Crocodile Spirit Dreaming - Possession - Books 1 - 3

by Graham Wilson

  With all his effort he paddled and kicked for the edge, missing the last tree but managing to grab hold of the protruding rock of the cliff where the fissure ended. He realised that the creek running out of the gap in the cliff also had a strong flow and was pushing him back into the main channel.

  He had stopped right where the creek met the main river and there was a slight back eddy where he was, so it was easy to hold on. Now he had a good grip of the edge he set about pulling himself back along the rock edge following the creek up into the fissure. He had to do this by inches now, to bring himself around the rock edge into the side channel and then along its side. The hand holds at water level looked few and far between and he was terrified that if he lost his grip he would be swept back into the river. He needed to stop and think before he did something stupid.

  He looked above. There was a broken slope rising up above him for about five metres which he thought he could climb, using hand holds and the occasional foothold. Up there it looked like there was a ledge running back along the side of the fissure that he could follow.

  Climbing with only one leg and with one shoulder which hurt to move and lacked strength, was extraordinarily hard, particularly carrying his gear. But he was determined not to surrender it to the river; he carried his future survival in that small bundle. His bruised shoulder screamed protest. He realised he had got soft from days sitting on a seat in a helicopter but he pulled himself clear of the water. He rested for a minute. Then he began to climb up the rock face, little by little, it was about a sixty degree face, not sheer but mostly a dead lift with his arms. It seemed to take forever but at last he came to a clear flat ledge, about a foot wide. He lifted his bottom onto this and turned to sit, facing out to the river, arms feeling like jelly and his whole body trembling with fatigue.

  As he did he looked below at the raging river. He saw that the tide had started to fall away. While the river level had not fallen appreciably the rate of flow had increased again, with a white broken surface returning. The sun was now at its highest and it said his river trip so far had taken two or three hours. He realised that if he had not got out here and now he would have been taken again and smashed by this water, it was now too strong to swim against.

  As he watched a shape emerged from the water, next to the edge just below him, tail waving steadily to hold against the current. It surfaced, almost its full length, raised its head as if to nod to him, and opened and closed its nearest eye. He could have sworn it winked. He felt a sense of Mark speaking to him, “I have got you here; now you must do your part; Susan needs your help, you must return.”

  Vic could not help himself, he knew it was ridiculous but could feel himself grinning. He raised his hand and waved back. He called out, “Message received, over and out.”

  With that the crocodile rolled its body over and slid sideways into the water, disappearing with the flow. Vic knew from here it was all up to him. And he did not give a damn whether others called it ‘superstitious claptrap’. He knew his mate had returned and given him something he must do. It was the least he could do for his brother of the crocodile spirit.

  Chapter 24 – Struggle to Escape

  Vic looked at his walking stick. He had carved thirty notches into it. That meant 30 days had passed since the Crash Day. He had come perhaps 5 kilometres from that place, as the crow flies, but it felt like he had walked 100 miles and climbed Mount Everest.

  He could feel the long hair on his face, now past itchy. He looked at his one set of clothes – tee shirt and shorts now were starting to fall apart, there were several holes in the shirt and the shorts were threadbare and almost worn through in several place. He looked at his skinny arms and legs and wondered where the muscle had gone.

  That was the trouble with mostly eating things he could catch with his hands; lizards, frogs, an occasional bird and bush rat; plus he ate insects in any shape and size he could find except ants. He had tried a wide range of plants, seeds and fruits, tested slowly and carefully after early stomach cramps, but only a handful passed the real food test.

  He should feel depressed; it had been extraordinarily hard and his journey was barely begun. But he had made it to the top and he still had both legs and feet, and the second one was only a bit crooked. He still could not take weight on it, but at least it had mostly stopped hurting, except when he banged it.

  He looked out across the barren stony landscape in front of him. As best he could tell from his map it was something around 300 kilometres in a fairly straight line to either of the two main roads he could head for, either the Stuart Highway, somewhere around the Edith River Crossing 50 kilometres north of Katherine on the road to Darwin, or the Katherine-Timber Creek road, somewhere around the Flora River crossing a similar distance west of Katherine. The way he would have to go, up and down hills, following creeks and ridge lines, it was probably 400 kilometres.

  So if he could manage five kilometres a day that meant 80 days of walking and if he could up it to 10 kilometres per day then perhaps a bit over a month, as long as there were no major setbacks. He figured it was now about the end of January. So assuming sixty more days he may see civilisation about the end of March. Of course he could get lucky and strike someone out here, but his chances during this wet season were low; it was a big one with a lot of flooding and water to run away yet.

  He refused to countenance the fact that he may not make it, his survival thus far felt miraculous so this did not bear thinking about. Still, it seemed like a bloody long way to walk.

  What he wouldn’t give now for a cold beer, big steak and a plate of chips, was hard to imagine. That would be his motivation to keep driving on. That, plus surprised looks on the many faces which had given him up for dead, along with a big hug from his Mum and sister, that would be reward enough.

