Long Gone the Corroboree

by Tony Parsons

  The old chap nodded. “You very good man, Clay-fella. I know you want nothing, but I show you something now,” he said.

  They walked back to the house and climbed the steps on to the back veranda. Charlie pulled his kitbag from under his cot and with one bony hand, extracted a hide-bag tied with a leather thong. “Charlie bring this for you Clay-fella,” the old man said as he handed the bag to Steele.

  The weight of the bag surprised Steele. He untied the thong and tipped the bag’s contents on to the top blanket of the cot. The gold made a solid, clunking sound and Steele looked up in to Charlie’s smiling eyes.

  “Pretty good for poor old black-fella, eh? You plenty surprised, Clay-fella?”

  There was nothing like the quantity of gold in this bag that Steele had found at the base of the old outhouse, but what there was represented quite a lot of money because the nuggets were virtually pure gold. It was the last thing he’d expected to receive from the old black man who had come out of the blue to die at Jerogeree.

  “Where did you get this, Charlie?”

  “Yella-fella. Long time ago, black-fellas kill two Chinee fellas. They had plenty gold. Charlie’s father find some and hide it properly. Not say anything. Charlie’s father not want to be blamed for Chinee killings. When spirits tell me to come back to Jerogeree, I dig up the gold for you. You stay here, die here and your spirit live with Gubbi Gubbi spirits. Only white man any damned good,” Charlie said.

  “I don’t know what to say, Charlie,” Steele said as he looked down at the gold. Just as with his own discovery, the gold put him in an awkward situation, as there was nobody he could return the gold to, with the original owners long dead. He gathered up the nuggets, put them back in the bag and tied it up. He took the bag inside and put it in a kitchen drawer. Later, when he was on his own, he’d transfer it to where he had the other gold hidden.

  That night, Steele sang the song he’d composed for Billy that had made him a star overnight. “What do you think, Charlie? Does it sound okay to you?”

  The old man seemed to be struggling for the right reply because he made several false starts before uttering a coherent answer. “Properly bloody wonderful, Clay-fella. Better than any black-fella ever write about this place.”

  So Steele told him how he’d come to write the song and that Billy had sung it at Tamworth and made a great name for himself. He told him that the record had sold in thousands, and because of the song, many people had come to learn of Jerogeree. This record and the book he’d written about the Gubbi Gubbi massacre, ensured that what had occurred along Jerogeree Creek would never be forgotten.

  “Your book plenty good, Clay-fella. Even this old black-fella heard about it. One Murri tell another and by and by one tell me. Then, the spirits tell me to come here, die here on my people’s country, and I come. You best white-fella I ever know,” Charlie said.

  Steele told Charlie that he was very worried about Billy. “He’s depressed, Charlie. He blames himself for killing his partner and her brother. That may be partly true as he’d been to a party the previous night and was probably half asleep, but the local police said it was an accident caused by a herd of water buffalo on the road. Whatever the cause, Billy still blames himself. But life has to go on and he has a baby son to look out for. I’d like you to talk to him, Charlie. He seemed very impressed that Marjaru had sent him a message stick while he was in hospital in Darwin. I think he needs another jolt and seeing you in person might do the trick. I can take you up in the van. It’s not far up the road,” Steele said.

  Charlie agreed to go so Steele rang Lilly’s house, got Tess and told her that he’d be bringing Marjaru the next morning and would she see to it that they had a good smoko ready for the old man.

  “You mean the Marjaru?” Tess asked.

  “I mean the Marjaru,” Steele said.

  “What’s he doing with you?”

  “It’s a long story, Tess, which I’ll tell you one day. But I want him to talk to Billy while he’s still here to do it because his days are numbered.”

  “Gawd,” Tess muttered.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Tess.”

  It was Tess who opened the front door to them next morning. She escorted them through to the back veranda where Billy sat in an easy chair, with his crutches beside him. Anna, his nurse-therapist sat beside him.

  “You might go and help Tess for a minute, Anna,” Steele said, and the young woman nodded.

  Steele pulled up a chair and Charlie sat in it, subjecting Billy to a searching scrutiny.

