Power of Pinjarra

by Sandra Dengler

  He froze.

  A shadow…that’s all—a dark and ominous movement beyond the box stalls. The back of Marty’s neck prickled. The shadow said “hostile black,” but there weren’t any hostile blacks within a thousand miles—not anymore. As his head fumed “ridiculous!” his senses warned “beware!”

  Silently he moved to the wall. He lifted a hayfork off its pegs. Keeping the gray mare between him and the box stalls, he stalked forward…pausing…listening. He kept an eye out behind, to the side. This was silly; he was going to look so foolish when he learned it was a dark coat on a hook or something.

  Suddenly, a woman screamed, a man yelled, and Marty yelped in terror. Marty was facing a hostile black, all right, a slim young man wearing absolutely nothing. The blackfeller’s spear was poised by his ear, ready to plunge forward into Marty’s heart. And Marty’s hayfork was poised at belt level, ready to plunge forward into the fellow’s belly. Goonur cried out again and came running from the doorway. Fearlessly she lunged between them and grabbed the black’s spear.

  “Indirri! What the blazes…!” Marty didn’t lower the fork, though; he had no idea what imaginings drove this half-wild man.

  Indirri surrendered to the girl simply by letting go of the spear. He jabbered to her.

  Goonur turned to Marty. “He is very sorry. He didn’t see you good; he saw you just a little bit, from far, and he thought you were someone else.” She looked near tears. “He is very sorry.”

  “He speaks English. I want to hear it from him.”

  “Much sorry. Much, much sorry. Him look maybe enemy; I see him wrong. Much sorry.” He bore no scars, no cicatrices, wore no paint. Usually young males off on walkabout came back with fresh scars.

  Marty looked from face to face and lowered the fork. He knew aborigines are very good at reading emotion in others and at masking their own feelings. Intense emotions boiled here, and he couldn’t begin to tell what they were. “You work for Pop. Does he know what’s going on here?”

  Goonur licked her lips. “We work here now. Your Pop said, ‘Marty needs good workers. You take these stuff to him, bull calves, gray mare, that stuff, and you work for him awhile.’ Mungkala and me, we came. Indirri went bush and he didn’t hear we changed. Now he’s back. He can work here…” Her voice faltered. “If you let him. Eh?”

  “Enemy. Whitefeller enemy?” Marty watched Indirri’s face.

  He nodded. “Much old, much wets. Old enemy. Whitefeller, yair.”

  “You almost killed just now, or got killed. Are you going to make another mistake like this one and kill an innocent whitefeller while you’re working for me?”

  “Mistake. Inns—?” He looked at Goonur and got a translation. He shook his head. “Mistake, no. Never again mistake. Next time, see good first.”

  Marty nodded. “Then you’re on. Goonur, find out what’s happening. If you people are working here, I want to know.” He left the mare for her to put up and walked to the house. Indirri’s error plagued Marty. A whitefeller enemy—by inference—a whitefeller who looked much like Marty. That meant, probably, about the same size and coloring, similar age. Possibly on a gray horse. But there weren’t any other horses in the district like that mare. It was important to get to the bottom of this, though. Personnel problems might well become stickier wickets than drought and cattle ticks.

  ****

  Indirri sat cross-legged before his little fire and fed more sticks into it. He smarted. His very soul smarted from embarrassment. What a horrible mistake to make! He was in the bush, more than a mile away from young Marty and five miles from Pinjarra, when he saw that bright blue breast cover. He should not have gone directly to the barn to lie in wait. He should have moved in first for a closer identification. Besides, he should have known that more than one whitefeller might wear a vivid breast cover.

  But there was the thrill, too. He thought about how his whole body sang when he saw that brilliant breast cover in the distance. The rage and hatred he had thought were dead had sprung to life instantly. They weren’t dead at all—just sleeping—and now they ate at his soul just as persistently as if the massacre had happened yesterday.

  Across from him sat Mungkala with his leg stuck out in that special way of his. The man looked as glum as Indirri felt.

  Goonur sat beside Indirri, morose and silent. She already knew about his clan and the raid, but he had never mentioned that bright breast cover to her. Should he now? Young Marty knew every whitefeller in the district, and he was a powerful man. He might be able to help Indirri find his enemy. But he might also warn the enemy about Indirri, or—worse—prevent Indirri from ever finding him. No. He must not mention the breast cover.

