‘Relax,’ Wally replied. ‘I’ve never heard of even a freshwater croc being seen anywhere near this far south. No, it must’ve been a sharp stick or something. Lucky it was only your leg.’
Fortunately, Wally had thought to pack a first aid kit. He fetched it and set about applying a bandage to stem the blood flow. Before long it was under control. Malcolm re-donned his clothing and they rummaged through the provisions they had brought, opting for some dried noodles and tinned fish.
‘We’ll cook a decent meal later,’ Wally said. ‘It’s still early. There’s something else you should see.’
After eating, they left their rucksacks and swags at the water’s edge and Wally led the way up a nearby incline. Several metres up, they reached a wide cave, carved over untold centuries by the combined effects of wind and water. On the smooth walls were cave paintings and carvings depicting wallabies, birds, and various other animals including a beast with a huge mouth and ferocious-looking teeth. There were also numerous handprints, that long-dead artists had made by spitting ground ochre mixed with water over their splayed hands.
‘Prehistoric graffiti,’ Malcolm mused. ‘And they tagged it too.’ They both chuckled. Looking over the images one by one, Malcolm said, ‘I thought you said there aren’t any crocodiles around here? This bloke looks like the thing from that Alien movie.’ He pointed at the painting of the toothed creature. ‘There might have been once, I guess,’ Wally replied. ‘These drawings are likely to be thousands of years old. Anyway, that’s probably a witch doctor in a headdress.’
They spent another half-hour examining the ancient artwork, before clambering back down and selecting a suitable campsite.
There was a stretch of deep sand not far from the water, so they decided to spread their swags there. They lit a fire, cooked some food, and sat talking until around nine, when they decided it was time to sleep. Malcolm’s leg was throbbing, but he managed to drift off quickly. * * * Malcolm woke with a start. The moon was close to full, but down in the ravine, it was as dark as a grave.
What had woken him? A splash? A cry? It could easily have been either, or any other sound, for that matter. Something had woken him though, that much was beyond doubt.
The throbbing ache in his leg had increased as the night wore on. He’d slept soundly at first, but the burning pain had permeated his dreams until his sleep consisted of fitful naps interspersed with periods of hallucinatory wakefulness. He had been drifting off again when he heard it.
‘Wally? Are you awake?’
Nothing but sombre silence. ‘Wally! Did you hear that?’ His companion was obviously a heavy sleeper. What time is it? He wondered. His wristwatch was in his backpack, where he had put it before entering the water earlier. He couldn’t see the moon at all, so it was either well before midnight or well after. What little light there was seemed to be reflecting off the eastern wall of the chasm and dancing across the water, so he decided it was somewhere between 2 and 5 am. Any later, the sky would be starting to lighten.
He lay listening for several minutes before eventually drifting back to sleep.
When next he woke, the sky above was blue, and a small cloud swirled in the eddying currents as the air began to warm. The brightness told him the sun had risen some time ago—as much as an hour or two. Struggling to his feet, Malcolm looked over to where Wally’s sleeping bag had been. There was no sign of either the man or his swag.
Shaking his head in an attempt to clear the fog, he realised the headache was back; back with a vengeance, in fact. He made to walk towards the water, but his injured leg gave way. The throbbing pain was almost unbearable now. He rose to his feet again and made his way unsteadily to the water’s edge, his thirst a raging fire. On hands and knees, he drank from the billabong, gulping at the cool, soothing water.
Looking around, he could see no sign of Wally Bright, nor of his sleeping bag. Had Wally simply left him? Left him to die, perhaps?—his fevered mind wondered. No answers were forthcoming, and his head still swam, so Malcolm staggered back to his sleeping bag and collapsed onto it, quickly falling asleep again. When next he woke the sun was burning into his eyes like a firebrand.
It had to be close to midday, and there was still no sign of Wally Bright. He made his way gingerly across to the other side of the ravine, where there was still some shade. Soon, the sun would be blazing directly down into the chasm and the only shelter would be from a small, gnarled eucalyptus tree near where they had slept. Looking at it, Malcolm was reminded of the bonsai in the company reception area. This tree was probably dozens of years old, yet only a couple of metres in height and twisted into a grotesque parody of its open-space cousins.
There was still no sign of his companion, so Malcolm decided he’d have to try walking back alone. All he had to do was follow the creek. Follow it back to where the Land Cruiser was waiting—if Wally hadn’t driven it away, that was. He struggled to remember whether they had left the keys on top of the front wheel, as was the usual custom. Wally had driven, so he might have brought them with him. If so, where were they?
Wally’s backpack, along with his own, was still where it had been dropped, next to a huge, rounded boulder. If Wally had left on foot, as Malcolm now supposed he had, surely he would have taken that, also? The fever from his now obviously infected leg was starting to play tricks with his mind; vitiating even his most rational thoughts to where he was unsure if they were truly his own. He sat for some time, trying to muster strength and sanity, as the sun edged across the sky and his small patch of shade grew smaller and smaller.
He was beginning to perspire profusely, but couldn’t be certain if it was from his own internal fire or from the sun that was now beating mercilessly down into the open wound of the gorge. That was when he saw the sleeping bag.
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