True Country

by Kim Scott

  ‘Fish swim in with the tide, we get them when the tide goes out again.’

  They sat on the sand, in the shade cast by the car and the boab tree, and lit a small fire to cook the mullet.

  ‘Don’t take their gutses out, that’s nice fat there. Nice fat one.’ The mullet were thrown on the hot coals after the fire had died down. They ate the cooked fish gingerly because it burnt their fingers. The scales and skin came off with the ash.

  Billy thought about a beer. They drank warm water from a plastic container Milton had brought. Liz thought about disease.

  ‘AIDS? That kills you, eh? Them American people get it and die?’

  ‘Like a horror film.’

  ‘I used to fish, with my dad, with a net, when I was a kid.’

  ‘You seen that video?’

  ‘Some of the songs the band was doing I never heard before.’

  They fished with lines down by the creek for a while. The heat, among the mangroves and out of the breeze, was intense. The sand radiated heat. Liz wondered when they would be returning.

  ‘This be crocodile place.’

  ‘Grab your bait and just pull you in slowly, boy.’

  ‘Oh yeah, every afternoon nearly. Fatima likes to talk about the old days.’

  ‘My little boy, you know Cecil? He plays with a ghost. My sister I think. She died. I see him looking up, you know, like at a grown-up girl. Sometimes he’s frightened and he run to me and grab me and poke his tongue out back there. It’s all right. If I not there I might worry.’

  ‘Old people, they have black magic. They used to kill or destroy anybody. They send a shell through the ground, long way, and it come out and cut you. Or they fly like an eagle and just watch you watch you. Or they be a snake. Them old blokes here too, I mean Walanguh, them mob. But now they, they still have that magic but, they don’t see anybody that’s looking for trouble with them.’

  It was late afternoon. The tide had not ebbed completely and was still higher than it had been that morning. They would have to go and get the net. They couldn’t just leave it. It was from the mission.

  Liz stayed at the car. Alphonse took the rifle. There were two bullets left. They walked between a couple of thin mangrove trees and into the shallow water where the hard shoots stabbed at their feet, and headed for the creek mouth a couple of hundred metres away. When they were about halfway there they saw a frenzy of splashing at the net.

  ‘Big fish now.’ Alphonse and Billy talked excitedly. Milton was silent. The water was chest deep. They were about fifty metres from the shore, about twenty from the mangroves.

  Suddenly Milton was shouting. ‘Gun! Crocodile! Quick give me the gun! The gun! Gun!’

  Adrenalin took over. Alphonse’s eyes were big, his mouth open. Billy strained his eyes and saw a great crocodile, its head out of the water, swallowing. It looked jade-green in the rich light of the slanting sun, and the water on it sparkled. It was beside the net, facing out to sea. Billy looked at Milton. He was sighting the gun. He fired. With the echo of its report they saw the splash where the bullet struck the water beyond the crocodile. One bullet left. Milton looked at the gun as if he was going to throw it away. Alphonse was moving off toward the shore, walking as fast as he could in the deep water.

  ‘The tree, climb the tree, there!’

  They scrambled up one thin tree which stood, relatively tall, among the mangroves, Alphonse first. Milton stood at its base shaking the rifle at the others, wanting them to take it from him so he could climb the tree. They climbed as high as they were able, the tree swaying with their weight. They looked down to where the net was. ‘Plenty fish anyway.’

  Laughed in their excitement.

  And waited for the tide to drop.

  Milton saw Liz, back near the car, wading carefully into the shallow water. She looked pale and naked in the distance. Milton shouted a warning to her. She continued, staring straight at them. They waved and shouted together.

  Liz entered the water. The mangrove shoots were difficult to walk among. Where were they? Where had they left the net? Was that shouting she could hear? Was that Billy in that tree? Where were the others? So hard to see them in the dark of the tree. She could see Billy, and, yes, the others now, waving at her. Puzzled, she waved back. She stopped. She understood, and turned and ran back to the shore.

  They saw the tiny lacelets of water, the little splashes of water around her ankles as she high-stepped it out of the ocean.

