Stories from Deli

Emigrants

By Madelon SZÉKELY-LULOFS

The Colonel was the only one who farmed for pleasure. He had a young Australian wife and was retired from the British Indian Army. He no longer fit into English society and Muriel, his wife, preferred Australia. The Colonel’s farm was also the only friendly spot within a radius of seventy-five miles. It was an English country house with a colourful flower garden. There was a garage for his small sports car, a stable with some excellent riding horses for his wife, and a small shed where the cows were milked. The Colonel was already very pleased if they gave enough milk for his coffee, and he was very proud of that too, because before he settled here, of course, he had always had to buy the milk. He had two hundred acres of lucerne, which was just enough to give him the opportunity to take an inspection walk through the field every morning. That was good for the Lucerne and also for his liver, which had suffered a little from the tropics… For the rest it was of course a whim that he had chosen this part of South Australia to live.

Colonel Cooper’s farm was surrounded by the arid Australian landscape: a colourless, endless plain, where hardly any grass grew. The dusty sand was a foot high and the warm, dry North wind sometimes blew it into the air in heavenly eddies. Here and there were clusters of ‘gum trees’, ghostly eucalyptus trees, gnarled, shabby trunks, along which the bark slid into fraying strips and twisting branches, like fused arms, grotesque deformities, which bore their pointed, silvery-green leaves like a miracle of tenderness.

In the shadows, fanciful as the trees they cast, cows and horses with drooping heads stood dozing, and there were the sheep too, huddled together… thousands and thousands; they sent their bleating complaint through the long hours of the dox-day.

Between the pale sky and the dying land, the air hung trembling with rising heat and scorching sunburn. And in those vibrations, the fata morgana formed, a lake with mirror-like surface water, that lured… lured across the unmerciful grassy plain to a vision of coolness and laving vision, which always gives way…. always gives way, because it is nowhere

Loose roads had been drawn through the plains and a narrow canal had been dug. On the canal, at the intersection of two roads, was Girgarre, a small village. A bleached wooden church, a small station, a school. A grocery store, which was also a post office, and a greengrocer’s store, where, in addition to onions and potatoes, they sold mouldy slices of chocolate and gummy candies. In the center of the village was a pile of dung. All the filth that was swept out of the church, the shops and the school every morning, was thrown there and buzzed all the later day and grumbled over it an army of fat black flies, which multiplied a million times in the stewing, scalding sunshine.

High and wide, almost too big for the whole village, there stood the only stone building: the butter and cheese factory, where the farmers of Gixgarre and environs delivered their milk.

Scattered across the plain, thrown hot and her down, lay the farms. Primitive wooden houses with small fenced-off fields, arid grassland and orange trees.

It was a poor country, this part of South Australia, and the farmers devoured their entire lives there. They were thin, bony and skinny. They had faces with protruding cheekbones, dry pursed lips, and hard, suspicious eyes. Their hair was coarse and discoloured from the sun, their skin wrinkled and furrowed, their hands rough and callused. So were the farmers’ wives…. They had to bear many children, these women, because each child brought two hands into the world. And servants were few and expensive. They consumed your entire profit.

It was January…. mid-summer. In the lazy day were the common noises: the crunching of the reapers, the calling voices of the farmers who constantly turned their horses on, the incessant bleating of the sheep, and the scratching of the crows, which swept across the land in great black flights, and fell down screaming, where they discovered a prey: a dead sheep or horse. They performed their funeral prayers: for days they plucked and plucked at the dead body, until only a skeleton remained. And all these days the warm wind blew, an ever stronger the nauseous, sickly stench of the decomposed flesh…. It was harvested….

In endless monotony, the mowers, hitting and colliding across the bumpy field, along its length, along its breadth, in ever smaller rectangles, cutting through the long lamp stalks, which almost instantly withered on the ground, amid the dying purple of their bright purple flowers.

Cyriel sat on the small iron seat of the machine. Covering his eyes with his hand, he sometimes looked briefly across the clear blue sky. Now and then he clicked his tongue, and his voice was heard far across the field:

“Wheel…. Hi!!!” Then Major and Tom, the two bulky horses, yanked a little harder on the rattling iron chariot and their heads jerked that the foam flew from their mouths in flakes. The reins slack, his arms supported on his knees, Cyriel’s thoughts dreamed away from the monotonous work. He was no longer happy with this life, which was becoming too hard for his young shoulders. He was not a farmer, not a farmer. It wasn’t in his blood. And he was not Australian.

Oh! Damm it! He was homesick. Longing for England, his home, his childhood, his memories. Father…. officer, killed in war. Mother … impoverished, taken in with family. And he himself …

Ra… .aa… .ka… .craaaa! You were scratching the crows. Cyriel laughed. Mocked himself. He!… After all, he would take care of himself! With warm enthusiasm, he had presented to Mother the booklets with information and pictures about farms in Australia… booklets, from which a golden future had shone!

And he was gone! Had been given a bloc, about a hundred acres. Government land in a canalized district. Barren, barren soil, which reluctantly gave back what he sowed: scanty lucerne, poor corn. Cows remained the main source of income. ..

“Whee … Hi !!” Cyriel tugged on the reins. The horses had gone astray, and a wheel of the machine got stuck in a hole. He slapped the horses with a long whip, cursing. They were frightened together; then, with the utmost effort, they moved on… Along the length, along the width, right around the corners… It was like this all day long. From seven in the morning… after milking … until six in the evening… until the milking! Cyriel ate in the field. Two chunks of bread with raw onion. And cold tea from a tin can.

At six o’clock he expanded. The machine remained in the field. He slapped the horses on the unwieldy buttocks: “Come on!” That was the signal that the work was done. With a slow trot they walked to the grassland and immediately started grazing. Brimmy, the merry with the foal, joined them, scolding them for a moment, neighing. She had been bored all day alone with her child.

With his hands in his pockets, Cyriel strolled to the stall, where he had to milk. It was just a shelter with a few posts, where he tied the animals. The cart with the two large milk jugs was there, as was the cream machine.

The cows were still grazing. He put his hand to his mouth like a funnel and called out to them, “Hi … oi … Haij !!!” The cows answered with a dull, heavy bellowing. Thoughtful, with dull ruminating heads and long-slapping tails together, they joined the milking parlor.

Cyriel started to milk. He was sitting on an old bucket turned upside down. He milked in silence, his thoughts far away… about the ocean, in the old land with its old civilization. The cow felt that he was not there, became restless and gave her milk with restraint.

“Damm it,” swore Cyriel angrily. The cow shook her head.

“Hullo, Sunny… something wrong, old boy?” Stanley * s voice was cheerful as he said CyrieP’s nickname, which he had because of his very blond hair.

