Then there was the knife, by comparison much easier to bear, the ritual cutting of parallel incisions in the skin of chest and back.
‘Manka,’ Mura called it.
Blood ran thick. Ash was rubbed in the wounds. The scars would always be borne proud of the flesh, Mura said, as a reminder of how a man should bear all suffering.
Dizzy with pain and loss of blood, confused by so many strange things, Jason heard the voices of the instructors chanting, explaining, expounding, telling him the truths that a man must know, that a woman must never learn.
‘There is women’s business, too,’ Mura said. ‘Things they learn that we don’t.’
‘What things?’
‘I don’t know.’
Of course: but Jason wanted to learn everything. He felt resentment that there should be knowledge forbidden him.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘It is the way things have always been.’
Whenever he raised an awkward question that was always the answer. There were things he must know, things he was permitted to know, things he was forbidden to know. Why? Because that was the way it had always been, the way it would always be.
‘Does nothing change?’
It seemed not.
‘Then how …?’ But said no more.
How do we learn new things? he had meant to say but did not. Such a question was meaningless, might even be dangerous. To Mura and the rest there were no new things nor could ever be. Yet there were new things in the world, Jason knew. He was one of them. No white man had ever been taken into the clan, had any of its secrets revealed to him.
Fred told him, ‘Taken a proper shine to you, they have. An honour, that’s what it is.’ He showed no resentment that such honour had never been paid to him.
‘Some honour,’ Jason said, the pain of the burning still with him. Yet was proud of the pain, the way he had proved to the elders his ability to withstand it. Already he felt apart from Fred, superior to him.
It was an honour, he knew. The clan was on the way to accepting him. With the initiation he would become one of them. He was pleased without knowing why. He no longer thought of running away, as once he had, although he also never thought of spending the rest of his life here, either, initiated member of the Narungga people or not.
For the moment he was prepared to live from day to day. As to the future … Something would happen. He had no doubt of that.
EIGHT
Asta Matlock kneaded the damper and put it into the cinders at the edge of the glowing coals to cook. While she waited she busied herself with the meat that she had left soaking in fresh water to rid it of the salt in which it had been preserved. She made a face as she took the strip of meat out of the water and laid it on the wooden table top. The salt was supposed to stop the meat from going putrid but seldom did the job properly. It was usually half-rotten by the time they ate it and, judging by the smell, this piece was no exception. It was ironic that they should have to rely on salt meat when they had so many sheep but Gavin had been adamant: no sheep to be killed unless absolutely essential. The demands of the flock took precedence over their own.
‘We need a new pickling barrel,’ Asta said out loud. She had been telling herself the same thing for weeks but had done nothing about it.
‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ she told herself with little conviction.
Since Edward’s death she had taken each day as it came, drifting mechanically through her life. She carried out her duties, kept the house as clean as was possible in a place like this, prepared the meals and cooked them, did the laundry, looked after the cows, made butter and cream, tried—and failed—to grow vegetables in a soil that was alien even to her fingertips. She permitted her husband the use of her body although the first time it happened after Edward died it had been all she could do not to cry out in protest, to beat her clenched fists against his hard flesh in outrage that he could even think of such a thing. She had not done so. She had lain there, enduring, until it was over. Not only enduring, in truth. Although she had told herself then and on every occasion since that the act did not touch her, that she was no more than a receptacle for her husband’s lust, it was not true. Always her flesh betrayed her, kindling the response of the flesh with a power greater than anything her will could muster against it. She despised her body and herself for it, despised Gavin, too, but accepted it might be different for a man.
Now Asta cut and slashed, turning the meat, cutting again, discarding the worst pieces, hands moving automatically, mind busy with her thoughts. She put the meat into a pot with a few precious onions and potatoes—they had brought with them large supplies of both but they were running low now—and placed it on a trivet at the edge of the coals. Slow cooking would soften the tough meat a little.
Face hot and flushed from the fire, Asta went out of the kitchen into the sunlight, crossed to the main house and went inside. She removed her apron, put on shawl and bonnet, changed her boots. She went out into the harsh glare of the day and walked down the sloping paddock towards the distant line of cliffs, as she did every day at about this time.
Gavin had spoken to her several times about it. ‘I don’t like you going out alone,’ he said. ‘Ian saw a group of natives near his place only a week ago.’
‘Did they do anything?’ she asked.
‘They watched him from the trees. When he walked towards them they ran away.’
‘To me they do not sound very dangerous,’ she said, accent lilting and foreign-sounding in air that would always be foreign to her.
‘They’ve killed plenty of people in other places. You know that as well as I do.’
‘It is their land, after all.’
Gavin shook his head. ‘Not any more.’
‘Perhaps nobody has told them that,’ she said.
He was right, of course. It was dangerous to go out alone but she was unable to prevent herself. Every day she had to go to the sea, every day she had to wait. What she was waiting for she could not have said but that did not matter. It was the waiting that was important.
