Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Next to get the radio working. For power they had dry batteries, a whole case of various kinds having been bought from McDodds on pretence of taking them for use down in the Centre. After some fiddling, they were getting almost as good reception from ABC and BBC as at Lily Lagoons, and far better from Radio Saigon, which last already had proved itself more trustworthy in reporting than the others, since having only victories to announce, not defeats. They tuned in to hear the ABC admit what Saigon had announced three weeks before, namely that all Borneo was in the hands of the Japanese and the natives thereof accepting their new masters no less amicably than they had the even more alien British and Dutch. Jeremy remarked sardonically on that bit of news: ‘It was Royal Dutch Shell, and what appeared to be an entirely different concern, the Shell Oil Company of Britain, that owned the oil-wells formerly. I wonder will it now be Imperial Japanese Shell? For men may come, and men may go . . . but Shell goes on for ever!’

  They had the job done by noon. Still Jeremy would brook no respite. The cloud mountains were perceptibly nearer. They must press on to the sea, he said, wasting not one hour. After a bit of dinner they saddled up again and headed North.

  Still without meeting blacks, they reached the maritime region in exactly forty-eight hours, that is with two night-camps and one full day of travel from dawn till dark. Jeremy insisted that they must think in terms of hours, with that cloud mountain looking nearer, darker, every time they raised eyes to it from the immediate view. Prindy took them to water he knew from his aerial jauntings, and finally to the exact spot in the maritime jungle from which access through the mangroves could be had to the bit of more or less permanently dry land, really an island itself, mostly used by natives as landing in their voyaging to and from the Leopolds. He had been here before and evidently knew the passages through the islands well, so that he was able to make light of Jeremy’s doubts about their making the Mission before the certain storm. There was no sense in Jeremy’s going any further with them. The passage through the mangroves, of indeterminate distance so did it wind about, was by way of a ridge of sorts built up by opposing tide streams, and mostly under water. As it was they had to wait for the tide to fall. Although used from time immemorial, nothing more had been done to facilitate passage than to break off the branches of the mangroves that would have closed it. Anyway, for feet that had known it from infancy, the tangle of roots, the holes, the slimes, would have meant slight inconvenience. So long had it been trodden by such feet that in bigger roots, hard almost as iron as the root of the mangrove can be, deep dents were worn where these had been used as steps across the more oozy stretches. Jeremy, taking a look at it and trying to reckon how long it would be before the three could negotiate it, declared that he would wait for at least twenty-four hours, in case they were forced back.

  While waiting on the tide, Prindy and Rifkah and Savitra prepared themselves for the rest of their journey. They stripped to the minimum of clothing, Rifkah to shorts and shift, the youngsters to mere nagas, promptly having to lard themselves with citronella cream because of the onslaught of sandflies and mosquitoes. Their other clothes they stowed in gunny-sacks, together with their bushnets and hard rations for a couple of days.

  Then it was time to go. Rifkah and Savitra embraced Jeremy. Prindy took his hand in manly style, easily assuring him that he could look after the females. Not that Jeremy was foolish enough to express doubt about his ability, saying merely he left it to him. Still, perhaps his insistence to the last on worrying about the storm was hardly discreet addressed to one of Tchamala’s men, even if finally so mildly expressed: ‘Anyway, you’ve got plenty of islands to lay up in if the storm beats you to it.’ The answer was worthy of a Tchineke Man, even one with grey eyes. The eyes met the other grey ones with complete self-assurance.

  Prindy led the way, with Savitra as close to his heels as she could keep, often with a hold on him, as often having to be helped out of difficulties by Rifkah at the rear. Savitra was the first to be coloured blue-grey from toe to tip. They all had their spills, tripping over hidden roots, sliding into waist-deep slimes, floundering into murky deeps. Savitra whimpered and swore a bit. The others only laughed, when they had breath for it. Often they had to spell to get their breath, with a haze of blood-suckers about them whining for a sip. It was then they could hear the myriad sounds of the swamp: those mysterious clickings and clackings, supposed to be signals between the spirits that haunt such places, the trilling of the mangrove robin, the carolling of blue-black butcher birds calling to their brown voiceless mates, the ceaseless gurgle of moving waters. The pressing wilderness of unrelieved olive green soon became all the more forbidding for darkening of the sky with the Sun’s reaching the cloud-mass and being doused by it, showing that the mass was moving aslant across the sea and would already have reached the coast to westward.

