Dirt Music

  You in trouble, son? Chugger says over lunch.

  Only if you can’t fly a plane.

  Outside men and women push shopping trolleys stacked with beer. They’re laughing and yelling. Some are swathed in bandages.

  Pension day, says Chugger. They’ll be tearin each other’s throats out by dark.

  Fox saws at the last of his roast lamb and works mechanically at the chips and gravy. He feels himself gorging. The bar smells of smoke and frying oil and underarms.

  You got someone waitin for you out there, sport?

  No.

  Got an HF radio?

  Fox shakes his head.

  Well, says Chugger. Eat up.

  They bank out across mangroves and mudflats. The great delta is webbed with rivulets and tide wrinkles and where the Fitzroy spills into King Sound the water is the colour of milk chocolate. Beneath the overcast they bear northeast into the interior and Fox sees how old and beaten-down the land is with its crone-skin patterns, its wens and scars and open wounds. The plains, with their sparse, grey tufts of mulga scrub, rise into the high skeletal disarray of the sandstone ranges where rivers run like green gashes toward the sea. All rigid geometry falls away; no roads, no fences, just a confusion of colour. Out at the horizon the jagged, island-choked coast.

  Get a better view, says Chugger through the intercom, if Squeaky cleaned the bloody windows. Coon grease.

  Sorry? Fox says, holding the headphone tight to his ears.

  The indigenous flier sweats it out like mutton fat, says the pilot. Have to scrub it off the perspex. Abos are the bulk of our trade. We bus em in and out from their settlements. They love to fly on the taxpayer’s shilling. Orright for some, eh?

  They climb above the thunderclouds into bright sun. After two hours they buffet their way down again and Fox sees the green swathe of the plateau above the long gulf. The airstrip is a pink cross. Chugger dives and cranks the machine over onto one wing to check the state of the surface. It looks wet at the edges.

  We’ll suck and see, says the pilot as they straighten out across the treetops and make a turn downwind for the approach.

  So green, he thinks.

  After they land it only takes a few moments to unload Fox’s modest pile of gear.

  Hope you brought yer umbrella, says Chugger. This plateau’s the wettest spot in the state. Fifteen hundred mil a year—that’s more’n sixty inches.

  Fox sets his things out, considers repacking for the sake of neatness and better distribution of weight. Already his shirt is soaked through with sweat.

  Spose I’ll be comin back out for ya, says Chugger. One way or the other. Don’t think I haven’t seen a few of youse characters. There’s always a search in the end. Doesn’t matter who you are: boffin, fugitive, survivalist space cadet, God-botherer. It’s all the same deal in the end. You want me to give anyone a message?

  Fox shakes his head.

  Didn’t even get the name.

  Buckridge.

  Even that name won’t get you out of the shit up here, sport. This is the dark bit at the back of the cupboard. You’re on your own.

  Yes, says Fox almost believing it.

  He doesn’t watch the plane taxi or take off. He kneels on the dirt and repacks his kit. His hands are shaking. He finds his hat and polaroids and carries everything toward the wall of trees. In the shade of a woollybutt he spreads the map. Already it’s lost its crispness in the humidity, and the compass adheres to it.

  On the chart there is a track from the airstrip down off the plateau to the sea. The contours are daunting.

  He figures he has an hour or two of hiking time before he loses light. He takes a bearing and loads up.

  Within five minutes he’s half blind with sweat and the vehicle track he’s following disappears beneath head-high canegrass. He’s forced to gauge direction by feeling for the ruts with his boots and as he plunges through the vegetation, grasshoppers, butterflies and beetles blunder into him, snagging in his teeth and hair, filling his shirt, coating his pack and swag. Rising from the grass either side, livistona palms, cabbage gums and bloodwoods seem to spit birds as he approaches. The sky is creased with thunderheads.

  In an hour or so he’s nearly buggered. His skin feels flayed by speargrass. Ahead a sandstone spur promises the first change of elevation. The map had shown scores of ridges unfolding seaward. This rock might offer him a view. It’s claustrophobic in all this jungly undergrowth. He gazes at the spur and bears toward it. And then a man appears on it. Fox keeps walking. The man is still there when he arrives.

  Thought I heard a plane.