“Hullo, Stan … Liddy is difficult again. As stingy with her milk as an old miser with his money. ” He said it with a laugh. He was happy to see Stan. Stanley was the oldest son of one of the neighbors, Millar. He was born with a deformed foot and therefore, could not do much hard work. At home, he was the outcast, the nuisance, who could not give the help for which he was set up. He was, therefore, a bit odd, stiff and grumpy, except for Cyriel, whom he had an almost exaggerated love. Nobody knew why. Perhaps because of the secret admiration he had for Cyriel’s origins and belongings: the portrait of Cyriel’s father in uniform above his bed, a few books with wonderful records of stars and globes and suns, and a gramophone playing melancholic Hawaiian songs. Stan liked that music,

“It makes you hungry … and yet not hungry,” he had said once thoughtfully. Then Cyriel had become very quiet. And since at that time, Stan always came to help with the cows.

Monotonous and regular the rays whirled down into the buckets. They milked in silence. Stan glanced at Cyriel’s straight face, watched the cow make a few kicking movements.

The neighbors sang.

“Syd is already milking,” said Stan. “He can never milk without singing! …” He paused, head tilted to one side. Then he added: “It’s also better for the animals. They let her milk go more easily. ”

Cyriel smiled. “You sing too,” he said, knowing that Stan couldn’t milk silently either. And in this permission, which the other had been waiting for, lay the whole superiority of Cyriel. With a liberating sigh, Stan started, shouting over the boy next door:

“Oh!!!! It ain’t gonna rain no more, no more! It ain’t gonna rain no more !!! “And I dunno’ow the sal …” “Damm it, Sunny!” he interrupted suddenly… “You should sell this cow soon. She has an udder abscess, but it’s still okay. Sell ​​her to the Colonel, he doesn’t understand her anyway! ” And laughing at his own naughtiness, he sang right away with the boy next door: „…. ow the salvation, “The old folks can teil …” But it ain’t gonna rain no more !!!! “…. When the last cow, the sixteenth, had been milked, they put the milk jugs on the cart… it would be ready for early tomorrow, for the factory. And then they walked together to Cyriel’s house, made of rough planks. He had built it himself… It had two rooms and a flat roof. It most resembled a big matchbox.

Stan carried the bucket with the splash of milk for Cyriel’s tea. The night was falling quickly now. The last red slipped from heaven. A gray shadow crept across the wide, wide plain, which lay there like a flat disk, enclosed by the horizon. A few pines that stood by the house became fine silhouettes, the gum tree’s gigantic ghosts and monsters. The horses and the cows seemed to grow bigger… and under the trees, the sheep were nothing more than immense dark spots. There were holes in the sky, and it was as if a glow was burning behind them: the holes were the stars, and they seemed to light from within. A tall, upright kite shone above their heads: the Southern Cross.

An owl called out in his melancholic voice in the melancholic evening: “Mauw … Poo … Mauw … Poel” … And suddenly a cookaburrah, a kingfisher, laughed with laughter. A shrill, startling roar of laughter that echoed far. Cyriel swore.

“Br can’t get used to those nasty beasts, it always scares me!”

Stan laughed. The bull bellowed heartbreakingly from the neighbors.

“It was off today,” said Stan, grinning. Then suddenly serious, he follows:

“Do you still need the rabbit clips today? Then I’ll get them for a while. ”

“No, thanks.” Cyriel pushed open the door, which was ajar. “I still have meat. Then I’ll put them tomorrow. Good night, Stan, and thank you for the milking. ”

Stan handed him the bucket, but he did not say good night, as usual.

“Is there anything else?” …

Stan lingered, stuck his hands so deep in his pockets that his pants lashed from them to above his calves.

“This morning I met Mrs. Cooper … e … she said … I mean, she asked about you, Sunny … She asked if you were sick, how you were … She said she hadn’t seen you in such a long time … and if I wanted to tell you that when I saw you, she asked. ”

Cyriel frowned. Stan drilled a hole in the sand with the square heel of his plump shoe. Then he raised his head.

“Well, let’s rest, Sunny!”

“Good night!” Cyriel stepped inside. With one step, he was from the outside in the kitchen, which was also a sitting room. Darkness fell the darkness of the room around him. He felt for the matches, lit the kerosene lamp. A swarm of flies flew buzzing; they looked for another resting place, which they gradually found on the walls. There were long lines… thousands… a curtain of flies. He didn’t even look at it anymore, sat down in a chair, despondent, with his arms at his sides. He sat very still… and there was no sound anywhere. Not inside, where he was the only human being. Not outside, where the night had passed away. The deep sleeping Australian night, in which there is not a single sound, not a single voice…

Then suddenly, something, flattering, stroked his leg: “snarling… snarling.”

“Is it you, Mizi?” He bent down to take in the kitten, which, purring, settled in the bend of his arm.

“We have to make a fire, Mizi… don’t you agree, Mizi? And cook some food. The boss is hungry! ”

He stood up. The chair in which he had sat was missing one arm. The table was an old writing desk. Above the table hung a ham on a wire. He started the fire in the rusty old stove and put the pan of boiled meat and a kettle of water on it. Then he went out to wash.

Against the house was a tall tank for rainwater. Next to it, an old chest with a tin bowl and a can of water from the canal. The tank water was only for drinking … and it didn’t rain for three months sometimes.

He took off his shirt, which he used to dry himself, after he had washed himself. So he went in, bare-chested. He made tea and together with Mizi he ate his supper of boiled meat and bread. Mizi sat at the head of the table, straight up, with blinking eyes. She spun contentedly and Cyriel basked in the cozy sound. He couldn’t miss Mizi. She was his only roommate, the only one who shared his lonely evenings. She also went to bed with him… the unmade camp bed, where only the pillow shook a bit. For a bit. … before he blew out the light, he looked at both portraits. Then it was dark. His heart was beating restlessly. And he thought:

I’m not going to Muriel. I will not do it.

He saw her face in the dark. Her thin pale face with a bright red mouth. He thought about her kiss… She had kissed him. Three weeks ago… Just three weeks ago today.

And he thought:

I’m homesick. I want to go back home. To mother. To England. I can’t stand it… always being alone!

He closed his eyes, put his hands on his eyes. And behind his eyelids, he saw Muriel’s face. ..

“We must Cyril Palmerston a few more questions,” the Colonel said. “That boy is too lonely there. He gets very shy, and he could keep you company when I’m at McGilley. ”

Muriel smiled ruddy. She didn’t look up from her plate. She didn’t have to look up. She knew his face: brown, a little to the olive green side … through the liver … many lines and furrows, pale blue dumb eyes and a grey mustache: an old face! Twenty-five years older than hers!

