Bone Talk

by Candy Gourlay

  Luki’s fists were bunched up. I felt my own fingers curl into themselves. My gut was boiling.

  ‘Hah. You think a man is just someone with a cut foreskin who’s allowed to carry a spear and a shield,’ Luki cried.

  I allowed my fist to fly. Put all my weight into it. It caught the side of her head. Whipped her face sideways. Chuka yelped as if it was her that I had struck.

  I glanced round me. Nobody had seen me hit Luki. At my feet, Chuka whimpered.

  I waited for Luki’s own fist to fly. I decided that I would allow her to hit me back and then that was it. We were done. We could put an end to this strange friendship that never should have been. A girl playing like a boy? It had always been ridiculous and everyone knew it.

  ‘Come on,’ I snarled. ‘You want to be a man too? Then hit me back. Hit me like a man.’

  Her eyes were dark and moist.

  ‘A man never cries!’ I hissed. ‘You’re a fraud and you know it, Luki! You will never become a man and that is why you hate the idea of me becoming one.’

  The tears came faster, streaming down her cheeks in shining trails. But Luki didn’t wipe them away.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I hate the idea of you becoming a man. I hate it because when you become a man you are going to have to stop being my friend.’

  She turned round.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I called.

  She glanced briefly over her shoulder. ‘I’m going to see if my mother has any chores for me in the House for Women.’

  There was a soft whimper.

  ‘What do you want, Chuka?’ I mumbled.

  But the dog was already away, trotting at Luki’s heels.

  30

  Soon Father had gathered together the twenty men the Americans needed for their task. They sat on their heels, around Tambul’s death chair, digging tools cradled in their arms, axes at their waists, and baskets of provisions on their backs, waiting for the signal to move on. Mister William stood by the fern tree pillar, now minus its water buffalo skull. I didn’t know what else to do, so I squatted down to join them.

  But now Corporal Quinlan was setting up the kodak in front of the ancients. Kinyo translated as the American cajoled the old men to stand in a row.

  ‘He says please stay very still,’ Kinyo told them. ‘And please try not to cover the tattoos on your chest.’

  After a minute Corporal Quinlan flashed his teeth at the ancients and bowed. ‘He wants to show you something,’ Kinyo said.

  The American held up a small box from which he extracted a stick. It was a thin splinter the length of a finger with a swollen red tip. He beamed at us, as if he expected us all to jump up and down with excitement. Holding the stick high, he snatched up one of the wooden bowls lying by the fire. Over it he waved the stick in a spiral, the way Salluyud would whirl the shoulder bone of a water buffalo over the fire to invoke our ancestors. Then slowly, slowly, he scraped the stick’s red tip across the bowl’s wooden lip. There was a crackle and then, with a loud hiss, it burst into flame.

  We were all on our feet. Looking around me, I could see my own utter amazement in the faces of the others: open mouths and wide eyes that were both bewildered and impressed.

  ‘This is how Americans make fire,’ Kinyo translated.

  Afterwards, Corporal Quinlan distributed one fire stick to each of us. As I pushed forward to receive my stick, I glanced at the other Americans. Mister William’s lipless mouth was pursed, as if he’d eaten a sour tamarind. And the noses of Private Smith and Private Henry were curled in sneers. Perhaps they had wanted the fire sticks for themselves.

  I had never seen the ancients smile such huge gap-toothed smiles as they accepted their sticks and shook Corporal Quinlan’s hand, in the way that Kinyo had demonstrated when he first arrived. Before I tucked it into my belt, I stared at mine for a long time, turning it over and sniffing it. So small and yet so powerful not to need tinder or pitch or the spark of a stone to create a flame.

  Later, the Americans ordered the digging party into a column, with Corporal Quinlan in front, Private Smith and Private Henry in the back, and everyone else in between. Quinlan positioned Kinyo and me just behind his horse, with the prisoner, who was still roped to his horse. Father lingered on the side, discussing something with the ancients. I was not really listening until his voice rose. ‘But there is still danger!’

