by Peter Docker
Beeliar gets up from the fire and comes over with another senior man. He is a bit older than Beeliar. His body is also covered with ritual scarring, and he wears a permanent smile. He was here the day Mrs Dance chopped at the tree whilst Stirling read his proclamation.
‘May I present the Birdiya of Mooro, lands north of the river. He can speak for this country.’
‘Another duke?’
‘Precisely, Mister Conway.’
The Birdiya of Mooro shakes my hand lightly. ‘I am made from this Mooro Boodjar, from this Country,’ he says.
‘He is a fast learner of English,’ says Fremantle.
‘What have you done?’ I ask, my voice measured.
‘We have stepped off the world,’ he says.
I nod, still waiting. I’m wondering if he’s speaking for my benefit or his own. Not that he looks like he needs convincing that he is no longer walking with his feet in our old world of uniforms and empires.
‘Where is Lieutenant Governor Stirling?’ I ask quietly, and now my voice sounds like it is coming from a long way off, as if I already know the answer to this question, as though I can read it in the faces and bodies of the Countrymen around the fires and that of the captain.
‘We have stepped off.’
‘Stepped off?’
‘The Empire.’
‘Can I see him?’ I ask, the rain starting to fall into my face.
It’s not Stirling I want to see; but the other one, the one who is always with him: the killer. The killer from the river of blood. His power is what I fear. That he is the power behind 44. I’m not looking directly at my captain when I ask, in case he reads my deception.
But Fremantle has turned away from me. He is churned up in the guts, like he is wrestling with some demon emanating from his own innards. When he does turn to face me, his face is flushed and shining like a madman, or a prophet.
The Countrymen around the fires read me from where they are sitting. I see them exchange tiny knowing glances.
‘Don’t you see? This is the chance. It’s got to stop. Let’s stop it here. You and I. Let’s make a stand. The soul of our people is burning. I see you reading your Bible, Mister Conway. You are not like the bosun: you really read it, search for it. I see you searching. That’s why it is you and I who stand here, spewed up by history into this precise moment. We rape and pillage and steal and kill without mercy and build an empire and become wealthy and become heroes and all the time it is our spirit we have sold to the lowest bidder.’
The rain hits my face. Behind the captain, someone throws a handful of grass tree sap powder and there is a whoosh of sparks and a big puff of smoke rushes out. For a moment the wind is reversed and the thick sweet smoke blows straight through the captain and I, as though the consistency of our flesh is no more solid than the smoke itself. Then the wind rights itself and the smoke flows around us and down through the Countrymen.
I struggle silently with myself, like I’m back in my bed as a young man and the angry faces come in at night to press their heaviness down on me; I try to move and can’t, eventually concentrating all my power on raising one paralysed eyelid, and finally succeeding, and then my power of speech comes back.
‘What are they waiting for?’
‘For you.’
‘Show me.’
Captain Fremantle calls over a marine and says something to him. The warm rain falls on us all. Near the fires are shelters made from trees and shrubs. They look warm and dry. Suddenly I want to sleep. My feet are cold lumps of lead in my boots. The marine turns and I follow him down the hill. All the Countrymen at the camp get up and follow. I feel like I’m in some theatre show; I take a few steps and stop, and the Countrymen all stop. I repeat the process a couple of times. Some of the Countrymen crack a smile. I take a step and stop and spin round to see if I can see anyone moving. They all freeze. I turn back to the front then snap my head back. Nothing. They are grinning brown statues in the rising dark. I turn to the front and the marine is rapidly moving away from me. I quickly go after him down the winding path and hurry to catch up, my leaden appendages clomping heavily in the sand.
After a little while we come to a flat area. There are a number of solid tent structures and a few beginnings of what might be brick cottages. Captain Fremantle is beside me.
‘Where are the Djenga?’
‘Fled into the bush.’
‘Cold night for them.’
‘Indeed,’ Fremantle agrees.
‘Indeed! Morning sir!’ beams Bright Eyes.
