by Ryn Shell
“You said Skylab caused their crash.”
“They were seeing shooting stars and Min Min lights. They were seeing lights all around them.”
“They weren’t doing drugs, were they, Mum?”
Rose fell silent, focusing on not hitting wildlife or stray livestock on the road.

The family held another successful “Teddies on Tour” exhibit and sale at the Central Australian Show.
Then Carl dropped a clanger. “Mum, remember how you said if I saw something I really wanted to do—”
24
A month later—1989.
The kangaroo hopped on to the road ahead of Linton, and he maintained a straight line, resisting the urge to swerve. Trying to turn an eighteen-wheeler truck at high speed could be fatal. He allowed it to plough through two large boomers—a pair of mature male kangaroos. They were over six feet tall. They’re roadkill now. Too big to be females, so at least no joey in the pouch.
Up ahead he sighted a cow on the road. With his jaw tensed, he held the wheel steady, driving straightforward, horn blaring. He cursed. Thirty seconds before near-impact, the cow changed lanes. He was certain that if he had swerved to try to avoid it, they’d have collided. He’d lost too many truck driver mates through rollovers. They’d swerved, causing their heavy loads to tip out of balance.
The rule of the road dictated that the smaller vehicle gave way to a larger one. Sheep and ’roos were nothing; his bull bar deflected them to the side or over the top of his driving cabin. It didn’t go so well for any foolish small-car driver who chose to follow his tail lights, assuming that keeping Linton’s truck ahead of him would eliminate the risk of hitting an animal. Any animal Linton hit was likely to be flung straight through the window of the following vehicle.
Linton flexed his legs as best he could. He needed to stretch. The thrum of the engine and monotony of the straight road sent his mind drifting to the roadhouse and that chestnut-haired waitress fifty kilometres further up the track. He planned to take a break there. Would she be on duty? Minnie seemed more attractive each time he saw her. Could he break through her cool reserve this time? Heck, he only craved a bit of light-hearted conversation, face-to-face, with anyone willing to talk about anything aside from the backload the truck drivers were due to pick up.
That wasn’t quite true—heck, he wanted a conversation with her. He wanted to get to know her better. Maybe it could explain or put an end to the strange attraction that always drew him to pull over at that remote roadhouse. The fuel was the costliest on the trip, so what was the attraction? Her? Right! She was a brunette.
He liked brunettes. Trevor’s wife, the woman in the photo from his brother’s wallet, was a brunette, and he knew he should try to keep his mind off her. Linton’s mouth curled into a grin. Then do something about it.
That was when he saw the light. It hovered low, near the ground, moving towards him. He recognised it as a Min Min light, that unusual light phenomenon often witnessed by truck drivers at night, especially when driving on these inland routes in eastern Australia.
He understood it. He didn’t witness things like that without learning all he could about the phenomenon. Min Min lights were often seen in the Channel Country on the approach to Charleville, inland southern Queensland.
While always known to the Aboriginal families, it was a stockman near a small settlement named Min Min who got the credit for discovering the whatsit.
Mysterious lights also occurred over marshlands in the Northern Hemisphere. Interested in geology, nature sciences fascinated Linton. Australia was the oldest continent on earth, with a thin layer of topsoil, with very few marshes or underground layers of decomposing vegetation to give off the gases suspected of causing the will-o’-the-wisp. These ground lights had a different cause.
Linton had the knowledge and experience to read the land, but he wasn’t foolish enough to use it to make Australia’s wealthiest people any richer. He had no plans to sell his skills to some prospecting giant. He’d built his trucking company on courage and well-researched hunches. He’d bitten off more than most people thought he could chew, and then he’d worked like crazy to build a long-haul trucking company and get out of debt. He was thirty-six, according to his driver’s licence. He had little memory of before the blast that had damaged his hearing and shocked the frontal lobe of his brain—causing it to shrink.
That hadn’t set him back too much. People rarely guessed, if he didn’t tell them—and he didn’t. He was free, cruising along, and it felt good.
He had a knack for reading men as well as he could read the land. He’d eventually sell the transport business to finance a land-based venture, and it wouldn’t be in mining. For now, he moved across the length and breadth of Australia with ears and eyes always open, waiting—just waiting. He’d know what he was searching for when he found it, and he’d have the money to make it work. Linton burst into song, the one that seemed to stick in his head.
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now, don’t you cry! Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, that’s an Irish lullaby.
Linton glanced again at the phenomenon he called Min Min lights. There had been an increase in sightings of them that coincided with more night traffic on outback roads.
Local myth said that if you chased the Min Min light, it would kill you. Linton had scoffed at that suggestion. Any fool crazy enough to go off-highway into Channel Country at night deserved whatever trouble he got.
25
Rose working as the relieving manageress while Carl managed the garage and driveway duties for the outback roadhouse, had been Carl’s idea. Rose never thought they’d get the work, or the attractive salary package that went with it, but there had been no other suitable applicants.
Rose and Carl took naturally to the work, which was a similar mix of practical, public relations and administrative duties to that of running a commercial plant nursery.
