by Peter Watt
After dinner, Hector invited his new guests to take tea on the verandah. Giselle now understood the magic Alex had known living on the property. She stared up at the night sky in its full glory of countless stars, twinkling over the silent plains. Hector noticed that the beauty of the evening had captivated her.
‘The blackfellas around here used to say that the stars were the souls of the ancestors looking down on the earth,’ he said, plugging his pipe with tobacco. ‘We still have one old blackfella who lives in a cave not too far from here, called Wallarie,’ Hector continued, scratching a match to light his pipe. ‘I was told that he is the last of his tribe.’
‘I have heard of this man called Wallarie,’ Giselle replied. ‘My husband told me that he is an almost mythical figure, with ancient powers to turn himself into a young man or eagle when it suited him.’
Hector puffed on the pipe. ‘The old bugger spends a bit of time sitting there under the bumbil tree, the one growing just outside the fence, from when the pastor and his Mrs used to run the mission station for the blackfellas,’ he said. ‘But he’s no magic man – just an old blackfella who has outlived all his family and has everyone fooled with his stories.’
‘There’d be magic people in the Highlands, when I was a wee lad,’ Angus said, breaking into the conversation. ‘Magic things that only the old ones living in the glens knew from the time before the priests came to force them to flee to the shadow world.’
‘That’s the trouble with you heathen Highlanders,’ Hector chuckled. ‘You spent so much time away from the civilisation of the low lands that you really believed in those things.’
‘Patrick, God rest his soul, used to say that while Wallarie lived, there would always be a curse on his family,’ Angus continued. ‘Given that he, little Nellie and Alexander are now all gone from this world, it may be possible that the family is indeed under an ancient curse.’
Giselle clasped David close to her as he sat at her feet playing with a short length of rope. ‘I hope that all this conversation about curses is merely talk to frighten children,’ she said. ‘My son carries the blood of his father, and if there is a curse then surely he must also inherit that.’
‘Oh, I am sorry Mrs Macintosh,’ Hector hurried to apologise. ‘The talk of Wallarie and the curse is nothing more than that. Just idle banter by the blackfellas and my stockmen, because they have nothing else to talk about out here.’
‘Will it be possible to meet this strange man you speak of?’ Giselle asked.
Hector took a breath and sighed, tapping his pipe on the arm of his chair. ‘Funny thing,’ he said. ‘No-one around here has seen hide nor hair of the old fella for some months now. It is as if he has just up and disappeared. Maybe even gone out into the bush to die and join his ancestors up in the sky. My blackfella employees – and even my white stockmen – feel uneasy about his absence. They have some strange idea that if Wallarie is not to be found a terrible thing will happen here. But, as I say, it is all just idle talk.’
Giselle could see that her son had tired of the adult conversation and was ready to sleep. She bid the men a good night and took David to their room, leaving the two old soldiers on the verandah.
The moon rose over the plains, dimming the stars. The mournful cry of a curlew broke the silence, joined by others calling across the scrub.
‘The blackfellas say that is the sound of the dead,’ Hector said. ‘It certainly fits in with the stories the stockmen have passed down over time about this place being cursed.’
‘So you believe in the stories?’ Angus asked.
‘It is a queer thing,’ Hector said. ‘But every manager who has been here tells of how old Wallarie once said that there is an evil in the blood of the Macintosh family that can only be exorcised by the death of the Macintosh family itself and the returning of the land to the Darambal people. But it is just one of those stories that gets bigger with the telling.’
‘Have you ever met your boss, George Macintosh?’ Angus asked.
‘Once, when I was in Sydney for an interview,’ Hector replied. ‘I didn’t like the man from the moment I met him, but his father approved my position here. There was something about his son that made my skin crawl.’
Angus did not comment but puffed on his own pipe, listening to the tormented cries of the bush curlews and watching the plain light up under the full moon. The land reminded him of the places in Africa where he and Patrick had fought, shoulder to shoulder with rifle and bayonet.
