Heart of the Dreaming (34 page)

The Channel Country of southwest Queensland is generally dry, barren, and red. Its flat, scorched surface is crisscrossed by a maze of cracks and splits like parched wrinkles in an ageing face. When heavy rains come to the far north and the Gulf Country, the flood waters flow south, dribbling and gushing into the channels and forming creeks and rivers which fill up and overflow, so the land becomes a giant lake or inland sea. When the waters eventually recede, dormant grasses, seeds and flowers spring up to make a verdant carpet on the soaked, ochre earth. It is feed that fattens cattle, and for a brief time the face of the land looks youthful.

Once it belonged to the Aborigines. It was their mother — the source of all life, all meaning. Strewn across it were secret places and features of special spiritual significance, all tangible links with the time of creation — the Dreamtime. It was a relationship with the land, the past, the eternity, that few white
people knew about, and even fewer understood.

To most whites the Channel Country was tough country when dry; impossible when wet. Only when it bloomed and fattened cattle and made stock routes passable was it of any real use.

Queenie and her team picked up their seven hundred head of Herefords in the small township of Boulia on the edge of the Channel Country. The cattle were in holding yards, fretful and nervous at their confinement.

Queenie shook hands with the sales agent and climbed the fence to sit beside Ernie. In the yards close by, two drovers were having trouble guiding cattle into the back of a large truck. The animals' hooves clattered and slipped on the wooden ramp as cracking whips startled them into the dark and crowded cavern.

‘I reckon we got a good buy here,' said Queenie.

Ernie was watching the men loading the cattle trucks. ‘How come we're droving the old way, walking ours and not trucking them down to Cricklewood?'

Queenie smiled. ‘I wondered when you'd ask, Ernie. One reason is it costs too much. Second reason — I want to do it this way. I think it's better for the animals and if we take it slow and easy they shouldn't lose condition. Three …' Here Queenie stared into the distance seemingly talking to herself. ‘It's also good for me. I need some time and space and peace. I want to calm my spirit and find
my own Dreaming. I love this land but every so often you have to make contact and be with it — breathe the air, sleep on the earth, follow its rhythms, get back in harmony with it.'

Ernie understood. His face broke into a wide grin. ‘Like going walkabout … to sing the Dreaming songs.'

‘I'm glad you understand, Ernie. Tubby doesn't see it that way, but he's happy enough for the job. Come on, then. Let's get this show on the road, as the picture people say.' Queenie lifted the scarf knotted around her throat and tied it bandit-style over her nose and mouth, and uncoiling her stock whip, jumped down from the fence.

A cloud of red dust rose above the pens, men shouted, whips cracked and cattle bellowed as the animals were herded from the yards and headed down the dusty road to the outskirts of town.

Two men standing on the pub verandah holding schooners of beer watched their noisy, dusty progress. ‘That's the mob with a sheila boss drover.'

‘Flaming hell, what next? Does she know what she's doin'?'

‘They reckon. Hanlon's daughter, Queenie. You know — the bloke whose wife was murdered and he drowned in the big flood.'

‘Oh yeah. She doesn't have a big plant. Good looking mob, though.'

‘Kinda miss the droving days. Using motorbikes for mustering, sending the cattle round the place crammed in trucks … not the same as going down the track.'

‘Yeah, you're right. I miss it a bit meself. ‘Nother beer?'

The two old drovers turned inside as the last of Queenie's mob plodded past with Ernie on the tail.

Once they were out in open country the days fell into a quiet rhythm as the cattle moved steadily towards Cricklewood. Ernie and Queenie rarely had contact during the day although they were in sight of each other. Evenings were spent around the campfire quietly chatting. Occasionally someone made a joke, but often the time passed in companionable silence.

Tubby went ahead each morning in the truck and made camp for the night. A cooked meal with fresh damper was always waiting. Tubby also checked the horses' shoes, replaced any when needed, and took a turn as ringer riding night watch.

