The Steam Mole

by Dave Freer

  Eventually he just had to stop.

  In the distance, a growing distance now, he could see the spark of the fire box…and then, nothing. It must have moved into a gully. He couldn’t even hear it anymore.

  He stood there, looking forlorn, hoping to see at least where it was going, when someone spoke in the darkness next to him. It wasn’t English. And, looking hard into the darkness, he saw the spear the black man held half-raised. He spoke again in the strange language, repeating what he had said before.

  Tim slowly raised his hands. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. I’m lost,” he said.

  “What mob you come from? What you want in our country?” asked the stranger.

  The question, and the way it was said, was…guarded. Not unfriendly, just guarded.

  “I don’t want anything except to stay alive and get out of your country,” said Tim, not knowing what answer the man wanted and too tired and too desperate to try anything more than the truth. “It’s not my place. I’m lost.”

  There was a chuckle. “Good answer, boy. How you come here? Where you come from? Who your people?”

  “I come from Under London. And I got lost from the railway.” Tim wasn’t sure who his people were, besides the crew of the Cuttlefish.

  “You a long way from the railway.”

  “Um. I’ve been walking for a few days. I’d…I’d like to get back there. Or back to the south coast. Ceduna. My people are there,” said Tim.

  “You Yarulandi?” asked the stranger.

  “No…I’m Tim. Tim Barnabas.” Tim stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you. After walking around for days I’m just so pleased to meet anyone.”

  “We know. Bin watching you from this morning.” The man didn’t take his hand. Then he appeared to reach a decision. “You come alonga me.”

  Tim did his best. But he was weak and struggled to walk at half the speed of the man with the spear. After a while the man stopped. “What’s wrong, boy?”

  “I’m just…thirsty and tired. I haven’t eaten much,” said Tim, feeling he was offering excuses. “Sorry. Don’t mean to hold you up.”

  “Ah. How long since you had any tucker?” asked the man.

  Tim had learned that word from Cookie. “A few days. I had some figs and a bit of a bird, but no food—real food—in a few days. I don’t know how to live off the country. It’s not like where I come from.”

  The man held out something to Tim. “Suck it. We ain’t got too far to go now.”

  It was sweet gum and it did help, both for the thirst and for some energy. Still, Tim was very relieved by the time they saw the flicker of a small fire. Even from here Tim could smell cooking meat.

  He went through the ritual that followed in a somewhat hazy state. It did involve water, which was very welcome, and having smoke fanned into his face, which made him cough. It was easier to breathe than the coal smoke in the tunnel, though. And it ended up with him getting food—cooked meat and a very odd hard bread that tasted like no bread he’d ever eaten—and the inquisition. They were very kind to him, but they were convinced that he was an Australian aboriginal, at least in part. And the sea was not something they really seemed to grasp too well. They spoke some English, to varying degrees, but their own language between themselves, most of the time.

  And none of them seemed in the least surprised that someone on the railway should try to kill him. “Some of them whitefellers are mad. Kill a blackfeller just for fun.”

  Tim slept well for the first time since what seemed forever.

  Lampy woke with Jack shaking his shoulder. “Bad news, son. I think I see something behind us.”

  It was very early morning and they’d slept on a slight rise in the ground. That was definitely a light in the distance. Lampy looked at it and shivered slightly. It wasn’t, as Jack feared, pursuit so close they could see their light. But it was something that he’d last seen the last time he’d been into this country, with his uncle. “It’s a min-min light,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t shake. “You see ’em sometimes here. My uncle, he reckoned it was bad spirits. Come on, we’re awake. Let’s get away from this place.” Just in case Uncle Jake was right.

