Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Suddenly into the Tjaina, as if from nowhere, sprang a tall and stringy figure, painted red from head to ankles, white-footed and white-headed, with a sinuous white streak running from throat to snake-skin-covered pudendum, and the spiky crown of the Snake Cult as a head-dress. His actions were also representative of a snake’s: head thrust forward and darting from side to side, dancing circuitous and furtive. His interest was divided between the pigeons in the banyans and an invisible figure following to which he kept turning to make furtive signs to join him; while the musicians boomble-boomed and click-a-clacked and the pigeons kept up their insane chorus: Wallakawoo, wallakawoo!

  Then the Snake Man swung right round to those behind, put hand to mouth and wobbled it: Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo!

  Now they came, from all directions on that far side, in small groups strung out follow-my-leader, those following clinging to the waists of those ahead, all decorated like the skinny initiator of the proceedings, and doing a similar snake-like dance, weaving in and out about him while he stood swaying in the middle, now chanting, while they came in with responding chants — Goorook-wah, Goorook-wah . . . woo-ee-ah, woo-ee-ah . . . goorook-wah . . . ai-eeeee! — the women and children joining in, with clapping of hands, thighs, buttocks — and boombooloom, boombooloom, click, clack, Click!

  ‘The Snake Dance,’ explained the knowledgeable Fabers. ‘These are the pythons who preyed on the Pigeons in the Dream Time . . .’

  Prindy cut in: ‘They not proper Snake Man . . . that not proper snake dance.’

  Fabers snapped at him, ‘What d’you know about it? Only what that old humbug Bobwirridirridi taught you.’

  ‘That proper way.’

  ‘It isn’t. It’s only koornung gammon.’

  ‘Hey!’ cried Fergus. ‘Anthropological polemics. What would we anthrops do if we ever came to agree?’ He turned to Prindy. ‘How about you do a proper snake-dance mate?’

  ‘Can’t do it,’ Prindy answered promptly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘All this lot get frighten’ . . . bolt.’

  ‘There you have it!’ declared The Coot, turning now to Professor St Clair. ‘That’s all that’s at the bottom of this Rainbow Snake business, as I’ve always said. It isn’t anthropological . . . just a racket introduced from time to time by shrewdies, the so-called koornungs, to put it over the mob . . .’

  His attempted dissertation was interrupted in the sudden rising of the chanting and the musical accompaniment to staccato crescending to a concerted screaming and a general rush towards the banyans.

  Out came the pigeons, fluttering in alarm. Up went the throwing sticks. Down came the pigeons and a rain of feathers. Women and children pounced on the lurching wounded, wrung their necks — Wallakawoo, wallaka-woo! — the silly survivors after wheeling aloft, wheeled back again, looking for mates. Up went the sticks again — and down the birds — Wallaka-woo, wallaka-woo, wallaka-wooooo!

  Goorook-wah, goorook-wah, woo-ee-ah, ai-eeeee!

  The pigeons woke up, fled back to the safety of leafy branches and tangled aerial roots. Hastily the murderers gathered up their victims, flinging them into heaps beside the ovens, kicking away the dogs who would have helped themselves. Then all rushed, pseudo Snake Men with the rest, to take their places on the sidelines to watch the next act.

  Again the drone of the pipes and the click of minga-minga, the strange compulsion of the syncopated rhythm seeming verily to conjure up the dozen figures suddenly there in the Tjaina. They were utterly black, smeared from breast to feet with greased charcoal, and stark naked, save for white yokes of birds’ down stuck to their flesh and pipe-clayed head-bands. Dancing in line, facing the banyans, stamping, crouching, executing movements of swallowing and flying and feeding one another from their mouths, rising to make half-turns in perfect unison, pointing with lips towards the sea, they mimed, as the Coot explained, the telling of the Booroolooloogun by the Googoowinji, the Cormorants, how to save their nestlings by stuffing their crops and flying home to feed them.

  But for the musical accompaniment, the first of it was done in silence — until one of the Cormorant Men leapt out before the others, chanting: Burrin derrinjin, burrin derrinjin — to which the others gave response in chorus: Wirrianga, pisht, pisht, pisht!

  Tempo of dancing and voices rose — rose — Burrin derrinjin — Wirrianga, pisht! — until all were shouting: Pisht, pisht, pisht!

