Watching the Climbers on the Mountain

by Miller, Alex

  As they penetrated further they saw communities of yellow and green king orchids clustered at fissures on the walls. Other plants with names she did not know hung in the stillness from aerial roots and vines. There were thick, purply-black, waxen leaves that looked like fruit which does not need the sun to ripen, that drooped at regular, seemingly calculated, intervals along sinuous stems. Before they reached the bottom of the gorge Ida and the stockman passed beneath the outspread fronds of giant tree-ferns which formed an unbroken, translucent canopy and maintained a perpetual twilight. The relief from the dancing heat of the surface was immediate.

  When they reached the debris on the floor of the gorge Ida stopped and motioned the stockman to be still. Around them lay a profusion of fallen rocks and plant rubbish. Here and there small pools of fresh water gleamed and the only sound was the tinkling of seepage emerging between the layers of basalt and sandstone deep within overgrown clefts. They stayed still. This place seemed to have been undisturbed for ever. There was an indefinable accumulation of smells in the air, an elusive blending of herb essences, a distillation of vegetative goodness.

  Almost holding her breath she said quietly, ‘If you rush in and disturb the air that wonderful smell dissipates immediately. But if you stand still . . .’ There was no need for her to finish the sentence, and he said nothing. She was struck again by the overpowering sense of absence here, of an archaic silence that would never be broken no matter how much noise was made. She wondered if he felt it. She wanted to look at him, to see what he was feeling. He had not moved.

  They had been standing there together in silence for several minutes when, without considering the difficulties of such a venture she said, ‘We ought to go to Mt Mooloolong together one day.’

  She knew now that, despite her uncertainties, she must put in front of this man all the passion she felt for this landscape, her landscape. Something told her that she had to share this passion for the first time now, or else forfeit a part of herself forever. Her proposition had been completely spontaneous, and she realised only after she had said it that in offering Mt Mooloolong she was offering herself. How could it be otherwise?

  Her words remained waiting in the stillness, unanswered.

  She had stepped across a threshold. She had done it before without threatening her peace of mind; on the contrary, she had eagerly sought this retreat into a more private, varied and optimistic world than the one she shared with Ward Rankin. It was a freer world, uncluttered by the difficulties of his failure and his frustration. But so far it was a world that had had its existence only in her imagination. That was what frightened her; it was more a dream than a reality.

  She waited.

  The flattened, distant concussions from several high-powered rifle shots followed one after another at one-second intervals. The individual detonations penetrated the gorge as if from another world. Compulsively she counted them . . . six.

  The stockman shifted, rustling with his feet a fallen branch of fern. He gazed around at the surrounding walls of the gorge and at last forced himself to look at her. ‘What’s Mooloolong?’ he asked, taking a deep breath and letting the air out slowly so that his voice wouldn’t sound shaky to her and betray his feelings. If she were ever to suspect him she would laugh at him or be insulted.

  She turned to answer him, sensing his tension, when something beyond them caught her eye. She whispered, ‘Look! He’s been watching us all this time.’

  Her words sent a sharp chill into the stockman’s stomach. He swivelled round and into his mind leapt an image of Alistair’s sinisterly amused gaze fixed on him under the water. Then, between the rock wall and a fallen tree trunk, he saw the still form of a yellow and black goanna. The ancient reptile watched them, motionless as the stone on which it rested.

  •

  Ward Rankin lay listening to the silence after the echoes of the sixth shot had died away. There was something about the shots that disturbed him but he did not try to decide what it might be. He had been re-living the time when he was lifted naked from the mud and carried in the arms of Robert Crofts through the blinding sunlight. It had occurred to him a number of times that he might have resisted. He had permitted the stockman to carry him all the way to the shade of the truck and he had made no attempt to resist. He closed his eyes again now and was lifted from the mud and carried through the blazing sunlight once more. He could not decide if Crofts had also been naked. It was unclear. He did not pursue this question. He had relinquished himself when he might have resisted, that was all that mattered.

