by Louis Nowra
When I told Dad I wanted to fight in Afghanistan he said nothing, but it was easy to see he was bitterly disappointed. War to him is totally senseless. His own father was in Vietnam as a lieutenant and was just a couple of years older than I am now. When he returned home, things seemed fine at first but then he took to alcohol and it unleashed what Dad said was a fury at life. Grandfather was always angry, raging about the state of the world or hitting out at his wife and children. He’d often come home from the pub with his face bloody and bruised, almost in triumph, as if he felt he deserved the beating. One night, as he made his drunken way back from the hotel, he drowned in Emerald Creek. Dad always suspected he’d done it on purpose, as if to escape his self-hatred.
Because of his father’s behavior, Dad turned his back on anything that had to do with war or sports. He found solace in books and dreams of finding a way to re-open the mine. I avoided his study because it seemed I’d be intruding on his private world. Every wall had shelves overflowing with books. When I did go in there I was overwhelmed by it, as if the books were a part of him and his immense knowledge was suffocating me. I don’t know if it was a reaction to this, but I didn’t like reading. One huge wall of books was about engineering and mechanical matters, while another had long shelves of fiction and books on ancient Greece and Rome, some in Latin, which he had learned as a boy. Occasionally he’d show me his beautifully drawn plans and ideas, which were sketched out in lines, arrows and doodles; they’d intrigued me, but not the books.
A year or so after Mum died, Dad called me into his study. We sat in silence for a long time and I was beginning to wonder why he wanted me there when he stood up and plucked out a book bound in red leather from a whole set of identically coloured volumes. It was 20 000 Leagues Under the Sea. He sat down and started to read. This became our nightly ritual. He expected me to listen to him read until the wall clock chimed nine o’clock, when he’d slap the book shut. I’d say goodnight and leave the room knowing he’d be starting on a bottle of whisky, lost in his own thoughts and dreams.
Over the next two years he read me the novels that made up Jules Verne’s Extraordinary Journeys in the Known and Unknown Worlds, including Journey to the Centre of the Earth and Around the World in Eighty Days. At first I was uncomfortable listening to him. There was no smalltalk; he’d launch directly into the section where he’d left off the previous night. After a while I began to understand that he was still grieving for my mother and this was the only way he could connect with me. To actually talk to me would be too hard for him – it would bring back too many memories. It was better that we had another sort of relationship, one based on a shared appreciation of Verne. As the months went on, I grew to like listening to my father’s low, steady voice, which would occasionally become excited when Verne detailed the science behind a character’s quest to discover new places, deep in the earth or in the sky, something that appealed to Dad’s engineer’s mind. I began to look forward to this strange intimacy, and with it came a fascination with the novels, especially 20 000 Leagues Under the Sea. The scenes where Captain Nemo and his Nautilus submarine stopped to explore exotic underwater worlds enchanted me. There were shells the size of cows, forests of seaweed, tropical coral with colours so bright they hurt the eye, technicolour fish, marine flowers shaped like giant blue trumpets, huge tree-like plants and oysters the size of plates. Yet these wonderlands contained dangers; I had nightmares about monstrous sea spiders so large they could swallow a man, and for weeks I couldn’t get out of my mind the image of a drowning woman slowly sinking to the ocean floor, still clutching her dead baby, as ravenous sharks circled them. Every time I thought about it, all I could see was my mother’s face on that of the drowning woman. Despite this, the sea seemed beautiful and mysterious, especially to a country boy like me who had never seen it.
