by Karen Wood
Luke just looked stupefied. ‘You’re Kitty. Kitty and Steve.’
‘You remember us!’ Kitty laughed and gave him a hug. She wiped a finger along the rim of her eyes. ‘Matty’s boy. My Matty. I miss her every day.’ Then she laughed. ‘You’ve got her beautiful hair.’
‘What about my father?’ asked Luke. ‘Did you know Ernest Matheson?’
‘Yeah, we knew Ernest, though we never knew that was his real name till his funeral. Everyone around here just called him Jack. That’s him there!’
Steve pointed to a black-and-white photo pinned to the wall behind the bar. A man in a singlet and an old bushie’s hat was pouring a beer down the throat of a horse. There were others in the photo, laughing.
‘That was taken before the accident,’ said Steve. ‘They were good times back then. Real good times.’
‘That’s Rambo,’ said Kitty, pointing to the horse in the photo. ‘He’s still at Matty’s Creek. He and Jack were best mates.’
‘I think we saw him,’ said Jess, looking at the photo. ‘He was up on the hill.’
‘Yeah, that’d be him. That’s near where Jack’s buried, in the cemetery up there, next to Matty. Rambo never leaves the hill paddock. He knows Jack’s there.’
They spent the rest of the night sitting at a tall table next to a roaring fire, eating gravy-soaked chips and listening to Luke’s history unfold.
‘Your dad was driving the night your mum died, Luke. He was pissed. Tried to drive through the crossing while it was flooded. Always the hero, the larrikin,’ said Steve as he finished downing another schooner. ‘He never got over it. He was just a different person after that. Did some time in prison, that’s when you got taken away, then he went back to that farmhouse and just kinda lived like a hermit.’
‘You used to look after me,’ said Luke to Kitty.
‘You were only four when the trial came up and Jack went to jail.’ She looked at Luke with tears in her eyes. ‘They wouldn’t let me keep you. I promised Matty I’d look after you.’
‘The mongrels,’ said Steve, ‘they said we didn’t fit the criteria to be foster carers. We were like bloody family. Your dad did four years. By the time he got out, he thought you’d be better off without him.’
‘Were you?’ asked Kitty, and Jess could feel the weight in her words.
Both Mrs Arnold and Grace watched Luke, waiting for the answer. His face was still but Jess could see that his mind was processing. Would he tell them about being shunted from one foster home to another, about being bashed, kicked out of school?
‘Eventually,’ Luke said, sparing them the full truth, ‘I met a really good bloke called Harry. He taught me to break in horses. He was the best, a real father to me.’
Kitty smiled warmly.
‘He was my uncle,’ said Grace proudly.
‘My brother,’ said Mrs Arnold, shooting a gnarly look at Steve.
Then all of sudden everyone was getting emotional about Harry. They told stories about droving and camp–drafting, about the number of people who had ridden through town on the day of his funeral, Harry doing the full monty on the back of the bushfire brigade’s truck. Judy told stories that neither Jess nor Luke had even heard before. Finally the stories came around to brumbies.
‘Well, you’ve certainly got brumbies in your blood,’ said Steve, raising his glass at Luke. ‘Doesn’t surprise me at all that you’re involved with horses. Your old man used to disappear for weeks up in those mountains. He knew them all, didn’t he, Kit?’
‘Yep. He kept records of all the foals each year and always knew if one went missing or if it was injured.’
‘That’s why we’re here,’ said Mrs Arnold. ‘Some bastards have been putting some rough-lookin’ brumbies through the sales up north. All we know is that they’re from the tablelands.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ said Steve. ‘There’s been all sorts of trouble up on the mountain lately.’
‘Catching a brumby has always been an initiation thing with the young fellas around here,’ said Kitty. ‘Like a rite of passage. Some of those horses trace back to the Walers. These kids’ ancestors were in the war, they rode those horses into battle. They see it as their right to be allowed to catch them.’
‘Most just take a few photos and let them go,’ said Steve. ‘Or they might break them in, if they know what they’re doing. They make top station horses.’
‘We’ve got no problems with that,’ said Judy. ‘Harry used to do the same thing, catch one here or there and train it up. It’s the idiots without a clue, the ones who dump them at the saleyards to be dogged with their legs half ripped off that we don’t like.’
