in the bush. All of them had huddled prayerfully around them. Catastrophe had been averted.
‘How did you know they were here, Bryn?’ Elizabeth had asked in wonder. ‘We all thought they’d gone back to the main camp.’ That was where a large tent had been erected.
‘The old woman spoke and I listened.’ It had been an odd thing to say, but no one had laughed.
Aborigines had an uncanny sense of danger. More so of approaching death. The old woman had even sent a strong wind at his back, though such a wind blew in no other place in the area. When everyone returned to the campsite to thank the old woman she’d been nowhere to be found. Even afterwards the aboriginal people who criss-crossed the station on walkabout claimed to know nothing of her or her whereabouts.
The wind blew her in. The wind blew her out.
‘Coulda been a ghost!’ Eddie Emu, one of the stockmen, had told them without a smile. ‘Ghosts take all forms, ya know!’
Magic and the everyday were interconnected with aboriginal people. One had to understand that. Eddie claimed to have seen the spirit of his dead wife many times in an owl. That was why the owl took its rest by day and never slept at night. Owls hovered while men slept. Owls gave off signals, messages.
All in all it had been an extraordinary day. Little trembling Francey had whispered something into his ear that day. Something that had always remained with him.
‘Carrie walked into the water. I did too.’
So what in God’s name had really happened? Simply a child’s terrible mistake? His mind had shut down on any other explanation. Carina had not been sufficiently aware of the danger and had later told fibs to exonerate herself from blame. It was a natural enough instinct.
Bryn came on them exactly where Jili had told him: Wungulla Lagoon, where the great corroborees had once been held. He seriously doubted whether a corroboree would be held to mark Sir Frank’s passing. Francis Forsyth had not been loved, nor respected in the purest sense. Feared, most certainly. It hadn’t taken the station people half a minute to become aware of Sir Frank’s dark streak. Everyone had obeyed him. No one had trusted him. Who could blame them? He himself had not trusted Francis Forsyth for many years now.
He parked the Jeep a short distance off, approaching on foot and dodging the great mushrooming mounds of spinifex, bright green instead of the usual burnt gold. Francey was in the middle of a group of women, five in all, all busy at their painting. They looked totally involved, perfectly in harmony with their desert home.
Francey might have nearly drowned in Koopali Lagoon at age six, but at twenty-three she was a bush warrior. She could swim like a fish. She was fearless in an uncompromising environment that could and did take lives. She could handle the swiftest and strongest horse on the station. She could ride bareback if she had to, and find her way in the wilderness. She could shoot and hunt if it became necessary. In fact she was a crack shot, with an excellent eye. She knew all about bush tucker—how to make good bread from very finely ground small grass seeds, where to find the wild limes and figs, the bush tomatoes and a whole supermarket of wild berries and native fruits. Francey knew how to survive. She had made friends with the aboriginal people from her earliest childhood. In turn they had taught her a great deal about their own culture, without compromising the secrets forbidden to white people. They had taught her to see their landscape with her own eyes. And now she had a highly recognisable painting style that was bringing in excellent reviews.
Over the past few years since she had left university as one of the top three graduates in law for her year—Francey had thought it necessary to know her way around big business and the administration of her own sizeable trust fund—she had begun to capture the fantasy of aboriginal mythology with her own acutely imaginative vision. Her paintings—Bryn loved them, and owned quite a few—were a deeply sensitive and sympathetic mix of both cultures. She’d already had one sell-out showing, stressing to press and collectors alike the great debt she owed to her aboriginal mentors. As it happened all of them were women, who were now commanding quite a following thanks to their own talent and Francesca’s endeavours. Aboriginal art was extraordinarily powerful.
She rose to her feet the moment the Jeep came into view. She was walking towards him, as graceful as a gazelle. She had the Forsyth height—tall for a woman—and willow-slender beautiful limbs. Her face was protected by an attractive wide-brimmed hat made of woven grasses, probably fashioned for her by one of the women. Her long shiny river of hair, that when loose fell into deep lustrous waves, was caught back into a thick rope that trailed down her back. A single silky skein lay across her throat like a ribbon. She wore the simplest of gear: a pale blue cotton shirt streaked with paint, beige shorts, dusty trainers on her feet.
‘Bryn!’ she called.
Her voice, one of her great attractions, was like some lovely musical instrument.
‘Hi there, Francey!’
Just the sight of her set up a curious ache deep inside him. He knew what it meant. Of course he did. But how did he turn things around? They stood facing each other. Their eyes met. Instant communication. And they both knew it—however hard she tried to disguise it. She lifted her face to him and kissed his cheek.
The cool satin touch of her flesh! He could see the flush of blood beneath her smooth golden skin before the familiar dissembling began. Both of them seemed to be stuck in roles imposed on them from childhood. That would change now.
‘It has to be something serious to bring you here, Bryn.’ She held her tapering long-fingered hands in front of her in an instinctive gesture of defensiveness. ‘It’s Grandfather, isn’t it?’ She turned her head abruptly, as if responding to a signal. The women were still sitting in their painting circle, but they had all left off work. Now they lifted their hands high in unison, palms facing upwards to the sky.
Now we have moved to an end.
Bryn recognised and wasn’t greatly surprised by the ceremonial gesture. These people were extraordinary. ‘Yes, Francey, it is,’ he confirmed gravely. ‘Your grandfather died of a massive heart attack yesterday afternoon. I came as quickly as I could. I’m very sorry for your pain. I know you can only be thinking of what might have been.’
‘I wasn’t there, Bryn.’ Her voice splintered in her throat. ‘I knew the moment I saw you what you were going to tell me.’
‘I’m sorry, Francey,’ he repeated. ‘You’re getting so close to these people you’re acquiring their powers. How do they know? It’s not guesswork. They know.’
‘Uncanny, isn’t it?’ She flung another glance over her shoulder. The women had resumed their painting. ‘But then they’re the oldest living culture on earth. They’ve lived right here on this spot for over forty thousand years. They can scent death.’
He nodded. He had seen it happen many times. His eyes remained locked on her. She had lost colour at his news, but she was pushing away the tears. She wore no make-up that he could see, beyond lipgloss to protect her mouth. Her skin was flawless, poreless—like a baby’s. Her large almond-shaped eyes, heavily and blackly lashed, dazzled like silver coins in the sunlight.
‘He didn’t want to see me?’ It came out on a wave of sadness and deep regret.
Bryn found himself, as ever, protective. He hastened to explain. ‘It wasn’t a case of his wanting to see anyone, Francey.’ He knew the hurt and pain of exclusion she had carried for most of her
