Heart of the Dreaming (12 page)

They slept as the fire burned down to a dull red glow, while outside their warm cavern, the dark bush dripped as the rain eased and stars began to shine through the disappearing film of cloud.

During the night they stirred and kissed sleepily; and as Queenie curled up on her side, TR pulled her to him and made love to her again. Then spent, they slept, he still inside her, one hand circling a breast, their fingers locked together.

TR knew he would never let this girl out of his life, and Queenie felt safe, and loved and secure. This was where she belonged — in TR's arms.

Relentlessly the rain fell in a bruising blanket that smothered the land. Trickles between trees became swelling torrents, creeks overflowed and joined with others to flood over paddocks and form lakes. The once-dry broad river beds now bulged and roared. All was swept along in the path of the water which raged over the parched earth.

Tingulla homestead was safe on its hill, but as their small creek flooded and the main river further away broke its banks, Patrick knew he would have to move the merino sheep with their valuable fleece to higher ground.

All the station hands, including Jim, had worked without break through the daylight hours, moving stock, horses and equipment to safety. Bush legends were still told of the Big Floods — rare but devastating. On a neighbouring property the bleached skull of a dead cow hung high in a tree top, victim of one
such flood. Locals liked to point it out as an indication of the height of the water, not mentioning that the tree had grown fifteen feet since then.

Patrick saddled one of the stockhorses and took supplies for several days, ‘Just in case I get cut off,' he told a worried Millie. He took the long way round the property, checking the land as he went, before crossing the river at its safest point. Bluey, his blue heeler went with him, lopping easily beside his master as he rode. Bluey was devoted to Patrick and was the best cattle and sheep dog for miles around.

Returning from their ill-fated brumbie muster, TR and Queenie had quickly assessed the situation and headed straight to Tingulla.

‘Your father is going to be worried about you, Queenie,' said TR glancing at her as she rode hard beside him.

She nodded and smiled reassuringly, blowing him a kiss. TR smiled back through the rain running from his hat, his face reflecting the surge of love he felt for her.

The pounding of the rain on the iron roof eased by mid-afternoon and Millie ventured down to the shed where Jim was working on the water-soaked generator. ‘None of them are back yet, Jim.'

‘TR and Queenie'll be on their way. I can't imagine how they're going to bring back those horses in this, though.'

‘Mr Patrick said he'd be back by dark. Ernie said he heard the river is running real fast.'

‘Don't fret, Millie. You'd better get the
lamps out and lay in plenty of dry wood. We might not have any power tonight if I can't get this thing going again.'

Millie splashed through the mud in her old gumboots back to the house.

With the aid of Bluey, Patrick had rounded up a sodden, miserable flock of seventy sheep trapped on low ground by rising water. Nipping at their heels, Bluey had shepherded them along, working them to higher pastures. Once on safe ground, Patrick left them and rode on.

The wet had struck just before shearing time when the full fleece on each merino was worth a small fortune. Patrick knew that most of the thirty thousand sheep scattered about the property would be all right, at least for the time being. It was still raining heavily upstream.

Ernie and Snowy had moved the horses and the few head of cattle. Now there was just Queenie to worry about. Patrick had great faith in her and TR, but these conditions were dangerous and unpredictable.

It was dusk when he reached the river. Patrick reined in his horse and gazed across the expanse of muddy, swiftly flowing water. He dismounted and snapped a branch from a tree, tossing it into the river. It was snatched up and swept downstream in seconds. Patrick walked along the bank to a bend where the water slowed and appeared relatively shallow. The horse might keep on its feet here.

He knew there was no easy way to cross the river, but he didn't relish camping in the
drenched paddocks for the night and running the risk of being caught by fast-rising water.

Patrick squatted on the bank looking at the river, and Bluey stuck his head under his master's arm, seeking some recognition. Absentmindedly Patrick patted the smooth head of the dog as he watched the rushing water. The rain was easing when he stood and glanced at the sky, where a watery yellow tinge of sunset light could be seen behind the dark clouds.

