Journey to the Stone Country (23 page)
Observing him, Annabelle felt Les Marra’s power and she saw that he was a man to whose memory one day there would be memorials; and she believed she had understood, for the first time in her life, the significant moment of history that she was living. She knew, with a little shock of dismay, with a feeling of personal affront, that Les Marra’s vision of the future would never be reconciled to her existence or to the decency of her own past, the lives of her parents and grandparents. Her existence, indeed, was of no consequence to him. There could be no place for her, or for her kind, in the victory he envisaged. Secretly she hoped Les Marra’s crusade would fail, but she knew it would not fail. For Les Marra had only to persist. He had for ever. There was no time limit to his strategy.
Bo said, ‘Oh yeah, Les. She’s gonna be a big one, old mate.’ And it was not clear whether they spoke of the Ranna Dam or of something far grander.
Tom Glasson looked from one man to the other, puzzlement in his gaze, struggling to interpret their laughter, the hidden language flickering between these two men in the uncertain kitchen light. His understanding suddenly that the dam was an irrelevance. That they would let him have it without a fight. The puzzling knowledge that the dam was not, after all, the point at issue between them. A sense that he had been tricked.
Everyone was looking at Les Marra. Waiting for him. The will of this man. He said nothing. Outside in the hot day the cicadas had fallen silent.
There was a rumble of thunder.
Bo turned to the helicopter pilot. ‘That whirlybird of yours fly around all right in them big electrical storms, Drew?’
‘No she doesn’t,’ the pilot said and he looked at Tom Glasson.
‘Well unless you want to wait out the storm with us, you fellers had better be helicoptering out of here.’ Bo grinned at them. ‘We’ve got plenty of steaks, but we got no beer.’
The pilot said, ‘You reckon we’re going to get it then, Bo?’
Bo turned and lined up a heading, cutting a direction through the wall towards the southwest. ‘She’s coming down from them Carborough Ranges. That’s where we get them from here this time of year, Drew.’ He struck a match and cautiously applied the flame to the tiny stump of his cigarette, pursing his lips to avoid burning his nostrils, sucking the last draw from the remnant of damp tobacco.
Les Marra watched him, smiling.
Bo got the draw and turned and tossed the butt into the open firebox of the range. He sniffed and sucked his teeth, motioning out the door to the tilting pergola, ‘Free beds in the old house if you fellers want to stay a night or two. Nellie and old George won’t be needing theirs. I’ll take you around and show you some of this country. There’s some good stuff to see. Bring your cameras. Big waterfall up that Lemon Tree gully.’ He turned to LesMarra, ‘That’s right, eh, Les?’
‘There’s good stuff here all right,’ Les Marra agreed.
Tom Glasson said, ‘Thank you, Bo. I appreciate your offer. There’s nothing I’d like better. But I’m afraid it’ll have to be some other time. I have to be back for a meeting in Townsville this evening. How long are you expecting to spend down here this visit?’
Bo reached into his shirt pocket for his Drum and stood considering the design on the blue packet. ‘Well, she’s just a preliminary look for us this time, Tom. Annabelle’s doing some work over there at the house and on the buildings, which could take another day or two. I’ve been having a bit of a poke around. We’ve got a job over at Burranbah to finish before we turn this one over.’ He looked at Tom Glasson. ‘We could get a fresh in some of them gullies out of this storm. That might hold us up a while.’
‘Maybe you could give me a call when you get back to Townsville and we can make a time for us all to get together? I’ll be seeing Susan tomorrow.’
‘That’ll be good, Tom. We’ll do that.’ Bo drew out a Tally-Ho paper and stuck it to his lower lip, nipping the tobacco out of the packet with his stained thumb and forefinger.
Les Marra was observing the exchange between the two men with evident delight.
Tom Glasson made no move. The pilot was watching him, anxious to leave. Tom said, ‘Has the flow in the creek ever failed, Bo? That you know of?’
Les Marra laughed. ‘That you know of, Bo?’ he said.
Bo’s hand went out, the encompassing gesture. ‘The Ranna won’t fail you, Tom. Them old folk had it the springs held good right through the biggest droughts.’
Tom Glasson leaned, a little uncertain of his ground here, the fingers of one hand touching the tabletop for balance probably, or looking for certainty in his dealings, ‘When you say old folk, Bo, you mean . . . ?’
