A Far Country

by John Fletcher

‘Pretty enough,’ she mimicked. ‘Is that the best you can say?’

  He didn’t know what she wanted him to say but there was nothing unusual about that. For the last two days Asta Matlock had been acting in a way that Jason found quite extraordinary: laughing to herself—once out loud in the street, in full view of half a dozen astonished passers-by—making jokes, generally behaving like a girl of fifteen instead of an old woman in—what?—her mid-thirties.

  Perhaps she was pleased that her husband had made up his mind to put money into Lang’s mine. That could be it. Jason could relate to that—he had thought it a good idea himself, when she told him—but suspected there was more to it than that. For those two days she had seemed unable to leave her husband alone, touching and pawing him in a way utterly different from how he had ever seen her behave before. If Jason hadn’t known them he’d have said they were in love but they had been married for years so that was clearly out of the question.

  By the time they reached the river it was dark. The lights of the inn cut the gathering darkness and cast long yellow gutters across the rippled surface of the ford, making the countryside on the northern bank seem even blacker and more desolate than it would otherwise have been.

  They splashed their way through the shallow water and dismounted before the inn door. The main road north crossed the river at this point and a number of drays and waggons were drawn up in the shadows at the back of the wood-slab building. By the trail a sign had letters roughly scrawled upon it. Rifle Inn.

  A gale of laughter and voices came through the door to greet them as Gavin shouldered his way inside, Jason at his elbow. The Reverend Laubsch stayed in the waggon. Gavin had expected nothing else. Julius Laubsch was built like a tower but was the meekest man he had ever met. He seemed interested in nothing but bringing the heathen, as he called the blacks, to the one true God. It was a vocation for which his training at the Hermansburg Lutheran seminary in East Prussia had ideally equipped him but unfortunately it had not made him a conversationalist. All the way from Kapunda he had sat with his nose stuck in a book and had made no more noise than a mouse.

  There were half a dozen men inside the inn. There was a break in the conversation as they turned to look at the newcomers but seeing nothing remarkable about them began talking again almost at once. The man behind the bar shrugged his way towards them.

  ‘What’ll it be, mates?’

  ‘Brandy,’ Gavin said, ‘and we’ll want something to eat. There’s a couple more of us out in the waggon.’

  ‘Don’t be shy,’ the barman said. ‘Tell ’em to come in.’

  ‘One of them’s a woman and the other’s a preacher.’

  A cocky-looking little man, cheeks flushed by drink, laughed. ‘Bring the woman in here. The preacher can stay in the waggon.’

  ‘The woman’s my wife.’

  The man looked up at him, a half-full glass slopping in his hand. ‘We all got our problems. Bring her in, who knows, maybe someone here will make you an offer for her.’

  Gavin put down his glass.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the bar keeper. He turned back to the man who had spoken to him. ‘I said she’s my wife. You trying to make something of that?’

  The cockerel shrugged, grinning. ‘Every wife I heard of got the same gear as other women. What’s so special about a wife?’

  Gavin hit him once, hard. The man’s heels left the ground. He flew backwards into the wooden wall behind him and slithered down to the floor where he lay stunned.

  Gavin massaged the fingers of his right hand.

  ‘Pardon me,’ he said to the bar keeper. ‘I can’t get used to the idea of a man speaking that way about my wife.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ the barman said. ‘He’s been nothing but trouble since he got here a few hours back.’ He came from behind the bar and hauled the stunned man to his feet. ‘On your way,’ he said. ‘We’ve had enough of you for one night.’

  The man massaged his jaw, gave Gavin a baleful glare. ‘I’ll be looking for you.’

  He staggered out of the doorway, turned to yell incoherently, vanished into the darkness.

  Gavin shrugged, turned back to the bar. ‘What’s to eat?’

  The man had no chance to reply before an outcry came from outside the inn: voices upraised and furious, one of them a woman’s.

  Asta’s last two days had passed in a rosy haze of contentment. Overnight the months of growing estrangement had vanished. One evening had re-awoken in her all the emotions she had ever felt for her husband, emotions that she had believed had vanished without hope of recovery.

