by Peter Docker
Mularabone jumps down from the cabin. He has the cloaking device in his hands, programming it as he walks. These new ones are so small. He lines it up on the tanker-trailer and initiates it. His fingers are long and delicate and play across the tiny keyboard like a musical instrument. He loves this technology. He scoops up some sand, puts the device into the earth and covers it over again with the sand.
We turn and walk back to the idling truck.
In an hour or so we’ve parked both tanker-trailers and the rig. We walk backwards for another hour or so with the blower, washing our tracks away with the little wind. We take the blowing in turns. I’m on my second go when I stumble and fall backwards, overcome with exhaustion. I lie there with the blower in my hands, unable to move. The shaft of air points straight up at the stars, the little wind trying to scatter those distant and ancient lights.
Suddenly, Mularabone is there, his face in the airstream, his hair blowing back from the wind. He waggles his head from side to side and breaks into song in this kind of crazy falsetto:
Oh these Waterboys drive round a big old truck
When they feeling that kind they need a good old...
Fact-finding mission to find that good sweet water
Keep ya sons at home and lock up your daughter
Waterboys always doing what they shouldn’t oughtta.
I’m laughing with him. ‘What they shouldn’t oughtta! What’s that?’
‘Well – it rhymed!’
I’m giggling so uncontrollably that the blower falls down and engulfs us both in a mini sandstorm. Mularabone bends and kills the machine.
A silence comes down on us like a white drug in our brains. There’s only me giggling silently, and wheezing for breath, and a million, million stars. I look up to see Mularabone’s hand outlined by those shining stars, hovering just in front of me. I take the hand and am hauled up to my feet.
We stand there, our hands still clasped, looking at the stars reflected in each other’s eyes.
‘Let’s walk now,’ he finally says.
‘How far?’
‘Two hours.’
I look at him.
‘Tops,’ Mularabone affirms with a grin.
We start walking. As we go, Mularabone pulls out a plug of herb and offers me some leaves. I take them. We chew and walk. Walk and chew.
When we were doing our initial training, years ago, before the cadres, The Sarge used to say to us, ‘If ya can’t do it walkin, it ain’t worth doin.’
We used to joke about how The Sarge had sex with his missus. There were all sorts of stories about him marching around his backyard with her straddling him and holding on like a mad Afghan camel driver, especially as his knees always give out when he comes. Even if Mularabone made them up, they were good stories. The Sarge would always demand to know what was so funny, and then laugh his hard little laugh when we told him, may his spirit find peace.
We walk in silence now. Sometimes I think I hear that ancient whale-song in my head, sometimes I think it is Uncle Birra-ga. My own breathing is like a sea-mammal, down here on the desert floor. I am so empty, so nothing, that I almost forgive myself.
Two: Rainbows in the Tank
It feels like we’ve only been walking for a few minutes or so when, far away to our left, some tiny fingers of light begin to feel for the edge of the horizon.
We’ve been walking for hours.
I look up and there is Uncle Birra-ga, standing in the same place where we first saw him. He turns and disappears down into the earth. And this is where we go. Following the old Countryman down under the red skin of this mother of ours. The narrow steps are cut into rock. We go down, following the bobbing, gnarled hat of Uncle Birra-ga before us. There is a heavy scraping sound above us. I look back to see another fulla, smiling down at me from in front of the closed door. I didn’t see him at all when I came through that door. I saw no alcove; maybe he was hanging from the roof above like a ghost bat.
We level out and turn a corner, arriving onto a small platform area.
Uncle Birra-ga is being greeted by Aunty Ouraka. She is never in a hurry. Being in her company is like being in a sanctuary. Her name means wait awhile. They’re both bathed in this greenish light. I look to where the green glow is coming from and see a glass window into a huge water tank. The tank is illuminated from within. Inside, under the water, two little brown bodies turn over and over in underwater gymnastics. The children are naked, both boys, smiling and looking through the window at Uncle, Aunty, and us. Uncle gives Mularabone and me a big smile. Aunty Ouraka envelops us in a hug. Down in that safe place, with the desert narcotic flowing through my mind, it is like the Country herself enfolding us in her embrace. Aunty releases us without a word. Uncle gestures to the boys in the tank with his lips and eyes and they kick for the surface. Uncle goes over to a sidewall and hits a button. The wall opens and a control panel slides out. Uncle’s fingers fly over the keys, then he turns back to face the tank window. The two little boys come down a stairway off to the right side of the tank. They run straight up to Mularabone.
