Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  ‘Are you going now . . . or do I call the police?’

  Willy swallowed hard, spoke on indrawn breath: ‘All right, Boss . . . I go.’

  ‘Right. Take a horse . . . take a rifle if you’re fright’, and tell them black bastards I’ll be out with the rifle, if that boy isn’t back here by dinner time.’

  Willy went to the sink and washed his hands, removed apron and hung it beneath the rifle. Watched by Clancy he went out. Nell was on the verandah, crouched, snivelling. As he passed her he breathed, ‘Goona!’

  Clancy, following him, heard and said, ‘Shit’s right.’ Then he barked at the girl, ‘Go and roll your swag . . . because, be jees, you’re getting out of here today.’ The way she stood made plain the fact that she was pregnant. He blazed at her, ‘You bloody whore!’ She slunk inside.

  Clancy went to the harness-shed and watched the men at work there, till Willy, mounted on a big bay, went cantering past along the track following the fence northward, then went back to the house and Man magazine.

  Nelyerri was also watching from the kitchen. Seeing both men disappear, she flung about, slipped to where the rifle hung, got it down, opened the lock slightly, to reveal a cartridge in the breach. Then covering the weapon with Willy’s apron, she went back to the verandah, peeped, then went round to the rear, down by the steps there, through the woodyard, the garden, out onto the pad, to follow Willy’s tracks.

  Willy didn’t bother to follow tracks, but kept on up the creek on the western side, till some distance beyond the bar the pad dropped down into the creek to cross it. He rode on at an amble, soon came to the rocky region beyond the banyan pool. He dismounted, took hobbles from where they hung about the horse’s neck, hobbled it, slipped the bit and tied the reins to the neck-strap. Then he went on through the rocks, with face set in a true Chinaman’s mask, not hastily, or slowly, but with a sort of stooped deliberateness. At the right spot he stopped, put hand to mouth, gave the Tjangaluma. He had to do it again before the answer came — yoodle-oodle-oodle-oo-oo-oo!’

  He went on, giving the call again, again. Then a voice, quite close, called: ‘Nunyardil!’

  Demanding his identity. He gave it slowly and at length. Only fellow initiates would know his full name.

  The voice called: ‘Goydai!’

  In a moment he was at the Ring Place. The group, in full decoration, evidently interrupted in their business, were all standing staring at him. The subject of the ceremonial was not to be seen, no doubt shut in the gunyah in the middle, the entrance to which was closed.

  Splinter began to speak to Willy in lingo and he to reply, when Bobwirridirridi cut in sharply: ‘No-more lingo!’

  A moment of hesitation. But evidently he had the authority. Willy went on to explain the situation in Murringlitch. The others tried to discuss it in lingo. But again the Pookarakka intervened: ‘Wha’ name you talk?’

  Green-ant answered, ‘More-better finish him bijnitch.’

  The red eyes glared. The cackling voice rose sharply: ‘Kaiu kahlu!’

  Green-ant’s seamed old face puckered under its paint: ‘Too muchee trouble.’

  The crack of a mouth blew contemptuously: ‘Trouble! All-day ngeinya kumeri long o’ kuttabah. By’n’by kill-him-die dat lot . . . poff!’

  The group stared at him out of painted rings, except Willy, who blinking Chinese eyes, said weakly, ‘Boss gitchim p’liceman, spone no-more finish now.’

  ‘Brrrup! Dookyangana can’t beat him me.’ The coals flipped over Willy’s whiteman’s outfit. The cackle was peremptory: ‘Take him out clodje . . . paint him all-same. You tjungara.’

  The coals swung on Splinter, ‘Beraga ningari!’

  The terms were too powerful in meaning, the authority of the speaker too great, to be gainsaid. Splinter went to the central gunyah, opened it, to reveal the small crouched figure, painted white from head to foot: ‘Goydai!’ The boy rose stiffly, came out, to stand with head bowed. Raw cuts on his arms near the shoulder.

  The group formed into the semi-circle to face the boy, while Bowirridirridi sank down with his music-sticks, and Willy Ah Loy stood drooped and staring. Click-a-click-click-a-click . . . Shuffle and stamp and chant:

  Marungah, marungah

  Ma widji, widji ma

  Koonapippi, Koonapipeeee!

