The Waterboys

by Peter Docker

  Our spirits melt into each other and we tumble across the limitless sky. We tumble over and over, drinking in the bliss, drowning in the love-water, dying in it, being reborn from it like iridescent dragonflies, and pouring ourselves in again and again, until this love is all there is.

  Forty-one: Make More Spear

  I rub my face. I feel light. I look at the cot next to me. Empty. Mularabone is already up. I’ve still got the remnants of last night’s big dance paint-up on my flesh. It’s all flaky. My skin itches.

  I haul myself to my feet and retrace my steps out of the sleeping cavern. I come into the control room, and there are those two fullas working on the satellite system. The screen is down and there is an image of the fortified airfield on it. Everything looks still. The two lads don’t look up as I go past them, down the passage, and out into the pre-dawn light.

  I keep walking as though I am on a track. I go down to the water, walk out until I am waist-deep, and then fall forward, straight into the water. The burns on the back of my skull and down my back start to tingle and then sting. Out in the river, a big pod of dolphins is cruising past. They are unhurried and peaceful, and I hear the sharp little hisses as they breathe out and in before diving again. I take a deep breath, and turn back to the bank. As I walk, I rub my skin, and the paint comes off me and clouds the water.

  I just get back to the shore when the little boat rounds the bend, and heads for where I am. For a moment, I expect to see Fremantle at the helm, but then Mularabone waves to me from the stern. Mularabone’s wave is like a smile.

  I stand ankle deep, and Mularabone aims the boat for the beach. I step out of the water, sit on the beach, and wait. Uncle Greer walks down the beach and hands me a big chunk of stillwarm damper. Uncle Greer is giving me that smile that Aunty Ouraka gave me when she awoke to find Nayia-Nayia and I staring into each other, falling into each other, over that fire.

  Mularabone takes in the sail, and the little wooden boat beaches itself right next to us.

  ‘Jeez, you Djenga like the cot,’ he sings out, beaming at me.

  ‘Who you calling Djenga?’ Greer sings back.

  ‘The day’s half gone!’

  I shake my head in mock indignation. Mularabone is relentless. He grabs the damper from my hands, bites off a chunk, and throws the seed cake back to me as he heads off up the beach.

  ‘You hungry, brother?’ I say. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘I’m right now,’ he says working the dense bread around in his mouth.

  ‘You’re in a mood, bruz,’ I call after him up the beach.

  ‘Going home, bruz. I gotta go pack!’

  I watch him as he goes up to the Birdiya, who sits by his big morning fire. The Birdiya gives him two kylis with two distinctive white stripes near each end. Mularabone hugs him, and then dances down to us.

  ‘Right! I’m ready!’

  We quickly turn the boat around; push it out, and we three jump on, with Mularabone immediately letting out the sail. Mularabone aims the boat upriver, and the sail quickly fills.

  I look back to the Birdiya on the beach. He sees me looking, jumps up, and parodies my Wobbegong dance from last night, before dissolving into the sand in a fit of mirth. Lying there, he gives me the goodbye wave. I give it back to him. He twirls his enormous nose-bone, and smooths his beard, before one of his sons comes across and hauls him to his feet. I turn back to the boat.

  ‘Are you coming north?’ I ask Greer.

  ‘I’m flying the jet,’ he says with a smile. ‘It has begun, Conway. They can’t remake the dam.’

  ‘Why not?’ I ask.

  ‘Things have changed.’

  I look to Greer, but he is not saying anything else. I’m wondering what was happening at the big Law meeting where Old James did the healing on me.

  ‘What about Jack?’ I say.

  Greer and Mularabone both look away, up the river where we are heading.

  ‘Here, take the wheel,’ calls Mularabone.

  I move down to the back of the boat and take the wheel. Mularabone moves up to the front. He sits on the prow and lets his feet dangle in the water. He starts to tap his new kylis, and busts out with a song that I’ve never heard before. I steer the boat up the river, and enjoy the sunrise that we are sailing towards.

  Each freshwater spring that we sail past heats the burn designs on my back, and pulls my eyes like a magnet – and I see Mularabone’s head swivel too. He really can feel that water now.

