Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Jeremy looked further. No one else in sight. He looked back to find the skeleton vanished. Then here it was beside him, grinning impishly, a claw extended. Jeremy took the claw, asked, ‘Where boy?’

  The topknotted head was canted to the sky. The cackle: ‘Too hot. Close-up rain.’

  Jeremy swallowed. The red coals fixed him: ‘You been walkabout lo-ong way long o’ motor car, eh Mullaka?’

  Jeremy breathed, ‘Yu-ai.’

  The coals fixed on the sack. Jeremy said, ‘Present for you.’

  ‘Ah!’

  Jeremy handed it over. A claw groped in it, came out with a bottle of brandy. ‘Ah!’ The sack was set down. The cork was pulled from the bottle. The wide nostrils of the pierced and whitened nose dilated in sniffing. The turkey-throat convulsed. The bottle was upturned. ‘Ah . . . properly!’ The bottle was handed to Jeremy, who took a swig, gave it back. Up with the bottle again. Then: ‘Properly goot-feller dat one plendy . . . ah!’ It was stowed away in the sack again, the sack slung over a skinny shoulder. The claw was extended again. Jeremy took it in surprise. ‘Me go now, Mullaka.’

  ‘Eh?’ Jeremy gaped. ‘What about the boy?’

  ‘Him all right.’

  ‘Ain’t you comin’ to my place?’

  ‘By’n’by.’

  ‘But you promised . . .’

  ‘By’n’by break him in dat young-feller.’

  ‘Eh . . . but he’s too young!’

  ‘Kirrikijirrit . . . you savvy.’

  Jeremy nodded. A kirrikijirrit initiation was a limited form for boys not yet of the age of puberty but considered to have too much knowledge of secret business to be permitted the utterly undisciplined life of children. It was named from the Willy wagtail, who was supposed to advise the Kudijingera, or Tribal Elders, in such matters.

  Obviously at a loss as he stared into the surely mocking face, Jeremy muttered, ‘Too much trouble I been catch him from you take away boy.’

  The eyes looked past him, in the direction of the Turtle Hole. A claw came up to the mouth. The call was ear-piercing: ‘Hoo-hoo-hoo!

  A moment. It came back, from about the distance the hole was away: ‘Hoohoo-hoo!’ Jeremy turned to it. He looked back. He was alone. He stared. Not a sign. Not a sound. He sighed heavily, shook his head, turned about again, went heading towards that last call, but not without looking back several times.

  Prindy was at the Turtle Hole, dressed in the khakis in which Jeremy last had seen him, the clothes badly rumpled from having been stowed somewhere and with traces of ochre still on fair hair and face. He was eating bread and beef, being cut by his mother who was still sniffling and wet-cheeked from what evidently had been, for her at any rate, an emotional reunion. Willy and Darcy squatted a little distance away, aloof from the pair, it seemed, even embarrassed, the way they rose in haste to meet Jeremy. Jeremy was the only one to speak, addressing Prindy: ‘Well, young feller . . . have a good walkabout?’ The grey eyes looking over a huge sandwich did not even blink. For a moment grey eyes held grey eyes. Then, murmuring, ‘Hmm!’ Jeremy turned to the men and said, ‘Better load up again, eh?’

  Nelyerri would have shoved Prindy up in the back of the utility, only Jeremy pushed them both in front. They obeyed in silence. As they drove off, Jeremy said to the boy beside him, ‘By’n’by you got to learn to drive motor car.’ The grey eyes met his. ‘You like that?’ No answer. Jeremy asked, ‘What name . . . you koynainjil?’ The term meant under ban of silence, not infrequently imposed for various reasons by native custom.

  Prindy answered promptly, ‘No-more.’

  ‘Hmm!’ was Jeremy’s comment again, turning to the road with mouth pursed and brows rumpled, as if contemplating the propriety of the situation: Someone returns from having supped with the Devil — how do you receive him? It must be embarrassing if you truly believe in dibble bijnitch. Here was the mother, so happy to have her son back, now scowling, the men in the back blank-faced. Jeremy said, ‘I reckon we’ll go straight back to Catfish, eh?’ No answer. He added, ‘We’ll stop at the lagoons and get some geese. How are you on goose hunt, sonny?’ Prindy smiled.

