by Peter Watt
‘Bloody beautiful!’ Tom cried as he sprang to his feet. ‘Wallarie, you old bastard. You did us proud.’ The tall warrior grinned at what was obviously praise for his hunting prowess and was joined by Young Billy who strutted with pride at his part in the successful hunt as they conversed excitedly with each other in a language Tom Duffy was attempting to learn. Although his grasp of their dialect was only rudimentary, he did understand the phrase ‘your meat’ used by Wallarie. So the boy was of the emu totem, Tom mused, and would have to remember that in the future.
Wallarie spoke to the spirit of the emu and thanked it for providing its body so that they could eat well that night, and he promised the emu spirit that he would carry out the proper rituals when he prepared it for the cooking fire.
He pulled the spear from the emu’s body and hoisted the large bird over his shoulders. Its dangling neck flapped as he trudged west to the camp where the remaining survivors from the Nerambura clan were waiting for the hunters to return. Tom followed. The thought of fresh meat to supplement the diet of lizards, yams and nardoo flour cakes they had lived on since leaving Darambal country caused his stomach to growl. He could almost smell the aroma of emu fat sizzling in the hot coals and his mouth watered at the thought of the feast they would have that night. As fine a feast as the stuffed goose Aunt Bridget had always prepared for the Duffy family at Christmas.
The recollection of the European celebration seemed so far away now. He had long lost track of the days as he had wandered with the handful of Nerambura survivors on the vast and lonely inland plains of western Queensland.
Not many of the Nerambura clan were left. Only Wallarie, the boy, a young woman he knew as Mondo and an old Aboriginal woman Tom had named Black Biddy. And the two Darambal elders, Toka and Kondola. In the weeks they had been together, Tom had grown fond of his adopted Nerambura family, who had accepted him without animosity, despite the fact that he was a member of the same race that had slaughtered their people.
As the leader of the tiny clan of survivors, Wallarie had explained to them how Tom might be of the same colour as the white men who had come in the morning with the black police and guns but he was, in fact, of a different tribe to those murdering white men.
Since his flight from the men who had slaughtered Wallarie’s people, Tom had burned a dark brown under the relentless sun of the inland plains and, at a distance, he could have passed for one of the people he wandered with. His European clothes had long since gone to tatters, shredded on the prickly scrub that they had traversed as they trekked always in the direction of the setting sun, until the brigalow scrub had eventually given way to a flat, almost treeless blacksoil plain.
The only vestige of the white man’s world left to him were his shorts, fashioned from the tattered trousers, and the heavy leather boots he wore. He had retained his Colt revolver, a flask of powder, a pouch of lead ball and a tiny pouch of percussion caps, and had kept his water canteen and a Bowie knife tucked behind the broad leather belt that held up the remains of his trousers. His hair and beard were matted with animal grease and dirt and, although he had lost some weight on the spartan diet of traditional Aboriginal food, he was still an imposing figure with his broad shoulders and barrel chest.
As the three trudged across the plain of dust and dry grass, Young Billy chattered incessantly with Nerambura words the Irishman did not understand. But the lack of comprehension did not deter the boy in his prattle, as he had attached himself to Tom from the first day of their meeting.
Wallarie was a hunter and warrior without need for the boy’s company, and Wallarie preferred to sit with the two old men who had once been respected elders in the Nerambura clan. The three men would chat and gossip around the fire at nights and ignore the boy who craved their company, whereas the big white man did not chase him away when he sought male companionship. Although Mondo would kindly tolerate Billy’s company from time to time, there was a barrier between the boy and the young woman as she was no longer a girl.
As they trudged towards the camp in the sparse late afternoon shadows, the Irishman thought back over the events that had led him on the trek with the few survivors of Wallarie’s people.
He remembered the day he had buried his father and Old Billy, when he had found their mutilated bodies under the tall tree. The mutilations, he could plainly see, had been inflicted by a sword or bayonet.
