All Our Shimmering Skies

by Trent Dalton

  But Molly misses the secret communication because she is standing beside Yukio Miki with her eyes on the leafy ground, equally captivated by the reptile. She smiles at Yukio.

  ‘Fat barramundi!’ Greta says, louder this time, and Molly finally hears her. But then she turns her eyes to Greta and discreetly shakes her head. No.

  She lifts her eyes to Yukio, smiling. ‘Migoto,’ she says, nodding her head knowingly. ‘Very … very … migoto.’

  And Yukio smiles and Molly spots for the first time the light in the eyes of the pilot, the warmth in his smile, his innocence. That is a silver light, she tells herself. A silver light for the silver road, if not the silver screen.

  Greta shakes her head, marches on across the floodplain.

  *

  Wide spaces between them, walking single file. Greta in front, Molly in the middle, Yukio at the back with his eyes on the woman in the emerald dress. He does not know where the woman is heading and he wonders if she does not know either. The brown-haired girl seems to walk by instinct, as if something deep inside her is pushing her thin bones forward. Her ramblings made no sense, even when she pointed at the copper pan in her bag and seemed so determined to express the deep meaning of the words etched into its base.

  Now the girl’s feet move faster as the trio near the edge of the severed sandstone range that spreads across the fringe of the floodplain like a fortress for Greek gods.

  ‘We made it to the range!’ Molly hollers.

  The ground changes from boggy grassland to a series of treelined rocky inclines shaped like giant whale heads leading to one of the towering sandstone escarpments. The rocky outcrops are slippery to walk up and Yukio loses his footing several times and has to cling to clumps of weed sticking out of the old rocks. Wide bowls have been carved out of the rock by water and wind. Strange and unsettling things in the earth that Yukio has not seen before. Inside these perfectly smooth and circular hollows are old animal bones and coals from long-abandoned fires.

  Molly spots birds in the tall trees growing in the shadow of the plateau. A red-backed kingfisher. Blue-faced honeyeaters. She stops and waves Yukio over, puts a finger to her mouth. ‘Ssshhhh.’ She kneels silently and Yukio kneels with her, follows the girl’s pointing finger to a rock fig growing in a deep crevice. He squints and finds the subject of the girl’s fascination: a perfectly still, crimson finch, so brilliant and so fragile and so red it might as well be made of ruby. And Yukio hears the girl talking English and realises quickly she is not talking to him but to the bird.

  ‘Hello Mr Finch,’ she says. ‘Have you seen Longcoat Bob anywhere around these parts?’

  Yukio smiles. That name again. Bob. Easy enough to say. ‘Bob,’ he says, nodding.

  Molly nods. ‘Bob,’ she confirms.

  And Yukio and Molly stand as the vivid crimson finch flies from the rock fig and shoots deep into the canyon that stretches out before them between the two grand sandstone plateaus divided by a freshwater stream that Molly connects in her head to the channels of the floodplain and, way, way back, to the three crocodile kings of Candlelight Creek. ‘This way,’ she says.

  *

  Molly sings. ‘Pennies From Heaven’. She sings loud because she wants to hear the echo of her voice climb the canyon walls that are three times the height of the Bank of New South Wales building on Smith Street back in town.

  Yukio cups water with his hand and drinks from the thin clear stream meandering through the canyon. Molly and Greta collect dry twigs as kindling for a fire they want to have lit before nightfall.

  ‘Bing Crosby,’ Molly explains to Yukio despite his lack of understanding. ‘Dottie Drake plays Bing all day in the hair salon. I’ve always liked “Pennies From Heaven”. It’s a song about sky gifts. Bing says the clouds are filled with pennies and whenever it rains, the coins fall from the sky. So you shouldn’t be afraid of storms because them storms are what shake all the pennies from the clouds, and actually we’d be wise to walk outside with our umbrellas upside down.’ Molly has a thought and it stops her in her tracks. ‘Do you reckon the hair salon is still there, Greta? I hope Dottie got out before the bombs hit.’

  Greta keeps her head down, searching a rock platform now for thicker logs. She moves closer to Molly.