  In her mind Liz saw herself repeatedly running from the Hilux to the water’s edge and back again. She stood, looked at the car, looked to where the others were. Turned a half circle. Would she be able to drive back and get help? Could she take a shovel and wade out with it as a weapon? There was no shovel. She waited. Billy would, Milton would know.

  Cautiously, the men climbed down. There were only puddles left between them and Liz now. There were a few dozen fish in the net. They picked it up between them and, constantly glancing around and starting, walked back. It was sunset. The sand was patterned in ripples of gold and blueblack, the puddles shining liquid gold. A cool breeze and they were walking into the sun.

  Liz told them what she had thought.

  ‘Someone must be helping us.’

  Chattering and laughing, they took fish after fish from the net, the threads of which dripped and sparkled with pearls.

  Beneath the high stars, with a breeze and bright grins, they bounced home through creeks and moonlight. Big glassy-eyed fish surrounded them. The trees waved them past.

  We Drink

  ‘The builders are here, got in this morning,’ Gerrard told Billy when they met between the office and the store. ‘Their vehicle’s knocked around a bit. The road’s still pretty bad they say.’

  ‘They starting Monday then?’ Billy asked. Gerrard nodded. Billy continued, ‘Any of our mob working with them?’

  Gerrard leaned forward. ‘You’re joking,’ he said. ‘And whaddya mean, “our mob”? No, this lot don’t know how to work.’ He leaned back again and looked around. ‘Anyway, one of the builders was here last year apparently. He knows them. There’s grog around so someone must’ve got him to bring some in for them.’

  Alphonse, Raphael, some other young ones, they down near Running Creek opposite the old people’s camp. They had flagons with them, passing them ’round. They sitting there in the shade, on the rocks, just talking and drinking but when they got a bit drunk and started up they got noisier. Deslie was down there with them. He didn’t drink but. They didn’t let him, yet. He come up to the store and get smokes for them when they run out.

  Araselli of the growing belly went for a walk about sunset with Margaret. They were talking about what they did a long time ago and what it would be like now if all the old people were still alive. They talking about what you did when you went to school in Darwin, in Perth. They were talking about boys.

  Araselli saw them first. Alphonse, Raphael, Milton, Bruno, and that young one, Deslie. They were sitting in that long grass on those little river rocks at Running Creek. Them boys yelled out to those girls. ‘Hey you girls. Hey Margaret, Araselli, what you doing. Hey, spunky girls.’ Alphonse yelled out too. ‘Araselli.’ He young that fella. He shouldn’t drink with them older boys, them men. He shouldn’t say Araselli’s name, or look at her. They rumbud, see. They looked at one another, again, all right. Done more than that, Alphonse, Araselli, and their growing belly.

  Araselli said, ‘Those boys are drunk.’ Those girls bent their heads and looked at each other and laughed. They turned around and ran away laughing, and looking back at those boys. The boys called out, but didn’t run after them. Too drunk even then. Too lazy too, probably. But Alphonse must have felt a hunger and ache inside him, looking after her like that, the way he did.

  Later they came up to the camp here and were shouting and making noise. Alphonse did fight with one of Araselli’s brothers. Raphael was yelling yelling yelling all the time and acting like a crazy man. He pushed Sebastian even, a li
ttle bit, and Sebastian’s boys came in and they took him away and pushed him, shoved him. He’s crazy that Raphael. We should do something. They was making noise all night. And Raphael even had a mission vehicle next morning and he was driving crazy in it. He could kill someone that one. I don’t know how he got it, maybe stole it from that Murray. Father Paul was away that weekend. If he was here this wouldn’t happen. When we were on the council and Father Pujol was here this didn’t happen. We should do something. But they don’t listen this mob.

  Murray was over at the mission workshop early in the morning. Raphael came and asked for a Toyota. Murray said no. A mission vehicle didn’t go anywhere unless someone from the mission went in it.

  Murray and Raphael were standing on opposite sides of the utility tray. Murray realised that Raphael was drunk.

  ‘I know you don’t trust me...’

  ‘Sorry Raphael, that’s the way it is. We don’t lend them to anybody.’

