With the strong, gamey taste of the death adder lingering on Martin’s palate, Willy offered him a mouthful of his bitter water before they set off. Martin noticed, by the position of the rising sun over his left shoulder, that Willy had changed course again; they were now heading south-west.
He ran his furry tongue over his teeth in an effort to clean them, but the taste still remained, only now it was competing with the bitter gourd water. Martin shook his head and wondered why he bothered to react to all this stimuli. The snake had provided a sizeable meal. There was enough left for at least two more meals, so the taste was going to be a recurring dilemma. He supposed that the small chunks of white meat that Willy kept feeding him last night until he was fit to burst were from the two small animals.
There was something different about Willy’s new direction. Yesterday, before the willy-willies came through, there seemed to be more open sandy territory, but now Martin was constantly stubbing his toes on grey and black rocks that looked distinctly like iron pyrites. This was mining country by the looks of it.
“Willy,” Martin called after him. He stopped and waited.
“Do you want to rest?” he asked.
Martin was panting but thought better of stopping just yet.
“No… Not yet. I should be able to last out till noon. What I wanted to know was…is there a mine near here?”
“Not for a long time. All this rubbish they left behind.”
That settled, Willy continued and Martin trudged on behind.
With no watch to constantly refer to, Martin became conscious of the position of the sun. When Willy made his first change the sun was low on his left shoulder; now it was beating down on the side of his helmet. Rivulets of sweat were forming on his eyebrows and once they were saturated, droplets poured down his cheeks and he soon discovered the collar of his overalls was soaked and beginning to irritate his neck.
Despite his indigenous coalescence with the high temperatures in the Sandy Desert, Willy sought refuge in another small copse of acacias nearby. When Martin finally stumbled into the shade and collapsed alongside, Willy had already laid out his bark bundle containing the death adder’s remains.
Martin retrieved his bottle of water, took a mouthful to ready his mouth for the strong meat Willy was about to serve him, and seeing the bottle was almost empty, he offered it to Willy. He shook his head and poured it into his gourde.
“I have to look for water soon,” he said, passing Martin the snake.
“How soon?” Martin cried out. “I thought we would be there by now.”
“Don’t forget we lost a day in the willy-willies.”
When they finished their meal Willy agreed to a short rest and Martin leaned back against the trunk of an acacia tree. It was too hot to sleep, so closing his eyes he became one with the desert. He’d had no idea the desert had a smell. It was the smell of nature: the acacia that afforded them shade, the nearby spinifex that pervaded the area with a pungent scent that reminded him of Kate’s aromatic containers of dried flowers. Even the stifling heat had a smell.
It was like Sunday afternoon in his garden. Lying on his recliner with his straw hat over his face, listening to the bees going about their business, competing with all the other sounds: The after-dinner fly looking for a tasty morsel, the high-pitched whine of the midge, ready to drain the blood from any unprotected skin and the drone of something much bigger. Another sound had entered the chorus.
Martin had opened his collar to dry it in the sun and, as a consequence, had made his neck an open invitation for the insect making the sound. It was no more than a tickle at first. He couldn’t see what it was, but as soon as he raised his hand to brush it away, he felt an excruciating pain.
“Bloody hell,” Martin screamed out.
He was jumping up and down, waving his arm about like a madman. Whatever it was, Willy had no English word for the striped insect attacking Martin’s neck as he instinctively lunged forward, sweeping it away. Willy then placed his hands on Martin’s shoulders and eased him back down onto the ground, opened his collar further and pushed his head to one side.
Willy could see the swelling forming on Martin’s neck as he took out the knife he’d used to skin the snake and moved closer.
“What are you going to do with that?” Martin shouted.
“This only way to get bad stuff out,” Willy replied.
“Not with that thing, you don’t,” Martin said, reaching over for his first aid kit and placing it on his lap.
He opened the bag and brought out the plastic case containing the variety of surgical instruments. Willy’s eyes opened wide. Inside was a scalpel and spare blades, a pair of small scissors and a curved needle attached to a small spool of fine thread. Martin took out the scalpel. But first he took out a large plastic bag of folded lint, a sterile pack of gauze, a small bottle of Iodine, a bag of cotton wool balls and a larger bottle of surgical spirits.
“Now Willy, unscrew the cap off the bottle and put some on one of those cotton wool balls and wash your fingers with it.”
Willy was not impressed with the smell, and after replacing the cap he started laying out each item on the plastic bag across Martin’s lap.
“Good,” Martin said, handing him the Iodine. “Now cover another cotton wool ball and rub the Iodine over my neck – gently now.”
