Disorientated by the cold water and in plain view, a stunned floating figure glanced around confused until the momentum of the heavy vessel drew closer and before he could react, the paddles drew him into their swishing beat. As if time hovered in slow motion and anguished screams echoed over La Suisse’s deck, the figure disappeared into the steamer's foaming wake, only to resurface some distance behind, face down in the chilling lake water.
Stricken by helplessness and paralyzed with horror, the passengers and crew watched and pointed as police boats acknowledged the motionless figure, halting the speeding chase just short of La Suisse and silencing the roar of their powerful outboard engines. Throttling back, the pursuit immediately concluded with the two small craft instantly pitching their noses down, bobbing on their own wake and gliding to a stop like a graceful swan. Surrounding the floating figure, the gendarmes dragged the unmoving body onboard their vessel while the police helicopter hovered overhead.
Sickened by the scene and shocked to her core, Anne-Claire couldn’t avert her eyes, scrutinising the gendarmes heaving the listless body into their vessel before accelerating away towards Montreux at high speed. She’d never been subjected to such awful violence in her short life before and only on television did this sort of thing exist, not in her neat ordered world. As she studied the disturbing view over the wheelhouse railing from the now stationary La Suisse to the police watercraft speeding away, she began to feel bilious, trying to swallow down the shock while vulnerability and the need for reassurance overtook her. Grandpa noticed his granddaughter’s traumatized and staring expression, no longer appearing like a composed and mature sixteen, but an emotionally struggling six. He quickly reached for her and enfolded her in his arms, pressing her tightly into an embrace. Grateful for the comfort, Anne-Claire accepted Grandpa’s reassurance, but her truant eyes remained firmly riveted on the departing gendarmes.
The EC635 Eurocopter gracefully hovered over the rear deck of La Suisse, sending a cloud of spray across the passengers gathered around the stern railing. A voice crackled over the radio, requesting permission from the captain to come aboard. Grandpa nodded to the second-in-command and he responded with a sharp, ‘Granted,’ into the receiver.
Still holding his granddaughter, Grandpa watched incredulously as a heavily fortified Détachement d’Action Rapide et de Dissuasion (DARD) specially trained gendarme dropped down a rope from the police helicopter and onto the deck, interrogating witnesses as he moved about the vessel. The underbelly of the Eurocopter proudly displayed the Suisse flag, neatly stenciled in place and the only indication Grandpa was still in peaceful Switzerland and not in a war zone. The event must have had some far reaching concerns for the Special Weapons and Tactics branch of the Vaud police force to entangle themselves in the situation, inciting Grandpa to ask questions of the gendarme interviewing him and Anne-Claire. But all the special policeman would offer, the person involved was wanted by the Vaud gendarmerie and had stowed away aboard La Suisse in an effort to escape capture in Lausanne. The deliberate stone-faced silence that followed indicated there was more to the story, but he wasn’t authorized to offer any further information.
As the young gendarme concluded his strange interrogation, he left the same way, winched back aboard the Eurocopter. Guided by the pilot’s rudder pedal, the sleek machine turned 180 degrees and quickly set a course towards Montreux. Grandpa sighed loudly, still processing the bizarre event in his mind, but forcing himself to think rationally and take command again. Firstly, he needed to sooth distraught passengers with his rich calming voice over the ship's intercom, then re-establish La Suisse’s schedule and restore her ordered passage to the Château de Chillon still five kilometres away.
A quick glance over his shoulder and towards his seated granddaughter, Grandpa noticed Anne-Claire slumped forward, deep in thought and most probably reliving the whole fantastic episode. Concerned for her wellbeing and satisfied La Suisse was in order once more, Grandpa relinquished command to his second officer and then wrapped Anne-Claire in his arms to comfort her. Anne-Claire returned his cuddle with affection, assuring the old man she was okay and allowing him to relax while her quiet voice bravely responded in jest.
“I think I could handle the story of Dominique de Blonay and Baron Willy de Bad now, Grandpa,” Anne-Claire whispered, her eyes soft and uncertain.
