The White Earth

by Andrew McGahan

  White men dreamt those spirits. The black men dreamt me, long ago.

  It was true, William thought, through his fear. He had heard other stories about this thing, even before he met his uncle. The Aborigines had warned the early settlers of its presence—an animal that was never seen, that could be known only by its tracks, and by its cry, heard in lonely places at night. The settlers in turn had passed the story down to their children, and so on for years. But no one believed it was real. And the Aborigines were gone.

  The creature’s great eyes held the memory of all this, and of far more.

  Old things still wait. In the special places.

  The cicadas shrilled madly, and William was shivering. The monster emanated a deep cold. But other things came from it as well. Images of age, of time flowing like water, and the stars wheeling rapidly above. It stood guard here, William realised, and had done so for thousands of years. But why? What was special about this place? William had felt something — but there was nothing to be seen. No ring of standing stones, like his uncle had shown him, no ancient meeting place.

  Contempt flowed chill from the creature.

  Dead stones on a hill, and little fires. The old man is blind.

  Understanding shook William. The hilltop at the campground was not a meeting place, and the stones there had no meaning. This was the only place, and his uncle had never found it. But somehow, through all his wanderings, William had.

  The monster nodded its huge head.

  You bear the mark, boy.

  More images pervaded William’s mind, a confusing rush of violence that he could not grasp, but his hand lifted, and his fingers touched the badge of his captain’s hat. Dread flooded into him, for he understood now that he had been called here for a purpose. He could feel an old rage within the creature, a long patience that was nearly at an end.

  The eyes glared affirmation.

  The rivers have run dry. Caves have opened to the sun.

  The shape shifted its bulk closer, and the stench of mud was overpowering, a reek of hatred and pain, staggering in its force.

  The dead are ready for you now.

  Then it reared above him, a mountain building itself against the sky, its wild mane shaking, its great talons clawing the air. William fell back in terror, but too late.

  The bunyip called.

  It was a piercing, grating, tearing cry — the sound of death and cold and age, and of long, intolerable loneliness. The earth froze and the stars dimmed. William ran — through the night and the tumbled shadows, echoes chasing after him like the rumble of thunder as birds awoke from their sleep, chattering in alarm. The whole bush was suddenly alive. Onwards he fled, unseeing, until his lungs stabbed in agony and his legs burned. Then he tripped and rolled down an earthen bank. His head slammed against stone. Fire exploded in his skull, and everything went black.

  The sky was grey when he woke, and the moon was gone. He shifted his limbs and sat up. Dawn was near. He saw stony banks rising on either side of him, and a channel winding away. Rubbing his head gingerly, William remembered. He’d fallen into the dry bed of a creek.

  The creek! He climbed dazedly to his feet. It could lead him to the water hole. Lifting his gaze, he saw the dark line of the mountains against the faded sky. The bed of the creek climbed towards them in a series of shallow ledges. So upstream was eastwards. But that made no sense … And then, through the thumping pain in his skull, he understood. Somehow he had come all the way across to the southern boundary of the station, where the creek ran east to west, along the side of the spur. Which meant that if he walked upstream towards the mountains, he would find the pool.

  Thirst awoke in him, raging and insatiable. He lurched forward, giggling wretchedly as he clambered upwards across boulders and the scraggling roots of trees. His body protested, strained beyond its limits, but he did not stop. The sky was turning pale pink, and he could clearly see the hills about him now, cool in the hour before dawn, robbed of both the shadows of night and the shimmering delusions of full day. The land was empty. He had brought the visions with him, phantoms of his disease. He was filthy with it, but the water hole was near now, and it would wash him clean.

  He scrambled over a low shelf, and found himself facing a higher shelf further ahead, sheer sandstone. He would have to go around it. He shambled forward, and then stopped, for he was looking at a terrible thing. Atop the rock wall bowed a willow tree, and beneath it sat a stone bench. William gazed around in horror. It couldn’t be. But it was. The creek bed spread out about him, the banks rising high to form a wide, deep bowl. The floor was rocky in parts, sandy in others. He was standing in the water hole, and it was completely dry.

