Pearl stopped cold. She was standing beside a high galvanized metal fence in nearly complete darkness. She saw only one color—black; only one thing—nothing. Where were her…? Panic seized her. Papa! Did she dare cry out? No! Heaven knows what sorts of black and hideous native murderers her voice would attract. A town this crude and uncivilized was sure to abound in ruffians and scoundrels, maybe even heathen Chinese. She must not draw attention to herself.
The main street! She’d find that. Surely her family would be there. At the very least, she’d meet a constable or some kind-looking person in a proper business suit. She groped along the tin fence for a ways, then cried out in pain as she ripped the palm of her hand on a loose nail. Her hand hurt. Her shoes, soaked through, were mudcaked. Her hair was in disarray from sleeping on Mum’s lap. She dreaded to think what her dress must look like. She couldn’t be seen in the darkness, but then, neither could she see. In the blackness, foreign smells and alien sounds descended upon her from mysterious nowheres. What a horrid mess! What a horrid, horrid mess!
Suddenly she saw a light. There was a light beyond that building; she couldn’t see the lamp itself, but she discerned a faint glow in the air. She walked faster. Hope!
Whonk! She fell flat on her face, her shin throbbing with pain. She sat up and groped around her feet until her hand touched a metal object. She had stumbled over an iron something lying right out in the middle of the way! She rubbed her burning, aching shin with her left hand because her right hand still stung from the wound in her palm.
Her nose began to run and her eyes brimmed over. She sobbed. Oh, bother! Now her face was going to get all red and puffy; she’d be the ugliest thing in Barcaldine, and obviously that is very, very ugly indeed! Terrible settlement. Worthless town. The sobs forced themselves upon her with shuddering regularity.
Whdddddddddd—a horse sneezed not ten feet away. Unbidden, Pearl’s voice made a strangled little noise she’d never heard before. She bolted to her feet as she clamped her good hand over her mouth. Don’t let anyone know you’re hiding here!
“‘Scuse me, mum. Can I help?” The voice sounded young, like a boy. It was a smooth, warm voice, heavy with the northern drawl.
“Thank you, but I’m quite fine. And my father will be along any moment. Thank you anyway. Papa will be here momentarily.” She saw a light mark in the darkness before her and realized it was the blaze on a horse’s face.
The blaze bobbed as the young man dismounted. Pearl could just barely make out his general form in the blackness. “Your father’s got business way out here at this hour? I thought when I heard you yelp and watched you walking out the alley that you might be lost.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m sorry. Shoulda introduced myself first. Marty Frobel. Martin Junior. We have a run up north a way.” He shifted nervously in front of her. She thought perhaps he was holding out a hand to shake hands, but she couldn’t possibly, not with the painful tear in her palm. The rich, gentle voice continued. “We’re staying at the Commercial Hotel, Pop and me and my cousin and the station manager. I just been out to the yards to check our horses. You sure you aren’t lost?”
She let one last shuddering sob escape. “Yes, I am. Lost, I mean.”
“Where do you think you ought to be?”
“I don’t know. We just got off the train. Papa was taking us to a hotel, but I don’t know which one. I don’t think he knew. Just…just a hotel. Somewhere. I don’t know where he plans to go or where they are or even where the railway station is anymore. I don’t…” She finally gave up trying to explain, overwhelmed by the enormity of it all.
An awkward silence fell between them. “Well, let’s see. From the railway they’d likely go to the Shakspeare, the Commercial, or the Grazier’s, depending whether you went down Willow or Beech. Remember the street?”
“No.”
“Let’s check Ash Street first. Ask around. Town’s not that big. Careful of the axle there; don’t trip again.”
He stepped in beside her and started to move so she walked as well, back the way she had come. “How can you see in this darkness?”
“Don’ know. Always could pretty good. Pop says I got owl vision. That’s why he sent me out to check the horses. Besides that he didn’t feel like going, of course.” The mellow voice reassured her. It sounded very mature for a boy. Maybe he was older than she first guessed.
