Where the Fruit Falls

by Karen Wyld

  She made a comforting fire and then, realising she’d run out of food, lay down to sleep. As she gazed up at the cloudless night sky, Brigid marvelled at how bright the stars were. Letting her mind wander, she spied two starry snakes, one smaller than the other. Separated by the Milky Way, these celestial beings reminded Brigid of her quest to find Danny. She also thought of her misspoken words and his dreams of an ancient ocean that had separated them. Nestled between water-snakes, with astral-snakes above her, Brigid fell into a deep sleep. And dreamt of ethereal serpents – of course.

  Out in the desert, the line between now and forever is thinner in some places. Much care is taken at such places, so as not to cause offence to the old ones. Unless one is unaware of their existence, as Brigid clearly was. She could not have known any better, having been brought up with tales of dirt-encrusted potatoes and fruit that fell from apple trees. Thankfully, no wind picked up. No prickles on the back of the neck were felt. Nor the sounds of feathered feet on dirt. In this instance, her trespassing was forgiven. Brigid slept peacefully.

  She woke sometime before dawn, when the crack between worlds was still slightly ajar. From between her fluttering eyelids, Brigid thought she spied a large slithering mass emerging from the nearby water. She suddenly felt cold. She attempted to enliven the campfire, but even the embers had gone out. So she curled up into a ball, and shut her eyes again.

  Brigid awoke to warmth. Opening her eyes, she saw flames coming from a campfire that had been stone-cold only a few hours ago. Next to this fire, steam rose from a flat rock. Moving closer, she noticed that whatever sat on the rock had a most appealing smell, and her tummy rumbled in agreement. She lifted a small portion and, taking a bite, guessed that it had once been a bird of some type. A large one, considering the size. She thought perhaps it was a bush turkey, now cooked to perfection. Next to the charcoaled meat was a smaller pile. Whatever it used to be, it was now shrivelled, like tiny raisins. Brigid tentatively bit into one. It tasted a little like sundried tomato, but peppery. She sat by the fire and devoured these offerings, too famished to wonder where they’d come from.

  Wiping hands on her dress, she took note of her surroundings. She gazed over the twin lakes she’d seen the previous evening. The morning sun was beginning to warm the cold earth on which she sat. A few clouds were racing across the skies, southbound. Behind her was a low ridge of red rock. She’d not noticed it the night before but was grateful for how well it blocked out the wind as she sat by the fire. With her tummy full, and a fire to warm her, she felt a bit sleepy. Brigid reluctantly stood up. Now was not the time for sleeping. She needed to pack up camp, ready to head off again. Where to? It all suddenly felt pointless.

  Any chance of finding Danny was slim; and her expanding belly was making travel more and more difficult. Even though the days were warm, the nights were cold. In the evenings, increasingly, there were heavy rains. Brigid knew she was moving further and further away from the coast, and away from people. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d spoken to a real person, instead of imaginary conversations she had with people who’d once been in her life. Brigid wondered if she should turn back. Return to the house she’d shared with Danny, where she’d last seen him. Or perhaps it was time to go home, to her family. Moving further inland would just be foolish. Regardless of this morning’s mysterious feast, Brigid knew this terrain would not sustain her for long. And when her waters broke, what then?

  Unbeknown to her, Brigid was camped in a place that sat comfortably between the here, now and perhaps. Even if she had no idea what to do next, others had a firm vision. And, it would appear, a plan to move her forwards.

  A short while later, Brigid found herself following an ancient serpent in a southerly direction, almost in the direction she’d just come. And then it changed course. Eastward, further into the desert. Sometimes that serpent was an undulating rocky outcrop. Other times it was dunes of burnt-red dirt. Once it took on the appearance of a narrow lake. Even when Brigid couldn’t see it, she knew it was still there, beside her. They travelled together for days. On rocky ground, up and over red dunes, and along dry riverbeds. And every night that gigantic serpent would curl around Brigid as she slept, keeping her warm. Once she woke in the night to find it missing. She looked to the skies, at a river of vivid stars encircling above, and watched as Hydrus courted Hydra. Then she fell blissfully asleep again. In the morning, she woke to the familiar sound of the serpent’s rhythmic breath nearby.

