Ross made a note of the yard needing repair and sketched their position. Later, he would transcribe the descriptions into his journal and, with Mick’s help, pinpoint their location on the map he carried. As he was marking the rocky plateau overlooking the yards he noticed a thin column of irregular puffs of smoke rising into the air. ‘What are they talking about today?’ he asked Mick.
‘Long time since whitefella Boss been around,’ Mick replied. ‘They’re telling their people to keep away from waterholes while we’re here.’
‘A bit late for that as we’re about to leave,’ said Ross. Behind them, an answering column appeared from somewhere in the dry woodlands.
‘They’re also saying another white stockman has come. The red-haired one.’
‘Eustace? They’re saying that now?’ clarified Ross.
‘No. A couple of days ago they said Eustace was coming back from driving those sale bullocks home,’ Mick told him.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ asked Ross.
Mick swung up onto the back of his horse. ‘You didn’t ask.’
‘It’d be helpful if you’d just tell me these things as soon as you know about them.’
‘Sometimes it’s better to work a few things out for yourself.’
They came upon the rest of the stockmen slaughtering the shot bull. The beast’s throat was cut and its testes had been removed, a large pool of dark blood staining the earth. Flies lifted and settled across men, animal and blood. Parker watched from nearby, a twig in his mouth, which moved from left to right as Toby separated the hide from flesh. Keeping the cutting edge of the knife turned towards the pelt at a slight angle he pulled at the skin while slicing, revealing a layer of white fat.
‘Be a bit tough, won’t it, after all that charging about?’ commented Ross.
Down south, the animal would have been strung up in a tree so the blood could drain and the meat could stretch, but in this heat it wouldn’t take long for the beef to rot.
Toby sliced into the bull’s rump and removed two large chunks of dark red meat. ‘It’ll be good, Boss.’ He then addressed the carcass, wiping the blade on his trousers. ‘Thanks, mate. We’ll leave you in peace now.’
Parker and the other stockmen mounted up and rode away. ‘Any fresh waterholes around here, Mick?’ asked Ross.
‘Plenty water nearby.’
After Parker’s revelation, Ross had made a point of talking to everyone about the possibility of permanent watering places at each new area they came to. None of the Aboriginal stockmen were forthcoming with information, simply saying that there was not much water around at that time of year. And Parker and Eustace, having depended on Mick’s knowledge from the very beginning of their employment on the property, were of little help. This time, however, Mick was happy to oblige and they headed in a different direction to the rest of the men. They crossed a creek torn into deep channels. Debris from previous floods was piled high in the trees and the timber on the ground was dry-rotted and plastered with mud.
‘How far back to the homestead?’ asked Ross.
‘Thirty mile as the crow flies,’ Mick told him. ‘Shouldn’t be any problems travelling. All the country will be bone dry.’
They rode on through patches of timber where branches were devoid of leaves. The abundance of the wet season had been replaced with a land made barren by scorching heat. There were few birdcalls during the day now and the scuttling, slithering creatures of previous months, which at times made the country and sky merge with movement, were also gone.
Mick circumnavigated a paperbark swamp and led Ross to a stand of trees with odd-looking bulges protruding from their lower trunks.
‘Bring your waterbag,’ Mick instructed, collecting his own as he dismounted. ‘And pannikin.’
Unhitching the tin mug and the canvas bag from his saddle, Ross joined Mick at one of the trees.
Mick tore away the outer bark and stabbed and prised at the swelling with his pocketknife. Water squirted out and he turned to Ross with a quick, pleased smile. They collected it into their pannikins, drinking quickly, and then took it in turns to fill their bags at another tree. Ross patted the trunk as the slightly discoloured fluid wept down the bark. They’d cut into the heart of the plant and drunk from its centre.
‘Good for us,’ said Mick. ‘But for the tree it could be a year or more before it can give water again. There is always a time when blackfella and whitefella are more desperate. You ever get lost, Boss, you know one way to get a drink.’
