Benevolence

by Julie Janson

  The inspector frowns and combs his hair with a yellow bone comb and pulls strands out to let them fly around the room. Mary sneaks behind him and puts some hair in her pocket, just in case she needs to use it for magic.

  He tells Mrs Shelley that the pupils must poo on some paper so he can check it for worms. The children go under the tank, squatting and pooing and leaning down to look between their legs to see if there are any crawly yellow threads.

  ‘I got some here, I got five,’ says Mary.

  ‘Oh, you can count. Castor oil for you. Here you go, drink it up. Make you better,’ says Mrs Shelley. She makes her drink the medicine and Mary vomits.

  The inspector checks the dormitory where the neatly folded the government-issued blankets are laid on the beds. He checks the wooden shutters for dust and says, ‘Tut-tut.’ Mrs Shelley moves behind him and looks worried because this man can close the school. His head is shaking and he is writing something in a ledger. Mr Shelley nods and pats the children’s backs.

  ‘We put a Darug magic spell on that fella with words and stealing his hair. He might go mad,’ says Mary.

  Mrs Shelley smiles at the inspector and puts a sign in copperplate writing on the wall. She reads it aloud: ‘Rule one: Thou shalt be clean. Two: Thou shalt be chaste. Three: Thou shalt not pick nits from each other’s hair. Four: Thou shalt honour your teachers. Five: Thou shalt not run away. Six: Thou shalt not pick your nose and eat it. Seven: Thou shalt not sleep in a huddle with dogs. Eight: Thou shalt not speak in yabber and shall endeavour to use English at all times. Nine: Thou shalt eat at the table and not on the floor. Ten: Thou shalt be grateful for the government’s benevolence.’

  The inspector nods and smirks at the rules. He is full of praise for the school and has none for the children. When he rides away on his poor horse, they whoop and dance. Mary writes on the list of rules, when no-one is looking: ‘Rule eleven: Thou shalt not fart.’

  ‘Who has endeavoured to disgrace this list?’ demands Mr Shelley as he glowers at the class.

  ‘I practise my writing,’ says Mary.

  ‘Stand and take punishment,’ says Mr Shelley. He grabs Mary by the arm and flogs her with the ruler as she stands stiff and unbroken. The other children stare and hope they will not be next.

  Mrs Shelly rushes into the classroom and takes hold of her husband’s hand to stop the beating. There is a struggle and the children are astounded at her courage.

  ‘Will you indulge me,’ says Mrs Shelley to her husband. ‘The children are trying but so much needs to be learnt. We must give them time to be playful. This will not help them read.’

  He searches the room for an answer but coughs to retain his dignity and places the cane on his desk and pats it.

  Mr Shelly whispers fiercely to his wife, ‘It was pure insolence! Please do not speak back to me in front of these innocents. I have my mission. I seek out the wandering tribes and preach earnestly to them. I will save souls from the void of eternity. I wish to be able to record “veni, vidi, vici”. But darkness rests upon these native peoples and gross darkness envelops hearts.’

  Mrs Shelley smiles, nods pleasantly and replies, ‘Not the innocent children, surely.’ She pats his arm and the children look up at her for guidance. They long to be let out to play – the sun is shining outside, the gum trees are beckoning, kookaburras are laughing. The bush is calling.

  ‘We go play now. Mary and me want to run. We will get some lilly pilly for you,’ says Mercy.

  ‘Let them out. It will do no harm, my dearest,’ says Mrs Shelley.

  ‘Rubbish. Work is what they need. Oh, that the Son of Righteousness would arise and dissipate your every dark feeling,’ says Mr Shelley.

  ‘No, I love and respect all your doings,’ says Mrs Shelley.

  Mary sees Mr Shelley staring gloomily at his wife with his pointy nose all red from sniffing. He seems to be sick.

  ‘I feel you resent me bringing you here to the end of the earth,’ he says.

  ‘My dear, I won’t dissuade you from your great work and conversions in this Garden of Eden or performing acts of charity for unenlightened heathens. Why, this morning I baked a raisin cake to give the poor destitute creatures camped out on the hill.’ Mrs Shelley is beaming at Mary as she speaks and is stroking her hair, which is a strange feeling, but pleasant. The mention of raisin cake has made the other children sit up and cheer up, their eyes glowing.

