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The
Soul Stone
By Brad Collis
The Soul Stone
By Brad Collis
Copyright © 2009
First published in Australia in 1993 by Hodder & Stoughton
(Australia) Pty Ltd.
ISBN 0 340 58452 1
(Out of print)
This ebook, a re-edited version of the original book, is
being made available by the author at no cost. However, the
work remains protected by copyright. Apart from any fair
dealing for the purpose of private study, research, or review
as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be
reproduced by any process without written permission of
the author. (email: [email protected])
Chapter One
Brother Wheatley pumped his arms above his head; his
face red with exertion as he followed the score on an iron
music stand. Here in the resonance of the old hall it was
easy to create angels, but he had little faith in the boys’
ability to achieve the same ethereal qualities in a radio
studio. Walls lined with split egg cartons was not a
comforting measure of technology.
The smooth, ominous tip of a leather strap, stitched in
layers until it was an inch thick, protruded from the deep
pocket of his cassock. Brother Wheatley relied on a far
more tangible weapon of inspiration.
To help and guide and comfort us, and lead us
in our prayer . . .
Simon Bradbury – a bony, earnest boy in grey serge; in
awe of God, clerics and their leather straps, desperate to
please, tried to follow the pumping arms of Brother
Wheatley. Being in the choir was a heartfelt prayer
unexpectedly answered. Each night he had sung the songs
to himself; had mouthed the words until he dreamed them
in fitful sleeps. In two days the choir would be at the radio
station recording for the Religious Program; an hour of
sectarianism every Sunday morning before the football.
Simon had written excitedly to his parents to tell them to
listen.
Barely ten and already Simon lived on the fringe of his
two worlds. He was a boarder. He was separated already
from the farm; from his home, and at the end of every
school day he separated from friends who bicycled away to
streets noisy with neighbours and familiar faces.
1
The song reached its climax. Simon filled his lungs for a
final ebullient lunge. Every sinew in his skinny neck
quivered as he thrust his face towards the darkened beams
above—and broke the hymn apart with a nerve-taught
squawk.
Two rows of pinched cheeks and tingling flanks held
their collective breath.
Simon lowered his gaze and offered, without inquisition,
the confession expected. The cleric rounded on the boy.
"Out," he shouted and pointed to the distant door.
Simon squeezed through the front rank, clambered
blindly down the stage steps, across the cavernous hall to
the heavy wooden door. Two dozen pairs of dispassionate
eyes followed his retreat.
Drawing back the iron bolt, he slid through a gap in the
door and out into the wintry playground.
Simon didn’t sing on the radio. On the day of the taping,
Brother Wheatley anointed him overseer of a work detail
dispatched to the nearby presbytery. It meant escaping the
classroom for half a day, although the gesture did little to
lift Simon’s gloom.
His teacher tried to make light of the banishment. “Not
everybody can be a singer,” he had said, ruffling Simon’s
hair.
When Simon didn’t respond the teacher lifted his chin.
“Disappointments make us stronger—perhaps God has
plans for Simon Bradbury that don’t require him to sing on
the wireless!” Then, his mind already elsewhere, he thrust a
shed key into the boy’s hand and ordered him away.
Simon armed his navvies with garden tools and led them
along a back lane, past the picket fence behind the brothers’
house, to the presbytery. His own hands were empty.
“Hey, Bradbury what are you going to do?” called one of
the boys pointedly.
“Pick flowers,” suggested another. The group snickered.
2
“Who’s your girlfriend, Bradbury?”
“Sister Veronica,” shouted a boy whose stick-like legs
and stretched neck stuck out like pink stems from his handme-down clothes. They laughed.
Simon thrust out his jaw and confronted the tormentors.
“Get fucked.”
They whooped with delight.
“You’ll get six.”
“Bare bum,” sang another.
“Bare bum,” they began to chant.
Brother Harris had been in the army. Korea, an older boy
once confided. They didn’t know where Korea was, but
there had been a war. They knew that. Brother Harris still
cut his hair like a soldier and discipline was his dogma.
Every morning he inspected the school; ranks of
undernourished Christian soldiers standing stiff and anxious
on the handball courts. Anything less than a ruler-edged
part from forehead to crown was enough to get you called
out to the front. Cold fingers fumbled with buckle and
buttons; trembling hands pushed baggy shorts until they
dropped into a puddle of cloth around black, buffed shoes.
On the order to bend, some boys closed their eyes. Some
turned away with fear or shame—but some faced the parade
with the hatred of embittered men. “—Lower … !” A hand
pushing on the neck. Then the waiting—everyone watching
the small white bottom, waiting to see it burn; waiting for
Brother Harris’s arm to rise and for the strap to come
swishing down.
Simon stomped along the path, swallowing hard.
Someone would tell, he knew that much.
At the presbytery there were lawns to cut, hedges to trim
and cobbled paths and loamy rose beds full of worms and
dead thorns to weed. On any other day Simon would have
been glad to be on the detail. He liked the feel and sight of
his skin grimy with earth. He enjoyed the opportunity to
demonstrate his farm-learned proficiency with tools. But
3
his mind this day was elsewhere. The unfairness gnawed at
his heart. He had desperately wanted to sing—to stand in
front of a microphone; to be on the radio, anonymous in a
chorus of voices but on the radio nonetheless.
He sat on the wall banging his heels against its granite
flanks, almost daring God to descend personally to punish
him for his recalcitrance. It was a challenge God did not
allow to pass. Simon felt his ear being tweaked before he
was even aware of Father MacNamara’s presence.
“Nothing to do young man?” the priest demanded. His
voice still held a hint Gaelic. A man in his late thirties,
Father MacNamara enjoyed the swagger of authority his
position conferred. The church in the early 1960s was a
powerful institution, and Father MacNamara was an
ambitious young executive. He was popular, but jaunty and
glib among people whose lives he could control by
invoking powers beyond their comprehension.
“There aren’t enough tools Father,” said the boy,
cowering under the man’s gaze.
“Pretty poor planning isn’t it? Who’s in charge?” He
clenched his fists into his sides and faced the others who
had stopped to indulge in their classmate’s discomfort. All
eyes turned to Simon.
The priest encouraged him off the wall with a sharp tug
to Simon’s ear. “Good,” he said, with a smile.
“Candlesticks need polishing.”
Simon followed Father MacNamara’s flowing black
skirt past the workers, whose downturned faces hid their
treacherous grins. Together, the priest gliding and the boy
stumbling, they disappeared through the doorway of the
darkened sacristy.
Twin wooden wardrobes dominated the small room.
They shone in the dull light; the legacy of conscientious
oiling and polishing by generations of nuns, called from the
shallows of adolescent prayer to become the housewives of
the church.
4
Against one wall an enamel washbasin was set into a
wooden bench. No amount of rubbing could remove the
brown rust tracing a miniature river from the base of the
brass tap to the green, oxidized sinkhole. An old leather
chair with thick armrests filled one corner. Beside it a
shelved wall-unit stood. In its centre was a recess half
hidden by a partially pulled back green cloth. A key
protruded from the lock of a small cubicle.
The room was redolent of mysterious odours and
perfumes; waxes, wood oils, and the lingering presence of
incense. Simon’s eyes were wide with wonder.
Father MacNamara watched the boy thoughtfully,
surprised by the unexpected intensity with which he was
devouring the room’s details.
“Not been in the sacristy before?”
The boy faced the priest and looked at him anew. There
were unearthly powers in this room and Father MacNamara
was the diviner. A line from a book, he couldn’t remember
which, came to him, “an instrument of God”. It was
standing before him.
“No Father,” the boy responded.
“Hmm!” The priest looked as though he was about to
say more but appeared to change his mind. Instead he
swung open the cupboard beneath the sink and withdrew a
fistful of rags and a stained tin of Brasso. He handed them
to Simon.
Simon followed the priest onto a sea of red carpet. He
looked from the main altar, rising high above the carpeted
steps to his left, to his customary place among the benches
and their hard kneeling boards. He became aware of a
contrast. The altar was a place of order. The body of the
church, on the other hand, looked disturbed; the empty
pews caught in dust-speckled shafts of window light like
chopped water below a longboat’s oars. He became
conscious for the first time of two distinct worlds. There
before him, separated by a wooden altar rail, were the
5
realms of God and of Man; knowledge and confusion;
authority and obedience.
But in his child’s mind the awareness was fleeting. He
felt confused by the sudden pulse of excitement. He had
been handed a potent truth, but it slipped away before he
was fully aware of its meaning.
Again the priest watched the boy.
“No time for daydreaming,” he said gruffly. “Put that lot
over there then give me a hand with the candlesticks.”
Simon passed through the altar gate and placed the
cloths and tin onto the linoleum aisle. He returned to the
towering, carved altarpiece which bore above it a life-size
crucifix bearing the nailed Jesus, and stood ready as Father
MacNamara plucked the fat brown candles from their bases
and laid them carefully onto the white linen altar cloth.
Father MacNamara passed down two heavy brass
candlesticks and nodded for the boy to take them to his
cleaning equipment. “There’s newspaper behind the
sacristy door. Spread that first or we’ll be here all day repolishing the floor as well.”
Simon did as he was told, returning to the altar with
sheets of newspaper tucked under his arm. Squatting on the
floor with cloth and candlesticks at his feet he watched the
priest who was busy at the altar, his hand hidden inside the
tabernacle. Its door was open and the polished brass lining
captured and refractured a stray shaft of light. The effect
was magical. The tabernacle housed a focal point of
Catholicism, the Eucharist; the bread that was the body of
Christ. Simon didn’t understand how this worked but was
conscious of the sanctity of the small domed receptacle.
Simon began smearing dull, yellow polish over the
candlesticks. As he worked he continued to peer through
the wooden railings separating him from the carpeted altar
where the priest remained busy with his secrets.
The man closed and locked the tabernacle and strode
back into the sacristy, his cassock swishing as he walked.
6
He re-emerged carrying a large red book with gold-edged
pages. The priest used one of the ribbons that fluttered from
the great book to flip open the pages and lay it flat on its
brass reading stand.
The eyes of the priest and the boy met. Simon lowered
his gaze and tried to concentrate on the job at hand.
“What’s your name?”
“Simon Bradbury, Father,” he responded, as the priest
slowly approached him.
“It seems as though you’ve never seen an altar before.
Haven’t you been coming to Mass?” Admonition edged the
tone.
“Yes Father—it just looks different from up here.”
Father MacNamara smiled. “That it is boy—that it is.”
For the second time during their brief acquaintance he
changed his mind about saying more. Instead he
disappeared back into the sacristy.
Simon didn’t see the priest again until he had finished
his task and returned to the small room clutching the soiled
rags. The man was in the old leather chair reading from a
small black book.
“I’ve finished, Father.”
The priest looked up and smiled. “Good fellow. Put all
that gear into the cupboard there.” He nodded to the doors
beneath the sink.
Simon did as he was told. When he was finished the
priest pushed himself from the chair and to the boy’s
surprise waved him into it. Simon slid back hesitatingly
into its leather folds and wondered what he had done
wrong.
“How old are you?”
“I was ten in March, Father.”
“You should already be an altar boy. I will see to it.” He
smiled. Simon returned the smile, because he didn’t know
what else to do. He watched the priest turn the key to the
cupboard below the mysteriously curtained space. The
7
man’s hand disappeared and he heard a clink of glass.
When the priest straightened he was holding a dark brown
bottle and two small glasses.
With growing apprehension, he watched the man pour
and pass one of the glasses.
The priest winked and spoke conspiratorially. “Altar
wine—don’t tell Brother Wheatley.”
In the world beyond the small town by the sea, human
beings were discovering new dimensions to their world; a
world that could now perhaps extend beyond planet Earth.
In February 1962 Western governments were annoyed at
having twice been beaten in the race into space by
Russians. Their hope was now with a man named John
Glenn who would become the first American to orbit the
earth. In an epic journey of just over four hours, Glenn was
to make three orbits. As his craft moved at twenty-eight
thousand kilometres an hour some two-hundred kilometres
above the earth, its path crossed the Indian Ocean from
northern day into southern night. The city of Perth, a tiny,
self-conscious metropolis on the south-western edge of a
remote continent, lay in the flight path. To remind the space
pioneer he was not alone in the universe and that those on
this darkened side of the planet also wished him well, the
city lights were left ablaze. John Glenn had a special
thankyou message prepared.
Hundreds of kilometres to the north-east of Perth, in the
vast Western Desert, a man warmed his aging bones by a
fire. He had spent the last hour of daylight collecting
enough wood to build a fire that would burn through the
night. He had left his family a full day’s walking distance to
be alone in the land of his father, through which they were
travelling. They were ending their days of desert wandering
to join a mission community to the south west. The old man
knew he would not pass this way again. For tens of
thousands of years his family had sung the land here,
8
protecting the resting places of the Dreamtime deities and
accepting the succour it gave them in return. But now
moving across the land, an alien order ruptured the
harmony of their existence with earth and sky, with the
living world and the spirit world. The future made the man
feel sad for all men.
But there was something else happening on this night.
He was waiting for a man who would be passing in the sky.
Not a spirit, but a mortal from the world towards which he
and his race were being driven and drawn. He felt no
puzzlement or awe. He did as he was bidden by the spirits
in whose presence he lived. There was no need to question.
A man was passing in the sky; a man in trouble. He sat with
his legs crossed and began a sad ululating song.
Aboard the capsule, John Glenn was busy monitoring
gauges and dials, periodically taking his blood pressure for
medical records, and talking to each tracking station as he
passed through its section of control. There were two in
Australia: Woomera in the state of South Australia, and
Muchea in Western Australia. Other than the occasional
disembodied voice from earth, the only sounds keeping
Glenn company were the hiss of oxygen as it ran through a
hose to his helmet and the muffled whir of gyros governing
the capsule’s flight attitude. Glenn’s attention was very
much on these. The Attitude Control System had failed and
the capsule was straying from its pre-programmed
alignment. This required continual manual firing of the
retro rockets to remain on the correct alignment for re-entry
through the atmosphere. The rockets were a series of small
hydrogen peroxide jets and John Glenn was worried he
would exhaust the supply of gas.
But this was not his only problem.
Unknown to him, engineers at Cape Canaveral had
received a signal from the capsule’s automatic monitoring
system that indicated the heat shield on the nose had come
loose. If it broke away, John Glenn would be incinerated on
9
his descent to earth. The control centre was helpless. And
so just as Glenn had decided not to worry Mission Control
over the failed alignment control, the ground engineers
elected not to tell the astronaut about their fears for the heat
shield because there was nothing they could do.
But for the moment, John Glenn continued to orbit; a
man given the view of a god. Far below, a twinkling glow
reminded him of the pre-planned gesture from Australia. He
spoke to the tracking station at Muchea. "Thank everyone
for being so thoughtful," he said.
In the desert, the old Aborigine ceased his singing and
peered intently into the sky then began to blow into his fire.
A shower of sparks rose into the night. He blew harder and
a bigger cloud of fiery embers spun upwards. He blew and
blew, raising a storm of sparks which drifted higher and
higher.
The astronaut was startled as a cloud of light, like a
swarm of fireflies, enveloped the craft. The man stared out
through the porthole in wonder. “This is Friendship Seven.
I am in a big mass of very small particles—all around as far
as I can see there are thousands of small luminescent
particles. I’ve never seen anything like it. They’re coming
by the capsule and they look like little stars—a whole
shower of them coming by. They’re swirling around the
capsule.”
The engineers looked to each other. “Is there any
impact—are they impacting?”
“Negative. They’re moving very slowly and just swirling
around.”
The engineers consulted. A mystery. “It must be coming
off the skin of the capsule.”
“Can’t be,” the astronaut replied. “—They’re coming
towards me.”
Glenn took some photographs through the small
porthole, and returned to his duties.
10
It was soon after he began his descent that John Glenn
himself realized the heat shield was breaking up. He could
see white hot fragments flitting past. “The capsule is
enveloped in a fireball,” he transmitted, but Mission
Control could no longer hear him. The capsule had been
consumed and communications cut. The technicians at
mission control already believed the astronaut was dead.
Glenn, sitting with his back to the nose of the capsule,
braced himself for the searing white heat which would
dissolve the metal skin and end his life.
Incredibly, nothing happened. At twenty thousand feet a
parachute, which he assumed had been incinerated, opened
and the capsule drifted gently into the Pacific Ocean.
On landing, Glenn was openly moved by his miraculous
return. To the surprise of waiting colleagues, dignitaries
and media, one of his first messages for the outside world
was to the people of Perth. “Tell them—it is the city of
light,” he said.
It was in the papers the next day.
“City of light” proclaimed the headline proudly. It
prompted a class discussion. “What will man find in
space?” asked Brother Wheatley.
“God,” yelled Simon hopefully.
The teacher shook his head despairingly, and tapped a
chalk-drawn solar system on the blackboard.
*
Simon was conscripted into the ranks of the parish altar
boys. For Simon, kneeling on the steps below the celebrant,
it was always a serious moment as the priest lowered his
voice in a deliberate, dramatic representation of the Last
Supper: “In mei memoriam facietis—do this in memory of
me”. Simon imagined the tension so long ago when Christ
broke bread and shared wine with his apostles for the last
time, knowing of his betrayal and imminent torture and
execution. “Haec commixtio et consecrato Corporis et
Sanguinis Domini nostri Jesu Christi, fiat accipientibus
11
nobis in vitam aeternam—may this mingling of the body
and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ bring eternal life to us
who receive it.”
Simon Bradbury wanted eternal life.
By the time he was twelve Simon was experienced
enough to serve early morning midweek masses on his
own.
One morning he entered the church to prepare the cruets
and candles. It was quiet and barely illuminated by the
weak dawn light filtering through the stained glass. He
enjoyed being alone there. There was a comfort in the cool
embrace of its solid walls and high windows; in its silent
icons and perfumes. He switched on the lights and stopped
still. He stared at the altar, puzzled. A small table had been
erected in the centre, a few steps below the main altarpiece.
He was confused so he waited for Father MacNamara.
The priest took the boy aside.
“It is called reform,” he answered to the boy’s query.
“Do you know what reform means?”
Simon nodded.
Father MacNamara smiled sadly. “Then I may ask you
to explain it to me because I do not.”
The two stood side-by-side and looked at the table in
silence before the priest spoke again. “That there is our new
altar Simon—glorious isn’t it.”
Simon did not understand, but felt the man’s pain and
was upset for him.
“Do you know what else we are doing today?”
Simon shook his head. He was uncomfortable with the
questions. Questions did not fit well with the atmosphere of
the church.
Father MacNamara looked down and into Simon’s wide
eyes and for a fleeting moment was transported to his own
youth and innocence.
“Today Simon you and I will make history in this parish.
How does that make you feel?”
12
The boy flinched. Something was wrong.
The priest sighed.
“Today we will celebrate the Mass in the vernacular—in
English.” He slapped his hands into his sides. “Latin is no
more.” He paused and stared pensively at the altar. “You
will be called, Simon, I know that even if you don’t. It is a
gift, to be sure, but I fear for the church you will inherit.”
Simon had never heard the priest speak like this. “I don’t
understand,” he said softly.
Father MacNamara walked out onto the altar. He stared
up at the nailed Christ. “The church, Simon is a collection
of almost two thousand years of worship, of countless acts
of faith by those who have lived by God’s word. We belong
to a wondrous family. All the experiences are bound
together for us to share through our celebration of Christ’s
message in our very own universal tongue—Latin.”
Simon looked up at the man. “But it’s a dead language
Father.”
Father MacNamara walked to the new altar and ran his
hand over its polished marble surface. “Ah—that’s what the
brothers are saying is it?” He turned and faced Simon.
“Why is it dead?”
Simon grimaced. He should have held his tongue. Father
MacNamara was in a strange mood.
“Because it’s not used by anybody anymore, Father.”
“Anybody?”
“By normal people.”
The priest smiled. “Normal, eh?” He glanced towards
the empty pews and back to the boy. “That’s the trouble.
The glory comes from being different to the vernacular—
the normal. Latin doesn’t become distorted by casual usage;
it doesn’t change. This is why the church has held to
Latin—a frozen language captures and holds true the
meaning of the Mass. It has given the church a universal
tongue that enables bishops, priests and Catholics the world
over to worship together irrespective of nationality or race.”
13
He stared into the body of the empty church. “It is as
mysterious as the language of the Mass should be—and
now instead of nurturing it, teaching it, we are to dispose of
it.”
Father MacNamara glared at the new, small altar. “And
this to boot.”
Footsteps sounded on the tiles at the front entrance. The
priest beckoned Simon towards the sacristy doorway. “Well
young man, let us meet our destiny.” He glanced across his
shoulder at the approaching figure of an elderly woman.
“While there is merit still in what we do,” he quipped with
unsheathed bitterness.
The Latin Mass changed to English and priests, hesitant
at first, adjusted also to Rome’s edict to stand behind the
new altars so they faced their congregation. It was cause for
heated debate by all who feared a loss of purpose through
the greater sharing of the mystery of the Eucharistic Rites.
But the reformers were determined and omnipotent.
Father MacNamara saw the Mass lose its power, gravity
and mystery, and the ranks of followers continue to
dwindle.
For Simon, however, it passed as a moment of curiosity.
For him the abandonment of Latin did not diminish the
mysticism. He was fond of the ceremonial trappings that
came with being an altar boy; not to mention the sherry, the
delicious flush from tipples sanctioned by the priests when
they were in a good mood, and furtive swigs when they
were not. Some things simply did not change. Being an
altar boy had its privileges, which increased with seniority.
There was a power in being part of a ceremony which
reduced even the authority of Brother Wheatley to bended
knee.
It was a private club; feted by priests and brothers in
their efforts to direct retiring altar boys towards church
vocations.
14
Simon began reading the biographies of the saints; but
not so much out of piety but because he found himself
drawn to their courage. These ordinary men and women
who reached beyond their everyday selves to explore the
limits of belief. Three times a week he served at the earlymorning Mass. It was a lone effort, from setting and
responding to his bedside clock, the uphill bicycle ride from
the opposite side of town, to the purposeful preparation of
wine and wafers for the Eucharistic rite. The early morning
congregation was made up almost entirely of clergy, the
five brothers from his school and a dozen or so nuns. He
could never recall exactly how many. Their number, like
most of their faces, remained indistinct.
Occasionally there would be a pensioner or two, but the
main devotees were a familiar cluster of black cloth in the
pews closest to the altar. The brothers, greased hair and raw
freshly-shaved faces exuded the scent of cologne and soap.
The words of a sermon given to the school one Friday by
Father MacNamara was etched into Simon’s memory.
“From its youth, from among you here, the church seeks
heroes. The sacrifices that all must make in proclaiming
their faith in a hostile world requires spiritual heroism. Are
you ready for the test?”
Most listened obediently. Simon, however, was eager.
His grandfather had been a hero on a beach in Turkey.
Lawrence of Arabia was a hero. Heroism was something he
understood when holding the chalice for the hosts and
watching the smooth wafer placed on Brother Wheatley’s
pink, glistening tongue, at an hour when his classmates
were still warm in their beds.
“Not everyone is called,” thought Simon. It made him
feel special.
Separated from his parents except for holidays, the
influence of the school and the church was never seriously
countered. There wasn’t the time. The school holidays
coincided with farming’s busiest cycles, seeding and
15
harvest, or working with the cattle his father hoped to breed
up into a prime herd. Simon’s father never questioned the
farm demands of working dawn to dusk, and neither did
Simon. The long hours of steering the near-vintage
Chamberlain Super-70 in ever-diminishing circuits had
become an accepted holiday routine. His friends were
impressed and envied his work. He, on the other hand,
could never adequately explain to them the painful
monotony of icy wind through the open cab at seeding time
and the dust and prickly heat at harvest. The old Super-70
was built in the days before tractor-makers thought to offer
farmers padded seats and air-conditioned cabins. But it did
the job: trailed the plough and seeder in winter and in
summer towed a second-hand harvester, often held together
with fencing wire.
This was how his father lived and it was also Simon’s
experience of life, especially while they had the cattle. He
enjoyed working with cattle; borrowing bulls to improve
the strain, weaning the calves and watching them grow.
Then his father sold the animals. The beef market collapsed
and he had reckoned the only way ahead was with wheat.
The yields in such an arid area were low, but the extra
acreage made up for it—or so the theory went. However, by
the end of his schooling Simon resented the strictures of
farm life. One slip; one evaded decision, and he would
become just like his father; dirt-poor and probably also
married to a pinched-faced convent girl. This wasn’t
something he could explain to his parents, but he had
nonetheless started looking beyond his childhood
expectations. In the last years of school when careers had to
be considered, he was attracted to the army. The brothers
were not always successful in their efforts to instil in their
boys a ‘devotion to duty’, but in this respect Simon was an
outstanding disciple. A military career would not have
surprised anyone.
16
By the last summer holiday as he helped his father
harvest yet another poor crop withered by lack of finishing
rains, he hadn’t told his parents about his final decision.
The right moment was difficult to create in a household in
which personal conversation just didn’t happen. So it was a
surprise and a relief for Simon when his father
uncharacteristically raised the subject.
It had been a summer to scorch the heart as well as the
land. Hot north-easterlies blew in from the desert for days
on end. The tractor was giving trouble and the header was
spewing out as much valuable grain in the chaff as it was
collecting in the storage bin.
Simon and his father worked frantically, pausing only
for sleep and meals delivered by his mother in the rattling
Toyota flat-top. Simon watched her, a slender woman in a
simple sun-bleached frock standing in a wasteland of
stubble as she waited for the lumbering machinery to reach
her. He found himself reading for the first time the lines of
age on her face. How long was it since her skin had been
softened with scented creams? Two decades of toil on
godforsaken land had taken their toll. He sometimes
wondered what had kept her there. Surely she didn’t still
believe in her husband’s dreams?
It took five weeks to harvest the eighteen hundred
hectares they had sown. The yield was half what his father
had hoped. With miserly budgeting it might be enough to
live off and put in another crop the following year, but a lot
would depend on the bank, which was tiring of its
investment in fringe farmers. Now, even requests for the
smallest short-term loans brought on a humiliating
inquisition.
The number of farmers out towards the goldfields where
Simon’s parents toiled were dwindling by the year as the
wheatbelt shrank away from them. Soon, it was said, there
would be no farmers left. Nobody wanted them there. Even
the towns were disappearing; emptying one by one. The
17
nearest major town to the farm now was Coolgardie. Once
it had been a city, but it was said even this would be
abandoned soon to tourists and Aborigines. So it meant a
long drive to Kalgoorlie, a gold mining town that looked
upon farmers like they were rare bush animals. It was just a
matter of time before the pastoral companies moved in; or
the government abandoned the land altogether by decreeing
it a national park.
Yet some survived. Hard-bitten men and women who
knew no other living, and surely, they believed, if they
survived when others had failed their persistence would be
rewarded? Surely a life eventually reached a point of
reward? So they fought, confronting the bankers with
passion and sweat. After each year’s end there was often
less and less from which to draw hope, but somehow they
managed—until their loans had grown to the point where it
was the bank that owned the farm.
Then came the end—a short, curt, letter in the mail; a
clearance sale of near worthless equipment; and a locked
gate marking another withered dream.
Simon and his father finished the harvest in the late
afternoon; the tractor and the truck towed the header and
the mobile field bin in a sleeve of dust across the stubble.
The air was still warm and Simon’s clothing was clammy
with sweat. On the tractor seat beside him, was Sandy, his
father’s kelpie-collie cross. When Simon was home the dog
and the boy were inseparable. Simon looked down at the
dog and ruffled the animal’s head.
“Roo,” he shouted. “Roo.”
The dog’s eyes quickened and it barked excitedly. Simon
laughed.
Ahead of them Simon’s father stopped the truck near a
dam dug for the cattle. It was a far corner of the property.
The scrub beyond was wild, though half a century before it
had swarmed with men drawn by tales of a landscape
littered with gold. It had even spawned a town. Cumalong,
18
christened by an anonymous seller of dreams. But the gold
didn’t last and the abandoned town was reclaimed by the
brown dirt and spinifex. His father discouraged Simon from
exploring the old town. “The goat lady will get you,” had
been a frequent and frightening threat when Simon was
younger.
Only once had Simon ever encountered the possibility
that the land might once have belonged to other people. It
was after the harvest when he was fifteen. He had hiked to
one of the backblocks, a full day’s walk, to camp.
One morning Simon saw smoke rising off another
campfire about a kilometre away. Curious, he crept through
the scrub, and in a clearing saw two Aboriginal men, seminaked, with matted white beards. One lay on a piece of
canvas, the other sat cross-legged beside him, singing a low
rhythmic song. Their fire, a small mound of red embers
supported a black, battered water tin. He stared, fascinated
by these strange old men who had intruded onto his father’s
land.
The man sitting either sensed or saw the boy and
stopped singing.
“Go—.”
Simon did not move. The man rose shakily to his feet
and shook a stick towards the staring boy.
“Go—.” The voice, fragile with age, retained an air of
authority.
Simon managed to find his own voice. “Does my father
know you’re here?”
His question was ignored. The man lying on the ground
began coughing. Simon hurried back to his camp, packed
his gear and walked home. That night he told his father,
wondering if they should take a doctor out to the sick man.
“No, leave ‘em be,” he said. “Just a couple of old blacks
come home to die.”
19
It was only many years later that Simon wondered who
they were, where they had come from, and what did his
father mean by saying ‘home’.
The cab door of the truck opened and his father jumped
to the ground stripped in the yellow afternoon light. Then,
with a loud shout, he sprinted at the hard, white clay bank.
Sandy barked and scrambled across Simon’s lap to jump
from the tractor and give chase.
The older man’s brown limbs blended into the earth;
leaving a pale, disembodied torso hurtling through the air.
The dog made a rapidly closing blur. The man disappeared
over the lip of the dam just as the speeding animal caught
him. Simon heard two faint splashes.
Pressing his head against the tractor’s steering wheel
Simon started to giggle. He looked up in time to see his
father’s glistening body reappear above the clay. The man
waved.
Simon climbed from the tractor, excited by this sudden
glimpse of boyishness in his father who had always seemed
old. He was also surprised, because for the past week the
man had withdrawn into a deep, morose silence for much of
the time. Simon shed his soiled T-shirt and jeans and ran
towards the dam. Sandy reappeared and raced to meet him.
Simon deftly side-stepped the dog and his father, and with
legs still pumping launched himself into the excavation.
“Here.”
Simon tried to catch the soap his father threw, but it
slipped from his fingers and disappeared into the murky
water. His father pointed downwards with mock sternness,
cocking an eyebrow in expectation of what was required.
The boy took a deep breath and lowered himself beneath
the surface to the muddy bottom. He groped for the soap,
but couldn’t distinguish between it and slippery rubble.
When he surfaced the object in his hand was a stone.
“Stand aside,” the father growled. He duck-dived, his
shins waving in the air as his hands walked the bottom.
20
Fingers appeared gripping the soap. He stood and handed
the bar to his son. “Can’t beat the experience of an old
dog.”
Sandy barked.
“Arse,” chipped the giggling boy, and ducked beneath a
swinging arm.
Simon lathered and splashed and sang with his father
and became conscious he was being recognized as an equal.
No longer father and son, they were two men, who perhaps
had the capacity to be mates, frolicking in the sun’s dying
rays.
Simon slid beneath the surface to rinse away the suds,
then waded awkwardly to the bank. He climbed to the top
to catch what sun remained for drying. Sandy flopped at his
feet. His father sat beside them.
No one spoke for a while until the older man threw a
stone into the water. The satisfying splash broke the silence
and he lifted his gaze to the surrounding landscape. Behind
the dam was a stand of pale salmon gums, Eucalypt trees
with pinkish trunks. It was the start of the bushland.
Beyond that, layered across the top of the trees, was the thin
purple line of distant ranges; far beyond the distant ruins of
Cumalong. But the overall impression was that of a flat,
empty landscape; a perfect meeting of earth and sky.
Overhead the blue had become indigo.
“What do you think?” the father asked.
Simon tried to follow his gaze, but wasn’t sure what he
was referring to.
“It’s pretty,” he offered.
The man grunted. “Well, there’s that to it I guess.” He
threw another stone which fell short of the water, vanishing
into the deepening shadow at the water’s edge.
“What do you think we should do?”
Simon was confused. “When?” he asked.
“For all of bloody eternity.”
21
Simon didn’t respond so his father continued. “You’ve
seen the crop. I don’t even know if it will pay for the fuel
we’ve been burning up for the past four weeks. ” Simon’s
father took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You know
how it’s been. We’ve been living hand-to-bloody-mouth for
almost twenty years trying to prove every bloody summer
that it was right to come here—and every year the dirt gets
meaner, the wind blows hotter and the work gets harder.”
He paused, but prompted by his son’s awkward silence
was forced to continue.
“I’m only telling you this because in some ways one job
at least is finished. You’ve got your schooling and maybe
you’re even thinking about going to university. Your mum
and I are proud, make no mistake—trouble is, that would
mean we’d have to keep going here—and even then I don’t
know if we could afford it.” He took another deep breath.
“You reckon this is pretty—well it’s pretty near killed me.”
The man allowed himself a bitter chuckle. “You know—
I actually believed once that I was building something to
pass on to you, something for you to build onto for a family
of your own. It was beautiful then, I can tell you. Salmon
gums—almost too skinny to be real trees, but with bark of
bloody iron. I think I spent about two months jarring all
feeling out of my arms with an axe, before my pride was
beaten and I called in a bloke with a dozer and chain. I’d
had this fantasy, you see. I saw myself as starting some sort
of family tradition; a dynasty. Your mother knew it was just
a dream. I think it’s why we never had any more kids.
Nature was on her side. Nothing the doctors could find, but
she decided in her mind, and that’s stronger stuff than what
doctors can touch. Anyway, you’ve got education so I don’t
think you’d like living in a tin shed for as long as we have.
Besides, you’d be battling to find a girl these days who’d
live out here with you. The dreams of a dirt farmer don’t
add up to much—so what I’m saying is—well, if you want
22
to go for a decent job in town or in Perth, don’t feel you
have to stay here.”
Simon’s father paused to let his words sink in, then he
changed direction.
“It’d be better there for your family—much nicer, and
grandkids would give us something—especially your
mother, to look forward to apart from us just getting old
and bitter and so ingrained with this useless bloody dirt that
we can’t wash it out.”
He paused again and laughed. “I’m jumping the gun I
know. You’ll want to see a bit of life first. A good lookin’
bloke like yourself should have an easy time cutting
through some of those convent girls you’ve left behind.” He
chuckled throatily. “God—they reckon they’re the best—
convent girls. All that repression to work out of their
system—.”
Simon cleared his throat, struggling for something to
say. His father had never spoken to him like this before. He
was disturbed, but also relieved. He didn’t want the farm.
He didn’t want to live like his parents. He hurled a stone
towards the water and heard the splash. The night was
closing and a gentle breeze brushed their bare skin.
Simon turned to look at the shape of his father sitting
near him. “I’ve decided to join the church—I’m going to be
a priest.”
There was a moment’s quiet, then the man laughed,
freely and loudly. “Jesus, you scared me for a touch.”
Simon spoke quietly. “I haven’t said anything because I
didn’t know what you’d say. But it means I can go to
university without it costing you. Father MacNamara will
sponsor me—it’s arranged.”
This time the silence lingered before the man exhaled
loudly.
“Jesus bloody Christ,” he muttered, and lifted his back
up off the hard clay surface. “You’re joking surely?”
23
Simon hugged his knees. He could feel waves of
frustration and fury coming from the man, who finally put
words back into the emptiness.
“Who put this into your head?” His voice was low and
even, that of a man fighting for control.
“Nobody.”
“Bullshit. You’ve spent too long with those bloody
brothers—and who’s this MacNamara?”
“He’s been good to me—helped me.” How could he
explain? How could he tell the man beside him who was
trying to suddenly capture and close his entire childhood
that the priest had grown to be more of a father than him?
“Christ, I had a feeling something like this had
happened. Don’t you realise you’ve just been brainwashed.
It’s not a job and no bloody way to live. Christ, I can hardly
believe you’re serious. What happened to the bloody army?
You mentioned that once and I would have happily
agreed.”
Simon sighed. “I’m not looking for a job in the normal
sense. It’s hard to explain, but I don’t want to just live and
die. I believe there is a spirit in us. I don’t understand it—
but I do want to try and learn what it means.”
The man grunted his disbelief.
“It’s a voice inside that I can’t ignore.”
The man spat into the blackness which had settled
around them. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this. I get voices
telling me to take out that bastard Thompson at the bank
with an iron bar. Doesn’t mean I’ll do it though.”
The man lapsed into another long silence. Simon felt it
better to say as little as possible. Eventually his father got to
his feet.
“I don’t want to hear anymore about it, and for Christ’s
sake don’t tell your mother.”
Simon’s father returned to the truck. He grabbed a torch
from the glovebox and in its light collected his discarded
clothing. The warm breeze had long since dried his skin and
24
he dressed quickly. He whistled Sandy into the cab and
with the customary crunch of gears, continued the journey
home.
Simon sat in the dark with only his belief to hold onto,
and he didn’t really know how strong it was. Father
MacNamara had told him over and again: God’s heroes
can’t expect hard decisions to be easy. But now his eyes
were wet, and the wetness slid onto his cheeks. All his life
he had wanted his father to talk to him the way he had
tonight, and the bond he had so wanted had lasted just
minutes.
The rattle and whine of the truck had long since receded
when the youth finally roused himself. He walked back to
the tractor where he dressed. He unstrapped a folded
tarpaulin and dragged it into the lee of some trees behind
the dam. He returned to the tractor and collected an old
army ammunition box containing an iron kettle, enamel
mugs and other bits and pieces they used for preparing
meals in the field. He methodically began building a small
fire from twigs and sticks. He would stay the night beside
the dam. The atmosphere at home would be too thick with
his father’s bitterness and the cold, questioning eyes of his
mother. His father would turn the anger inwards on himself.
His mother, who had witnessed it all before, would aid and
abet the mood with silence. Simon loved his parents,
because he was their child, but he did not understand them.
If there was any remaining love it was not something that a
seventeen-year-old could see or understand.
Alone with the night crickets he sat and remembered a
poem.
Will you love me, sweet, when my hair is grey
And my cheeks shall have lost their hue?
When the charms of youth shall have passed away
Will your love as of old prove true?
He remembered the passage because once, when he was
younger, his father had read it aloud to his mother. It had
25
been a good year, before the cattle crash. If only words
could hold dreams in one piece, Simon thought.
He sipped hot black tea, flavoured with a green
eucalyptus twig dunked into the simmering brew. What
would his father say to his mother? She might understand,
but perhaps that was expecting too much. She was a
Catholic, but she would be of the opinion that priests came
from other families; families who said grace before meals,
who adorned the hallway and lounge room with icons, who
invited priests to dinner – who knew they belonged to the
church. She, on the other hand, was one of the lost. No
religion was practised in her house. It had failed her, and
she it. She would consider it neither proper, nor fair, to be
the mother of a priest.
Simon folded the heavy canvas over his body, lay on his
back and watched the sparks from his fire spin dizzily
upwards until they were swallowed by the darkness. Away
from the town lights, the southern sky was a canopy of
jewels, crowned by the Southern Cross which guided the
night traveller as accurately as any man-made compass.
And, if he was to believe his calling, somewhere up there
was the Kingdom of Heaven, though he accepted that such
a notion was simplistic. Nevertheless, he had heard the
cosmos once described by a space scientist as “all that is, or
ever was, or ever will be”. That sounded pretty close to his
perception of God.
Simon envisaged the life of a priest as that of a trained
professional in matters of spirituality, mysticism, the secrets
of the church and the secrets of the human soul. He hoped
to learn to better articulate his personal beliefs, to help
others do the same. The rigours and self-denial which the
priesthood demanded were part of this process; practical
lifestyle constraints to allow a single-minded approach to
the vocation. Simon saw mental discipline as a reward,
rather than a discouragement. He saw the priesthood as a
26
brethren of like-minded men fostering the higher
aspirations of the human condition.
Breathing the incense of burning eucalyptus and with a
clear view into the eternity of the universe it seemed
plausible enough to Simon, especially when hard against
his back, was his land. It was solid and comforting while he
looked up towards other planets, stars and galaxies. What
precious worlds of rare beauty like his own existed there?
How many other questioning minds were projecting into
the heavens that night, millions of light years apart, yet
joined by a shared yearning to discover the truths of
existence?
As he drifted towards sleep he was startled by the snort
of a horse. He rolled over towards the sound and tensed
with fright. Not more than fifty metres away was a young
woman not much older than himself, on a grey horse. She
was dressed in white and she smiled at him. He struggled to
his feet, but as he did both rider and horse vanished. Simon
stared and shook his head, marvelling at the extraordinary
reality of his dream.
27
Chapter
Two
From
above,
the
river
looks
like
frayed
pieces
of
green
string
tossed
carelessly
onto
a
rusty
red
parquetry.
In
places
it
disappears,
leaving
the
land
scorched
and
lifeless.
Does
it
journey
for
a
while
beneath
the
earth’s
surface
to
escape
the
relentless
heat?
Or
does
it
just
become
a
dusty
bed
of
latent
life
waiting
to
renew
in
the
next
wet
season.
It’s
difficult
to
tell
at
two
and
a
half
thousand
metres.
From
the
cabin
of
a
small
aeroplane
riding
an
invisible
roller‐coaster
of
air
currents,
the
landscape
is
an
intimidating
vista
of
red
and
brown,
the
slender
string
of
green
is
something
to
admire
for
its
tenacity.
This
is
Gondwanaland;
the
land
that
time
forgot,
a
cliche,
but
only
to
those
who
don’t
know
it.
For
those
who
walk
across
its
baked,
red
and
purple
skin
the
description
cannot
be
dulled
by
over‐use.
In
this
remote
corner
of
the
planet
the
reminders
of
a
pre‐human
world
are
everywhere.
Once
the
river
never
disappeared.
It
twisted
through
a
rainforest.
Its
waters
quenched
the
thirst
of
giants,
dragonflies
with
wingspans
a
metre
wide,
enormous
reptiles
and
dinosaurs,
and
kangaroos
as
tall
as
trees,
bounding
across
the
land.
In
the
ocean,
which
was
nearer
then,
there
were
Trilobites
just
as
large,
and
sea
scorpions
thin
and
flat
but
metres
long.
It
was
the
time
of
Tjukurpa—Ngarrangkarni—
the
Dreamtime,
long
before
the
advent
of
humans.
These
creatures
continue
to
live
in
song
cycles;
given
occasional
scientific
credence
when
the
hot
winds
scour
the
sands
of
the
forest‐supplanting
desert
to
reveal
the
bones
of
these
ancient
earthly
lords.
As
the
aeroplane
descended
in
a
slow,
controlled
spiral,
the
river
blossomed.
In
sections
its
banks
were
sheer
walls
of
smooth
rock.
In
other
places
there
were
gentle
slopes
of
sand
and
these
grew
tall,
white‐trunked
trees
spreading
a
precious
green
canopy
over
the
river
bank.
When
the
plane
throttled
32
back
to
close
the
distance
between
itself
and
its
flitting
shadow,
there
was
a
glimpse
of
glistening
bodies
and
uplifted
faces.
The
wheels
caught
in
the
red
sand,
plunging
the
craft
into
an
opaque
cloud
of
swirling
dust.
“Terra
firma,”
the
pilot
yelled
as
he
crawled
through
to
the
cabin
area.
By
wresting
the
handle
in
one
hand,
and
kicking
hard
with
his
boot
he
pushed
open
the
door.
It
swung
out
and
upwards
on
protesting
hinges.
After
the
numbing
engine
noise,
the
first
greeting
from
the
world
outside
was
silence.
Then
came
the
breath‐sucking
heat,
and
the
crash
of
a
gearbox
announcing
the
official
welcoming
party.
Simon
watched
the
flat‐top
Toyota
approach
as
in
a
dream.
Already
the
heat
was
prickling
his
skin.
His
head
throbbed
from
too
little
sleep.
A
dark‐skinned
teenager
clung
to
a
rail
behind
the
cab.
When
it
stopped,
the
vehicle
ejected
an
Aboriginal
driver
and
a
white‐skinned,
sandy‐haired
passenger.
The
latter
strode
forward
heading
for
the
familiar
figure
of
the
pilot.
They
shook
hands
and
slapped
shoulders.
The
pilot
was
lanky
and
tanned.
The
man
from
the
mission
was
surprisingly
fair‐skinned
and
thickset.
He
looked
to
be
in
his
mid‐forties,
wore
a
plain
green
shirt,
brown
dress
shorts,
and
had
a
large
bunch
of
keys
on
his
belt.
He
wore
cotton
socks
pulled
to
his
knees,
and
suede
shoes.
“Still
getting
the
mathematics
right,
I
see.”
The
pilot
grinned
at
an
old
joke
and
turned
to
Simon
to
explain.
“Equal
ratio
of
landings
to
take‐offs.
The
bastard
reckons
one
day
I’ll
make
a
lousy
mathematician.”
He
winked
conspiratorially
at
Simon.
“That’s
what
he
hopes,
just
to
be
a
smart
arse.”
Simon
smiled
obligingly
and
stepped
forward
to
take
the
proffered
hand
of
the
mission
administrator.
Simon
was
not
a
particularly
tall
man,
but
he
stood
comfortably
over
the
man
whose
hand
he
was
now
shaking.
He
received
a
neutral
grip
33
from
nicotined
fingers
and
the
man
smiled
without
enthusiasm.
“Fred
Davies,”
he
was
saying,
as
Simon
was
already
disliking
him.
“Simon
Bradbury,”
he
responded,
and
held
onto
his
forced
smile
while
Davies
studied
him.
“You
don’t
look
like
a
priest,”
he
said
finally,
and
began
to
lead
Simon
to
the
Toyota.
He
yelled
to
the
boy
to
collect
the
bags.
Simon
was
still
wondering
whether
this
observation
was
good
or
bad
when
Davies
continued
in
the
same
blunt
tone.
“But
you’re
a
southerner
all
the
same.”
“That
easy?”
“Yup.
You’ve
got
that
bloody
landed
gentry
look
about
you.”
Simon
laughed.
He
was
wearing
new
denims
and
like
anyone,
he
had
been
self‐conscious
about
wearing
them
for
the
first
time.
New
jeans
turned
everyone
into
a
novice.
“Well
I’m
sure
you’ll
change
that.”
“Too
bloody
right.”
Davies
waved
the
bags
onto
the
tray
of
the
Toyota.
The
boy
and
the
driver
had
already
loaded
six
cartons
of
beer
and
several
cardboard
boxes
marked
‘Gunwinddu
store’.
“We’ll
drop
off
your
gear,
then
I’ll
give
you
the
Cook’s
tour—you’ll
have
to
jump
up
on
the
back
with
Angel.
Only
room
for
three
in
the
front.”
Simon
hoisted
himself
onto
the
traytop,
the
blood
rising
in
his
cheeks
at
the
snub.
He
smiled
to
invite
solidarity
with
the
boy.
“They
call
you
Angel?”
The
boy
flashed
his
teeth,
but
said
nothing.
He
motioned
to
Simon
to
hold
the
rail.
Simon
was
glad
of
the
mute
advice
as
the
engine
fired
and
the
vehicle
lurched
ahead
in
the
one
violent
movement.
The
Toyota
sped
across
the
airstrip
towards
a
track
flanked
by
scrubby
trees
and
large
boulders.
34
When
the
breeze
of
their
movement
touched
Simon’s
face
he
was
glad
to
be
on
the
back,
in
the
open.
The
track
bent
to
the
right
and
then
began
curving
in
a
large
anti‐clockwise
arc.
Reddish
brown
dust
plumed
behind.
Scattered
here
and
there
were
boab
trees
like
giant
inflated
kitchen
gloves
stood
on
end
and
planted.
Through
the
trees
Simon
could
see
buildings,
but
the
Toyota
appeared
to
be
following
a
perimeter
road
around
the
settlement.
They
slowed
as
they
passed
through
a
cluster
of
corrugated
iron
lean‐to’s.
Children
sat
playing
in
the
sand,
watched
by
a
number
of
women
squatting
in
the
meagre
shade
of
the
shanties
they
inhabited.
The
sight
was
a
shock.
No
one
had
said
anything
about
a
housing
problem.
Clear
of
the
children,
the
Toyota
gathered
speed
again.
Simon
stared
back
at
the
scene.
Moments
later,
they
reached
the
settlement.
There
was
a
row
of
asbestos
bungalows
beneath
the
patchy
shade
of
tall
white
gums
which
filled
the
air
with
the
scents
of
lemon
and
eucalyptus.
Simon
could
see
the
river
bank
about
a
hundred
metres
behind
the
houses.
At
the
end
of
what
might
loosely
be
called
a
street
was
a
simple
box‐like
structure
with
a
wooden
cross
fixed
to
the
front
gable.
The
shadow
of
a
nearby
tree
was
splayed
against
the
near
wall.
On
the
other
side
a
bell
tower
protruded
above
the
line
of
the
roof.
The
Toyota
stopped
outside
the
house
nearest
the
church,
its
engine
idling
so
roughly
the
driver
had
to
keep
it
revving.
The
top
of
a
head
appeared
through
the
cab
window
below.
“Home,”
called
Davies
with
a
sarcastic
chuckle.
“Home,”
echoed
Simon,
with
forced
enthusiasm.
Angel
jumped
from
the
back
and
grasped
Simon’s
two
bags.
“Angel
will
drop
your
gear
inside
the
door.”
The
head
disappeared
and
the
truck
lurched
forward
again.
“Thanks,”
Simon
yelled
to
Angel’s
unresponsive
back.
They
continued
for
about
two
hundred
metres
to
the
end
of
the
‘street’
where
it
met
a
towering
rock
wall,
and
so
turned
sharply
left
into
another
street
which
sat
below
this
35
ridge.
The
cliff
face
was
about
forty
metres
high
and
sheer
rock
except
for
patches
of
spindly
grass
and
the
occasional
sapling
which
had
managed
to
root
in
a
crack
or
crevice.
Above
it
the
ghost
of
a
moon
hung
in
a
pale,
airless
sky.
The
Toyota
stopped
at
a
group
of
three
buildings;
asbestos
bungalows
with
front
verandas.
The
same
basic
design
as
most
other
buildings
in
sight,
except
these
were
painted
a
washed‐out
blue.
The
windows
were
protected
by
iron
grilles.
The
administrator
climbed
from
the
cab
and
nodded
to
the
middle
building.
“That’s
where
you’ll
find
me
most
times.
Home
and
office
rolled
into
one.
Never
did
like
commuting.”
He
cocked
an
eye
at
Simon
to
measure
his
response.
The
priest
smiled
appreciatively
and
jumped
lightly
to
the
ground.
“I
know
the
feeling.”
“On
the
left
is
the
cop
shop—when
the
bastards
are
here,
which
is
never
when
you
need
them
and
always
when
you
don’t.”
He
began
striding
towards
the
building
on
the
right.
“And
this
is
the
canteen,
our
bastion
of
white
supremacy.”
He
laughed
as
if
at
a
private
joke.
“It’s
got
the
only
legal
bar,
the
only
air‐conditioning,
the
only
pool
table
without
the
felt
ripped
to
shreds,
pretty
well
the
only
windows
with
any
glass
remaining,
and
it’s
got
its
own
auxiliary
generator
for
when
the
main
unit—you
would
have
seen
that
just
after
we
came
off
the
strip—either
breaks
down
or
is
shut
down,
which
you
can
count
on
whenever
some
young
buck
has
had
too
much
warm
booze
or
is
rankled
because
we’ve
got
the
key
to
the
pen.”
“Pen?”
“Girls’
hostel.
Tighter
than
a
maximum
security
prison—
but
that’s
the
way
you
lot
like
it
isn’t
it.”
It
was
said
as
a
statement,
not
a
question.
Simon
frowned.
“Guess
you’d
better
show
me.”
“Yeah,
right,
but
let’s
wet
the
throat
first.”
Davies
tried
the
handle
of
the
canteen
door.
It
was
locked
and
he
unhooked
the
keys
on
his
belt.
36
The
three
whites
entered.
The
building
was
essentially
a
house
with
its
dividing
walls
removed.
There
was
a
bar,
pool
table,
dart
board
with
its
colours
dulled
by
age
and
use,
and
a
long
wooden
table
surrounded
by
plastic
molded
chairs.
On
the
wall
behind
the
bar
was
a
row
of
pigeon
holes,
each
one
labelled
with
a
name.
Simon
read
them
quickly
and
saw
the
one
he
was
looking
for:
‘Rantz’.
Along
the
room’s
end
wall
were
several
faded
lounge
chairs.
The
slam
of
a
vehicle
door
reminded
Simon
of
the
driver
and
through
the
open
doorway
he
saw
him
walk
away.
The
grilled
windows
and
signs
of
segregation
were
disturbing.
He
wished
now
he
had
had
a
chance
to
talk
to
Father
Rantz,
his
predecessor.
But
the
old
priest
had
gone
before
Simon
had
even
heard
of
Gunwinddu.
A
can
of
beer
was
thrust
into
his
hand.
“I
assume
you
drink,”
said
Davies.
Simon
was
tempted
to
say
no,
but
it
was
too
damned
hot.
He
nodded
gratefully.
The
three
men
raised
their
cans.
“I
thought
pilots
weren’t
supposed
to
drink
and
fly,”
said
Simon.
“I
thought
it
was
like
that
for
priests,”
he
said,
and
laughed.
“Anyway,
you’ll
learn—it’s
the
only
bloody
thing
that
does
keep
you
flying,
or
walking,
or
doing
anything
up
here.
Besides,
there
might
be
a
thunderstorm,
which
means
I
would
only
have
to
turn
back
and
stay
the
night
anyway.”
Simon
scoffed.
“There’s
not
a
cloud
in
the
sky.”
The
pilot
just
smiled.
“Well,
there’s
also
the
fact
that
you
blokes
have
the
only
cold
beer
for
five
hundred
kilometres.”
Davies
banged
his
can
onto
the
counter.
“Shit,
we’d
better
grab
it.”
He
hurried
outside
and
kicked
at
a
dog
urinating
on
the
Toyota’s
back
wheel.
He
lifted
a
carton
against
his
chest.
The
pilot
and
Simon
followed.
As
Simon
pressed
the
load
under
his
chin
he
noticed
people
milling
in
the
street;
watching.
He
37
wanted
to
wave
but
his
arms
were
imprisoned
by
beer.
He
shifted
the
carton
onto
his
hip
and
retreated
back
to
the
building,
sensing
accusing
eyes.
He
dropped
the
carton
onto
the
counter
and
was
reluctant
to
go
outside
again.
He
stood
instead
at
the
window.
A
group
of
old
men
had
moved
to
sit
beneath
a
tree
opposite
and
were
watching
the
beer
being
unloaded.
Further
along
the
street
clusters
of
women
dressed
in
simple
cotton
frocks
also
stood
watching.
Simon
noticed
the
absence
of
older
children
and
he
asked
the
administrator.
Davies
glanced
at
his
wristwatch.
“Almost
four—the
girls’ll
be
back
at
the
hostel
and
the
boys’ll
be
on
the
football
oval.
I’ll
take
you
around,
but
it
looks
better
the
first
time
after
a
beer.”
Simon
declined
a
second
drink
and
Davies
reluctantly
withdrew
his
hand
from
the
handle
of
the
fridge
under
the
bar.
“All
right—”
He
marched
back
out
into
the
street,
keys
jangling
on
his
belt.
“See
you
blokes
later
then,”
said
the
pilot,
opening
another
beer
and
turning
his
back
to
the
outside.
“Right—the
Cook’s
tour,”
Davies
grunted
as
he
beckoned
Simon
into
the
vehicle.
Further
along
the
street
the
houses
were
in
a
poor
state
and
some
looked
abandoned.
“Does
anybody
live
in
these?”
“Not
at
the
moment—but
that
could
change
in
a
day.
A
mob
of
cousins
could
turn
up
and
everybody’ll
switch
around
according
to
who
wants
to
be
near
who.
It’s
like
that.
Twenty
people
in
a
house
one
week,
empty
the
next.”
“Then
why
the
shanties
near
the
airstrip
when
you’ve
got
empty
houses?”
Davies
exhaled.
“No
one’s
explained
much
to
you
have
they?
They’re
widows,
most
of
them
anyway.
Some
are
unmarried
mothers,
kicked
out
of
town
for
their
sins.
That’s
Rantz’s
law.
The
widows—well
that’s
tribal
law.
When
a
family
member
dies
you’ve
got
to
leave
home
for
a
year.
So
38
they
camp
outside
the
settlement.
Anyway,
it’s
of
no
concern
to
me.”
“But
it’s
just
sheets
of
rusted
tin
over
bare
dirt.”
“Well,
this
is
hardly
Mosman
Heights,
Father.”
Simon
looked
away
at
the
mention
of
his
former
parish
and
wondered
how
much
Davies
knew.
The
street
finished
at
a
T‐junction.
To
the
left
were
more
houses.
To
the
right
the
road
disappeared
through
a
natural
cut
in
the
ridge
behind
the
settlement.
Davies
turned
right;
the
long
stems
of
the
the
floor‐shift
gear
lever
and
clutch
pedal
forcing
an
exaggerated
movement
of
arms
and
legs.
“You
don’t
have
a
high
opinion
of
these
people,”
Simon
ventured.
“I
work
for
the
government,
not
the
church—if
that
makes
any
difference.”
He
slowed
the
vehicle
as
he
negotiated
a
sharp
left‐hand
turn
and
Simon
stared
as
the
cut
in
the
rock
opened
into
a
basin
about
a
kilometre
across
and
walled
on
all
sides
by
the
same
red
rock
which
shielded
the
settlement.
The
perimeter
of
the
small,
walled
valley
was
bordered
with
dense
scrub
and
gracious
white
gums.
But
in
the
centre
the
vista
was
dominated
by
three
buildings,
painted
a
pale
blue
like
the
administration
block.
“Hospital
and
sister’s
quarters,”
said
Davies.
Simon’s
gaze
was
fixed
on
the
third
building,
similar
to
the
hospital,
except
it
was
ringed
by
a
tall
wire
fence,
crowned
with
barbed
wire.
“The
pen,”
said
Davies.
“What
do
you
mean?”
“Girls’
hostel.”
They
stopped
outside
the
gate,
a
tall
assembly
of
welded
angle‐iron
and
wire.
The
upright
lengths
of
iron
had
been
cut
to
points.
Inside
the
compound
Simon
could
see
girls
sitting,
talking
in
the
shade
of
a
tree.
Several,
despite
the
heat,
were
39
playing
hop‐scotch.
All
were
dressed
in
pale
blue
uniforms.
Pale
blue
had
obviously
been
somebody’s
favourite
colour.
“How
long
has
it
been
like
this?”
he
asked.
Davies
turned
to
look
at
him.
“Since
before
my
time,
and
I’ve
been
here
eight
bloody
years.
Karl
might
know,
he
came
up
with
Father
Rantz
a
few
years
after
the
War.
Anyway,
however
long,
it
was
Rantz’s
doing.”
“Who’s
Karl?”
“Mechanic—old
German
bloke.
You’ll
meet
him
later.
He
keeps
the
wheels
and
cogs
around
here
turning.
Got
a
workshop
on
the
other
side.
A
magician
with
diesel
engines.”
Simon
tapped
his
fingers
against
the
dashboard.
“But
why
the
fence
and
the
wire?”
“Christ,
haven’t
you
been
briefed
about
anything?”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“Get
the
cattle
business
back
on
its
feet—pick
it
up
as
you
see
it.
But
this
is—this
is
a
shock.”
Davies
paused,
choosing
his
words.
“Old
Rantz
knew
what
he
was
doing.
You’d
be
advised
to
leave
well
alone.”
Davies
turned
off
the
engine.
He
unbuttoned
his
breast
pocket
and
took
out
a
pouch
of
tobacco
and
papers,
then
carefully
rolled
a
cigarette
as
he
spoke.
“You’d
better
learn
fast,
because
if
you
can’t,
you’ll
be
doing
us
all
a
favour
by
not
unpacking
your
bags
tonight.
You’re
at
the
junction
of
two
worlds
here,
the
civilized
and
the
savage.
I
hate
to
shatter
any
feel‐good
notions
you
may
have
brought
from
the
city,
but
frankly
your
new
parishioners
are
not
fit
for
decent
society.
That’s
the
reality.
Now,
you
can
try
and
Europeanise
them
if
you
like,
but
in
the
time
I’ve
been
here
I’d
say
it’s
a
waste
of
bloody
time.”
Davies
struck
a
match
and
cupped
the
flame
against
the
end
of
his
cigarette.
He
inhaled
contentedly,
and
spun
the
dead
splinter
through
the
window.
“Some,
like
me,
are
trying
to
make
the
best
of
a
fuck
awful
job
and
we
don’t
need
any
do‐gooder
getting
an
evangelical
flush
and
creating
problems
we
don’t
need.
Things
run
pretty
40
smoothly
now.
The
Blacks
have
got
used
to
the
system,
and
the
government
and
the
church
are
happy.”
Davies
drew
hard
on
his
cigarette.
“The
wire
is
your
lot’s
idea.
Holds
the
girls
in,
and
the
young
bucks
out.
Keeps
everybody
pure
and
virginal—well,
for
three
hundred
and
sixty
four
days
a
year,
anyway.”
Simon
shot
him
a
quizzical
glance.
“Old
Rantz
used
to
get
a
bit
sentimental
around
Christmas.
He’d
let
the
girls
spend
it
with
their
families.
There’d
always
be
one
or
two
who’d
get
potted
by
a
boyfriend
or
uncle—
they’re
the
ones
Rantz
would
pack
off
to
the
widows.”
He
paused
and
laughed
to
himself.
“Know
Rantz?”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“No.”
Davies
laughed
again.
“Funny
bloke,”
he
said,
and
avoided
Simon’s
glance.
“In
what
way?”
Davies
smiled
knowingly
and
drew
on
the
cigarette.
He
declined
to
answer.
Simon
shifted
uncomfortably
against
the
seat.
“So
these
girls
are
in
here
permanently—except
for
one
or
two
days
a
year?”
“Shit
no—go
to
the
school—but
of
course
they
get
ferried
in
the
truck.”
“Don’t
they
try
to
escape?”
Escape,
it
sounded
unreal.
He
tried
to
soften
it.
“—run
away.”
“It’s
the
cattle
truck.
Bloody
big
cage
on
the
back,
and
they’re
watched
pretty
closely
at
the
school.
Wilma
Breck
is
not
a
woman
I’d
cross.
Anyway,
the
girls
seem
to
accept
it
without
much
complaint.
Old
Rantz
and
the
nuns—had
a
few
here
for
a
while;
last
one
left
about
five
years
ago—told
them
it
was
necessary
for
their
salvation.
The
Aborigines
have
a
useful
respect
for
the
spirit
world.
Tell
them
anything
in
the
name
of
the
heavens
and
they’ll
wear
it.”
Davies
finished
his
smoke,
flicked
the
butt
out
the
window
and
began
to
chuckle.
“There’s
been
some
funny
sights
41
though.
A
couple
of
years
ago
we
actually
found
a
tunnel
into
the
place.
No
one
owned
up
and
old
Rantz
was
fit
to
bust.
The
whole
place
was
knees
down,
heads
on
chest
for
weeks.
Another
night
some
of
the
young
blokes
managed
to
cut
their
way
through
the
fence
with
oxy
from
the
workshop.
Got
into
the
dormitory
okay,
but
in
their
hurry
they
forgot
to
shut
off
the
torch.
Left
it
lying
in
the
grass.
Before
they’d
even
had
a
chance
to
get
the
girls
warmed
up
the
whole
community
was
rushing
in
to
save
the
hostel
from
a
raging
scrub
fire.
The
boys
were
taken
bush
a
few
days
later.
That
cooled
their
ardour.
Don’t
know
what
happens
out
there,
but
they
come
back
a
lot
tamer.
It’s
a
pity
old
Rantz
didn’t
like
it.
He
banned
the
dances
and
ceremonies,
so
the
elders
don’t
get
much
of
a
chance
anymore
to
lay
down
the
rule.
Still,
I
suppose
there’s
only
room
for
one
law.”
Simon
looked
at
the
girls
playing
behind
the
wire,
their
gaiety
mocking
him.
He
had
been
looking
forward
to
Gunwinddu,
hoping
the
posting
would
cure
his
disillusion.
He
had
entered
the
priesthood
with
youthful
conviction,
but
over
the
years
his
emotional
survival
had
come
to
rely
too
much
on
the
political
skills
that
he
lacked.
As
the
church
tried
to
adjust
to
a
world
in
which
religion
was
losing
its
authority,
priests
needed
as
much
corporate
and
political
awareness
as
any
evangelical
fervour.
It
was
Bishop
MacNamara
who
had
arranged
his
transfer.
Macnamara,
who
had
been
a
father
to
him.
MacNamara
who
had
steadied
him,
who
had
taught
him
to
define
life
into
black
and
white—the
teachings
of
the
church
versus
everything
else.
But
then
the
edges
had
started
to
blur.
There
were
two
churches;
two
diverging
currents.
And
he
and
the
Bishop
seemed
caught
in
a
different
stream
to
everybody
else.
Simon
had
clung
to
the
old
ways
out
of
loyalty,
while
others
of
his
generation
discarded
their
black
shirts
and
white
collars,
grew
their
hair,
donned
jeans,
played
guitar
and
took
the
42
gospel
from
the
altar,
out
into
youth
clubs
and
peace
marches.
Inevitably,
reality
caught
up.
Congregations
dwindled
and
priests,
those
who
remained,
struggled
with
a
whole
new
experience,
loss
of
purpose.
The
seventies
became
a
decade
lost
in
the
cultural
hangover
of
the
sixties.
The
eighties
was
becoming
the
era
in
which
commerce
was
the
universal
measure
of
human
worth.
Priests
adjusted
or
shrunk
into
themselves.
Older
priests
like
MacNamara
sought
meaning
from
wherever
it
could
be
found.
In
his
case
it
was
a
Catholic
university.
An
army
of
consultants
was
hired.
The
vision
consumed
millions
of
dollars
without
a
single
brick
being
laid.
It
came
at
a
time
when
Simon
was
beginning
to
doubt
himself
and
the
Church.
He
began
to
question
the
wasted
money,
then
criticise—publicly
from
the
pulpit.
It
was
as
much
a
vent
for
his
private
frustrations
as
indignation
at
the
squandering
of
so
much
money.
Simon
became
a
problem.
Especially
for
MacNamara,
and
Gunwindu
became
the
answer.
“Seen
enough?”
“For
the
moment.”
Davies
started
the
engine
and
turned
the
Toyota
in
a
tight
half‐circle.
“Who
looks
after
the
girls
when
they’re
inside
the
compound?”
“They
pretty
much
look
after
themselves,”
Davies
said.
“There
are
a
couple
of
older
women
from
the
settlement
with
them,
but
they
just
follow
the
rules
set
down
by
Wilma
Breck.
You
can
bet
there’s
plenty
of
floor
scrubbing
and
praying.”
Simon
experienced
a
sudden
vision
of
the
community
as
a
microcosm
of
old‐world
Catholicism,
a
schismatic
world
that
he
would
be
expected
to
uphold.
Davies
seemed
to
read
his
thoughts.
“Look,”
he
said.
“It’s
what’s
best.
I
could
take
you
to
other
settlements
where
they’ve
tried
to
go
back
to
the
old
ways
and
ended
up
swimming
in
blood
and
beer.
We
keep
a
tight
lid
on
the
grog
43
here—not
as
tight
as
it
could
be,
but
at
least
we
don’t
have
to
live
like
staff
at
other
places.
Over
at
McKenzie
they
barricade
themselves
behind
wire
at
night.
The
blacks
don’t
drink
like
you
and
me,
they
drink
themselves
into
a
coma.
But
before
they
get
to
that
stage
they’ll
kill
their
mother
with
a
broken
bottle
and
not
even
know
what
they’re
doing.
Believe
me,
you
survive
any
amount
of
time
up
here
and
you’ll
learn
the
blessing
of
an
iron
fist.”
They
left
the
basin
and
continued
through
the
settlement.
Davies
showed
Simon
the
school;
three
transportable
classrooms
in
a
paddock
of
brown
dirt
worn
smooth
by
the
pounding
of
small
black
feet;
the
nearby
basketball
courts,
similarly
unsealed,
and
two
large
clay
pans,
which,
had
become
the
football
ovals.
“Last
stop
the
store,”
said
Davies.
“Flour
and
tobacco
are
the
big
turn‐over
items.
We
grow
our
own
vegetables
on
a
flat
near
the
river,
and
for
meat
it’s
home‐grown
beef,
with
a
bit
of
variety
now
and
then
with
‘roo,
wild
boar,
and
buffalo
when
the
young
blokes
feel
like
a
hunt.
If
you
want
to
try
your
luck
there’s
supposed
to
be
barramundi
in
the
river—
but
I’ve
only
seen
a
few
caught
in
the
time
I’ve
been
here.
You
can
cook
for
yourself
if
you
want,
but
some
of
the
women
are
paid
to
cook
meals
in
the
canteen.”
“Speaking
of
the
river—what
about
crocodiles?”
Davies
chuckled
dryly.
“A
few
freshwater
Johnstones
hereabouts,
but
they
won’t
bother
you.
Downstream
the
Blacks
reckon
there
are
some
old
salties,
but
I
suspect
they’ve
pretty
well
been
shot
out.
The
last
death
was
a
long
time
ago,
before
I
got
here,
though
they
still
get
pretty
nervous
about
fishing
down
that
way.”
Davies
stopped
outside
the
store.
“You’d
better
come
in
and
meet
the
manager.
Just
so
there
are
no
awkward
surprises,
she’s
my
wife.
Her
name
is
Muriel.”
Simon
followed
him
inside,
wondering
how
this
latest
piece
of
information
fitted
into
the
Gunwindu
puzzle.
For
44
some
reason
he
hadn’t
expected
Davies
to
be
married.
The
dim
light
revealed
a
jumble
of
shelves
and
benches
piled
high
with
everything
that
could
be
sold
in
cardboard,
or
tin,
from
breakfast
cereals
and
baby
foods
to
fencing
wire
and
oil.
Davies
whistled
and
a
slender,
tanned
woman
in
a
loose‐
fitting
dress
stepped
through
a
rear
doorway.
The
surprise
grew.
She
offered
the
first
warm
smile
Simon
had
seen
in
a
long
time
and
walked
towards
him
with
her
hand
outstretched.
“Muriel
Davies—and
you
will
be
Father
Bradbury.
Welcome
to
Gunwinddu.”
Simon
smiled,
relieved
at
having
found
someone
friendly.
She
gazed
at
him
frankly,
her
lips
pursed
in
a
half
smile.
Simon
felt
his
emotional
barriers
instinctively
rising.
He
was
awkward
with
women.
It
used
to
be
easier
when
Catholic
girls
were
told
to
not
even
regard
priests
as
men.
He
remembered
a
friend
at
the
seminary
who
suffered
from
a
stammer.
In
desperation
he
sought
out
a
therapist.
The
young
woman
would
make
him
lie
on
his
back
and
breathe
deeply,
but
as
the
weeks
passed
she
became
more
and
more
nervous
until
one
day,
a
hot
summer’s
afternoon,
she
arrived
with
an
umbrella.
She
ordered
him,
as
in
the
past,
onto
his
back
and
then
with
obvious
trepidation
began
to
prod
his
stomach
with
the
umbrella
tip.
For
weeks
she
had
needed
to
feel
his
diaphragm,
but
had
been
too
embarrassed
to
touch
him.
Simon
thrust
out
his
hand.
“Pleased
to
meet
you,
Mrs
Davies.”
Simon
met
the
remainder
of
the
staff
that
night.
They
were
polite,
but
guarded—except
Wilma
Breck
who
confronted
him
the
moment
she
entered
the
room.
She
was
one
of
those
elderly
women
who
look
frail
but
have
a
temperament
of
steel.
“So,”
she
said
in
a
loud
voice
as
she
stood,
hands
on
hips,
appraising
Simon.
“So—they’ve
decided
to
send
us
another
priest
after
all.”
45
“Was
there
any
doubt?”
Simon
asked.
“We
were
told
there
would
be
no
more
priests.
We
were
told
the
church
was
going
to
hand
Gunwinddu
to
the
natives.”
She
turned
to
face
the
others
who
were
watching
the
exchange,
and
then
back
to
Simon.
“Well,
thank
the
Lord
you’re
here.
They
are
not
ready,”
she
said
fiercely.
“They
still
sneak
away
you
know.
They
still
sneak
off
into
the
bush
to
practise
their
heathen
ceremonies.”
Simon
was
rescued
by
Karl
the
mechanic.
He
gently
prised
the
woman’s
fingers
from
Simon’s
wrists
and
suggested
she
eat.
He
was
surprised
when
she
acceded,
almost
meekly.
Simon
studied
the
old
German,
a
looming
presence
despite
his
age
which
Simon
assumed
would
be
mid‐to‐late
sixties
if
he
had
been
there
since
soon
after
the
War.
However,
it
wasn’t
the
man’s
bulk
that
was
riveting,
it
was
the
deep
scar
across
his
forehead.
Karl
noticed
Simon
looking
and
he
touched
the
old
wound
self‐consciously.
“An
accident—a
long
time
ago,”
he
said,
his
voice
still
rich
with
his
native
accent.
“I’m
Karl,”
he
said,
extending
his
hand.
Simon
shook
it
warmly.
“Yes,
I
know.”
Here
was
a
man
who
invited
friendship
and
trust.
Karl
looked
around
to
ensure
Wilma
was
out
of
earshot.
“A
good
lady—but
excitable,
yes?”
He
patted
Simon’s
shoulder
and
returned
to
his
seat.
The
other
member
of
staff
was
the
nursing
sister.
She
introduced
herself
matter‐of‐factly.
“Sister
Margaret,
Father.
I
hope
you
settle
in
without
too
many
problems.
We’ll
be
working
closely
together,
especially
if
you
get
the
boys
working
with
the
cattle
again.”
Simon
ate
his
meal,
aware
of
occasional
glances
in
his
direction,
including
two
black
faces
at
the
kitchen
servery.
He
sat
with
a
heavy
heart,
listening
to
cutlery
scraping
plates,
and
the
guarded
conversation
of
a
group
very
conscious
of
its
new
member.
46
His
contemplation
was
broken
by
a
tap
on
his
shoulder.
It
was
the
pilot.
“Finish
up;
come
and
have
a
beer.”
Simon
wiped
a
crust
across
a
gravy
deposit
and
shoved
the
bread
into
his
mouth.
He
chewed
hurriedly,
anxious
to
accept
the
escape.
Pushing
back
his
chair
he
followed
the
pilot
to
the
veranda
outside.
The
man
handed
him
a
can
still
dripping
with
icy
condensation.
“You
looked
like
you
could
do
with
some
fresh
air.”
“I
don’t
hide
my
feelings
too
well.”
“No,”
the
pilot
agreed.
They
leaned
on
the
rail
facing
the
darkened,
deserted
street.
Yellow
light
spilled
from
distant
windows
and
the
occasional
peal
of
laughter
hung
in
the
still
night.
The
arrival
of
the
‘new
Father
Rantz’
was
probably
creating
only
passing
comment.
There
would
be
no
reason
for
anybody
to
believe
it
heralded
any
changes.
Not
even
Simon
was
sure
it
could.
“What
time
are
you
flying
out?”
“First
light.
Beautiful
country
at
that
time
of
day.
Probably
half
the
reason
I
stayed,
if
I
was
honest
with
myself.”
“And
are
you?”
The
pilot
laughed.
“You
sound
like
a
priest—.”
Simon
smiled,
cradling
the
cold
can
in
his
hands.
The
pilot
was
his
last
friendly
contact
with
the
world
from
which
he
had
been
ejected
and
he
was
sorry
he
was
leaving.
The
man
paused
before
continuing.
“—Anyway,
to
answer
your
question,
no.
But
then
again,
who
ever
is.
Are
you?”
Simon
filled
his
mouth
with
beer
and
swallowed
it
slowly
before
replying.
“Only
if
I
work
at
it.
Being
a
priest
doesn’t
exempt
me
from
doubts,
from
cowardice,
from
loneliness
or
from
wondering
what
I’m
doing
staring
at
an
empty
dusty
street
at
the
bum
end
of
civilization.”
The
pilot
grunted.
“Strewth,
you
did
need
that
beer.”
They
drank
in
silence
for
a
moment,
each
wondering
how
to
bridge
their
different
worlds.
Finally
the
pilot
asked:
“So
why
be
a
47
priest?
If
you
have
to
miss
out
on
the
fun
bits—and
don’t
get
any
smarter
as
compensation
then
it
seems
a
bit
of
a
waste.”
Simon
turned
to
face
the
man,
a
typical
bushie.
Blunt.
“To
be
honest,
I’m
not
sure
I
have
the
answer
anymore.”
The
pilot
eyed
him
shrewdly.
“Okay.
Well,
there’s
the
obvious
belief—and
there’s
a
fascination,
I
suppose,
with
people—what
makes
them
the
way
they
are.
I
watch
them
play,
be
happy,
be
in
love,
be
confused—and
it
makes
me
feel
responsible
for
them.”
The
pilot
wasn’t
convinced.
“I
reckon
it’s
a
strange
way
to
live—and
people
should
be
responsible
for
themselves.”
Simon
smiled.
He’d
heard
it
all
before.
“Well,
once
you’ve
spent
your
life
believing
in
something,
you’re
sort
of
stuck
with
it.”
The
pilot
laughed.
“Fair
enough.”
He
drained
his
can.
“Remember
this
afternoon
when
Davies
said
you
didn’t
look
like
a
priest?
Well,
you
don’t
sound
like
one
either.
Take
old
Rantz.
He
reckoned
he
had
the
answers,
no
mistake,
and
you
didn’t
debate
the
matter.”
The
pilot
studied
Simon
for
a
moment.
“Maybe
you’ve
got
the
advantage
of
being
a
loner.
That’s
what
I’d
like
to
be,
but
I
can’t.
I
can’t
wait
to
take
off
so
I
can
be
alone.
But
as
soon
as
I
level
out,
I
can’t
wait
to
land
to
say
g’day
to
somebody,
anybody,
and
have
a
beer.
It’s
this
country
up
here.
It’s
too
bloody
big.
But
if
you’re
a
real
loner
and
not
a
pretend
loner,
like
me,
then
you
might
do
okay—like
Karl
in
there.
“How—.”
“Wait—.”
He
returned
and
handed
Simon
a
fresh
can.
“The
scar?
Says
it
was
a
bulldozer
accident,
but
doesn’t
like
talking
about
it.”
Fred
and
Muriel
Davies
appeared
in
the
doorway,
waved
and
disappeared
into
the
night.
Karl
and
Wilma
Breck
joined
them
on
the
veranda.
“Mass
at
six,
Father?”
48
Simon
quailed.
“Of
course.”
“Shall
I
ring
the
bell?”
“Only
if
the
neighbours
won’t
complain.”
The
pilot
laughed.
“Father
Rantz
said
Mass
at
six.
It’s
important
to
show
consistency.”
“Quite
right
Wilma,”
said
Simon
cordially.
“Six
o’clock
it
is.”
“Jesus,”
said
the
pilot,
after
the
couple
had
gone.
“You’ll
be
up
as
early
as
me.”
Simon
shrugged.
“She
was
right
of
course.”
Sister
Margaret
stood
in
the
doorway.
She
looked
uncertain
about
joining
them.
The
pilot
nodded
to
her,
then
patted
Simon
on
the
arm.
“Good
talkin’
to
you
Father.”
He
lowered
his
voice.
“Not
everybody
can
be
a
loner,
no
matter
how
much
they
want
to
be.”
He
smiled
self‐consciously
and
walked
away
to
join
the
waiting
nurse.
49
Chapter
Three
Groggy
with
sleep
Simon
lumbered
to
his
kitchen,
brewed
a
cup
of
instant
coffee
and
while
still
only
half
awake,
hurried
to
the
church;
liturgical
vestments
draped
over
one
arm
and
a
packet
of
wafers
for
consecration
into
hosts
under
the
other.
The
dawn
glow
was
just
starting
to
lighten
the
sky
behind
the
settlement.
Simon
sat
on
an
old
classroom
chair
at
the
side
of
the
altar,
curious
to
find
out
if
he
would
attract
a
congregation
on
this,
his
first
morning.
The
church
interior
was
simply
furnished.
Two
rows
of
old‐
style
wooden
pews,
enough
to
seat
about
two
hundred
people.
The
sacristy
was
a
small
asbestos
lean‐to
stuck
to
the
side
of
the
building
adjacent
to
the
altar.
It
was
entered
through
a
curtained
doorway.
His
new
church
pleased
him.
Simon
recalled
newspaper
clippings
pinned
to
cork
boards
at
the
Seminary;
stories
to
inspire
young
priests:
From
Stalinist
Russia,
the
American
Jesuit
who
made
his
altar
from
hotel
room
tables
for
clandestine
services;
while
some
of
the
clippings,
from
Central
America,
had
been
current.
Priests
who
championed
human
rights,
inevitably
made
themselves
targets.
Here,
in
his
own
new,
Spartan
church,
Simon
hoped
he
would
also
find
his
own
level
of
courage.
His
reverie
was
broken
by
the
distant
growl
of
aero
engines,
a
moment
before
the
outside
bell
began
to
clang
and
Wilma
Breck
marched
in,
leading
about
forty
girls.
A
tide
of
pale
blue
cotton
washed
through
the
pews.
As
Simon
waited
for
them
to
settle,
the
door
opened
again,
and
in
walked
a
procession
of
men
and
women,
filling
the
remaining
pews.
A
sea
of
dark
faces
looked
up
in
anticipation.
They
filled
the
church
with
the
odour
of
stale
sweat
and
wood
smoke.
50
Simon
cleared
his
throat.
“In
the
name
of
the
Father
and
of
the
Son
and
of
the
Holy
Spirit.”
Standing
with
a
furry
tongue
and
a
head
full
of
heroism,
Simon
felt
embarrassed.
He
had
not
had
the
courtesy
to
introduce
himself,
but
they
were
here
for
his
Mass.
“Coming
together
as
God’s
family,
with
confidence
let
us
ask
the
Father’s
forgiveness,
for
he
is
full
of
gentleness
and
compassion—.”
And
then
it
occurred
to
him.
It
probably
wasn’t
his
Mass
that
had
drawn
them
at
all.
It
was
their
church—and
they
were
making
sure
the
new
priest
knew
it.
The
roar
of
an
aircraft
low
overhead
drowned
out
the
penitential
rite,
but
Simon
had
an
intuition
already
that
no
one
in
this
church
really
needed
his
lead.
Simon
wanted
to
mingle
with
the
Aborigines
as
soon
as
the
Mass
finished,
but
Wilma
Breck
insisted
on
introducing
him
to
each
and
every
one
of
her
girls.
By
the
time
she
had
them
two‐
by‐two
to
march
back
to
the
hostel,
the
rest
of
the
congregation
had
drifted
away.
Only
Karl
stood,
watching
from
the
roadside.
Simon
followed
the
girls
as
far
as
the
staff
canteen,
hoping
to
make
himself
a
quick
breakfast
before
trying
again
to
introduce
himself
to
the
community.
But
the
door
was
locked.
He
was
standing
on
the
veranda
wondering
what
to
do
next,
when
the
cattle
truck
rattled
into
view.
It
slowed
to
a
stop,
the
passenger
door
swung
open
and
Angel
jumped
lightly
to
the
ground.
Without
preamble
the
boy
beckoned
Simon
into
the
front
seat.
“Isaac
wants
to
see
you,”
he
said.
At
the
wheel
was
the
same
driver
as
the
previous
day,
but
this
time
he
was
not
so
reticent.
He
nodded
in
greeting.
“I’m
Matthew,”
he
said.
At
the
end
of
the
street
they
turned
left
past
a
cluster
of
houses
then
swung
right
onto
a
track
which
led
through
thin
scrub
for
about
a
kilometre
before
opening
into
a
large
clearing.
At
the
centre
were
cattle
yards,
a
tangle
of
wooden
posts
and
old
51
iron.
A
group
of
Aboriginal
men
sat
beneath
a
solitary
tree,
watching
the
truck’s
approach.
As
Simon
alighted
a
middle‐
aged
man
stood
and
stepped
forward.
He
looked
at
Simon
from
beneath
a
large
stockman’s
hat
,
then
rubbed
his
palms
on
his
trousers
before
offering
his
hand.
“I’m
Isaac
Richardson,”
he
said
formally.
“Simon
Bradbury.”
They
shook
hands.
Isaac
then
formally
introduced
Simon
to
the
community
councillors.
Simon
was
introduced
to
Arthur,
“important
fella”,
and
next
to
him
a
man
called
Robert,
“knows
a
lot
about
these
parts—you
listen
to
‘im
Father”,
and
so
the
introductions
continued
until
he
had
been
introduced
to
everyone.
Simon
also
learned
that
Matthew
and
Isaac
were
brothers
and
that
Angel,
now
standing
apart
from
the
older
men,
was
Matthew’s
son.
Isaac
invited
Simon
to
sit.
“Mr
Davies
says
you
the
new
cattle
boss.”
Simon
nodded.
“Part
of
my
job
here,
yes.”
“Father
Rantz
don’
work
with
cattle.”
“I
grew
up
on
a
farm,”
Simon
said.
The
men
switched
to
their
own
language
and
talked
among
themselves
for
a
moment.
When
they
stopped,
Isaac
faced
Simon.
“You
know
about
the
new
government
scheme?”
“Another
reason
I’m
here.”
“Twenty
dollars
a
week
now
if
we
don’
work—a
hundred
dollars
if
we
work
the
cattle.”
Simon
nodded.
“And
the
cattle
money?”
Simon
smiled.
Full
points
for
trying.
“If
we
make
money,
it
goes
back
into
the
business—new
breeding
stock,
improved
tropical
pasture;
a
general
upgrade
all‐round.
One
day
it
might
all
be
yours,
legally,
but
not
before
it’s
operating
successfully—that’s
my
instruction.”
52
The
men
again
spoke
among
themselves
for
several
minutes.
There
appeared
to
be
a
point
of
argument.
Finally,
Isaac
returned
to
Simon.
“We
can’t
work
with
no
wages.”
Simon
ran
a
hand
through
his
hair.
“You
are
not
working
for
me.
You
are
working
for
yourselves.
There’s
a
lot
of
work
to
do
before
there’s
money
to
pay
wages.
If
there
is
a
profit,
you’ll
get
a
share.
But
we
have
to
make
that
money
first.”
The
men
did
not
look
convinced
and
returned
to
their
own
conversation.
The
matter
was
being
vigorously
debated.
“The
boys
will
want
wages,”
said
Isaac.
“Then
it’s
up
to
you
to
explain
the
situation,”
Simon
said.
The
matter
was
again
debated.
Finally
it
seemed
an
agreement
had
been
reached.
“What
do
you
want
to
do
first?”
Isaac
asked.
“When
was
the
last
muster?”
Isaac
paused
to
reflect.
“Two
years,”
he
said.
Simon
grimaced.
It
was
worse
than
he
thought.
“Well,
we’ll
have
to
do
a
big
muster
to
find
out
what
we’ve
got.”
Isaac
grinned.
“A
big
muster.
That’ll
earn
a
nice
profit.”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“I
want
a
muster
just
to
see
what
we’ve
got.
First
job
will
be
simply
to
sort
out
the
herd—
separate
heifers
and
bulls.”
Isaac
looked
horrified.
Past
practice
was
to
muster,
load
the
biggest
animals
onto
trucks
and
wait
for
the
cheque.
The
priest
wasn’t
talking
sense.
He
spoke
to
the
council
and
they
all
looked
hard
at
Simon.
Simon
sensed
their
hostility,
but
was
determined
to
run
the
business
his
way
and
break
the
reliance
on
government
handouts.
“Look,
the
sooner
we
get
this
done,
the
sooner
there’ll
be
a
muster
for
market
and
maybe
some
money.”
The
councillors
stared
moodily
at
the
ground
and
each
other.
“We
can
start
Monday,
first
thing,”
he
pressed.
“You
the
boss,”
said
Isaac
glumly.
53
Chapter
Four
While
Simon
spent
his
first
weekend
strolling
around
the
settlement,
slowly
getting
used
to
its
shambolic
conditions,
his
thoughts
were
rarely
far
from
the
cattle.
Its
success
or
otherwise
was
based
on
tangible
factors;
things
he
could
hold
and
shape—the
cattle,
a
little
knowledge
and
a
dedicated
workforce,
once
it
was
brought
around
to
his
way
of
thinking.
He
awoke
early
on
the
Monday,
eager
to
start
as
soon
as
Mass
was
finished.
Again,
Wilma
Breck
marched
her
girls
to
church.
They
looked
tired
and
bored.
Simon
called
the
woman
aside.
“I
don’t
think
they
need
to
come
every
day.”
“It
was
Father
Rantz’s
rule.”
“Father
Rantz
is
not
here
anymore.”
The
woman’s
mouth
tightened.
“You
don’t
know
them
like
we
do.”
Simon
looked
into
her
eyes
and
was
no
stranger
to
the
fanaticism
he
saw:
“I
don’t
want
to
see
those
girls
back
until
Wednesday.
Wednesday
and
Sunday.
Twice
a
week
is
plenty.”
She
stared
aggressively
at
him.
“You
will
regret
this
young
man.”
Simon
watched
the
girls
marched
away,
then
hurried
to
his
house
to
change.
His
spirits
lifted
when
finally
he
arrived
at
the
cattle
yards.
Isaac
and
the
council
were
there,
along
with
about
thirty
youths.
Simon
didn’t
know
where
they
had
been
in
the
three
days
since
he
arrived,
but
he
didn’t
really
care.
The
important
thing
was
they
were
ready
for
work.
He
rubbed
his
hands
with
pleasure.
“All
set?”
Isaac
nodded.
“The
boys
are
here.
We
had
a
talk.
They’re
not
happy,
Father,
but
they’ll
do
what
you
asked.”
“Good—good.”
Simon
looked
around.
There
was
only
the
cattle
truck
parked
nearby.
“Where’s
the
Toyota?”
“Karl
is
workin’
on
it,”
said
Isaac.
54
Simon
felt
a
pang
of
unease.
“Then
how
are
you
going
to
muster?”
“Oh,
we
got
horses,”
said
Isaac.
“Twenty—thirty
good
stock
horses.”
“Excellent,”
said
Simon
with
enthusiasm.
A
good
stockman
on
a
horse
was
still
the
best
way
to
muster
cattle.
Where
are
they?”
“Out
in
the
bush,”
said
Isaac.
“But
we’ll
get
‘em
all
right.
You
just
wait
here.”
Simon
tried
to
hide
his
disappointment.
“Fine,”
he
said.
As
the
Aborigines
clambered
into
the
back
of
the
truck,
Isaac,
Matthew
and
another
elder
squeezed
into
the
front.
The
truck
rumbled
off
around
the
other
side
of
the
yards
and
was
soon
swallowed
by
the
scrub.
To
pass
the
time,
Simon
inspected
the
yards,
noting
the
work
that
had
to
be
done.
By
midday
neither
the
truck
nor
any
of
its
occupants
had
returned
and
Simon
walked
disconsolately
back
to
the
settlement
for
lunch.
Fred
Davies
cornered
him
to
repeat
Wilma
Breck’s
warning,
but
Simon
barely
listened.
His
hearing
was
primed
for
the
sound
of
a
truck.
Returning
to
the
yards
Simon
sat
under
the
tree,
staring
moodily
at
the
dry
red
sand
all
around
him.
The
truck
returned
at
dusk
with
one
tethered
horse
trotting
in
its
dusty
wake.
“Don’
worry,”
said
Isaac.
“We’ll
get
the
others
tomorrow.”
The
following
day
they
went
out
again.
It
took
thirty‐two
men
three
days
to
locate
and
bring
in
four
horses.
Simon
remained
patient.
He
signed
for
fencing
wire
and
tools
from
Muriel
Davies’
store
and
spent
the
time
doing
what
he
could
to
make
the
yards
serviceable.
At
the
end
of
the
week
they
all
met
again
at
the
yards.
The
boys
were
standing
about
excitedly
and
the
horses
were
tethered
to
a
fence
rail
chewing
on
dry
native
grass
someone
had
cut
and
bundled.
Only
Isaac
and
his
brother
looked
unhappy.
55
Simon
eyed
them
closely.
“We
set
to
go
now?”
Isaac
folded
his
arms
and
turned
his
worried
face
from
side
to
side.
“We
got
no
stirrups.”
Simon
thrust
his
hands
into
his
pockets
and
leaned
towards
the
man.
“How
come?”
Matthew
spoke.
“Johnny
Namadjari
from
McKenzie
Station’s
got
‘em.”
He
saw
the
anger
creeping
onto
Simon’s
face.
“He
pinched
‘em,
Father.
They’re
not
Christians
at
McKenzie.”
Simon
exhaled
slowly
and
folded
his
arms.
“What
else—
what
about
saddles?”
Isaac
and
Matthew
shook
their
heads.
“Johnny
what’s‐is‐name
got
them
too?”
They
nodded.
“Hell,”
he
muttered,
and
noticed
their
faces
flicker
in
surprise.
Simon,
Isaac
and
Matthew
returned
to
the
settlement
in
the
truck.
They
parked
outside
Fred
Davies’
office.
Simon
climbed
down
and
began
to
walk
towards
the
veranda
when
he
noticed
the
two
Aboriginal
men
had
made
no
move
to
follow.
“Come
on.”
“It’s
okay,
we
can
wait,”
said
Isaac.
“No
you
don’t.
We’re
in
this
one
together.
Come
on.”
The
men
were
still
hesitant
and
Matthew
spoke.
“We’re
not
allowed
in
Mr
Davies’
office.”
“Since
when?”
Matthew
shrugged.
“Well
you
are
now.”
Davies
was
at
his
desk,
an
electric
fan
keeping
the
air
temperature
a
few
degrees
below
stifling.
He
looked
up
and
Simon
saw
him
glance
with
annoyance
at
the
two
Aboriginal
men.
“Yes?”
“We
need
to
use
your
radio,”
said
Simon.
He
was
in
no
mood
for
pleasantries.
The
best
part
of
the
week
had
gone
56
and
the
muster
was
fast
turning
into
a
black
comedy—in
more
ways
than
one.
“We?”
queried
Davies.
“Yes,
we.
We
need
five
new
sets
of
saddles,
leathers
and
stirrups.
I
want
them
on
the
next
mail
plane.”
Davies
cocked
an
eyebrow.
“That’s
a
lot
of
money
Father.
You
got
permission
to
spend
it?”
Simon
suddenly
smiled.
“I
don’t
need
permission.
We’re
working
on
a
government
scheme
so
it
can
come
from
your
budget.”
“Now
listen.
The
Department
doesn’t
throw
money
around.
There
has
to
be
a
bloody
good
reason
and
there
are
procedures—.”
Simon
interrupted.
“If
you
don’t
want
to
make
the
call,
give
me
an
order
number
and
I’ll
do
it.”
Davies’
stared
at
him
angrily.
“They
won’t
know
you.
I’ll
have
to
do
it.”
“Thank
you.”
Davies
swivelled
on
his
chair.
A
telex
machine
and
a
radio
telephone
was
on
a
bench
behind
his
desk.
He
pressed
the
call
switch
and
picked
up
the
handpiece.
“Derby
radio—Derby
radio,
this
is
Victor
Mike
Charlie,
Gunwinddu
Station,
over.”
A
woman’s
voice,
flat
and
brittle,
responded.
“Victor
Mike
Charlie,
go
ahead,
over.”
“Yeah,
Fred
Davies
here,
put
me
through
to
the
Derby
store
please.”
“Stand
by—I
think
that
line’s
free—booking
your
call.”
A
gravely
voice
came
from
the
speaker
at
Fred
Davies’
elbow.
“Derby
general
store—.”
“Yeah,
g’day—it’s
Fred
Davies
here,
Gunwinddu—over.”
“G’day
Fred,
what’s
happening—?”
“Can’t
talk
mate—when’s
the
soonest
you
can
get
me
some
saddles,
leathers
and
stirrups—
over?”
57
The
radio
hissed.
“Er—Monday—no—better
make
that
Wednesday—over.”
Davies
glanced
inquiringly
at
Simon.
The
priest
shrugged.
“It’ll
have
to
do.”
“Okay,
send
me
half
a
dozen
sets—over.”
A
dry
chuckle:
“Don’t
tell
me
those
black
bastards
are
going
to
do
some
work?”
Davies
kept
his
voice
even.
“Be
seeing
you
mate—and
it’s
on
the
blue
slips—over.”
“Er,
sure—anything
else?”
“No,
mate.”
Davies
waited
a
few
moments
before
pressing
the
speak
button
again.
“Derby
radio,
this
is
Victor
Mike
Charlie,
Gunwinddu—all
clear
this
end.”
He
placed
the
handpiece
beside
the
radio
unit
and
turned
to
Simon.
“Happy?”
he
asked
coldly.
“I’ll
let
you
know,”
said
Simon
and
walked
out,
herding
Isaac
and
Matthew
ahead
of
him.
Simon
stared
moodily
at
the
dusty
street.
“Well,
that
fixes
that
doesn’t
it.
Got
any
ideas
about
what
we
should
do
now?”
Isaac
grinned.
“Well,
tomorrow
a
mob
of
us
was
goin’
to
go
huntin’.”
Simon
creased
a
quizzical
brow.
“We
often
go
huntin’
on
the
weekend—get
some
proper
tucker,
like,”
added
Matthew.
“You
should
come,”
Isaac
urged.
The
next
morning
they
drove
out
on
a
barely
discernible
track,
Isaac,
Matthew
and
the
elder
Arthur,
all
squeezed
into
the
front
of
the
truck.
Simon
was
on
the
back
with
a
dozen
or
so
men,
women,
children
and
barking
dogs.
The
men
were
mostly
barefoot,
though
a
few
wore
stockman’s
boots.
A
number
also
favoured
broad‐brimmed
cowboy
hats.
Simon
noted
that
there
were
no
school‐aged
girls
on
the
excursion.
It
annoyed
him
that
Wilma
Breck
could
wield
such
rigid
authority.
58
The
truck
was
followed
by
a
convoy
of
bouncing,
rocking
sedans
and
station
wagons,
none
of
which
looked
as
though
they
had
ever
seen
bitumen.
They
thundered
in
a
cacophony
of
broken
or
missing
exhausts,
which
had
him
wondering
from
the
start
how
any
game
would
remain
within
the
vicinity
of
the
convoy.
Yet
nobody
else
seemed
to
consider
this
a
problem.
The
day
passed
in
a
blur
of
stop‐starts,
yelling,
laughter,
practical
jokes,
and
rifles
exploding
without
warning,
and
more
disturbingly,
without
a
great
deal
of
apparent
care.
Whenever
large
game;
kangaroo,
bush
turkey
or
emu,
was
sighted,
the
men
beside
Simon
banged
the
roof
of
the
cab.
Even
before
the
truck
had
stopped,
empty
cartridges
were
spinning
from
cracking,
smoking
rifles
both
on
the
truck
and
from
within
and
over
the
roof
of
the
cars.
But
apart
from
one
single
suicidal
turkey
which
ran
towards
the
convoy
instead
of
away,
nothing
else
came
even
close
to
making
the
cooking
fires.
On
a
lesser
scale,
a
large
lizard
was
observed
lazing
in
the
sun
on
the
track
ahead.
The
convoy
stopped
and
everybody
gave
chase
until
the
reptile
was
caught
and
knocked
on
the
head.
Later
the
procession
was
halted
by
energetic
horn
blasting
from
one
of
the
cars.
A
door
opened
and
a
youth
sprinted
towards
a
small
tree
and
dug
feverishly
at
the
base.
After
some
moments
he
stood
proudly
holding
an
unopened
bottle
of
beer.
To
cheers
and
blaring
horns
the
hero
was
hauled
back
inside
his
car
to
share
the
booty.
Though
they
travelled
no
more
than
a
dozen
or
so
kilometres
from
the
settlement,
it
was
late
morning
by
the
time
they
arrived
at
the
site
of
a
disused
stockyard
sheltered
by
a
small,
rocky
knoll.
The
women
and
children
dispersed
to
find
edible
roots,
fruits,
berries,
grubs,
honey
ants,
goannas,
whatever
was
there.
59
The
men
wandered
off
to
hunt
larger
game,
leaving
Simon
at
the
camp
to
try
and
amuse
several
runny‐nosed
children.
He
played
hide
and
seek,
quite
earnest
about
keeping
a
healthy
distance
from
the
grubby
urchins.
The
men
returned
and
built
a
fire
in
a
hole
in
the
ground.
Into
the
cooking
pit
went
a
kangaroo,
a
plucked
turkey
and
two
lizards.
Everything
caught
was
cooked.
What
wasn’t
eaten
was
folded
into
sheets
of
aluminium
foil
for
people
who
had
stayed
at
the
settlement.
It
was
a
dizzying,
brusque
introduction
to
the
community
and
Simon
was
relieved
when
finally
they
returned
to
Gunwinddu.
The
saddles
didn’t
arrive
until
a
week
after
the
promised
date.
Simon
and
Matthew
were
at
the
airstrip.
“Got
a
muster
up,
eh?”
the
pilot
asked
as
he
kicked
his
way
from
the
cabin
and
greeted
them.
The
priest
nodded
uncertainly.
“One
can
but
hope.”
The
pilot
grinned
and
opened
a
clipboard.
“Sign
here
Father.”
Simon
helped
Matthew
load
the
boxes
onto
the
Toyota.
There
was
also
a
carton
of
medical
supplies
addressed
to
the
hospital.
In
turn,
Simon
handed
the
pilot
the
community’s
mail
sack,
sealed
by
Fred
Davies.
He
wondered
what
protestations
Wilma
Breck
had
written
to
his
superiors.
“Staying
for
a
beer
tonight?”