  A smile played around his mouth as he lay there at the swimming camp in the late afternoon heat, resting on his yellow and white plastic banana lounge, his thin white legs primly together, his hands clasped across his wrinkled belly.

  After less than a minute he opened his eyes again, his expression forming into a frown. They were not rifle shots at all. Someone was using his revolver! He sat up and looked down the beach. He realised then that he was alone. The place was deserted. Ida’s magazine, her towel and her straw hat lay on the other lounge a few yards over to his left. It was getting on towards evening. The air was still and very hot, humid and oppressive. He was assessing more or less unconsciously the distant rumbling thunder from the ranges, a lifetime habit of calculating the likelihood of rain.

  Were they having their shooting match or not? The six revolver shots were the only shots he had heard. After a minute he got up and walked down to the water’s edge. He looked first up the creek towards the cliff then downstream towards the white sandstone blocks which were taking on a honey tone as the sun dipped further behind the storm clouds. There was no sign of any of the swimming party. He was half tempted to call out but was afraid of appearing foolish. He was not alarmed. The revolver shots themselves were not important. It was the realisation that someone must have gone back to the house and rummaged around in his room to find the gun that disturbed him. It did not seem the sort of thing Gil would do. He began walking back up the beach, and decided it was the sort of thing that someone else might be prompted to do when Gil was around. He stopped suddenly. Surely it wouldn’t have been Crofts? He took a deep breath and looked about him once more. There was still that doubt over the shooting of his mare, Julia—there just might have been something wilful in it. He did not like the way his thoughts were heading. He sat on the edge of the banana lounge and smoked a cigarette. The idea of Crofts actually searching his room in the unoccupied house appalled him. He decided it was not possible and did his best to dismiss the thought. He sat there and smoked and puzzled over the problem for some time.

  four

  Ida and the two children stopped off at Ida’s cousin’s house, where all the relations would be gathering later for a family lunch. It was only a couple of short blocks from there to the main street but Ward Rankin did not consider walking the distance. With Gil and the stockman in the back seat of the Ford he drove on and parked outside the Commercial Hotel.

  The main street was decked-out with braids of bunting strung along the shop-front awnings. As they got out of the car they saw at the end of the street, in the open space beside the hall, a large black and red striped tent and a few rides.

  It was early yet but the long front bar of the hotel was already crowded with locals and strangers in town for the carnival. Walking in from the dazzling brightness of the morning, with Gil and Crofts close behind him, the station owner paused in the doorway, waiting for his vision to adjust to the dimness.

  The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the strong smell of beer. Behind the bar a man and two girls were cheerfully serving the noisy customers. Someone called to Ward Rankin, and the three of them moved across and joined him. It was Reg Waterhouse, the organiser of the boxing tournament and the owner of a new caravan park and tourist centre on the edge of town. There was a group of men around him and they all looked at the stockman. Some of the younger ones nodded a greeting, while the others just stared, but each of them in his own way showed a s
pecial interest in Crofts. Waterhouse grabbed the arm of one of the men and then grabbed the stockman’s arm. ‘Laurie Hill, Robert Crofts. Go on shake hands you two.’ A few of the men laughed nervously and looked at each other and Crofts could sense that particular communication that takes place in a group of men like this.

  Robert Crofts reached out and took Laurie Hill’s hand. As their eyes met he saw the look of contempt the other man was giving him.

  Waterhouse continued, ‘I’ll be in here all day’—he was playing up the role of official-in-charge for all it was worth—‘and if I catch any of you boys drinking,’ turning to include Gil in his warning, ‘I’ll disqualify you. Is that clear?’

  Ward Rankin muttered with disbelief, ‘Come off it, Reg, you haven’t matched him with Laurie?’

  At this everyone became quiet. One of the older men in the group leaned forward; he was standing next to the stockman’s opponent and had his hand on Hill’s shoulder. Ignoring Crofts and addressing the station owner, the man said, ‘Laurie’ll go easy on him, Ward.’