Most nights Rose tallied all the takings, after the main dinner-time rush. In the morning, following a busy breakfast session, she compiled the new orders. Carl attended to deliveries, unpacking and stockroom duties. He’d become a dab hand at cooking the perfect sizzle platter steak to customers’ specified preferences of charred to a crisp or so raw he reckoned it could walk off the plate if not stabbed fast with a fork.
Even Rose enjoyed the food preparation, something she had always left to Alvin at the farm. Knowing how he had enjoyed playing ruler of the kitchen, she’d stayed out of it. Here at the roadhouse she could artistically dust the top of the cappuccino. She swirled the chocolate powder through the froth to her heart’s content. She’d never felt totally in charge of a residence and business before, and she loved it.
For creative satisfaction, she formed the shape of the local billabong on the top of the coffee, and laughed inwardly, knowing full well that the customer, Bruno, who leant on the counter in front of her, would be the last person who would care what coffee looked like.
The first time Bruno entered the roadhouse, Rose disliked him on sight. She knew his type—more brawn than brains. And with that thick thatch of red hair, she guessed he’d open with the line that his name was Bluey and then act like that was funny. He’d give her one of those undressing-her looks while treating her as if she were something inferior, and he would act like he considered himself God’s gift to woman.
Bruno leaned on the counter to try to stop himself from falling. His voice slurred the words, “Ro-o-se!”
He was dressed in a slovenly manner, his tie-dyed singlet barely covering his three hundred and eighty-pound girth. He’d been consuming something that hampered his co-ordination.
She wasn’t like the other waitresses—nothing like them at all. If one were on duty, she would call her over to serve this man. Rose wondered how truck drivers built up muscles like this one had. She’d watched them—they pulled on a few ropes, but other than that, she thought they just sat in th
eir trucks and drove.
Rose thrust a plastic lid over the top of the disposable coffee mug and considered her artistic skill to be wasted on a truck driver. She handed the mug to Bruno, forcing a smile to hide her contempt for him.
She turned to serve the next patron and gasped, “Linton!”
He wasn’t there. His body was present, but his eyes drifted upward and flickered due to the absence seizure he’d slipped into, triggered by past head trauma, the flickering Min Min light and the stress of a strange recollection.
Several chairs scraped on the linoleum floor. Hands grasped Linton’s arm to support him, lift him. Truckers look after their own, and they cared about this gentle giant of a man. They all hated the previous waitress, Minnie, for the way she’d acted so aloof when Linton had tried to make friendly conversation with her.
“Come on. Sit down.” Bruno guided Linton, as he recovered, to his table and pressed him into the chair.
Linton became aware he had zoned out. He could see, hear, smell, taste, those senses were acute, but he couldn’t communicate. It shocked him because he drove a truck, believing his epilepsy was under control. He fell quiet and listened to get his bearings and learn what he had missed out on.
Others in the diner thought he was still in the seizure state, and the conversation went on around him, about him. Linton allowed them to believe he was unaware as they spoke of him.
“Don’t worry, Miss. He’ll come out of it soon,” Linton heard.
Linton picked out Rose’s voice easily from the others. “Should he be driving a truck?”
“Don’t worry. He’s never looked back since he came out of hospital, aside from the occasional spell like this. He’s got a drain in his brain. Sometimes it gets blocked, and he drops out of things for a bit.”
“Does he need a doctor?” Rose’s trembling hands felt Linton’s head.
“Look. He’s all right.” Bruno skimmed his eyes over Rose’s body slowly as he spoke. “Part of his brain got hurt; that’s all. You try getting kicked in the forehead, and see if you’re not spaced out occasionally. Not nice of you, a waitresses, to look down your nose like that. He’s probably got more brain left than you had to begin with.”
“Should he be allowed to drive a truck?” Rose spoke sharply. Bruno’s uninvited attentions, his lingering looks were unwelcome. “Someone needs to report Linton to the Road Traffic Authority if he’s this ill and is still driving.”
Bruno studied the woman who threatened the trucker’s livelihood. “Don’t you understand. If you report him, they will take his licence off him.”
“But—” Rose shook her head, crying with concern. “For his safety.”
“I can’t let you do that, honey.” Bruno’s voice sounded menacing.
Linton wanted to stop things turning ugly, but he could not move. He was aware, but could not warn her that Bruno got nasty when riled, and it didn’t matter who you were. Bruno’s hands grabbed Rose as Linton collapsed in an epileptic seizure on the floor.
Linton twitched, slipping in and out, seeing the horror unfold in flickering motion. Chair legs scraped as diners raced, both to support Linton’s thrashing head and to pull Bruno away from Rose. Pictures of trucks and soft drinks vibrated on the walls as everyone moved around. Bruno’s large hands twisted, he pulled Rose to him, then flung her forward as others charged at him. She landed in Linton’s lap.
Hearing the commotion, Carl dropped his broom, Helen left the playroom, and they instinctively ran to protect their mother—parental roles reversed again. Whatever was happening, they would be there for her. Linton recovered enough to sit up, dazed. Rose stirred in his lap as Bruno ran for the door.

It took the police two hours at top speed to reach the roadhouse after the radio message from a distraught traveller who refused to leave a name.
