The Valley Page 2

  ‘Ye’ve not got the balls to kill a man, Billygoat,’ Twelve Inch snarls. ‘We both know how it’s goin’ to end.’

  ‘The key. Where’s the key?’

  ‘Fer her?’

  Billy nods.

  ‘Ye’re in the feckin’ Kimberley, laddie, not merry old England. Think ye’re a chivalry knight or summat? That’s a gin. An’ she’s mine.’

  ‘The key.’

  Twelve Inch leans down and starts to pull up his trousers. ‘It’s in me trousers pocket, Billygoat. Wait now.’

  Suddenly the lamp is flying through the air in his direction, and Twelve Inch is snatching for the revolver.

  Just before the glass of the lamp explodes against him Billy gets a shot off. Twelve Inch is hit, but staggers forward, roaring with rage and disbelief more than pain as he claws for his gun. Billy shoots again, one-handed, and misses, as he bats at the flames of his burning shirt. Bessie leaps, with just enough slack in the chain to land on Twelve Inch’s back. Her momentum knocks him forward onto Billy. His belly is pressed against the barrel of the rifle as it booms once more.

  Twelve Inch’s dead weight pins Billy to the ground, the rifle wedged between them, digging into his ribs. Smells of gunpowder, blood, kerosene, burning cloth and flesh almost overwhelm him. And Bessie screams without cease.

  Somehow he jerks free of Twelve Inch. For a few moments he can do nothing but gasp for breath. But the flames are feeding on the kero. Grabbing blankets, he manages to douse them, burning his hands and forearms in the process, and adding the acrid odour of burning wool to the foul stench in the hut.

  And Bessie screams.

  He wants only to lie back and breathe, to be alive. But Bessie screams.

  He crawls back to Twelve Inch. The only way he can turn him over is to put a shoulder to his guts, and push. Slowly he rolls, blood and intestines spilling. Billy fishes through the wetness for a pocket, for a key.

  Hands slippery with blood he fumbles with the lock, screaming back at her to shut up. When he finally makes it turn and the hasp of the leg-iron springs open, Bessie tears herself loose and flees into the night, still screaming.

  Billy drags himself into the open air, crawls to the hearth two dozen yards away, and collapses.

  2

  The Valley, 1943

  Wajarri sits on a smooth granite boulder not yet warm from the sun, watching his twin brother Janga head back down the valley with their father Billy, towards the towering bluff marking the point where the main south fork starts.

  He will wait here, as he has been told. The boulder sits beneath a narrow pass between two hills. Each year they come up here soon after the rains have finished to check the short fence of rusty barbed wire that blocks the pass – rusty to ensure that it does not glint in the sun – and carefully arrange spinifex and branches to hide its presence.

  Short of climbing the precipitous ranges, the only other exit to the valley is down a difficult path that follows a narrow creek cutting through the range to the north. In some parts it is barely wide enough to push a mob of cattle single file. Each year they also block this path where it exits the range, creating a jumble of driftwood and bushes that looks for all the world like flood debris.

  Wajarri and Billy camped nearby last night. Wajarri knew Janga was somewhere close. Billy caught his curious survey of the surrounds when they woke with the first grey of dawn, and the game was up. He merely called Janga’s name in that quiet yet penetrating voice of his, and waited. It took longer than Wajarri expected for his brother to show. His defiance was short-lived though. No force was needed. Just, ‘You. Wait here,’ to Wajarri, and, ‘You. Come with me,’ to Janga, who glared at Wajarri with a desperate, jealous anger, but nevertheless turned and followed. It will be night before Billy rejoins Wajarri if he takes Janga all the way back to their camp in the south fork. But he will wait.

  The boys have ventured outside the valley occasionally, but never further than the big river to fish, or to nearby hunting grounds; and never without Billy or their mother Bessie. It used to be that once a year they took a mob of their quiet cattle down through the path by the creek. The fearsome white man their father called Stumpy would take the cattle and hand over bags of flour, tea, sugar and salt, and whatever items Billy had ordered the year before. Vegetable seeds, rolls of fencing wire, tools that needed replacing – and always two new dresses for his mother and one for his sister Sarah.

