Long Gone the Corroboree

by Tony Parsons

  Steele entered his workroom and there, behind the voluptuousness of the purple and the red bougainvilleas, he sat down and began to write. For hours he sweated over a song about Billy, the boy he’d first met years ago. He worked at the song well into the night until finally he had a first draft that he thought was all right. Some words might need to be changed and he’d look at them the next day, but he’d poured his thoughts onto the screen and felt better for the experience.

  The next morning, Steele re-worked some of the lines and then sang them. The song sounded fine, sounded just like Billy. He thought Billy would like it and he’d have it to give to him when he came home.

  Steele put away his guitar and went out to water his garden, filling up the empty bird-trays with seed and some honey-soaked bread. He didn’t like to make the birds dependent on him but he was selfish enough to want them to feel welcome in his garden. And today, he wanted their company more than ever. When he returned to the cottage, he sat on the back veranda and watched the gaily-coloured lorikeets come to the trays, scratching and pecking without any concern for the man watching them, and their happy chatter helped to fill a little of the emptiness he felt.

  Steele knew that he couldn’t leave this place. Not ever. It was unthinkable that he could ever return to Sydney to live. Or any other city for that matter. There would be no magic there as there was in this place. And to allow anyone else to live at Jerogeree wasn’t an option. Steele felt that at Jerogeree, he’d been touched by something beyond his power to comprehend.

  As his mind ranged over all the countries presently plagued by conflict, drought and diseases, or governed unjustly by dictators, he felt especially grateful to live in such a place and in such a country. He also felt very humble to be blessed with the gift of writing because it was the reason he’d been able to live here. He didn’t live in a swanky house, and he didn’t need to. Here at Jerogeree, he had everything that he needed. He felt very sorry for people who had to work at humdrum jobs in the crowded cities, cities becoming more crowded year by year as new arrivals crammed into them. He even felt sorry for the people in high-paying jobs because of the pressure on them to perform while living their expensive lifestyles. He supposed that there was something of the same kind of pressure on him to keep writing best-selling books, but the way he looked at it, if a book wasn’t a success, it wasn’t the end of the world. There would always be another book. And while he wrote it, there was this place.

  What Steele hoped was that the books he had written up to now would be eclipsed by those he planned to write in the years ahead. What he’d done was merely a beginning. There was so much more to write about: the utter futility of war with its pointless wastage of human life and the need for the peoples of the world to unite to defeat starvation, disease, ignorance and bigotry. He would write about religions too, those that had failed the world and spawned hatred and cruelty, and those that empowered individuals to overcome hatred and intolerance.

  Steele was aware that his writing plans would fill a lifetime, but he would attempt it. It would be a lonely road, yet he felt that he’d not survived his illness to waste his life. He was sure that he’d been brought to Jerogeree for a definite purpose. The gold he’d discovered seemed to him to be part of the overall scheme of things. It would enable him to stay focused and to ensure that Billy and his son wouldn’t lack for anything. In the short term, there was Billy’s rehabilitation to consider and how best to achieve it. Billy’s physical injuries were one thing, but it was what the accident and its two deaths had done to him mentally that concerned Steele most of all. Billy might not want to sing again and especially not in front of an audience. Steele felt that it was going to take some powerful ‘medicine’ to restore Billy to his old self. Yes, there was plenty of work ahead of him and all of it challenging. There were battles to be won and they would require significant input from him. And with those thoughts uppermost in his mind, Steele rose from his seat and headed for his computer…

