A Changing Land

Sarah stared at the headstones, at the ageing monuments silhouetted by the rising moon. The clearing was strangely quiet and she wondered whether the spirits of Wangallon were welcoming her grandfather, Angus, at some other sacred place on the property. Lifting the latch on the peeling wooden gate, she stepped through grass grown long by recent spring rains. Twigs and leaves crackled beneath her, the soft soil creating an imprint of her passing. The familiar pounding of a kangaroo echoed across the narrow stretch of water that formed the twisting Wangallon Creek, and with their movement a flock of lorikeets squawked in a tall gum tree before resettling for the night.

Sarah stopped first by her brother Cameron’s grave, and then at the freshly turned mound that covered her beloved grandfather. For the first time the enormity of his passing settled on her slight shoulders. To have lost him, of all people, was incomprehensible, yet curled about her grief like a shroud was a sense of responsibility almost too great to imagine. She was now the beneficiary of a thirty per cent share in their family property, Wangallon. She was, as her father pointed out, the only legitimate Gordon left, apart from himself; nearly everyone else was buried here within the arms of the property that her great-grandfather, Hamish Gordon, founded in 1858. Sarah looked at the ancient headstones: grandmother, brother, great uncle, wives, young children and Hamish Gordon. He that had amassed what was now one of the largest privately held properties left in north-western New South Wales.

Years ago Sarah had wished for such an opportunity, dreamt of it and could admit to resentment at having been passed over because of a chance of birth. Then Cameron died and Anthony– the hired help as her mother called him – eventually became manager. Now everything was different. As a direct descendent, Sarah knew the fates had anointed her as custodian of Wangallon and she felt ill-prepared for the future. She shook her head, hoping to clear a little of the fatigue and grief that had seeped into her veins over the last week. Soon they would be booking the contractors up for lamb marking, soon they would … but she couldn’t recall what was scheduled next, she was too tired. Leaning against the trunk of a gum tree, Sarah rested her palms on the bark beneath her. Through the canopy of leaves above her, the sky was gun-metal blue. There were few stars, for what elements could compete with the moon that now blanketed her in a mantle of silver.

‘Sarah?’

Anthony’s voice startled her. She’d not heard the Landcruiser approach and was unsure how long she had been weeping beneath the moon’s glow. Anthony took her hand and helped her to her feet, brushing the soil from her clothes.

‘I didn’t want to leave you out here any longer. I know you needed to say goodbye without the hordes that were here earlier but –’

Sarah kissed him on the cheek. ‘It’s okay. I’m okay.’

He looked at her tear-stained face and cocked an eyebrow. ‘You’ve barely slept this last week.’ He knew, for he had laid beside her and floated on the memory of sleep as she tossed and turned through each successive night. ‘You should get some rest.’

Sarah allowed herself to be led from the graveyard, listened as the latch on the small gate clicked shut. Moon shadows followed their progress.

Anthony placed a supportive arm around her slight waist. His girl had lost weight in the week since old Angus’s death. Anthony was worried about her. ‘We need to sit down and work out the management plans for the next twelve to eighteen months. How does that sound?’ Sarah looked at him blankly. ‘We’ve the lambs to mark and …’ He could tell she wasn’t listening; her gaze was fixed somewhere out in the darkness of the countryside. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll handle things until you feel more up to it.’ Leading her around to the passenger-side door, Anthony helped her into her seat. ‘Look, I brought a little friend for you.’

Sarah stroked the shiny fat pup Anthony placed in her lap. It was Bullet, one of the pups by Angus’s dog Shrapnel. She hugged the little dog fiercely. ‘Grandfather wanted this one.’

Reversing the Landcruiser away from the cemetery, Anthony headed in the direction of Wangallon Homestead. ‘He’s yours.’

Sarah rested her hand on Anthony’s thigh.

‘Everything will be fine, Sarah.’ His grip tightened on her fingers.

The words were so familiar. Anthony uttered them after Cameron’s death, after the flood of 1986, after her parents retired to the coast and once again when her mother went into respite care.

‘Really, everything will be fine,’ Anthony repeated.

Once is a comfort, Sarah thought, pressing the warm, wiggling pup against her cheek, twice is not.

As they drove away a lone fox moved stealthily through the ageing monuments. The animal padded carefully through tufts of grass, pausing to sniff the air. Finally he located the freshly turned soil of Angus Gordon’s grave and curled up beside the mounded earth.

Tucked up in her bed, with Anthony’s rhythmic breath marking out the long hours of the night, Sarah tried unsuccessfully to sleep. Her heart seemed to have taken on a life of its own and it fluttered erratically. At times during the night she found herself clutching at her chest, her breath catching in her throat, her eyes tearing in fright. She knew grief and uncertainty were causing the symptoms she experienced, yet common sense didn’t ease her distress.

