The Waterboys

by Peter Docker

  I get up and help Mularabone up. He took a good beating but he’s pretty pleased with himself. He flashes a bloody smile to Jack. ‘Out of my way, Neanderthal boy, there’s a new world coming.’

  Ghost of History: Djenga Gods

  We sit near the fire not saying much, listening to our stomachs growl. Fremantle is in his own world. He looks like he’s been sitting here for millennia. The trees have grown up around him and the wind blows right through him.

  We’ve been waiting back in Beeliar’s camp down near the river mouth. The Countrymen have gone off somewhere to perform death rituals and sorry business for the young fullas killed by Stirling’s men. They’ve been gone for days, maybe weeks. Occasionally we hear singing and clapsticks from somewhere up the river, but mostly it is quiet. The wind is still blowing off the ocean but the rain has dissipated. We buried Stirling and the others up the river. The bosun read from the Bible. Fremantle didn’t stay for the burial but wandered off somewhere.

  When the Countrymen come back to camp one morning, they come noiselessly with no warning. One moment we are all alone by the Darbal Yaragan, the next we are surrounded by painted-up warriors with short, stout spears. The Beeliar Birdiya nudges Fremantle with his spear, and the good captain surfaces from his thoughts.

  ‘My nephew – your brother – finish!’ says Beeliar.

  Fremantle looks to me. I wonder who he sees.

  ‘Your brother – Stirling.’

  ‘No. Not my brother,’ says Fremantle.

  ‘My nephew – your brother – finish!’

  ‘He sees you both in navy uniform,’ I tell Fremantle. ‘You have the same ceremony – so brothers. He is saying the deaths cancel each other out, honour way.’

  Fremantle is giving me that same look from the first day on the beach when I gave him the pointing-with-my-lips gesture.

  Fremantle nods. ‘Finish,’ he agrees.

  The spears are put away, and the men sit around us. Fremantle launches into a dissertation about the coming of the white men. This is what he has been thinking about.

  ‘Many, many Djenga will come. They will be like the reeds by the river.’

  I say nothing to assist, as Fremantle acts out the soldiers, the convicts, the lumberjacks, and the farmers. In mime and broken English, he presents the methodology of colonisation and how the English have been doing it for hundreds of years. Fremantle’s oration is a cold appraisal of likely events, clinical appreciation by a commissioned officer of the Royal Navy.

  It soon becomes disjointed, not so much because of the translation issues, but because the Countrymen cannot accept the probable behaviour of the Europeans. And anyway, the Law is the same for all men, and our spears are sharp and straight and strong, they seem to be saying. The conversation keeps coming back across the fire to Fremantle:

  Why?

  Why would they do that?

  They don’t need to bring sheep and cattle; we have kangaroos.

  If they cut down the trees, the forest will die.

  How can they kill more whales than they need to eat?

  This discussion rages back and forth for an hour or so.

  Then Fremantle looks across at me as though seeing me for the first time.

  ‘He doesn’t believe me, Mister Conway.’

  ‘It does sound a little far-fetched, sir.’

  Fremantle looks quickly back to me. He can’t hold his serious face for a moment longer and breaks open into laughter.

  ‘You’re right, Mister Conway. It does sound a little farfetched.’ We both sit there, laughing like madmen, with the Countrymen looking on with bemused expressions.

  This time Fremantle really lets go. He is close to the edge. He’s been around death, and even killed before, but I venture to say he’s never before put a pistol to the throat of a lieutenant governor of one of His Majesty’s colonies and pulled the trigger before. I can see it tugging at the corners of his eyes. The Birdiya sees it too; some dark shape crouching there and, with long claws grabbing at the edges of those wet orbs, hanging on like a hungry crocodile trying to drag its prey under.

  ‘History has spewed us up, Mister Conway, at this precise moment.’

  Silence.

  We listen to the bush.

  Fremantle suddenly sits up, his face calm, and leans in to the Birdiya.

