by Peter Carey
Now the landlord’s wife give Harry Power the sugar he sprinkled it onto the red hot coal.
Hold the effing horse he says to me.
I took the bridle while Harry encouraged the smoking coal to pass over the horse’s wound I had seen this remedy practised by the Quinns and Lloyds but Harry were drunk so he placed the coal too near the skin I could smell the burning hair. The 1st time she were burnt the horse kicked but the 2nd time she reared and I couldnt hold her she broke through the bark roof of the veranda. Of this damage to the shanty Harry seemed oblivious. There he said that’ll fix you girl. That were a lie because the ball were buried too deep it had gone to a place no smoke could reach.
To me he said he would soon send out some tucker.
I’ll come inside said I.
O you will will you?
There aint no point in watching here I said unless the traps is coming in an adjectival ship.
For answer I got a mighty clout across the head I took a swing back at him. This he would not brook he grabbed me by the bawbles.
You want to fight me boy?
No Harry.
While the landlady watched he squeezed my bawbles till I could not help but cry out with pain and having wrung that humiliation from me he turned his back and took his girlfriend back inside. I calmed down the frightened horse swearing this would be my last adventure with the famous Harry Power.
By and by the door opened it werent Harry the stranger were more like a farmer with his powerful sloping shoulders and heavy arms but he bore no greater burden than a glass of liquor which he offered though I never liked the smell.
Too strong for you boy? He were a so called HANDSOME MAN a neat beard framing his naked face. You want some lemonade in it?
He were watching me very close a smile playing round his lips so I sipped to show I could of drunk it if I wished.
Your ma is very partial to that drink I’m sure you know it.
I might.
Very partial said he.
All my childhood there were always some man thought he could tell stories about my mother he rested his back against the veranda post and grinned. You know Bill Frost?
I admitted the connection.
Thats a chap who is awful partial to his rum and cloves. He made it sound so dirty I were embarrassed laying my face against the mare’s cold wet neck and stroking her but still the man would not cease.
You been absent from home a little while I hear.
It were not his nosey business where I been I did not say nothing. Perhaps you aint heard your mother’s news.
I werent going to be drawn by his familiarity.
Your ma has been busy baking said he.
Thats good.
Good for Bill Frost he said for he’s the chap what put the bun inside her oven.
My fist went up into his gut before I knew what I were doing I felt his very entrails part to accommodate my hand and smelled the air push out him it were sour as week old pollard mash he were a big fellow 12 or 13 stone but he staggered back with his mouth open like a Murray cod. I hated him I spat in his face pushing him out in the rain he stumbled and I rode him like a pig down into the mud and out into the woodpile as he wailed and hollered out for help I cried I would kill him if he ever said her name again.
From the corner of my eye I seen the door open and Harry come across the veranda his great bull neck thrust forward he were keen to damage me. The sniphorse recognised her torturer and let out a high whinny pulling violently against her reins which I had tied to the veranda post. Harry Power stooped for a stick of firewood I saw it in his hand I did not care.
The post give way at the floor as the horse backed out into the rain pulling the pivoting pole along while Harry Power begun to whale into me with the firewood belabouring me about the kidneys I did not feel a thing instead I got the Handsome Man’s arm behind his back his face down in the mud.
The horse could not escape but were bucking and kicking in a frightful manner her hooves was death her eye panicked white no one dare go near. It were her made me release the gossip not a bit of Harry. They both watched as I spoke to the poor trembling creature she permitted me to untangle her and then lead her down into the yard.
The downpour meanwhile increased it were very loud but could not prevent me hearing Harry Power apologising. Enough light spilled from the shanty for me to see the Handsome Man were seated bow-legged heavy with mud as if he had fouled himself. When I come back from the yard he retreated he would never speak so casually of my mother again. When I turned to Harry his thumbs was in his belt beside his guns.
Come here said he.
He’s going to shoot me I thought but followed. One minute I were a warrior the next stumbling down into the rainy dark like a poor scouring beast on its way to slaughter explain that if you will. I come down the side of a steep gully beyond even the pale yellow illumination from the shanty here Harry put his hand upon my shoulder and I stopped. I could feel the water flowing around my ankles it might as well been around my heart.
Give me the boots.
I obeyed and felt the gluey wet clay puddle at my feet at length understanding that he had gone away. I were dismissed.
My mother were sitting up in the hut at Eleven Mile Creek she had already covered the fire with ash to keep its life for the morning but now something kept her from her bed and she remained seated on a low 3 legged stool her legs out straight her large hands resting on her pinny.
Mother were still a handsome woman her hair as glossy as a crow’s feathers the light of the hearth dancing in the sheen. She could of gone to sleep but instead she were brushing her hair again and when 200 strokes were done she started braiding and when the braid was woven she pulled it into a bun and now her head felt tight as a drum and she could not go to bed. She remained before the ash banked fire and her children filled the hut with their cold breath the mice rustling in the wall behind the pasted layers of THE BENALLA ENSIGN.
