Five years later, on the third day of a gale that had brought trees crashing all about the buildings, there was a lull.
Lorna went to the door of the house and pushed it open. A blast of cold air flung itself yelling into the stuffy interior. She stared out at the clearing. Undergrowth had sprung up around all the huts. She had neither the strength nor inclination to bother about such things nowadays and since Bannerji had disappeared, it must be three years ago now, Andrew had never had the time. Wool prices had collapsed at the end of the thirties and had still not recovered so there had been no question of finding a replacement, no question of anything but hanging on and praying to survive.
None of Andrew’s dreams had come to pass. No wide acres, no riches, no position. They were penniless and would probably remain so all their lives but at least, she thought, they had survived. It was more than many could claim.
The wind was still high, the tossing branches of the trees storm-racked, but for the moment the rain had ceased. A beam of wan sunlight shone through the clouds and illuminated the far corner of the knoll where the bush grew thick. In its light Lorna saw a patch of iridescent blue that flickered once, then again, and grew still.
She stared, trying to make out what it was.
Matthew was out there: it took more than a storm to keep him indoors. He couldn’t stay in, the walls strangled him. She’d sent him out to the wood pile to chop sticks for the stove.
He wasn’t chopping wood now. He was standing in the middle of the clearing, staring at the corner where she had seen the bright blue flicker. Lorna watched him run quickly towards it then, a yard or two away, stop and prowl forward with exaggerated, stalking movements, wide-brimmed hat clutched in his hand. He poised momentarily, then lunged forward, swinging the hat. A shriek of excitement. He turned, seeing her in the doorway of the cabin.
‘I got it, Ma!’
Ma. After all these years it still sounded strange.
He ran towards her, hand covering the hat.
The wind buffeted her as she stepped on to the soaking ground. Stripped leaves and bark lay in piles in the corners of the clearing. Seeing without looking, she could tell that the three graves were almost buried in debris. She would clear them later, when the wind had died. Overhead the tree branches surged like a stormy sea.
‘What is it, Matt?’
He had taken whatever it was out of his hat. He peered between grubby fingers.
‘A butterfly,’ he said.
‘A butterfly?’ she repeated, astonished.
He extended his hand.
It was like no butterfly she had ever seen. It was huge, bigger than the palm of Matthew’s hand, yet it was the colour rather than size that made it so striking—a brilliant, iridescent blue, tipped with black. As she watched, it flexed its wings slowly and again lay still. The wind ripped screaming through the gum trees overhead. Instinctively, she turned her shoulder to it, hating its boastful ways.
‘Where’s it from?’ the boy asked.
‘The storm must’ve brought it doon from the north.’
Matthew touched one quivering wing gently with the tip of a finger and looked up at her, seeking her approval. ‘Ain’t it beautiful, Ma?’
She was willing, reluctantly, to allow as much. ‘Aye. It’s beautiful, right enough.’
‘Must be two inches across, eh? More.’
She stared down at the strange butterfly. At the boy holding it. He was tall for his ten years, bones well knit. In sunlight his hair held a deep red flame; now, in the gloomy light, it covered his head like a dark cap. He was staring at the butterfly. A helpless, insignificant creature that had been swept far away from its own place and brought down here to their patch of bush in the southeast corner of the vast land. Anger and despair filled her.
From the north … She had never been there but had heard stories. She put her head next to Matthew’s head and looked where he looked and saw what she knew he was seeing: deep blue waters, a marvel of strange fishes and a land stretching out into the distance, green and fertile and empty and mysterious and inviting and his. All his. That helpless, brilliant creature was their first real journey together and oh she hated it; aye, and him, too, for being caught up in its magic.
At that moment she sensed she had lost him. She had always known she would eventually, of course. To a woman, maybe. That was to be expected and would not be happening for years anyway. But to a dream …
‘Get rid of it,’ she said harshly. ‘An’ get on wi’ choppin’ the wood, else your dad’ll hae something to say when he gets back.’ She still tried to call Andrew dad although she knew it was a doomed effort.
Matthew turned towards the cabin, cradling the butterfly in his hands.
‘I said get rid of it.’
‘I do that, it’ll die.’
‘Everything dies, give it time.’
Butterflies, people, love, hope.
‘I’ll stick it inside,’ he decided.
Anger swept her. Defiance, she told herself. Her arm lashed out. She seized his hand and tightened her grip, eyes fixed on his. He was not strong enough to resist. After a minute she relaxed her fingers and stood back.
He opened his hand, striped scarlet and white where she had squeezed it. They looked at the crumpled remains of the butterfly. No movement, now. A fine sheen of blue dust clung to his fingers.
He stared up at her, eyes dark and still. She should have known better than expect tears.
Her own tears lodged in her breast like stones.
‘Get awa’ wi’ ye,’ she said. She turned away, eyes burning, and walked back into the cabin.
Nae this one too, God, she prayed in anguish. I canna bear it. Nae this one too.