Do you have it? said Barlow.
Jack Brown threw him his mail: a new issue of Mind Power Plus and a parcel wrapped in brown paper.
Don’t throw it! said Barlow.
Jack Brown scratched his back against the edge of the doorframe. Sergeant, it’s already been shaken up all the way from Sydney.
Barlow headed for the washroom with the packages tucked under his arm and Jack Brown heard him close the door behind him.
A man’s business is his own, thought Jack Brown and he took his gun and went outside again. The orange sky marked the end of the day and the bone-grey grass turned golden. He saw rabbits spring up between tussocks of grass. He perched his chin on the neck of the gun. Then, moving his eyes but not his arm, he fired a single shot.
His ears were still ringing as he moved down the slope searching the grass until he found the rabbit. Its eyes were wide open. He twisted its neck to be sure it was dead and then he knelt down and skinned it. When the fur was clear of its carcass, Jack Brown opened it up and pulled out its intestines, its liver and the small green gland inside it. He dug a hole in the ground and buried the gland as he knew it was poison. He tried to recall if he had removed it the last time he ate rabbit, but he could not remember. The task of catching a rabbit and skinning it was no longer a conscious thing. He had eaten so many of them.
Back in the hut he found a rusted pot in the kitchen and he scrubbed it with a metal brush and greased it with fat. He cut the rabbit into chunks and found an onion in the garden and a few potatoes and he sliced them up and set it all in the pot with water and salt. Breaking up sticks and twigs to fit in the belly of the stove, he made a dry bundle, lit it and blew till the chimney sucked up the flame. Fire crackled up against the iron, a sound that always cheered him.
He had noticed nettles near the veranda and he knew they were good eating. He picked the spiky green leaves from their stems then, back in the kitchen, tore them up and added them to the pot. He stirred them in with the rabbit and watched their spikes folding down and softening and the water turn dark green as the stew started boiling up.
He knocked on the door of the washroom and said, Sergeant, your dinner will soon be on the table.
Jack Brown sat on the veranda and smoked cigarettes to quell his hunger. He smoked three, one after the other, but his hunger grew inside him anyway. While he was waiting he gave the horses new feed and cleaned out their yard. Then, when he was done, he went inside and tasted the stew. The meat was tender enough. He fried up the liver he had saved and when it was brown and bubbling at the edges he picked it from the pan with his fingers and ate it.
Barlow had not yet emerged from the washroom. Jack Brown knocked on the door and there was no answer. He yelled out, You alright, man? and Barlow shouted back, Give me a call when my dinner is on the table.
I’m not your black slave, yelled Jack Brown.
What? said Barlow.
Your dinner is on the table.
Jack Brown cleared the long table that Barlow had layered with paper. He served the stew. Barlow appeared at the door looking as if he had not washed at all. He loitered for a while and then sat down.
Jack Brown ate hungrily and he thought the stew was good and thick with flavour. When he looked up, Barlow was staring at his fork and then his head fell forward and he jolted back up.
What’s wrong with you, Sergeant?
I’m good, Jack Brown, I’m good.
Barlow started eating but mostly he moved things around on his plate.
Jack Brown went to the kitchen and filled his plate again. And he had finished off his second plate when Barlow declared that he was full enough and stood up, but instead of pushing his chair back he pushed the table forward and it hit Jack Brown squarely in the gut. Jack Brown thought his dinner would come up.
Barlow apologised over and over and offered Jack Brown a whiskey, which he declined.
Jack Brown had taken to smoking, it quelled a churning feeling, and he went outside and lit another cigarette. The night was still. Soon Barlow sat beside him with two heavy glasses and filled them right up and handed one of them to Jack Brown.
Sorry about that, Jack Brown—I lost my bearings.
Barlow sat on the edge of the veranda. He leant against a post and kicked his boots out into the grass. There was a long silence between the men and it was so quiet that Jack Brown could hear the sound of Barlow swallowing.
