The Complete Stories of Alan Marshall

by Alan Marshall

  She turned and hopped slowly away from him. She moved with grace and dignity, despite her burden. She carried a joey.

  A mile from the spot where the old prospector worked, two boys were cutting timber. Their axe-heads glittered in the sun. When for a moment the eager steel poised motionless above their heads, the muscles on their uncovered backs stood out in little, smooth brown hills. Their skin had the unblemished gloss of eggshells.

  Beside the log on which they worked lay a blue kangaroo dog. His powerful, rib-lined chest rose and fell. His narrow loins had the delicacy of a stem.

  Suddenly he lifted his head and, turning, bit at the smooth hair on his shoulder to ease an irritation. His lips, pushed up and back, revealed red gums and the smooth, ivory daggers of his teeth. He snuffled and worked his jaws. His jowls flowed with saliva. He expelled a deep breath and lay back again. Flies hovered over his head. He snapped and moved restlessly.

  The boys called him Springer—Springer, the killer. In the shade from surrounding trees lay other dogs. They formed a pack, the existence of which was due to the boys’ love of hunting. They had no beauty of line, as had Springer. They were a rabble. They barked at nights and howled at the moon. They ran down rabbits with savage joy and, in the pack, were relentless in their pursuit. They looked to Springer to bring down the larger game. They were content to be in at the kill.

  One of them, Boofer, a half-bred sheep dog, rose and stretched herself. She yawned with a whine and walked into the sunlight. She stood there a moment meditatively. She looked back over her shoulder. A flying chip fell beside her. She sniffed it. She was bored. She turned and trotted off among the trees.

  Some time later her excited barking caused the other dogs to jump to their feet. They stood with their necks erect, their heads moving alertly from side to side.

  Boofer tore past, some distance away, running at speed, her nose to the ground. The dogs yelped with delight and, scattering dry gum leaves and crashing through scrub, sped after her.

  The boys stopped work and watched.

  ‘There they are, up on the hill!’ cried one. ‘Look, quick, look!’

  He pointed.

  He put two fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly.

  Springer, having disregarded the yelping of the pack, leaped to his feet at the sound, as to a clarion call.

  He sprang forward with short, stiff bounds, craning his neck as if to see over obstacles. He stopped and grew tense, one forefoot raised in the air. His panting had ceased. He looked eagerly from side to side.

  The boy who had whistled jumped from the log. He ran to the blue dog and, grasping his head between his hands, half lifted him from the ground. The dog’s neck was stretched and rolls of skin half-closed his eyes.

  ‘See ’em. See ’em,’ he whispered excitedly.

  But no responsive quickening of muscle stirred the dog. The boy ran forward dragging Springer with him.

  Then Springer saw. With a mighty bound he parted the boy’s hands. He leaped with a terrific releasing of energy, doubling like a spring until, having attained speed, he moved with effortless beauty.

  The boy sprang again to the log. He stood with his lips slightly parted, eyes wide, his hands clenched by his side.

  ‘Boy!’ he breathed to his companion. ‘Look at him.’

  Upon the hillside the mob of kangaroos had heard the yapping of Boofer on their trail. The little grey kangaroo lifted her head quickly. For a long, tense moment she stood in frozen immobility looking down into the valley. Her joey, nibbling at the grass some distance from her, jumped in sudden panic and made for his mother with single-purposed speed. With her paws she held her pouch open like a sugar bag. He tumbled in headlong, his kicking legs projecting a moment before he disappeared.

  How safe he felt in there; how secure from dogs with teeth and men with guns. His little heart, swift-beating at the excited barking of the pack, became even and content. He turned and his head popped forth with childish curiosity.

  His mother was already on the move. The does were in haste; the old men were more leisured.

  With a clamour the pack broke through the trees. Ahead of them, like the point of a spear, Springer ran silently.

  The kangaroos leaped into frantic speed, but before they gained their top Springer was among them and they scattered wildly.

