The Great Plains (35 page)

‘I listen and learn.' Jim peered over the rim of the battered mug. ‘You should do the same.'

Will figured the boy was probably right. ‘Have you been working here long?'

Jim slurped his tea and topped it up from the billy. ‘Long enough. You don't know much, do you?'

‘I know enough.'

‘Sure you do. You white boys always know more than everybody else, but when you try to make sense of the words they're like empty air. You know, white boy, that the time will come when the white men will stop fighting my people and fight each other instead. I wonder how you will fare then?'

Just his luck, Will thought, to be left with a blackfella with an axe to grind. ‘So that's why you and your father don't speak to us, eh? I guess you lot think we're all the same.' False dawn showed itself in a lightening of the sky. ‘My father never fought any darkies. The only people he fought were in the war.'

Jim cradled the mug of tea. In the half-light his skin was very dark. In reality it was a shade lighter than his father's and his features were softer. Will guessed his mother was a half-caste but dared not ask.

Jim speared the damper with a stick and turned it over in the coals. ‘Is it just you and your father then?'

‘And my mother.'

Jim looked at him with interest as if he were seeing Will for the first time. ‘Do you know a woman called Abelena?'

‘Abelena? No, why?'

Will took another sip of the tea. He was beginning to think that Jim had a few kangaroos loose in the top paddock. ‘Evan told me he's in charge, not the overseer, Mr Kirkland. Is that right?'

‘The old man says one thing but Mr Kirkland knows what's going on,' Jim told him. ‘Anyway, pretty soon things are going to change. The owner is coming out from America.'

Will recalled gossipy Mrs Doolan in the store. ‘I heard he's bringing a cousin.'

‘He's going to sail straight across the sea and then ride out here to our country to see what his family stole all those years ago.'

‘Stole? As far as I know, Condamine Station was bought from an English squatter.'

Jim threw the dregs of his tea on the flames. The liquid sizzled. ‘It's not theirs to buy and sell.'

Will reckoned it was a bit late for that. Tendrils of daylight reached through the trees to the east. Birds began to twitter.

‘They say Mr Kirkland was a lawman in America. They say he hung people up by a rope until they were dead.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘They say he's been with these people who own this place for a very long time.' The older boy rolled a smoke and lit it. ‘There was another man who was a manager, a man called Hocking. This Hocking came all the way from America too and he told Mr Crawley the story many years ago.'

‘What's the story?' Will asked.

‘That the blackfella ain't alone, that there are others who have been driven from their home, people like us who were hunted and killed for their land, the land of their people. I heard that there are red people in America, dark people too, and that the whites chained them up and bought and sold them as slaves.' Jim rolled his lips. ‘That's what I heard.' He stabbed at the damper, turned it in the coals.

Will didn't know much about America except that Wes Kirkland came from there and he spoke funny. ‘What happened to Hocking?'

Jim rolled the damper from the hot coals and tapped it to see if it was cooked. He brushed the dirt and soot from the outside and, breaking it in two, threw half to Will. He sat it on his swag to cool.

‘If people do wrong, eventually bad things happen to them or their kin. That's what Hocking told Mr Crawley. He knows the story. The Wades made their money out of newspaper stories and black slaves who picked cotton until they couldn't pick it no more and they sold bad silver shares to Hocking's father and he went bust and died.'

‘Did awful things happen to the Wades?'

‘One bad thing happened that led to many bad things,' Jim explained, ‘but Hocking never told anyone what it was. He said it was Wade family business, a sad business. My father says that the American who is on his way here is running away to start a new life but a person can never escape their troubles, for Mother Earth has a long memory.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘Sometimes my father sees a shadow when he thinks of those people.'

‘What do you mean, a shadow?' Will scoffed.

‘Are you laughing at our ways? At the ways of the old people?'

‘N-no. What do you think the shadow is?' Will persevered.

The black boy threw the half-eaten bread into the fire. It shrivelled and blackened. ‘I only know that when the Emu in the Sky dips below the horizon, that's when the trouble will come.'

August, 1935 – between Melbourne and Sydney

Abelena gripped the side of the bunk as the train shuddered and slowed. It felt as if the locomotive had hit something and she struggled upright, twisting in the narrow bunk so that she faced the window. Outside, dawn was breaking across an unknown land. There were trees and shrubby bushes, strange animals known as kangaroos and an expanse of country that was beyond imagination. It spread out from the railway tracks, hard and flat, and extended to a hill-strewn horizon where the sun rose, highlighting the frost that layered the ground. Abelena pressed a palm to the freezing glass pane as the train rolled forward. As they gathered speed, a cow limped into the scrub. The mother left behind a calf who staggered and fell by the railroad tracks.

