His uncle sank back, staring.‘Ah … I see.’
William turned his face to the floor, abject. He rubbed the skin of his arm. It radiated heat from where the old man had touched it.
‘Was it that easy for her, Will? Has she set you against me?’
But William didn’t know what had happened to him any more, or who had done it. All he longed for was to feel normal again.
‘Listen.’ The command was urgent, and William looked up to see his uncle heaving his body forward, straining to sit higher against the pillow. ‘Listen. I was born here. And then I was sent away. Forty years it took, to find my way home.’
‘I know …’
‘Yes, but before that there was one time I came back. I never told you.’ The old man’s gaze was alive now with the memory. ‘I went to the water hole … and it spoke to me, Will. The hills, the mountains, the station — they spoke to me. And in that moment, everything about my life changed. There was never any doubt about what I had to do.’
William stared, caught by a force that seemed to reach out like enfolding wings.
‘This country will speak to you too, if you listen. The blacks say it flows into you through your feet, and they’re right. But it’s not an Aboriginal thing. It’s not a white thing either. It’s a human thing. Not everyone has it. But I do. And you have it too.’
His uncle had hold of his arm again, and heat was streaming through the old man’s hand. ‘I don’t have anything,’ William said, afraid.
‘You say you don’t want the station any more?’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Well, it wants you.’ And the eagerness in his uncle was insatiable. ‘You can’t lie to me, Will. You feel this country calling. I know you do.’
‘I feel sick, that’s all.’ It was a despairing plea.
‘You’re fighting it, that’s why. But it’s out there, William. Out there in the hills. That’s where it happened to me. At the water hole. That’s where you have to go too.’
And suddenly a vision exploded in William’s mind. Water. Cold and dark and deep. Surrounded by cool shade and dripping rock. And for an instant he saw himself plunged into the depths of that water, a freezing relief from the heat, from the confusion, from the fever in his head.
His uncle’s eyes were wide. ‘You see it, don’t you, right now.’
William nodded in amazement. It was the answer. The disease in him could be extinguished and washed clean. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?
‘Alone,’ the old man insisted, his hand clutched still tighter. ‘You have to go there alone. You can walk it in a few hours. Take food. Take water. Leave right now.’
William’s wonder faltered.‘Now?’
‘It’s almost dawn. You know the way — I showed you. You know the places, the powerful places. Forget me, forget my daughter, go and learn for yourself.’
William struggled with the insanity of it. The water hole was ten miles away at least. ‘I can’t go on my own.’ And yet, he could feel the conviction in his uncle’s touch, the utter certainty of it, seeping through his body. ‘Mum wouldn’t let me…’
‘I’ll look after her. I’ll tell her you went exploring. I’ll tell her to pick you up at the water hole tonight.’
Could he really do it? He would be alone out there for a whole day. But if he dared … he would be immersed at last in water so deep and dark it would be like oblivion. He wouldn’t have to worry about anything ever again. And the old man’s breath was hot on his face.
‘You have to do this now. Before my daughter gets back. So we can face her together, show her that she’s lost, once and for all. Say you’ll do it. Say yes to me. Then all these last months will have been worth it.’
It was as if his uncle’s mind had become one with his own, a whirl of fear and hatred and flame, and William saw that the old man was right about everything. The decision passed between them in the beat of a heart, and the old man’s face lit with triumph. He flung William’s arm away.
‘Now! Before your mother wakes up!’
And William went. He backed away from his uncle’s bed, withdrawing from the pool of light, leaving his uncle illuminated there alone, crazed eyes burning, waving a bony arm.
‘Go on. Stick to the track. Go!’
Then William was in the darkness of the hallway. The shadows didn’t matter — the old man’s certainty blazed within him, and he knew exactly where he was going. He slipped back to his bedroom, dressed silently, and gathered up his old school backpack and his captain’s hat. Then he stole into the kitchen. Prying open cupboards and the refrigerator, he collected random items of food — biscuits and bread and cheese. He filled a plastic bottle with water, jammed it into the backpack.
