Dogger spat into the fire. ‘Eyre’s right, you know. You don’t have to worry about trust in the outback, Joolonga needs us just as much as we need him. The only time that you ever have to worry about trust is when you’ve run out of everything—food, horses, water, and leather boots. That’s when you start looking at each other and imagining each other as cutlets and chops.’
His spit sizzled in the fire, and he suddenly realised what he’d done. He looked up towards the night sky, and took off his hat, and said, in an apologetic voice, ‘Sorry, Arthur. Forgot myself there, for a moment.’
Twenty-One
By noon the following day, the temperature had already risen to 100. They rode single file through a distorted landscape of brindled scrub and twisted bushes, under a sky that was as blue as a sudden shout.
Joolonga rode ahead, with Eyre a little way behind. Somehow, their talk yesterday evening had excited a fresh awareness between them; and although Eyre remained as suspicious of Joolonga as ever, he began to sense that the Aborigine guide was just as determined to see this expedition through as he was himself; and that for their different reasons they both needed to see this extraordinary act of social and geographical drama brought to whatever conclusion history might demand.
It might end in the bush, with exhaustion, and bones. It might end in frustration and giving-up. It might end in magnificent triumph. But both of them had made up their minds with equal strength that it would succeed.
Dogger said to Eyre, as they sat under the patient shade of their horse a little after midday, swatting at the flies which crawled all over their faces and arms, ‘Do you know something, Eyre? About an hour ago, I asked myself a question.’
‘What question was that?’ Eyre wanted to know. He took a carefully measured mouthful of warm leathery water, swilled it around his mouth, and then swallowed it.
‘I asked myself: Dogger, I asked, what in blazing hell are you doing here, sitting on this horse, sweating your way through the bush like a boiled bandicoot, when you could be back on Hindley Street in the comfortable arms of Mrs McC, well-drunk on ice-cold beer, and with a belly full of pot-pie? That’s what I asked myself.’
Eyre looked at him, brushing away again and again a persistent fly that seemed determined to land on the same spot on the side of his nose, whatever happened. ‘What was the answer?’ he asked Dogger, with a smile.
‘The answer was, I don’t know. I suppose I’m like the sailor; who every time he went to sea, he was homesick; and every time he came home, he was seasick.’
From the shadow of his horse, where he was lying with his head back on his carefully rolled-up jacket, with the casual air of a reclining picnicker, Christopher said, ‘I think I’d give a year of my life to be back at the racecourse now, eating an ice, and watching Mr Stewart’s Why Not in the three o’clock. It would be a fine thing to see a decent elegant horse again, instead of these equine elephants.’
At that very moment, there was a loud clattering noise; and Christopher shrieked, and sprang up from under the horse, flapping his hands at his shirt and britches. ‘Bloody thing pissed on me! Of all the bloody nerve!’
Eyre and Dogger laughed until they were weak, rolling and kicking around in the dust. Eyre at last stood up, coughing the dust out of his lungs, and put his arms around Christopher’s shoulder. ‘My dear chap. Don’t you know that you should never malign a horse within earshot.’
‘And especially not within pizzle-shot,’ put in Dogger. ‘By God, I’ve seen some fellows jump. But you!’
They rode on, into the afternoon. As they rode, the land subtly changed from mallee scrub to flat salt marshes, dried out in glittering swirls of pink and white, like ground glass, and dotted with tussocks of tough grass. The wind persisted hot north-westerly, keeping the temperature high, and a flock of bustards rose against it, and then circled lazily in the air.
By mid-afternoon, the land began to rise a little, and they were riding again through scrubby savannah, with an occasional scattering of stunted mulga trees on the low horizon. The spinifex grass was so sharp that sometimes it drew blood from the horses’ legs; and the ground between each clump was uncompromisingly stony and hard. But shortly after four o’clock they reached a twisting gully; and at the far end of it was a small reflecting pool of water, its sides stained like a geological rainbow with the various minerals which had evaporated from it during the dry season. A frightened collection of red gums grew around the pool, and their branches were thick with zebrafinches.
Joolonga dismounted, and led his horse down to the edge of the water. Eyre followed him; then Christopher and Dogger. Weeip and Midgegooroo began to unpack some of the leather water-bottles, so that they could replenish their supplies.