‘Well,’ Hector said, tapping his pipe out for the last time. ‘Not much chance of George Macintosh ever visiting Glen View so it’s unlikely he’ll meet a sticky fate at the hands of a blackfella curse. I will bid you a good night, Angus, and see you before first light for breakfast.’
Angus lingered, taking in the view the moon afforded him of his new home. He had been so much a part of the family since Patrick had recruited him from the slums of Glasgow, where he probably would have died from the drink had not Patrick saved him. Angus had lived through a time when the best of the family had died, leaving the most evil to rule. He wondered about the Aboriginal curse. David was also a Macintosh – as was George’s son, Donald. Were they to be included in this ongoing drama stemming from this harsh land?
‘Och, man!’ he softly chided himself. He had only been on the property a few hours and already he was becoming one with the world around him of scrub and red dust. It was bad enough that he believed in the spirits of the old ones of the Highlands, let alone in heathen ghosts as well.
In her room, Giselle’s attention was drawn back to the night sky. Through a window she found herself searching for the biggest and brightest star. Surely it would be her husband looking down on them.
After a couple of weeks Giselle was warming to station life. She was in a strange position, neither guest nor employee, and fully realised that Alex’s brother had sent her to Glen View to get her and David as far from civilisation as possible. She also understood that while her son lived he was a rival to his cousin, young Donald, for the inheritance of the Macintosh empire.
Giselle soon befriended the young Aboriginal girl, and taught her how to prepare a greater variety of dishes than boiled beef and damper bread. And Giselle found herself as the resident medical practitioner, stitching wounds, soothing burns and setting broken limbs. It was as if she were back on her father’s plantation in New Guinea. The work of healing gave her great satisfaction although she still mourned the lost opportunity of studying medicine.
Each day, David toddled in the yard, playing with the Aboriginal children of the men who worked alongside the Europeans. Giselle and Angus laughed when on the verandah one night David spoke to them and Hector MacManus in the language of his playmates.
‘He’s a bonnie young lad,’ Hector said, plugging his pipe. ‘He will make a fine bushman, and maybe eventually manage Glen View when I am gone.’
Giselle had come to like this tough former Scot who ruled with a friendly, fair and firm hand over both Aboriginal and European stockmen and their families. The demand for beef for the war effort ensured good prices for the cattle the men mustered and for her part Giselle quickly earned the man’s respect for her competency in this land that was still a frontier.
One evening while only Giselle and Hector were on the verandah he slipped into a reflective mood. When Giselle gently prompted him as to his thoughts, Hector told her how he had been married when he first took up his management of the property.
‘The poor lassie had a fatal fall from her horse after a visit to the cave,’ he said softly. ‘The blackfellas said that she went inside to explore but no woman is to step inside the sacred place of the blackfellas. They said that death would come to any woman who did so, but her fall from the horse was just a bloody accident. That was three years ago.’
‘I am sorry,’ Giselle answered. ‘I understand you must still be grieving.’
‘That you do, lassie,’ Hector replied. ‘Just don’t be tempted to go where my wife
did.’
His comment struck a chord with Giselle and she took it to heart. Man did not know all that lay beyond death, and possibly the ancient people who had lived so long with nature might have insights beyond European understanding.
Angus had settled into his role as the gardener. He had little understanding of horticulture but the resident Chinese gardener, using a few words of broken English, taught him the business of growing cabbages, lettuces and other vegetables.
The arrival of mail was the most anticipated day of the month. The postman rode by with his saddle bags full of newspapers, letters and parcels for the isolated property and would stay overnight, providing as much local information as he could to his hospitable hosts. In the morning he would leave with a hangover.
Angus and Hector had become firm friends and as the weeks turned into months Giselle found time had little meaning anymore. Life on the property assumed its own cycle and she was wonderfully surprised when she walked out onto the verandah early one morning to take in the peace of the rising sun. Hector was standing in the yard, holding the reins of a fine-looking mare.