  They walked west. Lampy had enough stories and enough horrors brought back by those lights. They stopped, ate, drank from the nearly empty bucket. It was more awkward than a Coolamon, but he’d rigged a harness for it and carried it on his back. It was coming on for the heat of the day, time to stop again, when, looking back, Lampy realized they couldn’t. They’d been walking up a long, gentle slope. Knowing the way the channels ran and the nature of the country, they’d start a descent into a country of southwest-running channels beyond that. Then there was the rock country on the other side of that, then gibber plains and the tall rock Uncle Jake had taken him to. Important place that. The railroad was not more than sixty or seventy miles the other side of it, with the deep desert beyond. Only, looking back, that was dust. A little patch of it, suggesting a mob of camels or…

  He pointed back.

  Jack squinted in the brightness. “Could be trackers. I wonder just how many?"

  “Dunno, but even two is too many. We go on.”

  So they did. Down in the channels, they stumbled on a dingo kill. The dingoes…and the birds of prey, were not inclined to give up on the dead kangaroo easily, but a few loud noises and prods with their spears sent them clear. “If that is the chase, we’ll need the meat,” said Jack, severing a leg and tying it to a piece of the thin rope he’d looted from the locomotive.

  “What you planning, man?” asked Lampy.

  “They can outrun us. We can deal with dogs, if there aren’t too many of them. We can try to deal with men if there aren’t too many of them. We have no chance on both. So we need to distract the dogs, at least. And if we’re wrong, we’ll have some tucker.”

  That wasn’t all they found. There was the snake, too. It was a gwarder. “Careful. They bite. It’s poison,” Lampy warned.

  Jack seemed unworried by the snake in their path. It was too small to eat, but not too small to bite. Lampy wondered if the man just didn’t know snakes. “Australian Brown Snake I think,” said the Irishman, proving him wrong. “We don’t have snakes in Ireland. They fascinated me as a result, I think. I used to catch them and keep them when I was a student at Cambridge. Mary did not approve!” He moved slowly and deliberately, breaking a long branch from the stunted mulga, and breaking twigs to make a little fork.

  “What you going to do?” asked Lampy, fascinated.

  “Catch it. It should fit into that egg shell.”

  They had one emu egg that they’d kept intact—with just a finger-wide hole in it to drain the egg out. The contents they’d eaten, but the shell Jack had in his bucket. He trapped the snake, then picked it up. Holding it just behind the head, he had the interesting task of getting it into the egg, which he plugged with some leaves.

  “A few scorpions and it would be the makings of a great hand grenade,” said the Irishman.

  He was mad, decided Lampy.

  Linda returned to the bungalow with Dr. Calland as the heat of the day set in. Most people would rest now, but both of them were still somewhat wound up by the events at the railroad office. They sat talking about what could possibly have happened there. The truth was, neither had any real idea.

  “I’m afraid, Linda, that I am going to have to take the trip up to Dajarra,” said Dr. Calland. “I’d love to take you along, but I suspect your parents wouldn’t allow it.”

  Linda shook her head regretfully. “Not very likely, Dr. Calland. I am supposed to be back at school, and the trip will take you at least four days. My father’s suddenly very keen on my education.”

  “He should be. You’re a bright young woman,” said Dr. Calland. It meant a bit more coming from her, as Linda was sure she didn’t do socially polite lies very well. “I’ll pursue whatever enquiries we can this afternoon and evening. I’ve asked Captain Malkis to book our journey on this railway, and we
’ll leave tomorrow. I hate wasting all this time. And thank you so much for yours.”

  There was a polite knock. It was Captain Malkis. “Bit of a setback, ma’am. We attempted to book two carriages on the northbound rail…and it appears that Discovery North Railroad has managed to take some steps to prevent it. They claim the trains are fully booked for some weeks. We could go west, via Kalgoorlie, on the line owned by Marram Rail. There’s a link to Alice Springs every week from there, and then across to Sheba. The link to Dajarra is of course owned by Discovery North again. I’ve sent Lieutenant Ambrose around to talk to Colonel Clifford, to see if we can claim police need and requisition the carriage.”

