A forest path, damp after spring rains. The sky overhead a cornflower blue, speckled with soft drifts of cotton wool cloud. Sunshine filtering through tall eucalypts, dappling the forest floor \u2013 warmth on shade. Ferns are springing new grown from bare earth. Wildflowers litter the border between the track and the trees: multicoloured. Playful barking somewhere behind as two dogs chase rabbits among old mine shafts \u2013 red clay speckled with white quartz, green leaves, blackened trunks from last year\u2019s fire, red heath. Two women, mother and daughter, walk side by side in silence ignoring it all.
\u201cI went to Guild for the last time this week.\u201d It is the older woman who has spoken. As she turns her head towards her daughter her hair catches the sunlight. It is dull silver, heavy and thick. It brushes her shoulders as she moves. The face beneath has lived well. The skin is a rich olive, well tanned. There are lines around her eyes and mouth: not fine, but deep and wide from long use \u2013 laughter and tears in equal measure. Her eyes are hazel. Searching.
\u201cYou\u2019ll miss them, won\u2019t you?\u201d The daughter has answered. She turns to meet her mother\u2019s gaze. Her hair is a fine sandy brown. It catches the sunlight in a multitude of folds and waves, of tangles. Bands of faded colour from past experiments with fashion dyes flick around her neck as she moves \u2013 pinks and blues, greens. This face is younger, the same lines are there; narrower, finer, their causes the same only fewer in years. But her eyes are blue like her father\u2019s.
\u201cThe company more than the people, yes.\u201d They encounter a fork in the path. The mother instinctively moves left, choosing the path to the lake, forcing her daughter to follow. She has walked this path many times before. Alone.
\u201cYou\u2019ll find another club.\u201d
Silence.
Silence between people, only. Twigs crunch underfoot. The earth, slightly damp, sucks gently at shoes as feet move independently of minds. Somewhere a bell bird calls. A little raven answers; its cawing loud and clear in the still air. The forest is alive with sound. And smells. The mud has a rich aroma of mould and decay. The air among the trees is heavy with dew-scent and the pollen of wattles.
\u201cI\u2019ll miss you.\u201d The daughter has spoken again. As she walks her hands fidget with the lead belonging to one of the dogs. She doesn\u2019t look at her mother, but at the ground as she walks.
\u201cWhy?\u201d A wind has picked up out of the south, tossing the canopy above them, setting up a gentle sway among the trees. The cooling temperature is not only in the stirring air.
\u201cYou\u2019re going to be so far away. I won\u2019t be able to visit you as often.\u201d There is sorrow in her voice. Sorrow tinged with guilt tinged with regret. Tinged with love.
\u201cYou hardly visit me now. What difference will another two thousand miles make?\u201d Pain. Regret.
The dogs bound up; tails wagging, tongues hanging out, panting. Their feet are muddy, their coats dusty, streaked with clay and charcoal, red and black. They dance around the feet of the two women, then bound ahead up the trail. Barking.
\u201cWhat does Grandma think?\u201d Change of subject: safe, hurtful.
\u201cI\u2019ve stayed this long for her. If I stay any longer, I\u2019ll be too old to appreciate the change.\u201d They both know it\u2019s true.
From somewhere ahead a kookaburra calls. Its laughter echoes through the trees, trivialising the moment. Mocking silent heartache. The younger woman lifts her head in the direction of the bird, catches a glimpse of blue in grey-brown wings. She smiles, cheered by the freedom of a bird in flight. She takes her mother\u2019s hand, but says nothing. There is a lightness to her steps again.
Hand in hand they crest a small hill. Narrow but long, algae green beneath a blue sky, the lake vanishes between tall trees. The path turns left, away from crumbling cliffs of clay and quartz that stretch along the right bank and into forever. The dogs are in the water, ineffectually chasing a family of ducks while churning mud from the lake\u2019s bottom. A trail of ruddy brown leads from the left bank and into the dogs\u2019 wake.
As the women approach the dogs abandon the ducks and race for the shore. Heavy-barreled bodies drag themselves from the water, wringing first one way, then the next. Spiraling droplets shower both mother and daughter as the dogs rid their coats of excess water. The women laugh. Their hands fly up to shelter their faces from the musty rain. Wet noses nuzzle warm, damp hands, seeking attention, acknowledgement. It\u2019s as if the drought has broken.
