But Mira’s capacity to attract misfortune hadn’t deserted her. Mira had gone to Father Macredie’s office the next morning to inform him that she was leaving the mission, only to stand there, the unspoken words fluttering inside her mouth like a trapped moth, while he informed her of the hapless Frederick’s fate. Poor Mira, if there was a piece of dog shit on the ground her foot would find it, if a stone were to be thrown into a crowd of people she would be the one to cop it. So with a sense of resignation she returned to her room and sat in stunned silence on her bed.
However her shock was not so much because the arsehole was dead – oh no, that was an event to be rejoiced – but for the fact that that smarmy bastard Frederick McFadden, who had the whole world to die in, had to pick a place where there was a Catholic priest vested with the power to grant the remission of sins, to pardon without question, to perform extreme unction on a man of total and extreme unctuousness. Frederick was free to go to heaven now that Father Macredie had absolved him of all his worldly sins, never mind the fact that he’d left a lifetime of sinning and destruction in his hopeless wake. Numb with the complete injustice of it all, Mira watched her one fragile hope of peace in death fall away from her. The years of suffering had all been in vain. She knew there was no peace to be found in heaven now that the cad had been granted entry and was roaming around up there somewhere. Quidquid deliquisti* was all that Mira could think as the tears fell like summer rain onto her clenched hands.
*Spoken by the priest when delivering the Last Rites
The Big Wind
There had been a lot of speculation that year over whether it would happen or not, but according to old Tarrti there was definitely going to be a cyclone. Among other things she’d noticed the rifle fish swimming quite close to the bank at Four Mile Creek, and no-one could deny the fact that the plovers had been particularly cheeky that year, and the pandanus had dropped their nuts far too early in the season for anyone to not miss the signs, and so from all these odd happenings she had put two and two together and arrived at the conclusion that there was going to be a Big Wind. And to her credit old Tarrti had done the right thing and made it her business to warn everyone, including Father Macredie and Brother Wayne. They had smiled and thanked her warmly but silently dismissed her ramblings as those of a silly and unsophisticated old woman. It was obvious she didn’t know they had people called meteorologists and that the time of soothsayers reading chickens gizzards was well and truly over.
And so it came to pass that a cyclone was indeed quietly forming off the coast, but because the highly trained meteorologists at the Bureau of Meteorology hadn’t noticed or mentioned anything no-one from the mission thought twice about the funny weather that had been hanging around for the last few days. A tad too complacent, they went about their daily business confident in the knowledge that the good Lord would always protect them and other learned non-celestial beings would always be there to provide.
The day had started out much like any other in the wet season except for the fact that none of the bush staff had bothered turning up for work. Even Noah and Leah, their most dependable had taken a sickie and none of the kids had turned up either. By the afternoon Father Macredie knew without a doubt that something was wrong. None of the bush mob were to be seen or heard anywhere and an eerie sense of foreboding hung over the mission like a shroud. He could feel a mounting apprehension as the others began looking over their shoulders or stood gazing absently in the direction of the camps with furrowed brows. No-one was coping very well at all. As the afternoon sky began to darken and the wind became stronger Father Macredie finally admitted to himself that maybe there’d been some wisdom in the words of old Tarrti after all.
Meanwhile, the bush mob had broken off into smaller family groups. They’d risen before dawn and headed deeper into the bush where the storm surge wasn’t likely to reach. Knowing that the tide would be high late in the afternoon with the cyclone following from the same direction, the men felled some large trees for people to lie against to shield them from the brunt of the weather. Old Tarrti chose her spot and was made comfortable with some food and a tunga of water beside her while the women chattered and busied themselves cooking wallabies and yams in preparation for the aftermath of the storm when food would be harder to find. But Pinyama and Kwarikwaringa had other ideas, and deciding that it was a bit far to walk with the rest of them for something that was probably just going to blow over in a few hours, settled down to wait at the waterhole instead.