  ‘Steve said yes. I asked him just now. He said take one.’ Steve was a lay missionary who had been there a month.

  ‘Maybe he got mixed up. He can’t say yes or no about the vehicles.’

  ‘He did. Brother Tom, he there too.’

  ‘Sorry Raphael. No can do.’

  Raphael was edging around the tray.

  ‘You white hole. Fuck you gardiya prick. Why not? Why not you tell me why, eh?’

  Murray moved around the utility tray to keep opposite Raphael. Murray had heard of Raphael’s capacity for violence, and he was worried. He realised that some of the other young men were standing about fifty metres away on the edge of the workshop yard.

  ‘You gardiya hole. You don’t trust us Aborigine? You don’t wanna help black people? One day I make you sting, I lift you proper.’

  Murray had the utility between himself and Raphael. The workshop was behind him. This was ridiculous. This bastard was mad, and there was no sense arguing with him. He began moving toward the workshop with his back half turned to Raphael. He had his head down but was watching Raphael on the edge of his vision.

  Raphael stomped off to where the others were, but kept yelling at Murray. ‘Fuck off. Look, crawl off like a dog.’

  Murray was angry and humiliated. Raphael and the others were walking away. Murray turned into the workshop and busied himself.

  He heard a vehicle roaring from the mission grounds a couple of hundred metres away and immediately walked over there. Brother Tom was standing at the mission gates looking up where the road led through coconut palms.

  ‘You give him it?’

  ‘No. He called out as he drove past, said he’d seen you. Did he? Had you seen him?’

  ‘Yeah. He abused me. I said no. I thought he was going to fight me.’

  They could see the Toyota speeding recklessly and sliding around the corners of the small tracks leading around the edge of the camp.

  Murray turned to Brother Tom. ‘What do we do? What do you do to protect yourself if they do want to fight?’

  ‘Don’t let it happen in the first place. Use a shotgun. Shoot them below the knees.’ He gave a snort of resignation. ‘Only joking.’ They inhaled and sighed. ‘It is no good. You can’t talk with a drunken Aborigine.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘That Toyota will run out of fuel very soon. I used it yesterday. As long as no one is killed first.’

  ‘So when it stops we go and get it?’ asked Murray.

  ‘Yes, when it stops we will go up there. Many of them will be angry with the young men. They do not like Raphael. The way he bashes his two wives, Stella and Gloria, anyone. We will go up there and see.’

  Billy and Liz were over at the school on Sunday. From there they watched a fight take place among the houses near the school gate. Two women were pushing and sparring at one another like buck kangaroos. A group of men and women jeered and cheered them, and swore and cursed one another. The distance and the window glass meant that the shouts carried thinly to Billy and Liz, and the dominating silence made it strangely theatrical. It was pathetic of course, but also, somehow, brave, to be making an effort of any sort in all this vastness. They stood at the edge of the window, so that they would not be seen watching, and the frame made the scene seem almost as if staged. They were intrigued.

  Next day at school the senior students were sullen and subdued. One girl wrote this in her journal:

  Francis sat on his own and worked quietly all morning. He wrote little, but drew a careful and detailed picture of a muscular and bare-chested Aboriginal man careering through the mission grounds in a Toyota. White people fled in all directions. Young black families gathered in bunches and laughed and cheered, some older ones sat under the trees watching glumly. Deslie, who couldn’t write even his own name with confidence, wanted to colour it in.

  At recess and lunchtime all the kids were talking about how Raphael was driving like he was in a race and how he pinched a car from the mission. They were excited and impressed with his daring.

  Someone bought grog to Karama and all the people get drunk and they start having fights with one other that drinking business makes the older people like Fatima Walanguh Sebastian Samson very upset so when all the people are better next day the old people talk out loud to all the people who was drunk and tell them what they think of them when they are drunk and of course they feel shame.

  Is This Hunting?

  Murray drove fast. He drove like one of the young blokes, like Raphael, like a hot-rodder. His car bounced and bucked over the rocks and lumps and corrugations, its suspension yelping and moaning. Milton was with him. They were going out to get oysters because low tide was at sunset and it was already getting late.

