‘You gottim again, Tim. Jenny Jinda. Sarah’s girl.’
‘An’ you brought her back here?’ Tim says. ‘I’ll be buggered.’
‘I brought her back.’
‘The coppers thought that whitefeller must’ve killed her and dumped the body.’
‘He near enough did kill her. I wish they’d charged him. But I brought her back. An’ then Riley was born.’
He tells them of the years he spent keeping his family alive, carting in stores bought with Billy’s gold, salting the killers. Of the deaths; Jenny Jinda, Parli, Bessie. Of the stubborn refusal of Billy and Sarah to contemplate coming out. Of the love they showered on Riley. Of the desperate impossibility of knowing what to do. Of the smoke signal. Of mourning for Sarah. Of walking out with Riley on his shoulders, leaving his father behind.
It is only when he finally runs out of words that they realise Riley is humming a song, barely audible, as he rocks back and forth.
Eventually a dingo howls.
‘You used to take Milly in there hey?’ Rosa asks.
‘Coupla times,’ he affirms.
‘And what —’
Two Bob holds up a hand to cut her off. ‘I got no more words left in me tonight.’ Riley is by his side, helping him to rise, ushering him to his swag. ‘Early start tomorrer,’ he reminds them as he subsides into it.
Looks are exchanged across the flicker of fire. But no-one speaks.
49
Hardly a word is spoken as they get themselves and the horses organised. There is no sign of Riley. Two Bob tells Dancer he’s started walking. ‘He’ll be waitin’ for us.’
Tim and Jimmy watch them head off, and settle in for a few days of fishing. Two Bob leads the way, with the string of packhorses and the spares following. Rosa and Dancer fan out on either side a few lengths behind him, each content to pursue their own thoughts for now. Falcon is champing at the bit, trying to convince Andy to let him run.
It is not long before Two Bob picks a path from the open plain down towards the river, finds a gentle gradient, and leads his team into a dry section of the riverbed. Soon they are across and up the other side, heading upstream along the south bank, past a round hillock covered in spinifex.
They are on undulating ground swelling up towards a range that parallels the river. The range is tall, and steep. Rugged, somehow forbidding. Two Bob angles across the undulations towards a rocky point where river and range both turn to the south. It is slow going as the ground underfoot becomes rockier and less even. They have to let the horses pick a path, step by step. Dancer imagines Riley skipping across this ground at twice the pace they are managing.
Once they have rounded the point, the country ahead smooths out, sloping evenly down towards the river on their left. The range begins to resolve itself into a sharper shape; a scree slope rising steeply to the base of a cliff that stretches into the distance. Just before the cliff starts there is a notch in the skyline of the range.
The four riders have drawn together. Only when they are almost upon it does it become apparent that the notch in the skyline is at the top of a narrow defile that cuts through the range. Riley is sitting on a boulder at the foot of the ravine. Two Bob signals a halt. Eases himself off Nellie, and hands the reins to Dancer. He walks to where he can face up into the ravine, standing on the bank of the creek emerging from it. He cups his hands to his mouth.
‘Waliyooooo …’
His call trails away, then begins to echo off the rocks. A mob of startled shorthorns bursts out of the trees, galloping towards the river.
Riley stokes a fire while billy, pannikins and the makings are extracted from packs. Once the horses are tethered Dancer and Andy walk to the ravine. The late morning sun is high enough to throw good light into the slash in the range. It opens up slightly, a hundred yards in, to a small bowl with a grove of bauhinia trees and spindly white gums reaching for the light. It seems to be a dead-end, but shifting to another angle, Dancer thinks he can see the gorge continue, angling up behind a house-sized boulder.
‘We’re supposed to ride up there?’ he asks disbelievingly.
‘We’ll be leadin’ the horses, not ridin’ ’em,’ Andy answers. ‘Look.’ He points to the grey groove of a cattle pad winding through the spinifex. ‘Bullamon can get up an’ down. We’ll make it.’
Two Bob has come up to join them. ‘No cattle pad like that olden days. We had bush gate up there to block ’em in. All driftwood an’ that kind.’
‘An’ you used to bring a mob down through here every year?’ Andy asks.
