Long shadows ran across to where her parents were rubbing down the horses. She had started to groom Bella, but was so impatient and bad tempered with fatigue that her mother sent her to sit and rest. Dad would start a fire soon, and after tea they’d roll out their swags and sleep beside it. Even the wild cattle had settled in the yard, and the dogs slept, bone weary, beside the packhorse. They knew where their dinner was.
‘You thieving mongrel! That rotten dog’s stolen our bacon!’ Biddy woke to her father’s angry shouts, and she felt cheesed-off too. She’d been really looking forward to eggs and bacon for breakfast. She didn’t think Top could have stolen anything, though. He’d been in her swag all night, but she wasn’t going to tell her mother that. Lorna would be very grumpy to know a flea-bag dog had slept in Biddy’s swag. She gave a kick to dislodge him, and hauled on his collar. ‘Sorry, mate, you’re in trouble. Better you than me, though. Thanks for being such a good foot-warmer.’
Even without the bacon, it was a good breakfast. Biddy toasted the bread on a long twisted-wire fork, and her father fried up eggs in the pan.
Mum came back from saddling the horses. ‘Yoohoo! This smells good enough to eat! Oh, you are eating it.’
‘Very funny, Mum. Yours is there next to the fire,’ said Biddy. ‘How are the horses this morning?’
‘Good, mmmnn, good. I like the way you’ve plaited their manes. Very fancy. Did Irene teach you that?’
Biddy screwed up her nose. ‘What plaits? I haven’t been plaiting them. Ask Dad. I just got up.’
Joycie knew how to live off the land, but she and Joe would have had a lean time without their extra supplies. As long as Joycie could remember, Mad Dan had lived at the southern end of the headland. He was an old hermit, terrified of people, who’d built a shack for himself years ago. When Joycie and her brother were little kids they made up a song about him—Dan Dan the dirty man, washed his face in a frying pan—and their father had sent them to bed hungry for being so mean.
Pops was one of the few who had ever seen him, and when he was the ranger he always left the storeroom unlocked for the old fellow to help himself to supplies. Nobody ever talked about it, even now, but everyone knew that part of the ranger’s job was to leave the store open for Dan. That was how the system worked.
Joycie just helped herself from the same store. When Joe was a baby and she had to carry him all day to get there, it was hard, but later it became good fun. ‘Wanna go to the store, Jozz?’ Joe would say. ‘There’s no sugar left.’
It was where they got their clothes from, too. When Joycie had fled the town, she’d packed some toddler’s clothes for Joe, but nothing bigger. She never dreamed they’d be on their own for all these years, so as he grew she had to cut down and alter shirts and trousers of her own to fit him. They looked funny but they were comfortable and warm.
Joycie lined their jackets with rabbit skins and made fur-lined moccasins to wear in the winter. Joe had never worn shoes, and Joycie hadn’t for years. Their feet were so calloused and tough they didn’t really look like feet; they were more like hooves. When the weather was cold, it was a pleasure to pull on their soft, furry boots.
Over the years Joycie mended and darned and put patches on patches, but eventually their clothes just wore away. The store was the only place they could turn to.
‘Poor old Dan,’ laughed Joycie as she pulled on a pair of the ranger’s work pants. ‘They’ll reckon he’s getting greedy.’
On these visits they’d lie on the hill behind the buildings and watch for a long time to make sure the ranger was away. If his dog was unchained they never went in, and it was a long walk home empty-handed. But if the dog was on the chain it meant the ranger was gone, and they would climb down to collect their supplies. Powdered milk, tea, flour, sugar, matches—nobody seemed to notice that a bit more was disappearing. The first time the dog saw them he went mad, barking like an idiot. After that Joycie always made sure she had a fresh piece of rabbit for him, and he became their friend, fawning and slobbering.
‘I’d love a dog,’ Joe said one day, looking into his yellow eyes, ‘even a dopey one like this.’
Joycie frowned. ‘You can’t have a dog. It’s just you and me, Joe. Just you and me.’
