by Cathryn Hein
She paused in front of the fire to tug on her underpants, smiling as Muffy watched with her fluffy eyebrows lowered. A bit of nudity was nothing compared to what the dog had been exposed to earlier, when Em and Josh had entertained themselves against the dining-room table, and elsewhere.
From the moment he’d appeared at the back door, casually sexy in jeans and a faded rugby jumper, smelling soapy and clean after football training, she’d turned molten. Her blood had pulsed heavily under his intense gaze, his channelled, need-filled focus heating her inside, drawing her desire. His touch ignited her skin until she couldn’t stop her own hands from exploring his body, rousing Josh as he did her. It had been the same when they were younger and found privacy; their primitive need making it imperative their bodies join.
At least now they had comfort and no fear of discovery. No matter how careful Josh had been, lovemaking in the secret crevices of Rocking Horse Hill left scrapes and scratches. Every one of them had been worth it: ritual marks to be treated with pride.
The only mark he left now was on the inside. An ache of longing that grew with each encounter. Josh Sinclair had always been an easy man to love, and her ability to love him now wasn’t in doubt. Not in her mind. His was another matter. What he was thinking, beyond lust, she had no idea. After all, it was Em who’d cheated all those years ago. Sexual attraction was one thing, affection another, but trust was something else entirely.
Em snapped on her desk lamp. Its reflection on the windows cut back the night and the changing shapes and shadows of the garden. She sat down, flipping over pages in her sketchbook until she came to the drawing she sought. The design was painfully earned: the result of more than twenty drafts. Em wasn’t a naturally gifted artist. A honed technique gave the illusion of it, but each illustration in her handmade books was the result of tenacious work.
She regarded the picture grimly, now understanding its flaws. The basics were right – a man in the foreground, cloaked and crowned, head held regally in profile as he regarded something in the distance. A hill rose behind him under a sunlit sky, its surface scarred by the outline of a stylised horse. Now she could see it was his profile that was wrong.
The illumination would take an entire page, prefacing “The Vision of the King”, and leading the reader into Alfred’s world of bravery and battle. Chesterton’s poetry wasn’t easy for the modern reader and she wanted whoever bought the final book to use it, feeling the story as she did. That required a hero the reader would love.
Picking up a soft pencil, Em began to sketch while the night drifted on and the fire burned its way to ashes.
A sound, some time later, made her look up. Josh stood in the doorway, wearing only snug-fitting trunks that emphasised his narrow hips and strong legs. Slumber hooded his eyes. His beard was heavier, not by much, but enough to give his good looks a dark, smouldering edge. Muffy sat at his feet, head tilted as though waiting instruction.
Time had seen Josh’s body fill out from his early twenties. His chest was wider, his shoulders broader. Hair dusted his chest in a delicious swathe, forming a T that crossed his pectoral muscles before dipping downward in a thin masculine trail. Boyhood no longer existed in that body. He was all man.
Several months prior to her relationship with Trent, Em had briefly dated a doctor, a locum Samuel had introduced her to. She’d slept with him more out of loneliness than desire and regretted it almost immediately. He was fit, with minimal body fat and sinewy muscles. But she’d found herself not turned off so much as wanting. Wanting a man whose body was formed by work instead of slavish routine and vanity.
A man like Josh had become.
She glanced down at her drawing. Chesterton’s king stared back at her with eyes the same shape as Josh’s. He dominated the foreground, a mesmerising, armoured warrior with a cape draped across his shoulders, the cloth fixed in place with a clasp containing the ancestral jewel he was destined to cast at the feet of his vision of the Blessed Virgin.
It was perfect now, as she’d known it would be from the moment she woke to watch Josh.
Smiling sleepily, Josh crossed the room, Muffy trailing behind. He stopped behind Em’s chair and leaned forward to place his hands on the desk edges and press his warm chest against her upper back. His breath caressed her neck as he chased the contours with delicate kisses.
‘Inspired?’
‘A little.’
He stopped his nuzzling and leaned his chin on the top of her head. ‘Is this your king?’
‘Alfred of Wessex. He fights a great battle against Danish invaders and, despite all odds, wins.’