  They turned eastward at the crossroads. As they sped on their way, Jeremy asked, ‘You know that yarn about Old Crocodile been pull him down that goose, Nuttagul, Dream Time?’ The boy nodded. ‘All right . . . you tell-him-’bout.’

  Prindy shook his head: ‘Can’t do it.’

  ‘Wha’ name?’

  ‘That-one yarn no-more belong o’ me.’

  ‘I see. All right . . . tell-him ’bout one yarn belong o’ you.’

  But Prindy was silent. Thus they ran on to the mine and the lagoons.

  The native camp there was deserted. They drew up at the site. Prindy and Darcy stripped for the hunt, gathered rushes, strung them into mats a couple of feet long, shaped them into barrels, which they slipped over head and shoulders. Thus accoutred, bearing no weapons but their hands, they entered the water, made their way imperceptibly out to the busy noisy flotilla of birds. The method of slaughter was to float amongst the birds as part of the mass of vegetation everywhere, pull them down and strangle them without a squawk. Thus had Yinganga, the Fresh-water Crocodile, done it in the beginning — and it had worked ever since. Jeremy left the silent watching Nelyerri and Willy, to go up to take a look at the mine. It was an open cut, driven into the red schist hill from the western side.

  The hunters were back within an hour with half a dozen Nuttagul geese and a couple of brace of Pigmies.

  The journey was resumed. When they reached the limestone, Prindy showed such great interest in that natural causeway of great mossy slabs over which a veritable river must run in Wet Season, that Jeremy stopped and alighted and had the boy out. He asked him what he knew about the place, but without getting an answer. Prindy looked intently away back into the tumble of great marble rocks and the verdant jungle growing around them, from which the flood would come, and away whence it would go, over slabs scattered as far as eye could see, out of the interstices of which grew bent and twisted trees crippled by the seasonal violence. No doubt its history would be concerned with Tchamala, and the boy knew something of it, the way he blinked when his grandfather told him that away, away there lay the Rainbow Pool. But no word in response. They got back into the ute, went on their way.

  As they came into the grey plain beyond which lay Catfish Creek, Jeremy said to his small companion, ‘What about you tell me one yarn belong to you?’ The boy looked at him meaningfully. Story-telling was a matter for trade, like everything else — dancing, ceremonial, handicraft, marriage. One had only a certain repertoire, performance of which must be paid for. It was a curious thing that the kuttabah, who did little for nothing himself, was mostly blind to this very important aspect of Aboriginal culture (as shown only too blatantly in seizure of tribal lands) believing that the simpletons had no economic sense at all, hence considering the asking for reward only beggary and resenting it. But not Jeremy Delacy. Smiling into the grey eyes, he said, ‘I give you anything present.’ His glance went on to the mother, who looked as if about to protest, presumably against what she would call Blackfeller Bijnitch, and added, ‘I give your mumma present, too . . . hair-oil, eh?’ Nelyerri relaxed. Brilliantine was prized by women.

  Prindy smiled, nodded. For a while he stared through the windscreen towards sepia mirage where the homestead would be, then chuckled, ‘Dat old Marmaroo . . . time he gitchim brush-tail.’

  Bright-eyed, he talked over it to himself silently for a minute or two. Then he began. Translated from the Murringlitch, in which surely it would have sounded better, since the idiom would not be lost (as for instance when Marmaroo, the Brush-tailed Rock Wallaby, and Wanjin, the Dingo, were travelling fast, the former in flight, the latter in slavering pursuit, sound echoed the sense of their speeding with tull-tull-tull-tull-tulli-tull-tull!) it went:

