By midday he was trudging along with his head down. There was still no sign of the campground, although surely he had walked far enough. Could he be lost? He was following the track, but the hills all looked the same, and with the sun overhead in a featureless sky, even north and south were gone. He stopped in a tree-lined gully that offered shade, and sat on a log to rest. He ate some biscuits, even though he still had no appetite, and saw that he’d already drunk most of his water. He watched ants swarming in the red dust, devouring the crumbs he had dropped. He looked up at the trees hanging above him, their branches drooping low, the leaves shrivelled and cracked. He gazed back along the track, wondering if perhaps his mother might come for him early. But there was no sign of her or the car, only the hum of flies, and his ear throbbed relentlessly.
He waited there for perhaps an hour, or even longer — but time had begun to telescope. Abruptly, he shook off the lethargy, drank the last of his water, and set off again. His pace was steady for a while, but the heat was stupefying, burning through the dark material of his captain’s hat and setting his head afire. The glare narrowed his eyes into slits. Fatigue set in, and thirst, and still the hills refused to form themselves into a pattern he recognised. Eventually he dropped back to a slow march, his eyes fixed upon the ground. There was nothing to see anyway, only his own shadow lengthening before him as the sun began to descend westwards. When he glanced up blearily and saw the windmill, off to the left of the track, for a moment he could only stare at it in surprise. Then he was stumbling towards the water tank. He turned the tap at its base, and drank.
The water was tepid and sour, but that didn’t matter. He stuck his head under the tap and flooded water all down his back. The fever in his head receded. He sucked in deep breaths and looked about the campground. It was nothing like he remembered from the rally, just a dusty hillside of brown grass, scuffed here and there where cars had parked, or a tent had stood. He lifted his eyes and saw, on the hilltop, amidst the trees, the shapes of standing stones. They seemed smaller than he recalled. But he remembered what they had looked like under the stars that night, in the darkness and firelight. He left his backpack by the tank, and climbed up through the grass.
There were signs that people had gathered here — the remnants of campfires, a lone shoe that had belonged to a child, a pile of empty beer cans, their bright colours already fading. Then he came to the stone circle. At the edge of the ring he saw a blackened pile of ash that had been the bonfire. Beyond that, in the middle of the circle, were two angled lines of charred wood and burned grass. The shape they formed was marked in his mind, billowing smoke and flame as white robes danced madly. And yet the memory didn’t seem so terrible now. He gazed around at the stones in puzzlement. Had something changed, or was it that on a hot, airless afternoon, the whole mystery of the circle was hidden? Perhaps it needed the old man’s presence, and the hypnosis of his voice, to bring the place alive. But the ring no longer felt powerful, just drab and empty, and the patches of ash gave it a leftover appearance, like a rubbish tip.
He descended the hill, studying the sun in the western sky. Perhaps he should stay here by the water tank and wait for his mother. But as he reached the bottom he remembered that there, on the other side of the track, where the land fell away into a gully, was where he had seen the burning man. And that memory, unlike the others, had not faded. He couldn’t stay here — he had to move on or go home. Weariness assailed him at either prospect, but he thought about water, dark and deep and glimmering, and he remembered the stone seat beneath the willow tree. Maybe it wasn’t so far. It would be a fine thing if he could be sitting there when his mother arrived. He would have swum in the pool by then, he would have purged his body of heat and dust and disease. And there was his uncle too, who wouldn’t be pleased if William gave up just because he was hot and tired.
He refilled the bottle and gathered up his backpack. The road beckoned, and he set his feet to it, marching eastwards, the sun burning on his neck. But his progress remained slow. The track climbed more steeply than before, across hills that reared ominously high, and the sick feeling, relieved momentarily by the water, came stealing back. Time fled by. All around him the trees were casting longer and longer shadows as the afternoon deepened towards evening, but the heat did not abate. He had been walking almost an entire day. Surely he should have covered ten miles by now. But then it occurred to him that while the station was indeed ten miles in length, the track would be longer because it wound about the hills. How much longer? Twelve miles maybe? Fifteen? And even as he added the numbers in his head, he realised he had come to a halt, swaying back and forth on his unsteady legs.
