That Deadman Dance (9 page)

Soldier Arthur Killam

The rum burned and cleared a little space in Arthur Killam’s consciousness. He’d had his fill of salt beef and peas and his muscles were heavy from the long row back from Shellfeast Harbour.

Oysters, yuck. Like eating snot. He couldn’t eat them, and nor could the blacks, which was a tribute to their good sense. Perhaps there was hope for the sawbones and his ideas of civilising them, after all.

Killam had been surprised at Dr Cross’s confidence in finding his way back on foot, and by his trust in Wunyeran. The blackfella would slow him down, though, in Killam’s opinion, since none of the natives liked to walk too far without a meal or a rest. On top of all that, Wunyeran would still be sore from their race up the hill and back. Killam was sore, too, but the memory made him smile. He’d won. Come to think of it, maybe Wunyeran wasn’t as sore, since he’d walked up the hill to save his strength, and only ran downhill, whereas Killam had made a big effort running up, and took it easy for a bit as he began the run back down. He was spent at the finish. Everyone expected the black to win, but it was Killam by almost a minute. He’d made a tidy pile betting on himself. And it was good for morale. Even the Captain had congratulated him on his effort, even though he was unhappy with a race that could have ended with one of his most valuable soldiers breaking a leg. Never thought of that, conceded Arthur Killam. But then, no one had expected him to win, either.

Wunyeran was a cocky blighter. No sense of time, no plan to win, just assumed victory would be his. It was like the tortoise and the hare, ’cept here, they got no hare and they eat their tortoise (like everything else) soon as they sight him.

Arthur Killam’s stomach heaved at the thought of fresh meat. He’d never tried tortoise, sometimes ate fish, but the gamey taste of kangaroo was something he could do without.

Sea captains liked their men to get fresh food, vegetables especially. Not that this place was much help in that regard, having very little in the way of gardens. Not yet, anyway, but Arthur Killam was taking responsibility for that. He got the prisoners to do most of the heavy work, but still did a lot himself; liked to be in charge of the harvesting, especially. Potatoes grew well enough, and beans. Fish guts as fertiliser helped.

It wasn’t soldiers’ work, but he needed something to occupy him. Life could be boring here. There was no fighting, and although he’d wager they’d make short work of the natives, it was also true that they were heavily outnumbered, and once they moved away from their barracks it might be a very different thing. You couldn’t see some of these people unless they wanted you to, and the way they hunted showed no shortage of skill—not just in tracking and using a spear or club, but also in teamwork and their use of fire. Killam had seen them casually clubbing kangaroos and wallabies that, blind and confused, rushed from the flames. Fire in their hands moved faster than mounted infantry, and could be more devastating. In his mind’s eye he saw soldiers staggering back before the onslaught of fire until the harbour was at their backs, and then armed natives standing up in the shallows where they’d concealed themselves beneath the water.

Fortunately, the prevailing wind was from the south.

At least the natives didn’t have guns, though Killam would wager they’d like ’em.

Where and who?

Barely bidding the men farewell, Dr Cross turned and followed Wunyeran along an earthen path beside the river. Almost immediately he stopped. Two paths diverged from this one that led from the river crossing—one continued across a patch of quite recently burned earth until it disappeared among the trees; the other led inland along the riverbank. Wunyeran took him by the hand and, chuckling to himself (at my indecision? wondered Cross), led him around soggy ground surrounding some rocks on the riverbank, and away from a spring that fed into where the river was divided by rocks to form what appeared to be a lock such as characterised the rivers of home. Perhaps another fish trap like those they had earlier seen.

The river diminished quickly, and after an hour or two of walking they came to a distinct rocky section, with boulders arranged on each bank, where thin streams ran from water hole to water hole, stepping down a steep slope. At the bottom, beside the largest pool, a tree held an eagle’s nest which, despite the height of the tree, seemed surprisingly low to the ground. Not far beyond that a small tributary branched east.

Later in the afternoon, they emerged from shade through shafts of sunlight and into a clearing. Cross saw a Noongar on the gradual slope leading from one bank, surrounded by small and fresh green shoots springing from fire-blackened earth.

The two men embraced, each putting his arms around the other’s waist and lifting him clear off the ground. Turning in a small circle, locked together, their voices were a melody of goodwill.

The newcomer, younger than Wunyeran and probably not long out of adolescence, looked at Cross curiously. Their speech reminded him of the sounds of the river from earlier in their journey.

Wooral, Wunyeran said by way of introduction.

Their new companion turned away from Cross, and a woman emerged from the trees and shrubbery.

Birtang, added Wunyeran.

Mrs Wooral—as Cross named her in his journal—was older than her husband, and seemed a jumble of animal fur with human head, arms and legs. An unusually long cloak hung from her shoulders. Standing apart from their mother, two very young children, a boy and a girl, studied Cross with undisguised curiosity.