‘I mean the Bigges! Them Bigges! They seen the nineteen-twenty-three drought. The thirty-five drought. These springs held good then. She’s not gonna fail you, Tom.’ He looked directly at Tom Glasson. ‘The Ranna will fill your dam for you with good clean spring water. You’ll be able to see clear to the bottom on a sunny day.’ He made a circling motion with his hand and looked down through it, ‘Watch them big catfish going round and round chasing their tails!’
Les Marra’s laughter rumbling in his chest like the storm rumbling in the ranges.
There was a loud crack of thunder. The helicopter pilot winced. There was a sound like a spray of gravel hitting the ripple-iron roofing over their heads.
‘Here she comes,’ Bo said. ‘A touch of hail in her.’
An uncanny silence followed.
A change of light outside, and a stillness. The warm smell of carrion newly exposed to the humid air.
Bo looked at Les Marra. ‘Old possum curled up and died in the roof.’
Les Marra showed his teeth in a wide grin. ‘Old Panya in this one.’
Annabelle prayed they would leave before the storm grounded them.
‘Come on!’ the pilot said. ‘Let’s get going! Where’s Henry?’
Bo said, ‘There’s a feller sleeping over there on the verandah. He was laid out on that old squatter chair like a dead man.’
‘I’ll go and wake him,’ Annabelle offered.
‘If he’s gonna wake, I reckon that thunder might have already woke him, Annabellebeck.’
They shook hands all round and said their hurried goodbyes, bunching up at the door, following Annabelle. Bo calling after them, ‘You want your map?’
Les Marra turned at the door, ‘You keep it, Bo. Have a good look at it. Them Hearns up at that Zigzag place are gonna make themselves a little fortune running a hostfarm. When the lake’s full they’ll be sitting on the prettiest piece of ground around here for miles. There’s gonna be a view from that stony ridge of theirs right over the lake and clear through to Mount Crompton, the winter sun coming up in their eyes. The Ranna Lake Hostfarm.’ He laughed. ‘And a brand new bitumen road right by their front door all the way to Mackay and the highway. They’ll get the tourist buses up there. They reckon the Japanese like a view over water. You ought to think about running a hostfarm yourself, Bo. She’ll do the work, won’t she?’ He laughed and spat aside. ‘It’s not cattle any more, old mate. That Hearn place is what they call good country these days.’ He stood considering Bo. ‘Dougald’s figured that much out for himself.’ He firmed his hat, ‘See you later, Bo.’ He turned and followed the others.
When Les Marra had gone Bo stood looking down at the map spread on the kitchen table. He put his tobacco away and lit the fresh smoke he’d made. He heard the helicopter start up. He screwed the map into a ball and turned and poked it into the firebox of the range. He took a piece of bendy sandalwood and raked the burning map around, pushing the sandalwood in on top of it. The rain began hitting the roof hard, the light failing outside. He stood looking at the fire, smoking his cigarette and listening to the big wind of the stormfront coming down off the Carborough Ranges, rushing through the tall timber on the slopes the other side of the creek. The smoke of the fire blowing back on the first gust, the smell of fragrant sandalwood filling the kitchen. Bo turned. Arner stood in the doorway watching him.
Arner jerked his head, ‘Trace and Mathew Hearn coming across the creekflat.’
There was the heavy fuck-fuck-fuck of the helicopter going over, snatching itself into the falling sky. Neither man looked out the window to see how the machine was faring against the storm.
‘They coming, eh?’ Bo said. He reached and put more wood in the firebox.
Arner came in and eased himself onto a bench at the table. He sat watching the flames and sparks dancing and leaping in the firebox, his hands clasped on the tabletop in front of him, his manner serene, reposeful, inward, calm.
Bo straightened, ‘You hungry?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We’ll have us a feed of them steaks.’ Bo went to the door and stood looking out. They were coming up the rise along the trodden path through the ribbon grass, Mathew Hearn holding the mare to a nervous walk, picking her feet high and dainty through the grey downpour that fell upon them from a green sky, the pony’s tail lashing the air. Trace sitting behind the saddle embracing Mathew, her fingers linked under his chest, her body pressed to his. Lightning stabbing the ridges behind the riders, thunder a continuous cannonade; as if the battle had been joined now and the balance of their fates was set upon its issue; the young people riding in through the storm might have emerged from a past time, mysterious and compelling to themselves, a wisdom in their new belonging, bringing their unaccountable history with them to bear witness to a future that already lived in them.
