Published: 28 Aug 2025

Access to the rocky ledge was difficult as Tate needed to travel some hundred yards down stream to where the bank had been eroded, leaving a gentler slope. Once down it was necessary to wade against the current until he reached the ledge, haul his body up using the jagged protrusions of the rocky bank and partly submerged tree trunks.

Once on the ledge he discovered something disturbing, being a scattering of sun bleached bones and by his recalling not from any animal he had ever encountered. Then realisation erupts as he spies what appeared to be a human skull held firm to the ledge by the growth of a sapling clinging to what little soil there was in the rocky fissures. Close by lay the cranium of a second skull and a third half skull with many larger bones in scatter.

Tate glances upward to the top of the outcrop believing it to be at least forty feet and almost vertical; such a drop would kill anyone who chanced to fall,

‘For one to fall could be considered an accident,’he thinks.

‘This many appears to be purposeful.’

Tate then recalls his dream when Tolga visited and brought him to the ledge but in his dream he saw bodies not bones.

What should he do?

By the bleaching and condition of the bones whatever happened had been many years earlier and beyond his capability to give them proper reverence; therefore he concludes on his return to civilization he would report the incident.

Once Tate had gone from the ledge and its secrete he has time to reflect on many things, firstly if the remains he discovered were natives and killed by settlers, secondly but most of all, why had his friend Tolga come to him in a dream on such a stormy night and why had his dream depicted bodies when all he found were bones. Nothing was making sense so Tate decided his dreaming was simply coincidence, besides it was possible what he discovered wasn’t at all part of his dreaming and his mind had created Tolga’s introduction to the bodies after the shock of finding the bones but wouldn’t that be the working of a troubled spirit and not one in control of sensibility?

‘But I strongly felt Tolga’s presence,’ Tate expresses the thought while making his way towards the fishing bend in the river.

‘I felt his body against my own as we embraced,’

‘What did Tolga say about dreaming?’

‘He said dreaming in spirits reaching through to the now with a message.’

‘If so, it was a bugger of a message.’

Tate recalls a Springfield neighbour Molly Goddard who also said similar about dreaming although most of what she said was to frighten young children who threw stones on her roof, or left dead snakes at her door.

In Molly’s reasoning it was devils not spirits, she had a strong belief in devils even more than her belief in god, she did believe in angles but most of her spiritual conceptions stole things from his drawers, or moved things about the house. Molly would face couches and chairs towards the wall so devils couldn’t sit on them and lock away knives or anything sharp during the night as devils may do her in.

A blessing should be given towards Molly’s earthly soul as she found her devil while hunting for mud crabs in the mangroves along Perfume Creek close by the Cairns esplanade. Molly’s devil was in the form of a large salty crocodile locally knowing as Old Harry. That was odd in perception, as she often warned kids not to turn your back for a moment, or like the devil Old Harry will get ya’. All they found of Molly was part of her tattered dress caught on a mangrove root and a bag filled with struggling mud crabs.

With the memory Tate releases a giggle;

‘One would think Old Harry would have more enjoyed the bag of mud crabs rather than Molly’s bony old body.’

The fishing was good and with a fair size Jungle Perch speared through the gills on a stick, Tate returned to the campsite. He would make a meal then put together his few belongings and set out towards his intended destination.

A quick glance towards the heavens.

‘Tomorrow,’ Tate decides as the day is quickly passing with less than an hour of light remaining, therefore although the forest lessened towards the Downings it remained undulating and not indicative to travelling at night as there were many washouts, some gave little warning until your next step that would be downwards.

With his meal of fish and side of baked native yam done, Tate becomes pensive while watching the afternoon shadow steal its way inch by inch across the forest clearing. As the shadow reaches Morgan’s shelter Tate lends a thought towards the runaway would be criminal and how he could survive but a few days without bush knowledge. By the little Morgan had shared with Tate it appeared most of his adult life had been spent in the more settled arrears about Moreton Bay far to the south and before that in the gentle green hills of the mother country.

Adding to Morgan’s lack of survival skills were the natives, although most were subdued there remained a number who would find pleasure in clubbing, or spearing a lone travelling white man. Fortunately by present time the natives had given up eating human flesh in preference to anything sweet or alcoholic. In truth there were two white traits the natives were unrivalled being horsemanship and drinking alcohol, a third would be anything sweet and if they chanced upon a bag of sugar they would scoop it into their greedy mouths by the handful.

Darkness falls quickly in the forest almost as if someone extinguished a candle. On this night the moon had little effect on illumination and the giant trees were black on black along the perimeter of the clearing, leaving Tate little to do except sleep before moving out at first light.

