The Bark Cutters (4 page)

With a shake of his head, Ronald drained his now cold mug of coffee. Beneath the photos lay the leather folio gifted to him by his father on his twenty-first birthday. Resting proudly between protective folds of cream tissue paper lay a black and white photograph of Hamish Gordon, his grandfather. The white-bearded, wedge-chested giant was pictured sitting on the verandah at Wangallon homestead, a dog by his feet, a pipe in his hand and a scowl on his face. Perhaps, Ronald mused, Angus believed the essence of the man within would, via some mysterious form of osmosis, permeate the soft skin of his only child. Ronald closed the folio and buried it deep beneath his treasured photographs. Some genetics were best not passed on.

Sarah didn't hear the knock on the back door. Busy unpacking groceries in the walk-in pantry, she was intent on finishing the job before her mother reappeared. The trip to town had lasted a good part of the day and her mum, having complained for almost the entire 150 km return journey, was medicating herself with paracetamol and Staminade.

‘Hello, anyone there?'

Sarah started at the voice coming from outside the screen door.

‘Sorry, didn't mean to scare you.' Anthony gave a lopsided grin and took a step back as she opened the door. ‘You look nice.'

‘Thanks.' Sarah fidgeted with the empty plastic shopping bag in her hand.

‘Shopping day?' Anthony asked.

She felt his eyes skim over her pale jeans and bright pink, oversized sweatshirt. She finally had her ice-blue eye shadow and a new bright pink lipstick and she'd actually felt pretty
trendy in town today. His hat was tilted towards the back of his head revealing a sweep of sun-burnished hair. She held the door open. ‘Machinery parts day,' Sarah replied. ‘Hydraulic hose, o-rings …'

Anthony nodded. ‘For the tractor.'

‘Engine oil, grease gun cartridges, 12-volt car battery,' Sarah elaborated, finishing with a roll of her eyes.

Anthony shook his head. ‘What, no good stuff?'

‘Nothing. Oh except for mum. She got herself a few things and a potplant. Oh, I got more film for my camera.'

‘You'll be broke getting all those photos you take, developed.'

He was right. Since the gift of the camera for her birthday last year, she had taken heaps of shots, most of which had ended up in the bin.

‘You not into the post-Christmas sales?'

‘Not really.' Her mouth was beginning to feel a little dry.

Anthony cocked his head to one side. ‘There should be more women like you, Sarah.'

Sarah felt her cheeks warm, ‘Yeah, right.' The awkward silence that followed was broken by her mother's voice demanding to know where the dried peas were.

‘Dinner speciality?' Anthony queried.

Sarah nodded. ‘In the pantry, Mum,' she called out over her shoulder.

‘Anyway, I just wanted to give you this. Merry Christmas.'

Sarah accepted the small red tissue-paper-wrapped gift. ‘Anthony, you didn't have to get me something.' She'd not bought him anything for Christmas. He had spent two weeks with his own family down south over the holiday period and although she had thought about getting him something on more than one occasion, finally she'd decided that by the time he returned to Wangallon it would be too late.

‘I wanted to give you something. It's just a bit late.'

Sarah squashed the small, soft parcel between her fingers. ‘No, it's not.'

Anthony raised an eyebrow, the action sending the crescent-shaped scar on his cheek into a squirrelly line. ‘It
is
the third week of January. Well? Open it.'

‘Sarah, are you going to finish unpacking these groceries?'

‘Yes, Mum,' she answered loudly, her fingers quickly tearing at the tissue paper to reveal a bright blue silk neck scarf. ‘It's beautiful.'

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his blue jeans. ‘Anyway, I hope you like it.'

‘I love it.'

‘Good.'

‘Thank you.'

Anthony smiled. Pulling his akubra down a little on his forehead, he walked down the back path. Sarah watched him leave, the scarf clutched tightly in her hand.

‘I'll be seeing you, then,' he called out mid-stride.

‘Okay.' Sarah ran the material through her fingers, her stomach warm with delight.

Having taken to sleeping outside with the onset of warmer weather, Hamish struggled down into the soft sandy hollow. A few feet away the remains of the camp fire flickered restlessly; further on the soft glow from a tent dimmed to darkness. Pulling coarse blankets about his stubbly chin, he rocked slowly in the depression, the warmth of the dirt massaging the continual ache of his back. Gradually his spine eased into the earth and he sensed his body succumbing to the day's exertions. Only his hand betrayed his tiredness, the muscles trembling spasmodically from overuse. He yawned loudly, the noise as familiar to him as the jerking movements of his body as his muscles eased from their daily state of tension. The release of sleep was only temporary. It did, however, herald a ritualistic moment of reflection.

