13

Dark and cold seeps. Slowly, slowly.
Silently creeping.

They stood straight and proud all around him, rows of natural fencing. Sunlight glinted through their bows, throwing striped shadows across the carriage path. The gap between the ground and the foliage of their high placed canopies allowed you to see into the depths of their forest, emitting an eerie aura; one could easily become lost in a thicket such as that. Edward breathed deeply, the scent of eucalypts foreign to his senses and gripped Rosalind’s tiny hands. Excitement flushed his cheeks.

Percy slowed the carriage and Alistair moved to sit on the edge of his seat as they turned carefully down a smaller but well cleared pathway. Suddenly, rising as if from the dust before them, a flock of bright pink-bellied parrots flew up and over ahead, their flight mythical against the greys and dull hues of the landscape. Focused on the wildlife, Edward’s attention was distracted as the homestead came into view.

Alistair brought his attention back, ‘And my lady, my good fellow, this is the country house. I hope it will please you both.’

Edward looked forward as the carriage pulled up alongside the majestic riverside home. Built from sandstone like most of the buildings in this area, it stood at the apex of a small hill that rolled down to a modest tributary river, the Finniss. The house itself was of ample size, single storied, but sprawling. Surrounding it was a large wooden verandah made from pine, the edges of which ran into a green and succulent lawn that fell from the house, right to the water’s edge. Lining the bank were reeds of brown and green whispering softly in the river breeze. The home stood still, powerful, its sharp edges framed by the encroaching bush, but seemingly holding it back. Edward was stunned. It was not that the house drew a more distinguished picture than the country estates from home, nor that its site was particularly remarkable. But the poise with which it stood, a sole bastion of civilisation set against such harsh and scrappy flora, left Edward in awe.

He stepped from the carriage, pausing to aid Rosalind’s descent before wrapping a supportive arm around her frail waist. Together they strolled around the outside of the home, the afternoon light turning the gum trees golden, framing the house in a glow of warmth and security. He looked out from the house towards the river, gentle and still; a protected waterway, safe from the ravages of the ocean and its tides. Above his head one of the small black and white birds cried its supernatural warble. Edward glanced up to see the little creature spread its wings and take flight, soaring over the roof of the homestead into the bushland behind. Down to the right of the home was a small set of matching stables, like miniatures of the home itself. Beside them grew a quaint vegetable patch and beyond that Edward could see the fences of paddocks.

Alistair came up beside them. Rosalind moved knowingly a slight distance away, to give the men their privacy.

‘Further down that way is the farming land, wheat mostly. Percy runs that land, you won’t need to think on it. All I want you to do is feel the place and write her.’

Edward nodded and gazed out over the small river. On the far bank was simple bushland, small hills covered in gums and grasses. The house stood alone in an ocean of nature. The smell of oxygen and eucalyptus permeated the air, it felt fresh and clean but without the soaking moisture of home. Edward’s nostrils were already feeling the drying effects of the climate; he hoped it was the same for his wife’s lungs.

Standing there, surrounded by foreign landscape and unknown air, Edward felt his chest expand. This land, so dangerously invigorating, could it be the answer to his hopes, the solution to his search? He returned to Rosalind’s side. Together they stood, framed by the homestead their hopes had chosen, only time would tell if this gamble was the right choice.

Time passed slowly, eking its way across the reddened sky. Rosalind, still poorly from the heat and travel, passed her days in their bedroom deep inside the house, the stone walls providing a welcomed insulation from the scorched landscape. Gaslight had not made it to the bush home, nor piped water, so Mary returned to lighting candles and collecting water from the large tanks situated down a side path, busy always with these tasks and tending to Rosalind. Boxes of their belongings lined the halls waiting for Edward to unpack. He took his time, languid in the striking heat.

One particularly oppressive day he spied a rowboat resting alongside the outhouses. Seeking relief from the suffocating weight of the air, Edward hauled the wooden craft to the tributary’s edge. Stepping carefully into the small boat he took hold of the oars. The wood was rough under his hands, peeling paint threatening splinters, but Edward was determined. Leaning backwards, he pulled the oars through the water with all of his strength. The boat glided out onto the river, gently parting the muddy currents. Edward looked back to the homestead. Quiet and still the house stood. No motion or signs of life inside. Rosalind would still be sleeping, he thought and he decided he had a good two hours before he would be missed. This brought an unexpected sense of freedom to his limbs, which cried out to be worked harder, to pull through the river and flex their unused strength.

