HOW THE DAYS PASS BY AT KALOONA
The long days of early summer went by on Kaloona Station. While the
last stars were leaving the sky, Jackie, the black horse-tailer, let
down the slip-rails of the house paddock and cantered into the dusk,
whip in hand, the sound of his horse dying slowly and solemnly in
the distance. The stars would faint, the first glow of dawn would
spread behind the trees upon the river, one or two birds would tune
their throats a little while. Light would grow. Presently, advancing
horse-bells cried across the distance, Jackie's whip banged out in the
stillness, and the thud of many hoofs striking the ground rumbled from
afar. With a brave chiming of bells, the horses would come home.
Mrs. Elliott, the cook, and Maggie, the maid of all other work, arose
betimes on these long days. There was much to do. Mr. Power would come
looking for breakfast; breakfast called for a lighted fire. There was
the woodbox to visit, and horrid little Scandalous Jack to dress down
should it be empty. Mrs. Elliott, ample and beaming, and very gay when
you knew her well, pushed her stout leg from the sheets of a morning
while the world was still grey. "Come on, Meg; it's time we was moving."
The place was well awake when the sun looked over the edge of the
plain; a clatter going forward in the kitchen, the parrots whistling in
their cage by the window, the gins yabbering at the doorway of their
hut, the voices of men raised down at the yards. There Power gave
O'Neill the orders for the day, and Scandalous Jack moved everywhere,
full of importance and loud talk. The horses stood in the yard, and a
man or two went about the morning feed.
Kaloona stands upon the river in a noble stretch of timbered country.
The timber shelters the homestead on three sides, and falls back to the
brink of the water. At high noon on a summer day you will find cool
places under the trees where a man may lie in fair content. There is
always a bird or two flitting among the boughs, with a bright call in
his bill.
Very fair grows Kaloona by moonshine or by starshine on summer nights;
the water sleeping, the night loud with insect voices, the sound of
splashes in the shadows.
Summer finds it a fair spot; but winter brings it loveliness with both
hands. The breath of the frost comes down at night, and sends a man
abroad at dawn blowing his fingers, and throwing an eye to the East
for the lie-a-bed sun. It comes at last, big and red, tumbling over
the country in long jolly beams. Now in tree and bush begin the birds,
calling, whistling, crying, mocking. The pelican is pouting his breast
in the river, and the spoonbill shovels in the mud.
After breakfast comes the saddling up, and many a clever rider can lose
his seat when the frost is in the air and the young horses leave the
yards.
Spring is nigh as lovely. The parrot flashes his colours in the sun,
the bright-breasted finches swing in the bushes. The slim black
cockatoo sweeps overhead, and the sulphur-crest screams in the high
branches. A fair spot is Kaloona by the river.
Life has ups and downs there. Much work there is to do sometimes--hard
days in the saddle, with short rations now and then, and a bed at
the end under the sky. Slack times come in their turn, when the
hours arrive empty-handed--and those first long summer days, when
the musterers had come back from Morning Springs, supplied little
employment after the bustle round in the morning. It was the season
for a man to look about and put himself in repair; mend his whip, teach
his dog manners, patch his boots and the like. When the sun was in the
middle of the sky, and the iron roofs of the homestead and the huts
cracked out loud in the heat, a man could lie on his back and smoke a
pipe, and so find content until evening.
It was never Power's way to hang about the homestead, unless work kept
him there; but some evil spell had fallen on him these latter times,
causing him to prowl at home at idle end. He grew crotchety these
days, hard to please and poorly pleased even when things were well.
There were mornings when he saddled a horse and rode over to Surprise,
returning as gloomy as he went, and again, as evening came on, he rode
away, leaving those behind him to guess his errand.
"Mrs. Elliott," said Maggie one breakfast, putting her hands to her
hips and talking very straight, "the boss has turned cranky of a
sudden. There's no getting yes or no out of him. It's no good to me.
I'll be letting fly."
Mrs. Elliott gave answer. "Don't be in a flurry, Meg. All men are
alike. They get took that way now and then. They're as hard to get
forward sometimes as a full-mouthed ewe in the dipping yards. Don't
be too quick on him yet. Maybe he's fell out with Miss Neville at
Surprise, and is in the sulks."
Unlucky Scandalous pushed his face through the kitchen doorway. "What's
come to the boss of a sudden? He's as cross-grained as you like. Took
it out of me just now because he reckoned the place was untidy down
there."
"And a good thing too," said Mrs. Elliott, turning sharp about. "If you
spent more time on the woodheap, instead of sneaking up here minding
other people's business, you might be took up less often."
One morning at breakfast, when Mrs. Elliott had bustled to put
something special on the table and had not had "Good morning" for her
pains, as Power sat gloomy, despising his food and chewing thought, she
took him to task.
"Mr. Power," she said, putting down a new cup of tea, and taking up a
stand before him, "what's come on you that you give up the horses and
stand twiddling your thumbs?"