  Then, for all the world, as if they’d got the message, the pigeons rose — not just to flutter round within range of the mumbarma as before, but to whirl aloft; and not just those from the trees of the locality, but from everywhere along the cliff-face, in that vast cloud, which the sinking Sun touched with gold as if with a blessing for its journey. A turn or two high up to make formation, then away with a storm-rush of wings. Black necks and white necks craned to watch. A rosy cloud above the tree-tops now. Dulling to sepia against the rosy horizon. A mere line of smoke. Then it was gone. The Googoowinji announced it with a yell that rang around the wall of hidden rock: Iai-o . . . kai-o . . . kai-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!

  It was the signal for release from ceremony. Now the feast. The crowd converged on the piendis, the women and children to wrap the birds in clay, while some men raked the ashes from the ovens and others squatted to watch and converse and laugh — laugh, till the moonlit twilight rang with laughter. Old Igulgul himself, all lopsided, seemed to be laughing too.

  The Coot spoke to his fellows in the brisk tone of one who has accomplished something for others less clever: ‘Well . . . how’d you like it?’

  General Esk answered, in a voice of which the constrained quality would have betrayed his feelings even if his words had not, ‘Amazin’. Absolutely bally amazin’. I hadn’t realised the power that man can get from living so close to nature.’

  ‘Well, of course it’s largely mnemonic, ethnic memory converted to, well, what one might term traumaturgical dramaturgy, I suppose.’ The Coot chuckled, ‘Quite a mouthful that, eh?’ He looked at Denzil.

  But Denzil, although he had his notebook open and had been eagerly noting the Master’s utterances up until lately, did not note this one, instead, asked, ‘What’s it mean?’

  ‘Eh? Well, in blunt terms, that a racket is made out of magic for entertainment. Same in all religious practice.’

  Denzil’s voice was constrained too: ‘A racket?’

  ‘You’ve seen the economics of it . . . and there’s power for certain individuals . . .’

  Now there was protest in Denzil’s voice: ‘But the way those birds left when they were told to!’

  ‘The Coogoowinji have been doing it from time immemorial. They know the exact minute for take-off. They think they do it by magic. But that doesn’t make it any less a racket. They get a special share for that.’

  ‘But the oneness with Nature. Isn’t that magic? Because natural phenomenon amounts to magic, doesn’ it?’

  Cootes grinned. ‘Look out you don’t get taken in by this magic stuff, boy.’

  Denzil blinked, looked at Prindy, who was staring at him with great eyes luminous in moonlight. He muttered, ‘But I am . . . I am.’

  Cootes guffawed, ‘Look out . . . or you’ll get taken in by our young con-man friend and his Rainbow Snake.’ He pulled a face when the glowing eyes were turned on him, and swung away, saying, ‘Come on . . . we’ll go watch the culinary business. I want to cook our own damper, too . . . don’t want one of their sods.’

  Despite rejection of the native way of cooking damper, the Coot was voluble in praise of their mode of baking in clay. He addressed himself to the General, not only because the others would have heard it long since; but Fergus, and even to a slight degree Denzil also, was flippant about his recent show of obvious preference for civilised food and cooking. Ignoring these others to begin with, he said. ‘You can eat pretty well anything in the bush, from roots to rats. Of course, you must have a stomach for it. Food prejudices are the first we form, and about the hardest to get over. Overcoming them’
s simply a matter of ignoring them. A native can eat a thing . . . well you can. That’s what I’ve been trying to teach Denzil here, to make a real bushman of him. He’s never been able to eat anything with pleasure cooked with the guts in it . . . although the fact of the matter is it’s the guts that gives it its special flavour . . . like seasoning, as you’ll find when you come to eat these pigeons. Of course, you don’t have to eat the guts . . . although the blacks do, with relish, especially if fatty . . . and I assure you that some of it’s quite nice.’ Here Denzil made gagging sounds, and when sniggered at by his mentor, made bold to say that he’d never seen him eating guts. The Coot replied, ‘Only out of consideration for your finicky stomach, boy.’ Asked by Fergus if he would eat some pigeon’s guts tonight, Cootes snapped, ‘If you do . . . yes!’

  In no time the savour of the cooking was in the air, and the black mob dribbling in anticipation, as plain to see in the bright moonlight. This caused the whites some amusement, and the Coot to remark to the amusement of the blacks, ‘Ga breumba wuduk.’ Rather grandly he translated what he’d said, ‘Make spit come out, eh?’

  In little more than an hour, so swift was the mode of cooking, the ovens were opened, and the football-like cones of hard clay lifted out with forked sticks, to be grabbed by impatient hands protected by leaves, and taken away for eating in family groups. The whitemen retired to their rock with a couple each — too many, surely, as expressed by Fabers. ‘Bags I what the rest of you can’t eat!’

