Someone was singing. Was it Wullamudulla — or Meg, singing one of Nellie’s songs — or a lyrebird, making music out of all the sounds that it had heard? Was it many voices or just one?
‘Dharamoolon, Dhurramooloon,
Bingilbee mondanunna
Gummerawarawa
Ngoorunga wirraleema
Dharamooloon, Dhurramooloon,
Bingilbee mondanunna . . .’
The music echoed with the wind, reaching out of the gorge, touching the sleepers on the rock, stroking the trees, their faces, the hot rock and the soil. Slowly it seeped back into the earth.
DRACULA STIRRED against Martin’s leg.
‘Geek?’ She touched his face with the moist tip of her trunk.
‘Urrk,’ said Martin, waking up. He watched Dracula pad over to a small shrub and begin to tear off leaves. Her munching was noisier than the cicadas in the trees. He blinked as he looked around. Surely the shadows were deeper, bluer than they had been before. Somehow the world was clearer than he’d ever seen it. Had the world changed again? Or was it them?
Wullamudulla shook his head. He was blinking too. Meg yawned beside them.
‘Where to now?’ asked Martin sleepily.
‘Bui-i-dyirrama,’ said Wullamudulla.
Martin nodded. It made sense to climb the high hill above the valley. That was the edge of the boundaries, his and Meg’s and Wullamudulla’s and Dracula’s. It was the highest point in their territory.
‘Geek,’ said Dracula. She had a bit of bark stuck between her teeth and mud on her trunk. Martin tore out a tuft of grass and began to wipe her nose.
‘You’re a messy eater,’ he told her. ‘Do you know that?’
‘Geek,’ agreed Dracula.
TEN
The View from the Hill
THE HILLS BREATHED HEAT as they walked. The shale crunched beneath their feet. Even the trees above them drooped. What time was it? Martin tried to judge by the sun. Mid-afternoon, four hours perhaps till dark.
‘Here,’ said Meg. ‘Ngulli. Food.’ She handed him some berries from a long-leafed vine, round and pale yellow. They tasted sour, but quenched his thirst. He nodded his thanks. He watched Wullamudulla spit out the seeds, and copied him, then pulled more berries down from the twining vine.
They began to walk again. For once Dracula was silent, nudging Martin’s leg occasionally as though to be sure he was still there.
The soil changed as they climbed the hill. Tussocks clung to orange shale. The only soil was thrust from wombat holes, burrowed under trees. Dracula snuffled at one, as though looking for a memory.
‘Martin?’
‘Mmmmmm?’ Martin was saving his breath. Wullamudulla’s legs were longer than his, and Meg seemed to wander like the wind. Even Dracula had four legs, while he had only two.
‘What do you think we’ll see up on the hill?’
‘The valley, of course, and the tableland on the other side . . . Oh, I see.’
Meg nodded. ‘We’ll be able to see whose time we are in — yours or mine or Wullamudulla’s.’
‘Or maybe another time,’ said Martin slowly.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Meg quietly. ‘There isn’t time. Ma is expecting me back tonight, and your great-grandda’s expecting you. Wullamudulla’s people know he’ll be back tonight too. I have a feeling. I think I’m going to see your world now.’
‘Why?’ asked Martin.
‘Because I’ve made up my mind. What the valley looks like in your world depends on me, on what I decide to do with it. And I’ve decided. I’ve earned my right to see the future. Nellie was right. I’ve walked my boundaries. I know where I am now.’
Martin looked at her. Her face was still pale. Her hair was as red as the gum tips, as red as the wet bark the day they met. She looked happy. She smiled at him, then stepped on ahead.
Wullamudulla was in front of them now, up on the rise of the hill. Suddenly he stopped. His face went blank, as though he was frightened, or despairing. He sank down onto the ground, gazing out.
Martin froze. Was Meg right? Was this his world? Suddenly he didn’t want to know what they were watching.
He forced himself forward, then sat beside Wullamudulla, his hand resting on his arm. Meg sat on his other side. They looked across the valley together.
The valley was beautiful. There was Ted’s house, faint through the afternoon haze shimmering across the valley. The metal water tank flashed in the sun, the old garden tangled dark green among the paler greens and leaf-tip red of the bush. There was smoke coming from the chimney. Something caught at Martin’s throat. Was Ted cooking a baked dinner, waiting for him to come home?