  At last a lightening of the gloom ahead. They cried out for joy, slipped and slithered like mad. Trees above the mangroves: only the slight growths of maritime jungle, but in a variety of colour, and some with great bright flowers. Sand under their battered feet. Hermit crabs scuttling, only to roll over and slam tiny doors upon the intruding world. A coucal sped with neck outstretched like a snake and hissing like one, to rise and tangle on awkward wings amongst the thick vegetation. Jungle-fowl set up a cackling. But the party were interested in nothing but the glint of the sea ahead. Bursting from the jungle onto the open beach, they dropped their muddy bundles, raced to the water, flung themselves in. First to get off that grey skin which made them all of one breed, and then the greasy bit of clothing, wash it out and fling it ashore, then a happy bit of play in the limpid water, while in its hurry to meet tidal appointment it swept them along the crumbling bank of the beach. Suddenly they found themselves being swept back into the mud of mangroves. They floundered out, to dash dripping up the steep slope of the beach, unaware of their gleaming nakedness — until the blood-suckers scented them, came upon them fairly howling with hunger, when swiping and slapping they raced back to their bundles, and in haste got out the citronella and their damp all-covering clothes.

  Only then did they look upon the scene before them: the violet islets across the streaming pewter of the channel, against the sooty wall of the cloud mountain with its dingy white peaks toppling to the flaming violence beneath, the sound of which could be heard like the continuous drumming of an invincible rolling army, brought on gusts of heavy air. They stared for a little while, then turned to go to drink.

  The water-supply was in a huge turtle carapace set up to catch rain on a rude platform rigged between trees on the edge of the jungle. There were other similar platforms, on which were lashed canoe paddles and rigging and dilly-bags and baskets and crab-hooks and other Aboriginal gear. Although there was a fair litter from savage picnicking here — shells of crab and mollusc, bones of turtle, dugong, bird, fish — nothing like the kitchen middens of ages of Aboriginal feasting was to be seen, hence it was probable that in great storms the sea swept over the little islands, which was why the trouble had been taken to make those platforms, why the several canoes were lashed to trees with rope made from beach hybiscus; for people who lived so close to nature would never take trouble to gainsay its whims unless it was not more trouble not to do so, as say, in having to spend a year making another dug-out canoe.

  While the women got firewood and rigged the two nets, Prindy chose the canoe, one into which a mast could be stepped. Then he stepped the mast, to which was rigged a crude sail made of sacking, put in bailer and paddles, dragged her to high-water mark for swift launching in the morning.

  It got dark quickly with that blackness filling the West. They ate their iron rations by the light of their fire and in a cloud of smoke from a smudge fire. Then into nets, and watching the play of lightning in the sky and on the sea, they were soon asleep. Day dawned darkly, with Igulgul, who should have helped, already gone to join the battle in the sky. First light served only to make the sea to northward and westward a black mir
ror shattered anon by reflected lightning. Now the rumble of the storm was somewhat muted by change of wind, which was running towards it; sure sign, according to some, of imminent advance of weather against it. Rifkah, eyeing the threatening signs, mentioned the theory. Prindy dismissed it shortly, saying, ‘Him all right.’ He was more interested in the tide, which was behaving quite contrarily to what might be expected from last night’s set; that is, it was flooding instead of ebbing and flowing from northwest instead of southwest. This could only mean that the storm was creating tidal conditions of its own, and hence was of considerable force. Not that he looked troubled in the least — as who should, whose familiars were the Spirits of Wind and Sea?

