homestead

I was the passenger in a 4WD, heading out of Brisbane, into the country. We passed a woman that I know; she was walking in the fields, alone. She stared into the car and called out as we passed, asking if I was alright. We arrived at a homestead: a sweeping, low-set sandstone building, crowning the top of a gentle hill. It was approaching dusk and we were to gather in the shared living space for an evening drink. I freshened up from the drive, looking into a mirror with an ornate silver frame, whilst my companion, a man I know, lay on the bed. His friend, a tall, glamorous woman, made a graceful entrance, the wind blowing her loose-fitting clothing, the tails of her head scarf billowing behind her, and her eyes shaded by dark glasses. As she came close to me, bending to kiss me hello, I could see that she was very ill: her skin was spotted and she was bald.

Next, I was at the foot of the hill with my family, around a camp fire. There was a small cliff behind us. We were lying on the grassy sand, looking out to the ocean. Children were playing in the shallows – strange children with unusual faces. We began to walk along the shore, heading back up the hill. In a small alcove in the cliff face, a black cat sat, sheltering from the wind. It had a peculiar face with small green eyes. My brother touched it gently with a small stick; it nuzzled the stick and he gave the cat a scratch. We looked behind us and saw that another black cat was sitting on the hot coals left in the hearth where our fire had been. We walked up the hill toward the homestead, watching the ground for beautiful stones and jewels that were embedded in the earth. My brother bent, picking up stones and gemstones every few steps, handing them to me to hold.