Chapter 2

"Hello. This is Gerri."

"Hi, Gerri. Patrick. How are you all?"

"OK. Too much baby poop."

"Not my fault. Is your father-in-law around?"

"No. He took about two dozen Merino lambs into Roma."

"Oh. Do you know if the band's over by the creek?"

"They were last week. Why?"

"I need to send a message. Could you drive over?"

"One of us can. But there's a price."

"What?"

"I need to know how the art critic's doin'."

"She's fine. She's off at an opening right now."

"When will you have a kid?"

"We're practicing."

"Right. So what's the message?"

"It's to the band around Lake Constance in the Diamantina. My dad's going to visit. They need to know just that he's the father of the carpet python."

"Got it. Mulga wire that Gordy senior will be in the Park."

"Yes. Exactly. Kiss your sister and the babies for us."

"And you get to work making one!"

Patrick sat back, satisfied.

The flight was far from the one I'd taken in 1984. Instead of a Piper, the aircraft was an Embraer Phenom; there were two pilots and three more passengers. We flew two of my fellow passengers to Broken Hill and then to Birdsville. The jet was going on to the Alice to deliver one and pick up some folks bound for Canberra. It was faster and more comfortable than the Aztec had been.

As promised, a Land-Rover was waiting at the Birdsville Hotel, where I spent the night. I re-checked the tires, the coolant, the petrol, and made sure I had halazone and bottled water before setting out. It took a bit over three hours to get to Bedourie, where I was told that the Georgina was "still runnin'" and that I'd have to go further north to Boulia or backtrack and head east towards Currawilla to cross. I'd driven through Currawilla before, so I opted to try that. I left the road before crossing Farrar's Creek and bumped along it in a northerly direction. Once I hit the national park marker, I veered westward and soon hit a park track.

There was water in Lake Constance so I found a camping/parking place on a rise. I was certain there'd be no new flooding, but it was better to play safe. I got out my swag and camping equipment, built a small fire and walked down to the shore. A dry fly on a handline got me dinner in a few minutes. I gutted my catch and spitted it on a stick. I made some damper in a tin and supped on fish on bread. I made a billy of tea and relaxed. I wondered whether Weena would love this as I did and fell asleep.

This was the traditional land of the Maiawali people. They had been good to me thirty years ago. I hoped they were around. In the meantime, I went camponotus-hunting.

Rain upstream and a full lake meant the turf was soggy. That meant the ants were below in their tunnels. I smiled thinking of the diagram in Them!, where Dr. Medford (Edmund Gwenn) showed the structure of an ants' nest. Not a bad job for an SF-Horror film. Of course, they missed the square-cube law, but everyone did. Who'd worry about a tarantula with eight elephantine legs?

So I flipped stones and rolled a dead log, revealing dry spots ... and a few workers and a sentinel. I did't worry about species, I just collected them and marked my vials with grease pencil. It felt good to just write the date on the glass.

I wandered around a 15 meter radius. I got a trapdoor spider and a scorpion. Trying to establish a population meant looking at other arthropods, too.

That night I ate my sole steak. I'd frozen it and wrapped it in several temperature layers in Sydney and it lived in a small Eskimo for about 48 hours. It was no longer frozen, but it was still cold. It was late, but I found a handful of quandong, too. Tomorrow I'd fish again. I banked my fire and set up a billy.

In the morning I found two Maiawalli squatting by my fire ring.

"Day-ee," I said.

"Morning. You ant man? From Mitchell?"

"Yes. Gordy."

"I'm Sammy. He's Tom."

"Want some tea?"

"Yes, boss."

"How do you know me?"

"You father of Carpet Python. Numbat nungungi get mulga wire." [A numbat is a banded marsupial anteater.]

"Is numbat far?"

"One hour, mebbe two."

I waited for my billy to boil, set out three pannikins. "Sweet?"

"Yes, boss."

I stirred a spoonful of sugar into each and hand one Sammy and one to Tom. They didn't seem like the assassins in Verdi's Masked Ball. We drank, I ate my left-over damper. "Shall we go now?" I asked. They nodded. I took a small bag of sugar and my collection kit. It proved to be under two hours, but a healthy morning walk.

I paused several times to scoop up a small resident, labelling the vial.

"Whatcha doin', boss?" Sammy asked the first time.

"I study ants. I take a few to see what kinds they are."

"One you just took ain't good ta eat."