Police Officer Langley and his partner Davis walked in with pistols drawn, expecting to find a bloodbath.
Linton sat on the floor. Beside him, hugging him, were a young man and a young girl with a purple bear. Linton cradled Rose, who clung to him. He stroked her face tenderly, hugged the girl who looked up at him with adoring eyes and he sang.
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now, don’t you cry! Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral.
“Oh, shit!” Langley holstered his gun. He knew Linton well. “Put your gun away,” he told Davis.
“Is that the bloke you told me about? You know, the one who sang Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral to his injured brother?”
“Yeah.”
“There was a crime reported. Don’t you think this is a strange crime scene?”
“Yeah.”
26
Officers Langley and Davis returned to the roadhouse early in the morning to take Linton to a hospital. Rose accompanied them, and they interviewed Linton during the several hours long drive to a town.
“We can stay here, have a meal at the staff kitchen and then run you back to the roadhouse,” Langley said.
Davis nodded. “Unless we get a call out.”
Rose sat with Linton in the waiting room, and the officers walked down the hall to the staff canteen.
A white-coated young man with a stethoscope around his neck approached Linton. “I’m Doctor Travis, and I’ll be examining you. Do you know where you are?”
Linton nodded. “I know everything that happens now. We are in Norseman.”
“What caused you to come here?”
“I had a funny turn. Forgot to take my pills because I thought I didn’t need them—that’s all.” Linton waved his hand at the doctor. “Just give me a new script for epilepsy management and I’ll go home.”
“You had better come through.”
Rose and Linton stood.
“I’ll call you if you are needed.” The doctor pointed to the hard plastic seat nearest Rose.
Reluctantly she sat.
“This way.” Doctor Travis ushered Linton in with his hand towards a doorway. “Be seated.” He indicated a chair and walked around a large brown desk to sit opposite Linton. “You said, ‘I know everything that happens now’. Why the emphasis on now?”
“I had burns treatment. They kept me heavily sedated. I don’t know if it was that or the accident, but my memory is sketchy, large gaps of blank spaces.”
“How does that make you feel?”
Linton’s arms hung limp at his sides; he shook his head.
“Why do you think you’re afraid?”
Linton glowered at the doctor. “Who said I was afraid?” He shook his head.
“I want to help you,” Doctor Travis said. “Is there something from the past you are afraid of?”
“No. I’m just uncertain of what happened back then.”
“And do you think this thing you are afraid of is holding you back from being able to remember?”
“Look, just give me the pills I need, please.” Linton breathed deeply.
“I think that if you begin to communicate what you think it is you don’t want to remember, you may find that those issues are transient. It isn’t unusual for anaesthetics to affect memory, especially when used to the extent they’re used in third-degree burns recovery. Any other ongoing problems as a result of your accident? The police told me that you were involved in a truck roll over and chemical fire almost a decade ago.”
Linton shrugged. “Other than having an ugly mug, and losing it yesterday for not staying on my pills, I’ve got no major handicaps.”
“Ugly mug?” Doctor Travis tilted Linton’s chin. “I can see the edges of the skin grafts. You’ve taken care of yourself, by the look of things.” His gaze swept Linton’s body.
“I work out. You have to keep fit. Truck driving isn’t just sitting on you bum all day. Some go to fat doing it, but those are the men who end up putting their backs out.”
“Take your shirt off, please.”
As Linton removed his shirt, the doctor turned his head away
and chuckled. “I’ve treated more truck driver’s backsides than backs. Maybe those truckers only talk about their bad backs and not the boils they get lanced.”
“I didn’t understand a word of that.” Linton frowned.
“Don’t neglect your hygiene on long trips.” Doctor Travis traced the skin graft lines on Linton’s face and chest. “Beautiful work.”
“You think that’s beautiful?” Linton scowled. “I look more like a lizard than a man.”
Doctor Travis’s mouth twitched to a slight smile. “I don’t think a few scars are seen as a detriment to a man’s attractiveness. Some might consider them a manly attribute.” He moved behind Linton and ran fingers over his skull. “Your hair has regrown well. Most men your age would envy your hair density. If the scars concern you, try rubbing Vitamin E into them regularly, and they should eventually fade.”
“I can’t hear people if they talk behind my back,” Linton said.
Doctor Travis reached for a notepad and pen on his desk and made notes. He looked at Linton and said, “Do people often talk behind your back?”
“How would I know—If they are doing it behind my back?” Linton said tersely. “Please, can I just get my prescription and go.”
Doctor Travis raised an eyebrow. “Who subscribed your current medication?”
“Aaronly Private Clinic in Sydney.”
“Wait here, and I’ll fax them for your medical records.”
Doctor Travis left Linton alone, leaving the door open behind him. Linton caught snatches of conversation. None of it made any sense. That woman Rose, he could see her talking to Doctor Travis. It had been horrible seeing Bruno go off his rocker like that when she’d only been voicing a worry that had concerned Linton all along. Was he safe driving with epilepsy? As that epilepsy was, well, had been up until now, well managed, and he had never had a grand mal, he’d never felt the need to advise the authorities about it.