‘This fella—’ one of the men pointed to an old man with a thin blanket across his shoulders sitting at the edge of the group ‘—him Cicada Springs.’
Trevor steadied his gaze. The man’s white hair fierce against his black skin gave him away. Charcoal. Trevor looked down. Charcoal was Wirritjil’s husband. Had Wirritjil told him, would he know? Was he angry? Trevor had to talk to him. He must know where she was.
Charcoal was whittling a small stick. He did not look at Trevor.
Another of the men stood up. ‘Karnanganyjal.’
The man made a beak with his hand and took stilted steps, pecking at the air just like an emu would. Others rose and danced, there was a blur of limbs and shouts of laughter.
Trevor had seen this before. The blackfellas liked to make the whitefellas laugh and the emu dance was easy. He looked back across the fire. Charcoal had gone.
He stood and turned around. ‘Where is that old man? Old man from Cicada Springs?’
‘Gone quick.’
‘He come back?’
‘Yeah, boss,’ they said and insisted he eat.
He drew the kangaroo’s thigh from the fire and picked the burnt skin away. Around him the faces smiled as he ate. He admired some pearl shell nagam and a fine piece of abalone hanging from one man’s belt, glowing with pale rainbow colours. The man offered to exchange it and Trevor handed him the tea and flour. The man wanted more and nodded at the red and green discs around Trevor’s neck. Trevor felt a shiver down his spine and shook his head. He sat with them until evening but the old man Charcoal didn’t come back.
The following morning Trevor went back down to the river bed. They had gone; there were only the ashes of the fire in the river sand. He found other camps. Most welcomed him, but when he asked for assistance in tracking they told him another camp to go to. He went and most times there was no camp. He could not find a tracker. He went back to the inn.
‘Johnno, you get someone to ride with you back to Cicada, tell William that the women are somewhere up the river and we will be able to . . .’ he searched for the right word, ‘meet them, get them, when the rain comes.’
Trevor rode out, skirting big ranges of rocks, crisscrossing, not stopping to eat. He was searching, always searching.
John waited for the station hands to come in for a drink. He watched the officer from the Aboriginal Protection Board type up his notes.
‘Why don’t you work in the police office there?’
‘Hot box, well over a hundred bloody degrees. You know.’
‘Hot.’
‘Hot.’
‘Hey, that buggy, your kids?’
Jeferies looked up with a start. A tremor passed through his body and he sought to compose himself. He rose and brushed past John without looking at him.
The driver, a policeman, pulled up the two tired horses. Four children sat in an open cart behind him. They ranged in age and in the darkness of their skin. All were covered in red dust and their hair was wild and woolly. The eldest wore a shift of old wool sacking and the others had only waistbands of string and animal fur. They stared wide-eyed and clutched at one another. They were tied with rope.
Tom Jeferies counted the number of legs, tracked each pair as far as their waists. ‘Three boys, one girl.’
He wrote in quick bursts on his clipboard.
He came back into the inn, his blue shirt blotchy and clinging to his skin in dark patches. He sat down, typed a letter, referring to his notes on the clipboard.
‘Bloody names. They have to have names. I call the girls Annie, Betty and Mary, and the boys Alan, Peter and Bruce, in that order.’
John sat next to Jeferies. ‘Them’s okay names.’
‘Sometimes I get so cross with these damn blacks I give them other names.’
‘What like?’
‘Ferdinand, Ottoman, Bismarck.’
‘Real fancy. Ain’t them war names, krauts?’
‘Yeah. Don’t know same for girls.’
‘Where you send ’em?’
‘Shipped to Perth then allocated. Allocated. Residential homes, lucky ones get foster parents.’
‘Jeez, all laid out for ’em.’
Tom Jeferies gave his letter with the names for the children and the coupons to the policeman. The buggy cart pulled away from the inn, stopped briefly at the police station and headed on the track west to Derby. Tom Jeferies put the carbon copies into his leather bag. John pulled his stool close. ‘How many did yer get in all?’