The
pilot
shook
his
head
and
jerked
his
thumb
towards
the
rear
cabin.
“Full
load
this
trip.
Got
three
more
stations
to
call
at
before
the
light
goes.”
“Pity,”
said
Simon.
The
pilot
slapped
his
shoulder.
“Next
time
mate—and
say
hullo
to
Margaret
for
me.”
60
The
plane
was
just
a
golden
speck
in
the
afternoon
sun
before
Simon
stopped
watching
it.
A
part
of
him
very
much
wished
he
was
on
it.
Still,
he
now
had
the
mustering
gear.
He
cancelled
morning
Mass
and
walked
to
the
cattle
yards
early,
keen
to
get
the
muster
started.
Simon
was
almost
at
the
track
leading
to
the
cattle
yards
when
he
heard
the
groan
and
rattle
of
a
truck
approaching
from
behind.
He
stopped
as
it
neared,
then
watched
perplexed
as
it
continued
on
past
the
turn‐off.
It
was
crowded
with
youths,
swags
and
dogs.
They
waved
and
barked
happily
as
they
passed
continued
on
towards
the
airstrip
and
the
one
and
only
road
linking
Gunwinddu
with
the
outside
world.
Over
the
next
few
minutes
more
cars
followed;
windows
down
and
spilling
arms,
hats
and
black,
grinning
faces.
They
waved
at
the
mute
priest.
Simon
continued
on
to
the
yards.
He
waited
at
the
yards
for
almost
half
an
hour
before
the
Toyota
appeared.
Isaac,
Matthew
and
Angel
alighted.
Isaac
looked
pleased.
“The
Toyota
is
fixed
good,
Father.”
Simon
nodded.
“Great.
Where
are
the
boys?”
“Oh,
they’ve
gone—but
don’
worry.
They’ll
be
back
Monday—maybe
Tuesday.”
“What!”
“It’s
the
football
carnival
at
Daly
Waters,”
explained
Matthew.
Simon
couldn’t
believe
what
he
was
hearing.
“Football—
Daly
Waters—that’s
across
the
border—it
must
be
a
thousand
kilometres
away!”
“Not
that
far,”
said
Isaac.
“Eight
hundred
maybe—no
more
than
that.”
Simon
rolled
his
eyes.
“That’s
not
the
point.
They’re
supposed
to
be
here
mustering—and
they’ve
taken
the
truck.”
“They’ve
been
trainin’
real
hard,”
said
Matthew.
“We
got
a
good
chance
this
year.”
61
Simon
dropped
his
shoulders.
It
was
too
much.
“Okay,
so
when
do
you
think
they’ll
be
back?”
The
two
elders
relaxed.
“Well,”
said
Isaac.
“If
they
win
durin’
the
week,
the
finals
is
on
“Sunday.
So—they’ll
be
back
maybe
Tuesday,
like
I
said.”
“So
if
they’re
successful
they
won’t
be
back
here
to
actually
work
until
next
Wednesday—more
than
a
week?”
Isaac
and
Matthew
nodded.
“Fantastic!”
Simon
muttered.
“So
what
do
we
do
now?”
Isaac
and
Matthew
looked
at
each
other
for
reassurance,
then
Isaac
smiled.
“We
was
wonderin’
if
you
would
like
to
hunt
buffalo.”
Muriel
Davies
walked
with
a
relaxed
easy
gait.
She
lived
each
day
as
she
found
it,
regretting
nothing,
aware
of
the
need
to
take
opportunities
when
they
presented
themselves.
This
included
days
like
this
when
the
morning
light
seemed
brighter,
the
sun
gentler,
and
the
world
quieter
and
friendlier.
It
was
cool,
no
more
than
thirty,
and
a
little
cloud
was
breaking
the
sky.
She
walked
past
houses
abandoned
by
the
footballers
and
their
supporters,
but
she
knew
not
everybody
had
gone.
She
had
been
gazing
dreamily
out
upon
the
world
at
Gunwinddu,
or
that
much
which
could
be
viewed
from
the
store‐front.
She
had
seen
the
boys
leave
in
a
noisy
convoy
for
the
carnival.
She
had
seen
the
Toyota
leave
with
Father
Bradbury
and
the
two
Richardson
brothers
with
Angel.
Karl
Breier
had
walked
by
with
his
canvas
fishing
bag.
She
liked
Karl
even
if
he
was
close
to
Wilma
Breck,
who
unnerved
her.
She
had
been
a
confidante
of
Father
Rantz,
but
so
far
it
seemed
she
and
the
new
priest
didn’t
get
on.
She
thought
of
Simon
for
a
moment.
He
was
a
welcome
contrast
to
the
one
they’d
got
rid
of.
There
were
only
three
white
women
at
Gunwinddu
and
Muriel
couldn’t
imagine
three
more
different
females
for
such
62
a
small
community.
Wilma,
the
taciturn
Margaret,
and
herself.
Still,
it
was
easy
enough
to
get
along.
On
days
like
this
she
actually
liked
it
here,
knowing
it
was
only
for
a
little
while
longer.
Until
then,
she
was
accepted.
No
one
pried
into
her
past.
She
was
Mrs
Davies
who
had
joined
her
husband
and
now
ran
the
store.
It
was
a
government
store
with
the
lease
in
her
name.
Davies
did
the
accounts
and
they
reaped
a
tidy
off‐
the‐books
profit.
That
was
the
deal
with
Davies.
It
was
unfortunate
that
Rantz
had
found
out.
The
administrator’s
office
was
a
short
distance
along
the
street.
She
could
picture
Davies
at
his
desk,
toting
figures,
filing
and
papers
and
reports,
eyeballing
pornographic
magazines.
He
kept
them
under
‘miscellaneous’
in
the
bottom
of
the
green
filing
cabinet.
He
wasn’t
embarrassed.
He
just
smiled
and
led
her
into
his
store
room.
That
too
was
part
of
the
deal.
It
was
an
uncomplicated
transaction.
She
was
neither
a
possession
nor
trophy.
She
was
just
Muriel
Hargreaves,
a
girl
with
a
simple
objective—to
one
day
be
free
of
men.
But
on
this
morning,
standing
in
the
doorway
of
the
store,
it
had
seemed
as
though
everybody
but
her
was
out
living.
She
had
decided
she
wanted
to
paint
the
day.
She
walked
with
an
easy
purpose
through
the
settlement
and
onto
the
perimeter
road,
her
flat‐soled
shoes
pressing
an
even
geometry
into
the
soft
sand.
She
walked
to
the
shanties
and
spoke
to
a
young
woman
carrying
a
child
on
her
hip.
The
woman
called
out.
An
older
woman
appeared
from
beneath
the
rusted
bonnet
of
a
car,
functioning
now
as
a
roof,
and
took
the
child.
The
younger
woman
followed
Muriel.
They
returned
to
the
settlement‐proper
in
single
file;
neither
attempting
to
converse.
At
the
store
Muriel
ensconced
the
young
woman
on
a
stool
behind
the
counter.
She
was
familiar
with
the
role.
Muriel
went
into
a
back
room,
collected
a
small
brown
case
and
a
sheet
of
white
cardboard
and
stepped
back
into
the
street.
63
Karl
followed
a
path
along
the
edge
of
the
water,
through
mottled
shade.
The
river
moved
slowly.
A
man
could
while
away
some
pleasant
time
just
watching
a
leaf
journey
lazily
in
the
current.
Above
him,
white
cockatoos
screeched
and
danced
on
the
high,
slender
branches.
Cranes
stalked
the
shallows,
and
where
rocks
broke
the
composure
of
the
river’s
passage,
pelicans
patiently
waited
for
fish
that
would
be
exposed
in
the
shallow
runnels.
Karl
was
smiling
to
himself.
He
had
been
at
Gunwinddu
since
he
was
a
young
man.
It
had
been
offered
as
a
sanctuary
and
he
had
accepted
gratefully.
His
favourite
place
was
a
small
beach
at
the
foot
of
a
high
wall
of
red
rock.
The
river
was
deep
and
narrow
here
and
shaded
by
the
graceful
arches
of
silver‐barked
gums.
It
was
a
long
way
from
Berlin.
In
quiet
moments
that
past
was
as
recent
as
yesterday.
Without
a
mirror,
Karl
still
only
remembered
himself
as
he
used
to
be;
young—too
young.
Sometimes
he
caressed
the
deep
gouge
which
creased
his
forehead;
a
reminder
of
youthful
hopes
that
were
soured
forever.
He
wondered
what
the
city
would
be
like
now.
Had
it
bloomed
again
with
gardens,
cafes
and
beer
halls?
That’s
how
it
was
when
he
was
a
boy,
lounging
longingly
on
the
outside
waiting
for
age
to
grant
him
entry
to
this
boisterous,
flushed
fraternity.
But
the
madness
robbed
him.
He
went
from
boy
to
animal
to
exile.
There
was
no
youth.
Was
the
Bendlerstrasse
still
there?
He
pondered
this
now
that
he
was
not
only
getting
older,
but
feeling
older.
He
knew
the
apartment
was
gone.
He
had
stumbled
through
the
rubble,
even
recognized
fragments
of
pottery
and
charred
timber
that
were
once
things
to
touch
and
polish;
pieces
of
a
home
remembered
through
the
blurred
vision
of
a
child
rushing
to
grow
up.
The
faces
were
now
sometimes
so
indistinct
he
wondered
if
he
was
making
them
up.
For
a
long
time
he
had
planned
to
go
back,
but
now
realised
he
never
would.
He
was
too
old
to
rake
over
embers
which
could
still
spark
and
burn.
If
he
tried
to
explain
today,
there
64
would
be
too
few
who
would
understand.
After
the
passage
of
more
than
two
generations
the
shades
of
grey
had
become
black
and
white.
So
instead
he
shared
the
home
of
Barramundi,
a
lost
soul
like
himself.
It
was
back
when
only
gods
walked
the
earth,
when
the
preparation
for
the
people
who
would
follow
was
nearly
done
and
the
time
when
the
gods
themselves
needed
to
find
suitable
resting
places
for
the
eternity
ahead.
Barramundi
was
in
a
quandary
trying
to
put
himself
somewhere.
The
time
of
metamorphosis
was
nigh
and
Barramundi
still
had
no
Dreaming
site.
There
was
a
lot
of
sand,
the
water
was
too
shallow,
or
there
were
too
many
reeds.
Time
and
again
he
moved
from
place
to
place,
moving
closer
towards
the
sea.
Behind
him
he
left
many
meandering
trails;
rivers
for
the
people
who
would
follow.
When
he
reached
the
ocean
he
could
go
no
further,
so
he
walked
to
the
middle
of
where
the
river
and
the
sea
met
with
the
changing
tide,
and
turned
himself
into
a
rock;
hidden
when
the
salt
water
tide
was
up,
and
standing
tall
for
the
initiated
to
witness
knowingly
when
only
the
fresh
river
water
lapped
at
his
feet.
Karl
was
fond
of
Barramundi,
the
majestic
fish
which
breeds
in
saline
water
near
the
mouth
of
the
river
system
then
migrates
towards
its
life
source
in
the
heart
of
the
red
country.
The
fish
in
the
gorge
near
Gunwinddu
were
big
and
clever
and
they
listened
to
Karl
when
he
talked.
He
baited
the
hook
with
fat
creamy
grubs
dug
from
stumps
and
logs,
as
taught
by
the
Aborigines,
and
cast
his
line
into
the
deep
green
water.
“Barramundi—Barramundi,”
he
whispered
dreamily,
trying
to
coax
the
spirit
from
its
depths.
“Come
and
make
an
old
Berliner
happy.”
He
sat
on
the
sand
and
leaned
against
a
rock,
waiting
patiently.
If
he
closed
his
eyes
he
could
conjure
the
moment;
the
strike
which
turned
the
lazy
curl
of
line
into
a
twitching,
singing
strand
cutting
through
the
swirling
eddies.
65
A
willy
willy
scudded
along
the
opposite
bank
spraying
leaves
and
loose
bark
onto
the
water.
Karl
chuckled.
“I
hear
you,”
he
said
softly
and
gazed
wistfully
into
the
realm
of
the
great
fish.
66
Chapter
Five
Somewhere
ahead,
on
a
path
hemmed
by
impenetrable
scrub,
Isaac
and
Angel,
were
scouting.
Simon
and
Matthew
followed
some
distance
behind.
To
the
right,
nearby
but
unseen,
was
the
river;
motionless
and
dark
in
the
deep
shadow
of
trees
and
grass
taller
than
a
man.
Simon
was
sweating
and
the
old
Lee
Enfield
rifle
rubbed
abrasively
on
his
shoulder.
He
was
nervous;
about
the
clawing
vegetation,
about
crocodiles
and
about
meeting
a
buffalo.
He
hadn’t
been
shooting
since
he
was
a
boy
and
even
then
it
was
only
rabbits
and
the
occasional
kangaroo.
“Watch
your
feet
Father.
Them
King
Browns
like
whitefellas,”
Matthew
cautioned.
“Great,”
he
muttered.
Now
he
was
nervous
about
snakes
as
well.
Ironically
he
was
the
only
person
wearing
boots.
The
three
Aborigines
were
barefoot.
“Have
you
done
much
of
this
before?”
“Oh,
sure,”
said
Matthew.
“Lots
of
times.
And
Father
Rantz
got
me
a
job
once
up
on
the
Drysdale
River—with
a
fella
called
George
Granger.
He
was
battlin’,
trying
to
get
a
station
goin’
an’
he
wanted
to
sell
the
skins.
I
went
there
and
done
nearly
ten
months—but
he
was
too
rough,
I
couldn’
put
up
with
him.”
“Hard
work?”
“Nah—hard
bloke—but
I
shot
nearly
two
hundred
buffalo
in
that
time
with
the
303.
We
cut
off
the
barrels
especially
for
the
buffalo.
“Skeleton
rifles
we
used
to
call
‘em.
I
was
scared
when
I
started,
but
then
I
got
pretty
game
in
the
end—maybe
too
game.”
“How’s
that?”
Matthew
laughed
lightly.
“One
day
I
went
into
this
new
place
to
have
a
look.
I
was
with
some
other
blokes
and
we
was
all
a
bit
scared.
It
was
not
far
from
where
a
young
fella
got
taken
by
a
crocodile.
It
was
jungle
country;
a
big
croc
could
be
67
layin’
along
side
of
you
and
you
wouldn’
even
see
him.
Anyway,
I
come
out
onto
a
big
plain,
four
other
blokes
was
with
me.
I
looked
across
and
told
‘em—on
finger
talk,
like—
that
there
were
two
buffalo
down
where
they
were
goin’.
I
could
see
their
mark,
see.
So
they
went
the
way
I
pointed.
But
there
were
some
other
buffalo
that
I
didn’
see
and
they
were
comin’
for
where
I
was,
they
come
straight
at
me.
I
got
down
and
lay
on
the
ground
with
the
303
ready.
I
shot
one
and
broke
its
front
leg
and
he
dropped.
I
never
loaded
up
my
rifle
‘cause
the
other
buffalo
kept
on
goin’
into
the
bush.
Well,
I
was
walkin’
up
to
the
fella
on
the
ground—and
I
saw
his
eye
blink.
By
crikey
I
jumped.
I
got
the
rifle
and
was
still
tryin’
to
put
in
a
bullet
when
he
was
on
his
feet,
on
three
legs,
and
‘cause
my
rifle
wasn’
properly
loaded
I
ran
for
this
little
tree.
Up
I
went,
real
quick.
When
he
came
along
he
was
flat
out,
real
close.
He
had
big
horns
and
he
smashed
into
that
tree
like
a
bulldozer.
Knocked
me
right
out
and
winded
me
cruel,
Father,
but
the
old
buffalo
went
straight
on
for
a
bit
before
he
could
pull
up.
I
got
up
and
he
turned
around
and
was
lookin’
for
me,
draggin’
his
busted
leg.
He
spotted
me
and
I
loaded
up
my
rifle.
I
had
to
make
sure
of
him
this
time
or
he
would
kill
me.”
Simon
was
listening,
while
anxiously
looking
around.
“The
other
fellas
were
comin’
to
help,
but
they
were
too
far
away.
Well,
that
bugger
came
straight
for
me,
flat
out
on
his
three
legs.
He
was
a
bullock,
a
big
one.
I
waited
till
he
put
his
head
down
to
get
the
horn
into
me
‘cause
that’s
when
they
shut
their
eyes.
I
stepped
back
and
put
the
barrel
to
his
head
and
pulled
the
trigger.
It
dropped
him,
but
I
was
shakin’
pretty
bad
and
I
told
Granger
it
was
my
last
buffalo—but
it
wasn’t.”
“Why
not?”
“Needed
the
money,
Father.
I
wanted
to
go
south—of
course
I
didn’
know
the
bugger
wasn’
goin’
to
pay
me.”
68
Simon
pinched
his
eyes
with
his
fingers
and
wondered
how
he
had
been
talked
into
such
a
foolhardy
venture.
“Why
do
you
have
to
get
so
close—can’t
you
shoot
from
further
away?”
“Well
you
got
to
get
in
among
‘em.
If
you
just
shoot
from
a
long
way
you
only
get
one
buffalo.
You
have
to
get
right
in
close
to
get
more.
I
got
pretty
good
at
that.
I
used
to
stand
right
up
close
to
‘em
in
the
long
grass,
hardly
any
trees
there,
and
I
used
to
pump
bullets
into
‘em
and
they
used
to
go
down
but
there’d
be
twenty
more,
layin’
there;
you
can’t
see
‘em
in
all
that
grass,
and
one
of
‘em
might
come
at
you.
I
used
to
stand
still
then
run
up
to
the
dead
buffalo
and
lay
along
side
of
him.”
Matthew
paused
while
they
negotiated
a
small
outcrop
of
rock.
“Yeah—the
other
buffalo
would
come
and
look.
Then
bang—sometimes
two
of
us,
another
fella.
He’d
lay
on
one
side
and
I’d
lay
on
the
other
side
so
he’d
shoot
that
way,
and
I’d
shoot
from
my
side.
I
used
to
say,
‘Don’
you
miss
now
or
there’ll
be
another
dead
blackfella.’
He
used
to
laugh,
but
he
belong
to
that
country,
see.
But
I’m
frightened
of
dyin’
up
here.
Me
an’
Isaac
don’
belong
here,
see.”
Simon
stopped
and
leaned
on
the
rifle
to
catch
his
breath.
“What
do
you
mean?”
“Well,
we
come
from
the
south,
Father.
We
was
brought
up
here
when
we
was
just
young
blokes.
Father
Rantz
brought
us
up
here.”
Simon
was
surprised
by
the
revelation.
“Father
Rantz—?”
“Yeah.
That’s
why
Isaac
is
the
boss.
Father
Rantz
tol’
the
others—but
we
don’
belong.
We
come
from
the
Goldfields
way,
out
in
the
desert—Mudidjara.
I
remember
it
was
beautiful.
Not
like
here.
There
you
could
see
for
miles
an’
miles.”
“So
how
did
you
end
up
with
Father
Rantz?”
Matthew
took
a
long,
slow
breath.
“—For
a
long
time
we
heard
about
white
people
and
missions
from
other
natives,
69
but
our
father
don’
want
to
leave
his
land.
He
could
see
everybody
else
leavin’
an’
he
was
afraid
no
one
would
stay.
But
one
day
there
was
a
big
fight—some
whitefellas
come—
after
that
everybody
had
to
leave
for
a
while.
Better
you
ask
Isaac—he’s
older,
he
knows
what
happened—but
he
don’
talk
too
much
about
it
either.”
Simon
saw
moisture
on
the
man’s
cheeks.
He
hesitated,
but
needed
to
know
the
old
man’s
story.
“So
what
happened—with
Rantz?”
“Oh—maybe
you
don’
really
want
to
hear.
Not
many
white
people
do.”
“Try
me.”
Matthew
shrugged.
“We
was
camped
by
a
soak.
There
was
our
father
and
mother,
an’
some
aunties,
mostly
widows,
an’
some
old
people—a
big
family,
you
know
how
it
is.
I
still
remember
one
auntie
who
use
to
tell
us
stories
from
the
Dreamin’.
Like
the
Bible,
Father,
but
we
don’
need
books
in
them
days.
Anyway—Isaac
and
me
had
run
to
some
rocks
to
hide
from
our
cousins.
We
were
emus
and
they
had
to
hunt
us.
While
we
were
hidin’
a
lot
of
men
come
on
horses
and
Isaac
and
I
was
scared
so
we
stayed
in
the
rocks.
I
don’
know
what
happened
really—there
was
lots
of
shoutin’
and
the
whitefellas
made
all
the
people
stand
in
a
line
and
they
tied
their
hands
with
ropes—even
our
cousins
and
they
were
only
little
like
us.
We
was
really
scared
then.
We
thought
they
were
goin’
to
be
taken
away.
But
the
men
walked
their
horses
just
a
short
way,
then
‘bang
bang
bang’,
many
many
times.
Our
father
and
mother—and
cousins—everybody.
We
were
too
frightened
to
move.”
Matthew
drew
his
sleeve
across
his
cheeks.
“We
was
the
last
natives
in
that
place.
The
whitefellas
wanted
to
put
sheep
on
the
country
and
to
look
for
gold.
They
was
frightened
we
would
kill
the
sheep—or
learn
that
gold
was
worth
a
lot
of
money
an’
find
it
for
ourselves.
And
we
would
have.
It’s
our
70
land.
We
know
where
that
gold
is—there’s
gold
at
Mudidjara,
but
only
Isaac
an’
me
know
where
Mudidjara
is—our
home.”
Simon
was
silent
for
a
moment,
absorbing
the
man’s
story;
aware
of
the
pain
he
still
felt.
“So
how
did
Father
Rantz
find
you?”
he
asked
softly.
“When
the
whitefellas
had
gone
we
lay
on
the
ground
with
our
father
and
mother.
All
night
we
did
that,
but
in
the
morning
the
flies
come
and
we
knew
they
were
dead.
We
don’
know
what
to
do
so
we
just
followed
the
horse
tracks.
Isaac
said
we
should
ask
the
whitefellas
to
make
us
dead
so
we
could
be
with
our
family.
I
was
scared
of
that,
but
he
was
older—he
had
already
started
bein’
initiated,
like.
We
walked
for
three,
maybe
four
days,
Isaac
will
know,
and
one
morning
we
saw
a
camp.
There
was
two
whitefellas
there.
Isaac
asked
them
to
make
us
dead,
but
they
don’
know
what
he’s
saying.
They
had
a
truck.
We
had
never
seen
one
before.
They
were
puttin’
up
a
wire
fence.
It
went
for
miles
an’
miles.
After
two
days
they
must
have
seen
we
were
on
our
own,
so
one
of
the
fellas
called
to
us.
Isaac
went
to
him
and
I
followed.
We
were
pretty
hungry,
like.
He
put
us
in
the
truck
and
took
us
to
Kalgoorlie.
You
know
Kalgoorlie?”
Simon
nodded.
“Have
you
heard
of
a
place
called
Cumalong?”
Matthew
scratched
his
chin.
“No,
I
don’
think
so.”
“So
what
happened
in
Kalgoorlie?”
“Well,
we
was
put
with
some
sisters
in
a
convent.
They
gave
us
names.
It
wasn’t
too
bad.
There
was
a
lot
of
kids
just
like
us.
Then
one
day,
when
we
were
too
old
for
the
school,
a
father
comes
from
Perth,
on
his
way
to
the
north—Father
Rantz—he
was
just
a
young
bloke
then—says
he’s
goin’
to
take
us
with
him.
To
tell
you
the
truth,
I
still
don’
really
know
why.
Maybe
because
we
could
speak
English
by
then—I
don’
know.
But
it’s
been
good
up
here.
We
got
a
new
family
up
here.
We
both
got
wives
and
I’ve
got
a
son,
Angel.
He’s
goin’
to
71
be
all
right,
not
like
a
lot
of
buggers
who
go
to
town
and
get
on
the
grog.”
Simon
felt
they
ought
to
keep
moving.
He
lifted
the
rifle
back
onto
his
shoulder
and
started
to
move
on,
but
Matthew
called
him
back.
“Father.
Do
you
think
us
blackfellas
are
bad?”
“Of
course
not—why?”
“Would
you
think
we
was
bad
if
we
sometimes
did
things
our
way—like
we
believe
now
in
the
Father,
the
Boss
Lady
and
her
boy,
Jesus,
he’s
a
good
bloke—but
he’s
like
Isaac
and
me,
he
don’
belong
here
the
way
whitefellas,
like
Father
Rantz,
tryin’
to
make
him.
“Some
things
have
to
be
different,
but
that
don’
mean
we’re
bad.”
Simon
met
Mathew’s
gaze,
but
said
nothing.
“Father
Rantz
said
we
would
burn
in
that
big
hell
if
we
danced,
and
sung
the
land
like
in
the
old
days—but
the
land
is
dyin’,
Father.
That
desert
is
comin’
closer
all
the
time.
We
got
to
sing
it
pretty
soon.
Isaac
says
this
is
the
Aboriginal
Jesus’s
home
and
he
would
want
us
to
do
that
even
if
Father
Rantz
don’.”
Simon
felt
the
familiar
ache
from
sensing
something
profound
that
was
slipping
away
before
he
could
identify
it.
“I’m
sure
Isaac
has
a
point,”
he
said
absently,
trying
to
gather
his
thoughts.
Matthew
smiled.
“You’re
okay,
Father.
You’re
goin’
to
make
the
people
here
pretty
happy.”
“Fine—if
that
means
we
can
stop
playing
football
long
enough
for
a
muster.”
Matthew
was
still
grinning.
“Oh,
don’
you
worry
about
that.”
The
two
men
walked
for
about
half
a
kilometre,
heading
east,
until
the
surrounding
bush
melted
away
from
the
path
to
expose
a
wide,
shallow
swampland
vegetated
with
tall,
yellow
grass.
72
Isaac
and
Angel
were
waiting
patiently;
Isaac
studying
the
land
ahead.
“You
and
the
Father
go
up
round
the
ridge,
and
me
and
Angel
will
follow
the
path.”
Matthew
looked
to
Simon,
and
then
to
his
brother
and
scowled.
“No,
me
an
the
Father
will
go
along
the
path.”
Isaac
shrugged.
It
didn’t
matter
to
him.
He
beckoned
to
Angel
and
together
they
followed
the
edge
of
the
swamp
in
a
north‐easterly
arc.
“We’ll
wait
a
bit
till
they
get
on
the
high
ground,”
said
Matthew.
“They
can
guide
us
from
there.”
The
two
stood
in
an
uneasy
silence.
The
priest
felt
a
brooding
presence
behind
the
drone
of
insects
and
the
oily,
clammy
trails
of
sweat
inside
his
shirt.
He
felt
he
had
intruded
into
an
alien,
dangerous
world.
Isaac
and
Angel
had
disappeared
into
the
tall
grass.
Perhaps
fifteen
minutes
passed
before
they
reappeared,
about
three
hundred
metres
away,
edging
their
way
to
the
ridge
that
overlooked
the
swamp.
“There’ll
be
buffalo
here
for
sure,”
said
Matthew.
“They’ll
be
able
to
see
their
tracks
from
up
there.”
He
pointed
to
the
path
ahead.
It
was
about
a
metre
wide
and
worn
down
in
the
centre.
It
acted
as
a
narrow
causeway,
with
the
river
lapping
against
its
right
bank
and
the
swamp
on
the
left.
“We’ll
go
along
here,”
said
Matthew,
who
squeezed
in
front
of
Simon
to
lead
the
way.
“See
how
the
buffalo
has
worn
down
the
path?
They
bin
here
a
long
time.
You
got
a
bullet
ready?”
“Yes.”
“Because
there
might
be
crocs
here
too.”
“Wonderful,”
Simon
muttered.
“If
a
buffalo
starts
comin’
for
us
we
got
to
make
no
mistake.
There’s
nowhere
to
run
except
back
along
the
path,
and
he’ll
catch
us,
an’
I’m
no
Kadjali
bugger.”
“Kadjali—what’s
a
Kadjali?”
73
“Agh!”
Matthew
spat
with
disgust.
“A
real
foolish
bloke,
Father.
It’s
from
the
Dreamin’.
Kadjali
was
a
young
fella
who’d
just
got
himself
a
wife
an’
they
went
out
lookin’
for
their
own
place.
They
was
livin’
on
honey
mostly.
Anyway
they
were
soon
tired
of
honey
an’
Kadjali
wanted
to
be
a
big
fella
for
his
wife;
she
liked
his
brother
too,
you
see,
so
Kadjali
wanted
to
show
her
he’s
number
one.
“So
Kadjali
says
to
her,
‘let’s
go
to
the
river
an’
I’ll
get
plenty
of
fish’.
When
they
got
to
the
river,
his
wife
says
don’
you
be
foolish.
That
water
is
deep
an’
a
crocodile
will
get
you.
Kadjali
pumped
up
his
chest
an’
stroked
his—ah,
his
old
fella—if
you
know
what
I
mean
Father.”
Simon
waved
his
free
arm
to
speed
the
story
along.
“Well,
Kadjali
did
that
thing
to
show
his
wife
he
was
a
man
an’
not
afraid
of
crocodiles.
He
then
dived
into
the
river
an’
swam
down
deep
an’
he
found
fish
an’
even
a
tortoise.
His
wife
was
happy
an’
she
let
him
lie
with
her—an’
Kadjali
was
happy
too.
He
liked
doin’
that—with
his
wife—more
an’
more,
so
he
said,
‘I’m
goin’
to
go
down
into
that
river
an’
catch
you
a
crocodile
then
we
will
have
meat
for
a
long
time
an’
we
can
stay
here
an’
have
plenty—er—well,
you
understand
Father.
Simon
grunted
an
affirmation.
“So
what
happened?”
Matthew
continued.
“Well
Kadjali
dived
in.
He
swam
down
to
where
it
was
dark
an’
felt
along
for
the
crocodile
hole.
He
put
his
hand
in
an’
the
crocodile
grabbed
him.
Kadjali
tried
to
pull
that
crocodile
out
of
the
hole,
but
it
was
too
strong.
They
rolled
around
an’
around,
Kadjali
tryin’
to
grab
that
tail
an’
the
water
bubbled.
Kadjali’s
wife
saw
this
an’
started
to
light
a
big
fire.
She
was
glad
that
Kadjali
was
catchin’
the
crocodile
an’
they
would
have
a
lot
of
meat.
But
she
don’
know
that
the
crocodile
has
bitten
off
Kadjali’s
head
an’
arms
an’
legs.
She
don’t
know
that
‘til
she
sees
bits
of
a
man
come
floatin’to
the
top
an’
making
the
river
red.
This
made
her
cry;
an’
she
was
angry
too
because
now
she
don’
have
no
husband
because
he
was
foolish.
Then
Kadjali’s
brother
heard
her
crying
an’
come
74
to
her.
She
told
him
his
brother
was
killed
by
the
crocodile,
an’
he
was
pleased.
‘I
am
happy,’
he
said,
‘because
I
can
have
you
now,’
an’
he
stroked
himself
to
show
her
he
too
was
a
big
man,
but
not
foolish
like
his
brother.
Kadjali’s
wife
was
pleased
because
she
had
a
new
husband
who
wasn’
foolish
an’
goin’
to
get
himself
killed.”
Matthew
stopped
talking
and
Simon
realised
it
was
the
end
of
the
story.
“So
what
does
it
all
mean?”
Matthew
shrugged.
“Well—it’s
a
moral,
Father.
If
you’re
just
big,
but
not
smart,
you
goin’
to
get
yourself
killed
and
then
you’re
no
good
to
anybody,
especially
a
woman—an’
if
we’re
not
smart
right
here,
we
goin’
to
become
like
Kadjali—
crocodile
shit.”
Simon
looked
at
the
nearby
water,
black
and
still.
“Good
one
Matthew,”
he
said
tonelessly.
He
lifted
the
rifle
off
his
shoulder
and
carried
it
ready
to
fire,
but
didn’t
know
whether
to
point
it
at
the
swamp
or
the
river.
For
all
he
knew
it
would
explode
in
his
face
anyway.
As
it
was
the
magazine
was
broken
so
he
could
only
load
one
bullet
at
a
time.
He
stopped.
“Actually
that
story
sounds
familiar.”
“Eh?”
“Your
story—a
bit
like
Deuteronomy,
one
of
the
books
of
Moses
when
he
was
laying
down
the
rules
to
the
Israelites.
Said
a
man
had
a
duty
to
his
brother’s
widow
to
lay
with
her
and
produce
a
son
to
succeed
the
name
of
the
brother
who
died.”
Matthew
grinned.
“Father
Rantz
never
told
us
that
one—
maybe
our
Dreamin’
isn’t
much
different,
eh!”
Matthew
started
forward
again,
walking
in
a
measured
crouch,
placing
one
foot
precisely
in
the
path
of
the
other.
He
was
watching
the
tall
grass
intently,
only
occasionally
switching
his
gaze
in
the
direction
of
Isaac
and
Angel,
and
sometimes
towards
the
river;
their
silent,
ominous
companion.
75
Chapter
Six
Muriel
took
the
track
which
passed
by
the
church
and
through
the
vegetable
plot.
Here
the
river
was
broadened
by
shallows
and
several
toddlers
were
already
splashing
on
the
edge
while
their
mothers
washed
clothing.
She
paused,
unsure
now
of
what
to
do.
The
scene
of
children
playing
was
no
longer
novel.
She
had
already
painted
it
twice,
largely
because
it
was
close
at
hand.
She
was
a
city
girl
and
still
nervous
about
going
too
far
on
her
own;
frightened
of
the
snakes,
which
seemed
to
be
everywhere
once
you
left
the
comparative
safety
of
the
settlement.
She
suddenly
thought
of
Karl
and
his
fishing
bag;
an
old
man
on
a
river
bank.
That
would
do
nicely.
She
greeted
the
group
at
the
river’s
edge.
“Did
you
see
which
way
Mr
Breier
went?”
One
of
the
women
pointed
west
along
the
path
to
the
gorge.
Muriel
walked
for
about
half
a
kilometre
and
nearing
the
rock
wall
with
its
small
beach,
she
left
the
path
and
climbed
up
the
slope
heading
slightly
away
from
the
river;
gingerly
placing
her
sandaled
feet
in
the
bare
patches
of
sand
between
the
tufts
of
spiny,
dry
grass.
She
made
for
a
plateau
which
overlooked
the
river
and
the
fisherman.
Karl
was
below,
his
hat
pulled
over
his
eyes
and
leaning
against
a
rock.
Muriel
smoothed
the
gravel
and
sand
off
a
large
flat
stone
shaded
by
two
tall
gums.
Seated,
she
began
to
sketch
the
river,
flanked
by
its
rock
walls
and
occasional
narrow
strips
of
sand
at
the
water’s
edge,
her
eyes
patiently
measuring
the
scene.
She
had
started
to
study
drawing
when
she
left
high
school,
but
the
world
had
proved
too
enticing
for
the
free‐spirited
girl.
She
did
not
abandon
the
idea
of
an
artistic
career,
she
just
didn’t
find
the
time
to
pursue
it.
She
traded
instead
on
her
looks;
almost
subconsciously
at
first,
but
she
soon
learned
that
a
smart
girl
with
a
nice
face
and
shapely
body
could
do
worse
than
exploit
her
natural
talents.
Muriel
sold
herself,
and
did
76
well.
She
reasoned
that’s
how
it
was
for
a
woman,
even
if
most
might
disagree.
But
the
only
delineation
she
could
measure
between
herself
and
other
women
was
she
preferred
cash,
while
they
toted
bricks,
mortar
and
a
certain
respectability
on
the
balance
sheet.
The
only
flaw
in
Muriel’s
scheme
was
she
had
not
counted
on
growing
old,
and
while
a
fine‐looking
thirty‐five,
she
was
still
thirty‐five
and
the
competition
suddenly
had
a
good
ten
to
fifteen
years
on
her.
Then
along
came
Fred
Davies,
just
a
faceless
customer
at
first,
but,
she
discovered,
he
was
looking
for
someone
like
her.
The
deal
was
struck
and
delivered
on
red
satin
sheets,
witnessed
by
their
own
luminescent
bodies
reflected
in
wall‐to‐ceiling
mirrors.
Her
hand
flicked
at
the
artboard
in
sharp,
measured
strokes
and
the
home
of
the
barramundi
took
shape
in
charcoal
lines.
Behind
her,
keeping
low
in
the
thin
undergrowth,
small
black
faces
watched.
They
giggled
silently.
The
white
people
were
a
constant
source
of
amusement.
There
never
seemed
to
be
any
purpose
to
their
activities.
It
was
like
watching
birds
flit
from
branch
to
branch
and
back
again;
a
flurry
of
feathers
occasionally,
but
nothing
important
happened.
Suddenly
the
children
froze.
They
heard
the
sound
of
steps
long
before
Muriel
whose
fingers
were
busy
stroking
the
outline
of
the
fisherman.
“Having
fun?”
She
started,
surprised
by
the
man.
“I’ve
decided
to
take
the
morning
off.”
“So
I
see.”
Easing
himself
onto
the
stone
beside
her
Davies
nodded
in
the
direction
of
Karl.
“Never
gives
up
does
he
.
.
.
silly
old
bastard.”
“Leave
him
alone,
he’s
a
nice
old
man.”
77
“Come
on
…
the
blacks
gave
up
trying
to
catch
barramundi
there
years
ago.
They’re
either
too
big
and
smart,
or
they’ve
been
fished
out.”
“Karl
knows
what
he’s
doing.
I’ve
been
watching
him.
Sometimes
I
think
his
skin’s
the
wrong
colour
.
.
.
he
seems
more
at
home
here
than
the
Aborigines.”
Davies
scoffed.
“That
wouldn’t
be
hard.
The
longer
I’m
here
the
more
I’m
convinced
they
don’t
belong
anywhere
.
.
.
except
maybe
in
history
books.
They’ll
never
be
like
us,
not
in
fifty
thousand
years.”
Muriel
kept
her
eyes
on
the
drawing.
“Perhaps
that’s
a
good
thing
.
.
.
maybe
they
might
then
be
around
long
after
our
kind
has
gone.”
Davies
chuckled
dryly.
“Some
fucking
hope.
These
people
can’t
even
keep
a
house
or
vehicle
in
one
piece
for
a
few
weeks,
they’re
incapable
of
even
basic
commerce
and
financial
management
.
.
.
look
at
the
new
priest,
organized
a
muster
and
they
pissed
off
to
a
football
carnival.
All
they
care
about
is
having
a
good
time
and
holding
out
the
hand
for
government
money.”
Muriel
smiled.
“That’s
why
I
think
they’re
smarter
than
us.
They
don’t
need
the
things
we
keep
trying
to
force
on
them.
I
watch
their
eyes
sometimes
.
.
.
I
think
they
only
pretend
to
be
interested
for
our
sake,
because
deep
down
they
believe
one
day
we
will
be
gone
…
it’s
like
they
know
something
about
the
future
that
we
don’t.”
“You
ought
to
keep
in
the
shade.
Too
much
sun
fries
the
brain,
you
know.”
Muriel
held
the
sketch
out
to
survey
it.
Davies
slipped
an
arm
under
her
shoulder
and
cupped
a
breast.
“Ah
...
nice.”
“Like
I
said
.
.
.
I’m
taking
the
morning
off,”
she
responded
flatly.
“We’re
not
at
the
store
now,”
Davies
growled.
He
squeezed
her
breast,
touching
his
lips
against
the
back
of
her
neck.
Muriel
sighed
heavily.
“Give
it
a
break,
eh?”
78
“Look,
it’s
a
nice
day
.
.
.
no
one
around.”
“I
came
out
here
to
paint,
and
besides,
what
about
Karl
.
.
.
what
if
he
sees
us?”
“He
won’t,
and
too
bad
if
he
does.”
“No
Fred,
I
don’t
feel
like
it
.
.
.
maybe
later.”
He
squeezed
her
nipple
between
his
bookkeeper’s
fingers
and
with
his
other
hand
began
undoing
the
buttons
down
the
back
of
her
dress.
Muriel
put
down
the
artboard
and
pushed
at
Davies
who
stood
up
angrily.
“Listen.
I’ve
just
about
had
this.
You’ve
been
cooling
off
a
bit
too
much
lately.
I’m
filling
your
bank
kitty,
I’m
keeping
my
side
of
the
deal
…
now
you
keep
yours.”
He
unbuckled
his
belt
and
pushed
down
his
shorts.
Muriel
stood
up,
her
face
lined
with
anger.
She
glanced
towards
the
fisherman
then
quickly
slipped
her
pants
down
over
her
legs.
She
knelt
gingerly
onto
the
hard
grass
and
eased
herself
onto
her
back.
Davies
knelt
between
her
legs,
pausing
just
long
enough
to
impart
a
satisfied
smile.
The
children
in
the
grass
were
mesmerized.
In
their
close
living
spaces,
neither
the
sight
nor
sounds
of
copulation
were
new.
But
they’d
never
seen
white
people
do
it
before
…
especially
important
white
people
like
Mr
and
Mrs
Davies.
The
man’s
white
buttocks
rose
and
fell
above
the
top
of
the
grass.
Davies
froze
in
mid‐stroke.
“What
was
that?”
They
both
heard
a
nearby
giggle.
Muriel
laughed
lightly.
“I
think
you’ve
been
sprung.”
The
administrator
pushed
himself
back
onto
his
knees
and
peered
across
the
top
of
the
grass.
A
flash
of
dark
skin
dipped
below
his
line
of
sight.
“Bloody
kids!”
He
climbed
to
his
feet,
dragging
his
underpants
and
shorts
up
over
his
knees
as
he
went.
“You
dirty
little
peeping
Toms
.
.
.
come
here!”
he
yelled.
A
tuft
of
dark
curly
hair
and
glinting
eyes
rose
fractionally
above
the
grass.
“By
Jeesus,
I’ll
teach
you.”
79
Davies
began
to
stride
towards
the
children.
Six
naked
little
bodies
darted
to
their
feet
and
scurried
off
in
different
directions
into
the
scrub.
Davies
began
to
chase,
swearing
loudly.
As
Davies
reached
the
children’s
hiding
place,
one
who
had
not
bolted
with
the
others
suddenly
jumped
to
its
feet
and
tried
to
escape.
The
man
grabbed
the
girl
by
the
shoulder
with
his
left
hand
he
swung
his
right
palm
hard
against
the
side
of
the
child’s
head.
She
screamed.
On
the
river
bank
Karl
heard
the
shouting.
Looking
up
he
couldn’t
see
anything
until
Davies
appeared
dragging
the
screaming
child.
Then
Muriel
came
into
view
and
began
struggling
with
him
to
free
the
child.
Karl
put
down
his
line,
shaking
his
head,
and
decided
to
see
what
the
fuss
was
about.
“It’s
just
a
little
girl,
leave
her
alone,”
Muriel
was
saying.
Davies
still
gripped
the
child’s
shoulder
and
was
forcing
it
to
walk
ahead
of
him.
“What
is
happening
here?”
asked
Karl
as
they
met
on
the
path.
“I’m
taking
her
to
Wilma.”
He
shot
a
warning
glance
at
Muriel.
“Found
the
little
buggers
feeling
each
other
up
in
the
grass.
Caught
this
one
and
I’m
going
to
hand
her
over
to
Wilma.
Time
for
the
compound.
They’re
animals
Karl
…
doesn’t
matter
how
old
they
are.
If
they
start
messing
around,
it’s
time
to
reign
‘em
in.”
Karl
knelt
in
front
of
the
frightened
child.
“Hey.
You
can
stop
crying,
yes.
You
come
with
me.”
He
stood
up.
“I
will
take
the
little
one
to
Wilma
and
tell
her.
You
are
too
rough.
Come,”
he
said
and
took
the
child’s
hand.
“Just
make
sure
you
do,”
Davies
said
grimly.
He
watched
the
old
man
lead
the
child
away.
Muriel
returned
clutching
her
art
case.
“There
was
no
need
for
any
of
that.
What
the
hell
got
into
you,
they
were
only
kids.”
He
rounded
on
her.
“They
were
laughing
at
me.
How
can
I
run
this
place
if
they’re
laughing
at
me?”
80
Simon
and
Matthew
were
about
two
hundred
metres
along
the
path
when
the
gunshot
ripped
through
the
air.
Every
tree
around
the
swamp
exploded
as
thousands
of
birds,
startlked,
took
flight.
The
equally‐startled
men
looked
up.
Isaac
and
Angel
were
waving
frantically.
Simon
sensed
rather
than
heard
the
buffalo.
His
heart
jack‐
knifed
inside
his
ribcage;
his
body
burned
with
its
release
of
adrenalin.
It
was
behind.
He
turned
in
terror.
It
was
already
so
close.
He
tried
to
cry
out,
but
there
was
no
force
in
his
voice.
He
could
see
blood‐red
eyes,
and
great
sheets
of
saliva
shaking
loose
with
each
violent
swing
of
the
beast’s
massive
head;
its
horns,
dropped
lower
and
lower,
its
thundering
weight
reverberated
beneath
his
feet.
He
lifted
his
rifle.
Too
slow,
too
slow.
His
mind
screamed
for
action,
but
his
body
was
paralyzed.
A
voice
was
yelling,
screaming.
The
charging
beast
filled
his
vision.
Simon
pulled
the
trigger.
The
explosion
ripped
the
weapon
from
his
hands,
flinging
him
backwards.
He
hit
the
ground
hard,
stunned.
Two
further
explosions
and
still
he
could
hear
screaming.
The
huge
beast
was
almost
on
him,
its
massive
horns
barely
above
the
ground.
Simon
rolled
himself
from
the
path
and
into
the
black
water.
Weed
and
slime
dragged
at
his
clothing
and
he
was
panicked
by
an
even
greater
terror
…
crocodiles.
He
pulled
himself
frantically
back
up
the
bank.
Matthew
was
running.
He
had
dropped
his
rifle
and
was
running
for
his
life,
his
trouser
legs
flapping
like
loose
canvas
in
a
stiff
wind.
The
bullock
caught
him
in
the
back,
tossing
him
into
the
air.
The
Aborigine
tumbled
over
the
animal’s
back
and
crashed
to
the
ground,
face
down.
The
bullock
pulled
up
about
thirty
metres
further
on
and
was
turning
to
come
back.
Simon
scrambled
to
his
feet
and
ran
to
the
fallen
man.
Matthew
looked
up,
pain
and
terror
in
his
eyes.
“Rifle,
my
rifle
.
.
.
shoot
‘im
Father
.
.
.
I
don’
wan’
to
die
here
.
.
.”
81
Simon
twisted
his
head.
The
rifle
was
lying
on
the
bank,
its
butt
in
the
water.
He
could
feel
the
thunder
of
hooves.
Two
steps.
It
seemed
to
take
minutes.
He
grabbed
the
weapon,
jerked
back
the
bolt
and
saw
with
horror
a
live
round
eject.
But
the
magazine
thrust
up
another.
Fighting
panic,
he
pushed
the
bolt
home.
The
buffalo
was
almost
onto
the
fallen
man.
Matthew
raised
an
arm,
trying
to
move,
but
his
back
had
been
broken.
Simon
saw
the
terrible
fear
and
pleading
in
his
eyes.
He
pulled
the
butt
hard
into
his
shoulder
and
sighted
quickly
along
the
barrel.
The
bullock
lowered
its
head
and
Simon
pulled
the
trigger.
The
beast
stumbled,
but
continued
forward
under
its
momentum
until
it
collapsed
onto
the
fallen
man.
Simon
emitted
a
single,
cry
of
horror
as
a
a
horn
pierced
Matthew’s
back.
It
was
quiet
so
quickly.
Death
and
silence.
An
awful
ringing
in
his
head,
Simon
dropped
the
rifle
and
ran
to
Matthew.
Blood
dribbled
from
his
mouth.
Simon
fell
to
his
knees
and
clutched
the
old
man’s
hands,
squeezing
them
between
his
own.
The
buffalo
stank
of
swamp
and
excrement.
God
the
Father
of
mercies
through
the
death
and
resurrection
of
his
son
...
has
reconciled
the
world
to
himself
and
sent
the
holy
spirit
among
us
...
through
the
ministry
of
the
church
may
God
give
you
pardon
and
peace
and
I
absolve
you
from
your
sins
...
.
A
rasping,
gurgling
sound
came
from
Matthew’s
mouth
and
his
lips
moved.
Simon
spread
himself
flat
to
put
his
ear
near
his
mouth.
“Mudi
.
.
.
Mudidjara
.
.
.
Mudi.”
Dark
blood
gushed
from
his
mouth
and
splashed
over
Simon’s
cheeks.
Simon
used
his
own
spittle
to
smear
the
mark
of
the
cross
on
the
old
man’s
forehead.
It
took
time,
a
heart‐rending
time,
to
find
sturdy
branches
for
Isaac
and
Simon
to
lever
the
bullock
up
so
that
Angel
could
pull
his
father
off
the
bloodied
horn
and
out
from
under
its
carcass.
The
boy
had
a
sickening
struggle;
crying
out
at
the
sucking
sound
the
body
made
as
it
came
jerkily
off
the
horn.
82
They
then
had
the
terrible
task
of
carrying
Matthew’s
corpse
back
to
the
Toyota,
and
lashing
it
to
the
tray.
By
the
time
they
reached
the
settlement,
Simon
felt
his
head
was
ready
to
explode.
He
had
vomited
himself
dry
and
his
mouth
tasted
bitter.
He
could
feel
Matthew’s
blood
congealing
on
his
hair
and
skin.
Isaac
and
Angel
were
sobbing,
all
of
them
helpless
with
grief
and
shock.
Simon
drove
straight
to
the
hospital
and
left
the
body
in
the
small
emergency
room.
Sister
Margaret
took
control
by
simply
demanding
they
all
go.
Simon
drove
Isaac
and
Anegl
home.
When
they
arrived
at
Matthew’s
house
there
was
a
large,
downcast
group.
As
the
vehicle
pulled
up,
Matthew’s
wife
rushed
forward,
her
face
contorted
with
grief.
Only
much
later
did
Simon
wonder
how
they
had
known.
Isaac,
Angel
and
the
woman
clung
together;
the
horror
of
the
tragedy
carried
into
the
community
by
the
dried
blood
on
the
skin
and
clothes
of
the
priest
and
the
hunters.
Death
was
nothing
new,
but
its
suddenness
could
never
be
met
with
understanding
or
acceptance.
Before
he
left
Simon
remembered
Matthew
had
been
trying
to
say
something.
He
took
Isaac’s
arm.
“I
am
so
sorry
.
.
.”
His
words
sounded
hollow.
Isaac
faced
him
with
wet,
red
eyes.
“It
was
not
your
doin’,
Father.
Don’
you
think
that.”
“I
was
too
slow
.
.
.
I
fired
too
late.”
Isaac
shook
his
head.
“You
can’t
say
that.
We
saw.
It
was
too
quick.
That
bullock
come
up
from
a
hole
he
was
lyin’
in.
He
was
plenty
quick,
and
that
silly
Kadjali
missed.
He
fired
twice
an’
missed.”
He
shook
his
head
again
in
disbelief.
“Matthew
tried
to
tell
me
something.
It
was
difficult
for
him,
but
it
sounded
like
mudijarra,
or
something.”
Isaac
nodded
and
smiled
grimly.
“He
wan’
to
go
home,
that’s
all
.
.
.
to
our
own
place,
Mudidjara.”
“Down
south?”
“He
tol’
you?”
83
Simon
nodded.
“We
were
talking
.
.
.
things
are
going
to
change,
Isaac,
I
promise
you
that.”
Isaac
laid
a
hand
on
the
priest’s
arm.
“Better
you
go
away
and
think
about
it
.
.
.
you
don’
wan’
to
be
too
quick,
Father.”
Still
nauseaus
from
shock,
Simon
felt
the
eyes
of
the
entire
canteen
on
him
as
he
forced
down
the
evening
soup.
He
responded
to
a
desperate
urge
to
escape
and
pushed
his
chair
away
from
the
table.
“If
you’ll
excuse
me,”
he
mumbled
and
made
for
the
door.
His
hand
was
reaching
for
the
outside
door
when
it
burst
open.
He
almost
collided
with
the
administrator.
Davies
was
red‐faced
and
slammed
the
door
behind
him,
blocking
the
priest’s
way.
“A
fine
fucking
mess,
eh
Father?”
Simon
swallowed.
His
mouth
felt
as
though
it
was
stuffed
with
wire
wool.
“It
was
a
terrible
accident
…
.”
“Don’t
worry,
it
can’t
get
any
worse.
I
radioed
through
to
the
police
and
have
already
had
two
calls
from
department
heavies.
Both
times
the
same
question:
“What
the
fucking
hell
that
that
priest
think
he
was
doing
taking
two
old
blokes
on
a
wild
buffalo
hunt
…
?”
“It
wasn’t
like
that,”
Simon
responded,
his
anger
towards
the
man
restoring
his
resolve.
“Yeah,
well
that’s
how
they
see
it.
Reckon
you’re
a
cowboy.
It
worries
them
.
.
.
and
that
affects
me.
They’re
kicking
my
butt
damn
hard.”
“I
hardly
see
how
it
affects
you.”
Davies
laughed
and
jabbed
his
finger
into
Simon’s
shoulder.
“Because
it
might
not
have
been
the
old
black
who
copped
it
.
.
.
it
could
have
been
you.”
Now
Simon
understood.
He
stepped
around
the
man,
pulled
open
the
door
and
slammed
it
behind
him.
Davies
yelled
after
him.
“The
cops’ll
be
here,
day
after
tomorrow.”
84
85
Chapter
Seven
The
bitumen
and
neat
cement
kerbing
looked
out
of
place
against
the
red
earth.
Front
yards
were
adorned
with
expensive
toys;
four‐wheel‐drives
and
ski
boats
yet
the
streets
and
their
struggling
southern
gardens
looked
forlorn.
The
houses
were
of
timber
and
asbestos,
a
few
even
of
brick.
In
the
beginning
they
would
have
splashed
cool,
pastel
colours
onto
the
landscape,
but
now
they
were
all
coated
in
the
same
unstoppable
red‐brown
dust.
Kununurra
was
an
urban
growth
transplanted
onto
a
river
plain
below
a
small
mountain
of
jagged,
treeless
rock,
some
three
thousand
kilometres
from
the
southern
capital.
It
was
surrounded
by
an
arid
landscape,
but
had
water
to
spare
from
the
immense
dam
feeding
an
irrigation
scheme.
However,
there
was
a
fragility
about
the
town;
its
inhabitants
existing
at
the
whim
of
far‐away
governments
which
had
almost
forgotten
the
original
reasoning
behind
the
creation
of
this
remote
bastion
of
Anglo‐European
culture.
Years
before,
politicians
in
the
south
had
grown
nervous
about
the
roof
of
their
country
not
only
being
underpopulated
by
whites,
but
exposed
to
an
increasingly
confident
and
perhaps
expansionist
South
East
Asia.
It
wasn’t
that
many
in
the
fair‐
skinned
southern
cities
wanted
themselves
to
live
in
this
red,
tropical
zone—they
just
didn’t
want
anybody
else
moving
in.
So
an
irrigation
scheme
was
installed,
a
hub
of
life
around
which
a
European
culture
could
be
nurtured.
It
was
planned
that
one
day
there
would
be
a
city.
One
day
there
might
be.
But
for
now
it
was
an
awkward
little
town
86
struggling
to
keep
its
head
above
the
rising
red
earth.
It
was
Thursday,
pension
day.
Aborigines
gathered
under
a
white‐trunked
Eucalypt
outside
the
government
complex
waiting
to
collect
their
payments.
They
were
dishevelled
and
runny‐nosed;
barefoot
and
listless.
Some
sat,
holding
their
heads;
minds
numbed
by
a
steady
diet
of
cheap
fortified
wine.
As
Simon,
Isaac
and
Fred
Davies
left
the
court
house,
one
of
the
men
called
to
Isaac.
“I’d
better
say
hullo,”
he
said
to
Simon.
“I’ll
wait.”
“No,
come
and
meet
‘em.”
Davies
was
not
in
a
sociable
mood.
“I
need
a
drink.
Find
me
at
the
pub
when
you’re
ready.”
The
coroner’s
hearing
had
lasted
little
more
than
forty
minutes.
A
constable
read
tiredly
from
a
type‐
written
report.
He
had
gone
to
Gunwinddu
Station,
taken
statements
and
inspected
Matthew’s
body
before
releasing
it
for
burial.
He
had
then
been
taken
to
the
scene
of
the
accident,
where
the
Aboriginal,
Isaac
Richardson,
had
cut
the
horn
from
the
buffalo
carcass.
The
policeman
noted
that
the
carcass
had
been
mauled
since
the
accident
and
he
attributed
this
to
the
activity
of
one
or
more
crocodiles.
Reaching
into
a
hessian
bag,
he
withdrew
the
gnarled,
black
horn
to
show
the
court.
Simon
and
Isaac
were
required
to
give
their
version
of
events.
Davies
tabled
a
brief
statement
in
which
he
stated
he
had
known
nothing
of
the
hunting
trip
and
had
understood
Father
Bradbury
to
be
out
organizing
a
cattle
muster.
The
coroner
brought
down
a
ruling
of
‘death
by
misadventure’.
87
It
was
over
so
quickly
that
Simon
was
surprised
when
a
clerk
began
to
usher
them
from
the
room.
Simon
was
introduced
to
the
men
beneath
the
tree.
Isaac
said
they
were
important.
To
Simon
they
looked
derelict
and
shockingly
impoverished.
He
looked
at
their
flaccid
cheeks,
characteristic
flat
noses
and
matted
hair.
Most
seemed
to
have
eye
problems.
One
had
terrible
facial
scarring;
patches
of
flaking,
grey
skin.
They
all
smelled
unwashed
and
had
to
work
ceaselessly
to
break
up
the
cloud
of
flies
hovering
around
their
faces.
For
some,
even
this
effort
was
too
much
and
they
just
let
the
insects
feast.
They
wore
the
look
of
hopelessness.
Doubt
flickered
at
the
back
of
Simon’s
mind.
Perhaps
Father
Rantz’s
methods
weren’t
so
wrong?
The
station
people
may
have
lost
some
cultural
freedom,
but
at
least
they
were
energetic
human
beings.
They
talked
in
low
tones,
mostly
in
an
Aboriginal
dialect,
forcing
Simon
to
remain
an
outsider.
Occasionally
they
looked
quizzically
at
him
in
response
to
something
Isaac
said.
After
they
had
left
the
group,
Simon
asked
who
they
were.
“Elders
with
some
of
the
mob
‘round
here—
important
fellas
in
these
parts.”
“They
didn’t
look
important—in
fact
they
looked
bloody
terrible.”
Isaac
just
shook
his
head
tiredly.
“They
got
no
land
here
anymore—no
land,
no
purpose.
When
you
got
no
land,
you
got
nothing
to
do—except
be
sad
enough
to
spend
all
day
drinkin’.
It’s
not
like
for
you
white
fellas.
If
we
lose
our
land
we
can’t
just
move
somewhere
else
‘cause
that
would
be
another
people’s
land.
So
they
have
to
stay
here,
just
dyin’
88
and
knowin’
they
are
the
last.
It
is
a
difficult
thing
to
know
you
are
the
end
of
thousands
an’
thousands
of
years
of
your
way
of
livin’.”
The
old
man
paused,
his
mind
caught
on
a
thought.
“They’re
important
men
‘cause
they’ll
take
the
secrets
of
these
parts
with
‘em.
The
Dreamin’
will
end
pretty
soon
‘round
here.
The
spirit
that
holds
the
people
and
the
land
together
will
be
gone.
Down
at
Gunwinddu
it’s
not
so
bad—but
maybe
even
we’ll
soon
be
like
this
mob.
We
old
fellas
are
dyin’
an’
the
young
blokes
just
want
to
play
footy
and
drink
grog.
If
we
don’
get
back
to
the
bora
soon—initiate
the
young
blokes—teach
‘em
about
their
culture
an’
make
real
men
of
‘em—then
we’ll
be
like
this
mob.
No
more
corroboree,
no
dancin’,
huntin’;
nothin’
but
beer
and
footy.
Already
been
a
long
time
since
we
did
somethin’.
Father
Rantz
used
to
stop
us.
He
don’
want
us
to
do
that.
Last
time
he
got
Mr
Davies
to
get
the
police
and
they
chained
us
up—in
the
sun
with
no
water.
Two
days—ooh,
a
lot
of
us
were
real
crook.
I
thought
it
was
the
end.”
Isaac
stopped
and
turned
to
Simon,
whose
faced
had
hardened.
“But
we
have
to
do
these
things
Father.
You’ve
seen
this
mob
here.
Well
maybe
you’ve
seen
the
future
for
all
blackfellas.
Nothin’
to
do,
nothin’
to
live
for.
It’s
a
terrible,
sad
thing,
Father.
This
land
is
sacred,
just
like
the
land
of
John
the
Bushman
in
the
Bible,
but
you
whitefellas
don’
see
that.”
“John
the
Baptist?”
“That
fella.
John
the
Bushman.”
Simon
was
silent
a
while.
In
Perth
they
had
called
Father
Rantz
a
good
man;
a
soldier
of
the
church.
The
evidence
here
suggested
otherwise.
“They
89
seemed
to
be
asking
about
me.
What
was
that
about?”
“I
tol’
‘em
you’re
goin’
to
let
us
do
the
dancin’
for
my
brother.”
“They
don’
believe
me,”
Isaac
continued.
“But
they
don’
trust
whitefellas,
see.
A
long
time
ago,
before
the
town,
there
was
a
lot
of
killin’
‘round
here,
by
cattle
people—but
people
don’
care
any
more,
do
they?”
Simon
didn’t
respond.
He
felt
the
guilt
caused
by
the
colour
of
his
skin.
Instead,
he
looked
at
his
watch.
“I
think
I
need
a
drink.
Let’s
get
a
bite
to
eat,
eh?”
They
walked
in
silence
to
the
hotel,
just
out
from
the
town
centre.
They
entered
its
air‐conditioned
lounge.
Simon
motioned
Isaac
to
a
table.
“Grab
a
seat
and
I’ll
go
and
see
if
I
can
find
Davies.”
He
walked
through
an
inner
doorway
into
the
bar.
There
was
no
sign
of
the
mission
administrator,
but
as
his
eyes
adjusted
to
the
inside
gloom
there
was
plenty
to
see.
His
attention
was
drawn
to
a
framed
poem
in
large
black
letters
hanging
behind
the
bar:
When
the
good
God
gave
us
this
Continent
to
love
and
live
in
as
our
Fatherland
Was
it
not
His
counsels
planned
And
His
intent
That
we
forever
should
unite
To
keep
it
white?
And
how
shall
we
such
purpose
best
fulfill
True
to
our
destiny,
and
just
to
all?
Is
not
that
destiny
a
call
To
labour
till
90
From
Perth
to
Brisbane,
Gulf
to
Bight
The
whole
is
white
­­
Percy
Henn,
1924
Adjacent
to
the
bar
was
a
notice
board.
Apart
from
a
‘Players
wanted
for
pool
competition’
the
rest
was
devoted
to
one
subject
only:
Wanted:
Abo
stirrers
for
use
as
reinforcing
in
concrete
4
Sale
Gas
ovens
(German
made)
will
accomidate
[sic]
at
least
30
boongs
This
was
followed
by
a
twist
to
an
environmental
campaign:
“Clean‐up
Australia
clean—kill
a
boong.”
From
the
lounge
Simon
heard
the
crash
of
a
chair
and
raised
voices.
He
hurried
back.
Isaac
was
on
the
floor,
cowering
beneath
three
men.
One
was
dragging
at
his
collar.
The
others
were
laughing.
Singlets,
denim
shorts
and
sturdy
work
boots,
all
caked
in
red
dust.
“What
are
you
doing?”
Simon
challenged.
One
of
the
men
turned.
“What’s
it
to
you?”
“He’s
with
me.”
They
laughed.
The
man
gripping
Isaac’s
collar
dragged
the
Aborigine
to
his
feet
and
pushed
him
roughly
towards
the
door.
He
turned
to
Simon.
“We
don’t
allow
boongs
in
here,
mate.”
“Who’s
we?”
Simon
asked.
He
could
feel
the
blood
rising
in
his
cheeks.
91
“Me,”
growled
a
voice
behind
him.
Simon
turned.
A
thickset
man
in
his
early
forties
faced
him.
As
if
to
deny
the
reality
of
his
world
he
was
resplendent
in
gleaming
black
shoes
and
trousers,
carefully
pressed
white
shirt
and
black
bow
tie.
“You
work
here?”
Simon
queried,
his
eyes
quickly
taking
in
the
man’s
attire..
“I’m
the
licensee.
There’s
a
blacks’
bar
around
the
back.”
“We
came
for
a
meal.”
“Too
bad.
He
doesn’t
stay
in
here.”
Simon
stood
firm.
“You
can’t
do
this.
It’s
against
the
law.”
The
man
appeared
amused.
“Sure.”
Simon
turned
his
back
and
walked
to
a
table
near
to
where
Isaac
was
standing.
Simon
pulled
out
a
chair.
He
looked
at
Isaac.
“Take
a
seat.”
Isaac
looked
uncertainly
towards
the
whites.
The
one
who
had
dragged
him
from
his
chair
folded
his
arms
and
smirked.
“No—we
should
go
Father.”
“Sit
down.”
A
cooling
fan
turned
lazily
above
their
heads.
Isaac
nervously
accepted
the
offered
seat.
Simon
felt
rough
hands
grab
at
his
arms.
He
watched
helplessly
as
the
chair
was
pulled
from
under
Isaac.
As
the
Aborigine
tried
to
stand
he
was
grasped
by
two
of
the
men,
dragged
to
the
doorway
and
flung
into
the
street.
In
the
corner
of
his
eye
Simon
saw
the
licensee
reaching
for
him.
He
turned
and
swung
his
fist.
The
man
grabbed
the
flailing
arm,
twisted
it
painfully
behind
his
back
and
propelled
him
roughly
out
onto
92
the
footpath
where
Isaac
was
getting
gingerly
to
his
feet.
The
licensee
towered
above
them.
“Now
fuck
off
or
I’ll
get
the
cops.
See
how
you
enjoy
a
few
hours
with
them.”
The
man
spat
onto
the
ground
next
to
Simon’s
hand
and
strode
back
into
the
hotel.
Simon
stood
glared
angrily
and
impotently
at
the
empty
doorway.
Isaac
reached
for
him.
“Let
it
be,
Father.”
Simon
saw
the
old
man’s
pleading
look,
but
was
boiling
inside.
“They’ll
pay
for
this.”
“Just
forget
it
father.
We
shouldn’t
have
come.
Things
are
different
up
here.”
Simon
knew
the
old
man
was
right.
For
the
full
hour
since
leaving
the
town,
Davies
had
kept
up
an
incessant
stream
of
invective
against
the
pair.
Isaac
sat
in
the
middle
staring
dolefully
through
the
insect‐patterned
windscreen.
Simon
leaned
dejectedly
against
the
passenger
door.
He’d
had
enough.
“Look,
give
it
a
rest.”
Davies
was
furious.
“Well
I
hope
you’ve
learned
a
lesson.”
“We
were
only
there
because
we
were
looking
for
you.”
“You
were
in
the
wrong
bloody
pub!”
Simon
let
the
matter
drop.
He
stared
out
through
the
window.
Davies
continued
to
frown.
“They’ll
be
onto
you.
You’ve
shown
yourself
to
be
a
boong
lover.
I
guarantee
the
cops’ll
be
visiting
Gunwinddu
before
the
week’s
out.”
He
turned
to
Isaac.
“For
Christ’s
sake
make
sure
there’s
no
trouble
for
a
while—keep
the
grog
out,
okay.”
Isaac
nodded.
He
knew
it
was
a
bad
business.
93
Simon
continued
to
stare
moodily
out
through
the
window
at
the
spindly
trees
and
giant
clay
ant
mounds.
It
took
the
best
part
of
the
day
to
drive
back
to
Gunwinddu.
Davies
dropped
both
Simon
and
Isaac
at
the
hospital.
The
pair
sat
on
a
sheet‐covered
table
like
two
errant
schoolboys
as
Sister
Margaret
fussed
with
a
metal
dish
containing
scissors,
clips
and
swabs.
She
cleaned
and
patched
a
graze
on
Isaac’s
forehead.
When
she
had
finished
he
slid
to
his
feet.
“Trouble
just
seems
to
follow
us
blackfellas
around,
don’
it?”
Simon
nodded.
“Seems
so.”
The
old
man
studied
him
anxiously.
“The
dancin’
for
my
brother.
You
still
okay
about
that?”
“Of
course.”
Isaac
smiled
and
walked
out
into
the
night.
Simon
stayed
on
the
table.
“I
suppose
you
want
to
know
what
happened?”
“I
already
do.
The
radio’s
been
buzzing
for
most
of
the
afternoon—news
travels
fast
up
here.
It’s
not
every
day
a
priest
gets
thrown
out
of
a
bar.”
“I
don’t
suppose
any
of
this
gossip
mentioned
why?”
“You
took
a
black
into
a
whites
bar.”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“It’s
pathetic.”
The
nursing
sister
started
putting
away
her
instruments.
“When
you’re
as
isolated
as
people
up
this
way
are,
small
things
can
seem—well,
important.”
“So
you
agree
with
them.
I
was
in
the
wrong?”
“It’s
not
my
job
to
judge.
Nor
should
it
be
yours.
If
you
want
to
help
these
people,
don’t
get
political.”
Simon
exhaled.
He
was
tired
and
trying
to
make
sense
of
it
all.
“In
the
city
people
talk
about
racism,
94
but
you
don’t
see
it—maybe
because
you
belong
with
the
majority.
So
it’s
an
academic
subject.
But
up
here—well
it’s
almost
as
if
the
Aborigines
are
hated.”
The
woman
closed
a
cupboard
and
looked
at
him.
“No,
it’s
not
hate.
It’s
more
complex.
It’s
land
rights—drunkenness—resentment
over
government
money—lots
of
reasons.”
The
woman
paused
in
thought.
“If
you
really
want
a
serious
opinion,
I
think
that
deep
down
they
frighten
us
because
they
belong
here.
We
don’t,
and
we’ve
been
fighting
that
for
two
hundred
years.
Perhaps
the
only
way
we’ll
feel
we
belong
is
by
getting
rid
of
the
comparison.”
Simon
declined
the
nurse’s
offer
of
a
lift
back
to
the
main
part
of
the
settlement,
choosing
instead
to
walk.
The
evening
was
warm
and
the
sound
of
insects
wrapped
him
in
a
comforting
hum.
He’d
been
at
Gunwinddu
for
almost
two
months
and
in
that
time
had
contributed
to
the
death
of
a
man,
had
progressively
antagonized
and
upset
most
of
the
other
staff,
and
it
wouldn’t
be
long
before
the
Bishop
learned
that
he’d
been
thrown
out
of
a
hotel.
Added
to
that,
he’d
made
only
the
barest
headway
with
the
cattle.
What
hope
had
these
people
here
if
they
had
to
rely
on
him?
Reaching
the
settlement
Simon
heard
singing
and
laughter.
He
stopped.
Didn’t
these
people
know
there
was
a
whole
world
out
there
that
wanted
them
dead,
in
an
unobtrusive
sort
of
way,
but
dead
and
gone
all
the
same;
taking
with
them
their
incomprehensible
languages,
culture,
land
demands
and
sad,
watery
eyes?
He
started
walking
again.
Maybe
they
did.
Maybe
that’s
why
every
day
of
living
was
such
a
95
celebration.
Simon
stopped
at
the
top
of
the
main
street
and
looked
into
the
dim
tunnel
formed
by
the
street
lighting.
A
white
fluorescent
wash
spilled
from
the
canteen.
They
would
be
discussing
him;
judging
him.
To
his
right
the
light
was
different,
broken;
and
there
was
an
aroma
of
wood
smoke
and
the
tinkle
of
laughter.
That’s
where
he
wanted
to
be.
Simon
continued
on,
making
for
Isaac’s
house.
The
germ
of
an
idea
was
forming.
Simon
stepped
onto
the
wooden
veranda
and
called
out.
The
front
door
had
long
gone,
put
to
a
more
practical
use
as
firewood.
Simon
was
becoming
accustomed
to
the
Aborigines’
idea
of
housing.
In
their
long
history
they
had
never
needed
four
walls.
He
called
out
again,
and
realized
he
was
unlikely
to
be
heard
above
the
cacophony
at
the
back.
He
stepped
into
the
house.
The
front
rooms
were
empty
of
people
but
full
of
mattresses
and
accumulated
rubbish.
He
followed
the
light
coming
from
the
kitchen
and
found
four
men
sitting
around
a
table.
They
were
playing
cards,
gambling,
judging
by
the
loose
stacks
of
money.
They
looked
up,
surprised
to
see
Simon
after
dark.
“I’m
looking
for
Isaac,”
he
said.
The
nearest
man
jerked
his
thumb.
“Out
the
back
Father,”
he
said.
Simon
made
for
a
small
porch
overlooking
the
back
yard.
The
back
yard,
for
want
of
a
better
description
because
there
were
no
fences
delineating
such
an
enclosure,
was
full
of
people.
The
focal
point
was
a
fire
around
which
adults,
children
and
dogs
were
playing,
singing,
talking,
joking,
sharing
food
and
drinking
tea
from
a
large
blackened
iron
kettle
that
96
hung
from
an
iron
stake
at
the
edge
of
the
glowing
embers.
“Eh,
Father,”
called
Isaac,
waving
him
into
the
throng.
Simon
squatted
in
a
space
which
opened
up
beside
Isaac.
“This
is
a
surprise,”
said
Isaac.
“Well,
I
wanted
to
discuss
something
with
you.”
“Sure—you
wan’
somethin’
to
eat?
Good
bush
tucker.”
Isaac
watched
Simon’s
face
and
laughed.
“Don’
you
worry,
it’s
not
a
goanna
or
anythin’
like
that.
Beef—top
quality.
The
boys
killed
one
yesterday.”
He
suddenly
looked
away
sheepishly,
realising
what
he
had
confessed.
He
beckoned
to
his
wife.
“You
met
Winnie?”
Simon
smiled
as
the
woman
used
a
stick
to
deftly
drag
a
foil
package
from
the
coals.
She
piled
thick
slices
of
meat
onto
a
plate.
Isaac
pointed
sternly
to
another
package.
“Eh,
some
potatoes
too
for
the
Father.”
“Thanks,”
said
Simon.
He
ate
enthusiastically.
Between
mouthfuls
Simon
tried
to
open
the
conversation,
but
Isaac
silenced
him
with
a
wave
of
his
hand.
It
wasn’t
until
Winnie
had
plucked
the
empty
plate
from
his
greasy
fingers
that
Isaac
allowed
him
to
speak.
The
priest
glanced
around.
Faces
shone
in
the
dancing
light
from
the
flames.
Dogs
lay
with
noses
on
outstretched
paws,
or
tangled
on
the
dusty
ground
with
children.
He
drew
his
gaze
back
to
the
fire.
“It’s
difficult
to
explain—it’s
something
important,
but
I
might
need
you
to
help
me
understand
it.”
Isaac
nodded,
his
face
serious.
“Go
on.”
97
Simon
took
a
deep
breath.
He
was
plunging
into
unknown
territory
from
which
there
might
not
be
a
return.
“What
would
the
people
here
most
want
or
need,
if
I
was
able
to
offer
it?”
Isaac
smiled.
“Some
hot
water
would
be
good—
and
one
of
them
video
machines.”
Simon
frowned.
He’d
been
hoping
to
elicit
a
more
profound
response.
“I’ve
got
hot
water—?”
“You
are
white.”
“Oh.”
He
was
momentarily
thrown
from
his
line
of
thought.
“—I’ll
speak
to
Mr
Davies—but
that’s
not
what
I
mean.
What
do
you
need—spiritually,
culturally?”
Isaac
rocked
back
on
his
heels.
“Ahh—that
sure
is
a
big
question
Father.
You
really
want
to
know?”
Simon
nodded.
“Well—to
live
on
our
own
land,
to
hunt
and
sing
there,
to
look
after
it,
like.”
The
priest
frowned.
“But
can’t
you
do
that
already?”
Isaac
shook
his
head.
“Oh
no!
Some
come
from
‘round
these
parts,
but
a
lot
come
from
east
of
here,
maybe
one
hundred
kilometres.
Most
of
us
have
been
put
here
by
the
government
or
the
missionaries.
But
just
like
me
an’
my
brother
miss
our
land
down
south,
these
people
want
to
go
back
to
their
country
too.
You’ve
only
been
here
a
short
time,
Father.
Things
lately
have
been
okay—but
sometimes
it’s
real
wild.
When
the
grog
comes
in
there’s
a
lot
of
fightin’
‘cause
the
people
here
are
all
mixed
up.
I
might
tell
the
young
fellas
one
thing,
but
their
own
elders
will
tell
‘em
somethin’
else.
It’s
the
same
for
lots
of
people
so
nothin’
gets
done
and
all
98
the
time
everybody’s
worried
about
no
one
out
there
lookin’
after
the
land—the
sacred
places.
Some
of
us
are
gettin’
old
and
still
the
young
ones
don’
know
much.”
Simon
sighed
dejectedly.
“I
can’t
give
you
land.
You
were
right.
I
shouldn’t
have
asked.”
Isaac
shook
his
head.
“But
you
can
do
it—just
here
on
Gunwinddu.
This
station
covers
some
people’s
home
lands
That’d
be
a
start—an’
it’s
been
done
already
in
other
parts.
That
mob
‘round
Daly
Waters
and
up
in
the
Alligator
River
country
have
got
special
places
for
the
people
to
camp
on
their
own
country.
It’s
real
good,
Father.”
Isaac
read
the
doubt
on
Simon’s
face,
but
was
determined
to
push
home
this
unexpected
opportunity.
“You
don’
need
to
do
much,
Father.
These
places
are
just
small,
like.
A
few
houses.
We
work
here
during
the
week,
and
go
campin’
on
our
own
country—these
people’s
country—on
the
weekends.
It’s
real
important,
Father.
How
can
we
protect
the
sacred
places
if
we’re
not
there
to
show
people
where
they
are?
It
means
people
can
be
buried
on
their
own
country
when
they
die—that’s
real
important.
An’
my
brother’s
wife,
an’
Angel
and
all
the
others
out
at
the
camp
near
the
landin’
strip
can
live
decent
there
till
it’s
okay
for
‘em
to
come
back.
An’
you
saw
how
crook
the
Kununurra
mob
was.
You
know
the
terrible
things
when
blackfellas
get
on
the
grog,
or
the
kids
when
they
sniff
the
petrol.
They
lose
their
minds.
You
see,
there’s
no
proper
law
here,
only
government
law.
If
we
get
our
own
special
places
then
the
senior
men
can
stop
these
terrible
things
happenin’
among
their
people.”
99
Simon
scratched
behind
his
ear.
There
was
a
logic
to
what
Isaac
was
saying.
“Did
you
ever
mention
this
to
Father
Rantz?”
Isaac
nodded.
“Sure.
But
he
and
Mr
Davies
said
one
settlement
was
plenty.
They
said
it
was
too
much
money
to
build
lots
of
small
settlements.
But
they
don’
understand.
We
still
live
here,
the
children
still
go
to
school
here.
Father
Rantz
said
we
had
to
stay
where
the
church
was.
Mr
Davies
said
the
government
wants
us
here
in
one
place
and
that
the
police
will
bring
us
back.”
He
shrugged
his
shoulders,
the
memory
of
that
defeat
suddenly
dampening
his
hopes
for
this
effort.
Simon’s
thinking
was
divided
by
conflicting
inner
voices,
one
urging
him
to
back
away,
the
other
wanting
him
to
defy
the
forces
that
would
be
set
against
him.
“It’s
possible—.”
he
said
finally.
“But
I
need
to
know
more
about
it—what
it
would
involve,
and
why
it’s
so
important.
There
would
also
be
a
trade‐
off.”
Simon
noticed
all
conversation
around
them
had
stopped.
Everybody
was
looking
at
him.
“The
cattle,”
he
said,
loud
enough
for
others
to
hear
as
well.
“If
I
do
this,
I
want
a
promise
that
there
will
be
no
more
delays,
no
more
excuses,
no
more
running
away
to
play
football.
I
will
expect
this
community
to
commit
itself
to
making
the
Gunwinddu
cattle
business
the
best
in
the
Kimberley.”
Isaac
beamed.
“Don’
you
worry
about
that.”
Simon
smiled
weakly.
100
Chapter
Eight
Davies
could
scarcely
believe
what
he
was
hearing.
“You’re
what!”.
The
response
had
been
expected.
“We’ll
be
gone
a
week—back
in
time
for
the
ceremony
I’ve
agreed
to
for
Matthew
Richardson.”
“You
can’t
do
this,”
Davies
shouted.
“As
if
we’re
not
in
deep
enough
shit
as
it
is.
You
set
up
an
out‐
station
and
they’ll
tear
it,
and
us,
down—we’ll
have
cops
based
here
full‐time,
watching
us
and
beating
them
back
into
line.
You
want
that?
Look,
it’s
just
not
on.
Our
job
is
to
teach
these
people
how
to
live
in
a
white
community.
You
go
setting
up
one
of
those
out‐stations
and
you’ll
be
destroying
decades
of
progress.”
Simon’s
voice
was
flat.
“I
think
we
disagree
on
the
definition
of
progress.
Anyway,
it’s
only
a
trial.
In
return
they’ve
agreed
to
put
more
effort
into
the
cattle.”
“Cattle—cattle,
is
that
all
you
can
think
of?
And
what
happens
to
Gunwinddu?
These
buildings
cost
three
times
as
much
to
build
up
here.
And
what
about
the
school,
and
the
hospital—and
the
store?”
Davies
trembled.
“Christ,
the
store—you
don’t
know
what
you
are
doing.
You’ve
been
here
a
couple
of
months
and
think
you
know
it
all
don’t
you.”
“No—but
I’m
finding
out.”
“Ah,
what
shit,”
the
man
spat.
“I
smelled
trouble
the
day
you
got
off
the
plane
and
you
went
all
quiet
when
you
saw
the
pen.
But
I
thought
you’d
learn.
I
thought
your
effort
in
Kununurra
might
straighten
your
thinking.
But
no.
You
want
to
bring
the
whole
fucking
pastoral
industry
down
around
our
heads.”
101
“Rot!”
“No
mister.
You
set
up
an
out‐station
and
it’ll
be
pull‐out
time
on
every
property
within
a
day’s
drive.
You’ll
have
every
manager
and
owner
in
the
region
after
your
blood.”
“If
they’re
that
concerned
about
losing
workers
then
maybe
they
need
to
have
a
think
about
how
they
treat
them.”
“Jesus.
You’re
a
real
mister
know‐it‐all,
aren’t
you!”
Simon
folded
his
arms.
“Also,
the
hostel
fence
is
coming
down—as
we
speak.”
The
administrator’s
eyes
bulged.
“Who
the
hell
do
you
think
you
are—who
gives
you
the
right
to
lob
in
here
like
some
fucking
messiah
and
start
turning
everybody’s
lives
upside
down?”
Simon’s
patience
was
gone.
“Who’s
everybody?
You
mean
this
pathetic
little
tribe
of
whites
you
rule,
allowing
you
to
play
God
with
your
ink
pads
and
silly
bloody
government
regulations,”
he
shouted
back.
“What
about
the
people
out
there.”
He
swung
an
arm
towards
the
door.
“Has
it
ever
occurred
to
you
to
find
out
if
your
rules
and
regulations
make
any
sense
to
them;
to
anybody
really—that
they
might
apply
to
a
world
as
far
remote
from
here
as
bloody
Mars?”
Their
voices
reverberated
into
the
street.
Isaac
and
his
councillors
waiting
for
Simon
in
the
truck
grimaced.
Muriel
appeared
briefly
in
the
doorway
of
her
store,
and
turned
quickly
away.
At
the
end
of
the
street
Wilma
Breck
appeared,
head
forward
and
arms
swinging.
Her
fury
obvious
even
at
a
distance.
“Ah—you’ve
got
shit
for
brains
mister,”
Davies
railed.
102
“Say
what
you
want.
But
what
have
you
achieved—except
maybe
a
fat
bankroll
from
whatever
racket
you’re
running
with
the
store.”
“What’s
that?
What
are
you
saying
now?
You
want
to
repeat
that
in
front
of
a
witness?”
“Look,
I’ve
got
eyes
and
ears
and
it’s
not
hard
to
figure,
but
frankly
I
don’t
give
a
damn.
If
you’re
worried
about
my
plans
upsetting
your
little
scheme,
relax.
It’s
all
in
writing—it’s
on
my
shoulders
and
you’re
in
the
clear,
okay?”
Davies
shook
his
head.
“Won’t
matter
a
damn,
you
fool.
You’re
history.
You
know
what
they’ll
do—
?”
Simon
was
finished.
He
strode
angrily
from
the
office.
Davies
followed
him
to
the
doorway.
“You
know
what
they’ll
do—?”
he
shouted
after
him.
“They’ll
fucking
crucify
you—they’ll
nail
you
to
the
nearest
boab—you’d
be
happy
then
wouldn’t
you?”
Simon
pulled
open
the
cab
door
and
lifted
himself
into
the
passenger
seat.
“Let’s
go,”
he
ordered.
The
truck
began
to
move
as
Wilma
Breck
banged
the
cab
door
with
her
fist.
“I
want
to
speak
to
you
young
man,”
she
screamed.
Isaac
rolled
his
eyes
pleadingly
at
Simon.
Gone
was
the
self‐assurance
he
had
shown
around
his
own
fire.
“Drive,”
the
priest
ordered.
Wilma’s
voice
could
still
be
heard
slashing
the
morning
air
as
the
truck
turned
out
of
the
street.
They
took
the
track
past
the
saleyards.
For
a
while
it
was
quite
clear;
stark
parallel
ruts
twisting
and
turning
around
ant
mounds,
rocky
outcrops
and
indomitable
boabs.
But
after
a
time
it
was
barely
discernible
to
Simon,
though
Isaac
drove
103
with
assurance.
There
were
twelve
elders
on
the
truck
and
though
the
site
for
the
planned
out‐
station
was
the
home
country
of
only
five,
their
journey
would
pass
through
the
totemic
lands
of
others.
For
some
it
would
be
their
first
journey
home
since
childhood.
Once
they’d
opened
a
distance
from
the
settlement,
everybody
began
to
relax.
There
was
an
air
of
great
occasion.
The
men,
sitting
in
the
back
among
bed
rolls,
sheets
of
asbestos
and
corrugated
iron,
flour
bags,
fuel
drums
and
ice
chests,
began
to
sing.
The
world
basked
in
the
brilliant
morning
light,
the
sky
a
pristine
azure;
the
earth
brushed
in
shades
of
pink
and
brown,
touched
by
its
Dreamtime
painter
with
random
smudges
of
bleached
green.
Each
time
they
breasted
a
rise,
the
horizon
beckoned;
a
thin
shimmering
line
that
progressively
released
a
rolling
panorama
of
trees,
and
stones
and
hills
put
in
place
at
the
beginning
of
time.
Periodically
they
crossed
geological
survey
lines,
irreparable
scars
left
by
the
fleeting
passage
of
modern
men
in
quest
of
commerce.
Each
new
struggle
through
one
of
these
man‐made
sand
ridges
brought
a
sudden
stop
to
the
singing
and
exaggerated
head‐shaking
by
Isaac
as
he
wrestled
with
the
steering.
Around
noon
they
crested
a
low
hill
and
began
a
descent
into
a
shallow
basin
dominated
by
a
stand
of
short
black‐trunked
trees
and
a
cluster
of
pinnacle‐like
stones.
Isaac
pointed
ahead.
“This
is
a
special
place,
Father.
We’ll
be
stoppin’
here
a
while.”
Isaac
parked
the
truck
near
the
trees.
Simon
began
to
open
his
door,
but
Isaac
held
him
back.
“We’ll
wait
a
bit,”
he
said.
104
The
men
on
the
back
climbed
down
and
stretched
their
limbs.
There
was
a
solemnity
to
their
movements.
With
the
journey
flexed
from
their
joints,
they
formed
into
single
file.
Led
by
the
man
Simon
knew
as
Arthur,
they
began
a
low
rhythmic
song
and
started
dancing,
one
man
behind
the
other,
in
a
wide
arc
around
and
through
the
stones.
“This
is
an
important
Dreamin’
site
for
this
mob,”
Isaac
whispered.
The
song
and
the
simple
dance
lasted
for
several
minutes.
The
formation
then
broke
up
and
the
men
shook
hands
and
embraced.
As
they
drifted
back
to
the
truck
Isaac
gave
Simon
the
all‐clear
to
climb
out.
“Come
on,
time
for
tucker,”
he
said.
Simon
gathered
that
the
simple
ceremony
was
a
form
of
consecration.
The
end
to
the
singing
further
accentuated
the
silence
of
the
world
around;
a
world
in
which
the
small
band
of
men
seemed
to
be
the
only
living
creatures.
The
priest
was
almost
too
shy
to
speak,
in
case
he
disturbed
the
spirits
which
he
sensed
to
be
both
present
and
watching.
He
looked
on,
fascinated,
as
one
of
the
men
began
to
carefully
arrange
sticks
and
leaves
into
a
small
pyre.
His
deft
movements
gave
it
almost
an
art
form.
But
the
moment
of
magic
dissolved
when
he
plucked
a
gas
lighter
from
his
shirt
pocket
and
with
a
flick
of
his
thumb
ignited
the
tinder
and
yelled
for
the
iron
kettle.
Simon
squatted
with
the
men
in
the
shade
of
the
trees,
making
room
on
the
ground
for
a
plastic
ice
chest
humped
from
the
truck
by
Isaac.
“We’ll
get
some
real
bush
tucker
tonight
Father,
but
now
we
got
sandwiches.
What
do
you
like—
beef
and
tomato
sauce,
or—”,
he
prized
open
some
105
of
the
other
slices,
“—no,
just
beef
and
tomato
sauce.”
“Beef
and
tomato
sauce,”
said
the
priest.
The
kettle
was
filled
from
a
plastic
drum
and
placed
against
the
edge
of
the
fire.
One
of
the
men
passed
around
enamel
mugs;
another
doled
out
tea‐
bags
from
an
old
biscuit
tin.
“I’m
disappointed,”
said
Simon.
“I
was
expecting
you
to
run
off
and
bring
back
a
big
fat
lizard
or
something.”
The
men
laughed.
“That’s
hard
work,
you
know,”
said
Arthur.
He
pointed
to
a
man
opposite.
“But
Robert,
he’s
pretty
good.
Maybe
he’ll
show
you
later.”
Isaac
nudged
Simon’s
arm.
“You’re
sitting
on
good
tucker,
an’
I
bet
you
don’
even
know.”
Simon
looked
at
him
blankly.
The
Aborigine
picked
up
one
of
the
many
nuts
littering
the
ground
beneath
the
trees.
“Ngarlka,”
he
said,
and
then
pointed
to
the
foliage
above.
“Turtujarti
trees.
When
you
cook
the
ngarlka,
the
shell
opens.
Inside
are
two
small
nuts,
which
you
can
eat.
Good
tucker
Father
when
you
put
‘em
on
the
fire.”
Isaac
gathered
a
dozen
and
tossed
them
into
the
ice
chest.
“For
tonight.”
Arthur
leaned
forward
to
get
the
priest’s
attention
and
taking
a
bush
knife
from
his
belt,
made
a
cut
in
the
nearest
trunk.
A
honey‐coloured
sap
oozed
from
the
wound.
He
scraped
some
onto
the
knife
and
offered
it
to
Simon.
“To
eat?”
the
priest
asked
doubtfully.
Arthur
nodded.
Simon
scraped
the
sap
off
the
blade
with
his
finger
and
put
it
gingerly
to
his
tongue.
It
had
the
106
consistency
of
treacle
but
a
pleasant
tangy
taste.
He
smiled
with
surprise.
“Not
bad,”
he
said.
“The
pinkirrjarti—bush
turkeys—reckon
that
too,”
said
Isaac.
“When
you
are
hunting
for
pinkirrjarti
you
look
for
the
turtujarti
trees.
Then
you
sneak
up
and—”.
He
punched
his
fist
towards
the
ground.
“There’s
plenty
of
good
tucker
out
here,
Father,
it’s
just
you
whitefellas
don’
want
to
learn
‘bout
your
own
country.
You
just
want
to
own
it
an’
put
up
fences.”
Arthur
interrupted.
“The
land
don’
belong
to
us—we
belong
to
it.
We
do
what
it
needs,
not
what
we
need—you
understand?”
“I
think
so,”
said
Simon,
without
conviction.
Arthur
sighed
and
reached
for
his
mug.
“You
tell
‘im,”
he
said
to
Isaac.
“We
come
from
the
land.
All
the
things
you
see—
rocks
and
trees
an’
birds
and
animals
are
from
the
spirits—our
ancestors,
like.
We
are
the
land.
That’s
why
all
the
land
is
sacred.”
Simon
smiled
without
humour.
“I
wouldn’t
say
that
too
loudly
in
town,
you’ll
give
the
miners
and
pastoralists
heart
attacks.”
Isaac
shook
his
head
grimly.
“You
don’
understand.
All
land
is
sacred
‘cause
we
are
part
of
it;
we
come
from
the
land.
It’s
the
home
of
our
spirits.
Each
person
has
a
special
place
where
his
spirit
has
been
all
the
time
since
the
Dreamin’,
waitin’
for
the
moment
when
his
human
mother
walks
by.
The
spirit
child
then
goes
inside
the
woman
so
she
can
get
pregnant,
and
that
place
where
it
happened
is
sacred,
like,
to
that
person—
but
you
don’
know
that
until
you
start
initiation.
That’s
when
you’re
told
of
this
place
by
your
mother.
What
you’re
talkin’
about,
what
all
you
107
white
lot
is
scared
about,
is
sacred
sites.
They’re
different.
They’re
holy
places—like
churches,
but
even
more—a
place
where
somethin’
important
in
the
Dreamin’
happened—like
a
miracle
from
the
Bible;
somthin’
like
that—you
follow?”
Simon
nodded.
“We
have
similar
places—
shrines,
sites
of
early
churches,
places
in
the
Holy
Lands.
I
know
what
you
mean.”
Anger
creased
Arthur’s
brow.
“Then
why
are
the
government
an’
everybody
goin’
so
crook
about
us
wantin’
to
protect
our
places?
Father
Rantz
used
to
laugh
when
we
tol’
him
these
things.”
Simon
sighed.
“Don’t
be
too
hard
on
Father
Rantz.
He
came
from
another
country
where
sacred
sites
have
big
stone
walls
and
coloured
glass
windows.
He
thought
he
was
doing
the
right
thing
for
you.”
Arthur
wasn’t
placated.
“Ah—they’re
not
even
proper
sacred
sites—not
if
they
been
made
by
people,
they’re
not.
Sacred
sites
are
places
made
by
spirits.
For
people
who
are
plenty
quick
to
put
the
boot
into
what
us
blackfellas
believe,
some
of
you
whitefellas
sure
don’
know
much.”
“Well—I
guess
they’re
used
to
things
being
more
obvious.”
The
words
bounced
emptily
inside
his
head.
The
reason
why
many,
perhaps
most,
dismissed
spirituality
was
because
there
was
nothing
visible
or
tangible
to
grasp.
His
own
faith
had
been
struggling
against
this
for
two
thousand
years.
What
hope
then
had
Aboriginal
beliefs?
“You’ve
also
got
to
remember
the
first
white
people,
Europeans,
to
come
to
Australia
didn’t
want
to
be
here.
They
hated
this
land—.”
Simon
hesitated
as
another
thought
jarred.
“—I
think
a
lot
of
people,
108
city
people,
still
do.
That’s
why,
like
you
said,
they
don’t
understand
it.”
Simon
could
see
the
men
were
getting
upset
at
the
direction
of
the
conversation.
He
pointed
to
the
rocks
nearby.
“Tell
me
about
this
place.
I’d
like
to
know
why
it’s
special.”
Arthur
looked
around
the
ring
of
faces.
The
men
nodded
assent.
“Sure,”
he
said.
“Bein’
a
Father,
you
should
understand
this
one.”
He
sipped
his
tea
noisily.
“You
know
what
Ngarrangkarni—the
Dreamin’—really
is?”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“Not
really.”
“Well,
it’s
like
the
time
before
your
Bible,
when
the
gods
were
here,
on
the
land,
gettin’
it
ready
for
the
people,
makin’
the
rivers
an’
the
rain
an’
puttin’
down
the
signs
so
the
people
would
know
how
to
live,
like.
Now
don’
be
like
Father
Rantz—we
accept
Jesus’s
Father
was
the
boss
Dreamin’
god.”
Arthur
gestured
to
the
area
around
them.
“Now
this
place
here
is
sacred
‘cause
it’s
where
Wirrintiny—the
nightbird—.”
“Curlew,”
said
Isaac,
interrupting.
Arthur
waved
him
to
be
quiet.
“—The
Wirrintiny
tried
to
make
the
people
come
to
life
again
after
they
had
died.
There
were
people
here
by
then,
you
follow,
but
some
of
the
Dreamin’
gods
were
still
workin’.
They
had
not
finished
yet
and
put
themselves
down
in
their
own
special
place.
Now,
the
Wirrintiny
was
a
djagamara
and
a
djuburula
man—a
father
and
a
son
to
himself,
like
Jesus
and
his
Father;
two
fellas
but
one
spirit—you
follow?”
“Of
course.”
109
“The
Wirrintiny
used
to
fly
all
over
the
land,
pickin’
up
the
bones
of
the
dead
people,
puttin’
‘em
together
to
make
skeletons.
Then
he’d
bring
all
the
skeletons
here
and
put
flesh
back
on
their
bones.
He
was
showin’
the
people
that
they
still
could
live
after
their
body
died.
Every
time
a
person
died,
Wirrintiny
always
knew
and
so
he’d
fly
to
that
place,
pick
up
the
bones
and
bring
‘em
back
here
to
make
‘em
alive
again.”
Simon
nodded,
his
thoughts
spinning.
So
much
for
Christianity’s
perceived
mortgage
on
Resurrection.
“Wirrintiny
was
livin’
here—doin’
this
for
a
long
time
when
one
day
two
magpie
men
come
along.
They
asked
Wirrintiny,
‘why
do
you
pick
up
all
those
bones?
Why
don’
you
leave
‘em
alone?’
Then
they
got
their
clubs
and
spears
and
they
killed
Wirrintiny
and
all
the
alive
dead
people
who
were
still
here.
They
were
just
magpie
men,
see.
They
don’
understand
the
Wirrintiny
is
tryin’
to
show
‘em
somethin’.
The
magpie
men
think
people
are
supposed
to
stay
dead
when
they
die.”
Arthur
stood
up
and
opened
his
arms
to
encompass
the
area
beyond.
“All
these
rocks
and
stones
are
the
bones
of
those
dead
people,
and
the
big
one
over
there
is
Wirrintiny,
who
made
himself
into
that
when
he
was
killed.
This
place
tells
us
that
people
were
supposed
to
come
alive
again
after
they’re
dead—but
now,
‘cause
of
the
magpie
men,
we’re
just
dead
when
we’ve
died.”
Isaac
stood
up
and
looked
down
at
Simon
who
was
gazing
out
over
the
vista
in
deep
thought,
struck
by
the
simple
story’s
parallels
with
his
own
faith.
110
“But
now
it’s
okay,”
said
Isaac.
“Now
we’re
Christians,
so
we
can
live
again
after
we
have
died.
That’s
right,
eh
Father?”
Simon
looked
at
him.
“Dying
he
destroyed
our
death;
rising
he
restored
our
life.”
He
got
to
his
feet,
along
with
the
others
who
began
preparing
to
continue
the
journey.
His
mind
was
grappling
with
an
upturned
jigsaw
and
was
engaged
in
a
frantic
effort
to
put
the
pieces
back
into
place.
How
the
use
of
books
and
pulpits
paled
in
their
purpose
against
the
use
of
the
land
to
demonstrate
immortality.
They
stopped
twice
more
during
the
afternoon
and
each
time
the
men
danced
and
sang
words
they
had
learned
a
lifetime
ago,
but
never
forgotten.
Isaac
explained
how
the
songs
retold
the
sacred
story
of
each
place
and
reunited
the
men
with
the
country
there.
Near
the
last
site
they
made
a
small
detour
for
the
benefit
of
the
elder
named
Robert,
who
went
alone
to
the
shade
of
a
rock
overhang
in
a
ridge.
He
squatted
among
the
tufts
of
spiny
grass
and
sang;
a
low
plaintive
chant,
only
lifting
in
tempo
and
levity
towards
its
conclusion.
When
he
returned
to
the
group
his
face
and
beard
were
wet
with
tears.
“This
is
where
my
father
died,”
he
explained.
The
man
put
his
arms
around
Simon
and
he
thanked
the
priest
for
bringing
him
back
to
his
father’s
country.
When
he
released
his
hold
he
staggered
to
a
nearby
boulder
and
sat;
his
face
suddenly
ashen.
“Are
you
all
right?”
Robert
fumbled
with
a
small
bottle
of
pills
he
had
plucked
from
his
shirt
pocket.
He
put
the
container
to
his
lips
and
pushed
a
capsule
into
his
mouth.
He
looked
up
at
the
priest,
smiled
and
patted
his
chest.
“Crook
heart,
Father.
Sister
Margaret,
she
give
me
111
these.”
He
held
out
the
container
for
Simon
to
read,
but
grubby
fingermarks
had
obscured
the
script.
“I’ll
be
right
now.”
Robert
told
how
his
father
had
died
forty
years
before
and
in
all
that
time
he
had
yearned
to
return
to
this
place,
but
was
forbidden
by
Gunwinddu’s
iron‐fisted
administrators.
The
last
Robert
had
seen
of
his
father
was
the
old
man
propped
against
the
rock
with
a
coolamon
of
water
by
his
side.