The creek was proving useless. For the last ten days their panning had yielded only the barest traces of gold dust. It was enough to keep him and Charlie fed but not enough to keep Hamish satisfied. One didn't travel to the other side of the world
for scraps and that is exactly what the goldfields were yielding. Hamish grunted as he turned on his side, wedging his hip into the dirt he once believed would make his fortune. He would give the place one more try, he decided, one more attempt before moving on. He had to explore every option if he was to make a life for himself in this new country.

His fingers clawed at the cool dirt beneath his touch and instantly he was back by Mary's side. Turning towards him, her smile bright and brimming with happiness, he kissed her, the unruly strands of her red hair whipping his face in the morning wind. That first sweet taste of her had blinded him to everything except her happiness and irretrievably changed his life. From the depths of bush outside the shadow of the fire's embers, a small creature scuttled in dry foliage. Hamish stirred in his bedroll, rolling onto his back. If his time could be had again he would not have nursed Mary through the fever. Yet he believed her to be dying, like his wee sisters and mother. With the prospect of her passing, his love for her kept him by her side when he should have left. In death there may have been forgiveness. In life there could be none.

Hamish sensed the void about him. Thousands were gathered together, yet still Hamish knew each and every man felt lonely, for he sensed their desolation in the tight blanket of the air. This was a place to swallow your soul. A night owl swooped low, a mouse squealed and then the whoosh of wings was replaced by silence. Yes, it was time to leave, Hamish concluded, as he stared upwards into a maze of brightly burning specks of light. Soon they would head north. He recalled the drover's stories of travelling by the stars; of the
Elfgin's
crew navigating by the constellations. The bible told of a star leading the three wise men to Jesus. Hamish drifted. He too would follow the stars, even if he had to drag his young brother behind him. Sleep wafted over him. Only a gentle sway was required and it would be as if he were still aboard the
Elfgin
, soothed by the lap of water on her hull, buoyed by each passing day as he worked for his passage to the new country.

A little before dawn, Hamish rubbed crusted sleep from his eyes and stoked up the fire as a streak of muted pink smudged the horizon. From a hessian bag he pulled free a lump of meat and, with a curved blade, cut it into two large pieces. The billy can, already wedged above the fire, sizzled steadily, small bubbles forming and reforming on the surface of the water. He threw together flour and water and knocked it into a rough loaf, which he then sat in the coals.

Six months they had been on the fields. The winter, a harsh one even by Scottish standards, took many lives. Sickness came as fast and unbidden as a rich deposit and disappeared just as unexpectedly. Charlie remained touched by one such malady. Trust the lad, Hamish thought gloomily, to have the sickly disposition of a girl. As if aware of his thoughts, his younger brother struggled through the flap of the tent. Gaunt and yellow-eyed, he stooped to splash dawn-chilled water on his face from a cast-iron bucket.

‘I've been thinking, lad, we'll leave in two months.' Hamish passed his brother a mug of tea, before tossing a lump of lard into a cast-iron fry pan on the fire and then the two pieces of meat. He prodded fiercely at the lumps of sizzling, salted mutton. Meat for breakfast was an indulgence. This lot, brokered from a new arrival in exchange for a small pick, was the last of it and was near past eating.

Burning his tongue on the boiling liquid, Charlie squatted heavily on an upturned cooking pot. ‘And why are ye up and changing our plans? Always it's been a year.'

Hamish hunched his shoulders, turning the coal-covered bread with his knife. He was damn hungry this morning, his ribs were sticking to his noisy gut and convoluted talk was not something he needed.

Charlie let out a cough, a long, racking procedure that shook the length of his sinewy body. When the convulsion relented he sent a green globule of spittle into the dirt behind him. ‘It's me? But winter's near over, and Lee will be back today with more herbs.'

‘Aye, he will be,' Hamish agreed. If one person could be relied upon it was Lee. Having finally relented to the Chinaman's endless pestering to help the two brothers with their washing, cooking and other chores, Hamish now gave Lee his protection. In return he cared and cooked for them, while the herbs he boiled made a bitter drink that eased the lad's cough. Lee was bound to a headman in Southern China and had travelled from some obscure village in a cargo hold along with seven hundred countrymen, to work on the fields to repay debts in his homeland. Perhaps that was the reason Hamish felt so protective of the Chinaman. He had made that journey alone.