Edward set off, aimlessly. The sun beat down sharply upon him, the still water reflecting its rays up into his pale face. Soon, Edward’s arms and lower back, eager only moments before, began to complain and stiffen. His academic hands, small for a man and used only for pencils and quills, felt raw from gripping the oars. Edward paused his rowing and allowed the currents to drift him slowly back towards his home. Around him the water rippled softly, reed beds brushing the air in whispers. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Edward lay back in his boat, dangling a hand over the edge into the cool of the stream and closed his heavy eyes. Subtly, without aplomb, visions of Australia began to move through his mind: the white of the trees, the greyed wood cylinders of the docks, the frame of bush around his home. Momentarily, Edward’s fingers tensed, muscles twitching in time with his eyes beneath his lids, words forming and twisting around each other in his mind.

But only for a moment.

Then, there was peace. Edward heard the soft warble of a magpie, distracting his focus before his mind was flooded with emptiness. Edward’s boat floated down the river and he drifted off to sleep.

Some time later he was awoken by Percy’s voice, calling him from the riverbank. Edward’s rowboat had lodged itself in a large bed of reeds opposite the farmhouse. Sitting up, rubbing his sleepy eyes, Edward grinned over to Percy and waved gently before organising the oars and rowing inexpertly into the bank. His limbs, heavy from unaccustomed exercise, groaned and Edward’s head felt groggy. Percy helped him to tie the boat against the small jetty that jutted from the property before Edward walked dreamily up to the homestead and fell into another slumber on the couch of his library.

That was the beginning; a shift within him. Days later when a horse’s neigh announced the arrival of Percy for the bi-weekly farm toil, Edward left the mess of boxes and wrapping to join him working the earth. Percy greeted him with a smile, broad and without judgment, passed him a shovel in silence. Then together, under the cooling sun of autumn the men dug a trench for seedlings, which would in time produce wheat. The earth was dry on the surface. As Edward pushed the shovel down it almost skimmed across the light powdery consistency. But pushing harder, deeper, tilled up a rich, dark brown, full of goodness. Edward bent his back to the task, ignored the friction of the handle against his palms and wiped the sweat off his brow against his sleeve. The actions felt uncomfortable at first, jarring and coarse, against the normal flow of his body. However, as the sun slipped down the other side of the sky, his limbs found a new rhythm. Lift, push, shuffle, dump. Edward mouthed the motions, keeping time with the earth’s movements. His mind was emptied, focused. Time was meaningless.

As the last of the sun’s rays dipped below the horizon, Edward packed away the remaining tools and, grinning broadly, escorted Percy in for dinner with the family. Percy washed outside in a trough, Edward took the main bathroom. Staring at his dirt-streaked face in the mirror, Edward felt a laugh rise in his throat. Shaking his bemused head, he washed the grime as well as he could from his fingers, finding his nails to be the most resistant. Clean and dressed for dinner, he again observed his reflection, now transformed, now English once again. An odd disappointment settled in his heart. Confused, he turned from his image and headed for dinner. Underneath his bow tie however, the top button of his shirt remained loose. He felt an excited anticipation brew in his stomach thinking of the next day he could till the land with his new friend.

Edward sat sipping his tea as three riders approached down the drive. He rose slowly and strolled to the edge of the verandah. Mr Merryweather came first, black priest dress distinguishing him from his companions, who, as they came closer, Edward realised were not white. He raised an eyebrow and waited patiently. Merryweather rode right up to the house before stopping his horse and disembarking. Two aboriginal youths held back, waiting a few paces from the house.

‘Mr. Merryweather,’ Edward began, ‘what a pleasure to see you. Would you care for some tea? It’s freshly steeped.’

‘Why thank you, yes,’ Mr Merryweather replied.

‘And for your men?’ Edward indicated the two youths with a calm gesture.

‘That is very kind of you, yes, I am sure they would enjoy some tea. Peter, Paul tie up your horses and join us for tea,’ he called to them before following Edward to the verandah table.

