Alpheus Williams, author of Kurdaitcha Man, lives and writes in a small coastal village in Australia with his wife and their border collie. His works have appeared in The Molotov Cocktail, Barren Magazine, Storgy, The Write Launch, The Fabulist Magazine, Shotgun Honey, Bristol Noir, Bath Flash Fiction, Ellipses Zine, and Danse Macabre among others. Alpheus was a Pushcart nominee in 2021.
Mystery Tribune has previously published Homework from Mr. Williams.
*****
The heat settles with sundown and soft breezes from the north. Rusty-red earth darkens to blood, stretches out in the flat dry plains of the Never-Never. Stars scatter like sprinkled sugar on blue velvet. Venus and a waning moon lie low in the east. The stench of kangaroo carcasses and buzzing flies taints the evening. Vic doesn’t mind, he shot the bastards.
He rolls a cigarette with one hand, sinks a tinny in the other, tosses it into the dark. Dingo pelts hang from the veranda rail, a rifle lays across his lap. He pulls another beer from the esky. Nearby, Dingos howl. His dog barks, Vic kicks it, tells it to shut the fuck up. The dog whimpers, hunches its back, slumps away. The dingos go silent. The flies stop buzzing. A hush. Something else. The steady rhythm of clapsticks and low rumbling vowels and consonants of the Aboriginal tongue emerges from the darkness. Vic flicks his cigarette into the dust, cocks his rifle.
He rolls a cigarette with one hand, sinks a tinny in the other, tosses it into the dark.
*****
The ramshackle homestead is silhouetted in muted light of a waning moon, a cigarette ember glows in darkness of the veranda. The Kurdaitcha Man dances, strikes clapsticks, sings.
With thumb and forefinger Vic flicks his cigarette off the veranda. The bright ember tumbles into the darkness. He cocks his rifle. Places the butt against his cheek, sites into the night and squeezes the trigger.
Lithe and serpentine, liquid grace, the Kurdaitcha Man weaves and ducks. Bang. A bullet whispers passed. He runs. Ziggety-zaggety, leaps high into the air, lands on the veranda soft as a moth. Points the bone. The dog whimpers, thumps his tail on the dry warped boards of Vic’s veranda.
*****
Early morning. Detective Sergeant Amy Yang has the windows down. We can taste the red dust as we drive towards Vic’s property to investigate his death. I’m the new forensic on the force. We’ve been driving for an hour, Amy briefs me.
“Bloody Vic hated it here. Was at war with the land. I don’t know a soul who didn’t hate the bastard. Rumour is Aboriginal elders sicked a bone pointer on him.”
There are always rumors.
“Being the new guy, I thought I’d better fill you in.”
“Thanks, but no need. Born here. Raised here. Been away for a few years. My mother was English, my father Aboriginal. I went away for a while. Studied. Picked up my degree.”
“Interesting. Did you know Vic?”
“Knew of him. Didn’t know him.”
“So, why’d you come back?”
“The far north is in my blood. My father’s people are in my blood. I love it here.”
“Have you ever heard of pointing the bone?”
I know about pointing the bone. I say nothing. Let her continue.
“An Aboriginal sorcerer called the Kurdaitcha Man or Featherfoot wears shoes made of human hair and emu feathers. He leaves no trace of where he’s walked. He is vengeance, sent to right wrongs. He tracks his victim down, points the bone and kills him. He never fails. Never leaves a trace. Superstitious nonsense of course but interesting that a rumor was going round and now Vic being dead.”
Even from the car the smell overwhelms. Amy hands me a surgical mask, we smear the insides with camphor, slip on latex gloves and paper booties over our shoes. Ravens fly off in a panic. Vic is sitting in his chair, the ravens have picked the eyes and soft spots from his bloated body. He’s been here a while. The flies are in plague. We wave them away from our faces. It’s an ugly scene. We check around the perimeter of the house looking for footprints or signs in the powdery red soil, find nothing. I examine the body while Amy goes inside to check the house.
“Well?” asks Amy, slamming the screen door behind her, “what’s your take Doc?”
“He’s been dead a few days. Things sour quickly in this heat, can’t find any marks on the body that indicates foul play. Rifle’s been fired, but with the dead roos, empty beer cans and cigarette butts, looks like his idea of fun was sitting here, drinking piss, smoking and shooting anything that moved. He wasn’t a paragon of healthy living. Natural causes? Stroke? Heart Attack? We’ll know more after the autopsy,” I say.
“You don’t reckon it was the Kurdaitcha Man?” laughs Amy.
I smile. Say nothing.
A blue cattle dog comes bounding from behind the house baring its teeth and growling. Amy goes for her pistol. I hold my hand up for her to stop. The dog sees me, sniffs, settles. Wags its tail.
“You must have a way with dogs Doc,” she says. “I’d say this fella was abused and neglected. That’ll turn ‘em mean.”
The dog leans into my leg, whimpers. I do have a way with dogs but then me and this one have met before.
“He likes you Doc. Want to take him back with us, give him a good feed and a place to live?” she says, laughing.
“Sure,” I say. “I like dogs.”
*****
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