TWELVE

In September Andrew went into Jim Jim to speak to Michael Simmons.

Simmons’ store was an Aladdin’s cave stacked high with everything from pins to ploughs to potted shrimps, redolent of seed and salted bacon, but apart from a few routine purchases Andrew had not come to buy.

‘When can we expect the shearers, Mr Simmons?’

Shearers travelled the country from one district to the next, each year following the same routine.

‘They’ll be here in October,’ the storekeeper said. He balanced on bandy legs, pulling his long white apron tight across the bulge of his belly.

Andrew frowned. ‘No later than that, I hope, or the grass will be seeding.’ Grass seed in the fleece would lower prices.

‘They’re very reliable, I can assure you. I’ll ask them to add you to their list. You will make sure the wool is well washed, won’t you, Mr McLachlan? Buyers pay a better price for washed wool. And of course the cartage is much less when the wool is clean.’

‘I worked on a sheep run for three years, Mr Simmons.’

‘Then you know what’s required.’ Eyes, bright as coins, priced Andrew down to his boot straps. ‘I may be able to arrange a special rate for you, Mr McLachlan. As it’s the first time they’ll be coming to your run.’

Andrew stroked his long beard. ‘I’ll speak to them myself aboot that. But thank you for your concairn, Mr Simmons.’

Simmons nodded, white hands rubbing, eyes giving away nothing. ‘As you wish.’ His voice dropped reverently. ‘We’ve had a new consignment of goods in the last few days, Mr McLachlan. Smoked meats. Whisky … A few luxuries can make all the difference to the harshness of life in the bush, can they not?’

‘I’ve nae money for luxuries, Mr Simmons.’

‘I would be happy to open an account …’

‘I dinna like debt.’ Brusquely.

Simmons backed off a little. ‘Perhaps when the shearing is over then.’

‘Perhaps.’

 

Andrew and George had built a shearing shed modelled on Gavin Henderson’s shed at Inverlochrie. Now, with Bannerji’s help, they mustered and washed the flock in readiness. True to Simmons’ word, the shearers arrived at Montrose at the end of October. There were three men and they did a quick job. After they had gone Andrew and George baled the fleeces for shipment.

They built a rough box of slabs and posts and secured it to the ground outside the shearing shed. They suspended a baling bag inside the box and put the first eight fleeces into the bag. George then pushed the blade of a shovel between the fleeces and the bag and used the handle to compress them while Andrew added eight more to fill the bag which they then laced shut with wire. It was back-breaking, fingernail-ripping work.

‘I ’ear they d’ave one of they new screw presses at Coogalla,’ George said, wiping sweat off his forehead. ‘Must make life a lot easier ’n’ this.’

‘They’ve over ten thousand head on Coogalla,’ Andrew pointed out. ‘We canna afford such luxuries.’

He arranged with Simmons to have the Montrose wool clip transported to the newly named port of Melbourne for shipment.

‘I’m making up a load,’ Simmons said. ‘The drays will be leaving in two weeks. I’ll be happy to reserve space for you, Mr McLachlan.’ His voice was formal: he still resented Andrew’s refusal of an account.

They discussed costs and quantities. Transporting goods was a costly business but Andrew had no choice and they both knew it.

‘If you care to bring your clip through a few days earlier,’ Simmons said, ‘I’ll be happy to store it for you until the transport leaves.’

Storage would cost him, too, but he could not afford to miss the transport.

‘I’ll do that.’

‘I’ll put the charges on your account,’ Simmons said.

I’ve nae doot ye will, Mr Simmons.

The storekeeper said, ‘The drays arrive back from the coast some time in December. You’ll get your money then.’

Simmons had heard about the arrival of baby Stuart—he made it his business to know what went on in the outlying stations. ‘I have one or two things in stock that might be of interest to your wife. Baby clothes newly arrived from England?’

Andrew’s face snapped shut. ‘When I want something I’ll ask for it.’

There were some things even Simmons did not know.

 

In the second week of December Simmons sent word that the drays were back from the coast and Andrew went in to get their money.

Prices had been good. Even after paying Simmons’ charges and freight of ten pounds a ton there was more over than he had expected, not that he let Simmons see that.

Andrew looked at the figures on the piece of paper in his hand. Here was the first tangible evidence that all their efforts, all the anguish, had been worthwhile. Through God’s help, he thought.

