Outback Station

by Aaron Fletcher

  David fell asleep, then woke during the afternoon as the Aborigines moved about. They set out again, two of the youths carrying his belongings as he tried to keep up, and he wondered where they were going. They were heading north, as they had been that morning, but David had no idea where the track to Wayamba Station was. It occurred to him that they could have decided to take him into their group, and he could end up traveling around with them indefinitely, starving and dying of thirst his only alternative.

  His headache returning, David struggled to keep up with the Aborigines as the afternoon passed. At sunset, he saw the young man and the youth who had accompanied him coming down a hill to meet the other man, the youth carrying a small kangaroo they had killed. The women, having spotted the kangaroo a moment before David, gathered firewood.

  Camp was made in a gully at the foot of the hill, and the women took the kangaroo. David had food in his pack that he could have cooked, but he was too tired. Ravenously hungry again, he watched the preparations to cook the kangaroo, reflecting that it would be far more palatable than raw lizards, snakes, and fat, squirming worms.

  When the food was ready, the young women took part of it to the men, and the old woman brought a large piece of the meat to David. Softly murmuring, she also gave him several fungi the size of an egg that she called witita, and a handful of small, onion-like bulbs that were called nyiri in her language.

  The tough, stringy kangaroo meat had a strong, gamy taste, but it was rich and filling. The taste of it was countered by the fungi and bulbs, which had an unusual, but very agreeable, flavor. When the meal was finished, the Aborigines settled down for the night.

  The possibility of wandering forever in the outback preying on his mind, David again tried to communicate. "I need to go to Wayamba Station," he said to the older man, pointing westward and hoping that was the right direction. "Wayamba Station. I must go there."

  Again there was an uncomfortable stir, the Aborigines finding his voice too loud, but he was successful. "Wayamba," the man said softly, pointing northwest. He said something else, then repeated the name.

  Greatly relieved, David smiled and nodded happily. The man smiled in response. The others commented quietly among themselves, pleased by the exchange and understanding. They went to sleep, and David, sighing in satisfaction, settled himself comfortably.

  Shortly after dawn the next morning, they headed northward again at a steady pace. His full strength starting to return, David kept up with the Aborigines during the morning hours, then he began tiring. At midday, he was trudging grimly through tall brush behind the group when the foliage opened and he saw all of them waiting for him. As he walked toward them, he saw that they were standing on the track.

  "Wayamba," the older man said, pointing down the track to the west.

  Kerrick opened his pack and gave his hatchet to the older man, and his knife to the young man. Then he handed his canteen to the old woman. They smiled in delight, examining the things and murmuring excitedly. The older man said something, apparently expressing thanks, and led the Aborigines back into the tall brush. David hoisted his pack and picked up his weapons, then walked down the track.

  During late afternoon, he reached a small brook. Unsure of how far he still had to go, he measured out a small portion of his remaining food and cooked it. After eating, he bathed, washed his clothes, and shaved in the last light of the setting sun. The next morning, carrying his billy full of water, he continued his journey.

  Two days later, David saw dust from a flock of sheep several miles south. He turned off the track, crossing the rolling terrain toward the flock. Near sunset, he climbed a last hill toward a fold, hut, and horses at the top of the rise.

  Alerted by his dogs, the stockman was wary of bushrangers. He called out from a clump of brush near the fold, telling David to identify himself. David did and said he was en route to see Patrick Garrity. A tall, bearded man stepped out of the brush and shook hands with David as he introduced himself as Tom Mason, an employee at Wayamba Station.

  Cheerful and friendly, Tom was delighted to have a visitor with news of the outside world. As he and David talked, he mixed a pan of damper, put on peas and rice to cook, and cut generous pieces from a quarter of mutton hanging beside the shelter, putting them on the spit. He had a spare horse and suggested that David ride it to the home paddock, an offer that was promptly accepted with thanks.

