The Valley - Softcover

Hawke, Steve

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1925591182 ISBN 13: 9781925591187

Verlag: Fremantle Press, 2018

Inhaltsangabe

The past casts long shadows in the Kimberley s high country. A murder in the remote bush in 1916 sparks a chain of events that will haunt a family for generations. Hidden in the refuge of a secret valley, their tiny community lives unknown to the world. When, a century later, Broome schoolboy Dancer falls foul of the local bikie gang, he and his father head up the Gibb River Road. Here, in a maze of rugged ranges and remote communities, Dancer begins to unravel the truth behind the mysterious disappearance of Milly Rider, the mother he never knew. But the valley hides its secrets well. As Dancer learns the ways of his mother s country, he uncovers a precious inheritance one not even those closest to Milly expected to find. The Valley is a masterfully told epic of the Kimberley.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Steve Hawke grew up in Melbourne but found his way to the Northern Territory and then to the Kimberley as a nineteen-year-old in 1978. Captivated by the country, the history and the people, he stayed for almost fifteen years working for Aboriginal communities and organizations. He now lives in the hills outside Perth, but continues his strong association with the Kimberley, returning most years. His writings on the Kimberley include Noonkanbah: Whose Land, Whose Law, the children's novel Barefoot Kids, the play Jandamarra that premiered at the Perth International Arts Festival in 2008 and toured the Kimberley in 2011, and A Town Is Born: The Fitzroy Crossing Story.

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The Valley

By Steve Hawke

Fremantle Press

Copyright © 2018 Steve Hawke
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-925591-18-7

CHAPTER 1

Poison Hole, 1916

The ground birds are sheltering from the heat of the day. The only sounds breaking the silence of the bush are the occasional clinking of a buckle against a harness ring, the muffled steps of his horse and the two mules, and the odd snort as one of the animals tosses its head at a bothersome fly.

It's Billy's first solo trip, and he's enjoying having no chores and the freedom to daydream. He's trying to work out if he's turned sixteen yet. It was March when he stepped ashore in Derby. That must be six months ago now, but since he found his brother details like dates and calendars seem to have lost their meaning.

He dallies at Packhorse Creek, letting the horse and mules drink their fill, watching the play of light on the water and the fish fry darting about in schools. These are the times he likes best, being alone in the bush. It's only a few miles to the camp now, following the creek down, but there is no incentive to push on. He isn't expected until tomorrow. If he times his arrival right supper should be ready, and apart from unloading the stores and turning the mules out, he might be able to take it easy. Billy rarely gets a chance to take it easy.

As he tops the second-last crest he realises there is no smoke rising from the camp. Strange for this time of day. Kites are spiralling, dozens of them, their whistling cries filling the air as they swoop and wheel. Uneasy now, he flicks the reins to urge the horse into a brisker walk. As the camp comes into view he knows something is wrong. There's no-one in sight; not at the blacks' camp, not around the kitchen boughshed, nor at the bark hut.

The knot in his gut tightens as he stands the horse and scans the camp. An open flourbag in the dirt. Packs loose on the ground. Des's chair overturned. Jones keeps a clean camp. Every item is precious out here, two hundred miles from town; between scavenging dingoes and inquisitive munjons, it doesn't pay to leave gear lying around.

Then he sees the empty brew bucket. Fear takes hold.

* * *

The camp at Poison Hole is the furthest north in this part of the Kimberley, days of riding beyond the battling pastoral leases. Jock 'Twelve Inch' Jones has been here three years. A lanky Scotsman with deep set, burning eyes; tough as they come, making a living of sorts as a dogger getting a pound's bounty per scalp, and topping up his tuckerbags now and then with a contracting job for one of the station owners.

Twelve Inch had taken on Des eighteen months back for a fencing contract. For reasons that escape Billy, except perhaps that they are both of Scottish blood, they've stuck together since. He was not impressed when Billy turned up, tagging behind Des. 'Two white men in a camp's one too many in these parts,' he'd growled. 'Three's plain feckin' ridiculous. No passengers here, kid. Ye'll work like a blackfeller or ye'll roll your swag.'

Des had been only a touch more welcoming when the brothers were reunited at Mount House. He'd cleared out for the Kimberley when Billy was a babe, and hadn't expected to see any of his family again. He'd tried to talk Billy into heading back to Derby.