‘A great moment, Mr McLachlan,’ Simmons said, eyes watchful. ‘If you want coin I can let you have it, of course, but the danger of loss is great. Unhappily I have been receiving reports of bushrangers. For the most part this is a law-abiding district but it is the time of year, you see. Those rascals know the wool money is coming in now and act accordingly. I could arrange for your funds to be held at my bank. For safe keeping, you understand. It would be perfectly safe and you could draw on it whenever you wanted.’

Andrew eyed him. ‘There would be a charge for this service?’

‘A small charge,’ Simmons acknowledged. He smoothed the apron over his paunch. ‘Security is worth a few shillings, is it not?’

Simmons was right. There had been talk of bushrangers. Andrew did not much like the plump storekeeper but did not want to fall out with him.

‘Keep it for the moment,’ he said. ‘I’ll discuss it with my partner and let ye know.’

They talked about it after Andrew got back to the run.

It was a warm evening. The weather had improved in the last month. The river had retreated to its bed, leaving a swathe of rich grass where the flock was contentedly grazing.

The two families sat outside the open door of the house, admiring the view and enjoying a moment’s respite at the end of the day’s work. Matthew, nearly five now, was amusing himself with a toy horse, six inches high, that George had fashioned from a piece of scrap wood. Mary, full of energy now winter was over, could not bear to sit and do nothing and had a pile of mending in her lap. Lorna had regained neither colour nor strength. She sat silently, hand on the cradle in which Stuart was peacefully sleeping, dark-rimmed eyes watching them all.

Andrew said, ‘I’m no’ a hundred per cent happy aboot it, but I suppose it makes sense.’

‘Tes safe with him as anywhere,’ George said. ‘Safer than yur, wi’ bu … if what he says be true.’ They were all careful around the subject of bushrangers. ‘Not’s though ’e be goin’ to run ’way. Man like him got plenty of capital tied up along that there shop of ’is.’

‘Kin we get it out when we need it?’ Mary asked.

‘Och aye, there’ll be nae problems there.’

‘We should take some out for Christmas,’ she said.

Andrew frowned. At Jim Jim market stock prices were up again. They needed every penny they had.

‘Don’ be mean, Andy,’ Mary coaxed. ‘Our first Christmas at Montrose. We got plenty to celebrate, ’aven’t we?’ She waved her hand at the expanse of the valley. ‘Think! All that’s ours. Tha’s somin to be glad of, surely.’

Andrew considered. The pound or two that a good meal would cost would make little difference to their finances but a great deal to how they all felt. They were here, alive. Apart from Lorna they were all fit and well. The first shearing had gone better than expected. The winter had seen one or two cases of footrot, as was only to be expected, but they had been able to control it. There had been no sign of catarrh or any trouble with the natives. Above all, as Mary said, they owned the land. As always his heart swelled at the thought. She was right: they had much to be thankful for.

The Lord said to Moses, this day shall be unto you for a memorial; and ye shall keep it a feast to the Lord throughout your generations.

Perhaps it was their duty to celebrate God’s mercies to them.

‘It would no’ be unfitting,’ he said.

 

Mary and Lorna were going into Jim Jim to make all the arrangements for their grand Christmas celebration. Neither woman had been off the property since they had arrived. Mary was bubbling with ideas and excitement, looking forward to the outing so much she was like a child again. Even Lorna was more cheerful, animated by the prospect of a trip to town.

What she needs, Mary thought. Something to lift her out of herself. She cared for her as much as ever but their relationship had languished with Lorna’s health. After the one unsuccessful attempt when they first arrived at Montrose they had never spoken of those lost moments of tenderness before the men had stolen Lorna away.

‘How much can we spend?’ Mary asked Andrew.

‘A pound?’ He was reluctant, now the time to spend had arrived.

She smiled, trying to charm the uncharmable. ‘I was thinkin’ more of five pounds?’

‘Five pounds? Are ye mad, woman?’

They settled for three.

Andrew stayed behind to look after the station and the children while George drove the women into Jim Jim. Matthew howled with rage when he discovered he was not going but Mary had made up her mind this was going to be their outing, hers and Lorna’s, and she intended to make the most of it. For months they had seen nothing but that damned water-logged valley, the clouds sagging over the tops of the hills. They’d had to fight damp, mould, dirt, fluey colds, clothes that could not be washed or would not dry, fear, the morose moods of the men when things went wrong, Matthew’s tantrums, Stuart’s sickly health … A catalogue without pleasure and seemingly without end.

