He put the thought from him; there was work to be done.
‘We’d best bury this lot and burn the camp,’ he said. ‘Then we can get back.’
And carry on our lives as normal? He would have liked to believe it but did not. After tonight there would be small chance of that.
Blake was not prepared to go along with it. They had come out here to deal with the goddamned abos, hadn’t they? They’d hardly started and now Gavin bloody Matlock was saying they should tidy up and go back home. Lily-livered, that was his trouble. If the man had any guts he would let them finish the job but no, he’d seen a handful of dead blacks and got in a panic over it. Blake bared his teeth and prowled deeper into the bush, rifle ready in his hand. He hadn’t come out here to make things nice and tidy; he had come to give the natives such a lesson they would never again raise their heads to a white man. If it had been up to him he would have gone after them this minute. Shoot the lot before they had the chance to sort themselves out, that was the way to do it. Treat them with kid gloves, there would be nothing but trouble later.
He drifted silently through the trees, enjoying his own skill. Since he was a kid he’d been at home in the bush, could travel through it as quietly as any black man. Quieter than most. He wasn’t scared of the dark, either, which gave him a powerful advantage now. Scared of the shooting, the abos would be even more frightened of the dark. They would not have gone far.
He intended to find them.
Above him, the spreading branches obscured the stars. Behind him the gun party was making a lot of noise in the camp. That was fine: it would help to distract attention from himself. He snarled silently, teeth bare. Maybe he’d be able to give them another surprise before the night was over.
Diminishing sounds behind, the silence punctuated by night noises, he drifted stealthily through the trees.
Where are you? Silently he asked the question. He took a step, another, froze again. Where are you? His head turned slowly, eyes seeking. They were here somewhere. He could feel them: smell them, almost.
He went on.
*
The night was full of unseen eyes. Jason could feel them about him. They were still too close to the camp. If the whites came looking for them they would almost certainly find them.
As he had said to Mura, there must be others who had managed to escape but he had no time to think about them now. It was all he could do to look after Mura and himself.
Come to that, the survivors could be as dangerous to him now as the whites. One glimpse of his white skin and they might have put a spear through him before they realised who he was. It was a risk he had to take. Anything was better than staying where they were.
He put his mouth close to Mura’s ear. ‘We can’t stay here. We do that, they’ll find us for sure.’ He drew Mura to his feet. ‘Let’s get moving.’
The faintest flicker of sound.
Blake froze. Slowly, his head turned, instincts screaming. There was something moving out there. Not far away, either.
Muscles tense, cocked rifle ready in his hands, Blake took a step, paused, another step, paused. His eyes searched the darkness. He moved again, paused again.
The sound he had heard was repeated. He paused, feet spread, body finely balanced. Every sense alert, he tried to identify what he had heard.
There. His eyes probed further. The faintest …
… Murmur.
That was what it was. Someone whispering, trying to keep quiet. Fugitives.
Even for Blake’s eyes it was too dark. He moved forward again. His senses reeled in sensations: leaves shifting infinitesimally upon the faintest breath of wind, the spongy texture of soil beneath his feet, the scent of dry vegetation, of dust, of fallen leaves. The scratch of twig on leaf, a tree sighing to itself, timber creaking as it swayed in the breeze.
Blake was listening for something out of harmony with the noises of the bush.
The murmur came again. Again he turned his head, seeking its source.
Mura’s body was inert, reluctant to move.
‘Come on!’ Jason said again, frustration tight in his throat. He seized the black arm, trying to drag Mura by force. It was like trying to shift a tree. ‘You want them to find us? They’ll kill us if they do. You know that? Is that what you want?’
Blake moved towards the sound. A voice, speaking in agitated squirts of sound, too softly for words to be audible. Had to be an abo: unless it was the white fellow who was with them. Blake hoped it was. Hanging was too good for people like that. It would be a pleasure to put a bullet through any man who had chosen to turn his back on his own people.