  After the large, satisfying meal, they smoked their pipes and drank more tea. They talked for another hour, Tom apparently content when alone, but enjoying conversation with his infrequent visitors. Then he kindled the fire to burn through the night and went into his hut, and David unrolled his blanket beside the fire.

  The next morning, after breakfast, David left on Tom's spare horse. Riding to the immense sheep station, the miles and hours passed, then he saw dust in the distance to the north and south from flocks of sheep.

  The home paddock of Wayamba Station came into view from the top of a low hill, and Kerrick reined up. It was an island of civilization in a vast expanse of wilderness, an isolated, self-contained community. At the center was a creek lined with towering river gums and quandongs with their vividly green foliage, along with whitewoods and ironwoods that resembled willows. A rambling bungalow with tall water tanks behind it was in the deep shade of the trees, with an expanse of gardens up the creek from it and a row of small houses for married stockmen down the creek. Farther down the creek was a cluster of huts where Aborigines lived.

  The shearing shed was set out into a level, open expanse from the houses, and it was huge, with acres of holding pens adjacent to it. On the opposite side of the shed from the pens were storage warehouses, barns, a barracks, cookhouse, and other buildings. David gazed at it for several minutes, hoping he would someday have the same, then rode on down the track.

  At the holding pens, he met the head stockman, Fred Johnson, a wiry man in his forties. He greeted David amiably, then told him that Pat was out in the paddocks. ''He should be back tomorrow," Fred added. "Put the horse in the pen over there, and somebody can take it back to Tom in a few days. There's ample room in the barracks, and the cook has tucker ready at sunrise, midday, and sunset."

  David thanked him, leading the horse away. As he went to the horse pen, he met a couple of stockmen who introduced themselves, immediately interested upon seeing a stranger. After he put the horse in the pen and carried his belongings to the barracks, word quickly spread that a visitor had arrived at the station, and other men came in to meet him.

  At sunset, David went to the cookhouse. Inside, the long trestle tables had been built to accommodate twenty or more at shearing time. The half-dozen stockmen who worked at the home paddock were there, as well as the storekeeper and cook, both of them older men who had once been stockmen. The food was plentiful and appetizing, fresh pork roast with potatoes and vegetables from the garden, and damper and tea.

  The men questioned David about events in Sydney and beyond, as Tom Mason had. Also like Tom, they had a detached attitude toward David's information, and he saw that they were only mildly curious and gleaning topics for conversation rather than truly interested.

  Wayamba Station was their world, their only real interest. David recalled what Frank had said about those who could live at peace with themselves and others in the outback, and he realized that the grazier had been absolutely correct. The men were adjusted to their isolation as a part of life, and they were also a special breed, with some ineffable quality that made them fit in with the remote region.

  After the meal, David and the men went out to the benches on the cookhouse veranda. The cook brought out a lantern to light pipes, and Fred joined them. The conversation continued for another hour, as insects swooped out of the darkness and circled around the lantern.

  At the fires around the Aborigine huts down the creek, didgeridoos began droning softly, building up to a steady throbbing of rising and falling notes. They were accompanied by a rustling clatter of rhythm sticks t
apping in cadence, then a moment later by chanting, men's and women's voices harmonizing. The sounds melded into a velvet, hypnotic whole.

  "That's the first corroboree they've had down there for some time," Fred said to David. "I wonder what it's about."

  "Maybe somebody's died," a man suggested gloomily. "They have a corroboree every time somebody dies at the station."

  "Well, nobody's died that I know about," Fred replied, "and that's not the only reason they have a corroboree. They have them when a baby is born, and for any number of other reasons." He yawned, standing up. "Well, it's time I found my blanket. I'll see you men tomorrow."

  As he left, the other men moved off the veranda, and David went with them. In the barracks, as at Frank's station, the cots were covered with layers of sheepskin, and David fell asleep, listening to the corroboree.