Now the sun was shining, it was a glorious day with a light breeze to lift the heat, and Christmas was coming. There was no place for demanding little boys.

‘Poor Matthew,’ Lorna said as they drove away. She was inclined to spoil him, even now.

‘Poor nuffin,’ Mary said. ‘I’d say ’e does pretty well for ’isself.’

‘Just as well we didn’ bring ’im,’ George said. ‘A drover were sayin’ there be some throat infection goin’ round town.’

‘Just our luck to get it,’ Mary said, then laughed. ‘I don’ care. This is our day, Lorna girl, an’ I aims to enjoy it. We’ll worry ’bout coughs an’ colds later. Christmas,’ she said, eyes shining. ‘Can you believe it?’

When they reached Jim Jim they left George with the dray and walked side by side down the rutted street. The town had more than doubled in size in the past year. They stared at the passers-by, the windows of the half-dozen shops. They listened to the sound of singing coming maudlin with the smell of beer through the open door of one of the ale houses. People … They had almost forgotten there were such things.

Inside Simmons’ store two ladies were talking together about ribbons. In the far corner a man, swaying and laughing, an uncorked bottle sticking out of his pocket, had his hands in a tumbled heap of women’s clothing. A small girl, perhaps a year younger than Matthew, stared at them around the edge of a door at the back of the shop.

Michael Simmons could smell a customer at twenty paces. Within seconds, bow legs twinkling, he was at Mary’s side. He had never met her yet somehow knew who she was.

‘Mrs Curtis … Good to see you, ma’am. How may I be of assistance?’ Bowing and scraping, white hands washing.

Mary’s dark eyes laughed at him. ‘You kin help us organise a Christmas party.’

‘We hae no’ much to spend,’ Lorna cautioned.

Her voice was a thin whisper in the jolly shop and Simmons ignored it. Beaming at Mary, he said, ‘If I may make some suggestions …?’

Lorna watched, bemused, as the pile of parcels grew. First, there was a present for each of the children—a grass seed rattle for Stuart, a little wooden man with movable arms and legs to go with Matthew’s horse.

‘They dinna need presents,’ Lorna protested.

‘It’s Christmas. Stuart’s first. First for all of us at Montrose. Give ’em somethin’ to remember it by.’

Lorna smiled. ‘Ye expect Stuart to remember it too?’

Mary was unrepentant. ‘Somethin’ for us to remember then. Can’t slave away and git no fun out of it. No point livin’ like that.’

Then the food. They would have their own mutton, of course.

‘Five courses we’ll ’ave‚’ Mary said gaily. ‘Lamb fritters to start, then a dish o’ mutton, main course sheep, ram stew to follow an’ finish up with ewe jelly.’

‘Wi’ a glass of hogget wine to help it doon‚’ Lorna suggested.

They laughed together.

Mary thought, It is doing her good. I gotta try and git her away from that miserable husband of hers more often.

She turned to the shopkeeper. ‘Kids’ things are all very well, Mr Simmons, but they don’ ’elp us much. What you got in the way of special food?’

Mr Simmons had peas for the making of soup, even some oranges—not many, he confided, and unfortunately not cheap but having come all the way from Melbourne …

‘I did nae realise they grew oranges in Melbourne,’ Lorna said.

‘How much?’ Mary asked.

Simmons told them, apologetically.

‘Impossible‚’ Lorna said. ‘Oot o’ the question.’

‘We’ll take ’em‚’ Mary said. ‘What else?’

There were ingredients for sauces, freshly killed pigeons, wild duck.

‘Don’ like duck‚’ Mary said. She looked at Lorna. ‘Them things allus tastes fishy to me.’

They agreed they would leave the duck.

‘This has just arrived‚’ Mr Simmons said. ‘Something new.’

‘What is it?’ Mary examined the jar curiously. ‘Potted bloaters? Never ’eard of ’em.’

‘I understand it’s a new method of preserving herring. From Scotland.’ He inclined his head in Lorna’s direction.

‘From Scotland?’ Mary said. ‘We’ll ’ave ’em. Cheer Andy up a bit, eh?’ And nudged Lorna with her elbow.

Lorna thought Andrew would be more concerned with their cost than their flavour but said nothing. The potted bloaters joined the growing pile.

Finally they bought a giant plum pudding, wrapped in cloth and brought down especially, so Mr Simmons assured them, from Sydney.

