Lew looked dubious. ‘How you going to manage that?’
Jason did not know. ‘Perhaps one of the young blokes?’ he hazarded, thinking of Mura. He ought to have felt guilty—kidnapping him would be a poor return for friendship—but did not. Mura’s friendship had not stopped the other blacks putting him in the cage.
Lew nudged him. ‘Why don’t we grab that young girl when she comes back? She’ll be easier to handle than a man and she’ll be able to show us where the water is, easy as a man could.’ Teeth gleamed in the moonlight. ‘Show us a lot of things, I reckon.’
Jason hesitated. He didn’t like the idea—having a young girl with them was certain to cause problems—but Lew was right about one thing: to take a man they would have to raid the camp whereas they could ambush the women when they brought the food in the morning. Perhaps that was what they should do.
‘It means waiting ’til daylight …’
‘Got a better idea?’
That was the trouble: he had no other ideas at all.
Lew seized on his hesitation. ‘We need to get out of here now,’ he said. ‘Wait somewhere where we can grab them when they come.’
‘All right.’ Jason turned to Fred. The old man had not moved, had made no sign he was even aware the others had broken out. ‘You coming?’
Fred ignored the question; he had made his choice long ago. Jason said no more. Perhaps it was best to leave him to live out his life as he wanted.
He said, ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’
Without a word they took the gourd of water, squeezed through the gap in the wall and disappeared into the bush.
SEVEN
Once again the dawn-singing drew to a close, the ritual complete for another day as it had been each day since the beginning of time. The light returning, the earth returning, the return of the spirits that were the rocks and water and trees. The singer also a spirit as he sang.
Nantariltarra unwound his long legs and stood, the others following his example. He summoned Mura to him. ‘Bring Jay-e-son here. Make him understand that he must not go off alone. Start to teach him the ways of the people.’
‘How do I get him to understand?’
‘Use Karinja. They speak the same language.’
‘What about the others?’
‘For the moment, leave them where they are.’
The others had no role in his dream of the future.
Soon Mura was back, alarm in his face, with the news that three of the prisoners had broken out of the cage and vanished.
‘Karinja is still there,’ Mura said, ‘but there is no sign of the others.’
Nantariltarra was displeased but unworried. There was no way the white men could escape. Bringing them back, however, was a job for men, not an uninitiated youth like Mura. Quickly, he issued orders to a six-man party armed with spears and boomerangs.
‘What if they fight us?’ asked Walpanuna, leader of the party.
Nantariltarra thought. The boy’s co-operation was important. ‘Don’t kill any of them unless you have to. If you cannot avoid it, you may kill the other two. But the boy must not be harmed.’
Within minutes the group had vanished into the bush.
They had planned to wait, to ambush the women when they returned, but Mura’s unexpected arrival had changed all that. His sharp eyes must have seen the broken cage as soon as he came in sight of it. They had caught a brief glimpse of him standing at the edge of the gully, hand shading his eyes as he stared towards the cage, then he had vanished again without coming close enough for them to have any chance of capturing him. His arrival forced them to change their plans.
‘Best git movin’,’ Lew said nervously.
It was pointless to go without knowing where the water holes were but Jason, too, was not willing simply to sit down and wait to be recaptured. At least if they tried to escape they would be making a fight of it. Anything, rather than simply giving up.
To begin with they made good ground, anxious to get as far away as possible before their escape was discovered.
Doggedly they followed the coast northwards. The cliffs were lower here, little more than mounds of broken sandstone. If they saw a boat and could somehow attract its attention they might be able to get away before the pursuit, if any, caught up with them. But the sea remained empty, the sun climbed steadily in the sky until once again they faced the familiar spectre of thirst.
At the beginning Tom had carried the water container but after he had stumbled a number of times Lew Bone took it from him.
‘Can’ afford to lose that,’ he said.
Jason eyed him suspiciously. They could not afford to have one man drink it all, either, and Lew wasn’t the sort to volunteer unless he got something out of it himself.
