We sink beneath the water, swim in under the ledge and back upstream, coming up where we first entered the creek. A shot comes skidding across the rock on the other side of the ledge. The shooter is guessing where we are. I can see my rifle lying on the bank. Mary’s is nearby. If I worm my way along the ground, I can reach them. I look back at Mary and point to our rifles. Mary nods. Toorung sees what I am doing. He picks up some stones from the creek bed. He pitches one into the water on the far side of the smooth fish-shaped ledge to make a splash. Bang! Another shot fired. I wriggle up, grab our rifles and packs, and yank them down to the water’s edge. I lie on my back and load up my rifle. Mary crawls up, takes hold of her rifle and loads it. I press against the ledge and eye the ferns. I pull the rifle butt into my chest, rest my cheek on the stock and take aim. I see something moving in the ferns. I don’t know if I can shoot to kill – a rabbit is one thing, a human being is another. But this shooter wants us dead.
Silence. No birds tweeting now. My body rigid. Toorung has got hold of another stone and is weighing it up in his hand. He pitches the stone out along the water. It splashes on the other side of the fish-like ledge. Bang! The shooter is jumpy, not waiting, just reacting. I see the rifle peeking out from the ferns. I take a shot, but shake as I pull the trigger. The bullet explodes near a coachwood tree when I meant it to go above the ferns.
A loud crack. My arm feels like it’s torn in pieces. I look down. Only a flesh wound. Blood pours from my shoulder. It throbs but then the throb goes. Toorung peels off his vest and strips off his shirt. He wraps his shirt around my shoulder to stop the bleeding. He takes the axe from his belt. Mary fires off a shot. I aim for the ferns. Take a shot. Bang!
A man howls.
Got him.
Yardah makes a gesture with her hand for us not to move.
We wait. There are no more shots. Quiet. Wind in the trees. Birds start to call.
What if I killed that shooter? I’m dizzy at the thought. Scared. One minute I’m thinking, Good, I shot that bastard, and the next minute I’m thinking, Oh no, what if I shot that bastard? We wait and wait. Nothing. We wait and wait. Toorung wriggles up close. He nods in the direction of the tree nearest to us. He wants to run up behind it.
I search the ferns. Nothing moving.
‘I’ll cover,’ I say, and aim my rifle at the ferns.
Toorung hunkers down behind the rock ledge, then he takes off, running up to the tree. He hides behind the trunk, waiting. Nothing stirs. Yardah peeks out. Toorung waves her back. Mary and me push ourselves up from the ground and run over to Toorung, bending over as we do. My arm, like a dead weight. We stand with Toorung, flat against the trunk, listening, then edge around it. Toorung in front, with his axe, Mary next, rifle ready, me last. We slip out at the place where the shots came from.
Nothing there. Only fern fronds rustling in the breeze.
‘Gone,’ Toorung says, lowering his axe.
He goes forward and inspects the dirt, frowns.
Yardah hurries along the bank to us and she too examines the ground. She looks to Toorung.
‘This one, same one,’ Yardah says.
‘That him,’ Toorung says.
Mary is shaking.
I put my arms around her. ‘He’s gone,’ I say. ‘We’ll be safe.’
‘It’s not that,’ Mary says. ‘But if he’s shooting at us, something bad has definitely happened to Jewell.’
Warily, we follow the shooter’s tracks, jumping at every twig snap. We come out at a clearing.
Toorung and Yardah poke around, talk to each other in their language.
‘That big one, had him horse. Rode that way,’ Toorung says, coming back to us but pointing to Hooka Creek.
Yardah is already walking off in that direction. ‘Come,’ she calls.
We follow her through the bush all the way to Hooka Creek. Toorung scrambles down the bank, wades across to the opposite side, then swims back.
‘Rode along creek,’ he says, pointing upstream. ‘You want follow?’
‘Is Jewell back there in the water?’ Mary asks.
‘Could be,’ Yardah says, wiping Toorung’s face with her skirt.
‘Must be,’ I say. ‘Why else would we be shot at?’
‘Or maybe she’s not dead,’ Mary says. ‘Maybe he is holding her somewhere near there.’
‘There were a lot of blood,’ I say, carefully.
‘We’ve got to go back,’ Mary says.
‘Don’t we have to get Constable Black?’ I ask.
