The Waterboys

by Peter Docker

  Fremantle is there with the Birdiya of Beeliar, and a large group of warriors. He has two cannon set up on the beach.

  ‘Ah, Conway. Just in time.’

  ‘The last of the 63rd are secure out on Wadjemup, sir.’

  ‘I do wish you’d finish with the “sir”.’

  ‘Not easy to shed a skin, sir.’

  Beeliar goes down the beach and places his wooden shield against a log. His shield, and that of Bright Eyes, is much smaller than the other warriors’. He comes back and speaks to his son in Language. Bright Eyes fits his spear into his throwing stick. The shield is about sixty yards to our front. Bright Eyes takes a few paces’ run-up and throws his spear. The shaft flies from the woomera, curls, and then uncurls in midair, and then slams into the shield. A collective ‘Oooh’ rises up from the watching marines. Fremantle applauds like he is at the opera.

  ‘Bravo! Bravo!’

  The Birdiya picks up his nulla-nulla and shakes it with a ‘Yaaaaah!’

  Fremantle looks at Bright Eyes’ shield, and points with his lips down the beach. Bright Eyes trots down the beach and sets his own shield next to his father’s.

  ‘Would you care to do the honours, Mister Conway?’

  ‘If you would leave off with the “mister”, it would assist the process, sir.’

  ‘Touché, Mister Conway.’

  One of my marines hands me his Brown Bess musket. I pour in some powder, bite open a cartridge, keeping the ball in my mouth, pour the remainder of the powder into the barrel, spit the ball in, push in the paper wad, and ram the load home. I take aim and fire. There is a resounding report and Bright Eyes’ shield is flung backwards several feet. All the warriors run down the beach to inspect the damage. The round has blown a big hole in the shield, almost cutting the shield in half. The Birdiya shoves his fist into the hole, and nods grimly back to us.

  ‘All shields,’ calls Fremantle. ‘All woornta!’

  The Birdiya nods and all the warriors prop up their shields on the logs. They all come back to where we are at the cannon.

  ‘Gunner! In your own time!’

  The gunner pours in the powder, loads the canvas bag full of grapeshot, and rams it home.

  ‘Prepare to fire! Fire!’

  This time the report is so loud that many of the warriors fall to the sand, covering their heads. The Birdiya and Bright Eyes run forward to inspect the damage. Each warrior picks up his own shield. There is not a single shield not penetrated by at least one of the three and three-quarter inch lead balls. The Birdiya looks back to us. He shakes his nulla-nulla at us, ‘Yaaaaah!’

  Bright Eyes strides back to us and glares at me. I glance at Fremantle; the shields as targets were his idea. Fremantle gives me a nod. He’s made his point. Bright Eyes throws his shot-up shield at my feet, his eyes still blazing. I can see a large chunk of the woornta blown away. The remaining surface is covered in intricate designs. Bright Eyes yanks the Brown Bess musket from my grasp. He steps over to the marine who handed me the weapon and divests him of his pouch. He turns back to me, and with an open palm shoves me backwards onto the sand. He turns and heads towards his camp, motioning for us to follow. The Birdiya and all the other warriors are already heading back.

  ‘Still dreaming of beer, roast beef, and dancing girls, Mister Conway?’

  I pick myself up.

  ‘I don’t care if they don’t dance so well, sir.’

  I look down to see the tiny jumping spider from the leaf in the river. The spider is clinging to the sleeve of my Royal Marines jacket. As I step off, the spider jumps off to land on my upper boot.

  Overhead, Wardung sings out: ‘Arrc! Aarrrc! Aaarrc!’

  I catch up to Fremantle as he strides into the main camp. The Beeliar Birdiya is laughing by a big fire with his wives. Bright Eyes sits close by holding the Brown Bess, and joins in the mirth. We approach him and he motions us to sit. We’re offered damper and chunks of cooked, still-warm meat. I’m reminded of going to my aunty’s place in Plymouth as a child: she was always trying to fatten me up, and didn’t seem happy unless I was eating. Her butter cake really was something special. This is a memory of the child Royal Marine. I’m going deeper. This is what Birra-ga was talking about.

