brandy, savoured its burn. The moon, the light reflected from the water; ducks and other large birds flew above and splashed into the water so that its silvery surface was broken and shards of shadow and light jostled, trembled. Cross got to his feet, unsteady. How many brandies?
Wunyeran appeared from among a clump of grass trees, his oiled skin catching the firelight. He brought with him roasted roots and fire-baked cakes that, although appearing crudely made, were tasty. Cross offered ship’s biscuits in return, but Wunyeran was removing the cooked possum carcass from the fire. Responding to a gesture, Cross passed Wunyeran the knife. Wunyeran packed the animal’s stomach with its internal organs, and broke its limbs. Later, they ate, dipping into the juices collecting in the opened abdomen.
Why trouble with ship’s biscuits?
Once again, Wunyeran declined the brandy and Cross, on an impulse, got to his feet and set fire to two grass trees close by. The rushes caught quickly, and the two feasting men were held in a red, flickering glow.
Like chandeliers, thought Cross, chandeliers held up for us. Like a grand dining room. He was staggering, not dancing.
Wunyeran stepped backwards.
He heard angry shouts from the other campfire.
Wunyeran slipped away.
The trees moved in the flickering light of the fire, moved around Cross in a small, shifting group. Approached, retreated.
They began next day along a path leading from the riverbank, the three men walking abreast of one another, Wunyeran at their centre and translating at least some of the conversation he ensured continued. Mrs Wooral trailed a few yards behind and came no closer than several steps from Cross.
Cross never saw them leave.
Around noon they came to another large pool, its surface a feathery quilt of ducks and swans pressed so closely together there was little water to be seen. Cross rested the long barrel of his shotgun in the fork of a tree, shifting to ensure it was secure. The bark fell away, showing a new surface, still of bark, but quite pink and raw. After so many hours of only the many varied sounds of the bush, and one or the other of their voices, the gunshot was like a blow. The birds rose on the great wave of sound, of frantic flapping wings, feathers and clawed feet beating the water, smothering the echo of the weapon’s explosion. Cross staggered back from the cacophony of bird calls and feathered, pulsing hearts; the tumultuous air. One bird remained, splashing in a circle at the centre of the pool. Another, propelled by splashing legs and wings, escaped around the bend of the river.
Cross had flung off his clothes, was pushing through the reeds at the water’s edge and splashing through the water. The bird called and called in the distance growing around it. Closing, Cross slipped beneath the surface: thin shafts of sunlight in the tan water, bubbles, the bird’s legs working; his own pulse an accompaniment. Then, head and arms above the river, he was breathing again, was breaking the bird’s neck.
He saw Wunyeran speaking with some people in the deep shade of the paperbarks. Where had they come from? But when Cross walked from the water Wunyeran was alone.
Cross was dressing himself when Wunyeran pointed to the rifle and tapped himself on the chest. Me shoot gun? His request was uncharacteristically awkward in expression. The river’s pool waited, reflective, behind Wunyeran; the mountains rose blue on the horizon, their gnarled and knotted contours clear despite the distance. High in the sky an eagle circled. Cross—dead bird in hand, naked in Wunyeran’s generous world—could not refuse.
A willy-wagtail skipped, danced, tried to entice Wunyeran away. He felt the weight of the gun in his hands, and when Cross went to explain its use Wunyeran grinned and demonstrated that he already knew. Because he observed closely.
The walking both tired and lulled Dr Cross. It seemed a dream when, just before nightfall, he lifted his
Wunyeran appeared from among a clump of grass trees, his oiled skin catching the firelight. He brought with him roasted roots and fire-baked cakes that, although appearing crudely made, were tasty. Cross offered ship’s biscuits in return, but Wunyeran was removing the cooked possum carcass from the fire. Responding to a gesture, Cross passed Wunyeran the knife. Wunyeran packed the animal’s stomach with its internal organs, and broke its limbs. Later, they ate, dipping into the juices collecting in the opened abdomen.
Why trouble with ship’s biscuits?
Once again, Wunyeran declined the brandy and Cross, on an impulse, got to his feet and set fire to two grass trees close by. The rushes caught quickly, and the two feasting men were held in a red, flickering glow.
Like chandeliers, thought Cross, chandeliers held up for us. Like a grand dining room. He was staggering, not dancing.
Wunyeran stepped backwards.
He heard angry shouts from the other campfire.
Wunyeran slipped away.
The trees moved in the flickering light of the fire, moved around Cross in a small, shifting group. Approached, retreated.
They began next day along a path leading from the riverbank, the three men walking abreast of one another, Wunyeran at their centre and translating at least some of the conversation he ensured continued. Mrs Wooral trailed a few yards behind and came no closer than several steps from Cross.
Cross never saw them leave.
Around noon they came to another large pool, its surface a feathery quilt of ducks and swans pressed so closely together there was little water to be seen. Cross rested the long barrel of his shotgun in the fork of a tree, shifting to ensure it was secure. The bark fell away, showing a new surface, still of bark, but quite pink and raw. After so many hours of only the many varied sounds of the bush, and one or the other of their voices, the gunshot was like a blow. The birds rose on the great wave of sound, of frantic flapping wings, feathers and clawed feet beating the water, smothering the echo of the weapon’s explosion. Cross staggered back from the cacophony of bird calls and feathered, pulsing hearts; the tumultuous air. One bird remained, splashing in a circle at the centre of the pool. Another, propelled by splashing legs and wings, escaped around the bend of the river.
Cross had flung off his clothes, was pushing through the reeds at the water’s edge and splashing through the water. The bird called and called in the distance growing around it. Closing, Cross slipped beneath the surface: thin shafts of sunlight in the tan water, bubbles, the bird’s legs working; his own pulse an accompaniment. Then, head and arms above the river, he was breathing again, was breaking the bird’s neck.
He saw Wunyeran speaking with some people in the deep shade of the paperbarks. Where had they come from? But when Cross walked from the water Wunyeran was alone.
Cross was dressing himself when Wunyeran pointed to the rifle and tapped himself on the chest. Me shoot gun? His request was uncharacteristically awkward in expression. The river’s pool waited, reflective, behind Wunyeran; the mountains rose blue on the horizon, their gnarled and knotted contours clear despite the distance. High in the sky an eagle circled. Cross—dead bird in hand, naked in Wunyeran’s generous world—could not refuse.
A willy-wagtail skipped, danced, tried to entice Wunyeran away. He felt the weight of the gun in his hands, and when Cross went to explain its use Wunyeran grinned and demonstrated that he already knew. Because he observed closely.
The walking both tired and lulled Dr Cross. It seemed a dream when, just before nightfall, he lifted his
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