He leaned against the tree, relished his cigarette and let his thoughts drift with the smoke. Freedom was a precious gift, and he’d yearned for the simple things as he’d struggled to survive the Jap camp. Things like the scent of pine and eucalyptus on the wind; the wide open spaces where a man could ride for days without seeing anyone; and the soft, piping warble of the magpies and currawongs. But there were even more precious needs: like that for a loved one’s smile, the sound of a child’s laughter and the deep contentment to be found in the place where he truly belonged.

He clenched his fist as anger swept through him. His freedom had come at a terrible price, and in a way he was still confined within the unseen but impregnable prison walls of Fate. For his family thought he was already dead, and it was better for everyone to keep it that way. There would be no joyous homecoming – no happy ending – just a covert glimpse to reassure himself that they were safe and happy before he left them for the last time.

And then, in the wide open spaces of the land he loved so well, he would try to seek redemption for his failure to save those he’d sworn to protect. And in that redemption he hoped to find the peace he so sorely needed to face the inevitable and embrace it.

His eyelids fluttered, heavy with sleep, and he forced himself to crush the cigarette beneath his boot and get to his feet. With the kitbag slung over his shoulder, he turned his back on the road and headed deeper into the bush, his inner compass guiding him home.

4

The triangular rusting iron frame of the windmill had stood sentinel for decades over the vast open ranges of Wilga Station. When the wind blew, the weathervane would swing away from it and the thin metal sails would begin to turn, pumping the lifesaving water from a deep borehole into cooling tanks and then into the cattle troughs. The ground surrounding the troughs and windmill had been trampled by hundreds of thirsty animals, and when it rained, the whole area quickly became a quagmire.

But the mud had long since dried to a fine dust which lifted beneath the restless hooves and drifted like an ochre veil across the dying plains. There was only a trickle of water in the bottom of the troughs, and the sails were still and silent in the heavy air as the clouds thickened and rolled ominously over the land. The cattle could smell the approaching storm, and they bellowed and snorted as they shifted uneasily in the tightly packed huddle they’d formed close to the windmill.