“The windows!” Eric shouted, and sprinted into the house, where he was heard, slamming down window after window. Neither Bony nor old John moved. They were possessed by the feeling that Lake Jane, the house and themselves were rushing towards the cloud-base, and swiftly the relationship of themselves with the cloud-base, and the cloud with the moon, was changed by the shifting angles. The cloud-base lost entirely its appearance of solidity, and the cloud its appearance of ice and snow. The moon became sick with apprehension.
The near shore-dunes entered the darkness, and the darkness was speeding up the slope when the moon was gobbled up by the monster. And the men retreated into the house and barred the door.
Eric had lit the table lamp, and they stood about the table, waiting. The house was utterly silent. The roar of the deluge deepened as it approached, rose to deafening cacophony when it fell upon the corrugated-iron roof.
Nervous tension gripped Eric. He could feel the house quiver, and could imagine it being swept down the slope into the lake. Bony tossed his gunny-sack to a chair, and it gave forth a sound of tinkling metal. Rarely had he watched the approach of a storm when the moon was in such favourable position in a clear sky. Old John must have put on spring-heeled boots. He was jig-jogging on his feet. His hands were beating the air as though the thunderous roar was music and he was conducting. The incongruity of his striped pyjamas was surely banished by the expression of sheer joy, as he listened to the noise on the roof to detect any variation of the tune.
The Era of Creeping Death was passed, and the Era of Bounding Life was begun. There were children of three and four years who had never seen a raindrop, and who, on running outside in the morning, screamed in terror on seeing water running over the earth.
“He’s breaking up,” yelled John Downer. “Hark at him! He’s breaking up, lads; he’s bustin’ his guts.” At last he permitted himself to believe that the drought was truly ended. Now he might have been barracking at a fight. “Go on, you beaut! Sock it into him.”
The house continued to stand, and Eric leaned over the table and turned down the smoking lamp-wick. Bony rolled and lit an alleged cigarette, and then suggested something to eat. This brought Eric to balance, and he nodded, and turning to the stove, pushed kindling wood into it, tossed in a dash of kerosene, and stood back to toss in a lighted match, which ignited the vapour in the still hot interior, and caused the stove to shudder from the explosion.
Eric draped a cloth over the table, and Bony went to the bench sink and turned the tap, from which water hadn’t run from the roof tank for six months. At first it spouted mud, and then poured clear water upon his hands, and, seeing it, Eric laughed from hysterical relief at this further proof of the drought’s end.
Having dried his hands on a bench cloth, Bony raised the window above the sink, and the air which flowed into the house, and all about the three men, caused each to breathe deep into expanded lungs. It was unbelievably aromatic. John rushed to the window, exaggeratedly sniffing. Then he turned about and rushed to the veranda door, and disappeared into the void beyond. They could hear him shouting.
The clock on the mantel said it was forty minutes after midnight when Bony sat at table and gratefully ate kangaroo chops and damper bread, and, having poured tea into enamel mugs, Eric sat opposite again to listen to the rain on the roof and beyond the window and door.
“Bluey is in the house somewhere,” Bony shouted. “Any bones for him?”
“Oughtn’t to be inside,” Eric asserted. “Not allowed inside.” He whistled, and, after hesitation, the dog appeared from a front room, the picture of guilt, and fear of the elements. He was patted and given a bone and he lay on a rug and chewed without relish, fearing to be turned out.
Abruptly the thunderous roar on the roof stopped, and the lesser noise of rain pounding the earth drew away and softened.
“That was terrific,” Eric said. “Must have given three inches.”
John appeared at the veranda door. “Come on out and listen to it. Every creek and gutter is running a banker. Come and listen to the birds talking about it.”
Eric impatiently waved refusal and to Bony said:
“You must have been on a fair-sized tramp. Must have smelled the rain coming.”
“I was out in the middle of Rudder’s when I saw the rainclouds just after sundown,” Bony gave, knowing the rain would have washed out his tracks and filled the gilgie hole and washed away all that sinister ash.
