by Peter Corris
'Give it here,' Marsha said. 'Since we don't have a bed I need something to help me get back to sleep.'
Bright undid the cap on the bottle, took a swig and passed it to Marsha who did the same. 'Ludwig Leichhardt,' she said, 'Burke and Wills, Basil and Richard Craft—may they rest in peace.'
Bright was silent.
'Are you thinking about Andy?' Marsha said.
'Yes.'
'I wonder . . .'
Bright reached for the bottle. 'There's no point in wondering. We're doing what we were told to do, what he told us.'
'I can't help wondering. About everything.'
30
Three more days brought them inside the circle Hawke had drawn on the map. The weather had favoured them. The days were hot but cloud cover and light breezes kept the temperatures bearable. The nights were bitterly cold, but there had been no sun-blanketing dust storms or willy-willies of the kind that sometimes struck in the Gibson without warning. Hawke steered them through the spiny bushes and over and around the sandhills with the unerring touch of a sea pilot, reading the vegetation and landforms like depth soundings. Joel and Stuart filmed selected episodes of the expedition, shooting long shots of the Land Rover bucketing through the spinifex, being turned back by impenetrable mulga scrub and surmounting sandhills to plunge down into another barren expanse stretching away to the horizon.
They camped by a soak where the water was metallic and muddy. Hawke moodily set about boiling quantities of it for the radiators and for drinking. The soak had lent an air of prosperity to this patch of desert—the vegetation was more green than grey and even a city boy like Bright noticed the tracks left by small animals. They had been on a tin and packet diet for the past few days.
'Thinking of taking a shot at something, Col?' Bright asked as Hawke hauled water towards the fire.
'I dunno.' Hawke said. 'Not really. Not in the mood. Have a go yourself if you like.'
There was annoyance and discomfort in the challenge. Bright helped Hawke settle the bucket over the fire. 'What's the matter?'
Hawke rolled a cigarette and lit it. He drew the smoke in deeply and let it out with a sigh. 'This is a bad place. I feel it in my bloody bones. But we need the water.'
The light was almost gone but Bright squinted around at the steep walls and meandering flats created when the soak was swelled by rain. 'What's wrong with it?'
'I dunno,' Hawke said. 'It's a dead and alive sorta place. Sometimes there'd be plenty of water here. You'd get wallabies, camels, hundreds of birds. I reckon this soak could be a sort of lake if the conditions were right. Then it'd die away and take all the life with it. Leave a lot of death behind. I don't like it. It's got a funny smell.'
'Few flies, too.' Bright swatted at a few that buzzed around his head and looked to want to settle on his sunburnt nose.
'Yeah, have to gather some of that stuff over there,' Hawke pointed to a clump of yellow-green bush growing out of the gully wall. 'Burn a bit of that and we'll be right. Might have to rub some of the juice on if they're bad. Better'n Aerogard, that is.'
Bright broke off some of the bush. A pulpy juice leaked onto his hands. He touched it to his face and the flies buzzed angrily. 'See what you mean.'
They passed an uncomfortable night. The smoke from the fire, fed by Hawke with leaves and stalks of the pulpy bush, deterred the flies but they buzzed noisily around the camp and the travellers had to rub the juice on their faces when they settled down for the night. Stuart complained that the beer was running out and asked Hawke how much longer he expected the trip to take. Hawke was annoyed, he doubled the measure of rum into his tea and answered rudely. The flies concentrated on a cut to his hand Bright had sustained when hacking at the mulga scrub for firewood. The juice stung when applied to the cut. He drank more rum than usual. Joel worried aloud about the effect of the sand on his lenses. The flies did not trouble Marsha; she found their noise somehow consoling. She placed her sleeping bag close to Bright's and reached for him after the others had gone to sleep. Bright went on snoring.
It was a disgruntled party that set off the next morning. Packing up took longer than usual and, as soon as the sun rose, the flies renewed their attack. The supplies of the deterrent bush were running low and Bright swore as he saw the back of his hand covered by the small, black insects, probing towards his cut, burrowing under the Bandaid he'd applied.
Hawke rolled a cigarette and attempted to start the Land Rover. The night had been very cold and the motor was reluctant. Eventually the engine caught and Hawke drove away from the soak.
