Read Online The Winds of Heaven by Judith Clarke - Free Book Online
Authors: Judith Clarke
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the silent hall into the bedroom, Fan had been lying with the blanket pulled right over her face, like she always did when she didn’t want to talk to anyone. And so even though the room seemed full to bursting with her cousin’s sorrow, and Clementine’s own heart was full of it as well, she’d slid down beneath her own blanket without a single word.
Now Fan had gone and Clementine could tell she wasn’t in the house: the old green petticoat lay abandoned on the floor, the big drawer where most of Fan’s daytime clothes were kept hung open, trailing hems and sleeves.
She’d have gone to her hidey, decided Clementine, her special place in the grassy hollow by the lake. She jumped out of bed, pulled on her shorts and tee-shirt, thrust her feet into her sandshoes, crept from the house and hurried across the backyard, out the gate and up the lane towards the narrow red road that led towards the lake. Then she ran.
The hidey was empty. Clementine walked round and round it, unable to believe her cousin wasn’t there. Where was she then, if she wasn’t here?
A terrible thought seized hold of her: perhaps, like the people in her stories, Fan had gone to climb up into the sky. Where would you go if you wanted to climb into the sky? How would you find the ladder if you didn’t know where it was and it didn’t come down to you by itself? Perhaps youneeded a magic word, like Ali Baba’s ‘Open Sesame!’ And then Clementine remembered the old black man: they were his, those stories, so perhaps Fan had gone to him.
She ran out from the hidey and into the paddocks. A crowd of cockatoos, busy at their breakfast in the dry tussocky grass, rose up at her approach and whirled off in a raucous cloud.
Bilirr.
‘Where’s Fan?’ she called after them. ‘Where’s Fan?’ But even if cockatoos could speak, she was certain it would be in the language of the old black man, and she wouldn’t be able to understand them.
When she reached the place where he had his shelter, she saw at once that the old man had gone. The sheets of iron lay flat on the ground, the sacking curtain on top of them, folded neatly as a piece of her mother’s fresh ironing on a Tuesday afternoon. The rusty tins had vanished, the pile of rushes had been swept away. There was nothing but the prickly bushes and the spindly gums, the bare earth and the circle of blackened stones.
‘Fan!’ she called. ‘Fan!’ The only sounds that returned to her were the faint rattle of dry gum leaves and the old dog lapping of the lake upon the shore. A wind had risen, and she became aware that the light had changed. When she’d been running along the track to Fan’s hidey, the sun had come up; now it had gone dark again. The sky had clouded over, but not with the shapely white clouds she and Fan often watched beside the lake: this cloud was like a dingy blanket thrown across the whole of the sky, the colour of washing-up water, flecked at its edges with livid dirty foam. Thunder rumbled distantly.
She hurried from the old man’s camp and began to runacross the paddock where the willy-willy had come seething across the land. What if another one was coming? She didn’t know how to judge its direction like Fan. What if she got swirled up into its brown skirts like an old tree branch, and whirled away over the plains? Where was Fan? Where? Had she gone away with her friend? To
Birrima
, the place far, far away? Had they both climbed up into the sky? A sob caught in her throat; she ran and ran and she didn’t know where she was going, she didn’t know anything.
It was all Aunty Rene’s fault. Oh, how she hated her, hated her, hated her! She wished Aunty Rene would die; surely she deserved to die. Yet even as she thought this, Clementine remembered an afternoon last week when there’d been a sudden shower of rain, and Aunty Rene had run out into the yard and stood there with her face lifted to the raindrops: a face that looked unexpectedly young and even gentle,
Now Fan had gone and Clementine could tell she wasn’t in the house: the old green petticoat lay abandoned on the floor, the big drawer where most of Fan’s daytime clothes were kept hung open, trailing hems and sleeves.
She’d have gone to her hidey, decided Clementine, her special place in the grassy hollow by the lake. She jumped out of bed, pulled on her shorts and tee-shirt, thrust her feet into her sandshoes, crept from the house and hurried across the backyard, out the gate and up the lane towards the narrow red road that led towards the lake. Then she ran.
The hidey was empty. Clementine walked round and round it, unable to believe her cousin wasn’t there. Where was she then, if she wasn’t here?
A terrible thought seized hold of her: perhaps, like the people in her stories, Fan had gone to climb up into the sky. Where would you go if you wanted to climb into the sky? How would you find the ladder if you didn’t know where it was and it didn’t come down to you by itself? Perhaps youneeded a magic word, like Ali Baba’s ‘Open Sesame!’ And then Clementine remembered the old black man: they were his, those stories, so perhaps Fan had gone to him.
She ran out from the hidey and into the paddocks. A crowd of cockatoos, busy at their breakfast in the dry tussocky grass, rose up at her approach and whirled off in a raucous cloud.
Bilirr.
‘Where’s Fan?’ she called after them. ‘Where’s Fan?’ But even if cockatoos could speak, she was certain it would be in the language of the old black man, and she wouldn’t be able to understand them.
When she reached the place where he had his shelter, she saw at once that the old man had gone. The sheets of iron lay flat on the ground, the sacking curtain on top of them, folded neatly as a piece of her mother’s fresh ironing on a Tuesday afternoon. The rusty tins had vanished, the pile of rushes had been swept away. There was nothing but the prickly bushes and the spindly gums, the bare earth and the circle of blackened stones.
‘Fan!’ she called. ‘Fan!’ The only sounds that returned to her were the faint rattle of dry gum leaves and the old dog lapping of the lake upon the shore. A wind had risen, and she became aware that the light had changed. When she’d been running along the track to Fan’s hidey, the sun had come up; now it had gone dark again. The sky had clouded over, but not with the shapely white clouds she and Fan often watched beside the lake: this cloud was like a dingy blanket thrown across the whole of the sky, the colour of washing-up water, flecked at its edges with livid dirty foam. Thunder rumbled distantly.
She hurried from the old man’s camp and began to runacross the paddock where the willy-willy had come seething across the land. What if another one was coming? She didn’t know how to judge its direction like Fan. What if she got swirled up into its brown skirts like an old tree branch, and whirled away over the plains? Where was Fan? Where? Had she gone away with her friend? To
Birrima
, the place far, far away? Had they both climbed up into the sky? A sob caught in her throat; she ran and ran and she didn’t know where she was going, she didn’t know anything.
It was all Aunty Rene’s fault. Oh, how she hated her, hated her, hated her! She wished Aunty Rene would die; surely she deserved to die. Yet even as she thought this, Clementine remembered an afternoon last week when there’d been a sudden shower of rain, and Aunty Rene had run out into the yard and stood there with her face lifted to the raindrops: a face that looked unexpectedly young and even gentle,
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