  ‘Of course, the girls will just run away like they all do in the end. Why, the well-respected Chief, Bungaree, was asked to bring his son Bowen to be schooled and he refused!’ says Mrs Shelley.

  ‘Bowen my cousin. He live in Georges Heights. Grow lot of fruit and fish all the time,’ says Mary, but no-one was listening.

  ‘The very hide of him to refuse education! The young man will be ignorant. I don’t know why we bother,’ says Mr Shelley.

  ‘Outside to play!’ calls Mrs Shelley, and the children rush into the garden.

  Mary feels alive at hearing about her tribal cousin, babana Bowen. She longs to see him. But he never comes. No family comes – or if they do they are turned away. She suspects that this is what has happened to her father, for surely he misses her and regrets making her come here.

  This summer, the noise of cicadas is a thick rackety noise. The hot air smells of burning gum leaves as men clear the bush of the beloved trees. Crack, crack, crack as tree spirits fall and are hacked and split with wedges. It rips apart the spirit pathways to the sky. An endless cracking of death to the Darug.

  Pale dingoes, mirri, walk around a destroyed world and are lost in an empty landscape. Mary is also lost in this new scalped place. Every day she makes a circle in dust and places a stone in it to represent her father. She asks him to come to her, but he does not.

  The picture of the spirit of the Lord is above her bed, his long white beard shimmering amongst angels. She gazes at the shadows crossing the sky and blotting out the rainbow serpent in clusters of tiny stars, kimberwalli killi. She can hear murrungal, thunder that tells her the Gullaga Giant Hairy Man is coming for smelly girls. Shuffling through leaves. Mary rubs her armpits and sniffs; no smell, just eucalypt soap. She shudders in her bed at the bone-crunching sound. She knows that a fire can keep these spirits away, and she reaches out for the sputtering candle and pulls Mercy into her bed. Whispering, Mary tells her how her grandfather and grandmother used to sit with her in the firelight, telling the old stories that are sung and danced. She wants to hear Mercy’s stories.

  ‘We got Gundungurra people story,’ says Mercy. ‘That old Garangatch, he giant eel, like burra eel, winding under bulga, hill and make that river by dig, dig. I see him real deep in caves; he got white shining finger. He makes all. Bunggawurra, bulga. He make mountain then rush underground. He make sky with real big rain. He chase by big tribe, call them quoll cat mob Merrigan.’

  ‘My true name like that, Muraging,’ says Mary.

  ‘True, eh? Yuranyi, he that black duck, diver duck, they want him real bad. They track him, pittuma looking, for him and alla time, dig dig and looking help from all tribe,’ says Mercy.

  ‘What? They want to catch him real bad?’ says Mary.

  ‘Yep, that spirit, Merrigan, real brave one. He dive deep, deep with that mooting spear in cave full of water and he spear him. You know cut him, little bit, then he brings flesh and they eat it up.’ Mary squeals.

  ‘Real tasty. He must be mad, that Garangatch?’ says Mary.

  ‘Everyone chasin’ that spirit but not catching him. No way, he too fast. He like lightning. All those fellas go into sky and rivers and deep waterholes, and that serpent, he still lives in one cold dark waterhole in that mountain. You see his eye glinting in moonlight,’ says Mercy.

  ‘Them fellas go to sky, kimperwali. True, eh? Now nangi, we sleep,’ says Mary.

  The story leaves the other children with huge eyes and Mercy cuddles up to Mary and sighs.

  ‘My biana tells me lot of story,’ says Mary.

  ‘Forget him
, he’s not coming. Not never’, Mercy whispers.

  CHAPTER THREE

  LATE 1818: MR SHELLEY'S ILLNESS

  Poor Mr Shelley is ranting about his days as a member of the London Missionary Society in Tonga when his friends were murdered by islanders. Back then he became a distiller of rum to ease his grief. He tells the children stories about being in the Tuamotu Islands on the ship the Queen Charlotte, and about murders by pearlers. His stories leave the children terrified.

  He is not well.

  The school now has many pupils and there is a morning roll call: Betty Cox, Milbah, Betty Fulton, Tommy, Peter, Pendergrass, Amy, Mercy, Nancy, Buddy, Sally, Maria, Winston and Charlotte. Some children arrive and later are taken back by their parents, but most are orphans.