\u201cI love you,\u201d the younger woman smiles through strands of damp hair at her mother.
\u201cI know, but it hurts when you don\u2019t call.\u201d She reaches out to tug the hair from her daughter\u2019s face, tucking it behind her ears. Something she has been doing for a lifetime, wishes she could continue to do for another. It is something she has missed.
\u201cSometimes I forget. What with work and the house and always looking out for John \u2013 making sure he takes care of himself, that he eats, that he doesn\u2019t work too hard.\u201d She smiles, thinking of the husband she has left at home for this weekend, of the plans they have that are as yet unfulfilled, and the things they have done together. \u201cI don\u2019t get much quiet time these days.\u201d She spreads her hands. She knows she is making excuses. Knows she can make the time if she tries. Knows she should. It doesn\u2019t make it any easier. \u201cI\u2019ll try.\u201d
\u201cThat\u2019s all I ask.\u201d She takes her daughter\u2019s hand and squeezes gently.
The dogs bound off again, into the forest. Unseen but heard. Short deep barks, playful yaps; they call to each other, chasing rabbits or foxes or perhaps the wind itself.
The women turn their backs on the lake, on the dogs, to retrace their steps. At home a fire waits: warmth and familiar comfort, a hot meal. The wind has turned again, cold this time, bringing the smell of rain. When the path forks they choose the shorter route, anxious to avoid the rain. Neither speaks. It is some time before their silence is broken again.
\u201cWhere will you go?\u201d the daughter asks. She worries. Not for the safety of her mother, but for the loss of her home. Stable, reliable, the mother has always provided a home to come back to, somewhere to be sure of. Now, at sixty, she is abandoning security, taking a leap into the void.
The cool breeze has brought clouds, darkening the sky to deep grey. Thunderheads build in the east, waiting for the dusk.
\u201cNorth. Queensland, or the north coast of New South Wales. Somewhere that is warmer, more friendly to old bones.\u201d She senses some of her daughter\u2019s anxiety, feels the change in the air and shivers.
Under the muted sky the trees turn dull and grey, green leaves lose their lustre. The air is still now, the birds quiet. The approaching storm weighs heavily over the forest, almost suffocating in intensity.
Struggling up the final hill of the seldom-used path the women pause, speechless. Ahead, perhaps no more than twenty metres from where they stand, it moves with casual grace. Black and sleek, larger than either dog, its muscles ripple as heavy feet pad from left to right across the path. Its long tail twitches, moves in fluid counterbalance as it turns to face the women. Deep golden eyes regard mother and daughter from a wide black face. Whiskers twitch as the great cat opens its mouth slightly \u2013 pink tongue, white teeth \u2013 and breathes in short pants, tasting the air.
Without a word, without turning, the women reach out and grasp hands. Somewhere in the distance the dogs bark. A low growl rumbles from beneath bared teeth, then the cat turns and continues across the path. As the last of its tail disappears into the undergrowth, twitching gently, the watchers exhale in unison.
The dogs bound up, tails wagging, and rush to scent the trail. Neither is brave enough to follow; instead they whine and pace, waiting for the women, anxious to go home. Thunder rumbles over the treetops. The storm has tired of waiting for the dusk. Heavy drops fall lazily from the sky, splattering onto the soft earth.
\u201cHere Smokey, here Flo,\u201d the older woman calls, whistling. The dogs come, but pace as leads are attached to collars, then tug as if leading the way home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The women are shaking water from their hair and laughing as they enter the house. Outside the storm has broken. Lightning cracks across a sky which is as dark as the coming night. Thunder follows quickly, the heavy rumbles drowning out the pelting of rain on the tin roof. The dogs race ahead, collapsing on their beds before the fire. The room fills with wet-dog smell: must and mud.
\u201cDid you enjoy your walk?\u201d From a chair in the corner, a man looks up from his book. He is the mother\u2019s second husband: comfortable, reliable.
The women pause and look at each other \u2013 and smile. They are laughing again as they hug each other, then him. They say nothing, but he knows that they have shared something. He can feel that the healing has begun.
Outside the rain pours down from a jealous sky. Soon the deep prints in the earth will be erased. What the women have witnessed will become memory, and then myth.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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