by JH Fletcher
The darkness came stealing. Soon it would be cold. On clear nights the temperatures in these parts dropped close to zero, even in mid-summer, but there was no help for it. There was material for a fire, but no way to light it. They would have to sit it out as best they could.
All day Kathryn waited, listening to the bulletins as they fell due. In the evening came confirmation of what she had known.
‘In the far north of the State, a helicopter is overdue on a flight from Emu Tank, south-east of Lake Eyre, to Moomba. A search plane sent out along the helicopter’s scheduled path has found no trace of the missing aircraft or its two passengers. The search will resume in the morning.’
TWELVE
In the morning the bruise was still livid on Hennie’s face but in himself he seemed much better. He remembered little of what had happened, so Cal filled him in on the details.
‘Pity about the beacon,’ Hennie said, ‘but it won’t matter. They’ll come over later this morning and spot us, then they’ll send a chopper. They’ll have us out of here in no time.’
He sounded as though he believed what he was saying; Cal did not.
‘How they going to spot us in this lot?’
‘We’ll make sure they do. Listen: they’ll fly the route we told them, right? Not much cover there. No ways they could miss us. When they don’t find us, they’ll know we got to be some place else. Only one place we can be, heh? So they’ll come south, have a look here.’
‘And see us?’ Cal was exasperated by Hennie’s optimism. ‘How are they going to do that?’
Hennie pointed beyond the end of the gorge to where a sharply pointed crest stood against the sky. ‘We get up there, somewhere like that, they’ll be sure to see us.’
Cal didn’t believe a word of it. ‘There must be a hundred peaks like that. A thousand.’
Hennie was not fazed by Cal’s disbelief; on the contrary, seemed to enjoy the chance to show off his superior knowledge.
‘We take a couple of bits of aluminium from the wreck, polish them up. When the plane comes we use them like mirrors. What d’you think? You’re flying over the ranges, suddenly something’s shining in your eyes. You’re bound to go see what it is.’
It might work, at that. Cal felt better, looked at Hennie with new respect.
‘I’ll go and get some.’
He found two pieces that were large enough to make decent mirrors, small enough to carry without too much drama.
‘Better get moving,’ Hennie said. ‘We want to be up there when our mates arrive, otherwise they’ll miss us.’
He still sounded confident — aggressively so, as though determined to raise a wall between themselves and despair. Cal had seen the nature of the ground in the gorge. What lay beyond, where the ground started to rise, might be worse. It didn’t bear thinking about. But Hennie was right; to do it, and now, was their best chance. Miss the search plane and they would have to walk out. Much better to get themselves rescued, if they could.
They strapped the water bottles around their waists, picked up the aluminium mirrors and began to move up the valley towards the higher ground.
An endless-seeming night, yet, somehow, it had passed. In the morning, Kathryn had to go to work, which was probably a blessing.
All through the day she fled to the radio when she could, hoping — dreading — to hear more, but there was nothing. She thought of phoning Moomba or even the CFS, but did not, frightened of what she might hear.
She was determined to be cheerful. Before I get home tonight, she told herself, there will be a message.
There was not. Knowing her mother’s views, fearful of hurt, of giving hurt, of a row that might fracture their relationship, she said nothing, listening to what could not be heard. The distant heartbeat of the man. The awareness of his pulse, the rhythmic stirring of his breath. The knowledge that he was.
In which case, why don’t I phone?
But could not, caught between certainty and fear.
It was a climb out of nightmare.
Unlike Cal, Hennie was wearing ordinary shoes. Before they had even reached the bend in the gorge, as he slipped and stumbled over the rocks, it became clear that the shoes were going to cause trouble, but there was nothing to be done.
Beyond the bend the climb grew steeper until, after an hour, they were scrambling on all fours over and around splintered rocks the size of houses. The surface of the rocks had been knobbed and gnarled by the millennia into a moonscape as dangerous as it was unwelcoming. The giant rocks — umber, sienna, tawny gold — lay in confusion, as though they had been chucked down on the first day of creation. Patches of sage-coloured brush clung to the occasional crevice but for the most part the slopes were bare, beginning to bake in the sun that shone blindingly into the men’s eyes as they strained and fought and cursed their way upwards. It was no place for a man, even in boots; for someone wearing light shoes, every step became a nightmare prospect of twisted or broken ankles. Either, in country like this, would mean death.
For the twentieth time in no more than a kilometre, Cal thrust a boot between two mighty rocks and hauled himself upwards. Eyes stinging, half-blinded by sweat, he tried to see where they were going. The change of direction meant that the sharp-pointed peak was no longer visible, but he could still see the ridge leading to it, stark and clear and razor-edged against a sky of blinding blue. It seemed as far away as ever.
He turned to look back down the slope up which they had come. The trees along the creek were out of sight, but the corner where the gorge had twisted and started to climb seemed no distance at all. It was barely credible that they had expended so much energy in covering so little ground. Again he stared up at the ridge which, by contrast, looked very far away. We’re never going to make it, he thought, and at once suppressed the idea, fiercely. They had to; there was no choice.
