Published: 11 Dec 2017

A false security came just before the following dawn. Silence fell all about the stricken craft and the clouds parted above giving view of a multitude of peaceful stars, allowing the crew to come above deck and survey the damage. The sails were gone also both masts, splinted as if it were match wood, while rope twisted about everything like a mass of angry snakes.

For an instant the Capricorn became illuminated by a circle of moonlight. If one was inclined towards religion, it could be said it was a halo from God but if so they would be grimly mistaken and as a new day fought its way from the east, came the realisation they were without steerage and at the mercy of the current. Around the carcass of the Capricorn the sea had calmed to become once again a mill-pond. Above deck devastation lay bare the ships pride while below she was sound and slowly heading west, ever and always westward towards the reef and an obvious conclusion.

Lachlan found Simpson forward, his head hanging over the broken rails, while concentrating on what lay beneath the pond like sea.

“What’s the damage?” Lachlan asked, his question seeming ridiculous by the devastation that lay about.

“Damage? Except for loosing Mark I think it is obvious.” Simpson spoke disquietly, being more concerned for the loss of the man than the damage to his ship.

“Oh,” Lachlan answered feeling somewhat discomforted by his absence of empathy.

Simpson continued to peer into the glassy water that spread about, his face ashen while slowly shaking his head. “Mark was a good man,” he quietly spoke in eulogy for his crew’s demise. Lachlan remained silent. “I’ve known him since he was Toby’s age and not once -,” another pause and a sigh, “he has a kid you know, back in Rockhampton, only married in the spring, I was there and – well.” Once spoken Simpson appeared to brake from his morose and returned to the problem at hand.

“Where are we?” Lachlan asked as Toby arrived to join with the captain’s search for salvation beneath the calm water.

“Were in the bloody reef that’s where we are!” Although the Captain’s tone appeared somewhat incidental, a prickling sensation enveloped Lachlan’s face and his heart commenced to race.

“Look no white caps but you can see the coral.” Simpson explained pointing to a distant dark and menacing stain just below the surface. Then there was another and others all about but still some distance from the hull.

“Where do you think we are?” Toby asked from advantage beside his Captain.

“Couldn’t say; I guess somewhere north of Cairns, closer to Cooktown.”

“Do you think its Cook’s Passage?”

“It would be a miracle if it is and even then how do we steer her through?”

“Could use the ships boat and ropes to tow her, like the old days when a ship was beset in calm.” Toby suggested.

“Na; need more than one boat and not enough man power; she’s too heavy for that.”

“What should we do?” Lachlan pointlessly added to the conversation, bringing Simpson’s head away from the pending menace only feet below the calm flat water.

“Nothing my lad, just ready the long boat and hope.”

With the ship’s boat ready and loaded with provisions, the crew placed themselves in waiting mode, each at advantage along the Capricorn’s sides, quietly pointing out shoals of coral as they passed. So sombre and calm was their attitude one would believe they were partaking a leisure cruise rather than awaiting catastrophe.

As the hours past and their slow progress continued without incident, the crew commenced to believe that providence had brought them safely to one of the few passages through the reef. Maybe it was a previously unknown path without necessity to manoeuvre as it was through Cooks Passage and others, giving a straight run bringing the ship to the western side, where the currents and tides would take them to the mainland and relative safety.

Late afternoon brought a slight on shore breeze which quickened their progress and at last white caps could be seen. It was then the realisation that their belief was flawed. Ahead the numerous white caps barred their progress and it was now only time before the stricken Capricorn met her destiny.

Without warning the white caps were all about and from out of silence the ship violently shuddered, releasing a high pitch squealing like some mortally wounded animal, as its bowsprit lifted high above the water before crashing back onto the reef, splintering its forward timber as if it were tooth-picks. Again the hull lifted and fell back to the reef taking away even more of the forward hull, until midship the Capricorn became firmly lodged within the reef and beyond the now pounding of the waves as they met the reef, with water percolating below its decking and rising fast.

“Lower the boat!” Simpson cried, quickly making his way to where the crew had gathered as a set of waves broke over the coral holding the ship, rocking the hulk and throwing him face first onto the planking. Righting himself without injury the captain joined the rest in the belly of their life boat and with the use of an oar, pushed away from the ships fateful existence.

Once clear of the Capricorn the crew paused at distance watching the stricken vessel. “Where’s Chow?” Simpson demanded while counting those with him. In their hurry to be gone they had forgotten their cook.

