‘Wanyingkanyi ninji nanagkurru jila?’ What are you doing there? And she, like a queen, said grandiloquently, ‘Wawaru. Nothing,’ she said. ‘Nothing.’ Her voice had a guttural sound as though a tree had spoken. Then she said things to him in a language he did not understand. She looked as though she was quarrelling with him, and when he kept looking at her and not understanding a word she was saying, she gave up. Instead, still scowling, she wiggled her fingers at him to look ahead if he did not want to fall over. Her action excited Norm’s curiosity even further, for when she wiggled her fingers, he believed he saw fresh green eucalypt leaves spring from their tips. The leaves immediately flew through the wind and several hit him in the face. He smelt her astringent aroma, and when he was stung in the eye, he instantly turned his head back to the direction he, they, she, the wind and rain were heading.
Now fully focusing his attention ahead of him, and following the others running through the bush, and believing that they must know where they were going, since he knew he had no clue at all where he was, he hoped to reach the high ground. Then, through the sound of waves crashing in the distance, a chorus of voices was calling him, something like malirriminji wadara Malbu, old prickly bush humpy man. They knew where he was from. He felt he was in the middle of another nightmare. He had to turn around, just once, to see his tormenters. Now the boat was crowded with old fish women who bared their open mouths at him. He guessed that there had to be at least twenty crammed together like sardines, hissing him on. To his disbelief and incomprehension, for he knew that together, they could not have weighed a kilo, because it cost him nothing to carry them. These women were also dressed in muddy clothes scattered with leaves and foliage fallen from trees, as though they had just risen from the wet ground where they had been sleeping.
He turned briefly to check how clear his path was ahead, to be sure there were no trees to smash against, and when he looked back, he yelled, ‘Wanyimba?’ They did not change their expression or respond, and he screamed at them again, ‘Wanyimba?’ What’s wrong? ‘Wanyimba?’ Finally, their gaping mouths found voice, which was the sound of total fear: an ear-piercing primordial roar that pierced him to the core of his bones. Again, the finger wiggling began, ‘Kurrkamarra,’ many mob, with the leaves springing out of their fingertips, and as he was about to shield his eyes, he saw that this time they were pointing directly to the ground, Looking out for safetyness, they seemed to be saying, and when he too looked down, he saw the bad bari waters creeping along the sides of the boat. Now, he knew he had to travel faster, run faster from the bari waters, run in the direction the others were going even though he felt as though he was breathing in the rain, running out of breath, and to keep ahead of the boat, which was moving faster again with the young men with heads bent, pushing from behind.
The sea waters had overtaken the bush, and in every direction he looked, water was running across the land. He tried to see ahead, to see if they were coming to higher ground but visibility was limited because of the rain. It was hard to tell, perhaps the ground was rising slowly above sea level. They seemed to be reaching nowhere. He thought that his guardian angels, this ghostly tribe, would run forever. Perhaps this was the only way to escape the tidal surge. Perhaps they were taking him to the Gardajala woman of the bush. He almost felt if he turned around, he would actually see her sitting in his dinghy, a finger resting on her cheek, ironically contemplating his fate. He was so convinced that she was staring at his back with her icy eyes, he heard his heart thump over the thunderous roaring of the sea, until he almost collided with a tree.
He ran on, not knowing how much longer he could last. The island could not be that large. Or had he underestimated its size? Was reality larger and parable truer? What if all of those old hags back there in the boat were Gardajala women? And what if he had mistaken their look of horror, when in fact what he saw was his own face reflected in theirs, like wet mirrors. His pain chased away the thoughts which strangled his mind. Still, he saw no sign of hilly country ahead, not a single rocky outcrop, nothing but flat country. His throat felt it was on fire and his lungs would explode. He did not have much more left in him to run.
