Born Into This

by Adam Thompson

  ~

  ‘Ben, we’re going to have to take a break,’ said Chris, part way up the hill.

  I looked back to where the boys had stopped walking. They had formed a circle around Rhys, the youngest, who was bent over, trying to breathe. By the time Chris and I reached them, he had started crying. In the presence of the adults – the responsible ones – his few breathless tears swelled to a racking sob. Jacob sat on a rock by himself, and stared defiantly out across the ocean.

  ‘He … they … we all need water,’ said Chris, sounding desperate.

  ‘Listen up, you fellas,’ I said.

  They all looked at me, even Jacob. Rhys’s chest was still heaving, but there were no more tears. They had dried up.

  ‘I know where there is a waterhole, very close to here. A cold, fresh waterhole – big enough to swim in.’

  ‘Great. Finally,’ said Chris, with more than a hint of impatience.

  The man has balls after all.

  ‘However,’ I said, and then paused for dramatic effect, ‘I’m only taking you there when the sly fucker who stole my tin returns it.’

  ~

  The chopper swooped in about two hours after Chris’s call. It landed on the top of the hill. I was the last to get in. I gave the boys one last chance to return my dope. But none of them would meet my eye. The only one who made eye contact was Chris, who wore a sorry frown. It was a look I’d seen before, which said, It’s out of my hands.

  Losing my stash was the only reason I was happy to leave the island. I’d miss this place. I’d miss this job – even though the kids were a pain in the arse, it felt good to be back here, passing on my knowledge. Leaving early wouldn’t cost me anything, financially. My contract stated that I got paid in full, even if the trip was cancelled or called off prematurely. Besides, Chris was the one who’d pulled the plug, and I’d be making damn sure that point was well known to everybody.

  ‘It’s for the safety of the boys,’ he’d said.

  They certainly didn’t seem disappointed to be leaving. In fact, as the chopper rolled off the hill, following the southern ridge down towards the coast, they seemed pretty damned excited. I’d been in plenty of choppers and was used to the exhilaration. I guessed this was their first time. As the trees opened up, I craned my neck to see the waterhole at the old tin mine. I wanted to point it out to the boys – and to Chris, in particular. To show them what they had missed out on. But the light that caught my eye wasn’t the familiar glint of silvery water. It was the glittery sparkle that comes from mica in river sand. There was no water.

  Not a fucking drop.

  I rested my head back on the seat and rubbed at my knees. I looked over at the city kids, in their brand-name clothes, happy to be going back to their creature comforts.

  I peered back out the window, at the dried-up mine, becoming smaller and smaller as we flew away.

  Jacob saw too. I know he did. His gaze had followed mine. The other boys gathered around Chris, who was passing out drinks from a cooler in the chopper. Grateful hands patted his back.

  Jacob refused his drink. We just stared at each other knowingly.

  It was me who looked away first, to study my weeping knuckle where I had tried to light the flint.

  Perhaps this would be my last camp. Things had certainly changed since I lived on the island all those years ago.

  There had always been water back then, there at the old tin mine. Always.

  HONEY

  ‘So, Nathan, what is the Aboriginal word for honey?’ asked Sharkey, as he swung the ute into a sharp right-hand turn.

  Nathan looked left out of his open window, into the steep ravine known as the Elephant Pass. A ghostly afternoon mist clung to the ferns and trees that lined the gorge. He could feel his hair dampening from the cool air coming through the window.

  ‘Not sure,’ he replied, absently.

  ‘Well, you’re Aboriginal, aren’t ya? You should know,’ said Sharkey.

  ‘Yeah, well … I’m sure there is a word for honey, but—’

  ‘Thought ya were going to find out for us. Wanna use the name on me label. Be a good gimmick for selling the honey, I reckon. ’Specially with the tourists.’

  ‘Yeah, probably,’ said Nathan. ‘I’ll look into it.’

  ‘That’d be good. And cheers for giving us a hand moving the hives. Really need to get them on to the prickly box, now the kunzea has finished flowering.’

  ‘Yeah, no worries.’

