by John Bodey
His mother rocked him back and forth and began to sing their death song. She would not beg the spirits for mercy and a quick death. When the people left in the darkness, she would stay with her son and help him in his passing. She understood. She knew the tribe was being punished for not being satisfied with the lot that the Spirits had given them: the large, cool billabong, the easy living, their carefree ways. Now they were suffering; only the strong would make it back. Their lesson would be learned, and those that would follow them would understand they should never take for granted what the Spirits had given them.
The light of the new moon filtered down from above. Before the weak could realise what was happening, those who were strong enough moved out without a backward glance, without a word of goodbye, without leaving so much as a drop of water. They simply walked off into the night. The mother lifted the limp head from her lap and searched for her bowl; she had been saving her water all day, and now her bladder was tight and painful. She squatted over her largest earthenware bowl and wasted her urine, careful not to spill so much as a drop.
She was about to rise when she heard the first of the mewling sounds. Cautiously she looked about. Slowly she rose to her feet and stared at the scene before her. Under cover of darkness, the tribe had risen and left behind the sleeping, the weak and the dying. She walked among them and counted sixteen children, from crawling babies to youths. She looked among them to find any who would be able to care for them, and ease them on their way to the spirit world. There were only two: the girl Nellajidi and the youth Boodjang. Both were about the same age as her son, but they would need to regain strength before they could begin to help her.
Surely one of the ancients could have stayed with them there were many old women in the tribe far beyond the age for producing children who could have remained. Anger boiled within her. Had they expected her to stay here with the children until the last had gone on his way to death? Was she to die with them? Her anger was laced with a tinge of bitter resentment for those that would leave their duties to another.
She heated the urine in the bowl on the coals of a fire, adding herbs and leaves. They gave off a heavy fragrance. While she watched the brew simmer, a large scorpion attracted by the light crept towards the fire. Deftly she struck it, ripped off its poisonous tail and threw it into the stew.
She searched for other nocturnal scavengers. To the brew she added dead skinks, a small desert sand mouse and her babies, a couple of crickets, a legless lizard, another scorpion and more of the fragrant leaves, slowly rendering the mixture down to a mushie pulp. It would either succour them or help them to a quicker death. She tasted the brew and nearly threw up it was so bitter.
When it had cooled, she placed a small stone under her tongue then took a couple of leaves and chewed them, filling her mouth with saliva. At the same time she rolled a small amount of the gruel into a ball. Then forcing her sons mouth wide, she spat in some of the juice of the leaf and popped in the ball of gruel. Chewing more leaves, she moved on to the next child, then the next, until all the gruel had been scraped from the bowl. Then she sat and watched. When a child whimpered, she would comfort him, soothing his fears. Slowly the children settled; the three youngest fell into a sleep that frightened her. She placed her hand on their chest, and was relieved to feel the soft rise of their breathing.
She didn’t remember going to sleep. But the dream had been very real. She had been there, she had seen it all at first-hand, and yet she knew she had never left this place. She saw her people camped for the day-light hours, as they had done here. She saw their departure, and there was not a child among them. They had abandoned the future of the tribe. Somewhere not far from here, more children lay unaware of their fate. Left to fend for themselves, they would be as good as dead before the next day’s sun rose. She looked about her. Something caught her attention; a sound or movement, and urgently she peered into the night.
She wasn’t sure whether she had returned to the world of dreams, but the form she followed was that of a woman. A spirit, a vision, a dream, she didn’t care; when she faltered, the figure waited and beckoned her on. If it was a dream, then she could feel the rocks hard and sharp, and the scrub around her looked real enough. She stopped to gather her breath, and the form motioned for her to continue, then it disappeared. She slid between two great rocks, desperately searching for the figure she had been following. Suddenly she spotted it, a woman on her knees, digging in the sand at the base of a big rock.
Looking around, she checked her final bearings. When she looked back, the figure had gone. She moved quickly to the spot where the figure had been digging. Kneeling, she felt moisture on her knees. She began to dig, turning the sand back behind her. She hit the hard moist clay of the hillside and followed it down.
She reached into the hole and was surprised to find a small amount of water already gathering in the sand. She got down on her belly and lay with her head deep in the sandy hole; gently she sucked up the first water she had tasted in two days. This was no dream. She got back to the task of making the hole larger and deeper, then waited patiently in the starlit darkness for the seepage. Unable to control her patience, she dipped her hand into the hole again. The water was slowly gathering.
She slid on to her stomach and drank long and deep, then filled her mouth with all she was able to hold and made her way back. She bent over her son, lying so still, then put her ear to his mouth and nostrils and felt the small puff of expelled air. She forced his mouth open and let the smallest trickle of water to escape into the parched interior. The boy coughed into wakefulness. She went to force his mouth open again, but found it a waiting receptacle. Slowly she let the water trickle down, waiting while he swallowed, then again, until he had taken it all.