‘Too many. There’s too many of the little bastards. All these Aborigines rut like rabbits.’
‘Bet you wouldn’t mind a bit o’ ruttin’.’
Tom Jeferies scowled at him. ‘I am getting out of this hellhole. I have a nice woman from a nice family. You know. We go to church. She can read and write and play the piano.’
‘Pretty, I bet, with a nice fat rear and wide hips?’
Tom Jeferies blushed. He picked up his leather bag and walked out of the hotel.
The innkeeper sluiced down the floors as people came in dusty and sweaty, carrying dirt on their boots and bringing in the flies. The station owners grouped in the yard near the horses trading meat and flour for bits of machinery. They tilted their hats and leant back in their boots yarning and admiring the occasional motorcar or truck, looking under the bonnets or touching the wheels. Three women came in for lemonades, dressed for town with their hats adorned with bright pheasant feathers and their skirts pleated and pressed.
John scrutinised the mix of station hands, drovers and miners. He wanted loud company. He picked a young fellow who was square-jawed, laughing and yappy, talking all the time.
‘Pay yer to come with me—gotta give a message to my boss outta Halls.’
They set out eastwards the next day. The lad told John about his conquests of women all the way up the coast. The women loved him. He liked the Asian ones in Broome. Cheap and do anything you want. Nice tight arses. Then there were the white women, different quality.
‘You behave a bit more polite like.’
He bragged a woman wanted him so much she gave him a gun, a smart and dandy six-shooter, a Smith & Wesson she got from some American cowboy. After a while John didn’t want to listen to him anymore. He pulled his hat down and thought about how long it was since he had had a woman. He wasn’t gonna pay, for sure.
They camped two days out of Fitzroy and played two-up in the creek bed, pouring rum one for one. The dog watched them.
The young strapper threw the coins high. ‘That ain’t a half mongrel you got there.’
‘He ain’t a mongrel.’
‘He is a mongrel.’
John looked at the coins. The strapper won. John marked it in the sand. He flicked the coins up and down in his hands.
‘Yeah, what makes a mongrel a mongrel?’
‘A mix of clean breeds—you know that, you bloody bushman.’
John stood up and swaggered, he pulled his mug of rum close to his chest. ‘Maybe m’dog is a new breed, pure as all hell.’
The young stockman rolled over in the sand, laughing. He lay belly up and pointed his Smith & Wesson at the dog.
‘Here, you purebred.’
He shot the dog.
John was still for a few seconds. There was not a sound or a breath of wind in the night. Blood trickled then gushed from the dog’s chest as he lowered himself to the ground. He made a sudden jerking movement with his legs but there was no breath and his eyes were already blank fixed in the last gaze towards his master. John dropped to his knees with a high-pitched squeak, as though someone’s hands were tight around his throat. He crawled to the motionless dog, stretching his arms towards him.
The young stockman rose and edged backwards away from the campfire. ‘Ah, sorry, mate—real sorry.’
John’s squeak turned to an almighty yell. He grabbed his rifle and jumped across the fire. The strapper ran backwards. John stumbled and shot at him. The strapper leapt on his horse and took off into the dar
kness.
John stayed all night with his arms wrapped around his dog. He felt the dog stiffen and grow cold.
‘You gonna see Granma in heaven,’ he sobbed, fighting for breath. ‘I ain’t never gonna get there. Give her a lick. She’ll love yer. She said to love ever’thing, ever’one, but I couldn’t. See me dad in hell, kickin’ ever’one again.’
In the morning he buried the dog. He prayed, remembering the Our Father and Hail Marys his grandmother had taught him. He sat back looking at the trees and the country that was hard with red rock soil and there was nothing but a hateful hot shimmer, like the earth wanted to destroy everything on it. He stood frowning, struggling not to give up, not to lie down and let the earth fold over him and win.
‘Love ever’one.’
He walked away repeating, ‘Love ever’one, ever’thin’, ever’one.’
