Mark asked Susan if she had ever tried lure fishing.
She shook her head “No, only bait fishing, and a couple times my father tried to teach me fly fishing for trout but I never quite mastered it.”
He gave Susan a rod with a floating fish lure, about 4 inches long with two three barb hooks attached. It was a blue-grey colour with red and black side stripes, a “Nilsmaster” he told her. He explained to cast out into the middle then wind in at a steady walking pace.
He put a small lure with some green and yellow markings onto his own rod and looked for some clear water, amongst the branches, to cast into.
Susan’s first cast did not go according to plan. She didn’t time the line release right. The line flipped to the side as the lure jerked back, landing a few yards from her feet.
Mark came across. He put his hands over hers, guiding her with slow and deliberate movements. “Don’t try too hard until you get the hang of it.” Susan tried not to get distracted by Mark’s closeness.
Together they did a gentle cast and release with the lure hitting the water about ten yards out. “That’s it, work on improving from that,” he said.
She wound in and concentrated on getting her timing and direction right. Her next cast went out straight about fifteen metres and the third one went a good twenty. She had only wound in a metre when the line jerked and snaked through the water in a crazy zigzag.
“Mark, I have something,” she called.
Mark came across, but it was clear that Susan by now had it well in hand. So he stood back to watch.
Susan felt her heart pounding as she hooked the fish, but she knew she had to remain calm and focused to reel it in. With a rough jerk the fish exploded out of the water, skipping across the surface in a tail dancing run.
Susan shouted behind her, “Mark did you see that, it’s huge!”
“It is probably half a metre long, a good five pounder,” Mark called back to her.
In less than five minutes Susan had the gleaming barramundi on the sandy spit.
“Well, seeing as you’ve caught our lunch, I’ll get a fire going,” Mark said.
Susan could not restrain her elation, she felt like jumping up and down as she chattered with excitement. “Wasn’t the way it jumped out of the water and stood on its tail just amazing. I was sure it was going to get off,” she said.
Mark laughed, “The first is almost the most exciting isn’t it. They are great fighters and often manage to shake the lure out of their mouth and get away. But you kept steady and did just great.”
Using a similar technique as the night on the Frew River, minus the pit, they cooked the fish. Mark shook his head when she suggested gutting it. “Don’t need to when it’s this fresh.”
Once the fire died down, he laid the fish in the middle of the coals and pushed coals from the sides up over it.
Fifteen minutes later it was done.
Mark scraped the coals from the fish’s centre across to one side and, with his knife, gently pushed apart a hole in the charred surface. There below was succulent white fish. Then he pushed the rest of the fire away. He lifted the burnt skin carefully off the top side of the fish. From his pack he found a metal plate and spoon for them each.
They sat on the sandy riverbank and ate plate after plate of white fish flesh, sprinkled with salt and washed down with cups of water from the river. Even when they both could eat no more, there was still half a fish left.
Susan stretched out, feeling sleepy and laying back on the sloping sand, looking across the river to where the cliffs rose sheer on the other side.
She said, “How incredible is this! This is a life out of someone else’s story book, my own Northern Territory safari.”
Mark was silent but gave a half smile back, truth acknowledged.
It was hard to believe that it would end in another few days, and she would be on a flight to the other side of the world. She wondered if she would ever see Mark again, after she left. It was almost too perfect the way it was now. Trying to reconcile their different worlds was something she couldn’t conceive. Perhaps it was meant to be a wonderful memory of a visit to Australia, and she would return to her English life, leaving this story to live only in their memories. Perhaps she would meet and marry an English doctor or lawyer and Mark would carry on with his outback life.
Could she and a man like this ever join their lives together? Or would it all tear apart, through difference and distance, when reality returned? Half of her thought it was better that way; the other half cried out against the profound loss and sadness that she sensed would be left in her soul after their separation.
Mark lay back silently, staring at the sky, his face a mask, giving no clue to what he felt and whether he cared if they continued with a life together. She wanted to ask him what he felt and thought but no words would come.
Then she remembered the small carved crocodile that he had held before they came close to the water to go fishing. She asked him what it was.
He looked at her, as if he was deciding whether to reveal something significant. Then he brought it back out and handed it to her, placing it in her upturned palm.
She looked closely. The object was only little, it sat easily in her palm, but the creature it represented was not. It was made of heavy timber, with char marks in places, as if it had been hardened and marked in a fire before painting. It was surprisingly solid to hold and the ochre painting detail was intricate and lifelike. It was a crocodile, of great girth, broad head, body and tail. She knew without saying that it represented a huge and ancient creature. As she held it was as if she held the spirit of a crocodile in her hand.
She returned it to Mark, he was watching her curiously, as if seeking her response.
She said, “It feels so lifelike, as if I am holding the spirit of a real crocodile in my hand.”
Mark said, “It is my totem, Crocodile Spirit Dreaming”
She would have asked him more but a distant throbbing in the air now signalled the return of the helicopter. They both turned their heads skywards and the moment passed. Five minutes later the helicopter settled on the ground nearby. Vic joined them and helped to polish off the remaining fish.
