Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  The Christmas Spirit was appropriately expressed locally in the attitude of whites to blacks and vice versa. Officially it was the time when those Aborigines classified as Indigent, meaning those in contact with civilisation who could not be made to contribute to it by doing some job of work, were given the annual hand-out of clothing, blankets, tobacco pipes, and other things considered necessary for civilised living for the like of them. This was apart from what was called Subsistence, the monthly doling out of rations, usually done by the police. At Christmas the District Police Officer became Santa Claus to the blacks, handing out not merely the official largesse, but contributions from institutions moved to special charitableness, like religious sects, Country Woman’s Association (to which, of course, no black or yellow woman could belong) and the RSL (which boasted that it gave a Christmas present to every accessible child in the land, irrespective of colour or creed). Thus for the townships. The cattle stations had their own way of doing it, with a grand slaughter of bullocks, paying of wages in kind to willing workers, distributing gifts like red calico for loin-cloths, clasp knives, scented soap, brilliantine, lollies, to all who lined up with pink palm extended and the proper acknowledgement: Tahng you Boss — Mary Critchmitch.

  Peace on Earth, Goodwill towards All Mankind.

  The blacks didn’t expect to join the festivities of their masters. They made their own, gorging, boozing if possible, corroboreeing, sweethearting, gambling away the gifts, invariably winding up with a battle-royal that left them bruised, battered, bloody, but content to meet another year. As shelter was always minimal in their way of life and taxed far beyond that when they congregated, a wet Christmas could be a poor affair indeed. In fact, if Wet Season set in early (the Season proper started with onset of the Intertropic Frontal System, or Monsoon as erroneously called in these parts, of which the initial thunderstorms had no true part) there would be no Critchmitch at all.

  The Christmas Spirit already was dominating the household at Catfish Creek, since it had been ascertained from the Boss that the beginning of festivities was within calculable distance: which is to say the count down could be done on fingers and toes. In fact the counting now was down to fingers. The weather still looked promising. Tchamala’s interference with the Waianga amounted to no more than a flashing and crashing away up in the cloud mountains of nights, with only a scattering of large warm raindrops as the result. Igulgul was close to full, as usual round about Critchmitch. Everybody was happy and expressing it by saying Mary Critchmitch on all possible occasions.

  Then suddenly a change set in — not of weather; although that also eventuated to spoil things utterly — but of spirit. The merriment died away. In fact the merriest, like Green-ant and Splinter, always a couple of wags, had disappeared, along with other males. Deserting the place meant nothing to the Boss now, when there were only odd jobs to do and the less to feed. No one asked questions. Awareness of a state of jungara, of taboo business, was practically instinctive with such people. Prindy, seeing his father Willy chopping his own kindling early in the morning of the ninth day before Christmas, went to help him without a word. Even Nelyerri, despite eloquent looks and gestures to show contempt for whatever mad Blackfeller bijnitch was throwing the household out of gear and the fact that Willy himself was the most silent of all and looked even worried, said nothing about it.

  Willy looked particularly worried when, during the after-breakfast cleanup of the kitchen on the third day of jungara, getting Prindy out of earshot of his busy mother, he whispered, ‘Somebody dere wan’ him you . . . long o’ rocky-bar.’ Avoiding the wide grey stare, he returned to his job. For a moment Prindy stood, then slipped out. In Murringlitch, Somebody meant a person or persons unnameable by propriety. Prindy paused but a moment, then slipped away, through woodyard, garden. He paused another moment outside his home, then ran in and got from under his bed two small spears and a womera and a dilly-bag. Out again and through the back of the garden and away southward at a trot along the horse-pad.

  He reached the bit of aquatic jungle at the end of the big pool, entered it, was halfway through, when — whitt! The sound was from behind. He swung around. No one there. But what at first looked like moving clumps of undergrowth suddenly converged on the track behind his back. Again he swung, but to be seized by skinny ochred arms that in a trice disarmed him, locked him, clamped his mouth, hooded him with a cone of woven grass. He struggled. A voice: ‘Koyada kumeri.’ He relaxed. It was the voice of Splinter, skin-named Jelyerri, maternal uncle to him tribal-wise and chief authority concerning his behaviour.

