by Morris West
‘This is it. Close in.’
She edged her mount close to him so that their stirrups were almost brushing.
‘How far, Neil?’
‘About half a mile. We’ll take ‘em through the grass.’
‘I’m scared, Neil.’
His hand reached across and closed over her own. His voice was very gentle.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll be together from here on.’
As they urged their horses through the high rank grasses, she wondered what meaning she should read into those eight simple words.
Mundaru the buffalo man was lying spread-eagled in the dust. The kadaitja men were squatting round him, holding his twitching body, while their leader extracted the spearhead from his back. Beside them, a small fire was burning, and in the centre of the fire lay a stone, elliptical in shape and flattened on both sides. As the coals built up around it, they brushed them carefully to one side so that the sacred object was always visible, like a heart absorbing heat from the fiery body that encased it.
When the spearhead was extracted, there was a small rush of blood, and the kadaitja man held the lips of the wound together while he rummaged in the small bark bag which Willinja had given into his hands. He brought out a small sliver of white quartz, about the length of a finger, and this he inserted deep in the wound, covering it with a plug of brown gumresin. Mundaru twisted and heaved convulsively at this magical invasion of his body, but the kadaitja men held him down and forced his mouth into the dust so that he could not cry out.
The leader stood up and walked to the fire. Without a moment’s hesitation, he plunged his hand into the coals and picked up the sacred stone. It was nearly white-hot, but he grasped it firmly. He felt no pain, and when he laid it over the wound in Mundaru’s back, the flesh and the resin were instantly cauterised, while his own hand was unharmed. When the operation was over, he laid the stone on the ground, filled his mouth with water and squirted it with his lips on the stone to wash off any evil which might have clung to it from Mundaru’s body. When it was cool he put it back in the bark bag and stood up. The others stood with him and looked down at Mundaru, jerking and groaning at their feet.
It was all but done. There remained only the death-walk. They hauled Mundaru to his feet and held him until they felt him steady, then they pushed him forward. At the first step, he collapsed, but they dragged him up again, set his face to the sacred place and prodded him forward with their spears. Miraculously he stayed on his feet and, one hand clamped to the torn muscles of his back, he began to shamble ahead. The kadaitja men followed, with pointing spears, measuring their pace to his.
A foot outside the circle of painted poles they laid hands on him again and held him, turning his head this way and that so that his glazed eyes might see the symbol of all the power he had outraged. Now for the first time he began to struggle. This was the final vision of death. No matter how long more he survived, this was the ultimate agony. But they had no pity for him. With one concerted heave, they tossed him forward into the leaves and watched the ground swallow him up.
The echoes of his last despairing scream were still in the air when the shot rang out, and they wheeled to face the riders pounding towards them over the plain.
The scream woke Lance Dillon out of a doze, filled with the phantasms of fever. He was lying on the edge near the pool, one arm dangling numb and helpless in the water, the other still grasping the pointed stalactite. When he opened his eyes, he saw at first only a formless blur of light; but as his vision cleared, he understood that it was the sunlight slanting down from the entrance to the cave.
It was morning then. He had lasted the night. He wondered whether he would see the noon. He eased himself carefully on the rock ledge, trying to work a semblance of life into his numbed arm. The effort brought him perilously close to the edge of the platform, and as his angle of sight shifted he was able to focus on the spot where the sunbeam struck the sandy floor of the cave.
Terror flooded through him like a purge. Crouched on all fours in the sunlight was the figure of a myall black. As he looked, the myall raised his head, and Dillon could see the bulging eyeballs and the mouth drawn back in a grin from the white teeth. Recognition was complete. This was the man who had wounded him in the valley, who had led the trackers through two nights and a day, and who had found him at last, cornered and ready for the kill.
The myall moved forward out of the sunbeam, and Dillon lost him for a moment, when his head drooped and his body melted into the darkness. He could still hear him breathing in short savage gasps as he moved closer to the low pillar of limestone. Any moment now he must stand up, and as soon as he did he must come leaping to haul him off his pedestal.
