by Jem Poster
‘Any sign of Billy?’
He bent to lift the pan from the fire. ‘I imagine he’s still sulking. He’ll be back when he gets hungry.’
I ate a few mouthfuls and sipped at the scalding tea, but absently, my thoughts running on the boy. ‘We might have expected him to show up by now,’ I said. I rose to my feet and called his name, but there was no response. ‘I’d better go and look for him.’
Bullen paused in his chewing and stared up at me. ‘I’d not advise it,’ he said. ‘The lad’s not far away, depend upon it. And he’d be only too pleased to think he’s got you running around after him. I say we leave him to his own devices.’
‘I can’t do that. I’ll not sleep easily until I know he’s safe.’
Bullen shrugged. ‘I tell you,’ he said, ‘you’re fretting for nothing. But you must do as you please. I’m turning in for the night.’
He was right, of course. I wasn’t twenty yards down the track before I saw Billy moving towards me, the white cloth of his shirt glimmering in the dusk. As he drew close I could see or sense a kind of wariness in him, as though he were uncertain what kind of reception he might expect.
‘Did you call me, Mr Redbourne?’
‘I was concerned about you, Billy. I’d expected you to join us for supper. Will you come up now?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not a place for everyday doings. Anyway, Mr Bullen doesn’t want me there. I can tell.’
‘But you must eat. Shall I bring you some food?’
‘I’m not hungry tonight. You’ve no need to worry about me, Mr Redbourne. I can look after myself.’
‘You’ve no shelter. If it rains—’
‘If it rains, I shall build my own shelter. But it won’t rain. Not over the next few days. I could have told Mr Bullen that if he’d asked me.’
‘Even so, I don’t like to think of you out there alone.’
‘I’ll be safer out there than you’ll be in your bushhut. At least I’m showing the ancestors the respect they deserve.’ And then, more gently, as though to soften the implied reproach: ‘Thank you for thinking about me, Mr Redbourne. And listen: if you see anything unusual, don’t go near it. Leave the place as quickly as you can.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘Maybe something like a human figure, or maybe some wild creature. But not an ordinary creature – you’ll notice its strangeness as soon as you set eyes on it.’
I smiled. ‘Billy,’ I said, ‘you have to remember that all the creatures here look strange to me.’
There was no answering smile. ‘When people see them,’ he continued, ‘they know. Sometimes they can’t even describe the thing they’ve seen, but they always know.’ He gave a little shiver and drew the loose cloth of his shirt more closely around his shoulders.
‘You’d better stop this talk, Billy. You’re only frightening yourself.’
‘I’m telling you things you need to understand. But I don’t think you’ll listen.’ He turned and began to move off, slipping away from me into the darkness as Daniel had done that night at the Hall, and I cried out in sudden anguish: ‘Billy!’
He stopped and looked back over his shoulder, his features invisible now. ‘What is it, Mr Redbourne?’
‘Nothing, Billy. Sleep well.’ He turned again, and I stood and watched until the pale gleam of his shirt was lost among the shadows.
20
I was roused at first light by the echoing crash of riflefire, two shots in quick succession. I turned stiffly on my grass couch to find Bullen gone, his blanket thrown untidily back against the side wall. I pulled on my boots, rinsed my mouth with water from the canteen and went out to investigate.
I found him a couple of hundred yards up the track, squatting beside the path in a haze of tobacco-smoke, his back against the cliff wall and his rifle propped against a projecting branch. As I approached, he took the pipe from his mouth and hailed me.
‘You’re up early,’ I said.
‘I had a restless night. Dreams, noises, night-sweats, heaven knows what.’ He ran his hand wearily across his face and I saw that he was trembling.
‘What noises? I heard nothing.’
‘Murmurings. Breathings and groans. I might have imagined them but they seemed real enough at the time.’ He thumbed out his pipe and rose heavily to his feet. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Redbourne. You can give me a hand with these.’
Until that moment I hadn’t noticed the bodies. Two wallabies, huddled on their sides against the cliff wall, the brown fur of their flanks streaked with blood.
