Camped near a creek bed not far from the rodeo grounds, the stockmen look up as Rose rides towards them. She throws her swag on the ground and dismounts. The stockmen look at each other as she positions her swag next to Billy’s. Billy hands her a pannikin of tea.
‘We never had a woman camp with us before,’ he says, waiting for her response.
She continues unpacking her things and making herself comfortable. ‘I got a jealous girlfriend, you know,’ Billy says, trying to get her to move away.
‘I’ll tell her you protected me from them cowboys,’ she says, in a determined voice.
The stockmen giggle to each other as Billy tries hopelessly to discourage her from camping with them.
‘Why don’t you camp with your mob?’ Billy asks.
‘I don’t have anyone,’ Rose says, shaking her head.
‘Where’s your man?’ asks Billy.
‘I don’t have a man. My husband died a year ago and I travel by myself,’ she says, looking up at Billy.
He feels sorry for her and can’t kick her out, but still he feels nervous having a woman camp with the stockmen. The men have been working out bush for a month without female company – who knows what might happen? But she is as stubborn as a bull and does not want to leave.
Rose prepares damper and cooks kangaroo stew. The stockmen enjoy her food as they sit around the campfire telling stories.
‘How long have you been riding?’ asks Billy.
‘I rode horses since I was twelve. I helped my father muster cattle on the station,’ replies Rose proudly.
‘When did you learn rodeo?’ a stockman named Sam asks, through a mouthful of damper.
‘My father made me ride wild horses and I rode in the rodeo when I turned eighteen,’ Rose says, smiling at him.
The stockmen listen with interest, as they’ve never seen a female drover before.
‘How old are you?’ asks Billy.
‘Old enough to know cheeky men,’ she says, smirking.
The stockmen laugh and Billy looks down, thinking what to say next.
‘Billy’s twenty-five and thinks he is a teenager,’ yells his cousin Mick.
They all chuckle and look to Billy for a response.
‘You’re as young as you feel,’ says Rose, rescuing Billy from their remarks. The stockmen laugh as Rose defends Billy’s pride.
‘Looks like Billy’s found a new girlfriend,’ says Mick, grinning.
Rose smiles and looks at Billy who puts his head down, feeling shame. Rose isn’t exactly his type. She’s a bit on the smelly side and tough like a bloke.
‘I’m going to sleep,’ he says, covering his face with his hat.
The stockmen wake to the smell of bacon and eggs. Rose has been up since before daylight, cooking breakfast.
‘It’s good having a woman around, sure beats Billy’s cooking,’ Sam says, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
Billy can tell that Rose feels good that the stockmen accept her as one of them.
‘You make a good camp cook,’ Billy says, chewing on a piece of bacon.
‘I’m proud to be with the best stockmen,’ Rose replies, looking around for approval. The stockmen nod their heads, agreeing with her remark.
They walk to the rodeo grounds, excited and keen to win the final. The crowd cheers as the scruffy stockmen sign the attendance book. The cowboys sit together with their women, laughing at the stockmen. Their women are clean and dressed like actresses. They laugh and make fun of Rose.
‘She looks like a man,’ says one of the women, chuckling.
Rose takes no notice of their remarks as she prepares for her ride. ‘They’re only jealous,’ says Billy, helping Rose with her harness.
‘We’ll show them who’s boss,’ says Mick, stretching his muscles.
The cowboys wear fancy clothes as if they’ve just come out of a Hollywood movie. The stockmen wear the clothes they slept in, stained from years of bush work. They are two different breeds brought together for one purpose, both determined to be the best. Nothing else matters to them.
The stockmen sit on the rails, watching the wild horses in the yard. The cowboys line up first as they are behind in points. The stockmen watch eagerly as they stand alongside the horses. The crowd cheers as Big Red bucks the first cowboy off his back. The stockmen watch in disbelief as the cowboys cannot last a single ride. The horses are more savage than usual.
The stockmen line up for their rides and wait for the horses to steady. The gate pulls open and Sam flies out as the horse bucks around in circles. He throws Sam off before the horn blows. Mick has the same fate. The last two to ride are Billy and Rose.
