Published: 7 Mar 2022

Not wishing to arrive at the homestead smelling of so many days travel, Travis stripped and bathed in the coolness of the waterhole, after which he changed into fresh clothing and rode the short distance to the homestead paddock. On his way he smiled while remembering shapes of trees, a broken fence post, pile of rocks he had stacked one on top of the other as a child’s game, even the bones of a bullock, lesser in number now; more scattered but still where they lay those year previous when the animal succumb to a failed monsoon season.

His childhood flooded back, memories in quick succession flashed before him then disappeared into a fog of despair. He had returned but was no longer the boy who left and could not be so. His melancholy lifted when met by a friendly blue-healer dog. Laughing gape, lolling of tongue as it came bounding along the wide expanse of the home paddock, almost under the hooves of Titch, who not being accustomed to dogs took flight. It was old now and showing grey, when he left Sam was but a puppy.

“Steady girl,” Travis soothed and held Titch back.

“Hello fellow, are you the welcoming party?” he asks of Sam as the dog quietly fell in behind.

The double story profile of the main building and out-buildings soon became visible through a small grove of mango and tamarind trees, while towering above it all was the iron southern-cross windmill, believed to be the tallest in the state. As Travis rode closer a figure appeared at the top of the kitchen stairs. Travis recognised the woman. She was larger now and more wrinkled but Joyce Mitchell loomed at the doorway spotted with flour from face to elbows and with wooden spoon in hand was ready to challenge this strange rider coming out of the back reaches.

“What can I do for you young man?” She called sternly, realising that the stranger before her was not on of the station’s regular hands, while somewhat confused by his presence in such a remote setting.

“Mrs. Mitchell, don’t you recognise me?” Travis called.

Yet how could she, he was only a child when he left. The women with the unkempt hair akin to steel wool didn’t answer as she slowly shook her head while searching her memory for a name.

It did not come.

“It’s Travis, Mrs. Mitchell – Travis Brown.”

With his words, memory of the child flooded back to the old woman and tears of joy formed as she welcomed him. Travis dismounted and met her at the base of the stairs. She hugged and covered him with flour. She apologised as he humorously brushed away the dusting.

“How is your dear mother?”

“Fine they are living in Mareeba,” Travis answered.

“And your father since his accident?”

“He is well in the most but obviously missing his riding days.”

Joyce stepped back a pace to better view Travis, she smiled broadly, “here you are a grown man; I don’t believe how much you have grown.”

“Yes it is going on ten years now,” Travis admitted.

Are you looking for work?”

“No I’m just visiting; I’ve ridden along the Gilbert over the Black Spur from Forsayth,” he answered as the woman invited him in and sat him down to cold meat sandwiches and tea.

“We are out of powdered milk I’m afraid – the supplies haven’t arrived this month,” She apologised.

“No worries, I don’t mind black tea; Whose the manager now?” Travis asks.

“We’ve had three since your dear father and mother were here. It’s the Robinson’s now. Bill Robinson came here from over at Prospect Hills,” Joyce Mitchell appeared distressed, she continued, “I’m afraid it won’t be for long, the holding company had sold the property and has divided it into smaller blocks and I’m afraid come Christmas I will need to find myself a new position as well.”

After feeding Travis, Joyce introduced him to the Robinson’s, who were most interested in his memories and when Travis asked if it would be acceptable if he camped down by the river, he was invited to stay at the big house, giving him the same room he had as a child.

When Travis arrived the stockmen were away at Glendale Substation on a muster getting ready for the season change and the wet, returning after the second day of his visit. All of the men were unknown to him but one remained from his childhood. Ralph Bentley was a man well past retirement but as strong as an ox and had nothing more to live for except trailing behind the arse end of a bullock. There wasn’t anything Bentley didn’t know about horses or cattle and was willing to work for weeks at a time without a break. Why would a man want to go into town? He would declare whenever offered time off, only getting on the grog and regretting it later, would be his reasoning. A quiet beer and game of cards with his fellow stockmen was more than enough to entertain Ralph. Now he was devastated. He would have to move on and had no one to go to, or any place to call home.