As they'd approached the Poison Creek camp the first time, Des said, 'He's not called Twelve Inch for his weddin' tackle, though that's a fearsome enough sight. It's for the barrel on that revolver of his. Special mail-order job from America, only one like it round here. Stay out of his way as much as you can.'

Twelve Inch scornfully dubbed him 'The Nullagine Billygoat', but mostly ignored Billy except to bark orders.

Until he went on a bender. He'd arrived back in camp one morning with a gleam in his eyes, and brought the brew bucket out from the hut. Twelve Inch was in a rare jovial mood as he presided over the brewing. First came 'the base'.

'Ye've got to get that right, or the metho'll kill ye,' he grinned at Billy. 'We don't mind a bit o' mayhem, but we don't want to be turnin' our toes up just yet, do we now. We Scotsmen know about these things. Read the Scottish play, laddie? Macbeth?'

Billy shook his head dumbly.

'The witches, laddie, the three witches. The middle one was in me family line, they say. Eye of newt,' he cackled, as he threw a handful of pepper into the simmering water in the iron bucket.

Boiled sugar and treacle and a dash of curry powder went into the murky broth. But the pièce de résistance, in his eyes, was the handfuls of white bark he stirred in. Billy recognised it as the same type the natives burned to ashes, and mixed with the tobacco they chewed.

'Gives it a kick, laddie, a kick like a mule,' Twelve Inch exulted.

The sun was getting low. After much tasting he decided the base was ready. Rubbing his hands together, he fetched two bottles of methylated spirits from his hut and emptied them into the bucket.

While Twelve Inch waited for the brew to reach perfection, Des took Billy aside and gave him some rare brotherly advice. 'Join in or clear out. He's inclined to take a set against anyone that's sober when he goes on the grog. That waterhole a couple of miles upstream's not a bad spot for a spell.'

Billy made the wrong call. The lovingly prepared base could not mask the raw, astringent bite of the meths. He couldn't stop the reflex that spat the foul mix out. Twelve Inch scooped him another measure. Glittering eyes fixed on Billy, he hissed through clenched teeth, 'Drink it.' The pannikin trembled in Billy's hands. He gagged and spat again, unable to control himself.

'Eatin' me tucker's one thing. Wastin' me grog's another, ye mangy billygoat,' Twelve Inch snarled, unbuttoning the flap of his holster. He took a big draught himself, then drew the revolver. 'Drink!'

This time Billy managed to swallow. But the fire in his throat was unbearable. He retched a spray that reached almost to Twelve Inch's boots.

The first shot was in the air. Billy looked despairingly at his brother, but Des's eyes were fixed firmly on the ground as he took a sip. Was that a smirk being suppressed?

The next shot buried itself in the dirt, a yard from Billy's right foot. He leapt and ran, with Twelve Inch's mad laugh ringing in his ears.

* * *

The memory overwhelms Billy as he surveys the camp. The terror. The mosquito- ridden desolation of the two nights cowering at the waterhole, no swag, no tucker, until he crept back. The sight of Des and Twelve Inch comatose in the dirt.

He leads the horse and mules back to cover, tethers them firmly, then edges towards the camp, rifle in hand. He steps anxiously into the open and makes his way to the hearth. The ashes are cold. He stands a long time. No thoughts. Just dread. And a vivid, momentary flash of his mother Mary, coughing her last.

A whimper from the hut.

Thinking Twelve Inch must be in there, dead to the world with one of the women, he approaches on tiptoe. But not quietly enough. The whimper becomes hysterical screaming. Bessie! A hand goes to the breast pocket where he's stashed the neatly folded neckerchief.

Bessie had come up with her parents from their country to the south. She was to become the second wife for old man Thursday, anointed by Twelve Inch as the boss of Poison Hole's native camp. Her cheeky smile and shining breasts have woven through his dreams every night since. He'd used his shilling to buy the neckerchief, thinking she might wear it, folded over her hairbelt to cover herself. That she might flash that smile at him.

'Bessie?'...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Fremantle Press
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2018
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1925591182
• ISBN 13: 9781925591187
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 258
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: preigu GmbH & Co. KG; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; Niedersachsen; 49078; Deutschland