When Darkness Falls

by John Bodey

  “Go on, Imagen.”

  “Then they dragged him to the edge of the water. It was like he was already dead. This old man knelt beside him and talked to him obviously urging him to get up and walk. When the boy did nothing, he got his spear, and he put the spear-tip to the base of the boy’s throat and said something to him. I knew then they were going to kill him.”

  “Why didn’t they?”

  “I screamed ... And I fell out of the tree.”

  “Mother of the Spirits protect us!”

  “I came crashing down and bounced out into the water.” Imagen rubbed her back. “It knocked the wind out of me, but I still had my senses, so I swam underwater to the far bank and looked back through the leaves of that weeping tree.”

  “What happened then?”

  “They were looking all around, into the trees, and a couple were pointing to where I must have hit the water—I can remember my scream echoing, and ringing through the trees. I must have shocked them. Then the crazy man yabbered something, and they grabbed their weapons and ran for the trees. When they reached them, they just vanished...”

  “How long ago?”

  “A long time, Mother. They won’t be back.”

  “You seem so sure, Imagen.”

  “They have nothing to come back for.”

  “Why did you come back, Imagen?”

  “Because he called me. I couldn’t leave him, knowing that we had left him to his death. He might be an ugly boy, mother, but there’s something about him that I like.”

  Nwunta listened to her sister’s story in silence. Now she said: “My little sister has lived more of life in two days than I have in sixteen summers.”

  “Well, daughter. For good or for bad, we are here. First, we have to straighten his leg again.”

  “How long are we going to camp here?”

  “For as long as it takes to get his leg bound again. We don’t have enough medicine with us, but there is plenty that we can gather once we catch up with the rest of the tribe. We will have to make a good stretcher to carry him on.”

  “Thank you, Mother, and you too Nwunta.”

  “I don’t think you really know what you have done, Imagen. You are now responsible for this boy’s life. You have taken on a great responsibility.”

  “I know, Mother. I understand what you are saying.”

  “From this moment on, you will have to look after him, bathe him, fetch his water, find food. You must teach him to speak our language, everything that is needed for him to survive. We will help as best we can, but you cannot expect too much help from us. Nwunta is a woman now and soon to take a husband. Believe me, Imagen, it would be better if we fixed his leg, made him comfortable, gave him food, and left him to his fate.”

  “You would do that? Then you would be no better than his own people. No, Mother, I came to his call. I will look after him.”

  Together they worked at the healing. Nwunta collected and shaved and shaped the springy wood from the weeping tree. Then she cut into strips an old kangaroo skin, and soaked it in hot water. They worked quietly and quickly. One held the leg up, another held the splints in place, and the mother bound the wet strips of skin to the smoothed pieces of wood. As the strips dried, they shrank, tightening the splints firmly in place. So it would remain until the bones had knit and the boy could put weight upon his foot. When all was done, they rested. Imagen sat beside the boy, sponging him down, cooling the fire that again raged within. Once they were rested, they set to and made a stretcher, firm, light and strong. The sun was low in the sky as they finished. The Mother looked into the darkening gloom, and turned her eyes towards the tall trees. There was nothing there. They would take a chance and make a fire. Tomorrow they would begin their journey and rejoin the tribe.

  By the time the tribe had returned to the place of the Tall Trees the following year, the boy was walking again. His leg had set straight; but when the cold winds blew the leg ached. He was still very much a stranger within the tribe, mostly keeping to himself and very aware of his debt to the healer woman’s family. Daily he became more a member of that family. They called him Ngala.

  Imagen still had to do his foraging for him; she would walk with him, showing him where to find tubers, which seeds were good and which were tasteless, which berries were edible, which used for medication, and which were poisonous. Sometimes she pointed to a distant shrub and told him that she would meet him there, then went off to be with her friends and the women of the tribe. Though she knew that he was still dependent on her, she needed to show him that she wasn’t there to be at his beck and call. After all, she wasn’t married to him.

  On long treks, as his leg grew in strength, Imagen began to load him down with things she felt he could carry. Without a word, he accepted the humiliation that she was handing him. It would have been unacceptable in his own tribe to have even considered that a man would carry any of the cast-off belongings that a woman didn’t feel up to carrying. The man was the hunter, the provider of meat. He needed to be free of such obligations, ready at any instant to take the initiative, for no one could tell when game might appear. If he resented the task he didn’t show it either to Imagen or any child or adult who passed him by and saw his struggling efforts.

  The healer woman had become a mother to him, and he called her just that.

  Nwunta had married Gullia, a young man of another tribe from along the coast. Gullia had seen the sadness in Nwunta’s eyes as she prepared to say farewell to her own family and he had decided he would like to see other lands and know a little more about his wife’s family and tribe before settling down with a family of his own. Sometimes Nwunta and Gullia walked with the boy, but often they were off in hidden places, learning the intimacy of each other.

