Now Shufflewing smiles at me. ‘Well, your pelt was tacky, really.’
‘It was not . . .’ I start, and then I realise what he is doing. I smile back. ‘Yes, it’d probably fall apart in the Crab’s camp.’
‘Or the mountain deer pelt escaped from the old Crab woman.’
We move across the Frog Hilltop to look towards the mountains.
When Yam tribe first came to Bird Island and landed at Rat Cave, we were so impressed by those mountains – Sleeping Turtle, Climbing Perch and Lizard. They made a lot of rivers, and so we called this place ‘Making Rivers’ because we had to cross Monkey River, Crocodile River and Angry River to go from Bird Lake to Snake River. But then we met the Crab tribe, and they said that this mountain place is an island. So we dropped Making Rivers and used their name, Bird Island, instead.
Crab tribe have been everywhere on Bird Island. They’ve seen flying lizards, crab-eating monkeys, caves painted orange and red, and another island off the far tip of Bird Island. But we don’t want to leave here – our camp has coconut trees, two banana trees very close, and in the Snake River are mudskippers and dusky sleepers, in the mangroves are fruit, crabs, worms and mussels, and in the deep sea there are yellow fin, mackerel and salmon.
Shufflewing has stopped picking on my deer pelt.
He is licking his lips as he rubs at the Horn and stares at the rolling hills as if he can see through the jungle. I watch him and I know that he is thinking about the Crocodiles.
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘It’s not serious all the time. I have seen nothing but monkeys racing on my days. The Crocodiles, they won’t come. And remember, we went into their den.’
He looks at me, turns towards the Snake River and makes a weak grin. ‘We did, didn’t we?’
One time, we were up here looking down at the river, and Shufflewing said, ‘I wonder how that all looks from down there.’ And I said, ‘We could follow the river one day.’ He said, ‘On the Crocodiles’ land?’ And I said, ‘We don’t care, do we?’
And that is it. We did it.
So now we are looking down on Snake River and remembering how it was. Oh, it wasn’t dangerous, really. For a start, it’s not called Snake River because of snakes in the water – we have never seen a snake there – but because the river twists like a snake. There is the tumbled tree, and the dead tree with a lightning scar that looks so angry like Fast Fish that we had to throw our spears at it. And then there are the black bamboos and the red ridge.
Our journey wasn’t much, but we liked the idea that it was almost as good as Eagle Eye’s buffalo.
I say, ‘We frightened them . . .’
‘Oh yes, for sure.’ But Shufflewing looks at the mountains and he shivers as if he is cold.
I know that feeling, but I can’t fix it. When I move from up here down to the Yam tribe camp, then he will be Elder of Frog Hill. But I guess that Shufflewing has more to worry about . . .
He says, ‘Where is Long Island?’
‘Ah . . .’ I know what he wants. I did it when I was on my first day here. ‘You can’t see it from here.’
‘I know that. But which direction is it?’
I point my spear at the wandering Snake River, the rippled hills and the glowering mountains. I jab at the mountain called Sleeping Turtle. ‘Fast Fish said that he could almost see Long Island from there. It was so high that he had to beat his arms to get the blood running.’
Crab tribe say it is the second highest mountain on the island, but it looks like a great turtle.
Shufflewing winces and steadies his legs, lifting the Horn to the Sleeping Turtle – no, he was lifting it to the other side of the Sleeping Turtle, beyond Bird Island, to Long Island with its great buffalo. He stands like that for a long moment.
I think I am smiling. He is getting the power from Eagle Eye’s buffalo against the Crocodiles, just as I did. If he sees the Crocodiles, he will look to where the buffalo has been for the strength to blow the Buffalo Horn.
‘All right?’ I say.
Shufflewing nods slowly. ‘Better. Why do the Crocodiles hate us so bad?’
I turn from the rolling hills to look again at the Yam camp. I can see Fast Fish working his canoe in the break in the mangroves, hunting for fish. Burnt Earth, Eagle Eye and most of the hunters are wading through the powder-blue shallows with their spears cocked, but Old Tortoise is on the river bank with his fish hook, waiting for a mudskipper nibble. The gatherers, with their woven dillybags dangling from their necks, are on the edge of the mangroves, and the children are playing on the sand near them. There are a couple of crocodiles – real crocodiles – in the mangroves, but they move out when the gatherers come. We don’t want to fight them, we just want them to leave us alone.