  Nathan looked over at Sharkey and met his gaze. Sharkey liked to make eye contact when they talked in the car. Nathan thought it was a bad habit but obliged him anyway.

  ‘Ya know what, Nath? I was serious when I said I’d give ya the ute if ya keep helping me out like this. I reckon you’ve just about earned it by now.’

  ‘Cheers, man,’ said Nathan.

  They hit an intersection at the base of the pass, and Sharkey turned right onto the coast highway. The ocean appeared and disappeared as the undulating road wound its way through farms and forests. They pulled into a concealed driveway, overgrown with drooping she-oaks.

  ‘Hives are just in there,’ said Sharkey, pointing into the bush. ‘Might want to suit up.’

  Both men got out of the vehicle. Sharkey reached into a black fish bin on the tray and scruffed two wrinkled plastic bags. He threw one to Nathan. ‘This should fit you.’

  Nathan stared up at the sky. It was late afternoon and there was still plenty of light, but the sky over the ocean was darkening.

  ‘Looks like rain,’ he said, as he shook out his bee suit.

  Sharkey was already zipping his up. He was one of those people who did everything flat out, making his fat, saggy face and body jiggle constantly. ‘Yeah, well, that’s why we need to get these hives blocked up. Fast.’

  They climbed over the broken wire fence and made their way through the trees to the beehives, which stood out stark white against the green and brown hues of the coastal vegetation. Only two weeks earlier, the cottonwool-like kunzea flowers had been fragrant and alive with bees. Now, their dried and shrivelled remains carpeted the ground, and the dank, piney smell of rotting she-oak needles layered the salty air.

  Looking like spacemen in their white body suits and rubber gloves, the two men blocked up the hive openings with wads of crumpled catalogues, and heaved the bee boxes over the fence and onto the back of the ute. The disturbed cacophony coming from the boxes rose a few octaves as the bees were tossed about. The vibrations surged through Nathan’s fingers like mild electricity, causing the muscles in his forearms to flutter. The bees that had been shut out of their hives smashed themselves into his mesh veil, trying to get to his face. Their menacing, high-pitched buzzing put him on edge.

  ‘Man, there’s some honey in these,’ said Sharkey, as they shuffled the heavy hives around on the tray. ‘I’ll make some decent coin out of this.’

  While Sharkey roped on the load, Nathan wandered down towards the sea and found a clearing surrounded by coastal wattles. He bent over and picked up a smooth stone that seemed out of place. It bore markings that he had seen before. Searching around the immediate area, he observed several more stones just like this one. He picked up another. It had a waxy sheen, and a long, serrated edge that appeared as if it was sharpened only days before. It fit snugly into the palm of his hand.

  ‘What ya got there?’ called Sharkey. He had already taken off his bee suit and was striding down towards Nathan.

  ‘Stone tools,’ replied Nathan, indicating with a nod to the scatter around their feet.

  ‘Give it here,’ said Sharkey. His pudgy hand shot out and snatched the stone from Nathan’s grasp, and he held it up to the remaining sun as if to see through it.

  ‘Trust you to find this,’ said Sharkey, raising his eyebrows. He brought the stone close to his face, squinting at it while rolling it through his fingert
ips. ‘Don’t go tellin’ the rest of yer mob what ya found here. Bloody … next thing ya know there’ll be a land rights claim on me honey turf.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ said Nathan, suppressing a sigh. ‘We can’t just claim land rights anywhere that we find artefacts.’ He expected a cocky remark but one didn’t come. ‘Anyway, all along this coast is the same. You can see where the old people camped and lived.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ said Sharkey. He flicked the stone tool off into the bush and paced back towards the car. ‘Let’s get the fuck-off outta here. Don’t worry about taking off ya suit.’

  Drops of rain peppered the windscreen as Sharkey backed the ute out of the driveway, its rusty leaf springs groaning as it laboured over the potholes.

  ‘There’s some weight in her,’ said Sharkey, smiling. He was in a better mood, now the hard work was almost done. All that was left was to put the hives at the new location. Sharkey got the ute up to highway speed, checking in the mirror to see how the hives were riding, then reached his hand behind Nathan’s seat to extract a six-pack cooler.