This land was all upside down and inside out. Here, Fall was spring, day was night and unknown stars weaved overhead in a darkness so thick it unnerved her. Her cousin Tobias had shown her their destination on a map and even now Abelena imagined that they had come to a country that sat at the bottom of the world, which, at any moment, might slip and fall from its place. Climbing down from the bunk, she tugged the curtains wider until light filled the narrow first-class sleeper with its polished timber panelling, folding table and leather chair. Through the window the land rushed past in a blur of browns and washed-out green. They were travelling from the city of Melbourne to another great city, Sydney. Tobias was to spend a number of weeks meeting with investors and bankers and wool buyers there before they set off on the last leg of their journey to the Wade land, at the bottom of the world.

Since Jerome's capture in Broken Arrow, Abelena's world had shrunk to what could be seen through a pane of glass. A week ago her view of the world had been through a round window, a porthole on a boat that had carried her across the sea. In the weeks before that she'd been locked in her mother's old upstairs bedroom in the Wade house in Oklahoma City. It was from one of the windows in this room that her older cousin Tobias pointed to the great river, where a stable boy had been lynched thanks to Serena's wilful ways. She didn't believe him of course, but he made a fine story of it and was quick to point out Serena's part. From another window Abelena studied the white-haired Edmund Wade. Leaning stiffly on a cane, he visited her great-grandmother, who lay buried in the garden below. She too had stayed in the same room a prisoner to the disease that eventually claimed her.

There had been arguments between father and son during her stay in Oklahoma City. Their raised voices became the background noise to her grieving as Abelena lay sobbing on the floor or crouched in a corner. Edmund and Tobias bellowed and pleaded with each other, cajoled and reasoned while she pressed her forehead against the window and wondered what would become of her. At night she fell asleep to dream of baby Tess and the red-haired twins, who were now in a state home. Sleep came intermittently and in the twilight hours Abelena would gaze at the stars while recalling what her great-grandmother Philomena had passed on to her mother:
the only promise the white man ever kept was the promise to take away the lands of the Indian. This promise they kept
.

Sheriff Cadell never did keep his promise to let her visit Jerome, and Tobias also refused any contact with him. Her brother was in gaol awaiting execution for his crimes and Tobias Wade acted as if he'd saved her. But she was warm in the Oklahoma City house. There was water and sweet-smelling soap and clean, fancy clothes and so much food that she took to storing some of her meals in a drawer in case her circumstances changed. For the first time in her life Abelena knew what it meant not to struggle, not to starve, not to want for the most basic of things, but she was also truly alone. A great void settled within and around her. Where she could once recall the beloved faces of her extended family, gradually even their memory was lost, swallowed by despair.

Abelena couldn't pinpoint the exact moment that she began thinking about Uncle George, but the old man came to her in daydreams. She would sit for long hours, studying the frill of trees bordering the river, remembering the scents of the land taken from her. At these times snatches of her uncle's voice would enter her head and she would recall the foods that the land gifted, foods not given or taken by another's leave. Indian potato and prairie turnip, corn bread and mesquite ground meal. There was an abundance of food delivered to her room, yet Abelena craved the simple tastes that the land yielded.

She was beginning to understand how fortunate they'd been to have Uncle George with them, following Serena's passing. His teachings kept them alive and gave Jerome the strength to kill the men who threatened them. She hoped this resilience would accompany him when the white law of Oklahoma ended his days. Grief had weakened her but now, in this strange country, the need to survive became potent. Abelena refused to become a victim of either her heritage or her sex and so, very reluctantly, she gathered the threads of her uncle's beliefs and traditions. She too wanted to understand the medicine of the Apaches, their history, the way of the warrior. Jerome could fight and kill, run like the wind and exist for days on little food and water. These were vital elements that she too would need in order to survive and the more she thought about Uncle George, the more she remembered his teachings.

Abelena trained her mind to stillness and imagined running through The Great Plains as Jerome had done. She envisaged fighting like a man, stabbing and killing those who had wished her and her family wrong. The more she concentrated, the more the old ways returned. It was as if the Indian part of her had been waiting to be found. Gradually the tears that threatened to dry out her body came less frequently and the anger, which had curled itself around her innards in the railway station at Broken Arrow, began to simmer, making her strong.

The morning Tobias came to her room in the great Oklahoma City house, the day before their long journey began, she'd been kneeling by the window. The brief thought of ending her life, of breaking the glass with a chair and jumping to the ground below tempted her. She thought of joining Tess and Uncle George, of the three of them waiting with smiles and overflowing hearts when Jerome arrived. But Uncle George didn't believe in a hereafter and Abelena didn't have any religion, nor did she believe it possible that they would ever be together again.

She sat, mutely listening to Tobias talk of Australia, of how he wanted to help her start a new life, of how her Apache heritage meant nothing to him as long as she was happy. That surely after so much hardship and tragedy, the family – what was left of his and hers – deserved another chance, a reconciliation of sorts. Tobias's offer of reunion was framed in terms of forgiveness. It was as if her female line were to blame for what had befallen the Wades and yet
he
was willing to overlook the past to help her. Abelena couldn't help but think of her uncle. Had he been present, George would chuckle and say here was another peace treaty neither side could keep.

‘My father and I are in disagreement over your future, which you're probably aware of,' Tobias informed her one afternoon. ‘We can't reach an accord over what's to become of you.'