The front doors waited open for him. A pale light was growing in the sky, the world warm and quiet, hushed before dawn. The certainty still burned in his mind. He crossed the garden, climbed the wall, and set off eastwards into the hills.
Chapter Thirty-seven
SUNRISE FOUND WILLIAM IN A STRANGE LAND.
He had already passed by the church and the graveyard — the broken tombs of the White dynasty watching on silently — and was further away from the House than he had ever been on his own. The haze and smoke gathered low to the ground like a mist, and there was a darkness above that might even be clouds, promising rain. Birds called in mournful hope, and William strode forward eagerly. The water hole was still a sparkling vision in his mind, his body felt as light as paper, and it seemed that he could walk there in no more than an hour.
But gradually the light strengthened. The sky revealed itself, pale and empty as ever, and when the sun finally lifted above the mountains, William felt heat prickle upon his face. He had been carried this far by the force of his uncle’s hand, gripped about his arm, and by the conviction that had possessed them both. But now, as he stumped towards the sun, he felt something shrinking inside, something that the old man’s touch had left swollen and inflamed. He realised that, in fact, he had covered hardly any distance at all. Taking a drink of water, he considered the bottle. It would have to last him until he reached the campground, where the windmill and the water tank waited. As far as he could recall, that was about halfway to the rock pool.
He strode on, labouring a little on the upwards slopes. Walking the track was nothing like rolling along it in a car. In a car, the miles slid by with the pleasant crunch of gravel under the wheels, and the track itself seemed to curl tightly about the hills like a wandering stream. On foot, it was a longer road of slow, sweeping curves, in which he could see every rut, every jagged stone, and feel them too, biting at his feet. There was little shade, and ahead of him the sun blazed in a hard white sky, all vestiges of the misty morning long gone. The hills were naked brown, and the only sound was the occasional croak of a bird. The station felt abandoned to drought. He was completely alone out there, every step taking him further away from home.
The water hole, he reminded himself. All that mattered was that he get there, then dive into its depths and … and do what? It had all seemed so clear in the old man’s room, but William found he was struggling to remember. Illness was seeping back into his head, muddling his thoughts. Some understanding was supposed to come to him out here, some voice was supposed to speak — his uncle had made all sorts of promises. But they seemed faintly ludicrous beneath the glare and heat of the day, with the hills dozing in stupor and flies droning in the grass.
The sun climbed steadily towards midday, and William could feel the beginnings of sunburn on his arms. The track had become hot, scalding his feet through his shoes. Flies began to cluster on his back and whine about his face. He flapped his hands at them futilely. At one point he caught a glimpse of something dark as it slipped into the grass, and he knew, with a flicker of fear, that it must have been a snake. Still later he saw a crow, pecking and digging at something on the track. It flew away as William approached, and when he arrived at the spot all he saw were stiff remnants of bloodst
ained fur. He could smell that the animal had been dead for days … or was it only the smell he already carried with him? He stared at the remains for some minutes, uneasily fascinated.
By midday he was trudging along with his head down. There was still no sign of the campground, although surely he had walked far enough. Could he be lost? He was following the track, but the hills all looked the same, and with the sun overhead in a featureless sky, even north and south were gone. He stopped in a tree-lined gully that offered shade, and sat on a log to rest. He ate some biscuits, even though he still had no appetite, and saw that he’d already drunk most of his water. He watched ants swarming in the red dust, devouring the crumbs he had dropped. He looked up at the trees hanging above him, their branches drooping low, the leaves shrivelled and cracked. He gazed back along the track, wondering if perhaps his mother might come for him early. But there was no sign of her or the car, only the hum of flies, and his ear throbbed relentlessly.
