‘Coon-Coon go long o’ Town Friday. I stop behind run-him-up dat old-man.’
She swung her head to stare at him.
He leered: ‘How much wages you pay me?’
‘How much you want wages?’
‘I want for puggim you.’
She caught her breath, but after a moment answered, ‘All right. First-time you get him back my boy.’
‘I want for puggim you now.’
‘No-more . . . after . . .’
Tightening his grip, he forced her towards the passage running under the house, hissing, ‘Come on . . . in cell.’
She fought against him, panting protest, then as they emerged she yelled, ‘Targen Coon-Coon!’
He clapped the hand over her mouth again: ‘Shut up . . . I break bloody arm!’
She bit herself free, screamed, ‘Targen . . . Targen!’
A white figure appeared on the rear stairway. A husky voice demanded, ‘What’s goin’ on?’
Jinbul called up, ‘I chuck him out, Boss . . . mek trouble.’
Nell wrenched away from him, swung to the foot of the stairs: ‘He been wan’ ’o puggim me, Targen!’
The husk rose to a hoarse roar as Cahoon, clad in pyjamas, came leaping down the stairs. Jinbul bolted. Nell flung herself on Cahoon’s bony breast, sobbed her story, while he held her, ignoring the shrill protestations from his sisters at the head of the stairs — ‘Bad gurrl . . . wicked gurrl . . . after all we done for her!’
Willy came. Cahoon passed Nell to him, saying, ‘I’ll go out and get him tomorrow. Take her home now, Willy. It’s all right, little girl . . . it’s all right . . . have him back in a couple o’ days.’
Kit and Tess descended on their darlint, to drag him back to bed, protesting against his doing anything for that hussy. But he insisted: ‘I got ’o go and find that boy . . . I got ’o . . . it’s me duty!’
Thus it was that at Lily Lagoons, in mid-morning of Thursday, those watch-keepers, the crippled butcher birds, the parrots, the droop-winged falcon, came flapping their awkward way over the homestead sounding the warning of impending intrusion, and the timid groundlings peeped, and the indrawn whisper dookyangana swept through the place, rising to a little storm when it was seen who it was — Coon-Coon!
The yellow police utility rolled through the front gate. Sergeant Cahoon was driving, looking gaunter than ever, with green eyes shot with red. Nelyerri was beside him. In the back, identical in their disguise of dust till they alighted and shook themselves, were Willy and Jinbul. Cahoon drove straight past the Big House and through the grove of mangoes, leapt out, and with Jinbul on his heels, made a rush for the Aboriginal quarters. Finding no one there he wanted, he headed with stalking gait back towards the Big House. He paused at the annexe, to peer boldly through windows, went on his way.
He went to the back door of the Big House, rattled the fly-screen, called in that grating voice of his, ‘Annybody home?’
Nan was waiting. She opened the door, met the quizzing green eyes calmly. He said, ‘Goodday.’
She responded shortly: ‘Mullaka not home.’
The slit mouth twisted in a grin: ‘I know. He’s gone bush with Lady Whatsit. Likes a bit o’ white stuff now’n’agin . . . eh?’ He looked past her at the two black maids, called to them, ‘You-two-feller . . .’ere!’
They came to him with hanging heads. He demanded their names, which they gave in indrawn whispers: Cocky, Nolly. He demanded of Nan: ‘They properly signed up?’ He was referring to the official system under which Aborigines were employed, which although far more breached than honoured, was useful when officialdom wished to cause embarrassment.
Nan answered calmly, although her plump brown cheeks betrayed a quiver, ‘Everybody work here properly sign up, Sergeant.’
‘Papers?’
‘Lock up in Mullaka’s office.’
He tried to batter down the brown eyes with his stare, but only made them blink. He said, ‘I’m lookin’ for a quarter-caste boy, Prindy Ah Loy, alleged to’ve been abducted. What d’you know about it?’
‘Nutching.’
A moment more of staring, then he snapped, ‘All right. I go look-about. This my base camp. Annything I want . . . tucker, men, horses, accommodation . . . I’m entitled to on requisition. You understand that?’
‘Yas.’
‘Bread and cooked beef for three men for two days . . . tea and sugar.’ He turned away, headed back whence he had come.
He would not have Nelyerri in the expedition, silencing her protests by threatening to put her on the chain. Within an hour, he and Jinbul and Willy set out for the Plateau in the utility. After dinner at the Turtle Hole stockyard, they headed for the Snake Caves.
