by John Bodey
When the time came for their leaving, as soon as Nijilla had fallen asleep, Nunjupuni would leave her wrapped in bedding outside her eldest brother’s humpy. Then they would leave. There would be no turning back; they would be committed, and if they were caught they would die. Her brother would know what to do. He would guard and protect the little one as his own, whether they lived or died, and if they should ever return for their daughter, he would leave the choice to the little girl. That was his way.
Dani had planned to move inland, go south along the coast in the water for a day or two, then move directly inland and keep going until they hit the edge of the great sandy desert, then move north until they found a land that they could finally call home. After five or six summers, they could come this way again, pick up their daughter, and return to their own homelands. But Nunjupuni, willing to give up one love, wasn’t willing to give up the other. All her life, she had lived by the great ocean. Every night she had listened to the sighing of the waves on the shore; in her loneliest hours, the ocean had been her strength, her source of comfort, her security. She couldn’t leave it.
Up or down the coast, then? Up.
Nunjupuni knew the lands to the south, and her face was familiar to the people there. No, they had to go north. There, she was not known, neither was he. They would go straight into the water from this very beach, then move night and day northwards, leaving the water only to sleep and find food. Ten, maybe fifteen suns they would travel in the sea, then they would leave it for the land and begin their search for their new homelands, many days further along the coast.
They should leave as soon as possible. But before they did, Dani wanted just once to hold his daughter. To nurse her to himself, to caress and croon and speak words of love. If they should never pass this way again, at least he would have held this child of his own, and she would know that her father had returned to her, if only for a moment.
The next night, before midnight, Nunjupuni bought Nijilla with her, and for a small time the family sat and became as one. Too late to undo their decision, they both knew that when Nunjupuni took the child to her brother’s humpy it would be time to go. At last Njilla fell asleep in Dani’s arms. Her mother wrapped her well, then with tears in her eyes left the child outside her brother’s humpy and soon she and Dani were on their way.
The days passed, the water that once soothed and acted as a balm became daunting in its immensity. Time was passing but they had not travelled far. They realised they had made a bad choice but to change plans now would be stupid. Even though the taste of raw fish, mussels and crabs were beginning to make them feel like retching every time they ate, their love helped them to endure this awful journey in the water.
One night they slept beneath an overhang of rock and in the morning they were woken by the sounds of voices. They crept to the edge and peered over the lip. Men with spears were coming along the waters’ edge. Others were walking on the sandhill, trying to keep pace with those on the wet sand. Some were talking excitedly and pointing towards where they were hiding. It was too late to get back in to the water and make their way out into deep water as they had planned to do if ever they should run into people. There was only one thing to do; go inland.
Picking up their gear, and without trying to conceal the fact they had camped in the cave, they climbed out onto the rocks around them and disappeared. Their pursuers looked out to sea, wondering if they might have taken to the water, but could see no sign of them. They decided it was too late to go back to their camp, so they stayed there overnight. Next morning they decided the quarry had eluded them; they would turn back. A young hunter, going into the bush to have a goona before starting home, was squatting down, when he suddenly realised that he was looking at a footprint. He got down on all fours, scrutinised it and realised it was a woman’s. He called for the rest of the party to come. Dani and Nujupuni heard the gathering of the men, and could sense their excitement. Before they could make a move to return to the sea, the tribesmen had moved to block them from going there.
Now the hunt was on in earnest. One of the Elders sent the fastest runner in their midst to go back to the camp and get others. He also sent a (runner to go as fast as he could. Nunjupuni’s tribe.
Nunjupuni and Dani ran before the line of people. They didn’t know the country inland. All they could do was to move before the advancing line. They went on for two days. At night they eluded the men set to guard them and began to make their way to the coast, but by daylight the tribesmen were back on their tracks, encircling them and pushing them the way they wanted them to go. Nobody tried to get close to the couple; they just herded them before them.
Dani and Nunjupuni began to feel the lack of drinking water. It was now over two days since they had drunk. As the sun began to sink they climbed over the brow of a small sandhill and saw a great plain. Pausing to take in the sight, Dani looked far into the gathering dusk; he thought he saw a mound of tall trees. Tall trees ... the possibility of water.
Their thirst drove them on. They walked all night across the plain, and with the coming dawn, they saw that what Dani had seen the evening before, was in fact a stand of tall trees, and there was indeed a creek. They could see birds flying away from it and passed the tracks of roos, emus and dogs coming and going towards the trees. Water. Stumbling, they made their weary way towards the creek; soon they would have cool water running down their throats.
Forgotten were the people that hunted them. Forgotten the people from whom they had run. Their one thought was water. They were walking into a rising sun. They didn’t need to see the trees to find the water: they were walking in the tracks that animals over countless years had pressed into the earth. Their senses were dulled by the thirst. They walked blind and uncaring for the moment, their thoughts only of the water.
“Nunjupuni!”
