Siddon Rock (3 page)

When Macha marched into Siddon Rock she followed the narrow, gravelled road which gained shops on one side and the railway yard and station building on the other. This was Wickton Street. It continued past the Council Offices and hall, the silo, and a few sunburnt houses clinging to the skirts of the town; there Wickton Street once again became a country road as it curved around the rock and away towards the interior.

At the intersection of this road and the Two Mile Lakes Road, Fatman Aberline caught up with Macha, the growl of his motorbike loud in the silence of the surrounding bush.
C'mon, Mach
, he said.
C'mon. Get on the back and I'll take you home. C'mon, Mach. Let me help.
Macha tramped on.

Brigid Connor's old Dodge truck laboured towards them with farm dogs hanging off the back, and stopped in front of Macha. Leaving Granna in the cab with her foot on the brake, Brigid strode towards her daughter with her arms wide for an embrace, but Macha appeared not to see her and continued her march, the rifle still held across her waist.

Brigid ran back to the truck and drove it around in a noisy half-circle. Now its lights combined with that of the motorbike and made a clear path down the road, but
Macha marched in the loose gravel at the verge. And so they continued, with Brigid driving the labouring truck behind her daughter, and Fatman Aberline riding at Macha's side, and then ahead in frustration before returning to try again.
C'mon, Mach. I'll take you home. I'm sorry I laughed. Let me help.

Granna leaned from the cab of the truck and shouted at Fatman,
You. Young Aberline. Leave her alone and go on home. She don't want you around right now.
She slapped Brigid on the arm,
Stop the truck. Let me down. She's left something behind at wherever she's been. She don't need no-one yapping at her.
And Granna walked in the gravel, interposed between Macha and the motorbike until Fatman Aberline gave up and turned back towards the town.

I'll go then
, Brigid called over the yelping of the dogs.
I'll see you back at the house
, and the truck rattled off, leaving just the scrunch of gravel under Macha's boots and the smell of petrol floating in the startling silence.

Granna and Macha walked on. Macha staggered occasionally, as if her invisible load was too much to bear. Granna took her arm in support, and then realised that they had been joined by a third person, who was humming gently as she walked, supporting Macha on the other side. She nodded to Nell.
Singing in the dark keeps away the devils
, she said.

This 'un has hers inside
, Nell said, and her humming became louder and more rhythmic. Granna started to sing old and familiar words.
Hush little baby don't you cry
, she sang,
you look much better when your eyes are dry.
Nell's
pitch changed slightly and added a deeper tone.
And if that horse and cart falls down, you'll still be the sweetest little baby in town.

Granna found herself walking differently. Her body relaxed and her shoulders dropped and moved in a different rhythm. Her legs seemed to be longer and somehow more flexible as they stretched into deeper strides. She realised then that they were above the gravel road, lifted by their singing.

The voices of the women rose and united as they turned into the home track holding the still-marching Macha between them. In the distance behind them a light shone from the windows of Sybil Barber's house and reflected in the thick waters of the salt lake. Around them dust, dry bush smells and the sharp tang of newly ploughed paddocks blended to a pungent mix. Down the track they glided, over the sheep-grid at the house-paddock and across the hard dirt yard, still supporting Macha above the ground; then onto the wide verandah where the clamouring dogs went silent when they saw them.

Through the back door into the kitchen they went, and down the hall to Macha's room, as Brigid ran ahead to open the door. Nell and Granna stopped singing and lowered Macha to the floor where she marched on the spot.
You can stop marching now
, Granna said. At first Macha seemed not to have heard, but gradually her tempo slowed, and stopped, and she stood there clutching the rifle. The women stood close to steady her if she staggered; but Macha
moved the rifle to her shoulder, stepped over the threshold, and the door swung shut behind her.

From that day on Granna saw Nell around the town, and she always waved in recognition and acknowledgement.

 

HENRY ABERLINE
, in the library of Greater Wickton to escape the weather and the appalling splashing from carriage wheels in puddles, read by chance an essay on the
Papilio venenatus Nemo (Mariposidae)
, the elusive poisonous butterfly. The writer of the essay was surprised, nay, astounded, at reports filtering in to the Royal Lepidopterology Society of Great Britain that this rare creature had been sighted by an explorer of the inland plains of Australia. The writer was sceptical as he knew
Papilio venenatus Nemo (Mariposidae)
, although it had not been seen for many years, only inhabited the cooler regions of England, preferring a mild to warm summer for breeding. He was, however, prepared to countenance the supposition that a species of mimetic butterfly had taken on the colouration and habits of
Papilio venenatus
and this was what had been seen.