  I lean forward to hear what is said. But right at the crucial moment of Fremantle speaking, there is an eruption of noise from some young Countrymen just over at the next fire; they hoot and jeer as two fullas have a play wrestle. Fremantle is sitting back and the Birdiya is smiling and nodding.

  Fremantle stands and, motioning for me to follow, moves away down towards the river. I get up, excusing myself from the company of the senior Countrymen with a nod, which they don’t acknowledge. I always get the feeling that my body language amuses them in some way.

  Fremantle stops. We’re on a beach in Walyalup, looking out across the vast expanse of the Darbal Yaragan. It is quiet and still. And yet so full of life that it is bursting. We sit on the sand and look out across the water to where the river flows out to the open sea.

  ‘If you were God, or at least, a god, what would you do?’ Fremantle says.

  ‘Do?’

  ‘Exactly. What would you do?’

  ‘I could do whatever I wanted?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Nothing. I’d probably do nothing.’

  ‘What would you want?’

  ‘A quiet life. A family. Some land. Abundance. Freedom.’

  ‘But you could have the whole world?’

  ‘I’ve seen a lot of the world, sir. The old world is all the same, and the new world is being harnessed by those same powers. If I am a god, I don’t need it, and I want no part of it.’

  ‘I thought you would say that, Conway.’

  ‘What if I’d responded that I want a tonne of roast beef? A million gallons of German beer? And a hundred of the finest Parisian strumpets in the business?’

  Fremantle laughs. His laugh is so contagious, I’m soon laughing too.

  ‘Do you have any brothers?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, and then wished I hadn’t been so hasty.

  There is a scurry of activity in the water just in front of us, and the surface explodes with small silver fish in a last ditch attempt to evade the predator beneath the surface.

  ‘Why do you think Cain really killed Abel?’

  ‘Jealous for their father’s love,’ I say.

  ‘How could a loving father allow for one son to feel neglected?’

  ‘Perhaps Abel was caught in his own trap?’

  ‘I believe that it was between the brothers.’

  ‘Do you think Cain was a drinker, sir?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘What about Abel?’

  ‘Probably.’

  We laugh. The half-moon peeps over the high country across the river.

  ‘We need to bring something to the table, Mister Conway. The Countrymen need to benefit from our presence; otherwise Stirling’s death is in vain.’

  ‘If you hadn’t killed him, the Countrymen would have killed you.’

  ‘That’s not why I did it.’

  ‘They will send ships for us, sir. His Majesty will seek justice.’

  ‘Then we must be ready. Ready for his justice.’

  And that’s when it was born: two Djenga men standing on a river beach in a Country where they did not yet belong. We would have to earn our place.

  ‘And why “Parisian”, Conway?’

  ‘Have you ever been to Paris, sir?’

  ‘I wish you’d stop calling me sir.’

  Thirty-three: Taken In

  Mularabone and I sit in the back seat of the dual-cab, with Greer in the front seat next to the driver, and Jack in the back tray with the other troopers. I want to yell out to Jack, but that’s just impulses from the boy in me, the wounded child wanting to hit back, to taunt, all those things that I despise in him. We stare ahead, past the troo
per driving, and into the shaft of light cast by the headlights. Jack will have to sit in the back with the other troopers and deal with the rushing desert air without any acknowledgement from me.

  Greer swivels in his seat and faces us. In the reflected muted glow from the nav screen and the weapons screen on the dash, we can see Greer clearly. He is bigger than The Sarge, a little heavier in the face, but unmistakeably his brother.

  I struggle to meet his eye.

  ‘My name is Greer. Greer Sargeant. I know you were both in my brother’s cadre. It is an honour to finally meet you both.’

  ‘We respected your brother,’ says Mularabone.

  I look past Greer into the desert illuminated by our headlights.

  ‘You ever go up against us?’ asks Mularabone.

  ‘Once,’ says Greer. ‘No, twice.’

  We listen to the sound of the engine of the vehicle.

  ‘Come on. What?’ says Mularabone.

  ‘Not much to say. The first time, only Jack and I escaped with our lives. The second time ... I found my brother dead.’

  ‘Greer...’ I begin.

