‘No. They will be back,’ Eagle Eye says.
I feel the spear wound throbbing, and then the bird cocks its head at me as if it can hear the throb. It blinks at me and flits away. Then the other black-faced cuckoo shrikes seem to be frightened by the movement of the bird. Their wings smack the grass, the bushes, then shiver into the open sky to join it.
‘Oh,’ I say.
‘What?’ Fast Fish asks.
‘Shufflewing left.’
‘We could be like the little people in the Long Island hiding in the mountains . . .’ says Eagle Eye.
I remember that Pa talked about them once, men who were no bigger than short boy – Shufflewing would be a giant to them. They would come from the mountains to trade deer for fish.
Fast Fish snorts. ‘We are too big and need too much food to stay in the mountains. I suppose we could move into the Crab country.’
Eagle Eye shakes his head. ‘They don’t deserve Crocodiles.’
Fast Fish shrugs. ‘I’m going to get a fish.’ He stands and moves towards his bark canoe, but he looks back to Eagle Eye and stops with a frown.
Eagle Eye watches the birds whirring away, and he slowly sucks his lip.
‘Now they’re leaving the Bird Island,’ I say.
‘Only the cuckoo shrikes today,’ Fast Fish mutters.
Like Eagle Eye, I watch the birds as they become black dots shimmering in the blue. I think to myself, They just went off. They had a little fright, so they figured that, since they were in the air, they may as well go off somewhere.
I wish I was a bird . . .
But Eagle Eye’s face has got a funny look on it. The frown has died to be replaced by the beginnings of a smile.
We look at him.
‘I think Shufflewing is showing us the way,’ he says.
Fast Fish squats behind us. ‘What?’
Eagle Eye points at the disappearing birds. ‘Those are not going to another part of the island. They are going across the ocean.’
‘Yes . . .’
‘There is a land out there.’
Fast Fish frowns. ‘What are you thinking? Yes, maybe, but how far is it? As far as the sun?’
Eagle Eye shakes his head. ‘These cuckoo shrikes are medium birds. Not like the big seabirds like pelicans, herons. They are not built to go across the ocean and they don’t catch fish. They must reach land soon to eat and drink.’
Nobody says anything for a bit. We watch the smudge in the still air and the dead calm of the horizon. Then Fast Fish gets up, walks to his bark canoe and pushes it to the shallows, close to Eagle Eye.
‘This for that ocean?’
I get up with Eagle Eye and we walk over to the canoe. I had helped Fast Fish to make it and I had wanted to make one with Shufflewing. Fast Fish had used his axe to cut the shape from the bark of a stringybark tree, and I had levered the shape from the tree with sticks. Then we’d put the shape on the fire, just enough for the bark to curl up, and tied grass to the end of the canoe, pushing a thick stick into the middle, and tied the other end of the canoe. We tried to seal the ends with glue from the grass tree. The canoe is very good for getting the dusky sleepers when the Snake River is running and the yellow fin come into the shore, but there is a problem . . .
Eagle Eye puts his hand in the canoe and rocks it a little. Two paddles clutter into the bottom. The paddles were axed from branches with thickened ends. I know everything about Fast Fish’s canoe from when I would paddle with him, but now he has Moonlight and she likes going in the canoe.
Eagle Eye says, ‘We came over here from the Long Island in these . . .’
‘We could see the mountains of Bird Island from Long Island, and we came across on a perfect calm day.’ Fast Fish looks at me. ‘All right, Bent Beak, tell him what happens out there most times.’
‘Um, it leaks.
‘Like a grass net. Water comes in both ends,’ Fast Fish says.
‘Perhaps we could make them better . . .’ I say.
Fast Fish sighs. ‘I capsized that thing in a light wind on a low wave. I had to tow it back to the beach, and you can’t do that out there.’
‘Yes, those bark canoes won’t do.’ Eagle Eye looks at me and sees the fragment that my fingers are playing with. ‘Bamboo . . . Where did you find that, Bent Beak?’
‘Just on the sand around here.’
‘Ah.’
Then my head starts working. ‘Um, Shufflewing and I found some big bamboo up the river.’
Fast Fish looks at me. ‘What, you went into Crocodile territory?’
