by Ed Hillyer
I said:
– Well probably that oath may be his end. Come, Farr and Meredith, let us go. You hear what is said. Goodbye, Mrs Peck. God bless you for what you have done for us men this morning.
Sarah modulated her voice a little higher, to signify the change of speaker back to Mrs Peck.
– Goodbye, dear children. But you had better go up on that high hill and stop for a little while, to satisfy yourselves with the truth in respect of what I have told you of Luker. I then…
No, Bruce had resumed his narrative.
Sudden weariness threatened to overtake Sarah. She had been working hard for far too long. It was time to speed things to a close.
I then took my leave of this bright and efficacious soul Mrs Peck, and complying with her last sentiments I went on the said high hill above mentioned, and in a short time I was perfectly convinced of what I had heard of Luker. For I see him with about 30 more poor untimely creatures like himself, filing through the woods on search of my life, and the other two poor wretches that was with me. Now they danced round the house of my dear loving sister Peck, just like the serpent round the garden of Job, when God gave him permission to tempt Job.
Here my weary bowels yearned, when I saw the deception of mankind one to the other.
Sarah closed her notebook. There was more, but her voice had begun to give out.
‘I’d like you to meet me, just across the street, tomorrow morning at a nine o’clock,’ she said, smartly. ‘Will you do that?’
Brippoki nodded, mutely.
Sarah stood, and indicated the window.
‘Very good then,’ she said. ‘Until tomorrow.’
CHAPTER XXIX
Friday the 5th of June, 1868
THE BUSH OF GHOSTS
‘For in and out, above, about, below,
’Tis nothing but a Magic Shadow-show,
Play’d in a Box whose Candle is the Sun,
Round which we Phantom Figures come and go.’
~ Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám
Crestfallen, Brippoki returns to his nest on the roof. The previous night, his audience with the Guardian and Deadman ended, he had never left the house, but crawled up over the eaves and out of sight; collapsing, at long last, into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Brippoki tucks himself again into that same recess, out of the chill winds.
Having slept there for much of the day, he can do no more than rest awhile. Some hours before dawn, he drifts into the Dreaming.
The paper yabber makes him liver-sick with memory, of stringy bark, gum and peppermint trees, towering above dogwood, tea-tree, and honeysuckle. Brippoki yearns for an open landscape, the rhythm of a different drum. His belly misses more than ever the sugar-bags, nardoo and witchety grubs, all proper oonjoo. He tongues for them.
The night is crisp and clear. It has been two and two and one more dark since he last saw the face of Mityan, hunter moon. Thin and hungry then, Brippoki worried that He had since wasted all away. The hunter has only been Walkabout, trailing the game He has eaten all up. Mityan is back, and blazes, full-up bingee.
The bright sky tastes sharp of another moonlit night, when the elders had stolen him away. The boy inside should have died the next day, and been reborn a man – an entirely different being, worthy of both new appearance and new name – a proud warrior of the Wudjubalug.
His people.
Where are they now – his father? His mother? Where, his brothers and sisters? More than a world away – their souls belong to another place.
Seeing as it is a full moon, and in an effort to cheer himself, Brippoki starts to sing the hunting song of Wile, the opossum.
‘Kawemukka minnurappindo, Durtikarro minnurappindo,
Tarralye minnurappindo, Wimmari minnurappindi!
Kirki minnurappindo…’
‘If pris’ner in a foreign land,
no friend, no money at command…’
Brippoki hesitates, before continuing.
‘…Wattetarpirri minnurappindo…’
‘That man thou trusted hast alone,
All knowledge of thee should disown…’
There it is again, distorted by echo. A man’s voice, much harsher than his own, and yet faint from being carried on the wind unknowable distance.
‘…Worrikarro…’
‘If this should vex thee to the core,
I prithee Messmate stay ashore,
There like a lubber whine and blubber
Still for thy ease and safety busy.’
‘…minnurappin…do…’
‘Nor dare to come where honest Tom,
and Ned and Nick, and Ben and Phil,
and Jack and Dick and Bob and Bill
All weathers sing and drink the swizzy!’