He pushed on, but the bottle was already half empty again, and the surrounding hills had become unrecognisable once more. He didn’t think he was anywhere near the water hole. Finally, his legs gave up on him. Looking back, he saw that the sun was slipping behind a western ridge. Out on the plains there was maybe another hour yet to sunset, but in the hills, evening lowered across the slopes. Enough was enough. William limped to the side of the road, looking for somewhere to sit and watch for his mother. He had come to a small field between two hills, and there was a lone tree not far from the track, its branches spread wide over the grass. Beneath it a few ancient posts leant, all that was left of a long forgotten fence or shack. He unloaded his backpack, sat down against the tree, facing the road, and waited.
The last crows of the day were calling their farewells. The buzzing flies were finally gone, but other insects whirred in the grass, and the reedy shrill of cicadas sprang up as the shadows deepened. The sky turned from pale blue to dusty red, and somewhere, hidden behind the ridge, the sun sank below the horizon. William strove against a growing unease. It was not night, not really. His mother would be leaving the house right at that moment, or maybe she was even closer. But the light continued to fade, and gradually the world was slipping away, the haze deepening into gloom, the hills melting into vague shapes that loomed on either side. A few lone stars glowed above, and in the west the last hints of red sky were turning yellow, and then the faintest of greens. Still, it was not night, he told himself, not proper night. But finally William saw the moon lifting above the eastern slopes, and he could deny it no longer. It
was
night, and his mother had not come.
Panic fluttered at the back of his mind. What was she doing? His eyes darted back and forth, probing the darkness. The moon was only just past full, but it was sickly yellow, and seemed to cast no light. All he could see were the tangled shadows of the tree above him, and the line of the hills against a slightly paler sky. He realised that he had not brought a torch or matches. What was he to do? Should he begin walking home? But his legs still ached and twitched, and the mere thought of all those miles was anguish. Besides, he would have to pass by the campground, and the gully waiting below. He was better off where he was. His mother had to come eventually. But still the minutes raced by, and with every one of them he felt more afraid and wretched.
He huddled against the tree, chill despite the warmth of the air. The moon rode well clear of the hills now, and the evening shrill of cicadas was fading away. His mother wasn’t coming. Something had gone wrong. Had his uncle forgotten to tell her? And then a truly horrible thought struck him. What if his uncle had died? Before telling anyone? No one would know where William had gone. He stared at the darkness, despairing. Shapes seemed to form in the night, and approach, and then dissolve away into shadows. Everything was merging into blackness … and suddenly William snapped his head up from his chest, blinking in astonishment. He had almost fallen asleep. That mustn’t happen. He had to stay awake. He propped himself up against the tree and rubbed his eyes.
He was face down in the dirt when he woke again.
Something was tickling his cheek. William lay unmoving, his eyes closed. He could feel the ground beneath him, and the itch of grass on his legs, and then the feather-light touch came again, legs creeping across his face. A spider, he thought, and yet stayed still, as if this was a dream, and any movement would break the spell. The touches crept across his neck and then disappeared. William opened one eye, the other pressed against the ground. It was deep night.
He heard a low, snuffling grunt. His single eye went wide, and the grunt came again, nearer now. A shadow moved. It had arms and legs. It was a man.
He was hunched low, dragging something with great difficulty across the ground, a large and ungainly object. With the same dreamlike calm, William realised that it was the body of a second man. The shapes paused not ten yards from where he lay. Then the figure on the ground stirred slowly and groaned. The first man gave a snort of displeasure and stood upright for a moment. William caught a glimpse of a ragged broad-brimmed hat and a lean,bearded face. The man held something in his hand, something with a long handle. Steel glinted, then the man lifted the axe and swung it down. The body on the ground went still. But the axeman laughed, and brought the weapon down again. And again. He circled the corpse in a shuffling dance as William watched with his one staring eye.