Henry Aberline had held to the light the fine painting of the butterfly that accompanied the essay, noting that the
colours of the wings were etched with black, rather like an overlay. If the picture was held one way the wings looked a dusty and deep red; one could almost call it maroon except for the brightness of the highlights. But looking at it from another angle it could be said that the butterfly was black. He wondered if the butterfly was so coloured or if the artist had a particular talent he wished to display.

Henry looked out the library window, the painting still in his hands. Past the sleet and snow there shone a clear blue and yellow light that showed a broad plain with stands of tall timber. The skies glowed like sapphire and were filled with the jewelled colours of unknown birds and insects. Henry stepped through the window-glass of the library onto the plain, and walked towards a group of exotic-looking people who, he saw, were dark and straight, as if they grew from the land itself. Tall grasses covering the plain swayed in a light breeze and parted before strange animals which were unperturbed by the nearness of the people, who smiled at them as they grazed. Around the animals fluttered hordes of glowing butterflies. One man waved him forward and the rest of the people gathered around as well, welcoming him and offering food and drink. As the group ate, the butterflies alighted on their arms and head with
Papilio venenatus
, a jewel of infinite worth, in the hair of the leading savage, the one with the biggest smile. This man put his arm around Henry's shoulder in a gesture of brotherhood and slowly turned him around so that the whole land appeared to open out before him. He spread his arms.
This is yours
, Henry read of the gesture,
all this beauty is for you
.

Back in the library, Henry Aberline went to the large globe of the world that was fixed in a wooden frame. He found that to see the shape of Australia in its correct position in relation to Europe, he had to twist himself downwards into awkward positions, as a wide wooden ledge hid those countries below the equator. Ignoring the damage to his trousers and the amused glances of people nearby, he lay on the floor and found the area where the butterfly had been reported as seen.
Terra de Leeuwin
was written in the flowing script of the seventeenth century, and under the writing was painted a palm tree with a fabulous winged beast resting on the fronds. When he touched the map a faint vibration tingled up his finger and he could hear a rhythmical thrumming sound that was quite musical. The other side of the mirror, Henry thought – he was quite poetical in his own way – the Antipodes.

That very afternoon Henry Aberline contacted the master at the Liverpool Docks and found that the brigantine
Caroline
was departing the next week. Immediately, he arranged passage to the nearest port in Australia for himself, his boxes of collecting and preserving equipment, various books on lepidopterology and the trunks of clothing selected by a Bond Street outfitter competent in advising the gentleman explorer. He paid fleeting visits to various friends, kissed his parents and bade a glad farewell to middle England.

The journey to Australia was long but uneventful, and when the
Caroline
arrived at the destination and docked at a makeshift jetty, Henry walked the beach and revelled in the sand under his feet, firm in comparison to the ever-shifting ship's deck of the past three months. He could feel his uneasy stomach settling and wondered about the quality, and indeed the quantity, of food in this barren-looking place.

Henry scanned the beach for the figure he remembered so well from his vision. There were many dark figures watching the ship, but Henry could not make out one from another although he was sure his friend would be there to greet him. He approached a group and, in a loud voice so they could understand, tried to describe the person he expected, but eventually realised that any of the group could fit the description. One man stepped forward and said he would take Henry wherever he wanted to go. And so it was agreed.

Henry's guide, whom he called Jack, asked him where he wanted to go. Henry riffled through the smallest of his travelling trunks until he found a picture, which he passed to Jack.
Just find me this butterfly
, he said.

The others of the group gathered around Jack and looked at the small painting with great interest, rubbing their hands across the surface and seeming to comment on the texture of the paper. Henry wondered if they realised this was just a picture of his dream, a representation of what he was looking for. Maybe they thought he wanted Jack to find another painting like the one they examined so closely.
But before Henry could say anything further, Jack waved the picture in the air.
Can find
, he said.
But a lotta walkin'.

Jack led the party south along the coast then veered away from the coastal dunes into low scrubby bush. Jack and his party slipped easily through the trees,
like they don't even see them
, Henry thought resentfully as he fought his way after his guide. It seemed to him that the trees themselves were against him, edging together into an impermeable thicket, trying to block his way after Jack had passed through.

Each night, as soon as dark fell, Henry entered his tent, wrapped himself in his blanket and slept, exhausted by his battle with the landscape.

Eventually the shape and composition of the scrub changed. Ferns appeared on the forest floor and trees towered above dense undergrowth.
This must have been how Gulliver felt in Brobdingnag
, Henry said to Jack as they gazed upwards to where the top of one forest giant disappeared above all the others.

This Gulliver
, Jack said,
he a friend of yours?

Not exactly
, Henry replied.
He's in a story. Not real.

Jack looked concerned, and laid a friendly hand on Henry's arm.
Pity that
, he said,
that's a real shame.
He paused and looked up at the tall trees, then to where his family had disappeared into the forest.
Our stories now, they real.