‘Happy birthday, Mrs Macintosh,’ he said, beaming. ‘I have a present for you.’
Giselle was stunned. She had forgotten! She gazed in rapture at the generous gift.
‘How did you know it was my birthday?’ she asked, stepping from the verandah.
‘It was on the station records,’ Hector said. ‘And I’d be getting a mount for young David on his birthday. About time the future manager of Glen View learned to ride.’
Giselle stroked the mare’s nose.
That evening Giselle was treated to a camp dinner, with all the station staff gathering around a half beast roasting on a spit. Sitting under the night sky as the soft, red embers rose in the clear, star-filled heaven, Giselle felt at home. She now understood Alex’s fond memories of Glen View. She did not miss the crowded city streets of Sydney – or the frivolous social life. Here she was with nature, surrounded by men who appreciated her skills as a cook and healer. David was growing into a strong, sturdy boy in the healthy clear air and the plagues of flies, heat and occasional dust storms were simply taken in their stride.
According to the calendar on the back of the kitchen door it was now 1918. The war dragged on without any sign of it ending. Giselle had satisfied herself that she had no urgent duties to attend to, and informed Hector that she intended to go for a ride on her mare, which she had named Valkerie, to see the sacred hill. She also told him she wished to do so alone and explore some of the country around the creek she had heard was not far from the sacred hill.
‘Be careful, Mrs Macintosh,’ he said, frowning. ‘There are still one or two wild blackfellas who come through this way. And remember my warning about the cave.’
With what he had said echoing in her head, Giselle dressed in jodhpurs and rode out, carrying extra water canteens. She had been given a map of the property and followed the directions until she came across the craggy red hill that rose like an island in a sea of stunted scrub. It was certainly an eerie place, Giselle thought uneasily as she felt the sun beating down on her in the middle part of the day.
She sensed that she was not alone and when she turned her attention on the surrounding bush she saw a man standing there, armed with spears and half naked. He had a long, dark bushy beard and his chest was covered in welts. He was a young man, and Giselle remembered the warning.
But the man, only fifty paces away, made no threatening move towards her although the mare under her shifted. Their eyes locked and Giselle could swear that he was talking to her without words she could hear on the hot, still air. He was telling her that all would be well and that soon they would be coming for both of them. When Giselle focused on the young man in the shimmering heat haze between them, she became aware that he was not young at all, but very old.
Valkerie shifted under her, snorting in confusion at what she sensed but could not see. For a moment Giselle’s attention was distracted from the man as she fought to keep control of her mount, and when she looked up he was gone. Suddenly Giselle’s horse reared. A huge wedge-tailed eagle rose with a slow flapping into the sky. Giselle brought the mare under control. She wanted to call out to the Aboriginal man but felt foolish. Had she seen a mirage that had set off her imagination? The eagle took a course westwards. It was a magnificent bird and Giselle admired its beauty.
That evening at the dinner table she mentioned the young Aboriginal she had seen who suddenly turned into an old man and how he had simply disappeared.
‘Did you see an eagle?’ Hector asked hesitantly.
‘I did, Mr MacManus!’ Giselle exclaimed.
‘Then you saw Wallarie.’
Angus helped himself to more peas from the ceramic pot in the middle of the table and grinned. ‘So you, as a low-lander, believe in the spirits?’
Hector squirmed. ‘It’s just that the local blackfellas say Wallarie appears as a young warrior, then flies away on the wings of an eagle,’ he replied. ‘You must have got a touch of the sun on your ride, or have heard the story from the men around here.’
Giselle did not argue that she had not heard any such tale, but the words she heard still echoed in her mind . . . they will come for us both.
