Matilda's Last Waltz (6 page)

‘Pull yourself together,' she muttered. ‘It's probably more scared than Lady after all that noise, and long gone by now.'

She settled her hat firmly over her forehead and hitched her belongings over her shoulder as she took stock of her situation. The elliptical rise of blue-grey the Aborigines called Tjuringa mountain was closer now. Wilga lay on the other side of the eucalyptus and pine-covered mountain but she knew it would take many hours' walking before she would catch first sight of it.

With a trembling sigh she scanned the horizon. Lady was gone but there was still no sign of Mervyn. Matilda lifted her chin and set out. There was water at the foot of Tjuringa, and shelter. If she could make it by nightfall, then she could rest.

*   *   *

Mervyn was driven by fear and uncertainty as to how much of a start she'd had on him. He dug in his spurs and the horse lengthened its stride, nimble feet racing over the hard, unforgiving ground. The sun was high, and after they'd been travelling for several hours, he knew the brumby was close to exhaustion. He'd ridden hard yet there was still no sign of her, still no dust plume following her trail. He reined in and slid from the saddle.

He could have done with a proper drink but water from the skin bag would have to do. Swilling the leather-tainted water around his mouth, he let it soak into his dry tongue before swallowing it. Then he filled his hat and offered it to the horse. The animal drank deeply, its sides still heaving from the ride, its neck flecked with sweat. When they had both had enough to keep them going, Mervyn rammed the wet, cool hat back on his head and led the horse forward. He would walk for a while in the animal's shade, and once they'd reached the water hole at the base of Tjuringa, they could cool off and drink all they wanted.

Flies swarmed as heat rebounded off the rough shale and jagged boulders. A hawk floated above the shimmering grassland, an effortless predator in search of prey. Mervyn's thoughts were grim. Not for him the easy hunt or far-seeing eye of a hawk, but the endless trudge beneath a burning sun for a quarry that had so far out-witted him. The thought of how he would punish her when he did find her was what kept him going. That – and the fear of discovery.

His mind wandered back to Gallipoli. Back to the night he'd crept from the stinking hole in the ground that had become a graveyard for so many of his mates. The night discovery had been averted by his quick thinking and cunning.

He'd been in the thick of things for months, and the blast and crump of Turkish shells jangled in his mind long after the barrage was over. He'd twitched from it, relived every sight and sound of the carnage they had just come through. The stink of cordite and blood was always with him – as was the terror. It made him sweat and shake and cringe in the mud. Maddened him with a claustrophobic panic he could no longer control.

Mervyn remembered how he'd slipped away under cover of darkness, the survivors around him muttering in their sleep, rifles hugged to their chests for comfort. He'd scurried through the trenches, working his way further and further from the front line and certain death. Like a hunted animal, he'd searched for a bolt-hole, the merest shelter where the shells couldn't find him and death no longer rode his back.

Skirting the command post which nestled in a sheltered basin several hundred yards from the beach head, he'd finally found what he'd been looking for. He crawled past a dead body that must have been overlooked by the medics and into a narrow, dank cave where he slumped to the ground, hands over his head, knees drawn to his chin.

Sporadic fire echoed in the walls around him, making him whimper and cringe. He wanted it to go away – to leave him be. He couldn't bear it any longer.

He didn't hear the scrape of boots on the cavern floor or see the soldier's approach.

‘Get up, you lousy coward.'

Mervyn looked up. A bayonet was inches from his face. ‘Leave me,' he pleaded. ‘I can't go back up there.'

‘Dirty yellow dingo! I oughta shoot you right here and let you rot.' The bayonet stabbed the air between them. ‘On yer feet.'

Mervyn's head was filled with a red haze. Terror of the trenches became secondary to the threat he now faced. The court martial would be swift, the firing squad a certainty. He was cornered. All he could do was attack – and before he realised what he was doing, the rifle he'd carried against the enemy was firing at a fellow Aussie.

The retort bounced off the walls and filled his head. A dull thud in his knee brought him to the floor and he lay stunned for a long moment, wondering what had happened. When the red mist cleared and his senses stopped jangling, he looked across the enclosed space.

