Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Soon the stockyard could be seen, standing away from the rest of the homestead, like a jail or madhouse outside a town. There were acres of it, high-railed, in a treeless clearing, built about the butchering-hoist that stood dimly in the swirling dust like a gallows-tree round which the goings on within brawled and bawled. Closer, the gallows could be seen to blossom with buzzard-kites and crows, awaiting dead eyes to pick, jockeying for position, adding raucous voices to the bellowing and shouting — Hi, hi, hi! — and crack of whips. Human figures loomed through the grey gloom, balanced on top rails, slashing with whips, poking with sticks. At one point, other human figures, diminutive these, for the most part naked, otherwise clothed in dust and looking rather like slim lizards foraging in cracks of a wall, darted in and out of the rails. At this point the din was at its height, by reason of being made by kids and calves.

  Prindy arrived there, took a look, then slipped through the rails to join the fun. The black children were separating small calves from mothers and bundling them through a swing-gate where they were being fed milk by black women. Much of the fun was being caused by the objection of cows. Some of the picaninnies, emerging from hair-breadth escapes, clung to each other helpless with hilarity.

  Had Prindy been in less hurry for fun, he must have noticed that it was not the usual cutting out of clean-skin calves that was in progress, but of such as bore a bright orange paint mark. These were the starveling calves. Evidently looking about for a worthy party to his soon-apparent prowess in stockyard bull-fighting, he chose a sturdy little red micky. It took up his challenge at once, snorted, dropped hornless head, charged. The young bull-fighter stood his ground to the last moment, then kicking dust into his adversary’s eyes, stepped aside, to grab the high-held tail as it went sailing by, and swing the beast off balance. Down it came bawling in a swirl of dust. Next move was to get the head and twist it to the shoulder. Just as he was about to make it, something hurled him into a heap with his opponent. Both bawled. Prindy got to knees to meet a red and white face glowering down at him from under a pair of nasty horns on one of which hung half his trousers. The horns dropped for another rake at him. He lost the remainder of his pants in goanna-scuttling for the nearest rails, squeezed under the bottom rail as the horns crashed into it.

  He looked up from where he lay naked in the dust. He was in a small yard beside the railed alley called the crush. There were no cattle here, only a group of humans, four of them white, and all staring at him hard.

  It was on the faces of the whitemen, still to be seen as ruddy beneath sweat-streaked coatings of dust, that the grey eyes fixed. There were three pairs of light eyes, two blue, one grey and exactly like his own, the fourth greenish in a very red face as the sweat-streaks showed. It was on the grey eyes that the boy’s finally dwelt, quickly, as if in flight from the others. The grey eyes twinkled, their owner, an oldish man, said, ‘What’s matter you runnin’ round on your binji all-same you properly prindy?’

  Red of lips and pearl of teeth broke the dust-grey Aboriginal mask: ‘Old cow chase me, Mullaka.’

  ‘Might-be think you calfee, eh?’

  Chuckles from the black men and from the whiteman with the green eyes — while the faces of the blue-eyed ones remained shut tight. As if drawn to them, Prindy met the hard staring eyes; then as if repelled, turned back to the rails. He, called Mullaka, stopped him: ‘Wait Sonny.’

  There was a bloody weal on the boy’s behind. Taking his arm, the man said, ‘Better let me put something on it.’ He propelled him to a trestle table beside the crush where there was medical and surgical gear, soused a bit of cotton from a bottle, dabbed the wound. Releasing the boy he said, ‘Right. Look out you don’t get another horn up the loonga . . . or you won’t be able to ride races. I got a nice little horse for you. See you by’n’by.’ Grinning, Prindy shinned to the top rail, disappeared.

  The green-eyed young man said, ‘Nice cut of kid . . . not a full-blood with that hair and those eyes, though, eh?’ When no one answered, he looked around, surprised.

  Mullaka broke the awkward little silence, saying in a dry tone, ‘The genus Homo sapiens, despite its variety of breeds, doesn’t excite much interest amongst cattlemen . . . at least around these parts, you’ll find, Mr Bishoff. Let’s get on with our bovines, to get ’em finished with before dark.’

  The man Bishoff was the new Stock Inspector, obviously. The others were the Delacys, best known men of the district, father and sons, Jeremy, Martin, Clancy. Martin, the heavier built of the two sons and the elder, was the Big Boss of Vaiseys hereabout, the District Manager. Clancy was manager of Catfish Station. Jeremy, called Mullaka by the Aborigines, was an independent man, a stock expert.