  Fabers opened the first one for the General, showing how the feathers, skin, legs, head came away with the clay, leaving only the plump savoury-steaming flesh. ‘By George,’ exclaimed Esk. ‘It certainly meets with the approval of the old sniffer, what?’ Eating with fingers, Esk peeled a slab off the breast, tried it, smacked his lips. ‘Hm-um . . . very nice . . . gamey . . . but tasty.’ He ate more. However, he couldn’t get past the breast. ‘A little too rich inside,’ he confessed. ‘Must be that natural seasoning of yours, what?’

  ‘Give it to me,’ said Fabers.

  He proceeded to pick it down to the bones and guts. He was about to toss the remains away, to the dogs hunting about for scraps, when Fergus said, ‘Wait on, Cootsey . . . what about that deal?’

  ‘What deal?’

  ‘You’ll eat the guts if I do.’ Fergus held up a little lump of what appeared to be swollen intestines.

  The Coot hesitated, said, ‘You’ll make yourself sick.’

  ‘You should worry. Come on . . . down the hatch together!’

  The Coot swallowed saliva. ‘I . . . we might upset the others.’

  ‘No squibbing, Cootsey. What’s happened to the tough bushman you were telling us about just now?’

  Cootes was sitting fairly with the moonlight on his face, so that the sweat could be seen to pop out of it glistening. Fergus’s face was shaded. Cootes said, in somewhat constricted tones, ‘No tricks. Turn round and let’s see you.’

  Fergus swung round, opened his mouth wide, then popped the lump into it, chewed vigorously, swallowed, with all eyes fixed on him, then wiping his mouth, declared, ‘Not bad. Now . . . Cootsey!’

  The eyes turned on the Coot. He was sweating harder. He swallowed his spit again. Then, with a determined movement, he tore the gut from the carcass, stuffed it in his mouth. However, his chewing and swallowing were nothing like so lively as Fergus’s. So hard did he swallow on it, that it must have been the obvious effort that caused Esk to murmur, ‘Bravo!’

  Denzil gagged, turned away. Prindy and Fergus chuckled. Malters sat wooden, staring at these two, perhaps suspecting Fergus of not having played fair.

  Fergus belched heavily, then said, ‘Excuse me . . . but, well, it’s a bit hard to keep down. You’re right, Cootsey . . . you’ve got to have a stomach for it . . . urgh!’

  The Coot’s baggy jowls quivered. Fortunately, the light was less intense, with the Moon at last becoming entangled with the cloud-mass. He looked up at the rags of moon-rainbow.

  Fergus persisted: ‘Afraid I was a bit hasty in my judgment. Fact is . . . well, it tastes rather like a suck of a chook’s arsehole . . .’

  Denzil fled gagging. Esk said stiffly, ‘Reahlly, old chap!’ Malters sniffed.

  Igulgul vanished into the flickering blackness of the cloud. In the gloom the Coot muttered thickly, ‘Better go and see how Denzil is.’ He slipped off the rock.

  ‘Looks like we might have rain after all,’ said Esk. Malters agreed and suggested they put the tent up. Fergus, rising to lend a hand, snatched Prindy aside, whispered in his ear. Prindy slipped away like a shadow.

  Sure enough, there behind a rock, with the rumble of thunder to drown the sounds of his travail, was The Coot — vomiting, alone. Prindy watched for a moment, ran back. Denzil was already back and helping with the tent. The wind was now blowing stiffly from the West, the black curtain of which was being ripped by lightning.

  Soon the Coot turned up, carrying an armful of firewood, saying they would be needing it, so perky now as to add, ‘Wind’s in the right direction to rain now . . . if you care to notice, Captain Ferris.’

  Fergus shot back, ‘Wind, eh? Yes . . . I suppose you brought up a bit with the rest of it . . . the pigeon shit, the raspberry jam, and all . . . yes?’ Cootes ignored him. But Fergus persisted: ‘Nothing like a good puke, is there, Cootsey . . . after it’s over, of course.’

  Cootes snapped at him, ‘What’re you yapping about? If we don’t hurry we’ll get caught in the rain.’

  ‘I admit that gut-stuff tasted shitty . . . but I didn’t bring it up, now, did I?’

  Rather breathlessly, Cootes said, ‘If you’re trying to be funny, Ferris, try it on the boy here. He’s about your intellectual level.’