  There were four men, all elaborately decorated, with ochres of different colours and stuck-on birds’ down, and wearing bulkung belts in which they carried boomerangs. One was Green-ant, Skin Name Jumbajinna, related as wife’s father and having certain rights of authority. He it was guided the hooded captive as the party set forth. Through the jungle and down to and across the bar, and up along the creek, to skirt the catfish hole guarded by its snake-rooted banyan, and just past there to come into rocky country and call halt. One of the men trailed well behind, erasing the tracks. The other three sat waiting for him, while leaving the captive standing. As the man came up, Jumbajinna raised a hand to his mouth, wobbling it as he called out, to give the ululation known as Tjangaluma — yoodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-ooooo!

  Silence, except for the whirr-whirr-whirr of insects — silence of listening here. Then a droning, augmenting the insect-sounds at first, but waxing to drown them out — bidooz, bidooz, bidooz, bidooz — like giant insects in flight, coming from somewhere amidst the rocks — bidooz, bidooz, bidooz, bidooz!

  Green-ant struck a pose, began to stamp and chant: ‘Koonapippi, Koonapippi, Koonapipp-eeeee!’ The other men joined in.

  Then Green-ant broke off to give the Tjangaluma again. With that the procession proceeded, heading for the Voice, which swelled till there was no other sound on earth — bidooz, bidooz, bidooz, bidooz! — the voice of Koonapippi, the Creator.

  Suddenly the Voice ceased, but leaving tiny voices singing all round, it seemed.

  In silence the party proceeded, soon to come to a halt again. Yet again Green-ant gave the Tjangaluma. Close at hand a voice called in lingo. Greenant answered with a word. Each of the other men in turn did likewise. The hidden voice called: ‘Goydai!’ They went on, in a moment to come upon a circular clearing — a Ring Place, Boree, or as called hereabouts, Kunjan — amphitheatre of primitive man. In the middle was a small gunyah of fresh-cut boughs, and round the edge six or seven like it. On the far side, in semi-circle, stood half a dozen decorated men. One other squatted — cross-legged on the ground to the right of the group, he more elaborately decorated than the rest, and with plaited beard and topknot and skeleton skinniness, recognisable as Bobwirridirridi. He was tapping minga-minga sticks inaudibly. At the appearance of the party the standing men gave the Tjangaluma, which the party echoed. The minga-minga sounded as it died away — click-a-click, click-a-click, click, click, click!

  The captive was marched to the central gunyah, turned with back to it, made to squat on haunches, while his uncle and father-in-law ranged themselves standing on either side of him, and the others went to join the semi-circle — click-a-click, click-a-click, click! The group began to shuffle and sway. Bobwirridirridi raised his voice in a thin nasal chant:

  Maringah, maringah

  Mar widji, widji ma

  Koonapippi, Koonapippi!

  The others joined in, raising the dust as they stamped:

  Marungah, marungah

  Ma widji, widji ma-ah-ah-ah-ah!

  Nahgunidah!

  The group fell back into their semi-circle. Splinter and Green-ant raised Prindy, marched him off the ground into the tumble of rocks behind. As they disappeared, Bobwirridirridi took from under a sheet of bark beside him an object wrapped in a coil of hair-string. He rose, unwrapped the object, disclosing it for a flat oval of engraved and painted wood — the bidu-bidu, Bullroarer, symbol of the oldest of Ol
d Ones, Koonapippi. He loosened the string, with a flourish, tossed the oval away and swung it, swung it, faster, faster, causing it to hiss, to whistle, to whine, to drone, to find full voice that filled the world — bidooz, bidooz, bidooz, bidooz, bidooz, bidooz, bidooz!

  Back at the homestead, Nelyerri began to fret about her boy’s absence after failure to come for his dinner. When she went back to their quarters for the afternoon spell she looked under his bed, and finding some of his things gone, cried, ‘He gone walkabout again.’

  Taking no notice, Willy went into the bedroom. She followed him, demanding, ‘You been give him tucker for walkabout?’

  ‘Nutching.’ He cast himself down on his bed.

  She stood in the doorway, hesitant, speaking as if to herself: ‘Bloody Sunday bijnitch goin’ on.’ Willy turned his back. She came to him: ‘Wha’ dey doin’ Sunday bijnitch?’

  He grunted, ‘I don’ know.’

  ‘Course you know. Where dat bijnitch? Might-be he get mix-up dat lot.’

  He didn’t answer. She turned away, went back to the passage-way, to stand there irresolute, alternatively staring in at him and out through the doorway of the back verandah.