  Thus — till the Pookarakka suddenly stopped it, not simply by ceasing to beat his sticks, but by tossing one to land at Green-ant’s feet. All stared at him, except the drooping little subject. Plaited beard was raised high in lip-pointing to the rocks to southward, while the wide nostrils were flared as if sniffing hard. Then the old man swung without rising and with spider-like movement scuttled to a gunyah behind. He rose up spear in hand, turned back whence he had been sniffing — BANG! He yelped, fell thrashing the dust. The rocks rang. Blue smoke floating into the Ring. The painted group leapt for cover in the rocks behind. Only the Initiate and Willy stood, both staring through the smoke, to see Nelyerri rise out of the rocks there.

  Wirridirridi, clutching his left leg from which bright blood oozed, also looked, then snatched up the fallen spear.

  The loading mechanism of the rifle fairly clashed to fierce operation. The spent shell flew sparkling in the Sun. The lever crashed home again. Rifle and spear were raised together.

  Whist! The spear flew, missed by a fraction, clattered in the rocks.

  From the rifle — Click!

  Like a wounded spider now, dragging his left leg, Bobwirridi-wirridi went scrabbling after another spear, cackling shrilly, ‘Tchil makoon . . . tchil makoon!’

  He got a spear with long blade attached — a shovel-spear, so called. As he aimed, the rifle clicked again. He yelled, ‘Liwatchungun nanyog ningun . . . kill him die dat woman!’

  The spear was snatched from the black hand by a yellow one. The red coals looked up into the slant eyes of a crazy Chinaman. Then there was Splinter, flying across the Ring, leaping at Nelyerri as she raised the rifle again, grabbing the weapon, twisting it in her grasp — Snap! She shrieked as her arm broke, stumbled, fell. Then Willy leaping at Splinter, to snatch the rifle away from him, but to turn on Nelyerri as she rose screaming like a wounded cockatoo, and strike her on the neck with the heel of his hand. She fell inert. Heaving for breath, Willy looked back at the Ring, to see the Pookarakka dragging himself towards the discarded shovel-spear. His hand shot to his pocket, took out a cartridge, shoved it in the breach of the rifle.

  Bobwirridirridi got the spear crouched to level it, squawking, ‘Barrugun Kurrawaddi.’

  Willy held his fire. But not the Pookarakka. With a hiss he drove the spear. It struck Willy in the midriff, entered to the haft.

  BANG! The bullet howled away over the rocks. Again the rocks rang. Blue smoke drifted.

  Willy sagged to knees, with the long haft of the spear striking the rocks and bending to his weight. He struggled with the rifle, ejected the spent cartridge, slipped in another. Blood was spurting from his stomach, bubbling from his mouth.

  Prindy stood staring.

  Willy coughed — a great gout of blood that splashed on his thighs.

  Wirridirridi was spider-crawling back for another spear. Willy croaked at him, ‘No-more, old-man . . . you go . . . you go’way . . . huh!’ It ended in another bloody cough.

  The Pookarakka got his spear, and a womera, turned and stared at Willy. The rifle lay across Willy’s knees. The old man lowered his spear, called over his shoulder, ‘Carry-him-me-up!’ Movement amongst the rocks. He looked at Prindy, called, ‘Mekullikulli . . . goydai!’

  The boy looked. Willy gasped, ‘Joey!’

  When Prindy looked that way, the old man cackled, ‘Jungara-Jungara, mekullikulli.’

  The grey eyes sought the distance, blinking.

  The men came out of the rocks, looking dazed. The old man spoke sharply, in mixed lingo and Murringlitch, directing them to carry him and collect his belongings. He called in Splinter to bring the boy. One man took him on his back. As they moved off, Bobwirridirridi
addressed the still squatting staring Willy: ‘You die finish, Chinaman. Properly I been kill-him-you-die for bugger-him-up bijnitch . . . mummuk!’

  Willy nodded, as if accepting the verdict, coughed, spattering the rifle with blood.

  The party disappeared westward. Willy let the rifle fall, laid hands on the spear, tried to rise, sank back gasping and groaning.

  Nelyerri stirred, groaned, cried out, sat up clutching her broken arm. She became aware of Willy, who gasped at her, ‘Gi’ me hand.’

  She got to knees, looked about wildly, lurched to feet, squealing, ‘Where my boy?’

  ‘Gi’ me hand.’ Willy coughed blood again.

  ‘Where my boy?’

  ‘Him all right . . . gi’ me . . . huh, huh!’

  ‘Chinee bastard — where my boy?’

  He took up the rifle: ‘Spone you . . . mek trouble . . . shoot him you . . . huh, huh!’