‘What if whoever shot at us, wants to lead us away from Jewell long enough so that he can move her away,’ Mary says. ‘If Jewell is there, dead or alive, we’ve got to find her first, don’t we?’
Mary is right.
‘You think the shooter were only trying to scare us?’ I ask Toorung.
‘Maybe,’ Toorung says.
‘We go back,’ Yardah says.
We take the track through the forest to the creek.
We search again along the banks.
‘Jewell!’ Mary screams out, hoping against hope that our dear friend is alive.
We listen but only hear the birds.
At the fish ledge Toorung takes off his boots and vest and splashes into the water. Yardah walks along the edge of the rock, Mary and me following.
Toorung dives under the fish ledge, swims from one end of the ledge to the other. Stripy gudgeon dart out from the weeds, their hiding place invaded. Toorung comes up for air.
‘Not this place,’ he says.
I jump from the fish ledge onto the tree trunk. Mary paddles into the water and feels around beneath the trunk. I climb over to the other side, and wade along, downstream, beyond the fish ledge, pushing back overhanging tree branches. I get on all fours in the shallows and reach in beneath the low bushes. Toorung and Mary wade over to help me and we crawl along, feeling our way. We don’t find Jewell. We stumble out, dripping from head to toe, and sit on the bank next to Yardah.
‘Maybe the current took her,’ I say.
‘But no one has found her body,’ Mary says. ‘There’s leisure cruises on the lake every day.’
Yardah is staring downstream. She points to where the roots of a tree sit part way in the water, the rest of the trunk on land.
‘There,’ she says.
Mary, Toorung and me splash back in and over to the tree trunk. Toorung holds his breath and ducks his head under water. A moment later he bursts up.
‘Eels,’ he says.
‘On, on,’ Yardah calls.
She points to a bed of thick reeds.
We make our way over, through the water, and I pull apart the reeds. Further in I see some white cloth. Like a woman’s blouse?
‘Here’s something,’ I say.
We wade to where the reeds are higher than our heads, clearing away fallen branches. I pull back thick reeds, and see her. Jewell. Face down in the water. She is tied to an old rotten boat that has sunk. Tied there with some vine.
‘She’s been here all this time,’ Mary whispers.
I peer out through the reeds to the creek bank.
Want to see if anyone is watching.
No one is there.
Toorung pulls his axe from his belt and cuts the vine. We turn Jewell over.
Here she is. Our Jewell. Bloated. All white and blue and purple. Her clothes are torn and there’s a gash across her forehead.
Jewell, sweet Jewell.
I run back to the camp. Moomung, the kids and dogs are further down along the shore. Too far away to see me. I mount up on Ghost, ride up the track and take the road to Duncan’s dairy. I spy Tommy Lin in his cart, coming from the other direction.
‘Jewell’s dead,’ I say, as he pulls up alongside me.
Tommy Lin stares like he don’t believe what I’ve said. I don’t believe it myself.
‘Someone murdered her,’ I say.
Ghost turns in a circle as she settles herself.
Murdered. It’s not an easy word. Tom
my Lin shakes his head. I tell him about the shooter and about finding Jewell’s body in the creek.
‘No good world,’ Tommy Lin says.
I pat Ghost’s neck, as she can’t seem to settle. I can’t speak. There is nothing to say.
‘She young,’ Tommy Lin says. ‘Too young.’
Magpies choralling.
Wind shaking the trees, like a baby’s rattle.
‘Can you help us take Jewell’s body to her da?’ I ask.
‘Dempster not like.’
‘He’s got no choice,’ I say.
Tommy Lin agrees to take his cart to the Mullet Creek mouth. I ride on to Duncan’s dairy. Mrs Duncan is in the yard when I canter in. I dismount and go to her. She holds her hand to her heart while I tell her what’s happened. Mr Duncan and his daughter, Nellie, come running from the dairy. I sit on the bench by the back door while Mrs Duncan repeats all I’ve said.
‘Nellie, you ride into Wollongong and get Constable Black,’ Mr Duncan says. He picks up the rifle leaning on the wall near the door. ‘Take this because who knows where that lunatic has ridden to. I’ll go with Lola.’
‘Come in Lola, I’ll bandage your arm first,’ Mrs Duncan says to me.
