The Soul Stone, a novel by Brad Collis

The 

Soul Stone 

By Brad Collis

The Soul Stone 

By Brad Collis 

Copyright © 2009 

First published in Australia in 1993 by Hodder & Stoughton 

(Australia) Pty Ltd. 

ISBN 0 340 58452 1 

(Out of print) 

This ebook, a re-edited version of the original book, is 

being made available by the author at no cost. However, the 

work remains protected by copyright. Apart from any fair 

dealing for the purpose of private study, research, or review 

as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be 

reproduced by any process without written permission of 

the author. (email: bcollis@bigpond.net.au)

Chapter One 

Brother Wheatley pumped his arms above his head; his 

face red with exertion as he followed the score on an iron 

music stand. Here in the resonance of the old hall it was 

easy to create angels, but he had little faith in the boys’ 

ability to achieve the same ethereal qualities in a radio 

studio. Walls lined with split egg cartons was not a 

comforting measure of technology. 

The smooth, ominous tip of a leather strap, stitched in 

layers until it was an inch thick, protruded from the deep 

pocket of his cassock. Brother Wheatley relied on a far 

more tangible weapon of inspiration. 

To help and guide and comfort us, and lead us 

in our prayer . . . 

Simon Bradbury – a bony, earnest boy in grey serge; in 

awe of God, clerics and their leather straps, desperate to 

please, tried to follow the pumping arms of Brother 

Wheatley. Being in the choir was a heartfelt prayer 

unexpectedly answered. Each night he had sung the songs 

to himself; had mouthed the words until he dreamed them 

in fitful sleeps. In two days the choir would be at the radio 

station recording for the Religious Program; an hour of 

sectarianism every Sunday morning before the football. 

Simon had written excitedly to his parents to tell them to 

listen. 

Barely ten and already Simon lived on the fringe of his 

two worlds. He was a boarder. He was separated already 

from the farm; from his home, and at the end of every 

school day he separated from friends who bicycled away to 

streets noisy with neighbours and familiar faces. 

1

The song reached its climax. Simon filled his lungs for a 

final ebullient lunge. Every sinew in his skinny neck 

quivered as he thrust his face towards the darkened beams 

above—and broke the hymn apart with a nerve-taught 

squawk. 

Two rows of pinched cheeks and tingling flanks held 

their collective breath. 

Simon lowered his gaze and offered, without inquisition, 

the confession expected. The cleric rounded on the boy. 

"Out," he shouted and pointed to the distant door. 

Simon squeezed through the front rank, clambered 

blindly down the stage steps, across the cavernous hall to 

the heavy wooden door. Two dozen pairs of dispassionate 

eyes followed his retreat. 

Drawing back the iron bolt, he slid through a gap in the 

door and out into the wintry playground. 

Simon didn’t sing on the radio. On the day of the taping, 

Brother Wheatley anointed him overseer of a work detail 

dispatched to the nearby presbytery. It meant escaping the 

classroom for half a day, although the gesture did little to 

lift Simon’s gloom. 

His teacher tried to make light of the banishment. “Not 

everybody can be a singer,” he had said, ruffling Simon’s 

hair. 

When Simon didn’t respond the teacher lifted his chin. 

“Disappointments make us stronger—perhaps God has 

plans for Simon Bradbury that don’t require him to sing on 

the wireless!” Then, his mind already elsewhere, he thrust a 

shed key into the boy’s hand and ordered him away. 

Simon armed his navvies with garden tools and led them 

along a back lane, past the picket fence behind the brothers’ 

house, to the presbytery. His own hands were empty. 

“Hey, Bradbury what are you going to do?” called one of 

the boys pointedly. 

“Pick flowers,” suggested another. The group snickered. 

2

“Who’s your girlfriend, Bradbury?” 

“Sister Veronica,” shouted a boy whose stick-like legs 

and stretched neck stuck out like pink stems from his handme-down 

clothes. They laughed. 

Simon thrust out his jaw and confronted the tormentors. 

“Get fucked.” 

They whooped with delight. 

“You’ll get six.” 

“Bare bum,” sang another. 

“Bare bum,” they began to chant. 

Brother Harris had been in the army. Korea, an older boy 

once confided. They didn’t know where Korea was, but 

there had been a war. They knew that. Brother Harris still 

cut his hair like a soldier and discipline was his dogma. 

Every morning he inspected the school; ranks of 

undernourished Christian soldiers standing stiff and anxious 

on the handball courts. Anything less than a ruler-edged 

part from forehead to crown was enough to get you called 

out to the front. Cold fingers fumbled with buckle and 

buttons; trembling hands pushed baggy shorts until they 

dropped into a puddle of cloth around black, buffed shoes. 

On the order to bend, some boys closed their eyes. Some 

turned away with fear or shame—but some faced the parade 

with the hatred of embittered men. “—Lower … !” A hand 

pushing on the neck. Then the waiting—everyone watching 

the small white bottom, waiting to see it burn; waiting for 

Brother Harris’s arm to rise and for the strap to come 

swishing down. 

Simon stomped along the path, swallowing hard. 

Someone would tell, he knew that much. 

At the presbytery there were lawns to cut, hedges to trim 

and cobbled paths and loamy rose beds full of worms and 

dead thorns to weed. On any other day Simon would have 

been glad to be on the detail. He liked the feel and sight of 

his skin grimy with earth. He enjoyed the opportunity to 

demonstrate his farm-learned proficiency with tools. But 

3

his mind this day was elsewhere. The unfairness gnawed at 

his heart. He had desperately wanted to sing—to stand in 

front of a microphone; to be on the radio, anonymous in a 

chorus of voices but on the radio nonetheless. 

He sat on the wall banging his heels against its granite 

flanks, almost daring God to descend personally to punish 

him for his recalcitrance. It was a challenge God did not 

allow to pass. Simon felt his ear being tweaked before he 

was even aware of Father MacNamara’s presence. 

“Nothing to do young man?” the priest demanded. His 

voice still held a hint Gaelic. A man in his late thirties, 

Father MacNamara enjoyed the swagger of authority his 

position conferred. The church in the early 1960s was a 

powerful institution, and Father MacNamara was an 

ambitious young executive. He was popular, but jaunty and 

glib among people whose lives he could control by 

invoking powers beyond their comprehension. 

“There aren’t enough tools Father,” said the boy, 

cowering under the man’s gaze. 

“Pretty poor planning isn’t it? Who’s in charge?” He 

clenched his fists into his sides and faced the others who 

had stopped to indulge in their classmate’s discomfort. All 

eyes turned to Simon. 

The priest encouraged him off the wall with a sharp tug 

to Simon’s ear. “Good,” he said, with a smile. 

“Candlesticks need polishing.” 

Simon followed Father MacNamara’s flowing black 

skirt past the workers, whose downturned faces hid their 

treacherous grins. Together, the priest gliding and the boy 

stumbling, they disappeared through the doorway of the 

darkened sacristy. 

Twin wooden wardrobes dominated the small room. 

They shone in the dull light; the legacy of conscientious 

oiling and polishing by generations of nuns, called from the 

shallows of adolescent prayer to become the housewives of 

the church. 

4

Against one wall an enamel washbasin was set into a 

wooden bench. No amount of rubbing could remove the 

brown rust tracing a miniature river from the base of the 

brass tap to the green, oxidized sinkhole. An old leather 

chair with thick armrests filled one corner. Beside it a 

shelved wall-unit stood. In its centre was a recess half 

hidden by a partially pulled back green cloth. A key 

protruded from the lock of a small cubicle. 

The room was redolent of mysterious odours and 

perfumes; waxes, wood oils, and the lingering presence of 

incense. Simon’s eyes were wide with wonder. 

Father MacNamara watched the boy thoughtfully, 

surprised by the unexpected intensity with which he was 

devouring the room’s details. 

“Not been in the sacristy before?” 

The boy faced the priest and looked at him anew. There 

were unearthly powers in this room and Father MacNamara 

was the diviner. A line from a book, he couldn’t remember 

which, came to him, “an instrument of God”. It was 

standing before him. 

“No Father,” the boy responded. 

“Hmm!” The priest looked as though he was about to 

say more but appeared to change his mind. Instead he 

swung open the cupboard beneath the sink and withdrew a 

fistful of rags and a stained tin of Brasso. He handed them 

to Simon. 

Simon followed the priest onto a sea of red carpet. He 

looked from the main altar, rising high above the carpeted 

steps to his left, to his customary place among the benches 

and their hard kneeling boards. He became aware of a 

contrast. The altar was a place of order. The body of the 

church, on the other hand, looked disturbed; the empty 

pews caught in dust-speckled shafts of window light like 

chopped water below a longboat’s oars. He became 

conscious for the first time of two distinct worlds. There 

before him, separated by a wooden altar rail, were the 

5

ealms of God and of Man; knowledge and confusion; 

authority and obedience. 

But in his child’s mind the awareness was fleeting. He 

felt confused by the sudden pulse of excitement. He had 

been handed a potent truth, but it slipped away before he 

was fully aware of its meaning. 

Again the priest watched the boy. 

“No time for daydreaming,” he said gruffly. “Put that lot 

over there then give me a hand with the candlesticks.” 

Simon passed through the altar gate and placed the 

cloths and tin onto the linoleum aisle. He returned to the 

towering, carved altarpiece which bore above it a life-size 

crucifix bearing the nailed Jesus, and stood ready as Father 

MacNamara plucked the fat brown candles from their bases 

and laid them carefully onto the white linen altar cloth. 

Father MacNamara passed down two heavy brass 

candlesticks and nodded for the boy to take them to his 

cleaning equipment. “There’s newspaper behind the 

sacristy door. Spread that first or we’ll be here all day repolishing 

the floor as well.” 

Simon did as he was told, returning to the altar with 

sheets of newspaper tucked under his arm. Squatting on the 

floor with cloth and candlesticks at his feet he watched the 

priest who was busy at the altar, his hand hidden inside the 

tabernacle. Its door was open and the polished brass lining 

captured and refractured a stray shaft of light. The effect 

was magical. The tabernacle housed a focal point of 

Catholicism, the Eucharist; the bread that was the body of 

Christ. Simon didn’t understand how this worked but was 

conscious of the sanctity of the small domed receptacle. 

Simon began smearing dull, yellow polish over the 

candlesticks. As he worked he continued to peer through 

the wooden railings separating him from the carpeted altar 

where the priest remained busy with his secrets. 

The man closed and locked the tabernacle and strode 

back into the sacristy, his cassock swishing as he walked. 

6

He re-emerged carrying a large red book with gold-edged 

pages. The priest used one of the ribbons that fluttered from 

the great book to flip open the pages and lay it flat on its 

brass reading stand. 

The eyes of the priest and the boy met. Simon lowered 

his gaze and tried to concentrate on the job at hand. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Simon Bradbury, Father,” he responded, as the priest 

slowly approached him. 

“It seems as though you’ve never seen an altar before. 

Haven’t you been coming to Mass?” Admonition edged the 

tone. 

“Yes Father—it just looks different from up here.” 

Father MacNamara smiled. “That it is boy—that it is.” 

For the second time during their brief acquaintance he 

changed his mind about saying more. Instead he 

disappeared back into the sacristy. 

Simon didn’t see the priest again until he had finished 

his task and returned to the small room clutching the soiled 

rags. The man was in the old leather chair reading from a 

small black book. 

“I’ve finished, Father.” 

The priest looked up and smiled. “Good fellow. Put all 

that gear into the cupboard there.” He nodded to the doors 

beneath the sink. 

Simon did as he was told. When he was finished the 

priest pushed himself from the chair and to the boy’s 

surprise waved him into it. Simon slid back hesitatingly 

into its leather folds and wondered what he had done 

wrong. 

“How old are you?” 

“I was ten in March, Father.” 

“You should already be an altar boy. I will see to it.” He 

smiled. Simon returned the smile, because he didn’t know 

what else to do. He watched the priest turn the key to the 

cupboard below the mysteriously curtained space. The 

7

man’s hand disappeared and he heard a clink of glass. 

When the priest straightened he was holding a dark brown 

bottle and two small glasses. 

With growing apprehension, he watched the man pour 

and pass one of the glasses. 

The priest winked and spoke conspiratorially. “Altar 

wine—don’t tell Brother Wheatley.” 

In the world beyond the small town by the sea, human 

beings were discovering new dimensions to their world; a 

world that could now perhaps extend beyond planet Earth. 

In February 1962 Western governments were annoyed at 

having twice been beaten in the race into space by 

Russians. Their hope was now with a man named John 

Glenn who would become the first American to orbit the 

earth. In an epic journey of just over four hours, Glenn was 

to make three orbits. As his craft moved at twenty-eight 

thousand kilometres an hour some two-hundred kilometres 

above the earth, its path crossed the Indian Ocean from 

northern day into southern night. The city of Perth, a tiny, 

self-conscious metropolis on the south-western edge of a 

remote continent, lay in the flight path. To remind the space 

pioneer he was not alone in the universe and that those on 

this darkened side of the planet also wished him well, the 

city lights were left ablaze. John Glenn had a special 

thankyou message prepared. 

Hundreds of kilometres to the north-east of Perth, in the 

vast Western Desert, a man warmed his aging bones by a 

fire. He had spent the last hour of daylight collecting 

enough wood to build a fire that would burn through the 

night. He had left his family a full day’s walking distance to 

be alone in the land of his father, through which they were 

travelling. They were ending their days of desert wandering 

to join a mission community to the south west. The old man 

knew he would not pass this way again. For tens of 

thousands of years his family had sung the land here, 

8

protecting the resting places of the Dreamtime deities and 

accepting the succour it gave them in return. But now 

moving across the land, an alien order ruptured the 

harmony of their existence with earth and sky, with the 

living world and the spirit world. The future made the man 

feel sad for all men. 

But there was something else happening on this night. 

He was waiting for a man who would be passing in the sky. 

Not a spirit, but a mortal from the world towards which he 

and his race were being driven and drawn. He felt no 

puzzlement or awe. He did as he was bidden by the spirits 

in whose presence he lived. There was no need to question. 

A man was passing in the sky; a man in trouble. He sat with 

his legs crossed and began a sad ululating song. 

Aboard the capsule, John Glenn was busy monitoring 

gauges and dials, periodically taking his blood pressure for 

medical records, and talking to each tracking station as he 

passed through its section of control. There were two in 

Australia: Woomera in the state of South Australia, and 

Muchea in Western Australia. Other than the occasional 

disembodied voice from earth, the only sounds keeping 

Glenn company were the hiss of oxygen as it ran through a 

hose to his helmet and the muffled whir of gyros governing 

the capsule’s flight attitude. Glenn’s attention was very 

much on these. The Attitude Control System had failed and 

the capsule was straying from its pre-programmed 

alignment. This required continual manual firing of the 

retro rockets to remain on the correct alignment for re-entry 

through the atmosphere. The rockets were a series of small 

hydrogen peroxide jets and John Glenn was worried he 

would exhaust the supply of gas. 

But this was not his only problem. 

Unknown to him, engineers at Cape Canaveral had 

received a signal from the capsule’s automatic monitoring 

system that indicated the heat shield on the nose had come 

loose. If it broke away, John Glenn would be incinerated on 

9

his descent to earth. The control centre was helpless. And 

so just as Glenn had decided not to worry Mission Control 

over the failed alignment control, the ground engineers 

elected not to tell the astronaut about their fears for the heat 

shield because there was nothing they could do. 

But for the moment, John Glenn continued to orbit; a 

man given the view of a god. Far below, a twinkling glow 

reminded him of the pre-planned gesture from Australia. He 

spoke to the tracking station at Muchea. "Thank everyone 

for being so thoughtful," he said. 

In the desert, the old Aborigine ceased his singing and 

peered intently into the sky then began to blow into his fire. 

A shower of sparks rose into the night. He blew harder and 

a bigger cloud of fiery embers spun upwards. He blew and 

blew, raising a storm of sparks which drifted higher and 

higher. 

The astronaut was startled as a cloud of light, like a 

swarm of fireflies, enveloped the craft. The man stared out 

through the porthole in wonder. “This is Friendship Seven. 

I am in a big mass of very small particles—all around as far 

as I can see there are thousands of small luminescent 

particles. I’ve never seen anything like it. They’re coming 

by the capsule and they look like little stars—a whole 

shower of them coming by. They’re swirling around the 

capsule.” 

The engineers looked to each other. “Is there any 

impact—are they impacting?” 

“Negative. They’re moving very slowly and just swirling 

around.” 

The engineers consulted. A mystery. “It must be coming 

off the skin of the capsule.” 

“Can’t be,” the astronaut replied. “—They’re coming 

towards me.” 

Glenn took some photographs through the small 

porthole, and returned to his duties. 

10

It was soon after he began his descent that John Glenn 

himself realized the heat shield was breaking up. He could 

see white hot fragments flitting past. “The capsule is 

enveloped in a fireball,” he transmitted, but Mission 

Control could no longer hear him. The capsule had been 

consumed and communications cut. The technicians at 

mission control already believed the astronaut was dead. 

Glenn, sitting with his back to the nose of the capsule, 

braced himself for the searing white heat which would 

dissolve the metal skin and end his life. 

Incredibly, nothing happened. At twenty thousand feet a 

parachute, which he assumed had been incinerated, opened 

and the capsule drifted gently into the Pacific Ocean. 

On landing, Glenn was openly moved by his miraculous 

return. To the surprise of waiting colleagues, dignitaries 

and media, one of his first messages for the outside world 

was to the people of Perth. “Tell them—it is the city of 

light,” he said. 

It was in the papers the next day. 

“City of light” proclaimed the headline proudly. It 

prompted a class discussion. “What will man find in 

space?” asked Brother Wheatley. 

“God,” yelled Simon hopefully. 

The teacher shook his head despairingly, and tapped a 

chalk-drawn solar system on the blackboard. 

* 

Simon was conscripted into the ranks of the parish altar 

boys. For Simon, kneeling on the steps below the celebrant, 

it was always a serious moment as the priest lowered his 

voice in a deliberate, dramatic representation of the Last 

Supper: “In mei memoriam facietis—do this in memory of 

me”. Simon imagined the tension so long ago when Christ 

broke bread and shared wine with his apostles for the last 

time, knowing of his betrayal and imminent torture and 

execution. “Haec commixtio et consecrato Corporis et 

Sanguinis Domini nostri Jesu Christi, fiat accipientibus 

11

nobis in vitam aeternam—may this mingling of the body 

and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ bring eternal life to us 

who receive it.” 

Simon Bradbury wanted eternal life. 

By the time he was twelve Simon was experienced 

enough to serve early morning midweek masses on his 

own. 

One morning he entered the church to prepare the cruets 

and candles. It was quiet and barely illuminated by the 

weak dawn light filtering through the stained glass. He 

enjoyed being alone there. There was a comfort in the cool 

embrace of its solid walls and high windows; in its silent 

icons and perfumes. He switched on the lights and stopped 

still. He stared at the altar, puzzled. A small table had been 

erected in the centre, a few steps below the main altarpiece. 

He was confused so he waited for Father MacNamara. 

The priest took the boy aside. 

“It is called reform,” he answered to the boy’s query. 

“Do you know what reform means?” 

Simon nodded. 

Father MacNamara smiled sadly. “Then I may ask you 

to explain it to me because I do not.” 

The two stood side-by-side and looked at the table in 

silence before the priest spoke again. “That there is our new 

altar Simon—glorious isn’t it.” 

Simon did not understand, but felt the man’s pain and 

was upset for him. 

“Do you know what else we are doing today?” 

Simon shook his head. He was uncomfortable with the 

questions. Questions did not fit well with the atmosphere of 

the church. 

Father MacNamara looked down and into Simon’s wide 

eyes and for a fleeting moment was transported to his own 

youth and innocence. 

“Today Simon you and I will make history in this parish. 

How does that make you feel?” 

12

The boy flinched. Something was wrong. 

The priest sighed. 

“Today we will celebrate the Mass in the vernacular—in 

English.” He slapped his hands into his sides. “Latin is no 

more.” He paused and stared pensively at the altar. “You 

will be called, Simon, I know that even if you don’t. It is a 

gift, to be sure, but I fear for the church you will inherit.” 

Simon had never heard the priest speak like this. “I don’t 

understand,” he said softly. 

Father MacNamara walked out onto the altar. He stared 

up at the nailed Christ. “The church, Simon is a collection 

of almost two thousand years of worship, of countless acts 

of faith by those who have lived by God’s word. We belong 

to a wondrous family. All the experiences are bound 

together for us to share through our celebration of Christ’s 

message in our very own universal tongue—Latin.” 

Simon looked up at the man. “But it’s a dead language 

Father.” 

Father MacNamara walked to the new altar and ran his 

hand over its polished marble surface. “Ah—that’s what the 

brothers are saying is it?” He turned and faced Simon. 

“Why is it dead?” 

Simon grimaced. He should have held his tongue. Father 

MacNamara was in a strange mood. 

“Because it’s not used by anybody anymore, Father.” 

“Anybody?” 

“By normal people.” 

The priest smiled. “Normal, eh?” He glanced towards 

the empty pews and back to the boy. “That’s the trouble. 

The glory comes from being different to the vernacular— 

the normal. Latin doesn’t become distorted by casual usage; 

it doesn’t change. This is why the church has held to 

Latin—a frozen language captures and holds true the 

meaning of the Mass. It has given the church a universal 

tongue that enables bishops, priests and Catholics the world 

over to worship together irrespective of nationality or race.” 

13

He stared into the body of the empty church. “It is as 

mysterious as the language of the Mass should be—and 

now instead of nurturing it, teaching it, we are to dispose of 

it.” 

Father MacNamara glared at the new, small altar. “And 

this to boot.” 

Footsteps sounded on the tiles at the front entrance. The 

priest beckoned Simon towards the sacristy doorway. “Well 

young man, let us meet our destiny.” He glanced across his 

shoulder at the approaching figure of an elderly woman. 

“While there is merit still in what we do,” he quipped with 

unsheathed bitterness. 

The Latin Mass changed to English and priests, hesitant 

at first, adjusted also to Rome’s edict to stand behind the 

new altars so they faced their congregation. It was cause for 

heated debate by all who feared a loss of purpose through 

the greater sharing of the mystery of the Eucharistic Rites. 

But the reformers were determined and omnipotent. 

Father MacNamara saw the Mass lose its power, gravity 

and mystery, and the ranks of followers continue to 

dwindle. 

For Simon, however, it passed as a moment of curiosity. 

For him the abandonment of Latin did not diminish the 

mysticism. He was fond of the ceremonial trappings that 

came with being an altar boy; not to mention the sherry, the 

delicious flush from tipples sanctioned by the priests when 

they were in a good mood, and furtive swigs when they 

were not. Some things simply did not change. Being an 

altar boy had its privileges, which increased with seniority. 

There was a power in being part of a ceremony which 

reduced even the authority of Brother Wheatley to bended 

knee. 

It was a private club; feted by priests and brothers in 

their efforts to direct retiring altar boys towards church 

vocations. 

14

Simon began reading the biographies of the saints; but 

not so much out of piety but because he found himself 

drawn to their courage. These ordinary men and women 

who reached beyond their everyday selves to explore the 

limits of belief. Three times a week he served at the earlymorning 

Mass. It was a lone effort, from setting and 

responding to his bedside clock, the uphill bicycle ride from 

the opposite side of town, to the purposeful preparation of 

wine and wafers for the Eucharistic rite. The early morning 

congregation was made up almost entirely of clergy, the 

five brothers from his school and a dozen or so nuns. He 

could never recall exactly how many. Their number, like 

most of their faces, remained indistinct. 

Occasionally there would be a pensioner or two, but the 

main devotees were a familiar cluster of black cloth in the 

pews closest to the altar. The brothers, greased hair and raw 

freshly-shaved faces exuded the scent of cologne and soap. 

The words of a sermon given to the school one Friday by 

Father MacNamara was etched into Simon’s memory. 

“From its youth, from among you here, the church seeks 

heroes. The sacrifices that all must make in proclaiming 

their faith in a hostile world requires spiritual heroism. Are 

you ready for the test?” 

Most listened obediently. Simon, however, was eager. 

His grandfather had been a hero on a beach in Turkey. 

Lawrence of Arabia was a hero. Heroism was something he 

understood when holding the chalice for the hosts and 

watching the smooth wafer placed on Brother Wheatley’s 

pink, glistening tongue, at an hour when his classmates 

were still warm in their beds. 

“Not everyone is called,” thought Simon. It made him 

feel special. 

Separated from his parents except for holidays, the 

influence of the school and the church was never seriously 

countered. There wasn’t the time. The school holidays 

coincided with farming’s busiest cycles, seeding and 

15

harvest, or working with the cattle his father hoped to breed 

up into a prime herd. Simon’s father never questioned the 

farm demands of working dawn to dusk, and neither did 

Simon. The long hours of steering the near-vintage 

Chamberlain Super-70 in ever-diminishing circuits had 

become an accepted holiday routine. His friends were 

impressed and envied his work. He, on the other hand, 

could never adequately explain to them the painful 

monotony of icy wind through the open cab at seeding time 

and the dust and prickly heat at harvest. The old Super-70 

was built in the days before tractor-makers thought to offer 

farmers padded seats and air-conditioned cabins. But it did 

the job: trailed the plough and seeder in winter and in 

summer towed a second-hand harvester, often held together 

with fencing wire. 

This was how his father lived and it was also Simon’s 

experience of life, especially while they had the cattle. He 

enjoyed working with cattle; borrowing bulls to improve 

the strain, weaning the calves and watching them grow. 

Then his father sold the animals. The beef market collapsed 

and he had reckoned the only way ahead was with wheat. 

The yields in such an arid area were low, but the extra 

acreage made up for it—or so the theory went. However, by 

the end of his schooling Simon resented the strictures of 

farm life. One slip; one evaded decision, and he would 

become just like his father; dirt-poor and probably also 

married to a pinched-faced convent girl. This wasn’t 

something he could explain to his parents, but he had 

nonetheless started looking beyond his childhood 

expectations. In the last years of school when careers had to 

be considered, he was attracted to the army. The brothers 

were not always successful in their efforts to instil in their 

boys a ‘devotion to duty’, but in this respect Simon was an 

outstanding disciple. A military career would not have 

surprised anyone. 

16

By the last summer holiday as he helped his father 

harvest yet another poor crop withered by lack of finishing 

rains, he hadn’t told his parents about his final decision. 

The right moment was difficult to create in a household in 

which personal conversation just didn’t happen. So it was a 

surprise and a relief for Simon when his father 

uncharacteristically raised the subject. 

It had been a summer to scorch the heart as well as the 

land. Hot north-easterlies blew in from the desert for days 

on end. The tractor was giving trouble and the header was 

spewing out as much valuable grain in the chaff as it was 

collecting in the storage bin. 

Simon and his father worked frantically, pausing only 

for sleep and meals delivered by his mother in the rattling 

Toyota flat-top. Simon watched her, a slender woman in a 

simple sun-bleached frock standing in a wasteland of 

stubble as she waited for the lumbering machinery to reach 

her. He found himself reading for the first time the lines of 

age on her face. How long was it since her skin had been 

softened with scented creams? Two decades of toil on 

godforsaken land had taken their toll. He sometimes 

wondered what had kept her there. Surely she didn’t still 

believe in her husband’s dreams? 

It took five weeks to harvest the eighteen hundred 

hectares they had sown. The yield was half what his father 

had hoped. With miserly budgeting it might be enough to 

live off and put in another crop the following year, but a lot 

would depend on the bank, which was tiring of its 

investment in fringe farmers. Now, even requests for the 

smallest short-term loans brought on a humiliating 

inquisition. 

The number of farmers out towards the goldfields where 

Simon’s parents toiled were dwindling by the year as the 

wheatbelt shrank away from them. Soon, it was said, there 

would be no farmers left. Nobody wanted them there. Even 

the towns were disappearing; emptying one by one. The 

17

nearest major town to the farm now was Coolgardie. Once 

it had been a city, but it was said even this would be 

abandoned soon to tourists and Aborigines. So it meant a 

long drive to Kalgoorlie, a gold mining town that looked 

upon farmers like they were rare bush animals. It was just a 

matter of time before the pastoral companies moved in; or 

the government abandoned the land altogether by decreeing 

it a national park. 

Yet some survived. Hard-bitten men and women who 

knew no other living, and surely, they believed, if they 

survived when others had failed their persistence would be 

rewarded? Surely a life eventually reached a point of 

reward? So they fought, confronting the bankers with 

passion and sweat. After each year’s end there was often 

less and less from which to draw hope, but somehow they 

managed—until their loans had grown to the point where it 

was the bank that owned the farm. 

Then came the end—a short, curt, letter in the mail; a 

clearance sale of near worthless equipment; and a locked 

gate marking another withered dream. 

Simon and his father finished the harvest in the late 

afternoon; the tractor and the truck towed the header and 

the mobile field bin in a sleeve of dust across the stubble. 

The air was still warm and Simon’s clothing was clammy 

with sweat. On the tractor seat beside him, was Sandy, his 

father’s kelpie-collie cross. When Simon was home the dog 

and the boy were inseparable. Simon looked down at the 

dog and ruffled the animal’s head. 

“Roo,” he shouted. “Roo.” 

The dog’s eyes quickened and it barked excitedly. Simon 

laughed. 

Ahead of them Simon’s father stopped the truck near a 

dam dug for the cattle. It was a far corner of the property. 

The scrub beyond was wild, though half a century before it 

had swarmed with men drawn by tales of a landscape 

littered with gold. It had even spawned a town. Cumalong, 

18

christened by an anonymous seller of dreams. But the gold 

didn’t last and the abandoned town was reclaimed by the 

brown dirt and spinifex. His father discouraged Simon from 

exploring the old town. “The goat lady will get you,” had 

been a frequent and frightening threat when Simon was 

younger. 

Only once had Simon ever encountered the possibility 

that the land might once have belonged to other people. It 

was after the harvest when he was fifteen. He had hiked to 

one of the backblocks, a full day’s walk, to camp. 

One morning Simon saw smoke rising off another 

campfire about a kilometre away. Curious, he crept through 

the scrub, and in a clearing saw two Aboriginal men, seminaked, 

with matted white beards. One lay on a piece of 

canvas, the other sat cross-legged beside him, singing a low 

rhythmic song. Their fire, a small mound of red embers 

supported a black, battered water tin. He stared, fascinated 

by these strange old men who had intruded onto his father’s 

land. 

The man sitting either sensed or saw the boy and 

stopped singing. 

“Go—.” 

Simon did not move. The man rose shakily to his feet 

and shook a stick towards the staring boy. 

“Go—.” The voice, fragile with age, retained an air of 

authority. 

Simon managed to find his own voice. “Does my father 

know you’re here?” 

His question was ignored. The man lying on the ground 

began coughing. Simon hurried back to his camp, packed 

his gear and walked home. That night he told his father, 

wondering if they should take a doctor out to the sick man. 

“No, leave ‘em be,” he said. “Just a couple of old blacks 

come home to die.” 

19

It was only many years later that Simon wondered who 

they were, where they had come from, and what did his 

father mean by saying ‘home’. 

The cab door of the truck opened and his father jumped 

to the ground stripped in the yellow afternoon light. Then, 

with a loud shout, he sprinted at the hard, white clay bank. 

Sandy barked and scrambled across Simon’s lap to jump 

from the tractor and give chase. 

The older man’s brown limbs blended into the earth; 

leaving a pale, disembodied torso hurtling through the air. 

The dog made a rapidly closing blur. The man disappeared 

over the lip of the dam just as the speeding animal caught 

him. Simon heard two faint splashes. 

Pressing his head against the tractor’s steering wheel 

Simon started to giggle. He looked up in time to see his 

father’s glistening body reappear above the clay. The man 

waved. 

Simon climbed from the tractor, excited by this sudden 

glimpse of boyishness in his father who had always seemed 

old. He was also surprised, because for the past week the 

man had withdrawn into a deep, morose silence for much of 

the time. Simon shed his soiled T-shirt and jeans and ran 

towards the dam. Sandy reappeared and raced to meet him. 

Simon deftly side-stepped the dog and his father, and with 

legs still pumping launched himself into the excavation. 

“Here.” 

Simon tried to catch the soap his father threw, but it 

slipped from his fingers and disappeared into the murky 

water. His father pointed downwards with mock sternness, 

cocking an eyebrow in expectation of what was required. 

The boy took a deep breath and lowered himself beneath 

the surface to the muddy bottom. He groped for the soap, 

but couldn’t distinguish between it and slippery rubble. 

When he surfaced the object in his hand was a stone. 

“Stand aside,” the father growled. He duck-dived, his 

shins waving in the air as his hands walked the bottom. 

20

Fingers appeared gripping the soap. He stood and handed 

the bar to his son. “Can’t beat the experience of an old 

dog.” 

Sandy barked. 

“Arse,” chipped the giggling boy, and ducked beneath a 

swinging arm. 

Simon lathered and splashed and sang with his father 

and became conscious he was being recognized as an equal. 

No longer father and son, they were two men, who perhaps 

had the capacity to be mates, frolicking in the sun’s dying 

rays. 

Simon slid beneath the surface to rinse away the suds, 

then waded awkwardly to the bank. He climbed to the top 

to catch what sun remained for drying. Sandy flopped at his 

feet. His father sat beside them. 

No one spoke for a while until the older man threw a 

stone into the water. The satisfying splash broke the silence 

and he lifted his gaze to the surrounding landscape. Behind 

the dam was a stand of pale salmon gums, Eucalypt trees 

with pinkish trunks. It was the start of the bushland. 

Beyond that, layered across the top of the trees, was the thin 

purple line of distant ranges; far beyond the distant ruins of 

Cumalong. But the overall impression was that of a flat, 

empty landscape; a perfect meeting of earth and sky. 

Overhead the blue had become indigo. 

“What do you think?” the father asked. 

Simon tried to follow his gaze, but wasn’t sure what he 

was referring to. 

“It’s pretty,” he offered. 

The man grunted. “Well, there’s that to it I guess.” He 

threw another stone which fell short of the water, vanishing 

into the deepening shadow at the water’s edge. 

“What do you think we should do?” 

Simon was confused. “When?” he asked. 

“For all of bloody eternity.” 

21

Simon didn’t respond so his father continued. “You’ve 

seen the crop. I don’t even know if it will pay for the fuel 

we’ve been burning up for the past four weeks. ” Simon’s 

father took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You know 

how it’s been. We’ve been living hand-to-bloody-mouth for 

almost twenty years trying to prove every bloody summer 

that it was right to come here—and every year the dirt gets 

meaner, the wind blows hotter and the work gets harder.” 

He paused, but prompted by his son’s awkward silence 

was forced to continue. 

“I’m only telling you this because in some ways one job 

at least is finished. You’ve got your schooling and maybe 

you’re even thinking about going to university. Your mum 

and I are proud, make no mistake—trouble is, that would 

mean we’d have to keep going here—and even then I don’t 

know if we could afford it.” He took another deep breath. 

“You reckon this is pretty—well it’s pretty near killed me.” 

The man allowed himself a bitter chuckle. “You know— 

I actually believed once that I was building something to 

pass on to you, something for you to build onto for a family 

of your own. It was beautiful then, I can tell you. Salmon 

gums—almost too skinny to be real trees, but with bark of 

bloody iron. I think I spent about two months jarring all 

feeling out of my arms with an axe, before my pride was 

beaten and I called in a bloke with a dozer and chain. I’d 

had this fantasy, you see. I saw myself as starting some sort 

of family tradition; a dynasty. Your mother knew it was just 

a dream. I think it’s why we never had any more kids. 

Nature was on her side. Nothing the doctors could find, but 

she decided in her mind, and that’s stronger stuff than what 

doctors can touch. Anyway, you’ve got education so I don’t 

think you’d like living in a tin shed for as long as we have. 

Besides, you’d be battling to find a girl these days who’d 

live out here with you. The dreams of a dirt farmer don’t 

add up to much—so what I’m saying is—well, if you want 

22

to go for a decent job in town or in Perth, don’t feel you 

have to stay here.” 

Simon’s father paused to let his words sink in, then he 

changed direction. 

“It’d be better there for your family—much nicer, and 

grandkids would give us something—especially your 

mother, to look forward to apart from us just getting old 

and bitter and so ingrained with this useless bloody dirt that 

we can’t wash it out.” 

He paused again and laughed. “I’m jumping the gun I 

know. You’ll want to see a bit of life first. A good lookin’ 

bloke like yourself should have an easy time cutting 

through some of those convent girls you’ve left behind.” He 

chuckled throatily. “God—they reckon they’re the best— 

convent girls. All that repression to work out of their 

system—.” 

Simon cleared his throat, struggling for something to 

say. His father had never spoken to him like this before. He 

was disturbed, but also relieved. He didn’t want the farm. 

He didn’t want to live like his parents. He hurled a stone 

towards the water and heard the splash. The night was 

closing and a gentle breeze brushed their bare skin. 

Simon turned to look at the shape of his father sitting 

near him. “I’ve decided to join the church—I’m going to be 

a priest.” 

There was a moment’s quiet, then the man laughed, 

freely and loudly. “Jesus, you scared me for a touch.” 

Simon spoke quietly. “I haven’t said anything because I 

didn’t know what you’d say. But it means I can go to 

university without it costing you. Father MacNamara will 

sponsor me—it’s arranged.” 

This time the silence lingered before the man exhaled 

loudly. 

“Jesus bloody Christ,” he muttered, and lifted his back 

up off the hard clay surface. “You’re joking surely?” 

23

Simon hugged his knees. He could feel waves of 

frustration and fury coming from the man, who finally put 

words back into the emptiness. 

“Who put this into your head?” His voice was low and 

even, that of a man fighting for control. 

“Nobody.” 

“Bullshit. You’ve spent too long with those bloody 

brothers—and who’s this MacNamara?” 

“He’s been good to me—helped me.” How could he 

explain? How could he tell the man beside him who was 

trying to suddenly capture and close his entire childhood 

that the priest had grown to be more of a father than him? 

“Christ, I had a feeling something like this had 

happened. Don’t you realise you’ve just been brainwashed. 

It’s not a job and no bloody way to live. Christ, I can hardly 

believe you’re serious. What happened to the bloody army? 

You mentioned that once and I would have happily 

agreed.” 

Simon sighed. “I’m not looking for a job in the normal 

sense. It’s hard to explain, but I don’t want to just live and 

die. I believe there is a spirit in us. I don’t understand it— 

but I do want to try and learn what it means.” 

The man grunted his disbelief. 

“It’s a voice inside that I can’t ignore.” 

The man spat into the blackness which had settled 

around them. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this. I get voices 

telling me to take out that bastard Thompson at the bank 

with an iron bar. Doesn’t mean I’ll do it though.” 

The man lapsed into another long silence. Simon felt it 

better to say as little as possible. Eventually his father got to 

his feet. 

“I don’t want to hear anymore about it, and for Christ’s 

sake don’t tell your mother.” 

Simon’s father returned to the truck. He grabbed a torch 

from the glovebox and in its light collected his discarded 

clothing. The warm breeze had long since dried his skin and 

24

he dressed quickly. He whistled Sandy into the cab and 

with the customary crunch of gears, continued the journey 

home. 

Simon sat in the dark with only his belief to hold onto, 

and he didn’t really know how strong it was. Father 

MacNamara had told him over and again: God’s heroes 

can’t expect hard decisions to be easy. But now his eyes 

were wet, and the wetness slid onto his cheeks. All his life 

he had wanted his father to talk to him the way he had 

tonight, and the bond he had so wanted had lasted just 

minutes. 

The rattle and whine of the truck had long since receded 

when the youth finally roused himself. He walked back to 

the tractor where he dressed. He unstrapped a folded 

tarpaulin and dragged it into the lee of some trees behind 

the dam. He returned to the tractor and collected an old 

army ammunition box containing an iron kettle, enamel 

mugs and other bits and pieces they used for preparing 

meals in the field. He methodically began building a small 

fire from twigs and sticks. He would stay the night beside 

the dam. The atmosphere at home would be too thick with 

his father’s bitterness and the cold, questioning eyes of his 

mother. His father would turn the anger inwards on himself. 

His mother, who had witnessed it all before, would aid and 

abet the mood with silence. Simon loved his parents, 

because he was their child, but he did not understand them. 

If there was any remaining love it was not something that a 

seventeen-year-old could see or understand. 

Alone with the night crickets he sat and remembered a 

poem. 

Will you love me, sweet, when my hair is grey 

And my cheeks shall have lost their hue? 

When the charms of youth shall have passed away 

Will your love as of old prove true? 

He remembered the passage because once, when he was 

younger, his father had read it aloud to his mother. It had 

25

een a good year, before the cattle crash. If only words 

could hold dreams in one piece, Simon thought. 

He sipped hot black tea, flavoured with a green 

eucalyptus twig dunked into the simmering brew. What 

would his father say to his mother? She might understand, 

but perhaps that was expecting too much. She was a 

Catholic, but she would be of the opinion that priests came 

from other families; families who said grace before meals, 

who adorned the hallway and lounge room with icons, who 

invited priests to dinner – who knew they belonged to the 

church. She, on the other hand, was one of the lost. No 

religion was practised in her house. It had failed her, and 

she it. She would consider it neither proper, nor fair, to be 

the mother of a priest. 

Simon folded the heavy canvas over his body, lay on his 

back and watched the sparks from his fire spin dizzily 

upwards until they were swallowed by the darkness. Away 

from the town lights, the southern sky was a canopy of 

jewels, crowned by the Southern Cross which guided the 

night traveller as accurately as any man-made compass. 

And, if he was to believe his calling, somewhere up there 

was the Kingdom of Heaven, though he accepted that such 

a notion was simplistic. Nevertheless, he had heard the 

cosmos once described by a space scientist as “all that is, or 

ever was, or ever will be”. That sounded pretty close to his 

perception of God. 

Simon envisaged the life of a priest as that of a trained 

professional in matters of spirituality, mysticism, the secrets 

of the church and the secrets of the human soul. He hoped 

to learn to better articulate his personal beliefs, to help 

others do the same. The rigours and self-denial which the 

priesthood demanded were part of this process; practical 

lifestyle constraints to allow a single-minded approach to 

the vocation. Simon saw mental discipline as a reward, 

rather than a discouragement. He saw the priesthood as a 

26

ethren of like-minded men fostering the higher 

aspirations of the human condition. 

Breathing the incense of burning eucalyptus and with a 

clear view into the eternity of the universe it seemed 

plausible enough to Simon, especially when hard against 

his back, was his land. It was solid and comforting while he 

looked up towards other planets, stars and galaxies. What 

precious worlds of rare beauty like his own existed there? 

How many other questioning minds were projecting into 

the heavens that night, millions of light years apart, yet 

joined by a shared yearning to discover the truths of 

existence? 

As he drifted towards sleep he was startled by the snort 

of a horse. He rolled over towards the sound and tensed 

with fright. Not more than fifty metres away was a young 

woman not much older than himself, on a grey horse. She 

was dressed in white and she smiled at him. He struggled to 

his feet, but as he did both rider and horse vanished. Simon 

stared and shook his head, marvelling at the extraordinary 

reality of his dream. 

27

Chapter Two  

  

From above, the river looks like frayed pieces of green  

string tossed carelessly onto a rusty red parquetry. In places  

it disappears, leaving the land scorched and lifeless. Does it  

journey for a while beneath the earth’s surface to escape the  

relentless heat? Or does it just become a dusty bed of latent  

life waiting to renew in the next wet season. It’s difficult to tell  

at two and a half thousand metres.  

From the cabin of a small aeroplane riding an invisible  

roller‐coaster of air currents, the landscape is an intimidating  

vista of red and brown, the slender string of green is  

something to admire for its tenacity.   

This is Gondwanaland; the land that time forgot, a cliche,  

but only to those who don’t know it. For those who walk  

across its baked, red and purple skin the description cannot  

be dulled by over‐use. In this remote corner of the planet the  

reminders of a pre‐human world are everywhere.  

Once the river never disappeared. It twisted through a  

rainforest. Its waters quenched the thirst of giants,  

dragonflies with wingspans a metre wide, enormous reptiles  

and dinosaurs, and kangaroos as tall as trees, bounding across  

the land. In the ocean, which was nearer then, there were  

Trilobites just as large, and sea scorpions thin and flat but  

metres long. It was the time of Tjukurpa—Ngarrangkarni— 

the Dreamtime, long before the advent of humans. These  

creatures continue to live in song cycles; given occasional  

scientific credence when the hot winds scour the sands of the  

forest‐supplanting desert to reveal the bones of these ancient  

earthly lords.  

As the aeroplane descended in a slow, controlled spiral, the  

river blossomed. In sections its banks were sheer walls of  

smooth rock. In other places there were gentle slopes of sand  

and these grew tall, white‐trunked trees spreading a precious  

green canopy over the river bank. When the plane throttled  

32

ack to close the distance between itself and its flitting  

shadow, there was a glimpse of glistening bodies and uplifted  

faces. The wheels caught in the red sand, plunging the craft  

into an opaque cloud of swirling dust.  

“Terra firma,” the pilot yelled as he crawled through to the  

cabin area. By wresting the handle in one hand, and kicking  

hard with his boot he pushed open the door. It swung out and  

upwards on protesting hinges.  

After the numbing engine noise, the first greeting from the  

world outside was silence. Then came the breath‐sucking  

heat, and the crash of a gearbox announcing the official  

welcoming party.  

Simon watched the flat‐top Toyota approach as in a dream.  

Already the heat was prickling his skin. His head throbbed  

from too little sleep. A dark‐skinned teenager clung to a rail  

behind the cab. When it stopped, the vehicle ejected an  

Aboriginal driver and a white‐skinned, sandy‐haired  

passenger. The latter strode forward heading for the familiar  

figure of the pilot. They shook hands and slapped shoulders.  

The pilot was lanky and tanned. The man from the mission  

was surprisingly fair‐skinned and thickset. He looked to be in  

his mid‐forties, wore a plain green shirt, brown dress shorts,  

and had a large bunch of keys on his belt. He wore cotton  

socks pulled to his knees, and suede shoes.  

 “Still getting the mathematics right, I see.”  

The pilot grinned at an old joke and turned to Simon to  

explain. “Equal ratio of landings to take‐offs. The bastard  

reckons one day I’ll make a lousy mathematician.” He winked  

conspiratorially at Simon. “That’s what he hopes, just to be a  

smart arse.”  

Simon smiled obligingly and stepped forward to take the  

proffered hand of the mission administrator. Simon was not a  

particularly tall man, but he stood comfortably over the man  

whose hand he was now shaking. He received a neutral grip  

33

from nicotined fingers and the man smiled without  

enthusiasm.  

“Fred Davies,” he was saying, as Simon was already  

disliking him.  

 “Simon Bradbury,” he responded, and held onto his forced  

smile while Davies studied him.  

“You don’t look like a priest,” he said finally, and began to  

lead Simon to the Toyota. He yelled to the boy to collect the  

bags.  

Simon was still wondering whether this observation was  

good or bad when Davies continued in the same blunt tone.  

“But you’re a southerner all the same.”   

“That easy?”  

“Yup. You’ve got that bloody landed gentry look about  

you.”  

Simon laughed. He was wearing new denims and like  

anyone, he had been self‐conscious about wearing them for  

the first time. New jeans turned everyone into a novice. “Well  

I’m sure you’ll change that.”  

“Too bloody right.”  

Davies waved the bags onto the tray of the Toyota. The boy  

and the driver had already loaded six cartons of beer and  

several cardboard boxes marked ‘Gunwinddu store’.  

“We’ll drop off your gear, then I’ll give you the Cook’s  

tour—you’ll have to jump up on the back with Angel. Only  

room for three in the front.”  

Simon hoisted himself onto the traytop, the blood rising in  

his cheeks at the snub. He smiled to invite solidarity with the  

boy. “They call you Angel?”  

The boy flashed his teeth, but said nothing. He motioned to  

Simon to hold the rail. Simon was glad of the mute advice as  

the engine fired and the vehicle lurched ahead in the one  

violent movement. The Toyota sped across the airstrip  

towards a track flanked by scrubby trees and large boulders.  

34

When the breeze of their movement touched Simon’s face he  

was glad to be on the back, in the open.   

The track bent to the right and then began curving in a  

large anti‐clockwise arc. Reddish brown dust plumed behind.  

Scattered here and there were boab trees like giant inflated  

kitchen gloves stood on end and planted. Through the trees  

Simon could see buildings, but the Toyota appeared to be  

following a perimeter road around the settlement.  

They slowed as they passed through a cluster of corrugated  

iron lean‐to’s. Children sat playing in the sand, watched by a  

number of women squatting in the meagre shade of the  

shanties they inhabited. The sight was a shock. No one had  

said anything about a housing problem. Clear of the children,  

the Toyota gathered speed again. Simon stared back at the  

scene. Moments later, they reached the settlement. There was  

a row of asbestos bungalows beneath the patchy shade of tall  

white gums which filled the air with the scents of lemon and  

eucalyptus. Simon could see the river bank about a hundred  

metres behind the houses. At the end of what might loosely be  

called a street was a simple box‐like structure with a wooden  

cross fixed to the front gable. The shadow of a nearby tree  

was splayed against the near wall. On the other side a bell  

tower protruded above the line of the roof.  

The Toyota stopped outside the house nearest the church,  

its engine idling so roughly the driver had to keep it revving.  

The top of a head appeared through the cab window below.  

“Home,” called Davies with a sarcastic chuckle.  

“Home,” echoed Simon, with forced enthusiasm. Angel  

jumped from the back and grasped Simon’s two bags.  

“Angel will drop your gear inside the door.” The head  

disappeared and the truck lurched forward again.  

“Thanks,” Simon yelled to Angel’s unresponsive back.  

They continued for about two hundred metres to the end  

of the ‘street’ where it met a towering rock wall, and so  

turned sharply left into another street which sat below this  

35

idge. The cliff face was about forty metres high and sheer  

rock except for patches of spindly grass and the occasional  

sapling which had managed to root in a crack or crevice.  

Above it the ghost of a moon hung in a pale, airless sky. The  

Toyota stopped at a group of three buildings; asbestos  

bungalows with front verandas. The same basic design as  

most other buildings in sight, except these were painted a  

washed‐out blue. The windows were protected by iron grilles.  

The administrator climbed from the cab and nodded to the  

middle building. “That’s where you’ll find me most times.  

Home and office rolled into one. Never did like commuting.”  

He cocked an eye at Simon to measure his response. The  

priest smiled appreciatively and jumped lightly to the ground.  

“I know the feeling.”  

“On the left is the cop shop—when the bastards are here,  

which is never when you need them and always when you  

don’t.” He began striding towards the building on the right.  

“And this is the canteen, our bastion of white supremacy.” He  

laughed as if at a private joke. “It’s got the only legal bar, the  

only air‐conditioning, the only pool table without the felt  

ripped to shreds, pretty well the only windows with any glass  

remaining, and it’s got its own auxiliary generator for when  

the main unit—you would have seen that just after we came  

off the strip—either breaks down or is shut down, which you  

can count on whenever some young buck has had too much  

warm booze or is rankled because we’ve got the key to the  

pen.”  

“Pen?”  

“Girls’ hostel. Tighter than a maximum security prison— 

but that’s the way you lot like it isn’t it.”  

It was said as a statement, not a question.  

Simon frowned. “Guess you’d better show me.”  

“Yeah, right, but let’s wet the throat first.”  

Davies tried the handle of the canteen door. It was locked  

and he unhooked the keys on his belt.  

36

The three whites entered. The building was essentially a  

house with its dividing walls removed. There was a bar, pool  

table, dart board with its colours dulled by age and use, and a  

long wooden table surrounded by plastic molded chairs. On  

the wall behind the bar was a row of pigeon holes, each one  

labelled with a name. Simon read them quickly and saw the  

one he was looking for: ‘Rantz’. Along the room’s end wall  

were several faded lounge chairs.  

The slam of a vehicle door reminded Simon of the driver  

and through the open doorway he saw him walk away. The  

grilled windows and signs of segregation were disturbing.  He  

wished now he had had a chance to talk to Father Rantz, his  

predecessor. But the old priest had gone before Simon had  

even heard of Gunwinddu. A can of beer was thrust into his  

hand.  

“I assume you drink,” said Davies.  

Simon was tempted to say no, but it was too damned hot.  

He nodded gratefully.   

The three men raised their cans.  

“I thought pilots weren’t supposed to drink and fly,” said  

Simon.  

“I thought it was like that for priests,” he said, and laughed.  

“Anyway, you’ll learn—it’s the only bloody thing that does  

keep you flying, or walking, or doing anything up here.  

Besides, there might be a thunderstorm, which means I would  

only have to turn back and stay the night anyway.”  

Simon scoffed. “There’s not a cloud in the sky.”  

The pilot just smiled. “Well, there’s also the fact that you  

blokes have the only cold beer for five hundred kilometres.”  

Davies banged his can onto the counter. “Shit, we’d better  

grab it.”  

He hurried outside and kicked at a dog urinating on the  

Toyota’s back wheel. He lifted a carton against his chest. The  

pilot and Simon followed. As Simon pressed the load under  

his chin he noticed people milling in the street; watching. He  

37

wanted to wave but his arms were imprisoned by beer. He  

shifted the carton onto his hip and retreated back to the  

building, sensing accusing eyes. He dropped the carton onto  

the counter and was reluctant to go outside again. He stood  

instead at the window. A group of old men had moved to sit  

beneath a tree opposite and were watching the beer being  

unloaded. Further along the street clusters of women dressed  

in simple cotton frocks also stood watching. Simon noticed  

the absence of older children and he asked the administrator.  

Davies glanced at his wristwatch. “Almost four—the girls’ll be  

back at the hostel and the boys’ll be on the football oval. I’ll  

take you around, but it looks better the first time after a beer.”  

Simon declined a second drink and Davies reluctantly  

withdrew his hand from the handle of the fridge under the  

bar. “All right—” He marched back out into the street, keys  

jangling on his belt.  

“See you blokes later then,” said the pilot, opening another  

beer and turning his back to the outside.  

 “Right—the Cook’s tour,” Davies grunted as he beckoned  

Simon into the vehicle.  

Further along the street the houses were in a poor state  

and some looked abandoned.  

“Does anybody live in these?”  

 “Not at the moment—but that could change in a day. A  

mob of cousins could turn up and everybody’ll switch around  

according to who wants to be near who. It’s like that. Twenty  

people in a house one week, empty the next.”  

“Then why the shanties near the airstrip when you’ve got  

empty houses?”  

Davies exhaled. “No one’s explained much to you have  

they? They’re widows, most of them anyway. Some are  

unmarried mothers, kicked out of town for their sins. That’s  

Rantz’s law. The widows—well that’s tribal law. When a  

family member dies you’ve got to leave home for a year. So  

38

they camp outside the settlement. Anyway, it’s of no concern  

to me.”  

“But it’s just sheets of rusted tin over bare dirt.”  

“Well, this is hardly Mosman Heights, Father.”  

Simon looked away at the mention of his former parish and  

wondered how much Davies knew.  

The street finished at a T‐junction. To the left were more  

houses. To the right the road disappeared through a natural  

cut in the ridge behind the settlement. Davies turned right;  

the long stems of the the floor‐shift gear lever and clutch  

pedal forcing an exaggerated movement of arms and legs.  

“You don’t have a high opinion of these people,” Simon  

ventured.  

“I work for the government, not the church—if that makes  

any difference.”  

He slowed the vehicle as he negotiated a sharp left‐hand  

turn and Simon stared as the cut in the rock opened into a  

basin about a kilometre across and walled on all sides by the  

same red rock which shielded the settlement. The perimeter  

of the small, walled valley was bordered with dense scrub and  

gracious white gums. But in the centre the vista was  

dominated by three buildings, painted a pale blue like the  

administration block.   

“Hospital and sister’s quarters,” said Davies.  

Simon’s gaze was fixed on the third building, similar to the  

hospital, except it was ringed by a tall wire fence, crowned  

with barbed wire.  

“The pen,” said Davies.   

“What do you mean?”  

“Girls’ hostel.”  

They stopped outside the gate, a tall assembly of welded  

angle‐iron and wire. The upright lengths of iron had been cut  

to points. Inside the compound Simon could see girls sitting,   

talking in the shade of a tree. Several, despite the heat, were  

39

playing hop‐scotch. All were dressed in pale blue uniforms.  

Pale blue had obviously been somebody’s favourite colour.  

“How long has it been like this?” he asked.  

Davies turned to look at him. “Since before my time, and  

I’ve been here eight bloody years. Karl might know, he came  

up with Father Rantz a few years after the War. Anyway,  

however long, it was Rantz’s doing.”  

“Who’s Karl?”  

“Mechanic—old German bloke. You’ll meet him later. He  

keeps the wheels and cogs around here turning. Got a  

workshop on the other side. A magician with diesel engines.”  

Simon tapped his fingers against the dashboard. “But why  

the fence and the wire?”  

“Christ, haven’t you been briefed about anything?”  

Simon shook his head. “Get the cattle business back on its  

feet—pick it up as you see it. But this is—this is a shock.”  

Davies paused, choosing his words. “Old Rantz knew what  

he was doing. You’d be advised to leave well alone.” Davies  

turned off the engine. He unbuttoned his breast pocket and  

took out a pouch of tobacco and papers, then carefully rolled a  

cigarette as he spoke.  

“You’d better learn fast, because if you can’t, you’ll be doing  

us all a favour by not unpacking your bags tonight. You’re at  

the junction of two worlds here, the civilized and the savage. I  

hate to shatter any feel‐good notions you may have brought  

from the city, but frankly your new parishioners are not fit for  

decent society. That’s the reality. Now, you can try and  

Europeanise them if you like, but in the time I’ve been here I’d  

say it’s a waste of bloody time.”  

Davies struck a match and cupped the flame against the  

end of his cigarette. He inhaled contentedly, and spun the  

dead splinter through the window.  

“Some, like me, are trying to make the best of a fuck awful  

job and we don’t need any do‐gooder getting an evangelical  

flush and creating problems we don’t need. Things run pretty  

40

smoothly now. The Blacks have got used to the system, and  

the government and the church are happy.”  

Davies drew hard on his cigarette.   

“The wire is your lot’s idea. Holds the girls in, and the  

young bucks out. Keeps everybody pure and virginal—well,  

for three hundred and sixty four days a year, anyway.”  

Simon shot him a quizzical glance.   

“Old Rantz used to get a bit sentimental around Christmas.  

He’d let the girls spend it with their families. There’d always  

be one or two who’d get potted by a boyfriend or uncle— 

they’re the ones Rantz would pack off to the widows.” He  

paused and laughed to himself. “Know Rantz?”  

Simon shook his head. “No.”  

Davies laughed again. “Funny bloke,” he said, and avoided  

Simon’s glance.  

“In what way?”  

Davies smiled knowingly and drew on the cigarette. He  

declined to answer.  

Simon shifted uncomfortably against the seat. “So these  

girls are in here permanently—except for one or two days a  

year?”  

“Shit no—go to the school—but of course they get ferried  

in the truck.”  

“Don’t they try to escape?” Escape, it sounded unreal. He  

tried to soften it. “—run away.”  

“It’s the cattle truck. Bloody big cage on the back, and  

they’re watched pretty closely at the school. Wilma Breck is  

not a woman I’d cross. Anyway, the girls seem to accept it  

without much complaint. Old Rantz and the nuns—had a few  

here for a while; last one left about five years ago—told them  

it was necessary for their salvation. The Aborigines have a  

useful respect for the spirit world. Tell them anything in the  

name of the heavens and they’ll wear it.”  

Davies finished his smoke, flicked the butt out the window  

and began to chuckle. “There’s been some funny sights  

41

though. A couple of years ago we actually found a tunnel into  

the place. No one owned up and old Rantz was fit to bust. The  

whole place was knees down, heads on chest for weeks.  

Another night some of the young blokes managed to cut their  

way through the fence with oxy from the workshop. Got into  

the dormitory okay, but in their hurry they forgot to shut off  

the torch. Left it lying in the grass. Before they’d even had a  

chance to get the girls warmed up the whole community was  

rushing in to save the hostel from a raging scrub fire. The  

boys were taken bush a few days later. That cooled their  

ardour. Don’t know what happens out there, but they come  

back a lot tamer. It’s a pity old Rantz didn’t like it. He banned  

the dances and ceremonies, so the elders don’t get much of a  

chance anymore to lay down the rule. Still, I suppose there’s  

only room for one law.”  

Simon looked at the girls playing behind the wire, their  

gaiety mocking him. He had been looking forward to  

Gunwinddu, hoping the posting would cure his disillusion. He  

had entered the priesthood with youthful conviction, but over  

the years his emotional survival had come to rely too much on  

the political skills that he lacked. As the church tried to adjust  

to a world in which religion was losing its authority, priests  

needed as much corporate and political awareness as any  

evangelical fervour.  

It was Bishop MacNamara who had arranged his transfer.  

Macnamara, who had been a father to him. MacNamara who  

had steadied him, who had taught him to define life into black  

and white—the teachings of the church versus everything  

else.  

But then the edges had started to blur. There were two  

churches; two diverging currents. And he and the Bishop  

seemed caught in a different stream to everybody else. Simon  

had clung to the old ways out of loyalty, while others of his  

generation discarded their black shirts and white collars,  

grew their hair, donned jeans, played guitar and took the  

42

gospel from the altar, out into youth clubs and peace marches.  

Inevitably, reality caught up. Congregations dwindled and  

priests, those who remained, struggled with a whole new  

experience, loss of purpose. The seventies became a decade  

lost in the cultural hangover of the sixties. The eighties was  

becoming the era in which commerce was the universal  

measure of human worth. Priests adjusted or shrunk into  

themselves.    

Older priests like MacNamara sought meaning from  

wherever it could be found. In his case it was a Catholic  

university. An army of consultants was hired. The vision  

consumed millions of dollars without a single brick being laid.  

It came at a time when Simon was beginning to doubt  

himself and the Church. He began to question the wasted  

money, then criticise—publicly from the pulpit. It was as  

much a vent for his private frustrations as indignation at the  

squandering of so much money. Simon became a problem.  

Especially for MacNamara, and Gunwindu became the answer.  

“Seen enough?”  

“For the moment.”  

Davies started the engine and turned the Toyota in a tight  

half‐circle.  

“Who looks after the girls when they’re inside the  

compound?”  

“They pretty much look after themselves,” Davies said.  

“There are a couple of older women from the settlement with  

them, but they just follow the rules set down by Wilma Breck.  

You can bet there’s plenty of floor scrubbing and praying.”   

Simon experienced a sudden vision of the community as a  

microcosm of old‐world Catholicism, a schismatic world that  

he would be expected to uphold.  

Davies seemed to read his thoughts. “Look,” he said. “It’s  

what’s best. I could take you to other settlements where  

they’ve tried to go back to the old ways and ended up  

swimming in blood and beer. We keep a tight lid on the grog  

43

here—not as tight as it could be, but at least we don’t have to  

live like staff at other places. Over at McKenzie they barricade  

themselves behind wire at night. The blacks don’t drink like  

you and me, they drink themselves into a coma. But before  

they get to that stage they’ll kill their mother with a broken  

bottle and not even know what they’re doing. Believe me, you  

survive any amount of time up here and you’ll learn the  

blessing of an iron fist.”  

They left the basin and continued through the settlement.  

Davies showed Simon the school; three transportable  

classrooms in a paddock of brown dirt worn smooth by the  

pounding of small black feet; the nearby basketball courts,  

similarly unsealed, and two large clay pans, which, had  

become the football ovals.  

“Last stop the store,” said Davies. “Flour and tobacco are  

the big turn‐over items. We grow our own vegetables on a flat  

near the river, and for meat it’s home‐grown beef, with a bit of  

variety now and then with ‘roo, wild boar, and buffalo when  

the young blokes feel like a hunt. If you want to try your luck  

there’s supposed to be barramundi in the river— but I’ve only  

seen a few caught in the time I’ve been here. You can cook for  

yourself if you want, but some of the women are paid to cook  

meals in the canteen.”  

“Speaking of the river—what about crocodiles?”  

Davies chuckled dryly. “A few freshwater Johnstones  

hereabouts, but they won’t bother you. Downstream the  

Blacks reckon there are some old salties, but I suspect they’ve  

pretty well been shot out. The last death was a long time ago,  

before I got here, though they still get pretty nervous about  

fishing down that way.”  

Davies stopped outside the store. “You’d better come in  

and meet the manager. Just so there are no awkward  

surprises, she’s my wife. Her name is Muriel.”  

Simon followed him inside, wondering how this latest  

piece of information fitted into the Gunwindu puzzle. For  

44

some reason he hadn’t expected Davies to be married. The  

dim light revealed a jumble of shelves and benches piled high  

with everything that could be sold in cardboard, or tin, from  

breakfast cereals and baby foods to fencing wire and oil.  

Davies whistled and a slender, tanned woman in a loose‐ 

fitting dress stepped through a rear doorway. The surprise  

grew. She offered the first warm smile Simon had seen in a  

long time and walked towards him with her hand  

outstretched. “Muriel Davies—and you will be Father  

Bradbury. Welcome to Gunwinddu.”  

Simon smiled, relieved at having found someone friendly.  

She gazed at him frankly, her lips pursed in a half smile.  

Simon felt his emotional barriers instinctively rising. He was  

awkward with women. It used to be easier when Catholic girls  

were told to not even regard priests as men. He remembered  

a friend at the seminary who suffered from a stammer. In  

desperation he sought out a therapist. The young woman  

would make him lie on his back and breathe deeply, but as the  

weeks passed she became more and more nervous until one  

day, a hot summer’s afternoon, she arrived with an umbrella.  

She ordered him, as in the past, onto his back and then with  

obvious trepidation began to prod his stomach with the  

umbrella tip. For weeks she had needed to feel his diaphragm,  

but had been too embarrassed to touch him.  

Simon thrust out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs  

Davies.”  

  

Simon met the remainder of the staff that night. They were  

polite, but guarded—except Wilma Breck who confronted him  

the moment she entered the room. She was one of those  

elderly women who look frail but have a temperament of  

steel.  

“So,” she said in a loud voice as she stood, hands on hips,  

appraising Simon. “So—they’ve decided to send us another  

priest after all.”  

45

“Was there any doubt?” Simon asked.  

“We were told there would be no more priests. We were  

told the church was going to hand Gunwinddu to the natives.”  

She turned to face the others who were watching the  

exchange, and then back to Simon. “Well, thank the Lord  

you’re here. They are not ready,” she said fiercely. “They still  

sneak away you know. They still sneak off into the bush to  

practise their heathen ceremonies.”  

Simon was rescued by Karl the mechanic. He gently prised  

the woman’s fingers from Simon’s wrists and suggested she  

eat. He was surprised when she acceded, almost meekly.  

Simon studied the old German, a looming presence despite his  

age which Simon assumed would be mid‐to‐late sixties if he  

had been there since soon after the War. However, it wasn’t  

the man’s bulk that was riveting, it was the deep scar across  

his forehead. Karl noticed Simon looking and he touched the  

old wound self‐consciously.  

“An accident—a long time ago,” he said, his voice still rich  

with his native accent. “I’m Karl,” he said, extending his hand.   

Simon shook it warmly. “Yes, I know.” Here was a man who  

invited friendship and trust.   

Karl looked around to ensure Wilma was out of earshot. “A  

good lady—but excitable, yes?” He patted Simon’s shoulder  

and returned to his seat.  

The other member of staff was the nursing sister. She  

introduced herself matter‐of‐factly. “Sister Margaret, Father. I  

hope you settle in without too many problems. We’ll be  

working closely together, especially if you get the boys  

working with the cattle again.”  

Simon ate his meal, aware of occasional glances in his  

direction, including two black faces at the kitchen servery. He  

sat with a heavy heart, listening to cutlery scraping plates,  

and the guarded conversation of  a group very conscious of   

its new member.   

46

His contemplation was broken by a tap on his shoulder. It  

was the pilot. “Finish up; come and have a beer.”  

Simon wiped a crust across a gravy deposit and shoved the  

bread into his mouth. He chewed hurriedly, anxious to accept  

the escape. Pushing back his chair he followed the pilot to the  

veranda outside.  

The man handed him a can still dripping with icy  

condensation.  

 “You looked like you could do with some fresh air.”  

“I don’t hide my feelings too well.”  

“No,” the pilot agreed.  

They leaned on the rail facing the darkened, deserted  

street. Yellow light spilled from distant windows and the  

occasional peal of laughter hung in the still night. The arrival  

of the ‘new Father Rantz’ was probably creating only passing  

comment. There would be no reason for anybody to believe it  

heralded any changes. Not even Simon was sure it could.  

“What time are you flying out?”  

“First light. Beautiful country at that time of day. Probably  

half the reason I stayed, if I was honest with myself.”  

“And are you?”  

The pilot laughed. “You sound like a priest—.”  

Simon smiled, cradling the cold can in his hands. The pilot  

was his last friendly contact with the world from which he  

had been ejected and he was sorry he was leaving.  

The man paused before continuing. “—Anyway, to answer  

your question, no. But then again, who ever is. Are you?”  

Simon filled his mouth with beer and swallowed it slowly  

before replying. “Only if I work at it. Being a priest doesn’t  

exempt me from doubts, from cowardice, from loneliness or  

from wondering what I’m doing staring at an empty dusty  

street at the bum end of civilization.”  

The pilot grunted. “Strewth, you did need that beer.” They  

drank in silence for a moment, each wondering how to bridge  

their different worlds. Finally the pilot asked: “So why be a  

47

priest? If you have to miss out on the fun bits—and don’t get  

any smarter as compensation then it seems a bit of a waste.”  

Simon turned to face the man, a typical bushie. Blunt. “To  

be honest, I’m not sure I have the answer anymore.”  

The pilot eyed him shrewdly.  

“Okay. Well, there’s the obvious belief—and there’s a  

fascination, I suppose, with people—what makes them the  

way they are. I watch them play, be happy, be in love, be  

confused—and it makes me feel responsible for them.”  

 The pilot wasn’t convinced. “I reckon it’s a strange way to  

live—and people should be responsible for themselves.”  

Simon smiled. He’d heard it all before. “Well, once you’ve  

spent your life believing in something, you’re sort of stuck  

with it.”  

The pilot laughed. “Fair enough.” He drained his can.  

“Remember this afternoon when Davies said you didn’t look  

like a priest? Well, you don’t sound like one either. Take old  

Rantz. He reckoned he had the answers, no mistake, and you  

didn’t debate the matter.”  

The pilot studied Simon for a moment. “Maybe you’ve got  

the advantage of being a loner. That’s what I’d like to be, but I  

can’t. I can’t wait to take off so I can be alone. But as soon as I  

level out, I can’t wait to land to say g’day to somebody,  

anybody, and have a beer. It’s this country up here. It’s too  

bloody big. But if you’re a real loner and not a pretend loner,  

like me, then you might do okay—like Karl in there.   

“How—.”  

“Wait—.”  

He returned and handed Simon a fresh can.   

“The scar? Says it was a bulldozer accident, but doesn’t like  

talking about it.”   

Fred and Muriel Davies appeared in the doorway, waved  

and disappeared into the night. Karl and Wilma Breck joined  

them on the veranda.   

 “Mass at six, Father?”  

48

Simon quailed. “Of course.”  

“Shall I ring the bell?”  

“Only if the neighbours won’t complain.”  

The pilot laughed.  

 “Father Rantz said Mass at six. It’s important to show  

consistency.”  

“Quite right Wilma,” said Simon cordially. “Six o’clock it is.”  

“Jesus,” said the pilot, after the couple had gone. “You’ll be  

up as early as me.”  

Simon shrugged. “She was right of course.”  

Sister Margaret stood in the doorway. She looked uncertain  

about joining them. The pilot nodded to her, then patted  

Simon on the arm. “Good talkin’ to you Father.” He lowered  

his voice. “Not everybody can be a loner, no matter how much  

they want to be.” He smiled self‐consciously and walked away  

to join the waiting nurse.  

  

  

  

49

Chapter Three  

  

  

  

Groggy with sleep Simon lumbered to his kitchen, brewed a  

cup of instant coffee and while still only half awake, hurried to  

the church; liturgical vestments draped over one arm and a  

packet of wafers for consecration into hosts under the other.  

The dawn glow was just starting to lighten the sky behind  

the settlement. Simon sat on an old classroom chair at the  

side of the altar, curious to find out if he would attract a  

congregation on this, his first morning.  

The church interior was simply furnished. Two rows of old‐ 

style wooden pews, enough to seat about two hundred  

people. The sacristy was a small asbestos lean‐to stuck to the  

side of the building adjacent to the altar. It was entered  

through a curtained doorway.  

His new church pleased him. Simon recalled newspaper  

clippings pinned to cork boards at the Seminary; stories to  

inspire young priests: From Stalinist Russia, the American  

Jesuit  who made his altar from hotel room tables for  

clandestine services; while some of the clippings, from Central  

America, had been current. Priests who championed human  

rights, inevitably made themselves targets. Here, in his own  

new, Spartan church, Simon hoped he would also find his own  

level of courage.  

His reverie was broken by the distant growl of aero  

engines, a moment before the outside bell began to clang and  

Wilma Breck marched in, leading about forty girls. A tide of  

pale blue cotton washed through the pews. As Simon waited  

for them to settle, the door opened again, and in walked a  

procession of men and women, filling the remaining pews.  

A sea of dark faces looked up in anticipation. They filled the  

church with the odour of stale sweat and wood smoke.  

50

Simon cleared his throat. “In the name of the Father and of  

the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”  

Standing with a furry tongue and a head full of heroism,  

Simon felt embarrassed. He had not had the courtesy to  

introduce himself, but they were here for his Mass.  

“Coming together as God’s family, with confidence let us  

ask the Father’s forgiveness, for he is full of gentleness and  

compassion—.”  

And then it occurred to him. It probably wasn’t his Mass  

that had drawn them at all. It was their church—and they  

were making sure the new priest knew it.  

The roar of an aircraft low overhead drowned out the  

penitential rite, but Simon had an intuition already that no  

one in this church really needed his lead.  

  

Simon wanted to mingle with the Aborigines as soon as the  

Mass finished, but Wilma Breck insisted on introducing him to  

each and every one of her girls. By the time she had them two‐ 

by‐two to march back to the hostel, the rest of the  

congregation had drifted away. Only Karl stood, watching  

from the roadside.  

Simon followed the girls as far as the staff canteen, hoping  

to make himself a quick breakfast before trying again to  

introduce himself to the community. But the door was locked.  

He was standing on the veranda wondering what to do next,  

when the cattle truck rattled into view. It slowed to a stop, the  

passenger door swung open and Angel jumped lightly to the  

ground. Without preamble the boy beckoned Simon into the  

front seat. “Isaac wants to see you,” he said. At the wheel was  

the same driver as the previous day, but this time he was not  

so reticent. He nodded in greeting. “I’m Matthew,” he said. At  

the end of the street they turned left past a cluster of houses  

then swung right onto a track which  led through thin scrub  

for about a kilometre before opening into a large clearing. At  

the centre were cattle yards, a tangle of wooden posts and old  

51

iron. A group of Aboriginal men sat beneath a solitary tree,  

watching the truck’s approach. As Simon alighted a middle‐ 

aged man stood and stepped forward. He looked at Simon  

from beneath a large stockman’s hat , then rubbed his palms  

on his trousers before offering his hand.  

“I’m Isaac Richardson,” he said formally.   

“Simon Bradbury.” They shook hands.   

Isaac then formally introduced Simon to the community  

councillors.  

Simon was introduced to Arthur, “important fella”, and  

next to him a man called Robert, “knows a lot about these  

parts—you listen to ‘im Father”, and so the introductions  

continued until he had been introduced to everyone. Simon  

also learned that Matthew and Isaac were brothers and that  

Angel, now standing apart from the older men, was Matthew’s  

son.  

Isaac invited Simon to sit.  

“Mr Davies says you the new cattle boss.”  

Simon nodded. “Part of my job here, yes.”  

“Father Rantz don’ work with cattle.”  

“I grew up on a farm,” Simon said.  

The men switched to their own language and talked among  

themselves for a moment. When they stopped, Isaac faced  

Simon. “You know about the new government scheme?”  

“Another reason I’m here.”  

“Twenty dollars a week now if we don’ work—a hundred  

dollars if we work the cattle.”  

Simon nodded.  

“And the cattle money?”  

Simon smiled. Full points for trying. “If we make money, it  

goes back into the business—new breeding stock, improved  

tropical pasture; a general upgrade all‐round. One day it  

might all be yours, legally, but not before it’s operating  

successfully—that’s my instruction.”  

52

The men again spoke among themselves for several  

minutes. There appeared to be a point of argument. Finally,  

Isaac returned to Simon.  

“We can’t work with no wages.”  

Simon ran a hand through his hair. “You are not working  

for me. You are working for yourselves. There’s a lot of work  

to do before there’s money to pay wages. If there is a profit,  

you’ll get a share. But we have to make that money first.”  

The men did not look convinced and returned to their own  

conversation. The matter was being vigorously debated.  

“The boys will want wages,” said Isaac.  

“Then it’s up to you to explain the situation,” Simon said.  

