As the voice became fainter, Cassandra drifted into a restless slumber, the hot breeze unable to warm the chill in her heart.
42
Windjana Gorge, 3 March, 9 a.m.
Barely able to stay awake, Banjo had driven through most of the night. They reached their destination – a narrow gorge cut through the Napier Range by the Lennard River – at daybreak, and set up camp. The sun was already searing; a shimmering haze hovered above the waking landscape, giving the boab trees – gnarled and bloated giants protecting the secrets of countless Bunuba generations past – a strangely lifelike appearance. Many of these trees had guarded the gorge entry for centuries.
‘That’s enough!’ shouted the Wizard, grabbing Zoran by the wrist. ‘Can’t you see he’s unconscious?’
He took the blood-encrusted belt out of Zoran’s hand and threw it on the ground. For an instant, Zoran looked at the Wizard without recognition, his hooded eyes bloodshot and glassy. He and the Wizard had taken turns whipping Pigeon’s back and now, transported by the frenzy, Zoran was in a trance.
‘He’s no good to us dead. Control yourself. Get some water.’
The Wizard walked slowly around Pigeon who was hanging by his wrist from the tree branch.
‘I know you can hear me,’ he said. ‘What have you done with Anna?’
There was no reply.
‘We’ll give him a little time,’ snapped the Wizard. ‘He’ll talk soon – you’ll see. I’m going down to the river to wash this off,’ he said to Zoran looking at his blood-splattered hands. ‘Come with me.’
‘Wait, I’ll come too,’ said Banjo. He walked over to the Land Rover, pulled two rifles out of the back and handed one to the Wizard. ‘Never leave camp without your guns.’
‘He isn’t going anywhere,’ said the Wizard, pointing to Pigeon. ‘Unless those evil spirits you keep talking about cut him down.’ The Wizard roared, ‘Let’s go!’
Pigeon’s brain slowly clawed its way back to consciousness and, when the pain was bearable, Pigeon opened his good eye. The first thing he saw were his toes, dangling helplessly just above the ground. He managed to lift his chin, and looked at the tall cliffs towering above him. Then, turning his head left, he saw a massive rock pylon that had broken away from the petrified reef eons ago.
‘Julla,’ whispered Pigeon, remembering the creation hero guarding the entrance to Windjana Gorge.
Memories of the sacred place came back with vivid clarity. He remembered many exciting days at Windjana Gorge as a boy. This is where he’d been inducted into the secret world of the Bunuba by one of its revered elders, his father. What a joy and great privilege that had been. Years later as a young man he had honoured his father. He remembered wrapping his father’s body in paperbark before laying him to rest in one of the small caves high above the Lennard River.
They brought me all the way to Windjana Gorge, thought Pigeon. Why? This is Djumbud, my spirit country. He didn’t believe in coincidences, only destiny. Trying to make contact with the spirits of his ancestors, he began to chant.
Standing on a rock ledge overlooking the river, an old Aboriginal man was showing his grandson a gallery of rock paintings. Painted thousands of years ago by his ancestors, the striking images explained the creation of their land. The old man was preparing the boy for his initiation ceremony and used the paintings as an introduction to the sacred, invisible world of the Bunuba. By spending a few days with his grandfather in the bush, the boy was learning the old ways of the Bunuba. It was a great adventure and a wonderful excuse to stay away from school for a little while.
When the old man turned around and looked down to the river, he saw a vehicle parked in front of the sacred pylon. That was odd; no one came here much, but stranger still, was something hanging from a branch of the boab tree next to it. Shielding his eyes from the glare, he took a closer look.
‘That’s a man, a black man,’ he mumbled to himself. Then, glancing across to a bend in the river, something else caught his eye: two men swimming. Malngadu, he thought, white men. He couldn’t see Banjo, sitting behind a nearby rock and holding a gun as he watched the large crocodiles basking on the riverbank.
‘You stay right here,’ said the old man to his grandson. ‘I’m going down there to see what’s going on.’
Holding a spear in his right hand and darting silently from cover to cover, the old man approached the boab tree. As he came closer, he noticed the horrific wounds on the man’s back and heard chanting in Bunuba – his own language. One of us, he thought.