‘That’ll be enough,’ Lorna said, thinking, that’ll be far too much.

‘Somethin’ to drink.’

A bottle of rum and two of canary were added to the pile.

‘I reckon that’s the lot,’ Mary said.

Simmons reckoned the bill. Lorna wanted to make sure they had not gone beyond Andrew’s limit but Mary got to it first and would not let her see it.

‘You’re holding money for Montrose, Mr Simmons. Please set it against the amount you owe us.’

Outside the shop they turned to each other.

‘Enjoyin’ yourself?’

‘I canna tell ye how much. Like coming back to life again.’

Mary put her hand on Lorna’s arm. ‘We got a lot o’ living still to do, you ’n’ me.’

Lorna covered Mary’s hand with her own. ‘I hope so. I truly do.’

‘Hope?’ Mary laughed, a robust sound that turned the heads of passers-by. ‘I guarantees it, girl.’

Simmons had sent a boy with them to carry the parcels. George, good as gold, was waiting where they had left him. The boy helped load the goods into the dray and they gave him a penny. A man came out of the ale house, swaying and singing to himself as he walked towards them.

George loaded the last of the parcels and stood back into the man’s path. They collided with each other.

The man broke into a fit of coughing, showering the three of them with spittle.

‘Sorry, mate. Sorry.’ He wiped his mouth, gasping. ‘This bloody throat o’ mine’s killin’ me.’ Then he staggered off down the road, leaving the stench of liquor behind him.

‘Throat?’ George said and laughed. ‘Blind drunk, more like.’

They drove back to Montrose surrounded by laughter, excitement, all their wonderful parcels. Side by side on the driver’s bench, Lorna and Mary held hands.

Four days later was Christmas Eve.

Even Andrew had entered into the spirit of the thing by now. He did not ask how much all this extravagance was costing them. Perhaps he did not want to know.

The men finished work early. Matthew, overexcited, was in a demanding mood but they were still sitting down before six.

‘Our Christmas feast‚’ Mary declared, eyes shining.

Andrew gave a lengthy grace then they started. They began with soup made from the peas they had bought, followed it with a good slab of roast mutton, a brace of pigeon and the potted bloaters, and finished with the grand plum pudding and the Melbourne oranges. All accompanied by wine and the bottle of rum.

By the time they finished it was a quarter to eight and the sweat was running off them in streams.

‘Madness!’ For once Andrew’s voice was genial. ‘Eating like this in midsummer? Enough to kill us, I wouldna wonder.’

‘Di’n’ notice it stop you,’ Mary told him.

‘I didna say it wasna enjoyable.’ He drained the last of the rum. ‘Well, well. Christmas Day tomorrow, then. A lot of water under the bridge since the last one.’

Lorna watched him, lips smiling, thinking, it would have been better if I had died. But if I had died, Stuart would not have been born and that I canna wish. He and Mary are my only hope, now. My hope and my consolation.

The others were laughing, noisy, full of the liquor that had so long been denied them.

When they went to bed Andrew said to her, rum on his breath, ‘I have been thinking aboot Stuart …’

She watched him, saying nothing, mind closed to him. Her hands unbraided the golden hair, a little tarnished now, letting it fall about her shoulders.

‘Ye feel I’ve no’ been fair to him …’

‘No’ to him or me. Ye’ve nae reason to doot my word, none.’ She had thought to be angry. Instead, mortified, she began to cry. ‘Ye’ve nae idea what it was like to be a prisoner of those men. Never knowing from one minute to the next whether they were going to kill me or—’

‘Or worse.’

Aye, she thought, a man always thinks that. Let me tell you, there’s nothing worse than death. I’ve been there and I know.

‘And then behaving the way ye did. And to Stuart, as though it was his fault, poor bairn!’ At last she found the anger she had been seeking. ‘Ye should be ashamed, Andrew McLachlan. Ashamed!’

She would never have thought it was in her to say it. She waited, fearful of an explosion. It did not come.

‘I saw him tonight,’ Andrew said. ‘Like it was for the first time. Before I could never see the likeness but tonight I saw it plain. God has given us both a new chance, Lorna. Dinna turn your back on it.’

God, she thought. For months he turns his back on us and now all of a sudden it’s God’s will. Too late. Too late for me, too late for him, too late for Stuart. Stuart is my son, now, mine only, with his father’s chin.

She said, ‘I have turned my back on nothing.’ But distantly, giving no encouragement.

