The smell of kerosene lingers, though my lantern is long extinguished. I read avidly, like my mother. It almost seemed she never slept; even though curled up in bed, a book would always lay open in her hand. Creeping past her sleeping form, she would sense your presence and open an eye to make sure all was well. Then, her sleep disturbed, she would pick up her book and continue to read.

But tonight I can’t read any longer. I can’t sleep either. The heat lies on me like a blanket. Outside, the night is illuminated by countless stars. I am ten years old. My imagination far exceeds my common sense. I fear everything, especially the night, where all bad things are concealed.

I hear in the thundering silence and the clamoring heat the sound of beds scraping on timber floors, and I realise a migration is on. The old iron shearers’ beds are folded and dragged out the doors of the Shearers’ Quarters and into the relative cool of the night, towed down to the creek bed by the feral inhabitants of the inhospitable ‘Huts’. Then mattresses, then pillows and sheets, and the migration is complete when all these items are reassembled into nests where shirtless boys can find relief from the heat. For those not satisfied with these new climatic conditions, the creek calls. The creek poses as a lofty figure in our folklore, while in reality its status is greatly exaggerated. (The Creek – I realise now, has no name, just imaginatively titled, like the Front Paddock, the Back Paddock, the House Paddock, the Ram Paddock.) Without the input from a subterranean bore some several miles (kilometres) upstream, it would often be no more than a dry channel waiting for flooding rains from Queensland to swell its banks and flush it clean. But at the time, it provided what we thought was a tropical oasis, and we largely ignored the mud, leeches and sticks that would have deterred those with lesser imaginations or greater common sense and waded in to cool down. Then back to our relocated beds, to gaze skyward at the stars and planets, and try to trace the tracks of American or Russian satellites clearly visible by their motion across the backdrop of space. Finding constellations, like the Southern Cross or the Saucepan, hidden among the billions of stars would present another challenge to keep us from the sleep we should have been seeking instead.

A small black bat breaks the silence and skitters across the sky. I am told it is a vampire bat. I know about vampires, and I am alert and afraid again. Why are we out here in the open, where vampires could strike any time before midnight; where wild pigs roam the intervals between bed and the pit toilet, particularly intent on intercepting any small children that may attempt to cross the divide? An owl hooted eerily in the darkness. The only other sound was silence itself, and the thumping of my heart. But despite our fears, ‘Nature’ will continue to call, and usually at the darkest depths of the night. The pit toilet presents its own dangers. It is unlit, and no lantern has permanent residence there. Redback spiders and a variety of venomous snakes are known to take safe-haven in its dark enclosures, and small children, so legend tells, bewitched by creatures unseen, have been drawn through the seat opening into the mire below. A safer option than the sprint to the pit toilet was often a tree or shrub not too far from the ‘Huts’. It still took tremendous courage, standing there in the dark, where sinister shapes shifted silently in the shadows, from pig to dingo, from wolf to lion to vampire! Perhaps a convict has escaped from his life-long incarceration for murder and wandered into the paddocks of Rostella in his desperate bid to avoid recapture, his lust for blood unabated by his time in prison. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I imagine the dangers lurking behind me, creeping closer while my back is turned. There is danger everywhere. Look! No, don’t look! Hurry, hurry, and then sprint back to the safety of the starlit surrounds of the Shearers’ Quarters, and into bed. We are still in the open, and vulnerable, but there is safety in the pack, though most snore on, blissfully unaware of the threats that surround them.

I am not alone in this place…. but sometimes, in the vastness of the night, I feel very lonely.