  Perhaps it was because of her conspicuous colour, perhaps because she was so very small, the kangaroo dog singled her out from her companions and set after her relentlessly. And, recognising his leadership, the pack followed eagerly, joyfully, the hills echoing their exultation.

  She had intended making up the hill to thicker timber, but, as if suddenly realising her desperate plight and the heavy responsibilities of motherhood, she turned her flight towards the old prospector.

  Through the fragrant hazel, past the mottled silver-wattles, by sad tree-ferns and across chip-strewn clearings she sped; and behind her Springer cleared as she the fallen trunks, the scattered limbs, swerved as she did from the pointed stakes, flew wombat holes and trickling water-courses with equal ease. He rode the air like Death itself.

  The clutch of some mimosa hampered the grey kangaroo. She lost ground. The blue dog gathered himself and sprang, but the rough take-off spoiled his leap and he wobbled in mid-air. His teeth closed on the skin of her shoulder, his body struck her. She staggered and collided with a sapling. The dog shot past her, scarring the moist earth with tearing feet.

  With heroic endeavour the grey kangaroo recovered her balance and in a violent, concentrated effort, she drew away from the dog, a tattered banner of red skin draggling from her naked shoulder.

  She made for some crowded gum suckers. They brushed her as she passed. With a swift and desperate movement she tore her joey from her pouch and flung him, almost without loss of speed, into their shelter. She turned at right angles, leading the blue dog away from him.

  The joey staggered to his feet and hopped away distractedly. But the following pack, with triumphant cries, bore down on him. He gave one helpless glance back at them and tried to flee. They swept over him like a wind. He was lost in their midst.

  Their howl of triumph reached the little grey mother as she strained ahead of Springer, the killer. Their unleashed savagery, fleeing from them in bloody glee, broke upon her in waves.

  The old prospector heard it too, and, dropping his dish, he clambered in clumsy haste from the creek. When his head and shoulders appeared over the bank, he stopped a moment with dazed eyes and open mouth watching the approach of the grey kangaroo and her pursuer.

  He raised himself swifty and ran towards them. His eyes were wide open, distraught. He raised his hand in the air and cried hoarsely, ‘Come be’ind ‘ere! Come be’ind ‘ere!’

  When the grey kangaroo reached the clearing she was all but spent. The blue dog, with mouth open and silken strands of saliva blowing free, raced behind her across a patch of fern. He was but a length away when, with painful bounds, she reached the cool sweetness of young grass.

  He made a last, terrific burst. He left the ground with all the glorious energy of a skin-clad dancer, his body modelled in clean curves of muscle. His teeth locked deep in her shoulder. His hurtling body seemed to arrest its speed as if suddenly braked. He met the ground stiff-legged and taut.

  The grey kangaroo, her head jerked downwards, spun in the air. She turned completely over. Her long tail whipped in a circle above her head. She landed with a dull crash on her back. Before the shock of her falling had released her breath, Springer was at her throat. With demoniac savagery he tore at the soft, warm fur. With braced forelegs and tail erect, he shook her in a frenzy.

  She kicked helplessly.

  He sprang back, keyed for further conflict.

  Her front paws, like little hands, quivered in unconscious supplication. She relaxed, sinking closer to the earth as to a mother.

  He turned and walked away from her, panting, with red drops dripping from his running tongue.

  With half-c
losed eyes he watched the old prospector running towards them, his heavy, wet boots flop-flopping on the grass.

  A Little Son

  She stood near the broken she-oak tree, her hand shading her eyes. She could see miles across the saltbush plain, but there was no sign of that little patch of moving white—the canvas-covered wagon of her husband.

  The heat was palpable. It moved through the air like waves of syrup through water. It had weight and pressed on her bare arms. No sound, no movement. . . . The sky was cloudless.

  She was weary and heavy with child.

  Two days ago she had watched the curved-topped drover’s wagon pass through the myall clump and strike across the dusty-coloured saltbush towards the home of Mrs Clancy, the wool teamster’s wife—a twenty-mile trip. Mrs Clancy was their nearest neighbour and a good midwife it was said. All the people of the plains knew her.

