At the moment, down at Jeremy’s camp, there was consternation, owing to the discovery that Savitra had slipped away and fear of what might be her purpose. Jeremy was not expert enough to judge with exactness how long it was since the girl had left the camp. Nor was Rifkah sufficiently knowledgeable of Savitra’s awareness of Aboriginal lore to say whether her purpose was as reckless as might be. Jeremy said, ‘Well, we can’t take risks. If she’s headed for the Ring Place, it’s going to take her hours to get there. It’s also going to take as long to follow her through that rough stuff up there. I think the best thing to do is for me to take a horse to where the old fellow left me, then climb the cliff. There must be some sort of track there for them to have gone up with all that gear. If she hasn’t already got there, I’ll be able to see by tracks, and come back along the top and head her off . . . and if she has, and’s in trouble, can buy her off. You go up top and scout round a bit. She might be only sitting on a rock singing her Charada. If so, persuade her to come down, telling her I’ve gone to get Prindy. But don’t follow if she’s gone. Come back and wait here.’
Rifkah eyed him anxiously. ‘You vill be all right climbing? Your arm not so goot lately, I see.’
‘I’ll be travelling light . . . a few presents in case there’s a fine to pay . . . and the rifle.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Ze rifle?’
‘It’ll come in handy for the climb . . . as an alpenstock . . . and, although I hate the idea, I might have to use it to come the whiteman over them, if the little fool’s fallen into their hands. Let’s hope, if she’s got close enough to annoy ’em, they’ll only give her a belting again and hunt her. But don’t you go getting a belting, too. Promise?’
She nodded.
He said, ‘Come on . . . help me to get going. I’ll take your horse again, because he knows the track and can move. I’ll send him straight back to you, because whether I beat her to it or not, I’ll be coming back the top way. So don’t be alarmed to see him. I’ll take tucker and water for just one day . . . and a bottle of brandy, a drop to help me up the jump-up, the rest for the old fellow.’
She clung to him at parting, saying, ‘Be careful, Jeremy. I feel fright’.’
He chuckled: ‘On account of me? Go on! The old boy and I are old mates. As for the others . . . well, they’re bush blacks and used to doing things their own way and know the kuttabah’s law isn’t anything like it was to fear . . . but still, I guess, the old fear will still be there when the kuttabah raises his voice.’
He kissed her, mounted Red Rory, called, ‘Mummuk, yawarra.’
He had split-bags, lightly filled, hung across his pummel, the rifle slung across his broad khaki back. He put the horse straight into a canter, saying to him, ‘Sorry to push you in the heat of the day, old boy . . . but it might be urgent.’
In no time he was at that point where he had parted with the Pookarakka. He did not stop there, but rode on as far as possible to the foot of the escarpment. He then fixed stirrups and bridle, gave Red Rory a slap on the rump and sent him home. Without delay, he shouldered split-bags and rifle and made his way through the tangle and tumble.
Even if those who’d gone ahead of him had left any sort of track, he would never have been able to follow it exactly. He had to pick his way, often had to retrace his laboured steps and try another way. Several times he clung trembling and panting, telling himself that he was too old to take risks. Clinging in some precarious place on the red wall, he swigged at the brandy, breathing, ‘Too old at last, eh? It’s hard to admit. The natural thing is not to admit it, I suppose, but to go down striving.’ When the kites found him and flew level squinting with predatory eyes, he called to them, ‘I’m not going to fall off and leave you the pickings . . . so don’t look so expectant.’
After a terrific struggle he made it, to lie exhausted for a time in a bit of shade and under his hat. Then he muttered to himself, ‘Dare a man die just because he’s feeble and lost his pride as a physical man, when it’s courageous intelligence that’s the most valuable contribution one can make to one’s fellows?’ He rose, took a swig of brandy, shouldered split bags and rifle again, started on his way. The darker stone of the Ring Place could be seen from where he was. However, he did not approach it, southeastward as it lay, but went directly southward into the wilderness of rock, eyes on the ground, darting at every open space, surely in search of tracks.