The valley shone blue and green below them. The light was gold and swollen with heat. They could smell the water from the creek, the sharp hot scent of baking rock.
They could smell the sheep droppings from the paddocks that stretched to the horizon, dusted with the orange air of modern-day pollution.
The world looked bare and sad. Only Ted’s place was green and safe.
Wullamudulla looked questioningly at Martin. His face more pity than blame. Martin nodded. This was his world. How could he explain it — the cities that never heard the soft footsteps of animals in the bark, or smelt the thousand scents of trees and wind and soil; where people turned their faces away from each other, lost in the crowd, too many to hold the friendship that the four of them felt now?
This was his world. All except the valley below. That had been kept by Meg, and Ted and all the others who had loved it. The valley was still a different world.
What would happen if he sold it? He didn’t know. He only knew he didn’t want to let it go.
IT WAS COOLER as they walked together down the gorge. The shadows sat in purple blotches underneath the cliffs. The rocks glowed, as though they stored the sun, pink and grey and golden in the dying light. The waterholes were dark and held the sky. A lyrebird’s song filled the air, then trickled away, leaving only the soft sound of the water.
Martin looked down at Dracula. She was keeping up well, leaping from rock to rock. She butted his knees.
‘Geek?’
‘Yes, I love you too, you silly animal.’
He wondered what had happened to Dracula and her fellow diprotodons all those thousands of years ago. Had Wullamudulla’s people really wiped them out? Humans had taken so much from the earth. Maybe it was time to give something back.
They turned a corner, round a cliff of maidenhair and heavy dark green trees. A tall white rock caught his eye, splashed with pink and green. Martin recognised it. The gorge was widening now. Soon they’d come to creek flats and would be home.
What would happen? Would they all see different things? Would the mist come down again? Would more smoke fill the world?
Suddenly the answer came to him. From here they should go on alone.
It was as though they had all reached the same answer together. Meg had stopped walking too. Wullamudulla watched them with dark eyes. He nodded at Martin, then paused.
‘Dyiddyang,’ said Wullamudulla. He put his hand on Martin’s shoulder.
‘Dyiddyang,’ said Martin. Brother.
Wullamudulla put his other hand on Meg’s shoulder. ‘Nama.’ Sister. The tears in her eyes were like his own. Dracula snuffled at their feet. ‘Gulwan,’ grinned Wullamudulla. Little sister. Martin grinned back. He’d never thought he’d ever have a vampire for a sister. Or a diprotodon.
‘Always,’ promised Meg, covering his hand with hers.
Wullamudulla picked up the possum-skin cloak that contained his spear and axe. He began to walk down the creek. He didn’t look back. The dusk turned his skin even darker. Then he was gone.
‘You next,’ said Martin to Meg. She was crying.
‘Thank you,’ she said at last.
‘Thank you, too,’ said Martin. They smiled shakily at each other. They had given each other too much to know what else to say.
‘I hope you find everything you wan
t,’ said Martin finally.
Meg nodded. ‘And you,’ she said. ‘I hope you get your wishes too.’
‘I’m not sure what they are yet,’ said Martin. ‘I think I nearly know.’ He paused. ‘Do you think we’ll meet again, the four of us?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Meg. ‘I think we ought to try.’ She held out her hand. ‘Let’s meet in a year,’ she said. ‘We’ll come back up the gorge and see what happens.’
‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘We should have told Wullamudulla.’
‘I think if we meet again he’ll be there too,’ said Meg. ‘He’ll know.’ She bent to scratch Dracula behind the ears. ‘I’ll see you next year, little dapro something. Oh, I hope I will.’
‘Bye, Meg.’
Meg tried to smile. She turned to go.
‘Meg . . .’
She turned back again. Her face was torn by tears. Martin bent down suddenly and began to undo his shoelaces. ‘They’ll be too big for you . . . but maybe you’ll grow into them.’ He held out his Reeboks.
Meg took them. She didn’t try to put them on. She didn’t thank him again. She nodded, and held them close against her chest. Then she was walking down the creek into the dusk. Martin saw her shadow cross the water, her skirt swaying as she stepped from rock to rock. She seemed as much a creature of the gorge as the lyrebird, as the trees and water, her skirt the same colour as the evening rocks. Suddenly he realised that he was only watching stone. There was no sign of Meg at all.