The matter was again debated. Finally it seemed an  

agreement had been reached.  

“What do you want to do first?” Isaac asked.  

 “When was the last muster?”   

Isaac paused to reflect. “Two years,” he said.  

Simon grimaced. It was worse than he thought. “Well, we’ll  

have to do a big muster to find out what we’ve got.”  

Isaac grinned. “A big muster. That’ll earn a nice profit.”  

Simon shook his head. “I want a muster just to see what  

we’ve got. First job will be simply to sort out the herd— 

separate heifers and bulls.”   

Isaac looked horrified. Past practice was to muster, load  

the biggest animals onto trucks and wait for the cheque. The  

priest wasn’t talking sense. He spoke to the council and they  

all looked hard at Simon.   

Simon sensed their hostility, but was determined to run the  

business his way and break the reliance on government  

handouts. “Look, the sooner we get this done, the sooner  

there’ll be a muster for market and maybe some money.”  

The councillors stared moodily at the ground and each  

other.  

“We can start Monday, first thing,” he pressed.  

“You the boss,” said Isaac glumly.  

53

Chapter Four  

  

While Simon spent his first weekend strolling around the  

settlement, slowly getting used to its shambolic conditions,  

his thoughts were rarely far from the cattle. Its success or  

otherwise was based on tangible factors; things he could hold  

and shape—the cattle, a little knowledge and a dedicated  

workforce, once it was brought around to his way of thinking.  

He awoke early on the Monday, eager to start as soon as  

Mass was finished. Again, Wilma Breck marched her girls to  

church. They looked tired and bored. Simon called the woman  

aside. “I don’t think they need to come every day.”  

 “It was Father Rantz’s rule.”  

 “Father Rantz is not here anymore.”  

 The woman’s mouth tightened. “You don’t know them like  

we do.”  

Simon looked into her eyes and was no stranger to the  

fanaticism he saw: “I don’t want to see those girls back until  

Wednesday. Wednesday and Sunday. Twice a week is plenty.”  

She stared aggressively at him. “You will regret this young  

man.”  

Simon watched the girls marched away, then hurried to his  

house to change.  

His spirits lifted when finally he arrived at the cattle yards.  

Isaac and the council were there, along with about thirty  

youths. Simon didn’t know where they had been in the three  

days since he arrived, but he didn’t really care. The important  

thing was they were ready for work.  

He rubbed his hands with pleasure. “All set?”  

Isaac nodded. “The boys are here. We had a talk. They’re  

not happy, Father, but they’ll do what you asked.”  

“Good—good.” Simon looked around. There was only the  

cattle truck parked nearby. “Where’s the Toyota?”  

“Karl is workin’ on it,” said Isaac.  

54

Simon felt a pang of unease. “Then how are you going to  

muster?”  

“Oh, we got horses,” said Isaac. “Twenty—thirty good stock  

horses.”  

“Excellent,” said Simon with enthusiasm. A good stockman  

on a horse was still the best way to muster cattle. Where are  

they?”  

“Out in the bush,” said Isaac. “But we’ll get ‘em all right. You  

just wait here.”  

Simon tried to hide his disappointment. “Fine,” he said.  

As the Aborigines clambered into the back of the truck,  

Isaac, Matthew and another elder squeezed into the front. The  

truck rumbled off around the other side of the yards and was  

soon swallowed by the scrub. To pass the time, Simon  

inspected the yards, noting the work that had to be done. By  

midday neither the truck nor any of its occupants had  

returned and Simon walked disconsolately back to the  

settlement for lunch. Fred Davies cornered him to repeat  

Wilma Breck’s warning, but Simon barely listened. His  

hearing was primed for the sound of a truck. Returning to the  

yards Simon sat under the tree, staring moodily at the dry red  

sand all around him.   

The truck returned at dusk with one tethered horse  

trotting in its dusty wake.  

“Don’ worry,” said Isaac. “We’ll get the others tomorrow.”  

The following day they went out again. It took thirty‐two  

men three days to locate and bring in four horses. Simon  

remained patient. He signed for fencing wire and tools from  

Muriel Davies’ store and spent the time doing what he could  

to make the yards serviceable.  

At the end of the week they all met again at the yards. The  

boys were standing about excitedly and the horses were  

tethered to a fence rail chewing on dry native grass someone  

had cut and bundled. Only Isaac and his brother looked  

unhappy.  

55

Simon eyed them closely. “We set to go now?”  

Isaac folded his arms and turned his worried face from side  

to side. “We got no stirrups.”  

Simon thrust his hands into his pockets and leaned  

towards the man. “How come?”  

Matthew spoke. “Johnny Namadjari from McKenzie  

Station’s got ‘em.” He saw the anger creeping onto Simon’s  

face. “He pinched ‘em, Father. They’re not Christians at  

McKenzie.”  

Simon exhaled slowly and folded his arms. “What else— 

what about saddles?”  

Isaac and Matthew shook their heads.  

“Johnny what’s‐is‐name got them too?”  

They nodded.   

“Hell,” he muttered, and noticed their faces flicker in  

surprise.  

Simon, Isaac and Matthew returned to the settlement in the  

truck. They parked outside Fred Davies’ office. Simon climbed  

down and began to walk towards the veranda when he  

noticed the two Aboriginal men had made no move to follow.  

“Come on.”  

“It’s okay, we can wait,” said Isaac.  

“No you don’t. We’re in this one together. Come on.”  

The men were still hesitant and Matthew spoke. “We’re not  

allowed in Mr Davies’ office.”  

“Since when?”  

Matthew shrugged.  

“Well you are now.”  

Davies was at his desk, an electric fan keeping the air  

temperature a few degrees below stifling. He looked up and  

Simon saw him glance with annoyance at the two Aboriginal  

men.  

“Yes?”  

“We need to use your radio,” said Simon. He was in no  

mood for pleasantries. The best part of the week had gone  

56

and the muster was fast turning into a black comedy—in  

more ways than one.  

“We?” queried Davies.  

“Yes, we. We need five new sets of saddles, leathers and  

stirrups. I want them on the next mail plane.”  

Davies cocked an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of money Father.  

You got permission to spend it?”  

Simon suddenly smiled. “I don’t need permission. We’re  

working on a government scheme so it can come from your  

budget.”  

“Now listen. The Department doesn’t throw money around.  

There has to be a bloody good reason and there are  

procedures—.”  

Simon interrupted. “If you don’t want to make the call, give  

me an order number and I’ll do it.”  

Davies’ stared at him angrily. “They won’t know you. I’ll  

have to do it.”  

“Thank you.”  

Davies swivelled on his chair. A telex machine and a radio  

telephone was on a bench behind his desk. He pressed the call  

switch and picked up the handpiece.  

“Derby radio—Derby radio, this is Victor Mike Charlie,  

Gunwinddu Station, over.”  

A woman’s voice, flat and brittle, responded. “Victor Mike  

Charlie, go ahead, over.”  

“Yeah, Fred Davies here, put me through to the Derby store  

please.”  

“Stand by—I think that line’s free—booking your call.”  

A gravely voice came from the speaker at Fred Davies’  

elbow.  

“Derby general store—.”  

“Yeah, g’day—it’s Fred Davies here, Gunwinddu—over.”  

“G’day Fred, what’s happening—?”  

“Can’t talk mate—when’s the soonest you can get me some  

saddles, leathers and stirrups— over?”  

57

The radio hissed.  

“Er—Monday—no—better make that Wednesday—over.”  

Davies glanced inquiringly at Simon. The priest shrugged.  

“It’ll have to do.”  

“Okay, send me half a dozen sets—over.”  

A dry chuckle: “Don’t tell me those black bastards are going  

to do some work?”  

Davies kept his voice even. “Be seeing you mate—and it’s  

on the blue slips—over.”  

“Er, sure—anything else?”  

“No, mate.”  

Davies waited a few moments before pressing the speak  

button again. “Derby radio, this is Victor Mike Charlie,  

Gunwinddu—all clear this end.” He placed the handpiece  

beside the radio unit and turned to Simon. “Happy?” he asked  

coldly.  

“I’ll let you know,” said Simon and walked out, herding  

Isaac and Matthew ahead of him.  

Simon stared moodily at the dusty street. “Well, that fixes  

that doesn’t it. Got any ideas about what we should do now?”  

Isaac grinned. “Well, tomorrow a mob of us was goin’ to go  

huntin’.”  

Simon creased a quizzical brow.  

“We often go huntin’ on the weekend—get some proper  

tucker, like,” added Matthew.  

“You should come,” Isaac urged.  

The next morning they drove out on a barely discernible  

track, Isaac, Matthew and the elder Arthur, all squeezed into  

the front of the truck. Simon was on the back with a  dozen or  

so men, women, children and barking dogs. The men were  

mostly barefoot, though a few wore stockman’s boots. A  

number also favoured broad‐brimmed cowboy hats. Simon  

noted that there were no school‐aged girls on the excursion. It  

annoyed him that Wilma Breck could wield such rigid  

authority.  

58

The truck was followed by a convoy of bouncing, rocking  

sedans and station wagons, none of which looked as though  

they had ever seen bitumen. They thundered in a cacophony  

of broken or missing exhausts, which had him wondering  

from the start how any game would remain within the vicinity  

of the convoy. Yet nobody else seemed to consider this a  

problem.  

The day passed in a blur of stop‐starts, yelling, laughter,  

practical jokes, and rifles exploding without warning, and  

more disturbingly, without a great deal of apparent care.  

Whenever large game; kangaroo, bush turkey or emu, was  

sighted, the men beside Simon banged the roof of the cab.  

Even before the truck had stopped, empty cartridges were  

spinning from cracking, smoking rifles both on the truck and  

from within and over the roof of the cars. But apart from one  

single suicidal turkey which ran towards the convoy instead  

of away, nothing else came even close to making the cooking  

fires.  

On a lesser scale, a large lizard was observed lazing in the  

sun on the track ahead. The convoy stopped and everybody  

gave chase until the reptile was caught and knocked on the  

head.  

Later the procession was halted by energetic horn blasting  

from one of the cars. A door opened and a youth sprinted  

towards a small tree and dug feverishly at the base. After  

some moments he stood proudly holding an unopened bottle  

of beer. To cheers and blaring horns the hero was hauled back  

inside his car to share the booty.  

Though they travelled no more than a dozen or so  

kilometres from the settlement, it was late morning by the  

time they arrived at the site of a disused stockyard sheltered  

by a small, rocky knoll.  

The women and children dispersed to find edible roots,  

fruits, berries, grubs, honey ants, goannas, whatever was  

there.  

59

The men wandered off to hunt larger game, leaving Simon  

at the camp to try and amuse several runny‐nosed children.  

He played hide and seek, quite earnest about keeping a  

healthy distance from the grubby urchins.  

The men returned and built a fire in a hole in the ground.  

Into the cooking pit went a kangaroo, a plucked turkey and  

two lizards. Everything caught was cooked. What wasn’t eaten  

was folded into sheets of aluminium foil for people who had  

stayed at the settlement.  

It was a dizzying, brusque introduction to the community  

and Simon was relieved when finally they returned to  

Gunwinddu.  

  

The saddles didn’t arrive until a week after the promised  

date.  

Simon and Matthew were at the airstrip.  

“Got a muster up, eh?” the pilot asked as he kicked his way  

from the cabin and greeted them.  

The priest nodded uncertainly. “One can but hope.”  

The pilot grinned and opened a clipboard. “Sign here  

Father.”  

Simon helped Matthew load the boxes onto the Toyota.  

There was also a carton of medical supplies addressed to the  

hospital. In turn, Simon handed the pilot the community’s  

mail sack, sealed by Fred Davies. He wondered what  

protestations Wilma Breck had written to his superiors.  

“Staying for a beer tonight?”  

The pilot shook his head and jerked his thumb towards the  

rear cabin. “Full load this trip. Got three more stations to call  

at before the light goes.”  

“Pity,” said Simon.  

The pilot slapped his shoulder. “Next time mate—and say  

hullo to Margaret for me.”  

60

The plane was just a golden speck in the afternoon sun  

before Simon stopped watching it. A part of him very much  

wished he was on it. Still, he now had the mustering gear.  

He cancelled morning Mass and walked to the cattle yards  

early, keen to get the muster started.  

Simon was almost at the track leading to the cattle yards  

when he heard the groan and rattle of a truck approaching  

from behind. He stopped as it neared, then watched perplexed  

as it continued on past the turn‐off. It was crowded with  

youths, swags and dogs. They waved and barked happily as  

they passed continued on towards the airstrip and the one  

and only road linking Gunwinddu with the outside world.  

Over the next few minutes more cars followed; windows  

down and spilling arms, hats and black, grinning faces. They  

waved at the mute priest. Simon continued on to the yards. He  

waited at the yards for almost half an hour before the Toyota  

appeared. Isaac, Matthew and Angel alighted. Isaac looked  

pleased.  

“The Toyota is fixed good, Father.”  

Simon nodded. “Great. Where are the boys?”  

“Oh, they’ve gone—but don’ worry. They’ll be back  

Monday—maybe Tuesday.”  

“What!”   

“It’s the football carnival at Daly Waters,” explained  

Matthew.  

Simon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Football— 

Daly Waters—that’s across the border—it must be a thousand  

kilometres away!”   

“Not that far,” said Isaac. “Eight hundred maybe—no more  

than that.”  

Simon rolled his eyes. “That’s not the point. They’re  

supposed to be here mustering—and they’ve taken the truck.”  

“They’ve been trainin’ real hard,” said Matthew. “We got a  

good chance this year.”  

61

Simon dropped his shoulders. It was too much. “Okay, so  

when do you think they’ll be back?”  

The two elders relaxed. “Well,” said Isaac. “If they win  

durin’ the week, the finals is on “Sunday. So—they’ll be back  

maybe Tuesday, like I said.”  

“So if they’re successful they won’t be back here to actually  

work until next Wednesday—more than a week?”  

Isaac and Matthew nodded.  

“Fantastic!” Simon muttered. “So what do we do now?”  

Isaac and Matthew looked at each other for reassurance,  

then Isaac smiled. “We was wonderin’ if you would like to  

hunt buffalo.”  

  

Muriel Davies walked with a relaxed easy gait. She lived  

each day as she found it, regretting nothing, aware of the need  

to take opportunities when they presented themselves. This  

included days like this when the morning light seemed  

brighter, the sun gentler, and the world quieter and friendlier.  

It was cool, no more than thirty, and a little cloud was  

breaking the sky. She walked past houses abandoned by the  

footballers and their supporters, but she knew not everybody  

had gone.  

She had been gazing dreamily out upon the world at  

Gunwinddu, or that much which could be viewed from the  

store‐front. She had seen the boys leave in a noisy convoy for  

the carnival. She had seen the Toyota leave with Father  

Bradbury and the two Richardson brothers with Angel. Karl  

Breier had walked by with his canvas fishing bag.  

  She liked Karl even if he was close to Wilma Breck, who  

unnerved her. She had been a confidante of Father Rantz, but  

so far it seemed she and the new priest didn’t get on. She  

thought of Simon for a moment. He was a welcome contrast to  

the one they’d got rid of.  

There were only three white women at Gunwinddu and  

Muriel couldn’t imagine three more different females for such  

62

a small community. Wilma, the taciturn Margaret, and herself.  

Still, it was easy enough to get along. On days like this she  

actually liked it here, knowing it was only for a little while  

longer. Until then, she was accepted. No one pried into her  

past. She was Mrs Davies who had joined her husband and  

now ran the store. It was a government store with the lease in  

her name. Davies did the accounts and they reaped a tidy off‐ 

the‐books profit. That was the deal with Davies. It was  

unfortunate that Rantz had found out.  

The administrator’s office was a short distance along the  

street. She could picture Davies at his desk, toting figures,  

filing and papers and reports, eyeballing pornographic  

magazines. He kept them under ‘miscellaneous’ in the bottom  

of the green filing cabinet. He wasn’t embarrassed. He just  

smiled and led her into his store room. That too was part of  

the deal. It was an uncomplicated transaction. She was neither  

a possession nor trophy. She was just Muriel Hargreaves, a  

girl with a simple objective—to one day be free of men.  

But on this morning, standing in the doorway of the store,  

it had seemed as though everybody but her was out living.  

She had decided she wanted to paint the day.  

She walked with an easy purpose through the settlement  

and onto the perimeter road, her flat‐soled shoes pressing an  

even geometry into the soft sand. She walked to the shanties  

and spoke to a young woman carrying a child on her hip. The  

woman called out. An older woman appeared from beneath  

the rusted bonnet of a car, functioning now as a roof, and took  

the child. The younger woman followed Muriel. They returned  

to the settlement‐proper in single file; neither attempting to  

converse. At the store Muriel ensconced the young woman on  

a stool behind the counter. She was familiar with the role.  

Muriel went into a back room, collected a small brown case  

and a sheet of white cardboard and stepped back into the  

street.  

  

63

Karl followed a path along the edge of the water, through  

mottled shade. The river moved slowly. A man could while  

away some pleasant time just watching a leaf journey lazily in  

the current. Above him, white cockatoos screeched and  

danced on the high, slender branches. Cranes stalked the  

shallows, and where rocks broke the composure of the river’s  

passage, pelicans patiently waited for fish that would be  

exposed in the shallow runnels. Karl was smiling to himself.  

He had been at Gunwinddu since he was a young man. It had  

been offered as a sanctuary and he had accepted gratefully.  

His favourite place was a small beach at the foot of a high wall  

of red rock. The river was deep and narrow here and shaded  

by the graceful arches of silver‐barked gums.   

It was a long way from Berlin. In quiet moments that past  

was as recent as yesterday. Without a mirror, Karl still only  

remembered himself as he used to be; young—too young.  

Sometimes he caressed the deep gouge which creased his  

forehead; a reminder of youthful hopes that were soured  

forever. He wondered what the city would be like now. Had it  

bloomed again with gardens, cafes and beer halls? That’s how  

it was when he was a boy, lounging longingly on the outside  

waiting for age to grant him entry to this boisterous, flushed  

fraternity. But the madness robbed him. He went from boy to  

animal to exile. There was no youth. Was the Bendlerstrasse  

still there? He pondered this now that he was not only getting  

older, but feeling older. He knew the apartment was gone. He  

had stumbled through the rubble, even recognized fragments  

of pottery and charred timber that were once things to touch  

and polish; pieces of a home remembered through the blurred  

vision of a child rushing to grow up. The faces were now  

sometimes so indistinct he wondered if he was making them  

up.  

For a long time he had planned to go back, but now realised  

he never would. He was too old to rake over embers which  

could still spark and burn. If he tried to explain today, there  

64

would be too few who would understand. After the passage of  

more than two generations the shades of grey had become  

black and white. So instead he shared the home of  

Barramundi, a lost soul like himself.   

It was back when only gods walked the earth, when the  

preparation for the people who would follow was nearly done  

and the time when the gods themselves needed to find  

suitable resting places for the eternity ahead. Barramundi  

was in a quandary trying to put himself somewhere. The time  

of metamorphosis was nigh and Barramundi still had no  

Dreaming site. There was a lot of sand, the water was too  

shallow, or there were too many reeds. Time and again he  

moved from place to place, moving closer towards the sea.  

Behind him he left many meandering trails; rivers for the  

people who would follow. When he reached the ocean he  

could go no further, so he walked to the middle of where the  

river and the sea met with the changing tide, and turned  

himself into a rock; hidden when the salt water tide was up,  

and standing tall for the initiated to witness knowingly when  

only the fresh river water lapped at his feet.   

Karl was fond of Barramundi, the majestic fish which  

breeds in saline water near the mouth of the river system  

then migrates towards its life source in the heart of the red  

country. The fish in the gorge near Gunwinddu were big and  

clever and they listened to Karl when he talked. He baited the  

hook with fat creamy grubs dug from stumps and logs, as  

taught by the Aborigines, and cast his line into the deep green  

water.   

“Barramundi—Barramundi,” he whispered dreamily,  

trying to coax the spirit from its depths. “Come and make an  

old Berliner happy.”  

He sat on the sand and leaned against a rock, waiting  

patiently. If he closed his eyes he could conjure the moment;  

the strike which turned the lazy curl of line into a twitching,  

singing strand cutting through the swirling eddies.  

65

A willy willy scudded along the opposite bank spraying  

leaves and loose bark onto the water. Karl chuckled. “I hear  

you,” he said softly and gazed wistfully into the realm of the  

great fish.  

  

66

Chapter Five  

  

Somewhere ahead, on a path hemmed by impenetrable   

scrub, Isaac and Angel, were scouting. Simon and Matthew  

followed some distance behind. To the right, nearby but  

unseen, was the river; motionless and dark in the deep  

shadow of trees and grass taller than a man.  

Simon was sweating and the old Lee Enfield rifle rubbed  

abrasively on his shoulder. He was nervous; about the clawing  

vegetation, about crocodiles and about meeting a buffalo. He  

hadn’t been shooting since he was a boy and even then it was  

only rabbits and the occasional kangaroo.  

“Watch your feet Father. Them King Browns like  

whitefellas,” Matthew cautioned.  

“Great,” he muttered. Now he was nervous about snakes as  

well. Ironically he was the only person wearing boots. The  

three Aborigines were barefoot.  

“Have you done much of this before?”  

“Oh, sure,” said Matthew. “Lots of times. And Father Rantz  

got me a job once up on the Drysdale River—with a fella  

called George Granger. He was battlin’, trying to get a station  

goin’ an’ he wanted to sell the skins. I went there and done  

nearly ten months—but he was too rough, I couldn’ put up  

with him.”  

“Hard work?”  

“Nah—hard bloke—but I shot nearly two hundred buffalo  

in that time with the 303. We cut off the barrels especially for  

the buffalo. “Skeleton rifles we used to call ‘em. I was scared  

when I started, but then I got pretty game in the end—maybe  

too game.”  

“How’s that?”  

Matthew laughed lightly. “One day I went into this new  

place to have a look. I was with some other blokes and we was  

all a bit scared. It was not far from where a young fella got  

taken by a crocodile. It was jungle country; a big croc could be  

67

layin’ along side of you and you wouldn’ even see him.  

Anyway, I come out onto a big plain, four other blokes was  

with me. I looked across and told ‘em—on finger talk, like— 

that there were two buffalo down where they were goin’. I  

could see their mark, see. So they went the way I pointed. But  

there were some other buffalo that I didn’ see and they were  

comin’ for where I was, they come straight at me. I got down  

and lay on the ground with the 303 ready. I shot one and  

broke its front leg and he dropped. I never loaded up my rifle  

‘cause the other buffalo kept on goin’ into the bush. Well, I  

was walkin’ up to the fella on the ground—and I saw his eye  

blink. By crikey I jumped. I got the rifle and was still tryin’ to  

put in a bullet when he was on his feet, on three legs, and  

‘cause my rifle wasn’ properly loaded I ran for this little tree.  

Up I went, real quick. When he came along he was flat out,  

real close. He had big horns and he smashed into that tree like  

a bulldozer. Knocked me right out and winded me cruel,  

Father, but the old buffalo went straight on for a bit before he  

could pull up. I got up and he turned around and was lookin’  

for me, draggin’ his busted leg. He spotted me and I loaded up  

my rifle. I had to make sure of him this time or he would kill  

me.”  

Simon was listening, while anxiously looking around.  

“The other fellas were comin’ to help, but they were too far  

away. Well, that bugger came straight for me, flat out on his  

three legs. He was a bullock, a big one. I waited till he put his  

head down to get the horn into me ‘cause that’s when they  

shut their eyes. I stepped back and put the barrel to his head  

and pulled the trigger. It dropped him, but I was shakin’  

pretty bad and I told Granger it was my last buffalo—but it  

wasn’t.”  

“Why not?”  

“Needed the money, Father. I wanted to go south—of  

course I didn’ know the bugger wasn’ goin’ to pay me.”  

68

Simon pinched his eyes with his fingers and wondered how  

he had been talked into such a foolhardy venture. “Why do  

you have to get so close—can’t you shoot from further away?”  

“Well you got to get in among ‘em. If you just shoot from a  

long way you only get one buffalo. You have to get right in  

close to get more. I got pretty good at that. I used to stand  

right up close to ‘em in the long grass, hardly any trees there,  

and I used to pump bullets into ‘em and they used to go down  

but there’d be twenty more, layin’ there; you can’t see ‘em in  

all that grass, and one of ‘em might come at you. I used to  

stand still then run up to the dead buffalo and lay along side of  

him.”  

Matthew paused while they negotiated a small outcrop of  

rock.  

“Yeah—the other buffalo would come and look. Then  

bang—sometimes two of us, another fella. He’d lay on one  

side and I’d lay on the other side so he’d shoot that way, and  

I’d shoot from my side. I used to say, ‘Don’ you miss now or  

there’ll be another dead blackfella.’ He used to laugh, but he  

belong to that country, see. But I’m frightened of dyin’ up  

here. Me an’ Isaac don’ belong here, see.”  

Simon stopped and leaned on the rifle to catch his breath.  


“Well, we come from the south, Father. We was brought up  

here when we was just young blokes. Father Rantz brought us  

up here.”  

Simon was surprised by the revelation. “Father Rantz—?”  

“Yeah. That’s why Isaac is the boss. Father Rantz tol’ the  

others—but we don’ belong. We come from the Goldfields  

way, out in the desert—Mudidjara. I remember it was  

beautiful. Not like here. There you could see for miles an’  

miles.”  

“So how did you end up with Father Rantz?”  

Matthew took a long, slow breath. “—For a long time we  

heard about white people and missions from other natives,  

69

ut our father don’ want to leave his land. He could see  

everybody else leavin’ an’ he was afraid no one would stay.  

But one day there was a big fight—some whitefellas come— 

after that everybody had to leave for a while. Better you ask  

Isaac—he’s older, he knows what happened—but he don’ talk  

too much about it either.”  

Simon saw moisture on the man’s cheeks. He hesitated, but  

needed to know the old man’s story.  

 “So what happened—with Rantz?”  

“Oh—maybe you don’ really want to hear. Not many white  

people do.”  

“Try me.”  

Matthew shrugged. “We was camped by a soak. There was  

our father and mother, an’ some aunties, mostly widows, an’  

some old people—a big family, you know how it is. I still  

remember one auntie who use to tell us stories from the  

Dreamin’. Like the Bible, Father, but we don’ need books in  

them days. Anyway—Isaac and me had run to some rocks to  

hide from our cousins. We were emus and they had to hunt  

us. While we were hidin’ a lot of men come on horses and  

Isaac and I was scared so we stayed in the rocks. I don’ know  

what happened really—there was lots of shoutin’ and the  

whitefellas made all the people stand in a line and they tied  

their hands with ropes—even our cousins and they were only  

little like us. We was really scared then. We thought they were  

goin’ to be taken away. But the men walked their horses just a  

short way, then ‘bang bang bang’, many many times. Our  

father and mother—and cousins—everybody. We were too  

frightened to move.”  

Matthew drew his sleeve across his cheeks. “We was the  

last natives in that place. The whitefellas wanted to put sheep  

on the country and to look for gold. They was  frightened we  

would kill the sheep—or learn that gold was worth a lot of  

money an’ find it for ourselves. And we would have. It’s our  

70

land. We know where that gold is—there’s gold at Mudidjara,  

but only Isaac an’ me know where Mudidjara is—our home.”  

Simon was silent for a moment, absorbing the man’s story;  

aware of the pain he still felt.  

 “So how did Father Rantz find you?” he asked softly.  

“When the whitefellas had gone we lay on the ground with  

our father and mother. All night we did that, but in the  

morning the flies come and we knew they were dead. We don’  

know what to do so we just followed the horse tracks. Isaac  

said we should ask the whitefellas to make us dead so we  

could be with our family. I was scared of that, but he was  

older—he had already started bein’ initiated, like. We walked  

for three, maybe four days, Isaac will know, and one morning  

we saw a camp. There was two whitefellas there. Isaac asked  

them to make us dead, but they don’ know what he’s saying.  

They had a truck. We had never seen one before. They were  

puttin’ up a wire fence. It went for miles an’ miles. After two  

days they must have seen we were on our own, so one of the  

fellas called to us. Isaac went to him and I followed. We were  

pretty hungry, like. He put us in the truck and took us to  

Kalgoorlie. You know Kalgoorlie?”  

Simon nodded. “Have you heard of a place called  

Cumalong?”  

Matthew scratched his chin. “No, I don’ think so.”  

“So what happened in Kalgoorlie?”  

“Well, we was put with some sisters in a convent. They  

gave us names. It wasn’t too bad. There was a lot of kids just  

like us. Then one day, when we were too old for the school, a  

father comes from Perth, on his way to the north—Father  

Rantz—he was just a young bloke then—says he’s goin’ to  

take us with him. To tell you the truth, I still don’ really know  

why. Maybe because we could speak English by then—I don’  

know. But it’s been good up here. We got a new family up  

here. We both got wives and I’ve got a son, Angel. He’s goin’ to  

71

e all right, not like a lot of buggers who go to town and get on  

the grog.”  

Simon felt they ought to keep moving. He lifted the rifle  

back onto his shoulder and started to move on, but Matthew  

called him back. “Father. Do you think us blackfellas are bad?”  

“Of course not—why?”  

“Would you think we was bad if we sometimes did things  

our way—like we believe now in the Father, the Boss Lady  

and her boy, Jesus, he’s a good bloke—but he’s like Isaac and  

me, he don’ belong here the way whitefellas, like Father  

Rantz, tryin’ to make him. “Some things have to be different,  

but that don’ mean we’re bad.”  

Simon met Mathew’s gaze, but said nothing.  

 “Father Rantz said we would burn in that big hell if we  

danced, and sung the land like in the old days—but the land is  

dyin’, Father. That desert is comin’ closer all the time. We got  

to sing it pretty soon. Isaac says this is the Aboriginal Jesus’s  

home and he would want us to do that even if Father Rantz  

don’.”  

Simon felt the familiar ache from sensing something  

profound that was slipping away before he could identify it.  

“I’m sure Isaac has a point,” he said absently, trying to  

gather his thoughts.  

Matthew smiled. “You’re okay, Father. You’re goin’ to make  

the people here pretty happy.”  

“Fine—if that means we can stop playing football long  

enough for a muster.”  

Matthew was still grinning. “Oh, don’ you worry about  

that.”  

The two men walked for about half a kilometre, heading  

east, until the surrounding bush melted away from the path to  

expose a wide, shallow swampland vegetated with tall, yellow  

grass.  

72

Isaac and Angel were waiting patiently; Isaac studying the  

land ahead. “You and the Father go up round the ridge, and  

me and Angel will follow the path.”  

Matthew looked to Simon, and then to his brother and  

scowled. “No, me an the Father will go along the path.”  

Isaac shrugged. It didn’t matter to him. He beckoned to  

Angel and together they followed the edge of the swamp in a  

north‐easterly arc.  

“We’ll wait a bit till they get on the high ground,” said  

Matthew. “They can guide us from there.”  

The two stood in an uneasy silence. The priest felt a  

brooding presence behind the drone of insects and the oily,  

clammy trails of sweat inside his shirt. He felt he had intruded  

into an alien, dangerous world.  

Isaac and Angel had disappeared into the tall grass.  

Perhaps fifteen minutes passed before they reappeared, about  

three hundred metres away, edging their way to the ridge that  

overlooked the swamp.  

“There’ll be buffalo here for sure,” said Matthew. “They’ll  

be able to see their tracks from up there.”   

He pointed to the path ahead. It was about a metre wide  

and worn down in the centre. It acted as a narrow causeway,  

with the river lapping against its right bank and the swamp on  

the left.  

“We’ll go along here,” said Matthew, who squeezed in front  

of Simon to lead the way. “See how the buffalo has worn down  

the path? They bin here a long time. You got a bullet ready?”  

“Yes.”  

“Because there might be crocs here too.”  

“Wonderful,” Simon muttered.  

“If a buffalo starts comin’ for us we got to make no mistake.  

There’s nowhere to run except back along the path, and he’ll  

catch us, an’ I’m no Kadjali bugger.”  

“Kadjali—what’s a Kadjali?”  

73

“Agh!” Matthew spat with disgust. “A real foolish bloke,  

Father. It’s from the Dreamin’. Kadjali was a young fella who’d  

just got himself a wife an’ they went out lookin’ for their own  

place. They was livin’ on honey mostly. Anyway they were  

soon tired of honey an’ Kadjali wanted to be a big fella for his  

wife; she liked his brother too, you see, so Kadjali wanted to  

show her he’s number one. “So Kadjali says to her, ‘let’s go to  

the river an’ I’ll get plenty of fish’. When they got to the river,  

his wife says don’ you be foolish. That water is deep an’ a  

crocodile will get you. Kadjali pumped up his chest an’  

stroked his—ah, his old fella—if you know what I mean  

Father.”  

Simon waved his free arm to speed the story along.  

 “Well, Kadjali did that thing to show his wife he was a man  

an’ not afraid of crocodiles. He then dived into the river an’  

swam down deep an’ he found fish an’ even a tortoise. His  

wife was happy an’ she let him lie with her—an’ Kadjali was  

happy too. He liked doin’ that—with his wife—more an’ more,  

so he said, ‘I’m goin’ to go down into that river an’ catch you a  

crocodile then we will have meat for a long time an’ we can  

stay here an’ have plenty—er—well, you understand Father.  

Simon grunted an affirmation. “So what happened?”   

Matthew continued. “Well Kadjali dived in. He swam down  

to where it was dark an’ felt along for the crocodile hole. He  

put his hand in an’ the crocodile grabbed him. Kadjali tried to  

pull that crocodile out of the hole, but it was too strong. They  

rolled around an’ around, Kadjali tryin’ to grab that tail an’ the  

water bubbled. Kadjali’s wife saw this an’ started to light a big  

fire. She was glad that Kadjali was catchin’ the crocodile an’  

they would have a lot of meat. But she don’ know that the  

crocodile has bitten off Kadjali’s head an’ arms an’ legs. She  

don’t know that ‘til she sees bits of a man come floatin’to the  

top an’ making the river red. This made her cry; an’ she was  

angry too because now she don’ have no husband because he  

was foolish. Then Kadjali’s brother heard her crying an’ come  

74

to her. She told him his brother was killed by the crocodile,  

an’ he was pleased. ‘I am happy,’ he said, ‘because I can have  

you now,’ an’ he stroked himself to show her he too was a big  

man, but not foolish like his brother. Kadjali’s wife was  

pleased because she had a new husband who wasn’ foolish an’  

goin’ to get himself killed.”  

Matthew stopped talking and Simon realised it was the end  

of the story. “So what does it all mean?”  

Matthew shrugged. “Well—it’s a moral, Father. If  you’re  

just big, but not smart, you goin’ to get yourself killed and  

then you’re no good to anybody, especially a woman—an’ if  

we’re not smart right here, we goin’ to become like Kadjali— 

crocodile shit.”  

Simon looked at the nearby water, black and still. “Good  

one Matthew,” he said tonelessly. He lifted the rifle off his  

shoulder and carried it ready to fire, but didn’t know whether  

to point it at the swamp or the river. For all he knew it would  

explode in his face anyway. As it was the magazine was  

broken so he could only load one bullet at a time.  

He stopped. “Actually that story sounds familiar.”  

“Eh?”  

“Your story—a bit like Deuteronomy, one of the books of  

Moses when he was laying down the rules to the Israelites.  

Said a man had a duty to his brother’s widow to lay with her  

and produce a son to succeed the name of the brother who  

died.”  

Matthew grinned. “Father Rantz never told us that one— 

maybe our Dreamin’ isn’t much different, eh!”  

Matthew started forward again, walking in a measured  

crouch, placing one foot precisely in the path of the other. He  

was watching the tall grass intently, only occasionally  

switching his gaze in the direction of Isaac and Angel, and  

sometimes towards the river; their silent, ominous  

companion.  

  

75

Chapter Six  

  

Muriel took the track which passed by the church and  

through the vegetable plot. Here the river was broadened by  

shallows and several toddlers were already splashing on the  

edge while their mothers washed clothing. She paused,  

unsure now of what to do. The scene of children playing was  

no longer novel. She had already painted it twice, largely  

because it was close at hand. She was a city girl and still  

nervous about going too far on her own; frightened of the  

snakes, which seemed to be everywhere once you left the  

comparative safety of the settlement. She suddenly thought of  

Karl and his fishing bag; an old man on a river bank. That  

would do nicely. She greeted the group at the river’s edge.  

“Did you see which way Mr Breier went?”  

One of the women pointed west along the path to the  

gorge.  

Muriel walked for about half a kilometre and nearing the  

rock wall with its small beach, she left the path and climbed  

up the slope heading slightly away from the river; gingerly  

placing her sandaled feet in the bare patches of sand between  

the tufts of spiny, dry grass. She made for a plateau which  

overlooked the river and the fisherman. Karl was below, his  

hat pulled over his eyes and leaning against a rock. Muriel  

smoothed the gravel and sand off a large flat stone shaded by  

two tall gums. Seated, she began to sketch the river, flanked  

by its rock walls and occasional narrow strips of sand at the  

water’s edge, her eyes patiently measuring the scene. She had  

started to study drawing when she left high school, but the  

world had proved too enticing for the free‐spirited girl. She  

did not abandon the idea of an artistic career, she just didn’t  

find the time to pursue it. She traded instead on her looks;  

almost subconsciously at first, but she soon learned that a  

smart girl with a nice face and shapely body could do worse  

than exploit her natural talents. Muriel sold herself, and did  

76

well. She reasoned that’s how it was for a woman, even if  

most might disagree. But the only delineation she could  

measure between herself and other women was she preferred  

cash, while they toted bricks, mortar and a certain  

respectability on the balance sheet. The only flaw in Muriel’s  

scheme was she had not counted on growing old, and while a  

fine‐looking thirty‐five, she was still thirty‐five and the  

competition suddenly had a good ten to fifteen years on her.  

Then along came Fred Davies, just a faceless customer at first,  

but, she discovered, he was looking for someone like her. The  

deal was struck and delivered on red satin sheets, witnessed  

by their own luminescent bodies reflected in wall‐to‐ceiling  

mirrors.  

 Her hand flicked at the artboard in sharp, measured  

strokes and the home of the barramundi took shape in  

charcoal lines.  

Behind her, keeping low in the thin undergrowth, small  

black faces watched. They giggled silently. The white people  

were a constant source of amusement. There never seemed to  

be any purpose to their activities. It was like watching birds  

flit from branch to branch and back again; a flurry of feathers  

occasionally, but nothing important happened. Suddenly the  

children froze. They heard the sound of steps long before  

Muriel whose fingers were busy stroking the outline of the  

fisherman.  

“Having fun?”  

She started, surprised by the man. “I’ve decided to take the  

morning off.”  

“So I see.”  

Easing himself onto the stone beside her Davies nodded in  

the direction of Karl. “Never gives up does he . . . silly old  

bastard.”   

“Leave him alone, he’s a nice old man.”  

77

“Come on … the blacks gave up trying to catch barramundi  

there years ago. They’re either too big and smart, or they’ve  

been fished out.”  

“Karl knows what he’s doing. I’ve been watching him.  

Sometimes I think his skin’s the wrong colour . . . he seems  

more at home here than the Aborigines.”  

Davies scoffed. “That wouldn’t be hard. The longer I’m here  

the more I’m convinced they don’t belong anywhere . . . except  

maybe in history books. They’ll never be like us, not in fifty  

thousand years.”  

Muriel kept her eyes on the drawing. “Perhaps that’s a  

good thing . . . maybe they might then be around long after our  

kind has gone.”  

Davies chuckled dryly. “Some fucking hope. These people  

can’t even keep a house or vehicle in one piece for a few  

weeks, they’re incapable of even basic commerce and  

financial management . . . look at the new priest, organized a  

muster and they pissed off to a football carnival. All they care  

about is having a good time and holding out the hand for  

government money.”  

Muriel smiled. “That’s why I think they’re smarter than us.  

They don’t need the things we keep trying to force on them. I  

watch their eyes sometimes . . . I think they only pretend to be  

interested for our sake, because deep down they believe one  

day we will be gone … it’s like they know something about the  

future that we don’t.”  

“You ought to keep in the shade. Too much sun fries the  

brain, you know.”  

Muriel held the sketch out to survey it. Davies slipped an  

arm under her shoulder and cupped a breast. “Ah ... nice.”  

“Like I said . . . I’m taking the morning off,” she responded  

flatly.  

“We’re not at the store now,” Davies growled. He squeezed  

her breast, touching his lips against the back of her neck.  

Muriel sighed heavily. “Give it a break, eh?”  

78

“Look, it’s a nice day . . . no one around.”  

“I came out here to paint, and besides, what about Karl . . .  

what if he sees us?”  

“He won’t, and too bad if he does.”  

“No Fred, I don’t feel like it . . . maybe later.”  

He squeezed her nipple between his bookkeeper’s fingers  

and with his other hand began undoing the buttons down the  

back of her dress.  

Muriel put down the artboard and pushed at Davies who  

stood up angrily. “Listen. I’ve just about had this. You’ve been  

cooling off a bit too much lately. I’m filling your bank kitty, I’m  

keeping my side of the deal … now you keep yours.” He  

unbuckled his belt and pushed down his shorts. Muriel stood  

up, her face lined with anger. She glanced towards the  

fisherman then quickly slipped her pants down over her legs.  

She knelt gingerly onto the hard grass and eased herself onto  

her back. Davies knelt between her legs, pausing just long  

enough to impart a satisfied smile.  

The children in the grass were mesmerized. In their close  

living spaces, neither the sight nor sounds of copulation were  

new. But they’d never seen white people do it before …  

especially important white people like Mr and Mrs Davies.  

The man’s white buttocks rose and fell above the top of the  

grass.  

Davies froze in mid‐stroke. “What was that?”  

They both heard a nearby giggle. Muriel laughed lightly. “I  

think you’ve been sprung.”  

The administrator pushed himself back onto his knees and  

peered across the top of the grass. A flash of dark skin dipped  

below his line of sight. “Bloody kids!”  He climbed to his feet,  

dragging his underpants and shorts up over his knees as he  

went. “You dirty little peeping Toms . . . come here!” he yelled.  

A tuft of dark curly hair and glinting eyes rose fractionally  

above the grass. “By Jeesus, I’ll teach you.”  

79

Davies began to stride towards the children. Six naked little  

bodies darted to their feet and scurried off in different  

directions into the scrub. Davies began to chase, swearing  

loudly. As Davies reached the children’s hiding place, one who  

had not bolted with the others suddenly jumped to its feet  

and tried to escape. The man grabbed the girl by the shoulder  

with his left hand he swung his right palm hard against the  

side of the child’s head. She screamed.  

On the river bank Karl heard the shouting. Looking up he  

couldn’t see anything until Davies appeared dragging the  

screaming child. Then Muriel came into view and began  

struggling with him to free the child. Karl put down his line,  

shaking his head, and decided to see what the fuss was about.  

“It’s just a little girl, leave her alone,” Muriel was saying.  

Davies still gripped the child’s shoulder and was forcing it to  

walk ahead of him.  

“What is happening here?” asked Karl as they met on the  

path.  

“I’m taking her to Wilma.” He shot a warning glance at  

Muriel. “Found the little buggers feeling each other up in the  

grass. Caught this one and I’m going to hand her over to  

Wilma. Time for the compound. They’re animals Karl …  

doesn’t matter how old they are. If they start messing around,  

it’s time to reign ‘em in.”  

Karl knelt in front of the frightened child. “Hey. You can  

stop crying, yes. You come with me.” He stood up. “I will take  

the little one to Wilma and tell her. You are too rough. Come,”  

he said and took the child’s hand.  

“Just make sure you do,” Davies said grimly. He watched  

the old man lead the child away.  

Muriel returned clutching her art case. “There was no need  

for any of that. What the hell got into you, they were only  

kids.”  

He rounded on her. “They were laughing at me. How can I  

run this place if they’re laughing at me?”  

80

  

Simon and Matthew were about two hundred metres along  

the path when the gunshot ripped through the air. Every tree  

around the swamp exploded as thousands of birds, startlked,  

took flight. The equally‐startled men looked up. Isaac and  

Angel were waving frantically.  

Simon sensed rather than heard the buffalo. His heart jack‐ 

knifed inside his ribcage; his body burned with its release of  

adrenalin. It was behind. He turned in terror. It was already so  

close. He tried to cry out, but there was no force in his voice.  

He could see blood‐red eyes, and great sheets of saliva  

shaking loose with each violent swing of the beast’s massive  

head; its horns, dropped lower and lower, its thundering  

weight reverberated beneath his feet. He lifted his rifle. Too  

slow, too slow. His mind screamed for action, but his body  

was paralyzed. A voice was yelling, screaming. The charging  

beast filled his vision. Simon pulled the trigger. The explosion  

ripped the weapon from his hands, flinging him backwards.  

He hit the ground hard, stunned. Two further explosions and  

still he could hear screaming. The huge beast was almost on  

him, its massive horns barely above the ground. Simon rolled  

himself from the path and into the black water. Weed and  

slime dragged at his clothing and he was panicked by an even  

greater terror … crocodiles. He pulled himself frantically back  

up the bank.  

Matthew was running. He had dropped his rifle and was  

running for his life, his trouser legs flapping like loose canvas  

in a stiff wind. The bullock caught him in the back, tossing him  

into the air. The Aborigine tumbled over the animal’s back  

and crashed to the ground, face down. The bullock pulled up  

about thirty metres further on and was turning to come back.  

Simon scrambled to his feet and ran to the fallen man.  

Matthew looked up, pain and terror in his eyes. “Rifle, my rifle  

. . . shoot ‘im Father . . . I don’ wan’ to die here . . .”  

81

Simon twisted his head. The rifle was lying on the bank, its  

butt in the water. He could feel the thunder of hooves. Two  

steps. It seemed to take minutes. He grabbed the weapon,  

jerked back the bolt and saw with horror a live round eject.  

But the magazine thrust up another. Fighting panic, he pushed  

the bolt home. The buffalo was almost onto the fallen man.  

Matthew raised an arm, trying to move, but his back had been  

broken. Simon saw the terrible fear and pleading in his eyes.  

He pulled the butt hard into his shoulder and sighted quickly  

along the barrel. The bullock lowered its head and Simon  

pulled the trigger. The beast stumbled, but continued forward  

under its momentum until it collapsed onto the fallen man.  

Simon emitted a single, cry of horror as a a horn pierced  

Matthew’s back.  

It was quiet so quickly. Death and silence. An awful ringing  

in his head, Simon dropped the rifle and ran to Matthew.  

Blood dribbled from his mouth. Simon fell to his knees and  

clutched the old man’s hands, squeezing them between his  

own. The buffalo stank of swamp and excrement.  

 God the Father of mercies through the death and  

resurrection of his son ... has reconciled the world to himself and  

sent the holy spirit among us ... through the ministry of the  

church may God give you pardon and peace and I absolve you  

from your sins ... .  

A rasping, gurgling sound came from Matthew’s mouth and  

his lips moved. Simon spread himself flat to put his ear near  

his mouth. “Mudi . . . Mudidjara . . . Mudi.” Dark blood gushed  

from his mouth and splashed over Simon’s cheeks.  

Simon used his own spittle to smear the mark of the cross  

on the old man’s forehead.   

It took time, a heart‐rending time, to find sturdy branches  

for Isaac and Simon to lever the bullock up so that Angel could  

pull his father off the bloodied horn and out from under its  

carcass. The boy had a sickening struggle; crying out at the  

sucking sound the body made as it came jerkily off the horn.  

82

They then had the terrible task of carrying Matthew’s corpse  

back to the Toyota, and lashing it to the tray. By the time they  

reached the settlement, Simon felt his head was ready to  

explode. He had vomited himself dry and his mouth tasted  

bitter. He could feel Matthew’s blood congealing on his hair  

and skin. Isaac and Angel were sobbing, all of them helpless  

with grief and shock.  

Simon drove straight to the hospital and left the body in  

the small emergency room. Sister Margaret took control by  

simply demanding they all go. Simon drove Isaac and Anegl  

home. When they arrived at Matthew’s house there was a  

large, downcast group. As the vehicle pulled up, Matthew’s  

wife rushed forward, her face contorted with grief. Only much  

later did Simon wonder how they had known. Isaac, Angel and  

the woman clung together; the horror of the tragedy carried  

into the community by the dried blood on the skin and clothes  

of the priest and the hunters. Death was nothing new, but its  

suddenness could never be met with understanding or  

acceptance.  

Before he left Simon remembered Matthew had been  

trying to say something. He took Isaac’s arm. “I am so sorry . .  

.” His words sounded hollow.  

Isaac faced him with wet, red eyes. “It was not your doin’,  

Father. Don’ you think that.”  

“I was too slow . . . I fired too late.”  

Isaac shook his head. “You can’t say that. We saw. It was  

too quick. That bullock come up from a hole he was lyin’ in. He  

was plenty quick, and that silly Kadjali missed. He fired twice  

an’ missed.” He shook his head again in disbelief.  

“Matthew tried to tell me something. It was difficult for  

him, but it sounded like mudijarra, or something.”  

Isaac nodded and smiled grimly. “He wan’ to go home,  

that’s all . . . to our own place, Mudidjara.”  

“Down south?”  

“He tol’ you?”  

83

Simon nodded. “We were talking . . . things are going to  

change, Isaac, I promise you that.”  

Isaac laid a hand on the priest’s arm. “Better you go away  

and think about it . . . you don’ wan’ to be too quick, Father.”  

  

Still nauseaus from shock, Simon felt the eyes of the entire  

canteen on him as he forced down the evening soup. He  

responded to a desperate urge to escape and pushed his chair  

away from the table. “If you’ll excuse me,” he mumbled and  

made for the door.   

His hand was reaching for the outside door when it burst  

open. He almost collided with the administrator.  

Davies was red‐faced and slammed the door behind him,  

blocking the priest’s way. “A fine fucking mess, eh Father?”  

Simon swallowed. His mouth felt as though it was stuffed  

with wire wool. “It was a terrible accident … .”  

“Don’t worry, it can’t get any worse. I radioed through to  

the police and have already had two calls from department  

heavies. Both times the same question: “What the fucking hell  

that that priest think he was doing taking two old blokes on a  

wild buffalo hunt … ?”  

“It wasn’t like that,” Simon responded, his anger towards  

the man restoring his resolve.  

“Yeah, well that’s how they see it. Reckon you’re a cowboy.  

It worries them . . . and that affects me. They’re kicking my  

butt damn hard.”  

“I hardly see how it affects you.”  

Davies laughed and jabbed his finger into Simon’s  

shoulder. “Because it might not have been the old black who  

copped it . . . it could have been you.”  

Now Simon understood. He stepped around the man,  

pulled open the door and slammed it behind him.  

Davies yelled after him. “The cops’ll be here, day after  

tomorrow.”  

  

84

  

  

  

  

85

Chapter Seven  

  

The bitumen and neat cement kerbing looked out  

of place against the red earth. Front yards were  

adorned with expensive toys; four‐wheel‐drives  

and ski boats yet the streets and their struggling  

southern gardens looked forlorn. The houses were  

of timber and asbestos, a few even of brick. In the  

beginning they would have splashed cool, pastel  

colours onto the landscape, but now they were all  

coated in the same unstoppable red‐brown dust.   

Kununurra was an urban growth transplanted  

onto a river plain below a small mountain of jagged,  

treeless rock, some three thousand kilometres from  

the southern capital. It was surrounded by an arid  

landscape, but had water to spare from the  

immense dam feeding an irrigation scheme.  

However, there was a fragility about the town; its  

inhabitants existing at the whim of far‐away  

governments which had almost forgotten the  

original reasoning behind the creation of this  

remote bastion of Anglo‐European culture.  

Years before, politicians in the south had grown  

nervous about the roof of their country not only  

being underpopulated by whites, but exposed to an  

increasingly confident and perhaps expansionist  

South East Asia. It wasn’t that many in the fair‐ 

skinned southern cities wanted themselves to live  

in this red, tropical zone—they just didn’t want  

anybody else moving in. So an irrigation scheme  

was installed, a hub of life around which a European  

culture could be nurtured. It was planned that one  

day there would be a city. One day there might be.  

But for now it was an awkward little town  

86

struggling to keep its head above the rising red  

earth.  

It was Thursday, pension day. Aborigines  

gathered under a white‐trunked Eucalypt outside  

the government complex waiting to collect their  

payments. They were dishevelled and runny‐nosed;  

barefoot and listless. Some sat, holding their heads;  

minds numbed by a steady diet of cheap fortified  

wine.  

As Simon, Isaac and Fred Davies left the court  

house, one of the men called to Isaac.  

“I’d better say hullo,” he said to Simon.  

“I’ll wait.”  

“No, come and meet ‘em.”  

Davies was not in a sociable mood. “I need a  

drink. Find me at the pub when you’re ready.”  

The coroner’s hearing had lasted little more than  

forty minutes. A constable read tiredly from a type‐ 

written report. He had gone to Gunwinddu Station,  

taken statements and inspected Matthew’s body  

before releasing it for burial. He had then been  

taken to the scene of the accident, where the  

Aboriginal, Isaac Richardson, had cut the horn from  

the buffalo carcass. The policeman noted that the  

carcass had been mauled since the accident and he  

attributed this to the activity of one or more  

crocodiles. Reaching into a hessian bag, he  

withdrew the gnarled, black horn to show the court.  

Simon and Isaac were required to give their version  

of events. Davies tabled a brief statement in which  

he stated he had known nothing of the hunting trip  

and had understood Father Bradbury to be out  

organizing a cattle muster. The coroner brought  

down a ruling of  ‘death by misadventure’.  

87

It was over so quickly that Simon was surprised  

when a clerk began to usher them from the room.  

Simon was introduced to the men beneath the  

tree. Isaac said they were important. To Simon they  

looked derelict and shockingly impoverished. He  

looked at their flaccid cheeks, characteristic flat  

noses and matted hair. Most seemed to have eye  

problems. One had terrible facial scarring; patches  

of flaking, grey skin. They all smelled unwashed and  

had to work ceaselessly to break up the cloud of  

flies hovering around their faces. For some, even  

this effort was too much and they just let the insects  

feast. They wore the look of hopelessness. Doubt  

flickered at the back of Simon’s mind. Perhaps  

Father Rantz’s methods weren’t so wrong? The  

station people may have lost some cultural  

freedom, but at least they were energetic human  

beings.  

They talked in low tones, mostly in an Aboriginal  

dialect, forcing Simon to remain an outsider.  

Occasionally they looked quizzically at him in  

response to something Isaac said.  

 After they had left the group, Simon asked who  

they were.   

 “Elders with some of the mob ‘round here— 

important fellas in these parts.”  

“They didn’t look important—in fact they looked  

bloody terrible.”  

Isaac just shook his head tiredly. “They got no  

land here anymore—no land, no purpose. When  

you got no land, you got nothing to do—except be  

sad enough to spend all day drinkin’. It’s not like for  

you white fellas. If we lose our land we can’t just  

move somewhere else ‘cause that would be another  

people’s land. So they have to stay here, just dyin’  

88

and knowin’ they are the last. It is a difficult thing to  

know you are the end of thousands an’ thousands of  

years of your way of livin’.”  

The old man paused, his mind caught on a  

thought. “They’re important men ‘cause they’ll take  

the secrets of these parts with ‘em. The Dreamin’  

will end pretty soon ‘round here. The spirit that  

holds the people and the land together will be gone.  

Down at Gunwinddu it’s not so bad—but maybe  

even we’ll soon be like this mob. We old fellas are  

dyin’ an’ the young blokes just want to play footy  

and drink grog. If we don’ get back to the bora  

soon—initiate the young blokes—teach ‘em about  

their culture an’ make real men of ‘em—then we’ll  

be like this mob. No more corroboree, no dancin’,  

huntin’; nothin’ but beer and footy. Already been a  

long time since we did somethin’. Father Rantz used  

to stop us. He don’ want us to do that. Last time he  

got Mr Davies to get the police and they chained us  

up—in the sun with no water. Two days—ooh, a lot  

of us were real crook. I thought it was the end.”  

Isaac stopped and turned to Simon, whose faced  

had hardened. “But we have to do these things  

Father. You’ve seen this mob here. Well maybe  

you’ve seen the future for all blackfellas. Nothin’ to  

do, nothin’ to live for. It’s a terrible, sad thing,  

Father. This land is sacred, just like the land of John  

the Bushman in the Bible, but you whitefellas don’  

see that.”  

“John the Baptist?”  

“That fella. John the Bushman.”  

Simon was silent a while. In Perth they had called  

Father Rantz a good man; a soldier of the church.  

The evidence here suggested otherwise. “They  

89

seemed to be asking about me. What was that  

about?”  

“I tol’ ‘em you’re goin’ to let us do the dancin’ for  

my brother.”  

 “They don’ believe me,” Isaac continued. “But  

they don’ trust whitefellas, see. A long time ago,  

before the town, there was a lot of killin’ ‘round  

here, by cattle people—but people don’ care any  

more, do they?”  

Simon didn’t respond. He felt the guilt caused by  

the colour of his skin. Instead, he looked at his  

watch. “I think I need a drink. Let’s get a bite to eat,  

eh?”  

They walked in silence to the hotel, just out from  

the town centre. They entered its air‐conditioned  

lounge. Simon motioned Isaac to a table. “Grab a  

seat and I’ll go and see if I can find Davies.”  

He walked through an inner doorway into the  

bar. There was no sign of the mission administrator,  

but as his eyes adjusted to the inside gloom there  

was plenty to see.   

His attention was drawn to a framed poem in  

large black letters hanging behind the bar:  

    When the good God gave us this  

Continent  

    to love and live in as our Fatherland  

    Was it not His counsels planned  

    And His intent  

    That we forever should unite  

    To keep it white?  

    And how shall we such purpose best  

fulfill  

    True to our destiny, and just to all?  

    Is not that destiny a call  

    To labour till  

90

    From Perth to Brisbane, Gulf to Bight  

    The whole is white  

       Percy Henn, 1924  

  

Adjacent to the bar was a notice board. Apart  

from a ‘Players wanted for pool competition’ the  

rest was devoted to one subject only:  

  

Wanted:  

      Abo stirrers for use as  

reinforcing in concrete  

  

4 Sale  

      Gas ovens (German made) will  

accomidate [sic]  

      at least 30 boongs  

  

This was followed by a twist to an environmental  

campaign: “Clean‐up Australia clean—kill a boong.”  

  

From the lounge Simon heard the crash of a chair  

and raised voices. He hurried back.  

Isaac was on the floor, cowering beneath three  

men. One was dragging at his collar. The others  

were laughing. Singlets, denim shorts and sturdy  

work boots, all caked in red dust.  

“What are you doing?” Simon challenged.  

One of the men turned. “What’s it to you?”  

“He’s with me.”  

They laughed. The man gripping Isaac’s collar  

dragged the Aborigine to his feet and pushed him  

roughly towards the door. He turned to Simon. “We  

don’t allow boongs in here, mate.”  

“Who’s we?” Simon asked. He could feel the  

blood rising in his cheeks.  

91

“Me,” growled a voice behind him.  

Simon turned. A thickset man in his early forties  

faced him. As if to deny the reality of his world he  

was resplendent in gleaming black shoes and  

trousers, carefully pressed white shirt and black  

bow tie.  

“You work here?” Simon queried, his eyes  

quickly taking in the man’s attire..  

“I’m the licensee. There’s a blacks’ bar around  

the back.”  

“We came for a meal.”  

“Too bad. He doesn’t stay in here.”  

Simon stood firm. “You can’t do this. It’s against  

the law.”  

The man appeared amused. “Sure.”  

Simon turned his back and walked to a table near  

to where Isaac was standing. Simon pulled out a  

chair. He looked at Isaac. “Take a seat.”  

Isaac looked uncertainly towards the whites. The  

one who had dragged him from his chair folded his  

arms and smirked.  

“No—we should go Father.”  

“Sit down.”  

A cooling fan turned lazily above their heads.  

Isaac nervously accepted the offered seat.   

Simon felt rough hands grab at his arms. He  

watched helplessly as the chair was pulled from  

under Isaac. As the Aborigine tried to stand he was  

grasped by two of the men, dragged to the doorway  

and flung into the street.  

In the corner of his eye Simon saw the licensee  

reaching for him. He turned and swung his fist. The  

man grabbed the flailing arm, twisted it painfully  

behind his back and propelled him roughly out onto  

92

the footpath where Isaac was getting gingerly to his  

feet.  

The licensee towered above them. “Now fuck off  

or I’ll get the cops. See how you enjoy a few hours  

with them.” The man spat onto the ground next to  

Simon’s hand and strode back into the hotel.  

Simon stood glared angrily and impotently at the  

empty doorway.  

Isaac reached for him. “Let it be, Father.”  

Simon saw the old man’s pleading look, but was  

boiling inside. “They’ll pay for this.”  

“Just forget it father. We shouldn’t have come.  

Things are different up here.”  

Simon knew the old man was right.  

  

For the full hour since leaving the town, Davies  

had kept up an incessant stream of invective against  

the pair. Isaac sat in the middle staring dolefully  

through the insect‐patterned windscreen. Simon  

leaned dejectedly against the passenger door. He’d  

had enough. “Look, give it a rest.”  

Davies was furious. “Well I hope you’ve learned a  

lesson.”  

 “We were only there because we were looking  

for you.”  

“You were in the wrong bloody pub!”  

Simon let the matter drop. He stared out through  

the window. Davies continued to frown. “They’ll be  

onto you. You’ve shown yourself to be a boong  

lover. I guarantee the cops’ll be visiting Gunwinddu  

before the week’s out.” He turned to Isaac. “For  

Christ’s sake make sure there’s no trouble for a  

while—keep the grog out, okay.”  

Isaac nodded. He knew it was a bad business.  

93

Simon continued to stare moodily out through  

the window at the spindly trees and giant clay ant  

mounds.  

It took the best part of the day to drive back to  

Gunwinddu. Davies dropped both Simon and Isaac  

at the hospital.  

The pair sat on a sheet‐covered table like two  

errant schoolboys as Sister Margaret fussed with a  

metal dish containing scissors, clips and swabs. She  

cleaned and patched a graze on Isaac’s forehead.  

When she had finished he slid to his feet. “Trouble  

just seems to follow us blackfellas around, don’ it?”  

Simon nodded. “Seems so.”  

The old man studied him anxiously. “The dancin’  

for my brother. You still okay about that?”  

 “Of course.”  

Isaac smiled and walked out into the night.  

Simon stayed on the table. “I suppose you want  

to know what happened?”  

“I already do. The radio’s been buzzing for most  

of the afternoon—news travels fast up here. It’s not  

every day a priest gets thrown out of a bar.”  

“I don’t suppose any of this gossip mentioned  

why?”  

“You took a black into a whites bar.”  

Simon shook his head. “It’s pathetic.”  

The nursing sister started putting away her  

instruments. “When you’re as isolated as people up  

this way are, small things can seem—well,  

important.”  

 “So you agree with them. I was in the wrong?”  

“It’s not my job to judge. Nor should it be yours.  

If you want to help these people, don’t get political.”  

Simon exhaled. He was tired and trying to make  

sense of it all. “In the city people talk about racism,  

94

ut you don’t see it—maybe because you belong  

with the majority. So it’s an academic subject. But  

up here—well it’s almost as if the Aborigines are  

hated.”  

The woman closed a cupboard and looked at  

him. “No, it’s not hate. It’s more complex. It’s land  

rights—drunkenness—resentment over  

government money—lots of reasons.” The woman  

paused in thought. “If you really want a serious  

opinion, I think that deep down they frighten us  

because they belong here. We don’t, and we’ve been  

fighting that for two hundred years. Perhaps the  

only way we’ll feel we belong is by getting rid of the  

comparison.”  

Simon declined the nurse’s offer of a lift back to  

the main part of the settlement, choosing instead to  

walk. The evening was warm and the sound of  

insects wrapped him in a comforting hum. He’d  

been at Gunwinddu for almost two months and in  

that time had contributed to the death of a man, had  

progressively antagonized and upset most of the  

other staff, and it wouldn’t be long before the  

Bishop learned that he’d been thrown out of a hotel.  

Added to that, he’d made only the barest headway  

with the cattle. What hope had these people here if  

they had to rely on him?   

Reaching the settlement Simon heard singing  

and laughter. He stopped. Didn’t these people know  

there was a whole world out there that wanted  

them dead, in an unobtrusive sort of way, but dead  

and gone all the same; taking with them their  

incomprehensible languages, culture, land demands  

and sad, watery eyes?  

He started walking again. Maybe they did. Maybe  

that’s why every day of living was such a  

95

celebration. Simon stopped at the top of the main  

street and looked into the dim tunnel formed by the  

street lighting. A white fluorescent wash spilled  

from the canteen. They would be discussing him;  

judging him. To his right the light was different,  

broken; and there was an aroma of wood smoke  

and the tinkle of laughter. That’s where he wanted  

to be. Simon continued on, making for Isaac’s house.  

The germ of an idea was forming. Simon stepped  

onto the wooden veranda and called out. The front  

door had long gone, put to a more practical use as  

firewood. Simon was becoming accustomed to the  

Aborigines’ idea of housing. In their long history  

they had never needed four walls.  

He called out again, and realized he was unlikely  

to be heard above the cacophony at the back. He  

stepped into the house. The front rooms were  

empty of people but full of mattresses and  

accumulated rubbish. He followed the light coming  

from the kitchen and found four men sitting around  

a table. They were playing cards, gambling, judging  

by  the loose stacks of money. They looked up,  

surprised to see Simon after dark.  

“I’m looking for Isaac,” he said.  

The nearest man jerked his thumb. “Out the back  

Father,” he said.  

Simon made for a small porch overlooking the  

back yard.  

The back yard, for want of a better description  

because there were no fences delineating such an  

enclosure, was full of people. The focal point was a  

fire around which adults, children and dogs were  

playing, singing, talking, joking, sharing food and  

drinking tea from a large blackened iron kettle that  

96

hung from an iron stake at the edge of the glowing  

embers.   

“Eh, Father,” called Isaac, waving him into the  

throng. Simon squatted in a space which opened up  

beside Isaac.  

“This is a surprise,” said Isaac.  

“Well, I wanted to discuss something with you.”  

“Sure—you wan’ somethin’ to eat? Good bush  

tucker.” Isaac watched Simon’s face and laughed.  

“Don’ you worry, it’s not a goanna or anythin’ like  

that. Beef—top quality. The boys killed one  

yesterday.” He suddenly looked away sheepishly,  

realising what he had confessed. He beckoned to his  

wife. “You met Winnie?”  

Simon smiled as the woman used a stick to deftly  

drag a foil package from the coals. She piled thick  

slices of meat onto a plate.  

Isaac pointed sternly to another package. “Eh,  

some potatoes too for the Father.”  

 “Thanks,” said Simon. He ate enthusiastically.  

Between mouthfuls Simon tried to open the  

conversation, but Isaac silenced him with a wave of  

his hand. It wasn’t until Winnie had plucked the  

empty plate from his greasy fingers that Isaac  

allowed him to speak.  

The priest glanced around. Faces shone in the  

dancing light from the flames. Dogs lay with noses  

on outstretched paws, or tangled on the dusty  

ground with children. He drew his gaze back to the  

fire. “It’s difficult to explain—it’s something  

important, but I might need you to help me  

understand it.”  

Isaac nodded, his face serious. “Go on.”  

97

Simon took a deep breath. He was plunging into  

unknown territory from which there might not be a  

return.  

“What would the people here most want or need,  

if I was able to offer it?”  

Isaac smiled. “Some hot water would be good— 

and one of them video machines.”  

Simon frowned. He’d been hoping to elicit a more  

profound response.  

“I’ve got hot water—?”  

“You are white.”  

“Oh.” He was momentarily thrown from his line  

of thought. “—I’ll speak to Mr Davies—but that’s  

not what I mean. What do you need—spiritually,  

culturally?”  

Isaac rocked back on his heels. “Ahh—that sure  

is a big question Father. You really want to know?”  


“Well—to live on our own land, to hunt and sing  

there, to look after it, like.”  

The priest frowned. “But can’t you do that  

already?”   

Isaac shook his head. “Oh no! Some come from  

‘round these parts, but a lot come from east of here,  

maybe one hundred kilometres. Most of us have  

been put here by the government or the  

missionaries. But just like me an’ my brother miss  

our land down south, these people want to go back  

to their country too. You’ve only been here a short  

time, Father. Things lately have been okay—but  

sometimes it’s real wild. When the grog comes in  

there’s a lot of fightin’ ‘cause the people here are all  

mixed up. I might tell the young fellas one thing, but  

their own elders will tell ‘em somethin’ else. It’s the  

same for lots of people so nothin’ gets done and all  

98

the time everybody’s worried about no one out  

there lookin’ after the land—the sacred places.  

Some of us are gettin’ old and still the young ones  

don’ know much.”  

Simon sighed dejectedly. “I can’t give you land.  

You were right. I shouldn’t have asked.”  

Isaac shook his head. “But you can do it—just  

here on Gunwinddu. This station covers some  

people’s home lands That’d be a start—an’ it’s been  

done already in other parts. That mob ‘round Daly  

Waters and up in the Alligator River country have  

got special places for the people to camp on their  

own country. It’s real good, Father.” Isaac read the  

doubt on Simon’s face, but was determined to push  

home this unexpected opportunity. “You don’ need  

to do much, Father. These places are just small, like.  

A few houses. We work here during the week, and  

go campin’ on our own country—these people’s  

country—on the weekends. It’s real important,  

Father. How can we protect the sacred places if  

we’re not there to show people where they are? It  

means people can be buried on their own country  

when they die—that’s real important. An’ my  

brother’s wife, an’ Angel and all the others out at  

the camp near the landin’ strip can live decent there  

till it’s okay for ‘em to come back. An’ you saw how  

crook the Kununurra mob was. You know the  

terrible things when blackfellas get on the grog, or  

the kids when they sniff the petrol. They lose their  

minds. You see, there’s no proper law here, only  

government law. If we get our own special places  

then the senior men can stop these terrible things  

happenin’ among their people.”  

99

Simon scratched behind his ear. There was a  

logic to what Isaac was saying. “Did you ever  

mention this to Father Rantz?”  

Isaac nodded. “Sure. But he and Mr Davies said  

one settlement was plenty. They said it was too  

much money to build lots of small settlements. But  

they don’ understand. We still live here, the  

children still go to school here. Father Rantz said we  

had to stay where the church was. Mr Davies said  

the government wants us here in one place and that  

the police will bring us back.” He shrugged his  

shoulders, the memory of that defeat suddenly  

dampening his hopes for this effort.  

Simon’s thinking was divided by conflicting inner  

voices, one urging him to back away, the other  

wanting him to defy the forces that would be set  

against him.  

“It’s possible—.” he said finally.  “But I need to  

know more about it—what it would involve, and  

why it’s so important. There would also be a trade‐ 

off.”  Simon noticed all conversation around them  

had stopped. Everybody was looking at him.  

“The cattle,” he said, loud enough for others to  

hear as well. “If I do this, I want a promise that there  

will be no more delays, no more excuses, no more  

running away to play football. I will expect this  

community to commit itself to making the  

Gunwinddu cattle business the best in the  

Kimberley.”   

Isaac beamed. “Don’ you worry about that.”  

Simon smiled weakly.   

  

100

  

Chapter Eight  

  

Davies could scarcely believe what he was  

hearing. “You’re what!”.  

The response had been expected. “We’ll be gone  

a week—back in time for the ceremony I’ve agreed  

to for Matthew Richardson.”  

“You can’t do this,” Davies shouted. “As if we’re  

not in deep enough shit as it is. You set up an out‐ 

station and they’ll tear it, and us, down—we’ll have  

cops based here full‐time, watching us and beating  

them back into line. You want that? Look, it’s just  

not on. Our job is to teach these people how to live  

in a white community. You go setting up one of  

those out‐stations and you’ll be destroying decades  

of progress.”  

Simon’s voice was flat. “I think we disagree on  

the definition of progress. Anyway, it’s only a trial.  

In return they’ve agreed to put more effort into the  

cattle.”  

“Cattle—cattle, is that all you can think of?  And  

what happens to Gunwinddu? These buildings cost  

three times as much to build up here. And what  

about the school, and the hospital—and the store?”  

Davies trembled. “Christ, the store—you don’t know  

what you are doing. You’ve been here a couple of  

months and think you know it all don’t you.”  

“No—but I’m finding out.”  

“Ah, what shit,” the man spat. “I smelled trouble  

the day you got off the plane and you went all quiet  

when you saw the pen. But I thought you’d learn. I  

thought your effort in Kununurra might straighten  

your thinking. But no. You want to bring the whole  

fucking pastoral industry down around our heads.”  

101

“Rot!”  

“No mister. You set up an out‐station and it’ll be  

pull‐out time on every property within a day’s  

drive. You’ll have every manager and owner in the  

region after your blood.”  

“If they’re that concerned about losing workers  

then maybe they need to have a think about how  

they treat them.”  

“Jesus. You’re a real mister know‐it‐all, aren’t  

you!”  

Simon folded his arms. “Also, the hostel fence is  

coming down—as we speak.”  

The administrator’s eyes bulged. “Who the hell  

do you think you are—who gives you the right to  

lob in here like some fucking messiah and start  

turning everybody’s lives upside down?”  

Simon’s patience was gone. “Who’s everybody?  

You mean this pathetic little tribe of whites you  

rule, allowing you to play God with your ink pads  

and silly bloody government regulations,” he  

shouted back. “What about the people out there.”  

He swung an arm towards the door. “Has it ever  

occurred to you to find out if your rules and  

regulations make any sense to them; to anybody  

really—that they might apply to a world as far  

remote from here as bloody Mars?”  

Their voices reverberated into the street. Isaac  

and his councillors waiting for Simon in the truck  

grimaced. Muriel appeared briefly in the doorway  

of her store,  and turned quickly away. At the end of  

the street Wilma Breck appeared, head forward and  

arms swinging. Her fury obvious even at a distance.  

“Ah—you’ve got shit for brains mister,” Davies  

railed.   

102

“Say what you want. But what have you  

achieved—except maybe a fat bankroll from  

whatever racket you’re running with the store.”  

“What’s that? What are you saying now? You  

want to repeat that in front of a witness?”  

“Look, I’ve got eyes and ears and it’s not hard to  

figure, but frankly I don’t give a damn. If you’re  

worried about my plans upsetting your little  

scheme, relax. It’s all in writing—it’s on my  

shoulders and you’re in the clear, okay?”  

Davies shook his head. “Won’t matter a damn,  

you fool. You’re history. You know what they’ll do— 

?”  

Simon was finished. He strode angrily from the  

office. Davies followed him to the doorway.  

“You know what they’ll do—?” he shouted after  

him. “They’ll fucking crucify you—they’ll nail you to  

the nearest boab—you’d be happy then wouldn’t  

you?”  

Simon pulled open the cab door and lifted  

himself into the passenger seat. “Let’s go,” he  

ordered.  

The truck began to move as Wilma Breck banged  

the cab door with her fist. “I want to speak to you  

young man,” she screamed. Isaac rolled his eyes  

pleadingly at Simon. Gone was the self‐assurance he  

had shown around his own fire. “Drive,” the priest  

ordered. Wilma’s voice could still be heard slashing  

the morning air as the truck turned out of the  

street.  

They took the track past the saleyards. For a  

while it was quite clear; stark parallel ruts twisting  

and turning around ant mounds, rocky outcrops  

and indomitable boabs. But after a time it was  

barely discernible to Simon, though Isaac drove  

103

with assurance. There were twelve elders on the  

truck and though the site for the planned out‐ 

station was the home country of only five, their  

journey would pass through the totemic lands of  

others. For some it would be their first journey  

home since childhood. Once they’d opened a  

distance from the settlement, everybody began to  

relax. There was an air of great occasion. The men,  

sitting in the back among bed rolls, sheets of  

asbestos and corrugated iron, flour bags, fuel drums  

and ice chests, began to sing. The world basked in  

the brilliant morning light, the sky a pristine azure;  

the earth brushed in shades of pink and brown,  

touched by its Dreamtime painter with random  

smudges of bleached green. Each time they  

breasted a rise, the horizon beckoned; a thin  

shimmering line that progressively released a  

rolling panorama of trees, and stones and hills put  

in place at the beginning of time.  

 Periodically they crossed geological survey lines,  

irreparable scars left by the fleeting passage of  

modern men in quest of commerce. Each new  

struggle through one of these man‐made sand  

ridges brought a sudden stop to the singing and  

exaggerated head‐shaking by Isaac as he wrestled  

with the steering.  

Around noon they crested a low hill and began a  

descent into a shallow basin dominated by a stand  

of short black‐trunked trees and a cluster of  

pinnacle‐like stones. Isaac pointed ahead. “This is a  

special place, Father. We’ll be stoppin’ here a  

while.”  

Isaac parked the truck near the trees. Simon  

began to open his door, but Isaac held him back.  

“We’ll wait a bit,” he said.  

104

The men on the back climbed down and  

stretched their limbs. There was a solemnity to  

their movements. With the journey flexed from  

their joints, they formed into single file. Led by the  

man Simon knew as Arthur, they began a low  

rhythmic song and started dancing, one man behind  

the other, in a wide arc around and through the  

stones.  

