Njunjul the Sun

by Meme McDonald

  It’s the other stuff I can’t get off me, but. They took me down the police station, the lock-up, see. Us fullas call it the bulleymen shop or the small house. The big house is jail.

  It’s their eyes and their voices still got hold of me. The grabbing m’hair, bending m’neck back till it’s gonna snap. They’re grown fullas, big men, three of them. It don’t take them long with a skinny fulla like me. You take a couple of punches from them and you’re history. They try keeping you standing. Grab onto your clothes. M’clothes rip. I’m laying on the floor in a puddle. Wet m’self. I don’t mind admitting it. Tell me you wouldn’t, eh? Puddle of piss on the floor, crying like a baby, and they still not done with me.

  They don’t want to bust your bones, see. They want to muck with your head and your heart. They rough you up so’s they can get inside you.

  ‘You only half a nigger, anyway.’

  ‘Your sister likes to . . . Your mother is a . . .’

  I can’t say that stuff. I can’t say that stuff even to say what they say. I’m chucking m’guts then, laying there on the cement floor. Feel like chucking m’guts now, thinking back on it. Only I got m’new blue Wolverine shirt on and it’s a nice clean bus.

  I can’t get them out of m’head, but. That bulleymen stuff about what they done to your mum and your sisters. I know it’s not true. It’s the thought of it that eats into you, but, won’t leave you alone. I can’t get their eyes off me. They stare down at me, the three of them. Not one of them, see, not one wanted to help. They sat there watching. And I lay there like a baby, crying. I can’t get those eyes off me. No matter how hard I scrub that soap into my skin.

  They chucked me out of the lock-up and sent me home. Least I was out of that black hole. Sun’s giving me a beating on my back. I’m not sure which way was home, neither. I was thinking, I can’t tell m’mum. I got to protect her. She’s had enough pain already. If m’dad hears of it, he’ll be back here knocking on the bulleymen’s door wanting a punch-up. Then I’d get m’dad chucked in the big house for assault. Locked away, not just gone fruit-picking. Murri-fullas locked up in that big house, they don’t come out that often, unless it’s in a coffin.

  Used to be I had a frog that talked to me. Got me through. Like, I’m not wongy in the head or nothing. See, I had this pet frog, this girragundji. Got eaten by a snake. I could still hear my girragundji’s voice inside me, but, real strong, telling me the way to look at things. A voice I could rely on. Now I can’t remember when I last heard her talking. When I was laying there in that puddle in the lock-up, all I seen is darkness. No way no voice could live in there. Only darkness there for you when you fall this far down.

  I was feeling sad and sorry for my black butt. Wondering which way’s home. I got m’self back down Happy Valley. M’Aunty Milly, she didn’t need no explaining from me. She knew. And she knew not to tell. Not this time. Not now.

  I pissed blood for days. Don’t know which hurt the most. M’kidneys or m’heart. They both been bleeding.

  I can’t take no more. Cooped up in this bus, that big fulla’s old-lunch and stale-after-shave’s digging into me real bad, nagging at me till I want to vomit. Or maybe it’s those bulleymen thoughts messing with me again.

  He’s taking up all his seat and spilling over into most of mine. I’m squashed against the window. The glass is cold on my cheek, hard on my head. We’ve come a long way south. It’s the middle of the night. I try to push him off me. He’s snoring up real big. Some people got that way of sleeping a nuclear bomb can’t wrestle them out of it. I’m not wanting to take that sleep off him, neither, in case he starts up talking again.

  One or two lights blink through the window like stars in the night. Then half-a-dozen together. Then a whole galaxy, a city. Brisbane. Thank the Lord – I’m aunty-talking now – I’m saved!

  We pull into Roma Street Transit Station. He’s gotta wake up now. Seems like he’s only settling in deeper, but. I’m not waiting for him to shift. I clamber up and over, mountain-climbing my way out of that seat.

  ‘Watch your arse, kid,’ he barks down the aisle after me.

  2

  I’m sleep-walking. It’s broad daylight here in this bus-station night. My eyes can’t focus. Foreign beings, dazed, half-asleep, stare as blank as I feel. I see the image of someone, could be me, in a mirror. Looks like an alien space traveller. Maybe that’s what you look like when the main part of you is still way back down the highway.

