Cicada

by Moira McKinnon

  ‘Whose tracks, Billy Gum?’

  ‘Two horses. Cicada horse.’

  They followed the tracks along the range for several miles. The tracks dipped back onto the plain and were lost again.

  Wirritjil woke Emily. The waning moon was not yet high. They drank their fill. Wirritjil led them deeper into the scrub. They were heading south, the way they had come, but now they were hiding as they rode.

  Emily’s foot throbbed.

  Long shadows dappled through the stunted trees and the few tall thin gums as the sun rose. The landscape became sharp with yellow and heat. They passed small cliffs of red sandstone dotted with the green and white of single strong gums and always the tufts of grey spinifex, like a coat of patchy fur over the country.

  The brumby stopped suddenly and raised his head high. Wirritjil dismounted and put her palm on the ground. The horses and the women listened. The mare whinnied. Wirritjil jerked the rope sharply and the horse knew to be quiet. She led them beyond a rise to a dip that was an empty cracked clay pan, and disappeared towards the plain on foot. The horses were alert, their tails swishing at the flies descending on them.

  Emily felt the vibration. The earth rumbled and the dustiness increased in the air, then came the braying of cattle and the crack of whips. It went on for a long time. She thought of the drover pacing his horse at a walk, watching for trouble, cutting back to catch the runaways.

  After the herd had passed there was quiet and the noise of the bush began again with the whirr of insects boring into wood and the chatter of woodland finch. Emily waited and the horses stamped their feet at the haze of flies.

  ‘Tell me about Jurulu,’ she said to the brumby. ‘You knew him well, didn’t you?’

  The horse turned to her.

  ‘I don’t know why I . . .’ She blushed at the forthrightness of the words she was about to say. ‘It seemed right.’

  She winced as she put weight on her sore foot.

  ‘Do you think it would be wrong for me to go back to William after he has murdered Jurulu?’ As soon as she said it she wished she hadn’t. The statement made it an impossibility. Absurd. Could she lie in the arms of a murderer?

  ‘God forgives,’ she said suddenly and loudly.

  The brumby lifted his nose at the sound and the mare took a step back.

  ‘You see, Kathryn reminds me all the time that God is all-powerful and all-seeing. She knows that I go to church but don’t listen. I believe her now. Kathryn said we all have God and Satan in us. We must nurture ourselves so that God is strong and Satan is diminished. Sometimes a situation arises, and it may not be due to the person, that Satan is stronger.’

  Her voice was urgent and the horses listened.

  ‘Satan is the devil. God forgives. It is hard to forgive but it is a necessary action to assist God being strong again in that person. Or rather, as my sister Kathryn would say, that person being strong in God.’

  She was silent. The horses looked away.

  ‘You don’t believe me do you?’ she said and added, ‘I never professed a belief in God so much as Kathryn did. Although I confessed my sins all the time. My father was not really a believer and my mother, she said the right things but her thoughts were always on something else. Paris. Musicians. Music. Wearing silk dresses with tassels on the hips. Being famous.’

  She sat down and tore at a gum leaf, shredding the flesh from between the veins until she had a finger-sized tree of woody veins. She felt hungry and her foot ached. She tried to keep the thoughts at bay. Paris. Musicians. She stood with a start and the horses looked up. She sat again, but the thought had presented from the deep wells of her mind. She could not push it back. Lady Josephina had many men. She knew. She had always known. They all had known, but they refused to acknowledge it, to even think of it—for to think of it would make it undeniable. She and Kathryn were mere thanks to the Earl for providing her with a home, a title and, most importantly, money. Her mother collected men like butterflies and forgot them. Like William. She would be delighted that he was a murderer. She loved the irascible, the bad, the indifferent. Murdering a savage? Goodness. What a daring story. My darling William, were you in danger? Would you like a Turkish delight? Exotic, are they not? They are from the Far East, so hard to get. She didn’t care about death. She didn’t know death. But what did all that matter now?

  Emily paced back and forth, ignoring the pain in her foot. Her hands were pulling at one another and her voice began again sharp with bitterness.

  ‘Did I marry William because I wanted to be part of her collection too? Better than being her daughter. Kathryn stayed away from Mother. I never understood why.’