He would be safe now; she could return to the soak without worrying. As she gathered her earthenware bowls, dawn was in the making. She left: the camp to fill the bowls and start saving lives. As she knelt to reach the water in the soak, she noticed that the water was as deep as her hand, and as wide as the spaces from elbow to fingertip. It was more than enough. She thanked the Spirits for looking after them.
Then she saw four white roots, neatly lying in a row on the sand. One had obviously been bitten; a fifth lay with dirt still clinging to its skin. The stem was intact, with a couple of leaves beside it on a length of vine. She reached for the bitten root, and noticed the missing part lying in the sand. It had been chewed, sucked dry, then discarded. “Thank you. We owe you our lives,” she smiled and said loudly into the morning air.
Then she filled the bowls, gathered the roots and returned to the children. It took until mid-morning to slowly decant the water into the mouths of each thirsty child. Soon the sun was high above them and she knew all these children would survive until she could return and give them all another drink. But for now, more urgent thoughts filled her mind...
“Munni? How do you feel, son?”
“Still weak, but a lot better than I was before I closed my eyes last night. I never ever expected to see you again, let alone another day.”
“Then you really are on the road to life.” She paused, then spoke carefully. “Munni, there is still a lot for me to do. I had a sort of dream; in it I saw other children left to die just like these children. But there is no one to look after them. I don’t know how far they walked after leaving here, but I don’t think it can be a great distance. I can’t let them die, not if there is a chance to save even a few. I have to see if I can find them.”
“What of us? Will we be all right until you return?”
“Yes, son. I’m going to carry you over to the water soak and leave you there. You have to rest, slowly drinking a little water at a time. Pour enough over you to make you wet, it will stop the moisture from leaving your body, and the water will soak back through the sand. The water will be hot and it will make you thirstier, but if you try to quench that thirst you will only be filling your gut until you have to spew it all out. Then, when you try to drink
more, you will find your body will reject it. You might die. Do you understand me, son?”
“Yes, Mother. I have no love to lose my life, not now that it has been given back to me.”
“Good. Let your strength return. Then when you are able, fill a bowl and return here and give each child a little drink. Feed the three little ones first. Put your fingers in the water, and let the drops fall from your fingers into their mouths. When no one is looking, sneak back in the dark and fetch another bowl, and let them drink again. I will return as soon as I can. I will be back before tomorrow’s dawn.”
“Could I not come with you?”
“And what of the others? No, I need you here. Here are some roots I have cut up. Keep two small bits for yourself, then share out the rest.”
She left him lying in the shade of a crackling gum. With a leather carry-all hanging flat against her chest, she carried her two largest earthenware bowls and made off in the direction the people had taken the day before. It was easy to track them, for as the sun had risen to its height they had started to discard bits and pieces.
By the time the sun was beginning to hang low, she came across more evidence of their passing. She saw the ants first. They swarmed in a mass, and it took a moment for her to realise that she was looking at the discarded body of a baby. Her hesitation at the sight caused her to stop long enough to hear the sounds of other children. The body had stopped her from walking right past those she was seeking.
The children all lay together after crawling from where they had dropped in their fatigue, the marks of their endeavours pitifully plain in the red sand. They lay panting their way to death. The closest, a girl about twelve years, lay suckling an infant on her small teats, the crusted white spittle showed how desperately the baby suckled, seeking moisture.
The woman took the infant and laid it in her lap so that its head hung limply backwards, then she dipped her fingers in the bowl and dropped life into the parched throat. She was rewarded with a cry of hunger. Gently she placed the child back into the arms of the girl, lifted the girls head and began to slowly administer the life-saving water.
“Your baby?”
The girl shook her head. She had only tried to soothe the baby’s way to death.
The woman tended eleven children who had lain there anxiously, waiting for night to fall; everyone knew that the spirits came in the darkness of night to collect the souls of the dead. There would be only two for them this night; a girl and a boy who had died before she got to them. In tears, she had moved on to the next child, and then the next, wondering how many more would die before she could get to them with the precious water of life.
It was dawn when she returned to the waterhole. She found her son Munni waiting for her in the shadows of the crackling gum that grew beside the soak. And with him was Nellajidi, the oldest of the girls. Nelli had now regained sufficient strength to be able to help look after the others.
“Are the other children all right? Have they had enough to drink?”
“Yes, Mother, I did what you told me. Nelli gave me a hand, she fed the little ones for me.”
“Then you two have done well. Now I must get some sleep. Take some water to the children—they will be feeling their thirst about now. Give them all a sip and bring them here, it will save you walking up and down carrying water. And I think you should choose another boy to help you.”
“I have been thinking about that,” Munni told her. “There is this quiet boy who keeps to himself—he always has a ready smile, no matter how sick he’s feeling. Datun. I have already spoken to him and he will help.”
“Good. I know the boy. His mother’s name was Llanoene, she liked the company of men and good times. I can understand why the boy is quiet.” Her thoughts turned to the other children’s camp. “We have much to do today and tomorrow—there are as many children as the fingers of my hands, all barely alive, a good half-day’s walk from here, waiting for my return and the water we will bring. But I need sleep as much as they need water; we might all die if I am too stupid to rest.”
