by Tony Black
“It was just a dream,” I said, “we all have unpleasant dreams, Mama. You have told me this yourself many times.”
I watched her curl in her bunk as though afflicted by a harsh pain and then my mother turned over, bent like a hinge, and cried.
“My Myko you do not understand,” she said, “I have seen your father’s death. A wife does not dream such things. How it must be true.”
“No, Mother a dream is only a dream.” I laid my hand on her head; stroking gently I tried to calm her, to take away her troubled thoughts.
My mother sat up and gripped tight on my arm. “My Myko, my darling boy.” I felt an unusual strength in her grasp as she spoke. “I dreamt of the story of the takmakas … and your father was the traveller. The tigers became the wolves and … he died, that should not happen. It must not!”
“Mother, it will be all right.” I did not know the story or understand how any mere tale disturbed her so cruelly.
“But, what of the takmakas?” Her words were whispered now, she was cautious, as if she did not want to tempt fate with her speech.
“I do not know anything about such things, Mother.”
She blinked quickly before me, and then her eyes were wide and still. “I have not told you the tale of the takmakas?”
I shook my head at once, “No, Mother, you have not told me.”
“Then of course you cannot understand, my son. How could you understand? I must tell you now,” she said; her speech quickened, her tone was iron-rigid, “yes I must tell.”
Mother ran her fingers through her long hair; as she did so I could see the thoughts gathering behind her widened eyes. “Once a traveller was riding along a road,” she said, “in my dream he was your father. When the traveller came to a great forest there was a man stood outside. ‘You better not ride in the forest’, he told him, ‘There are many wolves … you will be attacked if you go there’. But the traveller said, ‘I have a musket’. ‘What else have you got?’ asked the man. ‘I have a mighty sword’. ‘And?’ asked the man. ‘I have, I have a takmakas’, said the traveller.”
“What is a takmakas?” I interrupted.
“Oh my Myko,” said Mother, “the man did not know what it was either. It is a tobacco-crusher, but you see, the man did not know this because he was really a werewolf. Though he would often bewitch and ruin all the weapons that he knew of, he could do nothing with the takmakas.”
I did not have my mother’s deep attachment to such traditions but I took an interest in the tale. “So what became of the traveller?”
“After asking the questions, the man who was a werewolf walked on his way. And so the traveller rode into the forest, but after some time, a wolf blocked his path. The traveller tried to fire his musket, but nothing happened. He drew his sword, but the blade was blunt and did not make a scratch on the wolf. And then he drew his takmakas and struck blows on the wolf, hitting so hard that it was badly hurt. The wolf withdrew instantly, and the traveller continued on his way.” My mother raked the air with her delicate fingers to signal the final curtain’s descent upon her tale.
“That does not seem such a bad story, Mama.”
“Ah, my Myko, but in my dream your father had no takmakas, and the wolf, remember, was a tiger!”
The telling seemed to calm my mother, so I listened some more, glad to be of comfort to her. She spoke of the old country longingly but the island, I could see, was a place of dread to her.
“The widow woman we took this hut from, her husband was once a tiger man,” she said.
I knew the man had also been employed by the Van Diemen’s Company, but I kept quiet, storing my thoughts away for myself only. “I know,” I said.
“They let him go when he failed to catch any more tigers,” said Mother. “They say, my Myko, he then turned his gun upon himself.”
I did not want to see my mother upset any more. “Don’t talk like this,” I said, raising my voice higher.
“His widow told us there was no peace to be found in this homestead,” said Mother, “she believed it to be cursed.”
“Cursed? Mama, there are no curses here!” I grew defiant. I knew this kind of talk had already damaged my mother’s way of thinking.
“The widow told me that the family which occupied the hut before her had awoken one morning to find their baby girl snatched from its crib.” Mother’s face became fixed, as if she were in a trance. I laid a hand upon her shoulder and tried to bring her back to me.