‘We’ll win on points anyway,’ says Billy, mounting his horse.
The crowd stands and watches as the gate flings open. The horse charges out, kicking and bucking. Billy holds on, riding him like a bull. The crowd cheers as he struggles to hang on.
‘Stick to him, Blue,’ shouts Mick, jumping into the air. The horn blows as the horse throws Billy.
‘Yes! He did it!’ yells Rose, dancing around with the stockmen.
They help Billy over the fence and congratulate him. He’s successfully completed all his events. The stockmen fall silent as Rose climbs onto Big Red. The crowd stands up to watch the first female to ride Big Red. Rose has waited for this moment all her life and is determined to tame the beast.
The gate pulls open and everyone cheers. Big Red flies out of the yard, kicking and bucking high. Rose sticks with him as he bucks even higher. The crowd cheers as they put on an awesome display.
‘Stick to him, Rose,’ yells Billy, shaking his fist.
‘You got him,’ Mick shouts, jumping around Billy.
The stockmen all cheer as Rose holds on. Big Red bashes into the yard as the horn blows, throwing Rose over the fence. The crowd are hushed as the stockmen run over to help her. ‘She’s all right,’ Billy shouts, helping Rose from the hay.
The crowd cheers while the stockmen lift Rose onto their shoulders and run towards the judges. The cowboys look on in horror as Rose takes the five-thousand-dollar prize money.
‘Rose is a stockwoman, not a city cowboy,’ Billy shouts, holding up Rose’s hand. Then the judges give Billy his five-thousand-dollar prize, shaking his hand. The stockmen cheer for their unbeatable team. They’ve won both the horse and bull rides. The cowboys walk off with their tails between their legs as the crowd cheers the stockmen on.
They walk back to their camp, laughing and talking about the rodeo. Mick pulls a small bottle of rum out of his back pocket. ‘It’s time to celebrate,’ he says, unscrewing the top with his teeth. They each drink a mouthful.
‘That’ll wash down the dust,’ Billy says, coughing.
They share the bottle around and Billy makes a toast. ‘Cheers to the best stockwoman in the valley,’ he cries, holding up the bottle.
They’ve finished the bottle by the time they reach their camp.
‘I’ll get some more drinks,’ Sam says, mounting his horse to ride into town.
From the camp oven, Rose takes the corned beef that has been slowly cooking during the day. She removes a second camp oven full of potatoes and carrots from the coals. She slices the corned beef into pieces, placing them on a plate with the vegetables. Billy lifts the billycan, pouring tea for everyone. They sit on their swags eating and resting their aching bodies.
A dusty old drover rides into their camp.
‘I’m looking for Billy Blue-tongue,’ he says, spitting out a lump of tobacco.
‘That’s me,’ Billy replies, looking surprised.
‘The boss wants to talk to you about work,’ the old drover tells Billy, brushing the flies away from his eye.
‘No worries, mate. I’ll be there in the morning,’ Billy says, looking around at the others.
The drover speaks with B
illy for a while before riding off. Billy is excited at the prospect of finding new work. ‘We will ride to the station tomorrow,’ Billy says, lying down on his swag.
The stockmen lie on their swags looking up at the stars.
‘I forgot one thing,’ Billy says, jumping to his feet. He hands each stockman a thousand dollars. ‘This is a present for my best mates,’ he says, shaking their hands.
Rose walks over to Billy and kisses him on the cheek. ‘I want a man just like you,’ she says, smiling gratefully.
The stockmen whistle and cheer as Billy pretends that it was nothing. The stockmen take it in turns telling stories and making fun of each other. If only trees could talk, they would reveal all the bulldust that went down that night.
Honey
Adam Thompson
Adam Thompson is an emerging Aboriginal (pakana) writer from Launceston, Tasmania. He has won several local writing awards and has been published by the Australian Dictionary of Biography, Kill Your Darlings and Griffith Review. Adam is passionate about his community and has worked for the Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre for almost twenty years, caring for Aboriginal land and heritage, and preserving community history. In addition to short fiction, Adam has written for television and performance art.