“I hope you can’t see too well because I must really look a sight. This mud—”
“This mud’s nothing. You shoulda seen it January a year ago. Worst rains in years. Everything bogged. Two feet of running water in front of the railway station where you got off. We thought we might not get the flocks shorn at all, it was so bad. Couldn’t muster ’em, couldn’t get the shearers into the stations. Did it rain where you came from?”
“Last summer? Yes. But then, in Brisbane it’s fairly regular. The rain is, I mean.”
They stepped from darkness into sudden light. However dull, the feeble orange glow seemed heaven-sent.
Marty stopped. “You got blood on your dress. And your hand there. Here, lemme see.”
Why did she so willingly let him look at her hand? She felt safe with him that’s why—safe and comfortable. Like Papa he seemed—well, he himself seemed so safe and comfortable. His work clothes—drill pants and a cotton shirt—appeared well worn but not ragged. His droopy hat, the same kind of hat she’d already seen on hundreds of men and boys out in this wasteland, hid most of his brown hair, but it couldn’t mask the gentle, deep-set eyes. And he was older than she’d first guessed. He had to be her age or a little more.
He yanked out his handkerchief to bind her hand. “Now if you were a horse, I’d know just what to do. Paint it with pine tar and turn you out into the paddock for a week or two.” He wound the handkerchief around her palm. “I’m lots better with horses than I am with people. My cousin Jase won’t let me touch him—’specially since last winter when he broke his leg and I suggested shooting him. There. Prob’ly won’t do much for it, but it’ll look a little better as you’re walking down the street.”
She realized she was smiling. In the middle of all this terrible circumstance, she was grinning like a brainless little schoolgirl.
“Eh, lad! Got a girlfriend, I see.” From over in the shadows by an unmarked building, three leering men loitered.
“Union men. Strangers in town. Don’t let ’em bother you.” Young Marty led her off upstreet. “Town’s full of union men right now; planning something, Pop says.” Marty grunted. “You know, your Papa might have trouble finding hotel rooms. Besides the union people, most of the pastoralists, like us, are in from outback.”
“Your father owns a station? Sheep station?”
“Sheep, cattle, horses. Up north a ways on Torrens Creek.” He sounded so casual, but she got the distinct impression that there was far more to his father’s holdings than a few head of livestock.
Were fifes and drums approaching? It certainly sounded so. From around the corner came a parade, and Pearl had never seen one like it. The musicians led. Behind them, singing, shouting, roaring men waved torches and flags aloft. There had to be a hundred people. The inevitable happened: one of the flags ignited. It flickered and blazed a moment until its carrier hauled it down and snuffed it.
Marty hazed her off to the left, crowded close to the buildings, and brought his nervous horse up alongside as a sort of prancing, shying wall. The parade drew abreast and passed.
Without really thinking, Pearl pressed against Marty. This unwashed mob of scraggly, booze-ridden noise-makers frightened her. “More union men?”
“Too right. They hold parades ’most every night, just to keep their spirits up, I guess. Shearers mainly, with some waggoners and such. Railway workers. Union headquarters are right here in Ash Street. The laborers live in a tent camp outside town here; gathered from all over Queensland and some up from the south, I hear. Gonna be a bloody fight with the pastoralists come shearing time. Pop
says that there’s trouble on the hoof.” He paused. “Your Papa on one side or the other?”
“No. He’s here to help set up a church.”
“Um. The unions don’t have enough power to really do anything that will make a difference. Just make trouble, is all.”
She twisted to watch the last of the parade howl by. “They look quite powerful enough to me. A fight? You mean like a real war?”
“Maybe. Pastoralists drew up some papers for shearers to sign; they refused and Syd Sharwood says he doesn’t think they’ll ever consent to. The graziers want to hire anyone they feel like hiring, and the shearers want us to hire only union people. They think their union people are worth a quid or two more than ordinary folks. It’s a money thing. Eh, yair, it could come to shooting.”
“But not your father. Or you. Shooting, I mean.”
And Marty Frobel turned ice cold, just like that—cold and hard. He didn’t say a word, but the warm and gentle good humor vanished into the murky night.
