Girl & the Ghost-Grey Mare

by Rachael Treasure

The ranger nodded. What could he say? He was clearly in the hands of a young woman who knew this land far better than he did.

  By the time they’d pushed the cows and calves onto the river island the blacked-out sun had turned day into night. A terrible thundering roar was accompanied by explosive cracks as tree trunks succumbed to the inferno raging on the mountain ridge above them. They watched in awe and horror as spot fires began to ignite all around them. The mare threw her head and clashed her hooves on river stones. Wallabies, possums, lizards, snakes and other creatures of the bush all converged on the riverbank and some ventured into the shallows. More fearful of fire than humans, each animal’s breath was quick with panic and their eyes filled with fear. Emily-Claire seemed not to notice. She was focused on calming her horse.

  ‘Stand up, girl,’ she said, laying her hand on the mare’s neck. She unleashed the girth and hauled off the saddle. Then she ripped the leather belt from her waist and the surcingle from the saddle. She strapped them around the mare’s fetlocks.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the ranger asked.

  ‘Hobbling her. To stop her bolting.’

  As Emily-Claire tugged on the leather straps, the ranger noticed how steady she was in her actions. His own hands shook uncontrollably. She led the loping mare into the river up to her wither, and talked soothingly to the trembling horse all the while.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, turning back to the ranger, who stood paralysed with fear on the river island as the cattle bellowed in slow mournful moans. Some splashed into the shallows, their eyes rolling in terror as flames licked at the steep riverbanks on both sides of the Little Dingo, but fenced in by fire, they soon turned back to the main mob.

  They watched as a giant tree nearby ignited into a raging fireball and heat seared their faces. The ranger felt Emily-Claire’s hand reach for his. She led him into the river. Her eyes were warm, her voice calm.

  ‘We should get as wet as we can before we go into the bunker. Okay?’

  She pulled him towards her. Cool water rose up over his clothing. Then Emily-Claire’s arms were around his neck. As the fire front crested the ridge top and began to race down towards them, she pulled him under and pressed a kiss to his lips in the dark wet bliss of the river. When he came up, burning bark and leaves hit the water with a fizz and smoke curled itself over rocks and ripples. He gulped at the thick poisoned air and found himself coughing uncontrollably. Bent over and spluttering, he let Emily-Claire lead him from the water.

  He wanted to ask her if she was sure they should leave the river. But he couldn’t speak. He could barely see. He could only hear the screeching of green leaves burning, the thundering inferno. She led him into the undergrowth, and through blurred, streaming eyes he watched her tear away old grasses, rock and tin. She ushered him into the dark quiet of the fire bunker. Then a piercing whistle and he felt her wet dog brush past him in the darkness. He lay with his face pressed against the damp soil of the bunker, while the girl pulled the sheet of tin across the opening. The ranger hoped the girl was sheltering them within the safety of the earth and not burying them alive.

  In the darkness, with the muffled bellows of cattle rising to them from the river nearby, he managed to speak.

  ‘Say your name for me again. It sounds so nice coming from you.’

  He felt her arms and body wrap around him. Her voice was soft in his ear.

  ‘Emily-Claire,’ she said. ‘It’s a combination of my great-great-grandmother’s and my great-grandmother’s names. Emily built a hut down here with her husband during the gold mining days and had eleven children. And Claire, her daughter, secured the lease for the cattle runs.’

  He shut his stinging eyes and felt her fingers trailing through his dark curls. At last they seemed safe. In the pitch blackness, he smelt the damp life of the cool cavernous earth that was held fast by tree roots. Gratefulness surged for the girl who held him. The girl who had saved his life.

  He cupped her face with his hands.

  ‘So pretty,’ he whispered. ‘Emily-Claire.’ And then he kissed her deeply on her lips as the fire raged overhead.

  When he woke, head throbbing with pain, an unearthly stillness greeted him. He still couldn’t open his eyes, they stung too much, but he knew the silence meant the fire had passed, and they were safe.

  ‘Emily-Claire,’ he said, conjuring her face in his mind, ‘you are the most beautiful cattleman I’ve ever met.’ She didn’t reply; he only heard the sheet of tin being tugged away from the cave mouth. A strange gentle light kissed his eyelids.