‘What you got for us, Uncle?’
‘You made something new?’
Mularabone pulls a gadget from his pocket. He aims it at the boys bouncing on the spot before him and clicks on, wait, wait, and then off. They can hardly contain their excitement.
‘What is it, Uncle?’
‘Can I’ve a go? Can I?’
‘Did ya make it yourself?’
He hits another button and a perfect image of the two boys clamouring for attention, complete with sound, appears next to the two naked boys.
‘What is it, Uncle?
‘Can I’ve a go? Can I?’
‘Did ya make it yourself?’
The image freezes in the last moment of the record. The nephews laugh. Mularabone holds the gadget out to them. The older one snatches it and they run off down a corridor, leaving wet footprints on the stone floor.
There is some activity in the tank and our eyes go to the window. Uncle Birra-ga throws his arms around Mularabone and me. A whole rainbow of colour flashes through the water tank.
‘I love to watch the lights,’ he says in English.
Aunty turns and follows the children. Mularabone and I stand in Uncle’s embrace for a long time, watching the lights from the purifier flashing through the cool green water.
Uncle’s fingers give us both a tight little squeeze, then he drops his arms and walks away, leaving us standing there – the feeling of his touch still a sweet scar on our shoulders. Mularabone and I turn and follow. There is a narrow winding corridor in the rock that slopes gently down. It is dark in here, really dark, but my feet still walk with certainty, like they know where to go. Ahead there is light. The corridor opens out into a huge cavern; a space as big as a footy oval with a high ceiling, with many lanterns and several fires burning. There are many exits and entrances with tunnels leading off and opening into other big underground spaces. There are a few dozen people in the main cavern, going about their morning routine. We follow Uncle over to Aunty Ouraka’s fire. She is pulling some seed cakes from a flat stone on the coals. She wraps them in a big leaf, drizzles honey from a label-less tin and hands them to us as we approach. The two naked little fullas are standing near the fire, drying off. They look at me with open curiosity. Not many Djenga come down here, I see by their look.
Mularabone and I sit down on the bare rock and eat. The damper is extraordinary in its richness and texture; dozens of different types of seeds and seed-pods have been ground by Aunty, collected over several days of foraging on the desert floor, way above our heads. After the feeling of being at the bottom of an ancient ocean in the desert last night, to be down here, under the ocean floor, is something else again. I chew the damper. Uncle hands me a piti to drink water from. I drink. I look to Mularabone. He is looking blurry. I don’t know if it’s him causing that, or me. We haven’t slept for three days or so. I look up to see Uncle just over the other side of the
fire, talking to two other old Countrymen. They don’t look at us, but we know they’re talking about us. I finish my damper. Drink again. The traditional flat-cake gives our arrival the air of ceremony. That’s why Mularabone and I are trying to feel what the old Countrymen are saying. But we can’t. Someone is putting blankets over us. We lie down, and are gone.
Dreaming 44: The Cornfield
After an eternity of icy bump and lurch in the darkness, the ute I’m travelling in finally slows. Ahead of us, behind my head, there is a light source. I don’t look around. Couldn’t, even if I wanted to. The ute stops. After the manic rush through the desert air, the silence and stillness are almost overpowering.