As the night dragged and the moon spread its glow through the open doors leading out onto the gauze verandah, Sarah watched dancing shapes flickering about her. Outlines of branches and leaves jostled for attention like paper puppets against the cream bedroom wall as she drifted through snippets of conversation shared with her grandfather. This moment was akin to the passing of her brother, for it heralded both unwanted change and an unknown future. Who would guide them now the wily Angus Gordon was no longer with them?

Near dawn Sarah felt a numbness begin to seep through her. With a sigh she rolled on her side, only just conscious of Anthony rising to meet the working day. As the morning sun penetrated the calming dark of the room, she pulled the bedclothes over her head and closed puffy eyes against all thoughts of her changed life. The house was quiet, too quiet. A scatter of leaves on the corrugated iron roof competed with morning birdsong. Sarah huddled further down beneath the covers, tears building. She sensed movement on the verandah and tried to calm herself with her grandfather’s words: It’s only the old house stretching itself, girl, he would say. Now more than ever, Sarah doubted his words. She was one of the custodians of Wangallon now and the spirits from the past were well aware of a newly delineated present.

Forty emus raced across the road, their long legs stretching out from beneath thickly feathered bodies as their small erect heads fastened on the fence line some five hundred metres away. Sarah couldn’t resist going up a gear on the quad bike. She pressed her right thumb down firmly on the accelerator lever and leant into the rushing wind. Bullet, her part-kelpie, part-blue cattle dog, pushed up tight against her back, squirrelling sideways until his head was tucked under her armpit. She swerved off the dirt road in pursuit of the emus, the bike tipping precariously to one side before righting itself. A jolt went through her spine as the quad tyres hit rough ground. Then the bike was airborne.

Bullet lost his balance on landing. He gave a warning yelp as Sarah grabbed at his thick leather collar, managing to drag him up onto her lap. Despite the urge to go faster, she slowed the bike down, the brown blur of feathers dodging trees and scrub to outrun her. Sarah loved emus, but not the damage they did to fences or the crops they trampled. Chasing them off Wangallon, albeit onto a neighbouring property, seemed a better alternative to breaking their eggs in the nest to cull numbers. She poked along slowly on the quad until she reached the fence. A number of emus had managed to push their prehistoric bodies through the wires, while the rest ran up and down the boundary trying to find a way out. Bullet whimpered. Sarah reached the fence as the last of the mob disappeared into the scrub, scattering merino sheep in their wake.

‘Sorry.’ Sarah apologised as the dog jumped from the bike, turning to stare at her. Bullet never had gone much on losing his footing and it was clear Sarah would not be forgiven quickly. He walked over to the nearest tree and lay down in protest.

Two bottom wires on the fence were broken and the telltale signs of snagged wool and emu feathers on the third wire suggested this wasn’t a recent break. Sarah walked along the fence-side, stepping over fallen branches, clumps of galvanized burr and a massive ants’ nest of mounded earth a good three feet in height. Eventually she located the two lengths of wire that had sprung back on breaking. Taking the bottom wire she tugged at it and threaded it through the holes on the iron fence posts until she was back near the original break. She did the same with the second wire and then walked back to the quad bike where an old plastic milk crate was secured with rope. Inside sat a pair of pliers and the fence strainers. Grabbing the tools, Sarah cut a couple of feet off the bottom wire, then interlaced it with the freshly cut piece until it looked like a rough figure eight. She pulled on it, feeling the strain in her back, until it tightened into a secure join, then she attached the strainers and pulled back and forwards on the lever. The action tightened the wire gradually. Once taut, Sarah used the pliers to join the ends. More wire was needed to repair the bottom run but at least it would baulk any more sheep from escaping.

Whistling to Bullet to rejoin her, Sarah followed the fence for some distance on the quad before cutting across the paddock. Little winter herbage could be seen between the tufts of grass. The rain long hoped for in March and April had not arrived and May was also proving to be a dry month. It was disappointing considering the rain which had fallen in early February. Within ten days of receiving nearly six inches, there was a great body of feed and then four weeks later, with a late heatwave of 42 degree days, the heavy grass cover sucked the land dry and the feed that would have easily carried their stock through a cold winter began to die off. The pattern of the next few months was trailing out before her like a dusty road. In one month they may have to begin supplementing the cattle with feed; in two they may have to be feeding the sheep corn. By mid-July they would begin the search for agistment or perhaps place a couple of mobs of cattle on the stock route.

