Skins

by Sarah Hay

  A child leapt up and two dogs came forward to sniff their heels. Then the excitement started and it was impossible to tell who was talking. Manning was too tired to care. He reached for Jem’s shoulder and the pair stumbled across to the closest campfire and collapsed beside it. The noise continued around them. Occasionally faces that were friendly peered into theirs. And then later when it got darker, cooked meat on sticks was pushed into their hands. The smell almost made Manning faint. Gingerly he sucked the hot meat. Finally when he placed it into his mouth, he realised he didn’t have the strength to chew it. He looked at Jem who was having the same problem. He leant into Jem and closed his eyes.

  When he woke, the leaves above were etched in gold light and the crows had begun their chorus. Two men and a dog lay in the shelter behind them. He thought Jem was dead until he poked him and he moved. Two women were on the other side of the clearing. When they noticed he was awake, they grinned shyly. They were grinding a substance between two flat stones and working it into a paste. They roasted it on their fire. Then the younger of the two carried it over on a piece of bark. It tasted like nutty bread. Manning swallowed it all, quickly before Jem was properly awake. But he needn’t have worried for they made some more and shared it with both of them.

  He could feel his head clearing but when he turned to speak to Jem he found his voice had not yet returned. But it seemed that his ability to focus had. For when he looked around he saw everything. Glassy water like a mirror flickered through the gap in the trees. He made his way towards it and knelt in its icy shallows. It reflected his face and his hair. It wasn’t someone he knew. He cupped the soft water and washed the salty grime from his face and swallowed deeply. Jem shuffled to the water’s edge.

  ‘Those hills, I know them,’ he croaked.

  Manning looked to the purple mounds in the distance. The river wound around and thickened towards them. Could it be possible that they weren’t far from the Sound? He didn’t dare believe it. But his blood seemed to pump with more energy and he straightened without difficulty. They returned to the camp amidst the curious stares of their hosts. A man they hadn’t seen before came towards them. He had worsted yarn made from some sort of fur wrapped around his waist, head and left arm. His hair was bound round the back of his head and decorated with feathers. His skin was painted a brick-dust colour. He was tall and handsome.

  ‘Waiter,’ he said. Indicating that that was his name.

  They gave him their names. And he repeated them slowly with a strange accent.

  ‘You go to white people?’ And he gestured northeast.

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Manning. ‘To King George Sound, can you lead us there?’

  Jem nodded too. Waiter nodded and the others who had gathered to watch their exchange moved their heads up and down with great exaggeration and amusement. Manning half smiled and looked to Jem. He shrugged. But it seemed that Waiter had understood them. For he was speaking sharply to the others. And people began to move in all directions.

  But when they set out there was just Waiter and another who came with them. They headed further inland until the river narrowed and they were able to cross it. The current was strong and it ripped around their chests. Manning checked behind to see how Jem was faring. Although unsteady, he was pushing his way through to the shallower water. It wasn’t long afterwards that they came to another river which was salty. Jem seemed excited by the sight of it winding towards a large lake flanked by hazy hills. Manning couldn’t help but feel it too. Although he wasn’t sure whether it meant they would be there that night or the next week.

  Crossing that river was harder. Their feet sunk deep into the mud and it took every effort to lift one foot at a time. It swirled around them at waist height so that when they reached the other side they lay on its grassy bank, gasping for breath. Waiter and his companion watched them with concern. Waiter took out from beneath his skin cloak the glowing cone of a banksia flower and kindled a small fire. They dug out the root of the reed that grew at the water’s edge and crushed it into a paste then roasted it on the fire. Breaking off chunks they shared it with Manning and Jem. The day, which had begun brightly, turned dull, and the air, although it had lost its chill, smelt of rain.

  They began again although Manning and Jem trailed heavily behind the agile steps of their guides. Manning suddenly realised that they were following a well-worn trail and then he noticed fresh horse droppings and prints in the sand. Surely they would reach the settlement by evening. Had he not thought that he probably wouldn’t have been able to go on. But the excitement drove him further and he found strength he didn’t realise he had. He could see that Jem was suffering too. But he would not stop; they could not stop now.

  When it began to rain heavily the natives took them to John Henty’s property. There was a hut there and a man who worked for Henty. It was where the river drained into Oyster Harbour. After they were given hot watery stew, they were wrapped in blankets and left to sleep by the fire. Although Manning had heard that the settlement of King George Sound was on a harbour, Jem explained that it wasn’t Oyster Harbour.

  ‘There are two harbours,’ he said. ‘Princess Royal Harbour is where the town is and that’s to the west of the Sound.’

  ‘So how far?’ murmured Manning, his voice muffled by blankets.

  ‘Four hours, maybe.’

  Waiter and his friend led them into the settlement. Houses were built on a slope that continued down to a sandy shore. They stood at the top of the rise between the two hills, Mount Melville and Mount Clarence, and saw beyond the buildings the land-locked harbour stretching out before them. It was oval shaped and behind its far shore was the continuation of the coastline in the form of a headland high and striped with gullies so that it looked as though it were cloaked by lumpy green and grey fabric. And looking back towards the east was the Sound with two big scrubby islands at its mouth. A smallish boat passed through the narrow channel from the Sound and into the harbour in front of them. They looked like sealers and Manning wondered where Anderson was.