"There's no work outside."
"That's the first time that's ever been. What are them horses doing in
and out of the yards every day, and not a leg put across them?"
"It's too hot to ride about for nothing."
"Nothing? The best horses in the country hanging their heads because
nothing doing? I never heard of a run which wasn't the better for
looking after. Do you know what they say at Surprise? They say Simpson
gets half his meat uncommon cheap, so cheap that it only takes him a
quiet ride at times when Kaloona's asleep to fill his yards for the
morning. They say he is a quicker man at hiding a branded beast than
any feller on Kaloona is at finding one."
"I've heard that story. He doesn't get many, and he'll drop in in good
time."
But Mrs. Elliott had her way, though, like a wise woman, she raised
no flag of victory. Breakfast over, Power found the way to the yards,
caught a horse, saddled it, took a waterbag, some midday tucker and a
whip, and rode away at a foot pace across the plain. He spent all day
in far places, leaving the homestead when the sun was low, and finding
himself several miles away from home when the sun again was climbing
down the sky. He never pushed his horse beyond walking pace, but
neither did he rest it; and many miles were put behind before the day
was done. He passed from point to point, wherever there was water or
a clustering of timber, wherever there was chance of coming up with a
mob of cattle. He knew that wide country as another man knows the floor
of his office, and when he wished kept course as the arrow flies. Once
or twice he drew taut the rein, and stared at faint prints upon the
ground; and such halt might bring change of direction. He spent the
middle of the day on his back in a fair clump of timber, but saddled up
again while the sun was far up in the sky.
He judged it to be five o'clock at last, and he was still an hour's
ride from home. He was heated to his bones by the long journey in the
sun, the coat of his horse was curled with sweat; he was jaded, fagged
and thirsty.
He took his hat from his head, and pushed it between the surcingle and
the saddle. The sun was losing strength at last; a breeze was finding
the way from the South. His shadow and his horse's shadow were growing
longer; the crickets were tuning their orchestra against the evening,
but in spite of their shrill cries, the plain, which had been hushed
all day, had grown more hushed.
He looked again at the sun, which was a bare half-hour from its going
down. The red glare dazzled him, and when he dropped his eyes, the
white stones on the ground changed to blue. He looked up to get the
light from his eyes, and found he was passing under the crag of one
of those sudden hills which climb high out of the plain all over that
country. It stood above him, lofty, sheer and lonely, grass-covered for
a hundred feet of the journey, thence forward to the summit, piled
with immense bare boulders, carrying a few shrunken trees.
Looking up, a freak of mind urged him to stand on the highest point
there. He slacked rein and got to the ground. A bush stood convenient
to hand to secure the horse. He took off the saddle, and rubbed away
the saddle mark. Then he turned for the ascent.
The hill lifted up abruptly from the plain, several hundred feet
towards the sky. There was no gentle slope of beginning, and Power
began a heavy clamber over giant boulders, shabbily clad with coarse
clumps of grass. Immense fat spiders watched him from the middle of
giant webs strung from rock to rock, lizards and insects hurried in
and out of crevices, and shrill voices of crickets met him from above,
and came after him from below. The southern breeze was bolder as the
journey advanced. Half way up the steep, where the grassed boulders
ended and the bare rock began, he stood still for new breath. Already
he had gained a strange world, high out of the plain, and the horse was
far and puny, among the tumbled rocks, which broke like surf at the
foot of the hill.
The summit was high above him yet. He began the journey again, using
his hands as well as feet for the last pinch. He was on top at last--a
broad, flat space, where a little grass and a few bushes grew, with a
patch or two of fine sand among the tumble of rocks. On three sides the
hill fell down in steep faces, up one of which he had climbed; but to
the South it dropped sheer in a hundred foot precipice to grassed rocks
piled up to meet it. Because the sheerness of the fall fascinated, and
because that way the breeze blew steadily into his face, Power sat down
on the edge of the cliff, with the sun sinking on his right hand.
He who was so used to great distances was filled with wonder and
delight. He stared from his high seat. He looked upon an ocean torn up
in storm; but it was larger than the seas of his travels. The waves
of this ocean were hills cast up from the lap of the plain, as the
sea wave is scooped high up by the rage of winds. The resemblance was
exact. The country swept up and down for miles and tens of miles,
everywhere heaping up its waves and striking them immovable as they
leant to their fall. The mellow light of evening turned the bare
pasture into ocean green. Only was lacking the grind and swish of
waters in rage. It was ocean conceived by giant mind and struck still
by giant hand.
Presently, as the first wonder passed away, Power took the details
into his eye. It was not all green country on closer look. There were
patches of grey and patches of slate where the long sunbeams fell on
tall rock faces. There were veins of shining white quartz pushing from
the ground, hinting at unknown copper, which one day would be torn from
its hiding place. There were red patches of bare earth, which the green
seas were seeking to devour. There were greens and greener greens, but,
look ever so long, the effect of ocean remained.
