To the Islands

by Randolph Stow

  ‘Now I know,’ he said from a great distance, ‘I know why I’m going on.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked the man, soft as canegrass in the wind.

  ‘Because all this time I’ve been deceiving myself. Telling myself I was old and weak, and I’m not. Telling myself I wanted to die, but I don’t, no, and I never will. All this has been self-pity, nothing else.’

  He scrubbed his forehead with a brown fist. ‘Now I remember—the things I used to know.’

  ‘What?’ asked the man, still intently watching. ‘What did you know?’

  ‘About crimes. About being born out of crimes. It was because of murders that I was ever born in this country. It was because of murders my first amoebic ancestor ever survived to be my ancestor. Every day in my life murders are done to protect me. People are taught how to murder because of me. Oh, God,’ said Heriot savagely, ‘if there was a God this filthy Australian, British, human blood would have been dried up in me with a thunderbolt when I was born.’

  ‘You can’t help being born, mate.’

  ‘I’m glad to have been born now. This is a good time for it, with the world dying. The crimes have mounted up now, we can sit and enjoy the stink of our own rot.’

  He turned away, his eyes full of the farther hills. ‘I know life comes out of crimes,’ he said, ‘and we go on from one crime to another, and only death ever quite stops us. I could go back and they could hang me, and that would put an end to it. But all my life I’ve stopped off, here and there, to try to do some good on my way. I’ve tried to atone for being a man, and now it’s a habit. So I have to go on, this way, where there might be something to do besides die. The other way there’s nothing, only dying. But on this way I’ve already given—not much, but a little, a little food, a little cold comfort. There may still be things to do, and things to find.’

  The other man looked down at the rocks between his feet. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s been nice seeing you.’ His voice was lonely.

  ‘Yes,’ said Heriot. ‘This has been—this has been an oasis to me. But we say good-bye to everything.’ He held out his hand and the other man took it, glancing up moodily from his rock.

  On the wire screen, bellies to the interior light, little pale geckos and green frogs clung and slowly breathed, twitching occasionally to engulf a mosquito.

  ‘Ah,’ said Dido, mountainously stirring, ‘he was a good man. Too good for natives. Maybe he was hard, but they got to be hard some time.’

  Helen said: ‘But was he so hard? I think he was only—well, just a bit bitter.’

  ‘In the old days they was hard. They had to be like that, not soft like now.’

  ‘Do you think we’re too soft?’

  Dido looked down at her locked fingers, distress spreading over the moon face. ‘There lot of no-good people here now. Lot of men, just lazy, gambling all the time, bad husbands. Lot of no-good women, too, not looking after their babies right.’

  ‘There are no-good people everywhere, Dido.’

  ‘He was example,’ Dido said passionately, ‘example to us all.’

  ‘I know. If you mean hardness in the way he had it, towards himself, I can see you’re right. We haven’t that.’

  ‘Because you young, sister.’

  ‘I’m not so terribly young, you know. You think I’m younger than I am because I’m not married and haven’t any children.’

  ‘When you married, sister, you be good example to all the women. I know that, sister.’

  Helen smiled faintly. ‘Thank you, Dido.’

  ‘But we never see him again,’ said Dido sadly. ‘Never.’

  ‘But can’t we ever replace him? We’ll be softer, and our example will be softer, too, but isn’t it time for that now? We don’t want to be your bosses, we only want to show you things.’

  ‘Too many no-goods,’ Dido said. ‘You got to be hard some time.’

  ‘But they aren’t all no-goods. What about Michael, and Gregory, and Paul, and Justin, and Ella, and you, Dido? You’re the ones who know what you live for and have something to be proud of. Michael’s a good man because he knows he’s the best mechanic of all you people. And Gregory’s good because he’s the best gardener, and Paul’s the best stockman, and Justin’s the sacristan of the church, and Ella loves Justin and her children, and you love your orphans and have all the responsibilities of a white woman. And in time I think everyone will be good at something—why not? And who’ll need to be hard then?’

  Dido shook her head slowly. ‘That not going to be easy, sister.’

