As he stared, a loose leaf of paper slid from the pile and onto his lap. He picked it up, still a little dazed, and looked at it. The page was filled with a passage copied out in thick black ink:
While he yet spake, there came from the ruler of the synagogue’s house certain which said, Thy daughter is dead: why troublest thou the Master any further? As soon as Jesus heard the word that was spoken, he saith unto the ruler of the synagogue, Be not afraid, only believe. And he suffered no man to follow him, save Peter, and James, and John the brother of James. And he cometh to the house of the ruler of the synagogue, and seeth the tumult, and them that wept and wailed greatly. And when he was come in, he saith unto them, Why make ye this ado, and weep? the damsel is not dead, but sleepeth. And they laughed him to scorn. But when he had put them all out, he taketh the father and the mother of the damsel, and them that were with him, and entereth in where the damsel was lying. And he took the damsel by the hand, and said unto her, Talitha cumi; which is, being interpreted, Damsel, I say unto thee, arise. And straightway the damsel arose, and walked; for she was of the age of twelve years. And they were astonished with a great astonishment. And he charged them straitly that no man should know it; and commanded that something should be given her to eat.
He looked back and forth from the words to the picture of Annie Flood and wondered. He wondered whether Smith had returned to Angel Rock, seen Adam Carney’s pictures of Darcy, then gone and seen her in the flesh and been tipped over into some kind of madness—and vengeance against Henry for Annie’s death. He didn’t quite understand how Darcy had become so entangled in Smith’s poisonous vendetta but it was impossible to know what effect his lurking about might have had on her.
He knew he was right about Smith, knew in his gut that he had something to do with the missing boys, and with that knowledge firing him he began to look more urgently at the pages, trying to find some clue as to what he might have done with Flynn; where he might have taken him. A name that he’d seen in the first half of the papers began to appear again. New Eden. New Eden. From what he could gather it seemed to be the place where Horace Flood had gone after Mount Wright and Sapphire. He kept looking and finally found a description of the place, and then, after another half-hour, enough information to find it. He tied the papers back up and headed outside.
He put the bundle into the car and began looking around the houses for a small, boy-sized grave. When he couldn’t find one he let out a sigh of relief and tramped up into the barely perceptible hills to the west to clear his head and to see what could be seen. To the north he could just make out the darker smudge of the dingo fence along the border, but in the other three directions he saw nothing to suggest men had ever set foot there. The collection of corrugated-iron shacks that was Sapphire seemed like toys from the heights as though, simply by walking up there, he’d grown to be giant-sized. Maybe that was the hook that had brought Smith and Flood out to this beautiful elemental emptiness; the temptation it offered those in it to believe they were more than other men, greater, closer to God. He saw them then, and other men like them, kneeling in the dust on the hill’s crest, wholly pious, holding up bibles to the empty sky as if more words might be added to them in bursts of holy fire. Maybe there was temptation here after all.
He walked back down to the empty town and sat on the bonnet of the Holden, surveying the main street and its traffic of scampering lizards as the day drew slowly to a close. Small birds flitted to and from their perches in the eaves of the abandoned shacks. The hills where he’d stood an hour ago turned shades of lavender and magenta. The sun lowered, and even the smallest things on the plain before him cast long shadows. Then, like dyes thrown at things invisible, the light from the setting sun picked out the outlines of massive structures as they rolled away from him across the sky. He saw mountains and great ruins, galleons with acres of sail. He saw them shimmer into life, then slip away under the grey pearl sheet of the darkening sky, fading to nothing.
Despite the urgency it was too late and his eyes were too tired to make the journey to New Eden in the dark. He didn’t want to sleep in the car again so he went looking for somewhere else to spend the night. He found a decent mattress in one shack and carried it across to another which still sported a little iron stove. He set a fire and warmed a tin of beans on the hotplate and when he’d eaten he fastened the door closed with a piece of wire and lay listening to the faint, comforting sounds of the stove. He thought of his mother and his sister and Darcy, and he whispered to them in the dark.
“I think we’re getting somewhere, girls,” he said.
He heard a dingo’s mournful wail somewhere out in the country, far away, but there was no answering call and he fell asleep, finally, still waiting for one. Then, in the dead of night, the front door swung open and crashed against the wall of the shack. He started awake, staring at the open door for almost a minute, disoriented, his stomach twisting with a black, irrational fear. A gust of wind picked up something outside, a piece of tin maybe, and banged it against the side of the shack. The sound shook him from his frozen stupor and he pulled himself up and went to the door and wired it shut again and then he took his revolver out of his bag and the box of ammunition with it. He lay back down, loaded the weapon, then put his finger against the trigger’s cool steel. He lay there for what seemed like hours, holding the revolver over his chest, loading and unloading it in the dark until his hands were bloodless and numb, and the click, click, click of the bullets became the sound of claws on the iron roof, something pacing to and fro, waiting for him to emerge.
