The peppery smell of eucalypts hovered over him as he drifted into a zone that verged on sleep yet was not, for he was aware of hot dirt beneath his back, and above, blue sky through whispering gum leaves. His senses were on high alert and yet there was an overwhelming inertia about him. He had read of curare, the poison certain natives used to immobilise their prey, and supposed it could induce a sensation close to this. The police investigation neither deterred nor stimulated him. He was curious yes, but it ran in parallel to him and could not stop him. Nothing could. The axe he’d leave here until needed again. If it were found, unlikely but not impossible, the police would stake out the place. As a precaution he had left a number of safeguards starting with the broken branch in the shrub that blocked the narrow track into here. If anybody pushed through, the branch would fall to the ground.
He was, he admitted, disappointed a croc had not eaten Schaffer. That would have made his day. Still, there was a lot to enjoy: Schaffer’s skull cracking, the feel of his boot in his chest. Any fool who watched TV these days knew how much ‘trace’ boots carried in their grooves so they had been the first things discarded, a long way from here.
He felt a burning pinch in his hand and sat up. Something had nipped him. He searched, found an ant, red. He crushed it between his fingers.
Things were in hand. Protected by higher powers, he had been led, had he not, or more correctly carried like Moses in that basket, downstream by a flowing source that existed outside of him, to his destiny. The task had seemed impossible at the outset but everything had fallen into place. If he wanted he could act right now but he would rather wait. For so long he had lived as if he were made of cardboard. There had been momentary glimpses of a much better existence but now every new second his heart pumped life. Yet this was how it could have been all along. This was how it should have been, how it would be from here on.
His preparations had been extensive. Had he missed anything? Was there anything to give him up before he was ready?
He picked through his precautions and could find nothing lacking. He stood and brushed off the dirt. It was as if he had been immersed in the land, part of the landscape. That was a joyous sensation, this feeling of wholeness, permanence.
In the beginning, what would happen to him after had not been a consideration. If he were caught, so be it. If not, he had accomplished his task. Care for his own safety had seemed mean-spirited and self-serving but now he was beginning to feel a shift within, as if this new state, this aliveness, could be permanent. Wouldn’t that be apt: in the blood of his enemies, he would actually be reborn?
He kept the thought at bay. It was dangerous to get ahead of himself. He had sworn to do this without contemplation of his own future. He mustn’t complicate things. The stones must fall wherever.
And yet…
He remembered the ceremony he had witnessed in the flicker of campfire. The men painted like ghosts, the drone of the didgeridoo, the clap and stomp of flesh, so like a more familiar theology, the spirit was both God and man. He had committed to memory the dance. He found his limbs moving now as if of their own accord, given life by a force outside of him. The words didn’t matter. The drone of the didgeridoos lived in his memory. He swung right foot down, left foot down, shifted weight, turned, scooped dirt and threw it into the air, and as he did so felt even more power, like he was drawing it from the very heart of this great earth.