  “G’day, Billy. Like Clay-fella say, me Marjaru, last pure blood Gubbi Gubbi-fella from them that go away. Me come home, Billy-fella. Come home to die. Only you and Clay-fella know that. You keep secret. Tell nobody. Spirits tell me to come back here like spirits tell me to send you message in Darwin.”

  The old man moved in his chair and Steele could hear the click of his ancient bones as he pulled himself closer to Billy.

  “You proper good singer fella. Clay-fella sing me song he wrote for you, make you big-time singer. You let Clay-fella down, Billy. What you doin’ sittin’ here feelin’ sorry for yourself? Who’ll sing of Gubbi Gubbi people if you sit here like big sook? Want to leave it all to Clay-fella? I know about you, Billy-fella. I come from long way away but I hear of you. You never see me again, Billy. I close up to die. Maybe when I go, you and Clay-fella sing about Marjaru, last man of the Gubbi Gubbi people gone away. You sing about the Gubbi Gubbi, Billy. You get off your arse. You do something for your people. You got proper good man to help you. Clay-fella best white man I ever know. Clay-fella look out for you and your boy. Him Charlie, too… He not let Clay-fella down like you done. Not drink piss and smash up cars. Not let money bugger him up proper. Now, you got ’nother chance. Spirits tell me you be okay this time. Not mess up again. Show Clay-fella you proper man. You hear me, Billy-fella?”

  Billy looked at the withered old man with awe in his eyes. “Yes, I hear you, Charlie. I won’t mess up again. Thank you for coming to see me. I’ll never forget your visit,” Billy said, as tears slid down his face.

  “Plenty true, Billy-fella. When winds blow down from mountains of glass, Gubbi Gubbi spirits come back to remind you of Marjaru. We have drink o’ tea now, Clay-fella?”

  It was a scene not one of the people on that veranda would ever forget. Not Lilly or Tess, or Anna, and especially not Billy. And not even Clay himself. There, at the head of the dining room table was the most ancient black man any of them had ever seen or would ever see. He was the last of a vanished people, a black man called Marjaru, whose name and existence had been whispered about for years, one of the very last of the Aborigines with psychic powers, a man who the spirits talked to.

  When he had drunk his tea, Charlie made a last request. “You bring show Marjaru young Charlie-fella,” he asked of no one in particular. Tess got up and presently came back carrying Billy’s son.

  Charlie looked at the sleeping child for a little while and then patted him on the head. “This fellow Charlie be great man one day. I tell you true. Him sing well, talk well, become great lawyer-fella. Wear black clothes in great building. Spirits not lie. You ’member what I tell you.” And with that pronouncement, Charlie said it was time to leave as he needed to sleep. Just before he left the room, Charlie looked at Tess and at Lilly in her wheelchair. “Plenty good smoko. You two good women. More better you had good men. Young Charlie not be bad man.” He looked at Billy sitting at the table with a dazed look on his face. “By and by, you write nudder song, Billy-fella. You write best song of your life. No more piss-ups, smash up cars. Clay-fella, he help you. You help other black-fellas so they look up to you. Marjaru watch you from the spirit world.” And with these weighty pronouncements, Charlie followed Steele out to the car, leaving behind him three stunned women and one awed young man.

  When they were sitting in Steele’s van, the writer leaned across and shook hands with the old man. “If that doesn’t do Billy some good, I don’
t know what will,” he said.

  “He be all right now, Clay-fella. Charlie too tired to stay longer.”

  “That was quite long enough, Charlie. You can go home and have a sleep now. But before you go to sleep, there’s something I want to ask you,” Steele said.

  “You want big favour of Charlie?”

  “You could say that,” Steele said.

  So, when they arrived back at Jerogeree, he sat down with Charlie and told him about Glenda Baker. “Glenda’s a very good woman, Charlie. She’s the local magistrate, or judge if you like. It was Mrs Butler who gave me custody of Billy when his mother was seriously injured in the big dust-up. She could have ordered him sent to a government home but she trusted me, a bachelor, which was a very big decision. She was aware of me through my books, but she didn’t know another thing about me. I thought it was a huge concession on her part because if I messed up with Billy, she would have taken the blame. Follow me?”

