Published: 21 Aug 2025

A shaft of sunlight strikes eyelids and Tate has an itch to his nose, unconsciously he lifts his hand to scratch away the annoyance, discovering his bonds have gone. It had been a restless night, warm and uncomfortable with his bonded hands and feet, also Morgan’s chatter kept him for his sleep. Eventually the chatter stopped and he dozed without fear, believing Morgan meant him no harm.

As Tate’s finger reaches the itch to his nose realisation takes control and he bolts to his feet. Ben Morgan has gone, he moved out with the early morning but in going had rifled Tate’s meagre food supply leaving behind his knapsack and hunting knife, also his spare set of clothes, beside they would never have fitted the runaway.

Quickly Tate takes stock of his situation recalling his bizarre encounter with an assumed killer, should he return down the mountain to report the occurrence relating Morgan’s declaration of innocents, or complete his travel towards the tableland. Would anyone believe what was alleged as Morgan did run when he had the opportunity to explain what had happened and running is always considered to be a sign of guilt?

Tate recalls an occasion when Wilson broke their mother’s favourite ceramic kitchen bowl quickly declaring Tate was to blame, bringing about flight with Tate hiding under the house. Wilson’s pointing finger and Tate’s flight soon assured who was responsible and with responsibility came punishment. If their father was of mild character, their mother was prone towards the wooden spoon, breaking many across the backsides of the brothers, fortunately most spoons broke before inflicting too much pain and Lora always hugged and apologised after delivering punishment.

There was added conviction towards Morgan’s innocents being if he had stolen the payroll where was the money, or the gun he was supposed to have used on the paymaster? For certain he had nothing with him except the clothes he stood in and as far as Tate could ascertain there wasn’t anything about his camp site that would suggest otherwise, also if he had the gun surely he would have used it instead of brute force to contain Tate.

While gathering his thoughts and searching the campsite for anything Morgan may had left behind Tate is overcome with the feeling of being observed, quickly he scans the perimeter of the clearing, his eyes are into the darkness beyond where the morning sun struggles to penetrate.

Tate collect his hunting knife and holds it defensively, “who is there?” he calls as a short black man steps into the clearing.

At first glance Tate thinks it is Tolga but as the light strikes the stranger’s face he realises he is much older than his friend.

The native is carrying a hunting spear but doesn’t display aggression.

“Who are you?” Tate asks in the language of the coastal people being that taught to him by Tolga.

By the stranger’s stature he is a man of the forest and doesn’t appear to understand, or what is common with forest people, had little wish to converse with a white man.

“Do you know Tolga?” Tate asks while keeping a measure of distance between himself and the black man

He lowers his hunting knife not to appear threatening.

The man smiles, “Tolga,” he says.

“Yes, do you know Tolga?”

“Tolga not of my totem,” the black man answers using the language of the coastal people.

“Have you seen Tolga?”

“No see Tolga for long – long time,” The black man turns and is once again lost in the darkness of the forest.

‘Well then Tate, what do you make of that?’ Tate thinks and gives a slight head shake and smile.

Moments later the black man returns to the clearing.

This time he is not alone, he has a woman with him who is barely of child baring age, she is as naked as he and standing on the thinnest pair of legs that could be seen on any woman.

“Tolga,” the black man says as he points towards the young woman – “Tolga – sister – my woman.”

“Sister,” Tate exclaims, “I wasn’t aware Tolga had a sister.”

The native takes hold of the woman’s arm, he is grinning as he points with a long bony finger towards her private parts. He appears to be offering to share her with Tate which is an oddity within some of the native communities. Before Tate has the opportunity to reject the suggested offer there are voices on the slight morning breeze.

The black man turns and within an instant he and his woman have gone from sight.

‘So much for the lonely dark forest,’ Tate thinks as the first of the new arrivals steps into the clearing. He is a tall coastal native wearing what almost represented the uniform of a colonial trooper. Behind him are three white men and well armed.

The native tracker stops and points towards Tate, he speaks in broken English to the first of the men who appears disappointed in what they discover.

Moments later there is recognition and the policeman calls, “Tate Edwards what are you doing here boy?”

The caller is recognised by Tate as Hugh Townsend the chief of constables from the Smithfield police constabulary and by all accounts not expecting or too pleased with the encounter.

Townsend is a tall willowy man with a stooped back and a hooked nose and definitely not designed for mountain tracking; his dark searching eyes are all about the clearing, coming to rest on the makeshift humpy made by Ben Morgan.