The
family
had
been
part
of
a
group
that
had
decided
to
see
for
themselves
the
kartiya,
the
pink‐skinned
strangers
to
the
west
that
they
had
heard
so
much
about.
But
Robert’s
father
had
become
too
old
to
travel.
The
family
carried
him
away
from
the
waterhole,
where
others
might
need
to
camp,
to
the
shade
of
the
overhang.
Distraught,
but
resigned
to
what
was
beyond
their
power
to
change,
the
family
had
left
the
old
man
to
the
privacy
of
his
final
hours.
The
family
subsequently
joined
the
large
group
of
Aborigines
from
different
areas,
attracted
over
the
years
by
the
exotic
goods
the
settlers
offered
as
payment
for
labour.
Flour
from
a
canvas
sack
was
a
wonder
to
the
Aborigines,
whose
own
form
of
flour
from
native
fruits
and
roots
took
days
and
sometimes
weeks
of
grinding,
leaching
and
drying
to
produce.
However,
even
before
Robert’s
family’s
arrival,
the
novelty
of
the
white
man’s
flour
had
worn
off
and
groups
had
begun
trying
to
leave,
taking
a
few
cattle
with
them.
In
their
scheme
of
things,
it
was
only
proper
the
newcomers
share
their
possessions
with
the
people
who
were
allowing
them
to
live
on
their
lands.
The
settlers
retaliated
with
guns
and
leg
irons.
By
the
time
Robert’s
family
reached
the
influence
of
the
strangers,
they
were
well
established
on
vast
cattle
112
stations.
‘Grass
castle
kings’,
they
were
crowned
by
magazine
writers
in
awe
of
the
heroic
struggle
of
pioneer
families
and
their
swaggering
descendants.
By
the
1940s
most
pastoral
properties
supported
large
Aboriginal
communities
for
labour
pools.
Robert’s
family
was
drawn
into
this
vortex
of
station
life,
stripped
of
its
identity
with
new
names
and
the
unspoken
decree
that
they
were
now
private
property.
The
consequent
mix
of
tribal
influences
in
these
communities
through
the
enforcement
of
British
law
had
even
then
begun
to
result
in
cultural
devastation.
This
was
further
exacerbated
by
the
power
of
missionaries
and
the
shared
government‐church
decision
to
separate
Aboriginal
children
from
their
parents
to
speed
up
the
process
of
Europeanization.
Tragic
though
this
was,
the
missionaries,
as
both
Robert
and
Isaac
explained
during
the
telling,
did
at
least
save
the
Aborigines
from
extermination.
The
missionaries
regarded
the
Aborigines
as
human
beings,
as
souls
to
be
saved,
quite
contrary
to
the
broader
community
view
that
they
were
savages
of
no
worth
beyond
their
uncanny
ability
with
cattle.
Even
in
the
lifetime
of
these
men,
shooting
parties,
organized
drives,
beatings,
poisonings
and
backyard
hangings
had
been
considered
acceptable
means
for
resolving
‘The
Aboriginal
Problem’.
The
site
of
the
proposed
out‐station
was
at
the
foot
of
a
range
of
hills,
which
they
had
been
able
to
see,
intermittently,
creeping
up
from
the
horizon
for
almost
an
hour.
The
men
had
long
stopped
singing
and
Simon
could
sense
their
excitement.
They
had
been
travelling
all
day
and
Simon
could
only
guess
their
distance
from
the
settlement.
He
113
had
discovered
with
some
disquiet
that
the
truck’s
odometer
did
not
work
and
he
had
to
trust
the
men’s
insistence
that
they
were
still
inside
the
Gunwinddu
boundary,
but
only
just,
he
was
sure.
Isaac
reckoned
they
had
travelled
about
one
hundred
kilometres,
but
then
admitted
he
had
not
been
this
far
out
before.
It
had
also
been
many
years,
and
for
some
a
lifetime,
since
the
elders
whose
country
it
was
had
been
here.
“They’ve
got
satellites
these
days,
you
know,”
said
Simon
with
concern.
“Won’t
take
them
long
to
find
you
if
a
settlement
suddenly
appears
and
it’s
on
someone
else’s
property.”
“Don’
you
worry,”
Arthur
insisted.
Simon
tugged
at
an
ear
lobe.
“Why
do
I
get
nervous
when
you
blokes
say
that?”
They
reached
the
lee
of
the
hills
in
the
late
afternoon
when
the
land’s
colours
deepen
to
burnt
orange
and
dark
purples.
“This
is
the
place,”
said
Arthur.
He
stamped
the
ground
with
his
bare
foot
as
if
demonstrating
its
worthiness.
“This
used
to
be
an
important
campin’
ground—good
water
in
the
hills,
plenty
tucker
an’
plenty
wood
for
a
big
campfire.
People
come
from
a
long
way
along
the
Dreamin’
tracks
to
meet
here
for
ceremonies,
an’
trade,
an’
marry.”
Close
to
where
the
hillside
began
to
rise
the
ground
was
flat
and
smooth,
evidence
still
of
thousands
of
years
of
occupation
by
large
groups
of
people.
The
men
applied
themselves
to
different
tasks,
gathering
firewood,
unloading
stores,
while
frequently
pausing
to
gaze
at
the
changing
colours
of
the
landscape
as
the
night
edged
nearer.
As
they
worked,
Arthur
and
the
other
men
from
this
place
114
began
hinting
to
Simon
that
he
should
officiate
at
a
special
ceremony
to
celebrate
the
return
to
their
homelands.
One
man
shyly
showed
Simon
the
didgeridoo
he
had
brought
with
him.
He
gave
it
a
few
tentative
blows
to
clear
out
the
sand
and
dust
of
disuse.
Robert
and
another
disappeared
into
the
hills
with
rifles.
The
sun
ballooned;
an
enormous
red
ball
on
the
western
horizon,
back
towards
Gunwinddu.
As
two
gunshots
echoed
from
within
an
unseen
valley,
that
single
life‐giving
star
of
this
most
remote
solar
system
dipped
from
sight.
“Before
we
eat
I
would
like
to
say
a
special
Mass,”
said
Simon,
as
the
group
began
to
re‐form.
The
hunters
had
returned
with
a
kangaroo
and
were
busily
butchering
the
carcass,
setting
aside
the
skin
for
leather
and
the
tail
sinew
for
use
as
a
tough
binding
string.
What
meat
wasn’t
eaten
tonight
would
be
cut
into
thin
strips
and
smoked
to
preserve
it.
It
had
already
been
decided
that
the
out‐station
would
be
a
place
of
learning
for
the
next
generation.
There
would
be
no
football,
no
grog,
and
no
petrol
sniffing.
Tribal
discipline
would
prevail.
It
would
be
a
place
where
the
children
could
discover
the
full
depth
of
their
culture
and
take
pride
in
it.
The
elders
believed
this
was
the
path
to
confidence
and
dignity.
Simon
was
already
aware
of
a
change.
When
they
left
Gunwinddu
he
was
the
authority.
Now
it
was
he
who
was
the
odd
man
out—in
race,
colour,
language,
country,
and
insect
bites.
The
men
gathered
solemnly
around
the
fire.
Without
the
customary
props
of
his
own
culture
and
vocation
115
Simon
was
beginning
to
understand
how
alien
the
Aborigines
must
feel
in
a
church.
He
beckoned
Isaac
and
Arthur
and
explained
that
he
would
begin
the
ceremony,
but
wanted
them
to
pick
it
up
in
a
way
that
meant
most
to
them.
Their
faces
revealed
the
importance
they
were
placing
on
the
occasion.
Arthur
asked
if
Simon
would
mind
waiting
a
few
minutes.
He
went
to
the
truck
and
then
disappeared
into
the
night.
He
returned
about
fifteen
minutes
later
with
two
used
fruit
tins,
one
containing
water
and
the
other
a
red
ochre.
He
began
to
mix
the
ochre
into
a
paste,
then
said
he
was
ready.
“I
have
been
giving
much
thought
to
this
important
occasion,”
Simon
began.
“And
I
am
reminded
about
the
Dreaming—Ngarrangkarni—
the
sacred
story,
of
another
people
whose
own
long
journey
for
recognition
and
deliverance
began
so
long
ago.
These
people
too,
knew
exodus
and
exile,
condemnation
and
chains,
struggle
against
inequality
and
injustice—the
whole
crucible
of
tragedy
and
suffering.
They
were
the
painful
childbirth
of
a
new
people—and
I
believe
that
same
thing
is
true
of
you
here
tonight;
of
the
Aboriginal
people
in
this
land.
You
are
the
spirit
of
this
country.
You
have
a
great
responsibility
to
overcome
the
oppressors,
the
ignorant
and
the
timid,
just
as
that
other
elder,
Abraham,
and
the
people
after
him.
Abraham’s
people,
the
Jews,
found
God
in
their
history
and
in
their
land.
The
people
of
this
country
in
this
sacred
land
will
one
day
realize
the
same
truth,
but
only
you,
the
Aboriginal
people,
will
be
able
to
show
the
way.”
The
men
nodded
agreement.
116
“That
is
why
you
must
survive,
and
hold
precious
your
knowledge.
That
is
why
I
will
bless
the
site
of
this
out‐station
and
pray
for
its
success.”
They
clapped
in
appreciation.
The
night
had
closed
and
their
faces
glowed
in
the
light
of
the
fire.
A
gentle
breeze
made
glittering
eddies
out
of
the
sparks.
Simon
opened
a
marked
page
in
his
Bible.
“God
said
this
in
a
vision
to
the
Jewish
prophet
called
Ezekiel.
I
would
like
to
read
it
here
tonight
because
it
shows
what
we
mean
by
coming
to
this
place,
and
perhaps
also
the
sacred
story
behind
the
coming
of
non‐Aboriginal
people
to
this
country:
I
will
take
you
from
the
nations
and
gather
you
from
all
the
countries
and
bring
you
into
your
own
land
I
will
sprinkle
clean
water
upon
you
and
you
shall
be
cleaned
.
.
.
A
new
heart
I
will
give
you
and
a
new
spirit
I
will
put
within
you
And
I
will
take
out
of
your
flesh
the
heart
of
stone
and
give
you
a
heart
of
flesh
.
.
.
”1
The
old
men
accepted
the
ancient
words
as
true.
Arthur
stepped
forward
with
the
mixed
ochre;
water
and
earth
from
this
place.
Simon
blessed
the
contents,
then
with
his
thumb,
scraped
out
a
small
amount
and
anointed
Arthur’s
forehead.
The
Aborigine
then
gave
the
tin
for
Simon
to
hold
while
he
similarly
anointed
the
priest.
The
two
went
to
each
of
the
others
in
turn.
Arthur
motioned
Simon
to
sit
while
he
took
his
position
in
front
of
the
gathering.
Simon
felt
the
charge
of
expectation
around
the
fire.
1
Extract from Ezekiel 36, 24-28
117
“Our
fathers,
our
grandfathers
and
their
fathers
back
to
the
time
of
the
Dreamin’
hunted
here.
This
place,
these
rocks
an’
hills,
are
sacred
to
our
people.
Now
we
have
returned
with
the
Father,
so
when
we
die
our
spirits
too
will
be
able
to
rest
here,
protected
by
our
sons
and
their
sons.”
He
looked
directly
at
Simon.
“This
place
is
where
many
Dreamin’
tracks
meet.
There’re
important
and
powerful
things
here
that
we
got
to
keep
safe.”
His
eyes
glinted
in
the
flickering
light
and
he
raised
a
pointed
finger
towards
the
priest.
“If
white
men
ever
come
an’
dig
these
places,
smash
‘em,
a
great
fire
will
rise
through
the
earth
an’
destroy
all
the
country.
The
sky
will
disappear
with
a
noise,
louder
than
anythin’
anyone
has
heard
before,
an’
everythin’
on
the
earth
will
burn.
We
know
this
thing.
When
you
come
to
this
place
you
are
inside
the
skin
of
all
the
people
who
have
been
here
before.”
Simon
shuddered
as
invisible
fingers
pressed
his
spine.
There
was
an
unnerving
intensity
in
the
Aborigine’s
speech,
heightening
his
awareness
of
the
hills
with
their
caves,
crevices
and
waterholes,
hidden
in
the
dark
beyond
the
shimmering
fire.
“You
see,”
Arthur
continued
in
a
voice
that
had
taken
on
an
almost
threatening
tone.
“We
know
the
story
of
that
Abraham.
We
know
it
well.
It’s
a
story
of
sacred
land,
just
like
ours—an’
about
what
happens
when
people
don’
listen
to
their
law.”
He
paused
dramatically
and
stared
into
the
fire.
The
other
men
followed,
all
eyes
on
the
shimmering
coals.
“God
said
to
that
Abraham,
‘This
land
will
be
yours
if
you
keep
it
sacred
and
keep
my
laws.
You
will
have
plenty
of
children
and
they
will
be
my
special
people
if
you
do
this
thing.’
So
Abraham
and
118
his
people
walked
all
over
that
land—for
all
the
others
who
would
come
after
this
Dreamin’.
In
many
places
he
stopped
to
leave
signs.
These
were
the
sacred
places—like
this
place.
A
long
time
after
Abraham
died
there
was
a
big
drought.
The
land
burned
an’
the
people
had
no
food.
There
were
no
kangaroos
or
lizards
or
pinkirrjarti.
All
the
waterholes
were
dry.
So
they
went
to
a
new
place,
where
there
were
cities
an’
towns
an’
farms.
They
became
unhappy
an’
soon
don’
know
who
they
are.
They
are
made
slaves
for
the
bosses
of
this
new
place
an’
many
people
are
sometimes
killed
‘cause
of
who
they
are.
So
God
talked
to
their
new
elder,
that
bloke
Moses.
He
said,
‘take
my
people
back
to
their
land.’
The
white
bosses,
but,
tried
to
stop
‘em
an’
chased
‘em
with
police.
They
were
chasin’
the
people
across
a
big,
dried‐up
martuwarra,
when
a
flash
flood
come
an’
catch
the
police.
So
the
people
get
back
to
their
land
okay,
but
they’re
told
they
have
to
keep
the
laws.
“A
new
bloke,
David,
become
their
boss
an’
the
people
were
happy.
But
after
a
while
they
start
to
forget
the
laws
again.
The
elders
told
‘em
this
was
dangerous;
that
they
would
lose
their
land
again.
But
the
people
were
foolish
an’
don’
listen,
so
another
mob
come
along
an’
drive
‘em
off
an’
destroy
their
sacred
places.
The
people
are
unhappy
for
many
many
years.
They
got
no
land;
no
sacred
place
anymore.
They
don’
even
remember
who
they
are.
They
are
poor
an’
sick
an’
afraid
of
the
night
time
an’
of
dyin’.
“That’s
when
God
sent
Jesus
to
give
‘em
one
last
chance
to
learn
his
laws
an’
keep
‘em.
This
time
he
also
showed
‘em
how
powerful
he
is
by
makin’
Jesus
die
like
a
human,
but
come
alive
again
‘cause
119
he
is
God.
All
the
time,
you
see,
he
is
the
one
boss
spirit.
He
shows
the
people
that
they
don’
have
to
hide
in
the
dark,
frightened
of
dyin’;
that
he
has
a
big
camp
fire
for
everyone
who
keeps
the
land
sacred.
Some
don’
believe
it
still,
but
those
that
do
become
Christians.
We’re
now
Christians—that’s
why
we
have
to
fight
to
keep
our
land
sacred.”
Simon
swallowed
hard
to
get
air
into
his
lungs.
Sometime
during
the
account
he
had
stopped
breathing.
He
looked
at
the
men.
Their
eyes
had
not
left
Arthur
for
a
moment.
Story‐telling
was
an
important
measure
of
an
Aboriginal
elder,
especially
before
a
critical
audience
ready
to
comment
if
he
strayed
from
the
point.
It
was
how
the
Dreaming
had
been
kept
alive
for
tens
of
thousands
of
years.
Tonight
was
one
more
verse
in
that
endless
songline.
“The
Christian
Dreamin’
and
the
Aboriginal
Dreamin’
are
pretty
close,
eh
Father?”
Simon
jerked
his
gaze
back
to
Arthur.
The
Aborigine
was
staring
at
him
intently.
“But
we
don’
need
a
Bible.
The
land
is
our
Bible.
Our
sacred
stories
of
the
Dreamin’
before
we
are
Christians
are
told
by
readin’
the
land—like
the
story
I
tol’
you
about
Wirrintiny.
You
have
to
be
there
to
understand.”
He
paused.
“Do
you
understand?”
Simon
nodded
slowly.
“Yes.”
Isaac
looked
at
Simon.
“Arthur
can
bring
his
people
back
to
their
land
here,
now—one
day
I’m
goin’
to
take
my
family
back
to
the
south.
That’s
my
job
now,
to
lead
our
people
back
to
their
lands—
you
could
help
us,
Father.”
Simon
met
the
old
man’s
gaze.
He
wanted
to
utter
words
of
hope
and
confidence,
but
held
his
120
tongue.
He
was
beginning
to
wonder
if
he
had
unleashed
tragic
expectations.
Isaac
lowered
his
gaze
and
stared
moodily
at
the
ground,
aware
that
Simon
had
made
a
deliberate
decision
not
to
answer.
He
started
to
murmur
a
sad,
gentle‐sounding
song.
After
a
moment
Simon
interrupted.
“What
does
it
say?”
Isaac
paused
as
if
uncertain
whether
or
not
to
tell
the
priest.
Finally
he
nodded
to
himself:
“Over
the
far
horizon
lies
Mudidjara
Held
by
sacred
mountains
lies
Mudidjara
Touched
by
the
moon
that
bathes,
lies
Mudidjara.”
Simon
smiled.
“That’s
nice,
Isaac.”
The
old
man
shrugged.
“There’s
a
bit
more—but
I
don’
think
it
sounds
right
in
English,
like.”
He
stretched
an
arm
in
an
arc
above
his
head.
“Look,
high
in
the
sky
shines
the
afternoon
sun
His
heart
too
is
filled
with
yearning
to
turn
home
soon.
See
how
he
dips
to
the
land
now,
goin’
home
to
his
mother
an’
his
father.”
Isaac’s
eyes
were
moist.
Simon
put
his
hand
on
the
old
man’s
shoulder.
“It’s
beautiful
Isaac.”
“It’s
an
old
song,”
said
the
Aborigine,
“but
it’s
still
true.”
Simon
looked
around
at
the
group.
“All
your
songs
are
old.
Does
anyone
write
new
songs?”
They
shook
their
heads.
“No,”
said
Arthur.
“The
songs
are
from
a
long
time
ago—when
there
were
even
different
animals
and
birds
and
trees
on
the
land—that’s
how
long
ago.
The
songs
last
forever
‘cause
the
rockholes
and
hills
and
mountains
don’
change.”
121
The
others
nodded
assent,
and
started
to
talk
about
songs
that
had
not
been
sung
for
so
many
years,
but
the
smell
of
the
cooking
kangaroo
meat
was
gaining
in
potency,
and
Simon
felt
he
needed
to
touch
firm
ground
again.
In
the
distance
the
love‐
lorn
cry
of
a
dingo
painted
the
night.
Enveloped
by
the
delicious
aroma
of
wood
smoke
and
roasting
meat
he
began
the
Mass.
It
became
a
somewhat
creative
event,
with
the
men
singing
the
responses
in
their
own
language
and
to
the
accompaniment
of
the
didgeridoo
and
sticks.
Surrendering
to
the
mood
of
the
night,
Simon
picked
up
the
rhythm
and
drifted
into
an
incantation,
giving
himself
to
the
emotion
of
the
moment.
Here,
without
an
altar,
without
stained‐
glass
windows
and
polished
pews,
he
felt
for
the
first
time
that
he
really
was
in
the
presence
of
his
God.
His
church
had
become
the
vast,
mysterious
landscape
around
him;
populated
by
spirits
from
a
life
continuum
older
even
than
that
of
Abraham’s.
On
this
night
he
was
bringing
the
people
of
this
land
home,
and
he
wondered
if
he
would
ever
again
experience
such
an
overwhelming
sense
of
purpose
and
belonging.
122
Chapter
Nine
The
plates
had
been
cleared
and
the
kitchen
staff
dismissed.
The
light
flickered
with
the
irregular
current
from
the
generator,
and
all
eyes
were
on
Davies.
He
glanced
one
final
time
towards
the
kitchen
to
satisfy
himself
that
the
whites
were
alone.
“Well,
you
know
why
we’re
here.
It’s
not
a
pleasant
business,
but
something
we
have
to
deal
with.
You
know
about
his
plans
to
establish
an
out‐
station
near
the
eastern
boundary.
We
all
know,
or
should
know,
what
that
means.”
Davies
paused
to
measure
the
reaction
of
the
group
around
the
table.
Wilma
Breck
smacked
her
hand
against
the
table.
“He
is
irresponsible.
Think
of
Father
Rantz’s
reaction
when
he
hears
what
is
happening.
It
will
break
his
heart.
And
what
is
coming
next?
Hand
back
Gunwinddu
to
the
natives?”
“The
fact
of
the
matter
is,”
continued
Davies,
“irrespective
of
the
church,
out‐stations
contravene
government
policy.
They
represent
a
loss
of
control
over
education
and
law.
These
places
allow
them
to
return
to
their
own
backward
ways.
Furthermore,
they
don’t
surrender
them
without
a
bloody
fight—
and
I
don’t
want
that
on
my
conscience.”
He
paused
to
let
the
point
sink
in.
“We’ve
all
been
around
these
parts
a
long
time.
Communities
like
Gunwinddu
are
a
workable
arrangement.
Now
we
have
pressure
for
these
out‐
stations.
The
cost
of
extra
schools,
medical
centres,
workshops,
fuel,
radios,
you
name
it,
for
every
damn
tribal
homeland
would
be
astronomical.”
123
Davies
leaned
forward
to
rest
his
hands
on
the
table.
He
looked
from
face
to
face,
resolute
in
his
argument.
“At
the
end
of
the
day,
communities
like
Gunwinddu
are
the
best
way
to
assimilate.
Okay,
it’s
not
perfect
and,
but
it’s
why
we’re
here.
It’s
our
job.
Father
Bradbury’s
little
scheme
must
be
nipped
in
the
bud—and
it
must
be
done
without
anyone
outside
finding
out—except
of
course
his
superiors.”
Davies
looked
grimly
at
the
assembly.
“Anybody
disagree?”
Muriel
studied
her
hands
and
remained
silent.
Sister
Margaret
gazed
into
space,
but
as
Davies
caught
her
eye
she
decided
to
speak.
“He’s
only
been
here
a
short
time.
It
takes
a
while
to
understand.”
Karl
looked
up
from
the
spot
on
the
table
he
had
been
staring
at.
“I
think
the
Sister
may
be
right.
He
is
young—I
remember
when
I
was
young.
You
feel
an
obligation
to
change
the
world
in
one
day.
He
will
learn
patience.”
Wilma
sucked
through
her
teeth.
“Oh
for
heaven’s
sake.”
The
old
man
shrugged.
“Well,”
said
Davies.
“I
don’t
intend
to
sit
on
my
hands
and
watch
him
destroy
everything
we
have
built.
I
went
to
a
lot
of
trouble
when
he
arrived
to
explain
matters
to
him,
but
he’s
taken
no
notice.
He’s
gone
out
of
his
way
to
be
antagonistic.
I
have
written
a
letter
I
want
you
all
to
sign
and
I’ll
telegram
it
to
the
Diocesan
office
first
thing
in
the
morning.”
124
He
drew
a
sheet
of
paper
from
a
folder
lying
on
the
table
in
front
of
him.
It
was
passed
from
person
to
person.
Dearly
beloved
Bishop
MacNamara
Muriel
interjected.
“Laying
it
on
a
bit
rich
aren’t
you?”
“It’s
the
proper
address,”
said
Wilma
stiffly.
“Come
on!”
Davies
rapped
his
fingers
on
the
table.
We
the
undersigned
staff
at
Gunwinddu
Station
feel
it
has
become
necessary
to
acquaint
you
with
certain
actions
instigated
by
Father
Simon
Bradbury,
changes
which
we
believe
to
be
prejudicial
to
the
function
of
the
church
here.
We
are
concerned
about
the
moral
and
spiritual
implications
of
his
lax
attitude
towards
daily
Mass.
Further,
as
of
today,
he
has
ordered
the
removal
of
protective
fencing
from
the
girls’
hostel.
Past
experience
has
shown
they
will
now
be
in
grave
moral
danger
from
the
male
population.
The
most
serious
matter,
however,
concerns
Father
Bradbury’s
decision
to
disregard
government
and
church
policy
and
agree
to
a
request
from
the
local
Aborigines
to
establish
an
out­station
almost
100
kilometres
from
this
centre.
This
will
lead
to
a
serious
breakdown
in
our
efforts
to
raise
these
people
to
the
educational,
moral
and
health
standards
required
by
civilized
society.
We
seek
your
urgent
intervention
to
preclude
any
further
misguided
actions
on
the
part
of
Father
Bradbury.
It
is
our
opinion
that
125
he
is
not
suitable
for
the
work
here
and
we
would
urge
you
to
reconsider
his
appointment.
Yours
sincerely
The
staff
of
Gunwinddu
Mission
“Well,
what
do
you
think?”
Davies
asked
after
everyone
had
read
the
letter.
Wilma
Breck
smiled.
“That’s
very
good
Fred.”
Muriel
sighed.
Davies
and
Wilma
glared
at
her
and
she
shrugged.
“
All
right.”
The
nursing
sister
gave
a
simple
nod.
Karl
said
nothing.
Davies
was
exasperated.
“Look,
is
there
anybody
who
doesn’t
want
to
sign
it?”
Nobody
spoke.
“All
right
then.”
Davies
took
a
pen
from
his
pocket
and
passed
it
to
Wilma.
Simon
woke
with
a
cool
breeze
on
his
face.
He
could
smell
the
dry
ground,
close
to
his
face,
and
the
lingering
aroma
of
a
thousand
campfires
in
the
swag
loaned
to
him
by
the
elders.
He
pushed
back
the
heavy
canvas
cover
and
crawled
out
into
grey
dawn.
“Hey—Father.”
Simon
turned
and
saw
Isaac
and
Arthur
blowing
and
feeding
the
previous
night’s
coals.
They
had
slept
between
two
log
fires.
Several
times
during
the
night
Simon
had
heard
one
of
the
men
leave
his
swag
to
throw
on
more
wood.
Only
in
the
early
hours
had
the
fires
been
left
to
die
down.
They
were
for
warmth
and
a
deterrent
to
snakes.
The
men
grouped
around
the
renewed
fire,
sipping
black
tea
from
enamel
mugs.
“Us
blokes
can
126
put
up
the
shed.
You
can
go
with
Robert,”
Arthur
said
to
the
priest.
As
the
men
began
to
unload
the
truck,
Simon
and
Robert
headed
for
a
shadowy
cleft
in
the
nearby
hillside.
Robert
carried
a
traditional
spear,
a
long
whippy
shaft
crafted
from
the
lateral
roots
of
a
tree.
The
spear
tip
was
a
carefully
honed
chip
of
rock,
cemented
to
the
shaft
by
a
mix
of
fur
fibres
and
gum
sap,
which
when
heated
bonded
in
much
the
same
way
as
fibreglass.
Arthur
had
given
Simon
a
tin.
“You’re
also
gettin’
some
tucker,”
he
had
said
without
elaboration.
They
walked
through
the
cleft
for
about
a
hundred
metres
where
it
broadened
and
opened
into
a
valley
of
stunted
bushes,
scattered
boabs
and
turtujarti
trees,
which
Simon
now
recognised.
They
followed
the
rocky
perimeter
for
about
half
a
kilometre
before
Robert
led
them
up
and
over
the
lip
of
a
mound.
About
two
metres
below
their
feet
was
a
rockpool,
slightly
larger
than
an
average
size
room.
Flowering
lilies
graced
its
surface
and
the
edge
was
a
sheer
drop
except
on
the
opposite
bank
where
a
low
ledge
was
worn
smooth,
and
was
still
wet
from
the
night’s
traffic.
“Jila—plenty
kangaroos
and
pinkirrjarti
come
here.
But
this
place
is
only
for
animals.
We
got
another
place
for
people.”
Simon
was
curious.
“Why?”
he
asked
simply.
Robert
shook
his
head.
“Oh.
Bin
that
way
since
old
man
Djidilba
come
by—he
had
a
new
woman
an’
they
camped
not
far
from
here.”
Simon
looked
around,
frowning
and
Robert
hurried
on
with
his
story.
“Another
mob
saw
‘em
but,
and
when
Djidilba
was
out
huntin’
they
took
his
missus.
When
Djidilba
come
back
he
saw
the
tracks
127
so
he
knows
the
mob
that
has
got
his
missus
an’
he
follows
them
here
to
this
place.
It
was
just
a
campin’
spot,
no
water
then.
So—they’re
all
camped
here,
cookin’
meat
an’
he
sees
his
missus
here
too
an’
she
don’
seem
too
sad,
which
makes
him
real
angry.
So
he
hid,
you
see,
so
they
don’
know
he’s
there
an’
he
took
some
branches
from
a
tree
an’
shook
‘em
real
hard
so
a
strong
wind
come
up.
It
blew
into
the
camp
like
a
cyclone
an’
picked
up
all
the
people’s
things—spears,
throwers,
tarlakurrus—high
into
the
sky,
an’
then
he
let
‘em
all
fall
again
into
their
right
places.”
Robert
lifted
his
arms
outward
and
upward
and
let
them
fall
with
a
loud
whoosh.
“Like
that,
see.
So
the
people
are
real
frightened
an’
get
close
together.
When
it’s
dark,
Djidilba
waves
his
branches
again,
an’
another
big
wind
comes.
The
people
get
all
their
things
an’
get
real
close.
But
this
time
the
wind
lifts
up
everythin’,
includin’
the
people,
into
the
sky.
They
go
so
high
that
when
they
fall
they
make
a
big
hole,
this
jila.
All
the
people
are
killed,
includin’
Djidilba’s
wife
an’
they
all
turn
into
a
big
snake—a
huge
jilpirtijarti,
which
lives
down
the
bottom
there.
Now
nobody
can
drink
from
this
water,
or
the
jilpirtijarti
will
swallow
‘em.”
Simon
peered
cautiously
into
the
water.
It
was
dark
and
he
couldn’t
see
any
bottom.
He
edged
away.
“Sounds
like
this
Tjidilba’
fellow
was
pretty
powerful.”
“Yeah—at
the
end
of
the
Dreamin’
he
made
himself
the
kangaroo
flea.”
Simon
cocked
a
quizzical
eyebrow,
but
elected
to
let
the
tale
finish
there.
The
purpose
of
the
story
was
clear
enough;
an
exclusive
water
hole
for
game
128
game
so
it
would
not
be
frightened
off—either
that
or
a
reminder
that
it’s
risky
business
to
run
off
with
someone’s
wife.
Climbing
down
from
the
edge
of
the
water
hole
they
began
to
cut
across
the
valley.
Robert
stopped
near
a
clump
of
bushes.
Handing
Simon
his
spear
Robert
dropped
to
his
knees.
He
began
to
dig
feverishly
in
the
sandy
ground,
saying
nothing,
just
grunting
from
the
exertion.
His
shoulders
dropped
lower
and
lower
as
he
dug
down
to
almost
half
a
metre
under
the
roots
before
he
grunted
with
satisfaction
and
withdrew
his
arms
from
the
hole.
He
proffered
a
cupped
palm
to
the
priest.
“Woman’s
work
really—but
you
should
learn,”
he
said.
He
opened
his
hand
to
reveal
several
large
ants
dragging
golden
brown
sacs.
“Real
good
tucker
Father.”
Simon
grimaced.
“No
thanks.”
“Sure.
Go
on.
Try
one—honey
ants.”
Simon
shook
his
head.
Robert
was
insistent.
“Like
this.”
With
his
fingers
he
picked
off
the
head
and
popped
the
sac
into
his
mouth.
He
sucked
out
the
juice,
then
spat
out
the
ant
body
and
smiled
appreciatively.
“Real
good.”
“Maybe
later,”
said
Simon.
“Bah!”
Robert
was
not
impressed.
“It’s
sweet,
you
know.
It’s
not
bad
at
all.
You
can
squeeze
out
the
honey
and
put
with
flour—make
a
nice
damper.”
“I’m
sure
you’re
right,”
said
the
priest.
Robert
shrugged
and
tossed
the
remaining
ants
into
Simon’s
tin,
covering
them
with
a
handful
of
soil.
He
used
a
foot
to
push
some
of
the
loose
earth
back
into
the
hole,
then
collected
his
spear
and
headed
towards
a
timbered
area
on
the
other
side
129
of
the
valley.
It
took
about
twenty
minutes
of
walking
and
the
shade
of
the
trees
when
they
arrived
was
welcome.
Though
still
early
morning
the
day
was
warming
rapidly.
Robert
began
examining
the
bases
of
the
larger,
older
trees,
beckoning
to
Simon
to
watch
closely.
After
some
minutes
he
stopped
and
pointed
to
a
small
mound
of
what
looked
like
fine
sawdust.
He
looked
up
at
the
priest,
grinning.
“Lunch.”
Simon
smiled
weakly.
Robert
used
his
spear
to
soften
the
surface
near
the
tree,
then
on
his
hands
and
knees
again,
began
to
dig.
After
about
ten
minutes
he
had
exposed
the
upper
roots.
Sweat
ran
in
flowing
rivulets
down
his
face
and
he
sat
back
to
rest.
He
took
the
tin
from
Simon
and
waved
him
to
take
his
turn.
“What
am
I
looking
for?”
Simon
asked.
“You’ll
see.
Just
keep
diggin’
so
we
can
get
to
the
roots
of
this
fella.”
Simon
expanded
the
hole
further
until
he
felt
his
arms
and
shoulders
were
ready
to
snap.
Robert
told
him
to
stop
and
leaned
into
the
hole,
tapping
the
larger
roots
with
the
spear.
“Good,”
he
said.
“—good.”
He
was
enjoying
himself.
Now
with
both
hands
Robert
grasped
one
of
the
roots
and
pulled
steadily
upwards.
It
was
the
thickness
of
a
man’s
forearm
and
his
eyes
bulged
with
the
strain.
Simon
muscled
in
to
help.
The
root
was
almost
bent
vertical
before
it
snapped
and
the
pair
fell
backwards
in
a
tangle.
Robert
rolled
to
his
feet
and
with
the
spear
split
open
the
root.
Simon
recognized
immediately
what
they
had
been
seeking.
130
“Argh—bardi
grubs,”
he
cried
with
anguish.
Robert
rocked
on
his
heels
and
laughed.
*
Gunwinddu
had
visitors.
The
dust‐coated
white
van
with
its
familiar
blue
markings
and
iron‐grilled
rear
door
was
parked
outside
the
administrator’s
office.
There
wasn’t
an
Aborigine
in
sight.
“Bit
of
trouble
over
at
McKenzie,
so
thought
we’d
come
and
say
g’day
while
we’re
in
the
neighbourhood.
You
know
how
it
is.”
The
police
sergeant
eyeballed
the
administrator,
enjoying
the
effect
of
his
visit.
His
constable,
young,
tanned
and
lanky,
stood
in
the
doorway
gazing
indolently
out
into
the
deserted
street.
Fred
Davies
stood
at
his
desk.
He
nodded
and
smiled
with
forced
conviviality.
“Yeah—great,
I
was
beginning
to
think
you
blokes
had
forgotten
you
had
an
office
here.
I
was
even
thinking
of
asking
for
it—could
do
with
some
extra
space.”
“Well,”
drawled
the
sergeant.
“You’ve
only
got
to
ask
mate.
Only
come
down
here
if
we
have
to.
You
know
that.”
“Sure.
Things
have
been
pretty
quiet
though.”
“You
run
a
tight
ship,
Fred.
Wish
there
were
more
like
you.
You
understand
things.
Can’t
stand
those
fucking
welfare
types
they
send
up
these
days.”
Davies
nodded
understandingly.
“So
how’s
that
good
looking
missus
of
yours?”
“Well—she
likes
it
up
here,”
he
responded
enthusiastically.
131
The
sergeant
chuckled.
“Actually,
I
meant
to
tell
you.
I
was
talking
to
a
colleague
a
few
weeks
back
who
reckons
he
might
know
her.
Used
to
be
a
vice
boy.
Small
world
isn’t
it?”
Davies
nodded,
his
face
cemented
in
a
grin.
The
sergeant
didn’t
miss
a
beat.
He
stepped
across
to
the
top
of
a
filing
cabinet
and
began
to
flick
aimlessly
through
a
manila
folder
resting
there.
Then
he
turned
back
to
the
still
feebly
smiling
administrator.
“So
how’s
the
new
priest
getting
along?
Drove
past
the
holy
box
as
we
came
in.
Didn’t
see
him.”
“You
know
the
type—keen
as
mustard.
He’ll
be
out
there
somewhere
dispensing
the
good
word
to
his
flock.”
He
laughed
with
forced
bravado.
The
sergeant
grinned,
barely
disturbing
his
flaccid
jowls.
“Yeah—heard
he
was
a
bit
like
that.
So
where
is
he
Fred?
Like
to
catch
up
with
him.
“Well—to
tell
you
the
truth—he’s
not
here
at
the
moment.
He’s
gone
out
with
a
few
of
the
old
blokes
to
try
and
track
down
a
mob
of
strays.
For
a
priest
he’s
got
a
keen
eye
for
cattle—we’re
trying
to
eradicate
the
tuberculosis,
you
know.”
The
sergeant
put
his
hands
on
his
hips
and
looked
disappointed.
“Shame—about
him
not
being
here.
Well—been
on
the
road
for
two
days.
Like
to
start
heading
back
after
lunch
so
we’ll
just
have
a
bit
of
a
look
around
the
place,
show
the
colours.
Hope
your
fridge
is
well
stocked.”
“No
worries.”
“Catch
you
later
for
a
cold
one
then.”
The
sergeant
and
constable
stepped
back
into
the
bright
sun,
tugging
down
the
peaks
of
their
caps
to
shield
their
eyes.
Davies
watched
through
his
window
as
they
drove
from
sight.
It
was
several
132
minutes
before
he
breathed
easily
again.
“Bastards,”
he
muttered.
The
first
painting
was
on
the
inner
face
of
a
large
boulder
which
formed
a
natural
protective
wall
in
front
of
the
cave
mouth.
It
was
a
large
black
snake,
life‐size
and
partially
coiled;
painted
with
a
white
shadow,
emphasizing
the
black
body
and
the
creature’s
menacing
nature.
There
were
more
paintings
inside
along
the
walls,
mainly
snakes
of
various
sizes,
and
one
large
work
of
a
goanna.
“Most
likely
you’re
the
first
whitefella
to
come
here,”
Robert
said.
He
made
the
comment
in
passing,
but
the
words
brought
Simon
to
a
halt.
He
sat
on
his
haunches
and
stared
at
the
big
snake,
trying
to
picture
the
fingers
of
a
human,
perhaps
twenty—forty,
who
knew
how
many
thousands
of
years
before,
rubbing
the
ochre
onto
the
rockface
with
the
precise,
deliberate
strokes
of
an
artist.
He
remembered
reading
that
Aboriginal
cave
art
in
the
Australian
Alps
had
been
carbon‐dated
at
more
than
twenty‐thousand
years,
far
older
than
the
famous
paintings
of
the
Lascaux
bison
hunters
in
southern
France
and
Spain,
yet
completely
disregarded
by
most
Australians.
He
stood
up
and
gazed
out
into
the
valley
which
sloped
away
below
them.
This
place
would
have
been
long
established
in
Aboriginal
history;
already
ancient
when
the
Achaeans
were
sacking
Troy,
or
Boadicea
was
driving
the
Romans
from
Britain.
And
that
continuum
had
been
maintained
until
a
mere
two
hundred
years
ago.
He
shook
his
head.
It
was
difficult
to
imagine
a
culture
so
ancient—and
so
quickly
crushed.
The
tragedy,
as
Simon
was
beginning
to
see
it,
was
that
the
Aboriginal
133
alternative
had
worked.
A
true
partnership
with
the
land,
creating
a
profound
spirituality
that
had
become
a
way
of
living.
But
there
was
no
literature
to
which
those
living
in
the
aftermath
of
European
colonization
could
refer.
This
culture
could
only
be
understood
by
those
who
knew
how
to
read
the
land,
which
as
Arthur
had
described,
was
their
Bible;
the
living
pages
of
their
sacred
story.
“Where
are
we?”
the
priest
asked,
peering
into
the
gloom
which
hid
the
inner
area
of
the
cave.
“Initiation
place,”
answered
Robert.
“But
for
small
boys—that’s
why
I
can
bring
you
here.
They
learned
things
here,
preparation
like,
for
later
when
they’re
older.
That
jilpirtijarti
there,”
he
said,
pointing
to
the
snake,
“one
day
tried
to
eat
all
the
people
here
for
the
initiation.
But
there
were
old
men,
powerful
men,
who
could
see
that
the
jilpirtijarti
was
comin’,
so
the
people
pretended
they
was
asleep.
When
the
jilpirtijarti
fell
on
‘em
they
all
jumped
up
an’
climbed
on
top
of
‘im
an’
rode
‘im
into
the
sky.
The
old
men
were
also
ridin’
the
snake,
an’
they
cut
open
his
belly
makin’
his
bones
fall
to
the
ground.
See?”
Robert
beckoned
Simon
to
the
cave
entrance
and
pointed
to
a
nearby
outcrop
of
elongated
rocks.
“I’ll
show
you.”
They
followed
a
rough
path
back
down
to
the
valley
floor.
Robert
broke
off
a
tree
branch
and
as
they
reached
the
rock
outcrop
he
signalled
Simon
to
stand
on
the
perimeter
of
an
area
about
the
size
of
a
tennis
court.
Robert
then
moved
forward,
carefully
treading
an
invisible
path.
Reaching
the
furthest
corner
of
the
area
he
began
brushing
the
ground
vigorously
with
the
flat
of
his
hand.
At
first
Simon
didn’t
recognize
the
protrusion
gradually
being
134
exposed.
It
looked
like
a
piece
of
limestone.
But
as
the
Aborigine
worked,
he
could
tell
there
was
definite
shape.
He
climbed
onto
a
rock
and
saw
immediately
what
it
was.
“My
god.”
Robert
had
exposed
a
skull
about
a
metre
in
length;
the
skull
of
a
leviathan.
Robert
encompassed
the
area
with
his
arms.
“Jilpirtijarti,”
he
said.
He
brushed
the
sand
back
over
the
skull
and
trod
carefully
towards
the
centre,
where
he
worked
once
more
on
the
surface.
This
time
he
exposed
what
looked
like
piece
of
a
giant
ribcage.
Simon
was
transfixed.
The
Aborigine
re‐covered
the
bones
and
together
the
two
men
returned
to
the
cave.
“The
jilpirtijarti’s
skin
fell
to
the
ground
here
in
this
spot.
The
sky
turned
black
and
rain
come
down
real
hard
and
for
a
long
time.
But
the
jilpirtijarti
was
all
hollowed
out
now
and
turned
into
this
place.
The
people
stayed
inside
the
jilpirtijarti
and
continued
on
with
their
singin’
and
dancin’
for
the
initiation.”
“How
do
you
know
all
these
things?”
Simon
asked.
“I
was
here
when
I
was
little.”
“How
old
are
you
now?”
“Oh—‘bout
sixty
I
reckon.”
“It
was
a
long
time
ago
then.”
“Oh
yes—but
you
don’
forget,
Father.”
“Typical,”
muttered
the
sergeant.
“You’d
think
butter
wouldn’t
melt
in
their
ugly
mouths.”
135
The
two
policemen
were
parked
in
the
shade
near
the
river,
smoking
and
watching
a
distant
group
of
Aborigines
sitting
beneath
a
tree,
yarning,
playing
cards
and
generally
taking
the
day
easy.
It
was
a
tranquil
scene.
Even
the
river
seemed
to
have
slowed.
A
yellow
patchwork
of
paperbark
rested
on
the
dark
green
surface
where
the
water
was
still.
On
a
near
bank
several
women
cast
nets
for
flapping
silver
fish
which
they
would
later
bake
on
coals,
while
around
their
feet
children
scampered
with
yelping,
prancing
dogs.
The
sergeant
stretched
and
blew
a
smoke
ring
against
the
roof.
“You
know,
I
sometimes
wish
I
was
black—just
look
at
the
slack
bastards;
don’t
have
to
work,
don’t
have
to
give
a
damn
about
anything,
and
a
government
hand‐out
every
fortnight.
And
they
reckon
they’re
badly
treated.
Christ,
I
wish
I
could
be
that
hard
done
by.”
The
constable
grinned.
“Maybe
we
should
stir
‘em
a
bit?”
The
sergeant
rapped
the
door
frame
with
his
fingers
and
sighed.
“There’s
something
going
on—I
can
sense
it.
That
priest
is
up
to
something
and
Davies
doesn’t
want
us
to
know.”
The
constable
nodded.
“So
what
do
we
do?”
“Not
sure—what
did
you
notice
as
we
drove
around?”
“Nothin’
really.
Blacks
seemed
pretty
cheery
actually.
Couple
even
waved
to
us.”
“That’s
what
worries
me—don’t
remember
them
looking
quite
so
damn
pleased
with
themselves,
and
something
has
got
Davies
tight‐lipped.”
The
constable
jerked
his
thumb
towards
the
people
on
the
river
bank.
“Well,
it
wouldn’t
be
that
hard
to
find
out.”
136
The
sergeant
tapped
the
door
frame
again.
“Okay,
let’s
see
if
we
can
loosen
a
few
tongues,
eh.”
He
opened
the
van
door
and
was
removing
his
night‐stick
from
its
door
holster
when
a
voice
called
out.
“Sergeant—sergeant.”
He
looked
and
saw
Wilma
Breck
hurrying
towards
the
van.
The
sun
was
directly
above
them
by
the
time
Robert
and
the
priest
returned
to
the
main
camp.
To
Simon’s
surprise,
the
hut
was
almost
up.
Given
the
pace
of
work
at
Gunwinddu,
he’d
expected
the
men
to
spend
two
or
even
three
days
on
the
job.
“Don’t
tell
me
you’re
finished,”
he
called
out.
The
others
were
around
the
fire
and
the
sweet
smell
of
burning
wood
and
roasting
meat
reached
him.
“We
don’
muck
about,”
responded
Arthur
happily.
Isaac
beckoned
them
to
the
fire.
“So,
you
and
Robert
get
some
good
bush
tucker?”
Simon
handed
him
the
tin.
“Dig
around
in
that.
You’ll
probably
find
what
you’re
looking
for,
but
I’ll
pass—but
thanks
all
the
same.”
Isaac
shook
his
head,
bemused.
He
up‐ended
the
tin
on
the
ground
and
his
fingers
raced
to
collect
the
ants,
which
he
then
passed
around.
He
put
the
bardi
grubs
back
into
the
tin
and
balanced
a
large
camp
frying
pan
onto
a
bed
of
coals.
“You
get
the
pan
real
hot
first,”
he
explained.
The
priest
scoffed.
“I
thought
you
ate
the
grubs
alive.”
“Sure,”
said
Isaac.
“But
this
is
good
too—picks
up
a
bit
of
flavour
from
what
you’ve
been
cookin’
before,
see.”
137
Isaac
plucked
a
piece
of
dark
meat
from
a
stick
on
which
it
had
been
smoking
and
passed
it
to
Simon.
“Kangaroo—smoked
real
good.”
Simon
took
a
tentative
bite.
It
was
chewy,
but
still
juicy
on
the
inside.
“Okay,
Father?”
Simon
nodded.
“You
smoke
the
meat
so
the
flies
can’t
get
in
and
lay
maggots.”
The
smoked
kangaroo
strips
were
shared
out
and
the
men
settled
around
the
fire,
joking,
talking
and
making
plans
for
their
return
with
families.
Isaac
poured
a
small
amount
of
water
into
his
cup
and
tentatively
tested
the
heat
of
the
frying
pan.
The
drops
of
water
spluttered
and
bounced.
The
bardi
grubs
were
up‐ended
into
the
pan.
After
only
about
a
minute
they
began
popping.
As
they
did,
each
grub
was
grabbed
in
turn
by
eager
fingers
and
eaten.
Simon’s
relief
grew
as
each
grub
disappeared
into
someone
else’s
mouth.
Finally
just
one
remained.
It
was
placed
carefully
on
a
plate
and
the
men
turned
to
Simon.
Arthur
was
grinning.
“We
saved
one
for
you
Father.”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“I
wouldn’t
appreciate
it.”
“You’re
just
bein’
too
Christian,
Father—but
we’d
all
feel
real
bad
if
we
don’
share
with
you.”
“Honestly,
I
don’t
mind.”
The
men
were
saddened.
“Look—I
don’t
mean
to
offend—but—.”
Simon
ran
out
of
words
and
sighed
resignedly.
“All
right—
tell
me
what
to
do.”
Isaac
laughed.
“Hold
out
your
hand—here.”
He
placed
the
cooked
grub
into
the
cupped
palm.
“Okay
Father,
now
put
your
head
back
an’
open
your
mouth
real
wide.
When
I
say
so,
just
drop
‘im
in,
138
chew
‘im
real
good
so
you
taste
everythin’,
an’
then
swallow.
I
reckon
you’ll
want
to
run
right
back
to
the
valley
to
get
some
more.”
Simon
tipped
back
his
head
and
opened
his
mouth.
He
began
to
lift,
tremulously,
the
cooked
grub
towards
his
lips;
unaware
of
Robert,
who
had
crept
behind.
Struggling
to
restrain
his
welling
laughter,
the
old
man
leaned
over
and
dropped
a
live
grub
into
the
priest’s
open
mouth.
Simon
felt
the
twitching
lump
land
at
the
back
of
his
throat,
making
him
swallow
involuntarily.
Scrambling
to
his
feet
he
lurched
away
from
the
fire
and
retched.
The
men
rolled
on
the
ground,
laughing
uncontrollably.
“Disappointed,
Fred,
really
disappointed.”
“Look,
I
can
handle
it—that’s
why
I
said
nothing.
I’m
the
government
man
here,
it’s
my
job
to
fix
these
things.”
“But
you
haven’t
Fred—they’re
out
there
now.
You’ve
already
given
them
the
break.”
“I’ve
taken
steps.
I’ve
telegrammed
the
church
authorities.
They’ll
put
a
stop
to
it.”
The
sergeant
shook
his
head.
“Fred
it’s
not
that
simple.
This
business
is
like
a
cancer.
What
you’ve
allowed
to
start
won’t
end
with
a
rap
on
the
knuckles
from
some
bishop.
The
blacks
have
been
shown
they
can
beat
the
system,
they’ve
got
a
toe
across
the
line
and
they
won’t
stop
pushing
now
unless
you
chop
off
the
bloody
foot.
You
know
that.”
The
constable
turned
from
his
position
at
the
door
to
watch
the
administrator’s
response.
139
They
would
make
an
example
of
this,
Davies
knew.
His
shoulders
dropped
as
he
considered
visits
by
departmental
officers,
inspectors—maybe
even
an
auditor.
He
felt
anger
and
the
unfairness
of
it
all,
just
because
the
bloody
priest
wouldn’t
listen.
“I
hear
what
you’re
saying,”
he
said.
“That’s
why
I
wanted
to
keep
it
quiet.
I
thought
it
better
that
other
communities
didn’t
hear
about
it.”
The
sergeant
shook
his
head
as
if
dealing
with
a
slow
child.
“Fred—Fred.
It’d
be
all
over
the
Kimberley
in
a
day.
The
only
way
we
can
put
an
end
to
this
idea
is
to
crush
it,
hard
as
we
can.
We’ve
got
to
demonstrate
that
it
won’t
be
tolerated
under
any
circumstances—even
when
a
priest
is
involved.”
“What
about
public
reaction—in
the
south?
You
go
banging
black
heads
in
front
of
a
priest
and
there’ll
be
hell
to
pay.”
“You
worry
too
much
Fred.
Look,
we’re
saving
government
money.
All
we’re
doing
is
saying
the
Aborigines
can’t
set
up
weekend
hunting
shacks
all
over
the
country
at
taxpayers’
expense.
No
one’s
going
to
argue
the
toss
on
that.”
The
sergeant
paused,
measuring
the
administrator.
He
lowered
his
tone
to
embrace
Davies
as
an
equal;
to
impress
upon
him
the
gravity
of
the
situation.
“Look
Fred,
you
know
the
score.
You
let
the
blacks
loose
out
there
again
and
wham!
Sacred
sites
under
every
bloody
rock;
no
more
mining,
no
more
money
and
the
country
goes
down
the
bloody
gurgler.
You
want
that?
That
land
out
there
is
rich,
gold,
uranium,
platinum,
you
name
it,
and
it
belongs
to
us.
The
blacks
don’t
give
a
damn
about
that
sort
of
thing,
which
is
why
they’ve
stayed
in
the
stone
age;
it’s
why
you’ve
got
the
job
you
have.
They
don’t
140
understand
the
modern
world.
They’ve
got
to
be
looked
after
in
places
like
Gunwinddu—I
shouldn’t
have
to
explain
all
this
to
a
bloke
like
you.”
Davies
knew
he
was
beaten.
The
tension
of
recent
days
finally
caught
up.
He
turned
and
swung
his
boot
into
the
side
of
a
filing
cabinet.
“Shit—shit,
shit,
shit,”
he
spat
with
undisguised
despair.
“What’s
the
turn‐over
of
the
store?”
The
administrator
turned
and
faced
the
sergeant,
unable
to
mask
the
surprise
at
the
unexpected
question.
“About
seven
hundred,”
he
said
before
he
had
time
to
think
of
how
to
avoid
answering.
The
policeman
whistled.
“That
high,
shit‐a‐brick.
What’s
your
margin?”
“What
do
you
mean?”
“Come
on
Fred,
don’t
play
the
horse’s
uncle
with
me.
I
know
all
about
Muriel
and
I
know
she
wouldn’t
be
cheap.”
Davies’s
world
was
collapsing.
He
had
to
swallow
to
suppress
an
urge
to
hold
his
head
and
cry.
He
stared
at
the
policeman,
hating
the
man
for
his
arrogance,
his
unchallengeable
authority
in
a
country
whose
very
birth
had
been
controlled
by
prison
guards
and
police.
The
sergeant
studied
the
man’s
discomfort
with
detachment.
“Well,
if
it
was
me,”
he
continued,
“I’d
be
looking
at
say
twenty
per
cent—sound
about
right?”
Davies
bit
his
lip,
but
said
nothing.
“Okay,
we’ll
say
twenty
per
cent
for
now—maybe
it’s
more,
Fred?
Anyway,
twenty
per
cent—that’s
about—a
hundred
and
forty
grand.
Not
bad!
You’re
doing
all
right
aren’t
you,
you
sly
bastard.
Now,
split
say
fifty‐fifty,
that’s
seventy
grand
each.
So
that’s
what
Muriel
gets
for
spreading
her
legs
eh,
seventy
141
grand—or
thereabouts.
A
lot
of
money.
Explains
why
she’s
hung
about.”
Davies
shot
him
a
vicious
look.
The
figures
were
near
enough.
It
wasn’t
just
the
goods
turn‐over,
but
everything
from
construction
materials
to
contracts
for
plumbing,
water
boring,
electrical—everything
went
through
the
store.
The
government
was
satisfied
with
a
small
subsidized
loss,
making
the
add‐on
profits
potentially
huge.
But
he
could
see
them
dissolving
into
pure
hypothesis
now.
He
wondered
miserably
how
many
years
he
would
get.
The
policeman
turned
towards
the
door.
“Give
me
fifteen,
constable.”
The
lad
disappeared
obediently.
The
sergeant
grabbed
a
chair
by
the
desk
and
seated
himself,
waving
Davies
to
the
chair
opposite.
“Listen
Fred—I
can
understand
your
position.
You’re
a
sensitive
man,
you
worry
a
lot,
I
can
see
that.
But
I
can
take
some
of
that
worry
off
your
shoulders.
I’m
prepared
to
play
down
this
matter
with
the
out‐station.
Don’t
worry,
we’ll
bust
it
up
good
and
proper
and
make
sure
the
blacks
everywhere
know,
but
I
can
play
it
down
in
my
reports.
Davies
nodded.
“So
what
do
I
have
to
do
for
this?”
The
sergeant
smiled.
“Nothing
at
all
really—just
get
yourself
a
new
partner.”
Davies
frowned
quizzically.
“Like
piss
off
your
whore
and
cut
me
in
instead.”
Depression
settled
over
the
administrator.
The
sergeant
as
a
partner?
His
life
would
never
again
be
his
own;
and
how
long
before
the
percentages
began
to
stack
more
and
more
the
policeman’s
way?
142
He
rubbed
his
chin
in
deep,
moody
thought.
“I’ll
have
to
think
about
it.”
The
policeman
hit
the
table
with
his
fist.
“Bullshit.
There’s
nothing
to
think
about.
You’re
in
a
corner
surrounded
by
your
own
deep
shit
and
there’s
no
way
out
without
my
help.
I’m
being
generous
Fred.
I’m
only
going
to
take
60
per
cent.
Davies
groaned.
It
hadn’t
taken
long
at
all.
“Look
at
it
this
way.
We’re
the
ideal
partnership.
You’re
here
on
the
ground
making
it
all
happen
while
I’m
covering
our
backsides.
You
won’t
have
to
worry
anymore,
Fred.”
“But
what
about
the
priest?
He
already
suspects
something.”
“After
this
little
episode
he’ll
be
gone.
Who
cares
if
he
talks.
His
reputation
will
be
shot.”
“And
Muriel?
She’ll
squeal.”
The
sergeant
laughed.
“Come
on
Fred,
get
real.
She’s
a
pro.
Who’s
going
to
listen
to
her—the
pro
and
the
priest.
No
one
is
going
to
listen
to
them.
Anyway,
I
figure
she’s
been
here
long
enough
to
have
put
a
tidy
sum
aside—and
I’ll
even
let
her
keep
it.”
Davies
sighed.
“You’ve
got
me
over
a
barrel.”
“That’s
not
good
enough
Fred.
I
want
you
to
be
positive
about
this.
Is
it
a
deal?”
Davies
nodded.
“Good
man.
Shake.”
He
thrust
out
his
fleshy
hand
and
Davies
took
it
unenthusiastically.
The
sergeant
beamed.
A
few
years
and
he
could
buy
a
pub
and
semi‐retire;
concentrate
on
the
barramundi—maybe
even
buy
himself
a
woman
like
Muriel
Hargreaves.
143
The
distant
staccato
of
a
helicopter
sounded
the
first
hint
of
trouble.
Simon
looked
to
the
afternoon
sky
as
they
were
loading
the
truck
for
the
return
journey.
The
men
fell
silent:
the
intrusion
reminded
them
of
reality,
of
the
audacity
of
what
they
were
doing.
After
a
while
the
sound
faded
and
everybody
relaxed.
It
was,
however,
merely
a
reprieve.
The
machine
returned
about
thirty
minutes
later
and
closer.
This
time
they
saw
it,
a
Bell‐47
with
the
markings
of
a
local
mustering
company.
The
pilot
must
have
seen
them
about
the
same
time
because
he
arced
in
swiftly
towards
the
group.
He
made
a
single
pass
and
returned
westwards
in
a
straight
line.
It
was
obvious
that
he
had
been
looking
for
them.
Simon
found
himself
ringed
by
worried
faces.
“We
better
get
goin’,”
said
Arthur.
Simon
wasn’t
sure.
The
pilot
hadn’t
even
waved.
In
a
remote
area
like
this,
that
was
hostile
behaviour.
He
felt
trapped.
Simon
knew
he
was
defying
a
government
edict
against
out‐stations.
But
he
was
now
convinced
of
the
merit
of
access
to
tribal
lands.
It
wasn’t
a
land
grab
in
the
European
sense
of
the
word,
but
an
opportunity
for
cultural
and
spiritual
expression.
However,
he
sensed
already
the
impossibility
of
making
others
understand.
“I
think
we
should
wait
to
see
if
they
return
today.
If
they
don’t,
it
means
they’ll
be
coming
in
vehicles.
We
can
leave
in
the
morning
and
meet
them
on
the
way.
Perhaps
we’ll
be
able
to
talk
and
come
to
an
understanding.”
“You
reckon
Mr
Davies
is
sendin’
out
the
police,
Father?”
Isaac
asked,
his
face
tight
with
anxiety.
144
“I
don’t
know—it’s
possible.”
The
men
began
talking
quietly
among
themselves
in
their
own
language.
Finally
Arthur
addressed
Simon.
“We’re
all
old
blokes.
We
can’t
do
much,
but
we
can’t
do
nothin’.
We
got
to
protect
this
place
now.”
Simon
was
worried.
The
last
thing
he
wanted
was
a
confrontation.
“Look,
if
the
worst
happens,
all
they
can
do
is
dismantle
the
shed.
They
can’t
touch
the
land.
They
wouldn’t
know
what
to
touch,
it’s
just
sand
and
rocks
to
them.”
His
speech
quickened,
soliciting
their
trust.
“The
shed
we
can
rebuild.
I’ll
go
to
Perth
and
explain
the
situation.
I’ll
get
government
approval
to
come
back
and
then
nobody
can
touch
us—but
we
can’t
afford
to
get
into
a
fight.
Not
now—not
when
we’re
just
at
the
start.”
No
one
replied.
They
gazed
dolefully
towards
the
western
horizon.
“How
many
helicopters
do
you
reckon
Mr
Davies
could
call
in
from
close
by?”
The
men
discussed
the
matter
and
arrived
at
between
four
and
seven.
The
mustering
machines
were
small
and
would
only
be
able
to
carry
a
single
passenger.
With
luck,
Simon
reasoned,
even
Fred
Davies
in
a
rage
would
deem
helicopters
too
extravagant
for
such
an
exercise.
“Look,
I
suspect
they’ll
come
out
in
a
vehicle,
which
means
we
can
meet
them
on
the
track.
I’m
sure
we’ll
be
able
to
persuade
them
to
let
the
matter
rest
until
I’ve
had
a
chance
to
take
it
up
with
the
department—so
let’s
not
worry
prematurely,
eh?”
The
remainder
of
the
afternnon
passed
uneventfully,
the
elders
accepted
that
Simon
was
right.
They
relaxed,
and
Simon
gathered
them
145
together
to
pray.
Their
shadows
stretched
long
as
they
knelt
with
their
backs
to
the
setting
sun.
The
helicopters
came
an
hour
after
sunrise.
Five
machines,
scudding
in
at
tree
level.
They
encircled
the
group
in
a
storm
of
dust
and
sticks.
Simon
had
to
shield
his
face,
but
was
aware
of
men
climbing
from
the
machines.
As
the
maelstrom
abated
the
first
person
he
recognized,
not
without
surprise,
was
Davies.
The
administrator
approached,
walking
more
like
a
man
beaten
than
a
victor.
His
shoulders
were
bowed
and
when
he
reached
Simon
he
was
surprised
to
see
helplessness
in
his
eyes.
“Well,”
said
Davies
lamely.
“Well,”
said
Simon.
“You’ve
brought
friends,
I
see.”
“They
are
not
my
friends.
You
should
have
listened
Father.
None
of
this
would
have
happened.
Now
we
all
lose.”
“What
do
you
mean?”
He
jerked
his
thumb
over
his
shoulder.
Simon
saw
the
policeman
now
for
the
first
time.
He
was
half
watching
them,
while
issuing
instructions
to
the
small
group
which
had
arrived
in
the
airborne
assault;
another
policeman,
plus
pilots
and
labouring
types,
no
doubt
from
a
neighbouring
station.
Simon
felt
both
fear
and
loathing
as
the
man
in
khaki
began
walking
towards
them.
“Why
did
you
do
it
Fred?
Why
this?”
Davies
shrugged.
“I
warned
you,
but
you
wouldn’t
listen—.”
“Morning
gents,”
called
the
sergeant
as
he
approached.
He
slapped
a
black
night‐stick
against
146
his
calf.
“So,
we
meet
at
last
Father,”
he
said,
smiling.
“Look,
there
is
no
need
for
this.
All
we’ve
done
is
build
a
small
shelter
for
short
ceremonial
visits
by
the
Gunwinddu
people.
As
the
official
representative
of
the
church,
which
holds
the
lease
over
this
land,
I
have
every
right.
There’s
no
need
for
this
ridiculous
theatre.”
The
sergeant
cocked
his
head
to
one
side
and
stared
through
the
Aboriginal
faces
grouped
behind
Simon.
When
he
jerked
it
back
to
face
the
priest,
the
smile
was
gone.
“Ah,
Father.
You’re
a
good
one
with
words.
I
suppose
priests
have
to
be.
But
I
don’t
have
time
for
a
sermon,
and
besides—you’ve
been
out‐ranked.”
The
smile
returned
as
he
pulled
a
folded
slip
of
paper
from
a
breast
pocket.
He
waved
it
under
Simon’s
nose.
“This,
Father,
is
a
telegram.
Want
to
know
who
it’s
from?
Well,
let’s
have
a
look,
so
there
are
no
misunderstandings,
eh?”
He
rested
the
night‐stick
against
his
thigh
and
folded
open
the
single
telex
sheet.
“Right
let’s
see,
diocesan
something‐or‐other—ah,
here
we
are,
fellow
called
MacNamara.
Fred
here
has
already
told
me
he’s
a
bishop
and
your
boss.
Want
to
hear
what
he
has
to
say?”
Simon
was
speechless.
“—Re
plans
for
out‐station.
Stop.
Must
not
proceed.
Stop.
Dispatching
Troughton
soonest.
Stop.”
Simon
felt
winded.
“Well,
Father,
sounds
like
you’re
going
to
have
a
visitor.
Know
who
this
Troughton
fellow
is?”
147
Simon
awkwardly
cleared
his
throat.
“Vicar
General.”
The
sergeant
nodded,
pleased
with
the
authoritative
ring
to
the
title.
“Well
maybe
he
can
talk
sense
into
you.
Meantime
we’ll
just
undo
this
little
error
of
yours
and
be
on
our
way,
just
as
I
suggest
you
should.
No
need
to
hang
about.”
He
tucked
the
telegram
back
into
his
pocket
and
strode
without
another
word
towards
the
men
who
waited
for
him
at
the
shed.
Simon’s
arms
hung
limply
at
his
side.
He
had
been
beaten
by
his
own
people.
How
did
blind
ignorance
get
to
be
wielded
with
such
unshakable
authority?
Davies
walked
towards
the
machine
he
had
arrived
in.
He
wanted
no
further
part
in
the
matter.
On
the
sergeant’s
signal,
two
men
swung
into
the
shed
with
large
sledge‐hammers.
The
fibro
sheeting
shattered
noisily.
Behind
him
Simon
heard
a
low
moan.
“No—.”
He
turned.
It
was
Robert,
staggering
towards
the
shed.
Simon
put
out
an
arm
to
restrain
him,
but
the
old
man
pushed
him
away.
Simon
lost
his
balance
and
by
the
time
he
recovered
Robert
was
running
wildly
towards
the
demolition
gang,
yelling
in
his
native
tongue.
Simon
trotted
after
him,
half
willing
the
old
man
to
give
them
all
an
earful.
Robert
made
a
lunge
for
the
nearest
man
with
the
hammer,
but
was
dragged
back
by
the
constable.
The
whites
laughed
at
his
feeble
attempt
to
protect
the
disintegrating
shed.
Robert
lunged
again
and
this
time
got
close
enough
to
claw
at
the
man’s
face.
The
worker
yelled,
dropped
the
hammer
and
put
a
hand
to
his
cheek.
The
constable
again
148
dragged
the
old
man
back
and
flung
him
roughly
to
the
ground.
“All
right,”
yelled
Simon,
as
he
approached.
“That’s—.”
The
words
died
on
his
lips
as
in
disbelief
he
watched
the
constable
raise
his
night‐stick
and
club
the
old
man
across
the
side
of
the
head.
Simon
ran
to
the
fallen
man.
Blood
oozed
from
the
gash
caused
by
the
truncheon.
“Get
him
into
a
helicopter,”
Simon
ordered.
“No
fucking
way
mate.”
The
speaker
was
a
lanky
man
in
khaki
shorts.
“You
want
to
take
him
home,
use
your
truck.”
Simon
stood.
“For
God’s
sake,
he’s
badly
hurt.”
“Balls,”
the
man
responded.
Simon
turned
to
the
sergeant.
“Look
at
him,
he’s
hurt.”
The
sergeant
shook
his
head.
“It’s
not
my
call.
They’re
not
my
machines.
Anyway,
it’s
only
a
bump
on
the
head.
You
didn’t
hit
him
too
hard
did
you
constable?”
The
junior
policeman
shook
his
head.
“
‘Course
not.”
Simon
felt
his
world
spinning.
“Look
at
his
eyes—listen
to
him.”
The
whites
stared
back
impassively.
“Get
him
into
the
truck,”
he
said
to
Isaac
and
the
other
Aboriginal
men.
He
turned
to
the
sergeant.
“If
anything
happens
to
this
man
you
will
be
responsible.”
The
sergeant
laughed.
“Go
on,
get
out
of
here.”
They
laid
Robert
amongst
the
bedding
on
the
back
of
the
truck.
Simon
tried
to
force
water
between
his
lips,
but
the
injured
man
was
having
difficulty
breathing.
149
The
others
climbed
aboard.
Simon
stayed
on
the
back
with
Robert,
and
tried
to
protect
him
from
the
swaying
motion
of
the
truck
by
keeping
him
tucked
between
bedrolls.
But
it
was
a
hopeless
battle.
Robert’s
breathing
grew
increasingly
raspy.
It
was
just
after
they’d
stopped
to
refuel
from
one
of
the
drums
that
Robert
began
to
convulse.
Simon
felt
his
fingers
clench
inside
his
hand
and
then
go
still.
He
felt
frantically
for
a
pulse,
but
there
was
none.
“Stop
the
truck—stop
the
truck,”
he
yelled.
The
others
on
the
back
with
him
also
began
yelling
and
banging
the
cab
roof.
The
vehicle
lurched
to
a
halt
and
Isaac
and
Arthur
spilled
clumsily
from
the
cab.
“How
is
he?”
Arthur
asked.
Simon
didn’t
respond.
He
tried
again,
now
the
truck
was
motionless,
to
find
a
pulse.
There
was
none.
Prising
open
Robert’s
mouth,
he
covered
the
lips
with
his
own
and
began
to
blow.
There
was
no
response.
He
addressed
the
nearest
man.
“Watch
me,
then
copy,
okay?”
Simon
placed
his
hands
on
Robert’s
chest
and
pumped.
“Right,
do
that—but
not
too
hard.”
The
pair
continued
trying
to
resuscitate
the
old
man,
while
the
others
watched
with
mounting
dread.
Simon
tried
for
about
fifteen
minutes,
but
without
success.
With
tears
in
his
eyes
he
sat
against
the
backboard
of
the
cab
and
stared
towards
the
horizon
they
had
left
behind.
Simon
paced
along
the
hospital
veranda,
clutching
the
death
certificate
in
a
twisted
ball.
He
was
burning
with
rage
and
stopped
only
to
watch
the
flat
belly
of
the
flying
doctor
plane
climb
noisily
overhead.
150
“They’re
all
the
same
up
here—don’t
tell
me
they
don’t
stick
together.
Heart
attack—heart
attack.
That
man
was
killed
by
a
police
truncheon.
It
was
murder,
Margaret.
You’ve
seen
the
wound—and
there
were
witnesses.”
The
sister
shook
her
head.
“Robert
had
a
weak
heart.
That’s
what
killed
him.
What
happened
before
doesn’t
count
anymore.”
“If
it
was
a
heart
attack,
then
it
was
caused
by
the
assault.
Those
bastards
are
still
culpable.”
The
nursing
sister
sighed
wearily.
“Maybe,
but
do
yourself
a
favour
and
let
it
ride.
You
won’t
get
them
to
court,
and
even
if
you
did
no
jury
would
convict
them.”
A
ray
of
crimson
light
from
the
dying
sun
crept
across
the
veranda
floor.
Simon
tried
to
touch
it
with
his
foot.
“Heard
of
a
fellow
called
Dante?”
The
nursing
sister
nodded,
hesitated,
and
then
shook
her
head.
“Who
is
he—?”
“Was—an
Italian
poet
back
in
the
thirteenth
century.
Dante
had
a
terrifying
vision
of
Hell.
The
sort
of
place
I
would
like
to
believe
those
thugs
will
eventually
end
up.”
The
nurse
said
nothing.
“These
people
are
screaming,
but
nobody
is
listening,
Simon
continued,
half
to
himself.
Am
I
the
only
one
with
ears?”
Simon
tore
open
the
death
certificate
again.
“I
mean,
look
at
this—look,
it
doesn’t
even
mention
the
wound
to
his
head.”
He
screwed
the
paper
into
a
ball
and
threw
it
to
the
floor.
“I’m
going
to
get
a
drink.
But
don’t
expect
me
at
dinner—I
wouldn’t
be
able
to
stomach
the
company.”
“Simon!”
The
woman’s
voice
was
hard.
“You
are
not
being
fair.”
151
Simon
smiled
sardonically.
“Is
that
right—I’m
not
being
fair?
That’s
a
good
one
Margaret.”
He
stomped
down
the
steps
and
strode
angrily
into
the
settlement.
He
entered
the
canteen
and
stopped
inside
the
doorway.
The
other
white
staff
were
already
there
for
the
evening
meal.
He
glared
momentarily
at
their
blank
faces,
stepped
to
the
fridge,
took
out
a
six‐pack
and
without
a
word
walked
outside
again,
slamming
the
door.
Simon
headed
first
to
the
river,
then
took
the
path
to
the
small
beach
beneath
the
rock
wall
where
Karl
fished.
He
sat
on
a
rock,
threw
a
stone
into
the
river,
then
pulled
the
top
off
a
can
and
drank
greedily.
He
was
into
his
second
can
when
he
heard
footsteps
approaching
along
the
path.
He
wanted
to
be
alone
and
was
angered
by
the
intrusion.
He
didn’t
even
turn
to
see
who
it
was.
“So!
You
too
like
this
place,
eh?”
Simon
turned.
Karl
may
have
been
coming
to
this
place
anyway.
His
anger
subsided
a
little.
“Would
you
like
a
drink?”
“No.
But
may
I
sit?
I
like
the
river
at
night.
It
is
easy
to
see
just
the
water
and
nothing
else.
That
is
what
is
good.
And
the
spirits
like
the
water
too.
This
is
where
they
linger
and
like
to
talk.”
The
old
German
eased
himself
onto
a
flat
boulder
near
Simon.
“Do
you
know
the
barramundi,
Father?”
It
was
the
last
question
Simon
had
expected.
“Actually
I’ve
never
tried
it.”
“A
magnificent
fish—perhaps
the
most
splendid
of
them
all.”
“You
have
caught
one
then?
Is
it
as
good
as
they
say?”
152
“I
have
never
eaten
the
barramundi,”
the
German
said.
“Right,”
said
Simon,
taking
another
pull
from
the
can.
If
the
old
man
wanted
to
talk
in
riddles,
fine;
but
he
wasn’t
in
a
mood
to
unravel
them.
“I
talk
to
the
barramundi.”
“Uh
huh.
Do
they
talk
back?”
“Of
course.”
Simon
sighed.
He
wondered
if
he
would
get
like
this
when
he
was
old.
‘Wherefore
in
dotage
wanders
thus
thy
mind?’,
he
thought
to
himself.
He
had
an
idea
this
might
have
been
Dante
as
well.
It
seemed
to
him
a
long
time
since
the
human
race
had
produced
great
minds
like
the
scholars
of
old.
He
wondered
if
that
in
itself
foretold
man’s
destiny.
“There
is
anger
on
your
face.”
Simon
glanced
towards
the
shadowy
features
of
the
man
beside
him.
“It
is
dark.”
“It
is
never
dark
enough
to
hide
the
anger
of
a
young
man.
I
was
angry
once.
You
could
not
know
the
anger
that
I
carried.
It
was
a
terrible,
burning
pain
for
a
long
time
and
the
worst
was
when
it
cooled,
because
then
it
became
shame—and
that
hurts
much,
much
more.
You
should
be
careful
of
such
anger.”
“What
made
you
so
angry?”
For
a
moment
the
old
man
didn’t
reply
and
the
pair
drifted
in
silence
for
a
while.
“I
felt
the
world
was
very
cruel
to
me,
to
Karl
Breier—that
was
the
anger.
The
shame
is
for
now
being
a
frightened
old
man,
not
brave
enough
to
see
if
the
truth
can
be
given
some
sunlight.”
“Is
that
why
you
are
up
here,
at
Gunwinddu?”
Simon
sensed
the
man’s
affirmation.
153
“Was
it
the
war?”
“Yes,
the
war.
The
war,
the
war,
the
war.
I
say
it
so
many
times
to
myself
that
it
has
almost
become
just
a
word—but
not
quite.
You
have
known
only
peace,
so
you
would
not
understand
the
terrible
loss
when
your
youth
is
stolen.”
“Surely
to
have
survived
a
war—to
have
faced
death
but
lived,
is
a
source
of
great—.”
He
paused,
trying
to
think
of
an
appropriate
word.
“—
Strength,”
he
said,
finally.
“Ahh—.”
The
old
man
chuckled.
“Those
who
have
not
been
there
try
to
understand.
Those
who
have
been
there—they
try
to
forget.”
“You
sure
you
wouldn’t
like
a
drink?”
“In
your
time
here
have
you
ever
seen
Karl
with
a
can
of
beer?”
Simon
reflected.
“No—I’m
sorry.”
“You
are
young,
and
a
priest.
Perhaps
you
look
so
hard
for
saints
among
us
that
you
do
not
see
the
little
ways
we
try
to
be
good,
eh?”
Simon
felt
his
cheeks
flush
at
the
gentle
barb.
Neither
spoke
for
some
minutes
and
Simon
let
the
sound
of
insects
and
the
beer
soothe
his
mood.
It
was
with
mild
reluctance
that
he
broke
the
silence
to
ask
a
question
that
had
long
been
at
the
back
of
his
mind.
“I’m
told
you
had
a
nasty
accident—the
scar.”
Karl
took
his
time
to
reply.
“Yes—do
you
know
that
sometimes
it
hurts
as
much
as
the
day
after
it
happened—when
the
pain
was
doing
its
worst.”
“Was
this
in
the
war?”
Karl
started
breathing
heavily.
“—Do
you
know,
I
have
never
been
to
the
other
side.
Every
day,
almost,
I
have
come
here
and
never
been
to
the
other
side.
I
wonder
what
the
river
154
looks
like
from
there?
But
then
I
am
not
a
spirit
that
may
walk
the
air,
so
I
must
be
content
with
my
place
here,
eh!”
“Why
don’t
you
ask
the
barramundi?”
Karl
smiled.
“For
a
young
man,
sometimes
you
are
quite
wise.
It
must
be
because
you
are
a
priest.”
Simon
laughed
bitterly.
“As
a
priest
I
am
a
fool.
You
would
know
the
Bishop
is
sending
someone.
It
is
highly
likely
I
will
soon
be
out
of
a
job.”
“Ah—the
angry
young
man
again.”
“Yes
I
am
angry—bloody
angry.
I
am
angry
that
nobody
cares
about
the
people
here.
You
all
treat
them
as
though
they
are
half‐wits.
They
are
not.
They
are
a
darn
sight
more
intelligent
than
most
whites
I’ve
had
to
live
with.
They
are
herded
here
into
this
gulag
reserve,
force‐fed
the
doctrine
of
white
supremacy
by
an
arcane
administration,
and
then
when
it
doesn’t
work,
when
they
get
drunk,
fight,
bludgeon
their
minds
with
booze
and
petrol
fumes—you
blame
them.”
It
was
Karl’s
turn
to
absorb
the
silence.
“—It
is
wrong
to
say
we
don’t
care.
It
would
be
more
accurate
to
say
we
haven’t
tried
hard
enough
to
understand—or
that
we
are
afraid
of
admitting
we
may
have
made
some
terrible
mistakes.”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“I
don’t
see
what
is
so
difficult.”
“Perhaps
then
you
yourself
do
not
try
hard
enough
to
understand.
Also
we
have
seen
more
than
you,
and
not
just
the
goodness
which
you
seem
so
anxious
to
protect.
Since
the
money
came,
they
have
lost
many
natural
virtues.
This
I
have
seen
myself.
In
winter
you
will
see
mothers
walking
around
in
blankets—and
behind
them
stumbles
a
little
child
crying
from
the
cold.
Money
has
made
155
them
selfish.
It
is
all
they
worry
about.
Do
you
know
what
the
council
is
talking
about
when
they
sit
all
day
under
the
tree
opposite
Mr
Davies’
office?
Money!
How
to
apply
for
more
grants
from
the
government—of
course,
it
keeps
Mr
Davies
and
all
of
us
in
work
so
perhaps
it
is
not
for
me
to
complain
—but
money,
Father,
makes
them
more
white
every
day.
The
more
white
they
become,
the
more
help
they
need.
Have
you
ever
thought
of
that?”
Simon
remained
silent
and
still.
“You
do
not
like
Wilma,
that
I
have
seen.
You
think
she
is
against
you.
But
she
acts
out
of
fear.
She
feels
her
guiding
hand
is
now
needed
more
than
ever—she
is
frightened
that
her
life’s
work
will
be
destroyed,
that
the
freedom
you
offer
the
Aborigines
will
be
used
by
them
to
turn
their
backs
on
all
she
has
worked
so
hard
to
do.”
“Precisely.
She
is
worried
about
herself,
not
about
the
Aborigines.”
“Is
that
so
difficult
for
a
priest
to
understand?”
Simon
sighed.
“I
think
the
need
of
these
people
is
far
more
important
than
the
sensibilities
of
Wilma
Breck.”
“Oh—come
now
Father.
Since
when
has
it
been
in
your
faith
to
condemn
a
single
soul
on
numeric
argument?
To
kill
a
man
to
save
many
is
still
murder,
is
it
not?
Is
not
that
what
you
preach?”
“We
are
not
talking
about
killing
somebody.”
“Bah!”
“All
right
then,
but
I
have
to
act
as
I
see
fit.
I
cannot
hope
to
please
everybody.”
“So!
And
you
have
done
that.
What
more
do
you
want?”
156
“I
don’t
want
to
be
betrayed.
I
don’t
want
to
have
to
stop
doing
what
I
believe
is
vital
for
the
future
of
a
whole—a
whole
culture.”
“Father,
I
will
tell
you
something.
I
think
things
will
change
now.
Do
you
know—it
is
even
possible
they
might
change
more
quickly
if
you
leave.”
Simon
leaned
back
in
surprise.
“I
realise
it
is
not
good
for
your
pride,
but
if
you
stay,
you
are
a
target;
a
reason
for
people
to
attack
what
you
do
and
say.
But
if
you
go,
they
will
think
about
what
you
did
while
you
were
here
and
perhaps
wonder
why
you
did
these
things.
You
have
given
hope
to
the
Aboriginal
people
here.
They
will
work
hard
to
keep
open
the
door
you
have
unlocked,
but
I
think
they
might
be
more
clever
than
you
in
how
they
do
this,
eh?”
“I
would
like
to
believe
you,
but
I
can’t
see
it.
I
will
fight
this
all
the
way.”
“For
yourself,
or
for
the
Aborigines?”
“I
don’t
need
to
answer
that.”
Karl
chuckled.
“Ah,
but
you
do.”
157
Chapter
Ten
All
through
the
day
cars
and
trucks
twisted
along
the
track
to
Gunwinddu.
By
mid
afternoon
the
settlement
was
shrouded
under
a
dome
of
dust
and
noise.
Word
had
spread
across
vast
distances
about
the
corroboree
to
mark
the
rites
of
passage
for
the
elders,
Matthew
and
Robert.
Simon
had
helped
build
a
large
pyre
near
the
cattle
yards,
where
the
dancing
was
to
be
done.
But
the
hustle,
bustle,
barking
dogs,
hollering
children
and
commands
yelled
from
a
hundred
throats
became
too
much.
He
lost
track
of
what
had
been
completed
and
what
had
still
to
be
done
and
decided
to
leave
it
all
to
the
Aborigines.
They
worked
enthusiastically,
still
finding
time
to
present
to
him
an
endless
parade
of
cousins,
aunts
and
uncles.
The
intricacies
of
totemic
relationships
remained
a
puzzle
to
the
priest.
The
other
white
staff
had
come
periodically
to
watch,
but
only
Muriel
and
Karl
had
shown
any
real
interest.
Fred
Davies
watched
with
a
sardonic
grin
then
departed.
Simon
caught
the
words
“bloody
second
coming”,
as
the
administrator
strode
off.
Wilma
appeared
briefly,
her
face
etched
with
displeasure.
Simon
had
caught
her
staring
at
him,
challenging
him
to
greet
her,
to
open
an
opportunity
for
her
to
speak.
But
his
head
had
started
to
thump
and
he
had
no
stomach
for
the
woman’s
venom.
He
had
turned
his
back
and
when
he
next
looked
she
was
gone.
Simon’s
headache
worsened,
accentuating
a
growing
sense
of
helplessness,
as
though
he
no
longer
had
any
control
over
the
events
pushing
his
life.
The
impending
arrival
of
the
Vicar
General
made
his
attempts
at
clear
thinking
even
more
elusive.
He
knew
the
man;
a
professional
cleric
with
a
round,
polished
face
unused
to
harsh
sunlight.
He
promenaded
the
precinct
of
the
diocesan
headquarters
with
clipped,
officious
steps.
He
could
quote
section
after
sub‐section
from
the
pages
of
both
canon
and
corporate
law.
158
Deciding
to
walk
home,
Simon
called
in
at
the
canteen
to
ferret
out
a
packet
of
aspirin
and
some
beer.
There
was
a
letter
in
his
pigeon
hole.
He
knew
the
writing;
from
his
mother.
He
smiled
grimly.
She
still
wrote,
always
solicitous,
always
revealing
without
ever
stating
plainly
that
she
worried
about
his
emotional
state;
that
she
grieved
for
his
solitary
life.
She
wrote
on
the
premise
that
he
had
to
be
unhappy.
So
there
was
the
unspoken
invitation,
in
news
about
people
he
barely
knew
who
were
buying
houses
and
raising
children,
for
him
to
write
and
confess;
to
confide
to
his
mother
that
he
had
made
a
mistake.
But
he
knew
her.
It
wasn’t
his
love
and
benediction
that
she
sought,
it
was
absolution
from
guilt.
Whose
fault
was
it,
if
it
wasn’t
the
mother’s?
He
tucked
the
letter
into
his
breast
pocket.
He
would
write,
as
he
always
did.
He
would
tell
her
what
he
was
doing,
and
craft
his
letter
with
enthusiasm.
But
it
would
never
be
what
she
yearned
to
hear.
He
would
ask
about
his
father,
and
would
be
offered
no
insight
into
his
life.
He
was
semi‐retired,
making
do
with
odd‐jobs
and,
as
Simon
knew,
would
be
spending
most
of
his
waking
hours
thinking
about
what
might
have
been,
given
a
few
good
rains
and
a
grateful
market.
His
father
never
wrote.
Simon
sat
in
an
old
lounge
chair
in
the
room
which
passed,
with
a
degree
of
imagination,
as
his
sitting
room.
It
had
four
walls,
bare
except
for
a
wooden
crucifix
and
a
cheap,
framed
print
of
the
Madonna.
A
piece
of
discarded
carpet,
from
who
knew
where,
had
become
the
centrepiece
rug.
There
was
a
small
coffee
table
and
a
second
chair
which
needed
a
thick
cushion
to
protect
buttocks
from
sharp,
protruding
springs.
The
furnishings
were
left
by
Father
Rantz.
Simon
wondered
how
he
was
coping
with
the
opulence
of
the
Vatican.
He
thought
back
to
his
own
time
there,
a
three‐week
visit
shortly
after
his
ordination.
His
parents
had
sent
him
a
small
amount
of
money
from
the
sale
of
the
farm;
enough
to
enable
him
to
persuade
the
Bishop
to
159
sanction
an
‘educational’
holiday
that
would
not
cost
the
church
anything.
He
had
back‐packed
to
Rome
from
London,
taking
in
the
sacred
sites
of
his
Catholic
European
roots—
Lourdes,
Notre
Dame
de
la
Salette,
La
Grand
Chartreuse,
the
Certosa
di
Pavia—.
Once
inside
the
walls
of
the
Vatican
the
administration
took
him
at
his
word,
and
he
was
charged
three‐star
hotel
rates
for
the
tiny,
bare
room
he
had
been
allocated.
Remembering
back,
he
was
certain
he
had
wandered
with
his
mouth
perpetually
open
as
he
took
in
the
collected
history
of
almost
two
thousand
years
of
Catholicism.
The
Vatican’s
museums,
chapels,
library
and
treasury
had
preserved
some
of
humanity’s
most
sublime
creations,
inspired
by
the
eternal
yearning
to
give
expression
to
a
divine
spirit.
It
had
been
a
powerful,
invigorating
experience,
one
episode
in
particular.
To
many
the
Vatican
was
little
more
than
a
vast
religious
Disneyland
saddled
with
a
complex
and
secretive
bureaucracy.
But
he
had
been
awed
by
the
presence
of
so
much
history;
to
be
able
to
walk
within
the
very
pillars
of
his
faith.
A
plaque
in
the
passageway
leading
from
Saint
Peter’s
Basilica
to
the
Sacristy
bore
the
names
of
one
hundred
and
forty
two
popes,
beginning
with
Peter
himself.
A
continuum
unparalleled
in
modern
human
history.
The
official
archives
alone
took
up
fifty
kilometres
of
shelving.
The
murals
adorning
the
Sala
Regia,
the
enormous
inner
hallway
leading
to
the
Sistine
Chapel,
were
breathtaking
in
their
beauty,
detail
and
expanse.
It
had
required
an
effort
not
to
fall
to
his
knees
in
veneration.
He
could
not
imagine
human
talent,
even
of
an
artist
of
the
genius
of
Giorgio
Vasari,
capable
of
such
works
without
God’s
help.
But
as
he
had
walked
and
gazed
and
prayed
among
priests
from
many
countries,
he
had
also
been
lonely.
He
had
been
acutely
conscious
of
his
lowly
position
as
a
fresh‐faced
priest
from
a
country
regarded
as
a
nonentity
in
the
Catholic
world.
Australia
was
160
Protestant,
uncivilized
and
too
far
away
to
matter
either
way.
A
poorer
standing
would
hardly
have
been
possible.
Had
he
been
a
scholar,
the
greetings
might
have
been
warmer.
But
he
was
merely
a
passer‐by,
whose
only
saving
grace
was
that
he
wore
the
right
uniform.
His
only
sight
of
the
pontiff
had
been
as
an
observer
in
the
back
row
of
a
Mass
in
the
basilica
for
newly
ordained
priests.
Still,
the
ceremony
made
him
proud
to
be
a
part
of
it
all.
The
most
powerful
experience
of
the
visit
had
been
the
morning
an
American
priest
training
for
the
Vatican
diplomatic
service
invited
him
to
see
for
himself
“the
very
foundations”
of
the
Church,
deep
below
the
basilica.
The
American
had
warmed
to
Simon
when
he
learned
he
was
Australian.
His
brother’s
life
had
been
saved
by
Australians
near
a
place
called
Phu
Phong
in
Vietnam.
For
one
day,
at
least,
Simon
had
a
friend.
The
American
was
also
one
of
the
Vatican’s
many
resident
amateur
archaeologists
and
on
the
basis
of
the
tenuous
fraternal
link
decided
to
share
with
Simon
one
of
the
Church’s
most
momentous
discoveries,
which
had
not
then
been
made
public.
Simon
had
had
no
idea
just
how
profound
was
the
meaning
of
“foundation”.
The
American
led
him
through
a
passageway
cut
from
the
grottoes
beneath
the
basilica
to
steps
leading
down
the
face
of
an
excavation
pit.
Wielding
a
large
flashlight,
he
began
explaining
to
Simon
that
Saint
Peter’s
was
the
second
basilica
to
stand
on
the
site.
The
mighty
building
above
them
was
built
in
the
sixteenth
and
seventeenth
centuries
on
the
site
of
the
first
basilica
constructed
on
Vatican
Hill
by
the
Emperor
Constantine
in
the
early
fourth
century.
“The
question,”
the
American
had
stated
excitedly,
“is
why
did
he
build
it
here?”
Simon
had
no
idea.
The
American
kept
talking,
momentarily
ignoring
his
own
question
while
projecting
the
young
Australian
back
in
time,
to
the
roots
of
his
vocation.
161
“The
site
of
the
Vatican
was
then
in
the
sparsely
settled
outskirts
of
Rome.
Nearby
was
a
Roman
necropolis
of
above‐
ground
burial
houses
and
an
unused
circus,
Nero’s
Circus
we
think.
It
was
nearly
four
hundred
yards
long—though
still
not
as
large
as
the
Circus
Maximus.
But
with
the
circus
site
there
was,
of
course,
a
reasonably
flat
building
area.”
The
American
rummaged
in
a
knapsack
for
a
schematic
drawing
and
squatted
to
the
ground
to
spread
it
out.
He
played
the
torch
over
its
spidery
features
and
pointed
with
his
finger.
“Yet
he
built
it
here,
into
the
slope
of
the
hill.
Now,
you’ve
got
to
ask
yourself
why,
eh?
Why
there?
They
would
have
had
to
move
a
million
cubic
feet
of
earth
to
get
a
level
building
surface.
Well,
I
won’t
keep
you
in
suspense,”
he
said,
chuckling
theatrically
as
he
carefully
folded
and
placed
the
drawing
back
into
his
pack.
“No.
There
was
something
else
which
dictated
where
the
basilica
had
to
be
built.”
Simon
still
remembered
the
pause
and
the
barely
restrained
awe
in
the
man’s
voice.
“It
was
only
discovered
ten
years
ago.
Can
you
believe
that?
We’re
still
working
down
here
with
forensic
specialists
and
other
archaeologists,
so
we
haven’t
gone
public
yet.
But
the
evidence
already
is
pretty
conclusive.”
“To
what?”
Simon
had
whispered.
“Saint
Peter’s
grave.
The
circus
being
the
very
place
he
was
crucified—upside
down,”
he
added,
as
if
the
Australian
might
be
ignorant
even
of
this
small
historical
fact.
Simon
had
ignored
the
slight,
his
thoughts
overwhelmed
by
the
sacred
story
unfolding
before
him.
He
felt
his
chest
would
burst,
his
heart
had
thumped
with
such
force.
He
well
knew
that
it
was
traditionally
believed
Saint
Peter’s
grave
lay
beneath
the
altar
of
the
basilica,
but
there
had
never
been
any
archaeological
evidence,
and
it
had
been
one
of
the
many
matters
of
conjecture
among
church
scholars.
“So
this
is
what
I’ve
brought
you
to
see,”
the
American
had
continued.
“The
foundation
of
our
church.”
162
The
American
explained
the
discovery
was
made
by
chance
in
1939
after
the
death
of
Pius
XI,
who
had
asked
to
be
buried
near
Pius
X.
The
new
Pope,
Pius
XII,
approved,
but
it
meant
renovating
the
grottoes
to
make
room.
The
workers,
almost
the
moment
they
began
digging,
broke
through
the
floor
to
ancient
and
previously
concealed
levels.
A
full
excavation
was
ordered,
which
took
place
in
secret
during
the
next
ten
years—through
war,
Nazi
occupation
and
Allied
liberation.
As
he
had
talked,
the
American
priest
had
continued
to
lead
Simon
downward
into
the
earth
and
back
in
time.
They
passed
the
foundation
walls
of
Constantine’s
original
basilica,
so
massive
that
they
still
formed
part
of
the
foundations
for
the
existing
Saint
Peter’s.
The
American
knew
the
site
intimately
and
stopped
every
few
feet
to
show
Simon
how
the
architects
of
the
new
basilica
had
copied
the
placement
of
the
old
basilica’s
nave
and
altar.
They
continued
down,
through
damp
and
twisting
stone
passages,
until
they
reached
the
ancient
Roman
necropolis.
They
had
walked
along
a
narrow
sunless
street,
the
American
beaming
his
light
into
the
doorway
of
each
burial
house
to
reveal
square
masonry
chambers
about
four
metres
wide
and
decorated
with
frescoes
and
mosaics.
Simon
thought
he
might
die
there
and
then
and
go
straight
to
heaven,
such
was
his
awe
and
fervour
for
this
holy
place.
The
American
had
grown
blasé
with
familiarity.
“See
how
the
ceilings
have
been
broken
off?
Constantine’s
builders
would
have
done
that,
packing
the
necropolis
with
soil
to
create
a
firm
base.
That’s
why
it’s
so
well
preserved.”
Simon
had
wordlessly
followed
the
dancing
beam
of
light,
trying
to
fix
each
glimpse
in
his
mind.
Some
of
the
rooms
still
contained
ornate
funeral
urns
and
marble
sarcophagi,
evidence
of
the
Roman
prohibition
on
desecrating
graves.
163
In
one
room
the
light
beam
lingered
on
a
mosaic
of
Jesus
Christ,
the
same
facial
lines
still
made
familiar
by
artists
sixteen
hundred
years
later.
“The
Christ
Helios—the
earliest
known
depiction
of
Jesus
in
the
pose
of
the
Greco‐Roman
god
of
light,
Apollo,”
the
American
commentated.
Simon
had
responded
with
hushed
reverence:
“The
son
of
God.”
The
older
priest
had
then
taken
his
arm
and
led
him
along
a
progression
of
passageways
which
descended
another
level
before
he
stopped
again.
“We
are
now
directly
under
the
altar
of
Constantine’s
first
basilica.
It
was
in
turn
built
over
a
shrine
that
was
here.”
He
pointed
the
beam
at
the
remains
of
a
wall
which
came
down
to
the
level
of
their
waists.
“Which
means
that
about
where
we
are
standing
is
the
gravesite
of
Saint
Peter—the
man
to
whom
Jesus
personally
passed
over
responsibility
for
his
Church
on
Earth.”
Simon
had
knelt
and
pressed
his
palms
into
the
dry
sacred
earth.
He
closed
his
eyes,
trying
to
envisage
the
site
then,
when
sunlight
touched
the
surface;
a
time
when
Christians
were
without
an
organizational
structure
like
the
burgeoning
bureaucracy
housed
far
above.
A
time
when
they
were
being
slaughtered
in
their
thousands
for
their
beliefs.
And
now
there
he
was,
an
ordained
priest
of
that
very
church
which
flourished
two
millennia
later.
Perhaps
this
very
soil
pressed
between
his
fingers
carried
the
blood
of
these
people,
perhaps
even
the
blood
of
Peter?
Simon
stood
again,
slowly.
“How
do
you
know?”
He
had
regretted
the
question
as
soon
as
he
had
spoken,
feeling
he
had
exposed
a
churlish
lack
of
faith.
The
student
of
Vatican
diplomacy
had
smiled
and
pointed
the
torch
to
the
remains
of
the
shrine
wall.
“Know
any
Greek?”
The
Australian
had
shaken
his
head,
guiltily.
164
“A
chunk
of
this
was
inscribed,
‘Petros
eni’—Peter
is
within.
For
a
while
it
wasn’t
enough
to
get
too
excited
about
because
a
few
bones
found
nearby
proved
to
be
from
livestock.
But
then
a
bit
deeper
in
a
repository
was
discovered
which
contained
more
bones,
skull
fragments.
We
had
forensic
tests
done—they
came
from
one
individual,
a
man
of
robust
build,
who
died
at
an
age
of
between
sixty
and
seventy.
It
fits
the
recorded
descriptions
of
Peter.”
Simon
was
overcome
and
tears
welled
in
his
eyes.
The
American
put
a
friendly
arm
around
his
shoulder:
“Hard
to
grasp
isn’t
it—drop
a
plumb
line
from
the
dome
of
Saint
Peter’s,
through
the
high
altar,
through
another
altar
erected
in
the
seventh
century,
through
an
ancient
shrine
to
Peter,
through
the
Niche
of
the
Pallia
which
encloses
the
shrine,
and
on
to
the
Roman
necropolis,
and
it
would
touch
within
inches
of
where
we’re
standing.
Amazing
isn’t
it?”
Simon
couldn’t
speak.
Later
he
had
tried
to
find
the
American
to
ask
more
questions,
and
to
thank
him
for
so
bolstering
his
faith,
but
it
seemed
he
had
become
too
busy
for
his
new
friend
from
Australia,
and
Simon
had
run
out
of
time.
He
looked
around
the
tawdry
room
in
which
he
now
sat.
It
suddenly
occurred
to
him
how
easy
it
must
be
to
be
a
priest
in
Rome,
surrounded
only
by
the
religious
and
scholarly.
He
sighed.
It
seemed
such
a
long
time
ago.
“Oh
well,
here
I
am—at
home
among
the
uncivilized;
and
beautiful
they
are
too.”
He
raised
his
glass
to
a
blank
wall
and
gave
a
toast.
He
remembered
the
outward
trip
to
the
out‐station
and
the
Aborigines’
celebration
of
their
sacred
land.
Looking
back
on
his
own
reactions
to
Catholicism’s
sacred
soil
below
the
Vatican,
he
felt
a
spiritual
bond
with
the
people
here.
They
knew
what
it
was
like,
much
more
than
people
whose
faith
had
only
ever
been
expressed
within
mighty
walls
and
stained
glass
windows.
Simon
had
165
intended
using
this
time
to
try
to
prepare
a
passionate,
persuasive
speech
for
the
Vicar
General.
He
felt
he
was
learning
something
at
Gunwinddu
that
would
be
of
great
value
to
the
wider
church,
but
each
time
the
words
fell
apart
before
he
could
construct
an
argument.
He
wondered
how
Father
Rantz
was
being
received.
How
would
he
be
able
to
describe
Gunwinddu
accurately
and
still
be
credible?
No.
Despite
its
treasures
the
Vatican
had
not
been
his
idea
of
a
healthy
place
to
stay.
