Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  A halt to make a survey all round; then the boy climbed down to cross the bar. Galahs in the timber of the further bank spotted him, swept up like a mass of rosy blossoms torn from the trees by a freak wind, wheeled over him, screaming as if truly in frank fear of some devilish design on them — as native lore had it they always were through trouble with Tchamala, the Rainbow Serpent, back in the Dream Time, and as if the boy were thinking as he cocked his head to them and yelled in mockery, ‘Yerrilgeenah, Yerrilgeenah . . . gully-gully Yerrilgeenah!’

  Legend had it that the Yerrilgeenah, spies of the Old Woman, the Earth Mother, Koonapippi, pursued by her enemy, Tchamala, the Snake in Arcady, had taken refuge in a hollow tree (as in fact their descendants do today) only to find themselves in the Old One’s belly. Hence the tuneful little song with which the boy skipped across the rocks and up the other side:

  Yerrilgeenah, Yerrilgeenah, gully-gully Yerrilgeenah

  Shtinkit hide long hollit tree, find himself long Tchineke binj-ee.

  The red beneath the mauve of the Galah’s feathers was said to be blood shed by the Snake when the birds tore at his insides with fierce parrot bills and forced him to disgorge them. The boy looked up at the flash of crimson over him. There was a tale attached to everything in the land, just as a tail was too — except to Man, a freak mutation of the heroic creatures of the Dream Time.

  He went bounding up a beaten track through the strip of aquatic jungle lining the great pool, to emerge to another marked change of scene. Here to eastward lay a vast expanse of treelessness, cut into three or four paddocks, the fences of which ran so far they ended climbing into silvery uplands of mirage where a few trees grew upside down and cattle were grazing in the sky. About a mile away southward, back about a quarter of a mile from the long pool, indistinct in heat-haze and a veil of dust, looking rather like a wobbly mushroom growth, dazzling white and shadow blue, stood the homestead of the cattle station known as Catfish Creek. This was one of the pioneer settlements of the district, although serving now only as an out-station in the international Vaisey Company’s complex of grazing holdings centred for this region at Princess Beatrice River. It comprised half a dozen whitewashed iron buildings, embowered in planted greenery. The dust was rising from behind the homestead. Faintly at that distance and against the sou’east wind came the sound of what was causing the dust: the bawling of yarded stock.

  A fence ran parallel with the creek. The boy got onto a horse-pad beside it, broke into a trot. The galahs swept over him in a last sortie. A couple of egrets and a blue crane rose from the timber of the creek and came sailing to take a look at him, to swing away croaking contempt for such panic-merchants as took for the Old One or a henchman of his one small boy who wasn’t even properly black.

  The homestead rose out of the muddle of mirage to reveal itself in detail; the elevated water-tanks detaching from the mango trees, the high house of the Boss from the low kitchen, various sheds from each other, meat-house, fowl-house, goat-house, and those scarcely credible dog-houses to be found on the fringe of every homestead and township in the land — the humpies of the natives, built of anything, bark, bushes, flattened cans. A square of bright green garden surrounded the tanks from which water spilled in silver gouts to every turn of the windmill busily winding away on the edge of the creek timber. In the garden also, to be only glimpsed amongst the mangoes, was another bungalow building rather like the kitchen.

  Coming to the garden, the boy slipped under the fence, making for the bungalow. He paused just short of it, at the tanks, to look up at a bunch of bananas beginning to ripen. He went on. The house was of corrugated iron, on a cemented sandstone foundation with bamboo-latticed verandahs all round, shutters admitting light. He went to the rear, skipped up the steps. The back verandah served as living-room, with furniture mostly of saplings built into the cement-like beaten stuff of antbed. At the end of the verandah was a bed of saplings and cowhide strips. He dropped all of his things on this, except the fish, then went rushing through a passage dividing two big central rooms, out onto the front verandah, down the steps, out of the garden.

  First was what might be called the woodyard, although it wasn’t fenced; a stack of logs, a pile of billets, a waste of sawdust, a shed, a shady native plum tree, Mangan, against the axe-scarred trunk of which the wood-man squatted with idle axe, smoking a pipe. The man — or rather boy, as the conventions of the region would have dubbed him, despite the grey hair peeping through the broken top of his ancient stockman’s hat — looked up as the young boy came through the garden gate, then at once averted his gaze. The boy did not look at all. Evidently the intimacy of exchanging glances was denied by the intricacies of relationship. But not so exchange of banter. The old fellow called out something in lingo to the distance. The boy responded similarly, while giving a skip that bounced the big fish on his back. The wood-boy laughed. The boy kept on towards the kitchen.

