The Dark Mountain

by Catherine Jinks

  For a time we wove a pattern through the trees. We followed a stock-trail and a creek-bed. We skirted rises and crossed clearings over fallen trees. My enjoyment of my liberty was absolute. Though my heart bounded with every bright parakeet that shot across my path, trilling, I was not in search of flora or fauna. It was freedom that I sought. Up high on that powerful brute, I feared nothing. I felt as if I were riding a loaded cannon, and was therefore careless of my own safety. I let my mind wander. I let my grip slacken. I was stupid.

  The result was inevitable. A bounding wallaby, flushed from the scrub, startled Sovereign. He shied, and before I could turn his head away or otherwise steady his nerves, executed a couple of rough pig-jumps. As Thomas had foreseen, I went straight over backwards. But I was fortunate. Instead of falling onto a rock, or getting my leg caught in the saddle and being dragged for half a mile, I took a roll straight off Sovereign’s rump, head over heels. This meant that my feet hit the ground first. And though I did some fine damage to one of my ankles in consequence, my brains stayed safe in my skull.

  It was later determined that I did not break a single bone. At the time, however, I assumed that I had. For I had come down awry, turned my right ankle, and torn the ligament. I thought that I should die from the pain. I remember rolling about in agony, groaning and squealing, oblivious even to the pulled muscle in my shoulder. Almost certainly it was the spectacle of my distress, with its attendant noises, that drove my horse away. For when at last the sharper pangs abated, and I was able to look about me, he had gone.

  At first I was not greatly troubled. Being still rather preoccupied, I noticed only that he was not in the immediate neighbourhood, and felt sure that he had strayed but a short distance, perhaps in search of a mouthful to eat. So I sat nursing my injured ankle, waiting for the pain to subside and never thinking that I had been abandoned. Such a prospect did not occur to me even after fifteen minutes had elapsed, and I was ready to move again. Putting my weight on the affected foot was an excruciating manoeuvre that drove every other consideration from my head; I realised at once that I would need a crutch of some kind, and cast about me for a large bough to serve as a walking stick. This done, I was able to prop myself up with a fair degree of success. I also discovered that I could hop along, though it was heavy work, and liable to send a spurt of pain shooting up my leg with every jolt. What a mercy, I decided, that my right foot was the injured one! For if it had been my left, I would have had no chance in the world of remounting.

  It was at this point that I scanned my surroundings more anxiously. Where was Sovereign? I called his name without eliciting any response. I peered into the thickets of woolly gum that ringed me. I staggered forward, changing my perspective in the hope that I might espy the swish of a tail behind an acacia.

  At last I came to the awful conclusion that Sovereign had gone. My heart sank almost to the level of my torn ligament. For if I had lost the horse, my mother would never forgive me.

  I had no concerns about finding my way home. It was a bright day, and not long past noon; even crippled, I was fairly confident that I would be able to reach Oldbury before night fell. I had a vague idea of where I was, despite all the encroaching bush. And once I had retraced my steps to the cleared pastures—with their sweeping, uninterrupted views of nearby hills—there would be no difficulty in fixing my exact position. Had I been at Budgong, I might have worried, for the Shoalhaven is rarely kind to lone wanderers. Even around Wollondilly or Belanglo I would have been in some peril. But I was familiar with the terrain near Sutton Forest, which was partly settled even then. No; it was not the journey itself that I feared. It was what lay at the end of that journey.

  ‘Stupid fool! Stupid fool!’ I kept repeating, as I began to head in an easterly direction, retracing Sovereign’s steps. Here and there I found his hoof-prints in the soft earth, and hairs from his tail caught in spiny leaves. My memory of our approach was quite good, and I was relieved to encounter many a familiar stone or tree as I hobbled along. It was the distances between them that surprised me. For Sovereign had been very quick, and I was by then appallingly slow. I had to place my stick quite carefully before attempting to hop. And after a few falls, I knew better than to attempt crossing jagged or uneven ground. Instead I had to work my way around each obstacle—a procedure that lengthened the trip by many weary minutes.