  But his uncle had promised. The pool never ran dry. There was a spring that fed it, no matter how little rain might fall. William stumbled towards the base of the cliff. There! The ground fell away and he saw a dark hole waiting. He sank to his knees and clambered down. The cave was deep; the last remnants of night still lurked in there, hiding at the back. He crunched over dead leaves and twigs, the brittle branches of fallen trees,some grey, some starkly white in the dimness. All the flotsam of the pool must have collected here when the water level sank. None of it was even damp now, and beneath, where the cave narrowed to a crack, there was only sand. His fingers scrabbled in the earth for any hint of moisture,but it was as dry as if water had never flowed there.

  William was moaning. Darkness swept down on his mind, the heavy beating of wings. The energy drained out of him like the sand slipping through his fingers. It was all he could do to back painfully out of the hole before it became his tomb. At the lip of the cave he raised himself to his knees and stared bitterly at the sky. The sun was coming, bringing the furnace of another day. He was at his end, he could walk no more, think no more, believe no more.

  He sank down into the sand and curled himself into a ball.

  The world spun on its axis, and birds sang for the new day.

  The morning grew full. Ants crawled across William’s legs, but he did not move. His mind was far away. When he heard the sound of a car approaching, still he did not stir. The noise of the engine swelled, and then stopped. From above the cliff came the slam of a door, and footsteps on the gravel. There was a pause, and then a woman’s voice, swearing. A scrambling amidst the rocks followed, and finally two hands were on William’s shoulders, turning him over.

  ‘Mum?’ he moaned.

  ‘No,’ replied his cousin. ‘It’s not your mother.’

  Then she was lifting him. William gazed at her, not understanding, but not caring either, as long as it wasn’t another dream.

  Ruth’s face was black with anger.

  ‘Take this fucking thing off your head,’ she said, pulling his captain’s hat away. ‘And let’s get you home.’

  Chapter Forty

  WILLIAM FLOATED IN DREAMS FOR MOST OF THE DAY. HE KNEW HE was in his bed, and intermittently he was aware of people around him, and of soup being spooned into his mouth. Each time he surfaced, however, an irresistible drowsiness would drag him back under. When he finally awoke, Dr Moffat was there, packing gear away in his black bag. William shifted slightly, and the doctor smiled at him.

  ‘Well, you’ve been in the wars.’

  William stared up at the man, not knowing what to say.

  ‘Thirsty?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Sit up then.’

  William obeyed. Dr Moffat helped, propping up pillows behind him, and then pouring a glass of water from a jug on the bedside table.

  ‘Take it easy now. Don’t gulp it.’

  William sipped. The water was slightly warm, but it soothed his cracked lips, and eased the raw feeling in his throat. He finished the glass, held it out for more.

  Dr Moffat shook his head.‘That’ll do for now. Too much will only make you sick. You’ve also got a nasty sunburn, some blisters on your feet, and a giant lump on your head — but you’ll live. Lucky thing, too. It could have been a lot worse.’
<
br />   ‘Thank you,’ said William, his voice coming out in a whisper. He touched his head carefully, explored the swelling there. Confused images flickered in his mind. Had he fallen somewhere? His whole body was sore, muscles, bone and skin. The water sat uneasily in his stomach. His ear throbbed monotonously and, worst of all, a foul smell rose from his pillow.

  ‘My ear hurts,’ he said.

  ‘Still got trouble with that? Didn’t the antibiotics clear it up?’

  ‘There’s a smell…’

  ‘A smell?’ The doctor leant across the bed, sniffing, and William was almost overcome by the sour exhalation of alcohol.

  ‘I don’t smell anything.’

  ‘It’s something rotten!’

  Dr Moffat stared in surprise, then patted the bed. ‘Look, I’m sure everything will hurt for a while, and things will look strange and maybe even smell strange too. You’re not yourself again yet. We’ll just wait a few days, and then we’ll see how you feel.’

