Taboo

by Kim Scott

  About Taboo

  One may as well begin, ‘Once upon a time . . .’

  We thought to tell a story with such momentum; a truck careering down a hillside, thunder in a rocky riverbed, a skeleton tumbling to the ground.

  There must be at least one brave and resilient character at its centre, Tilly Coolman (one of us), and the story will speak of magic in an empirical age; of how our dead will return, transformed, to support us again and from within.

  Except this is no fairy tale.

  From Kim Scott, two-times winner of the Miles Franklin Literary Award, comes a work charged with ambition and poetry, in equal parts brutal, mysterious and idealistic, about a young woman cast into a drama that has been playing for over two hundred years . . .

  Contents

  Cover

  About Taboo

  Dedication

  Part I

  Old Haunts

  Departure

  The Killers We Give Her To

  Two Birds Now

  Busful

  Hidden Things

  A Pile of Sticks

  Reconstituting

  What Was Left

  Welcome

  Part II

  Mum n Dad

  A Long Way

  Know So

  Part III

  The Bones Within

  Graveyards

  Naïve

  Roll n Rhythm

  A Stone in the Palm

  Sticks and Stones

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  About Kim Scott

  Also by Kim Scott

  Copyright page

  To Ryan Brown, ngan ngoon

  I

  OLD HAUNTS

  Our hometown was a massacre place. People called it taboo. They said it is haunted and you will get sick if you go there. Others just bragged: we shot you and poisoned the waterholes so you never come back.

  We had heard all this, and we heard it again as we lifted ourselves from the riverbed and went back up the hill into town. Some of you may wish to imagine our decaying flesh, our shuffling tread and a collective moan emanating from our slack jaws – as if we were the undead, indeed. It was never like that, and we are hardly alone in having been clumsy, in having stumbled and struggled to properly speak and breathe and find our place again. But we were never hungry for human flesh or revenge of any kind.

  Our people gave up on that Payback stuff a long time ago, because we always knew death is only one part of a story that is forever beginning . . .

  *

  And so this story will start here, where the wind has suddenly dropped and the sun glowers in the eerie red light of a dying sandstorm. The many falling sand grains whisper, thunder crashes and rumbles down the rocky river valley and lightning glitters on the chrome of a semitrailer cresting where the highway chokes to become the plummeting main street of this little town in Western Australia’s Great Southern: Kepalup.

  The old name means ‘place of water’ or, perhaps, ‘welling’, but the signpost points to a cluster of buildings either side of a dry, old creek emerging from a low, near-barren range on Western Australia’s southern coastal plain.

  The truck driver, surprised by the sudden descent, touches the brake. His foot goes flat to the floor. Tries to change gear; cogs clash and grate.

  The truck’s chrome glints, tarpaulins tremble, wheels roll faster and faster.

  Propelled by tons of wheat, freewheeling down the street, the driver’s bowels loosen, his gear stick flops about. The poor man leans on the horn and he, passenger and truck make a wailing chorus.

  In the pub, frothy heads of beer shiver with the truck’s passing.

  The numbers on the speedometer continue to rise.

  A little group of people have gathered on a patch of grass beside the Local History Museum. They are here for the opening of a Peace Park.

  A large, bald and well-dressed man leaving the edge of the group suddenly sees the charging truck and scurries from its path, arms flailing and little feet a blur. An older man, refusing to be distracted by the tons of glass and metal rushing between them, stares after the bald one but all the other faces, like flowers following the sun, track the vehicle as it thunders by:

  Museum

  Town Hall

  Café

  Supermarket

  School . . .

  No child is harmed. Also unharmed, drunks fall out of the top pub, their gaze (along with that of the Peace Park attendees) trained upon the truck’s dusty, wagging tailgate. It seems the runaway vehicle has created a void that vision is obliged to fill.

  The driver’s eyes, by contrast, dart here and there seeking an exit, an escape clause, some soft shoulder to roll on.

