So up again and away, over Piss Ridge, down to the Prospectors’ Alms, to do a low run before the crowd, among whom was Baby Jem in her mother’s arms, to drop the papers and the note of apology, then on again up the Telegraph Line, fairly sweeping the poles up beneath them with a stiff sou’easter on their tail. Jeremy took over the simple task of keeping the aircraft straight and level while Fergus read the pieces in the papers. His comment was: ‘Pity it hadn’t been the Bloke you were shown dropping. Not only will the Commos make capital out of it, but that white-haired bastard, too. Certainly you’re right when you say he’s made Australian Nationalism stink for good. Still, we just can’t walk off and leave it to the Poms, the Comms, and that mad bastard.’
‘I don’t know, son. The Real Australia, the Nation as it is in fact, shocked me so deeply that it just seemed a lost cause to strive for anything better . . . that is for me. Don’t forget I’m first a Bushie . . . and a bit out of date. I’ve never looked squarely at the Nation before. My previous acquaintance with it . . . and its reality as seen in the Southern Cities, the Capitals, where two-thirds of the population live . . . has been more in the nature of short excursions into what I accepted as strange territory. This time I went, you might say, reversing the old proverb, to pray . . . but didn’t stay to mock . . . I bolted, from what was alien to me . . . made alien by aliens in great numbers, as the bush could never be. Remember, also, that I belong to a generation brought up on the idea of Australia Felix as a foregone conclusion, more or less . . . because there was then hope for it. What could I preach but a Bushie’s love of the bush to Townies? They received me well . . . all who hadn’t an ulterior motive for opposing me. But I’m convinced it was as a sort of freak they took to me . . . something out of the past for which they felt nostalgia. The way those that night of the big meeting . . . the ones supporting me, applauding me . . . bolted when the reality presented itself in the form of the faction fight, convinced me of my freakishness. Those two factions represent the idea of Australia Felix now. As yet they’re fakes, because they’re dominated as much by overseas interests as the others. Maybe they’ll always remain fakes . . . because a place begotten in such rottenness can’t throw anything to the top but rubbish. I saw I was the odd man out. Didn’t the Bloke tell me that when he called me the Bastard from the Bush and told me to get back to it?’
Glancing at Fergus, who was biting his bunny lip and frowning as if deeply chagrined, he placed a hand on his knee. ‘It’s up to you now, son, if you want something better. Alfie’s idea of a book is a good one. Maybe you could help her. You’re a clever writer yourself . . . and could bully her where she’s wanting. She’s got talent . . . if not strength to do great things with it. There’s a job for you. Only leave me out of it.’
Fergus asked, ‘And what’s going to happen to you?’
‘I’ve got plenty to keep me busy till I’m ready to die. I want to do something to save the blacks from the obliteration that threatens them now in place of the old extinction. As I see it . . . the new deal for them is much the same as Cobbity’s old one . . . breed ’em out, make ’em white. Then I’ve got more to do about conservation. With militarism marching into the land it’ll be torn apart with roads and camps and fortresses.’
‘Then why not take over that command to get control of it?’
Fergus went on to say that lately he had been talking to Rifkah, and she, while displeased with his having taken to politics, was all in favour of his taking the command for the sake of the blacks. Leopold Mission felt the same. He said he had gone there with Old Whiskers immediately after the General’s return to the North. Esk had gone there primarily to apologise to Rifkah for the trouble he had caused her, and as an earnest gift had presented her with ownership of Red Rory, whom he wanted her to run for the next Cup. He went on to say that Whiskers himself had heard of what had happened to Jeremy at the meeting and was pleased with it, evidently as something that would drive him back to do what he wanted of him. Rifkah and Prindy were quite happy at the Mission, he reported. Both would be over for the Races.