19
In the morning the valley was flooded with a silver mist as though a strange inland sea had risen while they slept. They took it in turns to walk down to the river’s hidden edge and splash and wash themselves awake before eating a breakfast of porridge with Sunshine milk and golden syrup. By the time they’d finished, the sun had crested the hills to the east and found rainbows in the steam coming off their mugs of tea. They packed up their gear and walked downstream, the mist thinning, the sun soon flooding the trail with warmth and light. They walked for twenty minutes and then they came to another spot that Pop reckoned looked promising. They stopped and fished, but still had no luck. Finally Pop, with a sigh, put down his rod, rolled a cigarette, found a pleasant spot to smoke it. Grace sat down beside him.
“Looks like it might rain this afternoon, or tonight,” he said.
Grace nodded. It seemed a reasonable forecast even though there were no clouds and as she looked around and nodded again she saw that he was amused by her unquestioning acceptance.
“Over there.” He pointed with his cigarette hand to a long escarpment jutting out of a line of grey hills in the middle distance. Just behind them was a haze and behind the haze, or inside it, she could just make out a small collection of fluffy white clouds. She nodded and then glanced over at Tom. He was sitting by a tree with Ham at his feet, his line slack in the water. He was staring out across the river, his eyes glazed. She wondered what was going on behind them.
After a while they continued downstream. As they went Grace kept one eye on the clouds and one on Tom. By mid-afternoon the clouds had risen like dough, dwarfing the escarpment and threatening the sun. Tom hadn’t changed. A gust of cool wind lifted her hair and she breathed deeply from it.
“Storm’s coming,” said Pop. “Looks like we’ll have to sit it out.”
They headed up the side of the nearest hill to see what shelter could be found. Pop pointed to a cluster of rocky outcrops. They walked to them and Grace found an overhang that looked large enough to shelter the three of them from the worst of the rain and any falling branch or tree. They sat down and Pop draped his oilcloth coat over them and they waited while the storm brewed overhead and the air became charged with its electricity. Tom lifted Ham up to his chest and felt the race of his heart and tried to calm him. The day darkened very suddenly and then the massive thunderhead broke from its moorings with a flash of light and a crackling ratt
le of thunder and headed straight for them. Grace looked anxiously at Pop but he was staring out expectantly, steady as a rock, a faint smile on his lips. He looked at her and gave a wink and she managed a weak smile in return. A great surge of air swerved up the valley, sending leaves and dust flying into their eyes and birds rocketing for shelter. They heard the roar of the rain as it approached and then all at once it was over them, a bedlam of rain and thunder and lightning. Pop laughed at the noise—distant cousin of birdsong, water over pebbles—but put his arm round his daughter’s shoulders. There was a deafening crack as a great electric key reached down and tried to unlock the earth. The flash dazzled Grace and she squeezed her eyes shut and saw the jagged blue line repeat and repeat. Then, after only ten minutes or so, it was all over. The rain died away until there were only the big drops from the trees above clattering down onto Pop’s coat.
“We’re right? We’re all in one piece?”
“Yep.”
“Yep.”
They stood and breathed in the cool air and watched the storm cloud as it bore down on the valley, declaring itself with long, echoing rolls of thunder.
“If that doesn’t wake up the blinkin’ fish I don’t know what will,” said Pop.
They walked back down to the river and along it for a bit until they came to a point where the river elbowed its way between two spurs with a chatter of rapids before opening out into a calmer reach. The sun emerged from behind the clouds and lifted wisps of steam from pools in the rocky bank. They put down their loads to stop and look.
“If I was a fish that’s where I’d live,” said Tom.
Pop laughed and agreed with him. He dug into his swag and pulled out a bottle of beer.
“Put this in the water will you, Tom?” he said, handing it to him. “Don’t frighten the fish, though!”
“I won’t.”
Grace went down and found a shady spot on the bank. Below her a large rock jutted out and caught the river current, the sun sparkling on the disturbed water. She pushed a wad of bread onto the hook of her fishing line and threw it in the water and then watched Pop as he assembled his fly rod and began casting out across the pool. She sat and waited and grew very sleepy listening to the breeze in the rushes and the water gurgling past the rock. She watched Tom as he walked along the bank. He was a little ungainly still. Although he was growing fast he was still just a boy, just a sweet, gentle boy, and not at all like Sonny, or Charlie, or any other boy she’d ever met for that matter. Just looking at him made her sad. She wanted to help him, but she didn’t know how.
“Getting any bites?” she called.
“No.”
For a while he looked as though he was going to say something else, but then he moved away downstream with his dog at his heels.
Pop fished until the shade left his daughter and her arms went a little pink. He had no luck—not even a nibble, and nor did Tom.
“Good fishermen out of luck,” he called to him, giving up. He walked over to Grace and sat down with her. The sun began to sink behind the hills and the river became a stage, its black surface like a polished floor, for the birds to dip into and soar over. The breeze stopped and everything but the river and the birds stilled. Grace threw her line in again, then a turn of light underneath the water’s surface suddenly became a splash and the arching leap of a golden perch. Grace laughed and began to pull the fish in. For a while it felt like the river itself on the end of her line but then the perch tired and she landed it, held it up before her for Pop to admire, swinging like a pendulum, its exact pattern of opalescent scales gleaming in the fading light, its mouth gasping for water like a desert traveller.