All the same …
Twenty yards behind him, Hennie hauled himself over a boulder big enough to dam rivers, its surface as ragged as raw pumice. He was gasping, already close to exhaustion, the bruise on his forehead a livid stain against a face the colour of blood. His pants were badly ripped. Through the holes Cal could see traces of blood, where a stumble had ripped the skin from Hennie’s knees.
His own good boots had preserved him from falling but, in other respects, Cal was not sure that he was in much better shape himself.
We have hardly started, he thought.
He waited until Hennie caught up with him, managed a grin.
‘Nice day for a stroll.’
Hennie collapsed beside him. Sweat had stained his bush shirt black. His stomach sagged over the waistband of his pants. By the sound of his breath, he could be looking at a heart attack within minutes. He was unable to speak but half sat, half leaned, against the tilted surface of the boulder that represented only the first of the ten thousand obstacles remaining to be circumvented before they were out of the gorge.
Assuming we can get out of it at all, Cal thought. It was quite possible that around the next bend, or the next, or the one after that, the valley might end in an impassable wall. If that happened, they would have to climb all the way down again and strike off in another direction. God knew there was no shortage of choices; they had passed the mouths of three subsidiary valleys on their way up here, each as boulder-clogged and impenetrable as the one they were in.
Stop it! he instructed himself. Stop thinking like that. For all you know, things will ease off around the next corner.
But knew there was no chance of that. The ridge was still far above their heads, the invisible peak further still, and the only way was up.
Dear God, he thought.
Hennie was mumbling.
‘What?’
‘Gotta have a drink …’
They had lost the creek far below. Ahead there was no sign of water.
‘Best be careful,’ Cal cautioned, ‘until we find some more.’
But Hennie was fumbling frantically at his water bottle. Cal
watched as he gulped, throat straining.
The liquid sound of the water reminded Cal how thirsty he himself was. For a moment he almost followed Hennie’s example, then thought, No, I can hang on a bit longer, and put temptation away from him. It made him feel good, knowing he still had the will to resist.
He looked again at Hennie and frowned. ‘Where’s your mirror?’
Hennie gulped again, screwed the top back on the bottle with obvious reluctance.
‘I dumped it back there, somewhere. I couldn’t manage it.’
Cal was exasperated by Hennie’s lack of endurance at what was little more than the start of their journey. He reminded himself that the pilot was still suffering from concussion, that he was a lot older than Cal, that he wasn’t in good shape, that he wasn’t wearing boots …
All of it was true, but made no difference. The slope was there, it had to be climbed and there was no way that Cal would be able to carry him.
The plane, when it comes, if it comes, had better damn well spot us, he thought. Otherwise God knows how we’re going to get out of this.
There was no chance of its spotting them where they were. The only way that would happen would be if they were up on the ridge when it came. Again he looked up at its sharp outline, so clear and far away.
‘You’re going to have to go ahead without me,’ Hennie said.
‘I can’t leave you here.’
‘You must. Once the plane sees you, it won’t matter. You can come back for me. But you’ve got to be up there before it comes or we’ve had it.’
It seemed dangerous to pin all their hopes on a plane that might never arrive, that might not see them if it did. Even if, by a miracle, he managed to get up there, if, by another miracle, the plane came, how realistic was it to hope that it would find them? On one ridge out of ten thousand? The idea of the aluminium mirrors had been a good one; it meant they were in with a chance but, realistically, no more than that. They had to keep some hope in reserve in case they needed it later.
Although how it would be possible to walk unassisted out of country like this, Cal could not imagine. Perhaps Hennie was the realistic one, he thought. The search plane would have to find them, otherwise things would be impossible.
‘You push on,’ Hennie said. ‘Don’t wait for me. It’s the only way.’
He was right.
‘What will you do in the meantime?’
‘I’ll wait here. Find a patch of shade. I’ll be fine.’
‘Don’t drink all your water.’
A grim smile in the port-wine face. ‘I can always climb back down for a refill.’
Alone, Cal made better time and realised that, unconsciously, he had been holding himself back for the older man. Even so, it wasn’t easy going. The climb grew if anything steeper, the boulders were no smaller and, with the sun now high overhead, the heat was awful.
Yet he was making progress. When he looked back, Hennie was out of sight. It made him uneasy. How would he ever find him again in this lot? But there was no help for it. He had to get up to the ridge before the plane came. Nothing else mattered.
Cal climbed and climbed. Twice, when his legs would carry him no further, he rested. The gorge was opening up; now the walls were half a kilometre apart, the ground between them a litter of broken stone. There were no more gigantic boulders. It made the going easier but, without them, there was no shade. The heat was a burden beyond anything he would have thought possible, yet, when he looked at his watch, it was still three quarters of an hour short of midday. Still he had not drunk, and thirst, too, was becoming intolerable.
I’ll have a drink when I get there, he thought. When I reach the ridge.
At last it seemed nearer, but he wasn’t there yet.
It’s only here, he told himself, in the middle of it, that you get an idea of the immensity of the landscape. Pity the poor pilot; a needle in a haystack is nothing on this place.