After hearing about the pending sale the Robinson’s desperately attempted to find Ralph another position but in each attempt a younger man was required and one who knew his way around a motorbike. It appeared that what Roy had told Travis was coming true and the horse as a work tool was on its way out.

With the ringers back from Glendale and in for the nights meal, Travis entered their dining room without raising more than a glance from the half dozen men. It was Bentley who took more time to scrutinise Travis. Viewing him from head to foot then with a puzzled gaze his eyes fixed on those of Travis.

He released a toothless smile.

“I know that face,” Ralph declared.

“You should at that Ralph,” Travis answers.

“Travis Brown! I don’t believe it. Hey fellers; its Jim Brown’s boy and look at him he’s all growed’ up.” Ralph took hold of Travis’ hand and turning to his associates repeated his statement. They payed Ralph’s account a measure of reverence but didn’t appear to be much interested in the new man, believing he had come to work and a new man arriving halfway through a muster was nothing but trouble.

“What are you out this way for?” Ralph asks without releasing his hold on Travis’ hand.

“Just visiting,”

“How did you get here?”

“I rode over the Black Spur,”

“You what?”

Ralph turned to the men, “he rode over the black spur,”

To a man they named him insane but did so in kindly manner.

“I don’t believe it. It’s Travis Brown and he’s all growed’ up,” Bentley repeated once again, “hows ya’ father?”

“A little older and missing the bush, otherwise fine.”

“And of his accident,”

“He still has a slight limp and can’t sit on a horse for any length.”

“And your mother,”

“Well settled into town life I’m afraid.”

“And you, have your finished your schooling?”

“Last year Ralph and I thought I would simply travel awhile.”

That night there were more stories to be told and memories that even Travis didn’t know he had. There was also the sadness of an old cattleman who felt he was no longer of any use to society. He was about to be discarded like the horse he rode but didn’t feel ready for retirement. Even so Ralph understood well the changing mood of the west and no matter how often he complained would have to accept the outcome. He would find a quiet place where he could recollect in peace and solitude with his memories. Possibly even a sea-change as Ralph had never seen the ocean, nor in fact a river that flowed in wild abandon from hill to sea.

Their conversation carried through until early in the morning and may have gone right through to sun-up if it were not for the fact that Ralph had to join the other men and return to their muster at daybreak.

“I’ll tell you what Ralph,” Travis took pencil and a scrap of waste paper and commenced to write. “My Uncle Roy Brown, dad’s brother has a spread the other side of Mareeba and is always looking for good men, or at worse should be able to put you on to someone,” He offered Ralph the address, “I can’t guarantee anything but it’s worth the try.”

At week’s end Travis was once more ready to move on. His revisit to his past had not turned out as he had hoped and at last he realised no matter how hard you wish, you can’t turn back time and he should treat the past for what it was, memories; just beautiful memories and nothing more.

There was a measure of remorse on his final night at Cumberland Downs. Ralph Bentley and the rest had returned to Glendale and Travis had given his respects to the Robinsons and of course Joyce Mitchell. Before retiring he went for one last walk in strong moonlight as if to refresh his memory. Night birds called from their roost and towards the swampy ground beside the horse paddock, frogs called as they had done when he was a boy. A golden plover was disturbed and complained bitterly from her simple nest amongst the bog.

The strong moonlight guided him to the lagoon some distance from the house. Here he found further change as the pumpkin soup had become clear and filled with invasive waterlilies and where once the dead bullock decayed towards the end a tree grew strong and tall.