  We sit and eat with Beeliar watching over us with an expression just like my aunty’s. I’m still eating when he leans in to speak to me. He is close enough to touch me on the upper arm as he speaks. He speaks slowly and evenly, and then his eyes start to lose focus. Then his voice is inside my head. Inside my head I understand his Language completely. It’s like I’m falling into a mirror: everything on the other side is a reflection but has its own life and way of being. Everything is exactly the same but somehow very different.

  The Birdiya gets his focus back in his eyes and I am released from his discourse. It’s like he was holding me firm by the shoulders and suddenly lets me go. I sink back. I still haven’t mastered the art of sitting on the ground without my spine collapsing, like the Countrymen do.

  ‘Did you tell the Duke of Beeliar about my dreams?’ Fremantle says.

  ‘No, sir.’

  Beeliar looks at Fremantle; his head goes back, his mouth opens, and out comes a pealing whine/call/yelp that reaches out and curls a circle of unease around all of us. It is so frightening, that dingo call, curling, snarling, and breaking, then rushing into the shore, all foamy and bloody. Fremantle is fixed by Beeliar who drops his head and smiles at him. Now Fremantle is in a whole other world. Everything he thought he knew now means nothing.

  ‘Wobbegong!’ says Beeliar.

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘Wobbegong,’ repeats Beeliar. This time he jumps up and his feet do a slow stamp and his shoulders move like the carpet shark on patrol over the seaweed. Beeliar transforms into the shark for the tiniest of moments, just enough to give us belief, then he’s there laughing at Fremantle. Wobbegong.

  ‘Wobbegong!’ says the Birdiya and points at Fremantle with the knuckle of his right forefinger, his finger curled back towards himself.

  ‘You’re saying I’m like that shark, the brown, speckled one?’

  ‘Wobbegong.’

  ‘He’s saying you are that shark, sir.’

  Fremantle turns to the Beeliar Birdiya. ‘Boom!’ he says.

  Beeliar nods. ‘Wobbegong: you, me – fishing in the river!’ he says.

  We are trying to free our Empire minds so we can understand.

  He turns to me. ‘Conway: you go,’ he gestures to Bright Eyes with his lips, ‘listen to water!’

  He nods again. The Duke of Beeliar has spoken. This is the end of it for him.

  Bright Eyes hands the Brown Bess to his father. Beeliar examines the firing pin. He reverses the musket and looks down the barrel.

  ‘What is happening, Captain Fremantle?’

  ‘Pilgrimages. You and I have different paths now. I am going to learn about fishing in the river, the Darbal Yaragan. You are going to learn to listen to water.’

  Already I’m standing. Bright Eyes is gathering up his spears and thrower. Everyone’s flesh has the texture of water. The Birdiya sees me looking and breaks into fresh laughter.

  ‘By the time you get back, “Captain Fremantle” will be gone. And all that will remain will be Wobbegong. Mister Conway, you will be gone too. Then you will be Holy Water. Did you know that’s what your name means?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I drop my eyes before Captain Fremantle, respecting him as my birdiya. We have come on a long journey since I pointed with my lips, that first day on the beach at the river mouth. Now I am the novice, and Fremantle is the master. Now Charles Wobbegong Fremantle has the steerage of this unfolding mystery, partners with the Birdiya of Beeliar. Fremantle claps his hand on my shoulder. I look up, and he signals with his lips that Bright Eyes and I should leave on our water listening-odyssey. We turn, and go.

  Thirty-six: Landing Down South

  The angle of the aircraft alters in the air and there’s a change in the no
te of the jets. We must be coming down for our landing approach. I take off my eyeshades. Mularabone is still asleep. I always admired his ability to sleep wherever and whenever he can. If he has ten minutes before ‘GO’ – he’ll sleep for nine minutes and fifty seconds and then be wide awake. Jack also has his eyes shut. Him – I don’t know if he’s ever really slept. The rings under his eyes are dark and permanent. The Nyoongars in the tank called him Coomal – the possum, because of this feature. Like possums, Jack is a nocturnal animal. I think of him more as a bat; a vampire bat – like those angry little pale fullas from Larrakia Country. Greer is leaning over his personal computer. He has that stiffness in the chest and lower back that gives him away as Water Board Special Forces. Men who have worn a uniform for a long time retain a memory of it in their bodies. He looks up at me and holds my gaze.

