White Horses, page 11
Drift’s mouth opened and closed like a gaping fish out of water. Iced tea? She’d never had iced tea.
‘Best to let the cattle cool down before we draft ’em anyhow. C’mon, honey, come meet The Planet people, and you can introduce us all to your dogs and give your horses a spell.’
Drift’s mind flashed to her father, back on the roadside. She hesitated but Sophia was looping her arm through Drift’s, continuing to talk.
‘Here on The Planet, our animal companions are as much a part of our family as we are. Your dogs would like a rest, I bet. Bring your pretty mare and your big hairy boy too. They can rest in the stables too, next to Alphie.’
‘Alphie?’
‘He’s my dreamboat pony. I’m sure your mare will love him. What’s her name?’
‘Minty. And the gelding is Bear.’
‘Your Minty’s in for a treat. Alphie’s a real gentleman.’
‘But . . . I really should . . .’ Drift said, again thinking of her dad sweating, straining and bashing droppers back into soil to fix the fence out on the coastal road.
‘Ahh, we don’t have the word should here on The Planet. You either will or you won’t. Or either you are or you’re not. No shoulds. That word just makes us feel sad and obligated. Whatever or whoever it is you “should” go back to can wait just a little while. I promise, we won’t be long,’ and with her little lecture out of the way, Sophia led Drift on.
As they walked towards the heart of the property, where the homestead and outbuildings were nestled among gardens and gums, Drift felt as if she’d truly stepped into paradise. Sophia’s calm, purposeful personality was carrying her along effortlessly, and it was a relief not to be going straight back to the moodiness of her father. Nor did she want to risk seeing Kelvin Waller again.
Drift gazed about. She’d never seen a farm like this place. She’d never met a person like Sophia. All around, trees had been planted in meandering, curved patches, rather than the linear shelter belts most farmers routinely placed alongside fencelines. The ‘straight-line thinking’ of humans, which Charlie Weatherbourne often spoke about, was nowhere to be found here. Here, nature was allowed to speak.
The curved tree clusters wrapped around the hub of the farm, enveloping the buildings and home paddocks in deep shade. The soothing energy of the life of plants was everywhere. Swamp gum, black box, yellow box and melaleuca, mixed in with ironbarks and red gums wearing skirts of sedge and daisy bushes and feathering native grasses. In the paddocks, the ‘tree gardens’ were dotted about too, and in shorter pasture, which clearly had been grazed recently, there were rows of squat mobile sheds around which chickens scratched, fluffed feathers or sun bathed.
The same electric fencing and trough systems Drift had noticed on the boundary could be seen in the home paddocks, where she glimpsed a flock of turkeys and, in another paddock, roaming pigs. Sophia pointed out two black and white patched cows that were clearly milkers, their calves bunting their udders. Sophia explained that Constantina and Gwendolyn had already been milked that morning by The Planet people.
‘We are proudly completely off the grid, and almost one hundred per cent self-sufficient, but not in the old-style escape-from-everything hippy sense. Some of the most brilliant minds and most open hearts in the world are bunkering down here to experiment with food, fuel and power systems. It’s exciting times. And over time, we hope to wake the people up in the sleeping world.’
Again there was that term. Drift frowned. ‘Wake people up?’
‘Yes, to the truth.’
Sophia saw Drift’s questioning look. ‘That we are all one, darlin. We can’t keep living with corporations and corruption. You see, my dear, we are like individual waves in the ocean, but we are each part of the same ocean. Simple quantum science. We are all interconnected. Once people wake up to this, they will stop doing harm to each other and the planet. The old systems are crumbling. We’re exploring the new.’
They rounded a large vertical-board barn and Sophia announced, ‘We’re here.’
The horse barn was built from recycled timber, like the yards, and had lovely round windows and rusty-red painted finishes. There was not a bland steel-kit shed in sight. All the buildings had a classy beauty to them, with their hotchpotch honey-coloured timber walls from re-purposed materials and trellises of fruit trees that grew up the expansive sides of the sheds.
On other wooden buildings climbed plums, nectarines, figs, mulberries, peaches and persimmons. The plants hugged the buildings, trained by thin silver wire, their trunks sunk into straw-laden garden beds. Small corrugated-iron tanks sprouted off the side of every roof, and pipes dripped life-giving water to the plants.
