The Kadaitcha Curse Page 10
Smoke! The house is on fire! I sit up with a jerk and slowly take in my surroundings. Dad’s hacking cough brings me back to reality. Rubbing sleep from my eyes I look out through the small flap in the tent wall and see him squatting at the fireplace. It’s a damp, chilly morning so I pull on my jeans, sweater and sneakers and go outside. Dad is trying to fan some life into the fire but with little success. Lots of smoke but, as yet, no flame.
“We’ve had a bit of rain overnight,” he says. “It’s a beautiful morning but that storm cloud is still hanging about. I’m pretty hungry but I’m not going to eat raw bacon.”
“So you’re feeling better this morning?” I ask.
“A lot, thanks. For a while I thought I might just have to lie around for a few days while you look after me,” he grins. Dad stands up starting to show some frustration with his unsuccessful efforts. He might be a country boy at heart but that’s as far as it goes - dad is no bushman.
“Would you mind scratching around for some dry kindling? It was only a light shower so maybe the rain didn’t reach all the way under that big tree. I’ll tidy up in the tent.”
I set off, but first thing’s first. I go behind a small bush – my bladder is at bursting point.
After what seems like a five-minute pee, I walk over to the big tree. The rain must have blown in from the east as the ground on the far side of the tree looks to be drier.
Fascinated by this grey and green colossus I stand close to the trunk and take large steps around its circumference. Sixteen paces. Maths is not my strongest subject but I still estimate that to be thirteen or fourteen metres around. This tree could’ve been growing here for centuries. I bet it could tell some stories. My rumbling stomach reminds me of the two hungry bellies that need filling before a big day of fishing and exploring. I gather up as many sticks as I can carry. I decide I should make a few trips back and forth – we can store it in the tent, or under the car, enough for the next few days.
I drop the first load beside the fireplace and leave dad to put his not-quite-so-legendary bush skills into practice. I return to the far side of the tree and start to gather some more dry wood. What’s that? I catch a small white flash out of the corner of my eye. I look over towards some low bushes. There it is again! Could be a rabbit. No, I wouldn’t think there’d be too many little, white bunnies around here. I put the sticks down and quietly creep closer to the low scrub. I don’t realise I have moved out beyond the canopy of the tree and onto wet ground.
Suddenly the earth beneath my feet gives way. I’m slipping downwards through the undergrowth. I find myself at the bottom of a small ravine. I look up and see a climb of about twenty metres back to the top. I brush myself off and start to crawl back up.
I hear a noise behind me, and quickly look around to see a large white bird, a cockatoo, I think, streak upward and disappear. Now I see something else. There in the opposite wall of the ravine, from near where the bird had taken wing, a cave. Barely visible from where I stand it would be impossible to spot from the top of the slope. I take a few tentative steps towards the opening, half expecting I don’t know what, maybe the mythical bunyip, or even Yilkgawu-mirrin herself to leap out at me. Nothing.
I stand at the opening which only comes up to my waist. If Yilkgawu-mirrin is in there then she’s not very big, I think. I crouch low enough to see into the cave. Beyond the first two metres or so it is dark. All I can make out are some white shapes, possibly sticks, that seem to be set out in some sort of pattern, but I’m not sure. I’ll have to come back later with a torch.
I cross the ravine and scramble back up the slope. I hear a screech from somewhere above me. It must be the cockatoo. I walk around underneath the tree looking up trying to spot the big white bird. White bird? Maybe that’s how this property got its name. Must be lots of them around here somewhere. I’m keen to spot the bird again – it is, after all, the first, and only, animal I’ve seen since yesterday when we turned off the track at the fallen gum. Up until then there were kangaroos and cattle, hares and lots of birds.
Not watching where I’m stepping I catch my foot on something solid and almost trip over. A protruding rock stands about ten centimetres proud of the surrounding ground surface. There’s another beside it. I rake the compost with my sneaker to reveal a rough circle of almost-buried rocks. The shape has a diameter of about five metres. Clearly this is no natural rock formation. I decide I’ll come back later in the day for a closer look.
Regathering my dropped armful of sticks I go back to camp. After a good feed of bacon dad shows off his version of how to make tea, bush-style. He produces a silver tin can. He’s taken off the paper label but he tells me it enjoyed a previous life as a can of sliced beetroot. He has punched two holes in opposite sides near the open top and attached a handle fashioned from a wire coat hanger. I take it down to the lake and reach out as far as I can to half fill the can. Dad constructs a tripod from branches so the apex is directly above the fire but far enough not to be touched by the flames.
“What will I do with the can?” I ask.
Dad corrects me, “It’s not a can anymore. It’s now officially a billy.”