She felt his pause and inhaled breath and waited. To her relief he sounded more puzzled than annoyed.
‘He looks a bit like me.’
‘It’s the eyes.’
He shifted, nuzzling her again. His smile felt delicious against her skin. ‘So you’ve modelled your brave king on me, huh?’
‘Don’t get a big head.’
‘I’m getting a big something else.’
She laughed and twisted around. ‘You’re completely oversexed.’
His eyes glimmered in the glow of the lamp. ‘And that’s a bad thing?’
The look sent wings flapping deep in her belly. Em used the end of her pencil to trace a line down his chest until it lingered at the top of his trunks. ‘Did I say that?’
Josh caught her hand and lifted it to his mouth, gaze locked on hers as he kissed the point of each knuckle. He slipped the pencil free, and placed it on the desk before sliding his hands under her arms and lifting her gently up.
He kissed her, leading her away from the light to the edge of the lounge, until she stood near the window. ‘Stay there,’ he whispered, and went to flick off the lamp.
Soft moonlight took over the darkness. Josh moved back to gaze at her with an expression she couldn’t fathom. Goosebumps began to speckle her skin, tightening her nipples. His mouth parted a fraction. He lifted his eyes to hers as though seeking permission. Em smiled, insides fizzing when he smiled back and came to her, his body warm and strong, his caresses tender. For a thudding heartbeat, before her eyes closed and her body shuddered under his touch, she looked past his shoulder. The land rose behind, trees swaying in the night, while beneath its gaze a man stood, worshipping.
To Em’s bemusement, Felicity took to Rocking Horse Hill with spontaneous joy. She had no fear of any of the animals. She cooed at the chickens, clucked and laughed at Chelsea, as the duck, shocked by the attention, zoomed away with her low bum waggling, quacking hoarsely in complaint. Ever the gentleman, Lod behaved impeccably, blowing warm breaths into her ear, allowing himself to be fondled and scratched, and taking delicate bites from the apple Felicity presented to him. But it was Kicki and Cutie who enchanted her most.
Felicity put Jas to shame with her indulgent cuddles. She stroked their long ears, caressed their fuzzy faces, traced the soft lines of their muzzles and marvelled at their tiny hooves. She thought the legend of the dark crucifix across Kicki’s shoulders and spine was amazing and special. Knowing a donkey fan ripe for exploitation when he saw one, Kicki responded to her with ecstasy, bunting her whenever she transferred her affections to his smaller girlfriend, and forcing Felicity to stand between them, her left hand scratching Cutie’s tufted brown mane, her right rubbing Kicki’s forehead, the jack’s eyes almost rolling back into his head with happiness.
Digby couldn’t tear his gaze from Felicity, who, with the exception of her new Akubra hat and what appeared to be Adrienne’s favourite amber-and-gold earrings, was kitted out in R.M. Williams from head to leather-covered toe. Once she’d recovered from her annoyance over Felicity’s reckless wearing of Adrienne’s jewellery, Em took pleasure in her reaction too. There was something delightfully childlike about it that made Em wonder if Felicity had anything to do with animals when she was growing up.
‘No,’ said Felicity when Em asked. ‘Well, not really. Dad had a dog but he wasn’t really a pet.’ She crouched to stroke
Muffy, her tone wistful. ‘I wanted a dog of my own but was never allowed.’
The afternoon fell into relaxed enjoyment. Coffee and cake in the warm fug of Rocking Horse Hill’s kitchen followed by another wander around the paddocks trailed by Muffy, Kicki and Cutie, who Em had kept loose at her guest’s request and because they broke into loud, plaintive brays the moment Felicity left their paddock.
‘I can’t believe you own this as well as Camrick,’ said Felicity to Digby before turning to regard the crater and addressing Em. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Perfect, almost like a cartoon volcano.’
‘I think that’s why I’ve always loved it so much. It has this magic about it, the way it rises from the land like something in a fairy story.’ Em laughed. ‘The hill turns me into a terrible romantic.’
Felicity reached out to squeeze her hand. ‘I can understand why.’
Surprised and honoured by the touch, she smiled back.
