Power of Pinjarra

by Sandra Dengler

  It was very clear that Mr. Mays scorned Vinson’s God as much as Indirri’s. Indifferently he climbed to his feet. “Getting late. Going to bed. Vinson, if you’re riding with us tomorrow, you best retire, too. We leave by first light.” And he faded into the darkness.

  “Thank you.” The gangling young man whipsawed to his feet. He looked at Indirri. “Would you come to my quarters for a few minutes? I’d like to ask you more about how you transfer lore and information. It’s interesting and important to me. We can share a pot of tea.”

  “You got sugar him tea?”

  “Lumps this big,” and he made a fist, grinning.

  Indirri smiled. Most whitefellers he had seen treated blackfellers like children. They were spoken to as children and snubbed as children. But not Vinson. Vinson accepted Indirri with the same grace and enthusiasm that he accepted Mr. Mays or Marty. He was very much like young Marty that way.

  Goonur hopped up and fell in beside Indirri. Casually she wrapped an arm across his back and hooked her finger in his belt loop. He enjoyed her closeness more than was reasonable, Indirri thought.

  Luke led the way to his own little stringy-bark shack south of the house. “Basically, I want to learn more about local blacks; quite frankly, I hope to use that knowledge to tell others about the true God.” He paused in his doorway. “Indirri, can you tell me why you turned your back on the old ways?” And they went inside.

  No, Indirri could not. In part, his whitefeller yabba wasn’t good enough. More to the point, how could he explain about Mungkala and Goonur, and the lack of old men and all the forces he was powerless to resist?

  How could he explain the way he enjoyed whitefellers’ horses, and how he loved the feeling of power they gave him? And speed! Sometimes, when the bosses weren’t around, he’d drive his mount forward at a dead run just to feel the intense pleasure of speed. He loved horses’ many textures—the soft, soft nose, the solid shoulder and whithers, the sleek, firm hide, the strange wooden feet. Nothing like that existed in the blackfeller world.

  No, he could explain none of that. “Tucker’s good,” he conceded. And with that, he sat down at Vinson’s little slab table for tea.

  ****

  Excellent move, you made, Pearl. Shrewd. Pearl stood for a moment in the back doorway of her restaurant. Two months ago she had workmen build the kitchen out separate from the restaurant dining room, causing the temperature in the dining room to drop ten degrees. Now, most of the year it was quite comfortable in here. She stepped aside as her waitress brought in vegetable soup to the patrons in the corner.

  Vegetable soup. It had once been Enid’s specialty, the thing she took to newlyweds, ailing miners—her universal gift. Pearl made certain the cooks followed Enid’s recipe to the letter; she became very unpleasant if so much as a clove of garlic was changed. And that soup was now Pearl’s, the specialty of the house that had helped to make her restaurant the best on the Central Line.

  She stepped forward to greet the patrons coming in. Pete Sark, a newspaper under one arm and his wife on the other, strode in the door. “Good evening, Reverend! Mrs. Sark.” Pearl extended a hand to the lady.

  “Honestly! When is it going to be ‘Pete and Mave?’” Mave Hurley Sark gave Pearl’s hand a squeeze. “Join us for a moment if you’ve time.”

  “Thank you. I’d love it. Your usual table is available if you like.” Pearl led them to the four-seater by the front window. She sat down as Pete held Mave’s chair. “How are you doing?”

  Mave looked at least fifteen years younger. Marriage had done wonders for her. “We’ve been down on the Darling; just got back. Pete’s considering taking a church at Wilcannia. They seem to like him, and we like the area. They get a bit more rain there than we do.”

  “Any rain at all is more rain than we’re getting.” Pearl sobered. “So many stations going under, people on the brink of starvation. I never dreamed it could be so bad.” And Marty flashed through her mind.

  She could still recite Mum’s letter practically word for word. Dated the first week of January in 1901 (almost four years ago! Time slipped by so quickly), it told how Marty had just leased his own run; how he and his father had become a political force to be reckoned with because the other squatters respected them so; how Pearl was an utter fool not to have encouraged Marty’s interest more; what a splendid husband he would have made her; and how lonely Mum was in a town of country folk, even if Barcaldine did consider itself the Garden City.

