Stolen (12 page)

There was a thudding sound coming from the veranda, a steady thump of something being hit. I swung open the wire mesh door and stood for a moment, my feet bare on the wood. The morning sunlight was softer that day, not quite so intense. I didn’t have to wait the usual couple of seconds before my eyes adjusted.

You were to the left of me, in a tattered pair of shorts and a thin, holey undershirt. A punching bag was swinging between your fists and the air. I hadn’t noticed it before, so perhaps you’d only just put it up. You were on your toes, bouncing slightly, hitting the bag hard with your bare fists. Your body tensed before the impact, as rigid as the rocks behind you. Lines of muscle stood out under your ribbed tank top. There was nothing soft about your body, nothing unnecessary. You grunted slightly as you hit the bag, the skin over your knuckles red.

I don’t think you knew I was watching. Your face was so focused, every muscle in your body geared toward hitting. I shuddered, imagining you hitting those rock-fists into me, imagining the
crack!
of my ribs breaking … the dark stain and spread of bruises.

You kept punching until your undershirt changed color from your sweat. Then you steadied the punching bag and dragged your shirt up to your face to wipe your forehead. I caught a glimpse of your stomach, smooth and muscled, like ridges of sand. You moved to a metal pole attached to the side of the veranda. You fastened your hands around it, then pulled your chin up and lowered it slowly. Your biceps swelled with each lift, stretching your skin tight enough to snap. You were the strongest man I’d ever seen. If you decided to, you could kill me so easily. Just a little push from your hands and I’d be strangled; just a little punch and my brain would explode. There’d be nothing I could do. One blunt knife under a mattress was no match against you.

Later I held the knife I’d taken from the kitchen. I tested its sharpness by cutting a shallow line across my finger. I imagined it was your throat I was sliding it across. A slit of blood appeared, dropping down to stain the sheet. Then I leaned over to the wooden base and cut more notches into it. I figured about sixteen days had passed, but I made an extra one in case I’d got it wrong. Seventeen days.

You were there when I woke.

“Are you ready to see the Separates?” you asked. “I’ll take you today.”

I frowned. “I’ve seen them.”

I rolled over, trying to forget about my failed escape attempt, but you moved around the bed so you could see me wherever I turned. You were smiling as you watched me.

“You haven’t seen them properly,” you said. “Not with me.”

Then you left. When I got up, quite a long time later, you were still waiting in the kitchen. When you saw me, you opened the door.

“Come on,” you said.

So I followed you. I don’t know why really. I could say it was because I had nothing else to do except stare at four walls, or that I wanted to try escaping again, but I think there was more to it than that. When I was trapped in the house, it felt like I’d already died. At least when I was with you, it felt like my life mattered somehow…. No, that’s not really it; it felt like my life was being noticed. It sounds weird, I know, but I could tell that you liked having me around. And that was better than the alternative, that feeling of emptiness that threatened to drown me every hour of being in that house.

You led the way through the sand. At the fence you stopped to pull back the opening. You held the chicken wire away for me to step through. We walked in silence until we got to the edge of the pathway. You waited, your hand resting against the trunk of one of the trees that grew around the edge of the rocks. I hung back a little, keeping a few feet between us.

“You’re not scared?” you asked. “Of going in?”

“Should I be?” I looked away. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing, it’s just …” You shook your head quickly. “One of Dad’s stockmen told me something once. He told me there were spirits in the rocks near here, that the rocks had a reason for being, and a purpose…. He said that if I didn’t respect them, they would fall down and crush me. Scared me shitless, those stories.” You took a couple of steps until you were standing at the start of the pathway. You looked up at the boulders towering above you. “Since then I always greet these rocks first, before I enter. Take a moment to let them know I’m here.”

You touched the rocks with your finger, scraping off a little dust. Then you rubbed it between your thumb and forefinger before touching your lip. You glanced back at me before you started down the path.

After a second or two, I followed. I kept a good distance. My legs trembled a little, making me unsteady. Again I held my palms out against those huge walls, and walked with my legs on either side of the pipe. I didn’t like the low moaning of the wind whistling through. And I hated that the pathway into those rocks seemed to be the only way out, too. I felt like I was walking into a trap.

