Gunshot Road

by Adrian Hyland

  ‘Might have a quick scout round before I turn in.’

  The idea made her nervous. ‘More better you stay here, Nangali. Out there in the dark, little bit danger. Might be cheeky devil-devil, might be something worse.’

  ‘I’ll be right.’

  But her warning resonated as I scratched around the bottom of the outcrop, then climbed to its summit. I stood on a boulder and scrutinised the dark blue plains.

  Nothing: if it was a vehicle out there, it’d stopped, or was crawling along without headlights. I listened carefully, heard nothing.

  I made my way down the far slope and onto the flats, the torch beam sweeping before me. Apart from the usual scuttling creatures of the night—a bat swooped, a ningaui dashed at a barking spider—all was quiet.

  I turned to go, but was shaken out of my meditations when a huge mulga snake suddenly twisted underfoot, clattered off into the undergrowth.

  Shit a brick!

  I tripped, heart pounding, found myself tumbling into a gully. My arms went windmilling and my legs flew out. I fell into something face first. Something soft, slimy, like rotten fruit, but webbed with cutting edges and sharp points. A deeply disgusting odour crunched my nose.

  I flashed the torch, gasped in horror: I’d landed in the rotting corpse of a maggot-eyed wallaby. I swivelled the beam: there were more of them in the gully, maybe a dozen, covered in a layer of dirt and white powder. Lime? I wasn’t hanging round to figure it out.

  I scrambled to my feet, set out running and didn’t stop until I reached the camp and found the water tank. I scrubbed my hands, scoured my arms and face, rinsed my mouth, gagging, trying not to spew. More or less failing.

  Magpie rolled over in his bedroll. ‘You right there, Nangali?’

  I spat a mouthful of gunk, avoided a direct reply. I felt reluctant to tell him about the dead wallabies; this mob had enough on their plates without worrying about some maniac cruising around slaughtering wildlife, which was what appeared to have happened. A few months ago, at Moonlight, we’d come across a gang of Bluebush meatworkers whose idea of recreation was to hunt roos from the back of a trail bike—with machetes.

  ‘Snake, out there,’ I replied. ‘Bloody big one. Gave me a fright.’ He nestled back into the hat he was using for a pillow. ‘You watch that one now. Might be snake, might be dream.’

  He seemed pretty cool about it, but he wasn’t so cool in the morning when he discovered another snake—smaller but just as lethal, a death adder—lurking under his own bedroll. He stared at the reptile, aghast, mumbled something doom-laden, then raised his voice.

  ‘Orright, you mob, time to get on the road.’

  I wouldn’t have thought it possible for him to accelerate—figured he was already moving at top speed—but accelerate he did, breaking camp at the speed of light and wind at the speed of sound. Hurling our gear together and getting us out of there quick fast.

  Everybody joined in. We were going home.

  It was almost as if they sensed the slaughtered animals. That, or something else—maybe Eli’s forebodings—had thrown a wet blanket over the journey. The high spirits of the previous day, the sense of rediscovery and return to country, had evaporated but nobody seemed to know why.

  Or if they did, they weren’t telling me.

  Homeward bound

  BEFORE WE LEFT I put in a quick radio call to base. Cockburn was otherwise engaged, thank god, and Harley was his usual taciturn self. I told him I’d be back in a day or two and signed off.

  We took the short cut back to the Gunshot Road—I needed fuel, and none of us wanted to hang around. Although the fresh wheel tracks made for a smooth ride compared to our labyrinthine, puncture-packed wanderings on the way out, the mood of the party never managed to shake itself from the depths.

  Danny seemed more downcast than anyone. He sat in the back of my vehicle, close to Windmill, spent the day mumbling to himself and staring out the window. His cheeks were blue, his lips cracked, his long eyelashes intertwined with goo.

  The snakes, in keeping with the mood, were thick on the ground for the whole of the trip in. We spotted at least half a dozen of them, one a monster that insinuated itself into the track with a brutal nonchalance and wasn’t changing course for anyone. When I drove at the reptile, trying to hurry it along, it curved into the air then lashed at our bull-bar with a viciousness that had the kids in the back diving for the blankets.

