Clare hesitated. ‘You sure?’
Tilda nodded, keeping her reasoning to herself; telling Clare she wanted her in front so she could keep an eye on her would only make them both more nervous. Even the most practised rider would find the track tricky enough. After Clare made her way onto the track, Tilda waited a count of three and nudged her horse on, Merry bringing up the rear.
It was a precarious switchback track, looping from one side of the ravine to the other, all the way down. There were sections of steep slope filled with a muddle of trees and rocks that would do a great deal of damage if any of them went over. The rain had washed away a lot of the topsoil, leaving small gullies, baring tree roots and loosening rocks, making the sides of the track unstable.
Tilda tensed at the crumble of gravel giving way beneath the back left hoof of Clare’s horse. Out of fright, the horse lifted its hoof too high, putting it back down too close to the edge again. The horse huffed, chewing at the bit and shaking its head. Tilda could see Clare’s knees pressed in tight to its sides. There wouldn’t be much she could do if Clare panicked, other than try to talk her down. But more important, and urgent, was calming the horse. There was no telling what would happen if they both kept fighting for direction.
‘Drop the reins.’ Even as she spoke, Tilda knew it wouldn’t calm Clare in the slightest.
‘What?!’ Clare looked back over her shoulder. A sudden dip and sway made her slip in the saddle and she quickly faced forward.
‘Drop the reins. Let your horse take the lead.’
A little confidence regained, Clare glanced back again. Tilda lifted her empty hands, fingers splayed, her head nodding with the rhythm of her own horse bobbing along without any guidance or interference. Hesitant at first, Clare gave the reins some slack and loosened the grip of her knees, her body relaxing into the now steady movements of her horse. Still, she held a little tighter at each corner, but gave up more and more control as her trust in the horse built.
The view changed as they sunk further down the never ending track. As the trees closed in, the sky all but disappeared behind them. The tops of the ravines and mountains were a distant backdrop, the flat ground below yet unseen. The insistent buzz of insects grew louder. Droning flies, the click-click-cleee of crickets, choral cicadas joining in.
In parts, the track had vertical cliffs on one side and a straight drop on the other. Now and then they had to lay flat to their horse’s necks in order to duck under jutting boulders that scraped along their packs, no other way to avoid them, no room to go around. They scanned the track and the bush. The only sign of the calves were hoof prints in the soft damp dirt and the occasional patty of poop which Merry sniffed at before sprinting to catch up. The dog’s swift footwork kept her from tumbling as she sometimes ignored the track and made her own.
It was a great relief to see the bottom, and they all let out a massive breath as they turned the last corner, the track flattening and widening out into a grassy clearing flooded with light.
‘Let’s take a break, huh?’ Jack grinned, but the beads of sweat at his temples betrayed the lightness in his voice.
A few unsteady steps and Tilda found her feet again. They were all still a little tense, but glad that the hardest part was behind them. Getting back up was a worry for another time. All was quiet as they gulped water. Tilda’s empty stomach gurgled, but the knot in her gut was yet to unfurl, so food was a distant thought. She cupped her hands together so Clare could pour in water for a huffing Merry who lapped it up, refilling the makeshift water bowl again and again until Merry had had enough and laid down on the cool ground. Tilda was uneasy about letting her come and she crouched beside the dog, scratching her ear. ‘Where’s Bea? Huh?’
Merry tilted her head, huffing.
‘Where’s Will?’ Any other time and the dog would have shot off in search of the kids. No luck. Merry lay there staring up at Tilda, head tilting and tongue lolling, and then rested her head on her paws.
Tilda gave up and sat down on a fallen tree trunk. Clare took a seat next to her, shoulders slumped and her face frozen in a kind of shock. Jack sat on Tilda’s other side with a sigh, rolling his water bottle between his palms.
Tilda looked from one to the other and then down at the dozing dog. ‘Well. Aren’t we a cheerful bunch?’
