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 hand- me-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 re- polishing 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 early- morning 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, semi- naked, 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.”

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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?”

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“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.”

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“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.”

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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 . . .”

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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.”

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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’.

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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.

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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.”

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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.”

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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.

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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.

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“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.”

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“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.

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“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.

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“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.

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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.”

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“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?”

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“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

2 85 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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.”

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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.”

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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.

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“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.”

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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.

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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.

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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?”

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“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.”

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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.

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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.

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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

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