  ‘Drink?’ He pulled a can of rum and Coke off the plastic ring and pointed it at Nathan.

  ‘Got one, thanks.’ Nathan took a Fanta from the cooler down by his feet, wiped the top of the can on the leg of his bee suit and opened it. It was cold and gassy, and burned the back of his parched throat. Sharkey expertly opened his drink with one hand and took a swig. He rested his rum on the seat between his legs, pulled a half-smoked cigarette from the ashtray and lit it. The ute swerved a little as he took his hands from the wheel.

  ‘Those stone tools back there. They’re not that special, ya know?’ said Sharkey. He took several drags on his cigarette and, with the last one, blew a smoke ring at the windscreen.

  ‘Well—’ Nathan began.

  ‘Growing up, me and me cousins spent all our time down at the river. We lived up at Smithton, and the river was just across the paddock from our house.’ Sharkey wound down his window and flicked out the cigarette butt. In the side mirror, Nathan watched the butt explode into a shower of sparks on the slick road and spin off into the night. Sharkey shivered dramatically as the cold rain blew in, and quickly wound up the window.

  ‘We used to skip stones a lot, and we would set shitloads of deadlines. We’d go back in the morning and check ’em before school. Always got fish – although many of ’em would be floating by the time we got to ’em. Anyway, Uncle Murray – Mum’s brother – he used to come and stay with us sometimes. One day, we took him down the river and he found these stone tools – like those ones you found today, only there were heaps more of ’em.’

  Sharkey finished his can and threw the empty into the back. He lit another cigarette, drew in deeply and exhaled as he continued.

  ‘Uncle Murray said the blackfellas used the stones to cut things because they weren’t smart enough to invent knives. He said that if Grandad and the other farmers ever found stone tools on their land they would bury ’em or throw ’em in the river so that your mob couldn’t come along and claim land rights.’

  Nathan could sense Sharkey smiling at him, but he refused to meet his gaze. He pulled off his beanie and ran his thumbs over the rough embroidery of the Aboriginal flag.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Sharkey, ‘when me uncle left, we looked all along the river and found heaps more patches of the bloody things. Hundreds of ’em – all different types, ya know? Different colours and that.’

  He slowed down the ute and turned left onto the Elephant Pass road. He glanced in the rear-view mirror again to check the hives as they began the steep ascent and rounded the first few sharp bends. Satisfied the hives were sitting well, he turned back to Nathan.

  ‘Nath, do ya know what a duck-fart is?’ he asked, breaking the silence.

  ‘No,’ Nathan said. A lie – he had some idea of what it was.

  Sharkey cracked a fresh can and drank half in one go. He burped loudly and blew the gassy stench towards Nathan. ‘It’s when ya throw a stone up into the air and it lands in the river, making a funny sound. You have to get a thin sort of stone – rounded so that ya can wrap yer finger around it. When ya throw it up into the air, ya have to get a good backspin on it. If ya throw it right, when it lands in the water, it doesn’t make a splash. It makes a kind of “plop” sound. That’s why it’s called a duck-fart.’

  Nathan, quiet, stared down at the beanie in his lap. He knew where this was going.

  ‘Those stone tools along the river – the ones yer ancestors knocked up – they made the best duck-farts. They are like the perfect type of rock for it.’ Sharkey laughed to himself and looked over at Nathan expectantly.

  ‘Me and me cousins would have thrown thousands of them into the river, in those days. I doubt there would be any left around there now. But ya can’t get away with that anymore,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Can ya?’

  ‘Nuh,’ was all Nathan could muster. He noticed his hands were trembling.

  ‘Hope I’m not offending ya,’ said Sharkey smugly.

  Nathan shrugged, and looked back out of the window.

  Sharkey slurped up the last of his drink and dropped it on the floor. He turned the wipers up a notch to combat the now-pelting rain. ‘These bloody cans are going down a bit too nicely,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope the local cop isn’t out and about tonight.’

