The buffalo charge on and through the wall of scrub lining the left side of the road and Greta’s neck whips back and forth and she’s so disturbed by what’s happened that her fingers remain fixed to the steering wheel.
She drops her head. Breathes deeply.
Then she says, ‘Let me get this straight. We just survived an aerial bombing from the Japs, right?’
‘That’s right,’ Molly says.
‘Then we set off in search of buried treasure?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Then we got attacked by a bunch of wild water buffalo?’
‘I wouldn’t say “attacked”,’ Molly says. ‘But definitely fair to say we were charged by about ten water buffalo.’
‘What now?’ Greta asks.
‘Now we walk.’
Molly grips Bert the shovel and grabs the shoulder strap of her duffel bag. She slips out of the truck and closes the door, turns to talk through the open window.
‘I’m glad you came back for me, Greta.’
‘I wish I could say the same thing, Molly,’ Greta says, resting her head in her hands.
‘I know why you came back for me, Greta.’
‘You do?’ Greta replies, rubbing the whiplashed muscles in her neck.
‘You were worried about me,’ Molly says. And that thought makes the gravedigger girl smile as she walks on down the narrow road.
Greta watches the girl through two cracks that now curve across the windscreen. That strange child. Every last dark thing she’s witnessed so far today. And she wonders what mysterious, unstoppable force must be flowing inside that girl to make her do what she is doing up there on that road now.
The gravedigger girl, skipping.
*
An empty dirt road separating bushland walls of banksias with furry yellow flowers that stick out from their branches like hot corncobs spitting butter, and these trees grow beside weeping paperbark shade trees that do their grieving in the open through outbursts of creamy white flowers that look to Molly like Greta Garbo’s eyelashes when they flutter in silver screen distress.
‘You ever been in deep country?’ Molly asks, using Bert the shovel as a walking stick.
‘Can’t say I have,’ Greta says, her eyes on the growing amount of road dirt flicking up on to her canvas saddle shoes.
‘You’re gonna love it,’ Molly says. ‘There’s so many things you can see there. It’s like a different world once you’re really inside it. There’s magic in there, Greta. You can start to see things the way the animals see things.’
‘Sounds like you’ve been in deep country many times,’ Greta says.
‘Yeah,’ Molly says, marching on. ‘In my head I have.’
Brute wandering. Molly knows the secret to a long walk. Never think about the destination. Just think about the air in your lungs, the motion of your arms and legs. There is a rhythm to it, and once you have found it that rhythm can tick-tock through time forever. She loves the great riddle of walking. The more you take the more you leave behind: footsteps. And she looks behind her to see her footsteps stretching as far as she can see along the road that winds back through ironbark borders.
Don’t think of the destination. Think of the red-tailed black cockatoo up there in the stringybark, with scarlet panels beneath its tail flaps, like fire is fuelling its take-off. And marvel at the way it flies through the sky. It doesn’t fly like falcons and kites fly; instead its wings work hard, like the bird is rowing through the sky, rowing upstream through air.
‘Cockatoo,’ Molly points.
‘Woo hoo,’ Greta says, slapping a fat mosquito with an abdomen full of her own blood. ‘We any closer to this turn-off?’
‘Yep,’ Molly says, but her attention is taken by something resting on the branch of a billygoat plum tree. ‘Stick insect,’ she whispers, approaching the cryptic creature with soft footsteps. The insect is the same straw colour as the branch it rests on. ‘This feller has the most beautiful colouring hidden under his wings,’ Molly says.
‘Listen, kid, are you gonna stop and gaze at every little creature you find among the trees?’ Greta replies.
‘Just the ones worth gazing at.’ Molly beams then moves closer to the insect. ‘You ever wonder why things are the way they are, Greta?’ she whispers. ‘What if this feller was supposed to be right here on this leaf in this very moment? What if he was put here to remind you and me about something.’
‘Like what?’ Greta asks.
‘Like how pretty it all really is,’ Molly replies. ‘Who decided that gold would be worth so much, anyway? I’d take this feller over a gold pebble any day of the week.’
She blows gently on the stick insect, and the lanky creature raises its head and tail and moves its wings to make a hissing sound and that movement reveals its great treasure, its glorious spoils: a vivid pink at the base of its hind wings, a pink so deep and appealing to Molly that it makes her giggle. ‘You’re all right, mate,’ she says. ‘Don’t be scared. This is Greta Maze and I’m Molly Hook. We’re heading deep into your scrub now because I gotta find Longcoat Bob. But don’t worry about us, okay. Greta and me. We’re the good people. We’re the good guys.’
The insect’s head ducks back down and the creature creeps on along the branch.
Molly smiles at Greta then returns to the dirt road. ‘Not far now,’ she says.
*
A bridge with no guard rails on its sides, stretching twenty feet across the thin freshwater creek running beneath it. The bridge is made of railway sleepers that are permanently wet and rotting. Molly stops in the middle of the bridge and she rests her backside on the edge of a sleeper, letting her legs and her dig boots dangle over the creek. From her duffel bag she pulls her water bag and glugs down four mouthfuls of rusty Darwin tap water, before throwing the bag to Greta, who splashes water
