Copyright Gil Hardwick 2009
Crusader eBooks, Smashwords Edition
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Published by Crusader eBooks, Perth, Western Australia
Cover Design by Gil Hardwick
Copyright © Gil Hardwick 2009
The right of Gilbert John Hardwick to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced in any form by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
Typeset by the author in Times New Roman.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Author: Hardwick, Gil.
Title: Outbound [electronic resource] / Gil Hardwick.
ISBN: 9780987253019 (ebook)
Subjects: Hardwick, Gil--Fiction. Child abuse--Fiction. Aboriginal Australians--Fiction.
Dewey Number: A823.4
For Alex,
with special thanks to
Sally-Anne and Patrick
Chapter One
The night had been sweltering hot and the great moon low overhead kept the place so bright it was impossible to sleep. It would be full in a day or two and Sam resigned himself to getting a few early jobs completed before the mid-morning sun brought the desert alive with its deceptive citrus greens set against towering outcrops, its shimmering red sand and rolling dunes whiskered by the eternal silver spinifex, stopping them all scorched in their tracks.
The pump was quiet. That was another blessing. The constant whirring hum of the motor and thumping pistons once the sun hit the panels grated on his nerves as if the water did not belong up here on the surface, and lodged its protest at being disturbed so. The aquifer itself was not deep, less than fifty metres, but the ancient liquid had been down there for probably millions of years. It had a right to moan, he had thought early in the piece, and compensated himself by coming down here every morning just as the stars dimmed and all was quiet, as the sky turned instead to face the dawn.
They had a few hours from the time the rising sun hit the panels and the flow of water into the huge network of irrigation pipes began for the day, to when its fury began to be felt and they had to retreat back into the shade. Until then, this was his precious moment to himself in the soft early light.
Making his way across the warm sand small families of colourful finches flew in formation with him, less than a metre from his fingertips as if seeking his intimacy and comfort, and reassurance from him or acknowledgment perhaps. Then they drank their fill for the day before flitting back into the bare acacia branches to make way for the next in turn, where their rainbow breast feathers lit up as the sun broached the horizon, turning the muted pastel shades of the dawn into a fairyland. It cheered him immensely to see them.
Once the sun was up lizards would be out, and black kites would soar overhead looking for trouble and with it a meal or two. Between now and then great flocks of speckled grey-brown pigeons will have come and gone, in serried ranks like the finches, except that the native boys will have had their traps and nets out to snare themselves a good meal ahead of the kites, and the reptiles which they would catch too and eat given half a chance.
This place over the millennia had bred opportunists and they were good at it, given the starkness of contrast between having and having not, which meant going to red dust like the trees and small bushes, and everything else hereabouts aside from the unceasing spinifex. He wondered sometimes whether the people here would thank him for the changes he wrought, before their effect was felt and their way of life altered forever.
Trying to create gardens way out here, now they had permanent water, he sometimes thought a fool's errand. But then, making a shady canopy of fodder trees to bring goats and wild donkeys in close made a lot of sense, and let it evolve from there. Maybe the camels would come in as well. They could always grow melons as ground cover, and yams and other basics, and maybe date palms and citrus. The kangaroos and birds had already come, sensing the water from so far off, and with them their guano to enrich the spent sand.
There was still quite a bit of irrigation to finish, and tree planting back along where the pipes ran to catch any drips and leaks under the low tangled scrub. Early in the piece they decided not to clear the area at all, but to plant under the existing trees and bushes to act as nursery shade for the tender young shoots. The next job would be to protect the gardens from the goats. When they came. They would come. The kites were here already, 200 kilometres south of their natural range, following the flocks of birds which had smelt the water, as the goats would smell it whenever the breeze quartered their way and gradually make their way toward it. It may take another two years; two more winter seasons when the going was easier and they had a chance to survive the crossing over from the coast, but they would come. Eventually they would come.
Too late to worry now, the thing was done. He shrugged and stepped up onto the tank to strip off his hat and boots first, then his shirt and trousers. Stepping tenderly into the crystal clear water under the awning he made his obeisance, then his ablutions, then luxuriated in the cold clear pond waiting for the boys to come running down to take their turn to swim and bathe, and force him out with their noise and splashing about.
Last to use the tank each day were the young warriors who came in at sunset, after a day broken only by their long mid-day siesta. The old men came in of a morning, right after the boys once they had bathed and had their breakfast, and together the two groups would start the day. It was an interesting notion they had adopted, these people, making grandparents and grandchildren brother and sister, and parents the odd ones out. The women would not be here for another week. After their swim in the tank the boys would retreat into the big cavern back up in the breakaway to cook their meal, then spend the whole day with their quiet listening.
He stepped up out of the tank and the grizzled old-timers with their head bands and elaborate scarring from a life of ritual and ceremony nodded to him in passing, while he stepped tenderly around the piles of dead birds and big fat lizards there on the sandy slope. The desert air dried his skin and the effect was so pleasant he delayed dressing until some of the younger men came up with a kangaroo.
They were all watching him. He had lapsed into his dream state and he blinked and shook his head as he came out of it. He pulled on his trousers and boots, then straightening up donned his shirt and hat and went down to meet them. Quietly he led the way down through the older part of the garden through the young orchard trees already making their way up through the scrubby undergrowth. Over to their right they had left a big bare patch where the runoff from the cliff face had carved out a series of dry sandy streamlets, which they had sown instead with deep-rooted clumping buffel grass to stabilise the soil and provide extra fodder. Every time it rained he knew the seeds would sprout further and further downstream until it was too dry altogether and the grass would taper off finally into the desert proper, where the spinifex would take over once more. Already the kangaroos were in there at night, and if all went well they thought to bring in a few head of cattle.
