by Peter Watt
The news took George by surprise. ‘Davis?’ George said thoughtfully. ‘I know him. I met him at the Australia Club. He served in the same battalion as Sean Duffy. There has to be a link. The bond between these damned returning servicemen is as strong as any in a family.’
‘That does not help my situation,’ Jack said, calming a little. ‘You always said that if things went wrong you would ensure that me and my family would be looked after.’
‘I do not renege on a promise,’ George answered quickly, and hoped that no one of influence had seen the notorious police officer come to his office on the day of his ‘resignation’ from the police. It did not bode well for a man aspiring to a knighthood. ‘I always have a position for a personal assistant on my staff.’
Jack rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘What, a lowly paid secretary like the bloke you have outside. No, I want more than that. You owe me my job, and when it gets out on the streets I’m off the force, I’ll be a marked man by every spiv with a knife and grudge.’
‘I am planning to travel to a family property in Queensland next week,’ George said. ‘I can employ you to travel with me as my personal assistant. I can promise that the money you are paid will be more than you have earned as a police inspector.’
‘What do I have to do for that amount – kill someone?’ Jack said with a smile of amusement at his own joke.
‘Only those who threaten my position in the family business,’ George replied calmly, watching the smile fade from Jack’s face. ‘Such a job would naturally incur a generous bonus, not to mention shares in one of my real estate developments. I can promise that you will become a very rich man.’
Jack stared at George with an expression of fascination. ‘Did you kill that actor bloke, Guy Wilkes back in ’14?’ he asked on impulse.
‘No. But now you’re no longer a police officer I can tell you who did,’ George replied. ‘It’s no secret that the Wilkes case has haunted you the last few years. It was my father, the respectable and honourable Brigadier Patrick Duffy, who shot Wilkes.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Jack hissed. ‘How do you know?’
‘I was there, although my father did not know at the time,’ George answered, sitting down at his desk. ‘The shooting was an accident as a result of Wilkes pulling a gun – a derringer, if I remember rightly – on my father who attempted to disarm him when the gun went off. But the family name had to be protected, so I convinced my father not to confess.’
‘Even if I am out of the force, I could still pass on what you’ve told me and have you brought up on charges for being an accessory after the fact,’ Jack said.
‘You could, but I think by telling you what happened I have proven my trust in you to do the right thing and accept my offer. Business is business – and after this flu epidemic passes, we will be back to a world that will not want to remember what happened before – or during – the war.’ George shrugged. ‘After all, Wilkes was not a very good actor anyway.’
‘You’re a ruthless bastard, Macintosh,’ Jack said. ‘But if you stick to your side of the deal, you will have my loyalty.’
George rose from his chair and went around his desk to stand before Jack. He thrust out his hand and Jack accepted. The former policeman had now sealed his pact with the devil.
First came the boiling black clouds that blotted the sun, and then came the deadly stillness in the air. Wallarie stood among the scrubby trees and stared to the west, where the storm was coming from. The world around him fell into an expectant hush. Would the storm rolling in with a purple tinge, like a massive bruise to the sky, bring a torrential downpour to cool the sandy soil parched under the summer sun, or would it be filled with fiery forks of lightning that set the earth alight? Whatever was to happen, Wallarie knew it was a message from the ancestor spirits, and he cringed, knowing that he had lately been a little disrespectful to their voices in the night.
Whatever it was, he decided the best place to be was off the plains and back in his cave, safe from the coming fury.
A few miles away, Tom Duffy sat astride his mount, watching the approaching storm. Beside him an Aboriginal stockman muttered in a language Tom did not understand.
‘What are you saying?’ Tom asked, feeling the sweat creeping down his chest and back as the hush fell over the plains.
‘Ol’ Wallarie, he do this,’ the stockman said. ‘Wallarie sing up dis storm.’