  ‘I know,’ said Helen, looking at the peering creatures on the screen. ‘It’s certainly not going to be easy for us, the white people. Living in a goldfish bowl is the last thing we’d do for fun. And as long as we live here we can never be ourselves, unless our selves—break out, like Mr Heriot’s. But that won’t happen. No,’ she said, with profound resignation, ‘that can’t happen, Dido.’

  The sun stings, thought Heriot. Yes, it stings. He remembered from long ago a banana plantation he had seen, the great leaves closing out the light, a trickle of water in the sweet earth between the stems. That would be a place for an old man to work, a cool place, with the fruit hanging in green chandeliers over his head, fresh and fragrant. He would never go out in the sun if he had such a place to hide in.

  But he had nowhere to hide, there was no shelter in the country of rocks, and no movement, nothing to rest or entertain the eye. He thought of cattle breaking away across a creek, the splashing and the bellows, the shouts of the bright-shirted men pursuing on shining horses. There was no action here.

  And it was silent, too, so silent that again and again he had this urge to sing and drown out the silence, although the sound of his voice was hardly less disturbing. If there were music, he thought; but why should I care for music, how many years is it since I have heard music? Only the people’s voices shouting hymns or cowboy songs, and sometimes, in the firelight and the moonlight, the didgeridoo. But that was uplifting, there was a ranting throb to it, it compelled you to sing with it in its own style. But he would not hear that again.

  He remembered Stephen dancing in front of the fire, and Rex, too, supple and quick. Strange how Rex’s face haunted him now, how it hurt him to remember, almost as much as the face of the dead girl, Esther, whom Rex had taken from him. There were expressions of Rex’s, quick movements of the head, twists of the mouth, that touched him now very deeply. He remembered the last afternoon when he had found Rex alone at the deserted building, and even then had thought him pathetic, even then had wished to help him.

  ‘I didn’t hate Rex,’ he said. ‘Remember that.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Justin.

  He, too, was reaching back in his mind, thinking of Ella, his wife, and the quiet affectionate children. I go back, he thought, soon, soon. But he could not bring himself to speak of it to the old man, who was now changed again, had regained strength, and yet still seemed so much in need of help, so far from knowing the ends of his journey.

  ‘What can we do about Stephen?’ Heriot said. ‘He must be helped.’

  ‘Might be I help him, brother.’

  ‘You could, Justin. Perhaps you’re the only one who could. I don’t know anyone who’s raised better children than you and Ella.’

  ‘He Ella’s cousin, you know. Maybe I talk to him when we get back. Maybe.’

  ‘You’re a good man,’ said Heriot. ‘You’ll know what to do, when you get back.’

  ‘I try, brother,’ Justin said modestly.

  ‘And help Way and the other white people, too. They’ll need your help.’

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve never made the best use of you. But I do know your value, I do know that.’

  Justin scowled. ‘Brother—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk so much. I too hungry for talking.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Heriot humbly.

  ‘White man always talking and never lis
tening.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Heriot admitted. ‘Very true.’

  ‘Whatever you say to white man, he always got something else to say. Always got to be the last one.’

  ‘We call it conversation,’ Heriot said, and bit his lip as soon as the words were out.

  So they rode in silence over miles of the broken hills, and came in the afternoon to a place where the land dropped sharply down to a pocket of plain dotted with white gums, and a broad river flowing beside a cliff.

  ‘Beautiful,’ whispered Heriot. ‘How cool—’ The horses bashed and strained down the hillside, and stopped, sweating and trembling, in the shade, knee-deep in grass. The water ran with a rippling monotone over a bed of rock. ‘How cool, how calm.’

  ‘We camp here?’ asked Justin.

  But Heriot, having arrived at such comfort, felt half-afraid to accept it, to indulge his tired body. ‘It’s early to camp,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to cross the river some time. Why not now?’

  Justin shrugged. ‘If you want that.’

  ‘Why put it off?’ asked Heriot, urging his horse forward. ‘We postpone too much. I haven’t much time.’

  ‘The horses tired. You don’t want to kill them, brother.’

  ‘I’m tired, too,’ said Heriot.

  ‘All right,’ Justin said resignedly. ‘We cross over.’

