Lyrebird Hill (42 page)

I snuggled closer.

A whine came from the dark. Then a wet tongue licked my face. I became aware that the air in my cramped prison had changed. There was still the damp mustiness of stone and earth, but I caught a trickle of cool night air. I breathed it greedily, and again I felt the sinewy wetness on my cheek.

Through the grey fog of sleep came awareness: this wasn’t Pete. The body I was curled into wasn’t even human.

‘Bardo?’

The kelpie whined and licked my face again.

I let out a moan, and then as if a lifetime of terror had never been, I rolled into her and wrapped my arms around her warm body, buried my face in the soft fur of her neck, and wept.

When I woke, Bardo was gone, but her warmth remained. I was gripped by a terrible desolate panic, fearing she’d abandoned me here in the dark. But then I heard barking. It was distant at first, but soon it drifted nearer.

‘Bardo?’ I had meant to shout, but my throat was so dry I barely made a whisper.

There was a scuffling nearby, and then Bardo was back beside me. She nudged me with her nose, and I understood that she wanted me to follow her. She disappeared again, and I could hear a furious scratching, soil sifting and stones thudding against other stones. Again the dog darted back to my side, nudged me, and then went back to her digging.

Following the smell of fresh air, I crawled across the cave floor. Bardo had dug away the mouth of the hole, which was now easily wide enough for me to crawl through. From beyond the hole drifted an eerie quietness . . . broken suddenly by the sound of footfall.

‘Ruby!’

‘I’m here,’ I called huskily, and Bardo began to bark.

Pete’s face appeared in the hole opening. His lovely, pink-cheeked face, with scowl lines cutting into his brow.

‘Hell, Ruby – are you okay?’

‘My head hurts,’ I rasped, ‘but nothing’s broken.’

‘Take hold of my arm. I’m going to slide you out slowly. Tell me the minute you feel pain of any sort, and I’ll stop.’

I gripped his forearm, felt the muscles bunch and tighten under my fingertips. I tensed and Pete began to slide me through the opening. Stones bit into my belly and I heard a tearing sound as my T-shirt caught on a splinter of stone, but then I was out in the air, and Pete was cradling me tight against him.

The dogs yapped and circled us, rubbing their flanks against our legs and whining in anxious pleasure – but rather than flinch away or break into a sweat as I would once have done, I welcomed their nearness. And as Pete held me tight and safe against him, I felt the cosy warmth of love surround me.

Brenna, July 1898

R
ain streaked the window as the train drew into Armidale. The carriage was damp and a chill had settled on me. By the time I stepped onto the platform, I was shivering.

A boy rushed towards me. He was scrawny and hollow-eyed, stooped like an old man, his clothes swimming on his bony frame. My gaze slid past him, then back.

With a jolt I recognised him. ‘Owen!’

He didn’t smile, just lifted his arm and gave a jerky wave. He was holding Fa Fa’s favourite black hat. As he approached I saw the hat brim was dusty and the crown battered out of shape. The blue kingfisher feather in the band was tattered as if moths had made a meal of it.

I rushed at my brother and gripped him by the shoulders. ‘What’s happened? Where’s my father?’

‘At home,’ he said in a dead voice.

‘Is he all right?’

Owen nodded, but didn’t meet my eyes.

‘Why did you bring his hat?’

The boy’s elbows tucked against his ribs, and he moved the hat out of view behind his leg. ‘I don’t know.’

I took his free hand, found it ice-cold. Chafing it between my palms, I said gently, ‘Please tell me. Is Fa Fa terribly unwell?’

Owen pulled his hand from my grasp and looked along the platform.

‘We’d better get back,’ he said in that same lifeless voice. ‘Do you have your baggage ticket?’

I fumbled the slip from my pocket. ‘Alone? Why is he alone? Where’s Millie?’

Owen flinched, and snatched the docket from my hand. Pulling Fa Fa’s hat onto his head, he darted away and ran the length of the train to the freight carriage. He stood patiently while the attendant checked the tickets and retrieved carpetbags and hatboxes and travelling cases. Finally my battered trunk emerged and Owen seized it and surrendered the ticket.

We hurried outside and down the hill to the carriage. The horses were restless in the rain, their flanks wet and streaked with mud. I noticed that one had a red sore on its eyelid. Owen threw my bag in the dray, then fumbled one-handed with the tethering rope and released the horses. He checked the yokes and harnesses, and made to slip past me and up onto the driver’s bench, but I grabbed his arm.

‘Owen, you must tell me what’s wrong.’

He wound the leather reins around his hand but said nothing.

‘It’s Millie, isn’t it?’ I persisted.

Owen nodded, but made no attempt to elaborate. Finally he met my gaze, and the empty desolation I saw in his young eyes tore my heart.

‘Please, Owen, I’m dying of worry. I demand you tell me.’

He paled. The dark in his eyes swallowed him. He stared up at me from under the brim of my father’s hat.

‘Fa Fa told me not to.’

‘Why?’

Pulling from my grasp without answering, he escaped up the carriage steps and took his seat, staring straight ahead.
I climbed up after him and settled my skirts, then gently took the reins from his frozen fingers. The horses quivered and snorted, blowing rain from their nostrils as we headed uphill from the station. Turning onto the Bundarra Road, I set them to a trot, all at once aching to be home and yet fearful of what awaited me there.