Perhaps Dinny was still suffering recovery from that alleged fever of his, since what with the negative report of the previous search party and his own and Jinbul’s knowledge of the wiliness of the quarry they were after, he could have expected small result. Certainly Bobwirridirridi had been here, judging by the fresh painting in the caves and tracks of someone with six-toed feet, the latter being a Snake Man’s cypher. Not another trace of human going, but explainable as due to the use of a brush of a brush-tail wallaby for erasure. The region abounded with these creatures. According to native lore, the brush of the marmaroo, called bornji in local lingo, had magic properties. Evidently Jinbul accepted this as fact, while not respecting it, believing the boasted magical powers of his master to be superior. Another matter according to lore that showed the futility of the endeavour was the nightly calling of mopokes that the locality was free of wurruk bijnitch. Nevertheless, Cahoon kept at it for four full days, half of it on grilled parrakeets and the baked seeds of larrama, the so-called native kapok, till he was looking as gaunt almost as that bloody old black bastard he constantly raged about. The brush-tails only mocked them by leaping about their miserable camps of nights. You had to be a practising Snake Man to bag one of those. All the while poor Willy, worn out with unaccustomed exertion and fear of intrusion into places wahji to ordinary mortals, kept hinting that all they had to do, really, was to wait till Cock-Eye Bob brought the boy back, as he had promised Mullaka to do. But even in giving up on the fifth day, Cahoon paid no concession to Willy’s Chinaman’s good sense, only declaring that he was going back to Lily Lagoons to organise a full-scale expedition to trace that bloody old black bastard if need be to the sea.
II
Meanwhile the hunted ones had come almost in sight of the sea. Almost was enough to suit their purpose, namely, that the novice should see how their master, Tchamala, had begun the wondrous things they had sung of while following his ancient track back across this broken land which was one of the first of his negative creations:
Kunderak, kunderak
Tjeritjeru, widjijeru
Alga agula, Numeriji
Tjeritjeru, widjijeru
Alga agula
Tchamala, Tchamala, Tchamala.
The sea, burrulka, was revealed by magic, when Igulgul, mate of Tchamala, came climbing up the eastern sky, blown to the full. The Pookarakka sang of the mateship between these old ones dedicated to wurruk bijnitch. Igulgul had come into being as one of Koonapippi’s creations, but had made himself a humbug with his flouting of her laws regarding marriage, and was banished by her to the sky. In his vindictiveness he had cursed all the Ol’Goomun-Ol’Goomun’s creatures with age and death, reserving for himself the power of resurrection at will:
Igulgul n’gir n’gir n’bulgin waaji
Nbulgin waaji, n’buljin wahji
N’gir, n’gir, n’gir.
The odd pair, Wise-one and Neophyte, painted from head to foot for ceremony, squatted in their high place at the top of the northern escarpment of the Plateau, looking out across the maritime swamplands. The sea was that glow caught by the bases of the far-off cloud mountains. Serpentine reaches of it were to be seen, seeming, in the magic sheen from above, to wriggle towards the watchers like those pythons of Tchamala’s, of which the Poo
karakka sang, to the beat of his prentice’s minga-minga:
Ba na burranji
Ba na nurranji
Wallakawoo, wallakawoo
Ba na burranji
Tchamalaaaaaah!
The song told the story of Tchamala’s first intrusion into Koonapippi’s Eden. The Ol’Goomun-Ol’Goomun came out of the sea, carried on a white cloud, the spirits of which she made into booroolooloogun, the nutmeg pigeons. She created the mukkinboro, the banyan trees, with their figs for the pigeons to feed on and their leafy branches for roost. She went on inland, followed by her dog, Wanjin, who pissed on everything she made, till she hit him with her yam-stick. Thus were the rank swamps made. It was then that Tchamala came out of the sea. He came as the rainbow, and landing, peeled strips off himself to make his pythons. These he hung from the branches of the banyans to look like the aerial roots of the great trees, telling them to wait till night, then crawl up and gobble the roosting pigeons. What birds survived fled to the islands just off the coast (made by Koonapippi for the kudjalinga, the saltwater turtles) and camped there in the jungles and made their nests, coming over to feed in the banyans only in daylight. But Tchamala had to look out for his snakes: so one night he got them to uproot the banyans and push them back through the swamps to the foot of the Plateau, which he himself had made in a rage against Koonapippi’s paradise. The great trees were to be seen below there now, clinging like snakes to the rock. The winding reaches away there were the tracks the pythons left:
Ba na burranji
Ba na burranji
Kintijibil-kintibil
Tchamalaaaaah!