As the rough and roaring voice launches into a chorus, the whistling wind snatches it away, just as suddenly as it had arrived – a raucous sailor song, the likes of which Brippoki heard aplenty while on board the Parramatta. The good Captain Williams preferred to teach them only church hymns.
Brippoki advances a step or two, meaning to follow, only to halt and think better of it.
A full moon, and yet – he is not the hunter.
Listening out for some feather-light tread not his own, he sets off in an opposite direction.
~
Dear…
Dear Charles,
Setting pen to paper, Sarah Larkin wrote to remind the Royal Naval clerk of his ‘kind and generous’ offer. She declared the manuscript found, outlined a little of the extra detail discovered, and requested copies of what, if any, documentation concerning George Bruce might be held at the Admiralty.
Conscience kept returning her to the top line, entirely too familiar for her tastes. She hardly knew the man, and in all honesty preferred it that way: it would be wrong for her to encourage him.
A formal address would be best.
Dear Charles, Sir,
Sarah scrapped the letter and started again.
Half an hour later, her endeavours completed, she crossed Great Russell-street to the posting-box outside No.38. She had forgotten her gloves. Feet balancing on the edge of the kerb, poised to return, she found herself looking up at No.89 as if a stranger to it.
A relic of the Regency era, their house was typical of its kind: five storeys tall, including the cellar floor, and narrow, perhaps only 25 or 30 feet wide at the most. A terraced property, simply constructed, it had but two main rooms to each storey. Two and sometimes three windows at the front overlooked the street. Those at the back faced the unattended yard behind.
Wavering, unsteady, Sarah examined each floor in turn. John Epps, physician, occupied the ground and below-ground floors and, as landlord, owned the entirety. On the first floor, at the front, was their parlour, or lounge, the kitchen and a small bathroom out of sight at the back. Directly above was her father’s bedroom; his study at the front now largely neglected. The top front room of the house was her bedroom, with the maids’ former sleeping quarters behind. The sweep of the stairwell, towards the rear of the house, significantly reduced the breadth of each back room.
Though she searched it for any sort of associate feeling, her heart was empty. Bodies filled the crossing, buffeting her as they bustled past. Still she stood, eventually staring into the open sky. A beautiful clear day, the clouds were gone: her wish granted.
Another break in the traffic – without further ado she hurried on.
As she approached the Museum, the figure of Brippoki appeared as if by magic. The moment he separated from the crowd, Sarah noticed a wild glint in his eye.
‘I’m sorry if last night ended somewhat abruptly,’ she said. ‘Only I felt so very tired all of a sudden.’
He said nothing. She walked on, almost immediately turning.
‘Thank you,’ she added, ‘for agreeing to join me this morning.’
Without comment Sarah handed him another pair of her father’s shoes, stockings too. Brippoki accepted them obediently. As he
bent to slip the shoes on, she saw his left trouser leg, half torn entirely away. The bottoms were shredded beyond repair, impossible even to tie with bowyangs. She couldn’t give away Lambert’s entire wardrobe!
They stood alongside the tall black railings, shortly before the main gates to the British Museum.
‘I thought we might take a look at the manuscript together,’ announced Sarah. ‘The original.’ She took care not to pronounce it a suggestion: her mind was made up.
Through the gates, they approached the main building. She flourished a sheaf of notes. ‘For ease of reference,’ she said, ‘I have prepared an abstract of Bruce’s story. As a ranger in the wilderness, for instance, he collected insects for a Dr Caley.’
As they closed with the Museum steps, the broad shadow of the looming building fell across Brippoki. He appeared to jolt.
‘This,’ said Sarah quickly, ‘was most likely Dr George Caley, botanist and explorer, a protégé of Sir Joseph Banks…’ She regretted the foreign term. ‘His student, I should say.’
The Aborigine’s wild eyes widened further. She was losing him.