  They moved to the river’s edge and dismounted to drink. The water was full of islands of pandanus, scraping a little in a light breeze, and below the cliff it was dark, bottomless. ‘I could catch little croc there,’ Justin said.

  ‘When we cross,’ Heriot said impatiently. He was in the saddle again, scanning the river at the end of the cliff where the water was shallower. ‘There’s the place.’

  Under the horses’ hoofs the river-rock was slimy and treacherous, they slipped like skaters, and Heriot sat tense in the saddle, willing Albert Creek to stay upright. And yet he had no nervousness, no doubt that the horse would come safely over. He went ahead of Justin to the middle of the stream, where it squeezed itself out in strong currents from between the palm islands. And there the rock went down a sudden step, the horse slithered, wildly threw up his head, and sank.

  The old man, floundering in the water, his hair in his eyes, struck out against the current towards Justin. The sharp edge of the rock step struck him on the shin, tearing deep through his flesh. But he scarcely noticed it. For he was terribly afraid of death.

  Justin was edging his horse towards him, uncertain whether to abandon it for Heriot. ‘Old man!’ he shouted harshly. ‘This way, this way!’ And the old man rose trembling and dripping from the water, reached out for him and fell against the horse, gripping Justin’s leg. ‘Dear God,’ he whispered, panting against the warm wet side of the beast.

  ‘Ah,’ said Justin, sighing, ‘you safe now.’

  Heriot looked along the river. But of his quiet and weary horse, his first companion on his journey, there was no trace. ‘He gone floating down to deep water,’ Justin said. ‘He gone now.’

  ‘He was a good horse,’ Heriot said, eager to speak well of the dead. ‘Poor Albert Creek.’ He shook his head.

  ‘No good being sad,’ Justin said. ‘You keep holding me and we get across this time.’

  Sliding and stumbling on the precarious riverbed, they did at last reach the farther bank, beyond the cliff, and came to a stop behind a thicket of pandanus.

  Justin was seized with laughter, looking down at the old man with his bedraggled hair and dripping clothes. ‘You look real funny,’ he said. ‘Real funny,’ his shoulders shaking.

  ‘This is a great misfortune,’ Heriot said gravely. ‘I can’t see anything funny in it.’ He quivered, and dissolved into weak laughter. ‘Nothing funny at all. Stop that, Justin.’

  ‘You stop,’ Justin protested. ‘You making me laugh.’

  ‘How stupid,’ said Heriot, rocking helplessly. ‘Idiotic. Quiet, man.’ Tears came into his eyes and his upper teeth fell out. He picked them up and with dignity replaced them, while Justin heaved hysterically on the back of the startled horse.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Heriot, sitting on the ground, ‘stop this cackling and think of the future.’

  ‘You mean supper, brother?’

  ‘Well, that would be a start.’

  ‘I go looking for little croc, eh?’

  ‘I could eat a horse,’ said Heriot.

  ‘All right, I get that horse for you.’

  ‘No. I fancy a crocodile tail more.’

  ‘Gare,’ said Justin obligingly. He dismounted and unsaddled his own horse. ‘Poor old horse, he real tired now. Going to be lonely now, got no brother any more. Look ’im, eh, he crying out of his eyes.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Heriot. ‘He’s all alone.’

  ‘I go now, brother,’ Justin said, his spear in his hand. ‘I bring you tucker pretty quick. Real good tucker, just you wait,’ he promised, disappearing among the pandanus.

  ‘Yes,’ said Heriot vaguely. He pulled up his trouser leg and looked at the cut on his shin. Clean, he thought; leave it. He pulled off his shirt and spread it in the sun. Soon be dry, soon be hot again.

  All alone now. It’s a very desolate sound, pandanus leaves. Funny to have been laughing like that, it was almost like being with Esther, she made one laugh. Clever, satirical girl. She would leave me helpless, imitating Dido in a quarrel. Stephen’s not like her.

  He had said to Justin, not seriously, to think of the future. But himself he was absorbed in the past, remembering Esther, with her slim grace, her natural charity. It had been tempting providence, surely, to have been so proud of her; but it was I who should have suffered for my pride, not Esther, not my daughter.