“This is an important Dreamin’ site for this mob,”  

Isaac whispered.  

The song and the simple dance lasted for several  

minutes. The formation then broke up and the men  

shook hands and embraced. As they drifted back to  

the truck Isaac gave Simon the all‐clear to climb out.  

“Come on, time for tucker,” he said.  

Simon gathered that the simple ceremony was a  

form of consecration. The end to the singing further  

accentuated the silence of the world around; a  

world in which the small band of men seemed to be  

the only living creatures. The priest was almost too  

shy to speak, in case he disturbed the spirits which  

he sensed to be both present and watching. He  

looked on, fascinated, as one of the men began to  

carefully arrange sticks and leaves into a small pyre.  

His deft movements gave it almost an art form. But  

the moment of magic dissolved when he plucked a  

gas lighter from his shirt pocket and with a flick of  

his thumb ignited the tinder and yelled for the iron  

kettle.   

Simon squatted with the men in the shade of the  

trees, making room on the ground for a plastic ice  

chest humped from the truck by Isaac.  

“We’ll get some real bush tucker tonight Father,  

but now we got sandwiches. What do you like— 

beef and tomato sauce, or—”, he prized open some  

105

of the other slices, “—no, just beef and tomato  

sauce.”  

“Beef and tomato sauce,” said the priest.  

The kettle was filled from a plastic drum and  

placed against the edge of the fire. One of the men  

passed around enamel mugs; another doled out tea‐ 

bags from an old biscuit tin.  

“I’m disappointed,” said Simon. “I was expecting  

you to run off and bring back a big fat lizard or  

something.”  

The men laughed.   

“That’s hard work, you know,” said Arthur. He  

pointed to a man opposite. “But Robert, he’s pretty  

good. Maybe he’ll show you later.”  

Isaac nudged Simon’s arm. “You’re sitting on  

good tucker, an’ I bet you don’ even know.”  

Simon looked at him blankly.  

The Aborigine picked up one of the many nuts  

littering the ground beneath the trees. “Ngarlka,” he  

said, and then pointed to the foliage above.  

“Turtujarti trees. When you cook the ngarlka, the  

shell opens. Inside are two small nuts, which you  

can eat. Good tucker Father when you put ‘em on  

the fire.” Isaac gathered a dozen and tossed them  

into the ice chest. “For tonight.”  

Arthur leaned forward to get the priest’s  

attention and taking a bush knife from his belt,  

made a cut in the nearest trunk. A honey‐coloured  

sap oozed from the wound. He scraped some onto  

the knife and offered it to Simon.  

“To eat?” the priest asked doubtfully.  

Arthur nodded.  

Simon scraped the sap off the blade with his  

finger and put it gingerly to his tongue. It had the  

106

consistency of treacle but a pleasant tangy taste. He  

smiled with surprise. “Not bad,” he said.  

“The pinkirrjarti—bush turkeys—reckon that  

too,” said Isaac. “When you are hunting for  

pinkirrjarti you look for the turtujarti trees. Then  

you sneak up and—”. He punched his fist towards  

the ground. “There’s plenty of good tucker out here,  

Father, it’s just you whitefellas don’ want to learn  

‘bout your own country. You just want to own it an’  

put up fences.”  

Arthur interrupted. “The land don’ belong to  

us—we belong to it. We do what it needs, not what  

we need—you understand?”  

“I think so,” said Simon, without conviction.  

Arthur sighed and reached for his mug. “You tell  

‘im,” he said to Isaac.  

“We come from the land. All the things you see— 

rocks and trees an’ birds and animals are from the  

spirits—our ancestors, like. We are the land. That’s  

why all the land is sacred.”  

Simon smiled without humour. “I wouldn’t say  

that too loudly in town, you’ll give the miners and  

pastoralists heart attacks.”  

Isaac shook his head grimly. “You don’  

understand. All land is sacred ‘cause we are part of  

it; we come from the land. It’s the home of our  

spirits. Each person has a special place where his  

spirit has been all the time since the Dreamin’,  

waitin’ for the moment when his human mother  

walks by. The spirit child then goes inside the  

woman so she can get pregnant, and that place  

where it happened is sacred, like, to that person— 

but you don’ know that until you start initiation.  

That’s when you’re told of this place by your  

mother. What you’re talkin’ about, what all you  

107

white lot is scared about, is sacred sites. They’re  

different. They’re holy places—like churches, but  

even more—a place where somethin’ important in  

the Dreamin’ happened—like a miracle from the  

Bible; somthin’ like that—you follow?”   

Simon nodded. “We have similar places— 

shrines, sites of early churches, places in the Holy  

Lands. I know what you mean.”  

Anger creased Arthur’s brow. “Then why are the  

government an’ everybody goin’ so crook about us  

wantin’ to protect our places? Father Rantz used to  

laugh when we tol’ him these things.”  

Simon sighed. “Don’t be too hard on Father  

Rantz. He came from another country where sacred  

sites have big stone walls and coloured glass  

windows. He thought he was doing the right thing  

for you.”  

Arthur wasn’t placated. “Ah—they’re not even  

proper sacred sites—not if they been made by  

people, they’re not. Sacred sites are places made by  

spirits. For people who are plenty quick to put the  

boot into what us blackfellas believe, some of you  

whitefellas sure don’ know much.”  

“Well—I guess they’re used to things being more  

obvious.” The words bounced emptily inside his  

head. The reason why many, perhaps most,  

dismissed spirituality was because there was  

nothing visible or tangible to grasp. His own faith  

had been struggling against this for two thousand  

years. What hope then had Aboriginal beliefs?  

“You’ve also got to remember the first white people,  

Europeans,  to come to Australia didn’t want to be  

here. They hated this land—.” Simon hesitated as  

another thought jarred. “—I think a lot of people,  

108

city people, still do. That’s why, like you said, they  

don’t understand it.”  

Simon could see the men were getting upset at  

the direction of the conversation. He pointed to the  

rocks nearby. “Tell me about this place. I’d like to  

know why it’s special.”  

Arthur looked around the ring of faces. The men  

nodded assent.  

“Sure,” he said. “Bein’ a Father, you should  

understand this one.”  

He sipped his tea noisily. “You know what  

Ngarrangkarni—the Dreamin’—really is?”  

Simon shook his head. “Not really.”  

“Well, it’s like the time before your Bible, when  

the gods were here, on the land, gettin’ it ready for  

the people, makin’ the rivers an’ the rain an’ puttin’  

down the signs so the people would know how to  

live, like. Now don’ be like Father Rantz—we accept  

Jesus’s Father was the boss Dreamin’ god.”  

Arthur gestured to the area around them. “Now  

this place here is sacred ‘cause it’s where  

Wirrintiny—the nightbird—.”  

“Curlew,” said Isaac, interrupting. Arthur waved  

him to be quiet.  

“—The Wirrintiny tried to make the people come  

to life again after they had died. There were people  

here by then, you follow, but some of the Dreamin’  

gods were still workin’. They had not finished yet  

and put themselves down in their own special place.  

Now, the Wirrintiny was a djagamara and a  

djuburula man—a father and a son to himself, like  

Jesus and his Father; two fellas but one spirit—you  

follow?”  

“Of course.”  

109

“The Wirrintiny used to fly all over the land,  

pickin’ up the bones of the dead people, puttin’ ‘em  

together to make skeletons. Then he’d bring all the  

skeletons here and put flesh back on their bones. He  

was showin’ the people that they still could live  

after their body died. Every time a person died,  

Wirrintiny always knew and so he’d fly to that  

place, pick up the bones and bring ‘em back here to  

make ‘em alive again.”  

Simon nodded, his thoughts spinning. So much  

for Christianity’s perceived mortgage on  

Resurrection.  

“Wirrintiny was livin’ here—doin’ this for a long  

time when one day two magpie men come along.  

They asked Wirrintiny, ‘why do you pick up all  

those bones? Why don’ you leave ‘em alone?’ Then  

they got their clubs and spears and they killed  

Wirrintiny and all the alive dead people who were  

still here. They were just magpie men, see. They  

don’ understand the Wirrintiny is tryin’ to show ‘em  

somethin’. The magpie men think people are  

supposed to stay dead when they die.”  

Arthur stood up and opened his arms to  

encompass the area beyond. “All these rocks and  

stones are the bones of those dead people, and the  

big one over there is Wirrintiny, who made himself  

into that when he was killed. This place tells us that  

people were supposed to come alive again after  

they’re dead—but now, ‘cause of the magpie men,  

we’re just dead when we’ve died.”  

Isaac stood up and looked down at Simon who  

was gazing out over the vista in deep thought,  

struck by the simple story’s parallels with his own  

faith.  

110

“But now it’s okay,” said Isaac. “Now we’re  

Christians, so we can live again after we have died.  

That’s right, eh Father?”  

Simon looked at him. “Dying he destroyed our  

death; rising he restored our life.” He got to his feet,  

along with the others who began preparing to  

continue the journey. His mind was grappling with  

an upturned jigsaw and was engaged in a frantic  

effort to put the pieces back into place. How the use  

of books and pulpits paled in their purpose against  

the use of the land to demonstrate immortality.  

They stopped twice more during the afternoon  

and each time the men danced and sang words they  

had learned a lifetime ago, but never forgotten.  

Isaac explained how the songs retold the sacred  

story of each place and reunited the men with the  

country there. Near the last site they made a small  

detour for the benefit of the elder named Robert,  

who went alone to the shade of a rock overhang in a  

ridge. He squatted among the tufts of spiny grass  

and sang; a low plaintive chant, only lifting in tempo  

and levity towards its conclusion. When he  

returned to the group his face and beard were wet  

with tears.  

“This is where my father died,” he explained. The  

man put his arms around Simon and he thanked the  

priest for bringing him back to his father’s country.  

When he released his hold he staggered to a nearby  

boulder and sat; his face suddenly ashen.  

“Are you all right?”  

Robert fumbled with a small bottle of pills he had  

plucked from his shirt pocket. He put the container  

to his lips and pushed a capsule into his mouth. He  

looked up at the priest, smiled and patted his chest.  

“Crook heart, Father. Sister Margaret, she give me  

111

these.” He held out the container for Simon to read,  

but grubby fingermarks had obscured the script.  

“I’ll be right now.”  

Robert told how his father had died forty years  

before and in all that time he had yearned to return  

to this place, but was forbidden by Gunwinddu’s  

iron‐fisted administrators. The last Robert had seen  

of his father was the old man propped against the  

rock with a coolamon of water by his side. The  

family had been part of a group that had decided to  

see for themselves the kartiya, the pink‐skinned  

strangers to the west that they had heard so much  

about. But Robert’s father had become too old to  

travel. The family carried him away from the  

waterhole, where others might need to camp, to the  

shade of the overhang. Distraught, but resigned to  

what was beyond their power to change, the family  

had left the old man to the privacy of his final hours.  

The family subsequently joined the large group of  

Aborigines from different areas, attracted over the  

years by the exotic goods the settlers offered as  

payment for labour. Flour from a canvas sack was a  

wonder to the Aborigines, whose own form of flour  

from native fruits and roots took days and  

sometimes weeks of grinding, leaching and drying  

to produce. However, even before Robert’s family’s  

arrival, the novelty of the white man’s flour had  

worn off and groups had begun trying to leave,  

taking a few cattle with them. In their scheme of  

things, it was only proper the newcomers share  

their possessions with the people who were  

allowing them to live on their lands. The settlers  

retaliated with guns and leg irons. By the time  

Robert’s family reached the influence of the  

strangers, they were well established on vast cattle  

112

stations. ‘Grass castle kings’, they were crowned by  

magazine writers in awe of the heroic struggle of  

pioneer families and their swaggering descendants.  

By the 1940s most pastoral properties supported  

large Aboriginal communities for labour pools.  

Robert’s family was drawn into this vortex of  

station life, stripped of its identity with new names  

and the unspoken decree that they were now  

private property. The consequent mix of tribal  

influences in these communities through the  

enforcement of British law had even then begun to  

result in cultural devastation. This was further  

exacerbated by the power of missionaries and the  

shared government‐church decision to separate  

Aboriginal children from their parents to speed up  

the process of Europeanization. Tragic though this  

was, the missionaries, as both Robert and Isaac  

explained during the telling, did at least save the  

Aborigines from extermination. The missionaries  

regarded the Aborigines as human beings, as souls  

to be saved, quite contrary to the broader  

community view that they were savages of no  

worth beyond their uncanny ability with cattle.  

Even in the lifetime of these men, shooting parties,  

organized drives, beatings, poisonings and  

backyard hangings had been considered acceptable  

means for resolving ‘The Aboriginal Problem’.  

  

The site of the proposed out‐station was at the  

foot of a range of hills, which they had been able to  

see, intermittently, creeping up from the horizon  

for almost an hour. The men had long stopped  

singing and Simon could sense their excitement.  

They had been travelling all day and Simon could  

only guess their distance from the settlement. He  

113

had discovered with some disquiet that the truck’s  

odometer did not work and he had to trust the  

men’s insistence that they were still inside the  

Gunwinddu boundary, but only just, he was sure.  

Isaac reckoned they had travelled about one  

hundred kilometres, but then admitted he had not  

been this far out before. It had also been many  

years, and for some a lifetime, since the elders  

whose country it was had been here.  

“They’ve got satellites these days, you know,”  

said Simon with concern. “Won’t take them long to  

find you if a settlement suddenly appears and it’s on  

someone else’s property.”  

“Don’ you worry,” Arthur insisted.  

Simon tugged at an ear lobe. “Why do I get  

nervous when you blokes say that?”  

They reached the lee of the hills in the late  

afternoon when the land’s colours deepen to burnt  

orange and dark purples.   

“This is the place,” said Arthur. He stamped the  

ground with his bare foot as if demonstrating its  

worthiness. “This used to be an important campin’  

ground—good water in the hills, plenty tucker an’  

plenty wood for a big campfire. People come from a  

long way along the Dreamin’ tracks to meet here for  

ceremonies, an’ trade, an’ marry.”   

Close to where the hillside began to rise the  

ground was flat and smooth, evidence still of  

thousands of years of occupation by large groups of  

people.   

The men applied themselves to different tasks,  

gathering firewood, unloading stores, while  

frequently pausing to gaze at the changing colours  

of the landscape as the night edged nearer. As they  

worked, Arthur and the other men from this place  

114

egan hinting to Simon that he should officiate at a  

special ceremony to celebrate the return to their  

homelands.  

One man shyly showed Simon the didgeridoo he  

had brought with him. He gave it a few tentative  

blows to clear out the sand and dust of disuse.  

Robert and another disappeared into the hills  

with rifles.  

The sun ballooned; an enormous red ball on the  

western horizon, back towards Gunwinddu. As two  

gunshots echoed from within an unseen valley, that  

single life‐giving star of this most remote solar  

system dipped from sight.  

“Before we eat I would like to say a special Mass,”  

said Simon, as the group began to re‐form. The  

hunters had returned with a kangaroo and were  

busily butchering the carcass, setting aside the skin  

for leather and the tail sinew for use as a tough  

binding string. What meat wasn’t eaten tonight  

would be cut into thin strips and smoked to  

preserve it.  

It had already been decided that the out‐station  

would be a place of learning for the next generation.  

There would be no football, no grog, and no petrol  

sniffing. Tribal discipline would prevail. It would be  

a place where the children could discover the full  

depth of their culture and take pride in it. The  

elders believed this was the path to confidence and  

dignity.  

Simon was already aware of a change. When they  

left Gunwinddu he was the authority. Now it was he  

who was the odd man out—in race, colour,  

language, country, and insect bites. The men  

gathered solemnly around the fire. Without the  

customary props of his own culture and vocation  

115

Simon was beginning to understand how alien the  

Aborigines must feel in a church. He beckoned Isaac  

and Arthur and explained that he would begin the  

ceremony, but wanted them to pick it up in a way  

that meant most to them. Their faces revealed the  

importance they were placing on the occasion.  

Arthur asked if Simon would mind waiting a few  

minutes. He went to the truck and then disappeared  

into the night. He returned about fifteen minutes  

later with two used fruit tins, one containing water  

and the other a red ochre. He began to mix the  

ochre into a paste, then said he was ready.  

“I have been giving much thought to this  

important occasion,” Simon began. “And I am  

reminded about the Dreaming—Ngarrangkarni— 

the sacred story, of another people whose own long  

journey for recognition and deliverance began so  

long ago. These people too, knew exodus and exile,  

condemnation and chains, struggle against  

inequality and injustice—the whole crucible of  

tragedy and suffering. They were the painful  

childbirth of a new people—and I believe that same  

thing is true of you here tonight; of the Aboriginal  

people in this land. You are the spirit of this  

country. You have a great responsibility to  

overcome the oppressors, the ignorant and the  

timid, just as that other elder, Abraham, and the  

people after him. Abraham’s people, the Jews, found  

God in their history and in their land. The people of  

this country in this sacred land will one day realize  

the same truth, but only you, the Aboriginal people,  

will be able to show the way.”  

The men nodded agreement.  

116

“That is why you must survive, and hold precious  

your knowledge. That is why I will bless the site of  

this out‐station and pray for its success.”  

They clapped in appreciation. The night had  

closed and their faces glowed in the light of the fire.  

A gentle breeze made glittering eddies out of the  

sparks. Simon opened a marked page in his Bible.   

“God said this in a vision to the Jewish prophet  

called Ezekiel. I would like to read it here tonight  

because it shows what we mean by coming to this  

place, and perhaps also the sacred story behind the  

coming of non‐Aboriginal people to this country:  

I will take you from the nations  

and gather you from all the countries  

and bring you into your own land  

I will sprinkle clean water upon you  

and you shall be cleaned . . .  

A new heart I will give you  

and a new spirit I will put within you  

And I will take out of your flesh the heart of stone  

and give you a heart of flesh . . .  ” 1   

The old men accepted the ancient words as true.  

Arthur stepped forward with the mixed ochre;  

water and earth from this place. Simon blessed the  

contents, then with his thumb, scraped out a small  

amount and anointed Arthur’s forehead. The  

Aborigine then gave the tin for Simon to hold while  

he similarly anointed the priest. The two went to  

each of the others in turn.  

Arthur motioned Simon to sit while he took his  

position in front of the gathering. Simon felt the  

charge of expectation around the fire.   

1 Extract from Ezekiel 36, 24-28 

117

“Our fathers, our grandfathers and their fathers  

back to the time of the Dreamin’ hunted here. This  

place, these rocks an’ hills, are sacred to our people.  

Now we have returned with the Father, so when we  

die our spirits too will be able to rest here,  

protected by our sons and their sons.”  

He looked directly at Simon. “This place is where  

many Dreamin’ tracks meet. There’re important  

and powerful things here that we got to keep safe.”  

His eyes glinted in the flickering light and he  

raised a pointed finger towards the priest. “If white  

men ever come an’ dig these places, smash ‘em, a  

great fire will rise through the earth an’ destroy all  

the country. The sky will disappear with a noise,  

louder than anythin’ anyone has heard before, an’  

everythin’ on the earth will burn. We know this  

thing. When you come to this place you are inside  

the skin of all the people who have been here  

before.”  

Simon shuddered as invisible fingers pressed his  

spine. There was an unnerving intensity in the  

Aborigine’s speech, heightening his awareness of  

the  hills with their caves, crevices and waterholes,  

hidden in the dark beyond the shimmering fire.  

“You see,” Arthur continued in a voice that had  

taken on an almost threatening tone. “We know the  

story of that Abraham. We know it well. It’s a story  

of sacred land, just like ours—an’ about what  

happens when people don’ listen to their law.”  

He paused dramatically and stared into the fire.  

The other men followed, all eyes on the shimmering  

coals. “God said to that Abraham, ‘This land will be  

yours if you keep it sacred and keep my laws. You  

will have plenty of children and they will be my  

special people if you do this thing.’ So Abraham and  

118

his people walked all over that land—for all the  

others who would come after this Dreamin’. In  

many places he stopped to leave signs. These were  

the sacred places—like this place. A long time after  

Abraham died there was a big drought. The land  

burned an’ the people had no food. There were no  

kangaroos or lizards or pinkirrjarti. All the  

waterholes were dry. So they went to a new place,  

where there were cities an’ towns an’ farms. They  

became unhappy an’ soon don’ know who they are.  

They are made slaves for the bosses of this new  

place an’ many people are sometimes killed ‘cause  

of who they are. So God talked to their new elder,  

that bloke Moses. He said, ‘take my people back to  

their land.’ The white bosses, but, tried to stop ‘em  

an’ chased ‘em with police. They were chasin’ the  

people across a big, dried‐up martuwarra, when a  

flash flood come an’ catch the police. So the people  

get back to their land okay, but they’re told they  

have to keep the laws.   

“A new bloke, David, become their boss an’ the  

people were happy. But after a while they start to  

forget the laws again. The elders told ‘em this was  

dangerous; that they would lose their land again.  

But the people were foolish an’ don’ listen, so  

another mob come along an’ drive ‘em off an’  

destroy their sacred places. The people are  

unhappy for many many years. They got no land; no  

sacred place anymore. They don’ even remember  

who they are. They are poor an’ sick an’ afraid of  

the night time an’ of dyin’.  

“That’s when God sent Jesus to give ‘em one last  

chance to learn his laws an’ keep ‘em. This time he  

also showed ‘em how powerful he is by makin’  

Jesus die like a human, but come alive again ‘cause  

119

he is God. All the time, you see, he is the one boss  

spirit. He shows the people that they don’ have to  

hide in the dark, frightened of dyin’; that he has a  

big camp fire for everyone who keeps the land  

sacred. Some don’ believe it still, but those that do  

become Christians. We’re now Christians—that’s  

why we have to fight to keep our land sacred.”   

Simon swallowed hard to get air into his lungs.  

Sometime during the account he had stopped  

breathing. He looked at the men. Their eyes had not  

left Arthur for a moment. Story‐telling was an  

important measure of an Aboriginal elder,  

especially before a critical audience ready to  

comment if he strayed from the point. It was how  

the Dreaming had been kept alive for tens of  

thousands of years. Tonight was one more verse in  

that endless songline.  

“The Christian Dreamin’ and the Aboriginal  

Dreamin’ are pretty close, eh Father?”  

Simon jerked his gaze back to Arthur. The  

Aborigine was staring at him intently.  

“But we don’ need a Bible. The land is our Bible.  

Our sacred stories of the Dreamin’ before we are  

Christians are told by readin’ the land—like the  

story I tol’ you about Wirrintiny. You have to be  

there to understand.” He paused. “Do you  

understand?”  

Simon nodded slowly. “Yes.”  

Isaac looked at Simon. “Arthur can bring his  

people back to their land here, now—one day I’m  

goin’ to take my family back to the south. That’s my  

job now, to lead our people back to their lands— 

you could help us, Father.”  

Simon met the old man’s gaze. He wanted to  

utter words of hope and confidence, but held his  

120

tongue. He was beginning to wonder if he had  

unleashed tragic expectations.  

Isaac lowered his gaze and stared moodily at the  

ground, aware that Simon had made a deliberate  

decision not to answer. He started to murmur a sad,  

gentle‐sounding song. After a moment Simon  

interrupted. “What does it say?”  

Isaac paused as if uncertain whether or not to  

tell the priest. Finally he nodded to himself:  

“Over the far horizon lies Mudidjara  

Held by sacred mountains lies Mudidjara  

Touched by the moon that bathes, lies  

Mudidjara.”  

Simon smiled. “That’s nice, Isaac.”  

The old man shrugged. “There’s a bit more—but  

I don’ think it sounds right in English, like.” He  

stretched an arm in an arc above his head.   

“Look, high in the sky shines the afternoon sun  

His heart too is filled with yearning to turn home  

soon.  

See how he dips to the land now, goin’ home to  

his   

mother an’ his father.”  

Isaac’s eyes were moist. Simon put his hand on  

the old man’s shoulder. “It’s beautiful Isaac.”  

 “It’s an old song,” said the Aborigine, “but it’s  

still true.”  

Simon looked around at the group. “All your  

songs are old. Does anyone write new songs?”  

They shook their heads.  

“No,” said Arthur. “The songs are from a long  

time ago—when there were even different animals  

and birds and trees on the land—that’s how long  

ago. The songs last forever ‘cause the rockholes and  

hills and mountains don’ change.”  

121

The others nodded assent, and started to talk  

about songs that had not been sung for so many  

years, but the smell of the cooking kangaroo meat  

was gaining in potency, and Simon felt he needed to  

touch firm ground again. In the distance the love‐ 

lorn cry of a dingo painted the night.  

Enveloped by the delicious aroma of wood  

smoke and roasting meat he began the Mass. It  

became a somewhat creative event, with the men  

singing the responses in their own language and to  

the accompaniment of the didgeridoo and sticks.  

Surrendering to the mood of the night, Simon  

picked up the rhythm and drifted into an  

incantation, giving himself to the emotion of the  

moment. Here, without an altar, without stained‐ 

glass windows and polished pews, he felt for the  

first time that he really was in the presence of his  

God. His church had become the vast, mysterious  

landscape around him; populated by spirits from a  

life continuum older even than that of Abraham’s.  

On this night he was bringing the people of this land  

home, and he wondered if he would ever again  

experience such an overwhelming sense of purpose  

and belonging.  

  

  

  

122

Chapter Nine  

  

The plates had been cleared and the kitchen staff  

dismissed. The light flickered with the irregular  

current from the generator, and all eyes were on  

Davies.   

He glanced one final time towards the kitchen to  

satisfy himself that the whites were alone.  

“Well, you know why we’re here. It’s not a  

pleasant business, but something we have to deal  

with. You know about his plans to establish an out‐ 

station near the eastern boundary. We all know, or  

should know, what that means.”   

Davies paused to measure the reaction of the  

group around the table. Wilma Breck smacked her  

hand against the table. “He is irresponsible. Think of  

Father Rantz’s reaction when he hears what is  

happening. It will break his heart. And what is  

coming next? Hand back Gunwinddu to the  

natives?”   

“The fact of the matter is,” continued Davies,  

“irrespective of the church, out‐stations contravene  

government policy. They represent a loss of control  

over education and law. These places allow them to  

return to their own backward ways. Furthermore,  

they don’t surrender them without a bloody fight— 

and I don’t want that on my conscience.”  

He paused to let the point sink in.  

“We’ve all been around these parts a long time.  

Communities like Gunwinddu are a workable  

arrangement. Now we have pressure for these out‐ 

stations. The cost of  extra schools, medical centres,  

workshops, fuel, radios, you name it, for every  

damn tribal homeland would be astronomical.”  

123

Davies leaned forward to rest his hands on the  

table. He looked from face to face, resolute in his  

argument.  

“At the end of the day, communities like  

Gunwinddu are the best way to assimilate. Okay, it’s  

not perfect and, but it’s why we’re here. It’s our job.  

Father Bradbury’s little scheme must be nipped in  

the bud—and it must be done without anyone  

outside finding out—except of course his  

superiors.”  

 Davies looked grimly at the assembly. “Anybody  

disagree?”   

Muriel studied her hands and remained silent.  

Sister Margaret gazed into space, but as Davies  

caught her eye she decided to speak. “He’s only  

been here a short time. It takes a while to  

understand.”  

Karl looked up from the spot on the table he had  

been staring at. “I think the Sister may be right. He  

is young—I remember when I was young. You feel  

an obligation to change the world in one day. He  

will learn patience.”  

Wilma sucked through her teeth. “Oh for  

heaven’s sake.”  

The old man shrugged.  

“Well,” said Davies. “I don’t intend to sit on my  

hands and watch him destroy everything we have  

built. I went to a lot of trouble when he arrived to  

explain matters to him, but he’s taken no notice.  

He’s gone out of his way to be antagonistic. I have  

written a letter I want you all to sign and I’ll  

telegram it to the Diocesan office first thing in the  

morning.”  

124

He drew a sheet of paper from a folder lying on  

the table in front of him. It was passed from person  

to person.  

Dearly beloved Bishop MacNamara  

Muriel interjected. “Laying it on a bit rich aren’t  

you?”  

“It’s the proper address,” said Wilma stiffly.  

“Come on!” Davies rapped his fingers on the  

table.  

We the undersigned staff at Gunwinddu  

Station feel it has become necessary to acquaint  

you with certain actions instigated by Father  

Simon Bradbury, changes which we believe to  

be prejudicial to the function of the church  

here.  

We are concerned about the moral and  

spiritual implications of his lax attitude  

towards daily Mass. Further, as of today, he has  

ordered the removal of protective fencing from  

the girls’ hostel. Past experience has shown they  

will now be in grave moral danger from the  

male population.  

 The most serious matter, however, concerns  

Father Bradbury’s decision to disregard  

government and church policy and agree to a  

request from the local Aborigines to establish  

an outstation almost 100 kilometres from this  

centre.  

This will lead to a serious breakdown in our  

efforts to raise these people to the educational,  

moral and health standards required by  

civilized society.  

We seek your urgent intervention to  

preclude any further misguided actions on the  

part of Father Bradbury. It is our opinion that  

125

he is not suitable for the work here and we  

would urge you to reconsider his appointment.  

Yours sincerely  

The staff of Gunwinddu Mission  

  

“Well, what do you think?” Davies asked after  

everyone had read the letter.  

Wilma Breck smiled. “That’s very good Fred.”  

Muriel sighed. Davies and Wilma glared at her  

and she shrugged. “ All right.”  

The nursing sister gave a simple nod.  

Karl said nothing.  

Davies was exasperated. “Look, is there anybody  

who doesn’t want to sign it?”   

Nobody spoke.  

“All right then.” Davies took a pen from his  

pocket and passed it to Wilma.  

  

Simon woke with a cool breeze on his face. He  

could smell the dry ground, close to his face, and the  

lingering aroma of a thousand campfires in the  

swag loaned to him by the elders. He pushed back  

the heavy canvas cover and crawled out into grey  

dawn.  

“Hey—Father.”  

Simon turned and saw Isaac and Arthur blowing  

and feeding the previous night’s coals. They had  

slept between two log fires. Several times during  

the night Simon had heard one of the men leave his  

swag to throw on more wood. Only in the early  

hours had the fires been left to die down. They were  

for warmth and a deterrent to snakes.  

The men grouped around the renewed fire,  

sipping black tea from enamel mugs. “Us blokes can  

126

put up the shed. You can go with Robert,” Arthur  

said to the priest.   

As the men began to unload the truck, Simon and  

Robert headed for a shadowy cleft in the nearby  

hillside. Robert carried a traditional spear, a long  

whippy shaft crafted from the lateral roots of a tree.  

The spear tip was a carefully honed chip of rock,  

cemented to the shaft by a mix of fur fibres and gum  

sap, which when heated bonded in much the same  

way as fibreglass.  

Arthur had given Simon a tin. “You’re also gettin’  

some tucker,” he had said without elaboration.  

They walked through the cleft for about a  

hundred metres where it broadened and opened  

into a valley of stunted bushes, scattered boabs and  

turtujarti trees, which Simon now recognised. They  

followed the rocky perimeter for about half a  

kilometre before Robert led them up and over the  

lip of a mound. About two metres below their feet  

was a rockpool, slightly larger than an average size  

room. Flowering lilies graced its surface and the  

edge was a sheer drop except on the opposite bank  

where a low ledge was worn smooth, and was still  

wet from the night’s traffic.   

“Jila—plenty kangaroos and pinkirrjarti come  

here. But this place is only for animals. We got  

another place for people.”  

Simon was curious. “Why?” he asked simply.  

Robert shook his head. “Oh. Bin that way since  

old man Djidilba come by—he had a new woman  

an’ they camped not far from here.”  

Simon looked around, frowning and Robert  

hurried on with his story. “Another mob saw ‘em  

but, and when Djidilba was out huntin’ they took his  

missus. When Djidilba come back he saw the tracks  

127

so he knows the mob that has got his missus an’ he  

follows them here to this place. It was just a campin’  

spot, no water then. So—they’re all camped here,  

cookin’ meat an’ he sees his missus here too an’ she  

don’ seem too sad, which makes him real angry. So  

he hid, you see, so they don’ know he’s there an’ he  

took some branches from a tree an’ shook ‘em real  

hard so a strong wind come up. It blew into the  

camp like a cyclone an’ picked up all the people’s  

things—spears, throwers, tarlakurrus—high into  

the sky, an’ then he let ‘em all fall again into their  

right places.”  

Robert lifted his arms outward and upward and  

let them fall with a loud whoosh. “Like that, see. So  

the people are real frightened an’ get close together.  

When it’s dark, Djidilba waves his branches again,  

an’ another big wind comes. The people get all their  

things an’ get real close. But this time the wind lifts  

up everythin’, includin’ the people, into the sky.  

They go so high that when they fall they make a big  

hole, this jila. All the people are killed, includin’  

Djidilba’s wife an’ they all turn into a big snake—a  

huge jilpirtijarti, which lives down the bottom  

there. Now nobody can drink from this water, or the  

jilpirtijarti will swallow ‘em.”  

Simon peered cautiously into the water. It was  

dark and he couldn’t see any bottom. He edged  

away.   

“Sounds like this Tjidilba’ fellow was pretty  

powerful.”  

“Yeah—at the end of the Dreamin’ he made  

himself the kangaroo flea.”  

Simon cocked a quizzical eyebrow, but elected to  

let the tale finish there. The purpose of the story  

was clear enough; an exclusive water hole for game  

128

game so it would not be frightened off—either that  

or a reminder that it’s risky business to run off with  

someone’s wife.  

Climbing down from the edge of the water hole  

they began to cut across the valley. Robert stopped  

near a clump of bushes. Handing Simon his spear  

Robert dropped to his knees. He began to dig  

feverishly in the sandy ground, saying nothing, just  

grunting from the exertion. His shoulders dropped  

lower and lower as he dug down to almost half a  

metre under the roots before he grunted with  

satisfaction and withdrew his arms from the hole.  

He proffered a cupped palm to the priest.  

“Woman’s work really—but you should learn,”  

he said. He opened his hand to reveal several large  

ants dragging golden brown sacs. “Real good tucker  

Father.”  

Simon grimaced. “No thanks.”  

“Sure. Go on. Try one—honey ants.”  

Simon shook his head.  

Robert was insistent. “Like this.” With his fingers  

he picked off the head and popped the sac into his  

mouth. He sucked out the juice, then spat out the  

ant body and smiled appreciatively.   

“Real good.”  

“Maybe later,” said Simon.  

“Bah!” Robert was not impressed. “It’s sweet, you  

know. It’s not bad at all. You can squeeze out the  

honey and put with flour—make a nice damper.”  

“I’m sure you’re right,” said the priest.  

Robert shrugged and tossed the remaining ants  

into Simon’s tin, covering them with a handful of  

soil. He used a foot to push some of the loose earth  

back into the hole, then collected his spear and  

headed towards a timbered area on the other side  

129

of the valley. It took about twenty minutes of  

walking and the shade of the trees when they  

arrived was welcome. Though still early morning  

the day was warming rapidly. Robert began  

examining the bases of the larger, older trees,  

beckoning to Simon to watch closely. After some  

minutes he stopped and pointed to a small mound  

of what looked like fine sawdust. He looked up at  

the priest, grinning.  

“Lunch.”  

Simon smiled weakly.  

Robert used his spear to soften the surface near  

the tree, then on his hands and knees again, began  

to dig. After about ten minutes he had exposed the  

upper roots. Sweat ran in flowing rivulets down his  

face and he sat back to rest. He took the tin from  

Simon and waved him to take his turn.  

“What am I looking for?” Simon asked.  

“You’ll see. Just keep diggin’ so we can get to the  

roots of this fella.”  

Simon expanded the hole further until he felt his  

arms and shoulders were ready to snap.  

Robert told him to stop and leaned into the hole,  

tapping the larger roots with the spear.  

“Good,” he said. “—good.” He was enjoying  

himself.  

Now with both hands Robert grasped one of the  

roots and pulled steadily upwards. It was the  

thickness of a man’s forearm and his eyes bulged  

with the strain. Simon muscled in to help. The root  

was almost bent vertical before it snapped and the  

pair fell backwards in a tangle. Robert rolled to his  

feet and with the spear split open the root.  

Simon recognized immediately what they had  

been seeking.  

130

“Argh—bardi grubs,” he cried with anguish.  

Robert rocked on his heels and laughed.  

  

*  

  

Gunwinddu had visitors.  

The dust‐coated white van with its familiar blue  

markings and iron‐grilled rear door was parked  

outside the administrator’s office. There wasn’t an  

Aborigine in sight.  

“Bit of trouble over at McKenzie, so thought we’d  

come and say g’day while we’re in the  

neighbourhood. You know how it is.”   

The police sergeant eyeballed the administrator,  

enjoying the effect of his visit. His constable, young,  

tanned and lanky, stood in the doorway gazing  

indolently out into the deserted street.  

Fred Davies stood at his desk. He nodded and  

smiled with forced conviviality.   

“Yeah—great, I was beginning to think you  

blokes had forgotten you had an office here. I was  

even thinking of asking for it—could do with some  

extra space.”  

“Well,” drawled the sergeant. “You’ve only got to  

ask mate. Only come down here if we have to. You  

know that.”  

“Sure. Things have been pretty quiet though.”  

“You run a tight ship, Fred. Wish there were  

more like you. You understand things. Can’t stand  

those fucking welfare types they send up these  

days.”  

Davies nodded understandingly.  

“So how’s that good looking missus of yours?”  

“Well—she likes it up here,” he responded  

enthusiastically.  

131

The sergeant chuckled. “Actually, I meant to tell  

you. I was talking to a colleague a few weeks back  

who reckons he might know her. Used to be a vice  

boy. Small world isn’t it?”  

Davies nodded, his face cemented in a grin.  

The sergeant didn’t miss a beat. He stepped  

across to the top of a filing cabinet and began to  

flick aimlessly through a manila folder resting  

there. Then he turned back to the still feebly smiling  

administrator.  

“So how’s the new priest getting along? Drove  

past the holy box as we came in. Didn’t see him.”  

“You know the type—keen as mustard. He’ll be  

out there somewhere dispensing the good word to  

his flock.” He laughed with forced bravado.  

The sergeant grinned, barely disturbing his  

flaccid jowls. “Yeah—heard he was a bit like that. So  

where is he Fred? Like to catch up with him.  

“Well—to tell you the truth—he’s not here at the  

moment. He’s gone out with a few of the old blokes  

to try and track down a mob of strays. For a priest  

he’s got a keen eye for cattle—we’re trying to  

eradicate the tuberculosis, you know.”  

The sergeant put his hands on his hips and  

looked disappointed. “Shame—about him not being  

here. Well—been on the road for two days. Like to  

start heading back after lunch so we’ll just have a  

bit of a look around the place, show the colours.  

Hope your fridge is well stocked.”  

“No worries.”  

“Catch you later for a cold one then.”  

The sergeant and constable stepped back into  

the bright sun, tugging down the peaks of their caps  

to shield their eyes. Davies watched through his  

window as they drove from sight. It was several  

132

minutes before he breathed easily again. “Bastards,”  

he muttered.  

  

The first painting was on the inner face of a large  

boulder which formed a natural protective wall in  

front of the cave mouth. It was a large black snake,  

life‐size and partially coiled; painted with a white  

shadow, emphasizing the black body and the  

creature’s menacing nature. There were more  

paintings inside along the walls, mainly snakes of  

various sizes, and one large work of a goanna.  

“Most likely you’re the first whitefella to come  

here,” Robert said.  

He made the comment in passing, but the words  

brought Simon to a halt. He sat on his haunches and  

stared at the big snake, trying to picture the fingers  

of a human, perhaps twenty—forty, who knew how  

many thousands of years before, rubbing the ochre  

onto the rockface with the precise, deliberate  

strokes of an artist. He remembered reading that  

Aboriginal cave art in the Australian Alps had been  

carbon‐dated at more than twenty‐thousand years,  

far older than the famous paintings of the Lascaux  

bison hunters in southern France and Spain, yet  

completely disregarded by most Australians.  

He stood up and gazed out into the valley which  

sloped away below them. This place would have  

been long established in Aboriginal history; already  

ancient when the Achaeans were sacking Troy, or  

Boadicea was driving the Romans from Britain. And  

that continuum had been maintained until a mere  

two hundred years ago. He shook his head. It was  

difficult to imagine a culture so ancient—and so  

quickly crushed. The tragedy, as Simon was  

beginning to see it, was that the Aboriginal  

133

alternative had worked. A true partnership with the  

land, creating a profound spirituality that had  

become a way of living. But there was no literature  

to which those living in the aftermath of European  

colonization could refer. This culture could only be  

understood by those who knew how to read the  

land, which as Arthur had described, was their  

Bible; the living pages of their sacred story.  

“Where are we?” the priest asked, peering into  

the gloom which hid the inner area of the cave.  

“Initiation place,” answered Robert. “But for  

small boys—that’s why I can bring you here. They  

learned things here, preparation like, for later when  

they’re older. That jilpirtijarti there,” he said,  

pointing to the snake, “one day tried to eat all the  

people here for the initiation. But there were old  

men, powerful men, who could see that the  

jilpirtijarti was comin’, so the people pretended  

they was asleep. When the jilpirtijarti fell on ‘em  

they all jumped up an’ climbed on top of ‘im an’  

rode ‘im into the sky. The old men were also ridin’  

the snake, an’ they cut open his belly makin’ his  

bones fall to the ground. See?”  

Robert beckoned Simon to the cave entrance and  

pointed to a nearby outcrop of elongated rocks. “I’ll  

show you.”  

They followed a rough path back down to the  

valley floor. Robert broke off a tree branch and as  

they reached the rock outcrop he signalled Simon to  

stand on the perimeter of an area about the size of a  

tennis court. Robert then moved forward, carefully  

treading an invisible path. Reaching the furthest  

corner of the area he began brushing the ground  

vigorously with the flat of his hand. At first Simon  

didn’t recognize the protrusion gradually being  

134

exposed. It looked like a piece of limestone. But as  

the Aborigine worked, he could tell there was  

definite shape. He climbed onto a rock and saw  

immediately what it was.  

“My god.”  

Robert had exposed a skull about a metre in  

length; the skull of a leviathan.  

Robert encompassed the area with his arms.  

“Jilpirtijarti,” he said.  

He brushed the sand back over the skull and trod  

carefully towards the centre, where he worked once  

more on the surface. This time he exposed what  

looked like piece of a giant ribcage. Simon was  

transfixed.  

The Aborigine re‐covered the bones and together  

the two men returned to the cave.  

“The jilpirtijarti’s skin fell to the ground here in  

this spot. The sky turned black and rain come down  

real hard and for a long time. But the jilpirtijarti  

was all hollowed out now and turned into this place.  

The people stayed inside the jilpirtijarti and  

continued on with their singin’ and dancin’ for the  

initiation.”   

“How do you know all these things?” Simon  

asked.  

“I was here when I was little.”  

“How old are you now?”  

“Oh—‘bout sixty I reckon.”  

“It was a long time ago then.”  

“Oh yes—but you don’ forget, Father.”  

  

  

“Typical,” muttered the sergeant. “You’d think  

butter wouldn’t melt in their ugly mouths.”  

135

The two policemen were parked in the shade  

near the river, smoking and watching a distant  

group of Aborigines sitting beneath a tree, yarning,  

playing cards and generally taking the day easy.  

It was a tranquil scene. Even the river seemed to  

have slowed. A yellow patchwork of paperbark  

rested on the dark green surface where the water  

was still. On a near bank several women cast nets  

for flapping silver fish which they would later bake  

on coals, while around their feet children  

scampered with yelping, prancing dogs.  

The sergeant stretched and blew a smoke ring  

against the roof. “You know, I sometimes wish I was  

black—just look at the slack bastards; don’t have to  

work, don’t have to give a damn about anything,  

and a government hand‐out every fortnight. And  

they reckon they’re badly treated. Christ, I wish I  

could be that hard done by.”  

The constable grinned. “Maybe we should stir  

‘em a bit?”  

The sergeant rapped the door frame with his  

fingers and sighed. “There’s something going on—I  

can sense it. That priest is up to something and  

Davies doesn’t want us to know.”  

The constable nodded. “So what do we do?”  

“Not sure—what did you notice as we drove  

around?”  

“Nothin’ really. Blacks seemed pretty cheery  

actually. Couple even waved to us.”  

“That’s what worries me—don’t remember them  

looking quite so damn pleased with themselves, and  

something has got Davies tight‐lipped.”  

The constable jerked his thumb towards the  

people on the river bank. “Well, it wouldn’t be that  

hard to find out.”  

136

The sergeant tapped the door frame again.  

“Okay, let’s see if we can loosen a few tongues, eh.”  

He opened the van door and was removing his  

night‐stick from its door holster when a voice called  

out.   

“Sergeant—sergeant.” He looked and saw Wilma  

Breck hurrying towards the van.  

  

The sun was directly above them by the time  

Robert and the priest returned to the main camp.  

To Simon’s surprise, the hut was almost up. Given  

the pace of work at Gunwinddu, he’d expected the  

men to spend two or even three days on the job.  

“Don’t tell me you’re finished,” he called out. The  

others were around the fire and the sweet smell of  

burning wood and roasting meat reached him.  

 “We don’ muck about,” responded Arthur  

happily.   

Isaac beckoned them to the fire. “So, you and  

Robert get some good bush tucker?”  

Simon handed him the tin. “Dig around in that.  

You’ll probably find what you’re looking for, but I’ll  

pass—but thanks all the same.”  

Isaac shook his head, bemused. He up‐ended the  

tin on the ground and his fingers raced to collect the  

ants, which he then passed around. He put the bardi  

grubs back into the tin and balanced a large camp  

frying pan onto a bed of coals. “You get the pan real  

hot first,” he explained.  

The priest scoffed. “I thought you ate the grubs  

alive.”  

“Sure,” said Isaac. “But this is good too—picks up  

a bit of flavour from what you’ve been cookin’  

before, see.”   

137

Isaac plucked a piece of dark meat from a stick  

on which it had been smoking and passed it to  

Simon. “Kangaroo—smoked real good.”  

Simon took a tentative bite. It was chewy, but  

still juicy on the inside.   

“Okay, Father?”  


“You smoke the meat so the flies can’t get in and  

lay maggots.”  

The smoked kangaroo strips were shared out  

and the men settled around the fire, joking, talking  

and making plans for their return with families.  

Isaac poured a small amount of water into his  

cup and tentatively tested the heat of the frying pan.  

The drops of water spluttered and bounced. The  

bardi grubs were up‐ended into the pan. After only  

about a minute they began popping. As they did,  

each grub was grabbed in turn by eager fingers and  

eaten. Simon’s relief grew as each grub disappeared  

into someone else’s mouth. Finally just one  

remained. It was placed carefully on a plate and the  

men turned to Simon. Arthur was grinning.  

“We saved one for you Father.”  

Simon shook his head. “I wouldn’t appreciate it.”  

“You’re just bein’ too Christian, Father—but we’d  

all feel real bad if we don’ share with you.”  

“Honestly, I don’t mind.”  

The men were saddened.   

“Look—I don’t mean to offend—but—.” Simon  

ran out of words and sighed resignedly. “All right— 

tell me what to do.”  

Isaac laughed. “Hold out your hand—here.” He  

placed the cooked grub into the cupped palm. “Okay  

Father, now put your head back an’ open your  

mouth real wide. When I say so, just drop ‘im in,  

138

chew ‘im real good so you taste everythin’, an’ then  

swallow. I reckon you’ll want to run right back to  

the valley to get some more.”  

Simon tipped back his head and opened his  

mouth. He began to lift, tremulously, the cooked  

grub towards his lips; unaware of Robert, who had  

crept behind. Struggling to restrain his welling  

laughter, the old man leaned over and dropped a  

live grub into the priest’s open mouth.  

Simon felt the twitching lump land at the back of  

his throat, making him swallow involuntarily.  

Scrambling to his feet he lurched away from the fire  

and retched.  

The men rolled on the ground, laughing  

uncontrollably.  

  

“Disappointed, Fred, really disappointed.”  

“Look, I can handle it—that’s why I said nothing.  

I’m the government man here, it’s my job to fix  

these things.”  

“But you haven’t Fred—they’re out there now.  

You’ve already given them the break.”  

“I’ve taken steps. I’ve telegrammed the church  

authorities. They’ll put a stop to it.”  

The sergeant shook his head.  

“Fred it’s not that simple. This business is like a  

cancer. What you’ve allowed to start won’t end with  

a rap on the knuckles from some bishop. The blacks  

have been shown they can beat the system, they’ve  

got a toe across the line and they won’t stop  

pushing now unless you chop off the bloody foot.  

You know that.”  

The constable turned from his position at the  

door to watch the administrator’s response.  

139

They would make an example of this, Davies  

knew. His shoulders dropped as he considered  

visits by departmental officers, inspectors—maybe  

even an auditor. He felt anger and the unfairness of  

it all, just because the bloody priest wouldn’t listen.   

“I hear what you’re saying,” he said. “That’s why I  

wanted to keep it quiet. I thought it better that  

other communities didn’t hear about it.”  

The sergeant shook his head as if dealing with a  

slow child. “Fred—Fred. It’d be all over the  

Kimberley in a day. The only way we can put an end  

to this idea is to crush it, hard as we can. We’ve got  

to demonstrate that it won’t be tolerated under any  

circumstances—even when a priest is involved.”  

“What about public reaction—in the south? You  

go banging black heads in front of a priest and  

there’ll be hell to pay.”  

“You worry too much Fred. Look, we’re saving  

government money. All we’re doing is saying the  

Aborigines can’t set up weekend hunting shacks all  

over the country at taxpayers’ expense. No one’s  

going to argue the toss on that.”  

The sergeant paused, measuring the  

administrator. He lowered his tone to embrace  

Davies as an equal; to impress upon him the gravity  

of the situation.  

“Look Fred, you know the score. You let the  

blacks loose out there again and wham! Sacred sites  

under every bloody rock; no more mining, no more  

money and the country goes down the bloody  

gurgler. You want that? That land out there is rich,  

gold, uranium, platinum, you name it, and it belongs  

to us. The blacks don’t give a damn about that sort  

of thing, which is why they’ve stayed in the stone  

age; it’s why you’ve got the job you have. They don’t  

140

understand the modern world. They’ve got to be  

looked after in places like Gunwinddu—I shouldn’t  

have to explain all this to a bloke like you.”  

Davies knew he was beaten. The tension of  

recent days finally caught up. He turned and swung  

his boot into the side of a filing cabinet. “Shit—shit,  

shit, shit,” he spat with undisguised despair.  

“What’s the turn‐over of the store?”  

The administrator turned and faced the sergeant,  

unable to mask the surprise at the unexpected  

question. “About seven hundred,” he said before he  

had time to think of how to avoid answering.  

The policeman whistled. “That high, shit‐a‐brick.  

What’s your margin?”  


“Come on Fred, don’t play the horse’s uncle with  

me. I know all about Muriel and I know she  

wouldn’t be cheap.”  

Davies’s world was collapsing. He had to swallow  

to suppress an urge to hold his head and cry. He  

stared at the policeman, hating the man for his  

arrogance, his unchallengeable authority in a  

country whose very birth had been controlled by  

prison guards and police.  

The sergeant studied the man’s discomfort with  

detachment. “Well, if it was me,” he continued, “I’d  

be looking at say twenty per cent—sound about  

right?”  

Davies bit his lip, but said nothing.  

“Okay, we’ll say twenty per cent for now—maybe  

it’s more, Fred? Anyway, twenty per cent—that’s  

about—a hundred and forty grand. Not bad! You’re  

doing all right aren’t you, you sly bastard. Now, split  

say fifty‐fifty, that’s seventy grand each. So that’s  

what Muriel gets for spreading her legs eh, seventy  

141

grand—or thereabouts. A lot of money. Explains  

why she’s hung about.”  

Davies shot him a vicious look. The figures were  

near enough. It wasn’t just the goods turn‐over, but  

everything from construction materials to contracts  

for plumbing, water boring, electrical—everything  

went through the store. The government was  

satisfied with a small subsidized loss, making the  

add‐on profits potentially huge. But he could see  

them dissolving into pure hypothesis now. He  

wondered miserably how many years he would get.  

The policeman turned towards the door. “Give  

me fifteen, constable.” The lad disappeared  

obediently. The sergeant grabbed a chair by the  

desk and seated himself, waving Davies to the chair  

opposite.  

“Listen Fred—I can understand your position.  

You’re a sensitive man, you worry a lot, I can see  

that. But I can take some of that worry off your  

shoulders.  I’m prepared to play down this matter  

with the out‐station. Don’t worry, we’ll bust it up  

good and proper and make sure the blacks  

everywhere know, but I can play it down in my  

reports.   

Davies nodded. “So what do I have to do for  

this?”  

The sergeant smiled. “Nothing at all really—just  

get yourself a new partner.”  

Davies frowned quizzically.  

“Like piss off your whore and cut me in instead.”  

Depression settled over the administrator. The  

sergeant as a partner? His life would never again be  

his own; and how long before the percentages  

began to stack more and more the policeman’s way?  

142

He rubbed his chin in deep, moody thought. “I’ll  

have to think about it.”  

The policeman hit the table with his fist.   

“Bullshit. There’s nothing to think about. You’re  

in a corner surrounded by your own deep shit and  

there’s no way out without my help. I’m being  

generous Fred. I’m only going to take 60 per cent.  

Davies groaned. It hadn’t taken long at all.  

“Look at it this way. We’re the ideal partnership.  

You’re here on the ground making it all happen  

while I’m covering our backsides. You won’t have to  

worry anymore, Fred.”  

“But what about the priest? He already suspects  


“After this little episode he’ll be gone. Who cares  

if he talks. His reputation will be shot.”  

“And Muriel? She’ll squeal.”  

The sergeant laughed. “Come on Fred, get real.  

She’s a pro. Who’s going to listen to her—the pro  

and the priest. No one is going to listen to them.  

Anyway, I figure she’s been here long enough to  

have put a tidy sum aside—and I’ll even let her  

keep it.”  

Davies sighed. “You’ve got me over a barrel.”  

“That’s not good enough Fred. I want you to be  

positive about this. Is it a deal?”  

Davies nodded.  

“Good man. Shake.”  

He thrust out his fleshy hand and Davies took it  

unenthusiastically.  

The sergeant beamed. A few years and he could  

buy a pub and semi‐retire; concentrate on the  

barramundi—maybe even buy himself a woman  

like Muriel Hargreaves.  

  

143

The distant staccato of a helicopter sounded the  

first hint of trouble. Simon looked to the afternoon  

sky as they were loading the truck for the return  

journey. The men fell silent: the intrusion reminded  

them of reality, of the audacity of what they were  

doing. After a while the sound faded and everybody  

relaxed.  

It was, however, merely a reprieve. The machine  

returned about thirty minutes later and closer. This  

time they saw it, a Bell‐47 with the markings of a  

local mustering company. The pilot must have seen  

them about the same time because he arced in  

swiftly towards the group. He made a single pass  

and returned westwards in a straight line. It was  

obvious that he had been looking for them.  

Simon found himself ringed by worried faces.  

“We better get goin’,” said Arthur.  

Simon wasn’t sure. The pilot hadn’t even waved.  

In a remote area like this, that was hostile  

behaviour. He felt trapped. Simon knew he was  

defying a government edict against out‐stations. But  

he was now convinced of the merit of access to  

tribal lands. It wasn’t a land grab in the European  

sense of the word, but an opportunity for cultural  

and spiritual expression. However, he sensed  

already the impossibility of making others  

understand.  

“I think we should wait to see if they return  

today. If they don’t, it means they’ll be coming in  

vehicles. We can leave in the morning and meet  

them on the way. Perhaps we’ll be able to talk and  

come to an understanding.”  

 “You reckon Mr Davies is sendin’ out the police,  

Father?” Isaac asked, his face tight with anxiety.  

144

“I don’t know—it’s possible.” The men began  

talking quietly among themselves in their own  

language. Finally Arthur addressed Simon. “We’re  

all old blokes. We can’t do much, but we can’t do  

nothin’. We got to protect this place now.”  

Simon was worried. The last thing he wanted  

was a confrontation. “Look, if the worst happens, all  

they can do is dismantle the shed. They can’t touch  

the land. They wouldn’t know what to touch, it’s  

just sand and rocks to them.” His speech quickened,  

soliciting their trust. “The shed we can rebuild. I’ll  

go to Perth and explain the situation. I’ll get  

government approval to come back and then  

nobody can touch us—but we can’t afford to get  

into a fight. Not now—not when we’re just at the  

start.”  

No one replied. They gazed dolefully towards the  

western horizon.   

“How many helicopters do you reckon Mr Davies  

could call in from close by?”  

The men discussed the matter and arrived at  

between four and seven. The mustering machines  

were small and would only be able to carry a single  

passenger. With luck, Simon reasoned, even Fred  

Davies in a rage would deem helicopters too  

extravagant for such an exercise.   

“Look, I suspect they’ll come out in a vehicle,  

which means we can meet them on the track. I’m  

sure we’ll be able to persuade them to let the  

matter rest until I’ve had a chance to take it up with  

the department—so let’s not worry prematurely,  

eh?”  

The remainder of the afternnon passed  

uneventfully, the elders accepted that Simon was  

right. They relaxed, and Simon gathered them  

145

together to pray. Their shadows stretched long as  

they knelt with their backs to the setting sun.  

  

The helicopters came an hour after sunrise. Five  

machines, scudding in at tree level. They encircled  

the group in a storm of dust and sticks.  

Simon had to shield his face, but was aware of  

men climbing from the machines. As the maelstrom  

abated the first person he recognized, not without  

surprise, was Davies. The administrator  

approached, walking more like a man beaten than a  

victor. His shoulders were bowed and when he  

reached Simon he was surprised to see helplessness  

in his eyes.  

“Well,” said Davies lamely.  

“Well,” said Simon. “You’ve brought friends, I  

see.”  

“They are not my friends. You should have  

listened Father. None of this would have happened.  

Now we all lose.”  


He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Simon  

saw the policeman now for the first time. He was  

half watching them, while issuing instructions to  

the small group which had arrived in the airborne  

assault; another policeman, plus pilots and  

labouring types, no doubt from a neighbouring  

station. Simon felt both fear and loathing as the man  

in khaki began walking towards them.  

“Why did you do it Fred? Why this?”  

Davies shrugged. “I warned you, but you  

wouldn’t listen—.”  

“Morning gents,” called the sergeant as he  

approached. He slapped a black night‐stick against  

146

his calf. “So, we meet at last Father,” he said,  

smiling.  

 “Look, there is no need for this. All we’ve done is  

build a small shelter for short ceremonial visits by  

the Gunwinddu people. As the official  

representative of the church, which holds the lease  

over this land, I have every right. There’s no need  

for this ridiculous theatre.”  

The sergeant cocked his head to one side and  

stared through the Aboriginal faces grouped behind  

Simon. When he jerked it back to face the priest, the  

smile was gone.  

“Ah, Father. You’re a good one with words. I  

suppose priests have to be. But I don’t have time for  

a sermon, and besides—you’ve been out‐ranked.”  

The smile returned as he pulled a folded slip of  

paper from a breast pocket. He waved it under  

Simon’s nose.  

“This, Father, is a telegram. Want to know who  

it’s from? Well, let’s have a look, so there are no  

misunderstandings, eh?”  

He rested the night‐stick against his thigh and  

folded open the single telex sheet. “Right let’s see,  

diocesan something‐or‐other—ah, here we are,  

fellow called MacNamara. Fred here has already  

told me he’s a bishop and your boss. Want to hear  

what he has to say?”  

Simon was speechless.  

“—Re plans for out‐station. Stop. Must not  

proceed. Stop. Dispatching Troughton soonest.  

Stop.”  

Simon felt winded.  

 “Well, Father, sounds like you’re going to have a  

visitor. Know who this Troughton fellow is?”  

147

Simon awkwardly cleared his throat. “Vicar  

General.”  

The sergeant nodded, pleased with the  

authoritative ring to the title. “Well maybe he can  

talk sense into you. Meantime we’ll just undo this  

little error of yours and be on our way, just as I  

suggest you should. No need to hang about.” He  

tucked the telegram back into his pocket and strode  

without another word towards the men who waited  

for him at the shed.  

Simon’s arms hung limply at his side. He had  

been beaten by his own people. How did blind  

ignorance get to be wielded with such unshakable  

authority?  

Davies walked towards the machine he had  

arrived in. He wanted no further part in the matter.  

On the sergeant’s signal, two men swung into the  

shed with large sledge‐hammers. The fibro sheeting  

shattered noisily.  

Behind him Simon heard a low moan.  

“No—.”  

He turned. It was Robert, staggering towards the  

shed. Simon put out an arm to restrain him, but the  

old man pushed him away. Simon lost his balance  

and by the time he recovered Robert was running  

wildly towards the demolition gang, yelling in his  

native tongue. Simon trotted after him, half willing  

the old man to give them all an earful.  

Robert made a lunge for the nearest man with  

the hammer, but was dragged back by the  

constable. The whites laughed at his feeble attempt  

to protect the disintegrating shed. Robert lunged  

again and this time got close enough to claw at the  

man’s face. The worker yelled, dropped the hammer  

and put a hand to his cheek. The constable again  

148

dragged the old man back and flung him roughly to  

the ground.   

“All right,” yelled Simon, as he approached.  

“That’s—.”  

The words died on his lips as in disbelief he  

watched the constable raise his night‐stick and club  

the old man across the side of the head.  

Simon ran to the fallen man. Blood oozed from  

the gash caused by the truncheon.  “Get him into a  

helicopter,” Simon ordered.  

“No fucking way mate.”  

The speaker was a lanky man in khaki shorts.  

“You want to take him home, use your truck.”  

Simon stood. “For God’s sake, he’s badly hurt.”  

“Balls,” the man responded.  

Simon turned to the sergeant. “Look at him, he’s  

hurt.”  

The sergeant shook his head. “It’s not my call.  

They’re not my machines. Anyway, it’s only a bump  

on the head. You didn’t hit him too hard did you  

constable?”  

The junior policeman shook his head. “ ‘Course  

not.”  

Simon felt his world spinning. “Look at his  

eyes—listen to him.”  

The whites stared back impassively.  

“Get him into the truck,” he said to Isaac and the  

other Aboriginal men. He turned to the sergeant. “If  

anything happens to this man you will be  

responsible.”  

The sergeant laughed. “Go on, get out of here.”  

They laid Robert amongst the bedding on the  

back of the truck. Simon tried to force water  

between his lips, but the injured man was having  

difficulty breathing.   

149

The others climbed aboard. Simon stayed on the  

back with Robert, and tried to protect him from the  

swaying motion of the truck by keeping him tucked  

between bedrolls. But it was a hopeless battle.  

Robert’s breathing grew increasingly raspy.  

It was just after they’d stopped to refuel from  

one of the drums that Robert began to convulse.  

Simon felt his fingers clench inside his hand and  

then go still. He felt frantically for a pulse, but there  

was none. “Stop the truck—stop the truck,” he  

yelled. The others on the back with him also began  

yelling and banging the cab roof.  

The vehicle lurched to a halt and Isaac and  

Arthur spilled clumsily from the cab. “How is he?”  

Arthur asked.  

Simon didn’t respond. He tried again, now the  

truck was motionless, to find a pulse. There was  

none. Prising open Robert’s mouth, he covered the  

lips with his own and began to blow. There was no  

response. He addressed the nearest man. “Watch  

me, then copy, okay?” Simon placed his hands on  

Robert’s chest and pumped. “Right, do that—but  

not too hard.” The pair continued trying to  

resuscitate the old man, while the others watched  

with mounting dread.  

Simon tried for about fifteen minutes, but  

without success. With tears in his eyes he sat  

against the backboard of the cab and stared  

towards the horizon they had left behind.  

  

Simon paced along the hospital veranda,  

clutching the death certificate in a twisted ball. He  

was burning with rage and stopped only to watch  

the flat belly of the flying doctor plane climb noisily  

overhead.  

150

“They’re all the same up here—don’t tell me they  

don’t stick together. Heart attack—heart attack.  

That man was killed by a police truncheon. It was  

murder, Margaret. You’ve seen the wound—and  

there were witnesses.”  

The sister shook her head. “Robert had a weak  

heart. That’s what killed him. What happened  

before doesn’t count anymore.”  

“If it was a heart attack, then it was caused by the  

assault. Those bastards are still culpable.” The  

nursing sister sighed wearily. “Maybe, but do  

yourself a favour and let it ride. You won’t get them  

to court, and even if you did no jury would convict  

them.”  

A ray of crimson light from the dying sun crept  

across the veranda floor. Simon tried to touch it  

with his foot. “Heard of a fellow called Dante?”  

The nursing sister nodded, hesitated, and then  

shook her head. “Who is he—?”  

“Was—an Italian poet back in the thirteenth  

century. Dante had a terrifying vision of Hell. The  

sort of place I would like to believe those thugs will  

eventually end up.”  

The nurse said nothing.  

“These people are screaming, but nobody is  

listening, Simon continued, half to himself. Am I the  

only one with ears?” Simon tore open the death  

certificate again. “I mean, look at this—look, it  

doesn’t even mention the wound to his head.” He  

screwed the paper into a ball and threw it to the  

floor. “I’m going to get a drink. But don’t expect me  

at dinner—I wouldn’t be able to stomach the  

company.”  

 “Simon!” The woman’s voice was hard. “You are  

not being fair.”  

151

Simon smiled sardonically. “Is that right—I’m not  

being fair? That’s a good one Margaret.”  

He stomped down the steps and strode angrily  

into the settlement. He entered the canteen and  

stopped inside the doorway. The other white staff  

were already there for the evening meal. He glared  

momentarily at their blank faces, stepped to the  

fridge, took out a six‐pack and without a word  

walked outside again, slamming the door. Simon  

headed first to the river, then took the path to the  

small beach beneath the rock wall where Karl  

fished. He sat on a rock, threw a stone into the river,  

then pulled the top off a can and drank greedily.  

He was into his second can when he heard  

footsteps approaching along the path. He wanted to  

be alone and was angered by the intrusion. He  

didn’t even turn to see who it was.  

 “So! You too like this place, eh?” Simon turned.  

Karl may have been coming to this place anyway.  

His anger subsided a little.  

“Would you like a drink?”  

“No. But may I sit? I like the river at night. It is  

easy to see just the water and nothing else. That is  

what is good. And the spirits like the water too. This  

is where they linger and like to talk.”  

The old German eased himself onto a flat boulder  

near Simon. “Do you know the barramundi,  

Father?”  

It was the last question Simon had expected.  

“Actually I’ve never tried it.”  

“A magnificent fish—perhaps the most splendid  

of them all.”  

“You have caught one then? Is it as good as they  

say?”  

152

“I have never eaten the barramundi,” the German  

said.   

“Right,” said Simon, taking another pull from the  

can. If the old man wanted to talk in riddles, fine;  

but he wasn’t in a mood to unravel them.  

“I talk to the barramundi.”  

“Uh huh. Do they talk back?”  


Simon sighed. He wondered if he would get like  

this when he was old. ‘Wherefore in dotage  

wanders thus thy mind?’, he thought to himself. He  

had an idea this might have been Dante as well. It  

seemed to him a long time since the human race  

had produced great minds like the scholars of old.  

He wondered if that in itself foretold man’s destiny.  

 “There is anger on your face.”  

Simon glanced towards the shadowy features of  

the man beside him.  

“It is dark.”  

“It is never dark enough to hide the anger of a  

young man. I was angry once. You could not know  

the anger that I carried. It was a terrible, burning  

pain for a long time and the worst was when it  

cooled, because then it became shame—and that  

hurts much, much more. You should be careful of  

such anger.”  

“What made you so angry?”  

For a moment the old man didn’t reply and the  

pair drifted in silence for a while.  

“I felt the world was very cruel to me, to Karl  

Breier—that was the anger. The shame is for now  

being a frightened old man, not brave enough to see  

if the truth can be given some sunlight.”  

“Is that why you are up here, at Gunwinddu?”  

Simon sensed the man’s affirmation.  

153

“Was it the war?”  

“Yes, the war. The war, the war, the war. I say it  

so many times to myself that it has almost become  

just a word—but not quite. You have known only  

peace, so you would not understand the terrible  

loss when your youth is stolen.”  

“Surely to have survived a war—to have faced  

death but lived, is a source of great—.” He paused,  

trying to think of an appropriate word. “— 

Strength,” he said, finally.  

 “Ahh—.” The old man chuckled. “Those who  

have not been there try to understand. Those who  

have been there—they try to forget.”  

“You sure you wouldn’t like a drink?”  

“In your time here have you ever seen Karl with  

a can of beer?”  

Simon reflected. “No—I’m sorry.”  

“You are young, and a priest. Perhaps you look so  

hard for saints among us that you do not see the  

little ways we try to be good, eh?”  

Simon felt his cheeks flush at the gentle barb.  

Neither spoke for some minutes and Simon let  

the sound of insects and the beer soothe his mood.  

It was with mild reluctance that he broke the  

silence to ask a question that had long been at the  

back of his mind.  

“I’m told you had a nasty accident—the scar.”  

Karl took his time to reply. “Yes—do you know  

that sometimes it hurts as much as the day after it  

happened—when the pain was doing its worst.”  

“Was this in the war?”  

Karl started breathing heavily.   

“—Do you know, I have never been to the other  

side. Every day, almost, I have come here and never  

been to the other side. I wonder what the river  

154

looks like from there? But then I am not a spirit that  

may walk the air, so I must be content with my  

place here, eh!”  

“Why don’t you ask the barramundi?”  

Karl smiled. “For a young man, sometimes you  

are quite wise. It must be because you are a priest.”  

Simon laughed bitterly. “As a priest I am a fool.  

You would know the Bishop is sending someone. It  

is highly likely I will soon be out of a job.”  

“Ah—the angry young man again.”  

“Yes I am angry—bloody angry. I am angry that  

nobody cares about the people here. You all treat  

them as though they are half‐wits. They are not.  

They are a darn sight more intelligent than most  

whites I’ve had to live with. They are herded here  

into this gulag reserve, force‐fed the doctrine of  

white supremacy by an arcane administration, and  

then when it doesn’t work, when they get drunk,  

fight, bludgeon their minds with booze and petrol  

fumes—you blame them.”  

It was Karl’s turn to absorb the silence. “—It is  

wrong to say we don’t care. It would be more  

accurate to say we haven’t tried hard enough to  

understand—or that we are afraid of admitting we  

may have made some terrible mistakes.”  

Simon shook his head. “I don’t see what is so  

difficult.”  

“Perhaps then you yourself do not try hard  

enough to understand. Also we have seen more  

than you, and not just the goodness which you seem  

so anxious to protect. Since the money came, they  

have lost many natural virtues. This I have seen  

myself. In winter you will see mothers walking  

around in blankets—and behind them stumbles a  

little child crying from the cold. Money has made  

155

them selfish. It is all they worry about. Do you know  

what the council is talking about when they sit all  

day under the tree opposite Mr Davies’ office?  

Money! How to apply for more grants from the  

government—of course, it keeps Mr Davies and all  

of us in work so perhaps it is not for me to complain  

—but money, Father, makes them more white every  

day. The more white they become, the more help  

they need. Have you ever thought of that?”  

Simon remained silent and still.  

“You do not like Wilma, that I have seen. You  

think she is against you. But she acts out of fear. She  

feels her guiding hand is now needed more than  

ever—she is frightened that her life’s work will be  

destroyed, that the freedom you offer the  

Aborigines will be used by them to turn their backs  

on all she has worked so hard to do.”  

“Precisely. She is worried about herself, not  

about the Aborigines.”  

“Is that so difficult for a priest to understand?”  

Simon sighed. “I think the need of these people is  

far more important than the sensibilities of Wilma  

Breck.”  

“Oh—come now Father. Since when has it been  

in your faith to condemn a single soul on numeric  

argument? To kill a man to save many is still  

murder, is it not? Is not that what you preach?”  

“We are not talking about killing somebody.”  

“Bah!”  

“All right then, but I have to act as I see fit. I  

cannot hope to please everybody.”  

“So! And you have done that. What more do you  

want?”  

156

“I don’t want to be betrayed. I don’t want to have  

to stop doing what I believe is vital for the future of  

a whole—a whole culture.”  

“Father, I will tell you something. I think things  

will change now. Do you know—it is even possible  

they might change more quickly if you leave.”  

Simon leaned back in surprise.  

“I realise it is not good for your pride, but if you  

stay, you are a target; a reason for people to attack  

what you do and say. But if you go, they will think  

about what you did while you were here and  

perhaps wonder why you did these things. You have  

given hope to the Aboriginal people here. They will  

work hard to keep open the door you have  

unlocked, but I think they might be more clever  

than you in how they do this, eh?”  

“I would like to believe you, but I can’t see it. I  

will fight this all the way.”  

“For yourself, or for the Aborigines?”  

“I don’t need to answer that.”  

Karl chuckled. “Ah, but you do.”  

  

  

157

Chapter Ten  

  

All through the day cars and trucks twisted along the  

track to Gunwinddu. By mid afternoon the settlement was  

shrouded under a dome of dust and noise. Word had spread  

across vast distances about the corroboree to mark the rites  

of passage for the elders, Matthew and Robert. Simon had  

helped build a large pyre near the cattle yards, where the  

dancing was to be done. But the hustle, bustle, barking dogs,  

hollering children and commands yelled from a hundred  

throats became too much. He lost track of what had been  

completed and what had still to be done and decided to  

leave it all to the Aborigines. They worked enthusiastically,  

still finding time to present to him an endless parade of  

cousins, aunts and uncles. The intricacies of totemic  

relationships remained a puzzle to the priest. The other  

white staff had come periodically to watch, but only Muriel  

and Karl had shown any real interest. Fred Davies watched  

with a sardonic grin then departed. Simon caught the words  

“bloody second coming”, as the administrator strode off.  

Wilma appeared briefly, her face etched with displeasure.  

Simon had caught her staring at him, challenging him to  

greet her, to open an opportunity for her to speak. But his  

head had started to thump and he had no stomach for the  

woman’s venom. He had turned his back and when he next  

looked she was gone.  

Simon’s headache worsened, accentuating a growing  

sense of helplessness, as though he no longer had any  

control over the events pushing his life. The impending  

arrival of the Vicar General made his attempts at clear  

thinking even more elusive. He knew the man; a professional  

cleric with a round, polished face unused to harsh sunlight.  

He promenaded the precinct of the diocesan headquarters  

with clipped, officious steps. He could quote section after  

sub‐section from the pages of both canon and corporate law.  

158

Deciding to walk home, Simon called in at the canteen to  

ferret out a packet of aspirin and some beer. There was a  

letter in his pigeon hole. He knew the writing; from his  

mother. He smiled grimly. She still wrote, always solicitous,  

always revealing without ever stating plainly that she  

worried about his emotional state; that she grieved for his  

solitary life. She wrote on the premise that he had to be  

unhappy. So there was the unspoken invitation, in news  

about people he barely knew who were buying houses and  

raising children, for him to write and confess; to confide to  

his mother that he had made a mistake. But he knew her. It  

wasn’t his love and benediction that she sought, it was  

absolution from guilt. Whose fault was it, if it wasn’t the  

mother’s? He tucked the letter into his breast pocket. He  

would write, as he always did. He would tell her what he was  

doing, and craft his letter with enthusiasm. But it would  

never be what she yearned to hear. He would ask about his  

father, and would be offered no insight into his life. He was  

semi‐retired, making do with odd‐jobs and, as Simon knew,  

would be spending most of his waking hours thinking about  

what might have been, given a few good rains and a grateful  

market. His father never wrote.  

Simon sat in an old lounge chair in the room which  

passed, with a degree of imagination, as his sitting room. It  

had four walls, bare except for a wooden crucifix and a  

cheap, framed print of the Madonna. A piece of discarded  

carpet, from who knew where, had become the centrepiece  

rug. There was a small coffee table and a second chair which  

needed a thick cushion to protect buttocks from sharp,  

protruding springs. The furnishings were left by Father  

Rantz. Simon wondered how he was coping with the  

opulence of the Vatican. He thought back to his own time  

there, a three‐week visit shortly after his ordination. His  

parents had sent him a small amount of money from the sale  

of the farm; enough to enable him to persuade the Bishop to  

159

sanction an ‘educational’ holiday that would not cost the  

church anything. He had back‐packed to Rome from London,  

taking in the sacred sites of his Catholic European roots— 

Lourdes, Notre Dame de la Salette, La Grand Chartreuse, the  

Certosa di Pavia—.  

Once inside the walls of the Vatican the administration  

took him at his word, and he was charged three‐star hotel  

rates for the tiny, bare room he had been allocated.   

Remembering back, he was certain he had wandered with  

his mouth perpetually open as he took in the collected  

history of almost two thousand years of Catholicism. The  

Vatican’s museums, chapels, library and treasury had  

preserved some of humanity’s most sublime creations,  

inspired by the eternal yearning to give expression to a  

divine spirit. It had been a powerful, invigorating  

experience, one episode in particular.  