Bo watched them. ‘That boy don’t believe in getting the little mare of his out of a walk,’ he said, his tone measuring and approving. ‘What’s he’s saving her for?’
Arner turned his head and looked at him.
Bo flicked his cigarette stub out into the rain and came back into the kitchen. ‘A couple of drowned cats them two.’ He bent and reached into a plastic store crate on the floor, lifting out a heavy plastic bag. He set the bag on the table by Arner. ‘You want to peel a few of these spuds while you’re waiting? I’ll make a drink of tea.’ He pointed. ‘The peeler’s there. Do plenty. That Hearn boy eats as much as you do. I’ll mash ’em up with some butter and pepper.’
They heard the horse whinny as it breasted the rise.
B
O STEPPED THROUGH THE OPEN DOOR UNDER THE FIGURE OF THE
crucified Christ. The Ranna pondage map was spread on the Madagascar table. The map had been rolled in a tube and was weighted at the corners with volumes of
The World Book of Knowledge
to prevent it from rolling up again. Bo stood at the table looking down at the map. ‘Them helicopter people paid you a visit, then, John?’
John Hearn came and stood by his side. ‘Yes they did. Your friend Les Marra explained the project to us. We’d had no idea it was going to happen so soon.’ With his oilstained forefinger he tapped a point on the red line of the road above the spur. ‘That’s us,’ he said, a new enthusiasm in his voice.
‘That’s you.’
They looked at the map together. There were the voices and laughter of Ruth Hearn and Annabelle out in the kitchen preparing morning tea. They might have become neighbours now, and visiting to be a regular thing. Something to be celebrated.
‘You would’ve had a useful fall up here out of that storm,’ Bo said, jerking his head towards the bedraggled landscape of scrubby trees and barrenness outside the windows.
‘We only caught the edge of it here again. The rain gauge is broken, but I’d say we must have had around thirty points. It was heavier along the ridge further. You had a big fall down there though. We watched it from the windows here. She was black as pitch in the valley.’
They might have been cattlemen, concerned for the state of their pastures. Something, it appeared, had changed at Zigzag. But this wasn’t it.
‘I reckon we would have had three inches at the homestead. More higher up. The creek ran a fresh.’ Bo ducked his head, pointing through the windows, aiming his hand into the sunless bush, spent clouds hanging low over the ridge, drifting. ‘Them storms always swing away from this country, John, when they hit the spur.’ He spoke with a physical emphasis. ‘They follow the valley up into that Massey Gorge, peter out eventually when they come off the ranges above the coast.’ As he said
swing
he swung around himself, following his indicating hand, the curve of his body mimicking the progress of storms through the gorges, as if he imagined himself become a storm, his pent-up fury spent along the wild headwaters of the Ranna where he had once ridden with Dougald Gnapun in pursuit of the wild cattle.
John Hearn watched him. He went, ‘Hmm.’ But whether he expressed appreciation for Bo’s performance or a resistance to his information it was not possible to tell.
Bo said, ‘Yeah.’
‘Why is that so, do you think, Bo?’
‘There’s no why about it, John. That’s just the way it is,’ Bo said emphatically. ‘It’s always been like that. I don’t suppose it’s going to change now neither.’
John Hearn hesitated before venturing his own opinion, persisting with his offer of a reason for the behaviour of the storms. ‘Well I don’t know about that, Bo. Such a big body of water as this lake is going to be might change the weather pattern.’ He tapped the ponded area on the map with his knuckles, waiting, watching for Bo’s response, something of authority in his manner. ‘Don’t you think?’
It seemed Bo would not conjecture about the climate. As if he looked into his mind and met a blankness on the matter.
John Hearn pointed out the window, his finger steady, thumb cocked, his hand made into the shape of a gun, explaining his reasons, wishing to be understood. ‘Once they don’t have the valley to draw them along the gorges any more, the storms might change their direction. They might come straight across the lake.’
Bo reached and slipped the packet of tobacco from his shirt pocket. ‘They might,’ he allowed grudgingly and looked at the packet then put it back in his pocket again. He took off his hat and rubbed his fingers round the inside of the rim. ‘And they might not.’
John Hearn laughed, just an edge of derision. ‘Well, I can’t argue with that.’ He looked at the map again. ‘Les said the dam will be full within five years.’