The Amber Legacy

by Tony Shillitoe

  Meg stepped back, repulsed by his overwhelming body odour. ‘I just know,’ she mumbled, unwilling to tell him what she’d seen in her dreams.

  Wombat squinted. ‘Tell me how you got here, little bird,’ he said. ‘Tell me why, too.’ He took up his seat again on the bench.

  When she finished relating her tale, modifying her reasons for searching for Treasure to a need to simply talk him out of fighting, Wombat scratched his chest and said, ‘Well, it seems the young roosters who bagged you in Woodman’s Springs were some of the Rebels. You’re lucky you got off so lightly. But it’s bad luck about the horse, because no one here will want to believe your story anyway—not if it means missing out on a hanging.’

  ‘But what do I do?’ she pleaded.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t seem right for a little bird who’s done nothing wrong to get hanged for it, so you probably have to escape, eh?’

  ‘You said there was no way out of here.’

  ‘No other way out,’ he corrected. ‘The only way out is the way you came in.’

  ‘Oh, so I just walk out?’

  Wombat nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  Meg pulled on the bars of the gate, rattling them vigorously, and, mocking Wombat’s tone, she said, ‘Except for this small problem, oh, and I guess the bailiff who’ll probably try to stop me, yes, I can see how easy it is to walk out.’

  Wombat laughed. ‘A little bird with spirit,’ he remarked, and he stood again. ‘Good. Well then, you need to listen to old Wombat a bit, and then you’ll need to be very brave and clever. Oh, and you’ll need to be very, very trusting.’

  The bailiff looked up at his youthful, curly-haired assistant. ‘Did you hear that?’

  The assistant raised his attention from the small wooden figurine he was carving, and listened. From beyond the door in the gaol he heard Wombat’s voice. ‘Hey, fellas! Come get some of this!’ He looked at the bailiff.

  ‘I’ll check it out,’ the bailiff announced, getting out of his chair. He opened the door and peered into the cell room. The red-haired girl was bent over, clutching the bars, hair hanging loose over her face, trousers around her ankles, and Wombat was vigorously taking her from behind. The fat man grinned at the astonished expression on the bailiff’s face. ‘Best cellmate you’ve ever given me, Lockup! Come get some of this!’

  The bailiff hesitated, transfixed by the sight, but he quickly fished the keys off his belt and unlocked the gate. ‘You owe me, you drunken old bastard,’ he told Wombat as he swung the gate open and entered the cell, eagerly undoing his belt. But his enthusiasm faltered when Wombat turned from the girl, and he realised Wombat’s trousers were still done up. Too late. Wombat’s massive fist smashed into the bailiff’s face, throwing him back against the wall.

  ‘I owe you nothing,’ Wombat growled, bending to scoop up the keys. He turned to Meg who was wrenching up her trousers, urging, ‘Hurry up, little bird. I’ll just quieten down young Hearth Turner’s curiosity. Meet you in the front room,’ and he marched through the open door.

  Meg secured her belt and followed in Wombat’s wake, glancing down at the unconscious bailiff sprawled against the wall with his nose broken and bleeding. She heard a grunt and a thud as she stepped through the door. Wombat’s massive bulk was leaning over a prone youth.

  ‘Silly little bugger,’ Wombat muttered. ‘He should’ve used his sense and just stood aside. Well, can’t do much about it now.’ He bent and picked up a cudgel that was on the floor beside Hearth, and headed for a tall cupboard. ‘Look in the desk drawer for any coins. That’s where Lockup usually leaves his change.’

  Meg rummaged through the drawer, finding several shillings and pennies. She scooped them into a drawstring purse that was lying on the desktop. She heard Wombat close the cupboard, and saw that he was wearing two swords through his belt and carried a heavy poleaxe. ‘Grab that hunk of bread and the jar of scrumpy over there,’ he ordered, pointing at the food and drink on a little table. ‘We can barter for food on a farm later.’ Meg obediently gathered the items, stepping over Hearth’s prostrate body. ‘Come on, little bird. Time to fly.’ Wombat opened the door, letting in the late-afternoon sunlight, and stepped onto the porch. Meg followed, and was surprised to see a family across the street, staring at them. ‘Afternoon, Joist, Ladle,’ Wombat said to the startled-looking man and woman. ‘No need to be worried. Just leaving a little earlier than expected. You might want to pop in and help young Hearth and Lockup after we’ve gone. Tell them we won’t be coming back, though. Got an important errand. All right?’

