At its edge she found a path of sorts, where animals appeared to use a gully to come down to the water. She worked her way up this for perhaps a hundred yards until she came to a place where she could reach the top of the red rock hillside.
Here she sat, at the cliff edge, gazing out across the hill to the river bed and water below; Susan’s view extending to the far horizon where endless yellow, spinifex covered hills met blue sky. Something in this harsh stone country was eating its way into her soul, a different but kindred desolation to that of the sand desert of days just past.
She watched the coming and going of the desert animals that relied on this oasis. Three kangaroos: mother, large offspring and a small joey, head out of pouch, approached cautiously. They drank in quick sips, alert to any other visitors, then hopped a short distance away. Here, mother and large offspring nibbled on some green riverbed grass. The baby came out to explore before a noise caused it to startle and, a quick, headfirst tumble later, the baby was back inside the mother’s pouch of safety. They moved out of sight.
Minutes later a tan coloured dog emerged from the river’s edge and came down to the water. It lapped noisily. Then it too vanished, that was the first time she had seen a wild dingo. Now it was just birds, lizards scurrying over rocks, and herself, left in this place.
Perhaps half an hour passed in solitude. Then she spotted movement. It was Mark, walking down the riverbed, carrying something over his shoulder. She clambered down and ran to meet him.
“What have you got?” she asked.
“Just a couple ducks, thought we might have them for dinner,” he replied, indicating the two birds tied together to a stick over his shoulder.
Susan shuffled her feet awkwardly and said, “Sorry about before, I know it’s not my business.”
Mark’s hard expression softened; Susan moved in close and hugged herself to him. “Thank you for bringing me here; this is something really special, every bit as special as the sandy desert in its own way.”
Susan could feel something struggling to come out of Mark. She thought he might show or say something—anything—that would tell her more about who he really was or what was going on inside him.
But Mark just hugged her close and held her against him, saying nothing. After a minute, he pulled an arm’s length away, gripping Susan’s shoulders tightly in his hands, “I’m not the best person for you. We should just enjoy our trip together then get you to your Darwin plane. After that, who knows?”
It wasn’t quite a statement of commitment, but it was something more than nothing.
She had almost forgotten about her fishing success, but as they were walking back Susan glimpsed the fish’s tail from beneath its covering.
Almost bursting with pride, Susan pointed to the fish, “Mark, I caught a fish! A big one, a golden yellow colour.”
“A big one eh,” Mark reached for her hands and held them a couple of feet apart, “This big?” he asked, gesturing to the distance between her hands.
She laughed with bubbling excitement, “Well, not quite, perhaps half that, but really big for me.”
Walking towards the fish, Susan raced ahead; she uncovered her fish and presented it to Mark.
“Well,” he said, with a smile, “it is pretty big, just the right size for our dinner.”
They lit a huge fire, and while the coals formed Mark dug a pit with a shovel off to the side. He half-filled it with hot coals from the fire, lay leaves over and placed the ducks and fish, with salt and bush herbs in their bellies over this. He covered them with more leaves and then another layer of coals. Mark’s final step was to cover it all with some bigger branches and earth.
Mark dusted off his hands and reached for a large cast iron pot—a camp oven he called it—and showed her how to make a damper and brownie for their dinner and breakfast. These roasted side by side as their fish and ducks cooked.
After an hour and a half Mark pronounced their dinner ready and uncovered the pit. Susan’s mouth watered as he peeled the burnt skins and revealed the succulent flesh of the ducks and the fish. A final sprinkle of salt and it was ready to eat.
They feasted with their fingers, eating morsels of meat on pieces of fresh-cooked damper. Dinner was accompanied by a cold bottle of champagne, a Moët no less, that Mark had found in the fridge. After they had eaten their fill of the meats they leaned back against the swag and ate brownie and butter, washed down with large mugs of tea. They watched in quiet stillness, as the light faded from the western sky and the first stars came into the clear night.