Then Barlow said, So what kind of man are you?
Jack Brown would have preferred the silence than to be asked that kind of question. Do you mean am I queer? That kind of thing?
I mean, a man can call himself many things.
Like what? said Jack Brown.
Let’s think about it. There’s man about town, man of his time, said Barlow. His voice was drawn out.
What are you, Sergeant?
I don’t know. I was hoping you might tell me. Barlow threw back his whiskey.
Jack Brown inhaled deeply and pointed to the constellations that were forming, but his mind was blank and he could not think of the names for any of them.
Do you think you can read people on sight? said Barlow. He poured himself another whiskey.
Do you mean if you can trust the man or not? said Jack Brown.
I’ve been reading about it in Mind Power Plus. There’s four types, it says. There’s the Alimentative, the Muscular, the Osseous, the Cerebral.
Jack Brown blew out a long stream of smoke. I wouldn’t be able to say if I was any of those, Sergeant, he said.
Barlow brought his legs up to his chest and balanced his glass on his knee. He put his face behind it and examined Jack Brown through the amber liquid. I’d say you were the Muscular type, Jack Brown. You know, all the great warriors were Muscular types.
I’m no warrior, Sergeant, said Jack Brown.
The Muscular type, he’s one for the open air, in constant motion, in accord with the laws of nature. That’s gotta be you. Barlow rested his head against the post and closed his eyes.
Jack Brown examined Barlow. There was a hopelessness about him, his limp hair flopping all over his face.
You need to sleep, Sergeant, said Jack Brown. You look like a bit of a wreck.
Barlow sat up. You ever shoot up, Jack Brown?
Rabbits. Roos. Cows, replied Jack Brown. I shot at men in the war.
Hats off to you, Jack Brown. But what I’m talking about is drugs. Have you shot any drugs into your veins?
No, Sergeant, said Jack Brown. I’ve never had cause for that.
Barlow staggered into the hut and returned with a small black leather case. He sat down again and made a performance of flicking it open by its silver tabs and unveiling its contents: a glass medicine bottle and parts of a syringe lodged between red velvet cushioning.
Heroin, said Barlow, holding up the small bottle.
What does it do for you? asked Jack Brown.
It’s all in the name. It makes you feel like a hero.
A heroine is a woman.
Why don’t you try it, Jack Brown? Decide for yourself.
Jack Brown crossed his legs and rolled another cigarette.
I’ll go inside and fix it, said Barlow. He sprang up, seemingly suddenly energised, more energised than Jack Brown had ever seen him. He pulled a rubber cord from his pocket. Tie this below your elbow and pump your hand till you see your veins sticking out.
Jack Brown rolled up his sleeves. The air was still and warm against his skin. The whiskey was taking effect, a glow from his insides. He wondered what it would be to feel like a hero or a heroine, on a calm night or any night, and then what did a man do when he felt himself to be one? Jack Brown wrapped the tourniquet around his arm and made fists with his hand, as Barlow had instructed him to do. It felt good to do that and to see the dark, strong veins appearing under the surface of his skin.
When Barlow reappeared with two candles, a syringe between his teeth, Jack Brown’s forearm was well lined with veins. Barlow sat down, placed the c
andles either side of him and said, Jack Brown, show me your muscles. Jack Brown held out his arm and Barlow angled the needle into it. Barlow drew up the plunger of the syringe slightly. Jack Brown saw his own blood twisting inside it. He closed his eyes then, as Barlow pressed the plunger down and undid the tourniquet.
The tourniquet unfurled like a snake in Jack Brown's lap and he did not know what hit him. Heat teemed along his arm and moved up his neck and across his chest and down again. He leant down, put his head between his knees, though the earth seemed to come straight to him.