The axe paused in mid-stroke.
The man stood motionless, his head tilted alertly. He sniffed the air, this way and that. Then he looked directly towards where William lay unmoving beneath the tree.
William shut his eye. It was only a dream. There was nothing there. He would wake up again and it would be dawn and his mother would arrive with the car.
Footsteps crunched in the dead grass.
What have we here?
It was a voice and no voice, hoarse and breathless.
I know you’re awake, boy
. Something shifted closer, greedy and pawing at the ground.
It’s into the tucker bag with you.
It was upon him now, hovering eagerly above. And still William felt no fear, but his skin went cold as a hand seemed to skim along his body, not touching him, but only inches away. The hand came to his head, and then there was an angry hiss of surprise.
Oh-ho. Up jumped the troopers.
The presence drew back, and the voice went sullen.
I was hungry, that was all. They sent us here and
forgot us.
There were more scuffling sounds. It seemed to William that the figure had turned away. But then it was close again, bent low over him. William heard harsh panting, right in his ear, felt hot air against his face, and there came the smell of sweat and hair and rotting meat.
You’re a long way from home, boy
, it whispered, all fury and hate.
But not far enough. This isn’t the place.
It strode away. Something heavy thumped and shifted in the grass, then there was silence. William found that he could move. He sat up at last. Almost unconsciously, his hand went to his head and found his captain’s hat still perched there. He stared in every direction, wondering.
But the night was empty.
S
UNLIGHT WAS BURNING THROUGH WILLIAM’S EYELIDS.
He opened them and saw that it was full day. The sun was already high and hot. He lifted himself painfully, looked around at the tree and the leaning posts and the little field. There was no sign that anything had been there, no footprints in the dust, no marks of a body having been dragged through the grass. Of course not. It had never happened.
He fished in his backpack for the water bottle. It held two or three warm mouthfuls. He drank them down, felt his thirst awaken, and knew that there was no more.
He turned his gaze to the empty road. A full day and night, he thought resentfully. Why wasn’t his mother looking for him? It didn’t matter if something was wrong at the House — even the death of his uncle — she should have come searching by now. But then his anger died. He had to get more water, and that meant either returning to the campground, or pushing on to the water hole. He looked eastwards, and to his surprise realised that he could see the balding peaks of the Hoop Mountains. They were tinged blue with drifting smoke, but perhaps the fires up there had burned themselves out, for the haze had definitely cleared a little. The lower slopes were no more than a few miles away. He took heart. If the mountains were close, then so was the rock pool.
William set off, limping doggedly as he climbed out of the valley. His mind was curiously languid, random thoughts rolling about it. He remembered a story his uncle had told him, about two shepherds who had worked in these hills, long ago. Hadn’t one murdered the other with an axe? Yes … the dream was just one of his uncle’s stories, all twisted because of the fever in his head. As soon as his mother came for him, he would demand that he be taken to a doctor. And not Dr Moffat either, a proper doctor in Powell, in a proper surgery that was clean and shining. He thought of the main street of the town, busy with cars and people. He remembered green parks, and the swimming pool, long and wide, glittering with blue water. It smelled of chlorine, and there was a canteen there too, that sold cold drinks from a refrigerator with condensation dripping down the glass doors…
William stumbled, and was back on the dusty road. Why was he thinking about Powell? His uncle had taken him away from things like parks and cold drinks. The hills were his only world now, and his duty was to walk them from end to end. No, not his duty, his punishment. For daring to think that he could ever own something as huge and harsh as the station. His uncle was teaching him a lesson. The old man would never tell William’s mother where he had gone. Even if he found the water hole, he would have to turn around and walk all the way back. And by then his mother would have disappeared, and his uncle too, and there would only be Mrs Griffith in the House, and she would not let him in, she would say that there had never been any little boy living there…