Corroboree

by Graham Masterton

  Perhaps the inland sea was further away than Captain Sturt had imagined it to be. After all, Joolonga had been as far north as Edieowie, and Dogger had actually visited the northern ramparts of the Flinders Range, and neither of them had seen the glitter of an inland sea, even from a distance. But the geological fact remained that scores of rivers drained inland, rather than out towards the ocean, and that if they drained inland then they must drain some where. And then there were the seagulls, which Eyre had seen with his own eyes. Seagulls, flying north.

  Eyre said to Christopher, ‘Don’t worry too much about Joolonga. As long as he leads us to Yonguldye, we’ll be all right. It can’t be more than three or four days’ riding now, to the inland sea. Then, if Joolonga proves to be troublesome we can dispense with his services altogether. Personally, I don’t think that he’s going to be particularly difficult. He’s a man caught between two civilisations, that’s all; and sometimes he has trouble convincing himself that he belongs to either. Hence, the arrogance.’

  The sun had now plunged itself so deeply into the dust that it was no brighter than a sore red eye. They had reached a gully, where mulga and ghost gums grew, and Eyre raised his arm and called to Joolonga, ‘This is it. We’ll camp here for tonight. Then we’ll make an early start in the morning.’

  Joolonga came riding up, and circled his horse around in front of Eyre. ‘We have travelled only thirty miles today, Mr Walker-sir. If we travel so slowly, our water will run out before we can reach a water-hole.’

  ‘We will make up for any lost time tomorrow,’ said Eyre. ‘But for tonight, we will pitch our camp here. I think that Mr Mortlock has probably suffered enough for one day, don’t you?’

  Joolonga stared at Eyre defiantly, and then he said, ‘Mr Mortlock is dead, Mr Walker-sir.’

  Eyre said nothing. Instead, he stared at Joolonga in shock. Then he climbed down from his horse; and walked back to the heavy-set chestnut on which Arthur had been strapped, under his parasol. One of Arthur’s arms dangled lifelessly; and his head was slumped to one side of the chestnut’s neck at such an awkward angle that he had to be dead, because no living man could have endured it. Beneath him, his grey blanket was caked with dried mucus, which buzzed with flies; and flies clustered all around Arthur’s mouth and nose, giving him the appearance of a man with a dark grey beard. The crimson sunlight illuminated the spectacle of Arthur’s death with grisly theatricality; as if it had been staged as a carnival sideshow, the Horrible Demise of Arthur Mortlock.

  Eyre stood for a long time looking at Arthur’s body, and his restless horse, and the makeshift shelter which had protected him from the sun during the worst of his suffering. Then at last he turned back to Joolonga, and said, ‘We’ll bury him here, tonight. Then we’ll pitch our camp. Weeip—you make up the fire. Midgegooroo, you start digging a grave for Mr Mortlock. Joolonga—’

  A moment’s tight pause. Then, ‘Yes, Mr Walker-sir?’

  ‘Joolonga, you check through the stores. I want an inventory of what we’ve consumed to date, including how much water we’ve been drinking; and I also want an idea of how long you think our supplies are going to last.’ He glanced towards Arthur’s body. ‘Taking into account, of course, that Mr Mortlock is no longer with us.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Walker-sir.’

  Midgegooro was unstrapping Arthur’s body, and lowering him down the side of his horse to the ground.

  Eyre said, ‘You don’t know how this happened, do you, Joolonga?’

  Joolonga’s face remained impenetrable; and very black; and there was something in his eyes that was so haughty and self-possessed and yet so strangely prehistoric that Eyre, for the first time in days, felt a prickle of coldness. He felt that Joolonga knew far more about Arthur’s death than he was prepared to volunteer, whether it had been magical or not. Perhaps Joolonga knew more about the entire expedition, and where it was going, and what it could expect to find. Or, on the other hand, perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps Eyre was simply allowing himself to be frightened by his own lack of experience, and by the prospect of leading six men to their deaths in a fiery and unfamiliar landscape. When they had ridden out of Adelaide, it had seemed inconceivable that this expedition could be anything more than a stiff ride into the South Australian countryside, with a few picnics along the way. But now that Eyre had seen for himself the devastating distances; and felt for himself the sun bearing down on him at 110 degrees; now that he had peered until his eyes watered at horizons that refused to materialise, and mountains that refused to come any closer; now at last he knew that they were confronting far more than tiredness, and saddle-sores, and disobedient Aborigines. They were confronting the entire meaning of Australia. These plains, these mountains, these endless miles of scrub, these were Australia’s unforgiving heart, and her uncompromising character. She was like an old, old woman, who no longer considered that she was obliged to grant favours to anyone; an old, severe woman who castigated her children, and her children’s children, and especially the new children who didn’t understand her cruelty at all.

