Meg hesitated, then nodded. She snapped her fingers at Dracula. ‘Come on, pet. This way then. We’ll follow Martin. Back into the trees.’
It was far too hot, with not a breath of air, as though something held it still above the earth. Even the birds were silent. A haze of insects drifted over the puddles of the swamp, but they were quiet too. There was no sound except the hissing from the little clump of trees. It was growing louder . . . louder . . . louder. Something flashed between the trees. Martin stopped.
‘Oh no . . .’ he whispered. ‘No . . .’
They could see Wullamudulla clearly now. He was standing still in the centre of the clump of trees. His arms were limp. His possum skins and spear hung by his side. His face was blank and smooth.
He was not alone.
A giant snake reared up in front of him. It was taller than a house, thicker than a wattle tree. It was brown, but patched with yellow too, almost in stripes along its tail. Its head was long and narrow and merged into its neck. Its mouth was open as it reared. The fangs were long and sharp.
The hissing seemed to come from all around. The snake’s tongue flickered in and out.
Wullamudulla didn’t move.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ whispered Meg. ‘Why doesn’t he move?’
‘He’s in a trance,’ muttered Martin. ‘The snake’s hypnotised him.’
‘It’ll eat him!’ Meg’s voice was anguished. ‘We’ve got to wake him up. We’ve got to save him!’
‘How?’ Martin felt fear clutch around his heart. ‘A few stones won’t send that one away.’ He tried to think. ‘Maybe if we can distract it . . .’
‘With what?’ cried Meg.
‘We could yell . . .’
‘Snakes don’t hear like we do!’
‘Maybe it would wake Wullamudulla up. Meg . . . Meg! What are you doing?’
Meg didn’t answer.
‘Meg! Come back!’
Meg’s face was set as she walked towards the trees. Her back was very straight. Her skirt swayed like the leaves above them as she moved.
‘Meg . . . please!’ Martin caught his breath. The snake had seen her. Its tiny eyes peered down. The giant tongue licked towards her, as though to taste her smell.
‘Hissssssss . . .’
Meg bent down and picked up something from the ground.
The snake reared back, as though to strike. Martin tensed, ready to leap forward, to grab her, to fling something at the snake. He had to help her somehow . . . some way. Something stopped him. Meg lifted up her hands.
They held two rocks, dark against her pale hands. Slowly, very slowly, she brought them together.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
It was slower than a heartbeat, slower than any beat he’d ever heard.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The snake was still and watchful up above. The tongue retreated back into the giant mouth.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Now her feet began to move. They stamped the ground, slowly, very slowly, slow as the beat of the rocks in her hands.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Only her feet moved, and her hands. Her old brown skirt, her face, her plaits were still. Her feet were black from soot and mud, her hands like butterflies twisting in the air.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Now her knees moved underneath her skirt. Her body began to sway, back and forth, in time to the beat she pressed out with her hands.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
She swayed like the trees, like the grass on a windy day, like a leaf laughing at the sun.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Her plaits were dancing now, red snakes in a brown-green world. They swayed like the giant snake above her, as though they too were imprisoned in her dance.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Martin couldn’t look away. The snake was swaying back and forth, deeper and deeper. It was as though it had forgotten everything except the dancer and the beat.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Suddenly the dancing stopped.
‘Run!’ shrieked Meg. She dived for Wullamudulla, and seized his hand. He blinked, as though seeing her for the first time. He glanced up at the snake. Then he was running, faster than a bushfire fanned by the wind. Meg was at his heels.
Martin tried to take in what was happening. It was as though his eyes were frozen on the island in the swamp, and his legs had vanished, as though he’d never move again. Meg’s hands were at her skirt. Her legs were pale as she darted through the trees.
‘Run!’ she screamed to Martin. ‘It’ll wake up soon! Run, you mush-brained fool! Run!’
The snake’s head reared up again. The fangs gleamed white. Suddenly Martin found his legs. He began to run . . . run . . . run . . .
‘Hiiissssssssss . . .’
Bark crackled under his feet. Branches snapped against his arms as he thrust away from the swamp. The trees were thicker now, the gleam of water was brighter. It was a lake, wide and still in the sunlight. He’d have to go round it . . . Which way . . . which way?