They walked in silence to a brightly lighted doorway, a hotel lobby. “We’ll try this one first; it’s the likeliest place your father’d come to.” Marty left his horse at the rail and piloted her in through the door.
Suddenly Marty was slamming into her; then he seemed taller. A big man in a gaudy brocade waistcoat had grabbed him by his arm—half wrenched the arm out of its socket, it looked like.
“What are you doing with her?” The man’s voice sounded far harsher and more accusing than anything old Elder Babbitt could have mustered.
Pearl could feel the anger boil up in this Marty Frobel and she didn’t blame him a bit. He stammered and started over. “Helping her find her pop.”
“Don’t you lie to me, boy. Look at her! Mud, front and back. What’d you do to her?”
Now the anger was boiling just as hot in Pearl. “Marty, is this your father?”
The big man snarled, “I didn’t ask you to speak, girl. Answer me, boy!”
And that did it. She no longer cared whether this were young Marty’s father or not. She didn’t even care if he were an elder or something. “Sir!” She barked it so loudly the man paused, gaping at her. “This young man helped me most honorably, acting the perfect gentleman. And I am a lady. You’ll not address either one of us in that tone of voice.”
From over by the hotel desk rose a howl of laughter. The clerk was grinning. “Careful who ye chuck a charly in front of, Sheldon! That there’s a lye-dee! Here, Missy. Your father’s out looking for you and the rest of your party’s up on the first floor. Room nineteen.”
Another voice spoke. “Come on, Ross. You know young Frobel here’s dinkum, same as his old man.” Obviously, this was a small town where everyone knew everyone else.
Marty licked his lips. “I’ll, uh, put the word around here and there on my way back to the Commercial, so your Papa will know you’re safe. G’night, Mum.” He stared at that Mr. Sheldon and the big man reluctantly let go. Then just like that he was gone into the night.
Pearl watched him disappear into the darkness outside before she could command her mouth to frame the properly polite words of extreme thanks. How could she just let him go without thanking him? Because he left so fast. Because this rude incountry drongo interfered. She glared at Mr. Big Brocade and flounced off to the staircase. She was so mad she almost forgot what a pitiful sight she must be with the mud and slop and daub of blood.
That Marty was a gentleman indeed, the very nicest of gentlemen, even if he was a backblocker. Like a true white knight he rescued her without expectation of anything in return.
And the loudmouthed fellow was a boor, no matter how costly the clothes he wore. Her feet paused on the stairs when the thought struck her: so wrapped up had she been in her own travails, she had never told Marty Frobel her name.
Chapter Three
All for a Lack of Lubras
In the very beginning, as the tribes were just starting out on their journeys, the mountain travelers got very thirsty. In their distress, they called out to Euro Man. So Euro Man went ahead of them, digging water holes along the way. Even today, the euro’s trail will lead a man to water.
To the casual eye, this particular euro’s trail led nowhere. After randomly zig-zagging across a grass hummock, it disappeared into the rocks. Indirri’s was not a casual eye, however; nor was it an untrained one. Although the wise old Storyteller liked to tease Indirri about the changes in his body that announced his approaching manhood, he often boasted that Indirri possessed hunting skills far beyond his years. His tracking skills had been honed so now his eye could follow the faintest signs indicating where the euro had gone. His mind pictured the euro and his movements written in the script of that faint track.
Indirri readied his spear. Soon. Now he must keep one eye to the track and the other to the rocks above, for any moment the little gray kangaroo would come bursting out of its hiding place. Be patient. Be silent. Half a spear length away a carpet python recoiled with a jerk and poured itself back into the safety of the rocks. Indirri made mental note of its position and kept to the task at hand.
There was the water hole—a slimy, stinking little green dish in the rocks two spear-throws distant—buzzing with flies. Euro trails always led to water. The euro leaped up and out even as Indirri’s arm moved—a spear cast that reflected more reflex than strategy. His spear penetrated the side of the animal’s belly, its shaft clanging and bumping on the rocks as the euro bounded wide-eyed from boulder to boulder. The spear dropped out. The little kangaroo tired quickly, though, and within a quarter mile Indirri had caught up, seized it and broken its neck.