“OK. What do I do with the billy?”
Dad takes the billy and hangs it from the tripod. “It’ll take a while to boil,” he says. “What took you so long over at the tree before? I didn’t think you’d have trouble finding dry sticks.”
“I didn’t.” I proceed to tell dad about how I slipped down into the small ravine and the cave and the stones. “I want to go back later and have a closer look.”
“Good idea,” he nods. “I might come too.”
Half a cigarette later the water starts to boil and dad grabs a handful of tea leaves from a bag and tosses them into the billy. Then he lays a green twig across the top.
“What’s that for?”
“Well, I don’t know if it does anything but your grandfather reckoned it stopped the tea tasting smoky.”
I never knew my paternal grandfather. Mum’s parent’s both died only a couple of years ago but dad’s father passed on before I was born. Grandma Betty, lives near us.
“What was he like?”
“Who? My father? I was young, about your age, when he died.” Dad reaches for a stick and stirs the tea. “Just about ready,” he says. Dad is quiet but I sense there’s more he wants to say.
He shares the tea into two mugs. I set mine on the ground beside me to cool a bit.
Dad takes a careful sip from his mug. “Ah, that’s good. It’ll be even better once the billy’s been used a few times. How about a bit of damper for morning tea? We’ll let that fire die down and toss in some dough.”
“Sounds great. Can I make it?”
Dad sucks on another cigarette and, following his instructions, I head down to the water to clean the frying pan. I mix a couple of cups of flour with some water and some baking powder. Dad had thought of everything when he packed for this camp. I roll it into a ball and pat it down to make it flat. By now the fire has burned down to just hot coals which I rake away revealing only hot ashes. I put the dough in the hole and shovel the coals back over the top to cover the doughy ball.
“Should take about twenty minutes. Let’s get the fishing gear ready while we wait,” says dad.
We walk along the creek bank looking for a good spot.
“What are these tracks?” I point to prints in a patch of hardened mud.
“I’m not sure but it looks like pig prints to me. Feral pigs. They headed the same way we are so let’s hope they’ve just kept on going.”
“When do you reckon they were here?” I know dad won’t have a clue but I’m just after some reassurance.
“Probably weeks ago,” he says. I don’t feel reassured. “This looks like a good spot.”
Seems we are not the only ones taking a few days off. The fish aren’t biting. It’s about ten o’clock. We’ve been trying for a good hour and a half, casting from different spots, even from th
e overhanging branches of a weeping fig a bit further around the lake. Nothing. Not a nibble, not even a ripple on the surface that might confirm that there was something, anything, living in the water. And to make things worse I snagged my line on some rocks and now I’ve lost my favourite lure, a red and yellow job with two triple hooks and silver bib. I made it myself.
“If you want to get it back, you’ll have to go in after it,” says dad.
The very thought sends a shudder through my body and makes me feel sick. Dad is hopeful that one day I will trust myself in water again. I know he’s thinking the same thing I am. When I was about eight I hit my head on the bottom of our pool and knocked myself out. I almost drowned. Now I’ll sit on the side of the pool but that’s as far as I can make myself go. That’s another reason I would rather be here with dad than at the beach with mum and the girls. There are only so many ways to design a sandcastle. And sitting there watching as everyone else has fun in the water makes me feel like some sort of wimp, which is probably true. I’ll go back in one day – just not today.
We’ve strayed a fair way around the edge of the water, maybe twenty minutes from camp.
“Let’s forget it for a while”, suggests dad. “We’ll go back to camp and I’ll knock up some berley for later. Then we can go for a walk. Maybe you can show me the cave.”
“OK,” I agree, reeling in the few metres of line that sag sadly into the water.
As we make our way back along the water’s edge, dad reaches into his fishing bag. He takes out and unwraps the damper we made this morning. He tears off a piece for himself and passes the rest to me. I brush off ashes and flick away bits of charcoal. It’s quiet for a few minutes while we enjoy the smoky flavour of the fresh bush bread.
“Robbie, I want to tell you something, something important. OK?”
Dad gave me the sex talk a couple of years back, which was pretty uncomfortable – for him. Although he didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know I let him believe he’d opened my eyes to a whole new world. Anyway, I knew that topic was off the table. But still, I have no idea of what’s to come and feel apprehensive.
“You know I haven’t been all that well lately,” he starts.
“Yeah, like for couple of years,” I say rolling my eyes.
“Well, I’m not getting any better. I’ve been to the doctor and had all the tests. Mum and I haven’t said anything because, well, we didn’t want to worry you. But I think it’s time you knew.”
“I want to know, Dad,” I say. “What’s wrong?”