outlines she had sketched many times before—the rounded hills to the east, the ragged ridge across the canyon from her perch here, the weird knob out on the west end of the ridge. Should she sketch the knob this time, or should she not? At least several hundred feet high, it was a protrusion of wrinkled and gnarled granite, like an ugly wart on an otherwise graceful landscape. When she drew it exactly the way it looked, her picture appeared amateurish, unnatural. If she left it out, her sketch looked more refined, but inaccurate.
Aha! She had a sudden idea she’d never had before. She drew a tree where the knob ought to be. Mother Nature would surely plant a tree to hide that knob sooner or later. Mary Aileen would make it sooner. She sketched the tree after the form of the trees beside her.
On the crest of the mountain here, the trees spaced themselves at orderly intervals, making them easy to sketch individually. Below, in the wet gorge, they crowded each other, forming a dense green mat seemingly to protect the canyon from prying eyes. Living things were hidden in that canyon, wonderful things—lyrebirds and bowerbirds, orioles and pardalotes, platypuses and snakes. She wished she could walk among them unfeared!
Wee-ooo . A bowerbird called in the forest below her. Silence. Something on the forest floor must have startled a flock of king parrots; with their noisy chack, chack! , red birds and green spurted up from the hillside opposite. Kookaburras laughed a hearty g’day to the waning sun. Beside Mary Aileen’s front-row seat, a restless little rock warbler rattled the dry leaves. Wagging its tail side to side, it hopped and skittered about.
The dinner bell clanged, muffled by the trees behind her. Mary Aileen scrambled reluctantly, to her feet, turned her back on her marvelous view of nature, and walked down to camp.
Papa bowed his head for the blessing as soon as Mary Aileen entered the circle. He thanked God for the food, and for the opportunity they had to retreat like this for a few days of rest and renewal. He acknowledged God’s hand in everything, and as soon as he said “Amen,” Hannah dived for the food.
Mary Aileen waited while Edan filled his plate. Then she scooped out her own serving, privately wishing there weren’t quite so many onions in the dish. She settled on the ground near the fire, her warm plate in her lap, and ate in silence, missing Colin.
Mum glanced at Mary Aileen’s sketchbook. “See anything out there this evening?”
“The usual things. A very pretty flight of king parrots.”
In the distance to the north, a mournful sound began: Wonk. Wonk. Wonk. Wonk . The litany continued unvarying through the minutes of otherwise silence.
Mum frowned. “That bird calling—you told me what it was and I’ve forgotten.”
“It’s a wonga pigeon,” Mary Aileen smiled. “A white-faced gray pigeon with a few marks. We saw one last year and you remarked on its size; it’s larger than a crested pigeon.”
“I remember now.” Mum nodded. “When first I came to this country I was fascinated by the exotic birds. Erin has nothing like these. I always wondered what their names were, and I never learned them, for some reason. It pleases me that you’ve mastered them all, dear.”
“Not them all, Mum.”
“Near enough. You’ve a gift for it; apparently a gift I lack, although I do remember the first bird I learned by name. Your father identified it for me.” And she looked across at Papa.
An almost misty look came across his face. “A kingfisher. In that crocodile pool beyond Sugarlea. We’ve seen some country since then.”
“Haven’t we.” The memories misted Mum’s face, too.
“Mum, why don’t you ever tell us stories about before you were married?” Hannah popped the last of her dinner into her mouth and extended her plate. “More, please.”
“You may ask again after your mouth is empty.”
Papa lost any mistiness he may have had. “The past is past,
Aha! She had a sudden idea she’d never had before. She drew a tree where the knob ought to be. Mother Nature would surely plant a tree to hide that knob sooner or later. Mary Aileen would make it sooner. She sketched the tree after the form of the trees beside her.
On the crest of the mountain here, the trees spaced themselves at orderly intervals, making them easy to sketch individually. Below, in the wet gorge, they crowded each other, forming a dense green mat seemingly to protect the canyon from prying eyes. Living things were hidden in that canyon, wonderful things—lyrebirds and bowerbirds, orioles and pardalotes, platypuses and snakes. She wished she could walk among them unfeared!
Wee-ooo . A bowerbird called in the forest below her. Silence. Something on the forest floor must have startled a flock of king parrots; with their noisy chack, chack! , red birds and green spurted up from the hillside opposite. Kookaburras laughed a hearty g’day to the waning sun. Beside Mary Aileen’s front-row seat, a restless little rock warbler rattled the dry leaves. Wagging its tail side to side, it hopped and skittered about.
The dinner bell clanged, muffled by the trees behind her. Mary Aileen scrambled reluctantly, to her feet, turned her back on her marvelous view of nature, and walked down to camp.
Papa bowed his head for the blessing as soon as Mary Aileen entered the circle. He thanked God for the food, and for the opportunity they had to retreat like this for a few days of rest and renewal. He acknowledged God’s hand in everything, and as soon as he said “Amen,” Hannah dived for the food.
Mary Aileen waited while Edan filled his plate. Then she scooped out her own serving, privately wishing there weren’t quite so many onions in the dish. She settled on the ground near the fire, her warm plate in her lap, and ate in silence, missing Colin.
Mum glanced at Mary Aileen’s sketchbook. “See anything out there this evening?”
“The usual things. A very pretty flight of king parrots.”
In the distance to the north, a mournful sound began: Wonk. Wonk. Wonk. Wonk . The litany continued unvarying through the minutes of otherwise silence.
Mum frowned. “That bird calling—you told me what it was and I’ve forgotten.”
“It’s a wonga pigeon,” Mary Aileen smiled. “A white-faced gray pigeon with a few marks. We saw one last year and you remarked on its size; it’s larger than a crested pigeon.”
“I remember now.” Mum nodded. “When first I came to this country I was fascinated by the exotic birds. Erin has nothing like these. I always wondered what their names were, and I never learned them, for some reason. It pleases me that you’ve mastered them all, dear.”
“Not them all, Mum.”
“Near enough. You’ve a gift for it; apparently a gift I lack, although I do remember the first bird I learned by name. Your father identified it for me.” And she looked across at Papa.
An almost misty look came across his face. “A kingfisher. In that crocodile pool beyond Sugarlea. We’ve seen some country since then.”
“Haven’t we.” The memories misted Mum’s face, too.
“Mum, why don’t you ever tell us stories about before you were married?” Hannah popped the last of her dinner into her mouth and extended her plate. “More, please.”
“You may ask again after your mouth is empty.”
Papa lost any mistiness he may have had. “The past is past,
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