  It was a good feeling. She had forgotten what it felt like to have a man in her arms who was not only loving in his behaviour but whom she realised she had never ceased to love. It gave her a feeling of hope as well as contentment. It gave her faith that they could do anything they wanted. Life had a new symmetry. Gavin would run Whitby Downs, Jason look after their interests in Kapunda. And she? She would hold the family together, combining all the qualities they needed of love and faith, the looked-for victory of light over darkness.

  She smiled, at peace.

  Tonight they would eat, talk around the red heart of the fire. Later she and Gavin would lie together in their blankets beneath the waggon, listen to the water flowing over the ford and watch the stars revolve in slow majesty across the night sky.

  A din of raised voices came from the inn. A runtish man came stumbling through the doorway, arms gesticulating furiously. He yelled something over his shoulder then staggered towards the waggon.

  ‘Hey …!’ His gaze scoured her face.

  Asta froze, very much on her dignity. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘That your bloke jest gone in there?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘You ’n’ me’s goin’ to have a chat, that’s what’s about him.’

  His words were so garbled that Asta could scarcely understand him. While she was still trying to work out what he was saying the man reached the waggon and began to scramble on to the wheel. Suddenly she realised that he was planning to get into the waggon with her.

  ‘What do you think you are doing?’ She tried unavailingly to push him away.

  The man laughed. A gale of stale alcohol blew across her. ‘Comin’ to ’ave a chat, that’s what I’m doin’.’

  ‘Get off,’ she cried and the Reverend Laubsch, motionless until now, joined her in trying to push the man off the wheel of the waggon.

  ‘Get off!’ he cried. ‘Get down!’

  Gavin was through the door in an instant, Jason and the bar keeper on his heels. The first thing he saw was Asta and Laubsch in the waggon, batting at the head and shoulders of the same man with whom he’d had the trouble inside the bar and who now seemed to be trying to climb into the waggon with them.

  In three strides Gavin reached the man, seized him by the shoulder and dragged him off the waggon.

  ‘I believe we’ve had enough of you.’ He shook him until his teeth rattled. ‘On your way before I do you some real damage.’

  Standing five yards away Jason saw the man bare his teeth and clutch Gavin as though to steady himself. He saw his hand go to his waist, the gleam of metal. The man’s arm went back, came forward again. The blade disappeared into Gavin’s body with a meaty thunk. It was a slight yet portentous sound and Jason heard it above the voices from inside the inn, the ripple of water from the ford, the breath of air stirring the grasses along the river bank. A slight sound that filled and altered their lives.

  Thunk.

  Looking down at the two men Asta heard the thud of the blow, the grunt of effort that accompanied it, and saw the dark flood of blood that discoloured Gavin’s plaid shirt. She had no time even to scream before Gavin sat down on the ground, a foolish, surprised look on his face. He coughed. Blood ran down his chin.

  She had no time to think, no time for anything. Afterwards she could not remember moving yet one moment she was sitting in the waggon, the next she was on the ground
, arms cradling Gavin’s head, his dead weight dragging at her.

  ‘There,’ she said, ‘there now.’

  Even as she tried to soothe him she knew it was no good. There was a collapsed feel about Gavin’s big body as though the muscles, the very structure of bones and flesh, had given up on him.

  Through a froth of blood he said, ‘He was rude about you.’

  ‘Rude about me?’ She did not understand. ‘But I never knew him.’

  What the man had said or done she never discovered. All her attention was focused on her husband’s face, all her will directed towards making him mend.

  Other men had come from the inn and stood in a silent half-circle around them. They were as helpless as she and she paid them no attention.

  You will not die you will not die you will not die …

  … The thought, determination, instruction running over and over in her head even as she knew that he was indeed dying, that all her hopes and plans were crumbling into dust at her feet, that what had been offered so miraculously was being snatched away again.

