Seasonal short stories

[Jewel]

 

 

Seasonal Journal — Autumn

"A tin mug, firelight and a story half told"

 The night was cool with a gentle breeze. The lads were sitting round the fire in the outback, relaxing after a long cattle drive. The stars were scattered thick across the sky, and the air smelled of dry grass and smoke. Makeshift bedding was spread out under the trees, and the soft rustle of the mob and the occasional snort of a horse settled in around them like a lullaby.

Alex leaned back on his elbows, the firelight flickering across his boots. A tin mug rested in his hands, the last of the billy tea lukewarm but welcome. He watched the flames dance, half-listening to the quiet chatter around him.

Old Ted sat cross-legged, whittling something shapeless from a bit of mulga wood. "Back in the day," he started, not looking up, "we came through this same ridge. Only difference was, we had near two hundred head and no motorbikes to help."

Rex gave a grunt from where he lay stretched out on a swag, hat pulled low over his eyes. "And no brakes on your horse either, probably."

Ted ignored the jab. "Was a storm rollin' in from the west. Sky turned green. You ever seen the sky go green? That's when you know it means business."

Alex raised a brow. "Did you get caught in it?"

Ted paused his carving. "Some of us. Not all. Mick—fella I was riding with—he took a shortcut. Never saw him again."

That got their attention. Even Rex sat up slightly.

"Search party found his saddle and oilskin," Ted continued, voice soft. "Hung up in a tree like someone'd placed them there. Horse showed up a week later. Quiet. Spooked."

Silence stretched.

Alex stared into the fire. "And you reckon... what? He got struck by lightning? Lost?"

Ted blew wood dust from his hands. "Could be. Or maybe he saw something out there that wasn't meant for seein'. This country holds stories. Not all of them get told proper."

The fire popped. Somewhere beyond the glow, a horse shifted on its line, the jangle of metal brief and sharp.

"You always stop right before the creepy bit," Alex muttered, more to his mug than anyone else.

Ted shrugged. "Not everything's got an ending. Some tales just drift."

They sat quiet for a while, the kind of silence that settles only after long days and long rides. The breeze rustled dry leaves across the camp, and a lone curlew called in the distance.

Rex shifted back down into his swag. "Well, if any ghosts show up tonight, they better bring coffee."

Alex chuckled low, stretching out beside the fire. The mug sat empty beside him, catching the glow of the flames. He stared up at the stars, thinking about half-told stories and the things you see—or don't—out in the middle of nowhere.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

       
       

Southern Lights Station · Autumn · Somewhere out back

   

[Jewel]

 

 

Seasonal Journal — Autumn

"Dried leaves, an empty saddle, and bootprints"

 The wind scraped through the gums, stirring a brittle tumble of dried leaves around Emily McGregor's boots. She stood at the edge of the clearing, one hand resting on her hip, the other shading her eyes from the sinking sun.

It wasn't much. A few fence posts, a crooked gate, the bones of a stockyard roughed together from what the last flood hadn't carried off. But it was hers—would be hers—once she made it stick.

The saddle was empty, slumped on the fence like it had given up waiting. Ashes, her black gelding, had wandered off to graze, reins dragging through the dust. He wouldn't stray far. Neither would she.

Bootprints marked the clearing—hers mostly, pacing back and forth, setting the boundaries in her mind. Here the house would go. There, the tank. She'd find a way to rig a windmill. Make a dam hold longer than a season. Break in more than just horses.

She dropped into a crouch and brushed her fingers over the dirt. Cracked, dry, but not dead. There was still life here, if you knew how to look.

Behind her, the breeze caught the canvas roll she'd tied to the saddle earlier, tugging it loose. She stood and caught it, retying the straps with practiced fingers. Her hands were rougher now than they'd ever been in the city. She liked them better this way.

Voices from the past lingered on the wind—her father's disapproval, her brothers' laughter when she first said she was heading inland. No woman could hold a station alone, they said. No woman should try.

She didn't answer them then.

She wouldn't now.

The shadows stretched longer across the ground. The hills behind her turned the colour of old copper. She took one last look across the clearing, then swung the saddle up onto Ashes' back when he finally meandered close.

The saddle creaked. The girth tightened. The bridle slid into place with ease. The gelding stood like he'd done this a thousand times. Maybe he had. Maybe she had too—in another life, another story.

With her boot in the stirrup, she paused.

Bootprints. Dried leaves. An empty saddle.

They'd mark the beginning. Not the end.

     
     

Southern Lights Station (First Claim) · Autumn 1925 · Somewhere out back

   

[Jewel]

 

 

Seasonal Journal — Autumn

"Busted ute, baby goat in coat, an angry emu"

 How could the day get any worse?

Alex was standing in the middle of the kitchen with tomato sauce on his socks, an overturned plate of leftover sausages on the floor, and three goat kids bleating wildly as they skittered around him like chaos incarnate. Emma was half-crouched, half-leaping in pursuit, trying to corral them back into the playpen they'd somehow busted out of.

"Alex!" she whined. "Stop standing there and help me!"

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, snapping out of his daze just in time to see one particularly agile kid clamber onto the fireplace mantle and shove off Jewel's three pride-and-joy potted plants. All three crashed to the floor in a flurry of ceramic shards and soil.

They both stared at the mess.