He must not die like this, trapped like a rat in a dark hole. Every nerve in his body was alive with the instinct of survival. His fingers tightened round the stone dagger and he could feel the remnants of his will gathering themselves like a spring inside him.
With a huge effort he forced himself up to his knees, slewed his body so that his legs dangled over the edge of the platform, and he was sitting more or less upright. The effort made him groan aloud; pieces of limestone, dislodged by his movement, splashed into the pool. When his dizziness had passed he wondered why the myall had not come for him. His heavy animal breathing was closer than ever.
Dillon blinked away the sweat that bleared his eyes and peered about the dark hollows of the cave, searching for his adversary. Then he saw him, a pace away from the foot of the platform, still on his knees and snuffling at the sand. A faint highlight outlined the shape of his shoulder muscles and the line of his dorsal bones.
It was now or never. If the myall lifted up his head, it was the end. Dillon’s fingers crisped round the thick butt of the stalactite and, holding it forward in both hands, he plunged downward on to the body of the myall.
He felt the point of it dig deep into flesh, heard the sound as the limestone snapped under his weight, then darkness swept over him like a wave, tainted with the smell of death.
CHAPTER NINE
JUST OUTSIDE THE RANGE of a thrown spear, Neil Adams halted his little troop and sat, erect in the saddle, watching the painted men, drawn up in line across the entrance to the sacred place. They were tense and watchful. Their spears were notched to their throwing-sticks and a single untimely gesture would bring them running to outflank the riders and cut them down. He might hold them off with gunfire; but this would mean killing and in the code of the Territory policeman this was barbarism, a confession of failure, a destruction of twenty years’ work in the management of the nomads.
He turned to Mary and said quietly:
‘I’m going to talk to them with Billy-Jo. If there’s trouble, don’t hang around. Ride like hell for the river and get the stockboys. Understand?’
‘Yes, Neil.’
‘For the present, stay here. Don’t move until the first spear is thrown.’
‘Do you think…?’
‘Just do as you’re told.’
‘Yes, Neil.’
‘Billy-Jo!’
‘Yes, boss?’
‘We’ll go on foot.’
The tracker shrugged and dismounted. Neil Adams made an ostentatious gesture of shoving his rifle back into the saddle-bucket, then he too dismounted, and the two of them walked slowly towards the painted men, holding their hands wide from their bodies, palms upturned, to show that they came in peace and without weapons.
Mary Dillon watched, white-faced and fearful. The kadaitja men watched too, measuring their paces, the fingers tightening round the throwing-sticks, their muscles contracting for the throw. Twenty yards from the enclosure of poles Adams and the tracker halted, straddle-legged, arms outstretched. The hostility in front of them was like a wall. Adams moistened his dry lips and said to the tracker:
‘Tell them we come in peace. Tell them we know what has been done to Mundaru and that we know what they do not – that he raped and killed the wife of Willinja. Tell them where the body is and tha
t they should take it back to their camp.’
The tracker grunted assent, paused a moment collecting himself, then raised his husky voice in the manner of the tribal orator. It rang in the emptiness, now high and dramatic, now rolling in long, resonant periods. His gestures were ample and expressive, and as he spoke Adams saw the kadaitja men look at one another in doubt, felt their hostility relax a fraction.
When Billy-Jo had finished speaking, they muttered a while together, then one of them laid his spears on the ground and stepped forward into the open space and began to speak. Billy-Jo translated for Adams:
Mundaru dead. Eaten by spirit snake. Leaveim in spirit place. Blackfella business. White man no touch.’
‘Tell them we understand blackfella business. Tell them Boss Dillon is lost and we think Mundaru killed him. This makes it white man’s business. I want to go down into the spirit place and talk with the spirit of Mundaru. If they try to stop me there will be trouble for them and the tribe. Say that we have done service to Willinja and that we tried to help his wife. He has a debt to us. They will earn his anger if they prevent him paying it.’