The other man was down, rifle discarded beside him. There was no movement, no sound of breathing, and as Mervyn crawled towards him, he realised why. The man had no face. Mervyn's bullet had blown it away.

He inspected his own wound, the horror of what he'd done wiping away the fear and pain, bringing instead a cold calculation of what to do next. The other man's bullet had shattered his knee and driven up into his thigh before punching a hole in his hip. The pain would soon be all-consuming and the blood loss much too rapid for him to stay here any longer.

He eyed the dead soldier. He was small and lightly built. Shouldn't pose too much of a problem. Coming to a swift decision, Mervyn grabbed him and slung him over his shoulder. Using his rifle as a walking stick, he hobbled to the mouth of the cave. Guns were still going off on the Turkish side, lights still flickered in the hospital tent, and the command centre was alive with scurrying runners and shouted orders.

Mervyn hitched the man from his shoulder to his back, looping the dead arms around his neck, grasping the lifeless hands to his throat. He would make a perfect shield if a stray bullet came over the hill.

The steep climb down to the hospital tent had been agonising, but his arrival amongst the chaos had a gratifying effect – just as he'd known it would. He was the returning hero. Wounded, he'd risked his life for a cobber. He'd almost laughed when they solemnly told him his mate was dead, and looked at him with pity.

Mervyn came back to the present and stared into the sun. They'd given him a medal, and after many months in hospital, his ticket home. Luck and cunning had saved him that night, just as they would now – for there on the horizon was Lady.

He smiled as the grey mare galloped up to him. Catching the dangling reins, he remounted the brumby and spurred him into a gallop. If Matilda had been thrown, it wouldn't take long to find her.

*   *   *

With the sinking of the sun came the long, cool shadows, and with stumbling relief Matilda thrust her way through the clinging undergrowth and sought shelter beneath the canopy of trees. It hurt to breathe, to move, even to think. She was exhausted.

The bush sounds were all around her as she leaned against a tree trunk for a moment's respite, but it was the splash and trickle of water that drew her on again. There was no time to rest but she could wash and refill the water bag before moving on and the thought of that cold clean mountain fall revived her flagging spirits.

The waterfall began high up in the mountain, gushing down, gathering other springs along the way, until it fell hundreds of feet into the rocky valley below. Yet, as Matilda finally emerged from the dense, green light of the hinterland, she realised it was sadly depleted by the lack of rain. The water that trickled down the worn, glistening rocks was barely enough to fill the pools below. Great tree roots lay in naked arthritic tangles where once they'd been submerged. Forest ferns drooped scorched fronds, and thick ropes of withered ivy hung listlessly from creaking, parched wattle and King Billy pines.

Matilda climbed down to a broad, flat stone that jutted above one of the rock pools, and pulled off her boots. She didn't bother to undress, she was filthy and so were the remains of her clothes. As she lowered herself into the icy water, she shivered with pleasure. The blisters on her feet would soon heal, the scorch of the sun on her exposed arms would soon turn brown.

She closed her eyes and held her nose, then sank below the surface of the water. The dirt and sweat lifted away. The pain between her legs dulled in the icy caress. Her hair floated and her parched skin was replenished.

Emerging with a gasp, she cupped her hands and drank deeply before refilling the water bag. The birds which had fallen silent on her arrival were now in full song, and she gazed up into the surrounding trees. This had always been a special place. A place where Mary had told her about unicorns and fairies and the little people she'd called leprechauns. As Matilda looked around her, she could almost believe they existed – but harsh reality had a way of making such stories a nonsense.

She dragged herself reluctantly from the water and pulled on her boots. Wincing as the leather caught the angry blisters, the pain was not enough to daunt her – not after what she'd suffered in the past few hours – and she snatched up the bag and shawl bundle and headed deeper into the bush. It was a faster route through it than around it, and if she kept heading south she would come out on the crest above Wilga.

By the time she emerged from the humid green shadows and into the dying sunlight, she was sweating profusely. Yet she felt a jolt of achievement as she looked down on the great sweep of Wilga's pastures, and the thin spiral of smoke from the homestead on the horizon. She'd almost made it.

