by Peter Docker
‘Oh-oh. You looked away! Yes you did! You did, I saw you! Come on! We’ve gotta be honest with each other. You definitely looked away. I’ll just do a little stab because it’s your first look away. Maybe you didn’t mean to. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.’
He turns and stabs little Nayia through the left shoulder, carefully missing organs. Nayia tenses and then passes out from the pain.
‘Oh, dear. Don’t worry. She’s only passed out. We’ll get another shot at her when she comes round. Are you mob big bleeders?’
My father wipes the blade of his hunting knife. He looks over at young Mularabone. His eyes are burning orbs of hate.
‘What do you reckon, little matey? Do you reckon she’ll wake up so I can fuck her? Yeah, she’ll wake up.’
He comes over to the Countrywoman.
‘Now, what about you?’
She is trussed with her hands behind her back. He reaches out to touch her naked flesh. She tries to pull away but can’t. He cups one of her breasts. ‘What about you, eh? All this is probly making you horny.’
He forces her to drink more rum. The smell of grog goes into my nostrils like smoke from burning plastic.
I look over at young Mularabone. He is the closest to my eye-level. He’s noticed me. He is beseeching with me with his eyes. I look back with just as much of a plead. He looks wild and lost.
I killed him, I say in my mind as I concentrate on Mularabone across the space. I killed him.
As soon as I think this thought, Uncle Warroo-culla is there, standing near the table, and the unconscious bleeding child Nayia. There and yet not there. Uncle purses his lips and blows. A cool breeze licks at our bodies, our extremities sharpening from the cold.
There is a noise above us and the steel blast-door is slung open. Above us is a howling dust storm. Dust swirls into the concrete bunker, stinging us with its gritty touch. On the morgue bed Nayia Child is stirring.
There is gunfire. Someone yells down to my father in English. He goes running up the concrete steps and out into that storm of dust and bullets.
The door closes; the flame is blown out, and we are plunged into darkness. I try to soften my bones into the concrete floor. The Countrywoman is humming through her taped-up mouth. She is soothing her wounded child on the morgue bed. Doing all she can. That tune hummed through her taped-up mouth is all we have now. It envelops us with kindness in this dark place. I’ve heard it before. I search my spirit for the memory. There is pain, water crashing into me, and Nayia’s voice singing that song.
Twenty-four: Scars, Weapons and Free Water
Nayia hardly seems to move her lips as she sings. She sits very still and looks at me across the fire. Her voice fills the little river cave.
I have a big drink of water from a bottle placed by my side, unfold myself, and sit up. I grab a big stick and place it on the fire. The coals are still red and the wood quickly catches. I put on two bigger bits of wood. My hands are shaking. The dream clings to me like old scabs. Uncle Warroo-culla warned me. I let the notes from Nayia’s song stroke my scars. I want to ease Nayia’s scars from her flesh with my lips. I want to kill my father again. Drown him in a vat of grog. Nayia sings.
Nayia and I look at each other. Look into each other. Mularabone and Ouraka stare into the fire. We have the feeling of slowness, and togetherness, as if we’ve all shared a song, and gone through the change from tight to loose and uninhibited, all in close proximity to each other. Mularabone takes up a tight roll of dry leaves he has gathered for the purpose and lights the bundle. He lets it burn for a moment and then blows out the flame, leaving thousands of tiny red embers smoking languidly. Mularabone throws smoke out to the four directions, and then up and down, calling out the Language names and asking for cleansing from the smoke. He moves around the fire, running the smoke over each of us. When the smoke dies down a little he blows on the end gently, and the smouldering leaf-ends respond to the extra oxygen by flaring up and throwing out the desired smoke. When finished, he returns to his place and dances a few steps on the sand, grunting and chanting. He lets it go as easily as a man takes off a shirt, and sits back down, tossing the smoking bundle of leaves casually in the fire.
Aunty gets a billy and puts it over the flames.
The river cave air is cool on our faces, reminding us all of Uncle’s breath-wind in the concrete bunker. We know each other well now, like soldiers who’ve faced death together and lived to laugh about it. Even if it’s not funny we can still laugh about it. Especially if it’s not funny.
