William’s uncle strode to the very centre of the oval, and spread his arms to the rocks. ‘As long as it doesn’t rain,’ he said, ‘this is where we’ll set up the PA and hold the meetings.’
William looked around, dubious. The hilltop felt claustrophobic somehow. The sky was blue above, and yet the air felt stuffy, with the grey trees leaning inwards all around and the stones looming. It was difficult to imagine lights and people here, let alone loudspeakers.
‘You’d almost think someone built this, wouldn’t you?’ said his uncle.‘In fact, it’s a natural formation. But even so, this is a special place. A meeting place. I think people have held meetings here for centuries.’
‘What people?’
‘You know what people.’ The old man selected a boulder to sit on, waved William over to a place by his side. ‘Now, you’re going to hear a lot of things talked about at this rally, just like you did on TV last night. There are going to be some angry people, and some hard opinions. A lot of the discussion is going to be about Native Title, and that means a lot of it is going to be about Aborigines. You’ll hear some pretty nasty things said. But there are a few points I want you to understand.’
William waited.
‘The first thing,’ his uncle said finally, ‘is that I don’t hate Aborigines. Some of the people who are coming to the rally do … but not many, and I certainly don’t agree with them. That isn’t what the League is all about. Personally, I have a great deal of respect for Aborigines and the way they used to live. They were here before us, after all, and they survived for thousands of years. They understood a lot of things. Like this circle. I don’t have any proof, but I’m sure that they used to gather right here.’
William studied the stones. ‘What for?’
‘I don’t know. Corroborees, maybe. Initiations. Important rituals. It doesn’t really matter what they came here for … what’s important is that this is where they came. Look around. Can’t you feel something?’
William could. It was faint and hard to catch, like something from the corner of his eye, but it was there. A circle of stone within a circle of trees.
‘They wouldn’t have missed a spot like this,’ his uncle insisted. ‘There’s something powerful here. They would have sniffed it out and used it.’ He tilted his head to look at William. ‘Have you ever heard of bora rings?’
‘No.’
‘The Aborigines used to mark out rings, away in the bush, in places that were special to them. Powerful places. They were sacred. And I think this is one of them. You wait until you’re up here at night, with a big fire burning. You’ll see what I mean. I’ve had a few smaller meetings up here before. And something is present on this hill. Something comes alive.’
Fire…a fire burning amidst the stones. A memory chilled William, from months ago. He had been sitting on the back verandah of his old house, on the night before he and his mother left it forever. He had seen a point of light out in the darkness, up in the hills. Recalling it now, William turned and gazed through the trees to the plains below. His old farm was down there somewhere, and from there he might have been looking up to this very spot. So had he witnessed some earlier meeting of his uncle’s? But no … the mysterious light had flickered in and out of view. It hadn’t been stationary like a campfire, William was sure. It had been moving.
‘Now there are some people who would find it stupid to meet in an Aboriginal place. They don’t think the blacks ever did anything worthwhile. But I don’t want you to think that, no matter what you hear. The Aborigines may not have made this place, but they recognised it, and it’s partly out of respect for them that I chose it for the rally.’ The old man straightened sternly.‘But the ironic thing is that because of laws like Native Title, I have to keep this place secret. And it
is
a secret, Will.’
‘Like the water hole?’
‘Exactly like the water hole.’
‘But why?’
‘It’s dangerous information in these times, that’s why. This is my land now, I know you understand that. Whoever might have lived here once, they’re gone. But the people who support Native Title, they don’t accept that. They think that the Aborigines can be brought back somehow, given back their old land. I think that’s madness. It’s far too late to undo the things that were done, not without making an even bigger mess than we already have. But take this bora ring. If the government or some Aboriginal land council knew it was here, they’d be swarming up this hill in no time. They’d say these stones were proof that the blacks lived here, that they used this land for their rituals, and that therefore I should give it back to them. Obviously I don’t want that to happen, so I don’t tell anybody that the ring is here. And that’s what these new laws will make people like me do. Keep all sorts of secrets we wouldn’t have to otherwise.’