  In the Dream Time, Marmaroo, who was then just an ordinary rock wallaby with a long thin tail, while travelling through poor country
that offered no provender, fell in with Wanjin. Although Wanjin was friendly, Marmaroo was scared of him, knowing of his cunning and greed. He didn’t like the way the Dog’s jaws dripped when he looked at him, and hence kept well out of reach of him as they went together, and when they camped, always got up on a rock too steep for Wanjin to climb. He was becoming weak with hunger and the taxing pace with Wanjin fairly snapping at his tail, when camped one night he met Yang, the Lizard. Hearing of his fears, Yang suggested that he adopt his own method of shaking off predators, which is to drop a piece of tail, which with its contortions diverts them and also serves to stay their ravening and gives good time for a get-away. Yang taught him the magic for accomplishing the trick, and also for returning the tail to normal. Thus knowledgeable, when Marmaroo set out next day and found Wanjin slavering worse than ever on his tail, he worked the mahraghi, shed the tip of his tail, and sped on his way, leaving the greedy Wanjin well behind, and soon was clean away. But he’d given heed only to the magic of the shedding, so that when he came to try to Sing the tip back on, what did he get but the tuft he carries to this day. Still, there was advantage in it. The magic that had gone wrong was concentrated in the brush, so that by means of it he became able to wipe out his tracks completely, not only as to sign but as to scent, which latter makes his kind safe from the dingo as no other creature is, since the dog tracks with his nose. In fact no one but a python or a Tchineke Man can gitchim marmaroo. Even the brush of brush-tail taken by a Tchineke Man can be used to the same effect.

  The last was said somewhat breathlessly and wide-eyed, so as to sound like a little boy’s boast. Holding the wide eyes, Jeremy asked, ‘You got him brush-tail now?’ The eyes blinked, swung back to the horizon. Jeremy touched the khaki shoulder beside him, giving it a slight conventional stroke, saying ‘Properly good yarn. What about you make him up song about that, eh?’

  The answer was given on indrawn breath: ‘Been mek him.’

  ‘Well, what about you sing for me . . . ’nother-one present.’

  The eyes blinked at the distance, held it, the crazy shape of the top gate wobbling in a flood of silver. Shyness or secrecy? Jeremy’s eyes looked quizzical as he looked at the perfect profile. Then he asked, ‘What name present you want?’

  The eyes swung back, held. The answer was given in another breath: ‘Horse.’

  ‘Horse, eh? Spoken like a true Delacy. What about young Sugarbag? She’ll never be a big horse . . . pony type. Saddle and bridle, too?’

  Again the breath: ‘Yu-ai.’

  ‘You’ll have to come over and get her.’

  Eyes of both son and mother looked wary.

  His own eyes on the road, Jeremy asked, ‘When you come?’

  No answer. A moment, then Jeremy said, ‘What about Christmas . . . I sent horse in with Christmas mob, eh?’

  A sigh of relief. Then: ‘How long Crichmitch?’

  ‘Aw . . . couple of months yet . . . no more long time.’

  They were at a gate. Soon they were at the homestead. Clancy was out at the garden gate, waiting. Jeremy swung round to draw up at a little distance and with his passengers on the off-side, no doubt with deliberate intent to let them slip out and away without too close scrutiny from the Boss. Mother and son and foster father set out at once towards the kitchen. Darcy also dropped down on the far side, to dust himself down out of sight. Jeremy didn’t move.

  Clancy came stolling out: ‘Goodday, father.’

  ‘Goodday, son.’

  ‘Unexpected visit.’

  ‘Brought you some geese. They forgot to take ’em, I think. Darcy, son . . . give Clancy the geese.’

  Darcy giggled as he handed the sack to his cousin, to have it received stiffly and without comment.

  Clancy asked his father, ‘Coming in?’

  ‘Darcy’s with me.’

  Grey eyes and blue met in what must be an old challenge, which could only mean: No acceptance of your coloured cousin socially, no sociability.

  The blue eyes blinked: ‘Where’d the kid get to?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Where’s the old bloke?’

  ‘Went bush again.’

  Another blinking. Then: ‘Cahoon’s looking for him.’

  ‘Cahoon’s always looking for someone, isn’t he?’ A pause. Then Jeremy said, ‘If you’re going in to meet next train you should run into him. If you like, tell him the boy’s back home . . . safe and well.’

  Clancy nodded. Jeremy signalled to Darcy to get in with him, started up, gave a slight wave to his son, drove off. For a long while Clancy stood staring after the ball of grey dust rolling back westward, with face puckered like a wilful but unhappy boy.