“Learn anything?”
“A little. I found where two swags and a push-bike were burned. I brought the metal relics back with me. The bike was too buckled to wheel, so I left it.”
“Are you referring to Brandt’s bike, and his and Dickson’s missing swags?”
“It’s unlikely I would be referring to anything else.”
“No, I suppose not,” Eric said. “Are you sure it was Brandt’s bike? Any proof of the swags belonging to him and the other feller?”
“The bike can be identified, I’ve no doubt. The swags...”
“Yes, yes, of course it can. But ... hang it, Bony, it doesn’t add up. You found this stuff out in the middle of Rudder’s Paddock, you said. Why out there? You know what I mean. Why take it out there to burn it?”
“I’ve always been better at asking questions than answering them,” Bony side-stepped. Eric was about to speak when a single raindrop pinged on the roof, and both listened to hear the next. It came a moment later, and was followed by another. The rain began again, and John appeared, to shout, unnecessarily:
“It’s on again, lad. We’re goin’ to get some more. Come out and listen.”
“All right, we will in a minute,” returned Eric. “Whereabouts was the fire, Bony?”
“This side of a line between your two sheep camps. There were the tracks of a car or utility near by ... extending beyond your camps to the north-east.”
“I saw no light tracks.”
“Understandable, Eric. You were driving a truck when your mind was on sheep problems. I was on foot.”
“Yes, that was so.” Eric regarded Bony pensively, brows knit above eyes both alive and puzzled. The rain became heavier on the roof, and John again appeared to call them to listen to it. “Let’s see the stuff. Wait, I’ll clear the table.”
“When you came home from your holidays last September, did you see tracks of a car or utility on the road to Rudder’s?”
“No,” replied Eric, shaking his head. “Might have been had we looked hard enough. But we were thinking about the sheep and what could have happened to the mill since Brandt had cleared out. Brandt disappearing like that didn’t give anyone cause to look for strange tracks. We must agree to that.”
“That would be so,” Bony said quietly, and then, as Eric had removed the cloth, he emptied the contents of the sack on the table. “D’you know what kind of razor Brandt used?”
“Blade. Saw him shaving one morning. H’m! That could be it.”
The old man came in, and this time came to see what interested them. He wanted to know what it was, and poked a finger to separate the items. He asked where it was found, and wasn’t keenly interested on being told. They could see him repeatedly ‘cocking an ear’ to the rain singing its carols on the roof. He was vibrant with energy.
“Put it away till the morning, and come and hear the birds talking, and the water dropping down the spouts and running over the land, and sinking inch by inch into the ground to germinate all the seeds.”
He went out again, and Eric made a cigarette before speaking.
“My theory could be right after all. Fellers came down from the north, did their killing and went north again, burning the bike and swags on the way. What do you think?”
“You could be correct,” Bony agreed. “The only other person I know of who owns an old car is Nuggety Jack.”
“Wasn’t him,” Eric defended. “I do know that at the time Nuggety Jack hadn’t any petrol and was then driving horses harnessed to his car. He couldn’t have
driven his horses about this place, and at Rudder’s, without Dad or me seeing proof of it.”
“The rain is going to keep on all night,” Bony predicted. “Well, that leaves the Pointers and their utility.”
Eric’s eyes blazed with anger. “What the hell do you mean by that?” he asked with voiced raised.
Bony looked up from the task of returning his treasure-trove to the sack. His eyes were steady and dark in the light of the lamp.
“A person yet unknown drove a car or utility across Rudder’s Paddock at about the time of the murders,” he stated. “He burned the bike and the two swags in a gilgie hole and covered the lot with scrub. We agree that the vehicle wasn’t owned by Nuggety Jack. Nuggety Jack is therefore eliminated. Another possible is Jim Pointer with his utility. I said ‘possible’, not ‘probable’. We will eliminate Jim Pointer. We could, but won’t, consider Midnight Long and his utility. Eliminating this one and that one is no cause for anger.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t following your drift.” Eric began the making of another cigarette, and this time his fingers were active. “What about...”
