Storyland

by Catherine McKinnon

  Once on shore, three sailors requested permission to tramp through the trees to the top of the hill so they might eye their ship’s position. The captain agreed, said he and the remaining five crew would stay with the boat. Three Indians offered to guide the sailors through the forest.

  The six men hiked for some time but, as they were nearing the top of the hill, one of the three sailors, the only one with a musket, became suspicious of the guides. He whispered his fears to his two companions but they, trusting souls, assured him the Indians were friendly.

  The men continued on their way. When they reached the hilltop they eagerly searched the sea for their ship but saw only waves and gulls. Their disappointment was monstrous. Would they be trapped on the island for all time?

  Heavy of heart they began their trek back to their companions. Halfway down, the man with the musket spied one of the Indians moving towards him, too fast for friendship. He shot off his gun. The Indians bellowed and whooped and attacked all three men, spearing the second sailor and cutting the throat of the third. The man with the musket fired again and the Indians ran into the forest. The musket man was unharmed and helped the two wounded men stagger down the hill.

  Arriving at the beach they spied blood splattered on the sand. Warily, they followed the blood trail to the water. There was an arm lying in the shallows. A few steps on, a leg. These, they realised, were the limbs of their captain, now hacked from his body, a body that was nowhere to be seen.

  Further from the shore two of the crew were floating, facedown, in bloodied seawater. The sailors waded out and turned the men over – their throats had been cut from ear to ear. The horror of it. The three sailors, one still clasping his own throat, the other pressing on his wounded side, now splashed towards the boat. In it lay two limbless sailors. They clambered in beside the dead men and only now did they see a headless sailor, tossed about by the breaking waves beyond the boat.

  Shaken by the ghoulish sight and sick with fear for their own lives, the three pulled away from shore just as the Indians, which they now guess to be cannibals, rushed across the sand hooting and howling. They quickened their row and were soon out at sea, far enough not to be pursued. The Indians set up an unholy racket and began dragging the dead bodies towards a large fire set back from the beach. In despair at leaving their companions to be feasted on by cannibals, the three survivors sailed away.

  They had a terrible journey, with only salt water to heal their wounds and no rations. After paddling through too many windless days, they made it to Sarret, near Timor Land, where some kindly Indians gave them food and water. The three survived to tell their tale, although one of them died soon after from fever.

  This story I tell to Lieutenant Flinders as we watch the shore for any sign of wild men. The lieutenant says he knows the tale and it smacks of embellishment.

  ‘Do not think on it, Will.’ The lieutenant is packing away the goods that Mr Bass has rafted out. He is being his sensible self. ‘For a start,’ he says, ‘why would the cannibals leave the boat and the bodies unattended? Where did they go?’

  ‘To light the fire,’ I say. ‘Or to chew on the captain’s body.’

  ‘Why did they not leave a guard?’ he asks.

  ‘Because they are cannibals. They do not have guards and soldiers and armies as we do.’

  ‘And why did the three survivors not see the fire burning before they set sail?’

  ‘They were in a state of great fear and shock,’ I say.

  But the lieutenant will not be convinced. I curse him silently. If Na was with us we would be safe. Na had begged to come on the journey. Mr Bass had been for it but the lieutenant was against, saying he would first need to secure the governor’s permission to allow Na to join us, and that would delay our departure.

  ‘And besides, Na eats for ten,’ the lieutenant had added.

  ‘Na is needed to sweep in the hospital,’ Mr Bass had said finally.

  But Na knows how to ward off cannibals with his death-rattle stare, which he has shown me, revealing the whites of his eyes. I realise now that it falls to me to keep alert for cannibal terror, as the lieutenant is too comfortable in his perceived knowledge.

  It is late in the day when a red-raw Mr Bass finally climbs on board and flops down, exhausted.

  ‘The bread is spoiled,’ he says. ‘The tea and coffee too. I left them on the beach.’

  I untie the raft while the lieutenant reports on the rest of our supplies.

  ‘Sugar, half wet. Flour not at all, nor the cakes of portable soup. Six pounds of rice, one piece and a half of salt beef and three of pork, all dry.’

