Fire Eye

by Peter d’Plesse

  From the fire he tracks her out to the pointy hill and even finds the spot where she sat on a log. She held a leafy branch between her knees then tossed it aside and walked out to meet someone, whose tracks are ghost-like shadows on the ground. He finds traces of rubber where two people sat close together. One set of tracks is clear in the dirt but the other set is the ghost and barely discernible. It is only the low angle of the sun that allows him to pick up the faint trace of the footprints, just a slight disturbance in the natural surface of the ground.

  It is hard going. From where they sat together, they moved across the country leaving only the faintest impression of their passing, like a pair of whispering spirits. He needs all his skills to track them. He finds sharper edges of rock where tiny strands of material still cling to the surface, threads of cotton or wool perhaps. They covered their feet with something at the start, maybe a blanket. The grass helps. Most of the time they put their feet under the grass so as not to disturb it but one set of prints treads more often on the grass. With the sun at the right angle and the grass still moist from the early morning dew, he can make out the barely visible tracks. He manoeuvres so the sun is behind him at a certain angle. He has learned the secret of connecting his eyes with the rays so he can see the vaporous shadows leading in a line to the northwest.

  The sandstone is harder still but he can just pick up the line of faint disturbance the ghost track leaves over patches of rock; the slightest disturbance of the grains on the surface. He works them into his view to get a line on where they appear to be going. At times he comes to a spot where the rock has worn down to sand and the grains give a clearer picture. It is a skill possessed by few modern black men but one Joe learned from the best as a young hunter.

  His father’s teacher was one of the last of the traditional men, Ungondangery, also called Possum, one of the wild men of the hills in the 1930s and 40s. Possum was a man with the savage pluck of a giant. He could tackle any man and walk into any wild bush camp to sort his troubles out. His specialty was taking young lubras in good condition from an easy life and white man’s food in the native camps attached to lonely settler’s homesteads. He would swoop down and keep the female for months of quick moving, hunting and fighting. While he carried only his fighting implements, she would carry everything else over the ranges as he flew through the night on another daring escapade. When she was worn out, he would swoop on another, young and fit, to help him travel. Legend has it he had one soft spot—once he rescued a child and delivered her to a homestead. It would have been a break from his normal pattern, but even men of the wild have motivations known only to themselves.

  The people he is tracking know the bush, Joe decides. Their only mistake is to head in a constant direction without meandering around to sow confusion. They are going somewhere and don’t want to waste time. Most likely they don’t deserve to die, just like Brad. Maybe he will have to give them up to save his little brother, but no one will be getting out of this situation alive unless he comes up with a bloody good idea.

  As the angle of the sun increases, it becomes increasingly difficult and finally impossible to follow the faint traces. He marks the last place where he can still read the tracks then continues on in a direct line toward the rise of ground just visible over the scrub and trees. He needs to pick up the tracks again but has to wait for the sun to move closer to the horizon. He has no choice but to sit and wait but that doesn’t bother him. Every successful hunter has learned the skill of patience. He finds a good spot and passes the time sitting with his back against a tree, immersed in his thoughts as the sun creeps across the sky. Eventually it begins its downward arc. He stands to brush dirt from his pants and moves in a circle of increasing radius around his resting point, trying to cut the trail again, hoping the people he is tracking are still heading in the same direction.

  He finds what he is looking for in the light of the late afternoon sun. Faint impressions in the ground, not footprints as such, just shallow depressions slightly different to the surrounding ground. Sunrise would be even better, with the early morning dew highlighting the tracks he seeks. He looks at the sun sinking toward the horizon. They are still heading in the same direction, toward the bluff near the coast. It is strange. They aren’t escaping but going someplace important to them.

  He can only think of one thing pulling them in that direction, northwest onto Aboriginal land, a place his father’s teacher would be familiar with. It will take him too long to get back to that bastard white fella, so he finds a good place to spend the night. The white man needs his skills so he can wait. Brad is safe for a while but Joe knows he has to come up with good tracks to keep buying time.

  He wonders who the people ahead are and what they have done to have this man on their trail. He respects them and their abilities to flit across the land without leaving the marks clumsy white people normally leave. Someone has passed skills onto this man—black fella skills. Joe’s mind keeps working down the line of thought. One of his people, probably from another tribe, has trusted this man enough to teach him some Aboriginal ways. That creates a problem for Joe. He has to save his little brother, but can he give up a man one of his people has respected. He puts the thought aside to concentrate on more immediate issues.

  He marks the place where he picked up the trail, then finds a good spot to spend the night among sheltering boulders. He drags in dry timber to feed a fire and harvests a selection of berries and plums from the land. He still can’t resist a decent feed so after he gets a fire going in a scraped depression he goes looking for a goanna.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Jed and Alex make good use of the day. The pace has been cracking, with short breaks every hour as they head northwest toward the coast. They seem to be following a channel off to their right, sometimes dry but with the occasional billabong of grey-brown muddy water. The sun sinks toward the horizon as Jed veers toward the channel. He has already picked some giant spear grass for them to chew on. It offers a pleasant, sweetish flavour to refresh their mouths. They enter an area of sandy soil in the tropical woodland. Jed heads toward some sparse and spindly trees with large, oval leaves. The pear-shaped fruit has turned a yellowish green and he stops to pick them, dropping them into the billy.