  They stripped again to the skimpiness of yesterday; then with haste to dodge the whining horde, they stowed their other clothes and shoved off. Less a launching was it to begin with than a flight — and then a consignment of themselves to inevitability, judging by their attitudes. In fact there was nothing much to do but just sit and stare. Each had a paddle, but not in hand. Prindy, who might use his for steering, had it gripped between his knees as he sat crouched in the wedge of the stern holding the sheet of bark-twist attached to the leg-of-mutton sail. The others sat amidships, back to back against the rude thwart, part of the substance of the vessel itself, burnt and scraped out of a log, into which the mast was stepped. They sat on the washy bottom, Savitra facing her lord, Rifkah the blue islet ahead. Such craft, the stability of which depends much upon their ballasting, aren’t made for sitting up in.

  With a bellyful of wind in her sail and the contrary tide to stop her from luffing, the canoe headed straight across the channel, leaving a fine wake that divided the sea astern to make it look like a pearl oyster, bright iridescence to starboard, shimmering dark blood to port, a truly wondrous sight to see when touched with the first hint of rose. Then it was all vermilion. The islet became copper. So swift the changes. And swift the progress now, as the wind swung them off that islet into a crimson channel running between it and another still sleeping violet. White egrets rose in small flocks from mangroves, wheeled and dropped back again to perches, as if only to show how white they were and how black where these brave ones were heading. Below the black was a line of lilac, which would be rain. Against the lilac the many violet isles. Then all was golden, the rain like vibrating harp strings. Then the Sun came up, turned the rain grey, the black to soot, the islands to green-grey.

  Through channel after channel they sped, past islet after islet. Dugongs surfaced near them to blow and take a pig-eyed look. Turtles sounded in haste. Cormorants on the tallest of the mangroves ignored them, stretching long necks to watch the weather. The egrets did likewise. That hint was enough. Now look to your own safety.

  It was not simply a matter of going to whim of wind and tide. Shrewd handling of sail and paddle, judicious back-tacking, kept them generally heading towards their destination, northeastward.

  Thus through the morning. It was near noon. Savitra was whimpering of hunger and thirst and weariness of sitting. Prindy made no response to that, in fact said little more than his one answer to the many demands to know how far the Mission was: ‘Close-up.’ Occasionally they sang, all three of them, but mostly Rifkah and Prindy, their old favourites in Yiddish: Raisins and Almonds, In the Fireplace, This is the Way the Tailor Sews. It looked as if he intended to keep going till they got there — when suddenly, as they were passing an islet with a stretch of beach and a bit of jungle, he cried, ‘Fresh tuttle-egg for omlette!’ Pointing with lips to fresh turtle tracks, he swung the craft in. The pull of the tide was evident on the beach, which it was deeply eroding in rushing past. They had to pull the canoe well up for safety.

  The turtle had shown consideration for safety, too, going right up to the edge of the jungle to dig her nest. The wind was bellowing through the jungle, stripping it of leaves. It all seemed much worse there than on the sea. Rifkah remarked on the fact while she and Prindy dug for the eggs, anxiety in her voice and face. His answer was that early one which dismissed all argument: ‘Him all right.’

  Savitra went off to look for water.

  They got some sixty eggs, laid only last night, according to Prindy, who sampled several raw. The others waited to eat theirs cooked, a couple of dozen between the three of them. Savitra had found water and made a fire. Prindy sprinkled sand on the coals glowing in the wind, placed the eggs, then covered them up with a heap of sand. The cooking took about fifteen minutes. They ate the savoury yolks spread on biscuits. The rest of the eggs, packing conveniently in their soft tough shells, they stowed in the bow of the canoe. The casual stowing was surely indicative of Prindy’s continued assurance. Anyway, they must have been near their journey’s end, since his answer to their questioning him now about the distance to go was changed to a jerk of the lips that would mean it was practically to be seen — as a blackfellow sees things, by what is associated with them, landmarks in the case of places. There was no telling when they would get there by lip-pointing reference to the position of the Sun, because it was now obliterated by the black crepe flying high across the western sky.

