by Judy Nunn
But this time Col’s decision is not the right one for Wilt. ‘I have enough to answer for,’ he says in a manner that brooks neither argument, nor discussion. ‘I’ll pray God understands that the girl was an accident, but I’ll not suffer hell’s fires for the child.’
‘What do you plan to do?’ Col is apprehensive and prepared to disassociate himself from Wilt here and now. He wants no part in any action that might lead to questions about the white girl.
But Wilt is asking nothing of Col. ‘We’re less than twenty miles from the telegraph station at Stuart. I’ll take her there now and leave her on the verandah by the front door, where she’ll be safe. The telegraphist rises at dawn, as we both know: he’ll discover her first thing.’
Col nods. He does indeed know the operator at the Central Mount Stuart repeater station. They were there only recently before embarking on their long trek north. There is no possibility the man will associate the mysterious child on his doorstep with them.
He agrees to the plan and they return to their campsite, Wilt carrying the child, Col the pick and shovel, and once there they make immediate preparations for their departure. Each will travel throughout the night. Col is keen to put distance between himself and the massacre.
‘You follow the line north towards Barrow Creek,’ Wilt instructs; it is now he who is giving the orders. ‘Keep working normal like always and I’ll catch up with you somewhere further along the track.’
They mount their horses, Wilt’s left arm clutching the child close to his chest, a little hand reaching out from the swaddling to clasp the collar of his shirt.
‘Might take me a couple of days,’ he says. ‘I’ll cut across country and steer well clear of these parts on my way back from Stuart.’ You can be sure of that, he thinks as he sets his horse off at an easy pace. These parts are destined to haunt him for many a year.
Col watches for a moment. He rather regrets having accepted this partnership of theirs. Company during the long and lonely months in the wild is a fine thing, but the life of a solitary linesman is far less complicated.
He turns north and the two men go their separate ways.
CHAPTER TEN
‘Arrtyaneme! Arrtyaneme!’ Matt continued to cry out the word over and over, rocking on his knees, staring blindly ahead. ‘Arrtyaneme! Arrtyaneme!’
With a strength she hadn’t known she possessed, Jess hauled him to his feet, aware she must get him away from this place.
Shaken from his trance-like state, he allowed himself to be roughly dragged from the clearing, his cries fading to mumbles then finally dying away altogether.
By the time they’d reached the car he’d regained his senses, but she could see he was disoriented. She opened the passenger door. ‘Get in, Matt. I’ll drive.’
He did as he was told like an obedient child and she climbed into the driver’s seat. Turning on the ignition, she made a U-turn and started heading back towards the track that would lead them to the main highway.
She kept an eye on him as she drove. He was shaken, certainly, and still a little dazed, but he appeared more confused than anything. She waited for him to speak.
Finally he did. ‘What happened back there?’
‘You tell me,’ she said. But he made no reply, merely staring through the windscreen at the track ahead. ‘What did you see, Matt?’ she insisted. ‘Tell me what it was that you saw.’
‘Nothing. I saw absolutely nothing.’ He turned to her, mystified. ‘But I know something happened back there. I think I had one of my blackouts, I can’t be sure, but I started convulsing: I remember that much. It was like an electric shock. My whole body was shaking, I couldn’t stand up. That’s all I remember.’
‘You don’t recall yelling out?’
‘No. Did I?’
‘Yes, you were yelling “Run! Run!” You kept yelling it out over and over.’
‘Did I really?’
‘Yes you did.’ Jess slowed the vehicle to a halt and turned off the ignition. He had recovered now – it was time to talk. ‘But Matt,’ she said, ‘you were yelling it out in blackfella language.’
‘What?’ He stared blankly back at her.
‘“Arrtyaneme! Arrtyaneme!” That’s what you were saying. You were speaking Arunta.’
His expression was one of disbelief. ‘How could I have done that? I can’t even say hello in Arunta. I don’t speak a word of the local lingo.’