  The two natives walked on ahead along the road that curved down the side of Mount Clarence. But Manning and Jem remained where they were, unable to move. Both overcome by the journey’s end but for different reasons. A curtain of water engulfed them and the little whitewashed houses blurred in the rain. The place seemed deserted. Manning was thinking of how long it had been and how hard. Rain ran down the back of his neck and under his skin cloak and watered down the salt from his eyes.

  A native appeared from between two houses further down the hill. There was whoop and a yell and Waiter and his friend were surrounded by the emotional greetings of the King George Sound natives. It attracted the attention of others and people left their houses and looked up towards Manning and Jem. The rain eased and they trod through the mud, stepping over small streams of water that carved gullies in the road to greet them. Jem seemed to recognise some of them and he described briefly what had happened to them, clearly invigorated by their interest. While they talked Manning kept looking down at the settlement, stunned at how small it was. There were a couple of two-storey brick buildings but mostly they were small wattle and daub houses thatched with reeds. Streets were merely thin scars through the bush. His attention returned to Jem who was telling their story and saying that their hope had been to get to the mainland where they knew they were safe from the rogue who had stolen all his friend’s money.

  ‘And your sisters are still there?’ cried a woman.

  Jem nodded slowly.

  ‘You best report it.’

  ‘To the magistrate,’ said another.

  Manning watched Jem and then he said to him, ‘Come on. Let’s get out of the rain.’

  The small group parted and allowed them to continue. They left the natives on the side of the hill. Instead of taking the road into the settlement, they turned off onto a track. It took them up and around the northwestern side of Mount Clarence. From there they were unable to see the settlement.

>   They came to a timber shack surrounded by thickly wooded bush. A young girl tossed a pail of water from the open doorway. She looked up.

  ‘Ma! Ma! Someone’s here.’ She stood with her back against the doorway, peering out into the drizzle. Her mother came to her side.

  ‘It’s me, Ma. Jem,’ he said weakly, when he got closer.

  ‘My God, so it is.’ She wiped her hands on her skirt and came towards them. Her eyes, sunk into a red fleshy face, blinked rapidly. She cupped his face in her hands and peered into it, not recognising the boy who had left her just six months earlier.

  They were brought inside and taken into the kitchen. They huddled over the hearth. Jem’s mother sent the girl, Caroline, to Cheynes for liquor. Jem had another sister Netty. When she leant across to reach the pot in the fireplace, her ripe breasts strained at the low neckline of her gown. But she glared at Manning when she caught him staring. Still he found it difficult to keep his eyes off her for she was young and clean. His eyes narrowed as they followed her out the door.

  Jem exhausted himself explaining what had happened. The questions kept coming but after a while they couldn’t be bothered to answer them. When Caroline returned she had with her a young boy, William, who must have been about seven. He was a thin pale lad with blond curls and large brown eyes that followed his brother whenever he moved or spoke. The mother told Jem that his father and another brother Charlie were away on the other side of the harbour, felling timber.

  The rum lit a warm place in Manning’s belly. It took away the disappointment and smoothed the edge of his pain. Netty brought them blankets. They lay by the fire. And slept that day and into the night. Manning waking when the fire was like the glowing eyes of a wild thing. He could hear the whispered words and giggles of women. It stirred him and he decided he wanted the chance to have what other men had.

  When they stood before the magistrate the next day, Manning almost couldn’t do it. He realised then that it was a capital offence. That Anderson would hang for it or at the very least be transported to Port Arthur. Then he remembered what Anderson had forced him to do and how his woman had looked at him as if he were dirt.

  He watched the bent head of the man as he scratched the words on paper. He looked up and Manning recoiled slightly from his severely scarred face. Perhaps he should have asked about a passage to the Swan River settlement instead. His eyes were drawn to the raised lump of scar tissue that glowed white and cut the face in half and he wondered what had happened to him. Sir Richard Spencer glared from his good eye.

  ‘I shall read you my letter to the Colonial Secretary’s Office. Please correct me if I am in error.’

  He cleared his throat, stated the day’s date and began:

  Sir, I have the honour to acquaint you for the information of His Excellency that two lads (James Newell and James Manning) reached the settlement yesterday, who were landed on the mainland, opposite Middle Island, on the 23rd June last. They are reduced almost to skeletons and have nearly lost their voice. I am delighted to add that the moment the natives (the White Cockatoo, Murray and Hill men tribes) fell in with them, that they were nursed, fed and almost carried to Mr John Hentys. I have requested Mr Browne to issue a small portion of flour to each native and a duck frock each, to two, who were most active and kind to them on their journey. I will also issue one week’s rations to the two lads, and a duck frock to each of them. The Gentlemen in the settlement have been very liberal in subscribing to buy the poor fellows blankets and cloaths. A bag of rice and sugar has also been issued to give all the natives a supper. When the men are sufficiently recovered I shall take their Declarations of what has happened to them and enclose it with this.

