Aboriginal. Aborigine. Billy thought about the words. He wasn’t sure which one was correct. It didn’t matter. Neither of them was correct. Either way it was a word; it was about a thing. It described something but it wasn’t human. It made it seem as if the people were just an object, not something that lived and breathed. It was belittling, another instrument to downplay their significance. It was an old word, antiquated and from another time. Every nation and culture in the world had their own dedicated name. An Englishman was an Englishman, a German was a German. Why was it that these people weren’t given the same respect? Why not just call them what they were? They were all from different tribes, the Pitjantjatjara, Arrernte, Yankunytjatjara and so forth. So they should be named as such. But what was he? He needed to find that out, but how? He knew very little about his mother, only that her tribe had been dispersed, the language and culture lost. All of it systematically destroyed and wiped from the face of the planet. It was extinct. But animals that were considered extinct have sometimes re-emerged. There were still sightings of the Tasmanian tiger. So there was some hope. He knew in himself that he was something, only it didn’t have a name. At the very least, maybe the people of the community would accept him and then he would know what to call himself.

It seemed that balance was necessary. The old and the new needed to be combined, the traditions adapted. That was the way forward. Without balance change could not occur. It wasn’t only about mutual respect. It went far beyond that. It was respect for yourself. Only then could you give it to someone else. The land is the mother and we are her babies. He missed his mother. He regretted not knowing her. It had been beyond his control, though. He would find another mother. She could substitute for the thing he most needed. He had been seeking love through marriage but it hadn’t worked. It would never work if he didn’t learn how to give it first. First he needed to train himself. How was he going to do that? He could go to Doris; he could ask Doug. In the end, though, they could only help so much. It was up to him to make the real changes.

He didn’t agree with the brutal punishment, but he didn’t agree with the crime either. They were both vicious in their own ways. There were courts for that sort of thing. Which court was he in?

All the thoughts running through his head made him dizzy. After leaving the confines of the rockhole, Billy had told Doug that he would catch up with him later. He said he needed time to think. Doug had joked that he’d better not take too long or his tea would get cold. Billy had laughed along with him but wasn’t at all in a joking mood. He had wandered out of the crevice leading to the rockhole and moved along a ridge. He felt drained and found a spot to sit on a small hillock overlooking the town. He could see a line of mountains about fifty kilometres away. In his raised position he again had the impression that he was sitting on the edge of a river. A very wide river, with the ranges in the distance forming the opposite bank. It struck him how old the land was. How it must have changed over time. He stared at the ranges and the sun seemed to sit on top of them. It wouldn’t be long before it set completely behind them. Involuntarily he shook, and a shiver ran down his spine. The air had cooled dramatically without the sun to keep it warm.

He looked down at his feet and spotted a digital wristwatch lying in the sand. Its display was blinking and apart from some weathering it appeared to be in perfect working order. The display read: 17:30 27-8-93. The time and date seemed insignificant now. The watch was just a piece of plastic and not really worth a thing. Nor was time for that matter. He stood up and threw it as far as he could. It clattered on the rocks below. One day in the future someone else would find it. As worthless as it was. In all probability it would still be working; or maybe the sun would have damage it beyond recognition. At any rate, it was of no consequence. Time was of no consequence. He felt released from its constraints. Even the land was timeless. Although it was ancient, it was new to him. The shackles had dropped. He was free.

Billy sensed that he had found his home. During the short time he had spent in the little community he had experienced things which both shocked and challenged him. For the first time in his life he didn’t feel alone. He felt part of a family, with people who understood and supported him. He had found a purpose. He now had a history and a past, even though not all the history was personally his own.

Doug’s words rang loud in his ears: ‘The culture must not die.’

The culture, the lore, the history, and all the stories could not just be recorded and filed away. It had to live on in the people. It had to be exercised for it to remain healthy and grow in strength. It had to live in him and others if it was ever to survive. There was so much he didn’t know, so much he still had to learn. His real education had just begun. Once he had mastered it to some degree he should take this knowledge and pass it on. There were no real mysteries or secrets; they were there for everyone. The only criterion was respect. Respect for what he had learned; that it was a gift, and in turn he could give this wonderful gift to others. It would take him some time to fully understand the nature of what he had received, but for now he knew that it was incredibly valuable. Not something physical; not material and to be selfishly harboured, like the possessions he had owned in the world he had recently left behind.