Tom shook his head. The name of the legendary Nerambura warrior was ever present on Glen View. Tom had still not fully recovered his memory, but it was coming back in bits and pieces, sometimes as flashes and other times as long stretches of memory. Tom had put together the pieces concerning Wallarie and knew that he was a kinsman whom he needed to find and speak with. But the old Aboriginal had not been seen for many weeks and Tom had thrown himself into his work of mustering cattle and the other tasks expected of his position.
Hector MacManus had proved to be a fair boss and he treated all his men with an equal hand, whether European or Aboriginal.
Although Tom had not known Giselle Macintosh, he could see the impact her passing had on one and all, from the station manager to the Aboriginal families who lived on the land of Glen View. She was sorely missed for her compassion and practical administration to their needs. It was very strange how her little boy had taken to Tom and followed him around whenever he visited the homestead.
‘Don’t know about Wallarie being behind this,’ Tom replied. ‘But we might be wise getting some shelter. The hill is not far away – and it’s about time I visited,’ Tom said, pulling his horse’s head around and pointing it in the direction of the craggy rock outcrop he could see a few miles away where he knew from his memory the sacred cave was.
‘Not a good idea,’ the stockman said. ‘Ol’ Wallarie live there an’ he might get cranky. Mebbe we ride to house.’ Tom had noticed that all the stockmen seemed to avoid two places on the property. One place was the craggy hill, and the other was a stretch of creek where, so he was told, the bleaching bones of a people past appeared in the earth after flash floods.
‘You can do that,’ Tom said. ‘Tell Mr MacManus we have around forty head here and we’ll get back to them when the storm passes.’
The Aboriginal stockman nodded and kicked his mount into a trot, sensing that this was no ordinary summer storm, and as he set off the first crack of lightning struck the dry earth causing a flare of fire to crackle in the scrub. The thunder now rolled and crashed all around the plains and for a moment Tom was thrown back to the Western Front as the artillery rained down on the trenches. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to fling himself from his horse onto the ground to seek cover.
He spurred his horse on and made his way to the landmark hill dominating the plains. Lightning and thunder were simultaneous – but there was no sign of rain to quench the parched earth.
Tom could smell the acrid scent of fire on the still air, and then the wind came in a howling burst to sweep across the tinder-dry scrub. A bushfire was now in its infancy and growing rapidly. Tom dug in his spurs and the horse broke into a gallop, heading for the safety of the hill. At least the fire was behind them, and when they reached the hill Tom leapt from his horse and led it along a narrow rocky track towards the summit. At the entrance to the sacred cave he tethered his horse to a stunted, gnarled tree. When he turned to gaze back over the plain he could see the wall of fire creeping towards the homestead. Tom was torn between remounting and galloping to warn the residents of Glen View homestead, and seeking out Wallarie.
‘You come inside,’ a voice he recognised commanded. ‘Brother fire will go away by and by.’
Tom turned to see Wallarie standing in the entrance of the cave. Tom followed the old man into the shelter and was assailed by the musty odour of a place used by his father’s people for countless centuries. It brought back memories of a time before he went away to fight in the European war.
‘You come back,’ Wallarie said in a sombre voi
ce. ‘Got any baccy on you?’
Tom smiled. He felt curiously at home here and the distant sound of the raging fire drifted into the background, as did the terrifying crash of lightning. Here he was surrounded by the earth as if he had returned to the primeval womb of creation.
‘Wallarie,’ Tom whispered. ‘You were always with me when I was frightened and alone over there.’
Wallarie settled down in the centre of the cave and crossed his legs. He beckoned to Tom to do the same.
‘You, me sing,’ Wallarie said as Tom sat down. ‘Tell brother water to come and fight brother fire.’ Wallarie broke into a chant that filled the cave. Tom could not understand the words he used and remained silent, still fearing that the fire would sweep down on the homestead before they could adequately prepare. Sitting here listening to Wallarie sing his song seemed so inane, Tom thought and became restless. He was about to say that he must go but would return when Wallarie stopped chanting his song and looked directly at Tom.
‘You found the stars that live under the earth,’ Wallarie said after he’d finished. Tom did not know what he was talking about. What bloody stars? The old man was deranged.