  My body’s on remote control. Finds its way to the gulmra, the dunny. I been busting since the sun went down but I couldn’t get m’head around going to that gulmra on the bus. Hurtling down the highway, hundred ks an hour, sitting on a dunny? Good-go! For the rest of the trip your goona following you, sitting up in that cubicle beside you there, travelling un-deterred, ‘under-turd’! Funny thought, eh?

  I’m looking for a way out of this space station. I’m looking to fill my lungs with that night air, sweet with the smell of damp places. I walk out the sliding doors and into a half-night. Looks like it can’t make up its mind. Not dark enough to see the stars, not light enough to see the green of grass or trees. A muddy kind of night. The air smells like it needs a good wash. Everyone’s sucking on those plastic bottles just to get a simple drink of water. You gotta buy it packaged if you want it clean. These fullas are crazy.

  I’m looking down at the bitumen. Somewhere under there is earth. Earth that smells like your mother. Warm and like it owns you.

  What am I doing? I ask m’self.

  I had to get out of the Valley. Where am I getting, but?

  That’s how it happens, eh? You think something and you think you’re the only one thinking it. Like, after the bulleymen got hold of me, I’m thinking I gotta get out, right. I got to get somewhere I stand a chance to do something. I could feel m’self slipping into that same whirlpool that dragged m’cousin Sister Girl and all them others under. I’m thinking, I gotta keep m’head above water. I gotta be able to see the sun when it comes up and lay down safe when it goes down. You get out of that rhythm, you’re gone. You get weak. Those bulleymen take you down to where there is no sun. Leave you so long in the shadows you forget the difference between living and dying.

  And I was thinking, stuff school. What can they teach me? Stuff everyone getting drunk all the time. Even stuff Jody Butler. After the bulleymen got me, I didn’t even want to go near Jody. She seemed too whole, too together. I was a mess of broken pieces. I stopped going to school, stopped hanging out, stopped everything, except maybe breathing. Just lay down there in Un-happy Valley, rolling things round in m’mind each day.

  ‘You get out or you die.’ It was like some voice telling me. I didn’t know who or where that thought came from. But it was the only one left floating loose. The rest of my thoughts were tied up into a tight ball, hard as rock.

  I didn’t know how to get out, but. Most days I was just waiting to die. Thinking I was a no-good blackfulla. Garbage dumped on the edge of town.

  I was thinking real sorry thoughts, and thinking I’m the only one thinking them. But sure enough, someone else was thinking my thoughts. M’aunty, she got hold of those thoughts. Aunty Milly, she musta reckoned she gotta do something to get me out or there’ll be none of me left to get, like fully.

  ‘Cause next thing I know it’s happening. Aunty must have talked to m’sis, the oldest one, that got talking to the next one down, that got talking to m’mum that got hold of Uncle Garth and Aunty Em down Sydney.

  This ticket arrived at m’mum’s place. Bus ticket. M’sis brought it down here. I remember her walking over from the car. I knew she had something big to tell us. Probably someone died, I was thinking. She held this ticket out to me, just like that. Just held it there above the mattress I was camped on. I’m looking up and thinking what the hell is this?

  ‘You got a ticket to Sydney.’

  It doesn’t sink in for a bit. I’m still trying to figure out if she’s happy for me, or gooli-up, angry it isn’t her going,
or what.

  Sydney, I’m thinking, like the word’s got no meaning stuck to it.

  Then it struck me like a lightning bolt. I’m staring at that ticket, shiny cover, printed with my name on it, mine to hold, mine . . . I can’t take m’eyes off it. That lightning energy kicks in, m’heart’s thumping, my mind’s starting to unwind, the hard rock beginning to move, threads breaking free, possibilities, silly things that make me laugh opening out . . . A bus ticket to Sydney!

  Now I’m thinking basketball. Uncle Garth knows all there is to know about basketball. Maybe he could show me a few moves . . . Maybe I could be a star . . . I’m a long lanky thing and when I set my eye on that hoop, it stays set.

  Then I’m dreaming of me making heaps of money and sending half of it, maybe more, up home each week for Mum, for Aunty, for all the kids . . . I’m dreaming and I’m laughing and I’m feeling the sun shining in my face.