  Dr. Calland got up and clenched her fists. “More time for them to cover up, more time for Clara, and possibly Tim, to get into deeper trouble. I feel every hour is precious. I was wondering…if it was possible for that horrible Mr. Rainor to fly someone up to this place, why we can’t do the same?

  “A good idea, ma’am. I’ll investigate,” said the captain. He turned to Linda. “I wonder, Miss, if you would know anything about it?”

  “Not really. I mean, I know they fly from Boomerang Fields, and they fly patrols. They’re part of the army, I think. I do know they can be hired for…for really important things. It costs a lot.”

  “There are times when money is less important than other matters,” said Clara’s mother, firmly. “And right now I have money. I hope it won’t cost so much I don’t have spare for the Cuttlefish, Captain, but I think this needs doing now.”

  He nodded. “The desert is a bit like the sea, ma’am. It’ll kill you if you don’t know it. If…if they have decided to cross over to Queensland from there, and Tim is not dead, but this is just some kind of cover-up then they’re in the desert. And neither of them know it. If they’re trying to cross it…the sooner we get there the better.”

  “Well, we need to hire an airship, then. Linda, where is this ‘Boomerang Fields’?”

  “Well, it’s on the flats beyond Mandynonga. Quite a long way. And I don’t think they have many airships, really. They have a few blimps, but it’s where the flying wings take off from.”

  To the questioning look, Linda shrugged. “I don’t know. They’re heavier-than-air, not like airships, I think. Look, why don’t you ask my father? He’s involved with them…I know he’s been off into the desert to see some experimental stuff he’s not supposed to tell us about.”

  “And does he?” asked the captain, with a slight smile.

  “Not much, no. Well. Not anything. My stepmother agonized about them blowing up and killing him. He said that was unlikely, and laughed.”

  “It’s a good idea. Let us call Mr. Darlington.”

  Linda could only hear half the conversation. But the words “hornet’s nest” were definitely part of it. Of course, well-bred ladies shouldn’t eavesdrop, but she wished she could hear both sides. She’d put up with being less well-bred for a while.

  Dr. Calland put down the telephone horn and looked at them from over her glasses, an impish smile on her face for the first time Linda could recall. “Your father thinks it would be a good idea for us to get out of town as soon as possible, before we get ourselves arrested. He will contact the Air Wing of the army and make arrangements, but he doubts if it will be possible before first thing tomorrow morning. They don’t like to fly at night. Part of their cost savings has been to hire transport planes out to civilian use. He doesn’t approve, but does think it very convenient for us.”

  “I gather Rainor is making a stink, is he?” asked the captain.

  “His lawyers are. They’ve demanded an immediate bail hearing. So he may be a free man again by this afternoon. The hearing is scheduled for five thirty.”

  “If it succeeds he’ll do his best to put a spoke in our wheel,” said the captain.

  “And if he fails, his lawyers will. Maxwell Darlington says it would be best if we simply weren’t available for a few days. His friend Clifford has said there are ongoing investigations that have come out of this, but it’s slow work.”

  Clara awoke, cold, from a troubled sleep, and sat looking out at the dark land and endless starscape above. Here, far from the coal smoke of Europe, and even the coal smoke of the east coast, she could see stars beyond anything she’d ever dreamed of back in Ireland. Yes, they’d seen stars at night on Cuttlefish quite as clearly as this, but there had always been a wary eye on the horizon in case of an enemy ship’s lights.

  Here there was nothing.

  Except…that wasn’t true. That red spark on the dark of the landscape, below the stars, against the dark that must be a hill…that red spark must be a fire.

  A fire out here—where she’d seen no sign of life for days. Hope rose like a tide in her. She put it down as hard as she could. It could be someone searching for her. It could be the aboriginals that were supposed to live out here, somehow.

  In the cold of the predawn darkness Clara set about priming the steam mole’s furnace. It was more difficult when she couldn’t see what she was doing. It was only when she’d finally got it lit that she remembered the little carbide lamp hanging on a hook near the roof. By then it was grey, rather than black out, and she had no more need of it. Now she just had to get sufficient pressure of steam to head for a fire she could no longer see.