  But his first destination was to get to Darwin and talk some sense into that silly girl of Mark’s, stop her sacrificing herself to honour Mark’s imaginary memory. The real story must come out, whatever it was, that surely was the purpose of Marks message to him. A day after he got off the river he had realised he still had his wallet in a back pocket of his shorts, he thought he had lost it. There was not much in it, just a license ID, credit card and about $100. But the memory chip Susan gave him was still there, and even if he had yet to read it, soon enough he would and then the real story, the one he knew Mark wanted told, would be out there for all to know. He was past hiding secrets.

  He looked at his meagre possessions, a makeshift backpack made out of strips of vinyl and bark, padded with foam to make it soft to carry; a spear, with a harpoon like head, cut and ground out of a piece of aluminium frame from the helicopter; a knife made of similar material, with a wooden handle; his stone cooking bowl; his fire kit – some smouldering embers wrapped in damp bark; a timber water scoop; a fishnet on a pole; an instant paperbark humpy, really just sheets of paperbark to sleep under to keep the rain off him, with a couple sticks to support it,; and a few other odds and ends, penknife, cigarette lighter, bits of metal, twine and wire.

  He wrapped his paperbark shirt over his shoulders to minimise the sunburn and insects, he put on his bark and vinyl hat, he adjusted his makeshift pack, so it sat in balance on his good shoulder and took the weight off his gammy leg, he put his walking stick to the ground next to his bad leg, and stepped out.

  He had picked a ridge line on the horizon to head to, due east for now, though he would adjust between north east and south east depending on the lie of the land. He had decided to break his journey into manageable bits, like this one to that next ridge line. After each bit he would stop, rest and see what he could find to eat. Of course he would also stop whenever he came to something promising like a little swamp with frogs; several frogs on a stick made a tasty barbeque. But he could not just hang around in this empty place and catch food, he had a destination to reach, and sooner was better, that steak and chips beckoned!

  As he walked he relived the events of the last month. It had be
gun when he made it to that little ledge and said goodbye to the river with that strange crocodile; in his mind now it almost seemed to have a human face, Mark’s face, it certainly conveyed a presence beyond a mindless predator. Sometimes he wondered whether all that early part had been a hallucination, invented in his imagination in that time of pain and no food.

  He remembered how he had crawled along that ledge, the weather steadily worsening as the early morning sunshine was covered over by ever thickening clouds and gusts of wind, blowing in from the north. They got ever stronger as the afternoon progressed. He had edged his way above the gully, with its own thundering creek, weak with hunger. As the rain started to set in he knew he must find shelter, along with the hunger he was getting really chilled with the cold wet wind.

  So he scoured the hillside for openings and finally found a reasonable sized crack in the rock, dry with a sandy floor and sheltered from the wind. He dragged himself into it and curled up, too exhausted to move, though the hunger was eating into his belly.

  As best he could remember, he had mostly laid inside there for the next three days. The wind and rain surrounded him and the water poured down the hillside. He came out just occasionally to drink water, pee and look at the rain streaming down and the wind lashing the trees.

  Finally, on the afternoon of the third day, it started to blow itself out. By this time he was almost delirious with hunger, the pains came and went but a constant belly ache remained. He knew he must eat soon to allow his body to repair. In the late afternoon the cloud broke into high streamers, with occasional light showers and patches of sunshine.

  He had started to survey his locale for food. It was not promising around the cave, but beyond it the ledge opened out onto a rocky slope, extending up into a barren hillside. So he found a stick for support and half crawled, half walked as he slowly worked his way around, looking for something edible, anything would do. He thought the best chance would be a reptile sunning itself. Finally he spotted a fat bluetongue sitting on a rock in the afternoon sun, ten yards away.

  With all the patience he could muster he slowly crawled towards it until it was in reach of his stick. A well-directed blow gave him his first meal. He was tempted to rip into it and eat it raw. But the grass and leaves on the rocks were drying and he thought he could light a fire. So he had gathered a few dry twigs and leaves from his cave, and from these he slowly built his fire, adding drier bits from nearby. After ten minutes it was large enough to dry out and burn bigger sticks which were scattered around the hillside.

  When he had a good bed of coals he had dropped his lizard on and let it cook. The taste of that meat, with the juice and fat dribbling down his chin, was one of the most exquisite things he could ever remember. He finished it way too soon, but that was good with his stomach so shrunken.

  Since then he had shepherded his fire, bringing it to his cave that night and keeping it continuously burning now for thirty days. He had worked out a way to wrap embers in many sheets of damp paperbark and carry this in his helmet. In that way he could keep it alive for many hours and ready to spring back into life when he stopped and blew on it. He had his lighter but that was only a reserve, it would be gone in no time if he used it to make a fresh fire each day.

  The next day he had set to work creating things he could use to aid his survival. He had used the mesh from the seat, with some wire and a pole to make a hand net. With that he had caught tadpoles and frogs in the streams, and sometimes little fish. He had found a flattish hollowed out piece of stone, and worked on it to grind it out further; until it held about a cup of liquid. If he slowly heated it in the fire he could make an acceptable tadpole soup. Various insects made tasty additions, grubs, termites, caterpillars, even the odd cockroach; he only drew the line at ants. He would have loved salt to flavour the soup, but it gave a nourishing feeling as he swallowed it. From this base he added various plant foods, like the starchy roots of water lilies, as he determined what was edible and safe to eat. So after that his survival kit included a fire ember bundle, a fishing net and a cooking stone.