  When he tries to go deeper, he appears surprised to be confronted by the impenetrable soldier’s look. I learned this look in the Royal Marines.

  ‘I knew your father,’ he says quietly.

  I hold his gaze but don’t react.

  ‘We weren’t friends,’ he adds.

  ‘Not brothers,’ I say in a faraway voice.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘You’re the second person to say that to me about my father.’

  The door to the cockpit opens and the clean young Water Board officer steps out. He looks at us and then hesitates.

  ‘Excuse me, sir...’

  ‘It’s all right,’ says Greer.

  I glance at Jack. Everything looks a hell of a long way from all right with him. That fidgety little bastard is pacing back and forth in Jack’s eye, flicking some metal thing in his hand out and then in again.

  ‘We’ll be on the ground in ten minutes, if you would care to strap yourselves in. Thank you.’

  He turns and scurries back into the cockpit. Greer busies himself with putting away his stuff. Jack sits forward. He pulls a pistol from his belt and checks its readiness. Satisfied, he puts on his seatbelt, still holding the pistol in his right hand, pointing it at Mularabone and I. Mularabone stretches, and takes off his eye shades.

  ‘I was close with your father. We were like brothers. That was before the grog.’

  ‘He always had grog,’ I say.

  ‘Not always,’ says Greer.

  ‘Is there grog here?’ asks Jack.

  The jet touches down.

  ‘If I catch you drinking, I will kill you myself,’ says Greer quietly.

  I look out the window to see the Country racing past us as the plane begins to brake. I can feel the Darbal Yaragan calling to me like I am a tidal flat, and that river is the moon. If I don’t bend and go with the attraction, my whole heart will be sucked from my body – and stick to that river like a nail to a magnet. That’s what I feel like – a nail ready to be hammered in. Like my whole purpose will be realised if a cosmic hammer smashes me on the head half a dozen times to push me into this earth, this wood, to make a join.

  Thirty-seven: Trick of History

  The clean Water Board officer comes out of the cockpit and releases the outside door. The bright morning sun floods the cabin and we stand to exit.

  We go out in front of Jack as he gathers up his weapons and his pack. Outside there are armed Water Board troopers everywhere.

  Two troopers come over and fall in with us. I look past them to the nose of the Water Board jet. There is a fulla standing there. He looks completely out of place in his traditional dress with full paint-up. The only part of his body not covered with white clay is his eyes. He looks at me steadily.

  Mularabone follows my eye line.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I whisper.

  ‘Spirit fulla. Look again, coorda.’

  I look again. I see the spirit fulla with his beard and prominent forehead bump: the old Birdiya of Beeliar. My hand asks the question of Mularabone.

  ‘He’s waiting for us, coorda.’

  Over near the airport buildings we see a high wire fence, topped with razor wire, stretching in every direction to surround the airstrip. Behind the wire, just beyond the buildings, there are hundreds of Countrymen standing silently, watching us.

  Jack turns to one of our assigned guards. ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘Dunno, sir. They all turned up this morning.’

  Mularabone and I feel the scrutiny of that mass of dark brown eyes. They all look like strong men. Their bare chests are firm, scarred up, and well muscled. They all have nosebones. I glance back to the front of the jet and the spirit Birdiya is gone.

  All around us there are other Countrymen doing the work of the airport, carefully watched by the Water Board troopers. They unload our plane and others, and carry out refuelling. This place is nothing like a civil facility. I’m reminded of the ancient Romans and their slaves. Sooner or later history will spew up a Spartacus.

  Jack is eyeing the silent mass of Countrymen beyond the wire. He draws his pistol and aims it at the wall of dark brown flesh. There is no reaction from the Countrymen at all.

  ‘How many bullets you got, Jack?’ asks Mularabone.

  Jack’s head and eyes snap around to regard Mularabone. The pistol points at Mularabone’s head. Mularabone holds his gaze, smiling his cheeky smile.

  What now? he seems to ask with that smile.

  The mass of Countrymen watch this action without blinking.

  But Jack has nothing to say. He puts the pistol away.

  ‘Go with Jack and recce from the air,’ says Greer. ‘We’ll have a full briefing when you return.’