Thus after a while he came into sight of those red anthills. He saw a freshly broken bush, examined it, looked about, saw a stretch of sand, went to it, stopped and stared. Small footprints, coming from westward, going towards the dark bulk to be glimpsed eastward through the rocks and trees. Drawing a long hissing breath, he set out to follow them. He lost them several times amongst the rocks. He was searching for them where the rocks began to give way to more timbered space, when a movement to his left attracted him. He looked, gaped, to see a few paces away the Pookarakka, decorated as the Snake Man, armed. The cackled greeting was as easy as if it had been made down at the camp: ‘Goottay, Mullaka.’
Jeremy swallowed hard before replying, ‘Goodday, Pookarakka.’
The death’s head cocked in that sly-looking way of the blackfellow asking of a stranger a question to which already he knows the answer: ‘Which way you walkabout, Mullaka?’
Jeremy came out with it with a rush: ‘Young Indian girl from my camp . . . been get lost long o’ bush, I think. You been look him?’
The head held the pose, while the red coals burnt into the anxious grey stare. But not a word or hint of comprehension. Jeremy waited, then burst forth again: ‘Look, Pookarakka . . . that girl no-more lubra. You savvy him daddy, old-man Barbu . . . Ali Barba. I got to look out that girl for daddy. Two-three day more I take him back long o’ daddy.’ Still no hint. Jeremy’s voice became hoarse with urgency: ‘You’n’me old friend, Pookarakka. All-day I look out for you. I give you anything. I got brandy . . . big mob long o’ camp. I got him here.’ He slipped the split-bag from his shoulder, set them down, stooped and took out the brandy bottle, handed it, saying with a forced grin, ‘I been drink lil bits . . . knock-up climbin’ that jump-up . . . gettin’ too muchee old.’ The black claws rearranged the arms. Then one was extended to take the bottle.
‘Tahng you, Mullaka.’ The wide mouth pulled out the cork. The little finger of the claw with the bottle removed it as the bottle was raised. A long pull. A gasp and shudder. Then a sigh as the bottle was lowered: ‘Proper-lee!’
‘You keep him,’ said Jeremy quickly. Then as quickly he added: ‘Now, you tell him me which way that girl, eh?’
The coals fixed the grey eyes again, but now without the cock of the head. The cackle was harsher: ‘More-better you go back you camp, Mullaka.’
‘Eh?’ Jeremy looked at a loss, blinked hard.
The old man pulled a spear from the bundle under his arm, not to point it, but to reverse it, dropping the butt-end to the ground, beginning to draw a line in the sand with it. Watching the procedure wide-eyed, Jeremy again said with a rush of speech, now with an hysterical note to it, ‘I been do it good way long o’ you. I been helip you from start. I been good friend long o’ all-about blackfeller. I been ’shame for my rown countryman do it wrong thing long o’ you . . .’
The cackle cut in, harsher: ‘You goot friendt all right, Mullaka. Dat what for me talk goot-way long o’ you now. I tell him you . . . more-better you go back long o’ you camp.’ The red eyes dropped to the spear in the sand. The skeleton figure began to back away, while the cackle went on: ‘You savvy dat kind bijnitch, eh?’ Evidently he was referring to what he was doing. Jeremy could only stare at the extending line.
The Pookarakka had retreated a couple of full paces drawing his line where the ground would take it. Not that it mattered how long or how distinct it was. Such a line, drawn by one who had the authority for it, was virtually limitless in the direction in which it ran, and absolutely uncrossable for anyone who saw it drawn. The red eyes came up, fixed the grey for a
moment. Then their owner said easily, ‘Mummuk, yawarra,’ turned about, and now trailing the spear, vanished amongst the rocks. Jeremy opened his lips as if to cry a protest, but closed them on a groan.
Slowly he turned to look at the dark wall from which the line debarred him, his eyes drawn and haggard, his tanned face twisted with worry. He looked along the line again, into the rocks, searching. He drew a deep breath, shouted, ‘Pookarakka!’ Only the echo from the rocks replied. He muttered, ‘The old bastard . . . he’s put it over me. I shouldn’t have let him.’ Then he cupped his mouth and shouted, ‘Pookarakka . . . you can’t do it blackfeller way long o’ that Indian girl. I’m going to get him. You hear that? I’m going to get him!’