  As if tempted by the scent of fuel, the truck veers briefly toward the roadhouse, then weaves back and, departing the other side of the bitumen, snaps a railing and takes down a succession of small trees and shrubs as it bucks and bounces across the flood plain. Slowed at last by deep, coarse sand, it makes one last, dramatic gesture (reminding one observer of a feebly breeching whale) and rises into the air a little, before falling on its side.

  Birds flap into the sky, screeching indignation.

  The motor hiccups; stops.

  Wheels spin on, as good wheels do.

  From a distance – the aloof view, say, of those birds – a pattern is dissolving and reforming again: bunches of people at the museum, pub, café, roadhouse, the little park; then all moving together and flowing down the street. A car stutters ahead, pulls up at the road edge of the river crossing.

  A bystander – perhaps even you, dear reader – might anticipate an explosion, a great ball of flame. But there is no explosion. Already, the so-recently startled birds are beginning to resettle among the slow and incrementally turning leaves of the patient trees.

  A human figure emerges from the window of the truck’s cab door. A girl, a young woman perhaps. Standing easily on the side of the cab, she bends to help someone exit. A strong young thing, then; athletic. The other person seems much older, or injured. Having been helped (hauled) from the cab, he immediately sits down on its still-closed door. Hurt? Tired?

  He looks around, back into the cab, and then tentatively makes his way down after the young woman, though less nimbly.

  The two of them stamp their feet on solid ground as if reassuring themselves. They listen to the wheels spinning and a luxurious, whispering sound: wheat, slowly spilling from the vehicle.

  Come close. Closer.

  A small pile of wheat is growing beside the trailer, fed by a thin, grainy spout from the upper corner of the tarpaulin. Golden, it has both the look and sound of great wealth. The tarp slips a little so that the thin stream becomes a golden chute, and then the tarpaulin pulls away like an upside-down stage curtain and a wide, low wave of wheat makes the girl step back once, twice, three times. She stops, transfixed by something in the trailer as the wheat continues to flow around and behind her.

  Imagine a figure sitting in a deep and rapidly draining bath: head and shoulders appear, then the upper torso, knees . . . In the trailer, beginning with the dome of a dark skull, a figure is being revealed.

  This figure slides a little, shifts.

  The tarpaulin slips again.

  The golden grain continues to flow across the ground.

  The figure begins to rise. It must be the moving grain, but it seems as if the legs lever it upright and it steps from the upturned trailer and stands, swaying with the high weight of its skull. The girl, the figure, they stand facing one another, feet invisible beneath the grain.

 
The wheat dust, the light of the sandstorm, the after-effects of the accident . . . What is it the girl sees? Something like a skeleton, but not of bone. At least, not only bone. The limbs are timber. The skull is timber too, dark and burnished, and ivory dentures – stained as if by chomping, inhaling, gustatory human life – grin exultation.

  A gauze of gold dust and light motes swirls from its broad shoulders and around the rippling cage of its ribs.

  Long shanks lever the pelvis, itself a solid thing of smooth river stone and timber glowing at its centre of gravity.

  Kneecaps too are smooth stone, but the rest is bone and polished timber and woven grass, seeds and brightly coloured feathers and even fencing wire. Cords of sinew, of neatly knotted fishing line and – is it human hair? – meet moistly at each mobile joint.

  The figure sways toward the girl, led by the heavy skull, and then glides to her, arms low and open, each beautifully defined and delicate hand held palm up. Its whole being is a smile.

  Hands clasp; firm, warm, uncalloused.

  And now the wind gathers strength; a melody plays across the visual rhythm of those ribs; hollowed, meticulously carved spaces begin to whistle and timber limbs begin an accompaniment. Thunder cracks and booms, it rumbles in the riverbed.

  The figure teeters, begins to move, to slowly fall apart and maybe tumble . . .

