AT 29 (114 page)

“By the car, at the clinic. You touched my hands then walked away.”

“It was to know your spirit.”

Jimmy wearied of the long day. “We don't know each other.”

“The truth that binds the Whitehurst and the Gadubanud is not the battles we fought together. It is not the same blood that runs in our veins, nor is it this land we have shared along the sea. It is song. Each Whitehurst has carried his voice into the hills and filled the air with his songs, even Nigel, especially Nigel and especially you. When I showed him his legacy his heart was freed and his voice rose up like his fathers before him. Only one Whitehurst was denied us. He is the one called Nathan. The spirits say his song was the greatest. They told me that he has returned. When I helped you take Nigel from the water I felt your spirit. The next day when I held your hands and looked into your eyes I knew that you are him. I knew that the songs in the church in this village above our bay are yours.”

Jimmy rocked back in irritation. “My name is Jim Buckman!”

“Why do you fight the truth? It is the reason you have returned.”

Jimmy shook his head in frustration, rose and strode back to the Ute. It was five minutes before Illa followed and climbed behind the wheel. Neither man spoke for the duration of the thirty-minute ride. Illa smoked while Jimmy worked to contain his impatience until the Ute finally turned into the entrance to the surf shop. The rustic building was dark when Illa came to a stop. He reached across Jimmy's body and snapped the handle. Jimmy muttered weak thanks and exited. As he turned to close the door he spied Nigel's bound document resting on the seat. He collected it just as Illa grabbed his arm and leaned close.

“We are them and they are us. He is you and you are him. See not with your eyes, but with your mind. Then you will know and your heart will be freed.”

Jimmy closed the door without looking back. Illa gunned the motor and left.

Hunger stalked. Jimmy found the light switch and absently dropped the document on the counter as he passed from the front room into the small living quarters. A cot was freshly made. A sink stood at the opposite wall next to a refrigerator and small electric range. Jimmy opened the refrigerator only to be frustrated when he found it empty. However, a search of the cupboard turned up an unopened box of cereal and two cans of condensed milk. Not the best, but good enough to get him through until morning.

When he took the items down, another one presented itself further back. He set the cereal and cans on the counter and stared at the label. Single malt, a dusty unopened bottle, beckoning for its contents to come into the light. The familiar craving surged through his body. Franco, he thought, and quickly closed the cupboard.

Fifteen minutes later, he pushed back from the table. His hunger wasn't completely satisfied, but it was enough to let him consider his surroundings. There was no television and no radio. Several dog-eared paperbacks were stacked on the floor in the corner as dusty as the bottle in the cupboard. The scotch called him, but he fought the urge to go for it. Instead, he searched for a telephone. All three of Franco's numbers were burned into his memory. He went from room to room, but a connection to the outside world was nowhere to be found. Sweat formed on his brow. He paced back and forth, trying not to think of the bottle. He returned to the back room and grabbed the stack of paperbacks. The craving consumed his every thought. If only he could get his mind off the scotch. He opened the first book then the next and a third, hoping to find one that would capture his interest. Smash the bottle! Do it quickly! Do it now!

It was no use. He dropped the books and tore through the counter drawers until he found a knife. One drink, he convinced himself, slow and easy then no more. His mouth watered and his heart pounded with anticipation. He found a glass and rummaged through the refrigerator for ice. On the rocks, the way he liked it, just this once. He didn't need Franco because it will never happen again. He opened the cupboard and took the bottle out. He cut the foil wrapper and expertly worked the cork free. He could smell it. His senses filled with pleasure. Then he poured the amber liquid and watched with delight as it splashed over the ice in the old familiar way. He reached for the glass.

NO!
He forced his trembling hand away. One, just one, that's the problem. It can never be just one. Franco is right. The craving intensified. He looked down at the glass. An ice cube suddenly settled, clinking softly as it melted. Fight it! Throw the glass into the wall! He set the glass down and rushed into the other room.