Spring was with them now, yet Hamish doubted the warming of the land would ease his brother's ailments or cure him of his whining. It was definitely near their time to be bidding the goldfields goodbye. Besides, the thought of panning and digging and fighting and near starving had lost its appeal to him.

‘So we'll stay?'

‘You've been bickering since the first month, Charlie. First it was the seasickness, then Melbourne you didn't take to. You pushed hard to get here and then complain is all you've done. Now I say we are to leave and you disagree. You should not have come.'

‘You should not have left, for what was I to do?' He screwed his face tightly.

Always their arguments returned in a circle to the beginning of their adventure. ‘Made your own life,' Hamish said tightly as fat spurted out from the pan to burn the back of his hand.

‘Who with? They were all dead, Hamish,' Charlie stated sadly. ‘Five piles of stone on the edge of the loch.'

‘You could have stayed with your father.'

‘He's your father too,' Charlie replied softly.

‘He's no kin to me. Decisions made, lad,' he growled. ‘We'll be leaving when I give the word.' How he longed to remind his brother that he'd not invited him on this journey.

‘You should not have put Mary before your own family, nor forced me to take sides.'

Selecting a chunk of sizzling meat, Hamish skewered it with a knife. ‘Firstly, no-one asked you to take sides and secondly, never mention her name again.'

Charlie looked about the waking goldfields and winced at the thought of another day. He should have stayed in Melbourne. There was good work to be had there and loading supplies and chopping wood were chores he could manage. ‘I should have told you,' he said simply, ‘about what I saw that afternoon.'

Hamish glared at him, his lips greasy from the meat. ‘Yes. You should have.'

Sarah flung the louvered doors open onto the verandah and walked out of her bedroom. The morning sun was just beginning to skirt the trees on the horizon. As she waited patiently for the first rays to flicker across the countryside, a flock of lorikeets flew overhead. She followed the formation of brilliant colour until they landed with a chorus of squeaks in a gum tree at the end of the garden. She didn't expect her mother to be very impressed with their return. Twelve months ago they had managed to decimate one of Sue's favourite trees directly outside the kitchen window, condemning them immediately to abuse should they ever return. Sarah lifted a finger to her lips, willing them to quietness. The birds would forever remind her of the day she learned that Wangallon was to have a new jackeroo.

With a smile she breathed in the dawn moist air, her eyes surveying the distant paddocks dotted with merino sheep. Their bodies moved effortlessly through the swaying grasses, their heads obscured as they munched with military precision.
The sun was climbing faster now, turning the distant skyline from a smudge of rose pink to a widening streak of red and blue. With its ascent came the almost imperceptible change in smell that Sarah knew so well. It reminded her of a basket of flowers, herbs and grasses. A tangy potpourri of scents growing in intensity as the slumbering countryside woke to a new day. It was this moment she loved best, even more than sunset when the animals quieted for the night and the shadows lengthened into the memory of the day. The constant majesty of the bush would always delight her.

Constancy within her family, however, was a totally different matter. Returning to her bedroom, Sarah tucked her pale yellow shirt into blue jeans and, not bothering to look in the mirror, gathered her hair back into a loose ponytail. After her grandfather's visit to their kitchen the previous year, Sarah had expected a shift in attitude amongst the inhabitants of the property, yet nothing altered. Indeed, her grandfather's presence only grew stronger. In some ways it was a relief. Cameron was still the same brother, dependable and fun. But it bothered Sarah that Cameron didn't change one bit with the formal notification of his eventual succession. In fact she had begun to worry whether he took the responsibility seriously, for if it had been her she doubted she would ever have felt the same again. Of course Cameron spoke often enough of sharing the running of Wangallon with her. He even went so far as to cheekily suggest that Anthony would be an excellent permanent addition. However, the fact remained that the property belonged to him.

As her thoughts threatened to ruin a perfect morning, Cameron's voice echoed loudly through the three-bedroom house. Sarah glanced at the small metal alarm clock on her dressing table. He too was an early riser, content to hunker down with a coffee in the kitchen with his cassette deck blaring out Bowie or Men At Work. That was until their parents appeared
for breakfast. West Wangallon was much smaller than the main Wangallon homestead where her grandfather lived, which meant privacy was restricted to either the bedrooms or outdoors. Sarah grinned. She'd choose outdoors every time. Cameron yelled again. At this rate, Sarah thought, their mother would wake any minute. Today she was going riding with her brother and Anthony, but if Cameron succeeded in waking their parents they would certainly be delayed. She opened her bedroom door leading out into the hallway, surprised by the sound of her parents' voices. They were standing together at the end of the hallway where a closed door led to the living areas and kitchen.