  Faced with such challenges, I could spare little thought for what lay ahead at Oldbury. But after a time I felt a growing unease, which at first I could not account for. I suppose that when the shadows lengthened, it crossed my mind that the woods were not entirely safe; that while there were no bears or wolves to threaten me, I was only a short ride from the Belanglo gully, where bushrangers were known to congregate. Certain black memories began to scuttle about like cockroaches in my head. In 1836, my mother had been riding to Belanglo when the infamous meeting had occurred. How far was I from Belanglo now? Five miles? Six? Ten?

  I became conscious of little noises arising in the silence of the bush around me: rustles and chirrups, creaks and flutters. My own breathing was loud. My clumsy progress broke many sticks and scattered many tumbling stones. I must have sounded like a wounded bullock or an hysterical sheep, vulnerable to whatever pack of native dogs might decide to stalk it. My mind began to run on predators. No one had ever been charged or arrested for the attack on my mother. It had occurred ten years previously, and in all likelihood the perpetrators were long since dead, or departed. But their very facelessness gave them an indestructible quality. To my way of thinking, they seemed almost to merge with the trees and the rocks. I wondered if they were still wandering around Belanglo, those anonymous men. I wondered if they had been preying on other women in the hushed, unfriendly bush.

  And then I heard a distant ‘Coo-ee!'

  I knew instantly that I was being sought. Nothing else seemed as likely. So I ‘Coo-eed’ back with all my strength, and sat down on a tussock. The trees were thinning, by this stage. Glimpses of grassy flats were visible through a fretwork of limbs and boughs.

  I saw the approaching rider before he spotted me.

  ‘Coo-ee!’ I cried, waving my stick. At that moment I recognised the horse, and my heart leapt into my mouth. I thought: ‘Have I been foolish? Has Sovereign been caught by a man of vicious intent, who would take advantage of a lonely woman?’ I did not for one instant believe that the horse could have returned to Oldbury in such a short time. At least not until his rider brought his head around.

  Even from that distance, the careless flick of the rein against Sovereign’s off-side was all that it took. I knew Thomas McNeilly at once, though his face was shadowed by his hat-brim. The blue striped shirt was also familiar.

  Slowly I lowered my stick, wondering if I wanted to be found. The prospect of being vigorously upbraided was suddenly too much for me to bear. I was tired, and in pain, and ever so slightly ashamed of myself.

  But it was far too late for misgivings. Thomas had seen me; he urged Sovereign forward with what must have been a barely discernible tightening of the thigh muscles. (His horsemanship was immensely restrained, as if he were reluctant to waste a single drop of energy on anything quite so unremarkable as riding a horse.) When he removed his hat, I saw that he was frowning. My own expression cannot have been much more attractive.

  ‘Are ye hurt?’ was his initial inquiry.

  ‘No. I mean—yes. A little. My foot. It’s nothing.’

  The gap between us gradually closed as Thomas guided Sovereign between patches of crumbling rock and low scrub. He said nothing more until he was near enough to speak without raising his voice.

  ‘What in hell were ye playin’ at?’ he said at last, his jaw stiff, his dark brows knotted.

  ‘It was a wallaby. You would have fallen, too.’

  ‘Mrs Barton’s sent Richard off in t’gig, for more men. She’s all but gutted, seein’ this horse come back alone.’ He began to shake his head. ‘Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, ye could have broken yer neck, and yer
mother’s heart. Are ye mad? Don’t ye care? Christ, we thought ye were dead, dammit.’

  I sniffed, and looked away. Had I spoken, I would have burst into tears.

  I was in no state to defend myself.

  ‘Lucky our Rick saw ye ride away,’ Thomas continued. ‘Meant that I knew where to start.’

  Still I said nothing.

  ‘’Twas dire hard for me. Keepin’ an eye on the ground . . .’ He sighed, and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand before replacing his hat. ‘Well—better get back ’fore the whole county’s raised,’ he added. ‘Can ye get up in front o’ me? Ye’ll never keep yer seat if I lead, not on a cross-saddle in that dress. Ye’d break yer other foot.’

  ‘It’s not broken.’ My voice was hoarse. ‘It’s sprained.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘This one.’

  ‘Can ye get over here, or not?’

  I rose, and lurched towards him. When Sovereign jibbed at my approach, Thomas quietened him with a steely calm. I was instructed to drop my stick and face away from the horse, with my left heel wedged into the stirrup. I felt Thomas reach down to grip me under the armpit.

