Published: 27 Nov 2025
Two days make a difference to most things, as it is with Ben. True his gait is back to normal and he stood as tall and handsome as ever but bruising had come out in the strangest of places, most of all a dark bruise on his left buttock reaching the small of his back, even so Ben’s mental wellbeing remained fragile shifting towards flight.
Tate had been fishing for most of the morning without success and was surprised to spy Ben coming from the house wearing nothing but his shoes. Tate allows his line to float with the current while watching Ben’s swagger towards the water.
“What are you looking at?” Ben curiously asks.
“Whatever it is, I like it.”
Ben wraps a powerful hand about his privates and shakes them towards Tate, “so you like what I’ve got?”
“I like the entire package – are you going for a swim?”
“That’s why I’m naked – why not join me?”
“Maybe later; I need to catch our supper first.”
Ben enters into the shallows near where they often hunted for yabbies and squats until only his head was visible, “ahhhh,” he exclaimed as the coolness soothed away the heat of the bruising.
“Feel better?” Tate asks; he brings in his line deciding there wouldn’t be fish on the menu that night.
“The body does,” Ben says.
“What does that mean?”
“I really must do something about moving on, I find the Tablelands are shrinking, closing in on me and it is only a matter of time before someone come by and points a finger.”
“I wish I had an answer, Ben.”
Ben dog-paddles against the current instead he is carried further down stream. Standing he wades back closer to where Tate is now seated on the bank.
Tate is laughing.
“What?”
“I think something is in need of attention.”
“I can’t help it, little Alfred has a mind of his own. I guess being naked with you watching doesn’t help.
“Little you say?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Why do you call it Alfred?” Tate asks.
“It was dad’s name for it.”
“And why?”
“He said hundreds of years ago Alfred was king of kings and when I grew to be a man little Alfred would out size most men.”
“Were you always attracted to men?” Tate asks.
“I guess I was but rarely did anything about it. Being well stacked meant no one challenged me on the matter, besides I learned quickly to keep my mouth shut and my eyes avoiding – what of you Tate by your account you were for the girls?”
“I wouldn’t admit it to anyone else but in retrospect I guess I always knew I was only fooling myself.”
“Retrospect is a dangerous tool Tate. It can sneak up on you and give you regret.”
“Oh well here we are and in some sort of -,” Tate pauses.
“Some sort of what Tate?”
“I’m not sure what to call our situation. It is as if we are treading water, beside how could a man like you he interested in someone like me.”
“A man like me you say?”
“Yes tall, handsome, a man who has travelled far and experienced much and could have anyone he pleased, man or woman.”
“You undersell yourself kid.”
“Oh well,” Tate rebates his hook and casts the line closer to where a tree trunk had long ago fallen into the water, “soon we will need to replenish our supplies,” he suggests.
“I may come with you and now I’m supporting a beard and lost a little weight, possibly I won’t be recognised.”
“Fat chance,” Tate laughs.
“I think it worth the risk, besides it will give me a feeling how I can get about without being recognized.”
“I will ask a favour.”
“Go on.”
“If you do decide to push on, will you not do so until at the earliest the end of the month?”
Ben is laughing while playfully splashing water in Tate’s direction.
“What is the joke Ben?”
“I don’t even know what day or month it is, never mind when the flaming month will end; anyway why do you suggest the end of the month?”
Tate shrugs away Ben’s request, possibly his only reason would be to give him more time with Ben and time to think of his own future.
Ben again splashes.
“You keep splashing me like that and it will be on.”
“What will?”
Ben continues splashing, then without hesitation Tate secures his line and springs from his spot, clothes and all; a wrestling match commences in the shallows. The two become so involved in their merrymaking they fail to realise they are being observed. The realisation comes more as a feeling than reality but at the same time both pause their game and peer towards the bank.
Some distance away are two natives, a male who Tate recalls meeting some time earlier and a woman declared to be the sister to his friend Tolga.
“Hello there,” Tate calls in the language of the coastal people.
Although both natives appear bemused with the frolicking neither speak.
“Your woman is Tolga’s sister?” Tate recalls from their previous encounter.
Again silence prevails.
At last a chance to discover his friend’s whereabouts, “have you seen Tolga?” Tate asks in language.
Without uttering a single word the natives move on although the woman appeared to understand Tate’s request.
Tate repeats his question but once again receives silence.
“What was that about?” Ben quizzically asks as the natives continue towards the forest.
“I’m not quite sure,” Tate’s tone is soft and confused.
“Possibly he didn’t understand what you asked.”