  There is something in Greer’s tone that immediately gives Mularabone and I the renewed understanding. This is the tone Fremantle used when he directed me to go on my water-learning odyssey with Bright Eyes. Mularabone knows this tone well from Birra-ga and Warroo-culla leading him and others into ceremony. Boys often have little or no warning before being taken to the men’s camp in the middle of the night to begin the arduous journey to manhood. Now we all know that Jack is part of this, part of the layering of the dreaming of the two brothers; the grog dreaming. We jump into Greer’s distraction.

  ‘Why with Jack?’

  ‘Jack’s been here before. Haven’t you, Jack?’ Greer turns and walks off.

  ‘Get these two into the chopper. I’ll be there in a sec,’ says Jack to the troopers, and follows his boss to the airport buildings.

  I get that certain feeling and glance over to the waiting helicopter. Sitting in the front seat is the spirit Birdiya. Even from this distance he seems to be wearing a wry smile.

  The troopers prod us with their weapons. We amble off towards the chopper. It is a small but heavily armed jet-copter, an eight-seater. By the time we get over to the machine, the spirit Birdiya is nowhere to be seen. We are strapped in and waiting. The large group of Countrymen turn and disappear into the scrub behind them, and in moments it’s like they were never there.

  A minute later Jack strolls over with the pilot. They climb in and the pilot fires up the rotors. We take off and head for the coast.

  Below us we see hundreds of small settlements, with their individual huts clustered around a central, larger building. Each grouping has a responsibility over a certain water source, and a certain industry, and all of those are linked to the main port near the mouth of the Darbal Yaragan. The main roads are the Nyoongar highways that have been expanded. There are no square grids of streets and roads on Nyoongar Boodjar.

  ‘Jack. Take us down the river.’

  ‘We can’t go down the river. It’s dangerous.’

  ‘That old fulla Rainbow Serpent can spit fire, coorda,’ Mularabone warns.

  ‘I know, bruz. Jack is too scared to fly over it.’

  Mularabone and I are laughing.

  Jack switches off our headphones. There is a heated exchange between him and the pilot. Mularabone flicks his hand open with one extended finger: Why? I touch my heart with three fingers: Feeling; I got a feeling.

  The flying machine crosses the
coast. Out to sea we can see the Koort Boodjar, Wadjemup. That’s where Fremantle and the mob set up the station to ‘process’ all the Europeans who arrived, readying them to take their place in the new and evolving society. Assessing who was going to be able to make the leap of faith and who was not. Despite the opposition on both sides, they made it work. Jack switches our comms back on. I glance at Mularabone. He makes a sign with his hand in his lap: Child! I almost get the giggles. We’ll be flying down that river all right. Jack has completely fallen for Greer’s distraction. Now that I’ve got him to give ground, I wade on in with my navy cutlass.

  ‘Seems to me, Jack, any success you mob have had is all on the backs of the Countrymen; their structure, their industry, their society...’

  ‘But without our technology...’

  ‘It was already working, Jack. How’s the water supply here?’

  There is no reply from Jack, just the wound-up whine of the engine, and the thudding of the rotors. The chopper is approaching the river mouth. I look down, half expecting to see Fremantle and me on the cutter, racing for the opening, not seeing the reef there. But there are only the foamy swells marching onto the sand.

  ‘How are the water supplies in your cities, Jack?’ I press my advantage. ‘That’s why Greer got us here. Your mob have fucked everything up.’

  The chopper wheels down low and turns eastward above the river. The troopers on the automatic guns both cock their weapons.

  ‘It was other countries that warmed the globe, not us. And besides,’ says Jack, ‘it was only a trick of history that allowed that first settlement to survive. The English sent two man-o’wars to deal with the rebels. If they hadn’t been lost at sea, this whole story would be different.’

  The chopper belts along, low over the Darbal Yaragan. On our southern side is Dwerdaweelardinup. The Dogs. We take the left-hander past Garungup and keep going.

  ‘Lost at sea, Jack?’

  The whole problem of writing history down is exactly this. Who writes it down? Many current events fly so in the face of contemporary beliefs that they must be filtered to be written down in an acceptable form. In many instances this filtration process turns the actual events into fairytales, or worse, completely subverts the original events. Djenga seem to be good at this nursery version of history.