The ends of the earth
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 28: Still the Lucky Country?
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by Emma Ashmere
Download the complete article PDF
Emma Ashmere's biography and other articles by this writer
Lasting a good part of a minute, the sound was akin to the roar of two hundred horse carriages furiously ridden over cobblestones, writes James Palmer, surveyor of the newest southern colony, in January 1839. I made inquiries of one of the natives who indicated there have been previous earthquakes of similar nature in these parts. However, it was impossible to ascertain their frequency or severity, were I to believe him.
I frown beneath the shuddering roof of the tent, wondering if the earthquake has struck the area my husband, the surveyor, and his men have been engaged to map. I remain pinned to the bed, blinking at the dark, listening. Dogs are barking. People call out. Some have lit lamps with which to inspect the tents, the provisions store and the newly laid foundations of the hospital. Slowly I reach for the Bible I keep wrapped in a white linen cloth with my diary. And every island fled away, and the mountains were not found.
I will myself to think of how best to instruct the cook to roast the spatchcock for Sunday dinner, when the Reverend Merton will read a prayer and eat a good portion of stuffing and most of the bird, before retiring to his tent with bottle and pen.
But this is something I cannot shut out. The sound of this strange country shrugging us off.
My thoughts rush far ahead. I think of my unborn child. Of my child's children and their children. Will they continue to take part in this extraordinary experiment and make their lives here? James would think me foolish but I can sense their little souls about me now, a long luminous stream of family threading down the years.
James? Can you hear it? The fluttering of hearts? The trembling breath?
MY HEART. MY breath. This trembling. For the past year, I've watched my illness circling. Now it has begun its approach, like a figure shambling across a paddock, almost recognisable in its shape and gait, the face remaining out of sight. Now it has lodged itself inside me.
My daughter took me to see a neurologist yesterday. He sat in his spotted bow tie, making pronouncements over steepled hands. My daughter promised wine and cake. In our family, wine and cake always means something's up.
To stop her pleading, I lied. Yes, I said, spilling a little rosé over the tablecloth. Yes, I will give up my final pleasure. The daily visits to the State Library, where I've been immersing myself in the accounts of my great-great-grandfather James Palmer and comparing these to the private diaries of my great-great-grandmother, kept in a Sandler shoebox beneath my bed.
I couldn't tell my daughter that it's impossible to surrender any more of myself. Too much has been taken. Too much has been lost.
All this has been building. An inventory of omissions and mistakes. The empty pantry. The odd vine snaking its way inside. The discovery of that wad of unpaid bills. Then last week's visit to the library, when I tried to bring Palmer's papers home to reunite them with the diaries of his wife, carefully tucking them inside my coat, feigning amnesia when the woman on the desk cheerfully pointed out my little oversight.
There's one of his entries I particularly like: he's wading eye-high through reeds along the River Torrens to the cries and grunts of waterfowl. He's been looking for a place for his men to cross. Two chains, he surmises, at its narrowest point. He wipes his face. Sweat has been creeping like a beetle across his brow. The ink in his notebook has begun to blur beneath his thumb. For a moment, the blinding sun is completely eclipsed by a deafening flock of parakeets.
Then he sees it. Black eyes in the grass, to the left on the rise. His breath pulls in sharp. His hand goes to the musket. But no. It's only the face of old man kangaroo, chest pushed out between the white curve of shoulders. The kangaroo stares, waits for Palmer's party to thrash on past.
I WONDER IF the land James is surveying has also settled back into silence with the coming of daylight. I rise from my bed and exchange pleasantries with Doctor Myles, who has weathered another busy night. I hesitate by the tent door, watching men mending canvas, attending to a broken cart wheel and severing the limbs of a leaning tree. I steel myself with my Bible: The earth quaked and the rocks were split. Then my diary: Thursday evening, parakeet pie. Followed by: One of the foremen, Ambrose Asquith, cut his own throat on the Sabbath and was found by his son in a water-filled ditch. The wretched man was known to Doctor Myles who had ministered to him during previous bouts of falling sickness. There is unpleasant talk of drinking and debts and a wife with child.