Heat shimmered off the dried mud that stretched inwards to the remaining swamp water. Scratch marks were visible in the mud where wallabies had come to claw for morsels in the still-moist soil or graze on the fine grasses at the edge. A handful of ducks floated through the swamp’s remnants. Ross would never have imagined that he’d find himself wanting to see those dense clouds that foretold weeks of lethargy and idleness. The wet season stretched a man’s limits, or so he’d thought, until the dry season arrived.
‘You said it’s too wet up here in the north for cattle. Maybe we should let the buffalo have the run of things and hunt them instead. One day we might even be able to sell their meat,’ considered Ross.
‘Sure,’ said Mick.
‘Eustace said your father was a king,’ Ross commented after a pause.
‘No. My father was chief.’
‘I didn’t mean to offend.’
‘You can’t insult if you don’t know better,’ replied Mick.
‘And you aren’t a chief.’
‘No, Boss. I’m not like you.’
Ross wondered if he and Mick weren’t more similar than each other realised, but then cast the idea aside. Mick appeared to have a very strong sense of his place in the world.
Clear of the timber, Ross took a last look to the east where a rocky outcrop rose like a giant wall above the treetops. It was rugged landscape, with jagged upturned ridges rising from the plains to shadow the earth below. There were few pastoral leases that Ross knew of on the other side, except for a couple in the north bordered by rivers. Ross indicated towards the stone country. ‘Have you been there, Mick?’
‘Long time ago. You go through the hole in the rock, then across the plain to the East Alligator River to where the men speak something different.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘The place is full of water, crocodiles, blackfellas and buffalo. Not whitefella land, that’s for sure,’ said Mick.
‘You do know that telling a whitefella that only makes him want to see it more.’
Mick chuckled. ‘You’ve got things to do first, Boss, like giving that horse of yours a name.’
Ross tweaked the gelding’s ear. The horse remained a sorry excuse for an animal with its moth-bitten tail that refused to grow and a frame that belonged to an emaciated pony. ‘I’ll call him Nugget,’ he said finally, ‘and hope he turns into a chunk of gold.’
Chapter 31
On their return to the camp, Ross and Mick went their separate ways. Maria met Ross at his tent. In her hands she held Alastair’s books. Some of the covers were torn and a few pages were lying in the dirt.
‘Your stories,’ she said.
Ross accepted the novels. ‘What happened?’
‘You left them outside. Two of the boys found them and they got into a fight.’
Not far away, children were running back and forth, snorting and bellowing, then falling over as if shot.
‘Do you want to speak to them?’ asked Maria.
Ross shook his head, remembering his own boyhood. ‘No.’
‘It’s good we’re going tomorrow.’
The camp was dusty and hot, the air filled with the acrid stench of dying fish in a nearby muddy billabong, that had formed in a tributary of the South Alligator River.
‘You’ll be pleased to get back to the house, won’t you?’
It was a long time to expect a woman to camp out rough, not that Maria had complained.
‘I’m used to it now,’
she answered.
Toby appeared at Ross’s side with their horses. ‘Boss, we shoot the buffalo that’s stuck?’
They mounted up and Ross followed him to the edge of the watercourse, where a mud-covered beast had struggled into the sludge, desperate for water, and become bogged. The old cow thrashed and bellowed at their approach. Ross dismounted and, rifle in hand, walked out across the cracked surface, testing the dried shell of the bed as he moved forwards. He loaded the rifle, pointed and fired. The beast slumped.
‘Good feed for a crocodile,’ commented Toby. ‘There be one old fella here. Buried somewhere in the mud waiting.’
‘G’day, Boss.’ They turned to see Eustace riding towards them.
‘Eustace, what took you so long?’ Ross called. ‘It’s weeks since you left with the bullocks.’
The lack of a friendly welcome did nothing to dispel the red-head’s grin. ‘The Scotsman was there,’ he replied. ‘And the carpenter. It’s a whirl of cattle and flying woodchips. The place has never seen so many comings and goings. It’s like a regular circus. You’ll be impressed, real impressed, Boss. They’ve even made a start on the western boundary. Connor got some Chinese in to help.’