  Properly, she should have been warned by Willy. In accordance with ancient custom, he should have come to her with his spears, one of which he should have broken, and when asked by her why he did it, to droop his head and say, ‘Your son is dead.’ At that she would shriek, seize something with which to cut her head. All close female relatives would come and join her in her grief. Actually all would know the truth of the matter, even though it had not been spoken of except in secret by the male elders, the Kudijingera. Despite the secrecy surrounding initiation rites, it was something to be expected as boys approached puberty. Even a case of Kirrikijirrit might be presumed from precocious behaviour. Those dealing with Prindy would expect Willy to deal with the mother, his wife. How she took it was his lookout.

  Her voice rose now: ‘Spone he get mix-up dat-lot?’

  Willy sighed: ‘Dey can’t hurt him!’

  She swung back to him: ‘Where dat-lot now?’

  He groaned: ‘Lo-ong way. Shut up. I wan’ tchillip.’

  She glared at him for a moment, then flung out again, this time to the back verandah, to stare into the garden. After a while she withdrew, flung herself, scowling, into a sack-and-sapling lounge chair.

  When Prindy was still missing at supper time, Nell abused Willy so roundly about Sunday-business that, surely embarrassed by the presence of blackmen, he gave her a clout to shut her up, only to make things worse. The brawl was stopped by those on the verandah, not by their physical intrusion, but cries of warning: ‘Danook! Boss him singin’ out.’

  The rising of a great cloud in the northwest brought on early night. But there was Igulgul in the East. The cloud mountain peaks blazed to make the eyes ache. Riot could be seen and heard within it. Back in their quarters, Nell whimpered to Willy, ‘Big rain come . . . my boy out dere!’

  Igulgul dived into the cloud to join the fun. Darkness. Then the world was split apart with light and sound. Nell’s howling for her boy was drowned in the roar of rain. It was soon over, as usual, leaving Igulgul laughing, but tonight looking out of a rainbow like a tight-coiled snake, which was not usual and not a good omen for a dry Christmas, as borne out by the basso-profundo comments of the big tree-toads in the mangoes: ‘Wet come, Wet come, I reckon, don’t you?’

  Nelyerri snivelled herself to sleep.

  First thing in the morning, in the kitchen, Nell suddenly declared her intention of going to look for Prindy after breakfast. Willy ignored her, and kept on doing so till she said fiercely, ‘I tek him rifle. Spone dat-lot got my boy, I shoot him bloody black bastard!’

  He turned on her: ‘You mek him more trouble, I go tell him Boss hunt him you . . . hunt him for goot!’

  That shut her up. Breakfast was dealt with, all chores concerning it done quietly. But that didn’t mean that work was finished. Nevertheless, Nell took off her apron, started for the back door. As if he had been awaiting the move, Willy leapt to head her off, demanding, ‘Where you go?’

  ‘Lie down.’

  ‘Wha’ ’bout bread-sponge?’

  ‘Puggim bread!’

  He shut the door: ‘You stop here.’

  ‘I tired . . . wan’ ’o tchillip.’

  ‘I reckon you go look-about.’

  She tried to get at the door. He turned the key in the lock, pocketed it.

  She hissed at him: ‘Dat bloody bastard got my boy, ain’t it?’

  He turned away. She leapt after him, grabbed his lean brown arm, shrieked into his face, ‘Dey mek him young-man!’

  He blinked. She went on: ‘He only lil boy . . . dey kill him!’

  He jerked out of her grip, growling, ‘Him all right.’

  She started for the side door, crying, ‘I go tell him Boss!’

  He leapt again, caught her arm. She shrieked in his face, ‘Boss call him p’lice long o’ radio.’

  He twisted her arm, forced her to the table, hissing now: ‘You listen . . . dat only Kirrikijirrit business . . .’

  ‘Le’ me go . . . I yell for Boss!’

  ‘You don’ mek trouble. Dis goot way dey do. Got ’o do it. He been mix-up koornung, ain’t it?’

  She stiffened, stared, then screamed, ‘Dat bloody koornung come back!’

  She broke free, collided with the butcher’s block. As he came at her she snatched up a knife: ‘You stop me go Boss, I kill him you die, Chinee bastard!’