  Because of a chance meeting, a fight it seemed about nothing, her husband, a man perhaps a hundred times better than the man who had killed him, was spilling his life blood in the dust and the future of all of them was placed in jeopardy.

  Gavin’s face convulsed, his eyes sought hers.

  ‘Hush now,’ she told him, ‘hush.’

  The world was a silent, anguished cry. She cradled him closer; his blood soaked her dress. Its sticky wetness was against her skin, she could smell it combined with the odours of dust, alcohol and flowing water.

  She was close to tears, would not let herself cry. She was close to anger, used it to drive away the pain and fear that threatened to overwhelm her at the prospect of being left alone, of being forced from now on to make those decisions that Gavin had always been so reluctant to share with her but that from now on she would be unable to share with him.

  Her world was torn by fear and grief.

  Gavin coughed; a fresh spurt of blood ran over his lips. The harsh whistle of his breath pained her. She could do nothing beyond what she was already doing, cradling him, soothing him as best she could, sensing the life seeping away from him, from them both. She knew it was not enough.

  I love him and hate him at the same time, she thought, hate him all the more for loving him so much. She felt betrayal at being so bereft. God damn him, how can he go and die on me now?

  The tears came at last, despite her efforts.

  Perhaps he felt the tears on his face; she never knew.

  He grinned up at her: a twisted, cock-eyed grin. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he told her, voice broken, everything broken. ‘Everything’s going to be all—’

  Never managed to finish the sentence.

  Asta laid his head gently in the dust. She stood. The stranger who had caused the trouble was standing a little to one side, guarded by the bar keeper and two of the inn’s patrons.

  She walked over to him. He flinched from the expression in her eyes but said nothing.

  ‘They will hang you, I suppose.’ Words like ice from lips like ice. ‘May God curse you. I would hang you myself if I could.’

  Jason was swaying helplessly, face chalk-white.

  ‘Put him in the waggon,’ she told him. Her voice was cold, aged. ‘We will bury him in the morning on the north bank of the river. I would take him home to Whitby Downs but it is too far.’ She turned to the bar keeper. ‘We shall need food. Death or no death, the rest of us have to eat.’

  He looked at her. ‘Right,’ he said.

  They fetched food from the bar and sat down beside the waggon. Jason found it hard to accept the idea of eating with Gavin’s tarpaulin-wrapped body in the waggon beside them but she was right, the living needed food. Certainly Reverend Laubsch had no difficulty with the idea: he worked his way through the contents of his plate with a grunting enthusiasm that, had Jason not been so hungry, might have spoiled his supper more effectively than the presence of the corpse in the back of the waggon.

  When they had finished Asta put her plate on one side.

  ‘Mr Matlock and I have no living heirs,’ she said. ‘Everything that belonged to him therefore comes to me. That is the law. Whitby Downs was my husband’s; it is now mine. His interest in Neu Preussen: that is mine, too. I shall continue to run things as he would have done had he lived.’

  Whatever Jason had expected her to say it was not that. He had never heard of a woman running anything: neither ship nor mine nor sheep run. It was not the way of nature.

  ‘Do you think you’ll be able to do it?’

  ‘Tell me one reason why I cannot.’

  He thought, the Gallaghers, there are two reasons, but said nothing. If Asta Matlock did not know it now she would learn soon enough without his sticking his nose in.

  ‘I shall need you to help me in Kapunda,’ Asta said. ‘Mr Matlock wished it. So do I. I must have someone I can trust to keep an eye on things for me. Someone who knows about mining or is willing to learn.’

  ‘I don’t know much,’ Jason said.

  ‘All the more reason to apply yourself to your lessons.’

  Jason’s face showed alarm. ‘Lessons?’

  ‘Of course lessons. Mr Laubsch will teach you to read and write and reckon figures. That is all that will be necessary.’

  ‘What will Mr Lang say about that?’

  ‘He will say nothing. It is none of his business.’

  Jason looked dubious. He doubted he would be able to handle a man like Walter Lang at all, whatever Asta Matlock might think.

  ‘You will learn to deal with Mr Lang,’ Asta told him. ‘I have watched you. I know you can do it.’