He was stopped by his father, who came to grip Bony by the arm and shake it whilst glaring across the table at Eric. This time he really ‘went to market’. He was now the Tribe’s Old Man, the Assessor of men and events in the Balance of Wisdom.
“You and your ruddy murders!” he yelled. “What the hell’s the use of yapping over two silly murders like them? Come on out and listen to the birds telling each other and chortling over the sweetest murder of all time, the Murder of King Drought.”
Chapter Seventeen
Earth Smiles Again
OLD MAN DROUGHT was dead, battered and bludgeoned by little drops of water. The beaten Earth, ravished and scared, bedraggled and weary, conceived, and the womb prepared to give forth its fruit.
The rain gauge at Lake Jane failed to register, but in an empty kerosene tin the storm had deposited water to one-third its capacity. Thus the Downers were able to estimate that the fall was nine inches. It came in the best of all seasons, at the end of summer, and weeks before the cold winds of midwinter, and occasional frosts.
All men were immobilized. Local creeks carried water for the first time in years. Frogs that had lain dormant for years deep in the ground emerged from the sodden earth and skipped and croaked and courted in the short time before the invasion of the birds took place. The cicadas bored their way up from the depths, creaked and groaned whilst beridding themselves of old bodies and taking on new ones, plus wings. The bardee grubs came from treetrunks and up from tree-roots to split their skins and emerge as great winged moths the size of a man’s hand, and from every termite’s nest myriads of winged insects poured like smoke from miniature volcanoes to take part in the nuptial flight. The day following the night of deluge was the day of the winged insects. The birds came on the second day, darkening the sky above Lake Jane, blotting out sections of its far shore, churning its surface by their ceaseless landings and take-offs. In mid-morning of the third day, John Downer called Bony to see the leaping grass and herbage, and the next morning every sand dune every sandy area, was changed from red to green. Within one week the wind was waving the tops of fields of grass.
“In a way a drought is a blessing,” John said one afternoon, when he and Bony were lounging on the veranda. “If there weren’t any droughts you wouldn’t get a bull-dozer through this country for the jungle, and you wouldn’t cut your way through it without meeting a snake every other yard, and being chewed up by the leeches and lice and fleas, and other vermin. Droughts do keep this country clean.”
“Positively,” agreed Bony.
“She’s come good again, eh?” chortled John, the glory of this rebirth reflected in his eyes.
“How right you are, John,” admitted Bony, knowing that seldom has modern man come so close to this Ancient Land as John Downer. Since the rain, John’s mind had been cleaned of the past with all its grim struggles, its pain and hardship, its murder of animals and men, and its ceaseless assault on his faith.
Beside them stood Eric, silent and morose. Now he said:
“We have miles of ground feed, and floods of water, but no sheep, no cattle, no horses. You work like hell and you lose the lot. You build up again, and what you build is levelled.”
“We’ll get some sheep, lad, and a horse or two, and cows, never fear,” John said cheerfully. “Look, I still have four and ninepence, plus a bit, in the bank. We had better be doing something about restocking. Have a word with Midnight Long about it. When d’you think the truck could do the Crossing?”
“Tomorrow. The water stopped running yesterday. Local floodwater. If a major flood comes down the Backwash, then it might be a year before the truck could be got across. Depends how far north the rain went.”
“You might take me with you on the next trip to L’Albert,” Bony suggested, “I’ve finished here for the time being. Been a pleasure to be with you.”
“Been a pleasure to have you,” Eric said, and his father backed him with energy. “Think I’ll try for a duck or two, and have a look at the Crossing. Might take a few birds over to the Pointers. We owe them a debt the size of Lake Jane.
Eric left, and a moment later they could see him strolling down to the lake with his gun, and dog at heel.
“Like the country, he’ll come good again,” John said. “Times have been rough on him and all. He’s a good lad, and he gave up a lot to stay home with me.”
“Might marry and settle down, eh?”