The night wrapped around the hill and the sky pulsed with stars and planets. Jack Brown opened his eyes and felt his arms pinned down. He drew on all his strength to lift them. It was as if he was lifting weights. He managed to raise them up over his face so he could count ten fingers, which reassured him. He pulled himself back onto the veranda and swung himself around so his head hung off the end of it. He tried to determine which way was up and which way was down and then he searched for south by holding up his hands to the sky and by the angle of the stars, he knew where to find it.
As true as a compass.
And then he did not doubt where he was or why he was there. There were a thousand stars that he could not name and they were just a thousand versions of himself that he did not know and he felt no resistance, just degrees of goodness and badness all seeking each other, all wanting, somehow, to come together.
It did not matter then what he had done or not done. Around him the air was liquid and warm and he could move through it any way he chose. He sat up and he saw everything around him—the hut, the grass, the trees, the dark. They all drew in breath when he drew in breath and when he held his breath so did they all.
There was no distance then and no time. There were selves within selves enfolding each other. He had as much strength as the tree and as much force as the mountain. He was all the elements. He was the weather. It belonged to him.
He heard music then, and he did not know where it came from. He followed the sound and soon he found Barlow standing on the side of the hill playing a violin. The strings of his bow were snapping and flying around him.
The music moved into Jack Brown, right into the centre of him, and he was possessed to drop to the ground on all fours. He felt in himself the spirit of the rabbit he had killed for their dinner and he leapt between tussocks of grass and was drawn on and on around the hill by the amber pools of light that appeared in front of him. He stood up then and felt himself to be a man complete, and around him was all of nature and he was nature’s offspring.
The music stopped and the silence was sudden and serious. He sat on the ground. His legs looked to him like fallen trunks and he felt the curve of the earth beneath him. He craned his neck to the part of the sky directly above him and a tear rolled down his cheek. He did not feel it coming but he caught it on the end of his finger and raised it to the sky like some offering. In it he could see prisms of light and there were prisms opening all around him.
He stood up and looked for Barlow. He could see him on the top of the hill and began to walk towards him. He held up his arms to wave to him and Barlow began to yell. The sound coming from him was warped, like he was speaking underwater. Jack Brown walked closer. And then he heard him.
Where are the fucking women? he yelled. Jack Brown, where are the fucking women?
Jack Brown knew where the women were, he knew where to find them, and soon they were riding their horses unsaddled towards them. When they reached the end of Old Road Jack Brown could not even remember calling the horses or mounting them.
You are a fucking hero, Jack Brown, shrieked Barlow as he galloped past him.
A wake of air folded around Jack Brown and he pushed his own horse into an echoing gallop. He heard it then, the earth disturbed and compacting as they rode, all of untold time beneath them.
AFTER THREE DAYS of walking, Jessie could find no more water. The labyrinth of rock had given way to thick scrub that cut her as she walked. Her skin itched as though she had been bitten by thousands of insects. Lumps appeared on her hands and her feet, blisters upon blisters. If she'd had a needle or some sterile thing she would have pierced them, neatly and one by one, and let the fluid drain out of them. But she did not have a needle so she ran her jagged nail under them and broke the skin and watched the claggy liquid inside of them ooze out. She could not allow her feet to become infected. The broken skin drew dirt to it and her boots were containers for food that she had collected. They were too small now for her swollen feet anyway.
She marvelled that there was any excess moisture in her body, any water to spare, water enough to swell her feet or rise in blisters.
She found shade.
Her hunger was gone but her thirst was everything. She picked out the berries from her boot. They stung against the cracked skin of her lips so she tried to place the berries on her tongue although it hurt to open her mouth wider. She chewed and chewed them to create moisture.
All of it felt like waiting and there was no clear path to take and she missed her companion. The sun was disorienting and took up all of the sky, and the bush was growing denser the higher she climbed. But still she was lucid enough to know the danger of her own thirst and that all day she had been stumbling. The ground beneath her was not a steady thing. Each step was uncertain and her feet seemed to sink through layers of dirt. She wished that days before she had filled her boots with water.