To many the Vatican was little more than a vast religious  

Disneyland saddled with a complex and secretive  

bureaucracy. But he had been awed by the presence of so  

much history; to be able to walk within the very pillars of his  

faith. A plaque in the passageway leading from Saint Peter’s  

Basilica to the Sacristy bore the names of one hundred and  

forty two popes, beginning with Peter himself. A continuum  

unparalleled in modern human history. The official archives  

alone took up fifty kilometres of shelving. The murals  

adorning the Sala Regia, the enormous inner hallway leading  

to the Sistine Chapel, were breathtaking in their beauty,  

detail and expanse. It had required an effort not to fall to his  

knees in veneration. He could not imagine human talent,  

even of an artist of the genius of Giorgio Vasari, capable of  

such works without God’s help. But as he had walked and  

gazed and prayed among priests from many countries, he  

had also been lonely. He had been acutely conscious of his  

lowly position as a fresh‐faced priest from a country  

regarded as a nonentity in the Catholic world. Australia was  

160

Protestant, uncivilized and too far away to matter either  

way. A poorer standing would hardly have been possible.  

Had he been a scholar, the greetings might have been  

warmer. But he was merely a passer‐by, whose only saving  

grace was that he  wore the right uniform. His only sight of  

the pontiff had been as an observer in the back row of a  

Mass in the basilica for newly ordained priests. Still, the  

ceremony made him proud to be a part of it all.   

The most powerful experience of the visit had been the  

morning an American priest training for the Vatican  

diplomatic service invited him to see for himself  “the very  

foundations” of the Church, deep below the basilica. The  

American had warmed to Simon when he learned he was  

Australian. His brother’s life had been saved by Australians  

near a place called Phu Phong in Vietnam. For one day, at  

least, Simon had a friend. The American was also one of the  

Vatican’s many resident amateur archaeologists and on the  

basis of the tenuous fraternal link decided to share with  

Simon one of the Church’s most momentous discoveries,  

which had not then been made public. Simon had had no  

idea just how profound was the meaning of “foundation”.  

The American led him through a passageway cut from the  

grottoes beneath the basilica to steps leading down the face  

of an excavation pit. Wielding a large flashlight, he began  

explaining to Simon that Saint Peter’s was the second  

basilica to stand on the site. The mighty building above them  

was built in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries on the  

site of the first basilica constructed on Vatican Hill by the  

Emperor Constantine in the early fourth century.  

“The question,” the American had stated excitedly, “is  

why did he build it here?”  

Simon had no idea.  

The American kept talking, momentarily ignoring his own  

question while projecting the young Australian back in time,  

to the roots of his vocation.  

161

“The site of the Vatican was then in the sparsely settled  

outskirts of Rome. Nearby was a Roman necropolis of above‐ 

ground burial houses and an unused circus, Nero’s Circus we  

think. It was nearly four hundred yards long—though still  

not as large as the Circus Maximus. But with the circus site  

there was, of course, a reasonably flat building area.”  

The American rummaged in a knapsack for a schematic  

drawing and squatted to the ground to spread it out. He  

played the torch over its spidery features and pointed with  

his finger. “Yet he built it here, into the slope of the hill. Now,  

you’ve got to ask yourself why, eh? Why there? They would  

have had to move a million cubic feet of earth to get a level  

building surface. Well, I won’t keep you in suspense,” he  

said, chuckling theatrically as he carefully folded and placed  

the drawing back into his pack. “No. There was something  

else which dictated where the basilica had to be built.”  

Simon still remembered the pause and the barely restrained  

awe in the man’s voice. “It was only discovered ten years  

ago. Can you believe that? We’re still working down here  

with forensic specialists and other archaeologists, so we  

haven’t gone public yet. But the evidence already is pretty  

conclusive.”  

“To what?” Simon had whispered.  

“Saint Peter’s grave. The circus being the very place he  

was crucified—upside down,” he added, as if the Australian  

might be ignorant even of this small historical fact.  

Simon had ignored the slight, his thoughts overwhelmed  

by the sacred story unfolding before him. He felt his chest  

would burst, his heart had thumped with such force. He well  

knew that it was traditionally believed Saint Peter’s grave  

lay beneath the altar of the basilica, but there had never  

been any archaeological evidence, and it had been one of the  

many matters of conjecture among church scholars.  

“So this is what I’ve brought you to see,” the American  

had continued. “The foundation of our church.”  

162

The American explained the discovery was made by  

chance in 1939 after the death of Pius XI, who had asked to  

be buried near Pius X. The new Pope, Pius XII, approved, but  

it meant renovating the grottoes to make room. The  

workers, almost the moment they began digging, broke  

through the floor to ancient and previously concealed levels.  

A full excavation was ordered, which took place in secret  

during the next ten years—through war, Nazi occupation  

and Allied liberation.  

As he had talked, the American priest had continued to  

lead Simon downward into the earth and back in time. They  

passed the foundation walls of Constantine’s original  

basilica, so massive that they still formed part of the  

foundations for the existing Saint Peter’s. The American  

knew the site intimately and stopped every few feet to show  

Simon how the architects of the new basilica had copied the  

placement of the old basilica’s nave and altar. They  

continued down, through damp and twisting stone passages,  

until they reached the ancient Roman necropolis. They had  

walked along a narrow sunless street, the American beaming  

his light into the doorway of each burial house to reveal  

square masonry chambers about four metres wide and  

decorated with frescoes and mosaics.  

Simon thought he might die there and then and go  

straight to heaven, such was his awe and fervour for this  

holy place. The American had grown blasé with familiarity.  

“See how the ceilings have been broken off? Constantine’s  

builders would have done that, packing the necropolis with  

soil to create a firm base. That’s why it’s so well preserved.”  

Simon had wordlessly followed the dancing beam of light,  

trying to fix each glimpse in his mind.  

Some of the rooms still contained ornate funeral urns and  

marble sarcophagi, evidence of the Roman prohibition on  

desecrating graves.  

163

In one room the light beam lingered on a mosaic of Jesus  

Christ, the same facial lines still made familiar by artists  

sixteen hundred years later. “The Christ Helios—the earliest  

known depiction of Jesus in the pose of the Greco‐Roman  

god of light, Apollo,” the American commentated.  

Simon had responded with hushed reverence: “The son of  

God.”  

The older priest had then taken his arm and led him along  

a progression of passageways which descended another  

level before he stopped again. “We are now directly under  

the altar of Constantine’s first basilica. It was in turn built  

over a shrine that was here.” He pointed the beam at the  

remains of a wall which came down to the level of their  

waists. “Which means that about where we are standing is  

the gravesite of Saint Peter—the man to whom Jesus  

personally passed over responsibility for his Church on  

Earth.”  

Simon had knelt and pressed his palms into the dry  

sacred earth. He closed his eyes, trying to envisage the site  

then, when sunlight touched the surface; a time when  

Christians were without an organizational structure like the  

burgeoning bureaucracy housed far above. A time when they  

were being slaughtered in their thousands for their beliefs.  

And now there he was, an ordained priest of that very  

church which flourished two millennia later. Perhaps this  

very soil pressed between his fingers carried the blood of  

these people, perhaps even the blood of Peter?  

Simon stood again, slowly. “How do you know?” He had  

regretted the question as soon as he had spoken, feeling he  

had exposed a churlish lack of faith.  

The student of Vatican diplomacy had smiled and pointed  

the torch to the remains of the shrine wall. “Know any  

Greek?”  

The Australian had shaken his head, guiltily.  

164

“A chunk of this was inscribed, ‘Petros eni’—Peter is  

within. For a while it wasn’t enough to get too excited about  

because a few bones found nearby proved to be from  

livestock. But then a bit deeper in a repository was  

discovered which contained more bones, skull fragments.  

We had forensic tests done—they came from one individual,  

a man of robust build, who died at an age of between sixty  

and seventy. It fits the recorded descriptions of Peter.”  

Simon was overcome and tears welled in his eyes. The  

American put a friendly arm around his shoulder: “Hard to  

grasp isn’t it—drop a plumb line from the dome of Saint  

Peter’s, through the high altar, through another altar erected  

in the seventh century, through an ancient shrine to Peter,  

through the Niche of the Pallia which encloses the shrine,  

and on to the Roman necropolis, and it would touch within  

inches of where we’re standing. Amazing isn’t it?”  

Simon couldn’t speak.  

Later he had tried to find the American to ask more  

questions, and to thank him for so bolstering his faith, but it  

seemed he had become too busy for his new friend from  

Australia, and Simon had run out of time.  

He looked around the tawdry room in which he now sat.  

It suddenly occurred to him how easy it must be to be a  

priest in Rome, surrounded only by the religious and  

scholarly.  

He sighed. It seemed such a long time ago.  

“Oh well, here I am—at home among the uncivilized; and  

beautiful they are too.” He raised his glass to a blank wall  

and gave a toast. He remembered the outward trip to the  

out‐station and the Aborigines’ celebration of their sacred  

land. Looking back on his own reactions to Catholicism’s  

sacred soil below the Vatican, he felt a spiritual bond with  

the people here. They knew what it was like, much more  

than people whose faith had only ever been expressed  

within mighty walls and stained glass windows. Simon had  

165

intended using this time to try to prepare a passionate,  

persuasive speech for the Vicar General. He felt he was  

learning something at Gunwinddu that would be of great  

value to the wider church, but each time the words fell apart  

before he could construct an argument. He wondered how  

Father Rantz was being received. How would he be able to  

describe Gunwinddu accurately and still be credible? No.  

Despite its treasures the Vatican had not been his idea of a  

healthy place to stay. Consumed by the finery and  

unchallenging nature of the world within the Vatican’s walls,  

the priests were disturbingly remote from the lives of  

ordinary people. He recalled with a guilty smile his own  

sense of importance and privilege when he elected to come  

and go, not through one of the private entrances, but across  

the cobbled pathways of Saint Peter’s Square. Under the  

curious stares of tourists he had walked black and collared  

with a long stride, head held high, past the splashing  

fountains, the towering obelisk, past the unsmiling Swiss  

Guards and out through Saint Peter’s gate to the mayhem of  

Rome traffic. They were days of colour and gentle sun; of  

watching a kaleidoscope of life through the windows of a  

cheap trattoria, his chin wet with tomato sauce; of touching  

history with his fingertips. None the less, he had been  

quietly relieved when it was time to leave. From Rome he  

had flown to Israel for a month in the Holy Land; a miracle of  

ruggedness and furnace‐like heat and the field of work of  

two of the most important historical influences in his life,  

Jesus of Nazareth, and the English scholar and soldier T.E.  

Lawrence. Not that he in any way considered Lawrence  

divine but over the years he had devoured everything  

written on the man and had developed an intense  

admiration. A slightly‐built, self‐effacing person, plagued by  

constant fear and doubts, yet he carried on because a  

friendless people were relying on him. Simon had always  

hoped he would have such courage if ever the time came.  

166

Simon had his feet up and head resting on a cushion,  

allowing his mind the luxury of random wander when  

knuckles rattled on the back door.  

“Hullo— ”  

“Enter!” Simon yelled without getting up.   

“Ah, the priest’s hideaway discovered.”  

Manners at last got the better of him and he began to  

stand.  

“No, stay put.” Muriel Davies stepped into view and  

walked to the second chair.  

“Here, you’ll need this.” He pulled the cushion from  

behind his neck and tossed it across.  

“What for?”  

“To sit on, of course. There’s a nasty little wire that bites  

one’s nethermost regions if you’re not careful.”  

“Thanks for the warning—and your concern for my  

nethermost regions. I must say you seem relaxed enough,  

considering.”  

“Considering?”  

“That you’re leaving.”  

“Is that right? Who’s putting that around?”  

“Oh. You mean you’re not?”  

“I mean I don’t know. We’ll have to see. The Vicar  

General’s visit will give me a chance to  explain. I still think I  

can get the Bishop’s support. But I appreciate you coming to  

say goodbye.”  

 “Actually Father—Simon, I thought we’d be toasting to  

our shared demise.”  

Simon cocked a quizzical brow. “I don’t follow.”  

“Marching orders. Even if you haven’t, I’ve been given  

mine.”  

“I still don’t follow.”  

“Fred is paying me off. Wants me gone as soon as I can  

arrange it.”  

“You’ve lost me—would you like a drink?”  

167

She nodded and Simon lifted himself from the chair and  

went to the kitchen. He handed her a beer, aware of her  

slender manicured fingers as they folded around the glass.  

“So—you’ve had a fight, or what?”  

Muriel laughed. “Don’t tell me you haven’t worked it out.”  

Simon frowned.  

“I’m not really married to Fred. For heaven’s sake, I would  

have hoped that would have been obvious. No. It’s just been  

a front so I could operate the lease of the store and he could  

have a few matrimonial pleasures—all strictly business.”  

Simon was shaken. He tried not to be, but he was. He  

didn’t know what to say. He sat back in his chair and  

carefully placed his drink on the floor.  

“Oh,” he said, finally.  

Muriel laughed lightly. “Come on, I saw your face when  

we first met. You couldn’t fathom how Fred and I could be  

married. Now you’re shocked that we’re not. Which do you  

prefer?”  

“Well—I—it’s—.”  

Muriel interrupted, her eyes smiling. “Loosen up. It’s no  

big deal. If you weren’t so proper I’d have made a line for  

you, make no mistake. But I can see you take being a priest  

seriously. Sorry, I shouldn’t tease—but you do it.”  

 “What do you mean?”  

“Well, women fall for fellows like you. And I bet you know  

it. Being a priest is probably the biggest tease of all.”  

Simon shifted uneasily. “You’re right. I take my vocation  

seriously. People need to be able to rely on me. I can’t be  

distracted.”  

The woman cocked an eyebrow. “Is that right? Muriel  

looked appraisingly across the rim of her glass.  

Simon felt himself reddening. “So, what are your plans?”  

he asked, changing the subject.  

Muriel ran the tip of her finger around the moistened rim  

of the glass and gazed unseeingly at the Virgin on the wall.  

168

Simon watched her brow crease in concentration. He  

studied the lines of her face and silently acknowledged that  

she was a good looking woman. He reached for his drink to  

break his line of thought.  

“Well,” she began. “I’d only intended sticking it out  

another year anyway, so while I’ve not put aside as much as  

planned, it will do.”  

Simon was fascinated by her lack of guilt or  

embarrassment. “Would you consider it rude if I asked how  

much money the, er—arrangement has been worth?”  

Muriel looked at him sharply, her eyes narrow and  

defensive. But there was no threat on the priest’s face. She  

relaxed and smiled.  

“It is a rude question—but you’re a priest, so I can confess  

can’t I?”  

Simon put down his glass and held out his palms. “No, I  

didn’t mean that.”  

“It’s okay. But I trust you to be circumspect. The store  

itself has earned me a hidden, non‐taxable eighty thousand,  

thereabouts. Plus there’s legitimate profit, courtesy of  

government subsidies of about another forty. On top of that  

Fred paid me a monthly fee. All‐in‐all I’ll be leaving here  

with about, oh–a hundred and thirty thousand for what’s  

really been two years R and R.”  

Simon was thunderstruck. “That’s a fortune!”  

Muriel smiled without humour. “The government’s  

answer to the Aboriginal problem is to throw money at it.  

It’s not difficult for a shrewd man like Fred to milk it. He  

even added his own small percentage onto the shire levy.”  

“What shire levy?”  

“Goodness Simon, do you walk around with your eyes  

closed? The shire skims twenty per cent off all government  

benefits paid to the Aborigines to cover rent, water,  

sewerage and electricity. With the inflated costs up here  

169

that’s two to three hundred dollars a week per household.  

Fred would get about fifty of that. Nice eh?”  

Simon was boiling again. “That’s charging more for run‐ 

down Third‐World facilities than a well‐off middle‐class  

family would pay in the city!”  

Muriel nodded. “I can see you’re going to really bite on  

this—do you also realise that only the blacks have to pay?  

The white staff are exempt. Probably why you weren’t aware  

of it.”  

Simon paled. “That’s outrageous. I had no idea it was as  

bad as this. I’ll see Davies in gaol.”  

Muriel’s face clouded. “And me—you want to put me in  

gaol?”  

Simon was on the edge of his seat. He sighed with  

exasperation. “You are hardly blameless.”  

She glared at him. “And nor are you. Nor are any of us.  

The system levies these charges—treats these people like  

savages. We don’t like it, but we have to live with it, day in,  

day out. It destroys whites as well as blacks. You can’t blame  

Fred for abusing something that is rotten to the core in the  

first place.”  

Simon stood up and walked to the sole grimy window  

facing out into the deserted street. “I’m disappointed. I had  

held you in higher regard than that.”  

Muriel softened. “Had you? I hadn’t noticed. Well never  

mind. If it’s worth anything, I think you’re okay too. You are  

one of the first men I’ve ever felt some respect for. You  

disapprove and are man enough to tell me face‐to‐face. Most  

men bury their honesty hoping I’ll do them a favour, if you  

know what I mean. The fools don’t know their own  

transparency.”  

Simon did not know what to say, his mind jarred by what  

he had been told. It was theft; but from the Aborigines or  

from a foolish bureaucracy? Did it matter? Theft was theft  

and people were suffering. “So what will you do with the  

170

money?” he asked, mesmerized by the sum despite the  

whole sordid revelation.  

“The plan was to buy a business. I should at least now  

have enough to get a bank loan.”  

“What sort of business?”  

Simon was terse, but Muriel smiled. “I think it’s better you  

don’t know, Father.”  

Simon was quiet for a moment, thinking about the  

obvious question: “So why does Fred want you to leave?  

Sounds sudden.”  

Muriel sat back and crossed her legs, her dress rising to  

reveal firm, brown thighs. “I can only guess, but I know him  

well enough to know it is fear that’s pushing him. I’d say he’s  

been sprung, and my bet would be the sergeant. Anyway,  

whatever the reason, I’m better off out of it. If Fred’s lost his  

nerve he’ll make mistakes and both he and anyone else  

involved will come unstuck.”  

“In that case I hope it’s the sergeant. In fact I’ll toast to  

their ultimate demise and to your freedom.”  

“Now that’s more like it.”  She held out her glass.   

They sat in silence for a while. Finally Simon drifted back  

to the uppermost subject on his mind. “Do you share the  

general view around here that I’ve done the wrong thing?”  

“You care about these people don’t you?”  


“Is it because you’re a priest and feel a professional  

obligation, or is it just a quirky Simon Bradbury?”  

Simon smiled. “To be quite honest there is some  

selfishness. It’s interesting; Karl suggested something like  

that. I don’t see myself as some social justice crusader. It  

goes beyond that—more to what I think they can give me,  

teach me—and perhaps the whole world if they were given  

the chance.”  

Muriel leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “Go on.”  

171

“Well, it’s hard to explain. I mean you look at them and  

your first impression is what a hopeless bunch. They’re not  

at the bottom of the social and economic ladder—they’ve  

fallen right off. Almost no self‐esteem, shocking health,  

unemployed and largely unemployable because there’s no  

work here anyway, and half of them are chronic alcoholics. I  

can understand the views held by people like Wilma. But it’s  

almost as though I don’t see these things that preoccupy  

everybody else. I see in them a rare goodness, a purity of  

mind like no other race. Their intellect, in a spiritual sense, is  

quite profound. A few minutes talking with some of the older  

men leaves me feeling like a first‐grader in primary school— 

am I making sense?”  

Muriel nodded. “I do know what you’re saying. They often  

make me feel invisible, as though I’m not real. You get the  

feeling they tolerate these terrible conditions because it is  

temporary; as though our world will one day vanish and  

theirs will return to the way it used to be.”  

“They’re waiting—just waiting.”  

Muriel looked up, slightly startled. “Yes—that’s what I feel  

too. I find it a bit frightening.”  

Simon rapped the arm of his chair with his fingers, an  

enthusiasm he had been keeping to himself, rising to the  

surface. “They are God’s children, and they know it. They  

understand the spiritual plane; that’s what excites me.  

What’s more, I’m becoming more and more certain they are  

the only ones left on earth who can show us how to touch  

it—how to reach in and really touch the inner fire.”  

Muriel suddenly shivered. “What do you think will  

happen tonight—I’ve never been to a corroboree before.”  

“I don’t know. But I can feel the power building; it’s been  

building all day. I’d say we’re in for a lesson—perhaps a  

glimpse into a deep pocket of human memory.”  


172

“There is a truth lurking somewhere in a far corner of the  

human mind about our origins. In out culture we have  

forgotten whatever it is, but for them, both life and death is a  

celebration of creation in a real, not wistful sense.”  

In the distance a mournful wail began. First a solitary  

voice and then a chorus of grief rising and falling. It was a  

terrible cry, enough even to make the dead want to shift  

camp. Simon looked at Muriel. “It’s starting again—over in  

the widows’ camp. All the women are there—sounds like  

things are warming up.” Muriel glanced towards the window  

with a look of genuine fright. She jumped at a knock on the  

door.  

Simon excused himself. It was Isaac and Arthur. “We’re  

ready for you, Father,” said Isaac.  

Simon frowned, puzzled. Arthur carried a hessian sack  

filled with emu‐down.  

  

As the sun dipped behind the ridge backing the  

settlement, the grasses and trees were caught in shifting  

bands of deepening colour. The shadows were at their  

longest and blackest before being swallowed by the  

approaching dusk. The Gunwinddu people and their visitors  

were divided into gender, age and race; each to his  

appointed place according to a ritual performed and  

perfected over countless generations. The women were in  

the widows’ camp where for most of the afternoon they had  

punctuated the air with unrestrained grief. It was important,  

it seemed, to put up a convincing display for the watching  

spirits of the recently departed. Slighted souls could later be  

a troublesome presence around a camp.  

For a moment, the settlement was still, expectant. Even  

the birds were silent. Simon sat, self‐conscious among the  

painted torsos of about a hundred, perhaps more, men.  

There were no children to be seen, but he knew the boys had  

been discreetly grouped somewhere nearby. The school‐ 

173

aged girls were conspicuously absent, and the whites, the  

only people present with no role, had gathered to watch  

with frank curiosity. Several times Simon looked up to see  

them staring. Once, Muriel waved and he burned with  

embarrassment. He still did not quite understand how he  

had come to be where he was. Like the men sitting with him  

on the dusty red track leading from the settlement to the  

small burial ground, he was stripped to the waist and  

painted in markings of white and yellow ochre. Being a  

priest he had been accorded the privilege of having lines of  

emu‐down adhered to his chest and back with a sticky  

substance. Only later did he learn this ceremonial glue was a  

compound of fibres from kangaroo pelt and human blood  

pumped from flexed biceps.  

All the men wore headbands, red or black, and most of  

the older men were marked by ugly cicatrices running in  

horizontal ridges across their chests. Many carried  

traditional weapons, a surprise considering Father Rantz’s  

past efforts. Simon was nervous, restless, but the men sat in  

quiet repose, gazing straight ahead.  He glanced towards the  

white staff. Wilma was obscured behind the bulk of Karl, but  

he could imagine what she was thinking.  

From the direction of the burial ground an eerie roar  

broke the silence. Bull‐roarers moaned and pulsed and beat  

the air in a loud thrumming chorus. The sound was a  

mournful roar, as if the great Dreaming god Baimee himself  

was writhing upwards through the earth. It was joined by  

the women’s wailing as they began to file from the camp and  

approach the burial ground. The men sat on the dusty path,  

waiting. Simon shivered. He could sense the aura around  

them all. It was primal, powerful and beyond his  

understanding. The air was charged, primed to ignite, and  

for the first time the men around Simon shifted restlessly.  

The spirits were being stirred, urged by mortals to leave this  

174

domain. Who knew how they would respond? Dead men, as  

well as gods, could be difficult spirits.  

The women appeared through a curtain of spindly trees  

and scrub, disembodied by the dust kicked underfoot. Unlike  

the men they were without ornament, except the two  

widows whose faces and breasts were caked in white clay.  

At the centre of the throng they shuffled with lolling heads  

and splayed arms. As they drew nearer in the dim light  

Simon recoiled at the chaplets of animal bones and feathers  

they wore. When the approaching group was about twenty  

paces away, the men stood and moved off towards the burial  

ground;  a chanting phalanx of black bodies, stale sweat and  

glistening ochre.  

The men and women gathered in separate groups at the  

graves of Robert and Matthew and unleashed a barrage of  

sound. The men chanted and beat the air in unison with  

spears and throwers, their woomeras held hollow‐side out,  

like reverse arms at a military funeral.  

Led by Arthur the chant, against the backdrop of bull‐ 

roarers and grief, seemed to go on forever. When the  

clamour did subside, Simon followed as the men formed into  

a line and began to dance in a widening arc around the  

graves. At a pause in the chant the women joined in,  

sweeping the air with the palms of their hands turned out  

and fingers stretched in lamentation. This too continued for  

what became an immeasurable time. When it finished, the  

suddenness of the halt was accentuated by the simultaneous  

cessation of the bull‐roarers. From the circle the widows  

walked to the graves where they dropped to their knees.  

Simon watched, too numb to react, as they struck their  

heads with digging sticks until blood trickled freely onto the  

mounds. This continued until two painted and feathered  

men stepped into view from behind a thicket of trees and  

tall grass. Silent bull‐roarers hung from hair belts twisted  

and knotted around their waists. They approached the  

175

graves with menacing steps; hunters from Tjukurpa stalking  

easy prey; grieving mortals.  

The whole gathering roared. “Wah—wah—wah.”  

The women then stood up, plucked the bloodied chaplets  

from their heads and hurled them towards the approaching  

figures. The assembly roared again and the two male figures  

dropped to the ground. Again the gathering roared and the  

widows screamed. The two men began to writhe snake‐like  

back towards the bushes. When they had slithered from  

sight the bereaved wives turned and walked away towards  

the widows’ camp.  

Arthur beckoned to Simon to join him at the graves. The  

other mourners settled and grew quiet. At a gesture from  

Arthur, Simon stepped to the edge of the nearest mound of  

earth and raised his arms: “All powerful Father, may this  

sacrifice wash away the sins of our departed brothers in the  

blood of Christ. You cleansed them in the water of baptism.  

In your loving mercy grant them pardon and peace.”  

“Amen,” said Arthur softly behind him.  

The people began to disperse in small groups towards the  

cattle yards. The pyre had been lit and it was not long before  

the aroma of cooking meat was perfuming the night air.  

Simon wondered if he had been caught in a simple trap to  

show visitors the ceremony had the support of the church,  

and thereby its authority. Either way he didn’t mind; in fact  

was pleased he had been included.  

The last light left the sky, allowing the earth around the  

pyre to bathe in a shimmering pool of yellow and orange.  

Two slaughtered bulls were roasted in giant ovens of hot  

coals buried beneath the sand. The sombre mood of the  

burial ground abated, and gave way to a sense of joy at this  

unexpected return to the old ceremonies. Simon, still  

adorned with ochre and feathers, walked among the mob  

enjoying the attention. Apart from Fred Davies standing  

alone and disconsolate behind a column of unsold beer  

176

cartons, he was the only white among the throng. The others  

remained in a tight group on the fringe, intent on  

maintaining their separateness.  

As the first of the pit‐roasted meat was served, the lyrical  

rumble of the didgeridoo cast its spell over the scene. In the  

light of the fire Simon watched three men sitting in the sand,  

blowing the breath of ages into the ancient instruments. The  

sound made the night pulse. More joined the trio, beating  

the rhythm into shape with hands and sticks. Someone  

struck a song; an ancient cry from a time too far back to  

measure; a time when the spirit of humankind filled the  

universe as a wind, giving life and inspiration, drawing  

together all who joined in the dance of life.  

Now people entered the circle of light; bare feet stepping  

high, pounding the earth with the rhythm of the living. Death  

had been assuaged. A seed of euphoria burst within Simon’s  

gut, consuming the priest that inhabited the man. He joined  

the dancers in an unbroken circle of arching backs and  

kicking limbs. Together they chanted and beat the air with  

movement and song while the rhythm never wavered. Two  

hundred, perhaps more, pounded their feet into the earth  

until it rose in an ever thickening cloud of russet dust and  

reclaimed them.   

  

Simon shivered in the thin grey of the dawn. He felt the  

warmth of another body, pressed against his side and  

remembered the sense of ecstasy and exhaustion, and later a  

blanket dropped around his tarred and feathered body and  

the scent of a woman. Muriel slept in the crook of his arm as  

he sat with his back against a post in the cattle race. Nearer  

the fire lay many more, curled into folds of warm sand. A  

light mist wreathed the ground, muting the first rays of the  

returning sun. Simon heard a noise and saw two small boys  

standing, naked, and surveying the scene. He heard a sniffle  

and realized they were crying, but not from sadness.   

177

The quiet was disturbed by the sound of a car. Simon  

watched, detached, as headlights superfluously threaded  

their way from the settlement. It was a town car, with  

Kununurra number plates. He watched it approach and as it  

neared, Muriel stirred and raised her head. They both  

watched as the car drew close and stopped. Wilma Breck  

emerged, a portrait of triumph, while from the driver’s side  

Troughton, the Vicar General, stepped into the day.  

Simon moved quickly to his feet. The blanket fell away to  

reveal his painted body with its crumpled down. He stepped  

forward, sensing Muriel at his back. He extended his hand.  

“I’m Simon,” he said.  

The Vicar General made no move to accept Simon’s  

greeting. A silver crucifix pinned to his lapel caught the  

morning light. “It is Father Bradbury, isn’t it?”  

Simon smiled weakly. “Yes—had a bit of a ceremony— 

went most of the night. I wasn’t sure when you were  

coming.”  

The Vicar General nodded without expression and began  

to climb back into the car.  

“Just give me half an hour to clean up and we can talk.”  

Troughton shook his head. “No need—Father. I’ve seen  

enough.”  

  

178

  

Chapter Eleven  

  

Simon squinted at his watch in the dim light cast by a low‐ 

wattage bulb poking crookedly from the wood panelling  

above his head. He nominated five more minutes, then he  

would go inside to watch the evening television news; his  

window onto a world slowly atrophying under the gaze of  

thousands of Betacams.  

He’d settled into a domestic routine – rosters for Mass,  

confessions and funerals, set meal times, his own television  

chair, and the regulatory dress; black trousers, white shirt. It  

was a routine developed for, or born of, city living and  

measured by small repetitive moments, like the same frantic  

search each morning for a comb. In the months since he’d  

returned to Perth, the personal freedom of Gunwinddu had  

retreated into his private history; a mental box of thoughts  

and memories of no value or interest to any other person.  

Enough time had passed for him to accept, again, that his life  

was not his own; that he had chosen a path along which he  

would always be responding to the call of others. And yet he  

could feel the restlessness building again. At Gunwinddu, for a  

few precious months, he’d found purpose. Now it had been  

replaced by depression and self‐reproach.  

He sought, surreptitiously, understanding from the other  

priests he now lived with, but no one had responded to the  

openings he left suspended in conversations. They were a  

mixed bunch of friendly hard‐working men, but they  

surrendered little emotion. If only someone would break and  

at least give him a chance to empathise. Simon sometimes  

spent an entire mealtime wishing someone would slam the  

table, curse; snap just momentarily under the weight of  

sickness, crime, poverty, death and apathy which they faced  

day in, day out. It would make all the difference; knowing he  

was not alone. But no one surrendered. They coiled  

179

themselves as tight as steel springs, and avoided anything that  

might trigger their rigidly suppressed egos.   

He heard the sharp rap of stiletto heels on linoleum.  

He adjusted the stole around his neck and switched off the  

light.  

The door in the adjacent cubicle opened, and he smelled  

perfume. He cleared his throat to acknowledge the woman’s  

presence.  

“It has been a long time since I made a confession.”  

Simon squeezed his eyes with the palms of his hands  

before clasping them onto his lap. The voice sounded vaguely  

familiar. He waited. The ticking of his watch measured the  

moment in gentle mechanical pauses.  

He measured the woman’s hesitation. “The purpose of  

confessing is to acknowledge your sins before God; to seek  

His forgiveness. Forget I am here—.”  

The voice was slow, measured. “Well, I’m not sure where to  

start.”   

Simon sensed he was being teased. “I assume you have  

come here for a reason. Is there something on your  

conscience.”  

 There was a pause before the woman replied. “I have a  

problem. An infatuation. A man.”  

 “Is this man married?”  

“—As good as.”  

 “Is he happy?”  

“No—I don’t think so.”  

“So you see an opportunity.”  

“Yes.”  

“Well you know there is only one course I can advise.”  

The woman paused. “Have you ever been in love?”  

“It’s not relevant.”  

“Then how can you give me honest advice.”   

“You know what is right. There’s no point in looking for  

excuses in my circumstance.”  

180

Simon heard the rustle of material, and the door opened  

and closed. He listened to the clicking heels echoing along the  

aisle and fading into the world outside.  

Simon wearily massaging his forehead. He was definitely  

losing it, he decided.  

St Luke’s was on the top of a rise overlooking middle‐ 

Australia. The merged red roofs and treetops gave it the  

appearance of a giant nest half‐buried in vegetation by a  

species of clever insects. “Perhaps that’s all we are,” the priest  

mused.  

Below him, at the footpath across from the flagstone  

forecourt, a woman was entering the back of a taxi. She wore  

a black, figure‐hugging dress; he couldn’t see her face. Simon  

stared; an initial annoyance had become curiosity. The  

woman leaned forward to talk to the driver. A current of cold  

air from the distant sea tugged at the stole around the priest’s  

neck as he watched. The indicator blinked and the taxi pulled  

out from the curb and turned. The passenger settled back into  

the seat then glanced up towards the church.  

Simon’s stomach turned. He flung out an arm to hail, but  

the taxi straightened and began to accelerate. Muriel  

Hargreaves hurriedly looked away again.  

  

“Bless us Lord for these gifts,  

which of thy bounty we are about to  

receive through Christ Our Lord.”  

“Amen.”   

They waited patiently for the elderly man at one end of the  

table to drag the heavy stoneware casserole dish to within  

reach. He lifted the lid and peered inside.  

“Beef or lamb?” asked the young man sitting opposite  

Simon.  

The old man did not respond, concentrating on the ladle  

gripped in his bony hand.  

“Beef or lamb Father?”  

181

“Eh?”  

The question came from young Greg Walcott. A man with a  

boy’s face and humour. Simon could sense something building  

and felt a smile touch the corners of his mouth. Greg and the  

old near‐deaf priest did not get on.  

The casserole dish passed from place to place. There were  

four men at the table. At the opposite end to the old man was  

Father Peter Moore, the parish’s senior priest – stern, late  

forties – who had earned accolades as a missionary in Central  

America before falling from grace with both oppressor and  

oppressed. He had preached eternal salvation through  

temporal freedom. The government screwed the vice tighter  

and the people pleaded: “What is freedom when we are  

hungry?” Peter had had no answer other than to eventually  

damn the world and himself. It had left him in constant battle  

with an inner cynicism. Simon could not imagine a man more  

unsuited to work in an affluent suburban parish.   

He glanced around the table. The truth was, none of them  

really fitted the role, except perhaps Greg whose boyish  

charm smoothed the way in whichever direction he  

navigated. Simon expected Greg would become a successful  

professional cleric.   

“Looks like beef, Father Frank.”  

The old man’s eyes remained on the task of guiding a laden  

fork to his mouth.  

“Did you know, Father Frank, that too much sex makes you  

deaf?”  

The old man glanced up. “Eh?”  

Greg raised his voice: “Did you know that too much sex  

makes you deaf?”  

“Bex—? No I feel fine, thank you.”  

Greg was forced to raise his voice almost to a shout.  

“No, sex! Too much sex Father. It makes you deaf.”  

The old man eased himself back against his chair and  

stared at the young priest. His eyes narrowed: “Ah, but  

182

Father,” he replied slowly in a quavering voice, “incoherency  

of speech is a sure sign of illegitimacy at birth.”  

Simon laughed.  

Moore rapped the table with a spoon. “That’ll do!”  

The meal continued for a time in silence, save the old man’s  

slurping.  

“The girl can cook—someone is missing out on a good  

wife.” Greg spoke as though it was his Christian duty to break  

the silence.  

The senior priest grunted non‐committally: “Better off as  

she is.”  

The young priest nodded.  

Simon looked up. “What do you mean?”  

“Well—she’s a black, you know,” replied the young priest.  

“Calls herself a Nyoongah. I suspect she’s even proud of it.”  

Simon was taken by surprise. Mary Cruikshank neither  

looked nor behaved like an Aborigine. An inner voice asked  

how an Aborigine behaved, but he ignored it. Still, perhaps it  

explained the attitude of some of the parishioners. He thought  

the reserve was because she was an unmarried mother.  

 “Why shouldn’t she be proud?” Simon asked.  

Greg smirked. “Well, what good does it do her? She doesn’t  

look black, so why make a point of something that’s only  

going to be a disadvantage.”  

Simon held his tongue. Prejudice wasn’t going to be rubbed  

out with dinner table repartee. He didn’t know much about  

Mary Cruikshank other than she supplemented a single  

mother’s pension by cooking the priests’ meals.  

 “Simon, I’d like you to take the choir tonight.”  

Simon looked up at Peter Moore, crestfallen. He had been  

looking forward to putting his feet by the heater and reading.  

The choir loft would be freezing.  

“Time you became better known to the movers and  

shakers in this parish.”  

183

“Peter, I’m not sure putting me in front of the choir will  

exactly prove to be good public relations. I can’t sing.”  

“Since when has that been a prerequisite? Anyway, I’ve got  

a couple coming in tonight for pre‐nuptials.” He shook his  

head. “One born every minute isn’t there?”  

“Not casting aspersions upon the sacrament of marriage,  

are we?” Greg carefully disguised whether he was mocking or  

being serious.  

His superior was equally watchful: “No, just the fools who  

think bliss comes with a blessing and a warm bed.”  

Simon interrupted. “Peter I don’t want to sound churlish,  

but I really feel awkward about trying to manage a choir— 

especially that choir.   

Greg turned to his superior. “I’ll do it.”  

 “The matter is not negotiable.” The senior priest faced  

Simon. “It’s MacNamara. Wants to be reassured you’re back to  

normal. Wants to see you’ve rediscovered the value of  

pastoral work among ordinary people.”  

Simon felt a wave of despair. “They are ordinary people?  

They think an off‐note is a mortal sin. I know what they’ll be  

thinking—MacNamara, the right hand of God, bringing me  

back to the fold. I’ll be slaughtered.”  

Greg looked at him. “You’ll just have to be a brave lamb  

then, won’t you!”  

Simon was not amused. “What about Frank?”  

The young man scoffed. “He’ll have to put on his glasses to  

know when they are singing.”  

“That’s enough. It’s MacNamara’s order so the decision is  

final.” The former missionary looked at his watch. “You’d  

better finish up or there will be a black mark in the book  

before you even get there.”  

  

The church was dark and cold. Simon’s shoes were noisy  

on the hollow wooden steps as he climbed the twisting  

184

stairway to the choir loft. As his head came into view he  

forced a smile.  

“Evening,” he said, brightly.  

The gathering stared back in collective surprise.   

“Where’s Father Moore?” A beefy man with a red face  

stepped forward.  

“And you are—?”  

“George Penbury.”   

Simon extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you George.  

You obviously know who I am. As for Father Moore, I’m afraid  

he’s busy tonight.”  

The man’s eyebrows lifted. “Busy? He’s never been busy  

before.”  

Simon smiled apologetically, but could feel the strain  

rimming his mouth. He said nothing.  

“Oh well, we’ll just have to manage won’t we. So what are  

you?”  

It was Simon’s turn to look surprised.  

“Tenor—baritone?”  

“What’s Father Moore?”  

“Baritone of course.”  

Simon smiled. “Fine. Then I too will be a baritone.”  

The man looked back to the group. They were not pleased.  

“Er—Father—the choir is important to the church. You  

know what the Bishop says?”  

“Enlighten me.”  

“People who sing do not desert the church. That’s what he  

tells us. Can you sing?”  

Simon tried to lighten the mood. He waved a hand airily. “I  

sang in a school choir once and look what happened—became  

a priest.” He could see they were not convinced. “Besides, I’m  

sure you’ve been together long enough to manage quite well  

without me.”  

185

The man shook his head. “We must have a priest. We can’t  

rehearse without a priest to guide us. You’ve got to tell us  

what to sing. That’s a priest’s job.”  

Simon wondered how Peter Moore coped. “Precisely, and  

that’s why I’m here.”  

“Yes, well—we are a very traditional choir Father.”  

Simon dropped the smile. “I see. Worried I might want to  

introduce electric guitars—or a didgeridoo even?”  

The man shrugged awkwardly. “No offence Father—but  

you hear these things and you’ve got to worry a little, don’t  

you? It’s important things are kept correct. I know the bishop  

wants it that way.”  

“Naturally,” said Simon. He looked over the edge of the  

balustrade. The distant altar was outlined by the dim light of  

remembrance candles. “Don’t worry. I promise to keep it all  

very Catholic. Now please introduce me.”  

There were ten in the choir. George Penbury, his wife, two  

other men and the balance were women. Their names went in  

one ear and out the other.  

They stood watching him, trying to read his mind. Simon  

took the hymn book thrust at him by Penbury. The Living  

Hymn. Simon flicked through the pages. It had been years  

since he’d seen this book. He caught Penbury’s eye. “I didn’t  

know we were still using this one.”  

“The Bishop prefers it.”  

Simon shrugged. “Fair enough. But I’ll have to be guided by  

you after all. What do you suggest?”  

The man squared his shoulders. “Well, tonight Father we  

expected to rehearse for the Triumph of the Cross—so  

perhaps we could start with number sixty‐three.” He nodded  

to his wife who dutifully squeezed herself behind a Yamaha  

organ. Her fingers deftly flicked at a row of coloured buttons.  

The choir formed three ranks, with George Penbury squaring  

off at the front. “You stand in front of me Father, just the way  

it would be with you singing from the altar.” He closed his  

186

eyes and lifted his chin. His wife leaned onto the keys and  

filled the church with self‐importance. The music paused. The  

choir braced:  

Lord our sins we have deserved  

Death and endless misery  

Hell with all its pain and torment  

Is ours for all eternity  

  

They paused while Mrs Penbury primed the second verse  

with a series of diminishing chords. Her husband twisted his  

head to offer Simon a weak smile of encouragement. They  

laboured on, but Simon remained mute. At the close of the  

second verse Penbury waved for silence.  

“What’s the matter Father? You’re not singing—I’ve got to  

be able to hear you. We take our cue from you.”   

Simon shook his head. “You can’t sing that.” He saw a  

defensive shadow move across the choirmaster’s eyes.  

“Why not?”  

Simon tried to make light of his reservations. “Well for a  

start we won’t have enough razor blades to pass around, and  

secondly it’s at odds with today’s teachings.”  

The man seemed to develop a twitch in his shoulders. “It’s  

a favourite of the Bishop’s.”  

“That’d be right,” Simon muttered quietly.  

“Pardon?”  

“Doesn’t matter, but we can’t sing this. Sorry.”  

Penbury shook his head slowly, his face turning wooden  

and obstinate. “No one has ever complained before.”  

Simon shrugged good naturedly. He did not want a fight.  

“Think about it—I mean, you tell me, then, what it all means.  

What are we trying to say with this hymn?”  

The choir shuffled, the organist glared and Penbury  

furrowed his brow. “Mean?”  

“What’s the purpose? What are we trying to inspire?”  

187

Penbury stared back blankly as though Simon had lost his  

senses.  

Simon sighed. “The words need to touch people—to give  

them encouragement or cause to reflect. I don’t think that  

asking for death and endless misery quite achieves that, do  

you?”  

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you’d better choose  

then.” He turned his back on the priest and gazed moodily  

above the choir’s heads.  

Simon thumbed through the book, a morbid litany of  

medieval angst. He was about to toss it aside and ask for  

something more recent when his eyes caught a phrase.  

“How about this one—number twenty‐one.” He held the  

open book before him and read out the words:  

… Join hands then brothers of the faith  

Whate’er your colour or race  

Who serves my Father as a Son  

I’ll love as kin to me  

“Don’t you think something like this would be better—a  

hymn which extols Christian values?”  

Penbury twisted around to face him and folded his arms.  

“It’s your church.”  

Simon shook his head. “No! It’s your church. That means  

you’ve got a responsibility to think about what you do for  

yourselves, not just what you think will please me—or the  

Bishop.”  

Penbury looked at his wife who raised her eyebrows in an  

unspoken ‘I told you so’.  

Simon felt the choristers’ hostility. Penbury looked again to  

his wife, then to the choir. They turned to each other, then to  

Simon, and finally back to Penbury. He was their leader. It was  

up to him. The man was bristling with annoyance.  

“Look Father, like I said, we are conservative.” He leaned  

towards Simon. “And we work damn hard for the church. We  

pay for your keep—.”  

188

Simon extended his arms in a conciliatory gesture. “I  

understand—I appreciate what you are saying. I was just  

hoping—.” His voice trailed off. “It doesn’t matter. Carry on— 

your hymn is fine.”  

  

The Bishop’s secretary, a young priest fresh from a  

scholastic year in Rome, appraised Simon from behind a desk.  

He was writing in a ledger book, but stopped occasionally to  

gaze disapprovingly at the visitor. Simon knew he was being  

kept waiting. Word seemed to be spreading that he had  

drifted to the fringe; that twilight zone roamed by feral  

priests—idealists and zealots, men with causes and who  

functioned outside social and political protocols. This was not  

a new phenomenon to the church, which had a long memory.  

The Franciscans had criticised the church’s ruling‐class  

posturing and been persecuted almost to the point of  

extinction. Simon flicked through the Catholic Weekly, a mix of  

theological essays, dictums from various branches of the  

bureaucracy and photographs of bright, innocent faces from  

fetes, schools and retreats. He put the magazine down and  

sighed. The secretary glanced up. “I’m sure His Grace won’t be  

long now.”  

Simon smiled. Sometimes the title amused him. ‘His Grace’.  

Ted MacNamara had come a long way since the day he had  

tweaked Simon Bradbury’s youthful ear and toppled him from  

the rose garden wall.  

A buzzer sounded. The secretay spoke. “You may go in  

now.”  

Simon stood up. He was dressed in his formal suit, but felt  

grubby beside the Bishop’s starched sentinel.  

Closing the anteroom door behind him Simon stepped into  

the Bishop’s office. Bishop MacNamara walked from behind a  

large desk, his arms outstretched in welcome. He had lost  

weight and his hair seemed greyer than the last time they had  

189

met. But the man still had bearing; authority rested well on  

his shoulders.  

“Simon, Simon—so good to see you.” The man beamed, and  

Simon was surprised. This was not the welcome he had  

anticipated. He accepted the proffered hand.  

Simon was ushered to one of two leather club chairs. It was  

a room furnished to enhance and service power. Bookshelves  

hewn from the exquisite red wood of the jarrah tree lined the  

walls and French doors opened to a terrace overlooking a  

spacious lawn and gardens. A sun‐bleached statue of the  

Virgin Mary hovered over a bed of roses.  

“Drink?”  

Simon shook his head. “No thanks.”  

As Simon eased himself into the chair’s embrace the Bishop  

glanced out through the glass doors and rubbed his nose. “It is  

going to rain,” he said conversationally and sat in the chair  

opposite.  

Simon said nothing, waiting.  

“So how are you settling in? I’ve been wanting to have a  

good chat for ages, but you know how it is—if it’s not one  

thing, it’s another. My life has become one continuous  

committee meeting. So—been back quite a while now, haven’t  

you!”  

“Almost six months actually.”  

“No—it can’t be!”  

Simon smiled and made a small gesture with his hands.  

“Yes.”  

“Well. You must be feeling right at home.”  

“I’m managing.”  

The Bishop nodded. “But that’s our lot in life isn’t it—no  

place for personal ambition in a priest, eh!”  

Simon remained silent. He didn’t know what to say.  

The bishop pressed his index fingers undr his chin. “So how  

are you finding St Luke’s?”  

“Fine—a bit dry at times, but not many dramas.”  

190

“A stable parish—strong Catholic community. Got their feet  

on the ground, that lot. I heard you’ve taken over the choir.”  

Simon suppressed a smile. He presumed the confrontation  

with Penbury was behind this interview. “I found them a little  

traditional, but we’ve come to an understanding.”  

The Bishop nodded. “Excellent. Don’t be afraid of tradition,  

Simon. That’s where strength is found.” He lowered his voice  

conspiratorially. “You know what I think of Vatican Two. Faith  

and discipline built the church, not indulgent naval gazing.”  

Simon shifted uneasily in his seat and MacNamara held up  

his hand. “I know it’s not a popular view, but it is the truth,  

and the truth is our anchoring point, Simon. All the reformers  

have achieved to date is to sever the umbilical cord between  

the mother church and her children. Now everybody’s  

wandering lost—trying to find their way.” He shook his head.  

“I’m just thankful I’m old enough to have seen the church at  

its greatest—it must be difficult for younger priests, out there  

struggling against such a tide of disinterest.”  

Simon shrugged. “Not really Your Grace, I—.”  

“Ted—you and I go back a long way Simon. I feel like a  

father to you sometimes. Strange, isn’t it. Anyway, when  

there’s no audience, I’m still just Ted, eh?” His mouth curved  

upwards in a smile.  

Simon swallowed. Now he was nervous. “The faithful might  

be fewer, but they will be stronger, especially in this country.  

There’s a slow awakening to this land’s Aboriginal past and I  

think Aboriginal Christians will be the source of a powerful  

new spirituality. I—.”  

The Bishop put up his hands. “Simon. The Catholic church  

was born and nurtured in the cradle of civilisation. It is the  

product of ten thousand years of human progress—of divine  

inspiration. It is about bettering the lot of mankind, not of  

reverting back to tribal savagery.” The bishop pushed himself  

from the chair and moved across to his desk from where he  

gathered up several sheets of paper. “One of the reasons I  

191

asked you here was this: a report from your replacement,  

Father Czaplowski. I had him do what you should have  

done—visit a few Aboriginal‐run communities before going to  

Gunwinddu. Let you see for yourself what happens when you  

loosen the reins. Listen to this. He describes a school:  

‘—the children are not even house‐trained, and they also  

eat things. Not just ordinary things—but ants nests. They will  

eat their way through quite a lot of repulsive substances in  

the course of a few days.’”  

Simon shook his head. “What would a priest fresh from  

Poland know or understand about the circumstances of  

Aboriginal communities?”  

The Bishop looked at him sternly. “More than you, if you  

don’t mind me saying. I will read on:  

“ ‘—The houses, if that is what you can say of the  

structures, smell overpoweringly of rotting garbage. And  

this—the Aborigine drinks not until he is drunk, but until he  

is quite incapable of drinking more; that is, when he is  

comatose. Similarly, young women sniff petrol for pleasure  

and will offer themselves to you for even a small container.’ ”  

The bishop glanced towards Simon, a patient fatherly  

expression on his face.  “ ‘—these communities are a  

malnutritioned populace ruled by old men who do nothing  

but argue and drink cheap wine and who appear to have no  

comprehension of their duties as leaders. Beneath their feet  

wander a generation of diseased and demented children,  

leaving one with the impression of a race for whom extinction  

will come as a blessed relief.’ ”  

The Bishop lifted his eyes from the page and stared at  

Simon. “Pretty picture isn’t it!”  

Simon stood and walked towards the Bishop’s desk “Yes,  

I’ve seen these places—settlements into which they’ve been  

herded like cattle—dispossessed of their lands, their culture,  

their spiritual values, their social framework.”. “You are right.  

192

It’s not a pretty sight, but even uglier when we blame them for  

our doing.”  

“Our doing!” The Bishop raised an eyebrow sardonically. “I  

find the perspective a little offensive. The Church has  

embraced that wretched race with compassion. They should  

be grateful, but no—they want to walk back to the desert. So  

we remove the choice, as at Gunwinddu, for their own good.  

And our approach has worked, has reaped success and souls.  

But no! ‘That is not the way,’ says Father Bradbury. Father  

Bradbury knows better than his church. Father Bradbury  

wants the Aborigines to exercise free spirit. Never mind that  

they might abandon the church and its offer of eternal  

salvation. Never mind that what he says breaks the law,  

breaks down almost a century of carefully considered  

government and church administration designed with but one  

aim—to assimilate with care and patience a stone‐age people  

out of the clutches of Satan and into a modern, enlightened  

world. No! Father Bradbury knows best.”  

The bishop stopped. “Look. I know the system can seem  

unwieldy. When I was young I also thought it cumbersome.  

But whatever the church is doing wrong, it has been doing it  

for two thousand years. When other systems have survived  

for two millennia then, perhaps, we might accept being  

questioned and judged.”  

“The Aboriginal way, before it was poisoned, has been tried  

and proven for a hundred millennia.”  

The Bishop looked at Simon as a father ponders a stubborn  

son. “Simon, look—you can put clothes on them, you can  

teach them to wash every day, you might even teach them to  

hold down a job, but underneath it all they are savages still— 

until the day they embrace our ways and beliefs, and not  

merely mimic us as though they think we are a huge joke. The  

hand of God, Simon, was white—in a spiritual sense, of  

course. He made it our job to raise them to our level—not the  

converse. Might sound unfair, but I didn’t write the rules. I  

193

simply administer them in the manner which best represents  

the interests of the Church.” The bishop gave a tight smile.  

The real world, Simon, is a political world. For some reason  

you find this difficult to grasp. That’s why I sent you to  

Gunwinddu, to allow you to flex a little Christian fervour, to— 

.”  

Simon interjected. He had to force his voice to remain level.  

“As I recall—I was making too much of a fuss about a lot of  

money disappearing in the course of talking about a  

university.”  

MacNamara stopped, deliberately collecting his thoughts.  

“I’m glad you have raised that. What greater monument to the  

glory of God and the Holy Catholic Church than our own  

university.”  

“And three million dollars on a new archbishop’s residence  

and administration complex.”  

The Bishop spread his arms, imploringly. “The church is  

also a business and has to be managed as such. And you  

forget, the money was coming from a land sale.”  

“And meantime we’ve got schools and community centres  

crumbling through lack of funds.”  

Retrieving a folded handkerchief from his pocket, the  

Bishop dabbed at his lips. He rested the handkerchief  

carefully on the desk. “Simon since this is a private discussion  

I shall disregard your outburst—but whatever your personal  

views you do not have the right or authority to attack your  

superiors from the altar. The real issue here is doubt—doubts  

that you harbour about the church. Let me tell you Simon,  

there is nothing I despise more than doubt. It makes a man  

weak. As for the church’s work with Aborigines, it is to assist  

with their assimilation. That is policy, and it is enacted  

through teaching the gospel, not by inciting treason.”  

“Treason!”  

“Land claims are treason. Gunwinddu is Crown land which  

we lease. It is not ours to give away. What you were doing  

194

there was political. What you should have been doing was  

cementing the church, not encouraging a return to paganism.”  

Simon was too angry to reply.  

Neither man spoke for some moments. The Bishop studied  

Simon, who in turn studied the bookshelf.  

Finally, the Bishop smiled. “I have had my share of  

disillusionment,” he said quietly. “You were with me,  

remember, the day we first celebrated the Mass in English. Do  

you remember? I do—I remember. I cried like a child that  

night. I prayed on my knees until the sun roused me, begging  

Christ to retract the work of these extremists. But I was just a  

parish priest. Nobody cared about what priests believed—we  

were there to do the church’s bidding.” He looked at Simon.  

“But I survived and now I am a Bishop and you will do my  

bidding. Just as I was forced to put aside my disappointments,  

so you will put aside yours. You will accept the  

responsibilities of a real priest—a priest who teaches the  

sacraments, applies himself to his pastoral duties—including  

choir practice, and bingo, and school fetes, and whatever else  

holds a parish together. A real priest in a real parish, Simon.  

This Aboriginal crusade of yours is dangerous to your  

vocation. Their whole culture is—dangerous. You need to  

know that.”  

The window light highlighted the maroon trimming on the  

Bishop’s cassock. “Well, I’m glad we were able to talk, Simon. I  

hope I have been a help.”  

Simon stared at the older man, until he realised there was  

nothing more to say. He stood and began walking towards the  

door.  

 “Oh—one more thing Simon.”  

Simon turned. “Yes?”  

“The university. The mistakes are over, behind us—and  

there have been developments.” The Bishop paused to look  

hard into the face of the younger priest as if trying to draw  

195

encouragement from a memory. “Would you consider the  

chaplaincy?”  

Simon remained mute, but his eyes widened in surprise. “I  

thought the site had already been sold to recoup some of the  

lost money?”  

“We have other land that can be freed for the purpose.” The  

Bishop smiled. “No promises, but it’s something I’d like you to  

think about. I am confident again Simon—confident.”  

“Why me? This doesn’t make sense.”  

“Have we grown so far apart that I must explain even this?  

I’m concerned for you. Remember the day of your ordination:  

Adsum—here I am, you said to your Church. It was your  

pledge.” He softened his tone. “I’d like you to say adsum to me  

Simon—we go back a long time—you should trust me more— 

allow me to guide you, to—.”  

Simon cut in. “Save me?”  

 “Yes,” said the bishop.  

  

196

Chapter Twelve  

  

A sound like a bull whip cracked high in the sky and  

lightning ripped the dark, brooding clouds. The thunder  

followed quickly, a deafening drum roll. Simon looked up. The  

belly of the sky hung low, bloated with rain; fat drops already  

splashing on the cement. He scuttled across the road to the  

shelter of shop awnings. Simon didn’t like it. It matched too  

well his mood after his meeting with the Bishop. The gutter  

began to fill with flowing water; traffic hissed on wet bitumen.  

The whole world seemed to be rushing past him. Shoppers  

and workers going home; a whole population with its head  

down. Simon alone, bent against the illuminated glass, fought  

the tide. As he passed a window he noticed a glistening,  

reddish splash on its white sill. It was on the pavement too.  

He stopped and rose onto his toes to look around, but there  

was nothing but the determined migration of commuters.  

A body cannoned into him and a voice cursed his presence.  

Simon decided to take a short‐cut down a laneway to escape  

the throng. There was no cover and he started to run with his  

coat half pulled over his head. He almost missed the figure  

slumped against the side of an industrial garbage bin. Simon  

stopped and knelt, the rain immediately soaking into his  

clothing. An Aboriginal youth, his face pale with pain, raised  

his eyes momentarily. The front of the youth’s shirt was  

awash with rain‐spread blood.  

 “Keep still. I’ll get help.”  

Simon spread his coat over the boy and ran back to the  

main street, to an arcade he had passed. He found a pay‐ 

phone and called an ambulance.  

The youth hadn’t moved at all when Simon returned. The  

two were alone. No one came into the lane. The city was just a  

noise in the background—a few quick steps yet a whole world  

away. Simon tried to talk to the boy, but got no response. He  

looked under the coat. The rain had spread the blood too  

197

much to see exactly where he had been hurt. He replaced his  

coat and waited.  

A movement made him look up and he watched as two men  

in blue overalls approached. The first man knelt beside him  

and placed his fingers against the boy’s neck.  

“Know what happened?”  

“No—looks like he might have been stabbed.”  

“Fair enough,” the man said, almost casually as he gently  

pushed Simon aside. The priest stood and watched the two  

ambulance men methodically do their job, then lift the boy  

onto a trolley and wheel him away. It seemed so easy when  

others were in control.  

“Where are you taking him?” Simon called.  

“The Royal.”  

Simon nodded and felt a big drop of water fall from his  

nose.  

“Need a lift?”  

He nodded again and wiped his nose on the back of his  

hand.  

The hospital triage was chaos. White‐coated figures  

moving with practised efficiency among the listless, shocked,  

bloodied, drunk, grieving and dying. It was not a new  

experience for Simon, but he still felt awkward. He left to find  

somewhere to stand or sit while he filled in a form thrust into  

his hand by a scuttling orderly. He leaned on the casing  

around a fire hose and wrote his name and address then slid  

the form under the security window at the arrivals desk. The  

woman looked up over the top of her glasses and her eyes  

rested momentarily on the tiny cross on his collar.  

“Never a dull moment, eh Father?”  

He smiled weakly. “It’s the world we live in.” He didn’t  

know what that meant, but it sounded apt.  

He wondered, almost abstractedly, if the youth would  

survive. “You should pray,” said a voice. But it was inside his  

198

head so he was able to lock it away in that dark place where  

all his troubled thoughts were buried.  

199

  

Chapter Thirteen  

  

  

Mary put the cup on the table by his elbow. “Here you go.”  

Simon lifted his face from his hands.  

 “You had a visitor earlier on,” she continued. “The  boy you  

helped the other day—his mother came to thank you.”  

“How is he?”  

“He’ll be okay. Anyway, she asked a favour—and I said yes for  

you.”  

Simon sighed. “And—?”  

“It’s your job. They’ve got kids over at Redmond who haven’t  

been baptized. She was wondering if you would do it.”  

Simon sipped his tea, trying to recall what he knew about the  

suburb. Rough, poor—black. There had been a priest some years  

ago. He tried to think. Chapman—Len Chapman.  

“What happened to Father Chapman?”  

“He was an old man. He died a couple of years ago—been no  

one since.”  

He stared vacantly towards the window. He’d spoken with  

fervour for the Aborigines he had left in Gunwinddu but had  

ignored their presence in the city.   

“I feel guilty,” he said aloud. “It’s as though I don’t see the  

Aborigines here as being Aboriginal. They seem different.”  

“They are. We’re trapped between two worlds—I’m a  

Nyoongah, you know that don’t you?”  


“But I don’t look like one, do I? Can you imagine what it feels  

like—to know who you are on the inside, to be proud of who you  

are on the inside, but ashamed ‘cause your skin makes a liar of  

you.?”  

Simon studied her. There was little he could say.   

“Do you know the people at Redmond?” he asked.  

200

“Some. But they’re not my people—they’re nobody’s people  

really. I come from down south. But I live in a big block of flats  

with all white people.”  

“Your little boy is white.”  

 “Only on the outside, Father.”  

Simon decided to change the subject. “So when’s this  

christening?”  

“That’s up to you—oh, and there’s a letter too.” She took an  

envelope from the sideboard and dropped it on the table before  

leaving the room.  

 He pulled it across with his fingers. He turned the envelope  

over in his hands and tore open the back. It was from Karl.   

So, my young friend, how does the city life feel after your  

time with us at Gunwinddu?  

Much has changed since you left us—as I predicted, if you  

remember. Sometimes I sit by the river and find it difficult to  

believe such change can happen with such speed. Before you  

came very little had changed from the day I arrived. Then  

Father Bradbury comes with a fire in his soul and ‘boom’  

everything is different, even though you are gone so soon.  

But then a young man cannot have fire inside and not get  

burned, eh?  

I find myself slowing down. I think the great fish is calling  

me. Karl, he whispers, your time is near. Some days I am quite  

happy to think I might join the spirits on the other side of the  

river – but there are days too, my young friend, when I am  

quite afraid. On those days I think of you. Should I take my  

memories with me, I ask, or should I leave them with someone.  

But would it be fair to burden a young man like Father  

Bradbury with an old man’s past?  

We do not have a priest at Gunwinddu anymore, but there   

is a Polish  fellow,  a  Father Czaplowski, who comes once a  

month from Kununurra. I have asked him to mail this letter.  

He is a stern man; a missionary of the old world. He wants  

201

always to speak German with me, but I tell him I have no heart  

for my mother tongue. Wilma thinks he is very good  

I believe you knew that Mrs Davies was leaving, but Fred is  

still here. We have not been told what happened.  

Fred does not look well and the sergeant you did not like  

visits more often. He and Fred get drunk, and everybody hides.   

Isaac and his family, and Matthew’s widow Maudie, and  

Angel, left Gunwinddu about one month ago. They have  

returned to the south – perhaps you have heard from them?  

Think of Karl when you have time, and if you hear the  

Barramundi call, I would be grateful if you would say a small  

prayer for me.  

Karl  

Simon put the letter aside. He smiled at the memory of the  

German. Still speaking in riddles, but Simon understood enough.  

He hoped the old man would contact him again. But would he  

find the same priest he knew at Gunwinddu? He toyed with the  

envelope and remembered the red earth flanking the green  

river; the tall white trees and the clear, blue sky. He had been  

happy. Had that been the problem, he wondered. Was it wrong  

for a priest to be happy?  

He wondered where Isaac had gone—probably to the  

goldfields. He had spoken of going home one day. Perhaps he  

would visit Perth. That would be good. The tall clock in the  

hallway chimed the hour, startling him from his reverie.  

“Blast,” he muttered. He scraped back his chair, stuffed the  

letter into his pocket and hurried towards the back door. It was  

his turn to hear confessions.  

As he opened the door Mary called. “Oh Father—I almost  

forgot. There was a phone call, a lady—she left a phone number.”  

Simon kept walking, but his heart thumped.  

  

The afternoon of the christening had a hint of spring in the air.  

Sun warmed the faded bricks and tired lawn of the little Catholic  

church. It was not a pretty building. The lower walls were  

202

marked with graffiti and it adjoined a sad‐looking school  

stranded on the shores of an asphalt lake. The tangled remnants  

of a tall wire fence ringed the property. Sunday lethargy had  

settled over the surrounding streets and terraced houses; the  

silent, parked, cars, and long‐dead gardens.   

Simon parked and self‐consciously locked his doors. As he  

stepped onto the footpath a dog approached and directed a jet of  

urine onto each tyre in turn. At the rear of the church near the  

sacristy entrance, about sixty people had gathered. There were  

perhaps a dozen young children running, leaping, clinging; and  

young mothers cradling babies hidden inside swathes of  

material. Some were with boyfriends or husbands; some were  

conspicuously single. Two older‐looking men were trying to  

blow life into a fire inside a rusted barbecue kettle. Green  

branches from a gum tree were piled at their feet.   

A middle‐aged woman in a green dress and wearing a  

headband in the symbolic black, red and gold colours of the  

Aboriginal nation started walking towards Simon.  

“Hey,” she called. “This is the Father who helped Ricki.”  

Faces turned his way. Watchful, sizing him up.  

Simon had already met the woman, Ricki’s mother, Mrs Foley.  

He had arranged a key so the church could be prepared.  

“How is Ricki?”  

“He’s comin’ good Father.”  

“Did you find out what happened?”  

“Ah, he just wasn’ careful enough—. Well, we’re ready when  

you are Father.”  She began to usher him towards the entrance,  

but stopped as she was seized by a coughing fit.  

“Are you all right?”  

She smiled painfully and nodded. They continued inside.  

“We’ve got it all ready for you Father— we appreciate this you  

know.”  

As his eyes accustomed to the dim light he stopped. His first  

reaction was unease, but the longer he looked the more natural  

it seemed. He stared, was aware of people watching him, and  

203

slowly a smile of genuine pleasure crossed his face. The  

traditional white altar cloth was gone. In its place was a cloth in  

the Aboriginal colours, two wide bands of black and red, overlaid  

in the centre with a large yellow sun. Sprigs of gum leaves lay on  

each side of the altar which was dominated, for the event, by a  

large ceramic bowl wrapped in a decorated cloth.   

“It’s beautiful.”  

“You like it Father—you don’ mind us doin’ this?” Mrs Foley  

asked.  

“It’s terrific—I wish my parishioners cared this much.”  

She showed him the cloth around the bowl containing water.  

“Two journeys of life, father. One through a desert alone and  

without water, and one through a desert with friends and a track  

with plenty of  waterholes. Baptism puts us on the track with the  

waterholes, eh father.”  

Simon nodded enthusiastically.  

“So you won’ mind if we do this a bit different then?”  

“I’m in your hands.”  

Simon looked at the altar preparations again. He wished Isaac  

and Arthur were there to see it.  

As soon as he had changed into his vestments he was led  

outside where he joined a queue which began to writhe snake‐ 

like towards the smoking barbecue kettle. The children were  

lifted and passed through the smoke, thick and pungent from the  

green gum leaves. The adults embraced the smoke with  

extended arms and drew it onto their bodies. It eddied around  

their faces like a living spirit.  

“The smoke makes us clean. We do this before all our  

ceremonies,” explained Mrs Foley at his side.  

When the throng entered the church, one of the old men who  

had been tending the kettle stepped up onto the altar and stood  

beside Simon. The priest was confused and smiled uncertainly.  

“G’day,” he said. “I’m Joseph—what’s your name?”  

“Simon.”  

“You like children?”  

204

Simon looked out into the body of the church. Every face was  

turned towards him, expectant. “Of course.”  

“That’s good,” said Joseph, who showed no sign of moving.  

Simon turned to him. “I—think everyone is waiting for me to  

start.”  

Joseph nodded. “No worries Father, I’m ready when you are.”  

“Right—I’ll—we’ll—begin then?”  

Joseph beckoned him to get on with it.  

Simon faced the congregation. “Welcome. Firstly I would to  

thank you for inviting me to share this special occasion with you  

today. I usually start with a passage from the Apostle Mark who  

recorded the time when a gathering of people brought their  

children to Jesus to have him place his hands on them—.”  

From the corner of his eye Simon saw Joseph ambling  

towards him. Simon moved to make room, torn between  

appreciation for their involvement and mild annoyance. He was  

beginning to feel like a bystander.  

Joseph faced his people and added to Simon’s welcome.  

“Brothers and sisters.” He dipped his hand into the water bowl  

and raised it high, letting water fall in glistening drops from his  

dark, weathered skin.  

“Lord in every age, from the Dreamin’ ‘til this moment today,  

you made water a sign of your life with us. Water is a sign of  

your peace and in everythin’ that is good.”   

He touched his wet fingers to his lips.  

“We ask then that through this water the children will be  

blessed with your love and your protection at the start of their  

lives.”  

Joseph was clad in tattered sneakers, brown loose cotton  

trousers and a faded blue shirt. Out in the streets he could have  

been taken for a derelict. Standing on the altar facing his  

disparate tribe he personified dignity. He beckoned for the  

parents and godparents to bring their children forward. Simon  

watched, gradually relaxing, as a small, happy mob shuffled  

205

noisily up the aisle and spread across the front of the altar.  

Joseph waited patiently for them to settle.   

“Do you believe in God, the Father Almighty, who gave us the  

land we live in, the wisdom to care for it and find enough food;  

the Father who told us how to love this land of sun and sky and  

space?”  

“We do,” they chorused.  

“Do you believe in the Holy Spirit who inspired our people of  

long ago to explain God’s creation in the great Dreamtime stories  

of our own special people. This same Spirit of God which leads us  

now in this Church?”  

At a signal from Joseph, Simon joined him at the font and  

began the ritual pouring of water over the forehead of each child.  

He was back in familiar territory: “I now baptize you …,” he said,  

as each infant or toddler was held over the font. But his words  

and actions were automatic; the depth of the ceremony came  

from the people’s obvious enjoyment of the moment.  

With the last wet forehead, Mrs Foley walked on to the altar  

holding a bundle of small Aboriginal headbands. Joseph turned  

slightly so that he was addressing both Simon and the people.  

“Today we will dress the children in our image. These  

headbands are a symbol of our identity and dignity. We  

understand the importance of signs in the traditional culture of  

our people. So today we use these as a sign for our children to  

face their futures with dignity.”  

Mrs Foley walked through the congregation handing out the  

cloth bands.  

As the group at the altar returned to their pews, Mrs Foley  

gave Simon a printed sheet. The people joined in a communal  

prayer:  

“Father of all, you gave us the Dreaming  

You have spoken to us through our beliefs  

Make us strong as we face the problems of change.  

We ask you to help the people of this country to  

listen to us and to respect our culture  

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Make the knowledge of you grow strong in all  

people, so that you can be at home in us and  

we can make a home for everyone in our land.”  

As one they looked at Simon.  

“Amen,” he said softly.  

Someone began strumming a guitar and the people sang a  

song of hope. Simon watched, measuring them, feeling in his  

own heart their sense of pride and courage. They were bound by  

their beliefs, hoping with each hallelujah to build enough  

strength for them to withstand a magisterial white world.   

As the people filed from the church Mrs Foley thanked Simon.  

He smiled. “I should thank you. It was wonderful.”  

“You going to come and have a cup of tea with us?”  

He hesitated and glanced guiltily at his wristwatch. “Could I  

make it another time—next weekend perhaps?”  

The woman was disappointed, but she tried to hide it. “That’ll  

be okay Father—anytime.”  

“No—I’d really like to come—when’s Ricki due home?”  

“Oh, doctor says he might be gettin’ out in a couple of days.”  

“Then tell him I’ll be around next week to see him.”  

“Okay Father.” She smiled up at him, but without confidence  

and the terrible cough shook her again. She waved Simon away.  

He walked quickly to his car, sensing her disappointment. But he  

had an appointment he didn’t want to be late for. He damned his  

weakness; this growing need to know who and what he was.  

Simon drove along the highway which starts where the river  

laps at the foot of Perth’s glass towers, then winds through  

opulent suburbs which have claimed the water’s edge as their  

own. Gradually the gracious gums and extravagant homes give  

way to freight yards and a busy port spiked with cranes and  

masts in a tangle of shipping and commerce.  

Simon turned into a precinct of narrow streets with terraces  

of renovated nineteenth century cottages. The harbour‐side city  

offered a glimpse of what nineteenth century gold rushes and  

wool booms had done for the commerce of a fledgling nation.  

207

Warehouses, merchants’ offices, and hotels were built as the best  

that money could buy, and then came the twentieth century  

migrants—Greeks, Italians and Slavs fleeing a worn‐torn Europe  

and transforming the harbour town into a colourful expression  

of Mediterranean life.  

Simon parked, changed into a casual shirt he had put on the  

back seat, and walked to the restaurant, an Italian pasta house. It  

had been his private escape for years. The people and the smells  

and the thin cotton table cloths reminded him of his time in Italy;  

of his youth and his dreams.  

He chose a corner table, angling to see Muriel before she  

caught sight of him. He remembered the night of the corroboree  

when she had slept in the crook of his arm against the tree.  

When spurned by all, it was Muriel, who wrapped him with  

comfort. They were bonded, he suspected, as outcasts. She had  

touched him briefly, tantalizingly, by her flippant confession.  

Perhaps she was also just a little lost after Gunwinddu? He  

hoped they had at least that much in common.  

“Mr Simon!”  

He looked up. “Tony.”   

“It has been a long time,” the proprietor scolded. He was  

crushing a white apron into a bundle between his large fingers.  

He smelled of freshly crushed garlic. Simon splayed his hands  

and smiled. “I am here now.”  

“Good—our lasagna is just made—very, very good.”  

“Excellent. I am meeting a friend.”  

The man raised an eyebrow. “A lady—?” Simon nodded, and  

felt guilty.  

The man returned to his kitchen.   

Simon stared out into the street. What if she decided not to  

come? The thought caught him midway between panic and relief.  

She was crossing the road in a skirt that just touched her  

knees, and a white blouse that accentuated her northern tan. Her  

hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Simon rubbed his forehead.  

208

He stood as she entered. Muriel clasped the fingers of his  

extended hand, leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the  

cheek. “You haven’t changed a bit Simon Bradbury.”  

Tony appeared. “Some wine?”  

Simon looked at Muriel. “I’m a little partial to Chianti.”  

She glanced at the ceiling beams and lines of empty bottles  

strung together. “You’ve been here before then?” She slid into  

the proffered seat.  

“You’re looking well,” Simon said finally.  

“And you—do you come here often?”  

“Occasionally—when I feel the need to get away from it all, as  

they say.”  

Muriel eyed him. “So. Tell me what you have been doing—are  

you happy?   

“I can’t complain.”  

Muriel laughed lightly. “No, you haven’t changed. I doubt you  

ever will.”  

Tony bustled to the table with a bottle of Chianti in one hand  

and a rose in the other. He presented the rose to Muriel.  

Muriel smiled. “Thank you.”  

They waited for him to pour the wine and leave. “Sweet man,”  

she said.  

“Latin salesman,” grunted Simon. He raised his glass. “Cheers.”  

 “Saluté,” she replied.  

“So tell me, what have you been doing—when did you leave  

Gunwinddu?”  

“About a fortnight after you. Since then—well, I’ve rented a  

unit near the river, which is quite nice, and I have been looking  

for a business to buy.”  

“Any success?”  

She nodded. “I signed on the line last week—an established  

business which I should be able to re‐sell in maybe five or six  

years. That’s what I’ve been looking for; something with which  

to build enough capital to eventually allow me to buy into  

209

something else, something less—isolating. I have this dream of a  

restaurant overlooking the ocean.”  

Simon saluted with his glass. “I wish you well.”  

She read his face. “But you still judge me?”  

“No—it just reminded me—do you miss Gunwinddu?”  

Muriel shook her head. “No—well, perhaps some of the  

people. Karl was okay—and you were good to have around. I’ve  

missed you.”  

Simon stared at her, his face reddening.  

She measured his discomfort, sighed, and picked up the menu.  

“What do you recommend?”  

Simon snatched at a second menu and cleared his throat.  

“They make their own pasta here. It’s always fresh.” He looked  

up and caught her eye.  

“ I was rude to you that day. I’m not sure why—if you hadn’t  

come outside and seen me I wouldn’t have phoned.”  

“Why—?”  

“I suppose I just wanted to resolve something. But I didn’t  

want to cause trouble.”  

She leaned forward slightly and rested her fingers on his arm.   

“It’s called chemistry Simon—except in this case it’s being  

wasted by you living some damned priest fantasy.”  