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It had taken several months but Billy was now back with his mother, Tess, and his baby son, Charlie. Thanks to Steele, he had a fulltime nurse-therapist to help him manage as he came to terms with his injuries and life on crutches. The doctors said that with enough work, he would eventually walk unaided, as the last operation appeared to have been successful. He had a new knee joint but the muscles in his legs had wasted a lot and needed attention. Billy, as Steele had anticipated, was still full of remorse about the deaths of Jackie and her brother, and even the presence of his baby son didn’t do much to stir him out of his lethargy. This wasn’t at all the old Billy and Steele hadn’t managed to find a counter for it. He would listen to his mother singing, but he couldn’t be persuaded to join in. Steele bought the latest offerings from country and western artists and while Billy would listen to them, he showed no great enthusiasm for any one of them. Except for medical reasons, Billy never went anywhere but stayed in the sanctuary provided by his mother’s house and his nurse’s ministrations. He couldn’t be prevailed upon to visit Jerogeree either. As Lilly told Steele, Billy was aware that he’d let him down and he felt huge guilt because of it. Steele hadn’t given any indication of his disappointment over Billy’s behaviour but Billy imagined it was there and it placed a constraint on their conversations. There was no longer the free and easy repartee of old. Steele searched his mind for some way to break through Billy’s apathy and get him taking an interest in music again. But so far, he had been unsuccessful.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Steele climbed out of bed, still preoccupied with Billy’s disinclination to again become part of the human race. He walked out to the back veranda to allow his eyes to take in the vista of garden and creek. It was a shining dawn with sunlight glittering off every dewdrop and he sat for a few minutes while he considered his programme for the day.

  When Steele rose, he walked through the cottage to the front door, stepped onto the veranda then stopped in his stride and blinked. There, stretched out on his veranda was a sleeping man, a sleeping black man. He was quite the most ancient looking man Steele had ever encountered. He was partly covered by an old, grey blanket and his head was pillowed on a kind of kitbag. The old man had a head of silver white hair and a matching beard and his face, or that side of it that lay exposed, was deeply lined.

  Steele looked down at the man and his first thought was that he might be dead. But as he watched the man’s chest rise and fall, he saw that there was still breath in him. Who was he? Certainly not anyone he’d seen previously in town nor a visitor to Lilly’s home. Since Billy’s accident, there’d been quite a few visitors there, but this old chap hadn’t been one of them.

  Steele sat down on a veranda chair and scrutinised his visitor. He was a look-alike for the Aboriginal politician, Neville Bonner, but a great deal older than Bonner had been when he’d died some years earlier. The old man was wearing a holey red pullover, a faded dark blue shirt and brown trousers. On his feet he wore a pair of worn grey sports shoes without any socks. Various smells emanated from beneath the blanket. There was the smell of an old unwashed man mixed with that of what appeared to be the residue of smoky fires. Steele tugged the blanket gently to cover the old man more fully and then went inside to make his breakfast.

  On an impulse, Steele quickly mixed up a batch of scones, added some sultanas to the mix and placed them in his oven to cook before settling down to eat. By the time he was done eating, his scones were ready and he took them out, placed a cloth over them and then went back to the front veranda to check on his sleeping visitor. The old man was still sleeping soundly and didn’t stir until just before lunchtime. Steele was sitting in his chair, watching him, when at last, he woke.

  Steele nodded his head by way of a greeting as the old man sat up.

  “G’day, boss,” the old man said in a deep, guttural voice.

  “G’day,” Steele said pleasantly. “Feel better?”

  “Better for short time. Come long way,
boss. Take long time. Not much tucker. Not matter now. Me close up dead, boss. Come long way to die. Proper long way. Come long way to see you before I die. You not believe story I have to tell you.”

  “How do you know I won’t believe you? You must have had some faith in me to make the journey you tell me you’ve done,” Steele said. “Who are you? That’s the first thing I’d like to know.”

  “White-fella call me Charlie but black-fella name Marjaru,” the old man said.

  “Marjaru. Good heavens!” Steele gasped.

  “You know about me, boss?”

  “Oh, yes, I know about you.”

  “Thought you would. Spirits tell me so. Tell me about you,” Marjaru said.

  “What about some tucker before any more talk. You’re probably hungry. I have some scones ready, or I can cook you some eggs and meat,” Steele said. He held out his hand. “I’m Clayton Steele. I’m usually called Clay.”

  “Me know who you are. Know lot about you. Piss now and then have tucker,” the old man said. He threw off the old blanket, tottered down the front steps, walked a little way to one side of the house and urinated.