  ‘Emily-Claire. The. Most. Beautiful. Cattleman,’ the ranger said again, stretching his fingers towards the light.

  ‘I’m no cattleman, mate,’ said a gruff voice, ‘and you are the luckiest bugger I’ve ever seen.’

  The ranger blinked his eyes open. Through searing pain, he made out two soot-smeared emergency workers in orange overalls and hard hats crouching down, peering into the bunker. Beyond him came the occasional crash of a falling tree and the sudden burst of bright embers rising from the blackened landscape.

  ‘We only found you ‘cause the ventilation shaft sticks up out of the ground and stands out like dog’s balls now it’s all burnt. Found your vehicle fried to a crisp up top and thought you were a goner. It was the old cattlemen said you might be here. But how’d you know to come here, mate?’

  The ranger sat up suddenly, searching the dim bunker.

  ‘Where is she?’

  The men frowned at each other.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The girl. Where’s the girl?’

  ‘Girl?’

  ‘Emily-Claire,’ he said, ‘the cattleman’s daughter. Has she gone to see if the cattle and her horse made it?’

  The men looked at each other as if confused.

  ‘Cattle? No cattle round here, mate – not since the government bans came in. And you’d be hard pressed to find a cattleman. They’ve all but gone from here too. Place was a damn-sight better off when they were here looking after it, if you ask me. You should see it out there. A fire hotter than hell.’

  The other rescue worker cranked the top off a water bottle and handed it to the ranger, then got straight on the radio to tell the medicos to get down there fast as the ranger was in shock and delirious. As they settled the ranger back down, the first rescue worker talked on.

  ‘Some say one of the cattlemen’s daughters got lost up here a few years back. Said she was going after strays the year they were kicked off the land and never made it back. But the locals knew she wouldn’t get lost. They reckon she was cut up so bad about the bans, she came up here and took her own life. Galloped her grey mare off a cliff into Hell’s Hollow. Reckon the place is haunted now, they say. ‘Course it’s all rumour. Eh, mate?’

  ‘Grey mare?’ The ranger’s heart pounded and his head felt like flames were exploding within.

  On the chopper ride out the ranger watched as they lifted past the black-faced mountainside. Burnt matchstick trees, cremated from top to bottom, smouldered as far as the eye could see. Millions of acres seared too hot. The blackness was lit occasionally by lingering flames that still burned on the breeze-side of tree trunks and in the guts of hollow stumps.

  The ranger pressed cool cotton pads onto his eyes and felt stinging tears roll over his blistered cheeks. And in his mind, he saw a beautiful girl on a ghost-grey horse, standing in a thicket of snow gums. The land was written on her palms and fingertips and, he now knew, the land had also been written in her heart.

  Gentleman Required

  Mary was still shaking when she arrived at the library for work. Normally she loved the comforting smell of books and the warmth of the sun-filled building. Most days she’d hang her tortoiseshell reading glasses around her neck and make herself a cup of coffee, but this morning she got straight to work just so she could block the memory of her tumultuous start to the day.

  ‘Good morning!’ Doreen called from behind the returns desk. Mary tried to smile but blinked tears a
way instead.

  ‘Morning,’ she said before disappearing into the labyrinth of shelves to look for the returns trolley. But it was no good trying to act as if nothing had happened. She held onto the cookery section shelves and breathed deeply. Pulling a crumpled hanky from her sleeve, Mary dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. The shrill ring of the phone at the front desk made her jump. She never wanted to answer the phone again. Not after this morning’s call at home.

  The hissing, breathy voice on the other end of the line had made Mary shiver. Even after she’d slammed down the receiver and pulled the floral quilt over her head, she still felt cold. She had invited her pet pig, Bessie, to hop up on the bed so she could cuddle her and stroke her silky ears, but even Bessie’s comforting presence couldn’t stop Mary from replaying the creepy voice over and over in her head.

  ‘Want a bit of lovin’, do you, lady?’ the voice had taunted. ‘Like to read books, eh? Wanna read some dirty books with me? Eh? Lady?’

  What could she tell Doreen? How could she say she’d put an ad in the adult section of the classifieds of the paper in the hope of finding someone? A gentleman. A soulmate. A husband.