‘I don’t know,’ I shrug. ‘Maybe they don’t like our funny speak or our hair. Or maybe it’s because they were here first and they want Bird Island all to themselves . . . Doesn’t matter; you just look out for them.’
He nods but he looks as though the Horn is very heavy. I know that it is. When I had the Horn, I knew that I was looking after the Yam tribe, but he has it worse – as well as Yam, he has a family to look after because his pa died. He has his mother, Stone, and his little sister Waterlily. I don’t remember my mother – she was killed by some bad berries on the Long Island – but I think I understand what he feels.
After a while, I leave Shufflewing to go back to the Yam camp.
I am eating a mangrove crab at the campfire when the Horn blares from Frog Hill.
I look up and see the gatherers on the mangroves’ mud flats turn towards the hill, and the children stop running around each other. But the hunters are still staring at the still water, concentrating on a catch, and Fast Fish is pulling his bark canoe onto the sandbank.
The Horn blasts again but this time it is a broken note, like a wild gasp. As if Shufflewing is trying to blow the Horn while he is running.
‘Crocodiles!’ I shout as I roll across the damp sand to grab my spear.
Now the gatherers on the sand rush to their children, and those on the shallows jerk their feet out of the mud with a desperate squelch. All of them run for safety in the mangroves. The hunters lift their spears and look to Frog Hill, the sharpened points drip into the water.
Eagle Eye’s arm sweeps his spear to aim it at the sun. ‘Go!’
Brown Moss stands in the shallows, pushing the young children towards the mangroves. She grabs Waterlily from Stone and almost throws her into The Wind’s arms. Others clutch hands before they move into the shadows.
The hunters splash out of the water to the sand and I hurry to join them. But Old Tortoise won’t be rushed. He picks up his spear and his catch – two mudskippers – from the reeds, and he throws the fishes towards the camp before walking to us.
Then we wait. But there is nothing. Nothing from the Buffalo Horn, nothing from the rainbow lorikeets, not even a breath of air.
Eagle Eye looks at me. ‘Did you see Crocodiles?’
I rub a pebble with my foot. ‘No, but I heard Shufflewing with the Horn.’
‘Yes . . .’
Fast Fish leans on one of his spears. ‘The Buffalo Horn was blown. But Shufflewing is a lazy boy. He probably blew the Horn because he was bored.’
‘No, no,’ I shake my head. ‘He wouldn’t.’
Eagle Eye thinks a moment. ‘No, he wouldn’t.’
‘Ha!’ Fast Fish says.
And then I see something. ‘There!’ I point my spear at the trees.
I can see shadows filtering through the bushes on the Frog Hill slope. Eagle Eye runs across the sand and the Yam hunters charge after him, but then he stops us before the tangled purple flowers.
Fast Fish moves to his side with two other hunters. Eagle Eye is an old man but he doesn’t realise it, so he needs to be protected.
The Crocodile warriors slip out of the shadows, quiet like lizards. Suddenly my shoulders begin to tremble. Burnt Earth sees and nudges me. ‘They look like lizards. Monitor liza
rds,’ he jokes.
Those lizards can be huge on Long Island, but on this island they are only the size of two hands – I have seen Burnt Earth with one crawling on his arm. They are not lovely. Their backs are dark green with gold and blue little spots, like a muddy pool.
I look at him in amazement. Doesn’t he realise that they want to kill us?
I see how skinny he is, so skinny that he doesn’t look strong enough to lift his spear. Oh, he is as tall as Fast Fish, but he is many times my age, and there is nothing on that scrawny body. And he is always thick. I tighten my grip on my father’s spear, but I know too well that the spear is for killing fishes, not warriors.
And now the Crocodile warriors are running towards us. We lift our spears. Mine wobbles like a reed in a breeze. But they stop within a spear jab. They look like wild animals, with faces painted in ochre white, hair matted with grease, and scars on their chests. They open their mouths to show that two of their teeth have been knocked out, and they begin yelling.
Suddenly, I think of Burnt Earth’s lizards, and my mouth flicks into a grin.
