Absolution Creek (29 page)

S
crubber picked the bindi-eye burr free of Dog’s paw and flicked it into the grass. He had awakened in pain at daybreak and managed to down half a pannikin of lukewarm tea before setting off. Four hours on, a stretch of the legs was more of an ordeal than a man supposed. He straightened stiffly as Dog tested out his burr-pricked paw.

‘Get on with you, Dog,’ Scrubber hollered, scrambling atop his ride. ‘No time to stop now.’ Dog gave a lazy yawn and trotted on ahead. Scrubber checked the pouch at his waist. It made for some good conversation having a mate tied to your belt. You could speak when you liked about what you liked, although Scrubber refrained from antagonising the dead.

A few weeks after Scrubber’s arrival at Waverly Station the Hamilton family were gone; the troublesome elder daughter, the boy, Ben, and the one called Squib, all packed up in the dead of night with an ankle-biter in tow. The demise of the Purcells began soon after, not that Scrubber cared, not after he heard the story.

They were on the boundary where the slopes spread out into the plains; ten men with axes and enough trees to keep them busy over summer. It was the last area to be tamed by Purcell, and Scrubber enjoyed seeing the land made useful, wanted to see the white gold of the north. Day after day he swung at the thick woody plants, his shoulders aching, palms splitting open and rehardening. His bandaged wrist suffered. It was a rewarding job, though. A man could see where he’d been and Purcell left wind breaks and shade lines, wise enough to the mechanisms of nature to know what both earth and animal needed to survive.

As fading light streaked the countryside, they sat around the open fire. ‘Welcomed Hamilton’s missus into the big house like an equal, Mrs Purcell did,’ the camp-boss, Archie, informed them. He was new to their team, having arrived only that afternoon from Waverly Station. They chewed on roasted rabbit and doughy damper. ‘Next thing, old Dobbs reckons a fancy necklace is missing, and a few days later the whole Hamilton family have run off,’ the man continued.

Scrubber paled. ‘Are you telling me –?’

‘Guilty as.’ Archie nodded. ‘The new overseer, Evans, said Hamilton’s missus stole the necklace, and –’ He leant towards the fire, drawing the nine men together in confidence ‘– there’s talk that the old overseer, Martin, who was found hanging in the woolshed,
didn’t
kill himself.’

The listening men craned forward.

‘Evans says Hamilton really wanted that overseeing job.’ Archie brushed dirt from his patched trousers, his words hanging in the air.

‘That’s a lie,’ Scrubber said loudly.

‘How would you know?’ one man asked, narrowing his eyes.

Scrubber chewed over his words. The air tensed. The men looked at him.

‘If you know something, kid,’ Archie warned, ‘it would be best to come out with it now.’

Scrubber was beginning to feel sick. He’d only taken the scrub-cutting job because it gave him a reason to leave Waverly Station. The timing had been perfect. In a week or so he’d intended to high-tail it out of the flat country. ‘It’s just that Matt Hamilton practically saved my life and he got me the job with Purcell. Then his kid, Squib, fixed my wrist.’ He held his hand aloft for inspection. ‘I could’ve been a cripple. Ain’t no one ever helped me the way the Hamiltons did. Not even my own family.’

The men relaxed. ‘Well, kid, you never can tell with some people,’ Archie replied. ‘Anyway –’ he sucked on a bone ‘– they set black trackers onto them. They finally caught up with Matt Hamilton and his missus and clapped her in gaol.’

‘Was there any proof?’

‘Mr Purcell’s word is good enough and his missus swore it must have been Abigail Hamilton that done the thieving.’ Archie rubbed his greasy hands on his shirt front. ‘As for Matt Hamilton, well, they let him go. Whether that’s right or wrong –’ He shrugged ‘– who’s to know? They reckon he was a right mess. One of his kids had fallen off the back of a dray while they were on the run. They never found her.’

‘Her?’ Scrubber swallowed. ‘Was . . . was it Squib?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I seem to recall Dobbs said the name was something like that.’

Scrubber found it painful to breathe. He’d barely known Squib, yet when he closed his eyes the only people he gave a thought for was the girl and the man who’d showed him kindness.

He looked at his left wrist and formed a ball with his fist. In the end freedom didn’t taste so good.

Chapter 23

S
quib awoke to the earthy smell of rain. Splats of moisture struck her face and back, growing steadily heavier until her dress was sodden and her skin cold. Struggling into a sitting position, she touched the side of her pounding head, pressing tentatively at puffy skin. One of her eyes was shut tight. Drops of rain mixed with streaks of blood when she drew her hand away. Where was her father? Squib wondered. Why had he not got them to cover before the rain came? Gingerly she stood, then screamed, her right leg buckling in pain. A curtain of heavy rain blocked her view in every direction.