“I thought Kelly went to get him.” Jenkins gulped at the salt laden air. Simpson turned to Jim Kelly who without supplying an answer shrugged his shoulders. All eyes turned towards the sinking vessel in time to see the cook frantically waving from the stern.

“Jump you crazy chinaman.” Jenkins shouted.

“Jump,” they all called as the ship commenced to toss, then with a strong incoming wave appeared to free itself from the reef, she toppled and within seconds disappeared from sight taking Chow with it. Then there was nothing except flotsam and no sign of Chow, he had obviously sunk with the wreckage, being sucked down with its vortex and Simpson could do no more than watch as his precious Capricorn disappeared forever.

Away from the ship’s grave a light breeze returned to the day as the crew watched the reef’s breakers until they became no more than a distant speck and the day dragged itself into twilight.

“Where to boss?” Jenkins enquired releasing his power on his oars, to give another a turn at rowing. Although there was room for three sets of oars, in their hurry they had lost one set over the side as they pushed away from the Capricorn.

“Due west should be the shortest route to land.” The Captain answered.

“Where would that be?” Toby asked.

“Cairns?”

“Cooktown?”

“New Guinea?

“Queensland is a certainty.” The Captain declared somewhat laconically as he commenced to mumble to himself. It appeared that at last that hidden character, his dark and disturbing blemish that for so many years, through numerous disappointments and tragedies but always waiting just below sanity was now rising to erode the man’s reality.

Darkness arrived without sight of land and still they rowed. Lachlan’s hands became red raw and bled, still he insisted at another turn and by wrapping strips of cloth around each palm he found some relief from the oar’s friction.

All the while Simpson appeared to be slipping away. Occasionally he was quite coherent but more than not drifted from the group, ranting about McBride and how he could face the man. He commenced to shout. “Someone shoot the bastard! Get the devil from my back!” He pointed into the darkness as if he had witness some image, some ghost from deep within his head and it had come for him, had taken his ship and now his mind and didn’t appear satisfied until it had his life.

Toby came to his side in an attempt to calm his captain and for a time it appeared to work but it was most obvious Simpson was a troubled man, a man who had reached his breaking.

The breeze from behind was gentle and lightened their task, giving them fair speed towards some destination but where became concern. Then sometime after midnight they noticed a twinkling of distant lights, believed to be native campfires. Their excitement and relief was so intense that Jenkins and another salt, William Stevens stood and gave cheers. As they did so the oars slipped from their row-locks and were lost into the tide and the blackness of the night. They fumbled about in the darkness for the oars but could only feel water.

“You stupid fools!” Simpson shouted at the two and once again began to rave, while throwing his arms around like one possessed, then as quickly he settled, shrinking back within his heavy woollen coat. His head bowed away from his crew while he mumbled incoherently.

Now they were once again at the sea’s mercy, their only hope being a fair run towards a sandy beach and not some rocky headland. No sooner had Simpson scolded his crew for their carelessness than waves could be heard gently meeting sand, which again brought praise and relief and a volley of cheers from them all, except for their Captain who remained slumped in a state of unrelenting depression.

“You’ve got us here Captain!” Jenkins phrased and shook the man by his limp and unresponsive hand. “By crikey Mr. Simpson you’re a hero,” but Simpson heard nothing as he babbled incoherently for someone to get the devil from his back.

Within a moment they were in the shallow and striking upon sand, spilling them all into the gently breaking waves. Toby quickly took control of his captain and helped him through the tide to the safety, while the others managed the boat close behind.

Toby sat Simpson some distance from the water and returned to help with the boat and as they managed it onto the beach a steady rain commenced to fall.

“I think we should turn it upside down and shelter for the night.” Jenkins suggested.

“Where do you reckon we are?” Stevens asked as the boat turned. They all scampered under as a bolt of lightning lit up the surrounding forest with ghost trees momentarily appearing to advance towards their shelter another flash and the trees appeared closer as if they were a march of devils come to finish what the ocean had not.

“I wouldn’t have a clue.” Jenkins answered, “I guess as the captain said, somewhere between Cairns and the Cooktown, possibly even further up the coast.” Jenkins placed a firm hand on his captain’s shoulder and gave him a shake, “how you going in there?” He asked but Simpson did not respond.

“He’s gone insane.” Stevens suggested somewhat disrespectfully.

“He’ll be alright once we get him back to civilization.” Toby promised.

“I doubt it.” Stevens corrected as Jenkins gave his captain another shake.