  She stared at him. He gasped, ‘Come here.’ When she came, clinging to her arm, he added, ‘Gitchim rock . . . break him . . . spear.’ He had to make threatening motions with the rifle to move her. She got a sharp-edged rock. He dropped the rifle again, jerked the haft onto a ridge of rock, hammered. through the tough wood. When she bent to get the rifle he swung at her with the rock.

  Free of the haft, he took up the rifle to raise himself. Standing swaying, bubbling blood, he said, ‘We go . . . station . . . g’won.’

  She moved slowly whimpering now, with little gelps of pain. He followed, using the rifle for support. Thus for some fifty yards. Then she broke into a run. He tried to call, but only coughed.

  She reached the hobbled horse, to find that it had a chestnut companion, likewise saddled and bridled. Then she saw Clancy, looking about for tracks, a rifle in his hands, which he swung up with a scared look when he heard her. She rushed to him, babbling of what had happened. All he could say was, ‘Christ . . . Jesus Bloody Christ! Come on . . . we got to get Willy.’

  They found Willy given up, bloodily gasping that he was finished. Clancy forced him to come on, all but carrying him, got him to the horses, and up onto the bay. Nelyerri, whimpering still despite the Boss’s curses, climbed up behind. Clancy mounted his chestnut, took the other in lead.

  Back at the homestead, Clancy hurried to the radio, a small pedal-driven set as used on the so-called Flying Doctor network, and immediately got in on a schedule, and thus through to Radio Palmeston. Meanwhile, Willy had been placed on a mattress of sacking in the back of a utility truck, where he lay palely yellow as a true Chinaman. Clancy gave him a slug of whisky, told him that in no time he would be in hospital and for certain sitting up to eat Christmas dinner. He ordered Nell up in the back, too, along with a couple of blacks, got in the front alone. Thus away before dinner, as he had decreed, although hardly as he had intended.

  V

  Dr Fox was already at Beatrice Homestead when the party from Catfish arrived, together with Sergeant Cahoon and Tracker Jinbul, who had come down with him, and Constable Stunke and his man Treacle.

  Dinny lost no time in getting to work on Willy, all the more importunate for being told by the doctor that Willy was close to death. Fox said that the only thing to save him was immediate blood-transfusion and surgery, while all he could do himself was to maintain the flicker of life left in him with Dextrose, Saline, and Adrenalin. Leaving Willy on his blood-soaked deathbed, they parked the utility so as to give him the intravenous fluid from a bottle hitched to a post of the office verandah. As he revived, Cahoon urged him: ‘Come on, Willy, I want you tell me who done it.’

  Willy whispered, ‘Rown fault, Boss.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. Who been spear you?’

  ‘Kudijingera bijnitch.’

  ‘I want to know which one . . . so I can put the bastard long o’ jail for kill him my old mate, Willy.’

  ‘I been do it wrong t’ing.’

  ‘You never do wrong thing. You all-day good boy. Tell me name that muddrin bastard.’

  Willy appeared to faint. Cahoon shook his shoulder. The doctor intervened: ‘Go easy, Dinny . . . he’s dying.’

  Cahoon snapped, ‘I want his testimony before he does.’

  ‘Even if you have to hasten his death?’

  ‘Give him something more . . . Keep him alive . . . Eh, what you sayin’, Willy?’

  Willy was whispering, on outflowing breath now: ‘Koonapippi . . . Koona-pipp-eeeee . . .’

  ‘Willy!’

  ‘You’ve missed out, Dinny. He’s had it.’

  ‘Bugger it!’

  Cahoon swung on snivelling Nelly: ‘What happened, Nell . . . what d’you know?’

  ‘Nutching.’

  ‘You were there. Come on now, tell me.’ He put an arm about her, causing her to yelp.

  Dr Fox intervened again: ‘Let her alone, Dinny, I want to fix her arm. Bad fracture.’ She yelped again as Fox touched the swollen hanging arm. He said, ‘I’ll give you something.’ He took hypodermic gear from his case.

  Still Cahoon insisted: ‘What happened, Nell?’

  ‘For crissake!’ snapped the doctor. ‘I want to set her arm and splint it. If you can’t keep out of it, give me a hand. Just shut up and hold her shoulder. Have to get her down on the floor.’

  Kneeling beside her and taking a grip on the slender chocolate shoulder, with cheek in her dark hair, Cahoon said as soothingly as that grating voice would allow, ‘You’re goin’ to tell me all about it, ain’t you, little girl.’

