Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  The coals burnt into his eyes. Jeremy reached with right hand for the clasp knife in the pouch on his belt, gasped, ‘Here . . . you cut him off.’

  The Pookarakka’s reluctance was obvious. A spear that gets its mark proves its magic. To damage it is to destroy its powers. But the Wise One saw his way round the problem, set to work on the little knob of fibre cemented with fire-hardened gum that bound split haft to blade. Such joints often had to be repaired . . . Perhaps guessing at the reason, Jeremy panted, ‘Take too long that way . . . I pay you for . . . spear.’ But the claws worked steadily at the joint. When at long last blade and haft were parted and the latter snatched away to toss on the Pookarakka’s heap, Jeremy, groaning at every breath now, said, ‘You can’t get that iron out . . . till I . . . die finish . . . and you can’t take thing from dead man . . . can you . . . old-man!’

  Bobwirridirridi turned from him to the dead boy. Jeremy also turned, asked, ‘What you . . . going . . . do with him?’

  Without looking, the old man answered, ‘Plant him long o’ rock . . . come back by’n’by, gitchim bone.’

  ‘Half-half that boy belong . . .’o me.’ The eyes came up. Jeremy added: ‘I . . . got to helipim you plant him.’

  The red eyes dropped to the widening stain of blood on the left side of the khaki shirt. Jeremy stepped closer, tried to bend, gave up with a hoarse cry: ‘Oh!’

  He staggered, would have fallen again, only the skeleton leapt and grabbed him, held him up. A claw came up to touch his face, not sweating now and grey of hue. ‘Too-muchee hot,’ said the cackling voice.

  ‘Yes,’ breathed Jeremy. ‘Too-much blood . . . I lose. But . . . but . . . must be I helipim you . . . I pay you. Where . . . which way . . . you plant him?’

  For a moment the red eyes stared. Then the lips jerked towards the abandoned camp. The old man said, ‘More-better you go dere wait. Me come behind, bring him. Gwon, you go. Water dere.’

  Jeremy licked dry lips, swallowed, nodded weakly, reeled away. He crossed the Ring with dragging feet, stumbled his way to the waterhole. A billy hung in a bush, making it easier for him to get the water he so badly wanted, the way he drank. He was drinking again, when the Pookarakka came, with his burden slung over a shoulder like a kangaroo, blood dripping from mouth and beautifully shaped nostrils. The old man, showing no exertion, gently set his burden down, went to drink. Again he touched Jeremy’s face, looked into his eyes, then looked down to stare at the dead boy’s face, as if comparing. He stooped to take up his burden again. As the Pookarakka moved off, Jeremy caught at a dangling dead hand, and when the old man turned, gasped at him, ‘Close-up I finish . . . old-man . . . please . . . you . . . you plant him . . . me-two-feller together . . . I send . . . message . . . Missus . . . pay you . . . ah . . . ah!’

  Again the red stare for a moment. Then the old man nodded, cackled, ‘Foller-him-up.’

  He went on, to climb the expanse of split rock. Jeremy followed, dragging each foot. Soon the old man vanished amongst the cracks.

  Jeremy started to climb, got no distance before he was on knees, on belly. He rolled over in his agony, groaning, ‘To die like this . . . but . . . how better? The debt . . . the . . . the ancient debt . . . paid . . . Old Yalmaru . . . come . . . get me . . .’

  He was babbling to the reddening sky when Bobwirridirridi came down to him. With astonishing strength, the old skeleton got a shoulder under his arm and raised him, dragged him up, and along, to a horizontal slit, not more than a foot or so in width outside, narrowing in to darkness. Well inside could be seen the pale form of Prindy, lying on his back. The Pookarakka lowered Jeremy. Flat on his back again, Jeremy rallied. The old man grinned at him, jerked his lips, cackled, ‘Properly goot place, eh?’

  Jeremy rolled his grey head to look. He tried to roll in, but fell back fighting for breath. The old man began to shove him in, with a claw against his left shoulder and hip, but eyes on the protruding end of the spear-blade. Jeremy breathed, ‘Thank . . . you, Pookarakka.’ His right shoulder was touching Prindy’s left. With an effort he lifted his right arm, scraping it along the rock so close above, let it fall behind the filleted faintly gleaming head. He struggled for speech again, could only whisper, ‘You no hurt Missus Rifkah.’

  ‘Can’t hurt him Mitchis, Mullaka.’