The water in the pool was low, and tasted metallic; but it was cooler and fresher than the water they had been drinking from their bottles. Dogger knelt down by the edge of the pool and drank until water gushed out of the sides of his mouth; then washed his face in it.
Eyre said to Joolonga, ‘No sign of Yonguldye.’
Joolonga replaced his midshipman’s hat and looked around. Then he beckoned to Eyre, and the two of them climbed up the far side of the gully until they reached a second ravine, which must have been carved out centuries ago by the water which once flowed through these plains. There were signs of an Aborigine encampment here: a fire which had been left to burn after the nomads had left, and which had blackened the grass all up one side of the ravine. Bones, pieces of wood, and three shelters made out of mulga branches and woven grass.
Eyre looked back. The heads of the horses drinking at the pool were reflected like the heads of turned-over chesspieces. Weeip was sitting by the far edge, filling up two or three water-bottles at once, while Christopher watched him contentedly, his hands in his pockets; and Dogger lit up his pipe.
‘How long ago did Yonguldye leave here?’ Eyre asked Joolonga. ‘I mean—this was Yonguldye’s camp, wasn’t it?’
Joolonga nodded. ‘Yonguldye was here. There, on the stone, are the marks of his totem.’
Eyre could made out nothing except a few criss-cross streaks of ochre, but he was prepared to take Joolonga’s word for it.
Joolonga said, ‘He is not long gone. See the footprints are still clear. Here, and here. The north-westerly wind has been blowing hard enough to have swept these footprints away in a week or so. Perhaps he was here two days ago; perhaps only yesterday.’
‘As recently as that? Are you sure? Then we’ve only just missed him.’
‘The ashes of the fire are still fresh,’ said Joolonga. ‘If we are quick, we may catch up with him tomorrow. If not tomorrow, the day after that.’
Eyre cupped his hands around his mouth and called down to Christopher and Dogger, ‘Halloo! Some luck, at last! Joolonga says that Yonguldye was camped here only two days ago. We could catch up with him by tomorrow!’
‘Thank God for that,’ said Christopher. ‘Then we can all go home.’
Eyre turned back to Joolonga but he could see by the fiercely amused expression on Joolonga’s face that he was not thinking of returning to Adelaide yet, any more than Eyre was. There were other mysteries to be solved, before they could head back south again. There were other discoveries to be made.
‘Which way do you think he went?’ Eyre asked.
Joolonga pointed north-east, across the salt marshes, towards the brick red line of the north Flinders mountains. ‘The ochre mine,’ he said. ‘Mr McConnell was quite right. But we have only ridden half a day out of our way; and at least we know that we shall not have to retrace our steps. We have water, too; and we can find more water at Edieowie.’
Eyre said, ‘All right. You can set up camp now. And before we leave in the morning, I want to make sure that every water-bottle is filled right up to the neck, and that the horses have all been watered. And one thing more. I want the rifles loaded, and holstered beside our saddles. One for Mr Willis and one for me.’
Joolonga looked back at Eyre with o
ne hand raised against his eyes to shield them from the setting sun. ‘Yonguldye will not harm you, Mr Walker-sir. Not as long as you have Joolonga with you.’
‘Nevertheless, I want the rifles loaded and holstered; and properly loaded too.’
‘Yes, Mr Walker-sir.’
‘Yes, Mr Walker-sir,’ Eyre repeated, just to remind him that he was on probation.
They were reasonably lucky with food that night. Midgegooroo speared a bandicoot that had come to the waterhole to drink; and they roasted it and ate it with salted beef and pressed apricots, and tea. Eyre thought that it tasted rather like lamb; although Christopher said that it was easily the most repulsive meat that he had ever tasted. It had probably been the sight of the small furry animal twisting and jerking on the end of Midgegooroo’s spear that had upset him. He sucked a barley-sugar to take the taste away; while Weeip, to complete his meal, dug scores of fat white grubs from between the roots of the gums, and crammed them into his mouth as eagerly as if they were sweets.
Eyre stood beside Weeip as he dug deftly with the end of a pointed-stick. It was almost dark now, and the surface of the pool had turned to glutinous blood. ‘They didn’t teach you to eat those at the mission,’ he said.
