‘Happy birthday, Granpa,’ said Mick.
In the years to come, long after he had gone, Mick was usually remembered in that region as ‘You know, the little boy who tamed that crazy half-blind horse’.
THE CAVE OF DREAMS
ON HIS THIRTEENTH birthday Mick’s mother telephoned and said that she felt a little bit better, but not well enough to have him back yet. Mick said, ‘Why don’t you come and live here?’ and she had replied, ‘How’s your dad? I haven’t seen him in ages.’
Mick said, ‘Dad’s dead, Mum, you know he is. Granpa told me what happened.’
‘Last time I saw him he was sleeping.’
‘Oh, Mum …’
It was still no good trying to get through to her, and Mick’s heart sank. He couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever get his mother back.
Even so, Mick had a splendid birthday that turned out to be more interesting than he had expected. Mick was a few inches taller, his trousers were too short, his legs seemed terribly long for his body, and his voice had begun to crackle and break when he talked. He realised one day that he couldn’t sing any more, and was starting to think about girls, even though he hardly ever saw one.
By now Blue had pretty much grown up, except that he was still full of puppy-dog energy and barminess. He was the colour of deep rust on a corrugated sheet. When he was dusty he seemed to melt into the landscape, but when he’d been for a swim in the creek he was a glossy dark russet. He had amber eyes, and ears so mobile that he almost seemed to be talking with them. He had quickly made friends with Lamington, which was fortunate for both of them, as Lamington did not like being chased, and Blue hated to have his nose raked.
Blue turned out to be very intelligent, energetic and bold, and he soon learned to ride on Mick’s motorcycle, sitting between his legs with his paws on the tank, or even on the handlebars. It had been easy to learn because Mick had tucked him between his thighs on the seat when he was a tiny puppy, and the dog had simply grown up not knowing any different. It was not as dangerous as it might have been, because out on the station it was impossible to drive fast, and Granpa had given him some excellent advice: ‘If you see an accident coming, never try to save the bike. You leap off and throw it away. If you try and save the bike, it’ll rip you up and break your bones.’
Mick had quickly learned the wisdom of this, and he and Blue had only ever suffered bruises and grazes from their frequent spills. In fact, Blue sometimes saw the accidents coming before Mick did, and jumped off unbidden.
In the last year, Mick and his grandfather had remade Granma’s garden, and now it was awash with zinnias and petunias, and sweet peas. They’d planted oleander, and set a bougainvillea up against the house. They had a bed of lettuce too, but it was rather too popular with the bugs, and they seldom had any left over for themselves. Almost every day Mick had to water the garden, sometimes two or three times, and he felt as though his arms were being stretched as long as an ape’s because of having to carry the buckets. The best thing was that Granma’s orange tree had recovered from the cyclone, and was bearing precious fruit that they could eat with special reverence, because there was so little of it.
Today, on his birthday, there was a disaster because in the mid-morning a plague of grasshoppers came along in a buzzing and clattering cloud, like something out of the Bible, and settled on every edible plant in the whole area. Mick could hardly believe it. There were millions and millions of them, and the sky went dark. He stood outside in wonder. Blue barked pointlessly, and Lamington skipped up and down on his hind legs, trying to bat them out of the sky. Eventually he caught one and went to the terrace to munch it, with its wings still buzzing at the sides of his mouth, like mad whiskers.
Granpa, Mick, Jimmy Umbrella and the blackfellas stationed themselves at the raised beds and tried to sweep the grasshoppers away from the flowers. About the rest of the farm they could do nothing, and their efforts to save the blooms were almost futile.
When at last the cloud of grasshoppers moved on, they left a ragged mess behind them, and thousands of dead and dying lying all over the ground.
Granpa looked at the wrecked garden and said resignedly, ‘We’ll have to start all over again.’ He went indoors and came out with a cylindrical parcel, which he handed over to Mick. ‘Sorry about the wrapping,’ he said. ‘Real men don’t know how to wrap. Happy birthday, son.’
It was indeed wrapped extremely badly, in Christmas paper. It was wrinkled and ripped and asymmetrical, but it contained a beautiful torch, long enough to hold four big batteries. It was made of chromed steel, with a ring on the end that you could thread onto your belt. He turned it on, but it made no difference in the Pilbara sunlight. You simply couldn’t tell, so he took it indoors and shut himself in a cupboard to make sure that it worked. He inspected the old rubbish that was stored there, and found a Slazenger tennis racket with broken strings, and a cricket ball.