‘And what about what I want?' Abelena clenched her fists.

Tobias blinked. ‘I'm surprised, considering that he gave your great-grandmother a home in her final days.'

‘And where was his kindness when my mother came calling for help?'

‘Where was Serena's gratefulness for what had already been given?' Tobias countered.

‘Why am I here? To ease your father's guilt? Am I to be thrown away, like my mother, when you've grown tired of me?'

Tobias flinched and left the room.

This cousin with his watery blood-ties was blond-haired, tall and burnt brown by the sun. He spoke carefully to her, portrayed himself as a kindly man with good intentions. Although she'd long since learnt that words were misleading and that only actions spoke of true purpose, at times Abelena couldn't help but wonder what life may have been like if her mother had stayed in this big house with its sturdy walls, gilt-framed portraits and carpeted floors. But then she too had been locked up. Serena hadn't been wanted in the end and she didn't belong, so they tossed her away like an unwanted toy.

Abelena never spoke to Edmund Wade, not once did they even stand in the same space, share the same air. Tobias explained his father had been stunned when news reached them of the Blum boy's death. The resulting details of Abelena's family that appeared on Wanted posters and that first alerted the sheriff, and then Edmund, to Jerome's murderous deed, had horrified Edmund Wade, but his patriarchal sense of duty and his love for Philomena had firmed his decision, albeit reluctantly. It seemed Edmund wanted Abelena found so that she could be sent away to a school for young ladies. Edmund wanted her educated. But first he wanted her to undergo a series of treatments that had proved successful on First World War veterans in England. He wanted doctors to give her electrical shocks to wipe the Indian part from her brain.

Tobias thought such a thing barbaric.

This, it seemed, was the substance of the arguments between father and son, arguments which filtered up from the rooms below. Edmund was not at the house to say goodbye to his boy. The old man had been out tending Philomena's grave the afternoon before they left for the east coast and he accused Tobias of stupidly falling under the girl's spell. Tobias's reply: like father, like son.

There was a knock on the door of the sleeper and Tobias stepped into the compartment. Abelena pulled a shawl across her shoulders, concealing her nightgown.

‘I apologise, I thought you would be dressed at this hour.'

‘Dressed for what? I can't go anywhere.'

Tobias slipped a hand into the pocket of his tailored tweed suit. ‘Is there anything that you want? You need only ask?'

‘My freedom.'

‘Why are you making this so difficult?'

‘Why are you keeping me locked up?'

Tobias was quick to become irritated. He had a habit of scratching above his right ear where blond hair met silver-grey. ‘Would you have preferred to have had the shock therapy?'

‘I would have preferred to have been left alone.'

‘That wasn't an option,' Tobias replied.

‘You mean it wasn't an option for you, for what you wanted.'

‘I can't understand you, Abelena. You've been on the run from the law, you've been starving and homeless. Anyone else would be grateful.'

‘For what? For sending my half-brothers to a state home, for not doing anything to save Jerome, for turning my mother away when she needed help? Oh yes, I'm really grateful.'

Tobias slammed a fist into the varnished wall.

Abelena scowled.

‘I'm only trying to help you, Abelena. I want us to have a new life in a new world. There are so many things I can give you and with time I hope …' his voice trailed, ‘I know that we've only been together for a few months but –'

Abelena turned to stare out the window. The scents that impregnated his clothes, soap, cologne and tobacco, made her dizzy in the enclosed space. ‘You tell me that my Apache blood is not important.'

‘It's not.'

‘And yet I'm your prisoner.' She turned towards him and saw the unmistakable look of wanting in his eyes. The same expression that her mother Serena aroused in the men whom she'd taken to her bed and who had fathered the mismatch of children who were her family. Tobias Wade was torn between wanting and wariness. He didn't trust her. He was right not to.

‘I was thinking that maybe it would be a good idea to change your name. Mary's pretty. I thought maybe Mary Louise Harris. What do you think?'

‘You have taken everything from me. You will not take my name.'

‘Well, think about it,' Tobias replied pleasantly, ignoring her fury. ‘I won't pressure you, but Abelena is a very –'

‘Mexican name? Yes, it is.' She sat down and resumed staring out the train's window.

‘Would you like to have lunch in the dining car today?'

In the first-class sleeper there were fancy clothes hanging in a narrow wardrobe that she'd barely worn. The dresses were constrictive and uncomfortable, the shiny black shoes with their court heels painful to wear. ‘No.'

‘Suit yourself.'

After her keeper had left the compartment, Abelena sat in the leather chair next to the nailed-close window and fingered the izze-kloth hanging around her neck. Tobias thought that by leaving America he would save her. Instead, he'd unwittingly made her understand the importance of the land of her people. It was only now that she finally understood why Serena had not followed the man José to Dakota, to a new, better life. The Great Plains were in her blood too. All her life Abelena had hated the Indian part of her, hated being a half-breed, of not belonging, now anger made her want to hold up her fist and scream for the dispossessed that had come before her. She could never be like the white man, act like the white man. They would steal anything; land, people's lives, even a person's name.