And it was here that Brother John, Brother Brian’s replacement, had found them sleeping with the remains of some half-eaten fish sitting neatly on a piece of bark near the little fire where they’d cooked it. The wind had risen quite substantially by now but both women were sleeping and blissfully unaware of the inclement weather. Dragging his eyes away from her delicious bottom, Brother John leant over Pinyama and gently shook her, getting a punch in the nose for his trouble. She angrily opened her eyes and was halfway through telling him to bugger off when she realised, much to her embarrassment, that it was the delectable Brother John who was holding his nose with both hands and looking at her with a stunned expression on his face. Pinyama poked her sister in the ribs only to get an elbow in the eye for disturbing her. Words in lingo were fired in rapid staccato.
And Kwarikwaringa leapt to her feet, as shamefaced as her sister, and she silently prayed that she hadn’t been snoring or doing anything else that could lower her in the eyes of this exquisite creature.
Now handsome Brother John had absolutely no idea that he was the object of the two sisters’ lust, let alone that many a languid hour had been spent discussing what they’d do if they could get their hands on him. So it was with some excitement and exchanging of looks that the women obediently climbed into the old Bedford truck to be ferried back to the church to shelter from the cyclone. To be alone and within touching distance of Brother John was beyond their wildest dreams. It was all they could do to contain themselves. They hadn’t gone too far when Brother John felt a soft black hand moving slowly up his bare leg towards his crotch. He could feel himself breaking out in a sweat but, being a bit of a novice when it came to the driver’s seat, was most reluctant to release his hold on the steering wheel to slap the naughty hand away. And Kwarikwaringa, who was definitely no novice, took that as a sign to keep going. So maybe it was the rivulets of sweat running into his eyes that blinded poor Brother John and caused him to suddenly lose control. Or perhaps it the torrents of rain on the windscreen that the piddly wipers couldn’t cope with, but next thing they were careening off the road and down a small embankment into a tree. Both the motor and Brother John gave a gasp and a shudder. All was still, except for Pinyama and Kwarikwaringa who were busily trying to extricate themselves from the tangle of arms and legs on the floor.
It was pitch black by now with the storm raging around them so Brother John could be forgiven for accidentally fondling a breast or two as he felt around the truck cabin to make sure the two sisters were still in one piece. And how was he supposed to know Pinyama’s succulent mouth was only inches from his in the dark when his lips accidentally came in contact with hers? And if she had needed him to linger a few moments to calm her fears then who was he to cause her any more distress by pulling away? And of course they’d want him to be sitting close to them with his big strong arms around them, so it was quite fortunate that considerate Brother John had been on the passenger side comforting the women when the tree fell against the driver’s side of the cabin. Pinyama and Kwarikwaringa certainly weren’t complaining.
Not like Sister Benedicta who found herself wedged in between Sister Clavier and Sister Jerome in the pantry with thirteen others. She had planned to sit the cyclone out in the church praying for protection but at the last moment had been summoned to the kitchen by Sister Jerome who needed a hand to lock the store rooms in case the bush mob came back unexpectedly and looted them. Sister Benedicta had never liked the bo
ssy Sister Jerome and had found it exceedingly difficult to not find fault with the woman, especially now as she had to deal with her acute halitosis at very close range as she whimpered and cried out to God to save them. But Sister’s thoughts were suddenly diverted elsewhere as the roof gave a final groan before disappearing into the darkness with the top two shelves of the pantry. They could hear other roofs blowing off and the sounds of buildings breaking up and blowing away as well. The rain pelted down while the wind screamed and blew preserves and dried foodstuffs off the shelves and onto the nuns huddled below. Sister Damien had lashed herself to a sack of rice and, knocked out by a flying jar of marmalade, now lay unconscious beside it while Sister Teresa’s veil had been ripped from her shorn head and sucked into the sky.
