Fire Eye

by Peter d’Plesse

  Alex looks up, then left and right and reluctantly has to agree. To either side the rock face is worn smooth by the rain washing down every wet season. Where it isn’t smooth, the vertical faces of fractured rock make free climbing a dangerous option. Here a weakness in the rock has surrendered to the power of running water over a long period of time. She doesn’t like it but the alternative is a lot worse. She hasn’t said anything but doesn’t like the thought of the swamp at all. “Can we get up there? The first bit looks hard!”

  The hill looms above them like a silent hulk with its smooth, steep face hidden partly in the shadows of the late afternoon sun. While it isn’t high, its presence dominates the landscape and reeks of great age—old rocks, old stunted trees and shrubs and coarse tussocks of grass clinging tenaciously to any cracks their roots can find. They could have been among the first species to grow in the world of the Dreamtime. The sky above is shading to a darker blue above a sunlit stillness. This is a rock that doesn’t want to be climbed and deters visitors with its brooding sullenness. If it is going to be climbed, it will require teamwork.

  “Leave it with me,” Jed tells Alex as he looks around. He sees the trunk of a scrubby tree on the ground. He walks over to it, pulling his knife out of its sheath. He chops off the remains of the branches poking out from the trunk as dead reminders of the life it once supported. He leaves a few centimetres near the trunk as footholds. He is left with about five metres of dry straight timber. Bending down, Jed cups his hands around the end of the log, lifting and dragging it over to the face. “I’ll need some help.”

  Alex joins him and together they drag it toward the escarpment. Close to the face they lift it onto their shoulders then push it higher, walking the end up the face until the tip reaches close to the opening of the cleft.

  “Just grip that between your legs and ride it all the way up,” Jed says without thinking. He sees Alex step aside, put her hands on her hips and give him that narrow-eyed look again. What now! She is upset again or pretending to be. He feels uneasy that anything he says can be taken out of context so easily. He wants to say something in defence but doesn’t. He’s wised up and his mouth stays firmly shut. Besides, he can’t decide whether she is genuinely offended or just giving him a hard time again. Time is pressing as the sun creeps lower toward the horizon. It is easier to let it slide. “Sorry, it’s not what I meant! We’ll have to climb it or crawl up until we can get some hand and footholds.”

  “That’s a lot better,” Alex responds. She knows perfectly well what he meant but enjoys the opportunity to make him squirm a little. He’s so bloody confident! She knows he’s almost enjoying the whole situation! It is time someone challenged his maleness. He’s obviously had an easy run for a long time. At the same time, she is glad he is confident and capable. It makes her feel a little bit safer. Alex has to admit she enjoys the rare feeling. “Let’s go. You first.”

  Jed accepts her call. Another bonus point! If he goes first, he can anchor himself and haul her up if necessary.

  He climbs onto the log, not bothering to sit, and edges his way up, trusting his balance while Alex stops it from spinning as it settles under his weight. Just as he reaches the end of the log, a crevice appears to his left. Coiled in there is a copper and black apparition, eyeing him with cold, unblinking eyes. He recognises a rock python, a delicacy that in many localities would be thrown on the cooking fire with slavering expectation. Others would revere it as a sacred snake and avert their eyes.

  He hesitates for a few seconds, checking it again. The last thing they need is a run in with a Taipan! He keeps climbing as it slithers away through a fissure in the rock, deciding not to mention its presence, and reaches up to the beginning of the cleft. He establishes hand and footholds, loosens his belt and pulls it through the loops of his jeans. “Your turn!” he calls down.

  Alex eyes the log warily, but isn’t going to show any fear. It is narrow and she isn’t keen to follow Jed’s example. She sits on it and wiggles her way up until she is close to the end. He reaches down with the belt dangling from his hand. She establishes solid footholds, keeps one hand on the log and reaches up to grab the belt with her right hand, hoisting herself into a standing position so she can find a firm hold with her left hand for the climb to the top. As she follows him up the cleft, it becomes wider with solid hand and footholds that lead them up and over the lip of a small, ancient waterfall.