She walked on, barefoot, her gun strapped to her back, her boots hanging around her neck from their laces.
WHEN SHE DISCOVERED footprints she doubted what she saw. She thought at first that she was tracking herself, but then she measured them against her own foot and discovered they were not the same print, they were smaller.
She followed the footprints until she reached a plateau and then she saw that the plateau opened out to a clearing. She crouched low in the bush and searched beyond it. She could make out a holding yard. It was made of cut branches woven together in a circle, designed to keep horses and cattle, but she could see no creature in it.
She heard a whistling sound and flattened herself under the bush. Looking out again, she saw a dog.
She moved along the ground as she had seen snakes and goannas do in the mountains, and hid herself behind a tree. She peered out. A boy was standing in the clearing. He was just a child standing there next to his dog. The dog's ears pricked up. The boy said, What is it, Ned? What is it?
The dog was still growling and edging closer to where Jessie hid but the boy was standing firm in the clearing.
Go get it, Ned—go get it!
And when she saw the dog come running in her direction she stepped out and yelled, Down, Ned, sit down!
Who’s there? said the boy.
The dog was still barking so she stepped out into the clearing. The boy moved closer and raised his gun and she said, Don’t shoot me, kid.
Who are you? he said.
My name is Jessie.
The boy stood with his gun pointing at her and the dog ran to his side.
Put your gun down.
It was weeks or more since she had seen another human and so much longer since she had seen a boy. They regarded each other and she could see the beauty of his form, as elegant as anything she had ever seen, mountain, river, rampart or tree. And as the boy and the dog stood visibly disbelieving at what they were seeing—a woman—she wondered as she approached if beauty was just the thing itself or made more beautiful by the space around it.
Fucking Jesus, Ned. It’s some kind of woman.
Mind your tongue, she said, and laughed. As if she was one to say that.
Sorry, miss, said the boy, and then the dog began to bark in a frenzy and the boy knelt down beside him and rubbed him under the chin which made the dog quiet.
Kneeling there he said, What brings you here?
She knelt down too and didn’t think much of it and just said, The same things, I expect, that brought you.
The boy l
ed her to his camp, which was near a waterhole, and it was the best camp she had ever seen. There were rocks and boulders that formed like honeycomb and grottos big enough to stand in. She could see that some of them were already lined with bedding and there were branches wedged into corners with things hanging from them—clothes and bridles.
There are five more of us, said the boy, but they are not here now. They are all off selling horses. And miss, it is better that you don’t tell anyone that we are here because we like things as they are and you are the first to have found us. We have all that we need here and there’ll be more when they get back, you’ll see, ’cause they’ll bring supplies. There’ll be johnny cakes with golden syrup and Bill cooks things the best on the fire, like pumpkin and roo and fish from the creek. And when they come back they’ll bring more oranges, too, and limes, ’cause Joe says if we don’t eat ’em our teeth’ll fall out—and Joe says that there are no tooth fairies here, we do not believe in ’em. Who would? And we’ve made a garden, too, but that’s on the other side of the creek, ’cause it was bringing in too many roos and creatures on this side. More than we would want to eat or kill, miss. More than we would want to eat or kill.
They made a fire together that night. The boy gave her an orange and it was lit up by the fire like the brightest orb and he said, There are only two left but they will be back soon and there will be more. She shared the orange with the boy and it was the best she had ever tasted. The dog sat between them and he had calmed right down but lifted his head up occasionally and looked at her and then his head sank down meekly on his paws. Don’t mind Ned, miss. He’s never seen a woman who is grown. And she laughed because although she was a woman who was grown she felt no different to the boy or as the boy must have felt—happy to have found someone to share an orange and a fire at the summit of the mountain.
They gazed at the fire and they saw all things in it, creatures of the earth and creatures of the air, and they took turns at naming what they saw or guessing what hybrid that creature could be.
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