It was far down there to the foot of the precipice and to the top of
the rocks; and there were other rocky places infinitely farther down,
as though making part of another world. Dwarf trees sucked a living
from them, and the sunbeams stole the roughness from their face. They
would be warm to the touch. At the mouth of every cleft and cave sat
a wallaby with pricked ears and black face, performing toilet before
moving abroad for the night. Sometimes the little beast sat on a point
of rock, holding paws neatly before him, squinting at the sun and
turning suddenly to nip his back. Not one took notice of the strange
man who watched from so far above.
Power was high up--high up. The tops of all those other hills were
nearer earth than he. There was nothing between him and the sky. Two
or three small birds, black with white tags to their tails, skimmed to
and fro overhead and twittered cheerily. Other birds were fluttering
and squabbling in the bushes, as though this hill was their nightly
bedchamber. Strange and happy thing a bird; able to choose its walks
on mountain or in meadow, able at will to breast fierce winds of high
places, or pipe a lay in gentle noontide bower. Strange and happy thing
a bird to throw care away, clap wings and seek new worlds.
Power was high up--high up, and only these skimming birds between him
and the sky. He had left the world behind him when he took in hand the
climb; but like a fool he had brought his bag of care slung upon a
shoulder. He had forgotten it a minute or two when first he looked from
here; but now he found it again, full stuffed to the throat.
How would this struggle end? Was he soon to perish in a tempest of
longing and self-hate? Was this thing called love? Did love stop the
clock of a man's day, and leave him to wag his hands like a dotard in
the chimney corner?...
Look again and again--the idea of ocean stayed with this wide scene.
For miles and tens of miles the waters heaped and fell. He had seen the
resemblance always, whenever he looked from one of the hilltops, and
the sight had pleased before. Now it annoyed. Why so? Easy the answer.
Torn sails and a banging rudder--a rage of winds and a lee shore--a
frowning night and an unknown port--that was a man's life....
The breeze was strong and cool up here--steady, straight-blowing from
the South. It passed across the hill and went on its way. The sun was
hurrying westward. Ah, to snatch wings from these skimming birds, and
ride with the breeze, or hurry on the heels of the sun as it brought
morning to new lands....
The sun was aged and kindly now; the great country was hushed. The
birds were at their good-night hymn, the insects accompanied it from
the ground. The little furry animals below were leaping from their
dens, and stretching limbs in the warmth. Peace everywhere but in
him. Fool! there was no peace down there. The birds made glad song as
they made supper; but what of the flies they hunted down? And were
those little beasts below better off? Somewhere the dingo yawned; and
the python waited at the waterhole. They might not all return in the
morning. What was happening to the tiny things which found a world in
the grasses and under the stones? Peace? It was like some fair face
from which you tore the loveliness to discover the skull behind....
The little black birds had flown away leaving him alone there. The
other birds in the bushes had given up their squabbles. In a minute
the sun would touch the horizon, and the sky would drink of his last
glances. There would be a brief darkening before the stars leapt into
their places. But he sat on, unready of purpose....
Why had he chosen to war with great forces? What was he better than a
herder of cattle, with few thoughts beyond the needs of the day? Such
terrors were gathered against him as might have assailed a prophet of
olden time, scowling at the mouth of his cavern.
There was a soul in the body, or why did he deny the pleadings of the
body? There was a soul in each body which endured while its house
rusted, a light burning steadily in a chamber While a storm outside
beat and aged the walls. Yet he could not deny the body to aid the soul.
His love for this young girl was like a great wind passing through a
house, clashing and clanging casements and doors. If he sheltered from
it assuredly he would perish. He would soon be ill in body as now he
was sick in mind. One hour a night he rode down to the Pool, and for
that one hour he endured the day.
She was making him mad. She walked with him on tops of mountains. She
led him by the hand into cavernous places awful with lightnings. She
sat on the lips of Spring, dropping blossoms through her fingers. She
was a perfume from the East. She was a wine from a land of grapes. The
dreams of a world looked from her eyes. The passions of a world waited
on her lips....
The sun had set and but a minute of time gone. In another such instant
darkness would have dashed a mantle round the earth, and the stars
would have leapt out of the sky. The way to the bottom was stony. He
must be home....
Day had done its business and departed, and he sat wringing hands as it
rushed away. Not again--if he would call himself man to-morrow.
Good-bye. It had a hollow sound. Good-bye--never again to see her. To
ride no more the road to the river. To forget October brought blossoms
to the castor-oil tree. To clap shut his ears when her voice called....
The descent was rougher than the climb. Was he bruising his hands
because the day had darkened, or because dark had come down on his
hope?...
Once more to saddle his horse. Once more to take the road to the Pool.
Once to say good-bye.