  Crofts saw that the man speaking was sick. His eyes were watery and yellowish and there was a suffocating thickness in his voice which forced him to gasp for breath mid-sentence.

  When he had spoken, the sick man turned to the stockman, gazing silently at him for several seconds, searching for something in the young man his son was to fight—for it was plain from the likeness that he was Laurie Hill’s father. Whatever he saw, or imagined he saw in Crofts, it seemed to satisfy him, and he turned back to the group.

  The likeness between father and son was not in their build or their features. The son was tall, over six feet, and although probably no more than twenty-three, he was already verging on beefiness. The father was of less-than-average height, and fleshless—his yellow short-sleeved shirt and brown shorts hung on him so loosely that he looked more naked than clothed. The likeness between the two men was rather in their manner, which was implacable. Their every gesture and glance expressed an unemphatic insolence, directed, it seemed, towards everyone and everything. And at this moment their target was the station owner and his stockman.

  Ray Hill was the Shire foreman and his son was stationed throughout the year in the south of the State at an RAAF base where, according to his father, he had distinguished himself in the boxing ring. Most of the other men in the group were Ray Hill’s workmates—his subordinates—on the Shire council.

  ‘Now then, Ray, there’s no need for any of this “go easy on you” stuff,’ Waterhouse said, looking around and smiling at everyone, trying to make light of things. ‘She’s just a bit of friendly competition to raise some cash for the Red Cross.’

  He turned to Gil, as if the last word had now been said on this matter. ‘I can’t introduce you to your bloke at this juncture, Gil, but I don’t think he’ll give you too much trouble from what I’ve seen of him.’ He laughed and again looked around at the others, encouraging them. There was an amused shifting and murmuring among some of the younger ones and the word ‘coon’ was mentioned, but the older men ignored Waterhouse and kept watching the foreman; it was clear they had an interest in the outcome of his son’s fight.

  ‘Robert’s had no experience, Reg,’ Ward Rankin said mildly. He continued to protest more because he knew he was expected to defend the stockman’s interests than from a wish to see the bout cancelled. He was finding it increasingly difficult to pay attention and only half-listened while Waterhouse repeated his reassurance that the bout would be a cheerful and friendly one—everyone present knew that nothing the Hills were involved in could be either of these things.

  Secretly Ward Rankin was experiencing a growing feeling of excitement as he considered the prospect of Robert fighting this man. It was such a strong feeling that his breathing became faster and the faces of the men in the bar became remote.

  On the way into town in the car this morning he had felt sure that something important would happen today; he had even forced himself to consider it a certainty, even though he knew it was only a wish. Now his wish had become real—Crofts’ vulnerability was a startling fact for everyone to see.

  The station owner’s heart began to beat faster and he could no longer resist sneaking a glance at the stockman’s beautiful worried profile. Robert Crofts’ vulnerability excited him more than he could have imagined; and he smiled as he thought for some reason of his copy of Gulliver’s Travels, which Alistair had reported was discarded on the floor of the stockman’s quarters.

  He heard the unpleasant sound of the Shire foreman’s congested cough as if it were coming from another room; his voice was insistent: ‘Laurie won’t hurt him.’ The station owner put out his hand and touched Crofts’ arm lightly. ‘It’ll be all right, Robert,’ he said, knowing that to the others he must seem to be the willing accomplice of the disgusting foreman. The extent of his hypocrisy struck him for a moment and he felt a sudden thickness at the back of his mouth that made him struggle to swallow. But immediately he assured himself that, at a higher level than all this, he could justify his behaviour. ‘Don’t worry, Robert! Laurie has promised to take it easy.’

  ‘Ward’s right,’ the foreman said insistently. ‘You’ve got Laurie’s word on it.’ There was a suggestion of a smile on the man’s lips, but the expression in his eyes remained cold and preoccupied. His workmates kept glancing at him, checking his reactions and adjusting their own accordingly. They murmured their agreement.

