Stone Country

by Nicole Alexander

  To the northeast, lines of smoke drifted across the horizon. Woodlands, grasses, drying swamps. All were touched with the firestick. Each day showed fresh burnings as the heavy grasses of the wet were razed for new growth. Ross looked for the people who tended the land, the communities that struck out into areas where hundreds of square miles might be home to a single white man, rarely sighting anyone.

  ‘Tomorrow we finish branding at this place, Boss.’ Mick appeared by their side. ‘Eustace and Toby and a couple of the other boys can start walking the sale bullocks back to the homestead paddock.’

  ‘Righto.’ Ross clutched his side again, his breath still troubling him.

  ‘You all right, Boss?’ asked Mick.

  ‘I’m fine. You sure this horse is worth persisting with?’

  ‘You’ll take to each other, eventually,’ Mick assured him.

  ‘If he doesn’t kill me first.’

  ‘Might help if you name him,’ Mick suggested.

  There wasn’t much point complaining about the horse. It had taken some handling to muster the cattle in over the last few days and more than a few had managed to escape, dashing into the scrub to disappear in the thick growth. After many weeks spent on the move Ross now knew how impossible it was to get a true count of the livestock running on Waybell. Were the holding properly fenced, then the practice of waiting until the herd walked to the closest waterhole for a drink would have made the process easier, but up here the stock could roam freely in any direction. The wildness of the livestock was not something Ross had anticipated. He was used to the domesticity of sheep and the comparative ease of walking the mobs on Gleneagle to the yards, where drafting races and a network of timber fencing allowed for easy handling. Here there were few yards and many miles between them.

  ‘Harder than I thought to get a clean muster,’ Ross said. He’d bided his time in admitting this and was prepared for a cutting reply.

  Mick nodded. ‘Tell Bill when you get back.’

  He’d only uttered a few words, but they were sufficient in their brevity for Ross to understand that Mick and Sowden undoubtedly considered him ignorant.

  ‘Where to next?’ asked Ross as they followed one of the many tracks of trampled grass created by cattle and horses.

  ‘We sit down for a couple of days,’ Mick told him. ‘And then go northeast. Eventually we’ll cross the South Alligator River.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we get moving as soon as possible?’

  ‘You’re not in whitefella country now, Boss. Men want sit-down time. Have a feed. Rest the horses.’

  ‘I want to get the steers to Darwin before the wet season starts,’ said Ross.

  ‘Plenty time, Boss.’ He glanced skyward. ‘Nice hot dry weather couple months yet. Besides, further north the country’s still drying out. You still out here when the white apple starts to flower then you’re in trouble.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘That’s when gunumeleng comes and the storms begin.’

  ‘What month is that?’ asked Ross.

  ‘Your time, October or November. But white man’s calendar no good out here. Some seasons last weeks, others a few months,’ Mick told him.

  ‘We have four seasons. When is winter up here?’

  Mick chuckled through a sheen of perspiration. ‘Now. Couldn’t you tell?’

  The splayed imprint of a buffalo was visible on the ground. The pawing of soft earth trailed off to the north, where occasionally, the dark forms of the beasts wandered on the very edge of the grassland.

  ‘The buffalo like this part of Waybell, Mick?’ asked Ross.

  ‘Swampy ground good for them,’ he replied. ‘Not so good for cattle. Walkabout disease, pleuropneumonia, ticks. Better for buffalo than cows, Boss. Lose plenty through sickness.’

  They reached the camp. Two tents, a handful of wurlies, pack-bags, mosquito netting and swags were scattered among the trees a few hundred feet from the muddy water. Ross slid from his horse on arrival, the movement setting up a series of pains that stretched ruthlessly down the length of his body.

  ‘You better get the girl to tend you, Boss,’ said Mick.

  One of the younger Aboriginal boys took the reins to Ross’s horse. He held up a dead brown snake, its back smashed to a pulp. The boy gave a justified look of satisfaction. Ross kept moving towards the tent, and once within, he fell heavily onto the bedroll, tossing aside one of Alastair’s books.

  Maria knelt between the canvas flaps. ‘Mick said you were hurt. What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. Leave me alone.’