  Next thing I was sitting in his lap, my shoulder having been practically wrenched from its socket. I whimpered at the pain in my foot.

  ‘There, now. There, now,’ said Thomas. Tears pricked my eyes—before I realised that he was speaking to the horse, which had staggered under our combined weight. ‘We’ll take it slow. One step at a time, poor lad.’

  I do not know if I can properly convey to you the shock of that moment. For I was hedged about by Thomas’s arms, and my nose was level with his scrubby chin. I found myself staring straight at his throat, which was as finely moulded as any marble statue’s, in those days. Since his collar was open, I also saw the black hair creeping up from hidden places. And I felt the supple length of him along one side, and the strength in his well-knit shoulders, and the rise and fall of his chest. He seemed all about me, like a rough woollen cloak. I sat wedged between his torso and the pommel; is it surprising that I was shaken to the core?

  ‘Hold on,’ he said, turning Sovereign. So I groped for the pommel, too startled to speak. It was like riding a rowboat on a heavy swell. Thomas cursed to himself, quietly, when the jolting made me grunt. But he uttered not another word during the entire journey back, which might have been accomplished in the snow, for all that I can remember. My recollections are limited to the texture of his shirt, and the warmth of his breath on my cheek.

  As you grow older, you lose all shame. It becomes a luxury that you cannot afford when you must nurse infants, and tend invalids. At nineteen, however, I had my fair share of it—despite what was later said. I knew not where to look nor what to say, when Thomas held me. I was utterly unprepared, no matter what the world might think. And if you want my honest opinion, I was a victim of circumstance.

  Had my thoughts not been running in a certain direction, I might never have been alerted to the quickened pulse beneath his skin, or the vague promise embodied in every neat, unhurried movement. An unlucky conjunction of factors overthrew me; old memories opened the door to new sensitivities.

  Simply speaking, none of it would have happened, if my mother had not already led the way.

  Thirty-five

  I did not walk for a week. Instead I spent my time in bed, or propped in a chair with my injured foot raised. My ankle itself received every attention, from feather pillows to mustard poultices. But the rest of me was practically ignored. For I had revealed myself as a headstrong, selfish, careless young fool, who had received far less than her just desserts. Even Emily was resentful. ‘You cannot imagine how upset we all were,’ she explained at one point, slamming down a cup of tea in the most grudging manner.

  Mama would not speak to me at all. When she chose to communicate, she did it through her agent, Mary Ann. I was made to eat apart from the family, and could not accompany them to church. The Reverend Stone, however, did pay me a visit. At my mother’s request, he came to read me a lecture on the cruelty of wilfulness. (‘Obedience is the crown of womanhood’ was how he put it.) Otherwise, I was left alone with my books and my needlework, to reflect on how badly I had behaved, and to consider the best means by which I might make amends.

  Normally, I would have been enraged at this. I would have sulked and snapped and refused to cooperate. Indeed, my mother probably expected something of the sort, and was perplexed at my stunned acquiescence. It was simply not like me, she admitted to the Reverend Stone. ‘I am beginning to worry about Charlotte’s general health,’ I overheard her saying, ‘for she seems remarkably listless. But she has no fever, and complains of no great discomfort.’

  ‘Perhaps it was the shock,’ William Stone rumbled.

  ‘Perhaps. Unless she . . . you don’t think . . .’ My mother faltered, clearly uncertain as to how she should proceed.

  ‘Go on,’ said the Reverend Stone.

  ‘I am very concerned that something might have happened. Out there in the bush,’ my mother gasped.

  ‘Oh.’ There followed a brief silence. When our rector spoke again, his tone was rather constrained. ‘Oh, I think not, Mrs Barton. She would have mentioned it, surely? And there would have been . . . well, traces left behind. Torn clothing, and so forth. Scratches. Bruising.’ He hesitated once again. ‘I have had some experience with such crimes, alas. There is generally violence involved, and it always leaves its mark,’ he concluded.