Grandpa broke out into a belly laugh and Anne-Claire willingly joined him.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 11
A flock of native pink and grey galahs screeched and jostled for prominence in the sprawling branches of nearby red river gums. Vying for territory in the crowded community and hoping to relieve the escalating morning heat, they hid behind the eucalypts’ generous shading foliage. The massive trees overlooking Yan Yani Billabong had thrived throughout eons of drought and flood, in turn sustaining life for countless native species desperately searching for shelter in Australia’s expansive and unforgiving dry red heart. The considerable stand of trees surrounding the waterhole seemed out of place in the stark arid environment, but where there is permanent water in the desert, life in abundance also exists. In a comedy of aerobic tumbling, flapping and shrieking, the pink and grey galahs eventually settled into the red river gums' substantial limbs and cooling shade, preparing to ride out the heat of the day until sundown. Then other timid species would appear from their desert hideouts and join forces with the frolicking galahs swooping across the surface of Yan Yani Billabong in a thirsty, but guarded bid to drink. The need for water made this the most vulnerable time a small wild bird on the wing could be to a predator attack, with the sheer numbers contained within the massive diving flocks awarding anonymity and the only protection the desert could offer.
Michelle Slater glanced through the open kitchen door and down into the house-paddock not less than half a kilometre from where she stood. On the outer edge of the house-paddock, the shrieking galahs had finally settled, returning her morning environment into a clumsy but encompassing silence. The mercury would steadily climb through 41 degrees Celsius and finally hover around 48 degrees for the duration, until the night’s chill reversed the trend and sometimes plummeted to freezing in the grips of a black frost.
Mishy’s intense gaze followed another desert phenomenon with concern, already developing in the stifling dust of the house-paddock. A spiralling gust of dry, heat laden wind—baked in the oven of the unbearable early morning calefaction—began to swirl on the wings of a silent deceptive fiend. Mishy knew all too well this innocent hot breeze could turn into a destructive gyrating ‘cockeye bob’ in a matter of moments. Cockeye bobs—or dust devils—often formed in an instant, and strong enough to engulf the whole homestead in a curtain of red smothering powder. Anything not bolted down could be caught up in the maelstrom and lifted many hundreds of metres into the air in a swirling melee.
As the gentle eddy abruptly turned into a spiralling, dark red wall towering high above the building and aiming directly for the homestead, Mishy made a panicked dash to close the doors and windows. The fine red dust was like choking talcum powder and spread into every nook and cranny and every exposed surface, leaving smudging red marks wherever it lay and taking many hours of backbreaking work to clean up the staining mess.
“Close your doors and windows, girls!” Mishy’s alarmed voice rang throughout the homestead’s stone passageways, hoping her daughters would hear her plea in time. It was a familiar cry and an added burden, a burden Mishy didn’t need.
She heard her children responding with an orchestrated symphony, slamming doors and windows just in time to observe a wall of turbid red engulf the homestead. Watching from the kitchen, Mishy focused on the only green lawn for hundreds of kilometres while the escalating red juggernaut violently thrashed the garden furniture left exposed and unsecured. When the cockeye bob defiantly moved on, Mishy dashed over to the opposite side of the house and followed the mini-tornado’s progress through a homestead window, aiming its destruction for the
cattle yards and the large wheel of the cattle yard windmill. She willed away the spiralling red dust funnel stretching hundreds of metres into the baking blue sky, hoping it wouldn’t destroy the cattle yard’s only water source.
The swirling fusillade passed over the house-paddock windmill like a giant spinning top, catching the massive wheel in a tearing eddy, and spinning the ancient sail in a shrieking groan. Totally out of control, the windmill wheel spun at high speed and wastefully pumped groundwater at a harrowing rate, completely missing the concrete troughs and drenching the cattle yard soil, instantly turning the hot dry dust into sticky, red coloured mud. As the nonchalant despot finally tired of its destructive game tormenting the ancient windmill, and turned its attention to another part of the desert floor, the massive wheel arthritically slowed and finally stopped in a screeching bawl, leaving artesian water dribbling from the outlet pipe and dripping into the overfull concrete cattle trough.