  ‘But maybe I can help,’ she offered.

  ‘You can’t,’ Ross replied sharply. Tree-thrown shadows wavered across the tent’s fabric walls. He thought of Maria’s unhappiness over the previous weeks. It had been impossible to reach her.

  ‘You’re angry with me.’

  Ross rested an arm across his face. ‘Tomorrow you’re to start off with Eustace. They’re driving the bullocks home.’

  Maria shuffled a little further inside the tent. ‘You want me to leave. Why?’

  ‘It’s for the best,’ replied Ross. Whatever once connected them had now come undone, the shared attraction splintered by Connor’s outspokenness and worn sharp by twin declarations of guilt. He’d thought of apologising again for what had transpired between them, but couldn’t bring himself to relinquish any more ground.

  Maria knelt at his side and began to undo the buttons on his shirt. Ross brushed away her probing hands but she persisted in her examination, noting the discolouration beginning to show on his skin.

  ‘It hurts when you breathe?’ she asked.

  He winced. ‘Yes. It feels like I’ve broken a rib.’

  Wetting a cloth from a waterbag, Maria cleaned away the day’s grime, working her way down his neck to the base of his throat and then across his chest. Ross observed her movements, closing his eyes at her touch. He’d missed her. Outside, men talked as they rode past the tents to where the horses would be unsaddled and left to roam for the night. They could hear squeaks of leather, the jangle of bits being removed and whinnying as hobble straps were connected.

  Ross wondered what Maria was thinking. A tiny blood vessel was visible on her eyelid, pulsating gently. It meandered towards a brow that curved downwards like a waning moon. She wet the rag again, wrung the excess water out of it, and ran it across the curve of Ross’s stomach, following the edge of his trousers. Ross’s hand closed over her wrist.

  ‘You’ve been avoiding me for days and now this?’ he asked.

  Maria sat back on her knees, her head tilting to one side. ‘You told me to come with you and I did. If you want me to go, I’ll do that too.’

  Ross tightened his grip on her, pulling her towards him. Maria was forced to move nearer, the neckline of her blouse allowing a glimpse of flesh. Ross released her, but she didn’t move away. They held each other with their eyes.

  ‘Ahem, Boss, you in there?’ asked Mick from outside.

  Maria was at the tent-flap immediately. ‘He needs a bandage.’

  ‘Ribs?’ queried Mick.

  ‘Maybe broken or cracked,’ asserted Maria. ‘I can’t be sure.’

  ‘Well as long as he’s not coughing up blood,’ said Parker, joining Mick outside the tent. ‘A few broken bones don’t hurt anyone but a damaged lung, well, we don’t have the learning for that.’

  Toby was sent to fetch supplies from the medicine kit, and he made a fuss of searching for the right type of bandage when there were only two to choose from. Eventually it was decided that something stronger was needed, so they cut a piece of canvas into strips and left Maria to wind the sturdy fabric around Ross’s ribcage.

  Her hair brushed his shoulder. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she whispered. ‘I’m caught. You do understand, don’t you?’

  He cupped her cheek with his hand. ‘I only know that I can’t let you go.’

  Maria tied the ends of the cloth. ‘But you have a wife and Holder purchased me as his.
These things are unchanged.’ She sat back on her haunches, and then squirrelled about until her chin rested on her knees, her arms drawn tightly about her legs.

  ‘Frankly, I’m having difficulty even imagining that possible,’ said Ross.

  ‘What, that a man was willing to pay for me? He has land. It’s an opportunity. And what about your wife?’

  Ross smelt pine on the breeze as the fires were stoked to repel the gathering mosquitoes. He didn’t have a clue where to start or what to say. He wished he was like Alastair with his witty remarks and surety of position, however he was just a younger son with a dead twin brother and an older brother presumed deceased.