He moved forward another inch. His eyes jumped as something stirred. Body motionless, muscles spring-taut, he tried to identify what he thought he had seen: a shadow of movement, black against black.
There.
A movement, definite this time. Two figures. They were moving ever so slowly. Blake inched his rifle up into his shoulder. He must be sure before he fired. Miss and he would lose them. Engraved against the stillness, Blake waited, finger rigid on the trigger, breath controlled in his throat, waiting for the moment when he could see them clearly enough to fire.
Behind him, a sudden blossom of orange light rose into the sky and shed a pattern of shimmering brilliance through the trees.
‘Where’s that son of yours?’ The tone of Gavin’s voice said it all. Angry over how the night had gone, he was looking for someone to blame.
Hector said, ‘Maybe he’s gone to look for more of the natives.’
‘Asking for trouble,’ Gavin said.
‘Not Blake.’ Hector had no need to say more; both men knew Blake was the best bushman they had.
‘We’ll fire the camp,’ Gavin said, ‘then head back. If Blake isn’t here by then he’ll have to find his own way home.’
The fires were ready. The men stood waiting for Gavin to give the word.
‘Let’s do it.’
The fire crackled, raced in blue and yellow streams through the grass and took hold. The men shielded their eyes as the flames, orange now, tipped with smoke, reached quivering amid a crackle of sparks into the night sky.
In the bush, the sudden glare of the conflagration caught in its brilliant light the shapes of trees, of bushes, of grass and of two figures frozen in the moment of moving deeper into the safety of the bush. Pinned by the flames against the undergrowth, they turned and stared in the direction of the revealing fire. Their faces, one black, one white, were clearly visible.
Blake drew a deep breath, steadied the muzzle of his rifle against the trunk of a convenient tree and tightened his finger around the trigger.
The hungry flames leapt roaring into the sky.
‘Tell them to keep an eye on it,’ Gavin shouted to Hector Gallagher, ‘we don’t want to set the bush alight.’ With all the rain they’d had recently there should be no danger of that but it paid to be careful.
Hector’s teeth gleamed in the flame. ‘Might be the best way of dealing with them. Burnin’ ’em out should be better even than shooting.’ He cackled. ‘Cost less than bullets, an’ all.’
‘Might find we’d trapped ourselves,’ Gavin pointed out.
‘You’re right.’
But regretted it, Gavin could see. No doubt the idea of an ocean of flame bearing down upon the trapped aborigines appealed to Hector’s imagination.
Hector went to give the men their instructions, paused and looked around as a shot echoed dully through the undergrowth.
‘What was that?’
Gavin said, ‘It must be Blake. We’d best go after him in case he’s in any trouble.’
Hector shouted instructions to the men watching the fire then, rifles ready in their hands, he and Gavin plunged into the undergrowth.
The firelight made the going easy but knowing exactly where the sound of the shot had come from was not easy at all. After a hundred yards they stopped, looking about them at the confusion of branches, leaves, shadow all shimmering
in a confusing dazzle of firelight.
Hector shouted: ‘Blake …?’
A distant voice answered. ‘Over ’ere …’
They ran towards the sound.
Blake was on one knee, peering around the trunk of a tree. They crouched beside him. Gavin scanned the bush in front of them, could see nothing. ‘What is it?’
‘Two of ’em over there.’ Blake pointed. ‘One of ’em were that white fellow the blacks ’ave got with ’em.’
Gavin remembered Asta’s words, how anxious she was that no harm should come to the mysterious white youth. ‘White? You’re sure?’
Blake nodded. ‘He turned to look at the flames. I saw his face, clear as clear.’
‘Did you get either of them?’
‘Dunno,’ Blake said. ‘The flames startled them and they dropped just as I fired. Reckon I may have winged one of ’em, though.’
‘Were they armed?’ Hector asked.
‘Not that I saw.’
