Tracker

A square tower of granite thrust out of the surrounding trees. Its weathered black face cried rivulets of rain that coursed down its side to the undergrowth. A bottom corner of the tower had broken off a some hundred thousand years earlier and now lay a dozen yards away down the hill. In the detached void a small overhang had formed, where generations of animals had churned up the dry sandy ground beneath.

The tall, black figure of Parala stood under the looming rock to avoid the drizzle that had been soaking all of them for three days. The rainforest surrounding him was hushed under the deluge, the trees blending into the mist that clung to their twisted forms. He watched as the dark figure of Timbul, dressed in an identical loincloth, climbed the hill to the overhang. He stood with Parala, breathing from the exertion.

For sooth old man, dost such a slight climb take away thy breath? said Parala.

When thirty and five summers thou reach, young whelk, see’st how well thou breathe replied Timbul. He looked at the floor of the cave. Dost thou believe he slumbered here through the tempest?

Yea, verily my brother. Once, by virtue of happenstance we sheltered here before. Mayest thou see the depression in the sand towards the rear of the cave? ‘Tis fresh and ne’er made by any beast.

‘Tis as you say. Dost thou eyes seek out his manner of departure from this haven?

‘Aye, they do. Yet it aids me not for I know already the heart of his voyage. 

At that moment the noise of pots clanging and branches snapping rang out from down the hill. Emerging from the mist, two white squatters trudged up leading an overladen donkey. The leading man had a grizzled beard under his slouch hat. He took each step up the hill in a steady, measured pace that looked as though could be kept up for thousand miles. Following was a younger man, his gait uneven as he continually tugged at the pack that was slipping off his shoulder.

They drew up level to the cave where Parala and Timbul stood. The older man stopped and looked at them both.

'So Parala, have you found his trail?' he said.

'Ya boss. Big Jim he slip hia last nait. Nowen he long hop da big draiva.'

'The river? Which river?'

Parala pointed down through the trees. ‘Dat big draiva overrum dare.'

The older man looked.

'I can't see a bloody thing through these trees, and I’m not bloody well going to go try ford some foul infested waterway in the dark. We’ll camp here. Billy,' he said to the younger man. 'Get unpacked. I'm going for a shufti.'

Billy unslung his pack and threw it at Timbul.

'You 'eard Mr Fitzgibbon blackie. Start unpacking.'

'William' said Fitzgibbon. 'I said you unpack it. Not get the blacks to do it.'

Billy glared at Timbul and snatched the bag back from him.

Fitzgibbon turned to Parala. 'Come on, the rain's thinning. Let’s see if we can climb this crows nest.'

***

Parala and Fitzgibbon walked around the base of the tower. On the rear side where the granite met the hill, an eroded crack in the rock led up the side., After five minutes of grunting exertion, Parala reached the top. He leant over and grabbed Fitzgibbon’s hand, helping him up the last few feet to the summit.

Fitzgibbon looked around. Here above the canopy spread out to the Owen Stanley ranges that ran down the centre of New Guinea. Muffled curses from Billy echoed up from below the treetops.

'Show me where this river is,' said Fitzgibbon.

Parala pointed out over to where a long, dark green line snaked through the surrounding forest.

‘Overrum dare.’

'Are you sure that’s where he went?'

Parala nodded. ‘Big Jim, he throwum way leg one plas. Da Mangguy tree. Datta way.'

'What’s a Mangguy Tree?' said Fitzgibbon.

Parala’s face contorted. How to put into his basic pidgin what he could barely explain in his own language? It was like Fitzgibbon was asking him to stuff a full grown wallaby into it's own pouch.

Fitzgibbon cut off Parala’s stutters. ‘It’s alright. Some sacred site no doubt. You devils are a superstitious lot no mistake. Always going on with your corroborees and mumbo jumbo. Alice seems to take an interest in it but all seems damned silly to me.'

Parala looked at Fitzgibbon with a vacant stare.

'Course you don't undertand a word I'm sayin do you? Ah well, perhaps you're better for it. But you try Parala, I know you try. And your son, what's his name again?'

Parala shook his head.

'Come on man, you know. What's the phrase? 'Pikinini man'. Your son.'

Parala smiled. 'Jaaymes' he struggled with the unfamiliar word.

'Yes that's it. James. Alice took a real shine to him you know. Wants to put him class. Well I don't know. Miscengenation and all that. But if makes her happy, why not? What do you think? James go long skul?'

Parala stared at Fitzgibbon. Art thou saying mine own son will'st attend school?

Fitzgibbon frowned. 'What did you say?'

Parala looked down and then back up again. 'James go long skul?'

'Yes man, that's the ticket. James go long skul.'

Parala smiled again. 'Tenkyu boss. Tenkyu.'