Heart of the Grass Tree

by Molly Murn

  But I’ve known the power of words and I’ve been hurt by them. Grown into cruel shapes by them. When Mother found my notes from Sol, the notes we hid so carefully, she stole from me. Those words were mine and they were as private as our kisses, but when she read them, our tryst became an awful exposed ugly thing—well that’s how it felt. I would not write again, I decided then, because pieces of me were in my writing and I had to protect them. Keep myself cloistered. But I did write to Sol from that shameful place in Brighton. It was a final desperate attempt, and it was the only way I thought to handle my longing for him, my confusion, my loneliness. I prayed for those words to transform us. Carry us out of this. It soothed me to tell him things, to imagine we were having a conversation, like before. I might as well have been writing in the sand. Mother intercepted those words too.

  The grass tree when it burns begins in the heart and burns outwards. The grass tree when it burns sheds its blackened skin and releases its seeds like an offering. The grass tree when it burns sounds like the she-oak moaning in the wind. To sleep under a she-oak is to hear the wailing that kept Ngurunderi awake after his wives drowned. Uncle Jim told me this. When the leaves of the she-oak chafe together it is to hear the secret language of the tree—the speaking tree whose sacred messages are not mine to know. But this I know. Ngurunderi’s wives in their effort to escape their husband after breaking taboo built a raft from grass trees and reeds and crossed Lake Albert on the mainland. At the spot where they landed, their raft turned back into rushes and grass trees. The women transmuted with their landscape. The grass trees that lead crookedly down to our creek—Sol’s and mine—preside like elders over a slowly unfurling landscape. Steadfast and ancient, they know deep time. Bearing witness. It comforts me to think that when Sol and I were falling in love, they watched over us. The trunk of a grass tree grows just one centimetre a year, morphed into odd bent shapes by drought and fire and the position of the sun. To move a grass tree is to risk losing it. It must be replanted with the exact same side facing north or it will die. Sun and fire and a little water—these are the things it needs, shivering into flower only after wildfire. The heart of the grass tree tastes sweet, Aunty Hettie says.

  Instead, I want to set fire to our tree. I will set fire to all of these words—these jottings, excavations, resurrections. Beautiful tinder. Belonging only to me. And this time, it will be my choice to extinguish them. To make these words ash.

  Only my heart story in my little red book shall remain. This is the vow. Sol, it is our precious thing.

  1828

  Antechamber Bay

  Anderson wakes and finds Emue gone. He scrapes crust from his lips with his teeth. It is early and the other men are still sleeping, but Anderson’s shivering has woken him. He is wearing nothing from the waist down. Outside the hut, the ground is cold and hard in the early dawn, and he sits up carefully. If he moves his head too fast the ache between his eyes makes him nauseous. He staggers to his feet and urinates beside the hut. Taking one of the skins pegged out for curing, he wraps it around his waist, coughs, dislodges some phlegm and then stumbles into the hut.

  Where’s Polecat? Need water, he spits under his breath.

  Piebald is asleep in Anderson’s spot. He kicks him in his side and Piebald grumbles but doesn’t move. Anderson, noticing that William’s sleeping place is empty, groans at the spinning room as he lies down in the pile of skins. His stomach is growling and burning with the acid of the rum. He wants to go and lash Emue for not being there with some food and drink for him, but he is too weak to move.

  By mid-morning the heat bearing down on the hut is stifling and finding himself alone he makes to call out to the boy but he can’t summon his voice. There is a dull thudding like he can hear the blood thumping along the vessels in his brain, and his voice is thin and fragile against such a din. He stumbles out into the daylight. Leaning against the hut he shields his eyes with the crook of his elbow. The day is a bowl of fire.

  Where’s me boy?

  Munro and Everitt look up from where they are trying to resurrect the evening fire.

  We ’aven’t seen ’im, replies Munro as he stirs up the coals.

  Anderson tightens the sealskin around his waist with one hand and makes his way over to the campfire, tripping and cursing a few times as he does so.

  Get the boy and the gins would yer, Everitt, Anderson mutters as he settles himself down next to Munro.

  Everitt glares at him. I’m presently occupied makin’ tea.