‘Every year. Nice cattle too. We worked ’em every year up there in the valley. Make ’em quiet. Ol’ Stumpy reckoned they made the best coachers in the Kimberley.’
Andy lets out a low whistle. ‘Bugger me, lambara. What a fucken story!’
Two Bob tells them to have something to eat with their tea. ‘We’ll be halfway up that climb proper dinnertime. Nice little waterhole not far when we get up the top. We’ll make early camp there.’ Rosa digs out a packet of dried fruit and nuts to top off the damper and jam. Whilst they eat, Two Bob gives his orders.
The ascent is a hard, hard slog, but remarkably trouble-free. One little jump-up causes Buddy to scramble. Dancer helps Two Bob cajole Nellie and the string past this hurdle, but the horses are all willing; they want to be out of this gorge as much as the humans do. The loads all hold on the packhorses. He is starting to appreciate just how well Tim and Two Bob have prepared the animals and the gear for this trek.
His attention is focused on the trail ahead; choosing his footsteps, making sure he does not stumble and jerk Buddy’s lead rope. The gorge has opened up a little, and the creek is now well below the track. He doesn’t really notice the lessening in the gradient. The downward steps are just another dip in the trail.
‘Oi.’
He looks up at the soft call from Riley. Blinks. Looks again. The majesty of the country almost undoes him. He is at the high point of a plateau that unfolds into the distance. The creek – it seems too insignificant to have cut a path through the mighty range at his back – is down below to his left. A glimpse of water, glinting with reflected sunlight, indicates a pool. Diverging treelines show that it sits at a junction. In a line of sight beyond the pool is a magnificent bluff that commands the landscape.
The smaller tributary winds down from the east. But his eye is drawn to the south. The plateau slopes gently down, gradually narrowing to become the floor of a valley that spears in a straight line into the distance, hemmed on either side. The right wall is a fierce looking tumble of jagged rock. The left wall, from its beginning at the bluff, is a sheer red cliff, just starting to pick up the rich light of the westering sun.
Jiir, jiir.
Dancer looks up to see the pair of white-bellied eagles spiralling on a downdraft.
By the time they reach camp at the pool on the creek bend, Two Bob has almost seized up. He has to call Riley over to help take his weight as he eases himself gingerly out of the saddle, clutching at that calf again. Despite his protestations Rosa takes charge, settling him in the shade, checking pulse and temperature, whilst Riley hovers.
Dancer and Andy are left to deal with the business of unpacking and unsaddling the horses, leading them down in pairs to drink, and finally hobbling them out. Rosa has grabbed her medical kit as soon as it was unloaded and given Two Bob some Panadol and salt tablets, and they can see that he is starting to pick up. She comes over to join them as they watch the horses slowly disperse, nickering to each other as they forage. She turns a full circle, drinking in the country with her eyes. ‘What a place! I like the look of this country of yours, Dancer.’
With her words he gets a surge of feeling rising from his guts into his chest that has him standing taller, straighter, as a slow smile spreads across his face.
Two Bob insists he is fine, tomorrow will be easy, nice steady going. Riley has smuggled some sheets from the sketchpad into the packs, and sits off to one side a bit doodling patterns. Once he ha
s some tea to sip on, Two Bob talks them through the geography of the valley and the plan for tomorrow while the others prepare and cook supper.
From that bluff, to the south and the east it is all proper rocky ranges country going on forever, he explains. ‘No good for horse, no good for bullamon. Only goanna an’ hill kangaroo, an’ olden days footwalkin’ blackfeller. Ol’ Jandamarra used to come up through there to get away from police mob. Nobody couldn’t track him.’
He points to the east, ‘That creek comin’ down, he don’t go far. Might be three miles.’ They used to block the pass in the range there, keep their bullamon here in the valley. There’s an old foot track through the bottom side of Highlands, up into the old outlaw country, through to Halls Creek, Wyndham, anywhere. ‘I been walk that road one time.’
He swivels to point to the jagged range forming the west wall, ‘Other side them rocks, that big river cuts through, where he swings round down from Bullfrog Hole. Biggest gorge. Then he opens up into station country.’