The Yam hunters don’t fall back in terror. They yell back, ‘Yaah!’ I join in and that helps.
The Crocodile warriors wave their spears and thump them at the ground. And then I understand why Eagle Eye stopped us before the purple flowers. Now they don’t have enough room to throw their spears. But there is something else . . .
We shake our spears and hiss through our teeth. Crocodile’s Elder steps into the purple flowers and snarls at Eagle Eye. But Eagle Eye shouts at him and pushes forward his spear’s sharpened point.
The Crocodile Elder takes a step back and the Crocodiles yowl. Then the Elder’s foot slips on the moist purple flowers. He stabs at the sun, clutches at the air and falls into the flowers. There is a long moment of silence.
Then Eagle Eye snickers. Burnt Earth’s face cracks with a grin. Fast Fish hisses like a snake with hiccups. I grin too, and then all the Yam hunters roar in laughter. The Crocodile warriors look embarrassed.
Hey, I think. This is going to be all right. They will go back home with their spears hanging down.
The Crocodile Elder tries to get up, but the purple flowers have fat fingers full of sticky water, making his feet slide around. He falls again.
We lean on our spears and howl – Burnt Earth is laughing so hard he is having trouble breathing.
I know that the Crocodile warriors can’t help the Elder – if they try to help him, he will attack them. Eagle Eye would be the same. So they don’t, but one of them moves closer to him and the Elder clutches his leg to pull himself up.
I see his face and stop giggling. The Elder’s face is deep black with white around his lips. That’s when I know that something is going to happen and nothing can stop it.
The Elder lunges with his spear at Eagle Eye. But Burnt Earth throws his body between the spear and Eagle Eye. Burnt Earth grunts and falls down in the sand. I stare at him but my mind has seemed to stop. It seems a long time that the Crocodile warriors and the Yam hunters look at the fallen Burnt Earth.
Then I see the blood on the point of the Elder’s spear and I think that it should have been me. And then I look at the point – it is not the same as the Yam hunters’ wooden spearheads, which are like mine and for killing birds or small animals. The Elder’s spear ends with a sharp flint stone that is not for hunting fish.
For a moment, the Elder looks confused, but then he shakes his spear and screeches. The Crocodile warriors yell, shifting their spearheads to point at the hearts of the Yam hunters and charge through the purple flowers. The Yam hunters stop shouting and we lift our spears.
I think, Oh, oh, I’m dead!
A Crocodile warrior is coming after me. He points his spear’s flinthead towards my belly.
Oh, oh!
I step back, push his spear away with my spear, and he spits at me through the gap in his teeth. He looks horrible with the white face . . .
But, but . . .
Suddenly, I look at the face through the white clay, and I see he is roughly my age and I see his eyes. He is scared! Maybe more than me! I knock his spear away and stab with my spear at him. He stumbles back and hisses like a snake trapped, but another Crocodile warrior comes after me, and he disappears.
I bang my spear against the new warrior’s spear, but from that moment on, everything seems to slow down and I am aware only of fragments of the battle. I hear heavy thuds as the spears clash, grunting, panting and shouts of pain around me. Sweat from my forehead drops into my eyes as I wobble and push. My arms are now dead and my hands slip on the spear. I feel my feet slide in the purple flowers and I hear the flowers’ fingers squeal as I try to dance on them . . .
Then, somehow, I am in the clear. All the Yam hunters are beginning to gain ground. The Crocodile warriors are slithering around now and there is blood in the purple flowers. The Elder starts to fall again but he grabs a warrior’s shoulder and pulls himself away from the spears of the Yam hunters and the slippery, deadly flowers. He doesn’t fight it.
The Crocodile warriors slowly retreat from us, dripping blood as they move. Burnt Earth joins us and yells at them, but he is holding his hand on his chest. Fast Fish is leading us to follow them but Eagle Eye holds his long spear as a barrier.
‘No,’ he says. ‘Leave them.’
Fast Fish glares at him, but he stops and the Yam hunters just wave their spears and laugh at the defeated warriors.
It is a great day. Who knows, maybe Crocodiles will now stay in the mountains?
But then Shufflewing arrives.
