There it was, growing right in front of us – a potential cure for dementia. There was no golden glow, beating drum, or trumpet fanfares, just this little yellowy-vine, snaking up a clump of rare-ish Hydrasteele palms. We sat, stunned, breath collectively held, at this quite wondrous moment. I carefully bagged two or three cuttings, took photos, made notes.
I was alert, knowing that Harry would not hesitate to kill. This was going to be worth billions – high stakes, calculated moves. I shot first!
A quick reckoning – yep, fifteen years we’d been searching for this! And it’s been here, under our noses all that time! If we hadn’t been so scared on those razor-sharp, prehistoric teeth, if we’d just plunged in and swam the two hundred and fifty metres across to this little heart-shaped Island!
I dragged Harry’s body to the back of the island, close to the water’s edge, assuming the crocs would make short work of my deed. His body was already puffing up in the humidity, soft and doughy!
I remembered sitting on the beach, opposite this exact spot, a decade before. There had been an easterly breeze blowing. I said I thought I could smell a hint of what I had been told to seek, a delicate perfume on the breeze. Harry dismissed it as a “croc-fart”, that silent and still permeation, that had so often put us on alert, as we moved through these swamps!
Mary Galbuma, our Bining informant, had been our constant and inspirational guide. There were stories and ceremonies – Yarrpany, yarrpany – from these areas of Central Arnhem Land, adjacent to the Arafura Swamps – telling of the magical properties of a special Sugarbag native honey. But it was not a real honey. No, Yarrpany was a thick syrupy liquid that oozed when its vine was cut, thick as honey, but when mixed with Bush Apple juice, helped the old people regain function.
Mary had met Harry and me in a Darwin bar, many years earlier. We had talked long into that night, and years of tramping through the open woodland, the swamps, the stone country uplands of Central Arnhem Land, followed. Mary had precautionary warnings – “him cheeky one. Dis Sugarbag, no like oba one,” that were largely dismissed, as the potential rewards blinded our faculties! “Him got special family with dat Ginga, dat crocodile,” she murmured.
Our registered company, Yarrpany Pty Ltd, had three directors: Mary, Harry and I. After getting an exploration license, negotiated through the local Land Council, we secured financial backing from the European pharmaceutical behemoth, Astra Zeneca.
When I looked up, Mary had swum back to the mainland, with my camera, cuttings and notes. I could make out her distant form moving rapidly away. I would deal with her later, but first, a ‘chopper to get me, and new specimens, back to civilization!
Bugger, my sat-phone was still in my bag, on the mainland beach. A quick survey of the waterway.
Midway, an enormous mouth, piercing eyes! “O Gesu Mio!”