That Deadman Dance

by Scott, Kim

  In the late daylight it might have seemed they all huddled together, especially if you were to look from some elevated distance across the wide sandy plain, but there were two thin plumes of smoke. The horse was hobbled but needed freedom enough to feed, and because on previous nights it had been unsettled—usually by dingoes, to judge from the howling—Chaine said he’d take first watch, follow the animal for a bit. Killam could take over halfway through the night.

  Killam liked himself and his charges a little separate when they slept, and although Bobby was not accustomed to being alone by his fire and sensed a shifting, malevolent energy in the darkness beyond its light, he fell asleep quickly, soothed by clucking tongues of flame and glowing coals. But during the night he awoke startled and no longer alone, because some evil spirit had slipped through the dimming firelight into his roll of blanket and clothing, and was breathing on the back of his neck, palming his belly, pressing itself against his flanks.

  Bobby flung an arm back, Yoowart! Rolled and leapt to his feet shouting, No! No!

  Mr Killam sprawled there, looking up. Some nights ago a dingo, flame-lit on the far side of campfire, had met eyes like this with Bobby.

  Why, Bobby, what disturbs you, what brings you to my bed?

  No, Bobby said. Not your bed.

  Killam looked around, Oh, I … Was I sleepwalking, young Bobby? Mumbling, he picked himself up and turned his back. I’d best be back at my camp, those villains’ll be going through my bags to find some leather to chew on if I leave ’em or let ’em. They’ll be at one another now, and I … Spindly-limbed, pale skin gleaming in the light of the newly risen moon and alien without hat or boots or trousers, Killam picked his way back to his own bedroll on tender feet.

  Musing on Killam as djanak or debbil-debbil, Bobby watched the stars shifting so slowly and then just one star falling, falling …

  Next thing he was sitting bolt upright as a gunshot echoed all around the sandy plain: gunpowder in his nostrils, wind shrieking, frightened clouds scudding across the sky. Two figures standing at the other fire looked down at something on the ground; something groaning, coughing, spitting. A few steps told Bobby it was Killam, and he’d been shot.

  Jeffrey was going through the saddlebags while James held the gun, saying, Get the other one, other gun. Their ruthless focus: ammunition, food, water.

  Killam writhed on the ground, uttering sounds of some devil, not a human.

  Another voice saying, Come with us, Bobby. Leave these bloody white men.

  Bobby turned and ran, calling out, Mr Kongk Chaine, Sir, he been shot! The tightly bound mallee all around him was like waves of the ocean. Clouds in waves, too, and the moon a ship, itself plummeting.

  Geordie Chaine had been well beyond the firelight, out in the darkness and wind and with the horse as it threaded its way among the many stands of scrub, the crouching mallee, the mounds of rock and stubbled earth. Moments before, he had turned the horse back toward camp. The wiry shrubbery around him jostled and swayed in the wind. Like I’m in a crowd of people who are hostile to me, he thought, and immediately pushed the strange idea away. He looked to where the camp must be, hoping to see the fire, and instead saw a bright flash, and then heard the sound of a gunshot. Startled, he staggered and would have fallen but for the thin, springy boughs and prickly twigs that caught and held him. He was still recovering when, almost like some creature emerging from the ocean depths, a thin figure detached itself from the unformed, jostling darkness between him and the camp. Chaine recognised Bobby by his movements, even before he heard the voice.

  Oh Kongk Mr Chaine come here quick, quick!

  Bobby gave no other information, only turned and ran. Not understanding, Chaine followed, trying to keep the boy in sight. When they reached camp, it was obvious Killam had been shot. The man lay facedown on the ground, shirttail lifted, and blood, vomit and shit around him. Jeffrey and James were gone and the contents of the saddlebags and packs were strewn across the ground. Most of the food had been taken, as well as two rifles.

  Chaine turned to Bobby. Bring in the horse, he said. He gave Bobby the gun Jeffrey and James had left behind. Only then did Chaine prop Soldier Killam up and wrap a blanket around him. Killam groaned, his eyeballs moving so very quickly in his skull.