*

Me! Me again! Old Bobby Wabalanginy told his listeners. My sister and myself. Not that Wooral was my father, no. And my poor mother passed away soon after like so many of us did then, from all the sickness. True, Wooral was very young and lucky to have a woman like my mother. But read the histories; I am the only Noongar alive today who is mentioned in Dr Cross’s papers, published in your own mother country.
Your
mother country, he said to the tourists, not mine because my country is here, and belonged to my father, and his father, and his father before him, too. But to look at me now you wouldn’t think that, not with all these people in their fine houses and noses in their rum who got no time to thank me or share what they have … They don’t know me. They look and think they do, but no. But I know them, and all those pioneers they love and thank, I know them, too. Knew them. They were my friends.

Me and my people … My people and I (he winked) are not so good traders as we thought. We thought making friends was the best thing, and never knew that when we took your flour and sugar and tea and blankets that we’d lose everything of ours. We learned your words and songs and stories, and never knew you didn’t want to hear ours …

But yes, of course, you’re right, you’re right; my life is good, and I am happy to talk to everyone, and welcome you as friends. The same God and the same good King looks over us all, does he not, my fellow subjects?

*

Bobby Wabalanginy’s sister, Binyan, was a bit older than him and already promised to an old man.

Cross was flattered to meet the mother of Bobby and Binyan. He’d never been allowed so close to any other than very elderly women. Mrs Wooral, though senior to her man, was not elderly.

And what was in the other bag she carried? Wunyeran put Cross’s question to Wooral rather than the woman. They stopped and she withdrew a banksia cone from somewhere within her cloak and bags.

She was, Cross saw, quite naked beneath the soft fur draped across her. She was, Cross confirmed, not long past the prime of life.

The banksia cone glowed red as she blew upon it. A little smoke, tongues of flame: within moments a small campfire lived in the space between them.

What else might she have in her bag?

*

Old Bobby asked the question again and held up a possum-skin bag. What else would she be carrying, ’cept of course her beloved, darling baby son? But you know, he said, I never needed no carrying once I learned to walk! Old Bobby strutted and swaggered, an old man parading a boy’s innocent vanity, and the tourists laughed.

I walked all on my own even when I was the littlest little boy. But seriously, what you think a Noongar woman gunna carry? he asked. Oh yes, she would have her
waanna
—the digging stick she could also use to bash any stray man, or any women who wanted to steal that beautiful little boy of hers. And, tongue between teeth, Bobby waved his stick and the tourists stepped back.

You
wanna
(he dragged the word out, suggesting the stick and an American accent all at once), you
waanna
know what was in her bag? Do you
want to
know that?

Old Bobby unpacked the bag as he continued his story, thinking of Dr Cross’s journals which his widow had published. Chaine showed him the newspaper that published the extracts, and they’d read it aloud so that Bobby saw with those eyes and oh …

*

There was another banksia cone, a roll of paperbark. Gently, she placed a seashell on the ground in front of Dr Cross. Then a fine piece of what must have been whalebone. The others watched Cross reach for it … The edge of the shell against his thumb was as sharp as any razor. He smiled, raised his eyebrows, picked up the whalebone needle. He held each of the objects that emerged from her bag, returning them to the humble display between them.

Wunyeran gestured, and Mrs Wooral presented even more of the bag’s contents: a tight bundle of cord—woven from possum fur—and some pieces of dry mud. Ochre.

The other three kept their eyes on him. Waiting? Cross ventured into his pockets. Extracting his notebook, he laid it beside the pile Mrs Wooral had made.

She withdrew what must be food: tubers of some kind by the look of them, and nuts and fruit, though not of any variety he recognised; also some frogs, and a lizard. The frogs were still alive, their legs tied with thin cord.

Cross stood up. Mrs Wooral returned the things to her bag, leaving Cross’s notebook on the ground, and built up the fire. Then she and her man moved away across the slope to a separate small clearing. Wunyeran suggested Cross take off his pack and place it beside the fire. When Cross turned back from the sight of Mrs Wooral’s lighting a second fire—the glimmer of its small flame, the glow on the tree nearby, her surprising grace—Wunyeran had gone.

He heard the chop of Wunyeran’s axe cutting footholes in a tree trunk so he might step up to a possum’s lair. Cross fashioned rope and canvas into a windbreak.

Wunyeran returned.
Koomal
, he said and grinned, tossing a possum beside the fire.

Ah, those paws, said Cross, unconsciously flexing his own hands. Blood caked the side of the possum’s head.

Wunyeran built up the fire. Sparks leapt as he threw the possum onto it; the fire coughed, and Wunyeran rolled the body around to singe the fur and then hauled the disfigured carcass from the flames. The hands were curled tight, eyes seared; the hungry flames made the growing shadows deeper but for the glow of that other fire, and the occasional glimpse of a figure moving before it.

Cross poured himself a tumbler of brandy and offered some to Wunyeran, who declined. Once the fire was rearranged and the possum laid deep in the ashes, Wunyeran grunted with satisfaction and slipped away again into the darkness. His silhouetted figure approached the couple’s campfire, the three of them flickered in its glow.