‘Father? Ben?’ Squib cupped her hands as she’d been taught, waves of pain shuddering through her head and leg. ‘Ben? Coo-ee?’ She dragged herself from the road, her toes sinking into an ooze of mud and grass. Slipping through a stand of skinny saplings she huddled beneath a thick-girthed tree. Teeth chattering, she inspected her leg, poking at it carefully. She had seen a broken leg before. A tree had fallen on a man at Waverly and he had ended up with bone poking out through his skin. The men pulled the leg straight and then set it with splints, much like she’d done for Scrubber’s wrist. Squib figured that even if her leg wasn’t broken all the way through it still needed attending to, however she had nothing to tie splints with even if she could find two straight branches. She prodded at her closed and swollen eye. With a sob she squeezed her good eye shut. It was then she heard the roar.

When the surge of water came Squib was lifted up in a torrent of froth and sticks. Grappling uselessly for something to hang onto, her slight body hit floating timber and tree trunks. Murky water engulfed her nose and mouth, and she was barely able to keep her chin above the water. The water kept sucking and swirling, flinging Squib continually from one obstacle to another. Eventually her good leg gave way and the air she so desperately gasped at didn’t seem to want to come to her any more. She thought of her father and closed her eyes.

The tree Squib struck held her firm in its dense arms, and had she not opened her eyes and seen a glossy brown snake curled only feet away on another branch, she happily would have remained in its clutches. Instead she searched frantically for an escape, launching her body at a large piece of wood as it sailed past. She clung fiercely to the board and twirled through waterlogged trees. Then the board was knocked from underneath her and the world became dark.

‘Mary, Mother of God. What have we here?’

Squib looked up into a man’s face. There was a bright light behind him, a glow that haloed his face. Lifting a weak arm she wondered if she were in heaven. If so, was this man God? She thought of her father. She expected she would float away with the angels, perhaps see her dead mother.

‘That’s better,’ God said lifting her and moving her to dry ground. God squatted beside her. There was a dead pig on the bank. It lay on its back with two of its legs pointed skywards.

‘You’ve got yourself a nasty bump over your eye, and your leg looks –’

Squib yelped in pain.

‘Sorry.’ God pushed his hat onto the back of his head. ‘What’s your name, then? Where did you come from?’

Squib opened her mouth to speak, but her tongue was dry and the words wouldn’t come. Nothing seemed to be working. Not her legs so she could stand, nor her arms so she could wipe her eyes, which had filled with tears. Through her one good eye she saw kangaroos hop past and a short distance away an echidna ambled to the creek’s edge. There were spiky-looking trees and wavering grasses and God smelt of pipe smoke and a sort of thick pungent scent that Squib knew well. ‘Sheep,’ she said loudly.

God sat back on his haunches and rubbed his chin. Actually, he looked a little young to be God, Squib decided. Maybe this wasn’t heaven. Maybe she’d been saved.

The man gulped water from a canvas bag like her father’s and swiped the back of his mouth. He was writing something down. Every few minutes he’d pause and stare off into space before returning to the book, his thumb and forefinger twirling a lock of brown hair. A pile of books sat to the left of his elbow, a slush lamp to the right. The stink of the lamp reminded Squib of home. A dirty wide-brimmed hat rested on an outstretched knee and a cracked leather boot moved occasionally across the dirt floor of the hut, piling sand from left to right. He looked at the scraped-clean plate beside her on the camp bed and pointed at it.

‘You finished?’ he asked quietly, putting his pencil down and wiping a hand on his trousers.

Squib nodded. The food had been good. She prodded the sturdy splint on her injured leg. It ran from the top of her thigh to her foot and was tied on with lengths of material.

‘I’m no doctor, but I figured that was the best thing to do.’

Squib nodded.

‘I don’t know if it’s actually broken or not.’ He frowned. ‘There wasn’t any cracking sound when I pulled your leg straight. It could be a bad fracture.’

Squib nodded again.

‘Do you want some more water?’

‘Yes.’ She watched as the water bag was lifted from a peg on the wall. Streaks of morning sun inched through the split timber walls. The slabs of wood were piled one on top of the other and were held in place with wooden stakes. It was an old hut. Squib hadn’t seen anything built that way before.

He passed her the water. ‘What’s your name?’

She wondered how much she should tell this stranger. ‘Squib.’ She gulped as the liquid dribbled down her chin.

‘Squib? What sort of name is that?’ A fly buzzed through the open door.

‘Where’s my father?’

The man closed the book he’d been writing in. ‘I’m Jack, Jack Manning. I left a branch there for you to lean on if you want to get up.’

Squib glanced from the solid piece of timber back to the man who’d saved her. He was thickset across the chest and tall, with brown-blond hair, smooth skin and a smile that made Squib want to smile back. She figured him to be a bit younger than Scrubber. Taking her plate he went outside to the open fire where he dished up food from a black pot. Squib watched him through the slats of the timber walls. A horse was hobbled beyond in the clearing. Grass fanned outwards in a soft pale wave to end in a tangle of man-high trees. He returned to sit at the rickety table and started shovelling food into his mouth. Squib stood carefully, her head woozy. Balancing on the makeshift crutch she limped across the dirt floor to stand a few feet from Jack, who barely looked up.