  Bobby returned with the horse, built up a fire and stayed close beside it while Chaine loaded his weapons and moved out of the firelight and into the cover of darkness. Chaine stayed awake until dawn, and watched Bobby, illuminated as if on stage, fall asleep despite himself and the groaning of the injured man and tormented wind.

  Chaine saw no sign of the two villains that night. And even for a long time afterwards, Bobby told Chaine’s children and anyone else who might ask that, Yes—choosing his words carefully—them boys never come back and we never seen them again, not ever.

  Chaine weighed the situation: two able bodies lost; three, counting the injured Killam, and even fewer supplies than before. What to do, leave Killam, stay until he recovers, or load him onto the horse? Chaine had limited medical knowledge, but he doubted Killam would survive. If Killam were a horse, Chaine would have killed him. (Eaten him?) It would have been a simple decision, although of course not a pleasant task. Killam was a human soul but, logically, it would be merciful to kill him now; he was likely to starve to death, if not die from his injuries. Best to just leave him to the hand of God, then. Could Chaine afford to risk his own life (a father, a husband, a key man in the fledgling colony) to save Killam? If they were to move him, how? And where were those murdering black boys?

  Daylight came, but did little to lift his spirits. Bobby answered the problem of what to do about Killam. He dug up some long shallow roots, and hacked them to length. We use them for spears, he said. They were thin and very flexible indeed, but with the help of some sticks across them and some sinew and cord from his own supply, Bobby fashioned a sort of bed, one end attached to the horse’s saddle, the other resting on the ground. Man and boy wiped the blood and grime from Killam as best they could—they could spare no water—then rolled him in a blanket and tied him to the crude bed. If he survived, the horse would drag him home. It would have to suffice. None of this was easy. Chaine did not panic, or lose his nerve, and was reassured by this mark of his character. His goal had been to find more good grazing country; now he must survive their mishaps, and return with Killam.

  They loaded up the horse, and their reduced party set off with Killam slipping in and out of consciousness, clearly in pain, but there was little they could do to soothe him, save a sip of brandy and a taste of water now and then.

  They travelled in silence almost all day and saw no sign of James and Jeffrey. Even the flames of their campfire were nervous and apprehensive as the light fell away. They slept fitfully, dreams corrupted by Killam’s groans and perhaps by fragments of the evening before: waking to a gunshot; a sprawled and soiled, half-naked body.

  Next day, after some hours of silent walking in file with their horse, Bobby pointed to two pale vertical objects shimmering on the otherwise featureless scrubby plain. The objects, at a distance, moved parallel to them and Chaine gradually made out Jeffrey and James, each wrapped and hooded in a blanket.

  Bobby slowed, and Chaine came alongside of him. He had hoped not to see the boys again, but had wondered what they had planned. He had thought they would go on ahead, hoping to reach King George Town and escape before their crime was determined. He had no fear of them; not while he had his rifle and pistols, and not while daylight persisted. But at night, or in less open country where there was cover for an ambush? The two boys had taken the majority of the food supplies, but Chaine believed they would be unable to ration themselves; more likely they’d already feasted and again had nothing to eat. They could not hunt to save themselves. He reasoned that it was only a matter of time before they attacked.

  Chaine called a halt. Telling Bobby to remain with the horse, he advanced toward the two black boys with rifle in hand. Closer, he saw that each
held a double-barrelled rifle, and each rifle was pointed at him. Each young man rested the barrel on his left arm. Chaine could get no closer, for they retreated to maintain their distance.

  Can you survive this alone, boys? He waved his hand at the desolate blue-grey mallee that stretched in all directions around them.

  They said nothing. Mallee leaves clattered in the stiff breeze. Something squawked: a wounded sound, not a song. A bird, or Killam?

  It’s a long way, a still unknown distance. Have you water? Food remaining?

  Nothing.

  Did you sleep well last night?

  The heads turned to one another. The blankets formed hoods over their skulls, and their faces were in shadow. Chaine faced the sun, squinting. The grainy light; late afternoon already.

  One spoke. Chaine could not tell which. James? We don’t want you, Master. We want Bobby.