Outside the cave, wind and rain slashed through the bush. Joe lay in the hammock watching the shadows of the fire flicker across Joycie’s face. He was carving a piece of cuttlefish, powdering the soft white shell with his fingers, but with no purpose. His mother was sick. She’d had pains before, but not like this one today. She’d collapsed onto the big driftwood bed this morning and not got up again. All afternoon she’d said how cold and sick she felt, so he’d made a huge fire and put all the rugs and blankets on her, but she still shivered. She’d been asleep for ages, now. Maybe she needed a drink. Her face was so pale.
‘Jozz,’ he whispered, leaning across from the hammock. She didn’t move. ‘Jozz! Wake up!’ Nothing. He leapt across to her bed and shook her shoulders urgently. ‘You have to wake up, Jozzie! Please!’ She always woke up for him. She was always there. ‘Jozz! Jozz! Can you hear me?’
He put his cheek against her face and felt her soft breath. Good. Maybe she just needed a big sleep. Joe lay beside Joycie on the bed, his arm across her, his face buried in her hair. When I wake up she’ll be better, he thought, she’ll be better.
When he woke the storm outside was raging, but in the cave it was still and silent. The fire was just a glow, and Joycie lay as she had when he went to sleep. She was cold. He felt for her breath. There was none. He pushed the blankets aside and pressed his ear against her chest, listening for a heartbeat. Nothing. He shifted his head urgently. Sometimes it was hard to hear. Nothing.
‘Come on, Jozz. No! You can’t be . . . !’ He took her hand and rubbed it between his, but her fingers were cool and limp. A choking pain of grief welled in his throat. He knew death. He knew when life was gone.
He knelt beside the bed for a long time with his head against his mother’s chest, talking to her, crying, keening. After a while he tidied the bed and tucked the blankets in, pushed the fire together and picked the cup up from the floor; putting things right. Then he realised it was never going to be right. Never going to be the same. He was alone.
Suddenly the cave felt like a tomb, and his mother . . . well, that wasn’t his mother. She was gone. He couldn’t stay here without her. He pulled down the big bag and began packing, wildly at first, but then with more consideration. The rabbit-skin rug, the Phantom comics, the blue-and-silver tin, clothes, gear, anything he would need for . . . what? For life? Where was he going?
He carried the bag to the mouth of the cave then turned to look back. A thought struck him, and he felt in his bag for the tin, opened it carefully and took out the Seal Island necklace. He walked back to the bed, gently placed the shells around his mother’s face, then pressed his cheek against hers, breathing in the scent of her beautiful hair one last time.
The rain stung his face as he swung his bag onto the platform outside the cave. He felt for the pile of rocks he knew was there. One of Joycie’s Phantom comics told a tale of giant tigers, and when he was a very little boy he couldn’t stop worrying about them. Joycie had laughed and reassured him, but he had insisted on carting rocks up to the cave so if the tigers ever did attack they could barricade themselves inside. The rocks had sat there ever since. Now he packed them carefully in the entrance, stacking them one on top of the other, sealing it so that his mother would not be disturbed.
The rain streamed down his face. He could taste the salt of his tears. His hands were numb with cold. Lightning flashes showed him that the wall was nearly finished. He packed wet earth into the cracks, then rested his head for a moment against the rock wall. He shouldered the bag and made his way across the valley, past the pool, past the swing, past the shells spinning in the wind. The bush lit up, blue and ghostly, as he climbed
the track, but he didn’t look back.
Ferns and branches lashed him as he picked his way along a roaring creek. The rain beat down. He walked for hours without direction, just going. On and on. He had no idea where he was. Resting for a moment in the lee of a rock, he heard a noise over the racket of the storm. He listened carefully, and yes, there was a crying sound just above him. He left his bag and climbed up the slippery rock, scraping his knees, but hardly feeling it for the cold. He peered into the gloom of a low cave, then the clouds parted to let moonlight in, and he saw a dingo pup, whimpering beside its mother. He crawled under the overhang. The pup bared its teeth and growled at him fiercely, backing behind its mother. She didn’t move. Joe put his hand on her and knew that she had been dead for days. She was cold and stiff. Joe sniffed. She smelt bad. He gagged at the thought that this would happen to Joycie, too.
