That Deadman Dance

by Scott, Kim

  She heard footsteps and Papa’s voice in conversation with someone else; all too easy to eavesdrop when you lived in a hut. She walked out of the shade cast by the hill on the slope of which they lived, and followed Papa as he entered the new house, unable to resist inspecting its progress. Their footsteps rang on the new floorboards, bounced off the stone walls and the high ceiling. The smell of earth—Papa said it was the white clay they used—refreshed her, and with no door and no glass in the windows the building was so light and open and she could see the bright blue of the harbour, the sails, and the sunlight this sparkling day. Her father had his back to her, was a heavy shadow turning away from the window at the sound of her steps.

  My Yankee captain is in, Christine.

  His voice resounded in the empty building, and she no longer had the view of sunlight and sea, but only of him, her father. Who took her hands in his.

  Join me in an hour or two, my darling, he said, once I’ve seen to things and taken some of my men to the store.

  Christine had caught him in one of his better moods. Congratulating himself, perhaps, on his expanding business: the schooner, the store, the tavern. Accepting a woman’s lot despite herself, she smiled in reply, touched his arm and acquiesced.

  I’ll send someone for you, her father said, bending to kiss her cheek. And your mother, if she feels ready.

  But Christine’s mother had retired to a darkened room with one of her headaches, and it was her father who came to collect her, not one of his men. She took his arm and they followed a sandy track, keeping the harbour on their left until they reached the cobblestones near her father’s tavern and the store.

  Mr Killam, hampered by his withered arm, was struggling to unlock the Sailor’s Rest. Christine wondered how he would react if she shoved him aside (with a long-repressed sigh of exasperation!) and performed the task herself.

  Expect a busy day today, Killam, her father said.

  Yessir. But did not cease his struggles. The store next door was locked. Her father’s loud voice informed all within earshot that he had already moved a great deal of merchandise today. Paid each man his lay, and they were free to buy from me what they wish, he said. It is many a day since I moved so many axes and knives and even ladies’ dresses … The Yankees would be off the boat any moment now, he continued, and Mr Killam will find himself needing hands to help him; a wench would be best, if he can find her, because these sailors will be desperate to slake their thirst.

  Billy Skelly’s finished at the jetty, sir. I thought perhaps he might …

  As you think best, Killam. Perhaps he can find a woman to help.

  The two men laughed as Killam finally mastered the lock, and father and daughter resumed their walk. They crossed the footbridge that spanned the muddy earth where sometimes a creek ran, and doubled back. A group of sailors approached from the direction of the jetty. Clearly excited and happy, the men quietened (except for a few comments meant only for themselves) as they drew close, and bid her father and herself good morning in their strong American accents. And then, at their backs, became uproarious again.

  Christine’s attention was on a number of people gathered at the foot of the jetty. At this distance she guessed it was whalers, but there also seemed to be quite a few of the natives. Bobby was in a whaling team, Papa had said. And there were more people moving from the peppermint trees.

  Oh, it was certainly an animated group. Closer, she saw that Bobby and another native were at the heart of the commotion. They were handing out gifts: clothing and jewellery, axes and knives. And Bobby … Christine had only known him in her family group, and most often only in the company of her brother and herself. How many years ago now was that? Four? She had not seen him in a larger group of people before and she realised he was a performer. But of course, he had always been that. And a leader, too.

  Bobby held up an axe, glinting in the sun, and brought it down in a chopping motion; she could not tell if as weapon or tool. He spoke in Noongar language, and Christine could not follow him. There was something different about it, too; more like song than conversation, though there was something in it of banter, the to and fro of it, and Bobby leading. There was a lot of laughter. He held a woman’s dress in front of him, wiggled his hips and sashayed; shrieks came from the women. And when he lifted the dress in one hand and held it above his head the women called out and seemed to be competing more for Bobby’s attention than for the dress.