  ‘Danger!’ Salluyud was replying, his old face puckered with annoyance. ‘Those two Mangili are dead. Their people will still be waiting for their return. Now is the safest time to leave the village. And the more men you take, the more quickly the job will be done.’

  Maklan had a smug grin on his face. ‘When you dig up those dead Mangili, make sure you tell their corpses, “Next time, pick another village to attack.”’

  ‘Don’t forget,’ Pito added, ‘we have guns now.’

  Only then did I notice that two men were standing by the path cradling the American guns in their arms. One was Lamang, a potter with a belly that poured over his breechcloth. The other was Dipa, whose wife had only recently had a baby.

  Father looked slantways at the two and shook his head. ‘You need more than those two to guard the forest.’

  ‘Each gun is equal to ten men,’ Dugas declared.

  Lamang, catching Father’s eye, made explosive noises with his mouth.

  Father looked away. Then he sighed and rose, waving at Kinyo and me, as he joined the other men in the middle of the column. But he was still worried. I could tell by the creases cutting deep on either side of his jaw.

  Corporal Quinlan was rummaging in his pack. He grabbed something and hurried round his horse to the prisoner before kneeling on one knee.

  Curious, I leaned forward to see what he could be doing as he bent over the lowlander’s feet.

  He was fastening iron bands to the young man’s ankles. The bands were connected by a short, heavy chain. Why would he shackle the lowlander’s ankles now? Weren’t we just about to set off?

  Realizing that I was watching, the American smiled warmly as he got back up on his feet. He ruffled Kinyo’s hair, handing him something out of his pocket. Kinyo exclaimed over it with delight, beaming as Corporal Quinlan turned to mount his horse. Kinyo held it up to me. ‘He said we should share this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sweets. You know, like Mister William’s gumdrop. Here, try it.’

  I shook my head, remembering the shock of the gumdrop on my tongue.

  Kinyo put it in his mouth and smiled blissfully. ‘It’s really good!’ he said. ‘Better than gumdrops – but don’t tell Mister William!’

  Corporal Quinlan climbed up on his horse and twisted around holding his hand high. The two Americans in the back responded with a shout and Kinyo translated, his voice shrill above the murmurs of the men. ‘Time to go!’

  He waved at Mister William, who waved back, lipless mouth twitching in a small smile. The way he looked at the other Americans was odd; it was definitely not the gaze of a friend.

  Chuka was nowhere to be seen. Resentment prickled in my chest. She was with Luki, no doubt. It was just as well. The Americans did not want her around and she would have been impossible with the prisoner close by.

  Just as we began to move down the mountain, Corporal Quinlan’s horse suddenly bolted forward.

  It took the lowlander unawares. He fell on his knees and was dragged a short way. Corporal Quinlan glanced over his shoulder as Kinyo and I grabbed the prisoner by the elbows and helped him back on his feet. He had to adopt an odd shuffling movement to avoid tripping on his shackles.

  Down the mountain we went, the hot sun warming our heads and prompting a wave of storytelling from the throats of the men around us, vivid tellings of long-ago clashes with the Mangili, the number of heads lost and reaped, the valour of the men who had fought.

  But then we entered the forest and almost immediately the happy chatter was sucked away, absorbed by the moss that wadded every crevice and dressed
every branch and boulder. In that strange, padded atmosphere the men ceased their chatter, until the only sounds to be heard were the hnhh hnhh of their breathing, the snort and clop of the horses, the heavy clink of the lowlander’s shackles, and, somewhere up ahead, the murmur of the Tree of Bones.

  31

  At first I thought Corporal Quinlan just wanted to make sure that the prisoner was keeping up. The American kept glancing over his shoulder at the lowlander, whose bare shoulders were bright with sweat as he lurched along.

  But then I saw the American grin. Yet again he jabbed his heels into his horse. Yet again it jerked forward. Yet again the lowlander was yanked off his feet.

  Corporal Quinlan didn’t make any attempt to slow the horse down once the lowlander was prone in the dirt behind him. He just kept urging it on, even as Kinyo and I chased behind, trying to help the lowlander back on his feet. By the time we’d managed it, the prisoner was scratched and bleeding and covered with moss and tiny specks of grit.