Jack and Clare both grunted, Merry’s eyebrow lifting as she peeked up at them. Tilda looked around. No sight of the calves, though they’d be difficult to spot; their dark brown bodies would blend in with the dense bush. There were termite mounds standing bright orange amongst the green, and creamy-white butterflies flitting about, their wings tinged a slight blue. And a lot of dead wood, Tilda noticed, pointing it out to Jack. ‘Might need to talk to the National Forest people. Enough dead wood and leaf litter here, someday a fire’ll rip through—’
‘Another time, Doc. Let’s just get this done first.’ Whether or not he meant it to be, Jack’s use of her nickname dug in deep, reminding her she’d not been around enough to have any authority on the issue.
Merry’s head lifted when Jack started to pack up, and she jumped to her feet as Jack swung up into the saddle. One foot in the stirrup, the other on the ground, Tilda stopped and stared down at the dog. ‘Girl, why don’t you go home?… You’re gonna get tired before the horses do, and then what?’
Merry stopped huffing and tilted her head, her mouth closing shut but her lips folding in, revealing her little front teeth. Tilda thought for a moment and then turned to Clare. ‘Give me a hand getting her up?’
Tilda jumped into the saddle and walked the horse closer while Clare picked Merry up and stood on a tree stump. Tilda pulled the dog the rest of the way up and sat her on the saddle in front between her knees. She held the reins softly in her hands, her arms pressing to the dog’s sides in case she freaked out and tried to jump off. Tilda walked the horse forward slowly until Merry got the hang of the rhythm. It was hot, even under the shade of the canopy, and humid. Body heat got trapped where the dog’s back pressed into Tilda’s stomach and soon sweat had soaked through her shirt.
After a while, Merry settled in. She seemed to enjoy the ride, looking around, huffing and sniffing and licking at Tilda’s arms and chin. Tilda’s mind wandered, forgetting what they were doing there for a bit before Jack noticed and called her out on it.
Not long after, she caught herself lost in thought again.
‘Tilda!’
She looked up, lifting her chin from where it rested on Merry’s head.
Jack stared back at her. ‘What’d you come for if you’re not gonna help?’
‘Sorry… It’s my fault we’re out here, least I can do is pay attention.’
He turned forward in his saddle, shaking his head. ‘My fault, not yours. Even before the rains, I knew the fences would need fixing.’ He rubbed a hand over his face, scratching at his chin. ‘Been putting it off for ages. Shoulda just done it.’
They rode on, heads turning, eyes scanning. At least the steady trail of hoof prints were a sign they were going in the right direction. The calves were sticking to the track and that gave Tilda hope they’d eventually catch them.
After a stop for lunch, and an afternoon of steady riding, they still hadn’t come across them. And as the day waned, and the light grew dim, their only choice was to call it a day, and hope the calves would too. They made camp, Jack and Tilda setting up their swags in no time and then working together to set up a third for Clare; it was Izzy’s, never been used.
It was getting dark and Jack searched his pack, swearing he’d put in a torch but coming up empty handed. Clare hadn’t brought one either, and Tilda kicked herself at having left the camping lantern in the ute after their road trip to the sanctuary.
Working quickly, Jack pulled out a plastic bag filled with pouches of dehydrated meals. ‘Izzy.’ He shook his head as he laughed. ‘She’s packed enough of these things to last us three weeks. Guess we’re having a three-course meal tonight.’
It was the
first moment of proper levity since they’d rode out. Compounded by their tiredness, they all started laughing uncontrollably. Giggles were still escaping as Jack poured in water and dropped a fork into each pouch, passing them around and apologising if they tasted more like mush than meal because he couldn’t see how much water he was putting in. Merry fussed and whined as Jack made up one for her, tearing the pack down the side and splitting it open. She pounced on it, licking the pouch clean and nudging it along the ground until Jack gave her another.
Tilda could only make out dark outlines as Clare sat down beside her on a rock. Jack heaved himself down onto the ground, using his pack as a backrest. Hungry, Tilda searched for the end of the fork, mixing around whatever was in the pouch and readying herself not to spit it out; as a kid she’d never been a big fan of rehydrated food. Good thing it tasted better than expected, even if she couldn’t figure out what it was.
Clare shuffled over and whispered, ‘First dinner by torchlight, now dinner in the dark. You sure know how to woo a girl.’
