by Cameron Nunn
They went around the back and in through the kitchen and Dot walked over to the kettle like she always did when there was something difficult to say.
“I called your father. I had to tell him about your pa. He needs to know how things are.”
“And?”
“He thanked me for letting him know.” There was a long silence that said so much.
“He’s not coming, is he?” Will pulled out a chair and slumped down.
“Why not?” Rosie asked quickly, her face an image of confusion.
“Don’t be hard on him, Will. It’s been a long time since they spoke. You know how hard it is living with your grandfather. There’s a lot of hurt still there.”
“He’s still his father.”
Dot shrugged. “And your dad’s still yours. Don’t make the same mistake and burn him off. Keep some space for grace. There’ll come a time when he’ll need it, when you’ll need it.”
“He doesn’t deserve shit.”
Rosie gasped.
“None of us deserve shit but that’s sometimes what we get,” Dot said, changing Will’s meaning. “I don’t understand your father, but then I’ve never understood your grandfather either. But you do. If you’ve been able to find something good under his leathery hide then maybe you can do the same with your dad some day.”
Will shrugged again. He’d grown past caring about his dad. The news that he wouldn’t even visit his own dying father only increased the contempt.
Rosie sat down at the table. Her body was tense and erect. “Do you think Pa will get better?” Rosie asked timidly.
Dot tilted her head the way Gran did and Will wondered whether they learned it from one another. “Your gran seems to think there’s a chance,” said Dot with an optimism that Will could see was forced.
“Really?” Rosie held Dot’s gaze, wanting more assurance. Will watched her small hands gripping the table as if it was the only stable thing in the world that was falling apart all over again.
The kettle boiled and Dot immediately turned towards it. “Do you want me to make you a cup of tea as well, Rosie?” she asked gently.
“No, thank you,” came the small thread of a reply that sounded like Rosie was doing her best not to cry. Will knew he should reach across the table but he felt too drained to make that effort. Whatever Dot said, he could read the hopelessness of the situation in Dot’s tone of voice.
Dot came back carrying a single mug. “He’s been through a lot in the years and he’s a fighter. I’ll give him that.” She stirred the tea forcefully and handed the cup to Will. “And he’s stubborn. He isn’t going to give in easily.”
Again there was an awkward silence.
“Do you know what you’ll do when . . .” Dot stopped herself. “If your pa’s sick for a while? Have you thought about what you’re going to do with school and all?”
Will thought for a while, staring into his tea. “I’ll leave school if I have to, to help Gran out. I’m not moving back to Sydney. This is home. Rosie and I are going to stay, whatever happens.”
There was nothing much else to say. They made some small talk over dinner about school but everyone’s minds were back in the weatherboard farmhouse down by the creek.
When Will and Rosie returned later that evening, Gran had fallen asleep still sitting in her chair. Her head was slumped across the bed where Pa lay sleeping deeply. Rosie wanted to wake her, to tell her to get into her pyjamas, but Will put his finger to his lips.
“Let her sleep,” he said, as he pulled on the light cord.
No one knew when Pa disappeared. It was impossible that someone so sick should leave the house unnoticed. Will had lain awake most of the night and had heard nothing. The house and shed were searched and the alarm raised. Dot called the police station at Eugowra but there was no answer. She then tried Canowindra. A constable was unsympathetic. “You can come in and file a missing person report, or I can dispatch someone to come over but things are pretty busy at the moment so I’m not sure when they’ll be able to get there.” Then he added disinterestedly, “Have you had a good look around? Chances are he’ll turn up before we do. Give us a call if he isn’t back in the next couple of hours and I’ll send a couple of the boys around.”
“In a couple of hours he could be dead,” Dot replied and hung up.
Dot looked at Will. “He said to call back in a couple of hours.” She scratched her head, desperately trying to work out what to do next. Gran sat mutely, shivering slightly. Dot had draped a blanket over her even though the morning had begun to warm. Rosie nuzzled in next to her. “I’ll call back and see if I can talk to someone else,” she said to Gran. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“Can I call Callum? To see if he can help?”
Callum and his dad turned up at the house an hour later with the Canowindra constable in tow. “We were short-staffed at the station, when your neighbour rang. I was telling her that it’s not unusual for someone to wander off. Have you looked in the shed?”
Will could barely contain himself. “Of course we’ve checked the bloody shed! Yesterday the doctor said he was too sick to get out of bed and today he’s missing.”
The constable opened his arms up as if to say, it was only a question. “Well, if he’s unwell, he can’t have wandered far. It wouldn’t hurt for me to have another look in the shed, just in case . . .”
Will and Callum went along the creek bed as far as the old weir and then back along the path calling out the whole time. Nelson followed hopefully. It was a good thing that Nelson was still there, Will told himself. It meant that Pa was probably somewhere close by.
But as the afternoon wore on there was still no sign of him. With the light fading, Will insisted on walking the creek one last time. He suddenly thought his grandfather might be where the old hut used to stand.
“We’ve been up through here before,” Callum pointed out.
“I know . . . it’s just . . . I can’t explain it. He’ll be somewhere where the boy’s been. I know it.”