  Lean-limbed and broad-shouldered, Bobby’s white and open-necked linen shirt showed the strong tendons of his neck and the hollow at the base of his throat. His skin shone with health, and he wore a blue dresscoat of impeccable serge, fine riding breeches and new boots. Stepping about, playing and dispensing gifts, he was the very picture of a hero. Not realising the extent to which she herself had matured, she marvelled at how much he had grown, and changed. Oh, if only they were both children still, and alone together. But of course …

  Christine looked about. Other than her father and William Skelly, who’d probably come down to admire his jetty, there were no older men in the group surrounding Bobby and his companion. And how very odd: Skelly had himself apparently bought a box of women’s dresses. Papa nodded at him and said, Killam reckoned you’d be down here, helping.

  I’ll be there very soon, Mr Chaine.

  Chrissy! A strong voice, cutting through, demanding ears.

  Bobby left the centre of the small crowd admiring his gifts, gently but firmly moving people from his path until he reached Christine and her father. He shook hands with Papa, in a way so unlike Mr Killam and Mr Skelly: respectfully, but without subservience. And turning to her, nodded a greeting so gracious it might have been a chivalrous and sweeping bow the way it surprised and melted her, and then he suddenly clasped her hands that were wavering ridiculously in the air between them.

  Bobby! Christine pulled her hands away as Papa playfully slapped Bobby on the back and put an arm around his shoulder. Bobby wriggled from his grip, but Geordie Chaine had inserted himself between them, and all three were so close that Bobby had to lean and look around the man as if he were a large boulder or tree that moved as they moved and kept them apart.

  Need a new dress, Christine?

  That laugh again; she couldn’t help but join her voice to his. Bobby called out something to the others who were still admiring their gifts, and then they were walking away, Bobby the other side of Papa. Ahead of them Mr Skelly had two native women by their hands, each wearing one of the colourful dresses and a hat. Mr Skelly must be giving out presents as well. He and the women were walking very quickly, and entered the Sailor’s Rest long before Christine, her father and Bobby got there.

  Rowing

  Bobby rowed people and luggage between ships, and to and from the shore. Some of the men hid rum away for Chaine’s tavern, and after a while Bobby went back to the small dinghy, rowing alone. There were several ships in the harbour, he had not seen so many at once. As he rowed, daylight thickened and leaked away; he drew a dark line between ship and shore, and silver laced his oars and bow. Ships faded, disappearing as darkness closed. Bobby trusted his judgement to find his own ship, but the others became mere maybe-ships, except for one—glittering brightly with lamps in its rigging, and candles—around which golden light lay like broken glass. He detoured a little to observe the glittering ship, to better hear the music and voices, the tinkling laughter and greetings falling on those shifting fragments of the sea.

  Collected from a ship (A most fruitful meeting, Bobby!) a red-faced Chaine was buckled and buttoned-up; bright and shiny lace frothed at his chest and wrist. Bobby rowed him ashore, pulling up beside a larger rowing boat resting in the shallows. Two figures came across the sand toward them and although it was dark and hard to see, Bobby recognised Killam and Skelly. They were carrying something, carrying … They entered the shallows; they were carrying Mrs Chaine and Christine. In long dresses and jewellery, their pale breasts almost bare.

  Eyes passed over
Bobby. Voices spoke to Chaine: Darling. Papa. Sir. The men placed the women in the larger rowboat, holding it while Chaine stepped unsteadily from one boat to the other. As the men pushed the boat afloat Christine smiled briefly at Bobby; the men gave another push, two, and then pulled themselves aboard and took the oars.

  Chaine, over his shoulder, said, Come pay us a visit sometime, Bobby my boy.

  Bobby lowered his eyes from the glittering ship, listened to the oars entering, dripping, the hull slicing the water, the little waves lapping the sand.

  He had beached the dinghy on the sand and was sitting on it when the other boat returned.

  You come back? he asked. Bobby thought they’d stay with the laughter and voices, the music and light and clinking glass.

  Not for the likes of us, Bobby. They did not quite laugh. Killam plucked at the shirt around his shoulders with his claw of a hand. Skelly silently walked the anchor up the beach. And then Bobby was with them, because Killam was all for rushing back to the tavern, and Skelly also. A tot of rum, Bobby? Killam had suggested. Just like at the whaling camp, see.

