Lillipilly Hill by Eleanor Spence Page A

Sydney. Whether it would pay for his journey on the packet he did not know, but in his new and unusual mood of recklessness he did not wait to think about it. He set off hurriedly and silently along the path to the orchard, suddenly vastly exhilarated, and already beginning to forget the bitter experiences of the afternoon.
    Aidan’s knowledge of local geography was of the scantiest. He had once studied his father’s map of the district, and the one fact that he clearly recalled was that Barley Creek flowed into Blackhill Bay. On the map, the distance between Barley Creek township and the bay had not seemed great, but Aidan had to admit that the map was far from accurate. Nor could he remember if any sort of road was marked along the course of the creek.
    â€˜It doesn’t matter, anyway,’ he told himself, as he took a diagonal path across the orchard towards the creek. ‘All I need to do is keep to the bank.’
    At first it was fairly simple. East of the ford, the creek was quite broad, and the moonlight gleaming on the water gave Aidan enough guidance for him to see and follow a ragged track along the bank. He looked back once, and saw above the orchard the iron roofs of Lillipilly Hill, washed over with silver. Then a line of tall gums hid the house from view, and Aidan was alone with his thoughts, his determination, and his ambition to be as far away as possible before sunrise.
    For two or three miles he plodded on, resolutely ignoring the calls of unknown night-birds, and the mysterious crackling of twigs in the scrub, or the occasional splashes in the shadows at the edge of the creek. It occurred to him that if Harriet had been there,she would have been delighted with all these noises, and would have investigated them all. But Aidan’s curiosity was not sufficient to outweigh his new resolve, and he kept up his steady pace, hands thrust into his pockets, his books buttoned inside his jacket, his head bent to watch the track, which was becoming more and more overgrown. Soldier-vine and lantana pressed close to the bank, and at times forced Aidan to pick his way gingerly across the stones jutting from the margin of the creek.
    He had in his pocket the sturdy, gun-metal watch which his father had given to him on his birthday. He pulled it out and studied it when he at last reached an open space.
    â€˜Half past one,’ he said to himself, after prolonged peering at the watch-face, tilted towards the moon. ‘I must have come about four miles. It can’t be much farther.’
    He looked around him. Ahead, the creek curved to the left, still broad and placid and slow. The black shape of a hill, rising abruptly from the very edge of the path, effectively blocked any view, while the opposite bank was so densely clothed in scrub as to appear a solid, impenetrable mass.
    â€˜No clouds, thank goodness,’ observed Aidan, staring up at the star-sprinkled sky. ‘I’d better keep going.’
    He was feeling rather lonely now. He had not realized how utterly deserted this countryside was—he felt that he might go on walking thus for ever, without meeting another human being.
    He had followed the curve of the bank without noticing it, and now he stopped suddenly, seeing nothing but dark water where he had been about to tread. Incredulously, he gazed out over a landscape utterly different from that which he had left a few moments ago. Before him lay a vast swamp, acres of moonlit wasteland dotted with mangroves and clumps of reeds, and apparently limitless. He could not see far enough to discern its farthest boundary—whether it was the bay, or more scrub, or even the sea. Nothing stirred between him and the horizon, and the only sound was the sad cry of a curlew, left behind when others of its kind had migrated northward.
    Aidan sat down on a rock, and tried desperately to recall the details of the map. He could not remember hearing a swamp mentioned, but then he had to admit