  Wirritjil reappeared, her teeth white in a wide smile. She saw Emily’s distress and frowned. ‘Them kardiya, blackfella—’ she waved her hand northwards ‘—gone; him bin follow ’em cows.’

  Emily felt so alone. The white men were travelling away from her.

  ‘We go datta way.’ Wirritjil pointed with her palm south-west.

  The drive came to a grinding halt with the cattle turning in circles and bawling for water. The drover walked up the dry creek bed. They had been relying on this water. It would be another two or three days before they would reach the pools of the Watery River before the upheaval of the King Leopold Ranges.

  Jim kicked at the waves in the sand where the water had receded, sucked by the sun. He followed the creek to a sweeping bend overlooked by a large river gum. Its great limbs gave the river bed cover from the drying heat. A bunch of sulphur-crested cockatoos at the base of the tree rose in a cloud, cawing in a noisy protest. They flew backwards and high as if one being, white into the blue sky.

  The drover saw the soak under the tree. The clay and the small stones on the side were not the mark of cattlemen or station owners. Jim filled his water bottle. He sat there for a few moments. The cockatoos came back to the tree, perching in rows on the lower branches, ruffling their wings and raising the yellow feathers on their heads. Jim stood and peered along the edges of the creek bed. He walked over to the hollow caused by the thick roots of the tree, squatted to examine what might be within, and then turned back to the camp to gather the water bags.

  At the camp, the cook stood with his hands resting on his big belly, surrounded by pans and buckets in some erratic order on the ground. Several men stood in a scattered group watching a cloud of dust approaching. Three men, four horses. The camp dog stopped snapping at flies and stared. Jim squinted and stood in the half-shadow of the cook cart.

  The visitors slowed to a walk. One man was tall, broad in the shoulders. He wore his hat low across his forehead and his face was set and unsmiling in its shade. The other man was smaller and rode as if in a great hurry, holding the reins high with one hand and his rifle in the other. An Aboriginal man came behind, sitting back in the saddle, grinning at the skittishness of his horse as they approached the camp, encouraging it as if they were playing. A dirty black, brown and white patched dog padded a long way behind with his head down, his nose almost touching the ground.

  The head stockman came from behind a saddle he was fixing, carrying a small leather work knife in his hand. He pointed it towards the visitors. ‘You men need assistance?’

  ‘Trevor Bayliss, John Calhoon, Cicada Springs station.’ The big man glanced behind him. ‘Billy, our tracker.’

  John Calhoon dug his horse in the sides and trotted forwards a few steps. ‘We are looking for two women.’

  A stockman laughed. ‘One would do me.’

  The two whitefellas didn’t laugh, didn’t smile.

  ‘Gin and a young white woman,’ said John.

  Trevor Bayliss kept his gaze on the head stockman. John scanned the camp from the saddles heaped nearby to the other side of the cook’s fire to where a couple of blackfella stockmen were hobbling the horses. He lifted his rifle and put it down again. ‘They camped, one of youse visited ’em.’

  John looked at each stockman in turn. The horses fidgeted. The cattle brayed
, and the camp dog snarled as the riders’ dog caught up with the men. John brushed the flies from his eyes with the inside of his elbow. ‘One o’ you seen ’em.’

  The head stockman snarled, thrusting the small knife towards them to emphasise his words. ‘Our boys always checkin’ the bush for ’em cows, tracks crossing, they’d yell real loud if they found a woman.’

  John hooked his rifle under his arm and took a tin of tobacco from his pocket. ‘They are wanted for murder.’

  Trevor jumped off his horse. ‘A death, no murder. We’re ’fraid for their safety. The white woman, she’s unwell.’

  Jim frowned. An English voice, but rough, different.

  Trevor took hold of the bridle of John’s horse. ‘Get down.’

  ‘Yeah. We gotta take a look around.’ John dismounted.

  The head stockman pointed the blade at them. ‘You woman hunters can camp over there if you want, but there ain’t no women and no liars here.’

  Jim watched the two men walk into the bush, the tall one out front and the short man hurrying behind. The tracker joined the blackfellas at their fire and was already yarning in some language.