I get out; the metal thing is still hard against my throat, forcing me to move slowly and with a strange gait. I gradually swing around to the light source, like an insect, reluctant to accept that the pull of the light is as inevitable as drawing breath. I can see dozens of men standing around utes in the semi-darkness. They all have rifles in their hands, or slung over their shoulders. They smoke and drink and talk in quiet, tense voices. They glance in my direction but do not look fully at me. I’m hauled before a huge beer-bellied bloke with thick, square, black-rimmed glasses and a black handlebar moustache, which obscures his top lip. The rifle he holds propped on his hip looks too small for him, like a child who’s grown out of his favourite toy. Behind him is a vast field of golden corn, lit up by hundreds of floodlights mounted on tall silver poles. The corn has eared and is standing head-high. The floodlights illuminate us all: me trussed up with metal, and them standing around caressing their rifles like porn stars touching their cocks.
The big bloke looks at me evenly through his thick black glasses.
‘Howdy, Boy,’ he drawls at me. ‘How’r’ya doin? I’m 44.’
The southern drawl goes like an iceblock down my spine. He begins his little preamble. I get the feeling he’s done all this many times before. Does that mean I’ve met him before? He seems very familiar to me. As he talks to me, I’m having trouble understanding him. His blubbery lips move in slow motion and I answer him with ‘sir’, ‘please,’ and ‘thank you’.
My voice comes out sounding nasal. Almost so I sound like him. Or he sounds like me. I hate myself for this forelock-tugging weakness, but forgive myself too, like a child crying itself to sleep.
I am trying to think. To give myself options.
To run? They have rifles. The only way is through the corn. There don’t seem to be any automatic weapons, giving me half a chance. To hide? I could dig a hole. No time. And they’ll easily track me on this ground. I could go for 44, put my fingers and teeth into his throat. But he looks strong. And there are so many others. I still can’t move properly with this metal cuff at my throat. The only place is in the corn. They want me to go into the corn.
44 is in no hurry. But in the others, there’s the beginning of a definite stir sweeping through them. They’re restless now. Want their hunt. Their sport. I hear weapons being cocked. I know what will happen if I get caught...
When I get caught.
There is no bugle blowing or big announcement. Just straight down to business.
Someone removes the throat-cuff and I take off at a dead run. A couple of shots go off and then I’m into the corn.
I hear them take off behind me, baying like a pack of dogs. They tear after me into the corn, swearing, firing, and running – their minds hopeful and their legs strong.
I’m running and running.
I’ve been hit. I’m falling. I’m making a strange sound. They are hacking into me with machetes. I’m screaming. They’re laying into me with rifle barrels. They’re propping me up and holding me so they can rape me.
Three: Holy Water
I sit up. The rock floor of the cavern is hard. It was so yielding as I melted into it after Aunty Ouraka’s damper. Mularabone is still asleep. The cavern is almost empty. Not far away, I see Uncle Birra-ga and another old fulla, also asleep. I stand up and stretch, going into my salute-the-sun. When I finish I’m really awake. Mularabone starts to stir. I feel eyes on me and look up. Across the other side of the cavern is a small fire. Sitting next to the fire is a woman. Her eyes are on me. I meet her gaze. My muscles still ache from running through the corn. I’ve got that lightheaded post-adrenalin thing going on.
Even though she is right across the other side it’s like she’s so close I could touch her. She stands in a quick movement without taking her eyes from me, but not quick enough for me to miss the flash of her chocolate flesh when her robe adjusts to her body’s upward flow. The scarring up her torso is tattooed onto my mind now. Between her and me, Uncle Birra-ga sits up. My eyes go down as the other old fulla sits up too. They both look at me. My skin feels peeled off under their gaze. Mularabone makes a noise and I turn to see him sitting up.
‘Hey, coorda, where’s my coffee?’
‘Just going to the café now. You want a croissant, too?’
Mularabone smiles back at me. ‘Looks like the café is coming to you, bro.’
I turn to see the old men ambling off to another fire and coming straight towards us is the woman in the robe carrying a coffee pot. I look back to Mularabone – far too quickly, I realise as soon as I’ve done it.
He smiles. His voice comes out so low and so quiet, ‘Ooooh, bruz. She’s got you; she’s got you, hasn’t she? Eh?’
I say nothing. My mouth doesn’t seem to be working right now. When she arrives, Mularabone looks at the coffee pot, and raises an eyebrow in my direction.