'Told you it was a lousy place. I can always—'
'What's that?' Marsha pointed at a pile of rocks. 'I haven't seen anything like that out here before.'
From a distance of about fifty metres, the rocks did not look like a natural formation. They were orderly and the ground around them was uncharacteristically clear. Hawke stopped a few metres short of the pile. Bright was the first to articulate what was in all their minds. 'It looks like a grave.'
They approached almost warily as if the rock pile might be booby-trapped. Hawke slid down into his customary squat. The rocks were neatly stacked, although a few seemed to have fallen away. The pile was about 180 centimetres long and half as wide. The shape was a gentle curve from end to end, standing about sixty centimetres high in the centre. The Land Cruiser pulled up and Joel shouted, 'Camera?'
Bright did not want to shout back. He nodded and made a beckoning motion before squatting down beside Hawke. 'What d'you reckon, Col?'
Hawke reached out and removed a rock from the curve. 'Only one way to find out.'
'Hold on,' Marsha said. 'We should film this.'
They waited until the camera was set up. It was getting warm and there were already some flies about. Bright slapped at them impatiently. 'Right, Joel? Okay, Col. Let's get on with it.'
Bright and Hawke removed the closely-packed rocks almost reverently at first, but with greater speed and less care as they began to sweat. Bright dropped a large stone on his finger and swore.
Stuart grinned and waved his mike. 'Got it, Vic.'
'Bugger you,' Bright muttered.
Once the curve was flattened the rocks were larger and more easily dislodged. Hawke eased back a large rock and exposed white bone.
'In now, Joel,' Vic snapped.
The camera zoomed in on two pairs of hands pulling away the rocks to reveal a human skeleton lying on its back in a shallow depression in the sand. The limbs had been laid out straight and the skeleton was intact. There was no sign of physical damage to the skull or torso.
Marsha dug Vic in the ribs and he found himself talking. 'This individual was about five feet six inches tall, possibly a male to judge from the size and shape of the bones although I'm no expert. There's no sign of any injury. Can you just brush that sand aside, Col?'
The lower part of the skull and upper chest had been covered by a thin layer of sand. As Hawke brushed it away dark dust fell from somewhere near the jaws. Something glinted in the strong sunlight. Hawke's dark fingers probed and came up with a thin chain on which a tiny medallion was suspended.
Bright stood to ease the ache in his thighs, then he squatted again and peered at the medallion. 'There's writing on it.'
Hawke nodded. 'Arabic.'
'Can you read it?'
'No,' Hawke said. 'But I've seen lots of these things. My grandfather had one. The Afghan camel drivers wore them. The writing's something to do with being a long way from the land of the prophet and asking for his protection.'
'Hamet,' Marsha said.
Bright turned towards the camera. 'This would appear to be the grave of Hamet, one of the Afghans who accompanied the Crafts on their fateful last expedition.'
Marsha said, 'What was that black dust?'
'I've seen that before,' Hawke said, 'although only with animals, not with people. The flies—they go into the mouth and windpipe and lungs and choke the animal to death.'
'Jesus,' Joel sa
id.
Bright said calmly, 'Among the many stories that have circulated about the Craft expedition is one attributed to Sali, the other Afghan, who survived the ordeal in the Gibson Desert only to die shortly afterwards. He said that his companion had been eaten by flies. Here, today, thirty years later, we are seeing evidence of that terrible death.' Bright replaced a stone, then another. He signalled for Joel to stop filming.
'Amazing stuff, man.' Joel said.
Hawke handed the chain and medallion to Marsha and began to rebuild the cairn. Bright helped him. Marsha pocketed the relic and handed some stones to Bright. Stuart put down his mike and worked at one end, laying the stones over the fragile bones of the Afghan's feet. Joel stepped back and switched on his camera.
When the reinterment was completed, the shirts of all four were soaking wet. The work had taken longer than Bright had anticipated and the sun was high above the horizon.
'Conference,' Bright said to Hawke. 'Where can we go?'
Hawke shaded his eyes under the wide brim of his hat. 'Some mulga over thataway. Mile or two.'