  On that evening when they buried Arthur, Eyre felt closer to turning back than he ever had before; or ever would again. Midgegooroo dug a shallow pit in the dry ground, and then wrapped Arthur in his blanket, and laid him down like a grey mysterious totem. They gathered around him as the sun boiled through the clouds, and hundreds of emus rushed away to the east, so that it looked as if the whole earth was moving.

  Eyre recited the Lord’s Prayer, and then he quoted from Job. ‘“Why did I not die at birth, come forth from the womb and expire? Why did the knee receive me, and why the breasts, that I should suck? For now I would have lain down and been quiet. There the wicked cease from raging, and the weary are at rest. The prisoners are at ease together; they do not hear the voice of the taskmaster. The small and the great are there, and the slave is free from his master.”’

  ‘Food poisoning,’ said Christopher, as they slid down the sides of the gully, back to the camp fire. Weeip was cooking beans again, and what he called ‘fat flaps’, or flapjacks.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Eyre. ‘But none of the rest of us have caught it; and we’ve all been eating the same food and drinking the same water.’

  ‘It could have been some disease that he picked up in prison,’ Christopher suggested. He held out his hand to Weeip for a hot mug of tea. ‘You know how malaria comes and goes; perhaps this sickness was the same kind of thing.’

  Eyre looked around the warm twilit gully. The stars were out; the cicadas were singing; and the ghost gums were playing statues. There was a dry smell of scrub on the wind; and the spinifex grass whistled softly and eerily to itself. He thought: we could turn back now, saddle up the horses in the morning and head straight back to Adelaide. After all, three men had died already, Chatto and Rose and the long-suffering Arthur. Do the rest of us have to risk our lives, simply to find an Aborigine medicine-man for a boy already dead, and wealth for Captain Sturt? We could always say that we ran out of water; that we rode for hundreds of miles and saw no sign of anywhere to fill our bottles, let alone an ocean, and how could anybody think of mining or farming or driving stock through territory as harsh as that?

  But the seagulls had been flying north; and what was more, he had given Yanluga his word. There would be no chance of his claiming Charlotte, either, unless he came back triumphant. His moral and political destiny were all invested in this one expedition. It was his one opportunity to fulfil himself, his one chance of greatness. The seagulls had been flying north and he would have to follow them.

  He looked up and saw Joolonga sitting by himself on the opposite rim of the gully, hungrily spooning up heaps of beans. He stood up, and climbed across to him under a white moon the size of a dinner-plate. Joolonga glanced towards him as Eyre came across; but said nothing, and continued to wolf down his beans.

  ‘Touching, wasn’t it?’ Eyre asked him, standing over him, one elbow resting on his knee.

  ‘Touching, Mr Walker-sir?’

 
; ‘The funeral. The Christian interment of Mr Arthur Mortlock, lately departed.’

  ‘It was sad, Mr Walker-sir.’ Joolonga washed down the beans he was chewing with a mouthful of tea. ‘It is always sad when a spirit leaves the real world.’

  Eyre watched him for a moment, and then said, ‘Midgegooroo told me that it was you who pointed the bone at him.’

  ‘Midgegooroo cannot speak, Mr Walker-sir,’ replied Joolonga, placidly.

  ‘Midgegooroo can speak, and you know it. He uses hand-language.’

  ‘Perhaps there was a misunderstanding, Mr Walker-sir.’

  Eyre shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Midgegooroo has a way of making himself quite explicit.’

  There was a very long silence between them. Joolonga continued to eat his beans, occasionally taking a sip of tea or a bite of hard biscuit; his eyes darting around in the gathering darkness like two elusive white animals.

  After a while, Eyre said, ‘I want to know the truth, Joolonga.’

  ‘There are many different truths, Mr Walker-sir. One truth for the white man, one truth for the Aborigine.’