‘It’ll hold until we get Jewell,’ I say. ‘Someone needs to tell Dempster about his daughter and it can’t be me.’
‘I’ll tell Dan Dempster,’ Mrs Duncan says.
Getting Jewell to the cart is a miserable task. Tommy Lin, Mr Duncan, Toorung and Mary stumble along the banks with her stinking body. Yardah and me walk behind. As we are putting Jewell into the cart, the leisure boat sails past. Some passengers wave. They can’t see what we’re loading. Mary climbs into the back of the cart with Jewell. Toorung and Yardah sit next to her. Mr Duncan hauls himself up next to Tommy Lin.
‘Whoah up!’ Tommy jigs the reins and the horses take off along the track. I follow behind on Ghost.
We stop at the camp. Toorung tells Moomung to take the kids to Mickey Johnson’s place, at the point. He wants them to go now, no delays. ‘Bad man near here, got rifle,’ he says.
The older boys try to see inside the cart but Toorung clips them behind the ears.
‘Off, off,’ he says. ‘Go with Moomung.’
The boys pick up some buckets. Their mother is already walking along the shore, the two little ones running ahead. The older boys hurry after them.
Mrs Duncan is standing at Dempster’s front gate when we arrive. She comes to the back of the cart and holds her hand on her heart for some time, just staring at Jewell. Finally, she says, ‘I’ll get Dan.’ Then she adds, ‘After he’s seen Jewell, we’ll take her back to my place so I can ready her body for mourning. Dan’s kitchen is filthy and I’ll not be preparing a body for the afterlife in a place like that.’
Mrs Duncan goes inside the house to get Dan Dempster. Soon after, he comes out and walks down to the gate, looking stiff and shaky, Mrs Duncan following behind. Dempster does not look at any of us, but stares straight ahead, until he reaches the back of the cart. He howls when he sees Jewell and bends over her body, weeping. If I thought him a harsh father, I know now that he loved her as well. It could not have been him that did this to Jewell, although I check his boots all the same. There is no chunk missing from the heel, and when I look to the dirt, his footprints are not like the others we saw. Well, a man can have two pairs of boots, but I don’t believe this man could murder his daughter.
Mary is sitting by Jewell but Dempster keeps his eyes averted. When Mary expresses her sorrow he cuts her off curtly, saying only, ‘Do not speak.’
He takes a handkerchief from his pocket, wipes his face, and walks away from the cart.
‘Come by mine in an hour, Dan,’ Mrs Duncan says, going with him to the front gate. ‘I’ll have the body ready for viewing then and we’ll call in some of the neighbours.’
Dan Dempster nods his head gravely and walks inside. No one could begrudge him his pain, for Jewell is a sad loss to this world.
Before we depart the wind blows up fierce. Strips of bark fly through the air. Black clouds gather above us. A deep rumbling from the sky.
‘The storm will wash away the killer’s tracks,’ I call to Toorung.
Toorung tips his head out of the cart and looks to the sky. ‘That big fella storm not stop here,’ he says.
Tommy Lin jigs the reins and the cart rolls on towards Duncan’s dairy. I nudge Ghost forward and follow.
At the dairy we carry Jewell into the washhouse. Mrs Duncan covers her with a sheet. Tommy Lin has to go to his uncle’s farm to help with the afternoon milking. He says he will come back after. Mr Duncan leads the rest of us into the kitchen as we will need to stay and give our depositions to Constable Black. We warm ourselves by the fire. Toorung, Mary and me dry our wet clothes. Yardah rests in a chair. Mrs Duncan stitches up my arm and Mr Duncan serves out bowls of stew. He eats quickly then leaves to herd in the cows. The Duncans are very late with the milking and the cows are bawling. Nellie arrives with Constable Black, and after scoffing down some stew, she goes to help her da. Mrs Duncan takes Constable Black to the washhouse so he can view Jewell’s body. She’ll prepare the body for mourning after he has seen it. When she returns she collects up her cloths and ointments. Mary and me ask to help wash the body.
‘Dempster said he don’t want either one of you touching her. So I need to respect his wishes,’ she says. ‘But I’ll call you to come see her when I’m done. You’ll have time to say your goodbyes.’
‘You two can shoot,’ Toorung says to Mary and me when Mrs Duncan has gone. ‘That fella found his possum legs after.’