Sensing a presence, Pigeon stopped chanting. As he lifted his head, he looked straight into the furrowed face of the motionless, silent old man. At first Pigeon thought he was seeing a ghost and quickly closed his remaining good eye.
‘What happened to you, brother?’ asked the old man in Bunuba. This isn’t a ghost, Pigeon thought as he heard the sound of his familiar tongue. The ancestors sent a man to help me.
‘Cut me down, brother, and I’ll tell you.’
Coming closer, the old man pulled a knife out of his waistband.
‘Where are the others?’ asked Pigeon, looking around anxiously.
‘Down by the river.’
‘We have to get away! If they find you here with me, they’ll kill us both.’
Ignoring the crocodiles staring malevolently at them, Zoran and the Wizard followed Banjo up the embankment.
‘What’s next?’ asked Zoran, drying his face with his shirt. ‘You said he’ll be ready to talk.’
‘He will – trust me. Come and watch,’ replied the Wizard. ‘It’s time to ratchet things up. Believe me, given the choice, he’d rather be dead than face what’s about to happen.’
‘Sounds interesting. Did you hear that, Banjo?’ asked Zoran. ‘What do you think Eugene has in mind?’
‘Fire,’ replied Banjo without hesitation. ‘Fire always wins.’
‘He’s right,’ said the Wizard. ‘No one can resist fire. The Inquisition found that out centuries ago.’
Banjo saw it first. Not quite trusting his eyes, he blinked and looked again. The unthinkable had happened – Pigeon had disappeared.
‘Bloody hell! Look, there!’ he yelled, pointing to the piece of rope dangling from the tree branch.
‘Noooo!’ roared the Wizard, his face contorted by rage.
Pushing Banjo roughly aside with the butt of his gun, he ran towards the tree. ‘Fucking mongrel!’
‘Look at this,’ said Zoran, holding up the end of the rope. ‘A clean cut.’
‘There are no footprints,’ observed Banjo, examining the ground under the tree. ‘Swept clean with tufts of long grass, by the look of it.’ He pointed to fan-shaped markings in the sand. ‘Someone knows what he’s doing.’
‘Right,’ said the Wizard, checking his gun. ‘He hasn’t done this by himself, that’s for fucking sure. With all the blood he’s lost, he can’t have gone very far. We were down by the river for only half an hour or so. Let’s go and find the bastard!’
Pigeon limped towards the entry to the gorge, leaning on the old man. But he was supremely fit and in high spirits, and was starting to cope with the pain. They made sure to stay on the rocks, so as not to leave any tell-tale tracks.
‘You’ve gotta get away from here,’ said Pigeon. ‘If they find you, they’ll kill you – you can count on it. This is my fight, brother, not yours. Have you got a car?’
‘No.’
‘How did you get here?’
‘My grandson and I came on horseback.’
‘That’s good. A horse can go where a Land Rover can’t. Where are the horses?’
‘Just over there, behind Lillimooloora Station,’ replied the old man, pointing to the stone ruins of the notorious homestead a short distance to the north. ‘We camped there last night.’
Pigeon stopped, trying to catch his breath. ‘Listen, I have an idea,’ he said. ‘We haven’t got much time. Tell me if you’re prepared to go along with it.’
‘I’m listenin
g, brother.’
As he crouched behind a rock high above the river, Pigeon watched his pursuers slowly working their way towards the ruins of Lillimooloora Station. The old man had gone along with his plan, which was as simple as it was ingenious. Pigeon would engage the Wizard by taunting him from the safety of the cliffs, just as Jandamarra had done with the troopers trying to hunt him down a century or so ago. This diversion would give the old man an opportunity to get away safely with the boy.
The old man, in return, had given Pigeon his knife and his spear and, best of all, one of the horses.
Pigeon knew Windjana Gorge well. Having spent time there with his father and uncle as a boy, he had explored the many caves and secret pathways leading to the burial sites and rock paintings. He had even camped in Jandamarra’s cave in the gorge.
‘You’re looking in the wrong place, Eugene,’ shouted Pigeon, his voice bouncing off the ancient walls of the coral reef.
‘Can you see anything?’ asked the Wizard, turning towards Zoran. It was impossible to pinpoint where the voice had come from. ‘Where the fuck is he?’