Consumed
by
the
finery
and
unchallenging
nature
of
the
world
within
the
Vatican’s
walls,
the
priests
were
disturbingly
remote
from
the
lives
of
ordinary
people.
He
recalled
with
a
guilty
smile
his
own
sense
of
importance
and
privilege
when
he
elected
to
come
and
go,
not
through
one
of
the
private
entrances,
but
across
the
cobbled
pathways
of
Saint
Peter’s
Square.
Under
the
curious
stares
of
tourists
he
had
walked
black
and
collared
with
a
long
stride,
head
held
high,
past
the
splashing
fountains,
the
towering
obelisk,
past
the
unsmiling
Swiss
Guards
and
out
through
Saint
Peter’s
gate
to
the
mayhem
of
Rome
traffic.
They
were
days
of
colour
and
gentle
sun;
of
watching
a
kaleidoscope
of
life
through
the
windows
of
a
cheap
trattoria,
his
chin
wet
with
tomato
sauce;
of
touching
history
with
his
fingertips.
None
the
less,
he
had
been
quietly
relieved
when
it
was
time
to
leave.
From
Rome
he
had
flown
to
Israel
for
a
month
in
the
Holy
Land;
a
miracle
of
ruggedness
and
furnace‐like
heat
and
the
field
of
work
of
two
of
the
most
important
historical
influences
in
his
life,
Jesus
of
Nazareth,
and
the
English
scholar
and
soldier
T.E.
Lawrence.
Not
that
he
in
any
way
considered
Lawrence
divine
but
over
the
years
he
had
devoured
everything
written
on
the
man
and
had
developed
an
intense
admiration.
A
slightly‐built,
self‐effacing
person,
plagued
by
constant
fear
and
doubts,
yet
he
carried
on
because
a
friendless
people
were
relying
on
him.
Simon
had
always
hoped
he
would
have
such
courage
if
ever
the
time
came.
166
Simon
had
his
feet
up
and
head
resting
on
a
cushion,
allowing
his
mind
the
luxury
of
random
wander
when
knuckles
rattled
on
the
back
door.
“Hullo—
”
“Enter!”
Simon
yelled
without
getting
up.
“Ah,
the
priest’s
hideaway
discovered.”
Manners
at
last
got
the
better
of
him
and
he
began
to
stand.
“No,
stay
put.”
Muriel
Davies
stepped
into
view
and
walked
to
the
second
chair.
“Here,
you’ll
need
this.”
He
pulled
the
cushion
from
behind
his
neck
and
tossed
it
across.
“What
for?”
“To
sit
on,
of
course.
There’s
a
nasty
little
wire
that
bites
one’s
nethermost
regions
if
you’re
not
careful.”
“Thanks
for
the
warning—and
your
concern
for
my
nethermost
regions.
I
must
say
you
seem
relaxed
enough,
considering.”
“Considering?”
“That
you’re
leaving.”
“Is
that
right?
Who’s
putting
that
around?”
“Oh.
You
mean
you’re
not?”
“I
mean
I
don’t
know.
We’ll
have
to
see.
The
Vicar
General’s
visit
will
give
me
a
chance
to
explain.
I
still
think
I
can
get
the
Bishop’s
support.
But
I
appreciate
you
coming
to
say
goodbye.”
“Actually
Father—Simon,
I
thought
we’d
be
toasting
to
our
shared
demise.”
Simon
cocked
a
quizzical
brow.
“I
don’t
follow.”
“Marching
orders.
Even
if
you
haven’t,
I’ve
been
given
mine.”
“I
still
don’t
follow.”
“Fred
is
paying
me
off.
Wants
me
gone
as
soon
as
I
can
arrange
it.”
“You’ve
lost
me—would
you
like
a
drink?”
167
She
nodded
and
Simon
lifted
himself
from
the
chair
and
went
to
the
kitchen.
He
handed
her
a
beer,
aware
of
her
slender
manicured
fingers
as
they
folded
around
the
glass.
“So—you’ve
had
a
fight,
or
what?”
Muriel
laughed.
“Don’t
tell
me
you
haven’t
worked
it
out.”
Simon
frowned.
“I’m
not
really
married
to
Fred.
For
heaven’s
sake,
I
would
have
hoped
that
would
have
been
obvious.
No.
It’s
just
been
a
front
so
I
could
operate
the
lease
of
the
store
and
he
could
have
a
few
matrimonial
pleasures—all
strictly
business.”
Simon
was
shaken.
He
tried
not
to
be,
but
he
was.
He
didn’t
know
what
to
say.
He
sat
back
in
his
chair
and
carefully
placed
his
drink
on
the
floor.
“Oh,”
he
said,
finally.
Muriel
laughed
lightly.
“Come
on,
I
saw
your
face
when
we
first
met.
You
couldn’t
fathom
how
Fred
and
I
could
be
married.
Now
you’re
shocked
that
we’re
not.
Which
do
you
prefer?”
“Well—I—it’s—.”
Muriel
interrupted,
her
eyes
smiling.
“Loosen
up.
It’s
no
big
deal.
If
you
weren’t
so
proper
I’d
have
made
a
line
for
you,
make
no
mistake.
But
I
can
see
you
take
being
a
priest
seriously.
Sorry,
I
shouldn’t
tease—but
you
do
it.”
“What
do
you
mean?”
“Well,
women
fall
for
fellows
like
you.
And
I
bet
you
know
it.
Being
a
priest
is
probably
the
biggest
tease
of
all.”
Simon
shifted
uneasily.
“You’re
right.
I
take
my
vocation
seriously.
People
need
to
be
able
to
rely
on
me.
I
can’t
be
distracted.”
The
woman
cocked
an
eyebrow.
“Is
that
right?
Muriel
looked
appraisingly
across
the
rim
of
her
glass.
Simon
felt
himself
reddening.
“So,
what
are
your
plans?”
he
asked,
changing
the
subject.
Muriel
ran
the
tip
of
her
finger
around
the
moistened
rim
of
the
glass
and
gazed
unseeingly
at
the
Virgin
on
the
wall.
168
Simon
watched
her
brow
crease
in
concentration.
He
studied
the
lines
of
her
face
and
silently
acknowledged
that
she
was
a
good
looking
woman.
He
reached
for
his
drink
to
break
his
line
of
thought.
“Well,”
she
began.
“I’d
only
intended
sticking
it
out
another
year
anyway,
so
while
I’ve
not
put
aside
as
much
as
planned,
it
will
do.”
Simon
was
fascinated
by
her
lack
of
guilt
or
embarrassment.
“Would
you
consider
it
rude
if
I
asked
how
much
money
the,
er—arrangement
has
been
worth?”
Muriel
looked
at
him
sharply,
her
eyes
narrow
and
defensive.
But
there
was
no
threat
on
the
priest’s
face.
She
relaxed
and
smiled.
“It
is
a
rude
question—but
you’re
a
priest,
so
I
can
confess
can’t
I?”
Simon
put
down
his
glass
and
held
out
his
palms.
“No,
I
didn’t
mean
that.”
“It’s
okay.
But
I
trust
you
to
be
circumspect.
The
store
itself
has
earned
me
a
hidden,
non‐taxable
eighty
thousand,
thereabouts.
Plus
there’s
legitimate
profit,
courtesy
of
government
subsidies
of
about
another
forty.
On
top
of
that
Fred
paid
me
a
monthly
fee.
All‐in‐all
I’ll
be
leaving
here
with
about,
oh–a
hundred
and
thirty
thousand
for
what’s
really
been
two
years
R
and
R.”
Simon
was
thunderstruck.
“That’s
a
fortune!”
Muriel
smiled
without
humour.
“The
government’s
answer
to
the
Aboriginal
problem
is
to
throw
money
at
it.
It’s
not
difficult
for
a
shrewd
man
like
Fred
to
milk
it.
He
even
added
his
own
small
percentage
onto
the
shire
levy.”
“What
shire
levy?”
“Goodness
Simon,
do
you
walk
around
with
your
eyes
closed?
The
shire
skims
twenty
per
cent
off
all
government
benefits
paid
to
the
Aborigines
to
cover
rent,
water,
sewerage
and
electricity.
With
the
inflated
costs
up
here
169
that’s
two
to
three
hundred
dollars
a
week
per
household.
Fred
would
get
about
fifty
of
that.
Nice
eh?”
Simon
was
boiling
again.
“That’s
charging
more
for
run‐
down
Third‐World
facilities
than
a
well‐off
middle‐class
family
would
pay
in
the
city!”
Muriel
nodded.
“I
can
see
you’re
going
to
really
bite
on
this—do
you
also
realise
that
only
the
blacks
have
to
pay?
The
white
staff
are
exempt.
Probably
why
you
weren’t
aware
of
it.”
Simon
paled.
“That’s
outrageous.
I
had
no
idea
it
was
as
bad
as
this.
I’ll
see
Davies
in
gaol.”
Muriel’s
face
clouded.
“And
me—you
want
to
put
me
in
gaol?”
Simon
was
on
the
edge
of
his
seat.
He
sighed
with
exasperation.
“You
are
hardly
blameless.”
She
glared
at
him.
“And
nor
are
you.
Nor
are
any
of
us.
The
system
levies
these
charges—treats
these
people
like
savages.
We
don’t
like
it,
but
we
have
to
live
with
it,
day
in,
day
out.
It
destroys
whites
as
well
as
blacks.
You
can’t
blame
Fred
for
abusing
something
that
is
rotten
to
the
core
in
the
first
place.”
Simon
stood
up
and
walked
to
the
sole
grimy
window
facing
out
into
the
deserted
street.
“I’m
disappointed.
I
had
held
you
in
higher
regard
than
that.”
Muriel
softened.
“Had
you?
I
hadn’t
noticed.
Well
never
mind.
If
it’s
worth
anything,
I
think
you’re
okay
too.
You
are
one
of
the
first
men
I’ve
ever
felt
some
respect
for.
You
disapprove
and
are
man
enough
to
tell
me
face‐to‐face.
Most
men
bury
their
honesty
hoping
I’ll
do
them
a
favour,
if
you
know
what
I
mean.
The
fools
don’t
know
their
own
transparency.”
Simon
did
not
know
what
to
say,
his
mind
jarred
by
what
he
had
been
told.
It
was
theft;
but
from
the
Aborigines
or
from
a
foolish
bureaucracy?
Did
it
matter?
Theft
was
theft
and
people
were
suffering.
“So
what
will
you
do
with
the
170
money?”
he
asked,
mesmerized
by
the
sum
despite
the
whole
sordid
revelation.
“The
plan
was
to
buy
a
business.
I
should
at
least
now
have
enough
to
get
a
bank
loan.”
“What
sort
of
business?”
Simon
was
terse,
but
Muriel
smiled.
“I
think
it’s
better
you
don’t
know,
Father.”
Simon
was
quiet
for
a
moment,
thinking
about
the
obvious
question:
“So
why
does
Fred
want
you
to
leave?
Sounds
sudden.”
Muriel
sat
back
and
crossed
her
legs,
her
dress
rising
to
reveal
firm,
brown
thighs.
“I
can
only
guess,
but
I
know
him
well
enough
to
know
it
is
fear
that’s
pushing
him.
I’d
say
he’s
been
sprung,
and
my
bet
would
be
the
sergeant.
Anyway,
whatever
the
reason,
I’m
better
off
out
of
it.
If
Fred’s
lost
his
nerve
he’ll
make
mistakes
and
both
he
and
anyone
else
involved
will
come
unstuck.”
“In
that
case
I
hope
it’s
the
sergeant.
In
fact
I’ll
toast
to
their
ultimate
demise
and
to
your
freedom.”
“Now
that’s
more
like
it.”
She
held
out
her
glass.
They
sat
in
silence
for
a
while.
Finally
Simon
drifted
back
to
the
uppermost
subject
on
his
mind.
“Do
you
share
the
general
view
around
here
that
I’ve
done
the
wrong
thing?”
“You
care
about
these
people
don’t
you?”
Simon
nodded.
“Is
it
because
you’re
a
priest
and
feel
a
professional
obligation,
or
is
it
just
a
quirky
Simon
Bradbury?”
Simon
smiled.
“To
be
quite
honest
there
is
some
selfishness.
It’s
interesting;
Karl
suggested
something
like
that.
I
don’t
see
myself
as
some
social
justice
crusader.
It
goes
beyond
that—more
to
what
I
think
they
can
give
me,
teach
me—and
perhaps
the
whole
world
if
they
were
given
the
chance.”
Muriel
leaned
forward,
her
elbows
on
her
knees.
“Go
on.”
171
“Well,
it’s
hard
to
explain.
I
mean
you
look
at
them
and
your
first
impression
is
what
a
hopeless
bunch.
They’re
not
at
the
bottom
of
the
social
and
economic
ladder—they’ve
fallen
right
off.
Almost
no
self‐esteem,
shocking
health,
unemployed
and
largely
unemployable
because
there’s
no
work
here
anyway,
and
half
of
them
are
chronic
alcoholics.
I
can
understand
the
views
held
by
people
like
Wilma.
But
it’s
almost
as
though
I
don’t
see
these
things
that
preoccupy
everybody
else.
I
see
in
them
a
rare
goodness,
a
purity
of
mind
like
no
other
race.
Their
intellect,
in
a
spiritual
sense,
is
quite
profound.
A
few
minutes
talking
with
some
of
the
older
men
leaves
me
feeling
like
a
first‐grader
in
primary
school—
am
I
making
sense?”
Muriel
nodded.
“I
do
know
what
you’re
saying.
They
often
make
me
feel
invisible,
as
though
I’m
not
real.
You
get
the
feeling
they
tolerate
these
terrible
conditions
because
it
is
temporary;
as
though
our
world
will
one
day
vanish
and
theirs
will
return
to
the
way
it
used
to
be.”
“They’re
waiting—just
waiting.”
Muriel
looked
up,
slightly
startled.
“Yes—that’s
what
I
feel
too.
I
find
it
a
bit
frightening.”
Simon
rapped
the
arm
of
his
chair
with
his
fingers,
an
enthusiasm
he
had
been
keeping
to
himself,
rising
to
the
surface.
“They
are
God’s
children,
and
they
know
it.
They
understand
the
spiritual
plane;
that’s
what
excites
me.
What’s
more,
I’m
becoming
more
and
more
certain
they
are
the
only
ones
left
on
earth
who
can
show
us
how
to
touch
it—how
to
reach
in
and
really
touch
the
inner
fire.”
Muriel
suddenly
shivered.
“What
do
you
think
will
happen
tonight—I’ve
never
been
to
a
corroboree
before.”
“I
don’t
know.
But
I
can
feel
the
power
building;
it’s
been
building
all
day.
I’d
say
we’re
in
for
a
lesson—perhaps
a
glimpse
into
a
deep
pocket
of
human
memory.”
“What
do
you
mean?”
172
“There
is
a
truth
lurking
somewhere
in
a
far
corner
of
the
human
mind
about
our
origins.
In
out
culture
we
have
forgotten
whatever
it
is,
but
for
them,
both
life
and
death
is
a
celebration
of
creation
in
a
real,
not
wistful
sense.”
In
the
distance
a
mournful
wail
began.
First
a
solitary
voice
and
then
a
chorus
of
grief
rising
and
falling.
It
was
a
terrible
cry,
enough
even
to
make
the
dead
want
to
shift
camp.
Simon
looked
at
Muriel.
“It’s
starting
again—over
in
the
widows’
camp.
All
the
women
are
there—sounds
like
things
are
warming
up.”
Muriel
glanced
towards
the
window
with
a
look
of
genuine
fright.
She
jumped
at
a
knock
on
the
door.
Simon
excused
himself.
It
was
Isaac
and
Arthur.
“We’re
ready
for
you,
Father,”
said
Isaac.
Simon
frowned,
puzzled.
Arthur
carried
a
hessian
sack
filled
with
emu‐down.
As
the
sun
dipped
behind
the
ridge
backing
the
settlement,
the
grasses
and
trees
were
caught
in
shifting
bands
of
deepening
colour.
The
shadows
were
at
their
longest
and
blackest
before
being
swallowed
by
the
approaching
dusk.
The
Gunwinddu
people
and
their
visitors
were
divided
into
gender,
age
and
race;
each
to
his
appointed
place
according
to
a
ritual
performed
and
perfected
over
countless
generations.
The
women
were
in
the
widows’
camp
where
for
most
of
the
afternoon
they
had
punctuated
the
air
with
unrestrained
grief.
It
was
important,
it
seemed,
to
put
up
a
convincing
display
for
the
watching
spirits
of
the
recently
departed.
Slighted
souls
could
later
be
a
troublesome
presence
around
a
camp.
For
a
moment,
the
settlement
was
still,
expectant.
Even
the
birds
were
silent.
Simon
sat,
self‐conscious
among
the
painted
torsos
of
about
a
hundred,
perhaps
more,
men.
There
were
no
children
to
be
seen,
but
he
knew
the
boys
had
been
discreetly
grouped
somewhere
nearby.
The
school‐
173
aged
girls
were
conspicuously
absent,
and
the
whites,
the
only
people
present
with
no
role,
had
gathered
to
watch
with
frank
curiosity.
Several
times
Simon
looked
up
to
see
them
staring.
Once,
Muriel
waved
and
he
burned
with
embarrassment.
He
still
did
not
quite
understand
how
he
had
come
to
be
where
he
was.
Like
the
men
sitting
with
him
on
the
dusty
red
track
leading
from
the
settlement
to
the
small
burial
ground,
he
was
stripped
to
the
waist
and
painted
in
markings
of
white
and
yellow
ochre.
Being
a
priest
he
had
been
accorded
the
privilege
of
having
lines
of
emu‐down
adhered
to
his
chest
and
back
with
a
sticky
substance.
Only
later
did
he
learn
this
ceremonial
glue
was
a
compound
of
fibres
from
kangaroo
pelt
and
human
blood
pumped
from
flexed
biceps.
All
the
men
wore
headbands,
red
or
black,
and
most
of
the
older
men
were
marked
by
ugly
cicatrices
running
in
horizontal
ridges
across
their
chests.
Many
carried
traditional
weapons,
a
surprise
considering
Father
Rantz’s
past
efforts.
Simon
was
nervous,
restless,
but
the
men
sat
in
quiet
repose,
gazing
straight
ahead.
He
glanced
towards
the
white
staff.
Wilma
was
obscured
behind
the
bulk
of
Karl,
but
he
could
imagine
what
she
was
thinking.
From
the
direction
of
the
burial
ground
an
eerie
roar
broke
the
silence.
Bull‐roarers
moaned
and
pulsed
and
beat
the
air
in
a
loud
thrumming
chorus.
The
sound
was
a
mournful
roar,
as
if
the
great
Dreaming
god
Baimee
himself
was
writhing
upwards
through
the
earth.
It
was
joined
by
the
women’s
wailing
as
they
began
to
file
from
the
camp
and
approach
the
burial
ground.
The
men
sat
on
the
dusty
path,
waiting.
Simon
shivered.
He
could
sense
the
aura
around
them
all.
It
was
primal,
powerful
and
beyond
his
understanding.
The
air
was
charged,
primed
to
ignite,
and
for
the
first
time
the
men
around
Simon
shifted
restlessly.
The
spirits
were
being
stirred,
urged
by
mortals
to
leave
this
174
domain.
Who
knew
how
they
would
respond?
Dead
men,
as
well
as
gods,
could
be
difficult
spirits.
The
women
appeared
through
a
curtain
of
spindly
trees
and
scrub,
disembodied
by
the
dust
kicked
underfoot.
Unlike
the
men
they
were
without
ornament,
except
the
two
widows
whose
faces
and
breasts
were
caked
in
white
clay.
At
the
centre
of
the
throng
they
shuffled
with
lolling
heads
and
splayed
arms.
As
they
drew
nearer
in
the
dim
light
Simon
recoiled
at
the
chaplets
of
animal
bones
and
feathers
they
wore.
When
the
approaching
group
was
about
twenty
paces
away,
the
men
stood
and
moved
off
towards
the
burial
ground;
a
chanting
phalanx
of
black
bodies,
stale
sweat
and
glistening
ochre.
The
men
and
women
gathered
in
separate
groups
at
the
graves
of
Robert
and
Matthew
and
unleashed
a
barrage
of
sound.
The
men
chanted
and
beat
the
air
in
unison
with
spears
and
throwers,
their
woomeras
held
hollow‐side
out,
like
reverse
arms
at
a
military
funeral.
Led
by
Arthur
the
chant,
against
the
backdrop
of
bull‐
roarers
and
grief,
seemed
to
go
on
forever.
When
the
clamour
did
subside,
Simon
followed
as
the
men
formed
into
a
line
and
began
to
dance
in
a
widening
arc
around
the
graves.
At
a
pause
in
the
chant
the
women
joined
in,
sweeping
the
air
with
the
palms
of
their
hands
turned
out
and
fingers
stretched
in
lamentation.
This
too
continued
for
what
became
an
immeasurable
time.
When
it
finished,
the
suddenness
of
the
halt
was
accentuated
by
the
simultaneous
cessation
of
the
bull‐roarers.
From
the
circle
the
widows
walked
to
the
graves
where
they
dropped
to
their
knees.
Simon
watched,
too
numb
to
react,
as
they
struck
their
heads
with
digging
sticks
until
blood
trickled
freely
onto
the
mounds.
This
continued
until
two
painted
and
feathered
men
stepped
into
view
from
behind
a
thicket
of
trees
and
tall
grass.
Silent
bull‐roarers
hung
from
hair
belts
twisted
and
knotted
around
their
waists.
They
approached
the
175
graves
with
menacing
steps;
hunters
from
Tjukurpa
stalking
easy
prey;
grieving
mortals.
The
whole
gathering
roared.
“Wah—wah—wah.”
The
women
then
stood
up,
plucked
the
bloodied
chaplets
from
their
heads
and
hurled
them
towards
the
approaching
figures.
The
assembly
roared
again
and
the
two
male
figures
dropped
to
the
ground.
Again
the
gathering
roared
and
the
widows
screamed.
The
two
men
began
to
writhe
snake‐like
back
towards
the
bushes.
When
they
had
slithered
from
sight
the
bereaved
wives
turned
and
walked
away
towards
the
widows’
camp.
Arthur
beckoned
to
Simon
to
join
him
at
the
graves.
The
other
mourners
settled
and
grew
quiet.
At
a
gesture
from
Arthur,
Simon
stepped
to
the
edge
of
the
nearest
mound
of
earth
and
raised
his
arms:
“All
powerful
Father,
may
this
sacrifice
wash
away
the
sins
of
our
departed
brothers
in
the
blood
of
Christ.
You
cleansed
them
in
the
water
of
baptism.
In
your
loving
mercy
grant
them
pardon
and
peace.”
“Amen,”
said
Arthur
softly
behind
him.
The
people
began
to
disperse
in
small
groups
towards
the
cattle
yards.
The
pyre
had
been
lit
and
it
was
not
long
before
the
aroma
of
cooking
meat
was
perfuming
the
night
air.
Simon
wondered
if
he
had
been
caught
in
a
simple
trap
to
show
visitors
the
ceremony
had
the
support
of
the
church,
and
thereby
its
authority.
Either
way
he
didn’t
mind;
in
fact
was
pleased
he
had
been
included.
The
last
light
left
the
sky,
allowing
the
earth
around
the
pyre
to
bathe
in
a
shimmering
pool
of
yellow
and
orange.
Two
slaughtered
bulls
were
roasted
in
giant
ovens
of
hot
coals
buried
beneath
the
sand.
The
sombre
mood
of
the
burial
ground
abated,
and
gave
way
to
a
sense
of
joy
at
this
unexpected
return
to
the
old
ceremonies.
Simon,
still
adorned
with
ochre
and
feathers,
walked
among
the
mob
enjoying
the
attention.
Apart
from
Fred
Davies
standing
alone
and
disconsolate
behind
a
column
of
unsold
beer
176
cartons,
he
was
the
only
white
among
the
throng.
The
others
remained
in
a
tight
group
on
the
fringe,
intent
on
maintaining
their
separateness.
As
the
first
of
the
pit‐roasted
meat
was
served,
the
lyrical
rumble
of
the
didgeridoo
cast
its
spell
over
the
scene.
In
the
light
of
the
fire
Simon
watched
three
men
sitting
in
the
sand,
blowing
the
breath
of
ages
into
the
ancient
instruments.
The
sound
made
the
night
pulse.
More
joined
the
trio,
beating
the
rhythm
into
shape
with
hands
and
sticks.
Someone
struck
a
song;
an
ancient
cry
from
a
time
too
far
back
to
measure;
a
time
when
the
spirit
of
humankind
filled
the
universe
as
a
wind,
giving
life
and
inspiration,
drawing
together
all
who
joined
in
the
dance
of
life.
Now
people
entered
the
circle
of
light;
bare
feet
stepping
high,
pounding
the
earth
with
the
rhythm
of
the
living.
Death
had
been
assuaged.
A
seed
of
euphoria
burst
within
Simon’s
gut,
consuming
the
priest
that
inhabited
the
man.
He
joined
the
dancers
in
an
unbroken
circle
of
arching
backs
and
kicking
limbs.
Together
they
chanted
and
beat
the
air
with
movement
and
song
while
the
rhythm
never
wavered.
Two
hundred,
perhaps
more,
pounded
their
feet
into
the
earth
until
it
rose
in
an
ever
thickening
cloud
of
russet
dust
and
reclaimed
them.
Simon
shivered
in
the
thin
grey
of
the
dawn.
He
felt
the
warmth
of
another
body,
pressed
against
his
side
and
remembered
the
sense
of
ecstasy
and
exhaustion,
and
later
a
blanket
dropped
around
his
tarred
and
feathered
body
and
the
scent
of
a
woman.
Muriel
slept
in
the
crook
of
his
arm
as
he
sat
with
his
back
against
a
post
in
the
cattle
race.
Nearer
the
fire
lay
many
more,
curled
into
folds
of
warm
sand.
A
light
mist
wreathed
the
ground,
muting
the
first
rays
of
the
returning
sun.
Simon
heard
a
noise
and
saw
two
small
boys
standing,
naked,
and
surveying
the
scene.
He
heard
a
sniffle
and
realized
they
were
crying,
but
not
from
sadness.
177
The
quiet
was
disturbed
by
the
sound
of
a
car.
Simon
watched,
detached,
as
headlights
superfluously
threaded
their
way
from
the
settlement.
It
was
a
town
car,
with
Kununurra
number
plates.
He
watched
it
approach
and
as
it
neared,
Muriel
stirred
and
raised
her
head.
They
both
watched
as
the
car
drew
close
and
stopped.
Wilma
Breck
emerged,
a
portrait
of
triumph,
while
from
the
driver’s
side
Troughton,
the
Vicar
General,
stepped
into
the
day.
Simon
moved
quickly
to
his
feet.
The
blanket
fell
away
to
reveal
his
painted
body
with
its
crumpled
down.
He
stepped
forward,
sensing
Muriel
at
his
back.
He
extended
his
hand.
“I’m
Simon,”
he
said.
The
Vicar
General
made
no
move
to
accept
Simon’s
greeting.
A
silver
crucifix
pinned
to
his
lapel
caught
the
morning
light.
“It
is
Father
Bradbury,
isn’t
it?”
Simon
smiled
weakly.
“Yes—had
a
bit
of
a
ceremony—
went
most
of
the
night.
I
wasn’t
sure
when
you
were
coming.”
The
Vicar
General
nodded
without
expression
and
began
to
climb
back
into
the
car.
“Just
give
me
half
an
hour
to
clean
up
and
we
can
talk.”
Troughton
shook
his
head.
“No
need—Father.
I’ve
seen
enough.”
178
Chapter
Eleven
Simon
squinted
at
his
watch
in
the
dim
light
cast
by
a
low‐
wattage
bulb
poking
crookedly
from
the
wood
panelling
above
his
head.
He
nominated
five
more
minutes,
then
he
would
go
inside
to
watch
the
evening
television
news;
his
window
onto
a
world
slowly
atrophying
under
the
gaze
of
thousands
of
Betacams.
He’d
settled
into
a
domestic
routine
–
rosters
for
Mass,
confessions
and
funerals,
set
meal
times,
his
own
television
chair,
and
the
regulatory
dress;
black
trousers,
white
shirt.
It
was
a
routine
developed
for,
or
born
of,
city
living
and
measured
by
small
repetitive
moments,
like
the
same
frantic
search
each
morning
for
a
comb.
In
the
months
since
he’d
returned
to
Perth,
the
personal
freedom
of
Gunwinddu
had
retreated
into
his
private
history;
a
mental
box
of
thoughts
and
memories
of
no
value
or
interest
to
any
other
person.
Enough
time
had
passed
for
him
to
accept,
again,
that
his
life
was
not
his
own;
that
he
had
chosen
a
path
along
which
he
would
always
be
responding
to
the
call
of
others.
And
yet
he
could
feel
the
restlessness
building
again.
At
Gunwinddu,
for
a
few
precious
months,
he’d
found
purpose.
Now
it
had
been
replaced
by
depression
and
self‐reproach.
He
sought,
surreptitiously,
understanding
from
the
other
priests
he
now
lived
with,
but
no
one
had
responded
to
the
openings
he
left
suspended
in
conversations.
They
were
a
mixed
bunch
of
friendly
hard‐working
men,
but
they
surrendered
little
emotion.
If
only
someone
would
break
and
at
least
give
him
a
chance
to
empathise.
Simon
sometimes
spent
an
entire
mealtime
wishing
someone
would
slam
the
table,
curse;
snap
just
momentarily
under
the
weight
of
sickness,
crime,
poverty,
death
and
apathy
which
they
faced
day
in,
day
out.
It
would
make
all
the
difference;
knowing
he
was
not
alone.
But
no
one
surrendered.
They
coiled
179
themselves
as
tight
as
steel
springs,
and
avoided
anything
that
might
trigger
their
rigidly
suppressed
egos.
He
heard
the
sharp
rap
of
stiletto
heels
on
linoleum.
He
adjusted
the
stole
around
his
neck
and
switched
off
the
light.
The
door
in
the
adjacent
cubicle
opened,
and
he
smelled
perfume.
He
cleared
his
throat
to
acknowledge
the
woman’s
presence.
“It
has
been
a
long
time
since
I
made
a
confession.”
Simon
squeezed
his
eyes
with
the
palms
of
his
hands
before
clasping
them
onto
his
lap.
The
voice
sounded
vaguely
familiar.
He
waited.
The
ticking
of
his
watch
measured
the
moment
in
gentle
mechanical
pauses.
He
measured
the
woman’s
hesitation.
“The
purpose
of
confessing
is
to
acknowledge
your
sins
before
God;
to
seek
His
forgiveness.
Forget
I
am
here—.”
The
voice
was
slow,
measured.
“Well,
I’m
not
sure
where
to
start.”
Simon
sensed
he
was
being
teased.
“I
assume
you
have
come
here
for
a
reason.
Is
there
something
on
your
conscience.”
There
was
a
pause
before
the
woman
replied.
“I
have
a
problem.
An
infatuation.
A
man.”
“Is
this
man
married?”
“—As
good
as.”
“Is
he
happy?”
“No—I
don’t
think
so.”
“So
you
see
an
opportunity.”
“Yes.”
“Well
you
know
there
is
only
one
course
I
can
advise.”
The
woman
paused.
“Have
you
ever
been
in
love?”
“It’s
not
relevant.”
“Then
how
can
you
give
me
honest
advice.”
“You
know
what
is
right.
There’s
no
point
in
looking
for
excuses
in
my
circumstance.”
180
Simon
heard
the
rustle
of
material,
and
the
door
opened
and
closed.
He
listened
to
the
clicking
heels
echoing
along
the
aisle
and
fading
into
the
world
outside.
Simon
wearily
massaging
his
forehead.
He
was
definitely
losing
it,
he
decided.
St
Luke’s
was
on
the
top
of
a
rise
overlooking
middle‐
Australia.
The
merged
red
roofs
and
treetops
gave
it
the
appearance
of
a
giant
nest
half‐buried
in
vegetation
by
a
species
of
clever
insects.
“Perhaps
that’s
all
we
are,”
the
priest
mused.
Below
him,
at
the
footpath
across
from
the
flagstone
forecourt,
a
woman
was
entering
the
back
of
a
taxi.
She
wore
a
black,
figure‐hugging
dress;
he
couldn’t
see
her
face.
Simon
stared;
an
initial
annoyance
had
become
curiosity.
The
woman
leaned
forward
to
talk
to
the
driver.
A
current
of
cold
air
from
the
distant
sea
tugged
at
the
stole
around
the
priest’s
neck
as
he
watched.
The
indicator
blinked
and
the
taxi
pulled
out
from
the
curb
and
turned.
The
passenger
settled
back
into
the
seat
then
glanced
up
towards
the
church.
Simon’s
stomach
turned.
He
flung
out
an
arm
to
hail,
but
the
taxi
straightened
and
began
to
accelerate.
Muriel
Hargreaves
hurriedly
looked
away
again.
“Bless
us
Lord
for
these
gifts,
which
of
thy
bounty
we
are
about
to
receive
through
Christ
Our
Lord.”
“Amen.”
They
waited
patiently
for
the
elderly
man
at
one
end
of
the
table
to
drag
the
heavy
stoneware
casserole
dish
to
within
reach.
He
lifted
the
lid
and
peered
inside.
“Beef
or
lamb?”
asked
the
young
man
sitting
opposite
Simon.
The
old
man
did
not
respond,
concentrating
on
the
ladle
gripped
in
his
bony
hand.
“Beef
or
lamb
Father?”
181
“Eh?”
The
question
came
from
young
Greg
Walcott.
A
man
with
a
boy’s
face
and
humour.
Simon
could
sense
something
building
and
felt
a
smile
touch
the
corners
of
his
mouth.
Greg
and
the
old
near‐deaf
priest
did
not
get
on.
The
casserole
dish
passed
from
place
to
place.
There
were
four
men
at
the
table.
At
the
opposite
end
to
the
old
man
was
Father
Peter
Moore,
the
parish’s
senior
priest
–
stern,
late
forties
–
who
had
earned
accolades
as
a
missionary
in
Central
America
before
falling
from
grace
with
both
oppressor
and
oppressed.
He
had
preached
eternal
salvation
through
temporal
freedom.
The
government
screwed
the
vice
tighter
and
the
people
pleaded:
“What
is
freedom
when
we
are
hungry?”
Peter
had
had
no
answer
other
than
to
eventually
damn
the
world
and
himself.
It
had
left
him
in
constant
battle
with
an
inner
cynicism.
Simon
could
not
imagine
a
man
more
unsuited
to
work
in
an
affluent
suburban
parish.
He
glanced
around
the
table.
The
truth
was,
none
of
them
really
fitted
the
role,
except
perhaps
Greg
whose
boyish
charm
smoothed
the
way
in
whichever
direction
he
navigated.
Simon
expected
Greg
would
become
a
successful
professional
cleric.
“Looks
like
beef,
Father
Frank.”
The
old
man’s
eyes
remained
on
the
task
of
guiding
a
laden
fork
to
his
mouth.
“Did
you
know,
Father
Frank,
that
too
much
sex
makes
you
deaf?”
The
old
man
glanced
up.
“Eh?”
Greg
raised
his
voice:
“Did
you
know
that
too
much
sex
makes
you
deaf?”
“Bex—?
No
I
feel
fine,
thank
you.”
Greg
was
forced
to
raise
his
voice
almost
to
a
shout.
“No,
sex!
Too
much
sex
Father.
It
makes
you
deaf.”
The
old
man
eased
himself
back
against
his
chair
and
stared
at
the
young
priest.
His
eyes
narrowed:
“Ah,
but
182
Father,”
he
replied
slowly
in
a
quavering
voice,
“incoherency
of
speech
is
a
sure
sign
of
illegitimacy
at
birth.”
Simon
laughed.
Moore
rapped
the
table
with
a
spoon.
“That’ll
do!”
The
meal
continued
for
a
time
in
silence,
save
the
old
man’s
slurping.
“The
girl
can
cook—someone
is
missing
out
on
a
good
wife.”
Greg
spoke
as
though
it
was
his
Christian
duty
to
break
the
silence.
The
senior
priest
grunted
non‐committally:
“Better
off
as
she
is.”
The
young
priest
nodded.
Simon
looked
up.
“What
do
you
mean?”
“Well—she’s
a
black,
you
know,”
replied
the
young
priest.
“Calls
herself
a
Nyoongah.
I
suspect
she’s
even
proud
of
it.”
Simon
was
taken
by
surprise.
Mary
Cruikshank
neither
looked
nor
behaved
like
an
Aborigine.
An
inner
voice
asked
how
an
Aborigine
behaved,
but
he
ignored
it.
Still,
perhaps
it
explained
the
attitude
of
some
of
the
parishioners.
He
thought
the
reserve
was
because
she
was
an
unmarried
mother.
“Why
shouldn’t
she
be
proud?”
Simon
asked.
Greg
smirked.
“Well,
what
good
does
it
do
her?
She
doesn’t
look
black,
so
why
make
a
point
of
something
that’s
only
going
to
be
a
disadvantage.”
Simon
held
his
tongue.
Prejudice
wasn’t
going
to
be
rubbed
out
with
dinner
table
repartee.
He
didn’t
know
much
about
Mary
Cruikshank
other
than
she
supplemented
a
single
mother’s
pension
by
cooking
the
priests’
meals.
“Simon,
I’d
like
you
to
take
the
choir
tonight.”
Simon
looked
up
at
Peter
Moore,
crestfallen.
He
had
been
looking
forward
to
putting
his
feet
by
the
heater
and
reading.
The
choir
loft
would
be
freezing.
“Time
you
became
better
known
to
the
movers
and
shakers
in
this
parish.”
183
“Peter,
I’m
not
sure
putting
me
in
front
of
the
choir
will
exactly
prove
to
be
good
public
relations.
I
can’t
sing.”
“Since
when
has
that
been
a
prerequisite?
Anyway,
I’ve
got
a
couple
coming
in
tonight
for
pre‐nuptials.”
He
shook
his
head.
“One
born
every
minute
isn’t
there?”
“Not
casting
aspersions
upon
the
sacrament
of
marriage,
are
we?”
Greg
carefully
disguised
whether
he
was
mocking
or
being
serious.
His
superior
was
equally
watchful:
“No,
just
the
fools
who
think
bliss
comes
with
a
blessing
and
a
warm
bed.”
Simon
interrupted.
“Peter
I
don’t
want
to
sound
churlish,
but
I
really
feel
awkward
about
trying
to
manage
a
choir—
especially
that
choir.
Greg
turned
to
his
superior.
“I’ll
do
it.”
“The
matter
is
not
negotiable.”
The
senior
priest
faced
Simon.
“It’s
MacNamara.
Wants
to
be
reassured
you’re
back
to
normal.
Wants
to
see
you’ve
rediscovered
the
value
of
pastoral
work
among
ordinary
people.”
Simon
felt
a
wave
of
despair.
“They
are
ordinary
people?
They
think
an
off‐note
is
a
mortal
sin.
I
know
what
they’ll
be
thinking—MacNamara,
the
right
hand
of
God,
bringing
me
back
to
the
fold.
I’ll
be
slaughtered.”
Greg
looked
at
him.
“You’ll
just
have
to
be
a
brave
lamb
then,
won’t
you!”
Simon
was
not
amused.
“What
about
Frank?”
The
young
man
scoffed.
“He’ll
have
to
put
on
his
glasses
to
know
when
they
are
singing.”
“That’s
enough.
It’s
MacNamara’s
order
so
the
decision
is
final.”
The
former
missionary
looked
at
his
watch.
“You’d
better
finish
up
or
there
will
be
a
black
mark
in
the
book
before
you
even
get
there.”
The
church
was
dark
and
cold.
Simon’s
shoes
were
noisy
on
the
hollow
wooden
steps
as
he
climbed
the
twisting
184
stairway
to
the
choir
loft.
As
his
head
came
into
view
he
forced
a
smile.
“Evening,”
he
said,
brightly.
The
gathering
stared
back
in
collective
surprise.
“Where’s
Father
Moore?”
A
beefy
man
with
a
red
face
stepped
forward.
“And
you
are—?”
“George
Penbury.”
Simon
extended
his
hand.
“Pleased
to
meet
you
George.
You
obviously
know
who
I
am.
As
for
Father
Moore,
I’m
afraid
he’s
busy
tonight.”
The
man’s
eyebrows
lifted.
“Busy?
He’s
never
been
busy
before.”
Simon
smiled
apologetically,
but
could
feel
the
strain
rimming
his
mouth.
He
said
nothing.
“Oh
well,
we’ll
just
have
to
manage
won’t
we.
So
what
are
you?”
It
was
Simon’s
turn
to
look
surprised.
“Tenor—baritone?”
“What’s
Father
Moore?”
“Baritone
of
course.”
Simon
smiled.
“Fine.
Then
I
too
will
be
a
baritone.”
The
man
looked
back
to
the
group.
They
were
not
pleased.
“Er—Father—the
choir
is
important
to
the
church.
You
know
what
the
Bishop
says?”
“Enlighten
me.”
“People
who
sing
do
not
desert
the
church.
That’s
what
he
tells
us.
Can
you
sing?”
Simon
tried
to
lighten
the
mood.
He
waved
a
hand
airily.
“I
sang
in
a
school
choir
once
and
look
what
happened—became
a
priest.”
He
could
see
they
were
not
convinced.
“Besides,
I’m
sure
you’ve
been
together
long
enough
to
manage
quite
well
without
me.”
185
The
man
shook
his
head.
“We
must
have
a
priest.
We
can’t
rehearse
without
a
priest
to
guide
us.
You’ve
got
to
tell
us
what
to
sing.
That’s
a
priest’s
job.”
Simon
wondered
how
Peter
Moore
coped.
“Precisely,
and
that’s
why
I’m
here.”
“Yes,
well—we
are
a
very
traditional
choir
Father.”
Simon
dropped
the
smile.
“I
see.
Worried
I
might
want
to
introduce
electric
guitars—or
a
didgeridoo
even?”
The
man
shrugged
awkwardly.
“No
offence
Father—but
you
hear
these
things
and
you’ve
got
to
worry
a
little,
don’t
you?
It’s
important
things
are
kept
correct.
I
know
the
bishop
wants
it
that
way.”
“Naturally,”
said
Simon.
He
looked
over
the
edge
of
the
balustrade.
The
distant
altar
was
outlined
by
the
dim
light
of
remembrance
candles.
“Don’t
worry.
I
promise
to
keep
it
all
very
Catholic.
Now
please
introduce
me.”
There
were
ten
in
the
choir.
George
Penbury,
his
wife,
two
other
men
and
the
balance
were
women.
Their
names
went
in
one
ear
and
out
the
other.
They
stood
watching
him,
trying
to
read
his
mind.
Simon
took
the
hymn
book
thrust
at
him
by
Penbury.
The
Living
Hymn.
Simon
flicked
through
the
pages.
It
had
been
years
since
he’d
seen
this
book.
He
caught
Penbury’s
eye.
“I
didn’t
know
we
were
still
using
this
one.”
“The
Bishop
prefers
it.”
Simon
shrugged.
“Fair
enough.
But
I’ll
have
to
be
guided
by
you
after
all.
What
do
you
suggest?”
The
man
squared
his
shoulders.
“Well,
tonight
Father
we
expected
to
rehearse
for
the
Triumph
of
the
Cross—so
perhaps
we
could
start
with
number
sixty‐three.”
He
nodded
to
his
wife
who
dutifully
squeezed
herself
behind
a
Yamaha
organ.
Her
fingers
deftly
flicked
at
a
row
of
coloured
buttons.
The
choir
formed
three
ranks,
with
George
Penbury
squaring
off
at
the
front.
“You
stand
in
front
of
me
Father,
just
the
way
it
would
be
with
you
singing
from
the
altar.”
He
closed
his
186
eyes
and
lifted
his
chin.
His
wife
leaned
onto
the
keys
and
filled
the
church
with
self‐importance.
The
music
paused.
The
choir
braced:
Lord
our
sins
we
have
deserved
Death
and
endless
misery
Hell
with
all
its
pain
and
torment
Is
ours
for
all
eternity
They
paused
while
Mrs
Penbury
primed
the
second
verse
with
a
series
of
diminishing
chords.
Her
husband
twisted
his
head
to
offer
Simon
a
weak
smile
of
encouragement.
They
laboured
on,
but
Simon
remained
mute.
At
the
close
of
the
second
verse
Penbury
waved
for
silence.
“What’s
the
matter
Father?
You’re
not
singing—I’ve
got
to
be
able
to
hear
you.
We
take
our
cue
from
you.”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“You
can’t
sing
that.”
He
saw
a
defensive
shadow
move
across
the
choirmaster’s
eyes.
“Why
not?”
Simon
tried
to
make
light
of
his
reservations.
“Well
for
a
start
we
won’t
have
enough
razor
blades
to
pass
around,
and
secondly
it’s
at
odds
with
today’s
teachings.”
The
man
seemed
to
develop
a
twitch
in
his
shoulders.
“It’s
a
favourite
of
the
Bishop’s.”
“That’d
be
right,”
Simon
muttered
quietly.
“Pardon?”
“Doesn’t
matter,
but
we
can’t
sing
this.
Sorry.”
Penbury
shook
his
head
slowly,
his
face
turning
wooden
and
obstinate.
“No
one
has
ever
complained
before.”
Simon
shrugged
good
naturedly.
He
did
not
want
a
fight.
“Think
about
it—I
mean,
you
tell
me,
then,
what
it
all
means.
What
are
we
trying
to
say
with
this
hymn?”
The
choir
shuffled,
the
organist
glared
and
Penbury
furrowed
his
brow.
“Mean?”
“What’s
the
purpose?
What
are
we
trying
to
inspire?”
187
Penbury
stared
back
blankly
as
though
Simon
had
lost
his
senses.
Simon
sighed.
“The
words
need
to
touch
people—to
give
them
encouragement
or
cause
to
reflect.
I
don’t
think
that
asking
for
death
and
endless
misery
quite
achieves
that,
do
you?”
The
man’s
eyes
narrowed.
“Perhaps
you’d
better
choose
then.”
He
turned
his
back
on
the
priest
and
gazed
moodily
above
the
choir’s
heads.
Simon
thumbed
through
the
book,
a
morbid
litany
of
medieval
angst.
He
was
about
to
toss
it
aside
and
ask
for
something
more
recent
when
his
eyes
caught
a
phrase.
“How
about
this
one—number
twenty‐one.”
He
held
the
open
book
before
him
and
read
out
the
words:
…
Join
hands
then
brothers
of
the
faith
Whate’er
your
colour
or
race
Who
serves
my
Father
as
a
Son
I’ll
love
as
kin
to
me
“Don’t
you
think
something
like
this
would
be
better—a
hymn
which
extols
Christian
values?”
Penbury
twisted
around
to
face
him
and
folded
his
arms.
“It’s
your
church.”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“No!
It’s
your
church.
That
means
you’ve
got
a
responsibility
to
think
about
what
you
do
for
yourselves,
not
just
what
you
think
will
please
me—or
the
Bishop.”
Penbury
looked
at
his
wife
who
raised
her
eyebrows
in
an
unspoken
‘I
told
you
so’.
Simon
felt
the
choristers’
hostility.
Penbury
looked
again
to
his
wife,
then
to
the
choir.
They
turned
to
each
other,
then
to
Simon,
and
finally
back
to
Penbury.
He
was
their
leader.
It
was
up
to
him.
The
man
was
bristling
with
annoyance.
“Look
Father,
like
I
said,
we
are
conservative.”
He
leaned
towards
Simon.
“And
we
work
damn
hard
for
the
church.
We
pay
for
your
keep—.”
188
Simon
extended
his
arms
in
a
conciliatory
gesture.
“I
understand—I
appreciate
what
you
are
saying.
I
was
just
hoping—.”
His
voice
trailed
off.
“It
doesn’t
matter.
Carry
on—
your
hymn
is
fine.”
The
Bishop’s
secretary,
a
young
priest
fresh
from
a
scholastic
year
in
Rome,
appraised
Simon
from
behind
a
desk.
He
was
writing
in
a
ledger
book,
but
stopped
occasionally
to
gaze
disapprovingly
at
the
visitor.
Simon
knew
he
was
being
kept
waiting.
Word
seemed
to
be
spreading
that
he
had
drifted
to
the
fringe;
that
twilight
zone
roamed
by
feral
priests—idealists
and
zealots,
men
with
causes
and
who
functioned
outside
social
and
political
protocols.
This
was
not
a
new
phenomenon
to
the
church,
which
had
a
long
memory.
The
Franciscans
had
criticised
the
church’s
ruling‐class
posturing
and
been
persecuted
almost
to
the
point
of
extinction.
Simon
flicked
through
the
Catholic
Weekly,
a
mix
of
theological
essays,
dictums
from
various
branches
of
the
bureaucracy
and
photographs
of
bright,
innocent
faces
from
fetes,
schools
and
retreats.
He
put
the
magazine
down
and
sighed.
The
secretary
glanced
up.
“I’m
sure
His
Grace
won’t
be
long
now.”
Simon
smiled.
Sometimes
the
title
amused
him.
‘His
Grace’.
Ted
MacNamara
had
come
a
long
way
since
the
day
he
had
tweaked
Simon
Bradbury’s
youthful
ear
and
toppled
him
from
the
rose
garden
wall.
A
buzzer
sounded.
The
secretay
spoke.
“You
may
go
in
now.”
Simon
stood
up.
He
was
dressed
in
his
formal
suit,
but
felt
grubby
beside
the
Bishop’s
starched
sentinel.
Closing
the
anteroom
door
behind
him
Simon
stepped
into
the
Bishop’s
office.
Bishop
MacNamara
walked
from
behind
a
large
desk,
his
arms
outstretched
in
welcome.
He
had
lost
weight
and
his
hair
seemed
greyer
than
the
last
time
they
had
189
met.
But
the
man
still
had
bearing;
authority
rested
well
on
his
shoulders.
“Simon,
Simon—so
good
to
see
you.”
The
man
beamed,
and
Simon
was
surprised.
This
was
not
the
welcome
he
had
anticipated.
He
accepted
the
proffered
hand.
Simon
was
ushered
to
one
of
two
leather
club
chairs.
It
was
a
room
furnished
to
enhance
and
service
power.
Bookshelves
hewn
from
the
exquisite
red
wood
of
the
jarrah
tree
lined
the
walls
and
French
doors
opened
to
a
terrace
overlooking
a
spacious
lawn
and
gardens.
A
sun‐bleached
statue
of
the
Virgin
Mary
hovered
over
a
bed
of
roses.
“Drink?”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“No
thanks.”
As
Simon
eased
himself
into
the
chair’s
embrace
the
Bishop
glanced
out
through
the
glass
doors
and
rubbed
his
nose.
“It
is
going
to
rain,”
he
said
conversationally
and
sat
in
the
chair
opposite.
Simon
said
nothing,
waiting.
“So
how
are
you
settling
in?
I’ve
been
wanting
to
have
a
good
chat
for
ages,
but
you
know
how
it
is—if
it’s
not
one
thing,
it’s
another.
My
life
has
become
one
continuous
committee
meeting.
So—been
back
quite
a
while
now,
haven’t
you!”
“Almost
six
months
actually.”
“No—it
can’t
be!”
Simon
smiled
and
made
a
small
gesture
with
his
hands.
“Yes.”
“Well.
You
must
be
feeling
right
at
home.”
“I’m
managing.”
The
Bishop
nodded.
“But
that’s
our
lot
in
life
isn’t
it—no
place
for
personal
ambition
in
a
priest,
eh!”
Simon
remained
silent.
He
didn’t
know
what
to
say.
The
bishop
pressed
his
index
fingers
undr
his
chin.
“So
how
are
you
finding
St
Luke’s?”
“Fine—a
bit
dry
at
times,
but
not
many
dramas.”
190
“A
stable
parish—strong
Catholic
community.
Got
their
feet
on
the
ground,
that
lot.
I
heard
you’ve
taken
over
the
choir.”
Simon
suppressed
a
smile.
He
presumed
the
confrontation
with
Penbury
was
behind
this
interview.
“I
found
them
a
little
traditional,
but
we’ve
come
to
an
understanding.”
The
Bishop
nodded.
“Excellent.
Don’t
be
afraid
of
tradition,
Simon.
That’s
where
strength
is
found.”
He
lowered
his
voice
conspiratorially.
“You
know
what
I
think
of
Vatican
Two.
Faith
and
discipline
built
the
church,
not
indulgent
naval
gazing.”
Simon
shifted
uneasily
in
his
seat
and
MacNamara
held
up
his
hand.
“I
know
it’s
not
a
popular
view,
but
it
is
the
truth,
and
the
truth
is
our
anchoring
point,
Simon.
All
the
reformers
have
achieved
to
date
is
to
sever
the
umbilical
cord
between
the
mother
church
and
her
children.
Now
everybody’s
wandering
lost—trying
to
find
their
way.”
He
shook
his
head.
“I’m
just
thankful
I’m
old
enough
to
have
seen
the
church
at
its
greatest—it
must
be
difficult
for
younger
priests,
out
there
struggling
against
such
a
tide
of
disinterest.”
Simon
shrugged.
“Not
really
Your
Grace,
I—.”
“Ted—you
and
I
go
back
a
long
way
Simon.
I
feel
like
a
father
to
you
sometimes.
Strange,
isn’t
it.
Anyway,
when
there’s
no
audience,
I’m
still
just
Ted,
eh?”
His
mouth
curved
upwards
in
a
smile.
Simon
swallowed.
Now
he
was
nervous.
“The
faithful
might
be
fewer,
but
they
will
be
stronger,
especially
in
this
country.
There’s
a
slow
awakening
to
this
land’s
Aboriginal
past
and
I
think
Aboriginal
Christians
will
be
the
source
of
a
powerful
new
spirituality.
I—.”
The
Bishop
put
up
his
hands.
“Simon.
The
Catholic
church
was
born
and
nurtured
in
the
cradle
of
civilisation.
It
is
the
product
of
ten
thousand
years
of
human
progress—of
divine
inspiration.
It
is
about
bettering
the
lot
of
mankind,
not
of
reverting
back
to
tribal
savagery.”
The
bishop
pushed
himself
from
the
chair
and
moved
across
to
his
desk
from
where
he
gathered
up
several
sheets
of
paper.
“One
of
the
reasons
I
191
asked
you
here
was
this:
a
report
from
your
replacement,
Father
Czaplowski.
I
had
him
do
what
you
should
have
done—visit
a
few
Aboriginal‐run
communities
before
going
to
Gunwinddu.
Let
you
see
for
yourself
what
happens
when
you
loosen
the
reins.
Listen
to
this.
He
describes
a
school:
‘—the
children
are
not
even
house‐trained,
and
they
also
eat
things.
Not
just
ordinary
things—but
ants
nests.
They
will
eat
their
way
through
quite
a
lot
of
repulsive
substances
in
the
course
of
a
few
days.’”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“What
would
a
priest
fresh
from
Poland
know
or
understand
about
the
circumstances
of
Aboriginal
communities?”
The
Bishop
looked
at
him
sternly.
“More
than
you,
if
you
don’t
mind
me
saying.
I
will
read
on:
“
‘—The
houses,
if
that
is
what
you
can
say
of
the
structures,
smell
overpoweringly
of
rotting
garbage.
And
this—the
Aborigine
drinks
not
until
he
is
drunk,
but
until
he
is
quite
incapable
of
drinking
more;
that
is,
when
he
is
comatose.
Similarly,
young
women
sniff
petrol
for
pleasure
and
will
offer
themselves
to
you
for
even
a
small
container.’
”
The
bishop
glanced
towards
Simon,
a
patient
fatherly
expression
on
his
face.
“
‘—these
communities
are
a
malnutritioned
populace
ruled
by
old
men
who
do
nothing
but
argue
and
drink
cheap
wine
and
who
appear
to
have
no
comprehension
of
their
duties
as
leaders.
Beneath
their
feet
wander
a
generation
of
diseased
and
demented
children,
leaving
one
with
the
impression
of
a
race
for
whom
extinction
will
come
as
a
blessed
relief.’
”
The
Bishop
lifted
his
eyes
from
the
page
and
stared
at
Simon.
“Pretty
picture
isn’t
it!”
Simon
stood
and
walked
towards
the
Bishop’s
desk
“Yes,
I’ve
seen
these
places—settlements
into
which
they’ve
been
herded
like
cattle—dispossessed
of
their
lands,
their
culture,
their
spiritual
values,
their
social
framework.”.
“You
are
right.
192
It’s
not
a
pretty
sight,
but
even
uglier
when
we
blame
them
for
our
doing.”
“Our
doing!”
The
Bishop
raised
an
eyebrow
sardonically.
“I
find
the
perspective
a
little
offensive.
The
Church
has
embraced
that
wretched
race
with
compassion.
They
should
be
grateful,
but
no—they
want
to
walk
back
to
the
desert.
So
we
remove
the
choice,
as
at
Gunwinddu,
for
their
own
good.
And
our
approach
has
worked,
has
reaped
success
and
souls.
But
no!
‘That
is
not
the
way,’
says
Father
Bradbury.
Father
Bradbury
knows
better
than
his
church.
Father
Bradbury
wants
the
Aborigines
to
exercise
free
spirit.
Never
mind
that
they
might
abandon
the
church
and
its
offer
of
eternal
salvation.
Never
mind
that
what
he
says
breaks
the
law,
breaks
down
almost
a
century
of
carefully
considered
government
and
church
administration
designed
with
but
one
aim—to
assimilate
with
care
and
patience
a
stone‐age
people
out
of
the
clutches
of
Satan
and
into
a
modern,
enlightened
world.
No!
Father
Bradbury
knows
best.”
The
bishop
stopped.
“Look.
I
know
the
system
can
seem
unwieldy.
When
I
was
young
I
also
thought
it
cumbersome.
But
whatever
the
church
is
doing
wrong,
it
has
been
doing
it
for
two
thousand
years.
When
other
systems
have
survived
for
two
millennia
then,
perhaps,
we
might
accept
being
questioned
and
judged.”
“The
Aboriginal
way,
before
it
was
poisoned,
has
been
tried
and
proven
for
a
hundred
millennia.”
The
Bishop
looked
at
Simon
as
a
father
ponders
a
stubborn
son.
“Simon,
look—you
can
put
clothes
on
them,
you
can
teach
them
to
wash
every
day,
you
might
even
teach
them
to
hold
down
a
job,
but
underneath
it
all
they
are
savages
still—
until
the
day
they
embrace
our
ways
and
beliefs,
and
not
merely
mimic
us
as
though
they
think
we
are
a
huge
joke.
The
hand
of
God,
Simon,
was
white—in
a
spiritual
sense,
of
course.
He
made
it
our
job
to
raise
them
to
our
level—not
the
converse.
Might
sound
unfair,
but
I
didn’t
write
the
rules.
I
193
simply
administer
them
in
the
manner
which
best
represents
the
interests
of
the
Church.”
The
bishop
gave
a
tight
smile.
The
real
world,
Simon,
is
a
political
world.
For
some
reason
you
find
this
difficult
to
grasp.
That’s
why
I
sent
you
to
Gunwinddu,
to
allow
you
to
flex
a
little
Christian
fervour,
to—
.”
Simon
interjected.
He
had
to
force
his
voice
to
remain
level.
“As
I
recall—I
was
making
too
much
of
a
fuss
about
a
lot
of
money
disappearing
in
the
course
of
talking
about
a
university.”
MacNamara
stopped,
deliberately
collecting
his
thoughts.
“I’m
glad
you
have
raised
that.
What
greater
monument
to
the
glory
of
God
and
the
Holy
Catholic
Church
than
our
own
university.”
“And
three
million
dollars
on
a
new
archbishop’s
residence
and
administration
complex.”
The
Bishop
spread
his
arms,
imploringly.
“The
church
is
also
a
business
and
has
to
be
managed
as
such.
And
you
forget,
the
money
was
coming
from
a
land
sale.”
“And
meantime
we’ve
got
schools
and
community
centres
crumbling
through
lack
of
funds.”
Retrieving
a
folded
handkerchief
from
his
pocket,
the
Bishop
dabbed
at
his
lips.
He
rested
the
handkerchief
carefully
on
the
desk.
“Simon
since
this
is
a
private
discussion
I
shall
disregard
your
outburst—but
whatever
your
personal
views
you
do
not
have
the
right
or
authority
to
attack
your
superiors
from
the
altar.
The
real
issue
here
is
doubt—doubts
that
you
harbour
about
the
church.
Let
me
tell
you
Simon,
there
is
nothing
I
despise
more
than
doubt.
It
makes
a
man
weak.
As
for
the
church’s
work
with
Aborigines,
it
is
to
assist
with
their
assimilation.
That
is
policy,
and
it
is
enacted
through
teaching
the
gospel,
not
by
inciting
treason.”
“Treason!”
“Land
claims
are
treason.
Gunwinddu
is
Crown
land
which
we
lease.
It
is
not
ours
to
give
away.
What
you
were
doing
194
there
was
political.
What
you
should
have
been
doing
was
cementing
the
church,
not
encouraging
a
return
to
paganism.”
Simon
was
too
angry
to
reply.
Neither
man
spoke
for
some
moments.
The
Bishop
studied
Simon,
who
in
turn
studied
the
bookshelf.
Finally,
the
Bishop
smiled.
“I
have
had
my
share
of
disillusionment,”
he
said
quietly.
“You
were
with
me,
remember,
the
day
we
first
celebrated
the
Mass
in
English.
Do
you
remember?
I
do—I
remember.
I
cried
like
a
child
that
night.
I
prayed
on
my
knees
until
the
sun
roused
me,
begging
Christ
to
retract
the
work
of
these
extremists.
But
I
was
just
a
parish
priest.
Nobody
cared
about
what
priests
believed—we
were
there
to
do
the
church’s
bidding.”
He
looked
at
Simon.
“But
I
survived
and
now
I
am
a
Bishop
and
you
will
do
my
bidding.
Just
as
I
was
forced
to
put
aside
my
disappointments,
so
you
will
put
aside
yours.
You
will
accept
the
responsibilities
of
a
real
priest—a
priest
who
teaches
the
sacraments,
applies
himself
to
his
pastoral
duties—including
choir
practice,
and
bingo,
and
school
fetes,
and
whatever
else
holds
a
parish
together.
A
real
priest
in
a
real
parish,
Simon.
This
Aboriginal
crusade
of
yours
is
dangerous
to
your
vocation.
Their
whole
culture
is—dangerous.
You
need
to
know
that.”
The
window
light
highlighted
the
maroon
trimming
on
the
Bishop’s
cassock.
“Well,
I’m
glad
we
were
able
to
talk,
Simon.
I
hope
I
have
been
a
help.”
Simon
stared
at
the
older
man,
until
he
realised
there
was
nothing
more
to
say.
He
stood
and
began
walking
towards
the
door.
“Oh—one
more
thing
Simon.”
Simon
turned.
“Yes?”
“The
university.
The
mistakes
are
over,
behind
us—and
there
have
been
developments.”
The
Bishop
paused
to
look
hard
into
the
face
of
the
younger
priest
as
if
trying
to
draw
195
encouragement
from
a
memory.
“Would
you
consider
the
chaplaincy?”
Simon
remained
mute,
but
his
eyes
widened
in
surprise.
“I
thought
the
site
had
already
been
sold
to
recoup
some
of
the
lost
money?”
“We
have
other
land
that
can
be
freed
for
the
purpose.”
The
Bishop
smiled.
“No
promises,
but
it’s
something
I’d
like
you
to
think
about.
I
am
confident
again
Simon—confident.”
“Why
me?
This
doesn’t
make
sense.”
“Have
we
grown
so
far
apart
that
I
must
explain
even
this?
I’m
concerned
for
you.
Remember
the
day
of
your
ordination:
Adsum—here
I
am,
you
said
to
your
Church.
It
was
your
pledge.”
He
softened
his
tone.
“I’d
like
you
to
say
adsum
to
me
Simon—we
go
back
a
long
time—you
should
trust
me
more—
allow
me
to
guide
you,
to—.”
Simon
cut
in.
“Save
me?”
“Yes,”
said
the
bishop.
196
Chapter
Twelve
A
sound
like
a
bull
whip
cracked
high
in
the
sky
and
lightning
ripped
the
dark,
brooding
clouds.
The
thunder
followed
quickly,
a
deafening
drum
roll.
Simon
looked
up.
The
belly
of
the
sky
hung
low,
bloated
with
rain;
fat
drops
already
splashing
on
the
cement.
He
scuttled
across
the
road
to
the
shelter
of
shop
awnings.
Simon
didn’t
like
it.
It
matched
too
well
his
mood
after
his
meeting
with
the
Bishop.
The
gutter
began
to
fill
with
flowing
water;
traffic
hissed
on
wet
bitumen.
The
whole
world
seemed
to
be
rushing
past
him.
Shoppers
and
workers
going
home;
a
whole
population
with
its
head
down.
Simon
alone,
bent
against
the
illuminated
glass,
fought
the
tide.
As
he
passed
a
window
he
noticed
a
glistening,
reddish
splash
on
its
white
sill.
It
was
on
the
pavement
too.
He
stopped
and
rose
onto
his
toes
to
look
around,
but
there
was
nothing
but
the
determined
migration
of
commuters.
A
body
cannoned
into
him
and
a
voice
cursed
his
presence.
Simon
decided
to
take
a
short‐cut
down
a
laneway
to
escape
the
throng.
There
was
no
cover
and
he
started
to
run
with
his
coat
half
pulled
over
his
head.
He
almost
missed
the
figure
slumped
against
the
side
of
an
industrial
garbage
bin.
Simon
stopped
and
knelt,
the
rain
immediately
soaking
into
his
clothing.
An
Aboriginal
youth,
his
face
pale
with
pain,
raised
his
eyes
momentarily.
The
front
of
the
youth’s
shirt
was
awash
with
rain‐spread
blood.
“Keep
still.
I’ll
get
help.”
Simon
spread
his
coat
over
the
boy
and
ran
back
to
the
main
street,
to
an
arcade
he
had
passed.
He
found
a
pay‐
phone
and
called
an
ambulance.
The
youth
hadn’t
moved
at
all
when
Simon
returned.
The
two
were
alone.
No
one
came
into
the
lane.
The
city
was
just
a
noise
in
the
background—a
few
quick
steps
yet
a
whole
world
away.
Simon
tried
to
talk
to
the
boy,
but
got
no
response.
He
looked
under
the
coat.
The
rain
had
spread
the
blood
too
197
much
to
see
exactly
where
he
had
been
hurt.
He
replaced
his
coat
and
waited.
A
movement
made
him
look
up
and
he
watched
as
two
men
in
blue
overalls
approached.
The
first
man
knelt
beside
him
and
placed
his
fingers
against
the
boy’s
neck.
“Know
what
happened?”
“No—looks
like
he
might
have
been
stabbed.”
“Fair
enough,”
the
man
said,
almost
casually
as
he
gently
pushed
Simon
aside.
The
priest
stood
and
watched
the
two
ambulance
men
methodically
do
their
job,
then
lift
the
boy
onto
a
trolley
and
wheel
him
away.
It
seemed
so
easy
when
others
were
in
control.
“Where
are
you
taking
him?”
Simon
called.
“The
Royal.”
Simon
nodded
and
felt
a
big
drop
of
water
fall
from
his
nose.
“Need
a
lift?”
He
nodded
again
and
wiped
his
nose
on
the
back
of
his
hand.
The
hospital
triage
was
chaos.
White‐coated
figures
moving
with
practised
efficiency
among
the
listless,
shocked,
bloodied,
drunk,
grieving
and
dying.
It
was
not
a
new
experience
for
Simon,
but
he
still
felt
awkward.
He
left
to
find
somewhere
to
stand
or
sit
while
he
filled
in
a
form
thrust
into
his
hand
by
a
scuttling
orderly.
He
leaned
on
the
casing
around
a
fire
hose
and
wrote
his
name
and
address
then
slid
the
form
under
the
security
window
at
the
arrivals
desk.
The
woman
looked
up
over
the
top
of
her
glasses
and
her
eyes
rested
momentarily
on
the
tiny
cross
on
his
collar.
“Never
a
dull
moment,
eh
Father?”
He
smiled
weakly.
“It’s
the
world
we
live
in.”
He
didn’t
know
what
that
meant,
but
it
sounded
apt.
He
wondered,
almost
abstractedly,
if
the
youth
would
survive.
“You
should
pray,”
said
a
voice.
But
it
was
inside
his
198
head
so
he
was
able
to
lock
it
away
in
that
dark
place
where
all
his
troubled
thoughts
were
buried.
199
Chapter
Thirteen
Mary
put
the
cup
on
the
table
by
his
elbow.
“Here
you
go.”
Simon
lifted
his
face
from
his
hands.
“You
had
a
visitor
earlier
on,”
she
continued.
“The
boy
you
helped
the
other
day—his
mother
came
to
thank
you.”
“How
is
he?”
“He’ll
be
okay.
Anyway,
she
asked
a
favour—and
I
said
yes
for
you.”
Simon
sighed.
“And—?”
“It’s
your
job.
They’ve
got
kids
over
at
Redmond
who
haven’t
been
baptized.
She
was
wondering
if
you
would
do
it.”
Simon
sipped
his
tea,
trying
to
recall
what
he
knew
about
the
suburb.
Rough,
poor—black.
There
had
been
a
priest
some
years
ago.
He
tried
to
think.
Chapman—Len
Chapman.
“What
happened
to
Father
Chapman?”
“He
was
an
old
man.
He
died
a
couple
of
years
ago—been
no
one
since.”
He
stared
vacantly
towards
the
window.
He’d
spoken
with
fervour
for
the
Aborigines
he
had
left
in
Gunwinddu
but
had
ignored
their
presence
in
the
city.
“I
feel
guilty,”
he
said
aloud.
“It’s
as
though
I
don’t
see
the
Aborigines
here
as
being
Aboriginal.
They
seem
different.”
“They
are.
We’re
trapped
between
two
worlds—I’m
a
Nyoongah,
you
know
that
don’t
you?”
Simon
nodded.
“But
I
don’t
look
like
one,
do
I?
Can
you
imagine
what
it
feels
like—to
know
who
you
are
on
the
inside,
to
be
proud
of
who
you
are
on
the
inside,
but
ashamed
‘cause
your
skin
makes
a
liar
of
you.?”
Simon
studied
her.
There
was
little
he
could
say.
“Do
you
know
the
people
at
Redmond?”
he
asked.
200
“Some.
But
they’re
not
my
people—they’re
nobody’s
people
really.
I
come
from
down
south.
But
I
live
in
a
big
block
of
flats
with
all
white
people.”
“Your
little
boy
is
white.”
“Only
on
the
outside,
Father.”
Simon
decided
to
change
the
subject.
“So
when’s
this
christening?”
“That’s
up
to
you—oh,
and
there’s
a
letter
too.”
She
took
an
envelope
from
the
sideboard
and
dropped
it
on
the
table
before
leaving
the
room.
He
pulled
it
across
with
his
fingers.
He
turned
the
envelope
over
in
his
hands
and
tore
open
the
back.
It
was
from
Karl.
So,
my
young
friend,
how
does
the
city
life
feel
after
your
time
with
us
at
Gunwinddu?
Much
has
changed
since
you
left
us—as
I
predicted,
if
you
remember.
Sometimes
I
sit
by
the
river
and
find
it
difficult
to
believe
such
change
can
happen
with
such
speed.
Before
you
came
very
little
had
changed
from
the
day
I
arrived.
Then
Father
Bradbury
comes
with
a
fire
in
his
soul
and
‘boom’
everything
is
different,
even
though
you
are
gone
so
soon.
But
then
a
young
man
cannot
have
fire
inside
and
not
get
burned,
eh?
I
find
myself
slowing
down.
I
think
the
great
fish
is
calling
me.
Karl,
he
whispers,
your
time
is
near.
Some
days
I
am
quite
happy
to
think
I
might
join
the
spirits
on
the
other
side
of
the
river
–
but
there
are
days
too,
my
young
friend,
when
I
am
quite
afraid.
On
those
days
I
think
of
you.
Should
I
take
my
memories
with
me,
I
ask,
or
should
I
leave
them
with
someone.
But
would
it
be
fair
to
burden
a
young
man
like
Father
Bradbury
with
an
old
man’s
past?
We
do
not
have
a
priest
at
Gunwinddu
anymore,
but
there
is
a
Polish
fellow,
a
Father
Czaplowski,
who
comes
once
a
month
from
Kununurra.
I
have
asked
him
to
mail
this
letter.
He
is
a
stern
man;
a
missionary
of
the
old
world.
He
wants
201
always
to
speak
German
with
me,
but
I
tell
him
I
have
no
heart
for
my
mother
tongue.
Wilma
thinks
he
is
very
good
I
believe
you
knew
that
Mrs
Davies
was
leaving,
but
Fred
is
still
here.
We
have
not
been
told
what
happened.
Fred
does
not
look
well
and
the
sergeant
you
did
not
like
visits
more
often.
He
and
Fred
get
drunk,
and
everybody
hides.
Isaac
and
his
family,
and
Matthew’s
widow
Maudie,
and
Angel,
left
Gunwinddu
about
one
month
ago.
They
have
returned
to
the
south
–
perhaps
you
have
heard
from
them?
Think
of
Karl
when
you
have
time,
and
if
you
hear
the
Barramundi
call,
I
would
be
grateful
if
you
would
say
a
small
prayer
for
me.
Karl
Simon
put
the
letter
aside.
He
smiled
at
the
memory
of
the
German.
Still
speaking
in
riddles,
but
Simon
understood
enough.
He
hoped
the
old
man
would
contact
him
again.
But
would
he
find
the
same
priest
he
knew
at
Gunwinddu?
He
toyed
with
the
envelope
and
remembered
the
red
earth
flanking
the
green
river;
the
tall
white
trees
and
the
clear,
blue
sky.
He
had
been
happy.
Had
that
been
the
problem,
he
wondered.
Was
it
wrong
for
a
priest
to
be
happy?
He
wondered
where
Isaac
had
gone—probably
to
the
goldfields.
He
had
spoken
of
going
home
one
day.
Perhaps
he
would
visit
Perth.
That
would
be
good.
The
tall
clock
in
the
hallway
chimed
the
hour,
startling
him
from
his
reverie.
“Blast,”
he
muttered.
He
scraped
back
his
chair,
stuffed
the
letter
into
his
pocket
and
hurried
towards
the
back
door.
It
was
his
turn
to
hear
confessions.
As
he
opened
the
door
Mary
called.
“Oh
Father—I
almost
forgot.
There
was
a
phone
call,
a
lady—she
left
a
phone
number.”
Simon
kept
walking,
but
his
heart
thumped.
The
afternoon
of
the
christening
had
a
hint
of
spring
in
the
air.
Sun
warmed
the
faded
bricks
and
tired
lawn
of
the
little
Catholic
church.
It
was
not
a
pretty
building.
The
lower
walls
were
202
marked
with
graffiti
and
it
adjoined
a
sad‐looking
school
stranded
on
the
shores
of
an
asphalt
lake.
The
tangled
remnants
of
a
tall
wire
fence
ringed
the
property.
Sunday
lethargy
had
settled
over
the
surrounding
streets
and
terraced
houses;
the
silent,
parked,
cars,
and
long‐dead
gardens.
Simon
parked
and
self‐consciously
locked
his
doors.
As
he
stepped
onto
the
footpath
a
dog
approached
and
directed
a
jet
of
urine
onto
each
tyre
in
turn.
At
the
rear
of
the
church
near
the
sacristy
entrance,
about
sixty
people
had
gathered.
There
were
perhaps
a
dozen
young
children
running,
leaping,
clinging;
and
young
mothers
cradling
babies
hidden
inside
swathes
of
material.
Some
were
with
boyfriends
or
husbands;
some
were
conspicuously
single.
Two
older‐looking
men
were
trying
to
blow
life
into
a
fire
inside
a
rusted
barbecue
kettle.
Green
branches
from
a
gum
tree
were
piled
at
their
feet.
A
middle‐aged
woman
in
a
green
dress
and
wearing
a
headband
in
the
symbolic
black,
red
and
gold
colours
of
the
Aboriginal
nation
started
walking
towards
Simon.
“Hey,”
she
called.
“This
is
the
Father
who
helped
Ricki.”
Faces
turned
his
way.
Watchful,
sizing
him
up.
Simon
had
already
met
the
woman,
Ricki’s
mother,
Mrs
Foley.
He
had
arranged
a
key
so
the
church
could
be
prepared.
“How
is
Ricki?”
“He’s
comin’
good
Father.”
“Did
you
find
out
what
happened?”
“Ah,
he
just
wasn’
careful
enough—.
Well,
we’re
ready
when
you
are
Father.”
She
began
to
usher
him
towards
the
entrance,
but
stopped
as
she
was
seized
by
a
coughing
fit.
“Are
you
all
right?”
She
smiled
painfully
and
nodded.
They
continued
inside.
“We’ve
got
it
all
ready
for
you
Father—
we
appreciate
this
you
know.”
As
his
eyes
accustomed
to
the
dim
light
he
stopped.
His
first
reaction
was
unease,
but
the
longer
he
looked
the
more
natural
it
seemed.
He
stared,
was
aware
of
people
watching
him,
and
203
slowly
a
smile
of
genuine
pleasure
crossed
his
face.
The
traditional
white
altar
cloth
was
gone.
In
its
place
was
a
cloth
in
the
Aboriginal
colours,
two
wide
bands
of
black
and
red,
overlaid
in
the
centre
with
a
large
yellow
sun.
Sprigs
of
gum
leaves
lay
on
each
side
of
the
altar
which
was
dominated,
for
the
event,
by
a
large
ceramic
bowl
wrapped
in
a
decorated
cloth.
“It’s
beautiful.”
“You
like
it
Father—you
don’
mind
us
doin’
this?”
Mrs
Foley
asked.
“It’s
terrific—I
wish
my
parishioners
cared
this
much.”
She
showed
him
the
cloth
around
the
bowl
containing
water.
“Two
journeys
of
life,
father.
One
through
a
desert
alone
and
without
water,
and
one
through
a
desert
with
friends
and
a
track
with
plenty
of
waterholes.
Baptism
puts
us
on
the
track
with
the
waterholes,
eh
father.”
Simon
nodded
enthusiastically.
“So
you
won’
mind
if
we
do
this
a
bit
different
then?”
“I’m
in
your
hands.”
Simon
looked
at
the
altar
preparations
again.
He
wished
Isaac
and
Arthur
were
there
to
see
it.
As
soon
as
he
had
changed
into
his
vestments
he
was
led
outside
where
he
joined
a
queue
which
began
to
writhe
snake‐
like
towards
the
smoking
barbecue
kettle.
The
children
were
lifted
and
passed
through
the
smoke,
thick
and
pungent
from
the
green
gum
leaves.
The
adults
embraced
the
smoke
with
extended
arms
and
drew
it
onto
their
bodies.
It
eddied
around
their
faces
like
a
living
spirit.
“The
smoke
makes
us
clean.
We
do
this
before
all
our
ceremonies,”
explained
Mrs
Foley
at
his
side.
When
the
throng
entered
the
church,
one
of
the
old
men
who
had
been
tending
the
kettle
stepped
up
onto
the
altar
and
stood
beside
Simon.
The
priest
was
confused
and
smiled
uncertainly.
“G’day,”
he
said.
“I’m
Joseph—what’s
your
name?”
“Simon.”
“You
like
children?”
204
Simon
looked
out
into
the
body
of
the
church.
Every
face
was
turned
towards
him,
expectant.
“Of
course.”
“That’s
good,”
said
Joseph,
who
showed
no
sign
of
moving.
Simon
turned
to
him.
“I—think
everyone
is
waiting
for
me
to
start.”
Joseph
nodded.
“No
worries
Father,
I’m
ready
when
you
are.”
“Right—I’ll—we’ll—begin
then?”
Joseph
beckoned
him
to
get
on
with
it.
Simon
faced
the
congregation.
“Welcome.
Firstly
I
would
to
thank
you
for
inviting
me
to
share
this
special
occasion
with
you
today.
I
usually
start
with
a
passage
from
the
Apostle
Mark
who
recorded
the
time
when
a
gathering
of
people
brought
their
children
to
Jesus
to
have
him
place
his
hands
on
them—.”
From
the
corner
of
his
eye
Simon
saw
Joseph
ambling
towards
him.
Simon
moved
to
make
room,
torn
between
appreciation
for
their
involvement
and
mild
annoyance.
He
was
beginning
to
feel
like
a
bystander.
Joseph
faced
his
people
and
added
to
Simon’s
welcome.
“Brothers
and
sisters.”
He
dipped
his
hand
into
the
water
bowl
and
raised
it
high,
letting
water
fall
in
glistening
drops
from
his
dark,
weathered
skin.
“Lord
in
every
age,
from
the
Dreamin’
‘til
this
moment
today,
you
made
water
a
sign
of
your
life
with
us.
Water
is
a
sign
of
your
peace
and
in
everythin’
that
is
good.”
He
touched
his
wet
fingers
to
his
lips.
“We
ask
then
that
through
this
water
the
children
will
be
blessed
with
your
love
and
your
protection
at
the
start
of
their
lives.”
Joseph
was
clad
in
tattered
sneakers,
brown
loose
cotton
trousers
and
a
faded
blue
shirt.
Out
in
the
streets
he
could
have
been
taken
for
a
derelict.
Standing
on
the
altar
facing
his
disparate
tribe
he
personified
dignity.
He
beckoned
for
the
parents
and
godparents
to
bring
their
children
forward.
Simon
watched,
gradually
relaxing,
as
a
small,
happy
mob
shuffled
205
noisily
up
the
aisle
and
spread
across
the
front
of
the
altar.
Joseph
waited
patiently
for
them
to
settle.
“Do
you
believe
in
God,
the
Father
Almighty,
who
gave
us
the
land
we
live
in,
the
wisdom
to
care
for
it
and
find
enough
food;
the
Father
who
told
us
how
to
love
this
land
of
sun
and
sky
and
space?”
“We
do,”
they
chorused.
“Do
you
believe
in
the
Holy
Spirit
who
inspired
our
people
of
long
ago
to
explain
God’s
creation
in
the
great
Dreamtime
stories
of
our
own
special
people.
This
same
Spirit
of
God
which
leads
us
now
in
this
Church?”
At
a
signal
from
Joseph,
Simon
joined
him
at
the
font
and
began
the
ritual
pouring
of
water
over
the
forehead
of
each
child.
He
was
back
in
familiar
territory:
“I
now
baptize
you
…,”
he
said,
as
each
infant
or
toddler
was
held
over
the
font.
But
his
words
and
actions
were
automatic;
the
depth
of
the
ceremony
came
from
the
people’s
obvious
enjoyment
of
the
moment.
With
the
last
wet
forehead,
Mrs
Foley
walked
on
to
the
altar
holding
a
bundle
of
small
Aboriginal
headbands.
Joseph
turned
slightly
so
that
he
was
addressing
both
Simon
and
the
people.
“Today
we
will
dress
the
children
in
our
image.
These
headbands
are
a
symbol
of
our
identity
and
dignity.
We
understand
the
importance
of
signs
in
the
traditional
culture
of
our
people.
So
today
we
use
these
as
a
sign
for
our
children
to
face
their
futures
with
dignity.”
Mrs
Foley
walked
through
the
congregation
handing
out
the
cloth
bands.
As
the
group
at
the
altar
returned
to
their
pews,
Mrs
Foley
gave
Simon
a
printed
sheet.
The
people
joined
in
a
communal
prayer:
“Father
of
all,
you
gave
us
the
Dreaming
You
have
spoken
to
us
through
our
beliefs
Make
us
strong
as
we
face
the
problems
of
change.
We
ask
you
to
help
the
people
of
this
country
to
listen
to
us
and
to
respect
our
culture
206
Make
the
knowledge
of
you
grow
strong
in
all
people,
so
that
you
can
be
at
home
in
us
and
we
can
make
a
home
for
everyone
in
our
land.”
As
one
they
looked
at
Simon.
“Amen,”
he
said
softly.
Someone
began
strumming
a
guitar
and
the
people
sang
a
song
of
hope.
Simon
watched,
measuring
them,
feeling
in
his
own
heart
their
sense
of
pride
and
courage.
They
were
bound
by
their
beliefs,
hoping
with
each
hallelujah
to
build
enough
strength
for
them
to
withstand
a
magisterial
white
world.
As
the
people
filed
from
the
church
Mrs
Foley
thanked
Simon.
He
smiled.
“I
should
thank
you.
It
was
wonderful.”
“You
going
to
come
and
have
a
cup
of
tea
with
us?”
He
hesitated
and
glanced
guiltily
at
his
wristwatch.
“Could
I
make
it
another
time—next
weekend
perhaps?”
The
woman
was
disappointed,
but
she
tried
to
hide
it.
“That’ll
be
okay
Father—anytime.”
“No—I’d
really
like
to
come—when’s
Ricki
due
home?”
“Oh,
doctor
says
he
might
be
gettin’
out
in
a
couple
of
days.”
“Then
tell
him
I’ll
be
around
next
week
to
see
him.”
“Okay
Father.”
She
smiled
up
at
him,
but
without
confidence
and
the
terrible
cough
shook
her
again.
She
waved
Simon
away.
He
walked
quickly
to
his
car,
sensing
her
disappointment.
But
he
had
an
appointment
he
didn’t
want
to
be
late
for.
He
damned
his
weakness;
this
growing
need
to
know
who
and
what
he
was.
Simon
drove
along
the
highway
which
starts
where
the
river
laps
at
the
foot
of
Perth’s
glass
towers,
then
winds
through
opulent
suburbs
which
have
claimed
the
water’s
edge
as
their
own.
Gradually
the
gracious
gums
and
extravagant
homes
give
way
to
freight
yards
and
a
busy
port
spiked
with
cranes
and
masts
in
a
tangle
of
shipping
and
commerce.
Simon
turned
into
a
precinct
of
narrow
streets
with
terraces
of
renovated
nineteenth
century
cottages.
The
harbour‐side
city
offered
a
glimpse
of
what
nineteenth
century
gold
rushes
and
wool
booms
had
done
for
the
commerce
of
a
fledgling
nation.
207
Warehouses,
merchants’
offices,
and
hotels
were
built
as
the
best
that
money
could
buy,
and
then
came
the
twentieth
century
migrants—Greeks,
Italians
and
Slavs
fleeing
a
worn‐torn
Europe
and
transforming
the
harbour
town
into
a
colourful
expression
of
Mediterranean
life.
Simon
parked,
changed
into
a
casual
shirt
he
had
put
on
the
back
seat,
and
walked
to
the
restaurant,
an
Italian
pasta
house.
It
had
been
his
private
escape
for
years.
The
people
and
the
smells
and
the
thin
cotton
table
cloths
reminded
him
of
his
time
in
Italy;
of
his
youth
and
his
dreams.
He
chose
a
corner
table,
angling
to
see
Muriel
before
she
caught
sight
of
him.
He
remembered
the
night
of
the
corroboree
when
she
had
slept
in
the
crook
of
his
arm
against
the
tree.
When
spurned
by
all,
it
was
Muriel,
who
wrapped
him
with
comfort.
They
were
bonded,
he
suspected,
as
outcasts.
She
had
touched
him
briefly,
tantalizingly,
by
her
flippant
confession.
Perhaps
she
was
also
just
a
little
lost
after
Gunwinddu?
He
hoped
they
had
at
least
that
much
in
common.
“Mr
Simon!”
He
looked
up.
“Tony.”
“It
has
been
a
long
time,”
the
proprietor
scolded.
He
was
crushing
a
white
apron
into
a
bundle
between
his
large
fingers.
He
smelled
of
freshly
crushed
garlic.
Simon
splayed
his
hands
and
smiled.
“I
am
here
now.”
“Good—our
lasagna
is
just
made—very,
very
good.”
“Excellent.
I
am
meeting
a
friend.”
The
man
raised
an
eyebrow.
“A
lady—?”
Simon
nodded,
and
felt
guilty.
The
man
returned
to
his
kitchen.
Simon
stared
out
into
the
street.
What
if
she
decided
not
to
come?
The
thought
caught
him
midway
between
panic
and
relief.
She
was
crossing
the
road
in
a
skirt
that
just
touched
her
knees,
and
a
white
blouse
that
accentuated
her
northern
tan.
Her
hair
was
pulled
back
into
a
ponytail.
Simon
rubbed
his
forehead.
208
He
stood
as
she
entered.
Muriel
clasped
the
fingers
of
his
extended
hand,
leaned
forward
and
kissed
him
lightly
on
the
cheek.
“You
haven’t
changed
a
bit
Simon
Bradbury.”
Tony
appeared.
“Some
wine?”
Simon
looked
at
Muriel.
“I’m
a
little
partial
to
Chianti.”
She
glanced
at
the
ceiling
beams
and
lines
of
empty
bottles
strung
together.
“You’ve
been
here
before
then?”
She
slid
into
the
proffered
seat.
“You’re
looking
well,”
Simon
said
finally.
“And
you—do
you
come
here
often?”
“Occasionally—when
I
feel
the
need
to
get
away
from
it
all,
as
they
say.”
Muriel
eyed
him.
“So.
Tell
me
what
you
have
been
doing—are
you
happy?
“I
can’t
complain.”
Muriel
laughed
lightly.
“No,
you
haven’t
changed.
I
doubt
you
ever
will.”
Tony
bustled
to
the
table
with
a
bottle
of
Chianti
in
one
hand
and
a
rose
in
the
other.
He
presented
the
rose
to
Muriel.
Muriel
smiled.
“Thank
you.”
They
waited
for
him
to
pour
the
wine
and
leave.
“Sweet
man,”
she
said.
“Latin
salesman,”
grunted
Simon.
He
raised
his
glass.
“Cheers.”
“Saluté,”
she
replied.
“So
tell
me,
what
have
you
been
doing—when
did
you
leave
Gunwinddu?”
“About
a
fortnight
after
you.
Since
then—well,
I’ve
rented
a
unit
near
the
river,
which
is
quite
nice,
and
I
have
been
looking
for
a
business
to
buy.”
“Any
success?”
She
nodded.
“I
signed
on
the
line
last
week—an
established
business
which
I
should
be
able
to
re‐sell
in
maybe
five
or
six
years.
That’s
what
I’ve
been
looking
for;
something
with
which
to
build
enough
capital
to
eventually
allow
me
to
buy
into
209
something
else,
something
less—isolating.
I
have
this
dream
of
a
restaurant
overlooking
the
ocean.”
Simon
saluted
with
his
glass.
“I
wish
you
well.”
She
read
his
face.
“But
you
still
judge
me?”
“No—it
just
reminded
me—do
you
miss
Gunwinddu?”
Muriel
shook
her
head.
“No—well,
perhaps
some
of
the
people.
Karl
was
okay—and
you
were
good
to
have
around.
I’ve
missed
you.”
Simon
stared
at
her,
his
face
reddening.
She
measured
his
discomfort,
sighed,
and
picked
up
the
menu.
“What
do
you
recommend?”
Simon
snatched
at
a
second
menu
and
cleared
his
throat.
“They
make
their
own
pasta
here.
It’s
always
fresh.”
He
looked
up
and
caught
her
eye.
“
I
was
rude
to
you
that
day.
I’m
not
sure
why—if
you
hadn’t
come
outside
and
seen
me
I
wouldn’t
have
phoned.”
“Why—?”
“I
suppose
I
just
wanted
to
resolve
something.
But
I
didn’t
want
to
cause
trouble.”
She
leaned
forward
slightly
and
rested
her
fingers
on
his
arm.
“It’s
called
chemistry
Simon—except
in
this
case
it’s
being
wasted
by
you
living
some
damned
priest
fantasy.”
Simon
dropped
his
eyes
and
stared
glumly
at
the
table‐cloth.
Muriel
pulled
her
hand
away.
“I’m
sorry—I’ve
no
right
to
speak
like
that.”
He
hid
behind
a
lop‐sided
grin.
“It’s
all
right.
It’s
nothing
I
haven’t
said
to
myself
many
times.”
Muriel
shook
her
head.
“Well
just
don’t
expect
me
to
understand.”
Simon
gazed,
almost
unseeingly,
at
the
menu.
“Well—they
do
a
mean
lasagna—standard
fare,
but
reliable.”
He
looked
up
and
she
was
smiling.
“Sounds
good.”
Tony
reappeared
and
took
their
order.
The
food
arrived,
piled
on
large
hand‐decorated
plates.
The
restaurant
steadily
filled,
210
throwing
laughter
and
chinking
glass
at
them
as
they
edged
to
the
safety
of
small
talk;
Gunwinddu
and
its
people,
changing
weather,
political
idiosyncrasies,
American
presidents—
anything
but
themselves.
Tony
arrived,
proffering
another
bottle.
Muriel
shook
her
head,
forcing
Simon
to
accede.
“I
should
be
going,”
she
said.
Simon
was
unable
to
mask
his
disappointment.
Time
had
swept
afternoon
into
evening.
She
reached
across
the
table
and
held
his
hand.
“It’s
been
lovely
seeing
you
again
Simon.”
He
swallowed,
uncertain.
“Can
we
meet—?”
She
smiled.
“Believe
me,
I
would
like
that—but
look
at
us.”
She
lowered
her
voice.
“You
are
a
priest
Simon—and
I’m
not
very
good
at
platonic
relationships.
Besides,
you
don’t
know
enough
about
me
and
I’m
not
sure
you
would
approve
if
you
learned
any
more.”
He
was
defensive.
“Nonsense.”
Muriel
smiled
wryly.
“Well,
it
still
doesn’t
take
us
anywhere.”
“I
need
a
friend,”
he
said
slowly.
“I
don’t.”
Her
eyes
locked
into
his.
He
shifted
in
his
chair,
confused
by
the
touch
of
her
hand.
“So
what
do
we
do?”
“Nothing
Simon—besides,
the
business
I’ve
bought
is
out
of
town.”
“Where?”
She
shook
her
head.
“So
I
won’t
see
you
again?”
Muriel
smiled.
“Don’t
be
so
melodramatic—come
on,
I’ll
pay
and
you
can
walk
me
to
my
car.”
The
Foleys
lived
in
a
monotony
of
rust‐red
brick
and
rendered
cement.
The
houses
and
their
low
front
walls
were
pressed
hard
against
a
cracked
grey
footpath
and
a
roadway
of
fissured
asphalt.
The
walls
were
daubed
with
graffiti;
mostly
211
black
angry
swirls,
but
here
and
there
shone
bold
and
evocative
murals;
someone’s
refusal
to
submit
to
despair.
Simon
stopped
outside
the
house.
He
sensed
unseen
faces
watching.
He
locked
his
car.
As
he
approached
the
steps
to
the
front
door,
a
groupof
children
materialised.
Surrounding
him
they
jostled
for
position
to
better
read
his
face.
“Are
you
the
Father?”
a
small
girl
asked.
He
nodded.
“Told
ya,”
she
screamed
at
the
growing
group.
Mrs
Foley
emerged
at
the
top
of
the
step.
“It’s
the
Father,”
she
yelled
back
into
the
house.
“Tell
Ricki.”
She
beckoned
to
the
priest.
“Come
on
in
Father.”
Inside,
the
house
seemed
full
of
people.
They
spilled
into
the
hallway
from
adjoining
rooms
and
stared
at
him.
Some
waved
and
he
recognized
faces
from
the
christening.
Mrs
Foley
ushered
him
into
the
front
room
where
Joseph
greeted
him
warmly.
“Good
of
you
to
come
Father.”
Simon
looked
around.
“You
didn’t
tell
me
you
were
having
a
party.”
Mrs
Foley
waved
her
hand
dismissively.
“It’s
always
like
this.”
“You
like
a
beer
Father?”
Joseph
was
already
pouring
from
a
brown
bottle.
“Thanks.”
The
room
was
furnished
with
a
torn
and
faded
sofa
and
two
large
lounge
chairs.
A
television
sat
on
a
low
table
in
one
corner.
“Here
he
is
Father.”
Simon
turned.
Mrs
Foley
was
steering
her
son
by
the
elbow.
Ricki
faced
him.
The
house
seemed
to
grow
silent
as
he
stood
awkwardly,
hands
in
pockets
and
a
hint
of
indolence.
“G’day,”
said
Simon.
Ricki’s
head
seemed
to
rotate
independently
of
his
neck.
“
‘day,”
he
mumbled.
He
looked
sideways
at
Simon,
reluctant
to
meet
his
eyes.
Mrs
Foley
shook
her
head.
“What
do
you
do
with
‘em
Father?”
She
gave
the
boy
a
sharp
prod.
212
“Thanks
for
helpin’
me,”
he
mumbled;
chin
on
his
chest,
and
downcast
eyes
glued
to
a
spot
on
the
floor
behind
the
priest.
“That’s
okay.”
Simon
held
out
his
hand.
The
youth
glanced
up
at
him,
hesitant.
He
dragged
one
hand
from
his
pocket
and
limply
accepted
Simon’s
grip.
He
smiled
and
glanced
sheepishly
at
the
people
who
had
entered
the
room
to
watch.
“How
are
you
feeling?”
Ricki
nodded.
“Okay.”
The
boy’s
fixed,
shy
grin
reminded
Simon
of
Angel.
“Well
I
won’t
embarrass
you
with
questions.
I’m
just
pleased
you’re
okay.”
Ricki
shrugged
helplessly.
“Thanks.”
Joseph
stepped
up
to
Simon.
“Come
and
meet
everybody
Father—a
lot
of
people
been
wantin’
to
meet
you
since
the
christenin’,
you
know.”
Ricki
sidled
away
with
a
final
sideways
glance
at
Simon
as
he
was
led
into
the
throng.
The
house
hummed
again
with
the
babble
of
voices,
the
hiss
of
bottletops
and
cans
being
opened
and
the
noise
of
children.
They
were
everywhere;
running,
jumping,
yelling,
crawling
underfoot.
For
a
while
Simon
felt
stiff
and
awkward,
but
Joseph
plied
him
with
cold
beer
and
cornered
him
to
relate
his
sometimes
tragic,
sometimes
joyous
life
as
a
young
man
working
on
the
big
cattle
runs.
The
priest
listened
with
only
half
an
ear.
It
was
a
familiar
story.
Gradually
the
afternoon
slipped
into
a
dreamy
confusion;
a
floating
parade
of
babies’
heads,
tomato
sandwiches,
cries
of
‘Father
look’,
and
too
many
names,
places,
cousins
and
uncles
for
Simon
to
even
attempt
to
remember.
As
the
afternoon
turned
to
evening,
the
front
door
banged
open
and
shut
behind
departing
backs.
The
papered
walls
seemed
to
sag
as
the
house
shrank
to
its
proper
size.
Simon
wanted
to
leave,
but
was
inveigled
into
staying.
It
was
easy
to
acquiesce.
He
was
feeling
mellow
from
the
beer
and
company.
Evening
became
night
and
his
eyes
grew
heavy—.
213
At
first
he
thought
it
a
dream.
Loud
crashing.
Simon
opened
his
eyes.
He
was
stiff
and
cramped
and
lying
fully
clothed
on
a
lumpy
couch
beneath
a
coarse
blanket.
Outside
a
man
shouted.
The
noise
sounded
like
splintering
wood,
and
the
street
suddenly
seemed
filled
with
barking
dogs.
Someone
screamed.
Simon
wiped
his
eyes
and
sat
up.
‘Some
neighbourhood,’
he
thought
sleepily.
He
turned
to
the
pad
of
feet
and
the
rustle
of
material.
The
light
came
on
and
Mrs
Foley
appeared
in
the
room,
followed
by
Joseph.
“What
on
earth
is
going
on?”
Simon
asked.
He
looked
from
the
woman
to
the
old
man.
Mrs
Foley
was
wrapped
in
a
flannel
dressing
gown.
She
coughed
painfully,
her
face
fearful.
Joseph
stood
bare‐chested
and
blinking
with
sleep
and
fright.
“Is
this
normal?”
The
pair
didn’t
seem
to
hear
him.
The
commotion
was
moving
nearer.
Car
doors
slammed
and
there
was
a
sound
of
breaking
glass.
“I’ll
look,”
said
Joseph.
“No.”
Mrs
Foley
put
her
arm
out
to
restrain
the
old
man.
She
was
frightened.
“Let
it
pass.”
Simon
threw
off
the
blanket
and
walked
to
the
window.
He
peered
curiously
through
a
gap
in
the
curtains.
Beneath
the
grimy
yellow
light
of
the
street
lamp
he
saw
a
figure
approach
his
car.
“What
the—?”
His
words
were
lost
in
the
crash
of
glass.
He
turned
back
into
the
room.
“Someone
just
smashed
my
car
window.”
He
hurried
from
the
room,
sleepiness
banished.
As
he
reached
for
the
front
door
handle,
the
panelling
exploded,
showering
him
with
splinters.
The
door
burst
open
and
a
tall
figure
in
blue
overalls
wielding
a
large
hammer
loomed
before
him.
He
rough‐
armed
Simon
into
the
wall
and
charged
into
the
living
room.
He
screamed
at
the
Foleys
to
lie
on
the
floor.
Other
men
entered.
The
house
erupted
into
screams
and
shouts.
A
few
moments
214
later
one
of
the
men
herded
three
more
adults
and
two
children
into
the
living
room.
He
shouted
at
everybody
to
lie
on
the
floor.
Nobody
resisted,
and
almost
as
an
afterthought
he
yelled
the
word
“police”.
The
assailants
all
carried
demolition
hammers,
except
for
one
who
stood
in
the
middle
of
the
room
with
an
automatic
shotgun.
The
sounds
of
splintering
wood
and
smashing
glass
filled
the
house.
Someone
began
to
sob
and
Mrs
Foley’s
ugly
coughing
erupted
again.
A
child
pressed
among
the
bodies
suddenly
began
to
cry.
The
man
with
the
gun
stepped
forward
and
shouted.
“Shut
the
kid
up.”