  My mother said nothing. I myself quailed, hoping and praying that she would never know that I had eavesdropped on this conversation, which made me writhe in my seat. How dismayed I felt! It was bad enough that I had been stripped of all my defences, and left as fragile and exposed as a newborn kitten. It was bad enough that my mind boiled with unanswered questions and confused fancies, until I could hardly sleep. It would be infinitely worse if my mother decided to approach me and make gentle, veiled inquiries about my ‘purity’ and ‘maidenhood’. For what could I say in response? That my thoughts were as corrupted as my person was stainless? That I understood, now, why she had married my stepfather?

  During the long watches of the night, I had been visited by an intensely vivid, profoundly disturbing vision. I had seen my mother watching George Barton as he tightened a girth, his sleeves rolled up and his strong arms gleaming. It had made me so ill, I had nearly brought up the contents of my stomach. Whenever it flashed into my head subsequently, I would wince and shut my eyes. What comfort could there be in such an explanation? If our miseries were all derived from these base yearnings of the flesh, then I was no better than my mother. And my prospects looked similarly hopeless.

  It occurred to me that the bush itself might cast some kind of spell—that the spicy scent of eucalypts and the drowsy warmth of the sun might combine with fatal consequences for a healthy female constitution. I did not know. I could hardly make inquiries.

  All I could do was fret, and wriggle, and catch my breath every time the door opened. For I had not seen Thomas since my return to Oldbury; I had been confined to the house, which he rarely entered, and hardly knew how I felt about meeting him. Being quite sure that I would turn pale, or lose the power of speech, or in some other way disgrace myself, I feared our next encounter as much as I longed for it.

  Little wonder that my innards lurched with every approaching footstep.

  ‘This is foolish,’ I would tell myself. ‘I was affected by the fall, and have not yet recovered. I am not Mama. I would not marry a servant. Why, he cannot even write! No—it was a touch of the sun. When I see him again, he will be dirty, and awkward, and shabbily dressed, and he will hold his hat in his hands, and the scales will fall from my eyes, and everything will be as it was before.’

  That was my prayer. But it went unanswered. I had anticipated that he would visit me one day in the sitting room, where he would no doubt have looked out of place in his grubby clothes and heavy boots. Every morning I expected it, and every evening I clumped off to bed disappo
inted. My heart sank lower as I judged him disgusted with me. Nothing else could account for his rudeness, I decided. At the very least he could have asked after my health.

  Then one morning Mama had my chair carried outside. Mary Ann informed me that I was looking peaky; my mother had decreed that I should spend a little time in the fresh air, before the sun got too hot. Certainly I must have been as white as snow when I hobbled onto the back veranda. For I knew that I was bound to see Thomas if I stayed there long enough, and the prospect drained every drop of blood from my cheeks.

  Sure enough, I saw him. He crossed from the kitchen to the stables, pulling on his hat. At one point during his brief journey Sarah called to him from the kitchen door, so that he checked in mid-stride, swinging around. Then he laughed as he caught the carrot that she tossed at him (for the horses, no doubt). He was wearing his blue shirt, tucked into the narrow waist of his dusty cords, and a dark neckerchief tied at his throat.

  When Sarah withdrew into the kitchen, Thomas turned and spotted me. He froze. I swallowed. When I lifted a trembling hand, he jerked at the brim of his hat. Then he walked on, head down, and disappeared into the stables.

  I almost cried. The sight of him had done nothing to ease my overburdened heart. On the contrary, it had shaken me all over again. For the first time I realised that he was beautiful. I had always admired the condition of his teeth, but how could I have disregarded his warm skin, his perfect proportions, or the way his glossy hair tumbled over his brow? His voice was beautiful too, with its rough edge and Irish lilt.

  I had to cover my eyes. He is a servant, I reminded myself. He cannot read or write. You know absolutely nothing about him—why, he might have been a convict! At least George Barton was never a convict.

  The memory of my stepfather catapulted me once again into a slough of murky speculation. I tried to shake him off. Throughout the rest of the day, my feverish brain seemed constantly to bounce between thoughts of George Barton and Thomas McNeilly, until I was driven almost mad. My mother noticed it. She actually addressed me, saying, ‘Are you not well, Charlotte? You look dreadful.’ Since this was not something that I wished to hear (for what if I had looked dreadful to Thomas McNeilly?), I snapped at her, causing much offence. We parted on bad terms outside our bedrooms that evening.