The Cedar Cutter (10 page)

The Paterson bullocky called for bets and Carrick eased his way to the front of the group.

‘Heads.' He reached into his pocket and handed over a shilling.

The coins twirled and fell and he pocketed his winnings, ignoring the mumbled discontent. The ringie handed him the kip with a sly grin. He shook his head. The Paterson boys liked control of the game. What were they up to? He tossed back the remains of his rum. Why the hell not? Slinger wasn't around; perhaps it was their way of making peace.

He gave a curt nod and took the cedar chip. The ringie placed the coins tails up on the kip, balancing the pennies on the slim piece of wood, the shiny, polished heads down, the dark tail side up. Carrick settled the coins and gauged the distance around the small circle. If the coins fell outside the circle the toss wouldn't count. If he tossed it too low they'd call foul. If he didn't toss heads his chance was over. The circle closed in. The heat from the fire singed the backs of his legs. He flicked the kip and the coins circled high, almost as high as the roof, then twirled and fell.

‘Foul.'

‘Goin' to have to try a bit harder than that.'

‘Only good with an axe, are you?'

He tossed again, the coins glittered and twisted in the light from the fire and landed with a soft thud on the mat.

‘Tails.'

Carrick shrugged his shoulders and handed back the kip. He'd stick with a few more bets then call it quits. He picked up his tankard and staggered over to the bar. ‘Fill 'er up, Maisie.'

‘How much did you have afore you got 'ere? What's got your goat?'

He slouched against the bar. None of her business if he wanted to drown his sorrows. Better do it here than in the forest, where he had to keep his wits about him. The lass had got to him with her bright eyes and soft smile and the lad …

‘Here, wrap your face around that.' Maisie pushed the tankard across the bar. ‘Food's coming. You need it.'

‘Later. A couple more bets to cover me costs.'

‘Don't give me that rubbish. I know what those trees are worth. You're raking it in.'

All the money in the world couldn't replace what he'd lost. Jesus, he was maudlin tonight. He'd be crying in his drink before long, propped in the corner like some old-timer with nothing more than memories. He downed the rum, wiped his mouth and elbowed his way to the game once more, pulling a handful of coins out of his pocket, holding his hand high. A decent win always cheered a man. ‘Tails.'

‘Reckon you're goin' to win this one, do you?' The burly beefsteak ringie pushed his way to the front of the circle and stood next to him. ‘I'll take your bet.'

Carrick handed over his money. The two coins flew straight and high, twinkling in the firelight before landing with a soft thud, dark side up.

‘Heads,' the ringie called.

Heads? It wasn't heads. It was tails. A blind man could see that. If they'd landed heads the firelight would pick up the shiny side of the coin. ‘Tails. It was tails.' He bent down to point at the pennies and found himself spread-eagled on the mat. He was on his feet before he'd caught his breath, facing the leering crowd through a red mist. The men began stamping and the circle closed in as they sized him up. He spun around, sucking in a breath of the close air. The ringie's fist flew, filled his vision and hit bone. Blood gushed from his nose, salty and thick, spraying his face. He shook away the coppery tang wetting his chin, sticky against his teeth, and lowered his head, ready to charge. Hands grabbed his arms and held him firm.

‘Don't be an idiot.' The bullocky's voice hissed in his ear. ‘Call it quits. You haven't got a hope in hell.'

Carrick never gambled unless he knew he'd win, never fought unless he had to. Somehow events had spiralled out of control. ‘I'll give those cheatin' bastards …' He struggled. He'd flatten them, every one of them. Whatever happened to the luck of the Irish?

‘No you won't.' His feet lifted from the ground as the bullocky spun him around and away from the crowd. ‘Give it up. You can't take 'em all on.'

Beyond the heat of the fire the dull-red mist cleared and Carrick let his shoulders drop. The crowd around the game closed ranks and the coins flew again. ‘I'd like to.'

‘Yeah well sometimes it's better to step back. You've had too much to pack a decent punch.'

The cold air hit him as they stumbled outside. ‘Where's the rest of the crew when I needed them? Could have done with some backup in there.' He yanked down his shirt and staggered a step or two, blinking owlishly, trying to make out the camp. Christ, how much had he drunk? The rum whirled in his head, clouding it, churning in his belly and sickening him.

‘There's food down at the camp.'

‘Thought you were after Maisie's stew.'

‘Got our own. Scored some corned beef while you were busy with your lady friend.'

He couldn't remember when he'd last eaten, save for the scones the lovely Roisin had made before she'd kicked him out. He took a swipe at an overhanging branch. The young lad had brought back the pain, sharpened it. The loss cut worse than before. When he went home to Ireland he'd search out that maggot and give him a dose of his own medicine, even if it meant a trip back in irons. Who the hell cared?

Carrick woke with his head splitting fit to bust and a mouth parched as the brook in drought. Lying in the back of the bullock dray, the banging and crashing over the rough track turned to anvils in his head, thumping like the very demons of hell. He squinted up. Glimpsed through the treetops the sky was nothing more than a narrow shard of blue, no horizon, yet the light still scored his eyeballs. He'd not be touching the rum for a while—the drink of the devil. The bullocky flicked the tip of his whip in the air. ‘Gee up lads.' The dray lurched, turning off the road back into the forest, while Carrick sat nursing a sore head full of maudlin thoughts of a life once lived.