  But two years ago Stumpy had talked excitedly to his father, in high English that the twins couldn’t follow properly, about a ‘jabbanee war’. Last year he was not there to take the cattle, and there was no whitefeller tucker for them. Bessie was proper cranky.

  Janga is the one who longs to come on this journey. Their parents’ stories have made Wajarri fearful of the outside world. But whilst Billy needs one of the boys for the plan he has in mind, he refused to let Janga come, telling the boy, ‘They steal the pale ones like you. Ye’d never come back.’ His gaze moved across the twins; Wajarri near as dark as Bessie, Janga almost as pale as Billy. Yet their features so alike. Their mother had named Wajarri for the rich brown boab nut, and Janga for its creamy pith.

  An idle day is a rare treat, but with that look of his brother’s still haunting him, Wajarri finds little pleasure. A small goanna easily caught makes for a better meal than the salt beef he carries. He walks to a small spring, drinks deeply, and watches a pair of rainbow bee-eaters on their never-ending forays above the rockpool. Mostly he follows the shifting shade amongst the boulders, watching for Billy.

  Peering into the gathering gloom he begins to wonder if his father will return tonight. He thinks of retracing yesterday’s journey. But the moon is thin. Already the bats are streaming overhead and the first dingo’s howl has become a chorus. It is a night fit for spirits. He builds the fire, telling himself it will help guide his father. Yet he can hear the disapproval. How many times have he or Janga stoked a night fire, for Billy to pull the branch away with a curt, ‘Ye want the whole world to know we’re here? A fire’s for cooking.’

  He thinks of the nights he and Janga have camped out together. Janga building a blaze to shame this one, talking wildly of venturing on past this saddle, or beyond Stumpy’s creek. And he would’ve, despite their tender years, if only Wajarri would’ve followed, would’ve been his companion. But Wajarri always stayed silent.

  Janga can stand before a charging bullock and turn it with a look, or leap aside just as it seems he will be trampled. Wajarri can calm an uneasy mob with his song and his manner.

  Already Janga can spear a roo from twenty paces. Wajarri has no such need – he can stalk to ten and be sure his spear will drive home.

  Janga harbours no doubt. And if he happens to be wrong, why, he laughs and moves on, just as confident of triumph in whatever comes next. He fears only their father.

  But for all his talk, he will not leave without Wajarri.

  Wajarri draws his blanket tighter round his shoulders and watches the embers.

  It’s still dark when Billy prods him awake. There is a tight set to Billy’s mouth that discourages Wajarri from asking any questions. For eleven days they walk. Fast paced days that begin in the milky greyness before dawn, with the rising sun on their faces as they head eastwards.

  At first they follow the big river upstream, with the lush waterholes becoming smaller and further apart each day. On the seventh day Billy bears north across a barren spinifex plain broken with gullies and hillocks of tumbled boulders. It is the roughest day’s walking, but his father presses on, making no concessions for him. Eventually Billy leads down one of the gullies, and near the end of the day lets out a rare smile when they reach another river – this one bearing east by north, the opposite direction to his own big river. Always the ranges loom, reminiscent of the home valley and the country he knows, but forever changing in shape and feature.

  On the last day they leave the river, following a tributary upstream. Billy is more cautious now; slowing the pace, staying
well back from the water, keeping always below the ridge line of hills. They make camp early, well before nightfall.

  ‘He’s an Afghan, see, a Mohammedan,’ Billy tells him that night. ‘He’s not tied up with those coppers and the station mob.’ Wajarri can hear an uncertain edge in his father’s voice. ‘I reckon he’ll do us right. He’s a trader, like all those cameleers. He’ll see the price is good.’ Billy reaches across and lifts his chin with a finger. ‘Ye right, lad?’

  Wajarri nods. He has no words.

  ‘I don’t know who he’s got there with him. It’s only ever been a small turnout from what Stumpy said. We’ll see what there is to be seen in the morning before ye go down. But ye’re not to be talking with any of ’em, ye hear. Ye just ask for Mister Sohan, and do what I’ve told ye. Savvy?’

  ‘Yuwai.’

  ‘Then get some kip.’

  But the emu travels well across the sky before Wajarri can sleep.

