Not Dead Yet

by Peter Menadue

CHAPTER 17

  After replacing the fan-belt, Gary drove over to the commune and parked just inside the front gate. Rick sat outside his tin shack, under an awning, smoking a hand-made cigarette. Gary strolled over to him.

  Rick looked up. "Glad you came. Want some lunch?"

  "Thanks."

  Rick led him through a rusted fly-screen door into the living room. Two couches, covered with tie-dyed sheets, sat on a collage of rugs and carpet strips. A large bookshelf, made of bricks and wooden slats, held texts on animism, shamanism and witchcraft. Everything was neat and tidy, and dusty.

  Gary said: "Where's Jedda?"

  "In the National Park, looking for some herbs. Won't be back for a few hours."

  Rick took him into the kitchen where he re-heated some lentil stew on a primus stove. When it was hot, he spooned some onto two plates and handed one to Gary.

  They sat at a rickety table and started eating. The stew didn't taste as good as the night before.

  Gary said: "You said you were an advertising executive. Why'd you quit and come up here?"

  "It's a long story."

  "I've got all day."

  Rick explained that, in his twenties, he was a hot-shot creative director at a big advertising firm in Sydney. He poured his energy into making commercials for dog biscuits, toilet paper and washing powder. Then after work, he hopped between nightclubs, drinking heavily and ingesting copious quantities of drugs. Many mornings he woke with no idea where he'd been the night before or who was sleeping next to him. "I thought I was happy."

  But one morning, Rick got into his BMW coupe and couldn't bring himself to start the engine. A huge wave of depression swept over him. He cried for fifteen minutes. His life, he realised, was empty and meaningless. "I finally understood that money and success don't set you free. They just weigh you down."

  So he chucked in his job, sold most of his worldly possessions, and spent two years travelling around Asia, talking to priests and gurus, connecting with the poor, looking for spiritual enlightenment. "Asia was a revelation. I realised that we've lost touch with ourselves - with our inner beings - and with nature. So, when I returned home, I joined this commune."

  After joining, he tried to find himself through spiritual healing, herbalism, firewalking, pottery and jewellery making. But what really rocked his Casbah was shamanism. About six months after he arrived, he took all of his official papers - birth certificate, passport and driver's licence - and burnt them. Then he went into the forest and built a circle of stones, which he sat inside, chanting and meditating. After a few days, a great eagle circled overhead. Rick felt his soul leave his body and enter the bird, which became his power animal. The eagle gave him energy and connected him with nature. Through it he saw the future.

  Gary reckoned Rick really got lost when he stopped hopping between nightclubs. Still, he feigned interest: "So, are you happy now?"

  Rick's sun-brown face crinkled into a smile. "As Einstein said, happiness is for pigs. But I'm a lot happier than most people, I think."

  "Are you the leader here?"

  "We don't have a leader. But people listen to what I say and often take my advice, probably because I talk the most. Never have been able to shut up."

  A woman opened a wire-screen door and entered the kitchen. Gary felt a jolt of excitement. She was with Trixie in Byron Bay. In her mid-thirties, she had dark dreadlocks, smooth brown skin, large eyes and a lithe body. She'd replaced her widow-weeds with a green gypsy blouse and long orange skirt.

  Rick said: "Hi Rachel."

  "Hi."

  "This is Gary. He's the guy whose car broke down yesterday. I just took him into town for a fan-belt."

  She looked casually at Gary. "You staying long?"

  "Only for the festival tonight."

  "Well, you should enjoy it." She turned to Rick. "Did you get me any milk in town?"

  "Of course. It's in the grocery bag, on the couch."

  Rachel disappeared and came back a minute later, holding two cartons of long-life milk.

  Rick said: "Take a seat."

  She sat facing Gary, who said: "Where do you live?"

  "Next door."

  "Been here long?"

  "About four years. Before that, I lived in Sydney. Then I became a witch and moved up here."

  Gary had never met a witch before. He'd always pictured them as old crones stirring vats of boiling liquid while chanting witchy things. She shattered that image.

  He said: "Really? What do witches believe in?"

  "We believe in the Earth Mother Goddess and use her energy to cast spells."

  "What sort of spells?"

  "Depends on the witch. I'm a white witch, not a black one. I only cast good spells. I channel the power of the Goddess and open up an astral doorway to whatever reality I want."

  Gary was the first kid in his class to stop believing in Santa Claus, and hated this sort of mumbo jumbo. But he accepted that some people had to suck on spiritual lollipops to ease the hell of life.

  He said: "Sounds interesting. Do your spells work?"

  "If I concentrate hard enough they do. Like, only last month, Tony was in a hospital for an appendix operation. I cast a healing spell and he got better."

  "You mean, the doctors didn't have to operate?"

  "No. They cut out his appendix. But my spell guided their knives and helped him recover."

  There was obviously an alternative interpretation.

  Rick said: "Rachel also paints. Her stuff's really good. She sells some of it down in Byron."

  Gary had no interest in art, but wanted to get closer to Rachel and therefore Trixie. "Really? I like art. Will you show me some of your work?"

  It was a request no artist could refuse. Her face brightened. "Sure. Let's go over to my place."