He had carefully read the ground as Old Billy had taught him, and he had plainly seen the signs of many horses. He had recognised the imprints of police-issue boots, and the indent marks of chains on the smooth white trunk of the tall tree under which he had found the bodies of the two men. He knew about police manacles and the indent marks on the tree trunk which, coupled with the bruises he found on both men’s wrists, made him conclude that his father and Old Billy had been murdered by the police. For what insane reason he did not know. Nor could he speculate on it. But the certain knowledge they had been murdered made him acutely aware that they might attempt to kill him also.
He had scraped out the two shallow graves in the crumbly red soil with his Bowie knife, and buried his father and his old friend side by side, marking the graves with a few stones as a pitiful memorial to their final resting place.
After he had completed the burials, he had grieved for the souls of the two men and he had hoped that his father was with Old Billy in his version of the afterlife, because that meant that he would be able to see his father as one of the many stars of the wide and sparkling black velvet canopy of the heavens.
Tom had noticed a spiralling pillar of smoke rising above the scrub into the cloudless sky, and he’d known it was rising from where he had left the bullock team. A short time earlier, he had heard the faint popping of carbines drift to him on the still air. So the traps had slaughtered the bullocks and burnt the dray. He was now alone in territory where all men were his enemy. He had sat with his back against a tree, cradling a loaded Colt, waiting for the night.
When the night had come the dingo howled to its kind about the places of death and once, during the still hours, Tom thought he had seen the outline of a dark figure in the bush. But the figure was gone in the blink of an eye and did not return. Hallucinations? Maybe . . .
At sunrise, he had gone in search of water, avoiding the slaughter ground where the bodies of the dead Nerambura would be swelled to hideous, bloated, black balloons under the blistering hot sun. He had not lingered in the terrible area but struck out west towards the small range of hills which he could see looming above the brigalow scrub. He had dared not travel east as this might bring him into contact with the men who had murdered his father and Old Billy.
But as he trekked to the hills, he’d had the uneasy feeling that he was being watched. Were his observers the spirits of the dead? He shuddered superstitiously. Old Billy’s belief in the pagan world of the spirits had rubbed off on him more than he cared to admit.
He had been careful to keep the Colt ready just in case the spirits turned out to be of a temporal nature and he had trudged west without any real idea where he was going. All he’d known was that the path west would take him beyond the leases of the squatters and the patrols of the Native Mounted Police. He needed time to gather his thoughts, to plan a way back to the coast where he could seek help in tracking down the killers of his father and Old Billy.
His wandering had drawn him inexorably towards the small and craggy range of hills that was dominated by a single brooding summit of an ancient volcano. When he had reached the base of the hill, he’d found more grisly evidence of the troopers’ work. He had presumed that the troopers were responsible until he’d found a spent bullet on the ground. His knowledge of firearms was extensive and he’d known at once it was not a police bullet, but one from a revolver most often used by squatters. He’d found two more that matched the first. So, it had not only been troopers involved in the slaughter. There had been other white men. Probably a squatter and his shepherds, he’d guessed. It had confirmed his suspici
on that no white man – or black trooper – could be counted on as a friend in this country.
The hill had seemed to beckon him and the young Irishman had an eerie feeling that the rocks and scrub had a life of their own. Too long listening to Billy, he’d told himself. But despite his attempts to shake off the strange attraction of the hill, he’d known it was a place where he’d be protected. By whom . . . by what?
Tom had found a well-worn trail. He’d struggled upwards to the peak and, as he’d climbed, he’d become uncomfortably aware that someone . . . or something . . . watched his progress with great interest.
When he’d finally reached the summit, he’d rested to behold a panoramic view over a seemingly endless plain of scrub. He was suddenly overwhelmed with a dark despair that caused him to consider ending his life with a single shot from the Colt.
