The Rain Circle, page 20
When they arrive at the hut and see a windmill groaning in the breeze Susanna thinks she may be able to refresh by splashing her face with water in the trough. The trough is empty, however, as the bore pump has been tapped off to prevent use by goats. Christian says it will be modified if an application is approved for extending the tourism venture to hikers. Meanwhile they’ll have to drink from their water bottles. After scraping mud from footwear, they enter the single room hut made of pine and pug. It has a floor of flat slate dragged from a creek bed, a large stone chimney at one end and a single small window. There is a musty smell of abandonment. Dust accumulates in corners and fills curtains of cobwebs drooping from pine log rafters. Bird droppings cake the tops of the rafters and kangaroo scats are strewn across the slate floor.
‘A little bit of work and it’ll be fantastic,’ Patrick remarks as he stares out of the window. ‘Imagine waking up to this.’
Susanna, ignoring pungent odours within the hut, expresses agreement about the view and the unique location, adding that Christian would have enjoyed being here and learning of the history.
‘About Christian,’ Patrick says, keeping his gaze through the window. ‘On Sunday night he asked me to handle his funeral arrangements should he die before making it to Finland at Christmas. Said I would and yesterday I thought I should ask what he wanted. First preference is a return to the environment, a bush burial. Not something approved by the authorities but I guess bigger things have been done lately without getting official consent.’
‘Oh, that is not the right thing to do,’ Inka pleads. ‘You will get yourself into trouble. And he doesn’t have to get his way all the time.’
To himself, Patrick silently says dying at an early age probably isn’t getting his way.
‘You have to look after yourself Patrick and you won’t get away with it.’
‘I think I can get away with it though. People will think he just came here and went back to his Australian wanderings, or returned to Finland.’
Susanna is concerned and says she is optimistic Christian will make it back to Finland and his family, but if he should die here his parents will want to know where he is buried.
‘Or cremated,’ Patrick adds. ‘This is another option we talked about. It didn’t go down well because the nearest crematorium is hundreds of kilometres away. It would have to be a formal process and he’s still paranoid about drawing attention to his part in the rainmaking exercise, what with cancer and all.’
‘Mum is right about his parents Patrick,’ Inka says, bearing a serious look on her face.
‘Okay, so he dies here and they come out wanting to see his grave. I’ve thought of that. His mother wouldn’t be happy with cremation from what he’s said to me anyway. They can have their grand memorial mass in Helsinki and one day in the future visit a grave in Kimba.’
‘A grave in Kimba?’ Inka asks. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘How many neglected graves are there in cemeteries? Just a mound for some, without headstones. Few graves are ever visited and, when they are, people leave those ubiquitous plastic flowers in cheap vases. It’s a sign they won’t be back for a while. Bet I can find the ideal plot where I can ruffle up the dirt to make it look fresh and plant a headstone there that I make in my workshop. Easy as.’
While taken aback a little by the likely plan, Inka concedes that the last thing Christian will want is to be made to be seen as a devout Catholic. It is a religion he tolerates because of his mother’s faith yet one he is not part of because of its power and control through fear. This is apart from the church’s continuing opposition to same sex marriage and subjugation of women just because they are not men. Catholic skepticism about climate change is another annoyance. Making mother happy is one thing, being honest with oneself is another. Patrick is no doubt well-intended and seems to understand Christian. Two young men from different backgrounds who have established a relationship that is needed right now. Inka only hopes Christian is not taking advantage of Patrick. Just as she has this thought, Patrick makes a significant statement.
‘Whatever I do, having given my word to Christian, I do it without being pushed into it,’ Patrick declares. ‘My decisions are mine. I’ll keep both of you and my father and Bernadette and May out of it. I’ll do what I think is right. I’m not as smart as Christian but I’ll have this covered.’