I must have said something to Dad about never having been to a beach because one morning he told me to get into the car and we drove from the mountains down to the coast, where he parked between two sand dunes. It was a warm day, with a cloudless sky. We walked through the gap between the two dunes and stopped; before us, stretching to the horizon, was the ocean. I was in awe of its hugeness; all I had known were rivers and creeks. Beneath the flat surface I imagined Nemo’s world of weird shapes, brilliant colours and a peculiar kingdom where it was sometimes impossible to tell the difference between animals and plants. My daydream was broken by Dad crying out something at the top of his voice. When he saw me looking at him, puzzled as to what he saying, he smiled and repeated what sounded like a foreign word. It’s ‘Thalatta! Thalatta!’, he said, excited, explaining that it was the cry of soldiers in the ancient Greek army that fought their way home through enemy territory, arriving at last at the shore and calling exultantly The sea! The sea! Dad shouted out the word again. Come on, join me, he said and we both cried out, Thalatta! Thalatta! The word seemed to release something in him, as if all the grief had been dammed up in him and now a breach – caused by the Greek word for sea – had been made. He shouted louder and I joined in. We continued until we both grew hoarse and we fell about laughing on the sand. Then I heard a strange groaning noise. Dad’s body heaved as if he were vomiting up everything; every particle of grief, loss and confusion. Even though I was young, I knew that this purging would help him. I also knew there was nothing I could do, other than let him weep in private. I walked to the edge of the sea and imagined I was Captain Nemo in my submarine beneath the waves.
We stayed on the beach for over an hour before returning to Burning Mountain, but somehow the shouting had released Dad’s pent-up grief. From then on he seemed to fall prey to dark moods less and less. He still read Verne to me but he began to make smalltalk and we would discuss the science, both bad and good, in the novels. You know, Mark, it’s only us, he said one evening when I was about to go to bed. I looked at him, at his concerned face shining in the lamplight. I nodded, knowing that his parents were dead and that our few remaining relatives lived interstate, with none of them maintaining any ties to us. Dad was right, it was only us two.
One night I went ahead and spoiled it all when I came back home from drinking and smoking with my mates. I was heading off to my room when the study door opened and Dad poked his head out. How about us finishing Mistress Branican? he said. It was a novel about a French woman searching for her husband in Australia. I had been growing tired of Jules Verne and the novel had begun to bore me. No, it’s crap. Dad frowned as if he couldn’t believe what I said. I’m no longer a kid! I shouted and went on to my room where I lay on my bed, feeling guilty about what I’d said; but I wasn’t going to apologise – and, being the dickhead I was, I never did.
He never brought up the subject again, but our worlds began to separate – it was as if Verne was the only connection we had and I had broken it. Although we were civil to each other, we kept to ourselves, with Dad retreating even more into his study and his private universe.
Before I left Burning Mountain for Afghanistan he followed me out to my car and when I was about to get in said quietly, Plato believed that it’s only the dead who have seen the end of war.
That’s damn typical, I thought, his last words to me are a quote from a philosopher. I went to hug him all the same, but he backed away. I thought, Well, screw you! and jumped in the car, driving away, not looking back. I was hurt but now I understand he didn’t want to touch me. He thought his touch was a curse. By not hugging me he was hoping that I would come home unharmed. And now he has heard I am dead, he must think he is alone in the world.
My skin starts to burn and I return to the cave and see that Prince is still sleeping, his legs twitching as he dreams. He needs this rest as much as I do. A scorpion scuttles towards him and I get some satisfaction by crushing it under my boot.
I’m dozing when I wake up to the pleasant sensation of something warm and moist on my skin. I’m still not wearing my shirt and Prince is licking my shoulder wound. I’m amazed; he must know the wound has to heal. He
doesn’t look at me as he does it but concentrates on long licks. I can feel the saliva coating the cut. According to Casey, a dog’s tongue carries healing antibodies. It can only help me. Prince steps away and stares at me, his mouth open, as if he’s smiling, proud of his efforts. I scratch his throat. I want to praise him but I can’t say anything because I would cry; his concern for me is extraordinary and I wonder if I am worthy of it. The only way I will be worthy of him is if I get him back safely.
Early in the evening we eat more of the goat. I pretend the uncooked meat is a Japanese dish and that it tastes better raw than cooked. Prince sits beside me, tearing at the stringy meat. I laugh at the sight of us chomping into the bloody hunks. I realise that I have become an animal too and we’re both on the same level of the basic drive of life – eat to survive. Later, as the night turns cold, we curl up together for warmth. His fur feels soft against my skin. I notice our heartbeats are in sync. The sensation of it is soothing and I feel an incredible, reassuring sense of security being with him.