  For the next few kilometres neither of them spoke, and Nathan was grateful for the peace. As they got close to the top of the pass, Sharkey grabbed another cigarette from the dash console, and put it to his mouth. He fumbled with the lighter and it fell to the floor in front of him. Nathan watched him stretch down for it, his fingers probing the dirty, worn carpet below his seat. As he dropped his head below the wheel to take a look, the ute swerved again, and this time the tray clipped the steep, rocky wall of the pass. The back end slid out, fishtailing, and Sharkey tried to correct the vehicle by swinging heavily on the wheel. The ute lost traction on the wet road, flipped onto its roof and went skidding into the guardrail on the cliff side of the road. Even from his upside-down position, Nathan could see the rail buckle and wave as they struck.

  For a moment, the only sound was a hissing from the tyres or the engine and the scattering of window glass. Within seconds, though, a droning sound rose, and grew steadily louder. Nathan looked over at Sharkey, who was also hanging upside down. Sharkey’s eyes were glazed over. His nose was broken and bent at an obscene angle, and his wavy, black hair was plastered across his wobbling face with blood and something else.

  Honey.

  The drone was turning into an angry roar. Nathan felt something dangling against the back of his neck. He reached around and felt for the hood of his bee suit and drew it over his head. His hands were shaking as he fumbled to pull the zips from the back around to the front, sealing it off.

  He twisted his head to see the beehives lying scattered along the road, some piled up against the guardrail. The individual boxes had come apart and the frames were oozing their sticky, amber contents onto the asphalt. The light from the headlamps dimmed as the dazed bees took flight. Their roar was deafening. Sharkey was crying. The way his lips were drawn back from his teeth as his white, panicking eyes took in the scene before him reminded Nathan of the pony his sister had when he was a kid.

  ‘Oh God … what … shit, help me, Nathan. Ya gotta get me outta ’ere!’ Sharkey screamed above the din of the bees.

  Nathan released his own seatbelt and, holding on to it, eased himself down to the ute’s velour ceiling. He kicked the shattered windscreen out with his foot. Bees flooded in.

  ‘Hey, where – hey, where are ya going? You can’t leave me.’ Sharkey’s voice had a strange calmness – a sure sign that he’d lost it.

  Nathan turned back to look at him. Sharkey had given up trying to release his seatbelt and was frantically swatting at the bees attacking his face. Nathan began to crawl out of the ute and
was shocked at the sight in front of him. The headlights were almost completely blacked out by the dense swarm of bees. Their frenzied movement created a breeze that Nathan could feel even through the mesh of his veil.

  The crumpled ute pitched and squeaked as Sharkey thrashed in his seat. Nathan crawled through the wall of bees and out onto the road. He slip-slided his way through the honey and smashed-up wax until he reached the guardrail and pulled himself up. On his feet now and with the dim lights of the ute behind him, he stumbled up the road into the dark. As if on cue, the rain stopped. The noise of the bees grew quieter as he rounded the first bend.

  With a steady hand, he unzipped the hood of his bee suit and let it slide from his head. His beanie dropped to the ground and he retrieved it, holding it to his chest. The air felt good and cool on his face. A car would come along soon.

  As he walked up the dark road in a calm daze, a faint smile came to his lips. What is the Aboriginal word for honey?

  BORN INTO THIS

  The air was so crisp as Kara stepped out of the car that her first breath became a gasp and the inside of her nose burned. She leaned into the passenger seat of her beat-up red Corolla and reefed her puffer jacket out from under the mountain of clutter. The heat of the interior caressed her face like a warm hand and she almost succumbed to the temptation to get back inside.

  Her jacket rustled and swished as she slid into its pillowy folds. The sound silenced a frog that had been noisily protesting the invasion of its puddle by her bald front tyres. Kara closed her eyes and attempted to shut off her thoughts. She was still in work mode, having left the office – thank fucking fuck – only thirty-eight minutes earlier. Allowing her shoulders to relax, and her breathing to lengthen, she engaged in her own custom meditation. Her senses amplified. The sunlight, filtering through her eyelids, was a healing beam of energy projected at her by her tribal ancestors. The magic was broken by the ticking and clanking of the Corolla’s cooling engine.