“Come on you lot lets get some sleep, everything will seem better in the morning.” Toby assured as they huddled closer for warmth. Exhausted they were soon asleep and missed the birth of the new day.

It was the sting in the morning’s sun and humidity in such a confined space that brought the crew of the Capricorn from under the shelter and in need of sustenance. A search of the forest directly behind their landing proved unproductive but at a small rocky outcrop they did manage to find a good helping of muscles and other shellfish, while Lachlan returned from the forest with a hand full of some semi ripe purple almost black fruit.

“What have you there?” Toby asked.

“Burdekin Plums.” Lachlan held up his fruit for all to see.

“I like plums Stevens admitted.

“They are native plums, not what you’re use to, the natives would bury them in the ground until ripe.” Lachlan explained.

“I don’t think we have that long.” Stevens suggested and quickly took one of the plums and immediately bit into it. “Shit!” He yelped and spat violently towards the grown as his eyes twitched from the taste.

“I was about to warn you they are very sour but good for bad stomachs and colds,” Lachlan paused and laughed, “and they also give you the shits.”

“You could have said something.” Stevens complained while still spitting the bitter taste from his mouth.

“You didn’t give me time.” Lachlan protested.

“I think I’ll stick to the muscles.” Jenkins confessed.

Simpson didn’t participate of nourishment instead he paced the beach laughing and offering laconic humour to his crew. He took himself to the north end of the beach and marched his return, all the while mumbling and laughing to himself, then on his return offered his hand to Lachlan, who confusedly accepted the offer.

“Well McBride my boy; it appears that your father won’t have to give me controlling interest in the Capricorn after all.”

Lachlan refrained from answering; his gaze was fixed on a large hinterland of boulders some great distance to the south, while the Captain held grasp to his hand, giving it more pressure than curtesy dictated.

“What do you think lad?” Simpson requested while releasing a laconic chuckle.

“About what Mr. Simpson?”

“About your father’s decision?”

“I think we should find civilisation first.” Lachlan declared, forcefully removing his hand from the Captain’s hold.

“North!” Simpson declared loudly, “north” he repeated, pointing along the stretch of beach running in that direction. “Cairns will be to the north.” Lachlan disagreed declaring Cooktown lay in that direction and that Cairns was closer to the south, as he was sure that on their previous trip to Cooktown he had seen those very boulders from the ship and the vegetation didn’t appear right for further north.

“What makes you think that is so?” Simpson demanded his voice pitched and out of character, his eyes glazed and maddening.

“It’s the vegetation, it doesn’t appear correct for being close to Cooktown.”

“How would you know, you have never been to Cooktown except by sea.”

“No but I have been in the hinterland north of Cairns and this appears to be that type of territory.” Lachlan’s voice pleaded but to no avail. Simpson was convinced he was correct and seemed out of control.

“Well Lachlan McBride, you can go south but as for me and my crew we will head north. Then Simpson hesitated as if all his demons had been released and with the loss of the Capricorn and the monkey of Jock McBride removed from his back he released his inner thoughts without discretion.

“Now McBride you can tell your bloody father I am no longer in his debt and I have no wish to be further associated with him!”

“I am not my father’s keeper.” Lachlan protested.

“You are his son!”

“Still I believe it safer to travel south.”

“Go to hell, go to hell!” The captain shouted and once again pointed to the north and gathered his crew to follow. All except Toby obeyed without hesitation but eventually the lad was governed by loyalty to his Captain and benefactor. After some seconds and an apologetic smile towards Lachlan he turned and was gone with the rest towards the north. “Sorry Lachlan but I must,” the lad spoke softly as he turned to follow.

“I understand and I hope we will meet again after this is all over.”

Once alone Lachlan watched their progress until they were lost from his sight, then with a sigh he shook his head and commenced his southward journey, wondering if any of them would ever meet again but not once did he doubt his decision to travel south.

During the first day all went well, Lachlan mostly followed the beach, but occasionally had to divert inland and fight his way through a entanglement of vines and thorns on a multitude of unknown flora that appeared to reach out for him, hold him and with deliberate disregard wish to prevent his passage. Fortunately the time spent with his native friend’s was a god-send, giving him the skill to find fresh water and bush tucker.

On the occasion he discovered fresh signs of Aboriginal hunting and camp fires but could not distinguish them from the Gulngai, possibly he was closer to Cairns than he believed and had stumbled onto the territory of the northern Gulngai. Even so he believed it wise to keep from sight lest he was totally mistaken on his whereabouts and was north of Cooktown and in the land of the so called cannibals.