He waited there for perhaps an hour, or even longer — but time had begun to telescope. Abruptly, he shook off the lethargy, drank the last of his water, and set off again. His pace was steady for a while, but the heat was stupefying, burning through the dark material of his captain’s hat and setting his head afire. The glare narrowed his eyes into slits. Fatigue set in, and thirst, and still the hills refused to form themselves into a pattern he recognised. Eventually he dropped back to a slow march, his eyes fixed upon the ground. There was nothing to see anyway, only his own shadow lengthening before him as the sun began to descend westwards. When he glanced up blearily and saw the windmill, off to the left of the track, for a moment he could only stare at it in surprise. Then he was stumbling towards the water tank. He turned the tap at its base, and drank.
The water was tepid and sour, but that didn’t matter. He stuck his head under the tap and flooded water all down his back. The fever in his head receded. He sucked in deep breaths and looked about the campground. It was nothing like he remembered from the rally, just a dusty hillside of brown grass, scuffed here and there where cars had parked, or a tent had stood. He lifted his eyes and saw, on the hilltop, amidst the trees, the shapes of standing stones. They seemed smaller than he recalled. But he remembered what they had looked like under the stars that night, in the darkness and firelight. He left his backpack by the tank, and climbed up through the grass.
There were signs that people had gathered here — the remnants of campfires, a lone shoe that had belonged to a child, a pile of empty beer cans, their bright colours already fading. Then he came to the stone circle. At the edge of the ring he saw a blackened pile of ash that had been the bonfire. Beyond that, in the middle of the circle, were two angled lines of charred wood and burned grass. The shape they formed was marked in his mind, billowing smoke and flame as white robes danced madly. And yet the memory didn’t seem so terrible now. He gazed around at the stones in puzzlement. Had something changed, or was it that on a hot, airless afternoon, the whole mystery of the circle was hidden? Perhaps it needed the old man’s presence, and the hypnosis of his voice, to bring the place alive. But the ring no longer felt powerful, just drab and empty, and the patches of ash gave it a leftover appearance, like a rubbish tip.
He descended the hill, studying the sun in the western sky. Perhaps he should stay here by the water tank and wait for his mother. But as he reached the bottom he remembered that there, on the other side of the track, where the land fell away into a gully, was where he had seen the burning man. And that memory, unlike the others, had not faded. He couldn’t stay here — he had to move on or go home. Weariness assailed him at either prospect, but he thought about water, dark and deep and glimmering, and he remembered the stone seat beneath the willow tree. Maybe it wasn’t so far. It would be a fine thing if he could be sitting there when his mother arrived. He would have swum in the pool by then, he would have purged his body of heat and dust and disease. And there was his uncle too, who wouldn’t be pleased if William gave up just because he was hot and tired.
He refilled the bottle and gathered up his backpack. The road beckoned, and he set his feet to it, marching eastwards, the sun burning on his neck. But his progress remained slow. The track climbed more steeply than before, across hills that reared ominously high, and the sick feeling, relieved momentarily by the water, came stealing back. Time fled by. All around him the trees were casting longer and longer shadows as the afternoon deepened towards evening, but the heat did not abate. He had been walking almost an entire day. Surely he should have covered ten miles by now. But then it occurred to him that while the station was indeed ten miles in length, the track would be longer because it wound about the hills. How much longer? Twelve miles maybe? Fifteen? And even as he added the numbers in his head, he realised he had come to a halt, swaying back and forth on his unsteady legs.
He pushed on, but the bottle was already half empty again, and the surrounding hills had become unrecognisable once more. He didn’t think he was anywhere near the water hole. Finally, his legs gave up on him. Looking back, he saw that the sun was slipping behind a western ridge. Out on the plains there was maybe another hour yet to sunset, but in the hills, evening lowered across the slopes. Enough was enough. William limped to the side of the road, looking for somewhere to sit and watch for his mother. He had come to a small field between two hills, and there was a lone tree not far from the track, its branches spread wide over the grass. Beneath it a few ancient posts leant, all that was left of a long forgotten fence or shack. He unloaded his backpack, sat down against the tree, facing the road, and waited.
