Читать книгу Forest Spirit - David Laing - Страница 11

For weeks now, ever since she’d been discharged from the hospital, the dream had come to her, walking through her mind, forcing her to relive what she didn’t want to see.

Her brother, lying in the grass near the overturned ute, his eyes open but lifeless, his neck twisted to an impossible angle, and her, crawling towards the vehicle, body shaking, trying to reach the place where her parents were lying.

Finding blood on the windscreen and the dashboard when she finally got there. Seeing her mother and father, sprawled on the front seat, tangled and twisted, no longer alive.

Scrambling back and away from the wreckage in a trance. Slumping to the ground, screaming. And somewhere, in the back of her mind, hearing the retreat of the buffalo and the fading screeches of the cockatoos as they circled in the sky.

The dream was always the same – night after night. She supposed that was one of the reasons she had gone back to the place where it had happened, near the billabong, to somehow rid herself of the memories that clutched and gripped like crab claws.

She had no recollection of being found that day three months ago, no memory of being brought back to the homestead. Neither could she remember the helicopter ride to the Katherine Hospital. She remembered the throbbing pain of her injuries, but that had not mattered. What did matter was lying in the hospital sedated, and missing saying goodbye to her parents and brother.

Now, having left the welfare woman open-mouthed and speechless, she tended to her animals – two wallabies that had been orphaned, an injured goanna, a whip snake and a young red-tailed black cockatoo that had fallen from its hollow nest. Ignoring the rain, she moved from one enclosure to another, making certain they were dry and warm.

‘I’m going to be just like you soon,’ she found herself saying, ‘living in a strange place, a place where I don’t belong. At least you’ll be going back to your homes. I won’t.’

‘Ready to go back now, Jars?’ It was Mr Henderson. He wore a moleskin coat that hung to his ankles. He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Let’s go inside and dry off and get something to eat. You’ll feel better then.’

Changing into dry clothes and sitting down to the evening meal did not raise Jars’ spirits as Mr Henderson had hoped. The conversation at the table was strained and forced. Swallowing the food was an ordeal, so when it came time to excuse herself and say her goodnights it had been a relief.

She dragged herself to bed. Then, once under the covers and forcing herself to ignore the constant rattle of rain on the roof, she slept.

For once, the dream did not come. Instead, she met a man.

Not someone you could touch or feel, but someone real. She was with him now … in a cave.

It was a large cavern and in the air hung the heavy, musty smell of animals. Somewhere in the cave’s far reaches she could hear the murmur of running water. Standing perfectly still, she cocked her head towards the sound, wondering where it came from, what it was.

Water splashed onto her face and arms, making her jump. She looked up. Moisture was seeping through the roof of the cave, dripping and falling like tears. There were long arrows of light, slivers that came from countless pinpricks in the roof. These mingled with the water drops, making them dance and sparkle, which, in turn, brought a welcoming though dull brightness to the natural blackness.

She stared, scarcely believing her eyes. The man had his back to her. Sparse grey hair hung to his shoulders, and animal skins were wrapped around his short, stocky body.

Standing perfectly still, she watched.

Using a stone, he was chipping away at the rock wall, creating an image like no other she had seen. She narrowed her eyes and peered through the dim light.

His full attention focused on the rock face where he was creating a large engraving, a geometric shape with concentric circles, swirls and ripples that spiralled outwards, highlighted with shapes that reminded her of animal tracks. Some of them looked like the prints of birds. Others she couldn’t place – they were round with jagged edges.

She remained transfixed, not believing what she was seeing, but knowing somehow that her dream was not really a dream – not really. She could feel the man’s presence.

She continued to watch. The man stepped back from his work. He grunted and nodded his head. He stepped towards the rock face and picked up a piece of rounded bark that had been resting on a narrow rock-ledge – a makeshift dish.

From a pouch made of animal skin, he poured a good amount of red, powdery material into the dish. He spat into the dish several times, then stirred the damp mixture with a twig. Then, using his finger as a brush, he started to paint over the swirls and ripples, the animal markings and the small circles with the jagged edges.

Mesmerised by the mystery of the scene unfolding before her, Jars lost track of time. Transfixed, she continued to watch. At last the man stopped what he was doing.

He stood back, taking in his creation. Apparently satisfied, he placed the paint container back on the ledge, then, head lowered, shoulders hunched, he danced.

After a short time, he began to chant, a low, wailing sound in words Jars did not understand. The chanting grew louder, more urgent as he shuffled around and around in tight circles, and his eyes, deep set and black, blazed with a fierce concentration. Blood seeped from the soles of his bare feet as he continued to pound the rocky floor.

After a while his dancing slowed and the singing grew softer. He stopped. Perspiration poured from his face and body. He bent over, hands on knees. He tried to straighten, but could not. Then, as though his strength and will had left him, his legs crumpled and he fell slowly to the ground. A gargling rattle escaped from somewhere deep in his chest, and a last deep breath, like a sigh, escaped from his throat. Before his death, his eyes locked on Jars. He tried to speak, his mouth half open. All she heard were the murmurings of the unseen water in the distance, a bubbling, murmuring babble. Somehow, without any logical explanation, words formed in her mind, word without meaning:

‘The rocks are weeping … the rocks are weeping. Kodkuna yultan.’

The apparition, the ghostly figure, gargled one final breath and died.

Breath rushed from her mouth. She gulped some air. At her feet lay the still body of the man, a crumpled mass of animal skins.

Jars felt a tingle in the back of her neck. There had been a noise behind her, a faint scratching sound. She turned around. In a corner of the cave, to her left, a pair of red eyes were watching her every move.

Water droplets splashed on her head and arms as the red eyes continued to stare in her direction, glowing like lamps in the dark.

Danger. She had to get out. The cave held too many mysteries, puzzles she did not understand.

She made her way towards the exit and the world outside. ‘The rocks are weeping … Kodkuna yultan,’ she whispered to herself as she exited the cave. What did the words mean? Then she remembered the seeping moisture that came from the roof. Drops of tears? But why? The rest of the message, delivered in a foreign tongue, was also a mystery.

The rain continued to fall as Jars, fully awake now, lay in her bed. She recalled what she had seen, what she had heard. ‘A man died,’ she murmured in the dark. ‘Or did he? Ghosts don’t die, do they?’