  As the days passed, Brigid came to feel as if she might soon be drowned by that ever more tumultuous ocean-within. She walked laboriously, stopping often to take a breath. One chilly evening, just when Brigid felt as if she could walk no more, she saw a small cluster of haphazard buildings in the distance. That night, as Brigid curled up to sleep with her travelling companions – the ancient serpent encircling her and the tiny passenger of the ocean-within – she felt a sense of contentment. Brigid knew the time to release that ocean was approaching, and she felt ready. When she woke up the next morning, the ground was particularly cold. And the serpent was gone.

  Picking up her suitcase, she walked towards the signs of people she’d seen the day before. As she approached the first building, she became aware of a small crowd looking in her direction. It was not her they were looking at, mouths agape. Brigid turned around just as a gigantic grey sky-mushroom began to disperse on the far western horizon. As she turned back to the people, she realised they’d noticed her. Brigid opened her mouth to shout hello, or some such words to make her arrival less awkward. After many months of not speaking, all she could manage was a series of squawks. With a shrug, she walked towards people.

  THREE

  Brigid’s sudden appearance, and that mysterious cloud, were not quite as big a surprise as her passengers’ arrival. As soon as she’d walked into that small outpost, the ocean she’d carried from the coast, across the desert, had gushed onto terracotta-hued ground. Before Brigid could catch her breath, young feet came forward, guiding her to old hands. And just in time, for those hands skilfully caught the tiny boats that had long sailed on the ocean-within. There was not one boat, but two. Each with its own tiny passenger. Two beating hearts. Two strong wails.

  ‘Well, just look at these sweet bubbas!’ exclaimed the old woman.

  This woman had instantly recognised Brigid, and knew her as kin. As for those passengers, the old woman could already see herself in one of the twins; they had the same nose. Both Brigid and the other baby reminded her of Edward, her only child. It had been many years since Edward had died, leaving behind his woman and a baby daughter, but a mother never forgets the soft curves of a child’s face. Edward’s partner had lived with the family for a while. She’d given birth right here, on the same spot this woman’s waters had just dampened. Despite years having passed by, the old woman knew in her heart that this young woman was her son’s daughter. And these babies were her great-grandchildren. This pleased her, even if she still carried the pain of loss. Those missing years of watching Brigid grow up to be this strong woman who stood before her. The stolen years of being with Edward, her son. There would be time to fill in the gaps later. Right now, the old woman knew the new mother needed rest. A bed was promptly made, and Brigid and the babies were soon asleep.

  Once they had been left to rest for a day and a night, the old woman entered the room. She silently picked up one of the infants, and walked outside again. Brigid panicked. Hurriedly picking up the other baby, she chased after the woman. The old woman walked away from the small community. Confused, Brigid followed her into the desert. For an elderly woman, she walked briskly, and Brigid struggled to keep up. After a while the woman bent at the waist, baby held tightly to her chest, and entered a cluster of low shrubs. Brigid followed, and on the other side saw women gathered around a fire. The old woman placed the baby into a freshly dug indentation in the warmed earth. She turned towards Brigid and indicated that she should do the same with the other twin. Brigid hesitated a
t first, until she heard the familiar breath of an ancient serpent. Reassured, she placed her daughter in that shallow hole, next to her other daughter. Brigid thought the twins had briefly smiled, but knew it could just as well have been wind.

  Brigid smelt burning leaves and noticed that heavy grey smoke was filling this space behind the line of shrubs. She turned, and saw the old woman place green branches on the small fire. As the leaves caught fire, more smoke rose. Brigid started coughing, and tightly squeezed her eyes to shut out the smoke. When she opened them again, the woman was beckoning her. Brigid could not understand her words, or what she wanted.

  ‘Have you forgotten language?’ asked the old woman, in words more familiar to Brigid.

  Brigid had no idea what she meant. Language? There was only one language she knew of.

