by David Vernon
Against his better judgement, Davy suddenly went after her.
“Minamut,” he panted, casting about for something to say. “Will you come next week?” She ignored him and he stopped. “You don’t have to come, you know,” he called.
“Leave me alone.”
He watched her climb towards the road. She stopped once and swung the boy onto her back. For a moment she was silhouetted at the verge. Then she was gone.
Picking his way cautiously between the stumps, Davy went to wash himself. The cold creek water helped focus his mind. She was a woman; she let him have her for food; that much was clear. Beyond that he could not reconcile his emotions. She would not speak to him beyond the odd necessity. Fair enough. He admired that toughness. Did she like him? No, that was not possible. Yet even a savage needed affection, didn’t they? He was sure she would return — she needed the food. But it had to be more than a simple bartering. He wanted affection. He wanted some interaction but she would not give it. He had been with her for more than a year. Where did the boy come from? Some other convict? A trooper? Davy calculated the lad to be about three years old but he might have been older given his scrawniness and knowing eyes. And she? Bony and silent, she could have been anything up to fifty — it was hard to tell with these people. Say thirty-three for argument’s sake, quite an old woman — he shrugged — it made little difference to his prick how old Minamut was.
The eastern horizon was brightening with the moonrise. Davy realised he was tired to the bone. He dried himself on his shirt, and would not deny the relief despite some faint loathing. But, feck it all, I need the screw and she needs the food! What’s the great to-do? A simple bargain! This resolved him as he opened the door and prepared to meet Michael’s condemnations. But his brother was gone, though the hut still smelt of tobacco. Davy found a candle stump. Shivering suddenly, he lit it at the coals and placed it near his floursack pillow. He had just crawled into his swag, thinking as the mortal cold seeped into him, in the morning I must get some tussock to put under me, when Michael came in with his pipe alight.
“Ar, so you’re done,” he said, unrolling his own swag.
“You know I am, and fecking good it was too.”
“Good man.”
“Ah, go feck yourself. You could have her, I told you.”
“It’s not that, Davy…”
“What is it then? If it’s not that?” Davy rolled towards his brother. “And where were you, if not having a good tug out in the trees?”
“I went for a walk.”
“At this time of night? You’re fond, man.”
“Well, I went the wrong way, and I saw the two of you.”
“Hmph! You did, did you? And you watched like a pervert!”
“I did, I watched you in your shame, I’m sorry to say.”
“No fecking shame this side, manneen.”
“I felt sad, then.”
“No need to feel sad on my account.”
By now both brothers were in their meagre beds head to tail. Michael drew hard on his pipe and a momentary red glow lit the boughs above them. “No, I did feel it. Not for the rooting of the poor creature, I must say. I felt sad for the memory of our mother. And I felt sad for people like us. Like her, even.”
Davy was determined to say nothing, but he after a moment he did. “So why did the little priest get a conscience about him?”
Michael murmured, “People like us, thrown away by the world, what becomes of them?”
“Nothing, you know that, Michael — that’s why you should take that Minamut. No-one cares. She doesn’t!”
“I care what I do — and God cares. He looks down and weeps. And all the angels with him.”
“Then he should do something about it. And in the meantime I’m going to do what I like. Ask yourself what sort of life is this — they can come by and hang you, flog you, send you off to some piss-poor place, even turn you off for nothing.”
A chill breeze blew about the hut, and a bird called forlornly. Davy started the short plunge into sleep. But Michael lay awake for a long time.
Outside, the woods held their own communion of life and death. Wherever there were still trees, tiny native mice skittered about, dashing across the ground like dark lightning. A bettong joined them like a giant cousin, softly footing it over the rooted earth. Millipedes and worms, beetles and moths, all made their small excursions and displayed the actions of their kind. Larvae knocked and scribbled beneath the bark and a night wind began to sigh, over the mountains and beyond, across the plain.
The possums began their coughing forthright calls. Further away a barking owl called like a mechanical dog, bringing terror among the mice.
And in his dream Michael wandered across Australia with the night wind. He was alone on the vasty plain amid a throng of wandering men like him, and women too, cut off from their place with no hope of a decent life. Each was alone, each came and went across the escarpments, as banshees wailed a little at their fate. They were like empty skins, their guts having left them. They had no fat, no connection. Michael woke in a panic having seen a face hanging on a wall above its bodily skin. Above, the eagle of death descended like a thunderbolt, a cold rock in its talons and unless the poor face spoke the magic word (which it did not know) the eagle would smite it off the wall without a trace. The dream vanished except for the face — his own but older. He heard Davy say, “Come back in a week, won’t you? Will you?” and grind his teeth then turn over. So he too turned over and slept.
Laurence de B Anderson was an artist before turning to medicine, but remains committed to the arts, with several successful books and a short film called The Yowie to his name. Encounter is an extract from his novel The Redeemed, to be published in 2012. Currently producers are evaluating several of his film scripts.
