Published: 18 Sep 2025
Tate had been fishing for some time without even a single tug on his line, possibly he could move further down stream where the water ran clear and swiftly over its bed of rocks. He could attempt the native way of tickling fish, he remembers previous attempts, also Tolga’s laugh when he failed. In his mind’s eye Tate could again see his friend’s exaggerated humour when he failed. At least this time he wouldn’t have his friend to make fun of his attempt.
While waiting for the fish to bite there is time for reflection with Ben Morgan being foremost. In the short time they had been acquainted Tate had grown to like the man, even as far as forgiving him for the rough treatment given during their first encounter, realising Morgan’s actions were simply out of self preservation. In the few days together Tate also came to realise that Morgan’s rough exterior disguised a soft underbelly, somewhat boy like and if given the right environment Ben could become a perfect friend and citizen.
There was something else Tate was beginning to realise about Ben Morgan. True Ben was tall and handsome in such a way he would stand apart in any crowd, most of all it is his eyes, soft, kind and watching.
‘It’s his eyes,’ Tate thinks as frustration sets in from having little success with his fishing, ‘They appear to wander to places most men would avoid.’
‘Maybe,’ he thinks.
Tate diverts to times with Wilson. Immediately he discredits such antics as natural release, something kids do and grow out of.
“Grow out of?” Tate laughs.
‘Horseplay,’ he recalls Wilson’s word.
There is a tug on the line but not holding.
‘I’ve never seen a horse play at that game.’
‘What of Ben?’
Instantly Tate kills the thought.
‘Once Ben is fully recovered I’ll move on.’
It is strange with some thoughts as they arrive without conviction, without substance, so it was with Tate’s decision to recommence his travelling. A larger part of him wished to remain with Ben Morgan the would-be convict with happy eyes and a long secret past.
“That will not be possible,” he quietly sighs into the tropical air.
‘Besides you are not Wilson.’
‘One day you will advance your father’s wishes for grandchildren.’
Even so there is heavy doubt supporting Tate’s thoughts.
From his peripheral Tate perceives movement further upstream along the river, turning he discovers his friend Tolga standing by the water beckoning to him.
“The fish are here,” Tolga calls.
Tate becomes excited to see his friend and quickly pulls in his line.
He answers;
“Where have you been, I’ve been looking for you.”
Tate hurries to the spot where he spied Tolga.
On arrival he finds no one.
Believing Tolga is playing games he searches about without success.
“Tolga, where are you?” Tate calls.
His eyes darting from tree to tree, shrub to shrub, he even searches the water as often Tolga would hide for lengthy periods beneath the surface. The lad is known to be an expert at swimming underwater, sometimes using a hollow reed as a snorkel to catch ducks and waterfowl by coming from below the birds while they paddle about.
Tate releases a nervous laugh;
“I don’t wish to play your game, where are you?”
A slight breeze rustles the leaves.
A bird calls but there isn’t any response from Tolga.
He hears crows as they hover high above the trees.
“Crows, there is always flaming crows,” he loudly protests.
Tate takes a deep breath and expels it in frustration.
“Tolga,” he calls again.
There isn’t any response, now not even from the crows.
‘Is my wish to reunite with Tolga so strong my mind is conjuring him into reality?’
‘Possible I’m becoming mazed.’
‘Na.’
‘I prefer my first suggestion.’
‘Anyway I’m here now so I may as well try my luck.’
No sooner had Tate’s line found the water he caught a large bream, on a second casting another and the day’s meal is guaranteed.
Post meridiem, there is a late summer’s storm brewing far off to the east. Tate’s fish had been well digested as had the fruit he had gathered on his return to the camp and as the humidity sapped away strength both he and Morgan rested in the shade.
“It looks like a storm is coming,” Tate’s words are rhetorical although Morgan responds.
“How can you tell?” Morgan asks as the sky above remains free from the slightest suggestion of clouds, or breeze to rustle the tree tops.
“If you concentrate you can feel the changing pressure in the air.”
Morgan pauses, holds his breath, he even sniffs at the humidity;
“Nope, I can’t feel anything.”
“I guess not.”
“What do you mean by that?” Morgan asks.
“I suppose you have to stand still long enough to realise you are part of nature and not just move through it.”
“For your lack of years Tate you certainly have an old head on your shoulders.”
“I had a good teacher.”
“Who would that have been?”
“A native boy called Tolga,” Tate says.
“As you often say and where is your black friend?”
“That is a good question. I haven’t seen him for almost a year but of late he has come to me in dreams and today I thought I saw him by the river. He even called to me but when I reached the spot where I believed he was standing there wasn’t anyone there.”
“Umm, strange I must say;” Morgan answers is one given when there isn’t an answer to give.
“Oh well – if there is a storm we should try and make the old native humpy a little more waterproof.”
It is late afternoon and Tate’s storm is now obvious with the patch of sky above turning as black as night. In no time Tate had found covering for the humpy and with Morgan’s help the shelter became a reasonable harbour, then as the rain arrived both crawled under cover from what eventuated to be no more that passing showers.
