Power of Pinjarra

by Sandra Dengler

  “I’ll keep an eye out. Maybe I’ll hear of someone good.”

  “Appreciate it.” Now what should Marty say? Why was this man here, anyway?

  Rosella served the bread and cold sliced meat with a sort of disdain Marty had not seen in her before. She didn’t seem to like Sheldon much either. Probably his bigotry against blacks was rubbing her. Blackfellers are sensitive to that.

  Sheldon dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and started building a sandwich. “One of the reasons I came by was to assure you and your father that I bear no hard feelings, politically speaking. Difference of opinion is what makes horse races, and politics is no exception. Our differences are limited to the political arena; in business and social matters, I trust we’re still friends.” Marty held him eye to eye, more to confirm the man’s honesty than to be polite. “Thank you. The mailbag comes through tomorrow and I’ll be sending a letter up to Pop. I’ll make sure he knows of your visit here today.”

  “Good-oh. Next best thing to speaking with him face to face.” Sheldon ate in silence a few minutes. He drained his water glass and Rosella refilled it. “Tell me. Whatever possessed you to sink your money into this run? Drought, ticks. It’s the worst of times to get into the business.”

  Marty assembled a second sandwich. Working on the books all morning makes one hungry. “I’ve been thinking it’s the best of times for someone like me to deal into the game. Pinjarra is a fine run, one of the nicest in the district. I was able to make a good deal with the former squatter.”

  “Who went under.”

  “Since I’m just getting started, my lease fees are only a third what his were, or what yours and Pop’s are, for that matter. I have seven years of low rental to help me get going.”

  “What stock do you plan to run?”

  “Pop gave me some fine yearling seed bulls out of his Goodtime Jack line. The bull is half the mob. And you know cattle are cheap now, especially above the tick line here. I can buy more and better stock today than if prices were what they were yesterday.”

  Sheldon wagged his head. “Drought’s no time to build a mob.”

  “Drought won’t last forever. When the rains come, I’ll be set and ready. And I’ll have better shipping facilities than you and Pop had in the past. The railway’s right in Longreach, and Winton’s had its own line for a couple years now, down from Hughenden. It’s a coming district.”

  “You’ll learn, lad, that the real source of power in the outback, political and otherwise, is water. Trains need water to operate. Barcaldine’s artesian bores make it an important railhead. You can spit in a barrel and have as much water as Winton. Put your money where the power is.”

  Marty grinned. “What money?”

  “Indeed. We all can ask the same.”

  Mr. Sheldon sat on the verandah for tea afterward, just long enough to be polite, and rode off south again.

  Gimpy Jack watched the rider get smaller and smaller. “What’s this politics, that he rides clear up here?”

  “He’d be the Member from Barcoo in the new federal government right now if it weren’t for Pop and me. We favored Ian McHenry, and worked to get him elected over Sheldon. I’d guess Sheldon’s mending bridges just in case he decides to stand for office again.”

  Jack wagged his top-hatted head. “Always gunner be a mystery to me, your whitefeller politics. Sheldon’s a squatter. Thought you squatters all stuck together.”

  “Oh, he’s ruthless about defending squatters’ interests, all right. But Ian sees the full picture better—everybody working together for the best interests of the whole area. That and a couple other things about Sheldon are what put us behind Ian.”

  “Mmm.” Jack unbuttoned his shirt. “Back to the hole. When you gunner hire lots of blacks for me to boss around so I don’t have to dig?”

  Marty grinned. “On my way.” But by the time he got the books caught up and put a new damper in the flue of Rosella’s cookstove and made out the supply list, it was dark.

  Next morning he rode down to Muttaburra to look around, possibly to hire. Nothing. He continued south and spent three days in Longreach. Casual labor was available and to spare, but men of responsibility and integrity—that was another matter. The difficulties of being a pastoral tenant of the Crown were beginning to weigh heavily. He wasn’t doing anything here. Time to go home empty-handed. He saddled up very early in the morning and headed north.

