‘I don’ give a damn. Just go.’
‘Let him watch‚’ Wilma said. ‘I don’t care.’
‘But I do.’ He stared at Waldo. ‘Get lost,’ he said again.
It rained the rest of the day and all the next and then stopped as suddenly as it had started. The sun came out. The land began to steam. Wilma and the two men left the cave but it was as Schultz had warned: the wet ground was like glue. In no time the soles of their boots were clogged with mud.
‘See?’ Schultz said. ‘I told you.’
Until the ground dried out they were going nowhere.
‘The rain has stopped, Cassie.’ Catriona turned away from the doorway and smiled at the girl’s expressionless black face. ‘My husband will be home soon.’
They waited until it grew dark but still Clive did not come. Catriona lay awake, watching the darkness, wondering what could have happened to him. As soon as it was light she said, ‘I am going down to the creek to see if I can see him. Perhaps the water is still too high for him to cross.’
Catriona walked down to the creek. It was hard going. The floods had subsided almost as quickly as they had come and the mound on which the house was built was clear of water but the sticky mud made walking difficult. She was tempted to go back but was determined to reach the creek and reach it she did.
The creek was still in spate, running almost to the top of its banks. Catriona thought it must be at least fifteen feet deep. There was no way Clive or anybody else could cross. She scanned the country on the far bank but could see nothing. She went back up the slope to the house.
Next morning Catriona was in the house with Cassie when the black girl gave a small shriek, hands flying to her face. Catriona turned to see two black men in the house with them. Their expressions were ferocious, their bodies were smeared with white clay, and they carried spears in their hands. Her first thought was for the baby asleep in the next room. She felt her heart stop beating for a second before she found her voice.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded, praying they could not detect her terror.
The men ignored her and shouted instead at Cassie, shaking their spears threateningly in her face.
Cassie’s teeth were chattering with fear but she talked and talked to them, gesturing repeatedly through the door, until finally the two men turned and rushed out again.
Knees almost too weak to hold her, Catriona staggered to the door and slammed it shut behind them. Not that it would do much good, she thought, if they decided to come back. She put her arms around the black girl, feeling her body trembling. Cassie clung to her, moaning in terror, until Catriona held her by her arms and shook her. ‘What did they want?’
Cassie tried to explain but all the words were jumbled and Catriona shook her head. ‘I can’t understand you,’ she said. ‘Speak more slowly.’
Gradually she got to the bottom of it. The two men were members of a group of warriors that was looking for white men who had killed members of their clan the day before the rain started.
‘Them say all white men kill him blacks, missus,’ Cassie said.
‘All white men?’ Catriona shook her head. ‘Of course they didn’t. My husband had nothing to do with any killing.’
‘Them find white men, they killem, all same. That why they here. Lookem for white men. Not women,’ Cassie explained. ‘Them looking white women, missus, you dead now.’
Catriona’s eyes sharpened. ‘They are going to kill any white men? But what if they meet my husband?’
Cassie shrugged fatalistically. ‘Them killem, missus. Killem all white men.’
‘These are your people‚’ she told Cassie indignantly. ‘Didn’t you explain my husband had nothing to do with it?’
Cassie shook her head emphatically. ‘Him strangers‚’ she insisted. ‘Him not my clan.’
‘I must go and find him‚’ Catriona decided. ‘I must warn him that those men are looking for him. I shall take Murrumbee. He’ll be able to find him for me.’
But Murrumbee was not to be found; nor, Cassie told her, were there any people in the black camp along the creek. They had all evacuated ahead of the floodwaters. ‘Me stay with Missus‚’ Cassie said. ‘Others, him all gone.’
Catriona would have to find Clive by herself.
By afternoon the creek had fallen considerably although the ground was still sticky. In the old waterhole, now swallowed up by the stream, the current was considerably weaker than elsewhere along this stretch. A tree, roots undercut by the water, had fallen across the creek and the diminishing flow had been insufficient to shift it from its position. Catriona experimented and discovered that downstream from the trunk the water was no more than four feet deep. She would cross there.
