Cicada

by Moira McKinnon

‘Wirritjil is no murderer.’

  John was quiet for a moment. There was something about the way Trevor said her name, the fact that he even said her name. He scrambled to his feet and swayed, holding the .303 loosely by his side. He moved a few steps up the slope. He shrugged. ‘She is dead, now, or real soon.’

  Trevor took a small fold of notes from his pocket. He held them out to John. ‘Here’s yer due. You ain’t huntin’ no-one no more.’ Her nodded at the rifle and held out his hand.

  John hesitated. A couple of station hands stood watching from the washed concrete. He handed Trevor the .303.

  ‘It’s a big gun,’ said Trevor.

  ‘Yeah, a big gun,’ said John.

  Trevor walked away and John stood there a moment. The men were still watching so he made like he was counting his notes, gave the men a big grin and headed for the bar.

  At sundown he was on his sixth whisky and feeling good. The heat had stopped bothering him; in fact he liked it, the sweat running down his neck made him feel alive instead of half dead in this hole of a town with all the bloody niggers. No niggers here in the bar, just hard-working people having a good time.

  An old man played a banjo, keen and fast, singing songs of gold mining and cattle driving. John laughed with three young station strappers.

  ‘Miners got their pants stolen.’

  ‘Gotta go digging for gold with nothing on their bums.’

  John slapped his hand on his knee. ‘Cops lookin’ for the niggers that did that.’

  The strappers looked at John. One laughed.

  John continued, ‘Any well-dressed boongai, well, they’re askin’ for it. You know my boss, he ain’t got no guts. We’re huntin’ murderers and youse know what?’

  The strappers mumbled and ordered more beer.

  ‘He can’t even shoot a bastard nigger when told to. The bastard nigger done a woman, knocked her up.’

  The old man shook his head and plucked chords on his banjo. The froth of the beer was white on his dirt-stained beard. He cleared his throat and sang ‘Waltzing Matilda’, gravelly and low. People stopped talking.

  ‘East-country shit.’ John downed his whisky.

  He didn’t see the young strapper dressed in oversized shirt and pants slip into the beer yard with its corrugated-iron walls on two sides towards the bar at the top.

  There was a pause and a communal murmur as people looked at the newcomer then recommenced drinking.

  ‘Rum,’ Emily said to the barman, and put the pound note on the bar.

  The barman placed a mug of rum and a pile of coins in front of her.

  ‘Yer a young strapper for these parts.’

  ‘Goin’ south.’

  The barman grunted. ‘Back to Mum?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Emily nodded towards someone further down the bar waiting for a drink. The barman moved away.

  She sipped on the rum and coughed, swallowed and peered around, looking for the policeman. On the other side of the room John stood up unsteadily, swinging his glass in one hand and the other high above his head to get the attention of everyone in the bar.

  ‘So what youse seen out in the bush, eh?’ he shouted. ‘All you in here. You comin’ in from the bush. What yer seen? There’s a murderer out there.’

  There was a hush.

  The barman came back towards Emily. ‘He’s been going on all day about them two women. You seen ’em?’

  Emily shook her head, downed her rum and coughed again.

  ‘Need some practice,’ laughed the barman.

  Emily left her coins and moved towards the corrugated iron wall on the side, weaving between the few tables and the drinkers standing in twos and threes. She could hear John’s voice behind her.

  ‘You heard me. Some of youse already heard me.’

  ‘Yep, mate.’

  ‘A gin. A bloody black killer.’

  ‘A gin?’

  ‘Yeah killed a white baby but it weren’t white like, then she killed a black man ’cos she hates ’im.’

  A couple of the men snickered.

  Emily reached the open grassed area and her pace quickened. She looked behind and saw John scrambling onto a chair.

  ‘There will be a reward for sure. The murderer, her name is . . . bloody abo name. Wirrit . . . Wirrawirra . . .’

  Emily ran. The sound of the banjo, the laughter and John saying Wirritjil’s name kept repeating in her mind. She ran past the police station with dark windows and a door that was firmly closed, and stumbled when she passed the small tin building and saw the white man there, sitting on a wire bed on the veranda, a lamp swinging above him, eating with a knife and fork from a plate balanced on his knees. She swerved into the bush, running fast, too frightened to bend, and the tree branches grabbed at her body and her hair, stole her hat and scratched her face.