  Marty was surely married by now. Four years is a long time when you’re young and ready for love. Pearl the spinster snorted. Who should know better than she?

  Pete was shaking his newspaper open. “This is the first paper I’ve seen in weeks. Eh, and it’s not strictly fresh. November 30, 1904. Ah, only a week old. Fish last three days; papers don’t spoil so fast.”

  Pearl perched her chin in her hand and smiled at Mave. He’s changed so much in a few years, eh? their eyes said to each other.

  “Let’s see,” Pete mused. “No more bubonic plague reported in Sydney since September. That’s good news. ‘Sir Hugh Nelson announced on November 4 that…’ So what?” He turned the page to another item. “Recruiting of Kanakas has ceased. That’s good.” His eyes flitted about. “And Acrasia won the Cup.”

  Pearl interrupted. “In three minutes, twenty-eight and a half seconds, exactly the same time Newhaven ran it in 1896, half a second less than Clean Sweep in 1900 and…shall I go on? The Melbourne Cup is the primary topic of conversation in this place from the month before it’s run to the month after. I’m an authority on horse racing by default.” She saw a customer enter. “Excuse me. Enjoy your meal.”

  She rose to meet a lanky young man with pale skin and a shock of blond hair. “Welcome. Any seat in particular you’d like?”

  “Anywhere is fine. Afterward, I wonder if you could direct me to Pearl Fowkes’s laundry? The train will be here for a bit over three hours, the conductor said, which should give me time.”

  “Certainly. May I ask why?” Pearl led him to a corner table.

  “A man named Martin Frobel Junior asked me to look her up.”

  Pearl wheeled and stared. She hastily composed herself. “Pearl still owns the laundry, but she also owns this restaurant. I am Pearl.”

  “I should have known.” The man held out his hand. “He described you as being very beautiful. Couldn’t be two women this lovely in Anakie. My name is Lucas Vinson.”

  “How is he doing?”

  “Would you kindly join me for lunch—that is, if restaurateurs eat their own food. I’ll tell you all about him…and please call me Luke.”

  Pearl allowed him to seat her as her heart sang. Marty not only remembered her, but he felt obliged to send this emissary. And what a charming fellow he was, too, so lighthearted and friendly. She ordered for both of them because he wouldn’t know that Mabel was cooking today. Mabel made the world’s best fried chicken.

  For an hour she listened to a tale of struggle. Drought was hard on miners, but it was disastrous for stockmen. Luke described how Marty, gambling that the drought would persist, purchased several hundred bullocks. For three years he fought to keep them alive through the worst drought Queensland had ever seen.

  An old bullocky himself, he yoked and trained them. Then he sold them for a tidy sum, because they were the only bullocks in the district; everyone else had let their bullocks die in order to save the breeding stock.

  Now he had two hundred breeding cows, purchased from his father at a pound a head, from which he hoped to build a mob of beef cattle, with perhaps a few milkers for cheese. And he still had all but one of the original seed bulls his father had given him four years ago.

  Cows, cows, cows. I wonder if he’s married! “And how is he doing…how is his family?”

  “Oh, well enough. One of his blacks, named Indirri, has a perfect angel of a little boy, and Marty loves playing uncle to it. He works too hard, frankly. He fired his manager, a Mr. Mays. Now he takes on bot
h jobs, owner and manager. Wanted me to stay on, as did his parents, but I feel led elsewhere.”

  “Ah. You worked for him.”

  “Circuit preacher up and down Torrens Creek there. Served all the squatters.” He smiled. “Communal property.”

  “And now you’re moving on.” So was Pete Sark. Men of the cloth seemed to lead as nomadic an existence as shearers.

  Luke leaned both elbows on the table—an excusable breach of manners—and sighed. “Marty told me about your sister in glowing terms. I’m very sorry to hear of her death. How long ago was it? He was unclear.”

  “Seven years and some.”

  “Seven.” He shook his head. “Her faith sounded exemplary. And yet, Marty himself stubbornly resists the Holy Spirit in his own life. Seems to think he can never be close to God like Enid was; he even set me on a pedestal for a while. He persistently refuses to commit himself to Jesus Christ.”

