The Shepherd's Daughter's Grave

Set in the Bungal State Forest of the Brisbane Ranges, south of Ballarat and to the south-west of Melbourne is the gravesite of the Shepherd's daughter. Over 140 years have removed since the little girl's tragic death by pneumonia. Her mortality is a footnote to modern day explorers often dimly cocooned in 4 wheel-drives directed by GPSr satellites unseen in atmospheres unimaginable in her time. She has a modest numbers of curious visitors, though their stay is brief, and few consider the drama of her loss to any extent. Nor can anyone be certain of the fates of her parents, siblings and the enormity of their pain rendered by a selfish microbe.

Yet, there is a story here, to be told amidst the non-judgmental stands of eucalypt and wattle nurtured by the dour grey volcanic soils of sympathetic millenniums. It is July 1867, an Australian winter still misunderstood by Europeans intent on plunder with their cattle and sheep where none had trod before. Mistakes were being made, little England this was not - and one day it rained and it pelted by no reasoned measure. Nearby, the Moorabool River, untamed as it is today, was intent of threat. In the Bungal Forest, afternoon camp was made with an unruly mob of sheep, spooked by the thunder and the lightning; it was dreadful holding the mob's temper. Still, the day deteriorated further with a vile southerly cracking branches and dispersing timber as if confetti but here was no wedding for this was no passing scatter. It grew colder as the Shepherd and his family huddled beside a damp riddled flame uncertain of much warmth. Their canvas soon became soaked, their skin cloaked by dank. Winter was sure of a grim ledger. It was a long night.

In the morning: it was just a quiet splutter at first, typical snivels of a child, but her face burned and a bacterial impost began its wreck. Mount Egerton was the nearest settlement, 14 miles across the rising Moorabool. Send the Jackaroo for help - make your gallop quick son - the urgency. The Doctor, summoned, took to his silky but the River had grown violent with its bloat, the rains draining all of July into its riband. The rough wooden plank bridge to Mount Egerton was gone in a torrent's blink, its current swarmed that not even the strongest swimmer could gamble. In fear, the Shepherd watched helpless as the disease struck its fatality and a child's 6 year old body was overwhelmed by its pitiless, uncaring, sigh. The unseen Ferryman laughed with the inundation, another cross to be borne by the living.

It is not known how the Shepherd grieved, nor of his family that their hearts healed. Though a ton of years and plenty have passed, forever Mary Patterson remains six. Her gravesite to me is still unfamiliar in the landscape which makes no assessment, except remembrance.


Too, my thoughts are with our New Zealand friends, especially in and around Christchurch in the South Island which has been struck by 7.1 magnitude earthquake around 4:30am local time. Judging by reports coming across the Tasman extensive damage has occured in the main City. Fortunately, no indications of loss of life though there have been injuries, some serious.