Copyright Tom Fisher 2012
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Published by Crusader eBooks, Perth, Western Australia
Cover Design by Tom Fisher
The right of Thomas John Fisher to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968.
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Typeset by the author in Times New Roman.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Author: Fisher, Tom.
Title: Outbound [electronic resource] / Tom Fisher.
ISBN: 978 0 9872530 6 4 (ebook)
Subjects: Fisher, Tom--Fiction. Drugs--Fiction. Young Adventure--Fiction. Murder Mystery--Fiction.
Dewey Number: A823.4
Chapter One
The crowded conference room was sweltering, the air close and hot even with the windows open and overhead fans spinning. Why on earth they had to hold these things in high summer when even travel was a chore, Sam Flanagan thought to himself. Parliamentary recess, they’d said.
No filming or cameras were allowed, tough call for a film-maker at such an historic event, so he sat back against the side wall watching the proceedings, pricking his ears up only when his old friend Bertram stood to speak, asserting his right as an elder to be there and his right to speak, before sitting down again to draw his impassive mask of a face back into himself.
The rest of the tribal elders went through the same process one after another, until finally a wasted scarecrow of an old man emanating awesome power stood to register his presence.
Sam watched him curiously. He reminded him of Vincent; not only in character but in the way others quietly deferred to him, and made way for him. There was an elderly white man in his group with another younger man who looked like he might be his son, and next to him a second thin blackfellow with the same dark piercing gaze as the old man at the podium.
“Who are that mob, Peter?” he leaned aside to whisper.
“That old fella, Everard Foley; Queensland side mob, Talaria Station mob, Eurongera side, you know. That other whitefella, that one there, ‘is name Ned Collins. Big station owner, but went bush long time, like us mob now, that fella. That next fella ‘is son, Angus Collins. That other fella, Edwin Foley, Everard grandson. They all the same brother-mob, you know, that mob; proper businessmen, been through all the ceremonies, everything, like old time; proper big fellas, right across.”
Sam’s young protégé Alex sitting nearby listened carefully, watching patiently until the room went quiet and he felt eyes on him suddenly. The boy looked up to see the old crone of a man at the podium had finished speaking, but remained there gazing solemnly at him, then at his tribal brother Peter in the seat next to his, until the other younger fellow Edwin glanced up and murmured something, and he stood down.
Everard was the last of the old Traditional Law men to introduce themselves, and with that business out of the way they’d be breaking up for lunch.
Sam and Bertram sat back with Alex and Peter waiting for the room to clear. As the four of them stood finally one of the small boys from the Western Queensland group picked his way carefully across the big room and asked if they’d like to join them for lunch. Acknowledging the mob across the room standing patiently waiting for them, they went out their own door and slowly walked through the corridors following the posters to the big dining room, where they were met by two more boys and escorted to their table.
Sam took his turn to watch and listen carefully as introductions were made. The old white man sitting there was indeed the reclusive Ned Collins, son-in-law of legendary old-time cattleman Don McKenzie of Eurongera they said, who’d be a legend in his own right were he not so quiet in his manner. His eldest son there with him was Angus, who cattlemen feared to their marrow for his uncanny ability to know what was going to happen just before they did, and his second son Hamish who was himself a strange, distant fellow. Next to be introduced were grandsons Alexander - who he introduced to Alex as Young Sandy, of Talaria Station - and young Arthur who smiled a lot and everyone called Artie Boy, then finally granddaughter Ellie MacFarlane with three boys of her own, who’d been acting as messengers.
The old men sat when chairs were pulled out for them, not saying much, then once they were comfortable the rest of the party took their seats. Before they settled old Everard spoke softly and a murmur ran down the table for Alex and Peter to go up to the head and sit with him, so there was a fair bit of jostling suddenly as people changed places.
While lunch was served and plates passed back and forth Everard sat closely observing the proceedings. Alex could feel the traditional elder's piercing gaze, just as the old man Vincent had done with him in the sacred cave at Puntayeri not so many years before, and he responded the same way, looking in askance.
“That one your brother, properly,” Everard said finally, indicating Peter. He reached over and placing his gnarled hand on Ned’s shoulder added, “This one my brother, all the same.”
He turned to Angus then, and Edwin. “This two fella, same like us; proper brother, from old time business. That one Angus belong this brother Ned. This one Edwin belong my old brother; same father, same mother with me. Pinish up that one; gone now, all right? Call this one nephew, like that.”
Alex nodded. They were watching him, reading him, all of them; the two white men quite as intently as the others.
“We’ve heard a lot about you, young Lennox,” Angus broke the ice finally in his oddly clipped late Victorian accent. “Jolly good to meet you at last, good to see you’ve come up for the show.”
Alex nodded again shyly, but Angus pressed him, “What do you reckon about all this?”
“Not much,” he replied after a moment. “The same old bullshit, except I heard there was going to be a bit of a summit behind the scenes, with all you blokes after the politicians have gone.” He frowned slightly. “That’s why I came.”
“Worried about it, are you?”