Simon dropped his eyes and stared glumly at the table‐cloth.  

Muriel pulled her hand away. “I’m sorry—I’ve no right to  

speak like that.”  

He hid behind a lop‐sided grin. “It’s all right. It’s nothing I  

haven’t said to myself many times.”  

Muriel shook her head. “Well just don’t expect me to  


Simon gazed, almost unseeingly, at the menu. “Well—they do  

a mean lasagna—standard fare, but reliable.” He looked up and  

she was smiling.  

 “Sounds good.”  

Tony reappeared and took their order. The food arrived, piled  

on large hand‐decorated plates. The restaurant steadily filled,  

210

throwing laughter and chinking glass at them as they edged to  

the safety of small talk; Gunwinddu and its people, changing  

weather, political idiosyncrasies, American presidents— 

anything but themselves. Tony arrived, proffering another  

bottle. Muriel shook her head, forcing Simon to accede.  

 “I should be going,” she said.  

Simon was unable to mask his disappointment. Time had  

swept afternoon into evening. She reached across the table and  

held his hand. “It’s been lovely seeing you again Simon.”  

He swallowed, uncertain. “Can we meet—?”  

She smiled. “Believe me, I would like that—but look at us.”  

She lowered her voice. “You are a priest Simon—and I’m not  

very good at platonic relationships. Besides, you don’t know  

enough about me and I’m not sure you would approve if you  

learned any more.”  

He was defensive. “Nonsense.”  

Muriel smiled wryly.  

 “Well, it still doesn’t take us anywhere.”  

 “I need a friend,” he said slowly.   

“I don’t.”  

Her eyes locked into his. He shifted in his chair, confused by  

the touch of her hand. “So what do we do?”  

“Nothing Simon—besides, the business I’ve bought is out of  

town.”  

“Where?”  

She shook her head.  

“So I won’t see you again?”  

Muriel smiled. “Don’t be so melodramatic—come on, I’ll pay  

and you can walk me to my car.”  

  

The Foleys lived in a monotony of rust‐red brick and  

rendered cement. The houses and their low front walls were  

pressed hard against a cracked grey footpath and a roadway of  

fissured asphalt. The walls were daubed with graffiti; mostly  

211

lack angry swirls, but here and there shone bold and evocative  

murals; someone’s refusal to submit to despair.  

Simon stopped outside the house. He sensed unseen faces  

watching. He locked his car.  

As he approached the steps to the front door, a groupof  

children materialised. Surrounding him they jostled for position  

to better read his face.  

“Are you the Father?” a small girl asked. He nodded.  

“Told ya,” she screamed at the growing group.  

Mrs Foley emerged at the top of the step. “It’s the Father,” she  

yelled back into the house. “Tell Ricki.” She beckoned to the  

priest. “Come on in Father.”  

Inside, the house seemed full of people. They spilled into the  

hallway from adjoining rooms and stared at him. Some waved  

and he recognized faces from the christening. Mrs Foley ushered  

him into the front room where Joseph greeted him warmly.  

“Good of you to come Father.”  

Simon looked around. “You didn’t tell me you were having a  

party.”  

Mrs Foley waved her hand dismissively. “It’s always like this.”  

“You like a beer Father?” Joseph was already pouring from a  

brown bottle.  

“Thanks.”  

The room was furnished with a torn and faded sofa and two  

large lounge chairs. A television sat on a low table in one corner.   

“Here he is Father.”  

Simon turned. Mrs Foley was steering her son by the elbow.  

Ricki faced him. The house seemed to grow silent as he stood  

awkwardly, hands in pockets and a hint of indolence.  

“G’day,” said Simon.  

Ricki’s head seemed to rotate independently of his neck. “  

‘day,” he mumbled. He looked sideways at Simon, reluctant to  

meet his eyes.  

Mrs Foley shook her head. “What do you do with ‘em Father?”  

She gave the boy a sharp prod.  

212

“Thanks for helpin’ me,” he mumbled; chin on his chest, and  

downcast eyes glued to a spot on the floor behind the priest.  

“That’s okay.” Simon held out his hand. The youth glanced up  

at him, hesitant. He dragged one hand from his pocket and  

limply accepted Simon’s grip. He smiled and glanced sheepishly  

at the people who had entered the room to watch.  

“How are you feeling?”  

Ricki nodded. “Okay.”   

The boy’s fixed, shy grin reminded Simon of Angel. “Well I  

won’t embarrass you with questions. I’m just pleased you’re  

okay.”  

Ricki shrugged helplessly. “Thanks.”  

Joseph stepped up to Simon. “Come and meet everybody  

Father—a lot of people been wantin’ to meet you since the  

christenin’, you know.”  

Ricki sidled away with a final sideways glance at Simon as he  

was led into the throng.  

The house hummed again with the babble of voices, the hiss  

of bottletops and cans being opened and the noise of children.  

They were everywhere; running, jumping, yelling, crawling  

underfoot. For a while Simon felt stiff and awkward, but Joseph  

plied him with cold beer and cornered him to relate his  

sometimes tragic, sometimes joyous life as a young man working  

on the big cattle runs. The priest listened with only half an ear. It  

was a familiar story. Gradually the afternoon slipped into a  

dreamy confusion; a floating parade of babies’ heads, tomato  

sandwiches, cries of ‘Father look’, and too many names, places,  

cousins and uncles for Simon to even attempt to remember.  

As the afternoon turned to evening, the front door banged  

open and shut behind departing backs. The papered walls  

seemed to sag as the house shrank to its proper size. Simon  

wanted to leave, but was inveigled into staying. It was easy to  

acquiesce. He was feeling mellow from the beer and company.  

Evening became night and his eyes grew heavy—.  

213

At first he thought it a dream. Loud crashing. Simon opened  

his eyes. He was stiff and cramped and lying fully clothed on a  

lumpy couch beneath a coarse blanket.  

Outside a man shouted. The noise sounded like splintering  

wood, and the street suddenly seemed filled with barking dogs.  

Someone screamed. Simon wiped his eyes and sat up. ‘Some  

neighbourhood,’ he thought sleepily.  

He turned to the pad of feet and the rustle of material. The  

light came on and Mrs Foley appeared in the room, followed by  

Joseph.  

“What on earth is going on?” Simon asked. He looked from the  

woman to the old man. Mrs Foley was wrapped in a flannel  

dressing gown. She coughed painfully, her face fearful. Joseph  

stood bare‐chested and blinking with sleep and fright.  

“Is this normal?”  

The pair didn’t seem to hear him. The commotion was moving  

nearer. Car doors slammed and there was a sound of breaking  

glass.  

“I’ll look,” said Joseph.  

“No.” Mrs Foley put her arm out to restrain the old man. She  

was frightened. “Let it pass.”  

Simon threw off the blanket and walked to the window. He  

peered curiously through a gap in the curtains. Beneath the  

grimy yellow light of the street lamp he saw a figure approach  

his car.  

“What the—?” His words were lost in the crash of glass. He  

turned back into the room. “Someone just smashed my car  

window.”  

He hurried from the room, sleepiness banished. As he reached  

for the front door handle, the panelling exploded, showering him  

with splinters. The door burst open and a tall figure in blue  

overalls wielding a large hammer loomed before him. He rough‐ 

armed Simon into the wall and charged into the living room. He  

screamed at the Foleys to lie on the floor. Other men entered.  

The house erupted into screams and shouts. A few moments  

214

later one of the men herded three more adults and two children  

into the living room. He shouted at everybody to lie on the floor.  

Nobody resisted, and almost as an afterthought he yelled the  

word “police”.  

The assailants all carried demolition hammers, except for one  

who stood in the middle of the room with an automatic shotgun.  

The sounds of splintering wood and smashing glass filled the  

house. Someone began to sob and Mrs Foley’s ugly coughing  

erupted again. A child pressed among the bodies suddenly began  

to cry. The man with the gun stepped forward and shouted.  

“Shut the kid up.”  

An arm uncurled and wrapped itself over the child and a  

hushed, strained voice pleaded with it to be calm.  

Simon was still pressed against the wall in the hallway. He  

had frozen with the shock of the assault and the attackers had  

rushed past as though he were invisible.  

Still dazed, he stepped back into the living room.  

“What—,” he began.  

The man with the gun rounded on him. Simon saw the deadly  

black barrel jump to meet his eyes. “Who the fuck are you?” the  

man shouted. He seemed barely in control.  

“I’m a priest.” He felt sick.  

The man glared at him. “Shit!” He spat on the floor. “What’s  

your name—where did you come from?”  

 “Father Simon Bradbury. I was staying here.” His voice  

sounded brittle with fright.  

“Shit,” the man repeated. “ Sarge—hey sarge.” The man had to  

yell to be heard above the noise of demolition.  

A policeman distinguishable by three black stripes on his blue  

overalls walked into the room. He was clutching a clipboard. The  

officer with the gun jerked his thumb at Simon. “We’ve got a  

blow‐in—a priest.”  

The sergeant looked him over. “What the hell are you doing  

here?”  

215

Simon swallowed. He could feel his temper begin to stir some  

courage from his frozen blood. He met the senior policeman’s  

eye.  

“This is an outrage.”  

The policemen met him stonily. “We’re looking for a nasty  

one, Father. A little black cunt who steals cars, bashes old ladies  

for a few lousy dollars—.”  

“You call this—this barbarity, looking?”  

The sergeant turned to his junior. “What number is this?”  

“Thirty‐eight.”  

The sergeant looked at his clipboard. “Ricki Foley—breaking  

and entering, assault, car theft—.” He whistled through his teeth.  

“—It’s a long list. Don’t suppose you’ve seen him Father?”  

Simon clenched his fists. “Yes I have.”  

The sergeant smiled grimly. “Here?”  

Simon held his tongue.  

Something heavy crashed to the floor in the back of the house.  

A policeman returned from the rear. “Not here sarge.”  

The senior policeman exhaled noisily. “You sure?”  

The man nodded.  

“Shit—all right, get the boys together—he’ll be well away by  

now.”  

He started to move and Simon grabbed his arm. “What do you  

think you’re doing—this is an outrage.”  

The sergeant shook free. “Keep out of it Father, okay?”  

Simon shook his head, disbelievingly. “I want your number.”  

The policeman ignored him and made for the door. Simon  

followed him. “Ricki Foley—when’s he supposed to have  

committed these offences?”  

“Who knows—last week, this week, next week—it’s all the  

same.”  

“He was in hospital last week. Last night was a party to  

celebrate his coming home.”  

The policeman faced him. “Then where is he now, eh? Tell me  

that Father. Ten‐to‐one he’s doing over some poor bastard’s  

216

house or car as we speak. So who fucking cares about a  

particular week.”  

Simon’s body shook. “There was no need for this,” he hissed.  

The sergeant thrust his face closer. “When you set out to catch  

vermin Father, it’s not a bad idea to also smash the nest.”  

Three men appeared at the doorway. “Finished next door,”  

one of them called.  

The sergeant turned back to Simon. “I wouldn’t make a fuss  

Father. This is what the good folk still comfortable in their beds  

want.” Simon went to the window. It was getting light. The street  

was full of police gathering in small groups as their work  

finished. They relaxed, smoked cigarettes and talked; a picture of  

geniality masking an entire society’s hatred and fear.  

He felt a tug on his trouser leg. The little girl looked up at him,  

sobbing. In the kitchen a woman began to wail. Simon picked up  

the child and hurried towards the back of the house. The kitchen  

was in ruins; cupboards and wall panelling smashed, the  

refrigerator had been tipped onto the table which was crushed  

beneath its weight; food containers were strewn across the floor  

and a chair was caught in the shards of a shattered window. Mrs  

Foley was on her knees, sobbing inconsolably. Joseph leaned  

against the doorframe, his eyes red.  

“What are we goin’ to do Father?”  

Simon shook his head. “I don’t know. Under other  

circumstances I would have said ‘call the police’.” He turned at  

the sound of footsteps. Two women wrapped in dressing gowns  

approached down the hallway. Mrs Foley stood to greet them  

and they held each other.  

“Did they go to every house?” Simon asked.  

One of the women looked up, surprised at the sight of a white  

face. She nodded apprehensively. “I think so.”  

Mrs Foley turned to Simon. “What are we going to do  

Father—we can’t stay here—not till we’ve been able to get  

things fixed.”  

217

Simon tried to think. Joseph touched him on the arm. “Will  

you talk to the council for us Father—they’ll say we done all  

this.”  

“I’ll talk to them all right. You know where St Luke’s is, don’t  

you?”  

Joseph nodded slowly.  

“Do what you can here, then get everybody together and tell  

them to go there. The people can stay in the church hall until we  

sort this mess out.”  

  

By mid‐afternoon some six or seven families had spread  

themselves through the hall with bedding, portable cookers, and  

blaring radios. Simon had spent the morning venting his anger  

by telephoning the media. The response, more than the effort,  

had quickly drained his energy. The radio stations confined their  

reports to a bland press release issued by the police media unit.  

A newspaper dispatched a cadet photographer to the raided  

street, and a single television news crew hung around for a while  

at the church hall. The journalist had shaken her fair curls and  

confided to Simon that she didn’t think the story would run.  

“Well, it’s hard for people to accept them as the victims,” she had  

confided.  

Simon now sagged on his elbows in the presbytery kitchen  

wondering what to do next. No one was interested in what  

would quickly be regarded as simply routine police work. He had  

phoned the council to make sure the residents weren’t held  

responsible for the damage, and the response still puzzled him:  

“Soon won’t matter will it?” He had phoned the Bishop, and been  

forced to leave a message.  

Mary bustled up to him. “We need tea and coffee—big tins.”  

Simon nodded wearily and went to his room. He returned  

with two twenty dollar notes. “It’s all I’ve got.”  

She shrugged. “It will do.” She walked away, full of purpose.  

218

The other priests drifted in as mealtime approached, but  

there was nothing prepared. Mary was too busy with the mob.  

The priests sat down to re‐heated stew.  

The young priest, Greg Walcott, sat moodily, radiating his  

silent displeasure at the hordes who had invaded the church  

grounds. Simon caught his eye. “Bugger him,” he thought to  

himself.  

Old Father Frank seemed oblivious. “What’s going on in the  

hall—I didn’t know we had something going on.” The senior  

priest, Peter Moore,  stabbed at a piece of soggy bread. “Nothing  

to worry about Frank—Simon’s brought a few of his friends over  

for a day or two.”  

The old man did not respond. He was worrying a piece of  

meat with a spoon.  

It was Greg who broke the calm, his mask finally cracking.  

“There will be hell to pay, and you both bloody well know it.  

Who’s going to foot the damage bill?”  

Peter, the one‐time missionary, tried to concentrate on eating.  

He had lost his nerve for crisis.  

Greg thrust his fork towards the two of them. “That lot out  

there is destroying the place. When I arrived home there were  

kids playing football in the garden for God’s sake. A window is  

cracked, and the roses will soon be mulch.” He faced Simon.  

“What in heaven’s name possessed you to bring the whole damn  

street over here?”  

Simon glared back. “These people have been kicked from their  

homes and all you’re concerned about is the bloody garden.”  

Greg’s voice rose. “Nobody threw them out. I’ve heard nothing  

to justify you relocating half a suburb to our community hall.”  

“I was there,” shouted Simon. “They used sledge hammers. It  

will be days—weeks before some of them will even stop shaking,  

let alone work out how to make their houses liveable again.”  

The young priest scoffed. “Those brown cherubs out smashing  

the garden, are thieves and thugs. I’m surprised you still had a  

car to drive home with.”  

219

“Have you seen my car—have you seen it?”  

The younger priest waved his hand dismissively.  

“No, I’m serious. Go and have a look. There’s no back  

window.”  

Greg pulled an indulgent face. “Am I to be surprised?”  

“It was smashed by a policeman.”  

Greg leaned back into his chair and sighed. “No—I am not  

surprised. We know what you’re like. Frankly it is difficult to  

think your presence and the police raid was coincidence.”  

Simon gaped. “What do you mean by that?”  

Greg was unmoved. “You’re a discredit to our vocation.”  

Simon rocked back into his seat. “I don’t believe I’m hearing  

this. I’ve come across some holy water pissers before, but none  

who saw it as a virtue.”  

Peter Moore raised a hand. “Okay. That’s enough. Let it rest,  

the both of you.”  

“No!” Simon shouted. “I’d like to know what my fellow priest  

thinks his job is if it’s not to support people who need help.”  

Greg stood up. “A priest’s responsibility is towards the people  

of the church—not criminals—and savages.”  

Simon banged the table with his fist, but his mouth hung open.  

He stared at the younger man. “Do you know what I was doing in  

Redmond last week?” he asked, tiredly. “Baptisms. Invited by  

your savages who seem to know more about Christianity than  

any white congregation I’ve come across in recent years. He  

waved an arm towards the door. “These people are here because  

they need our help. That’s our job, in case you’ve forgotten.”  

Father Frank rapped a spoon loudly on the table top. He  

pointed the utensil at the young priest and ordered him to sit.  

“I am deaf, but the dead can hear you two right now.” He faced  

Greg. “I am sure you know more theology than I can remember,  

that’s for sure. But you do not know much about life. For that,  

you can hold your tongue.”  

The young man reddened.  

220

Frank banged the table with the spoon again. “As for you  

Father Bradbury, your fervour for managing other people’s lives  

has you confused.”  

Simon opened his mouth to protest, but the old man silenced  

him with another crack of the spoon. Simon turned to Peter  

Moore for support, but the man dismissed him with flapping  

fingers. Father Frank rapped the table top again. “It is you I’m  

talking to—and I would suggest you think about learning some  

patience. He lifted his eyebrows as he made his point. “Learn  

perhaps to plan, instead of stomping around with a belly full of  

bile. It is not becoming of a priest.”  

“So. You think that what I have done is wrong?” Simon’s voice  

was accusing.  

The old man smiled, pleased to have his attention. “The  

intention is admirable—but perhaps we could have managed it  

differently, eh?”  

“The wise old man speaks,” said Simon sardonically.  

“Yes, the wise old man speaks—and there is no need for that  

tone.”  

Simon’s shoulders dropped. “I’m sorry. So, what would you  

have done differently?”   

“I would have asked for help. Perhaps that way I would have  

found a more suitable place than our hall.”  

Simon breathed out slowly. “Perhaps you are right.”  

The old man nodded. “I’m sure I am.” He pointed the spoon at  

Simon. “So, what will you do tonight—how will you solve that,  

eh?”  

Simon was puzzled. “What’s to solve?”  

Father Frank lifted his chin and curled his lip with an almost  

malicious pleasure.  

Peter Moore tapped Simon on the arm. “He is referring to the  

little clash of cultures you have staged for our evening’s  

entertainment.”  

221

Simon rubbed his chin. “—oh dear Christ, it’s bingo night.” He  

looked at Peter. “Well surely they’ll understand—it’s only one  

night.”  

Peter shrugged. “It’s your concert.”  

An unfriendly smile crossed the young priest’s face. “Well  

there is something they still teach in the seminary Simon—that  

miracles can happen. Perhaps we’ll see one tonight?”  

  

Simon stood in the doorway of the hall. Children were yelling,  

jumping and running in every direction, their parents seemingly  

oblivious to the chaos. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the  

change in routine; talking, singing, strumming guitars and  

playing cards.  

Rubbish spilled from upturned garbage bags. A clothes‐line  

had been strung up to dry nappies and several boys still  

managed to find air space to kick a football to each other across  

the hall.   

Simon craned his neck, looking for Mrs Foley or Joseph. He  

could hear laughter from the kitchen and through the open door  

Simon caught a glimpse of Mary. He turned away and came face‐ 

to‐face with the choimaster George Penbury, and his wife.  

“Father Bradbury,” the man said in a flat greeting.  

Simon nodded acknowledgement. “George—Mrs Penbury.”  

“So what’s all this then?”  

Simon saw the darkened path behind the couple gradually  

filling with shadowy forms. The path lights were no longer  

working.  

“Just helping out some people in need George. Just for a few  

days, I’m sure you understand.”  

The man glanced over his shoulder as the path steadily filled  

with players.  

“Well I’m not sure that I do, Father. They’re Aborigines.”  

“So?”  

222

“Well, the church has got special agencies to look after them.  

Why did you bring them here—to Saint Luke’s? It’s our bingo  

night, you know.”  

“I’m sorry. But I was desperate.”  

“Perhaps you were, but that doesn’t make it right. We’ve  

heard—we know who they are. Frankly Father, I think your  

sense of duty is misplaced.”  

“Is that right?”  

“Most of them should probably be behind bars, not here in our  

bingo hall.”  

“How do you reason that George?”  

“Do our houses get raided? Do you get raided? No. Because we  

abide by the law. We understand the law. It’s our heritage.”  

 “Really! I recall this country actually started as an English  

prison.”  

Penbury scowled. “I didn’t come to debate the matter Father   

He pushed past Simon and entered the building. “Good God  

Almighty,” he exploded. He turned to confront the priest. “It’s a  

cesspit!”  

Penbury stepped inside  

Mary Cruikshank approached him, beaming. “Hullo Mr  

Penbury.” She waved an arm to encompass the camped mob,  

only a few of whom had stopped to observe the new arrivals. “A  

bit hectic, but we’re managing. It’s very good of you to let these  

people stay here for a while.”  

Penbury’s eyes narrowed and he grabbed at Simon’s shirt  

sleeve. “A moment Father, if you don’t mind.” He led Simon  

outside. “I don’t want anyone thinking I am in any way  

associated with your actions.”  

“What would you like me to do George—preface Sunday’s  

sermon with a little announcement?”    

“What happened to the lights?” The sudden new voice in the  

dark materialised into Bishop MacNamara.   

223

George Penbury squared to the Bishop with theatrical relief.  

“Your Grace—the lights, the gardens, the hall—the place is a  

shambles.”  

The Bishop raised his hand in a placatory gesture. He  

studiously ignored Simon. “Yes, I can see that,” he said  

tonelessly.   

“Your Grace—the bingo raised twelve thousand dollars last  

year—we will need that this year just to recover from this.”  

The Bishop smiled. “Let’s have a look shall we?” He stepped  

wordlessly past Simon and followed George Penbury into the  

hall. Simon watched the silhouette of the two men framed in the  

doorway. He stepped behind them as the Bishop clapped his  

hands sharply. It was a loud, authoritative sound. Its intended  

effect worked instantly and a semblance of order settled over  

the hall. In the quiet that followed, a football dribbled towards  

the Bishop’s feet to rest unclaimed against his gleaming black  

shoes.  

“Welcome to Saint Luke’s,” the Bishop called.   

Penbury looked up sharply.  

“No doubt you are well aware of the inconvenience your  

presence is causing the people who usually use this hall—.”  

Simon flinched.  

“However, I have been informed of your plight and am happy  

for you to stay until your problem has been resolved.”  

Penbury looked sharply at the Bishop.  

“The church, after all, is here for the needs of its people, and I  

am always pleased to be able to include you Aboriginal people in  

my embrace.”  

Simon ran his thumb and forefinger down the bridge of his  

nose. “Could have been worse,” he thought. He noticed a slight  

sag in Penbury’s shoulders and smiled. The man was at a loss. No  

doubt he had expected something to match Christ’s banishment  

of the money lenders.  

224

Mrs Foley walked up to the Bishop and made a clumsy  

genuflection. “Thank you—,” she hesitated, unsure of how to  

address him, “—Bishop.”  

MacNamara smiled with warmth and charm. “Are you all  

comfortable?”  

The woman nodded, and smiled with relief. “Yes.”  

 “Good.”  

Without another word he turned to leave, accidentally  

scudding the football across the floor. Someone whistled an  

applause. Outside, he was confronted by George Penbury.  

“Your Grace I don’t understand—how long are these people  

going to be here—and the damage?”  

Exhausted of his goodwill the great man snapped: “Don’t  

bother me with trivialities George, I’ve bigger matters to  

consider. They’ll be gone in a day.”  

“But you told them—.”  

The Bishop cut him short. “Leave me to have a quiet word  

with Father Bradbury.”  

George Penbury melted into the dark to collect his bingo  

group. The bishop beckoned to Simon.  

“I want this lot out by tomorrow night.”  

Frustration tore at Simon. He exhaled shakily. “Just like that— 

kick them out. What will that do for your words of support?”  

“For God’s sake man, use your head for once! Call the ‘Vinnies  

or the Sisters of Mercy—that’s what they’re there for. What  

possessed you to bring these people to this parish, I’ll never  

know. And what you were doing over at Redmond at five in the  

morning is something you can explain when I have the time.”  

 “Yes_the work of sledge hammers takes time to explain, time  

also to mend—especially in the mind.”  

“Cut the sermon Simon. I’ve been to Redmond, not that long  

ago as a matter of fact. A few bangs with a sledge hammer— 

you’d hardly notice from the damage already done.”  

Simon shook his head. “That’s rubbish.”  

225

“Look, I didn’t come here to engage in a debate. Remember  

the other day when I mentioned the university chaplaincy?”  


“You still interested—or are you hell‐bent on continuing this  

black crusade?”  

Simon hesitated, unsettled by the sudden twist. The offer  

appealed immensely. He wasn’t suited to parish work. “Of course  

I’m interested,” he said quietly.   

The Bishop continued to survey him. “Good. Then get this lot  

out of here—try practising management instead of  

involvement.”  

“Is that supposed to mean something?”  

MacNamara paused, measuring him. “The university will be  

built—we are very close to finalizing the details. I’d like to bring  

you in on it, but you need to prove you’re up to the task.”  

Long after MacNamara had gone, Simon stood staring out into  

the dark, trying to decide if it was a job offer or a threat.   

  

226

Chapter Fourteen  

  

Simon rested his hands on each side of the lectern and  

gazed into the rivulets of faces; streams where there would  

once have been a sea. He understood them perfectly; their  

inner desires, weaknesses and strengths. Better, perhaps,  

than many did themselves. He sometimes wondered whether  

it was the lot of a priest to know others better than he knew  

himself. He reflected briefly on the thought. Of course it was.  

Of what use was a priest trying to reconstruct himself as  

anything but a priest; their master of ceremonies in the ritual  

of organised religion. He gazed into the body of the church.  

Nobody wanted revelations, at least not anymore. The faithful  

wanted, and were drawn to, the pattern; to be a comfortable  

part of its fabric. To change this you would need a new  

Messiah.  

“Most of us would say that our presence here today is a  

demonstration of our faith,” he began.  

“Your attendance perhaps allows you cause for self‐ 

congratulation; you may even feel a little pride—coming to  

Mass on Sundays when others have lost interest.”   

Simon paused and leaned tiredly against the wooden  

frame, wondering why he was bothering to get upset. But  

everything was wrong. He gazed into the congregation. The  

whole exercise seemed to have grown so banal. People came  

to Mass in T‐shirts and thongs to hear modern priests like  

himself use chatty little prayers and exhortations punctuated  

occasionally by guitar‐strumming, Jesus‐loves‐me songs.  

Perhaps the Bishop was right. Perhaps Vatican Two hadn’t  

been such a good idea.  

“But what happens when I or one of the other priests ask  

for help—to visit the aged or sick, to offer a bed to a lonely  

migrant, to lend a hand to keep the church grounds in shape?  

Time and again, it is the same half‐dozen faces.”  

227

Simon ran his eyes down the page, looking for the mark he  

had made.  

“ ‘If a brother or sister is ill‐clad and in lack of daily food  

and you say to them, ‘go in peace, be warmed and filled’,  

without then giving them what the body needs, what does it  

achieve? Faith by itself, if it has no works, is of little use.’”  

Simon looked up. “So turning up here every week is  

pointless if it’s the sum total of your effort. Perhaps Mass  

provides a pause in the week to reflect? I don’t mind. But all  

around you are people who need decent food, jobs, and just a  

little compassion from those better off.  

“It would also seem that to offer shelter is a fine Christian  

action, so long as the recipients are of European etiquette and  

complexion. I am sure everyone knows what I am referring to.  

It has given me a lot to think about—about this parish, about  

my role. So—.” Simon stopped. He felt his words and thoughts  

melting in the heat of his frustration and confusion; struggling  

as he squirmed still on the Bishop’s baited hook.  

“So unless you can put something meaningful into this  

ritual of ours, I don’t see the point of turning up. It becomes a  

sham.” He pointed to the empty pews. “Perhaps that’s why  

this place is already so empty.”  

He stepped away from the lectern and walked towards the  

centre of the altar to continue the Mass.  

“I have never heard anything more outrageous!”  

Simon turned. The ruddy face of George Penbury rose  

above the balestrade of the choir loft. “How dare you speak  

like that.”  

Simon stared back impassively. The man leaned over the  

edge. “How dare you,” he repeated and dropped an empty  

collection basket to the aisle below. “Who feeds and clothes  

you, mister?” Penbury disappeared, but could be heard  

treading angrily down the stairs. The whole choir stood up  

and noisily followed. Simon waited patiently for the  

commotion to settle.  

228

“Seems we won’t have a choir today,” he said flatly.  

Simon waded through the remainder of the service. A  

deep‐seated depression had settled on him. By the time he  

reached the Solemn Blessing at the conclusion he was aching  

for the privacy of the sacristy. He locked away the unused  

hosts, slid his vestments into the wardrobe and left as quickly  

as he could, leaving the cruets for someone else to rinse. He  

slipped quickly to the back path, with no stomach to confront  

parishioners gathered in animated groups at the front.  

Inside the presbytery he went to his room and almost  

without thinking, began to pack his overnight bag. He had no  

idea where he was going.  

There was a knock on his door.  

“Cup of tea Father?”  

Simon paused. “Any visitors?”  

“No.”  

“Then yes—a quick one.”  

Simon zipped his bag and changed into a pair of jeans and a  

khaki work shirt. He joined Mary in the kitchen. Simon had  

celebrated the late Mass. The other priests were out; Greg on  

the outer‐metropolitan run, Father Frank doing the hospital  

rounds, and Peter Moore was at the house of a family whose  

daughter had been killed in a car accident in the night. Simon  

had done his share of such vigils, sitting in a house of sudden  

death; carefully letting the grief wash around, but not  

touching. They were the worst moments of his life.   

“Here you go.” Mary put the cup and saucer onto the table.  

“Thanks.” Simon slumped into a chair and cradled the hot  

cup in his hands. He blew across the top, a life‐long habit,  

before taking the first cautious sip.  

“I won’t be in for lunch, Mary.”  

“Want me to keep it warm or put it in the fridge?”  

“Fridge. I’m not sure when I’ll be back—perhaps not until  

tomorrow. I’ll leave a note for Peter.”  

“You sound low.”  

229

“I’ve done it this time—told them I didn’t want to see them  

next week. Right when I need to be showing control, I lose it.  

MacNamara will be running out of places to hide me.” He  

drummed his fingers on the table top. “I talk into space. They  

sit there catatonic. I try to do what I think is right, to point  

people in a useful direction, and all I do is upset everyone.”  

 “Well, there’s some who reckon you’re okay—and what  

about the Redmond mob? You’re a champ there.”  

The name jarred. Redmond—it haunted his every waking  

hour.  

Simon changed the subject. “How’s your young bloke?”  

“Oh, pretty good—be walking soon and I’ll need eyes in the  

back of my head.”  

Simon grinned, despite his mood. “Like me.”  

The front door chimed.  

Mary returned a few moments later. “It’s Mister Penbury.  

He wants to see you..”  

“Does he know I’m here?”  

The girl nodded.  

Simon stared into his tea for a moment. “Tell him you’ve  

made a mistake, that he’s just missed me. I’ve had to go out.”  

“Where?”  

Simon shrugged. “Make something up.”  

 “I’ll just say you’re out.”  

Simon returned to his room, grabbed his bag and car keys  

and took the back door to the carport.  

Without any conscious plan he threaded his way onto the  

freeway. Twenty minutes later an exit sign to the Great  

Eastern Highway conjured images of wide open spaces and  

clear skies. He followed the sign and within an hour was  

driving through the open expanse of wheat fields. He stopped  

at a town called Kellerberin, about two hundred kilometres  

out from Perth on the road to Kalgoorlie. He felt a sense of  

freedom overtake him and he indulged in the mood. It  

suddenly occurred to him that if he were to keep driving for  

230

just a few more hours he would be back near the land he was  

raised on. He smiled at the thought, then dismissed it as  

ridiculous.  

  

Four hours later, in the last dull shafts of daylight, he  

passed Hannan’s Hotel—a squat stone building that has been  

the first welcome sign for travellers for almost a century as  

they approach Kalgoorlie’s wide main street.  

Simon was tired and sweat had glued his shirt to the car  

seat. He parked outside a forlorn‐looking cafe and watched  

the silhouette of the giant poppet head at the top end of the  

street merge into the blackness of the new night.   

He squeezed his eyes with his fingers, wondering just what  

to do next. He should phone the presbytery, but there would  

be questions he could not answer. Since when did a Sunday  

afternoon drive end almost seven hundred kilometres away?  

He decided to find a room for the night. He parked the car  

and went looking for one of the new automatic bank teller  

machines. The clicking, whirring machine, when he found it,  

reminded him of his precarious position. His account, the sum  

of his life’s material worth, contained less than five hundred  

dollars. He withdrew two hundred. The thickened wallet  

suddenly an unfamiliar weight against his hip.  

Simon returned to his car. The town’s main intersection  

was dominated by three old timber and stone hotels. They  

radiated the glitter and noise of a past golden era. Somewhere  

a band thumped to the melody of chinking glasses and the rise  

and fall of animated voices. Simon chose The Pit View; plainer  

and more reserved than the others. He nestled the car against  

the kerb outside and walked into the foyer. His heart sank.  

Any semblance of plainness was banished by an interior decor  

of old‐world extravagance. The space before him, lit by the  

biggest chandelier he had ever seen, was equally dominated  

by a large, gracious stairway curving upwards to the floor  

231

above. He was about to flee when a girl of about nineteen  

bobbed from behind a counter.  

“Room?”  

Simon nodded uncertainly. “Er—how much?”  

“Single?”  

The priest nodded again.  

“Forty‐five a night, in advance. There’s tea and coffee  

facilities and the verandas have been closed in so the rooms  

have now got bathrooms too. How many nights?”  

“One, two—no, one.” He silently remonstrated with  

himself.   

“Meals in the dining room; times are on your wall.” The girl  

slid a form in front of him. “Just fill this in—.” She consulted a  

reservations book then plucked a key from a wall rack. “— 

room thirty‐eight. Right at the top of the stairs, it’s the second  

door on the left.”  

Simon was still staring at the registration sheet, holding a  

pen pensively over the space marked ‘occupation’. He noticed  

the girl watching him, measuring him, and hurriedly wrote  

‘geologist’.  

He took the proffered key in exchange for his cash. “Is there  

a chemist open?” he asked.  

The girl looked at him knowingly. She had quick eyes.  

He smiled lamely. “Forgot my toothbrush. I’m always doing  

it—got dozens now, back home.”  

She didn’t look convinced, but offered the tacit acceptance  

that he could tell any story he wanted. Simon retrieved his  

bag from the car and climbed the stairs. When he got to the  

room the door wouldn’t open. He checked the key. It seemed  

to fit, but the door would not budge. He dropped his bag and  

trudged back down the stairway. A massive ceiling‐high  

mirror traced his steps. Once it would have reflected all  

manner of human finery in days when men turned over  

fortunes with a pick and shovel and sparkling women  

journeyed from the south to help them spend it. Now the  

232

mirror reflected a gaunt‐looking man of indeterminate age.  

Simon stared at his hollow‐eyed and haunted look. It was a  

long time since he had seen himself full‐length. His self‐image  

had been framed for years by the close‐cropped dimensions  

of a shaving mirror. Now he saw a stranger—his thin body in  

ill‐fitting jeans and a crumpled shirt. The fit, lean young man  

with the square jaw and razor‐back shoulders he  

remembered, was gone.  

Shaken, Simon continued down the stairway, an anxious  

frown bending his brow.   

“I can’t open my door.” He spoke to a crown of smooth,  

dark hair just visible below the counter top and wondered  

what she did down there.  

The girl uncoiled. “What do you mean?”  

“Tried the key, but it won’t open.”  

“Did you give it a bang?”  

Simon shrugged. “Not sure. I thought it would just open.”  

“I dunno,” the girl drawled with exasperation. “ Let’s have a  

look.” She disappeared and came out through a nearby side  

door; matchstick legs marching beneath a white cotton frock.  

Simon followed her back up the stairway.  

“Give us the key.” She turned the lock then lunged against  

the door with her shoulder. It squeaked noisily and moved  

about a centimetre. She threw her body into it again. The door  

made a loud cracking noise and sprang open.  

“See? You’ve just got to give it a bit of a push.”  

Simon picked up his bag and stepped into the darkened  

room, one hand groping for a light switch. He couldn’t find it.  

He dropped the bag and stood inside the doorway using both  

hands to feel the wall. Nothing. He gave up. Feeling  

increasingly more foolish about being there at all, he stepped  

back into hallway. The girl was watching from the top of the  

stairway, hands on her hips.  

“There’s a cord hangin’ down in the middle of the room.”   

233

Wordlessly, Simon returned to the darkness and stepped  

forward, arms above his head. It took two passes and a  

bruised shin before his fingers found the string. He tugged  

and a light globe bathed the room in yellow. There were two  

single beds, two plastic moulded chairs, a small wardrobe and  

a thankfully tiny mirror. A television occupied the top of a  

dresser next to the wardrobe. In a pokey bathroom a yellow  

enamel wash basin and shower‐recess was boxed in by  

unpainted asbestos sheeting.  

“Just like home,” he told the ghosts.  

He tossed his bag onto one of the beds and turned on the  

television. The picture was snowy. He switched it off and lay  

on the other bed. It was a muggy night. Simon found himself  

wrestling with alternate feelings of pleasure over the  

adventure, and guilt for his irresponsibility.  

“Just one day—one night,” he told himself. He didn’t know  

what this would achieve, or what he would do.  

Simon showered, vainly tried the television again, and  

decided finally to go for a walk.   

He stood at the crossroad – mix with the noisy throng  

spilling into and from the two other hotels, drown himself in  

noise and smoke and beer; or turn left into the near‐deserted  

main street? Simon turned left.  

Simon’s mind was flooding with thoughts and images—his  

parents’ farm, Gunwinddu, Muriel, Redmond, and  

MacNamara’s steely gaze and immaculate presence. The man  

had trapped him. He was forcing Simon to choose once and  

for all between acquiescence, for which he would be  

rewarded with the chaplaincy of a university, a role he would  

savour, or dissent. The fact that the site was Redmond was  

just one more painful twist. If he chose to side with those  

facing dispossession by the Bishop’s dream he would be  

spurned totally; a faceless mendicant pushed from parish to  

parish until swallowed forever in the invisibility of some  

remote outpost desperate enough not to let him go.   

234

He crossed a street which was wide enough for a semi‐ 

trailer to turn a full circle, but actually built to accommodate  

the manoeuvrings of bullock drays a hundred years earlier.  

Like a wayward moth he drifted towards the fluorescent  

telephone booths outside the towering stone edifice of the  

Post and Telegraph Office.  

“Call,” whispered a voice inside his head.  

He walked on, turning into a side street, intending to make  

a rough circuit of the town. Two blocks later he paused at an  

intersection. His eyes followed the passage of a slowly  

cruising car. It stopped opposite a large brightly lit bungalow.  

A man alighted and stepped quickly across the road to the  

front gate and pressed a button. Simon stared. The place was  

lit like an ice‐cream parlour, painted a garish pink. He glanced  

up and recognized the name of the street. Hay Street. It was  

famous. His curiosity piqued, he walked to where the gate had  

opened and the other man had entered.  

“Hi sweetie.”  

Simon jumped. A woman standing in a doorway flicked a  

switch which cast just enough light for Simon to see she was  

only wearing lingerie. He hurried on, but slowed to a stop at  

another strange‐looking house fronted by a row of open  

doorways in a corrugated iron fence. They looked like animal  

stalls at a farm show, except these were painted bright red,  

and were occupied by women. Simon walked slowly, his  

mouth open. In the first stall was a tall, lanky‐looking blonde  

in black tights and a strapless top. She smiled and he hurried  

past. In the next an over‐weight red‐haired woman sat on an  

invisible chair. She was swathed in chiffon and the air was  

heavy with talc.  

“Hullo,” she crooned.   

Simon edged away, closer to the road. The next stall was  

empty. He wondered what the woman was like? What type of  

man had she lured? Tourist? Miner? Lonely husband? Was she  

pretty? But then, did pretty girls sell themselves like this? He  

235

didn’t know. He had never wondered before about the  

rationale of the business.  

Simon walked on, then stopped, transfixed.  

A slender, dark‐eyed girl sat demurely in a cane chair. Pale,  

rounded breasts swelled from the top of a low‐cut dress. She  

smiled. She was beautiful; a vision in a pool of soft blue light.  

Simon stepped closer, involuntarily. Long, dark hair, carefully  

brushed, rested in a silken wave across her bare shoulder.  

“Hi,” she said simply.  

Simon had to clear his throat to speak. “Hullo.”  

“What’s your name?” She leaned forward, almost  

imperceptibly, but enough to make her bosom shift and fill  

the top of her dress.  

“Si—Paul.”  

“Come on,” she coaxed. “What’s your real name?” Her  

accent was faintly English.  

“John.”  

The girl laughed. “Come on, who am I going to tell? Are you  

married?”  


“Well then. You can tell me can’t you? You tell me yours  

and I’ll tell you mine.”  


“Hmmm. Well, my name is Cheryl.”  

Simon was mute. The girl shifted again, and placed her  

hands coyly between her knees. The tops of her arms  

squeezed her breasts.  

“Are you visiting—I can tell you’re not a miner or from a  

station. From the south?”  

Simon nodded. His mouth dry.  

The girl looked him over. “Been here before?”  

He shook his head. What was he doing here? What if he  

was seen?  

The woman was smiling at him. She was older than she had  

first looked, but still no more than mid‐twenties.   

236

“You look awkward standing out there. Why don’t you  

come inside?”  

Simon shook his head and swallowed awkwardly. “I—I was  

only out walking. I didn’t even know this place was here.”  

“That’s sweet. It must be fate and it’s brought you to me.”  

“Sorry,  you don’t understand, I—.”  

The girl was on her feet and before Simon could finish had  

reached out and taken his hand. His reaction was to duck  

hurriedly into the stall to get out of view of the street. He felt  

the soft flesh of her hand wrapped around his fingers. Despite  

her motives it felt warm and comforting. He was lonely, lost  

on his own dark highway. Her hand was feeding him. It felt,  

even in those first fleeting moments, like a lost love.  

“Would you like to spend some time with me?”  

“Look you are nice, and I would, but I can’t—it would only  

make things worse for me—in my head. I’m sorry, I really  

should go.”  

Simon tried to turn, but the girl gripped his hand.  

“You’re uptight, real uptight. You should stay. I can help  

you—make you forget about your troubles for a while. A  

hundred dollars.”  

She looked at Simon with wide, dreamy eyes. He tried to  

speak, but couldn’t. She lifted his hand and placed it lightly  

against the exposed flesh of her cleavage. “Can you feel my  

heart?”  

Simon shook his head dumbly.  

She pressed his hand harder against her bosom. He could  

feel the flesh move to his touch. This was not what he wanted.  

He was seeking to clear his mind, not jam it tighter. But he  

was losing his grip on reality.  

She smiled. “If you want to talk, we can talk. If you want a  

nice massage, I can do that first. I can be anything you want; I  

can be kind or strict. I can be your mother superior.”  

Simon reeled. He tore his hand from her grasp, turned and  

ran. Sister Veronica screamed at him from her grave. His feet  

237

pounded hard against the ground, his arms flailed as he  

rounded a corner and kept running. A car cruised past and its  

occupants whistled. He kept running, embracing his burning  

lungs and jarring knees. He ran until his breath was gone and  

his brain too starved of oxygen to think. He staggered to the  

imagined privacy of a tree trunk and sank to his knees, noisily  

trying to pull air into his heaving chest. It seemed an age  

before the tumult settled. When eventually he began walking  

again, the balmy night wrapped him with an uncertain calm.  

He wandered quietly back in the direction of the hotel. The  

effort to open the door of his room seemed to drain his last  

reserves of strength and he fell exhausted onto the bed and  

into a fitful sleep.  

Simon slept late and woke up hungry, but had no stomach  

for breakfast.   

He spent the day shut in his room, praying in wrenched,  

pleading and silent sentences for the mist to lift. He paced the  

threadbare carpet like a caged animal, torn by his confusion  

on the one hand and the determined, almost automatic action  

he had taken on the other.  

It was not until the late afternoon sun crept under the  

bathroom blind, infiltrating his darkness, that Simon stirred  

from his fitful state to walk again in the approaching dusk. He  

was no nearer to resolving his conflict, and was consequently  

even further along this new path he had begun to tread.  

In a café he ordered a mixed grill. The plate arrived, heaped  

with fried flesh of indeterminate origin. He was ravenous and  

ate with enthusiasm.  

Afterwards he walked to the post office and phoned the  

presbytery. It was near dinner time and Mary answered.  

“Saint Luke’s.”  

He clung to the receiver, not knowing what to say. They  

would decide he had suffered a breakdown. It was the usual  

way the church explained away tormented priests.  

“Hullo?”  

238

He put the receiver gently back into its cradle and stared  

out into the street, then turned and walked carefully in the  

opposite direction to the previous night’s encounter.  

In the side streets the red earth had broken through the  

asphalt footpaths. Ever present, it seemed, was the reminder  

of European futility. The houses were asbestos bungalows,  

stained by the same red dust. They lined up in ragged rows  

separated by sandy, unkempt laneways, used once by night‐ 

cart men but today by furtive juveniles looking for adventure  

in a beer bottle.  

Simon was going nowhere, but emitted an audible sigh of  

regret when he rounded a corner and faced the local Catholic  

church—a sturdy stone structure built to last until Judgment  

Day. The lights over the altar were on, but the body of  the  

church was dark. Simon placed himself in deep gloom beneath  

the choir loft at the rear. He sank into the reassuring hardness  

of a pew and breathed in the familiar aroma of cut flowers  

and candle wax. He closed his eyes and tried to think. His  

mind turned in a confusion of images and he slowly,  

consciously made the effort to measure his breathing. After a  

time he managed to dream of colours; soft greens and gentle  

blues—and then came the pale face of his dark‐eyed Eve.  

He squeezed his eyes in frustration.  

A noise penetrated and he realized with a start that  

somebody was watching. He opened his eyes and met the  

curious gaze of the local priest, an elderly man who Simon  

could immediately see had been asked to continue long after  

he should have been allowed to retire.  

“Is everything all right?”   

Simon smiled self‐consciously. “Yes—thank you. It’s quiet, I  

must have drifted off.”  

“I’ve been watching you, saw you come in—don’t think me  

rude, but you look familiar.” Simon fended off the rising dread  

and clung to the smile on his face. He vaguely recognized the  

other priest, but could not put a name to the face.  

239

“I’m a geologist. I sometimes pass this way. Perhaps you’ve  

seen me in Mass.”  

“It must be that.” The old man lingered, but after a moment  

seemed to accept the explanation. “Well, good day. Would you  

like me to turn on the light?”  

“No. I’m happy to sit like this for a while.” He watched the  

priest shuffle down the aisle to the altar. The church looked  

very different from the back rows, he noted. What did people  

see when they came to Mass and watched the priest perform?  

An instrument of God, a man; or just a priest; a sexless figure  

of authority at the fringe of their lives? What did women  

think? Was he still a man when he faced them over the gilded  

pages of the missal?   

He watched the old priest gliding silently across the altar,  

the very act of walking like a man hidden by his cassock. What  

thoughts roamed his mind, now his life was drawing to a  

close? Was he satisfied his vocation had been worth the  

sacrifice of his manhood? That he had secured his place in  

heaven? Simon looked into the arches. It was convenient to  

imagine a heaven somewhere up there, but in all truth he did  

not know where it was or what it was. Perhaps it existed only  

in the human mind? Perhaps the spiritual state lingered only  

for the duration of a mortal life; its presence fostering some  

goodness, at least, in the human experience?  

But where did that leave the institution to which he had  

surrendered his life? Simon remembered the words of the  

pilot on his first night at Gunwinddu: “Why be a priest if you  

never get any smarter?”  

Simon smiled in spite of himself. He wished the pilot was  

beside him. How different their conversation would be now.  

He thought again of the girl, Cheryl, and wondered if she  

was still sitting in her stall, smiling out onto a world of men  

prowling after a dream. Why did she do it, selling the  

tenderness and illusions of impossible love?  

240

Simon returned to his hotel room and sat searching for  

something tangible to hold to, something to keep him afloat.  

Perhaps he needed a holiday? Some priests disappeared to  

caravans and beach houses with mistresses when the  

imponderables became too big a burden. Had he reached that  

point? He grabbed the car keys, drove the vehicle back to the  

church and dropped the keys into the letter box. Now he  

couldn’t go anywhere without returning to the church’s  

embrace.  

He walked for about twenty minutes, continuing to toss his  

twisting and confused thoughts into the warm night air. He  

had started back for the hotel, but drawn by a force more  

powerful than his battered will he veered inexorably in the  

direction of the girl.   

He entered the street nervously, keeping to the shadows.  

The big lady was there in her chiffon. This time the stall next  

to her was occupied. A plain, fair‐haired woman in a cotton  

dress. Cheryl’s light was on, but she was not there. Simon’s  

heart sank. He remembered her touch and needed to feel it  

again, to prove that he hadn’t imagined its power. It had  

occurred to him as he had walked, that he and the girl  

probably had more in common than their occupations might  

initially suggest. She watched the world turn from the axis of  

a bed. His world turned around a pulpit, but they were both  

dispensers of comfort.   

He stared into the empty doorway, wondering. Wondering  

what she did. Did she whisper words of love—or was the  

transaction a silent, mechanical act? Why, he asked himself,  

did he even want to know? Was it important as a priest to  

understand these things—was it important as a man to know?  

Simon’s stomach lurched. The door opened and there she  

was. Alone. Even from across the street her features reignited  

the feelings he had experienced the previous night. He felt a  

hammering in his chest which he had not known since he was  

a teenager.  

241

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, and he left the kerb to  

cross the road towards her. He didn’t see the other man until  

he was half way over.   

Simon stopped, surprised by his sudden anguish. He  

wanted to see her again. To feel her fingers holding his hand.  

His innards began to knot with jealousy. They were standing,  

talking. Discussing a price, while Simon stood transfixed in  

the centre of the road.  

A car cruised slowly by and sounded its horn. Someone  

inside shouted: “Get off the fucking road.”  

Simon barely noticed the vehicle, but the man and woman  

turned to look. He saw the girl’s face, saw her eyes, and knew  

she had seen him. He burned with embarrassment and turned  

away. All he wanted now was to leave. “Each to his own,” he  

had told the pilot, and his lot was clearly not with ordinary  

men. “Must have been born a priest,” he thought with sudden  

savagery as he quickened his pace. He was just rounding the  

corner when he heard hurried footsteps behind.  

“Hey.”  

He turned. She slowed to a walk. “It’s John, isn’t it? I’m good  

with names.”  

“My real name is Simon.”  

She smiled. “Well, that’s a start isn’t it? Did you want to see  

me?”  

He nodded.  

“Well come on then. Hurry, I’m not supposed to leave the  

gate.”  

Simon felt the knot inside him twist tighter. “What about  

that other man?”  

“I told him you were my boyfriend. It always frightens  

them off. Funny isn’t it?”  

“Do you have a boyfriend?”  

She pulled a face. “Are you kidding?”  

Simon followed the girl back to her door. It opened into a  

small room only just large enough for a double bed, a small  

242

table with a lamp and two cheap wooden chairs. The room  

was lit from an orange light from a single painted globe in the  

ceiling. There was linoleum on the floor, floral wallpaper on  

the walls, and a door leading inside to the main body of the  

house.  

The girl sat on the bed. “I’ve been thinking about you all  

day, you know.”  

Simon sat uncertainly on a chair. “Really?” He tried to  

relax; to force a smile.  

“I was hoping you’d come back, but you didn’t. So I’ve been  

thinking about you instead. I do that sometimes. I wonder  

about some blokes—you know, if I would like them?”  

Simon nodded, but was tongue‐tied. “I—I’ve been thinking  

about you too.”  

She dipped her face. “Well—Simon; what would you like?   

Simon felt himself reddening. “I’m not sure? Can we talk a  

bit more?”  

The girl gave him a sad smile and cupped his fingers  

between her hands. “Look sweetie, talk costs just the same. I  

don’t set the rules, I just do my job.”  She studied him. “Are  

you in trouble?”  

“Only with myself. Look_ it doesn’t matter. What about  

later—afterwards—what about when you’re not working?”  

She shook her head. “We’re not allowed to meet anyone  

outside. I’d get arrested for soliciting. That’s the  

arrangement—unless you drive out to Orabanda. The girls go  

there on Sundays. It’s an abandoned mining town, but still has  

a pub. We can meet friends there—that’s if I decide you are a  

friend.”  

“I’ll be gone by then—.” His voice drifted. “So what do you  

do the rest of the time?”  

“Read, watch videos—count the days before I’ve earned  

enough money.”  

“Can I ask why you do this?’  

“Does it matter?”  

243

He shook his head carefully.  

“Well, let’s just say it pays. Now, what have you decided?  

Time is money, love.”  

His voice was hoarse. “What do you recommend?”   

“I recommend I give you a nice massage. How does that  

sound?”  

He swallowed with difficulty and nodded. His chest was  

pounding. He put his fingers to his throat which had turned  

painfully dry. “It’s silly, I know—you and me, a bed, it’s all  

here waiting for me—but, well to be frank, I’m terrified.”  

She looked at him with a puzzled expression.   

He patted his neck and grinned self‐consciously. “Sweating  

like a pig.”  

The first flicker of impatience crossed her face. “Look, give  

me sixty to start with and we’ll take it from there. I’ll get you a  

drink—scotch, orange juice, cup of coffee?”  

“Service with a smile, eh?”  

She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. He  

drank in her perfume and the spongy feel of her lips. If only he  

could hold the moment; package it and carry it away so he  

could take his own time to peel away the inhibitions and  

fears. He tugged his wallet free and withdrew the money,  

noticing that after having paid the hotel for another night he  

didn’t have too much left.  

“I’d like a coffee—no, a whisky.”  

“Okay. Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.”  

Simon looked around the room, his eyes now accustomed  

to the low light. It was drab and depressing. He bent to undo  

his shoelace, and stopped. Car doors slammed out in the  

street, followed by ribald banter. Locals, miners perhaps.  

They sounded carefree and familiar. Someone made a wolf  

whistle. Simon sat upright and the full weight of the situation  

suddenly hit him. He stood and walked resolutely to the door,  

but baulked at the prospect of meeting the new arrivals. He  

turned back to the inner door through which the girl had  

244

disappeared. He assumed there would have to be a back door.  

He opened the door and entered a hallway. There was a door  

at the far end to the right. He hurried towards it just as Cheryl  

appeared from a side room holding his whisky.  

“What are you doing here. Customers aren’t allowed here.”  

“I’ve got to go—sorry.”  

He started to push past and the end door opened.  

“My God.” The woman met Simon’s face. They stared at  

each other in disbelief.   

Cheryl looked from her employer to the man and back  

again. “You know each other?”  

“We sure do sweetie.”  

“Muriel,” said Simon lamely.  

“He’s the strange guy I told you about last night,” said the  

girl. She glanced at Simon with an apologetic smile.  

Muriel took a deep breath. “That figures.” Then her face  

relaxed. “You are bloody hopeless Simon.” She turned to the  

girl. “Be a love Cheryl and make some coffee. We’ll be in my  

sitting room.” Muriel stepped forward and took Simon’s arm.  

“Come on.”  

They faced each other from the padded depths of two large,  

leather upholstered chairs. Simon stared glumly at the floor.  

“Well,” Muriel opened. “Long way to drive just for a bit of  

sly sex Simon.”  

His face was still burning. He lifted his eyes. “I came here  

by accident and then—the situation just started to get out of  

hand.”  

Muriel smiled mirthlessly. “Well thank God for that. At least  

you’re man enough to be turned on by a woman.”  

He shrugged and gazed around the room. It looked like the  

front display of an antique store. It was lavishly furnished  

with a table and dresser of polished timber, a sideboard with  

crystal tumblers and a decanter; the chairs they were sitting  

in, and exquisite tapestries over the windows to hide it all  

from the world outside.  

245

“So this is the business—?”  

“Yes. I didn’t have enough for an establishment in the city,  

and here’s the only other place where the industry has a  

preseence. I’m going to renovate—get rid of those awful  

starting stalls out the front.”  

“I suppose I should be disapproving.”  

“For Christ’s sake, why? I never took you for a hypocrite.  

Besides they’re good girls in what is, in fact, a very biblical  

business.”  

He started to chew a fingernail and said nothing. She  

watched him.  

“You might not like to admit it Simon, but we’re in the same  

trade. We just have a different approach.”  

He dropped his hand. “In what way?”  

“It’s a fact. You think religion is what is needed to keep the  

world in harmony. Personally, I can’t think of anything that  

causes more misery, destruction and general bastardry. No,  

it’s nature which keeps us in order, and sex is the hub on  

which it all turns.” Muriel smiled. “So Simon, I’m the sex  

professional and you’re the professional celibate. An  

interesting polarity, don’t you think?”  

Simon sighed as Cheryl entered the room carrying a tray  

with porcelain cups and a silver jug. She placed it on a side  

table.  

Muriel smiled at her. “Thanks sweetie.” The girl looked at  

Simon. She offered him a fleeting smile then left.  

“Milk?”  

He nodded. “Do you think badly of me—for being here?”  

Muriel laughed. “What sort of question is that?” She leaned  

towards him, passing a cup. “But I am curious—what would  

have happened if I hadn’t showed up? Cheryl is a gorgeous  

girl—and talented. If it’s your first time she would have been  

good for you—would it have been?”  

246

He felt his cheeks flush again and he tried to make light of  

the question. “The way the clock seemed to be ticking through  

my money I don’t know how far I’d have got.”  

“You are avoiding the question. You are avoiding the whole  

issue—again.”  

“What issue?”  

“The issue of why? Why you are so exasperating? Why you  

are so afraid of being honest?”  

Simon replaced his cup on the table and collapsed back  

into the chair. “I was trying to find myself. It sounds clichéd,  

but it’s true. I’ve been trying to reach inside me; as a man. As a  

priest I seem to have lost touch with who and what I am.” He  

hesitated and studied the floor thoughtfully before  

continuing. “I was excited more than I would normally dare  

admit when you phoned me. I felt like a tongue‐tied  

seventeen‐year‐old at the restaurant. I did wonder what it  

would be like to have a woman in my life. Just because I’m a  

priest doesn’t stop me thinking like that. When I was  

ordained, in my twenties, the vow of celibacy didn’t seem so  

onerous. My ideals were a strong enough antidote. It’s only as  

I get older that I wonder—and feel lonely. But I don’t know,  

you see, if this is just a result of my difficulties in the church,  

or if it is something deeper—something more fundamentally  

human. That’s what I need to find out—but I’m afraid of  

falling into a hole too deep to ever climb out again. Last night,  

when I found this place, Cheryl touched me—that deep part of  

me. All she did was hold my hand but it felt very, very nice. It  

probably sounds juvenile to you, but that’s how it was. I  

suppose I just came back to see if it was real or a dream.”  

Muriel left her chair and sat on the padded arm of Simon’s.  

“How old were you when you joined the church?”  

“Eighteen—well, seventeen really.”  

“Surely that answers the question. The world has changed.  

Your church has changed. Everyone is fucking, making money,  

247

doing deals, being ambitious, including bishops and priests,  

but I think you still cling to your adolescent ideals.”  

“You make the world sound sick.”  

“No. It’s healthy. It’s called life; explosions of chaos and  

energy. Nature is sometimes cruel, but that cruelty develops  

survivors. I know what I’m talking about Simon.”  

“You sound cynical, not wise.”  

“Is there a difference? Look. Take Father Rantz. I bet he’s a  

real hero in the church. I bet they talk about what a good man  

he is.”  

“Was. He died about two months ago—there was a notice  

in the Weekly.”  

“Then he’s rotting in hell for what he did at Gunwinddu,  

but I bet your bishop reckons he was a saint. I bet he also  

doesn’t know why he wanted to leave Gunwinddu all of a  

sudden.”  

“He wanted to retire and return to Rome—a lot of older  

priests do. It’s a reinforcement; a chance to be reassured that  

your life and work wasn’t for nothing.”  

 “Well I don’t know what good it would have done him.  

Remember the girl who used to mind the store from time to  

time?”  


“Well Rantz banished her to the widows’ camp because she  

was pregnant—he was the cause, and she wouldn’t have been  

the first. He left when we threatened to expose him—after he  

had started getting all inquisitive about Fred’s accounting  

procedures. Priest or no priest he was a right bastard. The old  

fellows held a corroboree one night to celebrate a wedding.  

Rantz marched in with an iron bar, belting people in a blind  

rage. There’s your holy man for you. The next day he went  

from house to house in the truck collecting all the men’s  

spears, throwing sticks, ceremonial shields, paints and  

destroyed everything on a huge fire which he made everyone  

witness. That was a bit before my time, but Fred was there.”  

248

“And did nothing.”  

“That’s right. Survivors don’t volunteer for nature’s  

experiments.”  

“And is Fred a survivor? Has he survived?”  

She stood and returned to her own chair, anger  

withholding the caress she had wanted to give. “I don’t know.  

I’ve lost contact with Gunwinddu except for a letter from Karl  

before I came up here. Actually he wrote more about you than  

about what was happening there. He said he was going to  

come south to see you about ‘certain matters’. Did he?”  

Simon shook his head. “No, but I think there’s been  

something troubling him for a long time. I liked Karl.”   

“Did you like me?”  

The question caught him off‐guard.  

“Of course—you know that.”  

“Even though I was living in sin; that I was exploiting  

people; even though I now run a brothel?”  

“I’ve never put myself in the role of judge.”  

The woman scoffed. “But you have an opinion surely?”  

The criticism stiffened his lips. “You were kind to them.  

Money is irrelevant when measured against a little  

compassion.”  

Muriel stood up and paced to the curtained window.  

“Simon, as a man you have some special qualities. As a priest  

you are full of shit.”  

He blinked in surprise.  

She turned from the curtain and faced him. “You dole out  

platitudes to everybody else, but you won’t take a good hard  

look at yourself. Aren’t you allowed to forgive yourself?”   

“Forgive myself—for what?”  

“For fucking up your life with this holy fantasy you’re  

trying to live.”  

“It’s not a fantasy.”  

“It is!”  

249

Simon stood, retaliating with wounded pride. “You don’t  


“You’re damn right I don’t. You come barging back into my  

life, stirring up all sorts of memories and hopes, and I can’t  

even touch you. You’re so brittle that I’m scared you’ll break if  

I so much as breathe on you.”  

Simon swallowed. “Muriel it’s not that simple. I’m hanging  

over an abyss. I can’t let go. I’ll fall into nothingness, and I’m  

terrified of that more than anything else.”  

“What if there is someone to catch you—to hold you?”  

He nodded. “I know what you’re saying—but I’m a married  

man. I’m married to the church.”  

Muriel rolled her eyes pleadingly. “Jesus Christ. Well have a  

bloody affair then.”  

Simon shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know.”  

Muriel moved closer. “When was the last time someone  

held you? I bet it hasn’t been since you were a little boy—no  

one can live like that Simon.” She wrapped her arms around  

him. “I’ve been wanting to do this for a long, long time.” She  

lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m not going to steal you  

from your church, just show you some real love—human  

love.”  

  

It seemed like a dream, except the reality was a large bed  

with soft pillows, the cocktail of perfumes and skin creams,  

and the soft trail of a finger running along his arm. He could  

feel Muriel’s hair against his back and suddenly wondered if  

he had discovered the beauty of mortality. His whole life had  

been devoted to the guesswork of eternity, but now he had  

touched something precious and finite; something about his  

life which could be measured.  

“You’re thinking.”  

“Hmmm.”  

She held him tighter. “What about?”  

“Your hopeless confession that day.”  

250

“I thought I was saying goodbye.”  

“And I told you to stay away from married men.”  

“Well I prayed otherwise, and my prayer has been  

answered. That must mean something mustn’t it?”  

“It must.”  

When the sun filtered through the curtains he slipped from  

the bed and quietly dressed. Muriel watched through half‐ 

closed eyes and smiled. She turned to face the side of the bed  

he had vacated. His wristwatch sat forgotten on the bedside  

chest; ticking.  

  

Simon stepped furtively into the bright early morning light.  

The street was deserted and he began to walk quickly, feeling  

nervous and exposed until he was into the next block. The  

town was silent. The sun was low and white, forcing him to  

shield his eyes. It would take time, perhaps, to understand the  

enormity of the night, but for the moment he was free of the  

panic and despair which had encased him before. Muriel had  

given him a new canvas on which to paint a future. This alone  

was something new to consider.  

A resonant thud beneath his feet reminded him of the life  

and industry which tunnelled and blasted below. A strange  

town. Its reason for living buried deep underground,  

requiring superhuman effort to be hauled to the surface and  

given life. ‘Perhaps that’s me,’ he mused.  

A few cars crawled along the main street and two  

policemen patrolled the empty footpaths. He watched as they  

passed. They showed no interest in him. He was unshaven  

and unkempt, but white. Simon paused by the bronze statue  

of an Irish itinerant, Patrick ‘Paddy’ Hannan, immortalized as  

the man who discovered gold here and was thus responsible  

for this outpost of European culture which otherwise might  

not exist.  

He read the plaque. The Irishman had walked to this place  

over a distance that modern people would find extreme even  

251

for a car or train. But he had been well rewarded for the  

effort, picking up one hundred ounces of nuggets that were  

simply lying on the ground.  

Simon wondered how much more bloody would have been  

the settlement by whites had the Aborigines put any value on  

the metal. He smiled wryly as the story on the plaque  

unfolded. A great fuss had been made of Paddy. Those who  

had flocked to the news of his discovery and made their  

fortunes planted a tree at the site of his find and later cast this  

statue—but as for the man; it seemed the search meant more  

to him than the result. He lived out his years on the other side  

of the country, surviving on a special government pension  

awarded in gratitude for having made so many others  

wealthy.  

Simon cast his mind back, trying to imagine the man. Out  

here he would have been a long way from the rest of  

humankind, not just of the fledgling settlements far behind  

him on the coast. It would have taken great courage; or  

perhaps he too had fallen under the spell of the antiquity of  

the red land. He had a sudden yearning to sleep a night under  

the stars, perhaps a few nights, out with the dingoes and  

wallabies with a small fire and wood smoke for company. He  

smiled with anticipation.  

He stepped into the cafe where he had had his evening  

meal. It was hard to believe it was just a matter of hours since  

he was last there. He ordered coffee and opened his wallet.  

Three twenty dollar notes were wrapped inside a slip of  

notepaper. ‘Love, M’.  

  

252

Chapter Fifteen  

  

Simon browsed through the stock and station agency,  

choosing carefully.   

He picked out a small backpack with straps across  

the top to hold a light groundsheet and a blanket. He  

added a small cooking pan, a billy for boiling water, an  

enamel mug, plastic water bottle, nylon cord, a heavy  

steel knife with a flat hammering butt, some trace wire,  

pliers and a gas cigarette lighter. He returned the gear to  

the hotel, then sought out the supermarket. He could  

almost taste already the damper and aroma of roasting  

rabbit. Flour, salt, mixed herbs, rice, dehydrated  

vegetables, a packet of tea, and aniseed oil for bait. Back  

at the hotel he packed the rucksack and checked out.  

The girl plucked the key from his outstretched hand.  

“Room okay?”  


“Oh—well, the cleaner was askin’.”  

Simon hurried outside.  

Cumalong. He had always wanted to explore it fully  

and now was the chance. It had been too far from the  

homestead, a name only mentioned in the driest seasons  

when the stock were dispersed into the distant  

bushland to feed themselves. From Kalgoorlie it was  

about sixty kilometres. Simon decided to walk, to tread  

the red earth. There was a road that serviced nickel  

mines in the area, so he expected to be able to hitch a  

ride. If none was offered, it didn’t mater. He would camp  

at the end of the day, regardless.  

He hoisted the pack onto his back and under a broad‐ 

brimmed hat began to walk. For half an hour he trod  

along dusty streets beneath towering mullock heaps.  

Through the course of a century of mining they had  

grown into large flat‐topped mountains. By midday he  

253

was following a red gravel road which stretched in a  

ruler‐straight line to the horizon.  

High in the white sky hawks glided on hot  

shimmering currents. Every so often well‐worn wheel  

tracks angled off into the scrub. It was always a wonder  

where they went and who used them. Prospectors  

probably. Scattered through the thin, low trees were  

yellow and brown mounds, the remains of past diggings.  

Simon had been walking for about two hours when  

he heard the rumble of a vehicle on the road behind him.  

He turned and waved. A utility slowed and stopped. He  

lifted his pack into the back and climbed into the front  

seat. The driver was about his own age, dressed in faded  

denims and wearing a sleeveless cotton shirt.  

“Goin’ far?”  

“Cumalong.”  

“Goin’ right past—you know there’s nothin’ there  

don’t ya?”  

“Yes.”  

“Well, so long as you know. Me name’s Mick.”  


“Pleased to meet ya.”  

Mick spun the wheels, spraying gravel and dust and  

Simon watched the scrubby landscape gather speed.   

“Stayin’ there long?”  

“Probably just a day.”  

“Well, if you wanna lift back to town, I’m comin’ back  

tomorrow. Just stand out where I can see ya.”  

“Thanks.”  

“Rock kicker?”  

Simon glanced at the man who was staring hard  

through the dust‐smeared windscreen. If only he knew,  

he thought. Simon Bradbury, run‐away priest. What  

would he say to that?  

254

“Yeah,” he replied, and returned his gaze to the  

flickering bush.  

Forty minutes later Simon was standing in the shade  

of a tree watching the utility’s dust‐cloud snake towards  

the melting horizon. He flapped a hand in front of his  

face. Flies. How one forgot their incessant  

companionship in the city. He lifted his wrist to check  

the time, and remembered where he had left his watch.  

 Simon followed the faint remnants of a road which  

curved around the base of a low, scrubby hill pock‐ 

marked with mullock heaps. The town had been built on  

a flat below the hill. Now only scattered bricks and  

sheets of flaking brown iron, mostly the remains of  

water tanks, marked its existence; plus a gnarled  

ornamental cactus indicating the site of a long‐gone  

garden. He passed another memorial, the rusted,  

bulbous form of an old boiler. They were a common  

sight still for anyone who ventured into the Australian  

bush where settlers had toiled for two and three  

generations before a vengeful land drove them back to  

the coast. The boilers were the skeletal remains of giant  

steam engines used to turn trees to timber; bushland  

into an agricultural graveyard.  

It was about two kilometres to his destination, the  

site of an earthen banked dam built early in the century  

to supply the town with water. The bore feeding it had  

been maintained over the years by graziers, including  

his father for a time, as a remote water supply for stray  

or dispersed stock. Simon hoped it still worked.  

As he stepped among the bones of this failed attempt  

at human habitation he felt the aloneness he was  

seeking begin to stroke his senses. It came like a warm  

breath from invisible lips, carrying just a hint of fear; a  

slight nervousness at the actual reality of being alone.  

There were no footprints, no sounds to suggest another  

255

living person had been here for sixty years. He stumbled  

and fell as his feet caught a twisted strand of rusted  

fencing wire.  

“Fixed the shepherds too,” he muttered as he got back  

to his feet and dusted his knees. His voice was barely a  

whisper, but loud enough to make him anxious. He  

looked around to see if he had disturbed anybody.  

Crazy. Well he would have to get used to it. Out here a  

man only had himself and God to talk to. He tossed the  

offending wire aside; unaware of being watched.  

From the top of the bleak, windswept hill, casting a  

shadow as spindly as the wiry salmon gums around her,  

stood an old woman. She leaned awkwardly on a stick,  

legs bowed by age and the obstruction of a grubby cast  

which encased the right limb. She wore a faded red  

cardigan over a wrap of dark felt, heavy enough to keep  

out the wind, and bound at the waist with a length of  

frayed rope. Her feet were only partially hidden inside a  

pair of discoloured sneakers which had no laces and no  

toes. She watched expressionless, her eyes squinting  

beneath the upturned front of a broad‐brimmed  

patterned hat. As Simon continued towards the dam her  

face lightened and she chuckled quietly. The old woman  

slapped her thigh.  

“Devil—Devil, Devil, Devil,” she sang in clipped,  

chirping notes.  

A young goat trotted to her side and she ran her  

fingers along its neck.  

“He’s here,” she said. The goat bleated, and her lips  

stretched in a tight smile. Simon disappeared behind a  

clump of thin, grey trees and the old woman turned  

away. She began to tread back down the hidden side of  

the hill towards a distant shanty, her braced leg  

swinging in painful arcs away from her frail body. The  

256

goat kept close behind, its hooves scudding little clouds  

of dust.  

  

Simon selected a site on the bank of the dam where  a  

small grotto had been formed by cotton palms and  

weeping willows. Water trickled into the dam from a  

heavy plastic pipe connected to a noisy, galvanized  

windmill. A second, smaller pipe, not much larger than a  

garden hose, trailed over the wall and disappeared into  

the distance towards the hill. He gazed at it for a  

moment, wondering if it led to a stock trough or a  

prospector’s camp on the other side. He shrugged. It  

didn’t really matter. He looked about. Nothing much had  

changed in—he tried to remember. It must be  

nineteen—twenty years. The windmill, though, had  

seemed such an enormous structure then. Now it was a  

fragile tangle of iron and flapping tin.  

Simon busied himself. A busy man was less easily  

panicked by the enormity of this aloneness.   

He plucked a handful of the grass growing near the  

water’s edge, took his pack to a stand of white gums  

about forty metres from the opposite bank and began  

working on a snare. The droppings of rabbits, drawn to  

the water, littered the area. He collected several strong  

sticks then selected a thin sapling. He stripped its  

branches and pulled it over in a tight arch, and marked  

the ground beneath its crown with his toe. Using the  

knife he cut several other sticks to make a simple trigger  

assembly that would released the bent sapling when a  

rabbit took the bait. He chewed the grass into a wad and  

smeared it with the aniseed oil. This was skewered on a  

bait stick held precariously in place by the upward pull  

of the tethered sapling. When a rabbit dislodged the bait  

stick, it released the sapling which sprag back,  

tightening a trace‐wire noose around the rabbit’s legs.  

257

It was a simple snare, one taught to him a lifetime  

earlier by his father. He returned to the grotto and  

scrounged for firewood. The heap on the edge of his  

camp mounted. Sweat matted his hair and oiled his  

body. His hands began to sting; too soft for too long. In  

the final moments of daylight he stripped from his  

soiled clothes and stepped into the brown water. The  

bank dipped sharply, allowing him to float and avoid the  

slimy bottom. It was spring in the south, but here the  

seasons were less distinct. It was already warm enough  

to stay naked while his clothes aired and his skin dried.  

It was a pleasant feeling; a freedom. He thought of  

Muriel. He closed his eyes and recalled her scent, her  

skin; her whispered assurances.  

Simon coaxed the fire, carefully building a bed of  

coals, and smiled. He was enjoying himself and the only  

guilt was a nagging inner suggestion that he should be  

condemning himself. Simon Bradbury the priest had, for  

the moment, made way for Simon Bradbury the man.  

The man didn’t need to have come from anywhere, nor  

have anywhere to go.   

The night pressed against the tiny pool of firelight. He  

had used his billy to mix flour with boiled water from  

the dam and the dough was now becoming damper in  

the hot sand beneath the coals. There was no sound  

from the area of the snare and he wished he’d bought a  

torch. As the darkness and the silence beyond the fire  

became complete he started to lose his bravado. The  

firelight made him feel exposed. There was a chilling  

sensation of being watched. Several times he almost  

called out, but with each nervous flutter became too  

scared even to use his voice. There was something or  

someone behind him, he was sure. But he grew too  

frightened to look.  

258

He was spooking himself and was ashamed. His first  

night and already he was longing for a lighted room  

with four walls.  

“I need this,” he told himself. He made the whispers  

harsh and condemning.  

He pressed his fists into the ground, ready for an  

argument with which to distract himself. “But why—?  

He gazed around defiantly. “Because the fear is inside  

me, not out there. Not good enough. Why are you here?”  

He spat into the fire. “Because I’ve lost my mind.”  

He whispered the answer lightly, almost  

conversationally, but began to turn the idea over. He  

reflected on his conflict with MacNamara, on his  

stubbornness at Gunwinddu. What was it Karl had  

said—“Ah, but you will”. He had argued he didn’t need  

to answer to others. Was that because he didn’t know  

who or what Simon Bradbury was?  

He stared dolefully at the flames as they licked dead  

branches. He poked with a stick, sending a fine spray of  

sparks into the night.  

“Perhaps there really is something wrong with me?  