Even the colours were changing. Now quartz was mixed with the granite. It winked and flashed punishingly in the sunlight and he remembered reading somewhere that it was possible to get sunstroke through the eyes. All I need, he thought. It created another, potentially far more serious problem. With quartz deposits all over the range, how would the pilot, if there were a pilot, be able to distinguish the flash of an aluminium mirror from any other flash?
Three hours after leaving Hennie, Cal rounded yet another corner. The cliffs had closed in again but beyond them, at last, he could see open country. It was still a fair way off, the going as steep as ever, but now it was not a question of whether he could make it, but when he would arrive.
Another hour, he thought, and I’ll be there.
There was one more ridge of red stone, covered with the remains of dead brush. Grey branches stuck up in all directions, savage as barbed wire, but somehow he found his way through with little more than a few scratches. Beyond the ridge a gully, ten metres deep, crossed his path. It had been ripped through the ground by water in some bygone age and its edges were razor sharp. Teetering always on the edge of falling, he inched his way down until he reached the smooth channel at the bottom. A snake slithered; only God knew what food it would find up here. On the far side of the channel he clambered up the opposite bank, at the top stood swaying on rubber legs.
Now he, too, was close to exhaustion. He had a few seconds to wonder how Hennie, far below him now, might be doing, but the thought passed as quickly as it had come. He had no energy to think, to do anything but push on up the slope. All else had become meaningless. Even the idea of the plane had ceased to be relevant. The only purpose in life was to climb, and to climb, and to climb.
Just then, out of a sky that had long lost its morning clarity and now quivered with heat, came the distant sound of a plane.
Oh God, Cal thought. I am so close to the top, but I won’t be there for another hour. Please don’t come yet. If you were going to come, why didn’t you do it three hours ago and save me all my trouble?
He grew angry. Stay away, he ordered the plane that, until a minute before, he had wanted more than anything in life. Stay away for another hour. For half an hour. Ten minutes. Even in ten minutes I may be able to get out into open ground so that I can use my mirror to draw the pilot to me. Ten minutes is not so long. Stay away.
But the sound grew louder and louder, and he knew that he was not going to have ten minutes or five or even one. Frantically he manipulated the square of aluminium, trying to focus the sun in its polished surface and, with a sudden roar, the plane was on him.
Engine bellowing, it passed half a mile up the valley. It looked as though it were heading straight for the ridge towards which Cal had striven for so long. He could have wept. From down here the plane looked like a hawk, but the mouse for which it was hunting was too small, too far away. In seconds the plane had passed beyond the ridge and was gone.
With all the immensity of the range to search, Cal knew there was no chance of it's coming back.
He could have screamed, cursed, wept, but did not. He stood under the hammer blows of the sun, his mouth open in despair and disbelief. He knew that he was looking at the very real prospect of death, could not believe that after all the hours of agony, he had been too late. If only he had made better time; if only the search plane had come ten minutes later; if only …
Futile.
All he could do now was head back down the gorge, find Hennie, decide what they were going to do next. Not that they had any choice.
He sat on the harsh ground, head between his knees, trying to come to terms with the situation. They had water; not much but, perhaps, if they were careful, enough. On the other hand they had no food or likelihood of finding any.
They had eaten nothing since Emu Tank, thirty hours earlier. By now he should have been ravenous, but was not. The idea of eating did not interest him at all. Just as well, he thought. All the same, lack of food was bound to weaken them, in time. Another day, after that another day … How long, realistically,
could they hope to survive in country like this, in these temperatures?
As long as it takes, he told himself. Water we must have, but food can wait. If we get really desperate, we can always eat the grass.
He raised his head, staring about him at the gorge full of boulders, the rock walls rising vertically on either side. The rock was a medley of russet and gold, with high up a thin line of red where the strata ran obliquely upwards. Here and there across the floor of the gorge were the contorted shapes of bushes and thin trees, their leathery foliage a mixture of grey and the palest green. No sign of moisture. No sign of grass.
Cancel the order for grass, he thought. We can manage without grass. If we don’t eat there’ll be that much less weight for us to carry.
One thing he knew. He was not willing to give up.
He stood, feeling the complaint of legs already weary from the unaccustomed climbing they had done that day. The ridge was not far away. Get up there and he’d be able to see what the country was like on the other side. And — the sneaky thought, hope, prayer, lingering treacherously even as he told himself it was nonsense — it was just possible that the plane might come back, after all.
Once again he forced his body into the climb.
It was nearer than he had thought. Fifteen minutes later he reached the ridge. He uncapped his water bottle. He took several deep breaths, deliberately, put the bottle to his mouth and drank. Three careful mouthfuls, no more. He stopped, recapped the bottle and looked out at what lay before him.
Ahead was a cataclysm of arid peaks, red and blue and brown, glowing like multicoloured fire. Immediately below him was a ridge, beyond it another — a succession of ridges in waves like a stone sea, the valleys in between black with shadow. From here the valleys looked hundreds of feet deep. Each ridge was higher than the last, climbing away from him in a deepening fiery haze, until the final ridge of all, saw-toothed, stood up starkly against the empty brilliance of the sky.