  The woman saw her confusion, and spat whatever she’d been chewing onto the ground. ‘Did she teach you nothing? Not even one word? Never mind, there will be time for learning. In the meantime, come here. You need cleansing. I don’t know where you’ve been or what you’ve done, but there’s something not quite right about you. Come now. And then we smoke the bubbas.’

  A few days later, with help from the old woman, the babies were named. She insisted that one be named for her. So one twin was gifted the same name as her grandfather’s mother: Victoria. Although the old woman was more often known as Vic. Brigid didn’t protest; that name was as good as any other. The smallest twin was named Margaret, after Brigid’s mother. As that was much too big a name for a sparrow-of-a-girl, Brigid decided to call her Maggie for now. She had plenty of time to grow into her proper name.

  Brigid and her twins were quickly accepted into the community in the middle of the desert. After all, they were family. Nana Vic showed her how to care for the babes, and was always close at hand to take them so the young mum could rest. Nana Vic sang to the twins in language. Brigid didn’t know what the words meant, although some of the songs were somewhat familiar. Her nana told her that she had sung those same songs to her as a bub, before Brigid’s parents had gone away. Brigid didn’t remember her father at all, but she thought perhaps she remembered the sound of her nana’s voice.

  Just as the wet season settled in, Brigid was finally reunited with her grandfather Albert. The similarities between Albert and Brigid were uncanny. He’d been away in the city, on land rights business, and had hurried back when news of his granddaughter and her babies had reached him. The sight of them had instantly made the old man’s heart beat with hope once more. Albert had been heavy of heart for too many years. He still missed his son and even now could not fathom why Edward had enlisted to fight under the oppressors’ ensign. He did not understand the urge to participate in a war on foreign soil when the battle for their own Country had not yet been won. They’d parted on bad terms.

  Edward’s leaving, and lack of letters home, had hurt Albert deeply. After a while, though, he felt a sense of pride in what his son was doing. He then asked a visiting pastor to help him write a letter to Edward. In it, Albert told his son how wrong he’d been to criticise his choices. And how proud he was of the man Edward had grown to be. Not long after, news of his son finally reached him. A few words on a piece of paper officially informed him that Edward was gone. ‘Deeply regret… Stop. Credit to the nation…Stop. Stop. Stop.’ That pain deepened more when the army would not provide any assistance to bring Edward’s body home, to kin and Country. Albert feared his son’s spirit would never be able to find rest on foreign soil. When the old man had heard this latest news, of Brigid and the twins’ arrival home to Country, he’d rushed back. The moment he’d laid eyes on his granddaughter, good memories of his son flooded back. And there was no doubting whose child Brigid was.

  The ripples of interest around the twins’ and Brigid’s arrival soon dispersed. The trio fitted easily into the gap Edward had left. Once Brigid had rested from the birth, and those months of walking, Vic clucked over the babies while Albert set to the task of showing Brigid her ancestral lands. The old man had smiled proudly when he’d heard how far Brigid had walked, alone and without any bush training. He recognised that this grannie, although stubborn, had a unique power, and he was keen to help her develop more skills. To his delight, Brigid appeared to be an avid learner.

  Hunting and food collecting took up a fair bit of everyone’s time. Sometimes Brigid would go out with just her grandfather, other times Nana Vic would join them. Unlike some of the other women, Nana Vic was a confident shooter. Whenever a roo, emu or bush turkey was sighted, Albert and Vic would take turns with the rifle. They hardly ever missed. If Brigid was hunting with just her grandfather, he would let her use his rifle. She rarely missed the target either.

  Sometimes Albert would pick up his spear and boomerang, call his dogs, and go out hunting with the men. Brigid soon learnt not to ask to accompany them. There are just certain ways that things are done. When the men and boys were out hunting, Brigid would often leave the twins with one of her sister-cousins and go gathering with Nana Vic and other women. She was shown how to find the fattest witchetty grubs, and soon eagerly searched for them. Brigid watched as the women set fire to spinifex, and then prised open small holes in the ground with wooden sticks and crowbars. Digging deep, they would pull out goannas and blue-tongues that had sought safety from the fires. Brigid was shown which plants were edible, which ones would make her sick, and which were used for medicine. She feasted on quandong, bush currants, rock figs, pig melons and bush oranges. She dug for yams, lily bulbs and bush potatoes. And for a taste of sweetness, she sipped nectar straight from the plant, chewed on sap lolly, or bit into honey ants.

