Flight of the Eagle (60 page)

The doctor washed his hands in an enamel basin of water beside the bed. ‘Why are you so quick to diagnose a native spell if I may ask, Missus Rankin?’ he questioned as he dried his hands on a clean cloth.

‘I saw her earlier in the evening before she retired for the night,’ Adele answered. ‘She was perfectly well then. But later I heard her calling out, as if she was arguing with someone in her room. I was naturally concerned that one of the stockmen might have entered the house. When I entered the room …’ She hesitated as she took the cloth from Sarah's brow to stare down at her. ‘I know what I am about to tell you, Doctor, you will consider the opinion of a silly woman. But I will tell you anyway.’

‘I doubt that I could ever consider you a silly and frivolous woman, Missus Rankin,’ he said with genuine respect, having heard of her reputation for practical toughness in her dealings with the sick and injured in these parts of the country.

‘Well, when I entered Sarah's room I swear there was a …’ She groped for the right words. ‘A presence … a ghost or spirit with us. I think it was her dead brother. I noticed that the girl was in an almost trance-like state and arguing as if her brother was as real as you and I.’

‘What was she arguing about?’ the doctor asked. He had to admit that he felt just the hint of primeval superstitious fear as she related her experience.

‘Not so much arguing as pleading with him for forgiveness. Forgiveness, I suspect, for admitting her love for Inspector James.’

‘But why should she need her brother's forgiveness?’ he queried, puzzled by the unexplainable events.

‘Inspector James killed her brother on Glen View last year. He was in pursuit of him and an old blackfella called Wallarie at the time.’

‘There is a school of thought around that the mind can suffer diseases like the body,’ the doctor rationalised. ‘I suspect Miss Duffy is under some kind of terrible delusion of guilt and in some way we do not yet understand this has manifested in her illness. I will admit that my premise on the matter is very thin but it's the only rational explanation I have at the moment.’

‘You may be right, Doctor Blayney,’ Adele replied but with a note of doubt in her voice. ‘But the girl is half-Darambal and her people have their own explanations as to what causes illness. Who is to say that they are wrong?’

‘The girl is also half-white,’ he chided gently. ‘I doubt that she would be subject to superstition. I am led to believe that she has had a very good European education. That should be reason enough not to succumb to the blackfella rot.’

‘It all depends to whom her spirit belongs,’ Adele said softly as she continued to gently stroke Sarah's long dark hair with her fingers. ‘To us, or to her Darambal blood.’

Doctor Blayney gathered together his items of European medicine and packed them in the small bag he carried. They were obviously of no use in the current situation and he knew death lingering in the room when he saw it.

He left the woman tending to the sick girl to meet Gordon and Humphrey Rankin waiting anxiously in the adjoining room. The two men looked to him hopefully as he approached them. But he frowned and shook his head in answer to their unspoken question. ‘I'm afraid all we can do is wait and see,’ he said with a sigh as he accepted a glass of brandy from the manager. ‘I do not hold with this native stuff you seem to believe in, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘But if they have a cure of some kind, I would recommend that you try it for no other reason than that I have no answers.’

Gordon excused himself and brushed past the doctor to go to Sarah's side.

He knelt and gently stroked Sarah's face with his fingers but she appeared oblivious to his presence and lay staring with vacant eyes at the dark ceiling. For long minutes Gordon stroked her face and held her hand in his and then he rose to leave. Without a word he left the house to go to his horse still saddled outside. Within minutes those in the house heard the horse gallop away.

SIXTY-FOUR

T
he sun was hidden behind the blue-black horizon of seething angry clouds and lightning flashed in savage blazes across the dying day. Thunder rumbled ominously as Gordon dismounted and tethered his horse. Above him loomed the hill where he had found Peter the previous year in the cave. He stood gazing up at the summit where the sky had turned a deep purple and never before had he felt so alone.

He did not know what he must do but he did know that to save Sarah he must confront the invisible and unexplainable force that inhabited the heart of the cave sacred to the Nerambura. It was not that he was a deeply religious man, more that he recognised the force as a real entity in the lives of himself as well as others.