The sea stretched like a piece of crinkled silk to the horizon. Where sky and sea met she could just make out the triangular outline of headlands marking the other side of the gulf. They thrust through the haze: blue sea, blue land, blue sky. They were the limits of her world: remote, alluring, unattainable, the gateway and symbol of everything she had lost.
At the foot of the cliff the sea tumbled ponderously, the sound of the breakers compressed, it seemed, by heat. The air was swimming with insects. In front of her the dusty path unwound down the cliff. The tide was in and she could not see the sickle of sand-girt stones, so insignificant from here, where her son’s body had been found.
Perhaps I shall conceive again, she thought, knowing she did not want that.
The sea has taken him, she told herself, eyes fixed on the blue expanse. In its own time the sea will return what it has taken. It was crazy, she knew. She heard her thoughts, there were times when they frightened her, yet she believed.
There was always Alison, her brother-in-law’s twelve-year-old child, but Alison was a girl. There was Blake Gallagher: but the farm supervisor was a harsh, brutal man and, at sixteen, his son showed every sign of growing up to be the same.
Someone else’s child was not the answer, either.
There was alarm in the clan, anxious discussions, slanted glances aimed Jason’s way. The Council had been talking for hours, seated in a circle on the ground in their usual place well away from everyone else, but the sound of their voices carried to the rest of the camp and the voices were often angry.
‘What is going on?’ Jason asked Mura.
His friend would not answer.
‘What is it? Why won’t you tell me?’
He went to look for Fred but he was no wiser than Jason was.
‘They’re allus gittin’ worked up about summat. Their nature, see? Maybe it’s to do with one of them there initiation ceremonies they’re always on abou
t.’
Jason knew it couldn’t be that. The next phase of his initiation was due very soon and as far as he knew everything to do with that had been running smoothly. He was reasonably sure that the present excitement had nothing to do with the clan’s normal routine but was something new and possibly threatening, not only to the clan but to himself.
The sun was well down in the western sky when a Council messenger, tall and stern-looking, a long spear in his right hand, came stalking across the clearing and stopped in front of Jason.
‘The Council will question you.’
Jason knew he had been with the clan several months but could not be sure how many; he had lost count of the days in a world where days did not seem to matter. It had been winter when the Kitty sank and now, after the long heat of summer, the days had shortened, the nights were cold once more. In all those months this was the first time Jason had been summoned in such a way. The brusque order bothered him: how was he supposed to communicate with them? He had learnt enough of the language to carry on a simple conversation but to be questioned by the Council would be an entirely different matter.
Nerves jumping, he scrambled to his feet and followed the messenger to where the elders were seated on the sun-warmed dust.
Jason had long ago given up wearing clothes. At first he had felt awkward, afraid that every male and—much worse—every female in the clan had been watching him, possibly even laughing at him, but he had soon got used to it. Now he wished he had something to cover himself. Clothes were more than a covering, they were something to hide behind. Naked, he felt that his thoughts were as exposed as his body. In the present circumstances that might not be a good idea.
A few yards from the circle of seated elders the messenger stopped and raised his hand. ‘You will wait here until you are called.’
Jason waited self-consciously, trying not to fidget. To begin with, the elders gave no sign that they knew he was there. They continued their discussion, often several of them speaking at once, but eventually the talk petered out into an expectant silence. Several heads turned in Jason’s direction.
The messenger pushed him forward. ‘They are ready for you now.’
Nantariltarra watched as Jay-e-son came forward. The other Council members seemed to believe that this kuinyo, washed ashore in a storm, must know everything there was to know about others of his own people.
What nonsense, thought Nantariltarra. Do we know everything that happens among the Kaurna? Or the Nugunu? Of course not. Yet they are nunga, as we are. Jay-e-son knows nothing about this latest news, I am sure of it. I have to allow the Council their chance to question him because if I do not they will say that I am hiding something, but their questions will uncover nothing.
Jay-e-son stood to one side of the circle.
‘Stand here, in the centre,’ Nantariltarra instructed him, ‘where everyone can see you.’
Nantariltarra watched the members of the Council studying the white man: almost man. He doubted they saw what he saw. He saw Jay-e-son as an ally, the only hope they had of surviving the threat that was coming down on them, whereas he suspected they saw someone strange, an enemy because of his strangeness and because of what they had heard of others of his kind.
‘The Council wishes to ask you what you know about the kuinyo.’
Jay-e-son nodded but did not speak.
He no longer even looks like a kuinyo, Nantariltarra thought. Kuinyo meant dead person. Before a corpse was placed on the funeral platform to enable wind and rain to do their work the top layer of dark skin was removed, leaving a pinkish under layer. The colour of the first newcomers had reminded those who saw them so forcibly of the pink colour of death that they had given them the name of a corpse.
‘You are kuinyo,’ Nantariltarra said, speaking slowly so that Jay-e-son would understand him. ‘Tell us how you came here.’
‘I was on a ship that sank in a storm,’ Jason said. ‘I was washed ashore.’
‘Where do you come from?’