The bound document caught his eye. He picked it up and carried it to a chair in the corner. He sat down, forcing his eyes to study the blank cover. He untied the green ribbon and turned the page.

What came to his eyes went through him like a thunderbolt. He flipped the pages yearning for more until he stopped and ran his fingers over the words. He flipped more pages, and suddenly came to lines and notes, written in the same hand. He tried to read the music, but his brain refused to cooperate, forcing him back to the beginning where he ran his fingers over the writing once more. It wasn't the words. It was the hand that wrote them. His heart knew that hand, could feel its gentle touch as shock faded to ecstasy. In the hours that followed he forgot where he was. The craving left him as he concentrated his whole being on words written more than sixty years before in a hand that made his heart leap.

Dear Aaron:

Soon you will be married to a wonderful woman and I will leave you to build your life with her in this magnificent land. You have suffered. I grieve for the permanence of your wounds although they cannot deprive you of the love your beautiful Laura holds for you in her heart. I am overjoyed that our Lord has sent her to you. Now, you will make new memories to fill the void of those that have been lost
.

I, too, know the love you feel. I hold it in my heart for your father, Nathan, the finest man I have ever known. Although our Lord gave us only a short time together, he remains with me always because I see him in you everyday. It fills me with happiness to know that he would be proud of his son. He would be filled with the same bliss that greets my every thought each time I look at you
.

You did not know him. Alas, even if he lived, you would not remember as I do. The hatred between nations took that part of you away. But I want you to know and, I want your children and your children's children to know, about the man who captured my heart and enchanted everyone with his music. Therefore, I write these words for you and for them. Our story, enclosed with his music, so he will always be remembered. Keep these words close. Keep his music safe so his legacy will forever be preserved
.

Nathan Whitehurst was tall, strong and handsome. He was a man of inquisitive intelligence and fine character. No other man matched his sense for the rhythms of song…

The words told of another time and place. Yet the story of Nathan and Melba enthralled him. It was touching and sensitive, sometimes humorous and other times heart wrenching. It had all the elements of fiction, but he accepted its truth. The beautiful handwriting that met his eyes transcended all logic. He knew this woman. The descriptions of Nantucket rang true. He could see the streets of the island. His mind pictured the house where Melba lived and he could easily envision the land in Siasconset where she and Nathan planned to build their home. Whaling, harrowing voyages and turn of the century life on a remote Australian farm, it all filled him with exquisite joy. And, the Apollo Bay cottage, surrounded by fields of green was, to Jimmy's mind, authentically framed as he recalled the dwelling he visited earlier that day.

Yet, it was neither the words nor the story that held him. As he turned each page he paused and ran his fingers over the letters. Her handwriting overwhelmed him with a mixture of longing and supreme happiness. He knew it was irrational, but it was with him just the same. He could not take his hand away. He refused to close the binder.

He read Melba's story twice before turning to the music, hundreds of songs carefully scribed in the same loving hand. All, but a few had no lyrics, merely notes and bars that had the appearance of play on different kinds of instruments. He tried to sound them out, but a piano or the Gibson was needed for him to be satisfied. He knew the creations must have come from the mind of a genius, lovely like the hand that wrote them. The hand he knew. It was close to three when he drifted off with his fingers still resting gently on the notes. His imagination summoned dreams of another time at the keys of a piano with the image of a pretty girl at his side.

Illalangi Illuka plied the empty road back to Otway National Park. He pulled the Ute into the same space where he'd parked with Jimmy that afternoon. He left the keys in the ignition. Then he climbed to the top of the cliff, using the same ancient path now pitch black in the dark night. His fathers guided his steps until he came out onto the precipice, lit by the descending crescent moon. He stripped naked and began to chant as a breeze rose up from the waters below.

