by Margaret Way
For the first time Sarina appeared flustered, then she rallied. “Who would care? I’ll be out of the country.”
“That’s if Dev releases the money.”
Sarina put her hands over her ears as though she didn’t want to hear a word more. “I did my best, Amelia. I kept you. You should be eternally grateful. I won’t have you digging into my past. I won’t allow it. It’s water under the bridge. Accept it. Dev won’t marry you any more than Gregory would marry me. But a man has to have his sexual needs fulfilled. That’s where we came in. Dev has always had, shall I say, a soft spot for me. I’ll be able to talk him into releasing my money early. Now, go, Amelia. You’ve always been awkward to have around, with your never-ending questions.”
Mel rose to her feet. “They will be answered,” she said, certainty written all over her. “Take it on board, mother dear. You haven’t seen the last of us, Dev and me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The birds woke Mel around 5:00 a.m., a dawn symphony struck up from the highest branches in the wild bush. It was played with wondrous abandon by a multitude of voices in all registers. The strings reigned supreme, followed by the flutes, then the reeds, bolstered here and there by contrasting bass voices. It was inspirational to the ear and psychologically effective. Lying there listening, Mel felt better balanced to get on with her life.
Her sleep had been riven with nightmares. The ghosts of the past—Mireille, the wicked witch had figured largely; Sarina with all her dark harmonies fully revealed. Sarina had not only fooled her daughter, she had fooled everyone. Maybe even Gregory Langdon. Although, on her own admission, someone had called Sarina a liar. But it was all over now. Mel felt there was little hope of reconciliation. Sarina hadn’t been cut out for motherhood. Not all women were. Even robbed of Dev, the man she loved, she would still want the truth. It was instinctive in every human being who discovered they knew little or nothing about their early life, or indeed about their true parentage. Sadness and disillusionment weren’t easy to bear. They were binding chains that had to be broken.
* * *
She threw on her riding gear, then made her way through the silent house, taking a back entrance to the stables complex. A good gallop in the crisp morning air would clear her head and settle her nerves. She didn’t expect the lads to be about yet, but she could saddle up her own horse. The finest horses were stabled at night and turned out by day. Ordinary horses were only brought inside in the depths of cold. It was unnatural, in any case, to keep a horse in a confined space for any length of time.
Unexpectedly, as she crossed the courtyard, she could hear voices coming from the tack room—male voices, one very loud, hectoring, full of wrath, jabbering in a tribal dialect. Two younger voices were trying to get a word in. Clearly there was an argument in progress. Did life ever run smooth? She had no intention of turning about. Perhaps she could settle it?
She strode into the room where dozens of bridles hung from their racks, the reins looped through the nosebands, saddles aplenty with all the accessories. The room smelt of all the usual things—horses, hay, leather, liniments. And something else, something rank.
The two part Aboriginal stable lads turned to her, clearly frightened, not to say terrified by a menacing presence.
“Good morning.” She gave them a quick encouraging nod before turning to the ancient man, who stood his ground. He looked scary enough to spook anybody.
She knew him. It was years since she had last laid eyes on him. It was Tjungurra, the sorcerer, who was widely believed to have caused deaths. Tjungurra, the kurdaitcha man, whose role it had been to punish all transgressors. He was naked except for a pair of torn and dirty shorts, his emaciated chest hideously disfigured by deep ugly scars that had tribal significance. Bunches of dried leaves were tied to his arms. On his snow-white head, the hair wildly tangled, he wore a filthy scarlet headscarf. Brilliantly coloured parrot feathers hung from his long beard. In the old days no one would have dared cross Tjungurra. Tribal people continued to believe in sorcery and Tjungurra had undoubtedly been a kurdaitcha man.
The lads, from their fearful expressions, clearly thought he was still operative. Even more alarming, the rheumy black eyes fixed on Mel appeared to hold hatred.
“What are you doing here, Tjungurra?” she asked in a crisp but unthreatening voice. She faced the old horror front on, aware the lads were casting uneasy looks in her direction.