Speaking again of the effect on him of having to abandon the dream of a lifetime, Jeremy told how he had thought of setting out for home from Newcastle on foot, to beat his way across country, avoiding as much settlement as possible, as he said: ‘To walk it out of my system. The idea of the rush home, by train and plane . . . or rather, the walking in home after such a rush and in such a state of mind . . . was too much to contemplate. I felt it would do me some harm, crush me somehow. But there didn’t seem much sense in battling as a bagman for six months or so only adding to my burden of disappointment in my fellow-countrymen the bush-bastardry I was already only too well acquainted with . . . because I’d have to rely on homestead handouts. So I arrived at a sort of compromise. I reckoned that if I got you to fly me the last of the way, and put me down in some truly wild place not so far from home, battling the rest of the way, living off the land, would do the trick. I bought an outfit for the purpose. What about that hide-out of yours for the plane, up on the Plateau? If you’ll put me down there, you can take the rest of my gear on home . . . with a note for Nan explaining. Okay?’
They were well up the Telegraph Line, about halfway between Ilfracombe Station and the Railhead, when they spotted Billy Brew’s plant pulled up at a bore. The old fellow was out before his great press of donkeys staring up. Jeremy said he’d like to drop down and give Billy a wave and toss him out those newspapers. Fergus said that they could easily land there. But Jeremy stuck to his resolve to see no one yet. He wrote a note for rolling in with the papers: Largely bullshit. Will give the facts when I see you Race Time. Bring four quiet donks — jacks and jennies. J. Delacy. As they flew on their way again, Jeremy explained that he wanted the donkeys as a gift for the Leopold Mission.
Reaching the railway, they kept well to eastward of it, and so in coming to the Plateau, avoided Beatrice River township and Lily Lagoons homestead. An hour before sunset they landed on the ancient Ring Place.
Jeremy changed into his bushman’s outfit. Fergus was troubled by the fact that he had no food or any means of getting it except a large clasp knife. Jeremy said, ‘If I can’t live off this country as I am, son, I don’t deserve to live in it.’
Fergus took off. Jeremy stood watching his dust, all that could be seen of him, as he flew into the sou’easter, straight over the edge of the Plateau. The dust dispersed as the engine-sound diminished. Then the sound ceased, as Fergus cut his motors to glide down to Lily Lagoons, a good day’s walking from here, but only a matter of minutes in the style of the Old One. Silence — like a Presence. Jeremy looked around. That silence must have poured into his ears after all the dinning they had suffered during past weeks. He heaved a great sigh, started for the gilding Sun now balanced on the Plateau’s rim. Then, as if with his moving a spell was broken, the silence broke. The evening orchestras of the insects burst forth. Somewhere, half a mile apart, butcher birds were carolling a chorus. Down in the timber below the escarpment white cockatoos were starting the eternal dispute about night perches. The wind was dying with the day. As Jeremy went, it seemed as if his long blue shadow had leapt out of the sacred earth behind and was following, stride for stride at first, till the flat gave way to the slabs of rock, when it took to dodging and leaping and lurking, scaring the peeping brush-tails.
With a last flaring that lit things strangely, the Sun vanished over the escarpment. Then the long shadows rushed together, as if to whisper of the business of the night. Against the luminous sky a flock of small birds was seen to fly in from eastward, to halt in their progress, to circle, to hover, then to dip down to a clump of bushes bigger than most of the poor growth hereabout. Water would be there. Jeremy headed that way, but veered off as a new sound came into the twittering of the birds, telling that he had been seen. Best to let them settle down. He went onto the edge.
The Sun was down now, and all the world blue, save the tumbled rocks below, which still glowed with the col
ours, the crimson, scarlet, orange, of the horizon. The blue was darkening, rocks paling to mauve, West’s ruddiness taking on the tinge of green of showy petals where they meet the calyx. The flower died in its green cup. The bush turned black. The rocks aged grey. A star winked on the ragged western horizon. It would be Sirius, considering the hour and the time of year, as anyone should know, except those fool enough to ignore the glorious things of earth of which the heavens are a part. It was called Nyang by local tribes, and supposed to be the Shade of the Fly, who vanished at this time of year because of the onset of what was called Cold Weather Time. One should be able to tell the date by the stars — even the time. One should know the stars as well as the lineaments of one’s own hand. Sun, Moon and Stars — yet Jeremy, the knowing one, looked surprised when he turned from West to East to find Igulgul up and peeping at him through the scrub.