The pigeons could fly inland to feed by day, but not back and forth continuously to bring food to their nestlings, which began to die of hunger. Then old Googoowinji the Cormorant, created as boss of the swamps by the Ol’Goomun, came to the rescue. He showed the pigeons how to stuff food in their gizzards as he did for feeding his young. Thus were the pythons outdone. Still, Tchamala made things hard for the booroolooloogun. He created the Southeast wind to blow them out of the country, which it did every time it came up at the end of the wet season, when the squabs were mature. But there was always Koonapippi’s nor’wester to blow them back again with the rains. The trouble was that those that returned were the squabs of last season, which must be taught Googoowinji’s trick all over again. This was done now by the people of the Cormorant Dreaming, who held a great corroboree here every year when the pigeons returned, and instructed them in song and dance. This happened immediately after the first storm of the season.
The Pookarakka told how the pigeons came from the sea in a great cloud that lined the horizon from end to end, black like a storm-cloud to begin with, paling, till white like the sea itself in a storm, it washed up here in the banyans. He sang:
Wallakawoo, wallakawoo
Alga agula
Booroolooloogun
Wallakawoo, wallakawoooooo!
He said they must someday come back here in the Season and scare off the Pigeon People, who were deadly afraid of Snake Men. Meantime they would repaint the Snake Caves hereabout, and leave tchineke signs where the corroboree was held just to make the Boorooloolooguns nervous during their next ceremonial.
Prindy made up a song of his own about it, to the delight of his master:
Pigeon come, like o’ cloud he come
Wallakawoo, wallakawoo
For tucker fig, dat banyan fig
Wallakawoo, wallakawoo
Tchineke man fright him, hoo-hoo-hoo
Wallakawoo, wallakawoo!
Old Bob cried out, ‘Marana nunga dunaitji . . . properly Song Man, mekullikulli!’
III
Jeremy arrived back at Lily Lagoons to find Sergeant Cahoon and Jinbul camped in his harness-shed, and Nelyerri and Willy Ah Loy with relations in the Aboriginal quarters. Nanago reported that Cahoon, after returning from his futile expedition, had gone straight in to Beatrice, and had come back only yesterday, ignoring her. Jeremy reckoned that Dinny must have heard from the telephone gossips of his own impending return. He went to the shed. Dinny was sitting at a table improvised from fittings of the place, appearing to be busy with paperwork, from under which peeped catalogues. Jinbul stood beside him as if in ready attendance for pressing duty. Bunks had been made up on strip-hide shelves used for stowing harness. Jeremy entered, saying dryly, ‘Made yourselves at home, I see.’
The green eyes met the grey in a hard stare. The grating voice replied, ‘As much at home as the famous hospitality of Lily Lagoons offers annyone but fugitives from justice, thank you kindly.’
‘I’m sure that if hospitality were offered you, Sergeant, much better accommodation would have been found you than this.’
‘That’s just what I mean. Offered no assistance in the execution of me duty, I’ve had to establish meself be requisition.’
‘What exactly is this duty you’re executing?’
‘My duty as a police officer.’
‘Be specific. What law has been broken that entitled you to intrude on my privacy?’
‘A child has been abducted.’
‘Balls!’
The green eyes blazed: ‘I warn you against using insulting language to a police officer.’
‘Balls again . . . and charge me for it.’
‘If you’re not careful, Delacy, I’ll charge you with aidin’ and abettin’ the said abduction.’
‘Why wasn’t I charged by the District Police Officer, then? I was talking to him only a couple of hours back. He made no mention of abduction. He told me you were out here in a private capacity.’
‘He’s not concerned in the matter at all. I’m his superior officer.’
‘It’d be interesting to hear what your superiors would have to say to that. We’ll soon know, too . . . if you don’t remove yourself from my property . . . because I’ll get on the radio to your Superintendent and lay a charge against you for trespass.’
Cahoon rose, grating: ‘I can lay a charge of actual abduction against you. You had no right to bring that boy out here in the first place.’
‘He came of his own free will, to take part in a picnic, at the request of a distinguished visitor. His mother was supposed to come, too, but got lost by the wayside.’