  It was not difficult to jump to the conclusion that the boy Prindy was a Delacy, too — not the son of Jeremy, judging by his dry remark, nor of the younger Clancy, the way his jaw set and eyes narrowed when, as it were in comment on what had been said, he looked at his brother. Not that Martin’s face betrayed anything. But this would be in keeping with his position and the conventions of his breed regarding crossbred bastards.

  The boy himself must have some feeling of identity with his true father’s tribe, if it were only something to be expressed by that wariness he had shown before the two young men. Then again, the indulgence of the grandfather was evident. Still, it did anything but follow that, semi-savage that he was, he understood the import of it. According to Aboriginal understanding of genetics, babies beget themselves. One’s existence as tribesman or woman is eternal. One lives in the flesh for a spell, dies, goes back to an Elysian state of loitering in the Dreaming Place, until the urge to resume the fleshly role again takes hold, when one ‘finds’ oneself a father by whom to be presented to a woman destined by Skin to deliver one back into the bosom of the tribe. Ideally, the Finder is the physical protector of one’s mother, that is her husband according to the laws of relationship, and also kin to oneself in the matter of one’s dreaming. But in a pinch any man might serve who is not actually wahji, or taboo, according to the laws. Perhaps such concession had been made through dwindling numbers and intrusion of strangers with increased domination by the whiteman. At any rate, it had been extended even to include whitemen close enough to be chosen by the Tjooloo, the Baby Spirit. Copulation has no part in it. The Tjooloo simply attaches itself to the man, mostly without his being aware of it till later, and enters the mother with food he gives her, or even on his breath — but never, never by means of copulation.

  Perhaps the last thing the Aborigine who has been bred in the old tradition surrenders to the rationalism of civilisation is this Gooseberry Bush theory of the phenomenon of his existence. For with it goes the wonder of his existence, leaving him as what those who still cling to tradition so aptly call one of their kind who had abandoned it — a Bloody Nutching — which, in fact, is what the average white person is, if you look into him or her deeply enough. Take the wonder of Santa Claus from a civilised child, and you leave him or her with what? The very dubious kindness of real people?

  II

  Evening, with the work at the stockyard finished, the majority of the stock freed and gone to water, sick calves and cows still bawling for each other, the dusty day dying in whisps of heliotrope over the tall timber of the creek, a full moon rising vermilion out of the ragged scrub of the plain into a silver sky. At the Big House, the whitemen, bathed and changed, were in the latticed lower part that served as lounge and dining-room, sitting in cane chairs, drinking beer and talking sick cattle while awaiting the serving of the meal hereabout called Supper. It would seem that the sickness on hand was something hitherto unknown and under experimental treatment directed by Jeremy Delacy. Jeremy was telling of work he had been doing in his veterinary hospital on his own property, Lily Lagoons, while Bishoff, the Government Stock Inspector, kept bibbing in, evidently to air knowledge recenty acquired. Martin and Clancy Delacy were silent for the most part, staring at their father with expressions not easy to read.

 
Slap of bare feet caused all four men to glance casually as a female figure bearing a laden tray came into the light shed from an acetylene lamp hanging from the ceiling, heading for the dining table half-hidden behind bamboo screens. Two pairs of eyes remained casual in their interest. The others, those of the Delacy sons, widened with surprise. But while Martin continued to stare wide-eyed and slack-mouthed, his young brother’s expression changed suddenly to unmistakable annoyance.

  It was Nelyerri, rigged out in a bright floral dress of greens and reds, mane of wavy dark hair caught up with a red ribbon, highlights of excitement flashing from dark eyes. She cast the briefest glance in passing to become a shadow behind the screens. Clancy shot a glance at his brother, to find him gaping at the shadow. Martin, feeling the glance, started guiltily, raised his glass to drink. Clancy’s face tightened still more. He glanced at his father, to find him eyeing both of them intently. Distinctly red of face now, he set his own glass down, mumbled, ‘Excuse me,’ rose, went swiftly towards the shadow.

  Nelyerri, unloading the tray of soup-tureen, bread, plates, looked up wide-eyed at Clancy’s appearance. Scowling now, he growled, ‘What’re you doing here?’

  Drooping her head, she whispered on indrawn breath, ‘Cocky not come from camp, Mister Clancy.’

  ‘Why not? You know very well you’re not supposed to serve.’

  ‘Cocky too much fright’ come.’