He goes on ahead and disappears into a tent. There is a lantern in there. I follow the captain in. The big mob of Countrymen all crowd in behind us. The air is close in that canvas enclave.
Lying on the earthen floor are the bodies of six Djenga and two Nyoongar warriors. One of the warriors has a grotesquely swollen neck replete with rope burns, and the other has a bullet hole in his stomach still oozing purple.
Captain Stirling is furthest from me. He has a huge bloody hole in his throat, and a surprised look on his face.
‘You shot him? I thought it would be a duel at dawn with navy cutlass?’
‘Turns out Captain Stirling was right. I’m not much of an officer and a gentleman.’
My eyes travel down the faces of the other dead men. My eyes go back and forth over them, searching and not finding relief. I turn back to Fremantle.
‘Who are these others?’
‘They made a choice. Wrong choice.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Indeed! Morning sir!’
Fremantle’s tone reminds me that he is a Royal Navy officer, a warrior, and a man who has fought many bloody campaigns for the Empire. He is no stranger to the choices men make in battle, or politics.
I can’t take my eyes off the dead men. He’s not there, the one I saw, the one I was, in the river of blood. I wanted to find him here. Find him dead. I wanted 44 to be here, to be dead.
I nod to Fremantle, unable to hide my disappointment.
‘What about the Countrymen?’
‘As we arrived Stirling was hanging one man for stealing flour. The other was shot in the ensuing exchange.’
‘Did he steal the flour?’
‘The flour was on his Country, his Boodjar. He believed he had a right to that flour, that it was to be shared.’
The Birdiya of Beeliar steps forward and makes a sharp hand gesture.
‘Finish!’ he says.
Beeliar comes to me and shakes my hand. He hugs me. Fremantle puts his arm around my other shoulder. My head is spinning.
‘Let’s go and talk, Mister Conway. You hungry?’
I nod. I feel embarrassed at the touch of the other men. I’m not used to it. Mooro says something in Language and all the Countrymen cheer.
We head back to camp and when we get there the place is full of women and kids. We go out of the rain and have a feed of wallaby.
That meat is so sweet. I can still taste it now.
Twenty-nine: Same Water Me
Walking through this ancient tunnel, I get the feeling that we’re deep inside the Rock Whale Spirit Woman, and moving along her arteries, or winding our way through her lower intestine, with her gently extracting the goodness from our spirit-flesh all the while, to nourish herself and her child. It’s the opposite of the feeling that I had in that other cave full of incarcerated people, with the escape through the belly of the Sick Mother. All things evolve and change into other things. Us. Feelings inside us. The air we breathe. The rocks we walk over and through. The water that flows through the earth and sweetens our people-clay. No beginnings. No ends. Just constant changing.
We take it in turns being the front man, the point. We step off and stop in complete unison, stepping into each other’s tracks. The darkness allows us to whisper, at best – but mainly we are wrapped in her warm, thick blanket of silence. The freedom in that silence allows us to be together and alone. The man behind rests a hand lightly on the point man’s shoulder, to read the
transfers of weight with each step, the pace, the breathing. We match each other like hypnotists until our bodies are blended into one flesh vehicle for moving us along in the dark safely. It is so dark that we close our eyes on point, and reach out with other antennae to feel our way along. We aren’t ourselves. We are no longer our thoughts. We are not even our flesh. Our senses cannot detect what we are. In that tunnel we become our walk. The walk. There is nothing else.
We come into Uncle Birra-ga’s cavern camp from a different direction this time. We’ve grown so accustomed to the weight and closeness of the rock walls of the tunnel that the open space of the cavern is a surprise.
There is a figure near that fire we first sat by and a big mob over by the far fire. Everyone is still, like they’re waiting for something. For someone. Our ML has long since gone out. We followed the tunnel in absolute darkness for the last three hours at least.
Now here at the edge of the cavern, the space and light are terrible to behold. We both hesitate. Is the child ready to be born? Are the parents ready to be parents? Is anybody ready? There’s only one way to find out.