“What boy?”
Will knew he’d opened a subject he wasn’t supposed to talk about. “It doesn’t matter.”
They reached the place where the clearing had been. The air had begun to cool and the whole area pressed heavily on Will’s heart.
“We’ve looked here,” said Callum again, scanning across the marsh.
“But not over there.” Will pointed to a raised hillock away from the marsh. The whole area was overgrown with scrub and long grass. “I know he’s been here. Don’t ask me how I know. I’ve just got this feeling that he’d come here.” There was an overwhelming desperation in his voice, so Callum just nodded.
They pushed their way forward all the time searching for some evidence that someone might have been through recently. When they reached the small rise there was nothing but a pile of stone.
“He’s here somewhere. I know he is.”
Callum put his hands around his mouth and shouted again. His voice echoed back from the cliffs as though the bush was mocking him and then the whole place became deathly quiet.
The next morning the search began again. Three more police were brought in from Orange. “You don’t think he could’ve headed off into the national park do you?” one of the Orange policemen asked Gran. “If he’s in the Nangar it’ll be difficult finding him.”
“He’s ill. I don’t even think he’d have made it out of the house or down to the creek. My grandson carried him back the day before yesterday and the doctor said . . .”
“Don’t worry, we’ll do our best to find him this morning. We’ve got more men on the ground today and a strategy for covering the area. Are you sure he didn’t have any friends who might have picked him up?”
“I went through this with the policeman yesterday. My husband didn’t have any friends who . . .” Gran let the statement hang. There was a sad finality in the thought that Bill Richards had no friends. None.
Sensing the awkwardness, the policeman stood
up and put his hand on her shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, we’ll work hard to find him.”
Not long after the police arrived, Callum and his dad turned up again. No one had slept. Dot had stayed with Will’s grandmother and had been a rock throughout the night.
“You look like shit. Didn’t sleep?” asked Callum.
Will shook his head. “I tried but I just keep going over everything he said.”
Callum moved some books and sat down on the lounge next to Will. “Dad brought over some food. Where’s your gran?”
“She’s in the kitchen with Dot and Rosie. The police have been asking her questions all morning.” Will’s voice was hoarse.
“You said there was a boy. You said he’d go where the boy had been. What’d you mean?” Callum asked.
Will looked exhausted. He was still wearing the same clothes as yesterday and his eyes were bloodshot from a lack of sleep. “It’s too hard to explain. Anyway, we’ve been everywhere the boy was. He’s not there.”
Callum edged forward on the lounge. “So what do we do now?”
Will could hear Callum’s father next door telling Dot that she needed to get at least a couple of hours rest and Dot arguing back. The police were gathered around their cars marking off sections of a map, ready to begin a new search.
Will tried to piece together the conversations that he’d had with Pa. Was there anything that he’d said? He closed his eyes and tried to think. “He wasn’t making any sense when I brought him in. He just made me promise not to say anything about the cave,” he said, as much to himself as to Callum.
“What cave?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about a cave. He was rambling. It was just before we got to the house.”
“Did he ever show you any caves?” Callum pressed.
Will shook his head. There were vague glimpses of caves in his head but he wasn’t supposed to go there. “It’s dangerous. He fell in there once.”
“Who fell in? Your pa?”
Will shook his head again. He was trying to gather water into his hands but the memories kept slipping through. “I don’t know. The boy, I think. I don’t know.” His hands gripped the hair on either side of his head.
“Where is it? Think! Did your pa say where it is?”
“No. It’s not the cave he fell in. It’s a different cave.” Will didn’t know where this was coming from.
“What do you mean a different cave? What’s different? Is there more than one cave?”
“I don’t know.” Will’s eyes were squeezed tight, his voice tight and hard. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“Dad!” Callum was calling. “Will’s remembered something his grandfather said.”
Even without opening his eyes, Will knew that everyone was pushing into the room. “He said not to tell anyone about the cave.”
“Why didn’t you say anything before?” Dot asked.
“What cave?” Gran asked at the same time.
“I didn’t remember. I didn’t know what he meant. I still don’t know.” He looked around at the faces turned intently to him.
“Is this about the boy?” Dot asked, her voice pressing in.
“I think so, only I don’t know anything about a cave. I haven’t had this memory before.”
“What memory?” Callum’s dad was asking.
“You said there was more than one cave and that someone had fallen in.” Callum said urgently.
“I thought there were two caves but I don’t know.” Will was desperately dragging at the memories.
“There are lots of caves out there,” Callum’s father said without hope. “The whole area is full of limestone. Who knows how many caves and hollows there are.”
“Bill has never said anything about a cave. I’d know if he’d been to a cave,” Gran said.
“Are you sure he’s never mentioned a cave?” Callum’s father urged.
Gran shook her head.
“It isn’t a cave anyone knows about,” Will spoke up. The memory started to form. He didn’t know how he knew that the cave was hidden, just that it was. “Pa’s been out there all night. The memories don’t always make sense but I’ll know when we get there.”
“Memories?” Callum’s dad asked again. “What memories?”
