Power of Pinjarra

by Sandra Dengler

  “I only did it once. I have a heart when it comes to my boy.”

  Meg laughed. “For contrast, there was me brother Edan, six years me senior. ‘Edan’ means a consuming flame; ye should’ve seen the lad consume. Set him in front of a fine stew like this and he’d eat whatever his fork reached first, no matter the size of it. And be back for seconds before y’r own fork touched meat.”

  Marty’s mum looked at her. “Was?” she asked gently.

  “Murdered by Brits during partisan troubles on the Auld Sod, as was me former beau, Sean Morley. There be nae peace in the world. Nae here, and nae a world away.”

  “Mum’s back!” Bohra shrieked. He hopped down and ran for the door. From atop the barn roof the dinner triangle clanged.

  Meg stared at Luke.

  Luke shook his head. “I’ve seen it often. They have a sixth sense. Perhaps you ought to stay inside until we know what we have.”

  Meg followed him to the front door. But Marty’s mum and Pearl and even tiny Bohra were out on the verandah. Meg ignored Luke’s suggestion this time and went out, too. Cross-country from the southeast came three riders. Meg knew the one by his top hat and vivid shirt. She could barely make out the small rider who would be Goonur. And between them rode a blackfeller on a gaudy little horse splashed in white and brown.

  They rode up to the door and Goonur jumped off her horse, sweeping Bohra into her arms. Her face was wreathed in smiles as she held her son.

  Bohra hugged quite as tightly. “Where’s Papa?”

  Her face sobered. “Gone bush yet.”

  The three were escorted into the house as Luke walked over to the barn to talk to Edward.

  Rosella scowled at Mungkala, then turned to Marty. “I suppose you’re feeding this duffer.”

  “He’s back in the fold. Bring us some stools from the kitchen, eh?” Marty sat again at his place.

  Goonur sat at Bohra’s place and settled him into her lap. Her eyes were downcast. “I’m sorry we couldn’t find Indirri.”

  “Mungkala is very important. You did well.” Marty looked at the shame-faced black. “Mungkala, do you know what it means to give testimony as a witness in court?”

  “Naw.”

  “You stand in a special box. Some men will ask you questions and you tell what you know. That’s what a witness is: a person who tells what he’s seen and heard.” Marty hesitated to let it sink in. “You’re a witness, Mungkala. We want you to go into a court and tell those men about that attack fifteen years ago that crippled you.”

  “Why?”

  “If you do, the court will condemn the man who did it. We know who he is now, the man in the bright vest. With your help we can bring him to trial and he’ll pay for the attack.”

  “Pay how?” Mungkala looked not at Marty but at Luke.

  Luke put his hand around his own throat and gagged. Mungkala was not impressed.

  “Indirri gunner do him that. Don’ need no coat do it.”

  Luke leaned forward and locked Mungkala eye to eye. “Listen. If Indirri kills that man out of vengeance, the law—that is, the court Marty talks about—will hang Indirri just the same as it would hang that man. The law does not allow revenge. The law makes men who kill other men pay, black or white, revenge or not.”

  “Goonur and Jack, him talk lots to me. I see.”

  Marty looked at Gimpy Jack. “You explained about bringing Ross Sheldon to account?”

  Jack nodded, too busy eating to spend much time in lengthy discourse.

  Goonur nodded also. “He understands. He’s ready to do it the law’s way. He’s ready to be a witness in law court. But Indirri, don’ know. Couldn’t talk to him. Couldn’t find him.”

  Luke smiled at Marty. “Half a loaf is as good as a whole one in this case.”

  “The whole loaf would be better. Lots better.”

  After dinner Goonur and Luke retired with Mungkala to take down a written statement. Marty’s Mum and Pearl took Bohra along to retrieve Edward’s dishes. Jack went off to put the horses away. Marty sat staring at the wall as he nursed the last of his tea. He looked overwhelmed, dejected, as spent as those sorry cows they had moved from north to south. Meg hefted the pot. Half a pot left. Unbidden, she refilled his cup.

  “Ta.” He gave her a wan smile.

  Where should she start? “I appreciate y’r hospitality very much. These are delightful people, all of them. Y’r mum’s a jewel, and…”

  “She really did that with the barley, you know.”