Mice, lizards, bush quail and insects all disturbed into movement by her bike created a sporadic pattern of scampering life amid the tufts of grass. A flat expanse of open country lay ahead, punctuated occasionally by the encompassing arms of the wilga and box trees that dominated the landscape here. Ahead, the edge of a ridge was just visible; a hazy blur of distance and heat shimmering like an island. Soon the rich black soil began to be replaced by a sandier composition, the number of trees increasing, as did the birdsong.

The midmorning sunlight streamed into the woody stand of plants, highlighting saplings growing haphazardly along its edges. They were like wayward children, some scraggly and awkward in appearance, others plump and fresh with youth. Sarah drove the quad slowly, picking her way through the ridge, passing wild-flowers and white flowering cacti. The trees thickening as she advanced deeper. The air grew cooler, birds fluttered and called out; the cloying scent of a fox wafted on the breeze. The path grew sandy and the quad’s tyre tracks became indistinct as the edges collapsed in the dirt. Above, the dense canopy obliterated any speck of the blue sky.

Sarah halted in the small clearing. The tang of plant life untouched by the sun’s rays filled the pine-tree-bordered enclosure. She breathed deeply, revelling in the musky solitude. Through the trees on her right were the remains of the old sawpit. The pale green paint of a steam engine from the 1920s could just be seen. It was here that her grandfather Angus had cut the long lengths of pine used to build the two station-hand cottages on Wangallon’s western boundary. The sawpit, long since abandoned, also marked the original entrance to Wangallon Station. Long before gazetted roads and motor vehicles decided the paths that man could take, horses, drays and carriages bumped through this winding section of the property, straight through the ridge towards Wangallon Town.

Sarah continued onwards. Soon the tall pines began to thin out, the air lost its cool caress and within minutes a glimpse of sky gradually widened to a view of open country. She weaved away from the ridge through a tangle of closely growing black wattle trees and belahs, the thin branches whipping against her face.

She was in the start of the swamp country where a large paddock was cut by the twisting Wangallon River in one corner. The area was defined by scattered trees and bone-jarringly uneven ground. A ridge ran through the paddock and it was here that sandalwood stumps spiked upwards from the ground. Sarah stopped the bike and alighted.

Years had passed since she’d last been in this area alone. It was almost impossible to believe that her beloved brother had died here in her arms over seven years ago. Kneeling, Sarah touched the ground, her fingers kneading the soft soil.

In snatches the accident came back to her. His ankle trapped in the stirrup, his hands frantically clawing at the rushing ground, and then the sickening crunch as he struck the fallen log and the spear-like sandalwood stump pierced his stomach. Sarah swiped at the tears on her cheeks, her breathing laboured. Closing her eyes she heard the shallow rasp of his breath, like the rush of wind through wavering grasses.

Anthony caught up with her a kilometre from Wangallon Homestead. Sarah could tell by the lack of shadow on the ground that she was late. His welcome figure drew closer, just as it had when he had come searching for her and Cameron all those years ago. At the sight of him the tightness across her chest eased. As the white Landcruiser pulled up alongside her quad Sarah leant towards him for a kiss. Her forefinger traced the inverted crescent-shaped scar on his cheek, the end of which tapered into the tail of a question mark. Sometimes the eight years since his arrival at Wangallon only seemed a heartbeat ago.

‘You’re late,’ Anthony admonished.

Sarah sat back squarely on the quad seat. So much for the welcome.

‘I was worried. What’s with all these long rides around the property?’

‘It’s his birthday.’

‘Oh.’ Each passing year Cameron faded a little more from Anthony’s memory. He gave what he hoped was an understanding nod. ‘Been fencing?’ he nodded towards the milk crate. ‘You don’t have to do that stuff you know, Sarah.’

If she expected a few words of comfort, Anthony was not the person to rely on. He rarely delved past the necessary. She gave a weak smile. ‘I am capable of fixing a few wires.’

‘I don’t want you to hurt yourself,’ Anthony replied with a slight hint of annoyance. ‘And what’s with taking off and not letting me know where you’re going or how long you’ll be away?’

‘Sorry.’

He scratched his forehead, the action tipping his akubra onto the back of his head. ‘Well, no harm done. Let’s go back to the house and have a coffee.’

‘Would that be a flat white? Latte? Espresso?’

Anthony rolled his eyes. ‘How about Nescafé?’

