A Changing Land

Through a haze, snippets of Wangallon seared themselves into his memory; an ironbark tree, a woolly ewe, the contemplative stance of a cow. ‘Tell me what you see, Luke.’

‘Open country, miles of it, Father.’

‘What else?’

‘A streak of blue sky. Do you need water?’

‘What else, Luke?’

‘Birds. There’s a great flock in the air. Probably sulphur-crested cockatoos and in the trees I see pigeons. Oh, and a chicken hawk. He’s diving for something in the grass.’

‘It’s late then.’

‘Late afternoon. Can’t you feel the sun on your face?’

Angus flanked his father on the opposite side. He reached out a hand and touched his father’s arm. ‘We’re nearly home, Father. Lee will be able to brew up some potion. He’ll make you better.’

Ahead lay a body. Luke slowed their passage as he recognised the suit and the spear sticking out from the man’s back.

‘What is it?’ Hamish asked.

Luke rode on quickly. ‘Wetherly. Dead.’

‘You’re sure?’

Luke nodded. ‘Yes, Father.’

‘The man was a traitor,’ Hamish said gruffly. Angus’s eyes were wide.

Luke held up a hand to shade his eyes and peered into the far horizon. ‘I can see dust, Father, great balls of it travelling across the sky.’

Hamish slipped a little further in the saddle. ‘Good. That’ll be the herd. Are they far enough away?’

Luke reckoned the distance at about 15 miles from the river. ‘Yes, Mungo’s done a good job. We’re safe.’

They rode on, Luke becoming more hopeful as they grew closer to the homestead. It was possible that Lee would be able to brew up a potion to help ease his father back to health. Against the background of dust he glimpsed the shimmer of the homestead.They propped Hamish up in his bed. Luke opened the window.

Lee prodded at Luke’s shoulder.

‘Leave it, it’s only a flesh wound. The bullet went straight through.’

‘Let me help you, Luke,’ Claire offered as Lee ministered to Hamish.

Luke brushed her away. ‘No. It is an old scar, Claire.’ He looked at her intently. ‘It will heal. Such things always do, with time.’

Lee cut away the bloody cloth so that Hamish’s thigh lay like a beached yellow belly on the pale sand of the sheets. Poking a bony finger at the sodden material, he began to wipe away the blood from around the wound. The stench of rotting flesh was overbearing.

‘What do you think?’ Luke leant over him.

Lee muttered something indecipherable, wringing out the cloth. The water in the bowl turned a dirty red. Hamish’s entire leg was covered in congealed blood while fresh blood seeped steadily from the wound. Lee picked at two small maggots inching their way up Hamish’s thigh.

‘Jesus,’ Luke turned to the open window and took two deep breaths.

Finally Lee spoke. ‘How long wounded?’

‘Sometime last night.’ The shadows were lengthening, stretching their way through the bush like a long yawn. ‘Can you save him, Lee?’

Lee clucked his tongue and continued his probing. ‘Very much blood lost.’

‘But can you save him?’

A trickle of yellow pus seeped from the wound and curved down Hamish’s thigh. Lee poked at Hamish’s cheek. The skin was dry. ‘He must drink water.’ Lee opened the bedroom door. ‘You get him sit up and drink water. I get herbs.’

In the hallway Angus waited. Luke beckoned him in and Angus rushed to his father’s side; Claire took Hamish’s hand, gave it a squeeze and then sat quietly on a high-backed chair. Luke lifted a glass of water to his father’s lips, forced some into his mouth, the liquid dribbling down his chin. ‘How can I give him the blasted water if he won’t wake up?’

Claire took a clean rag from the bundle near the basin and soaked it in the glass. ‘Help me sit him up a little.’ They lifted Hamish and propped another pillow behind his back, watching as Claire gently opened his mouth and squeezed water onto his tongue. ‘It is better than nothing,’ she assured them.

Lee returned with a green-tinged poultice that he pushed deep into the wound, layering it over the top and binding it with narrow strips of rag.

Angus reached out a hand and rested it on Lee’s shoulder. ‘Can you save my father?’

‘I will try,’ Lee sniffed.

Mrs Stackland appeared with steaming water. Into it Lee mixed various herbs that he retrieved from the pockets of his tunic, stirring the concoction with a long yellow fingernail. Luke turned up his nose at the stink of it.

