“Then I’ll shoot you, too,” declared Captain.
“Shows how silly you are,” sneered Tessa magnificently. “The rifle is a single shot. I’d be away before you could reload.”
“Cunning bitch, eh! Well, Tessa, you been asking for it,” Captain said, beginning to breathe hard, the barrel wavered slightly although his eyes did not. “Throwing yourself around. Making love to Old Ted. Looking on me as dirt, and on Gup-Gup and the rest. Telling the Inspector this and that, against me, against your own tribe. Yes, Tessa, you’ve been asking for it, and I’m going to deal it out.” Rage filled the dark eyes, twisted the face into frightening distortion. “I’m going to beat you and beat you, Tessa, as no lubra was ever beaten by her man. Yes, Tessa, you snobbish little bitch.”
Captain flung the rifle behind him. It exploded the cartridge. Tessa turned about and fled through the doorway. Shouting threats, the Aborigine lurched after her.
Chapter Twenty-two
A Mother’s Advice
TESSA WAS terrified by this unsuspected Captain before whom she fled. Hitherto gentle and understanding and respectful, he had become akin to that which walks by night, the Kurdaitcha Man stalking young men and lubras venturing from the camp.
To gain the sanctuary of her room was the directing impulse behind the vivid picture of man in his most savage mood. She raced from the hut over the clear ground to the compound gate, and then saw, standing squarely in the entrance, the massive and angry form of Mister Lamb. She realized she would never by-pass Mister Lamb. She realized only too well she could not vault the fence, and the delay when attempting to climb over would mean capture.
Capture! It would mean a beating, and terrible battering pain, a smothering horror of hate and rage, and memories of other lubras being beaten and man-handled crowded her from early childhood. She heard Jim Scolloti shouting, saw him outside his kitchen and waving his arms. She heard much nearer the shouted threats of Captain, glancing back she saw him less than a dozen yards behind her. And Mister Lamb was advancing as though to cut off her way of escape.
Tessa swerved and avoided Mister Lamb, and ran on past the gateway, ran on along the compound fence. She heard Mister Lamb’s thudding hooves on the ground, glanced again to the rear and saw Captain racing off course, running hard towards the Creek with Mister Lamb behind him. Heaven bless Mister Lamb! Arriving at the fence enclosing the house she pulled up, dazed and uncertain where to go now, how to get into the house, and then wanted to scream because Captain was running towards her and Mister Lamb stood baffled.
Tessa ran again, ran out to the desert. The house faded into the past where there had been love and safety and order and purpose. In its place was this open, boundless world ruled by an animate fearful thing pursuing, relentless in hate, intent upon destroying all the loveliness which once had been hers.
The desert was strange to her. Terror expunged all the colours. The sparse shrubs were brilliant grey or green. The sand was a floor of coarse stones, reddish and yet soft beneath her shoes. Lucifer’s Couch was become a mountain of black and white pebbles, but the colours were absent. And there were chains and ropes whirling all about her seeking to close upon her, bind her, cling to her as though she were a fly in a spider’s web.
A shoe flew from a foot. She felt crippled, tried to kick off the other, had to stop for a precious moment to pull it off, and was now spurred by hope that she would outdistance Captain. She would circle, circle round to the homestead where the men would protect her from Captain, dear old Jim and Young Col and Bony, Inspector Bonaparte the policeman.
On a long sandy patch she glanced back. Captain was fifty yards behind. His new grey gaberdine trousers were flapping at the cuffs. The sun was glinting on his chest, polishing the drops of sweat to silvered blobs. His overlong black hair was raised and shimmering in the wind he was making. Tessa veered to make the circular return to the homestead.
Hope swooned and the springing strength in her legs seeped from them, for Captain had also veered and Tessa could see he would cut her off. She changed course again, now to head for the creek trees, among which she might be able to dodge the madman, and a moment later saw that Captain was countering this manoeuvre, cutting her off just like the dingoes cut out a young calf from the herd.