“Mr. Townsend, I’m on my way to Mareeba.”

Tate is quite bemused as but minutes earlier he was awaken to the realisation of freedom and had scarcely enough time to gather his thoughts before the day’s procession commenced.

“Is that your work?” Townsend requests in regards to the humpy, while his fellow constables take a rest from their difficult tracking through the thick forest. They quietly sit apart, one is smoking the other fiddles with his gun; he smiles and points the barrel towards Tate. “Bang!” he loudly cries, his associate laughs while Townsend remains solum.

Tate ignores the threat.

“No sir the shelter isn’t my work.”

“Have you seen anyone about?”

Tate becomes cautious, it is obvious Townsend is referring to Ben Morgan and as the man had given no lingering grief he wasn’t ready to relate their encounter, besides he is inclined towards Morgan’s account of the killing of the paymaster.

I have seen a native and his woman, who are looking for?” Tate replies believing neglecting to mention his encounter with Morgan could not be considered untruthful as Townsend hadn’t mentioned the man by name.

“You’d know who if you met up with him and that’s a certainty.”

One of the two constables stands, coming closer he speaks close to Townsend’s ear.

“I agree Jacob,” the policeman confirms; he approaches Tate, “my constable doesn’t believe you.”

“In what way would that be Mr. Townsend?”

“He is of the opinion you have seen Morgan?”

Tate had previous issues with the Chief Constable when with his brother Wilson he was caught skinny dipping in the creek behind the Smithfield fairground, disregarding the creek was known to be a haunt for crocodiles and in full view of the Anglican Church after the Sunday service.

Wilson was fast enough to be away but the policeman managed to take control of Tate. As quickly as a bird on a beetle Townsend had hold of the lad, penis, balls and scrotum, dragging him behind Jim Black’s stable, then without mercy gave the lad a thrashing across the bare buttocks with his belt, being sure he copped the buckle end.

Oddly Townsend never reported the incident to Tate’s father.

Having that encounter fresh in retrospect, Tate keeps to his quiet.

“Well lad, what is it?”

“If I’ve seen your Ben Morgan or not is somewhat irrelevant Mr. Townsend, as I was unaware you were looking for anyone and if he is as dangerous as you suggest, would I be capable apprehending such a man, or would he allow me to continue on my way unrestricted?”

“So you know of Morgan’s crime?”

“I did hear something before travelling.”

“That doesn’t give answer to my question on Morgan.”

“I think it does Mr. Townsend.”

“There will be none of your sass kid or you’ll get another taste of leather.”

The second constable becomes animated, “should we take the little scrote in for insubordination and obstruction boss?”

The morning was advancing with any chance of finding the runaway that day obviously unattainable, so with the draining humidity rising Townsend looses interest in the hunt. Under his heavy woollen coat he can feel rivulets of perspiration and his face is sweat beaded and red; his eyes are narrow and puffy as he removes a large blue handkerchief from his coat pocket and wipes the salty trickle away from stinging at the corners of his eyes.

Townsend gazes about the clearing then back to his constables; they appear as disinterested as he feels. Looking up through the forest clearing he can feel the impressing heat like a solid yellow block pushing down on his skull lifting his blood pressure to dizziness.

Take it easy Hugh you are no longer a young man and this northern climate isn’t inductive towards good health, his doctor had warned.

Taking the easy life was never Hugh’s choice, he has a demanding woman and seven equally demanding children, the youngest still in the cot, the eldest about the same age as Tate, who is now before him grinning and in the policeman’s assessment taunting him towards action.

‘If you were closer and I had the energy kid,’ Townsend thinks but takes the easier action being to give up the hunt and return to the relative comfort of his Smithfield establishment. Besides he had done what was expected of him, what was not expect being to chase the felon further, as they were now close to the Mareeba Shire and beyond his jurisdiction.

“Come on Jackey,” being a strange oddity in the southern land to call native men Jackey or Jackey-Jackey, obversely not meant to be endearing.

Townsend waves a defeated hand towards his native tracker, “time to go home, we’ll leave the bugger to your mob or to starve in the bush.”

The two constables appear relieved as they stand and gather their belongings, although Townsend isn’t finished with Tate, “I will expect a full report from you when you return to Smithfield.”

To be at least obliging and to be done with an irritating encounter Tate agrees.

“Also when you reach Mareeba, I expect you to report to the local establishment and I will be advising them to expect your visit.”

