The Naked Country

by Morris West

  For the first time in his life he understood the meaning of murder. The motive, simple but monstrous. The compulsion, overwhelming in its urgency, to sweep away at one stroke an obstacle to happiness. The opportunity, complete and flawless. Leave Dillon alone for another few hours and he would most certainly die. He had only to go above ground, tell Mary and Billy-Jo that he found both men dead and then, to spare the widow the grisly sight of the body, head back to join the stockboys, who would later return to pick up the body and carry it back to the station for a post-mortem, whose finding would be inevitable: death from a spear-wound, infection and exposure.

  For one horrible timeless moment the thought possessed him like a madness. He could do it. He wanted to do it. Immunity was guaranteed. Here in the naked country, Neil Adams was the law. His word was beyond question. He needed only the courage to turn his face away and walk into the sunlight.

  The horror receded slowly and he stood there, sweating and trembling with Lance Dillon lying at his feet like a rag-doll, muddied from a playtime of children. Then, before the madness could take him again, he stooped, hoisted Dillon on to his shoulders like a sack of carrots and staggered up the steep incline into the day.

  They covered Lance Dillon with blankets and laid him under the shade of the bottle tree. They bathed his face, forced water and whisky between his teeth, felt the thin trickle of life in him surge a moment, then ebb again. They did all these things with a fierce, wordless concentration as though the simplest exchange might shout their secrets to the sky.

  Mary Dillon bent, tearless over her husband, sponging his lips, wiping the suppuration from his eyes, holding his head up to take the liquid from Adams’s pannikin. After the first cry of shock at the sight of him she had relapsed into silence, but her face was ravaged by an inner struggle. Her cheeks were bleached of colour, the skin was drawn tightly over the cheekbones, her lips were drained of blood. Her eyes were a staring confusion of pity, of revulsion, of pain, puzzlement and sheer physical horror. Yet she worked gently as a lover, competent as a nurse, over the wreckage of Lance Dillon.

  Neil Adams stood a little apart, smoking a nervous cigarette and conferring in low tones with Billy-Jo. After a while he came back to her and said carefully:

  ‘It’s time we moved. Gilligan’s coming back this morning. I want to make sure the strip’s ready for him to land.’

  Mary Dillon nodded and asked in a dead voice:

  ‘How are we going to get Lance there?’

  ‘We’ll straddle him on the pack-pony and then let him lie forward. We’ll pad him with blankets and tie him on. He’ll be as comfortable that way as any other.’

  ‘Will he last the distance?’

  Adams made a small, helpless gesture.

  ‘God knows, Mary. Down in the cave, I thought he was dead. I wouldn’t say he was any better now. We’ll have Gilligan radio to Ochre Bluffs and get the doctor to stand by. The hospital will have a bed ready for him. It’s the best we can do.’

  ‘I’d never have believed he had so much endurance.’

  Her voice had the same flat toneless quality and her face was a white mask.

  ‘We shouldn’t waste too much time. Give him another sip of whisky and then we’ll get moving.’

  Her next words shocked him like a blow.

  ‘If he dies, Neil, you mustn’t blame yourself. You could have left him there in the cave and no one would have known – though I might have guessed. If I have to, I’ll tell him that.’

  It was another lesson in the complex logic of women. He was still trying to digest it when they crossed the river and came to the landing strip to lay out the message for Gilligan.

  The aircraft made two low circuits before it hit the strip, bounced along the rough surface and taxied to a stop abreast of the little group clustered in the shade of the paper-barks. Gilligan cut the engine, climbed out and came towards them at a run. When he saw Lance Dillon lying under the blankets his eyes hardened and he gave a low whistle of surprise.

  ‘The poor devil! Where did you find him?’

  Adams jerked a thumb over his shoulder and answered crisply:

  ‘Over the river. He’s in bad shape. You’ll have to fly him straight to Ochre Bluffs. Radio the doctor and the hospital. Spear-wounds, sunburn, massive infection and exposure. Mrs Dillon will go with you. Have them make a bed available for her as well. Call for me at Minardoo homestead first thing in the morning.’