As he stood gazing up at the summit he felt the soft rustle of the wind in the scrub around him. Then the rustle turned to a low moaning as the winds swept before the thunderstorm's front, heralding its coming.

Fat plops of rain fell from the sky and were quickly swallowed by the parched, hot earth. The pleasant earthy scent of freshly wet dirt reached him just as the storm hit the brigalow scrub, its fury pounding the bush with fist-sized balls of icy hailstones.

Gordon flung up his arms to protect his face from the chunks of ice that smashed into him. His panic stricken horse reared in terror, tearing away the reins from the bush to which it was tethered and in a mad gallop vainly attempted to flee the icy battering of the hail.

Gordon was truly alone now. On foot and in the open, his instinct was to gain the sanctuary of the cave above him. With his head down, he sprinted for die base of the hill to locate the track that led to the heart of the cave.

Willie Harris crouched in the cave beside the fire he had built and listened in awe to the roaring sound of die storm which was punctuated regularly with great white-blue flashes of lightning that arrived at the same time as the ear splitting cracks of thunder. A strange smell filled the air around him and every time the lightning flashed it illuminated the Nerambura figures painted on the back wall of the cave which came alive as garish, frightening spectres.

Willie averted his eyes from them. Never had he experienced a storm of such ferocity before and he was glad that he had decided to stay one more day before setting out to ride south. Although his supplies had dwindled and the hunting trips for wallaby and kangaroo had become less and less successful, he was still reasonably healthy. But to remain any longer would leave him with little choice than to raid a homestead for money and supplies – or surrender himself to the police.

He had no intention of doing either. His choice was to ride south in the hope that he might find more plentiful game to subsist on until he reached Sydney where he would find his father, Granville White.

He sat back on his haunches and hungrily watched the spiny anteater sizzling in the flames. He poked at the tiny carcass to turn it over in the coals and for a second he thought he heard a human voice scream out in agony immediately following a lightning strike nearby.

Willie's nerves tingled and he reached carefully for the Snider rifle that lay against his saddle. For a fleeting moment he wondered on the fate of his horse, corralled in a yard he had constructed from bush logs at the base of the hills. She would be frantic with fear.

With the rifle cradled, he nervously crouched, listening. Had the human-like scream been real? Or was it merely the result of his imagination stirred by the strangely heightened dread the storm had brought to the cave? But the words that accompanied the agonised moaning outside the cave were distinctly European.

Willie plucked a burning log from the fire and rose to his feet. He moved cautiously to the main entrance of the cave where he poked his head outside. The howling storm snuffed out his torch, but he did not need it to see the figure lying on the track to the cave. Great flashes of lightning made the landscape stand out in electric hues.

Gordon had seen the flash of the burning torch before the storm had extinguished its flame. ‘God help me,’ he cried through the pounding rain. ‘Help me!’

Then a figure was beside him and a voice queried, ‘Mister James, is that you?’

‘Willie,’ Gordon gasped with stunned surprise as he recognised the young man's voice in the dark. ‘I need help. I think the lightning got me. I can't stand up … My leg.’

Willie placed his rifle on the wet earth and took Gordon under the shoulders and with all his strength dragged the big man back into the shelter of the cave.

Gordon lay on his back, moaning from the pain that seemed to be all over him. He heard Willie gasp. Gordon knew that something was terribly wrong. The young man shook his head slowly. ‘Lightning got you in the leg below the knee, Mister James. Your foot is gone. Blown clean off.’

Gordon heard the words from a long way away. He was falling into a dark vortex inhabited by spirits from other times and other places of his life.

Willie was glad that he was unconscious. He would at least feel no pain and the lightning had cauterised the stump where his foot should be. Even so, the rest of his leg below the knee looked pretty bad and Willie knew that the inspector of police was in dire need of medical attention.

Willie groaned in his despair as he realised that he had only one choice left to him. He would have to saddle his horse and ride for Glen View Station. But to do so would mean exposing himself not only to the terrible storm raging outside but also to possible recognition and subsequent capture. Why did the bloody inspector have to be a friend? What in hell was he doing on the hill anyway?