  Well, presently occupy yerself findin’ me boy, Anderson says, singsong.

  Everitt mumbles something under his breath, spitting into the coals, but makes no move to stand up.

  I think Piebald was headin’ down there. William’ll be there, Munro offers tentatively.

  Anderson shoots a look at Everitt, fingering the scar on his chest as if to smooth it.

  I want Everitt to go look for the boy. I ain’t interested in what Piebald is up to.

  Piebald emerges from the scrub coming off the path that leads to the women’s camp.

  Gone. Emue, Poll, Mooney, Puss, the rowboat. All gone, Piebald announces, his bare shoulder glistening whiter than the rest of him, as does the skin of his elbows, too.

  Hunting? Anderson asks, still staring at Everitt.

  Piebald shakes his head. Boat’s gone. And baskets.

  Anderson shrugs. You saw the boy?

  Nup. ’Aven’t seen him all morning. ’Aven’t laid eyes on him since last night, responds Piebald.

  Anderson gets up and strides towards the track, knocking into Piebald as he passes. Munro follows, while Everitt scowls and remains seated by the fire.

  Praps we should look along the inlet. Mebbee they took the boat there, Piebald says as he follows Anderson down the track.

  Anderson kicks sand into the remnants of a fire and then scans the inside of the wurlie. Some of the women’s pouches and nearly all of the skins are gone.

  Find the boy, Piebald. Find ’im now. Emue’ll get a hidin’.

  She already got ’un.

  Whadda yer mean? Whadda yer saying? Anderson leers, his face inches away from Piebald’s.

  I mean to say that yer gave Emue more ’an a thrashing last night. Piebald glances at Munro for backup, but Munro is mute.

  Yer don’t know what yer saying. Anderson gives Piebald a quick shove in the chest.

  Piebald stumbles a few steps backwards, narrows his eyes at Anderson and whispers, You ought to start ’preciatin’ the gins. Look at us, dressed head to toe in skins. We look like ’em, don’t you see. And they look like us. We is all in this together now.

  He turns away, heading off towards the inlet. I’ll find the boy, Piebald calls gruffly over his shoulder.

  Anderson crawls into the wurlie and covers himself up with the one remaining skin. He is overcome with sickness, but when the gins return he wants to be there. He likes the smell of it in here.

  Yer right? Munro asks, crouching at the entrance to the wurlie.

  Jus’ leave me. Leave me. Find Will. He’ll know where they is, Anderson responds, unsettled by Piebald’s words.

  By evening, Anderson is more than agitated. Mooney and Puss have returned from a day out gathering wiltjeri, munthari and nganangi, but there is no sign of William, Emue, Poll, or even Maringani or Minnie. Piebald and Munro have conducted a thorough search of the nearby inlet, which has proven unsuccessful, and the other women, harangued by Anderson, seem unsure of the whereabouts of Emue and Poll.

  Where are they? You know where they is? Stop lyin’, yer bitches, Anderson says, grabbing Puss around the arm and leering at her bowed head.

  Leave her be, Piebald warns, shoving Anderson’s hand away and putting his arm around Puss’s shoulders, drawing her to him protectively.

  They’ll be back in the morning. They do this aller time. Jus’ steady yerself, Munro says, holding a dram of rum out for Anderson.

  Anderson whisks the rum from Munro, swills it and wipes his mouth cle
an with the back of his hand.

  I told that boy not ter hang about the gins. Now they’ve taken ’im as their own. He thinks he’s a bloody black.

  Anderson looks across to the other side of the fire and sees Mooney with her smooth, round face watching him. She is dressed in Munro’s shirt and baggy trousers. Munro is wrapped in wallaby skin. The firelight is reflected in Mooney’s shining black eyes. He doesn’t like the way she is staring at him and is about to say something when Munro passes her some meat. She doesn’t eat the meat straight away. It is the best bit, the tail of the wallaby, which she had kept aside for Munro, but he nods to reassure her and tentatively she eats it, turning away slightly from him, smiling.

