Chapter 20

Patrick was his usual self and charmed the attendants on both flights. The woman at the car rental was equally enchanted. We were nearly to Mitchell when Weena asked him whether there was something "special" he wanted to do.

"Visit red kangaroo. Learn my name."

"Your name is Patrick. Patrick Scott Hollister."

"No. Real name."

"You've got it wrong," I said. "He wants to visit the nungungi; he was a Red Kangaroo at Jacky's wedding. Am I right, Patrick?"

"Yes. And I learn my name."

"Do you have any idea?" I asked.

"Bilbie? Goanna? Emu? I don't know. Nungungi know. He tell Patrick."

"That's beyond me," Weena said.

"It makes sense. You know, I've read that in many cultures children weren't given names until they were around three, because so many children died in their early years. Perhaps Patrick feels a summons as he gets older. He's a future nungungi. He may already feel and know more than he can articulate. Right, Patrick?"

"Daddy always right."

Weena laughed. "Will you be glad to see your grandparents?"

"Yes. Gramma better now. Gramps not nervous. Patrick ride horse, then we drive to visit Jimmy. His dad was crook. Jimmy now chief."

"Did you know that?" Weena asked me.

"No. Patrick learns a lot through the mulga wire. I don't think he tells us much."

"Here we are!" Patrick exclaimed. He was right.

We went through the greeting rituals. Mum looked a bit paler, but showed no significant changes. In fact, as Weena later remarked to me, it was hard to believe that she was nearly 60. Dad was dad. Patrick started in.

"Where Alf? Where Jacky? Ride horse soon?"

Dad ate it up. "Alf's supervising moving the calves to new forage. Jacky's fence ridin'. It's too late to go saddlin' up today. How about tomorrow before lunch?"

"Okay. Sunday we go to Quilpie."

"Really?" I asked.

"Yes. Band near water there."

"What's he talkin' 'bout?" Dad asked.

"He's been talking to the nungungi over the mulga wire. He wants to go visit."

"I've been here all my life. There's nothing that amazes me about this country any more. Weena's helping Jimmy was a good thing; look what it's brought," said Dad.

"Jimmy now lead band. Jimmy's dad crook."

"I didn't know that." It was amazing. Patrick was half my Dad's height; a twentieth his age. But Dad was conducting a real conversation with him. The fact that Patrick's language wasn't quite up to it, didn't seem to matter.

Mum and Weena had gone into the house. Weena now called from the veranda: "Gordy, bring in the bags. Maybe Patrick can help."

After dinner, when Patrick was asleep, Weena asked me to explain what Patrick had been talking about.

"You mean about his name?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever read Plato?"

"We did a snippet of The Republic at College. I don't recall much."

"Well, Plato does talk about the 'name-giver' there, but I was thinking of Cratylus, a different dialogue."

"Never heard of it."

"Right. Well, it's about language. In the dialogue, Cratylus takes the position that the form and meaning of a word are related. For Cratylus, everything has a name of its own, which comes by nature. In contrast, Hermogenes, Socrates' opponent here, maintains that there is no relation between a name's form and its meaning. For Hermogenes, names are 'correct' merely by way of convention and agreement. Names aren't determined by nature, nor is one name for a thing more correct than another. Hermogenes notes that the name of a servant can be changed and that the new name is just as correct as the old."

"Well, Hermog ... whatever is right. We can call anything whatever we want."

"Many people don't think so. Non-westerners in South America and in Africa and here believe that everything has a true name. And knowing that name results in power. We call him 'Patrick', but the nungungi will lead him along a path to his true name. When he knows it, he may tell us. But he may not. And if he tells us, we must keep his confidence."

"You're taking this very seriously."

"It is very serious. In some ways you and I don't believe any of this. But many here in Australia, maybe five percent of the population, do believe it. We respect the nungungi. The bands here in Queensland — perhaps some in New South Wales and the Territory — venerate him. He has Power. He has said that Patrick has or will have Power. I don't know how much or how little, but to those who believe, he is important."

"Have we created a monster?" she hugged me.

"No. Nor a saint. Just a little boy with a lot to learn and experience."

"Why are you so smart?"

"Because I love you. And him. And my parents. And because we try to do the right thing. As you did with Jimmy, nearly two years ago." I kissed her. "Now, let's get some sleep."

The next day Patrick chased mum's chooks and rode for about ten minutes on the gentlest ride Alf could find. Alf said he had "a good seat." After lunch, Weena and I went out riding. I put Patrick in front of me. He seemed to enjoy himself, though he seemed to think my gelding was "high." We sat and chatted with mum in the afternoon while Patrick napped. I asked about Jacky and Alice.

"They're doing well," mum reported. "Alice is going to stop working soon. The baby's due in two or three months."

"I hadn't heard. Do they have a phone?"

"Yes, both a mobile and a land line. Jacky carries the mobile while Alice is home."

"I'll phone a bit later. Does he know we're here?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. But he told your dad that he'd wait a few days before disturbing us."

"Well, we'll be gone tomorrow. But we'll be home Sunday — afternoon, I guess."