One of the ropes touched her. She felt its threat about her legs. It was the rope of her skirt, the white pleated skirt she loved, and now it was going to hobble her, hinder her, give her up to Captain. She must rid herself of it. But no, what indeed would Rose think or say? What would the men think, say, when she got back home? With no skirt on with only her slip and panties? If ever she did reach home again, that is. She was running still towards the Crater, running away from the homestead, not to it, and when she had tried to circle there was Captain cutting her off. Oh, the beast! The dirty black beast!
As she ran she pulled down the side zip of the skirt. She unbuttoned the waist band, loosened the band, edged the skirt down a little, and then halted, stepped from it, and ran and ran, on towards Lucifer’s Couch. This was better! She felt her legs free and strong again, and now, instead of swerving to avoid low bushes, she leapt over them like a young doe. And yet this couldn’t go on and on for ever. She was panting for breath. She must have run miles. She wasn’t able to breathe properly. The stupid brassière was gripping her chest, slowly tightening, giving her pain at both sides.
In a sudden frenzy she ripped her blouse down the front, caught the flapping severed ends, and tore it from her. The bra! She would have to stop to get it off, or almost stop and then Captain would be upon her. And, anyway, the slip would have to come off first.
A flash to the rear revealed Captain charging after her and less than forty yards from his intended victim. Tessa caught up the hem of the slip, and then remembered the strength of its material. She would never tear it as she had torn the blouse. She could not pull it up and over her head without being momentarily blind, to trip and fall and never get up again. Another backward look, revealed Captain a little closer. She could see the fiendish light of madness in his eyes, the white teeth bared in a grin of anticipated victory. And in that moment Captain failed to see the low sand mound about the root of a once flourishing old man saltbush, and sprawled forward to skitter along the ground, raising a low cloudlet of dust.
Tessa stopped. She heard Captain shout. She tore the slip up and over her head. She straightened her aching back, narrowed her shoulders, panted and cried out, managed to unhook the bra, whirl it from her arms and run and run.
Oh, the relief, the freedom gained! Her lungs could now expand and take in the glorious air. The pain diminished. Her legs were like bottles and new strength like Kurt’s sherry poured into them. The impact of the air was cool against her breasts, her arms, her body. She knew she had regained what they said was second wind, and another glance behind showed her Captain was losing the race.
Now she would circle to head back home. She turned to the south, and Captain also turned. Despair flooded into her mind, and then hope banished despair and she turned again to Lucifer’s Couch, now no higher, looking no nearer than she had so often seen it from the veranda.
Was she going to escape? The doubt was a flame stinging her feet, her poor feet softened by years of wearing white-women’s shoes. Captain’s feet wouldn’t be burning like this, for he didn’t wear boots or shoes unless for special occasions. He didn’t wear shoes even when he played tennis. His feet would be hard. His feet would carry him for miles and miles until at last they caught up with her.
What could she do! For years she had lived softly on white women’s tucker. Why, it must be a full year since she had chased, or had been chased by, the children in play. No one had played tennis for months. A sharp pain pierced her side and caught at her chest like the fingers of the man would soon clutch at her flesh. She gasped and cried out, faltered. The pain vanished and she ran on, and the fear grew like a horrible old baobab tree to imprison her as the old lubra and the children had been imprisoned in B
ony’s legend. The real children, the tennis court, Rose and Kurt, the clothes she had worn for so long, the books and the study, the ambition to become a teacher, it hadn’t been real after all. It was all a story told her by someone. Of course it was! She was an Aborigine, like her mother, like Captain and Gup-Gup. The camp was real, not the white-feller homestead. Mrs Brentner was always nice, always kind. She had taken her through the house several times, and she had often dreamed of sleeping in a room, and eating at the table, and wearing clothes like Mrs Brentner, like Mrs Leroy and the other white women.
It was growing dark, and that was strange. Or had she been running from Captain for hours and hours. Must have been for hours because she was so tired she couldn’t run much longer. The wind was singing in her ears, singing against the buzzing and the pounding, and in the singing she heard her mother’s voice, and the voices of all the women in the world.
“Now you know what to do if you are caught away from camp by a strange Aborigine,” they said.