  His mind grew vacant, soothed by the hush of water, the rattling leaves. The sky took on the faint green tinge of sunset. Later Justin returned, proudly carrying the young freshwater crocodile he had ambushed below the cliff.

  ‘Handsome beast,’ Heriot said. ‘Clear-cut delicate features. Had a happy life until we came.’

  ‘There plenty eggs,’ Justin said. ‘You want one?’

  ‘No,’ said Heriot. He lay back and closed his eyes. The reptile cooked on the fire. The old man’s hunger died, and he fell asleep.

  9

  The river bent, disclosing a stretch of plain running to farther hills, an ocean of knee-high grass sweetly green in the early light. From the horse’s hoofs a bundle of quail rose and whirred away. And the old man drew rein and slipped from the saddle, his weariness reaching out towards all that was green and soft, and said: ‘You ride, Justin, I want to walk now.’ He stretched in the sun and smiled with his ill-fitting teeth, while the white hair flapped on his forehead. ‘This is a glorious day,’ he said, ‘isn’t this a glorious day?’

  ‘It real good, brother,’ the dark man said, and he, too, was happy, with the smell of warm and deep grass rising to him and a clear pool with a few lilies ahead.

  ‘Look at the birds,’ Heriot said. ‘Brolgas.’ He pointed to where, not far from them, a great flock of grey-blue birds was gathered, and three or four of them were dancing, measured and graceful, with a flowing interplay of wide wing and thin leg. ‘They’re happy,’ said Heriot.

  ‘They always happy, those brolga.’

  ‘Why aren’t we like them, Justin? It shouldn’t take so much to content us.’

  ‘I happy, brother,’ Justin said, with a wide grin. ‘I just a bit hungry, that all.’

  ‘Everything’s hungry,’ said Heriot sadly. ‘But look at those ducks, they’re happy, just pushing among the lilies, getting what they can. So pretty, and so stupid. Wouldn’t you like to be a duck, Justin?’

  ‘I like to eat a duck, brother.’

  ‘No, don’t kill anything. Not this morning. Just for one morning let’s not prey on anything.’

  ‘People got to eat, brother.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Heriot, glancing up at him dejectedly. ‘God, what malice must have gone into creating a world where people have to eat.
I renounce it.’

  They came to the edge of the pool, and with a great splash and a clap of wings the ducks fled from their coming, and circled above and above the disturbed waterhole, brown ducks and black ones, and the small delicate teal, in a high outcry of whistling. By the water, between low cadjiputs, Heriot paused, watching the flitting of a dragonfly with a gleaming crimson body, and became suddenly aware of four pelicans, undisturbed on the far bank, regarding him sedately with their absurd eyes of black-and-yellow felt. ‘Ah, you beauties,’ he said, ‘you bench of uncorruptible judges.’

  A shot cracked the air. The pelicans flapped heavily and flew off.

  Turning, slow with shock: ‘You didn’t,’ Heriot said desolately, ‘you didn’t shoot at a pelican. Justin—’

  ‘It were a geese, brother,’ said the brown man, already at the pool’s edge and tearing off his clothes. ‘I got him. You wait, good tucker.’ He burst into laughter, wading and swimming across the pool, and in the water by the other bank picked up the limp black-and-white body and held it up to be admired. ‘Fat one, brother, young fella.’

  But Heriot’s eyes had moved to the lone black jabiru which had risen from somewhere when the man entered the water and was now gliding, long and calm, across the sky. When the goose plumped at his feet he started, and saw with ineffable sadness the claws of the brilliant yellow legs bent like dying hands, the perfect and ingenious groovings on the edges of the beak. ‘That was pretty,’ he said, ‘and happy.’

  Justin fondled it, tender and proud. ‘Good little geese,’ he said with affection. ‘You was pretty fella, eh? Poor old geese.’

  ‘You love the things you kill,’ Heriot said, ‘but you never regret killing them. I’ve noticed that always about you people, how you love your prey. There’s some wisdom there.’

  ‘They pretty,’ Justin said.

  ‘Let’s go and look at them,’ Heriot said, ‘all these pretty things. I want to watch them all day. They’re very dear.’ He walked on down the pool, followed presently by Justin, who shouted from the saddle: ‘Dor!’