In the event it made no difference. They had been travelling for less than three hours when the pursuit caught up with them.
The first sign of trouble was a succession of flickering shadows moving swiftly through the bush ahead of them.
Tom stopped at once, pointing. ‘What’s that?’
‘Maybe animals?’ Jason said. He knew they were not animals.
Lew picked up a jagged rock.
Jason looked at him. ‘What’s that for?’
‘If that was what I reckon it was,’ Lew said, ‘we’re goin’ to have to fight.’
‘Stones against spears?’ Jason was scornful.
‘They ain’t takin’ me back to that stinkin’ cage,’ Lew said savagely. ‘They ain’t treatin’ me like no animal.’
‘They’ll kill you.’
‘Let ’em, if they can manage it. We show we’re willin’ to fight, maybe they’ll leave us alone.’
Maybe they would. Maybe the party ahead was there simply to escort them out of their tribal territory. If on the other hand the idea was to kill them, well, perhaps Lew was right. By all means let them make a fight of it.
They drew together. Jason found a stone for himself, saw Tom do the same.
Lew cackled, beads of moisture frothing his lips. ‘Give ’em a run for their money, eh?’ He turned, brandishing his rock in the direction of the bush where they had seen the shadowy movement. ‘You wan’ to fight us,’ he yelled in his cracked voice, ‘come on an’ fight.’
The response was immediate. A thin shadow flew from the undergrowth and Lew was rolling on the ground, clawing and fighting at the haft of a spear protruding from his shoulder.
The others had no time to move. There were men all around them. Tom raised his stone and was at once submerged in a tide of warriors. Jason flung his own rock—somewhere, anywhere—and turned to flee, instinct overcoming logic, but before he had gone two paces was caught from behind. He turned, fighting with fists, feet, fingernails, but was flung down in his turn, face in the dust, a knee in his back.
Something cracked him on the head and darkness returned.
He opened his eyes to yet another blinding headache and had a second in which to think not again before he found himself looking into Mura’s black face.
For a moment he did not understand, then his senses returned and he realised he was back where he had started, in the branch shelter where he had awoken after he had first been captured.
At least this time he did not feel as bad as he had then; perhaps his head was getting used to blows. It should be: there had been enough of them recently.
Mura’s eyes changed as he realised Jason was awake. He backed out of the shelter and ran away, presumably to pass the word that Jason had regained consciousness. Jason wondered what would happen next but his brain wasn’t up to guessing games.
He dozed for a few minutes. When he next opened his eyes there were two faces staring at him from the entrance. The light was bright at their backs but he recognised them at once. One belonged to the tall, powerfully built man who had struck him when he had come back from his first visit to the cage. Presumably he was the man who had had him imprisoned. An enemy, then. The other face belonged to Fred.
‘What’s going on?’ Jason asked.
Fred licked his lips but did not answer. The big black man spoke: the usual incomprehensible flow of sound without intervals or identifiable words.
‘What’s he say?’ Jason asked.
‘’E says you gotta stay ’ere. When you’re better they’ll teach you to become a member of the tribe.’
Whatever he had expected it had not been that.
‘What happens if I don’t want to be a member of the tribe?’
Fred grinned, shaking his head. ‘Don’ ’ave no choice, matey.’
Headache or not, Jason still had enough spirit to object to that. ‘I didn’t ask what you thought. It’s him I’m talking to. I want to know what he’s got to say about it.’
Fred’s face closed resentfully. He said something to the black man. A moment’s pause; again the flow of sound as the black man answered.
Fred said, ‘You got to stay ’ere, same as me. ’E wants you to learn how folks live in this part of the world.’
Jason did not like the idea of anyone telling him what to do. ‘If I try to go will he stop me?’
Jabber jabber.
‘’E says they won’ stop you but without food or water you’ll die, anyway. Like before.’
There was sense in that, at least. One important point remained unanswered. ‘Where’s my brother?’