  He’d only been up for a few heartbeats when Corporal Quinlan did it again. His horse burst into a trot. And down went the lowlander.

  And over and over again.

  It was as if the American was two people. The one who made the ancients smile and shook our hands and offered us sweets. And this one. Who enjoyed watching his prisoner stumble and fall.

  You cannot help someone as many times as we got the lowlander to his feet and still not know his name. Lowlander was one of the languages that Kinyo carried in his throat and soon he was collecting little mouthfuls of information about the prisoner.

  ‘He says his name is Juan,’ Kinyo whispered.

  And then: ‘He says he ran away during a battle.’

  And then: ‘He wants to go home. But his family is dead.’

  ‘You sound like you pity him,’ I said.

  Kinyo shrugged. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I thought you liked the Americans.’

  ‘I like Mister William.’ Kinyo scowled. ‘Mister William is different. He is not an invader.’

  I mused on this as we walked deeper into the mossy forest. Was it possible to be friends with one American and the enemy of another? Could I, a Bontok, ever be friends with a Mangili?

  What was important, I decided, was to retrieve Tambul’s head. We only had to get along with the Americans until we had fulfilled our part of the bargain. And then they could go away and leave us alone forever.

  The murmuring had become louder. The path was meandering towards the clearing where the Tree of Bones waited. I wondered what the spirits would say as we filed past.

  But Corporal Quinlan turned his horse’s head and led us down another path.

  ‘We’ve taken a wrong turn!’ Father called from behind.

  Kinyo scrambled alongside the American, translating. But Corporal Quinlan didn’t even glance down.

  Father pushed past the other men and joined us in front. ‘Kinyo, can he not hear you? Tell him this way does not go to the place where they said they buried the Mangili. We must change direction.’

  Kinyo hurried on, squeaking at the American until, at last, Corporal Quinlan raised his hand, calling everyone to a stop. He turned his horse and leaned down towards Kinyo, plucking the ends of his moustache as Kinyo translated Father’s message.

  But before Kinyo had ceased talking, Corporal Quinlan whipped his horse away, the lowlander floundering behind him, and trotted past Father, the huge hooves so close that Father had to jump to the side to avoid getting trampled. The American shouted something curtly over his shoulder.

  ‘What did he say?’ Father asked. ‘Why is he continuing on?’

  ‘He says no,’ Kinyo said. ‘He wants us to reach the pass by morning. There is no time to dig up the Mangili now. He says it can wait. We must do the burying first.’

  ‘But he promised!’ Father’s face darkened with anger. ‘That is why Samkad is with us, to take Tambul’s head back to the village.’ He raced after the American, leaping to grab the halter of Corporal Quinlan’s horse.

  I watched anxiously as they glared at each other. Was Father going to draw his axe? Was Corporal Quinlan going to pull out his gun?

  From the back of the column there was a sharp scream. And then … barking.

  Corporal Quinlan pushed Father away and turned his horse.

  The men behind us were making a raucous noise now. The sound was not angry or fearful. Were they laughing?

  And then I recognized the shrill, complaining voice that rose over all the clamour. Luki.

  ‘Let go of me, American! Let go!’ Luki screeched.

  Private Henry was trotting towards us with Luki flopped over the neck of his horse. Chuka yapped and snapped at his heels. The horse stopped in front of Corporal Quinlan and Private Henry tossed Luki down onto the ground.

  Chuka jumped onto Luki as she struggled to her feet, whimpering and licking. She stared up at Corporal Quinlan, cheeks tear-smeared, but eyes sparking with defiance. She was dressed in her shabby old breechcloth again.

  ‘The American is asking if you know this boy,’ Kinyo said, staring with fascination at Luki’s costume.

  ‘She is not a boy,’ Father said through gritted teeth. ‘What are you doing here, Luki?’ He grabbed her hand as if he would lead her straight back to the village right there and then, but Luki pulled away.

  ‘I told you. I wanted to come too.’