  The dumbfounded couple nodded vaguely. Meg felt her companion’s heavy hand on her shoulder, pulling her after him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘You had no reason to do that,’ she said, staring back across the river at the buildings of Quick Crossing. The wooden ferry rocked and creaked beneath her feet.

  Wombat, who was dipping his hands in the river and washing his face, looked up and replied, ‘Told you the reason. You didn’t deserve to hang. Injustice and I aren’t good mates. That’s enough reason for me.’

  ‘But now you can’t go back to your home. They’ll hang you for helping me.’ Wombat laughed. ‘What’s so funny?’ Meg demanded.

  ‘Helping someone escape from gaol isn’t a hanging offence in Quick Crossing. If I want to go back, they’d just put me in the cell for a full cycle and be done with it.’

  ‘But you hit the two men.’

  ‘I’ve hit bailiff Lockup Keeper more times than I or he can count. He should’ve known better, but his dick got the better of his brain. Again.’ Wombat chuckled and shook his head. ‘If his dick was his brain he’d be a dangerous man.’ Then he added, ‘Wasn’t too happy about having to lay out young Hearth, though. Thought he might be a bit smarter than Lockup. Apparently not.’

  ‘What about the money and things we’ve stolen? Isn’t that stealing the Queen’s property?’

  ‘The money Lockup owes me for all the times he’s cheated in card games. The swords and axe, well, it could be argued they’re property of Quick Crossing community since the Queen didn’t actually provide them.’

  ‘So are you going to go back?’

  Wombat looked at the two men cranking the ferry’s turntable that heaved in the dripping hawser on one side and fed it out the other to pull the watercraft across the river. ‘Well, maybe. Later, though. For the time being, I’m hoping a little bird might appreciate some company in her search for her lover. Old Wombat’s been a bit lazy lately, and needs some fresh air and some exercise.’

  ‘I wasn’t counting on company.’

  Wombat looked her up and down, and said, ‘But you sure need it, little bird. You sure need it.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ she demanded, glaring at him.

  ‘Well, look at you for starters,’ he replied, gesturing. ‘You look like a little girl who’s lost. That’s like hanging a sign around your neck inviting all the boys to come get you.’

  ‘I’m not a girl, and I’m not little,’ she retorted. ‘I’m fifteen and as tall as most men I know.’

  ‘You’ve got long red hair, a nice pair of tits under that dirty tunic, a face like an angel. I don’t think I’ve seen a girl,’ Meg glared ‘—a woman, quite as pretty as you in the whole bloody district around Quick Crossing. You’re a beacon, little bird. You’re a candle to the moths.’ He leaned closer, and added, ‘You don’t know how hard it was back in that cell to only pretend I was giving it to you.’

  Meg blushed, and Wombat broke into laughter, his belly wobbling with his mirth. ‘It’s not that funny,’ she protested. ‘You’re lucky I trusted you.’

  ‘You’re lucky I’m trustworthy,’ he answered, grinning. His face grew serious. ‘And that’s my point, little bird. Most men you’ll meet aren’t. All they’ll see is a fine piece of arse and then you’ll be in the same trouble again like you were with the Rebels.’

  ‘But the Queen’s soldiers—’

  ‘Will take you as hu
ngrily as the Rebels would’ve,’ he interjected. ‘Men in armies are the worst. They’re away from their wives, their girlfriends, for cycles, sometimes years. They get used to taking women whenever they can get them. Whores. Village girls. Doesn’t matter who, as long as they get some. Most of them start out nice enough lads, but time and circumstance change enough of them to make them dangerous. A quick rape here and there, and who’s to say anything of it, eh? You can’t just wander around the countryside, little bird. There are predators out there who would make a quick meal of a tasty morsel like you.’

  Meg looked away from Wombat’s beady stare, across the glittering river, at the approaching line of willows. Two wagons waited on the bank for the ferry, and children were chasing each other. Dogs barked. A group of buildings lined the road down to the ferry landing. A strong man could throw a stone across the width of the river through Summerbrook. The river at Quick Crossing was wider than she had ever imagined a river could be: a deep, strong, steady flow of water.

