Cicada

by Moira McKinnon

  Emily swung around. ‘Where can we go? The sea—can we go there?’

  Wirritjil didn’t answer. She knew the stories and songs to take them there, but it was the wrong time of year. Everything was different since white people had come. They were forced to change their rhythms to fit these new people, to travel stories in a season when they were not meant to be travelled. Her husband said soon new stories would come and the white people would understand. Wirritjil thought about the new story she would tell her children of how the white woman turned into a wirrilijkel and flew with coloured wings into the sky and the Wandjina gave her eyes so she could see all the animals.

  Whenever there was dust distant on the road she threw leaves and dirt over herself and Emily and they sat motionless in the speckled green and grey of the bush. Three policemen and an Aboriginal man in policeman’s clothes cantered fast along the road heading towards Fitzroy Crossing.

  ‘Policem.’ Wirritjil pointed to their disappearing figures and hurried across the wide river bed heading north-west away from the road.

  They came to country that was a sea of waist-high maize grass, empty of grain and rippling in the wind. The yellow of the grass was broken with mounds of sharp grey rock and castles of black anthills. In the evening, clouds peppered the silvery blue sky like the scales on a black bream, or tumbled storm-blown with the sun behind.

  Wirritjil pointed to the new growth on the boab trees. Above the bulbous trunks, green buds of leaf and white flowers adorned the uplifted branches as if making an offering to the rumbling sky.

  Wirritjil sang, as she always did, to the land, turning back to face where they had come from, waving her hands low and wide as if to include all land, all beings.

  ‘Make ’em grow,’ she said.

  Emily lost track of the words that Wirritjil used for lightning. There was the lightning that rose in the clouds like a heart’s pulse, muderra, huge silver sheets that dazzled the world for a few seconds, manan, the waves of light from the centre of a storm, menan, and the jagged razor sticks, menan menan, that struck at the earth. The lightnings all had stories. So did fire and rain. Wirritjil told Emily that the freshwater crocodile stole the people’s firestick and was going to put it out. The green parrot rescued a coal and flew away with it, that’s why it had red on its wings now. Emily struggled to listen.

  Fires came suddenly. Wirritjil knew well before Emily saw or smelt the smoke. Sometimes Wirritjil ran towards the fire, spearing the lizards as they ran from it. Other times she told Emily they must run from the fire. It depended on the wind, the type of country and the heat and colour of the flame. Each fire was different. Each type had a different name.

  Fire became their source of food and their conversation with the animals. They spoke with the kilpa of the coming flames and later they ate him, singed and dying on the edge of the fire’s path. Wirritjil and Emily at times scurried in front of the fires with the lizards and snakes, or ran and hid like the goannas and the possums, or skimmed along with the whistling kite and the chicken hawks hunting the animals fleeing before the flames; other times they hovered like the black hawk and the crows to see what was left, dying or dead.

  Emily emptied her mind and thought only of the present moment, of the sounds of the bush, the feel of the wind, the need for water and food. To think of the moments gone and those to come only caused her grief. In such grief she would sink and pray for the ground to swallow her, and Wirritjil would sit by her and sing and wait until the wind tugged at Emily’s hair or a bird’s call interrupted Emily’s thoughts and she came back to where Wirritjil was.

  Water was hard to find and the drover’s leather bag was often empty. The red pindan scorched Emily’s feet and she hopped from hummock to hummock. After noon they slept in the shadow on the east side of an anthill. In the cool of evening they collected the brown seeds the ants heaped at the base, smashed them to a granular powder, added water and rolled the dough through the coals to give it a skin then let it cook slowly.

  Emily dreamt of rivers in England and of the water whirling about her, suffocating her, but in her dream she was never rescued and instead the water slipped away to nothing and she would wake thirsty.

  Seven days out, the full moon rose fat and scarlet, a mirror of the sun as it burnt to the horizon. They were walking now on a hard-baked soil with patchy sheets of shale and nearby were low ranges of flat, finely layered rock. Emily knew now that there might be rock holes in this kind of country, juwerlenywerleny country. They searched but the rock holes were dry. Wirritjil dug a twisted scraggly plant near a dry waterhole and gave Emily a fleshy root to suck on. They walked through the night across the pindan under a sky that glittered with ruby stars and a smoky pink moon.