  ‘Fright’ of what?’

  ‘One old man Doctor Blackfeller come station.’

  ‘Well, you just go to the camp and tell Cocky to come and serve supper, or I’ll come and get her myself . . . with the stockwhip. Now get!’

  With head still drooped, she hastened away with the empty tray.

  Clancy called to the others: ‘Right. Soup’s served. Bring the beer.’ His eyes met his brother’s in distinct challenge as Martin came to the table. Martin seemed to dismiss it with a blink.

  After the soup they had to eat bread and butter and drink beer because of the delay in service continually called for by Clancy ringing the little bell. He began by apologising, then explaining the cause of the holdup, burst out, ‘I’ll give ’em Doctor Blackfeller!’

  When Bishoff asked what was meant, Clancy left it to his father to explain: ‘Yes, a native doctor. But his job’s as much causing illness as curing it. As malady is magic with them, the Doctor Blackfellow’s first of all a magician. Although magic is the be-all end-all of Aboriginal existence, the accepted cause and effect of every contingency, acceptance is largely a matter of rote, so that confrontation with it, even with one of its practitioners, the koornung, is always cause for alarm. I wonder who this one is? We don’t have many Doctor Blackfellers round these days. They were probably the first of the old things to go, because the blacks themselves didn’t want ’em.’

  At last there appeared a fat black woman, carrying a laden tray, panting with exertion and with face jerking in the way of the Aborigine under deep emotional stress. Evidently someone had accompanied her to the door. As she set down the big steak-and-kidney pie before Clancy, he demanded of her, ‘Who you got out there?’

  She breathed, ‘My old man.’

  ‘What’s the matter with you all . . . buggerin’ up my supper?’

  Jeremy cut in: ‘I’d like to ask her old man about this koornung.’

  Clancy bawled, ‘Green-ant . . . come here!’

  The old fellow came sidling in, halted at a respectful distance. Jeremy asked, ‘Wha’ name Doctor Blackfeller, Jumbajinna?’

  Green-ant answered in a deep whisper, ‘Bobwirridirridi, Mullaka.’

  ‘Ah . . . thank you, old-man. I give you somesing present Race Time.’

  ‘Tahng you, Mullaka.’ Green-ant slunk back outside.

  ‘Old Cock-Eye Bob, eh,’ said Jeremy to the others. ‘No wonder they’re scared . . . boss of the Snake Business.’

  Martin growled, ‘I thought the old bugger was in jail for life?’

  ‘Must have got out on the Royal Amnesty. A couple of your own blacks were freed with this Edward the Eighth’s Accession, weren’t they . . . including Green-ant, if I’m not mistaken?’

  Martin answered, ‘I was first asked if I wanted ’em back. If they’d asked me about that bloody old pest, I’d’ve soon said No.’

  ‘You don’t employ him.’

  ‘He wanders Vaisey country. I should’ve been asked.’

  ‘Maybe they were glad of an opportunity to get him off their own hands. I understand he led ’em a dance in jail with his tricks.’

  They were eating now, Bishoff asked, ‘What tricks?’

  ‘Koornungs are very clever with natural faculties . . . hypnotism, ventriloquism, sleight-of-hand, and the like. Old Bob was supposed to break jail occasionally, by the simple process of detaching spirit from body, and going walkabout to cause trouble amongst the relatives of those who crossed him in jail. His trance-states were so near perfect that several times he was judged dead and nearly buried, and one time actually buried, only to turn up in the lively flesh in the Native Compound, and cause the entire population to go bush.’

  Bishoff asked, ‘How could he get out of a coffin and a grave?’

  ‘They don’t bury blacks in coffins in these parts, man . . . and even up in Town there’s no proper cemetery for them. They’re planted in a sandy waste that’s part of the Sanitary Depot, called the Coconuts. They might have a bit of sacking for a shroud . . . but even sacking’s too valuable a commodity to be wasted on someone whose bones are most likely dug up again in secret and taken away for proper native disposal. Planting ’em Long o’ Coconuts, as it’s called, is the authorities’ idea. It can all be rather informal, seeing a blackfellow doesn’t even have to have a Death Certificate . . .’

  ‘No Death Certificate?’

  ‘No Birth Certificate, either . . . because no real citizenship . . . actually not subject to the Law of the Land . . . unless he breaks it!’

  The lowering looks of the Delacy sons showed plainly that they didn’t like the trend of talk. Apparently Bishoff was unobservant, since he declared, ‘I never cease to be amazed by the way things are done in these parts.’