The word stopped them in their tracks. They looked into the sun and were blinded. But they didn’t need to see. It was the one voice they both knew well, the one they dreaded most. They began to back away, Dani shielding the woman from the man they had come to hate. Their retreat came to a halt as they backed into a tree.
“Did you think that you could get away from me?”
They were too tired to run. Too weak and weary to fight. They stood their ground and heard the old man out.
“You, Danaranni. You will die. There is nothing anyone can do to save you.”
“And you ... you fucken bitch ... you will live. You will live for as long as it will take for me to work you to your death.” He was building his temper, slowly fanning the fires of hate. The hate he had for this young man bordered on the edge of insanity. He was now no more than two spear lengths from them. The sun was still directly behind him; he stood like a giant, and in his hands he held at least six spears. The sun shone on him and around him, and dazzled them. “Stand aside you woman of dogs and watch and remember how this common woman thief of the night, dies.”
They could see no other, but behind him had gathered the people of the tribes to watch. There was nowhere left to run. They could not even try. This was the end. It was the end that they had both known they would have to face if they were caught. Nunjupuni moved to stand beside her man; wearied, he leant against the tree for support. She reached out and as his hand came into hers, they heard the hiss of the spear. He grunted as it buried itself in his gut, impaling him into the tree.
“Be strong, my Nunjupuni, my little sand-curlew. Think of me. My love for you will never die.”
A second spear pierced his leg and pinned him hard against the bole of the tree.
“Look after our daughter, and one day tell her of me. Tell her that I loved her, that I’m sorry that we couldn’t grow together and know one another, and that I wasn’t there to see my grandchildren.” His strength was going, his life not long left to him.
He bit back the cry of pain. He had promised himself he would die like a true warrior. He would take his punishment without crying out. He would stand until t
he last breath left his body and his soul flew free to wander where it would. His breath began to flutter, and blood flecked his mouth.
“Tell Nijilla ... why ... we...”
The next spear took him through the gut. It had missed the tree, and the weight of the shaft, falling towards the earth, dragged at his guts. His head began to hang.
“Ohhyeee. Ohhyeee. Daniii. Daniiii,” Nunjupuni cried.
“I love you, Nunjupuni ... I ... love ... you...”
She reached for his head and held it upright, to let him die with his head held high. She looked once at the old man, then she turned; taking her time, she lent towards the dying face. She wrapped an arm around him, and for the last time she kissed him long and hard.
The old man became incensed. He screamed in his madness. He stopped within a spear’s throw as she held her lover’s embrace. And in his madness, he rammed the final spear deep into her. It struck between her shoulder blades straight through her heart and entered Danaranni’s body and drove on through his heart. Impaled to the tree, their blood flowed. It ran down the shaft, and while their hearts beat as one, their blood mingled and dripped to the earth below.
“Jees, Grandad. What a story.”
“Yes, Grandson. But it isn’t finished yet.”
“Not finished?”
“Not quite.”
Nijilla grew into a beautiful woman, and the time came for her to marry and have her own children. Her uncle asked if there was anything she wanted while she still lived with him, while he could still give her the things she wanted. Nijilla was to marry a young man she had met at one of the ceremonies. He was a good, kind young man; uncle was sure he would love and look after her just as her father had loved her mother.
“When I was a little girl and asked you where my mother and father had gone you told me that one day, when I was old enough, you would take me to them and show me where they stayed. I think I am old enough to go and see them. I would like very much before I marry for you to take me. I don’t want anyone else to come, I don’t want anyone else to take me. Will you do that for me?”
Her uncle took her to the plain where those many years ago his beloved sister, Nunjupuni had died. Now he stood before the tree where both the lovers had lost their lives.
There was nothing to see. Days after they were killed he had taken the bodies and the spears and spent a full day digging at the base of the tree a hole large enough to bury both of them together. He had covered them over and had never returned until this moment. The tree was a little larger, yet it looked the same. And there, at the foot of the tree, a creeper had grown; it curled up around the tree into the branches above their heads.
“Look, Uncle. This creeper, it has such strange little seeds, like beads, as bright as blood. Don’t you think they look like drops of blood?”
“Yes, Nijilla, they look just like the drops of blood that dripped from the spear that pinned both your parents to this tree.”
The Weeping Trees
Aboriginals are a nomadic people, and have been since the dawn of time. They move from area to area for diverse reasons: the animals in the area might be getting harder to hunt; the seeds they collect might be getting scarce; the supply of wild fruit, yams, lily roots and nuts might be dwindling; the water supply might be drying; cold; rain. They move and camp, move and camp—sometimes a few kilometres, sometimes a trek over long distances to the next big watering hole. They move in a cycle, and each cycle may take a year, or two or even three years, to make. The length of the cycle depends on how long the land needs to rejuvenate itself; the drier the land, the longer the cycle.
Different tribes trekked in different ways. The Fitzroy River is a long, flat, winding river. A tribe starting at the mouth might take forever to trek to the hills of Liveringa (Looma), so they sweep back across the red loam sandhills hunting emu, turkey and the big sand goannas, before once more starting the new cycle from, say, Milli Milli, a pool on the lower reaches of the Fitzroy River.