  “I understand, Clay-fella,” Charlie said.

  “Right. Now, the thing is that Mrs Butler is very sceptical about there being a Marjaru. I’ve talked to her about what happened here and about your supposed existence, but she thinks you’re just a myth, Charlie. I’d like her to meet you, share a meal with you so I can share the memory of you with her,” Steele said.

  “You think a lot of this Mrs Butler? Why she not here with you? She got better man for husband? Huh?” Charlie snorted.

  “She divorced her husband because he wasn’t much chop, Charlie. She has two lovely and very clever daughters but she never remarried. She’s a bit older than me, but that doesn’t alter the fact that she’s the finest woman I’ve ever known. She says she’s too old to be a mother again,” Steele said.

  “You got one child, Clay-fella. You got a son,” Charlie said.

  Steele looked at him in amazement. “Who told you that I have a son?”

  “That not matter. Charlie know. If you not marry mother of your son to have more children, why you not marry this good woman-Butler? She trusted you, gave you Billy, been good friend. Maybe she not give you children, but she warm your bed anyway. Seems real good mate-fella for you. Age not matter,” Charlie said.

  Steele’s thoughts fell into place like the pieces in a puzzle. “So is it all right if I ask her to come here so she can meet you?”

  “You very special man, Clay-fella. Treat old black-fella like he was someone special, not skinny old man close up to die. You bring judge lady and I talk to her before I die,” Charlie said.

  “Thank you, Charlie,” Steele said feelingly.

  Word of Marjaru’s return spread quickly. There was enough residual respect and ancestral superstition in almost every local with Murri blood in their veins for them to understand that Marjaru had come back to the land of his people; that the spirits of the Gubbi Gubbi had called him back and that he had come home to his country to die. Everyone wanted to see him, but with collective courtesy they kept their distance and talked to Lilly and Tess and Billy who had spent time with him. And they came to hear the stories from their elder about the past.

  And the future.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Glenda Butler was feeling rather aggrieved. She’d become used to talking on the phone with Steele at least once a week and sometimes twice. If Steele didn’t ring her over the weekend, she would ring him. But he hadn’t rung and didn’t answer when she rang him. She was getting worried. There was always the chance that he was sick, or heaven forbid, that his old illness had returned. It just wasn’t like Clay not to keep in touch. She was hugely relieved when he rang after nine one night during the week.

  “I was beginning to worry about you.”

  “I’m sorry, Glenda. I’ve been a bit tied up. I have a visitor,” Steele said baldly.

  Glenda’s heart missed a beat. “A visitor?” Her first thought was that perhaps Gillian Brooker had arrived out of the blue. Failing Gillian, perhaps it was a woman from Clay’s past. If it was a woman, it would be hugely disappointing because more and more she’d come to regard Clay as hers.

  “It isn’t a female, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Steele said with blinding perception.

  “Oh, is it someone I know?”

  “Definitely not. I’d like you to meet him. Can you come for lunch on Saturday?”

  “Er, um, let me think. I was going shopping Saturday morning, but I can do that earlier and be back in time to get to you for lunch. You won’t tell me who your guest is? I mean, do I need to dress up a bit?”

  “No, you don’t. Just your usual weekend clothes will be fine,” Steele said. These days she usually wore jeans and a blouse during the daytime if she didn’t need to dress smartly for work. Steele told her he liked her in jeans, which was one reason she exercised so diligently; jeans were merciless on bottoms. Despite being practical, they had no respect for age, so it was a ceaseless battle to stay in reasonable shape. It was a matter of pride really because she realised that Steele was too grand a man to be critical of her physically. It was a person’s mental attributes and attitudes that mattered most to him. Even so, there was no way she was going to allow herself to put on weight.

  Glenda was a bit put out that Steele hadn’t seen fit to tell her more about his guest and several times, she found herself wondering who on earth it could be. She was aware that Clay was very much a loner and in the time she’d known him, he’d permitted very few people to get close to him. He sometimes worked for days at a time on one chapter of a book, so it was quite unusual for him to host a visitor.