For answer, Tjungurra lifted his bony arm, balled a hand into a fist, then shook it at her, jabbering away in his native dialect. He appeared filled with rage. She could only pick up on one word in the torrent that spewed from his lips. She looked back at the old man, startled.
“I’m Amelia,” she said. “Amelia,” she stressed, pointing to herself. “Sarina is my mother. Are you talking about my mother?”
“Leave ’im be, Miz Mel,” one of the lads was brave enough to warn her, even if his voice emerged as a croak.
Tjungurra turned on him and the lad actually shrieked. Even Mel’s nerve endings were trembling. “Speak English,” she ordered. “What is it you want?”
The old man dared to move closer, causing an escalation in tension.
Why is he here? Is this really happening?
“Sarina,” he jabbered hoarsely. “Saa…ree…naa…” He drew out the syllables like a length of rope.
It was a lovely name on most people’s lips, but there was no music in the way the old man spoke it. It sounded more like a curse.
There was a hard twisting inside of Mel. “How did my father die?” She couldn’t control it. She started to shout at the old man. “Tell me or I’ll have you locked up. Locked away in a jail. You’d die there, caged like a wild animal. The old woman isn’t alive to protect you. She can’t take care of you.”
The old man threw her a poisonous look, apparently just starting to warm up. He yanked a single brilliant parrot feather out of his beard.
“You don’t frighten me, old man.” One of the lads had surreptitiously put a whip into her hand. Now she brought it out, cracked it, causing the sorcerer to fall back, though he continued to point the feather at her as though he were a spear thrower.
No one had heard Dev come to the door. They all jumped at the sound of his voice. His tall, powerfully lean figure was silhouetted against the backdrop of brilliant morning light.
Mel spoke impetuously. “Look who’s here, Dev. The wicked old man who killed my father.”
“Mel!” he remonstrated, knowing how volatile she was.
“He did. He did,” she shouted, with no way of knowing if it were true. There was a sharp pain in her right temple as though one of her rare migraines was about to start.
Dev reached her in a few strides, getting a firm grip on her arm. “I’m here, Mel. Get control.” There was such toughness and authority about him even a sorcerer would think twice about messing with such a man. Moreover, a Langdon. The nomadic Tjungurra had crisscrossed Kooraki all his life.
It appeared Mel’s accusations hadn’t frightened the old sorcerer. Grinning evilly, he began to move about in a mockery of a dance, though it was soon apparent the movement caused him severe pain in the back and hips.
Dev’s order to stop was more effective than Mel’s crack of the whip. Instantly the old sorcerer broke off his weird ritual. Dev advanced on him, towering over him, speaking in Tjungurra’s own dialect.
“Make him tell you, Dev,” Mel implored, filled with an enormous conviction that Mireille Langdon had sought the help of the kurdaitcha man. She had it now. Mireille had wanted Michael Norton badly injured or dead. Had she cared? A jealous wife, a faithless husband, the woman who had stolen the faithless man’s spirit. Michael Norton had been determined to be the most vulnerable. The easiest and most accessible to become the victim.
Dev looked over the old man’s white head into Mel’s eyes. “There’s no way to make him speak, Mel. He’d die before he’d ever do that.”
“Time for him to die!” Mel cried. “What’s he
doing here, anyway? Has he come for Sarina? Your grandfather is dead. He’s heard about it, of course. The old drum system. That’s why he’s turned up. Is it revenge time? He mentioned her. I’m sure he thought I was her. He’s probably gaga, the old murderer.”
“I’ll have him shifted away,” Dev promised her.
“Where is far enough?” Mel cried. “The South Pole?”
With a gesture of his hand, Dev had the lads leave. They moved off in record time. They didn’t want to deal with any of it. Least of all the kurdaitcha man.
“Someone spooked the cattle that day, Dev,” Mel said, believing in her deepest heart that it had been this menacing old full-blooded Aboriginal.
Dev shook his head. “There was no evidence of that.”
“Was? You know about this?” Her voice rose towards the rafters.
“For God’s sake, Mel. It was over twenty years ago. I was a kid like you.”