  His eyes flick to me, pouncing on my tone. His right hand makes a loose fist and does one small downward movement: stop/pull up/silence. His eyes flick to the driver, who hasn’t noticed anything.

  ‘We will have time to talk, Conway.’

  Greer turns back to the front. Mularabone and I exchange a look. It’s two hours in the vehicle back to the Water Board compound across the open plain. We settle back into our seats to sit it out.

  The motion of the vehicle takes me straight back to another time and place, not far from here. That time my father took me pig hunting: I get caught behind, and as I’m running with him to the wounded feral beast, I fall, and cut my knee deeply. My father doesn’t wait for me and yells abuse back at me as he sprints through the scrub, rifle in hand. I can hear the two dogs, Clacker and Bindi, barking like crazy at the cornered pig. I hobble on with the blood oozing down my leg. There is a gunshot. My father has caught the pig. Then another shot. I try to run, sensing that something isn’t right. By the time I get there he has already cut the pig deep to bleed it. I go almost right up to him before I see the other furry body lying in the long grass. Clacker is licking the blood from the kill, so it’s not him. Bindi. I go to her. She is shot through the head.

  I turn and he is staring at me. He knows I love Bindi. And Mum loves that little dog too. He’s done it on purpose. I bend over Bindi and insert my finger into the wound. The little shards of skull are crunchy and the blood is thick and sticky. My finger goes in like my fist into the skulls of the rednecks in the front bar of the pub in the middle of nowhere. I extract my finger and wipe the blood in a single line down the front of my face. My father watches me with a strange look on his face.

  I shake these dream memories out and force myself to be here, riding in the Water Board dual-cab with my brother, staring into the darkness beyond the vehicle. I feel a twinge of fear in my guts because 44 is crouching at the edge of this darkness. I’m heading to the Water Board compound. He can remember my fear of this place. I have to rid myself of him. It’s coming. I can feel it.

  No one speaks again until we are inside the compound. The dual-cab eases its way through the main gate, past the guard towers, and goes down to the far end of the compound. We drive past the now repaired solar power unit, and park next to a donga. These are the quarters for the troopers and their officers. As soon as the vehicle stops, Jack and the other troopers jump down from the back. They stand a little way off, cradling their weapons and watching us get out. Greer shows us to the door of the donga.

  ‘Sleep here. In the morning we fly south for our business,’ he says quietly.

  Mularabone and I go in and the door is locked behind us. There is a light on and we have control of the switch. We sit on the cots facing each other.

  ‘You alright, my coorda?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I hear myself lying.

  ‘He’s like The Sarge, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  There is a long silence. We can hear the hum of the powerlines, and a vehicle driving off in the distance.

  ‘There is a power, a strength, a connection between the brothers ... Could you feel it?’

  Mularabone looks at me. ‘It’s between us, coorda.’

  I go over to the light switch. Mularabone swings his feet onto his cot. Out of the corner of my eye I think I see Nayia standing by my bed with a smile on her face. For the first time since leaving the cavern I allow myself to think of her. I snap my head around to face her but there is just Mularabone and me in this small box-cell with artificial light.

  I hit the light switch and cross back to my cot in darkness and lie down.

  The box is so completely dark, it’s like the air has a different texture – two sides of a coin, which impossibly both show at once, lightness as though I am in the void between the worlds, and a heaviness that presses down upon me. Even in this absolute darkness I can feel the tightness of the space. I could be anywhere.

  I hear the evenness of Mularabone’s breathing. I feel how big his spirit is – all around me, filling up this black box like a gas that can take on the shape of any space that contains him. I am reaching out to his spirit. I know we can share dreams and memories. Now I have to draw him to me consciously. I dare not speak of this secret to my brother. I have to let him see and judge for himself. And if there is judgement for me to face – so be it. I close my eyes and reach out to my Countryman brother with the watery limbs of my spirit.