  ‘Don’t be fretting too much,’ Wombat consoled. ‘We’ll be all right, little bird. Wombat’s got a few ideas to help you along. First, we’ll spend some of those coins in Cooper’s Store, and then we’ll go find somewhere to sleep overnight, somewhere up in those hills to the south where prying eyes won’t bother us.’

  Meg watched the ferry’s rippling wake, her mind troubled. This adventure was nothing like she’d dreamed. The world was huge and its people strange and threatening. Her only friend in it was a giant in height and girth with a bizarre mind and an endless store of humour, and she was no longer certain that her dreams could be trusted.

  The clear sky revealed the panoply of stars sparkling around the half-moon. The crackling fire enticed Meg to squat, and watch the flames curl around a branch, setting it glowing red and gold.

  Wombat learned from the families on the wagons at the ferry landing that the Queen’s army was only a day’s travel ahead, still pushing south towards The Whispering Forest, moving slowly because of increasing Rebel forays. ‘Keep that fire going, little bird. It’s going to be a cold one,’ he advised, as he stirred a thick gruel in a makeshift tin bowl. ‘I’m a basic cook, but I never go hungry. This stuff will stick to your stomach for days and you won’t feel hungry.’ He uncorked the scrumpy jar and poured a measure of cider into his mixture. ‘Gives taste,’ he informed her, and took a swig from the jar, belching immediately after. ‘Ah, yes. Good stuff.’

  As they ate by the fire, the light throwing dancing shadows across the white gum bark and mallee bush, Wombat outlined his plan. ‘First, the hair has to go. You’re tall enough to pass for a man’s height, and we can stick you into a man’s clothes right enough, with some padding and binding to make the right places stick out, but that hair has to be cut short.’

  ‘Do we have to cut it?’ Meg asked, touching her hair protectively.

  ‘Look,’ Wombat said, rising from his log seat. In the flickering firelight, his towering frame seemed to double in size. ‘I don’t intend spending every day, while we search for this love of yours, fighting with every other horny young kangaroo who sees what I see and wants some of it, eh? All right? The hair goes, and we’ll put what’s left of it under a hat of some kind too.’

  ‘You don’t have to come with me,’ she said quietly.

  He snorted. ‘Look. We’ve been over that ground, little bird. All right? End of discussion. I’m sharpening a knife.’

  Meg chewed the warm gruel, listening to the blade sliding across the whetstone Wombat had procured with supplies from Cooper’s Store. Despite its pasty appearance, the gruel smelled good, and tasted sweet because Wombat had laced it with a liberal dose of sugar. But she was still apprehensive. Cutting her hair seemed a small price to pay to be able to continue on her journey, and Wombat’s observations of men in the world coincided with her experiences in the past three days so his disguise for her seemed sensible. Besides, Bridle Innman had warned her to keep her hood up to mask her appearance, although that had proven to be a superficial disguise. But she’d always worn her hair long, and she liked its distinctive colour. Taking it away was like taking a piece of her inner self away. ‘All right, little bird, time to clip those red feathers,’ Wombat announced as he approached, knife gleaming in the firelight.

  Red eyes stared at her in the darkness. She tried to move but felt as if her feet were fixed to the ground. Who are you? a voice whispered. Tell me your name. Wherever she turned her head the eyes were there, like glowing embers. Tell me who you are, the voice ordered. The eyes faded. Beneath her feet there was nothing, just the stars as if she was looking into a clear night sky. And the darkness dissolved all around her and she was standing again on a familiar battlefield, one of thousands in ranks facing a forest. She couldn’t hear anything, and yet she knew there were horns bellowing across the countryside…

  ‘Wake up!’ A hulk of a man was bending over her, his great hand extended. ‘Sun’s rising and we should be going. Queen’s army moves slower than we walk, eh, but we need to be on the way early and walk till late to make up ground.’

  She rolled up her blanket, feeling the stiffness in her muscles steadily dissolve, but the air on her bare neck was cold and she shivered. She reached up and rubbed her hand through her chopped locks, and felt a pang of disappointment.