‘Let’s go and see if we can find them, then,’ Gavin said and stood.
‘Just because Blake didn’t see no spears don’t mean they ain’t got none,’ Hector cautioned.
‘If we wait we’ll lose them,’ Gavin said.
He supposed that in a sense it didn’t matter but remembered his wife’s words, her strange obsession with the mysterious white youth. He would save him, if he could.
Stepping cautiously, guns at the ready, they moved forward into the bush.
*
‘We must keep moving,’ Jason urged but knew that Mura had no strength left. The bullet had creased the flesh of Mura’s left shoulder: a nasty wound, although not a dangerous one. He was losing blood with every step. The front of his body glistened red in the firelight and he staggered as he walked, breath whistling painfully through his sagging mouth.
‘If we stop here they’ll catch us in no time,’ Jason said but Mura was done.
His legs folded beneath him as he collapsed. ‘You get out,’ he said. ‘No need for them to find you too.’
Jason shook his head. ‘I’ll stay.’ They would certainly kill Mura if they came on him alone. If there was a white person with him they might—just might—spare both of them.
Crouched in the undergrowth, they waited. They heard the pursuit before they saw it: the sound of leaves and branches crackling beneath the kuinyos’ boots as they advanced slowly but steadily towards them.
If Mura hadn’t been wounded they would never have found us, Jason thought, contemptuous of the pursuers’ woodcraft, but it was too late to think about that. Mura was shaking, his face grey with terror and the loss of blood.
The undergrowth parted. Jason looked up, saw the questing muzzles of the guns, the hard and searching eyes behind them.
‘Beauty!’ A young voice, brutal and merciless. A rifle muzzle swung, focusing hungrily on him. I am dead, Jason thought. He stared back, unblinking, forcing himself not to close his eyes. He heard the click of the mechanism.
The food was ready by the time the men returned. They went outside to greet them, Mary and Alison running, Asta following more slowly.
The men were excited, talking, laughing, smelling of wood smoke and burnt powder and something less easily identified: the hot, animal stench of death. Asta wrinkled her nose in distaste.
From the corner of her eye Asta saw Mary run up to Ian, throw her arms about him. Gavin strode towards her, smiling, but she evaded him.
He was safe: good. It did not mean she wanted to be held by him while the reek of death was still on him. It was something that men did, she thought, no doubt necessary on occasions—although not this time—but that did not mean she would welcome her husband hot from the slaughter, whatever other women might do. Besides, she had other concerns. She looked about at their faces, seeking …
… The face swung into focus between two others. He must have felt the weight of her gaze upon him; he looked up, hostile eyes smudged with fatigue, mouth set in a bitter line, and saw her staring. His expression did not change but his eyes held her gaze.
It will take time for him to understand, she told herself, but I shall bring him round in the end.
My child.
Ecstasy ran in a warm tide beneath her skin. Someone to solace me for the loss of my son, she told herself exultantly. My gift, returned from the sea.
Without looking at anyone else, her eyes fixed on those of the strange white youth, she walked towards him through the cluster of men.
BOOK TWO
STORM HAWK
The black falcon is an uncommon to rare nomad on tree-scattered plains and watercourses throughout the arid areas of Australia. Because its arrival often signalled turbulent weather conditions, it was known to certain of the nunga people as karrkawara or storm hawk.
TWELVE
Outrage; shock; hatred.
Choked by waves of conflicting emotion, Jason stared about him. Gunfire still rang in his ears, the powder-stench was still acrid in his nostrils. He had seen the rifle muzzle seek him out, the killing lust in the eyes of the man who held it. He had tasted death yet, inexplicably, was alive. He felt his life flood through him, not understanding why he was not dead.
A couple of the men around him carried flares; the flames pulsed in the breeze, reflecting in a hundred silver glints from the spear-shaped leaves of the trees that surrounded them. At his side Mura swayed with weakness; in the flickering light his black chest shone red with the blood that still seeped from the wound in his shoulder. The night air, the dry mustiness of the gum trees, smelt indescribably sweet.