She took with her food, clean water, dry clothes, and bandages. She buckled on Clive’s gun belt. The weight of the gun and the bullets in the loops weighed the belt down despite her efforts to tighten it. Hopefully she wouldn’t need it. She mounted and rode along the creek until she came to the waterhole.
‘I must go to him‚’ she informed the creek as it rushed along at her side, ‘it is my duty.’
She reached the fallen tree. Downstream a spit of sand ran out beneath the swirling brown water. The gelding tossed its head and whinnied nervously as she walked it into the stream.
‘Up, Jasper‚’ she said. ‘Come along, boy.’
The bottom was firm and soon they were across. The rain had washed out Clive’s tracks but she thought she knew where he would have gone. During the early days they had often ridden out to explore the countryside. She thought Clive would have taken shelter on the granite ridge some way south of the river. It was the only high ground for miles.
Which did not explain why he had not come back.
She rode south, urging the gelding across the water-logged plain. She would not let herself think of Sarah or what would happen to her if neither of her parents returned to claim her. Sarah was safe, she told herself firmly, watching the line of grey hills climb slowly above the horizon. Her duty was to her husband.
It was afternoon by the time she reached them. Catriona reined in the gelding, staring up at them. A swirl of birds, black against the blue sky, circled the crest. No vegetation broke their stark outline. They brooded ancient and still over the surrounding miles. If Clive is up there, she thought, why doesn’t he let me know? He must be able to see me. Even if he had fallen and broken his leg he could still shout. Unless, of course, he was unconscious. Unless he was dead.
She rode up the slope until the horse could go no further, dismounted and continued on foot. As she climbed she could see, far away, the line of the creek but the house, the same colour as the surrounding countryside, was invisible.
Catriona found her husband close to the summit ridge of the hills they had both thought of as a refuge. He lay where he had fallen, his body riddled with spears. The war party had found him first.
She sat with him while the sun sank and the sky changed colour about them. She did not weep or speak but sat with his dead hand in her warm one. She had brought him here to this place where he had never been at home. He had been conscientious; he had done his best even though he had been like a fish out of water here. He had tried to care for her. He had given her a daughter and tried to care for her too. His mind had been filled with images of busy streets, of people like himself about him, of a house, a garden, a school and a church within walking distance. For love of her he had abandoned his dreams and come here.
The sun set. The western horizon carried a broad banner of rosy light. The plain was utterly dark. There was no light, no sign of life at all. There was nothing here. She had brought him here in pursuit of a dream that even she could not understand. She wondered if he had found it within himself to forgive her before he died.
The stars shone down in splendour. Catriona sat beside Clive’s body feeling, perhaps for the first time, something of the love she had been unable to give him during his life.
The next mornin
g dawned clear. She loaded Clive’s body on to the horse, guided it with difficulty down the steep slope and rode home.
Catriona reached the creek and allowed the gelding to pick his own way across it. She climbed the mound to the house. She told Cassie what had happened, then took a spade, went out and spent the rest of the day digging a hole six feet long, four feet wide and four feet deep in the glutinous soil. It was cruel work. She tried to carry Clive’s body but it was too heavy and she could not. Instead she laid a sheet on the ground beside the body, rolled it into it and dragged it over to the hole. She would have liked to lower it gently into the ground but could not do that either. After several attempts she gave up, tipped it in and covered it over. She fetched Sarah and Cassie and stood over the grave. She wanted to pray but could think of no words. After a few minutes’ silence she went back to the house.
‘I shall get a headstone for your dada‚’ she told the baby. ‘A headboard, at least. In the meantime you and me have got to live. Let’s get on with it.’
‘If we could find ourselves a kangaroo we’d be right‚’ Schultz said.
‘We’d better find something,’ Wilma told him.
Their supplies had run out and they had eaten nothing since leaving the cave. They rode in a daze, heads faint, bellies empty, thinking nothing, waiting for nothing.
Dimly she heard Waldo say, ‘Even a snake would be good.’