  They all strolled over to Rachel's shack, built around a large eucalyptus tree that stood in the centre of her living room. Attached to the tree was a pine shelf, holding a sword, wand and chalice. Painted onto the tree was a large pentagram. The living room also had a worn-out sofa and two rickety armchairs covered with tie-dyed sheets.

  Gary's heart thumped and hands trembled when he saw Trixie Powell sitting in one of the armchairs, reading a book. She glanced up and smiled tentatively.

  He smiled back. "Hi, I'm Gary."

  "I'm Trixie."

  To his disappointment, she resumed reading. He tried to think of a way to draw her out. But Rachel interrupted him.

  "My paintings are over there," she said, pointing at the far corner of the room. Reluctantly, he left Trixie and went over to the dozen-or-so paintings stacked against a corrugated-iron wall. He crouched and thumbed through them. Some were on canvas, others Masonite.

  Rachel peered over his shoulder. "What do you think?"

  Gary didn't need any art expertise to know they were rubbish. They showed witches, druids, wizards and Greek goddesses cavorting around in technicolour landscapes or under lurid skies sprinkled with stars and planets. His eyeballs started to hurt. He needed sunglasses.

  He turned to Rachel. "Wow, they're really good. You've got a gift."

  She smiled. "You really think so?"

  "Yes. Any for sale?"

  He knew that would please her. For an artist, a cash purchase is the sincerest form of flattery.

  A broad smile. "Of course."

  After some negotiations, he purchased two paintings for $30 each. She took his money with glee.

  When she offered to make them a cup of tea, Rick shook his head. "Sorry, we've got to collect wood for the bonfire."

  Gary wanted to stay and chat with Trixie, but there was no polite way to do so. He told Rachel he'd pick up the paintings later and followed Rick out the door.

  As they left, he glanced at Trixie, still reading. She didn't even bother looking up.

  Once outside, Gary turned to Rick. "Is Trixie also a witch?"

  Rick shrugged. "Don't know. She's an old friend of Rachel's. Arrived a couple of months ago. She's not
very friendly - keeps to herself. Bit stuck up, actually."

  Rick led him down a gentle slope to a wide clearing beside a narrow stream. Beyond the stream was a lush old-growth forest. Several ferals carried dead wood out of the forest and threw it onto a large pyre in the middle of the clearing.

  Rick led Gary across the stream and into the forest, where magnificent carabeen and booyong trees arched over a forest floor carpeted with orchids, ferns, mosses and vines.

  Gary said: "Is this National Park?"

  "Yep. Nice backyard, huh?"

  Rick introduced Gary to several other ferals. For the next hour, they all collected firewood until the pyre was about three metres high.

  A feral called Billy, with a Mohawk haircut, ran from the forest towards Rick, looking excited.

  "The militia," he yelled, pointing back towards the forest.

  "How far?" Rick asked.

  "Just over the hill."

  Rick turned and grinned at Gary. "If you want to have some fun, keep quiet and follow me. You'll enjoy this."

  Rick and Billy headed back into the forest, with Gary and several others on their heels. After about a hundred metres, they climbed a small hill. Near the crest, Rick and Billy dropped to their bellies. Everybody else fanned out and did the same. Gary lay next to Rick and looked down into a narrow gully.

  Sitting in a small clearing were about twenty men in combat fatigues carrying a wide assortment of rifles. A paunchy guy with a pistol on his hip swaggered about talking loudly. The breeze carried his voice up the hill. "Alright, listen up. I want to remind you exactly why we're here: it's because the faggot-liberal elite in Canberra want to hand over this country to the United Nations, and a bunch of wogs, slopes, dinks, towel-heads and Jews. They want to take our guns so we can't stop those bastards taking control. Well, they're not taking my goddamn gun. You gonna let them take yours?"

  The weekend warriors screamed "No goddamn way" and "Over my dead body."

  The paunchy guy, who actually had a red neck, said: "That's right. No goddamn way. One of these days, we're gonna have to fight for what's ours. That's why we're out here - to get ready. Alright, on your feet. Let's get moving."

  Everyone slowly rose and put on their packs.

  Gary whispered: "Who the hell are they?"

  Rick said: "The local Freedom Militia. The fat guy's their commander. Owns a farm near here. This is where they hold their manoeuvres."

  "What the hell's the Freedom Militia?"

  "A weirdo extremist group. They think God gave this country to the white man, and it's their job to keep everybody else out; they also think gun-control laws are a conspiracy to leave them defenceless."

  "They sound crazy."

  "They are. They even claim Martin Bryant had nothing to do with the Port Arthur Massacre."

  "Then who shot all the tourists?"

  "The gun-control lobby: it massacred 35 people so the Federal Government would ban automatic weapons."

  "That's pretty wacky."

  "Not to these guys."

  "Where do they come from?"

  "Most are rural hicks. A lot were in the army. Some even claim they're Vietnam vets, though they must have been child soldiers."

  The Freedom Militia formed a ragged line and marched off.

  Billy interjected. "Jesus, what shit soldiers. They're louder than elephants. With a couple of claymores and a rifle, I could wipe them out."