  Mary sighed as she walked around the shelves and found the abandoned book trolley in the romance section. As she pushed its squeaking frame along the plush carpet the shelves seemed to close in around her and titles like Lover’s Bliss, Hot Passion Nights, Carmen’s Sin, Tall Dark Stranger, Forever in Love seemed to mock her.

  ‘Trash,’ Mary told herself. But really, she wanted to devour the books the way she devoured her favourite biscuits dipped in cream. She wanted to consume every hot, loving word of them and live the life of the romantic heroine to the full.

  But she was single. Nearly forty and still single.

  Once Mary had finished shelving the returns it was morning-tea time.

  ‘Cream bun for you?’ called Doreen, stooping to pick up her handbag.

  ‘Not today. Thank you all the same, Doreen,’ Mary said.

  Doreen looked up, startled. Mary ordered a plump yellow cream bun every morning, whereas Doreen always ate fruit.

  ‘Are you all right, Mary?’

  Mary nodded. ‘Fine, thanks,’ she stammered.

  She was sure she knew what Doreen would be thinking. It’s about time she tried to lose some weight. No wonder she’s still single.

  Mary looked down at her oversized purple shirt and wanted to cry again. She’d been told she had a pretty face by men in the past. Some had remarked on her lovely wavy dark hair and large amber eyes. If she could be cut off at the head, maybe she’d be okay.

  ‘Back in a sec,’ Doreen called out.

  The moment the door shut, Mary descended on the newspaper.

  She lowered her rounded bottom into a chair and flicked to the classifieds. There it was. With a flush of embarrassment and guilt she saw her ad was listed under ‘Adult’ and ran after ‘Cheeky Marie’s’ and ‘Lesbian Action Live’. All she wanted was a companion. A gentleman. Not to feel sordid, or smutty. She read her ad. Gentleman required (35–45) as companion for quiet lady, likes books. View to possible romance. Phone after 5 p.m. And there was her number. How stupid of her. Any loony could track her down. And now some loony had.

  Through the window she could see Doreen labouring up the library’s wheelchair ramp against a strong wind, polythene cup and apples in hand and handbag hanging from elbow crook. Mary slid the newspaper back into the rack and went back to her desk, her shoulders hunched over, a frown on her brow.

  By the time she arrived home that evening it was almost dark. She was looking forward to sharing her special tortellini dinner with Bessie. She’d start her diet again tomorrow, she decided. As she unlocked the door, she could hear Bessie on the other side snuffling with excitement.

  ‘It’s all right, Bessie darling, I’m home now. Good girl. How’s my sweetie?’

  As the door swung open, Bessie trotted out squealing with delight and rubbed her black face against Mary’s legs. Mary stooped and scratched the pig behind her ears, where she liked it best. Bessie snuffled and wuffled, then trotted to the kitchen, picked up her metal bowl in her short whiskery snout and carried it along the hallway to Mary.

  But as Mary followed her, she sucked in a breath. The young sow stood as if in the eye of a storm. Scattered around her were Mary’s cross-stitch cushions, shredded magazines and upturned chairs.

  Mary froze with fear. Was the creepy caller in her house? Had he been here?

  Should she call the police? She began to shake. Then the phone rang. Mary jumped. She picked up the receiver tentatively.

  ‘Hello?’

  There was a pause. Then came the husky voice.

  ‘Books. You say you like books. Do you like them dirty? Dirty books for a quiet lady? Or are you really a screamer?’

  Mary slammed the receiver down and began to shake.

  Normally, when Mary was sad, Bessie nuzzled her, offering grunts of comfort. But now the pig trotted in and out of her flap in the back door. It thumped each time she did. Perhaps she should lock it, Mary thought. In case the man had crawled through there. Bessie came back in from the garden, hopped up on the couch and wriggled.

  ‘Get down, Bessie! You know you’re not allowed there.’

  At Mary’s cross voice, Bessie hopped off, trotted from the window to the door and back to the couch. Then she started trying to jump on Mary.

  ‘Stop it, Bessie!’ Mary, exasperated, grabbed the pig by the collar. Bessie had been the perfect pet until now. Mary had always longed for a dog or cat, but with all that fur and the sneezing and red nose that followed, it wasn’t worth it. A segment on Burke’s Backyard had convinced her that a pig could be an ideal companion.