“Got a deal going with St. Peter?” asked Pop, lifting his eyebrows.
She shook her head, smirking. “No.”
She laid the perch on the ground and twisted the hook from its mouth, then unrolled Pop’s fishknife from its square of leather. She held the fish and pushed the knife down between its eyes and into its brain to kill it, then made a cut along its length from mouth to tail. The internals seemed delicate, miraculous, inside their shell of pale flesh and silvery skin. She pulled them out and threw them into the river and then walked down to the water and washed her hands of the bloody residue. Pop had already started to gather wood for a fire and Tom had wandered over to see what was happening. Grace walked over to where Pop had bent over the fire and handed him the fish.
“You can scale it,” she said, “while I try and catch another one for you.”
“Thanks,” said Pop, shaking his head, grinning. “And one for Tom while you’re at it.”
Tom came and sat down by the fire and they both sat in silence watching Grace try for another fish. She stood in the golden afternoon light, insects describing circles around her, intent on her task, oblivious to them both.
“Look at that,” said Pop, almost to himself, shaking his head. “That’s some kind of miracle. Beyond praise that is.”
Tom looked and knew what Pop meant. They watched her and, to their amazement, she caught another fish within five minutes, this one an even better size than the first. After that, no matter what she tried, she could not catch a third.
“Two’re enough, girl,” said Pop. “Come and sit.”
By the time the last light had gone they’d cooked the fish and eaten them. They sat, contented, looking into the fire. Pop handed his daughter a tin.
“Roll me some durries, will you, Grace.”
“Greyhounds or racehorses?”
Pop didn’t answer, just gave her a pained look.
“Why don’t you go and get that bottle out, Tom.”
Tom went down to the water and retrieved the beer bottle from where he’d set it that afternoon. Pop took it from him and opened it and filled his mug.
“Just remember something,” he said, pointing to the bottle. “This isn’t Henry’s problem. Henry is Henry’s problem. Beer is an honest drink and nothing beats one after a hard day. Here, have a taste.”
Pop handed the bottle to Tom and Tom took a swig.
“What do you think?”
Tom wiped his mouth. “It’s not real nice.”
Pop laughed. “That’s what Gracie says too!”
Grace handed him the cigarettes she’d rolled.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
Pop could tell by the look on her face that he’d embarrassed her somehow in front of Tom. He sat smoking and sipping at the beer. Grace climbed into her sleeping bag and then rested her head against his thigh. Soon her eyes closed and her mouth fell open and her legs began to twitch. Her brow furrowed from whatever dream had taken her in hand.
“She’s always been like this,” Pop said quietly. “As a youngster she’d run around set on one thing until she’d mastered it. I used to find her flaked out in all sorts of places, all her steam gone.”
Tom looked over at Grace, uneasy that Pop was talking about her while she slept.
“Her grandfather—my father—taught her to fish. I think the skill’s skipped a generation, but at least he showed me his best spots.”
“Is he still alive?” asked Tom.
“No, he passed on a few years ago.”
“Oh.”
Pop looked at the boy. He seemed suddenly troubled.
“What is it? You been having those dreams again?”
“Sometimes. I’ve been dreaming about lions too.”
“Lions?”
“Yeah.”
“Good dreams?”
“Yeah. Mostly. I’m walking through the bush and they’re with me. It feels good, like they’ll protect me if anything bad happens.”
“Sounds good.”
“I . . . I wanted to let them out.”
“Who?”
“The lions from the circus.”
“Oh, well, that wouldn’t have been such a good idea. I’m glad you didn’t. They don’t belong here. They probably would’ve died.”
Tom remembered the kangaroo he and Flynn had found by the side of
the road and the wound in its shoulder. He remembered how spooked it had been, like cattle sometimes got when dogs chased them.
“What about kangaroos, wouldn’t they be able to eat them?”
“Yes, but I think cattle would be a better bet for them, and I don’t think the cockies would let ’em get too many before hunting them down.”
Tom nodded. Pop waited. Finally Tom spoke again.
“Do you still . . . see him . . . sometimes?”
“Who? My father?”
“Yeah. I mean, do you imagine that you see him, walking down the street or something?”
“You asking me if I see ghosts, Tom?”
“Suppose so.”
“You seeing some?”
“Just one.”
“I see. Don’t really believe we see ’em myself. I think it’s more like our minds . . . project things that only our eyes can see. Some people might call them ghosts. I call them angels, because they look out for me and tell me things. Some people reckon children can see things that adults can’t, but I don’t know about that myself.”
“What do they say?”
Pop smiled.
“Don’t be afraid, they mostly say. Don’t be afraid.”
Tom thought about it.
“So they’re not people who died and aren’t at rest?”
“No. I don’t think so. I think it’s the people left behind who often aren’t at rest. That’s why we need to see them.”
Pop lit another cigarette and took a long drag on it while Tom thought about it.
“Listen,” he said. “When I came back from the war I used to see a lot of the blokes who didn’t come back . . .”
Angel Rock Page 21