‘Um, we were very careful.’
‘Never mind. How big?’ Eagle Eye says.
‘Big. As big as a tree. They make strange sounds . . .’
‘I want to see that.’
‘No. You will be speared out there.’ Fast Fish shakes his head.
‘You wanted to chase the Crocodiles . . .’
Fast Fish grunts. ‘I’ll see how many hunters will come.’
* * *
The following day, very early in the morning, I lead Eagle Eye, Fast Fish, Old Tortoise and four other hunters up Snake River. Burnt Earth wanted to come but Eagle Eye said he couldn’t because of his wound. We pass the high rock where Shufflewing and I had leapt into the river; we pass the trickling creek and reach the scarred tree.
And that affects me. It had been hit by lightning and the scar on the wood looks like a scowling Fast Fish, so Shufflewing and I had thrown our spears at it. I look at one of the spear marks now and I realise that it is from him . . .
And then I see that Fast Fish is staring at the tree with a frown.
‘There are spear signs on that tree. You and Shufflewing?’ he says.
I swallow. ‘Yes, we were practising.’ I think, I am dead.
But he says, ‘I didn’t think they were made by Crocodile’s flint spears.’ And he walks away.
But Old Tortoise tilts his head at the scar and he has a sly smile. He looks at me but he doesn’t say anything.
We follow the river until I can hear the bamboo over the murmur of the water. I stop in the shallows for a moment.
‘What?’ says Fast Fish.
‘Can you hear? That’s the bamboo talking.’
There is a soft whisper on the light breeze.
Fast Fish grunts and moves on.
The next bend reveals the stand of black bamboo, and I watch Eagle Eye’s face. He just nods once and wades over to them. He looks small, like a crab-eating macaque monkey against the black giants, each tube as thick as his leg; their height seven times his body’s – they are taller than one of the giant mountain trees. Their long leaves are an explosion of green from the black tubes, and they stroke each other and mutter as if odd little animals are talking about us from the leaves.
Eagle Eye smiles when the others come up. ‘Those are very good.’
‘What do you want to do?’ Fast Fish says.
‘Do? Chop them down.’
‘All of them?’
‘All of them.’
‘Why?’
‘We are going to make a raft.’
‘A raft?’
‘Several rafts.’
‘Rafts?’ Fast Fish screws up his forehead.
Eagle Eye points at me. ‘His father and Shufflewing’s father made them at Bird Lake.’
‘Oh, those.’
‘Yes.’
‘The little yellow bamboo rafts they used to find eggs?’
Eagle Eye nods. ‘Look at those black giants. Yellow, black, the size – it doesn’t matter. They are all bamboo. The yellow bamboo floats like feather. The black bamboo will be big, solid rafts – to carry all of us over that ocean.’
Fast Fish shakes his head.
Eagle Eye says, ‘A raft of bamboo is better than a bark canoe. The water splashes over them, but they will always float.’
Fast Fish sighs and pulls his axe from the grass string around his waist. He loves his axe, even more than his canoe. I had watched him many moons a
go take a hard stone from the river bed. He made a groove on both sides of it with other rocks, and then ground one of the edges with a piece of sandstone. He got a thick green stick, and he split it at one end, then he put the stone into the split so the grooves held it.
He had a grass cord to tie the stone, and he used beeswax to make sure the stone did not move. I saw him throw that axe at a large rat to kill it, and he also used it against the Crocodile’s warriors in battle. Now he is going to use that great stone axe against the mighty black bamboo.
He hefts his axe; his feet dig down into the loose earth before one bamboo, and he attacks it.
But the black bamboo attacks back.
The leaves clatter above him, and the axe springs back from the bamboo, hurling Fast Fish’s arm away. There is nothing on the bamboo except for a small dent. He rubs his arm, glowers at the bamboo and swings the axe many times. He looks at Eagle Eye. ‘It can’t be chopped down.’
Eagle Eye examines the marks that Fast Fish has made on the bamboo. ‘There must be a way . . .’
Old Tortoise pushes at it and frowns at me. ‘How did your father bring down those yellow bamboos?’
‘They were lying there.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Well, there was an old fire . . .’
‘Fire?’ Old Tortoise grips another bamboo and sways it a little. ‘Maybe burned it?’