  “Feel plenty better now, boss,” he said as he came back to where Steele was standing at the top of the steps.

  “Where have you come from, Charlie?” Steele asked. He decided to dispense with using the old chap’s Aboriginal name.

  “Proper long way, boss. Take plenty days to get here. More better I tell you whole story after you gib me tucker. Plenty hungry, boss. No tucker last two days. Old man still need some tucker.”

  “Two days without food. That’s no good.” He took Charlie inside, sat him at the kitchen table and proceeded to butter some scones. He filled a mug with black tea, added two generous spoonfuls of sugar and pushed it and a glass container of rosella jam across to Charlie. Charlie applied a generous coating of jam to two scones and chewed them with obvious pleasure.

  “Eat as many as you like,” Steele said. “I’ll put on some eggs and chops.”

  The old chap nodded and went on chewing.

  Charlie spread the rosella fruit jam on two more scone halves and ate them. Rosella jam ran from his mouth and into his beard like blood seeping from a cut.

  “Jam plenty good. Scones plenty good, too. Good tucker for old man,” Charlie said with a grin.

  “Would you like more tea? You can have it with the eggs and chops if you like,” Steele said.

  After he’d eaten two lamb chops and fried eggs, Charlie sat back and nodded. “Extra good tucker, Clay-fella. This place like I bin told only more better now,” Charlie said.

  “Who told you about it and about me?” Steele asked.

  “You not believe me if I tell you, Clay-fella.”

  “You could try me,” Steele said with a gentle smile. “Who told you about this place?”

  “The mother of my mother, Clay-fella. She born here. She and my grandfather left when Hewitt-fella kill Gubbi Gubbi men and women with poison. Grandfather’s brother killed Hewitt with club. Then, he go away with the others. What left of Gubbi Gubbi go further out. Go long, long way,” Charlie said.

  “How old are you, Charlie?” Steele asked.

  The old man’s face wrinkled into deeper furrows. “Not proper know, Clay-fella. R’member first big white-fella war. Charlie was boy-fella then. Now, close up die. Charlie last true Gubbi Gubbi man left from them that go long way. Come back to die. Spirits call me back because of you, Clay-fella. This was favourite place of the Gubbi Gubbi. Plenty fish and duck. Go down to coast and get fish and oysters but always come back here for corroborees,” Charlie said.

  “How do I come into the picture?”

  “When Hewitt kill many Gubbi Gubbi people, this place became what you say…?”

  “Cursed?” Steele suggested.

  “Damned right. Cursed. Spirits of dead very angry. Not right place for Gubbi Gubbi people while Hewitt curse stay here. That all change when you come here and help Billy Sanders. Him still Gubbi Gubbi. Then, you write great book about what happened in this place. Spirits tell me you best white man ever lived here, Clay-fella. When I hear what happened to Billy, it was time to come back. Billy-silly-fella. I talk to him and then, I lie down and die,” the old man said.

  “What else do the spirits tell you?”

  “You stay here long time, Clay-fella. Spirits look after you. You not ordinary white-fella who not care about black-fella. You tell about the big killing of the Gubbi Gubbi by first Hewitt fella. He shoot and poison Gubbi Gubbi people. Very bad man. Bad man in the south and bad man here. But Gubbi Gubbi man fixed him good and proper,” Charlie said.

  “How do you know what I’ve done, Charlie?” asked an astonished Steele.

  “Charlie know. Spirits tell. Charlie sit down under tree and dream of Jerogeree and then the spirits tell of you, Clay-fella,” Charlie said.

  Steele was very doubtful about the ‘spirits’ and thought it far more likely that Charlie’s information was sourced from other Murri in his immediate area, but that was an opinion he’d keep to himself. The worst thing you could do to a shaman was pull him down a peg or two.