As the afternoon faded the two lay in conversation while watching the heavy droplets thud onto the ground, also a large and very wet cassowary arrived in the clearing. At first it is satisfied to peck about the leaf litter with its three chicks, it pauses as if sensing company; its eyes are on the humpy.
“What is that?” Morgan whispers.
“Old man cassowary.”
“Can you eat it?”
The bird hears whispering and slowly returns to the safety of the forest.
“If you caught it you could but never challenge one at close range, especially with chicks, or they can rip your guts out with their sharp claws.”
“Then cassowary is definitely off the menu,” Morgan drolly suggests.
The rain eases as does the conversation.
After extended silence Morgan speaks, “I like you Tate.”
How should Tate respond?
He could say that’s nice.
He could ask what was meant by like.
Or where is this confession leading.
“Under different circumstances we could be good travelling companions,” Morgan continues bringing a measure of normality to his proclamation.
“Tomorrow,” Tate announces.
“What about tomorrow?”
“I know of an abandoned farm not far from here.”
“Do you intend to take up farming?”
“No but the fellow who lived there walked out with what he could carry. From memory there were many personal items left behind like clothing and boots, possibly there could be something that will fit your lumbering size.”
“Thank you for the complement.”
“My pleasure,” Tate drolly returns.
It appears the bonding between them was strengthening towards the issue of banter.
“You always appear to be thinking ahead Tate.”
“But.” Tate appends.
“Go on.”
“The property has little protection from summer fires; possibly it has burned as I believe a large fire went through that way last summer.”
“There must be a word for that,” Ben says.
“A word for what?”
“For building one’s hopes then burning them down.”
“I guess there would be and if Wilson were here, I’m sure he would be obliging.”
“You often speak of Wilson.”
“Yes being the closest in age we got along okay.”
“What about the other brothers?”
“And sisters, the boys are fine, the girls can be a little aloof, except for Elsie the oldest, seeing she runs the house I guess she has to be obliging. Do you have brothers?”
Ben rumbles his answer, “once.”
Tate detects a difficult memory and leaves well enough alone.”
Darkness comes quickly in the forest and as the latitude is high there isn’t any twilight, therefore without light there is nothing more to do except conversation and sleeping.
After exhausting conversation Tate commenced to doze with the nightlife giving a gentle serenade in tune with Morgan’s soft breathing.
“Are you asleep Ben?”
Tate yawns.
“I guess so.”
Tate whispers an answer to his question.
Lifting his head he can see the outline of Morgan only an arms length away.
Tate has a thought;
Immediately he disallows it to develop further.
Time and the thought soon pass and Tate dozes.
“Hey white boy go on you want to, now you have your chance.”
It is Tolga’s voice and as clear as daylight.
Tate bolts to upright.
“Tolga what are you doing here?” he softly asks.
“Trying to get you to say what you think.”
“How do you know what I am thinking?”
“I just do that’s all. Go on now it’s your chance he is asleep.”
“Tolga you are beginning to frighten me. If you are real show yourself and stop your stupid games.”
“I am as real as you want me to be.”
“Like today when I thought I saw you by the river.”
“Maybe nothing is real, not even you white boy and most definitely never what you were thinking unless you stop fooling yourself.”
Tate wakes in start, “what was I thinking?” he exclaims loudly.
He looks about, it is dark and Morgan remains sleeping.
‘I need to piss.’
Outside the shelter the clearing in bathed in moonlight with the trees a dark backdrop.
The storm has passed although it could be heard rumbling in the high peaks.
‘Ah, I needed that.’
Tate gives him member a shake.
‘Funny that.’
‘No matter how many shakes you give the little fella’, the last few drops always end in your pants.’
He has a bold thought.
It had been more than a week since and having Ben around most of the time didn’t lend to privacy.
He chuckles;
‘Who is about to see me.’
“I can,” the voice is more in his head than actual and is a right mood killer.
“Is that your Tolga?’
“Could be?”
“Am I dreaming?”
“Only you know that.”
It is morning with Tate first to rise. There is a little of the tin-scratcher’s dried meat remaining but he will leave it for Ben.
As he moves about he disturbs Morgan “Did you sleep well?” he asks.
“Like a child,” Morgan says. His voice is horse as he stretches the unconformability of the humpy from his limbs.
“You snore,” Tate admits.
“Sorry.”
“No matter, my brother says I do as well. I guess we don’t hear ourselves.”
“Have you been awake long?” Morgan asks.
“Not long but I had the strangest of dreams.”
“I never remember my dreams,” Morgan says.
“Then how do you know you dream?”
“As I wake up there is a glimpse of my dream but gone in a moment. What did you dream?”
“I told you about my native friend Tolga, lately he has been in my dreaming but worse when I was fishing yesterday I actually thought I saw him by the river. He spoke to me but when I reached the spot where he was standing, he wasn’t there.”
“As you said.”
“I dreamt of him again last night, we even had conversation. What do you think?”
“The dreaming is one thing, seeing is something different. What does he say to you?”
Tate ignores Ben’s question, “today I think we will visit that abandoned farm I spoke off, it isn’t far from here.”
Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Conder 333 at Hotmail dot Com
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