Fred looked blank.
‘The two men who were with me,’ said Jason impatiently. ‘One of them’s my brother. What happened to them?’
Fred looked awkward. ‘I dunno, matey—’
‘Him,’ Jason interrupted, pointing. ‘Ask him!’
A pause, some limping questions, a curt and vigorous response.
Jason studied the black man’s features as he spoke but they gave no hint of his thoughts.
Fred said, ‘’E says they’re dead.’
Jason stared at him foolishly, his mind refusing to comprehend.
Dead …
He had seen Lew Bone writhing on the ground, fighting and cursing the spear in him, but Tom …
Dead?
He could not get a hold on the idea.
They had never been close: too many years between them for that, too many years apart.
Dead.
They’d had virtually nothing in common. Tom had been slow-witted, placid, willing to follow his younger brother’s lead, an uncomplaining man. He had been tough, loyal. His brother. His dead brother.
Faced with the enormity of the news Jason could not speak. He’d had no time for Lew Bone, the bully, the braggart, had even thought of killing him himself. But Tom …
He managed to ask, ‘How?’
What was the good of questions, of answers?
‘They was goin’ to bring ’em back, matey, but they wouldn’t come. One of ’em had a spear in ’im—’
‘That was the other man.’
Fred jerked his head at the black man standing beside him. ‘’E says they wouldn’t stop fighting. In the end they ’ad to kill ’em both to stop ’em killing them.’
Grief was replaced by anger: a red tide mounting in his brain. ‘There was a whole mob of them, only two of them. They didn’t need to kill them!’
‘That’s what ’e says, matey.’
Jason would have fought the black man but was too weak even to crawl.
‘Tell him he had my brother murdered.’ Fury made his voice ugly even in his own ears. ‘Tell him there’ll be a reckoning. Tell him—’
‘I ain’t tellin’ ’im nuthin like that,’ Fred said firmly. ‘What you tryin’ to do, get yourself killed, too?’
The blinding rage overflowed. ‘I … want … you … to … tell … him!’
‘’Ave to tell ’im yourself, then.’
‘You know I can’t do that.’
‘’Ave to learn the lingo, then, won’t you, matey?’
‘Don’t think I won’t!’
‘Tha’s all right, then. It’s what ’e wants you to do, anyway.’
Jason and Mura sat cross-legged in the dust at the edge of the trees. Through the leaves sunlight shed patterns of light and shade across the ground. Ten yards away a group of women sat gossiping, a scattering of tiny children—boys and girls, one of them the squirming girl who had climbed into his lap on his first evening with the clan—shrieked and tumbled together, playing like puppies. A dog, little more than a puppy itself, bounded forward barking from time to time or stood watching them with a pleased expression on its face.
Mura held up the spear, its notched blade of polished wood wicked in the sunlight. He said something that Jason could not catch.
‘What?’
‘Winda.’
‘Winn-derr.’ Jason tried to get his tongue around the sound.
‘Winda.’
‘Winda.’ That was better. He could hear it himself. ‘Winda.’
Mura put the spear to one side. He pointed at himself. ‘Nunga.’
That was easier. ‘Nunga,’ Jason repeated. ‘Man,’ he guessed. He pointed at himself. ‘Nunga?’
Mura shook his head vigorously, laughing, and pointed again at himself. ‘Nunga.’ Pointed at Jason. ‘Kuinyo.’ Pointed at Fred, off to one side, brought along to help when things got too difficult. ‘Kuinyo.’
Jason shook his head. Too hard. He appealed to Fred. ‘What’s he saying?’
‘Nunga’s what they call themselves. Kuinyo’s their name for us.’
‘Black and white?’ Jason guessed.
Fred shook his head. ‘Not colour. It’s just that they think of themselves as different, I s’pose.’