My father’s wolfhound Harold met us at the gate.

Like Owen, the old dog appeared diminished; his bones jutted knife-like from his flanks, and his coat was unkempt and crusted with mud. He darted skittishly around my feet as the I alighted and hurried into the house, leaving Owen to drive the buggy to the barn and tend the horses.

Bursting through the back door, I ran from room to room. The once-gleaming floorboards were trampled with mud, my aunt’s prized rugs littered with debris and kicked askew. There was a sickly smell in the air that grew stronger as I approached the kitchen.

‘Millie?’

The benches were cluttered with unwashed dishes. Crusts of bread and spilled food and bowls of curdled milk lay about the benchtops, and a branch had smashed one of the windows, letting in a puddle of rain.

‘Millie! Where are you?’

Drifts of dog hair and mouse dirt and breadcrumbs littered the dining-room floor. Leaves had blown in from outside, and the tabletop was silty; a bird had made tracks through the dust at the head of the table where my father liked to sit.

My father’s study was empty, his desk in disarray, the curtains drawn, and a stale smell in the air like spilled brandy and perspiration. I ran upstairs and knocked on his bedroom door, pushing it open.

‘Fa Fa?’

He was hunched on the edge of the mattress, his elbows on his knees, his head resting in his hands. As he looked up and saw me, I gripped the doorhandle to steady myself. The skin hung from his cheeks, and his eyes were hollow. His hair had thinned and grown long, the faded curls now shot through with silver.

I rushed to him and settled beside him on the bed, wrapped my arms around his shoulders. His bones felt brittle through his shirt, like those of an old, old man.

‘Where’s Millie?’ I said gently. ‘The house is in a dreadful state. You and Owen looked half-starved, and even Harold is skin and bones. What’s happened?’

A thin hand reached for me. ‘Millie is gone, Brenna.’

‘Gone?’ I blinked. Black spots swarmed behind my eyes. ‘Where has she gone?’

Fa Fa covered his face with his hands. ‘Get me a brandy, Brenna girl. And a pair of tumblers. I will tell you, my sparrow, but you must prepare yourself. I fear you are going to need a bellyful of drink to bear it.’

‘It happened soon after dusk. Millie had served dinner and was just bringing her own plate to the table when we heard the screams.’

My father paused to wipe his mouth. He gazed at the strong cup of tea I’d laced with brandy, but he made no move to touch it.

‘We went onto the verandah. There was smoke in the air, and far off in the distance we saw the glow of a blaze. At first I thought it was bushfire, and that the shouts we could hear were to warn us of the blaze. But something made me go upstairs and load my rifle. Owen left first. His horse was already saddled and tethered to the post at the front of the house. I tried to call him back, but—’ Fa Fa’s eyes were pleading. He took my hand. ‘What
poor Owen saw that night has addled him. They are all dead, my Brenna. The clan is gone. Men came to the encampment, just as they did all those years ago. They brought their swords and guns and wreaked bloody murder.’

My back flushed ice cold, while my face and hands were on fire.

‘Jindera?’ I managed to whisper. ‘Mee Mee?’

My father shook his head. ‘Gone, my little love. All of them, gone.’

I slumped back as if struck in the face. My thoughts were scrambled. I wanted to clutch for a logical explanation, an escape from the horror, but I was in a maze of fear; everywhere I turned, my way was blocked. I moaned softly. My skin was clammy. I swayed forward, willing myself to slide into unconsciousness, willing the ache in my chest to somehow drag me under.

Finally, I found my voice. ‘Is there a chance that Jindera or any of the others might have escaped? Like they did that other time, when they hid in the cave along the riverbank?’

My father stared towards the window. He was wide-eyed, as if he had just woken from a nightmare, his nostrils flaring, his breath coming short and sharp.

‘I saw the pyre,’ he said, his voice cracking with grief. ‘The men lit it and dragged the bodies into the flames, but they didn’t tend it well. It never burned, just . . . just—’ He stared fixedly into the shadows. ‘I am to blame. They are gone. Our people are gone. And I am to blame.’

‘No,’ I whispered, wanting to reassure him, but my voice jammed in my throat. Fa Fa spoke his bitter words from the unreliable standpoint of his grief, but it was clear to me that he bore no blame for what had happened. Clear to me, too, that while guilt ate away my father’s kind heart with the ferocity of acid, the real offenders had escaped without reproach.

Owen entered the room and hurried to my father’s side. He lay at his feet without a word to either of us, and closed his
eyes. He began to cry quietly, but when Fa Fa reached down and placed his hand on the boy’s head, Owen became still.

Beyond the open window the sky blazed blue. The grass was golden, and leaves gusted through the winter air. By all appearances, life was going on. Out there, out in the world, the destruction of my small family had made no impact; and yet here in my father’s quiet, familiar room, the very heart of time had come to a standstill.

My father let out a great shuddering sigh. Lying back on the bed, he rolled to face the wall and dragged the coverlet up to his ear. He began to sob – dry, wretched gasps that echoed after me as I shut his door and descended the stairs on shaky legs.