Rosalind, having heard the arrival, called to Mary for extra teacups and now stood waiting to greet their guests, and pour their refreshment.

‘Mr. Merryweather, please meet my wife, Rosalind.’

Merryweather doffed his riding hat and bowed politely to Rosalind, ‘A pleasure madam. I hope you are finding our humble region to your liking?’

‘Quite, I assure you,’ she smiled. Catching sight of Peter and Paul, her eyes widened but only briefly before continuing with tea.

The boys paused at the verandah steps, waiting to be invited to the table. Edward gestured them up into the remaining seats and Rosalind inquired as to their tea preferences (both white with two sugars) before the unusual group sat to talk.

‘Well, my good man. What brings you here this morning? Business in Clayton?’ Edward’s farm lay between Goolwa and the next large town in the area.

‘Why, no, my business is rather more local,’ Merryweather smiled. ‘Peter, Paul, sit straight,’ he chided, then, ‘These are two of my finest pupils, both of working age and highly skilled. I was hoping you might have need of some farm hands? I understand you are here to write, not work, all the more reason to have more help. Give you free time.’

Edward regarded Merryweather for a moment, before turning to the two young men. They sat well, but were clearly ill at ease on the verandah. Peter was the slightly larger of the two, though both would be considered slender. Their skin was dark, but a lighter milky brown than that of the man Edward had seen on the train, their hair brown and frizzy. Both were immaculately clean, as though they’d just come from church.

‘I know they appear small,’ Merryweather was saying, ‘but they are bushmen, and surprisingly strong. They will work for meals and board, perhaps in the outhouse I see down the way?’

‘You are certainly a business man,’ Edward spoke straight, looking directly at Merryweather once again.

‘Forgive me, sir. I do not mean to be insistent. Too many people in these parts forget their Christian duty…’

Edward took a moment, though looking at the two adolescents, his mind was already decided. ‘They can start on Monday. That will give me time to put things in order. But they will have to bring bedding and be prepared to clean out their accommodation. Both stables are currently for horses, one can be spared. I have big plans for this farm, their expertise and manpower will be advantageous.’

He turned to Peter and Paul. ‘It will be a pleasure to hire you.’

And it was settled.

The two moved into the stable the following week. Initially they brought animal furs to sleep on, but Rosalind was appalled and shortly Percy brought two cots from town. They worked hard and kept mostly to themselves, seeming to believe their role was to keep out of the way as much as possible.

It took weeks to coax them from this silence. Both would answer ’yes sir’, or ‘no, sir’ with all proper respect, but declined the invite to extrapolate on their opinions or backgrounds.

But Edward, seeing something of his childhood self in their shyness, worked to make them feel at ease, comfortable on his land.

The breakthrough came with Paul. Always more prone to smiling, he had finally warmed to Edward’s constant questioning about his culture and background.

‘My mother calls me Allambee, he is Balun’

‘Your Aboriginal names? And where do you come from, your people I mean?’

‘We are Ngarrindjeri people, we fish Karangka, the ocean and collect from the land.’

‘Karrrenka?’

Allambee smiled at Edward’s clumsy pronunciation.

‘Karangka, is like the water’s neck, where it joins the ocean.’

‘You mean the mouth? The Murray, the river mouth?’ Edward smiled at the memory of the wild ocean beyond the sand dunes. Allambee nodded, his eyes misting over as he spoke of hunting.

‘Sometimes there, sometimes other places. We move to the food, but not far.’

The conversation was a turning point for both Allambee and Edward, Allambee gradually became more and more open about his culture, Edward increasingly intrigued by the way of life the boy described. He liked Allambee’s view of the land, harsh and unrelenting but also giving and sustaining. Initially, Balun remained distant, unsure about this white man wanting to know of his people’s traditions; such talk was banned at the Mission. It was Rosalind who brought him from his shell. All it took was the offer of cake. Munching through the crusty icing Balun offered her the first real grin Edward had seen on the boy’s face. He and Rosalind glanced at each other, longing in their eyes. It felt good to guide and care for these boys. One day they hoped to do the same with a child of their very own.

Next Chapter: Chapter Fourteen: A resolution of friends