“No, not really, except I hear you fellas have freehold title over there in Queensland, from the old McKenzie era. Somebody said you’ve got a lot of country down south too, that some of your people have moved back to. These Warmunya and Puntayeri fellas here are on crown land.”
Sam watched as they spoke, wishing again that he’d had his camera on them.
The old white bloke Ned nodded to himself before taking a big mouthful of prime steak and chewing it awhile glanced back up, flicking the thick wad of fillet into his cheek like a plug of tobacco before speaking.
He leaned forward, pointing with his table knife, staring, emphatic, “Wasn’t always like that, son. After I left school we had to bring them all up north, you know, away from the Welfare. Just before the war it was, 1937, at the start of that big war drought that lasted seven years, Biblical, all the big inland rivers dried up, a plague on the land. All those old families came with us, all the way north with us by camel wagon, Abdul Achmed driving and my uncle Don McKenzie boss while my old schoolmate Ian Ramsay bless his soul kept the books, with the rest of us stringing two and a half thousand head of cattle, did you know that? Ellie’s grandfather-in-law Andrew MacFarlane overseer. I'll tell you about it sometime.”
He stopped to finish his mouthful, swallowing finally. “To answer your question, son, that sacred country you mention is not ours either, along the lakes there. We never got to take it up like we wanted.”
“Really? Is that right?” Alex paused, frowning. “Um, can I ask you something else then, about yourself? What school did you go to? You have an accent.”
“Mount Tambla. We have an Angus stud down that way that we set up for them, just before the Second War when the CSIRO was being set up, about when the drought took hold. Used to call it the Advisory Committee on Science and Industry, did you know that?”
Alex leaned forward, taking a liking to the old man. “Yes, I think we'll get along real good, what do you reckon?”
“Could be, son,” Ned replied. “Can you ride a horse? Come back over to Eurongera when we leave, if you like, after these big-wig political cunts go back to Canberra or wherever hell place they belong. I'll show you around.”
“Really?” Alex beamed, glancing back down the table at Sam seeking his approval.
“Yes, all right, it'll be all right,” he replied. “Sam doesn't have to be back for another month or two, and we don't have to be back ourselves for six weeks yet.”
Everard and Edwin both watched him closely, eyes smiling in impassive black faces, while Sam looked away, thinking his own thoughts.
Chapter Two
On the long slow drive home, with the big regional meeting out of the way finally, the mixed party headed south then easterly through Oodnadatta, skirting the Simpson Desert away to their north until passing through north of Lake Eyre they were into more-or-less wooded country, then east along the northern reaches of the Srzelecki Desert. Across the Queensland border finally they carefully traversed the myriad dry streamlets of the Overflow country that drained south when it rained, then turned southeast again toward Eurongera proper.
Sam had decided not to come, but return instead to Adelaide to write up his report on the meeting before relocating to Western Australia for a film contract. Bertram simply flew back north to Warmunya with his own people. Eurongera Pastoral Company would fly the two lads back to Adelaide if need be in time for their new semester.
Day after long day under the great open sky marked only by wispy white cloud formations high above, as they carefully negotiated the rough bush tracks Alex and Peter alternated their time between talking with the children and old people, and listening in on the daily radio schedule keeping everyone in touch with the outside world. They stopped and camped, and ate and slept, and woke again to relieve themselves; avoiding for no particular reason the politics and argument occupying Angus and the other men, yet marveling at their organization and cool proficiency.
The country was parched this time of year, the heat haze shimmering and the going tough so they stopped to rest during the day, making their steady way across dry country in the cool of evening and early morning.
On the last leg of the journey, up along the western shore of the most northerly lake they encountered along the way, the convoy stopped to rest. This end of the lake was rimmed with steep banks. While the water level was low it had been a good winter with late rain, and there were literally thousands of birds on the glistening water and in the trees, flocking close to the oasis amid the hundreds of miles of semi-desert the convoy had traversed.
Further out the lake petered off into shallows, and finally into vast shimmering salt clay pans that would fill to overflow sometime when it rained again, maybe in the next generation if the climate held. Here in close under the steep banks and ungrazed native trees, however, it was cool and shady.
Alex opened the door of the Landcruiser and swung his legs down, but didn’t get out yet and sat there taking in the view, heels on the door sill. Eventually he noticed Angus gazing across at him.
“It’s lovely,” he said back across finally. “We have a little place over in the Territory, did you know, that we pegged out. It’s very nice like this. You can’t see it from up on the plain, looking across; you have to find it. We take gold from a seam along the side of the gully, above the water, if we need a bit of loose change sometimes.”
Angus simply nodded. His tribal twin brother-friend - his parallel self Edwin - indicated the rough direction with his lips, watching his face.
“That how we know you, Alecki,” Edwin said softly; “all our mob here. That dreaming place from old time, same like this place. We show you, same story, all right?”
Alex stared at them, and then shrugged and said out loud, challenging. “Nothing surprises me anymore, about you fellas. But it’s not connected to Puntayeri, is it? That’s bullshit, except they own part shares now, in the Anamenatjere mine. Their story runs up into the Sandy Desert to the north-west, and southwest again all the way through Western Australia. Over this side the stories run north and south more, don’t they, once you get through the Centre? It’s your place, isn’t it.”