He watched Igulgul climb the silvery blue a little way, while Igulgul watched him, as if calculating how to deal with him on this night of his own fullness and Wrong side magic. Then he moved towards the water. His coming was greeted by sleepy twittering of protest. He moved slowly, quietly, to avoid undue alarming.
The clump of bushes shaded a small rock-hole, probably fed by a spring from the mass of rock behind, but in wet weather part of what must be a brawling stream, judging by the sandy channel winding past. He bent to the water, tried a handful, then put his new hat to its first bushman’s use by dipping it in and drawing a quart. Now a Kirrikijirrit was singing down below. Also down there was a Gogul calling that the coast was clear of No-good bijnitch: Mopoke, mopoke, mopoke!
Jeremy left the hole, to follow the channel a short distance to a spot where there was a stretch of sand wide enough and clear of rock to make a bed in. He dropped to knees, dug a hip hole and with the dug stuff built a pillow, in such a way as not to have Igulgul staring him in the face all night. He sat down, removed boots and socks, put the latter in his hat and folded this over the pillow-mound, then with a sigh stretched out. Last night he had gone to sleep to the clang and scream of trams, the revving and tooting of cars, the yelping of Saturday night’s boozers. How different to do so to the love-singing of the Willy wagtail and the quiet calling of the Mopoke that all was well!
It was near midnight when Jeremy woke — startled — although there was no sound in the world. No Mopoke!
He didn’t move. Only his wide staring and the rigidity of his body showed that he had been startled — by something on the left of him, the way he had been lying, and above him. Not Igulgul. The Old One was looking over his shoulder. A moment of this intense immobility. Suddenly he sat up. His eyes dropped to the sand beside him. It was untrod, unmarked. He had made his bed from the other side. He looked upward again, to about that point to which he had been attracted on waking, then beyond the low left bank of the channel . . . Nothing. He looked right round slowly, searchingly. He glanced at the Moon. He muttered, ‘But I could swear to it!’
He looked at his own short shadow, at the shadowy right bank. There was nothing near to throw a shadow longer than a foot or so. Again he looked around, and muttered again, ‘I wasn’t dreaming. I was wide awake. I saw the face distinctly, the glint of the eyes . . . the shiny blackness of the face . . . like a polished boot.’
Then the Mopoke started up again: Mopoke, mopoke — de coast is clear!
That roused the Willy wagtail to his silver kirrikijirriting. Far away a dingo called. Another, still further, answered. The birds in the bushes twittered sleepily.
Jeremy seemed not to hear, sitting staring at nothing now, or perhaps at the memory of what he had seen, or now conceded he had imagined seeing, since he muttered, ‘Halluncination . . . the first I’ve ever experienced . . . wonder what that means?’
At length he rose. Even now he looked about as if expecting to see something to corroborate his fancy, again at the ground, as if for tracks. Then he went in the direction of the waterhole. The birds began to twitter again. He moved more slowly, took a drink, then returned to his hip-hole.
He sat again, but did not lie, sat for a while, then got out his socks, shook the sand out of them, donned them and his boots, took up his hat, looked around again, still expectant in his mien. He stepped out of the channel and headed for the cliff edge. It was easy going in the brilliance. Soon he was seated again, on a rock overlooking the silvery world below, his shadow now a series of black blobs on the rocks below. A brush-tail down there went to investigate a blob when it moved. He raised an arm. The Marmaroo shot into the air, to land twenty feet away and vanish. ‘Shadows,’ he muttered. ‘But that wasn’t a shadow I saw. At least, it was a shadow cast by my own mind. But I wonder why? Why a huge blackman?’
After a while he rose, evidently went looking for a way to get down from here, since when he came to it, he set about descending. It was slow going and not nearly so easy here in the shadow of great rocks. He disturbed a python in one shadowy place, halted while it fled from him with dry slithering and clatter of dislodged stones. Further down, where there were substantial trees, a couple of possums spotted him, but far from fleeing, followed him for a while, travelling from tree to tree, swinging by tails, flying through the air, scolding him. That he was anything but depressed by the experience that had aroused him was evident enough in his comical answering the scolders back: ‘Look out I’m not a moomboo and jump up and grab you by the tails and eat you.’ The word Moomboo seemed to fascinate him for a while thereafter, by his constant breathing of it. Then it was the word Hallucination. He repeated it many times.
