Chapter 14
The white cockatoo ruffles its plumage then flaps its wings wildly. Feathers fly off in all directions until it is just a small pink bare-skinned bird. I pick up the feathers and one by one drop them into the fire. The smoke is thick and white but smells nothing like I imagine burning feathers to smell. It is sweet, but not overpowering. Then the bird slowly starts to grow new tufts of soft, black down and then new feathers. Unlike the ones it has shed, these are also black. And each feather becomes shaped, not as a feather should be, but as a complete wing. Now the black bird takes flight and as it lifts into the air each wing-shaped feather falls free and forms a whole new bird. Now the sky is so dense with black birds that they seem to form one dark cloud. Lightning streaks from the cloud, splitting the air with a thunderous crack.
I wake up with a fright and look around. Dad is still snoring. It is mid-afternoon. I walk outside the tent half expecting to see some damage from the lightning that I had just dreamed about. Stupid dream. White birds turning into black birds and sprouting feathers that turn into new birds. And birds that become clouds. Creepy stuff.
I have a bit of a headache and my throat is dry. I figure that I must be a little dehydrated and then realise that I haven’t had a drink in hours. Mum reckons that can bring on weird dreams. As I take a long swig from my water bottle my eyes lock on that dark cloud still hovering. But there is something strange that I can’t quite get my head around.
I remember that once during a writing lesson we had to describe clouds. The most popular responses for the ordinary white clouds were words like fluffy, wispy and puffy. Even the words themselves sound soft. The grey storm clouds, on the other hand, were described as dark, ominous and threatening. All hard-sounding words. Of course Anna Lonsberg, the smartest kid in the class, had offered cirrus and cumulus until Mr Booker reminded her that it was a creative writing lesson and not a science project.
“I don’t want you to recall facts,” he reminded us. “Use your imaginations.”
“Morphing!” called out Sam Chen. A giggly ripple went through the classroom.
“Interesting word, Sam,” encouraged Mr Booker. “What do you mean?”
“Well, morphing means changing. And clouds are always changing shape.”
“That’s due to the effect of wind and air currents. The warm air…”
“Thanks, Anna,” interrupted Mr Booker. “Nice word, Sam. I’ll add it to the list.”
That’s it! This cloud hasn’t changed shape. It has wandered around a bit in the short time we’ve been at the campsite, but it has not really changed shape at all. Maybe this is normal. Maybe this is how clouds behave at high altitude. Where is Anna Lonsberg when I need her?
I put down my drink bottle and go to the back of the ute. The silver RidgeRider XLR is a beautiful bike. Lock-out shock absorbers and forks, hydraulic disc brakes, kevlar hose, aluminium alloy callipers, interchangeable magnesium levers and light-weight, anodised frame. A birthday present from mum. Never been ridden off-road. Come to think of it, never been ridden at all.
I lift it out, taking care not to scratch any of the dusty but otherwise perfect paintwork. I admire it for another minute. Yep, dad sure has a great bike. The grey cloud lets out a long, low rumble. I look up. “Is that your tummy, Yilkgawu-mirrin,” I joke out loud.
I reach in for my bike. How can I describe it? Steel frame, two wheels… yep, that just about sums it up. Dad figures that if I’m good at it and enjoy it he will buy me one just like the one mum gave him. I argue that I’m likely to enjoy it much more, and would be better at it, if I had a bike like his. Dad says you have to crawl before you can walk. I say why crawl when… anyway all I can do is the best with what I have.
I decide to let dad sleep a while longer and take a ride around the camp site. Dad’s bike is very tempting but I resist the urge and hop onto mine. The brakes work. The steering is OK. I ride it about thirty metres up a slope and then back down as fast as I can. Then I remember my helmet. Dropping the bike I run back over to the car. Another rumble, this time louder and longer.
“Dad,” I call. “Dad, wake up. I’ve got your bike out. Let’s go!”
The crack of lightning and thunder that follows is ear-splitting and frightening. And this time I am definitely not dreaming.
“Whoa!” dad calls as the noise blasts him out of his dream. “That was crazy. Robbie, where are you? Get in the truck.”
A second crash quickly follows. It’s so close that it hurts my ears.
Dad runs out of the tent. “Get into the truck, Robbie!” Dad is screaming at me. A car doesn’t seem to me to be the safest place to shelter during a lightning storm. But at this moment I’d rather be beside dad than anywhere else.
We clamber into the ute and slam the doors.
“Don’t touch any metal.” says dad. I don’t understand but I obey. “If the car is hit then the electricity will travel through the metal and into the ground. As long as we don’t touch the body of the car we should be OK."
Another deep rumble. It is as if Yilkgawu-mirrin is telling us that she is about to strike again. And sure enough - a direct hit on my bike. Instinctively we grab hold of each other and shield our eyes with our hands as sparks shoot up and out in all directions.
Then silence.
The sky seems to brighten a bit but only after half an hour has passed without another strike do we venture out of the car. My bike is a tangle of scorched metal and charred rubber.