“Never like me! You’re a Langdon. Even a kurdaitcha man would hesitate to kill a Langdon outright. Mike Norton, sure. We know the old monster used to make poison powder. I wonder why Mireille didn’t get him to make up a batch for the house.”
Dev’s dynamic face went taut with strain. “Leave it there, Mel.”
“I won’t!” she defied him. “Were there sanctions imposed on this dreadful old creature? He would have feared Gregory like everyone else. Gregory wouldn’t have had a problem having him killed or worse, locked up for life.” Her whole body was shivering although it was hot. “Look at the old devil. He’s aligning himself with you.”
“He has to,” Dev said briefly, his voice tight with control. “His power has long waned. He has no magic against me or mine. Go back to the house, Mel. We’ll talk together later on. The plane leaves at eight o’clock sharp. We’re rid of your mother once and for all.”
Mel pointed to the old sorcerer as if she were pointing the bone. “He killed him. He caused him to be killed. Poor Michael, the innocent victim.” She broke down, starting to sob. “You knew all this, Dev,” she accused him. “You’ve known or had your suspicions for years about this bloodthirsty old man. But you had to protect the Langdon name. You people who think you’re unaccountable, living like feudal lords in your own private kingdom. The likes of me can go to hell.”
“Mel!” Dev implored, summoning up every scrap of his huge reserve of self-control. “We’ll talk about this when you calm down.” He would think of something to defuse the emotion.
“To hell with you!” Mel was on a roll. She rushed to the door, but not before she saw the old sorcerer nodding vigorously, a hideous grin of glee on his face.
* * *
Back at the homestead, she realized there was nothing else for it. Sarina, as persona non grata, was more or less confined to her room. Every step Mel took, she felt more and more drawn into Sarina’s horrible sticky web.
“Knock, knock, who’s there!” Sarina stood in the open doorway, coiled like a spring ready to snap.
“I’m getting awfully bored with this, Amelia. I’m not telling you anything more. I thought I made that clear.”
“Don’t Amelia me!” Mel pushed her mother back into the room. “Dressed for the trip, are we? Versace silk shirt, beautifully cut designer pants. How elegant you look! You could be any beautiful woman who has known nothing but a life of wealth and privilege. Except you’re a total fraud.”
Sarina made a derisive sound. “I have to be downstairs in twenty minutes, Amelia.” Clearly she thought her daughter a pushover.
“Tough! Let ’em wait! Sit down, mother dear. You don’t feel uncomfortable, travelling with the enemy?”
“I sit at the back. I am blind to them.”
“You’re blind to everything,” Mel said. “I’d been intent on a morning ride to clear my head, only I met up with a guy looking for you.”
“Me?” Sarina looked startled.
“You’ll remember him, I’m sure.”
Sarina dropped into a chair, winding her arms around herself. “Who is it?”
“You surprise me, even now. Is there someone looking for you?”
“Amelia, there’s no time,” Sarina protested sharply.
“Take a guess.”
Sarina’s magnificent eyes suddenly rimmed with tears. “Why are you so cruel?”
“Won’t work, Mum. You’d remember him. Tjungurra?”
Sarina didn’t say anything for a moment. She looked mystified.
“The old witch doctor, the kurdaitcha man,” Mel prompted.
“That old cannibal, looking for me?” Sarina asked in amazement. “Whatever for? I never had anything to do with such a creature.”
“Well, he’s come looking for you,” Mel said. “Heard the old lion is dead. Michael is dead. There’s only you. I even had a bit of a scare. He thought I was you.”
Sarina took a sharp breath. “Well, you certainly look like me.” She put up her hands, rubbing her fingers across her temples. “What is this?” She appeared genuinely bewildered. But who would know? Her mother might be one of the greatest actresses in the world, but Mel’s gut instinct told her that she really didn’t know.
“It’s a good thing you’re getting out of here, Mum,” she said. “You’re hated. The evil old bird even came in ritual dress. I believe he was responsible for the stampede that killed Michael. It would be easy for him. He was over twenty years younger. I further believe Mireille put him up to it. She was in league with the devil. Langdon was too powerful to touch. You were locked away in the homestead, pretty well inaccessible. Easy to lie in wait for Michael. Your shocking affair with Gregory Langdon led to an innocent man’s death,” she cried in fierce and passionate challenge.