A glint of light in the red sand caught his eye. The young strapper’s gun. John felt strengthened by a sudden surge of anger. He picked up the six-shooter; it was light and smooth with a shiny diamond-centred wood grip. He clicked open the cylinder and rolled it. Only two bullets.
The clouds grew day by day and lightning flashed but the country stayed dry. Wirritjil showed Emily which trees had the best wood for digging sticks, and how to cut and grind for a strong balanced point at one end and flat at the other. They made two small digging sticks and a larger one that they were very proud of as it was so hard and sharp. It was made from a special tree, a tree with pebbly dark bark and branches of vivid green leaves and small white brush flowers. Wirritjil was excited at the find of the tree. She called it perawuruny, and took great care in finding the right piece to cut. They left the branch in the sun for a few days to take the springiness and moisture from the green wood, shaped it with a flint and a sharp rock, grinding the surface with a rough rock and smoothing it with the pebbly bark. Wirritjil took a full day to decorate it. She wrapped a nearly dried stem of the warampurrji vine around the stick and let it burn slowly, leaving a wavy pattern on the wood, and added dots, circles and extra lines using burning twigs of different sizes.
‘’Im Wirritjil, Ammee. See ’im minyjuwurrji, dem’s hills. Dis one ’im soak, water, dig, eh.’
A circle with a dot in the centre. A large dot with a small line.
‘This one he bin look dissa way.’ Wirritjil looked over her shoulder.
Emily thought for a moment. ‘The cattle drive. That blackcapped bird said they were coming.’
‘Dat one.’ Wirritjil pointed to an area, next to an empty circle, with many small dots lacing its edge. ‘Wirrilijkel.’ She waved back to the pool where the rainbow lorikeets played in the trees.
Emily realised it was the story of their journey. She didn’t want to use or dirty the hard digging stick in any way but Wirritjil insisted and Emily understood that the decorations were to help, make it more likely to find food. They used the digging sticks to find the juicy grubs, onions and moist yams. They collected balls of sweet sap from wattle trees and sucked them like hard boiled lollies as they hunted.
At noon they rested. They rarely hunted near the water. Wirritjil told Emily that would frighten the animals. All the wallabies, lizards, snakes and birds would not drink and would get sick. That would make them get sick too.
Emily dreamt about flying with coloured wings spread across the light of the sun. She forgot about time, about yesterday and about tomorrow.
9
Ngarrangkarni
Geckos ran across the ceiling or collected in slow jerkily moving groups. It seemed there were more now. The geckos had always liked this room. They were pale like the wall, some with black egg bellies. The linen on the bed was stiff and brown in places with dried blood. William liked the blood. It was Emily’s blood and he felt close to her, until he remembered. He sweated and the pillow became sticky. He had not changed his clothes since the new moon when he had shot the pheasant coucal. Now the moon was almost full. He hummed and let himself cough just a little.
‘Remember, Emily? Remember that time we saw snow together? It was so soft, so silent. You cried.’
He let his hands rest on the sheets.
‘Covering all the truths and lies
All the things found and lost.’
He shifted in the bed. The sounds of the bush were quiet. He could hear the muffled chug of the pump that brought the water from the creek to the house tank. The geckos ran across the ceiling in a sudden dash and disappeared into cracks in the wall. The pump missed a beat.
‘Our fingers laced like leaves
Caught in the sparkling frost
Yet there were only cries
For the mother you had lost.’
The pump missed another beat and William looked to the window. Listening. He added softly, ‘Baby you lost.’
The pump stopped. William sat up. A breeze came through the door, lifting the curtains. A shadow flitted across the wall. William jumped and slammed the door shut. The shadow passed across the wall again. It had no clear shape. William locked the doors. He ran through the darkness of the house closing doors, slamming windows. In the hallway was a single lamp. He carried it into the kitchen. The coals in the oven were long dead. He walked over to the open window and stretched out to pull the shutter down.