‘I don't care what you think, Ronald. The fact is that Cameron is the eldest. If it's good enough for your own father …'

Her parents' voices carried clearly down the hallway.

‘If he knew the truth …' Ronald replied with a definite edge to his voice.

‘Well he doesn't and we both know you're not going to tell him. The time for that is long past and the consequences for Cameron are too risky.'

‘What about –'

‘You forget,' Sue said silkily. ‘None of this is Cameron's fault. Why should he suffer because you've suddenly developed a sense of honesty?'

Sarah shut the door slowly, trying to understand what she had just overheard. None of it made any sense. It sounded as if her parents had kept a secret from either her grandfather or Cameron. She searched her mind for any snippet of information she may have heard in the past. There was nothing, only the certain knowledge that Cameron was the only son recently crowned heir to Wangallon.

Glancing quickly in her bedroom mirror, she smoothed her hair with her hand before turning the collar up slightly on her cotton shirt. She studied herself again, freed her thick red-gold hair,
flipped her head over and fluffed it with her fingers. Retying it she pulled a few wisps of hair free so that they hung delicately around her face. ‘Better,' she decided. With only a slight pause she rifled through the top drawer of her hardwood dresser and retrieved a small pine box. Inside lay her grandmother's pearls, the beaten gold bangle and the bright blue scarf Anthony had given her in January. The silk was cool to the touch as she tied it carefully around her neck. She listened at her door and, although hearing nothing, decided not to risk a confrontation with her mother. Grabbing her camera, Sarah slipped through the louvered doors onto the verandah and walked quietly across the floor boards, out the gauze door, and ran around the side of the house.

Touching the flanks of her horse with the heels of her riding boots, Sarah trotted behind her brother and Anthony, finally catching up to the boys as they walked their horses through the thick lignum. The lignum grew like a hedge on the creek's edge, extending through the shallow water and out onto the opposite bank, reminding Sarah of a giant woody animal that had sprawled itself across the waterway. Their horses' hooves sunk into the soft sand of the creek bed as they began to cross it, water swirling only a couple of feet below their feet in the stirrups. Small water birds scuttled away as they reached the opposite bank, a pair of black swans lifting into the air before dropping again to the water's surface a few metres on.

‘What kept you?'

‘Nothing,' Sarah answered Cameron, adjusting the camera strap on her shoulder. She longed to blurt out what she had overheard her parents arguing about, however, with Cameron at the very centre of their discussion, it seemed wrong to mention it to him.

Dismounting, they tethered their horses to a tall gum and walked to the edge of the lignum. The myriad branches of each plant rose from ground level to weave thickly with its neighbour forming a dense barrier between the creek and the paddock. Cameron squatted, sniffing the dirt at the edge of the scrub. The lignum in this particular area had been knocked aside so that it resembled a cave opening.

‘See where it's bashed down,' Cameron said, pointing to the obvious tunnel that led into the depths of the lignum.

‘Feral pig,' Anthony said, squatting down beside him. ‘They sure like their holes. At this time of the day I reckon there will be at least one of them camped in there in the shade.'

‘Do you think it's the one Dad was after?' Sarah asked, resting her hands on both their shoulders, as they peered into the pig tunnel.

‘Probably,' the boys answered in unison.

‘Big one.' Cameron pointed at the thickness of the lignum. The woody plant had been broken off in a number of places. ‘Good track.' The expectation in their voices matched their expressions as the boys looked at each other simultaneously and grinned.

‘What?' Sarah queried. She could smell trouble, like the tang of burning twigs and brittle leaves.

‘Be a good show,' Anthony announced, walking towards the nearest tree. ‘We'll throw to decide who gets to crawl in after the pig.'

Cameron tilted his head to one side, a lock of hair catching in the thick length of his lashes. ‘Fair enough.'

Both boys drew their pocket knives from the leather sheaths attached to their belts. They paced out four feet and then speared the small knives into the tree trunk. The blades held fast, quivering slightly, then Anthony's face fell as his blade dropped to the ground. Cameron cried out delightedly, springing to the tree to
retrieve both blades. He passed over Anthony's knife, his face glowing.