  Goonur poked at the fire with a stick. “Before you went, I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t. Maybe I should have. I wanted to tell you I didn’t want you to go. Now you went and you came back. So I’m telling you I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”

  Indirri paused even his breathing a moment. Was it possible? She had special feelings for him? He admired her in many ways, but…No, it could never be.

  Goonur asked idly, “Where did you go on walkabout? Places I know?”

  “North. West. Mostly north.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Nothing. A few clans. Station blacks. No wise old men who will initiate me and bring me into my dreaming.”

  “It’s a whitefeller world now.”

  “Everything is gone.” In the old days Indirri would never reveal his thoughts to a lubra. These were the new days, the bleak days, and it didn’t matter anymore. “I feel like just lying down and going to sleep. My life is useless.”

  “Listen to you talk!” Mungkala spat on the ground, a distinctly whitefeller gesture of contempt. “I talk like that, you say ‘nonsense!’ I suppose when you talk like that it’s wisdom? I do all the things nobody wants to do. Woman stuff. Little stuff. Sit-in-a-lump-all-day stuff. And you moan about your life.”

  Goonur rubbed against Indirri. “You’re young and healthy. Mungkala might say that. Not you.”

  “Young and healthy and forever a child. No marriage, no power.”

  Goonur’s blue eyes picked up points of orange light from the fire. Lovely eyes. “Young Marty, he’s your age. His mum keeps saying, ‘Marty will marry one of these days.’ That tells me he’s able, even though whitefellers don’t carry scars. Find out how they become men. Maybe you can do it that way.”

  What a stupid idea, the sort of thing you’d expect of a lubra.

  The next morning Indirri was sitting on the verandah step when young Marty came out of the big house. He smiled, “G’day.”

  “G’day.” Young Marty started to step off the verandah, then stopped. He studied Indirri. “Need something? Look, no worries about yesterday. It’s all right. Goonur explained about your clan and the massacre, and Mungkala being crippled.”

  “Need something, yair. Need talk-to.”

  Marty stood a moment thinking. He flopped down on the verandah and leaned back against the porch post. “All right. About what?”

  “Blackfeller go from lad to man, uh…old men do things, say things; blackfeller do things, say things. Pain. Scars.” He raised a hand. “Then man. How whitefeller is man?”

  “Well, you learn to read and write, and…No. Wait. I see what you mean. An initiation.” The man’s face softened. “I see. Is that where you were, on walkabout? Trying to get initiated?”

  “No old men, no old ways.”

  The deep-set brown eyes studied Indirri and looked at his shirt where scars would be, if he had any. Young Marty understood. He saw. And just the fact that this whitefeller knew and understood made Indirri’s burden a bit lighter—a most curious feeling.

  “That Goonur, she’s a beautiful girl. Good with horses. Smart. Ever think about marrying her?”

  “Man marry. Lad don’t marry.”

  A broad smile spread across Marty’s face. “Whitefellers, they say if a lad marries, fathers children, and takes good
care of them, that’s one of the things that make him a man. A lad can’t do all that and do it right. If he can do it, he proves he’s a man.”

  Indirri pointed to Marty. “Him man. No marry, him man.”

  “When I find a girl, I’ll get married. And I’ll take good care of her. Her and the little ones.”

  Indirri took a deep breath and risked everything. “Marry Goonur.”

  “Whitefellers like best to marry a woman they love. I don’t love Goonur. Nice girl, but I don’t love her.”

  Did young Marty hear Indirri’s heart beating? Almost certainly. “How whitefellers marry?”

  “Couple ways. Best way is go to a church, ask the priest or minister to perform a marriage service. Say things, do things. No pain. No scars.” Marty had a relaxed, pleasant look on his face, but Indirri could hear no mocking tone.

  Like sunshine after a thunderstorm, hope burst bright upon Indirri’s soul. He had but to follow whitefeller ways. Lack of manhood was not a bar to marrying Goonur—Goonur was the key to manhood!

