Shadow of the Osprey Read Online Free Page B

their ally, Wallarie still avoided places of the dead.
    Even the European stockmen of the Glen View run avoided the hills. A primeval superstitious dread, inherent in long forgotten memories, caused them to give the eerie place a wide berth. Had not six years earlier the owner of Glen View been found in the same area with a spear through him? The same magical spear that had killed Sir Donald Macintosh, had flown from the body of his son, to kill the tough Scot squatter. The magical spear of the spirit warrior Wallarie, who roamed in the night, seeking revenge on all those who should foolishly dare threaten the sacred site of the Nerambura people – or so the Aboriginal stockmen whispered amongst themselves. And via the station kitchen the whispered stories had been carried to the European and Chinese workers at the homestead.
    Had Wallarie known of his elevation to the mystical world of legend he might have smiled sheepishly with embarrassment. Tom’s laughter would have boomed around the ancient, eroded hills they once rode through in far off Burkesland. ‘You black bastard. No-one will remember Tom Duffy. But old women will frighten kids to bed with threats that Wallarie will come and get them if they don’t do as they are told. Long after we’re gone from this world people will remember you, not me.’
    And so it would be.
    Tom was gone now. Also Mondo, Tom’s Nerambura wife, who had borne him three children, Wallarie mused as he continued striding towards the ancient hills misted in the filter of red dust that hung in the air.
    He knew about Tom and Mondo’s children. It was his duty. They had the last remnants of Nerambura blood in their veins and were with the white woman called Kate O’Keefe who had been Tom Duffy’s sister.
    And there was a strange link with the white woman that Wallarie knew was one with the spirit of the white warrior of the cave. He did not know what the link was. Maybe the spirits of the cave would tell him this night as he sat cross-legged before the fire he would make in the cave. He would sing the sacred songs of the elders that only he and the possums living in the trees above the cave remembered.
    In the early evening Wallarie climbed the old path and found again the entrance to the cave. He paused before entering the cavernous structure and gazed across the plains bathed in the soft silver glow of the rising full moon. He gazed across a land now occupied by the employees of the Macintosh companies: black stockmen who worked for tobacco, flour, sugar and tea. They had replaced the old-time shepherds who had once guarded the ill-suited flocks of sheep. Chinese gardeners tended the vegetable gardens around the sprawling timber and corrugated-iron residence. The homestead set on the land marked the permanent occupation of Darambal lands by the former tough old Scot squatter’s new manager.
    Wallarie hesitated. Was it that the surrounding bush had fallen into an expectant hush? Was it that he had been too long away from his country and that the sacred place might have forgotten him? He chanted a song asking permission from the spirit guardians to approach, took a deep breath, and forced himself to enter the darkness of the sacred place.
    Fear pounded his heart and his head throbbed. He trod cautiously as the smell of wood ash from long-dead fires, and the desiccated droppings of the animals which continued to visit the cool sanctuary of the overhang on hot days, drifted to him on the evening breeze. He felt the crunch of bones underfoot and recoiled in terror. His nerves were at a breaking point and he expected an evil spirit to rise up to meet him. But nothing happened. Wallarie froze until he could feel his heart pounding once again reassuring him that he was still in the lonely world of the living. He continued into the cave until at last his foot touched the dry ends of old logs.
    Wallarie slid his hand inside his belt and his fingers wrapped around the only white man’s invention