  I roll the barica under the thwart. We have failed in our attempt to find fresh water, and feel it sorely in our throats.

  ‘One horn dry, two wet,’ the lieutenant adds, checking the gunpowder. ‘And I cannot pull the damn rod from this musket.’

  Mr Bass lies, gasping like a caught fish. There is no way to quench his thirst. Nothing for it but to leave him be.

  ‘We must be on our way,’ I remind the lieutenant, who is taking his time about our departure from danger.

  Surprisingly, he heeds my words. We step the mast and hoist sail. A breeze catches and we are off. The lieutenant sits at the helm and navigates towards the islands in the distance. I claim the bow. Mr Bass attempts to dress in damp clothes, but his skin is too sun sore and he can only suffer a shirt.

  We near the first island, but it is too rocky for landing.

  ‘Not here,’ I call.

  Air currents roll around us as if twisting a knot. The lieutenant steers further south; Mr Bass, asleep at his feet. We again pass beaches and headlands that look like practice Port Jacksons. I clamber back to the lieutenant.

  ‘Can we land?’ I ask.

  The lieutenant looks to the sails to read the wind, then to the trees on land. He reads the invisible by close attention to the visible.

  ‘Not yet. The wind will be against us for some time,’ he says. ‘See that double saddle?’ He points to the south.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘We will pull to the other side and wait it out.’ The lieutenant eyes the water. ‘It is the sea currents you need to gauge as much as the wind,’ he adds, in a kindly voice, kinder than he has ever used before. ‘Come on, we will douse the sail.’

  The lieutenant clambers over Mr Bass. We lower the sail and get upon the oars. Squalling winds now come at us from all directions, tossing Thumb about. Slap, slap, to dare is to do. Slap, slap, to dare is to do.

  We row to the other side of the saddle and are out of the gale but the sea drums the rocks beneath the cliffs.

  ‘Anchor!’ the lieutenant shouts over the noise.

  Mr Bass wakes, his skin tight and red. He lies on his side and rocks with the boat. Although he is hot to touch, he shivers.

  The lieutenant and I sit by and try to cheer him.

  ‘Will, how do you think those cannibals would have broiled us?’ the lieutenant asks, as if it is a serious question.

  ‘The slow broil, I think.’

  ‘Yet our cook might give a different counsel on the best way to broil human flesh,’ the lieutenant says.

  ‘He might indeed,’ I agree.

  Our cook on the Reliance has seven different broiling methods, one for each day of the week, which he feels a need to test on us. All on ship are in the habit of remarking, Oh, it is the tough broil today, or, Yes, yes, cook has outdone himself with a feat that defies nature, he has given us the dry broil.

  ‘What say you, Mr Bass? What advice would our cook give the cannibals?’ I ask.

  Mr Bass can only manage a whisper. ‘He would suggest roast for my carcass. Too fatty for much else.’

  ‘What if they were not cannibals at all,’ the lieutenant says, ‘but the kindest of Indians?’

  It is hardly possible to think them kindly but I join the game. ‘What if the smoke was caused by young ones left by the campfire for the day?’ I say.

  ‘What if it were smoke
smouldering from a fire caused by lightning?’ Mr Bass suggests.

  We laugh and our spirits are eased. Yet talking is hard with the drumming sea. Lieutenant Flinders says we must again spend the night on Thumb. I prepare melon and bread for our supper. We eat in silence, weary from the day. After, I lie down near the bow and watch the blue sky fade and a fire-orange moon rise.

  When I first learnt I was in Mr Bass’s employ, for days after, everyone wanted to jaw my journey. I was a bright star.

  On the sail out, it was Mr Paine who convinced Mr Bass I would need to improve my letters if I was to contribute to the rise of man.

  ‘Without your letters properly learnt,’ Mr Paine said to me, ‘you are an animal, no better or worse than a pig!’

  Yet, though I did not voice it at the time, and nor have I since, if I followed on with Mr Paine’s idea of who was animal and who was man, and if it all came down to knowing your letters properly or not, then most people I know (back home and on board the Reliance) are in the sty with the pigs.