The last crows of the day were calling their farewells. The buzzing flies were finally gone, but other insects whirred in the grass, and the reedy shrill of cicadas sprang up as the shadows deepened. The sky turned from pale blue to dusty red, and somewhere, hidden behind the ridge, the sun sank below the horizon. William strove against a growing unease. It was not night, not really. His mother would be leaving the house right at that moment, or maybe she was even closer. But the light continued to fade, and gradually the world was slipping away, the haze deepening into gloom, the hills melting into vague shapes that loomed on either side. A few lone stars glowed above, and in the west the last hints of red sky were turning yellow, and then the faintest of greens. Still, it was not night, he told himself, not proper night. But finally William saw the moon lifting above the eastern slopes, and he could deny it no longer. It was night, and his mother had not come.
Panic fluttered at the back of his mind. What was she doing? His eyes darted back and forth, probing the darkness. The moon was only just past full, but it was sickly yellow, and seemed to cast no light. All he could see were the tangled shadows of the tree above him, and the line of the hills against a slightly paler sky. He realised that he had not brought a torch or matches. What was he to do? Should he begin walking home? But his legs still ached and twitched, and the mere thought of all those miles was anguish. Besides, he would have to pass by the campground, and the gully waiting below. He was better off where he was. His mother had to come eventually. But still the minutes raced by, and with every one of them he felt more afraid and wretched.
He huddled against the tree, chill despite the warmth of the air. The moon rode well clear of the hills now, and the evening shrill of cicadas was fading away. His mother wasn’t coming. Something had gone wrong. Had his uncle forgotten to tell her? And then a truly horrible thought struck him. What if his uncle had died? Before telling anyone? No one would know where William had gone. He stared at the darkness, despairing. Shapes seemed to form in the night, and approach, and then dissolve away into shadows. Everything was merging into blackness … and suddenly William snapped his head up from his chest, blinking in astonishment. He had almost fallen asleep. That mustn’t happen. He had to stay awake. He propped himself up against the tree and rubbed his eyes.
He was face down in the dirt when he woke again.
Something was tickling his cheek. William lay unmoving, his eyes closed
. He could feel the ground beneath him, and the itch of grass on his legs, and then the feather-light touch came again, legs creeping across his face. A spider, he thought, and yet stayed still, as if this was a dream, and any movement would break the spell. The touches crept across his neck and then disappeared. William opened one eye, the other pressed against the ground. It was deep night.
He heard a low, snuffling grunt. His single eye went wide, and the grunt came again, nearer now. A shadow moved. It had arms and legs. It was a man.
He was hunched low, dragging something with great difficulty across the ground, a large and ungainly object. With the same dreamlike calm, William realised that it was the body of a second man. The shapes paused not ten yards from where he lay. Then the figure on the ground stirred slowly and groaned. The first man gave a snort of displeasure and stood upright for a moment. William caught a glimpse of a ragged broad-brimmed hat and a lean,bearded face. The man held something in his hand, something with a long handle. Steel glinted, then the man lifted the axe and swung it down. The body on the ground went still. But the axeman laughed, and brought the weapon down again. And again. He circled the corpse in a shuffling dance as William watched with his one staring eye.
The axe paused in mid-stroke.
The man stood motionless, his head tilted alertly. He sniffed the air, this way and that. Then he looked directly towards where William lay unmoving beneath the tree.
William shut his eye. It was only a dream. There was nothing there. He would wake up again and it would be dawn and his mother would arrive with the car.
Footsteps crunched in the dead grass.
What have we here?
It was a voice and no voice, hoarse and breathless.
I know you’re awake, boy. Something shifted closer, greedy and pawing at the ground. It’s into the tucker bag with you.
It was upon him now, hovering eagerly above. And still William felt no fear, but his skin went cold as a hand seemed to skim along his body, not touching him, but only inches away. The hand came to his head, and then there was an angry hiss of surprise.
The White Earth Page 28