  Me, says Fox panting. He looks up at the bloke. He’s dark-skinned and barefoot. His shoulder-length hair is black with veins of grey in it. Army surplus shorts hang off his hips beneath a shiny hairless paunch.

  Lost, eh?

  No, says Fox wiping his face with his hat.

  Sure?

  Fox shrugs.

  Science fulla, are ya?

  No.

  Guvmint?

  No.

  Adviser.

  No.

  Lawyer fulla.

  Fox smiles and shakes his head.

  Mine boy.

  Not me.

  Not a station boy, then.

  Fox unslings a waterbottle. No.

  Well ya not a blackfulla, he says with a wheezy chuckle. Thas for sure!

  There’s an oriental cast to this man’s features but his accent is Aboriginal.

  How long’s it take to get down to the coast from here? Fox asks before drinking. He offers the canteen to the man who appears not to notice.

  Good whole day if ya go the short way. You outta daylight, but. Better camp with us. Best spot.

  Don’t wanna be any trouble.

  Look like you in trouble.

  No.

  Menzies, the man says, sticking out a hand whose palm is yellow.

  Fox. Lu Fox.

  Carn then.

  Menzies looks at his load and seems to contemplate an offer of help but then he just turns and leads the way. Fox hesitates, but follows. The weight of all the gear on his back presses into his heels and it gets worse as they work their way down the ridge and stoop to pass beneath the boughs of trees.

  Roots. Musty litter. Clay the colour of curdled milk. At the ragged edge of a red stone breakaway they climb down, holding vines and fig roots for support. They come to a clearing surrounded by cherty stone terraces, a small pan of dirt where a bough shelter stands surmounted by tarps like verandahs. Fox and Menzies approach the smoking campfire. A young, thin black man emerges from the overhang of the surrounding terrace. He wears a pair of blue football shorts and nothing else.

  This me mate Axle, says Menzies. Shy fulla. He’s a good boy.

  G’day, says Fox writhing out of his load.

  This fulla Lu Fox, says Menzies.

  Flyin fox.

  Don’t be humbuggin im, Axle.

  Djin bunambun.

  Yeah, yeah. You see him. See him good. Get that billy on.

  You got beer? Axle asks.

  Sorry, says Fox. Some tea, coffee.

  Tea we got, says Menzies. And you doan need any Emu bloody Export beer.

  Axle’s eyes dart in his partly averted face. He seems to be suppressing a smile. Menzies hauls Fox’s gear in under the shelter while the boy fills a billy from a plastic jerrycan.

  This is a good spot, says Fox.

  The boy nods. His hair is matted. His knees are worn the colour of sandstone and his feet are wide and callused.

  How long you blokes been here?

  All time, says Axle. Everywhen.

  Couple seasons, says Menzies crouching to stir up the fire. Come and go, you know.

  Is this—?

  Our country? Menzies shrugs dramatically. Dunno. Orphan, I was. Well, thas what the nuns said. Ever bin down New Norcia way?

  Fox can’t help but smile as he nods.

  All them kids. Noongars, Wongai people. But you look at me. Half-
Chinese fulla. Think my mother from Bardi people maybe. Who knows. Them nuns and priest fullas didn’t hardly talk no English. Didn’t tell me nothin! he utters looking more bemused than bitter.

  Dis my country, says Axle.

  Mebbe, says Menzies with a diplomatic shrug.

  Too right.

  Could be. Could be. You get that meat, boy.

  Axle springs up and heads down a gully in the waning light. Fox studies Menzies wondering what it is that seems odd. And then he sees it—the man has no navel.

  Interestin, innit.

  Well.

  Mebbe the skin growed over. Somethin. Them nuns didn’t like it, thas for sure. Kept me shirt on all summer. And them kids? he says with a hoarse, joyous laugh. Nobody fight with a yellafulla with no bellybutton. Axle, too. He come follern me like a puppydog when he saw it. Talkin rubbish.

  Axel. That’s a German name. He off a mission? Lutherans maybe?