‘Toongabbe, as you say, was the base for his activities at this time.’ She spiked the familiar word like bait to a hook.
Before they could mount the steps leading up to the main entrance, Brippoki dug in his heels. Determined to achieve her goal, Sarah skipped ahead, talking faster. ‘The Governor General of the colony was a Major Francis…Grose…’ Keen to egg him on, she made a slight return.
‘Thara,’ he said. ‘No go there.’
‘It’s all right,’ she cooed. ‘It’s a Friday. The general public are admitted.’
She held out her hand to him. Brippoki retreated a step backwards, violently shaking his head.
Honestly! He was just like herself at three years old, being forced to attend church.
‘Brippoki!’ she said. ‘I’ll still take notes! I just want you to see for yourself…’
His head shaking all the faster, he looked ready to bolt. Sarah smiled, kindly. ‘Not being able to read is nothing to be ashamed of,’ she said.
She thought she was being very clever, but misread him completely. His hands waved, imploring, in the air. She suddenly grasped one in her own. As shocking to him as it was to her, their flesh touched. They sprang apart.
‘Not enter dat place,’ he insisted. Without raising his voice at all, Brippoki spoke with ultimate conviction. ‘Place for dead men,’ he spat.
‘A “place for”…? A few days ago you led me into a graveyard!’ she protested. ‘How could this be any worse?’
This hollow mountain does not exist in his Dreaming. And as for what lies inside…
Guruwari.
Brippoki thrusts his chin forward, underscoring his decision with one final shake of the head.
Turning a deaf ear to the Guardian’s cries, he jogs swiftly away.
With a slight tug of resentment, Sarah pulled the manuscript from the ad libitum shelves, where it nestled between two taller, slimmer volumes, A Lecture on the Extreme Folly and Danger of Servants Going on Errands before they are Sent, and The Adventures of a Pincushion.
Ungrateful heathen, more stubborn-headed than a mule – if he had only agreed to accompany her, Brippoki might then have seen for himself what lay ahead, and given her some vital direction. It would have made her present task so much easier.
Rather than resume the transcript, she went over her abstract, and continued researching the related gazetteer.
Bruce and his Life dated back to the very earliest days of settlement. Major Francis Grose, Commandant of the New South Wales Corps, had arrived in the colony in 1792: acting governor on first Governor Phillip’s departure, he soon retired, due to ill-health, in 1794.
Matthew Flinders, English navigator and explorer, was the first to circumnavigate Van Diemen’s Land, and the man said by some to have given Australia its name. The Memoirs asserted that Bruce had sailed with Flinders; the Life gave the impression he had not. Which was false?
With regard to lesser individuals, common settlers – a few previous acquaintances of Bruce in some capacity or other (fellow convicts on board the Royal Admiral perhaps?) – they would have already been forgotten by history. Starting on a fresh page, Sarah anyway initiated an entry list.
George PELL
Joshua PECK (‘joshsire peck’) or PEEK, variously
Joseph LUKER
Sarah tapped her teeth with her pencil.
She had imagined the Aborigine’s skin would be hot to the touch, and damp. It was entirely opposite: smooth, certainly, not unlike the dark wood it best resembled, but also cold, and dry. She knew what it was: Lambert had once described to her the sensation of handling a snake. Brippoki felt reptilian.
Quitting the Museum grounds directly, Brippoki makes his way south. He feels he must attend to Thara’s advice, in all things. She is the Guardian. In interpreting the words of the dead, he relies on her completely – yet there can be no exchange.
He can see that it hurts and annoys her. But only a fool would further risk the wrath of the Red Ochre Men. Their sole function is to punish Lawbreakers. Women exist outside of religion. All ceremonies are meilmeil – tabu. And if the woman is also whitefellow?
He cannot be certain that two wrongs make a right.
No longer following the compulsive paths of his nights’ Dreaming, he prefers to stick close to those regions best resembling them, as the Guardian’s own house does. Elsewhere, everything looks wrong.
