Fandomweekly Challenge 113 - In the bones
Jul. 24th, 2022 12:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
m_findlowTitle: In the bones
Cara felt the warm earth underneath her back as she settled in for the night in their makeshift campsite. Her muscles ached from twelve hours on horseback, but in a good way.
Life in outback Australia suits her. It's hot and it's dry, and they don't make fires out of stinky peat blocks. Everything is tinder dry and the kindling snaps and cracks, giving off the scent of eucalyptus. It's about as far removed from the dreary grey, damp Yorkshire countryside as she can get.
They called her a jillaroo. It was, as far as she could tell, just a name for a woman who could ride a horse and muster sheep and cattle. She didn't argue with the designation. She'd learned to ride a horse back in England, and the mustering part wasn't hard to learn. They hadn't really questioned her qualifications for the job. Out here there were two men and a dog, so they'd willingly taken what help they could get. It was lucky for her, really. Having hitched a ride with a trucker, stepping off the rig in the tinpot town of Naminjuk, there'd only been two employment options: her current job or unemployment. No one could say when the next truck would roll through town or whether it would stop there at all. For better or worse this place, six hundred kilometres from anywhere, was now home.
The land was vast, and all of it owned and managed by this strange trio of men - a father and his two sons - in whose employ she was now engaged. She didn't feel threatened by any of them. She watched them with quiet interest in the same way as they no doubt watched her. Pete was the youngest, thirty, and keen on the drink. Out here though alcohol was scarce, so he'd sometimes be all smiles and jokes, and other times moody and foul-tempered. Russ was older than him by four years, but unlike his more jovial sibling, never spoke, not in all the weeks they'd been out here moving the cattle north. That lack of talking might unnerve most people. Harold assured her that Russ wasn't deaf or dumb, just liked to keep himself to himself. Harold did enough talking for all three of them. She liked Harold. He had that hardy outer shell of a man who should have retired, but who would keep going until the day he literally died in his saddle.
Boots crunched the packed red dirt near her and she tipped her hat back a few inches so it was no longer shading her eyes as she leaned lazily back against a fallen gum. Pete stood there with a small armful of kindling, adding it slowly to their fire as the night air grew chill. If the days were hot and dry as a desert, the nights were bitter cold. The only change were the sleeves of her flannel shirt that rolled up and down like the sun. Their fire was just big enough to keep the cold at bay, but made from whatever they could find. Everything out here burned. Nothing went to waste.
In the distance she could hear the last strains of cattle lowing as they finally settled for the night. After moving them fifty kilometres in a single day, it was curious how they simply accepted the move and didn't wander off during the night. The cattle she remembered from her childhood home were entirely stupid creatures.
Harold must have heard her thoughts. 'Should reach the station in a few days at this rate. Plenty of time before the road train arrives to take 'em to Townsville.'
'Decent price this year, as well,' Pete added, settling back down against his saddle bags. 'We got fleeced last season. Barely covered the transport.'
Cara stared silently at Harold across the orange flames skipping up between them. She'd gotten good at this exchange without words.
Harold shrugged back at her, doffing his hat with a bony hand to wave away some of the smoke. 'Cattle's fickle like that,' he explained. 'Some years China wants 'em, some years they don't. Locals don't pay like the Chinese. Different politics to what you're used to.'
'I didn't follow politics,' she replied, some of her northern accent having already given way to a more nasal local lilt. She hadn't even followed agriculture. She just needed out, away from everything she knew, including the little brother she'd left behind. He was better off without her. A proper foster home that would give him the education she couldn't. One day maybe she'd go back, but not for a while yet. Out here she was whoever she wanted to be, for however long. No strings attached.
Harold nodded. He seemed to sense the unspoken words. 'Smart girl. Have you back again next season if you're around,' he added. 'Extra set of hands makes all the difference.'
'Just don't expect extra pay,' Pete told her, his tone back to joking.
'If I'm round, I'm round,' Cara replied, keeping herself untethered to obligation. She might hitch a ride with the cattle train to Townsville and see what was there.
'You'll be back,' Harold told her. 'You've got this land in your bones now.'
She didn't reply, just pulled her hat back low over her eyes, listening to the fire crackling away. To her left, a low whistling started up. Russ, who said nothing, but filled the air with a tune she didn't recognise but felt altogether familiar and comforting. Harold hummed some words that didn't sound like English. He'd hummed them before, telling her they were special words to thank the spirits for the land and its bounty. Words taught to him by the traditional owners of the land. It was a song for this place - this dry nowhere - bringing forth its spirit out into the night air. She closed her eyes and let the song drift around her, mingling with the smoke from their fire, feeling home at last.
Fandom: Original
Characters: Original characters
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 1,000 words
Content notes: none.