‘No. But your ancestors do. Or rather they did. And they were speaking through you. That’s what happened back there.’
‘What are you trying to tell me?’ He was thoroughly baffled by now.
‘I’m trying to tell you your ancestors are black.’
The reply was so unexpected that after the second or so it took him to register what she’d said Matt gave a bark of laughter, which in his current jangled state sounded vaguely hysterical. ‘What? Good old Charlie and Brian were black? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘That’s what I’m saying, yes.’ She’d expected nothing less than derision and was prepared for combat. ‘The mob getting in touch with you back there were Charlie’s and Brian’s ancestors. At least that’s my firm belief.’
‘Oh come off it, Jess,’ he scoffed, the idea was preposterous, ‘I’ve seen a picture of Grandpa Charlie and he sure as hell wasn’t black, and I can tell you here and now the bloke in my dream on his way to the Somme, the Withers bloke you’re so convinced is Great-Grandpa Brian, he sure as hell wasn’t black either.’
‘Of course,’ she said, patiently riding his scorn, ‘they didn’t look black. They may not even have known they were black. A lot of people don’t.’
His disdain was so obvious that Jess, determined to break through the barrier, allowed the anthropologist in her to take over.
‘Did you know that in the 1930s “biological absorption” was considered the key to “saving” the Aboriginal race? Children who were taken from their families and made wards of the state could be “bred out” within three generations, four at the most, for their own good of course. The authorities had discovered that, unlike many other native populations, there are no “throwbacks” with the Australian Aborigine. Each crossbred generation becomes whiter, which to the protectors at the time seemed the ideal solution, even though the people under their protectorate had no desire at all to be “absorbed”. In fact Auber Octavius Neville, the Chief Protector of Aborigines in Western Australia so strongly advocated the practice he was recorded as saying, “the sore spot requires the application of the surgeon’s knife for the good of the patient and probably against the patient’s will.” That’s my favourite quote of Neville’s,’ she added wryly, ‘and he came out with some beauties, believe me.’
‘Right, I get the message.’ Matt decided to bring the subject a little closer to home. ‘And you believe somewhere in the distant past a black ancestor of mine was a victim of this practice.’
‘Yes I do. Several generations after their forebears have been farmed out to white people there are many who have no idea of the blackfella blood in them. Your father certainly hasn’t.’
She’d dropped the bombshell deliberately in order to cut through the argument she could see looming and the ruse worked to perfection. Matt was rendered speechless.
‘That’s what I “gleaned”, to quote Lilian,’ she said gently, with a smile that she hoped might in some way mollify. ‘When I was in Adelaide I sensed a connection with your father, a feeling of blackfella blood – I can’t explain why or how, but it was there. At first I thought my imagination was working overtime and that it couldn’t be possible, but I’m sure now I’m right. Dave’s ancestors, about whom he knows nothing, were black, I’m convinced of it, and they came from around here. Those same ancestors are reaching out to you now, Matt. You felt it back there in that clearing, you know you did,’ she urged. ‘They guided you to that place, they communicated with you. Surely some instinct must be telling you I’m right.’
Matt said nothing. Was she righ
t? Was she wrong? He didn’t know what to believe. But he did know that he had experienced something back there, something of immense power.
‘I felt it too, Matt,’ she said, aware of his turmoil. ‘Not a connection with the ancestors as you did, but with the land itself. Something happened in that place, something of great significance.’ Then the thought hit Jess with such force that she wondered why it hadn’t occurred to her sooner. ‘Those rocky outcrops and that clearing,’ she said, ‘they’re by the old surveyors’ track. They’ll be right in the path of the rail corridor, won’t they?’
‘Yes, I’d say so,’ he agreed. ‘I’d need to check out my maps and the original route, but yes I’d say they’d be slap-bang in the middle.’
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘that’s it!’ All the pieces of the puzzle suddenly seemed to fit, and the words poured out of her. ‘That’s why the ancestors made their initial contact through Charlie and Brian,’ she said, ‘they didn’t want you to feel alienated. It’s why they led you to that place today. It’s what they’ve been trying to tell you all along, but you wouldn’t listen. It’s why the dreams have been becoming more urgent, because time is running out!’