‘I can’t see a thing,’ replied Zoran. ‘He could be anywhere.’
‘It’s a maze up there,’ said Banjo. ‘Full of caves and tunnels.’
‘Great,’ said the Wizard, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. ‘We’ll just have to flush him out, won’t we?’
‘How?’ asked Zoran.
‘Ego and pride. Watch,’ said the Wizard as he cupped his hands to his mouth and called out towards the ancient walls. ‘You’re quite good at hiding and running away, aren’t you, Pigeon? You’ve been doing it for years and when it was finally time for a little action you stuffed up, didn’t you? It was the same with your mother ...’
Carefully watching the cliff above – gun at the ready – the Wizard paused, giving the insult time to find its mark.
‘In the end, cowards always lose,’ continued the Wizard. ‘You know why? Because they haven’t got the guts to fight.’
‘Good try, Eugene. We both know that’s crap, don’t we?’ came the reply from somewhere above. ‘I’ll prove it to you.’
‘Talk’s cheap.’
‘We’ll see.’
When Pigeon turned his head, he saw a snake – a dangerous king brown – sunning itself on a rock ledge. Another sign? he thought. He’d caught many a snake as a boy with his father – it was part of living in the bush. All he needed was a forked twig and some bark. It didn’t take him long to find both.
From his lofty vantage point, Pigeon could see the Land Rover parked down by the river to his left, and the Wizard – about 200 metres from the vehicle – to his right. If he moved quickly, Pigeon estimated he could reach the Land Rover within a couple of minutes. What he needed was a diversion. He picked up a stone and threw it across the cliff face. It bounced off the rocks, setting off a small landslide of gravel and sand.
‘He’s up there,’ shouted the Wizard, aiming his gun at the cloud of dust rising above the shifting sand. ‘Let’s go get him.’
While the Wizard, Zoran and Banjo clambered up the cliff, Pigeon climbed down a steep rock shaft and made it unnoticed across to the car. Slowly and silently, he opened the passenger door. He could feel the aroused snake writhing inside the paperbark parcel wedged under his arm. Opening the glove box, he pushed the parcel inside and with the tip of his spear prodded the bark until it cracked and the head of the snake appeared. Then he pushed the glove box shut before the snake could make its escape.
Looking up from behind the Land Rover, Pigeon could see the Wizard and Zoran searching the cliff face where the stone had landed. I’ve got to be quick, he thought, lying down on the ground. Pulling himself forward on his belly, he crawled under the four wheel drive until he reached the front wheels. Searching a rim with his fingertips he found the air valve, and let the air out of the tyre. Time to go, he thought, peering anxiously up at the cliff from behind the wheel. One flat tyre should do the trick.
Scrambling away from the car on all fours, Pigeon reached the scrub without being spotted. Using rocks, clumps of tall grass and trees as cover, he doubled back to Lillimooloora Station where the old man was hiding in the ruins with the boy and the horses.
Banjo heard it first. The dull, rhythmic sound was unmistakable: hoofs pounding the ground.
‘Look, over there,’ he shouted, pointing to the ruins. ‘It’s him!’
A horse was galloping away from the ruins, the rider bent low in the saddle.
‘How the hell?’ growled Zoran, raising his gun.
‘Don’t bother,’ said the Wizard, disgusted. ‘He’s too fucking far away.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Banjo. ‘Give me the gun.’ The Wizard handed him his rifle.
Closing one eye, Banjo held his breath and calmly took aim. Trying to clear a fallen tree, the horse jumped, momentarily providing a perfect target. Banjo pulled the trigger.
43
On the way to Tunnel Creek, 3 March, mid morning
‘How much further?’ asked Jack, fanning himself with his hat. The heat in the car made him feel dizzy and the sweat tickled the back of his neck.
‘Not far now,’ said Andrew.
‘Look over there, to the left,’ shouted Will. ‘A horse!’ Andrew slowed down. Riding a horse without a saddle, a tall Aboriginal man was galloping furiously towards the car. Barely able to hold on, a small boy was sitting behind him.
As the horse came closer, Andrew thought he could recognise the man – he knew most of the elders in the district.