He clenched his fists. He couldn’t cry. But his face felt as cold as the rock beneath his feet.
‘Geeek?’ It was Dracula. She butted at his knee, demanding attention. He bent down to her.
‘Is it your turn to go too, now?’ He patted her coarse thick fur for the last time. ‘Off you go now, girl. Be good. Grow into a great big diprotodon and give the others hell.’
‘Geek,’ said Dracula. She stayed where she was.
‘You want me to go first? All right. Goodbye, little one.’ He stepped down onto another rock. Dracula followed him.
‘Hey, you’re supposed to stay behind.’
‘Geek. Gee-eee-eek.’
‘What does that mean?’ Suddenly he grinned. ‘I know. You’re saying that you’re coming with me.’
‘Geek.’
‘And you also want your dinner and you think I’m going to give it to you.’
‘Geek geek,’ agreed Dracula, satisfied.
Martin laughed. ‘Let’s hope Ted’s got some spare cabbages, that’s all,’ he said. ‘I hate to think what a hungry diprotodon would do to the vegie garden.’
ELEVEN
Decision
MARTIN WALKED DOWN THE CREEK. It was almost as though he could hear Meg’s footsteps in front of him. Or were they Wullamudulla’s? Wullamudulla never made a noise. They must be Meg’s. Perhaps they were just the echo of his own. It didn’t matter. Somehow something linked them still.
An early owl hooted round the bend. The track branched away from the creek now, heading to the house. Meg had walked that way five minutes ago, or many many years ago. So had Wullamudulla. It looked too bright after the dapples of the creek, the green light underneath the casuarinas. Martin paused before he stepped into the hot air.
Someone was on the track. Meg? Wullamudulla? But they were gone. Who was it? It was hard to see. The figure wasn’t clear — the air around it swam, as though it wasn’t really there . . . not yet . . .
Suddenly he knew. It was the future. Wullamudulla and Meg had made their commitments. The future that they’d made was clear. Their future led to him.
And after him? The figure on the track, whoever it might be — his daughter, his great-great-grandson, someone from a thousand years away — their future depended on him, on what he decided now. It was up to him to make that future real.
Suddenly he knew what he would do, what he would say to Ted. He’d let his Reeboks go. The rest of the silly dreams could go as well. He looked again, wondering if he’d see the figure clearly now. But it was gone.
Martin smiled. He had a feeling that they’d meet again.
DUSK WAS SETTLING over the valley as he stepped along the track. It felt hot on his bare feet. The stones bit like little teeth. Martin wondered how long it would take before his feet were as tough as Meg’s or Wullamudulla’s. It felt good to be coming back barefooted like his friends.
The sky stretched thin and clear, a pale purple grape. Even the air was soft. Smoke sifted like spilt flour from Old Ted’s chimney. The roses on the fence glowed deeply in the vanishing light. He could smell their soft, sweet scent.
Martin turned. There was no sign of the others. They had vanished as surely as he had vanished for them. Their tracks were not the same as his tracks now. But the past they had shared was still there, and the future that they shared as well. He understood it all now. Wullamudulla’s and Meg’s decisions had made this future. It was his turn now. The next bit was up to him.
‘Goodbye,’ he called, though he knew they couldn’t hear. ‘I’ll take good care . . .’ The sound came back to him: ‘bye . . . bye . . . take good care . . .’ as the cliffs and gullies whispered back. Was there a softer voice in the echo, a tone a bit like Meg’s? Was that Wullamudulla’s voice, or just the wind?
It was them.
They’d have reached home too — Meg to this house seventy years ago, Wullamudulla to the camp where, thousands of years later maybe, Meg’s grandmother would come crawling, her baby muddy and wide-eyed.
Something grunted under the roses. It sounded welcoming. Big Bernie, maybe, saying, ‘Hello’.
‘Geek,’ said Dracula firmly, as though to say: ‘I’m boss wombat here.’ She bumped at Martin’s feet. Her trunk sniffed at the wombat droppings on the path, then at the roses.
