Old Kingdom 04: Across the Wall (17 page)
Kilman wheezed, but it was only cosmetic. No heart attack was in the offing, and none eventuated. They both reached the top breathless and red-faced, but with arteries intact and pounding. Margalletta opened the door, pulled-back hair encountering the wind and defeating it aided by a large black comb and rigid preparation that morning. Kilman’s toupee, less disciplined, rose from his scalp and flapped like a hatch on a hinge, till he clapped one hand upon it and pushed past Margalletta in an urgent, embarrassed rush.
She waited for a few minutes, then closed the door and went down. Fortunately, the steam car was on the opposite side from the balcony door, so there would be no need for further panel work. The passion fruit hadn’t fared so well, as Margal-letta discovered when she walked around—the vines were all torn away near the top. There was a particularly nasty bare patch, just where the balcony railing would have been, if only the Treton governor hadn’t dismantled it for being Hamallish and getting in his field of fire.
Curiously enough, one of Mr. Kilman’s blood-and-paper doves had fallen out of his other sleeve and seemed unharmed by the fall. Margalletta picked it up and whispered into its ear, breath bringing it slowly to life.
‘Hello. Is that Mr. Kilman’s ship? I’m afraid there’s been an accident. I gave Mr. Kilman some bad news about his purchase, and he … he …’
Margalletta released the dove into the wind and let them imagine her sobbing. She watched it fly down to the golden ship and she laughed, laughed madly, the sound twining up around the lighthouse like the vines and off into the bright-blue sky of summer.
INTRODUCTION TO THE HILL
‘ THE HILL’ WAS WRITTEN FOR AN interesting international publishing scheme, in which a bunch of publishing houses in Europe, and Allen & Unwin in Australia decided to simultaneously publish the same collection of short stories in English and four European languages, with the theme of the new millennium.
I was one of two Australian writers invited to participate, and I wrote ‘The Hill’ in an attempt to try to tell an overtly Australian story—something I’m not known for, since nearly all my work is set in imagined worlds. This proved to be somewhat problematical, particularly when in the first drafts of ‘The Hill,’ I made the major characters part Aboriginal and tried to interweave a backstory involving Aboriginal myth and beliefs about land. I knew this would be difficult to pull off, but I didn’t expect my Australian publisher’s reaction, which was basically that, as a white Australian, I simply couldn’t use either Aboriginal characters or Aboriginal myth. My initially simplistic attitude was that, as a fantasy writer, I should be able to draw on anything from anywhere for inspiration; that I could mine any history, myth, or religion.
After some discussions with both the publisher and an Aboriginal author, I realised that the issue was more complex, and that many Aboriginal people would feel that I was not inspired by their myth but was appropriating something valuable, one of the few things of value that hadn’t been taken over in the process of colonisation. It would be particularly hurtful because, as an Australian, I should know that some Aboriginal people would consider this yet another theft.
So the fantasy element of ‘The Hill,’ inspired by some Aboriginal myths, was removed, and I rewrote it in a more straightforward way. However, given the constraints of the multi-lingual publishing schedule, and some misunderstanding along the way, the original version of the story is the one that got translated and is in the Norwegian, French, Spanish, and German editions. Only the English-language version is different.
I’m still not quite sure where I stand on the matter of allowable use of myth, legend, and history, save that if I do decide at some point to seek inspiration from the rich traditions and lore of the Australian Aboriginal people, I will ask permission first.
THE HILL
ROWAN SNIFFED AS THE AWFUL HOSPITAL smell met him at the front door of the Home. A mixture of antiseptic and illness, hope and despair, churned by air-conditioning that was always slightly too cool or slightly too hot.
He ignored the reception desk, which was easy, since no one was there, and went straight up the stairs, leaping two at a time, unconscious of the old eyes that watched him, remembering when steps were not beyond them.
His great-grandfather’s room was the first on the left after the nurses’ station, but no one was there. Rowan stuck his head around to make absolutely sure, then continued on to the television room at the end of the hall. He slowed as he approached, reluctant as ever to see the group of old people who suffered so much from Alzheimer’s or senile dementia that they couldn’t speak or move themselves, so they just sat watching the TV. Or at least had their faces pointed toward the set. Rowan wasn’t sure they saw anything.
They were there, but his great-grandfather wasn’t. Sister Amy was helping one of the old ladies sit back up. She saw Rowan and gave him a smile.
‘Come to see your great-grandpop, then?’ she asked. ‘He’s out in the garden.’
‘Thanks,’ said Rowan. ‘Is he … ?’
‘He’s having one of his good days,’ said Amy. ‘Bright as a button, bless him. I only hope I do as well at his age. If I even get that far, of course. Now, up we go, Mrs. Rossi!’
Mrs. Rossi dribbled all over Amy’s shoulder as she was lifted up. Rowan mumbled a good-bye and fled, wanting to get out into the fresh air as quickly as possible. He was glad Great-grandad was having a good day. It would make everything much easier. On his bad days, the old man wouldn’t talk, or possibly couldn’t talk—and he didn’t seem to hear anything either.
But as Amy said, he was still a wonder, even on his bad days. When he wanted to talk, he talked intelligently and clearly. When he wanted to walk, he walked, with the aid of two canes. But he was most remarkable for his age. Albert Salway was the oldest person in the Home, the oldest person in the city, the oldest in the state, maybe even the oldest in the country. He had been born in the last decade of the nineteenth century, and now he was only a day away from the beginning of the twenty-first. He was 108 years old and was actually Rowan’s great-great-grandfather. But he always said that was too many greats, and anyway, he preferred Rowan to call him Bert.