  Menzies squints. Spell it A-X-L-E way. Real particular about that. Only fuckin word he can write, poor fulla. Bit lost, ya know. Bit strange. Cut himself up to be like me. Nearly cut himself three belly-buttons! Found him up Kalumburu way. I was workin for cattle mob. He just walked in the outcamp from the bush—all wild and sick—talkin about bein in the islands and flyin up the coast lookin for the old ones, the old people. Proper heartbroken he was. Thinks they’s old shy people still out there. In the old way, you know? Livin proper, hidin out still from the whitefullas. Reckon they’s all waitin for im, poor mad bugger. Aw, Lu, he upset everybody. All this crazy talkin and gettin angry. Thought he’s a petrol-sniffer. They didn’t want no trouble, no church fullas or guvmint. So I took him orf. Out Karunjie way, Halls Creek. But he’s a handful. All this language he talks, you know, little bit Wunumbal, little bit Ngarinyin, he learned it off some whitefulla. Makes it up. But he’s not a proper Aborigine man.

  Proper? says Fox.

  Never bin through the Law, see.

  Initiated.

  Thassit. No people. No country.

  And you?

  Me? I belong to Jesus Christ. Like it or not. They wet you and get you. Anyway. No other bastard will have me.

  Axle appears from the deepening gloom of dusk with a lump of bloody meat slung across his shoulder like a saddle. Fox drinks his mouth-puckering black tea while the two of them build up the fire and cut the meat into marbled slabs which they then roast on the coals.

  They eat back from the fire where it’s cooler and in the dark the flames are the only light.

  Beef, says Fox.

  Fresh killed this morning.

  Pow, says Axle miming a rifle shot.

  Fox considers the irony of having fallen among fellow poachers. Menzies explains how they live on bush tucker when there’s no cattle handy, how Axle prides himself on his ability to hunt goannas and birds, to shoot the occasional crocodile and ferret out treats like sugarbag from the hives of the native bee. He knows the berries, has an instinct for it, though Menzies prefers beef and damper and tea, which is why they camp on the edge of the plateau. There’s water nearby and the occasional four-wheel adventurer who needs rescuing from himself in exchange for precious supplies. Fox asks if they get lonely, and Menzies laughs. Axle, he says, doesn’t care for girls but they both wish for some dogs to cuddle up to at night. Menzies confesses to being married once. He names all the prisons he’s been in. He’s more travelled than Fox by a good measure.

  The older man gets to his feet and goes rooting around inside the shelter until a light grows and brightens and Fox smells kerosene. Coming out he stumbles on something that rings discordantly and he curses, almost dropping the lamp.

  Special occasions, he announces setting the lamp on the dirt beside them.

  What’d you kick in there?

  Fuckin gittar thing.

  Mine, says Axle.

  He likes a strum, says Menzies. But he gets disappointed. Can’t make a tune, not proper. Kills him. Awful.

  I could tune it for you, says Fox. If it’d help.

  Axle bounds to the shelter and brings out a cheap Korean thing grown smelly with mildew but still gaudy in its sunburst lacquer. He presents it two-handed to Fox who stands it on his boot and twirls it by the neck. He clamps it to his sweaty shirt and tunes it quickly. The strings are furry with corrosion. His fingertips feel virginal.

  Play, says Axle.

  Ah.

  Axle and Menzies look at him expectantly, so open-faced and hopeful.

  What music d’you like? he asks.

  Slim Dusty, the boy announces.

  Fox plays ‘Pub with No Beer’ and the others sing along with what sounds to him like apocryphal lyrics. It doesn’t matter a damn to him; he hates the song. But the two of them croon on their haunches, eyes closed soulfully while lightning flickers in the sky. When they’re done there’s a huge sigh from Axle.

  Nobody speaks. Fox tunes again for a moment before breaking into a mournful Irish air just to fill the silence, to mask his own discomfort. It starts out no more than a bit of noodling but the melody gets hold of him. He settles into the chord progression and feels himself begin to relax at the feel of the frets underhand, the way the tune offers itself up for elaboration at every turn, and when he completes the cycle he can’t leave off, he has to go again, this time with confidence, with a little more tapestry. The air plays itself out but still he can’t let go. He segues into a blues rag in the same key, just for a change of pace. Gets a little shuffle going despite himself, something that warms and loosens his tendons. The strings are like fencewire. Still, he bends and slurs. His wrist feels gritty with disuse but he manages a slim vibrato all the same. The guitar’s tinny, toy-like tone rings in his chest. Music. And it’s not hurting anybody.