The ringer's job was to circle the resting cattle, all the while singing softly or reciting to the stars, the familiar voice soothing the animals. While most cattle slept, legs awkwardly folded beneath them, some would stay on their feet as sentinels, and others might stand to urinate before settling down once more. A sleepless beast might poke out into the edges for a feed. The ringer would settle it back with the mob and continue his rounds.

It didn't take long for drovers to get to know their herd; like a schoolteacher with a new class, they were quick to spot the troublemakers and the leaders. On this trip there
were two cows that had adopted the role of teacher's pet. They were first on their feet to lead the cranky mob away at dawn — if there was good feed about the animals were reluctant to move on — then they'd slowly drift back through the herd to plod along with whoever was riding as tailender, seeming to prefer human companionship.

Experienced drovers knew never to relax their vigilance, especially at night when the chance of a rush was greatest. Anything could spook a herd and a rush was a terrifying thing to experience. Stories were told of bad rushes, how mobs had thundered over a camp, killing stockmen and hammering gear into the hard-packed earth.

At daybreak, after dishing up breakfast, Tubby packed the camp while Queenie, the cattle and Ernie headed out for the day's walk. The midday meal was simple fare: corned beef, damper and sweet rock cakes with a billy of black tea, eaten by a small fire in the shade of a tree — if there was one.

Sitting comfortably in the saddle, Queenie thought how few travellers appreciated these paths that traversed the outback. Most people roared past on bitumen roads that speared across the desolate plains, or raced through skies with scarcely a glance at what lay below; others sat in trains bound to one set of tracks, confined in a capsule that didn't allow you to smell the air, feel the sun on your face or hear the call of birds. Unseen were the songlines of Aboriginal belonging that linked one tribe's territory to the next.

Also unrecognised by such travellers were the stock routes, where the travelling sheep and cattle slowly munched their way from one part of the country to another. The land looked almost like desert but to the initiated there was a complexity of highways spreading in every direction, each with its own folklore and mythology.

As suddenly as it had grown, the greenness disappeared. Between sunup and morning smoko, they travelled off the green carpet onto the terracotta dirt where the feed for the cattle was sparse. Most of the channels still held water, but the sun was quickly shrivelling what little growth was left.

Queenie looked across to where Ernie was riding on the left flank. He pointed his whip towards a dead tree, a bleached skeleton in the stark terrain. When she rode closer Queenie grinned at the sight of a rusting iron canoe in this arid scene. Roughly made from galvanised iron, someone had used it during the floods many years before. But on what errand, wondered Queenie. Now it lay incongruously under the blazing sun, a nautical body on a hard red sea.

At sunset they reached the Diamantina River — a broad, bare, gouged ribbon with a trickle of water at its centre. Tubby had made camp and the billy of tea was a welcome sight.

After eating, when the last of the light had faded from the sky, and the lone evening star shone beside the moon, Queenie announced she'd take the late watch. She rolled into her swag, comfortably tired, idly thinking that
people in the cities were probably pushing and shoving their various ways home from crowded offices in noisy traffic. Here her day was dictated by the rising and setting of the sun.

She had specifically asked for Sparky to be her night mount, a small roan which had the best night sight of the horses. It was a skill some had and others didn't. The night horse was kept saddled and standing close by the camp, ready to be ridden at a split-second's notice if the cattle rushed in the night. Ernie was on first watch so she closed her eyes and slept.

In the early hours the wind rose and growled around the cattle, causing the campfire to spark and Ernie's chanting song to be blown away.

Then it stopped, as swiftly as if a switch had been pulled. Queenie stirred, maybe it was the uncanny silence and stillness, or some second sense that alerted her. She started out of her swag, still wearing her boots, as the bellowing cattle chorus swelled to a roar and she heard the yell from Ernie — ‘
Rush
!'

A shuddering wall of animals began moving en masse, running recklessly into the blackness, driven by fear and the unknown. Ernie had been able to swing the mob away from the camp but couldn't see where the leaders were as he raced alongside the terrified beasts.