  The wife lowered her hand. She had expected her husband back the next day. Two days had almost gone. She was afraid. Her time was nearly here. Yesterday she had had a bad attack of pain. She cried so easily. It took so much courage.

  She turned wearily. The small, pine-log house conserved the heat, which took from it its spaciousness and fouled it with a heavy smell of stagnation. The coolest spot was beneath the bed. She had lain there for some time that morning.

  Three topknot pigeons alighted with a flutter of wings on the fence beside the house. Their bills were open. All the crabholes were dry. They sat with their heads on one side. She knew that when she walked inside they would fly down to the dog’s tin to drink.

  As she brushed between the hessian bags hanging over the doorway, disturbed flies rose from her back in a cloud of circling dots.

  She moved slowly round the house preparing her evening meal.

  She was careful with the water. The two-hundred-gallon tank on the dray propped near the door was nearly empty, and although she had thrown two packets of salts into the water to clear it when it had first been carted from the big, excavated tank five miles away, it was still very muddy.

  She strained it through white flannel. There was no milk for her tea. She used an egg beaten up in water. When the tea was made she sat in the oven-like house sipping it and thinking.

  That night she did not sleep and early next morning she scanned the plain for a sign of the wagon. The plain was empty.

  The heat became more intense as the morning passed. Before her anxious eyes it became a vapour that shimmered as it rose from the dry earth. A needlegrass-covered sandhill on the edge of the plain was reflected in the clear waters of a mirage. Some sheep feeding on its edge appeared to have the legs of giants.

  Later, pain came upon her and she thought, ‘It’s coming.’

  She broke out into a cold perspiration and began to tremble. She walked into the house and lay on her bed. She got up and commenced to walk about.

  She suddenly heard the excited yapping of dogs as they strained on the chain tied to an axle, the rattle of the worn boxes of her husband’s wagon wheels. She went to the door.

  ‘Are you all right?’ her husband called anxiously. He had pulled up before the gate. She nodded. Mrs Clancy climbed down. Her back was black with flies. She waved her hand before her face and bustled up, full of soft murmurings. She hurried the wife inside.

  ‘Just in time—just in time,’ she murmured to herself.

  The husband led the horse round to a shed to unharness it. It had froth on its neck and shoulders and shone with sweat. Sweat trickled over its hooves in streaks and dripped from its belly in round, black drops.

  Inside, the young wife clung to the old, experienced woman with the short, plump body and the round, motherly face.

  ‘I’m frightened,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry, dear. Don’t be frightened. You will be all right. God is very good to women in the bush.’ Her voice was a caress.

  She hurried round heating water and attending to the trembling girl.

  The husband appeared. The young wife looked at his worried face. She smiled at him bravely. He was anxious to be of use. Mrs Clancy hurried him outside.

  ‘That’s one reason why I don’t mind having babies,’ she said to the girl, ‘for if ever a man runs for his wife, he’ll run for her then. They’re never more kind or thoughtful.’

  The girl crouched on the edge of the bed.

  ‘You must keep walking till near the time, dear. You will be all right—a big strong girl like you. Keep walking about the room. That’s the way.’

  The girl kept walking to and fro. When bouts of pain seized her she clung to the end of the iron bedstead, swaying and moving her lips soundlessly. Her face was pressed against a stockwhip that hung on the end of the bed. When the pain ceased and she drew a shuddering breath she could smell the scent of its myall-wood handle.

  She commenced walking again. She felt so alone. Her husband was near yet he seemed far away from her. She felt a need of her mother. The heat in the room was intense. Flies buzzed round her.

  In her walking periods she dreaded letting herself sink into the abyss of pain again. To have to encourage the darkness of that lonely agony sapped her courage.

  ‘Dear God!’ she whispered.

  ‘Don’t fight against it, dear.’ Mrs Clancy stroked her arm.

  Later she said, ‘Better lie down now, dear.’

  But the young wife was afraid and cried:

  ‘I can’t lie down. Not yet.’

  ‘Yes, dear. Come on.’

