by Peter Watt
Peter Watt has spent time as a soldier, articled clerk, prawn trawler deckhand, builder’s labourer, pipe layer, real estate salesman, private investigator, police sergeant and adviser to the Royal Papua New Guinea Constabulary. He speaks, reads and writes Vietnamese and Pidgin. He now lives at Maclean, on the Clarence River in northern New South Wales. Fishing and the vast open spaces of outback Queensland are his main interests in life.
Peter Watt can be contacted at www.peterwatt.com
Also by Peter Watt
Cry of the Curlew
Shadow of the Osprey
Flight of the Eagle
To Chase the Storm
To Touch the Clouds
Papua
Eden
The Silent Frontier
The Stone Dragon
The Frozen Circle
Excerpts from emails sent to Peter Watt since his first novel was published:
‘I must congratulate you on your very fine series of books, which I have found to be of the highest calibre. Do keep on writing as I for one look forward to each new offering.’
‘I have just completed Cry of the Curlew – I loved it. The characters you create become so real, each with their own definite personalities . . . I love reading and learning about history, and I thank you for your writing and for opening up my eyes to the reality of early Australia.’
‘Your books are so well written. They actually transport you right on that page. They make you feel that it is you there. I felt every pain, cried every tear, laughed every laugh, and smiled and loved every minute of it. A writer who can transport you in that way is definitely in my book the best and you are that person.’
‘Your books give us some insight into a part of the world we will likely never get to see . . . Keep up the fine work.’
‘I just wanted to let you know how much I have enjoyed your books . . . I really loved the complexity of the plot and the development of the characters as they aged – although I must say that we felt quite a loss when [one of the characters] died!’
‘Your books are just the greatest I have ever read.’
‘I have just finished reading the fifth book in the Duffy series, To Touch the Clouds, and as always I find your writing compelling and wonderful.’
‘I was captivated [by The Silent Frontier], I couldn’t put it down, and when I had to I was thinking about it and I wanted to pick it up and continue reading.’
‘I can’t get over how good your books are . . . they are amazing and the history is very insightful for a young bloke like me.’
‘We loved [Cry of the Curlew] and everything that followed . . . The top bookshelf in our living room is all Peter Watt! Thank you so much for your writings.’
‘Your stories are edgy, a bit sexy, with adventure, history, strong and marvellous characters and some great Australian towns and villains. Can’t wait for your next novel to arrive.’
‘I am hooked on your writing. When reading Papua, the characters came alive.’
‘As usual I loved The Frozen Circle. The worst thing is that everything else that needs doing gets left until I have finished reading.’
‘[Cry of the Curlew] is gut-grabbing. I found myself clenched with trepidation as I was not able to foresee the outcome of each twist and turn of character and event.’
First published 2010 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © Peter Watt 2010
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Watt, Peter, 1949–.
To ride the wind / Peter Watt.
ISBN 978 1 4050 3999 4 (pbk.).
A823.3
Set in 13/16 pt Bembo by Post Pre-press Group
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2010 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
To Ride the Wind
Peter Watt
Adobe eReader format
978-1-74262-321-4
EPub format
978-1-74262-323-8
Mobipocket format
978-1-74262-322-1
Online format
978-1-74262-320-7
Macmillan Digital Australia
www.macmillandigital.com.au
Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.
For two special women,
my cousin, Virginia, and sister, Kerry.
Will he go in his sleep from these desolate lands,
Like a chief, to the rest of his race,
With the honey-voiced woman who beckons and stands,
And gleams like a dream in his face –
Like a marvellous dream in his face?
‘The Last of His Tribe’, Henry Kendall
PROLOGUE
Central Queensland
Late Summer
1916
Leaning forward over the horse’s neck the young man slid his hand to the rifle bucket. The searing air around him held a sinister silence he had experienced before when working as a stockman in the Gulf country of northern Australia. In those places the Aboriginal people still resisted the incursion of the white man and his cattle on their lands. He knew he was being watched – maybe some mysterious inheritance of his own Aboriginal blood had brought on his feelings of unease.
The Winchester repeating rifle was in his right hand but he was careful not to make it obvious that he was aware he was being observed from somewhere out in the arid briga low scrub all around him. His mount snorted, raising her head with ears twitching. She had never let him down before and her actions only intensified his sense of potential danger.
Tom Duffy had ridden many hundreds of miles south to be here. In his mid twenties, the young man was handsome by the standards of any race with his fine looks, olive skin and slightly crooked nose – the latter the result of a fistfight. His deep brown eyes reflected keen intelligence and he had the lean but muscled look of a man used to hard manual work on the vast cattle properties of the north. At first glance he might be mistaken as having Latin blood but on closer inspection it could be seen that he carried the blood of this new race of Australians who had emerged on an ancient continent. Half-caste, the white men called him, but still they envied his handsome features and proud bearing. Although reared in the white man’s world, Duffy still suffered the snide remarks of his European workmates even though they grudgingly agreed on his skills around cattle and horses. Almost a whitefella, they would often comment behind his back.