‘Right and left.’ Bullen mimed the two shots. ‘One after the other, dropped as they broke cover. I tell you, Redbourne, I’m as sharp now as I was twenty years ago.’ He stepped over to the bodies, motioning me to follow, and then, leaning above the nearer of the two, gripped it by the wrist and dragged it on to the track. The head lolled back as the upper part of the body twisted round and I saw, with a shock of grief and astonishment, the rich orange fur of the creature’s chest and throat. I stooped to examine it more closely and, as I did so, the muscular hindlegs twitched and kicked. I started back.
‘It’s still alive.’
‘Barely.’ He flashed me a grim smile. ‘I’m not expecting it to recover.’
‘But you can’t—’
‘I’ll handle it. You take the other.’
He grasped the base of the tail and swung the wallaby over his shoulder, staggering a little under the weight. I found myself faintly unsettled by the rolling movement of the animal’s slack mass against his back as he steadied himself and began to walk back down the track towards the camp, but I was relieved to see that there were no further signs of life. I bent down and tugged the second carcass clear of the cliff wall.
It was the weight, I suppose, of a young child – nothing unmanageable, but I had to brace my mind as well as my body before heaving it up, and I was glad to shrug myself free of it on reaching the platform. I had rather hoped that I might leave the skinning of both specimens to Bullen, but he ducked quickly into the shelter and re-emerged with a pair of skinning knives. ‘You’ll need this,’ he said, handing me the smaller of the two.
‘I prefer my own instruments.’
‘They’re too delicate for this job. Use the knife.’ He straddled the larger carcass and heaved it on to its back. I remember the arms spread wide from the bright chest, the still eloquence of the small black hands; and then the knife moving slowly down from the throat to the genitals, fur and skin parting beneath the blade. I looked quickly away.
‘I’ve not skinned anything like this before,’ I said, turning over the second carcass.
‘You’ve skinned a rabbit?’
I nodded.
‘Think of it as a rabbit.’ He gave a sharp bark of laughter. ‘A bloody big rabbit. It’s no different.’
It was, in fact, very different. In part, it was a question of the creature’s size – the sheer bulk and density of the dead flesh – but I was struck too, leaning above the body, by the refinement of the long features and by some quality of gentle resignation in their expression. I hesitated for a long moment before beginning the incision.
‘You’ll need to bear down more firmly,’ said Bullen, glancing across at me. ‘You’re not skinning a fairywren.’
I was sweating in the strengthening sunlight. A thick, musky odour came off the dead animal, and I felt the bile rise in my throat. I straightened up and threw down my knife, surprised by my own distress.
‘I can’t do this,’ I said.
Bullen stepped over and shouldered me aside. ‘Firm and smooth,’ he said, drawing his blade down the creature’s vivid bib. ‘It’s not difficult.’
I saw it, I think, a little before he did, the quick movement of pink flesh squirming back from the light as the flap of the cut pouch fell aside. I had read, of course, of the remarkable breeding habits of the continent’s marsupial fauna, but for a second or two I was unable to interpret what I had seen. Then Bullen fumbled in th
e soft belly-fur and drew out the naked, writhing scrap, and I realised, with a renewed pang of grief, that he had shot a nursing mother.
He made light of my concern. ‘Kill a female wallaby,’ he said, turning the tiny oddity about in the palm of his hand, ‘and it’s ten to one you’ll find her nursing. And at this stage’ – he prodded at the translucent skin with a bloodstained forefinger – ‘it’s barely an animal at all. It doesn’t do to get dewy-eyed about such things.’ And as if to reinforce his point, he dropped the hapless creature to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel.
If I were asked to provide a rational explanation for my apparently irrational behaviour, I should say that I was responding to the casual cruelty of Bullen’s action, but there was more to it than that. As the nailed heel came down, I experienced its weight as though the crushed spark of life were my own, and I felt myself, for the briefest instant, lost in a smothering darkness. I struggled like a man in the grip of a nightmare; then, as the darkness cleared, I rounded on Bullen with vituperative passion, my voice harsh and my whole body trembling.
‘The creature couldn’t have survived,’ he said, cutting in quickly as I paused for breath. ‘Surely you can see that? What kindness do you think there’d be in leaving nature to take its course?’
