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[pg 179] 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.[pg 180] 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[pg 181] 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[pg 182] 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[pg 183] 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[pg 184]—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[pg 185] 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.[pg 186] 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[pg 187] 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 [pg 189]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.