Mularabone has been point. My right hand still rests on his shoulder. His left hand comes up and then down on mine, and rests there. A long rest. And then a gentle squeeze. Our hands drop to our sides in unison.
‘Wait, my brother,’ Mularabone says quietly.
‘What’s goin on? Who this mob?’
‘Your new in-laws.’
‘But I thought...’
‘There’s gonna be some business. You just listen. Don’t speak. Don’t react. No matter what. Repeat it back.’
‘Just listen. Don’t speak. Don’t react,’ I repeat.
‘No matter what,’ Mularabone prompts.
‘No matter what,’ I repeat, adding, ‘don’t react.’
Mularabone gives me his cheeky smile. I watch him amble away from me until he is in the centre of the cavern space.
There is some muttering amongst the people at the far fire. Two Countrymen stand and face Mularabone. They have spears in their hands.
In Language, Mularabone asks for the blessing of the old people, and the spirits of Uncle’s cavern. He then addresses the far-fire mob in a loud clear voice. He speaks for a minute or so, and then looks back to me. He motions me forward. I stand still. He motions for me and calls out to me in Language to come to him.
I don’t move. I’m made of stone. I breathe out in a rush of dust, hissing like a whale. Mularabone turns back to the far-fire mob. That mob are all on their feet now. Mularabone gestures back to me with his lips and a head-raise.
‘This is Conway Holy Water! He is my brother! He is a man! His soul is from the same water! Same water me!’
I know this is for my benefit because it is in English. I want to rush to him now, my brother, and hug him. From the far fire, two Countrymen break away from the group and go up to Mularabone. There is a heated exchange between them. Mularabone isn’t calm. He talks wildly and gesticulates like a mad man to match his adversaries. Just when the yelling of all three of them hits fever pitch, they fall silent. The cavern envelops us with a silent ohm, pressing us with the firm love of a mother to her screaming infant.
The two Countrymen peel off Mularabone and wheel over to me. They are both shirtless, their chest scars shining in the half-light. One of the Countrymen fits his spear to his woomera and steps closer to me. I watch him. The spear point comes up and wavers in the air four metres out from my chest, while his eyes burrow into me. I am ready for this scrutiny. I came through Jack’s drug and electricity realignment. I don’t exist. I am a walk. A walk standing still. He reads this in me, the spearman. He retreats a step or two. He looks at me from around the corner that isn’t there. He shouts at me in Language. The Countryman behind him fits his spear to his woomera and shouts his agreement. I walk without moving. Only my breathing gives it away.
The two Countrymen consider me. The spirit of my walk. Standing still. They lower their spears and simply walk away in silence. The others from the far fire join them, and they leave the cavern.
Mularabone looks back to me.
Is he wondering if he did the right thing? If I’m worth it?
He turns away from me and goes. Goes out by a different exit to the far-fire mob. It’s a real labyrinth down here. I gaze after his departing figure, before I feel the strength of the other being still in the cavern touch the edge of my vision, and my focus shifts to the figure by the fire.
Now, I’m not sure if I can move? If I can walk?
The fire in front of her crackles. She throws on some powder with a flash of bare brown arm, and the flames rear up bright yellow and orange, before sinking away to leave a heady puff of sweet smoke. Even from this distance, the sweetness strokes my nostrils lightly like a feather. My feet begin to complete me with their steps.
And I am in front of the fire. In front of her. I’ve had to come around clockwise in a wide circle, so she could see me all the time.
I’m swimming in the dream by the sandhills but now there is no ancient pistol, and 44 can’t touch me. I am walking to her. I am on the web of the spider. She sees me stuck here. I am joyous to see her, stuck here as I am. I feel her vibrations on the web as she comes towards me. She is huge. When she smiles her fangs show and even the venom forms tiny droplets on their points. We come together in a joyous crunch. I am her. She is me.