When the rain relented it were very quiet nothing louder than the tatt tatt of the leaking roof above the table but my mother’s handsome head tilted listening to something else. She says it were worry about the level of the creek that finally drew her outside not nothing superstitious. She knocked the pegs out of the door then picked up the lantern and in her long nightdress walked through the dead ringbarked gums they was ghosts of trees their sappy trunks now dry as bones. The kangaroo dogs was silent but circling on their chains.
As my mother held up the lantern I were many miles away limping along the road in stolen boots I could see no more road than a smudge of charcoal in the blackness.
My mother picked up her hems coming down to inspect the flood her bluchers leaden with mud and manure but all that were soon washed clean off them for the creek had risen rapidly insinuating itself across the track to claim the oats.
It must of been after midnight when I left the road now travelling through grasslands my hands ahead of me no idea where on earth I stood. My mother returned to the hut but still did not take her bed. When she imagined hearing Mr Pawson’s goat bleating she once again knocked the pegs from the door and went outside with the lantern. There was no goats to be heard or seen.
She were about to go back inside when she seen a shadow at 1st she thought it a savage but looking hard she made out an old white woman wearing a red dress.
Are you lost dearie my mother called but the woman paid her little mind she were no taller than the pigpen which is to say less than 3 ft. in height.
Who do you want called my mother all the skin on her body raised in bumps her braided hair straining against the fright of her scalp.
No answer.
Who are you? But she knew already it were the Banshee she retreated to her door so her children would be safe behind her.
Who do you want?
The Banshee made no answer my mother had been told from her youngest years that you must not interfere with the Death Messenger and she knew of the man whose hand were burnt and the o
ne held against the wall of his cottage all night long and she knew an hour’s luck never shone on anyone who molested a Banshee but she were in another country far from where the Banshee should of been so when she held up her lantern then the Banshee turned away and give a kind of shiver as you see in them with bad tempered natures. She were an ugly old crone but now she revealed her long and golden hair which she set about combing as if to soothe herself. My mother knew all the stories of the comb she knew the bone comb & steel comb & comb of gold & now she witnessed the dread implement move through the hair and knew the thing to do were get into bed and shut her eyes but my mother were a Quinn and this were not her character.
You tell me who you want my mother shouted.
I were far away walking across the grassy flats knowing nothing of what was transpiring but I can locate the time exactly as you will soon see.
Said my ma Its Ned aint it? Its my little Neddy that you want.
The Banshee didnt answer so my mother took up the splitting axe Jem had left laying against the door and she swung it in both hands like a Scotsman then sent it whooshing through the dark towards her.
At this very moment I were north of Crooked Crossing as it were called. I heard the Banshee cry. It were not what they say it were not like a vixen fox but a dreadful shriek that would turn a strong man’s bowels to water it filled the whole vault of the heavens. I lay down on the dark earth with my hands across my ears feeling the clay quiver beneath me and even when the noise were gone I didnt move but lay on the cold ground as it sucked the warmth out of my blood. I did not move until the dawn when I stood up I were stiff and grey as if I myself was turned to clay. I went to the end of the gully where Tom Buckley lived he had built a pitch roof over the hollow stump of a giant gum and thereby constructed a very pretty house. I opened the door it were very dark a miner’s cottage with many shelves and everything in its proper place all except the owner who I immediately saw lying in the middle of the ffloor one leg folded underneath. He were dressed in the uniform of some foreign king I don’t know why. The uniform were very old and Tom Buckley dead an old bachelor and no wife or child to mourn him. Not knowing what to do I borrowed his horse and set off for home as fast as I could go.
When our brave parents was ripped from Ireland like teeth from the mouth of their own history and every dear familiar thing had been abandoned on the docks of Cork or Galway or Dublin then the Banshee come on board the cursed convict ships the ROLLA and the TELICHERRY and the RODNEY and the PHOEBE DUNBAR and there were not an English eye could see her no more than an English eye can picture the fire that will descend upon that race in time to come. The Banshee sat herself at the bow and combed her hair all the way from Cork to Botany Bay she took passage amongst our parents beneath that foreign flag 3 crosses nailed one atop the other.
In the colony of Victoria my parents witnessed the slow wasting of St. Brigit though my mother made the straw crosses for the lambing and followed all Grandma Quinn’s instructions it were clear St. Brigit had lost her power to bring the milk down from the cows’ horn. The beloved saint withered in Victoria she could no longer help the calving and thus slowly passed from our reckoning.
But the Banshee were thriving like blackberry in the new climate she were with us when ice were on the puddles and when all the plains from Benalla to Wangaratta was baked hard as Hell. Even when the bush quivered in a eucalyptus haze the angry flies droning without relent the Banshee would not go home and her combs was at different times reported in Avenel and Benalla and Euroa and beneath the new bridges on the Melbourne road.