  Not so Jeremy, who asked him, ‘But how do you like the way this steak pie’s done?’

  ‘Must say it’s just about perfect.’

  ‘You did put sauce on it, though, I noticed.’

  Bishoff looked up from his plate in surprise.

  Jeremy chuckled: ‘You could have offended the cook deeply, if he’d happened to be peeping . . . which isn’t unlikely, because his old father used to do that when he worked as cook for my own old father. No matter how old Ah Loy would sweat to get dishes to Da’s exact taste, the old fellow always added some condiment. It used to drive Ah Loy crazy. What he never found out was that Da didn’t have any taste at all.’

  ‘Would that be the ancient Chinaman I saw in at the Beatrice . . . running a couple thousand goats on public land?’

  ‘That’s him. This one here’s half-Aboriginal . . . but no less a superb cook . . . eh?’ He looked at his sons, now relaxed enough to nod. He added: ‘You’ll find those goats are really public property. Everyone makes use of ’em, but blames ownership onto everyone else. Who told you they were Ah Loy’s?’

  Bishoff laughed: ‘As a matter of fact, Finnucane the Publican and McDodds the Storekeeper. No . . . they said they belonged to Ah Loy and Ali Barba, the Indian Hawker. It was Ali Barba told me they were Ah Loy’s . . . only if you want one for Sunday dinner, you can get it either from Finnucane or McDodds.’

  All laughed over it. The trend then turned to comical tales about the characters of the district. Thus till the meal was over. As they rose, Jeremy said to his sons, ‘I’ll relieve you of the presence of old Cock-Eye Bob . . . take him away with me tomorrow. I’d like to hear more about Snake Business from him, if he’ll talk. I’ll go and see if I can find him now.’ He added to Bishoff: ‘Care to come?’

  Passing out through the gate of the garden surrounding the Big House
and out of earshot of those left behind, Jeremy murmured to his companion, ‘I fancy the boys are in for a bit of a row . . . and are best left to it. Shows what a koornung can do. Everybody on edge. Listen.’

  Bishoff’s bristly fair hair glinted in the moonlight as he cocked his squarish head: ‘Can’t hear anything . . . only the stock.’

  ‘That’s just it. Normally, with full bellies, a full Moon, an exciting day behind them, the Murris should be corroboreeing full blast . . . dogs barking, kids yelling.’

  ‘Would he be with them?’

  ‘No fear. A koornung’s a solitary . . . and left to himself, unless wanted for use of his powers.’

  ‘How’ll you find him?’

  ‘He’ll have his eye and ear on us. If he gives a hint of his whereabouts, I’ll let it be known I want to see him to have a talk about Bijnitch . . . which’ll mean he’ll be able to ask a present of me . . .’

  ‘Bijnitch?’

  ‘Business. A handy term to embrace the complexities of Aboriginal culture . . . Blackfeller Bijnitch . . . Sunday, or Tjundi, Bijnitch, meaning Sacred . . . Wrong side Bijnitch, on the wrong side of blackfellow’s law. We’ll probably run into him somewhere near Ah Loy’s quarters, where there’s plenty of cover for one reputed to be able to appear and disappear at will. I want to drop in on Ah Loy. Got something for him.’

  They passed the big low batten-walled harness-shed, heading for another shed that housed motor vehicles. Jeremy went into a utility truck, brought out of it a bundle of papers. He chuckled as he set off towards the kitchen: ‘What they call Readin’ Matter round these parts . . . catalogues from the big southern stores . . . favourite reading of all classes and breeds . . . even those who can’t read. You must’ve noticed the stack in Clancy’s place? It’ll end up in the blacks’ camp . . . to be studied just as avidly. They constitute the city shop windows . . . treasure caves . . . everything you want . . . dresses, suits, hats, boots, knives, saddles, spurs, tommy-axes. Even if you’ve got ’em, apparently it’s sweet to dream over more . . . and if you can’t get ’em . . . well, they’re the stuff of dreams. You should see the wonder that shines in the face of a blackfellow for whom you’ve turned the dream of the catalogue picture into the reality of the mail-order you’ve got for him. Like a child at Christmas. Poor Clancy gets no such joy from his frequent mail-orders, because he’s lost the faculty for wonder . . . like most whites in this country.’ Jeremy sighed: ‘That’s what’s wrong with us Australians. We left our sense of wonder behind with our ancestors.’