Tom Duffy sc
anned the haze of the surrounding low, prickly trees, forcing his focus beyond the immediate stunted trees before him; there was nothing but a seemingly endless view of more scrub. The horse beneath him shifted sideways; she sensed the object of danger before her rider did.
‘You can put the gun away,’ the voice behind him said. ‘If I wanted to kill you I would have done so before you even knew I was here.’
Tom slid the rifle back into its scabbard and turned his horse around to see an old Aboriginal propped against his deadly twelve-foot-long hardwood spear. He had a long grey beard, tribal scars and wore nothing more than a human hair belt with a couple of hardwood clubs tucked in the back.
As the two men’s eyes met Tom noticed a sudden change in the warrior’s demeanour. There was a hint of confusion and, at the same time, recognition.
‘Tom!’ the old man gasped.
The young stockman frowned. This had to be the legendary Wallarie. When his father had told him as a child of the kinsman he had not quite believed the stories. Men did not turn into eagles and fly. They were not able to become ghosts and hunt their enemies.
‘Wallarie?’ Tom slid from his mount to approach the old man. As he strode towards him he could see more gnarled scars on the old man which he took for marks made by bullets.
Wallarie dropped his spear and stepped forward to grip Tom by the shoulders. ‘You have come back to me from the Dreaming, my brother,’ he said, tears appearing in the corners of his eyes. ‘It has been a long time since we hunted together.’
It was obvious that the old Aboriginal had confused him for someone else, Tom thought, although he had used his name correctly. He had been named after his grandfather, the infamous bushranger who had sired three children to his love, the Nerambura woman Mondo.
‘I am the son of Tim Duffy, grandson of Tom Duffy and his woman, Mondo,’ Tom said, realising the old Aboriginal was mistaking him for his grandfather. Wallarie had been as close to the white man as he could be to any of his own people.
‘You are my whitefella brother’s spirit come back to me in this body,’ Wallarie answered.
Tom wanted to shrug off the mad blackfella’s belief but felt it was best to humour him. After all, he had traversed a lot of hostile country to be here in the place of the dreams that haunted him – dreams about a hill and the sacred cave his father had often told him about before he died. His white mother, Mary, a cook in a hotel at Cloncurry, had dismissed the stories as superstition. But now she was also dead. She had ensured that he received a European education and the young boy proved to be an excellent student, devouring his school work with such enthusiasm that he always came first in his class. But there was little opportunity for an educated, highly intelligent mixed-race boy and Tom found himself employed as a stockman in the Gulf of Carpentaria.
Without a word, Wallarie scooped up his spear and turned to walk through the haze of the scrub. Tom sensed that he should follow and led his horse, walking behind Wallarie. Before long he could see the top of a hill covered in sparse patches of stunted trees. Tom could have sworn that his feet had lost their power to move as the figure of the old Aboriginal was suddenly that of a young warrior, smeared with animal fat and strong muscles rippling on a lithe frame.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Tom swore, suddenly frightened by the apparition a few yards from him. But when he blinked he only saw Wallarie as he truly was – an old man with long, greying hair.
‘You tie horse here and come with me,’ Wallarie said, turning to look back at Tom, who removed hobbles from the horse to allow her to move about and graze on any sparse native grasses she could find.
Wallarie led Tom to the foot of the craggy hill that in the fading light had a strange, blood-like appearance about it. Tom followed him up a well-beaten, winding track to the peak from where he could look over a sweeping plain of scrub and red earth that stretched far beyond the limits of Glen View station. The sun was a red ball touching the horizon with a hot kiss.
‘You come inside,’ Wallarie said, gesturing to a half-hidden entrance to a dark place beyond. Tom hesitated and Wallarie noticed his fear. ‘Not going into your whitefella’s hell,’ he chuckled. ‘Pastor Karl tell me about the Christian hell. He say it under the earth but I know that the good spirits live under the earth, not the debil.’
Tom stepped into the cave. A tiny fire still smouldered at its heart, throwing a dim light into the corners of the spacious opening upon whose walls he could see the ochre paintings of the Nerambura people, relating the story of ancient times as stick figures hunted giant kangaroos and warriors fought warriors.