‘What?’ he said in the brief pause that followed. ‘What were they telling me, for God’s sake?’ Her urgency was so contagious he forgot for a moment that he didn’t believe any of this.
‘They were telling you that place is a sacred site. They were telling you it must not be desecrated.’
‘So?’ A moment’s further confusion. ‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘You’re supposed to alter the course of the Ghan.’
‘Oh.’ She has to be joking, he thought. She has to be fucking well joking. But one glance at her told him she wasn’t. He leant back and stared through the windscreen at the surrounding landscape, vaguely aware that the sun would soon be starting to set and that with the scattered cloud cover about it was bound to be beautiful. ‘Oh, is that all?’ he replied. What else could he say?
The blatant irony of his reaction appeared to have escaped her. ‘So how do we go about this?’ she asked, eagerly. ‘What do we do? Where do we start?’
‘We start by heading back to Alice.’ Climbing from the passenger side, he circled the car and opened the driver’s door. ‘Shuffle over,’ he said, ‘I’d like to hit the highway before dark.’
She shuffled over and remained silent as they drove on down the track, sensing it wouldn’t be wise to push him any further, not at this stage. She’d been pretty full-on, she told herself, and in any event he was preoccupied. Having grabbed a map from the back seat he’d placed it between them and was tracing directions with his finger while checking the vehicle’s compass and odometer. She presumed he was establishing the specific position of the site, and decided it best not to disturb him.
The sunset was in full flood by the time they reached the highway, a glorious sunset as desert sunsets invariably were.
‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ Jess said, looking out at the fiery panoply of colour that panned the sky. ‘I’m lost in awe every time. I never tire of the sight.’
He didn’t appear to hear her. No longer following the map and the instruments he seemed deep in thought, but she couldn’t be sure. Perhaps he’d just switched off altogether. Then out of nowhere …
‘Did you see the sign?’
‘What?’ The question took her by surprise.
‘The sign,’ he reminded her. ‘There was supposed to be a sign halfway up the larger outcrop of rock. Did you see it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did it offer any further clues that might help us, any evidence of an Aboriginal sacred site?’
Us, she thought, he just said us. ‘Unfortunately no,’ she replied. ‘It was old, certainly, but to my mind probably just graffiti left by workers on the Overland Telegraph Line. There was no Aboriginal significance to it: that much I know.’
‘I see.’
He lapsed into silence once again and she wondered whether he was forming a plan of action or deciding to dismiss the whole thing.
‘I’m afraid this is one of those situations that requires a leap of faith, Matt,’ she said, to which he returned an odd smile that seemed to say ‘Oh really?’ – leaving her none the wiser.
She was still none the wiser when he dropped her off at the flat in Undoolya Road.
‘Where to from here?’ she was forced to enquire, unable to see his face properly in the dark and still trying to assess his reaction.
‘Sunday tomorrow: can you come out to the donga camp? It’s not far, less than halfway to Ti Tree now. They’ve moved the workforce a hundred Ks further south.’
‘Of course.’ She presumed she was to drive herself there, but it turned out he had other plans.
‘Right. I’ll pick you up around nine thirty – we’ll talk on the way,’ and leaving her standing in the street hugging herself against the freezing cold night, he drove off to the Heavitree Gap Hotel.
A man of few words, she thought, but they were a few words that sounded distinctly promising.
The following morning during the drive north, Jess was not disappointed. Matt had made a study that night of the surveying maps that were always kept in the back of his Land Rover.
‘You were spot on,’ he said, ‘the site’s directly in the path of the Ghan.’
‘Right.’ She was hardly surprised by the news, but very much encouraged by the fact that he’d given the matter serious thought.
‘But although it’s on Arunta land, there’s been no claim of a sacred site to be avoided in that area. Why?’