Author notes: Written for Challenge 113 - Bonfire at ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandomweekly
fandomweeklySummary: Cara won't be tied down, but the land and its people have other ideas.
Cara felt the warm earth underneath her back as she settled in for the night in their makeshift campsite. Her muscles ached from twelve hours on horseback, but in a good way.
Life in outback Australia suits her. It's hot and it's dry, and they don't make fires out of stinky peat blocks. Everything is tinder dry and the kindling snaps and cracks, giving off the scent of eucalyptus. It's about as far removed from the dreary grey, damp Yorkshire countryside as she can get.
They called her a jillaroo. It was, as far as she could tell, just a name for a woman who could ride a horse and muster sheep and cattle. She didn't argue with the designation. She'd learned to ride a horse back in England, and the mustering part wasn't hard to learn. They hadn't really questioned her qualifications for the job. Out here there were two men and a dog, so they'd willingly taken what help they could get. It was lucky for her, really. Having hitched a ride with a trucker, stepping off the rig in the tinpot town of Naminjuk, there'd only been two employment options: her current job or unemployment. No one could say when the next truck would roll through town or whether it would stop there at all. For better or worse this place, six hundred kilometres from anywhere, was now home.
The land was vast, and all of it owned and managed by this strange trio of men - a father and his two sons - in whose employ she was now engaged. She didn't feel threatened by any of them. She watched them with quiet interest in the same way as they no doubt watched her. Pete was the youngest, thirty, and keen on the drink. Out here though alcohol was scarce, so he'd sometimes be all smiles and jokes, and other times moody and foul-tempered. Russ was older than him by four years, but unlike his more jovial sibling, never spoke, not in all the weeks they'd been out here moving the cattle north. That lack of talking might unnerve most people. Harold assured her that Russ wasn't deaf or dumb, just liked to keep himself to himself. Harold did enough talking for all three of them. She liked Harold. He had that hardy outer shell of a man who should have retired, but who would keep going until the day he literally died in his saddle.
Boots crunched the packed red dirt near her and she tipped her hat back a few inches so it was no longer shading her eyes as she leaned lazily back against a fallen gum. Pete stood there with a small armful of kindling, adding it slowly to their fire as the night air grew chill. If the days were hot and dry as a desert, the nights were bitter cold. The only change were the sleeves of her flannel shirt that rolled up and down like the sun. Their fire was just big enough to keep the cold at bay, but made from whatever they could find. Everything out here burned. Nothing went to waste.
In the distance she could hear the last strains of cattle lowing as they finally settled for the night. After moving them fifty kilometres in a single day, it was curious how they simply accepted the move and didn't wander off during the night. The cattle she remembered from her childhood home were entirely stupid creatures.
Harold must have heard her thoughts. 'Should reach the station in a few days at this rate. Plenty of time before the road train arrives to take 'em to Townsville.'
'Decent price this year, as well,' Pete added, settling back down against his saddle bags. 'We got fleeced last season. Barely covered the transport.'
Cara stared silently at Harold across the orange flames skipping up between them. She'd gotten good at this exchange without words.
Harold shrugged back at her, doffing his hat with a bony hand to wave away some of the smoke. 'Cattle's fickle like that,' he explained. 'Some years China wants 'em, some years they don't. Locals don't pay like the Chinese. Different politics to what you're used to.'
'I didn't follow politics,' she replied, some of her northern accent having already given way to a more nasal local lilt. She hadn't even followed agriculture. She just needed out, away from everything she knew, including the little brother she'd left behind. He was better off without her. A proper foster home that would give him the education she couldn't. One day maybe she'd go back, but not for a while yet. Out here she was whoever she wanted to be, for however long. No strings attached.
Harold nodded. He seemed to sense the unspoken words. 'Smart girl. Have you back again next season if you're around,' he added. 'Extra set of hands makes all the difference.'
'Just don't expect extra pay,' Pete told her, his tone back to joking.
'If I'm round, I'm round,' Cara replied, keeping herself untethered to obligation. She might hitch a ride with the cattle train to Townsville and see what was there.
'You'll be back,' Harold told her. 'You've got this land in your bones now.'
She didn't reply, just pulled her hat back low over her eyes, listening to the fire crackling away. To her left, a low whistling started up. Russ, who said nothing, but filled the air with a tune she didn't recognise but felt altogether familiar and comforting. Harold hummed some words that didn't sound like English. He'd hummed them before, telling her they were special words to thank the spirits for the land and its bounty. Words taught to him by the traditional owners of the land. It was a song for this place - this dry nowhere - bringing forth its spirit out into the night air. She closed her eyes and let the song drift around her, mingling with the smoke from their fire, feeling home at last.