  Bessie had certainly kept her from being quite so lonely this past year, but she had failed to keep an intruder from entering the house.

  Mary shivered again. She couldn’t lock Bessie outside in the cold, foggy night in case the man was still about. She was about to haul her into the laundry when she noticed Bessie’s swollen rear end. She looked from the little sow to the upturned room and back again. The penny dropped.

  ‘Oh, Bessie, now I understand. You’re in season! You made this mess!’ Relieved, she hugged her. ‘There was never a man in here at all. You’ve grown up! The books said you would about now.’

  Mary suddenly felt so much better.

  ‘How exciting, Bess. Piglets! Don’t worry, we’ll find you a man. Leave it to me.’

  They snuggled down on the beanbag later in the evening to watch TV while eating cake. The phone gave a shrill ring. Mary pulled Bessie close and let it ring out.

  On Saturday morning from her front room, Mary heard the rolled newspaper land with a plop on her concrete path. She tiptoed out, clutching her terry-towelling robe around her, grabbed the paper and scuttled back inside. At the kitchen table with a cup of tea beside her, she flicked to the classifieds, past the adult section and on to livestock. There was her ad. Berkshire sow requires boar for servicing; phone after 5 p.m. Then her phone number.

  Just after ten that morning the phone rang. It rang several times before she dared to pick it up. Could it be the horrible stranger again?

  ‘Hello?’ she said nervously.

  ‘Hello.’ It was a man. It made her panic.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was ringing about your ad.’

  ‘Which ad might that be?’ Mary’s palms began to sweat.

  ‘Oh, I hope I haven’t dialled the wrong number,’ said the man. ‘A chap put an ad in the paper about a Berkshire sow.’

  ‘Oh, that’s Bessie! Yes!’ Relief washed over her.

  ‘Bessie?’

  ‘No! I mean, yes, it was me.’

  He laughed a shy laugh. ‘Good.’

  ‘Where are you calling from?’

  ‘Cranbourne. My name’s Nigel. Nigel Peterson.’

  ‘You’re not far from me then. Is your boar a Berkshire?’

  ‘Through and through. He’s got a pedigree goin
g back to Lincoln Ambassador 1183.’

  Mary squealed in excitement. ‘How wonderful!’

  ‘I can pop him on the truck and bring him over tonight if you like. Then if you fancy the look of him, we can … introduce them. If not, I’ll take him home again.’

  ‘Lovely. My address is 43 Elms Crescent, the double block with the old cottage and shed. I’ll see you about six then?’

  ‘Fine. Well, goodbye, Bessie.’

  ‘Mary.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘My name is Mary. The sow is Bessie.’

  ‘Oh! I’m awfully sorry. See you at six then, Mary.’

  As she put down the phone, her excitement faded when she suddenly realised what a fool she’d been. He could be another prank caller and now he had her address. She sighed over her stupidity. But he’d sounded so nice, she thought, and he knew about the Australian boar Lincoln Ambassador, who was so good he was sent to England in 1976 to breed Berkshires there.

  Late in the afternoon, on the back porch, Mary dragged the brush over Bessie’s black back and the pig arched up towards the brush’s pleasurable prongs.

  ‘We want you looking special for your date tonight, Bessie.’

  She was just wiping the pig’s eyes over with a damp cloth when the doorbell rang out down the hallway, spilling its urgent signal into the back yard.

  Quickly brushing down her own long dark hair and straightening her light-blue dress, Mary went to open the front door.

  ‘Mary?’ The man standing before her held his tweed cap in his hand. He had warm blue eyes that crinkled at the corners. Even though his hair was starting to recede, he still looked handsome standing there with his shirtsleeves rolled up and cord trousers tucked into lace-up boots.

  ‘Nigel?’

  ‘Yes. How do you do?’

  Mary offered her hand and Nigel shook it gently before stepping back and stretching out his arm with a grand Sale of the Century gesture.

  ‘Mary, meet Napoleon.’

  The large boar sniffed at the wire cage on the ute.

  Mary’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘He’s a beauty! Look at those pink points!’ She admired the handsome boar, noting how his black legs gave way to very correct pink ankles and trotters. ‘And those prick ears are perfect! He’s even got a hint of pink on the snout. Oh, Bessie will love him! What’s his nature like?’