Other tribes might start from the Fitzroy River near where Jubilee Station is today, head south towards Old Cherabun Station and continue south past Why Worry Canyon, and on, out into the desert. Sweeping south and east across the ridges of red sandhills, they start turning north for Christmas Creek Station. They cross the dry upper reaches of Margaret River, until they walk the river flats near Fossil Downs, across the rugged rocky ridges and down into the big waterhole and the cooling waters that are Gieki Gorge—just as Mother, Munni, Nelli, Datun, Kahla, and Cuddy might have done those many thousand years past.
“Look at that tree, Grandad. See how its leaves droop down over the water. When the wind blows, the leaves sway, then touch the water again; just as if the tree is drinking.”
“Isn’t it strange that the people from lands who have never heard our stories call that tree the weeping willow—a name similar to ours. We call it the mun ill murra tree—the tree of sadness. To us it is a sacred tree.”
“Is there a story about the mun ill murra tree?”
“Yes. Would you like to hear it?”
“You know me, Grandad. I’ll listen to a story any time. I just hope the fish don’t bite when we get to the good bits.”
“Well, I could do with my crab claw pipe, full mind you, and the remains of the brew in the billy by the fire ought to see me comfortable.
“Now, Grandson. The lines are set, and while we wait for the fish to bite I’ll tell you the story. Mind you, it’s not a happy story; not many of our stories are.”
Long, long ago, back in the days of our Dreaming, a tribe of our people lived on a great permanent waterhole nestled between two sheer cliffs that belonged to the hills Nerriga and Kallroopta, in that country way over there close to the desert. The water came out of the ground from an ancient crack in the rocks; it gave off a strange smell and had a biting taste, but that didn’t worry the people nor the animals and birds who lived by it. The water flowed all the time and kept the waterhole well supplied. When the monsoon rains reached the parched lands, they washed the hardness out of the water, and filled the waterhole with sweet clean water again.
But these people had not always lived by that strange waterhole. It was said they once dwelt on the upper reaches of our great river, close to where it starts its flow. The lands they came from were abundant in fruit and game and sweet water. They wanted for nothing, and yet they had left: their land to see what other people had that they did not. Their curiosity would very nearly prove their undoing.
So the tribe went on walkabout. They followed the edge of the desert south, moving on the fringes, eating and hunting and enjoying the new country as they passed through. They were a naturally happy people, good hunters and food gatherers, willing to share their food and knowledge with people they met along the way. They had been gone for more than five summers, when at last the people were beginning to long for their homes. They missed the cool waters of their big billabong, the fish and turtle and lily roots it provided, the water goannas and the wallabies that came down there each evening to drink. It was time to go home.
They held a meeting of the whole tribe, but it was the men who had the say. So glad in spirit were the people that they were at last going home, that the decision to go the quickest way, straight across the great inland desert, did not worry them. They saw no danger. They set out across that dry, windblown country of red sand and dust and little black sticky flies, and walked with the evening star on their right, the morning star on their left. Out into the desert they walked, with the half-moon smiling high above them.
For days they plodded through the low scrub and sand. Food was becoming scarce, water ever harder to find. The hunters spread out each morning searching for signs of human habitation, of water and food. They followed animal trails in the hope that these would lead to water. The people were held together by their belief that they could help one another. At a small pool of green slime-covered water, the people knew they should turn back now, while they could, carrying as much water as
possible until they reached that last good-sized waterhole they had left many days to the south.
But the Elders scorned the people. They ridiculed them saying they had grown soft and that some hardship would do the tribe good, make them appreciate the things they had. They pointed out that the tribe was over halfway home. There would be other waterholes; they should carry on. The people grumbled but when the Elders moved off, they followed in their wake. Three days later, their supplies now pitifully low, the people fell back on one of the last resources of survival: their urine was collected and strained through sand; after many strainings there remained only half the original quantity. Mixed with the remaining water, it could be sipped to moisten the lips and mouth, especially the mouths of the children.
With the new moon they placed the first children on the death platform. Others would follow. The people were tiring faster, their bodies drying in the harsh sun, their lips cracked and dry. No longer able to walk in the midday sun, they lay under cover of the low shrubs and whatever rock overhangs they could find. Children cried for water. It was desperation time, and the tribe knew it. The sick and the weak were slowing their rate of travel. It was time to take measures to survive. With the coming of night, they would leave behind those that couldn’t walk by themselves and push on.
Darkness closed in, a boy began to cough and dry-reach; the only thing in his guts, acid green bile. His mother sat helplessly, cradling his head. She stuck her dry and withered nipple in his mouth and urged him to suck. At first he was reluctant to take in his mouth that thing he had had no use for over the past twelve years. He was a man. He had been through the rites and ceremonies. He had stood the pain of initiation, he would accept the pain of dying. What sort of man would suck his mothers tit to save himself from dying? But the biting pangs of hunger overcame his shame, and with the sucking came the first trickling drops of life-saving saliva.