‘Because it’s not a site that relates to the Dreaming,’ she replied, ‘nor is it a site that’s reserved for ceremonial occasions or for secret men’s or women’s business. Something happened there that even the locals don’t know about, Matt. That’s what your ancestors are telling you. This is something that personally relates to them –’
He interrupted, not rudely, but briskly, getting down to business. He’d expected her reply to be along such lines. ‘So we can’t make our approach through the Central Lands Council or other official channels,’ he said. Then he continued without pause, reasoning as much to himself as to her, ‘Not that there’d be time for all the palaver and bureaucratic bullshit they’d come up with anyway. The heavy earthworks crews are roughly forty Ks from the site; it’s only a matter of weeks before they get there. We have to do this in secret and we have to move quickly.’
We, she thought, he said we. Jess felt a wave of relief, mingled with exhilaration. We’re a team, she told herself. There’s been a breakthrough. Whether or not he believes, he’s committed to preserving the site. Something in him recognises its importance.
She kept her feelings well in check, however, and her voice as steady and business-like as his. ‘So what do we do, Matt?’
‘We lie,’ he said. ‘We lie to everyone except Pottsy. We can’t do anything without him. Pottsy’s my assistant,’ he explained, ‘and a good friend: we can trust him.’
She nodded, remembering the wiry, ginger-haired man she’d been introduced to the day she met Matt.
‘But we’ll have to spin a bit of a lie even to Pottsy,’ Matt went on, ‘the poor bastard can hardly be expected to believe any of this …’ He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘nonsense’ or ‘bullshit’ – he’d been too affected by recent events – so he simply left it at that. ‘No talk about visits from my ancestors, Jess, okay?’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘So which particular lie are we spinning? You’d better fill me in.’
They had everything well worked out by the time they reached the donga camp.
As Matt had said, the camp had been shifted further south and was now more or less equidistant between Alice Springs and Ti Tree. The workforce had been relocated, as each workforce was approximately every three months during the progression of the rail corridor, new labour contracted, seasoned labour staying on, the work never ceasing.
Jess couldn’t help but m
arvel at the speed and efficiency with which a virtual township housing around two hundred men had been transported literally overnight. Some of the donga camps’ core units like kitchens and ablution blocks were kept in situ along the route, awaiting the arrival of those workers involved with the next phase of construction, but as far fewer men were needed for the track-laying operation the majority of transportable accommodation units were simply picked up and moved on to where a new kitchen and ablution block had been erected and life continued as normal. Jess, like most, found the process quite extraordinary.
Upon arrival, they sought out Pottsy who, as Matt had expected, was lounging in the canteen over a mid-morning cup of tea, engrossed in the latest crime novel he’d acquired. The canteen was relatively deserted, most of the workers, those not on the Sunday shift, having headed for the tavern at Aileron or into Alice Springs for a few beers before a pub lunch. Pottsy would probably join them later, but he always enjoyed a quiet read on his own. He was an avid reader, particularly of the crime/thriller genre, and regularly swapped copies with the several like-minded men in camp who, as opposed to the majority, preferred novels over the free-to-air television that was provided for the workers.
He looked up as Matt gave him a nudge. ‘Oh, g’day, Withers,’ he said, ‘thought you’d gone into Alice for the weekend.’
‘I did, came back a bit earlier than usual that’s all. Do you remember Jess Manning? She’s a negotiator. You two met a few months ago. Jess, this is Craig Potts, otherwise known as Pottsy.’
‘Course I remember,’ Pottsy said rising to his feet and shaking hands with the young Aboriginal woman who stood beside Withers. ‘G’day, Jess.’ How could he forget? She was quite a looker.
‘G’day, Pottsy.’
‘We’ve got something we want to run by you, mate,’ Matt said, ‘something that needs to stay strictly hush-hush. Mind if we have a chat?’
Pottsy earmarked the page in his book, tossed it aside and gestured at the seats. ‘Pull up a pew, I’m all yours,’ he said and the three of them sat.