  Pearl felt the old anger rise in her. “Marty is one of the most Christian men I’ve ever met.”

  “No. Extremely moral. Honest. Helpful. Enlightened. But not Christian. And his is a common attitude, an attitude I can’t crack no matter how I preach and persuade. I feel as if I’m butting my head against a brick wall. But that’s neither here nor there. The end is, I’m traveling up to Mossman to a little chapel.”

  “Mossman! Sugar cane country.”

  “You’re aware of the Kanaka problem.”

  “Black labor brought in to work the sugar fields. They’ve recently passed laws against indenturing them. There’s a problem?”

  “Much work to be done there.” He rubbed his chin. “I don’t know how to explain this. The attitude I see here toward the blacks is, by and large, much the same as I remember from my childhood in Canada on the Red River. Mixed-blood Indians called the Metis resisted what they felt was encroachment by white settlers. Louis Riel led the movement. The trouble lasted nearly two decades, resulting in untold anguish for both red and white. In a way, I grew up seeing the race problems—and possible solutions to those problems. I believe I can be of great service to both whites and blacks in Mossman.”

  Pearl cocked her head and propped her chin on her knuckles. “Mr. Vinson, are you out to undo wrongs or to tilt at windmills?”

  He looked at her a long time, then said, “I hope to undo wrongs. Preaching the gospel is my primary concern, of course, but I can preach it there as well as here. And perhaps to more receptive ears. I want to put the heart of the gospel—service to man—to practical use.”

  “Godspeed, Lucas Vinson.”

  He grinned like a ten-year-old. “Thank you, Pearl Fowkes.”

  With profuse praise he exclaimed over the food and with profuse thanks insisted on paying for it. She sidestepped that easily enough simply by telling her employees to refuse his money. She walked him to the train, learned further details of life on Pinjarra, and satisfied herself that no wife as yet existed. Lucas Vinson would surely have mentioned one by this time.

  The train left only twenty minutes later than promised. She waved to him, watched the train disappear, and sat down on the bench by the little shed. That shed.

  Pearl, please come to Jesus.

  No, Marty is not a Christian. Could Luke be right? His words echoed Papa’s own:

  Pearl, you’re not a Christian.

  Neither was Mum, by these people’s standard, and no more unhappy and lonely person existed in Queensland. Pearl herself couldn’t say she enjoyed life—though she’d always assumed this would change once she left the area. How unfortunate it was, really, that she was making too much money to leave.

  How can a Christian not be a Christian?

  Come to Jesus. This Lucas Vinson wore his faith comfortably, like an old flannel shirt. The gospel drove him to serve, and he seemed happy. He looked forward to Mossman eagerly, just as Enid had anticipated good things when she left Barcaldine. Enid served here and derived joy. Like Luke, she reached within her for her happiness, to the Christ that dwelled within.

  Pearl reached inside and found nothing.

  To Enid and this Luke, Jesus was a personal friend. To Pearl He was an excuse to rest on Sunday.

  Enid reflected Jesus. Luke reflected Jesus. Papa reflected Jesus. If Pearl reflected anyone at all, it was Mum. Oh, God!

  Eternal life probably should mean more to her than it actually did. After all, you’re talking about forever. But forever was too distant to hold any attraction for Pearl. She wanted something now, she yearned for something, and she didn’t know what.

  Please come to Jesus, Pearl, the tortured mouth locked tightly shut.

  The tears came, hot and burning, and she let them come. For an hour she sat in the sun on the bench and let tears flood her sorrow. Enid.

  Seven years. The span of time, of her resistance, had stretched out far enough. Too far. She was tired of being empty. As the sun beat relentlessly upon her, she admitted to God her sins, most particularly her sin of stubbornness. She begged Him to forgive her, and dwelt a moment on the memory of Enid’s voice, the many times Enid promised that God does indeed forgive. Please come, Lord Jesus. I’m ready. Fill me. Please.