They finished undressing and climbed into bed. Andrew blew out the candle and turned towards her, placed his hand upon her.

She said, ‘I am tired.’

He said, ‘As a symbol of our reconciliation?’

She said, ‘No’ tonight. I am tired. As I said.’

He drew her nightgown up her legs. ‘Tonight.’

 

Next day Mary sat at the table in the kitchen trying to slice greens. She had a cup of water beside her. Every few minutes she stopped to take a sip.

Lorna watched her. She had drunk hardly anything at dinner last night. Later, in bed, she wished she had but now was glad of it.

‘Dry’s a bone‚’ Mary muttered to herself.

Chop, chop, went the knife, then slipped.

‘I’ll do it for you‚’ Lorna offered.

‘Leave me be‚’ Mary said, irritated. She lifted the glass but found it empty.

‘I’ll get you some more‚’ Lorna said.

Mary was already on her feet. ‘Fresh air will do me good.’ She walked towards the door and stopped, swaying.

Lorna came after her, taking her arm. ‘What’s the matter?’ The arm was hot, soaked in sweat.

Mary coughed as though broken glass were in her throat. She whispered, ‘I must have taken a chill from that drunk in Jim Jim.’

‘How long have you felt like this?’

‘I woke in the night. I thought it was jest a hangover.’

‘Maybe it is.’ Knowing it was not.

Mary shook her head. ‘I can’ swallow. Me neck’s all swelled up. An’ my ’ead …’ She put her hands to it. ‘It’s that bad.’

 

Four of them went down with it: Mary, George, both children. Lorna expected to catch it but did not. Neither did Andrew.

They did not know what to do. There was heavy fever. Their throats were sore and covered with a grey film that every hour grew thicker. Already it was affecting their breathing. All four were barely conscious, temperatures through the roof. Stuart was delirious. Andrew held Mary while Lorna tried to sponge the film away. It made her throat bleed. The more Lorna tried, the more it bled.

She looked at Andrew. ‘I’m frightened for them.’

He rode into Jim Jim for the doctor, going flat out. Late in the afternoon he returned, alone. Lorna came out to meet him. She was exhausted, eyes shadowed, face like parchment.

‘Where is he?’

‘He couldna come. He’s alone there and half the town’s got it.’ He hesitated. ‘They say there’s four dead.’

He slid from the saddle and came towards her. ‘How are they? How is Stuart?’

‘Bad.’

The hut was a charnel house. The sick took up both rooms. In the first, George lay unmoving. He breathed irregularly with a sound like tearing cloth. His eyes stared unseeing at the shadowed roof. A fly buzzed in the room, indifferent to the struggle going on in the sweaty bed.

Andrew stared, horrified. He turned to Lorna. ‘Where is Stuart? Where is my son?’

They went into the other room. Mary was on the bed, the children on pallets on the floor.

Matthew tossed and gasped, semiconscious, fighting for breath that screeched like a rusty saw in his throat. There were red blotches behind his ears, on his neck. His face was flushed and strained, the sturdy little body not so sturdy now, exhausted by the constant battle to breathe, yet fighting still.

Stuart was a different case. The baby lay still, each breath rasping faintly with long intervals between them.

Andrew was white with shock. ‘He’s dying!’

‘I’m afeart he is.’ Fatigue and despair lined her face.

‘We must do something!’

There was nothing to be done.

Mary lay on the bed. All her vitality had drained away. Breath strained, gasped and fell silent before painfully repeating the cycle. Her face was flushed, eyes half-closed.

‘She vomited a whiles ago‚’ Lorna said. ‘Brought up a mess of black phlegm. It made her easier but now she’s as bad as ever. I’m feart for the lot of them.’

‘I’m going to the chapel‚’ Andrew said.

It was warm and shadowed inside the little hut, sunlight glinting in bands of gold between the rough-hewn slabs of the walls.

He thought, I always intended to get those chinks filled in. There had been so many things to do. Now it did not seem to matter.

He knelt in the shadowed room, listening to the silence, the faint creaking of the roof in the hot sunshine. His nostrils were filled with the smell of dust and heat.

Aloud he said, ‘If thou will spare them, Lord, I will praise thee as I have all my life. I repent that I did not know my ain son Stuart until recently. Forgive me for that. Grant me a sign of thy love. Spare him so I may know I am forgiven also.’