  ‘She was meant to stay with her mother,’ Father told the American. ‘I am sorry, she’s always been headstrong—’

  But now Corporal Quinlan was roaring something in his deep voice.

  ‘What?’ Father snapped. ‘What’s he saying now?’

  ‘Time,’ Kinyo said. ‘He is saying this is a waste of his time.’

  The American pulled the gun from his belt and pointed it at Luki.

  The joking of the men behind us dwindled to silence.

  ‘What does he think he’s doing with that gun? What is he saying now?’ Luki demanded, her chest thrust out.

  Kinyo darted at Luki, and shoved her towards the forest.

  ‘He said: RUN, Luki!’

  Luki ran.

  The American fired his gun.

  The first explosion, and Chuka bolted after Luki.

  The second explosion, they were almost at the trees.

  The third explosion, and clumps of leaves fell as Luki was swallowed by the forest.

  Corporal Quinlan shrugged his shoulders, tucked the gun away and kicked his horse back into motion, his face bored.

  I bolted after Luki, but Father’s hands snatched me back. ‘No, Sam.’

  Corporal Quinlan had already disappeared round a bend with the lowlander and Kinyo close behind. The other two Americans were shouting and waving their hats, urging the other men along like you would herd a water buffalo to the paddy fieds. Father’s hands turned me towards them. ‘Come, Sam. She will be fine.’

  I resisted. ‘What if Luki is hurt?’

  ‘She isn’t. I saw her get safely away.’

  ‘But I should make sure she’s all right.’

  Father guided me firmly back to the group. ‘She’s fine. Chuka has gone after her and will be her protector. And anyway, there is no danger in the forest now that the Mangili who attacked Tambul are dead,’ he said. ‘Son, stay with me and your brother. We need you.’

  We need you. I obeyed Father, hurrying to the front of the column to take my place behind Corporal Quinlan’s horse. I stared at the American’s tall back and the swaying haunches of his horse … and Juan, tripping and struggling at the end of his rope.

  Father was wrong. There was danger. And it was not just in the forest behind us.

  32

  Climbing uphill, the giant horses towered above us, their monster heads like nodding cliffs, hooves kicking dung and dust into our faces, their hot, beasty odour infusing the air. The trail plunged downwards and we found ourselves gazing down upon their great, swaggering, sweat-shiny rumps.

  We crossed from one mountain to the
next along narrow traverses so precarious that the Americans had no choice but to dismount and lead their horses. The great beasts made their way across, the whites of their eyes showing, shying nervously at the gorges on either side.

  When the ground became broader and flatter, the Americans re-mounted and Corporal Quinlan kicked his horse into a quick trot, watching with a small smile as Juan stumbled and fell. As the horse dragged him along, the lowlander could only tuck his face into his shoulder and wait until Kinyo and I could put him back on his feet. He was thoroughly exhausted now, and his wounds were gaping and bloody from the repeated gouging of stones.

  Kinyo and I had picked him up so often that the whole process had become mundane. It had somehow become normal for the American to cause the lowlander to fall. And still even more normal for us to pick him up. We had done it so many times it was no longer something to be upset about.

  So the next time Juan fell I was startled to find Father running alongside us, his axe raised. He barged us aside. Down the axe went with a loud clink. The chain hobbling Juan’s ankles flew apart.

  ‘Hup, hup!’ Corporal Quinlan clicked his tongue and kicked the horse into another trot. Father slipped an arm around Juan’s waist, lifting him bodily onto his feet. I saw the American glance over his shoulder. His blue eyes became small and hard as they flitted from Father to Juan, now running easily behind the horse, the cut lengths of chain from each ankle clinking against the ground.

  For a moment, I was afraid he would explode his gun at Father.

  But he just returned his attention to the trail and urged his horse on.

  We arrived at a river, fed by springs from higher up in the mountain. The water was an intense blue and we could see every stone that paved the bed below. It was perhaps waist-high to a man. But it was broad and the water rushed swift and strong, spitting ruffs of foam.

  The horses reared and bit and complained, pawing the river bank, flaring their nostrils. Their animal smell intensified with their fear.