Travis’ memories of childhood swimming in the lagoon returned with a smile. Also the time he rescued his mother even, if he did not believe it to be so, as the lagoon was quite shallow but there was one spot of unknown depth. Here Margaret faltered and was brought to the bank by holding onto the back of Travis’ shorts. In his mind he again experienced the concerned voice of his mother calling then thanking him as a hero, also his embarrassed tone of denial. Travis again heard Margaret’s distress; his own panic as he came to her and wondered what his life would have been if the incident was tragic. He shrugged it all away as unbearable to contemplate.

Travis stood by the lagoon and stooped to touch the water. Bringing up a cupped handful he unconsciously smelled it before allowing it to dissipate through his fingers. All appeared much as he remembered but different and the difference being him and no amount of wishing could bring back the past. He must move on.

“Yes I’m ready,” Travis simply says as he released a deep breath.

“It is time to move on,” he quietly advised to no one but self and the call of a storm bird warning of the coming monsoon.

“Evan,” he softly mentioned then fell comfortably into their pending reunion, realising the day was fast approaching.

Travis planned to rise early the following morning to commence his return to Forsayth and finally his meeting with Evan. Departing from the lagoon and possibly for the first time since leaving school, he thought about his future while again hearing his mother’s voice advising him towards purpose.

He gave a huff,

“You were right,” he whispered towards Margaret’s continuum on his future.

‘But I always knew that mother,’ he thought.

‘That wasn’t the argument,’

‘It was timing and I wasn’t ready.’

‘Am I now?’

‘Maybe,’

Even so Travis wasn’t prepared to give sensibility total credit.

It was the day before Travis’ twenty-first birthday. He could give up the trail returning to Mareeba to his parents and friends. He had been in search of something without inkling for what, with his sight fixed firmly on the distant horizon. To the tree line and what lay beyond those distant trees, they always drawing him on. Now there was an equally strong attraction to his meeting with Evan at the Forsayth hotel. So he would turn his back on his enterprise, realising there was no quest at all. He had been chasing his past, chasing rainbows and with the morning, would commence his return to Forsayth and a new direction with the realisation his Uncle Roy was correct.

There was now reflection to a time long ago, to Creek Run and Torrens Creek, to Herberton and more.

It was a different life then.

Well remembered, well cherished but as intangible as his time on Cumberland Downs.

Now it seemed to be another’s life.

Not that belonging to Travis.

His was the now and the future and for once he thought of that future but only as far as his meeting with Evan.

A gentle sigh as he moved from the side of the lagoon, a deep breath and a smile.

Travis moved out before there was any sign of life in the big house, having stayed that final night in the bunkhouse so not to disturb anyone with an early departure. There was a ghostly hue to the homestead and outhouses against that early morning sky, creating impression they were larger, appearing more solid, permanent, hiding the truth that within a short time the property would be divided and the homestead made superfluous, no longer the centre of a large station’s activity. Yet it would still exist but only as residence to a few hundred acres, its structure redundant, left to eventually decay back to the baked red soil, or to the ravishing of termites.

Travis sighed as he headed north east towards Georgetown into the rising sun but firstly he referred to Luke’s map of places to camp, noticing an oversized cross close to the gulf highway and reachable within that day’s riding. Luke had written ‘very good’ beside his mark while situated a little less than halfway between Cumberland Downs and Georgetown. He decided to head for that cross and make it his next camp, maybe his last as there was now less than two weeks before his meeting in Forsayth.

As Travis crossed through the gate leading away from the home paddock he cried out loudly, “happy birthday Travis!” then continued as if but another day. There was a song he remembered, ‘I unwrapped the tiny package that I bought myself, and sang happy birthday to me.’ He had no package to unwrap and back home his parents had no way of sending him anything. His mother would remember the day with remorse for his absence, while somewhere in the house would be his present and as usual it would be clothing but it was doubtful that any of his friends would know it was his twenty-first birthday. Yet with it all it mattered not, all he wished for now was his meeting with Evan and offer comfort in their pending friendship.

Gary’s stories are about life in Australia as a gay man. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

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