  William sank back helplessly.

  The doctor snapped his bag shut.‘Now, let’s get your mother in here. She’s been worried to death about you.’ And he bustled out.

  It was only then William remembered that it was his cousin who had rescued him, not his mother. His mother, in fact, had left him out in the hills for two whole nights, and into a third day. Anger and resentment awoke in him, and self-pity, and the memory of gazing along the track, amidst all the heat and mirages, waiting vainly for a car to appear. So when his mother entered the room, he turned his face away, even when she sat down by the bed.

  ‘Awake at last,’ she said, sounding falsely bright.‘You certainly gave us a scare.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Dr Moffat says you’ll be okay,’ she carried on.‘We found you before any real harm was done. All you needed was some water and food …’

  The brightness trailed away, and still William would not look at her.We, she’d said. But there was no we. There had been only his cousin.

  She bore his silence for a moment longer. Then abruptly she was angry. ‘What on earth were you doing out there, anyway? Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?’

  The injustice of this made William roll over. He was the one who should be furious, not his mother. But her appearance gave him pause. She looked exhausted, hunched at his bedside. Her hair was tangled, her eyes were red and swollen. And her anger, he saw, was a facade. Beneath it, she was wretched with unhappiness. But he couldn’t forgive her, not this time. It had hurt too much, the sight of that empty road, hour after hour.

  His voice was an accusing croak. ‘You were supposed to pick me up.’

  The facade crumbled. She shook her head frantically. ‘No, that’s not true. That’s not what your uncle said.’

  ‘You were supposed to come and get me at the water hole.’

  ‘No, no. Your uncle said you didn’t want me to come. He said you’d gone camping, that you had food and everything. He said I had to let you be. He got so mad, and you know I can’t afford to upset him. I didn’t have a choice.’

  She looked pathetic and defiant, all at once. William could even imagine how it must have been for her, how torn she must have felt. But she was his mother. Nothing should have stopped her looking for him. Not his uncle, not anything.

  She gripped his hand. ‘I did go looking. Once. Yesterday afternoon. I drove out along that track, no matter what your uncle said. But you weren’t there.’

  Uncertainties assailed William. ‘I…I wasn’t on the track by then.’

  ‘Why not?’ She was gazing at him in confusion. ‘What were you doing?’

  William shook his head. There was no way he could tell her. But now resentment came again. His uncle had lied. The treacherous old man had abandoned him out there deliberately. William thought about the hole under the cliff, the hateful feel of it, the dry sand in his fingers, down there amongst the sticks and rubbish. And then — hands, rolling him over.

  ‘When did Ruth get back?’ he asked, wondering if it had really happened.

  ‘Last night.’ His mother pulled away nervously. ‘She went looking for you, as soon as she heard. And then again this morning.’

  William stared at her, and the question hung between them.

  She was abject now, slumped in misery. ‘It should have been me that found you. I can’t explain it. I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ William said, his voice hollow.

  ‘No, it’s not. I was wrong.’ It was the shameful truth for once, stripped of all pretences. ‘Everything I’ve done here has been wrong.’

  For a moment, William dared to hope.‘Mum, my ear hurts. All the time.’

  She seemed bewildered.‘Your ear?’

  ‘And there’s a smell.’

  ‘But you took the antibiotics.’

  ‘They didn’t work.’ He considered her sadly. ‘Dr Moffat — is he a good doctor?’

  She began to answer, but stopped herself. Her shoulders sagged.‘No, I don’t suppose he is.’

  ‘Can I go to a real doctor?’

  ‘Right now?’ She bit her lip as she thought, and William hated the indecision he could see in her. ‘It’s just that … well, maybe, if you don’t feel any better in a day or two. We’ll go into town. Okay? But not right now. We have to clean you up a bit first. Otherwise a doctor might wonder why you’re all battered and bruised … Do you see?’