Again only the echo. He turned again and looked at the wall beyond the intervening rocks and scrub. He growled now, ‘No . . . damn me if I can allow it . . . bugger his line!’ Slinging the rifle on his shoulder again, he stepped across what would have been the extension of the demarcation, went heading for the wall, grim-jawed and resolute of step.
He was close to the wall, eyes on the tracks, when he looked up quickly, as if something had caught his eye. He searched the rough mass of rock above with darting glances. There was movement, but only of bushes thrash-thrashing in crevices. He dropped eyes again, went on — in a moment to look up. A dark form leaping over the rocks from South to North! In an instant it was gone. He heard the whistling of kites, looked back and up to see them wheeling between him and the westerning Sun. He reached the wall, lost the tracks there, but saw where the small feet most likely would have picked their way in climbing. He started up.
About halfway up he was startled again, looking this time at a crevice some distance to his right and up. Leaning on the rifle, he stared hard. Something could have been in the rift, screened as it was with dried grass and bushes. He put a hand to cup his mouth, called, ‘Who’s there?’ No answer but the swish and rumble of the wind gusting over the rampart of broken rock. He called again, ‘Is that you Savitra?’ He headed for the crevice, muttering, ‘I’ll swear I saw something . . . a black face watching.’ At the crevice there was no sign of anyone’s ever having been there. He zig-zagged away from it to resume the easier climb to the top, but twice looked back quickly. The second time he breathed, ‘Perhaps my Yalmaru.’ As he was coming to the top he added: ‘If it’s you, old fellow, for God’s sake show me the right and proper thing to do. They have their own way . . . but I have mine. I don’t want to live out my life regretting something I ought or ought not to have done.’
He reached the top at the same point as Savitra had, saw the depression where she had hidden in the vegetation before he observed what it was had sent her to ground. Then he looked, gaped. It was a very different sight from that the girl had seen.
The Ring Place was anything but deserted now. At the end nearest the camp, the southern, stood a semi-circle of armed and painted men, facing northward. In that direction the scrub beyond the Ring had been cleared further, to make a passage about as long as the Ring was wide. At the end of it stood a solitary slight figure, wearing the regalia of The Snake, but accoutred with a single boomerang, one so brightly painted that it flashed like a swift bright bird in darting to meet a spear that at that moment came hurtling from one of the group still standing out in front crouched with womera extended. The boomerang turned the spear to the right, so that it finished in the ground with haft vibrating above the scrub beyond. Two other such hafts were to be seen. Speech broke from Jeremy as a croaking: ‘Oh, God . . . a trial by ordeal!’
Another spearman had stepped from the semi-circle, weapon hooked in womera, crouched. As the spear flew, a mere line of air-disturbance in its fleetness, Jeremy croaked again, ‘Jesus Christ!’
Up came the bright boomerang again and met the hurtling death, causing the wooden blade to split away from the haft, the latter to go spinning over the fillet-bound head that in the last rays of the Sun upon the western rampart glittered gold. The slight figure staggered slightly from the impact. The arm with the boomerang fell heavily, betraying weariness.
Here was another man out with spear and womera. How many more before the outrage done on tradition was vindicated either with death or the magical prowess to defy it? How much longer could a scarce-bearded boy beat skill and strength and indignant purpose that themselves were in the realm of magic?
As the marksman, that tall thin Executioner, swung to give full force to right arm and to the arm’s magical projection, the womera, a yell burst from Jeremy: ‘Hey!’
Even the spearman looked. Jeremy started to leap down, shouting now so that the rock behind him rang his words all round, ‘Cut that out!’
Cut that out . . . Cut that out . . . Cut that out!
But he gasped and halted in his headlong rush to see that flicker of the air as the spear flew, and gaped as he watched the boomerang come up too late, and the slight figure stagger back impaled. The figure swayed, sagged at the knees, collapsed, while the haft of the missive of tribal justice wagged its triumph in the air.
Jeremy sprang out of immobility, turned on the group now turned from him, and got their attention again on the instant, shouting, ‘You bastards!’ As he started leaping down again, they swung as if to meet him. He stopped again, and from using the rifle to aid his progress, threw it up to grasp in both hands, slipped the catch, and without aiming, pulled the trigger — BANG!