Weeip shook his curly head, and looked serious. ‘The Lord is mice pepper,’ he said. ‘I shall knot one.’
Eyre squatted down beside him. The point of Weeip’s stick flew into the loose-packed soil and quickly winnowed out the grubs with extraordinary speed; although Eyre was growing used to the boy’s dexterity. He had seen him two days ago pick up a handful of ants and sand; let the sand slide slickly through his fingers, and then press the whole handful of ants straight into his open mouth, and crunch them between his teeth. The way in which he had done it had been so matter-of-fact, so practised, that for a moment Eyre hadn’t thought that it was anything unusual.
Christopher looked determinedly in the opposite direction whenever any of their three Aborigines began to eat anything which he considered to be disgusting. He particularly complained about the way in which Midgegooroo would sit by the camp-fire, and suddenly scoop out of the flames any ghost-moths which had fluttered too close; plucking off their wings and devouring them ostentatiously.
Joolonga had told them that in the mountains of the far south-east, Aborigine tribes would soon be gathering for the aestivation—the summer equivalent of hibernation—of the Bogong moth. He called it ‘the summer sleeping’. The moths would swarm together in rock crevices, thousand upon thousand of them, and the tribesmen would either scrape them down with a stick or, if they were nestling in very deep crevices, smoke them out. They would cook them quickly on a hot flat stone, brush away the burned wings, and eat them. The moths were tiny, no larger than peanuts, but full of fat; so that at the end of the season the tribesmen would come down from the mountains glossy and plump.
‘It is a time for friendly tribes to meet together; to tell stories, and to trade, and to hold a great corroboree,’ he had explained.
Eyre had looked up, interested. ‘Captain Sturt mentioned corroborees. They’re dances, aren’t they? Religious meetings.’
‘A corroboree can be held for any reason,’ Joolonga had informed him. ‘To celebrate a boy’s initiation; or to tell sacred stories from the dreamtime or to give thanks for food. Sometimes a corroboree may be held because it has rained, and there is plenty of water. But many of the corroborees are secret, and may only be danced by initiated men. No white man or woman will ever see those dances; nor the magic that is performed there.’
‘If the magic has anything at all to do with eating moths, I think I prefer to be exluded,’ Christopher had remarked, wrinkling his nose.
Now Eyre watched Weeip dig out a whole handful of ten or twelve fat white grubs, which slowly twitched and wriggled in the palm of his hand.
‘What do they taste like?’ Eyre asked him.
Weeip poked at the grubs, and then looked up at Eyre with his wide reddish-brown eyes. ‘Coomoorooguree,’ he said, simply.
Over at the camp-fire, Joolonga laughed. ‘He says they taste like grass-tree grubs. He is a connoisseur of grubs.’
‘Let me taste one,’ said Eyre.
‘I cook it on the fire for you?’ Weeip asked him.
Eyre said, ‘Don’t bother. I’ll eat it the way you’re eating them.’
‘Oh God, as if I didn’t feel sick enough already,’ Christopher groaned. Dogger took his pipe out of his mouth and laughed like a dog barking. ‘Trying to eat like a real bushman, are you?’ he said. ‘Wait until they give you that juice they squeeze out of green ants.’
Weeip dropped the grub on to Eyre’s hand, and Eyre felt it squirm against his skin. It was semi-translucent, ringed with faint brownish markings, and there was a pattern of dots at one end of it which could almost have been an insect-like face. It seemed very much bigger and fatter now that he had offered to eat it.
Grinning, his own mouth full of grubs, Weeip watched and waited for Eyre to put it between his lips.
‘Come on, Eyre,’ Dogger coaxed him. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained. You don’t want some salt-and-pepper with it, do you? Or a dash of Worcestershire sauce?’
Eyre tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and opened his mouth. Then without any more hesitation, he clapped his hand over his mouth and let the grub tumble on to his tongue.
For one moment, as the grub twitched and wriggled against the insides of his cheeks, he felt a shudder of convulsive disgust. His stomach, already overfilled with half-digested bandicoot and dried apricots, let out an audible groan. But then he sternly commanded his regurgitative muscles to behave themselves, and ordered his front teeth to bite through the slightly membranous exterior of the grub, into the grape-like insides.