  Jed drags himself over the lip, then reaches down and takes a firm hold of Alex’s wrist and looks down into her eyes. She looks back without blinking. Both feel the connection from working as a team. He hauls her up onto the top of the jump-up and they stand in silence to look around.

  They are on a small plateau that widens out toward the southwest. The plateau is clothed by low, prickly scrub, grassy tussocks and the occasional stunted tree, clinging to life using the water from wet seasons that eventually finds its way down slope to the country below. Patches of smooth rock and sandy soil are visible between the clumps of grass dotting the surface.

  They head across the plateau, crossing an area of open spinifex country. Jed suddenly stops in front of a cylinder of rock rising about a metre out of the ground. It points into the sky at a slight angle, a bit like an eye tooth in shape. It rears up out of a bare patch of sandy ground from which it appears all the loose rocks have been cleared. He stands silently in front of it, lowering his head slightly in contemplation.

  “What’s up? What’s that?”

  Jed continues to stand in silence, looking around at the scene, taking his time before replying. “I think what we have here is a Cha-nake stone.” He hesitates, unsure of the correct term. “This looks like an Ungoodju stone,” he tries again, struggling with the pronunciation and the correct term. “It is a place of great significance to the Aboriginal people. Imagine a band of warriors approaching this spot,” indicating with a wave of his hand. “Their bodies would be oiled, brave with painted ochre bars across their chests and wild goose plumage. Their hair would be coned behind their heads, decorated with parrot feathers, with their hands clasping stone-tipped spears. They would stop close to this spot in a line, standing shoulder to shoulder. Their leader would come forward respectfully with his hand upraised. He would gently touch the stone with his head bowed to lay bare his heart as his forefathers had done since the beginning of time. When he was finished he would step back and allow each man to come forward in turn to do the same, to pay his respects and make his prayer. When they were all done, they would head back out into the wild to continue their lives on earth.”

  Alex watches Jed as he explains the significance of the site. Again he is revealing a different facet, far removed from the macho bushman or the responsible school principal. He is connected to the land in a way Alex cannot understand, but recognises is significant. He speaks of ancient warriors in a way that shows understanding; a connection and a familiarity as if from a past life. Alex hasn’t expected Jed to show such sensitivity to a different culture and time. He turns back toward her, his back to the late afternoon sun, hands on his hips. In spite of the shadow across his face, his eyes gleam with a strange light. Alex feels safe in his presence, but a slight shudder of fear goes through her. She is glad he is on her side.

  “Let’s go!” Jed commands as Alex takes a last look at the stone. “That way,” gesturing with his hand to allow her to take point. “This is a special place and we should leave it alone. Follow the road less travelled.”

  It’s a reference to the lyrics of a song. Alex knows what the song is about but isn’t sure what Jed is referring to. Is he referring to their current journey, his impression of the life Alex has revealed or to a personal dream for a change to his own life? There isn’t enough time to think it through just now.

  Soon they pass a jumbled collection of weather-worn boulders huddled haphazardly together. Jed leaps progressively upward from one to the other, hoping to catch a view of what is ahead. A shadowed cleft catches his eye. He glances down into i
t. A shapeless, dusty pile hidden in the recesses of the cave attracts his curiosity. He bends down to look more closely, putting his hands on the rocks to either side and edging closer until he can peer intently at close range. Alex follows him gingerly down and leans over his shoulder to get a better look.

  The empty eye sockets of a dirty, dried-out skull, balanced on a pile of bones and carefully tied together with the remains of bark string stare back at them. A dull gleam and unnatural pattern of curves catches Jed’s eye. Poking his knife into the mass of bones, he lifts the item up.

  “It’s a chain. Looks like an old copper necklace or something. Jed is tempted to hook the chain out of the pile of bones. The ageless isolation of the site and his sensitivity to the indigenous culture stops him. He’s been invited to share some of their low-level stories in the past and respects their trust in him. Someone of significance I would guess,” he suggests in a hushed and reverent tone as he lets the chain drop back onto the dusty bones. “We shouldn’t be in this place!”