“I’m hoping. So’s Jim Pointer. Make a good pair, wouldn’t they?”
“Yes, I think they would,” agreed Bony, adding a proviso. “They’re much alike, John, and yet have traits which could amalgamate to give steady happiness to both. What each needs is a little of the sunshine of prosperity and renewed faith in a future. We all need that, of course. Has Eric other interests beyond sheep?”
“Yes, I think so,” replied John. “Still takes a great interest in his old school. Runs down to Melbourne every year to attend the Old Boys’ Annual Dinner or Dance and what else.” The old man knocked the ash from his pipe, then said: “You know, before this drought mucked him up, and it did muck him up because he was all right before it started, he was thinking of veterinary science, and aimed to go down for a course in Melbourne. But the slow grind of drought got us both in. One thing in his favour is he don’t take after his old man on a bender. Likes a drink or two and pub company and all that, but don’t keep going like me.”
“This rising generation has different ideas and other outlets for spending money, don’t you think?”
“That’s so, Bony. Yes, that’s it. Give Eric’s generation six whiskies and they keel over.”
“Talking about him and the cursed drink, how did he put in his holiday with you in Mindee? Not much social life there? No cinema or dance hall, is there?”
“Nothing like that. He didn’t hang around Mindee all the time. Went over to Broken Hill to see some friends. Plenty of amusements and such like in the Hill. Pretty good dancer, Eric. Can sing a bit, too. Never forgets the old man, though. Always remembers when it’s time to collect him. You been to the Hill, of course?”
“On several occasions. I cannot foresee where my next assignment will take me.”
The two reports from Eric’s gun sent ten thousand birds rising like dark vapour upward from Lake Jane, and in thirty seconds innumerable flights of duck streaked over the sand dunes as though to give the swans and the pelicans better space for their slower take-off. By the Crossing, Eric waited with gun ready, and Bluey was bringing to shore a victim. The gun spoke again, and Bony saw the duck collapse and fall quite close to the man.
“He’s a good shot, John.”
“Good at all sports. Bit of an all-round champion at school. Even got into the newspapers. The printing about him we put in a little book, and the book’s in the wife’s Treasure Chest. Hope I get that watch back with his picture in it. Sure it wasn’
t burned with the swags?”
“I’m sure,” answered Bony quietly. “Are you sure that nothing else was taken? A ring? A necklace? A bracelet?”
“All the things are there bar the watch and those two cards of hair.”
The ducks were skittering down upon the lake, and the bigger birds appeared in no hurry to return. Eric came back with four plump black ducks, and with the information that the Crossing would bear the truck the next day.
“Should have gone in the boat. What say you two lend a hand getting it down to water? We could roll her down without too much trouble.”
“You refer to the new boat?”
“Yes. Completed her yesterday. The old one I’ve broken up for the iron lining. We’ll want that.”
“We’ll give it a go, lad.”
Although much superior to his first effort at boat-building, the new craft was heavy for its length, through lack of proper materials. It was nicely shaped, having a square stern and sharp bow. It was flat-bottomed and fitted with two thwarts.
The effort to get it down the slope to the lake-side was harder than expected, but eventually the craft was launched, and at once began to fill with water.
“Crikey!” shouted John. “Wants more caulking. Anyway, the seams will swell and stop leaking.”
Eric laughed, and Bony couldn’t fail to note how attractive he was when in a gay mood.
“Come on! Up with her to the beach before she sinks,” Eric commanded. “She’ll be all right when she has the floor plug in. I forgot to put one in.”
They managed to drag the waterlogged craft part way up the beach, and Eric departed for a baler and a plug. Returning with both, he jammed the plug and baled out the water, and a second launching was effected. A rope held the boat fast.
“Rides good and light,” exclaimed John. “Better than the old one. Big enough, too, for three to go fishing. We’ll have to rig some tackle.”
The boat was drawn to shore and was found to be watertight.
“I’ll get the oar and give her a trial,” Eric said, and they waited for him to bring it.
Bony and the Black Virgin Page 11