Father Macredie and the brothers hadn’t made it to the safety of the church either. Instead they were tightly squeezed into the bathroom of the presbytery. The roof had long gone and they sat in abject misery while the rain pissed down on them and waves from an abnormally high tide created by the storm surge lapped around their knees. In his terror, Brother Michael had thrown up and bits of semi-digested food floated around, although it was nowhere near as bad as the turds that had floated back up the septics and were bobbing merrily among them along with the carcass of a squashed rat. Rather than watch everyone flinch every time the debris came near their legs Father Macredie sharply turned the hurricane lamp off and they sat huddled in darkness.
It was still raining the next day as the nuns, battered and bleeding, emerged from the pantry only to discover that there was no mission anymore. The cast-iron wood stove that had been carefully transported to the Big Joint and then across to the mission all the way from a foundry in Tasmania was now sitting alone in the middle of a vast expanse of rubble. The flue had gone and from the hole in the stove top a furry little face appeared. The eyes surveyed the scene before the creature gingerly stepped through the mess and disappeared from sight. A second and third possum with a baby clinging to its back appeared and scurried off in the direction of the first.
Father Macredie and the brothers climbed over the wall that had been knocked in by a falling tree during the night and looked at the destruction that surrounded them. They’d already pulled out Brother Michael and two others who had been partially buried by the falling timbers, although Brother Stephen looked like he might have to get used to a neck brace and crutches for a while. Fortunately, nobody had sheltered in the church which had disappeared. All that remained were the stumps and a few floorboards.
It had been a different story for the ménage à trois. Brother John awoke exhausted and stiff with the sleeping Pinyama and Kwarikwaringa snuggled in his arms. And as he waited for the two women to wake up and his erection to subside he thought about the previous night. How was he going to reconcile his behaviour with the codes of practice of the church? But the more he thought about it the more he came to the conclusion that there really wasn’t anything to reconcile. God had said to love thy neighbour and that’s exactly what he’d done. He had shown love towards these two fellow human beings and they in turn had shown love towards him. He didn’t have a problem with that.
And when Pinyama and Kwarikwaringa did at length waken he smiled his beautiful smile at them because he had justified his account of things to God and he was happy. And they smiled back because they knew they’d stolen his soul and nothing was ever going to be the same anymore. It was with some reluctance that the three disengaged their bodies, climbed out the passenger side door and headed off back to the mission.
Wurruwataka
It had been a strange few days for Pwomiga and his Brothers as they sat contemplating the absurdity of it all. Why would anyone want to write down things they said and then make a book out of it? Which was what the latest unasked and unwanted visitor to their shores who had arrived a few days previously was doing. The illustrious Dr Colvin Curry, friend of his Most Exploitive, was a skinny little man whose sizeable nose and nervous demeanour reminded everyone of a rather large rat. But despite his odd appearance everyone nodded politely when Father Macredie introduced him, and they shook his trembling hand in peace when it was held out to them. And despite knowing that Curry was an anthropologist looking for new material and that the untouched beauty and secrets of their civilisation were as alluring to him as the siren is to a sailor, Pwomiga and the others were still a bit puzzled by it all.
To begin with Wurruwataka*, as Curry was now secretly named, had decided to do the genealogies. He wanted to know all their names, and the names of their wives and children, but had become decidedly confused when it came to young Mununga† whose four sons were also called Mununga. To add to the confusion two of the Munungas belonged to the same mother while the other two belonged to another one. Furthermore, two of the Munungas from the two mothers were the same age and it was extremely difficult for Wurruwataka to tell them apart even though they weren’t twins from the same mother.
*Rat
†Dolphin
‘But why did he call all of them Mununga?’ asked the exasperated Wurruwataka as he ripped another page out of his notebook and screwed it up.
‘He thought it was a good idea,’ said Pwomiga flatly, wondering why this supposed ‘clever man’ couldn’t work out a simple thing like that.