He’d raised the pistol to his head. Did not the priests forever remind the faithful that suicide guaranteed eternal damnation to their Catholic souls? He’d eased the barrel away. No, suicide was not an option. He had a sacred duty to the soul of his father – and the spirit of Old Billy – to track down their killers. But he was alone and on foot in a land barely explored. And he was possibly being hunted for some insane reason by men he had never met. There was only one thing left that he could do. And laugh he did. A deep booming laugh that had rolled echoing off the hill and into the tough, stunted scrub-choked ravines that hid the wallaby and rock python.
Weary from the climb, he had sat with his back to an outcrop of ancient rock. The sun warmed him and he had fallen into a deep sleep until he was disturbed by a shadow falling across his face.
His eyes had snapped open as he instinctively reached for his gun. The gun was gone! And he’d stared into the smoky eyes of the big warrior who stood over him, examining the gun with an expression of curiosity. Behind the big warrior was a young woman who smiled shyly at him when his gaze settled on her. He could see that the warrior had been wounded recently. Other than the woven human hair belt about his waist he was naked, as was the girl behind him.
‘Careful. That thing is loaded and you might just put another hole in yourself,’ Tom had said without fear. He sensed that the Darambal warrior meant him no harm. The man could easily have crushed his skull with the nulla he carried while Tom slept, and the fact that he had taken the gun so easily spoke well for the warrior’s stealth.
Wallarie had heard Tom’s words without understanding them. But he knew the white man had a similar sound to that of the white sorcerer who had saved him from the murderers of the Nerambura people. He hoped Mondo was right in her perception of this white man.
She had watched Tom bury his father and Old Billy, and she had watched him through the night as he grieved by the graves and instinctively sensed that he was a victim like themselves. It was she who had become the spirit of the night that Tom had glimpsed in the dark shadows of the scrub. She had told Wallarie all that she had seen.
‘We have the same enemy,’ Wallarie said. Tom did not understand the words but he’d understood the gesture of trust when the Aboriginal warrior handed the pistol back to him.
‘I don’t know who you are, friend,’ Tom said, holding out his hand to Wallarie who stared at the Irishman, puzzled by his gesture, ‘but, thank you.’ The young Irishman had reached out and taken Wallarie’s right hand, pumping it twice.
It dawned on the Aboriginal warrior that the handshake was some kind of ritual of the white man, most probably a token of friendship, as he could see that there was no fear or animosity in the grey eyes. He had smiled as he let go Tom’s hand to walk away and Tom knew that he should follow . . . and follow he did.
As he walked behind Wallarie and the girl, he noticed her steal shy glances at him. When he had caught her doing this, he’d flashed back a smile and she’d giggled as she ducked her head. Her skin had not been scarred by the totem signs and he guessed, from what Old Billy had told him about the rites of the Aboriginal people, that she had yet to be initiated into the secret rites of womanhood. Her nubile and naked body was that of a young girl verging on puberty and he’d surmised that she was the big warrior’s woman. Ah the pity of it, he thought wistfully. She was a handsome lass in any man’s language.
It had been close to sunset when Wallarie led them into a small valley concealed by steep cliffs, and the Irishman had first seen the few survivors of the Nerambura clan. A young boy stood beside two old men and an old woman sat cross-legged beside a small fire.
When they saw him, they rose hesitantly, then pointed at him chattering in excited voices with consternation on their dark faces. Wallarie’s commanding voice had cut their excited chatter short and they fell into an apprehensive silence as they joined them at their camp site.
Tom saw that they all bore the recent scars of wounds inflicted by the men who had carried out the dispersal. One of the old men had a scalp wound and the other a bullet wound in the calf of his leg.
The Nerambura elder who had been wounded in the leg had limped when he walked to greet Wallarie, while the old woman had launched into a tirade that was obviously directed at the presence of the tall white man. Wallarie had delivered a speech that seemed to mollify the old woman, who turned her back on the young warrior and sat down. Mondo joined her and the two women went into a huddle, whispering between themselves.