Susan would remember this later, as the best night of their time together; it was their magic place. Like the night in the desert, but now they had become even closer, and she still saw no shadows on their horizon.
She sometimes wondered, in the months that followed, if she could have stopped the trip there, and looked no further, would she have? Then her memory of the magic could have remained untouched without the awful madness to come.
Chapter 9 – On to the Gulf and Hells Gates – Day 23
SNAKES
LIGHTS ATTRACT INSECTS
INSECTS ATTRACT FROGS
FROGS ATTRACT SNAKES
SNAKES BITE!
TURN OFF LIGHTS
FLYING DOCTORS ARE 2 HRS AWAY
This was the sign at Hells Gate Roadhouse, which greeted their arrival. It had been a long day of driving.
After their idyllic afternoon and evening at Policeman’s Waterhole on the Frew River, they had risen early, when there was barely any light in the eastern sky. Mark insisted they not dally, as there was a full day of driving ahead of them.
Breakfast was a mug of tea, warmed on the still glowing coals of last night’s fire. Mark ate some leftover cold duck, while Susan contented herself with the remains of the damper and brownie, which she coated liberally with butter.
Then it was an hour of slow and rough four-wheel driving until they came out on the road to Epenarra. From there the road was mostly good, made of dirt, but well maintained.
They stopped at a roadhouse mid-morning, on the Barkly Highway where the road the Borroloola and the Gulf branched north. They had a half hour break to have a late breakfast, before Mark did vehicle maintenance. While Mark was topping up the fuel, Susan freshened herself in the bathroom. She thought of using the roadhouse’s payphone to ring home and say hello to her parents, but with the time difference it was late at night in England, and her parents would be asleep, besides, the news could wait until she saw them in a few days time.
So instead she bought a second cup of coffee for herself, and one for Mark, and sat on an old bench in the shade watching him work. He was so focused and Susan found his effortless strength and skill incredibly attractive. Perhaps sensing her gaze, Mark glanced up and noticed her. Susan gave him a wave before gesturing to the coffee mug. As Mark walked over, Susan tapped her feet happily. Mark took the coffee and downed it in one and punched her affectionately. She just smiled.
“Ready for a long day of boring driving? I was thinking, if you wanted to, that you could do a bit of the driving today. It’s a long straight road for the next couple hours, not much to see. I thought I could play at tourist while you take the wheel.”
The offer thrilled Susan; she felt that it was a symbol of the trust growing between them. So she climbed into the driver’s seat and, after a few introductory instructions from Mark, they headed off. Susan drove cautiously at first as she got the feel of the heavy vehicle, but soon she drove with increasing confidence. The road was a narrow strip of bitumen, just wide enough for one car, and a couple times Susan had to pull over to share the road with cars passing the other way.
At first Mark watched closely to be sure she was OK, but he quickly paid no mind to her driving and looked around. Susan was elated with his display of confidence in her.
As they headed north they left the desert scrub behind and emerged into what Mark said was the start of the good cattle country It began as grass plains between low scrubby
ridges, then it was just vast rolling grass plains, extending from horizon to horizon. Mark told her how, sometimes, when a storm came rolling across this land, you could see it more than a hundred miles away.
They passed occasional groups of big shiny-skinned cattle, “Santas,” Mark called them, “short for Santa Gertrudis,” he explained.
Susan drove on for another hour and a half, to what Mark said was the northern edge of the Barkly, then he took over again. Now the landscape outside slowly changed, more scrubby patches than rolling grass plains and less shiny and fat cattle.
They veered further east, heading away from the afternoon sun. The cattle country was left behind and they were driving through broken landscapes of drying creeks and little gullies that ran southeast. The ground was mostly covered in coarse gravel and wiry dead grass, with no cattle to be seen.
In the mid-afternoon, they turned onto a small track off the their road and stopped. Mark said he wanted to test and sight-in his rifles in a place where he wouldn’t disturb anyone. They were near the Nicholson Aboriginal Reserve, “A total no man’s land.” he called it.