Sarina suddenly appeared massively uneasy. “Sheer speculation! You always did have an over-vivid imagination, Amelia.”
“I have?” Mel cried. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“I know absolutely nothing about this,” Sarina swore. “It’s not even something I can accept. Michael’s death was investigated. It was a tragic accident.”
Mel shook her head. “Mireille and Tjungurra were in it together.”
Sarina bristled with anger. “Where’s the proof? You’re a sad, disturbed soul, Amelia.”
“I have been, but not any more. I’ve been the victim of a conspiracy.”
Sarina reacted with fury. “This is bizarre! I would never have been party to having Michael harmed. He was a good man, good to me. He helped me get away.”
“But he wasn’t my father?”
Colour rose to Sarina’s face. “No, Amelia, I’ve told you he wasn’t.”
That hit her like a body blow.
Sarina spoke as though she had at long last laid down a heavy burden. “Michael came to my rescue after my lover abandoned me. The man promised me he was going to leave his wife. He swore he loved me. Never, ever believe a man loves you, Amelia. He may lust after you. Love, never. My father and my lover were responsible for what happened to me. I hate men. They’re users. They can discard women like old shoes. Women don’t matter. He gave me money instead.”
Mel tried very hard to keep calm. “So the burning question—who was he?”
“Let me finish.” Sarina had to gulp for air. “He was much respected in the town. A science teacher. I was a schoolgirl. He used to give me a ride home sometimes from school. Such a gentleman.”
Mel couldn’t answer for a moment, then she said, “Mum, I can’t bear to hear. Just tell me the name of the town. I’ll find out, anyway. Don’t make an enemy of me. You’ve got enough already. Wonder of wonders, I’m still an ally.”
“You are my daughter,” Sarina reminded Mel with monumental self-regard. “The name of the town is Silverton.”
Mel didn’t have a clue. “Am I supposed to know where that is?”
“North Queensland.” Sarina rested her head in her hands.
Mel took a deep breath, trying to shake off her feeling of unreality. “But you always said your family lived in Sydney, thousands of m
iles away from North Queensland.”
Sarina gave a sour laugh. “I was more comfortable with Sydney, that’s all. Love hurts, Amelia.”
“Everything hurts!” Mel burst out. “Love kills. Betrayal kills. It killed Michael. And Mireille was prepared to have it done. But you were the one who exposed him to danger.”
Sarina swept to her feet, a twisted smile on her beautiful face. “I expect God will punish me. That’s if there is one. I don’t think highly of myself, Amelia. I am what I am.”
“Mum, anyone could say that. But you say it as though your actions can’t be explained otherwise. I suppose you couldn’t really love me because I was that man’s child. The man who abandoned you. So you’re what, Mum—forty-three, forty-four?”
“Something like that.” Sarina looked away. “Beauty can be a curse, Amelia. A curse when you’re young. A curse as you age and begin to suffer the ravages of time.”
“Well, that hasn’t happened to you so far, Mum,” Mel said acidly. “You look terrific and hey, you’re rich!”
Sarina walked to the door and leaned a hand against it for support. “Don’t go looking for that man, Amelia,” she warned. “I can spare you that, at least. He won’t want to know you if he’s even alive. He was nearly twice my age then. He laid waste to my youth, to my life. My own father did the rest.” Sarina spoke with so much passion she might have been reliving that traumatic time.
“Secrets, secrets, you’ve guarded them well. Your family lived in Silverton. It’s probably where you met Michael. And what of my grandparents?”
“They were punished,” said Sarina, her normally dulcet tones as hard as flint.
Mel got a grip on her mother’s shoulder. “Punished, how?”
“They’re dead, Amelia. Killed in a car crash.”
A doubting voice inside Mel’s head kicked in. “Did that just pop into your mind? I’m going to check all this out, Mum. I’m sorry for what happened to you. You were little more than a child. It was way too soon to have a baby. But you could have been a good mother to me—instead, you turned your back.”