Queenie was in the saddle and lunging after the mob in seconds. Sparky swung instinctively towards the head of the mob, galloping flat out without putting a foot
wrong, and seeing exactly where he was racing. Queenie crouched low and forward giving the horse its head.

They overtook most of the charging cattle, and Queenie unleashed her stock whip, cracking it wildly to turn them. A dust cloud gathered above them, filtering what little moonlight there was. Over the pounding hooves she heard a whip crack and knew Ernie was up with her on the other side, but although her feet brushed the solid mass of charging flesh next to her, they were not yet up with the leaders.

It was then that fear struck Queenie as she heard a distant roar and knew what had set off the rush. The animals had heard, or felt, the subterranean tremble of an approaching flash flood.

Instant flooding was a phenomenon of the outback. When it rained to the north, weeks later the accumulated water would explode into a dry river bed, turning it in minutes from dust bowl to surging torrent carrying away all before it. Sometimes word got through to warn others that it was on the way, and sightseers would head to the banks to watch the dramatic appearance of a flood sweeping through a desert. But with no warning, in the dark, and with the cattle heading for the river bed, Queenie imagined a disaster of mammoth proportions.

She screamed aloud though no one could hear her. ‘Well lose them if they go into the river!'

She kicked Sparky, heading him towards the
previously dry river, and without hesitating the horse responded, squelching through mud and splashing into the first gush of water. Queenie hoped to get into the river first so she could charge the cattle and frighten them into turning away.

To her amazement she found her horse was swimming. It was deeper than expected and the current was strong. The flood was more advanced than she had anticipated. She swung around to face the bank they'd just left, feeling the current pull her along.

In the dim light she saw the leaders reach the bank. With terrified bellowing they faltered as their feet sank in the mud and in that instant Queenie thought she could swing them around. But she had been swept too far downstream by the current, and the pressure from the raging mob behind pushed the leaders into the water.

Helplessly, Queenie watched the cattle surge into the river. Suddenly she glimpsed Ernie riding down the bank, his horse striking out into the deep water.

‘Swim with them!' he shouted.

Queenie gathered her strength and realised there was no turning them back now. In the darkness the mob had to be encouraged to swim for the other bank. With luck they could prevent them from panicking and drowning.

She nudged her horse in close to the first animals who were beginning to swim downstream. With Ernie now on the other side, the horses swam beside the frightened and confused animals. The riders pushed their mounts
in close, shouting to the cattle in firm, loud voices.

Although the current grew stronger by the minute, they managed to head the animals around so they were facing the opposite bank and swimming purposefully rather than fighting and kicking in the wrong direction. Queenie's horse slipped and staggered as its feet hit the muddy bottom and together Sparky and the leading cattle struggled up the bank. The swim had taken the fear and flight from them and they stood forlorn and disoriented. Queenie snapped her whip and moved them forward as several others were nudged up the bank by Ernie.

Then Queenie wheeled her horse around and plunged back into the river to guide more of the cattle across as they fell lemming-like into the water. But already she knew they were going to have losses. There were too many animals to shepherd across in the appalling conditions, made worse now by concealed logs and debris. Ernie worked them up the bank. Queenie and Sparky swam back over, encouraging them to cross the dark swirling water.

The main stream of the river had swollen to double its width, spilling over its banks and flooding across the plain for half a mile. Queenie could feel her horse tiring as she headed back yet again with the stragglers.

Ernie caught up with her midstream. ‘Some are in trouble at the tail!'

Several beasts had been trampled by the mob close to the far bank. Two were stuck and struggling in the mud but looked as if
they could be saved. Swiftly Queenie pulled the rope from her saddle, throwing a lasso over an animal's head. She rode up the bank and round a tree which gave the rope enough leverage to pull the animal to its feet, and then she chased it into the water.

She rescued the second the same way, then rounded up two strays and guided them all across to join the herd, now standing quietly on the other side.

‘How many have we lost, Ernie?'

‘Hard to tell till daybreak. A lot, I think.' Ernie surveyed the mob now standing meekly on the opposite bank. ‘Well, that's one way to cross 'em over,' he remarked drily.