Nobody said anything, just watched him, so he sat still until finally he gazed about once more, watching the great flocks screeching and circling among the trees, bickering over perching space along the branches. The sky was entirely cloudless and the flocks of birds set off the clear blue - the brilliant white cockatoos, great brown and white pelicans, black shags, grey herons, pink and grey galahs, the soft grey-browns of crested pigeons with bright flashes of ruby and emerald on their wings that the boys skillfully snared for the pot, and not least the mottled rainbow greens of uncountable millions of tiny budgerigars whirring past in their endlessly confused disorder. He was moved suddenly, and glanced across.
“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?" he said. "I’d live out here forever, you know.”
“Not our place, Alex. This is all National Parks now, you know that.”
He turned to find old Ned standing nearby, also watching him. Everard approached from behind him again and beckoned to him, then to Peter in turn, so the two boys got down and as the old men turned to walk away they followed them.
As they walked Angus and Edwin fell in behind them, causing the women to glance over from where they’d begun to settle there in the shade of the trees along the edge of the water, and murmur among themselves.
Ned half-turned to them as they went. “Show you around, eh?” he said quietly before walking on ahead, following Everard. Alex felt hazy suddenly, as if his vision blurred, and he blinked. He stopped and shook his head; thinking to clear away whatever it was that entered his thoughts, but Peter next to him simply smiled.
“What are you doing?” Alex wanted to know.
“Comin’ up story time, eh? Like that old fella pinish up, Puntayeri side, tell ‘im story you.”
Alex stopped. He stood away slightly, out of the group. He gazed back at them, one to the other before turning to his friend.
“Peter, do you mean that time I was hypnotised, when I couldn’t remember who I was, when I first got there?”
“Little bit like that, eh?”
“Why?”
Peter hesitated a moment. The others watched his face as he glanced away, and then looked back at Alex.
“You still like white fella little bit too much,” Peter explained. “Know something, like us, but can’t remember. White fella lost, you know, can’t think properly. You’re good fella, good brother to me. We teach you properly now.”
“Is that why I’m here?”
“Only partly,” Ned broke in. “You’re good, everybody likes you. Old fella like me, well, I grew up in the bush. But I didn’t hear the singing myself until later, nearly too late, you know, but that's past isn't it. Right now, we’ve all been watching you, son, a few years now. You’re lucky we got onto you when we did.”
“Why lucky, Mr Collins?” he replied, abrupt. “I work hard. What makes me lucky?”
They all looked at him, then Everard turned on his heel and walked back to where the vehicles were parked.
The women by this time had begun to set up camp and some of the children were in the water swimming and splashing about. Alex strode down to the edge of the water and leaving his clothing piled neatly on a fallen tree promptly jumped in after them. Peter followed close behind while the other men went off to unload the vehicles and help the women.
When they finished Ned broke off and piling his own clothes next to the boys’ there on the log waded into the water. Alex watched him intently; for an old man he possessed a good physique still, unabashed and at home in the water. In his prime he must have weighed over 100 kilos, all solid muscle without an ounce of fat but big in the shoulders and torso after a lifetime in the stock saddle. He glanced up the bank at his son Angus who was much slimmer; lithe, sensual in the way he moved his body like a trained cavalry rider, or dancer perhaps, except for the odd way he held his head as if he had a permanent crick in his neck.
His mind wandered a little, thinking what a fine figure that Angus would pose on a good stock horse, his posture denoting more arrogance than injury, lending itself to dressage were it not for his way with cattle, but at that moment Ned came alongside and touching his shoulder bade him follow.
He looked back at Peter who’d already turned to play with the younger boys, then toward Ned who waded toward a projecting sandbank where he sat on a log sticking out into the shallows. He came up and sat next to him, and glanced up, listening.
“What made you knock ‘em back just now, son, those old fellas?” Ned wanted to know.
He sucked in his breath, then shrugged and let it out.
“Ah, well, I’ve been fair through a lot of stuff with them - with Peter, you know - and it’s not my cup of tea, really. It’s like the tykes, and these guys are like priests - once they’ve got their hooks into your soul they won’t let go - and I wasn’t raised like that. I’ll meet my own Maker when I’m good and ready, that’s my own opinion, and make my peace with Him then.”
He turned to the old man on the log next to him, feet dangling in the cool water. “I don’t want to talk about it, if it’s OK with you.”
“No worries, young fella, just curious. Our McKenzie mob were all proud, canny old Scottish Presbyterians, so I know all about it. I think we’ve all got along together so well because we each have our integrity and our own way about us, only crossing over and back when it suits us, and when there’s good reason.”
“All right, I thought that, but like I said I don’t want to talk about it.” Alex paused. “Tell me instead where we are, precisely. Where is this place? What’s going on?”
“Back across that way,” Ned began, “right over the other side of these lakes, where you come up on the long stock route through western New South Wales; about thirty mile from here, that’s where these cunts hooked me good and proper. I married my cousin Elizabeth soon after that, up on Eurongera Station which is over that way,” he pointed easterly. “When we went south again we had Angus, and Hamish not long after.”