That’s why we heard him before we saw him. A conversation with one voice. Doubts and fears and hopes and confidences, ringing back and forth from the walls. Prayers. Ramblings. Grandad motioned for me to be silent, and then he pointed. Pointed down. He was at the bottom of the gorge, by the water. His campsite nothing more than a swag, a fire and a backpack. He looked half-gone. Crazy. Thin. Exhausted. A mess. “Mad boy?” I asked Grandad. He listened for a long time, then shook his head. “Not mad.” “What’s he doing here?” I whispered. “This is not his place.” Grandad just stared me down. “This … is nobody’s place. This place just is. He came looking. It called to him. He listened. Now he’s here, so he’s welcome.” There was one tree growing by the water. There was one cockatoo in the tree. Quietest cocky ever. Just sitting, watching Mad Boy. Sometimes flew out. Always came back. Grandad sat, so I sat. We watched and listened for hours. His words started to form patterns, rhythms – a sort of song. Every word, clear as a bell. Beautiful words. Sad words. Scared words. Longing words. Brave words. We ate and drank quietly from our bags. He sipped water from the source. He lit his fire. He didn’t cook. He sang. He slept real early. Grandad sang softly over him and me. We slept. The paintings on the walls of the alcove slipped into my dreams. Danced with the prayer songs of the starving man. Made me calm. Made me hungry. When we woke, he was up and praying again, but he still didn’t cook or eat. “He’s got no food. He’s going to starve,” I whispered. “Maybe. Maybe not,” said Grandad. “Maybe that’s why we got called here. To watch out for him.” So, we started a routine. We’d go out for the morning, Grandad showing, me seeing and hearing. We’d forage and hunt and cook, then we’d head 26
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