“You’re welcome to stay with us, Neales,” Thomas said. “As for heading south, we’ve just returned –”
“He can come with me.”
Thomas looked at Zac.
“You haven’t got horses to spare, Thomas, and I’m in no hurry to get anywhere. When Neales is feeling better we can share my horse.”
“If you’re sure,” Thomas said.
Zac held his gaze. “I am.”
Sixty-six
1866
Yardu sat in the shade of a scrubby tree. The heat from the rock beneath him radiated up through his body. The air was warm around him and yet he wore his possum-skin coat, as he did whenever there were important decisions to be made. From his vantage point high on a ridge of the mountain he could see a vast distance over the country of his people. He liked to sit there and think. Close to the spirits of his elders.
To one side of him was a pile of huge rocks. On them were painted stories of times past. He knew there were some telling of times without water from the sky and yet his people had survived. Now his country was dry but stripped of all goodness by the white invaders and their animals. Not only that, but some had constructed long fences to block the movement of his people and keep them away from the water that kept them alive.
Gulda, who had married his cousin’s sister, had tried to tell Yardu about the ways of the white men, but Yardu could not understand their need to possess and not share. Many lives had been lost during the long dry. There was a big rain coming and the land would once again flow with water but he feared it would not change things. Life for his people would never be the same. He knew it was only a matter of time before the ever-searching men on horses discovered the country beyond this mountain; the last of the places he had been able to live safely with his family.
Across the valleys and plains he could see thick grey clouds gathering along the top of the mountain range. Yardu closed his eyes and softly sang a song of mourning.
“How much further?”
Thomas paused his stride at Joseph’s question.
“Just up over the ridge,” he said. “It’s worth it, you’ll see.”
Joseph turned back. Already the horses they’d tethered at the start of the ridge were lost from sight. He looked forward again. “It’s a long way up.”
“Up here is where I got my first look at Wildu Creek. It was after a huge rain and every creek ran with water and it flooded the valley below, where our house is now.”
“That’s a lot of water.” Joseph sounded sceptical.
Thomas glanced at the dark clouds hugging the distant mountain range. There had been reports of big rains to the east a few months earlier. Clouds kept building on the horizon and then nothing came of it. He prayed it would, and sooner rather than later. He’d brought Joseph on this journey in the hope it would inspire his son to keep going. They had all lost heart when the lack of rain killed off the last of their stock and drove many of their nearest neighbours from their land. Even Rix and Pavey had left Smith’s Ridge. There were only a few families like the Bakers clinging to their properties.
“It will fall like that again one day,” he said. “You’ll see.” Thomas said it with a conviction he sometimes lacked. That was another reason to make this climb today. He wanted to cast his eye over the land from high up once more.
Thomas climbed on. He hadn’t been back to this sacred place since the first time he’d seen it, all those years earlier with Jacob when Gulda had found them shelter from the rain. It was a half-day’s ride from the house and then hours of climbing. He could understand why Joseph was complaining. Lucky they hadn’t brought Ellen. She had pestered to be brought on the adventure, as she called it, but he’d said no and stuck to it, with Lizzie’s help.
He looked ahead at the strips of rocks jutting out at all angles and wondered if he’d even be able to find the cave. He picked his way around and over the rocks, through the straggling bushes that managed to survive on the ledges, until finally he saw a deep shadow on the edge of a rock ahead.
“Here it is,” he said. He waited for Joseph to catch up to him. “This is the place Gulda found to shelter us on our first visit here.”
“Phew!” Joseph gasped as he peered closer to the opening. “It smells as if something’s died in there.”
“It may well have,” Thomas said.
It wasn’t a particularly warm day for November but they were both puffing and the flies were a plague. Thomas turned his back on the cave, opened his water pouch and took a drink. Joseph did the same. The vegetation was thicker there and gave only a glimpse of the creek below.
“That’s the start of the creek that runs past our house.” Thomas pointed through the gap in the trees.
“It must go a long way.”
“You can see it better from the top.” Thomas set off again. “It’s an easier climb around this side of the ridge.”
A few more minutes and they were at the top.
Joseph took off his hat and whistled. “It’s like looking at a map. Everything’s laid out before us.”
Thomas felt a surge of pride. He could see on his son’s face the same awe he had felt when he’d taken his first look at the land they now called Wildu Creek.
“You can see where the creek goes right across the valley and the other creeks that run into it.”
“Where’s our house?” Joseph asked, going closer to the edge.
Thomas stood beside him. “You can’t see it. It’s hidden by the hills and vegetation.”
Joseph climbed onto one of the large boulders beside them. He held out his arms like he had the day on the fence. “This is all ours,” he shouted.
“Not quite all,” Thomas said. “You can see well beyond our boundary.”
“Does that land belong to Gulda’s family?”
“Why would you think that?”
“You said Gulda brought you and Uncle Jacob here. He knew the best country and where the water was. Does that mean it was his country first?”
Thomas frowned. He’d never thought about it like that. “The government own the country.” In his mind he heard Gulda’s words the day Daisy had been upset by the fence. This is her country, he’d said.
