‘Youse playing silly buggers with me? Make a fool of old George?’
‘No sir. Like I said, I’m researching the rituals performed in celebration of the change of season’s from indigenous people all over the world,’ Jack said politely to the skinny, weathered old man seated cross-legged on the red earth across from him.
Scepticism was written all over George’s dark, heavily lined face. Jack glanced up at Roy, the young Murri guide who’d led him out to this remote settlement in far North Queensland.
‘Don’t look at dat boy!’ George growled sharply, ‘He grown up with whitefella’s, knows nothing of our ways,’ George spat contemptuously on the ground before addressing Roy without sparing him a look, ‘bet you can’t speak our blackfella lingo can ya, boy?’
Jack’s guide turned away, clearly unsettled by the scorn emanating in waves from the tribe elder.
‘As I was saying,’ Jack tried to turn the conversation back to the subject matter he wanted for his documentary, ‘I’m investigating all forms of ceremony celebrating the birth of winter…’
‘Winter?’ George laughed harshly, ‘Ain’t never gonna get no winter here.’
‘…and the ceremonies honouring the dead. Your legend of the Spirit Waters for instance,’ Jack finished as though he hadn’t been interrupted.
Silence fell across the dusty camp. The rattle of pans, the chatter of the women cooking at the fires and the squeals of playing children that had been a part of the background noise suddenly ceased.
Curiously, Jack’s eyes wandered over George’s shoulder to the family groups that had been so active a moment ago. They had clearly all been staring at the strange white man in their midst, but they all averted their eyes as he tried to gauge their reaction.
Anger? Fear?
Lowering his eyes back down to George’s, he saw that the old man’s rheumy eyes were boring into his own blue eyes with even more distrust, his full lips thinned to a slit with barely held rage.
‘Best stay out of things dat doesn’t concern you, young man,’ he whispered, leaning forward, ‘Leave the dead to the dead and stay away from dat place.’
Jack couldn’t get another word out of George after that. The old man’s attitude had changed from one of condescending amusement to cold anger. Jack was filled with a burning desire to probe further, but recognised that he would get no more information, for now. He allowed Roy to lead him away.

Eucalypts circled the billabong, giving off a wholesome scent. Through their trunks, Jack could see the churning green waters of the Spirit Waters and the red boulders that were scattered around like giant marbles.
Above them, high in the branches of a paperbark, a large black crow cawed down at the strangers.
‘That’s weird,’ Jack remarked, ‘You’d think there’d be more wildlife around the only water source for miles. That little bloke looks like the only occupant.’
Roy didn’t reply, wasn’t sure if he was required to. He looked up at the crow watching them with beady eyes.
“Are we welcome here, Crow Brother?”
Roy projected the unspoken question at the bird. In answer, it spread its ebony wings and swooped menacingly over their heads before soaring back up to its perch. Roy may have been educated in white schools, but contrary to George’s assumption, he knew enough of his heritage to recognise a warning when he saw it.
Jack had stepped forward to enter the glade surrounding the pool. Roy shot out an arm to stop him.
‘What are you doing, Roy?’
‘The old man’s right, Jack. We’re not welcome here,’ he pointed up at the crow, ‘He is the pools guardian and he just warned us off.’
‘Oh come on, Roy,’ Jack groaned incredulously, ‘You and I both know that is pure superstition. You sound like a crazy old Irishman expecting a banshee to come calling.’
Roy didn’t return Jack’s smile, ‘You know the history of this place, Jack. There has to be something.’
‘The fact that people have disappeared here every winter, or every May is probably a better description,’ Jack amended with a smile as he thought back to George’s caustic comment about winter, ‘is nothing more than coincidence. But it will be a great inclusion in the series.’
The crow cawed loudly, its cry seeming to echo throughout Roy’s body. He began to shake.
‘I’m telling you, Jack, something isn’t right here! I can feel danger, and anger.’
‘Anger?’
‘We’re outside sacred ground. Ground saved for the spirits of the dead. We’re not wanted here!’
‘Look, Roy,’ Jack’s tone was low and filled with the contempt that had been in George’s voice earlier, ‘I didn’t come all this way to go back empty handed. Now come on.’
‘I’m not coming with you, and if you have any respect for your own damned “subject matter”, then you won’t go in either.’
Roy lowered himself to the ground as Jack turned on his heel and stalked through the trees. The crow flew off after him.
Later, Roy had no idea how much later, as he sat and waited, the sound of a startled scream rent the air followed by a loud splash. The flap of wings drew Roy’s gaze upward. The crow had returned and was once more watching him. There was no warning in the crow’s black eyes now, only pity. Pity for one who had chosen to disregard the spirits and so had joined them.
Slowly, Roy scooped up his pack and headed for the Landcruiser. Jack would not be returning from the Spirit Waters.

© Alison Pearce 2008