  ‘You reckon anything’s left at all back in town?’ Molly asks. ‘Do ya reckon anyone got—’

  ‘Molly, shut your trap for a second and listen to me,’ Greta whispers. ‘When the fire starts, you give this feller a nice big can of that corned beef in your bag. We’ll get him nice and cosy and the minute he drops off to sleep, we’ll grab that gun and run like hell.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s gonna hurt us, Greta,’ Molly says. ‘He’s a good one. I can see it all over him.’ Molly looks over her shoulder to the stream, where Yukio is staring at the water, distant and frozen in his thoughts. ‘He’s just sad, that’s all,’ Molly says. ‘I think he wants to help us.’

  ‘He’s a loop at best, and the worst ain’t worth thinkin’ about,’ Greta says. ‘You just stay awake and wait for my signal.’

  ‘“Fat barramundi”?’

  ‘No, Molly, the signal isn’t gonna be bloody “fat barramundi”. It’s gonna be me grabbing you by the arm and silently dragging you away from the strange-fruit Jap flyboy. You follow?’

  Molly nods.

  ‘You just be sure to stay awake,’ Greta says. ‘Got it?’

  ‘Got it,’ Molly says.

  *

  Full stars shimmering in a night sky framed by the canyon walls. A thousand pinholes of silver light breaking through a blanket of black. A frog croaking somewhere wet. Cicadas in the ghost gums, the kind they call the northern double drummer, creating their great wall of sound. A crackling fire on a flat rock by the canyon stream, and on one side of that fire sits Greta Maze with her knees tucked up to her chest and looking through the fire at the Japanese pilot sitting on the other side, who’s scooping salty wet beef from a roughly cut open tin. And soundtracking all of this night sky, star-wrapped scene is the relentless snoring of Molly Hook, the obnoxious nose and throat rattle of it bouncing between the canyon walls.

  Greta assesses the snoring girl and rolls her eyes. Molly lasted thirty minutes by the fire before she was dead to the world and now she sleeps, deep and loud, turned on her side on the flat rock, knees pulled to her chest for warmth, arms over her shins. It’s cool and getting cooler in the bottom of the canyon.

  Greta turns back to the pilot. He’s still stuffing his face with soggy canned beef, licking his fingers. No helmet and goggles on his head now. His hair is black and militarily cut, short and neat. The pistol rests on the flat rock by his right knee.

  Yukio notices Greta staring at him. He stops eating. He offers her the open can of beef. ‘You?’

  Greta shakes her head, looks away, repulsion in that head shake.

  Yukio turns to Molly. The brown-haired girl who likes to talk is finally speechless, yet she makes noise even in her sleep. He smiles. He sees that she is shivering in her sleep. He places his near-empty can of beef down by his side and stands and walks softly over to her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Greta asks, protectively. ‘Get away from her.’

  Yukio does not stop. He unbuttons his flight jacket. It’s rust-coloured, made of a cotton and silk blend, thick and heavy. A blue chrysanthemum has been stitched into the jacket sleeve, the sacred mark of the Japanese naval aviator. He wears only a plain white T-shirt now, tucked tight into a thick brown military belt and pants. The shirt hugs his body and his body is all bone and muscle. A body of pure military means: lean, fit and useful. He kneels down and gently lays the flight jacket over the gravedigger girl. He walks back to his place at the fire, picks up his soft leather helmet – fur-lined and insulating – then he walks back to Molly and, carefully lifting her head up briefly from the slab of hard sandstone, gently slips it onto her head. Molly gives a loud snort, turns over onto her other side, instinctively pulls the welcoming jacket tight around her body
, and nestles into the flight helmet.

  Yukio nods. He offers a half-smile as he turns back to Greta. ‘I musume,’ he says. Greta stares at him, puzzled.

  He looks back down at Molly. The brown-haired girl has a good heart. He points at her. ‘ˉI musume,’ he says again, tapping his own heart.

  Greta nods with a vague sense of understanding.

  Yukio nods.

  He sits back down by the fire opposite Greta and warms his hands. A long silence between the man and the woman, no sound but the cicadas and the crackle of burning eucalypt logs.

  Yukio taps his chest. ‘Yukio,’ he says. He taps his chest again. ‘Yukio.’

  Greta nods. She taps her chest reluctantly with her forefinger. ‘Greta,’ she says.

  Yukio repeats the name. ‘Greta.’ He nods and taps his chest again. ‘Yukio Miki,’ he says.

