WHILE LAWSON AND LUKE raced to Armidale with the new-found documents, Jess helped finish stacking the timber onto a pile, ready to burn. She worked with a mixture of feelings. She was excited for Luke and about all the hope that was coming for the brumbies on the mountain. But she didn’t dare acknowledge what it might mean for her.
The afternoon dragged on into long hours of anxiety, sweat and decaying timber. The harder she worked, the more she could focus on her aching limbs instead of the possibility that she might lose Luke for good.
The sun was sinking behind the mountain by the time the fourbie rattled back along the dirt road and rolled in through the gate. Luke emerged from the car looking victorious.
Jess wiped her grimy hands on an old torn rag and walked slowly to the car. ‘What did the solicitor say?’
‘I only spoke to him quickly. I’ve got a real appointment on Monday. But he said it’s worth a shot. He’s going to go through all the papers and if they’re good I can lodge the claim.’ Luke grabbed Jess in a huge bear hug and swung her around. ‘It’ll be a brumby sanctuary, Jessy!’
She squeezed him back. ‘Just like that?’
‘Well . . . ’ Luke caught his breath suddenly and put her back down, as though common sense had caught up with him. ‘We won’t know for ages. These things take years, decades even. But the claim is lodged – well, it will be on Monday. We have enough material to interrupt the sale of the place. They can’t auction it off while we keep the process going.’
‘Let’s release the mares,’ said Grace, bouncing up behind them.
‘Yeah!’ said Shara.
And as though it had heard them talking, a horse called from the outer rims of the property. It was a long, enquiring whinny.
‘Did you hear that?’ laughed Grace. ‘They want us to hurry up!’
‘Let’s do it before it gets dark,’ said Jess.
‘Brumbies can probably see in the dark anyway,’ said Grace. ‘These girls would know the mountains like the backs of their hooves!’
They all walked to the river. Lawson swung himself into the driver’s seat and drove the truck closer to the river crossing.
‘Hey, you’ve branded them,’ said Jess, as the mares came out quietly, clomping down the tailgate one cautious hoof at a time. On each horse’s shoulder was a fresh scab: a capital M inside a larger capital C. ‘Whose brand is that?’
‘Mine,’ said Luke, smiling. ‘MC, for Matty’s Creek. Lawson helped me make it. I’m going to register it, too.’
There was no pause at the bottom of the ramp, only acceleration, and Jess felt her anxiety ease, replaced by warm satisfaction at the sight of the horses’ pricked ears and instantly brighter eyes. The lead mare, the bay, walked to the river crossing, lifted her nose and whinnied. The second mare, the creamy one, nickered, and from the densely treed hills came answering cries.
‘I can’t believe how much calmer they are now that they’re home,’ Jess said. ‘It’s as if they just know all their troubles are over.’ She noticed an amused smile lurking beneath Lawson’s deadpan face. ‘What?’
He snorted and looked away.
‘What?’ she demanded again.
Lawson smirked. ‘One of the reasons they’re calmer is that Biyanga gave them a quick going-away present before they left Coachwood Crossing.’
Jess gasped. How could she not have noticed? Luke’s jaw also dropped.
‘I had to bring them into the yards to brand them anyway.’ Lawson gave one of his uproarious laughs and slapped Luke on the back. ‘Think of it as a housewarming pressie. We’ll come back in a few years and do some trapping.’
The mares broke into a canter, and splashed through the river with their tails high.
By the time Lawson had stopped laughing, the brumbies were gone. The whinnying stopped and Jess imagined the reassuring nuzzling and nickering that would be going on in the gully beyond. She imagined the tiny seeds the mares carried inside them; the genes of the great campdraft sire, Biyanga. What better blood to replace the lost stallions and to mix with the spirits of Saladin? There would be some awesome horses roaming the mountain in future years.
‘Are you ready to light this up, Luke?’ Lawson called over his shoulder as he walked towards the pile. ‘It’s your place. You do the honours!’ He tossed over a box of matches.
‘You bet.’ Luke snatched them out of the air and walked to the enormous stack of timber. ‘This place could do with a good smoking. Get all the ghosts out of here.’
‘I reckon,’ agreed Jess.
Luke struck a match and dropped it on the kero-soaked timber at the bottom of the stack. It ignited with an air-sucking woof, and quickly lapped up through the beams and rails and half-rotten fenceposts, sheets of plywood and sacks of rubbish. Within minutes it was burning brightly, with twisting flames reaching upwards and sending glowing sparks whirling high into the night.
‘Now that’s what I call a housewarming,’ said Lawson.
‘Yep,’ said Luke, stepping back and holding an arm up to shield his face from the intense glare. ‘That there is a warm house.’
As the flames fed on the rubble, things fizzed and popped and snapped. Pieces collapsed, and tiny grey flakes wafted around in the glowing orange light. Thick black smoke billowed into the dimming sky.
‘That is filthy dirty smoke,’ noted Jess.
‘It is,’ said Luke. ‘It’ll get cleaner as all the paint and rubbish goes and it gets back to plain wood.’
‘Wood that was probably cut from these hillsides.’
Luke nodded. ‘Ashes to ashes.’
Corey and Tom were already rolling out their swags, and Filth and Fang bounded all over them, much to the boys’ annoyance. They yelled at the big dirty dogs to get off. Mrs Arnold was in her favourite fold-out chair with a glass of port in hand and Lawson sat on a log nearby, looking up at the flames. He reached behind him and pulled a banjo onto his lap.
Jess took her swag from the truck, rolled it out under a tree and lay on her belly with her chin in her hands. Above the crackle of the fire she could hear the frogs in the river. Luke, she noticed, set up his swag next to Tom and Corey.
Luke was strangely remote from her all night. He was polite, too formal, his conversation was awkward and she could tell he was intentionally hanging with the boys, keeping the chiacking going on longer than was comfortable for anyone. She watched the way he moved, with quick, sharp motions, always underlined with nervous energy.
As Jess lay on her swag, watching the flames dissolve his past into his future, she felt the pieces click together with a sudden, painful snap.
Tomorrow, this river-flat property would be cleansed of the bruised and troubled brumby spirits – and the heartbroken human ones, too. Tomorrow, she would leave this beautiful place and go back to Coachwood Crossing.
Tonight, though, there was nothing but the sounds of buzzing insects, a crackling fire and a possum searching for fruits in the fig tree overhead. There was the banjo playing and Grace and Rosie singing ridiculous improvised versions of corny love songs. She would enjoy the here and now.