  They arrived at Whitby Downs on a calm day of bright sunshine. She had sent Jason on ahead with the news and Ian Matlock was waiting for her. Only then did Asta’s nerve fail her. The face that had been so calm and resolute shattered into a hundred lines of grief and doubt. She walked into the house, Ian stepping behind her as though he owned it.

  He said, ‘A terrible tragedy, my dear. I rode over as soon as I heard. Don’t worry. You’ll be all right. I’ll take care of everything.’

  ‘Thank God,’ she said. Relief flooded her like the tides. ‘I intended … so much. But now I look around me and see what has to be done—’

  ‘Don’t fret about it, lass,’ he said kindly. ‘We’ll go through his things, you and I. I’ll help you throw out what you don’t want. Some of his clothes could go to that aboriginal lad, maybe. Tog him out decently, they would.’ He nodded at Gavin’s rifle propped by the door. ‘I’ll find a good home for that, never fear. Treat it like my own, I will.’

  Her uncertainty was reflected in her face. She ran her hand through her hair. ‘Thank you, Ian.’

  ‘I’ll get Mary to come and give you a hand. We’ll join the runs into one unit. Makes better sense that way. I’ll get a count of the flocks, work out what I owe you.’ He laughed, let his hand linger momentarily on her shoulder. ‘You needn’t worry, I shan’t cheat you.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  He smiled kindly at her evident confusion, went back out into the sunlight.

  Funny how things worked out. She was lost, completely out of her depth. Well, it was to be expected. Alone in the world with problems she had not the first idea how to resolve … He would take care of them, as he had promised. No cheating, either, that wouldn’t be right. Probably the best thing once she was over the worst of her shock would be for her to go back to Adelaide, to Europe, even. Yes, happen that would be best. He would take care of everything.

  He stood, hands on hips, looking about him. Well, Gavin, he thought, we fell out, you and me, and now here I am and you’re six feet under. I’d not have thrown it in your face when you were alive and I’ll not do it now but that’s the way of things. This whole area is mine now. In time it’ll pass to Alison’s husband, then to her children. A regular dynasty we’re building here, by God.

 
He saw Jason loitering by the side of the house.

  That was one thing he’d sort out straightaway. If the lad was prepared to work, know his place, he could stay but no more of this long-lost-son nonsense.

  He hailed him sharply. ‘You. Come here.’

  On top of the waggon, Hector Gallagher hefted the last bundle of stores that the returning party had brought from Kapunda. He passed it down to Blake, noting the ease with which his son accepted the heavy load.

  Aye, he thought, you’re getting stronger by the day. The next generation, by God. Won’t be long before you’re ready to take over. You think you’re ready now but it takes more than muscle to run this operation. It takes brains: and that’s where I come in.

  He said, ‘This is your opportunity, lad.’

  Blake placed the crate on the pile of other crates. ‘What opportunity’s that, Da?’

  ‘Now Gavin Matlock’s dead, Ian will take over.’

  ‘We don’t know that.’

  ‘Who’s to stop him? Asta Matlock will never run it by herself, will she? There’s no-one else.’

  ‘What difference if Gavin or Ian Matlock run things?’

  God save us, Hector thought.

  ‘Alison’s the difference. The man who marries her stands to inherit the lot, in time.’ He laughed, slapped his son on the shoulder. ‘Needn’t look like that! I’ve seen you watching her! You wouldn’t mind getting aboard her, I can tell.’

  ‘Alison Matlock hates my guts.’

  ‘So do something to make her change her mind! There’s only one person you need watch out for.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘That Jason.’

  ‘I just want to know, that’s all. If I’m to take orders from Ian Matlock or not.’

  Asta felt herself drowning in confusion. I am helpless, she told herself.

  ‘Perhaps it would be best,’ she said uncertainly. ‘For the time being—’

  ‘If you’ve a mind to run things you must do it now. Otherwise Ian Matlock will take over and you won’t be able to do anything about it. Of course, maybe that’s what you want—’