Patrick turns away from the window and looks at Inka and Susanna with eyes that show he is determined to meet commitments, whatever the pain. For one who normally lives in the realm of extreme highs and lows he is remarkably steady as he looks up to the rafters and declares it is time to head back and join May and Christian among the myall trees. The final stop after this will be a chat with Brian about media questions and his answers. Susanna, the forever optimist, is definite that Brian will have been wonderful with the media and asks that before leaving she take vision of the hut and her daughter and Patrick to send to Miro and her two daughters at home.
First to respond to the message is Emilia, who asks if their accommodation is the best they can find and whether the handsome long-haired man in the picture is single. Next is Miro who says he can’t wait to have her home and perhaps will visit Australia to take the hike to Fogg’s hut with her in a couple of years. Venla says she misses mother and sister and feels confident after her music scholarship examination. She adds that father and Suvi and Jaako have been very busy. Last night they all came to dinner and she and Emilia made pork chops with cabbage and potato. There was rhubarb and custard for dessert.
17
Buckleboo, October 2036
October is largely about settling down after the main event of the previous month and taking care of Christian. Bernadette has returned from Helsinki and willingly takes a role in Christian’s care. Susanna has gone back to Finland. Inka is completing her project duties in Canberra and plans to be back in South Australia at the end of the first week in November.
There have been regular journeys to Venus Bay by Brian, Patrick and Christian, where the sea provides a source of good-size whiting and a form of hydrotherapy.
Today Patrick, according to routine, is securing an aluminium boat known as a tinnie in upside down mode to their traytop vehicle. Loading it aboard awakens the lurking smells of seaweed, fish scales and remnants of bait. It is a fairly new vehicle but long gone is the show room fragrance that came with the sale by a dark-suited new car salesman with teeth as sparkling clean as the upholstery. They leave early, observing peach-coloured light washing over crops that are making the transition from growing to ripening. It is already feeling very hot but open windows are preferred to air-conditioning that just seems to recycle fishy smells.
Approaching the coast they experience the power and presence of an intense blue sky reflecting brilliant light off the water. The sea goes its own way, with relentless patterns of white tops whipped up by a south-westerly wind, and waves pounding into the pristine white sand, retreating then rolling in, again and again. Gulls and stilts stride in and out of the waves that ebb and flow, squawking about the tedium of food-finding, bristling with enthusiasm when a morsel of food bobs up from the froth and bemoaning failure with droning yawns when their work is unproductive. There are slim pickings and the astute gull turns an eye to the tinnie being unloaded by Brian and Patrick. Be patient, no-one on a fishing trip likes to take home excess burly or sandwich scraps from their outing.
The tinnie is lifted, turned around and placed at the meeting of dry and wet sand. Stowed under is an outboard motor, burley basket, fishing lines and a small canvas bag containing snorkels, fins and masks.
‘Nice day to wet a line,’ Brian says. ‘Bet there are a few whiting out there.’
The fishing is not as important as the therapy for a man who is weary. It is warm enough for snorkeling Patrick decides, as he wishes his father luck. The two younger men push their legs against the incoming tide and plunge into the cool water. As soon as they are swimming above about 2m of water, Patrick plunges to the bottom, holding his breath for at least two minutes while he glides over a seagrass bed. Christian follows suit for just a few seconds before rising to the surface, spluttering. Although his companion recommends rest for a while, Christian is keen to sink again into the brine and enjoy the pleasure of weightlessness. Patrick touches his friend’s forearm and points to a rapidly-moving school of baby mullet. Tiny, vulnerable, creatures taking protection among each other. They form a silvery cloud which immediately takes a perfectly choreographed turn and accelerates. A snook has appeared from nowhere and darts like a torpedo through the cloud, snapping voraciously. This is what has startled the mullet, now dispersing in all directions to confuse their predator. Out of breath, Christian and Patrick rise to the surface and, breathing through their snorkels while bending masked heads into the water, they observe the aftermath of a brief feeding frenzy. All that is in their sight is the forward half of a single baby mullet, trailing a coil of white intestine. The remains hesitate between rising to float and drifting to the sea floor. Uncertainty ends when a blue crab lurches from the sea grass, clasps the morsel with an outstretched claw and drags it down to its hiding place.