  At nights, when the family gathered together to cook a meal, talk and be together for protection, comfort and companionship, the boy learned to speak their tongue and got to know their culture and taboos. In turn, he answered their questions about his own country, his life, his people. He became good friends with Gullia, and listened avidly as Gullia described his tribe’s way of fishing and hunting on the ocean. He learned a little about the moods of the sea and longed to hear the pounding of the surf on the beaches, to feel the cascading wall of water as a wave broke overhead.

  In the years that followed he was hunted and played at war games like every other young male. He had grown taller, and had begun to fill out. He now stood a good head over his childhood companions, and was as tall as most of the men of the tribe. Soon he would be by far the tallest member of the tribe.

  Now as the tribe approached the Tall Trees of their wintering quarters, strange feelings awakened within him. Emptiness sucked at his heart and he began to feel the familiarity of the trees, mountains and streams. As much as he loved his foster family, and had been a part of them for four good summers, his ancient ties were calling him, pulling him back to the land of his birth. His gaze scanned the lowlands and returned to settle on the tall trees. Every day the pull came stronger. He knew it was time to return home.

  The healing mother watched him: the humorous, boisterous boy she loved was changing. Her eyes followed him as he stood his eyes drawn to the mountains and the tall trees. He had grown into a handsome youth with a sinuousness that reminded her of a wild animal, his limp replaced by a silent, effortless glide. His love and respect for her was very real. If he felt otherwise about her youngest daughter, he didn’t show it, and always treated her with teasing admiration and respect. As for Imagen, she had blossomed into a surprising beauty. If there was any sexual feeling between them, neither had shown any sign. She sighed. It was time to talk to the girl.

  The day the tribe finally reached the Oobagooma river and the long waterhole Imagen invited the boy to walk with her to visit the spot where it had all begun. It was something they had done every year on their return to this place. A reunion with the past. They stood in the sand side by side and she watched as his face turned towards the Tall Trees, s
earching for some sign. She touched his arm.

  “Ngala ... I think it is time for you to leave us and return to your own people.”

  “Do you want me to go?”

  “No. But I see the longing in your eyes. I feel the pain in your heart. You have to go, to look for the past.”

  “You know the feelings of my heart? Have I made it so obvious?”

  “Only to those who know you...”

  “Oh, Imagen ... How dearly I would love to be amongst the trees, to wander the mountain paths, dip my hands in the coolness of the streams.”

  “Then go ... there is nothing keeping you here.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes you can. There is nothing that binds you to us, to the tribe, my family, or me.”

  “But there is. You saved my life. Not once, but twice. By the law of my tribe, the first time I can repay, but the second binds me to you for life. My life is not my own, but for you to do with as you wish.”

  “Well, I won’t recognise such a stupid law. I don’t want to have you tagging after me everyday for the rest of my life. I want to be a healer, free to come and go as I like.”

  “You would release me? I am free to go? I will miss you. You and Mother, Nwunta and Gullia. You are right about the calling of my heart. It aches to go home. But you are wrong when you say there is nothing keeping me here. There was my obligation that you have just freed me of, and other things you know nothing of.”

  “So? You will go?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight, after dark.”

  “You’d travel in the dark? You’d get yourself well and truly lost in those trees.”

  “No, Imagen. I have night-eyes. I can find my way anywhere at night. In the mountains, in the trees, we live in the shadows. It is nearly as dark during the day as it is night. Our eyes have grown accustomed to the dark.”

  “Then my people must have day eyes,” she responded.

  “That explains why you are always the last to see the kangaroos and emus out on the plains, and can never see the eagles as they soar up to the clouds—will you miss me?”

  “Miss you? Oh Imagen, you have been a part of my heart from that day I opened my eyes and first saw you. We have been too young to speak of love. But in my heart, my mind, I think of you. If I could take you as a promised bride I would. The Spirits be my witness.”

  “I never knew.”

  “And I could never tell you while my life was yours.”

  “And now?”

  “Now it is too late.”

  “Ngala ... I am a woman, my blood comes. This summer as we pass along the coast, I will be initiated, promised. It will be too late then. I don’t want marriage. I don’t want a man chosen by another. I want to be a healer like Mother.”

  “What is it you ask?”

  “Make love to me. Discredit me.”

  “No, Imagen, I can’t do that. Take a husband, have children, live your life. But don’t ask me to discredit you. You mean too much to me.”

  “Ngala. If I can’t have you as a husband, I want no other.”

  “Imagen. I have told you of the feelings of my heart, there is nothing more that we can do. It is better that I leave.”

  “Then, you shall leave tonight.”

  That evening the meal gradually subsided to silence. The ties of long years of togetherness were finally being severed. Out of the quietness Mother spoke. “I am not one for long farewells, my son. My fire is always your fire, my home will always be yours. I look forward to seeing you again. I think, Imagen, you should walk Ngala as far as the end of the billabong.”

  “Did you notice that she didn’t say goodbye?” Ngala said when they reached the water’s edge.

  “Are you saying goodbye?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to feel the pain of regret for what I might have had. No, Imagen. I am leaving for good.”

  “Then make love to me.”

  “No. That is impossible.”