An
arm
uncurled
and
wrapped
itself
over
the
child
and
a
hushed,
strained
voice
pleaded
with
it
to
be
calm.
Simon
was
still
pressed
against
the
wall
in
the
hallway.
He
had
frozen
with
the
shock
of
the
assault
and
the
attackers
had
rushed
past
as
though
he
were
invisible.
Still
dazed,
he
stepped
back
into
the
living
room.
“What—,”
he
began.
The
man
with
the
gun
rounded
on
him.
Simon
saw
the
deadly
black
barrel
jump
to
meet
his
eyes.
“Who
the
fuck
are
you?”
the
man
shouted.
He
seemed
barely
in
control.
“I’m
a
priest.”
He
felt
sick.
The
man
glared
at
him.
“Shit!”
He
spat
on
the
floor.
“What’s
your
name—where
did
you
come
from?”
“Father
Simon
Bradbury.
I
was
staying
here.”
His
voice
sounded
brittle
with
fright.
“Shit,”
the
man
repeated.
“
Sarge—hey
sarge.”
The
man
had
to
yell
to
be
heard
above
the
noise
of
demolition.
A
policeman
distinguishable
by
three
black
stripes
on
his
blue
overalls
walked
into
the
room.
He
was
clutching
a
clipboard.
The
officer
with
the
gun
jerked
his
thumb
at
Simon.
“We’ve
got
a
blow‐in—a
priest.”
The
sergeant
looked
him
over.
“What
the
hell
are
you
doing
here?”
215
Simon
swallowed.
He
could
feel
his
temper
begin
to
stir
some
courage
from
his
frozen
blood.
He
met
the
senior
policeman’s
eye.
“This
is
an
outrage.”
The
policemen
met
him
stonily.
“We’re
looking
for
a
nasty
one,
Father.
A
little
black
cunt
who
steals
cars,
bashes
old
ladies
for
a
few
lousy
dollars—.”
“You
call
this—this
barbarity,
looking?”
The
sergeant
turned
to
his
junior.
“What
number
is
this?”
“Thirty‐eight.”
The
sergeant
looked
at
his
clipboard.
“Ricki
Foley—breaking
and
entering,
assault,
car
theft—.”
He
whistled
through
his
teeth.
“—It’s
a
long
list.
Don’t
suppose
you’ve
seen
him
Father?”
Simon
clenched
his
fists.
“Yes
I
have.”
The
sergeant
smiled
grimly.
“Here?”
Simon
held
his
tongue.
Something
heavy
crashed
to
the
floor
in
the
back
of
the
house.
A
policeman
returned
from
the
rear.
“Not
here
sarge.”
The
senior
policeman
exhaled
noisily.
“You
sure?”
The
man
nodded.
“Shit—all
right,
get
the
boys
together—he’ll
be
well
away
by
now.”
He
started
to
move
and
Simon
grabbed
his
arm.
“What
do
you
think
you’re
doing—this
is
an
outrage.”
The
sergeant
shook
free.
“Keep
out
of
it
Father,
okay?”
Simon
shook
his
head,
disbelievingly.
“I
want
your
number.”
The
policeman
ignored
him
and
made
for
the
door.
Simon
followed
him.
“Ricki
Foley—when’s
he
supposed
to
have
committed
these
offences?”
“Who
knows—last
week,
this
week,
next
week—it’s
all
the
same.”
“He
was
in
hospital
last
week.
Last
night
was
a
party
to
celebrate
his
coming
home.”
The
policeman
faced
him.
“Then
where
is
he
now,
eh?
Tell
me
that
Father.
Ten‐to‐one
he’s
doing
over
some
poor
bastard’s
216
house
or
car
as
we
speak.
So
who
fucking
cares
about
a
particular
week.”
Simon’s
body
shook.
“There
was
no
need
for
this,”
he
hissed.
The
sergeant
thrust
his
face
closer.
“When
you
set
out
to
catch
vermin
Father,
it’s
not
a
bad
idea
to
also
smash
the
nest.”
Three
men
appeared
at
the
doorway.
“Finished
next
door,”
one
of
them
called.
The
sergeant
turned
back
to
Simon.
“I
wouldn’t
make
a
fuss
Father.
This
is
what
the
good
folk
still
comfortable
in
their
beds
want.”
Simon
went
to
the
window.
It
was
getting
light.
The
street
was
full
of
police
gathering
in
small
groups
as
their
work
finished.
They
relaxed,
smoked
cigarettes
and
talked;
a
picture
of
geniality
masking
an
entire
society’s
hatred
and
fear.
He
felt
a
tug
on
his
trouser
leg.
The
little
girl
looked
up
at
him,
sobbing.
In
the
kitchen
a
woman
began
to
wail.
Simon
picked
up
the
child
and
hurried
towards
the
back
of
the
house.
The
kitchen
was
in
ruins;
cupboards
and
wall
panelling
smashed,
the
refrigerator
had
been
tipped
onto
the
table
which
was
crushed
beneath
its
weight;
food
containers
were
strewn
across
the
floor
and
a
chair
was
caught
in
the
shards
of
a
shattered
window.
Mrs
Foley
was
on
her
knees,
sobbing
inconsolably.
Joseph
leaned
against
the
doorframe,
his
eyes
red.
“What
are
we
goin’
to
do
Father?”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“I
don’t
know.
Under
other
circumstances
I
would
have
said
‘call
the
police’.”
He
turned
at
the
sound
of
footsteps.
Two
women
wrapped
in
dressing
gowns
approached
down
the
hallway.
Mrs
Foley
stood
to
greet
them
and
they
held
each
other.
“Did
they
go
to
every
house?”
Simon
asked.
One
of
the
women
looked
up,
surprised
at
the
sight
of
a
white
face.
She
nodded
apprehensively.
“I
think
so.”
Mrs
Foley
turned
to
Simon.
“What
are
we
going
to
do
Father—we
can’t
stay
here—not
till
we’ve
been
able
to
get
things
fixed.”
217
Simon
tried
to
think.
Joseph
touched
him
on
the
arm.
“Will
you
talk
to
the
council
for
us
Father—they’ll
say
we
done
all
this.”
“I’ll
talk
to
them
all
right.
You
know
where
St
Luke’s
is,
don’t
you?”
Joseph
nodded
slowly.
“Do
what
you
can
here,
then
get
everybody
together
and
tell
them
to
go
there.
The
people
can
stay
in
the
church
hall
until
we
sort
this
mess
out.”
By
mid‐afternoon
some
six
or
seven
families
had
spread
themselves
through
the
hall
with
bedding,
portable
cookers,
and
blaring
radios.
Simon
had
spent
the
morning
venting
his
anger
by
telephoning
the
media.
The
response,
more
than
the
effort,
had
quickly
drained
his
energy.
The
radio
stations
confined
their
reports
to
a
bland
press
release
issued
by
the
police
media
unit.
A
newspaper
dispatched
a
cadet
photographer
to
the
raided
street,
and
a
single
television
news
crew
hung
around
for
a
while
at
the
church
hall.
The
journalist
had
shaken
her
fair
curls
and
confided
to
Simon
that
she
didn’t
think
the
story
would
run.
“Well,
it’s
hard
for
people
to
accept
them
as
the
victims,”
she
had
confided.
Simon
now
sagged
on
his
elbows
in
the
presbytery
kitchen
wondering
what
to
do
next.
No
one
was
interested
in
what
would
quickly
be
regarded
as
simply
routine
police
work.
He
had
phoned
the
council
to
make
sure
the
residents
weren’t
held
responsible
for
the
damage,
and
the
response
still
puzzled
him:
“Soon
won’t
matter
will
it?”
He
had
phoned
the
Bishop,
and
been
forced
to
leave
a
message.
Mary
bustled
up
to
him.
“We
need
tea
and
coffee—big
tins.”
Simon
nodded
wearily
and
went
to
his
room.
He
returned
with
two
twenty
dollar
notes.
“It’s
all
I’ve
got.”
She
shrugged.
“It
will
do.”
She
walked
away,
full
of
purpose.
218
The
other
priests
drifted
in
as
mealtime
approached,
but
there
was
nothing
prepared.
Mary
was
too
busy
with
the
mob.
The
priests
sat
down
to
re‐heated
stew.
The
young
priest,
Greg
Walcott,
sat
moodily,
radiating
his
silent
displeasure
at
the
hordes
who
had
invaded
the
church
grounds.
Simon
caught
his
eye.
“Bugger
him,”
he
thought
to
himself.
Old
Father
Frank
seemed
oblivious.
“What’s
going
on
in
the
hall—I
didn’t
know
we
had
something
going
on.”
The
senior
priest,
Peter
Moore,
stabbed
at
a
piece
of
soggy
bread.
“Nothing
to
worry
about
Frank—Simon’s
brought
a
few
of
his
friends
over
for
a
day
or
two.”
The
old
man
did
not
respond.
He
was
worrying
a
piece
of
meat
with
a
spoon.
It
was
Greg
who
broke
the
calm,
his
mask
finally
cracking.
“There
will
be
hell
to
pay,
and
you
both
bloody
well
know
it.
Who’s
going
to
foot
the
damage
bill?”
Peter,
the
one‐time
missionary,
tried
to
concentrate
on
eating.
He
had
lost
his
nerve
for
crisis.
Greg
thrust
his
fork
towards
the
two
of
them.
“That
lot
out
there
is
destroying
the
place.
When
I
arrived
home
there
were
kids
playing
football
in
the
garden
for
God’s
sake.
A
window
is
cracked,
and
the
roses
will
soon
be
mulch.”
He
faced
Simon.
“What
in
heaven’s
name
possessed
you
to
bring
the
whole
damn
street
over
here?”
Simon
glared
back.
“These
people
have
been
kicked
from
their
homes
and
all
you’re
concerned
about
is
the
bloody
garden.”
Greg’s
voice
rose.
“Nobody
threw
them
out.
I’ve
heard
nothing
to
justify
you
relocating
half
a
suburb
to
our
community
hall.”
“I
was
there,”
shouted
Simon.
“They
used
sledge
hammers.
It
will
be
days—weeks
before
some
of
them
will
even
stop
shaking,
let
alone
work
out
how
to
make
their
houses
liveable
again.”
The
young
priest
scoffed.
“Those
brown
cherubs
out
smashing
the
garden,
are
thieves
and
thugs.
I’m
surprised
you
still
had
a
car
to
drive
home
with.”
219
“Have
you
seen
my
car—have
you
seen
it?”
The
younger
priest
waved
his
hand
dismissively.
“No,
I’m
serious.
Go
and
have
a
look.
There’s
no
back
window.”
Greg
pulled
an
indulgent
face.
“Am
I
to
be
surprised?”
“It
was
smashed
by
a
policeman.”
Greg
leaned
back
into
his
chair
and
sighed.
“No—I
am
not
surprised.
We
know
what
you’re
like.
Frankly
it
is
difficult
to
think
your
presence
and
the
police
raid
was
coincidence.”
Simon
gaped.
“What
do
you
mean
by
that?”
Greg
was
unmoved.
“You’re
a
discredit
to
our
vocation.”
Simon
rocked
back
into
his
seat.
“I
don’t
believe
I’m
hearing
this.
I’ve
come
across
some
holy
water
pissers
before,
but
none
who
saw
it
as
a
virtue.”
Peter
Moore
raised
a
hand.
“Okay.
That’s
enough.
Let
it
rest,
the
both
of
you.”
“No!”
Simon
shouted.
“I’d
like
to
know
what
my
fellow
priest
thinks
his
job
is
if
it’s
not
to
support
people
who
need
help.”
Greg
stood
up.
“A
priest’s
responsibility
is
towards
the
people
of
the
church—not
criminals—and
savages.”
Simon
banged
the
table
with
his
fist,
but
his
mouth
hung
open.
He
stared
at
the
younger
man.
“Do
you
know
what
I
was
doing
in
Redmond
last
week?”
he
asked,
tiredly.
“Baptisms.
Invited
by
your
savages
who
seem
to
know
more
about
Christianity
than
any
white
congregation
I’ve
come
across
in
recent
years.
He
waved
an
arm
towards
the
door.
“These
people
are
here
because
they
need
our
help.
That’s
our
job,
in
case
you’ve
forgotten.”
Father
Frank
rapped
a
spoon
loudly
on
the
table
top.
He
pointed
the
utensil
at
the
young
priest
and
ordered
him
to
sit.
“I
am
deaf,
but
the
dead
can
hear
you
two
right
now.”
He
faced
Greg.
“I
am
sure
you
know
more
theology
than
I
can
remember,
that’s
for
sure.
But
you
do
not
know
much
about
life.
For
that,
you
can
hold
your
tongue.”
The
young
man
reddened.
220
Frank
banged
the
table
with
the
spoon
again.
“As
for
you
Father
Bradbury,
your
fervour
for
managing
other
people’s
lives
has
you
confused.”
Simon
opened
his
mouth
to
protest,
but
the
old
man
silenced
him
with
another
crack
of
the
spoon.
Simon
turned
to
Peter
Moore
for
support,
but
the
man
dismissed
him
with
flapping
fingers.
Father
Frank
rapped
the
table
top
again.
“It
is
you
I’m
talking
to—and
I
would
suggest
you
think
about
learning
some
patience.
He
lifted
his
eyebrows
as
he
made
his
point.
“Learn
perhaps
to
plan,
instead
of
stomping
around
with
a
belly
full
of
bile.
It
is
not
becoming
of
a
priest.”
“So.
You
think
that
what
I
have
done
is
wrong?”
Simon’s
voice
was
accusing.
The
old
man
smiled,
pleased
to
have
his
attention.
“The
intention
is
admirable—but
perhaps
we
could
have
managed
it
differently,
eh?”
“The
wise
old
man
speaks,”
said
Simon
sardonically.
“Yes,
the
wise
old
man
speaks—and
there
is
no
need
for
that
tone.”
Simon’s
shoulders
dropped.
“I’m
sorry.
So,
what
would
you
have
done
differently?”
“I
would
have
asked
for
help.
Perhaps
that
way
I
would
have
found
a
more
suitable
place
than
our
hall.”
Simon
breathed
out
slowly.
“Perhaps
you
are
right.”
The
old
man
nodded.
“I’m
sure
I
am.”
He
pointed
the
spoon
at
Simon.
“So,
what
will
you
do
tonight—how
will
you
solve
that,
eh?”
Simon
was
puzzled.
“What’s
to
solve?”
Father
Frank
lifted
his
chin
and
curled
his
lip
with
an
almost
malicious
pleasure.
Peter
Moore
tapped
Simon
on
the
arm.
“He
is
referring
to
the
little
clash
of
cultures
you
have
staged
for
our
evening’s
entertainment.”
221
Simon
rubbed
his
chin.
“—oh
dear
Christ,
it’s
bingo
night.”
He
looked
at
Peter.
“Well
surely
they’ll
understand—it’s
only
one
night.”
Peter
shrugged.
“It’s
your
concert.”
An
unfriendly
smile
crossed
the
young
priest’s
face.
“Well
there
is
something
they
still
teach
in
the
seminary
Simon—that
miracles
can
happen.
Perhaps
we’ll
see
one
tonight?”
Simon
stood
in
the
doorway
of
the
hall.
Children
were
yelling,
jumping
and
running
in
every
direction,
their
parents
seemingly
oblivious
to
the
chaos.
Everyone
seemed
to
be
enjoying
the
change
in
routine;
talking,
singing,
strumming
guitars
and
playing
cards.
Rubbish
spilled
from
upturned
garbage
bags.
A
clothes‐line
had
been
strung
up
to
dry
nappies
and
several
boys
still
managed
to
find
air
space
to
kick
a
football
to
each
other
across
the
hall.
Simon
craned
his
neck,
looking
for
Mrs
Foley
or
Joseph.
He
could
hear
laughter
from
the
kitchen
and
through
the
open
door
Simon
caught
a
glimpse
of
Mary.
He
turned
away
and
came
face‐
to‐face
with
the
choimaster
George
Penbury,
and
his
wife.
“Father
Bradbury,”
the
man
said
in
a
flat
greeting.
Simon
nodded
acknowledgement.
“George—Mrs
Penbury.”
“So
what’s
all
this
then?”
Simon
saw
the
darkened
path
behind
the
couple
gradually
filling
with
shadowy
forms.
The
path
lights
were
no
longer
working.
“Just
helping
out
some
people
in
need
George.
Just
for
a
few
days,
I’m
sure
you
understand.”
The
man
glanced
over
his
shoulder
as
the
path
steadily
filled
with
players.
“Well
I’m
not
sure
that
I
do,
Father.
They’re
Aborigines.”
“So?”
222
“Well,
the
church
has
got
special
agencies
to
look
after
them.
Why
did
you
bring
them
here—to
Saint
Luke’s?
It’s
our
bingo
night,
you
know.”
“I’m
sorry.
But
I
was
desperate.”
“Perhaps
you
were,
but
that
doesn’t
make
it
right.
We’ve
heard—we
know
who
they
are.
Frankly
Father,
I
think
your
sense
of
duty
is
misplaced.”
“Is
that
right?”
“Most
of
them
should
probably
be
behind
bars,
not
here
in
our
bingo
hall.”
“How
do
you
reason
that
George?”
“Do
our
houses
get
raided?
Do
you
get
raided?
No.
Because
we
abide
by
the
law.
We
understand
the
law.
It’s
our
heritage.”
“Really!
I
recall
this
country
actually
started
as
an
English
prison.”
Penbury
scowled.
“I
didn’t
come
to
debate
the
matter
Father
He
pushed
past
Simon
and
entered
the
building.
“Good
God
Almighty,”
he
exploded.
He
turned
to
confront
the
priest.
“It’s
a
cesspit!”
Penbury
stepped
inside
Mary
Cruikshank
approached
him,
beaming.
“Hullo
Mr
Penbury.”
She
waved
an
arm
to
encompass
the
camped
mob,
only
a
few
of
whom
had
stopped
to
observe
the
new
arrivals.
“A
bit
hectic,
but
we’re
managing.
It’s
very
good
of
you
to
let
these
people
stay
here
for
a
while.”
Penbury’s
eyes
narrowed
and
he
grabbed
at
Simon’s
shirt
sleeve.
“A
moment
Father,
if
you
don’t
mind.”
He
led
Simon
outside.
“I
don’t
want
anyone
thinking
I
am
in
any
way
associated
with
your
actions.”
“What
would
you
like
me
to
do
George—preface
Sunday’s
sermon
with
a
little
announcement?”
“What
happened
to
the
lights?”
The
sudden
new
voice
in
the
dark
materialised
into
Bishop
MacNamara.
223
George
Penbury
squared
to
the
Bishop
with
theatrical
relief.
“Your
Grace—the
lights,
the
gardens,
the
hall—the
place
is
a
shambles.”
The
Bishop
raised
his
hand
in
a
placatory
gesture.
He
studiously
ignored
Simon.
“Yes,
I
can
see
that,”
he
said
tonelessly.
“Your
Grace—the
bingo
raised
twelve
thousand
dollars
last
year—we
will
need
that
this
year
just
to
recover
from
this.”
The
Bishop
smiled.
“Let’s
have
a
look
shall
we?”
He
stepped
wordlessly
past
Simon
and
followed
George
Penbury
into
the
hall.
Simon
watched
the
silhouette
of
the
two
men
framed
in
the
doorway.
He
stepped
behind
them
as
the
Bishop
clapped
his
hands
sharply.
It
was
a
loud,
authoritative
sound.
Its
intended
effect
worked
instantly
and
a
semblance
of
order
settled
over
the
hall.
In
the
quiet
that
followed,
a
football
dribbled
towards
the
Bishop’s
feet
to
rest
unclaimed
against
his
gleaming
black
shoes.
“Welcome
to
Saint
Luke’s,”
the
Bishop
called.
Penbury
looked
up
sharply.
“No
doubt
you
are
well
aware
of
the
inconvenience
your
presence
is
causing
the
people
who
usually
use
this
hall—.”
Simon
flinched.
“However,
I
have
been
informed
of
your
plight
and
am
happy
for
you
to
stay
until
your
problem
has
been
resolved.”
Penbury
looked
sharply
at
the
Bishop.
“The
church,
after
all,
is
here
for
the
needs
of
its
people,
and
I
am
always
pleased
to
be
able
to
include
you
Aboriginal
people
in
my
embrace.”
Simon
ran
his
thumb
and
forefinger
down
the
bridge
of
his
nose.
“Could
have
been
worse,”
he
thought.
He
noticed
a
slight
sag
in
Penbury’s
shoulders
and
smiled.
The
man
was
at
a
loss.
No
doubt
he
had
expected
something
to
match
Christ’s
banishment
of
the
money
lenders.
224
Mrs
Foley
walked
up
to
the
Bishop
and
made
a
clumsy
genuflection.
“Thank
you—,”
she
hesitated,
unsure
of
how
to
address
him,
“—Bishop.”
MacNamara
smiled
with
warmth
and
charm.
“Are
you
all
comfortable?”
The
woman
nodded,
and
smiled
with
relief.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Without
another
word
he
turned
to
leave,
accidentally
scudding
the
football
across
the
floor.
Someone
whistled
an
applause.
Outside,
he
was
confronted
by
George
Penbury.
“Your
Grace
I
don’t
understand—how
long
are
these
people
going
to
be
here—and
the
damage?”
Exhausted
of
his
goodwill
the
great
man
snapped:
“Don’t
bother
me
with
trivialities
George,
I’ve
bigger
matters
to
consider.
They’ll
be
gone
in
a
day.”
“But
you
told
them—.”
The
Bishop
cut
him
short.
“Leave
me
to
have
a
quiet
word
with
Father
Bradbury.”
George
Penbury
melted
into
the
dark
to
collect
his
bingo
group.
The
bishop
beckoned
to
Simon.
“I
want
this
lot
out
by
tomorrow
night.”
Frustration
tore
at
Simon.
He
exhaled
shakily.
“Just
like
that—
kick
them
out.
What
will
that
do
for
your
words
of
support?”
“For
God’s
sake
man,
use
your
head
for
once!
Call
the
‘Vinnies
or
the
Sisters
of
Mercy—that’s
what
they’re
there
for.
What
possessed
you
to
bring
these
people
to
this
parish,
I’ll
never
know.
And
what
you
were
doing
over
at
Redmond
at
five
in
the
morning
is
something
you
can
explain
when
I
have
the
time.”
“Yes_the
work
of
sledge
hammers
takes
time
to
explain,
time
also
to
mend—especially
in
the
mind.”
“Cut
the
sermon
Simon.
I’ve
been
to
Redmond,
not
that
long
ago
as
a
matter
of
fact.
A
few
bangs
with
a
sledge
hammer—
you’d
hardly
notice
from
the
damage
already
done.”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“That’s
rubbish.”
225
“Look,
I
didn’t
come
here
to
engage
in
a
debate.
Remember
the
other
day
when
I
mentioned
the
university
chaplaincy?”
Simon
nodded.
“You
still
interested—or
are
you
hell‐bent
on
continuing
this
black
crusade?”
Simon
hesitated,
unsettled
by
the
sudden
twist.
The
offer
appealed
immensely.
He
wasn’t
suited
to
parish
work.
“Of
course
I’m
interested,”
he
said
quietly.
The
Bishop
continued
to
survey
him.
“Good.
Then
get
this
lot
out
of
here—try
practising
management
instead
of
involvement.”
“Is
that
supposed
to
mean
something?”
MacNamara
paused,
measuring
him.
“The
university
will
be
built—we
are
very
close
to
finalizing
the
details.
I’d
like
to
bring
you
in
on
it,
but
you
need
to
prove
you’re
up
to
the
task.”
Long
after
MacNamara
had
gone,
Simon
stood
staring
out
into
the
dark,
trying
to
decide
if
it
was
a
job
offer
or
a
threat.
226
Chapter
Fourteen
Simon
rested
his
hands
on
each
side
of
the
lectern
and
gazed
into
the
rivulets
of
faces;
streams
where
there
would
once
have
been
a
sea.
He
understood
them
perfectly;
their
inner
desires,
weaknesses
and
strengths.
Better,
perhaps,
than
many
did
themselves.
He
sometimes
wondered
whether
it
was
the
lot
of
a
priest
to
know
others
better
than
he
knew
himself.
He
reflected
briefly
on
the
thought.
Of
course
it
was.
Of
what
use
was
a
priest
trying
to
reconstruct
himself
as
anything
but
a
priest;
their
master
of
ceremonies
in
the
ritual
of
organised
religion.
He
gazed
into
the
body
of
the
church.
Nobody
wanted
revelations,
at
least
not
anymore.
The
faithful
wanted,
and
were
drawn
to,
the
pattern;
to
be
a
comfortable
part
of
its
fabric.
To
change
this
you
would
need
a
new
Messiah.
“Most
of
us
would
say
that
our
presence
here
today
is
a
demonstration
of
our
faith,”
he
began.
“Your
attendance
perhaps
allows
you
cause
for
self‐
congratulation;
you
may
even
feel
a
little
pride—coming
to
Mass
on
Sundays
when
others
have
lost
interest.”
Simon
paused
and
leaned
tiredly
against
the
wooden
frame,
wondering
why
he
was
bothering
to
get
upset.
But
everything
was
wrong.
He
gazed
into
the
congregation.
The
whole
exercise
seemed
to
have
grown
so
banal.
People
came
to
Mass
in
T‐shirts
and
thongs
to
hear
modern
priests
like
himself
use
chatty
little
prayers
and
exhortations
punctuated
occasionally
by
guitar‐strumming,
Jesus‐loves‐me
songs.
Perhaps
the
Bishop
was
right.
Perhaps
Vatican
Two
hadn’t
been
such
a
good
idea.
“But
what
happens
when
I
or
one
of
the
other
priests
ask
for
help—to
visit
the
aged
or
sick,
to
offer
a
bed
to
a
lonely
migrant,
to
lend
a
hand
to
keep
the
church
grounds
in
shape?
Time
and
again,
it
is
the
same
half‐dozen
faces.”
227
Simon
ran
his
eyes
down
the
page,
looking
for
the
mark
he
had
made.
“
‘If
a
brother
or
sister
is
ill‐clad
and
in
lack
of
daily
food
and
you
say
to
them,
‘go
in
peace,
be
warmed
and
filled’,
without
then
giving
them
what
the
body
needs,
what
does
it
achieve?
Faith
by
itself,
if
it
has
no
works,
is
of
little
use.’”
Simon
looked
up.
“So
turning
up
here
every
week
is
pointless
if
it’s
the
sum
total
of
your
effort.
Perhaps
Mass
provides
a
pause
in
the
week
to
reflect?
I
don’t
mind.
But
all
around
you
are
people
who
need
decent
food,
jobs,
and
just
a
little
compassion
from
those
better
off.
“It
would
also
seem
that
to
offer
shelter
is
a
fine
Christian
action,
so
long
as
the
recipients
are
of
European
etiquette
and
complexion.
I
am
sure
everyone
knows
what
I
am
referring
to.
It
has
given
me
a
lot
to
think
about—about
this
parish,
about
my
role.
So—.”
Simon
stopped.
He
felt
his
words
and
thoughts
melting
in
the
heat
of
his
frustration
and
confusion;
struggling
as
he
squirmed
still
on
the
Bishop’s
baited
hook.
“So
unless
you
can
put
something
meaningful
into
this
ritual
of
ours,
I
don’t
see
the
point
of
turning
up.
It
becomes
a
sham.”
He
pointed
to
the
empty
pews.
“Perhaps
that’s
why
this
place
is
already
so
empty.”
He
stepped
away
from
the
lectern
and
walked
towards
the
centre
of
the
altar
to
continue
the
Mass.
“I
have
never
heard
anything
more
outrageous!”
Simon
turned.
The
ruddy
face
of
George
Penbury
rose
above
the
balestrade
of
the
choir
loft.
“How
dare
you
speak
like
that.”
Simon
stared
back
impassively.
The
man
leaned
over
the
edge.
“How
dare
you,”
he
repeated
and
dropped
an
empty
collection
basket
to
the
aisle
below.
“Who
feeds
and
clothes
you,
mister?”
Penbury
disappeared,
but
could
be
heard
treading
angrily
down
the
stairs.
The
whole
choir
stood
up
and
noisily
followed.
Simon
waited
patiently
for
the
commotion
to
settle.
228
“Seems
we
won’t
have
a
choir
today,”
he
said
flatly.
Simon
waded
through
the
remainder
of
the
service.
A
deep‐seated
depression
had
settled
on
him.
By
the
time
he
reached
the
Solemn
Blessing
at
the
conclusion
he
was
aching
for
the
privacy
of
the
sacristy.
He
locked
away
the
unused
hosts,
slid
his
vestments
into
the
wardrobe
and
left
as
quickly
as
he
could,
leaving
the
cruets
for
someone
else
to
rinse.
He
slipped
quickly
to
the
back
path,
with
no
stomach
to
confront
parishioners
gathered
in
animated
groups
at
the
front.
Inside
the
presbytery
he
went
to
his
room
and
almost
without
thinking,
began
to
pack
his
overnight
bag.
He
had
no
idea
where
he
was
going.
There
was
a
knock
on
his
door.
“Cup
of
tea
Father?”
Simon
paused.
“Any
visitors?”
“No.”
“Then
yes—a
quick
one.”
Simon
zipped
his
bag
and
changed
into
a
pair
of
jeans
and
a
khaki
work
shirt.
He
joined
Mary
in
the
kitchen.
Simon
had
celebrated
the
late
Mass.
The
other
priests
were
out;
Greg
on
the
outer‐metropolitan
run,
Father
Frank
doing
the
hospital
rounds,
and
Peter
Moore
was
at
the
house
of
a
family
whose
daughter
had
been
killed
in
a
car
accident
in
the
night.
Simon
had
done
his
share
of
such
vigils,
sitting
in
a
house
of
sudden
death;
carefully
letting
the
grief
wash
around,
but
not
touching.
They
were
the
worst
moments
of
his
life.
“Here
you
go.”
Mary
put
the
cup
and
saucer
onto
the
table.
“Thanks.”
Simon
slumped
into
a
chair
and
cradled
the
hot
cup
in
his
hands.
He
blew
across
the
top,
a
life‐long
habit,
before
taking
the
first
cautious
sip.
“I
won’t
be
in
for
lunch,
Mary.”
“Want
me
to
keep
it
warm
or
put
it
in
the
fridge?”
“Fridge.
I’m
not
sure
when
I’ll
be
back—perhaps
not
until
tomorrow.
I’ll
leave
a
note
for
Peter.”
“You
sound
low.”
229
“I’ve
done
it
this
time—told
them
I
didn’t
want
to
see
them
next
week.
Right
when
I
need
to
be
showing
control,
I
lose
it.
MacNamara
will
be
running
out
of
places
to
hide
me.”
He
drummed
his
fingers
on
the
table
top.
“I
talk
into
space.
They
sit
there
catatonic.
I
try
to
do
what
I
think
is
right,
to
point
people
in
a
useful
direction,
and
all
I
do
is
upset
everyone.”
“Well,
there’s
some
who
reckon
you’re
okay—and
what
about
the
Redmond
mob?
You’re
a
champ
there.”
The
name
jarred.
Redmond—it
haunted
his
every
waking
hour.
Simon
changed
the
subject.
“How’s
your
young
bloke?”
“Oh,
pretty
good—be
walking
soon
and
I’ll
need
eyes
in
the
back
of
my
head.”
Simon
grinned,
despite
his
mood.
“Like
me.”
The
front
door
chimed.
Mary
returned
a
few
moments
later.
“It’s
Mister
Penbury.
He
wants
to
see
you..”
“Does
he
know
I’m
here?”
The
girl
nodded.
Simon
stared
into
his
tea
for
a
moment.
“Tell
him
you’ve
made
a
mistake,
that
he’s
just
missed
me.
I’ve
had
to
go
out.”
“Where?”
Simon
shrugged.
“Make
something
up.”
“I’ll
just
say
you’re
out.”
Simon
returned
to
his
room,
grabbed
his
bag
and
car
keys
and
took
the
back
door
to
the
carport.
Without
any
conscious
plan
he
threaded
his
way
onto
the
freeway.
Twenty
minutes
later
an
exit
sign
to
the
Great
Eastern
Highway
conjured
images
of
wide
open
spaces
and
clear
skies.
He
followed
the
sign
and
within
an
hour
was
driving
through
the
open
expanse
of
wheat
fields.
He
stopped
at
a
town
called
Kellerberin,
about
two
hundred
kilometres
out
from
Perth
on
the
road
to
Kalgoorlie.
He
felt
a
sense
of
freedom
overtake
him
and
he
indulged
in
the
mood.
It
suddenly
occurred
to
him
that
if
he
were
to
keep
driving
for
230
just
a
few
more
hours
he
would
be
back
near
the
land
he
was
raised
on.
He
smiled
at
the
thought,
then
dismissed
it
as
ridiculous.
Four
hours
later,
in
the
last
dull
shafts
of
daylight,
he
passed
Hannan’s
Hotel—a
squat
stone
building
that
has
been
the
first
welcome
sign
for
travellers
for
almost
a
century
as
they
approach
Kalgoorlie’s
wide
main
street.
Simon
was
tired
and
sweat
had
glued
his
shirt
to
the
car
seat.
He
parked
outside
a
forlorn‐looking
cafe
and
watched
the
silhouette
of
the
giant
poppet
head
at
the
top
end
of
the
street
merge
into
the
blackness
of
the
new
night.
He
squeezed
his
eyes
with
his
fingers,
wondering
just
what
to
do
next.
He
should
phone
the
presbytery,
but
there
would
be
questions
he
could
not
answer.
Since
when
did
a
Sunday
afternoon
drive
end
almost
seven
hundred
kilometres
away?
He
decided
to
find
a
room
for
the
night.
He
parked
the
car
and
went
looking
for
one
of
the
new
automatic
bank
teller
machines.
The
clicking,
whirring
machine,
when
he
found
it,
reminded
him
of
his
precarious
position.
His
account,
the
sum
of
his
life’s
material
worth,
contained
less
than
five
hundred
dollars.
He
withdrew
two
hundred.
The
thickened
wallet
suddenly
an
unfamiliar
weight
against
his
hip.
Simon
returned
to
his
car.
The
town’s
main
intersection
was
dominated
by
three
old
timber
and
stone
hotels.
They
radiated
the
glitter
and
noise
of
a
past
golden
era.
Somewhere
a
band
thumped
to
the
melody
of
chinking
glasses
and
the
rise
and
fall
of
animated
voices.
Simon
chose
The
Pit
View;
plainer
and
more
reserved
than
the
others.
He
nestled
the
car
against
the
kerb
outside
and
walked
into
the
foyer.
His
heart
sank.
Any
semblance
of
plainness
was
banished
by
an
interior
decor
of
old‐world
extravagance.
The
space
before
him,
lit
by
the
biggest
chandelier
he
had
ever
seen,
was
equally
dominated
by
a
large,
gracious
stairway
curving
upwards
to
the
floor
231
above.
He
was
about
to
flee
when
a
girl
of
about
nineteen
bobbed
from
behind
a
counter.
“Room?”
Simon
nodded
uncertainly.
“Er—how
much?”
“Single?”
The
priest
nodded
again.
“Forty‐five
a
night,
in
advance.
There’s
tea
and
coffee
facilities
and
the
verandas
have
been
closed
in
so
the
rooms
have
now
got
bathrooms
too.
How
many
nights?”
“One,
two—no,
one.”
He
silently
remonstrated
with
himself.
“Meals
in
the
dining
room;
times
are
on
your
wall.”
The
girl
slid
a
form
in
front
of
him.
“Just
fill
this
in—.”
She
consulted
a
reservations
book
then
plucked
a
key
from
a
wall
rack.
“—
room
thirty‐eight.
Right
at
the
top
of
the
stairs,
it’s
the
second
door
on
the
left.”
Simon
was
still
staring
at
the
registration
sheet,
holding
a
pen
pensively
over
the
space
marked
‘occupation’.
He
noticed
the
girl
watching
him,
measuring
him,
and
hurriedly
wrote
‘geologist’.
He
took
the
proffered
key
in
exchange
for
his
cash.
“Is
there
a
chemist
open?”
he
asked.
The
girl
looked
at
him
knowingly.
She
had
quick
eyes.
He
smiled
lamely.
“Forgot
my
toothbrush.
I’m
always
doing
it—got
dozens
now,
back
home.”
She
didn’t
look
convinced,
but
offered
the
tacit
acceptance
that
he
could
tell
any
story
he
wanted.
Simon
retrieved
his
bag
from
the
car
and
climbed
the
stairs.
When
he
got
to
the
room
the
door
wouldn’t
open.
He
checked
the
key.
It
seemed
to
fit,
but
the
door
would
not
budge.
He
dropped
his
bag
and
trudged
back
down
the
stairway.
A
massive
ceiling‐high
mirror
traced
his
steps.
Once
it
would
have
reflected
all
manner
of
human
finery
in
days
when
men
turned
over
fortunes
with
a
pick
and
shovel
and
sparkling
women
journeyed
from
the
south
to
help
them
spend
it.
Now
the
232
mirror
reflected
a
gaunt‐looking
man
of
indeterminate
age.
Simon
stared
at
his
hollow‐eyed
and
haunted
look.
It
was
a
long
time
since
he
had
seen
himself
full‐length.
His
self‐image
had
been
framed
for
years
by
the
close‐cropped
dimensions
of
a
shaving
mirror.
Now
he
saw
a
stranger—his
thin
body
in
ill‐fitting
jeans
and
a
crumpled
shirt.
The
fit,
lean
young
man
with
the
square
jaw
and
razor‐back
shoulders
he
remembered,
was
gone.
Shaken,
Simon
continued
down
the
stairway,
an
anxious
frown
bending
his
brow.
“I
can’t
open
my
door.”
He
spoke
to
a
crown
of
smooth,
dark
hair
just
visible
below
the
counter
top
and
wondered
what
she
did
down
there.
The
girl
uncoiled.
“What
do
you
mean?”
“Tried
the
key,
but
it
won’t
open.”
“Did
you
give
it
a
bang?”
Simon
shrugged.
“Not
sure.
I
thought
it
would
just
open.”
“I
dunno,”
the
girl
drawled
with
exasperation.
“
Let’s
have
a
look.”
She
disappeared
and
came
out
through
a
nearby
side
door;
matchstick
legs
marching
beneath
a
white
cotton
frock.
Simon
followed
her
back
up
the
stairway.
“Give
us
the
key.”
She
turned
the
lock
then
lunged
against
the
door
with
her
shoulder.
It
squeaked
noisily
and
moved
about
a
centimetre.
She
threw
her
body
into
it
again.
The
door
made
a
loud
cracking
noise
and
sprang
open.
“See?
You’ve
just
got
to
give
it
a
bit
of
a
push.”
Simon
picked
up
his
bag
and
stepped
into
the
darkened
room,
one
hand
groping
for
a
light
switch.
He
couldn’t
find
it.
He
dropped
the
bag
and
stood
inside
the
doorway
using
both
hands
to
feel
the
wall.
Nothing.
He
gave
up.
Feeling
increasingly
more
foolish
about
being
there
at
all,
he
stepped
back
into
hallway.
The
girl
was
watching
from
the
top
of
the
stairway,
hands
on
her
hips.
“There’s
a
cord
hangin’
down
in
the
middle
of
the
room.”
233
Wordlessly,
Simon
returned
to
the
darkness
and
stepped
forward,
arms
above
his
head.
It
took
two
passes
and
a
bruised
shin
before
his
fingers
found
the
string.
He
tugged
and
a
light
globe
bathed
the
room
in
yellow.
There
were
two
single
beds,
two
plastic
moulded
chairs,
a
small
wardrobe
and
a
thankfully
tiny
mirror.
A
television
occupied
the
top
of
a
dresser
next
to
the
wardrobe.
In
a
pokey
bathroom
a
yellow
enamel
wash
basin
and
shower‐recess
was
boxed
in
by
unpainted
asbestos
sheeting.
“Just
like
home,”
he
told
the
ghosts.
He
tossed
his
bag
onto
one
of
the
beds
and
turned
on
the
television.
The
picture
was
snowy.
He
switched
it
off
and
lay
on
the
other
bed.
It
was
a
muggy
night.
Simon
found
himself
wrestling
with
alternate
feelings
of
pleasure
over
the
adventure,
and
guilt
for
his
irresponsibility.
“Just
one
day—one
night,”
he
told
himself.
He
didn’t
know
what
this
would
achieve,
or
what
he
would
do.
Simon
showered,
vainly
tried
the
television
again,
and
decided
finally
to
go
for
a
walk.
He
stood
at
the
crossroad
–
mix
with
the
noisy
throng
spilling
into
and
from
the
two
other
hotels,
drown
himself
in
noise
and
smoke
and
beer;
or
turn
left
into
the
near‐deserted
main
street?
Simon
turned
left.
Simon’s
mind
was
flooding
with
thoughts
and
images—his
parents’
farm,
Gunwinddu,
Muriel,
Redmond,
and
MacNamara’s
steely
gaze
and
immaculate
presence.
The
man
had
trapped
him.
He
was
forcing
Simon
to
choose
once
and
for
all
between
acquiescence,
for
which
he
would
be
rewarded
with
the
chaplaincy
of
a
university,
a
role
he
would
savour,
or
dissent.
The
fact
that
the
site
was
Redmond
was
just
one
more
painful
twist.
If
he
chose
to
side
with
those
facing
dispossession
by
the
Bishop’s
dream
he
would
be
spurned
totally;
a
faceless
mendicant
pushed
from
parish
to
parish
until
swallowed
forever
in
the
invisibility
of
some
remote
outpost
desperate
enough
not
to
let
him
go.
234
He
crossed
a
street
which
was
wide
enough
for
a
semi‐
trailer
to
turn
a
full
circle,
but
actually
built
to
accommodate
the
manoeuvrings
of
bullock
drays
a
hundred
years
earlier.
Like
a
wayward
moth
he
drifted
towards
the
fluorescent
telephone
booths
outside
the
towering
stone
edifice
of
the
Post
and
Telegraph
Office.
“Call,”
whispered
a
voice
inside
his
head.
He
walked
on,
turning
into
a
side
street,
intending
to
make
a
rough
circuit
of
the
town.
Two
blocks
later
he
paused
at
an
intersection.
His
eyes
followed
the
passage
of
a
slowly
cruising
car.
It
stopped
opposite
a
large
brightly
lit
bungalow.
A
man
alighted
and
stepped
quickly
across
the
road
to
the
front
gate
and
pressed
a
button.
Simon
stared.
The
place
was
lit
like
an
ice‐cream
parlour,
painted
a
garish
pink.
He
glanced
up
and
recognized
the
name
of
the
street.
Hay
Street.
It
was
famous.
His
curiosity
piqued,
he
walked
to
where
the
gate
had
opened
and
the
other
man
had
entered.
“Hi
sweetie.”
Simon
jumped.
A
woman
standing
in
a
doorway
flicked
a
switch
which
cast
just
enough
light
for
Simon
to
see
she
was
only
wearing
lingerie.
He
hurried
on,
but
slowed
to
a
stop
at
another
strange‐looking
house
fronted
by
a
row
of
open
doorways
in
a
corrugated
iron
fence.
They
looked
like
animal
stalls
at
a
farm
show,
except
these
were
painted
bright
red,
and
were
occupied
by
women.
Simon
walked
slowly,
his
mouth
open.
In
the
first
stall
was
a
tall,
lanky‐looking
blonde
in
black
tights
and
a
strapless
top.
She
smiled
and
he
hurried
past.
In
the
next
an
over‐weight
red‐haired
woman
sat
on
an
invisible
chair.
She
was
swathed
in
chiffon
and
the
air
was
heavy
with
talc.
“Hullo,”
she
crooned.
Simon
edged
away,
closer
to
the
road.
The
next
stall
was
empty.
He
wondered
what
the
woman
was
like?
What
type
of
man
had
she
lured?
Tourist?
Miner?
Lonely
husband?
Was
she
pretty?
But
then,
did
pretty
girls
sell
themselves
like
this?
He
235
didn’t
know.
He
had
never
wondered
before
about
the
rationale
of
the
business.
Simon
walked
on,
then
stopped,
transfixed.
A
slender,
dark‐eyed
girl
sat
demurely
in
a
cane
chair.
Pale,
rounded
breasts
swelled
from
the
top
of
a
low‐cut
dress.
She
smiled.
She
was
beautiful;
a
vision
in
a
pool
of
soft
blue
light.
Simon
stepped
closer,
involuntarily.
Long,
dark
hair,
carefully
brushed,
rested
in
a
silken
wave
across
her
bare
shoulder.
“Hi,”
she
said
simply.
Simon
had
to
clear
his
throat
to
speak.
“Hullo.”
“What’s
your
name?”
She
leaned
forward,
almost
imperceptibly,
but
enough
to
make
her
bosom
shift
and
fill
the
top
of
her
dress.
“Si—Paul.”
“Come
on,”
she
coaxed.
“What’s
your
real
name?”
Her
accent
was
faintly
English.
“John.”
The
girl
laughed.
“Come
on,
who
am
I
going
to
tell?
Are
you
married?”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“Well
then.
You
can
tell
me
can’t
you?
You
tell
me
yours
and
I’ll
tell
you
mine.”
“John.”
“Hmmm.
Well,
my
name
is
Cheryl.”
Simon
was
mute.
The
girl
shifted
again,
and
placed
her
hands
coyly
between
her
knees.
The
tops
of
her
arms
squeezed
her
breasts.
“Are
you
visiting—I
can
tell
you’re
not
a
miner
or
from
a
station.
From
the
south?”
Simon
nodded.
His
mouth
dry.
The
girl
looked
him
over.
“Been
here
before?”
He
shook
his
head.
What
was
he
doing
here?
What
if
he
was
seen?
The
woman
was
smiling
at
him.
She
was
older
than
she
had
first
looked,
but
still
no
more
than
mid‐twenties.
236
“You
look
awkward
standing
out
there.
Why
don’t
you
come
inside?”
Simon
shook
his
head
and
swallowed
awkwardly.
“I—I
was
only
out
walking.
I
didn’t
even
know
this
place
was
here.”
“That’s
sweet.
It
must
be
fate
and
it’s
brought
you
to
me.”
“Sorry,
you
don’t
understand,
I—.”
The
girl
was
on
her
feet
and
before
Simon
could
finish
had
reached
out
and
taken
his
hand.
His
reaction
was
to
duck
hurriedly
into
the
stall
to
get
out
of
view
of
the
street.
He
felt
the
soft
flesh
of
her
hand
wrapped
around
his
fingers.
Despite
her
motives
it
felt
warm
and
comforting.
He
was
lonely,
lost
on
his
own
dark
highway.
Her
hand
was
feeding
him.
It
felt,
even
in
those
first
fleeting
moments,
like
a
lost
love.
“Would
you
like
to
spend
some
time
with
me?”
“Look
you
are
nice,
and
I
would,
but
I
can’t—it
would
only
make
things
worse
for
me—in
my
head.
I’m
sorry,
I
really
should
go.”
Simon
tried
to
turn,
but
the
girl
gripped
his
hand.
“You’re
uptight,
real
uptight.
You
should
stay.
I
can
help
you—make
you
forget
about
your
troubles
for
a
while.
A
hundred
dollars.”
She
looked
at
Simon
with
wide,
dreamy
eyes.
He
tried
to
speak,
but
couldn’t.
She
lifted
his
hand
and
placed
it
lightly
against
the
exposed
flesh
of
her
cleavage.
“Can
you
feel
my
heart?”
Simon
shook
his
head
dumbly.
She
pressed
his
hand
harder
against
her
bosom.
He
could
feel
the
flesh
move
to
his
touch.
This
was
not
what
he
wanted.
He
was
seeking
to
clear
his
mind,
not
jam
it
tighter.
But
he
was
losing
his
grip
on
reality.
She
smiled.
“If
you
want
to
talk,
we
can
talk.
If
you
want
a
nice
massage,
I
can
do
that
first.
I
can
be
anything
you
want;
I
can
be
kind
or
strict.
I
can
be
your
mother
superior.”
Simon
reeled.
He
tore
his
hand
from
her
grasp,
turned
and
ran.
Sister
Veronica
screamed
at
him
from
her
grave.
His
feet
237
pounded
hard
against
the
ground,
his
arms
flailed
as
he
rounded
a
corner
and
kept
running.
A
car
cruised
past
and
its
occupants
whistled.
He
kept
running,
embracing
his
burning
lungs
and
jarring
knees.
He
ran
until
his
breath
was
gone
and
his
brain
too
starved
of
oxygen
to
think.
He
staggered
to
the
imagined
privacy
of
a
tree
trunk
and
sank
to
his
knees,
noisily
trying
to
pull
air
into
his
heaving
chest.
It
seemed
an
age
before
the
tumult
settled.
When
eventually
he
began
walking
again,
the
balmy
night
wrapped
him
with
an
uncertain
calm.
He
wandered
quietly
back
in
the
direction
of
the
hotel.
The
effort
to
open
the
door
of
his
room
seemed
to
drain
his
last
reserves
of
strength
and
he
fell
exhausted
onto
the
bed
and
into
a
fitful
sleep.
Simon
slept
late
and
woke
up
hungry,
but
had
no
stomach
for
breakfast.
He
spent
the
day
shut
in
his
room,
praying
in
wrenched,
pleading
and
silent
sentences
for
the
mist
to
lift.
He
paced
the
threadbare
carpet
like
a
caged
animal,
torn
by
his
confusion
on
the
one
hand
and
the
determined,
almost
automatic
action
he
had
taken
on
the
other.
It
was
not
until
the
late
afternoon
sun
crept
under
the
bathroom
blind,
infiltrating
his
darkness,
that
Simon
stirred
from
his
fitful
state
to
walk
again
in
the
approaching
dusk.
He
was
no
nearer
to
resolving
his
conflict,
and
was
consequently
even
further
along
this
new
path
he
had
begun
to
tread.
In
a
café
he
ordered
a
mixed
grill.
The
plate
arrived,
heaped
with
fried
flesh
of
indeterminate
origin.
He
was
ravenous
and
ate
with
enthusiasm.
Afterwards
he
walked
to
the
post
office
and
phoned
the
presbytery.
It
was
near
dinner
time
and
Mary
answered.
“Saint
Luke’s.”
He
clung
to
the
receiver,
not
knowing
what
to
say.
They
would
decide
he
had
suffered
a
breakdown.
It
was
the
usual
way
the
church
explained
away
tormented
priests.
“Hullo?”
238
He
put
the
receiver
gently
back
into
its
cradle
and
stared
out
into
the
street,
then
turned
and
walked
carefully
in
the
opposite
direction
to
the
previous
night’s
encounter.
In
the
side
streets
the
red
earth
had
broken
through
the
asphalt
footpaths.
Ever
present,
it
seemed,
was
the
reminder
of
European
futility.
The
houses
were
asbestos
bungalows,
stained
by
the
same
red
dust.
They
lined
up
in
ragged
rows
separated
by
sandy,
unkempt
laneways,
used
once
by
night‐
cart
men
but
today
by
furtive
juveniles
looking
for
adventure
in
a
beer
bottle.
Simon
was
going
nowhere,
but
emitted
an
audible
sigh
of
regret
when
he
rounded
a
corner
and
faced
the
local
Catholic
church—a
sturdy
stone
structure
built
to
last
until
Judgment
Day.
The
lights
over
the
altar
were
on,
but
the
body
of
the
church
was
dark.
Simon
placed
himself
in
deep
gloom
beneath
the
choir
loft
at
the
rear.
He
sank
into
the
reassuring
hardness
of
a
pew
and
breathed
in
the
familiar
aroma
of
cut
flowers
and
candle
wax.
He
closed
his
eyes
and
tried
to
think.
His
mind
turned
in
a
confusion
of
images
and
he
slowly,
consciously
made
the
effort
to
measure
his
breathing.
After
a
time
he
managed
to
dream
of
colours;
soft
greens
and
gentle
blues—and
then
came
the
pale
face
of
his
dark‐eyed
Eve.
He
squeezed
his
eyes
in
frustration.
A
noise
penetrated
and
he
realized
with
a
start
that
somebody
was
watching.
He
opened
his
eyes
and
met
the
curious
gaze
of
the
local
priest,
an
elderly
man
who
Simon
could
immediately
see
had
been
asked
to
continue
long
after
he
should
have
been
allowed
to
retire.
“Is
everything
all
right?”
Simon
smiled
self‐consciously.
“Yes—thank
you.
It’s
quiet,
I
must
have
drifted
off.”
“I’ve
been
watching
you,
saw
you
come
in—don’t
think
me
rude,
but
you
look
familiar.”
Simon
fended
off
the
rising
dread
and
clung
to
the
smile
on
his
face.
He
vaguely
recognized
the
other
priest,
but
could
not
put
a
name
to
the
face.
239
“I’m
a
geologist.
I
sometimes
pass
this
way.
Perhaps
you’ve
seen
me
in
Mass.”
“It
must
be
that.”
The
old
man
lingered,
but
after
a
moment
seemed
to
accept
the
explanation.
“Well,
good
day.
Would
you
like
me
to
turn
on
the
light?”
“No.
I’m
happy
to
sit
like
this
for
a
while.”
He
watched
the
priest
shuffle
down
the
aisle
to
the
altar.
The
church
looked
very
different
from
the
back
rows,
he
noted.
What
did
people
see
when
they
came
to
Mass
and
watched
the
priest
perform?
An
instrument
of
God,
a
man;
or
just
a
priest;
a
sexless
figure
of
authority
at
the
fringe
of
their
lives?
What
did
women
think?
Was
he
still
a
man
when
he
faced
them
over
the
gilded
pages
of
the
missal?
He
watched
the
old
priest
gliding
silently
across
the
altar,
the
very
act
of
walking
like
a
man
hidden
by
his
cassock.
What
thoughts
roamed
his
mind,
now
his
life
was
drawing
to
a
close?
Was
he
satisfied
his
vocation
had
been
worth
the
sacrifice
of
his
manhood?
That
he
had
secured
his
place
in
heaven?
Simon
looked
into
the
arches.
It
was
convenient
to
imagine
a
heaven
somewhere
up
there,
but
in
all
truth
he
did
not
know
where
it
was
or
what
it
was.
Perhaps
it
existed
only
in
the
human
mind?
Perhaps
the
spiritual
state
lingered
only
for
the
duration
of
a
mortal
life;
its
presence
fostering
some
goodness,
at
least,
in
the
human
experience?
But
where
did
that
leave
the
institution
to
which
he
had
surrendered
his
life?
Simon
remembered
the
words
of
the
pilot
on
his
first
night
at
Gunwinddu:
“Why
be
a
priest
if
you
never
get
any
smarter?”
Simon
smiled
in
spite
of
himself.
He
wished
the
pilot
was
beside
him.
How
different
their
conversation
would
be
now.
He
thought
again
of
the
girl,
Cheryl,
and
wondered
if
she
was
still
sitting
in
her
stall,
smiling
out
onto
a
world
of
men
prowling
after
a
dream.
Why
did
she
do
it,
selling
the
tenderness
and
illusions
of
impossible
love?
240
Simon
returned
to
his
hotel
room
and
sat
searching
for
something
tangible
to
hold
to,
something
to
keep
him
afloat.
Perhaps
he
needed
a
holiday?
Some
priests
disappeared
to
caravans
and
beach
houses
with
mistresses
when
the
imponderables
became
too
big
a
burden.
Had
he
reached
that
point?
He
grabbed
the
car
keys,
drove
the
vehicle
back
to
the
church
and
dropped
the
keys
into
the
letter
box.
Now
he
couldn’t
go
anywhere
without
returning
to
the
church’s
embrace.
He
walked
for
about
twenty
minutes,
continuing
to
toss
his
twisting
and
confused
thoughts
into
the
warm
night
air.
He
had
started
back
for
the
hotel,
but
drawn
by
a
force
more
powerful
than
his
battered
will
he
veered
inexorably
in
the
direction
of
the
girl.
He
entered
the
street
nervously,
keeping
to
the
shadows.
The
big
lady
was
there
in
her
chiffon.
This
time
the
stall
next
to
her
was
occupied.
A
plain,
fair‐haired
woman
in
a
cotton
dress.
Cheryl’s
light
was
on,
but
she
was
not
there.
Simon’s
heart
sank.
He
remembered
her
touch
and
needed
to
feel
it
again,
to
prove
that
he
hadn’t
imagined
its
power.
It
had
occurred
to
him
as
he
had
walked,
that
he
and
the
girl
probably
had
more
in
common
than
their
occupations
might
initially
suggest.
She
watched
the
world
turn
from
the
axis
of
a
bed.
His
world
turned
around
a
pulpit,
but
they
were
both
dispensers
of
comfort.
He
stared
into
the
empty
doorway,
wondering.
Wondering
what
she
did.
Did
she
whisper
words
of
love—or
was
the
transaction
a
silent,
mechanical
act?
Why,
he
asked
himself,
did
he
even
want
to
know?
Was
it
important
as
a
priest
to
understand
these
things—was
it
important
as
a
man
to
know?
Simon’s
stomach
lurched.
The
door
opened
and
there
she
was.
Alone.
Even
from
across
the
street
her
features
reignited
the
feelings
he
had
experienced
the
previous
night.
He
felt
a
hammering
in
his
chest
which
he
had
not
known
since
he
was
a
teenager.
241
“This
is
ridiculous,”
he
muttered,
and
he
left
the
kerb
to
cross
the
road
towards
her.
He
didn’t
see
the
other
man
until
he
was
half
way
over.
Simon
stopped,
surprised
by
his
sudden
anguish.
He
wanted
to
see
her
again.
To
feel
her
fingers
holding
his
hand.
His
innards
began
to
knot
with
jealousy.
They
were
standing,
talking.
Discussing
a
price,
while
Simon
stood
transfixed
in
the
centre
of
the
road.
A
car
cruised
slowly
by
and
sounded
its
horn.
Someone
inside
shouted:
“Get
off
the
fucking
road.”
Simon
barely
noticed
the
vehicle,
but
the
man
and
woman
turned
to
look.
He
saw
the
girl’s
face,
saw
her
eyes,
and
knew
she
had
seen
him.
He
burned
with
embarrassment
and
turned
away.
All
he
wanted
now
was
to
leave.
“Each
to
his
own,”
he
had
told
the
pilot,
and
his
lot
was
clearly
not
with
ordinary
men.
“Must
have
been
born
a
priest,”
he
thought
with
sudden
savagery
as
he
quickened
his
pace.
He
was
just
rounding
the
corner
when
he
heard
hurried
footsteps
behind.
“Hey.”
He
turned.
She
slowed
to
a
walk.
“It’s
John,
isn’t
it?
I’m
good
with
names.”
“My
real
name
is
Simon.”
She
smiled.
“Well,
that’s
a
start
isn’t
it?
Did
you
want
to
see
me?”
He
nodded.
“Well
come
on
then.
Hurry,
I’m
not
supposed
to
leave
the
gate.”
Simon
felt
the
knot
inside
him
twist
tighter.
“What
about
that
other
man?”
“I
told
him
you
were
my
boyfriend.
It
always
frightens
them
off.
Funny
isn’t
it?”
“Do
you
have
a
boyfriend?”
She
pulled
a
face.
“Are
you
kidding?”
Simon
followed
the
girl
back
to
her
door.
It
opened
into
a
small
room
only
just
large
enough
for
a
double
bed,
a
small
242
table
with
a
lamp
and
two
cheap
wooden
chairs.
The
room
was
lit
from
an
orange
light
from
a
single
painted
globe
in
the
ceiling.
There
was
linoleum
on
the
floor,
floral
wallpaper
on
the
walls,
and
a
door
leading
inside
to
the
main
body
of
the
house.
The
girl
sat
on
the
bed.
“I’ve
been
thinking
about
you
all
day,
you
know.”
Simon
sat
uncertainly
on
a
chair.
“Really?”
He
tried
to
relax;
to
force
a
smile.
“I
was
hoping
you’d
come
back,
but
you
didn’t.
So
I’ve
been
thinking
about
you
instead.
I
do
that
sometimes.
I
wonder
about
some
blokes—you
know,
if
I
would
like
them?”
Simon
nodded,
but
was
tongue‐tied.
“I—I’ve
been
thinking
about
you
too.”
She
dipped
her
face.
“Well—Simon;
what
would
you
like?
Simon
felt
himself
reddening.
“I’m
not
sure?
Can
we
talk
a
bit
more?”
The
girl
gave
him
a
sad
smile
and
cupped
his
fingers
between
her
hands.
“Look
sweetie,
talk
costs
just
the
same.
I
don’t
set
the
rules,
I
just
do
my
job.”
She
studied
him.
“Are
you
in
trouble?”
“Only
with
myself.
Look_
it
doesn’t
matter.
What
about
later—afterwards—what
about
when
you’re
not
working?”
She
shook
her
head.
“We’re
not
allowed
to
meet
anyone
outside.
I’d
get
arrested
for
soliciting.
That’s
the
arrangement—unless
you
drive
out
to
Orabanda.
The
girls
go
there
on
Sundays.
It’s
an
abandoned
mining
town,
but
still
has
a
pub.
We
can
meet
friends
there—that’s
if
I
decide
you
are
a
friend.”
“I’ll
be
gone
by
then—.”
His
voice
drifted.
“So
what
do
you
do
the
rest
of
the
time?”
“Read,
watch
videos—count
the
days
before
I’ve
earned
enough
money.”
“Can
I
ask
why
you
do
this?’
“Does
it
matter?”
243
He
shook
his
head
carefully.
“Well,
let’s
just
say
it
pays.
Now,
what
have
you
decided?
Time
is
money,
love.”
His
voice
was
hoarse.
“What
do
you
recommend?”
“I
recommend
I
give
you
a
nice
massage.
How
does
that
sound?”
He
swallowed
with
difficulty
and
nodded.
His
chest
was
pounding.
He
put
his
fingers
to
his
throat
which
had
turned
painfully
dry.
“It’s
silly,
I
know—you
and
me,
a
bed,
it’s
all
here
waiting
for
me—but,
well
to
be
frank,
I’m
terrified.”
She
looked
at
him
with
a
puzzled
expression.
He
patted
his
neck
and
grinned
self‐consciously.
“Sweating
like
a
pig.”
The
first
flicker
of
impatience
crossed
her
face.
“Look,
give
me
sixty
to
start
with
and
we’ll
take
it
from
there.
I’ll
get
you
a
drink—scotch,
orange
juice,
cup
of
coffee?”
“Service
with
a
smile,
eh?”
She
leaned
forward
and
kissed
him
on
the
forehead.
He
drank
in
her
perfume
and
the
spongy
feel
of
her
lips.
If
only
he
could
hold
the
moment;
package
it
and
carry
it
away
so
he
could
take
his
own
time
to
peel
away
the
inhibitions
and
fears.
He
tugged
his
wallet
free
and
withdrew
the
money,
noticing
that
after
having
paid
the
hotel
for
another
night
he
didn’t
have
too
much
left.
“I’d
like
a
coffee—no,
a
whisky.”
“Okay.
Wait
here.
I’ll
be
back
in
a
moment.”
Simon
looked
around
the
room,
his
eyes
now
accustomed
to
the
low
light.
It
was
drab
and
depressing.
He
bent
to
undo
his
shoelace,
and
stopped.
Car
doors
slammed
out
in
the
street,
followed
by
ribald
banter.
Locals,
miners
perhaps.
They
sounded
carefree
and
familiar.
Someone
made
a
wolf
whistle.
Simon
sat
upright
and
the
full
weight
of
the
situation
suddenly
hit
him.
He
stood
and
walked
resolutely
to
the
door,
but
baulked
at
the
prospect
of
meeting
the
new
arrivals.
He
turned
back
to
the
inner
door
through
which
the
girl
had
244
disappeared.
He
assumed
there
would
have
to
be
a
back
door.
He
opened
the
door
and
entered
a
hallway.
There
was
a
door
at
the
far
end
to
the
right.
He
hurried
towards
it
just
as
Cheryl
appeared
from
a
side
room
holding
his
whisky.
“What
are
you
doing
here.
Customers
aren’t
allowed
here.”
“I’ve
got
to
go—sorry.”
He
started
to
push
past
and
the
end
door
opened.
“My
God.”
The
woman
met
Simon’s
face.
They
stared
at
each
other
in
disbelief.
Cheryl
looked
from
her
employer
to
the
man
and
back
again.
“You
know
each
other?”
“We
sure
do
sweetie.”
“Muriel,”
said
Simon
lamely.
“He’s
the
strange
guy
I
told
you
about
last
night,”
said
the
girl.
She
glanced
at
Simon
with
an
apologetic
smile.
Muriel
took
a
deep
breath.
“That
figures.”
Then
her
face
relaxed.
“You
are
bloody
hopeless
Simon.”
She
turned
to
the
girl.
“Be
a
love
Cheryl
and
make
some
coffee.
We’ll
be
in
my
sitting
room.”
Muriel
stepped
forward
and
took
Simon’s
arm.
“Come
on.”
They
faced
each
other
from
the
padded
depths
of
two
large,
leather
upholstered
chairs.
Simon
stared
glumly
at
the
floor.
“Well,”
Muriel
opened.
“Long
way
to
drive
just
for
a
bit
of
sly
sex
Simon.”
His
face
was
still
burning.
He
lifted
his
eyes.
“I
came
here
by
accident
and
then—the
situation
just
started
to
get
out
of
hand.”
Muriel
smiled
mirthlessly.
“Well
thank
God
for
that.
At
least
you’re
man
enough
to
be
turned
on
by
a
woman.”
He
shrugged
and
gazed
around
the
room.
It
looked
like
the
front
display
of
an
antique
store.
It
was
lavishly
furnished
with
a
table
and
dresser
of
polished
timber,
a
sideboard
with
crystal
tumblers
and
a
decanter;
the
chairs
they
were
sitting
in,
and
exquisite
tapestries
over
the
windows
to
hide
it
all
from
the
world
outside.
245
“So
this
is
the
business—?”
“Yes.
I
didn’t
have
enough
for
an
establishment
in
the
city,
and
here’s
the
only
other
place
where
the
industry
has
a
preseence.
I’m
going
to
renovate—get
rid
of
those
awful
starting
stalls
out
the
front.”
“I
suppose
I
should
be
disapproving.”
“For
Christ’s
sake,
why?
I
never
took
you
for
a
hypocrite.
Besides
they’re
good
girls
in
what
is,
in
fact,
a
very
biblical
business.”
He
started
to
chew
a
fingernail
and
said
nothing.
She
watched
him.
“You
might
not
like
to
admit
it
Simon,
but
we’re
in
the
same
trade.
We
just
have
a
different
approach.”
He
dropped
his
hand.
“In
what
way?”
“It’s
a
fact.
You
think
religion
is
what
is
needed
to
keep
the
world
in
harmony.
Personally,
I
can’t
think
of
anything
that
causes
more
misery,
destruction
and
general
bastardry.
No,
it’s
nature
which
keeps
us
in
order,
and
sex
is
the
hub
on
which
it
all
turns.”
Muriel
smiled.
“So
Simon,
I’m
the
sex
professional
and
you’re
the
professional
celibate.
An
interesting
polarity,
don’t
you
think?”
Simon
sighed
as
Cheryl
entered
the
room
carrying
a
tray
with
porcelain
cups
and
a
silver
jug.
She
placed
it
on
a
side
table.
Muriel
smiled
at
her.
“Thanks
sweetie.”
The
girl
looked
at
Simon.
She
offered
him
a
fleeting
smile
then
left.
“Milk?”
He
nodded.
“Do
you
think
badly
of
me—for
being
here?”
Muriel
laughed.
“What
sort
of
question
is
that?”
She
leaned
towards
him,
passing
a
cup.
“But
I
am
curious—what
would
have
happened
if
I
hadn’t
showed
up?
Cheryl
is
a
gorgeous
girl—and
talented.
If
it’s
your
first
time
she
would
have
been
good
for
you—would
it
have
been?”
246
He
felt
his
cheeks
flush
again
and
he
tried
to
make
light
of
the
question.
“The
way
the
clock
seemed
to
be
ticking
through
my
money
I
don’t
know
how
far
I’d
have
got.”
“You
are
avoiding
the
question.
You
are
avoiding
the
whole
issue—again.”
“What
issue?”
“The
issue
of
why?
Why
you
are
so
exasperating?
Why
you
are
so
afraid
of
being
honest?”
Simon
replaced
his
cup
on
the
table
and
collapsed
back
into
the
chair.
“I
was
trying
to
find
myself.
It
sounds
clichéd,
but
it’s
true.
I’ve
been
trying
to
reach
inside
me;
as
a
man.
As
a
priest
I
seem
to
have
lost
touch
with
who
and
what
I
am.”
He
hesitated
and
studied
the
floor
thoughtfully
before
continuing.
“I
was
excited
more
than
I
would
normally
dare
admit
when
you
phoned
me.
I
felt
like
a
tongue‐tied
seventeen‐year‐old
at
the
restaurant.
I
did
wonder
what
it
would
be
like
to
have
a
woman
in
my
life.
Just
because
I’m
a
priest
doesn’t
stop
me
thinking
like
that.
When
I
was
ordained,
in
my
twenties,
the
vow
of
celibacy
didn’t
seem
so
onerous.
My
ideals
were
a
strong
enough
antidote.
It’s
only
as
I
get
older
that
I
wonder—and
feel
lonely.
But
I
don’t
know,
you
see,
if
this
is
just
a
result
of
my
difficulties
in
the
church,
or
if
it
is
something
deeper—something
more
fundamentally
human.
That’s
what
I
need
to
find
out—but
I’m
afraid
of
falling
into
a
hole
too
deep
to
ever
climb
out
again.
Last
night,
when
I
found
this
place,
Cheryl
touched
me—that
deep
part
of
me.
All
she
did
was
hold
my
hand
but
it
felt
very,
very
nice.
It
probably
sounds
juvenile
to
you,
but
that’s
how
it
was.
I
suppose
I
just
came
back
to
see
if
it
was
real
or
a
dream.”
Muriel
left
her
chair
and
sat
on
the
padded
arm
of
Simon’s.
“How
old
were
you
when
you
joined
the
church?”
“Eighteen—well,
seventeen
really.”
“Surely
that
answers
the
question.
The
world
has
changed.
Your
church
has
changed.
Everyone
is
fucking,
making
money,
247
doing
deals,
being
ambitious,
including
bishops
and
priests,
but
I
think
you
still
cling
to
your
adolescent
ideals.”
“You
make
the
world
sound
sick.”
“No.
It’s
healthy.
It’s
called
life;
explosions
of
chaos
and
energy.
Nature
is
sometimes
cruel,
but
that
cruelty
develops
survivors.
I
know
what
I’m
talking
about
Simon.”
“You
sound
cynical,
not
wise.”
“Is
there
a
difference?
Look.
Take
Father
Rantz.
I
bet
he’s
a
real
hero
in
the
church.
I
bet
they
talk
about
what
a
good
man
he
is.”
“Was.
He
died
about
two
months
ago—there
was
a
notice
in
the
Weekly.”
“Then
he’s
rotting
in
hell
for
what
he
did
at
Gunwinddu,
but
I
bet
your
bishop
reckons
he
was
a
saint.
I
bet
he
also
doesn’t
know
why
he
wanted
to
leave
Gunwinddu
all
of
a
sudden.”
“He
wanted
to
retire
and
return
to
Rome—a
lot
of
older
priests
do.
It’s
a
reinforcement;
a
chance
to
be
reassured
that
your
life
and
work
wasn’t
for
nothing.”
“Well
I
don’t
know
what
good
it
would
have
done
him.
Remember
the
girl
who
used
to
mind
the
store
from
time
to
time?”
Simon
nodded.
“Well
Rantz
banished
her
to
the
widows’
camp
because
she
was
pregnant—he
was
the
cause,
and
she
wouldn’t
have
been
the
first.
He
left
when
we
threatened
to
expose
him—after
he
had
started
getting
all
inquisitive
about
Fred’s
accounting
procedures.
Priest
or
no
priest
he
was
a
right
bastard.
The
old
fellows
held
a
corroboree
one
night
to
celebrate
a
wedding.
Rantz
marched
in
with
an
iron
bar,
belting
people
in
a
blind
rage.
There’s
your
holy
man
for
you.
The
next
day
he
went
from
house
to
house
in
the
truck
collecting
all
the
men’s
spears,
throwing
sticks,
ceremonial
shields,
paints
and
destroyed
everything
on
a
huge
fire
which
he
made
everyone
witness.
That
was
a
bit
before
my
time,
but
Fred
was
there.”
248
“And
did
nothing.”
“That’s
right.
Survivors
don’t
volunteer
for
nature’s
experiments.”
“And
is
Fred
a
survivor?
Has
he
survived?”
She
stood
and
returned
to
her
own
chair,
anger
withholding
the
caress
she
had
wanted
to
give.
“I
don’t
know.
I’ve
lost
contact
with
Gunwinddu
except
for
a
letter
from
Karl
before
I
came
up
here.
Actually
he
wrote
more
about
you
than
about
what
was
happening
there.
He
said
he
was
going
to
come
south
to
see
you
about
‘certain
matters’.
Did
he?”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“No,
but
I
think
there’s
been
something
troubling
him
for
a
long
time.
I
liked
Karl.”
“Did
you
like
me?”
The
question
caught
him
off‐guard.
“Of
course—you
know
that.”
“Even
though
I
was
living
in
sin;
that
I
was
exploiting
people;
even
though
I
now
run
a
brothel?”
“I’ve
never
put
myself
in
the
role
of
judge.”
The
woman
scoffed.
“But
you
have
an
opinion
surely?”
The
criticism
stiffened
his
lips.
“You
were
kind
to
them.
Money
is
irrelevant
when
measured
against
a
little
compassion.”
Muriel
stood
up
and
paced
to
the
curtained
window.
“Simon,
as
a
man
you
have
some
special
qualities.
As
a
priest
you
are
full
of
shit.”
He
blinked
in
surprise.
She
turned
from
the
curtain
and
faced
him.
“You
dole
out
platitudes
to
everybody
else,
but
you
won’t
take
a
good
hard
look
at
yourself.
Aren’t
you
allowed
to
forgive
yourself?”
“Forgive
myself—for
what?”
“For
fucking
up
your
life
with
this
holy
fantasy
you’re
trying
to
live.”
“It’s
not
a
fantasy.”
“It
is!”
249
Simon
stood,
retaliating
with
wounded
pride.
“You
don’t
understand.”
“You’re
damn
right
I
don’t.
You
come
barging
back
into
my
life,
stirring
up
all
sorts
of
memories
and
hopes,
and
I
can’t
even
touch
you.
You’re
so
brittle
that
I’m
scared
you’ll
break
if
I
so
much
as
breathe
on
you.”
Simon
swallowed.
“Muriel
it’s
not
that
simple.
I’m
hanging
over
an
abyss.
I
can’t
let
go.
I’ll
fall
into
nothingness,
and
I’m
terrified
of
that
more
than
anything
else.”
“What
if
there
is
someone
to
catch
you—to
hold
you?”
He
nodded.
“I
know
what
you’re
saying—but
I’m
a
married
man.
I’m
married
to
the
church.”
Muriel
rolled
her
eyes
pleadingly.
“Jesus
Christ.
Well
have
a
bloody
affair
then.”
Simon
shrugged
helplessly.
“I
don’t
know.”
Muriel
moved
closer.
“When
was
the
last
time
someone
held
you?
I
bet
it
hasn’t
been
since
you
were
a
little
boy—no
one
can
live
like
that
Simon.”
She
wrapped
her
arms
around
him.
“I’ve
been
wanting
to
do
this
for
a
long,
long
time.”
She
lowered
her
voice
to
a
whisper.
“I’m
not
going
to
steal
you
from
your
church,
just
show
you
some
real
love—human
love.”
It
seemed
like
a
dream,
except
the
reality
was
a
large
bed
with
soft
pillows,
the
cocktail
of
perfumes
and
skin
creams,
and
the
soft
trail
of
a
finger
running
along
his
arm.
He
could
feel
Muriel’s
hair
against
his
back
and
suddenly
wondered
if
he
had
discovered
the
beauty
of
mortality.
His
whole
life
had
been
devoted
to
the
guesswork
of
eternity,
but
now
he
had
touched
something
precious
and
finite;
something
about
his
life
which
could
be
measured.
“You’re
thinking.”
“Hmmm.”
She
held
him
tighter.
“What
about?”
“Your
hopeless
confession
that
day.”
250
“I
thought
I
was
saying
goodbye.”
“And
I
told
you
to
stay
away
from
married
men.”
“Well
I
prayed
otherwise,
and
my
prayer
has
been
answered.
That
must
mean
something
mustn’t
it?”
“It
must.”
When
the
sun
filtered
through
the
curtains
he
slipped
from
the
bed
and
quietly
dressed.
Muriel
watched
through
half‐
closed
eyes
and
smiled.
She
turned
to
face
the
side
of
the
bed
he
had
vacated.
His
wristwatch
sat
forgotten
on
the
bedside
chest;
ticking.
Simon
stepped
furtively
into
the
bright
early
morning
light.
The
street
was
deserted
and
he
began
to
walk
quickly,
feeling
nervous
and
exposed
until
he
was
into
the
next
block.
The
town
was
silent.
The
sun
was
low
and
white,
forcing
him
to
shield
his
eyes.
It
would
take
time,
perhaps,
to
understand
the
enormity
of
the
night,
but
for
the
moment
he
was
free
of
the
panic
and
despair
which
had
encased
him
before.
Muriel
had
given
him
a
new
canvas
on
which
to
paint
a
future.
This
alone
was
something
new
to
consider.
A
resonant
thud
beneath
his
feet
reminded
him
of
the
life
and
industry
which
tunnelled
and
blasted
below.
A
strange
town.
Its
reason
for
living
buried
deep
underground,
requiring
superhuman
effort
to
be
hauled
to
the
surface
and
given
life.
‘Perhaps
that’s
me,’
he
mused.
A
few
cars
crawled
along
the
main
street
and
two
policemen
patrolled
the
empty
footpaths.
He
watched
as
they
passed.
They
showed
no
interest
in
him.
He
was
unshaven
and
unkempt,
but
white.
Simon
paused
by
the
bronze
statue
of
an
Irish
itinerant,
Patrick
‘Paddy’
Hannan,
immortalized
as
the
man
who
discovered
gold
here
and
was
thus
responsible
for
this
outpost
of
European
culture
which
otherwise
might
not
exist.
He
read
the
plaque.
The
Irishman
had
walked
to
this
place
over
a
distance
that
modern
people
would
find
extreme
even
251
for
a
car
or
train.
But
he
had
been
well
rewarded
for
the
effort,
picking
up
one
hundred
ounces
of
nuggets
that
were
simply
lying
on
the
ground.
Simon
wondered
how
much
more
bloody
would
have
been
the
settlement
by
whites
had
the
Aborigines
put
any
value
on
the
metal.
He
smiled
wryly
as
the
story
on
the
plaque
unfolded.
A
great
fuss
had
been
made
of
Paddy.
Those
who
had
flocked
to
the
news
of
his
discovery
and
made
their
fortunes
planted
a
tree
at
the
site
of
his
find
and
later
cast
this
statue—but
as
for
the
man;
it
seemed
the
search
meant
more
to
him
than
the
result.
He
lived
out
his
years
on
the
other
side
of
the
country,
surviving
on
a
special
government
pension
awarded
in
gratitude
for
having
made
so
many
others
wealthy.
Simon
cast
his
mind
back,
trying
to
imagine
the
man.
Out
here
he
would
have
been
a
long
way
from
the
rest
of
humankind,
not
just
of
the
fledgling
settlements
far
behind
him
on
the
coast.
It
would
have
taken
great
courage;
or
perhaps
he
too
had
fallen
under
the
spell
of
the
antiquity
of
the
red
land.
He
had
a
sudden
yearning
to
sleep
a
night
under
the
stars,
perhaps
a
few
nights,
out
with
the
dingoes
and
wallabies
with
a
small
fire
and
wood
smoke
for
company.
He
smiled
with
anticipation.
He
stepped
into
the
cafe
where
he
had
had
his
evening
meal.
It
was
hard
to
believe
it
was
just
a
matter
of
hours
since
he
was
last
there.
He
ordered
coffee
and
opened
his
wallet.
Three
twenty
dollar
notes
were
wrapped
inside
a
slip
of
notepaper.
‘Love,
M’.
252
Chapter
Fifteen
Simon
browsed
through
the
stock
and
station
agency,
choosing
carefully.
He
picked
out
a
small
backpack
with
straps
across
the
top
to
hold
a
light
groundsheet
and
a
blanket.
He
added
a
small
cooking
pan,
a
billy
for
boiling
water,
an
enamel
mug,
plastic
water
bottle,
nylon
cord,
a
heavy
steel
knife
with
a
flat
hammering
butt,
some
trace
wire,
pliers
and
a
gas
cigarette
lighter.
He
returned
the
gear
to
the
hotel,
then
sought
out
the
supermarket.
He
could
almost
taste
already
the
damper
and
aroma
of
roasting
rabbit.
Flour,
salt,
mixed
herbs,
rice,
dehydrated
vegetables,
a
packet
of
tea,
and
aniseed
oil
for
bait.
Back
at
the
hotel
he
packed
the
rucksack
and
checked
out.
The
girl
plucked
the
key
from
his
outstretched
hand.
“Room
okay?”
“Of
course.”
“Oh—well,
the
cleaner
was
askin’.”
Simon
hurried
outside.
Cumalong.
He
had
always
wanted
to
explore
it
fully
and
now
was
the
chance.
It
had
been
too
far
from
the
homestead,
a
name
only
mentioned
in
the
driest
seasons
when
the
stock
were
dispersed
into
the
distant
bushland
to
feed
themselves.
From
Kalgoorlie
it
was
about
sixty
kilometres.
Simon
decided
to
walk,
to
tread
the
red
earth.
There
was
a
road
that
serviced
nickel
mines
in
the
area,
so
he
expected
to
be
able
to
hitch
a
ride.
If
none
was
offered,
it
didn’t
mater.
He
would
camp
at
the
end
of
the
day,
regardless.
He
hoisted
the
pack
onto
his
back
and
under
a
broad‐
brimmed
hat
began
to
walk.
For
half
an
hour
he
trod
along
dusty
streets
beneath
towering
mullock
heaps.
Through
the
course
of
a
century
of
mining
they
had
grown
into
large
flat‐topped
mountains.
By
midday
he
253
was
following
a
red
gravel
road
which
stretched
in
a
ruler‐straight
line
to
the
horizon.
High
in
the
white
sky
hawks
glided
on
hot
shimmering
currents.
Every
so
often
well‐worn
wheel
tracks
angled
off
into
the
scrub.
It
was
always
a
wonder
where
they
went
and
who
used
them.
Prospectors
probably.
Scattered
through
the
thin,
low
trees
were
yellow
and
brown
mounds,
the
remains
of
past
diggings.
Simon
had
been
walking
for
about
two
hours
when
he
heard
the
rumble
of
a
vehicle
on
the
road
behind
him.
He
turned
and
waved.
A
utility
slowed
and
stopped.
He
lifted
his
pack
into
the
back
and
climbed
into
the
front
seat.
The
driver
was
about
his
own
age,
dressed
in
faded
denims
and
wearing
a
sleeveless
cotton
shirt.
“Goin’
far?”
“Cumalong.”
“Goin’
right
past—you
know
there’s
nothin’
there
don’t
ya?”
“Yes.”
“Well,
so
long
as
you
know.
Me
name’s
Mick.”
“John.”
“Pleased
to
meet
ya.”
Mick
spun
the
wheels,
spraying
gravel
and
dust
and
Simon
watched
the
scrubby
landscape
gather
speed.
“Stayin’
there
long?”
“Probably
just
a
day.”
“Well,
if
you
wanna
lift
back
to
town,
I’m
comin’
back
tomorrow.
Just
stand
out
where
I
can
see
ya.”
“Thanks.”
“Rock
kicker?”
Simon
glanced
at
the
man
who
was
staring
hard
through
the
dust‐smeared
windscreen.
If
only
he
knew,
he
thought.
Simon
Bradbury,
run‐away
priest.
What
would
he
say
to
that?
254
“Yeah,”
he
replied,
and
returned
his
gaze
to
the
flickering
bush.
Forty
minutes
later
Simon
was
standing
in
the
shade
of
a
tree
watching
the
utility’s
dust‐cloud
snake
towards
the
melting
horizon.
He
flapped
a
hand
in
front
of
his
face.
Flies.
How
one
forgot
their
incessant
companionship
in
the
city.
He
lifted
his
wrist
to
check
the
time,
and
remembered
where
he
had
left
his
watch.
Simon
followed
the
faint
remnants
of
a
road
which
curved
around
the
base
of
a
low,
scrubby
hill
pock‐
marked
with
mullock
heaps.
The
town
had
been
built
on
a
flat
below
the
hill.
Now
only
scattered
bricks
and
sheets
of
flaking
brown
iron,
mostly
the
remains
of
water
tanks,
marked
its
existence;
plus
a
gnarled
ornamental
cactus
indicating
the
site
of
a
long‐gone
garden.
He
passed
another
memorial,
the
rusted,
bulbous
form
of
an
old
boiler.
They
were
a
common
sight
still
for
anyone
who
ventured
into
the
Australian
bush
where
settlers
had
toiled
for
two
and
three
generations
before
a
vengeful
land
drove
them
back
to
the
coast.
The
boilers
were
the
skeletal
remains
of
giant
steam
engines
used
to
turn
trees
to
timber;
bushland
into
an
agricultural
graveyard.
It
was
about
two
kilometres
to
his
destination,
the
site
of
an
earthen
banked
dam
built
early
in
the
century
to
supply
the
town
with
water.
The
bore
feeding
it
had
been
maintained
over
the
years
by
graziers,
including
his
father
for
a
time,
as
a
remote
water
supply
for
stray
or
dispersed
stock.
Simon
hoped
it
still
worked.
As
he
stepped
among
the
bones
of
this
failed
attempt
at
human
habitation
he
felt
the
aloneness
he
was
seeking
begin
to
stroke
his
senses.
It
came
like
a
warm
breath
from
invisible
lips,
carrying
just
a
hint
of
fear;
a
slight
nervousness
at
the
actual
reality
of
being
alone.
There
were
no
footprints,
no
sounds
to
suggest
another
255
living
person
had
been
here
for
sixty
years.
He
stumbled
and
fell
as
his
feet
caught
a
twisted
strand
of
rusted
fencing
wire.
“Fixed
the
shepherds
too,”
he
muttered
as
he
got
back
to
his
feet
and
dusted
his
knees.
His
voice
was
barely
a
whisper,
but
loud
enough
to
make
him
anxious.
He
looked
around
to
see
if
he
had
disturbed
anybody.
Crazy.
Well
he
would
have
to
get
used
to
it.
Out
here
a
man
only
had
himself
and
God
to
talk
to.
He
tossed
the
offending
wire
aside;
unaware
of
being
watched.
From
the
top
of
the
bleak,
windswept
hill,
casting
a
shadow
as
spindly
as
the
wiry
salmon
gums
around
her,
stood
an
old
woman.
She
leaned
awkwardly
on
a
stick,
legs
bowed
by
age
and
the
obstruction
of
a
grubby
cast
which
encased
the
right
limb.
She
wore
a
faded
red
cardigan
over
a
wrap
of
dark
felt,
heavy
enough
to
keep
out
the
wind,
and
bound
at
the
waist
with
a
length
of
frayed
rope.
Her
feet
were
only
partially
hidden
inside
a
pair
of
discoloured
sneakers
which
had
no
laces
and
no
toes.
She
watched
expressionless,
her
eyes
squinting
beneath
the
upturned
front
of
a
broad‐brimmed
patterned
hat.
As
Simon
continued
towards
the
dam
her
face
lightened
and
she
chuckled
quietly.
The
old
woman
slapped
her
thigh.
“Devil—Devil,
Devil,
Devil,”
she
sang
in
clipped,
chirping
notes.
A
young
goat
trotted
to
her
side
and
she
ran
her
fingers
along
its
neck.
“He’s
here,”
she
said.
The
goat
bleated,
and
her
lips
stretched
in
a
tight
smile.
Simon
disappeared
behind
a
clump
of
thin,
grey
trees
and
the
old
woman
turned
away.
She
began
to
tread
back
down
the
hidden
side
of
the
hill
towards
a
distant
shanty,
her
braced
leg
swinging
in
painful
arcs
away
from
her
frail
body.
The
256
goat
kept
close
behind,
its
hooves
scudding
little
clouds
of
dust.
Simon
selected
a
site
on
the
bank
of
the
dam
where
a
small
grotto
had
been
formed
by
cotton
palms
and
weeping
willows.
Water
trickled
into
the
dam
from
a
heavy
plastic
pipe
connected
to
a
noisy,
galvanized
windmill.
A
second,
smaller
pipe,
not
much
larger
than
a
garden
hose,
trailed
over
the
wall
and
disappeared
into
the
distance
towards
the
hill.
He
gazed
at
it
for
a
moment,
wondering
if
it
led
to
a
stock
trough
or
a
prospector’s
camp
on
the
other
side.
He
shrugged.
It
didn’t
really
matter.
He
looked
about.
Nothing
much
had
changed
in—he
tried
to
remember.
It
must
be
nineteen—twenty
years.
The
windmill,
though,
had
seemed
such
an
enormous
structure
then.
Now
it
was
a
fragile
tangle
of
iron
and
flapping
tin.
Simon
busied
himself.
A
busy
man
was
less
easily
panicked
by
the
enormity
of
this
aloneness.
He
plucked
a
handful
of
the
grass
growing
near
the
water’s
edge,
took
his
pack
to
a
stand
of
white
gums
about
forty
metres
from
the
opposite
bank
and
began
working
on
a
snare.
The
droppings
of
rabbits,
drawn
to
the
water,
littered
the
area.
He
collected
several
strong
sticks
then
selected
a
thin
sapling.
He
stripped
its
branches
and
pulled
it
over
in
a
tight
arch,
and
marked
the
ground
beneath
its
crown
with
his
toe.
Using
the
knife
he
cut
several
other
sticks
to
make
a
simple
trigger
assembly
that
would
released
the
bent
sapling
when
a
rabbit
took
the
bait.
He
chewed
the
grass
into
a
wad
and
smeared
it
with
the
aniseed
oil.
This
was
skewered
on
a
bait
stick
held
precariously
in
place
by
the
upward
pull
of
the
tethered
sapling.
When
a
rabbit
dislodged
the
bait
stick,
it
released
the
sapling
which
sprag
back,
tightening
a
trace‐wire
noose
around
the
rabbit’s
legs.
257
It
was
a
simple
snare,
one
taught
to
him
a
lifetime
earlier
by
his
father.
He
returned
to
the
grotto
and
scrounged
for
firewood.
The
heap
on
the
edge
of
his
camp
mounted.
Sweat
matted
his
hair
and
oiled
his
body.
His
hands
began
to
sting;
too
soft
for
too
long.
In
the
final
moments
of
daylight
he
stripped
from
his
soiled
clothes
and
stepped
into
the
brown
water.
The
bank
dipped
sharply,
allowing
him
to
float
and
avoid
the
slimy
bottom.
It
was
spring
in
the
south,
but
here
the
seasons
were
less
distinct.
It
was
already
warm
enough
to
stay
naked
while
his
clothes
aired
and
his
skin
dried.
It
was
a
pleasant
feeling;
a
freedom.
He
thought
of
Muriel.
He
closed
his
eyes
and
recalled
her
scent,
her
skin;
her
whispered
assurances.
Simon
coaxed
the
fire,
carefully
building
a
bed
of
coals,
and
smiled.
He
was
enjoying
himself
and
the
only
guilt
was
a
nagging
inner
suggestion
that
he
should
be
condemning
himself.
Simon
Bradbury
the
priest
had,
for
the
moment,
made
way
for
Simon
Bradbury
the
man.
The
man
didn’t
need
to
have
come
from
anywhere,
nor
have
anywhere
to
go.
The
night
pressed
against
the
tiny
pool
of
firelight.
He
had
used
his
billy
to
mix
flour
with
boiled
water
from
the
dam
and
the
dough
was
now
becoming
damper
in
the
hot
sand
beneath
the
coals.
There
was
no
sound
from
the
area
of
the
snare
and
he
wished
he’d
bought
a
torch.
As
the
darkness
and
the
silence
beyond
the
fire
became
complete
he
started
to
lose
his
bravado.
The
firelight
made
him
feel
exposed.
There
was
a
chilling
sensation
of
being
watched.
Several
times
he
almost
called
out,
but
with
each
nervous
flutter
became
too
scared
even
to
use
his
voice.
There
was
something
or
someone
behind
him,
he
was
sure.
But
he
grew
too
frightened
to
look.
258
He
was
spooking
himself
and
was
ashamed.
His
first
night
and
already
he
was
longing
for
a
lighted
room
with
four
walls.
“I
need
this,”
he
told
himself.
He
made
the
whispers
harsh
and
condemning.
He
pressed
his
fists
into
the
ground,
ready
for
an
argument
with
which
to
distract
himself.
“But
why—?
He
gazed
around
defiantly.
“Because
the
fear
is
inside
me,
not
out
there.
Not
good
enough.
Why
are
you
here?”
He
spat
into
the
fire.
“Because
I’ve
lost
my
mind.”
He
whispered
the
answer
lightly,
almost
conversationally,
but
began
to
turn
the
idea
over.
He
reflected
on
his
conflict
with
MacNamara,
on
his
stubbornness
at
Gunwinddu.
What
was
it
Karl
had
said—“Ah,
but
you
will”.
He
had
argued
he
didn’t
need
to
answer
to
others.
Was
that
because
he
didn’t
know
who
or
what
Simon
Bradbury
was?
He
stared
dolefully
at
the
flames
as
they
licked
dead
branches.
He
poked
with
a
stick,
sending
a
fine
spray
of
sparks
into
the
night.
“Perhaps
there
really
is
something
wrong
with
me?
Why
do
I
fight
when
others
happily
drift?
Why
do
I
disrupt
when
others
accept—what
germ
of
malcontent
has
infected
my
mind?”
He
jabbed
the
stick
into
the
sand
and
paused
to
consider
this.
“Am
I
a
little
mad—or
a
lot
mad?”
MacNamara
had
accused
him
of
losing
touch
with
reality.
He
thought
about
this.
Who
was
he
to
say
the
Bishop
was
wrong—how
did
an
unbalanced
man
know
these
things?
Had
he
become
obsessed
with
the
Aborigines?
He
didn’t
think
so,
but
others
did.
“You’re
obsessed,”
MacNamara
had
declared.
Simon
chuckled
mirthlessly.
It
was
funny
really.
He
had
always
thought
the
Bishop
the
one
who
had
grown
unbalanced;
perverted
by
his
authority.
It
had
not
occurred
to
him
that
the
disorder
might
be
himself.
He
259
looked
around
the
small
pool
of
light
and
his
eyes
narrowed
as
he
weighed
up
the
evidence.
“I
left—ran
without
a
word.
Nobody
knows
where
I
am.
I’ve
been
to
a
brothel
and
bedded
the
madam.
Now
I’m
sitting
out
on
the
edge
of
infinity
scared
senseless
by
bogeymen.
Dear
God
Almighty!”
A
line
from
the
book
of
Samuel
touched
his
lips:
“Oh—I
have
played
the
fool,
and
have
erred
exceedingly.”
He
moaned
with
self‐pity.
His
mind
was
all
he
owned.
If
he
accepted
now,
after
all
this
time,
that
it
was
flawed,
what
was
left?
He
stared
again
into
the
dark.
Was
death
his
destiny?
Is
that
what
had
drawn
him
to
this
place?
A
final
call
to
the
place
of
his
childhood;
to
his
own
soil?
He
looked
anxiously
at
the
knife
lying
on
the
sand.
Its
metal
glinted
bright
and
red
in
the
firelight.
From
the
dark
the
old
lady
watched
the
flames
dancing
on
the
man’s
face.
Even
at
a
distance
she
could
sense
his
fear.
“How
the
city
shrivels
them,”
she
murmured.
Still,
she
had
seen
enough.
Satisfied
that
he
intended
to
stay,
she
hobbled
away.
From
the
location
of
the
snare
came
the
snap
of
wood
and
a
terrible,
rending
squeal.
Her
lips
parted
in
the
semblance
of
a
grin.
“Bon
appetit,”
she
muttered
with
a
wry
chuckle.
Simon’s
innards
jumped
and
he
stood
up
quickly.
He
shook
his
head
and
growled,
“For
heaven’s
sake
snap
out
of
it
man.”
He
stamped
his
feet,
reassured
by
the
sound
and
firmness,
but
wishing
now
that
he
had
never
set
the
damn
trap.
He
peered
into
the
night
then
picked
up
the
knife.
The
rabbit
danced
at
the
end
of
the
cord
tied
to
the
sapling,
it’s
squeal
of
pain
filling
the
night.
Simon
cut
the
cord
and
the
animal
dropped
to
the
ground,
bouncing
as
it
tried
to
run
with
its
feet
bound
by
the
trace‐wire.
260
Simon
bent
to
his
hands
and
knees.
He
touched
fur,
but
it
shied
from
his
grasp.
He
scrambled
after
the
squeal
and
finally
his
fingers
closed
around
the
pathetic
bundle.
The
rabbit
twisted
desperately
as
he
felt
for
the
thin
neck.
Using
the
butt
of
the
knife
he
clubbed
the
skull
and
the
night
was
suddenly
his
own
again.
He
had
caught
a
meal,
but
no
longer
had
the
appetite
to
eat.
Simon
slit
the
skin
on
the
hind
legs
then
peeled
the
fur
down
and
over
the
body.
He
opened
a
small
cut
in
the
underside,
just
enough
to
slip
two
fingers
inside,
then
using
these
to
guide
the
knife
he
opened
the
stomach
and
chest
cavity
careful
not
to
pierce
the
gut.
He
prepared
the
carcass
without
enthusiasm,
but
felt
a
sense
of
duty
to
the
animal
he
had
killed.
It
would
be
unconscionable
to
just
leave
it
to
rot.
He
buried
the
carcass
under
the
hot
coals
near
the
damper.
This
is
what
he
had
come
to
do,
he
reminded
himself.
If
it
had
made
sense
in
the
sober
light
of
day,
then
it
would
again
tomorrow.
Later,
Simon
lay
with
his
back
to
the
low
fire
and
could
make
out
the
shadows
of
trees.
Above,
the
heavens
glinted
with
breathtaking
radiance.
Away
from
urban
lights
the
night
sky
was
filled
with
the
presence
of
faraway
constellations.
“There’s
got
to
be
an
answer
there
somewhere.”
He
closed
his
eyes
and
let
the
desert
breeze
play
across
his
face.
It
carried
the
perfume
of
hot
sands,
of
eucalyptus
vapours
and
desert
wattles.
It
was
dry
and
gentle
on
his
skin.
And
the
night
was
no
longer
silent.
It
pulsed
to
the
incantation
of
crickets
and
other
unseen
life.
As
sleep
approached,
he
heard
the
first
soft
pad
of
a
kangaroo
passing
warily
to
drink
at
the
dam.
Simon
rose
with
the
dawn.
He
raked
the
coals
beneath
a
pyre
of
twigs
and
blew
gently
until
a
ripple
of
flames
danced
across
the
embers
and
caught
on
the
new
261
wood.
As
he
breakfasted
on
rabbit
meat
and
a
mug
of
black
tea
he
greeted
the
sun
with
a
smile.
He
had
survived
his
phantoms
and
the
morning
had
brought
new
courage.
The
day
was
announced
formally
by
the
whip‐crack
cry
of
butcher
birds.
He
remembered
waking
to
their
shrill
calls
as
a
child,
and
he
looked
into
the
surrounding
trees
with
a
fondness
and
longing
for
that
past.
Simon
decided
to
spend
the
day
exploring
the
town.
It
intrigued
him
that
so
many
people,
all
with
hopes
and
dreams,
had
once
lived
here.
And
he,
like
a
god,
knew
their
future;
could
pick
it
over
with
dispassionate
leisure.
A
graveyard
of
bricks,
iron
and
broken
glass,
was
all
that
remained.
The
red
earth
had
promised
so
much
and
yielded
so
little.
He
knew
a
little
of
the
story.
Cumalong
had
been
a
sizable
town
with
boarding
houses,
hotels,
a
brewery,
and
even
wine
saloons.
Some
five
thousand
people
lived
there
at
its
height.
The
town
died
when
its
young
diggers
responded
to
the
call
of
a
dying
empire
and
left
for
the
Dardanelles,
for
France
and
for
Palestine—
places
which
for
most
would
have
been
nothing
more
than
names
on
schoolroom
maps.
But
they
marched
to
the
beat
of
a
British
drum
and
deposited
their
bones
and
dreams
on
foreign
soil,
while
a
young
country
deprived
of
its
best
and
bravest
tried
to
understand
why.
No
one
returned
to
Cumalong
and
those
who
had
lingered
finally
gave
up.
His
father
had
said
the
old‐
timers
called
the
place
IOU.
“—By
the
time
they
left,
the
ground
owed
them
all,
and
everybody
owed
each
other”.
Simon
was
squatting
on
the
water’s
edge,
rinsing
his
mug
and
dish
when
he
felt
an
intuitive
chill
down
his
spine.
This
time,
he
knew
he
was
not
alone.
He
stared
at
the
water
with
dread.
262
“Lovely
morning.
Going
to
be
a
nice
day—always
is
this
time
of
year.”
Simon
turned
and
slowly
stood.
There
was
an
old
woman
on
the
bank
smiling
toothlessly
down
at
him.
“Had
your
breakfast
I
see.
Pity.
I
was
going
to
invite
you
up.”
Simon
remained
mute.
“Well,
not
to
worry,”
she
continued.
“So!
Did
you
have
a
comfortable
night?
You’ve
picked
a
good
spot;
bit
of
shelter.”
She
nodded
in
approval.
“Where
did
you
come
from?”
he
asked.
His
voice
wavered
with
uncertainty
as
though
he
was
still
not
sure
whether
to
believe
his
eyes.