“No more talk, Mama.”
“They found the child in one of the paddocks. Its throat had been gnawed into shreds.”
“Mama, stop.” My words were useless.
“The child’s heart and liver had been eaten, its body was a ghostly shade of grey where she lay upon the morning’s dew.”
“Mama, no.” I wished to hear no more. I raised a hand to her mouth to try and silence her, but it was knocked away. My mother did not respond to my comforting.
“The widow blamed the island’s tigers, which were numerous then, but none were ever captured. There were only the island’s devils, which made a mighty protest when the child was taken from them.”
I rose to my feet. “Mama, I have not known of any tiger to attack a man,” I told her. My knees were shaking as I spoke. “I don’t believe all the tales … they are peaceful creatures, they have more to fear from us than we do from them.”
My mother motioned me to sit once more; she spoke slowly now. “Myko, I know your father’s trade is an unholy one.”
Her words calmed me, and I felt the fists I held loosen.
“I know God in his heaven must find ways to punish such doings.”
My father had strayed far from the old ways. It was true he took the side of much that was against the old beliefs.
“We do not need to store up such things now, Mama,” I said, “we are no longer in the Sakiai.”
Suddenly my mother stood to face me; her eyes cut hollows in me that led clear to my soul. “Do you think because we are not in the Sakiai, God will not see us?” Her tone was changed, she sounded deeply serious, as if moved close to rage. “Do not be foolish, Myko! Do not be foolish! Sin is sin, wherever the stone is cast … the man who has thrown it must face his actions.”
Chapter Seventeen
My mother’s fears came to nothing; the tigers which clung to the island’s far reaches had grown ever scarcer, and Father returned from his hunt unscathed.
As soon as he appeared, a pack of boys trailed him along the road from the station. “Have you a tiger, sir?” called a boy.
My father kept his steady gaze facing front as a young boy ran before him and waved his arms to rouse my father. “Tiger man! Tiger man!” he roared out.
Father’s horse dropped its neck sharply, flashing a long stretch of mane behind it. “Step aside,” called Father, “get out of my way!”
The pack of boys let out wheezy laughs as they followed at my father’s back. They pulled at each other and lolled from side to side in their merriment as they kept inside father’s tracks.
Upon the hillside, where I watched the scene played below, I turned to Tilly. She sat atop a five-bar fence, her wheaten hair-bunches blowing in the breeze.
“He won’t be pleased,” I said.
“Why?”
“There’s no tiger … he won’t be pleased.”
Tilly jumped down from the fence. “Maybe he’s already taken his haul to Hobart.”
“No. He wouldn’t do that, Tilly.”
“Why not? That’s where they pay the bounty, doesn’t he want the bounty?”
I let out a sigh. My father moved beyond our view of the track below.
“Those trees over there … look Tilly,” I pointed to the broad leatherwoods that stood tall by the paddocks, taking the sun’s full glare.
“What about them?” said Tilly.
“When he has a tiger, my father pegs the skin out for drying on those trees. We can see the trees from our hut, he likes to watch pe
ople pass by and look at them.”
Tilly turned first to the leatherwoods and then towards my family’s crude split-paling hut. Gentle creases appeared on her brow as she tracked the distance between the two, and then she spoke. “He will not be pleased,” she said.
I moved towards the fence and sat on the dry patchy grass, resting my back on the holding-post. Tilly followed and sat at my side. “Sometimes, when my father comes home from catching fish, he can be spiteful … if he’s no fish.”
I smiled and Tilly turned on her knees to face me. “Will he be really mad?”
I had no time to answer her. Below us, past the paddock’s fringe, my father called for me. I could hear his voice roaring above the treetops, “Myko, Myko.”
I jumped to my feet. “I have to go now, Tilly,” I said and I left her kneeling in the dry grass as I made for home.
On the low foothills and green stretches that bordered the plains the grass tufts thinned as I ran. Bracken and spiky-leafed pandani scratched my shins and tugged at my steps.