Billy-Jo took up the theme again, embellishing it with the symbols of the people, translating the pragmatic logic of the white man into the involved spiritistic reasoning of the primitive. Adams knew enough of the language to understand that the tracker was drawing heavily on the personal credit of the policeman with the tribes. He was emphasising time and again that Adams had always paid his debts, that he had never infringed legal custom, that he had never spoken with the forked tongue of the liar, that he had defended the black against the predatory drifters, that his friendship was strong and his vengeance terrible.
The answer of the kadaitja man was clear and emphatic. He accepted all the claims of the policeman – but the life of Mundaru was forfeited to the spirits, and the white man must not enter the spirit place.
When the answer was translated to him in clattering pidgin, Adams found himself in a neat dilemma. The myalls knew that the white man tried to save the victims of tribal vengeance and bring them to trial in their own fashion. They knew, too, the unwritten law that their own secret places must be respected. Defiance of this law would destroy his credit and earn him nothing but a spear-thrust in the ribs. He decided to play for time.
‘Ask them, Billy-Jo: do they know Mundaru killed the great bull? And do they know that he was hunting Boss Dillon to kill him also?’
The answer came back; yes, they knew.
‘Do they know what happened to the white man?’
No. They did not know. But if he were dead this debt was paid by the death of Mundaru.
Adams took a deep breath. He was gambling now – with his own life, with Billy-Jo’s, and possibly with Mary’s.
‘Then tell them this: I believe that Mundaru tracked the white man to this place and either drove him into the spirit cave, or killed him and hid his body there. If this is true, his spirit will not rest, but will haunt the place for ever and destroy the magic of the tribe…’ And he added in sardonic parenthesis: ‘For God’s sake, make it sound good !’
The tracker shot him a swift, dubious glance and spoke again. This time the myall’s answer was less hostile, more bargaining.
‘He say you not sure, boss. You go down, maybe come up with Boss Dillon, maybe not. But you no take Mundaru. Mundaru belong spirit snake.’
For all the danger of the situation, Neil Adams felt a flicker of sardonic amusement at the neat way they had trapped him. They wanted Mundaru at all costs. He understood why. They were the official executioners. They must report a successful killing – otherwise they themselves would fall under sanction. To get what he wanted, he had to wrench the law in their favour, but their spears were at his breast; he had no choice. He turned to Billy-Jo.
‘Tell them I agree. Tell them to go and pick up the girl. I will leave Mundaru in the spirit cave. Give them a message from me to Willinja. I will see him at sunset.’
The message was relayed. The answer came back.
‘They want to stay, boss. Watchim go down. Watchim come up.’
Adams’s face clouded with dramatic anger.
‘I have never spoken a lie. If they do not believe me, let them kill me now!’
Even as Billy-Jo was speaking, he advanced, ripping open his shirt and baring his breast to them. It was the kind of theatrical gesture the primitives understood: man asserting his maleness by boasting and provocation. Three feet from the kadaitja spokesman he halted, and they faced each other, the painted man, the policeman, their eyes locked, their faces stony with mutual defiance. Then the kadaitja man grunted assent and turned away, Adams did the same. He had won his point. There was no profit in making his adversary lose face.
The kadaitja men moved off, heading back to the grass-lands and the river. Adams and Billy-Jo walked back to the horses. Adams’s hands were twitching as he climbed into the saddle and picked up the reins. Mary questioned him shakily:
‘You looked so small and lonely out there. What was it all about?’
He shrugged and grinned at her.
‘A piece of haggling. They didn’t want me to go into the sacred place. I talked them into it – or rather Billy-Jo did.’
The black tracker chuckled huskily.
‘Boss Adams big fool gambler, missus. Maybe win, maybe all get bellyful of spears.’
‘Maybe.’
He dismissed the subject casually, but Mary’s concern and admiration warmed him like whisky and restored a little of the confidence he had lost on the river-bank. As they cantered across the open ground towards the big bottle tree, she asked him gravely:
‘You have nothing more to tell me, Neil?’