They were words that had no meaning for Willy as Martin gritted his teeth. That done, Martin pulled the lint out, placed it on the plastic and cleaning his own fingers with the surgical spirits, he picked up the scalpel and handed it to him.
“Here, use this. And make sure it’s only a small nick; I don’t want to bleed to death over a sting,” Martin explained, backing away slightly.
Without a shake of his hand, Willy started to cut. It took several strokes of the sharp blade and Willy’s probing fingers and it was done as he stood up with a broad smile on his face. Then handing the scalpel back to Martin he took the plug out of his gourd and quenched his thirst with a mouthful of water.
“That’s good, Willy. Now wipe the wound down with Iodine again.”
“Not finished yet,” he said.
Before Martin had a chance to ask why, Willy bent his head over his neck, put his mouth on the wound and as Martin struggled, he started sucking. It was a vicious suck, to the point of hurting and when he’d finished, Willy stood up and spat the contents of his mouth on the desert floor. It was bright red. He had drawn blood and Martin could see his blood on Willy’s lips.
“All done,” he said. “No more bad stuff.”
“You’ve got my blood on your lips,” Martin pointed out.
Willy laughed, and wiping it away, he said: “You and me blood brothers now.”
After Martin’s ordeal he signalled to Willy that he was ready to continue their journey. Although the sun was directly above by now, Martin got the impression Willy had changed course again. Instead of walking away from the copse in the direction they’d arrived, he followed the scattered acacia trees’ path.
It was yet another surprising sight in this ever-changing desert. What he thought was an isolated group of trees as before, turned out to be one copse in a long line that seemed to stretch into the distance. From the air, Martin would have imagined he was following another ancient riverbed that had long since drained off to one of those subterranean aquifers.
Willy was following this new source of shade and branches to build his nightly shelters. His attention was now drawn to the trees themselves. Within a few hundred metres he stopped, sat Martin down in the shade and continued on a short distance, tapping the ground with his spear.
Eventually he stopped, kneeled down with his face close to the sand and apparently satisfied, began digging a hole. It looked like a big hole. Martin’s curiosity was too much and he stood up and wandered over to see what Willy was doing. By now he was a good half-metre down and Martin noticed the walls of the hole were much darker, the lower he went.
Then to Martin’s amazement, Willy stopped and sat back as if he was waiting for something to happen. And it did: suddenly the hole began to fill with water. Within seconds the water had risen sufficiently for him to lower his gourd. It sank below the surface, and as Willy scooped the loose debris out of its way, Martin watched a series of bubbles rise to the surface.
“Plenty water now,” he said, lifting the gourd out of the hole, replacing the wooden peg and slinging it back across his shoulder. “We go now.”
It was the hottest part of the day and Martin was beginning to feel drowsy, despite the cover of trees protecting them from the severe sun. He felt different somehow. He was now rehydrated; his belly was fuller than it had been in days, his arm had stopped aching and the ground they were walking on seemed less severe. Yet his head was throbbing, his clothes felt wet and he was beginning to shake.
Willy had put some distance between them or Martin was slowing down. He had stopped looking back. He seemed preoccupied with something up ahead. Martin’s eyesight had become blurry; that was another symptom of whatever it was that had taken hold of his system.
Martin eventually caught up to Willy kneeling behind an acacia shrub. He gestured for him to sit down and gave the sign for him to be quiet. Willy looked furtive as he dropped his spear, boomerang and pouch beside Martin. Staying in a crouching position he slowly made his way through the trees. He took the rope from the plane off his shoulder, made a loop in one end and tied the other end around his waist. He then continued his panther-like prowl through the trees.
Fascinated by Willy’s performance, Martin focused his attention on a spot amongst the trees about fifty metres in front of Willy. It was difficult to see at that distance, with his eyesight beginning to fail, but Martin suddenly realised Willy was watching a small group of horses nibbling on new acacia shoots.
What took place next amazed him. He saw the Aboriginal boy’s character change before his eyes as he reverted to his native state. He appeared to take on the habit of the horses. He bent over and slowly walked with the horses, even grazed with them. He had become one of them and they hardly noticed him. Then he was amongst them. Brushing up against them as horses did, until he seemed to find what he was looking for.
It was a fine-looking red horse with a long mane and he moved up alongside it and stroked its flank; then, he moved his hand along its back and up its neck and calmly placed the noose over its head. The horse suddenly realised what was happening and raised its head above the others. Willy instinctively took hold of the horse’s mane and leaped onto its back, alerting the rest of the group, who reared their front legs and raced off across the desert taking Willy with them.