  ‘Tell him . . . tell him . . . two-feller can’t come back . . . Mahraghi business . . . he savvy . . . pay you . . .’ Jeremy slipped his arm under the head beside him. His legs were pushed in. The claw ran up his thigh, passed the hip, snatched out the magic iron. Jeremy gasped, ‘Oh!’

  The Pookarakka looked like a black spider against the dying light. Jeremy tried to say something, but sagged, with rumbling belly and rattling breath.

  The cackle came softly: ‘Mummuk, yawarra, Mullaka.’

  Jeremy gagged on a breath, fell silent, still.

  For a moment the Pookarakka stared, then from his bulkung fished the magic track-eraser, the brush of a brush-tail, and brushing, backed away, crooning as he did so:

  Padinya ngeinya, murrummarrum

  Amininimmi kwalli goyai

  Kwalli tjerritjeru

  Amininimmi, amininimini

  Padinya, Padinya

  Mummuk.

  II

  It was mid-morning of next day when Bobwirridirridi, again in khakis, carrying the inevitable womera, but also Jeremy’s rifle, came into view of the camp below, for the first time announcing his arrival — Ku! Ku! Rifkah, in stockrider’s outfit, came down to the fireplace to meet him, evidently surprised. Also for the first time, he addressed her, cackling as he came to a halt on the other side of the fireplace, ‘Goottay, Mitchis.’

  Her answer was wary: ‘Goottay, Pookarakka.’ Her eyes sought beyond him.

  Propping the rifle against the post on which pots and pans hung, he said easily, ‘Been bring-him-up.’

  She eyed the rifle, then met the scarcely discernible flicker of the coals, asked in a constricted voice, ‘Vich vay Mullaka?’

  He rolled his head with lips protruding to indicate pretty well anywhere.

  She asked, ‘He come behind?’

  He looked past her to the kitchen shelter, cackling, ‘Can’t come behind, dat one.’

  She drew a deep breath, took a moment to press the questioning: ‘Wha’ for can’t come?’

  The coals met the wide hazel eyes, flickered to the fire, which he began to stir with the butt-end of the womera, cackling now in a different tone, rather as if talking to himself: ‘Dat one been send him word . . . “Mitchis pay you . . . anysing prejent.”’

  She swallowed. ‘But vere’s he now? Vere Prindy? Vere zat Indian girl?’

  He addressed the fire, ‘Me too-muchee hungry for bre-millik-plendy.’

  Again she drew a deep breath. ‘All right . . . I get you . . . but you got to tell me.’

  Their eyes met for an instant as she turned away. He dropped his to go and sit on a case.

  While she mixed the bread and milk for him she kept glancing towards him, anxious-eyed, and sometimes looking further. Now he was singing softly to himself. Along with the bowl of stuff for him she brought a pannikin of tea for herself. She sipped while he gobbled. Nothing was said till he had finished and thanked her. Then, taking the bowl, she demanded, ‘All right, you tell me now. Vot’s matter Mullaka can’t come?’

  The coals met her demanding stare, flicked back to the fire. He gave a smack of the lips before answering, ‘Dat one die-finish . . . two-feller all-same.’

  She swallowed hard, quivered slightly, then spoke with evident control of voice: ‘Vot name two-feller?’

  ‘Dat old-man . . . dat young feller . . . Whuuup!’ He belched.

  She blinked as if struck, turned yellow under her tan. Again she swallowed, took a long while to ask in a husky whisper, ‘Vot happen?’

  Black lips and red tongue smacked again before answering, ‘Old-man been talk, “Tell him Mitchis, belong Mahraghi Bijnitch been finish him two-feller.”’ When she made no sound o
r move, he raised his eyes to meet her haggard stare, asked, ‘You savvy?’

  A moment of mutual staring. Then she rose slowly, breathing hoarsely: ‘You talk liar. You been kill him . . . because of girl.’

  The coals blazed for an instant. Then they looked past her at the kitchen. Mildly enough he cackled, ‘Can’t talk liar long o’ you. Old-man been send him word . . . “Tell him Mitchis Mahraghi . . . tell him Mitchis pay.”’

  A long moment. Then when the coals came back to her, she asked hoarsely, ‘Vere are zey?’

  ‘Him all right, dat two-feller. Me been plant him. By’n’by I come back gitchim bone, tek him ’way.’ He looked away, after a moment adding, speaking to the kitchen distance, ‘No goot you go look-about. No goot like o’ dat.’

  She swayed as she stood, reaching for her own jerking throat, as if only something within herself could give her support.