During the second day it became quite impossible to follow the beach and Lachlan headed further inland, often he lost sight of the sun’s position, finding difficulty knowing if he was travelling south or west, but the view of tall mountains through the occasional break in the canopy gave him confidence he was still heading south.

On the morning of the third day, Lachlan had barely travelled two miles before stumbling as he clambered over a rocky outcrop and while tumbling into a thicket injured his ankle. It was one of those situations when one has foresight of what was to occur but not enough time to make another choice. “You bloody goose!” He cursed as he stood to examine his injury. “You knew that was going to happen, so why take that stupid step?”

As he placed pressure onto his ankle, pulses of sharp paint travelled up his leg, causing him to once again collapse to the ground. “You’ve done it now my boy.” He chastised loudly while rubbing the injured ankle. “I could strap it.” He searched about for something that would suffice but found nothing.

Removing his shirt Lachlan tore it into lengths and wrapped it as tightly as he possibly could. Standing and placing weight upon the injury it was soon obvious unassisted travel would be impossible and the way ahead difficult with two perfect ankles, not hobbling on one leg.

No bones appear to be broken, only badly sprained, which made it all but impossible to walk, although with the help of a branch as a crutch he managed a number of miles before falling down exhausted, hungry and thirsty without the strength to even rise himself to his feet. He envisaged crawling but with so much undergrowth it wasn’t to be an option and after another dozen feeble steps Lachlan collapsed and passed out.

How long had he lay in his sickened state Lachlan didn’t know but with the rising of another sun, delirium overcome him and his mind played tricks. Firstly he heard waves and the calling of human voices. They were happy and called his name, inviting him to join with their bounty, with the offering of food and cool water but his throat was so dry he could not answer. There was also singing or was it just the sweet songs of nature’s birds. Then he felt a prodding to his side and flinched away from the pain. He groaned and opened his eyes to perceive a black face peering down at him. Another prod and he swore, sending the instigator backwards on his guard.

“Kari.” Lachlan croaked, bringing the black face closer to his own.

“Kari.” He repeated.

“Gulngai.” Lachlan forced the word from his lips.

“Gulngai – Gulngai.” The black man repeated and laughed. Then all was dark and peaceful.

Had he died?

Lachlan was dreaming, therefore life must still be present within his body. He heard a male voice singing in native tongue, the voice was coarse but happy. He felt the roughness of a path and the comfort of being transported. Lachlan dreamed of water passing his lips. It was cool and refreshing. There was food as well, a morsal or so. He felt it forced past his swollen lips. It tasted good and he swallowed.

Then he was awake.

The sun was hot and Lachlan ached from head to toe. He was alive and being transported southwards on a makeshift stretcher. He knew it was southwards as the sun was dipping to his right. Two poles with a platting of bush vines was his stretcher. It rode rough as the ends were dragged along the uneven stony way but at least he was mobile and thankful for being so. Lachlan released a sigh then hearing the sigh the black man paused and lowering his stretcher to the ground, he once again attended to his charge.

“You Kari?” the black man spoke in broken English.

“Yes Lachlan – Kari.” Lachlan answered his voice still weak.

“I take you to Gulngai.” The black man added.

“Me Balun.”

“Balun.” Lachlan repeated and smiled.

“Balun from Yidindji, I take Kari to Gulngai, I know Gulngai.”

Balun was a young man about Lachlan’s age, with bright eyes, white teeth showing through a cheeky smile and a strong jaw. His naked body had been marked by recent initiation but the markings differed from those of the Gulngai.

It appeared his redeemer had been on a hunting expedition when he found Lachlan in his delirium. At first the Yidindji hunter believed Lachlan to be the ghost of his long lost grandfather, as Lachlan had fallen close to where the old man had been placed to be with his ancestors.

It was native belief that sometimes when the dead were unhappy they returned as white ghosts to roam the tribal lands in search of lost happiness and seeing the deceased grandfather wasn’t a pleasant man, it would be a certainty he would return to complain.

At first Balun wished to run and hide his face from this ghost but became fascinated with Lachlan’s red hair. It has never been said that returning ancestors had such coloured hair, so his fear subsided.

Balun had once heard of a white boy with red hair who lived on Gulngai land, who was kind to the black man. This story gave Balun the urge to return the favour, even if he were Yidindji.