Martin lost sight of Willy and the horses in a cloud of dust that obliterated the scene. It seemed confined to them and he watched the ball of dust disappear into the distance. He was astonished at what had just taken place and for a moment or two sat looking into the distance wondering what was going to happen next. He glanced down at Willy’s cherished possessions, knowing he would never leave them behind and his thoughts returned to his throbbing head.
Some time later Martin looked up towards the shimmering waves rising from the desert floor and saw something else shimmering in the heat. The image seemed to hang in the air getting larger with every minute until finally Martin saw Willy riding towards him on his red horse. They looked as if they belonged together; it seemed different from the other wild horses. Willy stopped the stallion in the shade beside Martin. He jumped down with no concern that the horse would bolt. It seemed calm, at home with Willy’s casual hand movements across his back.
“Why did you pick that particular horse?” Martin asked.
“It’s one of ours,” he said, pointing to the brand on his rump.
It was a large G within a circle. “What does it stand for?”
“It’s the Galene brand. We go there.”
Martin was too tired to ask any more questions. He assumed this was going to be their transport from now on, as he watched Willy remove the noose and fashion it into a more suitable bridle. A wave of emotional relief ran through Martin’s body. He was now convinced someone up there was looking out for him. He knew, despite anything else that might come their way, he was no longer able to place one foot in front of the other.
Willy lifted Martin to his feet, handed him his spear and boomerang and hanging his gourd across his shoulder, led Martin and the horse a few metres on, towards an old stump. It was high enough for Martin to step up and climb onto the horse’s back. Then Willy climbed on behind Martin, took hold of the loose end of the rope and wound it around their waists, binding them together in case Martin fell off. Once settled, Willy made a clicking sound and the horse moved off.
“Why is he so calm?” Martin asked as they continued following the trees.
“Him belong on station…I broke him in.”
“So he knows you.”
“Him good horse; he just gets restless…like me.”
Martin wondered why, of all the horses, they had to run across this one.
It was an effortless journey; Willy hardly needed to correct him. He seemed to know where he was going. That was reassuring and as soon as Willy felt the horse was comfortable with two on his back he began increasing the pace. It was as if they both could smell the cattle station. And before long, without any prompting, the horse broke into a trot.
The constant bouncing on the horse’s back must have lulled Martin into a state of torpor. Occasionally he opened his eyes and saw the back of the horse’s neck rising and falling, but little else until the horse slowed down and resumed his earlier canter. The sun was back above his right shoulder, but this time the heat had dissipated. His head was too heavy for him to look up and check, but he guessed it was late and expected the reason they had slowed down was so that Willy could select a camping site for the night.
In reality, it was late afternoon and Willy was entering the stockyards of Galene cattle station. At first no one paid any attention – a stockman on horseback was a common occurrence – until someone shouted “Willy”; then they all looked up. All the way past the horses’ enclosure, the cattle pens and on to the outskirts of the cattle station buildings, men were looking up and shouting to Willy.
Willy was sitting ‘high in the saddle’, as they say, although he had no saddle, and he had gathered a crowd behind him. They looked as if they would follow him until the Aboriginal stockman boss walked out into the middle of the dirt road and raised his hand to stop Willy.
“Who’s this fella then?” the stockman asked.
“He’s my blood brother, Martin,” Willy exclaimed proudly.
As the old stockman rubbed his hand across his grey stubble with a questioning look, another commotion stirred the crowd.
The old stockman boss swung around, lifted both arms above his head and bellowed at them, “Clear off you lot; back to work! It isn’t sundown yet.”
As they separated and returned to their tasks, a white-coated figure pushed his way through the last of the stockmen. It was the cattle station’s doctor. News of Willy’s arrival had preceded him and the doctor was anxious to see if he was the man everyone was looking for.
Willy unravelled the rope and took charge of his spear and boomerang so that those who were left could help Martin down from the horse’s back. The doctor could see he was in a serious state. Willy had not noticed Martin’s decline as he’d focused on reaching the cattle station before nightfall.
“Okay you lot,” the doctor called out. “Carry him into the clinic.”
Everyone except Willy seemed to know Martin was a celebrity on television. The last few hours the CASA rescue machine had gone into action, spreading the news of a downed plane across the radio bands as well as the media.
But there was no mention of the one who’d actually saved Martin’s life. As the group disappeared into the clinic nearby, Willy, realising his moment of glory had passed, slowly turned his mount and headed for the horses’ enclosure. At least the red stallion was going to get his reward: a good rub-down and a bellyful of hay.