Eagle Eye thinks a bit. ‘It may work. Bent Beak, get a fire going. We will find dry sticks.’
Fast Fish warns, ‘We are on Crocodile land.’
Eagle Eye bites his lip for a moment but then he shakes his head. ‘They won’t come after us for a while. But keep your eyes open.’
I look at the river, the trees, the hills, the black bamboo – everything, but I still find the dry grass, a rock, a long stick and a soft stick. When I sit on the warm sand with the rock and the soft stick, I peer around so much that Eagle Eye gives me the eye. So I forget Crocodiles and put the grass with a soft stick on a rock. I bang the end of the long stick on the soft stick to get a dent. I put the long stick in the dent of the soft stick to work the dent to make it deeper. Then I flatten my hands together to spin the long stick in the dent. Once, I had felt that this was the most important thing to do in the Yam, even above blowing the Buffalo Horn, but now I know it is a normal job. Even The Wind can do it.
Eventually, the dent of the soft stick and the end of the long stick begin to smoke, and little sparks from the sticks make the dry grass on the rock smoke. I watch it for a bit, then I drop the long stick, grab the smoked grass, leap up and blow at the grass. I walk sideways, still blowing at the grass until it begins to glow. The grass flares in my hands, and I drop it on the branches and grass gathered by the hunters.
Fast Fish snorts. ‘I thought we would have to sleep for a new moon while you do your mucking around.’
The fire takes over quickly. The red and yellow flames rip through the stand, the leaves crackling as the black-and-white smoke billows over them. The massive black bamboos begin to creak.
‘Now we will get Crocodiles,’ Fast Fish warns.
‘Maybe they will think that it is a natural fire,’ Eagle Eye says, but he points at me. ‘You may as well keep watch.’
I walk away from the fire and the smoke, wiping my eyes. I keep thinking that the Crocodiles must hear Fast Fish’s axe. They will be coming . . .
And then I see a close bush shivering. ‘Hey . . .’ I shout back at the hunters who are moving the glowing coals to the base of each bamboo. I don’t think the hunters will like it if I do a panic call that sounds like a bird.
I move slowly through the long grass towards the bush – now, it is quite still. But my eyes pick out a black curve through the leaves of the bush. Black glistening skin. My eyes follow the curve and it changes into an arm. Suddenly, I am looking at the face of the boy I stabbed with my spear in that terrible battle. And there are more in the bushes. I suck up air to yell. The boy shoves his arm towards me and he turns to the others.
‘Croc!’ I shout.
But I don’t hear my shout.
There is a loud explosion in the stand. Birds scatter to the jungle and I drop down to the grass like a mountain deer hit by a spear. My ears are ringing. I have never heard anything like that, not even the crash of thunder from a great storm. I look back through the grass to the black bamboos and see the high leaves burning and shaking. I can’t see Eagle Eye, Fast Fish, Old Turtle – none of the Yam hunters.
I leap up, forgetting the Crocodile warriors, and hurry towards the bamboos. My booming ears quieten down a little and I can hear some shuffling from the bushes behind me. I turn around and there are Crocodile warriors moving. My heart jerks in terror.
But they are not chasing me; they are charging away.
Another explosion comes from the bamboos, and I see the warriors fling their spears away as they run through the bushes. The boy slams into some other warriors, and three of them tumble over each other. Like a mob of grasshoppers, they are gone, leaving nothing but a slight swaying of bushes.
For a moment, I feel the beginning of a giggle in my throat, but I throttle it with a swallow. I worry: Eagle Eye!
I turn back to the bamboos. There are two bamboos shattered in the stand, the leaves blackened and burning, and the grass around the stand sparking with little fires. And there are bodies in the grass.
‘Eagle Eye!’ I yell.
Fast Fish lifts his head and Old Tortoise looks at me with an odd expression. Eagle Eye pushes some grass from his face. ‘Careful,’ he says.
The rest of the Yam hunters stir and sit up.
‘Is everyone all right?’ Eagle Eye looks around.
‘Yes, yes.’ Fast Fish stands up quickly as if he doesn’t want to be seen as being frightened. He moves towards the two split bamboos.