Indirri explained patiently to Euro Man how necessary it was that he kill this creature, for his clan needed the meat. That carpet python would not have been enough. Spear in hand and the euro balanced on his head, he walked back and dug out the snake. He killed it by biting it behind its neck, then, satisfied, headed south to join Mungkala and return to camp.
Was Indirri more than just a little bit proud? At not-quite- fourteen wets, he was the only man to bring in meat that day. He had every right to some smug self-satisfaction, particularly when his aunt’s moiety arrived unexpectedly near sunset, and her party brought no meat at all.
In spite of his prowess, Indirri couldn’t join the men at their fire that night; he hadn’t yet been initiated into manhood. From a distance he watched the men of both moieties absorbed in earnest discussion. He yearned for manhood, yet he dreaded it. From the whispered tales he had heard of the initiation, he didn’t understand how any man survived the rite, let alone how he fathered children after submitting to it. Great power flows from great suffering, so you really didn’t want to be let off too easily. Still…
The Storyteller was drawing maps in the dust and Indirri’s uncle was looking straight at Indirri as the old man spoke. They were talking about him; or were they talking about all the older boys? The men were nodding. Two of them tapped with fingers on the Storyteller’s map. Something important was happening. Now Mother’s cousin walked over to the women’s fire to tell them something…and here came the Storyteller.
Sitting down beside Mungkala, the old man looked at Indirri. “So. A euro today, eh? Big man. All you, big men.”
What was coming? Mungkala bit his lower lip nervously.
The Storyteller sketched in the orange dirt beside the fire. “Three generations ago in the south lived the Iningai—a mighty people, tall as a brigalow tree and strong as the Old Man Kangaroo. They were so strong, they lived two lifetimes long. But they were not strong enough. Last trade journey, thirteen wets ago, only one of five still survived. Much sickness, deaths from the whitefellers, no babies.” He added two circles to the rough map and pointed to it with a dusty forefinger as he spoke. “Barcoo River here; south here; they lived here and here.”
This meant nothing to Indirri; he’d never been there.
The Storyteller rocked back on his heels and studied the fire. “Head man for the other clan there, he say
s he hears that the Iningai—what’s left—have some young women, not many young men. Look at us; we have young men, but no young women. So, for the first time in many wets we will take up raiding again.”
Raiding. Warfare!
Indirri stared not at the Storyteller but at Mungkala. Mungkala was absolutely glowing with anticipation. “Raiding! To steal lubras for us?”
“And why not? Strong young women. Tall. Give you strong children. Raiding is honorable. Long ago it was the custom until we became so few and whitefellers became so many.”
“Why not just bargain for some women?”
“Bargain with what?”
And there the Storyteller had him. Their clan’s power was dissipating; everyone knew it, though no one said it aloud. They had nothing to offer a people superior in form and life-span. Raiding. That night Indirri felt so churned up inside he could hardly sleep.
Raiding, however, must wait; the aunt’s clan was here to trade. The next morning, business began. Indirri had heard stories of massive trading ceremonies in the past when great baskets and dilly bags of goods were exchanged—wonderful goods from far, far away. This would be a very small trade by comparison. Still, formalities must be observed.
As the sun moved higher, the men of the clans lined up facing each other. A man on Indirri’s side shouted to the other side, complaining loudly of a slight made him. A man in a grey beard returned from the other side about an ugly incident from long ago in which he had been the victim. Indirri was shocked at the nature of it. For some time the accusations flew, becoming more heated.
Now the boomerang clubs, the murrawirri, were coming out. The men fell upon each other shouting and flailing. Indirri knew this was a mock battle, a simple clearing of the air. Even so, it scared him deep in his stomach. He tried to imagine fighting a real battle, with true war clubs, lethal boomerangs, real blood shed. And if they engaged the Iningai, it would soon be happening!
Power of Pinjarra Page 3