I breathed deeply, steadied myself. ‘In themselves,’ I said carefully, ‘actions are neither cruel nor kind. Kindness and cruelty are qualities of the human heart. I saw no sign that your action was informed by kindness.’
‘And what’s in your own heart when you lift your rifle and draw a bead on a choice specimen? Where’s the kindness then?’
I was searching for an answer when I became aware of Billy standing motionless on the track below, looking towards us, one hand pushing his thick hair back from his forehead and the other shading his eyes. ‘Let’s drop the matter,’ I said brusquely. And then, in a more conciliatory tone: ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking very clearly.’ Bullen grunted and turned back to his task while I, with an obscure feeling of failure, busied myself with preparations for the day’s expedition. Bullen was by no means happy about having to deal with both wallabies himself. He had wanted to make an early start but the morning was well advanced by the time we set out from the camp, and for the first mile or so he seemed to find it impossible to open his mouth without venting his displeasure. I was careful not to respond, while Billy, now burdened with nothing weightier than the day’s provisions, strode purposefully ahead, just out of conversational range. As we pressed on, however, the mood lightened a little, and our spirits were further lifted by the discovery of fresh water running in a thin cascade down the rock face above the track. Bullen held the canteen to the warm trickle until it was full, and we drank by turns until our thirst was quenched.
It has often struck me that my approach to the natural world is imaginative rather than analytical, and it was borne home to me with increasing force, as we plunged deeper into the wilderness, that my expectations concerning this part of our journey had been tinged with fantasy. In particular, I had vaguely supposed that our travels would bring us progressively closer to some teeming source or centre of life, and it was only when I traced this notion back to its origin – a painting remembered from boyhood and depicting a patently implausible gathering of exotic mammals and birds massed rank on rank in a dark-tinted forest or jungle setting – that I saw clearly the childish extravagance of my imaginings.
Even so, there was birdlife in fair quantity, as well as evidence – odd scufflings in the undergrowth, a sloughed snakeskin by the side of the track – of other less visible lives, and we took a good number of specimens, including three brilliantly coloured parrots and several small passerines of quite remarkable beauty. ‘Nothing of great rarity,’ observed Bullen, taking them from his satchel and examining their vivid plumage as we rested at the side of the track in the noontide heat; but to me, encountering them for the first time, the birds were extraordinary, each bright body a minor revelation.
I had found myself unable to eat earlier in the day, but now I was hungry. I unpacked the remaining bread and a few strips of jerked beef from Billy’s knapsack, and began to eat. Billy followed suit but Bullen rose impatiently to his feet and picked up his rifle. ‘I may as well scout ahead,’ he said, moving away down the track. ‘Come and find me when you’re ready.’
Conversation with Billy was appreciably easier in Bullen’s absence and we were talking with some animation when the first shot rang out. A heartbeat’s space, and then a second report. ‘A couple more for the bag,’ I said, looking casually over my shoulder as the echoes died away; but Billy rose to his feet and stood stiff as a ramrod, listening, his head cocked to one side.
‘He’s left the track,’ he said. ‘He’s somewhere lower down.’ He gathered up the debris of our lunch and crammed it into his knapsack before throwing back his head and calling out, his voice unnaturally high and clear: ‘Mr Bull-en! Mr Bull-en!’ There was no reply.
Billy slung the knapsack over his shoulder and stepped briskly forward, motioning me to follow.
The ground below the track fell away more gently here, a rocky slope patchily covered with tall scrub. ‘He’s down there,’ said Billy, stopping suddenly. As he spoke, I saw the vegetation tremble and part some twenty feet below, and Bullen emerged and scrambled towards us, breathless and visibly excited.
‘Did you see it?’ he called.
I waited for him to rejoin us on the track. ‘We’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary,’ I said.
‘Believe me, Redbourne, this was very much out of the ordinary.’ His eyes, I noticed, were abnormally bright, his cheeks suffused with a hectic flush.
‘A bird?’