  The sun is only a little way up as we beach the boat near the Water Board fortified airfield. The three of us jump off the boat, and go up the well-worn track with me leading. Without warning there are warriors everywhere – painted up, nose-bones in, all carrying kylis, or clapsticks in the place of weapons. No one speaks. The men watch us pass in silence, and then fall in behind.

  When we reach the airfield, it looks like a cyclone has torn through it in the middle of the night. The razor wire is gone, and the fences are lying down. The buildings look ripped apart, gutted by some invisible, heatless fire, and the whole place is deserted. There is no sign of all the Water Board troopers of a few days before. The Water Board jet stands alone on the runway.

  ‘Is there enough fuel?’ I ask Greer.

  ‘Enough to get home,’ he says.

  Then I see him.

  Jack is standing shirtless and alone in the middle of the runway between the jet and us. We stop. I can see the weapon in his hand. I look back to Greer. He gives me nothing.

  Mularabone, my spirit-brother, steps up close to me. ‘Brother, make more spear. I am your spear.’

  I don’t look back. If I do I might see Mularabone standing straight and true, the wooden shaft of him tapering to a stone tip, welded on with the age-old gum technology. He starts to lightly tap his kylis, the gifts from the Birdiya. Behind us, another four hundred sets join in Mularabone’s rhythm, measuring out our heartbeats.

  Clack-clack! Clack-clack! Clack-clack!

  The sound rings across the tarmac, reaching out for Jack’s heart – daring him to share our rhythm.

  I stride out for my brother. I step out, and behind me the men break into a song. I don’t look back, but I feel Mularabone a few paces behind me, as surely as my shadow. I hear his voice singing down low, almost a whisper. I stride across the runway, with Mularabone as my shadow, and the other singers waiting where the fence used to stand.

  When I am three metres from Jack, I stop. It is his twitching hand on the weapon that stops me short. My eyes go to the scars on Jack’s shoulders and upper arms. I have the same marks, made by the same blade. Jack will follow his path to the end, I see that now. I saw the fidgety little bastard in his eye weeping on the plane. Our path is changing. We are brothers. There is a power between us. I will walk my dreaming path right to the end. Where we began.

  ‘I see you’ve brought your pet,’ Jack says, and indicates Mularabone with his lips. To see that Countryman gesture on Jack’s flesh is somehow sweet, even in this moment – especially in this moment.

  ‘I see you’ve brought yours,’ I reply, and indicate his weapon with my lips.

  In Jack’s eye, that fidgety little bastard is getting restless. He plays with his yo-yo, and chews gum. Jack’s fingers flick the safety catch of his weapon off. Then on. Then off.

  He brings his weapon up and aims it at my heart.

  Clack-clack. Clack-clack. Clack-clack.

  The fidgety little bastard in Jack’s eye is beside himself with anxiety. He throws down the yo-yo. He spits out the gum. He is speaking, but I can’t hear what he is saying.

  ‘You didn’t bring a gun,’ says Jack.

  ‘I brought my spear.’

  ‘Who brings a spear to a gunfight?’

  But Jack isn’t sounding as steady as he wants to. The little bastard in his eyeball is abusing him, screaming at him to fire, to shoot me down.

  The song from the men is putting a strange shimmer across the runway. I slowly reach back with my right hand. My hand to
uches Mularabone, and he dissolves into my fist, like me turning to balga sap in that Old Man’s hand on that dance ground in Walyalup, all those dreams ago. I arch my body, my hand back and low, my front foot planted – and I fling him, Mularabone my spear, fling him right into Jack’s eye. He goes in straight and true, diving into the black pool with only the tiniest splash to mark his entry point.

  Jack is paralysed with fear. His weapon still points at me, but it shakes, drawing a little figure eight in the air. His other eye flickers madly, trying to turn back upon itself so that he can see what is happening – and then back to me with some insane appeal when he can’t.