  “It’s eerie!” Alex announces. “I feel like we’re trespassing.”

  “I agree totally.” Jed scans the rocks for a safe way down. “Let’s get out of here and keep moving.” He would like to explore the whole area then sit and ponder the significance of the site, but recognises Alex is right. They are trespassing on a site they will never properly appreciate. He turns to set the direction for their advance.

  It is only a few hundred metres before they stand on the far edge of the plateau where it drops down to the white sands of a beach and an expanse of blue ocean, calm and still under the late afternoon sun. The beach is fringed on both sides by mangroves and mudflats. To their right they can see the channel cut off from the sea, slowly being choked by wet season mud washing down from the hinterland. It forms a protective barrier around the aircraft hidden under the trees. A tickling sensation of excitement courses through their bodies as they look down onto the scene.

  “We’re almost there,” Alex whispers. Her voice is hushed by the beauty of the view and the anticipation of reaching their goal.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Joe stands in front of Decker, waiting for the explosion. Time drags on but it doesn’t come. Joe has told Decker about the tracks he found, the direction they are heading and how long it will take them to catch up. He doesn’t let Decker know he guessed where they are headed. He tries to give enough information to keep the man happy without revealing all. He doesn’t think the mad whitey will be happy about the distance to be covered. Standing there impassively, Joe waits.

  They’re making a dash for that fuck’n plane, Decker decides. The bitch knows what’s in it apart from her grandfather. She was always a bloody capitalist, making good money on real estate. He always suspected she was thinking about more than granddaddy, so it is only a matter of waiting. Even if nothing is there, he will still get satisfaction, out here in the sticks where the chances of any come back are as low as can be. It is much better than trying to get satisfaction back in Tassie. With a rock solid alibi he can do what he likes.

  “That’s very good Joe. I’m impressed and very happy with you. Sorry about your brother.” Decker turns and reaches into the back of the Patrol. “Here’s some soup,” tossing Joe a can. “He should be able to manage that.” Best to keep their hopes up, Decker thinks. With hope they’ll do their best. If I have to do them I’ll at least make it quick. Loyalty should have some reward! But I can’t really afford any loose ends, even out here. He isn’t a bad man, he tells himself again. He only does what he is forced to, even in the case of the lying bitch. Justice has to be served. “You take care of Brad and rest up Joe,” Decker says, his tone conciliatory. “We’ll head out soon enough.”

  Joe accepts the offer but knows damn well this whitey isn’t to be trusted. All he has done is buy more time for Brad and himself. He takes the can without comment and goes to take care of Little Britches, satisfied he has bought at least a couple of days of life. He knows what to do with the can, unlike the packets of dry grit they were offered before.

  Decker walks over to Jesse, slouching in a camp chair with a beer in his hand and the rifle leaning against his leg. Decker pulls another chair over, grabs a beer and sits down next to him. Jesse is worried by the turn of events but has total faith his dad will stay on top of things.

  “There’s a hand pump stashed away so you can take your time to fix the tyres. Bit of work’ll be good for you boy!” Decker says as he cracks the top of the can and takes a sip. “We’ll head out and track the bastards. Might be away a night, two at the most. You remember the plan?”

  “Yes Pa, you can rely on me! Ain’t nothing or nobody getting the best of us!” Jesse touches his can against his father’s with a metallic click. “We’ll get them pricks, just like that bastard back in Tassie. That was fun. Hope these bastards crawl and beg like he did. He got what he deserved after what he done to you.” Jesse grins, remembering how they gut-shot the fella and let him crawl around while they laughed at his efforts, then tossed him in the hole, still alive, slowly filling it in with the backhoe.

  Decker grunts in agreement. His only regret is that he didn’t drag it out longer. He’ll do it better this time. Nothing like practise!

  Joe looks over at both of them. A shudder runs through him. The shadow of death is hanging over his brother and him, and the two strangers out there in the bush.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Charcoal leans down from the saddle to inspect the grass still struggling upright after being crushed under the wheels of the vehicles. Here the country is made up of exposed, flat sandstone with the occasional patch of tussock. Like Joe, he can pick the line across the surface of the rock if he gets the sun at the right angle. It is a skill passed down from his ancestors, honed daily on the cattle station.