  Sure of their attention—or perhaps indifferent to it—the foreman dragged air into his congested lungs. ‘You’ve got yourself a good looking boy there, Ward’—he paused very slightly, his gaze lingering suggestively on Crofts—‘this time.’ The expressions on the other men’s faces slowly took on the suggestion of the foreman’s smile, and as understanding dawned on them their eyes passed from the station owner to the stockman and back again to the station owner, discovering something that greatly entertained them.

  Gil Sturgiss appealed quietly to the station owner. ‘Fair go, Ward! Robert can’t take him on.’

  Waterhouse stepped in quickly. ‘No one ever gets hurt in these things, you ought to know that, Gil.’

  Gil turned slowly and looked at the caravan park owner for a moment. ‘You fight him then.’

  Ray Hill cackled and coughed and one of the men asked, ‘What about it, Reg?’

  Someone else observed with mild delight, ‘Laurie’ll go easy on you.’

  The caravan park owner ignored their laughter. He could take it, and the insults of Gil Sturgiss. In his opinion tourism was the industry of the town’s future and cattle were destined to become an historic sideshow. He saw himself in this development as a modern pioneer every bit as deserving of respect as the ancestors of the Sturgiss and the Rankin families who had driven their herds north into the bush more than a century ago.

  Reg Waterhouse turned to the stockman, unsmiling now, no longer pretending to be everyone’s friend. ‘You came in here to confirm your nomination, Robert.’ He held out his hand. ‘It is officially confirmed.’ He was a successful businessman. His success justified everything. He shook the stockman’s hand briefly and turned his back on them all. ‘I’m going for a piss.’

  They ignored him. They were watching Robert Crofts. His predicament fascinated them; in the reality of his fear they were each privately experiencing a fear of their own. They were tempted both to rescue the stockman from his plight—ultimately he was one of them—and at the same time to goad him to resolve it alone. That to a man they chose the latter option was not simply because of the money they had wagered on this fight; they chose it because this fight would be different. That much they sensed. Their foreman, the station owner and Reg Waterhouse disliked each other, yet were in agreement that the stockman and Laurie Hill should fight, and that no other match would do—they had something more interesting than money at stake.

  •

  Out in the street the light had hardened. The sky had changed from azure to white and bore down on the hills surroundin
g the town, seeming to force them into the distance until they had become whitish shadows on the horizon. In this stark light Springtown’s wooden buildings and its short flat stretch of bitumen were more exposed, as if, in this adjustment of the landscape, they had been disowned. The cars angled to the kerb were unattended, their duco shimmering in the haze. The few people still on the streets crossed the open spaces quickly, seeking the shade of awnings and preoccupied with reaching the coolness of interiors—not one of them looked up beyond the abrupt edge of the town towards the encircling bush.

  Gil and the stockman walked together in silence.

  The town’s existence seemed so precarious that Crofts was amazed that he should have arrived here at all and be walking on its streets. The bush was the only certainty. A few more steps, another hundred metres or so and he would be back in it. And if he went on and walked far into it and then looked back from a distant hill he knew he would see that this town and its people had never existed; and at a certain point, just beyond the end of this bitumen, Gil would stop and say nothing and watch him walk on and would not follow.

  Robert Crofts raised his eyes towards the remote ranges and saw how inaccessible they had become. He longed to be alone; then the unprovoked viciousness of Laurie Hill and the foreman towards him—as if he had strayed here and were marked for it—would all have been an illusion. He would return to his careful work in the quiet coolness of the early mornings on the station; the pleasures and the peacefulness and the mild progression of days he had known there at first would resume their pattern. Cranky Ward Rankin would begin again to find fault with everything he did and the station on the edge of the ironbark forest would become his world once more. Relaxed and fresh from his bath he would sit by the creek in the evenings again, his muscles pleasantly aching from his day’s work and he would gaze in wonder at the flaring sunsets over the wild peaks of Salvator Rosa.