  ‘And for you? Mr Betwixt-and-Between? What is your truth?’

  Joolonga swallowed quickly, and sniffed, and then said, ‘Mr Mortlock had to die, Mr Walker-sir. The decision was not mine. It was Ngurunderi, the spirit of death, who lives in the sky. He accepted the souls of those two white men, Mr Chatto and Mr Rose; and when Ngurunderi accepts the soul of a murdered man, he demands revenge for those who killed him. Otherwise, he sends Wulgaru the devil to exact the punishment himself.’

  Eyre stared at him. ‘You mean to tell me that you killed Arthur because you thought that those two bountyhunters had to be avenged?’

  ‘Not I, Mr Walker-sir. Ngurunderi.’

  ‘And how exactly did—Ngurunderi make this requirement known to you?’

  ‘There have been signs, Mr Walker-sir, ever since those men were buried.’

  ‘What signs, precisely?’ Eyre snapped at him.

  Joolonga said, ‘In the sky, sir. That is where Ngurunderi made his home. Two clouds, shaped this way; then a single cloud.’

  Eyre was both furious and frightened. If Joolonga had really killed Arthur; then the rest of them were equally at risk. Who knows what exotic excuses he could find to murder Dogger, or Christopher, or Eyre himself, when they were sleeping? The expedition would have to be called off; and they would have to take Joolonga back to Adelaide as their prisoner. Unless of course, they summarily executed him here.

  ‘Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me about any of this?’ Eyre demanded. ‘What earthly right do you think you had to take this matter into your own hands? You’re a danger to yourself and you’re a danger to all the rest of us, as well. Damn it, Joolonga, if you believed you saw a sign from Ngurunderi, why didn’t you say anything about it? That’s what you’ve been brooding about, isn’t it? And now you’ve killed Arthur, and brought the whole expedition to a useless halt. It’s over. It’s finished. And you’re responsible.’

  ‘Ngurunderi would have stopped us himself, sooner or later, Mr Walker-sir. Far better to sacrifice Mr Mortlock, and spare the rest of us.’

  ‘Joolonga, I don’t give a damn about Ngurunderi. I don’t give a damn for your hocus-pocus and I don’t give a damn for you. This is a Christian expedition and we shall abide by Christian morality.’

  Joolonga put down his dish. ‘An eye for an eye, Mr Walker-sir? Isn’t that what it says in your good book?’

  ‘Joolonga—you were supposed to be our guide. You were supposed to protect us in the bush. You were not supposed to set yourself up as our judge and executioner.’

  Joolonga raised one hand, the light-coloured palm facing towards Eyre. ‘This is my country, Mr Walker-sir, and in my country I know how to protect the people in my care. Believe me, Mr Walker-sir, there was no other way. Mr Mortlock’s spirit was forfeit. When men die wrongly, the one who brought about their death has to die, too. It is the balance of life.’

  Eyre said, with a dry throat, ‘How did you kill him? Come on, Joolonga, I want to know.’

  Joolonga reached into the pocket of his coat and produced a packet made of tanned kangaroo-hide. He unwrapped it, and then held out on the palm of his hand a pointed white bone, almost pistol-shaped, highly polished. It looked like the shin-bone of a euro, or a small red.

  ‘I said from the first, sir, that he had the mark of death on him.’

  ‘You didn’t say that it was you who had pointed the bone.’

  ‘Would you have believed me, Mr Walker-sir, if I had told you that this bone had brought about Mr Mortlock’s sickness? Do you believe me now?’

  ‘Give it to me,’ said Eyre.

  Joolonga carefully laid the pointing-bone on to Eyre’s palm. Eyre felt the weight of it: it seemed to be unusually heavy for a bone so small. And even through the kangaroo-hide wrapping, he was sure that it felt cold. A dry, ancient artefact from a magical age. As cold as the night. As frigid as the Southern Cross.

  ‘That was all you did to Arthur? Point this bone at him?’

  ‘That was all that was necessary, Mr Walker-sir.’

  ‘Eyre slowly stood up straight. He didn’t know what to say. Joolonga had suddenly confronted him with one of the greatest tests of his religious convictions since he had decided not to take holy orders. He had set out on this expedition with the unusual but firm belief that all faith, no matter how it was expressed, found equal favour in the eyes of God—that God’s power and influence could be called upon in any language, by any ritual, and that God would answer any prayer, regardless of whether it was addressed to Yahweh or Allah or Baiame.