When we wake just before dawn I hear an annoying buzzing noise. The remains of the goat on the cave floor are fly-ridden. Prince doesn’t seem interested in it any more, so I bury two legs in the dirt to dig up later and throw the rest outside.
Over the next three hours I sit in the shade of the cave entrance with Prince and watch the sun bake the soil. The landscape is as sterile as Mars. About four in the afternoon a shaft of sunlight inches its way into the cave. I get ready, check my M4 and pistol, dig up the two goat legs and stuff them in my backpack as emergency food for Prince. There are no rations or painkillers left and only a small amount of Quick Clot. My wound has stopped throbbing, thanks to Prince. His leg has improved and the limp is less noticeable. The meat did wonders for him. His eyes sparkle with enthusiasm and he walks around, eager to be on the move. I motion him to wait. He sits in the shaft of sunlight as I examine the map again to make certain of our route. Where we will be travelling is a blank space except for four villages, all of which are unnamed, including the one we’re aiming for.
I glance up from the map and see him staring outside, his fur shiny in the sunlight. He looks so noble, indeed like a prince. He turns to me, and at that moment the sun hits his eyes and I am astonished. It’s as if the black film covering them has washed away to reveal their true colour – they are a deep blue. They are exactly as Casey described them. The eyes are beautiful and peaceful, as if they see beyond fear and worry. Casey was right, it’s as if you can see into Prince’s soul and he into yours. And as I gaze in wonder at him he blinks, and when his eyelids open the blackness, like a veil, covers his eyes again. I can’t make it without you. I know you understand that, I say, hugging him.
11
It’s still hot when we leave the cave, but we have to put up with the heat because it would be impossible to see where we are going. The route is downhill at first, later we’ll have to follow the contours and hope to find animal or human tracks. Prince seems so much healthier and I feel better for the rest. He looks up at me, his head at a tilt as if he is silently asking me just how serious this next part of our journey will be. Well, Prince, my boy, I say, giving him a tap on the rump, maybe a day and a half, maybe two.
At first the going is easy because we’ve found goat trails, but then evening comes. The air is thin and cold and the physical effort is so taxing that I’m sweating and Prince’s tongue is hanging out of his mouth. As the moon slips below the mountain ranges, it becomes increasingly difficult to see. Sometimes we lose the track and find ourselves on a cliff edge, with only a dark emptiness below. Once or twice I slip on loose stones and find myself sliding down a hill, only stopping when I jam my boot heels into the hard earth. This spooks me and I have to sit for a while recovering my breath and try to slow my racing pulse. Our schedule is unravelling. We’re taking much longer than I thought and at times I wonder if we’re ever going to reach the valley.
It’s when I find myself crawling on the earth trying to feel for a track that I spot a pale white patch in front of me. It’s the back view of Prince – his rear hindquarters have a splash of white that stands out from his black fur. Casey had dyed it, as he had the white patch on his neck, but I suppose because Prince has been sitting most of the day in the cave, the black dye has worn away. I signal him to walk ahead of me. He knows what I want and he trots ahead, more certain of where the tracks are than I am in the dim light. I follow the small white patch as it sways slightly in the darkness like a lamp in a breeze. Because he’s in front of me I can’t tell him to slow down. He must sense I’m lagging behind, because sometimes he turns his head to see where I am and waits for me to catch up. It’s as if he’s leading a blind man, which in a way I am. Never have I been so dependent on another being.