  Mary shot him a quick, troubled glance.

  ‘Aren’t you coming with us, Neil?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No room, for one thing. Second, I’ve got to get over to the myalls’ camp and investigate this kadaitja business. Then I’ve got to return your horses to the homestead. Besides, you need a doctor now, not a policeman. I’ll see you at the Bluffs tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course. I – I’m not thinking very clearly.’

  Adams turned away to talk to Gilligan.

  ‘Can you make him comfortable in that crate of yours?’

  The pilot nodded.

  ‘We can slide back one of the seats and lay him on the floor. It’s only an hour’s run if we push it. He won’t be too uncomfortable.’

  ‘Let’s get moving then.’

  The stockboys lifted Lance Dillon and carried him across to the aircraft. Gilligan climbed in to prepare a space for his passengers. Mary Dillon and Adams stood a little apart, watching. Adams said awkwardly:

  ‘I’m not running away, Mary. I’ve still got to clean up this job. There’ll be time for us to talk later.’

  She did not look at him, but said quietly:

  ‘I understand, Neil. It’s better this way. And – and I need to be alone for a while.’

  Gilligan stuck his head out of the cockpit and yelled:

  ‘All ready? Lift him in I’

  They hoisted the slack body, wrapped in the grey soiled blankets and settled it carefully inside the fuselage. The pilot stretched out his hand, helped Mary into the cockpit and closed the door. He gunned the engine, turned the plane and headed it back into the wind for the take-off.

  When she looked out through the perspex window she could see Neil Adams talking to Billy-Jo and the stockmen. She waved to him, but he did not see her and before the wheels were off the red ground it seemed as if he had already forgotten her.

  The Auster climbed steeply, banked and headed towards Ochre Bluffs. When it levelled off, Mary bent down to look at her husband, wedged against the wall of the fuselage, padded with packs and blankets against the bumping of the aircraft. His eyes were still closed, his puffed distorted face lolled slackly on his shoulder and when she felt his pulse, it was still a faint hesitant beat. She knelt down awkwardly and prised open his mouth to give him a few more drops of water and whisky. Some of the liquid spilt and ran down from his mouth. She wiped it away with the corner of her handkerchief, then eased herself back in the bucket seat behind the pilot.

  Gilligan turned and shouted above the noise of the engine:

  ‘How’s he doing?’

  She shrugged and spread her hands helplessly. Gilligan nodded in understanding and tried to encourage her.

  ‘Sit tight and keep your fingers crossed. I’ll make the best time I can.’

  She was glad when he turned back to the controls and she could look out the window away from the accusing face at her feet. They had left the river and the grass-lands, and the naked country spread itself beneath them, an emptiness of red plains, sparse gnarled timber, sandstone ridges and dotted ant-hills like lilliputian mountains. Heat struck down from a bleached blue sky and rose from the hot earth in waves and whirlpools through which the little aircraft bucketed like a live thing.

  A clammy sweat broke out on her forehead and she fought against air-sickness, bending her head down to her knees until the nausea passed. Now of all times, she could not afford another failure, another humiliation. Now, more than ever before, she needed a dignity to face the final act of the drama. After a few minutes the p
lane steadied itself, the faintness passed and she wiped her face and hands with a soiled handkerchief.

  She had spoken the truth when she told Neil Adams that she needed to be alone. From the moment he had come, carrying Lance out of the cave, every gesture had seemed like an actor’s mime, every word a shameful lie. The rush of tenderness and pity she had felt for Lance had been dammed back by the presence of the man with whom she had betrayed him. Everything had happened so quickly that it still wore an air of unreality, like a game played in front of an audience. A game of truth and consequences, in which the truth was only part-spoken and the consequences still beyond assessment.