‘Fast Fish . . .’ Eagle Eye whispers.
I can hear a hissing sound coming from the other bamboos, as if there are snakes inside them.
‘There’s a spirit in the bamboo,’ Old Tortoise says.
Old Tortoise is more ancient than Eagle Eye and he knows all the spirits in Bird Island – the rock spirits, the river spirits, the mountain, tree and deer spirits. He knows how to keep the river spirit calm when we are taking a lot of fish.
But Fast Fish knows nothing about them. He snorts. ‘Spirits get out when their feet get hot? No, the sound you hear is the same as when you throw a young wood on the fire. That hissing is only hot air coming out of the wood. Those bamboos have no way for the hot air to escape. The bang was just the air getting out.’
Old Tortoise shrugs, puts his hand near the hissing and jerks away.
Eagle Eye looks at me. ‘There was a noise where you were. What was it?’
‘Crocodile – ’
The hunters grab for their spears.
‘But they are not there now.’
Fast Fish glares at me. ‘What? You growled at them and they got frightened and they ran away?’
‘Well . . .’
Eagle Eye looks at me in annoyance.
‘No, no, they ran when the bangs happened. They were falling all over each other to get away.’
‘Ah,’ Eagle Eye says. ‘Maybe there is a spirit in those bamboos.’ He nods at the stand. ‘Thank you.’
Old Tortoise is smiling.
* * *
We burn the base of the bamboos through the afternoon and evening with more care now. Eagle Eye makes us build low fires and take the coals from them to place against the base of the bamboos. We listen to the bamboos all of the time – if one of them starts to creak loudly, we pull the coals back until the creaking stops. One of them did crack, but it was nothing like those explosions.
Old Tortoise and I take turns watching for Crocodiles, but there is no sign of them.
In the calm of the night, I am sleeping, and that is when the first bamboo falls, crashing like a boulder from a mountain. I feel the thud on my ear and I scramble to get up.
Eagle Eye m
utters, ‘Leave it . . .’
So I sag back to the grass. I feel several more bamboos fall, but I don’t know how many.
Next morning, the smell of cooking fish wakes me. Eagle Eye is nudging a fat fish on a leaf with his spear on my old fire. Old Tortoise fans the coals while Fast Fish and the others stop chopping the leaves from the bamboos and come to perch around the fish. I hurry over before all the fish goes.
‘It’s up!’ Old Tortoise says.
‘I knew the food would get him up – he’d never get up for work.’ Fast Fish says.
I hunch in guilt, but I keep on eating.
After eating and with much grunting, Old Tortoise and Fast Fish drag a long bamboo past me to the river. I am afraid to watch what happens. Eagle Eye has given me the fish’s head, and that needs a bit of concentration to eat.
I hear a heavy splash behind me.
‘Eagle Eye . . .’ Fast Fish calls. ‘You better have a look at this. We are in trouble.’
Oh, that I can hear. I follow Eagle Eye, still sucking the fish eye from the head as I walk. Then I stop.
Eagle Eye says, ‘Oh.’
‘Yes,’ Fast Fish says.
I can see the long black bamboo in the river, but it isn’t drifting. It is lying in the deep pebbles on the riverbed with the water flowing over it. Those black bamboos, which were going to be rafts to cross the ocean, are floating like . . . rocks.
The Buffalo Horn hoots from a distant mountain, as if the Crocodile warriors are laughing at us.
Eagle Eye squats on the bank and feels the weight of the bamboo under the water.
‘The yellow bamboo wasn’t like that,’ l say.
He shrugs. ‘Doesn’t matter now.’
‘Maybe it gets lighter when it dries out,’ Old Tortoise says.
‘We can’t wait for that.’ Eagle Eye gets up and leads us back to Yam camp.
* * *
We have left Yam camp. Eagle Eye decided that the Yam tribe needed to leave our camp at the Snake River before the Crocodile warriors attacked again. None of us saw any of them, but we could hear the Buffalo Horn and that was worse. Every time that Horn sounded, everyone stopped what they were doing to work out how close it was. And every time I heard the Horn, I’d remember Shufflewing. That made me want to fight Crocodile warriors, but I was glad when Eagle Eye moved us away from Snake River.
The First Voyage Page 3