  ‘That’s him now.’ Billy can’t keep the excitement from his voice. They’ve been perched on the ledge for an hour. Wajarri has watched the light slowly reveal the valley. It’s the first camp he has seen other than their own, and there is much to take in, but his eyes are drawn to the camels. Huge, strange beasts looming in the dim light. Yet somehow familiar, milling as they wake just like a small mob of cattle.

  His eyes shift to the man. The distance is too great to distinguish features as Sohan steps out into the small yard of his homestead, unrolls a blanket, and prostrates himself.

  ‘What’s he doin’?’ Wajarri asks.

  ‘That’s how the Mohammedans pray.’

  ‘Pray?’

  ‘Talk to their god. Don’t ye worry about that. We’re set, lad.’ Billy pulls papers from the saddlebag that he normally wears slung over a shoulder. Then a small leather pouch made from the balls of an old-man kangaroo. Weighs it once more in his hand. He smiles to himself, then digs for a pencil and writes one more thing at the end of the list. He sees the boy’s questioning look.

  ‘Two pounds of boiled lollies.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Something for Sarah. You boys might like ’em too. Are ye ready?’ Wajarri nods. ‘Just do what I’ve told ye. I’ll be here, watching every minute. If anything goes wrong I’ll be down in a flash.’

  Wajarri’s heart hammers as he approaches the camel yard. Sohan is singing as he works, with an occasional word for the beasts as he clips a nosebag of feed to each bridle. None of the words are familiar. Without warning the man swings round, beaming at him. ‘Greetings, young master.’ He waits for an answer, but Wajarri is rooted to the spot. Sohan smiles even more widely. ‘Never mind my wrinkly face, my eyes are sharpish, young fellow. I spotted you sure enough, sneaking across from the hills there. Old Sohan has eyes in the back of his head.’

  The words wash over him. Wajarri is listening to the singsong lilt of the voice.

  ‘Do you speak any English, boy? The King’s English?’ Wajarri manages a nod. ‘Aha! The lad is not deaf. But is he dumb? Do you have a name?’ He touches his own breast. ‘I am Sohan.’ Then reaches out with an open palm, almost touching Wajarri. ‘You are …?’

  Instructions forgotten, all Wajarri can think to do is hold out the pouch and blurt out, ‘Ottelo.’ Without thinking he has given the name his father calls him.

  ‘Ottelo?’

  ‘The black prince,’ Wajarri explains.

  ‘The black prince? I do not follow, young man, but never mind. What have we here?’

  Taking the pouch, Sohan eases the drawstring loose, and peers into it. He can’t quite control the start of surprise. ‘By jiminy, as my old sergeant major would say. By jiminy indeed! Sergeant Major Jones, British Indian Army, fifth regiment of Karachi. A Welshman he was, and very fond of that expression, and others not fit for young ears like yours.’

  The torrent of words rolls on as Sohan inspects the gold and assesses the boy. Eventually he slips the pouch into a pocket of his breeches. He scans the hills with a keen eye. The lilt and the expansive manner have gone when he speaks next. ‘Tell me, where is your … let me guess, your father? Is he watching us now?’

  This time Wajarri grasps enough of the words to understand. He cannot help but glance over his shoulder.

  ‘Aha. It is as I thought.’

  With an elaborate twirling of his hand Sohan salaams towards the hills, then with the exaggeration of a mime artist he places an arm round Wajarri’s shoulders, and draws him close, so they stand side by side.

  ‘Wave to him,’ Sohan suggests, raising his own free hand.

  Instead, Wajarri hands over the paper he has been gripping. ‘There’s more gold.’

  The pantomime helps put Wajarri at ease. Even so, when Sohan invites him into the house – a pole and slab affair not unlike his own – he will not pass through the door, and hence out of Billy’s sight. So they settle at a bench in the shade of a spreading bauhinia tree, by a huge outdoor table cut from a slab of cypress pine.

  Sohan brings hot sweet tea and damper. He finds a level of speaking at which Wajarri can mostly follow, though he can’t help an occasional flurry. More than once he looks at the list. And he talks; on and on.

  His tale is one of woe. Disputes with ‘a rogue of a white man’ in Wyndham whose name is on the lease papers for this station he has built, despair over whether he will be able to hang on here, and worst of all, the loss of his wife and children, taken away to a place called Moore River, far to the south.