  Greta takes a pained inhale. She nods, tapping her chest. ‘Greta Maze,’ she says.

  ‘Greta … Maze,’ Yukio repeats.

  He taps his chest again. ‘Yukio Miki … kara … Sakai … Japan.’

  Greta nods. ‘Greta Maze … Sydney … Australia.’

  Yukio nods, smiling. ‘Sid … inny,’ he says.

  Greta nods. She slides her backside closer to the fire, lies down on her side, rests the side of her face on her cupped hands. She still feels the bruising around her eye but the aching in her head is easing.

  She stares into the fire and the fire plays the flickering film reel of her life and how she left Sydney on a train as a young woman with a bag of clothes and then the train of her life ran off the tracks and careened into the arms of Aubrey Hook, and those arms of Aubrey Hook are whaling her now. Fists against the bones in her head. And she closes her eyes to sleep because sleep is the only thing that will stop those fists from flailing. But when she closes her eyes she sees something worse. A sterile white hospital room and a baby in her arms and the baby wailing. ‘Ssshhhhh,’ Greta whispers. ‘Ssssshhhh.’ But the baby’s wailing only grows louder. And Greta cries now, too. Greta Baumgarten in her mind and Greta Maze on a cold hard bed of sandstone. Both those women crying.

  ‘Tori no hoshi,’ Yukio says softly into the night air. Greta opens her eyes to see Yukio with his right arm pointing to the night sky. ‘Tori no hoshi,’ he says. And he smiles.

  The bird star story. The story of the brightest star he sees shining up there far beyond the canyon walls. That’s a good story to tell by a fire like this one. The nighthawk star story. The ugly nighthawk who felt ugly on the inside because all the other birds in the forest said he was ugly on the outside. They said his feathers had no colour, only the reddish-brown colours of dirt and clay. The crimson finch he saw today. That bird reminded Yukio of the nighthawk. The other birds said the nighthawk’s beak was flat and useless and pointed out that his mouth was so wide it stretched from one ear to the other. And the nighthawk was so saddened by his ugliness he decided to leave the forest, but when he left he was still sad and he thought the only thing that could take his sadness away was to leave the earth altogether, and so he flew high into the blue sky, so high that his beak bumped into the sun. And the nighthawk told the sun he was fixing to die. And the bird asked, ‘Sun, will you take me with you when you fall into the night? I’ll be glad to die in your fire. And my ugly body will give out one single flash of light as it burns and that light will be beautiful.’

  ‘I cannot take you with me,’ the sun said. ‘I belong to the day, my friend, and you belong to the night. You need to fly on, nighthawk, fly on to the stars, who belong to the night like you.’

  And the bird flew on, flapping its tiring wings, up, up, up into the night sky until it ran into three young night stars who were talking among themselves.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the bird. ‘I’m wondering if you could take me with you when you leave before daylight.’ But the three young stars laughed at the bird and said they would never welcome such an ugly colourless creature into their star sky. The nighthawk wept but it flew on, higher into the night sky, so high that it was soon soaring above every star.

  The nighthawk looked down upon the stars now instead of looking up at them, and it felt proud to have soared so high – surely higher than any other forest bird had ever flown. But then the nighthawk’s wings stopped flapping because it was exhausted by its journey from the forest to the stars, and its eyes closed and the bird fell asleep, just as its tired wings made their final flaps. The bird died in that moment, but it did not fall from the sky for it was then reborn. Transformed.

  That night back on earth and deep in the forest, the pretty birds who had laughed and joked about the ugly nighthawk were stunned to see a new star in the night sky. It sat higher and burned more brightly than any other star and inside it twinkled every colour of the spectrum. It was the prettiest thing the forest birds had ever seen.

  ‘Tori no hoshi,’ Yukio says to the night sky.

  ‘The stars?’ Greta nods.

  ‘Tori no hoshi,’ the pilot says, nodding.

  Greta watches the pilot lie flat on his back, his eyes fixed on the stars in the night sky. The pinholes of light are losing the war between the stardust and the darkness, but the stardust won’t give up the fight.

  ‘The stars,’ Yukio whispers. And his heavy eyes close to darkness.

  *

  Molly wakes with a hand on her face.

  ‘Sssshhhh,’ whispers Greta. The actress stands silently, a forefinger to her lips.