  Trevor led the horses into the bush until they were a distance from the main camp. He took John by the neck of his shirt and landed his right fist across John’s left eye. He dropped his hold on John’s shirt and brought his left hand hard and fast under John’s jaw and sent him spinning into the bush. John skidded on his butt and jumped up roaring. The painted dog growled, putting his chest close to the ground and his weight on his hind legs as though about to leap at Trevor. Trevor kicked him and he howled and retreated. John raised his hand to protect his head.

  ‘What in the bloody . . .’

  ‘Murder?’

  John’s clothes were covered in sweat and dirt and his left eye was dark and swollen.

  ‘That’s what yer brother said. Didn’t he tell you all that?’

  Trevor stepped back. ‘You saw who killed Jurulu.’

  ‘Yeah, but any blackfella who does a white woman, he’s already dead. You want a white bloke to go for that?’

  ‘Our job is to bring the women back. That’s all.’

  Trevor walked away. John struggled to his feet, holding his jaw.

  Jim listened as the men made jokes about women around the fireside. A big billy of tea was black in the middle of the fire and the beef stew in an immense iron pot was caked dry on the sides. The men sat in a ragged circle, some on logs, a few in the dirt, their backs against saddles, smoking and taking mouthfuls of tea from tin mugs. It was as if the encounter with Trevor and John had released some tension and created another.

  ‘Shouldn’t we be doing something?’

  ‘They dinna say she was beautiful—might be like a frog.’

  ‘Green?’

  A chuckle went around the campfire but stopped suddenly as Trevor and John joined them, and the men tried not to look at John’s swelling eye. John scowled and spat into the coals. Trevor’s face was set and straight in the firelight. An old stockman, his face crisscrossed with deep wrinkles, drew hard on his cigarette, blew a perfect smoke ring and broke the silence.

  ‘John Calhoon. Heard o’ you.’

  ‘Been ’ere all me life. Rode just about every horse in this country,’ replied John.

  The drover pushed his hat back, looking into the flames.

  The old stockman glanced at him then back to the two visitors. ‘The Lord’s gonna get those two women if yer don’t find ’em soon.’

  No-one spoke.

  The old stockman looked to Jim again. ‘Ain’t good when the Lord takes women when he shouldna.’

  Jim closed his eyes, let his head drop to his chest. He could see her cold pale arms, the colour gone from her lips, white as the lilies around her.

  He opened his eyes to Trevor’s gaze. ‘Sorry for yer,’ Trevor said and the drover looked away.

  ‘We gonna get those women and then we’ll give one to the devil.’ John spat into the fire again.

  ‘Where you think they are headed?’ the old man asked.

  Jim answered without looking up. ‘Would be Wyndham.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Trevor’s eyes had remained on him.

  ‘Nuthin’. Just the easiest way.’ Jim looked up. ‘Quickest. Steamers stopping there now to pick up the beef. New meatworks. That’s why we’re hurrying. Season is closin’. They’re waitin’.’

  ‘Tracks went east then back down into the herd again, lost in ’em.’

  Jim shrugged. ‘They’d be using the night, right now. Moving ahead get their tracks well hidden.’ He gave a sideways glance to no-one in particular, as if this was the only logical answer but he didn’t care that much.

  Trevor took off his hat and stared hard into the fire. Jim saw his weariness. His face had strong lines but his eyes were blank, like a soldier following orders.

  Trevor stood up. ‘We should get movin’.’

  John frowned and picked up his rifle. ‘Tracks hard to see now, Boss. We’ll catch ’em tomorra. They is only two women.’

  Trevor looked upwards to the stars and stood with his head back. The men around the fire looked up into the blackness that sparkled with a million lights and wondered what he saw that was different there. John laughed as if to break the silence. Trevor picked up his swag, nodded goodnight and walked deep into the bush.

  John stood and swung his rifle. ‘Gotta get meat for m’dog.’

  Jim and the old stockman stayed by the fire watching the flames, listening to the sound of John’s rifle. Shooting and shooting.