  With a sideways swipe of a long lean hand he struck her wrist. The knife went flying. She reached for the chopper. He used the same hand in the same way on her neck. She grunted, fell senseless.

  He knelt and raised her to a sitting posture, back to the block, smoothed the dark curls of her lolling head. Then he rose, went padding on big bare feet to the side door, went out. No one was on the verandah. He shut the door, locked it. He peered back inside, through the fly-wire backed by stout mesh that constituted the upper half of the door. Still Nell sat lolling. He turned, went down the steps, headed for the Big House. Blackmen working in the harness-shed stared out at him.

  Clancy was in the lounge-room under the house, sitting digesting breakfast ogling glossy naked white girls in Man magazine. He started at Willy’s cough, stared at him in the doorway, grunted, ‘What you want?’

  ‘My missus, Boss . . .’

  ‘You’ve my permission to give her a bloody good beltin’. That’s what she needs.’

  Willy drooped, fiddling with his apron: ‘Wan’ ’o talk you, Boss.’

  ‘All right. Come on in.’

  Still drooping and fiddling, Willy told of Prindy’s Kirrikijirrit initiation.

  Clancy cut in: ‘But he’s only a piccaninny. They can’t cut him yet.’

  ‘No-more cut him cock, Boss. Only lil bits long o’ skin.’ He indicated the cicatrices on his own upper arms.

  ‘What the hell’s it for?’

  Willy shrugged: ‘Old-man been reckon more-better.’

  ‘What old man?’

  ‘Dat-lot Kudijingera.’

  ‘Them old bastards still throwin’ their weight around? I thought we’d put a stop to all that mad blackfeller business.’

  ‘Can’t stop him old way yet, Boss.’

  Staring hard, Clancy remarked, ‘You’re still a blackfeller, Willy, eh?’

  Willy’s face puckered as with misery.

  ‘Well, what you want me to do?’

  ‘Nutching, Boss.’ Willy went on to explain that he only wanted Clancy to ignore Nell’s panic and let the thing go through, concluding, ‘Only two-t’ree day, Boss. I reckon dey bring him back tomorro’.’

  ‘You sure of that? I don’t want that mad woman of yours disturbin’ the peace for Christmas.’

  ‘Dat lot wan’ ’o come in for Critchmitch.’

  ‘Well, if they don’t, I’ll call the police, and they’ll spend Christmas in jail . . . and that woman of yours, if she makes
trouble. Tell her I don’t want to see her . . . if she comes I’ll put the stockwhip round her.’

  ‘Tahng you, Boss.’

  Back at the kitchen, Willy found his spouse so well recovered as to be in the act of hacking her way out with chopper. When she saw him, she dropped the chopper, to snatch up something else. The barrel of the killing rifle was poked out through the hole. She screeched, ‘Spone you don’ le’ me out I shoot you daid, you bastard!’ He blinked, fished out the key, opened the door. As she burst out, he snatched the rifle from her. She turned and struck at him: ‘Bloody puggim Chinee black bastard!’

  He panted: ‘You mad bugger.’

  She stood a moment glaring, then swung away, leapt down the steps, headed as he had. He yelled after her, ‘Boss belt him you, you go dere!’ She was gone.

  He sighed, turned with the rifle to replace it on the wall. It was a big old-fashioned repeating rifle, with magazine under the barrel. He jerked the magazine to clear it, letting the shiny cartridges spill onto the floor, hung the weapon again, then picked up the ammunition and slipped it into a pocket of his pants. With another sigh he turned to his culinary duties.

  Some ten minutes later, as Willy, perched on his stool, was chopping onions, he looked up quickly on hearing quick shod steps outside. Then Clancy, red and blue-pop-eyed with anger, burst in, shouting, ‘I’ve had a bloody ’nough of this bitch of yours . . . and her bloody kid, too. You go right out and get him. I’m taking ’em in to Beatrice after dinner . . . and dumping ’em there for good.’

  Willy blinked watery almond eyes, gasped, ‘Aw . . . tomorro’, Boss . . .’

  ‘I said bloody now!’

  Willy was panting: ‘Can’t do it, Boss. Spone I go dere, old-man mek me tjungara one munce . . . I can’t come back.’

  ‘I don’t care if they tjungara you for one bloody year. You go and get that boy or I’ll call the police to get him.’

  Willy’s face was quivering in that Aboriginal way under deep stress: ‘Only one day, Boss . . . I promised.’