Bullet barked loudly. ‘Sounds good.’ Sarah pushed her hat down on her head and sped off down the dirt road with Bullet’s back squarely against hers. She slowed when they passed some Hereford cows grazing close to the road. ‘G’day girls,’ she called above the bike’s engine. Bullet whimpered over her shoulder and gave a single bark as they crossed one of the many bore drains feeding their land with water. These open channels provided a maze of life for Wangallon’s stock and Sarah never failed to wonder at the effort gone into their construction nearly a century ago under the watchful command of her great-grandfather Hamish. Shifting up a gear, she raced through the homestead paddock gate to speed past the massive iron workshed and the machinery shed with its four quad-runners, three motorbikes, Landcruisers and mobile mechanic’s truck. Weaving through the remaining trees of their ancient orchard, Sarah braked in a spurt of dirt outside Wangallon Homestead. She smiled, watching as Bullet walked through the open back gate, pausing to look over his shoulder at her.

‘I’m coming.’

Bullet spiked his ears, lifted his tail and walked on ahead.

Hamish Gordon, immaculate in a dark suit, matching waistcoat and necktie, walked his black stallion along the edge of the empty bore drain. He was travelling westward across country that he’d begun to amass nearly fifty years ago and the sight of the black soil radiating from beneath him eased the ache in his lower back. Tree-filtered light dappled the track ahead and splatters of dew danced on fine spider netting nestled between tufts of grass. A breeze parted the glistening leaves of the trees, the noise like the soft shaking of linen, and he felt the breath of life on his face.

Hamish kept the reins taut on the stallion as he surveyed his land. Having once doubted if it were humanly possible for Wangallon to ever mean more to him, this year proved otherwise. His son Angus was now eight and, having fought off the various ills of childhood, Hamish was convinced that at last he had a worthy successor. When the time came, and he supposed it must, although he would fight death like every other foe, Angus would take his father’s place. There was still much for the boy to learn and although Angus retained a child’s capacity for foolishness, Hamish knew anything and anyone could be moulded.

The stallion started at something in the grass. The animal, a flighty newcomer to Wangallon’s stable, backed up at the slightest movement and was yet to take a liking to both bridle and bit. Hamish was determined to teach the horse a measure of respect, for he intended gifting the animal to Angus at Christmas and expected the stallion to display all the attributes of a highly domesticated animal. If he didn’t he’d be gelded. The horse wound its way steadily through the thick stand of ironbark trees. Hamish noticed the lack of grass growing in the densely timbered area and decided at once to have them felled. They could use the timber for a planned dividing fence while simultaneously increasing the stock-carrying capacity with the increase in grass coverage.

‘We’ll use this timber for the fence,’ called Hamish over his shoulder to Boxer, Wangallon’s head stockman.

Boxer rode with his rifle resting across his doeskin thighs, the edge of his pale coat flapping against the chestnut mare’s back. ‘Righto, Boss.’ Spitting out a well-chewed wad of tobacco, he ran his tongue around his mouth, the pink tip of it flicking unsuccessfully at the dark juices dripping down his chin.

Hamish dropped his shoulder to skim the sticky boundary of a bush spider’s domain. The large bulbous body scuttled sideways in useless anticipation as the distant bellowing of a bullock team and a series of whip cracks announced the end of the morning’s ride. A speck of movement appeared in the hazy distance, growing on approach to resemble men. Hamish and Boxer drew level to follow the open channel mounded on each side by dirt. It was a tributary of the main drain that ran east to west and would eventually rejoin another arm some six miles on, watering two grazing paddocks in the process.

The bullock team was dragging a wooden one-way plough along the predetermined path of the drain; behind it a wooden tumbling tommy scoop, also bullock drawn, gathered up the loose dirt. Hamish and Boxer rode past the drain-making contraptions. Both plough and scoop would need to make a series of passes before a usable channel appeared. Some distance ahead a team of men straddled the breadth of the drain’s proposed passage, their faces red with fatigue. The rhythmic swing of axes and the dry strike of shovels gave off dull thuds as the men removed the numerous trees and fallen timber that lay in the path of the oncoming machines. Nearby a campfire expelled a stream of smoke into the cold air. Hamish could smell damper cooking.

Boxer rode across to the foreman and there was a gruff order to down tools. The men turned as one to slowly walk forward. Employed specifically to work on the drain, Hamish noted the men were a motley assortment of varying ages. Jasperson, Wangallon’s overseer, had assembled a team of misfits. One wore a stained patterned waistcoat, another sported trousers sheared off roughly below the knees, three wore mismatched trouser braces, while most of their shoes were tied up with twine to stop the soles coming off. The sight of these bedraggled men took Hamish back in time to the steps of The Hill Hotel & Board over forty years ago. Filthy from days spent in the saddle, mourning the loss of his younger brother on the goldfields, he too had experienced the hollow-eyed despair these men carried with them.

Dismounting, Hamish walked across to the campfire, leaving his horse in Boxer’s care. The doughy scent of coal-baked bread competed with skin unaccustomed to water and soap. It was a heady aroma.