When he came back out he said, ‘Thank you, Granpa. It’s the best torch.’ He showed the cricket ball to Granpa and said, ‘Can I play with this?’
‘Don’t see why not. And try not to run down the batteries when you don’t need to, son. It’s the one thing the store always runs out of.’
Granpa went to tell Taylor Pete something, and Mick fetched his motorcycle. He kicked it over to fire it up, and then when he was astride, Blue scrambled on, raking Mick’s thighs with his claws, as usual. Off they went, weaving their way between the rocks and stunted trees, in the direction of the creek, with the new torch dangling from his belt. There were some caves that he had always wanted to explore. He was happy, even though his father had died and his mother was still not well. He had a motorbike, a torch, a dog and a magnificent grandfather, and over to his left there were three wallabies having a race with him over this hard and beautiful land.
The cave was in a low cliff by the creek, with a small entrance through which you had to crawl, and in the past Mick had found that the moment you crawled in, you blocked the light and could see nothing at all. It had always been very frustrating.
This time he went in on his hands and knees, wishing that he was wearing long trousers, and that his torch had been the kind that you could wear on your forehead. It was far too heavy to carry in his mouth too, and it was awkward trying to get in there with the torch in one hand when ideally you needed both hands on the ground.
The entrance passage was very short, and to Mick’s surprise it opened out into a small cavern, with a pool of bright clear water at the bottom. He flicked the torchlight around the walls and ceiling, and said, ‘Wow.’
They were covered with Aboriginal etchings and paintings. Mick was not sure what a lot of them represented, but it seemed to him that he saw shapes like emus’ feet, and spears, and lizards. There were patterns just like the ones you could see the blackfellas doing at Roebourne, and snakes. Blue came in and lapped at the water in the pool, and then sat and watched his master intently, as if on guard. Mick said, ‘Hey, Blue, we could live in here, and be outlaws, and have orgies, like Ned Kelly.’
Mick did not know exactly what orgies were, or even that the Kellys had ever taken part in one, but he knew that outlaws had them, and they were very like rowdy parties. Blue grew restless and unhappy, and went back outside, and lay with his head between his paws, whining for Mick to come back out.
Mick shone the torch into the water and saw a beautiful piece of white quartz, shining and glittering. It was about a foot long, and two inches in diameter. Its ends were pointed, as if they had been bevelled. He tried to reach it, but it was too deep down, even if he lay flat. Just when he thought he was about to get it, with his right shoulder under the water, his torch went out. He felt a moment of extreme panic because of the intensity of the darkness, and he could feel his heart thumping in his chest. Sweat burst out at his temples and forehead, but then his eyes began to adjust, and he realised that there was light coming from the entrance. Even so, he had never felt more thoroughly spooked. He threw the to
rch out before him, and crawled into the daylight. He picked it up and tried to switch it on and off, but it had failed. The batteries could not have run down already, so the bulb must have burned out, thought Mick.
Back at the homestead, Mick found Taylor Pete tinkering with the fishplates on the wind pump. ‘Happy birthday,’ said Taylor Pete.
‘How did you know?’
‘Your grandad asked me to make you something.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a secret.’
‘Pete?’
‘Yes?’
‘Can you keep a secret?’
‘I’m keeping one already. You got another one?’
‘We found a cave, down at Myrie Pool.’
Taylor Pete suddenly looked very serious. ‘You keep out of that, Micko, it’s not for whitefellas, even half-growns.’
‘You know it?’
‘Of course I do. It’s Yirramala. It’s for Bunaga men. It’s Dreamtime stuff.’
‘What’s Dreamtime?’
‘It’s stuff we dreamed up to fool the whitefella. It’s all hokum.’
‘Hokum?’
‘Roo shit.’
‘Really?’
‘Just kidding. Did you see the white stone?’
‘Yes, I couldn’t reach it.’
‘You shouldn’t have tried. You never heard of Mukkine?’
‘No.’
‘He was a magic man, Micko. He bludgeoned a whitefella, and the troopers came after him, with another blackfella, because they reckoned you needed one to catch one, and that blackfella shot Mukkine. But you can’t kill a Maban unless you get his thumb, ’cause that’s where his power is. Understand?’