She did love him… oh, yes! He was courteous, generous, well-mannered, a gentleman. An English gentleman. But he was not narrow-minded: he was born in the Indies. He had enough money to live without worries. He gave her a lot of freedom… thoughtlessly, a little too casual.

Indifferent, she sometimes thought. And sometimes she thought: He could be my father!

“You ask him then,” she said. “Ask him for tonight.” Now she was no longer blushing. She carefully filled her cup, tipped two drops of milk into it. She thought of Cyriel. She liked him. Very much. He was two years younger than her. But he was all man anyway. More man, she thought, than the Colonel, whom she sometimes found a little childish to his pastimes: his stamp collection, his patience. And at the patience … if it didn’t come out … he got angry. Threw the cards on the table angrily, sometimes tore them to pieces. He was impatient. .. out of control, could turn into a blind rage. .. for nothing 1 “Liver,” said the doctor.

India, Muriel thought, but she didn’t say it. That was the only taboo point in their lives. She had never found out if he had Indian blood too. There were things in him that she, as a thoroughbred, white man, born and raised in a white environment, did not understand: his little interest in all world events, his indifferent laziness, which created contentment with the most monotone of existence; his closeness, almost patience, which then at the most unguarded moment erupted into an unmotivated, or at least never explained anger: and with an almost childish good-naturedness, primitive cruelty, which was either a lack of intelligence or … and she always doubted this his origins … or a completely different sense of morality.

All this made her, although she did not regard him, fear him. Sometimes! …

Dr. McGilley was his only friend. With that, he played chess for hours, often until the middle of the night. The doctor lived in Kyabram, which was twelve miles to the North. The Colonel went there in his little car, which he drove himself.

All these evenings, Muriel was home alone. He never cared whether she liked it or what she did in these hours. He did not ask her to wait for him, and she did not see him until the next morning, for they each had their bedroom.

It was a cosy little house, with furniture from England, tastefully informed, but it was lonely by itself. She read a lot, but sometimes you have to talk about books too.

And she thought: She could do that with Cyriel. After all, he was the only civilized man around …

And then she thought of the kiss she’d given him …

That had happened like this: she had ridden out on horseback and had made a mistake in the ways. They all looked so alike! She had gone astray, then she had met Cyriel. He had shown her the way back. And walking… she had dismounted and led the horse by the bridle… they had talked about their life… the life in Girgarre. For the first time Cyriel had expressed himself about his loneliness. And in the simple words with which he spoke of his quiet, empty evenings, of his nostalgia – «he himself did not know what… to England, to his mother… or just to a little life, civilization… distraction – she found her own empty hours back. Her entire existence, in fact, of nothing but eating, sleeping, a little horse riding… never once an emotion, a variety… A life without worry, without suffering, without… happiness. And, my God, she was only thirty, not quite thirty! She was nothing more than a plant that grows somewhere without ever blooming.

Thus they walked through the quiet night. On the sandy roads, where sometimes a cow was sleeping in the middle of the road: a great dark obstacle, from which they were soaking out and from which the horse passed with even shy ears. All around them lay the flat land and it seemed as if the world was just this: a flat one disk, sharply rounded by the horizon, which was a line nowhere broken. A flat disk under the high dome of the sky with its still constellations. A world, empty of sounds other than their own voices. And so in their traditional friendship, suddenly with one leap, sympathy had sprung in. A sudden camaraderie, a concerted spirit …

And as he grew more intimate, told of his youth … a slight joy opened up in her at this harmony of thoughts. It was as if within the vast circle which was the horizon, a smaller circle had been drawn, a band that enclosed them both and cut them off from Everything else. Within that smaller circle they both went …

It was, she thought, the way you, crouching down, suddenly find something beautiful, something you had not suspected existed a second before …

It was late when they entered the driveway in front of her garden. They no longer spoke. Everything they had wanted to say to anyone for so long they had said to each other. And what they had to say to each other. .. a few fragile words of thanks, a real emotion at this new found… that said their silence, their calm and contented side-by-side, in rhythmic pace. They said goodbye at the garden gate. The Colonel was at home, they saw his silhouette drawn against the curtain. And something in her refused to draw him into this new joy. She knew with fine intuition that Cyriel did not want to enter after all. That’s not why she asked him. She offered him her hand, which he held in his for a moment too long. Then she kissed him. Why… she did not know. But she had kissed him on the mouth. And, almost astonished, she had noticed, how soft and warm his mouth was. He hadn’t kissed her back. He had been a little shy … And then the “farm hand” came to lead her horse to the stable … “Good night, Cyriel.”

“Good night, Muriel,” he had said softly, then turned around. He did not say as usual, “Greetings to the Colonel …”

Inside, the Colonel had not asked her where she had been or what she had done. He put his patience. It was the second solitaire to be released. Twice in a row. He was in good spirits, like a contented child, and wanted to drink whiskey. She put the bottle next to him and kissed him good night. He kissed her back. It was a distracted, prickly, passionless kiss from his moustached mouth. He smelled a bit like whiskey …

She stood there thinking about it as she undressed. And suddenly, the realization overwhelmed her: that she was lacking something in her life. That she was missing something. And that she wanted something else, something she’d never had: be young with a young man! Then she also knew why she had kissed Cyriel. She laughed to herself and put her hands on her chest. How her heart was beating! It knocked like mad! It ran a fierce joy like flowing fire through her veins! And she thought, “Don’t go to bed now! Now go out and run across the wide plain … Let her feet go as fast as her heart! … And then let yourself fall down in the lucerne, lie on such a fragrant bed of purple flowering culms, and then above you Knowing the head, the sky-blue star shine 1… What would the Colonel say about that? ”… She laughed. Yeah she thought in bed, the thin blanket pulled over him. And with a sob she fell asleep…

Three weeks later, the Colonel said: “We must ask Cyriel Palmerson a little more!”…

Cyriel could not have refused to come to the Colonel. He knew his intrusive cordiality would accept no excuse. And he couldn’t say, “Colonel, your wife kissed me!”

While he dressed, he laughed in front of him when he thought this. Against the kettle was a shard of mirror, and he tried to stoop so that he could aim at the shard at the image of his tie. Next to the kettle was the kerosene lamp, which gave a scant light.

He carefully tied his tie. More careful than usual… he didn’t deny it.

Stan sat in the armless chair with Mizi in his lap. In addition to smell of food, the room had a pungent smell of methylated spirits. It came from the iron that Stan had ironed Cyriel’s pants with. The iron belonged to Mrs. Millar.

“What are you laughing, Sunny?”

Cyriel was startled; he had forgotten about Stan.

