The horses, Margery and Dot, shifted the weight on their feet and the wagon inched back and forth. The animals had been flighty since midday. They’d snorted and whinnied while walking the river track and even Marcus had been inclined to look over his shoulder at the green-brown water although he was at a loss as to what he expected to see. A weak afternoon sun straggled through the ridge. It would soon be nearing dark and Marcus was feeling all of his forty years. His back ached and he knew that if he did have complete feeling in his legs instead of intermittent numbness, that he would be in need of a swig of rum to ease the pain at the end of the day. Johnny Turk had aimed well at Gallipoli, cutting his legs with shrapnel so that what was left of them appeared like a half-eaten apple. Flossy told him that he’d been lucky, that he’d come home, and of course she was right, but that didn’t stop Marcus waking in the night to dream of the dead. Scanning the dense trees that ringed out from the recently cut stump, he leant against the wagon’s wheel.