  Mr Bass paid particular attention to my spelling, which was poor, for he said it was a sin to stick in and take out parts of the English language without law or licence. And it was he who, with his painterly way of shaping a foreign word, roused my interest in the Indian language.

  It came about when Mr Bass was attending our friend, Baneelong, who was mightily ill. This, on the voyage to New South Wales. Baneelong was the first native of this land we ever met. He was journeying back from living the high life in London with Governor Phillip.

  For the first part of the journey Baneelong lay on his bunk staring at the boards above. He made no motion other than that made for him by the rock of the sea. I spied him once for a full hour. Stillness itself.

  Mr Bass said, after the hijinks in London it would be a cruel trick if Baneelong were not to reach home. But, curiously, Baneelong rallied once we’d skipped across the equator, as if he could sniff his homeland on the breeze.

  It was then he taught us his language. The word for the Milky Way, only seen in the southern hemisphere, he called Warrewull. The Pleiades are Moloomolong, and the moon, yennadah.

  Now I gaze up at the stars and moon every night and, moreover, speak them in two languages, where once I did not give thought to them at all.

  Now I know how big the world is.

  Before, not knowing the world’s bigness meant that tomorrow looked like yesterday.

  Yet knowing makes it harder to spy ahead, as now I see tomorrow as unmade and know it will always be so.

  I wake, cold to the bone. Eye Warrewull above. I sit up. It is not only the sky that is rippling with light, the sea too is covered with flecks of shining. All between is black except to the east where the light curves up, as if a stairway to the heavens above.

  If the world were being born again, this is what it would look like. The only sound is the splish, splash of water.

  I uncoil a rope – splish, splash – and twirl the end in the sea – swoosh, swoosh – like a whirligig – swoosh, swoosh. It goes round and round, stirring the water so it throws off thousands of sparklings, as though sea and sky are sending signals to each other by shards of light. I think I will never see anything so beautiful again.

  I grow drowsy and fall asleep with my head and arms resting on the thwart. When I next open my eyes I spy a white-bellied sea eagle gliding above. I sit up and shiver.

  Mr Bass sighs. He still wears only a shirt. He holds his head prisoner in his hands. I see blistering on his neck but say nothing as he cannot abide fussing.

  The lieutenant nods me good morning, then tips his cheek to catch the breeze. We sit, silent monks in prayer with nature. I watch the sun spread light across the water. The air is not warm, but promises to be.

  A voice. Heard above the swish of the sea. Mr Bass and Lieutenant Flinders hear it too. We turn our heads together, and look to the shore and see two Indians in the surf, jumping and waving their fish gigs about so as to catch our eyes. In a click I am like a man stiff with death.

  ‘Only fish gigs,’ Mr Bass says to soothe us all.

  ‘But fish gigs have four sharp prongs,’ I say.

  ‘They can’t be thrown,’ the lieutenant says. ‘But must be thrust at the fish.’

  ‘So you are safe, Will, unless you turn into a fish.’ Mr Bass laughs, but I don’t see what tickles him so.

  The Indians call again. I can pick out words. Only then do I ease. Cannibals would not speak like Na. One of the Indians holds up a fish. My belly yelps.

  ‘They are offering food,’ the lieutenant says.

  We all have eyes for the fish.

  ‘Is it safe?’ the lieutenant asks.

  But our hunger answers for us.

  The lieutenant and I get upon the oars and row towards the Indians. Mr Bass sits gingerly at the helm. On the beach seabirds squawk and flap their wings. It is calm enough to land, but we stop pulling some distance from the two men and well away from the thrust of their fish gigs.

  One is a giant. His body is burnt black and glistening with water. Hair and beard like a bush, knotted and wild. Dark eyes. Like a man born of the earth itself. When he turns to me my chest goes tight. Yet his mouth is merry.

  Mr Bass speaks first using what language we know from Baneelong. He asks the giant his name.

  ‘Dilba,’ the giant says.

  The second Indian does not say his name. He is twig-thin but strong. And a match for Mr Bass in height. Both Indians have bones through their noses. Do they suffer it for a show of strength?

