Pelican Pool: A Novel

by Sydney Loch

The old man grunted, and she turned and left the house. She saddled Stockings, the chestnut with four white legs, she mounted him, and he moved freely down the road, reefing a little at the beginning from good spirits. She checked him to a walk, and presently he ceased to fret and plodded down the way with head drooping lower as each mile was put behind. Presently hills stood between the camp and her. Presently she was far into the plain. The sun was high up in the sky; the air was hot and without breeze. The red hill sides glared back into the sun's face. The baked bunches of spinifex pushed up their spears from the ground. At the end of several miles she began to fag, although all her task was to sit astride this big horse. Purpose held her moving along the road. The green belt of the river grew up upon the horizon.

Rage and bitterness had spent their hours in her heart and had passed to where such things pass. Now Care came, a lonely child, to suck at her breast. Came too this desire to look upon that beauty which could command men to cast all away and follow—a desire to stare upon it from her high seat on this beast.

The green belt marking the river came out across the plain. The big horse carried her into the shabby country which sheltered the higher trees from the broad face of the land. Rubbish of old floods, long run to the sea, waited in the branches, and here and there high watermark showed above her head. Now she rode among the nobler timber.

It was gentle here among the trees, where quiet shadows laid their cheeks against the path. A lonely bird fluted in the boughs. Water peeped ahead through bending branches. It seemed the Pool had shrunken much after these rainless months.

Presently, when she had passed a long way through the trees, she pulled up Stockings on the bank and looked down into the water. The face of the Pool stared back into her own, and she could mark the lean fishes lolling in cool places, and discover a world of weeds nodding below. Last great lilies of the year bloomed lonely upon the brow of the water. To right hand, to left hand, the face of the Pool extended. Guardian ranks of trees followed all the way, bending over in many places to stare at their countenances. Sunlight slipped among their tops, and tumbled into the gloom of their boughs, and splashed upon the water with noiseless splashes. Shadows with dusky faces peered round the tree trunks to know who came thus to look with sad face upon the slumbers of an afternoon.

She had drawn quietly to the bank, and now she discovered wild birds dozed upon the bosom of the Pool. Fat ducks floated, with bills laid to rest in gorgeous plumes. Divers paddled in loneliest places and sank among the weeds. Strange birds shovelled in the hot soft mud. And in all corners—melodiously hidden—butcher birds called and called again, tiny birds with canary breasts flitted in the boughs, and sharpened their bills on the roughness of the bark; and kingfishers skimmed the water on shining, whirring wings.

She laid the reins upon the neck of the big horse which stood so still, and as she looked the message of peace laid a quiet finger upon her heart. She told herself the beautiful child who had so harmed her had a home by this gentle place, and so she could not be a stranger to kindness. She would undo the damage wrought. He who had wandered away after false gods saw every day this fair scene, and his heart must still have understanding. She turned Stockings from the Pool right-handed, and threaded a way along the bank. She began to wonder what to do when she would find herself face to face with the girl. She wondered if rumour had mistold of her beauty, and she grew bitter with her own poor body which could ill afford challenge. What would she say to this child if she had to speak to her—tell her to go down to the Pool and there find a book printed with much learning? She would tell her gently she had played robber, and this stranger had ridden across the plain to receive back what she had lost. It was simple to give back where value was not. Value was not? A new thought to stab. This young girl who lived among the silences of the timber might love too, and fight for her love with the weapons of the savage. Beauty and passion come to do battle against her own dowdy armour.

What a coward heart she held! Here was the camp coming through the trees. Did she arrive on the service of love to peer and eavesdrop, and to smile out of her white face while rage filled her heart? Ah, there the child lived. What a lowly house the man she loved had stooped to knock at! Her own stout roof and safe walls could not keep him. Her nerves were tight drawn to-day. Stockings had whinnied loud, and the blood raced to her heart. The hut was not deserted. An unfriendly dog ran out to challenge the approach. In a moment the girl might cross the threshold, and find her without wit or speech. Stockings neighed again—and was that a horse answering beyond the hut? A horse was there. A horseman must be here. Shame! His horse stood there. She was near the doorway. She must ride on or turn back. She might be found there. Such thing must never be. He might find her there, and think she spied upon him. He might come outside, and with him the child who had stolen him away. They two might look fondly at each other. No—not that.

She was clumsy. She had waited too long. He stood in the doorway. He was coming outside. He stood still. He had seen her. They were staring into each other's eyes. It seemed they could not leave off looking. They looked into each other's hearts and read all that was written there. His face had grown hard; he was frowning, his face black. Come, she must rouse herself from enchantment. She could not speak to him now, and there was only left to turn Stockings on the road home.