  The sun said ten-thirty, but his belly was screaming “noon.” He should have brought more lunch fixings. The road wound along a shallow ridge here. To either side, a scattering of scraggly trees opened out into sparse, dry paddocks. The track coasted downhill the next couple miles. Good. He might urge a little more speed from his horse, put distance behind him a little faster that way. Marty topped the ridge and leaned forward in the saddle.

  His gelding shook its head and shifted into a smooth, casual jog. Marty gave it a gentle kick and it broke into its rocking-horse canter. This old bay wasn’t much to look at as horses go, ewe-necked and too long in the loins, but it surely covered ground nicely.

  Marty vaguely heard voices ahead even before he came around the big dogleg at the base of the ridge. Not a hundred yards ahead, there were two men on horseback in the middle of the track, arguing earnestly with a young man on foot. Both horsemen wheeled their mounts toward Marty. One of them raised his hand and pointed at Marty’s bay gelding. The hand had a pistol in it.

  The man on the ground literally leaped in the air. He grabbed both gun and hand, and with a mighty yank and twist pulled the fellow off his horse. Two to one? Not good odds. Marty whacked his reins down across the gelding’s shoulder. The horse bolted forward.

  The second rider carried a satchel in his free hand. He tried to draw his horse off the track, but Marty’s gelding was too quick. Marty rode nearly abreast, then reined the old bay aside, bowling full tilt into the fellow’s frightened horse. The horse squealed and staggered as its rider swung that satchel. The bag slammed Marty’s arm and nearly knocked him off his horse.

  Behind him, the gun fired. Every nerve in him leaped and shrieked. The bay didn’t like guns much better than Marty did. It jumped and shied. By the time Marty had both the horse and himself under control and had wheeled his horse to face the fray, those two riders were turning tail. The young man knelt hands-and-knees on the ground, his head drooped low, as that other rider vaulted back into the saddle.

  Both horsemen took off down through the trees, one with his gun in hand again and the other with the satchel. Should Marty chase them? Good heavens, what would be the point? He kept his dancing bay in place beside the luckless traveler.

  The young man twisted around and sat down in the bulldust, so Marty stayed astride. He could keep an eye on those two longer from up here, watching them and their dust cloud travel southeast through the scattered trees.

  The traveler, a stranger probably no older than Marty, must have spent most of his last few years, at least, indoors. His skin was white like the legs of a man who wore nothing but long pants. He looked as gangly as Gimpy Jack, but he had to be taller than Marty—six feet at least. His bush of white-blond hair suggested that maybe his skin never would tan.

  He looked a little dazed. “A gun! That jackanapes actually pulled a gun!” He looked up at Marty. “Does this sort of thing go on around here all the time?”

  “Not all the time. Even they have to sleep sometime.” Marty watched the two riders disappear into the trees. “You all right?”

  “Bruised pride, lost valise. Physically, quite fine, thank you.” He lurched to his feet and ineffectually slapped at himself. The dust rose in little puffs from his inexpensive wool serge suit.

  “Lost valise. That was your bag they stole?”

  The young man nodded and dabbed at his bloody nose.

  “What do you keep in it? Bricks?”

  The fellow grinned, and with the grin looked five years younger. “Books. Bible, reference books. A change of clothes. Not worth going cl
ear back to town just to file a complaint. Obviously nothing those ruffians will be interested in. In fact, it might do them some good. No real damage done.”

  “How much money’d they get?”

  “I have no money for them to steal. It seems they wanted to discourage me from continuing north. Threatened, cajoled, insisted I should go back.”

  “Back to Longreach?”

  “Back to Canada.”

  “Canada. That explains the accent.” Marty kicked free of a stirrup and extended a hand. “This road goes through Muttaburra to Hughenden. I guess you’re headed for Muttaburra, since there’s nothing in Hughenden worth walking a hundred and fifty miles for.”

  The young man stuffed his foot in Marty’s stirrup, grabbed the proffered hand and hauled himself aboard. He knew his way around horses. He settled in behind Marty’s saddle. “Hughenden’s that bad, huh?”

  “Worse.” Marty twisted in the saddle and held his hand around almost behind him. “Marty Frobel.”

  “Really! I thought you’d be much older.” The young man shook with a warm, firm grip.

  “One of us is. I’m Martin Junior.”

