In prog, Indya
 |
| Kate, c Indya October 2014 |
Letters
2014
Dear Indya
Can you draw Kate and the
Long Tailor together – and old 2 room farm house / creek in the background,
moon in sky (as set out in the context).
For dramatic effect, a small 10
yr old boy might be looking at them from a background
tree and can be almost indistinguishable from the tree (maybe just a hint of a
face in the bark). (The young boy
drowned in the Yandyguinula Creek when he turned 18 – he was Kate and the
Long Tailor’s son.)
The farm house in ruined form would have been like Kyamma
Description of Kate
In mid-Summer 1867, when she cares for the Long Tailor, Kate
was 18. She is mid height -5’6”. She has red hair – possibly
freckles – fit – mid statue and very fit. She rides horses and wears
stock pants, a shirt and riding boots. She has 2 changes of clothes and is
wearing the good set – which would be patched but clean.
Locality
Near the area and creek at Jinden.
Context
This is the part of the
story that the illustration will apply to
Kate stands here in the cold pale moonlight. Tears
well in her eyes and the old farm house shimmers.
Light spills out of the windows. Shadows move around
the house. Her heart jumps. And then the windows dim. Just a
trick of the light. Stock are moving through the old yards.
She stares at the deserted farmhouse, and remembers. A
tear starts to fall.
As the tear falls, the farm windows light again. This
time a bonfire burns in front of the house and the sound of the fiddle and
whistle fills the night air with the final bars of a local version of ‘Kelly
from Killanne’. The sounds of laughter and the smells of a bush feast.
‘Katie’, he says softly, that man with the broken lip. The
one she nursed back to health after a trooper shot him. The one whose face she
touched, as he lay sleeping.
She does not move.
The fiddle commands silence with the first few bars of ‘The
Rising of the Moon’. One of the men, Gavin starts, ‘And come tell me
Sean O'Farrell, tell me why you hurry so’.
She remembers the promises he made with a smile on his face
as the gathering at the farm shout their appreciation and sparks from the
bonfire and the chimneys fly high into the night sky.
‘Yes! Gold – fairy dust and rings, enough for a good
life, a respectable life, far from this wretched place. A life with a
cottage and a garden’, he said. Gavin continues, ‘Husha buachaill hush
and listen and his cheeks were all a glow’.
‘Gold enough for a fine hat and two changes of clothes a
day. Two pairs of shoes. And cows in the field, chooks in the barn and a
man to split wood.’ In the background, ‘I bare orders from the captain
get you ready quick and soon’.
‘And gold enough for children.’ Back at the farm, mugs are
beating the tables in tune with Gavin ‘For the pikes must be together by the
rising of the moon’.
She stares at the light streaming from the farm.
Shadows flickering in the cold pale moonlight.
Loudly now, the gathering joins in the chorus, ‘By the
rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon. For the pikes must be together
by the rising of the moon.’
She tells the farm, ‘We need nae gold, Jemmy.’
‘Katie’, he says softly, ‘come quick’. She takes his
cold hand and they walk together to the brook, her moon shadow ahead of her.
Gavin continues, his voice fading into a quiet murmur as she
moves towards the mountains, ‘And come tell me Sean O'Farrell where the
gath'rin is to be, At the old spot by the river quite well known to you and me’.
Jemmy’s voice is now clear, slewed a little with hard
liquor. ‘I have talked to them – I have done my part. I am going
back South – along the cart track – all the way to Gippsland where we push the
squatter’s fat cattle.’
‘There is a man there, who will set me up.’
‘There is a place down there – good pastures and safe.’
‘I will build us a stone house and strong fences. A
place for you to practice cooking and grow hens. Enough milk for home and
poddies.’
‘And I will sew you fine dresses and plant an orchard.’
She smiles at this remembrance, ‘And I will cook apple cake
and serve it with clotted cream.’
‘And lots of gold’, he added.
Her heart quickened. ‘Just straw flowers is enough for me’,
she says.
‘Fairy dust and rings’, he adds, ‘and a man to split wood,
to two to quarry stone and a butcher. And a fine hat and two changes of
clothing a day, and fine silver on the table.’
‘Fine silver on the table’, she repeated, feeling him close.
And the sounds of the creek filled the night, as the fiddle
paused back at the farm as the boys retired to the men’s room and a baby was
quieted by the suck.
The fall of the brook, the frogs in the side pools, the
sounds of an owl calling, kangaroos grazing near and the slap of stock moving
through the bush.
A stone curlew cries a warning.
‘When will you go?’
‘I am ready now’.
‘When will I see you next?’
‘I will send word and a cart when the troubles end here.’
‘Oh Jemmy, don’t leave me now’, she sobs.
He presses a gold sovereign into her small hand.
She trembles and shakes her head wildly.
‘I don’t want this gold’, she cries, but he holds her hand
shut.
‘I will send word and a cart when the troubles end here’, he
repeats.
Her tear hits the ground, and the creek dries. He fades into
drought.
And here she stands, in the pale moonlight, in front of the
old farm house, with the gold sovereign in her hand.
The farm house is dark, cold and dank. The thatched
roof has fallen. The sheets on the beds a decayed ruin, and the fireplace cold.
In the mountains beyond, a warrigal cries for his mate.
Peter Quinton
Palerang
October 2014
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