  They followed a meandering dry creek bed until they reached a depression surrounded on three sides by rock. Wirritjil dug between the shelves of rock with hard bark. The mounds of sand grew on either side and the hole was three feet deep when she came to moisture in a soil of mixed sand and clay. Emily climbed down into the hole, licked at the clay and coughed, spitting out the dirt. Wirritjil dug deeper. She made a hollow with dry grass and covered it with sticks, sand and clay on top, then dozed in the shade of a rock on the hot sand.

  The sun slipped towards the earth without slowing its heat. Emily lay in the hole wrapped around the grass hollow. Wirritjil gave her a reed. There was less than half a cup of water. Emily sucked so hard the reed collapsed and she threw it down, ready to cry.

  Wirritjil handed her another.

  In the evening there was more water. It tasted of dirt and leaf. When the moon was high there was enough to scoop in their cupped hands.

  They drank and Wirritjil lay by Emily, the ground still warm on their backs.

  ‘When fella go dead, one dem campfire go.’ She waved her hand at the stars. ‘When fella come back, mebbe not same fella, dem campfire come back.’

  Emily thought about the stars that never went out. Who would belong to that campfire, only those who never died, always here on earth?

  In the morning the water was inches deep. Wirritjil dribbled mouthfuls into the water bag. They stayed by the soak through the day, emptying it every few hours. As the sun lowered in the afternoon they set off westwards again.

  Trevor loaded the horses with water bags and rations. Charcoal sat uncomfortably. The boy grinned with delight but was wary of the horse’s head and teeth. In a short time he was crawling over the horse with the tenacity of a fly, scrambling up its neck to slip the bridle on and off.

  The boy told Trevor his skin was Jangala, and that he was Juwurru Charcoal’s grandson. He laughed then and said he was Charcoal’s grandfather too, just like all other Jangala. He said Trevor should call him Jangala.

  Charcoal and Jangala carried bark pouches, digging sticks, a short spear and two long spears. The old man gave the boy his long spears to carry and Jangala beamed and held them resting on his shoulder as he had seen the old man do.

  They struck out along the Fitzroy River heading west. At first Jangala walked, leading Charcoal’s horse, and the old man gave directions. Trevor followed. Charcoal did not look at the ground or the passing trees for tracks or signs. All was blurred through his eyes yet he read the shadows and matched them with passing colours and changes of light caused by movement or a cloud high in the sky. He listened to birds, insects and the leaves in different breezes, and felt the moisture in the soil and in the air, and the strength and direction of the wind on his face. In his darkening world he could pick starlight and knew the constellations. He knew the time of day and night in the fuzz of light that was the moon and where it sat in the power of the sun.

  Trevor was uneasy. He wondered at his madness trusting the old man. He watched him closely, waiting for a slip of malevolence or an indication that he was tricking him and really out for revenge because of his wife’s indiscretion. He tried to remember the path they were travelling in case he needed to escape. He reminded himself that this old man was the only connection
he had to Wirritjil and so to Emily. He had no choice. He kept his rifle loose across his saddle, and then wondered at his foolishness and his fear.

  Charcoal mumbled in his language. At first Trevor thought he was trying to tell him something, then he realised he was speaking to the boy, or someone else far away. At night, Trevor tried to stay awake as the old man drew in the sand and told stories to Jangala in the light of the fire.

  On the third day they turned at an angle away from the river.

  Trevor stopped. ‘Why are we going south?’

  ‘Women’s go thatta way.’ The boy pointed north-west.

  ‘Why we go this way?’

  ‘Horse more quick thissa way.’

  Charcoal and Jangala moved away at a slow steady pace. Trevor gazed at the sandy reaches of the river and back to the figures growing smaller in the distance. He saw Jangala’s hand waving, beckoning him forwards. He shook his head and, with a last look at the river, cantered to catch up.