Then Jess told them about Sapphire and the golden palomino they had seen at the Brisbane saleyards. ‘We have reports about other ones, too,’ she said. ‘They all have blue eyes.’
‘It’s all the blow-ins,’ said Steve. ‘They come down here and want to go brumby-running. It’s just a sport to them. But they cause all sorts of trouble. Horses injured. Stock all stirred up, not to mention the damage to the bush.’
‘The locals have always kept the brumbies in these hills kinda quiet,’ said Kitty. ‘Not many people knew they existed. But word seems to have got out.’
‘It’s their colour,’ said Mrs Arnold. ‘The blue eyes and the golden pelt. They’d be quite a prize to catch, I imagine.’
‘They’re gonna wipe those horses out if they keep going,’ said Luke. ‘I’m going for a ride up there tomorrow. I want to see what’s going on.’
‘You wanna be careful,’ warned Steve. ‘About five different boundaries meet up there. It’s a no-man’s land, virtually lawless. There’s all sorts of crazy people doing stupid things.’
Luke shot Jess a look.
‘It’s real,’ Jess whispered with awe. ‘A no-man’s land. Where the boundaries meet . . . ’
She wanted to go there, too.
9
AS THEY LEFT the warmth of the pub later that night, Grace looked crushed. ‘I want to go up the mountain too but Mum wouldn’t let me bring a horse.’
‘Take old Rambo,’ said Kitty, as she showed them to the bunkhouse again. ‘He’s old, but by geez he knows those mountains.’
Luke coughed.
Grace looked at him pleadingly. He shrugged. ‘Okay.’
When they got to their room, it was freezing cold and no one had remembered to turn the tiny oil heater on. The beds were saggy and covered with purple chenille bedspreads with only one blanket. Kitty didn’t seem to mind when Luke’s two wolf-dogs slunk in after them.
‘Cockroach spray. How thoughtful,’ said Grace after Kitty had left. She picked up a blue can from a small timber dresser and gave it a shake.
‘Here’s the continental breakfast,’ said Jess, opening a big plastic tub full of cups and plates and pulling out a snack pack of cornflakes.
‘Any milk?’ asked Mrs Arnold, peering over her shoulder.
‘Can’t see any.’
‘Hmmm, crunchy.’
‘I bags Fang for the night,’ said Grace, whistling the big black dog up onto her bed. ‘Lie down, boy!’
Luke appeared at the doorway with his swag.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ said Mrs Arnold, blocking the entrance.
‘Out of the cold,’ he answered, looking over her shoulder. ‘It’s arctic out here!’
‘You got a whole house down the road – this is the girls’ room!’
To Jess’s horror, Mrs Arnold closed the door on him. Luke banged angrily on it. ‘The house is full of black snakes and rats. Anyway, I paid for that room!’
‘You’ve got a swag,’ she called back, sounding unconcerned. ‘Or are ya still Little Lukey?’ She beat him to the window and flicked the catch across the top of the sash.
‘HEYYYY!’ he yelled.
‘Keep your voice down. You’ll wake the other guests.’ Mrs Arnold flung the curtain shut and turned to the girls. ‘Get changed and into bed. Big day tomorrow.’
&
nbsp; ‘Can I at least have my dogs?’ Luke called from outside.
‘No, they’ll freeze out there!’ Mrs Arnold plonked her overnight bag on the bed that was under the window, effectively blocking any chance of him communicating with Jess. Filth leapt onto the fourth bed and nuzzled into the chenille bedspread gratefully.
‘There you go, little doggy,’ said Mrs Arnold, giving him a pat. ‘You snuggle up there and stay warm.’
Jess curled into a heat-conserving ball and let the details of Luke’s past churn around in her head. She wondered where he would sleep and hoped he wouldn’t go back to the property. After listening for the engine of the ute to fire up for what seemed like hours, she finally relaxed and gave a low whistle. ‘Filth,’ she whispered softly.
The bed creaked and she felt it sag. The big shaggy dog settled down next to her and she gratefully wrapped her arms around his warmth. Finally her thoughts led her into sleep.