  Gary was surprised at his militant tone and technical know-how.

  Rick smiled. "Billy used to be in the army."

  Gary rolled over and looked at Billy. "What unit?"

  "SAS."

  "I'm impressed. How long?"

  "Seven years. I quit after Iraq Two."

  Gary decided not to annoy Billy in any way. He looked back at Rick. "Do those guys ever cause you trouble?"

  "Nah. They're only dangerous to themselves. Last month, thirty of them got lost and almost starved to death. Stumbled into our community looking like hell. They were all very polite."

  "Interesting area."

  Rick nodded. "You're right. I reckon it's a basic law in Australia that, the further north you go, the wackier people get. Then you cross the Queensland border into a big wide land chock-full of crazies."

  Gary sensed Rick still had plenty of the street smarts he had needed to become an advertising executive in Sydney. He was part of the feral scene and detached from it. As soon as another big opportunity came along, he'd grab it.

  It was late afternoon when they got back to the commune. Dozens of decrepit vehicles were parked just inside the front gate. More than a hundred ferals of all ages had arrived. Numerous men were painting their bodies, or donning costumes and masks, to turn themselves into eagles, owls, bulls or tribesmen. Many women wore flowing white saris or sarongs, and garlands of flowers and leaves. The ferals were all slim, he noticed. No fatties need apply.

  Rick took Gary back to his shack, where Jedda was vainly trying to get the kids to do their homework. Eventually, she gave up and let them go out and play.

  The three of them ate a vegetable stew. Then Gary watched Rick put on a costume with long feathers down both arms.

  As Rick put on his eagle mask and tightened the straps behind his head, he laughed: "Hey Gary, we all wear masks - at least mine is real." Rick flapped his wings. "This is how I get in touch with the Great Eagle. He's entering me now."

  Soon after dusk, they strolled outside and watched someone light the pyre. Flames shot high into the air and created a wide pool of light. Most adults were toking roaches or drinking red wine from large flagons.

  The music started: a mixture of didgeridoos, bongos and sticks. Dozens danced around the fire, whirling, leaping, stomping and chanting. Many shook firesticks and medicine rattles. Rick was one of the most energetic, flapping his eagle feathers as if hoping to fly. "Let the Great Eagle enter you all," he kept screaming.

  Gary strolled around the fringe, looking for Trixie. Eventually, he saw her, standing by herself, and casually approached.

  He had a whole list of questions to ask, including "Who killed Tony Thompson?" and "Who else is trying to find you?" But he had to gain her trust first.

  "Hi there," he said.

  A flat stare. "Hi."

  "Been to many of these?"

  "Not many. This is only my third."

  "Really? How long have you lived here?"

  "Not long."

  She obviously didn't want to talk. And if he got too pushy, she might get suspicious. So he reluctantly said goodbye and moved on.

  A few minutes later, he ran into Rachel, her sweaty face gleaming in the firelight. She wore a loose sari and held a large joint.

  She said: "Enjoying the festival?"

  "Of course."

  "Want a toke?"

  It would be bad manners to refuse, so he took a couple of big drags. The dope had a real kick and made him giddy. When he worked undercover, he sampled some fantastic dope. This stuff was better.

  "Wow," he squeaked.

  "Good huh?"

  "Excellento. Where does it come from?"

  She grinned. "Let's just say it's grown locally."

  "How locally?"

  "Very locally."

  "What's it called?"

  "North Coast Gold. Totally organic. Want to dance?"

  "Sure. Why not."

  Gary took a few more tokes and felt his head start to float. He joined the dancers and stomped around like an American Indian warrior, imagining he was Crazy Horse on the night before Little Big Horn. After shooting Yellow-Hair he was going to scalp the bastard.

  After about twenty minutes, his head cleared and legs grew heavy. He staggered off and sat on a log. Rachel sat next to him, still holding a large joint.

  She said: "Very impressive. Want another toke?"

  He hungrily eyed the joint. "Why not?"

  Just before dawn, Rick climbed into bed next to Jedda, fell asleep and dreamed he was the Great Eagle, perched on top of a high c
liff. He spread his wings and threw himself into the void. An updraft caught him and pushed him towards the sun. But doubts crept in: he wasn't the Great Eagle; he was just a man wearing feathers. His wings trembled and shook. He plunged towards the earth. Just before impact, he woke, heart pounding.

  He'd never had a dream like that before. It seemed a portent of disaster. He looked at the half-smoked joint lying next to him. Maybe he smoked too much dope.

  Now wide-awake, he recalled the previous night's festival. He had a great time and the new guy, Gary, also seemed to enjoy himself. Just before midnight, he saw Gary and Rachel head off to her shack, holding hands. Lucky guy. Rick had always fancied Rachel, but never got to shag her.

  Rick was suspicious of visitors because he was cultivating about 100 marijuana plants in a small gully in the National Park. Soon he would harvest them. Was Gary here because of them? Shit. Maybe he was an undercover cop, and that was why Rick dreamed about falling to earth: the Great Eagle was warning him about an impending disaster.

  Rick knew he was being paranoid, but reckoned he was entitled to be. It was time for Gary to move on.