‘But who were it?’ Mary asks.
‘Had him farm boots,’ Toorung says.
‘A farmer then?’ Mary asks.
‘Maybe,’ I say, ‘but it could be someone like Bartholomew Winter. He’s not a farmer but he wears farm boots.’
‘Has he a rifle?’ Mary asks.
I feel my heart quickening. ‘He’s in the shooting club.’
‘Whoever that man, he know that water,’ Yardah says.
‘That one been swimming in creek many time,’ Toorung says. ‘Got to be one of them men from around here.’
Constable Black returns and warms his hands by the fire. He has a long scar that runs from his forehead, down the right side of his face to his neck. It makes him seem like someone to fear, yet there’s a stillness about him that is calming. Mary and me have the shivers. We can’t get warm. Yardah stirs the coals with a poker to liven up the flame, while we tell Constable Black all that has happened. He nods but don’t say much. Holds his cards close to his chest. I show him the pencil we found. He examines it and puts it in his pocket.
‘I need to see where you found the body,’ Constable Black says, turning to Toorung.
‘I can show,’ Toorung says. ‘Rain coming. Now go.’
Constable Black asks us to stay by the fire until he returns. He will take our depositions then.
The two men leave.
Yardah falls asleep, sitting up, her legs stretched out on a cushion. Mary lies down across two chairs and puts her head on my lap, like she used to do when we were kids.
We stare at the flames.
‘I don’t like to think of Jewell gone,’ I say.
Her going leaves a great emptiness that chills me. It’s like when I am standing alone in the long paddock in winter and a cold wind is blowing fierce.
After an hour, Mrs Duncan calls Mary and me to come view the body.
‘Take your time,’ she says. ‘I don’t think Dan will let you back for the mourning. He didn’t speak kindly of either of you, and I won’t repeat what he said about young Abe.’
Mrs Duncan hurries over to the milking shed. Mary and me walk to the washhouse. Two chickens scratch the ground near the doorway. I shoo them away.
Jewell is inside, on the table, her body glistening in the afternoon light. Her skin is puffed up but clean. Her hair is washed. Mrs Duncan has made an effort to find our Jewell again. We
stand close to the table. Neither Mary nor me tremble or cry but our bodies are slumped with sadness. I can’t bear to see all the life gone out of Jewell, yet somehow her sweetness is still there.
What is a life if it must come to this?
I wave away the flies and the mosquitoes that want to feed on Jewell still. We all prey on each other, is that it? Is that what God planned?
‘Goodbye dear friend,’ I whisper. ‘No one is meant to leave their life this way.’
‘It’s a wrong that needs to be righted,’ Mary says softly to Jewell. ‘I promise we’ll right it for you.’
We cover Jewell with the sheet, but stand there listening to the insect hum. My first ma ran away and my second ma died. Then my da died, whose love were strong. My baby that were dear to me, she died too, and Mary’s Otto, who we all loved, and now Jewell. The world is a lonely place.
We hear Constable Black and Toorung return but we stay with Jewell, quietly standing by her side, until the light starts to fade. Only then do we come out of the washhouse. Mary goes back to the kitchen. Constable Black is sitting on the bench under the tree, smoking his pipe and watching two scaly shrikes in the grass. I go and sit next to him.
The wind is coming in waves, low down, beneath the tree tops. Tunnels of leaves twist up from the ground and fall again.
The earth is a body breathing.
I glance up at the sky. Toorung were right. The storm passed over us and is breaking out at sea. Out there, thunder is rumbling and lightning is splintering the clouds.
‘I don’t understand evil,’ I say.
‘Evil is evil,’ Constable Black says, puffing smoke into the air.
‘Evil is a mystery.’
‘Evil is a horror, I’ll grant you that, but I don’t see it being a mystery. Tell me what you mean?’
‘When I go riding of a night, like I sometimes do, Ghost will pull up all on her own, in the middle of the track. Just stop. She’s behaving like there is something evil before her, when all I see is the dark road ahead. I know she’s hearing things, seeing things, things I can’t hear or see.’
I turn to Constable Black and watch him draw back on his pipe as he considers what I have said.
‘Her hearing is better is all. Her night vision may be better too,’ he says. ‘She is most likely concentrating hard on what is coming along the path.’
Storyland Page 22