  Jasmine heard them approaching. She was walking along the track between the airport and the tip. They stopped and offered her a lift, and she leapt in as the red dust passed them and swirled back and around the vehicle.

  Murray drove even more ferociously, keen to impress, and on a rocky curve the car teetered, for a moment, on two wheels. Milton raised his eyebrows. Jasmine nudged him. Murray whooped and laughed. ‘Scare you Jasmine? These women can’t take it. What do you reckon Milton?’ But he drove a little slower.

  ‘Good car this,’ said Milton, ‘I’d like one like this.’

  At the beach they picked their way among the slippery rocks and prised off large oysters. The sun was almost setting and they slapped at the midgies and mosquitoes. Jasmine and Milton worked together, putting oysters into the tin Milton carried. Milton turned to Jasmine as they crouched together among the black rocks. ‘Hear? Listen.’

  From the mangroves came small noises. Popping, clicking, sucking. Milton was solemn. ‘Djilina. In the mangroves. We’re all right, they’re shy. You be here on your own but, sittin’, sittin’ lookin’ at the sun with the mangroves behind you, one of the men ones might get you, take you away. They tall, long beards and hair; sweep behind ’em, cover their footprints. The women are good, just cheeky sometimes, but they don’t take people. Old Walanguh, you know, Walanguh? He was taken by them when he was little, and they grow him up. And he has power, you know? Like magic.’

  The longer they listened, the more they heard them. Regular sounds, like careful footsteps, hesitating and creeping. Milton whispered, ‘My father was out here last week, just sittin’, just sittin’ watchin’ the sun. He turned and he saw one. Him disappear again.’

  Murray called out to them, his voice thin, struggling feebly to reach them through the thick light. ‘Enough?’ He held up a full bucket.

  It was dusk, and, as they drove back, it was darkness. The headlights picked out the tree trunks beside the track. Among them were tall, thin, stooped beings. They were watching. The wind brushed at their long beards and hair as the car hurtled past.

  Murray drove across the airstrip on the way back. ‘Shortcut,’ he said. He sped up. The headlights picked out two pairs of eyes. ‘Kangaroos,’ exclaimed Milton. ‘I had a gun, I’d get ’em!’

  Murray accelerated toward them. ‘Tucker!’ he whooped. ‘Tucker
time.’

  They hit one on the passenger side of the ’roo bar, and Jasmine saw it large and pale in the lights, heard the thud, saw it shrinking in the darkness as it was hurled past her door window.

  ‘One!’ Murray the cowboy.

  His mouth was a tight line, his face hard in the refection of the dashboard lights. He swung the car around, the rear drifting out in the graded gravel of the airstrip.

  The other ’roo was bobbing fur, bleached in the lights, becoming larger and growing legs tail head as they sped toward it, caught it, hit it with the brakes locked up and the gravel sliding around them. It cartwheeled forward onto its small arms and the front tyre went over it.

  ‘Got ’em. Done.’ Murray gripped the steering wheel hard and pushed it. ‘Better than a gun,’ Milton was laughing. Jasmine held her bottom lip in her teeth. They sat in silence for a moment. A moment of a motor purring, an indicator light flashing ridiculously. A full moon and hearts beating.

  Milton and Murray slung the corpses over the ’roo bar.

  Next day, Milton told Liz and Annette that Murray had given the camp a feed.

  ‘Shit, what is he? Great white hunter?’

  ‘But someone’s got to look after them. The kids’ll be well fed for once anyway,’ said Annette.

  Billy flew out one Friday afternoon, and arrived back on the Sunday night driving the Toyota utility he’d bought in Derby. The tray was heavily laden, and a small aluminium dinghy was strapped on top.

  Some days later Billy heard a voice calling his name.

  ‘Hey!’ Sebastian was waving from across the school fence and walking toward him. Billy hesitated, then walked across to the fence. ‘You got outboard motor?’

  Billy nodded.

  ‘You might say no, but can I use it, this weekend, me and my boys? We look after it, bring it back straight away, same day.’

  ‘Sorry Sebastian. I have to say no. Otherwise I might end up hating you if something went wrong. You understand?’