Through the soles of his feet he searched to feel changes in geography, telltale signs of gravel indicating they were moving to higher ground. Nothing changed however from the pacified softness of sand, and his splashing through the rising waters pulsated in rhythm with his heartbeat. He started to feel that there was no hilly country on the island, the ghost people were running nowhere. Was he being run to death? He had joined a dying race. His fear terrorised his legs with numbness. There was nothing he could do to prevent the heaviness of his body slowing his pace.
Finally, Norm caught his first glimpse of something happening up ahead. The bush people were not running anymore. They had come to a slight rise, not large in space, but it seemed to be holding out, just metres above the flowing waters. He saw that there were about thirty or forty of these phantom people huddling and shuffling together, while the rain fell over them, like it does over leaves in the bush.
The little sea of people became quite volatile when they saw Norm trying to pull his boat up to the higher ground with his cargo of old women still sitting there. Several of them began running towards the boat while screaming and gesticulating at the men who pushed the boat from behind to help them. They literally dragged the old women from the boat and Norm watched in stunned silence as he saw that they were dressed in what looked like sodden, inflorescent compost heaps where the rain ran through the crumpled leaves, bush blossoms, tangled strands of grasses and twigs before splashing down onto the muddy ground. It took several people to lift up each of the women, who in return complained bitterly about their undignified treatment, and a fusillade of leaves flew everywhere off their person, while they were half dragged, half carried in an undignified manner to the higher ground, to join their kinfolk.
On the other side of the rise, Norm saw a river overflowing with the incoming king tide, and joined by all of the floodwaters gushing down from the southern foothills. Its incredible flow twisted around a hundred kilometres of stories the prophets had tabled in the scriptures of law, safely locked away in the vaults of their minds. Somewhere along the route the two floodwaters had converged. Norm knew not far north was the coastline, from where he had just escaped, and this was where the river would empty back into the sea.
The phantom men were bare chested and in assorted coloured shorts, much like himself, and it occurred to him, that they must trade with ‘real’ people somewhere. He tried to argue with them about the boat but they kept yelling at him in their strange language, and raising their hands up, gesturing exasperation to match the looks on their faces because he did not understand. Several of the men kept on rummaging through his belongings throwing things on the ground, until they found what they wanted. This was Norm’s anchor rope which was long enough for their liking. While still screaming instructions to each other, one of the men began to secure the loose end of the rope to the stern of the little tin boat. Norm stood watching, until he was lifted up like the old women, and under protest, half dragged to the boat.
Norm did not know what was happening with everyone yelling and screaming, and pointing down the flooding river. He was put into the dinghy, and whenever he tried to get out, hands sprang forth to push him back into a sitting position. He did not know what was expected of him as they launched him into the flood. The boat quickly took up speed as it moved through the metre-high foam gathered near the bank to join the raging torrent of yellow waters. About twelve men who were holding the rope, gradually eased out more of its length, slowly, knowing that if they let it slip too fast, the boat would turn broadside and overturn. Norm, unsure of what was happening, kept looking into the heavy rain falling between him and their serious faces, while his hands worked the oars, while he calculated how much rope he had stored in the coil.
The boat kept making its way down the river heading towards the sea in the storm. The men
handling the rope were starting to look a long way away behind him. Soon, Norm saw that they were forming a human chain in the waters, while more and more people were coming down from the rise and joining the men, who were being dragged along with the flood. Norm saw the serious faces of those closest to him, and feared that it would only take one man to be dragged under, and they would all be dragged into the undertow.
He turned to save himself when the boat stopped suddenly, until he saw it had jammed in the branches of a lonely rivergum. He looked back at the men desperately trying to keep the human chain together, then he turned quickly to disentangle the boat from the tree. It was then, through the heavily pouring rain, he was able to see in amongst the branches and leaves piled up together, the boy. ‘God have mercy,’ he cried. ‘Let him be alive.’ He pulled the boat in amongst the foliage, but it was useless trying to get any closer. ‘Bala! Bala! Wake up.’ He called to the boy but there was no response. Norm realised he would have to leave the boat and climb over the rubble of foliage to reach the boy and untangle him.