Hector MacManus stood at the front gate of the homestead and felt the hot air whip at his face. He could smell the burning scrub before he saw the billowing smoke blend with the black clouds of the dry storm.
‘God almighty!’ he whispered. ‘It’s comin’ straight for the house!’
Hector turned and hurried back to the homestead, calling the names of all those who resided within, from the Aboriginal cook to the Chinese gardener. They would have to evacuate. Already burning cinders were falling all around the house and the explosive crackle was audible above the fury of the lightning.
Hector realised that the mission station would be next, and the lives of the pastor, Mrs Schumann and young David were at stake. When he was assured that the house was evacuated and his small staff headed for a dam nearby, he quickly dragged a horse from the stockyard, leaving the gate open to allow the rest of the horses to escape.
Hector flung himself on the bare back of the horse and with only the reins leaned over the animal’s neck to avoid choking cinders. He turned the horse in the direction of the mission station and urged it into a gallop. The fire was on one flank, but in the distance he could see a second fire front forming which directly threatened the Lutheran outpost.
In the cave Tom grew more restless. Lives were in danger down at the homestead. He couldn’t wait here any longer.
‘The stars that grow under the ground,’ Wallarie repeated. ‘The spirits of the old ones told me you found them. My sister Kate Tracy now holds the secret.’
Tom stood up impatiently. ‘I have to do something,’ he said in an anguished voice. ‘Ill come back later.’
‘You stay,’ Wallarie said. ‘Brother wind and water will come.’
Tom turned to Wallarie, who remained sitting cross-legged with a serene expression on his face. ‘You gotta trust the blood you have.’
Tom was confused. Brother wind and water? Superstitious stuff of an old blackfella.
‘You got any of that baccy?’ Wallarie asked again.
Frustrated, Tom slumped back to the floor of the cave and searched through his pockets for his pouch of tobacco. He handed it to Wallarie, whose eyes lit up. Wallarie pulled out his battered clay pipe and stuffed the precious dry leaf into it.
‘You got a match?’ he asked and as Tom was pulling out the box he carried with him, his own pipe fell from his pocket. Wallarie reached for it, putting aside his own pipe. Tom had a finely made pipe that he had purchased in England and Wallarie looked with delight at the beautifully crafted smoking implement.
‘You can have it,’ Tom said. ‘I have another one in my swag.’
Wallarie smiled, immediately going to work on filling the bowl of his new possession and lighting up. Wallarie sucked on the pipe and puffed out grey smoke contentedly.
‘Ah, brother wind and water come soon,’ he sighed. ‘Then I tell you ’bout Auntie Kate.’
What the hell, Tom thought. After the fire he would probably be doing a body search and burying the charred remains. He had left one war only to be caught up in the eternal war fought between those working the land and nature’s fury. Tom was long hardened by the loss of life and accepted that in a chaotic universe he had little control over events around him.
Hector MacManus reached the mission station and could see that already Karl, Karolina and David were in the horse and sulky ready to leave. The wind had become a roaring voice from hell and Hector pulled his horse up as close to the sulky as he could so as to be heard.
‘Never seen anything like this before,’ he yelled. ‘We have to get to the dam – it’s our only hope.’
Karl nodded his understanding. Karolina was holding David, who was wrapped in a wet blanket as protection from the glowing embers falling all around. Hector could see a gap in the flames and thought to ride through there to the relative safety of the dam, but even as Karl struggled to convince the terrified horse to move, the break disappeared as the flames closed the gap. No matter which direction Hector looked they were surrounded by fire. He wished he had snatched up his gun before leaving the homestead. A quick death from a bullet was better than being burned alive.
The fire came on with the spirit of an avenging demon, and just for a moment Hector wondered if the curse he had so often heard of from those who had lived longest on Glen View was real and had finally come to purge the land.
With horror, he watched as the flames caught the mission station house and roared with fury into the sky. Hector began to recite an old Presbyterian prayer he remembered from his boyhood in Scotland. The flames crept inevitably towards the small huddle of people desperately sucking the little oxygen left in the burning air. Death was coming to them in one of its most horrible forms. Soon, it would all be over as the flames licked the flesh from their bodies.