‘Geek! Geek! Geek!’
He’d forgotten Dracula. She was lumbering behind him, panting hard. Her legs were too short to sprint. Martin bent down and scooped her up, then his legs were pounding at the earth again, his breath tearing at his lungs. He tried to block his ears to the giant slithering behind.
Dracula struggled in his arms.
‘Stay still, you mangy fool!’ cried Martin desperately.
‘Hiiissssssssss . . .’
Wullamudulla paused in front. He yelled something over the horrid sounds behind. His dark hands urged them on.
‘Ngadyung . . . burugi . . .’
‘The lake!’ screamed Meg. ‘Into the lake! It won’t be able to catch us there!’
‘What if it can swim?’ cried Martin. She didn’t hear him. He saw her pale legs in their rough brown skirt as she dived into the lake. Another splash, and Wullamudulla followed her.
Dracula wriggled against his chest. He couldn’t dive, not with Dracula to unbalance him. He waded into the water. He could hear the hissing loud behind him. He could smell the snake’s rotten breath, like garbage bins bubbling in the sun. He could hear the slither of its giant body as it splashed through the shallows after him.
‘Hiiissssssssss . . . hiisssssss . . .’
The lake hadn’t stopped it! He looked for the others. The lake was empty. Suddenly a face burst out of the water. It was Meg. He saw her look of horror as she saw the beast.
‘Dive!’ she screamed. ‘Dive! It’s deeper over here!’ Then her face was gone, replaced by the ripples on the water.
There was no time to think. No time to breathe. He grasped Dracula more firmly and slid beneath the lake’s surface.
The water swam green and grainy around his face. Their feet had stirred up sludge.
He tried to force his legs to swim. It was so easy in the pool at school. Bright blue water with the scent of chlorine and the yells of other kids. This was dark and warm, and the currents that ripped at his legs came from the beast behind. He’d never tried to swim with a struggling animal in his arms. He’d never had to swim in blackness with terror at his heels.
The lake dipped. The water was colder suddenly, as though the sun had never reached this deep. The deeper the better — the deeper it was, the further he got from the beast. The water thickened like mud soup.
His chest hurt. His breath had almost gone. Even Dracula was still. Had she drowned? Was he drowning too? His body felt like water had soaked through it and would never let it go. He had to find the surface. He had to reach the air! Surely the snake couldn’t reach them now — it couldn’t swim this far. Surely a beast so big could never swim so deep.
Where was the surface? His strength was almost done. It was hard to swim with just his legs. He tried to swim upwards but the world had changed — there was no upwards anymore . . . there was only down, down to the depths of the lake, down into the slime and choking water, as though the underworld had opened
up its mouth and sucked him down.
His feet hit something. Rock. The bottom of the lake. The rock felt warm. Even the water was warm now. It swam and whispered around his face. But it was no good. He had to breathe. Even if his lungs only found filthy water, he had to breathe . . .
MARTIN TASTED AIR. Sweet air that smelt of gum leaves and warm rock. He opened his eyes.
He was on the flat between two hills. The trees drooped curved green leaves above. They were his trees . . . or Meg’s trees . . . or Wullamudulla’s . . . familiar trees. There was no sign of the lake or the beast.
Dracula stirred in his arms. ‘Geek,’ she said quietly. He put her down.
‘Martin . . .’ It was Meg. She was panting. Her plaits were still wet, heavy down her back. Her skirt clung damp against her knees. Her face was white. ‘Martin . . . are we safe?’
‘I think so.’ A hand touched his shoulder lightly. It was Wullamudulla. His eyes were like brown pools, with all his thoughts reflected there. He still held his spear and his possum-skin bundle. He began to say something, then stopped. He turned to Meg to ask her to explain.
‘He’s saying thank you.’ Meg laughed shakily. ‘He said there wasn’t time before.’
‘No, there wasn’t.’ Martin started to laugh too. Suddenly the three of them were laughing, gripping each other’s arms, swaying with the trees, as if being alive was the funniest thing of all. It was as though each shared the other’s laughter, as though there was one language now for all the world.