  “What are you doing?” Alex calls out when she notices his change of direction.

  “Just collecting some food for us,” he replies as he continues to pick the fruit. “These are Kakadu Plums, the highest known source of vitamin C in the world. One of these little plums provides the same amount of vitamin C as a dozen oranges. These I recognise and the skin and flesh can be eaten raw.”

  Alex picks one of the pear-shaped fruit and gingerly bites into it, discovering a pleasant, acidic taste. “That’s not bad,” picking up another.

  “There’s a lot of bush tucker in this area, but I only know a few. We have to be careful as some things out here are poisonous. The plums are good though,” he says as he sees the startled expression on her face.

  “It’s strange,” Jed says. “It’s been suggested that the lack of cultivation by Aboriginals was a sign of lack of drive or intelligence. But instead, they made the country feed them. Along the apparently barren sandstone ranges, food was plentiful—berries, fruit, herbs, bulbs, roots and vines were there for the taking. Even on the plains and the closed-in valleys, the vegetable life by billabongs and creeks was prolific. They lived in comparative luxury while explorers starved to death. They even sometimes planted and improved crops to cover the drought times. They farmed but weren’t farmers as such. Why would you want to become sedentary if you were linked to the land and the earth fed you sustainably?”

  Alex can’t resist a dig. “More outdoor education?”

  Jed realises he is rambling, so keeps moving. He stops at an area where a thin, twining vine is attaching itself to other shrubs and plants. The leaves are narrow with a tapered trifoliate structure and prominent central mid-rib. He draws his knife to dig down and pull out long, p
arsnip-shaped roots to add to the billy. “This is the Maloga Bean,” he says over his shoulder. “Roasted over coals, they taste like potato.”

  Alex has listened to Jed’s views about the indigenous lifestyle and hasn’t argued about the bush tucker, but as he starts to move off she steps in front of him. “I believe I’m still point,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument.

  He remembers the previous discussion and doesn’t argue. His estimation of her abilities is going up and Jed knows they will only survive as a team.

  Alex acknowledges his silent acceptance with a nod. She checks the sun and turns a full circle to get her bearings before striding off, not even looking back to see if he is following.

  Once again Jed checks the direction before following Alex. She sets a good pace, not so fast to wear them out but fast enough to cover ground quickly, about four kilometres every hour, Jed estimates. He notices she is fit, never asking for a break, never complaining, but keeping up a constant speed that picks a line across the ground to minimise effort and tracks. Jed knows they are leaving some signs that the Aboriginal tracker will find, but all they need is some undisturbed time at the site before facing the problem of getting out.

  He lets her maintain the pace but wants to give feedback to keep her up to date. “At this rate we can make the site tonight if we take a shortcut.”

  “What shortcut?” she asks, stopping suddenly and turning to face him.

  Jed moves in front of her and kneels down to pick up a stick to draw in the dirt. This is the coastline, just over there,” pointing with his left hand and drawing a curving line in the dirt. “The swamp and river channel are over there, that greenery to our right,” pointing again and drawing the channels into the dirt to build the mud map. “Getting through the swamp will be slow. There’ll be mangroves, swamp grass, mud, crocs and other crap to slow us down. Our pig hunter may have got through there in a drier season, just got lucky or had an inflatable boat to get down the channel. For us, it would be quicker to go up and over the bluff.” He points to the left.

  Alex turns toward where he is pointing. The bluff isn’t high, under a hundred metres but steep, even vertical in places. The smooth face of the rock is scarred by fissures, the occasional section of broken rock and dotted with small patches of scrub.

  “We can be there before nightfall going that way,” Jed offers in gentle encouragement.

  “I don’t do slopes well. A knee injury,” she replies warily. It was a kick to the knee from Decker after she had been downed by a punch to the stomach, but she doesn’t elaborate.

  “Going up won’t be a problem if I lead,” Jed suggests with confidence. “Going down, I’m sure we can find an easier way. If you remember when we flew over it, we should be able to pick our way down the northern side. A hill stick to take some of the weight off your knee will help.” He lets her think about it without interrupting. The silence drags on as she considers the proposal. He waits, watching her look over at the swamp and then up at the bluff, weighing up the options.

  Reluctantly she has to agree with his thinking. “Let’s go the bluff.”

  He doesn’t bother asking if she is sure. He has learned she is decisive and can stick to her decisions. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Stuart has put in a hard morning repairing a pump and heads back to the homestead to dump his tools and enjoy a coffee before heading out for the next job. He parks the flat tray next to the side door of the house where he can drop his boots on the verandah. Slamming the door, he kicks the dust off his boots against the wooden steps and is about to climb up when he sees one of his stockmen riding toward him. He shades his eyes and recognises Charcoal coming at a canter. He waits in expectation. Charcoal rides in around the circular garden bed, reflecting a female touch, and reins in next to Stuart.