  In the darkness of his study, Mary sees Mr Shelley counting from a bag of silver pearls. Clink, clink, clink. He pounds the floors at night like a goong ghost and is convinced they are going to be killed by marauders. He rages with a tropical fever and then goes all quiet and soft and loving as he strokes the children’s heads. Mercy tries to work out his moods in the morning so she knows what’s to come and she tells the children what to expect.

  ‘When he blows a whistle, you must run to him and line up, like soldiers,’ says Mercy.

  The children are afraid and pray to escape being hit. Cook is a large, angry orange-haired woman with whiskers on her chin. She hides the glass decanters because Mr Shelley has started to drink rum that he has begun to distil.

  One night, Mary sees Mr Shelley standing at the top of the stairs holding a candle, gazing through the window.

  ‘They are out there! I can smell the stench! They are planning an attack! Is it of no consequence that I cannot save you all? No, it’s a bushranger!’ yells Mr Shelley. ‘He will disgrace my wife and steal the children. He’ll shoot me and take all my earthly chattels. Mary, we must erect the shutters at once! Hello! Everyone awake! Attack is coming!’

  Mrs Shelley runs down the stairs and calls to him, ‘You have woken the whole house. My dear, come back to bed. We see no attack. Come quietly; there is no need to get your gun.’ She closes the door and leans against it. He sighs as she leads him to his bed. Later, the chidren can hear him crying.

  Thunder sounds and they are terrified; they know that devil-devils are around; angry spirit-lightning smashes the earth from where they live – in volcanoes and deep pools. Mary also fears the walking dead who are wrapped in paperbark on forked stick platforms.

  Later, the children hear screaming and cursing. Mrs Shelley yells at him and they hear glass smashing. The children huddle together. Mary has heard these cursing words from convicts, but now they are in the house and dear Mrs Shelley is upset. Mary wants to run to her and hold her and tell her that she loves her. Mr Shelley runs up and down the stairs and takes a gun from the rack. Now the children are truly terrified. They know what a gun can do. Mary hears a gunshot upstairs. Then there is silence.

  ‘He get taken to that Parramatta Lunatic Asylum,’ says Mercy.

  ‘He might shoot us. We got to look out,’ says Mary.

  Mr Shelley pushes his weight against the heavy wooden bars across the shutters. They have holes in them for poking guns through to shoot countrymen. No-one can get in, but if there is a fire no-one can get out.

  Mrs Shelley takes the children out of their beds and they huddle together in the lounge room while the rain pours down outside. Mr Shelley has a white, white face as he walks to the cupboard to take out some gunpowder.

  ‘No lassitude. No useless ambulation. Keep away from windows! Tonight we will board up the windows. No-one can access this humble establishment,’ says Mr Shelley. ‘As in Tahiti, we must pray to be saved.’ Some of the little children begin to cry.

  Mary hugs Mrs Shelley. She is calm as she takes the gun from her husband’s hands and hums. Mary closes her eyes and the music of a corroboree echoes through the dark. Mary thinks it is a welcome ceremony.

  ‘I can see the myall fires and hear their heathen war songs. They are eating worms and vermin. Like Zulus of Africa. Cannot you all hear the witchdoctors? Karadja?’ says Mr Shelley.

  ‘Not that word, Master; we only whisper that word ‘cause one might come find us,’ says Mary.

  ‘They are chanting that accursed song? It does not stop, the clackety clack of boomerang. Like Samoan drumming.’ Mary thinks he is crazy because all she can hear are native songs about rain. She senses that her uncles are out there singing.

  Through the cracks in the wall, the children look out and see a row of warriors with spears high on the hill near the town. They are silhouetted against the light. Mr Shelley is terrified. He sweats and paces, mumbling.

  ‘Why you lock us in, Mr Shelley?’ asks Mary.

  ‘Sweet innocent girl! Can’t you see that the heathen perpetrators of murder want to break down the doors and kill us and eat our hearts?’ says Mr Shelley.

  ‘They dancing, Mr Shelley. They not hurt us; don’t be frighten,’ says Mary.

  ‘The savages will not care that you are dark. They will only see you as a human sacrifice to cook over fires. Oh God! Save these little ones!’ He grabs Mary to his bosom, but she is not frightened. She wriggles in his sweaty embrace; he smells of pipe smoke and beef gravy.

  Mr Shelley paces the room and piles wood on the fire. The older girls read stories to the little ones. The children are as quiet as bush mice. The air is tense and the clattering boomerangs fill the night.