  Thor waits patiently under Charcoal’s weight in the saddle, lowering his head to reach a tussock, rip out a mouthful of grass and chew it with relaxed contentment. His black coat sparkles with a healthy lustre under a cloudless sky of blue. The only sounds are the gentle thump of hooves on the ground and the creak of saddle leather as the riders inspect the tracks.

  Off to the side, Davey waits patiently as his horse also reaches down for a stolen nibble at the grass. Davey volunteered to come along and, like Charcoal, knows the country well. He is shrewd, small, wiry and quick, carrying a well-knit bundle of muscle and sinew across his chest and down his arms honed by years of station work. He reaches around behind him to check his gear and saddle bags. From habit, Davey runs his eye over his partner’s gear as Charcoal contemplates the tracks.

  It has been a long ride, but not difficult in the early stages. As they leave the station property, the country is becoming rocky and broken, with patches of low-lying flood plain. Riding alongside the tracks, the horses’ hooves squelch into black mud in the little green bogs that appear suddenly in the low spots. Steel shoes ring on stones as the riders pace their eager horses. They are strong, valuable animals with a relationship to their riders tested by the pressures of cattle work and regular roundups. It has forged a bond of trust on which man and horse depend for survival in their unforgiving environment.

  Charcoal turns his horse around to face Davey, reining him in with a soothing voice and pressure from his knees. “They came through day or two ago, but not together. I reckon the last two trucks are following the one in front. The last two stop sometimes, maybe to check the tracks like we are. Sump’n funny goin’ on ere!” He looks up at the sun, deciding there is still some good tracking time left in the day. He wonders whether he should send Davey back to report, but they have no news except that the vehicles have left the property. His gut instinct tells him something unusual is going on and it is better to have company than go on alone. “Let’s go, Davey,” he calls as he spurs Thor into a trot, not doubting Davey will be right behind him like a fighter pilot’s wingman.

  Chapter Forty

  Jed and Alex lean against the rock wall, staring into the
flames of the camp fire. They crossed the plateau in quick time and picked their way down to the beach where they found a good place to camp. Jed uses vines and resin to attach Alex’s knife to a long, thin branch to make a spear. While he sets up camp and gets a fire going, he watches Alex stand perfectly balanced on a rock on shoeless feet, overlooking a shallow next to the channel. The spear is held ready over her shoulder, waiting for a fish to appear within range.

  When one swims warily closer, her body tenses. Lifting the spear, Alex arcs in a sensual curve balancing on her back foot. Her arm slowly reaches back ready to hurl the stone-age weapon then relaxes as the fish curves away. She watches and waits for another to edge closer. Finally, the poised arc of her body propels the spear into the water. Splashing through the shallows to retrieve it, Alex holds the spear and the struggling fish high in the air in triumph. Her patience and primeval instincts impress him as she stands in the water, legs apart, silhouetted in the early evening light.

  She makes a hit on a good size Barramundi and, to Jed’s surprise, guts and scales it herself. They sprinkle pepper from one of the sachets in her bag and wrap the fish in leaves to cook over the coals of a low fire. Jed adds mussels and oysters and they look forward to filling their stomachs. Missing their usual good wine, they have to be content with fresh water collected from the remains of the wet season creek running down the face of the bluff behind them. They boil it with plums taken from a little gooseberry tree to produce an agreeably acidic drink.

  In late evening, the tropical dry season sun throws its light across the blue-green sea and dazzling white sand. The still warm, scented breeze gently rustles the leaves of the pandanus palms and slips through the drooping casuarinas with a barely audible whisper. Darkness settles around them as the fish comes out of the fire. It is laid on a bark platter next to the seafood, roasted beans and plums. The fish is steamed to perfection, supplemented by mussels, oysters and salt and pepper from Alex’s travel bag. The tang of the plums and beans adds a pleasant complexity.