Why do I fight when others happily drift? Why do I  

disrupt when others accept—what germ of malcontent  

has infected my mind?”  He jabbed the stick into the  

sand and paused to consider this. “Am I a little mad—or  

a lot mad?” MacNamara had accused him of losing touch  

with reality. He thought about this. Who was he to say  

the Bishop was wrong—how did an unbalanced man  

know these things? Had he become obsessed with the  

Aborigines? He didn’t think so, but others did. “You’re  

obsessed,” MacNamara had declared.  

Simon chuckled mirthlessly. It was funny really. He  

had always thought the Bishop the one who had grown  

unbalanced; perverted by his authority. It had not  

occurred to him that the disorder might be himself. He  

259

looked around the small pool of light and his eyes  

narrowed as he weighed up the evidence. “I left—ran  

without a word. Nobody knows where I am. I’ve been to  

a brothel and bedded the madam. Now I’m sitting out on  

the edge of infinity scared senseless by bogeymen. Dear  

God Almighty!”   

A line from the book of Samuel touched his lips:  

“Oh—I have played the fool, and have erred  

exceedingly.”  

He moaned with self‐pity. His mind was all he owned.  

If he accepted now, after all this time, that it was flawed,  

what was left? He stared again into the dark. Was death  

his destiny? Is that what had drawn him to this place? A  

final call to the place of his childhood; to his own soil?  

He looked anxiously at the knife lying on the sand. Its  

metal glinted bright and red in the firelight.  

From the dark the old lady watched the flames  

dancing on the man’s face. Even at a distance she could  

sense his fear.  

“How the city shrivels them,” she murmured.  

Still, she had seen enough. Satisfied that he intended  

to stay, she hobbled away. From the location of the  

snare came the snap of wood and a terrible, rending  

squeal. Her lips parted in the semblance of a grin. “Bon  

appetit,” she muttered with a wry chuckle.  

Simon’s innards jumped and he stood up quickly. He  

shook his head and growled, “For heaven’s sake snap  

out of it man.” He stamped his feet, reassured by the  

sound and firmness, but wishing now that he had never  

set the damn trap. He peered into the night then picked  

up the knife.  

The rabbit danced at the end of the cord tied to the  

sapling, it’s squeal of pain filling the night. Simon cut the  

cord and the animal dropped to the ground, bouncing as  

it tried to run with its feet bound by the trace‐wire.  

260

Simon bent to his hands and knees. He touched fur, but  

it shied from his grasp. He scrambled after the squeal  

and finally his fingers closed around the pathetic  

bundle. The rabbit twisted desperately as he felt for the  

thin neck. Using the butt of the knife he clubbed the  

skull and the night was suddenly his own again. He had  

caught a meal, but no longer had the appetite to eat.  

Simon slit the skin on the hind legs then peeled the  

fur down and over the body. He opened a small cut in  

the underside, just enough to slip two fingers inside,  

then using these to guide the knife he opened the  

stomach and chest cavity careful not to pierce the gut.  

He prepared the carcass without enthusiasm, but felt a  

sense of duty to the animal he had killed. It would be  

unconscionable to just leave it to rot. He buried the  

carcass under the hot coals near the damper. This is  

what he had come to do, he reminded himself. If it had  

made sense in the sober light of day, then it would again  

tomorrow.   

Later, Simon lay with his back to the low fire and  

could make out the shadows of trees. Above, the  

heavens glinted with breathtaking radiance. Away from  

urban lights the night sky was filled with the presence of  

faraway constellations.  

“There’s got to be an answer there somewhere.” He  

closed his eyes and let the desert breeze play across his  

face. It carried the perfume of hot sands, of eucalyptus  

vapours and desert wattles. It was dry and gentle on his  

skin. And the night was no longer silent. It pulsed to the  

incantation of crickets and other unseen life. As sleep  

approached, he heard the first soft pad of a kangaroo  

passing warily to drink at the dam.  

Simon rose with the dawn. He raked the coals  

beneath a pyre of twigs and blew gently until a ripple of  

flames danced across the embers and caught on the new  

261

wood. As he breakfasted on rabbit meat and a mug of  

black tea he greeted the sun with a smile. He had  

survived his phantoms and the morning had brought  

new courage.  

The day was announced formally by the whip‐crack  

cry of butcher birds. He remembered waking to their  

shrill calls as a child, and he looked into the surrounding  

trees with a fondness and longing for that past.  

Simon decided to spend the day exploring the town.  

It intrigued him that so many people, all with hopes and  

dreams, had once lived here. And he, like a god, knew  

their future; could pick it over with dispassionate  

leisure. A graveyard of bricks, iron and broken glass,  

was all that remained. The red earth had promised so  

much and yielded so little.  

He knew a little of the story. Cumalong had been a  

sizable town with boarding houses, hotels, a brewery,  

and even wine saloons. Some five thousand people lived  

there at its height. The town died when its young  

diggers responded to the call of a dying empire and left  

for the Dardanelles, for France and for Palestine— 

places which for most would have been nothing more  

than names on schoolroom maps. But they marched to  

the beat of a British drum and deposited their bones and  

dreams on foreign soil, while a young country deprived  

of its best and bravest tried to understand why.  

No one returned to Cumalong and those who had  

lingered finally gave up. His father had said the old‐ 

timers called the place IOU. “—By the time they left, the  

ground owed them all, and everybody owed each other”.  

Simon was squatting on the water’s edge, rinsing his  

mug and dish when he felt an intuitive chill down his  

spine. This time, he knew he was not alone. He stared at  

the water with dread.  

262

“Lovely morning. Going to be a nice day—always is  

this time of year.”  

Simon turned and slowly stood. There was an old  

woman on the bank smiling toothlessly down at him.  

“Had your breakfast I see. Pity. I was going to invite  

you up.”  

Simon remained mute.  

“Well, not to worry,” she continued. “So! Did you have  

a comfortable night? You’ve picked a good spot; bit of  

shelter.” She nodded in approval.  

“Where did you come from?” he asked. His voice  

wavered with uncertainty as though he was still not  

sure whether to believe his eyes.  

She leaned awkwardly on her stick to twist her body  

and nod in the direction of the hill. “Over there. Got a  

nice little place—I was born there you know.”  

Simon stood and walked slowly up the bank. He  

towered above her. She was as diminutive as she looked  

frail.  

“How long ago was that?” he asked, incredulous.  

“Eighty‐five years—or about that anyway. I stayed,  

you see. Everybody went, but I stayed. This was a good  

town.”  

Simon shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”  

The old lady chuckled. “It’s my home. When you’ve  

got a home you don’t leave just because others do.” Her  

voice rose and fell with the uneven pitch of old age.  

Sometimes it was high, excited, and then it fell,  

becoming gravely and wistful. “When I was a girl I went  

to Perth—just for a year. My mum wanted me to be a  

pianist. We had a piano and I was pretty good—or so  

people used to tell me. They might just have been being  

nice.”  

Simon glanced at the gnarled fingers clutching the  

walking stick.  

263

 “Ah, but it was terrible there, so I came back. It’s nice  

here. Peaceful. And of course I’ve got my goats—used to  

have hundreds once, but only a few now. Can’t catch the  

little ones like I could—getting old you know.”  

Simon remembered the stories from his boyhood.  

“You’re the goat lady—you’re real?”  

She waved her stick at him, her voice rising with  

indignation. “Of course I’m real. Do you think I’d be here  

if I wasn’t? Bah, you young blokes. You’re all the same. I  

knew a young fellow once, nice chap. Married him. Ah,  

he was going to show me the world. But the shaft fell— 

still there today he is, but I don’t visit anymore. Used to  

leave flowers every spring, but they’d blow away and  

now I can’t be bothered—can’t be bothered.”  

“I’m sorry.”  

“Hmmph. Must be close to sixty years now. Still, at  

least he stayed young. Not like me. Look at this leg.” She  

tapped the cast with her stick. It was ingrained with dirt.  

“Arthritis.” She spat into the sand at her feet. “Cruel  

thing sometimes and all I can do is take a Disprin. Still,  

you’ve got to expect that don’t you when you’re old?”  

“My name is Simon.”  

She nodded. “The young Bradbury chappie.”  

Simon’s eyebrows shot up. “How could you know  

that?”  

She waved the stick again. “Oh—doesn’t matter. But I  

knew you would come back—been expecting you  

really.”  

Simon smiled disbelievingly. “Impossible.”  

She just chuckled. “Ah well—,” and let him wonder.  

“Ada. That’s the name my mother gave me,” she said  

while he still stared at her. “You use it. Would you like to  

see the town. We might not have long you know.”  

Simon frowned. Did she intend suddenly to die?  


264

“Well—they’ll be looking for you won’t they?”  

“Who?”  

“The people you’re hiding from.” She chuckled,  

making a cackling sound. “Come on.”  

Simon followed obediently, still bemused. He found it  

difficult at first to walk  slow enough to keep pace with  

her awkward gait.  

“My dad had this dam built, you know—to keep the  

dust down. With everyone digging the place up—well,  

you can imagine the dust. Terrible it was. My mum  

complained most and dad was the mayor then so he had  

the dam built. I was only little, but I remembered when  

we planted the trees—the willows and palms. Arbor  

Day it was. Oh, it was such a long time ago. I was only  

little.”  

Simon was fascinated. “Your father was a miner?”  

Ada shook her head. “No, no. Ran the store—and a  

few other things. Just there—.” She pointed towards the  

bottom of the slope they were climbing. “Dad had a  

gallon licence—to sell beer you know, and a gold  

buyer’s licence. The store was always busy, always  

people coming in and out—and they all owed him  

money. He sailed all the way from England and died a  

poor man just the same.”  

She shook her head as if she still didn’t understand it.  

They walked slowly through the skinny, pale salmon  

gums casting string‐like shadows in the early morning  

sun, until Ada stopped on the rise overlooking the site of  

the town centre. Her finger pointed from left to right  

and back again as she spoke; to debris, mounds of earth  

and patches of bare ground. But in her mind she could  

still see the town as it had been.  

“That’s where old Mr Cohen, Jim, had the hotel— 

burned down and he took over the butcher shop from  

Jack Curtis and moved in there. I was twelve when the  

265

hotel burned down. Poor old fellow, he died—that was a  

bit later. Well, he wouldn’t go to the doctor—wouldn’t  

go, and he was always complaining about his throat.  

“I used to say to him, ‘Mr Cohen why don’t you go to  

the doctor and get him to have a look?’ Bah—he won’t  

be no good to me, he used to say. He was afraid, you see.  

I think he knew it was the cancer, but he didn’t want  

anyone to tell him—.  

“Well he got worse and worse and worse. I said to my  

husband, ‘old Jim’s pretty bad’ and I started going down  

in the mornings to light his fire for him. It was winter.  

Oh, the wind was cruel. I went down one morning and  

he was lying in a trance, just making strange noises. I  

ran to the store to telephone the ambulance in  

Kalgoorlie, but he wouldn’t go—managed to say a few  

words just before the end. Said he wanted to stay put, to  

die here—well he did—that very day. He was a nice old  

chap—I think he might have been Jewish—but it doesn’t  

matter now does it? Would you like a cup of tea? I  

haven’t had one yet. The day doesn’t seem right unless it  

starts with a brew, don’t you think?”  

Simon nodded. “Yes.”  

He followed her, staring into the distance beyond the  

town to the plain stretching out in mottled reds and  

browns and grey‐greens. A purple shadow suggested  

some hills far away, but otherwise the earth was flat. He  

wondered what lay beyond the horizon. Just rocks and  

plants and bush animals? Or people still? Hiding;  

waiting for modern man to destroy himself with his  

conceit? Waiting for the time when it would be safe to  

return to the land that the aliens from Europe had  

destroyed?  

Ada followed his gaze. “Lovely isn’t it? I used to ride a  

horse, bareback—loved to gallop as fast as we could.  

When you’re a bit scared and your face is pressed  

266

against that big, strong neck and you’re flying into the  

wind—you know you’re alive—couldn’t do it now of  

course.”  

At the bottom of the slope, sheltered from the desert  

wind, was Ada’s house. A simple structure of asbestos  

sheeting capped with a corrugated iron roof. Its outer  

walls were piled high with almost a century of  

accumulated rubbish—bed frames, broken furniture, a  

mountain of cardboard boxes, buckets, drums and  

discarded clothing. “Like a Blacks’ camp”. The words  

were inside his head before he could suppress them.  

Ada saw his look. “Don’t get many visitors, so I can’t  

be bothered anymore—can’t be bothered.”  

Simon said nothing.  

She pushed open a heavy iron door and fumbled for  

matches to light a smoke‐stained kerosene lamp  

hanging from a length of stiff wire. The place was a  

shambles. He banged his head on an empty bird cage.  

The walls were piled high with old newspapers, and  

empty cereal packets. Ada slid back the hatch of a wood  

stove and puffed life back into the embers then thrust a  

fist full of sticks through the opening. “It’ll have to be  

black—too much trouble trying to keep milk fresh.”  

“That’s fine—so how long have you been here?”  

“Like I said. All my life. Had a little stone and wood  

house first, but the rocks started to fall out of the walls.  

So some fellows came out from town one day and put up  

this place. But that was thirty years ago, you know. The  

young blokes from the mines still call in to see I’m okay  

and bring me things from town. They’re good that  

way—much nicer to me here than if I was in town.”  

“Were there ever any Aborigines here?”  

The old woman didn’t reply straight away, busy  

wiping two chipped enamel mugs with a cloth, but  

Simon could see her thinking.  

267

“Before my time—there’s a place where quite a few  

were buried. But I don’t go there.”  

“They were murdered, weren’t they.”  

 “Well, it’s the way it was. They would have been in  

the way.”  

The priest stared at the feeble flame dancing inside  

the lamp. “All this land and it still wasn’t enough to  

satisfy settler greed.”  

 Ada watched him for a moment then handed him a mug  

with a tea bag. “Water will be boiled soon. I used to  

make it properly, but can’t be bothered anymore.” Ada  

sat on the only chair, thrusting her braced leg out in  

front. Simon sat on a pile of newspapers. The old woman  

sighed. “Of course it’s not over. A lot of sorrow still to  

come.”   

The kettle whistled and Simon held out his mug.  


“Well, we took this place and then felt pretty cocky  

about it I’d reckon. But they didn’t know what they had  

hurt—the land itself. Well, it died right under their  feet  

didn’t it? That’s what happened to Cumalong. ‘Course  

it’s going to happen everywhere. It’s in the papers  

even—all those droughts and the salt and everything.  

But nobody understands why. Got a theory for  

everything but the truth. Bah!”  

Ada paused to sip her tea. “Every year there are  

Cumalongs dying all over the country. We should have  

learned, but if we don’t understand something we close  

our eyes—sit on the beaches in our cities and pretend  

what’s out here doesn’t matter. But it’s the land that’s  

taking revenge. Nothing can save you if you’ve made the  

land your enemy.”  

 “I’d like to see the town,” Simon said, abruptly.  

268

Ada blinked, startled from her thoughts and made an  

impatient clicking sound. “You young fellows—always  

in a hurry.”  

Simon smiled. “Well it was you who said I might not  

have much time.”  

She grinned crookedly. “True enough. I did didn’t I?”  

She slurped from the cup and placed it on the table  

among the plates and tins. “Come along then.”  

They returned to the top of the slope, followed by a  

small herd of goats. Ada rounded on them and waved  

her hand. “You’ll get fed when I come back—now  

shoosh.” She clapped her hands and they scampered a  

short distance and stopped, watchful.  

As the priest and the old woman moved down into  

the town Ada pointed to a flattened area cut into the  

lower slope of the hill. “This was the school. Mr Greaves  

was our teacher. We liked Mr Greaves even though he  

was terribly, terribly hard to understand. He was  

Scottish, you see. But he went to the war and the  

government closed the school. Don’t know what  

happened to him—we never heard. Well, that’s when I  

got sent to Perth for a bit. Mum and Dad wanted me to  

keep going with the piano—but I came back. I  

remember feeling a bit sad—wondering what was going  

to happen. I was eighteen, and you see I came back  

when most people were leaving. But it was home—this  

hill, and I met my husband. Strange how things turn out  

isn’t it?”  

They walked another few metres and Ada stopped  

again and laughed. “Ha—the dentist was here. He wasn’t  

a real dentist, but he pulled out people’s teeth for them.  

I got sent to him one day—ooh, I’ll never forget that one.  

He sat me in a chair, grabbed the tooth with a pair of  

pliers and pulled. I hung onto that chair like grim death I  

269

can tell you—but I never yelled. I knew the other kids  

were outside waiting to hear me yell.”  

Little by little, with each reflection, with each  

memory and smile, sometimes with a chuckle and  

sometimes with a sigh, Ada drew Simon back in time;  

back into the life that once existed in the vanished town.  

Simon gazed around and could almost see the streets  

and buildings and people; hear the rattle of horses and  

carts, of people calling to each other, children yelling as  

they scampered through the dust, and diggers stopping  

to yarn or trade. The mental image was bright, like the  

over‐exposed tail of a dream disturbed by sunlight.  

As they walked, Ada transformed the town into a  

time capsule of human experience—loves and lovers,  

hatreds, fears, greed, follies, melancholy, joys and  

sorrow. Men, women and children; alive and  

determined in this lonely place, and all now dust in the  

ground.  

In the last decade of the nineteenth century the  

world’s new industrial economies had suffered badly,  

plunging millions everywhere into urban poverty. The  

lure of gold brought men hundreds and sometimes  

thousands of kilometres across land they did not  

understand. Many died for their haste and lack of  

perception. Not far from Cumalong the entire  

population of a diggings perished because the water cart  

from Kalgoorlie broke an axle and was a week late.  

When the water carriers did arrive all they found were  

corpses—almost a hundred people dead of thirst, while  

all around birds and other animals drank daily. In their  

haste to steal the land the conquerors failed to learn its  

secrets.  

Yet still they came. On horseback, on bicycles, and  

pushing hand carts. All confident the land would yield  

up their fortunes. They scratched and burrowed  

270

through the rock of their promised land, and many did  

little more than excavate their own tombs. Even now,  

from where he was standing, Simon could see the  

country all around was littered with thousands of shafts,  

many plummeting thirty metres and more—testimony  

to men’s determination with pick and shovel. Countless  

never returned to sunlight.  

 “Don’t you feel sad that nothing remains?” Simon  

asked.  

Ada shrugged. “Well, a lot of the people I knew are  

still here, you know—over in the cemetery. That’s still  

here. It’s nice—I’ll show you.”  

Clumping along on her braced leg she led Simon  

awkwardly away from the town, back passed the dam  

and on to a track that Ada explained was once a road  

which led to another town, but it had died even before  

Cumalong.  

They walked for about twenty minutes and when Ada  

stopped Simon thought she was merely resting, until he  

noticed with a start that there were headstones  

scattered through the sparse scrub. Some were  

distinguished with ornate marble obelisks. But as he  

began to follow her along the irregular rows Simon  

realised that the great majority were either plain  

wooden crosses with no inscriptions, or just unmarked  

mounds of earth.   

Ada stopped at the foot of one such mound, marked  

only with pieces of white quartz arranged in the shape  

of a crucifix.  

“Madame Gabrielle—she was a real lady, and  

beautiful. She never meant to stay, and look, here she is  

so far from home.”  

Simon stared at the grave. It was just hard red earth  

covered with twigs and leaves. “Who was she?”  

271

“She came from Paris, a governess on a ship. Fell in  

love with some fellow on board and left with him at  

Fremantle to have a little adventure looking for gold. I  

was just a girl when she came, but I remember how  

beautiful she always looked. It was terribly sad. The  

man was killed when a shaft fell in—just like my  

husband.”  

Ada’s body shook as she struggled under the  

memories. “She stayed too. She used to tell us about  

Paris, how beautiful it was in the autumn—how the  

seasons changed there. She used to tell us all her friends  

would get such a surprise when she went back. But she  

never did. You know, apart from me she was the last  

lady in Cumalong. She got terribly sick one day. I don’t  

know what it was, but she was dead just weeks later. I  

sat on her bed and we both cried a lot before she died.  

She didn’t want to die here.”  

Ada stopped and turned to Simon. “ ‘Course there’ll  

be no one to sit on my bed—I’m the only one left.”  

They moved on, Ada pointing occasionally to a  

particular grave. “—That chap died of typhoid—and  

that’s the O’Leary girl. She was only fifteen when she  

died. We had the day off school for the funeral. I  

remember following the cart—the coffin kept bouncing,  

which made some of the kids cry.”  

Simon stopped in front of  a particularly grand  

tombstone:  

In memory of  

John Simpson  

Born Manchester England, 1854  

Died Cumalong, 7 July 1900  

‘And they shall be mine sayeth the Lord of  

Hosts, in that  

day when I make up my jewels and I will spare  

them as  

272

a man spareth his own son that serveth him.’  

  

The day was advancing and the first gusts of warm  

wind moved the trees to murmur sounds of comfort to  

these abandoned souls; forgotten in the space of a single  

lifetime in the hasty retreat from the mysterious,  

uncompromising hinterland.  

  

James R. Henderson  

Accidentally killed 6 April 1900  

‘Flesh may perish, but true friendship will  

endure’  

Erected by his mates.  

  

Some graves were marked with steel spikes and  

metal tags. Most had corroded so the names were no  

longer readable. When the wind gusted the tags rattled  

against the spikes. It was as though the ghosts  

themselves were trying to attract attention—calling to  

the unexpected visitor; asking him to pause by the  

graves and wonder, just for a moment, about the lives  

that had been as real as his.  

  

*  

  

The clubhouse thrummed with talk and laughter.  

Overhead the blades of ceilings fans, great slabs of  

copper‐edged wood, beat the smoky air in slow,  

measured turns.  

Bishop MacNamara was sitting among flushed jowls  

and receding hairlines. He had balanced his chair back  

on two legs and was laughing at a joke.  

A swaying body brushed the table, fat hands wrapped  

around a cluster of dripping beer glasses as a man  

273

steered an unnerving route towards a distant gathering.  

He grinned down at the bishop. “Good day?”  

“Ninety—ruined the last. Triple bogey.”  

 “No trophy balls for you then.”  

MacNamara grinned at his companions. “Fat lot of  

good they’d be to me, eh?”  

The table erupted, full of beer and cheer. They shook  

their heads, they grinned and laughed; heartened by the  

ordinariness of the man who on other days wielded the  

authority of God.  

The man with the drinks moved on. His space was  

filled by an obsequious bar attendant.  

“Phone, Your Grace.”  

The Bishop looked up, his eyes bright. “What’s that?”   

The barman made a handpiece from his thumb and  

small finger and held it to the side of his face.  

“Who it is?”  

“Your office—said it was important, sir.”  

MacNamara grimaced. “All right.” The phone was in a  

semi‐private booth. He pulled the wood‐panelled door  

behind his back and picked up the receiver.  

“MacNamara!”  

It was his secretary.  

“Sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but I thought you  

would want to know—.”  

“Yes?”  

“Simon Bradbury has disappeared.”  

  

*  

  

Simon spent his second full day at Cumalong  

exploring the surrounding bush. He followed the  

remains of a track which led to a low mound of half‐ 

buried bricks. The shell of an old boiler, now almost  

rusted through, rested on a crumbling wall. There were  

274

dozens of green and brown bottles scattered on the  

ground and he wondered if this was where the brewery  

had been.   

Simon walked through the bush in a wide arc back  

towards the dam. Some distance from the brewery he  

stepped into a clearing of flat, hardened earth. The  

lower section of a brick chimney marked where a house  

had been. Simon stood still and absorbed the silence  

that now owned the space that had once been filled by  

people busy with living. He scratched at the ground with  

a stick, and then on a whim poked the branch up into  

what was left of the chimney. A rusted metal container  

dropped from an unseen ledge and split open at his feet.  

Surprised and excited, he knelt down, carefully brushed  

the flakes of rust with his fingers and lifted a locket and  

chain that looked and felt like gold. He blew away the  

dust. Age had not dulled its beauty. He prised it open  

and exposed the face of a young woman. Simon  

searched for an inscription, a name, but there was  

nothing. Her hair was pinned high and she was smiling  

happily. What illicit affection had required her image to  

be hidden? She looked to be nineteen or twenty; it was  

hard to say. He wondered if she had left Cumalong when  

still young, to live and die in another place, or did she go  

to the grave here, an old woman, wizened by  

motherhood, age and the desert winds? He decided it  

didn’t matter because he had now made her young  

again. He touched the image with his finger, bonding  

himself with this life from another time. Perhaps Ada  

could give him a name.  

Simon spent the rest of the day by the dam. In the late  

afternoon he was boiling water when he heard the now  

familiar clump of Ada’s braced leg. He stood to meet her,  

glad to have her company. But something was wrong.  

She was trying to hurry and she carried a small bundle.  

275

Simon started walking towards her, but she waved him  

back.  

“Well young man—like I thought, I think your friends  

have arrived.”  

Simon stood still. “What do you mean?”  

“Two motor cars, one of them a police wagon— 

stopped on the main road. Three fellows looking at a  

map.”   

“Why should they be searching for me?” He tried to  

keep his voice level.  

Ada chuckled. “One of them—heavy fellow, no hair,  

called your name a couple of times—oh, and he’s a  

priest.”  

Simon closed his eyes. “Troughton,” he whispered  

with undisguised despair.  

“He’s not a friend then?”  

 “No. The Bishop’s errand boy. I’m a priest.”  

Ada grinned. “I know—it’s in the paper.” She opened  

the small cloth bag she was carrying and pulled out the  

torn page of a newspaper. “One of the young mine  

fellows left the paper with some groceries.”   

Simon snatched it from her and found the short item  

among the news briefs. He scanned through it quickly;  

essentially a missing persons report, with the added  

mystery of the discovery of his car at the Kalgoorlie  

presbytery and a miner claiming he had picked up a  

hitchhiker fitting the priest’s description.  

Simon had not considered this. This was not how he  

wanted to return; with a police escort and a blaze of  

publicity.  

“What do they think they’re doing?” he murmured.  

There was panic in his voice. “I can’t go back—not like  

this.”  

He faced Ada. “I just wanted a few days’ peace.  

276

She looked at him steadily. “Well, you’d better decide  

quick. It’ll be dark in half an hour. If they decide to look  

around while it’s light they’ll be here in minutes.”  

Simon looked around in panic. “They’ll find the fire.  

Even if I hide they’ll find me tomorrow, and it will be  

worse. How will I explain myself?”  

“Come on. When I said you’d better be quick, I meant  

it.” She nodded towards the distant horizon. “That’s the  

place for you—the last place on earth where a man can  

lose himself for long enough.”  

 “Long enough for what?”  

Ada pushed the cloth bag into his hands. “Isn’t that  

what you’ve come to find out? Here, sandwiches and a  

damper to get you started. After that, everything is up to  

you—everything.”  

Simon shook his head, both panicked and bewildered.  

“I don’t know.”  

The woman became agitated with impatience. “Go on,  

you can’t stay here—you’ve worked that out already.”  

Simon hurriedly jammed his gear into the backpack,  

along with Ada’s food. He started to fold his blanket, but  

it was taking too long. He tossed it into the deepening  

shadows beneath the trees. “This is crazy—absolutely  

crazy,” he muttered.  

“Which way?” he asked desperately.  

“East. Cross Lake Yindarlgooda—it’s mostly dry, but  

watch the cockatoos. They’re never too far from water.  

There’s good country on the other side. It’ll take a few  

days, but will do you good.”  

Simon stalled. “This is ridiculous.”  

Ada jabbed a finger into his chest. “You go back now  

and everything you ever do or say will be laughed at  

because you quit before learning anything; before  

finding a new way to be strong. Is that what you want?”  

277

The sound of a car engine carried to them through  

the still evening air. He raised his hands pleadingly, but  

knew she was right. Using the dam as cover he jogged  

across the bare ground to the nearest trees, close to  

where he had set the snare, and steadied to a fast walk  

through the scrub in the direction he knew to be  

roughly east. He would not be able to take an accurate  

bearing until night when he could use the Southern  

Cross constellation.  

Behind him the car engine grew louder as it  

approached the dam. He passed the cemetery, every  

shadow a hostile presence. He began to run.   

  

The sergeant trotted back down the bank and  

sounded his car horn. In less than a minute the other  

vehicle was at the dam.  

“We’ve found your man—or at least someone,” he  

said as Troughton got out of his hire car. The local  

priest, Father Doyle, was also there, but remained inside  

the vehicle his face impassive.  

 “His fire’s still burning so he can’t be far.”  

Troughton hurried up the sloping bank to the grotto,  

but there was nothing to identify its recent occupant.  

“Well, let’s go—let’s get it over with.”  

The sergeant shook his head. “Better we come back  

tomorrow. Looks like he’s heard us and run, but he  

won’t get far tonight. We’ll use a chopper. It’s pretty  

sparse out there. Should pick him up easy enough.”  

The priest faced the policeman. “Dan you know how  

it is. The Bishop wants that idiot in before it’s front page  

news?”  

The sergeant stood his ground. “It will be dark in half  

an hour. We won’t find him tonight and nor will  

anybody else. Besides, I still don’t know how you can be  

278

so sure it’s your man—a pretty odd way for a priest to  

behave.”  

“Let’s just say he’s got form. It’s the sort of thing he  

would do—go bush to find himself, and just get lost.” He  

stepped closer to the policeman. “The Bishop has a  

special interest in this one.”  

The sergeant shrugged. “You’ll have him tomorrow  

morning.”  

Troughton placed his hand amicably on the  

policeman’s shoulder. “Good.” He turned and was  

walking towards his car and the waiting local cleric  

when the sergeant called after him.  

“Wait on. There’s someone here who might know  


Ada had only just lit her lamp when she heard the  

cars crunch on the gravel outside.  

The sergeant called: “Mrs Evans!”  

She stepped outside and leaned wearily on her stick  

and smiled. “Visitors—they always know when it’s  

dinner time.”  

The policeman smiled. “Just thought you might be  

able to help us. We’re looking for a man—and  

someone’s been camping at the old dam.”  

Troughton approached and stood beside the  

sergeant.  

Ada smiled and nodded at his collar. “A gentleman of  

the church—are we expecting a funeral? You always do  

when you’re my age.”  

Troughton stepped closer, impatient. “Did you see  

this man? Did he say anything to you?”  

Ada shook her head and smiled. “Why don’t I make a  

pot of tea, before you go back to the city.”  

Troughton studied her. “So you know what we’re  

talking about.”  

279

The woman smiled, enjoying the moment. “Forget  

him. He’s gone where there’s no road home.”  

  

  

Simon ran until his lungs and the light forced him to  

ease up. As the night went from grey to black he slowed  

to a walk, suspicious of any sudden rise that might be  

the mullock heap surrounding a shaft. His arms and face  

had been scratched by scrub and were beginning to  

sting, but he pushed on. He was sure they would come  

after him in the morning. His flight had now  

compounded the hopelessness of his position. To be  

caught now by a police search party would bring  

irreparable disgrace.   

He walked for about another hour until the bush  

began to thin again and there was something  

disturbingly familiar about the shadowy landscape. He  

continued on cautiously. A breeze gusted through the  

trees and suddenly he heard the rattle of metal.  

He pressed a hand into his face and swore. He had  

turned a full circle and was back in the cemetery. He  

stood still, listening. There was nothing but the ripple of  

leaves and click of metal tags. The cicadas had yet to  

start their evening song—or perhaps they didn’t sing in  

this place?  

Simon peered into the sky. It was too early still for  

the Southern Cross. He slowed his breathing and forced  

himself to think. He tried to picture the layout of the  

town.  It was no good. He turned around. There was a  

faint glow on the horizon behind his back and he cursed  

his earlier haste. There was just a hint of setting sun  

reflecting on distant clouds, but it was enough to show  

him the direction of the western horizon. He faced the  

glow then put one foot behind the other and carefully  

turned one hundred and eighty degrees. “Right—let’s  

280

try again,” he muttered quietly. He set off, eastwards, at  

a steady, determined walk, doing his best to pick out  

features with which to stay in a straight line.  

About two hours later he felt himself climbing a low  

hill and was confident he had kept to a rough easterly  

direction. Shortly after, the Southern Cross rose above  

the shapeless shadows of the foliage and he stopped to  

take a reading. He stared at the constellation and its two  

pointer stars, digging deep into his boyhood memory.  

The pointers seemed to be in a different position to how  

he remembered them, but he didn’t have much choice.  

He used the stars to show him due south, then kneeling,  

he made a north‐south mark in the sand with his finger.  

Under the light of the cigarette lighter, he bisected the  

mark to form an west‐east line. He adjusted his bearing  

according to this crude compass, hoisted the pack onto  

his shoulder and set off again.  

Simon continued through the night, stopping  

occasionally to check his bearing. Gradually he became  

aware of the bush thinning and realised it was  

something he would have to watch because he would  

need cover for the day.   

By the time the sky started to lighten, Simon was  

exhausted. He curled up against a clump of spinifex.  

He slept fitfully for about three hours before the sun  

on his face woke him. His body was stiff and sore and he  

guessed it was about eight o’clock. He sat up and drank  

from the water bottle. He had no idea where he was, but  

again wondered if it really mattered, considering he  

didn’t actually know where he was going. He decided he  

would walk east for two days, find water and lie low for  

a few more days, then return. An adventure, he  

reminded himself. “Who’s kidding who?” probed a voice.  

“A brief desert sojourn,” he replied to himself. As long as  

he maintained a reasonable east‐west course he  

281

easoned the return leg would bring him back close to  

Cumalong—certainly to a road, a mine, a property or  

other feature which would lead him back to the world  

he was leaving for a short while.   

“A personal retreat.” That’s what he would tell them.  

“A time out for private meditation—a cleansing  

wilderness excursion—regrettably unaware that  

anybody had been looking for him.” Besides, it was  

hardly new; Christ himself, and John the Baptist—or  

John the Bushman, as Isaac had so aptly described the  

prophet. Both had used the desert to test and  

strengthen their faith. Yes—that’s what he would say.  

“They might ask me to write about it,” he mused, and he  

started framing an argument that in fitted his odyssey to  

the sort of experience a university chaplain should have.  

His confidence strengthened. Yes, MacNamara would  

criticise his irresponsibility. But this would pass.  

He stared out at the red sand and spinifex rolling  

away from him in every direction. But what would have  

changed? How would a week’s mad abandon make his  

life as a priest bearable? He walked to a ridge to scan the  

land he had traversed during the night. If any vehicles  

were following he would see their dust. The horizon was  

empty. On the low ridge he could feel the wind gusting  

quite strongly. It was unpleasant, but would erase his  

tracks. Having stopped in a small depression between  

two sandy ridges, Simon decided to stay a while, out of  

the wind and invisible to anybody unless they stumbled  

on top of him. He returned to the bushes and pushed his  

body deeper into their meagre shade. He ate some of  

Ada’s damper, then using his pack as a pillow drifted  

back into a restless slumber.  

  

Troughton watched the ground drop away as the  

two‐man helicopter lifted. The aircraft seemed to be  

282

vibrating excessively, but the pilot looked unconcerned.  

The plan was to make sweeping arcs in a north and  

easterly direction out from Cumalong. When Simon was  

found, the map references would be radioed to the  

sergeant who would follow in a vehicle.  

“Hear me okay?” The voice jumped inside his head.  

Troughton turned to the pilot and nodded. Below him  

the view was quite marvellous and his mood lightened  

fractionally. He was sure a man on the run would be  

easily sighted. And the sooner the better. He didn’t like  

being out in this country. To him it was empty and  

lifeless, a terrain fit only for savages—and even they  

were now gone. What drew Bradbury to it, God alone  

knew, but this was the last straw. He was fed up with  

being sent out to godforsaken outposts to haul him back  

to MacNamara. If it was his decision he would have  

agreed with the old lady and left Bradbury to the desert.  

He had hinted as much to the Bishop the previous night  

when they talked on the phone, but MacNamara had  

been insistent. It was his duty, he had said. Troughton  

had said nothing, knowing Bradbury’s only real value to  

him was his influence with the Redmond people.  

  

Simon awoke to a noise. He knew the sound well  

enough and tried to ascertain the machine’s location  

before moving, but it was impossible. Lying still Simon’s  

eyes strained as he tried to increase his field of view  

beyond the gaps in the bushes immediately before his  

face. The noise of the helicopter was so loud. He pressed  

himself to the ground. Would the trees and bush be  

enough to hide him? He held his breath, waiting. The  

staccato thudding increased, then moved away.   

Simon counted to twenty then cautiously looked  

around. The sky was empty. He crawled to the lip of the  

sand drift and could see the helicopter in the distance.  

283

Suddenly the machine was growing in size again. He  

scrambled back to the bushes and curled himself into a  

ball beside his pack.  

The cattle‐mustering machine roared overhead, the  

downdraft punching into the hollow. Sand and dust  

swirled and choked the air, and then just as quickly as it  

arrived, it was gone. Simon breathed out slowly.   

It took half an hour for the aircraft’s search pattern to  

take it from sight. He guessed the time to be about  

midday. The air was hot, the sand beginning to burn. He  

sipped from his flask, realising that tomorrow he would  

have to find more water.  

  

“We’re going to have to go back and refuel.”  

Troughton nodded. He was disappointed. He’d  

expected to find Bradbury by now. “The man must think  

like a black too,” he thought with annoyance.  

They continued the search in the afternoon, without  

success. Later the three men stared at the map spread  

flat over the bonnet of the police vehicle.  

The sergeant was shaking his head. “He must have  

laid up—that’s the only way we could have missed him.”  

Troughton glared at the chart, as though it had  

betrayed them.  

The pilot asked why they were so sure they were  

looking in the right direction.  

The sergeant looked at the priest, who gazed into the  

trees, making it clear it was the policeman’s  

responsibility. The hows and whys did not concern him.  

He just wanted a quick result.  

“Well—,” explained the sergeant. “South doesn’t  

make much sense, seeing he’s come from that direction,  

and west would run him into too many mining camps.  

So we figured north or east the only go.” It had been a  

long, boring day and he was tiring of the priest’s refusal  

284

to allow a full‐scale search. To the sergeant a man’s life  

was at stake, not some exercise in psychological  

brinkmanship. He didn’t understand what was going on  

or why the man on the ground was trying to evade  

them. It was all very strange, and having failed to find  

him in what was sparse country, the policeman was also  

beginning to suspect that the man they were chasing  

understood the land more than he had been led to  

believe.   

“Then we’ve gone right over the top of him,” said the  

pilot. “We went much further than he could have  

walked.”  

They all nodded.  

“Do you want me to bring in more men?” asked the  

sergeant.   

Troughton shook his head. “The Bishop doesn’t want  

any publicity. How far could he have walked by this time  

tomorrow?”  

The policeman stared at the map and drummed his  

fingers with frustration. “Hmm— fifty kilometres  

maximum, but more like forty. That’s if he’s only  

walking at night, as it now looks.”  

 “Then tomorrow morning we start at forty and work  

our way back in the helicopter, while you see if you can  

find any sign on the ground.”  

The policeman agreed, “He’ll be getting thirsty too.  

That might bring him into the open.”  

  

Simon waited until dusk before he continued to  

travel, picking out distant rocks and bushes to hold his  

course. During the night the terrain became flatter and  

the ground harder. He sensed he had entered the bed of  

the dry lake which Ada had spoken of. His compass of  

stars guided him for about four hours, then the sky  

clouded over. Shortly afterwards, in the distance, there  

285

was lightning in the sky and a rumble of thunder rolled  

across the earth. Simon sat on a boulder and watched  

the distant electrical storm, while he ate half of a  

sandwich. He was desperately thirsty but refrained from  

drinking, knowing he would need the water during the  

day. The distant storm raged, searing the sky with great  

flashes of orange and purple. He was sure he could even  

smell it—there was something in the breeze which  

smelled different—fresh and damp.  

 By mid‐morning, tormented by thirst, he greedily  

finished the last of his water. “Look for the cockatoos,”  

Ada had told him. He craned his neck, but the sky was  

empty of life. In the distance a dark curtain still marked  

the path of the storm. But it was moving away from him.  

Directly above the sky was glassy and white. He pushed  

on, stopping periodically to trace in the sand the  

direction of a shadow cast by a stick or stone to give him  

an east‐west line. In the distance Simon could now see  

the top of a line of hills and if  there were hills and rocks,  

there should be water, especially if it had rained.   

At midday he heard the helicopter, far off to his right,  

to the south‐east. He stopped walking and waited,  

pushing aside the sudden temptation to stand and yell,  

to be found just so he could have a drink. The sound  

seemed to linger for ages. Once or twice he imagined it  

was nearing, but then the sound faded again. It occurred  

to him that if the machine was following an easterly line  

out from Cumalong then he had drifted much further  

north than he had expected. Again, he wondered if it  

really mattered. Twice more he heard the machine, but  

it remained far off and out of sight. Nonetheless he  

didn’t start walking again until dusk, by which time the  

searchers seemed to have given up or gone elsewhere.  

He was only partly relieved. He was desperately thirsty  

286

and knew that if it had been the height of summer he  

would by now be facing a terrible death.  

  

The Bishop threw the newspaper onto the table and  

angrily faced Troughton and the sergeant who had  

returned to the Kalgoorlie presbytery. News of the  

search had leaked out, prompting MacNamara to fly  

from Perth to be on the scene.   

“This is what you call keeping the lid on things, is it?  

This story about a ‘fugitive’ priest?”  

The sergeant shrugged. “They must have got it from  

Perth—I have to report, you know. Anyway, it’s pretty  

vague still,” he added hopefully.  

MacNamara turned his back on the pair and walked  

to the window, his hands clasped behind his back.  

Below him the sun‐washed street was an ugly vista.  

Everything was coated with red dust. God, how he hated  

this country. What misfortune he had suffered to have  

spent a lifetime here. The authority and prestige of his  

post deserted him in quiet moments, when he sensed it  

was all a mirage. He was just Ted MacNamara, a shy  

Irish kid just like the young Bradbury he had known and  

nurtured. His dream of a Catholic university, a holy  

institution that would become the scholastic font of this  

hybrid nation, was his hope of personal salvation in a  

church that had strayed from his grasp. If only Simon  

could share the vision. But Simon had become a  

doubter. That, above all, was his secret fear: that the boy  

he had nurtured would abandon and betray him too.    

He closed his eyes to the dusty street. How nice it  

would be to look out upon an Irish‐green lawn. Perhaps  

he should desist while he had the chance; retire. He  

could visit Rome, take time again to enjoy intellectual  

company, touch exquisite artworks, stroll in  

contemplation through the museums, accepting the  

287

little gestures of respect which would be extended in  

recognition of his rank and life‐long commitment. He  

pictured the ornamental gardens flanking the Pontifical  

Academy of Sciences and sighed deeply at the memory.  

A young man buttoned inside black cloth, head bent to  

an open book under a mild autumn sun. There had been  

so much to learn and do, but the fervour which had  

clasped his heart had drawn him to a far‐away ministry  

because that is what he had believed to be his calling.  

Now what did he believe in? He shrugged inwardly. It  

had been a long time since he had applied the word to  

himself. That was the trouble with this place, and, by  

comparison, so compelling about the Vatican. It evoked  

a sense of daily mission. Every idea, every ritual, every  

chore, task and prayer counted for something. The  

results could be seen. Not like here, where the tread of  

civilized man was obliterated in moments by a wind  

blowing in from hell itself.   

He turned back to Troughton and the sergeant. “He is  

a priest. He can’t have crawled into a hole. Find him. For  

me!”  

  

Simon began to think of death. His tongue felt like a  

lump of swollen leather. His thoughts swung between a  

calm acceptance of his fate, and panic. A terrible sense  

of  loneliness began to shadow him. In the distance he  

could see a small hill and he decided that would be his  

destination.  

As he neared, the knoll grew into a low outcrop of  

rock; an island in the middle of a waterless sea  

stretching to the sky.  

It had trees and his heart moved a little faster. When  

closer still he could see birds—cockatoos, and he  

grinned in defiance of the soreness around his mouth.  

288

Water was his only thought and as he began to climb  

the slope he scoured the rocks for openings. He dropped  

a pebble into the first crevice and heard a faint plop. He  

dumped the pack, removed the locket from his pocket,  

then stripped the shirt from his back and shook it  

roughly to loosen the dust. He tied the trace wire to a  

sleeve then pushed the material deep into the hole with  

a stick. He counted to sixty, offered a silent prayer and  

using the wire carefully retrieved the shirt. The bottom  

was sodden. He opened his parched lips and hungrily  

squeezed the water onto his dried‐up tongue.  

Simon rested before repeating the procedure until he  

had collected enough water to fill his billy. He explored  

the outcrop and found on the opposite side a thicket of  

spindly, pale grey trees. There was enough shade from  

these and a rock ledge for a passable campsite. He lay  

beside his pack and slept.  

Simon awoke about mid‐afternoon to the buzz of  

bush flies. He swatted them with his hat and listened for  

the helicopter. His world, however, was silent, save for  

his buzzing company. Tonight he would set another  

snare, and feast. If there was water in the rocks there  

would be animals—perhaps even wallabies. The way he  

felt, he could even happily roast a cockatoo. He would  

make some damper with his remaining flour. John the  

Baptist had lived off locusts and honey. Here, by  

comparison, was a place of bounty. He relaxed and  

began to even feel happy. Simon Bradbury, the man and  

the priest, was still alive. With luck, he reasoned, he  

could just stay where he was for a few days. He opened  

the clasp of the locket. The woman smiled at him. He  

wished he knew her name. “But then if I know not your  

name no other memories can I disturb,” he murmured.  

He gently closed the piece and returned it to his pocket.  

289

Simon looked out over the lake bed extending beyond  

the outcrop. Flat red earth scattered with mallee and  

mulga trees and spinifex. It was flatter and more  

sparsely vegetated than the land near Gunwinddu, but  

had its own wild beauty. What was it Matthew had  

said—you can see for miles an’ miles. He smiled sadly at  

the memory. This was Matthew and Isaac’s country. To  

them it was not harsh, it was paradise. The first  

Europeans must have looked so comic to the Aborigines,  

dragging great bullock wagons laden with flour, sugar,  

tea and water—oblivious to the bounty surrounding  

them. Unbelievably, two hundred years had passed and  

few had learned. Simon glanced guiltily at his pack. “Me  

as well,” he muttered. It seemed extraordinary that of all  

the food in all the shops and stores in the whole of the  

country, there was scarcely an item originating from an  

indigenous plant or animal. Instead the conquerors  

nurtured a cataclysm; building national pride from their  

stubborn determination to force crops and animals from  

other worlds to take root.   

Simon scooped a hollow into the shallow sand  

beneath the trees and slept. When he woke the night  

was lightless, but the earth seemed full of movement.  

There was a noise, low and ominous, but he could not  

tell its cause or direction. He sat upright and something  

heavy slithered across his leg. He kicked blindly and  

sprang to his feet with fright. He could hear noises,  

small ground noises, but all around another noise; an  

indefinable murmur.  

Slowly, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the  

whole outcrop became a single body of shadowy  

movement. As he stepped tentatively forward, still  

uncomprehending, a large black shape pummelled into  

him, knocking him breathless to the ground. The equally  

terrified animal careened away and Simon saw it was a  

290

kangaroo. He climbed shakily to his feet and realized the  

whole outcrop was awash with animals; hundreds—  

countless; flying, thumping, running and crawling  

around him. The sky above was teeming with birds,  

their wings threshing the air, while on the ground were  

kangaroos, wallabies and emus. Underfoot, were snakes  

and lizards; a seething mass of animal life making for  

high ground, careless of the man.  

Dread gripped the priest. He knew exactly what it  

meant. Somewhere out in the darkness the water was  

coming. The channelling of the distant storm’s rain from  

a catchment spanning tens of thousands of square  

kilometres. He had stopped when he should have  

continued. Now he was marooned somewhere in a vast  

inland sea receiving its periodic fill.  

Simon began to tread cautiously down the slope  

yelling and waving his arms to warn fleeing animals  

from his path. As he climbed lower he became more  

aware of the noise; a resonant, low gurgling sound. The  

water was already around the outcrop, but how deep?  

He clambered further down the rocky slope and only  

realized he had stepped into the flood when he felt the  

eddy clutch at the hem of his trousers. He climbed  

warily back up the slope, mumbling little prayers of  

exhortation, urging God to guide his feet away from the  

snakes.  

 Simon grabbed his pack and approached the summit.  

Bodies, furry and feathery, pressed around him. The air  

was thick with their pungent smell and he rubbed his  

nostrils with the back of his hand. A kangaroo reared its  

shadowy outline threateningly, but moved aside when  

Simon stopped and waited. But his own fear was  

starting to rise and there was bile in his throat. Emus,  

rock wallabies, kangaroos and wild turkeys punched  

blindly into him and he started using his pack as a  

291

shield. His boots trod on crawling flesh and he kicked  

and lashed savagely at the struggling desert animals.  

With the advantage of forearms he hauled himself onto  

a large boulder at the summit, but as he did, the pack  

was knocked from his grasp. He crouched on top of the  

rock, gasping for breath, joined to the mass of seething,  

thrusting animals by their shared terror.  

The priest rested his face in his hands and prayed.  

The water continued to rise and the animals pressed  

in on the man as the outcrop became the centre of a  

shrinking island. In the grey of the approaching dawn,  

Simon could see the water had already reached the site  

of his camp just a few metres down the slope. Still the  

water rose, a reddish brown, sucking cauldron.   

As the dawn rolled back, it revealed a chaotic scene.  

Kangaroos and emus thrashed wildly in wide‐eyed  

terror. Beneath them was a seething reptilian struggle  

as desperate and as hopeless as that of the animals  

crushing them from above. And over all, on a rock, itself  

growing a bloody, furry skin, crouched a wide‐eyed man  

for whom impending death was not an instinctive fear  

but an Armageddon.  

The water continued to rise and Simon watched as  

the first of the animals were snatched and dragged away  

beneath its dirty swirling surface. Some attempted to  

escape into the torrent, and vanished in moments.  

The struggle raged. By the time the sun was glinting  

on the new sea it had almost reached the top of Simon’s  

boulder. The animals began to disappear rapidly now,  

small groups at a time.   

It came to pass that there were just two: the man and  

a large red kangaroo. It was the strongest and tallest  

and was holding its head above the water in the lee of  

the rock where the current was weakest.  

292

Simon stared at the animal, wondering which of them  

would be the last to go. The animal seemed to sense the  

inevitability of it all became still. Its repose calmed the  

man too, and Simon flattened himself on the rock and  

reached for the kangaroo’s arms. He did not want to die  

alone. The big bush animal was unresisting. Their  

breaths mixed against the face of the stone, the man’s  

chin now sitting in the dirty froth collecting in the lee.  

For a time it seemed the water had reached its peak,  

and Simon thought they might survive. He looked into  

the animal’s eyes, looking for reassurance in its animal  

instinct, but its pupils were fixed as though sightless.  

The water rose. It touched the beast’s nostrils. The  

animal jerked its head from side to side and started  

kicking against the rock. Simon released his grip, afraid  

of being pulled in. The water found the kangaroo’s  

mouth. With a sudden, violent lurch it pushed itself  

away from the rock and into the flow.   

Simon pushed himself to his knees. The current  

dragged at his legs and it became difficult to hold on to  

the rock. He strained to see the kangaroo. It was still  

struggling in the dirty brown sea; still refusing to die.  

He didn’t see the tree. A turn in the current and it  

might almost have missed him, but its clutch of  

branches caught him sharply in the back. He screamed,  

more from shock than pain, as he was dragged off the  

boulder and into the torrent. His head cracked against a  

limb, and he grasped for a hold in dazed desperation.  

The tree continued its passage into the surging, sucking  

flow. It dipped and rolled and his every muscle became  

dedicated to one purpose, to hold his jutting jaw above  

the water long enough after each plunge to fill his  

screaming lungs with air.  

Simon was swept through a surreal, swirling world, a  

nightmare of unmatched colours – glistening brown  

293

water, shafts of golden spray, and swathes of beautiful  

spinning blue. An eruption of heaven, earth and sea.  

Time and direction lost all measure. The man  

careered into senselessness, until a jarring crash  

brought the uprooted tree to a halt. The impact broke  

his hold and he thrashed wildly in the water before  

managing to grab another branch. But the tree had  

stopped, caught  where the water had shallowed. A  

carcass floated into the tree’s nest of limbs, and another.  

Simon tried to haul himself higher onto the trunk. Just  

as he turned to see if he could catch a glimpse of any  

land something large cannoned into him and he sank  

into oblivion.  

  

  

294

  

Chapter Sixteen  

  

Kalgoorlie, Mon: Police yesterday  

abandoned their search for missing  

Perth Priest Father Simon Bradbury  

after  flooding in the eastern  

goldfields.   

Thunderstorms dumped heavy rain  

across the inland catchment and  

rising water in the usually dry Lake  

Yindarlgooda is expected to restrict  

access to the area for several weeks.  

A church official, Fr Troughton, who  

joined the search party, yesterday  

returned to Perth without comment.  

  

It was like swimming through a tunnel of viscous black  

liquid without any sense of body movement. In the far  

distance a tiny speck of light grew little by little until finally  

it pushed aside the darkness. But when all was white and  

light, there was still nothing of substance. It wasn’t until  

the pain began to register that mortal dimensions became  

apparent.  

When consciousness returned fully it was with a hard  

thud against the ground, and a strange sound which took a  

while for the man to realise was his own groaning.  

Simon felt the pressure of hands, and of his body being  

rolled. The voices grew in pitch. Fingers pinched the flesh  

of his cheeks and his eyes finally opened. A distant faded  

blue, then a face ballooned into vision; yellow teeth, stale  

breath. Sunken eyes beyond a broad flat black nose studied  

him.  

Simon choked on a surge of bile that rushed through his  

gullet. He turned his forehead to the ground and retched.  

295

When the nausea passed he turned again to view his new  

world. He stared up at the face with its matted hair, wispy  

white beard and a broad grin.  

Simon smiled weakly. “Are you real?”  

“Sure.”  

Another face, a youth, leaned into view. “If we’re not real  

you’re in trouble, eh Father—‘cause this ain’t heaven!” The  

youth laughed.  

Simon closed his eyes. “You’re a miracle, the pair of  

you,” he murmured weakly.  

Isaac and Angel grinned. They had seen him snagged by  

the limbs of the uprooted tree and had followed from the  

edge of the floodwaters until the tree caught in shallows  

near a ridge of earth. They had yelled a warning but he  

didn’t hear them and the carcass of the bull hit him.  

Keeping the splayed branches of the tree on the down side  

of the current, Angel had waded into the floodwater and  

dragged the man out before the swirling eddies could  

reclaim its prize.  

The priest lay exhausted as Isaac played his hands over  

his body. He remained mute until his ribcage was pressed,  

then gasped sharply. The old man nodded.  

“Busted rib Father—but better than a busted head, eh?”  

The priest was too weak to respond. His face sank  

against the earth and he passed out again.  

When he awoke he could smell the strong cocktail of  

wood smoke and animal fat. Simon found his torso was  

bound tightly by a coarse bark rope. He rolled his body  

slightly and discovered he was lying beneath a rock shelf.  

Nearby was a small group by a fire and he recognised  

Isaac’s wife, Winnie, and Angel’s mother Maudie as well as  

Isaac and Angel. At the sound of his movement they turned.   

Simon raised a hand in greeting. “I still can’t believe it.”  

Isaac walked over and squatted beside him. “It’s no real  

surprise Father. We’re goin’ back to our country, like I tol’  

296

you at Gunwinddu.” He nodded towards his nephew.  

“Angel needs to become a man in his father’s country.”  

Simon looked up at Angel. “You saved my life.”  

The boy just grinned.  

“How long have you been here?” Simon asked.  

Isaac considered the question. “Well—we come down  

from Gunwinddu ‘bout seven, eight weeks ago and stayed  

with some cousins in Kalgoorlie. Then we come out here  

‘bout two weeks ago. Been waitin’ for this rain to come  

before movin’. Sure been busy, eh, for such a faraway  

place?” The old man looked at Simon with a hint of  

mischief. “Waterholes’ll be real nice in a couple of days. It’ll  

be real good. I remember when I was little—” Isaac paused,  

then sighed. “I was hopin’ more people would come, but— 

maybe if Angel learns about his country he might get ‘em  

interested—the younger ones like. It’s important—you  

know that.” Isaac pointed an arm into the distance. “The  

land needs us blackfellas to keep it alive. We’ve been here  

so long the bush and the animals need us—a lot of people  

have forgotten, eh?”  

“Where exactly are you heading?”  

Isaac pointed to the north east. “Past the stations—one  

week, maybe two weeks’ walk if the flood stays up.  

Mudidjara, a special place—Father—real special place for  

our people.”  

Simon followed his gaze. Somewhere, out past the  

expanse of brown water, was where Ada had suggested  

Simon go. Did he still want that? He remembered Ada’s  

parting comment and knew she was right. There was no  

point going back without answers, but that didn’t stop him  

worrying about the time he would be away.   

Simon closed his eyes and rolled onto his back, thinking.  

In the end, the decision was made for him. Four days later  

the small group was breaking camp, preparing to cross the  

vast open plains of salmon gums, mulga and spinifex and  

297

eturn to Mudidjara where their people had gathered for  

tens of thousands of years. With rest and a diet of fresh  

game and native fruits and nuts, Simon’s strength had  

returned. The pain in his ribs had abated to a dull ache and  

he was able to walk slowly. He broached the question of his  

return to Kalgoorlie. Isaac squatted on the ground. He  

poked the earth with a stick and shook his head. “Well— 

you can’t walk back from here—swim maybe, but you  

weren’ lookin’ too flash when you was tryin’ that before,  

eh!”  

“You said the water was receding.”  

“Sure, but not that way. You won’ get through  

Yindarlgooda for weeks—maybe longer.”  

Simon felt the stirrings of panic. “So what do I do?”  

Isaac was affable. “Well, you could stay here—but what  

you goin’ to eat, eh? Plenty of tucker, especially after the  

rain, but I reckon you’d still die pretty quick from an empty  

belly!” He shook his head sadly. “Found a bloke once up on  

Gunwinddu, all dried up. Car broke down an’ he walked.  

Did okay really, found one of them windmills for the cattle,  

but the silly bugger don’ know what to do next. Been dead  

maybe one week when we found him. He was lyin’ right  

under the trough. All he had to do was pull on the wire to  

start the water pumpin’, but he don’ even know that.”   

“What do you suggest?”  

Isaac scratched his chin thoughtfully. After a moment he  

turned to Angel, standing quietly behind. “What do you  

reckon, eh?” The boy looked from Simon to Isaac, grinned,  

but allowed Isaac to continue his monologue.  

The old man drew a circle in the sand and gazed at it  

absently for a moment. “So Father—maybe them fellas  

with that helicopter will come back, eh? But then maybe  

they’re already thinkin’ of a dead bloke?”  

Simon frowned. Isaac, it seemed, knew a lot about his  

recent movements. “How long will you be gone?”  

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The old man shrugged and gazed into the distance  

beyond where the slope of the hill fell from view. Simon  

waited for him to continue speaking, but it was soon  

apparent that he had no inclination to say any more. Finally  

Simon was forced to speak. “Well—if it’s not going to be  

too long—perhaps I should come with you?”  

Isaac smiled. “That’s not a bad idea Father. You might  

even learn somethin’, eh?”  

Simon grimaced and looked away towards the south‐ 

west horizon. He wondered when, if ever, he would cross  

that line again.  

The small party began walking, carrying everything it  

needed, which to Simon seemed inadequate for the desert.  

Isaac carried an axe, two spears and over one shoulder, an  

old  canvas flour sack. Simon was curious about the sack.  

Isaac seemed to have a particular attachment to it, always  

ensuring it was near at hand. Angel also carried a spear,  

and the women had digging sticks and seed carriers carved  

eons before from the trunk of a gum tree. Isaac’s wife also  

carried a billy can of water tucked snugly into the bottom  

of a woven backpack. They made a strange picture; the  

white‐haired old man, the proud youth wearing nothing  

but a pair of football shorts, the dishevelled priest, and two  

plump matrons still in their mission clothes. Winnie wore a  

plain brown skirt and a loose, white T‐shirt. Maudie a  

faded pink dress, a yellow T‐shirt, and on her head a beanie  

knitted in the red and black Aboriginal colours.  

Apart from the axe and billy, all the implements and  

tools were traditional, retrieved from a cache on the hill  

near their camp. “An old, old place,” Isaac had said.  

All over the country people had left such things. They  

had carried what they needed to hunt game and collect  

berries, seeds, fruits and vegetables as they travelled from  

waterhole to waterhole. Surplus equipment, either found  

or made during periods of settlement around a particular  

299

water, were stored among rocky outcrops for when next  

they returned. Simon wondered if the people who had left  

these tools had had any notion that they would never  

return, that the vast regions which had once comprised the  

heart of Gondwanaland would so rapidly empty of  

people—sixty thousand years of human occupation ending  

in the span of a generation.  

This was Isaac’s concern; that the departure of the  

people was why the land was dying; why the waterholes  

had filled with sand, depriving the insects, birds and  

animals of life; why the grasses had not been burned,  

denying seeds the necessary heat and ash that was needed  

for them to split open and germinate in a temporarily  

alkaline soil. His fear was the erasure of the mosaic of  

diversity on which all life depended. This was a land in  

which whole landscapes shifted and changed; delicate  

webs of life shattered and re‐formed according to when or  

if it rained. Only that which could adapt had survived, and  

survival was a precarious state. The Aborigines had  

outlived whole evolutionary cycles of other animals and  

plants, and in their songlines—the stories which gave an  

oral map of the land, its resources and its changeable  

nature—they harboured the oldest living human memories  

on earth.  

  

The group headed north‐east, away from the low‐lying  

country now filled with brown water and which for the  

next few months would exist truly as Lake Yindarlgooda.  

The higher land had dried quickly, though there was a  

deepness in the colours of the red earth, the green leaves of  

the gums, acacias and mulga trees, the yellow spinifex; all  

crowned by a blue heaven.  

They spent the first day crossing a plain of spinifex,  

meandering along a path which the others trod with  

confidence, though was invisible to the priest. Their target  

300

was the hazy outline of distant hills. The hills first  

appeared as a mauve lump on the horizon but by midday  

had taken the shape of a ragged brown range. Occasionally  

they stopped to allow the women to collect the fruits of  

edible plants. Isaac was also keeping a sharp eye for native  

tobacco plants. Whenever he found one he stripped the  

leaves and handed the foliage to one of the women until  

the supply measured several fistfuls.   

By late afternoon they were in the lee of the ranges.  

Isaac had kept them moving because he still feared  

discovery and their removal as modern‐day trespassers.  

He was worried the flood would bring airborne graziers  

looking for stranded cattle.  

By the time the party stopped for the night Simon’s  

ribcage throbbed painfully and his throat ached with thirst.  

He no longer had his hat and his immersion in the  

floodwater had made his boots stiff and abrasive. He had  

just begun to loosen the laces when Isaac grunted with  

annoyance and waved the priest back to his feet. He thrust  

a spear into Simon’s hands; a long flexing shaft sharpened  

and barbed at one end.   

“You can help me an’ Angel get some tucker, eh Father?”   

Simon suddenly realised he was no longer a guest. It  

was time for equality; an equality for which he had no  

qualifications. He was a dependent where there was no  

place for dependence. As he followed Isaac and Angel he  

saw Maudie and Winnie walk in another direction with  

digging sticks, wooden dishes and the coolamon, a  

hollowed‐out dish carved from a tree truck, for collecting  

more water.   

To Simon the land appeared devoid of any obvious  

tracks, but Isaac and Angel scanned the ground and  

seemed satisfied. When they reached the foot of a ridge  

Isaac ordered Simon to keep well back. “No talkin’ and look  

sharp, eh!”  

301

Simon positioned himself about thirty metres behind  

the two men, adopting the same crouched, stalking stance  

as the two in front. Isaac was in the lead, following the base  

of the ridge in careful, measured steps.  

A cleft in the rockface revealed a narrow entrance to an  

expansive gully about a kilometre long and half a kilometre  

wide. It was thick with mulga, wattle and long grass,  

suggesting a water source. Isaac knew all about the place.  

He remembered from his boyhood, and it was described in  

the songs. There were hidden valleys like this in even the  

driest regions; sites of the great increase ceremonies.  

Subterranean drainage lines watered them more regularly  

and more reliably than surface creeks ever could.  

Isaac glanced back and motioned Simon to wait at the  

entrance. He and Angel, spears hefted high, disappeared  

into the bush. Across the plain the sun was almost on the  

horizon, levelling the landscape with long, dark strokes.  

The evening song of crickets began. It was the loneliest  

time of the day and Simon felt again the weight of pending  

doom. He wanted the experience to be an adventure, but  

shadowing him always was the fear of both his past and his  

unknown future. Soon it would be dark. He hoped the  

others caught something. He was very hungry.  

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of something  

crashing through the bush, and a yell of excitement. Isaac  

shouted to him from somewhere in the gully. “Father— 

Father—get ‘im, Father.”  

Simon hurried towards the centre of the opening. It was  

already near dark inside the gully and he bent forward,  

peering. He lifted his spear, apprehensive. The sounds  

were close. A kangaroo bounded from the grass just metres  

away. Simon reeled in shock and before he could gather his  

wits the animal deftly side‐stepped him, heading for the  

open plain. Simon took a few hurried steps in its track and  

302

flung the spear in its general direction. The kangaroo  

vanished.  

Isaac and Angel trotted up behind him, both crestfallen.  

The hunting was no longer a weekend pastime to  

supplement packeted food from the Gunwinddu store.  

“You get ‘im?” Isaac asked, hopefully.  

Simon shook his head. “Sorry—surprised me.”  

Isaac made a sucking noise with his teeth. “Not good,”  

was all he said.  

The trio stood disconsolately looking out across the  

plain. “Should’ve brought a rifle— knew I should’ve  

brought a rifle,” Isaac muttered finally, shaking his head  

with disgust.   

They trudged back to the campsite. The fire danced  

behind a veil of sparks, eddying in the gentle breeze against  

the rockface. Here the mood was lighter. The women’s  

carrying dishes were full. The ranges had pockets of thick  

vegetation and they had collected pigface, mulga seeds for  

roasting and mixing into a sweet‐tasting porridge, and a  

dish filled with wild figs. As the men entered the camp the  

women were winnowing grass seeds, by the light of the  

fire, for cooking later as damper.   

Isaac greeted his wife dolefully. She teased him, and  

boasted the success of the two women who weren’t even  

from that country. Isaac slumped by the fire and looked as  

though he would spend the night in a sulk, when Winnie  

presented him with an armful of mulga bark. The old man  

brightened and grabbed a stick to stir the coals. He tipped  

the bark onto the embers and burned it to a white ash.  

Using one of the seed‐crushing stones he ground the  

previously collected tobacco leaves and mixed the pulp  

with the white ash. Grinning broadly he placed some of the  

mix into his mouth and chewed vigorously for several  

minutes before spitting the masticated mass into the palm  

of his hand. He repeated the process until he had enough  

303

wads of ‘chewing tobacco’ to last him several days. Simon  

watched, fascinated, but declined when Isaac offered to  

share the treat.  

They dined on figs and damper, saving the pigface and  

mulga porridge for breakfast. The storm had filled the  

rockholes in this place and Isaac regretted not being able to  

stay longer, but he was determined to reach Mudidjara as  

soon as possible. He had waited more than forty years to  

come home and was restless.   

That night they slept in a huddle close to the fire. Once  

or twice Simon heard somebody dragging another log onto  

the coals, but was too tired to take notice. He did not see  

the dingo circle the camp, suspicious of the European, but  

finally move in to lie close to the Aborigines.   

Simon was woken with a prod from the blunt end of a  

digging stick. It was still dark and Matthew’s widow, a  

smiling shadow, offered him a wooden platter holding a  

lump of sticky dough. More aware now of the rigours of a  

long walk, Simon cupped one hand to make a bowl, dug his  

other fingers into the sweet mass and ate with enthusiasm.  

They started again just as the sun emerged like a globe  

of molten copper. As the morning dragged on, the country  

became a featureless landscape. There were no hills, no  

unusual trees, no prominent rock outcrops that Simon  

could see, just an undulating plain of spinifex and mulga.  

Yet they walked with purpose, following a man who had  

not been here since his youth.  

Isaac periodically led them all in song, an ululating  

chant. This song was of the land and its words were a map,  

an oral navigation system. Such songs had guided  

generation after generation in their migration from  

camping ground to camping ground—water source  to  

water source.  

Simon was amazed, and said so. Isaac shrugged. “Busy  

track once—our people always come this way.”  

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At about midday they walked into a shallow depression  

in the land. Isaac stopped beside a clump of low shrubs,  

smiling. “I remember this place,” he said. He dropped to his  

knees and began to scoop out a hole with his hands. The  

earth was soft after the rain and was moist by the time he  

was down to his armpit. He widened the hole so he could  

reach deeper and when about a metre deep the bottom  

began to fill with seeping brown water. Everyone joined in  

to help. It did not take long to make the new soakhole a  

little over a metre deep and a metre wide with a sloping  

bank. Everybody drank the pure desert water that would  

also sustain the lizards, the desert rats, kangaroos and  

birds.  

About mid‐way through the afternoon Isaac stopped and  

asked everyone to wait. He scoured the ground nearby  

before walking, his shoulders bowed, to a low boulder‐ 

strewn hill. He disappeared from sight and the rest of the  

group sat in the thin shade of some mulgas. Isaac was gone  

for about an hour and when he returned it was obvious he  

had been crying. Simon stood up and placed his hand on  

his shoulder.  

“You okay?”  

Isaac nodded and pointed to the hill. “Me an’ my brother  

was playin’ there when we were children—when they  

killed our family.” He pointed to the place where he had  

first searched the ground. “That’s where all the people— 

the last people from Mudidjara were killed.” Simon held his  

hand, silently.  

Four days later the ground turned brown and soft and  

began to roll in a seemingly endless row of sand ridges. It  

was hard work, but Isaac was more relaxed, no longer  

fearing discovery. He began to call periodic halts to allow  

the group to dig out goannas, berries, wild tomatoes and  

edible roots hidden by the low vegetation and spindly  

trees. He was enjoying showing Simon and Angel the  

305

secrets of his country. It seemed there was food and water  

everywhere if you had the eyes to see it.  

Each time they stopped Isaac would also collect an  

armful of sticks and grass and build a small fire.  

“For all the other people,” he explained. “Leavin’ a sign,  

like—so other people know there has been someone in this  

place. It makes it special then—not so lonely.”  

The next day passed much as the same as its  

predecessor; a landscape of unending dunes, but then the  

ground became red and hard again and the vegetation  

thickened. Spinifex and grass grew tall and Isaac frightened  

the life out of Simon by torching it. The dry grass exploded.  

A wall of flame, metres high, moved across the plain in  

front of them. Above it a column of dark smoke rose  

hundreds of metres before flattening out in a spreading  

stain across the cloudless sky. Simon was horrified, but  

Isaac assured him all would be well. “Next year there’ll be  

new trees and grass and plenty of tucker,” he said. “There’s  

plenty of seeds in the ground, but they need the fire to  

prepare ‘em for the next rain.”  

They marched on, skirting the perimeter of the burn.  

In the late afternoon of the following day they were  

traversing a long, rocky hillside. Simon had his head down,  

watching his plodding feet. He didn’t realize the others had  

stopped until he heard muted gasps of satisfaction, and  

looked up. In the distance, less than a day’s walk across a  

yellow plain of spinifex and grass he saw a range of low  

mountains. In the late afternoon light they were a ragged  

swathe of dark purple on an entirely golden landscape. It  

was breathtaking. Low, pinkish cloud covered the distant  

ridges, occasionally breaking to expose a sliver of pale blue  

where the sun still shone against the top of the sky.  

“Mudidjara,” Isaac whispered hoarsely.  

He hurried down the gravelly slope onto the plain. The  

others followed in silence. Simon hesitated. There was  

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something disturbing about the distant ranges. Even at this  

distance, dark shadows marked the entrances to crevices  

and gullies. He sensed, at that moment, that this was a  

place of secrets; a doorway perhaps into primordial  

humanity.  

  

307

  

Chapter Seventeen  

  

The congregation barely filled two pews. It was gloomy,  

the stained glass windows almost blocking the thin grey  

light from outside. It was a sticky, overcast day. It had been  

said there was a threat of rain. Perhaps it was fitting.  

Bishop MacNamara’s voice echoed in the near empty  

church as he spread his arms in a gesture of subservience  

and humility:  

  

“. . . Merciful Father hear our prayers and console us.  

As we renew our faith in your Son, whom you raised  

from   

the dead.  

Strengthen our hope that all the departed, especially  

Father Bradbury   

our brother, will share in his resurrection . . .”  

  

It was a simple, private requiem; a measure of just how  

few people regarded themselves as having known the  

priest. Simon’s three colleagues from St Luke’s sat in the  

front pew. Occasionally Peter Moore would lift his eyes and  

stare stonily at the Bishop as if trying to catch his eye, but  

MacNamara held his gaze high.  

Behind the priests three women sat alone and well  

apart. Mary Cruikshank clutched a handkerchief. The  

decision to hold the Requiem Mass had made Simon’s  

disappearance so final. She had cried because Simon had  

been too alone.  

Some rows behind was an old woman hunched beneath  

a cotton scarf. Her leathery hands clutched the top of the  

pew in front and occasionally she glanced around  

nervously, as if lost.  

308

The third woman sat well back in the body of the  

church. She sat upright, intimidated neither by  

ecclesiastical authority nor architectural tyranny. She  

barely listened to the amplified words echoing in the  

emptiness. Muriel did not grieve. Anger and sadness were  

enough. She was sad that time had cheated Simon, and  

angry that an institution she despised had ruined a man  

she might have otherwise loved. As soon as she saw the  

Mass was ending, she stood and quickly left.  

Outside on the steps Mary saw the old woman stop to  

stare at the church; the building which had entrapped her  

son. Mary walked up to her. “Are you Mrs Bradbury— 

Simon’s mum?”  

The old woman turned and faced the girl. Her eyes were  

moist. She nodded before replying. “Yes—yes I am.”  

Mary smiled. “Would you like to come and have a cup of  

tea?”  

The woman shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She  

turned away, but stopped. “Are you from the church?”  

“I was Simon’s housekeeper—at the presbytery—St  

Luke’s.”  

“Oh.”  

“You sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea?”  

The woman shook her head again. “His father is waiting.  

We’ve got a long drive.”  

Mary looked surprised. “He didn’t come to the Mass?”  

Simon’s mother stared at the entrance where Peter  

Moore had appeared and was taking a cigarette from a  

packet. “No—” She began to walk down the steps. Mary  

watched, unsure, then followed quickly after her.  

“Mrs Bradbury—Simon’s things—would you like them?”  

“What—the clothes of a priest?”  

Mary lowered her eyes, confused. “I’m sorry, I—” She  

didn’t know what to say.  

309

Mary felt close to tears again. It was all too sad and  

mixed up. Later, she sought out Peter Moore, who was  

sitting alone in his study. She knocked on the door and  

entered. The man looked up, his face full of the strain of the  

past two weeks. He had had no idea that Simon would run,  

and now this. The tragedy weighed heavily as he continued  

to question his own future.  

Mary held out an envelope. “This came for Father  

Bradbury the other day. It’s got a Kununurra postmark— 

might be someone from Gunwinddu?”  

Peter took the envelope and sliced it open with his  

thumbnail. He read aloud:  

My Dear Father Bradbury  

How time does hesitate when one awaits life’s  

greatest moment  its ending. True, I sound  

morbid, but it is escape I seek, not sorrow and not  

even salvation.  

I am fortunate to already have been blessed  

with salvation. It would be poor gratitude to  

expect it to be eternal. The past forty years have  

been my allotted time in paradise. That is a long  

time, is it not? Forty years— no, it must even be  

more. Time, I think, is like the splashing fish on  

my river. Such promise, such joy and then gone,  

and the river as empty as it always was. There  

was a time when I had believed I would not even  

witness my twentyfirst year. When the day came  

I almost did not notice. In a prison, like on the  

river, you lose the measure of time. But I did  

remember and I told the soldier who brought my  

meal. I said to him, surely it is tradition to be  

given the key? It was Karl’s little joke, but he  

returned with another and they beat me. But I  

digress.  

310

A prison? I see you frown, just the way I  

remember when you discovered imperfections in  

your world. Yes. Perhaps this shocks you, but not  

too much I hope that you may still befriend an old  

Berliner.  

Last week the sergeant came to visit and he  

brought a government man. He asked many  

questions and always about the war. I told him  

about the great barramundi and I think he  

considered me a little mad.   

I still am not sure who he was, but I recognized  

him. Such men are the same everywhere. So I fear  

that old Karl, who wishes only to be at peace with  

the barramundi, is in trouble. Perhaps, even, I will  

need a priest? I can see you smile as I write.  

So after all these years, I might leave  

Gunwinddu. It will be sad for me, but much has  

changed since you have been gone. The old ways  

have ended and the new ways do not seem to be  

important. The Aborigines are going more and  

more to their lands and not even Mr Davies seems  

to mind. He is not a well man, so who knows?  

Perhaps soon nobody will be at Gunwinddu?  

I think of you my young friend and hope you will  

be in a generous mind when next we meet.  