  Young Marty grinned effusively as he stood up. “You go talk to Goonur. If you two decide to get married, I’ll tell you about another whitefeller custom. It’s called a honeymoon.”

  Indirri stood up, too. A sudden thought struck him. Here he was on the brink of great happiness and Mungkala was still so hopelessly sad, so empty. Indirri fell in beside Marty; they strode toward the barn. “Mungkala feel bad. No man job. Just lubra job. Any man job him do?”

  “Yair. Clear out some of the dingoes and roos from the east paddock. It’s getting overrun.”

  Indirri frowned. Surely Marty knew this: “Him need gun. Horse.”

  “Then we’ll put him on a horse.”

  One of the attributes of manhood is to lead and make decisions. Indirri saw without doubt that, married or not, young Marty was a man; he fired orders all around, orders meant to be followed. He sent for Mungkala to come from the kitchen. He told Goonur to bring in the gaudy little skewbald gelding. He dusted off the small stockman’s saddle, the one with the deep seat. To the one stirrup he attached another by half an arm’s length of strap.

  Indirri understood young Marty’s intent, but there was not a chance in sky or earth that it could happen. Mungkala on a horse? Never! And when Mungkala learned why he had been summoned, every fiber of his being told Indirri that he agreed. Mungkala turned white with fear. He stood propped on his stick, shaking.

  “Oh, yair. The stick.” From the tack room Marty carried out a scabbard, the leather pouch in which whitefellers carry rifle weapons. He clipped it onto the saddle.

  The elder Marty was here now, and his wife. Jason came wandering out and stood nearby watching. In a flaming red shirt Gimpy Jack appeared from beyond the barn. The whole world was about to see Mungkala be shamed. This was Indirri’s fault. He ought never have mentioned it.

  Goonur bridled the little gelding and slipped the loop of rein over its neck as young Marty saddled it. Marty waved a finger at Mungkala. “Up you go.”

  Wild-eyed, Mungkala stood there, immobile. Jason seized his arm and hauled him bodily to the horse. He yanked the stick out from under him and stuffed it into the scabbard.

  Marty slapped Mungkala’s bad leg. “That one goes in the lower stirrup. Like that. Right. Now use your good arm to haul yourself up until you can get your left foot in the upper stirrup. Your other left. That’s it.”

  It took Mungkala three tries. Once he settled in the saddle, Marty and Goonur adjusted his stirrups.

  Marty stepped back. “Goonur, walk along beside him and teach him how to ride. After lunch Jase’ll give him shooting lessons.”

  Goonur talked the whole time as they moved out across the dooryard. Indirri could hear her even though he could no longer distinguish her words. The horse stopped and Goonur stepped aside. The horse turned. Mungkala urged it forward and stopped it. He turned it around. He backed it up. Goonur nodded and they continued on their way down the south track.

  Indirri hurried into the barn and left by the back. He didn’t want anyone to see the tears in his eyes.

  The next morning Mungkala rode out into the east paddock to clear it of roos and dingoes.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rogue of the Red River

  With a nasal drone, two flies circled Marty’s inkpot. One moment they were in full flight and the next moment they were perched motionless on the lip of the pot. How do flies manage to do that—to switch from go to stop to go so instantly? Two more flies joined them. And another.

  Marty closed his books. When watching flies was more fun than balancing accounts, he’d better do something else awhile.

  Rosella appeared in the doorway. In fact, she filled the doorway and then some. Like Goonur, she had half of one race and half another in her. Unlike Goonur, who blended the races into a striking beauty, Rosella lined them up side by side; she had to be as wide as she was high. And every inch brimmed with regal composure. Queen Victoria herself could have taken dignity lessons from this lady.

  Rosella smiled. “Your lunch is in five minutes, Mr. Marty.”

  “Thank you. I’ll go tell Jack, see how he’s coming.” He walked out the back door into the brilliant heat, past the summer kitchen and carriage shed, to the hole in the ground. It was close to six feet deep now; Gimpy Jack’s head bobbed well below ground level. Marty was somewhat surprised to see the bright yellow shirt and top hat hanging on a nearby fence post. On second thought, he wasn’t all that surprised.

  Jack stood erect and grinned, bathed in sweat. “‘Bout there, eh?”