  He stops when the boy gets up and walks into the bough hut.

  He okay?

  Can’t play. Little bit shame, see.

  Oh. I didn’t mean to—

  Likes a strum, but. You teach him.

  But I’ll be gone in the morning, says Fox.

  Pity, that.

  Fox has an idea and de-tunes the instrument to open D. Tries it in the minor first but senses it’ll be too mournful. He brings it to the major key and strums it one-handed.

  Axle?

  Won’ come out now, Lu.

  Axle. I’ve fixed it so you can play this chord, see?

  He lets it ring. Look! One hand. Put a finger here and…listen. That’s G. Easy. Up and down. Even with a bottle you’ll do it. Axle?

  The boy doesn’t come out. Fox shrugs and puts the guitar down. It rings in D-major and Menzies smiles conspiratorially.

  This land, murmurs Fox. Is this station property?

  National park.

  Ah.

  And blackfulla land too. But all boxite, you know. Makes aluminiun?

  Bauxite?

  Everybody fightin now. Blackfullas, too. This mob, that mob. Lawyers. Awful.

  What d’you think’ll happen?

  Menzies shrugs. Someone gonna kick us off sooner later. Boxite man, guvmint man, cattle man, Aborigine man. Too right.

  I can’t see it.

  Too right. Blackfulla in a suit. Papers in his hands. Could be.

  A distant toll of thunder rolls across the treetops.

  You lost, Lu?

  Not yet.

  Where you goin to?

  Somewhere quiet.

  Menzies shakes his head, doubtful. A light rain begins to fall. They go to bed. Fox unrolls his swag beneath the outlying tarp and listens to the fitful patter.

  In the night he wakes to find Axle hunkered beside him.

  You banman? the young man whispers, staring fearfully.

  Bad man? No. I’m just…just a bloke, Axle.

  You take my wundala. For the music. Orright?

  Um?

  You paddle out there, out Widjalgur, past there. Find that mob.

  Okay.

  You fly. Like me, unna. In my dream I go. Fly out there on the sea. To Durugu.

  Durugu
?

  Them islands. Long way. Where djuari go. All time. Gone people, djuari, spirit people.

  Fox tries to understand him.

  Axle, murmurs the boy patting his bare chest. Wheel turns on me.

  Long after the boy has gone back to bed Fox lies there thinking of Axle’s hot conviction that he means something, that he’s central to something even if Fox or the kid himself don’t understand what it might be. Even as a delusion it’s attractive. He envies him. You can’t help it when all you can feel is the wheel rolling over you time and again. It’s why you get away, get out from under it for good.

  YOU GOT one idea where you goin? asks Menzies in the morning as Fox prepares to pull his pack on.

  Axle has disappeared; his blackened hunk of damper sits on the billy lid.

  Fox unfolds the map to show Menzies the archipelago out along the gulf. He wants to work his way around the coast until he’s close to the biggest island which is separated from the mainland by a narrow strait. He hasn’t figured out how to cross it yet. He has the machete so maybe he could make a raft.

  The older man purses his lips. Hm. Axle must have knowed already. True! Says he give you the boat. He’s readin your mind, Lu.

  He really has a boat?

  Or you be walkin a long time. And then what? Swim? You take his boat. A present for the music, see. Here on the black beach. Wait for high stop tide. Paddle cross. You be right. Proper boat, Lu. Good one. But listen here. See this country? he says pointing out the western shore of the gulf. Doan go here, orright?

  What’s there?

  Business places. Hidin from you. Not for you.

  Secret, you mean? asks Fox. Sacred?

  Menzies looks away.

  What about you? Fox asks. You and Axle. You go there?

  Menzies shakes his head. We’s wundjat fullas. Lost people. We doan go there. From respec. You unnerstan respec?

  I understand. I won’t go there. But here, says Fox pointing to the island on the map, this okay for me to stay?

  You can visit, says Menzies. That boat. You lucky fulla.

  Yes.

  Sometimes I think Axle’s not so crazy. Like he dreamed you before, mebbe. Before the boat, you know, he did a dream and he tole me all about it. Little blue boat comin in from the sea. We go down to that black beach and bugger me! he says with a laugh. Washed up in the rocks. One canoe boat. Paddle an everythin! Ha!