He is hurtling down from Frog Hill, banging the Buffalo Horn on his hip, to protect his family – Stone and Waterlily. He sees the Crocodile warriors between him and the Yam hunters. He stops and tries to move out. But it is too late.
One of the Crocodile warriors points his spear at him with a shout. The Elder glances at Shufflewing for an instant – no more than that – and lifts his spear. He stretches out his right arm with the hand clutching the end of the spear, and his left arm arches to the sky. He hurls the spear into the air. It shimmers in the bright sun.
‘Shuffle . . .’ I shout.
The Crocodile warriors’ spears race after the Elder’s spear like birds lifting from a lake . . .
The next day, we take the body to a lonely part of the beach. But when I see Shufflewing laid out on branches on the sand, I think that he isn’t dead. He just doesn’t look dead. His head is leaning on his shoulder, his eyelids are closed, but his mouth is open as if he is just snoring. I want to toss the branches from his body and shake him awake.
But then I see the spear wounds on his chest, the yellow ochre on his face, arms, legs and feet. I see the claw of a bird hanging down over his chest – from his bird, the black-faced cuckoo shrike, the shufflewing.
I hear Stone sobbing through the gatherers’ wailing. Tiny Waterlily clings onto her leg as she stares at his face. And then the Buffalo Horn blasts from a distant mountain. Crocodile warriors are jeering at us.
Fast Fish, who is placing banana leaves around Shufflewing’s head, looks up at the mountain. ‘We’ve . . .’
Eagle Eye stops him with an open hand and a look as he places another banana leaf over Shufflewing’s body.
Other people add leaves, and Shufflewing begins to look like just a dead body. Then Eagle Eye turns from him, nods at me and lurches towards the Snake River. I follow him.
Eagle Eye slowly lowers himself on the damp sand of the beach near the river, folds his legs and waits for me to settle down. ‘I am sorry that Shufflewing has gone. He was a good hunter . . .’
I am wishing the gatherers would stop their wailing. I pick up a sliver of bamboo and snap it. I shrug. There is nothing to say. I want to find a cave to curl up in. But I see a small bird wobbling in the air before landing in some grass nearby. A middle bird, with grey feathers but a beak and face that is dark black. I point the broken bamboo piece at the bird.
The bird drops d
own on the sand. It shivers as its claws find a hold, and its wings lightly touch the sand as it finds its balance. For a moment it is shuffling with its wings.
Eagle Eye nods. ‘Maybe Shufflewing hasn’t gone yet.’
Fast Fish flops down next to Eagle Eye. ‘We have to do something about the Crocodiles. Now.’ He drives his axe into the sand. I see there is blood on its ground stone.
The bird shrugs sideways and then moves away, scared off by the movement of Fast Fish. I look at the bird and nod. Yes, it is time for Yam hunters to become warriors, to make flint spearhead. I don’t fear it any more. Not much.
But Eagle Eye shakes his head. ‘Have a look at our hunters. We can’t fight a bee now.’
I touch my banana-leaf bandage on my side. I had been stabbed on my right side at the battle with a spear, but I didn’t feel it until later. Burnt Earth also has a banana leaf, and the rest of the Yam camp look like walking banana trees. Brown Moss has two dillybags – one for food and one for medicine – so I and the other wounded had had crushed blue billygoat weed with tree orchids and rotting spike rushes rubbed on our cuts.
Fast Fish glances at my leaf and the fresh scar on Eagle Eye’s face. ‘They had more men.’
‘Yes.’ Eagle Eye nods. His face is always a riverbed of lines, but now looks tired. ‘Always, there will be new Crocodiles coming from the Long Island on a calm season. Always.’
‘We have to do something.’
‘We have moved away from them before. My father, his father, his father and on and on, they moved across great lands for many seasons. There was the Long Island – the mountains scraped the sky, and the jungle roared at night – and then here.’
‘Yes. Here is the end of the world,’ says Fast Fish.
Eagle Eye and Fast Fish look out through the mangroves to a vast ocean. I put my head on my knees and watch drifting clouds on the horizon, but that is all there is. There is nothing on the shimmering blue line.
‘Maybe they will stop . . .’ I say. I don’t feel like fighting the Crocodiles’ warriors any more.
‘Not a chance,’ Fast Fish says.
The First Voyage Page 2