  I drove round the snake, my chest pounding. Caught a flash of light from an ironstone spur to the south, saw something up there move. A head, I was sure. Who would be spying on us?

  I took another look, but saw nothing. A trick of the light? Maybe, but how to account for the sudden shiver down my spine?

  ‘Anybody else out here?’ I asked Magpie.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Thought I saw somebody…’

  ‘Where?’ He twisted about.

  ‘On that black hill.’

  Magpie studied the rise, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘Maybe kangaroo. Emu.’

  ‘It was a person, I’m sure. Why don’t we go back and have a look?’

  But they all seemed horrified at that suggestion, and I wasn’t too keen on it myself. Meg sat there looking thoughtful. A few minutes later, she suggested: ‘Back on that hill—maybe that was Andulka you seen.’

  ‘Andulka?’

  ‘Jangala from Majumanu.’

  ‘Oh, I know who he is. You reckon he’s still alive?’

  ‘He’s out here somewhere.’

  ‘I heard he had a mountain fall on top of him, Meg.’

  ‘Might be. What’s a mountain to a feller who can fly?’

  I settled back into the seat, gave the matter some thought. Andulka Jangala: I’d been hearing about him for most of my life, but it was hard to tell where reality ended and myth began.

  Certainly there’d been a young man of that name, and an unusual feller he’d been. One of the last nomads to emerge from the desert, he was a famous nangkari who walked in with his family, twenty-five years ago. A Kantulyu man, he would have been a close relative of the Stonehouse mob.

  I’d seen him myself one time when I was a kid. Never forgot him: sleek of limb and smooth of brow, he was a contemplative figure with the sky in his eyes and one foot in the other world. His dreaming was fire.

  Andulka had settled into the Majumanu community, but he never overcame the suspicion of the whitefeller world that had kept him in the desert all those years. His forays into town were few and far between. He was deeply disturbed by the mining activity in the region, worried all that digging and drilling was unsettling the spirits underground. He began to spend more and more time out bush, wandering around on his own, digging out soaks, burning off rubbish grass, singing the songs that kept the country whole.

  Three or four years ago, when Copperhead was reworking the old Green Saturn mine, an earthquake rocked the region. Andulka said it was a warning: he showed up at the site and made a pest of himself, poking around the diggings, tinkering with machines, arguing with the workers. They told him to bugger off, but it seemed he couldn’t hear them.

  Finally, one dazzling afternoon—it was before I came back to the Centre, but I heard the story from my father—the Green Saturn shot-fire crew spotted him on the crest of a hill just as they were setting off a massive chain blast. Andulka was smack in the middle of the pattern. They roared a warning, but the charge had already gone and the hill vanished.

  Police rescue mob searched for days but they had no chance of finding a body with half a mountain on top of it.

  ‘Andulka!’ I shook my head, studied Meg. ‘Surely we’d have heard something if he was still alive?’

  ‘But we have,’ she replied.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In dream.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  Magpie detected the cynicism in my voice. ‘N’other feller seen him too.’

  ‘Which other feller?’

  ‘Them Majumanu mob.’

  ‘W
hat have they seen?’

  ‘Smoke. Tracks.’

  ‘Right.’ I’d heard the stories, of course. From time to time, some traveller out that way would wake to feel an unaccountable presence out past the campfire’s glow, would feel he was being watched. Some wanderer picking his way down a remote gorge would hear the mysterious echo of a song that flowed like fire and whisper ‘Andulka!’ Some hunter would spot a smoke plume that looked man-made where no men were.

  The rumours intensified, the legend grew. People said they’d seen him at the Isa Rodeo, or on the train to Adelaide. They said he could appear in two places at once, turn into a bat and fly by night, conjure fireballs and whirlwinds from thin air.

  I didn’t believe a word of it, but what the hell: our mob have lost so many myths along the way, I couldn’t see any harm in inventing a few new ones.

  Magpie gave up in the face of my relentless scepticism, nodded back at the hill, threw another hat into the ring.

  ‘Might be that ranger feller up there…’

  ‘Ranger?’ My heart skipped.

  ‘Wildlife.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Oh, forget his name, but you know im, that feller from Bluebush, got the little red hat, all-a-time laughin…’

  Sounded like Jojo, the prick. Running around the bush having fun while I was playing with myself in a lonely bed or getting caught up in the bush bash from hell.