‘Not really, Pete.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Anyway, Mukkine got in that cave and he put his spirit into that water, and that white stone is his stone, and if he points it at you, you die. And you’d better watch out because he might be after you already. Pass me that spanner … and that nut.’
Mick passed him the tool, and, in a very worried tone of voice, asked, ‘Why would he come after me?’
‘Land.’
‘Land?’
‘You people’ve got our land. This was ours. You took it. Fences went up. We couldn’t wander. We got shot when we speared the sheep. We had to stay put and get work with the whitefella.’
‘Granpa says we’ll have to go one day.’
‘The whitefellas? ’Spect so. Too late for us, though, Micko. We’re like ghosts, still alive and haunting our own place.’
Mick looked sceptically at Taylor Pete, and thought that he did not remotely resemble a ghost. He asked, ‘Do you speak Aborigine?’
Pete laughed. ‘Aborigine? I’ll tell you one thing. We had a whitefella here a while back. He was collecting languages, and he got me to talk a load of old baloney into a tape recorder. I made half of it up, the stuff I couldn’t remember. I remembered a lot after he’d gone. There’s no such thing as speaking Aborigine. I speak Yindjibarndi. There’s blackfellas further north who mix it all up with English, and that’s called Kriol, but I speak Yindjibarndi.’
‘Can you speak me some?’
‘Well, now, Roebourne is Yirramakartu, Whim Creek is Parrkapinya, and Cossack is Pajinhurrpa, and round here a boomerang isn’t a boomerang. We call it something else, and there’s fellas who can use it to knock birds out of the sky. You ought to go to Cossack. It’s a graveyard.’
‘A graveyard?’
‘A graveyard of whitefellas’ dreams. It’s a ruin. And another thing; you’re going to need protection. In case Mukkine comes after you. I’ll do you a swap. Got anything nice?’
‘I’ve got a dry bat and a tobacco tin,’ offered Mick hopefully.
‘I’ve got a roo’s toe bone. I’ll swap the bone for the tin.’
‘Is it from that roo by the airstrip? I’ve already got the leg bones.’
‘But you haven’t got the toe bone I’ve got. Come on, swap.’
Taylor Pete dug into his pockets and produced a clasp knife, a piece of string, a paper clip and, finally, the toe bone. Mick took the bone, dug in his pocket and took out the tobacco tin.
‘You punched holes in it,’ said Pete.
‘I’ve got a lizard inside,’ said Mick.
‘So you have,’ said Pete, opening the tin.
‘It’s a rainbow skink.’
‘Yeah. What did it do wrong?’
‘Wrong?’
‘Yeah, why’s it in prison?’
‘It’s not.’
‘Just a guest then?’ Taylor Pete picked the tiny lizard out gently, and placed it in the shade of the wall. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘you keep that bone on you at all times, and Mukkine won’t come after you. And leave that white stone alone. That’s blackfella business, got it? It stays where it is. The last whitefella who tried to get it fell in and drowned. In a few feet of water. Wasn’t found for weeks.’
Mick nodded. ‘Pete?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Did you go walkabout?’
‘Course I did.’
‘Isn’t it hard? All that walking?’
‘Don’t be a galah. I went in the ute.’
That evening Jimmy Umbrella made a special birthday dinner of barramundi and mangrove oysters, with peas from a tin, and something black and crispy as a side dish. Just as Granpa and Mick were about to tuck in, the generator failed. ‘Damn it,’ said Granpa, as the lights went out. ‘You got that torch I gave you? I’m going to have to find some lamps.’
‘It’s on my belt,’ said Mick, ‘but I think the bulb’s gone.’
‘What? Already? Hand it over, will you?’
Mick undid the buckle of his belt and passed the torch over in the dark. Granpa slid the switch, and shone the beam vertically from under his chin, so that he looked like a sinister ghost. ‘Nothing wrong with that,’ he said, and a shiver ran down Mick’s spine. This was all somewhat spooky. Why would it only work when it wasn’t in the cave?
Granpa fetched some paraffin lamps and lit them, and then went to find his bottle of Bundy. ‘Have a sniff,’ he said, ‘and many happy returns. Here’s to your mum getting back on the straight and narrow.’