‘I cannot say if he will last,’ Lee admitted as he held the stinking brew under Hamish’s nose. ‘Very much blood gone and the flesh is going bad. Maybe if younger …’

Hamish woke, coughing at the steaming concoction. Before he could attempt speech Lee managed to get most of the contents down his throat.

‘Vely good,’ Lee grinned.

Hamish pushed the bowl away weakly. ‘Tastes like shit,’ he growled softly. He eyes looked groggily about the room. ‘Take me outside, Luke.’

‘No, Hamish, you are too ill,’ Claire protested.

‘Luke?’

Between them Luke and Lee half-dragged and half-carried Hamish out onto the verandah. They sat him down gently, placing his legs on a wicker chair. Hamish stared at the evening star risen above the hedge and remembered the stars so very long ago that had guided him to Australia and then from the goldfields northwards. ‘Sit,’ he waved his hand tiredly as, one by one, Luke, Angus and Claire sat in a half-circle around him. ‘You too, old friend.’ Hamish extended his hand to Lee. ‘You too. You must forget about what has happened,’ he said through stilted breaths. ‘Purchase Crawford’s block and change the name of it to Boxer’s Plains.’

Luke nodded.

‘You are the custodians of Wangallon now. You must protect her, honour her for she has fed you and clothed you and honoured you by demanding your tenacity. Wangallon is the home of the Gordons in this new country and you must fight to keep her. You are all a part of her future as I am now of her past. Don’t desert her,’ he looked at Claire for a long moment. ‘Don’t resent her. Luke and Angus, you most of all must love her. Love her like a man has loved no other and marry well.’ Hamish clutched at Angus’s arms. ‘Until you marry and produce an heir you are the very last of us.’

Angus touched his leg. ‘But Father –’

‘Protect her with your life, as I have done. Protect the right of the Gordons to be treated as equals in a new land and look after those who have died and lay buried within her soil, for they have earned your respect.’ Hamish held out his hand to Claire. ‘If I have loved this land too much –’ his fingers squeezed hers – ‘forgive me.’

‘But Father,’ Angus cried, ‘you can’t go. What will we do? What will I do without you?’

Hamish ruffled the hair on his young son’s head. ‘Why, Angus, you shall take my place. You will run Wangallon and your brother, Luke, will help you.’

Luke gave a single solemn nod.

Angus rested his head against his father’s chest and sobbed.

‘Remember, boy, it is better to have lived for something than to die for nothing.’

Hamish watched the moon rise, a shaft of pure light illuminating the garden and extending outwards across his beloved property. He could hear the whistling of the rising wind through the grasses and the myriad sounds of a night growing active with scurrying creatures. He was certain there was a fox at the end of the garden and Hamish experienced a rush of desire to follow the animal out into the timber-draped landscape. He longed to walk away from the homestead and into the moonlit night, if only they would let him go.

It was surprising, this strength of his family. They were like myriad hands holding him still. Hamish faltered, momentarily confused. There was something coursing through his veins, something he’d refused to acknowledge during his lifetime for fear of pain. He gazed upon the faces of those he cared for most in the world and found himself agonising over his leaving. It was the strangest of sensations, yet his body, having failed him like any other mortal man’s, now ached for the most intangible of needs: their love. He drifted somewhere between dusk and dawn, considered returning to the cluster of people on the verandah, however the shadows of his forefathers were calling and he could hear the pipes sounding from beyond this world, drawing him into the next.

Guard her, guard my Wangallon, Angus, Hamish whispered. As he stepped from the verandah out into the light, he knew Angus had heard.Sarah, Ronald and Frank Michaels were sitting on the top verandah. The sky was overcast. Heavy clouds threatened rain. Out on the lawn, Bullet and Ferret were chasing each other in ever-decreasing circles as thunder rumbled above them like a mighty God exhaling, the noise growing steadily closer. Bullet slowed his pace. Ferret gained a couple of feet and was almost close enough to give him a nip on his tail, then Bullet accelerated again.

‘Stop teasing him, Bullet,’ Sarah called out between their barking. As if on cue, both dogs came to a standstill. Their momentary truce was lengthened by a topknot pigeon which flew low over their heads before reaching the safety of the orange tree. A roar of thunder echoed around the homestead, followed by a loud bang. ‘Lightning strike,’ Sarah called out, automatically scraping her chair further back towards the wall. Bullet and Ferret bolted for cover as light rain began to fall.

