Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Then George named the elders: first Kadugo, who would be daddy, and who gave his hand in the whiteman’s way, then kneeling, ran both arms up the slender golden arms to the cicatrices now perfectly formed at the shoulders, smiling, murmuring, ‘Properly!’ then breaking into lingo, as he brought his black hands up around jaws and ears caressing them. Prindy answered with a couple of words in lingo. ‘Properly!’ said Kadugo again, and rose.

  The other was Ingaua — father-in-law, who for greeting turned his face sideways, as did Prindy. Neither looked directly at the other again.

  Then George ushered them all into the shade, where they sat down, lit up a pipe and passed it round, the three men talking, Kadugo while he cut lines in a slice of white milkwood he had taken, along with a clasp knife, from his dilly-bag. After a while George asked Prindy to relate what had happened at the Ring Place at Catfish Creek, that is to say the shooting, and then how the Pookarakka came to be arrested, while the strangers clicked their tongues over it. Prindy told it in Muttinglitch. By now Kadugo had his wand carved to suit his purpose, and took from his bag lumps of red and white ochre, starting with the white, moistening part of it in his mouth and then rubbing it into the engravings, after which he reddened the rest of it. This done, he tore a piece of paperbark from the tree, and wrapped the talisman in it, bound it with a bit of fibrous grass, and handed it to Prindy with a flourish and some lingo. Again Prindy replied similarly. Then Kadugo motioned the boy to rise and go outside, and stood him with his back to the others, while he rubbed him about the head and shoulders with white ochre he had crushed in his hands and moistened with spittle, and then ran the red line down from brow to navel. Meantime, Ingaua and George slipped out from under the tree on the opposite side, and went quickly across the bit of flat and up the rocky wall, to halt at a spot amongst the rocks, from a recess in which Ingaua took a parcel, well wrapped in bark, that by its shape was a small Bullroarer, and handed it to George with a flourish and a string of words to which George replied. George placed the parcel in his own dilly-bag. Then they returned, to find Prindy painted and wearing a head-band, and his daddy sitting on haunches, talking truly like father and son. The pair rose, Prindy to stand again with hanging head. Ingaua came close to the boy, and said to the others something in lingo, then placed the symbols of initiation, cane armlets and necklet of possum’s fur, and with a hand on the boy’s mouth pronounced the ban of silence to last till the end of his Road Following: ‘Catjinga!’ Thus was renewed the Jungara broken by the catastrophe at Catfish.

  Then George gathered up his belongings, and directed Prindy to do the same. Coming out of the shade, George shook hands with the other two. Kadugo patted Prindy on the head, while Ingaua turned away from him. Then George led the way to the tumbling water, entered it, with Prindy on his heels.

  Nowhere was the stream deeper than Prindy’s waist, and mostly only knee-deep, but flowing with such force that often he had to dig in his spears to keep erect or cling to rocks, and several times George had to come back to lend him a hand. Then they were across and clambering up the steep red bank. They stood a moment to look back at the pair watching from the other side. George waved, but not Prindy. The others waved. George said, ‘Ngangula.’ He swung away, headed into the tumble of rocks and twisted trees. Coming to a patch of sand, he stooped and took a handful, sprinkled some in his hair, rubbed the rest in his beard and the grey hair of his chest. He said, ‘Ngah gunga . . . my country . . . now belong ’o you country. You do all-same.’ Prindy did it. George put an arm about him, chuckling, ‘Properly countryman now, my Kokanjinni.’

  Soon it was revealed that they were in a gully, with sandstone escarpments, not unlike the country back of Lily Lagoons, although the vegetation differed and the rock was brighter red. They made for a small creek running down the middle in a mass of ferns and reeds and palms, keeping to the bank above flood level for easy going. The Sun was down behind the inner wall and the sky gilding. A myriad birds were gathering for the night in the trees along the creek. A mob of white cockatoos flying over spotted the pair and wheeled back to tell everybody else that they had suspicious characters for company. Butcher birds and blue kookaburras carried on the alarm. Wallabies went crashing from the water back to the shelter of the rocks.