“Oh nothing!” he said indifferently. Stan studied him for a moment but couldn’t see Cyriel’s blush in the gloom. He put a hand on an empty glass that was on the table. There had been tea in the glass, now there were two flies in it. When he put his hand on the glass, the flies started to rage inside it. Deeply interested, he watched their listless, humming circling, until suddenly he got up – Mizi managed to save herself with a limber leap – went to the stove and with a few brisk jerks shook from the glass into the fire, in which they were crackled. He stared into the flames and said,

“The Colonel has gone to Kyabram. I saw him finish. ”

Cyriel buttoned his coat.

“So?” he just replied, but his fingers trembled for a moment and he had to button up the coat because it was lopsided.

“He will be back soon,” he said then. Stan limped back to his chair.

“Well, you don’t miss much about him,” he thought. “He’s actually a bastard, that old man! Cunning like a Scotsman and hot-tempered like an Irishman! I can get one more lame foot, if black blood doesn’t flow through his soul, Sunny!… Are you going on horseback? ”…

“ Yes! Are you coming so far? You can get Major. I’m driving Brimmy! ”

“Good!” Stan got up.

“Watch the house, Mizi!”

“Gently!” Mizi said. Then Cyriel pulled the door shut behind him, hooked the string around the nail in the outer wall. There was no other lock. That was not necessary either. Brimmy, tied to a pine tree, brushed and saddled, neighed happily. Stan looked at her for a moment, then he walked to the paddock, caught Major by the mane, put the bit in his mouth, and jumped onto the naked horseback. Together they drove to the Colonel’s farm. They were a singular team. Cyriel, straight and stiff, in his dark blue jacket with the flawless crease in his trousers, an aster in his buttonhole, neatly ‘groomed’ Brimmy. Stan, in his work clothes, dangling about his body, carelessly with one hand in his pocket, on Major’s broad back. He chewed, and now and then he spit a broad stream of saliva past Major’s ears. They talked about the work and the luceme prices, which were high due to the extra long drought. In Northern Australia, hundreds of thousands of sheep and cows starved to death.

“Look,” pointed Stan, “the Colonel has started mowing too, today. Would it still rain? ”

The Colonel always mowed the wrong time.

Cyriel smiled:

“This year, I believe, the Colonel will make it out of the drought.” Stan grinned.

“Well, Sunny, I’m going back here. Enjoy your meal! And if you get the chance, crack a cigar for me the old man has damn fine smokers. ”

Cyriel laughed and looked after Stan for a moment, saw how he drifted along the narrow path along the Lucerne field. The path passed the house and the garage and ended up on the main road to Kyabram.

Muriel received him in the small sitting room.

“My husband isn’t home tonight, he’ll be excused …” She put her hand in his and smiled. She was completely uninhibited.

“Ah, that’s a pity … that’s …” stammered Cyriel, confused.

“Come and sit here,” she said. She shook up a few cushions on the sofa and patted the seat. “Here, yes! … so!” … Plóf, she sat next to him. Not right next to him … at the other end. There was one empty space between them. He immediately knew around him the soothing warmth of the civilized luxury things: the silver cigarette box, the sparks in a pair of small crystal glasses, a pale vase with two white calyxes, the chilling intimacy of the table lamp.

“Now tell me, what have you been doing all this time?… You could easily have walked in on your own, the world would not have ended that way, you know… But wait, what do you want to drink?… A cocktail, yes? ”

She jumped up, made the cocktail at a small table with all kinds of drinks. He saw her busy and thought:

“How different a woman does things! And what an atmosphere of peace and safety it brings when a woman does such small things for you! ”

He floated on this sweet stream of satisfaction until all things became a blurred background. Only zfj stayed! Her personality of a woman, who you had around you as a woman, not as a man! … The deep red of her silk dress, which rustled around her slender body, the red of her mouth in the fine, pale face with the warmth of her two blue shining eyes, the fleeting perfume that scented from all her movements, when she reached him slightly or leaned towards him. And over Everything the melody of her voice: a deep, melancholic minor, if she was serious … and her gurgling laugh.

They spoke of England, of Europe … she had been there twice. They spoke of books, of poetry, of the war… of Girgarre. They did not speak of the Colonel.

He heard himself speak, heard her answer, but all the time he was aware that all this did not really matter, did not interest him…

They ate together at the round table, in the circle of light of the lamp that hung above it. It was a cold meal: ham and poultry and eggs in mayonnaise and lettuce. And pastry: a wealth of cream and icing. And there stood, between the saucers, little silver vases of “poppies,” and in very fine Chinese cups the tea, which was light and transparent brown, smelled like liquid amber.

Muriel ate like a carefree, elated child; chose the whitest meat, put three cubes in her tea and then she laughed delightedly. Cyriel usually talked about his cooking corned beef. Pancakes, only if he had time. And lust! He fell silent for a moment. She looked into his earnest eyes with a smile, and he did not lower his eyes this time; looked urgently into her radiant gaze, until it grew seriously insecure. And suddenly, they didn’t know why themselves, both had tears,

He jumped up, bent over and kissed her. Kissed her mouth with a long, longing kiss.

The room hung the hushed time, a trembling second that slowed with passing and was not bothered by the emphatic ticking of the old clock. They knew nothing more than just their mouths together, their faces together.

“Do you love me?” she whispered, smiling.

He did not answer. He clasped her face in his trembling hands. He looked into her deep black pupils, her raised face. He looked as if he saw her for the first time….

“What are you watching?” she asked in a whisper.

And he did not answer this question either. He smiled and kissed her again….

An endless time passed

The last autumn days had decorated the orchards with orange-red oranges and pale-yellow lemons. Lucerne blossomed for the second time…. ripe for the autumn harvest.

“A good harvest,” thought the Colonel, who was taking his morning walk. He looked at the sky: it was clear blue, rainless…. And then he looked across the field. Some dew had fallen this night. Lien he stopped and bent down. He picked up a blue silk handkerchief that lay between the stems that had been crushed in that place. The Colonel smiled. He thought of youthful escapades when he was a slim and fitted lieutenant. And he smoothed the handkerchief on his palm. A flower wreath was embroidered in one corner. The wreath wound through a letter: M.

The Colonel turned thoughtful “M?”…. he thought

“M! hm! Strange! ”

He put the handkerchief in his pocket and walked on, down the path, past the house. He wanted to take a look at the horses. As he walked past the house, he had to stoop in one place. The path was there just below a window and the window was open. It was the window of Muriel’s room. The sun was shining inside. There were two pillows in the frame and a few shoes. Black silk shoes, which she often wore at night. The Colonel took them in his hand. There were brown spots on the high heels and they were all a bit wet to the touch.