  They crossed dry watercourses but soon the country became open with thin grasses and only patches of scrub. Jangala told Trevor it would be some time before rain. The flowers hadn’t fallen from the boab trees and he hadn’t seen any fireflies yet. Charcoal did not drink during the day and walked most of the way. He stopped abruptly at times and looked to a patch of scrub or a distant sand hill. The boy ran fast holding his short spear ready but usually returned empty-handed. He did not want to dig for goanna as it would take too long and a big hole would be a lot of work for one boy.

  On the fourth day since turning from the river they were travelling mile after mile over rises of rough sandstone rock with rivers of red sand in between. Trevor sifted the sand through his fingers; it was so dry and hot it seemed as if the movement itself might spark a flame.

  In the evening, Jangala dragged a black-headed python back to the camp. It was long and thick, clubbed and bloody around its head and with a lump in the first part of its body. They cooked it across the coals without gutting it and when they opened it, inside was a goanna. Charcoal chuckled and told the boy that he was very clever to trick the python into catching the goanna for him.

  Trevor came to understand that constant thirst was the way to travel, that need for water could be minimised by not thinking about it, by going slow, by sleeping in the hot hours, by not talking, not worrying. They replenished their water from two small springs in what Trevor thought were unlikely places along the way.

  A week into the journey Charcoal stopped at a scattered set of small stones no different to many they had passed. He dug deep and they came to rocks which were moist. He lined the sides with grass and soon water seeped in and after some hours it had settled and they drank.

  That night Charcoal took Jangala aside and in the moonlight he showed the boy how to hold the long spear. Charcoal half squatted and, with the spear balanced horizontally, moved forwards on his tiptoes, pinpointing an animal in the distance and drawing his arm back. He folded to the ground with a laugh and handed the spear to the boy.

  Before the sun rose the boy was awake, his hand tight around the long spear and his grin as wide as his face. His arm muscles tensed and he lifted the spear slightly, his toes stretched and his knees bent. Trevor watched as the boy worked through each step of the hunt of his prey, keeping himself stealthy and silent.

  ‘Hey, Jangala, what is your other name?’

  ‘Janarra.’

  ‘Little bit like that outlaw man.’

  ‘Him gone.’

  ‘He killed a lot of people.’

  ‘Him good spear, good gun. He know ’em that gun.’

  ‘Do you hate us?’

  Jangala Janarra sat up. ‘What dat?’

  ‘Angry at white people?’

  ‘What dat?’

  Trevor grimaced and clenched his fists. ‘Make ’em mad to kardiya.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He is Bunuba, you Gidja.’

  ‘He blackfella. Kardiya kill blackfella. He kill kardiya.’

  ‘I am a whitefella.’

  ‘Yeah, you whitefella, kardiya.’ Janarra put his hand on the long spear and lifted it a little. He looked at Trevor and there was no smile, just all the seriousness he could muster.

  Perez knocked nails into a makeshift structure of stripped poles and canvas to shelter the Model T Ford. He walked around it, thinking about which way the water might flow if it rained. He strengthened the western side with another layer of canvas, for he knew most storms came from that direction.

  He considered the cart that the mules would drag behind the hunting party, estimating the number of water containers that might fit and what else they would need. The cart would always be a distance behind, maybe a day’s ride. It was a small insurance should they run out of rations.

  Perez knew he would need to relinquish his twice-daily wash. He would make do with a dampened rag. But he must, he decided, have his privacy, and as the highest-ranked officer he would have a tent he could stand up in. They would of course take swags and mosquito netting for the other police. Food, there was little choice; it would be dried beef, flour, tea and sugar. It was the supply of water that worried him. He had seen men brought out of the desert, their skin like yellow parchment and inside their kidneys were dried up and shrivelled. All water did then was to fill their lungs and add to the misery of their death. The rain would come, Perez knew, but it might taunt for weeks, recalcitrant in the bundled clouds.

  ‘I pray for an early light rain,’ he muttered.