The burden was lifted. The curse of the Gadubanud would no longer torture his people. Of that, he was certain. The spirits told him and he was content. Yes, the old ways had died. Yes, the lands of his fathers would never again be free of whites, but a new spirit would live in his people. Others would come to preserve the heritage of the Gadubanud in cooperation with noble whites who would refuse to let it be forgotten. Gadubanud art, song, and dance would be resurrected in museums and books. Schools and universities would teach about the ways of the Aborigines who lived along the sea near Airey's Inlet and Apollo Bay. And, one day a strong aboriginal consciousness would rise again to claim its rightful place among the cultures of the world.

His chants became louder as he edged to the cliffside. The nearest ‘Apostle' stood out in the waves, immovable and strong like the spirits who waited to carry him to the real world where no hatred existed. Illalangi the son had fulfilled the destiny of his fathers. He spread his arms, shifted his weight and gazed at the moon, preparing to leap into arms of his fathers. But voices called out and held him back. At once, he knew he must stay. Only he knew the truth. Only he could bring the legends of his people to the ears of those who would one day come to listen and preserve. “Melbourne,” the voices told him. “Go to Melbourne and wait for the one who will seek to know the story of the Gadubanud.”

Jim Buckman did not hear the sound of the car that rolled to a stop at dawn outside. He did not hear footsteps on the stairs. He did not stir when outside air briefly swept into the room. He did not sense the shadow as it came over his body. He did not feel the presence that came near and bent close to his face. But when a soft hand touched his cheek, he reached up and brought it to his lips.

“Melba, my love.” He remained in his dream.

When he awoke, Les was sitting in a chair a few feet away. She smiled at him, but did not move as recognition slowly came. It was still early and the sun filtered through the curtains, basking the shop in soft light.

“How are you, Jimmy?” she asked, as his eyes adjusted.

He jumped at the sound of her voice. Melba's story fell to the floor and they both looked down.

An hour later they rounded the bend into Apollo Bay.

“There.” She pointed as he drove her car to the top of Main Street. “Park in the lot.”

Jimmy was still in shock as she came around and took his hand. He wanted to sweep her into his arms, but the yearlong separation kept him in check. They joined a group of people at the foot of the stairs. Gradually, the group ascended the stairs and went inside. Les led him to a pew close to the front.

When all the seats were filled the organ sounded its first note followed by a chorus of voices that summoned the Sunday parishioners to their feet. Les stood and Jimmy followed as all voices joined in song. He listened as the melody filled the chapel. It had a familiar resonance and before long, he recognized that it matched the rhythm of some of the songs in the binder he'd read the night before.

The pastor came down the aisle followed by a lector and altar boys who moved to positions on either side of the priest as he bowed before the cross. Les reached for Jimmy's hand and held it tight. She was still holding it and hour later when the last song rang out from the balcony. This one was familiar. Jimmy cocked his head to listen as Nigel Whitehurst's stolen song, meant for a fiddle, boomed out from the organ.

Les made no effort to move as the other parishioners exited. After five minutes, the last candle was extinguished. The choir members came down from the balcony, removed their robes and departed. An altar boy went among the pews to return missals and songbooks to their places. Soon he finished and disappeared into the vestibule at the side of the altar. They were alone.

Les let go of Jimmy's hand and leaned forward. She knelt and whispered a prayer. Then she made the sign of the cross and sat back. She reached for Jimmy's hand again staring up at the cross. Then they made their way outside.

They walked down the street, suddenly comforting, no longer a place he wanted to flee. Les came to a stop several blocks from the church and pointed to the second story above a storefront post office.

“That's where I live.” She lowered her hand and gestured to the outline of some stenciling that had been stripped from the window. “See there? It says Telegraph Office. That's what drew me to take the apartment upstairs. I don't know why.”

Jimmy looked up at the windows. “You've been here all this time?”

“Just the last two months. Before that I traveled.”

“Does Nigel know you're here?”

“We ran into each other a few weeks ago. Until then only my parents knew.”

They continued on and entered a restaurant. Jimmy motioned to a table by the window. Over lunch she filled him in on her travels.