Nina burst in the door at Red Gums. Jinx, unsettled by the storm, whined in greeting. A crack of thunder sent him hurtling down the hall to his favourite hidey-hole beneath her bed. The drumming of rain on the iron roof grew to a deafening roar. A tap came at the window, like a pebble tossed against the glass. Then tapping everywhere, a rapid staccato, growing in speed and ferocity. Hail hammered the roof and walls and windows. Jinx howled from the bedroom and Nina shut the door to keep him safe. Then she went outside, her delight in the storm outweighed by her sorrow at the fact and manner of Guddhu’s passing.
It was surreal to think the magnificent cod, Freeman’s spiritual guardian of the river, had died at Ric’s hand. Incomprehensible. But then so much of Ric’s behaviour was incomprehensible. His suspicions about Max’s death. Buying Billabong. And yet Guddhu’s death had hit her the hardest of all. Dad could still be cleared of blame. Billabong could still be saved. She’d been keen to give Sophie a lift home for that very reason, hoping to reason with Ric and change his mind. Hoping their love could be rescued along with the wetlands.
But Guddhu could not be raised from the dead. Guddhu, who was older than Nina, older than her father, older even than Freeman. Guddhu was here when the great flood of ’56 formed a vast inland sea, drowning everything in its path. She was here when the fires of ’75 raged through these plains, with four million hectares burnt and fifty thousand stock lost. She’d lived through a century of storms and droughts. The taming of the rivers, the Second World War. It was hard to fathom. Mandela had lived and died while Guddhu swam these same waters.
Nina’s tears mingled with raindrops. A link to the living history of the floodplains had been broken today. Forks of lightning stabbed crazily across the sky, their brilliance reflected in the silver sheets of rain. Freeman said Guddhu was magical, that vengeance would fall on the people of the river if she was harmed. Superstitious nonsense? Maybe. But when Nina stared into the angry face of the sky there was no doubting Freeman’s words. It seemed right, even proper that the storm should come.
She returned to the house and hunted around for matches. At this rate the power would be out soon and she didn’t fancy a night alone without heating. Where was that bundle of sticks? Somewhere on the verandah. How long had it been since she’d lit a fire? November, probably. There, beneath those old tarps, a little dry kindling. Nina gathered what she needed, took it into the lounge room and shovelled out the ash from the grate into the box. Occasional hailstones found their way down the chimney. One hit the bricks and ricocheted into her cheek, drawing blood, but she didn’t flinch. Nina had herself on a very short leash.
She usually enjoyed setting the first fire of the season. It meant the end of summer’s gruelling heat. It meant that harvest was near, the most exciting time of the year. But as the flames wandered over the kindling, there was nothing but sadness in her heart. No, that was wrong. There was something else, something she didn’t normally suffer from, even though she lived by herself in this remote corner of the river, even though she sometimes felt unsettled by the night. It was a crushing sense of loneliness, of losing the land she loved. Of finding Ric, and the truth held deep in her body and skin and memory – of wanting him, of knowing him. Then losing that too.
She moved to the window, stared at the drops of water spilling down the glass. When she turned around, enough rain had come down the chimney to extinguish her fledgling fire. She flicked on the light switch. Nothing. It could be hours before power was restored. A clap of thunder shook the house, accompanied by a flurry of muted barking.
Nina went to the bedroom to calm Jinx down. ‘Jinxy,’ she said, stroking his golden head, grateful for his constant love. Outside the wind howled. Jinx poked his muzzle skyward and joined in. The eerie sound held her in thrall. It seemed to be saying something important, to be sharing some wisdom just outside the edge of understanding.
Nina tugged off her damp clothes and pulled on track pants and a fleecy jumper. She patted the bed and climbed beneath the blankets. Jinx jumped up and laid his warm, heavy body against her. She huddled beside him. Beyond the curtains, flashes of lightning lit up the wind-tossed trees. Too much to think about. Too many shocks, too much sorrow. Only two things gave her comfort. The gentle dog lying beside her and the beautiful, terrible storm that raged over the river, for all of that long, long night.