  Little by little, Steele learned Charlie’s story. It came out over a period of about three weeks during which period, Charlie, or Marjaru, as he sometimes referred to himself, grew gradually frailer. Steele saw that he was literally dying on his feet. And as the old man shared his story, Steele wrote the tale that Charlie spoke:

  ’After Jack Hewitt Senior poisoned the Gubbi Gubbi people, those who were left packed up and left Jerogeree. All except three men who were chosen to exact retribution on Hewitt. One of these was the brother of Charlie’s, or Marjaru’s grandfather. Together they clubbed Hewitt to death and then followed in the path of the other Gubbi Gubbi. They walked to the land of the Wakelbura, camped there for a while and then, when the spirits told them that the black police were on their trail, they headed north. They left the Gilbert River to the west and made camp in hilly country, just south of the Daintree River. Here, they stayed and were safe because at the first hint of police interest, they disappeared into the rainforest. There was plenty of food on land and in the water. Later, when he was older, Charlie’s grandfather guided prospectors to the Palmer River country where the discovery of gold was luring people from all over Australia and outside it.

  Charlie told of his father meeting the great author, Ion ‘Jack’ Idriess, who was prospecting in the area but that Idriess had no idea he was a Gubbi Gubbi man and passed him off as one of the local Aborigines. He also told of the many Chinese who braved the rainforest in search of gold, and he told of murders, too. Charlie told stories of his own childhood in the north, of huge crocodiles and great pythons and of cassowaries, tree kangaroos and ‘green’ possums. And then, he told Steele of the half-Malay girl who had become his wife because there was no suitable Gubbi Gubbi girl he was able to marry.

  Gradually, the original Gubbi Gubbi group had died out, leaving the young Charlie alone. There had been periods when he’d worked on properties and also been a tracker for the police before going to live with his daughter in Cooktown. It was from there that, eventually, he began his journey to Jerogeree. He had become a legendary figure in the north as one of the last of the ‘old’ Aborigines in communication with the spirit world and one who could also ‘see’ into the future.

  Charlie stayed and Steele fed him, trying to build up the old man’s strength, but no matter how hard he tried, Steele couldn’t persuade the old man to sleep in the house. Initially, Charlie slept on blankets on the back veranda until Steele managed to locate a shearer’s cot and mattress. During the day, Charlie would walk down the slope to the creek and, with his back against a tree, gaze into the distance. Steele sometimes sat beside him.

  “What do you see out there?” Steele asked on one of the occasions they were together.

  “I see plenty. Hear plenty, too. Spirits close by, Clay-fella. I see Gubbi Gubbi people round their fires and I see the corroborees over the creek. All t
his, the spirit land of the Gubbi Gubbi. We bin here long, long time. Then white-fella come and take it all away. Chop down big trees, take our land, kill Gubbi Gubbi people. Pretty soon, white-fellas own everything. No more proper black-fellas. If we not go, we get killed, too. Now, the spirits call me back to my country. Pretty soon, I die here Clay-fella. You bury me here, not in white-fella place. Not tell anyone. Only you and spirits know where Marjaru is buried.”

  Steele considered what Charlie had said. The old chap was asking him to break the law because it was illegal to conceal a death and burial.

  “You know it’s against the law for me to do that, Charlie,” Steele said.

  “Haw,” Charlie snorted. “White-fella law no good to Gubbi Gubbi when Hewitt-fella shot and poisoned them. Who will care that this old black-fella is buried here? This is what the spirits want… why I come long, long way, Clay-fella. You extra good fella-white man. You bury me here. Me last left of the Gubbi Gubbi pushed from our country. Spirits look after you long time.”

  “Very well, you have my word. I’ll do it. I’ll bury you here,” Steele said.

  “You good man, Clay-fella. Proper good fella. You look after old, skinny, black-fella you never seen before. Gib him tucker, gib him bed. Best of all, you listen to Charlie. I not ask for nothin’, only to be buried here. Now, I give you something from long ago,” Charlie said.

  “I don’t want anything, Charlie,” Steele protested. “I can never forget what was done here. It was murder and nobody cared. I can’t give you back all the country taken from your people, but I can bury you here on Gubbi Gubbi land. It’s a very small thing to do for you, Charlie,” Steele said sincerely.