The land, the people and the law—all were tied together. One could not exist without the others. They were firmly linked, inseparable yet fragile. It was also up to him to protect, enforce and uphold them. He felt honoured that he had been allowed to become part of it. Not only that: it had also truly become part of him. He had something.

He thought back to the night at the roadhouse and his first meeting with Pidgin. His time had come; a door had opened for him that he never knew existed. It had set him on his present path, and for that he felt eternally thankful.

He sat and stared at the setting sun. It was glowing red on the horizon. The sky slowly changing from pink to purple. Doug had said it was the most hazardous time of the day. There were dangers out there and they could be approaching right now. Only now he had no fear. He had the strength and would bravely face whatever was to come.

Exhaustion suddenly swept over him. He gave in to it and let his body go limp. All apprehension melted away. He had some answers; not all of them, but it was a good start. He was relieved.

Pidgin stood silently behind Billy. His shadow stretched out in an infinite, long line behind him. It flowed out like an endless, great inland river. He lifted one hand from his club and lowered it towards Billy’s shoulder. He squeezed it in a fatherly gesture. Pidgin’s shadow swept forward. It enveloped Billy, who had one last glimpse of the setting sun before darkness engulfed the land. Then everything went black.

Billy’s subconscious was permeated by the sound of hissing air brakes and the engine of a large bus settling into idle. He opened his eyes. He was lying flat on his back with a large rock pushing uncomfortably into his lower spine. Above him the stars flickered intensely. Groaning, he rolled onto one side and arched his neck towards the noise of the bus. He came face to face with the dried out skull of a ram. One horn stuck out from its head, its point barely millimetres from his right eye. He shrank back in horror, retreating frantically on his stomach across the gravel. He stopped. Without the skull dominating his field of vision he saw the rest of his surroundings. Beyond the skull he had an ant’s-eye view of the undercarriage of a large Greyhound bus, standing a few metres away. Between its wheels he could make out the front of the roadhouse. The all-too-familiar buzz of insects around floodlighting, competing with the rumble of a six-cylinder diesel engine, brought it all back to him. It slowly dawned on him that the past few days hadn’t really happened. His head thumped, the remnants of his hangover making itself apparent. He stood up and dusted himself off. There was no movement and the bus seemed deserted. The wide, illuminated board above its windscreen read in big, white letters: ‘Alice Springs’.

Billy stood for a few moments and mulled over what he thought he’d experienced in the preceding days. He had probably been lying by the roadside for only a few hours. He assumed that after the road train had flung him to the ground he had passed out. So the whole trip was merely a dream. He struggled to process this. It had seemed so real. Even if it hadn’t been real it must have some significance.

The dream had left a lasting effect. Maybe the people he had met truly existed. Maybe Pidgin was not a figment of his imagination. He had seen him before the road train divided them. He felt compelled to find out more. He no longer wanted to turn around and go home. He felt the urge to continue his journey, no matter what was in store for him.

He checked to see if he was being watched. There was no one outside. He could make out a few figures moving in the roadhouse, otherwise he was alone. It was now or never. He strode with confidence towards the bus and took one more look around before climbing the stairs. He slipped into a seat at the back of the bus and made himself as small as possible, slouching low in the seat and hard up against the window. He took a deep breath and hoped he wouldn’t be discovered.

After a few minutes the other passengers and the driver dribbled back onto the bus. There weren’t many people. The majority sat at the front of the bus. No one seemed to notice him. He was relieved and hoped he could remain unnoticed for the remainder of the journey. The pressurised front door sucked shut and the driver engaged first gear. The air conditioning roared to life and Billy felt its cooling breeze blasting from above. He shivered. He reached up to the console above his head and adjusted the airflow.

The bus pulled away from the roadhouse and up onto the highway. Billy looked out the window. He could see a slight glow on the horizon. The rising sun was penetrating the blackness. From the corner of his eye he noticed a small Aboriginal man standing on the edge of the tarmac. He had a long white beard and held a metre-long stick. His coat, which was made entirely of feathers, was whipped up by the bus’s turbulence as it swept past him.

Billy peered out the window, trying to hold the man in his sights. The highway made a long, sweeping curve, allowing him to keep his eyes on the man. Pidgin remained motionless on the verge of the road. The sun was rising swiftly and within moments he was fully illuminated. A lone, silhouetted figure, standing silently in the middle of a vast expanse of plain. Billy watched him until he was a mere speck in the distance. He then turned in his seat and settled down. A wry smile flashed across his face. He felt content and ready to face anything.