I am alive, Jason thought. The breath of the wind is real. The oily crackle of the flares is real. I can feel the roughness of the ground beneath my feet, the stretch of my muscles as I move. I am alive.
It was a wonder to him, indescribable, but with the wonder came anger. Alive or not, they were prisoners. Not for long, perhaps, but for the moment they were guarded too closely to have any hope of escape. In any case Mura was not strong enough to get away; he doubted he was strong enough himself.
The men were laughing and boisterous, excited by what they had done. Their teeth gleamed in the light. What they intended to do with Mura and himself, why they had brought them here instead of killing them like the rest, he had no idea. Not that it mattered. He thought, they could have killed us but didn’t. More fools them. The first chance we get we shall escape. Then, perhaps, we shall be killing some of them instead.
He needed vengeance as a man in the desert needs water. If these men wanted war, war they would have.
There was movement beyond the circle of light. From the buildings a woman—tall, grey-eyed, face the colour of ivory in the guttering yellow light—walked purposefully across the cleared ground towards him. Her eyes seemed to focus only on him. She came right up to him.
His first thought as he stared back at her: Thank God I am still wearing my kilt.
She took his hands in hers—cool, slim hands—and stared intently into his face.
‘Yes,’ she said, eyes devouring him. ‘Yes.’
He was dumbstruck. He did not understand what she wanted from him but before he could gather his wits to ask she had dropped his hands and turned her back.
More confused than ever, he watched her walk away. Someone barked an order and he and Mura were hustled into a slab-walled hut, small, earth-smelling, dark. The door slammed shut behind them. They heard the thud as a bar dropped into place.
‘What will they do to us?’ Mura’s voice was edged with fear.
They could barely see each other in the darkness.
‘Nothing.’
Jason hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.
No water, no food, no certainty. He sat on his heels on the earth floor, trying not to think what the morning might bring. Slowly he slipped into a fitful doze. Hours later, a line of light now visible around the door, he awoke to dread.
Why had the massacre happened?
Why had they been brought here?
&nb
sp; What was going to happen to them?
Why …?
Why …?
Questions without number. No answers.
Mura was burning with fever, teeth chattering, skin hot. They sat side by side, shoulders touching, and watched the growing brightness around the door, the chinks of light in the rough walls. They said nothing, waiting …
For what?
Later—no way to know how much later—the door creaked as the bar that had been placed across it was removed. They had time to glance at each other, eyes apprehensive in the gloom, before it swung open. Light flooded in. Eyes squinting, Jason made out the shape of the woman who had spoken to him before, etched in sunlight.
‘I have brought you food.’
She spoke calmly, as though there was nothing extraordinary about their situation. She bent over them, eyes fixed on Mura’s shoulder, sore and swollen where the bullet had seared it, the blood dried now to a crust.
‘Let me see that.’
Nervous as a colt beneath the foreign-seeming hands, Mura strained away from her.
‘Let her look,’ Jason said.
Obediently Mura sat rock-rigid, enduring the gently probing fingers.
‘I’ll get something to put on that,’ the woman said. She stood. ‘Wait here.’
She went out without another word, leaving the plate of food on the floor of the shed, the door ajar.
They looked at it, at each other.
‘Can you walk?’
Mura nodded.
She had been kind but Jason did not trust her. Who could trust people who had behaved as these had?
‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘What about the food?’
‘Who knows what they might have put in it.’
They got as far as the edge of the scrub, walked into a yellow-haired giant with huge shoulders and cold grey eyes. With him was the youth, a rifle slung from his shoulder, who had found them in the bush the previous night. Then he had not concealed his desire to kill them; he did not conceal it now. He snatched the rifle off his shoulder and levelled it, would possibly have fired had not the older man put out his arm to stop him.
A Far Country Page 15