‘You the boss then?’ The high-pitched voice came from the waistcoat wearer. The lad fiddled with potatoes in a saddlebag, shifted his eyes like a food-scavenging goanna. Later the potatoes would be wrapped in wet newspaper or bundled into green bark and rested among the fire’s embers for their lunch. The lad was younger than he looked, Hamish surmised. A lathering of dust and sweat covered a line of pustules that ran down the left-hand side of his face like a scar. The lad suffered from the Barcoo rot.

‘I am,’ replied Hamish.

The men jostled uncomfortably. Hands left or entered pockets. There was a low murmur. Hamish knew the look of criminals well enough. He’d seen the chain gangs working at cutting through the heavy rock to build roads down south; winced at the smack of leather against flesh. Some of them stared with open hostility at Boxer. A black with a rifle remained an uncommon sight in these parts and the distrust was plainly evident.

‘If any of you are looking for work after this job is completed, speak to Wangallon’s overseer, Jasperson.’

A murmur spread out from the group like uncomfortably stored flatulence. Hamish would send one of the stockmen out this afternoon with a side of mutton and a couple of extra plugs of tobacco. There were basic ways of ensuring a measure of loyalty. Springing easily into the saddle, the stallion automatically bucked in displeasure. Hamish tugged on the reins, the horse backing up like an unruly child.

‘A man has already offered us work. Doing this,’ the youth pointed at the open drain.

‘What’s your name, boy?’

‘McKenzie.’

‘McKenzie. You would be from Scotland then?’

‘Aye. Born in New South Wales. My father’s family is Scottish.’

‘And your mother’s?’

‘Irish. She died with the having of me, Sir.’

Hamish took another good look at the lad. He was not surprised. ‘Well, McKenzie, which man are you talking about?’

‘He came from over there.’ The boy pointed towards the blue hazed scrub. ‘Said if we was of a mind to head west and cross a big river, we’d be on his boss’s land.’

Hamish knew immediately that the youth referred to Oscar Crawford. His neighbour across the river owned Crawford Corner. The family settled in the area in the 1840s, some years prior to Hamish’s arrival, and as such treated him like a brash newcomer; however, it now appeared they were quite happy to try to poach his men and quite likely his stock as well. This was a subject Hamish knew much about and it would only be a matter of time before they were caught, for they mistook their own arrogance for pride.

‘And you like this work, do you?’ Hamish countered. ‘Breaking your backs every day. Reliving the memory of working under the lash?’ Some of the men glowered at him. ‘I can offer you work if you are able. I’ve fences to be checked and repaired, trees to be felled, cattle and sheep to be mustered. In return you’ll be paid, housed and given your share of station rations. If you can’t do the work then you must leave. We don’t beat or punish our hands, but if you wrong me I’ll shoot you straight.’

The oldest of the group, a grey-haired man with a matching chest-length beard that carried the scraps of previous meals, pushed his way to the front. ‘Youse can’t shoot nobody these days.’

Hamish patted his moustache as if he were at a Sunday picnic discussing the price of wool. ‘Really?’ The word hung in the air with the threat he intended. Wangallon had a picket-fence-enclosed cemetery for those that carried the Gordon name and hollow logs and shallow diggings for the less compliant. ‘Let Jasperson know of your interest or otherwise.’ He turned his horse, secure in the knowledge that Boxer waited with his rifle at the ready. The old black was a crack shot and would drop four with his carbine before they knew what direction the bullets came from.

‘What is it?’ Hamish recognised the strained look on Boxer’s face. It was a look that in the past had signalled a coming bushfire, a black woman’s murder and the finding of Hamish’s first wife, Rose, dead at the cemetery in the bend of the creek. ‘Well?’ Hamish waited a few impatient seconds. A shadow the shape of wind-blown cloud crossed Boxer’s broad face. ‘Well?’

Hamish struck his spurs against the stallion’s flanks and rode ahead of the ageing black and his unfathomable superstitions. Perhaps the steady crawl of age was beginning to impede the astute intuition relied upon in the past. He should put the old black out to pasture and replace him with one of his sons. Mungo was not Boxer’s eldest son but he was reasonably civilised and certainly benefitted from the many months traversing the great inland stock routes with Hamish’s own son Luke. Aye yes, now there was a manageable arrangement, Hamish decided; although Luke, the boss drover of Wangallon’s cattle, had sent no word as to his progress these last two months. The boy had inherited the same unmanageable attitude as that of his long dead mother and it was a tiresome characteristic to put up with. At least, Hamish reminded himself, he had another son who would inherit Wangallon. In the great scheme of things that was all that mattered.