  Emily reached the camp. Wirritjil was gone. She tried to calm herself, to put her thoughts together. So they blamed Wirritjil. If she told them it was her husband who killed Joseph and Jurulu, surely that would count. She shook her head; she hadn’t seen either murder. She had done wrong. They wouldn’t believe her. Trevor would stand by his brother. He would lie for his brother.

  The night was dark and oppressive, as if a hot wet blanket lay just above, steaming with heat. At their camp there was nothing, just the hollows they usually made and some empty bark pouches. No fire, no coals. Emily sat, shivering despite the heat. The familiar numbness that had haunted her before her foot healed came back. She felt the pain of it all again, the pain of an empty heart, her child and her husband torn from it, and Jurulu, gone. But there was a song so far away, so calm. She reached to touch the white bark of the big gum.

  ‘Warlarri,’ she whispered. ‘Mother.’

  The tree felt strong under her fingers, so firm in the earth and reaching to the sky. She put her cheek against the smoothness of the wood. The trunk was straight and wide and the limbs that came from it thick, some with hollows, homes for birds and small animals. Pairs of eyes gazed down at her and the half-moon glinted through the leaves. She smiled; karnkiny was getting fat on his love for the little girl star.

  There was a croak. At first Emily jumped, then she remembered who gave that call, the ugly grey night bird with the strong beak, jikilim kupil, that meant ugly bird. Wirritjil said the birds called each other jalungurriny kupilji and jurnanykarral kupilil, beautiful man and beautiful woman.

  She squatted as Wirritjil had taught her to and followed the sound. It was a rough clack-clack, a poorly tuned gruff song. She saw the male bird in a clear patch in the light of the stars and moon. He was hunched, trying to dance, playing with the balance of his body. He was clumsy but as he moved he became more graceful and the strange clacks became a song of sadness of being alone and of desire. His eyes shone orange with the silver light. A woman bird came from the bush. They were two dowdy beings of awkward shape and big beaks making love with their dance. Emily watched in the light of the night, melding herself into their ritual. She wanted to touch them, to be them. They danced and flew away and Emily listened to other night sounds.

  A distant sound of human voices made her sit up and think again of where Wirritjil might be.

  John finished another two whiskys. He sat by himself, thinking of the shot that killed his dog and of Trevor’s hand held out for his .303.

  A bunch of men came in, dusty and tired. One held a jam jar nearly full of gold flecks. ‘Just enough to get out of here.’

  They spat the dirt from between their teeth and squeezed the grit from the corners of their eyes then cleaned their mouths with a warm beer. The banjo player sang.

  ‘Luck, boys, luck! A nugget of gold

  Big as my fist in the blest black mould.’

  The miners shook their heads.

  ‘Ain’t nothin’ but snakes, fool’s gold in Halls Creek. That nugget forty years back ’n’ we keep dreamin’. Coolgardie. Gotta go there. There’s gold to line caskets there.’

  Tom Jeferies appeared,
light blue, white and clean against the ruddiness and dirt of the miners and the station workers. He squinted at the lights and puffed his pink cheeks in and out as he reached the bar.

  ‘Need a beer?’ John came up behind him and slapped a note on the bar.

  Tom beamed. ‘In the money, eh?’

  ‘Got paid and fired.’

  ‘Too bad, cobber.’

  ‘Nah, it’s good. Workin’ for the wrong bloke, I think. Crazy in the head.’

  ‘Least you can get out of here if you want. I have to wait for one more contingent. Boys are going do a run picking up lepers and the baby browns. You know. Doing their job too well now.’

  ‘So you stuck here?’

  ‘Yep, for a bit.’

  ‘Calls for whisky with that beer there.’

  A game of two-up started at the edge of the concrete and men gathered in a deep circle. John shrank back to the edge.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Jeferies. ‘I thought you liked gambling.’

  ‘Reminds me o’ my dog.’

  ‘Your dog?’

  ‘Yeah, died gamblin’.’ John laughed then upended his whisky.