  IV

  The return of the Sorcerer’s Apprentice to the bosom of his clan appeared to have little or no effect on his status therein. Perhaps it was the very peculiarity of his original status that was responsible for the seemingly odd lack of curiosity about his adventure. Still, those who truly believe in the Devil surely would want to hear as little about him as possible, other than what might serve as protection against his wiles. A truly Aboriginal child who had come so close to supping with the Devil as this one could not be expected to return to his people. But there was a way to ignore the contamination in this case; he was what could be classed as Another Kind, one accepted and yet not — as in fact crossbreds really were ever since the days when, regarded as devil-foisted monstrosities, they were despatched at birth. At any rate, things went much as usual for Prindy after his return. Green-ant still cracked jokes with him without looking him in the eye. His tribal grannies and mothers-in-law in the camp still took the food he brought them from the kitchen, honouring his tribal duties, and no less encouraged to do so by his Finder-Father, Willy. He still swam with the black kids in the creek, played games with them of warring with spear-grass spears. The only difference was in himself, and that shown simply by his singing songs of his own that he kept to himself. Often he went to the catfish hole upstream, obviously in some expectation of meeting someone there, and spending the time singing in lingo but in his own tuneful way songs that he must have learnt from his koornung master. Probably the words of the songs were unknown to him, or to anyone, the verbal meaning having been lost in antiquity, as that of most in Aboriginal ceremonial, the whole having meaning rather than parts. However, he did have some renderings of his own:

  I follow him, I follow him, my Rown Road

  Follow, follow, follow, follow Rown Road

  Boss Tchamala by’n’by

  Learn me kill him Whiteman die

  Dat my Road, my proper road

  My Rown Road.

  All the while the weather changed with those cloud mountains slowly drifting from the northern sea — till there they were over Catfish Station, cooling the blazing land with vast blue shadows. In imagination one could go into the mountains, to scale the silver peaks, or go scary walkabout into the dark valleys and caverns, in search of Waianga, the Spirits who built the clouds and sailed them hither and yon in accordance with Koonapippi’s plan for replenishing the waters of the earth. That replenishment by rights should always be gentle, as, indeed, mostly it was. But usually things were very ungentle at the start of Wet Season, when the Shade of Tchamala would sneak into the mountains and panic the sleepy Waianga into dropping their store of water so as to cause havoc. Thunder and lightning were his voice and his destructive hand, the storm winds his breath. After the battle was over, if you were one of those privileged through familiarity with the Old One not to fear to look, you might see his Shade cavorting in the sky in colourfulness that put the rest of Creation to shame, chasing his tail into one of his countless tchineke-holes and out by another. While he thus displayed, ordinary mortals kept their heads down and avoided creeks and waterholes and hid their children. His familiars would join in the hallelujah chorus of the frogs just released from dryseason-bondage deep in clay-holes:

  Kunderak, kunderak

  Tjeritjeru, tjeritjeru

/>   Old One, Old One, Old One!

  Already there had been a couple of heavy thunderstorms. However, the advantages therefrom well outweighed the bit of panic and havoc that had been wrought. Most important: the grass, for the most part vanished from the dusty earth these couple of months, was sprung again, to fat all creatures, particularly those on which the people of the land generally now had become most dependent, the Boss’s bullocks, Bone-bugger this long while, but now putting on poundage that also put the Boss himself in better mood — so yakkarai!

  Sweet pickin’, the station people called the green green miracle.

  A couple of heavy thunderstorms to start with usually presaged a full-time steady Wet Season, with all the natural benefits this would ensue — but something more to these people less dependent on Nature’s bounty now, indeed much more, since it replaced some of the spiritual satisfaction lost with that dependence, namely, a dry Christmas.

  As a nominally Christian community, the supposed birthday of Jesus Christ was its chief festival. Beatrice River Races has also been described as a festival, but with the qualification that it was the community’s chief Social Event. There was no rubbing shoulders with everybody at Christmas. As everywhere else in Christendom, people frankly celebrated the occasion in groups of their own classification. All that is expected of one at Christmas is that one act in accord with the Spirit of Christmas, which is to be generous to others within one’s means, part of which are one’s prejudices.