  Bobby—small and wiry, not really tall at all—had to duck his head as he stepped down into the room. The ceiling was low and as his feet touched the old wrinkled planks he thought of some of the worn ship decks he’d walked upon. The ceiling was higher at the bar and there were glasses and bottles stacked on shelves within the vast arched bone of a right whale’s jaw, a jaw so wide a horse and cart might be driven beneath it.

  On one wall an array of spears: long, short; varying barbs; different colours. Bobby saw a hunting spear, a fishing spear, a digging stick, a thigh-piercing spear, a ritual fighting spear, a fighting club … There were harpoons and lances, too: all the points and blades for killing and stripping whales.

  Grinning, Killam offered him a tot. It burned like always going down his throat. Just like the whaling camp. It always made Bobby want action, and to be like fire, burn. Skelly held up another glass. Oh, another one! This was not so usual. And another. Oh, he was full of energy, full of fire. Another glass. Again. He was grown too large for this space, and smoke wreathed him like mist about a mountain. Stood tall like a mountain. Dizzy. And cool air was on his cheeks, there were cobblestones and mud, and it must be somebody’s piss he was sitting in. He met the eyes of an aunty as Mr Skelly took her arm. There was another woman here in one of those bright new dresses and he must not meet her eye. Peripheral vision: she was staring at him.

  Bobby stumbled away from the Sailor’s Rest with some devil working his legs, and vomited just like a bullock shitting. Hands out for balance, he staggered away from his own muck.

  Must’ve had a good sleep, because he felt much better when he woke. The harbour still calm, the ship still glittering. He drank from the spring near the footbridge and walked down to the jetty. Mr Skelly was fussing over a boat.

  Give us a hand, Bobby, he said.

  Mr Killam was busy at the tavern and Skelly was a man short on the oars, so Bobby had to help him row to collect Mr Chaine and family.

  Yes, Bobby could do that, and the cool water, the fresh sea air in his lungs and the feel of the boat gliding over the water soothed him. They pulled up beside the ship and the light kept shifting on Mr Skelly’s face, and broken slabs of it were bobbing all around them. No more music now, but braying voices and women shrieking, and here was Mr Chaine coming backwards down the side of the ship, his broad beam blocking the light. Skelly reached out to steady him as his weight came into the boat, and for a moment the boat rocked almost as wildly as beside a thrashing whale. Chaine sat down heavily, and belched. Mrs Chaine was halfway down the rope ladder, and Skelly took her waist in his hands and lifted her into the boat. He turned to assist Christine but she, with one foot on the bottom rung, swung lithely on the pivot of Bobby’s hand and into the boat. Her bustling, whalebone dress made her, for a moment, like a bird, settling.

  That Gov’n’r … a scoundrel and a fool … Chaine’s tongue was clumsy, seemed thickened. But his son, he continued.

  Oh Papa, Christine murmured.

  The men rowed silently. It was clear to Bobby that Chaine and the Governor had had what Missus called a difference of opinion. Missus talked about the dresses, the jewellery, the gallant captain, the music. Christine? Nothing. She trailed a hand in the water, looked over her shoulder at the boat once, twice, more, twisted the gloves she held in her hand.

  A full moon had arisen and its light shone on the faces of Christine and her mother. Shone even on their breasts, forced high and together. Bobby and Christine had swum together as children, innocent. He wondered about doing the same now. Push her into the sea, maybe? They’d gone high among the limbs of trees; he remembered the strong tendons at the back of her knees, the long muscle of her thighs.

  Slurring, thick-tongued Chaine could not leave the topic of the Governor’s son, Hugh: his attentions to Christine, their many dances together. The fine companion and partner he’d be. Money, inheritance, alliance.