  The kitchen also was on a stone foundation, with steps on this northern side and the western leading up to doorways in the lattice of the verandahs. As he reached the northern steps there appeared in the doorway a tall lean figure neatly clad in khaki trousers, white cotton singlet, apron. The face was dark as a well-used saddle, markedly both Australoid and Mongoloid of cast. The hair was a true Chinaman’s bristly tarbrush. The combination slit of a mouth opened to reveal strong white teeth: ‘Prindy, boy . . . where you been?’

  Prindy was the name of the great Spotted Goanna.

  The boy’s teeth flashed in response as he bounded up the steps. He thrust the fish into the man’s hands, only to have it thrust back, with the words: ‘Eh . . . more better you givvit Mumma, I t’ink’.

  The boy Prindy grimaced, muttered, ‘Mumma don’t like it blackfeller fashion.’

  The exchange would refer to the Aboriginal custom whereby a son gave his mother the best of his hunting. The boy got rid of it again.

  Now the man kept the fish, examined it, exclaiming, ‘Which-way you been gitchim day big bugger?’

  First Prindy shot a searching glance into the kitchen, then turning away, answered on indrawn breath in lingo, concluding, ‘Mahraghi-mahraghi . . . Yuk! Got him!’

  ‘Gooruk bambulla?’

  The grey eyes met the popping black: ‘Might be Koornung.’

  The other’s deep whisper was hoarse: ‘Eh, look-out!’

  There was fear in the black eyes, but not in the grey, whose owner said simply, ‘Him all right long o’ me. I call-yim Granny.’

  They were interrupted by a screeching female voice inside: ‘Who you talk to, Ah Loy?’

  The Chinese eyes were hooded by their mongol folds. The mouth sucked in a whisper: ‘Proper cranky today.’

  A slap of bare feet. A young halfcaste woman clad in floral cotton dress and white apron suddenly was there, flinging the man aside, grabbing at the boy with chocolate hands, screeching, ‘Where you been, boy? Wha’s matter you mek me worrit sick? Next time, by-crise, I belt you!’ But she hugged him close, burying dark handsome face in the fair hair, now moaning, ‘Oh, wha’s matter you go run-away like o’ dat . . . t’ree day . . . oh, oh, oh!’

  The man Ah Loy slipped inside with the fish.

  Then as suddenly she pushed the boy away, demanding in high angry tones, ‘Where you been go?’

  ‘Mek him song.’

  ‘You can mak him song stop home.’

  ‘I like it quiet long o’ bush.’ Then the suppliant whine: ‘Me hungry too-much, Mumma.’

  ‘You like it live all-same blackfeller long o’bush . . . all right, you eat bush tucker.’

  He slipped away from her, round the verandah, on the western side. A long trestle table was there with forms for seating, the bare scrubbed board set for a light meal with enamelware. He pounced on a pile of the sweet currant bread called Brownie, whooped, ‘Smoke-o!’ stuffed the slice in his mouth.

  His mother came after him, pulled him away, snapped, ‘Got steak-and-kidney pie for you.’

  Just then a black stock
man, grey with dust, came stamping up the steps in spurred elastic-sided riding boots. Casting a mere glance at mother and son, he went on into the kitchen, bawling something in lingo that included the words Milk and Calf — or properly, Millik and Calfee. Prindy again dodged away from his mother to run in after the man and ply him with lingo. His mother came on his heels, snatched him away, screeching again: ‘How many time I tell you not talk lingo?’

  Looking at her, the stockman made the Aboriginal sound of contempt by blowing through thick lips: ‘Brrrup!’

  She turned the screech on him: ‘Get out kitchen, black bastard!’

  The man grunted, ‘Goona!’ Ah Loy handed him two large buckets of milk evidently made from the dried powder, several cans of which stood on the kitchen table. The man went stamping out.

  Now Ah Loy grunted: ‘Wha’s matter you hunt dat boy?’

  ‘Dat black rubbitch no right kitchen.’