“He understood alright, I could tell by his woman’s expression.”
Ben remained confused, “therefore why didn’t he answer?”
Tate takes a slow and ponderous breath;
“Two reasons I would suppose. The first could be to disassociate seeing our lot are dumping them down at Yarrabah away from their spiritual lands. The second and more discouraging being Tolga is dead.
“If your mate is dead why wouldn’t he say so?”
“Many native tribes refuse to mention the name of someone who has died.” For a time Tate’s eyes follow the natives until they become lost in the shadows of the distant trees, “yes I believe Tolga is dead,” he softly utters and wraps his arms about Ben’s broad naked shoulders.
Ben accepts the cuddle, “if your mate is dead how could you see him.”
“Mystery,” Tate simply answers.
“Do you believe in ghosts Tate?”
“No.”
Tate gently pats Ben’s back, “come on this isn’t catching our supper and with our antics we have probably scared the fish away for good.”
It is a calm night as Tate takes an evening’s walk along the river, the moon is high and the milkmaid’s had spilt her stars across the dark sky. Gazing up into the heavens Tate releases a gentle smile while remembering his mother’s adage on the creation of the milky-way, “why Tate it is milk, god’s milkmaid got a fright from the devil and spilt her pail.”
Tate had taken his walk before bed as the meeting with the natives during afternoon remained concerning. Most troubling was why he perceived his friend’s image along the riverbank, heard Tolga’s voice on a calm day and what of the many dreams.
Tate recalls the night Tolga came to him, taking him to the killing fields.
Were the bones the remains of Tolga’s extended family?
Was it nothing but some coincidence?
Then there was the native’s refusal to answer his question, or acknowledge Tolga’s name as it was obvious the woman understood his question.
Tate diverts from his thoughts and scans the darkness across the river.
He has a thought;
He smiles and utters his thought; “are you out there Tolga?”
His soft request mingles with the babble of water over the rocks but such emotion can not be conjured at will it must simply happen.
A sigh;
“Tolga,” Tate softly repeats.
‘Nothing,’ he thinks as he perceives a dark image coming from the direction of the house.
‘Give it a miss, Tate,’ he thinks as Ben approaches.
“Do you want some company?” Ben asks.
“Always yours Ben.”
“What is on your mind?”
“I was thinking of Tolga and the possibility he has died.”
“How can you find out more?”
“Don’t rightly know – tomorrow.”
Ben laughs; “what about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow I should go into Koah for supplies.”
“Have you any coin?”
“Very little; last time Mr. Womersley allowed me to chop wood for our supplies and kindly allowed me to keep what coin I had.”
“That really irks me,” Ben grumbles.
“What irks you Ben?”
“You paying for everything and doing the go-foring’, while all I do is wait back here and take.”
“I am sure if the situation was reversed you would be more than obliging.”
“I would.” Ben agrees.
“There you go; problem solved.”
Ben gives a smile, “another thing,” he says.
“I’m listening.”
“It is about time I went passive.”
Tate’s eyes brighten, “are you sure?”
“No, but fair is fair, come on, enough of your brooding if your mate is alive or dead. It is bed time.”
Early morning;
Tate is away before the sun for his visit to town.
There is one constant in the tropics and it is the weather.
It is hot today.
It was hot yesterday.
It will be hot tomorrow, unless it is raining, then it will be not only hot but humid.
Tate had only travelled for a short distance, feeling the late morning’s sun stinging the back of his neck he realises he had forgotten his hat.
Ahead there is a small stand of tropical forest along one side the track and in full sight is a creeping plant with large leaves, winding its way about a fig tree right up to the high canopy.
Tate approaches and reaches towards the closest of the large leaves.
“No you don’t,” he loudly chastises pulling his hand back from touching the plant. He was about to use a leaf of the stinging nettle as a sunshade.
He forces a grin while recalling his first experience with nettles being no more than the back of his hand brushing against a leaf.
He remembers the pain and how loudly his friend Tolga reprimanded his misfortune, saying it was something you only did once in a lifetime.
“Almost twice my absent friend,” Tate loudly admits.
‘Yes almost twice.’
Tate moves along and finds a substitute and with black man’s skill he fashions the leaf into a sun hat.
“Tolga are you dead?” he sighs into the dusty sunlight.
The thought brings about melancholy.
Tate continues on while substituting thoughts of Tolga with the almost row he had that morning with Ben.
It had been Ben’s desire to visit town as he was weary from his isolation and needed to design an escape, possibly to Cooktown and by boat to anywhere. Eventually Tate convinced Ben to allow him one last visit to civilization to survey opinion; “Opinion,” Ben had growled, “there can be only one opinion or outcome if I stay here and that will be a rope about me neck.”