  ‘My biana tell story ‘bout him fly on top back of beast, like devil-devil. He fly then dive deep in mountain and red-eyed spirit live there. He wake up, he know he been chosen Karadji man,’ Mary whispers. ‘Clever one, fix up sickness or kill someone with magic. He got secret things in dillybag. I never see that.’

  ‘Don’t talk about all that thing!’ says Mercy.

  ‘Quai bidja, jumna paialla jannawi,’ Mary’s father whispers in her head: come here, we talk together.

  Mary stands and peers through the cracks in the shutters where she can get a better view of the tribe’s fires. The tribe is sending smoke messages, calling for a meeting. Mary cannot understand why Mr Shelley is so afraid. The families are gathering for corroboree business.

  After a few days, Mr Shelley is exhausted and falls into a deep sleep. The next morning he wakes with a fever that never ends. He burns up hour after hour, night after night, until one night, he is dead. Dead at forty-one years. His spirit flies out the window like a hot wind. His wife weeps for one week and Mercy secretly burns some leaves in his room.

  He is buried at St John’s cemetery in Parramatta and the children attend the funeral. They watch the coffin as it is lowered into the grave. Some of the little ones are frightened that if he wakes he will not be able to get out again.

  …

  Mrs Shelley takes over the running of the school and tells the children she has employed a Mr Barnes, an ex-convict, as the teaching assistant. He is sweaty and pale with a long, thin, pink face and whiskers sprouting from his ears. He wears a grand grey wool coat and a purple neck-tie that is supposed to give him a dashing air. He carries rolled-up maps and a box of books and sits in the dining room to sharpen his quills. He writes long letters to anyone of importance who might listen to his opinions on the doings of the colony.

  But Mr Barnes is not just an ex-convict assistant; he fancies himself as an explorer into unknown interior country. He has rendered his services to this humble school, knowing that he had not a delicate knowledge of the human heart, which must be important to such endeavours. He takes the position on condition that he could engage in the exploration of the dark land to the west and north.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  1818: WHITE PEOPLE THINGS

  From the Sydney Gazette, December 1818:

  Settlers in Turmoil on Hawkesbury River

  After the military campaign of previous years, such as those of Magistrate William Cox, there are rumours of dark and dismal events and dreadful excesses, there were places on the Ha
wkesbury River where the hand-picked mobile troopers have hunted down natives and shot them with impunity. Massacres in Appin, Grose River and Emu Plains occurred around 1816 to 1817 and it is claimed that no fewer than four hundred Blacks were killed in Cox’s expedition alone. Many encounters with hostile Blacks have led to reprisals and punishments.

  There are terrible stories of warriors from a ferocious tribe killing three soldiers, taking their coats and cutting off the men’s hands.

  East of the Blue Mountains, there has been little trouble with natives as they are now suppressed and have resigned themselves to living as workers on farms. The inducements of tobacco and flour have helped them to make up their minds in this regard. The flourish of a musket has a desired affect also. However, some hostile groups congregate in the Kurrajong area who are believed to be planning attacks on outlying farms and shepherds. This information is most distressing to new settlers.

  …

  Time passes and Mary James learns about white people things. She is making a knitted doll for the little ones and is adept at baking scones in an oven. She can read, write and speak English better than Mercy.

  She pushes her love for her father into a tight ball so it won’t poison her. She knows longing can make you sick.

  …

  One day as Mary is holding a baby on her lap, Mercy brings an old lady into the dormitory. Mercy found the old woman hiding in the flour shed where she had broken in, trying to find something to eat. Shards of sunlight flicker over the old woman’s face and Mary wishes the woman was her true Granny – but this woman is from a mob she does not recognise. Yes, she is from her clan, the Burruberongal, she says, but from far away.

  Her cheeks hang in folds and her eyes are piercing black lights. This Granny is a tiny woman with a stooped figure and a black pipe permanently stuck in her mouth. She has a red scarf tied around her head and wispy grey curls on her forehead. She wears a long dark skirt and apron with a dilly bag on her back full of useful things, including a billy can, a pannikin, stringy bark for making string, a small kunni yam stick and a coolamon of bark full of dried wild figs. She looks frail but has a warmth and a strong, soulful gaze. The girls can see that she is not afraid of anything.