, Septimus had boarded with the widow, Mrs Peel, and kept her gardens and set up his blacksmith business in her back shed. She welcomed Septimus’s burgeoning family and became like a grandmother to them, midwifing each one of them.
Jessie did not know how, as adults, they divided their love between five children but she felt their devotion wholly: Mrs Peel performing all of the duties under the sun, seeming to overflow with a bottomless well of devotion, and Septimus working every day from his shed to feed and clothe them. Each afternoon he would take a break from his work to lead a procession into the forest, a procession of children running after imaginary creatures and collecting pine cones or taking turns at riding on their father’s shoulders.
Through all of it, Aoife slept. Her room was a fortress and the children were forbidden from knocking on the door or entering. It seemed to Jessie that her mother had slept for most of her life and when she did appear, pale and tall and drifting around the kitchen, she was always groggy or annoyed and Jessie knew better than to bother her.
The household ticked over well enough even with Aoife’s occasional appearances. Most days and nights they forgot she was there. Mrs Peel sat at one end of the table and Septimus sat at the other and Jessie felt that the world was at least in perfect balance, if not in perfect harmony.
One winter morning the children were slinking around the table in their pyjamas but there was no breakfast to eat and there was no Mrs Peel. The two older boys were already out and working with their father, which left Jessie and her sister, who was older by a year, and their little brother, who was four. They raced to Mrs Peel’s room and, pushing open her door, found her sitting upright in her bed, her mouth agape and her teeth in a glass beside her. Her eyes, too, were wide open.
They climbed on her bed to wake her from her open-eyed sleep but though they tugged and pushed her she did not stir but fell sideways. Jessie’s sister screamed.
Septimus appeared and ordered them to get down from the bed. They watched as he put his head to Mrs Peel’s chest and his fingers to her neck. Then he sat down beside her and pushed her eyelids shut. He turned to face the three of them. They were swinging from the brass ends of the bed. Children, Mrs Peel has passed on.
Passed where? they said.
I’m afraid Mrs Peel is dead.
Until then, Jessie had not known that anyone could die or leave her. Her father’s words left her with a lopsided feeling. It was as if one half of her was just a dull outline in the air and the other side of her had vanished completely.
It was less than a year after Mrs Peel’s death that Jessie woke to hear a rattle and a groan from the direction of her father’s shed. She lurched past her sister’s bed to the window. Outside, Aoife was wheeling what looked like a body slumped in a barrow. Jessie ran past the other bedrooms and into her father’s room. Finding his bed empty she ran down the hallway to the back door and over the lawn to see her father’s cart pulling away and weaving a terror up the road.
She ran after it and when she could not catch it she veered off the road and ran through the neighbours’paddock and caught one of the horses in their yard. She cantered back to the road and followed the tracks of the cart. She rode until she reached the outskirts of the city, until the dirt became bricks and pavers and the streets narrowed and there were people, strangers, stepping in and out of shadows, and there were no longer tracks to see or to follow.
One of the strangers stepped out onto the road and reached for the horse and said, Little girl! But there were no reins or bridle to catch and Jessie rode around him and through the streets until she was near lost completely. She knew at least the direction of the river so she rode until she reached it. She could see people were living in tents along its banks and the smell of open sewers was overwhelming. She rode on regardless, passing more tents, but there was no sign of people until she saw at last a footbridge and one tall, pale figure pushing a barrow. It was Aoife.
Jessie leapt off the horse and ran towards her. Closer, she could see the barrow was empty. She spread out her arms to block Aoife’s way and said, What have you done with our dad? Aoife did not answer so Jessie grabbed her skirt and yelled again, What have you done? Aoife continued walking with Jessie dragging behind her but then she shook her off and Jessie fell against the wooden slats of the bridge.
Your father is dead, said Aoife.
You killed him, said Jessie. She could hardly speak the words. She was seething, delirious.
Get up, you stupid child, said Aoife. Your father killed himself.
My mother did not believe her.
Aoife left her there and drove away. Jessie walked back to the middle of the bridge and then all was silent but for the black and shimmering river lapping against the bank. Soon it settled and it was just a mirror reflecting stars and it looked to her like the universe had turned itself inside out and over.
Later, Jessie would dream that she dived in after her father. In reality, she sat on the bridge until the sun came up. Only then did she notice the horse was gone. So she walked along the riverbank until she spotted another. She did not care for any consequence, just flipped herself up onto the horse and tore along the riverbank. She rode in the direction of her house but did not stop when she got there. She kept going until she reached The Woods and there she let the horse go and climbed a tree. After sitting in it all day and the next night she realised a terrible thing: her father and Mrs Peel were gone because she loved them both too much and somehow that love had disturbed the perfect balance of the universe. It had tipped things right over.