‘Oww!’ Martin broke away.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s Dracula. She bit my ankle!’
Wullamudulla said something. Suddenly it didn’t matter that Martin didn’t know the language. They’d faced the beast together, and the changing world. From now on they’d understand each other without the need for words.
‘Yes. She’s hungry. But you’re not going to eat me, you mangy pest. Go find your own tucker.’
‘She’s only a baby,’ protested Meg.
‘Huh. A baby vampire is still a vampire.’
‘I thought you said she was a what-did-you-call-it — a dapro something?’
‘Well, I think she’s a diprotodon,’ said Martin. ‘I mean she looks a bit like the pictures, but I’ve never seen one. I mean not before now . . . hey, oww, leave my leg alone. Go and eat some grass or something. There’s lots of grass in this world, just like yours. Just let me have my leg back. I need it to get home.’
Dracula flashed white teeth in her brownish-red fur, as though she understood. She padded over to a tree, sniffed it all over with her trunk, then began to rip the bark off with her claws, tearing it into shreds with her sharp front teeth.
Wullamudulla grinned. He pretended to grab a tree, and munch its bark off too. Martin laughed. Somehow Wullamudulla looked just like Dracula. He even moved the same. Wullamudulla made a face and pretended to spit out the bark. He held his throat as though he were choking. Suddenly he was still again. He pointed to a tree.
‘Burin . . . nhamai . . . budda’luk kumeang.’
It was a goanna, its tail pointing down the tree. It was larger than any Martin had ever imagined, as long as he was and wider at the shoulders. Wullamudulla bent down and picked up his spear.
It flew through the air like a silent magpie, sharp-beaked and deadly. The goanna screamed, a thick high grunt that pierced the air. It fell from the tree, its belly oozing blood. Wullamudulla ran over to it. He killed it swiftly with a blow of a rock to its head.
‘Kanbi,’ ordered Wullamudulla.
Martin shook his head. ‘I don’t know how to make fire. Not without matches.’
‘Wang-ang,’ grinned Wullamudulla. Martin grinned back. The insult didn’t hurt. Wullamudulla reached over to a tussock. He plucked out two seed stalks and showed them to Martin.
‘Now what?’ asked Martin.
‘Naii.’ Watch.
Wullamudulla slit the end of one of the stalks against the edge of his spear, then used it to pierce the other. He glanced up at Meg. She’d brought over bits of bark, shredded into long fibres like thick cotton, and a handful of twigs.
‘Can you do this?’ asked Martin.
She shook her head. ‘Nellie’s told me about it. The stove’s always going at home, or I use a fire bone. I’ve never tried to start a fire myself.’
‘Ngulla-iri,’ said Wullamudulla, in a voice like a teacher’s. He grinned his bright white grin. They sat and watched him.
Wullamudulla’s hands moved as fast as a lizard jumping in the creek, the first stalk piercing the second in the middle, then his palms rubbing the first stalk, over and over, twirling it into the stalk on the ground.
A bird call ran down the scale above their heads. Dracula snuffled over, then began to inspect the dead goanna.
‘Hey, get out of it!’ yelled Martin. Dracula looked up, blinked, and came over to his side.
Martin looked down at the stalks again. Was it his imagination, or was the bottom one starting to blacken? Was that an edge of red?
It happened so fast it was hard to follow — a flicker of red on the stalk, then Wullamudulla’s hands leaping over to the shredded bark, catching the spark. The bark began to smoulder, a tiny tuft of smoke fading into the clear air, the same scent as the smoke that had covered them when they first met Wullamudulla. Martin smiled. Was it only this morning, or thousands of years that they had spent together?
Meg’s small hands moved with Wullamudulla’s darker ones, adding twigs and leaves and wood. The fire flickered, gaining heat. Dracula blinked at it nervously.
‘It’s all right, you silly animal,’ said Martin. ‘It’s not a bushfire. It’s ours. We made it.’ He felt as proud as if he’d made a jet plane.
‘Nangi?’ smiled Wullamudulla. See?
Martin nodded. ‘Now, how do we cook this thing?’