  He laughed thinking what his mother would say, “You become proper bushman, Vic, what happened to that takeaway hamburger?” But hell, beggars could not be choosers.

  For two days after the weather broke he had concentrated on feeding himself and rebuilding his strength. He had made a better splint for his leg, now starting to set at a slightly crooked angle. It was beyond him to fix properly, but he set it as straight as he could in the splint, using pressure on the bent side to pull it back. He would tighten the binding until it hurt a bit, then do something to block the hurt out and after an hour or two the pain would ease back. So over the last month, while he had not got it fully straight, it had improved and at least the bone ends were together and the pain was now mostly just a dull ache. He had also made a good walking stick with a shoulder support, padded with some seat foam, so that he could walk effectively just lightly tipping the foot on the ground as he swung along.

  He used his knife to cut strips of tree bark and pandanus leaves and twisted these together into heavy and light twine that he could use to tie things together. He made some simple spears out of lengths of wood with fire hardened tips, or a jagged metal pieces from the floor of the helicopter wreck. When his leg and balance got better he tried to spear larger fish or small animals he got close to. A couple of times he had succeeded, though nothing big enough for a feast.

  So he made better weapons. He broke one of his metal poles into shorter lengths and used one piece to fashion a strong knife, better for cutting and digging. With the second piece he fashioned a harpoon like spear head with a tip that would not slip back out of a big fish or other animal. He tied light but strong twine to the back of the timber shaft and carried it with the end tied to his pack. His logic was that if he hit something big that would stop it getting away, the creature could not run or swim fast or far dragging his pack. So far he had caught nothing other than a couple of good sized fish but he would keep trying for a big wallaby or kangaroo.

  The idea of a whole wallaby roasting in the fire grew large in his imagination, though as yet he had only glimpsed these in the distance. He also made a couple of shorter throwing sticks, slightly curved, that he could use to try and bring down a low flying bird.

  Now he wished he had paid more attention when his grandfather tried to teach him desert bush craft. He could surely use those skills now. They were foreign to a town camp boy, but at least he was learning.

  He had kept an eye out for a bit of hollow branch which he could block at one end to carry water, and finally found a piece burnt in an old bushfire and now used that to hold water. He had also searched for any soft clay that he could use to make an eating or cooking pot, and remove the need to carry his heavy stone, but that had not materialised so far.

  On the third day, when he had made all the urgent things he needed and started to rebuild his strength, he had set out to explore his surroundings. He cave was on a shoulder of the hill with the creek to one side. It still flowed steadily but had fallen to a level where he could cross it in knee deep water.

  The hill shoulder went for a few hundred yards on a moderate slope before it came up against a huge cliff, hundreds of feet high. At one end it curved around making an impenetrable barrier up against the river, where the gully cliff merged with the river cliff. At the other end he could see the hill shoulder with the cliff behind it narrowing in towards the gully where the creek flowed out of higher hills. It followed this path as it curved out of sight. This direction, away from the river, was where he would look for a path to the top.

  It sounded easy, and he tried to trace it on his map. But his map gave him no detail at this scale; it simply showed a broken place running in the rock and going back for several kilometres before it vanished somewhere towards the top of the mountains. He knew he must get to the top of these mountains before he could head out cross country.

  By his figuring he had to climb up at least several
hundred more feet until he reached this place at the top. In the end he had used a process of trial and error to work out a way. These hillside valleys were treacherous places with areas of loose sliding rock and sheer cliffs, where an apparent path suddenly ceased, vanished into thin air and a chasm of hundreds of feet lay before him.

  He had planned to just set off and carry his gear to the top then head overland, but he it was much more difficult than that. With his level of incapacity he could not explore safely and carry his gear at the same time. So he had evolved an approach where he would explore alternate days and shift his base camp on the other days. The exploration was to find a safe path higher and further away from the river, as well as a place with food, water and shelter to allow him to stop and rest.

  The day after he found a new campsite he would first shift his gear and then spend the rest of the day fixing and improving his equipment and building up his stores of food. He experimented with cooking and drying the animals he caught, At the start the frogs were plentiful, then he caught a couple of fish which were big enough to smoke, and one night on dusk he managed to bring down a fruit bat with a throwing stick.

  He had also worked out how to make a cake with a starchy plant root that grew in the soft dirt in gullies. He would pound this up into a paste, shape it into palm sized, flat cakes and cook them on a hot stone. Their flavour was close to disgusting but they did not upset his stomach and after he had eaten a couple he would feel better, as if he had part satisfied the hunger which sat always beside him.

  He had figured that he needed a reserve of food, and tried to achieve this while he could, sensing that the going could get much harder in some places. What he had really hoped for was a wallaby, because then he could dry a large amount of meat in one sitting, as well as fully satisfy his current craving for meat. He experimented with making snares, which he set on likely looking trails along rock edges, fashioned out of wire and bark twine. He had succeeded in catching a couple bush rats in them, but the bigger game eluded him.