  Inside Jack’s eye, the fidgety little bastard is trying to get away from Mularabone. He wasn’t expecting this. He scrambles backwards across the black sand to the dead tree. He tries to go up it, but the brittle branch breaks off this time, unable to take his weight. He scrambles across the sand, pulling a knife from his boot, and slashes madly back at the pursuing Mularabone. Mularabone is relentless and methodical. He doesn’t hurry – just presses forward. The fidgety little bastard gets to his feet, but his boots are stuck now in the spat-out chewing gum, as surely as he was caught in one of my massive webs. The fidgety little bastard slashes again with his blade, and Mularabone easily slips under it, and hits him with both heavy kylis simultaneously. One blow knocks the knife free, and the other delivers him a terrific blow to the abdomen. The fidgety little bastard is scared now. Bullies always are. Mularabone hits him on the back of the neck, and down he goes.

  Jack writhes in agony but somehow keeps his feet, and somehow keeps the weapon pointed at me. I can see his finger tightening on the trigger.

  In the left eye, Mularabone is still calm. He is not in a blood rage. He is just doing what has to be done. He stands over the fidgety little bastard and smashes him with the jarrah kylis over and over. He stands over the body of the fidgety little bastard. He bends and presses the curved end right into his eye so that it goes deep into the skull of the fidgety little bastard. The blood that flows is dark and chunky, and the bits of bone that fly up are thick and messy like rotted algae. Mularabone smashes the body until the fidgety little bastard is no more. Mularabone slips his kylis into his hair belt, picks up the mashed-in remains of the fidgety little bastard by the feet, and swings it round like he is casting out a fishing line – once, twice, and out.

  Jack drops his weapon, and it clatters on the tarmac. The dark stuff explodes out of his left eye, as though the eye has been shot out from inside. He sinks to his knees; his deep sobs shake the airfield, and Mularabone is standing back beside me. Jack’s hands go up to his eye, as the dark grease oozes out. He sobs and sobs, the tremors shaking his body to the core.

  I go to my younger brother, kneel with him, and take him in my arms.

  The song dies away. The ceremony is done.

  The jet starts up for the last time.

  Nyoongar Boodjar Regional Map

  Map generated by R.M. Lyon in 1832 showing tribal boundaries and place names of the Swan River area by information provided by the prisoner of war, Yagan, whilst kept on Carnac (Ngooloormayup) Island.

  Aboriginal Words and Their Meaning

  The words listed below originate from languages spoken in Nyoongar Boodjar, unless otherwise stated. There are variations in spelling of many Aboriginal words, perhaps reflecting regional differences in pronunciation, though more likely reflecting the inability to capture the pronunciation of the language correctly with an English spelling system.

  birdiya – Law boss, boss man

  boodjar – country

  bungarra – racehorse goanna

  coomal – the possum

  coorda – brother

  corroboree – an assembly of sacred, war-like or festival character

  Darbal Yaragan – darbal – estuary; yaragan–river; now also Swan River (alt. spelling: Derbarl Yerrigan, Derbol Yaragan)

  didj – didgeridoo; wind instrument, long wooden pipe

  djenga – whitefullas; white people; literally: white spirits. It is thought that some Nyoongar believed that the Europeans were returned spirits from the dead, because of their paleness, dress, and powerful weapons. This is a term for whitefullas that historically was only in use for a short time after the arrival of the settler/invaders, to be replaced by the Aboriginal English word wadbulla (whitefulla).

  Garungup – place of anger. Place name for the western bank of the river at North Fremantle, where the river is wide, not far from the Waakyl cave.

  gidja – fishing spear

  gudia – white person (origin: Aboriginal English, Kimberley region)

  inkata – clever man, important man (origin: Arrernte)

  jilba – warming season on the Darbal Yaragan (August–September); one of the six seasons of the Nyoongar calendar

  kartwarra – crazy

  kodja – stone axe

  kyli – boomerang

  maban – clever man, holy man, man of high degree

  mokur – the cold, wet season with westerly gales on the Darbal Yaragan (June–July); one of the six seasons of the Nyoongar calendar (alt. spelling: makuru)

  naga – ceremonial loin cloth (origin: Yolngu)

  ngumari – tobacco

  nulla-nulla – club or heavy weapon

  piti – carved wooden bowl

  redneck – a hater (white man) (origin: American English)