  It was easy to think about what he wanted, to have a plan, to pitch the word annulment around in his brain, as if by repetition it would take root and grow into certainty. Except the consequences weren’t guaranteed. If he deserted Darcey, Ross knew he would surely be estranged from his family. It was at this very moment he understood how hopelessly dependent he was on his people, for hadn’t the years already proved that he’d not been enough, for his family or his friends? Nor would Darcey have ever set after him if not for the Grant wealth and name. This tore at Ross, for if he’d ever wanted to be considered as more than merely adequate, it was right now. He wanted Maria, but to have her properly, honourably, he needed to leave Darcey.

  Maria shifted uncomfortably, her teeth biting into her lower lip.

  ‘I care about you, Maria. You know that. But if I didn’t own Waybell, if I came to you with empty hands, would I be enough? Enough for you to choose me instead of Holder?’

  ‘So you don’t love her?’ replied Maria.

  ‘Darcey was my brother’s fiancée. I told you that Alastair disappeared in France during the war and is presumed dead. I would have fought but it was decided that I should stay at home.’ He waited to see her response.

  ‘You may not have returned either if you’d joined up,’ she said.

  There was no recrimination from her. Ross’s relief was overwhelming. ‘Better to have gone, I think. That’s the thing about war. Everyone hates it. The death, the injuries, the sadness, but they hate a person more for not being involved, for not sharing the pain that so many others endured.’ There was no way of altering the fact that his exclusion from battle made him an outlier. Even if time helped people forget, Ross never would.

  ‘And your wife?’ asked Maria.

  ‘My family threatened to cut me off if I didn’t marry Darcey. It was never consummated. The marriage,’ Ross added.

  At this Maria’s nostrils flared ever so slightly. She studied his face as if seeing him for the first time. ‘You did it for the money?’

  ‘I did it for many reasons,’ he answered truthfully. ‘But yes, I didn’t want to be cut off.’

  ‘People do different things for money, perhaps yours is the least cruel.’ Maria played with the rag, trailing it in the dirt until the sand was patterned with circles. ‘I didn’t choose Mr Holder. He was chosen for me by my uncle.’ A slight line creased the space between her eyes. ‘I haven’t lain with any man. Ever. That’s where my value lies for men such as my uncle and for Mr Holder. Men pay for the privilege, Ross. Mr Holder paid.’

  ‘Your uncle should be gaoled and as for Holder …’

  ‘Don’t, please, Ross. You don’t understand where I’ve come from.’

  Beyond the tent came the sounds of the camp gathering around the evening fires. Soon their conversation would end with the bringing of food, the daylight noises replaced with the rustling and scratching of creatures and the intermittent bellowing of old bulls wandering in the scrub searching for the herd.

  ‘Maria? Tell me about yourself.’

  She concentrated on the tent’s fabric, the cloth moving ever so slightly in the breeze. ‘My grandfather came from the islands to hunt the trepang. It’s said that he took a woman without her wanting and whispered to her beneath the mangroves, leaving her with child. A girl who would one day become my mother. He came back to hunt for many seasons and when my mother was old enough, although it was forbidden, she would watch for their boats with the large triangular sails. She helped him as a young child when the men came ashore. They would gather the wood to boil the sea cucumbers then lay them out to be smoked over a fire.’

  ‘And your father?’ asked Ross.

  ‘I don’t know. A Chinese woman, Lu Zhi, who was once a concubine, took my mother in and taught her many things. My mother belonged to no one, but in not belonging she also became no one, neither white, black nor Islander. The old concubine knew that and so did men. They gave Lu Zhi pearl shell and tobacco to lie with my mother. And then I was born.’

  ‘Where’s your mother now?’ asked Ross.

  ‘She died when I was young. Lu Zhi raised me. She told me that her mother sold her in exchange for a piece of pork and a bag of rice in China so that Lu Zhi could have a better life here. When Lu Zhi eventually died, a man arrived to claim me. He said he was my uncle and that he could buy me a better life.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘I doubted he was family, but it didn’t matter. All I understood was that Lu Zhi was a concubine. A wife but of lesser standing. She joked that she was a gold widow, but when her husband did eventually die in a mine she was cast out and forced to make her own way. Holder offered marriage. Better to be married, I think, than a concubine to be thrown away.’

  ‘But, Maria, it’s wrong.’