A half-turn this time. He lifts his shoulders and sits straighter as he points to the south. ‘That big valley, that’s our really home. He runs riiight down, straight down, till he finish up in them ranges.’ They won’t be going right to the end of the valley. Somewhere past there was his father’s gold place. His old camp is about two thirds of the way down, ‘But you won’t see him, even if you lookin’.’ If they get away early and everything goes smoothly, they can be there by midafternoon.
He tells Andy to be sure to keep a count on the cattle that he sees. ‘But if you an’ Falcon are out ahead, when you come up to where there’s two big boab trees together on west side, you gotta pull up there an’ wait.’ He looks over at Riley, who is listening without watching. ‘Riley been ask me for somethin’. He wants to go in first. Just him, an’ Dancer. The rest of us gotta come behind way little bit. He didn’t say why. He just been ask me for that.’
It is a quiet supper. They are finished and washed up before it is dark. Dancer and Andy pack away everything except the thin swags and the makings for tea and a cold breakfast. Riley has drawn until it is too dark to see, but now they can sense him watching them in the torchlight as they move about stowing gear in saddlebags, tightening straps. The boyish bounce has gone; there is a stillness about Riley this evening.
‘Big day tomorrer,’ Andy murmurs.
They all find a spot for their swags, as flat and as sandy as they can.
‘I feel like I’ve earned my sleep tonight,’ Rosa says softly, to no-one in particular.
‘You’ve done good, girl,’ Two Bob answers.
It is not long before Andy is snoring, and Dancer can sense from their even breathing that Two Bob and Rosa have drifted off. But sleep is slow to come to him tonight. And he can hear Riley prowling.
50
Most of the cattle they see are on the move, disturbed by Andy up ahead, but there seem to be plenty. Each time Andy circles back he updates Two Bob and Rosa. Rosa is impressed. ‘Too much,’ reckons Two Bob. ‘Ol’ days we managed ’em proper. Kep’ the country better – more grass.’
‘We’ll just have to clean ’em out next year eh,’ Andy grins, with a wink for Rosa. ‘Come on boy,’ he flicks the reins and wheels Falcon off again at a brisk canter.
Rosa laughs. ‘He’s enjoying himself, your old man.’
‘Isn’t he,’ Dancer acknowledges. But he is only half paying attention. He is watching the country. Watching, listening, absorbing. And thinking about what is to come.
A bit earlier in the day Two Bob had signalled him closer. They rode beside each other for a few minutes. Eventually the old man spoke. ‘That Riley, he never asks for nothin’ … That’s not his style.’
‘You talking about him wanting me to go in front with him?’
‘Yuw.’ They rode on a bit more. ‘I gotta make sure you’re clear on somethin’ …’
‘What’s that?’
‘When Daddy sent up that smoke signal, an’ I came in here to get Riley … I had no horse that time. Just footwalk, with him on my shoulders most of the way, all the way back to Bullfrog Hole. Daddy, he was sick, proper sick. An’ proper old. He wouldn’t come. Dancer, there was no-one left behind to bury him.’
‘You never came back?’
Two Bob doesn’t answer, instead he asks, ‘You right to go in front with Riley?’
‘If that’s what he wants.’
The sun is still high when Dancer spots the twin boabs. They’ve made good progress on the open, even ground. Riley, with his rhythmic, ground-swallowing gait, has stayed well ahead of them though.
Andy looks relaxed, back resting against the smaller of the boabs. Falcon is the first to spot them approaching. He turns and lifts his head inquisitively. They see Andy get to his feet, alerted by the horse’s movement. He waves, and goes over to soothe the horse.
The second boab is a monster, nearly the size of the giant back at Highlands. It has multiple trunks, one of which lies parallel to the ground. It is not until they are almost there that they spot Riley as he springs down from his perch on the trunk.
51
The faint path veers right, but three steps to the left on the trackless granite, a different, hidden path beckons. Riley does not hesitate, despite the years. Coming from the south the opening would’ve been easy to spot, but until Riley ducks around the boulder, Dancer has no idea there is a break in the rockface.
The afternoon sun is warm as they make their way beneath the looming overhang, but the morning cold lingers in the shadowy depths. Dancer glimpses desiccated animal bones, but Riley’s quick tread allows no close examination, and before he knows it the vista opens on a small glistening valley enclosed on all sides.