As they walked, Minty’s and Bear’s hooves clopped over flagstones, and the mare tried to snatch at some plants growing in giant halved wine barrels. The large yard was clearly the hub of the farm activities. Here, more pots were scattered about, burgeoning with strawberries, blueberries and citrus. Others had spinach and lettuce plants in them, along with dollops of colourful flowers and laden miniature fruit trees.
Sophia saw where she was looking and plucked a strawberry and handed it to her. ‘The people who come to work here like to snack. Easier to bring the food to them.’ Drift took the plump, shiny fruit in her palm. ‘There’s more, of course, in the commercial experimental garden and the greenhouses, but this food here is for Planet people. The other produce for sale is in another section of the farm.’
Sale? Drift had never heard of The Planet selling food. She wondered where. And how. She’d heard the locals gossiping suspiciously about how they never once saw a beast come through the selling system from The Planet or a single grain through the wheat silos. There were plenty of jokes that the cattle were simply ‘beamed up’ to feed aliens. Drift actually did feel like it truly was an alien world. The place felt so different from anything she’d ever experienced.
A golden retriever ambled over from a shady spot near a wound-up hose, fanning his pretty feathery tail as Drift’s three dogs greeted him with a flurry of tail wags and legs lifted on the pots.
‘Oi,’ said Drift to the cocked-leg dogs.
Sophia waved her hand. ‘Never mind them. All the dogs do it. That’s why we put the plants up high.’ She smiled. ‘That’s Joel. His little mate, Zen, a Jack Russell, was killed by a snake a few months back, so he’s been a lonely boy. All the other working dogs snub him. He’s glad to see your three.’
Sophia hauled a stable door open. ‘This OK for your horses? It’s big enough for two.’
Drift nodded, amazed at the quality and finish of the stalls. She led Minty and Bear forward and they snorted their way in, their eyes adjusting to the dimmer light, sniffing at the fresh bed of sawdust.
Minty began to paw at the ground.
‘First time in a stall?’ Sophia asked, and Drift nodded and gave a shy smile.
‘They’ll like it once we give them each a hay net. The sawdust is from the farmed trees we’ve begun to mill ourselves. Fresh as fresh for ’em.’
Drift was about to ask how big the property was and what kind of timber they grew, but then a horse in the next stable caught her attention. She couldn’t help but gasp when she saw the chestnut stallion, ears pricked, greeting the newcomers with a nicker. He was a thickset quarter horse with a wide white paintbrush swipe down his nose. His eyes were curious and kind.
‘Wow,’ Drift said, then began unlooping the girth cinch and hauling off Minty’s saddle.
‘I know. He’s something, isn’t he? Alphie’s a bit of a star round here,’ Sophia said, as she and Drift stood for a moment taking in the horse’s perfectly square, muscular, yet curved form.
‘He’s daddy to some pretty little foals. All of ’em turning out level headed but with plenty of cow-keen in ’em. Now what did you say yer name was, sweetheart? I didn’t catch it the first time.’
‘Drift . . . as in driftwood. It’s my nickname.’
Sophia tilted her head and raised her eyebrow ever so slightly. ‘And what was the name your mama gave ya?’
‘Melody.’
‘Melody,’ echoed Sophia in her low, soothing voice. ‘It’s got such a pretty ring to it. A song.’
Drift couldn’t help flinching a little.
‘Don’t you like being called Melody?’
‘I’m not so sure. I rarely hear it.’
Normally she didn’t like to hear the name. It belonged to a little girl from long ago who had a mother. But coming from the beautiful full mouth of Sophia, it was as if she heard her name anew. It was pretty.
‘I’ll call you Drift, if that suits you best,’ Sophia said, waving her hand in the air elegantly so a silver ring stamped with a horse shoe flashed in a beam of sunlight. ‘Come and meet my Planet people. We don’t have staff or employees here on The Planet, although everyone gets paid mightily well here, indeed, both in food and the folding stuff. Instead, we have interns, and future farm participants. We are all here to learn what Mother Nature needs to teach us. Tell me, Drift, do you know much about holistic farming? I notice, without sounding rude, mind, them cattle you have with you sure don’t know much about it. You could play a tune on their ribs, poor darlins.’