Two days had passed giving Lachlan more strength but not enough to apply weight to his ankle. On the third day they reached a free flowing river of some width which lacked any natural crossing. Balun paused and pointed across the slow moving water as it found its way from the lofty mountains, down a steep gorge to finally meander across a floodplain and mangroves to reach the sea.

“There Gulngai – here Yidindji.” The black man pointed across the river as he spoke then placed the stretcher upon the grassy bank and commenced to gather a number of fallen logs, which he strapped together with vine that hung from many of the nearby trees, creating a makeshift raft.

Balun had reached the border of the Yidindji homeland and would now pass Lachlan over to the northern faction of the Gulngai nation.

“We cross Bibhoora now.” Balun commanded while helping Lachlan hobble towards his raft enticing him to lie flat upon its rough timbers. “Kari, you watch for Ganhaarr.”

“Bloody crocs! Where?”

“Gamin,” the lad laughed.

“What do you mean you’re only kidding, I believe the rivers around here are full of them.” Lachlan gave a shudder while straining his vision up and down the river for any sign of the large reptiles.

“You alright Kari, Ganhaarr only wants a woman for his wife, you be alright, he no want scrawny white fella.”

“You and you’re bloody stories, why don’t I believe you.” Lachlan protested remembering the same story told by the elders of the Gulngai, how the dream time Ganhaarr searched the rivers and ocean for a wife.

Once launched Balun floated behind his raft, using his legs to slowly propel his craft to the opposite bank. Lachlan smiled as he had never heard the Barron River called by that name before as the Gulngai had a different title.

As they slowly progressed across the river Lachlan helped their advance by steering with his arms, all the while watching, fearing that any moment one or both of them would be overpowered by some gigantic crocodile, it’s size increasing with each paddle of his hands, each kick of the black lad’s legs.

It was a good hundred yards downstream before they reached the southern bank and to Lachlan’s surprise they were met by a man from the northern Gulngai, who conversed with Balun for some time. Their conversation appeared stilted as they searched for words that were common to both nations. Eventually Balun appeared satisfied to leave Lachlan in the care of the Gulngai man, who introduced himself as Arunta and after bidding Lachlan farewell Balun paddled his raft back across the Bibhoora, from where he waved his arms long after Lachlan had recommenced his journey, once again being transported on the makeshift stretcher.

“Maybe I can walk.” Lachlan offered to Arunta in Gulngai language and attempted to walk but could still only manage a number of steps and at such a slow rate would never reach home, realising he would need to accept the black man’s assistance.

Because the Gulngai had broken into two groups, Arunta would take Lachlan to the divide between the two halves of the one tribe, where he would be given over to others from the southern group.

“Arunta how did you arrange all this when you didn’t know I was coming?” Lachlan spoke in language.

“Not me it was Balun, he sent his brother ahead to tell us eh, and I send message down to the bad Gulngai lot eh.” Arunta explained. It appeared that although the two parts of the Gulngai were not on good terms, their blood was strong enough to keep them from fighting with each other.

A short distance from the river Arunta paused and indicated across the swampy mangroves to where a haze of smoke hung over the muddy sea front and the point beyond.

“Kan.” The black man said, shaking his head most disrespectfully.

“Kan.” He repeated before continuing on his way, while taking a direction that well skirted the developing township.

“Cairns.” Lachlan corrected his friend, realising that they would now be less than two days away from home.

“I take you to bad Gulngai not Kan.” Arunta advised sternly, not wishing to be in contact with the white settlers.

Being late in the afternoon and close to the divide between the two halves of the Gulngai, Arunta rested for the night and before darkness shrouded their camp he gathered bush food and lit a fire in a clearing close by banyan fig trees, once they had eaten he commenced to sing.

Lachlan recognised the tune as one of the Gulngai Song Lines, telling how to travel from the northern extent of their tribal lands to the southern parts. There was sadness in his voice, akin to someone singing of a lost love one. Then he paused as if part of his saga had been forgotten. Once again he commenced his song but this time it was erratic as if he had lost the words. It was then Lachlan realised that Arunta and his northern family had been cut off from the south for so long, he could not recall most of the way. It was for that reason he had sent for others to transport Lachlan the final distance.

“Why don’t your two families reunite?” Lachlan asked after a pause in the black man’s singing. Arunta commenced to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Can’t.”

Lachlan was confused and repeated his question.

“White man has cut across all our hunting tracks and the old ways are going and them bad lot now live like you white fella.” Melancholy set about Arunta until a rustling in the scrub some distance away brought his thoughts back to the night.