‘Here, pup,’ Joe crooned. ‘Here, pup. We need each other, I reckon.’ He grabbed the dingo, ignoring the needle-sharp teeth, and held him close in the folds of his shirt, then wriggled to the edge of the cave where the air was fresher. He looked out into the night, into the rain, and rocked to and fro, talking to the pup all the time. ‘There, there, little dog. There, there. You’ll be right, mate. You’ll be right.’ It was the way Joycie used to talk to him when he got scared of the dark. It made him feel better, too. After a while the tiny body began to nestle against him, then a small black nose and two bright eyes peeped out between his buttons.
When the rain finally eased and the moon came out, Joe climbed down the rock, holding the pup close with one arm, picked up his bag, and slipped like a shadow through the bush.
The cattle splashed between the paperbarks that grew in the shallow tannin-stained river. Massive granite boulders loomed over the stream. They were patched with orange lichen and blackened by centuries of trickling rain. The mountains rose steeply on either side.
Biddy and her parents had rounded up two hundred and three cattle altogether, which meant there were five missing. Perhaps they’d died, or maybe some were tucked away in a far-off gully that hadn’t been searched. They’d have to wait until next autumn to find out. Biddy rode on the side of the mob, keeping them headed down the river. The bush above was dense, making the valley hot and ripe with the smell of cattle, sweat and earth.
At the beach the air suddenly freshened. When the cattle saw the wide expanse of sand they broke into a trot. Biddy cantered to wheel them to the right, towards home, and it felt good to be out of the bush at last, out in the open, with the seagulls scattering ahead. The wind had died away and a gentle breeze blew up from the south, pushing fat puffs of cloud through the blue October sky. It was a perfect day.
Once the cattle were all on the beach and had settled into a mob, Biddy reached into her saddlebag and found the sandwiches her mother had made that morning. They wouldn’t have time to stop for lunch today. It would be low tide soon, and they would have to keep going to get the mob around the entrance to the inlet while there was still enough room on the beach. Once the tide was right in, the water ran swift and deep against the cliffs. Grandpa had been trapped there years ago with a freak tide, and the thought of cattle drowning in the cold current still gave Biddy the horrors.
It was easy droving along the beach. The sand dunes were as steep as cliffs, so the cattle couldn’t drift back into the bush. Biddy’s dad rode in the lead, ahead of the mob, steadying any that were inclined to run, and giving the others something to follow. The Wild Ones, as they’d christened the big steers from behind Mount Smoky, were right behind him, heads up and bellowing. Mad barking and whip-cracking told Biddy each time one tried to break past the lead, as her father plied his stockwhip and the dogs headed the beast.
It was almost as though the dogs enjoyed having a few bad cattle; it gave them an excuse to do serious biting. They trotted along before the mob, watching the Wild Ones over their shoulders, as if to say, ‘Come on then, do you want another go? Come on, we’re ready.’ They would be much quieter cattle by the time they got home. ‘Educating’ was what her father called it, and Biddy thought he enjoyed it as much as the dogs.
Mum rode at the back with the packhorse, pushing along the dawdlers. Biddy was on the seaward side, splashing steadily through the shallows and turning back any steers that wandered towards the surf or stopped to chew on the rubbery yellow kelp washed in with the tide. She rested one leg across the pommel of her saddle and wondered again who really had plaited the horses’ manes last night. She was pretty sure her mum and dad weren’t tricking her, and the plaits weren’t just tangles. Gordon’s tail was braided in the same way she and Irene did their hair, and Mum’s horse had a running plait sloping down her neck. Bella’s mane had three fine single plaits, with speckled feathers bound into the ends of them. Maybe the next time she braided Irene’s hair she would try it. She had some crimson rosella feathers that would look fantastic in her black hair. Perhaps some red beads . . .
‘Biddy! Biddy!’ Her mother’s voice broke into her daydream. ‘Go out and get those cattle off the sandbar.’
Without thinking, Biddy clicked Bella into a canter and raced after the long straggle of steers. Bella put her ears back as she wheeled the cattle around, and gave them a dirty look.