  Hung out in the bright emptiness between earth and sky, her senses dulled by the drone of the aircraft, she felt the numbness of shock slipping away and reason beginning to take hold again. Her husband was alive. She could still feel for him and with him. The feeling was changed from what it once had been, diminished, confused with other feelings for another man; but it was still alive – a residue of love for what was left of a husband.

  How long either would last was another matter. The first love had slow weathering and swift assault. The man had succumbed too, and even if he survived how much of him would be left – how much of the tough sinewy body, of the thrusting disciplined but myopic spirit?

  And Neil Adams? He too had gone through the scene tongue-tied, jerky as a puppet. What was he thinking now? What did he hope or fear from the brief, passionate encounter under the stars? What private devils had he talked with down in the spirit cave? How would he greet her twenty-four hours from now?

  There were so many questions – and the answer to all of them hung on the same slim filament by which Lance Dillon clung to life. She closed her eyes and let her head rest against the resonant hull of the aircraft, while the wide empty carpet of the land unrolled itself beneath her.

  The land…! This was one thing she knew with certainty. She would never be afraid of it again. She might loathe it or love it, live in it or leave it, but she would never be afraid. She had seen the worst of it – the pain, the blind cruelty, the blood drying into its dust. Yet she had heard its music, had slept under its stars, surrendered to its harsh enchantment in the act of love. It was her country now and she belonged to it; just as she belonged to each of two men, unknowing still whether to stay or go with either.

  Willinja, the sorcerer, sat in the shadow of the pointed rock and watched the two horsemen take shape out of a mirage and head towards him across the flat plain. He was not afraid of them, but he would be glad when they had come and gone. There were days, and this was one of them, when the years were a weariness in his bones, and care of his people was like a stone on his shoulders. He wished he could shed them, as a snake sheds his skin, and sit in the sun like other old men and let his young wives feed him and keep him warm at night.

  He could not do it yet, because so far there was no young man fit and ready to undergo the ritual death and assume the burden of his power and his knowledge. Perhaps there never would be. More and more of the young bucks were drifting away to the white man’s towns, to the homesteads and to the prospectors’ camps. Those who were left were too preoccupied with the daily problems of living to devote themselves to the long preparation. It had happened in other tribes, whose names were now lost to the land. First they had neglected the knowledge which was the key to their survival, then their skills had begun to fail, their women become less fruitful, the totem spirits more hostile. Then one day there were only old ones left, shrivelled women squatting in the sand, toothless ancients mumbling at lily roots because they could no longer eat the strong meat of the hunters.

  In the two men ambling towards him Willinja saw both the symbol and the cause of the change. The black man become the servant of the white, aping his manners, his dress and customs, rejecting the old knowledge in favour of the new. The white man taking possession of the land, thinning out the game, setting up barriers, bringing new laws, new diseases, breeding slowly into the tribes, yet destroying them as he did so. Even now, today, the white policeman could impose a penalty that would bring the day of extinction two steps closer.

  The kadaitja men had come back to report the death of Mundaru, the murder of Menyan, the encounter with Adamidji outside the spirit cave. They had told of their bargaining, tried to justify it; but Willinja had shrugged them away. The bargain meant nothing if the white man was not disposed to keep it. His eyes narrowed, peering out across the hot dancing air. If they were bringing back the body of Mundaru it was a bad sign. If not there was some hope of a favourable outcome. But the riders were still too far away to distinguish the bulky shapes on the back of the pack-pony.

  The body of his wife, Menyan, was buried on the river-bank. They would leave her there, marking it perhaps with a strip of bark or a heap of stones. The casual burial was good enough for a woman, provided that she were sung to rest in the proper fashion. Even now, back in the camp, they were making the preparations: gathering every article she had worn or touched, piling them in a hole in the ground to be burned when the sun went down. If they were not burned, the ‘wingmalungs’ would cling to them and bring sickness to the tribe. Even the name of the dead woman could call them up and so no one spoke it any more – not even her husband, who was a man of power.