‘I know,’ Drift said, feeling at once guilty even though the guilt about the state of the cattle was not hers to own. ‘I do know about holistic farming. Dad would be a total devotee, but we don’t own land. Just work for others. Others like the owners of those poor girls back there, and they don’t seem interested in changing.’
‘Yet,’ Sophia said. She patted a wooden keg mounted on its side on steel legs.
‘You can pop your saddle and gear on here.’
As she hung the bridle, halter and lead rope on a hook and set down her saddle, Drift’s mind ran with questions again. What about the stallion she’d just met? Surely a horse of that calibre would be known around the local camp drafts and cutting events? She’d never heard of his foals. What was this place? ‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ she heard herself say.
‘Come, Drift, dear,’ Sophia said. ‘The Planet people will be at lunch. It’s a good time for you to drop in. You’ll get more than iced tea. You can sweet-talk Serge into drafting the cattle after you’ve had something to eat.’
‘I think I’ve already met Serge,’ Drift said.
Sophia frowned. ‘You did?’
‘Yes. When I was bringing the cattle in. He was on a grey horse with black mane and legs; a dead ringer for Minty.’
‘Dead ringer?’ Sophia echoed, puzzled.
Drift smiled. Clearly the American, despite having been here a long time, was not up with some Australian lingo. ‘Yeah. The horse your stockman was riding looked just like Minty.’
‘You saw our stockman?’ Sophia asked, tilting her head.
‘Yes. He pointed me in the right direction. Barely said a word.’
Sophia paused. ‘Ah . . . that would be Eli,’ she said eventually.
‘The horse or the man?’
Sophia laughed. ‘The man. I’m surprised you saw him. He likes to keep to himself,’ she said. ‘Did he say anything else to you? Did you talk long?’
‘No,’ said Drift, ‘he seemed in a hurry to get somewhere. I kinda got the sense he wasn’t the talkative type.’
‘Ah, that’d be Eli,’ Sophia said. ‘Now come on. Let’s go eat.’
Chapter 15
Following Sophia a few steps behind, Drift watched the swing of her wavy ponytail catch the sunlight as their boots crunched on a wide red gravel pathway. Overhead fronds of peppercorn trees formed an arbour of peaceful green. There was no hurry in Sophia’s step. They arrived at a large double-storey stone and timber homestead with a wide bullnose-roofed verandah with covered pathways linking it to other cottages. Great flourishes of purple and white flowering bougainvillea sprayed colour over the buildings, screening huge water tanks to the side of the houses.
On the main verandah, Drift followed Sophia’s move, kicking her doggers off amidst a scattering of boots that lay on the flagstones. As Drift bent over, she glanced up to see a curved green lawn flanked by lively native flowerbeds containing more rusted farmyard junk that had been masterfully turned into beautiful artful sculptures.
Kids tumbled and cartwheeled, chattering like young magpies on the lawn. Sophie smiled and waved at them, then rolled open a large timber sliding door and ushered Drift and her dogs in.
Drift found herself standing in a vast room with honey-coloured wooden beams and slow fans turning high above them. A long table was lined with people all eating, talking and laughing in the cool of the room. There were more kids, some of whom ran to Sophia for quick hugs, faces lit with delight, before scampering away again.
Large artworks of Western Australian native flowers beamed from the walls in vibrant, splashing oils. On a cool slate floor, a cheerful, cruisy pack of working dogs ambled over with low wagging tails to greet them. Molly, Hamlet and Dunno sniffed cautiously. With such a friendly canine welcoming committee, even the tucker-obsessed Molly failed to immediately lock on to the delicious collage of food smells that wafted throughout the room. Instead she was utterly distracted by an effervescent little collie who was flirting with her and dancing on his white ballet feet.
‘Munro, stop being such a ladies’ man. She’s not interested,’ Sophia said to the dog as he enthusiastically sniffed at Molly’s rear end.
Glancing around, Drift noticed how many young people her age were in the group. On most farming properties she and her dad worked at, it was rare to find more than one or two young people, but here there was a bunch. Also, unlike Widgenup, where everyone was pretty much the same brand of whitefella, this station was a real global mix.