‘Em knows everything there is to know about the hill,’ said Digby as they headed towards it.
Em didn’t need another prod to launch into a passionate description of the history of her home and the area, and Felicity listened, rapt, taking in every word. Succumbing to the spell of the hill.
‘Can we climb it? Watch the sunset?’
Em threw a questioning look at Digby, expecting him to say no. Not being great with heights, he’d never had the same enthusiasm for climbing the crater as Em.
‘Sure,’ he said and glanced at Em. ‘You want to come too?’
She hesitated, eyeing her watch. Josh wasn’t due until after football and the usual beers, war stories and presentations back at the Gerrinton clubhouse. When she’d phoned to invite him to dinner, he promised to try and get away early but was unlikely to arrive before six-thirty. With the perfect winter day and the sky a magical clear blue, the view would be magnificent. But it was one for lovers. An intimate experience for two, not three.
‘You don’t need me. Dig can take you. You remember the quarry path, don’t you?’
At the mention of the quarry, Digby’s fingers went to his bottom lip. ‘I haven’t climbed it in years.’ An edge of pleading entered his voice. ‘Might be safer if you led the way.’
‘Sure,’ said Em, immediately understanding. Some fears, especially those from childhood, weren’t so easy to conquer, and Digby didn’t want to appear a wimp in front of Felicity.
They climbed the hill paddock, donkeys in tow. Em dithered over whether to order Muffy home but decided that she might need the company.
Technically, Em didn’t have permission to cross out of her property. The land was under rehabilitation. For those wishing to climb the hill a tourist trail existed but to reach it they would have to walk half a kilometre around Stanislaus Road, and Em resented being told what to do on land that the government had compulsorily acquired from Grandpa Philps in the eighties. He, Granny B and Uncle James tried to fight it but even that formidable combination was no match for a government, high on the environmental vote and claiming that the quarry proved the Wallace’s inability to sustainably manage the site. That it was Grandpa Philps who’d closed the quarry voluntarily for environmental reasons made no difference.
Two-thirds of the way up the slope, Em paused where a weathered timber stile crossed the fence. When she’d been ordered by letter to remove it, she’d responded that whatever structure existed on the farm’s property was the landowner’s responsibility. If State Heritage wished to remove their side of the stile, they could. Em’s side, though, would stay exactly as it was. Bureaucracy didn’t let Em down. Letters came and went but the stile remained.
A few feet past the fence, out of greedy donkey reach, the grass grew tall and rank. Em shook her head as she spied a new blackberry outbreak among the dense clumps of phalaris and fescue. It was all very well planting trees, but if the weeds weren’t controlled the effort was wasted. The volunteers who were given charge of the hill refused to spray, and inevitably the weeds remained rampant. Around the crater’s southern side, near the car park, one of the smaller collapsed vents was almost full of blackberry. In the past the Wallaces had kept the weed under control through spraying and occasionally releasing goats onto the slopes. Now, both techniques were anathema. And so the hill was being overtaken.
She led them further on the old path, not yet fully colonised by grass and weeds. As they walked, Em pointed out her neighbour, Malcolm Fuchs, property, explaining to Felicity the centre pivot irrigation system and the crops and pastures Malcolm grew.
Fifty metres after they left the fence, Em reached the northern edge of the quarry, where green growth gave way to black soil and grey basalt. It was as though a giant creature had taken a painful bite out of the side of the hill. Below, the old works formed a vast gravel plain.
Erosion now brought the quarry edge much closer to the path than it had been in Em’s childhood, when no one had minded her climbing the hill. Digby kept to the extreme left, almost veering off into the weed in an attempt to keep as far from the quarry as he could. As with the animals, Felicity seemed to have no fear of anything, moving dangerously close to the edge and peering over to inspect the former blast line.
‘Come back, Flick. You’re too close.’
Em agreed. ‘You need to be careful. The ground’s not that stable.’
‘You’d think they’d fence it off.’
‘There are plans to but there’s no budget for it.’ Em grinned. ‘And we’re not meant to be here anyway.’
Felicity eyed her with amusement. ‘You never struck me as a rule breaker.’