FROM OLD ROAD the police hut appeared deserted. Jack Brown slowed his horse and examined the place from a distance. A blanketed horse stepped from behind the hut and turned in the holding yard.
Around him, Jack Brown could see the country from this side was swept clean. Winds buffeted the rise, and despite the recent downpour the grass was a yellowy grey and
the trees all had a bent-over and craggy look. Mostly, the view was of trees and shadows of trees on empty fields. There were a few young eucalypts clustered near to the hut and their branches fell together like the fanning tail of a lyrebird.
Jack Brown eased himself out of the saddle and tied up his horse at the front of the hut. He approached the hut slowly, stepping heavy on the ground, wanting to surprise no one. He knocked on the door, waited, knocked again and then peered in through a window at the front of the hut. He could see a man tiptoeing around in his socks.
Jack Brown sat on the wooden bench that ran between the window and the door and made scraping sounds with the heels of his boots on the boards so the police sergeant would know he was still there, waiting.
Soon he heard a bolt slide back. The sergeant was at the door.
Jack Brown stood up, took off his hat, offered his hand. Morning, Sergeant, I’m Jack Brown.
The sergeant was a head or so taller than Jack Brown, but Jack Brown guessed they were about the same age, or maybe Jack Brown was older.
Sergeant Andrew Barlow, the sergeant said and shook Jack Brown’s hand.
Jack Brown noticed Barlow had put on his polished boots and a police coat before he stepped outside. He had sparse blond sideburns and he had combed his hair down in front of his ears as if to make up for the lack of them. There was a city air about him. To Jack Brown he looked like some fop who had been dropped ill-equipped into the valley and into the hut.
You’re the first man I’ve met here so far, said Barlow. Least the first one who’s introduced himself openly. Mostly people run for cover when they see me coming.
Don’t take it personally, Sergeant, said Jack Brown. Any policeman round here would find it hard to win favour.
Certainly no one is bringing me hot dinners, said Barlow.
The two men laughed and Jack Brown could feel himself relaxing.
How long you been here? he asked.
Twenty-one days and counting.
About as long as my ride up north, said Jack Brown.
They stood in silence then, on the veranda, looking out into the valley.
What brings you here, Jack Brown? said Barlow finally.
I’m a drover for Fitzgerald Henry, said Jack Brown. I’m just back from delivering his cattle up north, but on returning I discovered there’s been a fire at his house and neither he nor his wife are there now and there are no neighbours to speak of, or none who would be concerned for their whereabouts. So, Sergeant, I’m not really sure why I am here, whether it is to report them dead or to report them missing.
Barlow’s eyes lit up. Have you had a good look around the house?
I have, said Jack Brown, and as he said it there were feelings welling up in him and he did not know what to do with them. He found it easier to look out towards the valley as he spoke rather than to look Barlow in the eye. I found no sign of either one of them. There are some horses in the stable, but many are missing and there are cattle still wandering all over his property.
Were there children? asked Barlow.
No. Or rather none yet.
Yet?
Jessie was pregnant.
Jessie? said Barlow. Then, to Jack Brown’s surprise Barlow put a hand on his shoulder. Jack Brown, it is right you are here because this is much more than one man can handle.
Right, Sergeant, said Jack Brown. He was relieved to have a partner in it all.
Will you ride there with me? said Barlow.
Of course. It’s about half a day’s ride.
You lead, said Barlow.
They set off down Old Road, Barlow’s horse freshly saddled, Jack Brown’s watered and fed. From the outset the horses they rode were not in synch; Barlow’s horse was edging out in front of Jack Brown’s and Jack Brown thought it was better not to irritate the man or his horse. He pulled back.
Do you know where you’re going? Jack Brown said to Barlow.
No, said Barlow, I'm off the map.
Cross the field. You’ll get to the river. Follow the river to the forest then head into the forest. You’ll see a track. Keep on it till you get to the other side.
They steered their horses off Old Road and into the field. The grass cracked against the legs of their horses and within the grass Jack Brown could see the ribs of cattle but it did not slow them. Both men’s horses slewed across the paddock, kicking up dirt and bones, neck to neck, Jack Brown’s horse hedging Barlow’s.
THEY MOVED LIKE apparitions, shifting in swathes of red in the distance.
Jessie pulled up her horse. There was a woman, her skirt draped over her arm in a bundle, and a man wearing a jacket with tails that flew out as he walked. He was twice the width of the woman, even with her carrying the bundle.