  “Morning Charcoal, what brings you here this early in the day? Looks like you’re in a bit of a hurry.”

  “Morning boss! Been busy with some cattle but found sump’n you best see,” Charcoal replies, his horse skittering sideways with impatience. Charcoal sits astride his horse with the natural confidence of the Aboriginal stockman. Standing in his boots he is a good six feet tall, well built with solid muscle under his almost black skin. He is alert of eye, with a black moustache tinged with grey. Tangled black hair under a battered Akubra shades a face wearing a serious and determined expression.

  “Like what?”

  “Better you come see boss.”

  Stuart has worked with Charcoal a long time so doesn’t waste time asking useless questions. “Lead the way,” he agrees as he climbs back into the Toyota.

  They head down the access road to the property, past the airstrip and hangar and swing left across country, winding their way between the trees and scrub. Stuart keeps at least twenty-five metres behind Charcoal’s horse. The horses are used to vehicles, even helicopters and aircraft, but he respects the animals and keeps his place behind them. Charcoal leads him to one of the dry channels that cut their way across the country and he pulls up on the edge, next to where Charcoal ties his horse. Charcoal beckons him down into the channel, standing in front of a patch of ground disturbed by tyre marks, his legs apart and hands on his hips.

  “People bin camping here boss. Two people, one night. Came in from over that way,” pointing with his arm. “Left that way,” pointing again.

  Stuart looks at the ground, walking around to have a close look. He can see the vehicle tracks in, the disturbed ground where two swags had been laid out, the tyre marks where a vehicle had headed out and come back then headed out again.

  “Boss, you follow me again.” Again the tone expects no dissent.

  Stuart nods and climbs back into the Toyota. Charcoal mounts his horse and heads west toward the homestead, picking his way through the trees. He stops, waiting for Stuart to pull up next to him and points to the ground. “Wheel marks stop here,” he says, waving with his hand. Stuart’s eyes follow the direction of his hand. “Footprints from now,” Charcoal continues. “Follow me.”

  Stuart eases the ‘cruiser slowly toward the homestead, following Charcoal carefully as he leans over in the saddle to study the ground. Finally Charcoal reins in, dismounts and ties his horse to a branch. He waits for Stuart to join him then walks over to another tree. He points to the ground at the base of the trunk where a slight disturbance of the leaf litter can be seen. There are also two marks where the heels of boots worked their way into the ground over a period of time.

  Stuart looks at the marks around the tree, the tracks to and fro and then over at the homestead. Someone sat here recently, probably the night before last. The night of the pigs! He contemplates the implications but it doesn’t make any sense. He flicks his head at Charcoal. “Back to the camp,” he commands and Charcoal nods and remounts. They follow the tracks again, in reverse this time and faster, back to the campsite in the depression. This time Stuart doesn’t get out of the ‘cruiser and Charcoal stays mounted. They study the tracks in deep thought. Stuart picks out the outgoing wheel marks and puts the ‘cruiser back into gear, following them to one side with Charcoal tracking parallel on the other side.

  They follow the tracks relentlessly, through the trees, around scrub and across creek crossings until they come to the main northwest track. There the tracks join fresh tracks from yesterday morning, when Jed and Alex had headed out. Stuart stands next to them, feeling perplexed, while Charcoal waits patiently, sitting astride his horse. Were these strangers following Jed and Alex or is it coincidence? He has no idea but his gut feeling is that something is going on, something out of the ordinary. It leaves him with an uneasy feeling, but nothing he can pin down. Whatever is going on, he has trespassers.

  He looks up at Charcoal, “Go back to the homestead! I want you to take some help and follow the tracks. Find out what’s going on and get back to me.”

  Charcoal nods, reins his horse around and canters off toward the homestead. Good man, Stuart thinks. Doesn’
t muck around, just get’s the job done. He stares down at the tracks for a while longer, then climbs back into the ‘cruiser and heads back to the homestead, lost in thought.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Alex leads the way along the escarpment, looking for an easy way up. It doesn’t look like there is going to be one. The rock slopes steeply down, worn smooth by eons of rainy wet seasons. The surface is scarred in places with fissures and cracks, but there is nothing to provide a safe pathway all the way to the top.

  “Maybe the swamp is the only way to go!” Alex calls back to Jed who continues to follow her while they both scan the face. He has been watching her all afternoon and must admit she has done well. The pace has been fast without tiring them out and she has tried to keep her prints under the patches of grass, even though it isn’t a natural way to walk.

  Jed looks back over his shoulder along the rock face, then back in the direction they are heading. He spies a small scrubby tree in the distance clinging to the rock face about halfway up. “Try along there below that tree.”

  They work their way around the tangled scrub and dead, fallen branches cradling the base of the rock until they are underneath the tree clinging in forlorn isolation to the rock above their heads. They stand side by side and look up to inspect the water-worn cleft.

  The first few metres are smooth and unbroken. Above that the angle of the slope decreases slightly and rough rock frames a fissure that gradually widens to provide hand and footholds. “That might be the best we will find,” he suggests.