  Willinja would not grieve for her. He was too old for anything but regret and he could soon buy himself another girl-wife. But he could still be angry and his anger was directed against the dead Mundaru, whose wanton folly had destroyed a breeding woman and brought the whole tribe in jeopardy. Justice had been done; the blood-price had been paid; but only Willinja understood that the consequence of crime was a continuing curse that no penance could ever totally remove.

  The riders were closer now and Willinja relaxed a little when he saw that the pack-pony was loaded normally and that no body hung across its cruppers.

  When they dismounted and came up to him he gave no sign that he had seen them but still sat, cross-legged, tracing patterns in the sand with the tip of his finger.

  Neil Adams sat down in front of him and waited. Billy-Jo remained standing a pace to the left of Adams. It was perhaps three minutes before the sorcerer raised his head and looked at the policeman. It was longer still before they began to talk, but even though Billy-Jo acted as interpreter it was as if he were not there and they were talking in a common tongue of matters mutually understood.

  ‘There has been a killing,’ said Neil Adams, calmly. ‘Mundaru, the Anaburu man.’

  ‘And Menyan, my wife,’ said Willinja. ‘And the white man?’

  ‘The white man is still alive. Though he may yet die.’

  ‘I tried to prevent it.’ The sorcerer traced a complicated pattern and then rubbed it out with the palm of his hand.

  ‘You sent out the men in feather boots,’ Adams told him bluntly. ‘This is forbidden. You know that.’

  ‘Would the white man be still alive if the spirit snake had not killed Mundaru?’

  A thin smile twitched at the corners of Neil Adams’s mouth.

  ‘Would not all be alive if your bucks had not killed the bull?’

  Willinja stared at him with brooding eyes.

  ‘You say we are under white man’s law. Is the white man here to hold my bucks in check? Is he here to protect my wife? He comes and goes, and when he is not here who is afraid of him? But they are always afraid of the kadaitja boots.’

  The logic was as plain to Adams as to the man who uttered it. Black or white, no one would heed a law without sanctions. If you are not here to apply them, then we must apply our own! Adams nodded gravely, considering the proposition.

  After a while he said:

  ‘You are the man who talks with spirits, Willinja. You will answer me this question. Who killed Mundaru? The kadaitja men, or the spirit snake?’

  ‘The spirit snake.’

  ‘If it had been the kadaitja men you would understand that I must take them to Ochre Bluffs for punishment?’

  �
��I would understand that.’

  ‘But a spirit snake is different and I cannot touch such a one. So I believe what you tell me…’

  A faint gleam of approval brightened the old eyes of the sorcerer. This was a man who understood the subtleties of rule. This was one who gave ground when he must but whose spear was still sharp and well-barbed. He said gravely:

  ‘Today, Mundaru is eaten by the spirit snake. Tonight, we sing the “wingmalung” out of…that girl. Tomorrow, the white man’s cattle will be safe.’

  ‘I am happy,’ said Neil Adams.

  But Willinja had already dismissed him and was tracing a new set of patterns in the warm sand.

  As they remounted and rode towards the homestead, Adams felt a small, familiar glow of satisfaction creeping over him. He had done well with Willinja. He had conceded a point but kept a principle. He had maintained respect but allowed another man to keep face. He had lubricated a little the rasping contact between twentieth-century man and his stone-age brother. And though no one would ever thank him for it, it helped him to feel a whit more at ease with himself. So long as a man stuck to the job he knew, to situations that he could control, he would sleep soundly at night. One step outside them and he was in bother. A policeman’s follies were public property. He lived in a glasshouse and the taxpayers liked to keep him there, because they paid his salary and because they wanted value for money, security for their families and no shady bargains under the office desk.

  So far, in the argot of the cattle-country, Sergeant Neil Adams had been a clean-skin with no brands on his hide. But tomorrow, back at Ochre Bluffs, would he brand himself – lover to Lance Dillon’s widow, or co-respondent in his divorce? By moonlight and star-shine it was easy to talk of love; but by daylight there were a dozen dirtier names, and the raw realists of the Territory knew them all.