  The next day, David looked around the home paddock and its buildings, observing how the huge enterprise operated. While crossing the wide yard between the shearing shed and the houses, David met Mayrah Garrity who carried a basket to the gardens to collect vegetables.

  Slender and in her early twenties, she wore a stockman's hat with a blouse and skirt made of dungaree, but her bearing made her more striking than any society matron decked out in costly finery and jewelry. In her own domain, she was proud and regal in spite of the deep scar on her forehead.

  She talked with David for a few minutes in her broken, heavily-accented English. "Frank Williamson all right?" she asked.

  "He was well when I last saw him," David replied, "and he asked me to convey his best wishes to you and your children."

  "Good, good. Barracks and tucker good enough?"

  "They're excellent, and I'm very grateful for the hospitality."

  She smiled and nodded briskly, moving away. "G'day."

  David answered, lifting his hat, then continued looking around the home paddock. While he was at the cattle and oxen pen, a rider approached from the south and a stockman working near the pen said it was Pat. David returned to the barracks to get the mail pouch out of his pack, then he went to the horse pen where Pat was unsaddling his horse and talking with Fred.

  David met few men as large as himself, but he and Pat were the same height and within a few pounds of each other. In his thirties, with a thick, neatly-trimmed beard that partially obscured granite features that matched the level gaze of his blue eyes, he was covered in dust and held a coiled stockman's whip as if it were a part of him. He was a reserved man who could quickly become brusque, but as he and David looked at each other, there was instant mutual respect.

  Shaking hands, they exchanged greetings amiably, and David briefly explained his purpose for being there. "Frank Williamson said I would like it here," he continued, "and he was absolutely right. He suggested that I come and talk with you."

  "I'm glad you took his advice," Pat replied. "Is he all right?"

  "He's bearing the weight of his years well, but as you know, they're more than a few. You have a letter from him in the pouch."

  Pat opened it and looked through the mail, handing Fred several letters. "Those are for men at the home paddock," he said. "There's also mail here for men out in the paddocks, and whoever takes supplies to them the next time can deliver the letters." He closed the pouch, turning back to David. "Come to my house about sunset for dinner."

  "Very well, and thank you for the invitation.

  There's one other thing. Frank told me that you have a commission as a justice of the peace, and I killed a bushranger on my way here. I found identification and other personal belongings on him that I should turn over to you."

  "Aye, I'll have to make a report on it to the chief justice in Sydney. Bring the things with you when you come to the house."

  David exchanged a nod with Pat and went toward the barracks, more than pleased by his first meeting with the man. While their backgrounds were different, they had much in common through having similar goals and attitudes. Whether he was ever able to establish a sheep station, David knew he had found a friend in the outback.

  Shortly before sunset, he went to the station owner's house, taking the bushranger's letter, watch, and purse. Pat met him at the door and led him into a spacious, comfortable parlor, the homemade furniture sized to fit large men. Pat poured pannikins of rum, and David handed over the bushranger's things.

  Pat opened the purse and looked in it, then returned it to David. "Put that back in your pocket, David."

  "It doesn't belong to me, Pat."

  "It doesn't belong to me, either," Pat replied, going to a shelf and taking down a box of papers. "Nor does it belong to the clerk in the chief justice's office who'll pocket it if I send it to Sydney."

  Pocketing the purse, David sat down and drank the rum. Pat sorted through the papers in the box, explaining that the chief justice's office sent him names and descriptions of convicts who escaped, in the event they came to the outback.

  "Aye, here he is," Pat said, looking at a paper. "Henry Bolton, who disappeared from Sydney two years ago. Well, I'll send a report on him with the stockman who takes my yearly order for supplies to Sydney." He put the watch and letter in the box with the papers, then set it aside and drank while he asked David about his journey.

  After David had related the details, including his experiences with the Aborigines, Pat told him how they had known the name of the station. "It's named for a landmark hill south of here that the Aborigines call Wayamba," he explained. "In our language, that means broken hill or something like that. But they would probably have known your destination even if you hadn't thought to mention the name of the station."