‘The same as we do,’ Jason said. He turned back to Mura. ‘Kuinyo,’ he said, placing his hand on his bare chest. He had decided to follow his hosts’ example as far as his shirt was concerned but could not yet bring himself to go as far as Fred who sat now, naked as he was born, scratching unconcernedly between his legs. Jason pointed at Mura. ‘Nunga.’
Mura’s grin widened. He clapped his hands softly together.
Jason wanted to confirm what Fred had said. On the other side of the clearing the small girl ran helter-skelter between the trees, pursued by another slightly older. Jason pointed at her. ‘Nunga,’ he hazarded.
Mura nodded, beaming. ‘Nunga.’
Progress. As for understanding what the blacks said among themselves … He still had no idea. At least he was beginning to break the flow of sound into identifiable words but it would be a long time before he could attempt a conversation.
Days, weeks passed. Words became phrases, phrases sentences, sentences conversation. Slow, halting and often incorrect, but conversation nonetheless.
Jason had learned that the tall man’s name was Nantariltarra, a proper jaw-breaker. He practised saying the name silently to himself, listening to the sound inside his head.
Nantariltarra. Nantariltarra.
From time to time Nantariltarra came to listen to the lessons. He gave no sign of being pleased by Jason’s improving skills but since it had been his idea to teach him the nunga language Jason thought he must be.
Jason made no attempt to address him or even acknowledge his presence. He would always think of him as the man who had killed his brother. The waste and futility of Tom’s life and death were always with him. Tom had been a threat neither to the clan nor to any person on earth, not even to himself. There could be no excuse, no forgiveness, for what had happened. Jason watched Nantariltarra out of the corner of his eye. There would be a reckoning.
One day Nantariltarra said something to Mura, speaking brusquely and far too fast for Jason to understand, and Mura looked thoughtfully at Jason, no smile for once, and Jason knew that something important, possibly even momentous, had been decided.
Yet for days little changed. One variation was that now Fred was seldom there: Jason’s understanding had reached the point where an interpreter was rarely necessary. Once or twice an older man joined them. He had grey hair and an infirm way of walking, his chest and back marked with even lines of sca
r tissue. He sat and observed, saying nothing, but once when Nantariltarra was there they walked away together, Nantariltarra towering over the older man, and Jason heard their voices raised in what sounded like heated argument.
‘Worrarra,’ Mura explained in an undertone after the old man had gone.
‘His name?’ Jason guessed.
Mura shook his head. ‘Magic man,’ he explained, using words that Jason understood.
Magic man …
‘Magician,’ Jason said. ‘Sorcerer.’
He took care to treat the old man with extra respect after that. No future in getting on the wrong side of a sorcerer.
Days later Mura said, ‘We are to meet the old ones.’
Jason looked at him enquiringly. ‘Old ones?’
‘Those who will make us men,’ Mura explained.
‘I am already a man,’ Jason boasted, believing it was true. He was as strong as most men and alone in the world. He still missed his brother but not as he had.
Mura explained there were rites to be undergone before anyone could become a man in the eyes of the clan. The visit to the old ones, the elders, would be the first step in the instruction that would lead in time to Jason’s initiation.
‘What about you?’ Jason asked. ‘You going to be initiated too?’
Mura nodded. ‘That was why Nantariltarra wanted us to be together from the beginning. So we could become men at the same time.’
The proceedings were drawn out over many weeks and shrouded in ritual and mystery. There was instruction in the meaning of things, in the ancestral beings, in the laws that governed the people.
In addition to instruction there was pain. The first steps towards initiation began with a physical test of worthiness.
A glowing fragment of red coal, clamped firmly between the upper and lower arms at the elbow.
‘What’s this all about?’ Alarm rang in Jason’s voice despite efforts to conceal it.
‘A man shows no fear of pain,’ Mura told him.
It was excruciating. The sweat burst in torrents from him but Jason willed his face to show nothing. The agony, the sickening stench of burnt flesh, almost made him faint. He sat expressionless under the watchful gaze of the old men, his skin a river of sweat, the pain eating his flesh.
A Far Country Page 8
