The Kadaitcha Curse Page 8
The track to Flashing Ridge is not well-worn. In some parts it is obscured by undergrowth and strewn with small rocks and branches – but nothing that causes a problem to the four-wheel drive.
After about half an hour the track comes to an end. We have reached a large, flat area, a plateau of sorts, about a hundred metres from the peak of the ridge. Neither of us says a word. There is a river about fifty metres wide that looks like it has branched off an even wider river farther upstream. We are surrounded by scenery that looks like it has jumped off the page of a travel magazine. There are rocky outcrops that beg to be explored and trees with branches that seem specifically designed for climbing.
And overlooking it, about fifty metres from where we stand, like some arboreal empress surveying her domain is a tree that just goes up and up until it disappears into a grey mist. With the lowest branch about fifteen metres from the ground this is one tree I figure I won’t be scaling.
“It’s a swamp gum”, says dad as he starts to unpack the ute. “Could be a few hundred years old, maybe more. Usually there’d be lots of them in the one spot but this is the only one around here that I can see. They’re always tall but usually not so wide. But this one’s had plenty of room to grow, no competition for sunlight.”
I can’t take my eyes off the tree – I feel compelled to stare.
“Robbie,” dad says sharply snapping me out of my daze. “We have to set up camp.”
“Sorry. Let’s hope that lightning doesn’t come back. Wouldn’t want one of those branches on top of me.”
We have practised at home so that we could put up our tent in the dark, in the rain and in the wind. As it turns out, it is a perfect evening and in ten minutes we are standing back looking over our work. Although we’ve brought a small gas stove, we’ve decided that we would only use that in an emergency. In planning for our trip dad was so confident that we would be able to catch enough fish and collect enough bush tucker that we have only brought food for two meals – tonight’s dinner and tomorrow’s breakfast. Of course we have some potatoes and some canned vegetables and desserts, but as far as protein goes it’s going to be whatever takes our bait. But that’s for tomorrow. Tonight we plan to eat pre-prepared meals courtesy of mum. The lamb chops, green beans and mash has just about thawed out in the ute during the day and only needs to be reheated in the frying pan over a fire.
Dad gets me to collect some kindling, dry leaves and sticks, while he clears a few square metres of ground for a fire. He makes a small, neat circle from some rocks and stacks the kindling inside the circle. The fire starts easily with the help of a match.
We are hungry and the simple meal tastes as good as anything I’ve eaten. Dad produces some biscuits that my little sisters, Ebony and Abby, have baked for us and some fruit from the ice chest to complete the feast.
“I feel a bit crook,” dad says after a few minutes. He rubs his stomach. “Probably ate too much. I think I should turn in. Will you be OK?”
“I’m fine.”
Dad fetches his toothbrush from his rucksack in the tent and walks the short distance to the edge of the lake where he sits on a log for his final smoke of the day. He cleans his teeth and walks back to the fire.
“Listen,” he says.
“I can’t hear anything,” I say.
“Nor can I - not a thing. Not even an insect.”
I think it’s unusual but don’t reply.
“Would you mind cleaning up?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Thanks, Robbie. Make sure you bury the bones. We don’t want to attract any animals.”
Dad goes into the tent and after about five minutes his husky coughing turns into a deep snore. Luckily mum had warned me to pack some earplugs.
I sit near the fire until it is just a few embers then take the plates to the lake and clean them. Fetching the small spade from dad’s toolbox I dig a hole under some bush and bury the bones like he asked. I clean my teeth and a few minutes later I’m stripped to my underwear and in bed.
Our tent has three compartments – two for sleeping and one for everything else. But even though I have my own room the tent fabric is so thin I may just as well be sleeping right beside the snoring bear that seems to have taken possession of my father’s body.
Lying there I become aware of how safe I feel, but it’s not because dad is only a few metres away. It’s something different, as if I’m being watched over, guarded and protected. Maybe that’s why they call it Mother Nature.
I think of the fallen tree that blocked the track to our intended campsite. How lucky we were – a few minutes later and we may have been driving close enough to the tree to be hit by the lightning. Or the tree could have fallen on top of our car. I shift uncomfortably at the thought. But then again what are the odds of such a thing happening just as we were about to go down that track? What if someone was watching and deliberately set off some kind of explosive to fell the tree? What if they meant for us to turn back… what if they meant for us to take the track to Lightning Ridge? Maybe being here is no accident. But the lightning? Yes, it was definitely lightning, not an explosive. There was no sight or smell of smoke.
What is this place exactly? It’s so beautiful but nobody comes here. Yilkgawu-mirrin, lightning goddess. What a terrific name. I’ve read some stories about traditional aboriginal people. And what impressive names they had. Not names like Wally. In the old days Wally would have been Jarrah or Akama. I think of these wonderful dark-skinned warriors roaming the desert hunting kangaroo and protecting their families.
What would they make of a boy called Robin Albion? I hate Robin, my real name. I never use it. At least with Robbie some people might think my name is Robert which is far more masculine sounding. Anyway, in the end I realise I’m no warrior - so I suppose Robin will do.
Gradually sleep takes over.