‘Do you want to know the secret?’ he asks the gravedigger girl.
‘Yes,’ Molly says.
‘My human heart needs to stay warm,’ he says. ‘But it can only stay warm by warming your heart. That’s the trick of the human heart.’
The old man now stares into Yukio’s eyes. ‘But the music that came from that poem is far more miraculous than any poem, don’t you think?’ the old man asks. Yukio’s face reveals nothing when he stares back at the old man. The old man plays on. ‘The music! The music reminds us that the miracle of love is that it is transcendent. That’s the trick of true love. It transcends even death.’
The baby in Greta’s arms cries. The old man plays on.
‘That baby does not belong to you,’ the old man says.
Molly steps forward to stand beside Greta. ‘The boy dropped from the sky,’ she says.
The man doesn’t miss a note, keeps on playing. Changes in key signatures, long notes with stretched stems, a high-note cadenza, a bright run of notes that feels to Greta like the story of the song is moving now into the composer’s intended dream territory.
‘A baby boy just fell from the sky?’ the old man ponders.
‘An eagle had his hooks in him but then he dropped him in the drink,’ Molly says. ‘It was only because of Greta that he’s still breathin’.’
The old man nods at Yukio. ‘Did the eagle drop the Japanese soldier down here, too?’
The baby cries again. Greta rocks him. ‘Ssshhhh,’ she whispers.
‘I once saw an eagle flying with its claws hooked into a dead goanna twice as long as that baby,’ the old man says. ‘Remarkable creatures.’
‘Do you know who the baby belongs to?’ Greta asks.
‘No,’ the old man says.
‘Do you know where I might find the boy’s family?’
‘No,’ he replies. ‘Because that boy’s family never stays in one place. They’re like these fingers of mine, always moving. But you rest assured they’ll find the boy.’
‘How will they find him if I have him?’
‘He’s a son of this place,’ the old piano player says. ‘The land will tell his family you have him.’
Molly spots a small green fruit resting on top of the piano. The fruit has been split open, revealing a marble-sized black seed that seems, to Molly’s eye, to be covered in bright red blood. She leans closer to inspect the strange seed.
‘Myristica insipida,’ the old man says. ‘Native nutmeg.’
‘Who are you?’ Molly asks.
‘I’m Lars,’ he says. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Molly Hook from Darwin,’ she says. ‘I’m looking for a blackfeller named Longcoat Bob.’
The old man’s fingers stop with a low note thud and he slams the fallboard down hard over the keys, making Molly jump on the spot.
‘Why do you want to find Longcoat Bob?’
‘You know him?’
‘Everybody in this forest knows Longcoat Bob for one reason or another,’ he says. ‘But what’s your reason for knowing Bob?’
‘He put a curse on my family because my grandfather stole his gold long ago,’ Molly says.
‘What happened to your family?’ the old man probes in a soft voice.
‘Longcoat Bob turned their hearts to stone,’ Molly says. ‘They all started dyin’. Some died quick and some died slow and some died long before they should have.’
‘Everybody dies, child,’ the old man says. ‘I suspect there are hundreds lying dead in your home town as we speak.’ He swings round to Yukio. ‘They died before they should have, too, and not at the hands of a black man’s magic stick.’ He turns back to Molly. ‘But one should never mourn the dead, Molly Hook from Darwin, for they have embarked on a journey far more wondrous even than the one that brought you here. You stumble blindly in your boots here on earth. But the dead take flight, Molly Hook, through light and through dark and through light again.’
‘I need to find Longcoat Bob,’ Molly says. ‘Is he anywhere in this forest? Are we even going the right way?’
‘Yes,’ the old man says. ‘He’s nearer to you than you think.’
The baby cries again.
‘The boy is hungry,’ the old man says, turning back to Greta.
‘We’ve run out of food,’ Greta says.
The old man smiles. He raises his arms up to the forest.
‘There is food all around you,’ he says. ‘This forest has everything we need.’
‘The boy needs milk,’ Greta says.
The old man nods. He rises slowly to his feet and walks towards a thick layer of wild passionfruit vine hanging off the rock wall bordering the circular clearing. ‘Come meet my friends,’ he says. He pulls a thick clump of vine back as sure as he would pull a curtain on a window frame, revealing a tunnel cut into the rock. ‘Come,’ the old man calls, waving his arm.
Molly casts her eyes over the sleepers on their backs in the forest. ‘You’re just gonna leave these people ’ere?’ she asks.
‘Of course,’ the old man says. ‘Their dreams haven’t ended yet.’
Molly turns to Greta at the piano. ‘We need to keep going,’ she whispers.
Greta assesses the old man, looks down at the boy in her arms. ‘He needs milk,’ she says.
‘But we need to follow the lightning,’ Molly says.
Greta turns back to the old man. Weighs her options.
‘Come,’ the old man calls. ‘Don’t be afraid. Come meet my friends.’
‘The boy needs to eat,’ Greta says to Molly. And she walks across to the old man, who smiles when Greta ducks her head into the black void of the cave.
*
His home is an underground network of old goldmine tunnels lit by lanterns and candles. Lars leads his guests through a central corridor and Molly walks behind