He was sitting on the bench next to the roses, watching them sway slightly in the breeze, petals ruffling. As always when he went outside, he was properly dressed in moleskin trousers, a flannel shirt, tweed coat, and hat. His two blackwood canes were propped up against the bench, their brass handles bright in the sun.
‘Hello, Bert,’ said Rowan. He sat down and they shook hands, the old man’s light and brittle in the boy’s, the pressure of his fingers very light, their skin barely touching. Bert smiled, showing his gold tooth on one side and the gap on the other. Apart from the gap and the gold incisor, he still had all his own teeth. Bert had outlived four dentists who couldn’t understand the healthiness of his mouth, and many more doctors who couldn’t believe his age and condition.
‘You’ve got troubles, my boy,’ said Bert. ‘I can see it in your face. Is it school?’
‘No,’ replied Rowan. He coughed and cleared his throat, uncertain of how to go on.
‘Hmmm,’ said Bert. ‘Something you don’t know how to tell me. Is it a girl?’
‘No,’ said Rowan, embarrassed. ‘It’s Dad.’
‘Ah,’ said Bert, letting out a whistling sigh. ‘What’s my great-grandson done now?’
‘He’s … he’s selling the Hill,’ Rowan blurted out. He knew he had to tell Bert, but he was afraid the news would hurt the old man badly. Maybe even kill him.
Bert stared at him, his sharp brown eyes seeming to look through Rowan and off into the distance. To the Hill, Rowan thought. The Hill was all that remained of their family property. A great saddleback of earth and stone, crowned by a forest of ancient gum trees, lording over the flat farmland around it.
The Hill was the centre and the most important part of the 5,000 acres that had belonged to the Salways since 1878.
‘He can’t sell that land,’ said Bert finally.
‘But he has!’ exclaimed Rowan. ‘I heard him telling Mum about it last night. He’s getting three million dollars and we’re all moving to Sydney. But I don’t want to go. And I don’t want the Hill to go, either.’
‘He can’t sell that land,’ repeated the old man. He started to struggle up, his crooked, shrunken hands taking up the canes. ‘Give me a hand, Rowan.’
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Rowan anxiously.
‘We’re going to pack my stuff,’ said Bert, leaning forward onto his canes, Rowan steadying him as he took his first step. ‘Then we’re going to move back to the Hill. I’ll need you to get a few things, Rowan. It’s been a few months since I’ve been up there.’
‘You’ve been up there that recently?’ asked Rowan, almost letting go of him in surprise. ‘How? I mean, Dad wouldn’t even take me this year. I had to cycle last time, and it took three hours. He shouted at me when I got back and told me to keep away from it.’
‘Taxi,’ said Bert. He didn’t have a lot of breath to talk when he was walking.
They had a bit of trouble getting out of the Home, but Bert had known the Matron—or Guest Health Services Director, as she was now called— for a long time. They spoke together briefly, then she even phoned for the taxi herself.
‘Make sure he doesn’t get wet or cold,’ she said to Rowan as she helped Bert into the car. ‘Good luck, Bert.’
They stopped on the way to get some food, bottled water, blankets, and kerosene for the old stove in the shack. Bert had quite a lot of money with him. Old fifty-dollar notes, the paper ones that were replaced by the smaller polymer variety years before. The checkout girl didn’t want to take them at first, particularly from Rowan, but when he showed her Bert waiting in the taxi and explained that he didn’t like the ‘new money,’ she relented.
It took half an hour by taxi to get to the Hill. Rowan had expected the gate to be locked and had worried about the climb up the track for Bert, but it was not only unlocked, it was open. The track looked a bit rough, but the taxi driver said it wasn’t his cab so he wasn’t worried.
‘Besides,’ he added, ‘if a big Mercedes like that can make it up, we can.’
He pointed through the windscreen, and Rowan and Bert saw that there was a very large dark-blue Mercedes parked next to the shack. Two men were standing next to it. Rowan recognised his father and felt the lump of anxiety that had been in his stomach all day flower into panic. He didn’t recognise the other man, the one in the suit and glittering sunglasses.
‘Dad’s here already!’ exclaimed Rowan.
‘Not for long,’ said Bert. ‘Just park up next to the shack, will you, mate?’
Rowan felt himself instinctively crouching down as they approached and both men looked over to see who it was. Both looked puzzled; then his dad’s face bloomed red as anger sent the blood swirling around his nose and cheeks. He stormed over and yanked the door open, pulling Rowan out by his shirt collar. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing, son?’ he shouted.
‘He’s helping me,’ said Bert, who was being helped out the other door by the taxi driver. ‘Let him go, Roger. Then you and your friend have got two minutes to get off my property.’
‘Your property?’ said the man in the suit, smiling. He looked at Roger. ‘I don’t think so.’
Bert laughed, his gold tooth gleaming.
‘Another smart arse from the city who hasn’t done his homework,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m Albert Salway.’
‘Salway?’ said the man. ‘Salway!’
He looked at Roger Salway, the smile and his relaxed slouch gone. He was angry too, now.
‘What’s his relationship to you, Roger? Does he have any claim over this land?’
‘He’s my great-grandfather,’ muttered Roger, not meeting the other man’s eyes and not answering his question either.
‘It’s my land,’ repeated Bert. ‘Has been for nearly seventy years. And like I said, you have one minute to get off my property.’
‘Well, we seem to have got off on the wrong foot,’ said the businessman, trying to smile again. ‘Let me introduce myself. I’m John Ragules, representing FirstLaunch Space Services. We plan to build a satellite launching facility in this area—a spaceport. We need this hill, for … well, we call it the ski launch component.’