‘But lots of people will be here next week.’
His uncle laughed.‘We don’t have to worry about them. They won’t tell. But I wanted you to think about it. You see, I chose this place partly out of respect, but partly as a protest too.’
‘A protest?’
The old man nodded, sombre again. ‘There are folk out there who believe that the Aborigines are the only ones who understand the land, that only the blacks could have a found a place like this and appreciated what it was. They think that the blacks have some magical connection that whites can never have, that we’re just stumbling around here without any idea, that we don’t understand the country, that we just want to exploit it. But that’s not true. We can have connections with the land too, our own kind of magic. This land talks to me. It doesn’t care what colour I am, all that matters is that I’m here. And I understand what it says, just as well as anyone before me, black or white. I found this ring, didn’t I? So I deserve respect too.’
He fell silent. William pondered the stone circle. Here was another secret he had learnt about the station. And that was a good thing. The more time he spent with his uncle, the more was revealed to him. He was getting closer all the time to knowing the land in the way the old man knew it. A magical connection, his uncle had called it — knowing about places like the stone ring and the water hole, or the story of the explorer who lay buried under the House.
Knowledge, William decided, that was the issue. Knowledge was the essence of ownership. The black men, it seemed, had held the knowledge when they had owned the land. His uncle held it now. And when William had the knowledge, when he knew everything about the station there was to know, he too would be ready to be own it in his turn.
The old man was standing again. He reached down and ruffled the army cap upon William’s head. ‘Just don’t let anyone tell you that the League is racist.’
T
WO DAYS BEFORE THE RALLY BEGAN, FOUR MEMBERS OF THE League’s central committee arrived to help with final preparations. William was posted as guard on the front steps. His job was to greet the guests and direct them to his uncle’s office.
The first to arrive was none other than Dr Moffat. He pulled up in his old car and climbed out, as round and red-faced as ever. He waved an airy greeting, then proceeded to unload two cartons of wine from the boot, toting them breathlessly up the stairs into the entrance hall.
‘And how’s that glandular fever of yours?’ he wheezed.
It was a moment before William even remembered.‘Okay.’
A wink.‘’Course it is. Back at school next year, hey?’
William nodded uncertainly. With the doctor right there in front of him, he almost said something about his ear. But what if he was sent to bed and told to stay there? And he remembered how agonising it had been when Dr Moffat examined him the last time. So he said nothing, and in any case, the doctor was already heading for the office.
The next guest drove up in a big, silvery four-wheel drive, and the man who climbed out was just as big and broad. He wasn’t young — he had thinning hair, a creased, sunburnt face, and a huge belly bulging through his shirt — but he seemed hale and fit all the same, smartly dressed in jeans and boots. He stomped up the stairs, eyeing William cheerfully. ‘Standing sentry are we?’ The man raised a hand to his forehead, saluting.‘What are you under that hat? Captain? Major? General?’
William was caught off guard. ‘It’s not really an army hat,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a police hat.’
‘Bullshit. Used to be a copper m’self. Never saw a police hat like that, not in my whole career. You’d be this nephew I’ve been hearing about?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Good lad. So where’s your uncle?’
The man’s name was Terry Butterworth, and it turned out he really had been a policeman once, although he was some years retired. He ran a business of his own now, in Toowoomba. Something to do with installing locks and burglar alarms. He was large and loud and rough, but William liked him, and was impressed enough to practise saluting for a while, when he returned to his station on the porch.
Another four-wheel drive appeared, this one painted with safari stripes. It was all dented and covered in dust, and sported a huge bull bar and spotlights. The driver, however, was small and wiry and old. He was dressed in a faded khaki uniform,his skin was tanned a leathery brown and his face was lost in a wild tangle of beard, from which dangled a smouldering cigarette. Coming up the front steps, he was as bow-legged as a crab. Emboldened, William tried out his salute. The old man reared back momentarily, the cigarette stiffening in astonishment.
‘I’ll be buggered,’ he said. He returned the salute with a single finger to his brow, then headed off towards the office without another word.