  He looked up but Manning had only heard him say it was the tenth day of August 1835. What a lot of time he had wasted.

  January 1886

  The light is growing dim. It is as though someone is drawing the curtains. Soon they will meet in the middle. Sometimes I hear the sea inside my head. The way it would roar on the southern side of the island. If only we had known what was before us. Then we would have known we were safe. We had everything but we thought it was nothing. I want to go somewhere warm and quiet, where the light is soft like a summer sunset.

  King George Sound 1835, Dorothea Newell

  Dorothea stood on the shore of the Princess Royal Harbour, her skins wrapped tightly around her. Looking up the hill to where they had all gone. It was late afternoon and it felt as though her life was over. They had even taken his whaleboat. But he had fought them. She had seen her brother and his friend in the crowd of people who had come to watch them arrest Anderson and Isaac when they hauled up on the sand. She had thought at first that they were merchants who had come to buy the skins.

  She turned her back on the settlement and looked out over the harbour. It was a smooth layer of glass until some unseen force rippled its surface. A ship sat out in the middle, its masts stripped bare. They had sailed, all of them, between the rocks that marked the entrance to the harbour from the deep dark water of the Sound. She could see the hazy outline of Breaksea Island and the island beside it, Michaelmas. They had passed through the north channel only a few hours earlier. She thought of the black women back on Bald Island, some twenty miles to the east. What would happen to them if Anderson didn’t return?

  She felt like a shell washed up on the beach. What was inside had died. It was hard to remember how she had felt when she saw the mouth of the Sound. How elated they had been that they had survived. Mary had almost forgotten she wasn’t speaking to her for she looked over her shoulder and smiled. Dorothea had thought then that everything would be alright.

  It had taken them about three weeks to sail from Middle Island. God, how she regretted forcing Anderson to take them back. The fine days had come early. And the winds had turned favourable. They loaded the whaleboat so high that it sat low in the water. That was why it took so long. Anderson had to leave some skins behind. They kept close to the coast and in the lee of islands, exposed to the full force of the swell as little as possible. For most of the journey the weather was perfect and they had sailed with a brisk breeze from the east.

  They had reached Bald Island three days earlier. They set up camp, erecting the tent they had brought. A small squall delayed their departure by a day and Anderson decided to unload some of the boat’s contents. He left there the tent, the pots and their bedding and the black women to look after everything.

  But before then, before they hauled up on Bald Island, she remembered. The hard, tight skin of his arms around her, leaning into him, as they drifted on a sea that sparkled like a carpet of silver. The men laid their oars down. They were amongst islands of freckled granite with smooth steep edges washed white by the swell. A sea haze hung between them. Spray spouted above small rocks that broke the surface and around them churned white-laced foam over pale green ripples. Dark slippery seals ducked and weaved through the water. It felt then as though they were suspended in time but she knew it was just an illusion for she could feel the current beneath the boat as it bore them along. The sun lay warmth over them and they were carried towards an island in the shape of a figure of eight where they would spend the night.

  The sun had sunk behind the hill and the settlement was in shadow. The air chilled her. She couldn’t keep standing here on the sand. A little way to her left was the pub, a two-storey timber place, painted green. She couldn’t go there either. Its doors opened and someone fell out. He scrambled upright and stumbled towards her. Before she could move, he spat at her feet. She left then and hurried through the peppermint trees and across to the road that led up the side of the hill. Conscious of people in doorways and someone with a wheelbarrow but she kept her eyes on the dirt.

  By the time she reached the top of the rise it was dark. The yellow light winked through the bushes ahead. She stumbled over the rocks on the track. They were all there: her father, mother, brothers and sisters, Matthew and Manning. She was greeted with silence. But no one told
her to go. She went into the kitchen and her brother William, who was playing by the fire, smiled widely, wrapping his arms around her legs. It was too much then and she sunk to the floor and cried. Her mother followed her into the room. She took the pot from the fire and spooned out a bowl of stew. As she gave it to her she took her hand and brought it to the bowl. When Dorothea grasped it, her mother smoothed the hair from her daughter’s eyes. Then she left to join the others.

  Dorothea stayed by the fire with William chattering around her. He asked her many questions and she tried to answer them. But her thoughts got in the way. Eventually he grew tired and lay with his head on her knee. She looked down at his sleeping face, his soft skin and the delicate curve of his lashes. She was glad to see him.

  She lifted his head gently onto the crook of her arm and curled into his warm, slight body and slept.

  She didn’t go far from the fire the next day and the day after. People came and went. She didn’t want to know anything. There were visitors, people wanting to hear what had happened to them. But if they caught sight of her they looked at her strangely. She knew she looked a mess. Her hair had grown into wild irregular lengths. And she kept her seal-skin coat wrapped firmly around her. After they left, her mother would walk unsteadily into the kitchen and sit on the stool, her back against the wall. Her mouth would slacken and she’d slip into a noisy sleep.