  Magpie ran his fingers through his whiskers. ‘He come through a coupla weeks ago, lookin for them bilyaju.

  ’ Bilbies. That’d be my wandering boyfriend all right.

  But there was no way that would have been him up on the hill spying on us; Jojo was a congenial character who’d pull over to say hello and end up sharing a meal and hanging on to your life story, honestly believing it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard.

  ‘Wouldn’t know where he was now, would you?’ I asked hopefully.

  Magpie gave the desert the benefit of his long, thoughtful gaze: ‘Might be somewhere…’

  Might be some-fucking-where! Fat lot of use that was to me; a hundred and fifty thousand square k’s of dirt out there, and he could be in any one of them. And oh, I wanted him now, wanted to kiss that stupid, sleepy, reassuring grin, feel those rough hands slipping into my pants.

  The gloom that had been running beneath the surface since Dingo Springs kicked in with a vengeance. Everybody felt it; even the little kids stared at the ground, po-faced, as if they couldn’t wait to get back to the dirty beds and lolly water of Stonehouse Creek.

  As we drew closer to the Gunshot Road, the wheel marks turned into an honest track. By afternoon we were flying along. The mood of our party, however, was far from flying, and it was a relief to us all when the track turned into a road. We drove past the old Gunshot Minefield, and soon afterwards the Green Swamp Roadhouse appeared in the distance.

  Nipper went in to hassle for more credit, everybody else scattered for toilet or bar, depending on the relative condition of bladder and tongue. I refuelled the car, and was about to refuel myself when I noticed an old blue Nissan over by the well. The vehicle looked familiar. Jacob Jangala, perhaps, from Dixon’s Creek?

  I wandered over, had a peek at the tray. They’d be partying at Dixon’s Creek tonight: there was a turkey covered in branches, a couple of kangaroos, a porcupine, a drum full of bush oranges and—I took another look—a bilby!

  ‘Eh! What’s this?’ A booming voice behind me. ‘Fuckin kurlupartu stealin a poor blackfeller’s tucker now?’

  I spun round. There was a burly stockman in a big blue denim shirt standing there. He had a Crankshaft at either side, and they all seemed mightily amused at having caught me unawares.

  ‘Jacob!’ I said, a little sheepishly. ‘I was just having a look.’

  He grinned. ‘Nah, you’re right, Em. Benny told me you been out west.’

  ‘What’s with the bilby? You’re not supposed to hunt them, you know. Whitefeller law lookin after that one.’

  ‘Mmmm—good eatin but.’

  ‘Where’d you get it?’

  ‘Out the Wild Tucker Sanctuary.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Ranger feller makin it out on Galena Creek. Markin it out with a fencepost.’

  ‘Ranger? Which ranger?’

  ‘Jojo.’ He scrutinised the expression on my face. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Yeah, I know him—and it’s not a tucker sanctuary, Jacob—they don’t do take-aways. So Jojo’s out there, is he?’

  ‘Yuwayi. I was talking to him just this morning. Been out there hunting these bilyaju.’

  ‘He’s hunting them with a camera and a notebook, Jacob. The idea is to protect them from hungry buggers like you.’

  He broke into a laugh, a big, disjointed affair, like a road-train changing gears; Benny and Bernie made up the chorus. ‘Nah, I’m bullshittin, Em. Shot a fox, had that one in its mouth. Jojo’d be grateful—fuckin foxes are his main trouble, knockin off the bilbies.’

  I could see how Jojo and this rambunctious character would get along.

  I looked back down the road. ‘Galena Creek, eh? Where is that exactly?’

  ‘Hour or two back along the Gunshot, north side of the road.’

  He drew a sketch map in the sand, and I copied it into my notebook.

  ‘Jacob, couldn’t do me a huge favour, could you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take my passengers back to Stonehouse?’

  He gave the request a split second’s consideration. ‘No worries.’ Never one to dilly-dally was Jacob. ‘Bout time I went down—see that old uncle mine.’

  ‘Which uncle’s that?’

  ‘Mister Watson.’