Tate gives an agreeing nod as the search party commence their departure back towards civilization.

The morning has gone, Tate can feel his stomach complaining and as Morgan had taken what little food he had he would need to discover whatever was to be found close by. Fortunately at that time of the year many of the native trees are in fruit, especially the Quandong and Racemosa Fig and seeing Tate had passed this way previously with Tolga, he knew where to find a number of ancient fig trees.

Firstly he would need to bring into memory the black lad’s songline to find the best of the fruit. He recalled the story of the giant python that had created the Barron Gorge and paused from its work beside a large rocky outcrop, in doing so the python defecated leaving behind the waste from its meal being the seeds of Quandong to sprout and grow strong and tall.

Across to the east thick black clouds commence to fill the small space of sky above the clearing. Tate realises the obvious signs of a late season’s cyclone, while the stillness in the tall treetops adds ambience and additional warning. Generally the forest protects against the worse of a storm but there is always threat from falling trees and the giants along the high ridges were prone to fall without warning, bringing down everything in their path, allowing the struggling saplings below a chance to stretch high towards the heavens.

It is obvious the clearing wouldn’t give a safe harbour from storms and about there appeared to be little protection against deluge. There is Morgan’s shelter but a simple breath of wind would collapse it to the ground. He could return to the Kuranda camp then recommence once any storm had abated, or he could find that rocky outcrop near the fruiting trees where he recalled a small shelter under an overhanging lip of rock.

During a previous visit with Tolga to the rocky outcrop the black lad found pleasure in explaining the rock art. Some were quite old displaying animals that Tate had ever seen roaming the forest or the grasslands beyond.

Asking Tolga for an explanation he received the ubiquitous reply, spirits from the dreaming.

I guess if you don’t understand something then blame the spirits and the dreaming.

Off to one side from the stylised kangaroo and cassowary paintings Tate had found something more recent Ed79 etched deeply over one of the oldest paintings,

“What is that?” Tate had cheekily asked Tolga knowing full well a white explorer had passed that way and wished to let the future know of his existence.

Tolga gave answer with an unknown word Tate assumed meant vandalism. He then attempted to scrub out the etching using charcoal from their camp fire.

Before any decision could be made towards shelter the space above filled with darkness and the rain commenced without the expected wind, Tate strengthened Morgan’s structure with what was about and climbed in.

He gives a rhetorical chuckle, “it works.”

Then as water must, water does and a trickling comes from above his head to drip onto his nose.

‘Bugger.’

‘Mr. Morgan, it is more than obvious you are not a builder of houses.’

Tate snuggles further in and finds a dryer spot as the storm moves on becoming an annoying drizzle.

The daylight is fading but still Tate’s hunger remains and would not be satisfied until the morning. He mentally resites Tolga’s timeline, believing he is no more that a half mile from his destination being the bend in the river above the falls, where the dreamtime python had rested.

‘Tomorrow,’ he thinks as night approaches having nothing more to do than attempt to sleep through the night and as Tolga had often advised, learn to live through your discomfort and if you can not then suffer quietly.

The night is warm and the atmosphere akin to resting in a tepid bath, Tate’s clothes are damp, the air he breaths is damp but as fortune comes it lacks chill.

Now there is something moving within the leaf litter that is his bed.

‘Snake,’ he thinks while gulping in a deep nervous breath.

‘Scorpion,’ he appends to his fear.

There is something on his ankle in the gap between his pants and boot.

‘Don’t make any sudden move.’

The something pauses.

Tate holds his breath deep within his chest.

Movement – he feels the light touch of little legs.

Tate laughs loudly.

‘It is nothing but a flaming lizard!’

The lizard scurries away into the leaf litter.

The drizzle had abated and the storm can be heard as muffled thunder far off to the west. Tate dozes for a while then he hears a sound close by his shelter, he peers into the darkness and sees a silhouetted human form.

“Who are you?” he calls.

“Tate don’t you recognise me?”

The form is dark on dark but the voice is familiar.

“Is that you Tolga?”

“Who else would it be?”

“Come in out of the rain,” Tate suggests and beckons.

“The rain has stopped and we have bright moonlight; you come out, I want to show you something.”

Tate joins with his friend in soft moonlight.

Without hesitation he embraces the small body of Tolga.

He can feel the lad’s heart beating against his embrace.

“It has been a long time my friend.

Tolga moves away.

“Come with me I want to show you something.”