Tilda laughed. She bumped an elbow out, knocking into Clare who only leaned in closer, her hair brushing against Tilda’s cheek. Her presence was a comfort as they ate in silence, shoulders and knees pressed together. Tilda guessed by the ruffling and circling noises that Merry had put herself to bed. The others weren’t far behind. Tilda’s feet found the balled-up dog at the end of her swag, answering the ‘Goodnights’ that passed between the three of them before they were all out like lights.
29
NEXT MORNING THEY were back on their horses early. A little sore, but in a better mood than yesterday. The path widened and Jack slowed so that his horse’s backside was level with Tilda, its tail flicking against her leg. ‘Bored yet?’
‘A little.’
‘I bet Jem was surprised to see you at the light ceremony. How’s she doing?’
‘Fine.’
Jack stared back at her. ‘That’s it? Fine?’
Tilda shrugged. ‘We didn’t have much time to talk. The lights were about to happen.’
Jack started laughing, his horse skittering sideways a few steps before he course corrected.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I’m pretty sure the entire town thought they were having a stroke, seeing you there.’
Now both Jack and Clare were laughing.
‘Not that funny.’
‘Kinda is.’
Clare inched up on the other side of Tilda’s horse, sandwiching her, talking past her like she wasn’t there. ‘Jack, you seem normal. How come your sister hates Christmas?’
Jack looked at Tilda. ‘Should I tell her?’
‘Tell her what? There’s nothing to tell.’
He gave her a weird look. ‘What do you mean, nothing?’
‘Well, what do you mean?’
His confused frown was the same as the one on Tilda’s face. ‘I thought you knew, that you remembered…’
Tilda waited for him to finish his sentence. But he didn’t. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Mum and dad. The first year they separated.’
Tilda shook her head, kept shaking it as he kept speaking. ‘They wouldn’t talk to each other. Used us as their go-betweens. Made us pass their messages, even at the dinner table when they were sitting five feet from each other. Shittiest Christmas ever.’
It didn’t ring a bell, and Tilda said so.
‘You were seven, how can you not remember?’
Tilda thought about it for a moment. ‘Well. That means you were six. What makes you think you’re remembering it right?’
‘Because I am.’
‘No way.’ Tilda racked her memory. ‘I mean, they argued all the time back then, still do… but they wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t put us in the middle.’ Tilda laughed at how absurd it sounded; defending their parents.
‘They did. They still do it, with Bea and Will. It drives Izzy mad.’
‘No. Seriously? But they’re just kids.’
‘So were we. And look how we turned out. I’ll go out of my way just so I don’t end up like either of them, and you’re emotionally stunted.’ He glanced over at her, the corner of his mouth lifting in apology for the brutal truth. ‘You make yourself so busy, fixing up other people, just so you don’t have to fix your own life.’
Tilda wasn’t fazed by his assessment; it was nothing she didn’t already know, deep down. ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me? Say something about Bea and Will?’
‘What for? You’re hardly ever around.’
He said it so plainly, it stunned Tilda into silence.
‘Guess you can’t really blame it all on Christmas, then.’ Clare had tried for a laugh, but her horse nipped at Tilda’s horse’s shoulder, too close now on the thinning trail.
‘No. Just our parents.’ Jack chuckled. ‘Which is nothing new.’
Tilda pulled on the reins and dropped back, Jack resuming the lead, Clare slipping back in the middle. Was that really it? Her misdirected hate at a simple holiday, when it was really her parents she was mad at. Her memory was playing tricks on her. The vaguest flashes of that year forming. Did she remember? Or was her imagination taking on what Jack had said, filling in the gaps? Because, come to think of it, it sounded true, like something they would have done, would still do.
There was a sharp pain in Tilda’s jaw. She wasn’t sure how much time had gone by, her jaw clenched, her mind racing, staring blankly at Clare’s back.
No one talked for the rest of the morning. The others scanned around for the calves, and Tilda tried to keep an eye out but failed, getting lost in thought again. The hoof prints ran out, no sign of which direction the calves had gone. It was going to happen eventually, and it surprised Tilda that they’d been so lucky for so long. Tilda and Clare waited while Jack rode on to check further down the track. Merry sniffed and then wandered away, tail in the air and head down, following her nose along some invisible path beneath the trees.