When I heard the Banshee wail I never doubted what it were and once on Tom Buckley’s pony I galloped home all the time praying no one in my family had been took. I tore a switch from an Ovens wattle and drove the gelding brutally the golden blossom broke and lay like salt across his bleeding flanks.
It were a shock to finally see the home I had dreamed of so many lonely nights for now it appeared v. small its bark roof swaybacked all around it broken grey tree trunks some standing others fallen. It were a wet winter morning the creek raging there were low grey cloud and a threatening cold wind off the mountains. I witnessed a great kind of desolation such as I had not remembered there were not a crow or magpie not a butcher bird sitting on a fence. In the silence I were certain the Banshee had been about her deadly business and I pushed the horse along the flooded track fearing for Mother’s life.
The creek were too high for the pony so I removed the boots and walked across the fallen log it were still our only bridge.
The dogs begun to bark then I saw our Gracie she were 4 yr. old and running screaming from behind the pig house it were a moment before I realised she were larking. Then come our broad strong Maggie calling Gracie Gracie I’m going to tan your hide.
And then Jem come up from behind the peppercorn he had grew 2 in. since I seen him last he were broad and strapping his feet were bare and muddy his dark eyes gleaming to see me home again and I knew no one were dead.
My mother followed walking with her left hand rested against her stomach the way a woman does when another heart is beating in her womb. This were Bill Frost’s improvement nothing else. No bridge no more land cleared and the pastures filled with docks and dandelions it broke my heart to see them yellow flowers.
My mother said Where’s Harry?
All around our feet was abandoned logs the mother and son once cut together with the crosscut saw.
And how is Harry said she is he well? She did not demonstrate none of her feelings towards me. In truth she had been more forthcoming with the Banshee.
Old Tom Buckley’s dead he’s lying in the middle of his hut.
She crossed herself then put her hands on both of my shoulders feeling that all my bones was solid and correct. She smiled at me. You’ve got strong aint ye?
You’ll see.
What will you do Son?
I come home to work around the property.
My ma began to silently shift the metal pins around her hair.
I won’t argue with Bill Frost I said if thats what you’re worried about I won’t glower at him or nothing.
Gracie wrapped her arms round my legs and were picking at my bowyangs.
I’ll be his right hand man I said all I want is to work about our property.
But my mother now were looking away to the smudgy grey horizon it were obvious she saw nothing useful there.
Well what about the old Harry?
I don’t think thats no concern of yours said I.
Is Harry nabbed is that it?
No he aint nabbed I come back home I should of thought that would make you happy.
Is there a warrant out for you as well?
I come back home I said the adjectival pasture is filled with dandelions and docks no one cleared nothing while I were gone.
My mother sighed and shook her head Dear God Jesus save me.
I said I aint in trouble.
Jesus you don’t know nothing about my problems Son.
Well anyone can see you aint done nothing to meet the requirements of the Act.
My mother looked around her property you could not deny it were a sad and ruined sight no new fencing not a single acre claimed.
They’ll take away your lease said I.
At this my mother suddenly turned upon me slapping me fiercely about my ears.
Where’s my money she cried where is my adjectival money?
Gracie let go my leg I felt her melt away.
I came home to help.
I know you b––––rs stuck up the Buckland Coach. You stuck up Reed Murphy’s Station too your sister read me all the papers.
The bushranging aint as profitable as you’d expect.
You aint got nothing for me?
Nothing.
Then what am I to do my mother cried.
I come home to help.
You can’t come home I paid the b– – – – r 15 quid to take you on. You are his apprentice now.
The mother and the son stood separate in the middle of the home paddock the chooks all droopy and muddy the pigs with their ribcages showing through their suits the waters of the Eleven Mile already receding leaving the spent and withered oats lying in the yellow mud. The son felt himself a mighty fool he’d been bought and sold like carrion.
At breakfast next morning my mother continued to speak despairingly she were exhausted with her life she said and seeing I had brung home no money she did not know what she would do.
Bill Frost now were occupying not only my mother’s bed but also my father’s chair he were so smug his ruddy face shaved smooth and glistening with salve I asked what he could think to help our property.
Give it back to the blacks he said then burst out snickering no no the blacks don’t want it give it to the Irish just joking Ned thats a very good question and it just happens I have the answer here. He pulled a crushed envelope from his back pocket I thought he were about to produce the latest cattle prices but the envelope contained a piece of brown and yellow cloth. Said he This is your mother’s salvation Ned it is what I promised her when I asked her for her hand.
Hand? I never heard no mention of this before I looked to my mother but she had set the baby on the ground all her attention taken by the scrap of cloth.
What is it Bill she asked.
This item is worth 4 times as much in New South Wales as it is here in Victoria. Frost looked around the table as if he were a magician we should all admire.
Do not tease me Bill.
He released the cloth into my mother’s hands. All I have to do is row this across the Murray River and its worth 4 times what I paid for it. Now don’t that beat churning butter Mrs Kelly?