Abashed, William was left to study the vehicle. On the side were emblazoned the words ‘Lost Reef Outback Tours — Proprietor Henry Lasseter’.
This meant nothing to William, but later his uncle explained all about the legend of the prospector Harold Lasseter, and the giant deposit of gold he claimed to have found, but then lost again, out in the desert.
Henry
Lasseter meanwhile, tour guide, was no relation to the original. What was more, his tours operated only in western Queensland,nowhere near the region in which the reef supposedly existed. But Henry hadn’t let such minor details stand in his way. William got the impression that his uncle didn’t think much of the old tour guide, or the tourists who hired him, or indeed the whole Lasseter legend in general.‘But if people want to be fooled by old stories,’ his uncle said,‘then one fraud deserves another.’
The last committee member arrived around sunset, rolling up the driveway in a sleek red sedan. Attached to the rear bumper of the car was a bicycle, the sort that was built for racing, and the driver was much younger than the other guests. He had neat dark hair and a clean-shaven face and, most startling of all, he was wearing a suit and a tie. For a disturbing instant, William was reminded of the undertakers who had buried his father. He forgot to salute. The newcomer pulled a briefcase from his car and stared up doubtfully at the crumbling walls, the clinging ivy, and the sagging verandah of the upper floor.
‘Is this John McIvor’s place?’ he asked with a frown, his eyes coming to rest dubiously on William’s hat.
‘Yes sir.’
‘Good Lord.’
His name, it emerged, was Kevin Goodwin, and he was from Brisbane. He was an accountant, and because of that, William’s uncle had appointed him as League treasurer, even though he was a relatively new member. But William decided he didn’t like him much. The man appeared to think that a boy wearing an army hat was something silly.
But that was the sentry duty accomplished. William returned to his own wing and settled down to toasted sandwiches in front of television. Occasionally there came distant yells and a hubbub of voices from the office, where his uncle was entertaining the men. It grew very late, and William was nodding off in the chair when his uncle appeared in the doorway.
‘First meeting,’ the old man said.‘Come on.’
The committee had gathered in the dining room, ranging themselves around the table as a naked bulb burned above. They each had drinks in their hands, beer or wine or scotch, and cigarette smoke was already thick in the air. William sat in the corner, and watched wide-eyed as his uncle — seated upright at the head of the table — opened the proceedings. But there were all sorts of formalities to be attended to, and minutes to be read, and William soon grew bored. His gaze drifted towards the ceiling. Great cobwebs floated dreamily in the corners. He watched them drift, growing sleepy, and then blinked suddenly. The meeting proper was under way.
‘I’ve seen the maps,’ Terry Butterworth was declaring, fingers jammed under his straining belt buckle.‘No matter who says what — half the country is open to claim. The pastoral industry, the mining industry, they’d both be paralysed. And take Henry there — the places he runs his tours through are all either leasehold or Crown property.’
‘I’d be screwed,’ the tour guide rasped. He was hunched forward over the table, scribbling in a ledger that lay open before him, taking the minutes. ‘Suddenly it’s black land and sacred sites and whites aren’t allowed in. Look what’s happened in the Northern Territory. They have independent bloody countries up there, you need fucking passports to go anywhere.’
‘It’s a legal fiction anyway,’ the policeman remarked. ‘Either the whole country was stolen, in which case the entire continent’s up for Native Title claims, or none of it was. You can’t just say that freehold is somehow magically immune. Even the blacks are pissed off about that. Freehold, pastoral leases — they reckon it’s all theirs regardless.’
William’s uncle spoke. ‘Freehold means city properties. The government knows that if they touch the cities there’d be a revolution. They’re not that stupid. But pastoral lease-holders are a tiny minority, so they don’t matter.’
‘They?’ This was Kevin Goodwin, looking puzzled. ‘Aren’t you one of them?’
William’s uncle shook his head.‘The original Kuran Station was all pastoral lease, of course. But when it was broken up the government ceded fifteen thousand acres to the Whites as part of the deal. That land was converted to something called perpetual lease. From a legal point of view, I’m told, it’s just as secure as freehold.’