Tate follows Tolga into the scrub towards the end of the clearing; soon they are standing in bright moonlight on a raised embankment above the river.

“What do you wish to show me?” Tate curiously asks, thinking it strange why his friend would approach in the dark of night after such a long time of absence.

“Down there,” the lad solemnly points.

Although quite dark there is enough moonlight to see what appears to be a number of human forms laying prostrate on the rocky surface slightly above the level of the river.

“Who are they?”

Tropical morning arrives long before the sun. At first light Tate is about preparing his thoughts towards travelling but there is something bothering him.

There is something lurking at the back of his thoughts and it is attempting to break forward although nothing more than a fuzzy blurring of darkness.

‘Never mind,’ Tate thinks.

‘It will come to me at the most inapt time.’

‘It always does.’

‘Often at two in the bloody morning and it is either too late or too early to do anything about it.’

Tate stretches the night from his limbs without success, he legs ache from being cramped in Morgan’s shelter, his clothes damp and clinging. The day is early and already the air is hot without any sign of the night’s storm.

All about steam rises as the dampness evaporates, the clearing resembling a cooking pot with its lid removed.

Tate is laughing as he sniffs at his armpits;

“I stink,” he admits.

‘But there is no one about to offend,’ he thinks.

‘I’ll attend to that with a refreshing dip.’

Realising the river to be close decision is made and without further he is on his way but that fuzzy darkness deep in his psyche remains causing a measure of concern.

‘Wilson had a saying for such things.’

‘He would say someone is walking over your grave.’

Tate releases a smile, ‘and I would say I aint’ dead yet.’

Tate continues on.

Before long the fuzzy darkness finds surface.

‘Now I remember.’

‘Tolga came to visit me in the night,’

‘And he wanted to show me something by the river.’

‘It was nothing but a dream.’

‘But it was so real.’

Recalling his mother explanation about dreaming Tate attempted to associate Tolga’s appearance in relation to the previous day’s events but nothing had occurred that could trigger any strong thoughts about his friend.

Tate recalls a nightmare he had as a boy.

After waking in fright his mother had come to him assuring there was nothing to fear but fear itself and dreams were no more than the brain’s way of working through the previous day’s events.

Tate’s mother’s explanation was in contradiction to that of their neighbour Molly Goddard who implied devils came to visit during the dark hours. If you slept with your mouth open they often entered and infected your brain, especially the not yet developed brains of little boys and that was what made them mischievous.

Tate preferred his mother’s account although at the time there remained a spark of uncertainty towards Molly Goddard’s telling.

With a disregarding huff Tate put aside his dream even so it remained troubling as he collected his fishing gear before making his way towards the river to find the spot he remembered with calm water and easy access, down a gradual slope beside a rocky outcrop.

On his way he finds the grove of fig trees he had earlier recalled and enjoys a light breakfast of ripe fruit.

‘Don’t eat too many,’ he thinks.

‘Or you will be shitting liquid for a week.’

Another memory.

It was the time he raided Bob Housing’s fruit trees in Freshwater and filled his belly with green fruit, giving him a chronic belly-ache.

If you eat green fruit, his mother said, it will curdle your belly and turn solid and you won’t pass anything – ever, then you will die.

Pass anything?

The chronic belly soon passed everything even before he reached the outhouse.

Quickly Tate took himself, his soiled trousers and a bar of sunlight soap to the river and bugger the fear of crocodiles he washed everything clean.

That was one story he didn’t share with his mother or his siblings, although he failed to return the soap which was well missed by Elsie.

It must have been Molly Goddard’s devils, was his reasoning when questioned about the missing soap, or possibly it was Wilson’s doing as it would be pleasurable to have at least one-up on his brother.

Tate excuses it all with a thought, ‘but I was very young.’

A smile, ‘besides according to Meg Toomey I was a Calathumpian tear away.’

Reaching the river Tate noticed something familiar being a rocky embankment also a ledge a little above the water level but not high enough to be safe from the worse of annual flooding.

Drawing closer he pauses;

‘Strange,’ he thinks;

‘I feel I have been here before,’

‘When?’

‘True, I have visited the river bend and the grove of fig trees but I don’t recollect passing by here.’

Tate draws closer to the edge of the outcrop and peers over, firstly there is calm water below the ledge, also a number of large tree trunks washed down during the last monsoon season but there is something on the higher part of the ledge.

‘That looks like bones,’ he thinks.

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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