For days they had seen nothing and seemed destined to ride forever across a land where the only rain came in floods and for the rest of the time the sun blazed down in malignant fury. It did not matter. Nothing mattered; even the blowflies that tormented them in their thousands did not matter.
There were flowers, too, bursting out of the damp ground, but Wilma had never been one for flowers or any feminine pursuits. Except maybe one, she thought, and laughed out loud. I reckon I knows most there is to know about that.
Schultz heard the laugh and wondered if she was losing her mind. He thought he should maybe shoot her and be done with it but could not be bothered to make the effort.
Later they found their way north along the river barred by floods so they turned northwest. They came to a strongly flowing creek which they followed until, in late afternoon, they came in sight of a farmhouse set on a mound overlooking the surrounding countryside. A feather of smoke rose from its chimney and they could see the shapes of horses in the railed paddock at the back of the building.
Schultz turned to the others, lips drawn off his teeth in a savage and triumphant grin. ‘I told yer, di’n’ I? I told yer there’d be somethin’ for us, if only we kept plugging along.’
THIRTY-FIVE
God knew where Nance had got the dress. Aggie stood in a fever of embarrassed impatience while Nance tucked and pinned and fussed around her, taking in here, letting out there.
‘I reckon I ain’t much for weddings,’ Aggie said. ‘Any kind of fussing drives me mad.’
‘Once in your life,’ Nance told her around a mouthful of pins, ‘unless you’re planning to make a habit of ’em.’
‘I don’t reckon I am. Way I feel this minute, even once seems one time too many.’
Nance hauled in on the waist. Aggie gasped. ‘You trying to kill me or what?’
But Nance was remorseless. ‘You got to have a tiny waist,’ she told her, ‘otherwise you know what people will say.’
‘This mob? They can say what they like.’
But Nance would not listen to her. Eventually she stood back. ‘What d’you think?’
Aggie turned and turned, trying to see as much as she could without a mirror to help her. The dress was of cream satin. It had a bustle, lots of flounces, a small train and clung as close as a second skin.
‘I s’pose I can always hold my breath,’ Aggie said. ‘Where’d you get it?’
‘Somen I had by me,’ Nance said.
‘It’s lovely. I never saw nuthin like it before.’ She preened some more. ‘It certainly makes me stick out in all the right places, don’ it?’
‘So it should. Let him see what he’s gettin’.’
‘If he dunno by now I reckon he never will,’ Aggie said.
There was a fire, as there was every night. Between them Maggie and Nance had raided the stores and helped themselves to several of the precious candles. Somehow they had managed to rig up a string with the candles in holders along it. Now the flames flickered bravely in the darkness.
‘Lucky there ain’t no wind,’ Charlie said. ‘O’course, it don’t mean one mightn’t git up any minute—’
‘Keep your mouth shut for once,’ Nance warned him.
The boys, all except Brett Noonan whose turn it was to guard the cattle, had washed, or at least had gone through the motions. One or two of them had even brushed their hair and Git, despite objections, was wearing a clean shirt.
Matthew had bought a keg of whisky in Fort Bourke and promised to break it out after the ceremony.
‘Thirsty work,’ Hud said, eyes gleaming. ‘I wonder, shouldn’t I check on supplies?’
‘You keep your hands off that keg,’ Maggie warned.
Hud looked aggrieved. ‘All I was thinkin’ was—’
‘I knows what you was thinkin’‚’ she said. ‘Don’t.’
Later, in the shadow at the back of the waggon Maggie asked, ‘You right now?’
‘Reckon I am,’ Aggie replied. ‘Right as I’ll ever be anyway.’
‘Righto then,’ Maggie said. ‘I’ll get up front. Gimme a couple of minutes, then you come too.’
Aggie nodded. She wasn’t sure if she was feeling nervous or not. Breathing was a problem but that could have been the dress. It would explain her rapidly beating heart too.
‘Let’s git movin’‚’ Nance said.
‘Where’s Charlton?’
Charlton had been roped in to give her away; none of them knew much about weddings but they all knew there had to be someone to do that.
‘He’ll be there. Stop fretting.’