Then she heard Captain shout, “Pull up, Tessa! You can’t get away from me.”
“Now you know what to do—what to do—what to do.”
She looked with blurred eyes for a place, a soft and dusty place. Her hand involuntarily pressed against her hip, and she remembered she was still wearing the beautiful green silk panties. Captain shouted again, the sound was loud and close. She saw him only a little distance behind her, and she faltered to a halt. She slipped the panties from her and faced him. He shouted again, victoriously.
“What to do—what to do—what to do.”
Tessa obeyed the command given by women to their maiden daughters down from the Alchuringa times. She collapsed upon the sandy ground and clawed the sand over her breasts and between her thighs. Sand fell into her open mouth, fell against the lids of her closed eyes. She heard the thud of Captain’s body beside her, heard his rasping breath, heard him say:
“I meant to kill you, Tessa. I meant to kill you. I don’t mean to now.”
The sound of their panting waned, and Tessa wanted to faint to escape the terror which returned. She saw Captain kneeling at her side, his head bowed, sweat running down his chest. She felt the gritting of the sand on her skin, and when he killed her she’d know she had beaten him of his intent. Well, why didn’t he kill her? Perhaps he wouldn’t after all. He was like he had always been. There was no anger, no frightened rage in his eyes and on his face, and when he spoke his voice was steady.
“You’ve known for a long time, Tessa, that you belong to me, not to Old Ted. You belong to the tribe, not to Missus. You have always been my lubra. I’ve always cried for you, and you have always cried for me but you didn’t hear. I love you, Tessa, and Missus and Kurt and Bony, and the tribe, are not going to take you from me. We go far away, you and me. You’re my woman, I am your man. Now get up and let’s start.”
Tessa was hauled to her feet. Her hand was gripped by his, and she was urged to walk. Her feet burned and she limped. She felt unutterably tired and inexpressibly dirty. Her hair was full of sand. She faltered but the vice about her hand led her on and on. A little while, and hope flared for Captain was taking her back to the homestead.
“You look a sight, Tessa,” she heard him say. “You want a bath. You needn’t have worked that age-old women’s trick with me because us men have a trick or two to counter it.”
The sun was lowering himself to rest on the Creek trees when they drew near the compound fence. Tessa was thankful that Young Col was nowhere to be seen. Old Scolloti was in the kitchen doorway, and Inspector Bonaparte was upon the tank stand. She wondered why he was there, why he didn’t come down and take her from Captain. Then she saw Young Col and Mister Lamb. They were outside the carpenter’s shop, and Mister Lamb was chewing tobacco.
“I can’t go on, Captain,” she cried. “My feet are raw. Let me go in round the back.”
Captain laughed, softly, and there was no hint of sadism in the sound, no hint of anger. It sounded as though he were happy, very happy. He stopped to swing her up into his arms, and throw her over a shoulder. He laughed again and with his free hand tickled her ribs. The homestead was passing away from them, and then she realized he was carrying her to the Creek. Now his back was to the house and the carpenter’s shop, and over his shoulder she was able to see Young Col urging Mister Lamb forward, aiming him.
Her abductor stopped at last, and she could see the Creek bank either side of her. She wondered at the strength of the arm holding her upon the shoulder, wondered what was passing from his flesh to her body, a strangely ecstatic feeling.
Mister Lamb was trotting towards them. He approached with head slightly lower than normal. Captain said, “Tessa, before I bathe you, I tell you again you are my woman because I love you.”
Tessa wriggled down into the arm. Her right arm passed over his head to clamp his neck. She twisted her face and brought her mouth against his ear. She watched the advance of Mister Lamb. She giggled, and the finger of the hand about Captain’s neck played a tattoo upon his powerful shoulder. When Mister Lamb was really launched she giggled again.
Then both of them were flying through the air over the water, and Mister Lamb, having been so determined, was unable not to follow them.