Ronald flipped through the pages of the Bible on his lap before returning to the detailed family tree inscribed on the first page by Hamish Gordon. With a pencil he added the generations of Gordons since 1909. The pencil hovered over the page, then Ronald added Anthony’s name. Sarah patted her father’s arm. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘Well, it’s only proper, considering.’

Sarah ran a hand over her baby bump. She was due in a little over two months. In a fortnight they were travelling north to the Gold Coast, where Sarah intended staying with her father until the birth. It had been surreal to discover she was pregnant. Having relegated the few queasy sensations and changes in her body to stress, Sarah missed the early signs of the new life within her. Yet acknowledging her altered state and reconciling her abilities and personality versus those of her mother eventually salved her fears. Now she was to be a new mother, a mother determined to provide for her child on every level. Reaching for the platter of chicken sandwiches on the low table, Sarah silently thanked her father for coming home to Wangallon. It had been a tough few months for both of them and she doubted if alone she would have been able to muster the fortitude to deal with everything that had occurred.

Ronald studied the aged photograph of the woman in his hand. ‘She does look like you, Sarah.’ He checked the name Elizabeth written on the reverse with the entry noted in the Bible for what must have been the twentieth time.

Frank took a sip of his whisky. ‘She was Luke’s elder sister. Baby Elizabeth was left in the care of her grandmother, Lorna Sutton, when Hamish and Rose moved north to Wangallon. The details are sketchy however it would appear Hamish wanted his daughter tutored in Ridge Gully, which, considering Wangallon’s isolation in the 1860s, was understandable.’

Sarah offered Frank a sandwich. They’d waited months for this promised visit to Wangallon, which on Frank’s advice could only occur after Christmas when his retirement was official. He’d refused to discuss anything before then.

‘When Rose and Luke’s brothers passed on, Hamish thought it appropriate Elizabeth stay with her grandmother. I suppose there was little point moving the young girl north with Hamish a widower. Eventually she was given her grandmother’s surname. I don’t think she ever saw much of Hamish so it was only fitting she receive her grandmother’s estate.’ Frank took a bite of his sandwich, breadcrumbs falling down his pale green shirt.

‘What happened to her?’ Sarah could feel the whole saga creeping up on her again. Distant cousins, cock relations …

Frank waggled a finger at her. ‘I know what you’re thinking, my dear, however there’s nothing to worry about. Elizabeth married quite late and there were no children. Her husband died in the 1920s.’

A surge of relief flooded through her.

‘A small part of the estate,’ Frank continued, ‘was meant for Luke. My grandfather doctored the papers. If he hadn’t done so Luke would have queried who the beneficiary was.’

‘Why on earth would Hamish do his own son out of his inheritance and keep his sister a secret?’ Sarah asked, although she was equally intrigued with the level of complicity that bound the Michaels and the Gordons.

‘I doubt it was for Elizabeth’s benefit,’ Ronald turned to Frank. ‘Luke must have been furious’.

Frank selected another sandwich. ‘He never knew, which was why Angus was so determined to ensure Jim Macken was made aware of his birthright. Guilt, I guess. Angus wanted Jim to have what his older half-brother had been denied: his share of his inheritance and his family. Imagine thinking all your family were dead, which Luke did, except for a much younger half-brother and a steel-edged father who ruled with the proverbial iron fist. It was Claire who eventually discovered Elizabeth’s existence. She forwarded the majority of the illegal documents she’d found back to my father, including the family Bible, which mentioned Elizabeth. I guess they wanted the family history safeguarded by someone they could trust.’

‘So Claire agreed with Hamish.’ Sarah rubbed her tummy. The baby was practising his rugby kicks. ‘I don’t get it.’

Closing the bible, Ronald passed it to his daughter. ‘Sure you do, Sarah. As the years passed it was easier to leave Elizabeth in the care of her grandmother. Why? For succession purposes, of course. He didn’t need a married daughter arriving with a demanding husband and complicating his inheritance plans. And Hamish had a new wife and family. Elizabeth took her grand mother’s name and was raised as her ward.’ Ronald shrugged. ‘That’s what happened back then.’

‘But why not tell Luke?’ Sarah argued.

‘They wanted Luke to stay at Wangallon. Angus was still a boy at the time. They did it to safeguard Wangallon. If he’d learnt of a sister floating around in the ether do you think Luke would have been happy to stay? He would have been furious he’d never been told of her existence.’