  Maria briefly held her forehead. ‘I don’t expect you to understand. You’re white. You have everything.’ There was a dull edge to her voice. ‘When you ask me if I would take you as you are with nothing, first you must ask yourself that question. You’ve never been without money. I wouldn’t give up such things for anyone and neither should you. In the end you would hate me for it.’

  ‘Never. Anyway we’d never be poor, Maria. I promise you that,’ said Ross.

  ‘Perhaps not. But I’d still be your concubine. Not your wife.’

  ‘I’ll work something out. It won’t be like this forever.’

  ‘You should eat,’ said Maria. ‘I’ll get us some food.’

  ‘And you’ll stay with me tonight?’

  ‘No. It would cause trouble.’ Maria got to her feet.

  ‘It doesn’t matter who knows about us or who doesn’t. Who would care out here, anyway? I mean, look at Sowden.’

  ‘Apart from your wife and Holder?’ Maria crawled out the tent’s entrance before turning back to face him. ‘We haven’t done anything to be ashamed of, but if we did, eventually you would care, Ross. You would care the most.’

  Chapter 30

  Wallabies bounded from their path as the stockmen flanked the rushing cattle. Five wild bulls were leading the stampede. They’d broken down the wooden yards during the night, and Ross and his men were still trying to gather up the remaining escapees. Now only this mob remained and, at the head, five of the canniest beasts he’d ever seen. To his left, Ross caught sight of Mick weaving between the trees, closing in on the lead. Shafts of daylight highlighted tawny hides as the cattle bashed through the timber, the dust kicking up in their wake.

  Ross ducked beneath branches with curled and yellowing leaves, trying not to feel the pain from his injured rib. The gelding cleared a fallen log and landed heavily but was quick to take up the chase. Ross swiped at a sticky spider web in his path as the sun sent spiralling shafts of light through the densely wooded area. He caught another glimpse of Mick as the barrel of the stockman’s rifle glinted. Two echoing shots rang out. The lead bull changed direction, the herd following in a swift arc.

  Ross drew level with Parker and Mick, and the three of them raced on, zigzagging madly through the trees. The mob ahead of them suddenly broke apart and one of the bulls turned back, spearing through the cows that were bringing up the rear. Mick aimed and fired, and this time the bullet found its mark. Sheer momentum kept the animal moving for a few more feet before it dropped to the ground. Mick drew to a standstill and let out a l
oud coo-ee.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Ross slowed and patted the gelding, who’d managed to obey most of his commands.

  ‘No good following them anymore, Boss,’ replied Mick.

  Ross had been keen to at least shoot the renegade bulls so they wouldn’t have the same trouble next year, but deferred to Mick and reluctantly agreed. Around them red, bell-shaped flowers grew from stubby, bare branches. They were on the northeasterly edge of the station, and with their progression to this last mustering camp it was as if the weather was turning against them. The days were intensely hot with little breeze and only the scarcest scattering of cloud. A few weeks earlier Ross had been in no rush to return to the homestead but now even he admitted that gurrung, the hot, dry weather season, was a testing time.

  ‘This lot sure had a scatter on, Mick,’ Ross remarked, as the other stockmen caught up with them and they headed back towards the yards.

  ‘Cattle don’t like being bothered,’ Mick explained. ‘One of the other tribe’s been here.’

  ‘So the mob was disturbed before we even arrived.’ Ross thought of the bullocks that could well be wandering outside the borders of the property. He’d counted roughly eighteen prime ones over the last few days that hadn’t made it into the yards. ‘I guess they’ll be doing a bit of hunting as well, eh?’ He didn’t expect a reply.

  Smoke haze filled the eastern sky as Ross counted out the last of the cattle from the yards. He recorded the tally in a notebook with a stub-nosed pencil and then added each page together. Since the commencement of mustering, an extra eight hundred head had been rounded up and branded, but Connor was right. Proving theft was impossible.

  He dragged the gate closed across cracking soil. The top railing broke off at one end, falling to the ground, and Ross kicked at the piece of timber. The gathering-in was finished for the season.

  ‘We save working on these yards for next time we’re here.’ Mick stood with hands on his hips. ‘Better we head back home now and get the rest of the sale bullocks organised.’