FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR (33 page)

Twenty minutes later the headlights flicked onto the bush track leading south. Suddenly, in the beam of light, they saw Snowy. He was standing by a tree, ramrod straight, his arms by his side, dressed in his old blue shirt and work pants. They stopped and Snowy got in the back seat and began giving Dingo directions.

They weaved through scrub country for another hour until Snowy tapped on Dingo’s shoulder. ‘This’ll do. Put ’im over there.’ They parked near the trees he indicated. ‘TR, you wait little time, okay. We come back git you real quick.’

TR shrugged. He was beyond wondering. In his past life he might have known what this was all about, now he was just along for the ride. He didn’t care much about anything these days. He felt he was drifting in an often painful grey haze, with a few patches of sunshine provided by sweet young Jenni.

He had no idea how long they left him there. He’d watched the clouds scud across the moon and stars and then dozed for a bit. Then Dingo was beside him, opening the car door and helping him down. ‘Lean on me, there’s a bit of a track here, it’ll be hard with those sticks. Don’t trip, for God’s sake.’

‘The moon’s bright, I can see fine.’ TR began following Dingo, watching the ground carefully. Gradually he became aware of a faint humming noise. Then a slow steady beat. For a second he thought he was hearing his own heartbeat, then he realised it was a muffled drumbeat.

They stepped into a clearing and TR stopped and looked about in surprise. A small group of Aboriginal men were seated in a semicircle. Their faces were painted with streaks of white clay, and he was surprised to see one of them was Ernie. He smiled at TR reassuringly through the white paint.

‘Sit here.’ Dingo helped TR down to sit on a log, where he stretched out his legs, holding his crutches across his lap. Dingo sat cross-legged beside him.

Snowy disappeared into the shadowy scrub, then reappeared carrying an armful of green bushes which he placed on the small campfire in the middle of the clearing, causing smoke to billow and a pungent sweet smell to swirl into the air.

Ernie sat cross-legged on the ground beating together two music sticks painted in an intricate design of ochre, yellow and white. Beside him sat another man also holding two short ornamental music sticks which he began to click together. On Ernie’s right the didgeridoo player lifted the long hollow tube of wood and cradled one end in the fork of his toes, then began breathing and blowing into the other. The haunting wail rang through the bush. The beat began to get faster.

‘Who are these people?’ asked TR, leaning close to Dingo’s ear.

‘Local tribe.’

‘What’s the ceremony?’

‘You’ll see.’

The music was now very loud and rapid and from out of the trees four more men appeared. These were the dancers, naked except for shorts, a loincloth, one with only dried grass covering his genitals, another in underpants dyed with ochre. Their bodies as well as their faces were elaborately painted, and one man had brolga feathers in his hair. Another had a tail of long grass swinging at the back and through his prancing movements he became a horse.

As TR watched he suddenly saw, enacted before him in mime and dance, the story of his accident. The bolting horse, the tree, another horse and TR falling. The dancers carried the injured rider to the centre and laid him down and ‘doctored’ him, then came in a series of pantomimes the man’s efforts to walk. But he kept falling over and needed another man to hold him up. Finally the helper refused to hold him up any longer and they left the injured man lying on the ground like a crumpled doll.

The singing began. In unison the men chanted, the wailing sound rolling through the bush. As TR sat there he realised this was for him, he could feel it physically entering his body like a burning flow of energy. He was transfixed by the theatre in the moonlight, hypnotised by the strange magic of the moment.

The singing went on for several hours, all the men clapping as they sang. Finally the figure
who had lain motionless on the ground in the centre all this time, began to twitch. Slowly he rose to his feet, swayed and stood there; then, like a robot, he took firm measured steps across the clearing and disappeared into the bush. The music reached a crescendo and TR closed his eyes, feeling like he might faint. He suddenly had a vision of a brolga. He saw it dance on long fine legs, its soft grey wings spread and noble head arched as it danced. The vision was so vivid he could feel the draft of air from the movement of its wings. He thought he’d closed his eyes for a second or two, merely to catch his breath, but when he blinked and looked about him he found the clearing deserted save for Dingo seated beside him.

Dingo smiled at him. ‘You all right, mate?’

‘I only closed my eyes for a second. What happened?’

‘Only what was supposed to.’

TR felt drained and exhausted, but strangely exhilarated. ‘Was I hypnotised?’

‘No. Just sung. Time to go. Soon be dawn.’

‘I saw this brolga . . . it was so real. What does that mean?’

‘Must be your totem.’ Dingo helped TR to his feet, handed him his crutches and they moved slowly back to the LandCruiser in silence.

As they drove into the dawn, TR knew he had been through a very special and mysterious experience. He knew instinctively he should never speak of this night with anyone, not even Dingo or Ernie. He knew some great change had come about in his life, and he felt a serenity and peace he hadn’t known since his accident.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Saskia adored her little cabin tucked away in a grove of palms at Harmony Hill. Best of all she liked being on her own, with her own space, her own things about her. It had been fun sharing an apartment with Sherry and Julie at university but being on her own, responsible for her own wellbeing, organising her own life, was a delightful change. She was apprehensive about her mother’s reaction to it all. However, that hurdle was still to be crossed. Maybe when Queenie saw this place she would understand a little better Saskia’s wish to do her own thing. Thinking back over her mother’s life Saskia was suddenly aware Queenie had never done this. Tragedy had flung her into a role of responsibility and challenge. She had never travelled, hadn’t had a carefree youth, or been able to explore and stumble along the road to maturity. For her mother, the eyes of older wiser and often
resentful adults had watched her every step. Queenie had battled and won the day, but at what cost? wondered Saskia.

