A Waltz for Matilda (27 page)

The wind buffeted Matilda again, coming in a great wave of heat and burning leaves up the track. Once again she almost fell. By the time she was steady the air had cleared.

She blinked, not quite believing it. Beside her Tommy stared upward, his face intent, so fascinated it was almost as though he had forgotten the danger. ‘The updraught,’ he yelled. ‘It’s taking the smoke away. Isn’t it incredible?’

She nudged him, and pointed, down toward the road. Mr Sampson was right. The fire was coming up through the cliffs now, running fast uphill. Trees burst into flame even before the wall of fire reached them. Even the ground seemed to burn.

Already Mr Sampson and Elsie were running toward the flames. As she watched they began to beat the ground with their branches, and beat out the burning bark on the trunks of trees as well. To her surprise the flames vanished where the green branches lashed them.

Impossibly the sheep had pushed further up into the gorge behind the house. Their bleats of terror were part of the shriek of the wind, the deeper roar of the fire. Hey You ran along the rough fence in front of them, yapping and nipping, keeping them bunched up and out of everyone’s way.

Someone touched her shoulder, briefly. She glanced at Tommy, his scar flame-red in the glare of fire. He gestured to the house, as though to say he would help Auntie Love put out the spot fires there. She nodded. There was no time to talk; almost no air to breathe.

Matilda ran toward the Sampsons, and began to beat the ground too.

Time lost meaning. Her body seemed to vanish. There was only the fire, snickering through the grass, leaping into the trees, flaring from branch to branch. If you could kill the fire around the tree you could leave the top to burn itself out.

Dimly she was aware of Tommy yelling from the house, of Auntie Love lugging buckets through the smoke. It was thicker again now, the burning grass and trees here in the valley filling the world with grey.

Was the house alight? There was no red glare up there, just the trees like giant candles, flaring above the screaming sheep. But at least the fire had only spread a few yards into the gorge. So far, at least, they had kept it back.

How long could they hold it? She didn’t know, couldn’t think, not in this heat, this glare. All she could do was lash with her branch, over and over, one tussock out and then another, one tree after another …

Her body longed for air, for water, for a time of cool and peace. But there was only heat and flame, the trees like wild torches in the air, smoke so thick it was almost like breathing ash, the wind strong enough to keep you upright if you leaned against it.

Then it was gone. The wind was gone. She waited for it to
eddy back. But slowly the valley began to fill with air again — real air that you could see through. Air that you could breathe.

The wind had changed direction. She leaned on her branch, gasping at the fresh air, feeling it seep into her body. The grass in front was black, but it no longer burned. The tops of a few trees still glowed, but that was all.

She glanced up at the cliffs. Trees shone there too, like strange red skeletons against a black sky. Beside her Mr Sampson leaned over, gasping for breath. Elsie stood next to him, her chest heaving.

She turned herself around again, and ran panting back up to the house. It was still standing. Tommy’s face peered from the door, his eyes strangely white in an ash-grey face.

‘It’s all right,’ he gasped. ‘The shingles caught alight. But we got them. Auntie Love an’ me. We got them out.’

She looked up. Perhaps a quarter of the roof was gone, the edges blackened. Another hole sagged further along.

But the main frame of the house was safe. The sheep were safe. And Tommy, Auntie Love, the Sampsons and she were alive.

She staggered toward one of the buckets. They were empty. Of course they would be empty. She wondered if she had the strength to get to the spring; she felt Tommy press a mug of water into her hands. She drank, and felt the water soothe her mouth and throat.

She leaned against the wall, gradually feeling her energy come back. Vaguely, she was aware of Tommy, lugging a bucket from the spring; of Mr Sampson and Elsie, drinking beside her; and of Auntie Love incongruously sitting in her accustomed chair on the verandah, as though none of it had happened.

But it had. She looked around at her house, her poor dear house, with its sagging, blackened roof; at the sheep now out of
their rough pen and milling, terrified and baaing; at the scar of black across her valley; and at the fire trees still flaming up on the ridges.

But the sky showed a thread of blue now. She sniffed the wind. It smelled moister, softer: a wind from the southern snows.

She looked down at Auntie, saw her nod, agreeing with the question she hadn’t asked.

‘It’ll blow the fire the other way,’ said Tommy hoarsely. ‘We’re safe now, ain’t we?’

Mr Sampson nodded. He looked at Matilda, his expression as always impenetrable.

‘What’s wrong? There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’

‘Fire’s heading to Drinkwater now.’

She stared at him. He had spent his life at Drinkwater, tending their sheep, knowing its land. ‘They have enough men to stop it, don’t they?’

He shook his head. ‘Fire-front will be too big to stop in open country. They’ll burn a firebreak around the house to keep it and the buildings safe. That’s what we did last time.’

‘What about the sheep?’

His face twisted. ‘They won’t have expected the wind change. They’ll bring in what they can. No time to get the rest, not the ones up this far. They’ll —’ He stopped, as though unable or unwilling to say the rest.

The sheep. The stupid, impossible, trusting sheep. The sheep who followed you, who’d die wool-blind if they weren’t shorn, who’d die if they weren’t dagged and dipped.

She looked out at her own sheep still huddled together, aware that there had been danger, but not understanding what. Hey You still crouched nearby, keeping them clustered as far up the valley as possible.

What happened to a sheep in a fire? Did they die of heat or smoke? Or did they burn? She felt weak at what she didn’t know, at what hadn’t happened here.

‘We have to help the Drinkwater sheep.’ She looked urgently at Mr Sampson, then at Auntie Love. ‘Could we herd them up here?’

Mr Sampson shook his head. ‘They’ve never been up here. Reckon they won’t go now, when they’re scared. Have to push them down toward the homestead.’