  *

  We thought to tell a story with such momentum; a truck careering down a hillside, thunder in a rocky riverbed, a skeleton tumbling to the ground. There must be at least one brave and resilient character at its centre (one of us), and the story will speak of magic in an empirical age; of how our dead will return, transformed, to support us again and from within.

  One may as well begin, ‘Once upon a time’ . . . Except this is no fairy tale, it is drawn from real life. We remember Dan Horton. He will seem a stereotype, even a caricature, this stooped and elderly man in faded towelling hat, sensible clothes and lace-less boots. Real life has its stereotypes and caricatures. Dan Horton was one of those rural men who, in the middle of conversation, will suddenly crouch and, clearing a little plot of dirt with the heel of his hand, draw diagrams with a stick or calloused finger.

  So.

  So.

  Once upon a time, Dan Horton squinted through his kitchen window into the heart of light. Out there, beyond his sight, the earth – having been stripped and raked and poked – was desiccating in the wind. Sand rose from the razed ground and was swept away in clouds, persisting only in fine ridges beneath the fencing wires and heaped against posts, trees, dead sheep or indeed any lifeless body. This wind gives the coastal dunes their sharp edges, and stings the flesh of anyone caught in the paddocks.

  Sunlight streamed through the streaked window and glinted on the stainless steel sink.

  Dan’s wife Janet had died two months ago, yet her clothes were still in the wardrobe, her slippers under the bed. She’d left him. Passed, people say today, not ‘passed away’. She is past. Dan had only just changed the bedsheets; it was the first time he’d attempted this particular household task. He supposed that men today helped their wives change the sheets, helped with the cooking and the dishes and all of that. Breastfed too, probably; Dan had seen there were these lady-milking machines.

  His adult son had not been at Janet’s funeral. Overseas perhaps? Married even? He had little idea where or how that young man lived, not since he had responded to Dan’s ultimatum – my way or the highway – by walking away from God, the farm and the family. Of course Dan regretted his words.

  The bedsheets had helped Dan dream of Janet, and each morning she faded away and he had to once again reckon the absence in his world.

  The phone rang, startling him; hot tea slopped down his shirtfront. One hand holding the shirt away from his skin, he put down the cup, plucked the telephone from its cradle and pressed it to his ear, grimacing as the wet shirt fell against his skin. He began untangling the telephone cord, an action repeated so many times it had become in itself a comfort.

  ‘Dan? Dan!’ It was his brother, Malcolm.

  ‘I’m sorry. Thinking.’

  ‘You know her voice is still on your answering machine?’

  He did. He did indeed. He pressed on; there was something he must tell his brother.

  ‘You remember Tilly? One of those babies we fostered for a time? She was walking and talking and . . . her mother took her back.’

  ‘Well,’ said Malcolm. ‘I remember how Janet was when she left. The father was a rapist or something, wasn’t he? That was a terrible year. Wheat wasn’t much more than $70 a ton.’

  ‘Tilly, she’s coming to Kepalup. There’s a group of Aborigines coming for the Peace Park opening.’

  ‘She’s with them?’

  ‘It’s her family.’

  ‘Her mother was white.’

  ‘Distant relations, perhaps, the way we think of things. But they have a strong sense of family, Malcolm, you know that, and . . .’

  ‘Well, I wish they’d look after their families, that’s all. Think about the children you and Janet fostered. There should’ve been no need, and who of them ever contacts you, eh?’

  ‘Well, this one has. Someone on her behalf, anyway.’

  ‘Where they staying?’

  ‘Caravan park, Hopetown. Be here some days, apparently.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Told you, the Peace Park. Something about some stories. Dreamtime. Language or something. You know, culture stuff. Malcolm, I think they want to visit Kokanarup. They want to come onto the farm. “The massacre”, he said.’

  ‘I wish they wouldn’t use that word. Massacre.’