  “Ah! Then your mother is Grace. I’m Lucas Vinson.”

  The name meant nothing, nor did the fact the man was from Canada. But the mention of the Bible suddenly registered in Marty’s head. “You a religion student?”

  “Just completed seminary. Your mother and father wanted a seminary-trained man, the letter said.”

  Mum’s circuit rider had arrived. Marty kept the nervous bay at a walk. “You fight pretty well for a seminary student. You get bailed up; you don’t just stand around and accept it. Preachers as a rule have this reputation for being meek and ready to inherit the earth.”

  The fellow roared with laughter. “You’re talking to the Rogue of the Red River. I raised quite a bit of Old Nick when I was young. Out of practice, though. That cretin shouldn’t have been able to best me.”

  “On behalf of the district I apologize for the cretin. We haven’t had any troubles like that for years. Sorry it happened to you.” Just then it hit him—there was something amiss here. “You said they wanted you to turn around and go home. Like they knew who you were?”

  “Yes. In fact, I thought when they first pulled up beside me that they were a welcoming committee of some sort, perhaps to give me a ride up to Elizabeth Downs. They soon proved otherwise, of course. Ruffians.”

  “Yair. Well, welcome anyhow.”

  Who knew this man was coming? Every squatter in the whole district if Pop had put the word out as Gimpy Jack had predicted. Who would resist his coming? No one. No squatter would send out bushrangers to waylay a visiting preacher. Marty bought the Rogue of the Red River dinner in Muttaburra and took him home to Pinjarra.

  Three miles short of home he found all his fences had been cut. Funny business was afoot—and no reason for it that Marty could think of.

  Next morning the minister insisted on blessing Pinjarra and praying with Marty before continuing up to the Downs. It made Marty very uncomfortable. Most of all, it reminded him of Enid and how easily prayer used to come to her. He would never be like that, or like this Luke Vinson, either.

  God was going to have to get along without him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Span of Time

  “In the beginning there was a terrible drought, the first and worst drought ever. Grass was gone, trees and kangaroos dying. The young men complained, ‘Why are the old men not making rain? That’s their job.’ They didn’t understand that this drought was so fierce the old men were powerless.

  “All but one, Wirinun, the wisest of them. He had power. For three days he made his magic at the only water hole left in the land. Then he told the young men to build bark humpies against the rain. The young men laughed behind his back, but they did as he said. He worked more magic. Then as the young people slept inside their new humpies, he and other elders marched around the outside of camp, carrying all they owned.

  “The clouds gathered. Lightning struck the ground and thunder roared like it had never roared before. The young people hid in their humpies, terrified. The wise old Wirinun, though, stood in front of the camp and with his magic prevented the lightning from harming the people. He began to sing. The lightning ceased. It started to rain. And rain. And rain. The people praised his power, but he remembered when they laughed at him. So he took them to a great claypan. He made rain fall on the claypan until it became a huge lake.

  “‘Go,’ he said. ‘Go out and spread your nets and fish.’

  “The young men laughed again. This was a rain lake not even a day old. Fish could not live there. But they did what he said because they feared his power. They cast their nets and drew them in full of fish! They caught fish enough for all the tribes and the dogs as well. And thus with rain did the old man prove his power.

  Indirri sat back, his tale complete. Were his audience children, he would have included details of the magic, such as the two secret stones and the stick fitted with white cockatoo feathers, and the song Wirinun sang. But these were adults, none except Mungkala from his own clan, and two of them whitefellers. He would certainly never reveal a detail of magic within hearing of a whitefeller. Whitefellers wielded too much power already.

  Because Indirri’s whitefeller yabba was none too good yet, Goonur translated for him during pauses. So careful was she to get the meaning exactly right that she asked him twice to clarify some item. Those glorious blue eyes were the door to a splendid heart.

  One of the whitefellers, Lucas Vinson, sat cross-legged across the fire from Indirri. His pallid face registered the most amazing expression of pure wonder, as if he were a child of six wets. He spoke only whitefeller yabba (also a speech called French, which nobody else in the world speaks), so Goonur would insert a word of translation here or there whenever she saw Indirri look confused.

