When Darkness Falls

by John Bodey

  “Are you feeling all right, Nelli?”

  She turned at the sound of Mother’s voice. “Yes, Mother. I know how tired you are, but I wanted to talk to you before the others were awake. I didn’t want to create any unfounded fears, to put the fright of dying back into their lives. Should we not start collecting our urine and begin straining it? There won’t be any water this time tomorrow, and if we haven’t found the hills by then, it may be too late to start. I thought that this morning, while people have water to goomboo, we should start collecting it.”

  “Now I know why my son chose you. You are a thinker. Let’s start the collection with our own. Who knows, the hills might be just over the other side of this ridge we’re climbing—then again, they might not. But at least we will have something to wet our mouths, and the thought of drinking human waste again might be just what the kids need to make them think before asking for water.”

  “Will you tell them?”

  Mother rose and called out to everyone. “Are you all awake? Listen. This morning we start to collect our water. You will help each other, pool your water. While one carries the water, the others can look for fine clean sand. Strain it as soon as you can; the longer you wait, the stronger it gets and the harder it is to clean. Now let’s be off. And if any of you want to drink, the sooner you get your water strained, the sooner you get to drink.”

  The heat of the sun beat down on them as they crested the rocky ridge, and as they paused to take a breath, there before them were the hills they had begun to think could not exist. Gratefully they sank onto the nearest rock. They had survived.

  Rested, they pushed on, their only source of liquid the urine they continued to strain. As night came on they took their bearings from the stars. It was only the exhaustion of the youngest that made them stop and rest on the hard-packed earth of the flood plain.

  By the early morning light, the hills looked far bigger than they had imagined, and now they could see the gap between the hills, a mighty chasm. They looked in awe as the distance closed, and responded with laughter to the screeching of wheeling galahs and the abrasive squawks of white Corellas. They shrugged off fatigue and lightened their step. Now hope was in their hearts.

  They gasped at the hugeness of the water; never had they seen so massive a body of fresh water before. This was a vast sheet of water. How much food must it hold, a lifetime’s supply? With childish glee they followed Mother, Munni and Nelli into the sandy shallows and splashed and laughed and dived and lived.

  Kahla stood at the water’s edge holding Sharca, looking towards the farthest edge of the lake. She crouched down, scooped a handful of water and drank, then scooped some more, and ran it over the baby’s head. She looked at the smiling, laughing faces of the others splashing in the shallows and held back, the only reluctant one amongst them.

  Seeing her strange look of apprehension, Datun walked out of the lake towards her. Gently he took the quiet, smiling Sharca from her arms, held him in both hands and raised him high, then slowly lowered him, cradling him in the crook of his arm. He reached out for her hand.

  “Come, Kahla, neither you nor Sharca have anything to fear while you are with me.”

  “Will you save me if I drown?”

  “There is no way that you or Sharca will ever drown, I will never let you be in danger. I will always go before you to make sure your way is safe. Trust me, Kahla.” He tugged her hand and she followed, and when the water had reached his knees, he turned to her and slowly sank down in to the coolness of the waters, his body between her and her fear. The darkness of the water, what it might hold, it’s very size frightened her. Kahla followed him down, her face tight with fear, and she gripped his hand tightly. He ignored the pain of her fright, then slowly lowered Sharca into the cool water, talking to him softly.

  “That’s my boy, splash around.”

  The child gurgled his delight and kicked out with his small legs. He smiled and yabbered in baby talk.

  “Now if Mother let’s go of Father’s hand, he can give you a drink, and Mother can wash all the dirt and rubbish out of her hair and look real pretty for us.”

  Kahla sat stunned, then slowly she let her free hand sink to feel the sand beneath her. Reassured, she let go of Damn’s hand and sat further into the water, her eyes never leaving his face. “Mother? Father? Do you know what you are saying? We’re only kids.”

  “No, Kahla, you are wrong. I might be only thirteen summers, and you a little younger. But when you accepted the responsibility of this little fella’s life, you became his mother. When I gave you half my water so that he had plenty to drink, even enough to sprinkle on his body to cool him in the heat of the day, I too accepted responsibility for his life.”

  “Your water? That was your share of the drinking water I so foolishly wasted to keep him cool?”

  “It does not matter.”

  “That was wrong of me. What if you had died? I would never have known.”

  “I don’t think Munni would have let me die.”

  “Datun?”

  “Yes, Kahla?”

  “Are you taking me as your wife?”

  “It would be strange if Sharca grew up calling you Mother and me Father if we weren’t married, wouldn’t it?”

  “Do you think we are ready for marriage?”

  “Kahla. Do you think I just thought of this as I walked out of the water to get you? No. I knew what I was getting into when I gave you half my drinking water, and the moment you first let me carry him, I fell in love with this little fella.”

  “But Datun. Being married means having babies. I don’t think I’m ready to have a baby yet.”

  “Look. Let’s just grow this one up first and we can learn as we go.”

  “Whew! I’m glad that’s over. Better check the bait—and how about filling my pipe for me, Grandson.”

  “Hang on, Grandad! That’s it? It’s been a good yarn, but what happened to the mun ill murra tree, the weeping willow?”