  ‘Yes . . . he is a smart kid. Smart enough to wake up that you went away for a puke . . . and followed you. That right, ain’t it, mate?’

  All were looking at Prindy, including the Coot. Prindy nodded. ‘Yas . . . I see him barcoo . . . there.’ He jerked lips towards the spot.

  The Coot gasped. Then stiffening into sudden rage, he fairly screamed, ‘You damned little liar!’ And he leapt, and taking Prindy by surprise, slapped his face, hard.

  Prindy staggered against Denzil, who caught hold of him. The Coot, beside himself, came in for another slap. But Denzil knocked his hand away, crying, ‘Heah . . . reahlly . . . I say!’

  The Coot screamed, ‘Let me get at him. I’ll belt hell out of him . . . the lying little mongrel dog . . .’ But the others had him pinioned.

  Now the blacks were crowding round. For a moment Cootes suffered himself to be held and stared at, while he slavered and panted. Then with a wrench he freed himself, went rushing off into the gloom, vanished among the rocks.

  Fergus called after him: ‘Going to have another puke, Cootsey?’

  The General expostulated, ‘Now reahlly, Fergus . . .’ But what he might have been going to say was stopped by a blinding flash — Zip! — followed almost on the instant by — Crash! — a detonation that with its barrage of echoes made it seem as if the whole cliff-face were falling down.

  Behind it all a rising roar. Then like the blow of a mighty hand a hot wind smote, flattening the tent, stripping the trees, whipping the little fires of the blacks into flares that showed masses of grey spidery limbs and buttocks and backs flying for the shelter of rocks. Flash and crash! Then the rush of rain, like a breaking wave, lukewarm to start, then chill and breathtaking as a mountain waterfall, gouting over rocks, gushing under them. Black and white, male and female, piccaninnies and dogs, huddled together, with the spiders and the ants and the lizards crawling over them.

  Although it seemed interminable, it lasted no more than fifteen minutes; and indeed could have lasted no longer without tearing everything apart and washing the bits away. The rain drummed steadily for another fifteen minutes, then eased off, to become a silvery mist through which Igulgul kept peeping, until at last he came out beaming, laughing at the sodden crowd turning out shivering. Just one of h
is little jokes, along with the Old One, stirring up those silly sleepy Waianga. The frogs were out in their myriads now, yelling hallelujah; while kweeluks and plovers loudly rejoiced over what they were going to do to the happy ones.

  No thought now for the Mourning Ceremony of the Booroolooloogun People; who, anyway, had had their decorations washed off them, and were complaining over loss of much of the collected fee. No thought on the part of the blacks for anything but getting their fires going again and themselves warmed up. But the preoccupation of the whites, who should have been mustering their hobbled horses and saddling up for getting back to dry clothes and beds, was that one of their number was missing and not answering call upon call — old Fabers. Useless calling, anyway, because the answer always came back from the frogs or birds. Useless also to look for tracks in the scoured earth; and no hope of starting a wide search, despite the numbers available, in country notorious for its devilry. At last it was decided by old Fabers’s friends that, bushman as he was, of course he would have headed back to his HQ. Only his two enemies dug each other in the ribs over that one.

  Fabers’s enemies knew him better than his friends. There was no one back at the camp, except the Lily Lagoons boys left to guard it. Poor old Fabers, soaked to the skin, with nothing but the damp earth for a bed, and surely no sleep to be had what with that froggy chorus and the seething masses of flying ants popping from the ground and the mosquitoes that had come out with the frogs! Shaking their heads in sympathy with his plight, his friends, after a stiff whisky as a nightcap, retired to their cosy netted beds. But there was consolation, as the General said: if he didn’t turn up, they could soon locate him with the aircraft. ‘You mean when we can take off,’ corrected the hard-hearted Fergus. ‘It’s going to take at least two days for that clay-pan to dry out . . . if it doesn’t rain again.’ He and his young mate went to bed in the aircraft, chuckling.

  It didn’t rain again. Next day was blazing hot, with marsh flies now out in swarms. It was thirsty country between here and the Plateau, too, being mostly sandy, sucking up early rain almost immediately. That poor old Fabers was out there suffering was certain, because his friends went back to the Plateau next day, and along it for some distance, in the hope that he would have the savvy to make for it and the comparative luxury of the rainforest. But not a sign of him. Another night without him, and with the mosquitoes worse than ever. ‘Poor old Fabers,’ the General said over the nightcap. ‘This is getting serious.’