  The second Indian wades through the water towards us, a palm leaf bowl held in his long fingers. The bone through his nose is pointed at one end, like some I have seen before.

  He offers the bowl to Mr Bass, who takes it and sips, and hands it to the lieutenant who does the same, before passing it to me. I sip and the liquid cools my throat. Yet after drinking I only want for more.

  The giant, Dilba, offers fish, but we have no trade. Then Mr Bass remembers his handkerchief. I spot two potatoes wedged under the thwart and pull them out. We offer these to Dilba who takes them, trading two silver fish of medium size. I throw them in the pail.

  Despite thirst, Mr Bass has perked up. He likes to practise the language Baneelong taught him. Dilba’s friend dimples, his teeth whiter than any on board the Reliance.

  ‘Is our new friend from Broken Bay, or did he say Botany Bay?’ the lieutenant asks me.

  ‘One from each,’ I say, although I have not been listening properly and am not at all sure.

  I want to ask the Indians if they sailed down here in a canoe or if they walked. Na swears that he could beat me to any place, he walking and me in a canoe, even if we both set out at the same time. I cannot always discover what is fibbery with Na, as everything in this land is strange, and what appears strange may not be. Na has told me that his uncles walk south for a gathering where they dance their strange dances. He calls it carribberre. I want to ask the Indians if that is why they are here. Are you here for carribberre? I decide to ask when Mr Bass has finished his gab and sit forward keen to speak, but spy on shore several Indians striding down the dunes. More Indians soon follow, and more again, all calling and whooping and raising an almighty racket. The two Indians with us turn and bellow to those on shore, who start to enter the water with shouts.

  ‘George?’ the lieutenant whispers. ‘What do they say on shore?’

  Mr Bass has his ear cocked. ‘A different language,’ he replies. ‘I cannot make out a word.’

  The lieutenant turns to me. ‘Will?’

  The shouting frightens me, it sounds like one big roar. I mimic Mr Bass. ‘Not a word,’ I say.

  ‘Pull out,’ the lieutenant orders. ‘Too many are gathered.’

  In haste, we take up our oars and row away. The two Indians, now waving those on shore to join us, turn back, surprised at our retreat.

  ‘To Port Jackson,’ the lieutenant calls to them.

  I start to pull north, even though the wind is the
wrong way about and slaps me in the face.

  The lieutenant hisses. ‘Will! Where are you going?’

  ‘Port Jackson,’ I say.

  ‘We go south to the tip of the saddle!’ he snaps.

  I change direction. Tom Thumb slides about in the water.

  ‘For pity’s sake,’ the lieutenant complains.

  ‘Matthew, ease up.’ Mr Bass laughs. ‘We are safe.’ Mr Bass does not look scared but with him it is hard to tell.

  The lieutenant turns to me. ‘When you know not your opponent’s next move, make sure your own is difficult to comprehend. I told the natives north precisely because we are going south.’

  ‘Ah,’ I say, as though the strategy is clear, although it is not – for surely they will see us going south?

  We row out of the bay and around the point. I am weak with thirst when finally we haul Thumb up onto the sand.

  Mr Bass stands, eyeing the land. ‘No blasted water here.’

  ‘We will eat first, then search for water,’ the lieutenant says grimly.

  Scrubby land lies at the back of the dunes. I gather sticks for a fire but dizziness forces me to sit. Mr Bass takes the pail to the shallows and guts the fish. When I have recovered I pile sticks on top of each other and set them alight with a flint, blowing until I spark a flame.

  When the fire is crackling I lay our clothes near it to dry. My stomach has its own voice. The lieutenant laughs at the noises it makes.

  ‘Hunger must be the most fearful death. I would rather a spear through my chest,’ I say.

  ‘You may get both!’ The lieutenant cat-grins, as though he relishes the idea.

  ‘The land is a book waiting to be read,’ Mr Bass says, slapping the gutted fish on the fire. ‘Learn to read it and you will never go hungry. But I agree, Will, hunger is a terrible thing.’

  ‘Disagree,’ says the lieutenant, lively and spoiling for an argument. ‘Hunger can be good, as long as you are not the hungry party. Thinking, France. Thinking, Howe.’