or three days I've been walking with Bowman and the Rostron boys through remote country along the upper Cadell River. We've covered miles through flatland forests that lie between ledges of gnarled sandstone. Along the way we've explored nooks that hide rock paintings of file snakes, goannas (colorful lizards that can grow longer than a man's leg), and spirits. The stone of the caves, formed from ancient seabed, contains ripples produced by long-extinct tides. These patterns, Cyrus says, were created by powerful beings during the Dreamtime, the mythic era when the Aboriginal world was made. He flops down to rest in a flat spot, worn smooth by endless generations of his ancestors who have sheltered there from sun and rain.
The walking is easy through these charred woodlands, kept free of undergrowth by frequent blazes. I've stepped around many smoldering logs, but until tonight I have not witnessed the joyous, casual way in which Aboriginal people start their fires. There are no forms to file or agonized consultations before the Rostrons strike a match, no sign of the gear-laden troop of firefighters required for land-management burns in white society. The flames creep through the grasses and shrubs, rarely reaching high enough to scorch the tree canopy. Standing right next to the fire, I feel safe.
In the blackened grass, Miko and Cyrus lean together, watching as the fire moves off at a sedate pace. Lindsay has no use for Balanda gizmos such as Global Positioning System (GPS) units, water filters, and satellite phones, but he loves Bowman's digital camera. He borrows it to snap a photo of Miko and Cyrus, and the electronic flash sends a beam of alien white light into the darkness.
Lindsay is absorbed in the camera's workings when a shrub he's standing on bursts into flames that shoot up his leg. He jumps away without uttering a sound, his face set in an expression of endurance. Convinced he must have a serious burn, I consider the complexities of getting medical help. But Lindsay goes back to studying the camera, hardly missing a beat. "Are you okay?" I ask. The stern expression vanishes, like a blade of grass burning away, and Lindsay flashes a dazzling smile. "Yah, mon," he answers.