Jess rose as soon as she heard the first bird. She wrapped her jacket around herself, slipped her feet into her boots and quietly creaked the door open. Cold air rushed in but Mrs Arnold kept snoring contentedly. Fang opened one eye and closed it again. All Jess could see of Grace was one arm flopped over the dog.
Outside, the sky was still dim with night and everything was shadowy. She stood next to Luke’s ute and tried to stretch the saggy bed out of her spine. Her back complained bitterly while she spent a minute arching and bending and trying not to wake Mrs Arnold with her groaning. When she felt nearly vertical again, she looked around, wondering where Luke had spent the night.
Something cold wrapped around her ankle. A hand. Under the ute, she could see the edge of Luke’s swag. ‘I nearly died out here last night,’ he said. He went on to call Mrs Arnold a string of unflattering names. ‘I nearly freeze-branded my bum on that toilet.’
Jess crouched down. ‘Open up.’
He lifted the cover of the swag and she crawled in next to him, boots and all. His freezing cold nose nuzzled into her neck and she giggled as he made her skin tingle. ‘I was hoping you’d sneak out,’ he said.
‘I can’t wait to go riding today,’ she whispered.
‘Me neither,’ he whispered back. ‘Can you believe what Steve said? About the no-man’s land, all the boundaries meeting.’
‘It’s like your mum’s stories,’ whispered Jess. ‘It must be a real place.’
‘I couldn’t stop thinking about it all night. My head nearly imploded. My parents are both buried here. I could hear the river where my mother died. I was haunted by them all night. It was weird sleeping here.’
‘Good weird or bad weird?’
‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘But I can’t wait to go back to the property. I want to find the place in Mum’s stories.’
‘You weren’t freaked out about the way . . . you know . . . your mum . . . ’
Luke took a lingering breath. ‘I hate alcohol,’ he answered quietly. ‘I’m never ever drinking.’
Mrs Arnold burst suddenly out of the bunkhouse door. She was a scary sight in her limp old nightie with hair poking out at strange angles. ‘Jessica!’ she hissed, casting around the carpark. ‘Jessica!
’ Jess felt the swag cover being shoved over her head. ‘Shhh,’ Luke laughed softly. She huddled in the warmth of his chest, where she could hear the beat of blood through his heart. He wrapped his arms protectively around her. ‘Old cow stole my dogs, she’s not getting my girl,’ he whispered under the covers. He lifted his head again and let out a piercing whistle.
Mrs Arnold swore as Filth cannoned past her. She mumbled something about bloody teenagers. Just before she slammed the door shut, Fang escaped too.
After much sniffing and peeing, the dogs found Luke under the ute and wagged apologetic tails at him. ‘On the back,’ he growled at them, pointing to the tray of his ute.
‘Let them in,’ Jess said, rubbing Filth‘s nose.
‘No way! They’ve lost their swag privileges. Get on the back, you disloyal mutts!’
The dogs leapt onto the ute like water flowing back up a waterfall.
‘Let’s get going early,’ said Jess, resurfacing. ‘I want to check on Dodge.’
‘Kiss me first,’ said Luke, running his cold, work-cracked hands along her neck and up into her hair. ‘Before the old hag busts you out here.’ She snuggled into the warmth and rustle of the swag and felt herself almost drown in his arms and lips and gorgeous soft whisperings.
The idea of jumping back out into the frosty cold morning was left behind until Mrs Arnold, fully clothed and in steel-capped boots, kicked at the swag from the side of the ute. ‘That’s enough of that, you two, get up!’
‘Lukey Pukey’s making me wanna barf,’ said Grace, walking past in pyjamas and boots with no socks, a towel over one arm and a wash bag under the other.
When Grace and Mrs Arnold were both in the bathroom, Luke grinned at her. ‘Quick, let’s nick off again!’
The property looked more inviting in the morning light. Kookaburras chortled in the gum trees and birds flitted down by the creek. The family of kangaroos grazed in a nearby paddock. A huge buck stood guardedly, staring unblinkingly at Jess and Luke until they were at a safe distance.
Luke picked up an old shovel and stepped through the front door of the house again. ‘Look out, snakes,’ he said as he disappeared.
