The Muster
The Muster
Out of the inland sky roared the sun. It flattened the land with its intensity and
turned the horizon into lines of mirages that shimmered along the distant
foothills. Above those silver illusions a range of hills rose abruptly, curves of
purple smudged with dark valleys and rocky outcrops. Below, where the red
earth had once cracked and heaved, it now collapsed into ancient and misshapen
forms as though exhausted. It was an ancient place woven with Aboriginal
stories, hundred of miles emptiness, largely untouched by Europeans.
I was one of those children. My skewbald horse Sandy and I were on the tail of
the mob. The air was red with thick, choking dust, the smell of sweat and shit,
and the powdery taste of dirt.
One the western wing of the mob rode my nine-year-old sister; on the eastern
wing rode my younger brother Brett, eight years old, his freckly face dwarfed by
a hat pulled low over his ears. We were three small, tough and wiry. We were
little men, doing big men’s work, and we knew no other way. But there was
always a rush of happiness if Dad ever acknowledged we’d done a job as well as
any man. Praise from Dad was rare and we gave our all for those tidbits.
Everyone called Dad ‘The Boss’. Hard, determined and stoic, he walked fast and
rode fast, stockwhip looped over his shoulder, boots crunching over the ground,
stock hat pushed low over his eyes. Whatever he said went. One of his many
mottos was: ‘There is no such word as can’t’.
Explain how narrative and/or language features helped you respond to one of the
characters in the extract.