Sometimes while waiting for sleep to preform its duty Tate would listen to the night calls and put names to each sound. Many would be birds, others frogs or cricket and insects calling for mates but strangest of all was a large owl whose spine chilling shriek could give any stranger to the forest nightmares, as it sound was akin to someone being murdered. The newly arrived called it the murdering woman owl, while the natives said it was the sound of the Bunyip, a water dwelling monster that stole little children who strayed too close to its waterhole.

Digression comes in the form of a question being Tate’s intention once he arrived on the tableland. Was it to find work and lessen the stress on his sister’s running of the family home, or the excitement of the unknown. Tate may have a fair inkling of the forest but seldom adventured into the newly settled arrears. Possible he was missing his black friend Tolga and since dreaming of his presence it was that reunion he desired more than anything else.

With thoughts of home and Tolga aside Tate concentrates on his encounter with Ben Morgan and why he believed Morgan’s account of the event that made him a wanted man, dead if need be. If Morgan was a vicious killer he could have done away with Tate when he had opportunity. True as that may be he still smarted at the treatment he received and the theft of his food supplies.

“Tomorrow,” Tate quietly utters being his usual way of putting aside the troubles of the day to give consent for sleep to have its way.

‘Tomorrow I will follow the river towards Mareeba’

‘Possibly I will find Tolga.’

‘Possibly Tolga will come to me again in a dream.’

‘Or was I dreaming?’

‘Why did I dream of bodies and find only bones?’

‘It was only coincidence, nothing but coincidence.’

‘How long had they laid there bleaching in the sun and who was responsible.’

Tate had often heard of settlers treating the native’s badly, even as far as killing the old people to take their children as free labour on outback cattle properties during times when policing was limited but were they only stories. Also religious organizations had been taking children for decades, placing them in orphanages to give them god. In most they were of mixed blood, often so light of skin it was difficult believing they were native, even then they were never really accepted by white society, or accepted by natives. Was the native’s rejection true of simply an excuse to remove the children, besides how could a mother black or white, not love her child.

As for the bones he found, it had been more than thirty years since settlement came to the northern coast with a gold rush west of Cooktown then Tin was found in abundance on the tableland. Possible the bones had been laying there for all that time, even possible they were the result of intertribal dispute, as the natives weren’t backward in tribal squabbling.

“Tomorrow,” Tate again utters and soon he is asleep.

It is morning with Tate about before the sun. Firstly a quick refreshing dip in the shallows, a thought towards his morning’s travel but most of all a mental rendition of Tolga’s songline that would take him to the Downings.

With methodical intent Tate commences to pack away his few belongings not to forget a single item, most of all his fishing line and small supply of hooks and sinkers. The sinkers according to the story his fathers told, were made from musket shot from a bygone time, when his grandfather fort the French in some long forgotten war. Once there had been many now only a few remained and precious. Next in importance was breakfast before the day’s journey commenced, being a few figs he had gathered and some leftover native Yam he had baked in the coals with his fish.

With less than a half mile travelled towards the western tablelands and all but a few ridges remaining before crossing over the Great Divide, Tate pauses as if gripped by a lost memory, possibly brought about while using Tolga’s songline.

“He did visit again,” Tate whispers into the building heat of another tropical day.

‘Now I recall; Tolga did visit me.’

‘It was early morning after I went for a piss.’

‘Umm, that’s the third night having to piss early.’

‘Dad had that problem but he was old and grey, I’m not yet twenty.’

“Possibly it’s simply jungle water,” he loudly suggests to no one but the trees that stood in silent sentinel all about.

‘Now I remember.’

‘I did dream of Tolga and he spoke to me.’

‘What did he say?’

‘It will come to me.’

As if by magic the forest ahead opened to become scrubland. In an instant there is a divide, firstly a long line of forest giants stretching endlessly north and south then as if someone had drawn a pencil across a page the terrain beyond becomes less luxurious, the trees less tall with grassy dales between. There is forest beyond but in patches following the valleys or snaking along the river and creeks. Here the Barron River ran low and shallow in its bed, without the turbulence it displayed as it gouged its way through the high mountains towards the floodplain about Trinity Bay. Even so this was not true tableland as its beginning could be found some distance beyond the settlement of Mareeba, here the land lies in what is commonly known as a rain shadow with half the annual fall received by the forest or the actual uplands, yet the creeks hold permanent water as they feed the rivers.

With the sun high and hot Tate takes time to find his bearing, he well knows his way is to follow the sun and in the distance being part of Tolga’s songline is the Eagle Rock. On noticing the outcrop Tate gives a smile thinking one needed a fair imagination to believe the outcrop was the effigy of an eagle or bird of any persuasion but it was not his tradition and it did give direction.

With the late morning sun sapping away his strength Tate took refreshment from a small creek.

As he paused a memory returned possibly encouraged by the sighting of the Eagle Rock.

“Songlines,” Tate loudly exclaims.

‘Now I remember what I dreamed.’