You went quickly, and were already leaning against a rough-barked tree when I got to the clearing. You were circling something small around your palm.

“Desert walnut,” you said.

You held it out to me. It felt as tough as a small stone; it looked like one, too. I tapped my nail against its hard shell.

“They talk when they’re cooked,” you said. “When their shells pop in the fire, they’re speaking to you…. That’s what people say. The first time I cooked these nuts, I thought it was the spirits from the rocks, telling me I was about to die.”

You smiled crookedly. Then you took the nut back and placed it in your pocket. You slapped your hand against the tree’s bark again as you passed.

“Turtujarti … gives you sweets, salt, nuts … shelter, too. She’s your friend out here if anything is.”

You moved across the clearing toward the two chicken cages. You pulled open the lid of the main cage and placed a handful of seeds and berries in the corner, then checked their water supply. The chickens flocked to the food. You looked for eggs, tutting when you couldn’t find any.

“They’re not healthy yet,” you murmured. “Still unsettled from the drive.”

You ran your hand down their bodies, talking softly to them. I looked at the way your fingers felt gently about their necks. Just a little more pressure from your strong hands and you would strangle them. You shut the lid. I stuck my finger through the cage and touched the feathers of the orangey one.

You checked the plants behind the chicken cages next.

“Minyirli, yupuna, bush tomato …” You spoke to them all like friends, naming them for me. You turned over their leaves and fruits, picking off insects.

Then you stood and followed the pipe toward the pool. You stepped confidently and noisily through the longer, scrubby grasses.

“Are there snakes?” I asked.

You nodded. “But if you make enough noise, they’ll go away. They’re scared, really.”

I didn’t want to, but I followed closer to you then. Every twig on the ground looked like a snake to me, until you stepped on them and snapped them.

At the pool, you leaned up against the tree arm that had caught me last time. You ran your hand over its smooth skin.

“Big Red,” you said, as if you were introducing me. “This is the fella that helps filter the shit from our water.”

You knelt down to the pool and dipped your hand under the surface, following the pipe down. Then, in one swift movement, you took your shirt off.

“Want a swim?” you asked. “I need to check the spring.”

I shook my head quickly, forcing my eyes away from your chest. Every inch was firm and brown. I’d never seen anyone so toned, so perfect, before, but I knew this wasn’t a good thing, your strength, and it made my heart falter as I thought about what you could do with it. I looked down at the ground instead. There were large black ants crawling around and over my boots. I shook one off as it tried to crawl up onto my leg.

“You can sit there,” you said. You nodded toward the ants. “They probably won’t bite.”

You waded out into the pool. I glanced at you once more before you dived down under the surface. Your back was tanned and straight, muscles rippling with each movement.

Another ant tried to crawl onto my skin, but I flicked it away. A bird above me somewhere made a cry like a witch’s cackle. Other than that, it was dead quiet.

On the way back, the only sound was our steps on the sand. I needed something to break through the quiet, the stillness of that place.

“Can I feed the chickens?” I asked. “Sometimes?”

You looked me over pretty slowly, sort of laughed, then nodded a little.

“Why not?” you said. “Maybe you’ll make ’em lay.”

Your shirt was draped across your shoulders, your body still wet from the pool. Beads of water clung to your skin. As we walked back to the house, I went ahead. I didn’t want you to see me looking at you.

Day Eighteen. You weren’t waiting when I got up. I opened the kitchen door and sat on the makeshift step. I looked out at the sand and the sand and the sand. I waited; for what, I don’t know. The day got hotter around me. The flies whined and buzzed about my ears. A heat haze blurred the sky.

Then, quite suddenly, a flock of tiny chattering things flew past. They pinged and squeaked, like children stepping on their plastic toys. I tried to focus on the individuals within the flock. Each bird was about the size of my clenched fist, with a gray back and a bloodred beak. They wheeled and circled around the house for a while before zipping toward the Separates. I waited for ages after that, hoping they’d return.