27
The fire lashed and coiled in red-hot tongues towards the evacuated homestead, searing all in its path. Burning cinders rained down as the winds whipped up long fingers of red and black. Flames crept closer and closer to the bumbil tree. But then, as if it were a living being, the fire hesitated – and recoiled. Brother wind and water came in defence of the bumbil tree, changing the direction of the fire and thundering down from the sky torrents of quenching rain.
A few miles away Hector, Karl, Karolina and David had crawled under the sulky after releasing the terrified horse from its harness. The unfortunate animal stood a short distance away, shivering in fear, as the flames closed in.
Hector felt the shift in the wind and suddenly the rain came, falling heavily from the dark sky. The ground sizzled and steamed from its saving touch. The fire was desperately attempting to fight back, but the heavy downfall was winning.
Hector crawled out from under the sulky and stood to let the water soak his clothes.
‘A bloody miracle!’ he screamed to brother wind and brother rain.
He was joined by Karolina and Karl and the three hugged one another. David stood beside them, staring at the steam rising from the tortured earth and scrub. Karolina lifted him into the air, allowing the water to soak his clothes with its soothing coolness.
Tom Duffy could smell the change from within the cave even before he heard the rain. He glanced at Wallarie, who was contentedly puffing on his new pipe.
‘Brother wind and brother water come,’ the old man said, the pipe clenched between his tobacco-stained teeth. ‘Said they would come.’
Tom shook his head, rose and went to the entrance of the cave. Rain fell in great sheets, whipped by a wind countering the fire’s progress. Flames were rapidly being replaced by billowing steam, and the world Tom knew was saved.
He turned back to Wallarie. ‘What is it about this lady Kate Tracy?’ he asked.
‘Kate my sister, your aunt,’ Wallarie replied. ‘She has secret of stars that grow under the ground. You must go to her in
the whitefella town of Townsville and she will tell you.’
‘Kate Tracy,’ Tom frowned and suddenly as if he had been hit by lightning he saw a picture of her in his mind. ‘Aunt Kate,’ he gasped. ‘I remember. She helped me enlist. Told them I was of Indian blood because the army could not enlist Aboriginals. She’s a good woman.’
Wallarie nodded his agreement. ‘You go to her. Tell the station boss you gotta leave. I have to go and find what brother fire left for me to eat. Mebbe a fat goanna – or young wallaby. You get goin’ now.’
Tom smiled at the old man. ‘You’re a cunning old blackfella, Wallarie,’ he said with affection. ‘Maybe we meet again soon.’
Wallarie returned the smile. ‘Mebbe.’
Wallarie watched Tom leave. He knew it wasn’t over for Glen View yet. That debil debil was coming in the wake of the fire he had sent to kill the boy.
When Hector returned to the homestead he expected the worst, but was overjoyed to see that it stood intact and that the staff had returned without any injury.
‘Praise be to God that He has listened to our prayers and saved the house,’ Karl said, standing beside the Scot.
‘Do you see notice anything queer?’ Hector asked.
‘What do you mean?’ Karl said.
‘Well, you see how the ground is scorched around the bumbil tree where Wallarie always sits, and that the fire skirted round the graves of Giselle and Angus, maybe we should be thanking him for saving us all.’
Although Karl knew that such a statement bordered on being blasphemous, he had lived too long in the isolation of Australia’s outback not to respect the beliefs of its indigenous people.
‘It is possible that God works through one of His children,’ Karl acknowledged.
‘I just pray the lads out mustering have fared well,’ Hector said, observing the anguished Chinese gardener kneeling among what was left of his precious vegetable garden. As if in answer to his prayer, Hector saw a file of horsemen approaching the homestead. He counted them in, none were missing or injured. Although Tom Duffy was not present, Hector was reassured he had been last seen seeking the hill for shelter. In all, it was nothing short of a miracle, although whether Wallarie or God was responsible, he couldn’t say.