‘About your husband? Nothing. All we know is that Mundaru is down in the cave. We saw them push him into it. The chances are he’s still alive. We take it from there.’
‘I was afraid for you, Neil. When I saw you walking out towards the spears, I – I thought, if anything happened to you, I couldn’t bear it.’
He mocked her lightly.
‘Wonderful what you can take when you have to.’
‘Don’t laugh about it, Neil.’
‘I’m not laughing, Mary. Just reminding you that what happens from here on may not be pleasant.’
‘I know. I’ve been thinking about it.’
A few yards from the painted poles they stopped. Adams dismounted and handed the reins of his pony to Billy-Jo. The blackfellow stared at him, puzzled. Adams answered his unspoken thought.
‘First, I’m going in alone, Billy-Jo. The myalls will be watching to see what happens. I’ve got to keep the promise. If Mundaru’s alive, I’ll send you down to talk to him. Wait here with Mrs Dillon.’
He rummaged in the saddle-bag and brought out a flashlight cased in rubber. He tested and stepped towards the gaping hole in the leaves. Mary’s voice stayed him.
‘Please be careful, Neil.’
He grinned and waved a reassuring hand.
‘It’s just a cave, full of bones and bats. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’ He stood a moment, shining the torch down into the vault, then stepped down the ramp of sand and was lost to view. For one wild second, it seemed to Mary Dillon that he had gone down into a deep, private hell from which he would never come back.
Half-way down the ramp Adams halted, listening and probing the darkness with his torch. There was no sound but the rasp of a tiny runnel of sand cascading down from his boots. The air smelt dry and musty, but tinged with the acrid odour of blood and human exhalation. The moving fingers of light picked out the bats hanging from the vault, the cavities stuffed with sacred objects, the glittering fall of the stalactites.
Adams focused it on the floor and moved it in wide sweeping arcs as he stepped down the last slope. From the shadows there came the single musical note of dropping water, and when he swung the light towards the sound he saw the two bodies, one flattened on the sand, the other flung over it like a sack.
He gasped with
the sudden shock and drew back, then edged his way carefully towards the prone figures. They were motionless, silent. When he knelt to examine them, he saw that the upper one was that of a white man. He reached out a tentative hand and rolled it on to its back. At the sight of it, he gagged and turned away, retching violently.
The face was a swollen mass, the eyes and nostrils puffed, the mouth frothy and distorted. One shoulder was a suppurating wound and the skin about it was streaked and swollen with infection. The whole trunk was scored with scratches, blistered raw from the sun and caked with dust and dried blood. The hands were joined under the diaphragm, and held a stump of limestone between their clenched fingers. One rib had caved in under the impact.
Adams switched the torchbeam to the body of the myall and saw the stalactite projecting from the small of his back, and near it the cauterised spear-wound. He reached out his hand and withdrew it sharply from the cold and rigid contact. He slanted the torchbeam upward and saw the rock-platform where Dillon had lain. The picture was brutally clear to him. Dillon cornered in his last refuge. The dying aborigine blundering about the cave. The last panic leap of the white man on to the body of his hunter. Now they were both dead, with all their problems solved – and a lot more than either of them had ever guessed.
A wave of relief washed over him, and when it passed he felt strangely elated. The slate was clean, the report could be written with truth and discretion. The obsequies could be arranged to spare Mary any of this grisly spectacle, and after a decent time they could begin to think about their own future.
Then the policeman’s habit asserted itself once again and he bent to make a final examination of the bodies. He raised the myall’s arm and felt for the pulse. There was none. The cold of death was already creeping into the members. He jerked out the stalactite and tossed it far into a corner of the cave. No point in complicating the report. Cause of death – spear wounds. A kadaitja killing. Period.
He turned away and bent to make a similar examination of Dillon. He prised open the puffed lids and saw the eyes rolled upward into the head. He put his ear to the broken rib-cage and listened. There was no sound of a heart-beat. But when he felt the pulse, his heart sank like a stone in a pool. It was still there, weak, thready and uncertain. But it was there. Lance Dillon was alive.