‘A dream of a bloody bird. I didn’t get a clear sighting, let alone a good shot at it, but I know it’s nothing I’ve ever come across before. The colours on it, Redbourne, the way it lifted as it flew off. And not a small bird either – hard to judge from the glimpse I had, but maybe a foot or more in length.’
‘What kind of bird?’
He shrugged. ‘Long-tailed, I think. Could have been a parrot. All I can tell you for certain is that I’m not budging from this place until I’ve had another crack at it.’
‘You may be in for a long wait,’ I said, scanning the expanse of scrub. ‘It could be anywhere among that lot. And in any event it’s not likely to return with the sound of rifle-fire fresh in its memory. I suggest we press on now and look for it again on our way back.’
‘I’m not interested in your suggestions,’ he said. ‘I’m staying here. You do as you like.’
I was stung by the sharpness of his tone. ‘In that case,’ I said, with equal asperity, ‘expect us back in three hours’ time.’ I made to move off but Billy edged forward, blocking my way, speaking urgently under his breath.
‘Tell Mr Bullen he should come with us,’ he said.
Bullen leaned towards him. ‘What’s that, boy?’
‘I said you should come with us, Mr Bullen. You’ll be safer.’
‘I can’t see any particular danger. Can you?’
‘Nothing particular. Only—’
‘I can do without your protection, thank you. You look after Mr Redbourne. I’ll look after myself.’ He turned abruptly and began to pick his way back down the slope. Billy hesitated, but I could see that any further intervention on his part would be a mistake.
‘Three hours,’ I called out, moving quickly away and signalling to Billy to follow. I remember Bullen raising his hand in acknowledgement before edging into the scrub and disappearing from view.
‘Don’t worry about Mr Bullen,’ I said, as Billy fell into step beside me. ‘There’s no need.’
‘More need than you’d think, Mr Redbourne.’
I stopped in my tracks. ‘What do you mean by that, Billy?’
He stood in silence for a moment, fingering the strap of his knapsack, his eyes avoiding mine. When he spoke, his voice was hushed, so soft I had to strain to catch his words. ‘I dreamed
about Mr Bullen last night,’ he said. ‘I can’t say exactly what was happening in the dream, but I know he was in danger.’
‘We dream all sorts of things, Billy, but few of our dreams have much bearing on the events of our waking lives.’
‘That’s not what my mother told me. She said I was to pay attention to my dreams and to let them guide my life.’
‘I think we should move on,’ I said firmly. Billy glanced once over his shoulder but raised no objection, and we set off again at a gentle but reasonably steady pace. I was soon thoroughly absorbed in my quest for specimens, and it was only much later, when we sat down to rest, that Billy voiced his anxieties again.
‘But you must realise, Billy, that Mr Bullen knows what he’s doing.’
‘Mr Bullen knows less than he thinks he does,’ said Billy bluntly. ‘And he sets himself at odds with the world. He damages the things he touches, and doesn’t understand there’s a price to be paid for the damage. If he’d heeded me when I told him about the ancestors, he wouldn’t be sick now.’
‘Whatever makes you think Mr Bullen’s sick, Billy?’
He looked up sharply as though surprised by my question. ‘You can see it,’ he said. ‘You can see it in his face.’
‘He’s a little out of sorts, perhaps. But he’s a man of moods – up one minute and down the next. I can guarantee that if he’s bagged the bird he’s after we’ll find him in excellent spirits on our return.’
Billy glanced away. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that it would be better for him if he didn’t kill it. He doesn’t know what it is.’
‘That’s exactly the point, Billy – that’s why he’s so excited about it. He believes he may have stumbled upon a rarity, or even an unrecorded species.’
He was silent for a moment, gazing out across the valley. ‘I mean,’ he said at last, ‘that it mightn’t be a bird at all.’
I laughed at that, but he turned to me with a look of such ferocious intensity that the laughter died in my throat. ‘Mr Bullen knows it was a bird he saw,’ I said. ‘It’s just that he doesn’t know what kind.’The boy continued to stare at me, his expression gradually softening into what I took to be a kind of bewilderment. I remember thinking that he had failed to grasp some essential detail of my discourse; only later did it occur to me that the failure was my own, and that I had missed his meaning entirely.