  This pricks Wajarri’s interest. ‘Why they been take your kids? Because they half-caste?’

  ‘Not only that, Ottelo. There are many who think it evil for a native and an Afghan to cohabit as they call it. But yes. That is enough for them.’

  He must tell Janga about this, he thinks. It is true what their parents say.

  ‘My Adam is just your size. Or was the last time I saw him. He is a good boy. Very handy with the horses and the cattle, though I cannot get him to love the camels as I do. By jiminy I miss him, Ottelo. But what can I do? The policemen and the protector have more say in his life than do I.’

  He summons a smile. Looks at the paper once more. ‘Can you read, Ottelo? Can you tell me what is on this list?’

  Wajarri grins, and recites the list of stores and supplies, ending with, ‘An’ two pounds of boiled lollies.’

  ‘That is remembering. Not quite the same as reading. Can you? Read?’

  Wajarri shakes his head shyly.

  ‘But you know what reading is?’

  He nods.

  Wajarri can feel his father’s eyes upon him, almost sense the impatience and anxiety beaming across the valley. He summons the courage to interrupt Sohan’s ceaseless flow of words. He points at the list. ‘Will you?’ he asks.

  ‘Aha. It is time for business is it?’ Sohan examines the paper again. ‘The drovers’ camp on Stoney Creek. I know it. Though I’ve not been that far west for many a year.’ Sohan reads from Billy’s note, ‘Then two days travel south by west to the river. Light a fire atop the round hill on the south bank. I shall meet you there the next day. How very mysterious. And without a signature.’ Sohan shakes his head. ‘A most difficult delivery I must say. And how am I to know I will not be chasing shadows?’

  ‘There’s more gold!’ Wajarri says fiercely.

  Sohan laughs, ‘You know what, Ottelo, I believe you. But I note these instructions say the third full moon from now. You must tell your father it is not so simple. I can get the stores, I can load my camels, and I can make the journey. These things I can do. But I am just a bloody Afghan after all, at the mercy of others as I fight my battles. I cannot promise to be there on the stated day.

  ‘Tell him to look for my fire on the third full moon and then each new moon and full moon, for another three months. You follow?’

  Wajarri nods. ‘Full moon an’ new moon, three months to six months.’

  ‘You are a sharp lad, close-mouthed or not. Tell him that if I have not come by then, I may not at all,
and he can keep his gold.’

  ‘You will come!’ Wajarri’s exclamation is command as much as question.

  Sohan puts a hand on his knee. ‘I will do my very best.’

  Sohan tells him to wait, and disappears into the house. Wajarri bounces to his feet, thinking of how pleased his father will be, and of the tales he will tell Janga. He prowls, examining tools and paraphernalia, but is drawn down to the camel yard. Absorbed by the beasts, he is caught by surprise when Sohan pads up beside him. Sohan puts down a bulging flourbag and asks, ‘Would you like a ride?’

  ‘Yuwai!’ Wajarri does not try to hide his excitement.

  Sohan calls to the camels in a language that Wajarri cannot follow. Before he knows it Wajarri is nervously touching the hump of a kneeling camel. Following Sohan’s instructions he takes a handful of hair and swings himself astride the backslope of the hump. On Sohan’s command the beast unfolds itself. There is a rush of vertigo and a touch of fear as the camel rises to its full height. But as Sohan leads the camel on a lap of the yard he is soon laughing in delight, perched so high as he sways with the languid gait.

  It is over all too quickly. Sohan too is laughing as he whooshes the camel back to its knees, and Wajarri springs off. ‘That must do for now. But I promise you another ride when we meet up at the round hill. How about that?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Ah, I wish my Adam would take to them like you!’ He sends the camel on its way with an affectionate slap. ‘Perhaps you two lads will meet up one day. Would you like that, Ottelo?’

  Wajarri grins his agreement.

  Sohan squats down. He looks Wajarri in the eye, and speaks with a serious voice. ‘Tell your father he has an agreement. Not a word shall pass my lips. I shall be at the round hill between the third and the sixth moon, Allah willing.’ He straightens to his full height again, saying, ‘Tell him too, that I look forward to meeting him. I am guessing that he has many tales to tell, even if they are for my ears alone.’