She
leaned
awkwardly
on
her
stick
to
twist
her
body
and
nod
in
the
direction
of
the
hill.
“Over
there.
Got
a
nice
little
place—I
was
born
there
you
know.”
Simon
stood
and
walked
slowly
up
the
bank.
He
towered
above
her.
She
was
as
diminutive
as
she
looked
frail.
“How
long
ago
was
that?”
he
asked,
incredulous.
“Eighty‐five
years—or
about
that
anyway.
I
stayed,
you
see.
Everybody
went,
but
I
stayed.
This
was
a
good
town.”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“I
don’t
believe
it.”
The
old
lady
chuckled.
“It’s
my
home.
When
you’ve
got
a
home
you
don’t
leave
just
because
others
do.”
Her
voice
rose
and
fell
with
the
uneven
pitch
of
old
age.
Sometimes
it
was
high,
excited,
and
then
it
fell,
becoming
gravely
and
wistful.
“When
I
was
a
girl
I
went
to
Perth—just
for
a
year.
My
mum
wanted
me
to
be
a
pianist.
We
had
a
piano
and
I
was
pretty
good—or
so
people
used
to
tell
me.
They
might
just
have
been
being
nice.”
Simon
glanced
at
the
gnarled
fingers
clutching
the
walking
stick.
263
“Ah,
but
it
was
terrible
there,
so
I
came
back.
It’s
nice
here.
Peaceful.
And
of
course
I’ve
got
my
goats—used
to
have
hundreds
once,
but
only
a
few
now.
Can’t
catch
the
little
ones
like
I
could—getting
old
you
know.”
Simon
remembered
the
stories
from
his
boyhood.
“You’re
the
goat
lady—you’re
real?”
She
waved
her
stick
at
him,
her
voice
rising
with
indignation.
“Of
course
I’m
real.
Do
you
think
I’d
be
here
if
I
wasn’t?
Bah,
you
young
blokes.
You’re
all
the
same.
I
knew
a
young
fellow
once,
nice
chap.
Married
him.
Ah,
he
was
going
to
show
me
the
world.
But
the
shaft
fell—
still
there
today
he
is,
but
I
don’t
visit
anymore.
Used
to
leave
flowers
every
spring,
but
they’d
blow
away
and
now
I
can’t
be
bothered—can’t
be
bothered.”
“I’m
sorry.”
“Hmmph.
Must
be
close
to
sixty
years
now.
Still,
at
least
he
stayed
young.
Not
like
me.
Look
at
this
leg.”
She
tapped
the
cast
with
her
stick.
It
was
ingrained
with
dirt.
“Arthritis.”
She
spat
into
the
sand
at
her
feet.
“Cruel
thing
sometimes
and
all
I
can
do
is
take
a
Disprin.
Still,
you’ve
got
to
expect
that
don’t
you
when
you’re
old?”
“My
name
is
Simon.”
She
nodded.
“The
young
Bradbury
chappie.”
Simon’s
eyebrows
shot
up.
“How
could
you
know
that?”
She
waved
the
stick
again.
“Oh—doesn’t
matter.
But
I
knew
you
would
come
back—been
expecting
you
really.”
Simon
smiled
disbelievingly.
“Impossible.”
She
just
chuckled.
“Ah
well—,”
and
let
him
wonder.
“Ada.
That’s
the
name
my
mother
gave
me,”
she
said
while
he
still
stared
at
her.
“You
use
it.
Would
you
like
to
see
the
town.
We
might
not
have
long
you
know.”
Simon
frowned.
Did
she
intend
suddenly
to
die?
“What
do
you
mean?”
264
“Well—they’ll
be
looking
for
you
won’t
they?”
“Who?”
“The
people
you’re
hiding
from.”
She
chuckled,
making
a
cackling
sound.
“Come
on.”
Simon
followed
obediently,
still
bemused.
He
found
it
difficult
at
first
to
walk
slow
enough
to
keep
pace
with
her
awkward
gait.
“My
dad
had
this
dam
built,
you
know—to
keep
the
dust
down.
With
everyone
digging
the
place
up—well,
you
can
imagine
the
dust.
Terrible
it
was.
My
mum
complained
most
and
dad
was
the
mayor
then
so
he
had
the
dam
built.
I
was
only
little,
but
I
remembered
when
we
planted
the
trees—the
willows
and
palms.
Arbor
Day
it
was.
Oh,
it
was
such
a
long
time
ago.
I
was
only
little.”
Simon
was
fascinated.
“Your
father
was
a
miner?”
Ada
shook
her
head.
“No,
no.
Ran
the
store—and
a
few
other
things.
Just
there—.”
She
pointed
towards
the
bottom
of
the
slope
they
were
climbing.
“Dad
had
a
gallon
licence—to
sell
beer
you
know,
and
a
gold
buyer’s
licence.
The
store
was
always
busy,
always
people
coming
in
and
out—and
they
all
owed
him
money.
He
sailed
all
the
way
from
England
and
died
a
poor
man
just
the
same.”
She
shook
her
head
as
if
she
still
didn’t
understand
it.
They
walked
slowly
through
the
skinny,
pale
salmon
gums
casting
string‐like
shadows
in
the
early
morning
sun,
until
Ada
stopped
on
the
rise
overlooking
the
site
of
the
town
centre.
Her
finger
pointed
from
left
to
right
and
back
again
as
she
spoke;
to
debris,
mounds
of
earth
and
patches
of
bare
ground.
But
in
her
mind
she
could
still
see
the
town
as
it
had
been.
“That’s
where
old
Mr
Cohen,
Jim,
had
the
hotel—
burned
down
and
he
took
over
the
butcher
shop
from
Jack
Curtis
and
moved
in
there.
I
was
twelve
when
the
265
hotel
burned
down.
Poor
old
fellow,
he
died—that
was
a
bit
later.
Well,
he
wouldn’t
go
to
the
doctor—wouldn’t
go,
and
he
was
always
complaining
about
his
throat.
“I
used
to
say
to
him,
‘Mr
Cohen
why
don’t
you
go
to
the
doctor
and
get
him
to
have
a
look?’
Bah—he
won’t
be
no
good
to
me,
he
used
to
say.
He
was
afraid,
you
see.
I
think
he
knew
it
was
the
cancer,
but
he
didn’t
want
anyone
to
tell
him—.
“Well
he
got
worse
and
worse
and
worse.
I
said
to
my
husband,
‘old
Jim’s
pretty
bad’
and
I
started
going
down
in
the
mornings
to
light
his
fire
for
him.
It
was
winter.
Oh,
the
wind
was
cruel.
I
went
down
one
morning
and
he
was
lying
in
a
trance,
just
making
strange
noises.
I
ran
to
the
store
to
telephone
the
ambulance
in
Kalgoorlie,
but
he
wouldn’t
go—managed
to
say
a
few
words
just
before
the
end.
Said
he
wanted
to
stay
put,
to
die
here—well
he
did—that
very
day.
He
was
a
nice
old
chap—I
think
he
might
have
been
Jewish—but
it
doesn’t
matter
now
does
it?
Would
you
like
a
cup
of
tea?
I
haven’t
had
one
yet.
The
day
doesn’t
seem
right
unless
it
starts
with
a
brew,
don’t
you
think?”
Simon
nodded.
“Yes.”
He
followed
her,
staring
into
the
distance
beyond
the
town
to
the
plain
stretching
out
in
mottled
reds
and
browns
and
grey‐greens.
A
purple
shadow
suggested
some
hills
far
away,
but
otherwise
the
earth
was
flat.
He
wondered
what
lay
beyond
the
horizon.
Just
rocks
and
plants
and
bush
animals?
Or
people
still?
Hiding;
waiting
for
modern
man
to
destroy
himself
with
his
conceit?
Waiting
for
the
time
when
it
would
be
safe
to
return
to
the
land
that
the
aliens
from
Europe
had
destroyed?
Ada
followed
his
gaze.
“Lovely
isn’t
it?
I
used
to
ride
a
horse,
bareback—loved
to
gallop
as
fast
as
we
could.
When
you’re
a
bit
scared
and
your
face
is
pressed
266
against
that
big,
strong
neck
and
you’re
flying
into
the
wind—you
know
you’re
alive—couldn’t
do
it
now
of
course.”
At
the
bottom
of
the
slope,
sheltered
from
the
desert
wind,
was
Ada’s
house.
A
simple
structure
of
asbestos
sheeting
capped
with
a
corrugated
iron
roof.
Its
outer
walls
were
piled
high
with
almost
a
century
of
accumulated
rubbish—bed
frames,
broken
furniture,
a
mountain
of
cardboard
boxes,
buckets,
drums
and
discarded
clothing.
“Like
a
Blacks’
camp”.
The
words
were
inside
his
head
before
he
could
suppress
them.
Ada
saw
his
look.
“Don’t
get
many
visitors,
so
I
can’t
be
bothered
anymore—can’t
be
bothered.”
Simon
said
nothing.
She
pushed
open
a
heavy
iron
door
and
fumbled
for
matches
to
light
a
smoke‐stained
kerosene
lamp
hanging
from
a
length
of
stiff
wire.
The
place
was
a
shambles.
He
banged
his
head
on
an
empty
bird
cage.
The
walls
were
piled
high
with
old
newspapers,
and
empty
cereal
packets.
Ada
slid
back
the
hatch
of
a
wood
stove
and
puffed
life
back
into
the
embers
then
thrust
a
fist
full
of
sticks
through
the
opening.
“It’ll
have
to
be
black—too
much
trouble
trying
to
keep
milk
fresh.”
“That’s
fine—so
how
long
have
you
been
here?”
“Like
I
said.
All
my
life.
Had
a
little
stone
and
wood
house
first,
but
the
rocks
started
to
fall
out
of
the
walls.
So
some
fellows
came
out
from
town
one
day
and
put
up
this
place.
But
that
was
thirty
years
ago,
you
know.
The
young
blokes
from
the
mines
still
call
in
to
see
I’m
okay
and
bring
me
things
from
town.
They’re
good
that
way—much
nicer
to
me
here
than
if
I
was
in
town.”
“Were
there
ever
any
Aborigines
here?”
The
old
woman
didn’t
reply
straight
away,
busy
wiping
two
chipped
enamel
mugs
with
a
cloth,
but
Simon
could
see
her
thinking.
267
“Before
my
time—there’s
a
place
where
quite
a
few
were
buried.
But
I
don’t
go
there.”
“They
were
murdered,
weren’t
they.”
“Well,
it’s
the
way
it
was.
They
would
have
been
in
the
way.”
The
priest
stared
at
the
feeble
flame
dancing
inside
the
lamp.
“All
this
land
and
it
still
wasn’t
enough
to
satisfy
settler
greed.”
Ada
watched
him
for
a
moment
then
handed
him
a
mug
with
a
tea
bag.
“Water
will
be
boiled
soon.
I
used
to
make
it
properly,
but
can’t
be
bothered
anymore.”
Ada
sat
on
the
only
chair,
thrusting
her
braced
leg
out
in
front.
Simon
sat
on
a
pile
of
newspapers.
The
old
woman
sighed.
“Of
course
it’s
not
over.
A
lot
of
sorrow
still
to
come.”
The
kettle
whistled
and
Simon
held
out
his
mug.
“What
do
you
mean?”
“Well,
we
took
this
place
and
then
felt
pretty
cocky
about
it
I’d
reckon.
But
they
didn’t
know
what
they
had
hurt—the
land
itself.
Well,
it
died
right
under
their
feet
didn’t
it?
That’s
what
happened
to
Cumalong.
‘Course
it’s
going
to
happen
everywhere.
It’s
in
the
papers
even—all
those
droughts
and
the
salt
and
everything.
But
nobody
understands
why.
Got
a
theory
for
everything
but
the
truth.
Bah!”
Ada
paused
to
sip
her
tea.
“Every
year
there
are
Cumalongs
dying
all
over
the
country.
We
should
have
learned,
but
if
we
don’t
understand
something
we
close
our
eyes—sit
on
the
beaches
in
our
cities
and
pretend
what’s
out
here
doesn’t
matter.
But
it’s
the
land
that’s
taking
revenge.
Nothing
can
save
you
if
you’ve
made
the
land
your
enemy.”
“I’d
like
to
see
the
town,”
Simon
said,
abruptly.
268
Ada
blinked,
startled
from
her
thoughts
and
made
an
impatient
clicking
sound.
“You
young
fellows—always
in
a
hurry.”
Simon
smiled.
“Well
it
was
you
who
said
I
might
not
have
much
time.”
She
grinned
crookedly.
“True
enough.
I
did
didn’t
I?”
She
slurped
from
the
cup
and
placed
it
on
the
table
among
the
plates
and
tins.
“Come
along
then.”
They
returned
to
the
top
of
the
slope,
followed
by
a
small
herd
of
goats.
Ada
rounded
on
them
and
waved
her
hand.
“You’ll
get
fed
when
I
come
back—now
shoosh.”
She
clapped
her
hands
and
they
scampered
a
short
distance
and
stopped,
watchful.
As
the
priest
and
the
old
woman
moved
down
into
the
town
Ada
pointed
to
a
flattened
area
cut
into
the
lower
slope
of
the
hill.
“This
was
the
school.
Mr
Greaves
was
our
teacher.
We
liked
Mr
Greaves
even
though
he
was
terribly,
terribly
hard
to
understand.
He
was
Scottish,
you
see.
But
he
went
to
the
war
and
the
government
closed
the
school.
Don’t
know
what
happened
to
him—we
never
heard.
Well,
that’s
when
I
got
sent
to
Perth
for
a
bit.
Mum
and
Dad
wanted
me
to
keep
going
with
the
piano—but
I
came
back.
I
remember
feeling
a
bit
sad—wondering
what
was
going
to
happen.
I
was
eighteen,
and
you
see
I
came
back
when
most
people
were
leaving.
But
it
was
home—this
hill,
and
I
met
my
husband.
Strange
how
things
turn
out
isn’t
it?”
They
walked
another
few
metres
and
Ada
stopped
again
and
laughed.
“Ha—the
dentist
was
here.
He
wasn’t
a
real
dentist,
but
he
pulled
out
people’s
teeth
for
them.
I
got
sent
to
him
one
day—ooh,
I’ll
never
forget
that
one.
He
sat
me
in
a
chair,
grabbed
the
tooth
with
a
pair
of
pliers
and
pulled.
I
hung
onto
that
chair
like
grim
death
I
269
can
tell
you—but
I
never
yelled.
I
knew
the
other
kids
were
outside
waiting
to
hear
me
yell.”
Little
by
little,
with
each
reflection,
with
each
memory
and
smile,
sometimes
with
a
chuckle
and
sometimes
with
a
sigh,
Ada
drew
Simon
back
in
time;
back
into
the
life
that
once
existed
in
the
vanished
town.
Simon
gazed
around
and
could
almost
see
the
streets
and
buildings
and
people;
hear
the
rattle
of
horses
and
carts,
of
people
calling
to
each
other,
children
yelling
as
they
scampered
through
the
dust,
and
diggers
stopping
to
yarn
or
trade.
The
mental
image
was
bright,
like
the
over‐exposed
tail
of
a
dream
disturbed
by
sunlight.
As
they
walked,
Ada
transformed
the
town
into
a
time
capsule
of
human
experience—loves
and
lovers,
hatreds,
fears,
greed,
follies,
melancholy,
joys
and
sorrow.
Men,
women
and
children;
alive
and
determined
in
this
lonely
place,
and
all
now
dust
in
the
ground.
In
the
last
decade
of
the
nineteenth
century
the
world’s
new
industrial
economies
had
suffered
badly,
plunging
millions
everywhere
into
urban
poverty.
The
lure
of
gold
brought
men
hundreds
and
sometimes
thousands
of
kilometres
across
land
they
did
not
understand.
Many
died
for
their
haste
and
lack
of
perception.
Not
far
from
Cumalong
the
entire
population
of
a
diggings
perished
because
the
water
cart
from
Kalgoorlie
broke
an
axle
and
was
a
week
late.
When
the
water
carriers
did
arrive
all
they
found
were
corpses—almost
a
hundred
people
dead
of
thirst,
while
all
around
birds
and
other
animals
drank
daily.
In
their
haste
to
steal
the
land
the
conquerors
failed
to
learn
its
secrets.
Yet
still
they
came.
On
horseback,
on
bicycles,
and
pushing
hand
carts.
All
confident
the
land
would
yield
up
their
fortunes.
They
scratched
and
burrowed
270
through
the
rock
of
their
promised
land,
and
many
did
little
more
than
excavate
their
own
tombs.
Even
now,
from
where
he
was
standing,
Simon
could
see
the
country
all
around
was
littered
with
thousands
of
shafts,
many
plummeting
thirty
metres
and
more—testimony
to
men’s
determination
with
pick
and
shovel.
Countless
never
returned
to
sunlight.
“Don’t
you
feel
sad
that
nothing
remains?”
Simon
asked.
Ada
shrugged.
“Well,
a
lot
of
the
people
I
knew
are
still
here,
you
know—over
in
the
cemetery.
That’s
still
here.
It’s
nice—I’ll
show
you.”
Clumping
along
on
her
braced
leg
she
led
Simon
awkwardly
away
from
the
town,
back
passed
the
dam
and
on
to
a
track
that
Ada
explained
was
once
a
road
which
led
to
another
town,
but
it
had
died
even
before
Cumalong.
They
walked
for
about
twenty
minutes
and
when
Ada
stopped
Simon
thought
she
was
merely
resting,
until
he
noticed
with
a
start
that
there
were
headstones
scattered
through
the
sparse
scrub.
Some
were
distinguished
with
ornate
marble
obelisks.
But
as
he
began
to
follow
her
along
the
irregular
rows
Simon
realised
that
the
great
majority
were
either
plain
wooden
crosses
with
no
inscriptions,
or
just
unmarked
mounds
of
earth.
Ada
stopped
at
the
foot
of
one
such
mound,
marked
only
with
pieces
of
white
quartz
arranged
in
the
shape
of
a
crucifix.
“Madame
Gabrielle—she
was
a
real
lady,
and
beautiful.
She
never
meant
to
stay,
and
look,
here
she
is
so
far
from
home.”
Simon
stared
at
the
grave.
It
was
just
hard
red
earth
covered
with
twigs
and
leaves.
“Who
was
she?”
271
“She
came
from
Paris,
a
governess
on
a
ship.
Fell
in
love
with
some
fellow
on
board
and
left
with
him
at
Fremantle
to
have
a
little
adventure
looking
for
gold.
I
was
just
a
girl
when
she
came,
but
I
remember
how
beautiful
she
always
looked.
It
was
terribly
sad.
The
man
was
killed
when
a
shaft
fell
in—just
like
my
husband.”
Ada’s
body
shook
as
she
struggled
under
the
memories.
“She
stayed
too.
She
used
to
tell
us
about
Paris,
how
beautiful
it
was
in
the
autumn—how
the
seasons
changed
there.
She
used
to
tell
us
all
her
friends
would
get
such
a
surprise
when
she
went
back.
But
she
never
did.
You
know,
apart
from
me
she
was
the
last
lady
in
Cumalong.
She
got
terribly
sick
one
day.
I
don’t
know
what
it
was,
but
she
was
dead
just
weeks
later.
I
sat
on
her
bed
and
we
both
cried
a
lot
before
she
died.
She
didn’t
want
to
die
here.”
Ada
stopped
and
turned
to
Simon.
“
‘Course
there’ll
be
no
one
to
sit
on
my
bed—I’m
the
only
one
left.”
They
moved
on,
Ada
pointing
occasionally
to
a
particular
grave.
“—That
chap
died
of
typhoid—and
that’s
the
O’Leary
girl.
She
was
only
fifteen
when
she
died.
We
had
the
day
off
school
for
the
funeral.
I
remember
following
the
cart—the
coffin
kept
bouncing,
which
made
some
of
the
kids
cry.”
Simon
stopped
in
front
of
a
particularly
grand
tombstone:
In
memory
of
John
Simpson
Born
Manchester
England,
1854
Died
Cumalong,
7
July
1900
‘And
they
shall
be
mine
sayeth
the
Lord
of
Hosts,
in
that
day
when
I
make
up
my
jewels
and
I
will
spare
them
as
272
a
man
spareth
his
own
son
that
serveth
him.’
The
day
was
advancing
and
the
first
gusts
of
warm
wind
moved
the
trees
to
murmur
sounds
of
comfort
to
these
abandoned
souls;
forgotten
in
the
space
of
a
single
lifetime
in
the
hasty
retreat
from
the
mysterious,
uncompromising
hinterland.
James
R.
Henderson
Accidentally
killed
6
April
1900
‘Flesh
may
perish,
but
true
friendship
will
endure’
Erected
by
his
mates.
Some
graves
were
marked
with
steel
spikes
and
metal
tags.
Most
had
corroded
so
the
names
were
no
longer
readable.
When
the
wind
gusted
the
tags
rattled
against
the
spikes.
It
was
as
though
the
ghosts
themselves
were
trying
to
attract
attention—calling
to
the
unexpected
visitor;
asking
him
to
pause
by
the
graves
and
wonder,
just
for
a
moment,
about
the
lives
that
had
been
as
real
as
his.
*
The
clubhouse
thrummed
with
talk
and
laughter.
Overhead
the
blades
of
ceilings
fans,
great
slabs
of
copper‐edged
wood,
beat
the
smoky
air
in
slow,
measured
turns.
Bishop
MacNamara
was
sitting
among
flushed
jowls
and
receding
hairlines.
He
had
balanced
his
chair
back
on
two
legs
and
was
laughing
at
a
joke.
A
swaying
body
brushed
the
table,
fat
hands
wrapped
around
a
cluster
of
dripping
beer
glasses
as
a
man
273
steered
an
unnerving
route
towards
a
distant
gathering.
He
grinned
down
at
the
bishop.
“Good
day?”
“Ninety—ruined
the
last.
Triple
bogey.”
“No
trophy
balls
for
you
then.”
MacNamara
grinned
at
his
companions.
“Fat
lot
of
good
they’d
be
to
me,
eh?”
The
table
erupted,
full
of
beer
and
cheer.
They
shook
their
heads,
they
grinned
and
laughed;
heartened
by
the
ordinariness
of
the
man
who
on
other
days
wielded
the
authority
of
God.
The
man
with
the
drinks
moved
on.
His
space
was
filled
by
an
obsequious
bar
attendant.
“Phone,
Your
Grace.”
The
Bishop
looked
up,
his
eyes
bright.
“What’s
that?”
The
barman
made
a
handpiece
from
his
thumb
and
small
finger
and
held
it
to
the
side
of
his
face.
“Who
it
is?”
“Your
office—said
it
was
important,
sir.”
MacNamara
grimaced.
“All
right.”
The
phone
was
in
a
semi‐private
booth.
He
pulled
the
wood‐panelled
door
behind
his
back
and
picked
up
the
receiver.
“MacNamara!”
It
was
his
secretary.
“Sorry
to
disturb
you,
Your
Grace,
but
I
thought
you
would
want
to
know—.”
“Yes?”
“Simon
Bradbury
has
disappeared.”
*
Simon
spent
his
second
full
day
at
Cumalong
exploring
the
surrounding
bush.
He
followed
the
remains
of
a
track
which
led
to
a
low
mound
of
half‐
buried
bricks.
The
shell
of
an
old
boiler,
now
almost
rusted
through,
rested
on
a
crumbling
wall.
There
were
274
dozens
of
green
and
brown
bottles
scattered
on
the
ground
and
he
wondered
if
this
was
where
the
brewery
had
been.
Simon
walked
through
the
bush
in
a
wide
arc
back
towards
the
dam.
Some
distance
from
the
brewery
he
stepped
into
a
clearing
of
flat,
hardened
earth.
The
lower
section
of
a
brick
chimney
marked
where
a
house
had
been.
Simon
stood
still
and
absorbed
the
silence
that
now
owned
the
space
that
had
once
been
filled
by
people
busy
with
living.
He
scratched
at
the
ground
with
a
stick,
and
then
on
a
whim
poked
the
branch
up
into
what
was
left
of
the
chimney.
A
rusted
metal
container
dropped
from
an
unseen
ledge
and
split
open
at
his
feet.
Surprised
and
excited,
he
knelt
down,
carefully
brushed
the
flakes
of
rust
with
his
fingers
and
lifted
a
locket
and
chain
that
looked
and
felt
like
gold.
He
blew
away
the
dust.
Age
had
not
dulled
its
beauty.
He
prised
it
open
and
exposed
the
face
of
a
young
woman.
Simon
searched
for
an
inscription,
a
name,
but
there
was
nothing.
Her
hair
was
pinned
high
and
she
was
smiling
happily.
What
illicit
affection
had
required
her
image
to
be
hidden?
She
looked
to
be
nineteen
or
twenty;
it
was
hard
to
say.
He
wondered
if
she
had
left
Cumalong
when
still
young,
to
live
and
die
in
another
place,
or
did
she
go
to
the
grave
here,
an
old
woman,
wizened
by
motherhood,
age
and
the
desert
winds?
He
decided
it
didn’t
matter
because
he
had
now
made
her
young
again.
He
touched
the
image
with
his
finger,
bonding
himself
with
this
life
from
another
time.
Perhaps
Ada
could
give
him
a
name.
Simon
spent
the
rest
of
the
day
by
the
dam.
In
the
late
afternoon
he
was
boiling
water
when
he
heard
the
now
familiar
clump
of
Ada’s
braced
leg.
He
stood
to
meet
her,
glad
to
have
her
company.
But
something
was
wrong.
She
was
trying
to
hurry
and
she
carried
a
small
bundle.
275
Simon
started
walking
towards
her,
but
she
waved
him
back.
“Well
young
man—like
I
thought,
I
think
your
friends
have
arrived.”
Simon
stood
still.
“What
do
you
mean?”
“Two
motor
cars,
one
of
them
a
police
wagon—
stopped
on
the
main
road.
Three
fellows
looking
at
a
map.”
“Why
should
they
be
searching
for
me?”
He
tried
to
keep
his
voice
level.
Ada
chuckled.
“One
of
them—heavy
fellow,
no
hair,
called
your
name
a
couple
of
times—oh,
and
he’s
a
priest.”
Simon
closed
his
eyes.
“Troughton,”
he
whispered
with
undisguised
despair.
“He’s
not
a
friend
then?”
“No.
The
Bishop’s
errand
boy.
I’m
a
priest.”
Ada
grinned.
“I
know—it’s
in
the
paper.”
She
opened
the
small
cloth
bag
she
was
carrying
and
pulled
out
the
torn
page
of
a
newspaper.
“One
of
the
young
mine
fellows
left
the
paper
with
some
groceries.”
Simon
snatched
it
from
her
and
found
the
short
item
among
the
news
briefs.
He
scanned
through
it
quickly;
essentially
a
missing
persons
report,
with
the
added
mystery
of
the
discovery
of
his
car
at
the
Kalgoorlie
presbytery
and
a
miner
claiming
he
had
picked
up
a
hitchhiker
fitting
the
priest’s
description.
Simon
had
not
considered
this.
This
was
not
how
he
wanted
to
return;
with
a
police
escort
and
a
blaze
of
publicity.
“What
do
they
think
they’re
doing?”
he
murmured.
There
was
panic
in
his
voice.
“I
can’t
go
back—not
like
this.”
He
faced
Ada.
“I
just
wanted
a
few
days’
peace.
276
She
looked
at
him
steadily.
“Well,
you’d
better
decide
quick.
It’ll
be
dark
in
half
an
hour.
If
they
decide
to
look
around
while
it’s
light
they’ll
be
here
in
minutes.”
Simon
looked
around
in
panic.
“They’ll
find
the
fire.
Even
if
I
hide
they’ll
find
me
tomorrow,
and
it
will
be
worse.
How
will
I
explain
myself?”
“Come
on.
When
I
said
you’d
better
be
quick,
I
meant
it.”
She
nodded
towards
the
distant
horizon.
“That’s
the
place
for
you—the
last
place
on
earth
where
a
man
can
lose
himself
for
long
enough.”
“Long
enough
for
what?”
Ada
pushed
the
cloth
bag
into
his
hands.
“Isn’t
that
what
you’ve
come
to
find
out?
Here,
sandwiches
and
a
damper
to
get
you
started.
After
that,
everything
is
up
to
you—everything.”
Simon
shook
his
head,
both
panicked
and
bewildered.
“I
don’t
know.”
The
woman
became
agitated
with
impatience.
“Go
on,
you
can’t
stay
here—you’ve
worked
that
out
already.”
Simon
hurriedly
jammed
his
gear
into
the
backpack,
along
with
Ada’s
food.
He
started
to
fold
his
blanket,
but
it
was
taking
too
long.
He
tossed
it
into
the
deepening
shadows
beneath
the
trees.
“This
is
crazy—absolutely
crazy,”
he
muttered.
“Which
way?”
he
asked
desperately.
“East.
Cross
Lake
Yindarlgooda—it’s
mostly
dry,
but
watch
the
cockatoos.
They’re
never
too
far
from
water.
There’s
good
country
on
the
other
side.
It’ll
take
a
few
days,
but
will
do
you
good.”
Simon
stalled.
“This
is
ridiculous.”
Ada
jabbed
a
finger
into
his
chest.
“You
go
back
now
and
everything
you
ever
do
or
say
will
be
laughed
at
because
you
quit
before
learning
anything;
before
finding
a
new
way
to
be
strong.
Is
that
what
you
want?”
277
The
sound
of
a
car
engine
carried
to
them
through
the
still
evening
air.
He
raised
his
hands
pleadingly,
but
knew
she
was
right.
Using
the
dam
as
cover
he
jogged
across
the
bare
ground
to
the
nearest
trees,
close
to
where
he
had
set
the
snare,
and
steadied
to
a
fast
walk
through
the
scrub
in
the
direction
he
knew
to
be
roughly
east.
He
would
not
be
able
to
take
an
accurate
bearing
until
night
when
he
could
use
the
Southern
Cross
constellation.
Behind
him
the
car
engine
grew
louder
as
it
approached
the
dam.
He
passed
the
cemetery,
every
shadow
a
hostile
presence.
He
began
to
run.
The
sergeant
trotted
back
down
the
bank
and
sounded
his
car
horn.
In
less
than
a
minute
the
other
vehicle
was
at
the
dam.
“We’ve
found
your
man—or
at
least
someone,”
he
said
as
Troughton
got
out
of
his
hire
car.
The
local
priest,
Father
Doyle,
was
also
there,
but
remained
inside
the
vehicle
his
face
impassive.
“His
fire’s
still
burning
so
he
can’t
be
far.”
Troughton
hurried
up
the
sloping
bank
to
the
grotto,
but
there
was
nothing
to
identify
its
recent
occupant.
“Well,
let’s
go—let’s
get
it
over
with.”
The
sergeant
shook
his
head.
“Better
we
come
back
tomorrow.
Looks
like
he’s
heard
us
and
run,
but
he
won’t
get
far
tonight.
We’ll
use
a
chopper.
It’s
pretty
sparse
out
there.
Should
pick
him
up
easy
enough.”
The
priest
faced
the
policeman.
“Dan
you
know
how
it
is.
The
Bishop
wants
that
idiot
in
before
it’s
front
page
news?”
The
sergeant
stood
his
ground.
“It
will
be
dark
in
half
an
hour.
We
won’t
find
him
tonight
and
nor
will
anybody
else.
Besides,
I
still
don’t
know
how
you
can
be
278
so
sure
it’s
your
man—a
pretty
odd
way
for
a
priest
to
behave.”
“Let’s
just
say
he’s
got
form.
It’s
the
sort
of
thing
he
would
do—go
bush
to
find
himself,
and
just
get
lost.”
He
stepped
closer
to
the
policeman.
“The
Bishop
has
a
special
interest
in
this
one.”
The
sergeant
shrugged.
“You’ll
have
him
tomorrow
morning.”
Troughton
placed
his
hand
amicably
on
the
policeman’s
shoulder.
“Good.”
He
turned
and
was
walking
towards
his
car
and
the
waiting
local
cleric
when
the
sergeant
called
after
him.
“Wait
on.
There’s
someone
here
who
might
know
something.”
Ada
had
only
just
lit
her
lamp
when
she
heard
the
cars
crunch
on
the
gravel
outside.
The
sergeant
called:
“Mrs
Evans!”
She
stepped
outside
and
leaned
wearily
on
her
stick
and
smiled.
“Visitors—they
always
know
when
it’s
dinner
time.”
The
policeman
smiled.
“Just
thought
you
might
be
able
to
help
us.
We’re
looking
for
a
man—and
someone’s
been
camping
at
the
old
dam.”
Troughton
approached
and
stood
beside
the
sergeant.
Ada
smiled
and
nodded
at
his
collar.
“A
gentleman
of
the
church—are
we
expecting
a
funeral?
You
always
do
when
you’re
my
age.”
Troughton
stepped
closer,
impatient.
“Did
you
see
this
man?
Did
he
say
anything
to
you?”
Ada
shook
her
head
and
smiled.
“Why
don’t
I
make
a
pot
of
tea,
before
you
go
back
to
the
city.”
Troughton
studied
her.
“So
you
know
what
we’re
talking
about.”
279
The
woman
smiled,
enjoying
the
moment.
“Forget
him.
He’s
gone
where
there’s
no
road
home.”
Simon
ran
until
his
lungs
and
the
light
forced
him
to
ease
up.
As
the
night
went
from
grey
to
black
he
slowed
to
a
walk,
suspicious
of
any
sudden
rise
that
might
be
the
mullock
heap
surrounding
a
shaft.
His
arms
and
face
had
been
scratched
by
scrub
and
were
beginning
to
sting,
but
he
pushed
on.
He
was
sure
they
would
come
after
him
in
the
morning.
His
flight
had
now
compounded
the
hopelessness
of
his
position.
To
be
caught
now
by
a
police
search
party
would
bring
irreparable
disgrace.
He
walked
for
about
another
hour
until
the
bush
began
to
thin
again
and
there
was
something
disturbingly
familiar
about
the
shadowy
landscape.
He
continued
on
cautiously.
A
breeze
gusted
through
the
trees
and
suddenly
he
heard
the
rattle
of
metal.
He
pressed
a
hand
into
his
face
and
swore.
He
had
turned
a
full
circle
and
was
back
in
the
cemetery.
He
stood
still,
listening.
There
was
nothing
but
the
ripple
of
leaves
and
click
of
metal
tags.
The
cicadas
had
yet
to
start
their
evening
song—or
perhaps
they
didn’t
sing
in
this
place?
Simon
peered
into
the
sky.
It
was
too
early
still
for
the
Southern
Cross.
He
slowed
his
breathing
and
forced
himself
to
think.
He
tried
to
picture
the
layout
of
the
town.
It
was
no
good.
He
turned
around.
There
was
a
faint
glow
on
the
horizon
behind
his
back
and
he
cursed
his
earlier
haste.
There
was
just
a
hint
of
setting
sun
reflecting
on
distant
clouds,
but
it
was
enough
to
show
him
the
direction
of
the
western
horizon.
He
faced
the
glow
then
put
one
foot
behind
the
other
and
carefully
turned
one
hundred
and
eighty
degrees.
“Right—let’s
280
try
again,”
he
muttered
quietly.
He
set
off,
eastwards,
at
a
steady,
determined
walk,
doing
his
best
to
pick
out
features
with
which
to
stay
in
a
straight
line.
About
two
hours
later
he
felt
himself
climbing
a
low
hill
and
was
confident
he
had
kept
to
a
rough
easterly
direction.
Shortly
after,
the
Southern
Cross
rose
above
the
shapeless
shadows
of
the
foliage
and
he
stopped
to
take
a
reading.
He
stared
at
the
constellation
and
its
two
pointer
stars,
digging
deep
into
his
boyhood
memory.
The
pointers
seemed
to
be
in
a
different
position
to
how
he
remembered
them,
but
he
didn’t
have
much
choice.
He
used
the
stars
to
show
him
due
south,
then
kneeling,
he
made
a
north‐south
mark
in
the
sand
with
his
finger.
Under
the
light
of
the
cigarette
lighter,
he
bisected
the
mark
to
form
an
west‐east
line.
He
adjusted
his
bearing
according
to
this
crude
compass,
hoisted
the
pack
onto
his
shoulder
and
set
off
again.
Simon
continued
through
the
night,
stopping
occasionally
to
check
his
bearing.
Gradually
he
became
aware
of
the
bush
thinning
and
realised
it
was
something
he
would
have
to
watch
because
he
would
need
cover
for
the
day.
By
the
time
the
sky
started
to
lighten,
Simon
was
exhausted.
He
curled
up
against
a
clump
of
spinifex.
He
slept
fitfully
for
about
three
hours
before
the
sun
on
his
face
woke
him.
His
body
was
stiff
and
sore
and
he
guessed
it
was
about
eight
o’clock.
He
sat
up
and
drank
from
the
water
bottle.
He
had
no
idea
where
he
was,
but
again
wondered
if
it
really
mattered,
considering
he
didn’t
actually
know
where
he
was
going.
He
decided
he
would
walk
east
for
two
days,
find
water
and
lie
low
for
a
few
more
days,
then
return.
An
adventure,
he
reminded
himself.
“Who’s
kidding
who?”
probed
a
voice.
“A
brief
desert
sojourn,”
he
replied
to
himself.
As
long
as
he
maintained
a
reasonable
east‐west
course
he
281
reasoned
the
return
leg
would
bring
him
back
close
to
Cumalong—certainly
to
a
road,
a
mine,
a
property
or
other
feature
which
would
lead
him
back
to
the
world
he
was
leaving
for
a
short
while.
“A
personal
retreat.”
That’s
what
he
would
tell
them.
“A
time
out
for
private
meditation—a
cleansing
wilderness
excursion—regrettably
unaware
that
anybody
had
been
looking
for
him.”
Besides,
it
was
hardly
new;
Christ
himself,
and
John
the
Baptist—or
John
the
Bushman,
as
Isaac
had
so
aptly
described
the
prophet.
Both
had
used
the
desert
to
test
and
strengthen
their
faith.
Yes—that’s
what
he
would
say.
“They
might
ask
me
to
write
about
it,”
he
mused,
and
he
started
framing
an
argument
that
in
fitted
his
odyssey
to
the
sort
of
experience
a
university
chaplain
should
have.
His
confidence
strengthened.
Yes,
MacNamara
would
criticise
his
irresponsibility.
But
this
would
pass.
He
stared
out
at
the
red
sand
and
spinifex
rolling
away
from
him
in
every
direction.
But
what
would
have
changed?
How
would
a
week’s
mad
abandon
make
his
life
as
a
priest
bearable?
He
walked
to
a
ridge
to
scan
the
land
he
had
traversed
during
the
night.
If
any
vehicles
were
following
he
would
see
their
dust.
The
horizon
was
empty.
On
the
low
ridge
he
could
feel
the
wind
gusting
quite
strongly.
It
was
unpleasant,
but
would
erase
his
tracks.
Having
stopped
in
a
small
depression
between
two
sandy
ridges,
Simon
decided
to
stay
a
while,
out
of
the
wind
and
invisible
to
anybody
unless
they
stumbled
on
top
of
him.
He
returned
to
the
bushes
and
pushed
his
body
deeper
into
their
meagre
shade.
He
ate
some
of
Ada’s
damper,
then
using
his
pack
as
a
pillow
drifted
back
into
a
restless
slumber.
Troughton
watched
the
ground
drop
away
as
the
two‐man
helicopter
lifted.
The
aircraft
seemed
to
be
282
vibrating
excessively,
but
the
pilot
looked
unconcerned.
The
plan
was
to
make
sweeping
arcs
in
a
north
and
easterly
direction
out
from
Cumalong.
When
Simon
was
found,
the
map
references
would
be
radioed
to
the
sergeant
who
would
follow
in
a
vehicle.
“Hear
me
okay?”
The
voice
jumped
inside
his
head.
Troughton
turned
to
the
pilot
and
nodded.
Below
him
the
view
was
quite
marvellous
and
his
mood
lightened
fractionally.
He
was
sure
a
man
on
the
run
would
be
easily
sighted.
And
the
sooner
the
better.
He
didn’t
like
being
out
in
this
country.
To
him
it
was
empty
and
lifeless,
a
terrain
fit
only
for
savages—and
even
they
were
now
gone.
What
drew
Bradbury
to
it,
God
alone
knew,
but
this
was
the
last
straw.
He
was
fed
up
with
being
sent
out
to
godforsaken
outposts
to
haul
him
back
to
MacNamara.
If
it
was
his
decision
he
would
have
agreed
with
the
old
lady
and
left
Bradbury
to
the
desert.
He
had
hinted
as
much
to
the
Bishop
the
previous
night
when
they
talked
on
the
phone,
but
MacNamara
had
been
insistent.
It
was
his
duty,
he
had
said.
Troughton
had
said
nothing,
knowing
Bradbury’s
only
real
value
to
him
was
his
influence
with
the
Redmond
people.
Simon
awoke
to
a
noise.
He
knew
the
sound
well
enough
and
tried
to
ascertain
the
machine’s
location
before
moving,
but
it
was
impossible.
Lying
still
Simon’s
eyes
strained
as
he
tried
to
increase
his
field
of
view
beyond
the
gaps
in
the
bushes
immediately
before
his
face.
The
noise
of
the
helicopter
was
so
loud.
He
pressed
himself
to
the
ground.
Would
the
trees
and
bush
be
enough
to
hide
him?
He
held
his
breath,
waiting.
The
staccato
thudding
increased,
then
moved
away.
Simon
counted
to
twenty
then
cautiously
looked
around.
The
sky
was
empty.
He
crawled
to
the
lip
of
the
sand
drift
and
could
see
the
helicopter
in
the
distance.
283
Suddenly
the
machine
was
growing
in
size
again.
He
scrambled
back
to
the
bushes
and
curled
himself
into
a
ball
beside
his
pack.
The
cattle‐mustering
machine
roared
overhead,
the
downdraft
punching
into
the
hollow.
Sand
and
dust
swirled
and
choked
the
air,
and
then
just
as
quickly
as
it
arrived,
it
was
gone.
Simon
breathed
out
slowly.
It
took
half
an
hour
for
the
aircraft’s
search
pattern
to
take
it
from
sight.
He
guessed
the
time
to
be
about
midday.
The
air
was
hot,
the
sand
beginning
to
burn.
He
sipped
from
his
flask,
realising
that
tomorrow
he
would
have
to
find
more
water.
“We’re
going
to
have
to
go
back
and
refuel.”
Troughton
nodded.
He
was
disappointed.
He’d
expected
to
find
Bradbury
by
now.
“The
man
must
think
like
a
black
too,”
he
thought
with
annoyance.
They
continued
the
search
in
the
afternoon,
without
success.
Later
the
three
men
stared
at
the
map
spread
flat
over
the
bonnet
of
the
police
vehicle.
The
sergeant
was
shaking
his
head.
“He
must
have
laid
up—that’s
the
only
way
we
could
have
missed
him.”
Troughton
glared
at
the
chart,
as
though
it
had
betrayed
them.
The
pilot
asked
why
they
were
so
sure
they
were
looking
in
the
right
direction.
The
sergeant
looked
at
the
priest,
who
gazed
into
the
trees,
making
it
clear
it
was
the
policeman’s
responsibility.
The
hows
and
whys
did
not
concern
him.
He
just
wanted
a
quick
result.
“Well—,”
explained
the
sergeant.
“South
doesn’t
make
much
sense,
seeing
he’s
come
from
that
direction,
and
west
would
run
him
into
too
many
mining
camps.
So
we
figured
north
or
east
the
only
go.”
It
had
been
a
long,
boring
day
and
he
was
tiring
of
the
priest’s
refusal
284
to
allow
a
full‐scale
search.
To
the
sergeant
a
man’s
life
was
at
stake,
not
some
exercise
in
psychological
brinkmanship.
He
didn’t
understand
what
was
going
on
or
why
the
man
on
the
ground
was
trying
to
evade
them.
It
was
all
very
strange,
and
having
failed
to
find
him
in
what
was
sparse
country,
the
policeman
was
also
beginning
to
suspect
that
the
man
they
were
chasing
understood
the
land
more
than
he
had
been
led
to
believe.
“Then
we’ve
gone
right
over
the
top
of
him,”
said
the
pilot.
“We
went
much
further
than
he
could
have
walked.”
They
all
nodded.
“Do
you
want
me
to
bring
in
more
men?”
asked
the
sergeant.
Troughton
shook
his
head.
“The
Bishop
doesn’t
want
any
publicity.
How
far
could
he
have
walked
by
this
time
tomorrow?”
The
policeman
stared
at
the
map
and
drummed
his
fingers
with
frustration.
“Hmm—
fifty
kilometres
maximum,
but
more
like
forty.
That’s
if
he’s
only
walking
at
night,
as
it
now
looks.”
“Then
tomorrow
morning
we
start
at
forty
and
work
our
way
back
in
the
helicopter,
while
you
see
if
you
can
find
any
sign
on
the
ground.”
The
policeman
agreed,
“He’ll
be
getting
thirsty
too.
That
might
bring
him
into
the
open.”
Simon
waited
until
dusk
before
he
continued
to
travel,
picking
out
distant
rocks
and
bushes
to
hold
his
course.
During
the
night
the
terrain
became
flatter
and
the
ground
harder.
He
sensed
he
had
entered
the
bed
of
the
dry
lake
which
Ada
had
spoken
of.
His
compass
of
stars
guided
him
for
about
four
hours,
then
the
sky
clouded
over.
Shortly
afterwards,
in
the
distance,
there
285
was
lightning
in
the
sky
and
a
rumble
of
thunder
rolled
across
the
earth.
Simon
sat
on
a
boulder
and
watched
the
distant
electrical
storm,
while
he
ate
half
of
a
sandwich.
He
was
desperately
thirsty
but
refrained
from
drinking,
knowing
he
would
need
the
water
during
the
day.
The
distant
storm
raged,
searing
the
sky
with
great
flashes
of
orange
and
purple.
He
was
sure
he
could
even
smell
it—there
was
something
in
the
breeze
which
smelled
different—fresh
and
damp.
By
mid‐morning,
tormented
by
thirst,
he
greedily
finished
the
last
of
his
water.
“Look
for
the
cockatoos,”
Ada
had
told
him.
He
craned
his
neck,
but
the
sky
was
empty
of
life.
In
the
distance
a
dark
curtain
still
marked
the
path
of
the
storm.
But
it
was
moving
away
from
him.
Directly
above
the
sky
was
glassy
and
white.
He
pushed
on,
stopping
periodically
to
trace
in
the
sand
the
direction
of
a
shadow
cast
by
a
stick
or
stone
to
give
him
an
east‐west
line.
In
the
distance
Simon
could
now
see
the
top
of
a
line
of
hills
and
if
there
were
hills
and
rocks,
there
should
be
water,
especially
if
it
had
rained.
At
midday
he
heard
the
helicopter,
far
off
to
his
right,
to
the
south‐east.
He
stopped
walking
and
waited,
pushing
aside
the
sudden
temptation
to
stand
and
yell,
to
be
found
just
so
he
could
have
a
drink.
The
sound
seemed
to
linger
for
ages.
Once
or
twice
he
imagined
it
was
nearing,
but
then
the
sound
faded
again.
It
occurred
to
him
that
if
the
machine
was
following
an
easterly
line
out
from
Cumalong
then
he
had
drifted
much
further
north
than
he
had
expected.
Again,
he
wondered
if
it
really
mattered.
Twice
more
he
heard
the
machine,
but
it
remained
far
off
and
out
of
sight.
Nonetheless
he
didn’t
start
walking
again
until
dusk,
by
which
time
the
searchers
seemed
to
have
given
up
or
gone
elsewhere.
He
was
only
partly
relieved.
He
was
desperately
thirsty
286
and
knew
that
if
it
had
been
the
height
of
summer
he
would
by
now
be
facing
a
terrible
death.
The
Bishop
threw
the
newspaper
onto
the
table
and
angrily
faced
Troughton
and
the
sergeant
who
had
returned
to
the
Kalgoorlie
presbytery.
News
of
the
search
had
leaked
out,
prompting
MacNamara
to
fly
from
Perth
to
be
on
the
scene.
“This
is
what
you
call
keeping
the
lid
on
things,
is
it?
This
story
about
a
‘fugitive’
priest?”
The
sergeant
shrugged.
“They
must
have
got
it
from
Perth—I
have
to
report,
you
know.
Anyway,
it’s
pretty
vague
still,”
he
added
hopefully.
MacNamara
turned
his
back
on
the
pair
and
walked
to
the
window,
his
hands
clasped
behind
his
back.
Below
him
the
sun‐washed
street
was
an
ugly
vista.
Everything
was
coated
with
red
dust.
God,
how
he
hated
this
country.
What
misfortune
he
had
suffered
to
have
spent
a
lifetime
here.
The
authority
and
prestige
of
his
post
deserted
him
in
quiet
moments,
when
he
sensed
it
was
all
a
mirage.
He
was
just
Ted
MacNamara,
a
shy
Irish
kid
just
like
the
young
Bradbury
he
had
known
and
nurtured.
His
dream
of
a
Catholic
university,
a
holy
institution
that
would
become
the
scholastic
font
of
this
hybrid
nation,
was
his
hope
of
personal
salvation
in
a
church
that
had
strayed
from
his
grasp.
If
only
Simon
could
share
the
vision.
But
Simon
had
become
a
doubter.
That,
above
all,
was
his
secret
fear:
that
the
boy
he
had
nurtured
would
abandon
and
betray
him
too.
He
closed
his
eyes
to
the
dusty
street.
How
nice
it
would
be
to
look
out
upon
an
Irish‐green
lawn.
Perhaps
he
should
desist
while
he
had
the
chance;
retire.
He
could
visit
Rome,
take
time
again
to
enjoy
intellectual
company,
touch
exquisite
artworks,
stroll
in
contemplation
through
the
museums,
accepting
the
287
little
gestures
of
respect
which
would
be
extended
in
recognition
of
his
rank
and
life‐long
commitment.
He
pictured
the
ornamental
gardens
flanking
the
Pontifical
Academy
of
Sciences
and
sighed
deeply
at
the
memory.
A
young
man
buttoned
inside
black
cloth,
head
bent
to
an
open
book
under
a
mild
autumn
sun.
There
had
been
so
much
to
learn
and
do,
but
the
fervour
which
had
clasped
his
heart
had
drawn
him
to
a
far‐away
ministry
because
that
is
what
he
had
believed
to
be
his
calling.
Now
what
did
he
believe
in?
He
shrugged
inwardly.
It
had
been
a
long
time
since
he
had
applied
the
word
to
himself.
That
was
the
trouble
with
this
place,
and,
by
comparison,
so
compelling
about
the
Vatican.
It
evoked
a
sense
of
daily
mission.
Every
idea,
every
ritual,
every
chore,
task
and
prayer
counted
for
something.
The
results
could
be
seen.
Not
like
here,
where
the
tread
of
civilized
man
was
obliterated
in
moments
by
a
wind
blowing
in
from
hell
itself.
He
turned
back
to
Troughton
and
the
sergeant.
“He
is
a
priest.
He
can’t
have
crawled
into
a
hole.
Find
him.
For
me!”
Simon
began
to
think
of
death.
His
tongue
felt
like
a
lump
of
swollen
leather.
His
thoughts
swung
between
a
calm
acceptance
of
his
fate,
and
panic.
A
terrible
sense
of
loneliness
began
to
shadow
him.
In
the
distance
he
could
see
a
small
hill
and
he
decided
that
would
be
his
destination.
As
he
neared,
the
knoll
grew
into
a
low
outcrop
of
rock;
an
island
in
the
middle
of
a
waterless
sea
stretching
to
the
sky.
It
had
trees
and
his
heart
moved
a
little
faster.
When
closer
still
he
could
see
birds—cockatoos,
and
he
grinned
in
defiance
of
the
soreness
around
his
mouth.
288
Water
was
his
only
thought
and
as
he
began
to
climb
the
slope
he
scoured
the
rocks
for
openings.
He
dropped
a
pebble
into
the
first
crevice
and
heard
a
faint
plop.
He
dumped
the
pack,
removed
the
locket
from
his
pocket,
then
stripped
the
shirt
from
his
back
and
shook
it
roughly
to
loosen
the
dust.
He
tied
the
trace
wire
to
a
sleeve
then
pushed
the
material
deep
into
the
hole
with
a
stick.
He
counted
to
sixty,
offered
a
silent
prayer
and
using
the
wire
carefully
retrieved
the
shirt.
The
bottom
was
sodden.
He
opened
his
parched
lips
and
hungrily
squeezed
the
water
onto
his
dried‐up
tongue.
Simon
rested
before
repeating
the
procedure
until
he
had
collected
enough
water
to
fill
his
billy.
He
explored
the
outcrop
and
found
on
the
opposite
side
a
thicket
of
spindly,
pale
grey
trees.
There
was
enough
shade
from
these
and
a
rock
ledge
for
a
passable
campsite.
He
lay
beside
his
pack
and
slept.
Simon
awoke
about
mid‐afternoon
to
the
buzz
of
bush
flies.
He
swatted
them
with
his
hat
and
listened
for
the
helicopter.
His
world,
however,
was
silent,
save
for
his
buzzing
company.
Tonight
he
would
set
another
snare,
and
feast.
If
there
was
water
in
the
rocks
there
would
be
animals—perhaps
even
wallabies.
The
way
he
felt,
he
could
even
happily
roast
a
cockatoo.
He
would
make
some
damper
with
his
remaining
flour.
John
the
Baptist
had
lived
off
locusts
and
honey.
Here,
by
comparison,
was
a
place
of
bounty.
He
relaxed
and
began
to
even
feel
happy.
Simon
Bradbury,
the
man
and
the
priest,
was
still
alive.
With
luck,
he
reasoned,
he
could
just
stay
where
he
was
for
a
few
days.
He
opened
the
clasp
of
the
locket.
The
woman
smiled
at
him.
He
wished
he
knew
her
name.
“But
then
if
I
know
not
your
name
no
other
memories
can
I
disturb,”
he
murmured.
He
gently
closed
the
piece
and
returned
it
to
his
pocket.
289
Simon
looked
out
over
the
lake
bed
extending
beyond
the
outcrop.
Flat
red
earth
scattered
with
mallee
and
mulga
trees
and
spinifex.
It
was
flatter
and
more
sparsely
vegetated
than
the
land
near
Gunwinddu,
but
had
its
own
wild
beauty.
What
was
it
Matthew
had
said—you
can
see
for
miles
an’
miles.
He
smiled
sadly
at
the
memory.
This
was
Matthew
and
Isaac’s
country.
To
them
it
was
not
harsh,
it
was
paradise.
The
first
Europeans
must
have
looked
so
comic
to
the
Aborigines,
dragging
great
bullock
wagons
laden
with
flour,
sugar,
tea
and
water—oblivious
to
the
bounty
surrounding
them.
Unbelievably,
two
hundred
years
had
passed
and
few
had
learned.
Simon
glanced
guiltily
at
his
pack.
“Me
as
well,”
he
muttered.
It
seemed
extraordinary
that
of
all
the
food
in
all
the
shops
and
stores
in
the
whole
of
the
country,
there
was
scarcely
an
item
originating
from
an
indigenous
plant
or
animal.
Instead
the
conquerors
nurtured
a
cataclysm;
building
national
pride
from
their
stubborn
determination
to
force
crops
and
animals
from
other
worlds
to
take
root.
Simon
scooped
a
hollow
into
the
shallow
sand
beneath
the
trees
and
slept.
When
he
woke
the
night
was
lightless,
but
the
earth
seemed
full
of
movement.
There
was
a
noise,
low
and
ominous,
but
he
could
not
tell
its
cause
or
direction.
He
sat
upright
and
something
heavy
slithered
across
his
leg.
He
kicked
blindly
and
sprang
to
his
feet
with
fright.
He
could
hear
noises,
small
ground
noises,
but
all
around
another
noise;
an
indefinable
murmur.
Slowly,
as
his
eyes
adjusted
to
the
darkness,
the
whole
outcrop
became
a
single
body
of
shadowy
movement.
As
he
stepped
tentatively
forward,
still
uncomprehending,
a
large
black
shape
pummelled
into
him,
knocking
him
breathless
to
the
ground.
The
equally
terrified
animal
careened
away
and
Simon
saw
it
was
a
290
kangaroo.
He
climbed
shakily
to
his
feet
and
realized
the
whole
outcrop
was
awash
with
animals;
hundreds—
countless;
flying,
thumping,
running
and
crawling
around
him.
The
sky
above
was
teeming
with
birds,
their
wings
threshing
the
air,
while
on
the
ground
were
kangaroos,
wallabies
and
emus.
Underfoot,
were
snakes
and
lizards;
a
seething
mass
of
animal
life
making
for
high
ground,
careless
of
the
man.
Dread
gripped
the
priest.
He
knew
exactly
what
it
meant.
Somewhere
out
in
the
darkness
the
water
was
coming.
The
channelling
of
the
distant
storm’s
rain
from
a
catchment
spanning
tens
of
thousands
of
square
kilometres.
He
had
stopped
when
he
should
have
continued.
Now
he
was
marooned
somewhere
in
a
vast
inland
sea
receiving
its
periodic
fill.
Simon
began
to
tread
cautiously
down
the
slope
yelling
and
waving
his
arms
to
warn
fleeing
animals
from
his
path.
As
he
climbed
lower
he
became
more
aware
of
the
noise;
a
resonant,
low
gurgling
sound.
The
water
was
already
around
the
outcrop,
but
how
deep?
He
clambered
further
down
the
rocky
slope
and
only
realized
he
had
stepped
into
the
flood
when
he
felt
the
eddy
clutch
at
the
hem
of
his
trousers.
He
climbed
warily
back
up
the
slope,
mumbling
little
prayers
of
exhortation,
urging
God
to
guide
his
feet
away
from
the
snakes.
Simon
grabbed
his
pack
and
approached
the
summit.
Bodies,
furry
and
feathery,
pressed
around
him.
The
air
was
thick
with
their
pungent
smell
and
he
rubbed
his
nostrils
with
the
back
of
his
hand.
A
kangaroo
reared
its
shadowy
outline
threateningly,
but
moved
aside
when
Simon
stopped
and
waited.
But
his
own
fear
was
starting
to
rise
and
there
was
bile
in
his
throat.
Emus,
rock
wallabies,
kangaroos
and
wild
turkeys
punched
blindly
into
him
and
he
started
using
his
pack
as
a
291
shield.
His
boots
trod
on
crawling
flesh
and
he
kicked
and
lashed
savagely
at
the
struggling
desert
animals.
With
the
advantage
of
forearms
he
hauled
himself
onto
a
large
boulder
at
the
summit,
but
as
he
did,
the
pack
was
knocked
from
his
grasp.
He
crouched
on
top
of
the
rock,
gasping
for
breath,
joined
to
the
mass
of
seething,
thrusting
animals
by
their
shared
terror.
The
priest
rested
his
face
in
his
hands
and
prayed.
The
water
continued
to
rise
and
the
animals
pressed
in
on
the
man
as
the
outcrop
became
the
centre
of
a
shrinking
island.
In
the
grey
of
the
approaching
dawn,
Simon
could
see
the
water
had
already
reached
the
site
of
his
camp
just
a
few
metres
down
the
slope.
Still
the
water
rose,
a
reddish
brown,
sucking
cauldron.
As
the
dawn
rolled
back,
it
revealed
a
chaotic
scene.
Kangaroos
and
emus
thrashed
wildly
in
wide‐eyed
terror.
Beneath
them
was
a
seething
reptilian
struggle
as
desperate
and
as
hopeless
as
that
of
the
animals
crushing
them
from
above.
And
over
all,
on
a
rock,
itself
growing
a
bloody,
furry
skin,
crouched
a
wide‐eyed
man
for
whom
impending
death
was
not
an
instinctive
fear
but
an
Armageddon.
The
water
continued
to
rise
and
Simon
watched
as
the
first
of
the
animals
were
snatched
and
dragged
away
beneath
its
dirty
swirling
surface.
Some
attempted
to
escape
into
the
torrent,
and
vanished
in
moments.
The
struggle
raged.
By
the
time
the
sun
was
glinting
on
the
new
sea
it
had
almost
reached
the
top
of
Simon’s
boulder.
The
animals
began
to
disappear
rapidly
now,
small
groups
at
a
time.
It
came
to
pass
that
there
were
just
two:
the
man
and
a
large
red
kangaroo.
It
was
the
strongest
and
tallest
and
was
holding
its
head
above
the
water
in
the
lee
of
the
rock
where
the
current
was
weakest.
292
Simon
stared
at
the
animal,
wondering
which
of
them
would
be
the
last
to
go.
The
animal
seemed
to
sense
the
inevitability
of
it
all
became
still.
Its
repose
calmed
the
man
too,
and
Simon
flattened
himself
on
the
rock
and
reached
for
the
kangaroo’s
arms.
He
did
not
want
to
die
alone.
The
big
bush
animal
was
unresisting.
Their
breaths
mixed
against
the
face
of
the
stone,
the
man’s
chin
now
sitting
in
the
dirty
froth
collecting
in
the
lee.
For
a
time
it
seemed
the
water
had
reached
its
peak,
and
Simon
thought
they
might
survive.
He
looked
into
the
animal’s
eyes,
looking
for
reassurance
in
its
animal
instinct,
but
its
pupils
were
fixed
as
though
sightless.
The
water
rose.
It
touched
the
beast’s
nostrils.
The
animal
jerked
its
head
from
side
to
side
and
started
kicking
against
the
rock.
Simon
released
his
grip,
afraid
of
being
pulled
in.
The
water
found
the
kangaroo’s
mouth.
With
a
sudden,
violent
lurch
it
pushed
itself
away
from
the
rock
and
into
the
flow.
Simon
pushed
himself
to
his
knees.
The
current
dragged
at
his
legs
and
it
became
difficult
to
hold
on
to
the
rock.
He
strained
to
see
the
kangaroo.
It
was
still
struggling
in
the
dirty
brown
sea;
still
refusing
to
die.
He
didn’t
see
the
tree.
A
turn
in
the
current
and
it
might
almost
have
missed
him,
but
its
clutch
of
branches
caught
him
sharply
in
the
back.
He
screamed,
more
from
shock
than
pain,
as
he
was
dragged
off
the
boulder
and
into
the
torrent.
His
head
cracked
against
a
limb,
and
he
grasped
for
a
hold
in
dazed
desperation.
The
tree
continued
its
passage
into
the
surging,
sucking
flow.
It
dipped
and
rolled
and
his
every
muscle
became
dedicated
to
one
purpose,
to
hold
his
jutting
jaw
above
the
water
long
enough
after
each
plunge
to
fill
his
screaming
lungs
with
air.
Simon
was
swept
through
a
surreal,
swirling
world,
a
nightmare
of
unmatched
colours
–
glistening
brown
293
water,
shafts
of
golden
spray,
and
swathes
of
beautiful
spinning
blue.
An
eruption
of
heaven,
earth
and
sea.
Time
and
direction
lost
all
measure.
The
man
careered
into
senselessness,
until
a
jarring
crash
brought
the
uprooted
tree
to
a
halt.
The
impact
broke
his
hold
and
he
thrashed
wildly
in
the
water
before
managing
to
grab
another
branch.
But
the
tree
had
stopped,
caught
where
the
water
had
shallowed.
A
carcass
floated
into
the
tree’s
nest
of
limbs,
and
another.
Simon
tried
to
haul
himself
higher
onto
the
trunk.
Just
as
he
turned
to
see
if
he
could
catch
a
glimpse
of
any
land
something
large
cannoned
into
him
and
he
sank
into
oblivion.
294
Chapter
Sixteen
Kalgoorlie,
Mon:
Police
yesterday
abandoned
their
search
for
missing
Perth
Priest
Father
Simon
Bradbury
after
flooding
in
the
eastern
goldfields.
Thunderstorms
dumped
heavy
rain
across
the
inland
catchment
and
rising
water
in
the
usually
dry
Lake
Yindarlgooda
is
expected
to
restrict
access
to
the
area
for
several
weeks.
A
church
official,
Fr
Troughton,
who
joined
the
search
party,
yesterday
returned
to
Perth
without
comment.
It
was
like
swimming
through
a
tunnel
of
viscous
black
liquid
without
any
sense
of
body
movement.
In
the
far
distance
a
tiny
speck
of
light
grew
little
by
little
until
finally
it
pushed
aside
the
darkness.
But
when
all
was
white
and
light,
there
was
still
nothing
of
substance.
It
wasn’t
until
the
pain
began
to
register
that
mortal
dimensions
became
apparent.
When
consciousness
returned
fully
it
was
with
a
hard
thud
against
the
ground,
and
a
strange
sound
which
took
a
while
for
the
man
to
realise
was
his
own
groaning.
Simon
felt
the
pressure
of
hands,
and
of
his
body
being
rolled.
The
voices
grew
in
pitch.
Fingers
pinched
the
flesh
of
his
cheeks
and
his
eyes
finally
opened.
A
distant
faded
blue,
then
a
face
ballooned
into
vision;
yellow
teeth,
stale
breath.
Sunken
eyes
beyond
a
broad
flat
black
nose
studied
him.
Simon
choked
on
a
surge
of
bile
that
rushed
through
his
gullet.
He
turned
his
forehead
to
the
ground
and
retched.
295
When
the
nausea
passed
he
turned
again
to
view
his
new
world.
He
stared
up
at
the
face
with
its
matted
hair,
wispy
white
beard
and
a
broad
grin.
Simon
smiled
weakly.
“Are
you
real?”
“Sure.”
Another
face,
a
youth,
leaned
into
view.
“If
we’re
not
real
you’re
in
trouble,
eh
Father—‘cause
this
ain’t
heaven!”
The
youth
laughed.
Simon
closed
his
eyes.
“You’re
a
miracle,
the
pair
of
you,”
he
murmured
weakly.
Isaac
and
Angel
grinned.
They
had
seen
him
snagged
by
the
limbs
of
the
uprooted
tree
and
had
followed
from
the
edge
of
the
floodwaters
until
the
tree
caught
in
shallows
near
a
ridge
of
earth.
They
had
yelled
a
warning
but
he
didn’t
hear
them
and
the
carcass
of
the
bull
hit
him.
Keeping
the
splayed
branches
of
the
tree
on
the
down
side
of
the
current,
Angel
had
waded
into
the
floodwater
and
dragged
the
man
out
before
the
swirling
eddies
could
reclaim
its
prize.
The
priest
lay
exhausted
as
Isaac
played
his
hands
over
his
body.
He
remained
mute
until
his
ribcage
was
pressed,
then
gasped
sharply.
The
old
man
nodded.
“Busted
rib
Father—but
better
than
a
busted
head,
eh?”
The
priest
was
too
weak
to
respond.
His
face
sank
against
the
earth
and
he
passed
out
again.
When
he
awoke
he
could
smell
the
strong
cocktail
of
wood
smoke
and
animal
fat.
Simon
found
his
torso
was
bound
tightly
by
a
coarse
bark
rope.
He
rolled
his
body
slightly
and
discovered
he
was
lying
beneath
a
rock
shelf.
Nearby
was
a
small
group
by
a
fire
and
he
recognised
Isaac’s
wife,
Winnie,
and
Angel’s
mother
Maudie
as
well
as
Isaac
and
Angel.
At
the
sound
of
his
movement
they
turned.
Simon
raised
a
hand
in
greeting.
“I
still
can’t
believe
it.”
Isaac
walked
over
and
squatted
beside
him.
“It’s
no
real
surprise
Father.
We’re
goin’
back
to
our
country,
like
I
tol’
296
you
at
Gunwinddu.”
He
nodded
towards
his
nephew.
“Angel
needs
to
become
a
man
in
his
father’s
country.”
Simon
looked
up
at
Angel.
“You
saved
my
life.”
The
boy
just
grinned.
“How
long
have
you
been
here?”
Simon
asked.
Isaac
considered
the
question.
“Well—we
come
down
from
Gunwinddu
‘bout
seven,
eight
weeks
ago
and
stayed
with
some
cousins
in
Kalgoorlie.
Then
we
come
out
here
‘bout
two
weeks
ago.
Been
waitin’
for
this
rain
to
come
before
movin’.
Sure
been
busy,
eh,
for
such
a
faraway
place?”
The
old
man
looked
at
Simon
with
a
hint
of
mischief.
“Waterholes’ll
be
real
nice
in
a
couple
of
days.
It’ll
be
real
good.
I
remember
when
I
was
little—”
Isaac
paused,
then
sighed.
“I
was
hopin’
more
people
would
come,
but—
maybe
if
Angel
learns
about
his
country
he
might
get
‘em
interested—the
younger
ones
like.
It’s
important—you
know
that.”
Isaac
pointed
an
arm
into
the
distance.
“The
land
needs
us
blackfellas
to
keep
it
alive.
We’ve
been
here
so
long
the
bush
and
the
animals
need
us—a
lot
of
people
have
forgotten,
eh?”
“Where
exactly
are
you
heading?”
Isaac
pointed
to
the
north
east.
“Past
the
stations—one
week,
maybe
two
weeks’
walk
if
the
flood
stays
up.
Mudidjara,
a
special
place—Father—real
special
place
for
our
people.”
Simon
followed
his
gaze.
Somewhere,
out
past
the
expanse
of
brown
water,
was
where
Ada
had
suggested
Simon
go.
Did
he
still
want
that?
He
remembered
Ada’s
parting
comment
and
knew
she
was
right.
There
was
no
point
going
back
without
answers,
but
that
didn’t
stop
him
worrying
about
the
time
he
would
be
away.
Simon
closed
his
eyes
and
rolled
onto
his
back,
thinking.
In
the
end,
the
decision
was
made
for
him.
Four
days
later
the
small
group
was
breaking
camp,
preparing
to
cross
the
vast
open
plains
of
salmon
gums,
mulga
and
spinifex
and
297
return
to
Mudidjara
where
their
people
had
gathered
for
tens
of
thousands
of
years.
With
rest
and
a
diet
of
fresh
game
and
native
fruits
and
nuts,
Simon’s
strength
had
returned.
The
pain
in
his
ribs
had
abated
to
a
dull
ache
and
he
was
able
to
walk
slowly.
He
broached
the
question
of
his
return
to
Kalgoorlie.
Isaac
squatted
on
the
ground.
He
poked
the
earth
with
a
stick
and
shook
his
head.
“Well—
you
can’t
walk
back
from
here—swim
maybe,
but
you
weren’
lookin’
too
flash
when
you
was
tryin’
that
before,
eh!”
“You
said
the
water
was
receding.”
“Sure,
but
not
that
way.
You
won’
get
through
Yindarlgooda
for
weeks—maybe
longer.”
Simon
felt
the
stirrings
of
panic.
“So
what
do
I
do?”
Isaac
was
affable.
“Well,
you
could
stay
here—but
what
you
goin’
to
eat,
eh?
Plenty
of
tucker,
especially
after
the
rain,
but
I
reckon
you’d
still
die
pretty
quick
from
an
empty
belly!”
He
shook
his
head
sadly.
“Found
a
bloke
once
up
on
Gunwinddu,
all
dried
up.
Car
broke
down
an’
he
walked.
Did
okay
really,
found
one
of
them
windmills
for
the
cattle,
but
the
silly
bugger
don’
know
what
to
do
next.
Been
dead
maybe
one
week
when
we
found
him.
He
was
lyin’
right
under
the
trough.
All
he
had
to
do
was
pull
on
the
wire
to
start
the
water
pumpin’,
but
he
don’
even
know
that.”
“What
do
you
suggest?”
Isaac
scratched
his
chin
thoughtfully.
After
a
moment
he
turned
to
Angel,
standing
quietly
behind.
“What
do
you
reckon,
eh?”
The
boy
looked
from
Simon
to
Isaac,
grinned,
but
allowed
Isaac
to
continue
his
monologue.
The
old
man
drew
a
circle
in
the
sand
and
gazed
at
it
absently
for
a
moment.
“So
Father—maybe
them
fellas
with
that
helicopter
will
come
back,
eh?
But
then
maybe
they’re
already
thinkin’
of
a
dead
bloke?”
Simon
frowned.
Isaac,
it
seemed,
knew
a
lot
about
his
recent
movements.
“How
long
will
you
be
gone?”
298
The
old
man
shrugged
and
gazed
into
the
distance
beyond
where
the
slope
of
the
hill
fell
from
view.
Simon
waited
for
him
to
continue
speaking,
but
it
was
soon
apparent
that
he
had
no
inclination
to
say
any
more.
Finally
Simon
was
forced
to
speak.
“Well—if
it’s
not
going
to
be
too
long—perhaps
I
should
come
with
you?”
Isaac
smiled.
“That’s
not
a
bad
idea
Father.
You
might
even
learn
somethin’,
eh?”
Simon
grimaced
and
looked
away
towards
the
south‐
west
horizon.
He
wondered
when,
if
ever,
he
would
cross
that
line
again.
The
small
party
began
walking,
carrying
everything
it
needed,
which
to
Simon
seemed
inadequate
for
the
desert.
Isaac
carried
an
axe,
two
spears
and
over
one
shoulder,
an
old
canvas
flour
sack.
Simon
was
curious
about
the
sack.
Isaac
seemed
to
have
a
particular
attachment
to
it,
always
ensuring
it
was
near
at
hand.
Angel
also
carried
a
spear,
and
the
women
had
digging
sticks
and
seed
carriers
carved
eons
before
from
the
trunk
of
a
gum
tree.
Isaac’s
wife
also
carried
a
billy
can
of
water
tucked
snugly
into
the
bottom
of
a
woven
backpack.
They
made
a
strange
picture;
the
white‐haired
old
man,
the
proud
youth
wearing
nothing
but
a
pair
of
football
shorts,
the
dishevelled
priest,
and
two
plump
matrons
still
in
their
mission
clothes.
Winnie
wore
a
plain
brown
skirt
and
a
loose,
white
T‐shirt.
Maudie
a
faded
pink
dress,
a
yellow
T‐shirt,
and
on
her
head
a
beanie
knitted
in
the
red
and
black
Aboriginal
colours.
Apart
from
the
axe
and
billy,
all
the
implements
and
tools
were
traditional,
retrieved
from
a
cache
on
the
hill
near
their
camp.
“An
old,
old
place,”
Isaac
had
said.
All
over
the
country
people
had
left
such
things.
They
had
carried
what
they
needed
to
hunt
game
and
collect
berries,
seeds,
fruits
and
vegetables
as
they
travelled
from
waterhole
to
waterhole.
Surplus
equipment,
either
found
or
made
during
periods
of
settlement
around
a
particular
299
water,
were
stored
among
rocky
outcrops
for
when
next
they
returned.
Simon
wondered
if
the
people
who
had
left
these
tools
had
had
any
notion
that
they
would
never
return,
that
the
vast
regions
which
had
once
comprised
the
heart
of
Gondwanaland
would
so
rapidly
empty
of
people—sixty
thousand
years
of
human
occupation
ending
in
the
span
of
a
generation.
This
was
Isaac’s
concern;
that
the
departure
of
the
people
was
why
the
land
was
dying;
why
the
waterholes
had
filled
with
sand,
depriving
the
insects,
birds
and
animals
of
life;
why
the
grasses
had
not
been
burned,
denying
seeds
the
necessary
heat
and
ash
that
was
needed
for
them
to
split
open
and
germinate
in
a
temporarily
alkaline
soil.
His
fear
was
the
erasure
of
the
mosaic
of
diversity
on
which
all
life
depended.
This
was
a
land
in
which
whole
landscapes
shifted
and
changed;
delicate
webs
of
life
shattered
and
re‐formed
according
to
when
or
if
it
rained.
Only
that
which
could
adapt
had
survived,
and
survival
was
a
precarious
state.
The
Aborigines
had
outlived
whole
evolutionary
cycles
of
other
animals
and
plants,
and
in
their
songlines—the
stories
which
gave
an
oral
map
of
the
land,
its
resources
and
its
changeable
nature—they
harboured
the
oldest
living
human
memories
on
earth.
The
group
headed
north‐east,
away
from
the
low‐lying
country
now
filled
with
brown
water
and
which
for
the
next
few
months
would
exist
truly
as
Lake
Yindarlgooda.
The
higher
land
had
dried
quickly,
though
there
was
a
deepness
in
the
colours
of
the
red
earth,
the
green
leaves
of
the
gums,
acacias
and
mulga
trees,
the
yellow
spinifex;
all
crowned
by
a
blue
heaven.
They
spent
the
first
day
crossing
a
plain
of
spinifex,
meandering
along
a
path
which
the
others
trod
with
confidence,
though
was
invisible
to
the
priest.
Their
target
300
was
the
hazy
outline
of
distant
hills.
The
hills
first
appeared
as
a
mauve
lump
on
the
horizon
but
by
midday
had
taken
the
shape
of
a
ragged
brown
range.
Occasionally
they
stopped
to
allow
the
women
to
collect
the
fruits
of
edible
plants.
Isaac
was
also
keeping
a
sharp
eye
for
native
tobacco
plants.
Whenever
he
found
one
he
stripped
the
leaves
and
handed
the
foliage
to
one
of
the
women
until
the
supply
measured
several
fistfuls.
By
late
afternoon
they
were
in
the
lee
of
the
ranges.
Isaac
had
kept
them
moving
because
he
still
feared
discovery
and
their
removal
as
modern‐day
trespassers.
He
was
worried
the
flood
would
bring
airborne
graziers
looking
for
stranded
cattle.
By
the
time
the
party
stopped
for
the
night
Simon’s
ribcage
throbbed
painfully
and
his
throat
ached
with
thirst.
He
no
longer
had
his
hat
and
his
immersion
in
the
floodwater
had
made
his
boots
stiff
and
abrasive.
He
had
just
begun
to
loosen
the
laces
when
Isaac
grunted
with
annoyance
and
waved
the
priest
back
to
his
feet.
He
thrust
a
spear
into
Simon’s
hands;
a
long
flexing
shaft
sharpened
and
barbed
at
one
end.
“You
can
help
me
an’
Angel
get
some
tucker,
eh
Father?”
Simon
suddenly
realised
he
was
no
longer
a
guest.
It
was
time
for
equality;
an
equality
for
which
he
had
no
qualifications.
He
was
a
dependent
where
there
was
no
place
for
dependence.
As
he
followed
Isaac
and
Angel
he
saw
Maudie
and
Winnie
walk
in
another
direction
with
digging
sticks,
wooden
dishes
and
the
coolamon,
a
hollowed‐out
dish
carved
from
a
tree
truck,
for
collecting
more
water.
To
Simon
the
land
appeared
devoid
of
any
obvious
tracks,
but
Isaac
and
Angel
scanned
the
ground
and
seemed
satisfied.
When
they
reached
the
foot
of
a
ridge
Isaac
ordered
Simon
to
keep
well
back.
“No
talkin’
and
look
sharp,
eh!”
301
Simon
positioned
himself
about
thirty
metres
behind
the
two
men,
adopting
the
same
crouched,
stalking
stance
as
the
two
in
front.
Isaac
was
in
the
lead,
following
the
base
of
the
ridge
in
careful,
measured
steps.
A
cleft
in
the
rockface
revealed
a
narrow
entrance
to
an
expansive
gully
about
a
kilometre
long
and
half
a
kilometre
wide.
It
was
thick
with
mulga,
wattle
and
long
grass,
suggesting
a
water
source.
Isaac
knew
all
about
the
place.
He
remembered
from
his
boyhood,
and
it
was
described
in
the
songs.
There
were
hidden
valleys
like
this
in
even
the
driest
regions;
sites
of
the
great
increase
ceremonies.
Subterranean
drainage
lines
watered
them
more
regularly
and
more
reliably
than
surface
creeks
ever
could.
Isaac
glanced
back
and
motioned
Simon
to
wait
at
the
entrance.
He
and
Angel,
spears
hefted
high,
disappeared
into
the
bush.
Across
the
plain
the
sun
was
almost
on
the
horizon,
levelling
the
landscape
with
long,
dark
strokes.
The
evening
song
of
crickets
began.
It
was
the
loneliest
time
of
the
day
and
Simon
felt
again
the
weight
of
pending
doom.
He
wanted
the
experience
to
be
an
adventure,
but
shadowing
him
always
was
the
fear
of
both
his
past
and
his
unknown
future.
Soon
it
would
be
dark.
He
hoped
the
others
caught
something.
He
was
very
hungry.
His
reverie
was
interrupted
by
the
sound
of
something
crashing
through
the
bush,
and
a
yell
of
excitement.
Isaac
shouted
to
him
from
somewhere
in
the
gully.
“Father—
Father—get
‘im,
Father.”
Simon
hurried
towards
the
centre
of
the
opening.
It
was
already
near
dark
inside
the
gully
and
he
bent
forward,
peering.
He
lifted
his
spear,
apprehensive.
The
sounds
were
close.
A
kangaroo
bounded
from
the
grass
just
metres
away.
Simon
reeled
in
shock
and
before
he
could
gather
his
wits
the
animal
deftly
side‐stepped
him,
heading
for
the
open
plain.
Simon
took
a
few
hurried
steps
in
its
track
and
302
flung
the
spear
in
its
general
direction.
The
kangaroo
vanished.
Isaac
and
Angel
trotted
up
behind
him,
both
crestfallen.
The
hunting
was
no
longer
a
weekend
pastime
to
supplement
packeted
food
from
the
Gunwinddu
store.
“You
get
‘im?”
Isaac
asked,
hopefully.
Simon
shook
his
head.
“Sorry—surprised
me.”
Isaac
made
a
sucking
noise
with
his
teeth.
“Not
good,”
was
all
he
said.
The
trio
stood
disconsolately
looking
out
across
the
plain.
“Should’ve
brought
a
rifle—
knew
I
should’ve
brought
a
rifle,”
Isaac
muttered
finally,
shaking
his
head
with
disgust.
They
trudged
back
to
the
campsite.
The
fire
danced
behind
a
veil
of
sparks,
eddying
in
the
gentle
breeze
against
the
rockface.
Here
the
mood
was
lighter.
The
women’s
carrying
dishes
were
full.
The
ranges
had
pockets
of
thick
vegetation
and
they
had
collected
pigface,
mulga
seeds
for
roasting
and
mixing
into
a
sweet‐tasting
porridge,
and
a
dish
filled
with
wild
figs.
As
the
men
entered
the
camp
the
women
were
winnowing
grass
seeds,
by
the
light
of
the
fire,
for
cooking
later
as
damper.
Isaac
greeted
his
wife
dolefully.
She
teased
him,
and
boasted
the
success
of
the
two
women
who
weren’t
even
from
that
country.
Isaac
slumped
by
the
fire
and
looked
as
though
he
would
spend
the
night
in
a
sulk,
when
Winnie
presented
him
with
an
armful
of
mulga
bark.
The
old
man
brightened
and
grabbed
a
stick
to
stir
the
coals.
He
tipped
the
bark
onto
the
embers
and
burned
it
to
a
white
ash.
Using
one
of
the
seed‐crushing
stones
he
ground
the
previously
collected
tobacco
leaves
and
mixed
the
pulp
with
the
white
ash.
Grinning
broadly
he
placed
some
of
the
mix
into
his
mouth
and
chewed
vigorously
for
several
minutes
before
spitting
the
masticated
mass
into
the
palm
of
his
hand.
He
repeated
the
process
until
he
had
enough
303
wads
of
‘chewing
tobacco’
to
last
him
several
days.
Simon
watched,
fascinated,
but
declined
when
Isaac
offered
to
share
the
treat.
They
dined
on
figs
and
damper,
saving
the
pigface
and
mulga
porridge
for
breakfast.
The
storm
had
filled
the
rockholes
in
this
place
and
Isaac
regretted
not
being
able
to
stay
longer,
but
he
was
determined
to
reach
Mudidjara
as
soon
as
possible.
He
had
waited
more
than
forty
years
to
come
home
and
was
restless.
That
night
they
slept
in
a
huddle
close
to
the
fire.
Once
or
twice
Simon
heard
somebody
dragging
another
log
onto
the
coals,
but
was
too
tired
to
take
notice.
He
did
not
see
the
dingo
circle
the
camp,
suspicious
of
the
European,
but
finally
move
in
to
lie
close
to
the
Aborigines.
Simon
was
woken
with
a
prod
from
the
blunt
end
of
a
digging
stick.
It
was
still
dark
and
Matthew’s
widow,
a
smiling
shadow,
offered
him
a
wooden
platter
holding
a
lump
of
sticky
dough.
More
aware
now
of
the
rigours
of
a
long
walk,
Simon
cupped
one
hand
to
make
a
bowl,
dug
his
other
fingers
into
the
sweet
mass
and
ate
with
enthusiasm.
They
started
again
just
as
the
sun
emerged
like
a
globe
of
molten
copper.
As
the
morning
dragged
on,
the
country
became
a
featureless
landscape.
There
were
no
hills,
no
unusual
trees,
no
prominent
rock
outcrops
that
Simon
could
see,
just
an
undulating
plain
of
spinifex
and
mulga.
Yet
they
walked
with
purpose,
following
a
man
who
had
not
been
here
since
his
youth.
Isaac
periodically
led
them
all
in
song,
an
ululating
chant.
This
song
was
of
the
land
and
its
words
were
a
map,
an
oral
navigation
system.
Such
songs
had
guided
generation
after
generation
in
their
migration
from
camping
ground
to
camping
ground—water
source
to
water
source.
Simon
was
amazed,
and
said
so.
Isaac
shrugged.
“Busy
track
once—our
people
always
come
this
way.”
304
At
about
midday
they
walked
into
a
shallow
depression
in
the
land.
Isaac
stopped
beside
a
clump
of
low
shrubs,
smiling.
“I
remember
this
place,”
he
said.
He
dropped
to
his
knees
and
began
to
scoop
out
a
hole
with
his
hands.
The
earth
was
soft
after
the
rain
and
was
moist
by
the
time
he
was
down
to
his
armpit.
He
widened
the
hole
so
he
could
reach
deeper
and
when
about
a
metre
deep
the
bottom
began
to
fill
with
seeping
brown
water.
Everyone
joined
in
to
help.
It
did
not
take
long
to
make
the
new
soakhole
a
little
over
a
metre
deep
and
a
metre
wide
with
a
sloping
bank.
Everybody
drank
the
pure
desert
water
that
would
also
sustain
the
lizards,
the
desert
rats,
kangaroos
and
birds.
About
mid‐way
through
the
afternoon
Isaac
stopped
and
asked
everyone
to
wait.
He
scoured
the
ground
nearby
before
walking,
his
shoulders
bowed,
to
a
low
boulder‐
strewn
hill.
He
disappeared
from
sight
and
the
rest
of
the
group
sat
in
the
thin
shade
of
some
mulgas.
Isaac
was
gone
for
about
an
hour
and
when
he
returned
it
was
obvious
he
had
been
crying.
Simon
stood
up
and
placed
his
hand
on
his
shoulder.
“You
okay?”
Isaac
nodded
and
pointed
to
the
hill.
“Me
an’
my
brother
was
playin’
there
when
we
were
children—when
they
killed
our
family.”
He
pointed
to
the
place
where
he
had
first
searched
the
ground.
“That’s
where
all
the
people—
the
last
people
from
Mudidjara
were
killed.”
Simon
held
his
hand,
silently.
Four
days
later
the
ground
turned
brown
and
soft
and
began
to
roll
in
a
seemingly
endless
row
of
sand
ridges.
It
was
hard
work,
but
Isaac
was
more
relaxed,
no
longer
fearing
discovery.
He
began
to
call
periodic
halts
to
allow
the
group
to
dig
out
goannas,
berries,
wild
tomatoes
and
edible
roots
hidden
by
the
low
vegetation
and
spindly
trees.
He
was
enjoying
showing
Simon
and
Angel
the
305
secrets
of
his
country.
It
seemed
there
was
food
and
water
everywhere
if
you
had
the
eyes
to
see
it.
Each
time
they
stopped
Isaac
would
also
collect
an
armful
of
sticks
and
grass
and
build
a
small
fire.
“For
all
the
other
people,”
he
explained.
“Leavin’
a
sign,
like—so
other
people
know
there
has
been
someone
in
this
place.
It
makes
it
special
then—not
so
lonely.”
The
next
day
passed
much
as
the
same
as
its
predecessor;
a
landscape
of
unending
dunes,
but
then
the
ground
became
red
and
hard
again
and
the
vegetation
thickened.
Spinifex
and
grass
grew
tall
and
Isaac
frightened
the
life
out
of
Simon
by
torching
it.
The
dry
grass
exploded.
A
wall
of
flame,
metres
high,
moved
across
the
plain
in
front
of
them.
Above
it
a
column
of
dark
smoke
rose
hundreds
of
metres
before
flattening
out
in
a
spreading
stain
across
the
cloudless
sky.
Simon
was
horrified,
but
Isaac
assured
him
all
would
be
well.
“Next
year
there’ll
be
new
trees
and
grass
and
plenty
of
tucker,”
he
said.
“There’s
plenty
of
seeds
in
the
ground,
but
they
need
the
fire
to
prepare
‘em
for
the
next
rain.”
They
marched
on,
skirting
the
perimeter
of
the
burn.
In
the
late
afternoon
of
the
following
day
they
were
traversing
a
long,
rocky
hillside.
Simon
had
his
head
down,
watching
his
plodding
feet.
He
didn’t
realize
the
others
had
stopped
until
he
heard
muted
gasps
of
satisfaction,
and
looked
up.
In
the
distance,
less
than
a
day’s
walk
across
a
yellow
plain
of
spinifex
and
grass
he
saw
a
range
of
low
mountains.
In
the
late
afternoon
light
they
were
a
ragged
swathe
of
dark
purple
on
an
entirely
golden
landscape.
It
was
breathtaking.
Low,
pinkish
cloud
covered
the
distant
ridges,
occasionally
breaking
to
expose
a
sliver
of
pale
blue
where
the
sun
still
shone
against
the
top
of
the
sky.
“Mudidjara,”
Isaac
whispered
hoarsely.
He
hurried
down
the
gravelly
slope
onto
the
plain.
The
others
followed
in
silence.
Simon
hesitated.
There
was
306
something
disturbing
about
the
distant
ranges.
Even
at
this
distance,
dark
shadows
marked
the
entrances
to
crevices
and
gullies.
He
sensed,
at
that
moment,
that
this
was
a
place
of
secrets;
a
doorway
perhaps
into
primordial
humanity.
307
Chapter
Seventeen
The
congregation
barely
filled
two
pews.
It
was
gloomy,
the
stained
glass
windows
almost
blocking
the
thin
grey
light
from
outside.
It
was
a
sticky,
overcast
day.
It
had
been
said
there
was
a
threat
of
rain.
Perhaps
it
was
fitting.
Bishop
MacNamara’s
voice
echoed
in
the
near
empty
church
as
he
spread
his
arms
in
a
gesture
of
subservience
and
humility:
“.
.
.
Merciful
Father
hear
our
prayers
and
console
us.
As
we
renew
our
faith
in
your
Son,
whom
you
raised
from
the
dead.
Strengthen
our
hope
that
all
the
departed,
especially
Father
Bradbury
our
brother,
will
share
in
his
resurrection
.
.
.”
It
was
a
simple,
private
requiem;
a
measure
of
just
how
few
people
regarded
themselves
as
having
known
the
priest.
Simon’s
three
colleagues
from
St
Luke’s
sat
in
the
front
pew.
Occasionally
Peter
Moore
would
lift
his
eyes
and
stare
stonily
at
the
Bishop
as
if
trying
to
catch
his
eye,
but
MacNamara
held
his
gaze
high.
Behind
the
priests
three
women
sat
alone
and
well
apart.
Mary
Cruikshank
clutched
a
handkerchief.
The
decision
to
hold
the
Requiem
Mass
had
made
Simon’s
disappearance
so
final.
She
had
cried
because
Simon
had
been
too
alone.
Some
rows
behind
was
an
old
woman
hunched
beneath
a
cotton
scarf.
Her
leathery
hands
clutched
the
top
of
the
pew
in
front
and
occasionally
she
glanced
around
nervously,
as
if
lost.
308
The
third
woman
sat
well
back
in
the
body
of
the
church.
She
sat
upright,
intimidated
neither
by
ecclesiastical
authority
nor
architectural
tyranny.
She
barely
listened
to
the
amplified
words
echoing
in
the
emptiness.
Muriel
did
not
grieve.
Anger
and
sadness
were
enough.
She
was
sad
that
time
had
cheated
Simon,
and
angry
that
an
institution
she
despised
had
ruined
a
man
she
might
have
otherwise
loved.
As
soon
as
she
saw
the
Mass
was
ending,
she
stood
and
quickly
left.
Outside
on
the
steps
Mary
saw
the
old
woman
stop
to
stare
at
the
church;
the
building
which
had
entrapped
her
son.
Mary
walked
up
to
her.
“Are
you
Mrs
Bradbury—
Simon’s
mum?”
The
old
woman
turned
and
faced
the
girl.
Her
eyes
were
moist.
She
nodded
before
replying.
“Yes—yes
I
am.”
Mary
smiled.
“Would
you
like
to
come
and
have
a
cup
of
tea?”
The
woman
shook
her
head.
“I
don’t
think
so.”
She
turned
away,
but
stopped.
“Are
you
from
the
church?”
“I
was
Simon’s
housekeeper—at
the
presbytery—St
Luke’s.”
“Oh.”
“You
sure
you
wouldn’t
like
a
cup
of
tea?”
The
woman
shook
her
head
again.
“His
father
is
waiting.
We’ve
got
a
long
drive.”
Mary
looked
surprised.
“He
didn’t
come
to
the
Mass?”
Simon’s
mother
stared
at
the
entrance
where
Peter
Moore
had
appeared
and
was
taking
a
cigarette
from
a
packet.
“No—”
She
began
to
walk
down
the
steps.
Mary
watched,
unsure,
then
followed
quickly
after
her.
“Mrs
Bradbury—Simon’s
things—would
you
like
them?”
“What—the
clothes
of
a
priest?”
Mary
lowered
her
eyes,
confused.
“I’m
sorry,
I—”
She
didn’t
know
what
to
say.
309
Mary
felt
close
to
tears
again.
It
was
all
too
sad
and
mixed
up.
Later,
she
sought
out
Peter
Moore,
who
was
sitting
alone
in
his
study.
She
knocked
on
the
door
and
entered.
The
man
looked
up,
his
face
full
of
the
strain
of
the
past
two
weeks.
He
had
had
no
idea
that
Simon
would
run,
and
now
this.
The
tragedy
weighed
heavily
as
he
continued
to
question
his
own
future.
Mary
held
out
an
envelope.
“This
came
for
Father
Bradbury
the
other
day.
It’s
got
a
Kununurra
postmark—
might
be
someone
from
Gunwinddu?”
Peter
took
the
envelope
and
sliced
it
open
with
his
thumbnail.
He
read
aloud:
My
Dear
Father
Bradbury
How
time
does
hesitate
when
one
awaits
life’s
greatest
moment
­
its
ending.
True,
I
sound
morbid,
but
it
is
escape
I
seek,
not
sorrow
and
not
even
salvation.
I
am
fortunate
to
already
have
been
blessed
with
salvation.
It
would
be
poor
gratitude
to
expect
it
to
be
eternal.
The
past
forty
years
have
been
my
allotted
time
in
paradise.
That
is
a
long
time,
is
it
not?
Forty
years—
no,
it
must
even
be
more.
Time,
I
think,
is
like
the
splashing
fish
on
my
river.
Such
promise,
such
joy
and
then
gone,
and
the
river
as
empty
as
it
always
was.
There
was
a
time
when
I
had
believed
I
would
not
even
witness
my
twenty­first
year.
When
the
day
came
I
almost
did
not
notice.
In
a
prison,
like
on
the
river,
you
lose
the
measure
of
time.
But
I
did
remember
and
I
told
the
soldier
who
brought
my
meal.
I
said
to
him,
surely
it
is
tradition
to
be
given
the
key?
It
was
Karl’s
little
joke,
but
he
returned
with
another
and
they
beat
me.
But
I
digress.
310
A
prison?
I
see
you
frown,
just
the
way
I
remember
when
you
discovered
imperfections
in
your
world.
Yes.
Perhaps
this
shocks
you,
but
not
too
much
I
hope
that
you
may
still
befriend
an
old
Berliner.
Last
week
the
sergeant
came
to
visit
and
he
brought
a
government
man.
He
asked
many
questions
and
always
about
the
war.
I
told
him
about
the
great
barramundi
and
I
think
he
considered
me
a
little
mad.
I
still
am
not
sure
who
he
was,
but
I
recognized
him.
Such
men
are
the
same
everywhere.
So
I
fear
that
old
Karl,
who
wishes
only
to
be
at
peace
with
the
barramundi,
is
in
trouble.
Perhaps,
even,
I
will
need
a
priest?
I
can
see
you
smile
as
I
write.
So
after
all
these
years,
I
might
leave
Gunwinddu.
It
will
be
sad
for
me,
but
much
has
changed
since
you
have
been
gone.
The
old
ways
have
ended
and
the
new
ways
do
not
seem
to
be
important.
The
Aborigines
are
going
more
and
more
to
their
lands
and
not
even
Mr
Davies
seems
to
mind.
He
is
not
a
well
man,
so
who
knows?
Perhaps
soon
nobody
will
be
at
Gunwinddu?
I
think
of
you
my
young
friend
and
hope
you
will
be
in
a
generous
mind
when
next
we
meet.
With
kindness,
Karl.
“What’s
it
all
about?”
Mary
asked.
Peter
shook
his
head.
“I
don’t
know.
Karl
must
be
the
old
German
Simon
mentioned.
Sounds
like
trouble
with
immigration
or
even
that
new
war
crimes
lot.”
The
priest
dropped
the
letter
onto
the
desk
and
rubbed
his
eyes
with
the
heel
of
his
palms.
After
the
woman
had
left,
Peter
311
stared
at
the
letter
for
a
few
moments
before
tearing
it
into
pieces
above
his
wastepaper
basket.
They
made
camp
on
an
area
of
flat,
bare
ground
inside
a
narrow
valley.
It
was
sheltered
from
the
elements
and
the
outside
world
by
sheer
walls
of
red
rock,
scorched
black
in
places
as
though
still
to
recover
from
the
fires
of
creation.
From
fissures
and
cracks
grew
determined
trees,
ghost
gums.
Their
slender,
pale
limbs
added
grace
and
gentleness
to
an
escarpment
which
might
otherwise
be
judged
harsh.
A
ledge
about
ten
metres
above
the
area
of
the
campsite
provided
a
look‐out
over
the
valley
and
its
narrow
entrance.
It
was
a
magnificent
vista
of
high
yellow
grass,
gums,
and
flowering
wattles.
They
had
camped
on
the
plain
and
entered
the
mountains
mid‐afternoon
the
previous
day.
Isaac
had
scouted
happily
around
the
old
campsite,
and
they
all
sat
late
into
the
night
listening
to
stories
of
his
people
and
his
home.
On
this
their
first
full
day,
Isaac
went
off
alone
into
the
valley.
From
the
ledge
Simon
could
see
him
moving
purposefully
from
place
to
place
along
the
valley
floor
and
occasionally
to
points
on
the
surrounding
valley
walls.
He
remembered
the
Gunwinddu
men
when
they
had
stopped
at
the
place
of
Wirrintiny,
and
wondered
if
Isaac
was
renewing
links
with
his
home,
consecrating
the
sacred
places
as
a
man
who
was
born
here—and
perhaps
intended
to
die
here.
The
thought
disturbed
Simon.
Would
he
cope
without
Isaac?
How
would
he
return
to
his
home
without
the
old
man?
He
studied
Isaac’s
methodical
movements
and
was
reminded
of
the
Stations
of
the
Cross,
the
twelve
stages
for
reflection
that
mark
Christ’s
life
and
death.
Again
he
sensed
strong
parallels
between
the
Aboriginal
expression
of
spiritual
beliefs,
and
the
symbols
of
his
own
faith.
312
Simon
returned
to
the
campsite
wondering
what
was
expected
of
him.
The
others
he
presumed
would
be
collecting
food.
He
threw
a
piece
of
wood
onto
the
fire
then
sat
on
a
fallen
log
beneath
a
large
gum
growing
at
the
base
of
the
cliff.
The
log
itself
would
once
have
been
a
tree
growing
in
this
same
place,
perhaps
two
hundred,
even
three
hundred
years
earlier.
How
wonderful
it
must
be
to
be
a
god,
Simon
mused;
to
be
able
to
see
the
continuum
of
life
in
an
unbroken
cycle.
He
looked
around
the
camp.
This
had
been
the
home
and
meeting
place
of
people
almost
since
the
beginning
of
human
time,
yet
the
landscape
remained
precisely
as
nature
had
shaped
it.
All
that
had
been
left
behind
were
the
last
inhabitants’
grinding
and
cutting
stones.
Perhaps
it
was
because
the
land
had
never
been
regarded
as
a
possession;
but
more
as
a
mother
or
father?
Indeed
the
whole
notion
of
possession
barely
existed
in
Aboriginal
expression.
Was
that
a
key
to
their
spiritual
insight?
Most
faiths,
particularly
his
own,
projected
austerity
and
charity
as
essential
to
salvation.
Was
this
some
form
of
endopsychic
memory
of
early
human
understanding;
from
the
time
preceding
man’s
emotional
separation
from
his
living
world?
Simon
pondered
the
question.
The
thirst
for
possession,
he
proclaimed
in
silent
inner
debate,
lay
at
the
root
of
all
that
was
destructive
in
his
culture.
For
Aboriginal
people
sharing
was
more
than
a
notional
addendum
to
their
faith;
sharing
formed
the
foundation
to
their
experience
and
survival.
He
wondered
how
Isaac
would
explain
it.
He
looked
to
where
the
old
man
and
his
wife
had
established
their
sleeping
place.
The
canvas
sack,
soiled
by
travel,
was
on
the
ground
against
the
trunk
of
a
sapling,
its
neck
tied
with
nylon
cord.