  Tom shook his glass so that the beer swirled around in it. ‘Sick of being here, sick of the heat, sick of blackfellas, real sick of blackfellas.’

  ‘You work for ’em.’

  ‘I work for the future of Australia.’

  John bought two bottles of whisky and gave one to Tom Jeferies. ‘I got some good jokes. Wanna hear ’em?’

  They walked the track to the river, John laughing at his own yarns and smacking Tom on the back. ‘Country gets yer, like a big crocodile goes snap.’

  They sat in the sand. The clouds had dissipated and there were only a few straggling blue strands across the face of the half-moon.

  Tom Jeferies took his shoes off. He peeled the damp socks from his feet, dug his toes into the sand, closed his eyes and sighed. John lay back and looked at the stars. He felt an ease in the night-softened heat.

  There came the sound of a slap, another like a fish jumping. Tom raised his head. It came again, then a swishing sound of leaves on water. All quiet again.

  ‘Someone fishin’,’ said John. He launched himself to his feet and staggered along the river bed. ‘C’mon, Tom.’

  No-one there. Another slap. A small splash.

  ‘We’ll go back a bit, sit up there a bit.’

  They retraced their steps and stopped in the blackness of thick scrub.

  ‘Keep yerself low,’ said John.

  They waited with their backs in among the foliage and took long slow swigs from their bottles.

  ‘I feel sick,’ muttered Tom.

  Another splash. John put his bottle down. A woman, an Aboriginal woman, came silently out of the shadows from the opposite side. She crouched down by the water and lifted a line with one hand, feeling the tension of it on her fingers. John nudged Tom and nodded towards the woman. The moonlight was silvery on her back and her hair was bushy and tied with twine. Tom Jeferies’ mouth went dry.

  John put his hand on the six-shooter in his pocket. ‘That’s her. She’s the killer. Let’s get her.’

  Below them Wirritjil lifted the taut line, absorbed in the movement in the water, moving one hand over the other, easing the fish in.

  John charged into the river bed. Tom Jeferies ran behind, struggling to keep up. Wirritjil turned and crouched to spring away but it was too late. John pointed the gun at her. He swayed on his feet. ‘Steady, steady. Tom—take her.’

  Tom stood with his lips apart and his eyes wide.

  Wirritjil jumped up. John shot at her. The bullet grazed her calf. She fell against the sand. John pinned her down with his knee in her shoulder.

  ‘Hey, Tom. That ruttin’ we talked about? This here is a murderer. You can do her before we turn her in.’

  ‘Do her?’

  ‘Fuck her.’

  Tom shook his head.

  ‘Okay,’ said John. ‘I’ll warm her up.’

  He pulled at the trousers Wirritjil wore. Pulled them down over her hips.

  Tom walked backwards. He turned to run then saw her coming down the river bank, the white woman. She held a thick stick with a sharp point. The sand sprayed behind as her feet hit the ground. He couldn’t make his mouth work.

  He couldn’t warn him. John was easing his trousers down, his buttocks were bare.

  The white woman didn’t pause in her run. She held the short stick high in both hands and plunged it into John’s back. John rolled over and reached for his gun. Emily was quicker. She grabbed his gun and aimed it at his chest. She pulled the trigger. It fired and blood spurted into the sand as he fell.

  Tom Jeferies slunk back into the reaches of the river and scrambled up the bank and away.

  John’s head fell back with his chin up and his mouth wide open. His shirt was dark with blood and his naked legs were white in the light of the waxing moon.

  11

  Killing Stick

  The death of a white man, shot and stabbed, was big news in the Kimberley and throughout Western Australia. An investigation team came from Derby, and a sergeant was called from Broome, Sergeant Perez, to assist the police in Fitzroy Crossing. The lock-up was emptied, the prisoners taken on carts drawn by mules or camels. The white people of the town whispered to one another that this was certainly the work of a blackfella. They skirted the humpies and gatherings and crossed the road in order to avoid being within several yards of an Aboriginal. They travelled in twos and threes and carried firearms.