‘And the bullocks are on their way to Darwin?’ asked Ross.
‘Sure thing. We lost a few head along the way. Some of those real fat ones went for a gallop and the heat got to them.’
‘They were plenty fat,’ Toby agreed.
‘Connor sold some to Vesty’s meatworks.’ Eustace sat a little straighter in the saddle. ‘The rest are going to be slaughtered at the Waybell Station abattoirs.’
The pride in Eustace’s voice matched Ross’s own sense of accomplishment. ‘That is news,’ he commented. ‘Very good news.’
On the way back to camp Eustace told them more about the carpenter, an Irishman named Brian Walsh who, by the redheaded stockman’s description, was adept at entertaining everyone with his ribald yarns and spluttering laughter.
Ross looked forward to meeting the builder. As for Connor, he remained undecided. They’d parted on bad terms and though he may have proved himself capable of handling the business assigned to him, Ross wasn’t ready to forgive him for the trouble he’d caused with Maria.
‘This is for you, Boss.’ Eustace handed him an envelope, which he immediately opened. The note was from Connor. Marcus Holder had been struck down with an illness last year and, although alive, was poorly. Ross crumpled the paper. Connor might yet redeem himself.
That evening they ate the fresh beef with damper. The camp was in high spirits with the thought of heading home and Ross sat cross-legged, drinking tea and enjoying hearing the men relive the stories from the muster.
‘Here’s to the boss,’ said Parker, lifting a mug. ‘We’ve done more this season than we have since I arrived on the station. Although I don’t mind telling you all that I’ve seen enough of an axe for a while.’
‘And I missed half of it,’ complained Eustace. ‘Which is okay by me, ’cause if ever one of us has to go to gaol, Parker, it’ll have to be you as you’ve had so much practice with woodworking now.’ He gave an amused laugh and, in return, Parker shoved him in the side so that he fell backwards onto the ground.
‘It’s getting late,’ Ross reminded them. ‘And we’ve an early start.’
The men discussed the packing up of the camp and once this was done, the conversation began to dwindle. Gradually the stockmen finished their tea and walked to their respective tents, leaving Ross alone with Maria. It was one of the few nights during the past months that they’d been by themselves at the end of the day, as Maria usually retired to her tent early. She’d rarely ventured beyond the established ranks of boss and domestic. Ross was certain it made no difference to what the men undoubtedly already assumed. Darkness hid many things, including the truth about who was sleeping with whom, even if it was only taking place in the imagination.
In the night sky, stars appeared in an arc following the earth’s curve. Ross chose to hold off on sharing the news of Holder’s illness. Their conversations regarding the man never ended well and tonight he wanted to simply enjoy Maria’s company.
‘You’re sad about your ruined books, aren’t you?’ asked Maria.
‘There’s only a few that were spoiled. It’s a pity, though. I like reading,’ replied Ross. ‘Especially in the wet season.’ He threw buffalo dung on the fire to keep the mosquitoes at bay.
‘Yes, but I saw the inscriptions,’ she persisted. ‘They belonged to your brother.’
‘They were his favourite,’ confessed Ross. ‘He read them when he was young. Alastair used to pretend he was Hercules.’ When Maria didn’t respond he explained a little more. ‘He was a Roman god known for his strength and adventures.’
‘Men are just men,’ said Maria flatly. ‘They’re not heroes.’
‘He was a boy at the time.’ Ross felt annoyed at having to justify his brother’s juvenile fantasy. ‘A child, really.’ He poured the cold tea from the pannikin onto the dirt. Alastair’s childhood games had altered their lives. The Twelve Labours of Hercules, an ancient tale of epic proportions, had been converted by the power of invention into a simple listing. An itemising of tasks, which ultimately carried them beyond innocent scheming into utter disaster.
‘So why do you keep them, after everything he’s done to you?’ asked Maria. ‘He went to war, when you could not. He shamed you all and then you were forced to take his woman.’ Maria made a clicking sound of disapproval. ‘You told me this, Ross.’
‘I don’t need to be reminded.’