He headed down towards the Turtle Hole and eventually reached it, drank from it, stretched himself out on the grass there, and stared at Igulgul getting down close to the western shoulder of the Plateau, over near the Snake Caves. With hands behind his head, he asked himself, ‘What’s an hallucination? Seeing something that doesn’t exist. No . . . rather, it exists only to the person who has it. The hallucinations of delirium are real enough. In DT’s people try to kill the things they imagine, try to escape from them. An hallucination is a manifestation of a state of mind, then.’ He seemed to doze on that. But it wasn’t long before he roused, rose, went on his way, which was along the road.
Thus he came to the turn-off of the Limestone. There he seemed undecided what to do, and sat down. Still the matter of the hallucination was troubling him: ‘Why should I have a manifestation like a blackfellow? Why see a moomboo, when I should be seeing monsters like the Archbishop, Silver Tongue, the Chief, the Bloke? Strange that I haven’t seen anything like this before . . . and then all of a sudden, when I come home . . . must be something significant. I never felt closer to the land before.’
After a while he murmured, ‘Billy Brew hinted once of seeing something, I remember. I said it was because he lived like a blackfellow, he thought like one. He didn’t like it. I was only joking. I didn’t take him seriously. I must ask him again . . . carefully.’
He rose, still undecided, by his standing, looking in either direction. Igulgul, with a wink, went over the edge of the escarpment. Then suddenly he said, quite loud, ‘Yes . . . I think I will. I don’t feel like wanting to be on my own now. It’ll be a better way of coming home. I should’ve thought of it at the time . . . but then I wouldn’t have had that experience to share with him. Yes . . . that’s what I’ll do. If I move, I ought to catch young Fergus.’
He swung in the direction of Lily Lagoons, fell into a long stride.
Coming clear of the escarpment, he soon had the moonlight again. Igulgul watched him all the way to the top gate, vanished, to leave it to his old enemy, the Ol’Goomun-Ol’Goomun, already with the faint glow of her coming getting the butcher birds out to rouse the rest of the world. As he entered the race track the horses saw him, whiffed him, came galloping to greet him. He was able to give them all a touch before Elektron snapped and kicked into full possession of him. There was the Junkers standing as a grey blur by the fuel-shed.
Jeremy left the horses at the inner gate, passed the
Aboriginal quarters, where no one was yet abroad, since it is contrary to Aboriginal custom to get out before full daylight, unless forced. He passed through the mangoes. Light in the kitchen of the Big House, as always at piccaninny daylight. He headed for it. Through the fly-screen, Nan and Fergus could be seen seated at the table drinking tea.
Jeremy knocked, and as the others glanced, called in a mendicant blackfellow’s whine, ‘Mitchitch!’
Taken in, she answered, ‘Wha’ name you want?’
‘Me hungry, Mitchitch . . . you gi’ me lil bits?’
She rose, saying, ‘Who dat come wantin’ tucker be-fore deelight?’
She came to the door, opened it, gaped. He smiled, opened his arms to her. But she was a moment in coming to him. From surprise her expression changed suddenly to searching. Then she came, kissed him, dropped her curly head on his breast, clung for a moment, then quickly withdrew and looked searchingly at him again. He asked, ‘I meant what I said just now. I’m starving.’ She giggled, wheeled about to rush to the storeroom.
Fergus, also, was gaping. Jeremy came up to him, saying, ‘Captain Bullshit, I presume. Have you been shooting the bull all night or only just started for the day?’
Fergus was looking searchingly, too. ‘You didn’t take long to get it out of your hide.’
‘No,’ said Jeremy, sitting down and taking a finger of buttered toast.
‘You look a different man,’ said Fergus.
‘Maybe I’m just the same man as before . . . only I was different yesterday.’
‘No . . you look different altogether.’
‘How?’
‘Can’t say, really . . . less . . . well, forbidding . . . I mean, you used to have a look that scared us lesser mortals . . . and yesterday you looked set against the world. Say . . . you must’ve travelled to get here so quick!’
‘I wanted to catch you. Will you be able to fly me back a bit of the way we came yesterday?’
Poor Fellow My Country Page 188