One girl had beautiful large dark brown eyes and long plaited hair like rope that fell over a shimmering pink sari. Beside her Drift noticed a group of Australian Indigenous people passing platters to brightly dressed Maori people — or they might have been from Samoa or even further afield. A little Asian girl toddled past into the arms of her mother, who had just placed even more food on the already groaning table where people were feasting on salads, fruits and meats.
In the middle of the table chunky loaves of bread had been sliced thickly and laid on big wooden platters next to golden homemade butter cut in thick wedges. Drift stood in wonder. What was this place? Was it some kind of cult? No: Drift could feel there was no fear in these folk. These people seemed free: like the birds that swirled the skies at dusk, they had an uncomplicated, connectivity and lightness to them.
‘Planet people!’ Sophia announced above the chatter, tinging a knife on a glass as if about to make a wedding speech. Gradually the room fell silent and all eyes turned to Drift and Sophia. Drift felt she was in a spotlight beam, even though everyone was smiling. She blushed red. Holding her hat in her hands she looked to the toes of her work-worn socks, noticing one toe poking through.
‘Meet Melody Wood . . . Or also known as Drift, and . . .’ Sophia swung her arm to the dogs as a cue for Drift to introduce them.
‘Dunno, Hamlet and Molly,’ Drift said shyly, pointing to each one.
‘Dunno, Hamlet and Molly,’ Sophia echoed more loudly.
A collective call of ‘hello’, ‘welcome’ and ‘hi’ rose up from the group.
‘Greetings!’ was added belatedly by an old man raising a twisted hand at her, his eyes cloudy, but his smile clear. A younger man with tousled sandy hair was chuckling as he dipped bread into his vegetable soup.
‘Dunno and Hamlet,’ he said. ‘Classic.’
Drift noticed the cute upward turn of his nose and his striking green eyes. What was with her lately? Was she turning into Shaynene — a serial perve?
Her thoughts were interrupted when a little kid collided with her legs and stretched her arms up in the air to be picked up. Drift automatically stooped and scooped her up, surprising herself. She’d never had much to do with kids before, and, with her mother’s track record in parental devotion, Drift planned on steering clear of having them in case. Still, this little kid was super-cute. The child began gently lifting Drift’s lip and trying to jab a strawberry past her teeth.
‘I think Maisie wants you to eat that. Come,’ Sophia said, plucking the child from Drift’s arms and hugging her. ‘Drift, you sit next to Serge and tell him about your interesting morning.’
Sophia swivelled the child onto her hip and reached between a couple of young women, grabbing a plate that had a grey-blue bird with an exceptionally long swirling tail on it. Drift noticed all the plates were different and patterned and colourful, as were the glasses and cutlery, as if gathered from all corners of the world.
The entire place jangled with colour, like glossy, glassy bangles. As people shunted along a bench seat adorned with vibrant cushions to make room for her, Drift glanced at the dark-haired, dark-skinned man she now knew as Serge.
Like Sophia, it was hard to pin an age to him. His black hair was glossy and streaked with grey, his face set with a beautiful bone structure. He waved his fork at her as a greeting and smiled as he chewed.
‘Drift’s cattle got a fright and flattened the boundary fence, Serge,’ Sophia said. ‘Her dad’s patching the fence, but we’ve got some drafting to do after lunch. She kindly brought our escapees in with her stock-route cattle.’
Serge nodded as he finished his mouthful. ‘You like the road?’
Drift was surprised. She thought Serge would ask her about how the cattle got a fright. Or how many head there were to draft. Or how bad was the busted fence. But his dark, dancing eyes searched hers for an answer when she echoed, ‘The road?’ She shrugged. ‘Yes. It’s my life, I guess. I love parts of it.’
He smiled. ‘Roads lead places. Where are you headed?’
Drift frowned and felt a little helpless. She’d never thought about it. It was only in the last few days that she had begun to dream of another life and travelling a new road. ‘I dunno. Just fattening cattle for a bit. South, I guess, until they’re ready.’ Internally she kicked herself. Her intelligence and verbal ability had dried up like a shallow summertime dam.