  “And a jewel all the more because of it, aye. And Pearl. What a lovely girl. Uncertain in her Christian walk, but eager to grow. And she speaks so warmly of ye.”

  The corners of his mouth turned up, but it wasn’t exactly a smile. “When I was young I had the hardest time talking to girls, especially the pretty ones. Still do, some. All bashful and tied up. But never with Pearl, which is amazing; she’s so beautiful.” He chuckled. “Maybe seeing her trip over that axle and sprawl in the mud took some of the mystery away. She’s always been different to me. A mate, a chum. Someone to talk to.”

  “Y’re saying there’ll never be another lass like her.”

  “That’s the drum! Dead set!”

  She let his thoughts steep in silence a few minutes. Then, “Y’r mum and pop have both come to depend on the Lord. Pearl has turned to Christ, as have Luke and meself. Do ye nae feel uncomfortable being the odd man out?”

  His head snapped around, his deep-set chocolate eyes latched onto hers. “Now, isn’t that a crook way to make one of Luke’s religious pitches!”

  “Whatever works. And it be nae Luke’s. ’Tis me own. It hurts me to see ye suffer so. Y’r mum says that somewhere ye seized the notion that money is power and water is power and Pinjarra has precious little of either.” She leaned forward. “Tell me, Marty—how do ye think wealth and water will stand up against the wrath of God?”

  “What?”

  “The Bible says God is jealous for His own. ‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord, over and over. He fights for His own; ye know that. Ye think Indirri’s vengeful? He can’t hold a candle to God’s vengeance. There’s y’r power. That’s the real power of Pinjarra—not wealth or water—and y’ve ought but to tap into it.”

  He shook his head and looked past her. She twisted around. Luke was standing behind her with Mungkala at his side. Goonur pushed past them and went outside.

  Wonderful! Meg had been a Christian such a short time that she didn’t have the wealth of Bible wisdom Luke tapped into so readily. Now that he was here, Luke could supply the Scripture they needed, the solid word that would speak much more eloquently to Marty’s spirit than the opinion of a humble Irish lass.

  Luke squeezed her shoulders and sat down beside her. “She’s right; I hadn’t thought of it that way. Absolutely right. I believe God will prevail regardless whether you commit yourself to His Christ. ‘Where two or three are gathered, there will I be,’ said Jesus. By that standard, we’re an army—your folks and us. But we so deeply desire you to come to know the Lord, as we do. He loves you, Marty.”

  Marty licked his lips. “I’ve seen that loving God of yours destroy one of His choicest servants by a slow, torturous death. It was pointless. Cruel. And I couldn’t help. I couldn’t do anything.”

  “You’re talking about Enid. Marty, have you ever wondered how good can come from bad? How an unspeakably hideous event can trigger immeasurable good? In First Corinthians, the second chapter, Paul is talking about the crucifixion of Jesus. You know Jesus sacrificed himself for us. But Paul was convinced that if Satan’s minions had understood God’s plan, they would never have crucified Christ.”

  “You didn’t see Enid die!”

  “You’ve never seen a crucifixion, and it was God’s own Son!” Luke lowered his voice. “From the worst possible atrocity that could be committed came the grandest possible gift and blessing mankind could ever have. If Christ hadn’t died, our sins wouldn’t be paid for. Don’t you try to second-guess what
God is doing, because you haven’t a clue. We accept that He knows what He’s doing. We believe Romans eight twenty-eight: all things turn out for the good for His own. And that, my friend, is exactly what faith is. Trusting God to do His job.”

  Like a trapped fox, Marty looked from face to face. He paused to stare at Mungkala. Surely Mungkala didn’t hold to this. The poor blackfeller had suffered too much.

  But Mungkala was no help. “Indirri and me, much little lad. Storyteller ask a—a puzzle. Question. ’Bout two friends from Dreamtime, Mirram and Wareen. But never him answer. Today, now Luke him answer. God take bad thing make to good. Now I see.”

  “Mungkala sees. Do you see?”

  “Enid said the same thing. I forgot till now. She was happy to go because she said good would come from it. She was so certain.”