‘ Tolga came to me and said don’t forget the songline.’

Tolga had once camped with his parents close to what became the settlement of Mareeba and had taught Tate the songline that gives direction from the high mountains to the tableland. It is a long songline that needed many years of travel to contain but the shorter distance from the falls to the grassy plain that now held the settlement had been much easier to recall while holding fewer points of reference.

Once passed the Eagle Rock Tate must rejoin the river where the dreamtime serpent had found issue with a giant platypus, they struggled so violently it caused a number of sharp bends in the river. With that memory he searched the horizon for two hills being part of the dreaming of two brothers who fort with each other over a beautiful girl and once spotted he would know the river bends and that day’s destiny would be close by.

Continuing his journey Tate perceived there would be enough light left in the day to reach the bends in the river and he would need to rest before following the river all the way to Mareeba. Again memory is forthcoming and fortunate as the next in the songline told him of good fishing ponds, where the fruiting trees were abundant.

It is late afternoon and with help from Tolga’s songline Tate reaches the serpentine bends in the river. From the serpentine the travelling should become easier as the terrain levelled without the giant forest trees of the high mountains but with the light fading it would be necessary to camp for the night, besides his belly is grumbling giving recall of loosing his supply of Elsie’s dried meat to Morgan the bolter.

On reaching the first river bend the land becomes undulated towards the river as it calmly flowed from a deep pool across a pebbled bed, its verge being little more than a gentle grassy slope. All about are signs of how angry the serpent could become during the wet, with debris caught in the surrounding trees. Some being waste from the new settlements in the high tableland dumped directly into the river, above Tate’s head fluttering like a rented flag is the remnant of someone’s work shirt and on the far bank at the bend a blockage of fallen tree trunks piled like the wasted bones of some mythological monster. Certainly it would clear during the coming wet, or if enough debris becomes washed from the tableland there could be a permanent blockage causing yet another turning of the river at the serpentine through a number of shallow gullies.

Tate had previously visited the serpentine with Tolga and recalled the direction of the fruiting trees being close to a bend where the river divided and the fishing had been good. He smiles remembering how easy Tolga had reached into the water at the shallows to bring out their dinner but no matter how many times Tate attempted to follow his friend’s method he failed.

“You have to think like the fish,” was Tolga’s advice.

“How do I think like a fish?”

“I guess you havta’ be a blackfella’, Tolga laughed.

“I think I’ll continue to using a fishing line.”

Tate pats his bag;

‘I’m pleased Morgan didn’t take my line,’ he thinks;

‘Now where is that fishing spot?’

Tate searches about, instead he spies an old native humpy made from bent poles and bark. Recalling the humpy from his previous visit he is surprised it hadn’t washed away during flooding as all about there were signs of how angry water can become when enough of it is about.

‘I see the humpy,’

‘Now where are the fig trees?’

‘I remember; the trees are around that slight bend near the fishing pond.’

‘Hello;’

‘There appears to be someone sleeping in the humpy.’

Tate approaches the shelter and on closer inspection perceives there is little left of the shelter but the poles with some bark at the front most is missing from the top and back.

‘Boots.’

‘Natives don’t wear boots.’

Tate approaches the humpy with caution.

He soon discovers the owner of the boots.

Prostrate on his back with his face covered with a ragged coat is a man, his large bleeding hands lay listlessly by his side; his shirt is rented and open displaying an equally scratched and bloodied torso as if from running through or falling into brambles.

The man’s trousers are stained and torn to a state of almost unwearable, tied at the waist by a cord.

‘Is he dead?’

Tate’s approach lacked stealth being loud enough to waken anyone from their deepest slumber even so the man doesn’t move.

Etiquette suggests he should walk away and leave him be.

Concern for wellbeing overrules the thought.

Tate reaches into the humpy and cautiously removes the coat from across the sleeping face.

Immediately there is recognition.

It is the bolter Ben Morgan.

“Hey there,” Tate softly speaks as he gently rocks Morgan’s boot.

There is a groan but little more.

‘At least he’s alive.’

‘What should I do?’

‘He robbed me so I don’t own him.’

‘I should move on and leave him to his fate.’

Tate pats Morgan’s leg; “hey Mr. Morgan.”

The man struggles to speak uttering nothing more than a few slurred words, none of which are coherent.

Morgan’s face like his hands and torso is badly scratched but there doesn’t appear to be any deep life threatening gashes.

Again Tate pats Morgan’s leg.

“Mr. Morgan it’s me Tate Edwards, remember you tied me to a tree and robbed me.”

Morgan’s eyes open without response before once again closing.

“You’ve really got yourself into a state of bother haven’t you?”

Morgan remains unresponsive.

“What do you reckon Mr. Morgan, would you like some assistance?”

Tate’s words are laced with sarcasm as he weighs his actions.

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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