Competition

Second Prize

The Quest for Annabelle
by Ellis Campbell
Dubbo, NSW

It’s a lonely track of stretching blur that might the boldest well deter ~
scene of dreary scope unchanging greets the weary traveller’s eye,
It’s a wilderness of sweeping land-that never mortals can command –
in the mirror dust-clouds drifting, grey against receding sky.

Desolation decked in dreary pall, a parching wind blows over all –
where the fragile herbage shrivels due to lack of summer rain.
Dried-up gilgais and mirages glare through scattered scrubs’ lacklustre flair-
mangled kangaroos spreadeagled in the lifeless table-drain.

For a moment I’m assailed by doubt and fearing trepidation’s clout -
thinking now of city comforts and the sea shore far behind.
I’d embarked upon this lonely trip, induced by fortune’s fellowship –
disregarding thoughts of failure or regret for what I’d find.

Just a promise to a dying man devised this wild, outlandish plan,
sent me on this lonely journey to this God-forsaken place.
I can see him still with gasping breath-his ashen features close to death,
as he struggled with his conscience and his burden of disgrace.

“I have something I must surely tell, before I cross this range to hell –
it has troubled me forever, cursed me with eternal shame -”
Sudden coughing then convulsed his chest-it wracked his frame as he confessed
would he die without revealing what had caused this bout of blame?

“Years ago l left a maiden true - at Clarkson’s station Waterloo –
out beyond the Stark Ridge village in a sprawling stretch of space.
She was surely Nature’s treasure though I left her in a state of woe –
acting like a worthless scoundrel - I behaved with sheer disgrace.

“When she told me she was pregnant, Dan, I acted like a gutless man –
all because poor Annabelle was half-caste, I’ve no doubt.
Fearing condemnation’s pain I faced - most certainly I’d be displaced –
my parents would disown me if my love affair got out.

“Knowing that I faced the wrath of hell if they should hear of Annabelle,
I deserted her and scampered from that wilderness out there.
Sure I was a cringing coward low - my writhing conscience tells me so-
l was scared to air the knowledge of my secret love affair.

l might have a son or daughter, mate, besieged by curse of fortune’s fate –
and my conscience nags eternal at the awful thing I’ve done.
Roaming somewhere in that wilderness - I vowed I’d offer some redress –
but I’m dying now and tortured, Dan - you are the only one.

“Promise me you’ll try to find her, please - and set my troubled mind at ease –
tell her that I died in sorrow and regret my gutless past. '
Wracked by nagging conscience’s stark remorse - too late to make amends, of course
for I lived and died a coward in the selfish roll I cast.”

Sampson died that night and l was left to contemplate a pondered theft,
certain no one knew - or cared about - the promise that I made.
I could keep this wad of money now - forget the whole thing, anyhow –
but a promise to a dying man is one I can’t evade.

Twenty thousand wrapped with rubber band was resting here inside my hand –
twenty thousand lovely dollars I could keep to call my own.
I might never find this Annabelle - a greedy hope I could not quell?
But I knew I had to do my best for honour’s sake alone.

In the west a glaring orb hangs low, its fiery blaze an amber glow –
dancing heat waves shimmer fiercely on the grey plains by the track.
Droning jet plane trails its vapour white that drifts into the dusky light -
perspiration soaks the sleeveless shirt that’s clinging to my back.

More than once I’ve told myself; “I’m mad”, to search with all the clues l had
I can taste the grit between my teeth and feel it in my hair.
Now a hopeless resignation comes to swamp my heart till it benumbs –
this insubstantial Annabelle could well be anywhere.

Annabelle might well be dead, of course - my information lacking source –
children long departed for the city’s glamour far away.
Maybe married to some outback bloke, who’d think old Sampson just a joke -
long absconded vagabond of little consequence today.

Like a beacon in the wilderness, Stark Ridge has little to impress –
dreary houses stained by dust ahead – cast in a hazy sprawl. '
Thinking that perhaps the pub might be a place where someone knew if she
still existed in this wilderness, l park beside the wall.

Like the other dwellings here the pub is old and nestled in the scrub –
weather-beaten, dark and dreary in the listless afternoon.
With a dusty track on one side and, beyond the yard, a mulga stand
where abandoned cars are rusting near a grassless, sandy dune.

All around seems kind of deathly still - it casts an eerie spell until
somewhere out beyond the darkened door a voice calls merrily,
“Hello stranger, you are welcome here  -the Stockman’s Arms has stacks of beer
She emerges from the half-light’s gloom - a magic sight to see.

Quite delighted I respond – enthralled - beneath the magic she installed –
an oasis of the desert in this land of blank despair.
She is tall and dark with large brown eyes - her pretty face a real surprise –
and her clothes show to advantage all her curves with fluent flair.

I recall my hopeless mission’s quest, while staring like a fool obsessed –
and I ask my probing question - somewhat stupidly, I’m sure.
“Have you heard of Annabelle Eugene, who graced this district’s distant scene?
I’m afraid my facts are scanty and my knowledge somewhat poor.”

Reaching out to get my glass she smiled, expression like a wistful child.
“Annabelle’s no longer with us - passed away five years ago.
But I am her only daughter, though - my name’s Samantha Freda Snow –
for some reason Mum kept secret - now I doubt I’II ever know.”

As I thought about a red earth mound, with wooden cross that’s roughly bound –
visions came of an inscription, printed in a bushman’s scrawl. '
“Bushman Sampson Fredrick Snow lies here, with few to shed a caring tear.”
Then I knew for certain that I’d found his daughter, after all.

Happiness is surging through me now, so thankful that I made a vow
to try to find this vision I’m adoring here today.
“Sampson Snow must be your father, dear - I’ve something special for you here
some reward lies in this package that I’ve brought from far away.”

Staring at the notes - bewildered now - Samantha mopped her puzzled brow.
“Did you know my absent father - one I’ve dreamed about for years?
Tell me more about him, kindly sir - how did he save this cash for her?
Tell me why he left my mother - please forgive my sudden tears!”

How I wished I’d more to tell her, still - compelled by urges truthful will
my reply was fairly simple, and the facts were rather sparse.
“I believe he was a rover, Sam - besieged because he was a sham –
but he died lamenting failure in a pub at Simpson’s Pass.”