Free Heart of the Dreaming by Di Morrissey

baby crying. Eerie really. But, you know, it’s a wonderful place, the bush at night,’ remarked Dingo quietly. ‘Never be frightened out here. Once you know what’s about and who’s about, there’s nothing to be afraid of — provided you’ve got a sure-footed horse. Some dopey horses can’t see a yard in front of them or shy at the silliest things in the dark. You’re a lot safer out here than crossing the road in the city, eh, Queenie?’
    She was tempted to tell Dingo of that fearful night alone in the bush, a little girl alone in a storm — the night she had put down her beloved Gus — she knew he would understand as few people could. But instead she answered, ‘I don’t know. I’ve never spent time in a city. Just into Longreach, and once to Rocky, and to the Agriculture Show in Brisbane.’
    â€˜Ah, you haven’t missed much — it’s too fast, and men waste their time agonising over such fiddling problems. Makes you laugh, really. I’d like to see some of those “executives” cope with real problems — like drought and dying cattle, and bloody bushfires, and diseases that can wipe a man out quick as spit.’
    He turned to the thoughtful girl who rode beside him. ‘That’s not to say you shouldn’t give the city a go some time. I’ve had some bloody great times in the big smoke,’ he chuckled.
    Queenie smiled in the dark, remembering the stories she’d heard of his womanising and gambling. He’d also organised hundreds of farmers to ride into the nation’s capital andcamp outside Parliament House to protest against unfair taxes for the men on the land. They’d won the hearts of the country, and Canberra had caved in on the issue.
    â€˜Mindyou,’ continued Dingo, ‘that’s notto say I haven’t had some pretty good times in the bush. An old chap once said to me, “If you don’t stop and pick the wild flowers, when you come back they’ll all be withered and gone!”’
    He chuckled again and Queenie laughed with him, thinking, ‘I bet old Dingo stopped to pick a few “wild flowers” in his time!’
    They rode in silence a little distance and as they passed some old gold diggings now overgrown with blackberries at the side of the trail, Dingo remarked, ‘Must have been quite a place in the old gold days.’
    â€˜My father told me there were thousands of people swarming over the district, and the town had dozens of pubs. No wonder it was called the roaring days!’
    â€˜You know “The Roaring Days”?’
    â€˜I know my Henry Lawson!’
    â€˜Off you go then …’
    Queenie grinned, and as the lights of the checkpoint shone in the distance and the smell of welcoming fires drifted towards them, she began to recite —
    The night too quickly passes
And we are growing old,
So let us fill our glasses
And toast the days of Gold;
When finds of wondrous treasure Set all the South ablaze,
And you and I were faithful mates
All through the Roaring days!

    Queenie never forgot the exhilarating feeling of breaking out of the dark bush to be greeted by a circle of eager and admiring faces as she and Dingo rode into camp, chorusing the final lines of Lawson’s poem —
    Those golden days are vanished,
And altered is the scene;
The diggings are deserted,
The camping-grounds are green;
The flaunting flag of progress
Is in the West unfurled,
The mighty Bush with iron rails
Is tethered to the world.
    Dawn came, widening arms of soft light that swiftly embraced the crisp bush, turning hard needles of frost to limpid dew. It sneaked under tree tops, touching boughs and branches and the tips of feathered wings. Birds sang and warmth seeped into the cold ground.
    Queenie rode alone and, like her, each rider experienced a private joy as the sun rose. Spirits lifted, smiles broke out and horses stepped forward with renewed