“Ain’t that feller got ginger hair!” said little Mick.
CHAPTER XIII
BLACK SUNDAY
Robin woke early, after an uneasy dream, in which Mr. Merritt’s pig had been flattening her under a great slab of rock, while its brother exploded plug after plug of gelignite close by, apparently with the hope of killing her. To breathe under the rock was extremely difficult, and she was much relieved when the final explosion removed not only the stone, but both pigs, and left her swimming down the Merri Creek Falls. By great good luck she avoided the jutting crag that divided the main fall, and swam placidly down, using the breast-stroke very slowly, and not at all inconvenienced by being in a vertical position. This lasted until she reached the whirlpool at the foot, when the water immediately took charge of her, whirled her round like a cork at great speed, and washed her out upon a slope, quite dry, which was curious, and very breathless, which was what might have been expected.
She woke, and rubbed her eyes, wondering, half-sleepily, why she should still feel the sense of breathlessness that had followed her throughout her ridiculous dream. Her bed on the veranda overlooked the long stretch of narrow valley between the creek and the foothills, ending in a great spur of the range that towered into the sky, covered with mountain ash-trees. It was a view she loved: her first glance was for it every morning, and she turned towards it now.
There were no hills to be seen. The valley lay peacefully, looking just as it always did, save that it was hazy, as though a soft, transparent grey veil had been drawn over the familiar outlines. But the hills had vanished as completely as if they had been wiped out.
“Whew-w!” Robin whistled, sitting up. “Those fires in the ranges must have come down a good bit.” Her thoughts went to the mother of Micky and Joe. “Poor little Mrs. Ryan will be more worried than ever. I do hope that Mick and Bill of hers won’t stay too long trying to save their mill.”
She got up, and, putting on kimono and slippers, went into the garden. All the hills that ran to north and south of the creek valley were blotted out, as if the valley had, in the night, become a kind of island, ending in nothing. Although the sun was well above the horizon, it was invisible. Somewhere behind the curtain it was mounting, already giving promise of a day that should be hotter than any they had yet endured—there was something sinister in its steady, unseen force. The air of early morning had no sense of refreshment and coolness. It was heavy to breathe, and profoundly still. Not a flicker stirred a leaf in the garden. And Robin suddenly realized that the busy chatter of awaking birds was altogether absent. They were hiding in the trees; there was no merry flutter of wings, no cheery call of cockatoos beyond the creek. The utter silence sent a little thrill of discomfort through her.
“This is too quiet altogether, even for Sunday morning,” she said, with a half-laugh. “It feels uncanny. I think I’ll call Barry, and we’ll get the work done early.”
Barry came into view as she turned to go.
“Hullo, you up?” he said. “Isn’t it a beastly morning? I woke up feeling as if I had been eating smoke.” His black hair was tousled; he rubbed his eyes, looking, in his pink-striped pyjamas, rather like an aggrieved child. “I don’t think this is going to be at all a nice day!”