  We can be together, Chaine said. All five of us. Bobby chooses to stay with me! He turned to Bobby. Bobby nodded, remained holding the horse.

  Chaine stepped toward James and Jeffrey again, and again they retreated. Time was precious; they needed to find water, to continue moving, to get closer to King George Town. Chaine turned his back on them deliberately and walked back to Bobby and the horse. This was their chance to shoot him. When he reached Bobby he put a hand on his shoulder, and looked to the others. They had not moved. He squeezed Bobby’s shoulder. Those boys did not have the nerve. He gave Bobby a nod and a little shove and they continued on as before.

  At intervals Killam groaned. Otherwise there was only the horse’s footfalls, the swish of its tail, the clattering leaves and the wind moaning with Killam. James and Jeffrey stayed at the same distance, picking their way through the scrub, and began calling out.

  Bobby. Leave him. Come with us, Bobby. You think you a white boy now?

  Often just their heads and shoulders showed above the bushes, as if they were seals in the water, curious. But those boys weren’t barking like seals, they were calling out to Bobby like wild dingoes; those boys who hardly even spoke to him earlier because they thought they were too good for people like Bobby Wabalanginy.

  Their voices became plaintive and wailing. Why did they need him so, when he was only a boy?

  Bobby did not so much as turn. After an hour or maybe it was three, Chaine called to pull up the horse. He patted Bobby on the shoulder and made his way again to James and Jeffrey, rifle in hand. When he got to a distance beyond which they did not want him to come, and at which they raised their guns and stepped backwards, he threw down his rifle and kept slowly walking toward them.

  We must work together, together is the only way we will survive. God will forgive; I’ll say nothing. You are two; I’ve thrown down my gun. What do you fear? And he kept walking toward them palms open. The boys trained their guns on him. Slowly, he kept walking.

  James let his rifle fall to the ground. Chaine was closer now, he walked to one side of the two of them, his hands behind his back. The boys turned as one, eyes on Chaine who was keeping James between him and Jeffrey, who held the rifle still.

  I’ve put my hands away, Chaine said, looking down. His arms were folded awkwardly behind him. How can I shake hands with a rifle? Put it away and let us shake hands again, and travel together. We are all under God’s eye …

  James, unarmed, turned to his brother. Their eyes went to one another, as if to discuss, and in that split second Chaine pulled his pistols from where they were tucked into his belt and shot James. Jeffrey lifted the barrel, and pulled the trigger but no shot came. Just a click. The jammed barrel.

  Chaine shot him, too.

  One or both of them was grunting, crying. A leg convulsed; it was all Bobby could see of them above the scrub and yet he could still hear Killam, and the wind, moaning softly. Smelled gunpowder. His ears were ringing, and after the explosion of the gun the space around him seemed vast. Chaine stood over the two young men. Pushed one with his boot, and then returned to Bobby and the horse. He put an arm around the boy, so that Bobby might after all learn at least something of fear, and what it meant to be strong and protected.

  Onward, Bobby, onward.

  *

  Walking walking walking. The sea on their left, following a straight line except when they had to go around something because of the horse and the man it dragged along. Bobby was beside Chaine; he was in front, behind. Sometimes Bobby felt as tired as Chaine looked but then he’d be moving lightly again, enlivened and happy so long as he did not fall behind the party and have to trail Killam, to listen and observe him. He could no longer walk behind, driving the horse, not with Killam stretched out before him, shaking and groaning in his delirium. Flies gathered at the man’s mouth. His pale, lined face, his reddened eyes and beard made him seem like a stranger. But we must all of us look a sight.

  So Bobby stayed beside Chaine or went further ahead. He patted the horse, ran his hand down that long face, the curve of jaw, talking to it softly. Its ears twitched as if he offered some surprising, though comforting news.

  What are you telling that horse, boy? Chaine’s voice almost a whisper.

  How strong she is, Kongk. Helping us.

  The horse’s ears twitched.

  Chaine turned back to his silence.

  Bobby speared some mullet at a tiny, salty estuary and rubbed its oil into Killam’s burnt skin.