  William saw. And the last remnant of faith he had in her died. He nodded, but it was only to himself, a confirmation that his mother was incapable of helping him.

  ‘Good.’ She smiled weakly. ‘You know, it’s only a week until Christmas. That’ll brighten things up around here. I’ll have to go and do some shopping.’

  Christmas. The notion was inconceivable to William, there in the House. But it meant that the end of the year was close. And five months ago, his uncle had said that he would decide by year’s end, about whether William and his mother would go or stay. And about who would get the station. William turned his gaze to the ceiling. He pictured the old man waiting up there. And he knew why his uncle had sent him to suffer alone out in the hills. It was the last test before the decision was made.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ his mother asked.

  William blinked. ‘Is Ruth still here?’

  She nodded, her Christmas smile fading. ‘She’s been fighting with your uncle. Something about that hat of yours, I think. I don’t understand it.’ Her haggard face set hard, and William saw the old fear. ‘I don’t know what she wants. I don’t know why she can’t just leave us alone.’

  When William woke once more the room was empty. He lay motionless for a time, staring at the window. It was getting dark — and yet it was still the same day. Only this morning he had been at the water hole. It didn’t seem possible. Finally he threw back the sheet and swung his legs out of bed. Dizziness took him, but he waited until it eased. He dressed stiffly, then went out through the dim halls. No one was about, and he came to the front porch.

  The sun had set, but the heat was still oppressive, the sky as cloudless as ever, and a smoky haze hung brooding upon the horizon. Nothing had changed. In fact, it was worse, for now William knew what it was like out across the station when night fell. He could remember the shifting shadows, and the moon, and silent, watching hills. Those things would always be with him. Nor was the ordeal over, because sooner or later his uncle would call him upstairs, eager to hear all that William had seen and learnt. And yet what could he say? What had he really discovered in those three days? Nothing. Only dreams and delusions.

  Except … there was one thing he had found, of which he was certain his uncle had no knowledge. That place, that unremarkable patch of scrub he had stumbled across, where something invisible had made the air too potent to breathe. Even now, William could remember the cicadas singing and the terror that had gripped him. A presence dwelt there, some cold and ancient secret of the land itself, faceless, but imbuing the very
trees and grass with dreadful meaning. And it was a power that wasn’t to be found high on a hilltop, marked with tall stones, where anyone could see it. It was hidden away, in surroundings so anonymous that those without the right eyes would simply pass it by.

  His uncle had passed it by. And somehow that disturbed William more than anything else. For if his uncle did not know that such a place existed — if instead he had been fooled by an empty stone circle — then what did the old man really know about the property at all? And yet everything William had ever believed about Kuran Station was based on what his uncle had told him. All those tales about the people who had discovered the plains, about the men who had built the House, about shepherds and stockmen and explorers — those stories were what made the station so precious.

  Were they all a lie? The beings William had met in the hills — they were not the figures of which his uncle had spoken. Some of them were deranged things, wrong things. They were from a different history altogether, a history Ruth might have told, harsh and ugly. He thought again of the old man up in his bedroom, brooding over the great gift that was his to bestow. But if Kuran Station was none of those things William had been taught, if the truth was thirst and heat and twisted ghosts, then Ruth was right, and the inheritance was no gift. It was a burden.

  He looked up. The House waited behind him, huge and timeless. The last glow of the sky was reflected in the windows, so that no lights were visible from within, and William could imagine that the building was deserted. That his uncle was dead, and no one had followed him, and this was the House in twenty years time, neglected and forgotten. Its rooms were stripped bare. Mildew mottled the walls. Vandals had smashed the windows. The roof had collapsed and the upper floor was an open gulf where green things grew. Passers-by would shake their heads, remembering the old man who had lived there alone for so long, and before him, the great and glorious figures of the House’s past, all come to nothing. And the property that surrounded it, the remnant of a vast station, would be broken up at last and sold off in small lots to this person or that, or simply left to run wild.