With kindness,  

Karl.  

  

“What’s it all about?” Mary asked.  

Peter shook his head. “I don’t know. Karl must be the old  

German Simon mentioned. Sounds like trouble with  

immigration or even that new war crimes lot.” The priest  

dropped the letter onto the desk and rubbed his eyes with  

the heel of his palms. After the woman had left, Peter  

311

stared at the letter for a few moments before tearing it into  

pieces above his wastepaper basket.  

  

They made camp on an area of flat, bare ground inside a  

narrow valley. It was sheltered from the elements and the  

outside world by sheer walls of red rock, scorched black in  

places as though still to recover from the fires of creation.  

From fissures and cracks grew determined trees, ghost  

gums. Their slender, pale limbs added grace and gentleness  

to an escarpment which might otherwise be judged harsh.  

A ledge about ten metres above the area of the campsite  

provided a look‐out over the valley and its narrow  

entrance. It was a magnificent vista of high yellow grass,  

gums, and flowering wattles. They had camped on the plain  

and entered the mountains mid‐afternoon the previous  

day. Isaac had scouted happily around the old campsite,  

and they all sat late into the night listening to stories of his  

people and his home.  

On this their first full day, Isaac went off alone into the  

valley. From the ledge Simon could see him moving  

purposefully from place to place along the valley floor and  

occasionally to points on the surrounding valley walls. He  

remembered the Gunwinddu men when they had stopped  

at the place of Wirrintiny, and wondered if Isaac was  

renewing links with his home, consecrating the sacred  

places as a man who was born here—and perhaps  

intended to die here. The thought disturbed Simon. Would  

he cope without Isaac? How would he return to his home  

without the old man? He studied Isaac’s methodical  

movements and was reminded of the Stations of the Cross,  

the twelve stages for reflection that mark Christ’s life and  

death. Again he sensed strong parallels between the  

Aboriginal expression of spiritual beliefs, and the symbols  

of his own faith.   

312

Simon returned to the campsite wondering what was  

expected of him. The others he presumed would be  

collecting food. He threw a piece of wood onto the fire then  

sat on a fallen log beneath a large gum growing at the base  

of the cliff. The log itself would once have been a tree  

growing in this same place, perhaps two hundred, even  

three hundred years earlier. How wonderful it must be to  

be a god, Simon mused; to be able to see the continuum of  

life in an unbroken cycle.   

He looked around the camp. This had been the home  

and meeting place of people almost since the beginning of  

human time, yet the landscape remained precisely as  

nature had shaped it. All that had been left behind were the  

last inhabitants’ grinding and cutting stones. Perhaps it  

was because the land had never been regarded as a  

possession; but more as a mother or father? Indeed the  

whole notion of possession barely existed in Aboriginal  

expression. Was that a key to their spiritual insight?  

Most faiths, particularly his own, projected austerity and  

charity as essential to salvation. Was this some form of  

endopsychic memory of early human understanding; from  

the time preceding man’s emotional separation from his  

living world? Simon pondered the question. The thirst for  

possession, he proclaimed in silent inner debate, lay at the  

root of all that was destructive in his culture. For  

Aboriginal people sharing was more than a notional  

addendum to their faith; sharing formed the foundation to  

their experience and survival. He wondered how Isaac  

would explain it. He looked to where the old man and his  

wife had established their sleeping place. The canvas sack,  

soiled by travel, was on the ground against the trunk of a  

sapling, its neck tied with nylon cord. Isaac usually kept the  

bag with him at all times, yet Simon had never seen him  

put anything inside, or take anything out of it.  

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Simon eased himself to his feet and looked to see if  

anyone was approaching. Satisfied he was alone, he  

crossed to the sack. He squatted and stared at it guiltily.  

Simon undid the knot, loosened the opening and peered  

inside. Bones! Bones, and something wrapped in what  

looked like hair. He reached into the bag to examine the  

object more closely. It was hair. He parted it gently and  

recoiled in horror as he realised it was a skull. He replaced  

the sack as he had found it, carefully retying the knot. From  

the distance of the log again he stared at the sack. Heat  

pricked his skin beneath his shirt. The air in the valley was  

heavy and still, and he felt watched by unseen eyes.  

Isaac entered the shade of the campsite, startling the  

priest. Simon had not heard him approach. He wore a stern,  

almost troubled face. He studied Simon. “You okay  

Father—you look a bit crook—a bit white, like.”  

Simon swallowed and nodded quickly. “—just worn out  

I think. I’m not used to all this walking.”   

Isaac pointed grimly to Simon’s boots. “You should  

throw them away—no good here.”  

“They are expensive boots!”  

Isaac wrinkled his nose. “They smell—they’re already  

dyin’, but your feet will last as long as you do, Father.”  

Simon shrugged. There was a logic of sorts.  

“Besides,” continued Isaac, “time to leave your mark on  

the land, eh!”  

“What about snakes?”  

Isaac pointed to his eyes. “That’s why you got these.  

Anyway, I’ve come to show you a real good spear tree I’ve  

found.”  

Isaac collected the axe while Simon unlaced and tugged  

off his boots and socks. He conceded the old man was right.  

The boots were ripe, but bare feet seemed to heighten his  

sense of vulnerability. He worried about how far or how  

well he could walk without boots. He was a long way from  

314

anywhere and the only way back was on foot. He followed  

Isaac gingerly, the hot sand and gravel unfamiliar and  

painful to his skin. Isaac stopped and waited for him to  

catch up. He grinned broadly. “Couple of days and they’ll be  

plenty tough, Father. Don’ you worry.”  

They followed the line of the valley for about a kilometre  

until Isaac stopped at a stand of tall white gums. They bore  

the scars of large pieces which had been cut from their  

trunks. Isaac pointed to the gouges, the edges were gnarled  

and turned in by the onward growth. “I remember these  

trees. Good wood for makin’ woomeras.” He tapped one of  

the indentations with the back of the axe. “They were just  

like this when I was a boy.”  

They moved on through the spinifex until they came to  

the spear trees Isaac had seen earlier. He appraised the  

slender stems and with swift blows of the axe cut six of the  

straightest and tallest at their base. He handed them to  

Simon. “I reckon these’ll get us some good tucker, Father!”  

Simon regarded the ‘spears’ doubtfully. “They’re not  

very straight.” Isaac ignored the remark, hefted the axe  

onto his shoulder and began to walk back to the camp,  

grinning at every yelp and wince from the man hobbling in  

his wake.  

Isaac stirred the fire into life with a bundle of small  

sticks, creating a good flame. Then he proceeded to work  

each of the shafts through the fire, withdrawing them from  

time to time to apply pressure to the area he was  

straightening. He did this by placing his foot on the bend or  

kink and pulling up firmly with both hands. He had sand in  

his hands to prevent them being burned. Occasionally he  

looked to Simon to make sure the priest was watching and  

learning. When he was satisfied the spears were straight,  

he used a piece of stone to scrape off the bark. Then, with a  

larger cutting stone, honed a sharp point on each weapon.  

He pointed to the tips. “When we get a kangaroo Father,  

315

we’ll glue and tie a bit of his bone here, see. Make a barb,  

like.”   

Isaac looked up to see if Simon was watching and caught  

him looking at the canvas bag. His eyes misted and he  

studied the priest carefully. Simon sensed his gaze and  

turned quickly. Their eyes met. Simon felt as though the old  

man was reading his thoughts. Perhaps he was.  

“I looked inside,” Simon said slowly.  

At first Isaac said nothing. He continued to stare, almost  

unseeingly, at the priest.  

“You shouldn’ have done that,” he said finally.  

Simon grimaced. “I know—I was just curious.”  

Isaac nodded slowly and placed the spear he was  

working on to one side. “What did you find?”  

“Bones—a skull.”  

Isaac climbed shakily to his feet and scuffed the ground.  

Simon couldn’t avoid the question. “What—who, is it?”  

 “Matthew. I am bringin’ ‘im home.”   

He picked up the axe and two of the spears they had  

carried from the first camp and started to walk. “Come  

on—we got things to do.” He also picked up a coolamon  

and handed it to Simon and nodded towards the path  

leading to the rockhole. “Better get some water too.”  

When Simon returned, Isaac was staring at the canvas  

sack.  

“Where’s Angel?” Simon asked, more in an effort to  

lighten the atmosphere than out of genuine curiosity.  

“Gone.”  

Simon looked at the man. “Gone?”  

“Dadirri—quiet time—with his father’s country. He’s got  

to prepare himself, like.”  

“Is he going to be initiated here?”  

“Maybe.” Isaac studied Simon. “Maybe you too,” he said  

slowly.  

316

Simon shivered. He shook his head emphatically. “No—I  

couldn’t do that Isaac. You forget who and what I am. It  

wouldn’t be right.”  

Isaac stood his ground. “You’re nobody anymore. You  

want to stay like that? Come on.” He walked away and  

Simon followed on his tender feet, disturbed.  

They walked back into the central plain of the valley,  

Isaac continually scouring the ground. Near the base of a  

spindly tree he pointed to a hole. “Goanna—empty but.”  

Simon peered at the hole. “How can you tell?”  

“Too many leaves.”  

“Are we going to catch one?”  

Isaac shrugged. “Maybe.” He still seemed agitated and  

upset with the priest.  

A short distance further they stopped at a white gum.  

Isaac slashed at the trunk until a clear sap began to trickle  

from the blaze. He used a stick to collect and scrape it into  

the water Simon was carrying. When he was satisfied he  

had enough he stirred the liquid vigorously. It gave off a  

pungent eucalyptus odour.  

“What’s this for?”   

Isaac just grunted and picked up his gear.  

They pressed on, Isaac paying particular attention to the  

surface around clumps of scrub. It wasn’t long before they  

found another burrow. Isaac waved for Simon to be still  

and began to probe the ground with the thicker of the two  

spears in an arc about a metre out from the entrance. On  

his fifth stab the shaft sank easily and he left it there.  

“Quick,” he yelled. “Start diggin’.”  

Simon just looked at him, bemused. Isaac grabbed the  

coolamon from Simon’s hands and glared. “Dig. If he’s  

home we got ‘im. He won’t get past that spear there. You  

grab his tail then, and drag ‘im out real quick. I’ll finish ‘im  

with this.” He waved the second spear, a slender shaft not  

much thicker than a man’s little finger.  

317

Simon dropped to his knees and began to widen the  

hole, scooping the red sand towards his lap. “Not too wide,”  

Isaac cautioned. “Now you reach in.” Simon did as he was  

told.  

“The sand’s wet.”  

“Wee wee—he’s plenty scared. You got ‘im now.”  

Simon felt his fingers touch something which moved. He  

was scared he would be bitten, and what if it was a snake?  

Something slender whipped across his knuckles and he  

jerked his arm from the burrow.  

Isaac glowered. “You scared?”  

Simon was losing his temper. “Yes I bloody am,” he  

shouted.  

Isaac touched Simon’s cheek with the point of the spear.  

“You get ‘im Father.” His voice was low and threatening.  

Simon pushed his hand back into the burrow and felt a  

slender cord of rough flesh. “You feel his tail—grab and  

pull,” instructed the old man.  

Simon did. He yanked his arm from the burrow,  

dragging a fat, twisting lizard. It was big and hideous, about  

half a metre long. It hissed and whipped violently in his  

grasp. Isaac danced above him, the spear held high.   

“On his back—turn ‘im on his back,” he yelled.  

Simon flipped the reptile over. Isaac’s spear flashed past  

his head and pierced the creature’s neck. The second  

movement was so rapid that Simon was only conscious of  

the aftermath; an instant of bewilderment and pain. The  

spear was pulled from the lizard and plunged again in the  

same blur of movement. This time its bloodied point  

impaled Simon’s right wrist, the hand holding the lizard’s  

tail, to the ground. Blood spurted in a fan‐shaped spray and  

he gasped with shock. He looked up at the old man, his  

mind seized with disbelief.  

“What have you done?” he shrieked.  

318

Isaac didn’t reply. He knelt beside the priest and gently  

rested the arm across his lap. He plucked the spear from  

where it had jammed between the two wrist bones. It made  

a scraping sound. Blood splashed over both men and  

darkened the sand.  

“I’ll die—,” the priest whimpered.  

Isaac picked up the coolamon and stirred its contents  

again. Then he poured the liquid into and over the wound.  

Simon screamed. He felt bile rushing into his throat and  

thought he would pass out. He swallowed hard to keep it  

down.  

“You won’ die Father,” Isaac said, flatly.  

“Why—is it because I looked in the bag?”  

Isaac remained silent.  

“Why—why did you do this?” There was pleading and  

shock in the priest’s voice.   

“It’s the law.”  

Simon clenched his teeth against the welling pain. “The  

law? What kind of law is that?”  

“Old law.”  

Simon shuddered. The pain was terrible. “But I don’t  

even know what I’ve done wrong!”  

Isaac smiled grimly. “You’re sounding like a blackfella  

already, Father—a blackfella under white law, eh!”  

Simon held his arm and peered at the wound. There was  

a lot of blood. “You’ve hit an artery—I’ll die out here.”   

Isaac stared hard at him. “You frightened?”  

Simon nodded. Fear was a real lump in his throat.  

“Good—you’re learnin’ now,” the old man said.  

“Everyone all their lives is scared of somethin’. But you  

never want to die scared—that’s what you got to learn  

while you’re livin’.”   

But the fear and confusion was something alive, moving  

over the priest’s face.  

319

Isaac shook his head. “Don’ worry—I hit nothin’.” He  

stood and began to walk quickly towards the nearest ridge  

about two hundred metres away. Simon crawled to the  

meagre shade of a nearby sapling and rolled onto his left  

side, nursing his speared arm. His mind was scrambled.  

Nothing made sense.   

Isaac returned about twenty minutes later carrying a  

large wedge of reddish clay in his hands. He squatted  

beside the priest and rolled the clay into thin slabs  

between the palms of his hands. He pressed the clay over  

the wound. “Hold it tight,” the old man instructed.  

Isaac collected the axe and the lizard, leaving everything  

else for another time. “You right to walk, Father?”  

Simon nodded dumbly.  

Isaac helped him to his feet and they began to walk  

slowly back to camp. He tried to ease the priest’s torment.  

“Don’ worry Father—might have scraped them two bones  

a bit, but they won’ be broken. You’ll be all right.”  

Simon hobbled, sucking in his breath in a struggle to  

control the pain.  

Isaac observed the struggle. “Remember that pain fella,  

Father,” he continued, almost conversationally. “You’re  

always goin’ to be sharin’ blood with the land—you got to  

learn the pain don’ last long. That way you can turn it off,  

like.”  

“I don’t believe this is happening,” Simon mumbled.  

That night Winnie wordlessly cleaned and redressed the  

wound with a boiled mixture of water and dissolved  

eucalyptus sap, then bound it in paperbark. She didn’t ask  

what had happened. Nobody asked—in fact nobody even  

spoke to him. They ignored him and each other as they sat  

quietly around the fire, dining on a smorgasbord of wild  

figs and tomatoes, lightly cooked witchetty grubs and the  

lizard. Simon was clumsy with his left hand, but it  

distracted him from another change which had occurred.  

320

Whether from fatigue, hunger, shock or adaptation, he  

shared all that was on offer. Even on the journey out he had  

shied from insect and reptile, sustaining himself instead on  

damper and fruits. The lizard was cooked in the coals. Its  

meat was tender, a little like chicken, but more chewy and  

slightly oily. But Simon accepted the food for what it was,  

his own culture’s preference to be detached from food’s  

sometimes distasteful origins, at last discarded.  

After the meal Isaac stood up. He looked tired. Simon  

watched him pick up the canvas sack and walk away into  

the night.  

The next day, alone in the cool and quiet of the rockpool,  

Simon laboured under a deep melancholy, viewing his  

plight as a direct consequence of his weakness. His  

vocation abandoned for an indulgently vague spiritual  

exploration, was a folly for which he suspected he would  

pay a cruel price.  

His wrist throbbed and by midday his head swam with  

the onset of a fever. He began to pluck the locket from his  

breast pocket with increasing frequency and intensity to  

gaze at the young woman. He wanted to kiss her, to be able  

to run his fingers over her pale European face and lips. She  

had kind and loving eyes. He wanted her there, a person  

from his world. Dizzy with pain and fever he staggered  

about the small clearing, clutching at trees and bushes, lost  

in fragments of memories.  

By dusk the fever was raging and his speech even more  

rambling. He was barely conscious when the women  

returned, and when he first heard the voice of Winnie, he  

was happy because he thought the girl from the locket had  

come. Winnie and Maudie half walked, half dragged him to  

fire where they boiled the pulp of a tuber in the billy. He  

was too weak to resist when they forced the sour liquid  

down his throat. Winnie removed the bandage of  

paperbark and Simon heard the concern of clicking  

321

tongues. Winnie tossed several small rocks into the fire and  

through half‐opened eyes he watched, puzzled, as she  

squatted over a coolamon and urinated. When the rocks  

were hot she used a piece of bark to drop them into the  

urine. He smelled the acrid steam. Maudie held his arm and  

he shut his eyes as he realized what was coming. Winnie  

carried the coolamon over and poured the heated urine  

into his wound. He gagged once, twice, on the pain and  

lapsed into unconsciousness.  

It took two days for the fever to pass. In that time the  

pain diminished and the women began keeping the bark off  

the wound for longer periods. The skin was already healing  

over, and there was no sign of the infection which had  

driven the fever. Simon began to study the wound with  

interest, marvelling at its recovery. His hand was badly  

bruised and still not serviceable, but with great relief he  

found he could move his fingers a little. He would bear  

forever a livid depression in the wrist, but the  

disfigurement did not seem important. It reminded him  

suddenly of Karl, and he wondered if they would ever again  

meet.  

Minnie and Maudie also took an interest in their  

handiwork, but Isaac remained aloof. He had spoken little  

since the incident and spent most of the days, and even the  

nights, away from camp.  

  

They had been in the valley for almost two weeks and  

had just shared pit‐roasted kangaroo when the old man  

took Simon aside. “How’re you feelin’, Father?” It was the  

first time since the wounding that Isaac had approached  

Simon directly and with his former deference.  

“I’m okay.” Simon did not want to lose the moment. He  

congratulated the old man. “That was good tucker—you  

must have been a sharp hunter in your day.”  

322

Isaac nodded and smiled. “My dad could put a spear  

through a kangaroo at fifty yards. I need more practice— 

but I still got a good eye.”  

Simon raised his wrist. “I know.”  

The old man looked sad and Simon touched his arm.  

“I’m not angry. I just hope I learn enough to understand.”  

Isaac nodded again, slowly: “The spirits. They’ve been  

watchin’ us.” He paused, uncertain, as if to continue would  

broach forbidden territory. “They’ve been waitin’ for you.”  

Simon folded his arms, not quite sure if he was expected  

to take the old man literally.  

Isaac studied him. “You got to realize something but. If  

you learn our secrets, if you say to the land, ‘I am you and  

you are me’ then you won’ never be able to leave it—it don’  

matter where you are. You’ll be a blackfella, an’ it don’  

matter what colour your skin is.” He tapped his head. “You  

will have knowledge. An’ you won’ be able to hide ‘cause  

you will have the spirit of the land in your soul. You can  

stay a Father, but it won’ help you. That’s what I’m tryin’ to  

say—it might be smarter to stay a dumb whitefella.”  

Simon got the drift. “My ignorance is my protection—.”  

He paused. “But I’m a priest, I understand spirituality.  

When I pray, when I celebrate the Mass, it is a path to the  

spiritual plane—I understand that.”  

Isaac scratched his bearded cheek. “An’ the spirits, what  

do they tell you?”  

Simon paused in thought. “Well—I feel a guiding  

influence.”  

Isaac shook his head. “But what do they say when you  

talk with ‘em? Do the spirits come in the church and show  

you who they are and what they can do, and tell you about  

your family an’ friends in other places?”  

Simon frowned. “Well—no. Our faith doesn’t require us  

to see in order to believe.”  

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Isaac’s face softened in the firelight and for a fleeting  

moment Simon thought he read pity in the old man’s eyes.  

“Must be that’s how we’re different,” was all he said.  

Simon took the old man’s arm. “But you’re Catholic  

now—you went to Mass at Gunwinddu as Christians.”  

“Sure, but nothin’ changed. Your boss god and our boss  

god are the same big fella. When we go to church we talk to  

the same spirits.”  

“And you see them?”  


“Do you see them elsewhere?”  

“Everywhere, Father.”  

“Then why did you bother going to church?”  

Isaac scratched his chin. “Well, we don’ want to hurt  

your feelings, like.”  

Simon swallowed and looked down at his grubby feet.  

He didn’t know what to say. He suddenly felt cheated.  

Isaac glanced out into the darkened valley. “Maybe we’ll  

just see what happens tomorrow, eh!”  

  

The following morning the two men left the camp  

together. They took the path to the rockhole, which  

continued through a hidden cleft in the rock face on the  

other side of the water. It followed the base of a ridge for  

about three hundred metres then entered a natural tunnel.  

Here the darkness swallowed them. Simon only had the  

sound of Isaac’s feet slapping the wet rock floor as a guide.  

He guessed the tunnel to be a watercourse leading to the  

rockhole. It was difficult to gauge how far they walked in  

darkness, but he guessed it to be about two hundred or so  

metres before a light appeared in the distance. The light  

steadily blossomed and as they neared Simon saw it was an  

ancient roof collapse. Isaac led the way up the ramp of  

rubble to the top of a low hill overlooking another valley,  

much larger than the one where they had camped. Isaac  

324

stopped and stood perfectly still, gazing with intensity over  

the plain towards the distant valley walls. After a while he  

sighed, seemingly satisfied with something he had seen.  

“What is it?” Simon asked.  

“Smoke.”  

“Smoke?”  

“Yeah—he’s waitin’ for us.”  

“Angel?”  


“Is he sending a signal?”  

“No—it’s his camp, an’ he’s waitin’ for us.”  

Simon peered across the plain. The sky was clear. “I  

can’t see anything. How do you know he’s waiting?”  

Isaac grunted and leaned on his spear. “I just know.  

There’s somethin’ that tells me.”  

Simon concentrated his gaze on the hills and shook his  

head. “I can’t see a thing.”  

Isaac shrugged and began to walk again. “You will. When  

you can see with your mind as well as your eyes it gets  

easier. Smoke is one of the important things to learn about,  

Father. Smoke makes a fella think. If I didn’ know Angel  

was there an’ I see smoke, I’m goin’ to start thinkin’, eh! If  

it’s not from a camp or a bushfire I’m goin’ to think even  

harder, and wonder. So I’ll sit down and light a fire too. The  

other fella sees my smoke and he starts thinkin’ an’  

wonderin’ as well. Now, ‘cause we’re both thinkin’ real  

hard about each other it’s not hard for me to get his  

thoughts and for him to get my thoughts. That’s how we  

sometimes know what’s goin’ on in other places—a bit like  

a wireless, maybe, but comin’ from in here.” He tapped his  

head.  

“That’s quite extraordinary—thought being like radio  

waves.”  

Isaac gave Simon a puzzled look and pushed on. The  

path twisted down to the valley floor and to Simon’s eyes,  

325

disappeared, but Isaac trod with purpose. However, he did  

not lead them across the plain. Instead they followed the  

base of the nearside ridge for several kilometres.   

“Aren’t we going to see Angel?” Simon was still thinking  

about the miracle of smoke and was afraid he was about to  

lose the thread of yet another revelation.  

“Later.”  

They walked in silence until they met a large olive‐green  

snake blocking their path. It was about two metres long,  

with a thick blunt head. Isaac stopped and slowly retreated.  

His eyes never left the snake as he bent his knees and  

picked up a fistful of gravel.  

“Is it poisonous?” Simon asked.  

“Plenty poisonous.”  

“Why don’t you use the spear then?”  

Isaac waved his arm dismissively. “If I miss, you  

volunteering to get my spear back?”  


Instead, Isaac tossed the gravel to the far side of the  

snake and yelled “run”. Simon needed no urging. They  

sprinted in a wide arc around the distracted reptile and  

didn’t stop until well past.  

“What would you do, out here, if someone got bitten?”  

Simon asked breathlessly as they slowed to a walk.  

“You hit where the bite is, real hard with a rock or  

stick—make a bruise so the poison stays in that place.  

Then you cut with a sharp stone and suck out all the bad  

blood. You got to be careful, but. You don’ want none of  

that stuff stayin’ in your mouth.”  

The two men followed the foot of the hill for several  

kilometres and the sun was almost directly overhead when  

Isaac began to lead the way up a boulder‐strewn slope to  

the top of the ridge. At the summit they walked along a  

razor‐back for about an hour until it ended abruptly at a  

sheer drop. Simon peered cautiously over the edge. The  

326

ottom seemed a long way down, but a ledge blocked his  

view.   

“Come on Father.”  

Simon turned in time to see Isaac disappearing from  

sight as he stepped down onto a  narrow track.  

At the bottom, a stand of tall white gums colluded with  

the sheer walls to cast the gorge into a perpetual shadow.  

“We’re close to Mudidjara now,” Isaac whispered. “Don’  

talk loud now—there are important spirits here—we’ve  

got to show respect, like.”  

Simon shivered. The air seemed suddenly chill after  

walking under the blazing sun.  

The entrance, through a narrow neck of rock, was  

partially blocked by large boulders. The walls towered  

above them on all sides. They proceeded through the  

narrow cleft and just before entering the other side Isaac  

laid his spears down. “We leave these out here,” he  

whispered. He bent down and collected a handful of sticks  

which he threw into the opening beyond. They clattered on  

the rocks. Satisfied that any lingering spirits would not be  

startled by the sudden appearance of humans, Isaac  

stepped through, followed closely by Simon.  

They stood on a flat ledge at the edge of a large pool of  

water about the size of several tennis courts. Its black, still  

surface mirrored the towering walls and a square patch of  

sky as deep beneath the surface as the heavens above were  

high. It was as though they had stepped into another  

world; a world without sound. Neither man spoke, both  

instinctively pausing to absorb the purity of the  

atmosphere, highlighted by the powerful silence. Simon  

walked to the edge of the water. He caught sight of his  

reflection; distant eyes and sun‐browned cheeks above a  

matted beard. It took him a few moments to realize he was  

looking at himself. Isaac squatted beside him.  

327

“This is Mudidjara—the moon’s bathing place,” he  

whispered  

Simon looked into the depths. “—the moon’s bathing  

place,” he repeated in a hushed voice. “It’s beautiful.”  

Isaac stood up and beckoned Simon to follow as he  

walked to a path between the water and the rock wall. The  

path went for about thirty metres and stopped below a  

cave, the opening of which was piled high with stones.  

Isaac carefully removed the stones and bending low under  

an overhang stepped inside. The cave wasn’t all that deep,  

but its walls were dry and smooth and covered with rock  

art – vivid pictures of men and animals, and suns and  

moons. It was a life‐sized calendar depicting the cycle of  

seasons and life. The colours were vivid reds, yellows,  

blacks and whites; the primal hues of Gondwanaland. The  

artistry was exquisite, and the spirits alone knew how old.  

Simon gently touched the face of the sun, a yellow ball  

against a red sky, and felt the spirit of the artist touch him  

through time. “It’s extraordinary—beautiful,” he  

whispered.  

Isaac pointed to a cryptic mural on the other wall. The  

first section showed sky and earth separated by a thin  

horizontal line. The second, men rising from the ground  

and spreading over the land. The third section showed the  

emergence of vegetation and other animals. The colours  

began with a black sky and a harsh red earth. Through  

employing a clever mix of ochre, the artist had gradually  

lightened the tones across the mural to accentuate the  

transition from darkness to light and life. “In the beginning  

there was only sky and earth,” said Isaac. “The earth was  

flat an’ empty, no life, waitin’ for our ancestral spirits to  

wake for the first time an’ rise from the ground—see.” He  

pointed to the second section. “The spirits then worked  

real hard, puttin’ down the mountains, an’ trees, an’  

328

ivers—but you can see there were no deserts then. They  

come later.”  

Simon’s mouth was open in amazement. “In the  

beginning God created heaven and earth,” he whispered.  

Here was portrayed the words of Genesis, the beginning of  

everything. “—And the earth was without form—darkness  

was upon the face of the deep, and the Spirit of God moved  

upon the face of the waters.” Simon snapped from his  

trance. “How do you know about the deserts?”  

“It’s in the songs.” Isaac drew Simon to the cave  

entrance. “Mudidjara is where our great father for this  

place come to life to put down the mountains and trees and  

animals in this country. The fish come later, in a great flood  

which covered all the land.”  

“Fish?”  

“Sure!”  

Isaac tugged at Simon’s sleeve and led him back down  

the path to the main rock platform above the pool. He  

spread himself on his stomach and reaching down, brushed  

the surface of the water with feather‐like strokes of his  

fingers. Almost immediately a school of tiny silver fish rose  

up, like spiralling comets through a night sky.  

Simon could scarcely believe his eyes. They were near  

no river, to speak of, and close to a thousand kilometres  

from the nearest coastline. “The songs record a flood—a  

great flood?”  

Isaac got back to his feet and nodded. “The flood come  

from the north‐west where the desert meets the sea, like.  

Iltjanma—he was the crayfish fella—ancestor like—he was  

walkin’ alongside a river there lookin’ for fish. But he don’  

see any so he put grass and rocks down to make a dam and  

catch ‘em. Pretty soon fish are jumpin’ behind the wall he’s  

made and he spears plenty to take back to camp. He ate  

plenty too an’ fell asleep. At the river but, the water is still  

risin’ higher an’ higher and soon busts the wall and a great  

329

flood flowed across the land—and that’s how the fish come  

to Mudidjara.”  

“It’s extraordinary. You’ve got no books, no conventional  

form of literature, yet you’ve recorded and still refer to  

incidents which probably predate all other human history  

by thousands of years.”  

Isaac shrugged. He didn’t need a newcomer to expound  

the obvious. He sat on his haunches staring into the pool.  

Neither spoke for some time, absorbed in their own  

thoughts. Isaac started to pick idly at a toenail.  

“Tell me what you can see Father.”  

Simon broke from his reverie and glanced at the old  

man. “What do you mean?”  

Isaac gestured towards the rockpool. “I wan’ to know  

what you can see.”   

Simon studied Isaac thoughtfully and realized it was no  

idle question. He turned to the pool and looked around.  

“Well, we’re in a small gorge, about fifty, maybe sixty  

metres down and surrounded on all sides except for the  

entrance. Apart from this ledge it’s filled with water—and  

pretty deep I’d imagine.”  

Isaac nodded. “Plenty deep—what colour is the water?”  

Simon gave a small shrug. “Black—.” Through the corner  

of his eye he saw Isaac look at him, disappointed. “—except  

for the blue from the sky,” he added quickly.  

“Ah, you can see the sky?”  

“Sure—the reflection.”  

Isaac made no comment. Simon stared into the water  

and began to study it more carefully. It wasn’t until he  

began to search the depths opposite the ledge that he could  

discern a subtle difference. Everywhere the rock was black,  

making the water black, except on the opposite side where  

there was a band of colour, only just perceptible. He  

pointed. “The colour is a bit different there. Is that it?”  

Isaac nodded slowly and stood up.  

330

“What is it?”  

“Gold,” he said flatly.  

“Gold!”  

“We got it everywhere, all around—it’s part of the land  

here.”  

Simon stared transfixed at the pale shadow below the  

waterline opposite. An enormous reef of gold angling down  

through the rock formation. If it was the surface of an even  

larger deposit its value would be immense—tens, maybe  

hundreds, of millions of dollars.  

Isaac walked back to the path leading to the caves and  

stooped to pick up a rock half the size of his fist. He passed  

it to Simon.  

It was a gold nugget. Simon pawed it, weighed it in his  

hand.  

“You want it?”  

Simon looked up at the old man. There was a warning in  

his deep, sunken eyes.  

He shook his head slowly. “No—of course not.”   

He handed it back to Isaac, who tossed it aside. “Better  

for it to stay just a rock,” he said. “That gold is in the water  

for Mudidjara and the moon—not for men.”  

331

Chapter Eighteen  

  

  

Isaac led Simon back through the cave with the rock art  

and out onto a path which twisted around towards the  

opposite side of the water. They reached another cave,  

wide and shallow. It was stacked, layer upon layer, with  

collected sea shells.  

Simon moved closer. The shells were like none he had  

ever seen.  

“Old,” said Isaac. “The old men—clever men—used ‘em  

in special ceremonies.” There was a clear, sandy area near  

the shells and Isaac sat, beckoning Simon to do likewise.  

“I had to show you that gold Father, ‘cause it’s what  

drove our people away from here. Now we’ve come back, I  

don’ want that stuff causin’ any more sufferin’—. When I  

was little, there was still lots of people here. It was a happy  

place, but we knew about white people. Everybody was  

curious, see, an’ so you don’ think about what you’re leavin’  

behind when you decide to go an’ have a look at these new  

people that have come to the land. You don’ think you  

might not come back—that nobody will come back. Well— 

we were happy at Mudidjara. Lots of families still. My  

father was not interested in the white people. He had heard  

stories that they were not always friendly, like.   

“But my father’s brother, my uncle, he went. He went  

away for a couple of years, I think. Well, he learned about  

white people all right and most of ‘em where he went were  

lookin’ for this stuff they called gold. My uncle reckoned  

they were crazy, but he soon saw that a man with gold was  

a big fella. My uncle wanted to be a big fella, like, to see the  

whitefellas treatin’ ‘im like an important bloke.   

“So my uncle—he brought the whitefellas to Mudidjara,  

on horses. My father an’ my uncle had a big argument—my  

uncle had broken the law. But my uncle don’ take any  

332

notice. He laughed at my father and tol’ him it was  

whitefella’s law now and that what my father says don’  

matter. That night my father got the other men and they  

left the valley and come here, to the sacred place, an’ sung  

the stone—a special stone—as old as Mudidjara. My uncle  

but, had followed ‘em. When he got here he knew they  

were singin’ im an’ he got frightened. He tried to hit my  

father with a stick to stop ‘im. He grabbed the stone and  

shook it in the air, sayin’ the blackfella power was no good  

no more. My father he got real angry an’ he cursed my  

uncle. My uncle run at ‘im with his stick, but my father put  

up his spear and pushed it into my uncle’s heart and killed  

‘im.”  

Isaac paused and his eyes seemed to sink deeper into  

their sockets. “When my father saw my uncle was dead he  

touched the stone and it was cold—freezin’ cold and all the  

men knew the stone had taken his soul and would keep it  

forever. That’s what the stone is for—it protects the land.  

The men took ‘is body down here, where we are now—and  

pushed ‘im into the water for Wonambi the snake spirit.  

My father said the secret of Mudidjara had to be protected,  

so all the men took their spears, an’ went back to the valley  

where the whitefellas were sleepin’. There was a big battle.  

The whitefellas had guns, but it was dark and the guns  

made a bright spark when they were fired so it was easy to  

see where they were. But they killed a lot of our people  

before the last one of ‘em was dead.   

“After the fight it was terrible here—a lot of cryin’ for a  

long time, ‘cause a lot of the women had lost their  

husbands an’ there were not many men left now. One night  

the people had a big meetin’ and tol’ my father that they  

were goin’—that Mudidjara was now a bad place. My  

father understood this an’ said everybody should leave  

Mudidjara—for maybe a year, like. So we started walkin’— 

but along the way we were found by more whitefellas. Me  

333

an’ my brother were playin’. When we saw the whitefellas  

we hid—and watched ‘em from the rocks. They stopped  

their horses an’ walked up to the families and did a lot of  

yellin’, but we don’ know what they’re sayin’, see. Then one  

of the fellas sees one of the women carryin’ a bag—it was a  

saddle bag from one of the horses from the blokes who  

were killed and she was carryin’ some things in it. There  

was a lot of yellin’ again and they got everybody to stand  

up in a line. Me an’ my brother saw one of the whitefellas  

looking up to where we were so we lay down so they don’  

see us. Then we heard loud bangs—I don’ know how many  

times. When we looked again, the whitefellas were on their  

horses again and ridin’ away. My brother an’ me went  

down to where everybody was an’ they were all dead.”  

Isaac stopped. Tears slid slowly over his cheekbones. He  

stood up. “It was the end—the end of everythin’ —except  

Mudidjara. I always knew one day I’d come back to  

Mudidjara. But I don’ want it to be a sad place. It’s got to be  

happy again—but first we got to make it right.”  

Isaac started to walk up the path and Simon followed.  

They were approaching another cave, high up and  

diagonally across from the entrance to Mudidjara. It was  

set back into the rock making it invisible to any chance  

visitor. Isaac stopped before they reached the cave. “This  

last one, Father, is special—real special—the holiest place  

for our people. It’s where our great father put himself  

down to rest when his work was done. I’ve been comin’  

here while you’ve been getting’ better, singin’ the sacred  

songs and talkin’ with the spirits. There’re some powerful  

fellas here still.”  

Simon looked at the darkened entrance in the rock. In  

the stillness and silence of the gorge all he could hear was  

his own breath.  

Isaac entered the cave and beckoned Simon to follow. It  

was high enough to stand and about the area of a small  

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oom. The old man stepped to a nook low down in a side  

wall and squatted. Simon joined him. In the shallow cavity  

of rock was a smooth stone, about the size of a large egg  

and resting on a mat of feathers. Isaac gestured to it.  

“Touch it Father.”  

Simon hesitated. He looked at Isaac. “What is it?”  

Instead of speaking, Isaac inclined his head, urging  

Simon to do as he was asked.  

Tentatively, Simon reached out and touched its surface.  

A chill flowed into him and he jerked his hand away,  

repulsed.  

“Is it cold?”  

“Yes,” Simon whispered.  

“The soul in the stone—an’ you’re a Father, you got  

powers you don’ even know yet—you can free ‘im—an’  

make ‘im leave Mudidjara.”  

“Who?”  

“My uncle.”  

Simon shivered.  

“That tjurunga, the stone, has my uncle’s soul. We got to  

give it back—let ‘im leave this place. Until we do this thing  

he’s in that stone for all time. I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about  

this, Father. We’re startin’ again, a bran’ new day here—so  

we do this thing for my uncle. That’s what we got to do.”  

Simon was dubious, but there was no doubting the  

sensation emitted by the stone. “What can I do?”  

“That’s what we’re goin’ to find out—see if you are  

strong enough for this place—strong enough to belong.  

Simon felt his stomach muscles tighten. “—initiation?”  

Isaac nodded.  

Simon shook his head. “I can’t.”  

“It has to be,” said Isaac firmly. He walked to the back of  

the cave where there was a collection of tools, primordial  

weapons and several long pieces of bone. Isaac picked up  

one of these, along with an upturned woomera, a spear  

335

thrower, containing pieces of sharp‐edged stone. The bone  

was a piece of human forearm, sharpened one end, and a  

knob of black, resinous substance at the other. From this  

trailed a web of hair.  

Isaac squatted to the floor, placed the bone and the  

woomera carefully aside and picked up a fistful of sand. He  

stared into Simon’s eyes and began to let the sand trickle  

through his fingers. “You understand this, Father—a man’s  

life goes away like the sand—sometimes fast,” he paused,  

“sometimes slow. But when the bone is pointed, his life is  

finished right then.” He opened his hand and dropped the  

remaining sand. He then wiped flat the small mound he had  

created. “Gone forever unless his soul is saved. I think  

maybe the spirits want to see if you can save my uncle’s  

soul—if you’re strong enough.”  

Simon felt a hollow, sickening feeling begin to well in the  

pit of his stomach. He knew he was entering dangerous  

territory, and remembered the words of the Bishop,  

“Satanic— their culture is Satanic, you should know that—”  

He felt a knot of fear. “Who points the bone?” His voice was  

hoarse.  

“Someone decided by powerful men who talk with the  

spirits.”  

Simon regarded the bone again. “Can you point it and  

kill someone?”  

Isaac nodded slowly.  

Simon tried to swallow his nervousness. “How does it  

work?”  

The old man hesitated. “Same as a spear, Father—just  

the same—but a spear from here.” He tapped his forehead.  

“The bone is filled, with power like, from the mind, during  

special ceremonies. The songs are sung and the spirits put  

their power into the bone too—and then it is pointed. It  

don’ matter how far away a fella is—hundreds and  

hundreds of miles—it don’ matter. It’s a spear thrown from  

336

one fella’s mind to another fella’s heart, and the mind is  

plenty powerful especially if many minds are workin’.”  

“And—?”  

Isaac made a breaking movement with his hands. “When  

the bone hits it splits the heart and breaks the back bone  

and tears out the throat—but only the fella pointin’ the  

bone, and the fella who has been hit know that.” He pointed  

to two nearby objects which looked like birds’ nests made  

from emu down and feathers. “Kurdaitcha—the fella who  

the senior men decide will point the bone has to wear the  

Kurdaitcha shoes.”  

“Why?”  

“To hide his footmarks—so no one else will know who  

the Kurdaitcha man was.”  

Simon had heard of the Kurdaitcha man, even at  

Gunwinddu. Kurdaitcha man, the blood avenger, the most  

feared entity in Aboriginal mythology; akin to Christianity’s  

avenging angel.   

He nodded towards the feathery slippers. “How are they  

made—looks like the featers are glued?”  

“Blood—a man’s blood, from here.” He pumped his arm  

and pointed to his bicep.  

Simon stared grimly at these objects of ruthless sorcery.  

“So why—who gets judged this way?”  

Isaac shrugged. “People who break the law—fellas who  

tell women or people not initiated, about our secrets. I got  

to be careful, even with you.”  

Simon stared at the bone and the slippers. “The old laws  

sound pretty tough,” he said finally.  

“They’re the true laws Father—it happened at  

Gunwinddu once.”  

Simon looked up and faced the old man, who nodded.  

“Sure—but no one tol’ Father Rantz of course. Fella from  

McKenzie station stole two girls from the hostel and took  

‘em out into the bush one time. We all had a meetin’, we  

337

eckoned we should track him and bring him back, but one  

of the old fellas—Arthur’s father it was—said no. He said  

we had to sing the fella. So some of the senior men snuck  

out every night for three nights, singin’ into the bone. They  

built a fire and held the bone over till it was real hot and  

then on the third night they sang it out into the bush. The  

next day the two girls come back—tol’ us the fella had  

suddenly got real sick, too sick to walk. He lay down and  

died that mornin’, and in real pain, like he was burning up  

inside—but we already knew that before the girls come  

back.”  

Simon breathed out, slowly.  

Isaac picked up the woomera and bone, and two  

elongated ovals of wood with thongs of hair and bark  

attached through a hole in the ends. Simon recognized  

them as bull‐roarers, similar to what had been used at the  

funeral at Gunwinddu. He remembered Matthew—and the  

sack full of bones.  

“Matthew—?”  

Isaac nodded. “It’s done.”  

Simon felt a twinge of disappointment that he had not  

been present; that he had not been considered worthy  

enough, perhaps, to witness to Matthew’s final return to his  

Dreaming place.  

Isaac stood up and moved towards the cave entrance.  

“Come on, we’ve got to get movin’. Angel’s waitin’,” he said.  

“What about Winnie and Maudie?”  

“They won’ be expectin’ us—not for a while.”  

It took the rest of the afternoon to climb the path  

leading out of Mudidjara and then to cross the valley to the  

opposite hills. Angel was camped in a grove of ghost gums  

behind the first ridge, with a speared kangaroo roasting in  

a ground oven built with heated stones. He grinned as Isaac  

and Simon arrived. “How’s it goin’ Father—you hungry— 

you getting’ to like this country?”  

338

Simon was slightly taken aback. It was the most  

expressive he had known Angel. He nodded. He saw Angel  

glance at his wrist, but he asked no questions. “It’s a  

beautiful place.” He glanced at the cooking meat. “And I’m  

hungry enough to eat a horse.”  

“Ah, sorry Father—no horse.”  

Simon feigned disappointment.  

A flock of white cockatoos screeched noisily then settled  

in the tops of nearby gums. Simon looked at the rocks and  

trees, their angles and colours so muted by day, now hard‐ 

etched by the late light. He stared at the thin spiral of blue  

smoke from Angel’s fire. His nostrils tasted the delicious,  

almost erotic scent of dry earth and eucalyptus vapours, of  

roasting meat and burning wood. The air was still and  

there was a gentle hum from a million unseen insects. For a  

moment he felt as if he was floating, so overwhelming was  

his sense of inner calm. It was a sublime moment and he  

was grateful to the spirits whose space he sensed he was  

being allowed to share.  

After they had eaten, they sat around the fire.  

Occasionally Isaac would blow into the embers, sending an  

eddy of sparks twisting up into the night. He would crane  

his neck and watch them until every last one had been  

swallowed by the heavens.   

“We have been here since before time began,” Isaac  

spoke, his eyes alight, deep within their sockets. “We have  

lived and kept the earth as it was from the first day— 

become one with the land, bending as the trees and grasses  

bend, singing inside with crickets and birds and running  

water, stepping as silent shadows behind the emu and  

pinkirrjarti, knowing the proper times to move camp, to  

sing the land, to lie with a woman—all these things.” He  

tapped his chest. “In quiet time—dadirri time—you learn  

to breathe the same rhythm as all the earth, sometimes  

leavin’ it to fly with the clouds. When this happens you can  

339

move through the sky with the storms.” He made sweeping  

motions with his hands. “Turning the clouds this way and  

that way.”  

Simon interrupted. “Fly—?”  

“Like the smoke—you sit and think and be still. You  

listen deep. Sometimes the spirits come—sometimes a part  

of your mind flies away to do some of these other things, or  

go to the spirits. You get better when you get older. When I  

was a boy my father and some old fellas started to sing up a  

storm. One of ‘em was standin’ quiet, flyin’ through the sky  

lookin’ for the right clouds. But my father made me cover  

my eyes so I couldn’ see, ‘cause I was too young. But these  

old fellas were makin’ so much noise, an’ suddenly the sky  

went dark and there was thunder and lightnin’ —I was  

scared so I looked through my fingers. That’s when I saw  

this one fella standin’ quiet and the others all dancin’ and  

wavin’ their arms and singin’. Then the old fella who was  

standin’ quiet turned his face and looked straight at me an’  

saw I was lookin’. He got real angry, so angry that he  

chased the storm away, an’ it disappeared—just like that.  

The old men were real powerful when all the people were  

still livin’ out here.”  

“Have you ever done anything like this?” Simon asked.  

Isaac didn’t reply immediately and Angel interceded: “It  

was Isaac who brung the storm when we were at  

Yindarlgooda—to fill all the rockholes before we come out  

here.”  

Simon looked at Isaac. “Did you have to be so  

enthusiastic—I almost drowned.”  

Isaac pointed a finger. “You shouldn’ joke about these  

things Father.”  

“I hear what you say, but it doesn’t mean I understand.”  

The old man tapped his head. “In here is your brain and  

your mind—your thinkin’. You whitefellas use plenty of  

brain but not much of the other, eh?” He leaned forward to  

340

each Simon and tapped him on his head. “That mind in  

there is plenty strong when you learn how to use it—much  

stronger than that brain in there. Because the mind—your  

thinkin’ is a part of everythin’. It don’ need to stay inside  

your head. It can fly anywhere an’ take you with it.”  

“Through time?” Simon asked hesitantly.  

“Sure. When you die, when your brain is dead, then your  

mind is real free—but if you only ever learned how to do  

things with your brain then you don’ know that—‘cause  

you’re dead, like—an’ your mind is gone ‘cause you never  

used it.”  

Simon sat quietly for a moment. Finally he faced him  

again. “So immortality—life after death, can be very real— 

not just through belief, but through actuality?”  

Isaac nodded slowly, cautious. “Only if Biamee wants  

your mind. If your mind hasn’ learned nothin’ when you  

lived then Biamee won’ want it, so—” He snapped his  

fingers. “So, you’re just dead.”  

Simon stared into the shimmering coals. How did you  

get words like that into a sermon?  

  

The following morning Isaac led Simon from Angel’s  

campsite and climbed to the highest ridge of the range. To  

the west they could see over the valley towards Mudidjara  

water. Isaac, however, led them over the crest to the  

eastern slope. It fell away gradually to a plain, which in the  

infinite distance touched the horizon somewhere in the  

Great Western Desert. It was red—the whole landscape a  

crusted river of totemic blood.  

In descending order down the gravely slope were circles  

of stone, neatly spaced in pyramid fashion; one circle at the  

top, two below that, three, four, and so on. Simon guessed  

there to be about thirty in all.   

“This is the place,” said Isaac. “This is where Biamee  

comes.”  

341

Simon gazed at the land stretching before him. There  

were no trees, just clumps of sharp, spiny grass and  

spinifex between the stone circles.  

Isaac turned to Simon. “You take off your clothes now  

Father.”  

Simon gaped. “Huh?”  

“No clothes. Here you can’t hide who you are and what  

you are.” He pointed to the top circle. “That’s your place— 

sit there.”  

“Now?”  

Isaac nodded.  

“For how long?”  

“All day, all night—maybe tomorrow too—maybe even  

longer.”  

Simon baulked. “I’ll fry.”  

The old man pointed to Simon’s wrist. “Remember that  

pain fella—you got to learn to be more powerful.” He  

tapped his head. “You got to get strong here.”  

“What do I eat?”  

“No food—no toilet—you don’ move!”  

Simon could again taste the now familiar bile of fear.  

Why was it that everything dangerous or testing seemed to  

happen without warning; without the chance to argue it  

out. “What if I can’t do this?”  

Isaac studied Simon’s anxious face and a flicker of  

sadness crossed his eyes. “You’ll die Father. If you come  

here and don’ learn—you can’t leave—that’s the law.”  

Simon swallowed. “You would kill me?”  

The old man shook his head and waved his hand to  

encompass the enveloping earth and sky. “No—you’ll just  

die—maybe you just won’ find no water when you try and  

walk away.”  

The priest glanced at the livid dent in his wrist. He  

reluctantly shed his shirt, trousers and underpants.  

342

Isaac squatted and stared at his genitals. “You been  

done!”  

“Huh?”  

“Lartna—cut.”  

“Er—yes.”  

Isaac nodded. “I would have to have done that to you. It  

can hurt real bad when you’re a man—an’ I got no blade  

here, just sharp stone from the old people. At Gunwinddu  

we used razor blades, much better,” he informed  

conversationally.  

Simon felt his stomach crawl.  

Isaac disappeared briefly and returned with two carved  

dishes containing bird down, and white clay pounded and  

moistened into a sticky paste. He smeared Simon’s back  

with the ochre and before it dried impregnated the ochre  

with down. Using his fingers he then deftly inscribed long  

white lines down Simon’s arms and legs and three  

horizontal markings across his chest. The final adornment  

was a long cord of fur string wound several times around  

the top of the priest’s head.  

Isaac motioned Simon to step into the ring of stone and  

sit. He winced when sharp pebbles pierced his buttocks.  

Simon looked up at Isaac, his face mirroring his inner  

dread.   

Isaac squatted and placed a hand on his shoulder. “This  

is real important—more important than anything else you  

ever done. This is for you an’ for Mudidjara. You’re a  

Father—you can forgive my uncle—free him from the  

stone—make a new start for Mudidjara.”  

Simon nodded, trying to understand. “And me doing this  

will achieve that?”  

“Maybe.”  

“Maybe! You mean you don’t even know for sure?”  

343

Simon started to stand and Isaac pushed him back,  

ignoring his protestations. “It’s goin’ to depend on you,  

Father.”  

Simon shook his head, defeated.  

“An’ when you’re cut here,” the old man made slashing  

marks across his chest, “you don’ make any noise to show  

you’re scared. You got to do that for me.”  

Simon’s voice quavered. “Jesus—I’ll try—when does  

that happen?”  

“When we think you’re ready.”  

“We?”  

The old man made no reply.  

“Where will Angel be?”  

“Not far—he’s doin’ this too.”  

“Where will you be?”  

“I’m goin’ away a while. It’s no good you doin’ this just  

‘cause you think old Isaac is watchin’. You got to do this  

‘cause you’re watchin’ yourself—from inside. Dadirri,  

Father—dadirri.”  

The old man moved away and Simon took a deep breath,  

trying to resign himself to fate. He was surprised when just  

a short time later he heard the old man’s shuffling steps  

return. Isaac bent and placed a coolamon of water beside  

the stones encircling the priest, placing a leafy branch over  

the top. “This has got to last a while Father. Better not to  

drink in the day, just in the morning an’ night—okay?”  

Simon nodded. The old man stood and gazed out upon  

the empty circles of stone spreading down the slope  

towards the endless plain. His eyes were moist. “I was  

here—down there a bit.” He pointed to the lower circles. “I  

thought I was goin’ to be the last.” He turned and faced  

Simon. “Now, maybe, we’re startin’ all over again—you  

bein’ a whitefella and a Father.”  

344

Simon squinted up at the eyes sunk deep behind the  

shaggy beard and flat nose and smiled despite his inner  

foreboding. “Maybe.”  

“Listen deep an’ quiet—let the land talk to you, an’ you’ll  

be all right Father.” The old man looked once more out  

onto the red plain before shuffling up into the rocks  

towards where Angel had camped.  

Simon shifted to ease his cramped legs and winced as  

the sharp gravel bit into his soft flesh. Beyond was a vast  

open plain stretching to a quivering line that stitched the  

earth to the sky. Above this the heavens rolled back  

towards him. He wished at that moment that he could peer  

into the depths of space; perhaps find courage there. But  

the morning sun had spread a blinding curtain across the  

heavens. He could feel it stroking his skin. It was friendly  

now, but he knew that before the day was out the heat  

would test his last vestiges of resolve. He wondered about  

Isaac’s warning. Superstition? Perhaps. But if he believed  

that, why was he sitting, naked, inside a circle of stones on  

the edge of a desert? He ran his hands over the stones and  

stopped mid‐thought. It would be, he realized, the first  

time white hands had touched them. He ran his fingers  

back over their rough edge, this time with reverence. He  

thought about the Bishop and his fellow priests. He stared  

at his dirt‐ingrained feet, already tanned and leathery after  

just a few days. “They’d lock me away,” he muttered.  

For a while he fidgeted with boredom and grew restless  

with a head full of random images; fractured pieces of his  

past and his hopes. Nothing fitted. He tried to piece them  

together. What was it that drove him so hard from his own  

kind? He thought of the world he had fled, a society of little  

compassion or honour. Was he too harsh? Had his thinking  

been distorted by his pursuit of the Aboriginal soul? He  

tried again to measure the flock through the eyes of a  

priest, but drew little improvement. His mind scattered  

345

efore him images of stained glass, pews filled with empty  

faces uplifted in acquiescence, and the darkness of the  

confessional with its ever‐present smell of wood polish and  

fear. He screwed up his eyes and pictured the starched  

folds of altar cloth, the splash of wine as he turned the  

chalice in his pale, scrubbed hands, an endless parade of  

convent girls through the confessional, telling him what  

they would never tell their nuns. And then what—when  

priests and nuns could be thrust with relief into their  

adolescent pasts? Red brick suburbs, radio jocks, beaches,  

sex, and young pressed flesh. Images of teenage girls  

teased him, then vanished. He saw Muriel and felt the grip  

of her thighs and the press of her bosom. Sweat matted his  

chest. Was it his or hers? He remembered the wonder. The  

stirrings of an erection made his loins itch and he bit into  

his tongue. A voice mocked. “You’re no different Simon  

Bradbury”. He shook his head. The world to which he  

administered was little more than a seething mass of  

human amoebas. People competed, copulated, played,  

voted, discoursed, even prayed with a passion. But how  

often did they reflect, or give courage to a vision? He grew  

melancholy. Perhaps it was no longer necessary to think as  

an individual in the age of mass communication when so  

much packaged opinion filled airwaves and newspaper  

columns? Could it be that it was people like himself who  

were the weeds which had to be plucked from God’s  

modern new garden? Was there room no more for the  

divergent mind?   

Time dragged leaden shadows across the ground and  

the sun rubbed at his back and neck. He grew thirsty. If he  

resisted the urge to dip his fingers into the water at his  

side, could his life ever be the way it was? This one  

determination, to be victorious for just a few hours over  

the most desperate temptation, he sensed, could change  

him forever. But would it be for the better?   

346

Midday. Simon sat with his legs crossed and his arms  

resting loosely on his knees. The world was silent except  

for the sound of his breathing. He closed his eyes and  

measured each breath. It helped drag his mind from his  

body’s aches and cramps. But the real torture was when he  

weakened and allowed his mind to crave the physical  

pleasure of movement. By mid afternoon, the simple act of  

walking a few steps had evolved into a tormenting fantasy.  

“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy  

Ghost—.”  

He stopped. His hoarse whisperings sounded ridiculous.  

He started again, silently, and proceeded with his Mass. It  

helped consume both time and discomfort, yet on finishing  

it seemed the sun had barely moved. He collected small  

stones and arranged them in an oval shape on the ground  

by his side. “Hail Mary full of grace— .” Touching each one  

in turn he laboured through a rosary.  

The sun moved. He spoke the Mass again and then  

another rosary. The words seemed airy here. But they were  

the best he had. If he truly believed in the existence of a  

single supreme Being, that Being, be it nestled in a recess of  

the human mind or filling an unseen dimension all around,  

had to be the same here as at the altar rail. It was, surely, as  

Isaac had said: “Your Boss God and our Boss God are the  

same fella.” But it was easy for the Aborigine. He lived with  

one foot already in the realm of spirits.  

He pressed his palms into his forehead. “Vindicate me,  

Oh God, and defend my cause— for thou art the God in  

whom I take refuge—.” He tried to continue the passage  

from the Book of Psalms, but the words now eluded him.  

The shadows lengthened in front of him. His own squat  

image now stretched far down the slope, almost touching  

the plain. He glanced at the coolamon. Soon, he promised.  

He forced his mind to grapple with a germinating idea.  

Exposed to the land, naked and tormented, he sensed he  

347

was closing in on a truth about himself. Envy? Was it envy?  

Did he envy the Aboriginal people? Was that it—because  

they were able to believe in something seen and touched,  

whereas he, a learned priest, had been forced to build his  

life on doctrine and hope?   

He nodded his head in silent debate. It was true. He was  

all these things, jealous, guilty, confused, but above all,  

desperate to understand. Adam and Eve—indeed the entire  

Old Testament, was a grappling with the realization that  

something fundamental to the human condition had been  

lost. But how had the Aborigines avoided the Garden of  

Eden? Was it the land—was it this land?  

Simon watched the shadow of the hill stretch out like a  

tide to swallow the edge of the plain. The horizon  

deepened to indigo. He looked up into the azure depths and  

offered a prayer of thanks that the day was done. He gently  

lifted the branch away from the coolamon, dipped his hand  

and played his fingers across his lips. He sucked greedily. It  

was glorious. He lifted the container to his mouth and  

sipped, rolling the water over his tongue and trickling the  

liquid to his throat. It was hard ground water, heavy with  

minerals. It tasted of the earth and he smiled, pleased with  

such exquisite reward for his endurance. He slowly  

swallowed another mouthful before placing the coolamon  

to one side.   

He flexed his joints within the confines of the stones and  

placed his hands across his folded knees. He was relaxed  

and felt inexplicably happy. For a while he just sat, calm  

and empty of thought. A gentle breeze wafted from the  

plain, cooling and scenting the air, but he was not free yet  

from the craving for rhyme and reason. It was the moment  

to cast the net wide, to garner what answers the desert  

might yield. But where did one begin? Indeed had there  

ever been a beginning? Had humankind arrived, or  

348

evolved? Simon shrugged. It was an impossible question.  

Even the church had given up.   

Simon stared upwards. The night sky was filling quickly  

with the jewels of far‐flung galaxies and dead suns. He  

gazed at a twinkling speck. Was there no end to the  

wonder? Had there been life on the planets of other suns?  

What had happened when these sources of light and life  

had expired? He breathed heavily. The truth about his own  

world was elusive enough.  

The priest ground his buttocks into the gravelly earth.  

Countless generations of men had sat in this place,  

awaiting revelation. He pressed himself down, willing a  

link, through the spirits of all who had been before, to the  

origins of time—to an answer.  

The moon lifted off the plain. It was heavy and slow,  

getting nearer. In a night or two it would be full. Simon  

stretched his back and sighed. His mind was overburdened  

with the impossibility of his quest. Here, and not yet  

broken by a single lifetime, there had existed a pure human  

lineage. But even at Mudidjara this thread, so unique and  

precious, had come to the point of severance, as it had  

across Gondwanaland. In less than ten generations of  

European settlement the Aboriginal lineage was almost  

extinguished. Could this last remaining source of man’s  

capacity to transcend, with understanding, his physical  

enclosure survive? Simon felt the press of despair. It surely  

was the most vital question for modern man to consider.  

Yet oblivion loomed so near that he could not imagine how  

anyone, especially a maverick priest, could hope to achieve  

a reprieve in the time remaining.  

He was weary with immobility and thought and he  

wondered how Angel was faring. An image of the youth  

flashed in his mind. He was sitting in a trance, but his eyes  

were open, watching—watching him. Simon blinked with  

349

surprise and the image was gone. He lowered himself  

sideways, curled into a tight foetal ball and slept.  

In the rocks nearby there was movement, two shadowy  

forms circled the man. Out on the plain a light appeared,  

moving swiftly. It was joined by two others. They sped in a  

sweeping curve towards the initiation ground. Glowing  

balls of fire. Min Min lights. They flashed over the two  

dingoes, over the prostrate man and disappeared towards  

Mudidjara water. The light roused Simon and he opened  

his eyes, but the Min Min were gone. He didn’t see the dogs,  

near and low, watching him. All he saw were stars and they  

wearied him.  

Simon awoke an hour before dawn, shivering violently.  

The air was cold, freezing. He sat up and rubbed his  

shoulders. His skin felt like sanded leather. The meagre  

diet of the past weeks had taken the padding from his flesh  

and his skin was now loose around his bones. He leaned his  

forehead against his knees and braced himself for the  

dawn.  

The day ran from him in waves of loneliness, self‐ 

condemnation, burning thirst and bouts of manic prayer.  

There were moments too of pure joy when his thoughts  

crystallized into wondrous truths. But under the  

unremitting sun they faded as quickly as they had formed.  

His mind began to wander without direction or restraint.  

He lapsed into trance, aware of the passage of time only by  

the shadows. He tried to hold his mind with prayer. “The  

Lord is my rock and my fortress, my deliverer, my God my  

rock— .” Once a group of naked Aborigines, old warriors in  

ceremonial ochre, walked up from the plain. They glanced  

towards him as they passed and he knew he was losing  

control. He emerged from another trance, disoriented. It  

took some moments to realize he was suspended above the  

ground. Below sat a man, hunched miserably inside a low  

wall of stones. He watched fascinated as the man’s penis  

350

egan to swell and extend. It pushed itself over the rim of  

stone, and like a fat snake, thrust down the slope. It was  

astonishing, a metre long, perhaps more, yet the man did  

not appear to notice. A woman watched the thing too; the  

girl from the locket. She was dressed in white cotton and  

her long dark hair had been loosened to hang freely across  

her shoulders. He waved but she did not look up. She too  

was fascinated by the extraordinary penis. It was  

monstrous and magnificent. He willed her to step closer  

and touch shyly, tenderly; then boldly stroke it with those  

slender, pale fingers. He wanted to see it respond, to  

engorge with blood at the delicacy of her touch. He smiled  

with voyeuristic pleasure.   

Simon felt himself slipping, falling. His vision blurred  

momentarily and when his eyes refocused it was on the  

familiar scene of the slope and the plain. He was still locked  

within the stones and realized with puzzlement that he had  

been watching himself. He glanced at his crotch. His penis  

was dry and shrivelled. But the girl was still there, standing  

a few feet away. He blinked in surprise and covered his  

naked genitals with his hands. She walked towards him,  

making him panic. Why had she come now, when he was  

like this; naked, defenceless; a painted savage.  

She smiled, her lips full and open. Perhaps she wanted  

him, now she had seen the beast lurking inside his soul?  

Her long dress, belted tight around a small waist, drifted  

above the stones and red sand. She was barefoot, which  

surprised him. He loved her, pleaded with his eyes for her  

touch. She stopped beside the stone circle and bent  

forward. Full rounded breasts filled her blouse. He knew he  

was erect and his face burned, but he wanted her  

desperately. The woman stretched an arm and brushed her  

fingers across his lips, and then she vanished.  

The priest buried his fists into his eye sockets and  

whimpered. In the blackness he created he saw bleached  

351

ones piled inside a circle of stones. Was that the future?  

He dropped his arms and stared at the coolamon. It was  

little more than midway through the afternoon. He  

watched, detached, as his fingers parted the brush and  

gripped its rim. He lifted the carved wooden container to  

his lips and drank greedily and guiltily. After placing it back  

by his side he lifted his knees to support his head. Tears  

made grimy runnels down his decorated thighs.  

Simon played with the rosary stones, again attempting  

coordinated prayer, but his mind was rampant. In the end  

he picked up the small prayer stones one by one and flung  

them out towards the plain.  

As the sun dropped behind Mudidjara he lifted the  

coolamon and drank the little that remained, resigning  

himself to the ultimate end. It occurred to him that he had  

missed the plot from the beginning. It was death, he  

reasoned with sudden clarity, which disgorged the answers  

to life’s questions.  

He sat calmly. The moon lifted off the horizon and he  

watched without any inner comment. It was large and  

golden, floating like a giant balloon above the plain. But  

while Simon’s eyes were open, he no longer saw. He was  

hurting so much that he could no longer conceive a state of  

non‐pain, thus the pain gradually became immeasurable.  

Without dimension, then, it ceased to exist. As the moon  

climbed he heard the lyrical chant of a man—no, he tilted  

his head stiffly. More than one. Men were chanting, an  

ululating sound, somewhere in the rocks behind him. He  

was brushed by melancholy as the voices pitched and  

rolled to a melody first sung to greet the dawn of time. He  

accepted this presence without fear or perplexity. When  

the thrumming of bull roarers filled the night he accepted  

he was in the presence of immortals, and was grateful for  

their company. When the Min Min lights hovered in front of  

him he felt the soothing touch of holy spirits.   

352

The bull roarers picked up, a vibrating, restless tempo.  

Oowah—oowah—oowah. Simon felt himself rising again  

and in the dark noticed a silver thread‐like substance  

trailing beneath his body. A man stepped down the slope,  

carrying a stick of dancing fire. He paused to study the  

priest in the circle of stones. The man was tall and square‐ 

shouldered, naked except for a belt of hair and a headband  

the colour of the earth. He continued on to a place just  

down the slope from the priest, and torched a small pyre of  

dry grass and sticks. He disappeared for a moment and  

returned with an armful of wood, which he used to build  

up the fire. As the flickering light brightened he looked up  

to where Simon rested in space and Simon saw it was Isaac.  

Isaac climbed back up the slope, past the inert form of the  

priest, and into the tall rocks at the summit. Simon rose  

higher and moved towards the rocks. Among them on the  

summit was another fire and around it sat a group of  

men—the same men Simon had seen walking off the plain.  

Three others were stepping high around the fire whirling  

bull roarers on cords of human hair, the others beat a slow  

time on sticks, chanting in low tones. Beside the fire lay the  

body of a young man and Simon knew it was Angel. He  

moved to see more clearly, but instead began to fall, drawn  

back by the strange thread which seemed to link him with  

his other self imprisoned within the stones.  

Simon opened his eyes. He felt dazed and heavy as if  

climbing from a deep sleep, but he remembered the  

experience of suspension and moving through the air. The  

details had been too vivid to be a dream. He remembered  

what Isaac had told him about learning to fly, learning to  

move like a spirit. He knew this now to be true.  

On the slope below him the fire lit by Isaac burned  

steadily. Occasionally a gust of wind eddied in from the  

plain and carried a thousand glowing embers high into the  

sky. What, he wondered, would it be like to be carried with  

353

them. A part of his mind cleared and he saw the fire  

dropping away far below as he rose in giddying spirals  

towards the stars. Higher and higher he flew until fright  

took hold. This time there was no gap in time, no  

adjustment of vision. He was sitting again within the  

stones, gazing up in wonder at where he knew he had just  

been.  

A sound, like the rustling of gum leaves—or the murmur  

of souls—blew in from the plain.   

Into the firelight stepped a man, his body caricatured by  

ochre and down. The skin on his chest glistened with  

blood. He danced slowly and deliberately around the  

flames. The sound of the bull roarers increased, roaring as  

they approached down the slope behind him. Simon felt his  

body moving. His skin writhed around his bones like a nest  

of snakes, but he was no longer frightened. Another man  

appeared. He was on the ground in front, lying on his back.  

He opened his mouth and he pulled on something live. At  

first Simon thought it was a tiny grass snake, but it was too  

long. The man pulled the glistening cord from his mouth  

and it crawled over his face and around his body. Simon  

opened his own mouth and something wet and alive  

slithered out and wrapped itself around his trunk.  

An old man with a long white beard stepped into the  

light. His eyes burned like bright orbs which stole the light  

from the night. He stepped towards Simon and his mouth  

vomited a stream of glinting crystals. He cupped his hands  

at his waist to fan the crystals in bright arcs and spread  

them across the ground.  

A voice in Simon’s head drew a line of scripture from  

somewhere deep in his memory: — he showed me the  

river of the water of life, bright as crystal— .  

Simon felt the wet threads unwind and draw back into  

his throat. Hands touched his body and drew him down,  

pressed him against the back of the stones. Hands, dark  

354

hands with pale palms, rubbed his chest, others gripped his  

shoulders. Isaac stood, masked by the fire glow. He walked  

slowly towards the priest and knelt, passing a small piece  

of stone across Simon’s chest. It was hot from the fire.  

Simon remembered then that pain had a measure,  

remembered again that pain was fear and he knew it would  

be in his eyes. The stone stopped at his nipple and he felt  

the skin tear under a sudden weight. The stone was  

dragged slowly backwards, opening his chest. The pain  

tore at his brain, demanded that he scream for release.  

Every nerve was burning. He closed his eyes and held his  

breath; choked the welling cry inside his convulsing body.  

He forced his mind to move to a place on the other side of  

the pain. It was there still, but distant. He opened his eyes  

and was looking not up into distant constellations, but  

down towards the ground. Below, at the end of the trailing  

silver cord, the second incision was being made into his  

body. He saw the rivulets of blood flowing down his front,  

mixing with the ochre and down. He felt his skin tearing,  

but the pain itself had no dimension anymore.  

A third cut was made and the men gathered around the  

circle of stones and looked down on him. “I’m up here,” he  

wanted to call with relief. But no sooner had the thought  

occurred than he was looking up into the faces of these  

mystical men who had come from the desert. They offered  

no expression of either compassion or pride. They just  

watched him a while until one‐by‐one each melted away.  

Only Isaac remained. He sat by Simon, watching him.  

Simon’s chest burned, but he knew it would pass. He  

smiled at the old man and Isaac reached down to take  

Simon’s hand. He lifted him to his feet. Simon stepped from  

the stones and followed Isaac up the slope. His legs were  

unsteady, but the old man walked slowly. At the top beside  

the embers of a dying fire sat Angel. He stood when he saw  

the two approach and smiled at the sight of Simon’s  

355

loodied chest. He wiped a finger across his own wounds  

to collect a globule of blood and stepping to Simon, pressed  

his blood into that of Simon’s. Simon waited for comment,  

but the young man turned away to follow his uncle who  

had continued walking.  

The three men left the hill and Isaac took them across  

the valley to Mudidjara. The moon floated above them, the  

earth basking in its soft lunar light.  

They entered the lightless gorge and Isaac led them to  

the edge of the rock ledge, where they waited for the moon  

to arrive. Slowly it inched across the opening to the sky and  

so gently, it seemed, settled inside Mudidjara—the moon’s  

bathing place. The gorge exploded into shimmering,  

wondrous bands of golden light, reflected in all directions  

by the reefs of metal below the surface. It turned the water  

to liquid fire and the very walls of the gorge seemed to  

glow.   

As the moon swam in Mudidjara’s depths they watched,  

three stick‐like silhouettes. It lasted mere seconds, but for  

that moment it was as if time did cease its measuring of  

everything that is. The moon paused in its orbit, reluctant  

to leave this ancient, cleansing water with its tiny silver  

fish abandoned by the sea. Simon bent to touch its warm,  

golden face. A hand dragged him back. A fat drop of blood  

spilled from his chest and made a mark on the yellow orb.  

Simon was alarmed, but the moon was already moving  

again, returning to its earthly orbit, refreshed.  

Mudidjara returned to darkness, and from within the  

black depths two moon‐yellow eyes watched. Simon  

looked up.  Opposite he saw a man. A tall man with the  

stature and garb of a warrior. It was dark and yet the man  

was clearly visible, as if emitting his own light. He began to  

approach, across the water as though it were solid, and  

Simon felt Isaac move at his side. The old man reached into  

356

a pouch on his belt of hair and produced the stone. He  

pressed it into Simon’s hands. Its chill stung his skin.  

The man stopped in front of the trio and stared at  

Simon, only the yellow eyes suggestive of some inner life; a  

Satanic apparition. Isaac took Simon’s arm and directed it  

wordlessly towards his uncle. He passed the fist enclosing  

the stone across the warrior’s initiation scars, opening up a  

dry wound in the chest. Before Simon could react, the man  

moved. He grasped the priest’s wrist and pulled it into his  

chest. Simon’s eyes widened in fright as his forearm  

penetrated the body, yet he felt no flesh, no blood.  

Then the eyes dimmed, and for a fleeting moment he  

thought he saw the face of friendship. He withdrew his  

arm, still holding the stone. The warrior reached to touch  

the wounds marking the priest’s rites of passage. He turned  

to Angel and did the same. Then he met Isaac’s eyes, and  

was gone. Simon blinked. They were alone in the blackness  

and silence of Mudidjara.  

The three men turned away from the water and  

returned back across the valley. Nobody spoke.  

As they walked over the rise above the initiation ground,  

Simon stopped. Ahead, silhouetted against the first grey  

hint of dawn, was a man, a sun‐blistered white man, sitting  

within a circle of stone. Beside him, like sentinels, lay the  

two desert dogs.   

Simon was roused by a chill breeze gusting in from the  

plain. Low cloud banked on the horizon and he smelled  

rain. He hunched his shoulders against the cold, grey dawn  

and stared moodily at the red earth all around. He was  

hungry and thirsty and confused by the presence, still, of a  

vivid dream.  

It was some minutes before a sharp throbbing pain  

caused him to gingerly touch his chest. He saw below his  

beard the ragged flesh and congealed blood of the ugly  

wounds. In his lap rested his fists, tightly clutching  

357

something smooth and hard. He opened his fingers and  

stared. It was the stone; carrying the warmth of his body.  

  

  

358

Chapter Nineteen  

  

The three men left the initiation site later that morning.  

They stalked and speared a kangaroo, while at the main  

camp Winnie and Maudie had collected a feast of fruits and  

other bush delicacies and made a fuss over the men’s  

return. The kangaroo was butchered and laid across a bed  

of glowing embers. The little group, isolated it seemed  

from the rest of humankind, celebrated through the  

afternoon and into the night with songs and stories.  

The rain came in the morning. Isaac watched the rolling  

clouds with a satisfied expression. “Plenty of water for you  

an’ Angel,” he said to Simon.  

Simon was puzzled. “I don’t follow?”  

Isaac faced him. “You have to go back now, you an’  

Angel. He should find our people, help ‘em and keep alive  

the knowledge he now has. You an’ he got to make other  

people understand. You’ll be a Father again an’ people’ll  

listen to you.”  

Simon shook his head slowly. “I don’t know if I can go  

back now—I’m not sure that I want to go back.” He looked  

grimly towards the south‐west horizon. His vocation, his  

fellow priests, the bishop—all belonged to another life; a  

strange, dingy life that he did not properly understand then  

and perhaps would never understand now. Mudidjara, by  

contrast, was something he could grasp. Its mysteries were  

ones that he had touched.  

Isaac continued as if he hadn’t heard the priest. “Me and  

Winnie and Maudie will stay here. This is our country—an’  

we got Matthew here now too. The spirits’ll be good to us  

here. But you an’ Angel have to go back. Mudidjara won’ go  

away, but you bein’ back there can keep a sharp eye, like— 

you can do this, ‘cause you know it’s a sacred place. A real  

sacred place. It needs someone among white people who  

359

can watch out for it; protect it from people who don’  

understand about the land.”  

Simon felt the first fat drop of rain splash on his head.  

Moments later it started to fall in sheets of water driven by  

a wind which swept into the valley from the west. The two  

men remained side‐by‐side in the open, using the watery  

onslaught to shield their thoughts.  

Simon and Angel left the following morning. Simon  

turned back once, but the old people were already gone  

and he wondered if he would ever see them again. He  

walked in the shadow of sadness, afraid of the loneliness to  

which he was returning. The pair walked in silence for  

most of the morning. Simon was conscious of the weight  

and rub again of cloth on his skin. It was strange how  

clothes, once so necessary, were now aggravating. Angel  

was wearing his sun‐bleached football shorts again, but  

walking pround with the fresh, livid cicatrises across his  

chest. They carried little more than their spears and fire  

sticks; and in a hair belt Simon carried the soul stone. Isaac  

had insisted it stay in his care.  

