I didn’t bloody encourage him. He just didn’t seem like the type to cause much bother. He looked like a bushy, dressed in the weirdest get-up. Matted hair, animal skins, no shoes. But a lot of blokes go a bit feral out here, so I didn’t see there was any harm. He asked if he could camp by the river, down in the back paddock. I just said, “go for it,” warned him about snakes, and off he went. All that crap about him eating cicadas, I don’t know about that. But he looked after himself. I went down there every so often to see that he was alright. Once he gave me some honeycomb with a cuppa. He always looked ok, in a sort of Mad Max ‘extra’ kinda vibe. Serious bugger, though. Religious. No point trying to talk footy with him. It was always, “God this” and “God that” and “Are you ready” and I thought, ‘Ready for bloody what?’ – but I never really asked. Anyway, I liked him. Kept himself clean. Did no damage. I suppose I thought he must be one of those PTSD army vets trying to get his head together. Poor buggers. Live and let live, I reckon. He went to town once that I remember. Caused a stir outside the church, preaching up a storm. Telling them they were a dirty bunch who needed a good wash. I saw that it wasn’t going to end well, so I whacked him in the ute and drove him back to the river. I could hear him from the house on still nights. Singing and praying under the stars, going on like a bloody fruitcake. But no harm done, eh? No worse than the cicadas. If I’m honest, since the wife left and the boys went north, the place had been a bit empty, and he filled the silence a bit. Good worker too. Always up for helping me fix a fence or put out feed. Stock even liked him. Never seen animals so calm as when he was around. But mainly he just sat by the river, talking to God and stayin’ out of trouble. It was about a month before the first group arrived. Bunch from town, who’d been at the church when he went gangbusters on them. I grabbed the rifle from the back of the ute, thinking they were here to give him a 13
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