‘From a land far from here. We call it Van Diemen’s Land. I don’t know what it is called in your language.’
‘When you came ashore were you alone?’
‘No. There were two other Europeans with me.’ He used the English word European but saw at once that they did not understand. ‘Kuinyo,’ he explained.
‘What happened to them?’
Nantariltarra saw anger flash in Jay-e-son’s eyes. ‘You killed them.’
‘Do you know why we did not kill you?’ Nantariltarra said.
‘No, I do not know why.’ Jay-e-son’s eyes met his and Nantariltarra was pleased to see no fear in them, nothing but anger and pride.
No, he thought, nor will you know until we have learnt everything you can tell us about the kuinyo and their ways.
He could sense the Council watching him.
‘Where do the kuinyo come from?’ he asked.
‘From over the sea,’ Jay-e-son said.
‘From where over the sea?’
‘Far. Travelling as long as I have been living here with the clan.’
Disbelief rumbled around the circle of seated men. What this youth was saying was impossible. No-one could live so long on the salt waters. What would they eat? What would they drink? Was this boy claiming that the kuinyo had powers beyond ordinary men? Even, perhaps, beyond the spirits?
Nantariltarra saw that Jay-e-son’s answer had angered them: not because they knew it was false but because, in a hidden part of their minds, they were afraid that it was true. It was inconceivable that the kuinyo could have such powers yet Nantariltarra too was inclined to believe. The newcomers were so different yet no-one had ever heard of them until recently. It made sense that they should come from far away.
‘Why have they come here?’
It was the only question that mattered. If he knew why the kuinyo had come he might be able to anticipate what they planned to do now they were here.
Jay-e-son hesitated. ‘I don’t know.’
Again the hiss of disbelief. This kuinyo was lying: Nantariltarra could read the thought clearly in the down-turned mouths, the lowering brows of the Council. They believed Jay-e-son did know, that he denied knowledge not from ignorance but from guile. It confirmed what they had always suspected: that he was an enemy, part of whatever it was the kuinyo planned to do.
Nantariltarra knew he must be careful. Against the wishes of the majority he had forced through the decision to initiate Jay-e-son, to admit him to at least some of the clan’s secrets. If it was now agreed that Jay-e-son was an enemy then Nantariltarra himself would be guilty of betraying the clan by having revealed to him what should not have been spoken.
‘You are a kuinyo,’ he said coldly. ‘How can you say you do not know why you came here? You will be telling us next that you do not know what the kuinyo are planning to do now they are here.’
Anger and frustration rose in Jason like a hot tide. These men knew nothing of the outside world, did not even admit that it existed.
How could he explain to them what the European arrival meant, that they had travelled all the way from Europe to take this land, that they had no intention of leaving, that they thought of it as their own? Even in English it would have been impossible to explain. In a language that he spoke only haltingly, understood even less, it was doubly impossible. The worlds of the European and black man were too far apart for understanding. He looked around at the eyes watching him and saw only suspicion.
Be careful, he warned himself. If you tell them that the whites are here to stay these men may kill you. On the other hand if you say the opposite, that the kuinyo will not stay, they may kill you later when they find out you lied to them.
Jason said, ‘All the kuinyo think of the place across the sea as home. They think of going back there.’ It was the best he could do.
There was a gabble of controversy as all the members of the Council began to speak at once. The talk was too fast for Jason to understand so he waited, trying
to hide his increasing apprehension.
‘Why have they come here if they intend to go back again? If their home is as far away as you say it is?’
Jason did not know why the Europeans had come to Australia. Some, like his parents, had been convicts brought here to be punished, but why here and not somewhere else he had no idea. He had been born here, it was his home. He had never given any thought to why.
Think, he told himself furiously. He remembered something Mura had told him about how the clans traded with each other, how some of their weapons were tipped with special stone that had been quarried from an island far away to the north, in a place where no-one whom Mura knew had ever been.
Perhaps the Council would understand that.
‘It depends on the type of people they are,’ he said.
Nantariltarra frowned. ‘Kuinyo are kuinyo,’ he said. ‘They are all the same. What do you mean, the type of people?’
‘They are not all the same. There are sailors, farmers, traders …’ He chose the categories least likely to offend them. ‘Perhaps they have come to trade,’ he said.
‘Trade in what?’ Nantariltarra asked.
Jason did not know what trade the Europeans would be willing to make with the blacks. ‘Wool, sealskins, maybe weapons,’ he guessed. ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask them.’
Nantariltarra watched Jay-e-son closely as he spoke. He did not think the kuinyo had come to trade. The reports he had heard had said nothing about that.
‘Perhaps you should ask them yourself,’ Nantariltarra said.
‘How can I do that?’
‘There are some only two days march from here.’
Thunderstruck, Jason stared at him. ‘Two days …?’
He had always believed that white people would come eventually but for them to be here already … And so close …
Just to see them, Jason thought. That would be something. ‘I could try‚’ he said, not wishing to sound too eager.
A Far Country Page 9