  Wombat buried the campfire ashes and covered the space with a dead bush. ‘Old habit,’ he said, when he saw her watching. ‘And a good one for you to learn.’ He looked Meg up and down, with her hair short and tucked under a dark blue cap, in her new grey overshirt and tan trousers he’d bought from the store. ‘It’s a start,’ he said. ‘Pack that old tunic around your stomach, little bird, and up to your tits. It’ll fool a casual onlooker that you’re just another fat bastard like me, maybe even my son.’ He threw a sword at her feet, the point sticking artfully into the ground. ‘Stick that in your belt as well. It’s wartime. You need to look like a man who knows his business with a weapon.’

  ‘I have no idea what to do with a sword,’ she said.

  ‘You wear it in your belt, and it stays there,’ Wombat told her.

  Her disguise complete, they struck out across the narrow range of low hills, sometimes climbing and descending, sometimes following shallow valleys. The sun shone weakly through the clouds and on every crest Meg noticed the chill in the breeze, warning that another cold front was coming in from the south-west. By midday a bank of rain clouds was sweeping inland. ‘We’ll push as far as we can, but keep your eyes open for shelter. A farmhouse or even a barn will do,’ Wombat said, when they paused on a low hilltop to share water.

  Meg saw that the big man was breathing heavily and sweating profusely from the sustained walking effort. ‘Should we rest?’ she suggested.

  He raised a chuckle, replying, ‘Too hard for you, eh? Come on. We’ve got a long way to go,’ and he headed down the slope into the thick bush.

  A solid wall of rain drifted across the countryside towards them by late afternoon, and the wind picked up strength. Wombat pointed to a solitary farmhouse nestled among a stand of trees by a small creek and they headed for it, reaching the animal yard as the rain pelted down. They jogged to the farmhouse door and Wombat banged on it, yelling, ‘Open up! We’re just travellers looking for a decent shelter! We got our own food!’

  The door swung open and a startled man holding a sword stared at an equally startled Wombat. The man went to slam the door, but Wombat dropped his sack, barrelled against the door with his weight and forced it open, pushing the man back into the room.

  Meg heard several shouts, saw Wombat swing his poleaxe, and the sounds of frantic fighting erupted. She stepped into the doorway, trying to get a better view, when the door swung wide and a man charged into her, knocking her to the ground. Winded and crushed under his weight, Meg tried to get free, but she was pinned. She looked up at an angry face and a fist raised to smash into her face. Then a shadow loomed above, a hand wrapped around the raised wrist, and the man was lifted off. She sucke
d in her breath and staggered to her feet, the rain coursing off her face. Wombat, leaning against his poleaxe, stood over a man lying on the raindrenched ground. To Meg, he said, ‘Get inside.’

  The farmhouse had three rooms. Most of the simple wooden furniture was broken and upended, the doors hung open, and three more bodies were lying in the common room. ‘See if you can find something dry to wear in the bedrooms,’ Wombat said. ‘I’ll clean up our hosts.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘Rebels, I’m guessing. Or maybe just thieves. This isn’t their place. I don’t know what they’ve done with whoever lived here.’ He began hauling a body out of the house.

  Meg found a clothes chest in the first bedroom, filled with women’s dresses and shawls and bonnets, and a heavy raincoat. Items of men’s clothing hung from wall hooks. The second room had another chest of clothes: children’s clothes. She returned to the first room and swapped her wet shirt for a dry one. She kept her trousers on despite their dampness, hoping there was wood for a fire. The rain drummed on the wooden shingles.

  Wombat finished dragging out the bodies and came back inside, soaked and dripping. ‘Well, this weather will slow up the army for you,’ he said.

  ‘And us,’ Meg replied, as she stacked kindling under a log in the hearth.

  ‘For a little while. Until we’ve rested and eaten, eh? Then we go on.’

  ‘In the dark? In the rain?’

  ‘Why not? We’ll catch up that army of yours even quicker.’

  ‘But how will you know where to go?’ she complained.

  ‘I’ve worked as a labourer a little further south of here—’ then he saw Meg’s cynical expression, and added, ‘When I was a younger, fitter man, all right?’ She grinned, and he went on. ‘The creek outside runs almost due north and south, give or take a bend or two. We know the army’s going south. How can we miss it?’