Unlike the baby mullet it has been a successful outing for the men, as well as for a gaggle of seagulls delighted with Brian’s decision to gut and scale his catch of a dozen whiting before heading home. The two younger men have been refreshed by their snorkeling and a relaxing wade through the shallows. While Patrick is helping his father clean the fish, Christian takes a phone call. It is Susanna. After asking about everyone at Buckleboo she gets down to business, telling him she has not had a good day.
She describes an embarrassing encounter with his parents while shopping in Helsinki. They clearly have not been informed about his true state of health. Edvard was as always very pleasant but Maria became irate when sorrow was expressed over the illness of their son.
‘Illness, illness? she said loudly to me. ’You people think you know my own son better than I do.’
Susanna tells Christian she can understand his mother being annoyed that the Aaltos have seen more of her son than she has in recent times, but when Maria thrust into her face an image of him that was not current it became obvious that the deception continues.
‘Your mother said to look at this. See, he is all right. Just recuperating after very hard work. Yes, of course he has been involved in this rainmaking event but he is still taking time out. That is what she said, Christian, because she knows no better. Do you know what Christian, I know that image you sent her was taken a long time ago, maybe in that Aroona Valley Inka has talked about. Yet you had yesterday’s date on it and the words I could see were about relaxing in the Gawler Ranges. The background is nothing like the Gawler Ranges. Very different terrain. Why are you continuing to deceive your parents? You promised me when I first arrived at Buckleboo that you would tell them about your terminal cancer. Christian, I am not happy with you. Not happy with you at all.’
‘I am so sorry,’ Christian sobs, the dark circles under his eyes defining his fading hopes of ever fully making amends. ‘I have let Inka down. You and Miro. And especially my parents. I am weak. I know it and I’m ashamed of it. I’ve just wanted my parents to be happy for as long as possible.’
Brian and Patrick observe the sad figure of Christian walking further away from them, then collapsing to his knees in wet sand. They help him up but will allow him to tell of the who and what of the conversation in his own time, if he wishes. Hearing him say sorry to whoever was on the other end suggests it is personal.
‘Let’s hurry back and get these lovely whiting in the freezer,’ Brian announces. ‘Perhaps not all in the freezer. Who’s up for a nice feed of crumbed whiting tonight with some lettuce and tomato? Chips as well.’
Brian’s ‘hurry back’ sentiment is partly about a feed of whiting, partly about settling Christian into the vehicle and mostly about seeing Bernadette. As they turn off a sandy beach track and onto the bitumen highway the mid-day sun is bearing down with intensity. A heat haze creates an illusion of water across the road ahead and when windows are lowered for fresh air it is like getting close to a blast furnace. Windows are immediately wound up to give preference to smelly-fish air conditioning. Hot north winds spell fire danger and although they weren’t expected to roll in with full force until tomorrow, you can’t change the mindset of nature. Messages from the Country Fire Service simultaneously appear on the Ellson phones and across the vehicle’s auto screen to state there is a crop blaze on a farm between the towns of Lock and Kyancutta and CFS units from several locations including Kimba are called to assist. Their response is that they are closest to Lock, if they take a detour, and will join a crew from there. Half an hour later they think of May, who is also a CFS volunteer, and call her to tell her what they are doing. Christian will be dropped off at a safe area and they’ll take directions from the Lock brigade. May says she’s already on board the Kimba CFS truck heading south and they see dense black smoke in the distance. Curly Norton is driving, three other crew are aboard and she thinks a few farmers with water tanks are following.