  He walked inside and cranked the gramophone. He stood with his hands on his hips and listened to the rise of the violin, high and sweet then fading. He thought, as always, of autumn leaves lifted by the wind, gold against a dark blue sky, floating then fluttering to an earth covered with a fine white snow. He saw her in her fine flowing dress, her long black hair and Spanish eyes. She smiled at him and he would look behind to see if there was someone else and when he turned back she was laughing and beckoning to him. He would hesitate, thinking of his duties, and she would fade. He liked the fantasy, he liked the melancholy and he liked the fact that she was at his fingertips, all he had to do was play Bach. One day he would keep playing and she would stay.

  He wondered for a moment about taking the gramophone, wrapping its awkward bulk with its sharp corners in a blanket and securing it to a pack horse. He had brought it all the way from Broome for he knew in this hurtful land he needed the caress of the violin and the soothing, teasing vision of love to steady his heart and mind.

  ‘I will carry the music, here.’ He put his hand to his chest and held it there as he closed his eyes, thinking of the melody and the lady, both he had decided long ago came from heaven, then he smoothed his trousers and brushed the dust from his boots.

  Outside, he greeted the three policemen and the black tracker as they led their horses towards the police station. He gave them a summary of his deliberations. Horses and camels would both slip when the rains came but what was needed was speed. Horses it would be. He spoke to the officers individually, inquiring after their wellbeing and that of their families, commiserating at the great distances that separated them from those they loved. He paid special attention to the tracker.

  ‘Ferdinand—I believe that is your name—I will be relying on you, in truth, to lead us to the murderer.’

  The man, a half-caste, nodded and adjusted his belt on the new clothes he had been issued.

  ‘I understand you are from down the track, Carnarvon way, and you don’t know the people or language.’

  Ferdinand looked up and nodded again.

  Perez put his hand on the man’s shoulder. The tracker took a step back. The Sergeant removed his hand quickly.

  ‘It is probably a good thing, you not knowing them. Allows you to apply the law as requested without influence. You know the civil law, of course. You have been in a foster home for a bit?’

  ‘Little bit.’

  The face of the tracker was impervious, his eyes looking to some place far past
Perez.

  Perez continued, ‘I understand your people. If you lead us quick, you will get a bonus. You will like that, won’t you? Flour, sugar, maybe even some coin.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant Perez.’

  Perez smiled at the man’s English and polite address. He gestured to a full-blood Aboriginal standing a few yards behind him, wearing dirty cotton pants and shirt, no shoes. ‘We have a man here, a local, to help find water. His name is Ned.’

  Ned stood tall but his eyes were focused on the ground.

  Although Perez wanted to leave immediately, Ferdinand took his time finding a lead in the maze of activity around the town site. He showed Perez the women’s camp. The sergeant found it difficult to believe that the shallow hollows in the ground and the scattered leaves at the base of the white gum could be evidence of anything at all and he wondered at the tracker’s authenticity.

  It was another two days before Ferdinand picked up the trail from the town, the prints of bare feet. Perez was elated.

  They rode out at daybreak, four men across, four pack horses and, behind, two blackfellas. Perez was out front, his back straight and his arm held up as if leading troops into battle. The horses were sleek, the policemen’s uniforms were clean and they held their rifles tightly. A few people had gathered to watch them leave. A man, who wore a tall hat and a torn shirt, called out, ‘Catch that stinkin’ gin.’

  Tom Jeferies rose from his small camp bed outside of his tin office. He stood in his singlet and loose pants and watched as the hunting party turned westwards. He sat back down. The heat came as the sun rose and sweat trickled down his face. He should go, get out now, but he couldn’t. He splayed his hands and his fingers trembled. He stared at the dirty chewed nails and the flabby digits spotted in black where the hairs entered the skin. He pulled a Bible from under the mattress and opened it to the first pages of the New Testament.

  ‘In the Beginning God created Heaven and Earth.’

  Black people were part of God’s earth. Created by Him. In God’s name. God put them here to test us, to see whether we care for all his creatures.