He saw a movement and turned. There stood an Aboriginal man. He was naked but for a belt around his waist on which hung many feathers, and on his arms and thighs were bands holding more feathers. He was striped in paint and carried a short feathered spear. He was there for less than a second. William slammed the window shut and bolted it.
He gripped his rifle tightly and, moving quietly in the dark, checked all the doors and windows. He went back and sat in the kitchen with the gun pointed at the door.
The sun rose. William did not move. His face was wet with sweat that dripped onto the stone and earth floor of the kitchen. Outside the air was heavy and still. Clouds gathered then faded away. William licked his lips. He went to the sink and pushed hard on the pump handle. Water came out in a gush then stopped. He tried again. It gurgled and spat a dribble of brown water, then nothing.
In the night he dozed sitting in the chair, waking with a start at the slightest sound. There was no water in the house. After a while he could not rest. He searched the cupboards and found a tin of fruit. He opened it and guzzled its sweetness. His thirst abated for a few minutes.
He went from room to room parting the curtains and peering out. He reached Emily’s room and paused. He cocked his rifle and threw the door open with one hand. The room was empty. He turned quickly. He wondered if he had imagined it, a shadow flitting past the window.
He was thirsty and angry. He opened the doors and walked out into the yard. He shot his rifle high into the sky.
‘Come. You bastard.’
He went through the gardens past the fig tree and down to where the creek came close to the house. The clouds had parted from the moon and the country was alight with ghostly detail. He drank quickly. The water dripped from his face as he took a breath. He sensed a movement. He rose. His hands tightened on his rifle. From the gardens of the house came the hunter, his feet touching the ground without sound. A breeze came in a gust downstream from William.
William felt the breeze and turned to it. He saw a shadow pass and lifted his rifle. In the second before he shot he heard the cry from a different direction, but it was too late, already the pressure of his finger had transferred to the trigger. The rifle discharged and the butt bit into his shoulder. He stumbled backwards.
The spear came from the direction of the cry, whistling as it flew through the air, sharp and straight. It hit deep into his left thigh. William spun with his rifle ready but all he saw for a second was a blur of paint and feathers.
A breeze eddied around him and then all was still. Clouds covered the moon and the land became dark. There was silence except for the chirr of a nightjar and it flew so close that William felt the beat of its wings on his face.
Trevor kept
going upstream, each bend in the river, each clump of trees promising they might be just ahead. After two nights Trevor passed the place where the black tracker, Nunnawarra, had absconded. He slowed to search for signs, dismounting frequently, examining broken sticks or staring at swirls in the sand. He knew he had little chance of finding a track but he kept going, skirting around deepwalled gorges and returning where he could to the banks of the river. The water was sometimes a turbid green, stirred by thirsty animals and dappled with cloud shadows. Other pools, shallow basins with rocky bases, were clear, sparkling as if they were reflecting the glitter of a heaven beyond the earthen sky.
Galahs, parrots, bee-eaters and honeyeaters massed along the banks, hiding from the torment of the dry land. The cuckoo birds had arrived from the tropical islands of the north and made brazen curved flights from tree to tree, looking for homes to claim as their own. Snakes lay in wait at the edge of the water, falcons and hawks, with wide and steady wings, rose and fell as they rode the changing currents of air. This was their season, before the rains, when the weak made mistakes and despair was blazoned in the open tracks of the hungry and thirsty.
On the fifth night Trevor sat at the entrance of a long gorge. The rock was steep and curved like a mighty wave on both sides and the water was a deep emerald in between. A few white cockatoos were perched on a ledge, silent in this place that carried the uneasiness of a violent birth long ago.
Trevor gathered wood but let it drop. Crimson finches flitted noiselessly at the edge of the water. There was something else. The horse sensed it too and Trevor followed his gaze. He saw it. A raft or maybe just driftwood tidily banked up on the opposite wall. He swam to it. It was a raft, made of old and green cork wood and tied with grass and animal string. He pushed it a bit, trying to get some clues. It could only hold a light weight, and there was no evidence of what it had carried, no fibres and no stains.
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