  “Oh yes ... I forgot about the trees. Well, let’s get organised again and I’ll finish the story.”

  “Here’s your pipe, Grandad.”

  “Thanks, you’re a good boy. Now, where were we?”

  “At the chasm waterhole. Datun had taken Kahla as his wife.”

  “Oh yes...”

  “The chasm and its waterhole became their new homeland. They had no wish to leave, no desire to find the parents who had so deliberately left them to die. They were happy and content, with full bellies and a supply of water that would last them a lifetime.”

  “Did Datun and Kahla make children?”

  “Yuggamush, Grandson. Let me finish this story so we can get on with some serious fishing.”

  Many years had passed. Boodjang had married Cuddy. Munni and Nelli now had five children and she was expecting her third. Datun and Kahla had married and she was swollen with her second child.

  Datun was sitting by the water one day with Nelli watching their children dive and collect mussels from the depths.

  “What ails Mother, Nelli?” he asked. “I have noticed her lately taking long walks, dreaming by the fire, and at times looking across the water with a distant look in her eyes.”

  “It is in her heart. We are happy and settled, and have been here almost seven summers now. In all that time she has looked after us, teaching us, helping the women with their births, teaching them all she knows of the laws and the ways of men, and not once has she complained. She grows old, Datun.”

  “She is dying? Is that what you are trying to tell me?”

  “Not dying. Her heart longs for her homeland. This is not her home. This is our home. Do you realise that in the last seven summers, she has not had a man, not felt the embrace of another? Her grandchildren love and cuddle her, but she hasn’t got the love of a man, to hold and keep her warm at night and give her the comfort we take for granted. She longs to have a man to look after her and to grow old with.”

  “Then let’s not talk about it. Let
’s take her home.”

  “That’s what I have been thinking. Then if Mother wishes to stay, we will always have some place to go walkabout.”

  “When shall we go?”

  “Let’s leave that to Mother. I know she will be sorry to leave. But she must before her heart breaks.”

  They left under the cold light of a filling moon. There were only the three of them. They left the new tribe and walked off into the night. Their passage was steady and comfortable and they walked till the rising of the next full moon. As they crossed a vast flat, skirting the turkey bush and the coongaberry shrubs, Munni felt a change in his mother, and his anxiety grew as her footsteps quickened.

  “Are you all right, Mother?”

  “Oh yes Munni. Just a little closer and I will be sure. That low range of hills to our right ... I know those hills, and if this is the creek I think it is, then we are only a day’s walk from the river. Oh Munni, we are nearly there.”

  “Nearly where, Mother? This land is unfamiliar to me. This is not our homeland. Did we pass this way when we came?”

  “No, my son. This is the land of your father. You were only a baby when your father died. I was his fourth wife, and with his death, his first wife asked me if I would like to go back to my own tribe. I was only fourteen summers and still missing my home, and she freed me, otherwise I would have had to marry another in their tribe. So I went home.”

  “So that is why I have never had a father, only uncles. I was hoping you would tell me. If you know this land, then you will also know how far it is to our old homeland.”

  “Another two to three days further north. But we won’t need to go that far. Here, if my other sisters in marriage are still alive, will be far enough.”

  That night they camped on the ridge overlooking the river valley and watched the campfires flickering below. Next morning as they walked across the dry flood plains towards the camp, warriors appeared, eyeing the strangers as they approached.

  “Bintung Crooked Leg and Nundi-noora, you Magpie! Who you staring at?” Mother cried.

  “Who this one who sing out our name like sister?”

  “Munmurra with them skinny legs you used to tease. Anybody think you never seen this woman before.”

  “Munkjarra. Mine yiminny. You propa woman this time, all same dat belong young time. Who this pulla?”

  “This pulla? You don’t know him? This one you bin carry, you bin sing, you bin cry when he bin leeb you.”

  “Munni? That one Munni?”

  “You-aiii.”

  “Who is he, Mother?” Munni asked, staring at the warriors who spoke.

  “He’s your uncle, your father’s youngest brother, Nundi-Noora. You must recognise him as your father.”

  “Aaaiiieee, Munnniii, Munni mine baby. Aaiieee come here to your father. Come here and let me look you.”

  “Nundi-noora?”

  “Yes, my sister?”

  “Your other son. My youngest. Take him as you do Munni. His name is Datun, his father has no name.”

  “Aaiiieee, Datun, Datun. This too much. Come here to this old man. Let me look you. Aaiiieee, you bin make this old man heart propa full. Come, we go old mother Bessi. This put some life in her bones. She bin sittin round too long waitin to die. Shell be propa glad you’n three pulla still walk’n’bout, I tell you.”

  “It will be good to see the old girl again. I’ve thought of her a lot through the years.”

  They talked late into the night, and through it. The visitors were told a tale of the strangest happening: word had spread far and wide about the tribe that now had no name. Their homelands and hunting grounds were empty; no one travelled through that country anymore. The land was taboo; too many spirits roamed it looking for peace. It was a dead land that harboured only wandering souls.

  Only seven aged and crazy women had survived the long walkabout, and when they returned and saw nothing there for their old age, nothing except barrenness and loneliness, they sat down on the banks of the river and cried their lives away.