As the sun rose and the pump started they were making their way through a new patch of desert acacias when one of the men stopped suddenly. It was quiet and shady under the low canopy so they all paused and watched for his sign. Nothing doing, one by one they followed his gaze to see a battered Landcruiser topping the distant crest of a dune in their direction, headlights on high beam and engine revving as the faint sound came to them on the still morning air. They stood and watched as it disappeared, then after a while reappeared atop the next red dune, then for the next half hour while it slowly came closer and closer. One of the men muttered something in his own language, and Sam turned to ask what was said.
“He say, nobody driving, boss.”
Sam looked out over the desert as the truck drew closer and closer. They could see clean through the cab, yet it followed the track well enough.
His brow furrowed slightly but he said nothing.
Eventually the vehicle came in along the track approaching the gardens where they were standing under the shade, and he stepped out into the sandy wheel ruts and waited for it to come up alongside. It kept coming and coming at him and at the very last moment he jumped aside to let it pass. As it did so he looked down through the open driver's side window to see a dirty tousle-haired boy at the wheel staring up at him in astonishment, so he mounted the running board and reaching his hand through the window turned off the ignition. The truck ground suddenly to a stop and he stepped down and opened the door.
The boy fell out into his arms. He was filthy and obviously exhausted from lack of sleep, and all he could murmur was, “Snake. Snake got him. Big snake . . . . “
By then the men were crowding around, and soon a soft voice from the back of the truck caused him to put the boy down and go see what was happening. A tall man lay stretched out on the floor under the canopy with his bare feet hanging over the swinging tailgate. He was obviously quite dead; somewhat bloated and discoloured, so after a brief parley he sent one of the men up to get one of his still cameras and record the scene. That done he picked up the boy while someone started the truck and drove back along the track some distance where they stopped. One of them took a shovel from the back and began digging a grave.
Sam carried the boy up through the gardens and over to the tank where he set him down again and stripped off his filthy rags. He then stripped his own clothes again and picking him up carried him into the water. The boy shuddered slightly at the sudden cold but he sucked and licked thirstily at the wet hand lifted to his mouth and washing his face, then relaxed and allowed himself to be bathed and cleaned. He had been badly dehydrated and having him drink too much water would sicken and weaken him, so keeping him there to soak helped replenish body fluids directly through his skin as he lay there in his lap for another half-hour or so, cool water splashing onto his head and face.
As he carried him out of the pool finally and stood him up on the rock shelf to dry with his shirt, it occurred to him that he might be a good bit older than he had first appeared. He was short but had a good layer of puppy fat indicating growth ahead; twelve at least by the look of him.
He stood him there while he dried himself off and pulled on his own trousers. As he did so it struck him oddly that the filthy rags neither fit the picture somehow. Bending slightly he turned the boy around and checked him over. Aside from signs of a long journey he bore no old scaring from scraped knees and shins, and elbows and forearms, that might be expected of a street kid or any of these rough native boys knocking themselves about endlessly. He neither had their lean hard torso and trim, well-defined muscle tone, or rough hands and splayed feet. His face was gaunt and eyes hollow from exhaustion, his hands chapped with blisters, and his nails were dirty and broken, but he was nonetheless a handsome boy in the classic style; well proportioned, and would grow into a fine looking adult. When he opened his mouth to check he saw that all his teeth were sound and straight, only needing a clean with a good toothbrush to bring them back into order.
Satisfied that he was basically healthy Sam picked him up bodily and carried him up into the main cave where the boys and old men gathered around curiously. One of the older boys came over with a pair of shorts and he slipped them on his now shivering charge, then made way as he picked him up again and carried him over to the small side cave where he slept slightly away from the main group. There he put him down gently on his swag.
The boy who had loaned his spare shorts came over with some roasted pigeon and yams, and breaking small pieces off and chewing them into a pulp began feeding his new charge, making sure that he chewed and swallowed each morsel before taking the next wad from his mouth and pressing it gently to his lips. Before long he took the whole bird on his own account and started nibbling at it himself, causing the other to nod and smile brightly. He gave him some roast potato then and he took that too and ate it, but when he was offered more he declined and lay down on the swag.
“What is your name, boy?” Sam wanted to know.
“Obi-wan Kenobi.”
“Is that it? Do you have a surname, or a family to belong?”
“I don't know,” he shrugged and shook his head.
“All right. My name is Sam. Sam Flanagan. This boy is Peter. His full name is Peter Wilson Napantjarra. I call him little brother. You call him brother as well, all right.”
The boy nodded, then, “Where is George? Is he alive?”
“Is that his name? George who?”
“George Summers. His name is George Summers. He told me. Is he all right?”
“He is dead. He has been dead for a day or so. We had to bury him straight away. The men are doing that now.”
He looked from face to face then nodded again, quietly to himself.
“Cranky old bastard. Good riddance anyway. I told him not to poke that snake. It came right at him, and into him. Kept biting him.” He looked up again and shook his head as if to rid himself of a dread memory, then lay down and rolling over to face the wall pulled the rough blanket up over his shoulders, and lay there awhile not saying anything.
Sam touched Peter lightly on the arm and together they stood and slipped quietly out into the cave proper where everyone had crowded around waiting patiently. The mood was sombre; all these bearded old men with their patterned ceremonial scarring and red head-bands, with wide-eyed boys gathered reverently about them; the roof blackened by millennia of camp fires, and all along the back wall ancestral figures in all shades of red, yellow and white ochre and charcoal black parading in ethereal splendour.
There was nothing much to be said so he simply shrugged and walked outside, while they all turned away and went back to their business. Over at the tank he donned his remaining clothes, and dressed again made his way back down through the gardens to where the men were working steadily now at their set tasks.