  So on right up to the head of it, where there was a deep pool, and in the overhang above it a gallery of paintings, all sorts of figures, except the Snake. Evidently, by the blackened wall beside the pool, it was a favourite camping spot. The sky above was crimson now, fading to lilac back whence they had come. They lit a fire and grilled the beef and boiled the billy, then settled down in the soft red sand, Prindy promptly to fall asleep, while George crooned over him:

  Marunga, marunga

  Ma widji wa

  Marunga . . .

  While man and boy were bedding down, the women and the dog dogging them were wearily coming to their chosen camp, chosen perhaps for sentimental reasons, or because they thought they might find something there they wanted, or simply because the sound emanating from it lured them on long after sunset. The sound was that of another run of rapids, at the junction of the Alice and Beatrice Rivers, grown from a murmur to a roar. On the triangle between the streams the original homestead had stood. Nell said she was ‘borned dere’. It was too dark to see anything by the time they arrived, too difficult even to get to either of the rivers to drink, because the intervening ground was swampy and by the sound of it thick with cattle. After floundering into a pool they halted, drank of its pissy water, then found a bit of thicket to lie down in safety. They fell asleep to the sound of the racing waters, the crying of plovers, the bawling of the stock.

  Over in the sandstone gully, the butcher birds woke the men in the silver dawn. Prindy forgot himself to the point of raising his head to mock them, but to be stopped just in time by George. Anyway, the sharp rousing got them quickly on their way. George said he wanted to see Aldinbinya burning in the first sunlight, as he had first seen it as an initiate boy being shown his Road and last as a prisoner in chains, and because it meant that the Snake was hot with rage from being stared at by his old enemy, Kurrawaddi, as they called her here, Mother of the Earth. Also, he wanted to camp within its magic tonight.

  Staying only long enough to fill their bellies with water for a long dry trip over the tableland, they climbed to the top. Sure enough, out of the purple of the West, as the crimson rose behind them, there was to be seen, just as if in fact it were a giant head rising to survey the wilderness, as legend told it was in the beginning, Aldinbinya, the Snake’s Head. That was how Tchamala, during the Dream Time bijnitch of the Frogs, had popped his head out from his subterranean realms to see how things were going.

  Back at the confluence of the rivers the women were also out with first light, and by reason of starting so early on their way might well have spent the day ahead of them hungry, but for finding a bull confronting them as they made their way back to the road. Just a black bulk though he was against the silver sky, there was no doubt about his mood, the way he tossed and growled and sent the dust flying. In haste they headed back into the thicket and made their way through it, and found that it was the remains of the Chinaman’s garden that had supplied the old homestead. They smelt ripe guavas, and soon found them in abundance, and also cumquats. After gorging, they filled their bags. So they went up to the road, which since they had left it had turned from westward to southward. They swung along briskly, remembering how short a distance it was, or at any rate had seemed, to the new homestead. ‘Close-up,’ they kept saying. ‘We gitchim, Sun like o’ dat,’ indicating the Sun just over the trees.

  But the Sun climbed up and up, while they strained ahead for the first glimpse of their objective. The flies found them, more flies than ever, because more stock, and more stock meant giving the road up to them and taking to the river timber. But cockatoos discovered them, a great gang of the snowy pests who drowned out the sound of the river with their screaming. An embarrassing situation, when
they expected to see the homestead round every bend and wanted to arrive so as not to put their quarry on the run again. They were still sure that man and boy had come this way, by some short cut known to George. The interference of the cockatoos with their strategy forced them to sneak back across the road into the scrub on the other side and to hide till the sticky-beaks had found something better to do with their idle time. Then they got back to the road, and kept to it as much as the meandering cattle would allow. Still the Sun rose up and up, to mid-morning, past it.

  Then suddenly there was a white iron gate. But as yet no other sign of civilisation, except tracks inside, where cattle had not trod: horse and human and car tracks. Careful not to leave obvious tracks of their own, they got through the barbed fence, took a look at the tracks. None that they knew. Keeping off the road now, they went on, warily.

  Queeny saw it first: ‘Look-it!’ Glimpse of the homestead through the trees.