As the stands of trees grew sparse and the sun dipped even lower in the sky, Matilda picked her way over the tumble of boulders at the foot of Tjuringa. The water bag was heavy on her shoulder, the bundle cumbersome as she slid and stumbled over the loose, treacherous ground, but she had no thought of discarding either – they were precious. Creatures scuttled and slithered from beneath the rocks as she disturbed their late-afternoon slumber and the laughing jackass mocked her progress, but finally she reached flatter ground and stopped for a moment to catch her breath and take a drink.

It was almost twilight, and Wilga homestead was at least another three hours' walk away but she had to dredge deep to find the strength to carry on. Mervyn might have come across Lady and could be just a few miles behind her.

Thudding the stopper back into the neck of the water bag, she stepped out on to the plains and headed for the wisp of smoke on the horizon.

Time lost all meaning as she walked. She was aware only of the deepening shadows and the glimmer of Wilga homestead in the distance. Her boots scuffed the dry earth and silver grass as her thoughts centred on Tom and April Finlay.

Tom Finlay's family had owned Wilga for years. Old man Finlay had passed on a few months after his wife. Now Tom was married and ran the property with his wife. Matilda hadn't seen him in a long while – not since Mum got sick and Mervyn refused to let him visit. Yet she knew she would find shelter at Wilga. She and Tom had grown up together, and although he was several years older, Matilda knew he regarded her as the sister he'd never had.

She remembered him as a skinny boy who'd teased her mercilessly about her mother calling her Molly. What kind of name was that? he'd asked as he'd pulled her hair. But as they'd grown older, his tugs weren't quite so hard and he'd agreed that her pet name suited her. For Matildas were supposed to be rather stern people, not larrikins who climbed trees and played in the dust with their hair in their eyes.

Matilda smiled, despite her fear and weariness. How right he'd been, she thought. Great Aunt Matilda was very starched and proper if her portrait was anything to go by. No wonder her mother had changed her mind once her baby began to display less than immaculate behaviour.

A familiar sound disturbed her thoughts and in sharp anticipation she looked around.

The drum of hoofbeats vibrated in the ground, and there, far behind her, was the unmistakable blur of a horse and rider. At last. Someone had seen her and was coming to help.

She waved. ‘I'm here. Over here,' she called.

Her cries went unacknowledged but the horse kept coming.

Matilda shivered as the first tingle of unease crept over her. There were two horses but only one rider. She took a step back. Then another. And as the outlines sharpened, the dread returned. There was no mistaking the solid figure on the back of the chestnut or the grey lumbering outline of Lady.

She began to run.

The sound of hooves grew closer. Wilga seemed an impossible distance away.

The adrenaline pumped as Matilda raced through the long grass. Her boots slipped and tripped over the uneven ground. Her hat flew off and dangled down her back. But her eyes were fixed on that distant glimmer that was her refuge. She had to make it. Her life depended on it.

The thundering hooves slowed to a steady walk.

She dared not look round, but guessed he was a couple of hundred yards away, playing with her as a cat toyed with a mouse, teasing, provoking, but all the while menacing. A sob of desperation mingled with the gasp as she stumbled again. He was waiting for her to fall. Waiting his moment. They both knew she couldn't outrun him.

The pastures stretched endlessly before her, the long grass hampering her escape, the earth seemingly set on making her stumble. Yet she found the strength to stay on her feet and keep going. The alternative was too awful to contemplate.

The steady plod of hooves followed her – never gaining but always there. She heard the soft, malicious chuckle and the jingle of harness. It spurred her on.

The homestead was nearer now, she could even catch a shimmer of light in one of the windows, and Mervyn wouldn't dare hurt her once she reached the fire-break that surrounded the property.

As her feet pounded over the earth, she searched desperately for a sign of life – of confirmation that someone was out there and would see her. Where was Tom? Why had no one come to help?

The pursuing drumbeat gathered pace. Nearer and nearer, its approach filled the world with its sound until there was nothing else.