What can I say? She gives me a look. I can’t pick the emotion but it’s a bit like fear and a bit like excitement.
She picks up two empty mugs from by our fire and pours out two coffees. She puts down the coffee pot. On the ground is a tin of sugar. She puts a small fingerful of sugar in each mug and then stirs them with a stick from the fire. She holds the mugs out to us and her eyes fall on me again. I don’t mean to, but I smile. In that moment I feel as though this is the most honest I’ve ever been in my life. She smiles back. Mularabone takes a step back. We turn as one to look at him. He smiles in slow motion. We look back to each other. If I looked down and saw my skin blistering from her heat I wouldn’t be even slightly surprised.
‘Thanks for the coffee, cuz,’ says Mularabone from another universe.
‘Thanks,’ I hear myself say in a faraway voice.
She smiles again. It is a small smile, a subtle smile, like it’s a secret for me. I love her giving me that secret. She turns with a swirl of her robe and sweeps away from us. I concentrate hard not to look after her. Not to run after her. I look up to Mularabone.
‘She’s got you, all right, bruz,’ he laughs and does a little dance on the spot, elegantly holding his coffee mug out and not spilling a drop. I smile. We sip our coffee. We smile again.
‘Good coffee, bruz,’ says Mularabone.
‘Sweet,’ I say, ‘sweet as...’
I see through Mularabone’s eyes that Uncle is next to me now, on the other side. Uncle Birra-ga nods at Mularabone in that certain way. Mularabone puts out his hand, Uncle takes it, and then they hug. Mularabone steps back.
‘I’ll see you...’ he says and indicates the direction he’s going with his chin and eyes (Over there).
He goes, sipping his coffee as he saunters across the cavern. I turn to Uncle. Behind him on the rock is a massive painting. I don’t know how I didn’t see it when I walked in. It is a skyscape with spirit figures floating through it. Without taking my eyes from the painting I put my coffee down, fish in my pocket and pull out my ngumari. I roll the fattest cigarette I can and hand it to Uncle. The other old fulla is standing on the other side of Uncle. Uncle takes the fat cigarette and passes it on. I roll another one, just as fat. Uncle takes it. I light both of their cigarettes and then roll myself one. We look at our little fire. I pick up my coffee and take a slug. Them old Countrymen smoke.
‘I knew your father,’ Uncle says to me.
I nod. I’m loo
king down. I notice that the little fire is warm. Very warm. It burns far too hot for wood, and too evenly, even though, clearly, some small leafy branches have been burnt. Artificial fire, arty fires, stop people chopping down bush to burn. The leaves are probly just camp smoking, I’m thinking. I sip my coffee. Draw on my cigarette.
‘We were not friends. Not brothers.’
I nod. I spose I knew, the moment I knew I was coming out here with Mularabone, that something like this was gonna happen. I wait. But there seems to be nothing more coming.
Uncle nods a couple of times. Too-big-for-normal nods.
‘This is Warroo-culla. The Moth.’
I put my hand out. Warroo-culla grips me light as stirred-up wind from a moth’s wings.
‘Conway. Your name means holy water. You are my nephew. My sister’s grandson.’
Warroo-culla leaves a pause. I wait.
‘I knew your grandfather. Your grandmother’s brother. You are Conway, after him.’ He nods to himself.
‘Yes ... Great-uncle,’ I say.
Uncle Warroo-culla takes a drag on his smoke. I have nothing to say and I sense Great-uncle isn’t finished; I know Birra-ga wanted to talk to me. Against the backdrop of the giant painting of the Milky Way, those two old men fit right in with the other floating spirits.
‘Some killers-of-men dream of men they’ve killed,’ Warroo-culla says.
I drain my coffee.
‘Birra-ga is one of these men.’ Uncle Warroo-culla touches Birra-ga on the arm. Birra-ga smiles as though praised for his footy ability as a young man. ‘But not you.’
I look up for a moment to see his level gaze coming right through my eyes. He’s not using his eyes and he’s not looking at my flesh. My heart is beating like a madman.