One of Us Buried by Johanna Craven (year 2 reading books TXT) 📕

uprising,” I said as we walked. I wanted to grasp the workings of this colony, however brutal things were. I felt as though understanding this place was the best way to survive it.

I knew my education was worth little here. What did it matter in this place that I could dance a minuet, or play a Bach fugue? They were meaningless skills when life was stripped down to its necessities. In this place, it was a different type of knowledge that would save me; an understanding of who held the power and who was about to fall.

“Dixon failed to talk the Irish down from attacking at Castle Hill,” Blackwell told me. “The mass was taken away as punishment.” He pushed aside an overhanging branch, holding it back for me to pass.

“Were you fighting in Ireland?” I asked. “During the first rebellion?”

He nodded.

“They say the fighting was particularly brutal.”

He watched the ground as he walked. “Yes,” he said finally. “But it’s the life a man signs up for when he chooses to fight for the Crown.” The undergrowth crackled loudly beneath his boots.

“Must be a strange thing,” I said, “finding yourself fighting against the Irish again in this place.”

“Not so strange. I feel I’ve spent my whole life fighting against the same men. And fighting with the same men, for that matter.” He gave a short smile. “For a place so far from home, this colony certainly has its share of familiar faces.”

I smiled wryly at that. I’d not seen any faces from my old circles trudging the riverbank of Parramatta.

Blackwell pointed suddenly to a small purple flower poking out of the undergrowth. “Here. Look.” He knelt down, gesturing to me to join him. “The chocolate plant,” he said. “They’ve just started flowering.”

I smiled crookedly. “Chocolate plant?”

He nodded. “Smell it.”

I bent forward, inhaling the scent of the flower. A rich chocolate and vanilla aroma that brought a smile to my face.

Blackwell dug into the earth and yanked out the root of the flower. “We roast these,” he said. “Eat them with a little salt and butter. The taste is quite something.” He put the tuber into the bag. “There ought to be plenty of them out here.”

I smiled. “How did you learn to do this?”

“I watched the natives do it once.”

My shoulders stiffened. For a fleeting moment, I had forgotten we were in a world of savages and sharp-toothed creatures.

Blackwell got to his feet and dusted the earth from his knees. “Come on. There’s more over here.”

In spite of my unease, I followed him through the undergrowth. Sprigs of purple leapt from within the carpet of green. I knelt down and began to tug the tubers from the earth. Dampness soaked through my skirts.

I inhaled deeply, drawing the clean, mint-scented air into my lungs. The bush rose up around me on all sides, the grey-green trees carpeting hills that rolled up towards mountains. A repetitive fragment of birdsong sounded above my head, its melody rising and falling. I sat back on my heels for a moment, trying to pick out the notes.

I felt suddenly, inexplicably calm. There was something about this vastness, this rugged beauty; the ability of this wild land to feel at once so empty and so alive. I had not imagined I would feel calm in such a place.

I allowed myself to get drawn into our search, hunting out the purple flowers from within the tangle of brown and green. I focused on the feel of my fingers buried in the damp earth; a foreign, raw sensation, but one I deeply enjoyed. My head felt pleasantly empty.

When Blackwell said, “That’s enough,” I found myself oddly disappointed. He swung the full bag over his shoulder. “Unless you want to carry some more back in your pockets.”

I smiled, wiping muddy hands against my skirts. We began to walk back in the direction of the settlement.

The undergrowth rustled, and I heard the unmistakeable crackle of twigs. Blackwell held up a hand, gesturing to me to stop walking.

My heart began to race. I felt myself edge closer to him.

Another hiss and snap of twigs. The sighing of branches. And the natives stepped out in front of us.

I heard my sharp inhalation. There was a part of me that had believed them a myth. A story told within the depths of the convict ships, like the two-headed monsters hiding in the bush.

But these were not the wild warriors of the stories I had heard. Three men stood either side of the group, two women in the middle, and children among them, ranging in age from perhaps twelve or thirteen to a baby pressed against its mother’s hip. Each wore swathes of animal skin, reaching from their shoulders down to their bare feet.

The children stared up at us with wide, dark eyes. Clouds of black hair hung past their shoulders, their skin the colour of darkest coffee. My gaze lingered on the spear in one of the natives’ hand; two heads taller than the man himself.

Blackwell stood close, reaching around me and pressing a hand to my shoulder to steady me. My chest tightened. Fear? Or the unexpected feel of his hand against my body? He put the sack at his feet and held up his free hand in a gesture of peace. Nodded to the natives in greeting. I could hear my heart thudding in my ears.

The tall man’s hand shifted on his spear and I heard myself gasp. But then he gave us the faintest of nods. He murmured to the others in words I didn’t understand, then they turned as one, disappearing back into the bush.

I felt my muscles sink in relief. The back of my shift was damp with sweat.

Blackwell’s hand slid from my shoulder. “There’s no need to be afraid,” he said. “They’ll not attack