‘You’re well aware that no Aboriginal person is allowed to go anywhere without the permission of a Protector. By transporting the boy without that permission, you’ve committed an offence under the Aboriginal Act.’
‘Okay . . . charge me, and arrest me. You’ll have to take the case to Town, because I’ll fight it . . . and be glad to, to expose the Aboriginal Act in all its brutal stupidity. And won’t your Bolshie mates of The Palmeston Progressive be glad to have a crack at you again . . . and especially Fay McFee!’
Obviously the lady’s name hit Dinny hard, the way he blinked and buttoned his thin mouth. Fay McFee, leftish journalist and vituperative castigator of the social anomalies peculiar to these parts, had embarrassing connexions with powerful southern newspapers eager for outlandish sensationalism.
Jeremy went on: ‘Apart from exposing the rotten system you’re part of, you’ll make a fool of yourself by showing how you’ve wasted the time the taxpayer pays for by interfering in what amounts only to a blackfellow’s walkabout . . .’
The mouth unbuttoned to grate: ‘Now listen to me, Delacy . . .’
‘You’re listening to me, Dinny . . . or I go straight in and get on the radio to Bullco. I understand your tracker’s been paying daily visits to the Plateau. You know old Bob made a bargain with me to bring the boy back, and that he won’t show up while the police are hanging round. So will you just remove yourself and your Man Friday, and let things take their natural course?’
‘I’ll take no orders from you.’
‘Suit yourself. I’ll pass the word on to your boss, then. It’s a pity. I understand your sisters are just living for the day they’ll see their Dinny an inspector. That so?’ The green eyes blinked. Jeremy turned to go, saying, ‘
I’m going to have a meal now. It’ll take about an hour. The Flying Doctor schedule will be coming up just about then. Goodday.’
Jeremy had gone only a few yards when his attention was caught by a rush of bare feet behind and to the left. He looked to see Nelyerri rushing towards him. She came up panting, whimpering, ‘You get him back my boy, Mullaka . . . my lil boy!’
Jeremy patted her arm, saying loudly, ‘I get him back for you quick-feller, Nell, spone that-lot policeman go away.’ As she turned to look at the glaring officers, he gave her a slight shove towards them, went on his way.
Jeremy was still at table with Nanago, when the police utility was seen through the dining-room windows, whizzing towards the front gate. He said, ‘Poor old Dinny! Always does the wrong thing at the right time. I’ll just have to see that I don’t do the same. Better get going right out to see if they’ve turned up. I reckon the old fellow’d come back after the full Moon. But pack us about three days’ tucker in case we have to wait. Better give me something extra for old Bob, too. He mightn’t want to come in . . . and I must have a present for him.’
He set out for the Plateau in the utility, accompanied by Darcy, Nelyerri, and Willy. They stopped at the Turtle Hole to make camp, had just got the truck unloaded, when from the tumble of rock filling that deep bay in the red wall there, a call: Ku! It sounded as from about halfway in, say quarter of a mile. Jeremy answered. The voice again: ‘Mullaka . . . you come yo’self-yo’self.’ The wall echoed it all round: Yo’self, yo’self!
Jeremy took up the sugar-sack of stuff for Bobwirridirridi, set out northward. It was rough and tough going, over and under and round the great hot rocks, shoving through the tangled scrub. He kept on. After about fifteen minutes he must have reckoned he had covered the distance, the way he slowed down and looked about. But another call: Ku! It was away to westward, about the same distance off as the first, its source the very foot of the escarpment now. He sighed, mopped his steaming face, changed course. Another ten minutes: Ku! It was close, but to the left now, southward. He stopped, stared that way, groaned: ‘Lord, what game is the old bugger playing?’ He answered the call, but spelled for a couple of minutes before heading as directed. Five minutes now: Ku! Again to the left, and as far-off-sounding as the first and second calls. ‘For crissake!’ he muttered. The new heading would take him back whence he had come. He stood a minute, mopping, muttering, ‘Trying to show me how clever he is, I suppose.’ He answered, went on. But after only twenty yards or so, hearing a rattle of falling stones behind, he swung round, to see standing on a rock above him a skeleton figure, accoutred in bulkung belt and ochre. The death’s head with its topknot split in a grin at Jeremy’s evident surprise. A cackled greeting: ‘Goottay, Mullaka!’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 32
