We both noticed it. Like a doctor. Or a mother.’
She turned to him for an instant her rapt face, and said in the same remote voice: ‘Please, Bob, don’t say anything. He’s so nearly dead. And this is, really, my first child.’
Before dark Justin and Heriot entered the hills, passing a wide pool at the mouth of a gorge and directing the horses along the flat shelves of rock above it. Beyond the pool, glimmering greyly among spidery pandanus, the stream broke over rapids, the cliffs above grew steadily huger, until there was only a narrow echoing chasm with a strip of grey sky over it and deep shadow filled with the rush of water all around. Great boulders, cast down from the crumbling cliffs, lay across the rock platforms, and the horses slithered and snorted, sliding past chunks of stone twice as high as themselves. In the stillness that overlaid and crushed all sounds of horses and water, Heriot sang softly and interminably to himself.
Then the stream took a bend and widened into another pool between cliffs vaster and more silent than those the men had passed. There Justin pulled up, Heriot following him. A stone, kicked from Albert Creek’s hoof, rolled and dropped with a sound that the cliffs threw back as a gunshot.
‘We better camp here,’ Justin said, half-whispering for fear of the echo, ‘it going to rain pretty soon. We stay dry here.’
Very slowly Heriot dismounted, and went and sat down under the overhang of the rock. There was a flutter of sound as bats burst from some cranny behind him and skittered out across the grey water. He did not move, he sat quietly in the dirt, his arms folded round the rifle.
Justin came over and dumped his blankets and bags, went back and unsaddled. Heriot said nothing, had no direction to give, was willing to be managed by Justin for the rest of his life. He watched the broad face of the man bent over his bundles.
‘I brought hopples, too,’ Justin said proudly. ‘Out of you office.’ He held up the hobble chains and jingled them.
‘Good,’ Heriot murmured.
The white teeth grinned, and the man rose and went to the horses, leading them down to the edge of the water where there was a bank of silt. When he came back Heriot had not moved, still held the rifle clutched to his chest. ‘You like you tucker now, brother?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Heriot said, wearily. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘I make a fire and we have a cup of tea, eh?’
‘If you like.’
He watched the dark figure gathering wood and piling it, and tossed his box of matches when Justin’s hands demanded. As the wood crackled, the light came like an explosion, hurting his eyes, so that he turned and looked at the flame-washed rock behind him, patterned with the ochre and charcoal drawings of natives. He saw rock wallabies, crocodiles, goannas, little priapic men. Recurrent everywhere was the symbol of
lumiri
, the rainbow serpent.
‘Is this place sacred?’ he asked dully.
‘No. Plenty old people camp here. Women, too.’
‘Lumiri
can take you to the sky, is that right?’
‘Might be,’ Justin said noncommittally, crouched over his fire.
Heriot stood up, spread out his blanket and lay down on it, the rifle beside him, he whistled two notes, and the cliffs threw them back clear and pure. He executed a brief phrase and received it back again. With a kind of desperate concentration he applied himself, to composing a duet for his whistle and the echo, involving a pleasant use of counterpoint.
Later, when the quart-pot boiled, he sat propped on one elbow and drank tea, and then lay down again by his rifle. Justin came and spread his blanket and lay beside him, listening to the white man’s slow breathing. At last he said: ‘Brother?’
‘Yes?’
‘I take that gun away if you sleepy.’
‘No. Leave it.’
‘Brother—’
‘Yes?’
‘You going to say prayer?’
A strange tearing noise came back from the cliffs. The horses, down at the edge of the dark water, were
She turned to him for an instant her rapt face, and said in the same remote voice: ‘Please, Bob, don’t say anything. He’s so nearly dead. And this is, really, my first child.’
Before dark Justin and Heriot entered the hills, passing a wide pool at the mouth of a gorge and directing the horses along the flat shelves of rock above it. Beyond the pool, glimmering greyly among spidery pandanus, the stream broke over rapids, the cliffs above grew steadily huger, until there was only a narrow echoing chasm with a strip of grey sky over it and deep shadow filled with the rush of water all around. Great boulders, cast down from the crumbling cliffs, lay across the rock platforms, and the horses slithered and snorted, sliding past chunks of stone twice as high as themselves. In the stillness that overlaid and crushed all sounds of horses and water, Heriot sang softly and interminably to himself.
Then the stream took a bend and widened into another pool between cliffs vaster and more silent than those the men had passed. There Justin pulled up, Heriot following him. A stone, kicked from Albert Creek’s hoof, rolled and dropped with a sound that the cliffs threw back as a gunshot.
‘We better camp here,’ Justin said, half-whispering for fear of the echo, ‘it going to rain pretty soon. We stay dry here.’
Very slowly Heriot dismounted, and went and sat down under the overhang of the rock. There was a flutter of sound as bats burst from some cranny behind him and skittered out across the grey water. He did not move, he sat quietly in the dirt, his arms folded round the rifle.
Justin came over and dumped his blankets and bags, went back and unsaddled. Heriot said nothing, had no direction to give, was willing to be managed by Justin for the rest of his life. He watched the broad face of the man bent over his bundles.
‘I brought hopples, too,’ Justin said proudly. ‘Out of you office.’ He held up the hobble chains and jingled them.
‘Good,’ Heriot murmured.
The white teeth grinned, and the man rose and went to the horses, leading them down to the edge of the water where there was a bank of silt. When he came back Heriot had not moved, still held the rifle clutched to his chest. ‘You like you tucker now, brother?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Heriot said, wearily. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘I make a fire and we have a cup of tea, eh?’
‘If you like.’
He watched the dark figure gathering wood and piling it, and tossed his box of matches when Justin’s hands demanded. As the wood crackled, the light came like an explosion, hurting his eyes, so that he turned and looked at the flame-washed rock behind him, patterned with the ochre and charcoal drawings of natives. He saw rock wallabies, crocodiles, goannas, little priapic men. Recurrent everywhere was the symbol of
lumiri
, the rainbow serpent.
‘Is this place sacred?’ he asked dully.
‘No. Plenty old people camp here. Women, too.’
‘Lumiri
can take you to the sky, is that right?’
‘Might be,’ Justin said noncommittally, crouched over his fire.
Heriot stood up, spread out his blanket and lay down on it, the rifle beside him, he whistled two notes, and the cliffs threw them back clear and pure. He executed a brief phrase and received it back again. With a kind of desperate concentration he applied himself, to composing a duet for his whistle and the echo, involving a pleasant use of counterpoint.
Later, when the quart-pot boiled, he sat propped on one elbow and drank tea, and then lay down again by his rifle. Justin came and spread his blanket and lay beside him, listening to the white man’s slow breathing. At last he said: ‘Brother?’
‘Yes?’
‘I take that gun away if you sleepy.’
‘No. Leave it.’
‘Brother—’
‘Yes?’
‘You going to say prayer?’
A strange tearing noise came back from the cliffs. The horses, down at the edge of the dark water, were
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