Clouds appeared without warning, billowing, bringing the damp scent of the forest. More than anything else the smell and the pungent sweetness of the cedar mixed with damp earth, rotting leaves and campfire smoke told Carrick they'd arrived. The deep glistening green of damp ferns and creepers, the dusty grey and blue of the eucalypts and the raw crimson of the split and bleeding cedar heart. He'd like to crawl into one of the dark gullies and crevices where the sun never shone. The wind thrummed through the trees, drowning the babble of the creek and the thump of the wallabies and roos as they swept through the undergrowth.

A rumbling groan and an ear-splitting crack signalled the fall of a tree, then the hush followed as though the world mourned the loss of another giant. He mourned the loss of a brief and tantalising gander of another life, not populated by rum, sweat and muscle-grinding agony, but clean linen, scones and tea, and most especially the smile of an Irish beauty and a little lad who'd captured his heart.

Stuck in the forest he laboured from dawn to dusk, chopping and sawing until his body screamed for rest and he collapsed under a canvas strung in some scooped-out clearing. Despite the hardship, the leeches, mosquitoes and ticks, he'd found a kind of peace mixing with resilient men. Men like Slinger. They'd formed a team long before either of them had been granted freedom, their axe blows timed in perfect rhythm and their bodies balanced against the huge crosscut saws alternating in the pits.

The hard-living cutters drank more, swore more and fought more than most, but they measured themselves against the giant trees, not against each other when they collected around the campfire at night. None of the drunken shenanigans that pitted crew against crew down at the inn.

He eased closer to the light of the fire and rubbed the handful of sand from the creek bed over a piece of cedar.

Slinger squatted down beside him. ‘Here, just use another piece of cedar. Rub 'em together. It'll work as well if not better.'

Carrick took the offered cedar chip and rubbed it against the wood block that would form the base of the box he had in mind.

‘What're you making?'

‘A box—a treasure box.' He picked up an identically sized piece and balanced it on the first. ‘There's the lid.' Beside him the pile of smoothed-off cuts lay like jigsaw pieces. This box would have compartments and lids and all the things that might take the fancy of someone keen on collecting treasures.

‘You're planning on taking to the high seas, become a pirate? I'd have pegged you for a bushranger first.'

‘Nah! It's for the lad.' Although with a bit of imagination it would make a fine pirate's chest.

‘The lad—ah. The lad that belongs to the lovely lady who's caught your fancy. The quickest way to a woman's heart is through her children.'

And the quickest way to shrivel a man's heart was to lose a child and the darling of his heart. ‘And how would you be knowing that?'

Slinger threw him a wink. ‘Here, give me the other piece, I'll do it for you. Then you'll need some beeswax. Make the colour shine through. And if this is a success maybe we'll be chippies when we give up the cutting.'

‘You might get your wish sooner than you think. There's not much left around here worth cutting.'

He rubbed the beeswax into the timber and watched the colour change until it was almost as though he was running his fingers through her hair.

Roisin's needle dipped and bobbed through the material, the stitches forming a pleasing, fine straight line. The comfort of the repetitive movements and the knowledge they would result in something worthwhile gave her enormous pleasure. This would be her first piece of work in Wollombi.

As pleased as she was with her new home, she missed the safety and security of Aunt Lil's, the companionship. The incessant banter and babble of the girls as they prepared for the night and their raucous, outrageous jokes. Their descriptions of the men who crossed the threshold always made her laugh. Sharp and accurate character sketches summed up in a single sentence or even simply a word. What would they make of Carrick? A smile flitted across her face. There would be no complaint about his physical prowess, his laughing eyes and playful manner, yet there was the tender, caring side; they wouldn't see that, and overlying it all the lingering sadness in his eyes that spoke of pain and loss. She shouldn't have sent him on his way. It was a foolish overreaction that had spoiled Ruan's fun. Not only that, she'd have to ask Maisie to find someone to deliver timber.

It had been the egg in the woodshed that had raised her hackles, or was it her reaction to the comfort of his arms, so strong and secure. Ruan continued to find all kinds of bits and pieces as though they'd been left deliberately as a gift. How did they get there? Carrick was the only person she could imagine doing such a thing, but he was long gone back to his forest and the lure of the giant cedars.

The log spat and sent a flurry of orange-and-red stars chasing their way up the chimney. Roisin lowered her sewing and stared into the flames. Carrick had seen loss, great loss, someone close to him. That she knew with a deep certainty. The sadness that welled in his eyes when he looked at Ruan made her heart twist. She blew out the candle and sat in the dwindling light of the fire, tears burning her eyes. She'd never get over the ache of losing her mother. Nigh on eight years might be long enough for some, but not for her. Strange that Ruan should be the result of that dreadful night. If anything happened to Ruan it would destroy her. Hadn't that very fear started her on this mad journey? To live with such pain would be worse than death itself.

Leaving the fire she climbed the ladder, sticking her head through the trapdoor into the attic. From her perch on the top rung, Ruan's face in the shaft of moonlight was serene and peaceful, a slight smile tilting his lips as he cradled the fragile blue egg to his chest. His gentle breathing proving her fears were groundless, unfounded. His days brimmed with adventures and exploration. His incessant questions, his ever-growing box of treasures that he studied, polished and rearranged. Seeing his head bent in concentration over the table brought a tug to her heart. When the new year came and he turned seven, she'd send him to school.