He knelt for a while listening but it was no use. He stood, heart as dry as the dust that he brushed from his knees. Once, so long ago, he had been at one with God. There had been no need to ask anything, to say anything. It had been sufficient simply to be, to know that he was one with the spirit. No longer. Speaking as he had now was talking to the dust, to emptiness. God had not heard him, he knew.

He opened the door. Sunlight flooded in. He went out into the warm day. Lorna was waiting for him, her face still and cold.

‘Stuart is dead,’ she said. ‘My baby is dead.’

 

Before night George and Mary had followed Stuart.

Andrew sat watch over them, their bodies at peace after the struggles of the past hours.

He remembered Mary teasing him about money, arranging the special Christmas treat. Yesterday, he thought. For an hour or two she had made them all like children again. Now all three of them were dead. They had died on Christmas Day, which she had looked forward to so much.

The man who had been clever at fashioning things from wood and metal would fashion them no more.

How am I going to manage without them?

He could not look at the body of his son.

He went out of the room and closed the door. It had been vanity, after all. An abomination.

Now they must do what they could for Matthew.

They sat up with him. Lorna was so exhausted she could hardly stand or hold up her head but she would not let go. She had fought for him before, when he had nearly drowned. Now she would fight for him again. She was too tired to feel for the others—it was too late for them anyway. There was only Matthew. She believed if she closed her eyes he would die. She sat by him all night, willing him to live.

By the morning he was on the mend.

 

Three months later Andrew sat in the new land commissioner’s office while Horace Eggnut, the thin-lipped replacement for the flamboyant John Charles Carter Ingham, looked disapprovingly at the documents spread out upon his desk—no longer the acreage of gleaming mahogany that had departed with its owner, as had the Turkey rug and the paintings, but a small, shabby, mean table to suit, Andrew thought, a small, shabby, mean man.

‘Mr McLachlan, this simply will not do.’ Eggnut tapped the top document with a bony finger. ‘My predecessor,’ he sniffed, ‘agreed to allocate you and your late partner over one hundred thousand acres of prime land despite the fact that your present stock level is … not even one thousand animals.’ He looked at Andrew across the top of the wire-rimmed glasses that clung to the end of his nose. ‘Is that correct?’

‘It is.’

‘I cannot think what Mr Ingham was thinking of.’

Andrew bit his tongue, watching Eggnut shifting the papers on the table. Each edge lined up, so. Each pile together, so.

‘The licence runs for one year. And your current licence expires, let me see,’ the papers rustled, ‘on the last day of the current month. Which of course is why you are here, is it not? To pay your next year’s licence.’

‘I have the money right here,’ Andrew said quickly.

‘My clerk will give you a receipt. Mr Ingham’s notes say you intended to increase the size of your flock. As soon as possible. Whatever that may mean. From the figures you’ve given me, you have not done that.’

‘We lost animals in the flood.’

The thin nostrils flared. ‘No doubt. I shall come and view the situation on the ground. You realise that the fee remains the same, whatever the acreage finally agreed upon?’

Andrew walked down the road, fury and frustration bubbling.

All over again. Yon dried-up wee rat is determined to reduce the acreage. I canna bear it.

Knowing he had no choice.

 

Eggnut came, not with the panache of a cavalry column but on a tired, dun horse. He rode around the valley, making no comment but writing copious notes in his black-covered notebook.

Andrew tried to share his dream, explaining how he saw the future, the flocks, the dipping pens, the shearing sheds.

Eggnut raised his nose from his notebook. ‘That is the future, Mr McLachlan. Whether you will be able to do these things depends on the present investigation. For the moment it is irrelevant.’

Andrew knew his companion was seeing, not the splendour of the land but squares drawn upon a grey and dusty plan. Dreams had no place there.

‘I shall write and inform you of our decision,’ Eggnut said before riding away. He passed the three graves set at the point of the knoll furthest from the house but made no comment. No doubt they were irrelevant, too.

The allocation was reduced to five thousand acres.

Within two months, new settlers had moved into the upper reaches of the valley.

The glory was gone.

I have lost my partner, my son and now my land. As for my wife … I believe I lost her a long time ago.

In bitterness and agony, he offered a deal to God.

I was proud. I thought too much of the things of this world. Of frivolity. I allowed myself to fall away from your law. I became apostate. I accept the chastisement ye have thought fit to bring upon me. I shall ensure that neither I nor anything that is mine will fall into sin again.

He became a tyrant. To himself, his wife, and the boy.