  Eventually they reached shore, and Missus Chaine held out her arms for Skelly to take her. Chaine clumsily hauled himself out of the boat, the remaining men holding their oars against the sandy bottom to steady the boat. But not Bobby; he leapt into the shallow water and turned back for Christine and she, confidently, fell into his arms. He breathed that very sweet scent, and beneath it the earthy acrid smell of her sweat. She blew some hair from her cheek, and he had her breath.

  Mmm.

  Put her arms around his neck.

  I’ll take my daughter.

  Swaying, Chaine stood before them, the solid darkness of the peppermint trees and granite hill at his back.

  Alright, Kongk, nearly there.

  Chaine grabbed at his daughter.

  Papa!

  Her arms tightened around Bobby’s neck, and Bobby stepped forward, moving their combined weight against the older man, and then to one side. Pushing back, Chaine only brushed them as he fell to his hands and knees in the shallow water. Bobby walked to shore, and set Christine on her feet. Watched Skelly help Chaine to his feet.

  Damn you, Bobby. You are not children anymore.

  No, not children no more.

  Christine turned away with Missus’s arm around her shoulder. Chaine pushed Skelly aside and stumbled after them into the shadows.

  Just for him

  Bobby awoke. A woman slept beside him, soft hands pressed together under one cheek. She was wrapped in woollen blankets and kangaroo skin, and Bobby could smell her and the two of them and the sandalwood oil on his own skin.

  Later today, he’d join the other men and it’d be a brother or uncle rubbing oil and ochre into his skin, but not like a woman would. His shape would be consolidated, as if he were wood being carved, or stone chipped and ground and polished. Except he wasn’t wood or stone and the oil and ochre and strong hands made him more alive, loosened his muscles so he felt how they were anchored to strong white bones, and how the blood surged in his veins and his lungs filled. The ochre had been carried and passed from person to person until it reached him, had begun with a hand cupping it far east of here.

  The smell of earth in the ochre and oil, his increasing sense of the fine and delicate paths of blood and nerves and the many fine sinews connecting him to this place, this perpetual moment. Fingertips tingled, and his body hummed with the voices all around him, of bees, cicadas and crickets; of whispering wind and rustling leaves; of bird song and wingbeat; the creak and hiss of reptiles; the breath and various footfalls of animals; the murmur of waves upon the sand; the exhalation of dolphin and whale; of water welling and spilling playful paths across rock, through and beneath the sand …

  A day for singing, for decoration and embellishment; a day of strength rising in them all, and of women and young men in the evening, dancing together.

  Bobby breathed close upon the neck of the sleeping body beside him. Who murmured. As Christine had murmured to her drunken father that night. Bobby lifted the rugs, let them fall softl
y so that the air moved gently across them. Ran the back of his hand across the fine grain of her skin, felt the vertebrae of her neck, shoulders, continued down the vertebrae of her spine with his thumb and fingers, and with his open palm, the pads of his fingertips brushed lightly across her flesh. The woman moved against him. Smiled, welcomed and wanted him, opened her limbs and drew him in. Christine must move like this, too. The two of them might also move on deep currents like this, opening and plunging, and breathing deeply, rhythmically, be lost like this in salty air, ride rolling waves from far away and call out to one another.

  And yet fall away. Christine.

  *

  Bobby woke a second time and looked again at the sleeping body beside him. He ran his fingers through his wispy beard, took a strip of softened kangaroo hide and wound it round and round his skull to hold his hair.

  Later today he’d be among bodies adorned with feathers, leaves, the fur of possum or dingo, all their voices and spirits so close there was no need for thinking or choosing but only for moving together like grains of sand rolled by water, like the flowers blossoming from their armbands and hair, and rooted in their heart and guts.

  A woman in his dream had called from the other side of the campfire, moist eyes reflecting the flames, following him as he sang and leapt. Could a blonde woman be at his campfire? He had walked away from her and the warm mass of granite which sheltered their camp, just as if something had nudged him, as if some story had left a space into which he might venture. His bare feet trod the warm sand, the scent of the oil and ochre enclosed him. Who knows how long he walked? The sun was like a shiny coin, grass trees shimmered, life hummed. Just for him.