‘Home, girl,’ said Martin. ‘This is home.’
‘Geek,’ agreed Dracula, tasting the rose petals thoughtfully.
The door opened. Old Ted leant against the door jamb. His face was even more wrinkled than Martin remembered. His tears were like bits of quartz, shining from the cliff. He nodded, and reached for Martin’s shoulder. ‘You made it,’ he said finally. ‘I hardly dared hope.’ His voice was as soft as old bark beneath the trees.
Dracula bumped at Martin again, then grunted, high and cross. ‘Geek!’
‘What in the blue blazes is that?’ demanded Ted.
‘Dracula.’
‘So I see,’ said Ted, as Dracula tasted his socks. ‘No, you don’t, you mangy monster. Get out of it! I’ve only got two ankles and I need them both. What is he, anyway?’
‘It’s a she,’ said Martin, remembering how Meg had laughed at him. ‘I think maybe she’s a diprotodon. A sort of ancestor of a wombat. I’ll have to look her up.’
‘What does she eat? Besides socks and ankle bones.’
‘Most things, I guess. Bark and leaves and grass and tussock . . .’
‘Maybe she’ll eat cabbages then. She’s not going to get my socks. Come on in. Dinner’s ready. I’ll dish it out.’
Dracula sniffed along the hall, then found the kitchen. She snuffled up the crumbs under the table then settled by the stove, her trunk tucked between her paws. Her pink tongue found a rose petal nestling in her fur. She chewed it peacefully. The smell of hot fur drifted through the room.
Ted lifted the roast from the oven and began to carve. ‘Well?’ he asked.
‘Well, what?’ asked Martin.
‘What happened? Aren’t you going to tell me, boy?’
‘I thought you knew,’ said Martin. ‘I thought it had happened to you too.’
Ted shook his head. ‘It’s never the same,’ he said. ‘It’s different for every one of us. I gather you met this Dracula creature there, though I don’t know how you managed to bring her back with you. That’s never happened before. Who else?’
‘Wullamudulla,’ said Martin slowly. ‘He was following the steps of his brown snake ancestor. But that can’t be right, can it? I mean, you can’t have a brown
snake in your past.’
Ted shrugged. ‘Last time I looked in the mirror I thought I might be turning into a snake myself,’ he said. ‘Skin all leathery and eyes like bits of stone. I don’t know. All I know is there’s been times when I’ve thought an animal was my brother. I suppose it’s not far to think one’s your great-great-grandpa too. How far back was Wullamudulla?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Martin. ‘A long way back, I guess. He’d never seen anyone white before. He thought we were spirits at first, down from the stars. But he was a good friend. He saved us from the fire.’
‘Us? Who else then?’
‘A girl,’ said Martin. He smiled. ‘Margaret Florence Cathleen Bridget O’Halloran. But she was called . . .’
‘Meg,’ said Ted softly. ‘Her name was Meg.’
He dropped the carving knife and went over to the window. Martin couldn’t see his face. Ted’s fingers gripped the windowsill, white as the bone of the roast.
‘How do you know?’ asked Martin finally.
‘Because I married her,’ said Ted, still gazing out the window. ‘She’s your great-grandma. That’s her photo on the dresser.’
Martin looked at it again — the woman with thick white hair curling round her face, the eyes as bright as stars.
Ted’s voice was harsh. ‘How was she? Was she happy?’ He shook his head. ‘Stupid question. It’s a long time past. For me, at any rate. But she’s alive in the gorge forever now.’ He turned back. There were tears in his eyes again, but these were soft, like silver clouds.
‘What was she like?’ asked Ted quietly. ‘She was your age when you met her, wasn’t she? She spoke of someone from the future — a boy, she said. I never thought it might be you. What was she like then?’
Martin wondered what to say. ‘Like an eel,’ he said finally, remembering their breakfast. ‘All twisty. And lots of hair. Two great fat plaits down her back. She didn’t have shoes either.’
‘She didn’t have any when I met her,’ said Ted. ‘She was up a ladder picking peaches when I drove past. It was my first car. There weren’t too many in those days. I thought myself a real young dog. I was deputy headmaster at the school in town, just been transferred and promoted. Seemed like I could have any girl I wanted then.
Walking the Boundaries Page 10