‘We used to skip stones a lot, and we would set shitloads of deadlines. We’d go back in the morning and check ’em before school. Always got fish — although many of ’em would be floating by the time we got to ’em. Anyway, Uncle Murray — Mum’s brother — he used to come and stay with us sometimes. One day, we took him down the river and he found these stone tools — like those ones you found today, only there were heaps more of ’em.’

Sharkey finished his can and threw the empty into the back. He lit another cigarette, drew in deeply and exhaled as he continued.

‘Uncle Murray said the blackfellas used the stones to cut things because they weren’t smart enough to invent knives. He said that if Grandad and the other farmers ever found stone tools on their land they would bury ’em or throw ’em in the river so that your mob couldn’t come along and claim land rights.’

Nathan could sense Sharkey smiling at him, but he refused to meet his gaze. He pulled off his beanie and ran his thumbs over the rough embroidery of the Aboriginal flag.

‘Anyway,’ said Sharkey, ‘when me uncle left, we looked all along the river and found heaps more patches of the bloody things. Hundreds of ’em — all different types, ya know? Different colors and that.’

He slowed down the ute and turned left onto the Elephant Pass road. He glanced in the rear-view mirror again to check the hives as they began the steep ascent and rounded the first few sharp bends. Satisfied the hives were sitting well, he turned back to Nathan.

‘Nath, do ya know what a duck-fart is?’ he asked, breaking the silence.

‘No,’ Nathan said. A lie — he had some idea of what it was.

Sharkey cracked a fresh can and drank half in one go. He burped loudly and blew the gassy stench toward Nathan. ‘It’s when ya throw a stone up into the air and it lands in the river, making a funny sound. You have to get a thin sort of stone — rounded so that ya can wrap yer finger around it. When ya throw it up into the air, ya have to get a good backspin on it. If ya throw it right, when it lands in the water, it doesn’t make a splash. It makes a kind of “plop” sound. That’s why it’s called a duck-fart.’

Nathan, quiet, stared down at the beanie in his lap. He knew where this was going.

‘Those stone tools along the river — the ones yer ancestors knocked up — they made the best duck-farts. They are like the perfect type of rock for it.’ Sharkey laughed to himself and looked over at Nathan expectantly.

‘Me and me cousins would have thrown thousands of them into the river, in those days. I doubt there would be any left around there now. But ya can’t get away with that anymore,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Can ya?’