‘Get back there! Git moving!’ Biddy shouted. ‘You boys can’t even swim!’
Bella’s hooves pounded as she raced alongside the galloping steers.
The shifting clouds overhead reflected in the wet sand so that the ground itself seemed to be moving . . .
Later, Biddy tried to remember what happened, but there was no warning, no deep sand, no bog. It was just bang—straight in. One minute Bella was bowling along on firm sand, and the next she had stopped. The sudden halt flung Biddy over the pony’s head.
At first she thought Bella had fallen, so she staggered to her feet and urged the pony to do the same. ‘Come on, Bella! Come on, girl! Get up!’ It was only when she felt the sand sucking at her legs that she realised what had happened.
‘Mum!’ she screamed. ‘Mum! Help me! Bella’s bogged! She’s in quicksand!’ Bella struggled and sank even deeper, past her shoulders. ‘Oh please, God, I’ll do anything. Please don’t let her sink! Come on, Bella! Get out!’
Biddy dragged on the reins. Bella grunted with effort and heaved desperately, but couldn’t budge. The bridle pulled over the pony’s slippery ears and came away in Biddy’s hands, sending her sprawling into the bog. She lay there, sandy, wet and sobbing, as her mother rode up and dismounted on the firm sand.
‘Come on, Bid. Get up. We’ll see if Blue can pull her out.’ She looped a rope around the chest of the old pack- horse and threw the end to Biddy. ‘Tie this under her surcingle—where it goes across the top of your saddle. If you lie flat on the sand you won’t sink so much.’
Biddy wriggled across to Bella. The pony had stopped struggling but it made Biddy sob to see her looking so pathetic. Her beautiful mane was plastered into a brown lump and her terrified eyes were messed and dirty with sand. At least she wasn’t sinking any more.
‘Don’t worry, girl,’ Biddy soothed. ‘You’ll be right.’
The rope was heavy and stiff, and her hands just wouldn’t stop shaking. She pulled off her gloves and flung them away. ‘I hope this strap will hold, Mum. Okay, you pull and I’ll push.’
Lorna turned Blue towards the shore and he leaned into the rope around his chest. He dug his hooves in the sand and heaved with all his might . . . Suddenly he plunged forward—but without Bella. Only the broken surcingle dragged on the end of the rope.
‘It’s not working, Mum!’ Biddy screamed. ‘It’s broken! She hasn’t shifted!’
Lorna backed up Blue again. She tried to undo the rope from the surcingle, but the knot had pulled tight and hard. She cursed under her breath. She didn’t want Biddy to see how desperate she felt. ‘I’ll have to cut it off, Bid. Hang on a minute.’
Biddy tied it. She felt so slow, so clumsy. She pushed against Bella’s side, but with no strength. She couldn’t get any purchase in the slop. ‘Come on, Blue, this time. Pull!’
Blue dug his hooves in again and heaved against the rope. He groaned and Bella shifted slightly, but then—again—Blue lurched forward without her. This time the whole saddle dragged on the end of the rope.
‘Biddy, darling, I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to leave her.’
‘What?’ Biddy struggled out of the quicksand to where her mother was stowing the rope in the pack-saddle. ‘You can’t leave her! When the tide comes in she’ll drown!’ Biddy screamed. ‘I’ll go and get Dad. He’ll get her out.’ Tears were streaming down her face. She started to run.
‘No, Biddy.’ Lorna gathered her bedraggled daughter in her arms. ‘Stop fighting me. Dad can’t come back here. He’s got to hold the lead. But even if he did come back, he couldn’t do anything. There’s nowhere to tie a rope on to now. We can’t put a rope around her neck. She’d choke. And her tail’s under the sand. Besides, we’ve got to get these cattle off the beach or we could lose them . . . ’ Her voice trailed off.
‘You were going to say “too”, weren’t you? Lose them too,’ Biddy accused her mother. ‘You think she’ll drown if we leave her. We can’t do it.’ She stuck out her chin. ‘I’ll stay.’
The Quicksand Pony Page 4