‘You sit here with me,’ Wallarie said, gesturing to a place by the fire which he now stacked with a bundle of dry wood, causing it to flare into a gentle flame as smoke curled towards the rock ceiling. The old man produced a battered pipe and tamped down a plug of precious tobacco. Lighting the pipe he puffed contentedly away while Tom remained silent.
‘You more whitefella spirit than blackfella,’ Wallarie finally said, gazing at Tom across the fire. ‘The last fella who come to the cave was a whitefella but he have more blackfella spirit than you. He fly with the great eagles in a place far, far from here.’
The accusation stung. Tom had long lived with the slurs against his mixed parentage. ‘Why did you bring me here?’ he asked.
‘You have dream of this place?’ Wallarie said.
‘You could say that,’ Tom retorted, still feeling wounded by the old man’s blunt observation of him.
‘Me think you my spirit brother who I rode with a long time ago,’ Wallarie sighed. ‘Me think he come back to take me to the sky where we hunt together and run away from the black crows of the Native Mounted Police. But they all gone now.’
‘My father told me about you when I was a kid,’ Tom said. ‘I think he put the dreams in my head.’
‘Mebbe.’ Wallarie nodded. ‘Mebbe not. Mebbe you meant to come here and see the Dreaming.’
‘What do you know?’ Tom asked, leaning forward in an attempt to see into the old man’s eyes. Tom did not believe in the superstition of his Aboriginal ancestors, having become cynical when exposed to the great philosophical works of the European world and having seen the power of Western civilisation.
‘I know that you do not believe in the ancestor spirits and their power over the world,’ Wallarie answered. ‘But the ancestor spirits believe in you.’
Tom shook his head, doubting the old man’s observation.
‘The ancestor spirits say that one day you become big boss of the whitefella,’ Wallarie said. ‘They say that first you must prove yourself as a warrior and kill more men than can be counted, and one day you be big boss. Many man and woman look up to you as their chief.’
Now Tom was convinced that the old Aboriginal was some kind of charlatan. No doubt he could fool uneducated stockmen and wild blackfellas with hints of supernatural powers. But the man who sat on the other side of the fire was nothing more than an aging Aboriginal – the last of his clan – who spun wild stories from a vivid imagination brought on by too many hours living alone in this landscape.
‘But first you must stay alive in a white man’s war far away from here,’ Wallarie chuckled. ‘Mebbe the ancestor spirits have fun with old Wallarie and tell him lies about you.’
‘The white man’s war is in Europe and they do not allow blackfellas to sign up,’ Tom scoffed. ‘No chance of me enlisting.’
Wallarie tapped his pipe on the log beside him. ‘There is one who you must ride to. The ancestor spirits call her auntie and she will help you. She lives in a place called Townsville and her son believes in the curse that came to this place many seasons ago. The woman is my spirit sister. She has roamed all the lands of the north and has the soul of a warrior. Her name is Kate Tracy.’
‘Kate Tracy,’ Tom mused. ‘I have heard of her. She was my grandfather’s sister.’
Wallarie nodded. ‘You must find her and listen to her words. The ancestor spirits do not tell me all, but I
know she has the power to set you on the great hunt for your true place in this world.’
Tom smiled. ‘Old man, your words are good but I am not some superstitious blackfella. I wish your thoughts were true but to the white man I am just another Abo – a boong, a half-caste.’
‘Be proud of your blood,’ Wallarie said softly. ‘You are of the new people who come from the earth of this land. One day you will see that ol’ Wallarie know because he listens to the sounds in the dark. Now it is time for you to go and ride to my spirit sister and listen to her words. The ancestors have told me that you will find the fiery stars in a land far from here and they will give you much power. You will be the man who will return our clan’s blood to this land. Now I am tired and must sleep.’
Realising that he was being dismissed, Tom rose stiffly to his feet. ‘I brought this,’ he said, taking from his pocket a tin of pipe tobacco and placing it on the earth. ‘My father said you had a liking for it.’
Wallarie looked up at the young man and smiled. ‘You are a cheeky bugger – but your father was right. Mebbe there is hope for you if you listen to your Nerambura blood.’
‘Maybe we will meet again,’ Tom said, turning towards the entrance of the cave.
‘Mebbe,’ Wallarie answered, reaching for the round tin.
Tom left the cave just as the last light flickered on the horizon to the west. ‘Matches,’ he muttered, remembering that he had meant to leave Wallarie a packet. Quickly he returned but was stunned to see that Wallarie was gone. He searched in every part of the cave’s interior but there was no trace of the old Aboriginal.
Mystified, Tom stood at the head of the track back down to where he’d left his horse. Suddenly the shadow of a huge wedge-tailed eagle rose up behind him from an old gum tree. The flutter of its wings caused Tom to jump as the great bird of the inland plains rose into the air to fly towards the sinking sun.