Long Creek

The Big River 1952 Hank had a quick glance skywards. The clouds now looked as if they’d been pulled apart and the sun was beginning to peer through. This tranquil, riverbank glade with its dappled shade was cool and still. There was only the twittering of birds and the gurgling wash of the river’s slow-moving water. The conviction that life was incongruous rose to the top of his consciousness; rather like a Green Frog that suddenly bobs up and then floats wide-legged, on a billabong’s brown surface. For it seemed, to him that it was only yesterday, when consumed by fear he, and his Company, had been pinned down on Omaha Beach by murderous, enemy fire. Again, images of floating, GI corpses being washed over by wavelets, dyed red with blood, flashed into his mind. He shook his head to clear it. Right now his only companions were a Murri and a yeller feller and he wouldn’t have had it any other way. He noted that Jalyerri had finished daubing his water and white clay design onto Brian's upper body. Then their captive's whining voice intruded upon his thoughts. "Fair go, fellers! I’ve got to have water. Those damn niggers wouldn’t give me any. An’ me, a white man too." Hank saw that the man had struggled to his feet, and was leaning against the River Red Gum’s variegated trunk, whilst holding out his bound wrists imploringly. And for the umpteenth time Hank blamed himself for what had happened. He considered their captive. Yes, he thought, you‘re goddamn evil personified. The guilt that’d been nagging at him retreated abruptly. Thin lipped, he walked over and savagely kicked the man's ankles from under him. The man screamed in agony and fell heavily to the ground. Then the old, hot urge to kill gripped Hank hard. Taken by surprise, he had to struggle momentarily, to control himself. He regarded the bound man with cold, narrowed eyes. “You're a fucking obscenity," he spat. He continued to study the man. Then he smiled chillingly. "Now is the woodcock near the gin," he mocked. The man stared at him, wide-eyed. "That's bullshit,” he whined. “I haven't been near any gins. I never go near boong camps." The man began to whimper. "I’ve got to have water,” he begged. “I'm dying of thirst, I tell you." "Good,” Hank replied coldly. “I need you to suffer.” "I’ve done nothing wrong. Christ, why won’t you take me to Fitzpatrick? Take me, please." "No way.” Hank’s lips tightened. “And ‘twas writ that even shit gets to strut and fret its hour upon a stage.” "You're raving, bloody mad!" The man sobbed. "An' what’s that yeller feller there, having done to him, for crissake?" "I believe the Lord High Executioner is having his stage make-up applied." "You're raving mad!" Their captive yelled again. “Anyone who won’t give a man water in this country is mad. Mad, I tell you. You're mad." "Aren't we all? Just a bit?" "Give me water, please." "Suffer." Jalyerri had finally finished. He and Brian moved next to Hank and stood silently. Eventually, Brian spoke, “We’re waiting for you, Hank. You joining us?” Hank glanced at them, half-smiled and nodded his assent. He and Jalyerri then each grabbed an arm and hauled the man roughly to his feet, while Brian passed a length of thick vine under his arms and firmly bound him to the River Red Gum's trunk. Hank regarded Brian. "I don't mind doing it, really," he said. "I do blame myself for what happened and I’d like to do it." Brian shook his head firmly. “No, mate,” he said. “You know this has to be me.” He reached for one of the spears that’d been left standing against the River Red and met the man’s eyes. He saw that they were blank with the coldness of sheer terror. He didn’t hesitate and, grimacing with the effort, drove the spear powerfully through the man's right shoulder below the collarbone. It shattered the shoulder blade on its way through and landed, deeply embedded, in the River Red's trunk. The sudden, startled look on the man’s face was instantly replaced by one of shock and pain. He shrieked in agony, his shrill screams echoing like demented "coo-ees", through the surrounding bush. "Oh, Christ! Christ, no. Help me. Help me, someone." The man continued to shriek, his face contorted with agony. Brian reached for the other spear and abruptly drove it right through the man’s left thigh, deep into the River Red's trunk, whilst taking care to avoid the Femoral artery. He glanced briefly at his handiwork and then walked back a few paces, before squatting. Hank and Jalyerri squatted on either side of him. All three silently watched the agony of their impaled captive. Now that he had done it, Brian felt sick. He was used to killing animals but, he shuddered, a human being was something else again. Christ, even the blood smelled different. Soon the sound of more and more flies, buzzing on the man's blood, dominated. The three of them sat silently and watched the man alternate between screams, sobs and desperate begging. They were watching the last, tenuous grip on life of someone who should’ve been jailed years ago. Who, now that he was dying, begged for the mercy that he’d never shown to others. He offered his watchers every penny in his bank account. He prayed to God through pain-contorted lips. And he continually begged and screamed for water. Of the watchers, only Hank spoke. His rage wouldn’t leave him and he spoke, just once, in his slow, Texan drawl. "Think about what you did, you stinkin’ bastard. And I’ll sure be gratified if you take a long time to die. Yes, I surely will." Then carnivorous, red Beef Ant scouts discovered where his blood had dripped onto the ground and quickly crawled up his legs and, whilst viciously biting, released Formic acid into his flesh. The bite marks stung and stung and caused welts to appear, almost immediately. Soon, numberless Beef Ants found their way to the speared man. They swarmed en masse over his body and started to eat at his orifices, particularly where his bloody flesh girdled both spears. The man’s shrieking immediately soared to a shriller crescendo. Then it ebbed and flowed. Meanwhile, countless more voracious Beef Ants appeared and flies, including egg-laying Blowflies, settled on his blood. Hank watched the man’s suffering dispassionately. He felt no pity and, every now and again, his rage flared-up hot, like just-fanned flames. The speared man didn’t last as long as Hank had hoped. And when he died Hank felt cheated because he hadn’t suffered longer. Moments later the appalling screech of a Barking Owl pierced the surrounding stillness. "Muddrin' bird" Jalyerri quietly observed. The three rose to their feet and cut down the dead man. Brian and Hank each grabbed an ankle before dragging the body through the trees and scrub, fighting for daylight, to the river’s bank. Once there, they tossed it into the water. It floated downstream for twenty yards before becoming entangled in the dark, waterlogged branches of a half-submerged dead tree. Then they watched awestruck, as the head and cold eyes of a giant Estuarine Crocodile broke the surface. It opened its enormous, yellowish-pink maw and clamped its irregularly toothed jaws across the body. It briefly gazed at them with expressionless, unblinking eyes before closing its thin, transparent eyelids and silently sinking below the surface. The coffee-coloured water briefly swirled to acknowledge the giant reptile’s departure before continuing its onward meander. “For crissake,” Brian gasped. ”Did you see the size of that damn lizard?” “Frightening! I’ve still got goose bumps.” Hank noticed that Brian’s face was drawn and pale. "You feeling OK, pardner?" "It's starting to hit me now it's over, know what I mean." "Yes." Hank's voice grew bleak. "But don’t forget what that animal did. And remember," he continued after a pause, “it’d be best if nobody knew we caught up to him.” "Yeah," Brian murmured, “I’m definitely with you on that one.” "Coming?" Hank asked. "Yeah.” The three of them turned and headed towards their horses.