‘Be careful, Cameron,' Sarah called, as he made his way to the lignum. Gripping the knife between his teeth, he winked once at her before crawling into the scrub tunnel.

Wordlessly Sarah remounted her mare and, gathering the other horses' reins, waited. Cattle called loudly along the creek, a bull bellowing fanatically to his wandering harem. Anthony crouched to one side of the tunnel entrance, knife ready, just in case he ended up being charged by the wild pig. On the far creek bank, a four-foot goanna ambled slowly up a tree trunk. Sarah shifted in the well-oiled saddle; the horses, sensing her growing anxiety, stirred uneasily.

From the direction of the dense lignum, Sarah heard a soft thrashing sound. The noise grew louder, quickly becoming a crashing noise that vibrated out from the lignum tunnel and through the air. She lifted her camera and started taking shots; the surface of the lignum swayed thickly, gathering momentum as whatever moved through it increased its speed and headed for daylight.

‘Holy shit!' It was Cameron's voice, loud and excited.

Holding tightly to the reins as the horses snorted and pawed the dirt, Sarah hoped it was only a little pig, not the one with the two-inch tusks her grandfather had confronted, which had ripped Shrapnel, her grandfather's young pup. Shrapnel had needed twenty stitches. She rubbed her hand against Oscar's flank to steady him.

Anthony yelled into the tunnel, ‘Hey, what's happening?' Suddenly, the guttural sound of pigs squealing and her brother yelling abuse were terribly loud.

Anthony was smiling broadly. ‘By the sounds of that, Cameron must have got him.'

‘Great, great,' Sarah murmured her heart pounding in
anticipation. She pointed the camera towards the mouth of the lignum.

The crashing grew louder and louder, then Cameron reappeared in a flash of pale blue shirt and dark denim. ‘Run!' he yelled, his eyes wide. ‘They're coming straight for us.' He bolted from the mouth of the lignum, Anthony matching his long strides.

The horses reared instinctively as Sarah finished taking a couple of shots and pulled hard on their reins, but the horses galloped across the creek, water splashing high in a great arch, soaking her jeans and shirt. To the right, a hundred metres or so, seven squat dark bodies hurtled out of the lignum tunnel and along the creek bank before disappearing from sight. Sarah burst out laughing before recrossing the creek as Cameron and Anthony climbed down from their respective trees. Only when she drew level with them did she see the bright smears of blood across her brother's face and shirt.

‘Almost got the smaller one in the leg,' he grinned.

‘I think I got some really cool photos,' Sarah replied.

‘Same thing happened last time.' Cameron swiped at the perspiration running down his face. ‘They're heading straight for you, then, just at the last moment, the sow turns, angles off to one side and tries to sideswipe your ribs or arms. Damn hard to get a kill.'

Anthony added, ‘Same thing happened to me down by the river, remember?'

‘What if you ended up with a broken leg or something, Cameron? What would happen to the property then?'

‘Well that's bloody lovely,' Cameron grinned. ‘She's more worried about the dirt than me.'

‘Oh, you know what I mean,' Sarah answered, checking her camera. She had taken fifteen photos.

‘I'll look after it,' Anthony said quickly, referring to Wangallon.

Cameron frowned briefly in Anthony's direction before raising his eyebrows. ‘Nice scarf.'

Sarah felt her cheeks warm and immediately fussed with her hat. ‘I didn't want my neck to get burnt.'

As Cameron trotted off ahead on his horse, Sarah held her breath as Anthony moved his own mount close enough so that their legs touched. ‘It suits you,' he said slowly.

‘Thanks.' His leg was warm against hers.

‘You're welcome.' He leant forward in his saddle, his hand stretching across the short space between them to touch the silken material. Sarah felt his finger tips brush the warm softness of her neck.

Anthony finally spoke. ‘I owe your brother a race.' He smiled at her, a soft smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. ‘And I want copies of those photos, particularly if they show Cameron being chased by that pig.' Any other girl would have taken off at the first sight of those pigs, he thought as he trotted after Cameron. At the very least she would have fallen off when the horses reared up; but not Sarah. There she was, cool as anything, taking photos as the pigs charged out, just as excited as they were. Anthony flicked his mount with his spurs, breaking into a canter.

As she watched him go Sarah let her breath out very slowly.