The moon had long risen and a large pool in the river shone with its light. The trees between the water and Cross were starkly delineated, the grass trees as if drawn with fine inky lines. Cross poured himself another brandy, savoured its burn. The moon, the light reflected from the water; ducks and other large birds flew above and splashed into the water so that its silvery surface was broken and shards of shadow and light jostled, trembled. Cross got to his feet, unsteady. How many brandies?

Wunyeran appeared from among a clump of grass trees, his oiled skin catching the firelight. He brought with him roasted roots and fire-baked cakes that, although appearing crudely made, were tasty. Cross offered ship’s biscuits in return, but Wunyeran was removing the cooked possum carcass from the fire. Responding to a gesture, Cross passed Wunyeran the knife. Wunyeran packed the animal’s stomach with its internal organs, and broke its limbs. Later, they ate, dipping into the juices collecting in the opened abdomen.

Why trouble with ship’s biscuits?

Once again, Wunyeran declined the brandy and Cross, on an impulse, got to his feet and set fire to two grass trees close by. The rushes caught quickly, and the two feasting men were held in a red, flickering glow.

Like chandeliers, thought Cross, chandeliers held up for us. Like a grand dining room. He was staggering, not dancing.

Wunyeran stepped backwards.

He heard angry shouts from the other campfire.

Wunyeran slipped away.

The trees moved in the flickering light of the fire, moved around Cross in a small, shifting group. Approached, retreated.

They began next day along a path leading from the riverbank, the three men walking abreast of one another, Wunyeran at their centre and translating at least some of the conversation he ensured continued. Mrs Wooral trailed a few yards behind and came no closer than several steps from Cross.

Cross never saw them leave.

Around noon they came to another large pool, its surface a feathery quilt of ducks and swans pressed so closely together there was little water to be seen. Cross rested the long barrel of his shotgun in the fork of a tree, shifting to ensure it was secure. The bark fell away, showing a new surface, still of bark, but quite pink and raw. After so many hours of only the many varied sounds of the bush, and one or the other of their voices, the gunshot was like a blow. The birds rose on the great wave of sound, of frantic flapping wings, feathers and clawed feet beating the water, smothering the echo of the weapon’s explosion. Cross staggered back from the cacophony of bird calls and feathered, pulsing hearts; the tumultuous air. One bird remained, splashing in a circle at the centre of the pool. Another, propelled by splashing legs and wings, escaped around the bend of the river.

Cross had flung off his clothes, was pushing through the reeds at the water’s edge and splashing through the water. The bird called and called in the distance growing around it. Closing, Cross slipped beneath the surface: thin shafts of sunlight in the tan water, bubbles, the bird’s legs working; his own pulse an accompaniment. Then, head and arms above the river, he was breathing again, was breaking the bird’s neck.

He saw Wunyeran speaking with some people in the deep shade of the paperbarks. Where had they come from? But when Cross walked from the water Wunyeran was alone.

Cross was dressing himself when Wunyeran pointed to the rifle and tapped himself on the chest. Me shoot gun? His request was uncharacteristically awkward in expression. The river’s pool waited, reflective, behind Wunyeran; the mountains rose blue on the horizon, their gnarled and knotted contours clear despite the distance. High in the sky an eagle circled. Cross—dead bird in hand, naked in Wunyeran’s generous world—could not refuse.

A willy-wagtail skipped, danced, tried to entice Wunyeran away. He felt the weight of the gun in his hands, and when Cross went to explain its use Wunyeran grinned and demonstrated that he already knew. Because he observed closely.

The walking both tired and lulled Dr Cross. It seemed a dream when, just before nightfall, he lifted his eyes to a well-fed and glossy bullock chewing its cud. It stared right back at him from the grassy bank at the other side of a river which was now little more than a halfhearted chain of ponds. It bellowed (how loud, brown cow) then turned and crashed away through the scrub. The beast was in prime condition. Must’ve escaped from some ship, or made its way to the ranges and back, following the river. With such a well-worn path leading through it and rolling pasture at regular intervals, this was good stock country.

A day or three after their return, Cross, on his morning walk to The Farm by a different route than usual, saw Wunyeran with some companions. He was entertaining an audience of adults and children with some sort of performance. Cross sat on a log to watch, and to render himself less visible. He could not have said why.

Wunyeran was rowing, his mime made that clear. Then a pause. He mimed … It was hard to be sure, the distance and all, but it seemed he was miming someone writing. There was the sharpening of the quill, the dipping in ink, the turning of a heavy page. He mimed what seemed to be a hunt. It was not a silent mime—clearly he was enacting what he spoke—but Cross could not hear the words and if he had he would still not have understood them.

Wunyeran put a hand to his chin, stared into space, again acted out a pen crossing a page. Now he was someone walking, and tired. Someone unsteady on his feet. Oh, it was a most uncanny skill he had. Now he was setting fire to something, to things at head height all around him. His hands showed the explosion of flames. He was writing again. He was shooting a gun, undressing and wading into water …

Cross got to his feet and blundered away into the bushes, making a wide detour around the group.

Wunyeran’s performance of the journey was structured in the way of an expedition journal. Or was Cross imagining things? He knew himself well enough, knew that sometimes his perception of the world became very unstable.