Thomas stared at the mountain range. He owned the rights to this country now. One day Gulda and Daisy would understand.
“What kind of bird is that?”
Thomas followed Joseph’s pointing finger. The clouds were dark beyond the mountains and the sky merged to grey above. A tiny movement caught his eye.
“An eagle,” he said. “‘Wildu’ is what Gulda calls them.”
“Is that why you named our place Wildu Creek?” Joseph laughed and slithered down from the rock. “I always thought it was a funny way of saying ‘will do’.”
Thomas looked at his son in puzzlement.
“You know,” Joseph said. “Like, ‘this will do’.”
Thomas laughed. “Well, you weren’t far wrong. When I first saw this place I did think, This will do.”
Joseph turned to look at the large rocks toppled beside the one he’d just stood on. “These kind of look like a cave,” he said and moved through one of the gaps.
Off to Thomas’s other side, in the bush, he sensed a movement. He swivelled his eyes without turning his head. It was difficult to see from that angle but it appeared that a man sat there.
“Father.”
Thomas looked in his son’s direction.
“Father, look at this.”
A shiver ran down Thomas’s spine. He couldn’t resist the urge to turn back to where he thought he’d seen the man. He stared into the bush and even moved a little closer but there was no one there.
“Father.” Joseph stepped out from behind a rock. “Natives have been here. There are paintings on the rocks.”
“I know, son,” he said. “I saw them the first time I came.” He lifted his hand to his eyes and glanced towards the sun. Perhaps this was one part of his property he should leave alone. “It’s time for
us to go,” he said. “We won’t make it home before dark.”
“Wait till I tell Ellen about the paintings,” Joseph said. “She’ll be mad she couldn’t come.”
Thomas put a hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “Let’s not tell her,” he said. “I’ve never told your mother about the things I saw up here.”
“Really?”
“I told her of the country I saw and Wildu Creek laid out before me, but not about the rocks and the paintings.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Thomas said. “It’s … it’s as if I’ve been to someone else’s house without asking.”
“They’re only paintings on a rock.” Joseph flung his arms in the air. “Besides there’s no one here to ask.”
“I know.” Thomas glanced at the trees beside him again.
“Come on,” he said. “Time to go home.”
Sixty-seven
Thomas kneeled down and felt the feeble pulse in the sheep’s neck. When he had seen it lying on the ground he had thought at least he wouldn’t need to slit its throat but now he would.
There were only ten sheep left alive on Wildu Creek, soon to be nine. He kept them in the yard at the shearing shed and every few days he or Joseph would ride further south to cut some bluebush or up into the hills to find some other vegetation. They gave the sheep water from their meagre supply in the tank.
The few sheep they’d had in their northern country had been taken by natives or wild dogs. Thomas couldn’t believe it had come to this. He knew he was much luckier than some. He’d sold some off early and had moved nearly three thousand sheep south to AJ’s property. When the rains came he had the means to start again. If that didn’t happen soon, though, he would have to take his family and join the sheep in the south.
Even Lizzie’s vegetable patch was no more, although somehow the mulberry tree struggled on. Baths only happened if they made the trek up the hill to the last of the permanent waterholes and even then it was a wash in a bucket. He was very careful with that precious waterhole. The natives who camped nearby relied on it. Gulda and Tarka had an almost daily task of clearing away dead animals.
Thomas set to his miserable duty, not made any easier by the oppressive heat of the murky grey day. He lifted the feeble animal over the fence and behind the shed where he slit the throat and let the blood drain. There wasn’t much meat on the poor sheep, but it would keep them going for a while.
“I’ll help you hang it.”
Thomas lifted his head. Joseph had rounded the shed and found him.
“Timothy’s back from Port Augusta,” Joseph said. Their shepherd had gone to the port to visit his family and pick up some supplies with the money Thomas had made by cutting the wool from his dead sheep. There was little work for Timothy at Wildu Creek but he was determined to stay. Each time he went to visit his family, Thomas wondered if he would return. “Mother wants you to come inside. He’s brought a letter.”
“A letter?”
Thomas was puzzled. It was very rare for them to receive letters. Lizzie and her mother corresponded but they received little other mail.
Joseph helped him hang the sheep in the relative cool of the shearing shed. They walked back to the house, washing in the small basin of water they kept at the back door before they went inside.
Timothy was sitting at the table with a mug of tea.
“What news of the port?” Thomas asked.
“Not a lot. They got a bit of rain. Not as much as has been reported from Leigh Creek. They’ve been flooded.”
“If only it would come this way,” Lizzie said as she poured tea into the mugs she’d placed around the table.
“There are dark clouds beyond the hills,” Joseph said. “The air feels heavy outside.”
“Heavy air,” Ellen said. “How can air be heavy? And those clouds have been there for weeks.” She poked her tongue out at Joseph.
Thomas saw that an envelope sat in the centre of the table, propped against the sugar pot. No sooner had he sat down than Ellen whipped the letter up and thrust it into his hands.