  “Marty, if Pinjarra is lost, if Ross Sheldon wins, if the world falls apart—it will all be worth it if it brings you to eternal life. Those are all temporal things, not important when you match them against eternity.”

  Marty lurched to his feet and walked out.

  Meg looked at Luke. He bore the happiest smile on his face, an exultant look of triumph. He knew Marty pretty well; she prayed he was right.

  Mungkala was frowning. “Sacker—huh?”

  “Sacrifice?”

  “Tell ’bout.”

  This was obviously man to man. Meg excused herself and walked out into the warm, shifting breeze of this tense and uncertain evening.

  ****

  Indirri’s heart was restless, heavy. He was now so very close to the goal that had driven him, at greater or lesser intensity, his whole life. The man in the bright vest, a vest brighter than Marty’s, worked somewhere in this area. This was where Indirri had seen him. What a cruel stroke of fate that Indirri had had Bohra with him then, or this business would be finished. But he had done right in returning to Pinjarra to avoid endangering the boy. And because he had sagely bided his time, he was now initiated, at least in the first stages. That good thing would not have happened had he fallen instantly upon his enemy.

  Joy should have been welling up in his breast as his moment approached. But there was no such thing. Thoughts of Goonur haunted him, tormented him with longing. Soon he would have other wives. But they would not be his Goonur.

  Sound and vibration told him horses were coming. Indirri and his companions made themselves invisible among the trees nearby. Seven whitefellers came riding through the trees, staring grimly ahead. They all carried guns—short guns and long guns. Behind their saddles were tied rag-and-stick torches reeking with coal oil. One of those stinking black beards hung from the pommel of the nearest rider’s saddle.

  Indirri thought of the raids on Pinjarra by men in black beards. These were those men. He felt the strongest urge to run ahead of them up to Pinjarra and warn Marty. Marty was a good whitefeller.

  No. His mission, the mission shared by his new friends here, was to avenge the murders of blacks by black-hating whites. He would not be deterred. Marty was on his own.

  The riders were nearly abreast now. Indirri could see details on their faces. There was that feller with the scar named Harry and the other two Indirri had sniffed. He got a good glance at the face of this big feller in the lead. Indirri’s heart stopped. It was his enemy! The man who had worn the bright vest! The face…the build…yes! Add fifteen years to his features…and here rode the enemy not a dozen paces away!

  Had Indirri not lived for all those years among whitefellers, he might not have recognized him, for all whitefellers look alike until you get used to them. In fact, were Indirri not so close he would never have identified him because the man had removed his bright vest. Two strokes of fate combined to bring the enemy into Indirri’s lap.

  He dared not step out and spear him now or Indirri would die in the blaze of half a dozen guns. He couldn’t alert his companions; they were scattered round about. Again, for the second time, he must let the enemy pass unharmed. But not for long. The end was near!

  The enemy gave an order: “Step it up, you galahs, or it’ll be dark before we’re done.”

  The riders urged their horses forward at a quicker pace. Indirri and his companions would be hard-pressed to keep up, let alone overtake them. The moment he could safely move, Indirri chirred like a magpie to call his friends. Soon! Oh, so soon!

  ****

  Meg so enjoyed outback evenings. This time of day was usually beautiful, with golden light. But there was no gentle light tonight; heavy clouds had gathered—scudding clouds with thick black bottoms. Might the drought be breaking? Or was this one of those brief and sudden thunderstorms that washed over the land and disappeared, leaving the soil as dry as ever?

  Out on the line, forgotten laundry flapped as the errant breeze shifted. Meg walked around to the back of the house to take the clothes down, just in case rain should come.

  Marty’s mum came around the corner and started at the other end of the clothesline. Meg watched the woman surreptitiously. So like her own mum this dignified lady was, with a dollop of humor her own mum lacked. Now they were close enough to converse.

  “’Tis a thing meself be still not accustomed to; the violence of y’r weather. There was a typhoon through Mossman last year, the likes ye could nae imagine. And here y’r heat is so hot, y’r dry so dry. And y’r wind. Sure’n it’s like to pull y’r house down.”

  “Violence. Yes. We like to think we’re civilizing the land, but we’re not. Civilization here is confined to a coat of paint. Any bit of turmoil, like this dog’s breakfast right now, strips the paint away, and all you have left is the raw beginning. Rain, drought, distance.”