They must be there to dry, he brooded. He looked in, nobody was there. A dressing gown hung over a chair. There were two brushes and a comb on the dressing table and the bottles were disorderly. The bed was not yet made. He put the shoes back in place and continued past the garage to the stables.

The horses have just been groomed. Lanpard was busy with Blossom, Muriel’s mare. The Colonel watched with his hands behind his back. He stood there as if he were inspecting his troops. His shoulders were broad, his back stiff. In the putties his legs showed good calves. And his civilian clothes, which undressed his hefty soldier figure, looked just as bad on him as they were militarily bad. His white hair gleamed like polished silver, one strand fluttered up and down as the wind brushed his head. There was a deep frown between his rough eyebrows, and with his broad brown teeth, he pinched his lower lip. His eyes had the exasperated expression of people who are not used to fraying problems, but are suddenly forced to do so. Every now and then he rubbed his face. He had just been shaved and the wind made his skin tingle. His cheeks and nose had tiny purple-blue veins, and he often had bags under his eyes, especially if someone had gone to bed late or drank alcohol.

“Blossom must be shod again, Sir,” said Lanpard. The Colonel grumbled something unintelligible his mustache. He turned and went home. Muriel was busy with breakfast. She fried his eggs on a small methylated spirit and poured the tea. “Good morning, John.”

“Good morning,” said the Colonel, adding, “Blossom must be fogged up today!”

He pushed his chair aside to sit down and unfolded the newspaper. “Did you sleep well?” “Oh, thank you.”

He looked at her. She looked fresh and healthy. “Handsome,” he said. “Not so pale.” He flipped through his paper, then took the tissue from his pocket and put it on the table.

“You lost a handkerchief in the lucerne last night. Were you not at home? ”

He saw her colour fade for a moment, but immediately the blood flowed back. She picked up the handkerchief and tucked it by her belt.

“Thank you. Br was with the O’Neils. The youngest child is ill. ”

“You didn’t tell me you were going out.”

She scrutinized him, almost hostile.

“I’ll never do that,” she said briefly.

“No no…., oh, I just thought so.

Why did you go on foot? ”

“Blossom has to be steamed. Br can’t ride her on three irons on the road to Stanhope. Her voice was wrong.

“And besides that,” she continued. “Br don’t understand at all what this Inquisition is for. Do you have something? ”

“No absolutely not…. I just asked so. ” To be head ducked behind the newspaper and continued to eat his breakfast as usual, in silence, reading.

She stopped looking at him. She ate her fussy sticks of toast with honey and talked to the lap dog, who answered her fiercely yelping and understood the bread crusts she tossed him.

When the Colonel finished his breakfast, he folded the newspaper.

“Is Cyriel Palmerson coming tonight?”

He had to repeat his question because she couldn’t understand because of the yelping.

“You’re going to see McGilley,” she replied.

“No…. I’m not going. ”

She didn’t ask why he wasn’t going and it annoyed him.

She just said: “Well, then I will cancel Cyriel ?!” “Well, no,” he said. “Why would you do that? We can play some chess together. ” “With Cyriel? !!” Her voice was high. “He’s not playing badly.”

Muriel gave a short laugh. She pursed her lips for a moment, then said,

“As you like, of course.” She shook her shoulders indifferently and poured the boiling water into the bowl to wash off.

That evening Cyriel came. He was surprised to find the Colonel at home, but recovered immediately.

The Colonel was all lovable, patted him on the shoulder, told him repeatedly how glad he was to see him again.

“You have to apologize for being out so often…. playing chess, that’s my only pleasure in my life! ”

Cyriel protested against the latter, but the Colonel, a bit too jovial, rejected this protest.

“Give the boy a drink, Muriel.”

Muriel got up to mix a cocktail. The Colonel didn’t pay attention to her. He spoke to Cyriel about his car. He was calm, self-assured: the older man, the benevolent host, who is the boss of his own house. He was in complete control of the situation, and a little oppressed, the other two felt his superiority. The conversation was almost palpably forced, though the Colonel seemed completely uninhibited. When Muriel put down the cocktail, she caught Cyriel’s eye for a moment. There was a question in his eyes, but she dared not give the slightest sign. Her face remained neutral, but she felt her nerves tremble inside her.

The Colonel only drank whiskey. His liver couldn’t stand a cocktail. They bumped their glasses. “Cheerio l”

“Well,” said the Colonel,

wiping his wide mustache wings . “Well, it is! I’m an old man

with a bad liver! What are you doing about it! Retired is retired! ”….

Muriel looked at him stealthily.

Did he mean something by that…. or not?

Cyriel forced a smile.

“You certainly retired too young, Colonel!”

“Do you think young man ?!” The Colonel narrowed

his eyes. As a result, his face suddenly took on something Chinese.

Black blood flashed through Cyriel’s mind. Fixed !!

“I’m convinced, Colonel!”

“Hm!”

There was a pause. It was a bit painful. “Are you mowing the second lucerne, Colonel?”

“Ah…. el ”said the Colonel. “That e…. hm

It’s not such a hurry! ”

“I always regret it,” Muriel joined in the conversation, “when the mowing is over. The flowers are so beautiful in colour…. and the land is already so bare! ”

The Colonel nodded.

“Give me another whiskey,” he asked, and although the whiskey bottle and sparkling water were next to him, he let her get up to pour it. He turned to Cyriel:

“Yes…. you know my wife loves lucerne! That’s how women are now…. they are always mad about one thing or another! The trick is only to find out what! Last season she loved horse riding. This season it is the lucerne! ”

He said it with a laugh. And he said, “my wife.” Not “Muriel”.

It stung Cyriel’s heart. Suddenly he realized what he had forgotten in recent months: that the Colonel was Muriel’s husband! For a moment, he had a feeling of melancholy, but then he thought:

Her husband! That old whiner! What does it matter, I’ll take her from him if I want to! She loves me…. ”

“Well….” said the Colonel, still laughing. “But other people are also fond of lucerne. This morning…. I walked along the field and there was a lot of trampling. It seems that many sweet words have been whispered there. Did you think that of our good Girgarre? ”….

“So, so!” Cyriel said, shifting around in his chair.

Will he now say that he found my handkerchief there? thought Muriel. She looked at his face but it was all loveliness. Cheerful even. She had never seen him so gay. Still….

What is it in him that scares me? What’s in him that I don’t understand, never understand?

She was completely lost. Did he suspect anything? Did he know anything? Or was everything illusion? A coincidence that took another shape in her guilty thoughts?

Debt?…. She didn’t feel much guilt towards him. What were they each other? There was no happiness between them that could be broken. Not love that was betrayed. She was doing her duty to him and, apart from him, had her own happiness, which no one knew about. Only Cyriel and her!