Isaac
usually
kept
the
bag
with
him
at
all
times,
yet
Simon
had
never
seen
him
put
anything
inside,
or
take
anything
out
of
it.
313
Simon
eased
himself
to
his
feet
and
looked
to
see
if
anyone
was
approaching.
Satisfied
he
was
alone,
he
crossed
to
the
sack.
He
squatted
and
stared
at
it
guiltily.
Simon
undid
the
knot,
loosened
the
opening
and
peered
inside.
Bones!
Bones,
and
something
wrapped
in
what
looked
like
hair.
He
reached
into
the
bag
to
examine
the
object
more
closely.
It
was
hair.
He
parted
it
gently
and
recoiled
in
horror
as
he
realised
it
was
a
skull.
He
replaced
the
sack
as
he
had
found
it,
carefully
retying
the
knot.
From
the
distance
of
the
log
again
he
stared
at
the
sack.
Heat
pricked
his
skin
beneath
his
shirt.
The
air
in
the
valley
was
heavy
and
still,
and
he
felt
watched
by
unseen
eyes.
Isaac
entered
the
shade
of
the
campsite,
startling
the
priest.
Simon
had
not
heard
him
approach.
He
wore
a
stern,
almost
troubled
face.
He
studied
Simon.
“You
okay
Father—you
look
a
bit
crook—a
bit
white,
like.”
Simon
swallowed
and
nodded
quickly.
“—just
worn
out
I
think.
I’m
not
used
to
all
this
walking.”
Isaac
pointed
grimly
to
Simon’s
boots.
“You
should
throw
them
away—no
good
here.”
“They
are
expensive
boots!”
Isaac
wrinkled
his
nose.
“They
smell—they’re
already
dyin’,
but
your
feet
will
last
as
long
as
you
do,
Father.”
Simon
shrugged.
There
was
a
logic
of
sorts.
“Besides,”
continued
Isaac,
“time
to
leave
your
mark
on
the
land,
eh!”
“What
about
snakes?”
Isaac
pointed
to
his
eyes.
“That’s
why
you
got
these.
Anyway,
I’ve
come
to
show
you
a
real
good
spear
tree
I’ve
found.”
Isaac
collected
the
axe
while
Simon
unlaced
and
tugged
off
his
boots
and
socks.
He
conceded
the
old
man
was
right.
The
boots
were
ripe,
but
bare
feet
seemed
to
heighten
his
sense
of
vulnerability.
He
worried
about
how
far
or
how
well
he
could
walk
without
boots.
He
was
a
long
way
from
314
anywhere
and
the
only
way
back
was
on
foot.
He
followed
Isaac
gingerly,
the
hot
sand
and
gravel
unfamiliar
and
painful
to
his
skin.
Isaac
stopped
and
waited
for
him
to
catch
up.
He
grinned
broadly.
“Couple
of
days
and
they’ll
be
plenty
tough,
Father.
Don’
you
worry.”
They
followed
the
line
of
the
valley
for
about
a
kilometre
until
Isaac
stopped
at
a
stand
of
tall
white
gums.
They
bore
the
scars
of
large
pieces
which
had
been
cut
from
their
trunks.
Isaac
pointed
to
the
gouges,
the
edges
were
gnarled
and
turned
in
by
the
onward
growth.
“I
remember
these
trees.
Good
wood
for
makin’
woomeras.”
He
tapped
one
of
the
indentations
with
the
back
of
the
axe.
“They
were
just
like
this
when
I
was
a
boy.”
They
moved
on
through
the
spinifex
until
they
came
to
the
spear
trees
Isaac
had
seen
earlier.
He
appraised
the
slender
stems
and
with
swift
blows
of
the
axe
cut
six
of
the
straightest
and
tallest
at
their
base.
He
handed
them
to
Simon.
“I
reckon
these’ll
get
us
some
good
tucker,
Father!”
Simon
regarded
the
‘spears’
doubtfully.
“They’re
not
very
straight.”
Isaac
ignored
the
remark,
hefted
the
axe
onto
his
shoulder
and
began
to
walk
back
to
the
camp,
grinning
at
every
yelp
and
wince
from
the
man
hobbling
in
his
wake.
Isaac
stirred
the
fire
into
life
with
a
bundle
of
small
sticks,
creating
a
good
flame.
Then
he
proceeded
to
work
each
of
the
shafts
through
the
fire,
withdrawing
them
from
time
to
time
to
apply
pressure
to
the
area
he
was
straightening.
He
did
this
by
placing
his
foot
on
the
bend
or
kink
and
pulling
up
firmly
with
both
hands.
He
had
sand
in
his
hands
to
prevent
them
being
burned.
Occasionally
he
looked
to
Simon
to
make
sure
the
priest
was
watching
and
learning.
When
he
was
satisfied
the
spears
were
straight,
he
used
a
piece
of
stone
to
scrape
off
the
bark.
Then,
with
a
larger
cutting
stone,
honed
a
sharp
point
on
each
weapon.
He
pointed
to
the
tips.
“When
we
get
a
kangaroo
Father,
315
we’ll
glue
and
tie
a
bit
of
his
bone
here,
see.
Make
a
barb,
like.”
Isaac
looked
up
to
see
if
Simon
was
watching
and
caught
him
looking
at
the
canvas
bag.
His
eyes
misted
and
he
studied
the
priest
carefully.
Simon
sensed
his
gaze
and
turned
quickly.
Their
eyes
met.
Simon
felt
as
though
the
old
man
was
reading
his
thoughts.
Perhaps
he
was.
“I
looked
inside,”
Simon
said
slowly.
At
first
Isaac
said
nothing.
He
continued
to
stare,
almost
unseeingly,
at
the
priest.
“You
shouldn’
have
done
that,”
he
said
finally.
Simon
grimaced.
“I
know—I
was
just
curious.”
Isaac
nodded
slowly
and
placed
the
spear
he
was
working
on
to
one
side.
“What
did
you
find?”
“Bones—a
skull.”
Isaac
climbed
shakily
to
his
feet
and
scuffed
the
ground.
Simon
couldn’t
avoid
the
question.
“What—who,
is
it?”
“Matthew.
I
am
bringin’
‘im
home.”
He
picked
up
the
axe
and
two
of
the
spears
they
had
carried
from
the
first
camp
and
started
to
walk.
“Come
on—we
got
things
to
do.”
He
also
picked
up
a
coolamon
and
handed
it
to
Simon
and
nodded
towards
the
path
leading
to
the
rockhole.
“Better
get
some
water
too.”
When
Simon
returned,
Isaac
was
staring
at
the
canvas
sack.
“Where’s
Angel?”
Simon
asked,
more
in
an
effort
to
lighten
the
atmosphere
than
out
of
genuine
curiosity.
“Gone.”
Simon
looked
at
the
man.
“Gone?”
“Dadirri—quiet
time—with
his
father’s
country.
He’s
got
to
prepare
himself,
like.”
“Is
he
going
to
be
initiated
here?”
“Maybe.”
Isaac
studied
Simon.
“Maybe
you
too,”
he
said
slowly.
316
Simon
shivered.
He
shook
his
head
emphatically.
“No—I
couldn’t
do
that
Isaac.
You
forget
who
and
what
I
am.
It
wouldn’t
be
right.”
Isaac
stood
his
ground.
“You’re
nobody
anymore.
You
want
to
stay
like
that?
Come
on.”
He
walked
away
and
Simon
followed
on
his
tender
feet,
disturbed.
They
walked
back
into
the
central
plain
of
the
valley,
Isaac
continually
scouring
the
ground.
Near
the
base
of
a
spindly
tree
he
pointed
to
a
hole.
“Goanna—empty
but.”
Simon
peered
at
the
hole.
“How
can
you
tell?”
“Too
many
leaves.”
“Are
we
going
to
catch
one?”
Isaac
shrugged.
“Maybe.”
He
still
seemed
agitated
and
upset
with
the
priest.
A
short
distance
further
they
stopped
at
a
white
gum.
Isaac
slashed
at
the
trunk
until
a
clear
sap
began
to
trickle
from
the
blaze.
He
used
a
stick
to
collect
and
scrape
it
into
the
water
Simon
was
carrying.
When
he
was
satisfied
he
had
enough
he
stirred
the
liquid
vigorously.
It
gave
off
a
pungent
eucalyptus
odour.
“What’s
this
for?”
Isaac
just
grunted
and
picked
up
his
gear.
They
pressed
on,
Isaac
paying
particular
attention
to
the
surface
around
clumps
of
scrub.
It
wasn’t
long
before
they
found
another
burrow.
Isaac
waved
for
Simon
to
be
still
and
began
to
probe
the
ground
with
the
thicker
of
the
two
spears
in
an
arc
about
a
metre
out
from
the
entrance.
On
his
fifth
stab
the
shaft
sank
easily
and
he
left
it
there.
“Quick,”
he
yelled.
“Start
diggin’.”
Simon
just
looked
at
him,
bemused.
Isaac
grabbed
the
coolamon
from
Simon’s
hands
and
glared.
“Dig.
If
he’s
home
we
got
‘im.
He
won’t
get
past
that
spear
there.
You
grab
his
tail
then,
and
drag
‘im
out
real
quick.
I’ll
finish
‘im
with
this.”
He
waved
the
second
spear,
a
slender
shaft
not
much
thicker
than
a
man’s
little
finger.
317
Simon
dropped
to
his
knees
and
began
to
widen
the
hole,
scooping
the
red
sand
towards
his
lap.
“Not
too
wide,”
Isaac
cautioned.
“Now
you
reach
in.”
Simon
did
as
he
was
told.
“The
sand’s
wet.”
“Wee
wee—he’s
plenty
scared.
You
got
‘im
now.”
Simon
felt
his
fingers
touch
something
which
moved.
He
was
scared
he
would
be
bitten,
and
what
if
it
was
a
snake?
Something
slender
whipped
across
his
knuckles
and
he
jerked
his
arm
from
the
burrow.
Isaac
glowered.
“You
scared?”
Simon
was
losing
his
temper.
“Yes
I
bloody
am,”
he
shouted.
Isaac
touched
Simon’s
cheek
with
the
point
of
the
spear.
“You
get
‘im
Father.”
His
voice
was
low
and
threatening.
Simon
pushed
his
hand
back
into
the
burrow
and
felt
a
slender
cord
of
rough
flesh.
“You
feel
his
tail—grab
and
pull,”
instructed
the
old
man.
Simon
did.
He
yanked
his
arm
from
the
burrow,
dragging
a
fat,
twisting
lizard.
It
was
big
and
hideous,
about
half
a
metre
long.
It
hissed
and
whipped
violently
in
his
grasp.
Isaac
danced
above
him,
the
spear
held
high.
“On
his
back—turn
‘im
on
his
back,”
he
yelled.
Simon
flipped
the
reptile
over.
Isaac’s
spear
flashed
past
his
head
and
pierced
the
creature’s
neck.
The
second
movement
was
so
rapid
that
Simon
was
only
conscious
of
the
aftermath;
an
instant
of
bewilderment
and
pain.
The
spear
was
pulled
from
the
lizard
and
plunged
again
in
the
same
blur
of
movement.
This
time
its
bloodied
point
impaled
Simon’s
right
wrist,
the
hand
holding
the
lizard’s
tail,
to
the
ground.
Blood
spurted
in
a
fan‐shaped
spray
and
he
gasped
with
shock.
He
looked
up
at
the
old
man,
his
mind
seized
with
disbelief.
“What
have
you
done?”
he
shrieked.
318
Isaac
didn’t
reply.
He
knelt
beside
the
priest
and
gently
rested
the
arm
across
his
lap.
He
plucked
the
spear
from
where
it
had
jammed
between
the
two
wrist
bones.
It
made
a
scraping
sound.
Blood
splashed
over
both
men
and
darkened
the
sand.
“I’ll
die—,”
the
priest
whimpered.
Isaac
picked
up
the
coolamon
and
stirred
its
contents
again.
Then
he
poured
the
liquid
into
and
over
the
wound.
Simon
screamed.
He
felt
bile
rushing
into
his
throat
and
thought
he
would
pass
out.
He
swallowed
hard
to
keep
it
down.
“You
won’
die
Father,”
Isaac
said,
flatly.
“Why—is
it
because
I
looked
in
the
bag?”
Isaac
remained
silent.
“Why—why
did
you
do
this?”
There
was
pleading
and
shock
in
the
priest’s
voice.
“It’s
the
law.”
Simon
clenched
his
teeth
against
the
welling
pain.
“The
law?
What
kind
of
law
is
that?”
“Old
law.”
Simon
shuddered.
The
pain
was
terrible.
“But
I
don’t
even
know
what
I’ve
done
wrong!”
Isaac
smiled
grimly.
“You’re
sounding
like
a
blackfella
already,
Father—a
blackfella
under
white
law,
eh!”
Simon
held
his
arm
and
peered
at
the
wound.
There
was
a
lot
of
blood.
“You’ve
hit
an
artery—I’ll
die
out
here.”
Isaac
stared
hard
at
him.
“You
frightened?”
Simon
nodded.
Fear
was
a
real
lump
in
his
throat.
“Good—you’re
learnin’
now,”
the
old
man
said.
“Everyone
all
their
lives
is
scared
of
somethin’.
But
you
never
want
to
die
scared—that’s
what
you
got
to
learn
while
you’re
livin’.”
But
the
fear
and
confusion
was
something
alive,
moving
over
the
priest’s
face.
319
Isaac
shook
his
head.
“Don’
worry—I
hit
nothin’.”
He
stood
and
began
to
walk
quickly
towards
the
nearest
ridge
about
two
hundred
metres
away.
Simon
crawled
to
the
meagre
shade
of
a
nearby
sapling
and
rolled
onto
his
left
side,
nursing
his
speared
arm.
His
mind
was
scrambled.
Nothing
made
sense.
Isaac
returned
about
twenty
minutes
later
carrying
a
large
wedge
of
reddish
clay
in
his
hands.
He
squatted
beside
the
priest
and
rolled
the
clay
into
thin
slabs
between
the
palms
of
his
hands.
He
pressed
the
clay
over
the
wound.
“Hold
it
tight,”
the
old
man
instructed.
Isaac
collected
the
axe
and
the
lizard,
leaving
everything
else
for
another
time.
“You
right
to
walk,
Father?”
Simon
nodded
dumbly.
Isaac
helped
him
to
his
feet
and
they
began
to
walk
slowly
back
to
camp.
He
tried
to
ease
the
priest’s
torment.
“Don’
worry
Father—might
have
scraped
them
two
bones
a
bit,
but
they
won’
be
broken.
You’ll
be
all
right.”
Simon
hobbled,
sucking
in
his
breath
in
a
struggle
to
control
the
pain.
Isaac
observed
the
struggle.
“Remember
that
pain
fella,
Father,”
he
continued,
almost
conversationally.
“You’re
always
goin’
to
be
sharin’
blood
with
the
land—you
got
to
learn
the
pain
don’
last
long.
That
way
you
can
turn
it
off,
like.”
“I
don’t
believe
this
is
happening,”
Simon
mumbled.
That
night
Winnie
wordlessly
cleaned
and
redressed
the
wound
with
a
boiled
mixture
of
water
and
dissolved
eucalyptus
sap,
then
bound
it
in
paperbark.
She
didn’t
ask
what
had
happened.
Nobody
asked—in
fact
nobody
even
spoke
to
him.
They
ignored
him
and
each
other
as
they
sat
quietly
around
the
fire,
dining
on
a
smorgasbord
of
wild
figs
and
tomatoes,
lightly
cooked
witchetty
grubs
and
the
lizard.
Simon
was
clumsy
with
his
left
hand,
but
it
distracted
him
from
another
change
which
had
occurred.
320
Whether
from
fatigue,
hunger,
shock
or
adaptation,
he
shared
all
that
was
on
offer.
Even
on
the
journey
out
he
had
shied
from
insect
and
reptile,
sustaining
himself
instead
on
damper
and
fruits.
The
lizard
was
cooked
in
the
coals.
Its
meat
was
tender,
a
little
like
chicken,
but
more
chewy
and
slightly
oily.
But
Simon
accepted
the
food
for
what
it
was,
his
own
culture’s
preference
to
be
detached
from
food’s
sometimes
distasteful
origins,
at
last
discarded.
After
the
meal
Isaac
stood
up.
He
looked
tired.
Simon
watched
him
pick
up
the
canvas
sack
and
walk
away
into
the
night.
The
next
day,
alone
in
the
cool
and
quiet
of
the
rockpool,
Simon
laboured
under
a
deep
melancholy,
viewing
his
plight
as
a
direct
consequence
of
his
weakness.
His
vocation
abandoned
for
an
indulgently
vague
spiritual
exploration,
was
a
folly
for
which
he
suspected
he
would
pay
a
cruel
price.
His
wrist
throbbed
and
by
midday
his
head
swam
with
the
onset
of
a
fever.
He
began
to
pluck
the
locket
from
his
breast
pocket
with
increasing
frequency
and
intensity
to
gaze
at
the
young
woman.
He
wanted
to
kiss
her,
to
be
able
to
run
his
fingers
over
her
pale
European
face
and
lips.
She
had
kind
and
loving
eyes.
He
wanted
her
there,
a
person
from
his
world.
Dizzy
with
pain
and
fever
he
staggered
about
the
small
clearing,
clutching
at
trees
and
bushes,
lost
in
fragments
of
memories.
By
dusk
the
fever
was
raging
and
his
speech
even
more
rambling.
He
was
barely
conscious
when
the
women
returned,
and
when
he
first
heard
the
voice
of
Winnie,
he
was
happy
because
he
thought
the
girl
from
the
locket
had
come.
Winnie
and
Maudie
half
walked,
half
dragged
him
to
fire
where
they
boiled
the
pulp
of
a
tuber
in
the
billy.
He
was
too
weak
to
resist
when
they
forced
the
sour
liquid
down
his
throat.
Winnie
removed
the
bandage
of
paperbark
and
Simon
heard
the
concern
of
clicking
321
tongues.
Winnie
tossed
several
small
rocks
into
the
fire
and
through
half‐opened
eyes
he
watched,
puzzled,
as
she
squatted
over
a
coolamon
and
urinated.
When
the
rocks
were
hot
she
used
a
piece
of
bark
to
drop
them
into
the
urine.
He
smelled
the
acrid
steam.
Maudie
held
his
arm
and
he
shut
his
eyes
as
he
realized
what
was
coming.
Winnie
carried
the
coolamon
over
and
poured
the
heated
urine
into
his
wound.
He
gagged
once,
twice,
on
the
pain
and
lapsed
into
unconsciousness.
It
took
two
days
for
the
fever
to
pass.
In
that
time
the
pain
diminished
and
the
women
began
keeping
the
bark
off
the
wound
for
longer
periods.
The
skin
was
already
healing
over,
and
there
was
no
sign
of
the
infection
which
had
driven
the
fever.
Simon
began
to
study
the
wound
with
interest,
marvelling
at
its
recovery.
His
hand
was
badly
bruised
and
still
not
serviceable,
but
with
great
relief
he
found
he
could
move
his
fingers
a
little.
He
would
bear
forever
a
livid
depression
in
the
wrist,
but
the
disfigurement
did
not
seem
important.
It
reminded
him
suddenly
of
Karl,
and
he
wondered
if
they
would
ever
again
meet.
Minnie
and
Maudie
also
took
an
interest
in
their
handiwork,
but
Isaac
remained
aloof.
He
had
spoken
little
since
the
incident
and
spent
most
of
the
days,
and
even
the
nights,
away
from
camp.
They
had
been
in
the
valley
for
almost
two
weeks
and
had
just
shared
pit‐roasted
kangaroo
when
the
old
man
took
Simon
aside.
“How’re
you
feelin’,
Father?”
It
was
the
first
time
since
the
wounding
that
Isaac
had
approached
Simon
directly
and
with
his
former
deference.
“I’m
okay.”
Simon
did
not
want
to
lose
the
moment.
He
congratulated
the
old
man.
“That
was
good
tucker—you
must
have
been
a
sharp
hunter
in
your
day.”
322
Isaac
nodded
and
smiled.
“My
dad
could
put
a
spear
through
a
kangaroo
at
fifty
yards.
I
need
more
practice—
but
I
still
got
a
good
eye.”
Simon
raised
his
wrist.
“I
know.”
The
old
man
looked
sad
and
Simon
touched
his
arm.
“I’m
not
angry.
I
just
hope
I
learn
enough
to
understand.”
Isaac
nodded
again,
slowly:
“The
spirits.
They’ve
been
watchin’
us.”
He
paused,
uncertain,
as
if
to
continue
would
broach
forbidden
territory.
“They’ve
been
waitin’
for
you.”
Simon
folded
his
arms,
not
quite
sure
if
he
was
expected
to
take
the
old
man
literally.
Isaac
studied
him.
“You
got
to
realize
something
but.
If
you
learn
our
secrets,
if
you
say
to
the
land,
‘I
am
you
and
you
are
me’
then
you
won’
never
be
able
to
leave
it—it
don’
matter
where
you
are.
You’ll
be
a
blackfella,
an’
it
don’
matter
what
colour
your
skin
is.”
He
tapped
his
head.
“You
will
have
knowledge.
An’
you
won’
be
able
to
hide
‘cause
you
will
have
the
spirit
of
the
land
in
your
soul.
You
can
stay
a
Father,
but
it
won’
help
you.
That’s
what
I’m
tryin’
to
say—it
might
be
smarter
to
stay
a
dumb
whitefella.”
Simon
got
the
drift.
“My
ignorance
is
my
protection—.”
He
paused.
“But
I’m
a
priest,
I
understand
spirituality.
When
I
pray,
when
I
celebrate
the
Mass,
it
is
a
path
to
the
spiritual
plane—I
understand
that.”
Isaac
scratched
his
bearded
cheek.
“An’
the
spirits,
what
do
they
tell
you?”
Simon
paused
in
thought.
“Well—I
feel
a
guiding
influence.”
Isaac
shook
his
head.
“But
what
do
they
say
when
you
talk
with
‘em?
Do
the
spirits
come
in
the
church
and
show
you
who
they
are
and
what
they
can
do,
and
tell
you
about
your
family
an’
friends
in
other
places?”
Simon
frowned.
“Well—no.
Our
faith
doesn’t
require
us
to
see
in
order
to
believe.”
323
Isaac’s
face
softened
in
the
firelight
and
for
a
fleeting
moment
Simon
thought
he
read
pity
in
the
old
man’s
eyes.
“Must
be
that’s
how
we’re
different,”
was
all
he
said.
Simon
took
the
old
man’s
arm.
“But
you’re
Catholic
now—you
went
to
Mass
at
Gunwinddu
as
Christians.”
“Sure,
but
nothin’
changed.
Your
boss
god
and
our
boss
god
are
the
same
big
fella.
When
we
go
to
church
we
talk
to
the
same
spirits.”
“And
you
see
them?”
“Sure.”
“Do
you
see
them
elsewhere?”
“Everywhere,
Father.”
“Then
why
did
you
bother
going
to
church?”
Isaac
scratched
his
chin.
“Well,
we
don’
want
to
hurt
your
feelings,
like.”
Simon
swallowed
and
looked
down
at
his
grubby
feet.
He
didn’t
know
what
to
say.
He
suddenly
felt
cheated.
Isaac
glanced
out
into
the
darkened
valley.
“Maybe
we’ll
just
see
what
happens
tomorrow,
eh!”
The
following
morning
the
two
men
left
the
camp
together.
They
took
the
path
to
the
rockhole,
which
continued
through
a
hidden
cleft
in
the
rock
face
on
the
other
side
of
the
water.
It
followed
the
base
of
a
ridge
for
about
three
hundred
metres
then
entered
a
natural
tunnel.
Here
the
darkness
swallowed
them.
Simon
only
had
the
sound
of
Isaac’s
feet
slapping
the
wet
rock
floor
as
a
guide.
He
guessed
the
tunnel
to
be
a
watercourse
leading
to
the
rockhole.
It
was
difficult
to
gauge
how
far
they
walked
in
darkness,
but
he
guessed
it
to
be
about
two
hundred
or
so
metres
before
a
light
appeared
in
the
distance.
The
light
steadily
blossomed
and
as
they
neared
Simon
saw
it
was
an
ancient
roof
collapse.
Isaac
led
the
way
up
the
ramp
of
rubble
to
the
top
of
a
low
hill
overlooking
another
valley,
much
larger
than
the
one
where
they
had
camped.
Isaac
324
stopped
and
stood
perfectly
still,
gazing
with
intensity
over
the
plain
towards
the
distant
valley
walls.
After
a
while
he
sighed,
seemingly
satisfied
with
something
he
had
seen.
“What
is
it?”
Simon
asked.
“Smoke.”
“Smoke?”
“Yeah—he’s
waitin’
for
us.”
“Angel?”
“Sure.”
“Is
he
sending
a
signal?”
“No—it’s
his
camp,
an’
he’s
waitin’
for
us.”
Simon
peered
across
the
plain.
The
sky
was
clear.
“I
can’t
see
anything.
How
do
you
know
he’s
waiting?”
Isaac
grunted
and
leaned
on
his
spear.
“I
just
know.
There’s
somethin’
that
tells
me.”
Simon
concentrated
his
gaze
on
the
hills
and
shook
his
head.
“I
can’t
see
a
thing.”
Isaac
shrugged
and
began
to
walk
again.
“You
will.
When
you
can
see
with
your
mind
as
well
as
your
eyes
it
gets
easier.
Smoke
is
one
of
the
important
things
to
learn
about,
Father.
Smoke
makes
a
fella
think.
If
I
didn’
know
Angel
was
there
an’
I
see
smoke,
I’m
goin’
to
start
thinkin’,
eh!
If
it’s
not
from
a
camp
or
a
bushfire
I’m
goin’
to
think
even
harder,
and
wonder.
So
I’ll
sit
down
and
light
a
fire
too.
The
other
fella
sees
my
smoke
and
he
starts
thinkin’
an’
wonderin’
as
well.
Now,
‘cause
we’re
both
thinkin’
real
hard
about
each
other
it’s
not
hard
for
me
to
get
his
thoughts
and
for
him
to
get
my
thoughts.
That’s
how
we
sometimes
know
what’s
goin’
on
in
other
places—a
bit
like
a
wireless,
maybe,
but
comin’
from
in
here.”
He
tapped
his
head.
“That’s
quite
extraordinary—thought
being
like
radio
waves.”
Isaac
gave
Simon
a
puzzled
look
and
pushed
on.
The
path
twisted
down
to
the
valley
floor
and
to
Simon’s
eyes,
325
disappeared,
but
Isaac
trod
with
purpose.
However,
he
did
not
lead
them
across
the
plain.
Instead
they
followed
the
base
of
the
nearside
ridge
for
several
kilometres.
“Aren’t
we
going
to
see
Angel?”
Simon
was
still
thinking
about
the
miracle
of
smoke
and
was
afraid
he
was
about
to
lose
the
thread
of
yet
another
revelation.
“Later.”
They
walked
in
silence
until
they
met
a
large
olive‐green
snake
blocking
their
path.
It
was
about
two
metres
long,
with
a
thick
blunt
head.
Isaac
stopped
and
slowly
retreated.
His
eyes
never
left
the
snake
as
he
bent
his
knees
and
picked
up
a
fistful
of
gravel.
“Is
it
poisonous?”
Simon
asked.
“Plenty
poisonous.”
“Why
don’t
you
use
the
spear
then?”
Isaac
waved
his
arm
dismissively.
“If
I
miss,
you
volunteering
to
get
my
spear
back?”
Simon
shook
his
head.
Instead,
Isaac
tossed
the
gravel
to
the
far
side
of
the
snake
and
yelled
“run”.
Simon
needed
no
urging.
They
sprinted
in
a
wide
arc
around
the
distracted
reptile
and
didn’t
stop
until
well
past.
“What
would
you
do,
out
here,
if
someone
got
bitten?”
Simon
asked
breathlessly
as
they
slowed
to
a
walk.
“You
hit
where
the
bite
is,
real
hard
with
a
rock
or
stick—make
a
bruise
so
the
poison
stays
in
that
place.
Then
you
cut
with
a
sharp
stone
and
suck
out
all
the
bad
blood.
You
got
to
be
careful,
but.
You
don’
want
none
of
that
stuff
stayin’
in
your
mouth.”
The
two
men
followed
the
foot
of
the
hill
for
several
kilometres
and
the
sun
was
almost
directly
overhead
when
Isaac
began
to
lead
the
way
up
a
boulder‐strewn
slope
to
the
top
of
the
ridge.
At
the
summit
they
walked
along
a
razor‐back
for
about
an
hour
until
it
ended
abruptly
at
a
sheer
drop.
Simon
peered
cautiously
over
the
edge.
The
326
bottom
seemed
a
long
way
down,
but
a
ledge
blocked
his
view.
“Come
on
Father.”
Simon
turned
in
time
to
see
Isaac
disappearing
from
sight
as
he
stepped
down
onto
a
narrow
track.
At
the
bottom,
a
stand
of
tall
white
gums
colluded
with
the
sheer
walls
to
cast
the
gorge
into
a
perpetual
shadow.
“We’re
close
to
Mudidjara
now,”
Isaac
whispered.
“Don’
talk
loud
now—there
are
important
spirits
here—we’ve
got
to
show
respect,
like.”
Simon
shivered.
The
air
seemed
suddenly
chill
after
walking
under
the
blazing
sun.
The
entrance,
through
a
narrow
neck
of
rock,
was
partially
blocked
by
large
boulders.
The
walls
towered
above
them
on
all
sides.
They
proceeded
through
the
narrow
cleft
and
just
before
entering
the
other
side
Isaac
laid
his
spears
down.
“We
leave
these
out
here,”
he
whispered.
He
bent
down
and
collected
a
handful
of
sticks
which
he
threw
into
the
opening
beyond.
They
clattered
on
the
rocks.
Satisfied
that
any
lingering
spirits
would
not
be
startled
by
the
sudden
appearance
of
humans,
Isaac
stepped
through,
followed
closely
by
Simon.
They
stood
on
a
flat
ledge
at
the
edge
of
a
large
pool
of
water
about
the
size
of
several
tennis
courts.
Its
black,
still
surface
mirrored
the
towering
walls
and
a
square
patch
of
sky
as
deep
beneath
the
surface
as
the
heavens
above
were
high.
It
was
as
though
they
had
stepped
into
another
world;
a
world
without
sound.
Neither
man
spoke,
both
instinctively
pausing
to
absorb
the
purity
of
the
atmosphere,
highlighted
by
the
powerful
silence.
Simon
walked
to
the
edge
of
the
water.
He
caught
sight
of
his
reflection;
distant
eyes
and
sun‐browned
cheeks
above
a
matted
beard.
It
took
him
a
few
moments
to
realize
he
was
looking
at
himself.
Isaac
squatted
beside
him.
327
“This
is
Mudidjara—the
moon’s
bathing
place,”
he
whispered
Simon
looked
into
the
depths.
“—the
moon’s
bathing
place,”
he
repeated
in
a
hushed
voice.
“It’s
beautiful.”
Isaac
stood
up
and
beckoned
Simon
to
follow
as
he
walked
to
a
path
between
the
water
and
the
rock
wall.
The
path
went
for
about
thirty
metres
and
stopped
below
a
cave,
the
opening
of
which
was
piled
high
with
stones.
Isaac
carefully
removed
the
stones
and
bending
low
under
an
overhang
stepped
inside.
The
cave
wasn’t
all
that
deep,
but
its
walls
were
dry
and
smooth
and
covered
with
rock
art
–
vivid
pictures
of
men
and
animals,
and
suns
and
moons.
It
was
a
life‐sized
calendar
depicting
the
cycle
of
seasons
and
life.
The
colours
were
vivid
reds,
yellows,
blacks
and
whites;
the
primal
hues
of
Gondwanaland.
The
artistry
was
exquisite,
and
the
spirits
alone
knew
how
old.
Simon
gently
touched
the
face
of
the
sun,
a
yellow
ball
against
a
red
sky,
and
felt
the
spirit
of
the
artist
touch
him
through
time.
“It’s
extraordinary—beautiful,”
he
whispered.
Isaac
pointed
to
a
cryptic
mural
on
the
other
wall.
The
first
section
showed
sky
and
earth
separated
by
a
thin
horizontal
line.
The
second,
men
rising
from
the
ground
and
spreading
over
the
land.
The
third
section
showed
the
emergence
of
vegetation
and
other
animals.
The
colours
began
with
a
black
sky
and
a
harsh
red
earth.
Through
employing
a
clever
mix
of
ochre,
the
artist
had
gradually
lightened
the
tones
across
the
mural
to
accentuate
the
transition
from
darkness
to
light
and
life.
“In
the
beginning
there
was
only
sky
and
earth,”
said
Isaac.
“The
earth
was
flat
an’
empty,
no
life,
waitin’
for
our
ancestral
spirits
to
wake
for
the
first
time
an’
rise
from
the
ground—see.”
He
pointed
to
the
second
section.
“The
spirits
then
worked
real
hard,
puttin’
down
the
mountains,
an’
trees,
an’
328
rivers—but
you
can
see
there
were
no
deserts
then.
They
come
later.”
Simon’s
mouth
was
open
in
amazement.
“In
the
beginning
God
created
heaven
and
earth,”
he
whispered.
Here
was
portrayed
the
words
of
Genesis,
the
beginning
of
everything.
“—And
the
earth
was
without
form—darkness
was
upon
the
face
of
the
deep,
and
the
Spirit
of
God
moved
upon
the
face
of
the
waters.”
Simon
snapped
from
his
trance.
“How
do
you
know
about
the
deserts?”
“It’s
in
the
songs.”
Isaac
drew
Simon
to
the
cave
entrance.
“Mudidjara
is
where
our
great
father
for
this
place
come
to
life
to
put
down
the
mountains
and
trees
and
animals
in
this
country.
The
fish
come
later,
in
a
great
flood
which
covered
all
the
land.”
“Fish?”
“Sure!”
Isaac
tugged
at
Simon’s
sleeve
and
led
him
back
down
the
path
to
the
main
rock
platform
above
the
pool.
He
spread
himself
on
his
stomach
and
reaching
down,
brushed
the
surface
of
the
water
with
feather‐like
strokes
of
his
fingers.
Almost
immediately
a
school
of
tiny
silver
fish
rose
up,
like
spiralling
comets
through
a
night
sky.
Simon
could
scarcely
believe
his
eyes.
They
were
near
no
river,
to
speak
of,
and
close
to
a
thousand
kilometres
from
the
nearest
coastline.
“The
songs
record
a
flood—a
great
flood?”
Isaac
got
back
to
his
feet
and
nodded.
“The
flood
come
from
the
north‐west
where
the
desert
meets
the
sea,
like.
Iltjanma—he
was
the
crayfish
fella—ancestor
like—he
was
walkin’
alongside
a
river
there
lookin’
for
fish.
But
he
don’
see
any
so
he
put
grass
and
rocks
down
to
make
a
dam
and
catch
‘em.
Pretty
soon
fish
are
jumpin’
behind
the
wall
he’s
made
and
he
spears
plenty
to
take
back
to
camp.
He
ate
plenty
too
an’
fell
asleep.
At
the
river
but,
the
water
is
still
risin’
higher
an’
higher
and
soon
busts
the
wall
and
a
great
329
flood
flowed
across
the
land—and
that’s
how
the
fish
come
to
Mudidjara.”
“It’s
extraordinary.
You’ve
got
no
books,
no
conventional
form
of
literature,
yet
you’ve
recorded
and
still
refer
to
incidents
which
probably
predate
all
other
human
history
by
thousands
of
years.”
Isaac
shrugged.
He
didn’t
need
a
newcomer
to
expound
the
obvious.
He
sat
on
his
haunches
staring
into
the
pool.
Neither
spoke
for
some
time,
absorbed
in
their
own
thoughts.
Isaac
started
to
pick
idly
at
a
toenail.
“Tell
me
what
you
can
see
Father.”
Simon
broke
from
his
reverie
and
glanced
at
the
old
man.
“What
do
you
mean?”
Isaac
gestured
towards
the
rockpool.
“I
wan’
to
know
what
you
can
see.”
Simon
studied
Isaac
thoughtfully
and
realized
it
was
no
idle
question.
He
turned
to
the
pool
and
looked
around.
“Well,
we’re
in
a
small
gorge,
about
fifty,
maybe
sixty
metres
down
and
surrounded
on
all
sides
except
for
the
entrance.
Apart
from
this
ledge
it’s
filled
with
water—and
pretty
deep
I’d
imagine.”
Isaac
nodded.
“Plenty
deep—what
colour
is
the
water?”
Simon
gave
a
small
shrug.
“Black—.”
Through
the
corner
of
his
eye
he
saw
Isaac
look
at
him,
disappointed.
“—except
for
the
blue
from
the
sky,”
he
added
quickly.
“Ah,
you
can
see
the
sky?”
“Sure—the
reflection.”
Isaac
made
no
comment.
Simon
stared
into
the
water
and
began
to
study
it
more
carefully.
It
wasn’t
until
he
began
to
search
the
depths
opposite
the
ledge
that
he
could
discern
a
subtle
difference.
Everywhere
the
rock
was
black,
making
the
water
black,
except
on
the
opposite
side
where
there
was
a
band
of
colour,
only
just
perceptible.
He
pointed.
“The
colour
is
a
bit
different
there.
Is
that
it?”
Isaac
nodded
slowly
and
stood
up.
330
“What
is
it?”
“Gold,”
he
said
flatly.
“Gold!”
“We
got
it
everywhere,
all
around—it’s
part
of
the
land
here.”
Simon
stared
transfixed
at
the
pale
shadow
below
the
waterline
opposite.
An
enormous
reef
of
gold
angling
down
through
the
rock
formation.
If
it
was
the
surface
of
an
even
larger
deposit
its
value
would
be
immense—tens,
maybe
hundreds,
of
millions
of
dollars.
Isaac
walked
back
to
the
path
leading
to
the
caves
and
stooped
to
pick
up
a
rock
half
the
size
of
his
fist.
He
passed
it
to
Simon.
It
was
a
gold
nugget.
Simon
pawed
it,
weighed
it
in
his
hand.
“You
want
it?”
Simon
looked
up
at
the
old
man.
There
was
a
warning
in
his
deep,
sunken
eyes.
He
shook
his
head
slowly.
“No—of
course
not.”
He
handed
it
back
to
Isaac,
who
tossed
it
aside.
“Better
for
it
to
stay
just
a
rock,”
he
said.
“That
gold
is
in
the
water
for
Mudidjara
and
the
moon—not
for
men.”
331
Chapter
Eighteen
Isaac
led
Simon
back
through
the
cave
with
the
rock
art
and
out
onto
a
path
which
twisted
around
towards
the
opposite
side
of
the
water.
They
reached
another
cave,
wide
and
shallow.
It
was
stacked,
layer
upon
layer,
with
collected
sea
shells.
Simon
moved
closer.
The
shells
were
like
none
he
had
ever
seen.
“Old,”
said
Isaac.
“The
old
men—clever
men—used
‘em
in
special
ceremonies.”
There
was
a
clear,
sandy
area
near
the
shells
and
Isaac
sat,
beckoning
Simon
to
do
likewise.
“I
had
to
show
you
that
gold
Father,
‘cause
it’s
what
drove
our
people
away
from
here.
Now
we’ve
come
back,
I
don’
want
that
stuff
causin’
any
more
sufferin’—.
When
I
was
little,
there
was
still
lots
of
people
here.
It
was
a
happy
place,
but
we
knew
about
white
people.
Everybody
was
curious,
see,
an’
so
you
don’
think
about
what
you’re
leavin’
behind
when
you
decide
to
go
an’
have
a
look
at
these
new
people
that
have
come
to
the
land.
You
don’
think
you
might
not
come
back—that
nobody
will
come
back.
Well—
we
were
happy
at
Mudidjara.
Lots
of
families
still.
My
father
was
not
interested
in
the
white
people.
He
had
heard
stories
that
they
were
not
always
friendly,
like.
“But
my
father’s
brother,
my
uncle,
he
went.
He
went
away
for
a
couple
of
years,
I
think.
Well,
he
learned
about
white
people
all
right
and
most
of
‘em
where
he
went
were
lookin’
for
this
stuff
they
called
gold.
My
uncle
reckoned
they
were
crazy,
but
he
soon
saw
that
a
man
with
gold
was
a
big
fella.
My
uncle
wanted
to
be
a
big
fella,
like,
to
see
the
whitefellas
treatin’
‘im
like
an
important
bloke.
“So
my
uncle—he
brought
the
whitefellas
to
Mudidjara,
on
horses.
My
father
an’
my
uncle
had
a
big
argument—my
uncle
had
broken
the
law.
But
my
uncle
don’
take
any
332
notice.
He
laughed
at
my
father
and
tol’
him
it
was
whitefella’s
law
now
and
that
what
my
father
says
don’
matter.
That
night
my
father
got
the
other
men
and
they
left
the
valley
and
come
here,
to
the
sacred
place,
an’
sung
the
stone—a
special
stone—as
old
as
Mudidjara.
My
uncle
but,
had
followed
‘em.
When
he
got
here
he
knew
they
were
singin’
im
an’
he
got
frightened.
He
tried
to
hit
my
father
with
a
stick
to
stop
‘im.
He
grabbed
the
stone
and
shook
it
in
the
air,
sayin’
the
blackfella
power
was
no
good
no
more.
My
father
he
got
real
angry
an’
he
cursed
my
uncle.
My
uncle
run
at
‘im
with
his
stick,
but
my
father
put
up
his
spear
and
pushed
it
into
my
uncle’s
heart
and
killed
‘im.”
Isaac
paused
and
his
eyes
seemed
to
sink
deeper
into
their
sockets.
“When
my
father
saw
my
uncle
was
dead
he
touched
the
stone
and
it
was
cold—freezin’
cold
and
all
the
men
knew
the
stone
had
taken
his
soul
and
would
keep
it
forever.
That’s
what
the
stone
is
for—it
protects
the
land.
The
men
took
‘is
body
down
here,
where
we
are
now—and
pushed
‘im
into
the
water
for
Wonambi
the
snake
spirit.
My
father
said
the
secret
of
Mudidjara
had
to
be
protected,
so
all
the
men
took
their
spears,
an’
went
back
to
the
valley
where
the
whitefellas
were
sleepin’.
There
was
a
big
battle.
The
whitefellas
had
guns,
but
it
was
dark
and
the
guns
made
a
bright
spark
when
they
were
fired
so
it
was
easy
to
see
where
they
were.
But
they
killed
a
lot
of
our
people
before
the
last
one
of
‘em
was
dead.
“After
the
fight
it
was
terrible
here—a
lot
of
cryin’
for
a
long
time,
‘cause
a
lot
of
the
women
had
lost
their
husbands
an’
there
were
not
many
men
left
now.
One
night
the
people
had
a
big
meetin’
and
tol’
my
father
that
they
were
goin’—that
Mudidjara
was
now
a
bad
place.
My
father
understood
this
an’
said
everybody
should
leave
Mudidjara—for
maybe
a
year,
like.
So
we
started
walkin’—
but
along
the
way
we
were
found
by
more
whitefellas.
Me
333
an’
my
brother
were
playin’.
When
we
saw
the
whitefellas
we
hid—and
watched
‘em
from
the
rocks.
They
stopped
their
horses
an’
walked
up
to
the
families
and
did
a
lot
of
yellin’,
but
we
don’
know
what
they’re
sayin’,
see.
Then
one
of
the
fellas
sees
one
of
the
women
carryin’
a
bag—it
was
a
saddle
bag
from
one
of
the
horses
from
the
blokes
who
were
killed
and
she
was
carryin’
some
things
in
it.
There
was
a
lot
of
yellin’
again
and
they
got
everybody
to
stand
up
in
a
line.
Me
an’
my
brother
saw
one
of
the
whitefellas
looking
up
to
where
we
were
so
we
lay
down
so
they
don’
see
us.
Then
we
heard
loud
bangs—I
don’
know
how
many
times.
When
we
looked
again,
the
whitefellas
were
on
their
horses
again
and
ridin’
away.
My
brother
an’
me
went
down
to
where
everybody
was
an’
they
were
all
dead.”
Isaac
stopped.
Tears
slid
slowly
over
his
cheekbones.
He
stood
up.
“It
was
the
end—the
end
of
everythin’
—except
Mudidjara.
I
always
knew
one
day
I’d
come
back
to
Mudidjara.
But
I
don’
want
it
to
be
a
sad
place.
It’s
got
to
be
happy
again—but
first
we
got
to
make
it
right.”
Isaac
started
to
walk
up
the
path
and
Simon
followed.
They
were
approaching
another
cave,
high
up
and
diagonally
across
from
the
entrance
to
Mudidjara.
It
was
set
back
into
the
rock
making
it
invisible
to
any
chance
visitor.
Isaac
stopped
before
they
reached
the
cave.
“This
last
one,
Father,
is
special—real
special—the
holiest
place
for
our
people.
It’s
where
our
great
father
put
himself
down
to
rest
when
his
work
was
done.
I’ve
been
comin’
here
while
you’ve
been
getting’
better,
singin’
the
sacred
songs
and
talkin’
with
the
spirits.
There’re
some
powerful
fellas
here
still.”
Simon
looked
at
the
darkened
entrance
in
the
rock.
In
the
stillness
and
silence
of
the
gorge
all
he
could
hear
was
his
own
breath.
Isaac
entered
the
cave
and
beckoned
Simon
to
follow.
It
was
high
enough
to
stand
and
about
the
area
of
a
small
334
room.
The
old
man
stepped
to
a
nook
low
down
in
a
side
wall
and
squatted.
Simon
joined
him.
In
the
shallow
cavity
of
rock
was
a
smooth
stone,
about
the
size
of
a
large
egg
and
resting
on
a
mat
of
feathers.
Isaac
gestured
to
it.
“Touch
it
Father.”
Simon
hesitated.
He
looked
at
Isaac.
“What
is
it?”
Instead
of
speaking,
Isaac
inclined
his
head,
urging
Simon
to
do
as
he
was
asked.
Tentatively,
Simon
reached
out
and
touched
its
surface.
A
chill
flowed
into
him
and
he
jerked
his
hand
away,
repulsed.
“Is
it
cold?”
“Yes,”
Simon
whispered.
“The
soul
in
the
stone—an’
you’re
a
Father,
you
got
powers
you
don’
even
know
yet—you
can
free
‘im—an’
make
‘im
leave
Mudidjara.”
“Who?”
“My
uncle.”
Simon
shivered.
“That
tjurunga,
the
stone,
has
my
uncle’s
soul.
We
got
to
give
it
back—let
‘im
leave
this
place.
Until
we
do
this
thing
he’s
in
that
stone
for
all
time.
I’ve
been
thinkin’
a
lot
about
this,
Father.
We’re
startin’
again,
a
bran’
new
day
here—so
we
do
this
thing
for
my
uncle.
That’s
what
we
got
to
do.”
Simon
was
dubious,
but
there
was
no
doubting
the
sensation
emitted
by
the
stone.
“What
can
I
do?”
“That’s
what
we’re
goin’
to
find
out—see
if
you
are
strong
enough
for
this
place—strong
enough
to
belong.
Simon
felt
his
stomach
muscles
tighten.
“—initiation?”
Isaac
nodded.
Simon
shook
his
head.
“I
can’t.”
“It
has
to
be,”
said
Isaac
firmly.
He
walked
to
the
back
of
the
cave
where
there
was
a
collection
of
tools,
primordial
weapons
and
several
long
pieces
of
bone.
Isaac
picked
up
one
of
these,
along
with
an
upturned
woomera,
a
spear
335
thrower,
containing
pieces
of
sharp‐edged
stone.
The
bone
was
a
piece
of
human
forearm,
sharpened
one
end,
and
a
knob
of
black,
resinous
substance
at
the
other.
From
this
trailed
a
web
of
hair.
Isaac
squatted
to
the
floor,
placed
the
bone
and
the
woomera
carefully
aside
and
picked
up
a
fistful
of
sand.
He
stared
into
Simon’s
eyes
and
began
to
let
the
sand
trickle
through
his
fingers.
“You
understand
this,
Father—a
man’s
life
goes
away
like
the
sand—sometimes
fast,”
he
paused,
“sometimes
slow.
But
when
the
bone
is
pointed,
his
life
is
finished
right
then.”
He
opened
his
hand
and
dropped
the
remaining
sand.
He
then
wiped
flat
the
small
mound
he
had
created.
“Gone
forever
unless
his
soul
is
saved.
I
think
maybe
the
spirits
want
to
see
if
you
can
save
my
uncle’s
soul—if
you’re
strong
enough.”
Simon
felt
a
hollow,
sickening
feeling
begin
to
well
in
the
pit
of
his
stomach.
He
knew
he
was
entering
dangerous
territory,
and
remembered
the
words
of
the
Bishop,
“Satanic—
their
culture
is
Satanic,
you
should
know
that—”
He
felt
a
knot
of
fear.
“Who
points
the
bone?”
His
voice
was
hoarse.
“Someone
decided
by
powerful
men
who
talk
with
the
spirits.”
Simon
regarded
the
bone
again.
“Can
you
point
it
and
kill
someone?”
Isaac
nodded
slowly.
Simon
tried
to
swallow
his
nervousness.
“How
does
it
work?”
The
old
man
hesitated.
“Same
as
a
spear,
Father—just
the
same—but
a
spear
from
here.”
He
tapped
his
forehead.
“The
bone
is
filled,
with
power
like,
from
the
mind,
during
special
ceremonies.
The
songs
are
sung
and
the
spirits
put
their
power
into
the
bone
too—and
then
it
is
pointed.
It
don’
matter
how
far
away
a
fella
is—hundreds
and
hundreds
of
miles—it
don’
matter.
It’s
a
spear
thrown
from
336
one
fella’s
mind
to
another
fella’s
heart,
and
the
mind
is
plenty
powerful
especially
if
many
minds
are
workin’.”
“And—?”
Isaac
made
a
breaking
movement
with
his
hands.
“When
the
bone
hits
it
splits
the
heart
and
breaks
the
back
bone
and
tears
out
the
throat—but
only
the
fella
pointin’
the
bone,
and
the
fella
who
has
been
hit
know
that.”
He
pointed
to
two
nearby
objects
which
looked
like
birds’
nests
made
from
emu
down
and
feathers.
“Kurdaitcha—the
fella
who
the
senior
men
decide
will
point
the
bone
has
to
wear
the
Kurdaitcha
shoes.”
“Why?”
“To
hide
his
footmarks—so
no
one
else
will
know
who
the
Kurdaitcha
man
was.”
Simon
had
heard
of
the
Kurdaitcha
man,
even
at
Gunwinddu.
Kurdaitcha
man,
the
blood
avenger,
the
most
feared
entity
in
Aboriginal
mythology;
akin
to
Christianity’s
avenging
angel.
He
nodded
towards
the
feathery
slippers.
“How
are
they
made—looks
like
the
featers
are
glued?”
“Blood—a
man’s
blood,
from
here.”
He
pumped
his
arm
and
pointed
to
his
bicep.
Simon
stared
grimly
at
these
objects
of
ruthless
sorcery.
“So
why—who
gets
judged
this
way?”
Isaac
shrugged.
“People
who
break
the
law—fellas
who
tell
women
or
people
not
initiated,
about
our
secrets.
I
got
to
be
careful,
even
with
you.”
Simon
stared
at
the
bone
and
the
slippers.
“The
old
laws
sound
pretty
tough,”
he
said
finally.
“They’re
the
true
laws
Father—it
happened
at
Gunwinddu
once.”
Simon
looked
up
and
faced
the
old
man,
who
nodded.
“Sure—but
no
one
tol’
Father
Rantz
of
course.
Fella
from
McKenzie
station
stole
two
girls
from
the
hostel
and
took
‘em
out
into
the
bush
one
time.
We
all
had
a
meetin’,
we
337
reckoned
we
should
track
him
and
bring
him
back,
but
one
of
the
old
fellas—Arthur’s
father
it
was—said
no.
He
said
we
had
to
sing
the
fella.
So
some
of
the
senior
men
snuck
out
every
night
for
three
nights,
singin’
into
the
bone.
They
built
a
fire
and
held
the
bone
over
till
it
was
real
hot
and
then
on
the
third
night
they
sang
it
out
into
the
bush.
The
next
day
the
two
girls
come
back—tol’
us
the
fella
had
suddenly
got
real
sick,
too
sick
to
walk.
He
lay
down
and
died
that
mornin’,
and
in
real
pain,
like
he
was
burning
up
inside—but
we
already
knew
that
before
the
girls
come
back.”
Simon
breathed
out,
slowly.
Isaac
picked
up
the
woomera
and
bone,
and
two
elongated
ovals
of
wood
with
thongs
of
hair
and
bark
attached
through
a
hole
in
the
ends.
Simon
recognized
them
as
bull‐roarers,
similar
to
what
had
been
used
at
the
funeral
at
Gunwinddu.
He
remembered
Matthew—and
the
sack
full
of
bones.
“Matthew—?”
Isaac
nodded.
“It’s
done.”
Simon
felt
a
twinge
of
disappointment
that
he
had
not
been
present;
that
he
had
not
been
considered
worthy
enough,
perhaps,
to
witness
to
Matthew’s
final
return
to
his
Dreaming
place.
Isaac
stood
up
and
moved
towards
the
cave
entrance.
“Come
on,
we’ve
got
to
get
movin’.
Angel’s
waitin’,”
he
said.
“What
about
Winnie
and
Maudie?”
“They
won’
be
expectin’
us—not
for
a
while.”
It
took
the
rest
of
the
afternoon
to
climb
the
path
leading
out
of
Mudidjara
and
then
to
cross
the
valley
to
the
opposite
hills.
Angel
was
camped
in
a
grove
of
ghost
gums
behind
the
first
ridge,
with
a
speared
kangaroo
roasting
in
a
ground
oven
built
with
heated
stones.
He
grinned
as
Isaac
and
Simon
arrived.
“How’s
it
goin’
Father—you
hungry—
you
getting’
to
like
this
country?”
338
Simon
was
slightly
taken
aback.
It
was
the
most
expressive
he
had
known
Angel.
He
nodded.
He
saw
Angel
glance
at
his
wrist,
but
he
asked
no
questions.
“It’s
a
beautiful
place.”
He
glanced
at
the
cooking
meat.
“And
I’m
hungry
enough
to
eat
a
horse.”
“Ah,
sorry
Father—no
horse.”
Simon
feigned
disappointment.
A
flock
of
white
cockatoos
screeched
noisily
then
settled
in
the
tops
of
nearby
gums.
Simon
looked
at
the
rocks
and
trees,
their
angles
and
colours
so
muted
by
day,
now
hard‐
etched
by
the
late
light.
He
stared
at
the
thin
spiral
of
blue
smoke
from
Angel’s
fire.
His
nostrils
tasted
the
delicious,
almost
erotic
scent
of
dry
earth
and
eucalyptus
vapours,
of
roasting
meat
and
burning
wood.
The
air
was
still
and
there
was
a
gentle
hum
from
a
million
unseen
insects.
For
a
moment
he
felt
as
if
he
was
floating,
so
overwhelming
was
his
sense
of
inner
calm.
It
was
a
sublime
moment
and
he
was
grateful
to
the
spirits
whose
space
he
sensed
he
was
being
allowed
to
share.
After
they
had
eaten,
they
sat
around
the
fire.
Occasionally
Isaac
would
blow
into
the
embers,
sending
an
eddy
of
sparks
twisting
up
into
the
night.
He
would
crane
his
neck
and
watch
them
until
every
last
one
had
been
swallowed
by
the
heavens.
“We
have
been
here
since
before
time
began,”
Isaac
spoke,
his
eyes
alight,
deep
within
their
sockets.
“We
have
lived
and
kept
the
earth
as
it
was
from
the
first
day—
become
one
with
the
land,
bending
as
the
trees
and
grasses
bend,
singing
inside
with
crickets
and
birds
and
running
water,
stepping
as
silent
shadows
behind
the
emu
and
pinkirrjarti,
knowing
the
proper
times
to
move
camp,
to
sing
the
land,
to
lie
with
a
woman—all
these
things.”
He
tapped
his
chest.
“In
quiet
time—dadirri
time—you
learn
to
breathe
the
same
rhythm
as
all
the
earth,
sometimes
leavin’
it
to
fly
with
the
clouds.
When
this
happens
you
can
339
move
through
the
sky
with
the
storms.”
He
made
sweeping
motions
with
his
hands.
“Turning
the
clouds
this
way
and
that
way.”
Simon
interrupted.
“Fly—?”
“Like
the
smoke—you
sit
and
think
and
be
still.
You
listen
deep.
Sometimes
the
spirits
come—sometimes
a
part
of
your
mind
flies
away
to
do
some
of
these
other
things,
or
go
to
the
spirits.
You
get
better
when
you
get
older.
When
I
was
a
boy
my
father
and
some
old
fellas
started
to
sing
up
a
storm.
One
of
‘em
was
standin’
quiet,
flyin’
through
the
sky
lookin’
for
the
right
clouds.
But
my
father
made
me
cover
my
eyes
so
I
couldn’
see,
‘cause
I
was
too
young.
But
these
old
fellas
were
makin’
so
much
noise,
an’
suddenly
the
sky
went
dark
and
there
was
thunder
and
lightnin’
—I
was
scared
so
I
looked
through
my
fingers.
That’s
when
I
saw
this
one
fella
standin’
quiet
and
the
others
all
dancin’
and
wavin’
their
arms
and
singin’.
Then
the
old
fella
who
was
standin’
quiet
turned
his
face
and
looked
straight
at
me
an’
saw
I
was
lookin’.
He
got
real
angry,
so
angry
that
he
chased
the
storm
away,
an’
it
disappeared—just
like
that.
The
old
men
were
real
powerful
when
all
the
people
were
still
livin’
out
here.”
“Have
you
ever
done
anything
like
this?”
Simon
asked.
Isaac
didn’t
reply
immediately
and
Angel
interceded:
“It
was
Isaac
who
brung
the
storm
when
we
were
at
Yindarlgooda—to
fill
all
the
rockholes
before
we
come
out
here.”
Simon
looked
at
Isaac.
“Did
you
have
to
be
so
enthusiastic—I
almost
drowned.”
Isaac
pointed
a
finger.
“You
shouldn’
joke
about
these
things
Father.”
“I
hear
what
you
say,
but
it
doesn’t
mean
I
understand.”
The
old
man
tapped
his
head.
“In
here
is
your
brain
and
your
mind—your
thinkin’.
You
whitefellas
use
plenty
of
brain
but
not
much
of
the
other,
eh?”
He
leaned
forward
to
340
reach
Simon
and
tapped
him
on
his
head.
“That
mind
in
there
is
plenty
strong
when
you
learn
how
to
use
it—much
stronger
than
that
brain
in
there.
Because
the
mind—your
thinkin’
is
a
part
of
everythin’.
It
don’
need
to
stay
inside
your
head.
It
can
fly
anywhere
an’
take
you
with
it.”
“Through
time?”
Simon
asked
hesitantly.
“Sure.
When
you
die,
when
your
brain
is
dead,
then
your
mind
is
real
free—but
if
you
only
ever
learned
how
to
do
things
with
your
brain
then
you
don’
know
that—‘cause
you’re
dead,
like—an’
your
mind
is
gone
‘cause
you
never
used
it.”
Simon
sat
quietly
for
a
moment.
Finally
he
faced
him
again.
“So
immortality—life
after
death,
can
be
very
real—
not
just
through
belief,
but
through
actuality?”
Isaac
nodded
slowly,
cautious.
“Only
if
Biamee
wants
your
mind.
If
your
mind
hasn’
learned
nothin’
when
you
lived
then
Biamee
won’
want
it,
so—”
He
snapped
his
fingers.
“So,
you’re
just
dead.”
Simon
stared
into
the
shimmering
coals.
How
did
you
get
words
like
that
into
a
sermon?
The
following
morning
Isaac
led
Simon
from
Angel’s
campsite
and
climbed
to
the
highest
ridge
of
the
range.
To
the
west
they
could
see
over
the
valley
towards
Mudidjara
water.
Isaac,
however,
led
them
over
the
crest
to
the
eastern
slope.
It
fell
away
gradually
to
a
plain,
which
in
the
infinite
distance
touched
the
horizon
somewhere
in
the
Great
Western
Desert.
It
was
red—the
whole
landscape
a
crusted
river
of
totemic
blood.
In
descending
order
down
the
gravely
slope
were
circles
of
stone,
neatly
spaced
in
pyramid
fashion;
one
circle
at
the
top,
two
below
that,
three,
four,
and
so
on.
Simon
guessed
there
to
be
about
thirty
in
all.
“This
is
the
place,”
said
Isaac.
“This
is
where
Biamee
comes.”
341
Simon
gazed
at
the
land
stretching
before
him.
There
were
no
trees,
just
clumps
of
sharp,
spiny
grass
and
spinifex
between
the
stone
circles.
Isaac
turned
to
Simon.
“You
take
off
your
clothes
now
Father.”
Simon
gaped.
“Huh?”
“No
clothes.
Here
you
can’t
hide
who
you
are
and
what
you
are.”
He
pointed
to
the
top
circle.
“That’s
your
place—
sit
there.”
“Now?”
Isaac
nodded.
“For
how
long?”
“All
day,
all
night—maybe
tomorrow
too—maybe
even
longer.”
Simon
baulked.
“I’ll
fry.”
The
old
man
pointed
to
Simon’s
wrist.
“Remember
that
pain
fella—you
got
to
learn
to
be
more
powerful.”
He
tapped
his
head.
“You
got
to
get
strong
here.”
“What
do
I
eat?”
“No
food—no
toilet—you
don’
move!”
Simon
could
again
taste
the
now
familiar
bile
of
fear.
Why
was
it
that
everything
dangerous
or
testing
seemed
to
happen
without
warning;
without
the
chance
to
argue
it
out.
“What
if
I
can’t
do
this?”
Isaac
studied
Simon’s
anxious
face
and
a
flicker
of
sadness
crossed
his
eyes.
“You’ll
die
Father.
If
you
come
here
and
don’
learn—you
can’t
leave—that’s
the
law.”
Simon
swallowed.
“You
would
kill
me?”
The
old
man
shook
his
head
and
waved
his
hand
to
encompass
the
enveloping
earth
and
sky.
“No—you’ll
just
die—maybe
you
just
won’
find
no
water
when
you
try
and
walk
away.”
The
priest
glanced
at
the
livid
dent
in
his
wrist.
He
reluctantly
shed
his
shirt,
trousers
and
underpants.
342
Isaac
squatted
and
stared
at
his
genitals.
“You
been
done!”
“Huh?”
“Lartna—cut.”
“Er—yes.”
Isaac
nodded.
“I
would
have
to
have
done
that
to
you.
It
can
hurt
real
bad
when
you’re
a
man—an’
I
got
no
blade
here,
just
sharp
stone
from
the
old
people.
At
Gunwinddu
we
used
razor
blades,
much
better,”
he
informed
conversationally.
Simon
felt
his
stomach
crawl.
Isaac
disappeared
briefly
and
returned
with
two
carved
dishes
containing
bird
down,
and
white
clay
pounded
and
moistened
into
a
sticky
paste.
He
smeared
Simon’s
back
with
the
ochre
and
before
it
dried
impregnated
the
ochre
with
down.
Using
his
fingers
he
then
deftly
inscribed
long
white
lines
down
Simon’s
arms
and
legs
and
three
horizontal
markings
across
his
chest.
The
final
adornment
was
a
long
cord
of
fur
string
wound
several
times
around
the
top
of
the
priest’s
head.
Isaac
motioned
Simon
to
step
into
the
ring
of
stone
and
sit.
He
winced
when
sharp
pebbles
pierced
his
buttocks.
Simon
looked
up
at
Isaac,
his
face
mirroring
his
inner
dread.
Isaac
squatted
and
placed
a
hand
on
his
shoulder.
“This
is
real
important—more
important
than
anything
else
you
ever
done.
This
is
for
you
an’
for
Mudidjara.
You’re
a
Father—you
can
forgive
my
uncle—free
him
from
the
stone—make
a
new
start
for
Mudidjara.”
Simon
nodded,
trying
to
understand.
“And
me
doing
this
will
achieve
that?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe!
You
mean
you
don’t
even
know
for
sure?”
343
Simon
started
to
stand
and
Isaac
pushed
him
back,
ignoring
his
protestations.
“It’s
goin’
to
depend
on
you,
Father.”
Simon
shook
his
head,
defeated.
“An’
when
you’re
cut
here,”
the
old
man
made
slashing
marks
across
his
chest,
“you
don’
make
any
noise
to
show
you’re
scared.
You
got
to
do
that
for
me.”
Simon’s
voice
quavered.
“Jesus—I’ll
try—when
does
that
happen?”
“When
we
think
you’re
ready.”
“We?”
The
old
man
made
no
reply.
“Where
will
Angel
be?”
“Not
far—he’s
doin’
this
too.”
“Where
will
you
be?”
“I’m
goin’
away
a
while.
It’s
no
good
you
doin’
this
just
‘cause
you
think
old
Isaac
is
watchin’.
You
got
to
do
this
‘cause
you’re
watchin’
yourself—from
inside.
Dadirri,
Father—dadirri.”
The
old
man
moved
away
and
Simon
took
a
deep
breath,
trying
to
resign
himself
to
fate.
He
was
surprised
when
just
a
short
time
later
he
heard
the
old
man’s
shuffling
steps
return.
Isaac
bent
and
placed
a
coolamon
of
water
beside
the
stones
encircling
the
priest,
placing
a
leafy
branch
over
the
top.
“This
has
got
to
last
a
while
Father.
Better
not
to
drink
in
the
day,
just
in
the
morning
an’
night—okay?”
Simon
nodded.
The
old
man
stood
and
gazed
out
upon
the
empty
circles
of
stone
spreading
down
the
slope
towards
the
endless
plain.
His
eyes
were
moist.
“I
was
here—down
there
a
bit.”
He
pointed
to
the
lower
circles.
“I
thought
I
was
goin’
to
be
the
last.”
He
turned
and
faced
Simon.
“Now,
maybe,
we’re
startin’
all
over
again—you
bein’
a
whitefella
and
a
Father.”
344
Simon
squinted
up
at
the
eyes
sunk
deep
behind
the
shaggy
beard
and
flat
nose
and
smiled
despite
his
inner
foreboding.
“Maybe.”
“Listen
deep
an’
quiet—let
the
land
talk
to
you,
an’
you’ll
be
all
right
Father.”
The
old
man
looked
once
more
out
onto
the
red
plain
before
shuffling
up
into
the
rocks
towards
where
Angel
had
camped.
Simon
shifted
to
ease
his
cramped
legs
and
winced
as
the
sharp
gravel
bit
into
his
soft
flesh.
Beyond
was
a
vast
open
plain
stretching
to
a
quivering
line
that
stitched
the
earth
to
the
sky.
Above
this
the
heavens
rolled
back
towards
him.
He
wished
at
that
moment
that
he
could
peer
into
the
depths
of
space;
perhaps
find
courage
there.
But
the
morning
sun
had
spread
a
blinding
curtain
across
the
heavens.
He
could
feel
it
stroking
his
skin.
It
was
friendly
now,
but
he
knew
that
before
the
day
was
out
the
heat
would
test
his
last
vestiges
of
resolve.
He
wondered
about
Isaac’s
warning.
Superstition?
Perhaps.
But
if
he
believed
that,
why
was
he
sitting,
naked,
inside
a
circle
of
stones
on
the
edge
of
a
desert?
He
ran
his
hands
over
the
stones
and
stopped
mid‐thought.
It
would
be,
he
realized,
the
first
time
white
hands
had
touched
them.
He
ran
his
fingers
back
over
their
rough
edge,
this
time
with
reverence.
He
thought
about
the
Bishop
and
his
fellow
priests.
He
stared
at
his
dirt‐ingrained
feet,
already
tanned
and
leathery
after
just
a
few
days.
“They’d
lock
me
away,”
he
muttered.
For
a
while
he
fidgeted
with
boredom
and
grew
restless
with
a
head
full
of
random
images;
fractured
pieces
of
his
past
and
his
hopes.
Nothing
fitted.
He
tried
to
piece
them
together.
What
was
it
that
drove
him
so
hard
from
his
own
kind?
He
thought
of
the
world
he
had
fled,
a
society
of
little
compassion
or
honour.
Was
he
too
harsh?
Had
his
thinking
been
distorted
by
his
pursuit
of
the
Aboriginal
soul?
He
tried
again
to
measure
the
flock
through
the
eyes
of
a
priest,
but
drew
little
improvement.
His
mind
scattered
345
before
him
images
of
stained
glass,
pews
filled
with
empty
faces
uplifted
in
acquiescence,
and
the
darkness
of
the
confessional
with
its
ever‐present
smell
of
wood
polish
and
fear.
He
screwed
up
his
eyes
and
pictured
the
starched
folds
of
altar
cloth,
the
splash
of
wine
as
he
turned
the
chalice
in
his
pale,
scrubbed
hands,
an
endless
parade
of
convent
girls
through
the
confessional,
telling
him
what
they
would
never
tell
their
nuns.
And
then
what—when
priests
and
nuns
could
be
thrust
with
relief
into
their
adolescent
pasts?
Red
brick
suburbs,
radio
jocks,
beaches,
sex,
and
young
pressed
flesh.
Images
of
teenage
girls
teased
him,
then
vanished.
He
saw
Muriel
and
felt
the
grip
of
her
thighs
and
the
press
of
her
bosom.
Sweat
matted
his
chest.
Was
it
his
or
hers?
He
remembered
the
wonder.
The
stirrings
of
an
erection
made
his
loins
itch
and
he
bit
into
his
tongue.
A
voice
mocked.
“You’re
no
different
Simon
Bradbury”.
He
shook
his
head.
The
world
to
which
he
administered
was
little
more
than
a
seething
mass
of
human
amoebas.
People
competed,
copulated,
played,
voted,
discoursed,
even
prayed
with
a
passion.
But
how
often
did
they
reflect,
or
give
courage
to
a
vision?
He
grew
melancholy.
Perhaps
it
was
no
longer
necessary
to
think
as
an
individual
in
the
age
of
mass
communication
when
so
much
packaged
opinion
filled
airwaves
and
newspaper
columns?
Could
it
be
that
it
was
people
like
himself
who
were
the
weeds
which
had
to
be
plucked
from
God’s
modern
new
garden?
Was
there
room
no
more
for
the
divergent
mind?
Time
dragged
leaden
shadows
across
the
ground
and
the
sun
rubbed
at
his
back
and
neck.
He
grew
thirsty.
If
he
resisted
the
urge
to
dip
his
fingers
into
the
water
at
his
side,
could
his
life
ever
be
the
way
it
was?
This
one
determination,
to
be
victorious
for
just
a
few
hours
over
the
most
desperate
temptation,
he
sensed,
could
change
him
forever.
But
would
it
be
for
the
better?
346
Midday.
Simon
sat
with
his
legs
crossed
and
his
arms
resting
loosely
on
his
knees.
The
world
was
silent
except
for
the
sound
of
his
breathing.
He
closed
his
eyes
and
measured
each
breath.
It
helped
drag
his
mind
from
his
body’s
aches
and
cramps.
But
the
real
torture
was
when
he
weakened
and
allowed
his
mind
to
crave
the
physical
pleasure
of
movement.
By
mid
afternoon,
the
simple
act
of
walking
a
few
steps
had
evolved
into
a
tormenting
fantasy.
“In
the
name
of
the
Father
and
of
the
Son
and
of
the
Holy
Ghost—.”
He
stopped.
His
hoarse
whisperings
sounded
ridiculous.
He
started
again,
silently,
and
proceeded
with
his
Mass.
It
helped
consume
both
time
and
discomfort,
yet
on
finishing
it
seemed
the
sun
had
barely
moved.
He
collected
small
stones
and
arranged
them
in
an
oval
shape
on
the
ground
by
his
side.
“Hail
Mary
full
of
grace—
.”
Touching
each
one
in
turn
he
laboured
through
a
rosary.
The
sun
moved.
He
spoke
the
Mass
again
and
then
another
rosary.
The
words
seemed
airy
here.
But
they
were
the
best
he
had.
If
he
truly
believed
in
the
existence
of
a
single
supreme
Being,
that
Being,
be
it
nestled
in
a
recess
of
the
human
mind
or
filling
an
unseen
dimension
all
around,
had
to
be
the
same
here
as
at
the
altar
rail.
It
was,
surely,
as
Isaac
had
said:
“Your
Boss
God
and
our
Boss
God
are
the
same
fella.”
But
it
was
easy
for
the
Aborigine.
He
lived
with
one
foot
already
in
the
realm
of
spirits.
He
pressed
his
palms
into
his
forehead.
“Vindicate
me,
Oh
God,
and
defend
my
cause—
for
thou
art
the
God
in
whom
I
take
refuge—.”
He
tried
to
continue
the
passage
from
the
Book
of
Psalms,
but
the
words
now
eluded
him.
The
shadows
lengthened
in
front
of
him.
His
own
squat
image
now
stretched
far
down
the
slope,
almost
touching
the
plain.
He
glanced
at
the
coolamon.
Soon,
he
promised.
He
forced
his
mind
to
grapple
with
a
germinating
idea.
Exposed
to
the
land,
naked
and
tormented,
he
sensed
he
347
was
closing
in
on
a
truth
about
himself.
Envy?
Was
it
envy?
Did
he
envy
the
Aboriginal
people?
Was
that
it—because
they
were
able
to
believe
in
something
seen
and
touched,
whereas
he,
a
learned
priest,
had
been
forced
to
build
his
life
on
doctrine
and
hope?
He
nodded
his
head
in
silent
debate.
It
was
true.
He
was
all
these
things,
jealous,
guilty,
confused,
but
above
all,
desperate
to
understand.
Adam
and
Eve—indeed
the
entire
Old
Testament,
was
a
grappling
with
the
realization
that
something
fundamental
to
the
human
condition
had
been
lost.
But
how
had
the
Aborigines
avoided
the
Garden
of
Eden?
Was
it
the
land—was
it
this
land?
Simon
watched
the
shadow
of
the
hill
stretch
out
like
a
tide
to
swallow
the
edge
of
the
plain.
The
horizon
deepened
to
indigo.
He
looked
up
into
the
azure
depths
and
offered
a
prayer
of
thanks
that
the
day
was
done.
He
gently
lifted
the
branch
away
from
the
coolamon,
dipped
his
hand
and
played
his
fingers
across
his
lips.
He
sucked
greedily.
It
was
glorious.
He
lifted
the
container
to
his
mouth
and
sipped,
rolling
the
water
over
his
tongue
and
trickling
the
liquid
to
his
throat.
It
was
hard
ground
water,
heavy
with
minerals.
It
tasted
of
the
earth
and
he
smiled,
pleased
with
such
exquisite
reward
for
his
endurance.
He
slowly
swallowed
another
mouthful
before
placing
the
coolamon
to
one
side.
He
flexed
his
joints
within
the
confines
of
the
stones
and
placed
his
hands
across
his
folded
knees.
He
was
relaxed
and
felt
inexplicably
happy.
For
a
while
he
just
sat,
calm
and
empty
of
thought.
A
gentle
breeze
wafted
from
the
plain,
cooling
and
scenting
the
air,
but
he
was
not
free
yet
from
the
craving
for
rhyme
and
reason.
It
was
the
moment
to
cast
the
net
wide,
to
garner
what
answers
the
desert
might
yield.
But
where
did
one
begin?
Indeed
had
there
ever
been
a
beginning?
Had
humankind
arrived,
or
348
evolved?
Simon
shrugged.
It
was
an
impossible
question.
Even
the
church
had
given
up.
Simon
stared
upwards.
The
night
sky
was
filling
quickly
with
the
jewels
of
far‐flung
galaxies
and
dead
suns.
He
gazed
at
a
twinkling
speck.
Was
there
no
end
to
the
wonder?
Had
there
been
life
on
the
planets
of
other
suns?
What
had
happened
when
these
sources
of
light
and
life
had
expired?
He
breathed
heavily.
The
truth
about
his
own
world
was
elusive
enough.
The
priest
ground
his
buttocks
into
the
gravelly
earth.
Countless
generations
of
men
had
sat
in
this
place,
awaiting
revelation.
He
pressed
himself
down,
willing
a
link,
through
the
spirits
of
all
who
had
been
before,
to
the
origins
of
time—to
an
answer.
The
moon
lifted
off
the
plain.
It
was
heavy
and
slow,
getting
nearer.
In
a
night
or
two
it
would
be
full.
Simon
stretched
his
back
and
sighed.
His
mind
was
overburdened
with
the
impossibility
of
his
quest.
Here,
and
not
yet
broken
by
a
single
lifetime,
there
had
existed
a
pure
human
lineage.
But
even
at
Mudidjara
this
thread,
so
unique
and
precious,
had
come
to
the
point
of
severance,
as
it
had
across
Gondwanaland.
In
less
than
ten
generations
of
European
settlement
the
Aboriginal
lineage
was
almost
extinguished.
Could
this
last
remaining
source
of
man’s
capacity
to
transcend,
with
understanding,
his
physical
enclosure
survive?
Simon
felt
the
press
of
despair.
It
surely
was
the
most
vital
question
for
modern
man
to
consider.
Yet
oblivion
loomed
so
near
that
he
could
not
imagine
how
anyone,
especially
a
maverick
priest,
could
hope
to
achieve
a
reprieve
in
the
time
remaining.
He
was
weary
with
immobility
and
thought
and
he
wondered
how
Angel
was
faring.
An
image
of
the
youth
flashed
in
his
mind.
He
was
sitting
in
a
trance,
but
his
eyes
were
open,
watching—watching
him.
Simon
blinked
with
349
surprise
and
the
image
was
gone.
He
lowered
himself
sideways,
curled
into
a
tight
foetal
ball
and
slept.
In
the
rocks
nearby
there
was
movement,
two
shadowy
forms
circled
the
man.
Out
on
the
plain
a
light
appeared,
moving
swiftly.
It
was
joined
by
two
others.
They
sped
in
a
sweeping
curve
towards
the
initiation
ground.
Glowing
balls
of
fire.
Min
Min
lights.
They
flashed
over
the
two
dingoes,
over
the
prostrate
man
and
disappeared
towards
Mudidjara
water.
The
light
roused
Simon
and
he
opened
his
eyes,
but
the
Min
Min
were
gone.
He
didn’t
see
the
dogs,
near
and
low,
watching
him.
All
he
saw
were
stars
and
they
wearied
him.
Simon
awoke
an
hour
before
dawn,
shivering
violently.
The
air
was
cold,
freezing.
He
sat
up
and
rubbed
his
shoulders.
His
skin
felt
like
sanded
leather.
The
meagre
diet
of
the
past
weeks
had
taken
the
padding
from
his
flesh
and
his
skin
was
now
loose
around
his
bones.
He
leaned
his
forehead
against
his
knees
and
braced
himself
for
the
dawn.
The
day
ran
from
him
in
waves
of
loneliness,
self‐
condemnation,
burning
thirst
and
bouts
of
manic
prayer.
There
were
moments
too
of
pure
joy
when
his
thoughts
crystallized
into
wondrous
truths.
But
under
the
unremitting
sun
they
faded
as
quickly
as
they
had
formed.
His
mind
began
to
wander
without
direction
or
restraint.
He
lapsed
into
trance,
aware
of
the
passage
of
time
only
by
the
shadows.
He
tried
to
hold
his
mind
with
prayer.
“The
Lord
is
my
rock
and
my
fortress,
my
deliverer,
my
God
my
rock—
.”
Once
a
group
of
naked
Aborigines,
old
warriors
in
ceremonial
ochre,
walked
up
from
the
plain.
They
glanced
towards
him
as
they
passed
and
he
knew
he
was
losing
control.
He
emerged
from
another
trance,
disoriented.
It
took
some
moments
to
realize
he
was
suspended
above
the
ground.
Below
sat
a
man,
hunched
miserably
inside
a
low
wall
of
stones.
He
watched
fascinated
as
the
man’s
penis
350
began
to
swell
and
extend.
It
pushed
itself
over
the
rim
of
stone,
and
like
a
fat
snake,
thrust
down
the
slope.
It
was
astonishing,
a
metre
long,
perhaps
more,
yet
the
man
did
not
appear
to
notice.
A
woman
watched
the
thing
too;
the
girl
from
the
locket.
She
was
dressed
in
white
cotton
and
her
long
dark
hair
had
been
loosened
to
hang
freely
across
her
shoulders.
He
waved
but
she
did
not
look
up.
She
too
was
fascinated
by
the
extraordinary
penis.
It
was
monstrous
and
magnificent.
He
willed
her
to
step
closer
and
touch
shyly,
tenderly;
then
boldly
stroke
it
with
those
slender,
pale
fingers.
He
wanted
to
see
it
respond,
to
engorge
with
blood
at
the
delicacy
of
her
touch.
He
smiled
with
voyeuristic
pleasure.
Simon
felt
himself
slipping,
falling.
His
vision
blurred
momentarily
and
when
his
eyes
refocused
it
was
on
the
familiar
scene
of
the
slope
and
the
plain.
He
was
still
locked
within
the
stones
and
realized
with
puzzlement
that
he
had
been
watching
himself.
He
glanced
at
his
crotch.
His
penis
was
dry
and
shrivelled.
But
the
girl
was
still
there,
standing
a
few
feet
away.
He
blinked
in
surprise
and
covered
his
naked
genitals
with
his
hands.
She
walked
towards
him,
making
him
panic.
Why
had
she
come
now,
when
he
was
like
this;
naked,
defenceless;
a
painted
savage.
She
smiled,
her
lips
full
and
open.
Perhaps
she
wanted
him,
now
she
had
seen
the
beast
lurking
inside
his
soul?
Her
long
dress,
belted
tight
around
a
small
waist,
drifted
above
the
stones
and
red
sand.
She
was
barefoot,
which
surprised
him.
He
loved
her,
pleaded
with
his
eyes
for
her
touch.
She
stopped
beside
the
stone
circle
and
bent
forward.
Full
rounded
breasts
filled
her
blouse.
He
knew
he
was
erect
and
his
face
burned,
but
he
wanted
her
desperately.
The
woman
stretched
an
arm
and
brushed
her
fingers
across
his
lips,
and
then
she
vanished.
The
priest
buried
his
fists
into
his
eye
sockets
and
whimpered.
In
the
blackness
he
created
he
saw
bleached
351
bones
piled
inside
a
circle
of
stones.
Was
that
the
future?
He
dropped
his
arms
and
stared
at
the
coolamon.
It
was
little
more
than
midway
through
the
afternoon.
He
watched,
detached,
as
his
fingers
parted
the
brush
and
gripped
its
rim.
He
lifted
the
carved
wooden
container
to
his
lips
and
drank
greedily
and
guiltily.
After
placing
it
back
by
his
side
he
lifted
his
knees
to
support
his
head.
Tears
made
grimy
runnels
down
his
decorated
thighs.
Simon
played
with
the
rosary
stones,
again
attempting
coordinated
prayer,
but
his
mind
was
rampant.
In
the
end
he
picked
up
the
small
prayer
stones
one
by
one
and
flung
them
out
towards
the
plain.
As
the
sun
dropped
behind
Mudidjara
he
lifted
the
coolamon
and
drank
the
little
that
remained,
resigning
himself
to
the
ultimate
end.
It
occurred
to
him
that
he
had
missed
the
plot
from
the
beginning.
It
was
death,
he
reasoned
with
sudden
clarity,
which
disgorged
the
answers
to
life’s
questions.
He
sat
calmly.
The
moon
lifted
off
the
horizon
and
he
watched
without
any
inner
comment.
It
was
large
and
golden,
floating
like
a
giant
balloon
above
the
plain.
But
while
Simon’s
eyes
were
open,
he
no
longer
saw.
He
was
hurting
so
much
that
he
could
no
longer
conceive
a
state
of
non‐pain,
thus
the
pain
gradually
became
immeasurable.
Without
dimension,
then,
it
ceased
to
exist.
As
the
moon
climbed
he
heard
the
lyrical
chant
of
a
man—no,
he
tilted
his
head
stiffly.
More
than
one.
Men
were
chanting,
an
ululating
sound,
somewhere
in
the
rocks
behind
him.
He
was
brushed
by
melancholy
as
the
voices
pitched
and
rolled
to
a
melody
first
sung
to
greet
the
dawn
of
time.
He
accepted
this
presence
without
fear
or
perplexity.
When
the
thrumming
of
bull
roarers
filled
the
night
he
accepted
he
was
in
the
presence
of
immortals,
and
was
grateful
for
their
company.
When
the
Min
Min
lights
hovered
in
front
of
him
he
felt
the
soothing
touch
of
holy
spirits.
352
The
bull
roarers
picked
up,
a
vibrating,
restless
tempo.
Oowah—oowah—oowah.
Simon
felt
himself
rising
again
and
in
the
dark
noticed
a
silver
thread‐like
substance
trailing
beneath
his
body.
A
man
stepped
down
the
slope,
carrying
a
stick
of
dancing
fire.
He
paused
to
study
the
priest
in
the
circle
of
stones.
The
man
was
tall
and
square‐
shouldered,
naked
except
for
a
belt
of
hair
and
a
headband
the
colour
of
the
earth.
He
continued
on
to
a
place
just
down
the
slope
from
the
priest,
and
torched
a
small
pyre
of
dry
grass
and
sticks.
He
disappeared
for
a
moment
and
returned
with
an
armful
of
wood,
which
he
used
to
build
up
the
fire.
As
the
flickering
light
brightened
he
looked
up
to
where
Simon
rested
in
space
and
Simon
saw
it
was
Isaac.
Isaac
climbed
back
up
the
slope,
past
the
inert
form
of
the
priest,
and
into
the
tall
rocks
at
the
summit.
Simon
rose
higher
and
moved
towards
the
rocks.
Among
them
on
the
summit
was
another
fire
and
around
it
sat
a
group
of
men—the
same
men
Simon
had
seen
walking
off
the
plain.
Three
others
were
stepping
high
around
the
fire
whirling
bull
roarers
on
cords
of
human
hair,
the
others
beat
a
slow
time
on
sticks,
chanting
in
low
tones.
Beside
the
fire
lay
the
body
of
a
young
man
and
Simon
knew
it
was
Angel.
He
moved
to
see
more
clearly,
but
instead
began
to
fall,
drawn
back
by
the
strange
thread
which
seemed
to
link
him
with
his
other
self
imprisoned
within
the
stones.
Simon
opened
his
eyes.
He
felt
dazed
and
heavy
as
if
climbing
from
a
deep
sleep,
but
he
remembered
the
experience
of
suspension
and
moving
through
the
air.
The
details
had
been
too
vivid
to
be
a
dream.
He
remembered
what
Isaac
had
told
him
about
learning
to
fly,
learning
to
move
like
a
spirit.
He
knew
this
now
to
be
true.
On
the
slope
below
him
the
fire
lit
by
Isaac
burned
steadily.
Occasionally
a
gust
of
wind
eddied
in
from
the
plain
and
carried
a
thousand
glowing
embers
high
into
the
sky.
What,
he
wondered,
would
it
be
like
to
be
carried
with
353
them.
A
part
of
his
mind
cleared
and
he
saw
the
fire
dropping
away
far
below
as
he
rose
in
giddying
spirals
towards
the
stars.
Higher
and
higher
he
flew
until
fright
took
hold.
This
time
there
was
no
gap
in
time,
no
adjustment
of
vision.
He
was
sitting
again
within
the
stones,
gazing
up
in
wonder
at
where
he
knew
he
had
just
been.
A
sound,
like
the
rustling
of
gum
leaves—or
the
murmur
of
souls—blew
in
from
the
plain.
Into
the
firelight
stepped
a
man,
his
body
caricatured
by
ochre
and
down.
The
skin
on
his
chest
glistened
with
blood.
He
danced
slowly
and
deliberately
around
the
flames.
The
sound
of
the
bull
roarers
increased,
roaring
as
they
approached
down
the
slope
behind
him.
Simon
felt
his
body
moving.
His
skin
writhed
around
his
bones
like
a
nest
of
snakes,
but
he
was
no
longer
frightened.
Another
man
appeared.
He
was
on
the
ground
in
front,
lying
on
his
back.
He
opened
his
mouth
and
he
pulled
on
something
live.
At
first
Simon
thought
it
was
a
tiny
grass
snake,
but
it
was
too
long.
The
man
pulled
the
glistening
cord
from
his
mouth
and
it
crawled
over
his
face
and
around
his
body.
Simon
opened
his
own
mouth
and
something
wet
and
alive
slithered
out
and
wrapped
itself
around
his
trunk.
An
old
man
with
a
long
white
beard
stepped
into
the
light.
His
eyes
burned
like
bright
orbs
which
stole
the
light
from
the
night.
He
stepped
towards
Simon
and
his
mouth
vomited
a
stream
of
glinting
crystals.
He
cupped
his
hands
at
his
waist
to
fan
the
crystals
in
bright
arcs
and
spread
them
across
the
ground.
A
voice
in
Simon’s
head
drew
a
line
of
scripture
from
somewhere
deep
in
his
memory:
—
he
showed
me
the
river
of
the
water
of
life,
bright
as
crystal—
.
Simon
felt
the
wet
threads
unwind
and
draw
back
into
his
throat.
Hands
touched
his
body
and
drew
him
down,
pressed
him
against
the
back
of
the
stones.
Hands,
dark
354
hands
with
pale
palms,
rubbed
his
chest,
others
gripped
his
shoulders.
Isaac
stood,
masked
by
the
fire
glow.
He
walked
slowly
towards
the
priest
and
knelt,
passing
a
small
piece
of
stone
across
Simon’s
chest.
It
was
hot
from
the
fire.
Simon
remembered
then
that
pain
had
a
measure,
remembered
again
that
pain
was
fear
and
he
knew
it
would
be
in
his
eyes.
The
stone
stopped
at
his
nipple
and
he
felt
the
skin
tear
under
a
sudden
weight.
The
stone
was
dragged
slowly
backwards,
opening
his
chest.
The
pain
tore
at
his
brain,
demanded
that
he
scream
for
release.
Every
nerve
was
burning.
He
closed
his
eyes
and
held
his
breath;
choked
the
welling
cry
inside
his
convulsing
body.
He
forced
his
mind
to
move
to
a
place
on
the
other
side
of
the
pain.
It
was
there
still,
but
distant.
He
opened
his
eyes
and
was
looking
not
up
into
distant
constellations,
but
down
towards
the
ground.
Below,
at
the
end
of
the
trailing
silver
cord,
the
second
incision
was
being
made
into
his
body.
He
saw
the
rivulets
of
blood
flowing
down
his
front,
mixing
with
the
ochre
and
down.
He
felt
his
skin
tearing,
but
the
pain
itself
had
no
dimension
anymore.
A
third
cut
was
made
and
the
men
gathered
around
the
circle
of
stones
and
looked
down
on
him.
“I’m
up
here,”
he
wanted
to
call
with
relief.
But
no
sooner
had
the
thought
occurred
than
he
was
looking
up
into
the
faces
of
these
mystical
men
who
had
come
from
the
desert.
They
offered
no
expression
of
either
compassion
or
pride.
They
just
watched
him
a
while
until
one‐by‐one
each
melted
away.
Only
Isaac
remained.
He
sat
by
Simon,
watching
him.
Simon’s
chest
burned,
but
he
knew
it
would
pass.
He
smiled
at
the
old
man
and
Isaac
reached
down
to
take
Simon’s
hand.
He
lifted
him
to
his
feet.
Simon
stepped
from
the
stones
and
followed
Isaac
up
the
slope.
His
legs
were
unsteady,
but
the
old
man
walked
slowly.
At
the
top
beside
the
embers
of
a
dying
fire
sat
Angel.
He
stood
when
he
saw
the
two
approach
and
smiled
at
the
sight
of
Simon’s
355
bloodied
chest.
He
wiped
a
finger
across
his
own
wounds
to
collect
a
globule
of
blood
and
stepping
to
Simon,
pressed
his
blood
into
that
of
Simon’s.
Simon
waited
for
comment,
but
the
young
man
turned
away
to
follow
his
uncle
who
had
continued
walking.
The
three
men
left
the
hill
and
Isaac
took
them
across
the
valley
to
Mudidjara.
The
moon
floated
above
them,
the
earth
basking
in
its
soft
lunar
light.
They
entered
the
lightless
gorge
and
Isaac
led
them
to
the
edge
of
the
rock
ledge,
where
they
waited
for
the
moon
to
arrive.
Slowly
it
inched
across
the
opening
to
the
sky
and
so
gently,
it
seemed,
settled
inside
Mudidjara—the
moon’s
bathing
place.
The
gorge
exploded
into
shimmering,
wondrous
bands
of
golden
light,
reflected
in
all
directions
by
the
reefs
of
metal
below
the
surface.
It
turned
the
water
to
liquid
fire
and
the
very
walls
of
the
gorge
seemed
to
glow.
As
the
moon
swam
in
Mudidjara’s
depths
they
watched,
three
stick‐like
silhouettes.
It
lasted
mere
seconds,
but
for
that
moment
it
was
as
if
time
did
cease
its
measuring
of
everything
that
is.
The
moon
paused
in
its
orbit,
reluctant
to
leave
this
ancient,
cleansing
water
with
its
tiny
silver
fish
abandoned
by
the
sea.
Simon
bent
to
touch
its
warm,
golden
face.
A
hand
dragged
him
back.
A
fat
drop
of
blood
spilled
from
his
chest
and
made
a
mark
on
the
yellow
orb.
Simon
was
alarmed,
but
the
moon
was
already
moving
again,
returning
to
its
earthly
orbit,
refreshed.
Mudidjara
returned
to
darkness,
and
from
within
the
black
depths
two
moon‐yellow
eyes
watched.
Simon
looked
up.
Opposite
he
saw
a
man.
A
tall
man
with
the
stature
and
garb
of
a
warrior.
It
was
dark
and
yet
the
man
was
clearly
visible,
as
if
emitting
his
own
light.
He
began
to
approach,
across
the
water
as
though
it
were
solid,
and
Simon
felt
Isaac
move
at
his
side.
The
old
man
reached
into
356
a
pouch
on
his
belt
of
hair
and
produced
the
stone.
He
pressed
it
into
Simon’s
hands.
Its
chill
stung
his
skin.
The
man
stopped
in
front
of
the
trio
and
stared
at
Simon,
only
the
yellow
eyes
suggestive
of
some
inner
life;
a
Satanic
apparition.
Isaac
took
Simon’s
arm
and
directed
it
wordlessly
towards
his
uncle.
He
passed
the
fist
enclosing
the
stone
across
the
warrior’s
initiation
scars,
opening
up
a
dry
wound
in
the
chest.
Before
Simon
could
react,
the
man
moved.
He
grasped
the
priest’s
wrist
and
pulled
it
into
his
chest.
Simon’s
eyes
widened
in
fright
as
his
forearm
penetrated
the
body,
yet
he
felt
no
flesh,
no
blood.
Then
the
eyes
dimmed,
and
for
a
fleeting
moment
he
thought
he
saw
the
face
of
friendship.
He
withdrew
his
arm,
still
holding
the
stone.
The
warrior
reached
to
touch
the
wounds
marking
the
priest’s
rites
of
passage.
He
turned
to
Angel
and
did
the
same.
Then
he
met
Isaac’s
eyes,
and
was
gone.
Simon
blinked.
They
were
alone
in
the
blackness
and
silence
of
Mudidjara.
The
three
men
turned
away
from
the
water
and
returned
back
across
the
valley.
Nobody
spoke.
As
they
walked
over
the
rise
above
the
initiation
ground,
Simon
stopped.
Ahead,
silhouetted
against
the
first
grey
hint
of
dawn,
was
a
man,
a
sun‐blistered
white
man,
sitting
within
a
circle
of
stone.
Beside
him,
like
sentinels,
lay
the
two
desert
dogs.
Simon
was
roused
by
a
chill
breeze
gusting
in
from
the
plain.
Low
cloud
banked
on
the
horizon
and
he
smelled
rain.
He
hunched
his
shoulders
against
the
cold,
grey
dawn
and
stared
moodily
at
the
red
earth
all
around.
He
was
hungry
and
thirsty
and
confused
by
the
presence,
still,
of
a
vivid
dream.
It
was
some
minutes
before
a
sharp
throbbing
pain
caused
him
to
gingerly
touch
his
chest.
He
saw
below
his
beard
the
ragged
flesh
and
congealed
blood
of
the
ugly
wounds.
In
his
lap
rested
his
fists,
tightly
clutching
357
something
smooth
and
hard.
He
opened
his
fingers
and
stared.
It
was
the
stone;
carrying
the
warmth
of
his
body.
358
Chapter
Nineteen
The
three
men
left
the
initiation
site
later
that
morning.
They
stalked
and
speared
a
kangaroo,
while
at
the
main
camp
Winnie
and
Maudie
had
collected
a
feast
of
fruits
and
other
bush
delicacies
and
made
a
fuss
over
the
men’s
return.
The
kangaroo
was
butchered
and
laid
across
a
bed
of
glowing
embers.
The
little
group,
isolated
it
seemed
from
the
rest
of
humankind,
celebrated
through
the
afternoon
and
into
the
night
with
songs
and
stories.
The
rain
came
in
the
morning.
Isaac
watched
the
rolling
clouds
with
a
satisfied
expression.
“Plenty
of
water
for
you
an’
Angel,”
he
said
to
Simon.
Simon
was
puzzled.
“I
don’t
follow?”
Isaac
faced
him.
“You
have
to
go
back
now,
you
an’
Angel.
He
should
find
our
people,
help
‘em
and
keep
alive
the
knowledge
he
now
has.
You
an’
he
got
to
make
other
people
understand.
You’ll
be
a
Father
again
an’
people’ll
listen
to
you.”
Simon
shook
his
head
slowly.
“I
don’t
know
if
I
can
go
back
now—I’m
not
sure
that
I
want
to
go
back.”
He
looked
grimly
towards
the
south‐west
horizon.
His
vocation,
his
fellow
priests,
the
bishop—all
belonged
to
another
life;
a
strange,
dingy
life
that
he
did
not
properly
understand
then
and
perhaps
would
never
understand
now.
Mudidjara,
by
contrast,
was
something
he
could
grasp.
Its
mysteries
were
ones
that
he
had
touched.
Isaac
continued
as
if
he
hadn’t
heard
the
priest.
“Me
and
Winnie
and
Maudie
will
stay
here.
This
is
our
country—an’
we
got
Matthew
here
now
too.
The
spirits’ll
be
good
to
us
here.
But
you
an’
Angel
have
to
go
back.
Mudidjara
won’
go
away,
but
you
bein’
back
there
can
keep
a
sharp
eye,
like—
you
can
do
this,
‘cause
you
know
it’s
a
sacred
place.
A
real
sacred
place.
It
needs
someone
among
white
people
who
359
can
watch
out
for
it;
protect
it
from
people
who
don’
understand
about
the
land.”
Simon
felt
the
first
fat
drop
of
rain
splash
on
his
head.
Moments
later
it
started
to
fall
in
sheets
of
water
driven
by
a
wind
which
swept
into
the
valley
from
the
west.
The
two
men
remained
side‐by‐side
in
the
open,
using
the
watery
onslaught
to
shield
their
thoughts.
Simon
and
Angel
left
the
following
morning.
Simon
turned
back
once,
but
the
old
people
were
already
gone
and
he
wondered
if
he
would
ever
see
them
again.
He
walked
in
the
shadow
of
sadness,
afraid
of
the
loneliness
to
which
he
was
returning.
The
pair
walked
in
silence
for
most
of
the
morning.
Simon
was
conscious
of
the
weight
and
rub
again
of
cloth
on
his
skin.
It
was
strange
how
clothes,
once
so
necessary,
were
now
aggravating.
Angel
was
wearing
his
sun‐bleached
football
shorts
again,
but
walking
pround
with
the
fresh,
livid
cicatrises
across
his
chest.
They
carried
little
more
than
their
spears
and
fire
sticks;
and
in
a
hair
belt
Simon
carried
the
soul
stone.
Isaac
had
insisted
it
stay
in
his
care.
At
midday
they
climbed
the
rise
from
which
Simon
had
first
seen
the
Mudidjara
ranges.
He
turned
to
Angel
and
smiled
sadly.
“So—it’s
you
and
me
now,”
he
said,
trying
to
lift
his
low
mood.
He
was
more
frightened
of
his
return
to
the
known
than
he
had
ever
been
of
his
venture
into
the
unknown.
Angel’s
thoughts
remained
hidden
behind
his
familiar
grin
and
he
pointed
to
the
south‐west
as
if
impatient
to
continue.
But
he
seemed
to
understand.
“You
got
a
family
now,”
he
said,
after
a
pause.
It
took
sixteen
days
to
reach
Cumalong
after
being
forced
wide
by
the
presence
still
of
water
in
Lake
Yindarlgooda.
All
the
while
Simon
wrestled
his
experiences
and
the
seeming
impossibility
of
fitting
it
into
anything
resembling
his
past.
He
had
learned
something
profound,
360
perhaps
unique,
about
the
land
he
walked
on.
But
could
it
be
taught,
even
explained;
or
was
it
only
something
that
could
be
experienced?
They
arrived
at
the
dam
just
before
dusk
and
while
Angel
lit
a
fire,
Simon
went
looking
for
Ada.
He
followed
the
track
which
twisted
through
the
spindly
trees
into
the
abandoned
town’s
centre,
and
then
climbed
the
hill.
He
couldn’t
see
the
shack.
It
was
deep
shadow
in
the
lee
of
the
hill
and
he
wondered
why
there
was
no
light
showing.
He
trod
down
the
slope
and
his
feet
quickly
found
the
answer.
There
was
no
house.
The
ground
was
torn
and
ridged
and
Simon
felt
the
work
of
a
bulldozer.
He
sat
on
his
haunches,
saddened.
He
remembered
the
old
woman
and
her
prediction
that
there
would
have
been
no
one
to
sit
on
her
bed
at
the
end.