  Anderson can barely contain his disgust. The sight of the other men with their gins is sickening; he heaves himself up and disappears inside the hut. Once inside he paces back and forth, cursing under his breath, slamming his fist into the palm of the other hand. Why has everyone turned against him, when it is he who holds it all together? Crashing his way out of the hut, Anderson strides past the men and the women and heads off into the scrub. He can hear Piebald calling after him and Everitt possibly taunting him, but if no one else is going to find the boy and the gins then he will have to take matters into his own hands. For a moment, he reels, remembering the last time he did that, and the smell of William’s flesh burning.

  near Hog Bay

  Anderson crashes heavy-footed through the undergrowth, his arms held above his head knocking away branches and spider webs and saplings. There is a feeling in his limbs like he is weighted down—like his blood is thick and bubbling. He’s felt like this once before: he thought William had drowned. The lurching panic had overwhelmed him, and then William had popped his head up out of the black still water, grinning at Anderson, and choking. Oh to find solace in that ruddy face now. That face that makes him boil with fury. There is something of himself—better than himself—in William. Where is he, though? Something’s awfully wrong, he thinks to himself. He shudders, hearing again the scream of that gin when Everitt tied her up to the tree. And afterwards, the silence so deafening Anderson had been sick. It was here. Lubra Creek. It was here, he realises with a quickening dread. All he knows now is that he needs to walk—get out of here—needs to feel like he is in charge of the situation. His brain seems to pound inside his skull. The sea is to his right, to the north-east, he is sure of that, and as long as he doesn’t wander too far inland then he can avoid getting lost. Once, he had navigated himself from one end of the island to the other with one of the dogs and a knife. But now Anderson’s thoughts are far from concentrating on tracking where he is. He is thinking about William’s disobedience of late and what he will do with him when he finds him. If he finds him? After giving his son a hiding he will have to put a stop to the over-friendliness between William and the gins. How? How? A son should show more respect to his father, he thinks to himself. William, William.

  But there is something else troubling him. It is Emue. Some nights ago he’d had a dream, the residual feeling of which he has not been able to shake for days. In the dream Emue had turned to him and smiled. Her face was open to him, her wide smile revealing her large straight teeth, and in her eyes, a softness that told him there was no discord between them. When he’d woken, Emue wouldn’t look at him, and when he finally cupped her chin in his hand and made her look at him, he saw that he repelled her. But he was seeing her in a whole new way. He needed her. Not just because, together, they doubled their output in skins, and not because she knew the body of the land—its private, secret places that offered up honey, and fruit, and roots, and flesh to sustain him—but because the smell of her made him calm. And sometimes frenzied. Reassuring like the taste of milk when you’re hungry. Would she ever just rest her head on his chest like Beatrice used to? Then he could breathe deep the crown of her head, and she could sleep, and he could let all the tight places in his body go. But it’s too late, she hates me, he realises sinking to his knees. And it’s also the thought that those other bastards are just sniggering at him behind his back, getting around with their gins like they’re kings and queens, that’s made him unsettled. A heavy axe swinging and breaking things. They were all nothing without him. This bad feeling is all because the scrimshaw went missing. He’d scoured every gap and hollow in the sugar gum where he usually kept it, but it was gone. It was an omen. He had made it as an invocation to Beatrice, and now she had abandoned him, too. He needed Emue more than ever. He needed to be held. But his dream had been a cruel trick to make him suffer. Emue, you are nothing without me, he shouts to the frowning sky. Beatrice.

  He collapses to his knees and begins to crawl, reaching out his hands to feel what’s ahead. Anderson searches the stars for reference but they give little comfort. They aren’t as they should be. In fact nothing is as it should be. The sound of the ocean has disappeared and he can no longer make out the curls of smoke from the sealing camp he has left behind. He sinks back onto his knees, cups his hands around his mouth and yells out his son’s name. The wind stirs as if to mock him and a bird lets out a shrill cry as if it has been disturbed, although Anderson thinks it is also calling out Weellum. The drooping she-oaks loom at him menacingly and there are no soft landings for his hands and knees. Everything pricks and pierces and stings. He has forgotten which direction he is heading in. That daft boy, look what he’s done to me, he thinks, wondering if he has actually mouthed the words or just imagined them. Then he remembers he’s seen Emue smile at William like she’d smiled at him in the dream. I’ll knock ’im down, he imagines, fuelled by helpless jealousy. I should have left him where he came from. Mauritius. But William was strong and a good boy and so helpful. I need him, I need him, Anderson repeats. Standing up to stretch out the cramping in his knees, Anderson strains to make out the distant purr of the sea. He can hear a noise but he isn’t sure if it is waves or just a ringing in his ears. And then he feels something roar past him and he yelps like a frightened dog. The force and speed of the passing sensation almost knocks him from his feet and suddenly he is shivering all over. Anderson stands frozen and listens; there’s nothing to hear but his own ragged breathing. What are the trees saying? Why do they taunt me? What a fool I am, he thinks. Even Emue knows not to wander about in the dark. Too many spirits in this place. He shouts again for Emue, who knows him better than any.