  At times it seemed Chaine could hardly lift his legs, keep his forward momentum. The horse followed, skins stretched over its jutting hips and shoulders and falling in folds. It looked like badly upholstered furniture, and moved as stiffly. There was scant life left in it, and it dragged a dying man behind. Perhaps the dying man drove the horse, and Killam and it were pursuing Chaine and Bobby, goading them on, insisting they lead them to where there was food, water, somewhere worth resting. The horse’s hooves dragged, flicked, pressed into the earth again; it needed re-shoeing. Chaine looked like he could do with new boots himself.

  They persisted, slowly pursued by a horse and a dying man who, mumbling and groaning, gave them no rest. And further back, the restless spirits of the two black boys that must be left behind at all costs.

  They came to a small stream, and Chaine and Bobby carried Killam across, one at either end of the rough stretcher. The salty, brackish water was near chest-high for Chaine and Bobby struggled to keep his head above water, let alone the stretcher. The horse stumbled as Chaine pulled it across, and bruised him. Branches lashed and flayed him, broke his skin. He slipped searching for shellfish on rocks beside the sea, and waves leapt and pounded and almost swept him away.

  Chaine continued, one foot after the other, showing his learning and speaking of Flinders’ journal, and that there would be comfort at The Barrens, at Mt Misery and One Tree Hill … He promised Bobby he would climb to the very summit of each blue rise they saw in the landscape and take his bearings. But in truth those few such high points were nearly all inland, and his energy was low. His eyes stared far ahead.

  Still they kept the ocean on their left. Birds lifted from the dunes at their approach, resentfully it seemed, settling again on some stunted banksia trees at a distance, watching Bobby carefully as he leaned to the low bushes. He grinned and shouted at them as he returned to Chaine’s side, and the birds rose and drifted, complaining, back to the bushes.

  The berries were small and round, tough-skinned; they made small explosions of salty moisture in Chaine’s mouth.

  They kept the sea to their left, and walked on, walked on. Walking.

  Bobby and Chaine had been eating salted flesh, insects and parrots, and had long tired of that tucker. So long since they’d seen someone it felt as if they’d come from a dead place. What people stay there? Bobby knew stories of how they drank blood and ate their enemies. Well, they’d left behind some cranky spirits to trouble them. Those boys. He looked back the way they’d come.

  Bobby carried a switch of leaves, and waved it over Killam to keep the flies from gathering at his mouth and eyes. A couple
of crows followed, flying from tree to trees, sometimes settling on the ground ahead, always keeping a close eye on them. High and circling in the sky, an eagle.

  And then Bobby found a sheet of granite, and a small rock hole covered with a thin stone slab and filled with water. He crouched to it, touched the stone, and sensed home. Something in the wind, in plants and land he’d at least heard of, and increasing signs of home. There were paths, and he knew where there’d be food. He tried to open himself to where they were but … Perhaps it was his fear, his bad nerves since the other day when those boys were calling out to him like wild dogs, and he stayed with Chaine … He couldn’t yet relax or trust himself.

  *

  Chaine had changed as they travelled. Sulky and sullen, he was even more miserly with his food supplies, such as they were. He was muttering to himself, and constantly sighing. What with Chaine’s sighing, and Killam raving and groaning, Bobby was glad of the horse’s company, glad that its twitching tail helped keep the flies from Killam’s face.

  Whenever they stopped near the ocean Chaine looked to his book. He’d look from book to land, sky, back to book, and then lift his head again and look all around him as if for his old friend, Mr Flinders. Flinders. Vancouver. Names and words from over the ocean’s horizon.

  Wriggled his toes again

  They crested another heath-carpeted rise, one of the ancient dunes running inland from the coast, and suddenly there was the ocean again all the way to the horizon, green and blue and grey and turquoise near the shore, gleaming like a laughing eye as the land breathed across it. Out of habit Bobby looked for whale spouts. None, though they must be here soon. No shadows or glint of salmon; they’d have long left. When was he last close to the sea like this, with the wind and sun just as they were now?