“Open it, Father,” she said.
He flapped the envelope, addressed neatly to him, against his other hand.
“It makes a better fan,” he said.
“Father,” Ellen groaned.
“How dull our lives have become that a letter can be the cause of such anticipation.” Lizzie ran her hand across her brow. “Please open it, Thomas, before we all expire from curiosity.”
Thomas took a knife from the table, slit the envelope open and drew out the paper from inside. He was curious himself to know the contents but he could not guess who had sent it. When he opened it he looked immediately to the name at the bottom, and gasped.
“What is it?”
“Who’s it from?”
Ellen and Lizzie spoke at once.
“The letter is signed by a Mrs Septimus Wiltshire.”
“What does she want?” Lizzie asked.
There was silence as Thomas skimmed down the page. He couldn’t believe what he was reading. He put the paper on the table and looked up into the eyes of his family and Timothy, all waiting for him to speak.
“Is it bad news, Father?” Ellen asked more gently this time. “You’ve gone quite pale.”
Thomas picked the paper up again. “Not bad news exactly,” he said.
“Read it, Thomas,” Lizzie urged from across the table.
Thomas took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he began.
“Dear Mr Baker,
I trust this finds you well in these difficult times.
I am writing to tell you the sad news of my husband’s passing, although I am well aware now that he has done you several disservices in the past and you may not react unhappily to the news of his death. Septimus had been finding it difficult to make a living like so many at this time and had taken up his hawking trade again. His body was found in a dry creek bed some miles from an inn he owned in the hills across the plain from Port Augusta. His body had been in the elements for some time before he was found and the police can only assume he took ill and became disoriented. They think he died from exposure to the elements.
By the time this letter reaches you I will have left Port Augusta with my son to take up residence in Adelaide. Without Septimus to look out for us I feel we will fare better in a larger town. I have sold my house and the inn and a small farm nearby, but I do not intend to renew the lease my husband held on the property near yours called Smith’s Ridge.”
Lizzie gasped and Thomas looked up from the page.
“What’s the matter, Mother?” Ellen asked.
“That’s the man that stole Smith’s Ridge from Uncle Zac and Uncle Jacob,” Joseph said.
“Finish it,” Lizzie said.
Thomas cleared his throat, knowing already what the next lines contained.
“I have left the paperwork with Mr Grant the commission agent in Port Augusta, whom I believe you know. It was Mr Grant who told me where to address this letter. I want you to have the option of renewing the lease in the hope it may go some way towards righting a wrong that my husband has caused you in the past.
I don’t imagine we will ever meet again. It is not my intention. Should there be some need to correspond, Mr Grant will know where to forward the letter. He also holds a box for you containing a china tea seat and some books.
I remain yours faithfully
Harriet Wiltshire.”
Silence followed Thomas’s folding of the letter.
It was Ellen who broke it.
“I don’t understand. What wrong did the man do to you, Father?”
Lizzie held his gaze across the table. Tears brimmed in her eyes and her lip trembled. Thomas turned to his daughter.
“Mr Wiltshire did some unkind things in the past, Ellen. They are best forgotten. But Smith’s Ridge was supposed to belong to your uncles. Mr Wiltshire was underhanded in the way he managed the lease, and they lost their money.”
; “Much more than money,” Lizzie murmured.
“Does that mean Uncle Zac and Uncle Jacob will come back?” Ellen asked.
“I don’t know, Ellen,” Thomas said. “There’s more to it than the land. They have no stock or equipment. They might not want to start again.”
“Perhaps we could take up the lease,” Joseph said. “Manage it for them.”
Thomas looked at the anticipation on his son’s face. He couldn’t help the chuckle that gurgled from his throat. “You’ve raised an optimist, Lizzie, I’ll give you that. Who else would want to take on more land in a drought?”
“Listen,” Ellen said. “What’s that?”
They all looked up as something made a clattering sound across the tin roof.
“It’s rain.” Joseph jumped up and poked his sister. “I told you it would rain.”
The clatter was accompanied by the rumble of thunder. By the time they all got outside, rain was thrumming down beyond the verandah. They could see nothing but grey and the occasional flash of lightning.
The young ones jumped around in excitement and Thomas grabbed Lizzie and pulled her close.
“We’ve survived, Thomas,” she said and he kissed her.
“One shower of rain isn’t enough, Lizzie.”
She looked at the downpour and back to Thomas and tweaked his nose. “I think it’s more than a shower.”
They held each other and watched as Joseph and Timothy took turns to dash out into the rain, shout at the sky and run back onto the verandah. Ellen squealed in delight as they splashed her with their wet clothes.
“You’re still not smiling, Thomas,” Lizzie said.
“I was pondering the letter. Mrs Wiltshire didn’t mention the locket. If she was returning Mother’s things, I had hoped to recover it to give to you.”
Lizzie lifted her own locket from her neck. “You’ve already given me a locket, dearest. I don’t need any more.”
Heart of the Country Page 42