When I think we must be close to the valley we instead find ourselves on a plateau that leads to more hills and switchbacks. We’re following the contours of one slope when Prince pauses, staring intently at something in the shadows. At first I think the ground is littered with large rocks, then as we come closer I see that there seems to be a rough purpose to their arrangement. Rocks and stones of unequal height, some up to a metre tall, seem to have been planted in the soil as if to make a stone garden. Prince sniffs the air like a wine connoisseur smelling a cork; something is intriguing him. I stop at a large rock and examine it in the dim light. I make out a faint inscription carved into it. I stand up and look around. It’s a cemetery, with the upturned rocks used as headstones. Prince trots over to a mound of earth. It’s freshly dug and he sniffs what’s below. He must be smelling the newly dead. I’m relieved; the cemetery means that we’re close to a village and therefore the valley.
There’s no time to stop. We have to cross the river before dawn but the difficult descent has put us several hours behind. I stroke Prince’s head and he looks up at me from the grave, when there’s a distant sound of shooting. I grab Prince and drag him with me to hide behind a large headstone. I release the safety catch on my M4 and prepare myself. It’s hard to know exactly where the shots came from. There are several more. I listen more carefully as the hope builds up in me that it may be a battle between the Taliban and our troops. But it sounds more like small-arms fire than heavy combat weapons and rocket grenades. It stops and there’s silence. Prince stares at me, as if wondering why we’re hiding, because, of course, he hasn’t heard the gunfire. I wait some minutes but there are no more shots. The little hope I had that the allies may be nearby is gone. In all probability it was a quarrel between local warlords over a matter of honour or money; I’ve witnessed such skirmishes before. At least the firefight happened far enough away for me to feel we will be safe.
As we take a well-worn path down the slope from the cemetery, the sun comes up, slowly at first and then in a bright dazzle of light that makes me squint. Prince is walking in front when I almost topple over him because he’s suddenly stopped. I hit the stony ground hard and can feel immediately that I’ve hurt my chin. I sit up on my knees and feel for any break, only to hear footsteps not far away. I look up and see Prince staring ahead. A figure is coming up the slope towards us. I grab my rifle and get ready to shoot.
Instead of a man coming towards us it’s a boy about five or six years old. He’s got a black vest on and white linen trousers which, as he comes closer, I see are splashed with blood. The boy walks straight at us. The fear he may be a suicide bomber grips me. I point the rifle at him and tell him to stop but he doesn’t. As he comes closer I yell out again, this time in Pashto, ordering him to stop. Still he continues coming. I glance at Prince, who is rigid, his lips quivering as if he’s smelling whether the boy is friend or foe.
I yell out again but the boy keeps coming at the same steady pace, and as he does I notice how blank his face is. Prince growls softly. I tap him to be still.
By the time the boy is a few metres away I realise that he seems in a total daze. He walks past us as if he isn’t aware we exist and heads towards the cemetery. He has no food
, no water. He’s certain to die in the heat. I run after him and grab him by the shoulder. He doesn’t look at me, and shrugs me off. I grab him again and turn him to face me.
His eyes have the thousand-metre stare of soldiers who have been through a terrible battle. The blood on his trousers is drying a dark red and one of his leather sandals is covered in donkey dung. Maybe he saw or was part of the firefight. He doesn’t seem aware of me wiping away the blood on his cheek and forehead with my sleeve. Suddenly he jumps away, yelping in fright when he sees Prince. He stands a few metres away, staring at me and Prince as if he cannot believe his eyes. It’s all right, it’s all right, we’re not going to hurt you, I say in English. He spins around in a panic as if he’s aware for the first time of where he is. I hold out my hand to him. He doesn’t move but trembles as he stares at Prince. I wave Prince away and hold out my hand again. Come on, let me take you home.
I take his limp hand and start to walk him, but he pulls away. I drop down on one knee and touch his cheeks. Come on, mate, I’m taking you home. I stand up and as I do the boy’s face goes blank as if in shock again. He doesn’t seem aware of where he is and who I am any more. Prince looks at the boy, as if trying to understand what is going on. I motion him to lead and the boy and I, hand-in-hand, follow. His hand is so tiny that it makes mine feel huge, like a wicket-keeper’s glove.
According to the map there’s a village somewhere near the river we are going to be crossing. The boy may have come from there or maybe not, but I’ll drop him off as close as possible to the village without Prince and me being seen.