Thirty: Water on Scars
Her eyes are direct. Under her gaze my flesh and blood become transparent. Her eyes are like the water in those precious rock holes, appearing to be dark and mysterious, but pure and clear when scooped out with cupped and clean, dry hand. At the bottom edge of my sight is the fire glow. Her smile appears slowly, and is easy and fathomless. I want to test the depth in those pools, but the sticks in my heart, feeling for the bottom, touch nothing but the emptiness of more liquid. For a moment I’m back in the escape tunnel from the underground jail, with that unknowable depth sucking at the fear in my belly as I go up to breathe.
‘I thought you’d never get here,’ Nayia says in English.
‘Why are your relations so angry with me?’ I say, indicating with my lips the departed group of shouting spearmen from the other fire.
‘Angry with you? They love you! You are Conway Holy Water.’
‘Must be hard kind of love?’
‘They just want to make sure you respect them ... and me.’
‘I will,’ I say with a grin.
The fire picks out the dry highlights in us, like we are two fresh new hills in the desert experiencing sunrise. Nayia slips her robe off her shoulders. I feel as if I’m looking at a piece of country, something sacred, something secret. I undress without hurrying. We watch each other over the fire. And then we are lying down together on rugs made of skins.
We are two dry stretches of country. We carry the marks of millions of years, from the volcanoes, the ice ages, droughts, fires, floods, cultivation, and mining. There are dry creek beds winding through us, patiently awaiting the arrival of water. Without water, the creek beds could be taken for scars, old wounds cut into the crust of the country with knives; the rock holes up and down my arms could be taken for ciggie burns if they weren’t brimming with pure water.
I start to feel the warmth behind my ears, which gradually builds to a low hum. In each of the countries now, spring water begins to bubble up from deep within, and the creek beds begin to run wet and cool with the ancient sweet water. Her hands touch the scars on the side of my head and my fingers dance over the healed-up holes where my father’s knife went in.
The creeks flow side by side and winding for a thousand kilometres, for a thousand years, before they turn suddenly, and cutting a new pathway through the red earth, join forces to become a mighty river. And this is us, this boiling pool of swirling water, this joining.
Dreaming 44: Love on the Web
I’m crouching in the bush. I’m not alone. There are three or four of us here. We are all naked apart from hair bel
ts. We are all painted with ochre. Just ahead, through the scrub, we can see the surface of the water, flat and dark in the rock hole. None of us moves a muscle. Breathing is a quiet, private affair. We are waiting.
I watch a dragonfly hovering over the water. He reminds me of the gunships all those years ago. In my hand is a carved nulla-nulla. It is heavy. Must be jarrah. A Nyoongar weapon – no jarrah this far north. My mind is processing the environment, the other men beside me, and the tranquillity of the water.
Ahead of us there is the tiniest of sounds, a deep sigh – and all of our eyes go forward. Focus. Us, the hunters.
The first emu is like a ghost drifting down to the water. He pauses, his half-raised foot stops dead, his head goes up, and listens. Nothing. The deep internal bell/drum goes off in his breast, and there are two of his wives moving close in behind him. They bend to drink the sweet water from the rock hole. I look to the others beside me.
It is Young James and Mularabone, and the third one I can hardly make out. The third one smiles suddenly without mirth and I see it is Jack. Young James makes a sign with his left hand and we erupt out of our hiding spot like crazy white cockatoos, making a huge ruckus. The large birds turn and belt through the scrub with us in hot pursuit, yelling like mad bastards.
The emus are faster than us and quickly put a few metres distance between us, until they crash into our net strung up between several eucalypts. They thrash about and struggle against the vegetable rope. Then we are on them with our nulla-nullas. Crack! Crack! Crack!
We are ecstatic. Dancing around like children. So much tucker now. We got all three. Enough for the mob.
I go up to Jack. ‘What are you doing here?’
Jack smiles. In our ochre we are the same colour as Young James and Mularabone.
‘What are you doing here, Jack?’
Jack steps in close to me, like he is going to whisper his response, but then shoves me hard in the chest with both hands. The shove takes me unawares, and I stumble back into the bloodied net. Only now it is not the sinew trap that we painstakingly wove but a huge spider’s web. I stick fast to that secret protein weave. Jack’s handprints on my chest glow a whitish green colour in the fading light.