He stacked the fire before he left Gordon alone in the cave. With his saddle over his shoulder Willie struggled in the storm to find his horse. All the time he cursed Gordon James for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Alone in the cave Gordon again met Peter Duffy. They confronted each other in the unconscious world of the dying and dead. Theirs was a battle for the spirit of Sarah Duffy. This was the reason Gordon had come to the cave.

SIXTY-FIVE

O
verhead the storm raged with a fury of thunder, lightning and pelting rain that hammered on the corrugated iron roof with a continuous roar. The normally harsh land was filled with a spiritual beauty for those who knew that beneath the dust lay the seeds of life. For after the terrible storm an explosion of creation would spread across the plains.

‘You were fortunate, Mister White, that you were able to return to the homestead,’ Mary Cameron said loudly as she picked at a slice of beef, ‘before this terrible storm arrived.’

Although Matilda had prepared a splendid joint for Granville's final night on Glen View, Mary's appetite was ruined by the thought that she was entertaining the man who had so callously decided to sell the property without consideration for her husband's future. Mister White had promised excellent references for Duncan for his work carried out managing the Macintosh property. But that was not enough. Glen View had become a home for Mary. When she glanced across the table at the man who ate her food oblivious to the sorrow he had brought, she felt anger that verged on sheer hate.

Granville ate sparingly although the roast joint of beef was indeed excellent. And he ate without any concern for the uneasiness he caused his hosts by his presence at their table. For such was the attitude of a man without a sense of morality.

‘I must compliment you on the supper, Missus Cameron,’ he said as he sipped at a goblet of claret that accompanied his meal. ‘Your darkie cook prepares an excellent roast beef.’

‘I am sure Matilda would be flattered to know that you approve of her cooking, Mister White,’ Mary replied with an edge of sarcasm as she knew well that Matilda hated the man with a vehemence that not even she could explain. Any compliments by White would be wasted on the girl and Mary was in no mood to be polite towards Granville. ‘I was surprised to see that you actually visited the Nerambura hills,’ she added after she had consumed more wine than her husband could remember her doing before.

‘And why would that be, Missus Cameron?’ Granville asked mildly.

‘I must confess that I know of the curse that is upon your family,’ she said. ‘I have read Sir Donald's journal which I found when Mister Cameron and I first came here. I did not mean to pry into his private thoughts but I decided to read the journal with a view of learning more about Glen View. I am surprised that you tempted the wrath of the Aboriginal spirits that inhabit the hills.’

Granville could see from the belligerent expression on her face that she was goading him. Only a woman's tongue could be as sharp as any rapier sword, he mused to himself as he placed his knife and fork either side of his plate. ‘I must disappoint you, Missus Cameron, but such things as curses do not exist. Did he actually record the existence of a myall curse?’

‘Not directly,’ she grudgingly admitted. ‘But it appears that some kind of evil extends to those who have come in contact with the Macintosh family. And you are, after all, married to Sir Donald's daughter.’

‘I think that the talk of spirits should cease, Mary,’ her husband interrupted. ‘There are better things to talk about at the table.’

‘Oh, I think it is rather suited to talk at the table, Duncan,’ she retorted firmly. ‘I believe it is all the rage in the best houses of England at the moment. Spiritualism, I believe the subject is called.’

‘Yes, that may be, Mary, but it hardly applies to blackfella superstition,’ Duncan replied. ‘I'm sure Mister White no more believes in myall magic than I do.’

‘To entertain the idea that only Europeans can believe in the existence of ghosts is nonsense,’ she snorted and took another mouthful of red wine. ‘The Aboriginal people have a greater affinity to this land than we could ever comprehend.’

Mary was an intelligent and very well-read woman and had become fascinated by the mania for spiritualism that had swept Queen Victoria's England. She had read about it in journals and the subject appealed to her Celtic roots. Such belief in the world beyond the earthly was easily accepted in her Scottish culture.