Impulse had driven him to Alastair’s room the morning he’d left Adelaide for Waybell. Ross wanted those books. He needed some small piece from the past. A shred of what had existed before everything unravelled. Contained within those pages were his dreams of a perfect older sibling. ‘He’s still my brother, Maria.’
‘And when he went to war did he become a hero?’
‘Briefly, yes.’ And Ross would never forgive Alastair for that. For being better than him, for going to war and becoming the champion he once dreamt of.
‘And he’s dead?’ asked Maria.
‘Yes. I think he is. There’s no other explanation.’
‘The Chinese believe that after death the body is devoured by the earth and becomes part of the soil. That’s why many Chinese want to be returned to the village of their birth so they can be reunited with the soil they came from. It would be the same for your brother. Maybe that is his punishment for what he did. No one knows where he is and so he can never be returned home. He will never be happy again. You should throw away his books. He’s not worthy.’
Ross shook his head. ‘I couldn’t do that.’
‘Why? Is it because it’s like he’s still alive when you read them?’ asked Maria.
‘Yes, I suppose.’
‘See, that bright star?’ Maria pointed. ‘It’s called Altair, Qiān Niú Xīng. It means cowherd star. The cowherd was in love with a weaver girl and they had two children. But they were separated from each other by what your people call the Milky Way. The father and children were on one side, the woman on the other. They are only permitted to meet once a year, when magpies form a bridge to allow them to cross the Milky Way.’
‘Did the concubine teach you that?’ Ross was pleased to be distracted from the subject of his brother.
‘I wouldn’t have any learning if it weren’t for her. I like the stars. They tell their own stories and you don’t need to carry the words in a book. They are there waiting. You only have to look up.’
A long howl carried towards them in the dark. It was answered by a much closer short bark.
‘Dingos,’ explained Ross. ‘They’ve come to eat that dead bull.’
With the camp bedded for the night, Ross moved closer, tentatively placing an arm around Maria’s shoulders. ‘We could have been doing this every night, Maria.’ He turned towards her, feeling the quickening of her breath. He pulled her hard against his body as they
kissed. ‘We will be together,’ he murmured. ‘We’re meant to be together.’
‘But nothing’s changed.’
‘Yes, it has. Connor wrote to me,’ said Ross. ‘Holder’s been very ill. He may not recover.’ He waited for a response from her. For he’d thought she’d be pleased at the chance of being released from Holder without intervention. ‘Maria, what are you thinking about?’
In the blackness her finger stroked his cheek. ‘You speak so angrily about Mr Holder and the money he paid in exchange for a wife and yet to me it isn’t so bad, not when I think about Lu Zhi and what it meant to be qiè.’
‘And what is qiè?’ The spot where Maria had touched his skin went cold.
‘A concubine. A female slave. And that’s what I would become were I to be your lover, your mistress. I would have no rights. I’d be no better than Lu Zhi or my mother. I’d be nothing.’
‘But we’d have each other, Maria.’ He held her in his arms beneath the stars. ‘I love you.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ll work something out. I promise.’
Chapter 32
The musterers’ return to the homestead was met with enthusiasm. The camp children, led by Little Bill, raced to greet the men, and the women who’d accompanied them during the months away, while Connor, standing next to Sowden and Annie, waited patiently.
‘You’re back then and all’s well?’ asked Sowden, as Ross helped Maria from her horse.
‘You go in, Maria. I’ll be there shortly.’
She squeezed his fingers. Ross watched her walk towards the house before replying. ‘Yes. We found an extra eight hundred head of cattle. Mick can fill you in on the details.’
‘Are you sure you can trust him to tell me the truth?’ asked Sowden sarcastically.
Ross decided against starting an argument with him. ‘I would hope so,’ he replied.
Sowden had appeared ready to retaliate, but instead settled on levelling his gaze at Ross as if trying to understand the calmness of his response. Perhaps sensing that it would be wise to end the interaction, Annie called over to where the camp’s occupants were crowded around the returning stockmen with their strings of horses. Two men came forward and carried Sowden away.
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