  ‘He come tek him smoke-o o’ stockyard. Who goin’ o’ tek him now?’

  ‘Who been talk smoke-o long o’ stockyard?’

  ‘Boss been send word . . . want finish job.’

  Ah Loy went to the back door, yelled at the khaki-clad figure under the mangan tree, ‘Green-ant . . . gitchim hand-cart come.’ Turning back inside, he spoke sharply to the woman: ‘Nelyerri . . . get him two-feller smoke-o ready hand-cart. I mek tea.’

  She scowled at him, perhaps because of the name he’d used to address her, a Skin Name, normally used only in formality, which could serve as rebuke spoken by an intimate. Use of names, of which one would have several to meet the complex demands of tribal life, was always a matter of delicacy. The boy’s name, if his Totem or Dreaming Name, spoken by Ah Loy would declare the man husband to his mother, according to the rules of relationship if not in fact. Still, it could be a Nickname, used to avoid formality, as might be the case of the old wood-boy, Green-ant. Nicknaming was resorted to commonly in primitive conditions of Aboriginal society, but almost invariably in those of greater promiscuity resulting from dependence on the whiteman, when mostly they were to be had serving two purposes by twisting one of the proper names to semblance of those used by the masters. Thus Nelyerri probably was addressed usually as Nelly. A very intricate business of which whites mostly had no knowledge at all, or having some, little or no patience with.

  Nelyerri took her scowl out to the side verandah.

  Prindy, lingering, whispered to Ah Loy, ‘Who dere long o’ stockyard?’

  Mention of two lots of smoke-o and the hand-cart would mean more whitemen than just the Boss.

  Ah Loy answered in the same tone: ‘Martin Delacy, Mullaka, new-feller Stock Inspector.’

  The grey eyes grew wide with interest, while the whisper became excited: ‘Mullaka! Close-up to Race Time. I go look-him.’

  ‘More-better you wait, Joey. He come look-him you talk-about horse.’

  ‘What-for dat-lot whitefeller come?’

  ‘Sick cow. No-more millik. Too many calfee been die finish. Mullaka doctor him.’

  ‘I go stockyard look-see.’

  ‘Can’t do it. Mumma cranky . . . mek too much trouble. You eat him pie.’

  Ah Loy moved again to the back door, at which he stopped, to exclaim, ‘Eh, who dat dere?’ There was now a different person in khaki under the mangan tree, this one not with grey hair peeping out of hat, but in a topknot out of what looked like a death’s head.

  Prindy came to look, said quickly, ‘Dat old man I been tell-him ’bout . . . sing him fish.’ As he looked out, a claw rose to signal greeting.

  But Ah Loy’s attention was diverted to the wood-shed, round which a black face under a battered hat was peeping. He murmured, ‘Wha’s matter Greenant?’ Then he bawled, ‘Eh, old-man . . . gitchim hand-cart . . . quick-feller!’

  The old fellow stared for a moment, disappeared behind the shed, to reappear coming at a run, heading not for the back steps but for the side. The man and boy looked at each other in surprise. Then there was Green-ant in the kitchen. Ah Loy went into him: ‘Wha’s matter, old-man?’

  Green-ant answered on a deep inhalation: ‘Dat-one Bobwirridirridi.’

  Ah Loy responded similarly: ‘Eh, look out!’

  Prindy joined them, eyes averted from his theoretical wife’s brother, or whatever old Green-ant was to him, asking ‘Wha’ name?’

  Green-ant said to the roaring range, ‘Bob-Big-Wind . . . Cock-Eye Bob . . . no-goot bugger dat-one. Me been see him long o’ jail!’

  Prindy asked Ah Loy, ‘Wha’ name no-goot?’

  Green-ant answered, ‘Belong o’ Tchineke Bijnitch.’

  The grey eyes widened.

  Ah Loy turned to look out towards the woodyard, where still the khaki figure squatted under the plum tree. He growled, ‘Wha’ for he come here?’

  Prindy said quickly, ‘I been promised him tucker.’

  ‘Eh, look out!’

  ‘Him all right. I call-yim Granny.’

  Green-ant breathed, ‘Him koornung, dat one.’

  ‘Da’s right,’ said Ah Loy. ‘We got ’o hunt him.’