The 4WDs bucked across the plain, the wheels jolting over the clumps of grass and spinning in the dust. Marsha turned to look back at the cairn but the dust cloud created by the vehicles obscured it. They stopped by the lump of mulga and Hawke brewed tea. Joel and Stuart drank beer.
'Right,' Bright said, 'what've we got?'
'Evidence that we're on the right track,' Marsha said. 'Proof.'
Bright sipped his tea. 'Could have been any Afghan. Got sick and died. Col?'
Hawke shrugged as he rolled a cigarette. I'd say that but for the fly dust. That ties in with the Sali story.'
Marsha nodded. 'That's right. I wonder why there wasn't any sign of clothing. You'd have thought he'd be wrapped in something.'
Hawke puffed smoke into the hot air. 'For the same reason there's no flesh, Marty. The clothing would've been cotton and the ants'd eat it.'
Bright scribbled a note. 'Right. I'll mention that. Well, it's over to you, Col. Where do we go next?'
'Into the country Boolil told me about.' Hawke pointed north-east. 'Over there. Worse than this.'
Bright said, 'Is there any way to make it a systematic search? Like Marty said, it's a hell of a big area.'
Hawke threw his tea dregs on the fire. 'We can probably find the place where Boolil was attacked. He told me about that in some detail. After that it gets harder. Have to sort of imagine what they might have been doing. We can give it an educated try, that's all.'
'Fair enough,' Bright said. 'Reminds me, I'll have to do a bit on what happened next. Do you reckon they lost a camel here?'
Hawke nodded. 'Probably. I'd guess the flies got Hamet and the camel ran off. Probably lost water and supplies too. It'd have put them in a bloody tight spot.'
Bright looked around. 'Suppose I could do it here but it's so bloody hot. Be better when we stop. Will the country where we camp tonight be pretty much like this?'
Hawke laughed as he scuffed out the small fire with his boot. 'Sonny, it's all pretty much like this.'
Two days later, towards the end of a long, hot day, they discovered the place where Boolil had alleged he and his companions had been attacked.
'Fits the description,' Hawke said, surveying the shallow, scooped-out depression that wind and water had created near the base of a low sandhill. 'Boolil said they had no water but they'd killed a wallaby and drunk its blood. They were cooking it when the bullets hit them.'
Marsha nodded and gestured for Joel to start filming. Vic was walking along the depression, squinting at the hard-baked earth. He pointed at the hill and swept his hand down dramatically.
'What's all that about?' Hawke said.
'He'll do the voice-over later. He's describing what happened. We need some evidence here. Any chance of some bones?'
Hawke shook his head. 'Don't reckon. This'd be a wash when it rains. Any bones'd be carried away in that direction and the sand'd build up over them. You might find something by digging, but it'd be a long job.'
Joel scrambled down the side of the gully and tracked Bright with the camera. Stuart tagged along at a distance, halfway up the sandhill. Suddenly he bent down, picked something up from the ground and shouted. Instinctively, Joel swung the camera towards him and caught the sound man standing awkwardly on the hill holding a shining object in his hand.
'What is it?' Marsha shouted.
'A bullet casing.'
Hawke strode up the rise with Marsha close behind him. Bright jumped up from the gully. Joel followed, circling away to get everyone in shot, then closing in.
Stuart handed the metal object to Hawke. 'It was wedged in that bit of rock there.'
'What is it?' Marsha said again.
Hawke tossed it in his hand. 'From a .38 automatic pistol.'
They camped in the gully. The country nearby yielded very little firewood and they had to carefully ration their water. Marsha remarked that their circumstances were something like the Crafts'.
Hawke shook his head. 'Not really. We've got enough to eat and enough water to get us through to the Henderson bore. My guess is they killed the blacks for their food.'
Marsha was annoyed. 'You don't know Basil Craft,' she said. 'He was a murderous bastard. Sex-crazed, too.'
'Was he now? He didn't kill the woman he kidnapped, or rape her.'
'Matter of time,' Marsha said. 'Sorry, Col. Look, this is all getting to me. It's all death and desolation out here. Just for laughs, I'll put the question. Have we got enough, Vic?'
Bright shook his head. 'No. We're so close. I reckon we can find them. Col?'