A second contingent of volunteers is scrambling to don boots, orange overalls and white helmets when Brian arrives at the station in Lock. He asks a stranger in town to take care of Christian and runs to the dressing room with Patrick. Within minutes they are squeezed into the six-person cabin of the truck and smell increasing levels of ash in the air. Visibility is decreasing by the second and a motorist almost blinded by the smoke runs off the sealed road when she sees the headlights of the fire truck beaming metres in front. The fire truck screeches to a halt and the volunteers rush out to push the woman’s vehicle back on the road. They know the sandy verge can mean a dry bog and spinning wheels and they must attend to immediate threats to life. A baby in a capsule strapped to the back seat is screaming and a young girl in the front passenger seat grips her seatbelt in fear, with both hands. The captain of the fire unit tells the driver to keep heading in the same direction towards Lock. Soon she’ll find visibility will improve.
Only a kilometre further on, the firefighters see a flashing red light and hear a siren that delivers a series of squeals that mean they are to stop. The captain of the regional CFS, Amber Singh, rushes to the window and gives directions to take a side road where others are backburning. All afternoon they toil to burn out an area that is in advance of the fire, which now has a front of 20Km that’s expanding. Sweating profusely inside their overalls and exhausted from lifting heavy backpacks of water, they continue to snuff out spot fires. Backburning, which is their main task, is about fuel reduction, an exercise that destroys roadside native vegetation, many hectares of crops and any fence lines in the way. It is willful destruction to prevent even greater loss. By mid afternoon a special aircraft arrives to lay trails of fire retardant. Two farmers whose crops are being sacrificed also assist the fight with graders that scrape away swathes of crop. Ears of wheat filled with plump grain, in the process of ripening for harvest in less than a month, are smothered by soil.
To the north and closer to the fiery hunger and unbearable heat is a squad of fire trucks, including the one from Kimba. Their crews have been attempting to manage the western side of the backburn and protect several farm houses and implement sheds. During the first farm call May sees that the occupants must have left when the warning was given but she is saddened they will return to a smouldering home and sheds that have crumpled like aluminium foil. Somehow this farm felt the brunt of a destructive lick of fire that strayed off course. Elsewhere there is success, with the squad being able to protect houses and other property.
As darkness falls, the bushfire turns on a light show that emphasises the width of the front yet reveals the effectiveness of backburning. Like a dying dragon with outbursts of anger and torment, flames spew upward whenever energy in the form of patches of unburned crop is presented. Not so easily seen but readily smelt are paddocks that have turned as black as the night sky by backburning and more so by the fire front itself.
Several crews on watch overnight will attack any flare ups from a fire that is sluggish and contained within a grid of main roads and fire tracks. Crews that have worked through the afternoon and evening are being relieved.
When Brian and Patrick return to Lock they see Destiny Pobke interviewing regional captain Amber Singh, who is expressing her pleasure in being able to say this is a fire that has been contained without loss of life. Since 2028 there have been 19 lives lost in the region due to fires. Thankfully today they’ve been spared loss of life although property losses have been massive for several farmers. Over Amber’s shoulder Brian mimes to Destiny that he also has something to say. When he gets his turn he tells the journalist that he wants to ‘give a plug’ for the latest rainmaking technology.
‘In your article it’d be great if you include the fact that the technology used recently off the Eyre Peninsula coast may have prevented the fire, or at least suppressed it,’ he says. ‘See, it is not only about making rain. It can push colder air against the hot air streaming down from the hot inland of Australia.’
‘It’s true,’ chips in Christian.
‘And you are?’ asks Destiny.
‘Aah. A backpacker staying with the Ellsons,’ he answers, realising how close he has come to attracting attention to his key role in the rainmaking exercise.
Driving home they are at the northern edge of the fire zone, where the pungency of burnt crops and trees persists, although the thick smoke has been pushed away by the hot wind. Ahead, off to the side of the road is the Kimba CFS truck. Leaning against a tyre with legs stretched out on a blanket is the robust figure of Curly Norton. Leaning over him is May, who is offering sips of water after undoing his shirt and belt. Between offering water she fans him with a piece of cardboard.