  “Lunchtime.” Marty reached down and gripped the hot, slippery hand. With a grunt and a lunge Jack was back on the surface. Marty waited while the wiry black washed up by the back door.

  Jack poured from the ewer to the basin. “Some stations, they have toilets indoors, like in the cities. Wouldn’t have to dig ’em out back if we had it inside.” He dived in, splashing.

  “You know how those things work?”

  “Naw.”

  “Gotta put a tank on the roof to get some water pressure. Then you pump till you’re blue in the face to get the water up there. Then you install this water closet next to the ceiling with a chain. Build a whole new room for it all. And you should see the size of the holes you dig for the septic tanks, not to mention ditches for all the pipes. By the time you do all that work, you could’ve dug a dozen dunnies. Besides, if we got civilized out here, it would take away all the country charm.”

  Jack stood erect, grinning. “Not how your mum says. She’s gunner civilize us all. For months up at ’Lizbeth Downs, she been telling your pop how the place needs a full-time preacher. She says the squatters can support him and put him on a circuit from station to station.”

  “So that’s what she was talking about at the wedding yesterday.”

  “Your pop’s spread the word among the squatters.” Jack reached for his shirt. “‘Course, don’ know what we need a preacher for. They hold church down at Winton and on down to Longreach. And once a month at Muttaburra. But you know when your mum gets an idea like that, your pop don’t say no for long.”

  “Too right. The fellow’s probably on his way right now.”

  The dark face softened. “Might not be bad if the preacher had religion like that Mizz Enid did. She was real Jesus.”

  “To the very end.”

  So Jack thought about her, too. So did Marty, frequently. Thought about Pearl, too. Marty remembered clearly Enid’s last words, that final stricken message for Pearl. Enid was so convinced that God was taking care of her that she didn’t mind dying in such an awful way. She trusted God.

  Trust. The kind of trust a child has in his father, even as the father is spanking him. And love. The kind of love that makes a child want to obey his father all the more once the spanking is over. But what did Enid do to deserve spanking? Did it matter? To Enid, who lived her life every day in an effort to please God, certainly. It didn’t matter to Marty, because he didn’t have that kind of c
omplete trust in God. Nor did he have Enid’s kind of love for Him. The lesson was lost on him.

  Sometimes he wished he could trust God like that. It would make life so much simpler. It was certainly what Enid would have wanted. Even though she had been gone for years, Marty felt a strong desire to do what would have pleased her. Enid. God. Jesus Christ. The three churned about in his thoughts almost as if they were one and the same.

  Jack perched his top hat on his head. Suddenly he paused, listening. “Company for lunch, sounds like.”

  Marty heard nothing. Wait…now he did. “Tell Rosella.” He walked around to the front.

  Ross Sheldon on a big bay Waler entered the dooryard. He rode in shirt sleeves, his coat over his pommel. It afforded Marty the unparalleled opportunity to find out if his vests were brocade in the front only, or front and back. Sheldon swung down off his horse. Front and back both. No scrimping on cost or quality here.

  Marty extended his hand. “Welcome to Pinjarra. You just made it in time for lunch.”

  “Thank you. I was in Muttaburra anyway, so I thought I’d come out and say hello to the new squatter. I heard your father’s down here and I was hoping to say hello to him, too.”

  “Sorry. Mum and Pop left yesterday after the wedding. Two of our blacks married. Now Goonur and Indirri are off in the bush on their honeymoon. Come on in.”

  Gimpy Jack appeared, resplendent in yellow, and followed them inside. Out of hospitality Marty offered Sheldon a drink. He declined. He hung his own hat on the peg beside the top hat and sat down at Mum’s oak table.

  Sheldon watched with undisguised distaste as Gimpy Jack took his place. The visitor’s attitude rankled Marty.

  Marty sat back as Rosella served the soup. “Jack’s my station manager. Pop sort of loaned him to me until I hire one. Wish I could keep him, but Pop said forget that. Jack’s the best.”

  “Anyone in mind for the job?”

  “Not yet.” Marty smiled. Rosella made the world’s best soup. “Being the son of a pastoralist gives me an advantage, though. I know nearly all the managers and bosses in the district. Who drinks, who makes smart decisions, who works, who doesn’t. Who I can trust.”