When he was close enough, he reached out. ‘Come on Bala,’ he urged, but the child just looked at him and clung tighter to the branches. Norm started to pull him away from the branches, but the frightened boy struggled, saying he was staying with his Mother. Norm could see that Bala thought he was wrapped in his Mother’s arms, and it suddenly occurred to him that the boy believed his Mother was dead. Did this mean that Will was dead too?
‘I think your Mum wants me to take you now Bala,’ Norm said, speaking gently, while working to pry his little arms out of the wet branches. ‘She asked me, she said, “Grandad, would you mind coming to take Bala home now?” and I said, “Of course. I will make a good journey home for me and Bala.” I said to her, “We will be waiting for a little while until the stars come back and tell us the right way, and then we will go with the big fish, follow the big fish, straight through the sea, with the right wind coming our way, and we will be going straight home, fishing all the way.” And you know what she said, “That’s good, take Bala now and I will see you later and tell him that, tell him I will be looking after him.”’ Norm looked at the boy’s weak face with rain pouring over it, but he saw Bala was listening. Finally, he released his grip for a moment, which was enough for Norm to pull him back to the boat. As soon as they were both on board, the dinghy started to move backwards, while Norm rowed to keep it heading straight for the rise in the flooded river. As he looked across the river, he could see the chain of men struggling in the water to bring the boat to safety. One by one, they helped each other out of the water, while pulling the rope towards them.
‘The bad men took Mummy,’ Bala whimpered, as he sat locked between his grandfather’s legs, while Norm rowed towards land.
‘Then, I heard her screaming in the sky, and when I looked up, I saw her fall into the sea.’
It was Will’s voice Norm heard rushing back into his mind. His face, hard and defiant, snapped, ‘One day, Men will kill for this mine, remember that.’ Norm only saw the fury of an injured being. Moments before, a helicopter had buzzed over their heads. Its shadows fell over the house as though casting a bad spell on their relationship. Will had a contemptuous look on his face, full of what? Disappointment, or more: revulsion for a father who thought so little. ‘So blind,’ he had taunted, shaking his head. ‘And so completely satisfied with the status quo.’ Everyone knew about the security helicopters patrolling the district at regular intervals. All times of the day and night, the helicopters flew along their grids, throwing shadows across the Pricklebush. The memories passed. Norm looked down at the little boy’s head and cried in relief. Rain, tears, rowing the flooded river, he knew this was the solace of Elias: how he used his death to help an ignorant old man find his grandson, to rekindle hope in his own, joyless soul. He rowed.
The ghostly tribe was already leaving by the time Norm pulled the boat back through the foam. One by one, they had started disappearing through the flooding bushlands, most likely following their own familiar roads back to the hilly country further inland. They had tied the end of the rope to a tree. Norm left the boy in the boat and quickly pulled it along through the watery bush, searching in the direction where the strange tribe was vanishing into the rain ahead. In his mind, he had a vague plan to gain the highest ground before nightfall. If he could reach a hill, he would climb the summit and wait for the sea to stop ploughing into the coastline.
A summit had to be found. There would be no point moving after the skies turned dark, because the people he was trying to follow would have dissolved into the bush of night. He knew as soon as night fell he would never see them again and his memory of them too would be gone.
Chapter 10
The giant in the cloak
Even God goes around like one thing, they say…
Too good! Even everyone sitting around nice in the Pricklebush say they knew who the maker was. Phoney talk was often spoken there: Oh! Yes! We know him personally. Hmm! Hmm! Just like they knew November over the flat country. Oh! Heavy heart, if you were to see miracles happen, look to the heavens in November. See him properly for yourself in those dark, stormy skies of the Wet season build-up. Look for the giant in a cloak. Brace yourself when he comes rolling through the dust storm, spreading himself red, straight across those ancient dry plains, heading for town. Watch carefully for the evaporation creeping down invisibly, right into the ignorant minds of the people living in Uptown and, you know what? He turned some of them mad too, just like all those people you see living about over there in the Pricklebush.
