The river is Down (28 page)

She wished the memory of Erica's brilliantly striped dress —as she left that plane—didn't make her sick. These were the colours of Flan's foot.

If Erica hadn't come, perhaps Nick would have been here—

Now poor wounded Flan had only Cindie Brown.

Cindie's hand touched Flan's left hand where it stretched out on the rock-face, his fingers clinging with effort to some sprouting bush.

'Flan?'

He opened his eyes and nodded.

With her right hand she held hard to a jut of rock: a firm part of the whole rock-face.

'Take my hand, Flan . . . slowly . . . instead of that bush. I'm safe and I have a tight hold on the cliff.'

Second by second his hand closed gradually round Cindie's, as he released the bush.

'Now—keel over slowly on your left side, Flan. I'll pull gently and you come with my hand. Put your weight on my arm as you come. It's very strong, and you're only a teeny little wisp of a man. It's easy, really—'

It was not so easy, but it was not too hard either. It was the timing that mattered. He had to keel over inch by inch so that his body would lower gently to a bed on the path.

Cindie knew he mustn't fall to the ground. He must ease to it. He mustn't faint, because he had to control his movements. If he fell, he could so easily roll. The gorge break was only two feet away

'Keep using your mind—wide awake—Flan.'

He opened his eyes wide. 'I am,' he grunted. 'What kind of a raking fool you think I am, Cindie?'

She could have cried with relief. He was in agony: his

face was sheet-white, but his spirit was alert and fighting. Minutes later, he was lying on his side on the path below

Cindie, his head touching her feet.

She slithered down to a sitting position and gradually, by taking his shoulders, she turned him on to his back. She gritted her teeth while doing this, for she suffered in her heart the awful pain she knew Flan was enduring while he had to move that crushed right foot.

At last it was over.

Flan lay, his head in Cindie's lap, her slacks-covered legs, one on either side of his shoulders, wedging him firmly.

'You can faint now, sweetie.' she said softly, leaning over him, nursing him as if he were her child. 'We're safe. Two peas in a pod

'Never . . . fainted . . . in . . . my life. ..

'Okay. Go to sleep instead. I'll keep watch.'

They stayed like that, not talking, for a long, long time. Once Cindie lifted his eyelid to see if he was conscious. His eyeball flickered.

She leaned back against the same boulder she had had to climb over earlier. Up in that Land-Rover was the two-way radio. She didn't know how to use it, but she could try.

Of course, when she and Flan weren't home by nightfall, they would be missed from the hotel. Someone would come —sometime—to their rescue. Meanwhile, Flan was in appalling pain. He was silent, unmoving, but he was not unconscious. So he suffered.

In the Land-Rover there was water and food. There was the Standard Outback First Aid Kit, which meant that in that kit there'd be a pain-killing drug.

Cindie leaned forward and searched in Flan's pockets for his penknife. She found it and opened it. Hurray! It was as sharp as she had hoped Flan kept his knife.

She eased herself back from him, till her legs were free of his shoulders, and she was sitting on the boulder instead of leaning against it. She waited a few minutes to see if Flan stirred. He lay quite still.

With great care she climbed the few yards back up the path to where the rope was hanging. She had to take care

because becoming a casualty herself wouldn't help Flan. The rope was very thick and very stout, and it took quite

some effort to sever it. When this was done Cindie put

Flan's knife in her pocket and slithered back carefully, over

the pebbly part of the path, and once more over that boulder.

Again she had to sit down, her legs on either side of Flan in order safely to get a loop of the rope around him, under his arm-pits. It wasn't quite long enough to reach strong holds on the cliff wall.

Cindie pulled her blouse over her head and tore it into shreds—with some help from Flan's knife. She tied these strips together, then the whole length to the rope. It was long enough now.

Flan's eyes flickered open. 'What . . . the hell . . . ?'

'I'm tying you up, darling. To these tree-roots here. There's a loop round a perfectly safe jag of rock, too. That's in case you do fall asleep, and roll over the wrong way. Flan?' she asked, more urgently. She had to do this. 'You do know what is on your left side, don't you?'

'The gorge.' He barely nodded.

Cindie finished the job of securing him. She knew very well Flan wouldn't fall into mere sleep. Not in that pain. But he might become unconscious. She had to tie him to be sure.

'I'm going up to the top to radio for help, Flan. I'll bring water, and other things we might need

'I hope someone taught you never to make granny knots,' Flan said unexpectedly. The longest sentence yet.

'Yes. At first-aid classes. Don't worry, my pet. All my knots are reefs or sheet-bends. You're tied up good and sure. My very own prisoner.'

'Good for you!'

'Flan, I'm sorry I said you were only a teeny little wisp of a man. Actually you have the heart of a lion.'

'Watch out . . . I might . . . roar. . . .' His voice faded to nothing. The effort of speech was too great.

'I'll take care. You know that, don't you, Flan?' His eyelids flickered. Cindie knew he had said 'Yes'.

She crawled to a standing position. Then she turned, eased

herself over the boulder once again, and began the steep

climb to the top.

It was cooler, this way, without a blouse, she thought. In her bag in the Land-Rover she had shorts. She'd brought them because Flan had said something about a swim in one of the lesser gorges; and she didn't have a swim-suit.

When she reached the top she'd change her slacks for the shorts. That way she'd look more like a bikini-girl than the

way she looked now—only a bra on top and long pants below. Somehow, this way looked undressed: the legs of her slacks were stuck to her with perspiration, too. The other way would look sort of natural—for someone picnicking, anyway —and cool.

Who cares, she thought, desperately clambering up a particularly high step. I'm so hot

She was puffed out, too. She had to stop every few minutes to get her breath.

At long last she reached the top. There were the white trees with the black hearts! And the Land-Rover sticking out on the great flat area like the Sydney Harbour Bridge!