  ‘I want to kneel on the floor. . . .’

  Tears ran down her cheeks.

  The gentle old midwife laid her hand upon her and led her to the bed, crooning soft words.

  The wife lay gazing at the enormous bulge in the calico ceiling above her bed. The accumulated sand from many storms had collected there and hung down like a dead body. Each summer it got worse. She was always afraid it would burst and smother her. John had promised to let it out.

  The midwife knotted two towels to the head of her bed.

  ‘Catch hold of these when it gets bad.’

  When it gets bad! She laughed weakly. When it gets bad.

  ‘Oh God! God!’

  Mrs Clancy sat beside her.

  Through the obscurity of pain that howled and shrieked and shot like lightning about the room above her open, unseeing eyes, she could hear as from a distance the voice of this old woman:

  ‘Don’t worry, dear. Don’t be frightened. God is very good to women in the bush. There, there now.’

  There had been no period in this young wife’s married life in which some responsibility or trivial worry had not loomed in the background of her thoughts: a sick dog, fowls that did not lay, her husband’s troubles. . . . But now she was oblivious to all save her suffering. When lying in those periods of comparative ease, her whole mind was concentrated with a painful fixity on the first signs of another attack. Each one sapped more of her strength and courage.

  As these bouts of agony got worse she clutched the knotted towels with her hands while disjointed thoughts and solitary words careered round her head. Her tortured body became the abode of two people—one who suffered and babbled, and one who looked on with a certain grave quietness.

  ‘I can’t stand much more . . . no more . . . ‘I’ll scream . . . Dear God . . . Oh! ‘I’m moaning . . . the heat . . . mother . . . I want mother . . . The pain, the pain, the pain . . .’

  Cries burst from her. She felt herself mounting on a black, upward sweep of agony; floating off into space.

  ‘Don’t be frightened, dear. God is very good to women in the bush. It won’t be long.’

  ‘No more!—No more!’

  She passed into a darkness where nothing existed, out again to the screams of demons, a falling, a cessation of pain while she lay weak and trembling with an unspeakable dread of going through it again and again and again.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Clancy,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t stand it. I can’t. I want to die. I want to die.’

  And the sof
t, motherly voice comforted her:

  ‘You are a big, strong girl. Don’t worry. God is very good to women in the bush. Not long now.’

  And the pains were nearer, always nearer. From intervals of half an hour to intervals of minutes; more intense and more unbearable until there was nothing in all her consciousness but pain, nothing in all the world but pain, an eternity of pain. . . .

  And outside three wandering emus plucked the apple-bush beyond the house, and crows cried hoarsely as they flew overhead, and every tree and clump of scrub and single saltbush stood motionless in the heat with burning leaves and sapless trunks gasping for air and awaiting patiently the miracle of creation.

  All through that summer day they watched the house, and when the friendless belah-trees were etched against the sunset sky like mops of witches hair, a thin cry came from the room with the golden window. A breeze stirred them. The myall-trees moved their drooping leaves and the she-oaks sighed softly. The breeze touched them and moved on across the saltbush plain with its message to the sky-touched distance.

  In the little room with the golden window Mrs Clancy spoke:

  ‘You have a little son,’ she said.

  The woman upon the bed heard her but dimly, yet even in the twilight region of waving shadows wherein she floated, the voice seemed heraldic and proud.

  It ceased to be the voice of an old woman with bulging breasts and sweat-wet face. It was the acclaim of the lonely world about her; the bravo of the mulga, and the saltbush, and the smouldering sun. In the silence of an intense interest they had awaited this miracle; had waited while she brought into being a man-child who would one day play with the earth about their roots, who would crow with delight at the flight of birds and pat the rough bark of trees with little hands. They hailed him, these lonely children of the plains.

  ‘You have a little son. . . .’

  Cardiac

  There were two rows of beds in the ward—six on each side. He occupied the bed opposite mine.

  He had curly grey hair and a face criss-crossed by a multitude of humorous wrinkles. He was fat and sat in bed with the soles of his feet together, his knees apart, like a blackfellow.