‘I am not fretting,’ Aggie said indignantly. ‘I—’
‘Git on with it then.’
The two women moved out into the light. The string of candles, added to the firelight, cast a warm glow. Aggie looked at the trestle table that had been set up close to the fire. Matthew stood there. He was wearing a cream shirt, open at the throat, and a clean pair of breeches. He had rubbed the worst of the dust off his calf-length boots and, as he turned to smile at her, the candlelight kindled sparks like red fire in his dark hair. He towered over the rest of the men and Aggie felt her breath catch at the sight of him, not in desire but from terror at the step she was about to take.
Nerves clawing her, Aggie walked forward. Charlton was waiting for her. She put her hand on his arm. She could feel him shaking. Why, she thought, he’s more nervous than I am, and felt better.
Maggie had dolled herself up, too, in a dress of black taffeta with a broad collar of white lace and a full skirt. She was bobbing about, impatient to get things started.
Aggie stopped at Matthew’s side.
Maggie looked at Matthew with sharp, bird-bright eyes. ‘State your name,’ she directed him.
‘Matthew Curtis.’
Her eyes switched to Aggie.
‘Agatha Burroughs.’
‘Who gives this woman to be married to this man?’
Charlton said, ‘Reckon I do.’
Maggie glared. ‘Reckon ain’t good enough. Do you or don’t you?’
‘I reckon …’ He cleared his throat. ‘I do.’
‘Get out of the road then.’ Maggie’s attention returned to Matthew. ‘Matthew Curtis, do you take Agatha Burroughs to be your lawful wedded wife—’
‘I do,’ Matthew said.
‘Wait till I ask you,’ she admonished him, ‘I ain’t nearly ready yet. Will you have her and hold her in accordance with God’s holy ordinance? Will you love her and honour her and do to her only those things that are lawful between a man and his wife as long as ye both shall live?’
She paused. Matthew waited.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
‘I will.’
She turned to Aggie and repeated the formula. She concluded, ‘Will you honour him, love and obey him as long as ye both shall live?’
‘I will.’
‘Got a ring?’ Maggie asked Matthew.
‘I made something out of a piece of wire.’ Matthew turned to Aggie. ‘I didn’t have a ring but I thought—’
‘That’ll do,’ Maggie said. ‘Give it here.’
He fished it out of his pocket and handed it to her.
‘Bless this ring, Lord,’ Maggie prayed, ‘as a symbol of these here two sinners’ love for one another. Go on,’ she directed Matthew, ‘put it on her finger.’
He did so. It fitted; not well, but at least it went over her knuckle.
Maggie said, ‘Those whom God has joined together let no man put asunder. I now pronounce you man and wife.’
‘Halleluia,’ Hud said, ‘break out the keg.’
Nance offered to vacate the waggon for them but Aggie refused.
‘It ain’t right you shouldn’t have a proper bed for your marriage night,’ Nance grumbled. She gave the waggon a baleful stare. ‘If you kin call it a proper bed.’
‘It’s not what I want,’ Aggie said.
Nance sniffed, vexed by the refusal. ‘You’ll please yourself, I suppose.’
Aggie took Nance’s face in both her hands. ‘Dear Nance,’ she said, ‘you’ve done everything to make this a special day for me. Don’t be cross now.’
Mollified, Nance said, ‘Only tryin’ to do what’s right, that’s all.’
‘I know you are. But I know what is right for Matthew and me.’
She told her what she had planned. Nance’s eyes widened. ‘Seems a bit funny to me,’ she said, ‘but I suppose, if you’re sure …’
‘I am.’
The keg was almost empty and the men were in various stages of collapse now the evening was over. The candles were guttering, fuming wicks sending a haze of tallow to join the smoke of the dying fire. Hud, discovered fast asleep in a dark corner, had been dragged protestingly to bed by his incensed wife. Charlton Grange, walking with extra care but still able to haul himself up in the saddle, had gone off to relieve Brett—Git, whose duty it was, was beyond relieving anyone but himself.
The Burning Land Page 40