Wullamudulla thrust a stake through the goanna’s mouth and down its belly. Then the stake was balanced on two piles of stones over the fire. Dracula chomped happily in the entrails. Martin smiled to himself. Who’d have thought he’d be eagerly waiting for a goanna to cook a few days ago, with companions like these? A carrot-headed girl and a bloke in possum skins and a fat little beast with a trunk and claws and long sharp teeth.
‘I’m starving,’ said Meg, watching the meat hiss on its spit.
‘Mirritya? Yanbi dhambilli,’ offered Wullamudulla. He removed an egg-shaped axe from his possum skin bundle and rubbed it sharply across the rocks to sharpen it. Then he reached over to the smoking goanna.
‘It can’t be cooked yet!’ objected Martin.
‘Maybe the outside is,’ said Meg. She took the bit that Wullamudulla gave her. The fat wet her fingers and she flinched with the heat. She lifted it to her lips.
‘Yellagan?’
‘Good,’ agreed Meg, swallowing. Martin reached for Wullamudulla’s axe. It was hard to use, more like shoving it into the meat than cutting. But it worked. Suddenly Wullamudulla’s hand pushed his away.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I think that’s his bit. Nellie says that the hunters get certain bits of the meat, like the man gets to sleep closest to the fire. I don’t really know,’ said Meg uncertainly. ‘Maybe you’ve offended him.’
Martin met Wullamudulla’s eyes. Then Wullamudulla grinned. He put Martin’s hand back where it had been.
The meat was hot. It tasted a bit like chicken, but greasy, sort of rubbery. He’d thought it would be tough, but it wasn’t. He reached for some more.
They lay back on the rock when they’d finished. The sun was hot, a dryer heat than this morning. The trees washed shade around them in darting dapples, the light flickering round their eyes. Dracula snored, asleep by Martin’s leg. Her trunk quivered as she slept.
‘Meg?’
‘Mmmm.’ Meg’s voice was sleepy.
‘What happened back there? I mean, what did you do to the snake?’
There was no reply. Martin leapt up to look at her. Her face was set.
‘Meg?’
Meg shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you,’ she stammered. She paused. ‘I shouldn’t have shown you. It was a . . . a secret thing. A woman’s thing. Something Nellie showed me.’
‘It saved our lives,’ said Martin.
Meg was silent. Her voice was very low when finally she spoke. ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘that Nellie wouldn’t mind. Maybe what’s happened to us goes beyond secret things. Beyond women’s things and men’s things. I think that’s why we’re together. To share. To understand.’
‘Ngi,’ agreed Wullamudulla gently. He looked at Meg and Martin for a minute, then began to speak. The words flowed like the creek as Martin listened. He had forgotten now that he’d ever needed Meg to translate.
‘I followed the footsteps of my ancestor like other children of the brown snake. But I found him, while they only saw where he had been.’
Martin looked at Wullamudulla’s face. He looked different, both older and younger than the youth they’d met that morning, hurrying them through the smoky world and then deserting them.
‘This morning we lit the fire to drive the kangaroos so we could catch them in the gully, against the cliff. We light many fires. The smoke fills the sky, and the grass turns black, then we move on.
‘My ancestor was angry. He said that he called the world I knew into being, just like he sent forth all brown snakes out of his navel. He said he had given us this world to keep in trust. He was going to punish me. He was going to eat me, to take me back into him, because of what we have done to the world. Then you came, and helped me get away.’
Wullamudulla smiled. ‘I thought I had to walk alone. But now I understand. The four of us are like one person now. We understand each other.’
‘I think I understand other things as well now,’ said Meg softly.
Wullamudulla nodded. ‘This is what I will tell the camp tonight: From now on fires must only be small ones, little fires that creep along the ground, that the rain will wash away, and the trees shake off to grow again. We will stop changing the world, and live with it instead. The less we take, the less we have to give.’
Wullamudulla’s voice died away. Martin closed his eyes. The sun beat down on his eyelids, turning the darkness red as well as black. The heat of the rock seemed to seep into him, as though the rock was the sun too. He could feel the pulse of the earth below him, or maybe it was his pulse. It didn’t matter. They were the same.
Walking the Boundaries Page 9