  Molly rubs her eyes. Embers in the fading fire. She can see her duffel bag hanging over Greta’s shoulder.

  Molly stands silently. Greta takes several light-footed steps in her saddle shoes across the flat rock to where Yukio sleeps on his side, close to the edge of the fire, arms across his chest, hugging his body tight. The handgun rests behind his back on the rock. His family sword rests by the handgun.

  Then the pilot shifts his position, turns hard to his other side, back to the handgun, and then his head shakes rapidly in his sleep.

  Greta stands still, watching him.

  Molly freezes.

  ‘Ssshhh,’ Greta whispers again, her eyes fixed on the pilot who appears to be struggling with the dreams inside his head.

  Then a sharp and aching ‘Ugghh’ emerges from his lips and seems to hurt him. He jolts in his sleep. He shudders in his sleep. Then he turns back to the fire, eyes shut. ‘Ugggghhh,’ he groans again and that sound seems to come from deep within his corned-beef gut. It’s a rumble, a pain rattle, the echo of a thousand sorrows, and it makes Molly move closer to the pilot. She sees that his whole body is shaking now.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Molly whispers.

  ‘Ssshhh,’ Greta snaps back sharply, silently stepping over Yukio’s body and bending down to pick up the handgun. She shakes her head towards the dark valley running out of the canyon and deeper into the black scrub.

  ‘C’mon,’ Greta whispers.

  ‘We can’t just leave him out here in the bush like this,’ Molly says.

  ‘Ssshhh!’ Greta says again. She grits her teeth, nodding furiously at the gravedigger girl then runs a finger along her neck and that finger turns into a fist and a thumb pointing up the canyon. She silently mouths her final word. Now!

  Molly turns back to Yukio. He’s sweating. There’s a war going on inside him and Molly knows the strange and warmfaced pilot is losing that war like Darwin is losing a war north of here, back by the sea. Molly has seen her father shake like this. Deep shaking. Involuntary. She knew when she saw that shaking that her father had a trouble inside him that could not be soothed from the outside. All she could do was pat her father’s forehead and whisper, ‘Sssshhhh, Dad, sssshhhh. It’s all right, Dad.’ What she meant was that she knew she was only ten or eleven or twelve but everything was going to be all right as long as they had each other. Then she sees her father in her mind, limbless and bomb-torn and wedged inside the fork of a tree. She closes her eyes and when she opens them again she removes the aviator jacket and places it
over Yukio. ‘Ssshhhhh,’ she whispers into his ear and the sound seems to still the pilot. So she whispers again: ‘Ssshhhh. It’s all right, it’s all right.’

  *

  She is still wearing his flight helmet when she turns and follows Greta into the forest darkness that waits beyond the canyon, and she is still wearing it when they stumble blindly through a thick infestation of thorny mesquite trees with branches that seem to reach out to Molly and tear at her exposed skin.

  The earth rebels, she tells herself. It rebels against wrongdoers, she tells herself. Sam knew this. Molly knew this. The earth in rebellion. Buffalo charging at cars. Crocodiles stalking girls in creeks. Tree branches reaching out to strangle her dead in the dark.

  She’s still wearing the pilot’s helmet when she walks face-first through the circular web of a golden orb spider. The web is made of golden yellow silk and its miraculous architecture is so grand that it stretches the whole way across the path they follow through moonlit monsoon vine thickets. The girl feels the web’s maker, a female spider with a body three inches long, land on the back of the pilot’s leather helmet and she leans forward knowing she’s in the wrong here, knowing that the golden orb spider spent hours in this forest darkness constructing her grand silk insect trap only to have it destroyed by the careless head of a Darwin gravedigger girl.

  She puts a light hand to the back of her head, brushing the spider off the helmet. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, as much to the spider as to the Japanese pilot they left back in the canyon. The foreigner in as foreign a land as he could ever fall into from the sky. If the earth can rebel, she tells herself, then the sky can, too. A sky gift rejected. A sky gift left behind. A sky gift abandoned in a canyon.

  ‘We shouldn’t have left him back there,’ Molly says.

  Greta holds Bert the shovel in her hands, waves it at the darkness before her, batting down branches and vines.

  ‘He’s been droppin’ bombs on folks across the world,’ Greta says. ‘Stop sparing thoughts for the bastards who just blew half your house to Adelaide.’