Hawke swilled his rum-spiked tea in the enamel mug. 'Well, there's some guesswork in this, but I'll tell you what I think. No, you tell me. Marty, suppose you were in this woman's position. You can hold out longer than them and you know there's someone nearby who can help you if he gets half a chance. What would you do?'
Marsha considered. 'I'd lead them in circles so as not to find water and not to give my rescuer too much of a distance to travel. I'd probably give him some sign that that was what I was doing, if I could.'
'Right,' Hawke said. 'That's almost certainly what she did. Boolil didn't say so but maybe he didn't consider it necessary. Conclusion? The place where he caught up with them isn't very far away.'
'But in which direction?' Bright said. 'She could have circled to the north, south, east or west.'
Hawke nodded. 'Indeed she could.'
'So what do we do?' Marsha said.
Hawke looked at Bright. 'You're the boss.'
Bright said, 'How's the fuel?'
Hawke shrugged. 'Depends what you've got in mind. We can get some at Henderson. I'd say we've got enough for three days for two vehicles.'
Vic grinned and saluted Hawke with his mug. 'Then we've got enough for one vehicle to go for a day in four directions and leave us enough fuel for one vehicle to get to Henderson?'
'Just,' Hawke said.
'That's what we'll do then,' Bright said. 'North, south, east and west. What about water?'
Hawke gazed at the dregs of his tea. 'Could be a problem. But I reckon we'll find a soak in one direction or another. If we run low we'll have to pull in our horns a bit.'
'Okay,' Bright said.
'Lucky this isn't a democracy,' Marsha said. 'Stuart just ran out of beer.'
The circles to the north and west produced nothing. Hawke was conservative, resisting Bright's encouragement to go over just one more rise. Those two nights back in the camp were less than comfortable. There was an inevitable letdown after the discoveries of the previous days and the rationing of water did not make for good tempers. More serious, for the technicians, was the lack of beer. Joel and Stuart drank the rum-spiked tea glumly.
'Two more days, boys,' Bright said.
Joel and Stuart had remained in camp, ready to be called out if anything was found. Neither was a reader and they quickly tired of playing cards. 'That's definite, is it?' Joel
said. 'Two days?'
'Definite,' Bright said.
The cameraman nodded. 'Good. This sitting around is getting on my tits.'
Marsha, complaining of skin rashes and an inability to sleep, stayed in camp with Joel and Stuart, and it was a somewhat disgruntled Vic Bright who set out in an easterly direction with Hawke. The two did not talk much; Hawke smoked and controlled the Land Rover over the rough ground, Bright swept the landscape with strong binoculars. The country was depressingly monotonous—the same low sandhills, laterite-covered slopes, sprawling beds of spinifex.
Bright lowered the glasses and blinked his tired eyes. 'Haven't you got any clues? Nothing at all?'
Hawke shook his head. 'My feeling is it'd be close. The woman'd keep as tight a circle as she could without tipping the Crafts off to what she was doing. We'll have to start circling back soon. This is far—'
Bright raised the glasses, focused them and shouted, 'Over there!'
Hawke squinted. 'What?'
Bright's hands were sweating and shaking. He almost dropped the binoculars. 'Stonehenge,' he said.
Hawke piloted the 4WD over some flinty ground and around a patch of spinifex. He saw now what Bright meant. At the foot of an irregularly shaped red sandhill was an outcrop of rocks. A tongue of rock jutted from the hill and two large boulders formed a natural shelter below it.
Experienced in the ways of archaeologists and filmakers, Hawke stopped well short of the site. Bright's knees buckled as he jumped down and he had to steady himself against the mudguard. The sun was high in the sky and fierce but the rock shelter, viewed from twenty metres away, was partly in shadow. Bright and Hawke approached carefully. Their feet crunched on the hard ground and the noise was loud in the quiet desert. Bright found himself breathing in shallow gasps. He was excited and he could feel the sweat breaking out on his body. There was no wind. Nothing moved over the surface of the earth except the two men and Bright suddenly knew that this was the place and that nothing had moved here for thirty years.
They reached the rocks and Vic shaded his eyes to cut down on the glare before he peered into the shadowy recess. His eyes adjusted to the change in light and he saw the two skeletons, side by side, stretched out on the bare ground. He groaned and stepped back. 'Yes,' he said.