  The tide was pulling harder than ever when they shoved off again, so that all had to paddle with might to get clear of its sucking into the tumbling sand. They nearly went over when Prindy set the sail by the simple means of unfurling it off the mast. Thereafter, the vessel heeled so that they had to hang out to windward, and Rifkah kept busy with the bailer. The water boiled behind them, but ahead looked like black flesh purpled and goosed with cold. The wind that drove them was still the hot wind from the mainland.

  They rounded the island of the turtle to have revealed to them their first unobstructed view of open sea to northward since entering the island group, and hence full view of the monster advancing upon them, now so close that the waters could be seen boiling beneath it. The tide flowing from it seemed, as they saw it through a passage, to be pouring in a black stream downhill. As if maddened by the sight, the wind screamed through their little rigging, snatched the sheet from Prindy’s hand, sent it whipping with the flimsy sail. The tide seized the craft, whirled it. The sail was torn off from the top, to fall trailing, while the canoe ran with the tide as if over rapids. Prindy tried to steer. They were heading for the mangroves of another islet, which themselves, almost totally submerged, were heaving like a dark green sea. There was no going now but where the tide listed. They came almost within touch of the tossing tangle of trees, which surely must have drowned them were they engulfed there, when the tide swung them to race along beside it, stared at by pop-eyed gobies up from the mud to see what was going on. The canoe was half full of water. Prindy leapt to grab the bailer from Rifkah’s slower hands, himself bailed furiously, floating turtle eggs and all.

  HISSSSSSS . . . CRACK!

  The air was ripped. The sea ran fire. The wind fell dead. Strange ear-ringing silence. Then a vibrant humming that in a moment became a mighty roar. What looked like a monstrous gaping mouth was bearing down on them, its top lip a great curl of blackest cloud, the boiling sea its gnashing teeth, its throat a grey void from which icy breath soon smote them. And then an icy wave of rain — with great combers of the sea. The canoe rolled over, spilling its crew, scooping them up again as it rose with the pull of mast and sail, hung like that for a little, shoving them along as they scrabbled for grips on the gripless gunnel, then as a surge roared over and tore out the mast, righted itself, to wallow awash. Prindy scrambled in first, using care not to roll her again, then helped the others, first his lissom bride, and then Rifkah, who had such difficulty, what with the surges, that the buttons were torn from her shorts, which were dragged down to hobble her. Inside the heaving vessel there could be no use for hands except to cling for dear life to the one hold, the thwart. So they clung, while they coughed water, goggling at each other like gobies. The canoe turned with her natural streamlining to ride the breakers, buried her bow in them, giving her crew respite from the icy rain under fleecy blankets of warm water.<
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  They were bumping on bottom. A crumbling wall of sand loomed up beside them. The bow caught. A wave flung them sideways up a beach. The canoe was being sucked back again, when Prindy leapt out, grabbing at Savitra. Another wave struck the craft, sent it sliding on its side, sucked it back. Rifkah still clinging to the thwart, goggling, saw the beach vanish, was back in grey chaos, alone — alone.

  No — not alone. A great grey eye on a black stick popped up to stare into the wide hazel eyes — an eye on a stick that was like the scabbard of a sword and that cut the water like a sword — and vanished, with the hint of a black mass under the seething water.

  Still the chill rain and the feathery blankets of warm breaking sea — but with the wildness abating — more a roll to the waves than wild leaping — less sting in the rain — less plunging of the canoe — but still the grey chaos — and again the eye, caught by that blob of sodden copper-red in the grey, cutting the water at a different angle this time, so perhaps the other eye of the shadow, and as it disappeared this time, a black triangle of fin.

  Evidently because gripping the thwart was becoming too much for her, she hooked an arm about it, and tiring of that, hooked the other, and at length, changing from one to the other, worked her shift up over her head, looped it round, with difficulty that nearly had her out of her refuge a couple of times and once looked like drowning her in it, tied it, so as to hang on by one or other elbow.