  “Ye think it’ll come to bloodshed?”

  “Probably. Pitched legal battle at the very least.” She snorted. “The men will posture and fire their guns, but it’s the women who are the real warriors. We’re left with the cleanup afterward.”

  Goonur came out of the summer kitchen with a water bag and a tucker bag. “Would ye see to Bohra, mum? I’m going back out. And mum, if my horse comes home without me, don’t be scared. I’ll set him free if the track leads where he can’t go.”

  “You truly think you can find him?”

  “Indirri and his friends are too good in the bush. I can’t hope to catch them. But maybe if I’m alone, by ’m by I can get close enough to call him and he’ll come to me. All I want is to tell him about the law; that his enemy is Marty’s, too. That the whitefellers can avenge him if he’ll help them. That he doesn’t have to kill and then die for it.”

  “God bless you, Goonur.”

  “Thank you, mum.” She walked quickly away toward the barn.

  Meg watched her disappear around the house and shook her head. “Aye and tooroo, y’re right. ’Tis we who are the warriors,” she murmured. “And the sufferers.”

  Mum took up the filled wash basket. “I’ll go find Bohra.” She dipped her head toward the laundry. “A woman picks up a ten-pound bag of flour and a man leaps forward and says, ‘Here. Let me do that for you!’ But let her pick up a twenty-pound load of wash or a thirty-pound child and nobody notices.”

  Meg giggled, “’Tis the way of men!”

  Sszzzzffak! Meg jumped a foot as a ragged blue streak ripped through the sky nearly overhead. Resonant drums of thunder followed right on its heels.

  They had retrieved the laundry just in time, it appeared. Marty’s mum hurried into the kitchen with her load. Edward would be scampering down off the barn roof if he knew what was good for him. Meg ran toward the barn to help him with his precarious rope ladder.

  There was Bohra with his uncle Mungkala out across the dooryard. Meg detoured to tell Bohra to run into the house.

  From the barn roof the dinner triangle rang furiously. Edward tossed it aside. It clanged its way down the sheet-metal barn roof as he grabbed up his rifle. He flattened out on his belly and took aim.

  Meg stopped, paralyzed with shock. She had never seen highwaymen in Ireland, much less bushrangers
in this upside-down country. There they were! Men in thick black beards galloped their horses into the yard from the south, torches ablaze, guns roaring, their wild-eyed mounts lunging.

  Bohra shrieked as Mungkala fell upon him. Edward’s rifle blasted from the barn top. One of the raiders’ horses screamed and fell backward, carrying its rider with it. The war had begun. And Meg was smack in the middle of it.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The Wrath of God

  Globs of cold water too big to be called raindrops slammed like bullets into the dry dirt; each kicked up a puff of dust. The heavens opened with a vengeance Noah would have appreciated. Cold, drenching rain beat upon Meg’s head. Lightning was striking very close, but you couldn’t hear the thunder for the roar of the guns.

  Lightning again—thunder—more guns.

  Without thinking, Meg bolted forward toward Mungkala. Bohra had crawled out from under him. The child was on his feet now, crying. Meg scooped him up and wheeled. With Bohra wrapped tightly against her, she raced for the safety of the barn.

  She was almost there when she felt the presence of a horse behind her and the drum of its hooves. Its big brown head appeared beside her; its hard shoulder bowled into her. She sprawled in the dirt, her legs so tangled in her skirts she couldn’t get back to her feet. Still gripping Bohra, she rolled to her back, looked up and screamed.

  That beard couldn’t hide the bright rage in his eyes or the white scar over his right eyebrow. Even as he fought to control his frantic horse, he had straightened out his gun arm, aiming his pistol directly at little Bohra! Meg struggled to disengage her legs enough to roll over. She must protect Bohra!

  Fffwit! The man’s eyes widened, bulged. Bright rage faded to startled fear. As his gun arm sagged, his pistol discharged harmlessly. The bullet meant for little Bohra kicked up the dirt at the horse’s feet. An arrow had materialized from nowhere, piercing the gunman’s breast.

  Meg’s skirt ripped. At last she could roll to her feet. Clutching Bohra, she ran to the barn.