The Colonel had asked him for a game of chess. The plate was between them, they had set up the pieces. Cyriel had made the first move. The Colonel’s eyes now scanned the brown and white areas. Lurking eyes behind their half-closed limbs. And a smile around his mouth that was not a smile. Then, very thoughtfully, his right hand moved a bit. Muriel saw that hand: sun-burnt brown, limber fingers that did not match the dull thumb, large knuckles, and wrinkled skin, mottled like old parchment.

She followed the game. She noticed how carelessly Cyriel played, in the face of the legal thought of the other’s refined moves. None of them spoke. A dull silence settled in the room. An hour passed. From the dining room, the door of which was open, came the heavy regular ticking of the old clock. Cyriel lost. Slowly but surely, move by move, he lost. He only defended himself and that defense also fell, crumbled, minute after minute….

Slowly, but surely, an uncanny feeling crept into her heart. Here was no hand-to-hand combat, here a cruel game of cat and mouse was played. She looked from Cyrier’s face to that of the

Colonel: it was a mask in which the grin had grown. Under those grinning, tight lips, the broad yellow teeth were like an old goblin. The half-closed eyes hid the thoughts of his frowning forehead. He had shrugged his shoulders slightly, his head dipped between them. And time and again, he put forth his cunning, nimble hand, which made the fatal move, and took part from the other: a horse, then a castle, then the queen. And each time his voice said the one word: “check!”

He knows! He knows! Thought Muriel. She folded her trembling hands in her lap that he would not see them tremble.

But why doesn’t he say it ?! she thought. Then why doesn’t he say it ?! And what will he do ?!

Her eyes sought Cyriel, then the Colonel. They liked the Colonel’s gaze, catching HDar’s gaze at Cyriel. She hastily avoided his eyes. Spy! she thought. Spy! But she shivered. “Are you cold?” the Colonel asked.

“No and no, I am not cold.” Cyriel

looked up at the sound of her voice. She briefly wiped her head with her handkerchief. A paralysis took hold of her will. She had wanted to scream, but she smiled. She had wanted to call out to Cyriel: “Watch out! Beware!” But she said: “Would you like another drink?” With those words, she broke the spell of her thoughts. “Give me another whiskey,” said the Colonel. “And serve the boy another cocktail.”

Then his voice said, “Matt.”

Cyriel leaned back in his chair, laughing.

“You delivered him that, Colonel!”

The Colonel smiled briefly and confidently, then poured down the whiskey in one gulp.

“Have you mowed the lucerne yet?”

“Yes,” said Cyriel…. “I’ll pick it up tomorrow and chop it the day after tomorrow. I think I can ship it on Friday. ”

“From Girgarre?”

“No, Stanhope. On Friday there is no train to Melboume from here. ”

“Yes you’re right about that. What do you think of the weather? ”

“It looks dry,” said Cyriel, standing up. “But there are already mists in the evening.”

He said goodbye, apologizing for leaving so early. Tomorrow he had to get up early…. because of the harvesting. They accompanied him together to the garden gate. Lanpard was called to bring Brimmy.

“Look,” pointed Cyriel. “There, along the horizon is the beginning of a cloud bank, you see? I think it will rain in a few days. Br would reap if I were you!

“Hm,” growled the Colonel. “Good night now. See you soon, I hope. It was a great pleasure for me. ”

“Thank you! Good night, Colonel ″

“Good night, Muriel!”

“Good night, Cyriel.”

Her voice was deep without her being aware of it. Nor did she know how it ruled out the Colonel…. their youth, who tutored each other….

They stood still next to each other.

They heard Brimmy’s hoofbeat down the lane, muffled to the end, then harder, where he turned onto the main road.

They were still standing side by side. Tight-lipped. Both waiting for the word of the other.

“A good boy,” said the Colonel at last. “I like him!”

Muriel nodded.

“At least he’s a civilized man.” She said it softly. There was infinite loneliness in her. Not just loneliness. Also fear. Fear of Cyriel? For the future? For himself? She didn’t know. She looked up at the tall figure next to her. In the semi-darkness he looked like a great black shadow.

What was he thinking? What did he feel? What did he know? …

“After,” said the Colonel. “Let’s go in and go to sleep.”

Was there a sigh behind his words? They hopped back side by side. Tight-lipped. Their gait was tired, unresilient. Blame hung in the atmosphere.

Guilt, Muriel thought again. She’s not guilty. That was no fault. Guilt, that was: doing something short to someone else, taking something away from someone else. Betrayal was to blame. But what did he care what she did? What did he ever care? He thought she should be content with life as he made it for her. But had he ever thought she was twenty-five years younger than him? That, besides his white hair and his bad liver and his early old man’s whims, she had

never had a childhood? Youth! That was something

nature gave. What you had right to. Every person was entitled to…. No, she was not to blame!

And fear? What was she afraid of? Nothing had been said yet! But did he wait for that? He said therefore nothing? Would she say it? Confess?

But why? To turn what? His anger? His revenge? Against who? Against her? Against Cyriel? But because he had found her handkerchief out there somewhere, didn’t that prove anything? Anyone could get rid of their handkerchief! Wasn’t it just as well that he suspected nothing, knew nothing? It could be that he had some concern! Or that his stomach was wrong!

If she confessed, Cyriel was all over! And if he didn’t suspect anything, she betrayed Cyriel!

She flinched. No, not that! Don’t miss Cyriel. She couldn’t. Not yet. She had nothing else.

Only she would be more careful!

Not meeting him for a while ! She would….

But despite Everything, the dark realization remained: He knows. Oh, he knows Everything!

She turned to him outside her door.

“Good night, John.”

She raised her eyes hesitantly to his. For a moment, he looked at her indifferently, coolly. “Good night.”

He opened the door for her. She smiled at him.

When she won it mi, it suddenly flashed through her. Now it was for him! After all, he only suspected! She could smother that suspicion, silence it, dull it, with her pillow! He hadn’t even accused her!

“Aren’t you coming in?” She asked gently, but immediately a glowing red flowed over her face and she felt that she couldn’t do this, that she couldn’t be so mean! She tried to keep the ghm smile on her mouth, on her nervous lip.

pen. He looked at her in surprise for a second. Then he smiled a short grim laugh.

“Sleep well,” he said alone and the hair standing up. She saw him enter the sitting room. Heard the door close behind him. She stood on the threshold of her room, hands clasped over her chest. Listening. What was she listening to? She didn’t know. But her whole body listened, every nerve tense to breaking, blood pounding in her ears.