  Vinson shook his head. “Amazing parallels between your story and the Bible! For example, on at least two occasions, Jesus told Peter to go out and catch fish, using nets, of course. Both times, Peter had already been fishing a long time and caught nothing; there should have been no fish there. And both times his nets were drawn in completely full. And there was Joshua, who marched his army around the walls of Jericho. Even the detail about carrying all they owned—that is, their armor. ‘Joshua’ is a variation of ‘Jesus.’ Moses stood between the Israelites and the wrath of God. And more than once Jesus demonstrated His power over storms and water.”

  Indirri frowned. Never had he heard of a Jesus. Perhaps it was a whitefeller name for one of the people of the dreamtime. The names of such people frequently changed from tribe to tribe.

  “What was his name again? The old man?” Casper Mays shifted uneasily. A huge man with massive hands and feet, he didn’t fold well when sitting on the ground. He ran his fingers through his shock of yellowish-brown hair. Dingo-colored hair.

  “Wirinun,” Indirri answered. With Gimpy Jack long gone back to Elizabeth Downs, Mr. Mays was the boss cocky of Pinjarra, just below Marty, who was the most boss. Indirri much preferred the aboriginal system of initiation. You underwent purification and certain rites, were tattooed and scarred accordingly, and took your place in the heirarchy of gods, demigods and men. These whitefellers paid no attention to initiation. They ranked men however they pleased, and changed the rankings pretty much on whim. They didn’t even mark their leaders in any way; all looked alike. How was one supposed to discern clan and rank when there was no sign?

  “Any chance we can get Wirinun to call down some rain here?” The boss cocky leered. His voice mocked the story. Indirri understood both his words and their meaning.

  Goonur pretended she was translating. “Maybe in your dreaming you can get Wirinun to call down lightning on this dingo.”

  Vinson jammed some more sticks on the fire. “Indirri. Goonur here says you know many stories. How did you learn them? How do your people pass the stories from generation to generation?” He glanced at I
ndirri’s face and rephrased. “From old to young?”

  Indirri could hear and understand much better than he could choose words in sequence and speak. “The elders. The old men. Him tell us, we much little children. More and more stories. When we grow, young men are; him tell us more. New stories, more about the old stories. Initiation. Lad is man. Then we learn the things that are secrets from women and children. We learn the—the deep things, real things. How to do them. Take all him days don’ learn everything. Very much wise man, all him days every day learn.”

  “We have more in common than you know, friend. ‘Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised. And his greatness is unsearchable. One generation shall praise thy works to another, and shall declare thy mighty acts.’ From Psalm one hundred and forty-five.”

  Goonur translated. She paused. “Who is ‘thy’?”

  “The supreme God. The Lord. The psalm is a song of praise to God. There’s more to the psalm than just that, of course.”

  Goonur cocked her head. “You can say it all?”

  “Psalm one hundred and forty-five? Yes. I’ve memorized the praise psalms and now I’m starting on the hundred and nineteenth.” He began his litany. Indirri understood some of it. He didn’t need Goonur’s thoughtful help to understand “the Lord is good to all.” What god can make that claim? Baiame, perhaps. Or was this God and Baiame one and the same?

  They shall speak of the glory of thy kingdom, and talk of thy power. Indeed this God came from the first dreaming, for the psalm insisted that His power was absolute. Baiame? Baiame created, then returned to his own realm. This God stayed close to His creations: nigh unto all of them. Apparently no one had to undergo difficult trials and climb a sacred mountain to reach Him. He remained near His own, and He paid attention. What a wonderful thing for a powerful God to do for His creation!

  Indirri listened with rapt attention to the cadence of the recital. Even through Goonur’s halting and sometimes rough translation, he could hear the magnificence of the language in this elegy of praise. His respect for this Lucas Vinson rose immensely; although he bore no tattoos or cicatrices, and white men hardly ever do, the man was obviously initiated into his religion. He knew exactly, word by word, the tenets of his God. Some of the Storyteller’s tales Indirri had heard were repeated several times. And every recital had been precisely the same, word for word. A truly wise man treated every word with equal gravity. This man appeared so young to have absorbed the deeper realities of his God.