‘I’m not normally.’
‘It’s the hill,’ said Digby. ‘It has this power over her.’
Felicity laughed. ‘There I was thinking it was my bad influence.’
‘You’re not bad; you’re beautiful.’ Digby pulled her towards him and kissed her. ‘And I. Love. You.’
‘Are you done?’ said Em, crossing her arms and pretending exasperation.
Felicity broke away. She sucked in a deep breath and stared out over the countryside before focusing back on the house, now far below. ‘I can’t blame you, Em. I’d break rules for this too.’
Em began to move on. ‘Come on, you two. Or you’ll miss the sunset.’
From the quarry the trail turned upward and the going became harder. Em could hear Digby’s huffs behind her. Her brother had obviously been spending far too long with his PlayStation. Or too much time in bed with his fiancée.
Towards the top of the crater, the path veered sideways before meeting a sheer rocky slope. Eroded holes gave them foot-holds and Em emerged at the crest, near one of the timber platforms built to make the path around the crater-top less dangerous for tourists. She grabbed the rail and hauled herself up, moving quickly out of the way to leave space for Felicity and Digby.
They leaned on the rail, squinting into the falling sun. Below them, the quarry turned a thousand different colours as the light hit the workings and dregs of blasted rock. The rusted old silos and conveyor belts looked alien in the glow. The white shell of abandoned diesel bowser a forlorn sentry.
Em pointed to the south. ‘See that tower? That’s Port Andrews’ water tower.’ She crinkled her nose. ‘I should have brought the binoculars. With it being so clear you’d be able to see the lighthouse.’
‘Maybe next time.’ Felicity gazed back towards the west. The main road to the south left a black dividing slick, like a crayon mark across the green. From it, Bradley Road ran at right angles, extending east and west, its western run characterised by a sudden incongruous loop. Felicity frowned at the bend. ‘That’s odd. Why does the road do that?’
‘To avoid a sinkhole. You should get Dig to take you there. It’s very pretty.’
‘Creepy, you mean,’ said Digby.
‘Don’t be such a sook.’ Em grinned at Felicity and pressed her shoulder companionably against hers. ‘Digby never did like sinkholes. I’ll admit that one is poorly named, but I promise you it’s lovely. Y
ou can swim in it in the summer.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘Devil’s Dungeon.’
‘Good name for it too,’ muttered Digby, causing Em and Felicity to smile.
‘There used to be a lake here as well.’ Em stepped off the board to the rocky edge of the crater. ‘But it dried up in the seventies.’ She pointed east, to the landscape beyond the rim of Rocking Horse Hill which, like the western view, was dominated by centre pivots and lush pasture land before finally merging into thick pine forest. ‘Between irrigation and drains the water table has dropped significantly over the years.’
‘Can you go down into the crater?’
‘Yes.’ Em glanced at her watch. ‘No time now, though, and the truth is there isn’t that much to see.’ The feeling, though, standing in the centre, looking up at those skyscraper walls, was something else. And there’d be other days. She indicated the tourist path. ‘If you follow the path to that next platform, you can see right over the farm.’
‘Does that bother you? Being looked down on?’
‘Not even a little bit. It’s not like I run around the garden nude or anything. And there are plenty of trees to screen things. Anyway, what does a little lost privacy matter when you’re surrounded by all of this?’ She swept her hand around her. ‘The hill’s worth it.’ She dropped her arm and breathed in a lungful of crisp air. ‘The hill’s worth everything.’
She let Digby and Felicity go, calling to Muffy as she took the eastward path. The terrain was rockier this way, the drop to the crater floor sheerer, and there had been some talk about blocking access. No one had fallen yet, but it was bound to happen.
Further along she dropped off the path, ordering Muffy to stay put. Although the slope was steep, there were enough footholds. Out of the sun, on this shadowed side, the cold immediately cut into her jacket. She paused to zip up the front of her coat before resuming her climb. Several metres along, Em stepped up to a hidden ledge. A quirk in the ancient rock flow had left an overhang, concealing the ledge from the path above. The curve of the volcano meant the space was out of sight from the main path.