Dad puts his hand on my shoulder. “At least you weren’t on it.”
“I don’t think we’re meant to be going riding,” I answer.
“When it’s cooled off I’ll throw it in the back. Your mother’s creative with junk. I’m sure she’ll be able to turn it into a piece of art."
“Looks like I’m up for a new one, then,” I suggest hopefully.
Dad sighs and looks up at the cloud. “Whose side are you on, anyway?” he calls out. Then he strokes his stubbled chin. "Seems a bit clearer now. The storm might be over. Could be a good time to go and take a closer look at that cave you found."
"Great idea!" I agree readily. "I'll get my sneakers on."
Dad fetches the torch from the tent and we start walking towards the ravine.
"Dad, I'm sorry about how I reacted before, about your sickness."
"I know, mate. Don't worry about it. None of us can predict the future. We just have to take each day as a gift and squeeze everything we can out if it. Anyway, that's what I plan to do from now on."
After a couple of minutes of silent walking we reach the tree and the circle of stones.
"Check this out. What do you reckon it is?"
Dad takes off his cap and runs his fingers thoughtfully through his hair. "Well it's definitely not natural. Stones don't just form themselves in a circle like that."
I scrape idly at the ground with my shoe, raking aside about a square metre of leaves and mulch. Below about ten centimetres of compost the ground is hard and my scratching barely makes an impression.
"Maybe it was a meeting place,” I suggest. “The aborigines would sit around in a circle and discuss…whatever it was that aborigines used to discuss."
"Possibly," says dad, "…or a grave."
With this I jump quickly out of the circle. I don't want to be disrespectful, but also the last thing I want to do is upset any ghosts that might be hanging around.
"What’s the matter?" asks dad.
"Do you really think that there might be bodies buried here?"
"They had to be buried somewhere, Robbie. This looks as peaceful a spot as any."
"But I thought the aborigines burnt their dead."
"Some did, I believe. But there were different burial practices in different tribes. If this is a grave site then maybe they did burn the bodies and just bury the ashes. Do you know any aboriginal kids, Robbie? There are some at your school, aren't there?"
"Yeah, a few." I tell dad about Doug and his cloud theory. "He's cool," I say at the end. "I reckon
he'd like it up here."
"Maybe he can come with us next time."
"Robbie, there's something else I want to tell you." If he's going talk more about his sickness and how he's going to die any minute I'd rather not be standing beside what could be a gravesite. "Let's go down to the water."
We walk slowly towards the river. Even though it’s a good thirty metres away from the trunk of the great tree, the outer most tips of its branches still overhang the water.
"Mate, I've brought you here for a reason."
"You’re not going to drown me, are you? We both know I don't need help with that."
"No," dad chuckles, "though if I'm bored after dinner I might give it a try. Robbie, White Bird Station is one of the biggest properties in the state. Nearly half a million hectares of cattle country. And this mountain is smack in the middle."
"It sure is nice," I agree. "But why come here? There are lots of nice places that aren't two bum-numbing days drive from home.”
"Because this is the land of our ancestors."
"Right," I say, a bit confused. "So when my grandparents came out from England did they work here?"
"Your mother's folks came from England, not mine."
"So your grandparents lived on this property?"
"No, they lived in the city. And so did their parents."
"Gee, how far back does your side go? Sounds like they might have come in the first fleet."
"No, but they might have watched the first fleet arrive," dad says as casually as he can. He knows my mind is ticking over.
"That doesn't make sense," I say finally. "Your ancestors would have to be aborigines." Dad is quiet. I look at him. "Is that what you're telling me?"
He arches his eyebrows and gives me a half smile which is the only answer I need.
"No, you're wrong," I object. "Look at our skin. Look at our hair. I'm nothing like Dougie Kneebone or those other kids he hangs with. You're not making sense. You need to lie down again."
I feel angry and I know I'm starting to sound it as well. But I don't know why. All I know is that I'm a white kid, not a black one.
"Not all aborigines are dark-skinned," dad continues. "In fact I only found out myself a few years ago, when I started to get sick. With all the tests they did I'm surprised they couldn't tell me my grandparents' names, and their favourite food."
"Probably grubs."
"Well, maybe it was. Though my grandmother was principal of a high school and granddad was a radiologist at the Royal. I'm not sure too many restaurants near where they lived would have had witchities on the menu."
I still don't know exactly why I'm so upset. It's not as if this changes anything. I'm still me. I'm the same person now that I was ten minutes ago. No, nothing has changed...except everything!
Dad is tired now and stops to take a seat on a mossy rock at the water’s edge. I sit on the ground and stare out over the water.
"When I found out about the males in the family all dying fairly young I also found out about this place,” dad continues. “They lived here probably for centuries before drifting off to the towns and cities seventy or so years ago. I have to do more research. But even after finding out the little bits I did, I felt such a strong connection with this land."
“So it was no accident you got to know the owners.”
“Well, no it wasn’t. But there's a bit more to that story. And it affects you, a lot.” I can’t imagine what dad might mean by this but I decide to just let him talk.