Mystic Mountains

of a convict. It took some getting used to after the long months of being treated no better than one of the rats scuttling about the ship. It was almost as if he was treating her as an equal. No member of the gentry had ever spoken to her in such a way and it felt very strange.
    "I 'd like to get acres across the Blue Mountains and settle at Bathurst," he continued as if she knew what he was talking about. "I will soon. Land grants have just been given to ten men, half of them born here and half emancipists. Soon I'll be joining them." He was talking more to himself now, a light of purpose shining from those unusual eyes.
    Isabella felt sure he 'd have no trouble getting whatever he wanted out of life. He was arrogant and sure enough of himself to achieve whatever he went after.
    "Blue Mountains?" she dared to ask. He made them sound like some mystical place. "Are they really blue?"
    "Aye, sort of." He grinned, further astonishing her. "'Tis the haze lingering over them that caused men to call them that. They are over yonder, west of here." He jabbed a finger over his shoulder.
    They went on in silence and soon left the town behind. The spaces between houses grew more distant. Cattle and sheep grazed in the large unfenced areas. They were going out to the desert the crew had warned them about. Isabella began to feel frightened again; she 'd been lulled into a false sense of security by his chat. Now they were going into the unknown, where all sorts of odd creatures lived, and escaped murderers and robbers roamed, along with the strange black men who'd inhabited this land long before the white men came here.
    Isabella had only known the squalid confined streets of the slums where she 'd lived, but from the ship as it went around the shores of England she'd seen little patches of land divided by stone walls and hedgerows. Everything here was so much bigger, and so much browner. There was an unearthly quiet out here that sent shivers up her back, and always the wind blew, sending dust flying and clumps of grass and leaves whirling about.
    "My place is about eight miles out of town, on the way to Botany Bay," her owner said, and Isabella jumped. He was doing it again; acting as if she knew what he was talking about.
    "Botany Bay?"
    "Aye."
    "I hate the sea. I never wish to see it again."
    "I can understand that. I 'm a landlubber too. I felt the same after all those months at sea." Isabella felt like shouting that at least he hadn't had to spend all those months cooped up below decks in cramped, stinking quarters with a load of thieves and whores. "We don't live near the sea, so there's naught to fear, you'll not see it again unless you go back to the wharf."
    "Thank the Lord." She pointed to a cluster of weird looking grasses that caught her eye. Each had a single stem sticking out of the top like a spear. "Those plants are very odd."
    "Aye, the plants you'll see here are like none you've ever come across before. Those trees over there are blackwood, those eucalyptus, those wattles." He pointed to each as they passed.
    Isabella began to feel very sleepy and her eyelids drifted down. She blinked a few times, but in the end couldn 't fight the drowsiness.
    Tiger watched as she dozed. What an obstinate little chit. Even though obviously bone-weary she looked as if she fought sleep, still clutching the hat even as her head lolled. Every now and then she gave a startled sigh as they went over a rut in the road. Just the sight of him annoyed her no end. What had some obscure member of the English gentry done to make her hate them so?
    "Turn in here, Dougal," he ordered, and she opened her eyes with a jerk. Tiger hid a grin as she straightened the grubby rags about her knees like a prim madam at a tea party.
    Although Dougal had been handling the reins efficiently until now, he made such a hard go of maneuvering the wagon through the narrow gap that it was clear he'd been bluffing. Tiger admired a man, or woman, who had enough gumption to bluff their way out of any situation. Hadn't he done it himself, more times than he could count?
    "Stop, I 'll open the gate." He vaulted over the side, unhitched the gate, and then waited until the wagon passed through before climbing aboard again.
    The path wound through a stand of the great trees that seemed to be growing everywhere, then as they crested a small hill a house nestled in a small valley came into view.
    "My home." There was a distinct note of pride in Tiger's voice.
    Isabella