When I reached below the hill I turned back to look for Tilly, but she was gone.
“Myko, Myko,” called out my father again. I knew he had seen me running. He was eager to have me home and would not see me dally any.
I pressed harder into the final stretch of track that led to our hut. Where my father stood, he clutched his hands tight behind his back. As I neared him I saw he held a stock whip which trailed him like a serpent’s tail.
“Where have you been?” Father roared out as I came into the yard.
I turned to the hill, “There, only on the hill.”
“Playing? Wasting your time, no doubt.”
I shook my head, and then I looked around the yard. I knew my duties and I had not neglected them. “Father …”
“Be quiet,” he interrupted. “Here, take this.”
I took the stock whip from his hand.
“I must go to the station at Woolnorth,” said Father, “you will have to attend the beasts.”
I felt the stock whip’s handle in my hand; it was smooth to the touch. “Yes, Father,” I said, “but why are you going to the station?”
“What does it matter?” he snapped.
I lowered my head. I knew my words were an irritation to him; my father was sorely vexed.
“Just look after the beasts,” he said, “can you manage that?”
“Yes.”
“Then good. This is a busy time for the station. The dipping is soon to begin, all hands will be pressed into duty and I need to know you can handle things here.”
As my father returned to his mount I watched my mother hand him a tucker bag, and wave to him. On his way Father pointed to the pasturelands and instructed I begin my duties.
I carried the stock whip by my side as I rounded the most errant of the flock. They were a boisterous longwool breed and regarded every fence as a challenge. It seemed no height of paling prevented their forays. Their antics kept me busy for some long hours.
The cloud-burdened sky turned bottle-green in the darkening day and the air, crisp and cool, carried the salty wash of the sea. The sleeping trees by the trackside seemed mournful figures as I trailed the flock through the slatted daylight that was turning fast to night.
As a kookaburra gave out its last laughing cry of the day the sky seemed to hold the stars prisoner. The wind revived itself and of a sudden I sensed a disturbance deep within the bush.
The grass grew heavy on the flats, save where it was trampled by the rat-runs, and made my work harder going in the growing darkness. The animals began to behave in a peculiar fashion, timid, and refused to move distances of more than a few feet from cover.
The wallabies became frantic, struggling with the slightest movement, which sent them scurrying, terrified, for shelter. I watched an echidna roll itself into a ball so tight that, were it not for the spikes upon its back, it could have been a large chestnut stone.
The wombats, increasing their ungainly steps, scurried beneath the gorse towards their hides. And the brush possum, like the bandicoot, climbed higher and higher in the trees until I could hardly see them. They fled out of sight, so far above me only the faintest shimmerings were visible under the moon’s clear light.
I grew uneasy and unfurled Father’s stock whip at my side then, in an instant, a strange sight greeted me. A wallaby came bounding from the scrub – dread marked the poor beast. It clearly feared for its life.
The wallaby appeared large for its type and a strong bound took it far from me after only a few seconds in my sight.
What is it running from? I wondered. What could put the animal in such fear?
I had no thoughts to intervene. But I saw that a stock whip offered no threat to the pursuer in this chase. I took the only option I had and sought cover in the branches of a stringy barked eucalypt.
I climbed high in the tree and the bare branches put the ground below me in clear sight. As I picked out the wallaby running its circle, the moon lit the wide arc of the creature’s leap; I knew it was fear that made it act this way.
My shoulders became heavy as they supported my weight in the tree’s branches. I panted like a horse as my heart beat madly beneath my shirt. Then, suddenly, I felt the rhythmical throb in my chest begin to subside, as my gaze grabbed the sight before me.
A large bull tiger, his coat clear and his back strong, passed beneath me. If he sensed me, he was not disturbed. His nose was latched firmly upon the trail of the wallaby; he seemed utterly occupied with his hunt.
