Inspired by the real life story of Rodney 'Rod' Ansell and the fictional spin off of his adventures – Michael (Mick) J. "Crocodile" Dundee, everybody's favorite Aussie down under. Gotta luv Paul Hogan, I sure do. Sad but slightly true. Look it up and you decide.
Daniels knew the story. He had been told about her certain eccentricities. Didn't know the time, day, month, year, the century. None of it. Just the seasons, and the earliness or lateness of them. Before he left they had made sure that he knew what he was dealing with. He had expected to be prepared, when he first saw her. So now, sitting there watching her and wondering, it was quite obvious that they had told him right. The entire family: eccentric.
She was the only one living on the land then, all the others either dead or moved on. The youngest, Halley was about thirty-four, and damn good looking as much for it. He was glad they had sent him. It was only a question of why she was there, if you didn't know her heritage.
She had longish, darker blonde hair, but it was bleached by the sun and it fell in wisps in her eyes. They were odd eyes, one blue, like that of her parents, and the other a light hazel-gold colour. Her skin was tanned a bronze tone and dusted over with earth. It was the dry season.
On this first meeting the thing that stands out, an anomaly, is that she's barefoot. "G'Day," she says and shakes his hand firmly and friendly. Her hands are smooth but with callous, and there's dirt under her fingernails.
She sits down on a tree branch, and leans against the trunk of the one directly behind. She surveys his face, her keen eyes scrutinizing him as she begins to talk. "So, whadda ya wanna know?" she asks, accent heavy and lilting. Australian.
He chooses his words carefully. "Your father, Dundee, what was the consensus on his death?"
Her wary eyes flash and she leans foreword uncomfortably. "Murder," she's not very forthcoming. "They shot at 'im first. 'E didn't kill those people. An' when 'e shot back at 'em, it was in defense,"
Barefoot. She's barefoot. "Was he really barefoot?"
"Does it matter? Yeah, 'e was. Usually actually. Towards the end. 'E liked it. Felt free. Lot of 'is freedoms as a 'unter got taken 'way. Save the crocs an' all,"
"Do you feel that they disgraced his memory, his good name?"
"Most don' believe it. Not 'round 'ere, anyway. Others don' usually know. Still get good business…"
"But, but really…"
"Yeah, 'spose so," There is a long silence. "So, you wanna go on walk'bout, eh?" She grasps the handle of her Bowie knife and unsheathes it, taking the tip to her nails, cleaning them, however pointlessly. He supposes that it's just habit.
"Yes, I'm actually mainly a photojournalist, but I do the writing too," he explains matter of factually. She leans her back against the other tree's trunk.
"Uhuh. So you're a photojournalist, an' where you from, Mis'r Daniels?" She seems cynical, almost aloof, yet laid back and carefree. It is an odd combination.
"Well, I'm from the Midwest, but I live and work in NYC," another absent nod, silent but thoughtful, though he doubts whether or not she really cares.
But she speaks up suddenly. "You outdoorsy?" She is watching him uninterestedly now, her eyes drifting to the Bush in front of them.
"Um, well, yes, I am,"
"Another solicitous shake of the head. "You lean a lot goin' on walk'bout. Lot 'bout the wildlife, plant life. Survival," again she resumes her absorbed silence, as if all she needs in the world is the Bush and its sights and sounds.
"Not to revisit an old story, but can I get the secondhand account of his fated trip to the Bush, the one that got him his nickname and all that?" Daniels asks hurriedly, on whim.
She sighs. "Awl rawight. Let's 'ee. 'E was out in the Bush an', I'm not gonna lie, 'cause we both know what 'e was doin' out there – 'untin' Crocs. So, 'e's in 'is boat, little rower, an' e's takin' potshots at the big fella', and 'course, 'e's not bein' real careful and the croc starts ta'in down 'is boat. Me da' 'e scrambles out an' 'e aint' quick enough. Mis'r Croc'dile, 'e goes fer a piece a' me da's leg. Nice chunk 'e took out, too. All 'e 'ad was in 'is boat, save fer 'is knife, so 'e did what 'e could ta survive," she got quiet. "Even though 'e didn' think 'e'd make it,"
What all happened was spectacular. He survived a brush with death, he made headlines and he found love. But it ended badly. No one deserved it. Not him, not anyone. So then, sitting with her, I figured that she must be strong, to be in so much pain and still appear at relative peace. With herself, with the world. And thinking on it, I now find that I no more believed the story than anyone else in Walkabout Creek and the surrounding cities(mainly Billabong) did. Mick J. "Crocodile" Dundee is no murderer. He did not, on whim, kill an entire family one night. Perhaps, he himself was out looking for the killer. Those cops, whether they saw him or not I am not aware of, but I believe were just trying to do their jobs.
"He seems like a good man,"
She looks at him seriously and says. "Yeah.'E was," and he knows that she means it.
This woman's father could never have been a murderer, could never have killed people that he knew and cared about. With only 20 people living in Walkabout Creek, I highly doubt that he would have killed them. It would have been to obvious, like common knowledge if there was a spat going on between them, and from hear-tell, Dundee was no idiot. Apparently he took out a drug cartel on his own, amongst other feats, most of which include fighting or wresting giant crocodiles. I don't know the truth, and I doubt that anyone outside of the incident ever will. But I prefer to believe that he was a good man through and through.
Jake Daniels.
"So, we headin' out on walk'bout, or daya wanna wait till tomarra'?" she asks with a crooked grin.
"No, right now sounds good," and it's true. He can't wait to get started on his trip through the Bush, the rugged beauty of the land enticing him. "Can you take me to…"
End