‘To quote your grandfather, Sarah,’ Frank brushed crumbs from his lap, ‘the end justifies the means.’

Sarah took a sip of water. Today of all days she could have quite easily consumed a bottle of merlot. ‘And Boxer’s Plains?’

‘As you saw from the document I left in the bible, your family purchased it legally from the estate of Oscar Crawford following his death and that of his son in an Aboriginal uprising.’

Sarah lifted an eyebrow. ‘What Aboriginal uprising?’

Frank returned her suspicion with a smooth smile. ‘Anything else is innuendo,’ he instructed her. ‘Gossip’.

Sarah scrunched her lips together. ‘You won’t tell us?’ The rain was steadily increasing and for a moment Sarah thought Frank may not have heard her.

Frank looked out at the garden. ‘I could tell you there was a dispute over stock.’ He took a sip of his whisky, which was so filled with ice it was nearly clear. ‘And that Hamish was of an unforgiving nature. I can also tell you that as a Scot he loathed the English with a passion capable of retribution.’ He stared dispassionately through the rain-flecked gauze. ‘Lives were lost, Sarah. Including Boxer’s, the old Aborigine Hamish treated as a friend.’

‘So Hamish named the new block after him.’ Sarah thought it all sounded a little simplistic. ‘Truth is stranger than fiction.’ She looked at the deeds to Boxer’s Plains.

Frank drained his glass. ‘The truth, Sarah, is that the events of 1909 left such an impression on your grandfather’s mind, that Angus never purchased land again.’

‘Yet Grandfather went to extraordinary efforts to ensure Wangallon’s continuation.’

Frank gave a chuckle and looked at Sarah. ‘It’s genetic.’

‘And what of the Michaels’ family?’ Ronald asked.

Frank sat forward in his chair. ‘A long time ago an impoverished Scot by the name of Hamish Gordon rode into Ridge Gully with a Chinese man. Some months later my great-grandfather’s signature appeared on the deed transfer when Hamish purchased the general store, which eventually grew to become Lorna’s Emporium. I believe my great-grandfather hoped never to meet Hamish Gordon in a darkened street.’ Frank widened his eyes for emphasis. ‘Many years later when the Boxer’s Plains’ sale took place,’ Frank continued, ‘the required paperwork was completed quickly and efficiently. Oscar Crawford was a descendant of the magistrate who sentenced my forefather to penal servitude in Australia. So you see, Sarah, eventually everyone gets their due.’

It was pouring. The rain was driving through the gauze horizontally. Sarah lifted the ceramic platter and carried it inside to escape the torrent of water beginning to run across the verandah’s floorboards. She thought grimly of the losses experienced during her life. Sarah didn’t feel deserving of any more grief. Surely she’d also paid her dues; particularly in one regard. Ronald and she barely broached Maggie Macken’s suicide. It was a shocking thing to happen. All they could do to reconcile the damage Maggie’s single lie had caused was to try to forgive her. Yet it was a difficult lie to forgive; it had affected far too many people and spanned nearly three decades. Sarah wondered how Jim and his father were coping. Jim had left Australia within a day of learning of his mother’s death. Mr Levi had then told Frank about Maggie’s suicide note. The Mackens were proud people and they too had been unsuspectingly woven into Maggie’s imaginary life. If it had been appropriate she would have written to Jim, but the words between them had been too acrimonious and it was better for their relationship to be sealed forever by silence.‘So how’s the patient?’

Toby Williams was standing at the back door, the rain pelting down so hard that his wide-brimmed hat resembled a waterfall.

‘Come in,’ Sarah held the door wide.

Toby shook his head, the action spraying a ring of water from his hat and sending streams of it down his Driza-bone jacket. ‘Just wanted to let you know that all the cattle are back in their respective paddocks.’

The rain was growing heavier. ‘One minute we’re praying for rain and the next we’re hoping we don’t get too much,’ Sarah commented.

Toby looked down the back path. ‘Reckon you can do with a bit of this for awhile, especially being summer and all.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Sarah agreed. ‘Toby, I want to thank you for everything. For looking after the cattle on the route, for –’ her eyes moistened – ‘sorry, you know what I mean.’

‘Sure, kiddo. Actually I’ve got something for you.’

Sarah opened the handkerchief-wrapped object. It was a small tortoiseshell hair comb.

‘It belonged to my great-aunt Lauren. Figured you’d like it.’

‘It’s beautiful, but really I can’t accept it. It looks like an antique.’