There was no sound. No sound other than the clock. In the silence there was regular tapping, like drops. Heavy drops. They fell endlessly…. Every drop a part of eternity….

Would she go to see him after all, she hesitated again. To confess ? Asking forgiveness? … And then? ..

She slowly entered her room. Closed the door. Turned the key in the lock. She never did that otherwise. But she was scared. Anxious! And she undressed with a shiver.

Outside, in the night, an owl called to his sadness: “Sleeve … poo! Sleeve…. poo…. poo…. ”

Three days later the Colonel said to Muriel, “I have to go up the road past Stanhope, are you coming?” She hesitated for a moment, did not dare to refuse. “Bring some gauze and the bottle of brandy.”

“Bandage? And some “

” Cognac! ” the Colonel snapped.

“But why? Has an accident happened? ”

“Probably.”

“Who? E what? ”

The Colonel didn’t answer, but opened the garage.

“Please hurry up a bit,” he said impatiently.

She obeyed. Two minutes later, they drove up the gravel road to Stanhope. Cyriel had been right about the rain. That night the first shower had fallen. The reddish brown dusty soil had suddenly turned into a soggy mud. There were wide puddles on the road. And in the sky lumbering, lazy clouds floated, gathering and joining together.

Just past Girgarre stood Stan Millar. He was leaning against an eraser tree, close to the roadside. When he saw the car, he beckoned that they should stop.

But the Colonel drove on.

“Aren’t you stopping?” Muriel asked. “No.”

“Why not?! It could be that he had an important reason. ”

The Colonel did not answer. His eyes stared straight ahead. His hands clutched the steering wheel like claws. There were thick, swollen bags under his eyes.

Muriel was silent. She couldn’t resist this rock-hard indifference, which was almost harsh. Tears sprang to her eyes. She quietly brushed them away.

How long would she have to put up with this, she thought. She ended herself if this continued. Or she confessed Everything! What did she care! Yes! I cheated on you, she would say. What did you think? That I don’t need love, no tenderness? All other women do, but not me? What did you think? That I am like a plant, needing only air, light and food to live? In my whole life nothing but your patience, your whiskey, your sick liver, your bloodless last bit of life?

But then she shrank from his temper, from that sudden cruelty that she knew in him. She was afraid

of him! She was a coward! Cowardly !! If you don’t do anything,

could, was extradited, was weaker? If you had no muscles, no strength, no hands strong enough to strike, to strike back?

Suddenly the Colonel turned to something. A brown thing lying in the middle of the road.

“What was that?” Muriel was startled from her meditation.

“A bag of lucerne.”

“On the road?”

“Yes.”

There was another…. and a little further two more. They passed Stanhope. Here the road ended. There was only an ordinary wide unpaved path. Along the side stood at unequal distances and in an uneven row of eraser towers. They have not planted trees, but trees that had remained there while the loose dirt road was being made.

There were deep marks in the soft earth. They wound themselves strangely along the road, from right to left, sometimes over the shoulder, where there was a clearing in the row of trees, and then back again. Deep traces of a heavy chariot on this road, which was never driven. A few of the trees were damaged. And finally, there was the car itself. A wagon stacked high with bags of lucerne, half tipped over in a ditch. One of the wheels got stuck behind a tree. The rig was partly in tatters. One horse was still half harnessed. The other grazed quietly. It looked up for a moment when it heard the car rattling through the mud and neighing. The horse in front of the wagon became skittish, tore its strands several times, wounded its hind legs. Ten yards away was a man’s body. It was apparently, because the chariot had come to a sudden stop when the wheel hit the tree, thrown by the shock on top of the sacks with a violent thud to the ground. It was next to a tree, facing forward. Dddr, the ground was red with a stream of blood that had worked its way through all kinds of bumps and mud lumps. Otherwise, there was nothing or no one all around, no farm, no hut, no shepherd.

“After!” the Colonel said and braked. Muriel was pale become. An iron hand encircled her heart. And

her head got so light…. so thin It was as if there were suddenly no more borders…. Everything week. . Everything stretched.

“Do you have the first aid kit?”

She swallowed.

“Yes,” she said and with difficulty, pushing herself to the limit, she recalled her sinking awareness from the steep depths into which it threatened to sink.

“I have everything,” she said. How Everything about her was shaking. Her hands, her knees, her mouth, her eyelids …

The Colonel turned the body over, face up. Muriel leaned over it.

“Cyriel”

Her voice was nothing more than a light sigh. She looked down at his mutilated features, smeared with mud. The eyes and mouth were swollen, a deep, gaping wound that started at his ear and ran all over his forehead to the middle of the crown. Mud and blood clung to his hair. She didn’t know if he was still alive. She knew nothing at this moment. She saw this face that she loved so much, but it was as if she did not know. That she saw it. Then, suddenly, a shiver ran through her body and she looked up. Looked into the Colonel’s spying eyes.

“It’s Cyriel,” she said. She stood before the Colonel. The hands on her chest. She stood with her head held high and her face was a white mask, with unsuspecting eyes and a thin, bright red mouth line. She stood with her gaze in his hands. Defiant… A woman who denies her love. A woman who hides her secret in her heart and puts both her white hands over it.

It ignited a blazing rage in him. A delight to torment her. To force her to confess. Would reveal himself.

“Are you shocked?” he asked.

“No!” she said and she lied further: “Bro knew

that it was Cyriel all the way when

I saw those lucerne bags, I knew.”

“So? !!” He looked at her face suspiciously.

He told us he was going to ship Stanhope’s lucerne today . It couldn’t be anyone else. ”

For a moment, they faced each other. Two enemies. Raw, atavistic enmity of the primeval man, who knows only two things: attack or defend.

“It wasn’t that hard to guess,” she said with a dismissive gesture. She turned and pulled the cognac from the car.

The Colonel squatted with Cyriel.

“Skull fracture, I believe.”

Muriel took her wrist between her fingers.

“He’s not dead yet,” she said.

“But he died,” said the Colonel.

“If we put him in the car and drive back very carefully, he might be able to be saved.”

“What if I don’t drive him back?”

She looked at him.

“You don’t understand Bx,” she said, her eyes wide, tight.

“I said, if I don’t drive him back?”

She frowned.

“And you mean by that that you want to let him die here just like that, without at least trying to save him. That’s what you mean by it, isn’t it? And you went instead of letting another go only to prevent anyone else from helping him. ”

“And if so?”

She took a deep breath.

“Murderer,” she tossed at him.