  Aunty Milly, she sits me down and gives me a good talking to. Sometimes, when I look in her face, I’m thinking she’s the last of how it was. She’s my foothold back to those old times. She’s living down Happy Valley ‘cause it’s the closest she can get to living bush. Not like most fullas down here now, living like they’re refugees.

  All the family, they worked hard to give me this chance, Aunty’s telling me. Saved and put in their money when there’s not that much to put. They fought to stay alive themselves so things would be better for us kids.

  And she ended up saying about bulleymen, they not all bad. As if! I’m thinking. She’s onto me, but.

  ‘You gotta remember that.’

  And I’m knowing she knows they busted me up. Secrets are safe with her, but. She got ones go back 40,000 years, she gotta be able to keep a secret goes back only a month or so.

  She’s a churchy one, Aunty. Full of forgiveness.

  ‘There’s good and bad in any place, in anyone, good and bad in all cultures. No uniform’s going to change that. No colour of your skin gonna change what’s in your heart.’

  She’s real serious.

  ‘You one of our warriors, young fulla. You remember that. We need you. But first you go some place else, till you strong enough for back here.’

  Tears are pushing up. She must have seen them ‘cause we got laughing then. She seen the warrior in me. She teaching me how to hold those tears. She got me remembering the day the bulleymen pulled us up. Ages ago.

  See, one time Aunty had a car full of us kids and that engine he cut out. Stopped dead. She’s turning that key till her hand’s ready to drop off. No go. That old bomb of a car’s all puffed out. Not gonna budge for no one.

  Aunty’s telling us, ‘Well, you kids, looks like it’s Foot Falcon from here on. That ef’in’ car’s gone to God. Gave up the ghost.’

  But then these bulleymen pull up beside us. We’re gone, Aunty’s thinking. She been using a couple of stronger words than that under her breath. She’s praying too. I heard her. ‘Dear Lord, shine down upon us today. For a wretched soul like me. Please, God?’

  Two big blokes, that blue uniform all neat and clean, stride up to the side of the car. Aunty looks up at them, her eyes gone big and round, still praying. Us kids are shrinking down in the back, trying to look see-through. Bulleymen talk to m’aunty like she’s a kid in Grade One. Give her a warning about seat belts and the maximum number of passengers it’s safe to carry in a moving vehicle.

  I was about to say, ‘This vehicle’s not moving.’ I didn’t want to get m’aunty into trouble with my smart talk, but.

  Aunty keeps looking down at her lap, all humble. ‘Yes officers. Thanks officers, sirs.’ All polite.

  They keep on real serious. ‘Remember then. Five is the maximum. Not fifteen.’

  Those fullas hardly made it back to their car before Aunty’s calling out, ‘Eh, bulleymen!’ Real loud too. Then, ‘Eh, look-out!’ She surprised herself.

  When they looked around she changed into her best voice, real lady-like now. ‘Excuse me, officers, sirs. I don’t want to be of trouble to you but do you think you could possibly lend us a hand, please and many thank yous?’

  I reckon she’s thinking God been on her side so she should make the most of it.

  The officers looked surprised. ‘With what?’ They stand there gawking.

  Us kids’re staring up big now, eyes nearly popping out, not game to let out a giggle.

  ‘Could you, sirs, please give our car a little push to maybe help kick-start ‘im?’

  You know what? They did. True god. Like fully. They musta reckoned they couldn’t not give us a push. All they seen was this real proper lady in a tight spot, just happened to be black.

  Those two bulleymen got behind us, pushing our old bomb up the road. That bomb, she felt those bulleymen hands on her moyu, her behind. She got such a fright she kicked over first up, revved herself stupid, and took off like a getaway car at the scene of a crime. Never missed a beat till she got us back home down Happy Valley.

  Aunty was praising the Lord the whole way. And our mob’s great Creators as well. And praising up us kids for staying so quiet. We had no choice, but. We got the breath sucked right out of us by the sight of two bulleymen pushing our beat-up blackfulla car up the road, all us inside.

  Aunty was even praising up the old bomb she’d been cursing just before.

  ‘Remember how you couldn’t turn her off, Aunty? That old bomb thinking she’s so deadly, so full of herself, she wanna keep on cruisin’, eh?’

  My aunty’s laughing up good.

  ‘And remember,’ she said, settling back all quiet now. ‘Remember us when you go down that big smoke, that Sydney there. Never forget where you come from. Never be shame. ‘Cause me, I’ll be watching you. Every time I look up into that sky, I’ll be watching for you there, remember that.’

  I’m quiet now. Wondering what she meant. I’m not about to be asking. Those old fullas, they give you messages like that. Not for the asking about, but for the knowing when the time comes. I’m wondering about me in the sky. I’m wondering about what lies ahead.

  Some fulla’s mumbling something over the Transit Centre loudspeaker. Don’t know what language but sure isn’t Murri. More like mumble-fulla language. No way I’m getting left behind here in outer space, but. I sit watching, waiting for the bus door to open. Half hour later I’m still watching, ready and waiting. I’m not that hungry. My belly’s still full of stale hamburger and after-shave.

  The door opens. Praise the Lord! – I’m thinking aunty-talk again.

  I hang back. Checking to see if there’s any sign of the big bloke. Maybe I could get m’self a different seat. Everyone’s got on. There’s only me left. Big hamburger fulla must have got off and stayed off. The bus driver looks like he’d be as happy to close the door in m’face. I rush on.

  I smile at the ginger-hair tank-top jalbu. She looks like she wouldn’t mind coming up the back. No way her tiger-taming mum’s gonna let her, but.

  I double check. No big fulla in sight, but. My luck has turned. I’m spreading m’self out, settling in, tuning into a local station playing my kind of music.

  Engine’s turning over, purring like a panther. Door’s closing. I’m feeling good.

  Then I see her, a flying fox rushing for the door. Long black cape slipping through in the nick of time. The starched white around her face digging in tight. She’s puffing and panting and can’t find her ticket. Driver smirks and waves her through.

  ‘If we can’t trust you, Sister, who can we trust, eh? Show me your ticket next stop.’

  He waits till she finds a seat.

  Oh, no. No way. She couldn’t.

  She is. She’s got her eye on the seat next to me.

  There’s other seats, I’m sure of it. Hell. Oh no, I can’t say that. Can’t she see? I’m trouble. I’m a smart-mouthed punk no-good Murri-fulla with a bad attitude.

  Slowly, nodding at all the sinners down the aisle, she makes her way up the back, smiling.

  That’s not right, but. Nuns d
on’t sit up the back. They gotta be down the front. Unless she’s thinking of saving m’soul. Hell! I mean heavens! I mean, no-way, this is no-fair.

  She sits down. Next to me. Smiling. That holy-water smell riding on every breath she takes. Goodness shining out of her like the morning sun.

  Sweat starts up under m’arms, m’hands, across m’forehead. I close m’eyes so I don’t have to smile back or do something nasty. Maybe she thinks I’m praying. Maybe I’ll fall asleep . . . or wake up . . . or fall . . . I am falling . . . asleep . . . and I hear a voice . . . distant . . . laughing at me, real loud, but a long way off . . . like a voice I used to know. Maybe it’s her . . . she’s still with me. The nun?

  ‘No! It’s me. Your girragundji. You-fulla going to be okay. You’re safe.’

  I’m dreaming of the sea . . . of nuns blown along the beach like tumbleweed . . . of m’aunty . . . m’aunty and the nun . . . m’aunty the nun . . . of me riding on the back of a turtle . . . laughing . . . my heart light . . . soaring high . . . the sun . . . I’m dreaming of the sun . . . my girragundji’s voice back with me . . . unafraid . . . talking to me . . . telling me things in language . . . same way them old people speak . . . that language I’m not knowing yet . . .

  I wake up in a panic. In a hot and cold sweat. That dream turned around on me. Got tangled up in my nightmare. There were big fullas after me. Rubbing my face in . . . I don’t know who’s what or where I am. I’m trying to wipe it off m’face. Wipe m’self clean. I can’t.

  I feel a gentle hand on my arm, soothing, calming, like my mum’s. But it’s not m’mum’s. It’s her’s. The nun’s.

  I try not to shrug her off. I’m shame as, but. Maybe I was yelling out, trying to punch the bastards.

  I stare out the window, looking for m’self. All I can see is a reflection. Big martian eyes, long lanky kid, curly black hair, but nothing else that says it’s me. And a shadowy figure behind, a nurse in an operating theatre, or a guardian angel. Maybe I died sometime back there. I could be living in the afterlife!