  The red eyes were on the brandy bottle standing on the kitchen table. The voice cackled, ‘Old-man been talk you give it me plendy. You give it me now, eh? Me go.’

  After a moment she swung away, went with crazy steps, got the bottle, came back and handed it to him, her eyes wide and wild. He looked into the eyes as he took the bottle, said, ‘No-more fright’, Mitchis. Nobody can hurt him you. Me go now. By’n’by me look-him-up you. Mummuk, yawarra.’

  As he turned, she croaked, ‘Ven you come back?’

  He cocked his head to the sky, swung it as if calculating passages of Sun and Moon, cackled, ‘Dat time Pigeon Mob come . . . Rain Time start.’

  He went, vanished in that way of his, leaving her staring haggard-eyed, slack-jawed. Then slowly her features crumpled. Slowly she crumpled bodily, hands clutching for support now gone, came down to knees in the scattered ashes, drooped brow into the ashes, groaned to the earth, ‘Ach, Lieber Gott . . . all gone . . . all gone . . . ach, Lieber Gott!’

  III

  More than keep his word to return with the first rain, Bobwirridirridi was actually waiting for Rifkah. Long since she had gone looking for blacks to whom to attach herself, and came back to the Plateau with the Booroolooloogun and Googoowonjin, the Pigeon and Cormorant Peoples, for their annual festival. But for the whisps of copper to be seen peeping out of the dirty rag she wore around her head, she didn’t look much different from the rest of the lubras with whom, bearing all burdens except arms, she tagged along behind the tribesmen. She wore only a hip-knotted loincloth of flour-sacking, and although in reality nothing like so dark-skinned as the rest even with deep tanning, wore enough billabong mud from daily delving for lily tuckout and the like and a variety of the natural colours of the earth through spending so much time in close contact with it and having learnt that water was mainly for drinking, to go unnoticed. No one would have recognised the lovely Red Rifkah who had roused such a storm of admiration and other interest on arrival in the land. She was skinny as a gin. The perfectly formed face appeared to be elongated by its gauntness, the nose lengthened, sharpened, hooked, the great eyes, from constant squinting in the sun and battling flies when hands were occupied, narrowed and deeply wrinkled at the corners. As well as numerous dilly-bags and digging-sticks, she carried split-bags that gave a glimpse of medicines and surgical instruments.

  As they reached the banyans and were preparing camp, Bobwirridirridi appeared as suddenly as ever, now the old grey skeleton koornung, laden with his magic bits and pieces. No one looked at him with pleasure. In fact no word was spoken to him, and any communication between him and the menfolk confined to an exchange of signs. Not that he was interested in the crowd. He made straight for Rifkah, cackling as he came up to her, ‘Goottay, Mitchis . . . properly you go blackfeller walkabout, eh . . . eeeeeeee!’ The cackle ended in a giggle.

  She said, ‘Yu-ai. I go look-out sick pipple.’

  ‘Me been hear him. You go back long o’ you camp now?’

  They were some five miles westward of the late Jeremy Delacy’s camp.

  ‘No-more. First-time I look him Pigeon Bijnitch. By’n’by I go camp gitchim anyzing you want.’

  ‘Me been gitchim.’

  She eyed him. It wasn’t like a blackfellow to help himself — at least to do so frankly. The old man might have read that as her thought, the way he added promptly, ‘Halfcaste been give it.’

  She stared. ‘Wha’ name halfcaste?’

  ‘Belong old-man whitefeller before . . . sit down Lu’lu’lagoon.’

  She gaped a moment, then asked, ‘You mean zat one Nanago?’

  ‘Yu-ai.’

  Her eyes became great again, showing the pallor in the wrinkles. She cried out, ‘Nanago . . . moost I go see now!’ She turned to the other women, all staring at her with the koornung: ‘Ngai areya belong me camp. Ngaiuma koiyu . . . yawarra!’ She snatched up her split-bags.

  The Pookarakka cackled at her easy use of lingo. ‘Proper-lee!’

  She asked him, ‘You come?’

  ‘No-more. Me finish long o’ dis country now.’

  She hesitated. ‘You . . . gitchim . . . bone?’

  ‘Yu.’

  ‘Vot you do wit’ zem?’

  He jerked his head to show a journey across the Plateau. ‘Tek him long o’ dat one Rainbow Pool.’ While she stared, he added: ‘From dere me-t’ree-feller go hon-top.’

  She murmured, ‘Hon-top?’