‘So, Nathan, what is the Aboriginal word for honey?’ asked Sharkey, as he swung the ute into a sharp right-hand turn.
Nathan looked left out of his open window, into the steep ravine known as the Elephant Pass. A ghostly afternoon mist clung to the ferns and trees that lined the gorge. He could feel his hair dampening from the cool air coming through the window.
‘Not sure,’ he replied, absently.
‘Well, you’re Aboriginal, aren’t ya? You should know,’ said Sharkey.
‘Yeah, well … I’m sure there is a word for honey, but—’
‘Thought ya were going to find out for us. Wanna use the name on me label. Be a good gimmick for selling the honey, I reckon. ’Specially with the tourists.’
‘Yeah, probably,’ said Nathan. ‘I’ll look into it.’
‘That’d be good. And cheers for giving us a hand moving the hives. Really need to get them on to the prickly box, now the kunzea has finished flowering.’
‘Yeah, no worries.’
Nathan looked over at Sharkey and met his gaze. Sharkey liked to make eye contact when they talked in the car. Nathan thought it was a bad habit but obliged him anyway.
‘Ya know what, Nath? I was serious when I said I’d give ya the ute if ya keep helping me out like this. I reckon you’ve just about earned it by now.’
‘Cheers, man,’ said Nathan.
They hit an intersection at the base of the pass, and Sharkey turned right onto the coast highway. The ocean appeared and disappeared as the undulating road wound its way through farms and forests. They pulled into a concealed driveway, overgrown with drooping she-oaks.
‘Hives are just in there,’ said Sharkey, pointing into the bush. ‘Might want to suit up.’
Both men got out of the vehicle. Sharkey reached into a black fish bin on the tray and scruffed two wrinkled plastic bags. He threw one to Nathan. ‘This should fit you.’
Nathan stared up at the sky. It was late afternoon and there was still plenty of light, but the sky over the ocean was darkening.
‘Looks like rain,’ he said, as he shook out his bee suit.
Sharkey was already zipping his up. He was one of those people who did everything flat out, making his fat, saggy face and body jiggle constantly. ‘Yeah, well, that’s why we need to get these hives blocked up. Fast.’
They climbed over the broken wire fence and made their way through the trees to the beehives, which stood out stark white against the green and brown hues of the coastal vegetation. Only two weeks earlier, the cottonwool-like kunzea flowers had been fragrant and alive with bees. Now, their dried and shrivelled remains carpeted the ground, and the dank, piney smell of rotting she-oak needles layered the salty air.
Looking like spacemen in their white body suits and rubber gloves, the two men blocked up the hive openings with wads of crumpled catalogues, and heaved the bee boxes over the fence and onto the back of the ute. The disturbed cacophony coming from the boxes rose a few octaves as the bees were tossed about. The vibrations surged through Nathan’s fingers like mild electricity, causing the muscles in his forearms to flutter. The bees that had been shut out of their hives smashed themselves into his mesh veil, trying to get to his face. Their menacing, high-pitched buzzing put him on edge.
‘Man, there’s some honey in these,’ said Sharkey, as they shuffled the heavy hives around on the tray. ‘I’ll make some decent coin out of this.’
While Sharkey roped on the load, Nathan wandered down towards the sea and found a clearing surrounded by coastal wattles. He bent over and picked up a smooth stone that seemed out of place. It bore markings that he had seen before. Searching around the immediate area, he observed several more stones just like this one. He picked up another. It had a waxy sheen, and a long, serrated edge that appeared as if it was sharpened only days before. It fit snugly into the palm of his hand.
‘What ya got there?’ called Sharkey. He had already taken off his bee suit and was striding down towards Nathan.
‘Stone tools,’ replied Nathan, indicating with a nod to the scatter around their feet.
‘Give it here,’ said Sharkey. His pudgy hand shot out and snatched the stone from Nathan’s grasp, and he held it up to the remaining sun as if to see through it.
