The Hanging of Mary Ann. Angela Badger
they called at a wayside inn. The old man insisted on getting out for his own comfort and to see if the accommodation was acceptable but he limped back to the coach shaking his head.
“One of those blood houses. We’ll not spend a night under that woman’s roof, my oath we’ll not.”
“What’s a blood house, Grand-père?” Mary Ann asked as she propped a cushion under his painful leg.
“Place where you’d wake up covered in blood. I can tell, I know, I can smell ‘em. Remind me to tell you a story about that sometime… saved a man’s life that night… never forget it. Get eaten alive by bugs you can be, eaten alive. Soon as I put my nose inside that door I smelt ‘em. Anyhow, we’re not sleeping anywhere like that. We’re better under the stars.”
“But what if it’s raining?” She regarded him with a questioning look.
“But what if you stopped quizzing me?” he snapped. His leg hurt and he dreaded five days of jolting and jarring. He secretly wondered if he’d have been better accepting that he might be lame for the rest of his life and not started on this painful journey. “Confounded horse, confounded rock… everything’s a confounded mess,” he groused as he shifted and tried to make himself comfortable.
Mary Ann said no more but contented herself with looking at the passing scenery. Everything was so new, so different from Bywong. In all her life she’d never once been beyond Goulburn, now every inch of the way enticed her as they creaked and lurched on towards that far off enchanted place called Sydney.
Even if she had never been there she knew all about it. Sydney had cobbled streets and fashionable carriages spinning along the highways and byways. Afternoon teas and evening conversaziones, balls and race meetings filled the days of all who lived in that far-off city. Though whether her sister might consider her old enough to attend any of those wonderful events remained another matter. Poor Grand-père’s predicament had been a blessing for her. Not many girls of her age would be taking the road to Sydney.
Camping out under the stars proved to be yet another enchantment, in spite of Job’s grumbles as he hobbled the horses and set up the tent, dragged the tarpaulin out and made the fire. “There you are Missy, I’ll see to yer grandpa. Now the fire’s sparked up real nice, them chops’ll be real good if you don’t let ‘em burn.”
The novelty of cooking over the campfire, boiling the billy and mixing up damper preluded a night when the world changed from a hot, dusty succession of forest and plain to a mysterious place filled with the cries of the owl, the rustle of possums above them and the distant howl of the hunting dingo. Not for one moment was Mary Ann apprehensive as she lay looking up at the myriad stars gleaming through the branches of the gum trees; instead her whole being rejoiced that she’d been allowed to make such a journey. Travellers often spoke of the magic of sleeping under the stars. Well it was more than magic. It was a revelation.
But banks of storm clouds ushered in the next day, and as she helped Job pack up the camp and listened to his grumbles the first hint of concern about the journey niggled at her.
“Change in the weather.” Job took up the reins and urged the horses back onto the road. Little more than a potholed track, in some places so narrow the trees brushed the windows, in others widening out enough for two carts or coaches to pass. On the next occasion when they stopped, his pessimism had increased as he complained about his rheumaticky joints.
“Rain’s not far off, me screws tell me that. Mark my words we’ll have rain before long.”
All day they travelled under an overcast sky, the first drops of rain falling before light began to fade from above. Soon it slid like teardrops down the windows. Mary Ann stared out at the darkening landscape and the teeming downpour.
“What’s he stopped for now?” Grand-père demanded.
“P’haps we’ve shed a shoe?”
“What we gonna do, sir?” Job’s face appeared at the door. “Can’t see no sense in setting up our camp tonight.”
“We’ve the tent and the tarpaulin.”
“And what we do for kindling, eh? Bin raining hereabouts all day, I’d say. Ground’s soaked and that last creek we passed is rising fast.”
“Haven’t you ever camped in the rain before, man?” Grand-père snapped.
“Not with a young lady in the party and a gent as ain’t in the best of health…not ever.” Job replied with the familiarity of a long-time retainer. “We’ll be soaked to the skin afore we get’s anything up. There’ll be no meal tonight, only what’s left of last night’s damper. It may be alright for some,” and he sniffed loudly, “some as may be sittin’ up inside like, but for others…well it’ll be the worst. Gotta take a look at what’s troublin’ the mare. She’s made heavy weather of that last mile or more…”
Grand-père stared obstinately out of the window. All his life he had travelled this road up to the city. Whenever business demanded his presence or family matters needed attention he’d saddle up and take off. How easy everything had been when strength and health were on his side. Reluctantly he admitted to himself that now there were other considerations.
“There’s an inn, near the Bogong Rock,” he grudgingly admitted.
“Is that the place where the bogong moths come from?”
He smiled at his granddaughter. “Bogong moths are everywhere in their millions. The Bogong Rock’s not where they come from, it’s just one of the places where they settle on their journey and where they go to, no one knows. Most of all they are found up in the mountains about now, in fact, that’s why you’ll not have seen any blackfellows at all. They’re all up there.”
“You mean they’ve all moved off?”
“Only for now; they follow the food. It’s said that when the snow melts on the lower ranges of the great mountains, and that’s now, early October, then the first of the men start for the foothills. Then more follow, soon whole families make the journey in search of the moths.”
“But what do they want with moths? Moths are just like butterflies. Just flutter about.” Grand-père was sure to have a story to tell.
“You’ve seen the bogongs. They’re big moths, about an inch long. ‘tis said they’re good eating.”
“Eat moths! Ugh…how revolting.”
“They tell me the Bogong moth is so important to them that they gladly make these great journeys. After the bitter winters of the plains they can feast on those fat bodies and when they return from the mountains their skin is glossy and they are sleek with the nourishment.”
“I cannot see how eating moths can even keep a person alive, let alone make them sleek and glossy! What goodness would there be in a moth to feed a person?”
“Not a bit of it. It’s the quantity that does the trick. Thousands and thousands of moths breed up in the mountains. They hang in great clumps inside caverns and amongst the rocks. The natives creep in with burning switches and smoke them out so they tumble down into the waiting nets, then they cook them in the hot ashes of their fires.”
“Ugh! How disgusting!”
“Not at all. I’ve tasted them, they are quite sweet…like nuts.”
“But to go to all that effort for a few meals seems strange to me.”
“They last for longer than that. The moths’ bodies are fatty and any not eaten then and there are pounded with seeds and made into cakes that can be kept for weeks. These cakes are smoked so they last even longer.”
“Well, I still can’t see why, with so much around in the way of kangaroo and lizards and birds anyone should bother with moths.”
“It is a way of life. You’ve got to take my word for it.”
“It must be miserable up