  Now he jerked his lips to the southward sailing clouds. ‘Long o’ sky.’ The giggle came into the cackle again: ‘T’ree-feller star. Spone night-time you look up, might-be you look-see . . . eeeeeeee!’ For a moment the red eyes held her. Then he said, ‘Mummuk, yawarra,’ swung away, did his disappearing trick.

  From staring after him, she turned on the staring crowd, called to them, ‘Areya!’ She swung away, shouldering the split-bags, found a horse-pad, broke into a trot.

  It was all of five miles in afternoon heat and rising thunderstorm. Still she kept on at the trot, slowing only where washaways and gullies and rock masses hindered her. In less than an hour she was in familiar surroundings. There was the horse-yard beyond the scrub, and familiar horses, the old geldings Snowball and Big Ben prancing about, tail high for some reason.

  Coming into full view of the yard she was confronted with the reason, gasped, ‘Oh!’, halted. On the ground outside the yard a bay horse lay on its side, lashing with hoofs and snapping with teeth at a ring of dingoes crowding in on it. The two geldings were trying to help, but only to be driven off with counter attacks by members of the pack.

  A moment of staring. Then Rifkah shrieked, ‘Bay Rum Betsy . . . haffing foal!

  She went racing. The dingoes took fright at her approach. Rifkah screamed when she saw the foal struggling in bloody afterbirth. Betsy raised her head, evidently recognised her, whinnied, let her head drop. By her heaving flank and lolling tongue she was having a bad time of it.

  Rifkah leapt into the mess, dropped her bags, set about disentangling the panting colt, got his long legs free of the blood-spirting cord — only to hear a snarl behind her, and swing to find a huge dingo menacing her with bared fangs. She reached for the bag, perhaps to fling it, to see others darting in again low-crouched. Her voice rose in a piercing scream: ‘Oweeeeee Nanagooooooh!’

  The dogs were ringing again, all glaring yellow eyes and gleaming teeth. The big one snapped at the bloody bag as Rifkah struck at him. She screamed again: ‘Nan-a-gooooooh!

  BANG!

  The air leapt — and with it the dingoes.

  BANG!

  The dingoes turned tail, vanished.

  There was Nanago, in a print dress, stockman’s hat, rifle in hand, coming running. Rifkah rose with outstretched arms. Nanago dropped the rifle to meet the embrace. Like lubras they howled on each other’s shoulders — till a small wet form entangled with their legs. They drew apart, stared at the wobbly standing foal. It collapsed on baby knees. Rifkah shrieked, ‘My split-bags . . . scissors . . . catgut!

  Nanago snatched up the bags, tore them open. In a moment they were on their knees together, sniffling ba
ck tears, while with flying fingers they set to work. Bay Rum Betsy raised her old head again to take a look, to see her son butting against the bare brown breast of Rifkah as she cut the cord close to his silky belly. Then with a sigh she dropped her head again, to look with great eyes at the other horses crowding round staring.

  26

  I

  Of course the Yankee Trader soon brought to conclusion that conflict he himself dubbed World War II (just as he had called the Last Turn-out World War I after taking part in it, although nothing like all the world was involved in it either — it being the nature of the Yank to make everything he is concerned in appear to be grandiose, or to use his own language, Superduper). Indeed, only a Yankee super-superlative could do justice to the way he stopped his World War II. Not all the military murderers of history combined in one grand alliance could even have dreamt of havoc so sweet and swift as Hiroshima. Only those masters of the Negative in Nature, the Old Ones, Satan, Ahriman, Tchamala, could have equalled it. Yet, almost as soon as he had brought to their knees the survivors of those who had presumed to empire like his own, he raised them up, healed their wounds, fatted them from starvation, put tools and money in their hands, set them up again as rivals to himself — in Trade, which has no meaning to a Trader without the incentive of Competition.

  In no time, all signs of the war were built over by the ant-heap industry the Yankee urged — except for soldiery he still kept under arms and in occupation, lest the industry take a turn not acceptable to his philosophy of Do Others Or They’ll Do You. Not that there was anything about the behaviour of the Yankee Soldiery to suggest the tyranny of conquest, as evident in the fact that they occupied the territory of former friend and foe alike. The intention was quite benign — simply to Americanise the World. And so successful was it, that within a decade the World was changed as not in the couple of centuries of marked change since the Yankee Trader came into being. Indeed, some parts of the Globe were changed almost beyond recognition, amongst them that region which has been the main location of this tale, namely, Princess Beatrice River and its district.