  One by one the riders took their swags into the darkness. Jim and the old stockman waited and the fire was low when John came back dragging two possums through the dust. He slashed them so their flesh was bared and threw the carcasses to his dog. The camp dog came running and the two dogs tore at the animals, growling at one another in bloody-teethed snatches.

  The old stockman held up a hipflask as John came into the firelight. John sank his arms into the metal bucket through a layer of soap scum and washed the blood away, not taking his eyes off the hipflask. He hesitated for a few seconds, took it and upended it, letting the rum fall over his tongue and down to the back of his throat. He felt the fire as it hit his belly.

  ‘All yours,’ the stockman nodded.

  John took another gulp. The drover sat across from him holding an unlit cigarette. ‘He’s been telling me about yer.

  Thinks high o’ yer. Yer a good horsebreaker, know the country. Been real good to some station owners.’

  ‘Yeah, ain’t no horse that can beat me. Cicada ten years, an’ before that down near the Leopold Ranges, worked at the station there. Bloody blacks. They’re real bad there. We worked real hard. Night ’n’ day. Malarkey couldn’t take it. The spears and the pinching his cattle all the time. He left. There ain’t nuthin’ much there now. That Pigeon fella, Jandamarra, he killed lots o’ whitefellas. You know about him. Stinkin’ black—hope he rots in hell. All his family, them Bunuba mob, they think he was a special bugger and act jes’ like him.’

  John finished the rum and the drover handed him another flask. John’s eyes widened. He took it and sucked on it. ‘Police are yellow-bellies when it comes to blackfellas. No shootin’. Jes’ let ’em run all over us.’

  ‘Don’t like blackfellas?’

  John laughed and the rum dribbled from the corner of his mouth. ‘It’s like my father said: Aboriginals, they are prehuman. Feel a bit sorry for them but yer can’t let ’em run amok. We let ’em run amok, that’s the failure of this bloody country.’

  Jim leant in towards the fire and lit his cigarette. ‘What did the women you’re chasin’ do?’

  John wiped the rum from his mouth. He narrowed his eyes, looked at the two men and was quiet. They waited.

  John took another mouthful. He stared at the ground, looked behind him and into the shadows of the trees. He moved around the fire closer to the men. He whispered, but as he told the story his voice grew
loud and the words rushed together. He stopped and began again in a low voice.

  ‘Cicada Springs. Lidscombe’s—his brother.’ John jerked his head towards the bush. ‘Boss’s wife had a black baby. She was done—you know, what’s the word?—raped by one of the black strappers, and this ’ere woman with her was that man’s woman so she goes crazy, hey, like the devil’s in her. Ever seen the devil in a gin? You’d never wanna. She kills the baby, right, and hides it, but she is angry at her man. The white woman goes crazy in the head with the birth and all. The gin, she kills the man, caste man, half man. Don’t ask me if it’s loyalty to the missus or just plain hatred towards a cheatin’ man.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Shot him. Then she tells Lady Lidscombe there that the whitefellas did it and the baby has been kidnapped by other blackfellas.’

  ‘That’s a tall story.’ The old stockman frowned.

  ‘Yeah. You believe what yer wanna, and if yer see the white woman, look after her, keep her with yer. There’ll be a reward, a big reward.’ John ran his tongue over his lips, catching the last sweetness of the rum. ‘She done wrong but she was scared. That gin’s trickin’ her. That’s what blackfellas do to yer, ’cos the law is all wrong.’

  The drover flicked the stub of his cigarette away and stared into the fire.

  The sky was just paling behind the moon when Trevor woke John and Billy Gum. The cattle were uneasy. They were already braying and their dry tongues lolled from their mouths, caked with dirt. The three headed north. Billy Gum found the tracks easily, on the edge of the scrub, heading in the same direction, towards Wyndham. Behind them the herd began to move, impatient for water and belligerent at the men who whipped them on.

  Wirritjil and Emily travelled south then cut through the range directly west along a stony gorge full of shale and dotted with rock holes that for a time gave them a little brackish water.

  Wirritjil took the drover’s shirt off her head and put it across the mare’s back to protect her legs against the chafing. Emily tried to get the barbs out of the soles of her feet, but could not get to the one that caused her so much pain. When she jumped from the horse she took to landing on one foot.