kind people didn’t make any more. Delicately he lifted the pouch clear of its nest and weighed the bag in one hand, then the other. The leather cord was intact and appeared strong. He tested the strength of the roughly modified tobacco pouch, ensuring it looped securely through the hand-stitched hide.
His task completed, Scrubber nodded at Dog, who gave himself up to such determined scratching with his hind leg that he fell over backwards, four legs flailing in the air like an upturned tortoise.
‘Dog, this ain’t no time for histrionics.’ Scrubber tied the pouch to his belt, knotting it once, twice. He grappled with a small brown paper parcel in the tin box and shoved it deep in his trousers. Then he picked up his swag and rifle, flicked off the single bare bulb, slammed the front door and wound the brass key in the lock, tossing it into the dark. There was nothing sentimental left in him, not for material things, anyway. Besides, it wasn’t like he could pack it all up in his coffin. Though, come to think of it, he didn’t plan on having one of those.
He stood on the hill, the wind blasting his face as it rolled up from the valley below. The eight hundred acres he still owned was a paltry reminder of what lies at the end of a bottle, although to be fair the drink probably didn’t come first. This was hard country, where granite thwarted livelihoods and winter could kill man and beast alike. The property deserved a last look at least. The best parts might be long gone, but Scrubber liked to think a cannier, younger person would put his toiling to good use. So he envisaged the wind-cropped paddocks, the rangy cattle, and he meandered along the creek with its rush of water and age-smoothed stones, his body never leaving the worn tread of the front door.
‘You ready then?’ Scrubber scraped his boots on the edge of the cement step.
Dog yawned into the misting air. Above, the frill of an eagle hawk’s wings was silhouetted against the sky.
Satisfied by his reflections, Scrubber skirted the fallen-down garage as he clumped to the stables. Three horses waited in anticipation, their nostrils flaring. They were a knowing triumvirate, and Scrubber, pleased to be fulfilling their fantasies, spoke to them low and gruff, his fingers covering the hole in his neck so the words could escape. He saddled the one he’d named Veronica, loaded Samsara and Petal with his goods, and shut the stable door behind them as he left.
A line of grey cloud hung low on the horizon. Scrubber didn’t go much for creeping dawns. The ones that came fast and shiny in summer appealed the most. Funny how these ones appeared more ominous as the years passed, as if they could catch him unawares. Scrubber waggled a finger at the sky. He had an agenda and his own timeframe. Neither God nor that thing in the east were getting him until it was good and done.
He left his turret of a house on the treeless peak as light fingered its way over the tuft of hills in the east. The horses were frisky for old girls and he steadied them with a tug of the halters and a slap across Veronica’s boney skull. A man had enough to put up with without suffering an extended show of enthusiasm.
Figuring nine miles a day, Scrubber reckoned on reaching his destination a bit past the winter solstice. It was a manageable ride of some 700 miles and, if done with purpose, achievable. The thing he liked the best about the venture, apart from finally honouring the oath, was the thought of looking over his shoulder as he headed west. The further he rode the longer the minutes would stretch. Scrubber could almost taste the extra days of life this undertaking would afford him.
Dog gave an excuse for a bark and settled into the morning, tongue hanging from one side of his mouth, tail swaying happily.
‘Anyone would think this was an adventure,’ Scrubber said as he stretched the cotton scarf protectively across his windpipe, patted the pouch at his waist and thought of the
His task completed, Scrubber nodded at Dog, who gave himself up to such determined scratching with his hind leg that he fell over backwards, four legs flailing in the air like an upturned tortoise.
‘Dog, this ain’t no time for histrionics.’ Scrubber tied the pouch to his belt, knotting it once, twice. He grappled with a small brown paper parcel in the tin box and shoved it deep in his trousers. Then he picked up his swag and rifle, flicked off the single bare bulb, slammed the front door and wound the brass key in the lock, tossing it into the dark. There was nothing sentimental left in him, not for material things, anyway. Besides, it wasn’t like he could pack it all up in his coffin. Though, come to think of it, he didn’t plan on having one of those.
He stood on the hill, the wind blasting his face as it rolled up from the valley below. The eight hundred acres he still owned was a paltry reminder of what lies at the end of a bottle, although to be fair the drink probably didn’t come first. This was hard country, where granite thwarted livelihoods and winter could kill man and beast alike. The property deserved a last look at least. The best parts might be long gone, but Scrubber liked to think a cannier, younger person would put his toiling to good use. So he envisaged the wind-cropped paddocks, the rangy cattle, and he meandered along the creek with its rush of water and age-smoothed stones, his body never leaving the worn tread of the front door.
‘You ready then?’ Scrubber scraped his boots on the edge of the cement step.
Dog yawned into the misting air. Above, the frill of an eagle hawk’s wings was silhouetted against the sky.
Satisfied by his reflections, Scrubber skirted the fallen-down garage as he clumped to the stables. Three horses waited in anticipation, their nostrils flaring. They were a knowing triumvirate, and Scrubber, pleased to be fulfilling their fantasies, spoke to them low and gruff, his fingers covering the hole in his neck so the words could escape. He saddled the one he’d named Veronica, loaded Samsara and Petal with his goods, and shut the stable door behind them as he left.
A line of grey cloud hung low on the horizon. Scrubber didn’t go much for creeping dawns. The ones that came fast and shiny in summer appealed the most. Funny how these ones appeared more ominous as the years passed, as if they could catch him unawares. Scrubber waggled a finger at the sky. He had an agenda and his own timeframe. Neither God nor that thing in the east were getting him until it was good and done.
He left his turret of a house on the treeless peak as light fingered its way over the tuft of hills in the east. The horses were frisky for old girls and he steadied them with a tug of the halters and a slap across Veronica’s boney skull. A man had enough to put up with without suffering an extended show of enthusiasm.
Figuring nine miles a day, Scrubber reckoned on reaching his destination a bit past the winter solstice. It was a manageable ride of some 700 miles and, if done with purpose, achievable. The thing he liked the best about the venture, apart from finally honouring the oath, was the thought of looking over his shoulder as he headed west. The further he rode the longer the minutes would stretch. Scrubber could almost taste the extra days of life this undertaking would afford him.
Dog gave an excuse for a bark and settled into the morning, tongue hanging from one side of his mouth, tail swaying happily.
‘Anyone would think this was an adventure,’ Scrubber said as he stretched the cotton scarf protectively across his windpipe, patted the pouch at his waist and thought of the
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