Suddenly the old woman had stood up and shuffled towards Tom. She then reached down, grabbing him between the legs before he could react. He had winced with acute embarrassment as she broke into a cackling laugh and said something to the others. The old men too had broken into loud guffaws that racked their thin bodies as they fell about laughing. Mondo smiled shyly and Wallarie had grinned. Tom guessed to his acute embarrassment that the old woman had established his sex, hidden inside his trousers.
She gave a final yank on his manhood before hobbling away, cackling to herself, and in her wake she had left the young Irishman flushed with embarrassment. He was soon to learn that the Nerambura people had a rich and raunchy sense of humour.
From that day on his fate had been in the hands of the Nerambura survivors, led by the tall warrior. And in time he’d grown to know them for all their individual ways, as much as he had known his own family in Sydney.
Old Biddy was cantankerous and he dared not guess her age. But she must have been older than Old Billy. She would harangue the two elders, and often enough she would receive a blow from a gnarled fist from one of them. But she liked the young white man and would give Tom a choice fat wood grub to eat when the women dug them up around the roots of trees. The grubs were delicious and he’d regretted that he had nothing to give her in return for the choice morsels she brought him. Whenever he tried to thank her with his English words, she would cackle and hobble away shouting to Mondo, which caused the girl to giggle and drop her eyes shyly.
Kondola and Toka had tended to remain aloof from Tom. Kondola was the quieter of the two elders and was a man who wore the scars of many tribal duels on his body as badges of his prowess. He had once been a warrior and hunter of great repute among the Nerambura.
Toka had been known for the craftsmanlike weapons he chiselled, and he was one with the spirits of the wood that he carved so expertly with the razor-sharp flints. Tom had noticed that it was Toka who did most of the talking when the two old men sat cross-legged together under the shade of a tree or by the camp fire at night.
Then there was Mondo, whom Tom had gleaned from observation was not Wallarie’s woman. It was hard to believe that a marriageable woman such as Mondo was not with Wallarie, but the Irishman had not yet learnt of the strict taboo of the Darambal people which banned marriage between persons of the same totem.
Finally there was the boy, Young Billy, whom Tom had guessed was probably about nine years of age and desperate – as young boys of his age are – to be recognised as a man worthy of hunting with Wallarie.
Now, as they trudged towards the camp, Tom gazed at the dark clouds tantalisingly low over the dusty plai
ns.
Sometimes the distant rumble of thunder rolled to them, but no rain came. The rains were late and the plains tinder hot and dry to the naked foot. Tom had not seen the signs of the white man for a long time; no telltale ruts left by the wheels of the drays, nor the print of the horse’s hoof. He sensed that they were well beyond the established white man’s frontier. They still walked in a land in harmony with all that lived upon it. But sadly it was only a matter of time before the plagues of sheep and cattle came to ravage the native grasses and spoil the pristine water holes.
He sighed. Was this the only life he would ever know? To walk forever in the desolate lands beyond the frontier with a people whose fabric of life was as torn as his own? The melancholy lifted from him when he heard the welcoming cackle of Old Biddy praising them for the feast they were bringing into the camp.
Wallarie dropped the big bird beside the fire pit which had been prepared by Biddy. She had an unshakable faith in the warrior’s ability and she had, with the help of Mondo, dug a pit with digging sticks. The cooking area was lined with rocks and a few precious tree branches and the aromatic scent of eucalyptus steamed up from the hole.
The two elders sat cross-legged under the shade of a scrawny scrub tree chatting to each other. When they saw the three hunters approaching, they heaved themselves to their skinny legs to hobble over and examine the carcass with admiring prods and pokes. It was a fat bird which would fill hungry bellies this night and there would be meat left over for the next day.
Tom slumped wearily to the ground and stretched his legs while Mondo gave him one of her regular shy looks from where she knelt, pounding the tiny seeds of the native grasses into flour between two rocks. But this time her eyes lingered on him for longer than normal and he was aware of her frank appraisal. She was gaining respect for his ability to keep up with them on the trek towards the place where the sun slept each night.