  She had a good bearing on it, though, lining up her seat and the back corner porthole. She could vaguely make out landmarks by now. She got out of the cab again and drew a long straight line on the sandy soil with the shovel. There were dry tussocks of grass out here, but they were quite scattered and not enough to stop her from making a fifty-yard-long line. Now all she’d have to do was turn the steam mole and drive down the line, then pick markers—just as they’d learned on the Cuttlefish—and line them up. If she could find any markers on this landscape…There were places where there were rocks and other features, but there was also a lot of flat land stretching into sameness.

  In a few minutes she was able to get the mole moving, turned around, and travelling down her line. Fortunately, there was a twist of darker land—could be the scrubby trees of this place—and a round, low hill in front of another range of hills that she could line up and head toward. She had no idea from how far off she could have seen that fire in the darkness. She’d decided she had to keep searching as long as she could, or until she knew Tim was dead. She just couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him out there.

  She trundled on toward the rounded hill. There was no sign of smoke from the fire she’d seen as the sky turned from blue-grey, to red-tinged, to blue.

  The emu eggs were more than one meal for the two of them. Lampy cooked them by burying them under the sand and making the fire on top of them, and he contrived a rough basket to carry them in, disdaining the fire bucket, still half filled with water, that Jack was lugging along. “We dig some roots here. I show you. They good for water. I’m showin’ you lots, cause when we see that railway, I’m gunna leave you to get to it on your own. Not goin’ near them railway-men. You maybe have ten-fifteen mile to walk.”

  “Anyone who tries to give you problems will have to deal with me first,” said Jack. “They should be pleased enough to know about that railway and the troops on it. That’s trouble, and it’s coming here.”

  “Trouble for Westralia. What do I care?” said Lampy with a shrug. “Now this is the leaf you look for, see? We dig here. You got a digging stick?”

  “Wish I’d brought a shovel,” said Jack, setting to work.

  “Then you got to carry it. Here you find another stick if that one go break, or if you need your hands to throw a spear, they’re free to throw.”

  Jack’s ever-fertile mind absorbed all of this, as well as the fact that this young, bitter man almost certainly knew more about survival out here than most soldiers in the King’s army. They could, if they were armed and motivated, make a force to be reckoned with. If the Westralians or the Empire could be bothered, it would seem that in the aboriginals the British Em
pire had a willing tool, given the way Lampy felt about Westralia. Jack just hoped the Empire was too arrogant to realize it. The British Army firmly believed they were the best soldiers in the world. And maybe in European and conventional battle terms they were.

  Out here, with distances and small numbers, it might be a different matter. Water and supplies would be key, but a small, mobile, locally knowledgeable guerilla force could tie up a lot of conventional soldiers. The Boers had nearly bled the British Empire white, in South Africa in the 1900s, after all.

  The Irishman was a strange one, thought Lampy. Almost not like a whitefeller, except that he also knew nothing. Well, nothing about the land. Maybe back in his own country he could do things there. He knew a bit about snaring rabbits. Uncle had said they used to be thick, back before the sun got so hot you had to hunt at night, or dawn or dusk.

  It was worrying that he was so slow. They were doing maybe thirty miles a day. Lampy knew that on his own he could do twice that. A man on a horse might do eighty. Mind you the horse would need water and feed and rest, and a man might still outrun it. A man, not a whitefeller from Ireland, not even one who was practicing with a spear and a throwing stick. It was funny, but yet…very pleasing to hand on the things he’d been taught.

  The Irishman was a thinking man. A clever one, even if the two ’roo legs were smelly stuff, making them easier for the dogs to trail.

  A little later, he realized that that, too, was part of Jack’s plan. By late that afternoon, they could hear the dogs, and at one stage, caught sight of the chase. It wasn’t that large a group: five dogs, three men—one an aboriginal tracker, the other two troopers—and seven horses.