  They stood on the cool night sand, facing one another in the dark. She searched for his face, but could only see the outline against the stars.

  “Kiss me, Ngala. Please.”

  He bent to kiss her lips and put his hands upon her shoulders. As their lips touched, he felt her cool fingers wrap themselves around his manhood. He began to draw away, but she pulled him into a lingering embrace. “Please, Ngala, give me your child.”

  “Please Imagen, let go.”

  “Why?”

  “Imagen, I just can’t give you a child because you want one. I have never experienced love. In your custom, you are promised to a man and you can have as many children as you wish. But in my tribe, young girls and boys are given to the old men and women to gain experience, and then the young men are given to the older women as husbands. If we are lucky we will father a child, if not, it is the will of the Spirits; it is their way to keep the tribe within limits. Why do you ask this thing of me? Why, Imagen?”

  “Because I need you. A discredited girl, especially one with child, will have trouble getting a husband.”

  “Imagen ... You don’t know what you ask.”

  “Yes I do. You are my only hope, Ngala.”

  With a sigh he wrapped her in his loving arms. In the coolness of the night sand, they broke the law. It was a night of insatiable love. With the coming of the dawn, he knelt beside her in the sand.

  “I have to go, the dawn comes.”

  “I’ll wait for you, Ngala, every year at this time, I will wait for you here. Think of me, Ngala.”

  “I will come if I am able, though I make no promises. Imagen ... you will make a fine wife. Tonight you made me a man.” He rose to his feet and walked towards the trees. “Walk softly, woman, walk proud. I love you.”

  “Go, Ngala. Take my love.”

  Like the shifting shadows he moved amongst he disappeared.

  When the tribe returned the following year, Imagen waited patiently for evening, then she wandered down to their meeting place and sat in the cool sand, idling the time away. Evening after evening she returned there at sunset, expecting at any moment to see a shadow detach itself from the others. As the days passed, she knew he would not come. Her heart was heavy, but she recalled the words he had spoken. “I will come if I am able, though I make no promises...”

  At nights she lay in loneliness. When the tribe moved on, she packed her belongings, waited another day, then followed in their footsteps. Though her heart was heavy with longing, it was not overburdened with sorrow; he had said he would come and in her heart she knew that he would, if he could. If not this year, then next.

  She walked the miles through winter, rain, wind and dust, until finally her footsteps came again to the banks of the Oobagooma, that lay beneath the hills of the land of the Tall Trees. With hope, she went at nightfall to their meeting place. She looked for any sign he might have left, and finding none, felt a sagging in her spirit.

  As the evening moved into darkness and the shifting shadows of the leaves swayed with the evening breeze, she couldn’t stop the tears that began to trickle down her cheeks. The pain of heartache filled her being; she lifted her face to the stars and turned to go. The movement was as fleet as a thought: and she stopped and looked again.

  Out of the darkness emerged a flowing shape, a shadow detached from the other shadows. He was no longer the boy that she remembered. She saw a tall, graceful giant with broad shoulders, smooth shiny skin, rippling muscles and shoulder-length black hair. A white narga covered his manhood. She shivered involuntarily and felt her legs go weak, her breath shorten.

  “Imagen ... how long I have waited for this moment!”

  “Ngala!”

  “Why the tears? I thought you would be happy to see me ... Here, let me see you.”

  “Please, Ngala ... just hold me. I wish these stupid tears would stop so that I could get a good look at you.”

  They stood lost to the world ar
ound them. Wrapped in the love they had carried for each other from the time that they first met. Suddenly Ngala stiffened and froze; he placed a warning finger to her lips and searched the shadows behind her for the intrusion he sensed.

  “Can anyone join in this reunion?”

  “I see you, Mother.”

  “As I see you, my son. Come, boy, let me welcome you home.”

  “But who are these children with you? Are you a mother at your age?”

  “Oh, Ngala. Nothing of the sort, my son. I am their grandmother. This is Mitticarla, your son, and your daughter Pintibi.”

  “My son? My daughter?—You didn’t tell me of this, Imagen.”

  “You haven’t given me a chance.”

  “By the ghosts of our Ancestors, I’m glad to be here. This brings me more happiness than I have ever known. What of Nwunta and Gullia? Are they still with you?”

  “They wait patiently, hoping you might return.”

  Imagen gently urged the children towards their father. “Ngala, stay and play with the children. Let them have a chance to get to know you. I will go with mother and help prepare food.”

  The family sat talking around the fire under the giant Cudgibutt tree. It was more of a homecoming than Ngala could ever have imagined. His two small children crawled and climbed all over him, their first moments of awkwardness long gone. The food was passed around, with a fermented brew made from the sweet flesh of boab nuts.

  Nwunta and Gullia welcomed him with joy and showed him their young son. Mother sat urging all to eat and drink. Her grand-daughter, feeling the pull of sleep, crawled into her lap and made herself comfortable. When Mitticarla crawled into his father’s lap and closed his eyes in sleep, Ngala knew the joy of being a father.