  Like those who had gone ahead of them, they intended to skirt the place unseen, deciding that if the pair were there, most likely they would be camped on that flat up river, since that’s where visitors used to stay, at least in the old times. ‘Old time,’ said Queeny. ‘Dat mek my heart jump t’ink-about . . . dem bloody muddrin’ black bastard . . . kill-him-die my man . . . close-up finish me. Look-it me now!’ She panted with emotion, with crowding memories, no doubt.

  Nell, staring through the trees, became aware of Mungus’s tugging on the leash she held. She jerked it angrily. But he tugged, straining with sharp nose darting about the ground, and let out a yelp of protest at the restraint. Queeny hissed at him, ‘Shut up!’ But she was also struck by his excitement over what seemed nothing, then a little ahead of him, in a patch of soft dirt, saw what he was seeing with his nose — two plain tracks, human, of an adult and a child. ‘Look-it!’ she exclaimed again.

  Nell bent over the small print, gasping in her excitement, ‘Da’s it, da’s it . . . my boy . . . my boy!’

  Given his head, Mungus dragged them along with a rush, whimpering softly. So through the further fence, and on, into the stone, causing Queeny to become excited: ‘Sunday Place . . . dis a’way to Sunday Place . . . dat place . . . dat place . . . Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus!’

  Nell looked alarmed. They stopped, to stare ahead, while Mungus strained, whimpered. Queeny said, ‘Better we go ’nother side, listen. Spone he mek bijnitch we hear him.’ She meant downwind.

  So they went on again, wary now, troubled about Mungus, too, because, having been dragged away from the scent, he wanted to howl. Queeny threatened him with the crutch. Into the thick of the rocks, listening, listening; but no sound save the bluster of the wind in the stunted trees. Queeny kept whispering, ‘Ring Place dere . . . dere. I know. Dis-a-way I come from homestead dat time . . . up from river flat . . . I been go . . . I been go . . .’ Her face was jerking with emotion. ‘Oh, Jesus . . . eh, look out!’ Mungus had found tracks again, the same tracks, of man and boy, distinct in the sand, going down towards the river.

  They studied the tracks, stood debating what to do. If there were what they called a mob, they had best go and tell the station Boss. Queeny, beside herself with the old hatred now, kept saying, ‘I kill him dat bastard die dis time. I don’t care wha’ Boss say. First chanst I get I brain him!’ She swung the crutch viciously. The straining Mungus, taking fright at the movement, snatched the leash out of Nell’s hand, and finding himself free, went flying through the rocks towards the river. The women looked at each other with horror. A moment. Then Nell cried, ‘My boy . . . my boy dere!’ She started off after the dog. Queeny called on her to wait. But she went running through the rocks.

  Nell came to the steep wall, stopped, stared about the flat. The horses were there, snorting, disturbed no doubt by Mungus. Then she caught a glimpse of the little dog running round that low bush. She was starting to descend when Queeny came up, panting, ‘Wha’ nam’?’

  Nell breathed, ‘Nutching I see.’

  ‘Wait, wait!’ said Queeny. ‘Might-be he sit down lil bits more far. Might-be he go long o’ station camp. Better we gitchim dog first-time. Gi’ me hand get down.’

  They reached the little tree to see Mungus at the water’s edge. They glanced at the tracks about the tree. There was a bit of ochre and a rag of khaki. Nell snatched up the rag, smelt it. Then Mungus, looking across the rushing stream began to bark . . . kai-kai-kai-kai!

  ‘Bugger dat dog!’ hissed Queeny. They both started out to stop him. He came running to them barking. They grabbed him, silenced him with thumps. Squeaking he dragged them back to where he had been barking at the water’s edge. There plainly in mud churned up formerly by horses going to drink were the fresh prints of man and boy, heading into the water, and depressions in the ooze, and none nearby to show that they had gone there only to drink. Mungus dragged them into the water, and standing, staring across, raised his head and howled.

  Queeny said, ‘Dey go ’cross dere . . . on’y two-feller.’

  ‘We go,’ said Nell.

  ‘Might-be water too deep.’

  ‘I don’ know. I never been crost dere. Dat wahji place, I t’ink.’

  ‘Da’s right. I ’member. I don’ care wahji. Jesus look out me.’

  ‘I got ’o get back my boy.’

  ‘I got ’o kill dat old man die.’