Mularabone rolls up his blanket.
‘If we head off soon, we’ll be at the meeting place tonight,’ Mularabone says.
‘With the water,’ I add.
‘Yeah, bruz. With the water from the place. Living water. For the healing.’
I roll up my blanket. I feel better. Mularabone opens some defence force ration tins from his backpack and puts them on the edge of the fire. He has two automatic weapons with him.
Aunty makes some tea. We all sip. There’s something else in the air as well. A kind of naughtiness. Mularabone and Aunty are enjoying the energy between Nayia and me. They love it and mock it at the same time. And under their scrutiny, Nayia and I have become twelve-year-olds.
After a while we eat the tinned meat that Mularabone has warmed up. I make four thinnies and we smoke by the fire. The flames leap and dance. We’re all light-headed from our night. Mularabone and Ouraka get up and go off towards the cave opening.
Nayia’s gaze is direct. ‘We are connected, you and I. Conway Holy Water.’
‘I belong to you, Nayia-Nayia,’ I whisper.
‘We are two souls spewed up by history to find ourselves together in this place,’ she says.
I want to laugh. Then she drops her robe off her shoulders to reveal her naked arms and torso. My breath goes in sharply as if I’ve just been slapped. Carved into the curves of her rich dark beauty are the knife scars. High on her left shoulder is the stabbing scar, a thick, rough, brutish thing compared to the more delicate lines of the cut scars on her arms and chest and belly. And amongst this chaos, those butterfly scars down the centre of her body that I first got a glimpse of in Uncle Birra-ga’s cave. Then she is covered and looking at me.
‘I belong to you, Conway Holy Water.’
My head races. I know from Mularabone’s behaviour that there are protocols in place, even if I don’t know what they are. I want to learn. I’m hungry for it. I undo my buttons, and then drop my shirt off my shoulders, hoping that I’m doing the right thing. The fire shines on the ridges of scar tissue on the side of my head where the trooper got me with his broken bottle, the marks from the chains on my wrists, the cuts inflicted by my father on my arms and shoulders, and the old bullet wound just above my left hip. I watch Nayia’s eyes, and see that she is surprised at my many scars. We have lived in a war zone for all of our lives. Standing here shirtless, and under such scrutiny, I think I understand the protocol. Then I cover up.
We’re still separated by the fire, and now our spirits reach out for each other over the flames. I move forward. She moves forward. She opens her arms and hugs me to her. It is such a joining that for a moment I think we are standing in the fire, or floating just above it. Nayia pulls her face out of my neck and shoulder and kisses me. The fire is inside us and burning/melting us into one new body.
We are oblivious to Mularabone and Ouraka returning, so involved are we in our kiss. Finally, it is Aunty singing joyously by the fire that brings us back. Aunty shuffles a few dance steps and sings. Mularabone is laughing.
‘What are you laughing at?’ I ask, still half in the fire.
‘We thought you two would take forever!’ says Aunty, and she and Mularabone howl with laughter. Mularabone runs over and hugs me, then hugs Nayia, shouting for joy. Aunty shuffles in the dust, singing about love. Aunty hugs me too, nearly swinging me off my feet.
‘All right – you boys better get going now,’ Aunty announces (Now that that is out of the way)
.
‘Come on,’ says Mularabone and lifts the automatic weapons. He holds a weapon out to me. I hesitate.
‘You don’t have to,’ says Mularabone.
Nayia steps over and takes the weapon from his hand.
‘I’ll hold it for you,’ she says. Then kisses me again.
I look into her brown eyes. Is this a test?
I put my hand on the weapon. ‘I’ll take it.’
Nayia hands the weapon to me and our hands brush each other lightly. My hands fit around the automatic weapon unnervingly. I can still remember The Sarge’s words, may his soul find peace, in our very first weapons instruction class.
‘Just let the weapon hang natural,’ he said, showing us his easy grip.
I pondered that for years – the ‘naturalness’ of the metal and plastic automatic weapon in the flesh hands of a man.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ I ask Aunty.
‘Where you are going, to get the water for the meeting ... We cannot go. We go to another place. Women’s place. We will sing for your safe passage.’