Elsie nodded. Matilda looked over at Auntie Love.

The old woman stared out at the fire-blackened ground. ‘Fire won’t have reached the river yet. Can push ‘em down that way.’

Tommy stared. ‘Matilda, you can’t face that again. You owe Drinkwater nothing.’

She took his scarred hand in hers, felt the shock run through his body. ‘Tommy, it’s the sheep. We can’t just let them die.’

‘You’ll risk yourself for a mob of sheep?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

The land was black. Her feet would hurt, if she let herself feel pain.

She suspected the moistness in her boots was blood or broken blisters, not perspiration. Above her the burning trees still flickered; the leaves had vanished, only the bark and branches were left to burn. But the trunks were strangely solid — marked by fire, but standing.

The wind brushed hot again against her face, and once she had to bat away a burning leaf. The fire was a wall of flame and smoke behind them. But this time she had put herself in its path.

She refused to feel the pain on her face either. Tommy walked on one side of her, Mr Sampson, Elsie and Auntie Love on the other. Somehow Auntie Love had made Hey You stay behind, keeping the sheep penned in the gorge. They should be safe even if the fire swung back, thought Matilda. It had left its own firebreak behind it.

They were off Moura land now. All of Moura except the
valley had burned; Heenans’ too, she supposed. This part of Drinkwater had burned as well.

But down toward the river the trees were still green. There would be sheep down there; sheep who would be trapped between the fire and the river if a human didn’t tell them what to do.

Suddenly she saw what happened when sheep burned. This mob must have run together in their panic. Now they lay in a curious clump, most of the wool intact. Only the flesh had burned — the fat, the bones. A single sheep a little way away had done the opposite: the wool had burned, leaving the skin stretched and black and bare, the teeth revealed, yellow and white. A two-tooth, she thought automatically, then forced her mind away.

Were they insane, trying to beat the flames behind them? The heat has turned my brains, she thought. I should be back home, with my own flock. What if the wind turns again?

Something moved. For a moment Matilda thought part of the black earth had come to life again, then she realised they were live sheep, their fleeces dark with soot, the only colour the red of their eyes. About six of them clustered together, panting, so dazed they moved obediently as one when Elsie shoved her branch at them, driving them down toward the river.

Had the sheep outrun the fire? Impossible to tell.

It was strange, crossing from the land claimed by the fire into the unburned country; it looked as though a giant had drawn a line across the land, and coloured the world black on one side of it. Below them the river twisted, glinting between the trees. Matilda hesitated. The Drinkwater sheep could be anywhere between here and the river.

‘We’d better split up. We can round up more of them that way.’

Mr Sampson nodded. ‘You and the boy go down to the river. We go up this way.’ He gestured into the land of smoke and blackness. ‘Sheep get scared, they can run all over the place.’

Even as he said it, Matilda realised Mr Sampson was giving her the safest route to Drinkwater. If the flames hit them she and Tommy could wade out into the water. But it made sense too. He and Elsie and Auntie Love knew this land, could find their way even in the smoke.

She glanced at Tommy. He had come out to help her. Now she was asking him to risk his life just for some sheep. He didn’t even like sheep. He smiled at her.

It was a smile that said: ‘I know what this means to you. I am here.’

She wished she had something to say in return. Or perhaps, she thought, Tommy knows just by looking at me too.

Then suddenly the others were gone, invisible in the haze. She prayed Auntie Love was all right. Surely the native woman, of all people, could find safety if she was unable to keep going.

Matilda ran down toward the river, Tommy at her side. The smoke gusted and eddied about her. Suddenly she saw the first lot of sheep, a dozen at least, standing dazed and terrified under one of the big gums; the blackened sheep they were already leading trotted toward their companions.

‘Come on! Get on with you! Harrup!’

The sheep gazed at her, bewildered by the familiar human yells from someone who wasn’t on horseback. They were used to being herded, but not by her.

‘You go behind them,’ she yelled to Tommy. ‘I’ll stop them breaking back uphill.’ The stupid creatures were as likely as anything to head right into the fire.

She spread out her arms and the singed branch. ‘Go on! Garrrrnnn!’

The sheep began to run. They’re not running just from me, she thought. They were spooked by the wind and smoke, and happy for an excuse to run from it.

More sheep joined the mob. She trotted on one side of them, Tommy bringing up the rear, yelling and waving their arms each time the terrified animals tried to scatter. Now and then the sheep tried to break toward the river, panting.

She was afraid they would collapse if they didn’t drink — but even more afraid of the flames surging across the land toward them if she let them stop.

She peered up the slope, hoping to see a glimpse of Auntie Love or the Sampsons. But even the slight hill up from the river hid them from view. She looked back at Tommy. He gave her his twisted grin and a thumbs-up sign.

The wind was roaring again. It had shifted once more and was no longer just from the south: gusts like blows now came from one direction then another. A fire wind, she thought.

Where were the flames now? She tried to think. They had been behind her when they started out. But with the changing winds the fire could be uphill from them or even in front … She shut her mind to that. Going forward was their only hope.

About a hundred sheep bleated and stumbled in front of them now, some black, others still dusty grey. They ran almost like one animal, their woolly backs rippling over the ground. Now and then one would break away, then come running back to be with the mob. It was as though the herd had one mind only and one thought too:
stay together, stay together.
They would follow whatever she and Tommy signalled now.

Once again time vanished. There was just the ground, the gusts of wind, the rolling formless mob, her feet, one step after another. Her world was sheep and gasping breaths. Got to keep going, going, going …

The wind battered her, feeding on the fire’s heat, growing stronger and stronger still. For a moment she thought she might fall, then Tommy’s arm was around her waist, helping her stay upright. They staggered together, supporting each other, the strength of two against the wind. The sheep would keep running now till someone — or something — stopped them.