Mishy sighed in relief.
Another disaster they didn’t need thankfully had been averted.
The heat dragged on relentlessly, like a tired old man dragging his feet throughout the day and as Mishy prepared the evening meal, she glanced through the kitchen window and across the house-paddock to the cattle yard windmill. After the traumatic ordeal, the timeless towering machine stood stiff and silent, silhouetted black against a fiery golden sunset. The birds began to shake off the oppressive heat in a cacophony of birdsong, welcoming the night time reprieve, and swooping down on the wing to drink from the waterhole before roosting for the night after an exhausting day dodging the sun's treachery.
Butch will be home soon, she thought, bringing a smile to her lips.
The kitchen VHF radio suddenly scrambled to life, causing Mishy to jump and abandon her musings. “Mishy, do you copy?”
Mishy closed the distance to the receiver in an enthusiastic stride. “Receiving, Butch.”
“I’m thirty kilometres from the homestead, about half an hour away.”
“Okay, Butch. Have you had a good day, honey?” Mishy questioned, eager to learn of his routine.
“I’d have a better day if this confounded drought would break.”
“Chin up, sweetheart, we're in this together,” Mishy knew the drought was a constant dark reproof attacking Butch’s mind. “Is Eddie joining us for tea?”
There was a pause before Butch answered again. “He wants to know what’s on the menu.”
Mishy laughed before responding. “Beef steak pie and wine dumplings!” she offered, knowing Eddie wouldn’t be able to resist his favourite dish.
Butch’s laughing reply answered her question, “Says he’s only coming if he can have seconds.”
Mishy giggled in response. She loved having the elderly Aboriginal head stockman around. “Of course...! See you soon, honey.”
*~*~*~*
After the meal and while the girls helped Mishy clean up, Malcolm Slater comfortably positioned himself in his favourite leather recliner. Surrounded by rich dark polished timber floorboards and a well used open fireplace of blackened stone, Mishy’s tasteful homemade drapes decorated large commanding windows overlooking the house-paddock and giving the historic lounge room a relaxing, intimate feel. Family portraits—captured in black-and-white stills and frozen by time, hung in frames on the historic walls—narrated the family history stretching back nearly 150 years in a parade of antiquity. Malcolm, Mishy and their three children—Danica, the oldest; then Jessica; and Molly, the youngest—were the latest addition to a pictographic generational ballad representing a long line of descendants occupying and working Pearl Springs.
Lost in a nostalgic world of the past, Butch pulled the recliner lever and pushed his heavy outline back into the leather chair’s ancient comfort and gazed around the timbered walls. A deep sense of regret and shame settled over his forty-year-old frame. Until recently, the family museum had been a source of great pride, but the long running drought had turned the athenaeum into a haunting reminder of his failures. Butch’s grey mood intensified when his gaze settled on a childhood photograph of himself and his father; a happy time for Butch then, but a constant, harrowing reminder of deep loss now. He could sure use his esteemed father’s wise counsel on the intensifying drought and the financial burden Pearl Springs was now suffering under. Malcolm senior had been deceased now for twenty years, leaving Butch with the full responsibility of running Pearl Springs alone, aside from his aging Aboriginal head stockman and one time idol, Eddie Namitijarra.
Malcolm senior had had a sixth sense with Pearl Springs and he could read the property’s needs with an uncanny knack. He’d prepare things, like overstocking the land with cattle in a lean year, only to have an unseen bumper wet season the following year and reap a huge reward. Even Eddie couldn’t foresee some of the things Malcolm senior did, but had to admit the crazy white man had his finger on the pulse of the land.
Leaving the distant memory to linger in a long forgotten chamber of his heart, his wandering eyes settled on a new distraction, studying an aerial photograph hanging in a prominent position over the fireplace and undergirded by a rugged stone mantelpiece. The framed image had been proudly placed there by his father in better times, proclaiming a family heritage for generations to come. The homestead photograph depicted a small cluster of tiny boxes compared to the stretch of land that constituted the spreading outback station property, and stood between the Georgina and Diamantina rivers on the banks of a dry tributary of the Georgina. Fed by an artesian spring, the expansive Yan Yani permanent freshwater Billabong—and the homestead's water supply—stretched for a kilometre in each direction before being swallowed up into the arid red landscape. An oasis in an otherwise relentless and unforgiving environment, where summer daytime temperatures more often than not exceeded 40 degrees Celsius.