The cousins halt as one, hands touching featherishly. Riley, slight and dark. Dancer, heavy-set and gangling all at once, yellow more than brown, like an adder asleep in the sun. The skeleton of the hut is weathered grey beneath the reds and browns of the cliff. The rusted sheets of iron lie amongst the green vegetation like twisted flakes from the rockface. As their eyes sweep across the stark remains, they both see the bones. They hesitate only a moment.
The bones lie with arms folded, at peace. The flesh had withered before the hut’s walls had crumbled, before dingoes or other predators could disturb the remains. Riley shows no fear, even when the skull falls apart at his touch. He merely steps back.
This is my great-grandfather.
At the foot of the bed is an ancient tin trunk. With the lightest of nudges, Riley elbows Dancer forward. ‘That his treasure box.’ Riley’s whisper is insistent. ‘Go on.’
Dancer carefully removes the two smooth stones weighing down the lid. As he reaches out to touch it, the disintegrating skull fills his mind’s eye. He eases the lid open, amazed at how readily it comes free.
A parcel wrapped in oilcloth sits at the top. Dancer gently unwraps it. He senses Riley step closer, feels his cousin’s breath on his shoulder.
There are two pouches of worn leather. He can’t help a small smile as he realises that each is made from the balls sac of an old-man kangaroo. Carefully he lifts them, and holds them up. Riley reaches over to take them.
Bending close, Dancer can just make out the pencilled scrawl on the top page of the fragile, yellowed papers: The Last Will & Testament of William Noakes.
52
Dancer kneels before the trunk, staring at the will, unable to think.
Eventually he places the papers gently back in the oilcloth and carefully rewraps them. He lays the parcel on the ground beside him.
He peers into the trunk again. There is another cloth-wrapped bundle. He feels it gingerly, tests its weight. More papers, he guesses. An ancient looking locket, the silver case and chain tarnished dark. These are resting on a cotton dress of faded red; it looks fragile enough to crumble at a touch. A handful of books. The one on top is just a bundle of pages tied together with two ribbons. On the worn cover, indents with just a trace of the original embossing seem to indicate it
is Robinson Crusoe.
He closes the lid of the trunk. He picks up the parcel with the will, joins Riley outside the remains of the hut.
‘You lived here?’ Dancer looks at Riley.
‘Yuw. Little one.’
‘D’you remember?’
‘I remember. I know that treasure box for Poppy Pop eh.’
‘True. Poppy Pop?’
‘That his name belongin’ to me. He been say I can’t call him Poppy, like Grandpa, you know, because he more older’n that. He father for Nanna Sarah. So I been call him Poppy Pop. Make him laugh.’
‘What else do you remember?’
Riley points. ‘Camp for me and Nanna Sarah.’ Dancer can just make out the traces; little more than the ant-eaten stumps of corner posts. ‘Not flash like Poppy Pop, only bark roof. We been go inside his camp big rain time.’
Riley starts walking. Dancer can see the bulges of the leather pouches in his pockets. He stops near the foot of the cliff, in the shade of a fig tree, looks about in the undergrowth until he locates a mound. ‘Nanna Sarah. Poppy Pop been bury her here, then Two Bob been come for me.’ He pulls vines away from another mound. ‘Look. That one Nanna Nan, from before me. See, I remember. Come on.’
Riley seems almost jaunty as he takes Dancer on a tour. Back past the skeleton hut to the creek. ‘Ol’ veggie garden,’ he says kicking at some rusted fragments of chicken wire. As they cross the creek Dancer can see the remnants of a stone wall that must have once created a small dam. Up over the other side to where some old pickets and other detritus suggest former usage. ‘Ol’ Camp. Nanna Sarah used to be, before she come back to Poppy Pop side.’
He points upstream, ‘That way Jaliwala. I remember Jaliwala. He got a song. Come on.’
‘Hang on, Riley, here come the other lot.’
53
On the other side of the small valley, beyond the Old Camp, there is an overhang like the one at the valley’s entrance, but deeper, and taller. It is too open, too full of light to be a cave, but it’s an almost perfect natural shelter.
The Valley Page 18