“Have your sleep mother. Do you want us to wake you? Or shall we let you sleep until you wake yourself?”
She gestured to the top of the tree. “Wake me when the sun climbs to this height in the sky. I just need enough sleep to get my strength. There will be plenty of time to sleep after we get those children here. We have to find food, but more importantly, we have to get water to those children.”
She awoke and looked about her at the unsmiling, hungry faces that sat staring at her. She sought her son’s face and saw the signs of hunger. He stood patiently hand in hand with the girl Nelli. Beside Nelli stood another girl and a gangling youth about the same height and age as her son. A smaller, more solid boy, whose curly black hair cascaded around his shoulders stood next to Munni. His head reached to Munni’s shoulder, and as she turned her gaze to him, he smiled.
“You’ll be Datun,” she thought.
“These are my friends, they’re here to help,” Munni told her. “The tall one is Boodjang, and this—”
“Is Datun.”
“You know him?”
“I know him by his smile. Well, son, my belly burns from lack of food, so I know how the rest of you must be feeling.” She climbed to her feet and faced the children, gathering her thoughts. “But I have to forego my eating for a little while yet,” she told them. “There are many children half a day’s walk from here that have no food and water, nothing at all, except the hope that I will bring them more water. I am going now to take water to those children, and while I am gone you children will have to hunt for food. If you take your time and look very hard you will find all sorts of things that we can eat. Lizards, mice, grasshoppers—you might even find a snake. Don’t be selfish and eat what you find, think of others. If we all work towards saving each other, then we will survive.”
She paused to take a small drink, and to let her words sink in. “There are bulbs in the ground, there are also roots like the one Munni handed out to you in small portions. It too grows underground, near trees and shrubs. You look for the vine that leads to the leaves hidden in the tree’s foliage. Find the vine, dig out the root, then you must skin it and chew and suck the juice as you did before. Share as much of it as you can. Bring the leaves back to put in a stew, it will give it a nice taste. You lot on this side of me, seeing as you are nearest the desert, today you will look for the vine. You other lot will be the hunters for the day. Today you hunt, tomorrow you dig for the vines.”
She looked at one of the girls. “Cuddy, I see you. Is your brother Gulag with you?”
“No, Aunty. He went on with Mother, they left me here to die.”
“I see.” She spoke then to all of them. “Listen to my words and try to understand. Learn from this bad experience. Don’t hold hate in your heart for the mother, and father who left you here to die. They were only obeying the law. For the tribe to survive, the weak must be left to fend for themselves. The strong must go on, and if they survive, the tribe will live to grow strong once more. Do you understand now, Cuddy? It was for the tribe that they left you.”
“But why did they come this way in the first place? Did they not know this would be our fate, that so many of us would end up dying?”
“It is the way of arrogant men.”
“The arrogance of our Elders has created a disaster. Just how many people will die before the tribe reaches our homeland once more, we shall know only by the number of bones we pass on our way.”
“We are going to leave this water?”
“Yes, my son. Not today, or tomorrow, but one day we will have to. The moisture seeps slowly, which means there is little water from where it comes. As we catch the insects, lizards and mice, dig for roots and bulbs, day by day we will have to look further away from the water. One day, we will have to move.”
“At least we know now what to expect. Can we come with you this time and help bring back the brothers and sisters?”
“Yes, for
that I shall need your help—Cuddy, will you look after the others while we are gone? We will return as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Aunty.”
She turned to the others. “Are you lot ready to go?”
“Yes, Mother, we have filled all the containers we can carry.”
“Tell me, Datun, why are you carrying a coolamon strapped to your back?”
“To carry what roots we find on the way. I’ve taken a liking to its sweet juice, and I’ll be looking hard for the vines as we travel. I don’t think the time it takes to dig one up will cost a life, surely—in fact, the roots just might save a life.”
It took them until evening to reach the thirst-stricken children in the other camp. The slow feeding the second time was easier. There was plenty of water, but the supply was limited; there would be need for it on the return journey. The few roots Datun had found were divided and the children shown how they should be eaten. Then it was time to go.
A new moon hung low in the sky. Rested, with water in their bellies, the time had come to leave this place, a place many would dream about long after they had returned to safety. Unsteadily they rose, some with assistance, and began to make the trek back. As the weak failed, the older children carried the smallest and assisted those who couldn’t make it on their own. Some began to feel the benefit of the water and they in turn helped their friends. Among the children they had rescued was Gulag, Cuddy’s brother.
They travelled through the night, resting as often as needed, and at sun-up Munni pointed to the hillock that lay before them and announced they had arrived. There they could rest and drink, and there would be food for their bellies before they went to sleep that night. He threw back his head and cooeeed, and soon children ran streaming from the camp, carrying water, wanting to help. It was a crying Cuddy that held her small brother to her.
