some grass-seed cakes from the ashes. The man said, “My daughter has made you welcome-cakes.” They sat down opposite one another, and he broke one. The girl disappeared into the hut, and after a while Rayner heard the clacking of a loom.
The old man started cramming the bread into his mouth. He said, “I heard some blokes been making trouble round town area.”
“There”ve been murders in the outlying farms. You heard that?”
“Yes, I heard that. These bad fellers make like they get rid of white man. One bad bloke makes it wrong for all ofus. They grow angry because no rain. They go a little out of their heads. That”s how it takes them, the drought. Is hard if rains don”t come and cattle all dying, one there, one here, dying.”
“The people in town are getting angry too,” Rayner said. “They think
they
live at the earth”s center!”
The man did not understand. “That”s another place, the earth”s center, long way south.” He extended his arm again. Rayner saw that he was shaking slightly, his whole body shaking. He kept ramming his stick in and out of the embers, as if to raise heat. His breathing had become a sad, nasal sighing. He said, “But that tree cut now. Nobody climbs up and down no more. It”s just sky now.” He pulled his stick from the cinders and inscribed something in the dust. “That”s the tree now.”
As his stick withdrew, Rayner saw that he had outlined a tall stump, like a phallus: some early object of worship, perhaps. But even in the crude medium of dust, his shaking hand had invested it with nervous, quivering lines.
Rayner said, “Are you feeling unwell?”
“I get bad from the hot heat.” The man spread his hand over his chest. “And sometimes in my left eye, if I looking at my hand, I see two hands, one top, one bottom.” He did not try this. “But I”m okay most days. My daughter gets medicine grass and sometimes whitefeller stuff. I”ve been lucky in my living, not like some.”
He became silent. Rayner went on hearing the clack-clack of the loom. Through the hut opening, beyond the girl”s back, he glimpsed their possessions: a skin rug, some articles of western clothing, and in the center, incongruously beautiful, the carved headrests on which these mysterious people slept. At the girl”s feet were a few bowls of roots and tubers, and a little beyond, exorcised of any threat, a short-handled axe.
Rayner wondered what the girl would do after her father had died. He badly wanted to give them something.He felt suddenly, illogically grateful to them—simply for their difference, their enigma. But as he got to his feet he realized he had nothing useful to give.
He took the old man”s arm. “Next time you”re in the town, you come and see me. I”m a doctor.” He printed out his address on a scrap of paper. “You show this to people, they”ll tell you where to come.”
The man laid the paper flat on the palm of his hand, then turned without a word into the hut.
Rayner scrambled up the slope to his car. It was already dusk. The wilderness seemed to be sucking the light out of the sky. As he drove back, the lamps of the mines ascended in front of him in constellations of white and amber, and the mammoth smelting chimney, picked out in red against the stars, still spread its waste in a long, fine dust across the night.
CHAPTER
8
R ayner found himself saying things to Zoë which he had never intended. Often when they were together her stare fell on him like a vivid but innocent searchlight, and he was touched by a kind of impetuous tenderness. They had slept with one another after only their second evening together, and within two weeks, a little bewildered at himself, he had asked her to join him on holiday. It was the animal exuberance of her, he thought, which was so elating, mixed with an intangible sense of suffering. Her vitality struck him as a kind of courage. For all her frankness, he felt he did not know her.
He chose the town”s most
The old man started cramming the bread into his mouth. He said, “I heard some blokes been making trouble round town area.”
“There”ve been murders in the outlying farms. You heard that?”
“Yes, I heard that. These bad fellers make like they get rid of white man. One bad bloke makes it wrong for all ofus. They grow angry because no rain. They go a little out of their heads. That”s how it takes them, the drought. Is hard if rains don”t come and cattle all dying, one there, one here, dying.”
“The people in town are getting angry too,” Rayner said. “They think
they
live at the earth”s center!”
The man did not understand. “That”s another place, the earth”s center, long way south.” He extended his arm again. Rayner saw that he was shaking slightly, his whole body shaking. He kept ramming his stick in and out of the embers, as if to raise heat. His breathing had become a sad, nasal sighing. He said, “But that tree cut now. Nobody climbs up and down no more. It”s just sky now.” He pulled his stick from the cinders and inscribed something in the dust. “That”s the tree now.”
As his stick withdrew, Rayner saw that he had outlined a tall stump, like a phallus: some early object of worship, perhaps. But even in the crude medium of dust, his shaking hand had invested it with nervous, quivering lines.
Rayner said, “Are you feeling unwell?”
“I get bad from the hot heat.” The man spread his hand over his chest. “And sometimes in my left eye, if I looking at my hand, I see two hands, one top, one bottom.” He did not try this. “But I”m okay most days. My daughter gets medicine grass and sometimes whitefeller stuff. I”ve been lucky in my living, not like some.”
He became silent. Rayner went on hearing the clack-clack of the loom. Through the hut opening, beyond the girl”s back, he glimpsed their possessions: a skin rug, some articles of western clothing, and in the center, incongruously beautiful, the carved headrests on which these mysterious people slept. At the girl”s feet were a few bowls of roots and tubers, and a little beyond, exorcised of any threat, a short-handled axe.
Rayner wondered what the girl would do after her father had died. He badly wanted to give them something.He felt suddenly, illogically grateful to them—simply for their difference, their enigma. But as he got to his feet he realized he had nothing useful to give.
He took the old man”s arm. “Next time you”re in the town, you come and see me. I”m a doctor.” He printed out his address on a scrap of paper. “You show this to people, they”ll tell you where to come.”
The man laid the paper flat on the palm of his hand, then turned without a word into the hut.
Rayner scrambled up the slope to his car. It was already dusk. The wilderness seemed to be sucking the light out of the sky. As he drove back, the lamps of the mines ascended in front of him in constellations of white and amber, and the mammoth smelting chimney, picked out in red against the stars, still spread its waste in a long, fine dust across the night.
CHAPTER
8
R ayner found himself saying things to Zoë which he had never intended. Often when they were together her stare fell on him like a vivid but innocent searchlight, and he was touched by a kind of impetuous tenderness. They had slept with one another after only their second evening together, and within two weeks, a little bewildered at himself, he had asked her to join him on holiday. It was the animal exuberance of her, he thought, which was so elating, mixed with an intangible sense of suffering. Her vitality struck him as a kind of courage. For all her frankness, he felt he did not know her.
He chose the town”s most
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