  Maringani is the one who comes. She’d followed the sound of moaning, not imagining for a second the cries would belong to Anderson. For a long while she just sits and considers him. His sturdy frame is sprawled awkwardly like a thick, fallen branch. The skin of his lips is cracked and blistered and he breathes in shallow jerks. Maringani has never seen him so reduced. He needs water, she thinks to herself, but there is none to be found here. These strange pale men are too loud in their thinking, in their talking, in their walking, to really hear anything, to really see anything at all. Skulls too thin for this bright sun. She wonders what they know. How they’ve learnt it. They can build ships, all right, and that magic drink that makes them wild and as awkward as seals out of water, they can make that. And those beautiful bottles of glass. Oh yes, they are clever in their own way. They know how to grow things that don’t belong, so you don’t have to always go looking for tucker. But what will they do when all the seals are gone? It seems to Maringani that these pale men just want lots and lots and lots of one thing. Won’t everything start to fall apart? She knows they won’t last long, unless, like Weellum, they start listening.

  Maringani stands and reaches into the rough, thick leaves of the grass tree that spreads beside her. She separates the fronds as gently as if she is finding the place where the hair parts on Weellum’s head, moving slowly so as not to cut herself on the sharp edges of the leaves. Once she has made space enough for her body, she wriggles in close to the stem of the grass tree. This one reaches high above her. Old one, she thinks to herself. From her sedge basket she takes a chiselled stone and begins cutting away the leaves at the base of th
e stem. The sun is hot on her hair and the stem of the grass tree is scratchy, rough. Anderson whimpers, and there is a quickening in her belly. A little fish flipping over and over. She strips away the leaves in quick deft slices and the sharp edges cut her hands. She raps the base of the stem quickly and the tender white root falls into her hands, the skirt of the grass tree rustling against her shoulders. Kinyeri, the heart of the grass tree, water when there is none. It fits perfectly in her hands, white and vulnerable, and she is sorry to take the heart from the tree. Now, it will die.

  Kneeling beside Anderson, she slides her arm under his head and props him up. He smells sour, and she turns her face away. Almost runs away. But it is Weellum’s kin, and because of that, she cannot leave him to die.

  Emue? he mutters as he tries to focus on Maringani.

  She bites a piece from the heart; it is woody and sweet in her mouth and she spits it into her hand before placing it on Anderson’s lips. He makes to choke on it, but she lifts his head up a little, and orders him to chew. And at first it’s as though he’s never had anything in his mouth before, but soon enough he is sucking on the pulp obediently.

  He stares up at her. A seal pup, she thinks. When a flicker of recognition passes in the light of his eyes she knows it is time to leave. The kinyeri will revive him. But he is a too-loud man. He did wrong. The rest is up to him. She places his head back down, and holds the heart against his lips a moment. He nuzzles towards it. Then Maringani places the heart on his chest, white against the dark of his hair, heart upon heart, and cradles his flailing hands around it. He grips it and sobs, turning onto his side, folding himself up. As she slices his upper arm with the hard edge of a leaf torn from the heart, he barely cries out. He is a fallen grass tree, kildjeri, and marked now, she thinks, before disappearing into the waiting scrub, taking the flowering stem of the tree with her. She hears him calling to Emue. His voice is gentle. Changed. Maringani calls for Emue too. And sucks the nectar from the little yellowy flowers. Wings in her mouth.