Jessie was twelve years old. By then she cared for nothing, nothing but pushing her lean body to the limits of itself, climbing higher and higher trees and riding recklessly. Every day Jessie launched herself onto her horse and tore across the paddock at breakneck speed. And when she was bored of charging back and forth, she’d flip herself around to ride seated backwards or push the horse to clear a fence and then turn it sharply to clear the fence again, zigzagging a course. She did not care for style or form, as long as she felt the air passing through her.
One day she rode the horse right up to the fence and, just before it jumped, she flipped her legs up along its back, as if she were flying.
They saw her.
Jessie regarded them from her horse but she did not ride towards them. She sat watching as they walked, as the details of their forms became clearer. The sun caught the gold threads of the man’s jacket and he glimmered in patches. Jessie shielded her eyes from the glare of it. The woman wore a headdress, though it might have been hair piled up on her head, with flowers and combs and feathers poking out of it.
Dear girl, called the woman, waving a lace handkerchief above her head. She was striding now, almost running towards Jessie. My dear girl, we saw you riding. We’re on our way out of town, but we had to stop and ask you . . .
The woman was out of breath. Her cheeks were pink and her hair dripped in ringlets around her high forehead. Ask me what? said Jessie.
Your name, darling girl. Your name and the age of you.
Jessie swung down from her horse and stood in front of them. Why do you wanna know?
Jessie was aware that her own hair hung around her shoulders in knots. She was barefoot and the clothes she wore were her brothers’cast-offs.
Where is your mother? asked the woman.
Jessie pointed to the rusted roof of the house at the edge of the paddock. She’s over there.
Through the kitchen window Aoife saw the couple and Jessie leading her horse beside them. The woman looked dazzling to Aoife and she was made even more dazzling in contrast to the neglected lawn and house. She slipped behind the cupboard to wet her lips, pinch her cheeks and push up the messy tendrils of her hair.
Hello, the woman called through the door. Are you Jessie’s mother?
Who’s asking? said Aoife, going out to meet them. What’s she done now?
I am Miss Spangellotti and this is Mirkus, said the woman. And we have had the good fortune of meeting your daughter.
What could be fortunate about that? said Aoife.
We are forming a circus and we think your daughter could be one of our star performers, said Mirkus.
Jessie saw Aoife’s eyes narrow.
Of course, said Mirkus, we will offer you some compensation for the absence of your daughter.
To make up for your loss, added Miss Spangellotti.
You know she is worth a lot to me, said Aoife.
If Aoife had asked any questions other than How much for my daughter? she might have discovered that Miss Spangellotti and Mirkus were both German and they were determined to tour ‘Mingling Bros Circus of the World’to every city and town in Australia. But she did not care to know where her wild daughter was headed.
That afternoon, Jessie hugged her lit
tle brother but not her mother and she climbed into the back of the high-wheeled wagon. There was no one else to say goodbye to. Her older brothers and sister had already left home and were working in the city, her brothers as blacksmiths and her sister as a domestic. Aoife walked out to the front of the house holding her youngest son by the hand but he broke away and ran after the wagon.
Jessie waved to him and she thought to yell, Go home, but she did not because they did not seem to be the right words to say. The dust from the road soon enveloped him and soon she was numb to all feeling.
ON THE EDGE of Fitz’s forest Jack Brown unsaddled his horse, unstrung his swag and saddlebag and threw it all down. There was just enough light to pass them through the forest but Jack Brown convinced Barlow they did not want to arrive at Fitz’s in the half-dark and have to camp there all night among the unbroken horses and frightened cattle. It was easy to persuade Barlow. By the end of the day he was flopping around in his saddle and Jack Brown could see the circles under his eyes had grown darker over their ride.
Jack Brown was in a sour mood. He felt it coming on as they approached the forest. He had compromised himself, and the forest and all it contained reminded him of that. Cobbling together half-truths and worrying more for his own neck than anybody else’s were not the actions of the man he had supposed himself to be. Why should he have to win his freedom with lies? And if he could actually confess it, what would the truth be anyway? Sergeant, for three years I have been rustling horses and cattle for Fitzgerald Henry alongside his wife, and over that time I came to love her, or at least I believed I did. Fitz was a brute and I did not have the courage to stand up to him and when finally I did have the courage the man was dead.
Fitz had died by Jessie’s hand, Jack Brown knew it. By escaping and leaving Jack Brown to find the body, Jessie had made him a suspect. And he knew now they were in the worst kind of bind. Their freedom was in competition.
The Burial Page 7