At midday they climbed the rise from which Simon had  

first seen the Mudidjara ranges. He turned to Angel and  

smiled sadly.  

“So—it’s you and me now,” he said, trying to lift his low  

mood. He was more frightened of his return to the known  

than he had ever been of his venture into the unknown.  

Angel’s thoughts remained hidden behind his familiar  

grin and he pointed to the south‐west as if impatient to  

continue. But he seemed to understand. “You got a family  

now,” he said, after a pause.  

It took sixteen days to reach Cumalong after being  

forced wide by the presence still of water in Lake  

Yindarlgooda. All the while Simon wrestled his experiences  

and the seeming impossibility of fitting it into anything  

resembling his past. He had learned something profound,  

360

perhaps unique, about the land he walked on. But could it  

be taught, even explained; or was it only something that  

could be experienced?  

They arrived at the dam just before dusk and while  

Angel lit a fire, Simon went looking for Ada. He followed  

the track which twisted through the spindly trees into the  

abandoned town’s centre, and then climbed the hill. He  

couldn’t see the shack. It was deep shadow in the lee of the  

hill and he wondered why there was no light showing. He  

trod down the slope and his feet quickly found the answer.  

There was no house. The ground was torn and ridged and  

Simon felt the work of a bulldozer.  

He sat on his haunches, saddened. He remembered the  

old woman and her prediction that there would have been  

no one to sit on her bed at the end. He was still thinking  

about her, wondering how she fitted with all that had  

happened when he heard the sound of a galloping horse.   

A woman in a white dress, her head buried into the neck  

of a grey, raced bare‐back through the salmon gums. The  

rider turned the horse towards where he stood. It slowed  

as it approached and Simon recognised immediately the  

girl from the locket. “Who—are you?” he asked.  

She laughed brightly. “You know who I am.”  

He shook his head. “My imagination knows who you are.  

My imagination created you. But if I reached to touch  

you—.” He raised a hand and splayed his fingers. “—what  

would happen then?”  

The woman smiled, amused. “I am as real as I have ever  

been.” She gestured towards the disturbed earth where the  

shack had stood. “I am happy you came to say goodbye.”  

He stared at her. She was just as he had seen her at  

Mudidjara outside the circle of stones. He wanted to kiss  

her.  

The horse began to move and Simon reluctantly stood  

aside. “Don’t go.”  

361

She looked down at him. “But I have to. It will be dark  

soon. Forever.” She clutched the reins and slapped her  

heels against the animal’s sides. Rider and horse vanished  

into the night, his last glimpse a white dress flickering  

through the trees.  

  

In the morning the two men washed in the dam, then  

walked to the gravel road linking outlying mines to  

Kalgoorlie, and began the last leg of their journey together.  

They had agreed to separate once they reached the town.  

Angel wanted to stay in the area for a while, but Simon was  

suddenly impatient to return to the city. He wanted to  

discover which life was waiting for him; the old or the  

new? They had been walking for about an hour when a  

vehicle approached noisily from behind. They stopped and  

waited. Simon was nervous.  

The vehicle was a typically battered cattle station utility  

oozing dust and rust. The driver was part‐Aboriginal and  

he eyed them cautiously. Both had the lean, unkempt look  

of the desert. Angel jumped lightly into the back and Simon  

sat beside the driver. The man looked at him intently and  

with obvious unease. To Simon’s surprise he switched off  

the engine and stood back out on the road, remonstrating  

with Angel. They argued in hushed tones and he could not  

hear what was being said. It took several minutes for Angel  

to reassure the driver enough for them to resume the  

journey. But the driver neither spoke nor looked again in  

Simon’s direction.  

Simon and Angel alighted at the top of the main street  

beneath the towering frame of a poppet head. As the utility  

sped away in spray of gravel, Angel shook Simon’s hand.   

“When will I see you again?” Simon asked.  

Angel shrugged. “Maybe not too long. I got cousins in  

Perth. I’ll be seein’ them eventually.”  

362

Simon pursed his lips. He didn’t quite know what to say,  

and was afraid of letting go. “It’s important we stay in  

contact,” he said. “Ask for Father Moore at St Luke’s. He’ll  

always know where to find me.”  

Angel grinned. He leaned forward and gently placed his  

fingers on Simon’s chest. “Under that shirt now, you’re one  

of us. I’ll find you okay.”  

Simon nodded and started to speak, but hesitated. “— 

What was the problem with the fellow who drove us in?”  

Angel laughed. “He thought you were Kurdaitcha.”  

“What!”  

Angel grinned. “Wait till you see yourself in a mirror.”  

Simon watched Angel walk away, a swagger in his step,  

until he turned a corner and was gone from sight. Simon  

felt deeply alone. He pulled the locket from his pocket and  

opened it. Almost immediately, the image began to fade.  

“No—please,” he whispered, and clipped the lid shut. He  

waited a few moments and opened it again. The little oval  

frame contained just sun‐bleached paper.   

He trod morosely through the streets. At the presbytery  

he pressed the door buzzer and heard shuffling steps on  

creaking boards.   

Simon’s soiled clothes hung raggedly on his gaunt frame.  

His hair was long and tangled, his deep brown face sunk  

behind a matted beard; and he was barefoot.  

Father Doyle opened the door. His eyes took in another  

derelict, another hermit prospector on hard times, and he  

smiled tiredly. “I can’t give you any money—I don’t have  

any money,” he said.  

Simon remembered the name from the newspaper  

clipping Ada had shown him.  

“Father Doyle?”  

The old man’s eyebrows came together in a bushy ‘V’.  

“Yes—.”  

363

Simon offered his hand and smiled. “Simon Bradbury— 

Father Simon Bradbury.”  

The old priest stared, uncomprehending, for a moment,  

then seemed to sag inside his clothes. “Father Bradbury is  

dead.”  

Simon shook his head. He was feeling light‐headed and  

suddenly eager to talk, to share his experiences. “No he  

isn’t. Could I just use your phone—I need to call Ted  

MacNamara.”  

“You know His Grace?”  

“He ordained me.”  

The priest looked Simon over, and his eyes narrowed. “I  

never met Father Bradbury, but—well he had a  

reputation.”  

The old man slowly looked over the wild apparition on  

his doorstep and came to a silent decision. He stepped  

aside to allow Simon to enter. “This will cause trouble,” he  

said. “If you are who you say you are.”  

Simon stepped into the darkened hallway and a stab of  

doubt numbed his spine. Where was the embrace for the  

return of a lost brother?  

Simon followed the old priest into the kitchen where he  

plugged in a kettle and fussed with cups and tea bags. He  

turned to Simon. “White?”  


“Sugar?”  

He shook his head.  

Father Doyle carried two steaming, chipped mugs to the  

table, then disappeared into another room. “I phoned,” he  

said, when he returned. “His Grace is out so I left a  

message.”  

“Thank you,” said Simon, simply.   

Father Doyle stared at the table top. “I don’t have any  

clothes that would fit you.” He spoke as though talking to  

himself.  

364

“That’s all right.” Simon stared at the man, willing him to  

reach out; to welcome, to inquire, to show even the merest  

spark of interest; to ask how he’d survived—lived?  

The old priest, conscious of Simon’s gaze, stepped to a  

sideboard cupboard and extracted an old biscuit tin. He  

withdrew three twenty‐dollar notes. “Here—buy  

something in town.”  

Simon was tempted to tell the man to keep his money.  

But he needed clothes.  

“Thank you,” he said.  

They drank their tea in silence. The old man sat hunched  

over his mug, afraid, it seemed, to look Simon in the face.  

Simon watched, persistent. “I’m sorry if I’m putting you to  

any trouble.”  

The old priest shrugged and blew into his mug.  

“Don’t you want to know what happened?”  

Father Doyle looked up. “There was a lot of fuss when  

you disappeared. Some said you had been murdered by  

blacks. Others said you had run away to be a black.” There  

was accusation in the voice.  

“I just needed some time alone. Surely you’ve felt like  

that?”  

Father Doyle stared into his mug. “Being a priest is being  

alone. I’ve never had any trouble with that.”  

“You’ve never had a crisis of faith?”  

“No!” The older man grunted the word. He looked up.  

“It’s a luxury that wasn’t available when I was young. It’s a  

weakness we resolved through prayer—not by running  

away.”  

Simon retreated to his drink, but the old man persisted.  

“It’s been a long time. How did you survive?”  

There. The question he’d been waiting for. But he hadn’t  

expected it to be delivered as an assault. Simon considered  

his answer carefully, already feeling the constrictions of  

365

the church. God, how easily he had forgotten its vice‐like  

grip on the minds of its practitioners.  

“The land saved me.”  

Father Doyle stared at him, unblinking. “A miracle, I  

suppose. Forty days and forty nights.”  

Simon recoiled. There was raw bitterness in the man’s  

voice. “No.” He hesitated. “It was much longer—but I did  

have some help.”  

The older priest surprised Simon with a dry chuckle.  

“Blacks?”  

Simon felt his mouth stretch into a thin, tight smile. So  

this was what it was going to be like? He decided to jump.  

“I touched the future of this church.”  

Father Doyle shook his head, his lips set in a line of  

disgust.  

Simon continued. “I studied for six years to be a priest— 

I learned the contents of hundreds of books, stuffed my  

head full of scripture and theology—but all of it derived  

from other lands, and the experiences of other men. I  

wanted to feel for myself, the spiritual forces of my own  

land; to try to learn something that will imbue the church  

here with something powerful and new—the spirit of this  

land.”  

Father Doyle made to move.  

“No, wait.” Simon’s voice rose. “Our religion is based  

upon blind faith, ignorance and fear. Surely it’s time for  

some understanding.”  

The old priest gripped the table angrily. “Blessed is the  

man who fears the Lord, who greatly delights in his  

commandments. Psalms, a hundred and twelve—or  

perhaps you’ve forgotten?”  

Simon clenched his teeth. “Don’t quote the Bible to me,  

Father. I have forgotten nothing—including how to use its  

passages any way one wants.”  

Father Doyle eyed him coldly.  

366

Simon hurried on. He wanted to impress the man, not  

offend him. “All I’m trying to convey is the land—the  

Aboriginal spirit—can help us find our place again in the  

natural world; help us rediscover that precious link  

between temporal and eternal life. Surely if you had held  

this in your own hands you would be just as determined to  

share what you had discovered?”  

Father Doyle pushed back his chair and stood. He glared  

down at Simon. “I am an old man, and no time to listen to  

claptrap.” He continued to stare at Simon coldly then  

pointed to the money lying on the table. “You’d better start  

at a barber shop.”  

The old priest took his empty cup to the sink and left the  

room. Simon sat staring at the crumpled money lying on  

the table. He picked it up, crunching it into his fist, and left  

the house.  

He kept to the backstreets, where children too young to  

be at school played in the dust and fallen leaves. He walked  

to Hay Street, past the starting stalls fronting the older  

brothels, to Muriel’s house. A builder’s truck was parked on  

the street. The front cubicles were already gone and  

workmen were busy inside the timber frame of new  

extensions. Muriel wasn’t wasting any time, he mused. But  

then, he’d been away a while. He went to the side entrance  

and knocked. A face, pale and indistinct, appeared down  

the hallway from an inner doorway.   

“We’re closed.”  

Simon rapped his knuckles again on the doorframe. The  

face moved, became a body in a dark robe and walked  

towards him.   

“Are you deaf,” she retorted coldly from the other side of  

a flywire screen.  

Simon smiled. “It’s Cheryl isn’t it?”  

The face frowned and looked him over. “Come back  

tonight.”  

367

Simon shook his head, still smiling. “You don’t recognize  

me do you?”  

She shook her head slowly, unsure.  

“Is Muriel in?” he asked.  

Cheryl’s eyes widened. She squealed, then fled. He heard  

a door bang. “It’s your priest,” she heard her yell.  

Rapid footsteps echoed through the invisible world  

within the house before Muriel emerged, stepping quickly  

along the hallway. She stopped at the door and stared,  

open‐mouthed.  

“Simon?”  

He nodded.  

“My god,” she murmured. She pushed open the door  

absently. “I don’t believe it.”  

Simon watched her, a lop‐sided grin parting the tangled  

hair on his face. “I lost my watch—suddenly remembered I  

might have left it here.”  

The woman smacked her hands to her face then flung  

the door wide and embraced him. “I don’t believe it,” she  

repeated, then stood back abruptly. “God you stink.”  

  

Simon reclined in a large bath, his body ringed in suds.  

Muriel sat on the edge, shocked by his battered features.  

“They look awful. I still can’t believe that you went  

through with something like that.”  

Simon touched the cicatrices on his chest, but made no  

comment. He couldn’t explain in a few minutes all that he  

had been through.  

There was a knock on the door and Cheryl poked her  

head through. She proffered two plastic‐wrapped articles.  

“One shirt, one trousers—jocks.”  

Muriel put the clothing on the floor.  

The door closed.  

Muriel stared at Simon’s scarred chest, his brown skin  

and bony shoulders; his cheekbones pushing out above his  

368

shaggy beard, and his eyes full of light. Her mind was  

brimming with questions. “So what happens now—when  

do I get to hear everything. You’re a walking skeleton  

Simon.” She lifted her arms. “I don’t know where to begin.”  

“I will tell you everything—but give me some time. I’ve a  

lot to sort out first.”  

“You’re going back to your church aren’t you?” She did  

not attempt to disguise her contempt.  


Muriel shook her head. “They’ll reject you—you’re a  

threat to everything they stand for.”  

Simon gazed up at the high ceiling and along the shelves  

of gels and creams and perfumes; at the accoutrements of a  

life, of a normality, that part of him wanted desperately to  

share. He studied her, measured her eyes studying him.  

“You may be right, but I have to find that out. You once  

offered to catch me if I jumped. It would help me a lot to  

know that you would still be willing to do that.”   

Muriel nodded and smiled sadly.  

Simon changed the subject. “But I feel strong, Muriel.  

Stronger than I can ever remember.”  

“It won’t be enough,” she murmured.  

He made a placatory gesture with his soapy hands.  

Muriel reached into the breast pocket of her blouse and  

plucked out a wristwatch, her face softening. “Well, if  

you’re returning to your fold, I suppose you will need this.”  

  

Father Doyle was waiting for him on his return. “His  

Grace called back. I’m to put you on tonight’s train.”  

Simon nodded. “Fine.”  

The old priest looked Simon over and shook his head.  

The clothes were a size too large and Cheryl had bought  

him a pair of canvas sandshoes. Apart from the newness of  

his clothing, there was not that much of an improvement.  

The beard and hair remained untouched.  

369

Simon opened his palm and offered the priest three  

twenty dollar notes. “I met a good Samaritan.”  

The old man seemed to relax slightly and he looked at  

Simon sadly. “I’d use the time on the train to think about  

what you are going to say.  

Simon smiled. “Thankyou.” He thought of Isaac, Minnie,  

Maudie and Angel, and wondered what they were doing  

right now. Perhaps if he were atop a hill he could light a  

fire and drift with the smoke. The thought suddenly made  

him feel very lonely.  

  

370

Chapter Twenty  

  

A black swan, its neck arched proudly, glided across the  

lake’s mirrored surface. In line astern five balls of pale grey  

fluff worked vigorously to keep up. Above the water on a  

bitumen path, people passed in frames of colour and  

movement. Cyclists and joggers sweated with the fear of  

mortality. Shy people with cameras tried to frame meaning  

in this unexpected meeting of sky and water and grass in  

the middle of a city. Lovers hung on each others’ arms,  

oblivious to everything but that touch.  

Simon walked slowly towards the bench where Karl sat,  

his shoulders hunched, hands clasped in his lap. He sensed  

the priest’s approach and turned. Karl smiled and rose  

unsteadily to his feet. Opening his arms he folded them  

around Simon’s gaunt frame. Simon could smell cheap  

boarding house soap.   

Karl pushed Simon away to gaze at him: “So, old Karl  

was correct as he always is, eh? I told them you were not  

dead.” He slapped his palm against Simon’s shoulder.   

The two men sat on the wooden bench watching the  

pirouetting swan and its spinning cygnets, measuring each  

other’s presence. Through the corner of his eye Simon saw  

the blur of a toddler, shrieking with an unrestrained dash  

towards the water.  

“So how have you been?”  

Karl also watched the child. “I am well—but I do not like  

the city.”  

Simon nodded, still focussed on the staggering gait of  

the runaway child.  

“This city or any city?”  

“Perhaps a little of both,” Karl responded after a pause.  

“I think it’s the same for me,” said the priest.  

371

At the water’s edge the child continued shrieking and  

pointed at the swan which pulled away as if aware of the  

infant human’s savage curiosity.  

“This is a city with no heart,” the old man continued. “It  

is young and clean, but mean, which is not nice for a city. A  

city should be warm and forgiving, a little bit tired and  

smoky. It should wear a sad smile and say, ‘Stay a while  

Karl—share a schnapps with me’.”  

Simon looked at him and wondered if schnapps would  

ever again oil the old man’s throat. “Perhaps it lacks  

compassion because there are no barramundi here.”  

Karl grinned broadly. “That is the truth,” he said. “So.  

You have returned from a remarkable journey?”  

“Yes.”  

“And you are a priest again—standing before so many  

faces, sharing this new knowledge.”  

Simon shook his head. “Far from it.”  

An adult grasped the child’s arm, attempting to pull it  

away from the water. The child wailed, flailed its arms and  

sat down heavily on the edge of the path. The adult began  

hauling the stumbling, protesting child across the grass.  

The swan turned in a lazy half‐circle, measuring the  

commotion with an unblinking eye.  

 “They don’t trust me,” Simon continued.  “I’m back at St  

Luke’s, but as a lodger only.”  

“They are fools.”  

Simon shrugged. “They are embarrassed; the Bishop  

especially— though I’ve heard he might be leaving soon. I  

think a lot of these older blokes, the ones who came out  

from Ireland, are afraid of dying here. If they’ve got strings  

they can pull, they try to return to European soil.”  

Karl dipped his head and looked away.  

“Anyway,” Simon continued. “For the moment I am a  

worry to them—and there’s this whole issue again with the  

university. Before I went away I was offered the  

372

chaplaincy—then I was told it could only happen after the  

Redmond people were moved out—god alone knows to  

where. I still don’t know what to do. A university would be  

a wonderful opportunity for me. But I’m supposed to be  

helping the people who would have to be cleared out.”  

Karl lifted his head and gazed at the water. “You have  

said this to your Bishop?”  

Simon shrugged. “He’s avoiding me.”  

“Of course. Even Bishops have a conscience.”  

“Yes, though I suspect it confuses more than troubles  

him.”  

Karl sighed. “Your bishop is still just a man. You should  

not forget that.” He paused. “I wrote a letter to you; did you  

know?”  

Simon looked up. “I didn’t receive it.”  

“No—you were dead by then.”  

Simon made a grunting sound. “I think I’ve been dead a  

long time. Perhaps you die in many people’s eyes the day  

you become a priest. It’s true, you know. I have barely  

spoken to my father in twenty years. I telephoned. After  

being told I was dead, and learning that I wasn’t, he still  

didn’t know what to say. It was as though it didn’t really  

make much difference. My mother will cry, then harangue  

me with a litany of my failings as a man.”  

Neither spoke for some moments, watching instead the  

swan as it cruised in a tight circle, gathering its straying  

young.  

“Perhaps you can find a compromise in Redmond. It is a  

big suburb, surely?”  

Simon shook his head. “The church owns just two  

blocks—bequeathed to it about seventy years ago by some  

bloke who made good. It started off as cheap housing for  

immigrants. They gradually moved on—mostly Irish—and  

as they moved out the next wave of dispossessed  

immigrants moved in. Now it is occupied by Aborigines  

373

with no land.” He paused in thought. “Poor souls can’t win.  

Try to revitalize traditional culture and they’re attacked as  

being some obscure threat to civilized man. If they choose  

to be contemporary, they’re maligned as being pretenders  

with no rightful claim to Aboriginality. A white youth steals  

a car and he is bailed on a good behaviour bond. A black  

youth steals a car and they raid homes with sledge‐ 

hammers.”  

Karl grunted. “It is different to Gunwinddu.”  

“Yes. Down here they are learning anger.”  

“Ah—I see the Bishop’s concern. You would be a good  

teacher.”  

Simon looked at Karl, who met his gaze. He wondered  

about himself. Was he that transparent? “I wish it was that  

easy. I wish self‐righteousness, apathy and indifference  

were as easy to shatter as shop windows; or that self‐ 

esteem and dignity ravaged by discrimination, insult, and  

rejection was as easy to rebuild.”  

Karl said nothing, watching the lakeside. The child  

reappeared side‐by‐side with the adult. They threw lumps  

of bread ripped from the heart of a loaf. “Duck—duck”, the  

child called shrilly, planting pride onto the adult’s face.  

Simon sighed. There was another world flowing all  

around him that he knew nothing about.  

“So you haven’t told me why you’re here—why you left  

Gunwinddu.”  

Karl sat forward on the seat. He pressed the scar on his  

forehead and seemed undecided about whether to speak or  

not.  

“Perhaps I should not have come,” he said after a pause.  

“Already I miss the barramundi—but Gunwinddu is  

changing too much. I wrote to you. I blamed you, I think.”  

“Ah, but I was dead.”  

Karl smiled. “It must have been good to be dead just a  

while to see how the world moves without you.”  

374

Simon thought about it. “Yes—but when you return  

something has filled your space. Now I feel I have nowhere  

to belong.”  

 “You have been wounded,” Karl stated. He leaned to  

place a finger on Simon’s wrist. “This is a deep scar.”  

Simon looked at the hairless dent. “It was a lesson.”  

“Ah?”  

“My ignorance was not accepted as an excuse.”  

“That is a hard lesson.”  

Simon shrugged. “It seems a long time ago. If it wasn’t  

for the scars, I would think it was a dream.”  

“For me it is like yesterday.”  

Simon looked up.  

“Yes. I learned a lesson like yours. I was in Hell, which  

was all cold and white, and I learned about death. But I did  

go to Heaven, where it was all hot red sand and black  

people, and I learned to live again. Now I am not sure  

where I am. Purgatory perhaps. Somehow Karl has got  

everything in the wrong order.”  

 “We were born to be confused. Our Original Sin.”  

Karl rubbed his hands on his knees and flexed his  

shoulders. “Tell me—what is a mortal sin?”  

Simon gazed at the sparkling water beneath the  

cloudless sky. “I don’t know,” he said, after a pause.  “Are  

you in trouble?”  

“It is always possible in this world that a man is in  

trouble.”  

Simon frowned, waited for him to continue, but he did  

not. There was a commotion at the water’s edge. Birds of  

all shapes and sizes had flocked to bread thrown by the  

toddler and its parent. They thrashed and attacked in an  

orgy of feeding, the child shrieked with wonder at the  

disruption it had caused.  

  

375

Simon studied his reflection in the narrow mirror  

screwed into the back of the wardrobe door. His old  

clothes, which he had retrieved from a cardboard box at a  

Saint Vincent de Paul shop, now hung shabbily on his thin  

frame. A beard made his face look longer and his cheek  

bones were sculptured below his eyes. They had changed,  

he decided. These were not his old, friendly eyes. These  

ones stared out from a lost soul. A hand‐me‐down tweed  

jacket hung from his shoulders, further accentuating his  

vagabond appearance. But it was the best he could do. He  

retrieved the gold‐embossed invitation from a side pocket  

and gazed at it again.  

  

The students and staff  

of  

St Peter’s Seminary  

request the attendance of  

Fr Simon Bradbury  

for cocktails and supper to celebrate the elevation  

of  

The Most Reverend Bishop MacNamara  

FORMAL DRESS  

  

Simon wondered, again, why he had been invited. Since  

he’d been back MacNamara had avoided him. But now,  

despite his mixed feelings over MacNamara’s appointment  

to a post in Rome, he felt a sense of hope that it might  

signal his return to work.  

He glanced at his watch and realised he was late.  

Simon watched the taxi move off, its tail lights two red  

orbs accelerating to the end of the street. He weighed the  

coins in his hand and realised he would be catching a bus  

home.  

He turned and faced the seminary’s imposing Georgian  

facade. The hum of a large gathering flowed out through  

376

the pillared entrance and he climbed the two levels of  

wide, concrete steps. A man in a brown suit stopped him  

inside the doorway, his eyes running over Simon’s attire.  

“Yes?” he inquired.  

“I’m here for the reception.”  

“Ah—.” The tone expressed doubt. “Your name?”  

“Bradbury—Father Bradbury.”  

“Ah—.” The doubt turned to disbelief. The man scanned  

the few plastic name tags which remained on a small table  

at his side. “Father Simon Bradbury?”  

Simon plucked the tag from the man’s fingers. “Thank  

you,” he said, returning the man’s stare.  

“You did know it was formal, Father?”  

“Yes.”  

Simon walked through to the reception room and stood  

inside the doorway. At first nobody noticed him. Then, like  

the ripples of an incoming tide, faces turned his way and  

the drone of conversation died.  

Simon scanned the sea of faces gazing at him over white‐ 

collared necks, over champagne glasses fixed between  

frozen fingers, over proffered plates of canapes. He  

swallowed, casting around for a friendly face. A waiter  

approached and invited him to choose from a tray. He  

selected a glass of beer and sipped tentatively under the  

withering stares.  

 “Simon.”  

He swung on his heel. MacNamara strode towards him,  

arms outstretched. “So good of you to come.”  

Before Simon could react, MacNamara grasped his  

elbow, tugging him through a passage which opened,  

cleaving the crowd. Conversation and laughter refilled the  

room.  

“I want you to meet some important people,” the Bishop  

said, continuing to grip his arm, afraid perhaps that Simon  

might bolt.  

377

 “I’m sorry about my clothes,” he said, as if some sort of  

apology was required as gratitude for this unexpected  

support.  

MacNamara shot him a sideways glance. “You know, I  

think I would have been disappointed if you’d shown up  

looking like you actually belonged.” MacNamara stopped  

Simon in front of a tall silver‐haired man whose politician’s  

smile and fashionable tortoise‐shell spectacles he  

immediately recognised.  

 “You know the Premier?”  

Simon smiled out of politeness. “Only from television.”  

The man extended his hand. “I read about you—got  

lost?”  

Simon nodded. “Something like that.”  

The premier leaned closer to Simon. “You replaced  

Rantz at Gunwinddu, didn’t you?”  

Simon remained, curious and watchful.  

“A good man,” the Premier continued.   

The politician stared hard at Simon. “I’ve heard a lot  

about you. We are all interested in the management of the  

Aboriginal people. I just wish they’d see sense and drop  

their ridiculous land rights nonsense.”  

Simon smiled tiredly. Land rights, land rights. It had  

become a white obsession. “I’m sure neither the land nor  

its minerals will disappear just because tenure is returned  

to traditional owners?”  

The Premier pressed close. “You are naive if you believe  

that, Father. Anyway, that is not the issue. We cave in to  

land rights, and the next demand will be for separate  

homelands; states within a state. And then what? Urban  

blacks claiming suburbs and towns?”  

Simon wanted to turn, to walk away, but the politician  

had him fixed. “Perhaps you haven’t stopped to consider  

what will be the first land to be claimed?” He looked at  

MacNamara. “The first land to go—as I have previously  

378

discussed with His Grace—will be the missions. There are  

five Catholic missions in the Kimberley and Canberra is  

already planning for their expropriation—land and  

buildings.”  

MacNamara interjected, his voice gruff. “The Premier  

and I have discussed this at length Simon. Who has made  

this decision, I have asked. Who is it who can decide that  

mission work, God’s work, is to come to an end? Who made  

that decision? This land rights business is just a  

bureaucratic attack on the churches.”  

Simon opened his mouth to reply. The politician cut him  

off. Land rights was the issue of the day and he was well  

versed. But why was he pressing the point with him?  

“—The Australian people are losing patience; tired of  

seeing millions of dollars lost in hand‐outs; tired of being  

made to feel responsible for atrocities that may or may not  

have occurred in the past. They’re tired of being told they  

should feel guilty. But I’ll tell you this—I do not feel guilty  

because I pay taxes, and a significant amount of that money  

is spent on the Aboriginal problem.”  

Simon had had enough. “Why are you telling me this?”  

The Premier and the Bishop exchanged glances. The  

politician spoke. “To impress upon you that a priest’s work  

must be spiritual and liturgical, not political.”  

Simon was aware that MacNamara was studying him  

closely. He remembered the beer clutched in his hand and  

put the glass to his lips. He savoured the tangy taste,  

wishing he could take the drink somewhere quiet and be  

alone.  

“Is that what you’ve heard—that I’m political?”  

 “Yes—and it is a mistake—misguided. It delays what is  

essential and inevitable.”  

“Which is—?”  

The question provoked cool annoyance in the  

politician’s eyes. “To make the blacks socially acceptable so  

379

they can have a useful place in the community. They have  

to forget the past. They have to become like us.”  

Simon shifted his feet impatiently. “So it’s all right to  

celebrate an Irish heritage, or Italian, or Polish—but not  

Aboriginal—not the actual culture of this land?”  

The Premier stared back stony‐faced.  

“The reality gap in your message,” Simon continued, “is  

they don’t want their Aboriginality to be submerged into  

our values—the values of their colonizers. It’s not about  

how well they blend into our streets and suburbs. For them  

it’s about knowing, from childhood that this country  

belongs to them, and that we are invaders—something the  

rest of us have become oblivious to. They won’t blend, or  

bend, because they are still carrying on the resistance to  

colonisation. There will be no progress or reconciliation  

until white Australia wakes up to this fairly basic fact.”  

The Premier folded his arms. “So you think we should  

hand back the land, just like that.”  

Simon glanced around, hoping for an escape, but a  

sizable group had gathered to listen. He knew arguing was  

pointless: “No. You are right. Mission workers must work  

harder to mould the Aborigine into a wholesome black  

Australian who cleans his teeth every day, wears long  

white socks, pressed shorts and smiles a lot to signify he is  

grateful.”  

 A flicker of anger crossed the Premier’s face.  

MacNamara cleared his throat. “Father Bradbury has a  

way with words.”  He grabbed Simon’s sleeve. “Come and  

have a chat.” He nodded to the Premier. “We’ll talk later.”  

MacNamara led Simon through a glass doorway and out  

into a small garden courtyard. He remembered the place,  

so long ago when he was a student. It was a nook for sitting  

to think and be alone. The bishop closed the doors behind  

them. MacNamara gazed out into the darkened garden. He  

380

allowed himself to be annoyed. His breathing laboured in  

the quiet of the night.   

 “The Premier is a wise and influential man. You would  

do well to hold your tongue and listen. He was trying to  

help you.”  

 “Help me?”  

“Yes.”  

“Why would he want to do that?”  

“Because you could be useful, and the church and the  

state need to present a shared perspective on this issue.”  

“Even if it means trotting out patronizing nonsense!”  

The Bishop turned and faced him. “Yes, exactly, if that is  

what is in the church’s interests.” The man shook his head  

and jutted out his jaw. “Perhaps it’s time to ask who you  

think you are. Clearly you see yourself in some exalted new  

light—some prophet returned from the desert with the  

good news that will save us from ourselves?”   

Simon struggled to keep his voice level. “Perhaps I did  

find something out there—perhaps more than I previously  

found in the church.”  

The Bishop made a clucking noise with his tongue. “Go  

on—this is going to be good.”  

Simon grimaced. This was not the setting, nor the  

atmosphere which he had hoped for. “The only thing new  

about the experience is that it happened to me. I’m sure  

you could go to a library and find others telling the same  

story—the world’s oldest human culture, the world’s  

oldest ecosystem—and our terrible ambition to destroy  

them both. I discovered a history of people and the land  

being woven into a spiritual world that is real enough to  

touch—.” He stopped to make sure he was understood. “I  

think this country has an indigenous culture that could  

revitalise our understanding of spirituality.”  

The Bishop grunted. “Frankly, I think you have lost your  

mind.”  

381

Simon laughed, his voice brittle.   

MacNamara took a deep breath. “Look Simon, I’m not  

trying to run you down. I know you mean well. Remember  

how we met? You were wide‐eyed with a cloth rag and tin  

of Brasso. That takes us back a long time, back to a time  

when I was about your age now. I was just as full of fervour  

and evangelical drive, but I directed it to my vocation—to  

the church.”  

“And I’m trying to direct this to the church.”  

“The church, Simon, can tolerate only so much  

divergence.”  

“What if the church is wrong—.”  

“If you believe that, then you’re wasting your time as a  

priest—on the other hand we don’t have priests enough to  

waste, which is why I’m trying to counsel you to accept my  

authority—for your own sake.”  

Simon said nothing and MacNamara stepped closer, his  

hands lifting in a conciliatory gesture. “Look, whatever  

happened to you out there in the state of mind you were in  

would have been enlarged beyond reason by the  

environment—the wilderness factor, nothing more. You  

wander to the limits of life Simon and it’s not  

enlightenment you find, merely distortions of reality.”  

Simon smiled to himself. He could see they were  

entering a circle with no meeting point. “The world’s great  

faiths, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, were born of the  

desert,” he quipped.  

MacNamara folded his arms and rocked lightly on his  

heels. “No. They were nurtured in the cradle of civilization.  

That they were desert people is a matter of historical  

timing, not divine intervention—and frankly, I find  

repugnant your notion that the Australian blacks have  

something to teach the Roman church.”  

“I don’t— “ Simon paused, the old frustration welling up.  

“I can’t understand why you find it so difficult. Yes, you can  

382

say they are backward—or you can say that they remained,  

deliberately, in the image of their creator, living by the  

tenets passed to them from the Dreaming—their oral  

bible.”  

The Bishop strode away and faced the garden again.  

Neither spoke for some moments until Simon followed  

him, pressing his point. “They are gifted in ways that I  

could not even begin to explain. Their disadvantage is our  

doing—and redressing this is surely the very responsibility  

I was trained for.”  

The Bishop exhaled. “Your problem Simon is you don’t  

live life, you analyse it—and you will never find equations  

outside the church which work. Living within the church is  

the infallible path. You understood that once.”  

Simon saw a shadow pass across the door. Their  

presence outside was being noticed. “So what happens  

now—to me?” he asked.  

MacNamara faced him. “You have the capacity to be a  

useful priest, once you’ve organized your priorities. I want  

you to stay in the church—and I’m not entirely deaf to  

everything you say.”  

Simon shrugged. “I don’t see a role for me anymore— 

not in the church.”  

“You wish to resign?”  

Simon shrugged. “Perhaps—.”  

MacNamara folded his arms. “I invited you here to  

tonight to make my support for you public. I asked you  

outside here for two more reasons, to urge you to trust me,  

trust the church—and to see if you’re ready to resume  

work.”  

“Work—?”  

“I’d like you to fill in at the cathedral for a while—just a  

few months while you settle back into the rhythm.”  

“The cathedral—where I can be watched?”  

383

“You can take it that way if it suits. But I want you where  

you belong. I want you to rediscover the goodness and  

magnificence of the church.”  

“What about the university? What’s happening to  

Redmond?”  

MacNamara sighed. “It takes time Simon—it all takes  

time.”  

Simon nodded. “I see.”  

He placed his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “Just trust me.”  

The door behind them rattled and a face pressed curious  

against the glass, before pulling away at the sight of the  

two men.  

MacNamara waved him towards the doors. “Come on,  

we’re being anti‐social.” Simon stopped, but the Bishop  

pushed him forwards. “Go on. It’s my party. Come and  

mingle and for God’s sake look happy.”  

Simon re‐entered the throng and veered away from  

MacNamara and the entourage that gravitated towards the  

man on his reappearance. He stopped an attendant for a  

fresh drink. He was conscious of people staring, of being  

the butt of whispered remarks. He felt like a cornered rat in  

a cattery. He noticed George Penbury and moved to greet  

him. Even talking to Penbury would be better than  

standing mute as the object of curiosity.  

The choirmaster saw him coming and stepped hurriedly  

behind someone’s back. Simon smiled wryly. “George,” he  

called. “Good to see you again.” He stepped quickly to  

where the man stood and extended his hand. Penbury’s  

shoulders sagged. He smiled hesitantly, pretending not to  

see the priest’s extended hand. Simon withdrew it. It didn’t  

really matter. He just needed a prop.   

“So what’s been happening George? What are the  

important affairs of parish.”  

384

The choirmaster fingered the glass in his hand, unsure  

whether he was being baited or courted. Simon helped him  

along. “How’s the choir?”  

Penbury relaxed slightly. “The voices are strong, but—”  

he hesitated.  

Simon smiled encouragingly.  

“Well, you worry, don’t you Father? I mean, none of us  

are getting any younger and where are the young ones?”  

He shook his head. “The Bishop worries too. But what to  

do?” He craned his neck to scan the gathering. “It’s going to  

be a great loss, His Grace leaving us.” He looked genuinely  

saddened. “So I suppose you’ll be going to Redmond then?”  

Simon blinked in surprise. “Redmond—why do you say  

that?”  

Penbury tipped his head nearer Simon. “Well—you  

would know, wouldn’t you—all the trouble there. It’s been  

a great worry to His Grace—.”  

Simon frowned. “So where do I come in?”  

Penbury looked at him, suddenly cautious. “Well—you  

being familiar with them. You’d be the perfect choice. Well,  

don’t misunderstand me Father, but His Grace told me— 

they trust you—so you could shift them out, and the church  

could start building the university without the trouble  

they’re threatening. It’s very political you know.”  

“Yes. I’d be the perfect choice,” said Simon. He studied  

the choirmaster’s smooth face and short red neck. “But  

where would they go—where would I take them?”  

Penbury shrugged. “Well—out of the city.”  

“Ah—back to the bush perhaps.”  

The choirmaster nodded in affirmation.  

Simon scratched the back of his head and walked away  

without another word. He left the reception, walked out  

into the darkness to look for a bus stop.  

  

385

The noise of the city lies across Redmond like a troubled  

spirit. The ever‐present moan of traffic, punctuated  

intermittently by sirens. At night the streets of Redmond  

are almost lightless, barely one in three street lamps still  

functioning. But its inhabitants prefer the dark, the wrap of  

anonymity as they stagger drunk and desolate against a  

supporting wall, or gather in small groups beyond the eyes  

of the police patrols. The white vans with their blue  

markings and leather‐jacketed occupants; a hand‐held  

spotlight spearing at random into the dark. Sometimes  

there is nothing; sometimes startled, frightened eyes glint  

back into the core of the beam; sometimes there is a body,  

hurt and wishing just to be left alone. Sometimes the van  

stops and its rear doors are flung wide for the frightened  

subject to be thrown into the hard, steel cage.  

The only defiance comes from the dogs that piss on the  

stationary van’s tyres.   

At the  lime‐green police lockup charge sheets record a  

litany of crime—resisting arrest, creating a public  

disturbance, drunk and disorderly, assaulting a police  

officer.  

Every night the same pantomime; a parade of anxious  

family members, tears, desperate pleas, the abject  

uselessness behind the impassioned argument of young  

unshaven legal‐aid lawyers called from their beds. Every  

night the same expressionless, immovable face behind the  

counter. In the morning, if morning comes, a magistrate  

from a suburb as far removed from Redmond as Mars curls  

his lip in disgust at the record sheet and the prison  

population maintaines its steady ebb and flow.  

This is Redmond at night, just a brisk, dangerous walk  

from noisy, neon streets where others sit at streetside  

cafes or spill from clubs and cinemas.  

  

386

A dog trotted lightly across the road. It cut across the  

pool of grimy yellow light at the end of the street, jumped a  

low wall and disappeared into the shadows to reappear  

outside a house further down where there were no street  

lights. A slim youth stepped from the darkness and ruffled  

the dog’s mangy neck. The animal followed him into the  

house. In the darkness the flare of a cigarette directed the  

youth to what was once a lounge room. He rattled a  

doorframe with a stick. The door hung off its hinges,  

propped against the wall. If there had been light to see, the  

ragged hole in its centre where a sledge hammer had  

punched through would be still be visible.   

Shuffling steps approached the youth. “Who’s that?”  

“It’s okay, it’s me.”  

“Ah,” sighed an old man’s voice.  

A weak voice followed him. “Joseph?” she called,  

questioning, worried.  

“It’s Angel,” he shouted back.  

Then a heavy squeaking sound as the woman lifted  

herself from a sprung sofa, followed by a spasm of  

coughing.  

“You stay there,” the old man commanded.  

“Still no electricity?” Angel observed.  

Joseph shook his head in the gloom. He drew on the last  

of his cigarettes, and flicked the butt towards the door  

which opened directly to the street.  

Angel pushed his head into the darkened room. As his  

eyes adjusted he could see a shape huddled on the sofa in  

the light filtering in from the outside night. “You okay Mrs  

Foley?”  

“Doc says it’s me lungs.”  

Angel shook his head. “It’s no good—we gotta do  

somethin’—we gotta get these houses fixed again.”  

Joseph looked at him in the dark. “We don’ know what to  

do anymore,” he said tiredly.   

387

Angel turned from him and stared out into the street. A  

police van cruised by. They could hear its radio snapping as  

it continued slowly down the street. He turned back to  

Joseph. “The priest is goin’ to be saying a Mass—in that  

cathedral place. I think we should all go there.”  

“You reckon he can help?”  

Angel didn’t answer for a moment. “That bishop bloke  

will be there. We should see ‘im—make ‘im listen.”  

Joseph was unsure. “How do you know he’ll be there?”  

“It’s the Father’s first time since he come back. They’ll be  

keepin’ a close eye on ‘im.”  

Mrs Foley coughed again, a harsh, racking cough. The  

sofa squeaked as she tried to make herself more  

comfortable.  

In the dark the youth’s eyes narrowed and his lip curled.  

“We goin’ to finish this,” he murmured. “Make sure  

everybody knows. We all got to be there.”  

  

*  

388

Chapter Twenty‐One  

  

  

Simon stood in the old disused East Perth cemetery  

gazing vacantly at a headless cherub. The day which had  

started bright and sunny was now overcast. A bank of  

cloud had moved in from the distant sea and a stiff breeze  

shook the trees and draped long yellow grass against the  

railings and headstones. The had not been used for almost  

a century.   

A peaceful concert of the wind playing in the grass and  

branches of overhanging trees masked the noise of the city.  

Here was a different time. A lingering memory of still  

summer days of cicadas and flies, and wintry afternoons of  

rain and black skies—of times when the city below the hill  

was just a dusty town on the edge of nowhere. A month or  

more sailing from England. If you listened carefully you  

could still imagine the wind carrying the clatter of cart  

wheels, the abrasive call of tousled‐haired boys running  

barefoot and free, the hoot and whistle of steamboats and  

steam trains.  

Simon followed the irregular rows of headstones. He  

recalled the cemetery at Cumalong. Such hopeful symbols  

of man’s yearning for eternal life. Was it because his  

temporal existence was so disappointing? These old  

graveyards were filled with the thwarted ambitions of  

young men and women who settled in a new land,  

struggled so hard to forge a new world.   

Simon wandered along corridors of stone tablets,  

turning like pages of epitaphs. Carriage accidents as  

common as car accidents; drownings to remind of a time  

when the river was a thoroughfare not a playground.  

Epidemics of measles, diphtheria, scarlet fever and typhoid,  

without discriminating for age, sex or social status. The  

language was graphic. Was the terror of death amplified by  

389

the prospect of dying on alien soil? Certainly the horror of  

the finality of death still lingered in the mason’s words;  

‘everlasting sleep’, ‘eternal rest’. But then faith, Simon’s  

own stock‐in‐trade, was fuelled by such fear; the terror of  

death turned to a burning desire for salvation. In the grey  

light it was easy for him to relive the desolation he always  

felt beside the open mouth; his vestments flapping in the  

breeze as he tried to articulate the democracy and  

needfulness of mortality—.  

Unless a grain of wheat falls on the ground and dies, it  

remains only a single grain.   

But if it dies, it yields a rich harvest.  

How many times had he said that? It had become banal.  

Simon hated funerals. They were hard for a priest. Each  

funeral, each march to the grave was a dress rehearsal for  

his own final moment.   

God, he was in one of those moods.  

He stopped beside a tall obelisk and was relieved to find  

a reason to chuckle. On it was etched just a single line:  

Thomas Helms, Gentleman.  

“Mr Helms,” said Simon, miming the removal of a hat. “I  

like your style.”  

“Ah—you are meeting new friends, that is good.”  

Simon turned. “They are noble and companionable  

here—much more so than those down the hill still with  

beating hearts.”  

“Such poetry,” said Karl. “You should be a priest! What  

sermons you would deliver.”  

Simon grinned. “I’m going to celebrate a Mass in the  

cathedral.”  

“Then you are returning to the cloth?”  

“For the moment.”  

The old man shrugged his shoulders. “The sun has  

abandoned us. I think we should walk.”  

390

They walked along the avenues of dead, beneath  

swaying, murmuring pines and scented gums.  

“I have been thinking,” Simon began. “Wondering about  

these spent lives and where they have directed us. We have  

become such beachfront pleasure‐seekers. We call this  

land our home, yet it continues to elude our grasp. It  

remains a spectral presence behind our backs as we huddle  

along the shore. We deny our destiny to become a new,  

unique people—why?”  

 “When I came to this place,” said Karl. “I was a young  

man running very, very hard from memories and fear. And  

now I can tell you this. I escaped nothing. For a long time,  

at Gunwinddu I was afraid to look behind, because I  

thought it was still there. But I was wrong. All that time I  

was wrong. It was not behind at all, but always in front of  

me. So perhaps everybody is like Karl, eh, still running?”  

“But from what. Guilt?”   

Karl shook his head slowly. “I think the fear is the future.  

That is what we run from.”  

“So we are running backwards?”  

“No, we are running nowhere.”  

“We are lost then?”  

Karl nodded. “That, I think, is true.”  

Simon pointed to a headstone. “They’re like those old  

roadside milestones—signposts. You can walk along here  

and read the signs and see where we have been heading— 

but it is in the wrong direction. Something is missing.” He  

paused. “We need our own sacred story to give us a sense  

of our own sacred land. Only the Aboriginal people can give  

us that. Otherwise what do we have so far—a story of  

convicts, bushrangers and conquests; man over nature so  

we could run sheep and grow wheat and send the profits to  

a motherland over the seas.”  

Karl said nothing for a while, allowing a silence to wrap  

them in their own thoughts. “Like everybody, I came to this  

391

place a stranger—a frightened stranger. And it was the  

spirit of the barramundi that made me welcome. It was the  

people of the land, like you say, who invited me to stay and  

make my home. It is a precious thing, you know, to feel that  

in your heart, to awake in the morning and know this is  

where you belong. That’s why I will go back to Gunwinddu.  

The barramundi has been calling—calling me home.  

Simon began walking again. The wind plucked at his  

shirt sleeves and he shivered.  

“Karl—what happened to you as a young man?” He  

planted the question, without preamble.  

The old man smiled. “ Do you think you are strong  

enough for my confession?”  

“I don’t want your confession. I would just like to  

know—as a friend.”  

Karl shook his head. “No. If I tell you, then you must  

share my pain—my guilt. That is the condition, always.”  

“Was it that terrible?”  

“To me, yes. It was a long time ago—but it could have  

been yesterday.”  

He stopped to take a long, indrawn breath, which he let  

out slowly. “—Young boys only. I remember their faces.  

You know what I think about—I think about their mothers  

and know the worst thing for them would be they would  

never have known how their boys died. Their most  

frightening dreams could never have been as terrible as it  

really was. I, Karl, was there. I saw it all happen—bullets  

spinning them like toy dolls into the snow. Some of them  

tried to crawl away—but there was no hope. We went  

around later with pistols. And it was such a beautiful  

morning, I remember that. The air was clear and still, the  

sky so blue and the snow all around was so pure and  

white—near a little farm house, but half of it was gone. We  

had parked our Panzer there. That’s what we were doing,  

you see, just driving into houses and boomph, the roof and  

392

walls crash onto our monsters and they are hidden.  

Sometimes we ordered the people out, sometimes we did  

not bother. There may have been people inside—I have  

sometimes wondered that too. But we had become  

barbarians. It was expected that we would die, so perhaps  

there was no fear for most—but not for me. I was very  

frightened—frightened of the noise and the blood and the  

smell of the sergeant. Everyone had become like machines.  

Sometimes we shot our own soldiers, young German boys,  

if our kapitan thought they were running the wrong way. I  

think now his mind had gone. He wanted everybody to die  

fighting. I was just a boy. I did not even have a uniform.  

They took me from technical college and put me in a  

Panzer tank because I was a student of mechanical  

engineering. The sergeant was always close to me. ‘You do  

everything I tell you, eh, or I shoot you too.’ Perhaps he just  

liked to frighten me—who knows? I used to think these  

things when I was alone with the barramundi—trying to  

understand. Sometimes I did, but later I would forget what  

it was that had made me think I had finally constructed an  

answer.”  

Karl stopped and gazed around at the old graveyard  

with its unkempt shrubbery and swaying trees. Across  

from the graves in a grassy clearing which had been the  

burial site of those who never had the means to pay for  

headstones, two grey‐suited men walked. “Ah,” said Karl,  

as though he recognized them. Simon saw them too but  

paid no attention.  

“On one morning I was holding one of the guns, a  

machine‐pistol—and I saw where my bullets went—every  

day since, I have watched them because a young American  

soldier was looking at me. He saw in my eyes what was  

going to happen. Just a boy, a few years older than me, and  

I saw the look in his eyes. He knew. But already it was too  

late.”  

393

Karl stopped and wiped his face. It was shiny and wet.  

“But I have not told you about this.” He pointed to his  

forehead, at the livid scar. “My shame. You see, the  

Americans found us. I remember the eyes still of another  

young man looking at me over the barrel of his rifle. There  

were many rifles pointed, but I knew which one was  

pointed at me. He was ready to kill me, he would not know  

or remember or care that he had ended the life of Karl  

Breier. I was so frightened that I started to fall before the  

trigger was squeezed. My terror saved me. I woke up, in a  

hospital with a thick bandage around my head. And the  

pain—it was like somebody splitting my head with a big  

knife. Before, when they had tried to stand me on my feet  

again—to kill me—the officer saw I was a boy without a  

uniform. He asked what was my story. They decided  

instead to lock me in a French bastille for two years. It was  

a cruel place but I was alive. I returned to Berlin in 1947.  

The Russians were there and my family was gone. To this  

day, I do not know what happened to my mother and  

father and my sister. I spent two years with the living dead,  

like rats in the rubble of our own making. One morning I  

met a man who was organizing in the black market. I did  

some work, stole from American and Russian trucks, and  

he paid me with papers, which showed I was a qualified  

mechanical engineer. I was interested in going to Canada,  

but then I heard a radio broadcast about Australia. I did not  

even know where Australia was. The ship stopped at  

Fremantle on its way to Melbourne. Well—all the time I  

was afraid a voice would call to me and say, ‘you, Karl  

Breier, we know about you—your papers are false’. So I left  

the ship. After some days, I was very lost and afraid  

because my English was not so good and so I walked into a  

church. A priest was there— Father Rantz. He spoke  

German, you see, and told me he was a missionary. I told  

him I was a mechanical engineer and he invited me to join  

394

him—so, that is Karl’s story. I went to Gunwinddu with  

Father Rantz . We were joined later by a beautiful young  

woman—Miss Breck. I fell very much in love with her, but I  

never told her because all the time I was afraid somebody  

was looking for me—to take me back to Germany because  

my papers were false. After a time, it did not seem to  

matter anymore. But I was cruel to Wilma. She wanted for  

us to marry and she never understood why I never asked— 

because I could never tell her. But the people were good to  

me and the barramundi became my family. Time passed  

without any of us, I think, noticing. Father Rantz grew  

old—it is strange, always he seemed such a strong, young  

man and then one day you see him and realize he is old and  

you touch your own face in the shadows and know it is true  

of you too. So Father Rantz left us, and in his place comes  

Father Bradbury, a young man with a fire in his belly; a  

young man whose vision has been shaped by peace, not  

war. You have been fortunate in that. But I liked you. I  

knew it was time for change and you seemed to care about  

the people. But change is a difficult thing, eh, and so soon  

you are gone too, but not after you have stirred up our  

nest. For a while there is nobody, just the police sergeant  

you did not like. He fights with Fred Davies and all the time  

he is suspicious—of everybody. Soon he is asking me  

questions—how did I come to Australia? Was I in the war?  

I said I was too old for his questions. One day he arrived  

with another man, a government man. They had been  

investigating me. It is quite extraordinary, don’t you think,  

after all these years? I was in the SS, they said, which made  

me a war criminal.” Karl stopped, looked over his shoulder  

at the two men who seemed to be watching. “So you see,  

the past was always going to be in front of me. I tried to  

explain, but these are young men who also have not known  

war. They do not understand. They do not know that in  

395

war everything is grey. There is no black and white, no  

good and bad. That only comes with history.”   

“Are you in trouble? Is it that new war crimes  

commission?  

Karl shrugged. “I was put on a plane, yes, and asked a lot  

of questions. But I have nothing more to say so I am going  

back to my river.”  

Simon was worried. “Why didn’t you tell me this before.  

I can help you.”  

Karl lifted his hand. “No. It is all very clear now.  

Everything will be all right.” He stood up. “But come and  

visit. The barramundi would like to see you again.”   

  

The cathedral is a large Gothic‐inspired edifice, towering  

above a perimeter of cut lawn and manicured rose beds. It  

has a confusion of entrances. Most are always locked,  

forcing strangers to circumnavigate its outer wall, probing  

self‐consciously at each heavy, wooden door tucked inside  

the many porticoes. Its south wall faces a convent school  

and the diocesan headquarters, a plain cream building  

surrounded by a tall pike fence. The north wall faces the  

emergency entrance to the main city hospital. Eight floors  

of pink brick and tiny square windows.  

The cathedral’s shaded lawn dividing it from the bland  

brick face of the hospital is a popular meeting ground for  

Aborigines. They sit on the grass in large, quiet groups and  

face the hospital, watching other people’s tragedies   

Simon stood on the path inside the large wrought‐iron  

gate separating the cathedral from the secular world. He  

watched as an ambulance officer tried to comfort a youth  

whose mate had just been trolleyed inside. He wondered  

what the man was saying. Were other men, unencumbered  

by a collar with little silver crosses, better at these things  

than priests? The two disappeared through the frosted  

glass.  

396

He began to walk up the path, clutching a small, cloth  

bundle. He had come early, hoping the majesty of the  

building would infuse in him the words to say on this, his  

rebirth as a cleric. Large groups of Aborigines stood or sat  

languidly in the gardens. He smiled uncertainly. He thought  

he recognized faces from the Redmond christening. Despite  

all he had been through he still felt an intruder in their  

presence. He paused, hoping for a hail, an invitation. But it  

seemed they did not even see him. He turned and walked  

the path to the main door.  

Then every head followed his back. They knew who he  

was—what he was; the priest who had been disgorged by  

the desert and the spirits of the Dreaming. What it might  

mean to them, they did not know. But they were patient.  

Simon stopped inside the cavernous vestibule. A splash  

of coloured light filtered by high stained glass windows  

made an abstract puddle on the tiled floor. A massive piece  

of church history stood, stolid, in the corner—a giant bell  

forged in Spain three centuries earlier for a Benedictine  

monastery and now mounted here as a memento to the  

longevity of Catholicism. The Benedictines had transported  

the bell when they fled the Inquisition and finally tried  

anew in this strange southern land. Simon paused beneath  

a towering statue of the Virgin Mary and studied the notice  

board; squares of paper pinned to cork by committees for  

everything from choirs to candlestick cleaners. Beside a  

notice from the Catholic Singles Club promoting dinners,  

beach walks, coffee nights and weekends away, someone  

else had pinned in bold letters, “We Need Priests”. Another  

notice, in the faded letters of a computer print‐out,  

proclaimed, pointedly: “Some people refuse to come to the  

front of the church unless escorted by pall bearers.” Simon  

smiled at the familiar quip.  

He looked into the body of the cathedral. In the distance  

was the altar on its exalted plateau. The scent of freshly cut  

397

looms blended with the residue of polish and incense.  

Simon breathed it in. It was still intoxicating. He  

remembered the first day he had met MacNamara and  

drunk in the smells and mysteries of the little sacristy, and  

then rewarded for his interest with a sip of sacramental  

sherry. Perhaps he had been drunk on it ever since?   

He stepped into the field of stiff‐backed pews and his  

heels clicked as he walked slowly down the aisle. He was  

nervous, expectant, and his wrist throbbed and the  

cicatrices on his chest itched.  

Simon sat in a pew at the front and leaned back, laying  

his arms across the top of the bench. He looked up into the  

vaulted roof, its high timber beams and arches. The  

building was shaped like a crucifix with pews also to each  

side of the altar. The altarpiece was a marble table draped  

with white cloth, backlit by a large stained glass window.  

There was a similar window behind the adjacent organ loft  

and these two massive works of glass art threw a light  

across the altar, giving it an ethereal quality in contrast to  

the main body of the cathedral which resided in perpetual  

gloom.  

It was a marvel, inspirational. But did it massage souls  

or egos? That was the trouble. In some respects this  

magnificent structure represented all that he had found  

himself fighting. The structure reinforced his role as a  

servant of the church; reminded him that his first  

responsibility was to the institution. The great stone walls  

and concrete arches told you this was a religion not to be  

taken lightly.  

In the same thought Simon saw the church at  

Gunwinddu. Really no more than an asbestos shed, but it  

had pulsed with the spirituality of the people.  

He stood and walked up to the altar and ran his hand  

idly across the white cloth. He took the soul stone from the  

cloth he was carrying it in. He had brought it on a whim; his  

398

own altar stone; his own private symbol of eternity. He had  

wanted to have it near when he next celebrated the  

Eucharistic sacrifice. “Do this in remembrance of me,”  

Christ had told his followers as he broke bread and drank  

wine. He had then gone, without resistance, to his  

crucifixion to secure eternal life.  

He believed this had happened. But then there was also  

Wirrintiny, the night bird, around which was woven a  

parable with similar intent thousands of years before  

Christ. The stone was his reminder of the mystery and of  

what he believed to be a truth that transcended his chosen  

religion. His faith, his calling; the dogma he had chosen to  

preach, he now saw as just part of the mystery of faith— 

not the definitive creed at all.  

Standing at the foot of the cathedral altar Mudidjara was  

far away, but he felt its presence steadying his thoughts.  

Voices sprinkled the silence and shoes clipped tiles in  

the vestibule. People were arriving. Simon placed the stone  

gently beside one of the two heavy brass candlesticks  

which flanked the altar, and walked to the sacristy to  

change.  

Outside an executive model sedan swept into the  

cathedral’s spacious driveway. MacNamara’s secretary  

climbed from the driver’s seat, stepped briskly to the rear  

and opened the door. The bishop stepped out and  

responded cheerfully to the respectful waves of people  

entering the grounds. He turned around, towards the  

hospital, and frowned. A group of Aborigines was  

approaching. Behind, in the gardens, were dozens more,  

watching. He turned his back and began walking quickly  

towards the entrance. “Come on,” he snapped to his  

secretary. The pair walked smartly. As they reached the  

steps someone called out.  

“Hey mister!”  

MacNamara paused in his stride.  

399

“Bishop!”  

He stopped and turned. Angel was striding towards him.  

“We got to talk to you.” He was at the head of a small group.  

“We need you to help us,” he continued.  

Mrs Foley and Joseph moved through the group to stand  

beside Angel. The old man wrapped an arm around her  

shoulders. “Can you help us?” he asked, shyly.  

MacNamara waved his secretary to wait at the steps.  

“What is the matter?” he asked.  

“We’re from Redmond,” said Angel. “Someone’s tryin’ to  

push us out—the police come all the time—we got no  

electricity no more—no hot water—,” he looked to Mrs  

Foley, “—and the old people are gettin’ crook. We thought  

you could do somethin’, like.”  

“There is nothing I can do,” he replied sharply, and  

began to move.  

“But you’re the bishop,” said Angel. “They’re your  

houses and a lot of these people’ve been baptized. We used  

to have a priest even.”  

“Father Chapman,” volunteered Joseph. Mrs Foley  

grasped his arm as a coughing attack hit her.  

“That woman should be over there—in hospital,” the  

Bishop responded sternly.  

 “That’s why we’ve come to see you,” said Angel, his  

voice rising.  

“Well I’m not a doctor. Take her across the road.”  

He turned his back and strode away, shaking his head.  

“Irresponsible,” he muttered as he caught up with his  

secretary.  

The Aborigines watched the bishop enter the cathedral.  

They looked at each other, defeated. Only Angel remained  

resolved.  

 “Go in,” he ordered. “Go and see what the priest says.”  

He lifted his voice so all could hear. “Make ‘em see us.”  

  

400

Inside the sacristy Simon heard polite clapping, and  

braced himself. The inner door burst open and MacNamara  

strode in, his face flushed. He saw Simon already dressed,  

and smacked his hands.  

“Well—you seem keen enough, Father.”  

Simon, smiled laconically, but said nothing.  

The bishop studied him. “You look the part Simon— 

always have.”  

“A pity this isn’t a theatre then.”  

MacNamara grinned. “Well—.”   

Simon could still see his reflection in the mirror.  

Perhaps that was it; perhaps all he needed was some stage  

paint to restore him to good order.  

The bishop stepped to a separate wardrobe and began  

to dress. “Thought I’d assist—a show of support for you.  

Stop some of those wagging tongues.”  

Simon smiled. He had expected to be on a leash for a  

while, but not a leash this tight.  

“Your sermon’s prepared, you have it on paper?” The  

bishop extended his hand.  

Simon shook his head. “No, it’s in my head—just a rough  

idea.”  

MacNamara eyed him quizzically.  

“I wanted to wait and feel the atmosphere here—in the  

cathedral—to crystallize my thoughts.”  

“Ah,” said MacNamara. He looked relieved.  

Simon looked at him closely. He had aged. It was like  

Karl had said; you remembered someone from earlier  

years and they never seemed to change until a particular  

moment when you looked close and saw a lifetime had  

passed. MacNamara had become an elderly man. Simon  

wondered if he had been too harsh; had given too little  

consideration to the frailties and moods of a man whose  

life was closing. The years passed so quickly. What was it  

like to be at an age when you knew there were not many  

401

days left; that you could point to a calendar and say in ten  

years—five years—I will have ceased to exist? Did that  

affect the mind? Did it sow resentment and intolerance?  

Did arrival at old age make a man feel victorious or  

defeated?  

A sucking sound, heard even from within the sacristy,  

preceded the opening chords pressed from the high pipe  

organ.  

MacNamara looked at Simon. “So. How would you like to  

work in Redmond—take over the parish? They haven’t had  

a priest for some time and the place needs a bit of a lift.  

You’d do well there.”  

Simon frowned. “What about the university?”  

The bishop smiled. “Well, that’s another reason why I’d  

like you to go to Redmond. It would make the transition  

smoother if you were well settled among the people there.”  

He turned from Simon and walked to the door which  

opened onto the altar.   

Simon stared at his departing back. The bastard—the  

manipulating, calculating bastard. The thought was there,  

he couldn’t help it. He trod in the path of the man’s  

arrogance and out onto the expansive altar, to the  

crescendo of organ pipes and the noise of several hundred  

devotees leaning on wooden benches to stand.  

MacNamara faced the congregation and waited for the  

susurration to subside. Simon stood beside him, working  

desperately to quell the anger that had ignited inside his  

gut.  

MacNamara smiled. A good turnout. He didn’t notice the  

Aboriginal people begin to filter in, along the shadow of the  

walls. Simon did. He saw them moving, hesitantly, along  

the walls, finding spaces to sit and stand.  

The bishop lifted his eyes to the distant, high roof  

beams: “Let us pray,” he began.  

402

They moved through the opening stages of the Mass,  

MacNamara the puppeteer and Simon his puppet. Simon  

grew increasingly conscious of the Aboriginal people,  

edging nearer and nearer the altar. When MacNamara saw  

them he frowned. He tried to catch Simon’s eye but the  

younger priest avoided his glance. They proceeded into the  

Mass, almost mechanically, as another presence slowly but  

forcibly consumed them.  

George Penbury walked to the altar to give the first  

reading from the Gospel. Simon knew he would only have  

been here at MacNamara’s request. He smiled inwardly  

and wondered just how much of the congregation had been  

orchestrated. Penbury had to step around several  

Aborigines who had opted to sit on the floor below the  

altar. The two celebrants walked in file to chairs at the side  

of the altar. They sat and MacNamara leaned close to his  

ear.  

“They were outside. Why have they come in here?” he  

whispered.  

Simon twisted in his chair to face him. Their faces were  

close. “My new parishioners perhaps—come to see how I  

perform?”  

“I don’t like it.”  

Penbury finished and headed for the pews. Simon stood  

and MacNamara tugged at his vestments. The two men’s  

eyes met and the younger priest saw the first signs of  

worry in the old man’s eyes and knew that his own were  

burning with triumph at this challenge flung, perhaps  

unwittingly, by the Redmond people.  

Simon walked with determination to the pulpit. He  

looked into the congregation, and saw the discomfort also  

on the white faces. The Aborigines watched too; patient  

and curious; conscious of the unsettling effect their  

presence was having. Behind his back, MacNamara sat  

rigid.   

403

Simon grasped the flexible microphone arm and bent it  

towards his lips.  

He began. “It is pleasing to see so many people here—so  

many friends. A long time ago I walked into the sacristy of  

a small country town church and was mesmerized by its  

mysteries; mysteries which, through the guidance of Ted  

MacNamara, our bishop, inspired within me the  

determination to explore and to learn.  

“A consequence of this was my decision to join the  

priesthood and to make my own spiritual search my life’s  

work. I toiled and prayed among you as a priest, never  

questioning, for years, either your place or my role—until I  

started to sense that none of us were learning; we were  

progressing nowhere. I was, as it is written in one of our  

many rule books, a servant of the church—an instrument  

of God.”  

His voice was carried through the vast cathedral spaces  

by the microphone and he could hear the tail of an echo  

returning from the vestibule.  

“But how could I be an instrument of God, when God,  

even to me as a priest, remained an abstraction, a test of  

faith, until I had made the effort to find and know him  

personally?  

“So I decided no longer to be a servant. I decided to  

begin to ask questions; not always to obtain answers, but  

often to force others to pause and think as well. Such  

questions were unwelcome. In time they isolated me. I  

grew despondent, confused. What was it, I asked, that  

caused such fear and anger when people saw that a priest  

also lived his life in pursuit of understanding, and could be  

worried, like any man, about inconsistencies?  

“So I went away—as you know—and I discovered a  

truth and beauty; a knowledge that we live in an ancient  

land that is suffused with spiritual presence.   

404

“Now, some might be wondering why I have returned to  

my vocation. Again, I am indebted to His Grace, a man who  

has so capably led this diocese for the past decade and  

more, and is so tireless in his endeavours to keep this flock  

together.”  

Simon paused and turned to MacNamara. He smiled and  

the bishop studied him with a puzzled frown.  

“This odyssey that I speak of, lifted away some of the  

veils that had obscured my vision. And so for some weeks I  

have wondered what I should say when I next faced the  

people of this diocese. How do I share what I have  

learned?”  

Close to five hundred faces looked up at the priest;  

blank, still. Simon paused. He looked down at his hands  

clutching the rim of the lectern. The scar on his wrist  

glinted palely.  

He looked up again.   

He raised his voice. He lifted his arms to encompass the  

congregation.  

“We believe in God, that’s why we shuffle into buildings  

like this every Sunday. We desire salvation. But to get there  

we have to tread a mortal path first, and what makes this  

road so difficult is that we were born with the curse of free  

will. Death looms as the gateway to a frightening unknown  

so we insure ourselves by abiding by rules. We start  

learning these rules when we are children—and indeed, it  

is demanded by the church that we remain the children of  

God.”  

Simon paused. He was starting to breathe hard and his  

chest thumped inside his ribs. His mind was stretching to  

hold together his thoughts and his knuckles whitened on  

the rim of the pulpit.  

“So perhaps it is time to mature a little—to question the  

rules. Life is a path of learning. But how can you learn if  

405

you are given no cause to think, to wonder, to ask—to  

explore.  

“So just following the rules is not enough.”  

He raised his voice to a shout and he shook the lectern:  

“Sticking to the rules will never be enough—they are an  

obstruction to the truth. It was Paul in a letter to the  

Philippians, who beseeched: ‘work out your own salvation  

with fear and trembling’.”  

People turned to each other and heads tilted to look past  

Simon; to seek out the bishop.  

MacNamara stood up, uncertain.  

Simon turned and measured the old man’s confusion. He  

saw in the bishop an image of his own future as a priest  

and knew he was right. His voice thundered from the  

speakers bolted high up in the heavy wooden roof struts.   

“You cannot truly believe in anything unless you have  

tested it against the flame of life; against the trials of your  

own search, without the crutch that I and other priests so  

freely, sometimes blindly, offer. God does not come pre‐ 

packaged from the catechism, or from this pulpit—or  

indeed from our church.”  

Simon heard the bishop moving and he stepped away  

from the lectern and stood instead at the centre of the  

altar. He closed his eyes and saw Isaac and Matthew and  

the spirit who spewed the water crystals and the moon  

bathing in Mudidjara. He swayed lightly on his feet and felt  

a weightlessness flow through his body. He knew that with  

just the thought to command it, he could separate; escape  

into a trance and watch from high. He sensed MacNamara  

closing, and the congregation stirring.  

Simon shouted, “God comes not from here.” He swept  

his arm towards the columns and the arches. “He comes  

from the land—this ancient, unspoiled land. And he  

watches—not from the heavens, not from stained glass and  

towering cathedrals, but from the red earth beneath your  

406

feet, from its tall white gums; from the spirit of creation  

that still lives all around us.  

“When you stand at the water’s edge—listen. Listen to  

the great fish. Listen to the land. Listen to its people. Until  

we can recognise the spirit of the land, we will never  

recognise the presence of God.”  

The bishop caught Simon’s arm. “Stop—.”  

Simon shook himself free.  

The bishop followed him. “Desist this instant. I am  

withdrawing your faculties to preach.”   

Their eyes locked. Simon grimly side‐stepped into a  

shaft of light falling from the high glass windows. With  

both hands he ripped at his vestments, and tore open his  

shirt. The rigid initiation scars stood out in ugly, sharp  

relief.  

People stood up noisily in the pews, trying to see.   

MacNamara grasped Simon’s arm. “In God’s name, what  

is this?”  

Simon stood motionless, staring straight ahead, facing  

the disbelief and outrage rippling through the  

congregation. The Bishop held out his arms. “Leave,” he  

shouted. “Leave.”  

Some began hesitantly to obey. The bishop’s secretary  

approached the altar. MacNamara gestured towards the  

Aborigines. “Get them out of here.” He swung back to  

Simon and herded him with urgency towards the sacristy.  

Inside, the Bishop closed the door and rounded on the  

priest. He grabbed him roughly with both hands. “What in  

God’s name have you done?”  

Simon lifted his arms supplicatingly.  

MacNamara held out an open palm like a shield. “You  

are tormenting me, torturing me. Why? Why—when I have  

nurtured you, treated you like a son. Why?”  

Simon let his arms fall to his sides. “I have said all I that I  

can say.”   

407

MacNamara leaned backwards, his eyes wide. “You’re  

possessed. What happened to you out there? What evil of  

Beelzebub has infected your soul?”  

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” cried Simon. “That’s the  

problem—medieval fairytales. Satin and the plague; hell  

and damnation. Your creed is dead because it never lived. I  

found something living and good. The soul.” He pointed to  

his chest. “Here—and here,” he said, pointing next to his  

head, “and here,” he finished, with a sweep of his arms to  

take in the whole room. “The soul lives. It can embrace all  

life as a single entity. It can be a bridge through time; a  

bridge to understanding. That’s all I came to say. I came to  

say something good. And all you can do is herd people back  

into the dark.”  

Simon returned to the altar and watched the last of the  

departing backs.  

MacNamara followed him. “You are possessed— 

consumed by Satanism. It’s what I feared all along.”  

Simon turned angrily and put an outstretched arm  

against the bishop’s chest. “Possessed—you’re the one  

who’s possessed. Look at you, you’re a bishop and you  

know no god but the god which poisons men’s souls with  

politics and money.” MacNamara wasn’t listening. He  

began to shake his head. His face twisted in horror; at the  

Anti‐Christ standing before him. He saw Simon’s stone  

lying on the altar and grasped it. “And what is this heresy  

you have brought here to stain the sanctity of my altar?” He  

held the stone accusingly in front of Simon’s face, then  

lifted his face and called to the heaven whose power he  

entreated. “He who worships the beast shall drink the wine  

of God’s wrath. Lord, it is time to put in your sickle and  

reap—.” His desperate entreaty stopped. He clutched  

suddenly at his chest and his eyes rotated slowly towards  

Simon, confusion and pain turning to triumph. His back  

arched, but his eyes remained fixed on Simon. “Deny it  

408

now,” he challenged through clenched teeth. “Deny it now.”  

A bubble of blood appeared on his lips and he slumped to  

the carpet.  

Simon stooped to the fallen man. “No—not like this,” he  

whispered  

“Isaac—it was Isaac.”  

Simon looked up. Angel approached down the aisle of  

the cathedral. He stepped to the fallen body. He looked at  

Simon. “Isaac—I felt ‘im—he sung ‘im—sung the bishop.”  

Simon pushed his head into his hands. “No.” He looked  

up at the youth again. “No!” he shouted. “Wait here—.”  

Angel opened his mouth to protest, but Simon was  

already running down the aisle. Out in the courtyard  

people milled. The whites on the paving, and the blacks  

keeping their distance on the grass beneath the trees. They  

were watching, silent—expectant. Simon saw them and  

knew that they knew. He saw George Penbury. The  

choirmaster started to move away when he saw the priest.  

Simon called. “The bishop has had a heart attack.”  

Penbury stared back at him, mute and hostile.  

“For God’s sake man.” Simon pointed to the hospital.  

“Get a doctor.”  

Simon ran back into the building, the choirmaster  

following suspiciously. He rushed towards the altar when  

he saw crumpled body on the carpet. He took the bishop’s  

wrist.  

Angel watched, the triumph on his face gradually  

turning to worry as the reality began to penetrate.  

“There’s no pulse,” cried the choirmaster.  

Simon knelt and placed his hands on the bishop’s  

forehead. His hand shook as he made the sign of the cross  

over the fallen man: “Indulgentiam, absolutionem, et  

remissionem peccatorum nostrorum tribuat nobis  

omnipotens et misericors Dominus.”  

409

Penbury rolled the bishop onto his back to try  

resuscitation. He saw the large, smooth stone in the  

bishop’s grip. As he tried to prize open the bishops fingers  

his own hand touched the stone and he cried out.  

“Feel it,” demanded the choirmaster. “It’s … it's like ice!”  

Simon reached down and pulled the stone free. It was  

chilling to touch, but he cradled it carefully. He walked  

slowly towards the sacristy with Angel at his heel.  

“What is it?” called the choirmaster after him, his voice  

trembling.  

Angel followed Simon into the sacristry.  

“What are we goin’ to do Father?”  

Simon looked at the stone, his face was pale. In his  

hands rested a terrifying, eternal, glorious, truth. He looked  

back at the fallen man and the shocked choirmaster. For a  

fleeting moment he felt light; giddy. Free. But the man  

whose mortal life had been taken would be aware only of  

an incomprehensible terror. Simon’s source of light was  

Ted MacNamara’s damnation. He was locked forever in  

Revelation’s bottomless pit.  

Except Simon Bradbury, a damned priest whose  

desperate yearning was simply to be a man again; a soul  

free of MacNamara’s bindings, possessed the key.  

Angel tugged urgently at his sleeve. “The cops’ll be  

comin’.”  

He turned and faced the youth.  

“Are you an angel of light, or an angel of darkness?”  

Angel frowned.  

Simon smiled grimly and looked away, towards the  

pews and the chopped bands of light slanting down from  

the high stained windows.  

“Mudidjara—we are going back to Mudidjara.”  

“With the bishop?”  

Simon took the stole from around his neck and began  

wrapping the stone.  

410

“Yes," he replied. "With the bishop.”  

  

  

411

        Epilogue  

  

  

  

Karl followed the path along the edge of the water. A willy‐ 

willy wind scudded along the opposite bank spraying leaves  

and loose bark onto the water. Karl chuckled. “Yes—I still  

hear you,” he said softly.  

He reached the beach at the foot of the overhanging rock  

wall and let his eyes rest briefly on the surrounding scene.  

Silver‐barked gums housed a flock of white cockatoos which  

seemed to be watching him. Karl saw the scuff marks on the  

sand where small black feet had passed, the low flat‐topped  

boulder on which he had spent a lifetime, reflecting.  

The surface of the still, green water rippled as another  

breath of wind blew through the gorge.  

Karl watched it pass and smiled.  

“Barramundi—Barramundi,” he whispered dreamily. Yes,  

you have made an old Berliner very happy.”  

He looked one last time into the tree tops, to the watching  

birds with their crowns of gold and walked into the water,  

purposefully, until he slipped gently, forever, into the great  

fish’s kingdom.  

  

  

Ends  

  

  

412

The Soul Stone, a novel by Brad Collis

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