He laughed:

“Killer of a corpse! Or of almost a corpse! ”

She took the cork off the bottle and wanted to trickle some cognac between Cyriel’s blue lips. But the Colonel knocked the bottle out of her hand. Then he stepped up to her, took her by the shoulder, and, face close to hers, said hoarsely:

“So you thought I came to save him? Did you think that, didn’t you? You are that stupid and bad! .. But you were wrong! Do you hear! I have come to watch him die…. the thief! The thief who stole my wife from me! For all the nights he stole me away, I now want to make amends! And for all your lies I want to make amends now! That’s why I brought you. Look! ”…. and he forced her head over Cyriel’s head…. “You see…. how he dies!…. Do you see how beautiful he dies, the world…. Look! Look closely! That you will remember his face for later, for tomorrow, if you will regret him! Kiss him! There…. kiss him…. so, on his mouth so that I can see it too….

you can also see how you kiss him. ” He pressed her face to Cyriel’s face. He gave a husky laugh.

“The last kiss….” he shouted. “Do you hear it…. the last of all the stolen kisses you give him… may, with my approval… Remember…. tomorrow, if you will weep about him…. ”

It shook for a moment behind Cyriel’s swollen eyelids. A tremor passed the corners of his mouth—just a little while longer, very weak, a movement through his whole body. The mouth opened. The eyelids tipped up. Beneath it lay the frozen eyes.

“Dead,” said the Colonel, standing up. He released the Muriel. She stood without reflection for a second. Then she attacked him. Hit him in the face with her fists, tugged at his clothes. Her little strength went nonsensical in her great anger. He laughed at her. Took both her wrists in his hands. His thumbs closed like iron screws.

“Murderer 1” she cried. Murdererl Bx will tell…. say to everyone…. ”

“Speak it,” he said quietly. “Who bears witness?”

A powerless instinct boiled in her, making her blind, numb, without fear, without caution. She paused for a moment, and then, looking at him fully, said this, which had remained unsaid between them, ten years of marriage: “Half-blood,” she said. “Halfcast”

He turned white. Let go of her hands.

“Get in,” he said curtly. She did. A paralyzed feeling came over her. A sea of ​​misery. Her mind was as empty in her mind as she had never known it could be.

They drove back the long straightway, past Stanhope, to Girgarre. Around them was the old landscape…. but watered and reborn this first day of winter. The trees were brighter, there was a light green glow across the grass. The sheep grazed; flocks scattered across the distant land. A cool breeze was blowing from the south and the sky was mild, damp and promising rain. And the clouds floated thoughtfully, as if looking down upon the great shadows that moved across the plain beneath them.

Muriel saw none of that. She sat stupidly next to the Colonel; stupid, she heard him explain the accident in the village: the wagon had been overloaded, the sacks had started to slide, the horses were probably startled and runaway and Cyriel, who had not mastered this double situation, had not can bring more to a standstill. She heard him give orders to bum the dead man and take it to Kyabram, where there was a hospital.

From the circle of farmers who listened to the Colonel in silence, Stan Millar stepped forward. He stood shyly next to the door.

“What do you want?” the Colonel snapped, gruffly.

Stan turned and turned his hat in his hands. Muriel looked up. She saw Stan wipe his face with his sleeve. She knew his love for Cyriel. Typical, that tough guy! Now he was crying.

“Is…. is…. I mean, I mean…. I ask for an apology, but is it sure that…. that…. he…. is dead? Really dead? ” .

“Of course he’s dead, fool!” I stand here chatting sometimes! We tried to save him, but I myself saw him die 1 Me and my wife 1 ″

Then Muriel shrank. She had suddenly reached out in defense against an unexpected blow. Or as a protest.

Stan looked at her suddenly and his sad face passed a thought for a second. What was he thinking so suddenly? He raised his hard, suspicious peasant eyes sharply on the Colonel, and his mouth fell open, but closed again: a question he did not utter.

“Move in,” said the Colonel impatiently. Suddenly drops of sweat beaded on his forehead. Stan went long-sluggish and reluctant. He looked back once more. A look of hatred at the Colonel. Such hatred as Muriel had never seen before. And then a look at her eyes. She looked back into his questioning eyes. And then she nodded. And so, she betrayed the Colonel.

At home, Muriel went straight to her room, locked the door and lay down on the bed dressed. She lay like this for hours, with her face in the pillows. She was not crying. She just lay like that. She didn’t think about anything either.

That night the moon was full. The South wind had risen more violently and brought a fierce cold from the South Pole. Clouds stormed through the clear moon sky. Wild black clouds in the white sky. They chased and raced after each other. Sometimes they turned into a curtain, just for a few minutes. Then they tore apart again, in uneven shreds, which sailed uncannily fast past the moon. They also cast their troubled shadows over the land. The trees shivered and shivered. Their long wisps of bark blew out in the wind like witch’s hair. And somewhere, a kookaburra laughed its screeching shout: a waterfall of scorn and threat. And the night came…. not as usual: pious and loving and with gentle steps. This night was full of anger and restless discontent!….

The Colonel was standing by his lucerne field. Where he had walked his footprints were deep and clear. He stood with his hands in his pockets. His head was bowed. His white hair fluttered in the wind. He stood and looked down at the trodden spot in his lucerne.

He was late to harvest. Too late again, as usual

habitual. But he didn’t think about that. He saw a series of other images before his eyes: Muriel’s sudden sunshine until three days ago a stealthy bhk from Lanpard, the two cocktail glasses always when he had gone to chess with McGüley, the cigarette ashes Muriel did not smoke.

“Donkey!” he muttered, pulling his hand out of his pocket, slapping his forehead with his fist. “Donkey!” He staggered

And then a strange thing happened. If anyone had seen it, they would certainly have been amazed. But no one saw it. At this time the farmers slept.

The Colonel fell forward into the lucerne. Without a sigh. Without complaint. He fell and lay there. There was a deep stab wound between his shoulder blades, but the knife had been pulled out.

He lay there all the rest of the night. The night passed. The day came. A beam of red light broke through the grey mists of the morning and shone across the footpath along the field. He seemed on two tracks. Behind the Colonel’s long, narrow van, the print of a plump, squares, deformed foot. Stan Millar’s foot.

Then the clouds closed over the sunlight and in rays the rain began to fall.

It was raining It was raining

It did not become day.

The whole plain, which in summer was one warm radiance, became a sticky mud pool with large puddles like ponds. Rain gusts whistled over the shivering trees. Like unwieldy, sad animals the cows were chilling with dejected, drooping heads….

The door of Cyriel’s house rattled back and forth at oak wind pressure. The string was broken. Restlessly, Mizi meowed around. She was hungry. Finally she jumped on the table and there, cowering guiltily and restlessly, with her head in the cans, ”she hastily licked the last bit of milk.

It rained…. rained…. rained….

It was raining on the Colonel….

It was raining on the path….

And in the thick mud all footprints disappeared …