Deportation
— Carol Price
An atmosphere of anguish and anger reverberated in every South Sea Islander community in Queensland. The government had made new laws, harsh laws, which would see the forced return of many Melanesians to their home islands.
Sitting where the river ran wide, two older men fished and talked about these laws. George tossed the weighted line, which plunked, into the spot in the water where he’d noticed movement. The fishing line, wound around a piece of timber was his most valuable possession.
Tom swatted the blow-flies and said, “George, you know the Bully Men came here yesterday? That rotten red-nose mongrel Murphy tacked up a list on the message tree. ‘You’ll be pissin’ off soon’ he yelled to the women.”
“Him, he’s no good.” George spat on the ground. “Why for goin’? I won’t be goin’ no place.”
“Nah, we’re okay, we’ve been here long enough. They can’t send us back. Law says so,” said Tom. “I’ve put four babies in this ground, all born here. I wouldn’t be turning my back on them.”
The repercussions of what the labour laws entailed would never be understood by many.
“We oughta think of smart ways to fool them, not just run off and hide in the bush or go with the blackfellas.”
Tom shook his head. “We’re wise old men, we’ll think of sometin’ to do, help those who don’t want to leave.”
“I’ll send my Anna down to read the list. You know anyone who’s gotta go?”
“Floss Wakanume is goin’, but she don’t care none. Then that young one with a proper English name, him named by his Mamma for one missionary sandwich.” Tom laughed at his own joke, “Dougal McKenzie, him, he’s on the list and I think the Tanna mob, out on the main road.”
George scratched his head, “Shame on them masters and the gov’ment. Look, tide’s turning.”
• • •
George’s eldest child Anna could read and write. “You one lucky South Seas girl” he’d often say to her. George, his wife Millie and Anna worked for a respected white family. As a young girl, Anna played with the children in Millie’s care and Anna had been allowed to join in their lessons when a tutor
had been engaged. Now those Walker children were in Brisbane, at boarding school, and Anna was the housekeeper. Millie had been allocated the task of looking after the bad-tempered, older Mrs Walker.
Anna read the notice at the Message Tree. Her parents and neighbours heard her scream. Sobbing as she ran back to her family home, she almost stumbled.
“Mummy, they want to send Dougal back. They can’t do that.”
Selina, a neighbour, chatting with Millie, could hear the desperation in Anna’s voice. “You love him?”
Anna nodded, and wailed like a wounded steer. Millie put her arms around her daughter’s shoulders, “I’m sorry that he has to go.” She was well aware that Anna and Dougal were close to open courtship, in spite of their attempts to hide the fact.
“Can we get married? He could stay then,” Anna said hopefully.
“No,” replied Selina, “not allowed. It’s always been like that for us. They can do what they want, at any time they want. Darkies don’t get any say.”
Anna’s tears flowed.
Selina took Anna’s hand in hers and said, “You must be with him now, while you have his love.” She looked directly into the young girl’s eyes and nodded slowly. “You savvy?”
Anna reacted instantly to her comment. “What if we make a baby?”
“Be happy, and you will be happy. I will tell you my story. I have never, ever been with a man who loved me.” Selina looked through the doorway to the distant green of the mango trees. “First was that dirty old missionary, with his lies. He spoiled three of us girls. Then our chiefs were shamed and put us on a ship, traded us for cargo. After two days at the hands of the sailors, one girl jumped into the water. She saw the sharks. The other girl and I were tied up so we wouldn’t do the same. Those sailors still poked us every day. Then the masters I had here, even if there was a missus.”
Selina stood tall. Despite her age, her exotic beauty was still evident. Men could not resist her dark eyes, full lips and a certain arrogant expression she flashed when angered. She took a deep breath. “Pigs. No, I have never known a man, with love. You can, you must.”
“Selina,” said Millie, “that is the story of a lot of our women. I don’t want Anna with a big belly. Please don’t tell her to do this.” Millie had a great respect for Selina, but she did not approve of her plan.
Anna made an instant decision that she would follow Selina’s suggestion. She was careful not to show her intentions to either woman. Dougal would be home late on Friday. They could go across the river, and stay there all weekend. There were some rough bungalows in the dunes to shelter in.
• • •
The weekend had been a precious time for both, celebrating their love. The sound of the surf and the cries of the gulls were music to their ears. As their passion unfolded with great intensity and tenderness, they knew they were meant for each other.
When Anna arrived home just before sunrise on Monday, Millie took her in her arms and whispered, “It’s okay. Daddy and I give you our blessings.”
Anna knew she would not be reviled by her parents. “Mummy, I do love my man, and he loves me. He is going to speak with someone, a white man, today. Maybe he can stay if the white man asks.”
Millie shook her head. Anna’s hopes were high. When her people were enticed or kidnapped to work as slaves, they had no rights. There were some good people, like the Walkers, who tried to help the Islanders.
• • •
As summer turned to autumn, there had been no word from the white man. Anna was aware of the subtle changes in her body. She knew she was pregnant, she knew from the very moment of conception, when a sudden wave of dizziness washed over her. Her mouth curled into the smallest smile and her heart was filled with happiness.