The tiger’s tail pointed straight out, extended from his back, where the black stripes dashed across his rump. His gait stretched strongly. Unlike the leaping speed of a dog, the tiger moved like a feline, but bolder, more consistent. His deep chest and short legs made for the carriage of a more hardened hunter, equipped with the most basic of tools.
The tiger chased persistently, following fast upon the wallaby, tracing the arc of its circle, but never quite gathering the pace to bring it to ground.
Did the tiger plan to run it down with exhaustion? Did he accept these final laps as a prelude to the kill?
The tiger looked calm and familiar with his hunt. I knew I was watching an exacting ritual, something which had been replayed over thousands of years. But I did not see the tiger as cruel; his actions came as naturally as the wallaby’s. I thought the tiger would strike at the wallaby, run it to the point of exhaustion and attack, but he did not.
The tiger broke free of the chase and let the wallaby begin its final tired revolution. As it did so, the tiger cut a line across the wallaby’s bounding pathway.
The line of the tiger’s run, and his timing, brought the wallaby to ground. The kill was quick, the tiger’s jaws clasping fully round the wallaby’s neck, releasing it from the worries of this world in an instant.
As I watched the tiger feed, his murky-brown eyes shone beneath the uniform sky. He fed quickly, taking his nourishment quietly and without ceremony.
To see this sight I felt blessed, and then, my heart suddenly quickened, as the tiger’s mate came into view.
The pair fed quickly, ripping open the wallaby’s ribcage and devouring their prey heartily. How rare the tigers had become, to see two together, practising a kill, was something I knew I must hold dearly forever.
Few could have seen such a sight as this, but as I watched I was gripped by sinister thoughts. The tigers below me were on land my father held for the Van Diemen’s Company. When he returned from the dipping, his dogs would seek them out.
My head became dizzy. Where I held myself in the tree I felt bound to fall as panic washed over me. I knew, as fine and strong as these tigers were, they were no match for my father’s bullets.
“Go! Go from here!” I roared.
The tigers raised their heads to where I held on to the tree’s branches. I shook the branches as hard as I could to scare them and summoned every unearthly cry that I could raise from within me.
“Go! Go from here!”
In less time than it had taken the tigers to appear, they fled my sight. I prayed I would never see them again.
Chapter Eighteen
As I woke early in our crude split-paling hut and rubbed at my tired eyes, my mother trod meekly around me. She took steps towards the fire where she began to boil a billycan, keeping quiet, I believed, so as not to wake my father.
“I will heat some cuts of bread,” said Mother, “you may have an egg this morning, Myko, one of our very own eggs; there is no brightness like the yellow of a farm lain egg.”
As my eyes found their focus, I looked around and saw that my father’s bunk was empty.
“Where is Father?”
My mother seemed confused by the question. “He is at the station,” she said.
For a moment my heart trembled beneath my nightshirt, and then I remembered; “Of course, the dipping,” I said.
Mother stepped back from the fireside. She rubbed her hands upon her apron as she walked towards me. “Are you all right, Myko?”
“Yes, I am fine,” I blurted, “I am fine, Mama.”
She looked at me with caution in her eyes. The moment between us seemed to last for a long time, but then it passed and she returned to the fireside to prepare our food.
“You got back very late last night, Myko,” she said, “you must still be tired.”
“I’m all right. I have little to do today, Mama,” I said, “I have only to go to Woolnorth, to the Three Strides Run, carting sackloads of flour to the bakers and share-farmers.”
My father had kept my chores light, for at the dipping time all hands were put to use to make sure the station continued to run as smoothly as it always did.
“Still, you shall need your strength, Myko,” said Mother. “Here, eat up.”
My mother placed some bread on my plate and returned to the fireside where she sat down and pulled her dark shawl around her bony shoulders. Where she sat, with her arms folded tightly across her chest, it was impossible to imagine that the fire’s warmth could penetrate her cold grey frame.