  So they crossed, having to pick Mungus up and carry him to save him from being swept away. Over and up the other side, and onto the scent again. The cockatoos weren’t there today. They must have been the gang that harassed them back along the road. On up the creek they went. The day was well on, with the Sun over the rim of the escarpment. They reached the men’s camp of the night before. Tired out, they rested, but intended to climb out and go on with the hunt. However, the cockatoos came in and spotted them, and made such a din that they decided to wait till the birds settled down, lest they go with them and betray them. It was dark when they made the climb. Then the waste of rock and stunted scrub intimidated them. They found a shelter from the wind, and settled down, made a supper of guavas and cumquats, and fell asleep — if sleep it could be called, that fearful huddling together in a land of moah, where every rock, seen against the stars, seemed a crouching form, and the very stars in setting over the rim of the black flatness to be taking a last look in order to report to whatever menace lurked below.

  Just over that rim, in comfort and at ease as those to whom moah held no terrors, the two males were camped in an overhang immediately opposite Aldinbinyah, which reared its head about a mile away, measuring down the steep gully intervening and up again. As a whiteman would see it, it was the headland of another projection of this plateau, a mass of rock that for some reason had better withstood the eroding effect of the ages which had levelled most of the rest of the high country thereabout. But it was not whiteman’s country, and perhaps never likely to be, so that the blackman’s reasoning that it was a Shade of the Old One, Tchamala, was the proper one. Indeed, reared against a purple sky, with the swinging stars, the Cross, the Scorpion, to give it fresh eyes as the others winked out, it looked remarkably like the flat head of a serpent rampant. George and Prindy had supped on a small wallaby, a whip-tail.

  George told Prindy that tomorrow they must do a bit of painting in the Snake Caves over yonder. He said the Wind Spirits, to be heard humming round the Snake’s Head, were on again about that trouble ahead. He couldn’t make it out, since they were doing everything the Pookarakka would require of them, and were equipped to meet and pass any challenge that might be made to their going whither they were bound. However, a bit of painting might put matters right. It would certainly please the Wise One to know that his Mekullikulli had left his print here along with all the other Snake Men of the ages.

  In the morning they waited to see the Snake’s Head blaze back at the stare of Kurrawaddi. George said it was dangerous to be too close to Aldinbinyah when he was like that because the moah was too strong.

  When it was safe and Aldinbinyah was just a mass
of red and mauve and yellow rock, to all appearance, the pair descended into the gully. Here was a patch of rainforest, so that the sky was hidden by foliage, the ground overgrown with ferns. Orchids and staghorns hung from mossy branches. There were bushes of blackberries that George said were good eating; and they fed as they went. The trees were full of birds of many kinds. Water trickled through the mossy rocks. Aldinbinyah was completely lost to sight. It was a drop down of a good five hundred feet, into another world.

  Then they began to climb and to catch glimpses of the brilliant rock, almost directly overhead, and as if looking down at them. The moah was very strong in here, George said. In thunderstorms the magic in the form of balls of fire rolled round the rocks. Suddenly they were out of the timber, and there was nothing but the rock. No birds up here. Even an eagle sailing down the gully was evidently keeping clear of it. Now the voices of the Wind Spirits were loud in their calling up there where round the scarlet head the very violet sky seemed whirling. So full of moah, so full of menace, the very air. Oh, oh, oh! the Spirits cried outside; and there was hollow calling back to them from the cracks and caves: Moom, moom, moomba!

  The pair toiled upward through the rocks, where the only growth was a kind of lank spinifex, almost animalian in appearance, like spined creatures crouching. Up and up, diverging to the right, there being nothing ahead but the sheer upward curving face of the mass, the throat of the out-thrust head as it were. On the right the mass was less smooth, since eroded not simply by the southeast winds but by the northwest storms. Here at the base were overhangs. They reached the base and its comparatively level going, and halted, to rest and take the views of North and West. Mainly it was trees, trees, trees, hills at great distance: the Queen Victoria country, according to George. Southwest was nothing but blue haze. There was the desert, George said, created by Tchamala when he let the water out of the great swamp where the Frog People had dwelt. They would go into the desert, see the Frog Men in rock.