She loved, respected and admired her mother, and while many were in awe of the famed Queenie Hamilton, Saskia was determined to step away from this shadow and make her own way. She wasn’t ambitious — perhaps because she had been brought up with so much — but Queenie had made sure her values were sound. Saskia was no privileged brat, despite the wealth and prestige of her family and its heritage. While Saskia appreciated all that Tingulla stood for, she loved it for her home. This was where her roots were, the generations that had gone before her had created this magnificent station. Its history was part of the history of Australia. But to Saskia what she loved was intangible — the view from every window, the ghosts of her family who had lived here, plants tended by her grandmother, the shared Aboriginal heritage, the stories passed down of the exploits of the men, horses, cattle and sheep. Like every child of Tingulla she had her own special memories, her own special places. Tango had missed growing up at Tingulla but in being reunited with his family, he too had made his places of peace on this land. Tingulla was in her blood and would always be part of her life, but she had to roam a little before returning to its security.

Saskia had become part of Bruce and Ria’s extended family. Colin spent a lot of time locked in his office on the phone, so the staff of
Harmony Hill gravitated towards the Gadens. Bruce deferred to Colin, but Saskia soon saw that Cohn didn’t seem to care too much and left a lot of decisions to Bruce.

Colin had allocated Saskia a budget and she had soon outfitted the stables with saddles and riding gear for the horses and the prospective customers well within her financial limits. She had devised and set out several horse trails of varying degrees of ease and challenge that wound around the hill, into the valley and rainforest and along the creek. She took Greta on Pansy to test the junior ride, and little Greta announced it was ‘triffic’.

One morning a truck towing a horse float drove up to the stables. Several of the farmers had been helping her out and sending her horses to see if they’d be suitable. This was a carrier from Tamworth who had shoved papers at her. ‘Mr Hanlon said you was to sign. Here.’ The man gave her a leaky pen.

‘Just a second. I want to see the horse before I sign. I don’t buy just anything,’ said Saskia testily.

‘So take a look at ’im. I ain’t takin’ it back. This was a one-way trip.’

‘Where are you from?’ she asked curiously.

‘Tamworth.’ The man unlatched the float door and began hunting the horse out with a series of yanks and pushes, grunting and muttering at the horse, who stomped nervously.

‘Here, careful, let me, you’re going to get kicked,’ snapped Saskia, thinking men like this shouldn’t be allowed near horses.

When the horse was free of the float and led
to the railing and tied up, Saskia eyed it in surprise. ‘That’s a thoroughbred. He should be racing, not dragging tourists round the countryside.’

She was looking at the papers in her hand, trying to make sense of where the horse had come from, when Colin and Bruce appeared.

Colin seemed to be expecting the horse. ‘I’ll take care of this, Sas.’ He took the documents from her, signed them and handed them back to the driver.

‘Colin, this horse isn’t suitable for family horse rides,’ said Saskia. As if in agreement, the bay thoroughbred snorted, wrenched its head and kicked out in annoyance.

‘I don’t know anything about horses, but that looks like a pretty decent sort of an animal to me,’ said Bruce.

‘Yeah. He used to race a bit,’ said Colin. ‘It belongs to a friend of mine. Don’t worry about this one, Sas, he’s just a boarder.’

‘Does he still race?’ asked Saskia who was studying the conformation of the horse. To her trained eye it was obvious this animal was superbly put together — its shape, balance, stance and body shape were near to perfect.

‘Possibly. That’s why they want to leave him here. It’s closer to the Gold Coast, Brisbane and country tracks.’

‘But who’s going to train him?’

‘You can if you want,’ laughed Colin as he turned away. ‘Thanks, mate.’ The driver slammed the door of the float and got into the truck. Colin turned to Saskia. ‘Don’t you worry about this fellow, just put him out and
feed him. Frankly, I wouldn’t ride him, I’m told he’s got a few wild habits which is why he’s not looking so good as a racer.’

Bruce winked at her and the two men moved away.

Saskia approached the horse slowly, keeping her distance. The statuesque horse and the slim girl eyed each other warily.

‘So you have a few wild habits, do you?’ said Saskia in a soft voice, never breaking eye contact with the horse. ‘Maybe we can fix that, eh?’ The horse was first to look away and Saskia moved to the side of its head, brushing her hand across its eyes which flicked shut for a moment. The horse visibly relaxed and Saskia led it quietly into the yard next to the stables.

She had no doubt this horse had led something of a chequered career, but she also knew that there was no way she was going to ignore him and regard him as just a casual boarder. She took the halter off the horse and latched the stockyard gate. She leaned over the railing and watched him swiftly explore his new home.

‘I have a funny feeling that you and I are going to be mates,’ she said aloud. The horse intrigued her. In a sudden flash she saw an opportunity, but for the moment she’d keep her idea to herself.

A few days later Saskia was sitting on a feed bin outside the neat tack room making notes on a clipboard when Colin, eating a banana and wearing shorts and a T-shirt emblazoned
with the Harmony Hill logo of linked rings and a heart, wandered up and offered her a banana.

‘I like your uniform,’ said Saskia taking the banana. ‘I bet you couldn’t dress like that in Italy.’

He shrugged and gave her a lazy smile. ‘Silk knit-tops, linen slacks and espadrilles were more my uniform. You know Italian fashion, even casual is smart. And expensive.’

Saskia could just imagine Colin in designer European fashions, sipping his espresso in some piazza watching women from behind his Bollé sunshades.