  Shared Dream Memory: The Sarge (May His Soul Find Peace)

  It is hot. Even without the sun, and with the vast starry night sucking up the warm air, it is hot. In that moonless night I creep down with The Sarge, and we set charges on absolutely everything. Exactly as The Sarge said, there are only four troopers in the compound. The Sarge and I are humping heavy charges and, by the time we get inside their wire, the troopers are already dead. We hadn’t heard a thing. Young James had taken care of all of them with his nulla-nulla.

  The base is standard – concrete dongas dug into the earth surrounded by wire-walls and huge mounds of dirt to block our RPG attacks. We set the charges; then the lads get into the Water Board uniforms, including The Sarge and me. We had no choice, as the only Djenga in the ambush party. We’re giving Young James shit, because our uniforms are covered in blood and gore. I’m just finishing the activation code for the charges on the earthmoving equipment they had in this sandbagged hangar – when I hear the distinct scream of a child. Mort has discovered her walking around, apparently lost, a little Djenga girl, aged about ten. She is dragged into the hangar, and everyone assembles.

  Then we hear them coming. They’re flying across the open ground in their AFVs, lights blazing. Heading for home. Heading straight for us. We look at the little girl. Everything’s turning to shit.

  ‘We gotta get rid of her,’ says The Sarge.

  ‘Hide her?’ asks Thanpathanpa.

  Then everyone is talking at once. The adrenaline is coming onto us early, because the plan is out the window.

  ‘There’s gonna be a firefight now.’

  ‘The plan can still work – but they have to dismount.’

  ‘Keep her with us.’

  ‘Tie her up.’

  ‘She’s only a child.’

  ‘Come off it.’

  In the silence that falls on us, we can hear the AFV engines revving in the distance.

  ‘We’ll draw straws,’ says The Sarge.

  He gets six sticks, and makes one short.

  The little girl is crying now, her tears sparkling in my torchlight and then hitting the red dirt at our feet.

  We draw straws – and The Sarge gets the short one.

  The AFVs are still a long way off when they fire their first round, and we hear it drop short.

  ‘They know we’re here!’ says The Sarge.

  ‘They don’t know we’re here. How...?’

  T
he Sarge turns on me; he’s holding the little white girl by the shoulder, his weapon in the other hand.

  ‘Why are they fucken shooting? Course they know we’re here!’

  He slings his weapon. ‘Now, move!’

  We switch off our torches, and quickly move out of the hangar to our pre-arranged positions. The Sarge heads off in the other direction, back towards the dug-in donga, which is our fire-everything position. I’m sprinting for my shell-scrape on top of the earth mound above the main hangar when their twenty-five millimetre cannon-fire starts raking the ground of the base. The AFVs are closer than we thought, and coming on at speed. In the dark I see Thanpathanpa get ripped apart by the big shells. I hit my controls, and the big charges out the front go off; the leading AFV is destroyed. That should slow them down. But it doesn’t. Three more AFVs are still coming hard.

  Behind me, in the direction of our FE posi, I hear the distinct ‘whump’ of a grenade. HE rounds start falling in the compound. We gotta move. Get back. Fire everything. Get out. We can leave the girl here. Their attack helicopters will be here in fifteen minutes. I roll, and crawl back down the mound, and into the hangar. I’m running back past the big dozers when I see The Sarge coming back the other way. As I get close, I see his weapon is still slung, and his big blade is in his hand. The same type of knife my father carried. As I get to him he doesn’t seem present. Faraway. To start with, I think he might be hit. He is dazed. My eyes roam over him looking for the wound – but there is nothing there. Then I see the blood on his blade.

  ‘Where is the girl?’

  He doesn’t answer. Outside, shells and cannon-fire are raining down.

  ‘We can leave her for them, they’ll be here soon. Come on, Sarge! We gotta blow and go!’

  ‘They had their wives here,’ he says. ‘Wives and kids. One of them was on the radio, calling them back.’

  ‘Let’s leave them all and go!’ I’m screaming – but I can’t take my eyes off that blood on his blade. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Let’s turn and burn,’ he says.

  A big round hits the front of the hangar, and we are both thrown down. We hear Mort fire the big charges on the perimeter. They must be right here.