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his solitary moonlight journey Fox envisaged Lovett and Brother John beginning to waste with fear. On the screen in his head, he watched Lovett writhe; witnessed the remorseless pounding headaches, smelled the stench of his body odour and heard Lovett cry out as he grappled with the slithering knot of King Browns squirming in his mind. He observed Lovett slowly descend into madness. One by one, his mates stopped visiting and soon, Dan Lovett, who had lost more than half his body weight since being cursed, was dead.
Brother John, on the other hand, pretended nothing was happening. Yet Fox sensed the cold dread stalking him, the clammy, suffocating iciness he could neither deny nor shake. Forever looking over his shoulder, logic told Brother John it was nothing but imagination. Yet, when alone, dank, withering tentacles of claustrophobia reached out to strangle him. He became terrified of confession and experienced indescribable horror every time he entered the box. There, darkness weighed him down with such a palsy he felt unable to leave. His hair fell out, boils developed, his weight dropped away and he began talking in strange, nonsensical sing-song tones. Laughing and cackling, he wandered the mission corridors in preference to sleeping at night. Truth to tell, he was afraid of sleep because his ghosts magnified tenfold.
None of this was a mystery to Fox.
His journey home made him feel alive and of the earth again. The scent of gums, grasses, rain and dust seeped into his pores. Goanna, snake, bush potatoes, the odd fish, kantilli and lizards were all plentiful. But best of all, as the earth-spirit embraced his soul, there came a freedom as unencumbered as the sky, as rich as desert sunset and as sweet as wild honey. Nothing about this epic ride was anything other than fulfilling. His only sorrow was Lucy’s absence – always he had planned for them to return together.
And then he rode into Turkey Creek, slap-bang into a mourning ceremony. Looking around the old camp, his heart contracted. His mother’s shelter and possessions were nothing but a pile ash, burned to the ground as a shield to her spirit. He saw the scars of mourning wounds; witnessed the silent communication between women who dared not utter Rosie’s name and understood. Spirits of the dead must be isolated and left undisturbed. These were ancient practices connected with death.
Sitting high up on Bob, Fox did not recognise the wail assaulting his ears was his own. Having been taken from his home, the dream of returning with Lucy had sustained him. Her death had deeply wounded him and were it not for the thought of his waiting Mum, he might have given up. Now he was alone.
The Aunties said when Rosie learned of Lucy’s death, a flame had died. It had been her birth that helped with the loss of Duncan, her loving husband. Her big, strong stockman, a man proud of his Scottish roots, a man who had cherished them all. He had been taken by a mindless drunk-driver soon after Lucy’s birth. After that, Rosie moved away from Leopold Downs and back to Turkey Creek. There, with her children and family, she had slowly become strong again.
And then came Mullett and Rogers and Brigette. Her children taken to join the ranks of the living dead. She had no rights, no news and no hope of seeing them. Gradually, Rosie declined. Three years later, word arrived of Lucy’s murder. Rosie knew nothing of Colin, only that he was in a mission – somewhere. Rosie’s world collapsed, depression accelerated and quietly, she wasted away. Fox’s arrival coincided with the final phase of her mourning.
He stayed three months. He saw the end of the mourning and left with no great plans other than finding work. He decided to head for Noonkanbah, a huge cattle station on the Fitzroy River between Camballin and Fitzroy Crossing, some 360 kilometres east of Broome. There he could comfortably work with horses and cattle and be among the Yungngora community, traditional land owners who ran the station for its owners.
But, in 1968, there was trouble at Noonkanbah. The old station, a former Royal Australian Airforce base and staging post for the Netherlands East Indies Air Force during 1943-44, was rank with discontent. The Yungngora people were intensely dissatisfied with pay and conditions and highly suspicious of the insatiable minerals hunt in the Kimberly. As mining exploration forged ahead, conflict between Western Australia’s Court government and Yungngora people grew. The issue at heart was whether sacred Aboriginal sites should be protected from vested interests wanting the mineral wealth. Later, this rancour would crystallise until its essence stood raw – mutual distrust and disrespect between traditional Aboriginal law and white western law.
Fox found the atmosphere toxic and moved to Broome. A willing and hard toiler, he had no trouble getting a job on the fishing boats. One quiet Saturday afternoon he visited Darrigan’s Travelling Boxing Troupe with his mate Tommy Barker. The hype, the smell, the noise and the action instantly appealed and between shows, Fox presented himself to Darrigan and asked for a job. Darrigan thoughtfully sized up the slim young man.
‘Come to the next show and I’ll see how yer go in the ring. Ask me again after that.’
Two hours later, Fox volunteered for a bout with one of Darrigan’s team, another Aboriginal named Danny Stocker. Stocker, about thirty-five, was experienced, muscular and skilled. While Darrigan’s rules forbade the boxers from seriously hurting punters, they were still to look after themselves. At almost sixteen, Fox had no great strength to his punches but he out-paced, out-thought and out-boxed Danny Stocker.
And so it was he thumped the drum: Ba – boom, ba – boom, ba – boom. The steady rhythm throbbed. Rogers stared at him, a thoughtful, penetrating gaze. The drum pulsed louder: ba – boom, ba – boom, ba – boom. Silently, Fox called Rogers to him. Challenged him. Told him he would never win. Silently, Fox reeled him in. I will humiliate, not retaliate. Take your pride, not your strength. Lance your arrogance and sear your soul.
In the next pause, when Darrigan challenged the suckers to battle, Rogers’ rough voice called, ‘I’ll take the young darkie.’
‘Dunno about that mate, you look a bit too big and experienced to be takin’ the boy on. He’s for kids his own age and size.’
‘Yeah? You’re piss weak Darrigan. He’s up there isn’t he? Let him speak for himself.’
Fox grinned at Darrigan and nodded. Ba – boom, ba – boom, ba – boom!
Humiliate don’t retaliate; humiliate don’t retaliate; humiliate don’t retaliate. Fox’s grin spread slowly from ear to ear. His personal misery – Lucy’s death, Rosie’s death – all triggered by this man’s intervention. Joe Darrigan would never know the satisfaction Fox was anticipating. He was unbeatable. As Fox’s steely grey eyes bored into him, Rogers’ memory stirred. Familiar eyes. He couldn’t recall when, or where, or the circumstance, only that he remembered them. Fox laughed inwardly watching Rogers’ face pucker in concentration, memory chafing, recall working overtime. Fox playing mind-games.
Ba – boom, ba – boom, ba – boom. Humiliate, don’t retaliate!
CHAPTER 6
The crowd before Darrigan’s platform swelled. Fitzroy Crossing in early July was warm and clear and people aplenty had come in off the stations for the annual rodeo. Many were Aboriginal people from the four main language groups and today the usual town population of about 1200 was almost 2000. It was an exciting time with the horses, the fights and a couple of nights of grog, dancing and good fun. This mid-afternoon, a good-sized mob had gathered for the fights and the dust was rising beneath impatient feet.
Start time was ten minutes away. Mardie, Joe’s wife, opened up the ticket box and the noisy, cheerful crowd bustled into the tent. One of Darrigan’s fighters marshalled the challengers off the platform and around to the back of the tent. There they had to sign consent forms and disclose if they were carrying injuries; it was also a final chance to withdraw. Darrigan was wary of the creeping tide of litigation.
Before they started, Darrigan spoke to the volunteers.
‘Righto youse blokes, listen up. The rules are simple: fight fair. That means no hittin’ below the belt, no hittin’ anyone with their back to ya, no hittin’ someone fallin’ down and no bloody kickin’ – this ain’t a pub brawl. I mean it. Some bastards ferget where they are!