The Pit by Papathanasiou Peter

Author:Papathanasiou, Peter [Papathanasiou, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub

Stretch and I swam naked in the Kimberley’s crystal-clear rock pools and gorges. The stale dust peeled from our brown skin. I squirted water from my mouth like a fountain, looking up and around at the towering gorge walls. Ancestors were all around us. The walls rose up in strips of varied colour that made them look like ancient temples built to worship the sun. Signatures driven into rock in natural amphitheatres commemorated the Dreamtime; drawings of kangaroos, turtles, emus, thylacines, crocodiles. Stories etched in stone that fascinated and inspired us.

At dusk, I often found Stretch reclining on a rock with blank notebook in hand, chewed pencil in mouth, staring into the middle distance.

“Writer’s block again?” I asked.

The elongated bastard grunted. Flies wafted his hair like a gentle breeze.

“Wish you’d let me read some,” I added.

One of the flies crawled down his face but he didn’t move, didn’t even blink. I had to admire his restraint, his concentration.

“So?” I said. “Can I?

“Can you what?”

“Read some?”

“No. I flamin’ told you, not until the first draft is finished.”

Having absorbed most of the world’s eminent literature, Stretch aspired to pen his own contribution. He claimed it was one of the reasons why he’d gone north – the chance to write about a region that very few white folk had ever seen. The other reason was something I had yet to uncover. I didn’t know whether Stretch retained an air of mystery to hide his past or to drive me crazy with desire. Either way, he succeeded on both counts.

“Stuff it,” Stretch said, throwing his notebook and flies aside. “Come on, let’s walk. I need to clear my head.”

Dusk was the ideal time of day for a ramble in the bush, after the heat of day had faded and before the emergence of the wildlife of night. To watch the colours change before melting into nothing and listen for the first honeyed tones of the pied butcherbird. Now being on our own, there was nothing rushing us. We walked east at a meditative amble with the last rays of sun on our exposed backs. Stretch shuffled his feet, same old army boots coming apart at the seams. Every now and then our fingers intertwined.

It was a time for sharing, for stories. The time of day when my heartbeat turned erratic and uneven; a pleasant feeling, pain free. When I nearly uttered to Stretch the three words that I’d never dared to say.

Stretch told me the woman’s name on his love heart tattoo was his mother’s. I didn’t ask why it didn’t simply read “Mum”. He talked litera­ture and I pretended to listen but loved whatever I heard nonetheless.

“Did I ever mention my brother works at Ranger mine?” Stretch said. “He wrote me letters.”

It turned out that Stretch’s brother worked at the same uranium mine east of Darwin that had had its development disrupted by the local Aboriginal community the previous year. The Mirarr Traditional Owners claimed the area had spiritual significance and vetoed the mine’s construction under laws designed to recognise native land rights in the Northern Territory.

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