Susan was happy for the break, welcome after the hours of driving. She helped Mark measure out fifty metres exactly using a tape, and put targets in place. Mark used the truck door to steady himself as he shot groups of five shots into each target. All shots were close together, all within an inch circle, though for one rifle, a 223, they were all about an inch low of the bullseye. Mark made a minute adjustment to its sights and then shot off a single round. It was almost dead centre.
Mark passed her the 223. “Do you want a go?”
She nodded and took her place, lifting the rifle to the target. Susan flinched on the first shot and it went wide. After that she got herself steadied and her breathing controlled. All her shots were within a ten-centimetre circle. She felt well pleased.
“Not bad for a Pommie girl from the city,” Mark said, sounding pleased. He put that gun aside and pulled out another. This new gun he handled with loving care; it was clearly his pride and joy. It was a 3006 rifle, with a glowing polished telescopic sight.
He offered it to her, “This is my safari gun from Africa; shot an elephant with it once. Do you want to try? It kicks a bit.”
She gave a tentative nod, and took the proffered gun. It felt huge and heavy.
He lifted out his swag and spread out a groundsheet. He suggested she try a lying shot, as the swag would help keep it steady.
She took her place, deliberately cleared her mind of everything, and then just concentrated on the target. She slowly squeezed the trigger. The blast felt huge and the jolt massive to her light frame. But she had done it, shot straight and steady without flinching.
They walked over to the target. Her shot was a perfect bull, she could not have placed it better if she had used a tape measure to mark the spot and then shot it from an inch away.
Mark whistled. “No one can beat that eh; not bad for a first time.” She felt inordinately pleased, glowing with pride as they walked back from the target.
Mark took the rifle and shot three shots to follow hers. All were very close to the centre, but none matched hers.
“Your father must be some man, teaching you to shoot like that,” Mark said, tipping his hat to her, “Not only are you beautiful and fantastic in bed, but you are the hottest hotshot I have met.” Susan blushed with this praise.
Then it was time to head on. As they were both hungry, Mark opened a packet of biscuits, oatmeal, which they ate accompanied by water from the waterbag. He also found a map of the region to give Susan an understanding of its geography.
“This is the top of the Gulf fall. Our last four hours have been travelling over the Barkly Tableland. Out on it the creeks run nowhere, but pool in huge swamps that form in depressions on the plains.
“We’re coming into the headwaters of the rivers that start at the top edge of the Tablelands and carve their way down into the Gulf of Carpentaria.
“Just north of us you have the Calvert and Robinson Rivers, which you will see tomorrow. Now we are coming into the headwaters of the Nicholson River, a huge river running back east into Queensland for a couple hundred miles, before it comes out into the Gulf at a place called Burketown.
They drove on and continued to chat about this river they were following. Mark told Susan how it and its tributaries, passed through some fantastic gorge country further downstream, places like Lawn Hill National Park and the amazing Riversleigh fossil deposit where a huge array of bones of early Australian animals were being found.
This was of big interest to Susan. She had learned about Riversleigh as a student.
“I studied some of those finds at university. I’d love to go there,” she said to Mark.
“Unfortunately time is against us. Long way and limited time to get you to your Darwin plane.”
Soon after they came to a big sign, “Aboriginal Land. Permit Required.”
“Doesn’t that apply to us?” asked Susan.
Mark nodded, “It should, but I’ve done work with most of these people and they know me. They even gave me a skin name. They say to me I don’t need permits or any of that ‘white man rubbish. I often give them a bit of beef or a kangaroo I’ve shot. We’re more in danger of being invited for a dinner of goanna and snake and being here all night.”
“I would love that,” said Susan, “You know I studied aboriginal customs at university but I’ve never really met any traditional aboriginals.”