He remounted, walking the horse down the slippery bank.

The horse shook its head as it felt the mud give way beneath its feet. In two strides it was out of its depth and forced to swim in the raging torrent. Patrick slid off the saddle and hung on to the pommel, as he was pulled along through the water. Without hesitating, Bluey plunged in behind them.

The current moved them downstream but the horse swam strongly in a diagonal line across the river. Patrick spoke gently to the horse whose eyes were firmly fixed on the opposite bank.

He didn't hear the distant roll of thunder as the billowing storm clouds moved east. The passing of the rain had come too late — the water, from a fan-like network of gullies and creeks, had created a flood on top of a flood. A wall of water like a tidal wave, was crashing down the river, taking everything in its way, at times tearing out trees that had survived a hundred floods.

Patrick heard the roar and turned to see the new flood peak, with its mass of debris
hurtling downstream towards him. They were only halfway across. An eighty foot gum tree rolled down the river, swung sideways at the bend, and surged towards him.

In the last light of the day, the horse struggled up the bank, limping and bleeding. Bluey lay like a rag further along the broken river bank. Stumbling a little, the dog got to its feet and stood staring at the river. He sat and patiently waited for Patrick, his brown eyes focused on the span of muddy foaming water.

Suddenly, gathering his strength, the small dog hurried back to the bank and flung himself into the swirling water, paddling valiantly, his ears and snout pointed resolutely above the flood that sucked at his stumpy legs. His eyes searched the river in the fading light. Loyalty to Patrick, not reason, sent him on this brave and hopeless mission.

Bluey was about midstream where the current eddied and raced in a tangled surge of water. His legs thrust forward in a frantic struggle for survival but in seconds the small shape was pulled down and swept from sight.

Millie moved through the house, lighting the kerosene lamps and trying to make the house as cheerful and warm as possible. The log fire crackled in the sitting room and although there was no power she had a stew simmering on the Aga and hot water heated in large kero tins for a warm bath. She heaved a sigh of relief as she heard the jingle of stirrups and saddlery and a horse's hooves clattering on the flagstones at the front entrance.

Picking up a lantern, she hurried to the double front doors and pulled them open.

In the yellow light at the base of the steps stood a horse, reins dragging on the ground, its head bent with exhaustion and a trickle of blood running from a gash on its leg.

Her cry brought Jim running. ‘

It's Patrick's horse,' said Jim grimly. ‘See if Snowy is here; we'll have to look for him.'

Jim and Snowy set out, with the Aborigine acting as tracker, using his ancient tribal skills to retrace the trail of Patrick's horse.

They had barely gone any distance before being hailed by two figures riding out of the damp darkness. ‘We spotted your torch light. What's up?' asked TR as Queenie reined in behind him.

His expression changed as he saw Jim's tight face and the way Snowy glanced at Queenie.

‘Patrick's horse has come in without him. He must have had an accident.'

‘Oh God, no. Where was he, what was he doing?' demanded Queenie.

‘Moving the last of the sheep.'

‘But they were across the river!' exclaimed Queenie in sudden fear.

‘The river will be running a banker in this rain. Let's go then,' said TR. ‘Queenie, wait here for us.'

‘No! I'm coming with you.' She turned Nareedah fiercely.

‘No, Queenie.
No!
TR spoke harshly. ‘For once in your life do as you're told!'

‘You can't speak to me like that. I'm coming.'

‘Queenie, it's because I love you. I don't want you to come. Please.
Go back.'
TR kicked his tired horse and the three men moved off into the night, leaving Queenie confused and frightened behind them.

Since no more rain had fallen, Snowy easily followed Patrick's tracks to the river. They began their search where the horse had clambered up the bank, and from there spread along the river searching and occasionally calling Patrick's name.