‘Lambardoo?’ he shouted through the open window. ‘What are you doing here?’
The old man pulled up the horse. ‘Mr Simpson?’ he said. ‘I’m sure glad to see you. Something dreadful is going on at the gorge.’
Andrew stopped the car and got out. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘I think you’ve got him,’ shouted the Wizard, slapping Banjo on the back. ‘What a shot! After him, guys! Back to the car!’
Numbed by the searing pain in his shoulder where the bullet had shattered a bone, Pigeon was trying to hold onto the horse’s mane.
Falling off would be fatal. NO! I almost made it. Looking down, he saw blood running down his chest. To have any chance at all, he would have to reach the sanctuary of Tunnel Creek some 20 kilometres away before the others caught up with him. Tunnel Creek was one of Jandamarra’s favourite hiding places and, ominously, it was also the place of his last stand.
The Wizard was fuming. He knew he was paying the price for underestimating his foe. The man who a couple of hours ago had been at his mercy had turned into a resourceful adversary. The flat tyre – obviously Pigeon’s work – was slowing them down at the very moment Pigeon should have been within their grasp. How he had managed to escape, obtain a horse and slip away remained a mystery to the Wizard. To Banjo, a Bunuba like Pigeon, the answer was simple: Pigeon was a Jalngangurru with magical powers.
‘How much longer?’ asked the Wizard impatiently, watching Banjo and Zoran change the tyre.
‘Almost done,’ replied Banjo. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find him. He won’t get far with all those injuries and he can’t hide his tracks. Not out here, not riding a horse.’
Banjo was right. The horse’s tracks were easy to find. However, because of the rugged terrain, progress was slow.
‘He’s following the Napier Range south and staying close to the cliffs,’ said Banjo. ‘I think I know where he’s heading.’
‘You do?’ asked the Wizard. ‘Where?’
‘Tunnel Creek – just over there.’ Banjo pointed to the tall cliffs on his left.
‘What’s Tunnel Creek?’ asked Zoran from the back.
‘A long limestone tunnel cut right through the Napier Range by water.’
‘Why would he go there?’ asked the Wizard.
‘It’s the perfect hiding place. Hey, there he is!’ Banjo pointed to a cloud of dust rising up near the cliffs. ‘He’s almost there!’
‘Can’t we cut
him off?’
‘Maybe. Get the map. Quick! In the glove box.’
The Wizard opened the glove box and reached inside. Coiled up tightly in the confined space, the aroused king brown was ready to attack. Moving forward like lightning, it struck. The Wizard saw something flash towards him and raised his arm to protect his face. The lunging snake, deflected by the Wizard’s elbow, landed on Banjo’s shoulder and buried its fangs deep in his throat.
Weakened by blood loss and barely able to see, Pigeon slid out of the saddle and dropped to the ground. For a while he lay there listening to the gurgling water rushing out of the cave, a raging thirst clawing at his throat. Memories of his childhood began to blur the painful present with seductive images of his father and uncle showing him how to make fire and hunt with a spear.
Tunnel Creek, a familiar place, gave him strength. Slowly, he began to crawl towards the entrance of the cave, the cool air drifting out of its mouth luring him inside. As he looked around, he remembered a shallow rock pool at the entrance and dragged himself a little further until he could touch the smooth, dish-like edge of the pool with the tips of his fingers. The crystal clear water was only a few centimetres deep. Licking his parched lips, he mustered all his remaining strength, rolled onto his side and let himself slide into the water. With his cheek resting against the wet rock, he opened his mouth and began to drink.
‘What’s that over there?’ asked Jack, pointing to a cloud of dust rising up through the tall spinifex grass a few hundred metres up ahead.
‘Here, use these,’ said Andrew, handing Jack a pair of binoculars.
‘It’s an overturned vehicle. I think it’s theirs.’
With the snake clinging to his neck, Banjo had lost control of the car. Mounting a termite mound and hitting a tree, the vehicle had rolled.
The Land Rover was lying on its roof, steam rising from the open bonnet. Andrew stopped the car and reached for his gun.
‘Jack, you come with me. Bring the rifle. Everyone else stays in the car.’
The Disappearance of Anna Popov: A supernatural suspense thriller (Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 2) Page 19