Lynette Roberts: Collected Poems (16 page)

Up then leapt the leader Evans

On his favourite spirited steed,

High and proud on his mounted pack

A pioneer in the lead.

A pull on the cinch and Davies was up

On Zaino with new head gear,

The raw hide bridle upon his horse

Incenses him to rear.

They would ride they said for gold, Hughes

Evans, Davies and Parry,

To mountains unseen, and unknown places,

For its hidden in dust or scree.

The bells rang as the mare set off

With tropilla of packs and hide,

Thirty horses followed her pace,

The wilder one tied to her side.

They moved dark forms from out the corral,

Creating light on their way:

Quiet and silent as gauchos ride,

Who leave at break of day.

A creak of leather fills the air

And rhythm of their hoofs,

The lights soon twinkle in distant huts

From holes in iron roofs.

The siskins upside down on thistles,

The migrants yellow and blue,

The scarlet cardinals, humming birds

All shimmer as South Seas do.

In space like this possessed by birds,

The Indians cut a stalk,

And piping still transform these birds

And make the cuena talk.

Down towards the Chubut River

Past the Iamacan,

Evans sought the Indian trail

Like the fox of man.

It all was known and sweet to him,

He spun through pampa blasts

As it flickered high around his horse

Like a sea of tossing masts.

Then slower as he journeyed on,

With sad reflection back,

No friends, and no madrina bells,

No flourish of hoofs on the track.

The Chajá cried into the night,

A wagon rumbled high

With twenty horses leading abreast:

Wistaria spread in the sky.

As dawn arose, the Settlement,

So quietly it would seem,

No herd, or dogs had turned their head,

It might have never been.

A child had scampered out of bed

Curled in the Patio sun,

With corn cob hair and racoon bear,

She sang this song to her son.

  ‘A ro ro mi niño,

  A ro ro mi sol

  A ro ro pedazo

  De mi corazon.’

                             
CAST

                       The narrator

                       John Evans

                       Davis

                       Hughes

                       Parry

                       [Indians]

[I]

Up then leapt the leader Evans

On his favourite spirited steed,

High and proud on his mounted pack

A pioneer in the lead.

A pull on the cinch and Davies was up

On Zaino with new head gear,

The raw hide bridle upon his horse

Incenses him to rear.

They would ride they said for gold, Hughes

Evans, Davies and Parry,

To mountains unseen, and unknown places,

For its hidden in dust or scree.

The bells rang as the mare set off

With tropilla of packs and hide,

Thirty horses followed her pace,

The wilder one tied to her side.

They moved, dark forms from out the corral,

Creating light on their way:

Quiet and silent as gauchos ride,

Who leave at break of day.

A creak of leather fills the air

And rhythm of their hoofs,

The lights soon twinkle in distant huts

From holes in iron roofs.

The more they rode, each hut fell back,

Until with leagues apart,

The last mud hut with pelt hide roof

Stood high as the wheel of a cart.

Stealthy they rode, the cattle turned,

The hens flew down from trees

And squawked as ugly mongrels bayed

Stabbing the sinister eaves.

A ranchero stared. The plains received

Strange waves and spells of fear

As these young riders galloped past

To find their way now clear.

Dawn on the plains.

In darkened light the scrub bush swayed

Further than they could see,

Cold waves of air rustled the stalks

As water through stones of the sea.

The steam arose from the horses’ backs

And mingled with the plains;

The mist flowed; the sun soon glowed;

The gauchos drew in their reins.

Faint bird notes.

Each bush of thorn on fire, each bird

Far wilder than they’d been,

Each stone vibrating singing sweetly

All nature in song and seen.

In this new spirited air flashing,

The cold night air creeps back,

As plovers and plovers rise calling

New wings in lilac and black.

The siskins upside down on thistles,

The migrants yellow and blue,

The scarlet cardinals, humming birds

All shimmer as South Seas do.

Indian cuena music is heard in background, merging into sound of hoofs.

In space like this possessed by birds,

The Indians cut a stalk,

And piping still transform these birds

And make the cuena talk.

II

Six more leagues they’d make a halt

So eager were they to ride;

The madrina’s bell sweet to their ears

As the birds that flew at her side.

The horses were wild and hard to handle

For some were still untame;

Though branded clearly: they bucked freely:

To throw the packs their aim.

‘
But this was better
’, Evans said,

To console himself and friend,

‘These beasts caught in the wild state

Fend for themselves, and tend

Evans:

If the rein is slack to dodge and guide

Us over snake, iguana;

Evans:

Or avoid the holes of vizcacha burrows:

Sense water from afar.’

And as he spoke, the horse then shied;

He patted the silken neck.

Evans:

‘Now take this beast with white star head

So dark with this white fleck.

Mendoza, when he sailed, he left

Twelve horses on our shore;

The herd then spread throughout the land

And raised our rich folklore.

And such a one is this, my steed;

The Indians fear the mark.

‘El Malacara’, bad face, they say,

And turn morose, or embark

On Spanish Conquests of their land:

On bad or pioneer strangers:

Falkner, Musters, Hudson, Darwin

Whose virtues stick like burs.

But one tall tribe was good to us

And fought all other tribes;

On our behalf taught us to hunt

And fed us without bribes.

They trusted us on Chubut soil,

Brought ponchos, fur, and hide.

And sold us horses in sixty-five,

The Chief sought us with pride.’

III

When nine days passed they knew no land

But only as it wound,

The Chubut River with crystal quartz

That shines up from the ground.