  Trevor stood on the river bank and waited until everyone had left before he walked down. There were tracks everywhere, as though a circus troop had visited. Bloodstained soil was all but gone, tossed by the feet of the constabulary and tourists. He walked around the edge of the pool and came back to the area of the greatest turmoil of footsteps. He walked a bit further. The prints of bare feet were scuffed, hardly recognisable. Then he saw it. The strands of human hair twined to form a fine string, a string that a fish would hardly notice. He put his finger under the thread and lifted it. He pulled on it gently, easing it out of the water. The wallaby bone hook came into view. He looked at it for a moment and let it settle back into the water.

  Trevor straightened and walked away. He walked up to the Crossing Inn and gathered his belongings. He saddled his horse and set out to find Charcoal.

  He rode out of town to where he had seen a Gidja group from Moola Bulla camped. He figured maybe Charcoal had been hiding there. It was midday. Most of the camp was out hunting, there were just a couple of old women playing with babies in the dirt. Trevor found Charcoal pounding seed on a rock behind a humpy made of dried leaves and bark. He knew Charcoal was considered a special man, and that Wirritjil was one of his several wives. He wondered if Charcoal knew that Wirritjil had come to him. He wondered if the old man cared that Wirritjil was gone. Trevor dismounted, walked over and squatted a short distance in front of him.

  Charcoal kept pounding at the seed. He muttered, ‘Boss.’ He didn’t look up.

  Trevor’s shadow stretched as the sun went behind him until it almost touched the rock in Charcoal’s hand. Trevor inched closer. ‘Wirritjil, she with Miss Emily, Boss William’s woman. They are lost, gone.’

  The rims of Charcoal’s eyes were red. His eyelashes had long ago turned in and scratched at his eyes, scarring the surface into a creamy blue opalescence. He followed the shadow on his hands to Trevor’s feet and up to the silhouette of his face.

  Trevor took some money from his pocket. ‘Money. Tea. Bacca. Nalijam, ngunyjum. Wirritjil. Where is she?’

  Charcoal turned away and pounded the seeds again.

  Trevor walked away. He took the reins of his horse and led him through the scrub. He sat in the shade, listening hard. There was little except the staccato of insects and the distant trill of a honeyeater seeking sweetness in wilting river blossoms. The sun glanced off the hard grey leaves of the thirsty mimosas, making the trees look as if the
y were made of metal.

  It was early evening when he heard a pause in the bush hum, followed by the crack of a stick. Two young men and a boy slipped across the sand in bare feet. They carried spears and clubbing sticks. One man had a small kangaroo over his shoulder. The men wore only nagam, but the boy was dressed in trousers and a rough shirt of burlap. Trevor recognised the ration clothes from Moola Bulla station.

  ‘Wait.’

  The three stopped. They looked at Trevor with wide eyes. Trevor held his arms high, hoping to show he was not dangerous. The men spoke to each other in low voices and laughed. Trevor smiled and let his hands drop. He walked slowly forwards. The men’s hands tightened on their spears.

  Trevor stopped. He acknowledged the men with a bow of his head and spoke to the boy. ‘You Gidja?’

  The boy gave a slight quick nod. His shirt was unbuttoned and across his chest were three healing horizontal cuts.

  ‘You from Moola Bulla?’

  The boy nodded again.

  ‘You done a bit of schooling?’

  ‘’Em bit engla.’

  The men had lost their curiosity and began to move away, the boy following.

  ‘You know old man Charcoal?’

  The boy kept moving.

  ‘You like riding a horse?’

  The boy turned back.

  Trevor pointed to his horse. ‘This horse here, he is yours, if you help me.’

  The boy didn’t understand.

  ‘This horse. For you. Follow track.’

  The boy shook his head and hurried to catch up with the men. Trevor followed them to the camp. The boy waited a few steps from Charcoal, who sat with the grinding rock resting in the palms of his hands.

  ‘Tell the old man I need him to help me find his wife, ngulngal, wife, Wirritjil. He knows she ran away, more ’n’ a month ago now.’

  The boy furrowed his brow and moved his toe back and forth in the dust.

  ‘Tell him I will give him tea, bacca. He can ride on this horse. We walk. No run. He tell me the way.’

  The boy rested the butt of his short spear on the arch of his foot. Trevor saw him steal a glance at the horse. The boy spoke to the old man. Charcoal shook his head and murmured words that ran together, no pause, no separate sounds.