  "How could they have known, Pat? After all, I could have been a bushranger or someone simply wandering about."

  Pat hesitated, then shrugged. "You'll find that the Aborigines sometimes know things that reason says they couldn't know," he replied. "They have none of the weapons, tools, and such that go with our way of life, so we regard them as simple. In that respect they are, but they're complicated in ways that we're simple, ways that don't even occur to us."

  He started to say more, but at that moment Mayrah entered the room and announced that dinner was ready. The men finished their rum and followed her down the hall to a spacious dining room, where the two Garrity children were waiting at the large, homemade table.

  Colin, the eldest child, was a handsome, alert boy of about ten. He had his father's fair complexion and blue eyes, his features revealing his Aborigine bloodline. The girl, Sheila, was a year or two younger and just the opposite. Her features were Anglo-Saxon, but her skin was almost as dark as her mother's, and her hair was in the process of changing from bright blond to black.

  The meal was the same ample, tasty food as at the cookhouse, and Mayrah passed around dishes as the men talked. The station owner said that he paid the head stockman's wife, who had a good education, to teach basic subjects to the children at the station. Turning to his son and daughter, he asked them about their progress with their classes.

  It was evident that the children's personalities were as different as their appearance. The boy was serenely good-natured like his mother, while Sheila had her father's scant tolerance before becoming ill-tempered. Colin expressed satisfaction with school, Sheila boredom.

  "You must give it your full attention, Sheila," Pat told her firmly. "If you don't, what are you going to do when you're grown?"

  "What do you want me to do when I'm grown?" she retorted quickly.

  Pat was momentarily at a loss for words, then he frowned. "I want you to have less sauce on your tongue, so start now," he replied curtly. "You pay attention to your schooling, and I want to hear no more about it."

  From their attitudes, clashes between Pat and his daughter were anything but unusual. As the man talked about his children, David saw that he intended for them to be raised in his own culture and not their mother's, Mayrah apparently wanting the same. That was evident a moment later when Sheila started to say something to her mother in the A
borigine language. Mayrah tried to shush her, but Pat heard the girl.

  "I've told you to speak English all of the time, Sheila!" he snapped. "To your ma as well, because she understands English."

  "I know that," the girl shot back. "But I can't understand half of what the bloody hell she says when she answers me in English."

  The reaction to Sheila's retort was a study in personalities. Colin placidly ate, Pat's face flushed with anger, and Mayrah expressed annoyance with her daughter. "No sauce, Sheila!" she ordered brusquely.

  Stabbing a finger at the girl, Pat heatedly told her again to speak only English. Sheila frowned resentfully she nodded, then the disagreement was quickly forgotten, as before. The meal continued, and Pat talked about other things, but David felt sympathy for the woman whose task it was to teach the small, belligerent girl.

  Later, the men returned to the parlor. As they lit their pipes, the station owner commented that he intended to leave the next day to take supplies to stockmen in his north paddocks. "I'd be glad of your company if you'd like to come along," he added.

  "Yes, I'd be more than pleased to go with you, Pat."

  "Very well, we'll leave at dawn. Concerning your taking a flock to graze on shares, I'm perfectly willing to agree to it. We'll work out all of the details while we're out in the paddocks."

  "I certainly appreciate that, and I'll do my best to make sure that we both make a profit from the arrangement."

  "I'll be surprised if we don't, David. With Frank's recommendation, of course, I'd agree to it. But now that I've met you, you don't need the recommendation." He paused, then shrugged. "There's also another reason why I would agree to it. I was just starting to tell you about it when we went in to eat."

  "What reason is that?"

  Pat puffed on his pipe, seeming to change the subject. "Were you down at the huts yesterday, or around any of the Aborigines?"

  "No," David replied slowly, thinking. "I saw them, of course, but it was from some distance away. Why do you ask?"