Past the burnt black church an endless stream of vehicles confronts him. Hazarding his life more than once, he eventually crosses over. A few streets further south and west and their rolling thunder no longer breaks on his ear with such pain.
All burial-places are liable to be haunted by evil spirits, and therefore to be avoided. The brick holes rich with wine, the ancient oak, the walking beneath the water; the city is riddled with such portals. The graveyard, too, was filled with trees, rich with links between Lowerworld, earth, and sky. Allowing himself to be led there before was a mistake, quite possibly compounded by leading a woman there in turn.
And now, in trying to lead him inside the mountain, the Guardian further diverts him from a wise course.
Any person, when guiding a stranger through their country, is often required to misdirect them. They must be led away from sites of spiritual significance. Were their situations reversed, he would do the same.
Here, in this place, the cold stone smothers all life. Somewhere beneath the stone sleeps the earth. Earth, giver of life, of a man’s food, the repository of his spirit and thought, whose gentle embrace awaits him on the day he will die.
In an entire city of the dead, it is hard to know where to begin, and when to end. But even within these mystery parameters, there are limits.
To trespass on their sacred sites is something he cannot afford.
‘Chestnuts all ’ot, a penny a score!’
‘Buy, buy, buy, buy, BU-U-UY!’
‘Fish, fried fish! Ha’penny. Fish, fried fish!’
‘D’you want me, Jack?’
Brippoki stares at the young boy. From the gruffness of his voice, his mock gravity – dressed exactly like his elders – he thinks him a grown man, stunted by deformity.
Eliciting no response, the boy turns aside.
‘Oy, cocksparrer,’ a street-seller calls him over. ‘You odd-jobbin’? Over ’ere, then.’
‘Want a boy, Bill?’ says the youngster.
‘Just said, didn’ I? An’ me name’s Jack,’ croaks the barrow-merchant. ‘Come an’ cry the goods for me. Me voice is all but broke. There’s bunse in it for ya!’
The youngster’s face shines. For a split-second, he is a boy again. Tugging proudly at the trailing corners of his neckerchief, he proceeds to hawk the weary coster’s wares.
‘Fish, fried fish!’ he shouts. ‘Tuppence f’r three!’
The barrows clog pavement and road alike with oranges, onions, herrings and watercress, ch
eap second-hand furniture, old iron, and rabbit skins. Brippoki is obliged to step over the heaving baskets as they spill out into his path.
‘Soles, oh!… Live haddick… Ee-ee-eels alive, oh! Mackareel! Mack-mack-mackereel!’
‘Oranges, two a penny!’
Spoiled fish and fruits form a greasy mash underfoot. Brippoki’s senses reel. He jams a thumb into each ear, and cross-weaves the fingers of both hands across his face to press his nostrils shut. The din and confusion melts into a low background hum, accompanied by the sounds of his own steady breathing.
Through this fleshy mask, he watches as the people float past. Mouths open and close, issuing their dumb, indifferent cries; baby birds and gasping fish.
Passing behind the stallholders, he looks into the avid faces of the crowd. They find their meals in the streets, and eat them on their thumbs.
Brippoki makes his way down Dudley-street, a mart for old clothes, secondhand boots and shoes. He sidles up to one of the displays, slips off the footstinkers that Thara has most recently gifted him, and leaves them there.
A bird-fancier parades by, tame songbirds perched along each outstretched sleeve. An eager line of waifs and strays follows on. Intrigued, Brippoki joins them.
They arrive at a point where seven streets meet.
Brippoki turns on the spot, dumbfounded. Seven paths to choose from, and each looks much the same as another.
Which way now?
He squats with his back to the pillar raised at the centre of the Seven Dials. He dares not move forward. Brippoki looks around, and around, and around.
In all directions the markets proliferate, street vendors offering up for sale every possible trinket – cutlery, old clothes, rat poison, toys and spectacles, pet goldfish. Bird-and dog-men, singers, peddlers of prints, the makers of doormats, the blind hawking matches or needles; each pursues his trade with a single-minded fixity, verging on obsession.