“Will gets this sense about things. Just do what he says,” Dot replied before Will had a chance to answer.
Suddenly it became clear.
It was still early morning by the time they crossed the creek before the weir. Callum’s dad had persuaded Dot to stay with Gran and tell the police where they’d gone. Will wanted to climb up towards the cliff face but Mr Davidson was sceptical. “He couldn’t have gone this far. And why would he head up there?”
“It’s part of the boy’s memories. He was looking for something. You can head back if you want to.” Will kept going. He was focused on something that drew him on. Callum and his dad followed.
The climb was steep and Will could hear his heart beating in his ears. The sun created shafts of yellow light from behind. It was late November and the smell of eucalyptus oil was strong. There were scurries in the leaf litter as lizards scuttled to escape. Life pulsated under the morning heat. Still, Will pushed on higher. Nelson was close by. Above him, the gold and grey cliff face stood firmly.
“He’s up here. I know he is,” Will called back to Callum.
Will knew instinctively where he was. The cliff rose up as a barrier against him. He climbed the last section, up the tumble of rock and through the triangular opening.
Kate left, and a vast emptiness swallowed my whole being. I could’ve made an excuse to head back to the homestead to say goodbye but I were too angry or selfish. Not with Kate, but with the whole world.
The hands haunted me but Kate were right. No one would care about what’d been done at Brymedura, least of all another squatter-magistrate. At the same time, I knew I couldn’t pretend it were nothing. Maybe if they saw the hands they’d feel the same way. But I knew that not for an ocean of hands would Cain have seen it different. “Sin lieth at your door and unto thee shall be his desire.” It were his story, there in Kate’s Bible.
Cain had found some excuse not to be the one what dropped off supplies anymore. Every now and then Jack would turn up with his ugly skull-like face. Most of the time no one stayed longer ’n they had to. The days became mechanical, like eating or breathing. Kate had left me with two books as well as the Bible she’d given to me when I first arrived on the run. I couldn’t even bear to pick them up. Each day I’d climb the hill to the cave and sit there thinking about the people who’d been there before. Each hand were a name and each name were remembered in stone. One time I thought of tracing my own hand in charcoal but I sensed that’d be wrong. I weren’t part of these people and my hand didn’t belong in the stone.
I don’t know how long I went on like this. The heat of summer grew and bled into a ghastly stickiness of congealed nights. Even the possums sensed my darkness and kept away. Only Nelson stayed with me. Nelson and the crows what gargled bitterness to one another from dead and dying trees. They’d grown bold and cared naught about how I’d hurl rocks at them. They picked at me with their thick black sounds, till I could bear it no more.
One morning I found a dead lamb. It’d died during the night and the crows had already begun their bloody work, taking the eyes and then the tongue. Where crows gather death is always at hand, Amos would say about those what flocked to see a hanging. The birds flapped and fought over the broken prize, careless of my approach.
One crow were slow to leave the lamb and this time my stone cracked across its body. It lifted itself briefly and landed awkwardly, its wing hanging limply. Nelson lunged at it, and not sensing other danger, the crow took another broken effort at flight straight toward me. One wing thrashed against me as I grabbed that bastard and swung it hard against the ground. Beak and wing and claw fought against my rage, as I smashed it again and again. Even when the fight had left the body, I
continued to thrash it, as though it were the Devil himself. Feather, blood, dirt, brokenness. A limp body. Blood. Black. Death.
I dropped the lifeless bird and knelt down beside the lamb, scooping it up as though it were my child and holding it close. And there I stayed. How long I knelt there I couldn’t say. I were past crying; beyond grief into some hollow space what hung between heaven and hell. Nelson sniffed at the shattered mess of glossy death what lay beside me. Sensing all weren’t right, he sat next to me and rested his head against my leg. One crow let out a guttural caw from above and another responded. Do they grieve or do they see their broken comrade as one less bastard to compete against? They are birds of death. All death is the same to them.
But something changed in me that morning. As I knelt there, it were like the emptiness of my grief ran out and soaked into the ground till there were naught left but a small shoot of bloody determination. The sun rose hot. I weren’t going to give in. Damn them, I weren’t going to give in!
I picked up the dead bird. Even in its hideousness, there were a strange beauty. I stretched out the wing and broken feathers spread like a crumpled fan before me. I remembered Kate’s words, crow feathers make good quills when there are no geese around. Five feathers remained unbroken; five fingers to give me back my name. Five fingers to write to anyone who’d listen and damn them all to hell.
I’d never cut a pen before and it were several attempts before I could get it so it didn’t splatter ink across the paper. My biggest challenge were that I didn’t want to waste the precious paper in the book. Day after day I practised trying to get the straight flowing lines. A quill needs just enough pressure. Not enough and it scratches across the surface, flicking ink as it goes. Too much and the ink spreads like a continent across the paper.
Maybe it weren’t like a gentleman but I got it so the letters could be read across the rough pieces of paper I were practising on. Eventually I knew I’d have to use the journal. I sat out in the sunlight and pulled my old pipe from the stump I’d grown accustomed to keeping it in. I’d long run out of baccy but I liked to hold it in my teeth.