"Now Jewel's really going to murder us," Emma said, just managing to snatch one goat mid-leap as the others rushed over to nibble at the leaves.

"This is your fault," Alex grunted, stepping over a slippery sausage. "You brought the goats into the house."

"They were supposed to stay in the mudroom! With the fence you were meant to pick up yesterday!"

"I would've—if the bloody ute didn't die halfway to town!" Alex threw his hands up. "I walked two hours back in the rain, thank you very much."

"Oh, the rain, of course," Emma shot back, wrangling another goat and dragging it toward the overturned pen. "That explains why one of them's wearing a raincoat!"

Alex glanced toward the hallway, where the smallest goat—wrapped in an old oilskin jacket and duct tape—bleated proudly and pranced in place like a show pony.

"It was shivering," Alex said defensively. "I improvised."

"You duct-taped sleeves to it."

"It was my best work!"

Before Emma could respond, another bleat sounded—this one from deeper in the house.

Alex's face paled. "Wait. How many goats were there?"

"There were four," Emma said slowly.

A moment of silence.

A crash from the living room.

They both bolted through the hallway to find the last kid standing triumphantly on the coffee table, headbutting a throw pillow into submission. Dirt trailed across the rug from the potted plants, and the tomato sauce was now smeared in mysterious arcs along the hallway wall.

"I need to sit down," Alex muttered.

But then came the thump. Heavy, deliberate. Outside.

Emma's head snapped toward the kitchen window. "What was that?"

Another thump. Then a low, guttural hiss.

A single, unblinking eye appeared at the glass.

"Oh no," Emma breathed.

"Oh yes," Alex said grimly. "The emu's back."

"You left the gate open?" she hissed.

"I was distracted! The ute broke down! And then you left me with the goats while you went to check fences!"

"You said you could handle them!"

"I thought I could!"

The eye vanished. The verandah boards creaked under something large and aggressive.

And then—BANG. The screen door slammed open.

Emma backed toward the hallway. "We are not equipped for this."

Alex grabbed the nearest weapon he could find—a broom with half its bristles missing.

"We're never equipped for this."

From outside, there came the unmistakable sound of goat hooves, followed by a warbled screech and the unmistakable slap-slap-slap of emu feet on timber.

The goat in the raincoat bolted into the room like a furry missile, skidding under the table.

Alex didn't hesitate. "Retreat!"

He and Emma scrambled after it, ducking just as the emu's neck stretched through the open doorway like some prehistoric snake, beak snapping.

Somewhere behind them, a pot plant exploded.

From her office across the paddock, Jewel looked up at the ruckus echoing out of the homestead and muttered under her breath, "I don't even want to know."
     
     

Southern Lights Station · Autumn · Homestead

   

[Jewel]

 

 

Seasonal Journal — Autumn 1993

"Oilskin duster, forgotten birthday, cracked stirrup"

 Jewel woke to the sound of hoofbeats and the low murmur of voices. Morning had already begun without her.

Through the window, she could see her parents saddling a pair of restless young geldings. Dust rose with every stomp and shuffle. Her mother's voice cut clear over the yard — "He's still bucking on the right side, watch your leg!" — before fading into the clang of a swinging gate.

No one had come in to say good morning.

No one had said happy birthday.

She chewed her lip and sat a little longer on the edge of her bed, legs swinging above the floorboards. Seven today. That felt important. Grown-up. She'd even oiled her boots last night and laid out her clothes. But now they felt silly.

Jewel shrugged into her oversized oilskin duster — the one Old Ted had handed down when she was five and still insisted she'd "grow into" — and headed for the shed. If no one remembered, well, she'd prove she didn't need reminding.

She found Cinch dozing in the corner paddock, muddy and half-shaggy with winter hair, but reliable as ever. She tacked him up with careful fingers, cinched tight the old saddle, and slid a foot into the stirrup.

It cracked.

She froze. The left stirrup leather, worn thin, split with a soft snap. She wobbled, caught herself, and swallowed the sting behind her eyes. No matter. She climbed up anyway, using the fence, proud and defiant.

The ridge was quiet this time of morning. Yellowed grass rustled in the wind. Dried gum leaves chased each other down the trail. She breathed deep, letting the big sky settle into her bones. Maybe this was enough.

She didn't hear Old Ted until he was beside her, his own gelding picking its way up the hill like it knew the trail by heart.

"Stirrup's gone," he said, eyeing her saddle.

"I know."

"Bit early for a solo ride, don't you reckon?"

Jewel didn't answer. She looked away, chin tipped high.

Old Ted dismounted without another word. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a wrapped bundle. "Wasn't sure if I'd catch you before lunch," he said, handing it over.

Inside was a chunk of damper wrapped in wax paper, a wedge of apple, and — stuck square in the middle — a short candle.

Jewel blinked.

"Don't reckon your folks meant to forget," he added, gaze fixed on the horizon. "Got a few colts runnin' wild in their heads this morning."

She didn't say anything, just nodded. The lump in her throat made it hard to speak.

Ted struck a match and lit the candle. It flickered weakly in the breeze. "Make a wish, kid. Before the wind does it for you."

She did. Then they sat together in the silence, watching the candle burn as the sun inched higher, and the forgotten morning turned into a day worth remembering.
     
     

Southern Lights Station · Autumn 1993 · Homestead