Sarah lay flat on her stomach, a Pentax camera resting precariously on a log. This was her third attempt at photographing a lone wallaby and it was proving a far more difficult task than anticipated. Having first seen the wallaby some days ago when she and Anthony were returning on horseback from shifting a mob of sheep, she had revisited the spot twice. It was certainly a secluded setting. The remains of timber sheep yards were partially obscured by shady green peppercorn trees and the area backed onto a sandy ridge dense with radiata pine trees. It was the perfect environment for the notoriously shy wallaby.

Sarah’s initial shots showed shafts of sunlight running horizontally through the branches of a peppercorn tree. The sun’s rays gave an almost other-worldly feel to the broken timber railings, chest-high clumps of spear grass and red budded cactus trees in the distance. Unfortunately every time she moved to take the picture the wallaby ducked. Anyone would think you were camera shy, Sarah mused, as the light flattened out. Slowly she eased herself up from behind the log and looked through the viewfinder of the camera. The day was diminishing and with the transformation, a spindle of pink gold triangulated its way through the peppercorn’s leaves. A flutter of butterflies rose from the grass and the wallaby, intent on chewing a long stem, turned its small inquisitive head towards Sarah.

Her finger clicked the shutter. The wallaby gave a small noise much like a growl and hopped away. ‘Excellent.’ Sarah jumped up, did a little jig in celebration of capturing what she hoped would be a Kodak moment, and then slipped the Pentax safely back into its carry case. The growl sounded again. Sarah spun around. She was half-expecting to see a wild dog or a pig or maybe even a drop bear, the mythical bush creature Anthony so loved. The noise sounded once more and she looked up to see a koala in a tall gum. Angus, her grandfather, had seen koalas during his lifetime but this was Sarah’s first, and the idea that these sensitive creatures still roamed Wangallon thrilled her. She managed to get a single shot before the koala clambered higher amid the branches.

‘So you found one?’ Anthony appeared astride his horse, Random; so named because it was purely chance if the gelding didn’t try and throw him once a month.

‘You scared me.’ Sarah draped the camera over her shoulder.

Anthony slid from Random, who nibbled his shoulder in an effort to court attention. ‘Sorry.’ He plucked a long blade of grass, tickling her ear. ‘I haven’t seen a koala for ages.’ They peered up through the foliage. Anthony draped his arm about Sarah’s shoulders and together they watched the koala scramble higher. Random snuffled their hair and tried to wriggle his head between theirs.

‘What is it about this horse of yours, Anthony,’ Sarah asked, scratching the gelding between the ears. ‘I think he’s suffering from a lack of attention.’

‘Well I know how that feels,’ he countered, giving her a kiss on the forehead. ‘So I see you’ve taken up your hobby again.’ He touched the camera strap.

Sarah patted the camera case. ‘Actually I’ve missed my photography. I think I got a great shot today too. Remember that wallaby we saw?’ Sarah pointed to the peppercorn and the broken timber railing. ‘I captured him just there and the light was magical.’

Random gave a whinny of impatience that set Sarah’s horse Tess to striking the sandy ground with a hoof. Anthony smiled. ‘Well I’m pleased you’re back into photography again. You always loved it. There’s no reason why you can’t enter a few more competitions like you did before –’

‘Before grandfather died?’ Sarah completed his sentence. ‘Didn’t feel like it before now.’ She walked to her horse.

Together they rode through the peppercorns and out into the cloud-streaked sky. The evening star had risen and it was towards this bright glow that they spurred their horses. They rode side by side; diverging from the normal dirt road back to the homestead to follow one of the many sheep trails that crisscrossed Wangallon. Sarah often wondered what these trampled single-file dirt paths would look like from the heavens; leading to and from watering points and feed.

‘Nice action,’ Anthony commented as Sarah trotted through a gate in front of him.

She could tell by the directness of his expression that he wasn’t talking about her riding ability. She pouted cheekily. ‘Interested in seeing it up close and personal?’

Leaning from the saddle, he chained the gate closed. ‘Before or after dinner?’

‘Hmm. Depends on your appetite,’ Sarah replied, breaking Tess into a canter.

They rode back to the homestead, reaching the stables as the horizon blurred between day and night. The coolness of autumn seeped upwards from the ground as they unsaddled Tess and Random. Anthony did the honours with the curry comb, giving each horse a quick brush down as Sarah put a ration of feed in their stalls. Having planned on a leg of mutton for dinner, roasted with some potatoes, carrots, pumpkin and lashings of gravy, time-wise it was looking more like spaghetti bolognese, with that special sauce only she could concoct: straight out of a jar.

‘Done.’ Sarah bolted the half-gate on Tess. Contented munching sounds echoed through the still air. ‘Shelley’s flying up this Friday. You didn’t forget?’