Vic had brought his own rod. He told them he knew of a great pool on the Robinson River, the next river to the west, which was just alive with barramundi at the moment. The fish appeared to have been trapped inside a small pool since the river had fallen away to a trickle after the big rains of the last wet. As this place was at least ten miles walk from any road or track he was pretty sure the fish would still be there.
They headed back to the helicopter and flew west, until they came to the Robinson River. They followed it back inland. It was a big wide river in its lower reaches, without the massive gorges of the Calvert. After fifteen minutes they crossed a big dirt road, the road on to Borroloola, and then, a few minutes later, they passed to the side on an aboriginal community.
Soon they were in a gorge, every bit the equal of the Calvert, but with wider and higher sides. The river lay in a series of large broken pools below them. At first there were roads, tracks, and signs of human occupation, but as they climbed towards the plateau the gorge narrowed and signs of people disappeared.
Rounding a bend in the river they spotted the waterhole Vic had described. It was almost circular, with rock shelves extending three quarters of the way round and one side backing into a sheer cliff, which rose a thousand feet above them. A great sea eagle was overhead, riding the thermals high up near the cliff top. They caught glimpses of fish as they swooped over, and the fish were active, swimming and darting in the shallows.
They each took a quarter and got set up, perched on the rock shelf that ran around and above the pool, so their lines would not cross. The water was so clear that they could see down into the depths of the pool below their feet.
Vic was first to cast and on his first cast they could all see a big fish trailing his lure but nothing happened. It appeared to be the same th
e second time, but this time the first fish was joined by a second, following just behind. But, just when the lure was almost at his feet, a third and huge fish came surging out of the shadows, and grabbed hold of his line.
From then on the whole pool went crazy. It was as if the signal was sent that all fish better get in on the action or they would miss out on dinner. Often the three of them all had fish on their lines together, tail dancing across the surface, fighting to cast the lures from their mouths.
In half an hour it was all over. Twenty-one glistening fish lay on the rocks beside them; eight caught by Vic, seven by Mark and six by herself. The biggest was the first monster that Vic had caught. He pulled a spring scale from the helicopter and it weighed in at 23 kilograms. Mark and Susan had caught one each that was about half that size, each weighed between twelve and thirteen kilograms. The rest ranged from 8 kilograms down to about 2 kilograms.
Vic eyed the big pile of a fish dubiously, “I am not sure whether we can lift all this and ourselves in one trip.” Thinking some more he added, “I think it should be OK. I’m down to half fuel, and Susan’s not heavy; plus the air is cool in the shade of this rock. That will all help with the initial lift off. Anyway let’s give it a go. If I can get in the air there is a good run, straight ahead down the valley, to pick up speed before I need to get height on to climb out.”
So they loaded all the fish aboard, some sitting on wire baskets on the skids and some sitting in the cargo hold. When Vic was happy that the balance was right he signalled them aboard.
He dialled on the power. The engine revolutions rose up to the top of the green zone, tipping into yellow. He adjusted the blades to cut the air. They could feel the engine die back as it struggled with the load, but Vic kept dialling on the throttle and slowly the skids came up above the ground. Once he was clear by about ten feet he gently eased forward. Then they were away, surging down the valley, piling on speed.
Gradually the ground fell away as they held altitude and soon the river fell far beneath. Then Vic put them into the second phase of the flight, where they slowly climbed out of the valley, foot by foot, at first pulling barely a hundred feet per minute of climb, but slowly they crept up. Then, as the altimeter passed five hundred feet, he directed their course to the airstrip to the east, flying increasingly easily as the time went by.
By the time they approached their destination they had topped out at over a thousand feet, enough to clear the highest hills on their way with a hundred feet to spare.
Mark and Vic divided the fish, with Mark packing his in fresh ice from the freezer at the mine. They gave the mine’s plant supervisor a mid-sized barra for his help, and Mark promised a side of a bullock next time he passed through with something suitable. They were invited to the mine mess for a beer and some dinner. Vic was pleased to accept, but Mark declined, saying they had a way to go and he wanted to call in and see some of his friends early next morning at Seven Emus Station. So, after a quick beer they were off.
Vic walked out to say goodbye. He and Mark hugged like brothers and then Vic turned to Susan, winking at Mark and saying. “Well, if he does decide to let you go your own way, don’t forget about me, always happy to show you what a real good time is.”
Susan laughed and gave Vic a spontaneous hug too. I think that one of you outback men is more than enough, not to mention that my home is across the sea, at the other side of the world. But thank you for the kind offer.”
Mark laughed too. He said, “As you know my brother, I already have my heart set on this one. She is the best in every way and not for sharing.” Now it was Susan’s turn to blush.
Susan and Mark drove for a couple hours before setting up camp on the banks of the Robinson River, following a series of tracks for a few kilometres downstream for the road crossing. Even though it wasn’t as cold as it had been in the desert or even at Hells Gates, it was well dark by arrival, and they both wanted the comfort of a good fire to sit by. They felt tired from their two full days, and Susan was in a relaxed and mellow mood from all she had seen and done. They did not talk much but their silence was one of quiet contentment.