Chapter Twenty-three
The Situation is Fluid
WHEN BONY emerged from Captain’s hut it was to see Mister Lamb determinedly charging after Captain and, beyond Captain, the fleeing figure of Tessa. He was gravely perturbed by these contretemps, for Captain’s reactions had been unorthodox even for an Aborigine and he himself was now powerless, as the riding horses had been freed into the horse paddock. He feared for Tessa because an enraged Aborigine is unpredictable and as dangerous as a tiger, and he was seeking reasons for self blame as he climbed the iron ladder to the platform supporting the reservoir tanks.
At this elevation he could observe the desert beyond the house, a green speckled light-red carpet having a deep yellow fringe under the horizon sky. He was conscious of Young Col shouting up at him, and of Jim Scolloti hurrying from his kitchen with a rifle. He saw but gave no attention to Mister Lamb, who was standing and staring at the departing figures.
Tessa was running well ahead of Captain. He watched her attempt to circle to the south and back to the homestead, and he saw Captain frustrate it. He saw Tessa pause to discard her shoe, and then to discard her skirt. He saw the flutter of blue and knew it was the discarded blouse, and applauded silently when she freed her body of the bra. She now had the slim grace of a deer seeking escape from the chasing hound, and for the first time he favoured her. The shadows cast by the Creek trees were spreading fast across the ground below, were flowing out into the desert, making of the sunlit land a glowing garden seen from behind the bars of a prison cell. This phenomenon had but secondary importance for Bony, merely impinging upon his mind the fact that soon it would be dark, and the darkness would be to the advantage of Tessa if only she could keep ahead of her pursuer. That she was running towards the distant golden bar of Lucifer’s Couch held no significance. He could see her painted black upon the red ground, and she was divided midway by the green panties she was still wearing.
Captain was gaining steadily, and Bony came to accept the inevitable, emotions of fear over-laying frustrated anger when Tessa stopped and her actions told of stepping from the panties. And then she was down on the ground and the sunlight made golden the mist of sand she was clawing over herself.
“Is the bastard killing her?” shouted Young Col when standing beside him.
“It looks like it,” replied Bony. “Wait, not at the moment. He’s kneeling beside her, and I think he hasn’t touched her.
“What a ruddy mess, Bony! What happened to send Captain dilly?”
“Later, Col. Watch!”
They saw Captain stand and haul Tessa to her feet.
“Hang it, he’s bringing her home,” Col continued to shout. “I’ll go down for the rifle.”
“Bring it to me, fast,” orde
red Bony, adding, when Col looked to question, “I said fast, Col.”
Young Col brought up the rifle, and was told to secure Mister Lamb and hold him in readiness to aim at Captain should it be feasible. Delighted to do this, Young Col descended the iron ladder like a fireman, and Bony continued to observe the couple approaching the homestead.
He was immensely relieved that, so far there hadn’t been any violence, and, knowing Aborigine psychology, he dared to hope that Captain’s rage had subsided, that now he was repentant and was returning Tessa to the homestead. However, when Captain swerved towards the dam, Bony understood the significance of the golden mist over the recumbent Tessa, and knew, too, the counter Captain intended to take.
Young Col, standing with Mister Lamb by the carpenter’s shop, was lost in fascinated admiration of the picture Tessa made until the cook yelled and the young man glanced up at Bony. Bony motioned to aim Mister Lamb, and Col bestrode him in the time-honoured fashion to direct him. Bony despaired, believing it to be too late for Mister Lamb to make contact. He could see Tessa preparing to take the shock by forcing herself lower on Captain’s shoulder. Then he heard Tessa giggling, and saw her nibbling affectionately at Captain’s ear. He found no humour in the sight of Captain and Tessa flung out from the bank and over the water, with Mister Lamb, unable to check momentum, following after.
Captain and Tessa arose from the depths and swam side by side up the Creek to the shallows and the sloping banks. Aborigines appeared and Jim Scolloti yelled and shouted at them. Two dived into the creek and swam to steer Mister Lamb to the shallows before he drowned. Others followed Captain and Tessa and ultimately gathered about them when they left the Creek. From the crowd Captain and Tessa emerged to run from the homestead again, run with apparently unimpaired strength when a white man and woman would have been exhausted.
The Will of the Tribe Page 16