Anthony extricated his shirt sleeve from Random’s teeth and gave a final shove to the stall gate, bolting it closed. ‘Geez, you’re getting an attitude,’ he commented. Random turned away from Anthony in disgust.

‘You did forget, didn’t you?’ Anthony seemed to have relegated her city life into the wastepaper bin. Whether it was due to her time in Sydney being associated with her ex-fiancé or purely because he disliked the city and couldn’t relate to it, she’d never been sure.

‘Is she coming with or without the suit?’ A glimmer of mischief crossed Anthony’s face.

The suit in question was a fast-talking advertising executive, Robert, with an ex-wife, a brand new apartment and a walloping expense account that suited Shelley, aka recently crowned Lady-Lunch-a-Lot, just fine. ‘Without.’

Even in the half-light she could tell he wasn’t disappointed.

‘Well even without him that buggers up my recreational activities for the weekend. Guess I better make up for them now.’

Sarah found herself thrown uncomfortably over Anthony’s shoulder. ‘You Neanderthal.’

He laughed, smacking her hard on her backside. ‘That would be me.’

Sarah flung open the double doors of her bedroom and breathed in dawn’s chill. The air caught at her throat and lungs, pinching at her cheeks. Young Jack Dillard, their jackeroo of twelve months, had taken particular care in fertilising the lawn during spring and summer, the result obvious in the prolonged green tinge carpeting the expanse of garden around the homestead. Within a week, however, the lawn like the rest of Wangallon’s garden would begin to shut down for winter. Sarah grinned happily as she scraped her hair from her face, twisting it nonchal antly before securing it with an elasticised band. Every season on Wangallon was filled with wonder. The crisp breath of frosty mornings, birds ruffling feathers to warm themselves and bush creatures foraging amid sleeping trees were just as welcome to her as the new shoots of spring.

Rubbing sleep from her eyes, Sarah waited until a glimmer of the new day appeared in the east. Rays of red-tinged light infused trees, grass and geranium-filled pots until finally the ancient bougainvillea hedge with its straggly trails of flat green leaves and desert bright flowers of pink and red were saturated with light. Pink in the morning, Sarah thought, shepherd take warning. Her grandfather would have predicted a shower of rain within three days at the sight of this morning’s sky. Let’s hope so, she murmured, for this morning they would begin to discuss their winter feeding plans. Selecting a rusty brown sweater from the cedar wardrobe, she slipped it on.

‘Morning,’ Anthony said groggily.

Sarah’s eyebrow lifted in amused accusation. Shelley and Anthony had gone for the pass the port routine after dinner last night. Sarah, never having liked any type of fortified wine, stuck with her preferred poison, a soft merlot, and consequently was feeling pretty healthy. ‘Choice of beverage not agree with you, honey?’ Sarah covered the few short steps to the side of the bed and planted a kiss on Anthony’s sun-brown cheek. He struggled up from beneath the warmth of the bedclothes, his arms folding quickly across his bare chest.

‘What’s with the blast of cold air?’ He frowned, glancing at the alarm clock.

‘What’s with the sleep-in?’ she countered, softly nuzzling his neck.

Anthony squinted against the morning glare, focusing on the antiquated dresser belonging to Sarah’s great-grandfather, Hamish. It was an ugly old thing made out of packing cases with large cut-off cotton reels for handles. He’d never liked it. ‘We need a blind on that verandah.’ He tweaked Sarah’s nose playfully before trapping her in a great bear hug. ‘Better still, let’s move into Angus’s room. It is bigger, plus it has an ensuite.’

Sarah, recalling last night’s intimacies, found her thoughts quickly grounded. ‘We’ll survive.’

He buried his face in her neck. ‘You smell of sandalwood. You always have.’ He held her, his strong hands clasping her shoulders, his fingers lifting to trace her cheek. Knowing how easy it was to succumb, Sarah placed her palm against the warmth of his chest and then ruffled the rusty brown sheen of his hair. Their usual weekly meeting was due to start in half an hour. Anthony, as if reading her mind, glanced at the alarm clock.

‘No,’ she said strongly.

‘Hey.’ Anthony picked up her ruby engagement ring, twiddling it between his fingers. ‘It’s about time this ring had a gold band to sit beside it.’

Taking the ring, Sarah sat it back on the bedside table. His grandmother’s ring and two hundred thousand dollars represented Anthony’s share of his family’s property and she knew he deserved every penny. ‘Come on, it’s a work day.’