He didn’t bother to tell him that there were another three Munungas as well in case he started swearing again like he did when Pwomiga had told him that his name really wasn’t Pwomiga it was Ponkiwutjumayubruguduwayu. Wurruwataka had to rewrite Pwomiga’s family tree all over again with his proper name in it. He was a bad-tempered one alright, that Wurruwataka. Best to just tell him what he wanted to hear.
It had only been because of Pwomiga’s excellent command of the English language and his status as a wise medicine man, that the poor bastard had been given the irksome task of assisting Wurruwataka with his research, something that Pwomiga was regretting with each passing hour. He looked over to some of the other men who were lounging under the trees in the heat of the midday sun, only to quickly look away again as they made rat-like faces and pretended to clean imaginary whiskers in an attempt to make the sulking Pwomiga laugh. Father Macredie was lucky the bush mob considered it bad manners to be rude and ungracious towards visitors, otherwise Wurruwataka would have had a spear in him by now.
This rigmarole went on for a few more days and it was while explaining to the disbelieving – and clearly quite stupid – Wurruwataka that the six seasons could sometimes become five depending on seasonal factors, that Pwomiga realised the gullible fool had absolutely no way of knowing if his words were fabrication or fact. Being a bit of a larrikin he decided to test his theory out on the unsuspecting man.
‘And so what do you call that?’ asked Wurruwataka a short time later, pointing at a spear propped against a nearby tree.
‘Oh, I call him my timurarra*,’ replied the mischievous Pwomiga.
*penis
How the other blokes were going to laugh when he told them about this! Wurruwataka busily scribbled the information into his notebook, thankful for such a willing helper. Father Macredie certainly knew what he was doing when he suggested Pwomiga be his assistant; how easily he divulged all their ancient secrets to him. Not like the desert mob. Getting anything out of them was like trying to extract teeth.
‘And that?’ asked Wurruwataka as a gust of wind blew the pages of his notebook.
‘Oh we call that one dhooroo*.’
*fart
And so what had initially been a chore for Pwomiga was now a time of fun. The earlier resentment towards Wurruwataka had been replaced by the sense of camaraderie that only happens when the considered dumb-arse knows the unsuspecting smart-arse isn’t as smart as he thinks he is because somewhere along the way the roles have quietly been reversed.
What a fruitful day it had been for Wurruwataka! That evening he greedily read the day’s research back to hims
elf in the guest room at the presbytery. He practised some of the phrases Pwomiga had taught him, smiling at how the bush man had laughed heartily and clapped him on the back when he’d gotten the pronunciation right. That Pwomiga was such a happy soul. But still Wurruwataka was very mindful of the fact that his hero, Charles Darwin, had considered Australian Aborigines to be only slightly more advanced than the apes and so he couldn’t expect too much from poor old Pwomiga.
‘Awana juruliwa*,’ he repeated to himself.
*‘Hello, pubic hair’
He imagined the admiring glances Father Macredie and the others would be giving him shortly when he greeted them at dinner. He was so clever. And as Wurruwataka happily showed off his newfound knowledge to Father and the others and praised Sister Jerome’s lovely kundiri† with gravy and roast vegetables, Pwomiga and the rest of them at the camp were laughing so hard they could barely breathe.
‘Tell us again,’ wheezed Terrekalani as she rolled around the sand in a fit of hysterics.
This was better than pulling the bung on Kumwarrni’s canoe and watching him outswim the tiger shark when it sunk.
As the weeks turned into months, Wurruwataka would arrive in the bush camp each morning, except for Sundays. He’d fill his notebooks with ‘information’ and then each evening happily take his leave of the camp while the men would gather to make up more stories for the morrow.
‘To think he actually believed that one,’ snorted Jerrengkerritirrti as the others chuckled over Wurruwataka’s excitement when Kumwarrni had told him the boat dance at a funeral that he had intruded on earlier in the day was a rain dance.
Every Secret Thing Page 5