On his way back to them, Jack called out, saying he’d found nothing and suggesting they take a break, regroup. Clare rose up in her saddle, pulling her leg up and swinging it around. Startled by a bird, the horse moved just as Clare was about to jump down. Everything slowed. Tilda flinched as Clare landed. Her right foot was still in the stirrup and her leg stretched out, her left foot landing awkwardly and her ankle rolling as the rest of her body moved sideways with the horse.
‘Shit.’ Tilda swung down off her own horse and was at Clare’s side before she could take a step, taking the reins and stilling the horse. She tried to help free her other foot, but Clare pushed her away.
‘I’m fine.’
Tilda stepped back as Clare hobbled one step and then another, moving toward the side of the track to sit down, trying to prove she was fine yet failing miserably. But Clare didn’t stop and sit, just kept hobbling off the path and into the bush, leaning on tree trunks and rocks. Tilda looped the reins of both horses over a branch and followed her.
‘Hey.’ Tilda reached out, but again Clare brushed her off. ‘Clare. Stop. Don’t be stu—’ She changed her word choice when Clare glanced back, sending daggers. ‘… so headstrong.’
Clare turned to the left, stumbling around a tangle of vines hanging from a tree branch.
‘Just stop.’
She didn’t.
‘You’ll only make it worse.’
Clare slowed. Not by choice, though. She couldn’t put much weight on her left foot and it made it hard to scramble through the wild grass, fallen sticks and hidden rocks.
Tilda leapt forward as Clare tripped. Before she could catch her, Clare was sitting on the ground. She reached out, fingertips brushing Clare’s shoulder. ‘Hey, hey. What’s—?’
‘Just… give me a second. Okay?’ Clare had balled herself up, hugging her knees.
Tilda heard the waver in her voice, saw her wipe tears away. She wanted to crouch down, sit on the ground behind her, hold her, let her lean back on her again, take her wei
ght, carry her back.
Instead, she stood there. Waited. Took her pack off and set it on the ground, remembering which pocket had the first aid kit. A creek trickled by over to her right. Birds chirped, the flap of wings as they flew off overhead. Horses neighed in the distance. Otherwise, it was quiet.
After a big sniff and a bigger breath, Clare used her shirt to wipe her face. When she started to undo her laces, Tilda crouched to help. Boot off, she cradled Clare’s heel. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘What do you think?’ Sarcastic and short, Clare still laughed a little.
Peeling off the sock, Tilda inspected the already swollen and bruised ankle. She used one hand to fish out the first aid kit, using her teeth to open the zipper and then tear off the plastic cover on a compression bandage. Losing her balance, she turned out of her crouch and sat on the ground. Clare stretched her leg out straight, her bare foot resting in Tilda’s lap.
Clare gasped as Tilda pressed the skin around her ankle, tested and turned it.
‘What was that about? Why didn’t you stop?’ Tilda glanced up, but Clare wouldn’t look her in the eye. She went back to examine her ankle. ‘Really should ice it…’ The coldest thing they had was the lukewarm water in their drink canteens. So Tilda made do with wrapping the ankle, her hands moving swiftly as she passed the bandage roll around and around.
‘My brother had bone cancer. He rolled his ankle playing footy, that’s how they found it.’ Clare had her other leg bent up, chin resting on her knee, eyes on Tilda’s hands as she worked. ‘Can we talk about what happened? What it means…’
Tilda was still thinking about the first part, about Clare’s brother, as she answered, ‘It was years ago. Jack doesn’t know what—’
‘No, not that. About the other night.’
‘The other—When we… Do we have to?’
‘Why wouldn’t we? We didn’t really talk about it after the waterfall, not properly.’
Tilda bought some time by undoing the last section of the bandage and re-wrapped it, her focus regained. ‘Does there always have to be a conversation after something happens? Can’t it just… happen? Be what it is, or was, or whatever. Why dissect it?’ She held the end of the bandage in place with one hand and stretched the elastic clips, careful not to dig them in too deep. She checked her work. Happy with it, she placed Clare’s foot back on the ground. ‘Done.’
All She Wants Page 13