  Prindy protested: ‘No-more! I been promised . . . bre’millik . . . tchoup. He too-muchee hungry . . . no-goot long o’ binji, he talk.’

  Green-ant said to the range, ‘Him got no binji, dat bugger. Him koornung. Him been burn-up in fire.’

  Ah Loy’s almond eyes quizzed the grey that were only shining with interest. Prindy said eagerly, ‘You mek him bre’millik, tchoup . . . I go gitchim hand-cart.’ He shot away towards the back door, out and down the steps, went racing to the mangan tree. The skeleton now in grubby khaki shirt and trousers remained seated. They were not old clothes, but by the look of them a recent jail issue. The red coals stared hard up into the staring grey eyes. An odd pair, this theoretical grandsire and grandson, making a new estimate of each other. Prindy spoke first: ‘Close-up I bring him you bre’millik . . . Kumija.’

  The appellative evidently pleased, the way the gaunt face split and the answer was given with a gusty exhalation: ‘Ah . . . Mora!’

  ‘I gitchim cart now.’ The boy swung away to the hand-cart by the shed, seized its shafts, went racing with it to the side steps of the kitchen. As he left it to come leaping up the steps, his mother carrying a towel-covered box, demanded, ‘What you doin’?’

  ‘I tek smoke-o long o’ stockyard.’

  ‘No you don’t! You reckon hungry. You eat him dat steak-and-kidney pie.’

  He bounded past her into the kitchen. Green-ant slipped past him, out onto the side verandah. Ah Loy stared at him. Prindy surveyed the table, where his pie awaited him heaped on an enamel plate. But it was not for that he looked. He asked, ‘Where bre’ millik?’

  ‘You eat him pie.’

  ‘I been promised him old-man . . . I call-yim Granny.’

  Ah Loy’s voice rose in protest: ‘Dat-one Doctor Blackfeller!’

  Stubbornly Prindy replied, ‘I call-yim Granny.’

  Ah Loy sighed: ‘All Right . . . look out he no tuckered you. You eat him pie . . . I gitchim.’

  Prindy wolfed the pie while watching Ah Loy mix bread and milk in a stockman’s quart-pot. As he rose he said, ‘Tchoup.’ Without a word Ah Loy filled another pot with soup and bread.

  The boy was picking up the pots when his mother came in, demanding, ‘What you do now?’

  ‘Tek him tucker long o’ Granny.’

  She snapped, ‘Wha’ nam’ Granny?’

  ‘Old-man I been find him long o’ bush.’

  Her voice rose to the screech: ‘You no-more got him blackfeller granny. You white. All-day I got o’ tell him you . . . you white, you white, you white . . . you no-more bloody blackfeller . . . come here!’

  But Prindy was off with the pots, out by the back door. His mother ran after him, but to stop at the door and stand scowling at what amounted to a ritual giving, the way the donor knelt to make it with both hands, and the recipient took it likewise to bring each pot under his nose with something like a flourish to savour it then
put it down and reach with claws to smooth the young shoulders.

  However, he, called Bobwirridirridi, wasted no more time on niceties, but fell to the bread and soup, tossing it off in gulps that made his scrawny neck now look like that of an emu swallowing moya apples. Prindy knelt watching with interest.

  ‘Ah . . . proper-lee!’ The empty pot was set down. The red snake of tongue popped out to lick grey chops and express deep satisfaction.

  Then the boy rose, saying, ‘I go now, Granny.’ Still he hesitated. A gift must always be met with a gift. A claw reached for the heap of dunnage, came back with the Minga-minga, the music-sticks.

  They were handed over with a cackle: ‘Mundinjana . . . Song Man. By’n’by me learn him you maharaghi song.’

  The fair head nodded. The sticks were thrust into the waist of the khaki shorts. Prindy leapt away towards the garden gate. His mother screamed at him, ‘Come here!’ He ignored her, went through, ran to the house, through to his bed at the rear.

  He stood a while clicking the sticks gently, while his lips moved in soundless snatches of song. Then he stopped, to cock his head to listen to sound outside. Nothing, seemingly, but the splash of water from the tanks. Still, the eyes sought the direction of the stockyard, from which keen hearing must have caught a sound. Hurriedly he slipped the sticks under his pillow, then dashed out by the back door, through the garden westward. He slipped through the fence onto a pad, went trotting towards that cloud of dust.