I nod. Acceptance is more important than understanding.
I turn and go with Mularabone. I’m careful not to look back. I have to fight it as we come to the opening of the cave and are about to disappear from her sight – and I can feel her eyes still on me.
I walk after Mularabone out to where the truck is hidden.
Twenty-five: Blood and Dust in the Water
We approach the rig from the opposite direction. The canyon walls are close, and it is cool down here where sunlight rarely penetrates. We split up and circle the cab, looking carefully at every part of the vehicle. It wouldn’t be the first time that the Water Board had left something intact and booby-trapped it. Another tactic they learnt from us. It looks clean. I dive underneath to look up at the chassis. There are a lot of spider webs but no taped-on packages that don’t belong. Mularabone does a half-circle out to the front to look for any sign of interlopers, old or new. He comes back, gives me the nod, and we climb up and into the cab. The effort we went to in blowing away the tracks has worked.
It is late afternoon. Mularabone has timed it so that we do the run to the old fullas’ meeting in darkness. He quickly goes through the pre-ignition sequence on the keyboard and then hits START. The big tanker engine roars into life. Mularabone hits MANUAL ALL, slams it into gear, and we take off.
‘Just need one trailer, I reckon,’ he says, and I nod in return.
We pull out into the open country and go south for ten minutes to where we stashed that first trailer. Mularabone drives with the throttle wide open, with the big rig jumping and sliding across the desert floor, throwing up dust behind us. He slows the machine, I jump down and run back into the tight little canyon and he reverses in using his mirrors. I quickly run around the trailer but can see no sign of interference.
‘Yo! Yo-yo!’
The brakes hiss and Mularabone jumps down and we hitch her up. Then we are back in the cab and heading back north following the line of the river that we can’t see but know is there. We’ve done this so many times it is a drill our bodies know without reference to our minds. Our eyes scan the open red country for any sign of dust or movement. The weapons lie on the seat between us. We end up at a spot just north of the river cave. We jump out. Mularabone walks to the lip of the gorge to check the ground. The water in the gorge must still be rising. I stand at the front, holding my weapon and looking out.
‘Back in to here,’ he says to me, making a mark with the butt of his weapon on the dry earth. ‘We’ll drop the pipe straight down.’
I move to the mark without looking at the river. I haven’t forgotten. The sand he rubbed on me is still itching my neck, and coming out of my hair. I stand on the mark as he jumps into the rig and takes her forward so he can back in. He does this flat out.
‘Yo! Yo-yo!’
The brakes hiss. Mularabone jumps down and goes for the pipe, unravelling it, and feeding it over the edge. I prime the water pump and turn it over. I climb up onto the trailer, walk along the top until I’m standing on the roof looking out. I hear Mularabone engage the pump and the water start to flow. I stand there on the roof scanning the horizon, with Mularabone down by the pump. There’s no wind but I can’t stop my body from swaying back and forth. I try to go with it, as if I am standing on the deck of some sea-going vessel and the swells are gently rocking me. I scan. I sway. Behind me, the pump engine throbs away, filling the big water tank. I hear a little noise and turn to see Mularabone climbing up next to me. He hands me a thinnie.
‘Why don’t you sit down, bruz?’
‘Sitting down on the job; what would The Sarge say?’
‘Never stand when you can sit...’
‘Never sit when you can lie...’
‘Never lie when you can sleep...’
He lights my smoke, and we sit on the roof, dangling our feet in front of the windscreen. I look away to the plain of red soil stretching away from the river so that Mularabone has no chance to read the emotions that churn through me at the mention of The Sarge, may his soul find rest.
‘Would’ve been less exposed to get the water from further down,’ I say.
‘Has to be from here. That’s what Uncle said.’
We smoke.
‘Anyway, be dark soon.’
Yeah.’
We smoke. The silvery liquid mirage from the heat of the day still lingers on the flat desert country to our front. We watch the glistening mirage and finish our smokes. Then we hear a little higher pitched whine above the throb of our water pump. Mularabone snatches up his weapon and leaps from the cabin roof to the top of the trailer. He runs crouched over to the back of the tanker and I’m right behind him. Down in the river we see a metal dinghy with four Water Board troopers in it. From their angle, they can’t see the tanker but they have spotted our hose, and can hear our pump. Their electric motor strains against the current to push their dinghy towards our pipe. Two of them are readying grappling hooks. We throw our weapons to our shoulders and fire a burst at them. Our rounds smash into them, throwing two of them into the drink, and dropping the other two onto the floor of their aluminium dinghy. One of these troopers manages to pull a pistol, and a couple of rounds go whistling past us. Mularabone fires a single round that hits him in the middle of the face, and he slumps. With the tiller man floating dead in the water, the electric engine still whines but is completely directionless. The boat is borne away downstream by the rushing river water.
‘We gotta go,’ I hear Mularabone say from faraway.
I can’t move. There is a willy-willy in my guts. Mularabone turns to me to see that I am transfixed.
Straight across the boiling river are the rock paintings that Mularabone had been protecting me from down on the beach. The two brother spirit figures stare back at me from the living rock with their all-seeing eyes. These spirits hold me in their gaze as if I were trapped in a massive spider web. As my mind struggles against them, I am held faster. Their images quickly become obscured by a dust storm that springs up from nowhere.
Mularabone slaps me hard across the face. My head snaps sideways from the force and I drop to my knees. He is yelling in Language, his voice not aimed at me, but lifted up and out. We crouch on the top of the tanker with the water of the rushing river below us, and the water pump of our rig throbbing away. Even with my head down I can feel those rock-painting eyes on me. Mularabone drops his weapon and takes out a small knife with a sharpened bone blade. He rips up my sleeve and plunges the bone blade into my forearm. The pain hits me and I double over as he plunges the blade into his own arm, and our bloods mix. He jumps down from the tanker, and I follow, landing hard and going forward onto my face. He is still yelling as he disconnects the pipe and shuts off the pump. I get myself up and drip red blood all the way to the cabin. Behind me, Mularabone picks up a handful of bloodied dust where we both bled, and hurls it out into the river below, yelling out in Language all the while. His calling out
is urgent, and I only understand a little. He asks for protection for his white brother. He calls out that we are on the sacred story path, and that we respect this place.
Where our blood has dripped onto the red earth, dark crimson willy-willies spring up. The blood dust spins and grows, pursuing us with its unknowable darkness.
In a moment Mularabone is there in the cabin with me, and starting up the big rig. I tear off my whole sleeve and wrap the cut tightly. Then I tear off my other sleeve. Mularabone holds his arm out to me, and I bind up his wound. The crimson dust storm envelops us completely, blocking any vision through the windscreen. The wind power is incredible, and it feels like the whole rig could be lifted and flung back into the river at any moment. The storm is all around us, in us. The willy-willy in my guts is threatening to lift me off the seat so I belt myself in. Mularabone guns the engine and drives flat out.
Blood Dust Dream: River of Blood
The night races down on us. It envelops the landscape like smoke. We’re at that moment when our shadows blur and melt, losing their connections to our bodies, and are lost in the all-shadow of the all-alone.
In this moment I hear the horses walking behind, and see the burning torches just ahead.
‘Captain Molloy?’
‘Sir,’ I hear myself answer.
‘Is it him?’ he asks quietly.
I glance at Stirling. He is leaning forward, peering ahead at the meagre light-spill from the burning torches. That sneering half-smile is almost permanent upon his countenance now, his teeth as sharp and flashy as the oiled blade of his sword. He feels my eyes touch him and glances back at me, then his eyes snap back to the front.
He doesn’t like what he sees in my eyes. No one does. I get those whores in town just so I can look into their eyes as I’m fucking them, more than for the fucking itself. When I am fucking them, my cock is really my sword – and when I am hacking into the blacks at full gallop, my sword is really my cock. Looking into someone’s eyes just before they die is another thing altogether, even though orgasm and death are relations so close that they couldn’t marry. Especially if I am the one bringing the death. The early death. The late death. The clean death. The messy death. Any fucking death. They’re all the fucking same, in the end. Or the beginning. I need a drink.