At least whoever came to their rescue would know where she and Flan were.

When she had regained her breath, she took some of the more necessary things like food and water from the hamper, and put them in her shoulder-bag. From the first-aid kit she took the hypodermic syringe and two capsules marked 'Pentothal'. That, she knew, was something akin to morphia, only not so dangerous. She took some aspirin in case her own head began to ache. These things she put in the pockets of her shorts, after she had changed into them.

She felt cooler, and freer in movement, now.

She tied her cardigan, and an old pullover of Flan's, round her neck in case it grew cold in the night—if it was late before anyone came for them.

When she was sure she was rightly equipped she climbed in the driver's seat and began to juggle with the two-way. Try as she would she could not get any answer, whichever knob she turned. She had no idea of the wave-lengths. The only thing to do was to send a message—and repeat it several times—with first one knob on, then the other. Someone, somewhere in the world-of-the-air, might hear it.

She thought of Jim Vernon at the construction camp, or at Baanya. Of one thing she was certain—wherever he was, if he heard that call, he would come. Even if he had to walk the whole way.

Nick, of course, would be somewhere tied up with Erica in business deals! No. Not to think of that now! Nothing mattered except Flan's foot.

At the last minute Cindie remembered the torch. She felt like Robinson Crusoe scrounging round in the Land-Rover for anything tiny enough, but useful, that she should take.

Then, draped about with supplies, and coverings against

night cold, Cindie set out on the downward path—back into the gorge.

It was long past lunch-time, of course. She'd forgotten to look at the clock in the Land-Rover. By the position of the sun, she guessed it was nearer two o'clock—probably later.

Flan was as she had left him, awake, but in too much pain to talk.

`Water first!' She sat above him again as she had done formerly. She trickled the fluid little by little into his mouth. When he signalled he had had enough, she put the water-bottle on the path above her. He couldn't take any food.

`Now for the works!' she said brightly, as if it were all a game: anything to cheer the silent, white-faced Flan.

She took the syringe and one capsule from her pocket. She drew in the exact amount of fluid, holding the needle up to the light to make sure there was no air bubble.

`Don't worry, will you, Flan? I know how to do this because I learned from the proper authority. And I gave all the injections to one of the men in the sickbay at the camp. I think it was the second day I was there.'

She chatted on lightly, inconsequentially, as she wiped a patch on Flan's arm with a piece of cotton wool, then inserted the needle.

She marvelled at herself at this stage. Her hands didn't tremble, even though her legs were still jelly from those climbs.

Minutes later she knew by the weight of Flan's head on her lap, that his whole system had relaxed. She watched his eyes close, waver open, then stay closed. A little later he was breathing easily and naturally.

Now, she thought, for the long wait!

The afternoon waned away while the colours in the gorge changed subtly and beautifully. Cindie wished she was a painter. Or even a mere photographer.

Night came down: first a purple veil, then a fading away of the sheer rock faces on the other side of the gorge. Finally, there was no colour anywhere: only the darkling sky above.

Flan awoke. The pain had come back. Cindie flicked on the torch, again. It was seven o'clock by the watch on Flan's wrist. She had given that first injection at three o'clock. Four hours. It would be safe to give another now, but she had to be careful because of the lack of light. When the syringe was ready she would have to prop up the torch

in such a way that she could see exactly what she was doing.

Meticulously as before, she went about her job.

Finally the injection was given and began to take effect. Flan was asleep again.

Cindie, feeling the strain now, looked up at the stars. How bright they were! She might try counting them to keep herself alert. No, that wouldn't do! It could put her to sleep as they said counting sheep into the muster-yard put the stockmen to sleep in the heat. It would be fatal if she were the one to roll over that edge. Perhaps if she thought of rhymes for things in the gorge. Boulder. Now that was a hard one. Wall was easy—fall! No, she mustn't think of that one. Call was better

It seemed long hours afterwards that she heard sounds high up above at the mouth of the gorge. Looking up she saw the sweep of a car's headlights across the narrow vent to the sky.

With those powerful lights, they'd see the Land-Rover all right!

Cindie switched on the torch and looked at Flan's watch. Ten o'clock. She and Flan had been here since about twelve noon. Ten hours! No wonder her back ached and there was cramp in her legs! Of course, she had had that climb up to the Land-Rover and back. That had helped break up the hours a little.

Funny, how flat she felt, now all was nearly over!

She could hear the rattle of stones, the slither of steps

on the downward path. They were coming at last. Then she heard the call.

'Coo-ee-ee!'

Music in the wilderness! It rang crystal clear, the music of angels, repeating itself again and again around the walls of the gorge—growing faint then, like a lost waif fleeing from the world. Echo sped down the long gash in the earth, then died into space.

Cindie cupped her hands over her mouth and called back

'Coo-ee! Coo-ee-ee!'

She sat still, listening to the sound of her own voice—sweeter than she recognised as her own. The call went out, then as it reverberated from wall to wall and rock to rock she wondered why Echo always sounded so alone, so sad! So lost. She had now, strangely—from sheer weariness and relief—no more interest in her own and Flan's predicament.

It was somebody else's problem from here on. It was time at last for Cindie Brown to give up. She leaned back and closed her eyes. She didn't even care any more— Funny--Something to do with lost Echo's voice—

Ten minutes later came the sound of careful steps on the path just above them. Pebbles rattled, then hailed down. Cindie, without thought, turned on the torch so the rescuers would be able to locate them. She 'didn't even realise she did it. A powerful search-light swung round the bend of the path above them, then shot a wide yellow beam on Cindie's bare back, and the face she turned back towards the path. It blinded her. She was so tired—now that she had given up—this exercise of twisting her neck seemed too hard: far too bothersome. Besides—that terrible light!