Padding down the hallway in her socks, Sarah glanced into her grandfather’s empty bedroom. On impulse she entered, drawing the heavy burgundy curtains aside. Instantly a rush of light leapt into the room. Crystal ornaments and a silver-backed hairbrush sitting on the mahogany dressing table caught the light, refracting myriad dancing squares across the still life of hydrangeas hanging above the king-sized bed. On the hardwood bedside table a picture of her grandfather with his half-brother, Luke, caught her eye. The yellowing image showed her great uncle on horseback. Her grandfather, far younger in age, stood beside him with a rifle and a brace of ducks over his shoulder.

Next door Anthony could be heard moving about their bedroom. Cupboards closed noisily, drawers stiff with age creaked on opening. Anthony’s own belongings, including a number of antique items left to him by his grandmother, were still sheet-covered in one of Wangallon’s many spare rooms. At some stage she would need to find homes for them, although with the house already stuffed with Gordon furniture, each piece a tangible link to their history, she was at a loss to know where they’d go.

Glancing again at the dressing table, Sarah opened one of the drawers and placed the silver hairbrush safely inside. It was a small step towards accepting that her grandfather was never going to use these items again. She made a promise to herself that during winter she would open the wardrobe and pack his clothes away for good. It was time, Sarah decided. Outside the bedroom window a willy-wagtail fluttered against the glass. The small bird, intrigued by his reflection, hovered momentarily before darting between the glossy green leaves of the hedge. Sarah turned slowly, silently wishing some of her grandfather’s wisdom would seep into her.

In the months of instability and grief following her grandfather’s death, Sarah worked at keeping busy. They all did. There was much to come to terms with. Angus Gordon’s passing left a deep hole in their lives. It was as if a great tree had been rooted out leaving everyone without both direction and stability. Sarah didn’t know when she’d awoken from grief’s stupor. It was as if each new day brought with it a renewed clarity, allowing her mourning to settle into a livable although still tender state. What she did appreciate was the sense of growing maturity within her. She felt ready to embrace the next part of her life, ready to lead Wangallon into the future. In this future there would be children, heirs for Wangallon, and Anthony would be their father: A fifth generation on Wangallon. Sarah knew her ancestors would be pleased.

Luke Gordon hunkered down in his swag and dug his side into the rocky ground beneath. A rock poked at his hip and he thought of his father. He expects the old man would be up by now, his boots striking the wide verandah of Wangallon Homestead as he strides towards the stables. He imagines his bed still warm, a fan of hair with the black–blue gleam of a crow’s wing dark against sun brightened sheets. Though it is still some hours from piccaninny daylight, Luke has been awake intermittently through the night. Aborigines have been following them and despite the steady crawl of exhaustion, he stays alert. Mungo, Boxer’s son, is standing guard with two others. Out there Mungo never sleeps. He stays awake to keep the dark at bay, thinks of the girl he loves and would lie with if given the chance.

Luke hears a rider approaching the camp side of the mob. There is the crackle of twigs and the rustle of leaves as Mungo’s companion arrives to wake the horse-tailer, Percy. There is the familiar sound of boots being pulled on, a coat shrugged into and the splash of urine in dirt. The fire’s still hot and soon Percy is slurping his tea, his swallowing mingling with the lowing bullocks and the tethered night horses tramping the ground.

Percy’s footsteps are clearly heard as he leaves the camp and heads past the night horses to where the day horses are camped. Luke opens his eyes reluctantly. He can smell fresh beef frying as the old cook coughs his lungs up. It is the thought of another thick frost that has him rising quickly to dress; boots, hat and coat. He rubs crystals of sleep from his eyes, stretches the knots in his lower back and relieves himself. A tin basin of water, iced over, sits on a log nearby. Luke cracks the ice with his pocket knife. The water stuns him awake, droplets run like ants between his neck and shirt as dawn begins to rob the countryside of its black silhouettes. The sky grows grey. It will be sometime yet before the sun takes hold of the rim of the earth and tugs itself upwards and into view.

There are grunts as five slumbering forms stir, roll up their bedding and pull on boots. Some drag their bedrolls to the fire’s rim and sit silently beside the warmth.

‘Food’s on,’ the cook calls at the top of his voice.

As boss drover, Luke takes the first plate and pours himself tea, adding two lumps of sugar from the sack where the provisions are stacked. He squats in the dirt, chewing slowly, his pannikin resting on the rocky ground before him. They are past halfway through the trek southward to market. In a month or so he plans to be feeding the bullocks in the valleys. They’ve done the hard part, the real snap of winter, although the mountains tend to curry favour with wind and ice and he will be pleased to be free of their cold shadow. With luck he and his team will reach the markets safely. So far in the near five months they have been on the stock route, their losses have been minimal: six dead, including the one that dislocated its shoulder crossing the gorge yesterday. Luke chews on the hunk of beef, relishing the juices. It’s a fine change from salted mutton. He has told Cook to render up some of the fat for dripping, promised him another day in this same spot.