  A more tedious task was collecting the seeds that would be ground into flour. Some of these seeds were dispersed on the walk home, to ensure crops for later. Using a large flat rock as a mortar and a rounded rock as a pestle, the women would grind these minuscule seeds. After a long time of grinding, water would be added to the seed-flour, so the women could knead the mix before putting it straight into the coals. The resulting damper was best eaten warm and smeared with jam.

  The jam came from a nearby outpost. Women and children would walk there every couple of weeks, to collect rations of jam, white flour, tea leaves and tobacco. The outsiders who distributed these foreign staples would carefully observe the children, recording in their logbooks whenever they noticed a new baby, asking the occasional verifying question: ‘Is the father a whitefella?’ Brigid had only been to the outpost once, when Nana Vic had been too sick to go but was craving some sweet jam. Her nana had insisted the twins be left behind, warning Brigid that it was unsafe for them to be seen by those white men with their sharp eyes and sharper pencils. Although puzzled, Brigid did as she was told.

  One day, on the way to the termite mounds, where pythons and lizards often hid, Nana Vic suddenly veered to the right. After a while, they reached a cluster of tall rocks. When they got closer to the rocks, Nana Vic put out her arm to stop Brigid.

  ‘Wait here,’ she ordered, before going on alone.

  She heard her nana sing in language. A few moments later, she returned.

  ‘Come. I’ve told them who you are.’

  Not understanding at all, Brigid followed until they came to a rock pool at the feet of the tall rocks. Next to the pool was a tree. Brigid recognised its type, having been taught about it before. It was a bloodwood tree. The strange-looking fruit hanging from it were sometimes called apples, other times bush coconut. To Brigid they didn’t resemble either; she thought they were quite ugly. She didn’t mind the taste of the grub that lived inside these cocoons. This not-really-a-fruit was so very different from her granny’s apples. Everything here was different from Brigid’s childhood memories. Even so, she felt a sense of tranquillity in this particular spot, beside the rock pool, and an odd sense of familiarity.

  ‘You come from here. This is your place,’ remarked Nana Vic, looking closely at her granddaughter.

  Brigid turned to her nana, frowning. Was
this to be another one of Nana’s strange tales, she wondered.

  ‘Here, by this tree, is where you were born. You belong to this Country.’

  Brigid turned her back to the bloodwood tree. ‘My mother’s family has apple trees. A whole orchard of them. Real ones. My granny brought cuttings from across the ocean when she was young, and planted them. When I was little, I liked to climb the trees. And sit up there, eating an apple as I watched the sun move across the sky.’

  Nana Vic made a ‘harrumph’ sound, and turned on her heels. ‘Those trees aren’t your place. This is.’

  Sitting out the front of their small fibro house, Albert heard his wife open the door and walk towards him. The old man was engrossed in reattaching a spearhead to a long narrow piece of wood that held the memory of his hands. He could sense that Vic had something to say.

  ‘Those girls are growing so quickly,’ she remarked.

  Albert looked towards the twins playing on a blanket at their mother’s feet, as Brigid hung washing on the line.

  With a sigh, Vic said, ‘She won’t listen. Have you noticed?’

  He nodded, returning to repairing his spear. He had noticed. And it worried him. Brigid was a keen hunter, asking lots of good questions. She was also very interested in navigational skills. How to find her way using landforms, or the sun and stars. She had an excellent sense of direction. And she was competent at finding drinkable water. Brigid soaked in all that learning but ignored even more. She seemed to have no interest at all in language. And she would change the subject or just wander off if anyone started to talk about lore, law, songlines or anything related to cultural knowledge. She wasn’t even interested in stories of her father.