  For the first time in seven years, the memory of the horror in that railway shed subsided. No longer weighted down by that one terrible memory, other memories welled up. Welcome thoughts. Happy thoughts. Visions of Enid bubbling and laughing, earnestly explaining the gospel “in season and out of season,” as she was so fond to say. Her profession of joy in doing things Jesus liked and asked of her.

  For the first time in her life, Pearl realized what Enid had been talking about.

  She heard the words as for the first time. She understood her sister, truly understood her, for the first time.

  Enid joyfully belonged to God—then and at this very moment.

  And now, at last, so did Pearl.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cattle of Pinjarra

  Few trees, none of them higher than a man’s up-stretched arm. No buildings taller than one story. Streets wide enough to drive a mob of sheep, with room to spare. The endless, shimmering brilliance of an overhead sun unveiled by mist or moisture. Blue sky, yellow dust, weathered buildings—all lined up in sharp, clear lines, all broader than high, with the level line between earth and heaven lying horizontal as far as the eye can see. All dragging the imagination wide from side to side—a brief sketch of infinity drawn in bulldust.

  Marty rode down the wide, empty main street of Cloncurry, the only human being left in the universe, as far as he could tell. There on the far side, standing in front of the ubiquitous corner pub, were four horses, tails switching vigorously. No, five. Except for two horses over by the barber shop and a brindled dog asleep in the cobbler’s door, those five horses were the only living things Marty saw. He rode his gray mare in beside them and tied her to the rail.

  Inside, infinity collapsed into dark, stuffy closeness. A dozen men lolled, some draped over the bar and some sprawled in the chairs at tables along the wall. The conversation rose and fell in lazy tones to match the buzz of flies.

  Marty saw no one here he knew—not surprising, for he was nearly three hundred miles from home. He approached the bartender. “‘Scuse me. A John Conlin anywhere about?”

  The bartender pointed. “Johnny. Young gent here wants you.”

  John Conlin was not a big man, though he carried himself in such a way to make you think he was. His face hung in wads, his jowls and cheeks shifted about when he spoke. His skin was the crinkled brown of a man born in the saddle, and his stained and ragged drover’s hat stayed together only because it dared not let down the man who had spent a lifetime under it. He perched both elbows on the bar and turned that massive pie face toward Marty.

  Sizing Marty up and down, he said, “Looking for work, eh?”

  Marty hesitated only a second, weighing this interesting new prospect. He smiled. “Perhaps. I hear you’re lifting a mob by Julia Creek.”

  “That is so. Twelve hundred mixed stock and
a hundred bullocks. Overlanding them to a place above Muttaburra. On the track two months. Done much droving?”

  “Not much, no, sir.”

  “New-chum, hmm? Eight a day and a pound bonus when we deliver. You jack up once, you’re done. Agreed?”

  Marty grinned and extended his hand. “Agreed, sir.” The hulking paw that engulfed his hand felt warm and calloused, and as strong as fencing wire.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Marty, sir. Uh, Martin James.”

  “Coincidence. We’re delivering to a Martin. Martin Frobel.” He twisted around to point. “Over there’s the lads you’ll be working with. There’s Alf, and Bill, and Clive and Cut’emup.”

  Alf, a wizened little man, nodded sagely. Bill and Clive, both burly, looked like they ought to be brothers. And Cut’emup, an aborigine, appeared as tall as Marty, with a round, happy face atop a lanky body. They acknowledged Marty with the barest of nods.

  Marty settled in beside Conlin. “Two months, you say.”

  The boss drover lit another cigarette. “Good fat stock you can push ten or twelve miles a day. This drought, though, ain’t no fat stock. Even Cobb and Company’s stage horses look poorly. Five or six miles a day is the best you’ll do with the cattle ’round here. And there’s precious little water along the route. We’ll have to go outta our way now and again to water. Two months at least.”

  Marty nodded, pleased. When he entered this place to talk to John Conlin, it had been as the new owner of the stock to be overlanded. Now the questions he would have asked of his new drover could be answered on the journey. Work as a drover for the drover he had hired by mail? Why not? It would not have occurred to him, but since Conlin had mistaken him as a drifter seeking employment, so be it. In fact, it might be fun to begin at this end as journeyman drover and to finish at that end as the owner.