  Waakul – Rainbow Serpent who gave Nyoongar their law and culture and lands; lives in the Darbal Yaragan

  wardan – waters (the ocean)

  wardung – crow

  warra – bad, wrong

  waru – fire

  woomera – throwing stick with a notch at one end for holding a dart or spear

  woornta – shield made from wood, usually marked with designs pertaining to men’s business (the smaller the shield, the cleverer the man)

  yandi – oblong carrying dish/tool

  yutupella – you two fellows (origin: Aboriginal English)

  yuwai – yes (origin: desert languages)

  Fictional Characters’ Names and Their Meaning

  Birra-ga – man-killing stick (origin: Wiradjuri)

  Conway – holy water (origin: Welsh)

  Greer – the guardian (origin: Scottish)

  Mortimer – still water (origin: Old French)

  Mularabone – muddy water (origin: Wiradjuri)

  Nayia-Nayia – angel from above; the chosen one (origin: Gooniyandi)

  Ouraka – wait awhile (origin: Arrentrnte)

  Thanpathanpa – snipe (origin Wiradjuri)

  Warroo-culla – moth (origin: Luritja)

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Jane Cunningham, my first reader & sounding board who always believed in this story and me.

  Thanks to Richard Frankland (Djaambi) for his encouragement and the many late night discussions of warriors, spirit, and dreams.

  Thanks to Tom E. Lewis for his discussions of the Milky Way, revenge, and how the Country will affect us all.

  Thanks to Kelton Pell & Geoff Kelso for stories & feedback.

  Thanks to David Ngoombujarra for his talk of dog & whale spirits.

  Thanks to Tall Fulla of the Gooniyandi for his talk of totems & his naming.

  Thanks to Tara Wynne & Victoria Gutierrez for their notes.

  Thanks to Georgia Richter who can uplift me, crack me up, or slay me with her timely ‘hmmm’.

  Nyoongar Boodjar regional map reproduced with permission of Dr Neville Green, author of Broken Spears: Aborigines and Europeans in the Southwest of Australia (Focus Education Services, 1994).

  The Aboriginal words used in this novel are part of oral knowledge acquired by the author through a lifetime of listening. They are cross-referenced to the Map of Rottenest Island & Swan River (Wadjemup & Darbal Yaragan) published by Western Australian Local Government Authorities and the Swan River Trust, with research by Len Collard, Lisa Collard and Ian Henderson. Other useful sources have been A.W. Reed, Aborigina
l Words of Australia (Reed Publishing, 1965) and Philip Clarke, Where the Ancestors Walked (Allen & Unwin, 2003).

  A very special thanks to Kylie Farmer (Kaarljilba Kaardn) and Kathleen Yarran for the Nyoongar Welcome and translation (taken from the Nyoongar Welcome extended for the Perth International Arts Festival 2006):

  I wanted to show the beauty of a ‘welcome’ – how open one’s eyes should be to the beauty of our boodjar – it’s more than a resource point, it’s our home, our feeding ground, our shelter, our special places, our warmth ... our life! And ‘our’ is ngalla ... all of us, black, white, blue or brindle. We only have one boodjar. We share one boodjar.

  –Kylie Farmer (Kaarljilba Kaardn)

  Also available from Fremantle Press

  On a remote cattle station a small boy begins a profound journey into an Australia few whitefullas know ... This is a journey into another place—a genuine meeting ground for Black and White Australia, a place built on deep personal engagement and understanding. A fearless, funny and profoundly moving Australian story.

  ‘Written in hotel rooms while working as a professional actor in various indigenous film, television and theatre productions, Peter Docker’s Someone Else’s Country is a deeply sensitive and at times intensely visceral engagement with contemporary indigenous culture ... it is also a powerful historical document, which has at its heart the struggle of a non-indigenous author trying to find an authentic position from which to discuss the indigenous culture...’—Australian Book Review

  This book is written from the inside out. And that’s what it did to me—turned me inside out.’—Pete Postlethwaite OBE, Usual Suspects, In The Name Of The Father, Liyarn Nyarn