He
was
still
thinking
about
her,
wondering
how
she
fitted
with
all
that
had
happened
when
he
heard
the
sound
of
a
galloping
horse.
A
woman
in
a
white
dress,
her
head
buried
into
the
neck
of
a
grey,
raced
bare‐back
through
the
salmon
gums.
The
rider
turned
the
horse
towards
where
he
stood.
It
slowed
as
it
approached
and
Simon
recognised
immediately
the
girl
from
the
locket.
“Who—are
you?”
he
asked.
She
laughed
brightly.
“You
know
who
I
am.”
He
shook
his
head.
“My
imagination
knows
who
you
are.
My
imagination
created
you.
But
if
I
reached
to
touch
you—.”
He
raised
a
hand
and
splayed
his
fingers.
“—what
would
happen
then?”
The
woman
smiled,
amused.
“I
am
as
real
as
I
have
ever
been.”
She
gestured
towards
the
disturbed
earth
where
the
shack
had
stood.
“I
am
happy
you
came
to
say
goodbye.”
He
stared
at
her.
She
was
just
as
he
had
seen
her
at
Mudidjara
outside
the
circle
of
stones.
He
wanted
to
kiss
her.
The
horse
began
to
move
and
Simon
reluctantly
stood
aside.
“Don’t
go.”
361
She
looked
down
at
him.
“But
I
have
to.
It
will
be
dark
soon.
Forever.”
She
clutched
the
reins
and
slapped
her
heels
against
the
animal’s
sides.
Rider
and
horse
vanished
into
the
night,
his
last
glimpse
a
white
dress
flickering
through
the
trees.
In
the
morning
the
two
men
washed
in
the
dam,
then
walked
to
the
gravel
road
linking
outlying
mines
to
Kalgoorlie,
and
began
the
last
leg
of
their
journey
together.
They
had
agreed
to
separate
once
they
reached
the
town.
Angel
wanted
to
stay
in
the
area
for
a
while,
but
Simon
was
suddenly
impatient
to
return
to
the
city.
He
wanted
to
discover
which
life
was
waiting
for
him;
the
old
or
the
new?
They
had
been
walking
for
about
an
hour
when
a
vehicle
approached
noisily
from
behind.
They
stopped
and
waited.
Simon
was
nervous.
The
vehicle
was
a
typically
battered
cattle
station
utility
oozing
dust
and
rust.
The
driver
was
part‐Aboriginal
and
he
eyed
them
cautiously.
Both
had
the
lean,
unkempt
look
of
the
desert.
Angel
jumped
lightly
into
the
back
and
Simon
sat
beside
the
driver.
The
man
looked
at
him
intently
and
with
obvious
unease.
To
Simon’s
surprise
he
switched
off
the
engine
and
stood
back
out
on
the
road,
remonstrating
with
Angel.
They
argued
in
hushed
tones
and
he
could
not
hear
what
was
being
said.
It
took
several
minutes
for
Angel
to
reassure
the
driver
enough
for
them
to
resume
the
journey.
But
the
driver
neither
spoke
nor
looked
again
in
Simon’s
direction.
Simon
and
Angel
alighted
at
the
top
of
the
main
street
beneath
the
towering
frame
of
a
poppet
head.
As
the
utility
sped
away
in
spray
of
gravel,
Angel
shook
Simon’s
hand.
“When
will
I
see
you
again?”
Simon
asked.
Angel
shrugged.
“Maybe
not
too
long.
I
got
cousins
in
Perth.
I’ll
be
seein’
them
eventually.”
362
Simon
pursed
his
lips.
He
didn’t
quite
know
what
to
say,
and
was
afraid
of
letting
go.
“It’s
important
we
stay
in
contact,”
he
said.
“Ask
for
Father
Moore
at
St
Luke’s.
He’ll
always
know
where
to
find
me.”
Angel
grinned.
He
leaned
forward
and
gently
placed
his
fingers
on
Simon’s
chest.
“Under
that
shirt
now,
you’re
one
of
us.
I’ll
find
you
okay.”
Simon
nodded
and
started
to
speak,
but
hesitated.
“—
What
was
the
problem
with
the
fellow
who
drove
us
in?”
Angel
laughed.
“He
thought
you
were
Kurdaitcha.”
“What!”
Angel
grinned.
“Wait
till
you
see
yourself
in
a
mirror.”
Simon
watched
Angel
walk
away,
a
swagger
in
his
step,
until
he
turned
a
corner
and
was
gone
from
sight.
Simon
felt
deeply
alone.
He
pulled
the
locket
from
his
pocket
and
opened
it.
Almost
immediately,
the
image
began
to
fade.
“No—please,”
he
whispered,
and
clipped
the
lid
shut.
He
waited
a
few
moments
and
opened
it
again.
The
little
oval
frame
contained
just
sun‐bleached
paper.
He
trod
morosely
through
the
streets.
At
the
presbytery
he
pressed
the
door
buzzer
and
heard
shuffling
steps
on
creaking
boards.
Simon’s
soiled
clothes
hung
raggedly
on
his
gaunt
frame.
His
hair
was
long
and
tangled,
his
deep
brown
face
sunk
behind
a
matted
beard;
and
he
was
barefoot.
Father
Doyle
opened
the
door.
His
eyes
took
in
another
derelict,
another
hermit
prospector
on
hard
times,
and
he
smiled
tiredly.
“I
can’t
give
you
any
money—I
don’t
have
any
money,”
he
said.
Simon
remembered
the
name
from
the
newspaper
clipping
Ada
had
shown
him.
“Father
Doyle?”
The
old
man’s
eyebrows
came
together
in
a
bushy
‘V’.
“Yes—.”
363
Simon
offered
his
hand
and
smiled.
“Simon
Bradbury—
Father
Simon
Bradbury.”
The
old
priest
stared,
uncomprehending,
for
a
moment,
then
seemed
to
sag
inside
his
clothes.
“Father
Bradbury
is
dead.”
Simon
shook
his
head.
He
was
feeling
light‐headed
and
suddenly
eager
to
talk,
to
share
his
experiences.
“No
he
isn’t.
Could
I
just
use
your
phone—I
need
to
call
Ted
MacNamara.”
“You
know
His
Grace?”
“He
ordained
me.”
The
priest
looked
Simon
over,
and
his
eyes
narrowed.
“I
never
met
Father
Bradbury,
but—well
he
had
a
reputation.”
The
old
man
slowly
looked
over
the
wild
apparition
on
his
doorstep
and
came
to
a
silent
decision.
He
stepped
aside
to
allow
Simon
to
enter.
“This
will
cause
trouble,”
he
said.
“If
you
are
who
you
say
you
are.”
Simon
stepped
into
the
darkened
hallway
and
a
stab
of
doubt
numbed
his
spine.
Where
was
the
embrace
for
the
return
of
a
lost
brother?
Simon
followed
the
old
priest
into
the
kitchen
where
he
plugged
in
a
kettle
and
fussed
with
cups
and
tea
bags.
He
turned
to
Simon.
“White?”
Simon
nodded.
“Sugar?”
He
shook
his
head.
Father
Doyle
carried
two
steaming,
chipped
mugs
to
the
table,
then
disappeared
into
another
room.
“I
phoned,”
he
said,
when
he
returned.
“His
Grace
is
out
so
I
left
a
message.”
“Thank
you,”
said
Simon,
simply.
Father
Doyle
stared
at
the
table
top.
“I
don’t
have
any
clothes
that
would
fit
you.”
He
spoke
as
though
talking
to
himself.
364
“That’s
all
right.”
Simon
stared
at
the
man,
willing
him
to
reach
out;
to
welcome,
to
inquire,
to
show
even
the
merest
spark
of
interest;
to
ask
how
he’d
survived—lived?
The
old
priest,
conscious
of
Simon’s
gaze,
stepped
to
a
sideboard
cupboard
and
extracted
an
old
biscuit
tin.
He
withdrew
three
twenty‐dollar
notes.
“Here—buy
something
in
town.”
Simon
was
tempted
to
tell
the
man
to
keep
his
money.
But
he
needed
clothes.
“Thank
you,”
he
said.
They
drank
their
tea
in
silence.
The
old
man
sat
hunched
over
his
mug,
afraid,
it
seemed,
to
look
Simon
in
the
face.
Simon
watched,
persistent.
“I’m
sorry
if
I’m
putting
you
to
any
trouble.”
The
old
priest
shrugged
and
blew
into
his
mug.
“Don’t
you
want
to
know
what
happened?”
Father
Doyle
looked
up.
“There
was
a
lot
of
fuss
when
you
disappeared.
Some
said
you
had
been
murdered
by
blacks.
Others
said
you
had
run
away
to
be
a
black.”
There
was
accusation
in
the
voice.
“I
just
needed
some
time
alone.
Surely
you’ve
felt
like
that?”
Father
Doyle
stared
into
his
mug.
“Being
a
priest
is
being
alone.
I’ve
never
had
any
trouble
with
that.”
“You’ve
never
had
a
crisis
of
faith?”
“No!”
The
older
man
grunted
the
word.
He
looked
up.
“It’s
a
luxury
that
wasn’t
available
when
I
was
young.
It’s
a
weakness
we
resolved
through
prayer—not
by
running
away.”
Simon
retreated
to
his
drink,
but
the
old
man
persisted.
“It’s
been
a
long
time.
How
did
you
survive?”
There.
The
question
he’d
been
waiting
for.
But
he
hadn’t
expected
it
to
be
delivered
as
an
assault.
Simon
considered
his
answer
carefully,
already
feeling
the
constrictions
of
365
the
church.
God,
how
easily
he
had
forgotten
its
vice‐like
grip
on
the
minds
of
its
practitioners.
“The
land
saved
me.”
Father
Doyle
stared
at
him,
unblinking.
“A
miracle,
I
suppose.
Forty
days
and
forty
nights.”
Simon
recoiled.
There
was
raw
bitterness
in
the
man’s
voice.
“No.”
He
hesitated.
“It
was
much
longer—but
I
did
have
some
help.”
The
older
priest
surprised
Simon
with
a
dry
chuckle.
“Blacks?”
Simon
felt
his
mouth
stretch
into
a
thin,
tight
smile.
So
this
was
what
it
was
going
to
be
like?
He
decided
to
jump.
“I
touched
the
future
of
this
church.”
Father
Doyle
shook
his
head,
his
lips
set
in
a
line
of
disgust.
Simon
continued.
“I
studied
for
six
years
to
be
a
priest—
I
learned
the
contents
of
hundreds
of
books,
stuffed
my
head
full
of
scripture
and
theology—but
all
of
it
derived
from
other
lands,
and
the
experiences
of
other
men.
I
wanted
to
feel
for
myself,
the
spiritual
forces
of
my
own
land;
to
try
to
learn
something
that
will
imbue
the
church
here
with
something
powerful
and
new—the
spirit
of
this
land.”
Father
Doyle
made
to
move.
“No,
wait.”
Simon’s
voice
rose.
“Our
religion
is
based
upon
blind
faith,
ignorance
and
fear.
Surely
it’s
time
for
some
understanding.”
The
old
priest
gripped
the
table
angrily.
“Blessed
is
the
man
who
fears
the
Lord,
who
greatly
delights
in
his
commandments.
Psalms,
a
hundred
and
twelve—or
perhaps
you’ve
forgotten?”
Simon
clenched
his
teeth.
“Don’t
quote
the
Bible
to
me,
Father.
I
have
forgotten
nothing—including
how
to
use
its
passages
any
way
one
wants.”
Father
Doyle
eyed
him
coldly.
366
Simon
hurried
on.
He
wanted
to
impress
the
man,
not
offend
him.
“All
I’m
trying
to
convey
is
the
land—the
Aboriginal
spirit—can
help
us
find
our
place
again
in
the
natural
world;
help
us
rediscover
that
precious
link
between
temporal
and
eternal
life.
Surely
if
you
had
held
this
in
your
own
hands
you
would
be
just
as
determined
to
share
what
you
had
discovered?”
Father
Doyle
pushed
back
his
chair
and
stood.
He
glared
down
at
Simon.
“I
am
an
old
man,
and
no
time
to
listen
to
claptrap.”
He
continued
to
stare
at
Simon
coldly
then
pointed
to
the
money
lying
on
the
table.
“You’d
better
start
at
a
barber
shop.”
The
old
priest
took
his
empty
cup
to
the
sink
and
left
the
room.
Simon
sat
staring
at
the
crumpled
money
lying
on
the
table.
He
picked
it
up,
crunching
it
into
his
fist,
and
left
the
house.
He
kept
to
the
backstreets,
where
children
too
young
to
be
at
school
played
in
the
dust
and
fallen
leaves.
He
walked
to
Hay
Street,
past
the
starting
stalls
fronting
the
older
brothels,
to
Muriel’s
house.
A
builder’s
truck
was
parked
on
the
street.
The
front
cubicles
were
already
gone
and
workmen
were
busy
inside
the
timber
frame
of
new
extensions.
Muriel
wasn’t
wasting
any
time,
he
mused.
But
then,
he’d
been
away
a
while.
He
went
to
the
side
entrance
and
knocked.
A
face,
pale
and
indistinct,
appeared
down
the
hallway
from
an
inner
doorway.
“We’re
closed.”
Simon
rapped
his
knuckles
again
on
the
doorframe.
The
face
moved,
became
a
body
in
a
dark
robe
and
walked
towards
him.
“Are
you
deaf,”
she
retorted
coldly
from
the
other
side
of
a
flywire
screen.
Simon
smiled.
“It’s
Cheryl
isn’t
it?”
The
face
frowned
and
looked
him
over.
“Come
back
tonight.”
367
Simon
shook
his
head,
still
smiling.
“You
don’t
recognize
me
do
you?”
She
shook
her
head
slowly,
unsure.
“Is
Muriel
in?”
he
asked.
Cheryl’s
eyes
widened.
She
squealed,
then
fled.
He
heard
a
door
bang.
“It’s
your
priest,”
she
heard
her
yell.
Rapid
footsteps
echoed
through
the
invisible
world
within
the
house
before
Muriel
emerged,
stepping
quickly
along
the
hallway.
She
stopped
at
the
door
and
stared,
open‐mouthed.
“Simon?”
He
nodded.
“My
god,”
she
murmured.
She
pushed
open
the
door
absently.
“I
don’t
believe
it.”
Simon
watched
her,
a
lop‐sided
grin
parting
the
tangled
hair
on
his
face.
“I
lost
my
watch—suddenly
remembered
I
might
have
left
it
here.”
The
woman
smacked
her
hands
to
her
face
then
flung
the
door
wide
and
embraced
him.
“I
don’t
believe
it,”
she
repeated,
then
stood
back
abruptly.
“God
you
stink.”
Simon
reclined
in
a
large
bath,
his
body
ringed
in
suds.
Muriel
sat
on
the
edge,
shocked
by
his
battered
features.
“They
look
awful.
I
still
can’t
believe
that
you
went
through
with
something
like
that.”
Simon
touched
the
cicatrices
on
his
chest,
but
made
no
comment.
He
couldn’t
explain
in
a
few
minutes
all
that
he
had
been
through.
There
was
a
knock
on
the
door
and
Cheryl
poked
her
head
through.
She
proffered
two
plastic‐wrapped
articles.
“One
shirt,
one
trousers—jocks.”
Muriel
put
the
clothing
on
the
floor.
The
door
closed.
Muriel
stared
at
Simon’s
scarred
chest,
his
brown
skin
and
bony
shoulders;
his
cheekbones
pushing
out
above
his
368
shaggy
beard,
and
his
eyes
full
of
light.
Her
mind
was
brimming
with
questions.
“So
what
happens
now—when
do
I
get
to
hear
everything.
You’re
a
walking
skeleton
Simon.”
She
lifted
her
arms.
“I
don’t
know
where
to
begin.”
“I
will
tell
you
everything—but
give
me
some
time.
I’ve
a
lot
to
sort
out
first.”
“You’re
going
back
to
your
church
aren’t
you?”
She
did
not
attempt
to
disguise
her
contempt.
Simon
nodded.
Muriel
shook
her
head.
“They’ll
reject
you—you’re
a
threat
to
everything
they
stand
for.”
Simon
gazed
up
at
the
high
ceiling
and
along
the
shelves
of
gels
and
creams
and
perfumes;
at
the
accoutrements
of
a
life,
of
a
normality,
that
part
of
him
wanted
desperately
to
share.
He
studied
her,
measured
her
eyes
studying
him.
“You
may
be
right,
but
I
have
to
find
that
out.
You
once
offered
to
catch
me
if
I
jumped.
It
would
help
me
a
lot
to
know
that
you
would
still
be
willing
to
do
that.”
Muriel
nodded
and
smiled
sadly.
Simon
changed
the
subject.
“But
I
feel
strong,
Muriel.
Stronger
than
I
can
ever
remember.”
“It
won’t
be
enough,”
she
murmured.
He
made
a
placatory
gesture
with
his
soapy
hands.
Muriel
reached
into
the
breast
pocket
of
her
blouse
and
plucked
out
a
wristwatch,
her
face
softening.
“Well,
if
you’re
returning
to
your
fold,
I
suppose
you
will
need
this.”
Father
Doyle
was
waiting
for
him
on
his
return.
“His
Grace
called
back.
I’m
to
put
you
on
tonight’s
train.”
Simon
nodded.
“Fine.”
The
old
priest
looked
Simon
over
and
shook
his
head.
The
clothes
were
a
size
too
large
and
Cheryl
had
bought
him
a
pair
of
canvas
sandshoes.
Apart
from
the
newness
of
his
clothing,
there
was
not
that
much
of
an
improvement.
The
beard
and
hair
remained
untouched.
369
Simon
opened
his
palm
and
offered
the
priest
three
twenty
dollar
notes.
“I
met
a
good
Samaritan.”
The
old
man
seemed
to
relax
slightly
and
he
looked
at
Simon
sadly.
“I’d
use
the
time
on
the
train
to
think
about
what
you
are
going
to
say.
Simon
smiled.
“Thankyou.”
He
thought
of
Isaac,
Minnie,
Maudie
and
Angel,
and
wondered
what
they
were
doing
right
now.
Perhaps
if
he
were
atop
a
hill
he
could
light
a
fire
and
drift
with
the
smoke.
The
thought
suddenly
made
him
feel
very
lonely.
370
Chapter
Twenty
A
black
swan,
its
neck
arched
proudly,
glided
across
the
lake’s
mirrored
surface.
In
line
astern
five
balls
of
pale
grey
fluff
worked
vigorously
to
keep
up.
Above
the
water
on
a
bitumen
path,
people
passed
in
frames
of
colour
and
movement.
Cyclists
and
joggers
sweated
with
the
fear
of
mortality.
Shy
people
with
cameras
tried
to
frame
meaning
in
this
unexpected
meeting
of
sky
and
water
and
grass
in
the
middle
of
a
city.
Lovers
hung
on
each
others’
arms,
oblivious
to
everything
but
that
touch.
Simon
walked
slowly
towards
the
bench
where
Karl
sat,
his
shoulders
hunched,
hands
clasped
in
his
lap.
He
sensed
the
priest’s
approach
and
turned.
Karl
smiled
and
rose
unsteadily
to
his
feet.
Opening
his
arms
he
folded
them
around
Simon’s
gaunt
frame.
Simon
could
smell
cheap
boarding
house
soap.
Karl
pushed
Simon
away
to
gaze
at
him:
“So,
old
Karl
was
correct
as
he
always
is,
eh?
I
told
them
you
were
not
dead.”
He
slapped
his
palm
against
Simon’s
shoulder.
The
two
men
sat
on
the
wooden
bench
watching
the
pirouetting
swan
and
its
spinning
cygnets,
measuring
each
other’s
presence.
Through
the
corner
of
his
eye
Simon
saw
the
blur
of
a
toddler,
shrieking
with
an
unrestrained
dash
towards
the
water.
“So
how
have
you
been?”
Karl
also
watched
the
child.
“I
am
well—but
I
do
not
like
the
city.”
Simon
nodded,
still
focussed
on
the
staggering
gait
of
the
runaway
child.
“This
city
or
any
city?”
“Perhaps
a
little
of
both,”
Karl
responded
after
a
pause.
“I
think
it’s
the
same
for
me,”
said
the
priest.
371
At
the
water’s
edge
the
child
continued
shrieking
and
pointed
at
the
swan
which
pulled
away
as
if
aware
of
the
infant
human’s
savage
curiosity.
“This
is
a
city
with
no
heart,”
the
old
man
continued.
“It
is
young
and
clean,
but
mean,
which
is
not
nice
for
a
city.
A
city
should
be
warm
and
forgiving,
a
little
bit
tired
and
smoky.
It
should
wear
a
sad
smile
and
say,
‘Stay
a
while
Karl—share
a
schnapps
with
me’.”
Simon
looked
at
him
and
wondered
if
schnapps
would
ever
again
oil
the
old
man’s
throat.
“Perhaps
it
lacks
compassion
because
there
are
no
barramundi
here.”
Karl
grinned
broadly.
“That
is
the
truth,”
he
said.
“So.
You
have
returned
from
a
remarkable
journey?”
“Yes.”
“And
you
are
a
priest
again—standing
before
so
many
faces,
sharing
this
new
knowledge.”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“Far
from
it.”
An
adult
grasped
the
child’s
arm,
attempting
to
pull
it
away
from
the
water.
The
child
wailed,
flailed
its
arms
and
sat
down
heavily
on
the
edge
of
the
path.
The
adult
began
hauling
the
stumbling,
protesting
child
across
the
grass.
The
swan
turned
in
a
lazy
half‐circle,
measuring
the
commotion
with
an
unblinking
eye.
“They
don’t
trust
me,”
Simon
continued.
“I’m
back
at
St
Luke’s,
but
as
a
lodger
only.”
“They
are
fools.”
Simon
shrugged.
“They
are
embarrassed;
the
Bishop
especially—
though
I’ve
heard
he
might
be
leaving
soon.
I
think
a
lot
of
these
older
blokes,
the
ones
who
came
out
from
Ireland,
are
afraid
of
dying
here.
If
they’ve
got
strings
they
can
pull,
they
try
to
return
to
European
soil.”
Karl
dipped
his
head
and
looked
away.
“Anyway,”
Simon
continued.
“For
the
moment
I
am
a
worry
to
them—and
there’s
this
whole
issue
again
with
the
university.
Before
I
went
away
I
was
offered
the
372
chaplaincy—then
I
was
told
it
could
only
happen
after
the
Redmond
people
were
moved
out—god
alone
knows
to
where.
I
still
don’t
know
what
to
do.
A
university
would
be
a
wonderful
opportunity
for
me.
But
I’m
supposed
to
be
helping
the
people
who
would
have
to
be
cleared
out.”
Karl
lifted
his
head
and
gazed
at
the
water.
“You
have
said
this
to
your
Bishop?”
Simon
shrugged.
“He’s
avoiding
me.”
“Of
course.
Even
Bishops
have
a
conscience.”
“Yes,
though
I
suspect
it
confuses
more
than
troubles
him.”
Karl
sighed.
“Your
bishop
is
still
just
a
man.
You
should
not
forget
that.”
He
paused.
“I
wrote
a
letter
to
you;
did
you
know?”
Simon
looked
up.
“I
didn’t
receive
it.”
“No—you
were
dead
by
then.”
Simon
made
a
grunting
sound.
“I
think
I’ve
been
dead
a
long
time.
Perhaps
you
die
in
many
people’s
eyes
the
day
you
become
a
priest.
It’s
true,
you
know.
I
have
barely
spoken
to
my
father
in
twenty
years.
I
telephoned.
After
being
told
I
was
dead,
and
learning
that
I
wasn’t,
he
still
didn’t
know
what
to
say.
It
was
as
though
it
didn’t
really
make
much
difference.
My
mother
will
cry,
then
harangue
me
with
a
litany
of
my
failings
as
a
man.”
Neither
spoke
for
some
moments,
watching
instead
the
swan
as
it
cruised
in
a
tight
circle,
gathering
its
straying
young.
“Perhaps
you
can
find
a
compromise
in
Redmond.
It
is
a
big
suburb,
surely?”
Simon
shook
his
head.
“The
church
owns
just
two
blocks—bequeathed
to
it
about
seventy
years
ago
by
some
bloke
who
made
good.
It
started
off
as
cheap
housing
for
immigrants.
They
gradually
moved
on—mostly
Irish—and
as
they
moved
out
the
next
wave
of
dispossessed
immigrants
moved
in.
Now
it
is
occupied
by
Aborigines
373
with
no
land.”
He
paused
in
thought.
“Poor
souls
can’t
win.
Try
to
revitalize
traditional
culture
and
they’re
attacked
as
being
some
obscure
threat
to
civilized
man.
If
they
choose
to
be
contemporary,
they’re
maligned
as
being
pretenders
with
no
rightful
claim
to
Aboriginality.
A
white
youth
steals
a
car
and
he
is
bailed
on
a
good
behaviour
bond.
A
black
youth
steals
a
car
and
they
raid
homes
with
sledge‐
hammers.”
Karl
grunted.
“It
is
different
to
Gunwinddu.”
“Yes.
Down
here
they
are
learning
anger.”
“Ah—I
see
the
Bishop’s
concern.
You
would
be
a
good
teacher.”
Simon
looked
at
Karl,
who
met
his
gaze.
He
wondered
about
himself.
Was
he
that
transparent?
“I
wish
it
was
that
easy.
I
wish
self‐righteousness,
apathy
and
indifference
were
as
easy
to
shatter
as
shop
windows;
or
that
self‐
esteem
and
dignity
ravaged
by
discrimination,
insult,
and
rejection
was
as
easy
to
rebuild.”
Karl
said
nothing,
watching
the
lakeside.
The
child
reappeared
side‐by‐side
with
the
adult.
They
threw
lumps
of
bread
ripped
from
the
heart
of
a
loaf.
“Duck—duck”,
the
child
called
shrilly,
planting
pride
onto
the
adult’s
face.
Simon
sighed.
There
was
another
world
flowing
all
around
him
that
he
knew
nothing
about.
“So
you
haven’t
told
me
why
you’re
here—why
you
left
Gunwinddu.”
Karl
sat
forward
on
the
seat.
He
pressed
the
scar
on
his
forehead
and
seemed
undecided
about
whether
to
speak
or
not.
“Perhaps
I
should
not
have
come,”
he
said
after
a
pause.
“Already
I
miss
the
barramundi—but
Gunwinddu
is
changing
too
much.
I
wrote
to
you.
I
blamed
you,
I
think.”
“Ah,
but
I
was
dead.”
Karl
smiled.
“It
must
have
been
good
to
be
dead
just
a
while
to
see
how
the
world
moves
without
you.”
374
Simon
thought
about
it.
“Yes—but
when
you
return
something
has
filled
your
space.
Now
I
feel
I
have
nowhere
to
belong.”
“You
have
been
wounded,”
Karl
stated.
He
leaned
to
place
a
finger
on
Simon’s
wrist.
“This
is
a
deep
scar.”
Simon
looked
at
the
hairless
dent.
“It
was
a
lesson.”
“Ah?”
“My
ignorance
was
not
accepted
as
an
excuse.”
“That
is
a
hard
lesson.”
Simon
shrugged.
“It
seems
a
long
time
ago.
If
it
wasn’t
for
the
scars,
I
would
think
it
was
a
dream.”
“For
me
it
is
like
yesterday.”
Simon
looked
up.
“Yes.
I
learned
a
lesson
like
yours.
I
was
in
Hell,
which
was
all
cold
and
white,
and
I
learned
about
death.
But
I
did
go
to
Heaven,
where
it
was
all
hot
red
sand
and
black
people,
and
I
learned
to
live
again.
Now
I
am
not
sure
where
I
am.
Purgatory
perhaps.
Somehow
Karl
has
got
everything
in
the
wrong
order.”
“We
were
born
to
be
confused.
Our
Original
Sin.”
Karl
rubbed
his
hands
on
his
knees
and
flexed
his
shoulders.
“Tell
me—what
is
a
mortal
sin?”
Simon
gazed
at
the
sparkling
water
beneath
the
cloudless
sky.
“I
don’t
know,”
he
said,
after
a
pause.
“Are
you
in
trouble?”
“It
is
always
possible
in
this
world
that
a
man
is
in
trouble.”
Simon
frowned,
waited
for
him
to
continue,
but
he
did
not.
There
was
a
commotion
at
the
water’s
edge.
Birds
of
all
shapes
and
sizes
had
flocked
to
bread
thrown
by
the
toddler
and
its
parent.
They
thrashed
and
attacked
in
an
orgy
of
feeding,
the
child
shrieked
with
wonder
at
the
disruption
it
had
caused.
375
Simon
studied
his
reflection
in
the
narrow
mirror
screwed
into
the
back
of
the
wardrobe
door.
His
old
clothes,
which
he
had
retrieved
from
a
cardboard
box
at
a
Saint
Vincent
de
Paul
shop,
now
hung
shabbily
on
his
thin
frame.
A
beard
made
his
face
look
longer
and
his
cheek
bones
were
sculptured
below
his
eyes.
They
had
changed,
he
decided.
These
were
not
his
old,
friendly
eyes.
These
ones
stared
out
from
a
lost
soul.
A
hand‐me‐down
tweed
jacket
hung
from
his
shoulders,
further
accentuating
his
vagabond
appearance.
But
it
was
the
best
he
could
do.
He
retrieved
the
gold‐embossed
invitation
from
a
side
pocket
and
gazed
at
it
again.
The
students
and
staff
of
St
Peter’s
Seminary
request
the
attendance
of
Fr
Simon
Bradbury
for
cocktails
and
supper
to
celebrate
the
elevation
of
The
Most
Reverend
Bishop
MacNamara
FORMAL
DRESS
Simon
wondered,
again,
why
he
had
been
invited.
Since
he’d
been
back
MacNamara
had
avoided
him.
But
now,
despite
his
mixed
feelings
over
MacNamara’s
appointment
to
a
post
in
Rome,
he
felt
a
sense
of
hope
that
it
might
signal
his
return
to
work.
He
glanced
at
his
watch
and
realised
he
was
late.
Simon
watched
the
taxi
move
off,
its
tail
lights
two
red
orbs
accelerating
to
the
end
of
the
street.
He
weighed
the
coins
in
his
hand
and
realised
he
would
be
catching
a
bus
home.
He
turned
and
faced
the
seminary’s
imposing
Georgian
facade.
The
hum
of
a
large
gathering
flowed
out
through
376
the
pillared
entrance
and
he
climbed
the
two
levels
of
wide,
concrete
steps.
A
man
in
a
brown
suit
stopped
him
inside
the
doorway,
his
eyes
running
over
Simon’s
attire.
“Yes?”
he
inquired.
“I’m
here
for
the
reception.”
“Ah—.”
The
tone
expressed
doubt.
“Your
name?”
“Bradbury—Father
Bradbury.”
“Ah—.”
The
doubt
turned
to
disbelief.
The
man
scanned
the
few
plastic
name
tags
which
remained
on
a
small
table
at
his
side.
“Father
Simon
Bradbury?”
Simon
plucked
the
tag
from
the
man’s
fingers.
“Thank
you,”
he
said,
returning
the
man’s
stare.
“You
did
know
it
was
formal,
Father?”
“Yes.”
Simon
walked
through
to
the
reception
room
and
stood
inside
the
doorway.
At
first
nobody
noticed
him.
Then,
like
the
ripples
of
an
incoming
tide,
faces
turned
his
way
and
the
drone
of
conversation
died.
Simon
scanned
the
sea
of
faces
gazing
at
him
over
white‐
collared
necks,
over
champagne
glasses
fixed
between
frozen
fingers,
over
proffered
plates
of
canapes.
He
swallowed,
casting
around
for
a
friendly
face.
A
waiter
approached
and
invited
him
to
choose
from
a
tray.
He
selected
a
glass
of
beer
and
sipped
tentatively
under
the
withering
stares.
“Simon.”
He
swung
on
his
heel.
MacNamara
strode
towards
him,
arms
outstretched.
“So
good
of
you
to
come.”
Before
Simon
could
react,
MacNamara
grasped
his
elbow,
tugging
him
through
a
passage
which
opened,
cleaving
the
crowd.
Conversation
and
laughter
refilled
the
room.
“I
want
you
to
meet
some
important
people,”
the
Bishop
said,
continuing
to
grip
his
arm,
afraid
perhaps
that
Simon
might
bolt.
377
“I’m
sorry
about
my
clothes,”
he
said,
as
if
some
sort
of
apology
was
required
as
gratitude
for
this
unexpected
support.
MacNamara
shot
him
a
sideways
glance.
“You
know,
I
think
I
would
have
been
disappointed
if
you’d
shown
up
looking
like
you
actually
belonged.”
MacNamara
stopped
Simon
in
front
of
a
tall
silver‐haired
man
whose
politician’s
smile
and
fashionable
tortoise‐shell
spectacles
he
immediately
recognised.
“You
know
the
Premier?”
Simon
smiled
out
of
politeness.
“Only
from
television.”
The
man
extended
his
hand.
“I
read
about
you—got
lost?”
Simon
nodded.
“Something
like
that.”
The
premier
leaned
closer
to
Simon.
“You
replaced
Rantz
at
Gunwinddu,
didn’t
you?”
Simon
remained,
curious
and
watchful.
“A
good
man,”
the
Premier
continued.
The
politician
stared
hard
at
Simon.
“I’ve
heard
a
lot
about
you.
We
are
all
interested
in
the
management
of
the
Aboriginal
people.
I
just
wish
they’d
see
sense
and
drop
their
ridiculous
land
rights
nonsense.”
Simon
smiled
tiredly.
Land
rights,
land
rights.
It
had
become
a
white
obsession.
“I’m
sure
neither
the
land
nor
its
minerals
will
disappear
just
because
tenure
is
returned
to
traditional
owners?”
The
Premier
pressed
close.
“You
are
naive
if
you
believe
that,
Father.
Anyway,
that
is
not
the
issue.
We
cave
in
to
land
rights,
and
the
next
demand
will
be
for
separate
homelands;
states
within
a
state.
And
then
what?
Urban
blacks
claiming
suburbs
and
towns?”
Simon
wanted
to
turn,
to
walk
away,
but
the
politician
had
him
fixed.
“Perhaps
you
haven’t
stopped
to
consider
what
will
be
the
first
land
to
be
claimed?”
He
looked
at
MacNamara.
“The
first
land
to
go—as
I
have
previously
378
discussed
with
His
Grace—will
be
the
missions.
There
are
five
Catholic
missions
in
the
Kimberley
and
Canberra
is
already
planning
for
their
expropriation—land
and
buildings.”
MacNamara
interjected,
his
voice
gruff.
“The
Premier
and
I
have
discussed
this
at
length
Simon.
Who
has
made
this
decision,
I
have
asked.
Who
is
it
who
can
decide
that
mission
work,
God’s
work,
is
to
come
to
an
end?
Who
made
that
decision?
This
land
rights
business
is
just
a
bureaucratic
attack
on
the
churches.”
Simon
opened
his
mouth
to
reply.
The
politician
cut
him
off.
Land
rights
was
the
issue
of
the
day
and
he
was
well
versed.
But
why
was
he
pressing
the
point
with
him?
“—The
Australian
people
are
losing
patience;
tired
of
seeing
millions
of
dollars
lost
in
hand‐outs;
tired
of
being
made
to
feel
responsible
for
atrocities
that
may
or
may
not
have
occurred
in
the
past.
They’re
tired
of
being
told
they
should
feel
guilty.
But
I’ll
tell
you
this—I
do
not
feel
guilty
because
I
pay
taxes,
and
a
significant
amount
of
that
money
is
spent
on
the
Aboriginal
problem.”
Simon
had
had
enough.
“Why
are
you
telling
me
this?”
The
Premier
and
the
Bishop
exchanged
glances.
The
politician
spoke.
“To
impress
upon
you
that
a
priest’s
work
must
be
spiritual
and
liturgical,
not
political.”
Simon
was
aware
that
MacNamara
was
studying
him
closely.
He
remembered
the
beer
clutched
in
his
hand
and
put
the
glass
to
his
lips.
He
savoured
the
tangy
taste,
wishing
he
could
take
the
drink
somewhere
quiet
and
be
alone.
“Is
that
what
you’ve
heard—that
I’m
political?”
“Yes—and
it
is
a
mistake—misguided.
It
delays
what
is
essential
and
inevitable.”
“Which
is—?”
The
question
provoked
cool
annoyance
in
the
politician’s
eyes.
“To
make
the
blacks
socially
acceptable
so
379
they
can
have
a
useful
place
in
the
community.
They
have
to
forget
the
past.
They
have
to
become
like
us.”
Simon
shifted
his
feet
impatiently.
“So
it’s
all
right
to
celebrate
an
Irish
heritage,
or
Italian,
or
Polish—but
not
Aboriginal—not
the
actual
culture
of
this
land?”
The
Premier
stared
back
stony‐faced.
“The
reality
gap
in
your
message,”
Simon
continued,
“is
they
don’t
want
their
Aboriginality
to
be
submerged
into
our
values—the
values
of
their
colonizers.
It’s
not
about
how
well
they
blend
into
our
streets
and
suburbs.
For
them
it’s
about
knowing,
from
childhood
that
this
country
belongs
to
them,
and
that
we
are
invaders—something
the
rest
of
us
have
become
oblivious
to.
They
won’t
blend,
or
bend,
because
they
are
still
carrying
on
the
resistance
to
colonisation.
There
will
be
no
progress
or
reconciliation
until
white
Australia
wakes
up
to
this
fairly
basic
fact.”
The
Premier
folded
his
arms.
“So
you
think
we
should
hand
back
the
land,
just
like
that.”
Simon
glanced
around,
hoping
for
an
escape,
but
a
sizable
group
had
gathered
to
listen.
He
knew
arguing
was
pointless:
“No.
You
are
right.
Mission
workers
must
work
harder
to
mould
the
Aborigine
into
a
wholesome
black
Australian
who
cleans
his
teeth
every
day,
wears
long
white
socks,
pressed
shorts
and
smiles
a
lot
to
signify
he
is
grateful.”
A
flicker
of
anger
crossed
the
Premier’s
face.
MacNamara
cleared
his
throat.
“Father
Bradbury
has
a
way
with
words.”
He
grabbed
Simon’s
sleeve.
“Come
and
have
a
chat.”
He
nodded
to
the
Premier.
“We’ll
talk
later.”
MacNamara
led
Simon
through
a
glass
doorway
and
out
into
a
small
garden
courtyard.
He
remembered
the
place,
so
long
ago
when
he
was
a
student.
It
was
a
nook
for
sitting
to
think
and
be
alone.
The
bishop
closed
the
doors
behind
them.
MacNamara
gazed
out
into
the
darkened
garden.
He
380
allowed
himself
to
be
annoyed.
His
breathing
laboured
in
the
quiet
of
the
night.
“The
Premier
is
a
wise
and
influential
man.
You
would
do
well
to
hold
your
tongue
and
listen.
He
was
trying
to
help
you.”
“Help
me?”
“Yes.”
“Why
would
he
want
to
do
that?”
“Because
you
could
be
useful,
and
the
church
and
the
state
need
to
present
a
shared
perspective
on
this
issue.”
“Even
if
it
means
trotting
out
patronizing
nonsense!”
The
Bishop
turned
and
faced
him.
“Yes,
exactly,
if
that
is
what
is
in
the
church’s
interests.”
The
man
shook
his
head
and
jutted
out
his
jaw.
“Perhaps
it’s
time
to
ask
who
you
think
you
are.
Clearly
you
see
yourself
in
some
exalted
new
light—some
prophet
returned
from
the
desert
with
the
good
news
that
will
save
us
from
ourselves?”
Simon
struggled
to
keep
his
voice
level.
“Perhaps
I
did
find
something
out
there—perhaps
more
than
I
previously
found
in
the
church.”
The
Bishop
made
a
clucking
noise
with
his
tongue.
“Go
on—this
is
going
to
be
good.”
Simon
grimaced.
This
was
not
the
setting,
nor
the
atmosphere
which
he
had
hoped
for.
“The
only
thing
new
about
the
experience
is
that
it
happened
to
me.
I’m
sure
you
could
go
to
a
library
and
find
others
telling
the
same
story—the
world’s
oldest
human
culture,
the
world’s
oldest
ecosystem—and
our
terrible
ambition
to
destroy
them
both.
I
discovered
a
history
of
people
and
the
land
being
woven
into
a
spiritual
world
that
is
real
enough
to
touch—.”
He
stopped
to
make
sure
he
was
understood.
“I
think
this
country
has
an
indigenous
culture
that
could
revitalise
our
understanding
of
spirituality.”
The
Bishop
grunted.
“Frankly,
I
think
you
have
lost
your
mind.”
381
Simon
laughed,
his
voice
brittle.
MacNamara
took
a
deep
breath.
“Look
Simon,
I’m
not
trying
to
run
you
down.
I
know
you
mean
well.
Remember
how
we
met?
You
were
wide‐eyed
with
a
cloth
rag
and
tin
of
Brasso.
That
takes
us
back
a
long
time,
back
to
a
time
when
I
was
about
your
age
now.
I
was
just
as
full
of
fervour
and
evangelical
drive,
but
I
directed
it
to
my
vocation—to
the
church.”
“And
I’m
trying
to
direct
this
to
the
church.”
“The
church,
Simon,
can
tolerate
only
so
much
divergence.”
“What
if
the
church
is
wrong—.”
“If
you
believe
that,
then
you’re
wasting
your
time
as
a
priest—on
the
other
hand
we
don’t
have
priests
enough
to
waste,
which
is
why
I’m
trying
to
counsel
you
to
accept
my
authority—for
your
own
sake.”
Simon
said
nothing
and
MacNamara
stepped
closer,
his
hands
lifting
in
a
conciliatory
gesture.
“Look,
whatever
happened
to
you
out
there
in
the
state
of
mind
you
were
in
would
have
been
enlarged
beyond
reason
by
the
environment—the
wilderness
factor,
nothing
more.
You
wander
to
the
limits
of
life
Simon
and
it’s
not
enlightenment
you
find,
merely
distortions
of
reality.”
Simon
smiled
to
himself.
He
could
see
they
were
entering
a
circle
with
no
meeting
point.
“The
world’s
great
faiths,
Judaism,
Christianity,
and
Islam,
were
born
of
the
desert,”
he
quipped.
MacNamara
folded
his
arms
and
rocked
lightly
on
his
heels.
“No.
They
were
nurtured
in
the
cradle
of
civilization.
That
they
were
desert
people
is
a
matter
of
historical
timing,
not
divine
intervention—and
frankly,
I
find
repugnant
your
notion
that
the
Australian
blacks
have
something
to
teach
the
Roman
church.”
“I
don’t—
“
Simon
paused,
the
old
frustration
welling
up.
“I
can’t
understand
why
you
find
it
so
difficult.
Yes,
you
can
382
say
they
are
backward—or
you
can
say
that
they
remained,
deliberately,
in
the
image
of
their
creator,
living
by
the
tenets
passed
to
them
from
the
Dreaming—their
oral
bible.”
The
Bishop
strode
away
and
faced
the
garden
again.
Neither
spoke
for
some
moments
until
Simon
followed
him,
pressing
his
point.
“They
are
gifted
in
ways
that
I
could
not
even
begin
to
explain.
Their
disadvantage
is
our
doing—and
redressing
this
is
surely
the
very
responsibility
I
was
trained
for.”
The
Bishop
exhaled.
“Your
problem
Simon
is
you
don’t
live
life,
you
analyse
it—and
you
will
never
find
equations
outside
the
church
which
work.
Living
within
the
church
is
the
infallible
path.
You
understood
that
once.”
Simon
saw
a
shadow
pass
across
the
door.
Their
presence
outside
was
being
noticed.
“So
what
happens
now—to
me?”
he
asked.
MacNamara
faced
him.
“You
have
the
capacity
to
be
a
useful
priest,
once
you’ve
organized
your
priorities.
I
want
you
to
stay
in
the
church—and
I’m
not
entirely
deaf
to
everything
you
say.”
Simon
shrugged.
“I
don’t
see
a
role
for
me
anymore—
not
in
the
church.”
“You
wish
to
resign?”
Simon
shrugged.
“Perhaps—.”
MacNamara
folded
his
arms.
“I
invited
you
here
to
tonight
to
make
my
support
for
you
public.
I
asked
you
outside
here
for
two
more
reasons,
to
urge
you
to
trust
me,
trust
the
church—and
to
see
if
you’re
ready
to
resume
work.”
“Work—?”
“I’d
like
you
to
fill
in
at
the
cathedral
for
a
while—just
a
few
months
while
you
settle
back
into
the
rhythm.”
“The
cathedral—where
I
can
be
watched?”
383
“You
can
take
it
that
way
if
it
suits.
But
I
want
you
where
you
belong.
I
want
you
to
rediscover
the
goodness
and
magnificence
of
the
church.”
“What
about
the
university?
What’s
happening
to
Redmond?”
MacNamara
sighed.
“It
takes
time
Simon—it
all
takes
time.”
Simon
nodded.
“I
see.”
He
placed
his
hand
on
Simon’s
shoulder.
“Just
trust
me.”
The
door
behind
them
rattled
and
a
face
pressed
curious
against
the
glass,
before
pulling
away
at
the
sight
of
the
two
men.
MacNamara
waved
him
towards
the
doors.
“Come
on,
we’re
being
anti‐social.”
Simon
stopped,
but
the
Bishop
pushed
him
forwards.
“Go
on.
It’s
my
party.
Come
and
mingle
and
for
God’s
sake
look
happy.”
Simon
re‐entered
the
throng
and
veered
away
from
MacNamara
and
the
entourage
that
gravitated
towards
the
man
on
his
reappearance.
He
stopped
an
attendant
for
a
fresh
drink.
He
was
conscious
of
people
staring,
of
being
the
butt
of
whispered
remarks.
He
felt
like
a
cornered
rat
in
a
cattery.
He
noticed
George
Penbury
and
moved
to
greet
him.
Even
talking
to
Penbury
would
be
better
than
standing
mute
as
the
object
of
curiosity.
The
choirmaster
saw
him
coming
and
stepped
hurriedly
behind
someone’s
back.
Simon
smiled
wryly.
“George,”
he
called.
“Good
to
see
you
again.”
He
stepped
quickly
to
where
the
man
stood
and
extended
his
hand.
Penbury’s
shoulders
sagged.
He
smiled
hesitantly,
pretending
not
to
see
the
priest’s
extended
hand.
Simon
withdrew
it.
It
didn’t
really
matter.
He
just
needed
a
prop.
“So
what’s
been
happening
George?
What
are
the
important
affairs
of
parish.”
384
The
choirmaster
fingered
the
glass
in
his
hand,
unsure
whether
he
was
being
baited
or
courted.
Simon
helped
him
along.
“How’s
the
choir?”
Penbury
relaxed
slightly.
“The
voices
are
strong,
but—”
he
hesitated.
Simon
smiled
encouragingly.
“Well,
you
worry,
don’t
you
Father?
I
mean,
none
of
us
are
getting
any
younger
and
where
are
the
young
ones?”
He
shook
his
head.
“The
Bishop
worries
too.
But
what
to
do?”
He
craned
his
neck
to
scan
the
gathering.
“It’s
going
to
be
a
great
loss,
His
Grace
leaving
us.”
He
looked
genuinely
saddened.
“So
I
suppose
you’ll
be
going
to
Redmond
then?”
Simon
blinked
in
surprise.
“Redmond—why
do
you
say
that?”
Penbury
tipped
his
head
nearer
Simon.
“Well—you
would
know,
wouldn’t
you—all
the
trouble
there.
It’s
been
a
great
worry
to
His
Grace—.”
Simon
frowned.
“So
where
do
I
come
in?”
Penbury
looked
at
him,
suddenly
cautious.
“Well—you
being
familiar
with
them.
You’d
be
the
perfect
choice.
Well,
don’t
misunderstand
me
Father,
but
His
Grace
told
me—
they
trust
you—so
you
could
shift
them
out,
and
the
church
could
start
building
the
university
without
the
trouble
they’re
threatening.
It’s
very
political
you
know.”
“Yes.
I’d
be
the
perfect
choice,”
said
Simon.
He
studied
the
choirmaster’s
smooth
face
and
short
red
neck.
“But
where
would
they
go—where
would
I
take
them?”
Penbury
shrugged.
“Well—out
of
the
city.”
“Ah—back
to
the
bush
perhaps.”
The
choirmaster
nodded
in
affirmation.
Simon
scratched
the
back
of
his
head
and
walked
away
without
another
word.
He
left
the
reception,
walked
out
into
the
darkness
to
look
for
a
bus
stop.
385
The
noise
of
the
city
lies
across
Redmond
like
a
troubled
spirit.
The
ever‐present
moan
of
traffic,
punctuated
intermittently
by
sirens.
At
night
the
streets
of
Redmond
are
almost
lightless,
barely
one
in
three
street
lamps
still
functioning.
But
its
inhabitants
prefer
the
dark,
the
wrap
of
anonymity
as
they
stagger
drunk
and
desolate
against
a
supporting
wall,
or
gather
in
small
groups
beyond
the
eyes
of
the
police
patrols.
The
white
vans
with
their
blue
markings
and
leather‐jacketed
occupants;
a
hand‐held
spotlight
spearing
at
random
into
the
dark.
Sometimes
there
is
nothing;
sometimes
startled,
frightened
eyes
glint
back
into
the
core
of
the
beam;
sometimes
there
is
a
body,
hurt
and
wishing
just
to
be
left
alone.
Sometimes
the
van
stops
and
its
rear
doors
are
flung
wide
for
the
frightened
subject
to
be
thrown
into
the
hard,
steel
cage.
The
only
defiance
comes
from
the
dogs
that
piss
on
the
stationary
van’s
tyres.
At
the
lime‐green
police
lockup
charge
sheets
record
a
litany
of
crime—resisting
arrest,
creating
a
public
disturbance,
drunk
and
disorderly,
assaulting
a
police
officer.
Every
night
the
same
pantomime;
a
parade
of
anxious
family
members,
tears,
desperate
pleas,
the
abject
uselessness
behind
the
impassioned
argument
of
young
unshaven
legal‐aid
lawyers
called
from
their
beds.
Every
night
the
same
expressionless,
immovable
face
behind
the
counter.
In
the
morning,
if
morning
comes,
a
magistrate
from
a
suburb
as
far
removed
from
Redmond
as
Mars
curls
his
lip
in
disgust
at
the
record
sheet
and
the
prison
population
maintaines
its
steady
ebb
and
flow.
This
is
Redmond
at
night,
just
a
brisk,
dangerous
walk
from
noisy,
neon
streets
where
others
sit
at
streetside
cafes
or
spill
from
clubs
and
cinemas.
386
A
dog
trotted
lightly
across
the
road.
It
cut
across
the
pool
of
grimy
yellow
light
at
the
end
of
the
street,
jumped
a
low
wall
and
disappeared
into
the
shadows
to
reappear
outside
a
house
further
down
where
there
were
no
street
lights.
A
slim
youth
stepped
from
the
darkness
and
ruffled
the
dog’s
mangy
neck.
The
animal
followed
him
into
the
house.
In
the
darkness
the
flare
of
a
cigarette
directed
the
youth
to
what
was
once
a
lounge
room.
He
rattled
a
doorframe
with
a
stick.
The
door
hung
off
its
hinges,
propped
against
the
wall.
If
there
had
been
light
to
see,
the
ragged
hole
in
its
centre
where
a
sledge
hammer
had
punched
through
would
be
still
be
visible.
Shuffling
steps
approached
the
youth.
“Who’s
that?”
“It’s
okay,
it’s
me.”
“Ah,”
sighed
an
old
man’s
voice.
A
weak
voice
followed
him.
“Joseph?”
she
called,
questioning,
worried.
“It’s
Angel,”
he
shouted
back.
Then
a
heavy
squeaking
sound
as
the
woman
lifted
herself
from
a
sprung
sofa,
followed
by
a
spasm
of
coughing.
“You
stay
there,”
the
old
man
commanded.
“Still
no
electricity?”
Angel
observed.
Joseph
shook
his
head
in
the
gloom.
He
drew
on
the
last
of
his
cigarettes,
and
flicked
the
butt
towards
the
door
which
opened
directly
to
the
street.
Angel
pushed
his
head
into
the
darkened
room.
As
his
eyes
adjusted
he
could
see
a
shape
huddled
on
the
sofa
in
the
light
filtering
in
from
the
outside
night.
“You
okay
Mrs
Foley?”
“Doc
says
it’s
me
lungs.”
Angel
shook
his
head.
“It’s
no
good—we
gotta
do
somethin’—we
gotta
get
these
houses
fixed
again.”
Joseph
looked
at
him
in
the
dark.
“We
don’
know
what
to
do
anymore,”
he
said
tiredly.
387
Angel
turned
from
him
and
stared
out
into
the
street.
A
police
van
cruised
by.
They
could
hear
its
radio
snapping
as
it
continued
slowly
down
the
street.
He
turned
back
to
Joseph.
“The
priest
is
goin’
to
be
saying
a
Mass—in
that
cathedral
place.
I
think
we
should
all
go
there.”
“You
reckon
he
can
help?”
Angel
didn’t
answer
for
a
moment.
“That
bishop
bloke
will
be
there.
We
should
see
‘im—make
‘im
listen.”
Joseph
was
unsure.
“How
do
you
know
he’ll
be
there?”
“It’s
the
Father’s
first
time
since
he
come
back.
They’ll
be
keepin’
a
close
eye
on
‘im.”
Mrs
Foley
coughed
again,
a
harsh,
racking
cough.
The
sofa
squeaked
as
she
tried
to
make
herself
more
comfortable.
In
the
dark
the
youth’s
eyes
narrowed
and
his
lip
curled.
“We
goin’
to
finish
this,”
he
murmured.
“Make
sure
everybody
knows.
We
all
got
to
be
there.”
*
388
Chapter
Twenty‐One
Simon
stood
in
the
old
disused
East
Perth
cemetery
gazing
vacantly
at
a
headless
cherub.
The
day
which
had
started
bright
and
sunny
was
now
overcast.
A
bank
of
cloud
had
moved
in
from
the
distant
sea
and
a
stiff
breeze
shook
the
trees
and
draped
long
yellow
grass
against
the
railings
and
headstones.
The
had
not
been
used
for
almost
a
century.
A
peaceful
concert
of
the
wind
playing
in
the
grass
and
branches
of
overhanging
trees
masked
the
noise
of
the
city.
Here
was
a
different
time.
A
lingering
memory
of
still
summer
days
of
cicadas
and
flies,
and
wintry
afternoons
of
rain
and
black
skies—of
times
when
the
city
below
the
hill
was
just
a
dusty
town
on
the
edge
of
nowhere.
A
month
or
more
sailing
from
England.
If
you
listened
carefully
you
could
still
imagine
the
wind
carrying
the
clatter
of
cart
wheels,
the
abrasive
call
of
tousled‐haired
boys
running
barefoot
and
free,
the
hoot
and
whistle
of
steamboats
and
steam
trains.
Simon
followed
the
irregular
rows
of
headstones.
He
recalled
the
cemetery
at
Cumalong.
Such
hopeful
symbols
of
man’s
yearning
for
eternal
life.
Was
it
because
his
temporal
existence
was
so
disappointing?
These
old
graveyards
were
filled
with
the
thwarted
ambitions
of
young
men
and
women
who
settled
in
a
new
land,
struggled
so
hard
to
forge
a
new
world.
Simon
wandered
along
corridors
of
stone
tablets,
turning
like
pages
of
epitaphs.
Carriage
accidents
as
common
as
car
accidents;
drownings
to
remind
of
a
time
when
the
river
was
a
thoroughfare
not
a
playground.
Epidemics
of
measles,
diphtheria,
scarlet
fever
and
typhoid,
without
discriminating
for
age,
sex
or
social
status.
The
language
was
graphic.
Was
the
terror
of
death
amplified
by
389
the
prospect
of
dying
on
alien
soil?
Certainly
the
horror
of
the
finality
of
death
still
lingered
in
the
mason’s
words;
‘everlasting
sleep’,
‘eternal
rest’.
But
then
faith,
Simon’s
own
stock‐in‐trade,
was
fuelled
by
such
fear;
the
terror
of
death
turned
to
a
burning
desire
for
salvation.
In
the
grey
light
it
was
easy
for
him
to
relive
the
desolation
he
always
felt
beside
the
open
mouth;
his
vestments
flapping
in
the
breeze
as
he
tried
to
articulate
the
democracy
and
needfulness
of
mortality—.
Unless
a
grain
of
wheat
falls
on
the
ground
and
dies,
it
remains
only
a
single
grain.
But
if
it
dies,
it
yields
a
rich
harvest.
How
many
times
had
he
said
that?
It
had
become
banal.
Simon
hated
funerals.
They
were
hard
for
a
priest.
Each
funeral,
each
march
to
the
grave
was
a
dress
rehearsal
for
his
own
final
moment.
God,
he
was
in
one
of
those
moods.
He
stopped
beside
a
tall
obelisk
and
was
relieved
to
find
a
reason
to
chuckle.
On
it
was
etched
just
a
single
line:
Thomas
Helms,
Gentleman.
“Mr
Helms,”
said
Simon,
miming
the
removal
of
a
hat.
“I
like
your
style.”
“Ah—you
are
meeting
new
friends,
that
is
good.”
Simon
turned.
“They
are
noble
and
companionable
here—much
more
so
than
those
down
the
hill
still
with
beating
hearts.”
“Such
poetry,”
said
Karl.
“You
should
be
a
priest!
What
sermons
you
would
deliver.”
Simon
grinned.
“I’m
going
to
celebrate
a
Mass
in
the
cathedral.”
“Then
you
are
returning
to
the
cloth?”
“For
the
moment.”
The
old
man
shrugged
his
shoulders.
“The
sun
has
abandoned
us.
I
think
we
should
walk.”
390
They
walked
along
the
avenues
of
dead,
beneath
swaying,
murmuring
pines
and
scented
gums.
“I
have
been
thinking,”
Simon
began.
“Wondering
about
these
spent
lives
and
where
they
have
directed
us.
We
have
become
such
beachfront
pleasure‐seekers.
We
call
this
land
our
home,
yet
it
continues
to
elude
our
grasp.
It
remains
a
spectral
presence
behind
our
backs
as
we
huddle
along
the
shore.
We
deny
our
destiny
to
become
a
new,
unique
people—why?”
“When
I
came
to
this
place,”
said
Karl.
“I
was
a
young
man
running
very,
very
hard
from
memories
and
fear.
And
now
I
can
tell
you
this.
I
escaped
nothing.
For
a
long
time,
at
Gunwinddu
I
was
afraid
to
look
behind,
because
I
thought
it
was
still
there.
But
I
was
wrong.
All
that
time
I
was
wrong.
It
was
not
behind
at
all,
but
always
in
front
of
me.
So
perhaps
everybody
is
like
Karl,
eh,
still
running?”
“But
from
what.
Guilt?”
Karl
shook
his
head
slowly.
“I
think
the
fear
is
the
future.
That
is
what
we
run
from.”
“So
we
are
running
backwards?”
“No,
we
are
running
nowhere.”
“We
are
lost
then?”
Karl
nodded.
“That,
I
think,
is
true.”
Simon
pointed
to
a
headstone.
“They’re
like
those
old
roadside
milestones—signposts.
You
can
walk
along
here
and
read
the
signs
and
see
where
we
have
been
heading—
but
it
is
in
the
wrong
direction.
Something
is
missing.”
He
paused.
“We
need
our
own
sacred
story
to
give
us
a
sense
of
our
own
sacred
land.
Only
the
Aboriginal
people
can
give
us
that.
Otherwise
what
do
we
have
so
far—a
story
of
convicts,
bushrangers
and
conquests;
man
over
nature
so
we
could
run
sheep
and
grow
wheat
and
send
the
profits
to
a
motherland
over
the
seas.”
Karl
said
nothing
for
a
while,
allowing
a
silence
to
wrap
them
in
their
own
thoughts.
“Like
everybody,
I
came
to
this
391
place
a
stranger—a
frightened
stranger.
And
it
was
the
spirit
of
the
barramundi
that
made
me
welcome.
It
was
the
people
of
the
land,
like
you
say,
who
invited
me
to
stay
and
make
my
home.
It
is
a
precious
thing,
you
know,
to
feel
that
in
your
heart,
to
awake
in
the
morning
and
know
this
is
where
you
belong.
That’s
why
I
will
go
back
to
Gunwinddu.
The
barramundi
has
been
calling—calling
me
home.
Simon
began
walking
again.
The
wind
plucked
at
his
shirt
sleeves
and
he
shivered.
“Karl—what
happened
to
you
as
a
young
man?”
He
planted
the
question,
without
preamble.
The
old
man
smiled.
“
Do
you
think
you
are
strong
enough
for
my
confession?”
“I
don’t
want
your
confession.
I
would
just
like
to
know—as
a
friend.”
Karl
shook
his
head.
“No.
If
I
tell
you,
then
you
must
share
my
pain—my
guilt.
That
is
the
condition,
always.”
“Was
it
that
terrible?”
“To
me,
yes.
It
was
a
long
time
ago—but
it
could
have
been
yesterday.”
He
stopped
to
take
a
long,
indrawn
breath,
which
he
let
out
slowly.
“—Young
boys
only.
I
remember
their
faces.
You
know
what
I
think
about—I
think
about
their
mothers
and
know
the
worst
thing
for
them
would
be
they
would
never
have
known
how
their
boys
died.
Their
most
frightening
dreams
could
never
have
been
as
terrible
as
it
really
was.
I,
Karl,
was
there.
I
saw
it
all
happen—bullets
spinning
them
like
toy
dolls
into
the
snow.
Some
of
them
tried
to
crawl
away—but
there
was
no
hope.
We
went
around
later
with
pistols.
And
it
was
such
a
beautiful
morning,
I
remember
that.
The
air
was
clear
and
still,
the
sky
so
blue
and
the
snow
all
around
was
so
pure
and
white—near
a
little
farm
house,
but
half
of
it
was
gone.
We
had
parked
our
Panzer
there.
That’s
what
we
were
doing,
you
see,
just
driving
into
houses
and
boomph,
the
roof
and
392
walls
crash
onto
our
monsters
and
they
are
hidden.
Sometimes
we
ordered
the
people
out,
sometimes
we
did
not
bother.
There
may
have
been
people
inside—I
have
sometimes
wondered
that
too.
But
we
had
become
barbarians.
It
was
expected
that
we
would
die,
so
perhaps
there
was
no
fear
for
most—but
not
for
me.
I
was
very
frightened—frightened
of
the
noise
and
the
blood
and
the
smell
of
the
sergeant.
Everyone
had
become
like
machines.
Sometimes
we
shot
our
own
soldiers,
young
German
boys,
if
our
kapitan
thought
they
were
running
the
wrong
way.
I
think
now
his
mind
had
gone.
He
wanted
everybody
to
die
fighting.
I
was
just
a
boy.
I
did
not
even
have
a
uniform.
They
took
me
from
technical
college
and
put
me
in
a
Panzer
tank
because
I
was
a
student
of
mechanical
engineering.
The
sergeant
was
always
close
to
me.
‘You
do
everything
I
tell
you,
eh,
or
I
shoot
you
too.’
Perhaps
he
just
liked
to
frighten
me—who
knows?
I
used
to
think
these
things
when
I
was
alone
with
the
barramundi—trying
to
understand.
Sometimes
I
did,
but
later
I
would
forget
what
it
was
that
had
made
me
think
I
had
finally
constructed
an
answer.”
Karl
stopped
and
gazed
around
at
the
old
graveyard
with
its
unkempt
shrubbery
and
swaying
trees.
Across
from
the
graves
in
a
grassy
clearing
which
had
been
the
burial
site
of
those
who
never
had
the
means
to
pay
for
headstones,
two
grey‐suited
men
walked.
“Ah,”
said
Karl,
as
though
he
recognized
them.
Simon
saw
them
too
but
paid
no
attention.
“On
one
morning
I
was
holding
one
of
the
guns,
a
machine‐pistol—and
I
saw
where
my
bullets
went—every
day
since,
I
have
watched
them
because
a
young
American
soldier
was
looking
at
me.
He
saw
in
my
eyes
what
was
going
to
happen.
Just
a
boy,
a
few
years
older
than
me,
and
I
saw
the
look
in
his
eyes.
He
knew.
But
already
it
was
too
late.”
393
Karl
stopped
and
wiped
his
face.
It
was
shiny
and
wet.
“But
I
have
not
told
you
about
this.”
He
pointed
to
his
forehead,
at
the
livid
scar.
“My
shame.
You
see,
the
Americans
found
us.
I
remember
the
eyes
still
of
another
young
man
looking
at
me
over
the
barrel
of
his
rifle.
There
were
many
rifles
pointed,
but
I
knew
which
one
was
pointed
at
me.
He
was
ready
to
kill
me,
he
would
not
know
or
remember
or
care
that
he
had
ended
the
life
of
Karl
Breier.
I
was
so
frightened
that
I
started
to
fall
before
the
trigger
was
squeezed.
My
terror
saved
me.
I
woke
up,
in
a
hospital
with
a
thick
bandage
around
my
head.
And
the
pain—it
was
like
somebody
splitting
my
head
with
a
big
knife.
Before,
when
they
had
tried
to
stand
me
on
my
feet
again—to
kill
me—the
officer
saw
I
was
a
boy
without
a
uniform.
He
asked
what
was
my
story.
They
decided
instead
to
lock
me
in
a
French
bastille
for
two
years.
It
was
a
cruel
place
but
I
was
alive.
I
returned
to
Berlin
in
1947.
The
Russians
were
there
and
my
family
was
gone.
To
this
day,
I
do
not
know
what
happened
to
my
mother
and
father
and
my
sister.
I
spent
two
years
with
the
living
dead,
like
rats
in
the
rubble
of
our
own
making.
One
morning
I
met
a
man
who
was
organizing
in
the
black
market.
I
did
some
work,
stole
from
American
and
Russian
trucks,
and
he
paid
me
with
papers,
which
showed
I
was
a
qualified
mechanical
engineer.
I
was
interested
in
going
to
Canada,
but
then
I
heard
a
radio
broadcast
about
Australia.
I
did
not
even
know
where
Australia
was.
The
ship
stopped
at
Fremantle
on
its
way
to
Melbourne.
Well—all
the
time
I
was
afraid
a
voice
would
call
to
me
and
say,
‘you,
Karl
Breier,
we
know
about
you—your
papers
are
false’.
So
I
left
the
ship.
After
some
days,
I
was
very
lost
and
afraid
because
my
English
was
not
so
good
and
so
I
walked
into
a
church.
A
priest
was
there—
Father
Rantz.
He
spoke
German,
you
see,
and
told
me
he
was
a
missionary.
I
told
him
I
was
a
mechanical
engineer
and
he
invited
me
to
join
394
him—so,
that
is
Karl’s
story.
I
went
to
Gunwinddu
with
Father
Rantz
.
We
were
joined
later
by
a
beautiful
young
woman—Miss
Breck.
I
fell
very
much
in
love
with
her,
but
I
never
told
her
because
all
the
time
I
was
afraid
somebody
was
looking
for
me—to
take
me
back
to
Germany
because
my
papers
were
false.
After
a
time,
it
did
not
seem
to
matter
anymore.
But
I
was
cruel
to
Wilma.
She
wanted
for
us
to
marry
and
she
never
understood
why
I
never
asked—
because
I
could
never
tell
her.
But
the
people
were
good
to
me
and
the
barramundi
became
my
family.
Time
passed
without
any
of
us,
I
think,
noticing.
Father
Rantz
grew
old—it
is
strange,
always
he
seemed
such
a
strong,
young
man
and
then
one
day
you
see
him
and
realize
he
is
old
and
you
touch
your
own
face
in
the
shadows
and
know
it
is
true
of
you
too.
So
Father
Rantz
left
us,
and
in
his
place
comes
Father
Bradbury,
a
young
man
with
a
fire
in
his
belly;
a
young
man
whose
vision
has
been
shaped
by
peace,
not
war.
You
have
been
fortunate
in
that.
But
I
liked
you.
I
knew
it
was
time
for
change
and
you
seemed
to
care
about
the
people.
But
change
is
a
difficult
thing,
eh,
and
so
soon
you
are
gone
too,
but
not
after
you
have
stirred
up
our
nest.
For
a
while
there
is
nobody,
just
the
police
sergeant
you
did
not
like.
He
fights
with
Fred
Davies
and
all
the
time
he
is
suspicious—of
everybody.
Soon
he
is
asking
me
questions—how
did
I
come
to
Australia?
Was
I
in
the
war?
I
said
I
was
too
old
for
his
questions.
One
day
he
arrived
with
another
man,
a
government
man.
They
had
been
investigating
me.
It
is
quite
extraordinary,
don’t
you
think,
after
all
these
years?
I
was
in
the
SS,
they
said,
which
made
me
a
war
criminal.”
Karl
stopped,
looked
over
his
shoulder
at
the
two
men
who
seemed
to
be
watching.
“So
you
see,
the
past
was
always
going
to
be
in
front
of
me.
I
tried
to
explain,
but
these
are
young
men
who
also
have
not
known
war.
They
do
not
understand.
They
do
not
know
that
in
395
war
everything
is
grey.
There
is
no
black
and
white,
no
good
and
bad.
That
only
comes
with
history.”
“Are
you
in
trouble?
Is
it
that
new
war
crimes
commission?
Karl
shrugged.
“I
was
put
on
a
plane,
yes,
and
asked
a
lot
of
questions.
But
I
have
nothing
more
to
say
so
I
am
going
back
to
my
river.”
Simon
was
worried.
“Why
didn’t
you
tell
me
this
before.
I
can
help
you.”
Karl
lifted
his
hand.
“No.
It
is
all
very
clear
now.
Everything
will
be
all
right.”
He
stood
up.
“But
come
and
visit.
The
barramundi
would
like
to
see
you
again.”
The
cathedral
is
a
large
Gothic‐inspired
edifice,
towering
above
a
perimeter
of
cut
lawn
and
manicured
rose
beds.
It
has
a
confusion
of
entrances.
Most
are
always
locked,
forcing
strangers
to
circumnavigate
its
outer
wall,
probing
self‐consciously
at
each
heavy,
wooden
door
tucked
inside
the
many
porticoes.
Its
south
wall
faces
a
convent
school
and
the
diocesan
headquarters,
a
plain
cream
building
surrounded
by
a
tall
pike
fence.
The
north
wall
faces
the
emergency
entrance
to
the
main
city
hospital.
Eight
floors
of
pink
brick
and
tiny
square
windows.
The
cathedral’s
shaded
lawn
dividing
it
from
the
bland
brick
face
of
the
hospital
is
a
popular
meeting
ground
for
Aborigines.
They
sit
on
the
grass
in
large,
quiet
groups
and
face
the
hospital,
watching
other
people’s
tragedies
Simon
stood
on
the
path
inside
the
large
wrought‐iron
gate
separating
the
cathedral
from
the
secular
world.
He
watched
as
an
ambulance
officer
tried
to
comfort
a
youth
whose
mate
had
just
been
trolleyed
inside.
He
wondered
what
the
man
was
saying.
Were
other
men,
unencumbered
by
a
collar
with
little
silver
crosses,
better
at
these
things
than
priests?
The
two
disappeared
through
the
frosted
glass.
396
He
began
to
walk
up
the
path,
clutching
a
small,
cloth
bundle.
He
had
come
early,
hoping
the
majesty
of
the
building
would
infuse
in
him
the
words
to
say
on
this,
his
rebirth
as
a
cleric.
Large
groups
of
Aborigines
stood
or
sat
languidly
in
the
gardens.
He
smiled
uncertainly.
He
thought
he
recognized
faces
from
the
Redmond
christening.
Despite
all
he
had
been
through
he
still
felt
an
intruder
in
their
presence.
He
paused,
hoping
for
a
hail,
an
invitation.
But
it
seemed
they
did
not
even
see
him.
He
turned
and
walked
the
path
to
the
main
door.
Then
every
head
followed
his
back.
They
knew
who
he
was—what
he
was;
the
priest
who
had
been
disgorged
by
the
desert
and
the
spirits
of
the
Dreaming.
What
it
might
mean
to
them,
they
did
not
know.
But
they
were
patient.
Simon
stopped
inside
the
cavernous
vestibule.
A
splash
of
coloured
light
filtered
by
high
stained
glass
windows
made
an
abstract
puddle
on
the
tiled
floor.
A
massive
piece
of
church
history
stood,
stolid,
in
the
corner—a
giant
bell
forged
in
Spain
three
centuries
earlier
for
a
Benedictine
monastery
and
now
mounted
here
as
a
memento
to
the
longevity
of
Catholicism.
The
Benedictines
had
transported
the
bell
when
they
fled
the
Inquisition
and
finally
tried
anew
in
this
strange
southern
land.
Simon
paused
beneath
a
towering
statue
of
the
Virgin
Mary
and
studied
the
notice
board;
squares
of
paper
pinned
to
cork
by
committees
for
everything
from
choirs
to
candlestick
cleaners.
Beside
a
notice
from
the
Catholic
Singles
Club
promoting
dinners,
beach
walks,
coffee
nights
and
weekends
away,
someone
else
had
pinned
in
bold
letters,
“We
Need
Priests”.
Another
notice,
in
the
faded
letters
of
a
computer
print‐out,
proclaimed,
pointedly:
“Some
people
refuse
to
come
to
the
front
of
the
church
unless
escorted
by
pall
bearers.”
Simon
smiled
at
the
familiar
quip.
He
looked
into
the
body
of
the
cathedral.
In
the
distance
was
the
altar
on
its
exalted
plateau.
The
scent
of
freshly
cut
397
blooms
blended
with
the
residue
of
polish
and
incense.
Simon
breathed
it
in.
It
was
still
intoxicating.
He
remembered
the
first
day
he
had
met
MacNamara
and
drunk
in
the
smells
and
mysteries
of
the
little
sacristy,
and
then
rewarded
for
his
interest
with
a
sip
of
sacramental
sherry.
Perhaps
he
had
been
drunk
on
it
ever
since?
He
stepped
into
the
field
of
stiff‐backed
pews
and
his
heels
clicked
as
he
walked
slowly
down
the
aisle.
He
was
nervous,
expectant,
and
his
wrist
throbbed
and
the
cicatrices
on
his
chest
itched.
Simon
sat
in
a
pew
at
the
front
and
leaned
back,
laying
his
arms
across
the
top
of
the
bench.
He
looked
up
into
the
vaulted
roof,
its
high
timber
beams
and
arches.
The
building
was
shaped
like
a
crucifix
with
pews
also
to
each
side
of
the
altar.
The
altarpiece
was
a
marble
table
draped
with
white
cloth,
backlit
by
a
large
stained
glass
window.
There
was
a
similar
window
behind
the
adjacent
organ
loft
and
these
two
massive
works
of
glass
art
threw
a
light
across
the
altar,
giving
it
an
ethereal
quality
in
contrast
to
the
main
body
of
the
cathedral
which
resided
in
perpetual
gloom.
It
was
a
marvel,
inspirational.
But
did
it
massage
souls
or
egos?
That
was
the
trouble.
In
some
respects
this
magnificent
structure
represented
all
that
he
had
found
himself
fighting.
The
structure
reinforced
his
role
as
a
servant
of
the
church;
reminded
him
that
his
first
responsibility
was
to
the
institution.
The
great
stone
walls
and
concrete
arches
told
you
this
was
a
religion
not
to
be
taken
lightly.
In
the
same
thought
Simon
saw
the
church
at
Gunwinddu.
Really
no
more
than
an
asbestos
shed,
but
it
had
pulsed
with
the
spirituality
of
the
people.
He
stood
and
walked
up
to
the
altar
and
ran
his
hand
idly
across
the
white
cloth.
He
took
the
soul
stone
from
the
cloth
he
was
carrying
it
in.
He
had
brought
it
on
a
whim;
his
398
own
altar
stone;
his
own
private
symbol
of
eternity.
He
had
wanted
to
have
it
near
when
he
next
celebrated
the
Eucharistic
sacrifice.
“Do
this
in
remembrance
of
me,”
Christ
had
told
his
followers
as
he
broke
bread
and
drank
wine.
He
had
then
gone,
without
resistance,
to
his
crucifixion
to
secure
eternal
life.
He
believed
this
had
happened.
But
then
there
was
also
Wirrintiny,
the
night
bird,
around
which
was
woven
a
parable
with
similar
intent
thousands
of
years
before
Christ.
The
stone
was
his
reminder
of
the
mystery
and
of
what
he
believed
to
be
a
truth
that
transcended
his
chosen
religion.
His
faith,
his
calling;
the
dogma
he
had
chosen
to
preach,
he
now
saw
as
just
part
of
the
mystery
of
faith—
not
the
definitive
creed
at
all.
Standing
at
the
foot
of
the
cathedral
altar
Mudidjara
was
far
away,
but
he
felt
its
presence
steadying
his
thoughts.
Voices
sprinkled
the
silence
and
shoes
clipped
tiles
in
the
vestibule.
People
were
arriving.
Simon
placed
the
stone
gently
beside
one
of
the
two
heavy
brass
candlesticks
which
flanked
the
altar,
and
walked
to
the
sacristy
to
change.
Outside
an
executive
model
sedan
swept
into
the
cathedral’s
spacious
driveway.
MacNamara’s
secretary
climbed
from
the
driver’s
seat,
stepped
briskly
to
the
rear
and
opened
the
door.
The
bishop
stepped
out
and
responded
cheerfully
to
the
respectful
waves
of
people
entering
the
grounds.
He
turned
around,
towards
the
hospital,
and
frowned.
A
group
of
Aborigines
was
approaching.
Behind,
in
the
gardens,
were
dozens
more,
watching.
He
turned
his
back
and
began
walking
quickly
towards
the
entrance.
“Come
on,”
he
snapped
to
his
secretary.
The
pair
walked
smartly.
As
they
reached
the
steps
someone
called
out.
“Hey
mister!”
MacNamara
paused
in
his
stride.
399
“Bishop!”
He
stopped
and
turned.
Angel
was
striding
towards
him.
“We
got
to
talk
to
you.”
He
was
at
the
head
of
a
small
group.
“We
need
you
to
help
us,”
he
continued.
Mrs
Foley
and
Joseph
moved
through
the
group
to
stand
beside
Angel.
The
old
man
wrapped
an
arm
around
her
shoulders.
“Can
you
help
us?”
he
asked,
shyly.
MacNamara
waved
his
secretary
to
wait
at
the
steps.
“What
is
the
matter?”
he
asked.
“We’re
from
Redmond,”
said
Angel.
“Someone’s
tryin’
to
push
us
out—the
police
come
all
the
time—we
got
no
electricity
no
more—no
hot
water—,”
he
looked
to
Mrs
Foley,
“—and
the
old
people
are
gettin’
crook.
We
thought
you
could
do
somethin’,
like.”
“There
is
nothing
I
can
do,”
he
replied
sharply,
and
began
to
move.
“But
you’re
the
bishop,”
said
Angel.
“They’re
your
houses
and
a
lot
of
these
people’ve
been
baptized.
We
used
to
have
a
priest
even.”
“Father
Chapman,”
volunteered
Joseph.
Mrs
Foley
grasped
his
arm
as
a
coughing
attack
hit
her.
“That
woman
should
be
over
there—in
hospital,”
the
Bishop
responded
sternly.
“That’s
why
we’ve
come
to
see
you,”
said
Angel,
his
voice
rising.
“Well
I’m
not
a
doctor.
Take
her
across
the
road.”
He
turned
his
back
and
strode
away,
shaking
his
head.
“Irresponsible,”
he
muttered
as
he
caught
up
with
his
secretary.
The
Aborigines
watched
the
bishop
enter
the
cathedral.
They
looked
at
each
other,
defeated.
Only
Angel
remained
resolved.
“Go
in,”
he
ordered.
“Go
and
see
what
the
priest
says.”
He
lifted
his
voice
so
all
could
hear.
“Make
‘em
see
us.”
400
Inside
the
sacristy
Simon
heard
polite
clapping,
and
braced
himself.
The
inner
door
burst
open
and
MacNamara
strode
in,
his
face
flushed.
He
saw
Simon
already
dressed,
and
smacked
his
hands.
“Well—you
seem
keen
enough,
Father.”
Simon,
smiled
laconically,
but
said
nothing.
The
bishop
studied
him.
“You
look
the
part
Simon—
always
have.”
“A
pity
this
isn’t
a
theatre
then.”
MacNamara
grinned.
“Well—.”
Simon
could
still
see
his
reflection
in
the
mirror.
Perhaps
that
was
it;
perhaps
all
he
needed
was
some
stage
paint
to
restore
him
to
good
order.
The
bishop
stepped
to
a
separate
wardrobe
and
began
to
dress.
“Thought
I’d
assist—a
show
of
support
for
you.
Stop
some
of
those
wagging
tongues.”
Simon
smiled.
He
had
expected
to
be
on
a
leash
for
a
while,
but
not
a
leash
this
tight.
“Your
sermon’s
prepared,
you
have
it
on
paper?”
The
bishop
extended
his
hand.
Simon
shook
his
head.
“No,
it’s
in
my
head—just
a
rough
idea.”
MacNamara
eyed
him
quizzically.
“I
wanted
to
wait
and
feel
the
atmosphere
here—in
the
cathedral—to
crystallize
my
thoughts.”
“Ah,”
said
MacNamara.
He
looked
relieved.
Simon
looked
at
him
closely.
He
had
aged.
It
was
like
Karl
had
said;
you
remembered
someone
from
earlier
years
and
they
never
seemed
to
change
until
a
particular
moment
when
you
looked
close
and
saw
a
lifetime
had
passed.
MacNamara
had
become
an
elderly
man.
Simon
wondered
if
he
had
been
too
harsh;
had
given
too
little
consideration
to
the
frailties
and
moods
of
a
man
whose
life
was
closing.
The
years
passed
so
quickly.
What
was
it
like
to
be
at
an
age
when
you
knew
there
were
not
many
401
days
left;
that
you
could
point
to
a
calendar
and
say
in
ten
years—five
years—I
will
have
ceased
to
exist?
Did
that
affect
the
mind?
Did
it
sow
resentment
and
intolerance?
Did
arrival
at
old
age
make
a
man
feel
victorious
or
defeated?
A
sucking
sound,
heard
even
from
within
the
sacristy,
preceded
the
opening
chords
pressed
from
the
high
pipe
organ.
MacNamara
looked
at
Simon.
“So.
How
would
you
like
to
work
in
Redmond—take
over
the
parish?
They
haven’t
had
a
priest
for
some
time
and
the
place
needs
a
bit
of
a
lift.
You’d
do
well
there.”
Simon
frowned.
“What
about
the
university?”
The
bishop
smiled.
“Well,
that’s
another
reason
why
I’d
like
you
to
go
to
Redmond.
It
would
make
the
transition
smoother
if
you
were
well
settled
among
the
people
there.”
He
turned
from
Simon
and
walked
to
the
door
which
opened
onto
the
altar.
Simon
stared
at
his
departing
back.
The
bastard—the
manipulating,
calculating
bastard.
The
thought
was
there,
he
couldn’t
help
it.
He
trod
in
the
path
of
the
man’s
arrogance
and
out
onto
the
expansive
altar,
to
the
crescendo
of
organ
pipes
and
the
noise
of
several
hundred
devotees
leaning
on
wooden
benches
to
stand.
MacNamara
faced
the
congregation
and
waited
for
the
susurration
to
subside.
Simon
stood
beside
him,
working
desperately
to
quell
the
anger
that
had
ignited
inside
his
gut.
MacNamara
smiled.
A
good
turnout.
He
didn’t
notice
the
Aboriginal
people
begin
to
filter
in,
along
the
shadow
of
the
walls.
Simon
did.
He
saw
them
moving,
hesitantly,
along
the
walls,
finding
spaces
to
sit
and
stand.
The
bishop
lifted
his
eyes
to
the
distant,
high
roof
beams:
“Let
us
pray,”
he
began.
402
They
moved
through
the
opening
stages
of
the
Mass,
MacNamara
the
puppeteer
and
Simon
his
puppet.
Simon
grew
increasingly
conscious
of
the
Aboriginal
people,
edging
nearer
and
nearer
the
altar.
When
MacNamara
saw
them
he
frowned.
He
tried
to
catch
Simon’s
eye
but
the
younger
priest
avoided
his
glance.
They
proceeded
into
the
Mass,
almost
mechanically,
as
another
presence
slowly
but
forcibly
consumed
them.
George
Penbury
walked
to
the
altar
to
give
the
first
reading
from
the
Gospel.
Simon
knew
he
would
only
have
been
here
at
MacNamara’s
request.
He
smiled
inwardly
and
wondered
just
how
much
of
the
congregation
had
been
orchestrated.
Penbury
had
to
step
around
several
Aborigines
who
had
opted
to
sit
on
the
floor
below
the
altar.
The
two
celebrants
walked
in
file
to
chairs
at
the
side
of
the
altar.
They
sat
and
MacNamara
leaned
close
to
his
ear.
“They
were
outside.
Why
have
they
come
in
here?”
he
whispered.
Simon
twisted
in
his
chair
to
face
him.
Their
faces
were
close.
“My
new
parishioners
perhaps—come
to
see
how
I
perform?”
“I
don’t
like
it.”
Penbury
finished
and
headed
for
the
pews.
Simon
stood
and
MacNamara
tugged
at
his
vestments.
The
two
men’s
eyes
met
and
the
younger
priest
saw
the
first
signs
of
worry
in
the
old
man’s
eyes
and
knew
that
his
own
were
burning
with
triumph
at
this
challenge
flung,
perhaps
unwittingly,
by
the
Redmond
people.
Simon
walked
with
determination
to
the
pulpit.
He
looked
into
the
congregation,
and
saw
the
discomfort
also
on
the
white
faces.
The
Aborigines
watched
too;
patient
and
curious;
conscious
of
the
unsettling
effect
their
presence
was
having.
Behind
his
back,
MacNamara
sat
rigid.
403
Simon
grasped
the
flexible
microphone
arm
and
bent
it
towards
his
lips.
He
began.
“It
is
pleasing
to
see
so
many
people
here—so
many
friends.
A
long
time
ago
I
walked
into
the
sacristy
of
a
small
country
town
church
and
was
mesmerized
by
its
mysteries;
mysteries
which,
through
the
guidance
of
Ted
MacNamara,
our
bishop,
inspired
within
me
the
determination
to
explore
and
to
learn.
“A
consequence
of
this
was
my
decision
to
join
the
priesthood
and
to
make
my
own
spiritual
search
my
life’s
work.
I
toiled
and
prayed
among
you
as
a
priest,
never
questioning,
for
years,
either
your
place
or
my
role—until
I
started
to
sense
that
none
of
us
were
learning;
we
were
progressing
nowhere.
I
was,
as
it
is
written
in
one
of
our
many
rule
books,
a
servant
of
the
church—an
instrument
of
God.”
His
voice
was
carried
through
the
vast
cathedral
spaces
by
the
microphone
and
he
could
hear
the
tail
of
an
echo
returning
from
the
vestibule.
“But
how
could
I
be
an
instrument
of
God,
when
God,
even
to
me
as
a
priest,
remained
an
abstraction,
a
test
of
faith,
until
I
had
made
the
effort
to
find
and
know
him
personally?
“So
I
decided
no
longer
to
be
a
servant.
I
decided
to
begin
to
ask
questions;
not
always
to
obtain
answers,
but
often
to
force
others
to
pause
and
think
as
well.
Such
questions
were
unwelcome.
In
time
they
isolated
me.
I
grew
despondent,
confused.
What
was
it,
I
asked,
that
caused
such
fear
and
anger
when
people
saw
that
a
priest
also
lived
his
life
in
pursuit
of
understanding,
and
could
be
worried,
like
any
man,
about
inconsistencies?
“So
I
went
away—as
you
know—and
I
discovered
a
truth
and
beauty;
a
knowledge
that
we
live
in
an
ancient
land
that
is
suffused
with
spiritual
presence.
404
“Now,
some
might
be
wondering
why
I
have
returned
to
my
vocation.
Again,
I
am
indebted
to
His
Grace,
a
man
who
has
so
capably
led
this
diocese
for
the
past
decade
and
more,
and
is
so
tireless
in
his
endeavours
to
keep
this
flock
together.”
Simon
paused
and
turned
to
MacNamara.
He
smiled
and
the
bishop
studied
him
with
a
puzzled
frown.
“This
odyssey
that
I
speak
of,
lifted
away
some
of
the
veils
that
had
obscured
my
vision.
And
so
for
some
weeks
I
have
wondered
what
I
should
say
when
I
next
faced
the
people
of
this
diocese.
How
do
I
share
what
I
have
learned?”
Close
to
five
hundred
faces
looked
up
at
the
priest;
blank,
still.
Simon
paused.
He
looked
down
at
his
hands
clutching
the
rim
of
the
lectern.
The
scar
on
his
wrist
glinted
palely.
He
looked
up
again.
He
raised
his
voice.
He
lifted
his
arms
to
encompass
the
congregation.
“We
believe
in
God,
that’s
why
we
shuffle
into
buildings
like
this
every
Sunday.
We
desire
salvation.
But
to
get
there
we
have
to
tread
a
mortal
path
first,
and
what
makes
this
road
so
difficult
is
that
we
were
born
with
the
curse
of
free
will.
Death
looms
as
the
gateway
to
a
frightening
unknown
so
we
insure
ourselves
by
abiding
by
rules.
We
start
learning
these
rules
when
we
are
children—and
indeed,
it
is
demanded
by
the
church
that
we
remain
the
children
of
God.”
Simon
paused.
He
was
starting
to
breathe
hard
and
his
chest
thumped
inside
his
ribs.
His
mind
was
stretching
to
hold
together
his
thoughts
and
his
knuckles
whitened
on
the
rim
of
the
pulpit.
“So
perhaps
it
is
time
to
mature
a
little—to
question
the
rules.
Life
is
a
path
of
learning.
But
how
can
you
learn
if
405
you
are
given
no
cause
to
think,
to
wonder,
to
ask—to
explore.
“So
just
following
the
rules
is
not
enough.”
He
raised
his
voice
to
a
shout
and
he
shook
the
lectern:
“Sticking
to
the
rules
will
never
be
enough—they
are
an
obstruction
to
the
truth.
It
was
Paul
in
a
letter
to
the
Philippians,
who
beseeched:
‘work
out
your
own
salvation
with
fear
and
trembling’.”
People
turned
to
each
other
and
heads
tilted
to
look
past
Simon;
to
seek
out
the
bishop.
MacNamara
stood
up,
uncertain.
Simon
turned
and
measured
the
old
man’s
confusion.
He
saw
in
the
bishop
an
image
of
his
own
future
as
a
priest
and
knew
he
was
right.
His
voice
thundered
from
the
speakers
bolted
high
up
in
the
heavy
wooden
roof
struts.
“You
cannot
truly
believe
in
anything
unless
you
have
tested
it
against
the
flame
of
life;
against
the
trials
of
your
own
search,
without
the
crutch
that
I
and
other
priests
so
freely,
sometimes
blindly,
offer.
God
does
not
come
pre‐
packaged
from
the
catechism,
or
from
this
pulpit—or
indeed
from
our
church.”
Simon
heard
the
bishop
moving
and
he
stepped
away
from
the
lectern
and
stood
instead
at
the
centre
of
the
altar.
He
closed
his
eyes
and
saw
Isaac
and
Matthew
and
the
spirit
who
spewed
the
water
crystals
and
the
moon
bathing
in
Mudidjara.
He
swayed
lightly
on
his
feet
and
felt
a
weightlessness
flow
through
his
body.
He
knew
that
with
just
the
thought
to
command
it,
he
could
separate;
escape
into
a
trance
and
watch
from
high.
He
sensed
MacNamara
closing,
and
the
congregation
stirring.
Simon
shouted,
“God
comes
not
from
here.”
He
swept
his
arm
towards
the
columns
and
the
arches.
“He
comes
from
the
land—this
ancient,
unspoiled
land.
And
he
watches—not
from
the
heavens,
not
from
stained
glass
and
towering
cathedrals,
but
from
the
red
earth
beneath
your
406
feet,
from
its
tall
white
gums;
from
the
spirit
of
creation
that
still
lives
all
around
us.
“When
you
stand
at
the
water’s
edge—listen.
Listen
to
the
great
fish.
Listen
to
the
land.
Listen
to
its
people.
Until
we
can
recognise
the
spirit
of
the
land,
we
will
never
recognise
the
presence
of
God.”
The
bishop
caught
Simon’s
arm.
“Stop—.”
Simon
shook
himself
free.
The
bishop
followed
him.
“Desist
this
instant.
I
am
withdrawing
your
faculties
to
preach.”
Their
eyes
locked.
Simon
grimly
side‐stepped
into
a
shaft
of
light
falling
from
the
high
glass
windows.
With
both
hands
he
ripped
at
his
vestments,
and
tore
open
his
shirt.
The
rigid
initiation
scars
stood
out
in
ugly,
sharp
relief.
People
stood
up
noisily
in
the
pews,
trying
to
see.
MacNamara
grasped
Simon’s
arm.
“In
God’s
name,
what
is
this?”
Simon
stood
motionless,
staring
straight
ahead,
facing
the
disbelief
and
outrage
rippling
through
the
congregation.
The
Bishop
held
out
his
arms.
“Leave,”
he
shouted.
“Leave.”
Some
began
hesitantly
to
obey.
The
bishop’s
secretary
approached
the
altar.
MacNamara
gestured
towards
the
Aborigines.
“Get
them
out
of
here.”
He
swung
back
to
Simon
and
herded
him
with
urgency
towards
the
sacristy.
Inside,
the
Bishop
closed
the
door
and
rounded
on
the
priest.
He
grabbed
him
roughly
with
both
hands.
“What
in
God’s
name
have
you
done?”
Simon
lifted
his
arms
supplicatingly.
MacNamara
held
out
an
open
palm
like
a
shield.
“You
are
tormenting
me,
torturing
me.
Why?
Why—when
I
have
nurtured
you,
treated
you
like
a
son.
Why?”
Simon
let
his
arms
fall
to
his
sides.
“I
have
said
all
I
that
I
can
say.”
407
MacNamara
leaned
backwards,
his
eyes
wide.
“You’re
possessed.
What
happened
to
you
out
there?
What
evil
of
Beelzebub
has
infected
your
soul?”
“Oh
for
heaven’s
sake,”
cried
Simon.
“That’s
the
problem—medieval
fairytales.
Satin
and
the
plague;
hell
and
damnation.
Your
creed
is
dead
because
it
never
lived.
I
found
something
living
and
good.
The
soul.”
He
pointed
to
his
chest.
“Here—and
here,”
he
said,
pointing
next
to
his
head,
“and
here,”
he
finished,
with
a
sweep
of
his
arms
to
take
in
the
whole
room.
“The
soul
lives.
It
can
embrace
all
life
as
a
single
entity.
It
can
be
a
bridge
through
time;
a
bridge
to
understanding.
That’s
all
I
came
to
say.
I
came
to
say
something
good.
And
all
you
can
do
is
herd
people
back
into
the
dark.”
Simon
returned
to
the
altar
and
watched
the
last
of
the
departing
backs.
MacNamara
followed
him.
“You
are
possessed—
consumed
by
Satanism.
It’s
what
I
feared
all
along.”
Simon
turned
angrily
and
put
an
outstretched
arm
against
the
bishop’s
chest.
“Possessed—you’re
the
one
who’s
possessed.
Look
at
you,
you’re
a
bishop
and
you
know
no
god
but
the
god
which
poisons
men’s
souls
with
politics
and
money.”
MacNamara
wasn’t
listening.
He
began
to
shake
his
head.
His
face
twisted
in
horror;
at
the
Anti‐Christ
standing
before
him.
He
saw
Simon’s
stone
lying
on
the
altar
and
grasped
it.
“And
what
is
this
heresy
you
have
brought
here
to
stain
the
sanctity
of
my
altar?”
He
held
the
stone
accusingly
in
front
of
Simon’s
face,
then
lifted
his
face
and
called
to
the
heaven
whose
power
he
entreated.
“He
who
worships
the
beast
shall
drink
the
wine
of
God’s
wrath.
Lord,
it
is
time
to
put
in
your
sickle
and
reap—.”
His
desperate
entreaty
stopped.
He
clutched
suddenly
at
his
chest
and
his
eyes
rotated
slowly
towards
Simon,
confusion
and
pain
turning
to
triumph.
His
back
arched,
but
his
eyes
remained
fixed
on
Simon.
“Deny
it
408
now,”
he
challenged
through
clenched
teeth.
“Deny
it
now.”
A
bubble
of
blood
appeared
on
his
lips
and
he
slumped
to
the
carpet.
Simon
stooped
to
the
fallen
man.
“No—not
like
this,”
he
whispered
“Isaac—it
was
Isaac.”
Simon
looked
up.
Angel
approached
down
the
aisle
of
the
cathedral.
He
stepped
to
the
fallen
body.
He
looked
at
Simon.
“Isaac—I
felt
‘im—he
sung
‘im—sung
the
bishop.”
Simon
pushed
his
head
into
his
hands.
“No.”
He
looked
up
at
the
youth
again.
“No!”
he
shouted.
“Wait
here—.”
Angel
opened
his
mouth
to
protest,
but
Simon
was
already
running
down
the
aisle.
Out
in
the
courtyard
people
milled.
The
whites
on
the
paving,
and
the
blacks
keeping
their
distance
on
the
grass
beneath
the
trees.
They
were
watching,
silent—expectant.
Simon
saw
them
and
knew
that
they
knew.
He
saw
George
Penbury.
The
choirmaster
started
to
move
away
when
he
saw
the
priest.
Simon
called.
“The
bishop
has
had
a
heart
attack.”
Penbury
stared
back
at
him,
mute
and
hostile.
“For
God’s
sake
man.”
Simon
pointed
to
the
hospital.
“Get
a
doctor.”
Simon
ran
back
into
the
building,
the
choirmaster
following
suspiciously.
He
rushed
towards
the
altar
when
he
saw
crumpled
body
on
the
carpet.
He
took
the
bishop’s
wrist.
Angel
watched,
the
triumph
on
his
face
gradually
turning
to
worry
as
the
reality
began
to
penetrate.
“There’s
no
pulse,”
cried
the
choirmaster.
Simon
knelt
and
placed
his
hands
on
the
bishop’s
forehead.
His
hand
shook
as
he
made
the
sign
of
the
cross
over
the
fallen
man:
“Indulgentiam,
absolutionem,
et
remissionem
peccatorum
nostrorum
tribuat
nobis
omnipotens
et
misericors
Dominus.”
409
Penbury
rolled
the
bishop
onto
his
back
to
try
resuscitation.
He
saw
the
large,
smooth
stone
in
the
bishop’s
grip.
As
he
tried
to
prize
open
the
bishops
fingers
his
own
hand
touched
the
stone
and
he
cried
out.
“Feel
it,”
demanded
the
choirmaster.
“It’s
…
it's
like
ice!”
Simon
reached
down
and
pulled
the
stone
free.
It
was
chilling
to
touch,
but
he
cradled
it
carefully.
He
walked
slowly
towards
the
sacristy
with
Angel
at
his
heel.
“What
is
it?”
called
the
choirmaster
after
him,
his
voice
trembling.
Angel
followed
Simon
into
the
sacristry.
“What
are
we
goin’
to
do
Father?”
Simon
looked
at
the
stone,
his
face
was
pale.
In
his
hands
rested
a
terrifying,
eternal,
glorious,
truth.
He
looked
back
at
the
fallen
man
and
the
shocked
choirmaster.
For
a
fleeting
moment
he
felt
light;
giddy.
Free.
But
the
man
whose
mortal
life
had
been
taken
would
be
aware
only
of
an
incomprehensible
terror.
Simon’s
source
of
light
was
Ted
MacNamara’s
damnation.
He
was
locked
forever
in
Revelation’s
bottomless
pit.
Except
Simon
Bradbury,
a
damned
priest
whose
desperate
yearning
was
simply
to
be
a
man
again;
a
soul
free
of
MacNamara’s
bindings,
possessed
the
key.
Angel
tugged
urgently
at
his
sleeve.
“The
cops’ll
be
comin’.”
He
turned
and
faced
the
youth.
“Are
you
an
angel
of
light,
or
an
angel
of
darkness?”
Angel
frowned.
Simon
smiled
grimly
and
looked
away,
towards
the
pews
and
the
chopped
bands
of
light
slanting
down
from
the
high
stained
windows.
“Mudidjara—we
are
going
back
to
Mudidjara.”
“With
the
bishop?”
Simon
took
the
stole
from
around
his
neck
and
began
wrapping
the
stone.
410
“Yes,"
he
replied.
"With
the
bishop.”
411
Epilogue
Karl
followed
the
path
along
the
edge
of
the
water.
A
willy‐
willy
wind
scudded
along
the
opposite
bank
spraying
leaves
and
loose
bark
onto
the
water.
Karl
chuckled.
“Yes—I
still
hear
you,”
he
said
softly.
He
reached
the
beach
at
the
foot
of
the
overhanging
rock
wall
and
let
his
eyes
rest
briefly
on
the
surrounding
scene.
Silver‐barked
gums
housed
a
flock
of
white
cockatoos
which
seemed
to
be
watching
him.
Karl
saw
the
scuff
marks
on
the
sand
where
small
black
feet
had
passed,
the
low
flat‐topped
boulder
on
which
he
had
spent
a
lifetime,
reflecting.
The
surface
of
the
still,
green
water
rippled
as
another
breath
of
wind
blew
through
the
gorge.
Karl
watched
it
pass
and
smiled.
“Barramundi—Barramundi,”
he
whispered
dreamily.
Yes,
you
have
made
an
old
Berliner
very
happy.”
He
looked
one
last
time
into
the
tree
tops,
to
the
watching
birds
with
their
crowns
of
gold
and
walked
into
the
water,
purposefully,
until
he
slipped
gently,
forever,
into
the
great
fish’s
kingdom.
Ends
412