  To say that Glenda received the shock of her life when she set eyes on Charlie would be understating her reaction. The old man sat in Steele’s kitchen while the writer prepared lunch. He’d cooked a piece of corned beef and was making white sauce, cauliflower and potatoes. He’d learned of Charlie’s liking for corned beef and white sauce with sliced boiled eggs which, it appeared, his daughter in Cooktown had served him quite frequently.

  “Glenda, I’m very pleased to introduce you to Charlie, sometimes known as Marjaru, whose people were the traditional owners of Jerogeree. Marjaru has done me the honour of paying me a visit,” Steele said.

  Glenda, habitually a person of great eloquence and much wisdom, was momentarily at a loss for words. She was confronted with the most ancient black man she had ever seen. His face was gaunt and seamed and his body appeared too frail to support him. Only his dark eyes beneath the mane of silver-white hair improved his overall appearance. They glowed with a kind of dark fire and held Glenda’s attention. She hesitated before putting out her hand… “Marjaru, I’ve heard so much about you from Clay,” she said.

  Charlie took her hand and held it. “You proper good person. Clay-fella tell me all about you. You gib him Billy. Trust him. He think you best woman he ever know. He trust you, too. Say he want me to meet you. You not believe in Marjaru. Now, you see him, the last man of the old Gubbi Gubbi people,” Charlie said and relinquished his hold on Glenda’s hand.

  “Clay, this is extraordinary. You should have told me,” Glenda said.

  “I have told you. I’ve brought you here so you could meet Charlie. That, by the way, is his common or everyday name. Marjaru is his tribal name. Charlie and I have had a lot to talk about. I also took him up to meet Billy and Co. Charlie gave Billy a good pep talk, which I hope has done him a lot of good,” Steele said with a smile.

  “What brings you down south, Mr Charlie?” Glenda asked.

  Glenda sat down next to the ancient old man whose glowing black eyes watched her closely. “This used to be bad place. First Hewitt man kill Gubbi Gubbi people here. Spirits send us long way away. Then Clay-fella come and you gib him Billy. He look after him plenty good. Make him big name in country music. Spirits tell me this good place again. Time for me to come home to my people’s country before I die. Clay-fella best white man I ever know. Take in, look after skinny old black-fella, feed him plenty good tucker. I close up to die but Clay-fella fix it so this place belong to Gubbi Gub
bi people forever. He never sell this place, die here. I tell you true, judge lady,” Charlie said.

  “I see,” Glenda said not really comprehending what the old man had told her.

  “Are you saying that Clay is going to leave this property to indigenous people?”

  “That right. White men robbed us of our land, chopped down big trees, then poisoned and shot Gubbi Gubbi. Clay-fella know all about that. He gib Jerogeree back to black-fella. Lib here, die here, then gib land back. That young Charlie belong Billy, he fix it. He be great man one day. Big lawyer-fella, wear black coat in great building. Spirits tell me,” Charlie said.

  Glenda was lost for words. Bizarre was her thought as she sat down to have lunch. This is bizarre. I’m having lunch with an ancient Aboriginal man who must be around one hundred years old and he’s talking about what’s going to happen years in the future. And Clay is acting as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to have such a man in his house.

  After lunch Charlie looked across at Steele and nodded. “Real good tucker, Clay-fella.”

  Charlie usually slept after lunch but on this occasion, he seemed to make a special effort to stay awake and whether by prior arrangement with Steele or because he felt Glenda would be interested, he told her about the Gubbi Gubbi’s northern sojourn and about some of the wonders of the Daintree rainforest. He talked, with occasional help from Steele, for quite a long while before he tired.

  “Me sleep now. Clay-fella write down what I tell you, judge lady.”

  Steele helped the old man stand then walked with him to his cot on the back veranda. Glenda followed closely behind and before the old man’s eyes closed, she put down her hand and Charlie took it.

  “Goodbye, Marjaru. I probably won’t see you again. It’s been an honour to meet you, to meet a legend in the flesh. I didn’t believe there was a Marjaru but Clay did.”