‘Trust you to find this,’ said Sharkey, raising his eyebrows. He brought the stone close to his face, squinting at it while rolling it through his fingertips. ‘Don’t go tellin’ the rest of yer mob what ya found here. Bloody … next thing ya know there’ll be a land rights claim on me honey turf.’
‘It doesn’t work like that,’ said Nathan, suppressing a sigh. ‘We can’t just claim land rights anywhere that we find artefacts.’ He expected a cocky remark but one didn’t come. ‘Anyway, all along this coast is the same. You can see where the old people camped and lived.’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ said Sharkey. He flicked the stone tool off into the bush and paced back towards the car. ‘Let’s get the fuck-off outta here. Don’t worry about taking off ya suit.’
Drops of rain peppered the windscreen as Sharkey backed the ute out of the driveway, its rusty leaf springs groaning as it laboured over the potholes.
‘There’s some weight in her,’ said Sharkey, smiling. He was in a better mood, now the hard work was almost done. All that was left was to put the hives at the new location. Sharkey got the ute up to highway speed, checking in the mirror to see how the hives were riding, then reached his hand behind Nathan’s seat to extract a six-pack cooler.
‘Drink?’ He pulled a can of rum and Coke off the plastic ring and pointed it at Nathan.
‘Got one, thanks.’ Nathan took a Fanta from the cooler down by his feet, wiped the top of the can on the leg of his bee suit and opened it. It was cold and gassy, and burned the back of his parched throat. Sharkey expertly opened his drink with one hand and took a swig. He rested his rum on the seat between his legs, pulled a half-smoked cigarette from the ashtray and lit it. The ute swerved a little as he took his hands from the wheel.
‘Those stone tools back there. They’re not that special, ya know?’ said Sharkey. He took several drags on his cigarette and, with the last one, blew a smoke ring at the windscreen.
‘Well—’ Nathan began.
‘Growing up, me and me cousins spent all our time down at the river. We lived up at Smithton, and the river was just across the paddock from our house.’ Sharkey wound down his window and flicked out the cigarette butt. In the side mirror, Nathan watched the butt explode into a shower of sparks on the slick road and spin off into the night. Sharkey shivered dramatically as the cold rain blew in, and quickly wound up the window.
&nb
sp; ‘We used to skip stones a lot, and we would set shitloads of deadlines. We’d go back in the morning and check ’em before school. Always got fish – although many of ’em would be floating by the time we got to ’em. Anyway, Uncle Murray – Mum’s brother – he used to come and stay with us sometimes. One day, we took him down the river and he found these stone tools – like those ones you found today, only there were heaps more of ’em.’
Sharkey finished his can and threw the empty into the back. He lit another cigarette, drew in deeply, and exhaled as he continued.
‘Uncle Murray said the blackfellas used the stones to cut things because they weren’t smart enough to invent knives. He said that if Grandad and the other farmers ever found stone tools on their land they would bury ’em or throw ’em in the river so that your mob couldn’t come along and claim land rights.’
Nathan could sense Sharkey smiling at him, but he refused to meet his gaze. He pulled off his beanie and ran his thumbs over the rough embroidery of the Aboriginal flag.
‘Anyway,’ said Sharkey, ‘when me uncle left, we looked all along the river and found heaps more patches of the bloody things. Hundreds of ’em – all different types, ya know? Different colours and that.’
He slowed down the ute and turned left onto the Elephant Pass road. He glanced in the rear-view mirror again to check the hives as they began the steep ascent and rounded the first few sharp bends. Satisfied the hives were sitting well, he turned back to Nathan.
‘Nath, do ya know what a duck-fart is?’ he asked, breaking the silence.
‘No,’ Nathan said. A lie – he had some idea of what it was.
Sharkey cracked a fresh can and drank half in one go. He burped loudly and blew the gassy stench towards Nathan. ‘It’s when ya throw a stone up into the air and it lands in the river, making a funny sound. You have to get a thin sort of stone – rounded so that ya can wrap yer finger around it. When ya throw it up into the air, ya have to get a good backspin on it. If ya throw it right, when it lands in the water, it doesn’t make a splash. It makes a kind of “plop” sound. That’s why it’s called a duck-fart.’
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