Simon awoke early after a late night. The coffee he’d siphoned during the course of those awakened hours was, he suspected, only part of the reason for his restless sleep. During the night his mind had worked over time on the plan he’d concocted. Each time he woke with a new thought until finally he got out of bed and started on a list of things to do.
It was going to be a very long week.
He stepped to the window and looked out. He took delight in the thought that it was sure to be a fine day. A few puffy marshmallow type clouds floated overhead, while nearer the horizon a heavier cloud formation was highlighted by the sunrises reddish pink glow.
As he gazed toward the river, a man’s figure stood out against the bush background and the unexpected sight startled him.
Getting jumpy already, Simon? He thought as he looked closer and realized it was Ray. Simon watched as the man walked an indirect course from the river, and understood as he stopped now and then to kick mud off his boots. He’d obviously failed to successfully negotiate some of the still wet patches.
As Ray approached the house Simon called,
“Suppose you’d be in the market for a cup of tea?”
“Gidday Simon. A cuppa would go down well.”
“You’re early today?”
Ray put down the box he’d been carrying.
“Yeah, I’d set a few cod overnight lines yesterday, and seeing the track is still a bit wet I brought the boat out and checked them on the way. I didn’t expect much because the waters not cold enough, but I thought that maybe the rain might have stirred something up.” He paused for a moment before a hint of agitation touched his voice. “I heard on the news that common sense hasn’t stirred up though. Someone else got lost again, and didn’t have a disposable cigarette lighter for their two nights stay in the bush. It’s amazing how a fire at night can make misadventure a bit more like a camping trip with a bit of warmth and light. Keeps the mind focused too, with the fire tending and wood collection, not to mention that bugs and lizards taste better cooked. Easy to signal search aircraft too, with a bit of smoke, especially during bushfire season, and all for a three dollar lighter.”
While Simon knew Ray liked his fish, and of course common sense, he also understood the difficulties in catching the elusive Murray cod. Fishermen in the area usually baited lines with freshwater yabbies and set them in the deeper waters of the Darling River. These lines were nearly always tied to rubber bands made of tyre tube rubber which were attached to a tree or a log. Their design being to absorb some of the fishing lines stress when subjected to violent attacks by these large freshwater fish.
Simon smiled to himself as he remembered a tall story of a particular fish, which when photographed, the negative of film weighed thirty pounds.
They talked and smoked cigarettes until Simon heard the kettle whistle.
“I reckoned I’d make up a few fox baits for tonight. Would you mind bringing the tea out back while I get me gear ready?”
“Yeah I can do that mate. Want some toast or cake or something?”
“No. Nothing for me thanks,” Ray replied.
Simon fixed the tea and stepped down from the veranda to where Ray had his gas cooker set up on the concrete swimming pool surround. The pool had seen better days, and now was only used as a reservoir for the garden sprinkler systems muddy Darling River water.
Simon handed him a large pannikin of black sweet tea and then watched as Ray pawed through the cardboard box. He lifted a block of white wax and broke it into smaller pieces, then dropped the pieces into an old pot on the single gas burner. When the wax had melted Ray turned down the flame, picked up a knife sharpening steel and dipped about four centimetres of its tip into the melt. When he pulled the steel from the wax he thrust it into a bucket of cold water, where with cooling, the wax solidified and Ray was able to pull off the steel a wafer thin wax capsule.
After he had made about thirty of these capsules, he lifted the lid from an old tin. It was filled with cyanide, and with it and the aid of a small scoop he filled each capsule, before sealing their open ends with more melted wax.
Tonight he would drag an animal’s carcass behind his car, and lay baits as he went along its dead scented trail. Simon liked to watch him work. Every movement of Ray’s hands was precise. He knew Ray had been trained in explosives during the Vietnam War. The fact he had a full complement of fingers suggested he’d been precise in that type of work too.
As Ray finished filling his wax capsules, the conversation picked up with Simon stating he had to fly down to Sydney. He’d leave on the plane at 10 o’clock in the morning and would Ray mind feeding the animals while he was away.
“No worries Simon. How long will you be gone?”
“Not really sure, couple of days, maybe a week. If it looks like being longer, I’ll give you a ring and let you know.”
After Ray had gone down to the paddock to check his horses, Simon walked over to the kennels with food for the sheep dogs. The dogs wagged their tails and strained at their leashes in their eagerness to be near the hand that fed them.
The grazier’s ever faithful working dogs. They would follow and shepherd sheep all day for their master.
Run all day, until their paws grew painfully sore from the burrs of the outback and then when called on to do so, they would run some more.
Simon read the ingredients on the side of the dog food box, and thought the dogs probably had better tucker than many of the people on earth.
His mind shifted to Africa and he wondered if this 32.6 mill had been skimmed off the foreign aid which flooded in to feed the masses.
The children whose distended bellies and haunted eyes could be seen on the seven o’clock news on T.V.
He finished feeding the dogs and walked back to the house, to his comforts of home and lunch. His mind was still on the seven o’clock news and he had to remind himself not to let conscience get in the way.
There was a lot of work to be done over the next week and no time for distractions.
Ray saw to his horses. Measuring an amount of oats for each one and throwing a wad of lucerne into each stall. As he leaned against the rails of the horse’s stalls watching the animals eat their green he considered Simon.
He knew Simon wasn’t himself. His mind was elsewhere, and he was not anywhere near as talkative as usual.
Ray wondered if it had anything to do with the African postmarked letter he’d delivered on the afternoon of the rain.
The fact that Simon had not even mentioned the letter suggested to Ray that this man Garry Sudovich might not ever see its contents, and Ray could not help but to wonder why.
He turned his head towards the house as Simon was walking across its yard. As Ray watched him go, he thought he would wait and see. His life in the bush had taught him well the art of patience, and as the old saying ‘time reveals all’ crossed his mind he spoke quietly to his horses.