  Dan continued; they wanted to reconcile themselves to what happened here, to have their Elders come back particularly. Of course it was a long time ago and – here Dan and Malcolm agreed – there was no real evidence of any more than a few Aborigines being killed. Undoubtedly, some were; they both remembered finding a skull wedged by the rock waterhole when they were still children . . .

  On their own property.

  You could see what people meant about skulls grinning. All those teeth. In Dan’s memory the skull was sunlit bright.

  Janet’s body would be rotting by now. Putrefying. The coffin would keep the insects, the worms and maggots away for a while.

  Her car was still in the shed. He would have to get rid of that too.

  ‘Taboo, isn’t it?’ His brother’s voice in his ear. ‘For them to come here, I mean.’

  Dan said nothing. He waited, impatient for Malcolm to go on, but – as was the way between them, each imbued in the same family tradition – he remained silent.

  There were often these long silences in their conversation.

  Tethered, Dan stretched the telephone cord as far as possible, moving to where he could avoid looking directly into the heart of light. He was thinking of how the dead might yet return. Hoping and wishing he said, ‘I prophesied as I was commanded: and as I prophesied, there was a noise, and behold a shaking, and the bones came together, bone to his bone . . .’

  Malcolm responded automatically.

  ‘Ezekiel 37.’

  It was a game they’d played since childhood; one brother would quote a bible passage, the other give the reference.

  ‘Resurrection. Oh, Dan.’

  There was another of those protracted silences.

  ‘Remember those two old Aboriginal woman? I’ve been thinking about them, Malcolm. Gins, we used to say. Married Irish twins. How we used to treat that family. They must all be related to them, the people coming. Tilly must’ve been too. Must be. She was long gone, course, the old girl, and Tilly a baby, almost a toddler when she left and never a hair on her head hurt. She thrived with us.’

  ‘Janet was distraught.’

  ‘Beside herself.’

  She was beside him, back then. T
he boy had been upset by Tilly’s absence too, Dan remembered, even though a child himself and still at primary school, he had gone very quiet for weeks afterwards and kept to himself.

  ‘Malcolm, I’d like to invite them to the farmhouse. Kill a lamb, chill it. We can have a barbeque, a chat.’

  ‘Think they will? Taboo and that?’

  ‘They want to visit. They’ll be at the opening of the Peace Park.’

  There was another long silence.

  Janet leaned in the bedroom doorway, studying him. Their two little dogs lay at her feet. Dan blinked. She was gone. The dogs remained, whining and anxious.

  ‘Malcolm, will you come pray with me? I’d like us to pray together.’

  ‘Yes, this evening. I’ll bring some chops.’

  Dan put the phone away. He picked up a rock from the sun-drenched counter, held it in his hand. It was wonderfully smooth and warm.

  Dan looked through the window. Malcolm’s house was just down the track, across the highway, another gravel turn-off. Not so far, half a day of walking perhaps. Not that they’d ever done that. It would be a long walk. Snakes. And between the two houses, closer to the river was the old farmhouse. The massacre farmhouse, he’d heard people say. Blocks of stone and corrugated iron in a yellow paddock.

  Now his own house was haunted, and he was glad.

  *

  Gerald Coolman stepped from the little bus near the top of the main street of King George Town and stood alone to watch it drive away. Now he was out of jail. His lips moved and he spoke to himself, mouthing words of an ancient language few would recognise.

  He took several long and deep breaths, calming himself. Feel your skeleton moving inside the flesh, feel the spaces within. Turning his back on the view of the harbour, he began the walk to the outskirts of town. He did not take the main highway, but one parallel. Nearly an hour later he came to an intersection near the Aboriginal Centre; how neglected and run-down it looked. The first place he went was Aunty Margie’s. He didn’t knock at the door but went down the driveway to an open shed, something he’d done many, many times. The young men sitting in the sun at the shed’s doorway looked up and smiled. They shook his hand and hugged him. They offered him a dirty plastic bottle with a short piece of plastic inserted in it, and a bucket of water.