Mark raised an eyebrow, “Well, they’re traditional here; utes, guns, fishing lines, power boats—you name it, they have it. But they can still go out with a spear and digging stick and get dinner from the land. I like their way of life, take the best of the new, when it suits, but also keep the best of the old.”
Mark deliberated for a second, “Tell you what. There is a camp an hour up the road and I still have one slab of meat in the Esky that I was thinking of passing on to them. Maybe we can call in for a cuppa and early dinner, I am sure they’ll have a fire going and something on offer.”
As they drove, Susan and Mark chatted about Australia’s early animals and how the people who had first come to this land had confronted these terrifying creatures. Both agreed they would have loved to see Australia back then, at the time when the aborigines first came and giant marsupials roamed. Susan was surprised at Mark’s knowledge and asked where he got it. Did he study somewhere?
He grinned ruefully. “Nah. More to do with time spent as labourer and dig assistant in the hot sun, along with many books read. I met all those professors who wrote the books at the digs. Sometimes they’d sign their books for me. I think it was their way of getting rid of books that no one would buy and even fewer could understand. Still, it is amazing how, when they show you their finds and explain them, it all begins to make sense.”
The sun was falling away behind them. They drove on steadily, winding their way down into a valley. It ran below a large cliff to their north, mile after mile. Its western faces were lit in late-afternoon sunshine, a fiery orange red, while the gullies and eastern facing edges glowed soft pink in the shadowed light.
“That’s the China Wall, pretty amazing huh?”
Before they knew it they were turning into a local camp road. Aboriginal children ran screaming in excitement from all directions; Mark greeted them like he knew them well. Then an old lady, walking with a stick, came over grinning broadly. She had grey hair and thin bandy legs and wore a tattered blue dress, but carried herself with obvious authority, like the tribe’s grandmother.
“Dat Mark, how ya going, young fella. Got any beef in your tucker box? We bit hungry here.”
“Go way with yer there Ruth, I can see that kangaroo from here. What, not enough for an old friend?”
Soon they were sitting on tin drums round the fire, sharing a tin of sweet tea and slices of half pink kangaroo on damper. It tasted good, even if a little raw. Susan could understand little of the excited and voluble conversation, w
hich flowed between the dozen people gathered, but she felt the welcoming spirit.
As they were making their goodbyes, Mark pulled out his last slab of meat, and waved Ruth over. “Probably don’t want this eh, so much food here, but it is yours anyway.”
Ruth waved a stick at him, “You one cheeky fella, someone need to give you good beating with stick like dis.”
Susan laughed at the thought.
From there it was a couple more hours of driving in the fading light and then full dark. They came to Hells Gates, the place where, when the first settlers came, their aboriginal guides told them they would take them no further, as the black-fellows from here on were too wild and dangerous.
Mark left Susan to set up camp. He said needed to do some business, which would take about half an hour, with a man who lived here. He needed to do it tonight as they would be gone early before the man got out of bed. Mark was a bit vague about what it was but Susan had the impression that he was trading some precious stones, similar to what she had glimpsed in the hills near Alice Springs. So she was left alone and started to take out the things she knew they would need tonight, the swag, chairs and a billycan for a cup of tea. Susan liked being entrusted with these simple jobs for them both.
With Mark gone, Susan went about arranging their campsite. As she was looking for some matches to light the gas barbeque, she found a little metal box, about six inches by four inches by one inch thick, like an old tobacco tin, with the lid jammed on tightly.
By itself the tin seemed unremarkable, but where it was hidden seemed strange. It was tucked away in a little space behind the spare wheel-mounting bracket, next to where he slid in the cast iron barbeque, concealed out of sight by the bulk of the spare wheel. A small metal plate normally covered the space. But the plate had come partly loose; one of the two screws holding it in place had fallen out, likely from vibrations of days driving over rough and corrugated roads. Now the plate could be rotated aside, showing what sat behind it.
Crocodile Spirit Dreaming - Possession - Books 1 - 3 Page 10