24
Jerusalem had fallen before Christmas 1917, with the Australian Flying Corps following the advance of Allenby’s mounted army, providing vital support. Captain Matthew Duffy had been able to secure leave from his squadron to visit the ancient city and had been accompanied by Saul Rosenblum, who had a good knowledge of the backstreets and byways from previous visits.
Saul revelled in the capture of this holiest of holy places, sacred to the three religions that dominated the Western and Middle Eastern worlds.
‘The Syrian’s place is just down here,’ he said.
The two men passed between the stone walls of tenement-style houses that overlooked a shaded alley. They reached a narrow door; a small verandah with a pot plant perched above. When Saul knocked, a young man answered through a small sliding window in the thick, wooden door. Saul spoke to the man in his fractured Arabic and the young man bade them enter.
Matthew was surprised how spacious the building was inside. It extended to a small but pretty open space between the buildings towering on either side. Persian carpets covered the stone floor and the beautifully crafted furniture indicated that this was the home of a well-off man. They waited while the young man went to fetch his master.
‘You are the father of Benjamin,’ a balding, bespectacled man wearing a red fez hat and goatee beard said, entering the room holding a long cigarette holder between his fingers. ‘I am Dr Shariz.’ He spoke perfect, unaccented English and Matthew was pleased.
‘I wish to thank you, doctor,’ Saul said. ‘For saving my son’s life.’
‘He is well, then?’ the doctor asked. Saul replied that he was.
‘What do you know of an American woman, Miss Joanne Barrington?’ Matthew asked without any preamble.
‘You must be Captain Duffy. Miss Barrington spoke much about you,’ the Syrian said, turning his attention to Matthew.
‘I am, doctor,’ Matthew replied, extending his hand. ‘I was informed a few months ago that Miss Barrington had been taken by the Turks and handed over to the Germans to be sent to Berlin.’
‘Ah, yes, that was their plan,’ the doctor replied, indicating to the men to take a seat. ‘May I offer you coffee and dates?’ he asked. He spoke in Arabic and when the young man hovering in the background disappeared from the room the doctor took a chair opposite the two guests. ‘I have sent my servant away as I wish to speak with you in private about Miss Barrington. She was not sent to Berlin.’
Matthew felt a cold sweat and had trouble finding his tongue. ‘What has happened to her?’ he heard himself asking.
The Syrian leaned forward to speak. ‘Miss Barrington is most probably back in America with her father by now.’
His words swept away Matthew’s
fears. ‘How is that possible?’ he gasped.
Shariz lay back against the cushions, a secretive smile on his face. He took a puff from his cigarette. ‘I was able to convince the local commander here that Miss Barrington would be worth a lot more for a ransom than she was to the Germans for interrogation. The commander is a practical man and arranged through the Red Cross to have her fate put in the hands of a Swiss banker, who, in turn, arranged for a large sum of money to be transferred to Istanbul. The commandant is an honourable man and so, shortly afterwards, the American woman was smuggled aboard a neutral ship which would take her home to her father.’
Matthew looked at Saul. He felt he could hug him in his joy at the news that Joanne was most probably enjoying the Christmas season with her family in America. All that mattered was that she was safe, and if he survived the war he would go in search of her.
‘There is something else that I think you should know,’ Shariz said as the servant re-entered the room, carrying a silver salver upon which were tiny cups, a plate of dates and a large, silver coffee pot. He placed the tray on a small, low set table and retreated after the doctor spoke to him.
‘Gentleman, please help yourself,’ he continued. ‘Ah, yes, something else you should know . . . Miss Barrington was under my roof for two months before being smuggled from the country. In that time we learned she was with child and she informed me that you are the father, Captain Duffy.’
It took some seconds for the news to sink in. Matthew was about to ask how this could be so when he remembered the night before the attack on the Arab village. He was shaken from his silence by a slap on the back from Saul.
‘Congratulations, Matthew, you sly dog,’ he said, a broad grin splitting his bearded face. ‘A father, eh.’
Matthew did not reply but looked to Shariz, who also smiled.