Toby smiled. ‘Consider it a loan then. I’ll be seeing you, kiddo.’

She leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. Sarah would miss him terribly, however she couldn’t ask him to stay. He was heading north to the territory and he wanted to get back in time for his brother’s wedding.

‘Call if you need me,’ Toby chuckled. ‘Actually that won’t happen. How’s about I just pop down and check on you myself one of these days.’

‘Anytime.’

Removing his hat, Toby placed it against his chest. Instantly his face was saturated. ‘Now she gets interested, right on leaving.’

‘Go,’ Sarah grinned. She watched him walk down the back path. With the rain lessening, she shrugged on a wet jacket and plodded out to the back gate. Toby’s vehicle revved through the mud and drove away to a chorus of barking dogs.

Beyond the gate the house paddock was a sea of water. Bullet and Ferret were out playing in the rain. They raced around in circles, splashing muddy water in dog-high arcs until eventually Ferret began to whimper. Matt’s dog had managed to get himself caught on a small island. Sarah watched as Bullet traced a path to his friend and then, having reached him, led him back through the wet grass to dry land.

Years ago Anthony had done the same thing. He’d rescued her and together they’d built a life together. Sarah placed a hand on her stomach. There would be a fifth generation on Wangallon and her unborn boy would be called Cameron. Sarah would like to have thought that only she and Anthony could be congratulated for the achievement, however she knew better. Sarah could just imagine her grandfather sitting up there in his squatter’s chair, accepting applause from all of those intrinsically connected to the property, shaking his gnarled hand on the fruition of all his convoluted planning. Sarah guessed Angus deserved some recognition, although at times she wondered what had occurred in her grandfather’s life to make him so obsessively protective of Wangallon. ‘Come on, baby. We better have ourselves a nap.’

Tomorrow was a busy day. Sarah was flying to Brisbane to see Anthony and her obstetrician. The doctor said there was every chance he’d be out of traction and able to hold his newborn son when the time came, and although it was a tenuous thing to cling to, it had given Anthony something to strive for during his recovery. Sarah studied the engagement ring on her finger and smiled, recalling Shelley’s suggestion she take on the role of wedding planner. The new year was going to be a busy one. With a sigh Sarah took a long lingering look at her land. They were assured of a good summer and autumn with this fall of rain. A kookaburra was laughing in the distance and as the rain eased, a distant rumble sounded in the west. There were knobby clouds deep on the horizon and the blue–grey tinge heralded further storms.

Sarah thought of the men and women who’d lived and died on the property, of those who’d been unhappy, and others who’d been unable to envisage setting foot beyond her rich soil. Wangallon was an intriguing legacy to be part of. No wonder the old homestead never felt empty. It was filled with the thoughts of her ancestors and she suspected they would have much to say over the coming years. Jim’s thirty per cent share of Wangallon had passed to her following the news that he was not remotely related to them, so that Sarah now controlled sixty per cent of the property. This was how it was meant to be, Sarah mused. One descendent in every generation, one strong-willed Gordon to act as custodian until the arrival of the next. Now she was on the verge of creating her own family, of producing an heir, she was beginning to understand the lengths her forefathers were prepared to go to protect their heritage. In the future Sarah knew it would be no different for her.

No book such as this can be written without acknowledging the pioneers of this great country, Australia. Their tenacity and determination to forge new communities in an unknown, harsh environment continues to provide inspiration for those of us attempting to tell a little of what their lives may have been like. A Changing Land is the sequel to The Bark Cutters and in writing it I have once again drawn on my rural landscape, although the work is entirely fictional.

My parents, Marita and Ian, like many of their generation, have a strong oral storytelling tradition and I thank them for their love, guidance and humour. Thanks to my agent, Tara Wynne, and my sister, Brooke; between the two of them they have covered every business element I could think of, and then some. And to David, thank you for your ongoing support.

To Random House and the wonderful team within: publisher Larissa Edwards, editor Chris Kunz, rights manager Nerilee Weir, marketing strategist Tobie Mann and PR stalwarts Karen Reid and Judy Jamieson-Green, thank you for your continued assistance and professionalism.

Thank you to Margaret Adams for advice on the Kamilaroy tribe and to the enthusiastic booksellers across Australia who continue to support me.

Lastly, to my readers and friends, both old and new who have joined me within the pages of my novels. By reading my work you have made it come alive for me, thank you.