Jess went to the sheep yard to check on Dodger and Legsy. She found them finishing the remains of last night’s hay, with a thick coating of crunchy white frost across their backs. Mist billowed intermittently from their nostrils. Dodger seemed unperturbed, but Legsy chewed with a tight muzzle and his ears pinned back.
On the hillside behind them Jess noticed the shaggy black horse staring at them.
‘Hello Rambo!’ she called out. The horse flicked an ear back and forth, then walked away. One ear remained turned in her direction, she noticed.
Jess haltered Dodger and Legsy with red, icy hands and led them to the float so they could be saddled. Mrs Arnold’s LandCruiser rumbled down the road towards them.
‘I’m going to ride Rambo,’ said Grace, leaping out of the car with a halter in her hand. ‘Where is he?’
Jess pointed up onto the hillside. It was like sending a kelpie after a mob of sheep. Grace sprinted off.
A side window on the house burst open. ‘Hey, Jessy! Come and look at this!’ Luke held a bundle of maps and papers in his hands. ‘I found Jack’s records, look!’
Luke climbed out the window and spread his findings out over Legsy’s horse rug. He unfolded a dog-eared topographic map, full of holes and splits at the creases. On the back was what looked like a big family tree, scrawled in different pens over many years.
‘They’re horse names,’ said Luke excitedly. Next to each was a year, a gender and a colour. Many were noted as having one or two blue eyes. The chart seemed to skip generations and peter out here and there. Most of the names at the top of the tree were crossed out.
Jess and Mrs Arnold crowded around Luke.
The maps covered nearly forty years. According to Jack’s last records, there were still at least six families of wild horses living up in the surrounding mountains.
‘They go back to Saladin, like the Guy Fawkes horses,’ said Mrs Arnold, pointing to a list of horses’ names that were off to one side with question marks around them.
‘“1999, Beech Boy. Creamy colt. Two blue eyes.” I bet that’s Sapphire,’ said Jess, leaning over and placing her finger on some blue texta scrawl. She traced her finger along several lines to other names. ‘He’s sired others, and look down here, he had different mares during different years. There are no others with two blue eyes.’
‘Here’s one,’ said Luke, stabbing at a name. ‘Granite.’
‘It’s a bay,’ said Jess.
They searched all over the brumbies’ family tree and found no other horses with two blue eyes. About a third of them had one blue eye. Many were creamies or versions of creamies: palominos and buckskins, out of chestnuts and
bays. There were a couple of golden colts with one blue eye and Jess wondered if one of them was the poor stretched animal they’d seen at the saleyards.
Luke flipped over to the topographic map and pointed to a spot. ‘We can get up into the mountains from here.’
Jess looked up to see Grace walking down from the hill paddock with a halter on her shoulder and a frustrated look on her face. ‘We’ve got Buckley’s of catching that horse,’ she said. ‘Damn, I want to ride.’
Jess and Mrs Arnold went to help Grace while Luke continued poring over the maps and brumby records.
Out on the hillside, Rambo did not want to be caught. Jess noticed, however, that the horse’s attention kept going past them, back to Luke.
‘He keeps staring at you,’ called Jess. She wondered whether Luke had the same form and shape as his father, or the same smell, the same voice and shaggy hair, perhaps.
Luke hopped over the fence and walked easily towards the horse.
Jess watched in amazement as Rambo allowed Luke to come close, standing still and quiet. ‘Hey fella,’ he said softly, running a hand under its heavily bearded jaw. He brushed the thick dreadlocks of forelock from the horse’s forehead and revealed a startling sapphire blue eye.
‘He’s a brumby,’ Luke whispered with quiet reverence. ‘He’s got the blue eye.’
Jess got goosebumps. ‘He thinks you’re Jack,’ she whispered.
The horse nosed Luke gently, sniffed him all over and then put his head down near Luke’s feet and kept it there.
‘What are you doing?’ Luke asked. He put an arm over the horse’s thick, strong neck.
Rambo tossed his head up suddenly, sending Luke sprawling onto his backside. The horse looked shocked, and jumped back a couple of steps.
‘Hey!’ laughed Luke from the ground. ‘What was that all about?’ He pulled himself up onto his feet.