For a change in diet, Mark suggested that he make a stew with left over beef, along with carrots, onions, and potatoes from his tucker box. Susan gave enthusiastic endorsement, looking forward to the hearty meal.
Also, feeling a craving for something sweet, she asked Mark if she could have a go at making a brownie like they had a couple days before. Mark agreed, seeming pleased to give her this role in the dinner. So she made a mixture of flour, golden syrup and dried fruit, with some margarine, and set it aside while the stew bubbled. They sat side by side, sipping pannikins of rum, making occasional aimless conversation.
It was then that Susan was struck by a guilty conscience. Mark had paid for everything in their trip thus far: all the fuel and food, as well as the accommodation for the nights when they did not camp, and then, particularly today, for the helicopter.
She didn’t know how he made his money, apart from odd jobs for various stations and mines. But it was hard to see how he could be rich from an income like that. She had allowed at least two thousand Australian dollars for this part of the trip and had barely spent a cent since arriving in Alice Springs. She had only a little over a hundred dollars cash on her when she arrived, as she had planned to go to an ATM in Alice Springs. She had spent a few dollars on drinks in the bar at Barrow Creek and some more for food and coffees at Roadhouses, but still, it was almost nothing. So, while she didn’t have the cash with her for a major contribution, Susan felt she needed to make one.
Everything had just happened so fast that there never had seemed to be the time to sort out payments and money, it had sort of got forgotten, and Mark had never looked for anything. But she really must find a way to pay a share.
So she broached the subject, awkwardly. “Mark, I’ve had the most fabulous time with you. But you’ve paid for everything, and that’s not really right.
“I want to pay a share. So, you just tell me what you think is fair and the next time we pass through a town with an ATM I will draw out money to square up.”
Mark looked at her, his eyes seeming to see all the way through her, “You know you really don’t have to. I’ve loved having you along. You’re great company and no bother, and most of this trip I was going to do anyway, and, despite appearances, I am not short of a quid. So just enjoy the ride and let me sort it all out.” With that he grinned.
Susan looked back at him, pensive and a little unhappy; it didn’t feel right for her not to pay a share.
He looked at her serious face. “It bothers you doesn’t it? Tell you what; we’ll be in Darwin for the last night before you fly out. We can stay somewhere nice, and have a flash restaurant dinner and a good last night together. How about I let you pay for that. Much easier than trying sort the money out here.”
She let it drop, she felt reluctant about it, but did not want to spoil their bit of magic together. So they shared stew and brownie and joined their bodies together under the stars.
Just as she drifted off to sleep Mark said. “I’ll get up early in the morning. I want to go hunting down the river. There are often pigs along it and the Seven Emus mob are always keen for fresh pork, they have a great Chinese cook who does amazing things with it.
“So I will let you sleep in for an extra hour or two. The people we are calling to see never rise early. So I figure we should get going about nine to be there for morning tea around ten.
Susan drifted off in to a dreamy sleep, liking the idea of an extra hour in bed in the morning.
She was vaguely aware of Mark getting up when there was barely light in the sky, dressing quietly and heading away.
Susan woke perhaps an hour later. It was still early, the sun just touching the horizon, perhaps 7 am. She gathered Mark would not be back for an hour or two yet. She thought another hour asleep would be nice.
But Susan was still feeling uncomfortable about paying her share a
nd it was nagging in the back of her mind. Mark had indicated nothing to her about the cost of the trip and particularly the helicopter, but she had seen Vic hand him a sheet just before they left last night. It looked like a bill. She remembered Mark put it in a black plastic folder that he kept in the compartment on the driver’s-side door, the sort of thing that held car manuals.
Then a clear thought came to her. Why don’t I have a look, then at least I will know the real cost of the helicopter yesterday and be able to have an idea of how much to pay.
Susan pulled on a track top and pants to ward off the morning chill. Then, after she put a couple of fresh logs on the smouldering coals, she went to look for the bill. She found it, as remembered and expected, alongside the manuals.
It listed three hours of helicopter time at $600/hour giving a total of $1800, with a 10% discount coming in at $1620. That’s not too bad, she thought, my half share of that is about $800, I can easily pay for that plus for a final night in Darwin.
She was about to put the bill back when she noticed something odd. The name on it was different.
Chapter 11 – Discovery – Day 25
She looked at name on the bill, perplexed. She had heard Vic calling him Mark, he obviously knew his name, which she assumed meant his surname as well as the first name. And she had seen Vic pass him the bill, which he had happily accepted and countersigned without question. But the name on the invoice was Mark Butler, not Mark Bennett. Perhaps it was just a mistake he’d missed.
She was ready to dismiss it as that, but as she opened the wallet to put it back, something fell out onto the cab floor, a plastic card. Susan bent to retrieve it, not wanting to leave something to incriminate her for snooping.
It was an expired driving license, from the NT with a Katherine address. The man in the license photo was Mark. She read the name—Mark Butler—the same as the invoice, but why? Why use two names? The names were so similar—both created the initials MB.
Crocodile Spirit Dreaming - Possession - Books 1 - 3 Page 12