  She blubbered, ‘You get him back my lil boy.’

  ‘Course I will. We’ll have him in for Christmas. Now, who speared Willy?

  ‘I don’t know . . . I never see . . . Ow, ow, eeeeee!’

  ‘She’s fainted,’ said the doctor. ‘Let her head down. This ought’ve been splinted hours ago.’

  Cahoon looked up at those standing round, fixed on Clancy, demanded gratingly, ‘Why didn’t you put a splint on for the poor kid?’

  Clancy growled, ‘Didn’t I have enough to do with Willy?’ He walked away.

  Nell recovered from the faint, only to lapse into drugged sleep. Cahoon carried her to the police utility, placed her in the front seat, went back to the office to get a statement from Clancy.

  The doctor declared that there was no need for autopsy on Willy, since it was evident how he had died, and thus gave permission for his burial. No need for a death certificate for one without citizenship. He would have taken Nelly with him for delivery to hospital in Palmeston, only Dinny insisted that she would fret wildly till her boy was restored to her. Thus she was left in Dinny’s care. He took her away, still sleeping, in Stunke’s car, leaving Stunke to deliver Willy into the bosom of his Chinese family. The doctor himself declined the usual invitation to stay overnight at the homestead, saying that he wanted to go on to the Catholic Mission in the Prince Leopold Islands, directly to the North. After afternoon tea at the Big House he returned to his aircraft, driven by Martin.

  Martin returned to the big white bungalow to find his brother still at the tea-table on the west-side verandah, alone. He came up to him, scowling: ‘Proper bloody mess you made of things, eh?’

  Clancy scowled back: ‘What d’you mean by that?’

  ‘Why didn’t you do what the poor bastard said?’

  ‘What’re you talking about?’

  ‘Willy. You told Cahoon he wanted them to break the kid in . . .’

  Clancy’s voice rose: ‘But that bloody bitch of yours wouldn’t have it!’

  Martin reddened deeply, growled, ‘I reckon you made the trouble yourself . . . deliberately . . . to give you the excuse to bring ’em in.’

  ‘And what you wanted was to have your bastard initiated as a blackfellow, so’s you’d have less responsibility for him still.’

  Martin’s blue eyes popped: ‘You bloody rat!’ He turned away.

  Clancy took a deep breath, called after him, ‘And what about the other one?’

  Martin swung back.

  Clancy sneered: ‘Have to have another ini
tiation someday, eh?’

  ‘What’re you yappin’ about?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know she’s up the duff again.’

  Martin’s heavy face jerked. He swallowed: ‘I warned you that I’d run you off the place . . .’

  Clancy’s voice rose higher: ‘So’s you can gin root to your heart’s content!’

  Martin leapt towards him, hissing. ‘You little prick.’

  But he stopped dead, at sight of his mother in the dining-room doorway. Clancy followed his startled glance.

  Rhoda stepped onto the verandah, grey of handsome face, haggard of fine blue eye. Although her breast heaved, her voice was subdued: ‘Nice conduct in my gentlemen sons, I must say.’ She looked from one to the other.

  Clancy was the first to speak: ‘He accused me of causing the trouble at Catfish.’

  She said stiffly, ‘From what I heard you tell the police, it looks as if you could have stopped it with a little tact.’

  ‘With that yeller bitch screaming in my ear to get her kid back for her?’ Clancy swung on his brother: ‘I asked him to get rid of her long ago. I knew there’d be trouble.’

  ‘Even if you had to cause it yourself,’ growled Martin, and turned away.

  His mother said sharply, ‘Wait!’ He turned back, scowling. She sighed heavily: ‘All I want to say is that I’m disgusted with you both. You’re nothing but a pair of louts. It’s in your blood. It’s in the land . . . this rotten country!’

  Martin snapped, ‘Why do you live here, then?’

  ‘What would it be like if people like myself didn’t?’

  Martin dropped his eyes before the icy stare, grunted, turned and walked away.

  The cold eyes smote Clancy: ‘This is all your doing.’

  Clancy cried, ‘Mine? For godsake . . . that bitch and that brat of his . . .’

  ‘There’s no proof about that child. You’re ridiculously, stupidly jealous of your elder brother. If you have to go to court about this thing . . . if you say anything to lower him, us . . . I’m finished with you . . . finished!’ Rhoda turned back to the dining-room, vanished into it.