“Mummy, I have something important to tell you.” She held her head high, “I have not had my sick moon.”
Taking her daughter into her arms, Millie said, “We can care for you and your baby.”
Millie had been tempted to use leaf medicine to prevent a pregnancy, but did not want to deny her daughter the joy of motherhood, her only link with the man she adored. She whispered, “You are happy and will always have Dougal’s baby to know of his love.”
“I told Dougal last night, and he wants to get married.” Anna smiled, “We can do that.” She looked into her mother’s eyes, and sighed. “Then I can go to the island with him. Mr. Reid, the white man he knows, will pay for me and he knows the government will let me go, but they won’t let Dougal stay.” Anna’s voice caught, “I would be leaving you and Daddy and my brothers and sisters forever.”
Millie wanted to say no.
• • •
Anna and Dougal were married in the Mission church, a simple ceremony with her close family to witness. Then the dreaded notice arrived informing many island people that the schooner Ysolde would, within a fortnight, return them to their homes across the sea. A cloud of sadness hovered over the settlement and everyone seemed to be in mourning. No songs were heard as the men and women returned from their labours. Anna’s father made her a box to carry her goods. The Walker family were very generous with calico, knives and cooking pots. They encouraged Anna to teach the children in Dougal’s village and promised to send more goods when they settled.
• • •
Standing dockside, tears flowed in the South Sea Islander community as they said farewell to so many. The Ysolde seemed to be straining at its ropes, wanting the cruel act to be ended. The hard-bitten sailors, shamed by the ugly task the Government had set, felt the intense anguish.
George and Millie, and their children, wept as the schooner pulled away from the wharf and headed downstream.
“We will always think of you.”
“Forever, in our hearts.”
Holding each other in a tender embrace, Anna and Dougal watched the mainland until night fell.
• • •
One hundred years later, the anguish and anger of their departure would, once more, be stirred.
Darren, one of George’s many descendants, had been researching his family history after the recent death of his eldest great-uncle. The old uncle had been the last person in the family to have known George and Millie.
“Look here, Dad. Aunty Anna left some stuff about her family. She wrote the name… mmmm, I think, of the ship that she sailed on with her husband and about his family and their island. Amazing.”
These notes, a gold mine of precious information, had been found in a biscuit tin that had been kept by the old uncle. The battered tin had been just another item in a shed full of junk, forgotten by the older generation.
“Dunno how true it is, but there was a story that my old Bunbu George took to a cop with a fence paling or a tree branch. Anything ‘bout that in there? Mighta been chucked in jail for that.”
“I wonder, maybe I can find some reference in those old newspapers online.” Darren bit his lips as he flicked through the notes. “Do you think he would’ve used his island name then? It might be easier to find. Even the ship’s name is pretty unusual. Could find something about that too.”
Darren sat at his computer and began searching. In a short time, he was delighted to find a reference, but instantly he was shattered by the most distressing news report:
Repatriation vessel, Ysolde, was wrecked in heavy seas on the evening of 5th May 1907. Two crewmen survived, being plucked from heavy seas. The barque Magic en route for Lifou Island was sailing close. The government agent, all other crew and returning native lives were lost.
Historical note: In 1904, the Commonwealth Government passed the Pacific Islanders Labourers Act to end Melanesian immigration. All islanders, except those who met certain criteria were to be returned to their home island after 31 December 1906. The Immigration Restriction Act was also passed to exclude non-white immigrants.
Carol Price moved to the Sunshine Coast after a decade of living in Vanuatu. Her stories have been inspired by family history research for a good friend, a descen
dant of Australian South Sea Islanders. Because these people were ‘blackbirded’ in the early 1870s they qualified to remain in Queensland. Carol has previously been published in the Stringybark Anthology, The Umbrella’s Shade.
Marngrook
— Sean Quentin Lee
I am the wind. I have blown over this dusty southern land since before the Dreaming. I have rustled the leaves of her trees and rippled the waters of her lakes and bays. I have carried her spirit and cooled her sun-beaten brow. I have fanned her fires, eroded her mountains and raised her dust. I have spanned the aeons and seen everything.
I watched in awe as the first ones came, spreading slowly across the land, their dark-skinned bodies soaked in the sun and shimmered slightly as my gentle breezes dried their perspiration. These people were fleet of foot, resourceful and at one with the Great South Land. Like me, they belonged.
Soon their flickering campfires were dotted all over the country, from the searing heat of the northern lands, to the temperate south, from the fertile east, to the barren west, and throughout the grand expanses of the centre.
I would sweep over the tribal lands, visiting each in turn, blowing the ash from their fires and tugging gently at their unkempt hair. I would help the winnowing women, blowing the husks from the seeds they had collected, or assist the men by keeping their tell tale scent from the animals they were hunting. And I would play with their children, especially those of the southeast lands, the children of the Tjapwurrung.