A small burst of dust from the further wall. The rocks rang all round — Bang, Bang, Bang! The kites whistled and flapped for height. With a single movement the arc of warriors swung towards the camp, bolted en masse, except for the Executioner, who was late off the mark. Again a flicker in the air. The Executioner staggered, fell to knees, with a spear-haft waving between his shoulders.
Jeremy looked to left. Risen out of the scrub was a tall skeleton figure in the insignia of The Snake, womera still extended from the throw. He looked again to right, to see the fallen man rise and with swaying steps vanish after his brethren. He raised the rifle and fired again at the opposite wall — BANG!
In a moment there were the warriors to be seen leaping up the split part of the southern wall, a couple dragging their wounded mate between them with the Pookarakka’s spear still wagging like a tail behind him. Then they were gone.
Jeremy turned towards the fallen boy, started for him at a run, did not pause as he passed the Pookarakka, but glaring at him, yelled, ‘What’s matter you no-more look-out that boy?’ He burst through the scrub to the cleared space, reached Prindy to have the grey eyes so like his own fix him with the light of recognition and see a slight sweet smile move lips and release a bubble of blood. The spear had penetrated the painted breast just above the heart.
Struggling with his breathing, Jeremy stooped — only to jerk erect again with a sharp cry: ‘Oh!’ He staggered to the right, tripped over the rifle, fell to knees. He goggled at the watching grey eyes as he swung to his left, hands groping that way, his own eyes staring astonishment. The long haft of a heavy spear protruded from his side backward, swinging out of sight as he turned, the blade buried to the hilt just above his hip. He grasped both haft and hilt. It was a shovel-spear of the modern kind, with broad blade of thinly hammered steel. He looked up to see the Pookarakka approaching, gaped at him, gasped, ‘What’s matter you?’
How fiery the coals and harsh the cackle as the answer was given: ‘You been kill-him my Mekullikulli, Whiteman!’
The red eyes were directed at the prone figure towards which the long spidery stride was headed. With a groan Jeremy turned, to see the Pookarakka bending over his grandson, to see the grey eyes glaze, the smile obliterated by the sag of the bloody jaw. He groaned again, then suddenly drew breath and yelled, ‘You bastard . . . why you let that mob make boy stand-up?’
The red eyes were raised from the pale dead face, to fix the living grey. The voice was not a cackle now, but a harsh scream: ‘Wha’s matter you come bugger-him-up bijnitch?’
Jeremy’s face had turned yellowish. S
weat oozed from it. Still he clutched at the spear with both hands, but as if unaware of it now. He struggled for breath, panted, ‘He only young boy . . . must . . . they kill him . . .?’
The Pookarakka swung and reached for the painted boomerang, and seizing it, rose and lunged and shoved it before Jeremy’s eyes, crying in the same tone, ‘Nobody can beat him dat Mahraghi . . . spone you no come bugger-him-up!’ There was froth on the wide lips.
Jeremy’s eyes rolled.
The voice went on: ‘Me been tell him you right t’ing . . . g’won, you go ’way. No matter, you whiteman, you do it wrong t’ing . . . you come . . . finish Mahraghi . . . finish belong me Mekullikulli!’
Jeremy breathed, ‘Oh, Jesus Christ!’
For a moment the coals burnt into the grey eyes, then the old man, setting the boomerang down with his accoutrements, bent again over the boy. He touched the forehead, muttered something in lingo, then placing stubby toes on the slender shoulder, took hold of the fatal spear and with a wrench removed it. For a moment he stared intently at the finely barbed bloodied ironwood blade, then dropping the blade to the sand while holding the haft, stamped in the middle of the latter and broke the weapon in two. With that he flung it aside. He turned as Jeremy heaved himself groaning to his feet, stared at him for a moment, then at the protruding spear, then stepped up with a hand outstretched, evidently to remove the weapon. Jeremy swung away from him gasping, ‘No . . . leave him!’
The red eyes sought his. The cackle back to normal asked, ‘Wha’s matter you?’
Holding himself askew, a hand on the haft, Jeremy panted, ‘Spone you pull him out . . . I fall down dead-feller.’ He struggled for speech, while the sweat ran down his lips. ‘You been gitchim me . . . long o’ spleen . . . blood-bag.’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 248