  “It is said that at nights, when the wind blows gently through the leaves of the trees, you can hear their sighs,” Bessi told them. “Poor things, they wait for release to enter their Spirit world. Only people of the tribe can help them. Now sleep, and think on what I say.”

  The boys bedded down in comfort, and the old ones kept on talking.

  “Alone at last. Listen to my words, Munmurra my sister,” said Nundi-noora.

  “Sister? Had I stayed, I would have been your wife. In my youth I didn’t know what I was doing. I’m an old grown woman now, and believe me, I know what my choice would have been if we could live it all again.”

  Munni’s new-found father smiled. “There is time. But for the present, there are more pressing needs. I think you should go with your sons to the last camp of your people, those seven crazy women. Walk along the river bank, sit in the shade of the trees, talk with your spirit ancestors and set your people free. Let the land live again. If you no longer have any feeling for it, set it free and let others take of its waters and food.”

  “Tomorrow we will go. We have been away from our own homes, our families and our people for almost a whole moon. It is time the boys were getting back to their wives and children. Come with us, Nundi-noora, come with me. You have nothing keeping you here.”

  “Go, Munmurra. Make peace with your dead first. When you come again, I’ll be waiting to see this wonderful place you call home.”

  Mother set off with Munni and Datun, and as they journeyed the river began to look familiar, the hills, the trees and the bird life. Wallabies and emus roamed the flood plains. The country, though dry and dusty, held life. They camped and waited for first light. The night seemed strange. There wasn’t a breath of air and the dancing shadows from the firelight sent strange sensations along the boys’ spines; cold shivers made their sleep short and light. With sun flooding through the trees along the river, Mother led them to the ancient home ground. She stood on the barren, hard-packed earth that had been her home and looked about, then she and Munni walked to where their humpy had once stood. There was nothing, nothing but memories.

  “Do you recognise your old home, my son?”

  “No, Mother. I see nothing familiar, I feel nothing. Let’s go to the river and gather up the bones of the women, then put them to rest and be on our way. I wonder where they sat and died?” He looked around. “Where’s Datun?”

  “He went to be by himself. There he is, sitting on the river bank under those shady trees. I don’t remember anything like them growing around here before.”

  “Aren’t they lovely, Mother? The way their branches droop down over the bank and into the water. And see how the leaves sway in the breeze. When it passes, they droop back as if they’re drinking.”

  “Look at the tree again where Datun is sitting. It looks as if its branches are embracing him.”

  Munni counted the weeping trees. “Mother, there are seven of those trees.”

  Mother called across to Datun. “Are you all right son?”

  “Yes, Mother. It’s so peaceful sitting here. It no longer feels frightening. I feel like I’m home.”

  “You are home, son. This was the home of our people. Would you like to come back and stay?”

  “No. We have our homeland now. This was the homeland of our parents. One day I will bring Kahla and Sharca and the others here for a visit, a small walkabout. But stay? No, there is nothing here for me except perhaps this tree. I think I’ll gather some seeds to take home and plant, then I’ll have memory of the place of my birth.”

  “You are ready to go?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Then there is nothing holding us here. We’ve done what we came here to do, set our people free. Let’s go home.”

  “Home, Mother? Your home too? Or will your heart always be here? Is this what you really want?” asked Munni.

  “Yes, son. I have all I want. I have my life, my children, and my grandchildren.”<
br />
  “And what about a man? Isn’t that partly why we came?”

  “Oh, I have that. Nundi-noora is waiting, and now I will have a companion in my old age. What more can an old woman want?”

  “Ahem! Grandson. The day grows late and we have yet to walk back to the camp. What a wasted day’s fishing, all for the sake of a lousy catfish, not enough for a good feed.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Grandad. I think it’s been one of our best fishing days. Do you think Datun went back to that place? And that tree? I have a strange feeling his mother made it.”

  They trudged off carrying their catfish. The old man’s arm was around the child as they walked towards the setting sun, their ambling gait free and easy. They were at ease with life and their surroundings. They were where they belonged, deep in the heart of the Australian bush.

  The Parrots and the Vine

  I’d like to think that the nomadic tribe that “Mother” and “Imagen” belonged to travelled west following the Lennard River until it reached the mudflats of King Sound, then turned south, ambling along, foraging, past Blina Station crossing over the Fitzroy River near where Looma is today (that part of the river dries out during the Dry season), south into the desert past Nerrima, deeper still past Kalyeeda, then swinging in a long swoop northwards to cross the Fitzroy once again near Noonkambah, walking the red loam sandhills east of Calwynyardah, the gravel ridges of Ellendale, down over the black-soil flats past Leopold Downs heading for the lands of Ngala’s people, the mountains, Mt Broome, Mt Ord, Mt House—the source of the Lennard River—before once again starting on their westward cycle along the Lennard.

  Today the vegetation isn’t very big, but I like to imagine that a long time ago this area would have been rich in rainforests and jungles, with tall trees that reached for the sky, blocking out the light, to give those that lived under the canopy the form of shadowy habitation that Ngala and his people might have lived in.