They ate happily in the semi-darkness, the lamps filling the room with a pleasantly faint aroma of paraffin.
Granpa said, ‘I saw you talking with Taylor Pete, a good long time. He’s the only one of our blackfellas who ever says much. Most of them don’t. They can work side by side for hours and not say a damn thing. They don’t do small talk. And they don’t like questions.’
‘Pete doesn’t mind,’ said Mick.
‘You know he’ll tell you any old rubbish, just for fun?’
Mick held up one of the blackened crispy objects impaled on his fork. ‘Granpa, what are these? They’re really bonzer.’
‘Grasshoppers, son. They call it entomophagy. No point in wasting ’em. Got the idea off the cat. Blue had a go at ’em too.’
TRAINING BLUE
FIVE MORNINGS LATER, Mick found out what Taylor Pete had been making for him. It was a cricket bat, crude and heavy, but nicely balanced, and just the right length. Pete had laminated three thick planks, and then trimmed it all down, varnished it, and wound the handle with rubber from an old inner tyre, to take some of the shock and sting out of hitting the ball. Then he had painted three stumps in white paint on the wall of the shed.
‘It’s a dinkum bat, Peeto,’ said Mick, his eyes shining with pleasure.
‘Don’t thank me, thank your grandad,’ said Taylor Pete. ‘It’s actually a present to himself.’
‘A present to himself?’
‘He’s had no one to play cricket with since your dad left. That bat’s for him, so he can play with you.’
‘But it’s too small.’
‘I’ll probably have to make him another. I think we’ve got a word for that. In Yindjibarndi.’
‘For a cricket bat?’
‘Nah. In Yindjibarndi, a cricket bat is a “cricket bat”. I mean, “a present for yours
elf”. Can’t remember what it is, though. It’ll come back later, when I’m at something else.’
Granpa made Mick play cricket almost every morning, until the sun grew too hot, and the light so bright that it was senseless trying to follow a ball. Stemple usually passed by on purpose in order to be invited to join in. He was a fine wicketkeeper, but as the stumps were painted on a wall, he had to make do with being cover point. He could bowl a mean googly even on that dust, and often had arguments with Granpa about LBW. Granpa reckoned there was no chance that Stemple had got him out, and Stemple reckoned he got him every time, but as there was no umpire, Stemple’s appeals were formally undecidable, no matter how much he ran in circles pumping the air with his fist and shouting, ‘Howzat?’
Mick had to admit that his grandfather was a very good cricketer. He could dive to catch a ball, and roll over like a paratrooper as he struck the ground, coming up covered in red dust, but unhurt. He could hurl the ball from just about any distance, and land it square on the stumps. He could break windows with a cut, and could pull off an ugly cow shot that sent the ball high into the sky and into Willy’s paddock. Once he scored sixty-three runs while Mick went looking for the ball, and then declared, as he was too tired to bat on. He could drive the ball along the ground straight back at Mick, so that he had to leap out of the way, and he could bowl a spinner that seemed to bounce sideways at forty-five degrees in either direction, so that Mick didn’t stand a chance at the crease unless he bounded forward and took the balls at full toss. Sometimes he would bowl a ball so hard and fast that the side of the shed was at risk of being wrecked and so Taylor Pete nailed up a thick piece of ply to protect it.
After one of their games, Mick said, ‘This is just like having Dad back,’ and Granpa had looked away and said, ‘Yeah, it is. It’s very like.’
One day Mick went into Willy’s paddock to collect the ball while his grandad ran twenty-six runs, and found the horse going bonkers. What he did not know was that the ball had landed in between the horse’s forelegs when he had been grazing, and startled him so greatly that he had reared up and screamed. He was still rearing and screaming, and kicking up his hind hooves, when Mick arrived to find the ball. He managed to retrieve it, but was promptly chased out of the paddock by the horse, which was clearly trying to take a bite out of his backside. Mick did not have a chance to close the gate, and that is how Willy escaped, pursuing the poor boy round the corner and into the yard, and that was how Granpa and Mick found themselves up the ladder to the water tank. Blue found himself running round it in circles, and Lamington found himself on the roof of the shed. They were up there for half an hour before Willy calmed down and settled into chewing what was left of Granma’s garden. Granpa said, ‘I keep telling you always to close the gate of Willy’s paddock. I’ve got a good mind to dock your pocket money.’