Soon Snowy led TR back up the river and pointed to the torch-lit muddy ground. 'Look, — dog come out, sit, then go back in river.'

‘Bluey,' breathed TR, his chest tightening.

‘He tried to get Mr Hanlon, I bet. He gone now.'

It was TR who found him. The massive gum tree which had charged downstream knocking Patrick away from his horse, was wedged across the next bend in the river, Patrick's body clutched in its leafy arms.

Queenie was standing waiting for the sad procession by the front steps. She was wearing her father's old army overcoat, hugging it to her body, her hands disappearing in its sleeves, her hair blowing about her still face.

His horse plodding, TR was first. Patrick's body lay face down across the saddle before him. TR held the reins in one hand, the other held onto Patrick's jacket. Jim and Snowy walked their horses respectfully behind.

Queenie didn't move as TR dismounted and went to her. He reached out his arms, wondering
how he could comfort and help her cope with this second cruel blow in so short a time.

She ignored his outstretched arms and caring face, and went to her father, reaching up to touch him, resting her face against the cold wetness of his shoulder.

Jim went to Millie who began weeping softly. TR stood helplessly by, his heart breaking for Queenie.

Snowy handed TR the reins of his horse and approached Queenie, touching her shoulder lightly. As she turned to him, her legs buckled and Snowy caught her up and carried her indoors. The old Aborigine, his hair a shock of white against his black skin, recalled the small girl he'd carried to her father the night of the storm after she'd put down her horse.

He knew bad spirits were hovering over Tingulla. Somehow they would have to be sent away.

Patrick's funeral was a brief, subdued occasion attended by the few friends and neighbours who could make it through the still high floodwaters.

Colin kept to himself leaving Queenie and Millie to organise the sad event. Reverend Peters was in Sydney and so the new young Reverend from the next parish flew in to conduct the service.

‘It's not right. He didn't even know Mr Patrick,' said Millie to Jim. ‘Still, I hope he and Mrs Rose rest in peace now. He's lived in the shadows ever since she went. Now there's just them two young ones. And Queenie is carrying it all on her shoulders.'

Queenie remained strong, handling matters in a businesslike manner. She kept to herself and spent long hours in Patrick's study going through his papers, or simply staring dry-eyed out of the windows over Tingulla's grounds.

At the graveside she stood erect and motionless beside Colin, no flicker of emotion passing across her face. At the conclusion of the short service, Colin stepped forward and sprinkled a handful of red soil on to the coffin.

Queenie then moved forward and gently placed Patrick's favourite battered bush hat on top of the rosewood coffin. It was buried with him, for, in Queenie's mind, no one else had the right to wear it.

Queenie went through the next three weeks in a trance — functioning but not feeling. She refused any comfort from TR and although it hurt him, he kept quietly in the background.

Colin wandered about the house and said little. Millie desperately tried to keep the household running as concerned friends and neighbours came and went in a constant stream.

Millie wheeled the traymobile set with the best china and silver teapot into the library where Queenie and Colin sat before Mr Hamish Barton, the family solicitor. A conservative and colourless man but a thorough lawyer, he was well respected among the old families of the region. He was a model of discretion and quiet competence.

Queenie poured the tea as Millie softly clicked the door shut. ‘Milk and sugar, Mr Barton?'

‘Please. Do you mind if I sit behind the desk, it might be easier with my papers.'

Colin slumped into a leather chair. Queenie pulled up another and they sat watching Mr Barton shuffle through the sheaf of papers from his attaché case.

He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, cleared his throat and lowered his voice a pitch, assuming his professional role. ‘As you know, we are here for the reading of your father's will. It is a straightforward document he drew up after … your mother's sad death. I will just read it through and after that if you have any questions, we'll discuss them.'

He began to read. Queenie sat looking down at her hands, paying little attention to the droning voice, but at a gasp from Colin she looked up.

Colin was glaring at the solicitor. ‘That can't be right. Read it again, Mr Barton.'