The party travelled further inland and then turned north where the forests thinned to sparsely treed open bushland with altogether different trees. Some were tall
with no branches growing from an ethereal white trunk until the high crown burst into the air like a giant flower-head. Some were many-stemmed from the same root, and blood-red. Henry wrote in his journal:
We go ever north. Red is the dominant colour in this place. A perversion of colour, one should say. No green in this hot land, just red soil, high red rocks. Even the trunks of the trees are a reddish colour, as if they do not want to distinguish themselves from their surroundings. And what to make of trees that drop their bark but keep their leaves. Those leaves give little shade and no relief for the unfortunates who stand beneath them, for they turn sideways to the sun, as if the searing rays are too much to bear.

And the heat was indeed too much to bear for Henry, as they pushed further north and east. But, although his English clothes felt like the heaviest of heavy blankets wrapped around him in the stifling heat of the inland summer, he refused to abandon the high collar and tie or the coat over long trousers.
One must maintain standards
, he wrote.
My father taught me well and I will not go native.

Jack's people tried to teach Henry how to read the land; how to recognise plants that were edible and tell them apart from those that were not; how to find water; how to judge direction by the way huge termite mounds were sited, miraculously pointing north and south. But in truth it was an impossible task, for Henry could only see the grotesque threat of the bush, and the strangeness of the vast open spaces so filled with difference from the green and cluttered landscape of England.
Even the moors
, he
thought, one particularly hot and miserable day,
even the Yorkshire moors are busy and filled with life in comparison to this place.

He shuddered away when offered food from the campfire, preferring the ever-diminishing rations of hardtack to the fresh meatiness of a goanna roasted in the ashes of the campfire. Eventually he came to accept fruit and roots, but this was not until close to the end of the journey when his own dry rations were exhausted.

They continued to trek across the country, from east to west and back again, from south to north and then returning, as they followed the flight of the elusive poisonous butterfly.
How do I know
venenatus
is actually here?
Henry said to Jack.
How do I know you aren't just taking my money?

Look
, Jack said,
you can see.
Henry could see nothing on the leaf Jack held for him; it appeared to be just a leaf with the usual vein markings and a brown dot or two. But being of a generally trusting and somewhat slothful nature he continued to follow Jack with no more question as to his honesty.

The party travelled on and on, accompanied by heat, dust and swarms of particularly annoying black flies that crawled into Henry's nose and eyes. They arrived at a place where Jack said they should stop and rest for some days. Henry looked around him. Red dust rose in small eddies from land that was flat and dry, even though he reckoned it was now near the end of winter. It was hard for Henry to tell what season it was, even though they had, by his own
calculations, been tracking the
venenatus
butterfly for three hundred and thirty days. Time in this place was a shifting thing, he found, and days slid together with an ease that astounded him, accustomed as he was to the regulated time of middle England. And, if the truth be known, he was tired of this flat country with its endlessness. He was wearying of all this tracking around, and was wondering if it was all for nothing; a chimera. So Henry demurred about staying here, seeing nothing that appealed to him. Jack, however, would not budge.
My mob want to stay here a bit
, he said.
We stay.

Henry roused the next morning from a broken and troubled sleep. Threads of dreams had led him into cellars and attics where boxes of books formed walls in front of him. Piles of clothing gathered around him, pushing their velvets and laces against him in sensual abandon; old journals and diaries opened themselves and the words of his forebears flew off the pages into the air, clinging to him like the clouds of flies he loathed so much, before fading, leaving just blank pages that dried and blew away.

He stirred from this dark enthralment longing for the sound of wagon wheels over cobblestones, of English voices in conversation. Oh, for the hustle of the markets and the rough cries of the vendors! Ah, the coldly refreshing winters and the soft drift of snow! There was a sentimental remembrance of the murmuring hush of the library at Greater Wickton, and the scholarly discussions in the comfort of an easy chair by the fire. And in the evening, the smell of roasting chestnuts in the snowy streets as he relaxed in a comfortable carriage on the way home, where
there awaited friends with whom to enjoy a fine roast beef dinner, a good claret in rare crystal, and a Cuban cigar. What madness had driven him from this elegant life! What bedevilment enticed him to this place that now appeared so like the depictions of hell he had seen in paintings in the Tate Gallery?

At the marginal moment between sleep and wake, Henry decided to end the search and board the first ship home to England. He would take no more discussion about this matter. They would leave this minute. Return to the jetty on the beach and hence back home, away forever from this godforsaken place.

Henry left his tent determined that Jack's mob would pack up immediately, but the sight before him banished any thoughts except those of awe. A floral carpet had bloomed overnight and covered the plains, changing the barren landscape to a multi-hued wonder. An astonishment of blossoms, the like of which he had never known, stretched as far as he could see, to the horizon and beyond, he thought. Maybe it covered the whole vast country from shore to shore.