Arunta stood and took himself to the edge of the clearing out of the reach of the camp fire’s light where he appeared to be talking to the trees. Moments later four black faces glowed satin as they entered the clearing.

“Hey Lockie!” The leading black man called across the clearing. It was Warra a cousin of Yarran and behind him Tari another cousin. Two more followed Arunta into the clearing. Lachlan recognised them but as they had been away from the southern lot for some time, he neglected their names.

“Hey Lockie you know Nalong and Durrebar?” Warra asked.

“Yes but I haven’t seen them around for a long time.” Lachlan admitted and greeted both with their customary hand on chest salute.

“What have you been doing eh?”

“I fell of some rocks.”

“Ya dumb white bugger, I thought us black fellers taught you good eh” Warra jested.

“Umm too much white fellow learning eh Warra.” Then all broke into native language and Lachlan truly felt he was travelling home.

“We take you home tomorrow eh Kari.”

“Thank you my friends.”

The following morning before the new sun, they departed company with Arunta and with their care hoisted high upon their shoulders protesting he should walk Lachlan’s new porters quickly advanced towards home.

“I am sure I could walk now.”

“Na you too slow to walk, better if we carry you eh.” Warra wisely advised as the travel recommenced at a much increased pace.

“Has anyone told my parents I have been found?” Lachlan asked from his high perch.

“No Kari we come right here to collect you, no time to tell old man, Mr. McBride not home anyway, we saw him ride away early in the morning. What happened to that captain fella’s ship?” Warra reported.

“It hit the reef and sunk.”

“You swim from way out there?”

“No we used the ship’s boat, like one of your canoes.”

“Silly white bugger, you no find black fella going out there, too many sharks eh.”

“It happens.”

“Where’s this captain fella now?” Tari asked while adjusting his shoulder to the carrying.

“He and the rest of the crew went north.”

“Why they go that way?” Warra asked.

“It was their belief Cairns was in that direction, I did tell them it was south but no one would listen.”

“Silly white bugger shoulda listen to Kari eh.”

“Yes silly white bugger, I do hope they will be alright.”

“Them black fella’s up there – real bad.” Narlong at last lent an opinion.

“So I’ve heard, I believe they even eat people.”

“Na that white man talk,” Narlong laughed, “but maybe they do eat people, I don’t know,” again he laughed, “maybe white fella tastes like chicken eh?”

“You lot reckon everything tastes like chicken.”

“They say them black buggers up there like them fellers with tails.” Warra suggested.

“I guess you mean Chinese.” Lachlan corrected.

“Why have tails growing from the back of their heads?” Warra asked being somewhat confused from the stories he had heard.

“Pigtails Warra, it is hair not a real tail like that on dogs.”

“Oh old Bardo said it was real tail and if you cut it off they died.”

“No just hair I assure you.”

“Where do those fella’ with tails come from?” Warra asked.

“China I guess.” Lachlan answered without certainty. He knew of China and it was somewhere to the north but little more.

“Is this Cina near your white fella country?”

Lachlan parted his arms to their extremities, “no big distance, white man one side yellow man the other.” He shook one hand to represent Europe, followed by the other to represent Asia.

“That far,” Warra laughed without understanding Lachlan’s interpretation of distance.

“Yes Warra that far and further.”

“I wouldn’t wish to carry you to Cina Kari.”

All along the way there was singing and pausing to collect good medicine they no longer found near McBride’s Point as farming had destroyed its environment. Even a chance meeting with a large scrub python didn’t go amiss and after dispatching the fifteen feet of serpent it was dumped unceremoniously and bleeding onto the stretcher with Lachlan.

“Bloody good tucker,” Narlong laughed as the last coil of nerves departed from the now listless snake.

“I never did get accustomed to eating snake.” Lachlan soberly admitted.

“It tastes like chicken.” Tari suggested somewhat teasingly.

“It tastes like old boot leather.” Lachlan assured.

“I give it to old Bardo, he like snake.” Tari said and gave the deceased reptile a prod with a stick.

“Bardo said he likes brown snakes.” Lachlan answered.

“Bardo silly bugger, one of these days them big buggers will bite him while he boasts about catching them.”

“Yes he is becoming a little slow.” Lachlan admitted.

“He say he been bit many times and learnt good medicine but I think he is gamin.”

“I think so Tari, even white man’s medicine can’t cure their bite.”

Let Gary know what you think of his story.

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