That’s right. The giant sugarbag man of the skies walked from horizon to horizon, carrying storms and hazes of madness, and sweat! Humidity was plain old sticky syrup falling through the atmosphere like a curse. Fools. People went for it. Went mad from it. Uptown called the sugarbag man spirit ‘seasonal rains’, or their ‘silly season’, and among them there were fatalities. Statistics rocketed in mortality for both black and white, when the air grew heavy and fat. The perpetual dampness was terrible. It lasted for weeks on end, and how sick and tired of it people became. Every day, grimacing with the glare, they gazed upwards hoping for rain, and chucking their weight around for good measure when none came. You should have heard them. Presumptuous to the core, the way they assumed so much familiarity towards the Almighty maker: Calling out in their cynical voices – God! You never seem to end.
Have they gone mad? Secret! Air caused madness. Sanity? Where about? Lost, like respect was, trampled in the sodden ground. The mindless buggers split: ran off to the bush. Very likely careering around dressed as feral fairies or devils, and who knows what else they thought they were, hugging trees, or hiding among spinifex like birds, and some never came back. Others turned killers without cause. Everyone, regardless of colour, had to put up with it along the shores of the Gulf, before the rains came.
Meanwhile, mould of strange-coloured greens invaded every dampened premise, person or thing. The mildew, fed on moisture-laden air steaming up from the earth, spread a magical, sealike world above water, throughout Desperance. This short-lived phenomenon was regarded as something strange, occurring outside the realm of nature, before the dust storms came to slam doors open and shut. The mould could cloud rational thought, and they (Uptown) said some funny things to each other. When hard put by the weather, they found the words to describe a multitude of flukes, and this year, when Norm never came back from the sea, was no exception.
For years it was believed that the hens of Desperance had become bewitched and purposely covered the eggs they laid in a putrid fowl-yard muck. It was like that when the build-up called into town like an enchantress whose prime motive was to saturate everything and cause creatures of domesticity to become demons. Dogs and cats became covered with infectious sores from head to tail, and sat scratching themselves all day long. The oldest children in the population of Uptown, well on the way to becoming real Aussie battlers up North of the country, were one step ahead in being more suspic
ious than their parents, and without a word of doubt, cautioned younger siblings at the breakfast table. They sniggered, saying how they knew a real googie-egg when they saw one, or which were imposters used by perverse parents to insult the intelligence of children. ‘Them the ones that come out of those ugly, bare bum chooks,’ they squirmed, visualising the moulting chooks down the backyard walking around in the mud. ‘If nobody moves that egg from the table I am going to vomit.’ Whispering about the foetus: ‘See, that black thing? That is the faeces of a devil.’ A sledgehammer would not have forced one of them little Uptown kids to open their mouth for an egg after that.
See! All summer long it went on like this: What to do with children of Uptown who would not eat egg? Of course nothing but those grimy eggs had to be the main topic of interest when those little Pricklebush boys, the petrol sniffers, were arrested and taken to a shimmering silver, green, gold and red tinsel-decorated jail. Tristrum Fishman. Junior Fishman Luke. Aaron Ho Kum. Three little boys. There was a roar for those three little boys, saying, ‘They got their just deserts.’ They got their just deserts? You could spend the rest of your life examining those five words, change the sound, bend them, twist them up, even change it into something like: Just deserts! They got theirs. Like eggs. Hey! There was no cause for a speck of glitter, no fortitude of spirit to waste for them three. Why had no one walked right down there to Main Street of Uptown, to bail out of jail any one of the little petrol-sniffer boys who had been accused of viciously killing Gordie, the neighbourhood watch, the night when Norm Phantom had rowed away, taking Elias’s body back to sea?
Citizens protected by the net to keep trouble away – secure citizens, living in real houses with nice graded Uptown streets – needed to talk about ways of producing clean eggs from backyard hens, so they watched their pet fowl very carefully, to add to the conversation. Vogue was what vogue was. Nobody watched for the little boys down in the jail.
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