Spanning 10,000 square kilometres, Pearl Springs was named after his great, great grandmother and was amongst the largest family owned properties still left in central Australia. It was specifically chosen by his great, great grandfather from a list of allotments offered by the then Australian government hoping to attract families into the sparsely populated and harsh central Australian topology, taming another part of the dry red heart under relentless human occupation.
Until recent years, Pearl Springs had proven to be a gold mine for the Slater family, supporting in excess of 30,000 head of longhorn cattle, finely bred to survive in the arid landscape. But the latest drought had lasted for ten years, turning areas of natural grass feed into a red trampled dust bowl and permanent water into cracked mud flats, leaving the property struggling to support 12,000 head. The stubborn stationary El Niño was crippling Pearl Springs’ bottom line and spiralling the family into breathtaking debt, handfeeding the struggling and hungry cattle with vast amounts of expensive imported chaff.
Dejectedly, Butch felt for the recliner lever and pushed it forward, collapsing the prone divan into an armchair again and forcing him to sit upright, staring directly through the lounge room window and out into the swarming insects flying dementedly around the floodlight illuminating the milieu of the front lawn. Mishy had watered the homestead grass meticulously, and it was the only green place on the property among a sea of red choking dust. The deep green luxury and the cool moisture rising from it drew his gaze, and he struggled from the recliner and ambled over to the open window, his shoeless feet sliding effortlessly over the polished timber boards. The exquisite lounge room floor was a legacy from Malcolm senior, and as a child, Butch was expressly forbidden to walk into the room with shoed feet. Even today, Butch respected his father’s wishes and taught his children the same reverence.
Hoping to find a connection with his father’s skill when he was making difficult decisions, Butch took the same stance he had witnessed Malcolm senior take many times, and peered through the very window he had seen him gaze through. Staring beyond the homestead lights as far as the flyscreen would allow, he could just make out the dark silhouette of the eucalypt
treed shoreline of Yan Yani Billabong nearly two kilometres across the flat red dust of the house-paddock. With a sweeping gaze to the other extremity, he followed the scarlet dirt road crossing a dishevelled cattle grid then disappearing beyond the reach of the floodlight and leading away from the homestead into the darkness. The unpaved homestead access road eventually met up with a thin single-lane blacktop road a hundred kilometres to the southeast, crossing through some of the harshest terrain the desiccated continent could offer. Butch leaned his head against the wooden window frame and sighed loudly, weighing his thoughts and considering his options, hoping the copied stance of his father would give him some inspiration.
Over the years there had been many attempts from pastoral companies to entice Butch to sell Pearl Springs and for the first time, he was seriously contemplating taking them up on their offer. He had seen droughts come and go before, but never like this one. Butch was in a precarious position. He couldn’t afford to take on endless debt, but because of the debt and the drought the property had dropped in value, leaving him without bargaining power among the high powered and aggressive corporate negotiators who ran the pastoral conglomerates. They constantly reminded him of his perilous situation, prophesied continuing drought and foretold of imminent bankruptcy, repeatedly trying to bully him into selling the valuable property far below its true value. Butch knew the game they were playing and if he could only ride out the stubborn El Niño...
A small and tender hand lovingly caressed his tense shoulders. “Honey, are you okay?” Mishy whispered.
He turned to the sweet, gentle voice and pulled her into an embrace. “Yeah, Mishy, I was just contemplating the future and hoping Dad could give me some ideas with this accursed drought.”
The tenderness painted across Mishy’s face spoke of deep concern for her struggling man. She knew the stress Butch was carrying and she knew he was missing talking with his dad. “There’s nothing we can do about it, honey. I know it’s tough but somehow we will make it,” she whispered, speaking to herself just as much as to him.