Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 (19 page)

SEVENTEEN

T
he emu blinked its reptilian eyes and stretched its long neck like a periscope to peer above the sea of tussock grasses. Then the ostrich-like bird took short and hesitant steps towards the strange and curious things wiggling in the hot still air.

Tom Duffy watched the big flightless bird hesitate and bob its head at the black things waving like the thin stems of some decapitated tree.

‘Closer,’ he hissed softly as he lay concealed among the tussocks of desiccated grass. A short distance away the Aboriginal boy, Young Billy, lay on his back, waggling his legs slowly in the air. Behind Young Billy crouched Wallarie, gripping a spear ready for the kill.

‘Closer,’ Tom whispered again. As if acknowledging his plea, the inquisitive bird took two more slow steps towards the skinny legs, making small circles in the air. Wallarie rose from the earth and let fly with the long spear which flew true and struck squarely in the emu’s broad and feathered body. The stricken bird took only a few tottering steps before crashing into the parched black soil of the plains. Immediately the Aboriginal hunter was on her with his wooden nulla, while carefully avoiding the thrashing legs that ended in bone-hard club-like feet capable of disembowelling a man. The emu died instantly from the blow inflicted by the nulla.

‘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 suspicion 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.