The taste of the grub was bland, not dissimilar to undercooked pork fat, and Eyre supposed that it would be quite acceptable if you happened to be particularly short of food. The consistency of the flesh, however, was repulsively stringy and jellyish; and when he had finished chewing the grub and swallowing it, he had to sit down on a fallen gum-tree for four or five minutes, trying to discipline himself not to think about those ringed markings, or that insectlike face.
‘Well?’ asked Christopher. ‘You haven’t said much. Not even delicieux!’
‘It’s good Aborigine manners to belch out loud if you enjoyed something,’ grinned Dogger.
‘I think I’d bring it all up if I belched,’ said Eyre.
‘I have more here, Mr Wakasah,’ enthused Weeip, who had been busy with his digging-stick. He opened up his cupped hands to reveal twelve or fifteen fresh, twitching grubs.
Dogger, without a word, opened up his satchel and took out a silver flask of home-distilled rum. Eyre took a long, sweet, fiery swallow; and then gargled with it.
‘I don’t think you’re hungry enough for an Aborigine diet yet,’ said Dogger dryly. ‘Most of what they eat is what you might call an acquired taste.’ He took a pull on the flask of rum himself, and sniffed. ‘I remember we were down on the beach once, not far from Wallaroo, and a whale had been stranded there. Pilot whale, huge bastard. It must have been rotting for weeks, but about a hundred blackfellows found it, and hacked it to pieces, and roasted it there and then. Great rejoicing there was, that day. The stink would have blown you all the way to Tasmania and back.’
They bedded down early that evening: Eyre wanted to make an early start to track down Yonguldye. The moon and her reflection moved gracefully to rendezvous behind the black bank of the water-hole; and the insects began their repetitive timekeeping.
Twenty-Two
Eyre slept dreamlessly for two or three hours; and then suddenly woke up, his eyes wide, listening. The insects had stopped singing, and all he could hear was the wind, low and sibilant, like the breath of a hesitant flute-player. Everyone else was asleep, as far as he could make out; although the horses were shifting restlessly beside the gum trees. He sat up, and looked around. The water-hole was as dark as a memory, pricked with
stars. The gums performed a motionless mime, white-faced dancers in the prehistoric night.
Then, he heard chanting. Very low, and quite far away; but vibrant enough to carry. He listened for a minute or two. Sometimes the chanting was blown away by the wind, but when the wind dropped he heard it quite clearly. It was accompanied from time to time by a sharp wooden clapping, and by a hollow pipe-like sound which inexplicably made the hair around Eyre’s scalp prickle up like pins.
He shook Christopher’s shoulder, and whispered, ‘Christopher!.’ But Christopher was determined to carry on sleeping, and all he did was roll on to his back, open his mouth, and begin to snore. Eyre whispered, ’Christopher!’ again, but when it was obvious that he was going to arouse no response, he quietly drew back his own blankets, and eased himself away from the camp-fire, which had now burned down to nothing more than hot grey ash.
Dressed in nothing but his shirt, he crossed to the other side of the gully, and climbed up it so that he could see out across the plain. Off to the north-east, over the peaks of the northern Flinders range, large clouds were banked, although there was no likelihood that they would bring any rain. Directly to the north, there was a tiny blue glitter; the light of a distant camp-fire. It was from there that the chanting was coming; and the clapping of sticks.
Eyre looked back at the gully. None of the others had stirred, and he decided not to wake them. Dogger and Christopher always made such a performance of unrolling themselves in the morning, scratching and yawning and stumbling around, and so Eyre preferred to investigate this chanting himself; quietly. He would have liked to have taken a rifle with him, but unpacking it and loading it would have made too much noise.
He crouched low, so that he would remain unseen behind the mulga bushes and spinifex grass, and headed diagonally away from the gully, towards the eastern side of the distant fire. The wind was a light north-westerly, and so from the eastern side he would be able to hear the chanting at its clearest. Apart from that, Aborigines could pick up scents as sharply as hounds, or so Captain Sturt had told him, and so he decided that it would probably be more prudent to stay downwind.
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