It lit their drying faces. That night

Parry dismounted first;

He hobbled the mare and freed the horses,

Untying the packs as he cursed

Parry:

And chattered, ‘
The fire was hard to light.
’

They cut dried meat and drank

Hughes:

Some maté. Hughes then shouted, ‘
Tie

A horse to some branched bank

Or bunch of pampas. With no food

The mare may stray tonight.’

The River shone and rippled clearly

Pearly through the night.

[Cry of geese heard.]

The plain soon dipped towards the dawn:

A wolf had chewed the tether,

And stood to watch as they in vain

Sought horse and broken leather.

They searched for prints, uprooted grass,

A stone knocked out of place;

Then hours later found the rift

The mare had made their base.

Parry:

‘But Hughes will make another thong

Or halter of raw hide.’

He looked the gaucho in ‘wide-awake’ hat,

And lived that life as ‘guide’.

The rest wore tattered hats, tied scarves,

Old ponchos on their back,

Mugs and knives at their waist, bombachas,

Boots and shoes of sack.

Davies:
Mocking Indians’ gold stirrups.

‘And make a pair of stirrups’,
said Davies

‘Each gold for either side!’

Hughes:
Mocks back, offering inferior thonged and hooded leather stirrups of the country.

‘You’ll get looped pelts or hooded hide

Iron spurs thrown in beside!’

IV
Music of the plains.

Three hundred miles they kept the course;

And hunted daily for food:

They’d use the lasso, bola, or gun,

Repair them while it brewed.

And where the Chubut joined the Lepá

And green willows unfold;

To rest their mounts was their desire,

And sift the beds for gold.

Among the tall red canyon heights

In the Andes iced domain,

They queried cattle’s four feet horns

That drift near guns to aim.

In whining and in searing winds

They sieved the River bed,

With quilt that shone like gold on their faces,

The gold-dust flushing them red;

Hiding the grains in their boots – what’s that? –

A thunder of hooves stiffened

And shook the earth, as they leapt to their mounts

To round up and defend

Their troupe from a wild horses’ stampede.

For they might attempt to draw off

With caresses and neighing our thirty head:

We circled our troupe to push off

The endless hooves that passed for an hour

By yelling and whirling lassoes.

The piebalds, black picasso with white

Legs and face, roan blues,

The yellow horse with the black stripe,

The spotted and strawberry roans,

The splashed horses, the good cruzado.

‘Such a mixed group atones

Parry:

For the fear once they are passed. And that white

Horse with the black mane

Ears, fetlock, muzzle, and tail,

Is surely a Dynevor strain,

One of the breed of the Sacred White?’

The trees now buzzed with gnats,

The madrina’s bell tinkled again

And evening released the bats.

Rejoiced they stood around the fire

And fed it with dry stalks;

While Davies sat on a bullock’s skull

And started on one of his talks:

Davies:

‘Not long ago when we lived in caves,

And Indian stood bare…

From nowhere… My father spoke:

The Chief stood back with care
.

Suddenly the Indian’s wife bent down,

And with thorn and thread as sinew,

Without a word Father’s trousers tacked

And repaired the tear as new
.

Look over!
’ The dust rose red and high,

They all looked, sheepdog,

Horses, ‘
If dust would only settle

Instead of this red fog
.’

They saw. Now plovers rising up,

And crying birds; guanacos

Evans:

Leaping with lowered necks; ‘
Two Indians!
’

Parry: Evans:

‘
Arucanians?’ ‘Foes!’

They came, and bareback fast with spears

Both lit with brilliant feathers,

With copper shields and glittering beads,

And gold and silver leathers.

What shine of rich stirrup silver!

With gold drops on their rein.

The Indians grinned for they knew these men

They had traded with them for grain.

Indians:
Low and slow of speech

‘Had they not met at Trelew once?

What are you doing? Why?

Where are we going? Why not home?

This Indian land. Why?’

We shared the rhea that they had caught,

They swung their bolas with skill

The lead and thongs had tied the legs,

They drank the blood with will.

We shared the night, and when dogs strayed,

They stood on their horses saying:

Indians:

‘Why don’t you visit our Sunica Chief

In his ‘toldo’ camp laying

A hundred miles to west
.’ Persuaded,

At sunrise two of us rode;

Hughes and Evans with two Indian guides

Not to disturb their code.

Evans:

‘O ghost of Martin Fierro aid us.’

For unknown to the four

The Government soldiers had camped near

And broken Indian law.

Suspicion grew, and Evans turned,

Back to Lepá with Hughes:

‘We’d better turn as fast as we can

It’s the Canyon Carbon we’ll choose.’

Evans:

The Tehuelche Indians think we’re spies:

Or have seen us sift for gold.

We’ll cross north of the Chubut River

And leave these veins of gold.’

Overawed with rocks of wrath

The blood tint shadowed with vultures,

We soon were filled with fear and foreboding

Of Indian scalps and tortures.

With no shoes, the hoofs were bleeding,

Parry and Hughes collapsed.

They took fresh mounts and strapped the men

With cinch and hide to the packs

And drove them forward with the mare

Taking the stony route,

To leave no trace and ride through streams

Not to disturb a root.

So they entered the Canyon Carbon,

And rested dog and mount,

Cutting sharp flints from out of the hoofs,

Helping the sick dismount,

Passing the maté gourd on its round,

Nervous, too weak to eat;

Hanging harness and skins on poplars;

No rest for days, dead beat.

They spoke of home, Trelew, Rawson:

Hughes: