by Téa Cooper
‘You said we shouldn’t move him. The venom will spread.’
‘Not with the bandaging. Hurry.’
Pa’s groans grew louder and his writhing more feeble. Mam tipped his head back and slipped a piece of bark between his teeth. ‘Bite down on this. It might help.’ She ran a hand over his dripping hair then dropped a kiss on the grey skin of his forehead.
‘We must move him now before paralysis sets in, while he can still help. We’ll bind his leg again, tear the sheet, big long strips, it will stem the flow of the venom.’
In a matter of moments Mam had tightly swaddled Pa’s leg and arm, white like the picture of an Egyptian mummy in Pa’s Encyclopaedia Britannica. She shuddered, pushing the thought of death away.
‘Take his feet.’ Mam slipped her hands under Pa’s armpits and once she’d clasped his feet Mam nodded her head and they lifted Pa’s dead weight. No! Not dead. He couldn’t die. Not Pa.
Time lost all meaning as they staggered along the path through the scrub. Pa groaned and rolled; every time his body convulsed they all but dropped him. If the mallangong venom didn’t kill him he’d die of a cracked head. She clutched his ankles tighter, her muscles screaming with the unaccustomed weight. Sweat poured down her face, stinging her eyes—or was it tears?
When they finally lurched through the door they laid Pa down on the bed he shared with Mam and she collapsed in a heap at the foot. The walls swirled and twisted in a horrid willy-willy as she tried to ease the cramping in her arms and the hammering in her heart.
Not so Mam. Yukri had appeared from goodness only knew where, and scuttled around the kitchen filling the kettle, placing it on the hob and stoking the fire. The smell of ti-tree laced the air from Mam’s tinctures littering the surface of the table as she mumbled, shook bottles and squinted at labels. ‘Keep watch, Rose. Keep watch.’ Mam’s voice echoed in the small room as she lifted the kettle from the fire.
Rose raised her head and licked at the salty tang of her dried tears. The trip back from the river had sapped Pa’s strength as well as hers. Each breath was a laboured gasp and every few minutes his body writhed and he let out an agonising shriek. He kept smacking his lips and chewing at his cheeks when the shafts of pain struck. Snatching back a useless sob she wiped her hands over her face.
‘How he looking?’ Yukri’s voice calling from the fire brought her back to her senses.
Swollen to a massive size Pa’s leg and right arm lay useless, great gnarled branches dangling over the side of the bed. Rose dragged herself to her feet and moved unsteadily into the big room. She couldn’t sit and watch Pa die. ‘Yukri, what can I do?’
‘Pour hot water slow over the leaves.’
She tipped up the kettle and the smell intensified as the boiling water released the oil. ‘What will it do?’
‘The infusion may help with the infection.’ Mam sounded like one of Pa’s reference books.
‘How will we know if the venom spreading?’
‘We watch. Big red lines from the bite. Him hurting real bad.’
She’d seen the tracks on his skin, the red radiating lines. Seen them down by the river. The venom spreading. She turned to go and look again. Mam … she almost dropped the kettle. Through the door she could see her hacking at Pa’s breeches. She spliced them through and removed them baring his legs. His shirt went the same way and he lay pale and clammy like a speared fish on the bed he and Mam had shared all her life.
She’d never seen Pa’s limbs, hadn’t thought they’d be so white when his face was almost as brown as Yukri’s. She shuddered and turned away, concentrated on refilling the kettle. How could a mallangong, the one animal above all others that Pa had dedicated his life to nurturing, have done this?
Six
Agnes Banks, New South Wales 1819
As the afternoon turned to night and Pa’s bellowing cries filled her head, the three small rooms of the daub and wattle shack became her world. Mam soothed and bathed and at times simply sat, her head propped in her hands, her elbows on the bed, and waited. Waited for what?
‘Is there nothing we can do?’ She sat beside Pa plucking the leaves off the ti-tree branches. Waiting. Just waiting.
A long heartfelt moan seeped from deep within Mam’s misery. ‘The venom is spreading. I believe it will peak. We must wait and see.’
‘Can’t we call the physician?’
‘What can he do that I can’t? By the time he gets here …’ She shook her head, despair turning her face to an aged mask. ‘We must wait, as we would for a snakebite. I never dreamed the mallangong was venomous.’
Something skirted around her mind, drifted in and out of her consciousness. Pa had never believed they were venomous but … it was Bunji. Bunji said his grandfather told him to always pick them up by their tail. Why their tail? Because of the spurs. Thank heavens she’d grabbed the wretched animal by the tail. What else did the blackfellas know that she didn’t? Could they cure him?
‘Yukri, do you know what else we can do for Pa?’
‘Just waiting. Waiting to see. Mr Charles, he bigger than them dingoes. Maybe he be good. Maybe not.’ She shrugged her shoulders then pulled Rose into her arms and gave her the hug she needed.
‘Mam, I’m going for a walk.’ Maybe if she could find Bunji he might know, or could ask one of his uncles if they knew any more than Yukri.
‘Stay here. I don’t need to worry about you as well.’ Since when had Mam worried about her? She was always too busy with her eyes locked on the horizon waiting for something that never arrived.
‘I have to clear my head. I won’t go far.’
Yukri followed her to the door.
‘Where’s Bunji?’ Only yesterday she’d seen him. He’d waved as he set off with his friends, too manly now to care about the likes of her, a mere girl. Some days she longed for the freedom she’d enjoyed as a child. If she called him would he come? Would he know what to do? He’d told her the Dreaming story of the mallangong, shown her their burrows and the best places to find them but nothing of how to treat the venom sweeping through Pa’s body.
‘I’m going back to the lagoon. Pa’s sketchbook and paints are still there. I won’t be long.’ She took off down the path pulling the sweet clean air into her lungs. ‘Bunji! Bunji! Where are you?’ What if Pa died? She couldn’t bear it. ‘Bunji!’
She rounded the bend and there he was, squatting beneath the tree, his smooth brown skin gleaming in the sunlight.
‘Them big boss mallangong. Him big trouble. You touch his woman …’
And it was breeding season. She nodded her head and sank down beside him. ‘We’ve tried everything, none of Mam’s medicines work. Yukri’s making the Geebung mixture.’
‘You wait. Wait long, long time.’
But Pa didn’t have a long, long time. The ship sailed to England in a few weeks and he had to go, had to tell Mam.
‘You take this.’ Bunji reached behind him and pulled out Pa’s sketchbook and box of paints. ‘You need it. You mallangong girl. Mallangong your totem.’
She hadn’t any answer, didn’t want it to be her job. It was Pa’s dream. With a sigh she turned back to the house.
The days wore on and their vigil took its toll until finally she found Mam slumped across Pa’s chest fast asleep. It was difficult to know who was worse. At least Pa’s spasms had stopped but he lay so still, only the irregular rise and fall of his chest convinced her he still lived. His arm and hand swollen to two if not three times its usual size and his leg was not much better. But he was calm. The lockjaw Mam had worried about hadn’t eventuated though he could take no more than a few drops of water which they eased through his swollen lips with a spoon.
Rose scattered some dried chamomile flowers into a tin mug and poured boiling water over them then set it to rest on the table. She tiptoed to the bed and reached for Mam’s shoulder. ‘Come and rest. Pa is sleeping.’
Mam jumped at her words, as though she had been caught slacking. ‘I’ll stay here.’
>
‘Pa is quiet now. I have made you a cup of tea—go and drink it and eat some of the damper Yukri made. You’ve had nothing. I’ll tend Pa. Sleep in my bed.’
Mam offered a wan smile and made her way through the door, staggering as though she had taken the venom into her body. She’d given all her strength to Pa, willing him to heal.
Rose sat down beside the bed, pulled the three-legged stool closer. A fine sheen of sweat still peppered his forehead so she squeezed out the cloth. As the cool dampness touched his skin his eyes flashed open. Clear and lucid. A great bubble of joy swam through her. ‘Pa?’
He licked his dry lips and she held the spoon to his mouth. He pushed it away grimacing at the movement.
‘Is it very painful?’
He closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head shielding her from the truth, protecting her as he’d always done. If only she could make him well again. ‘Perhaps it’s getting a little better.’
‘Rooossse.’ His thickened, chapped lips made her name sound odd, drawn out almost pleading; a trickle of blood-stained spittle ran down his chin. She wiped it away, no longer panicking at the sight.
‘What can I do? Anything?’
He lowered his head and his gaze slid to the door.
‘You want Mam? She’s resting.’
He shook his head ‘Clossse …’ The snake-like hiss again as he tried to wrap his tongue around the word.
‘You want me to close the door?’
His head lolled in some kind of agreement.
She lifted the wooden latch securing it then returned to the bedside taking his uninjured hand in hers, soothing his burning skin with her fingertips. From the heat in his hand the infection still raged but without the same burning fury of the past days.
‘England. Rose, England.’ His eyes pleaded with her, filling with tears with the effort of speech.
Sir Joseph’s letter! It hit her like a stone. In the past days she’d forgotten all about it. ‘Have you told Mam?’
His head rolled to one side.
He still hadn’t. ‘Sir Joseph will understand. There’s plenty of time for you to recover.’ As she spoke the words her heart sank. He could no more withstand the trip to England than he could fly to the moon. One hundred and fifty days aboard ship. ‘There’s time.’
His eyes grew wide and his mouth opened and closed as he tried to form the words. What did he want to do?
‘June.’ His raised his hand and held up four fingers, engorged like the sausages Mam made from pig entrails.
She ran the words of the letter he’d quoted through her mind: on the fourth day of June, 1820.
‘Wait, Pa. Wait and see. There’s still time.’ There wasn’t. A month at most. ‘Shall I write a letter? We can send it to Sir Joseph, tell him of your injury. Tell him we have indisputable evidence that the male mallangong is venomous. I can send sketches too. The ones from the dissected animal showing the spurs. There must be a ship leaving soon. I can be in Sydney in a day if I take the lighter, less if I borrow a horse or beg a ride along the Parramatta road.’
He shook his head again, from side to side on the pillow, the rocking movement sending spasms through his muscles as he tensed in frustration. What did he want?
‘No letter, then.’
‘Go.’ The single word hung in the silence of the darkened room; even Pa’s rasping gasps ceased.
He wanted to be left alone. ‘Sleep Pa. I will come back in a while and see how you are.’ And in the meantime, she would go through his notes and his sketchbook, make sure the spurring was recorded, include some drawings and an explanation. Absolute proof that the blackfellas were right. The mallangong was venomous.
Maybe if Pa slept he would be more lucid when he woke and he could help her frame the letter to Sir Joseph explaining why he couldn’t go to England. And she’d pack up his sketchbook and take it to Sydney for shipment. She could arrange it as well as he could. She’d helped more times than she could remember.
His good hand clamped her arm and he shook his head again, his throat tensing as he swallowed. She reached for the water but he pushed her away slopping it across the threadbare blanket. ‘You. Go.’
She rose from the chair.
‘To-Sir-Josssseph.’ The words slurred thick on his engorged tongue.
Her heart stuttered to a halt. To Sir Joseph? Was that what he meant? ‘To England?’
He nodded his head, just once, slower this time. The tension in his body leached away and his hand lay gentle on her arm.
‘You want me to travel to England?’ Her mind raced as she chased the thought around. ‘To present your work to Sir Joseph?’ The enormity of the thought filled her. How could she travel to England, alone, a woman, hardly even a woman, not yet twenty. And then … it was impossible. What would Mam think? She didn’t even know he’d been summoned.
Rose turned Sir Joseph’s letter over and over in her hands trying to recall the exact words; she felt as though she shouldn’t read it, as though she was being underhand. The letter was to Pa, not for her. But he’d told her of it. Asked for her help. With a sigh, she unfolded the thick paper and spread it on Pa’s desk and read the words time and time again until she too knew them by heart.
He’d said he’d sworn to Mam he’d never leave her. Now he wouldn’t have to break his oath. Would Mam understand, let her go in his stead? His life’s ambition. Years of careful observation to pull together the body of knowledge represented in his latest sketchbook. Oh, how she wished she didn’t have to take responsibility, but she did. Who else was there?
She sat down in the chair and rested her elbows on the top of the work table, scrutinising the picture she’d painted of Pa under the tree. He looked so peaceful, the slight smile tipping the corner of his lips. Lips that now were swollen and cracked. What torment he must be in: not just the physical pain, the agony of knowing he’d missed his chance, his opportunity to fulfil his heart’s desire. She closed the sketchbook with a snap. She had to go. Pa was right, and she had to tell Mam.
Gritting her teeth she picked up the letter. When Mam woke she’d show it to her, tell her that Pa had asked her to go. She’d know what to do. Better still she’d read the letter to Mam at Pa’s bedside and together they’d make the decision. That way Mam wouldn’t think it was one of her far-fetched excuses to shirk her duties. She hugged herself tight. Pa would get better. He had to and if she could ease his mental torment then his physical recovery would be all the faster.
Yukri sat at the table stripping the berries from the Geebung, seeping them in the water to release the juice she said would heal infection. Pa had been taking it for days now; who knew if it helped.
‘Is Mam still sleeping?’
‘She tired. Too much waking and worrying.’
She glanced across to the darkened corner of the room; the curtain covering her bed was drawn, closing it off to the main room. ‘And Pa?’
‘He resting. Not sleeping. Not jumping no more. Arm still big. Real big. This here, this help when the goodness comes.’ She shook the jar and the small berries jumped and swirled in the water.
‘I’ll go and see him.’ She tapped the letter against her palm, and gave a curt nod. She could do this. She’d even wanted to go to England with Pa when he’d first told her. But alone? It was nothing she’d imagined, not even in her most irrational flights of fancy.
Pa’s eyes turned to the door the moment she stepped into the room. ‘How are you feeling?’
He twisted his head and tried for a smile, failed and licked his cracked lips, his eyes pleading.
She reached for the water and held the spoon to his mouth. ‘I’ve been thinking about England.’
The shadows lifted from his eyes and he turned his head away from the water.
‘We have to tell Mam. Is there no one in England that I can turn to?’ Pa never mentioned any family, not that she’d ever asked. Pa was all the family she’d needed and she’d never questioned otherwise. And Mam? Mam never talked about
her childhood, her life in England; said it was all in the past and best forgotten.
‘Julian.’
The word hung in the air.
‘Julian?’
As if summoned Mam appeared by her side, her face blanched bone-white as she soothed Pa’s brow with a shaking hand. ‘Hush now.’
‘Go to Julian.’ Pa sank back into his pillow, his face chalky and his chest labouring from the effort. ‘In London.’
Mam sprang to her feet at Pa’s words, her pale face turning redder than the cockerel’s feathers. ‘You know where he is and you haven’t seen fit to tell me.’
Every nerve in Rose’s body shrieked. Who was Julian?
‘Rooossssse go.’ A sigh leaked out between Pa’s lips and his eyes closed.
A cold dread settled on her shoulders, heavy as a wet cloak without the smell of the fresh fallen rain. Was this why Pa hadn’t wanted to tell Mam about the letter?
‘Come Rose. Come with me.’
Torn between Pa’s needs and Mam’s demand she stared from one to the other. Mam’s face so drained, so shocked; Pa almost at peace for the first time since the spurring.
‘Come now.’ Mam left the room without giving Pa another glance, her mouth pulled down at the corners, her jawbone rigid.
‘Rest easy. I’ll be back soon.’ She pulled the sheet up to his shoulders and cupped his cheek then left the room.
‘Sit.’ Mam pointed to Pa’s chair.
‘I would rather …’ She couldn’t sit. Needed to move, needed the chance to dislodge the sense of foreboding lodged hard in her chest.
‘Sit.’ Mam’s hand came down on her shoulder and pushed her into the chair.
Mam settled onto her stool and stared at her across Pa’s work table.
‘Listen and listen well. I thought not to share this with you, thought the past best buried. Now you must know. I came to these shores, not as a free woman with Charles as you believe, but as a convict.’
The words shrieked through her brain like the windstorms that brought down the dead branches from the widow makers. Whatever could Mam have done? She was the most honest person she knew, painfully honest, hurtful in her honesty. She tolerated no lies. Why, the only time she’d been switched had been for lying. She’d given up long ago. Not worth the pain.