Even so the row was short and Ben obliging but now on the road Tate was coming to realisation it maybe Ben’s only option.
“Ben, Ben, Ben,” Tate loudly sighs as he passes the halfway mark of his journey.
‘What of me?’
Tate pauses and looks back along the road travelled;
“Tate you know what you will do,” he loudly exclaims;
“You will go with Ben.”
“Tomorrow,” Tate announces to the warm tropical air.
‘I will stay overnight in town as designed and tomorrow return to the farm. Possibly by then Ben will have calmed his attitude.’
‘Funny that.’
‘Only a matter of months previous I would have run a mile to avoid a relationship with someone like Ben, now I find it as natural as life itself and most forgiven Ben’s attitude during our first encounter.’
There is a dust cloud in the distance along the track returning Tate to the heat of the day and away from his concern towards his future with Ben.
A moment passes and the image of a dray becomes clear within the dust. Behind the dray is tethered a horse, there is also a small gig in tow. The dray is pulled by two of the most miserable bullocks ever encountered and the dray piled high with household belongings, driven by a man with a woman at his side. On top of the pile two children sit quietly oblivious to the country they pass through, simply wishing the journey would end, even as far as Tate imagining their question to the man, are we there yet? Tate smiles with the thought, as it had been a question he had often asked of his own parents when he was their age.
Eventually stranger and traveller meet and Tate steps off the track to give passage, as the track it is barely wide enough for the dray.
The man halts his progress, giving the bullocks a welcome rest from their obvious toil.
“Hoy there lad,” the man greets as the woman chases sweat flies with something that resembled a horses tale.
The flies rise in a dark cloud but once the attack has past they resettle.
“You appear to be on a mission?” Tate suggests.
The woman remains silent; one eye twitches from a fly stinging at its corner; she attempts to smile but in doing so has the misfortune of swallowing a fly. She coughs profusely.
“Sure am,” the man answers, he isn’t an old man possibly thirty or there about but the sun and toil had weathered his brow, “We have taken up a selection close by a place called Two Bends,” he offers.
“I know it well but that is virgin land, there isn’t anything in miles and the track but a scratch through the scrub.”
“It will soon be farmland lad,” the stranger proudly replies, “where are you from?” he continues.
“Smithfield but at present I’m staying at Sid Parker’s abandoned farm, you will pass within a half mile of the turnoff on your way.”
“Yes I know of the Parker property, it has been offered but suggested the soil poor and rocky, being the reason why it was abandoned.”
“I guess so.”
“Best we be moving on if we want to reach Two Bends before sundown,” the man curses his bullocks with the sting of a whip as the woman cringes from his words.
The bullocks once again strain at the yoke as they push forward.
“I wish you luck,” Tate calls after the slowly advancing dray.”
The man turns on his rough wooden seat and replies but he is now too far advanced for the words to be understood.
“Ummm,” Tate exhales.
‘That is awfully close to where we are.’
‘Possibly Ben is correct in thinking he should move on.’
‘We that is.’
‘Now that I’ve found my future, I have no intention letting it go.’
There is one caveat on such thinking, that being Ben is a wanted man and the law is patient having a long memory. It would mean a lifetime of looking over one’s shoulder while being cautious of every spoken word, or answer given to questions on their past life.
Where are you from? would be questioned.
A lie would be offered or something generic, possibly down south, or Brisbane way, possibly visitors from the mother country but Tate’s obvious colonial accent may prove problematic, even the years had flattened Ben’s inflection.
Suspicion would be obvious as everyone is suspicious of strangers.
Rumours would soon spread and the truth would out.
Tate gives a cold shudder.
‘Rumours are like that,’ he thinks.
‘A spark becomes a fire,’
‘A fire becomes a raging inferno.’
‘Then the innocent suffer.’
‘Don’t think about it.’
‘Yet it is difficult not to.’
Another mile and the glistening of metal roofs become apparent through a gap in the trees. Tate has arrived at his destination and with Koah but a moment away he put aside his fears to replace them with how to convince Frank Womersley a period on the woodpile would be enough to earn him supplies. If not, as his remaining coin was naught but beer money, he would need to return empty handed to the farm and once again rely on what he caught or found in the forest.
“Oh well,” Tate softly utters as he approaches Womersley’s store.
‘Here I go to the wood pile.’
‘Tis as well my hands have become hardened with calluses.’
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
6,849 views