  ‘Ah, Mister Watson. Get him to tell you the one about the copper and the nose hair.’

  ‘I heard that one.’

  ‘Figure out what it was about?’

  ‘Don’t think he knows himself.’

  Before we went our separate ways, I had a word with Danny, who was waiting under a tree with the men.

  ‘This is where we say goodbye.’

  I was moved—and slightly worried—by the wave of anxiety that broke across his face.

  ‘You gotta go, Emily?’

  I ruffled his hair. ‘Supposed to be back days ago—they’ll have the cops out looking for us, and we wouldn’t want that.’

  ‘Can I come too?’

  ‘Not a good idea, Danny—still a bit hot for you in town.’

  He craned his neck, took in the wide horizon, the roadhouse, Doc’s cabin across the road. He took a closer look at the rocks piled up behind it.

  ‘Them the rocks in your picture?’ he asked warily.

  ‘They are.’

  ‘What for that ol man pile up all them rocks?’

  ‘Buggered if I know.’

  Suddenly he seemed so young, so vulnerable. I took his hand.

  ‘Listen up, Danny: if ever you need me, I’ll be there. You’ve only gotta get word through—plenty of ways to do that—radio, motor car—and I’ll come running. That’s a promise, okay?’

  He looked at me, through me, the fear receding in his eyes.

  ‘A promise?’

  ‘Rolled gold. Stick around with this mob for now, we need you to help these old blokes.’

  As if on cue, Eli came over, put his hand through the crook of Danny’s arm: his vision might be gone, but his ears were sharp, his brain sharper.

  ‘Young feller gotta be my eyes,’ he said with a broad smile.

  Danny nodded, seemed reconciled to the situation. I gave them both a farewell hug, was moved to see them standing there, arms linked, as I turned and drove to the west.

  Jacob flagged me down.

  ‘Bluebush is the other way.’

  ‘Going via Galena Creek.’

  He smiled conspiratorially. ‘What you doin out there?’

  I gave him a wink, my spirits already on the rise.

  ‘Gotta see a man about a bilby.’

  Mister P
ig’s Head

  I CRUISED ALONG THE Gunshot Road, shading my eyes and peering into the afternoon glare, desperately searching for the Galena turn-off. I only had another hour’s light, and didn’t fancy my chances of finding Jojo in the dark. The map was crap and Jacob’s directions crapper.

  I wasn’t paying a huge amount of attention to the road, I admit—a nasty habit I’ve acquired since coming back out bush. Sometimes I even read while I’m driving. Nothing heavy, mind you—crime, perhaps, maybe a magazine. I’m not the only culprit, I’m sure. Meeting another vehicle out here is an event of such magnitude you tend to get out and talk about it.

  So it was partly my fault that I was damn near killed. But only partly: if the other bastard hadn’t come fanging round the bend in the centre of the road, we wouldn’t have come anywhere near as close to colliding as we did.

  As it was, a split-second glimmer in the corner of my eye made me fling the wheel to the right and go thrashing off into the gravel. The beige Toyota seemed to be ninety percent bull-bar and rubber, but its rear bumper clipped mine and threw me into a fishtail.

  Somewhere in the ensuing seconds, I experienced that gut-wrenching moment of weightlessness that rises inside when you’re up on two wheels and about to flip. At what felt like the last possible moment, the gods of gravity and balance reasserted themselves, and the car came crashing back onto all fours.

  I clutched the wheel desperately as we smashed through gravel and scrub and gradually decelerated to a velocity at which I could ease her down through the gears.

  My vehicle drew to a halt—unlike the other bastard, I was pissed off to see, who hammered along the road as if nothing had happened, chains clattering, canvas canopy flapping in the wind.

  I flopped onto the wheel, my heart kicking like a bull in a chute. Threw an angry glance at the disappearing Toyota. No chance of a licence plate in all that dust, but one bizarre image had imprinted itself on my mind’s eye: had terror been playing tricks with me, or had I really spotted a pig’s head mounted on the bull-bar?

  A pig’s head. Very Territory, but still not something you saw every day. And yet I had seen it before. Wasn’t there something like that parked at Green Swamp on the day of Doc’s death? I’d have words with that porcophile prick if I ever saw him again.