  As long as those who called for help were ready to acknowledge the moral supremacy of a higher Being, then all of God’s strength could be theirs.

  Eyre had believed that Yanluga’s spirit could be laid to rest by Yonguldye the medicine-man. But could he now bring himself to believe that Joolonga had killed Arthur Mortlock simply by pointing a bone at him? If he could, then Joolonga was a fearful threat to all of them, and to the whole expedition. Or perhaps he wasn’t—because if he had killed Arthur, then everything he had said about Ngurunderi, and the necessity for avenging the killings of Chatto and Rose—well, it was conceivable that all that had some basis in reality, too.

  If on the other hand Joolonga hadn’t killed Arthur, he could still be very dangerous. After all, he had pointed the bone at him with the intention of killing him; and he seemed quite pleased that Arthur had died. Next time, he might try murdering his white companions with something less innocuous than a kangaroo’s shin-bone—like a knife or a rifle.

  Then there was the possibility that Joolonga was lying, and that he had deliberately poisoned Arthur’s food. There were plenty of virulently poisonous fruits in the scrub, especially the brilliant red macrozamia nuts, and certain yams. Joolonga may even have stolen poison from Eyre’s medical supplies. There were small bottles of salt of lemons and pearlash in his box, both of which could bring on bloody vomiting, and even madness.

  At last, however, Eyre gave Joolonga back his bone. ‘I’m going to put you on trust,’ he said quietly. ‘I cannot arrest you here, nor can I put you in irons. You would just become an encumbrance. Nor would there be any point in shooting you, since we need your guidance to continue. And we are going to continue. We are going to pursue this expedition of ours to wherever it may lead us. We are going to find Yonguldye and we are going to find the inland sea; and we are not going to return to Adelaide until we do. We have a great destiny to fulfil, and we shall fulfil it with glory.’

  Joolonga watched him, warily. ‘Yes, Mr Walker-sir,’ he acknowledged.

  ‘Yes, Mr Walker-sir,’ Eyre repeated. ‘Because you are going to behave yourself from this moment on. No more insolence, no more contemptuous behaviour, no more mumbo-jumbo or pointing of bones. If you try to harm any one of us in any way, then I warn you now that I will personally kill you, at once. You are a guide, and you will guide us, and th
at is all.’

  ‘You accuse me of Mr Mortlock’s murder, Mr Walkersir?’

  ‘Yes, Joolonga, I do.’

  ‘Then what will you do when we return to Adelaide?’

  ‘I will have you arrested and tried.’

  Joolonga said, ‘You are a brave man to tell me that, sir. Either brave or foolish.’

  ‘Not as foolish as you think, Joolonga. If you see us through this expedition, and bring us back safely, then it may be possible for me to forget the way in which Mr Mortlock died; and simply to say that he was suffering from food-poisoning.’

  Joolonga sat back, hugging his knees, and slowly grinned. ‘You are an interesting man, Mr Walker-sir. You seem to be one who dreams, and yet your dreams move mountains. Perhaps we are all dreaming with you.’

  Eyre said nothing; but slid cautiously back down the gully to the camp-fire, where Dogger and Christopher were finishing their supper.

  ‘I was just telling Joolonga to buck his ideas up,’ said Eyre.

  ‘About time, too, coal-black bastard,’ sniffed Dogger.

  ‘I find him impossible,’ said Christopher. ‘He’s the strongest case for keeping the blackfellows uneducated that I’ve ever come across. Obstinate, wilful, badtempered, and bloody ugly.’

  ‘Don’t imagine the blackfellows think very much of your looks,’ grinned Dogger, nudging Christopher in the ribs. ‘Whenever they see a bright-red fizzog like yours, they say, “Time to wake up, it’s sunrise.” They do have a sense of humour, you know.’

  Christopher said, ‘Are we going to go on, now that Arthur’s dead?’

  Eyre nodded. ‘There’s nothing to go back for; and every reason for going on.’

  ‘And you’re sure you can trust Joolonga? You seemed to be having rather a testy discussion with him up there.’

  ‘I was simply reminding him that, out here, the first duty of each of us is to his companions, and to the whole expedition.’