Cicada Page 18

  He sucked his lips together. He was losing track of the days. Water, so close, but he had to get past the spirits in the trees, the luminous prying eyes of the stars needling him through the blue of the sky. He had to get past the black ghost, always lit as if there was a full moon. He was hanging now in the fig tree with his eyes downwards. William was afraid of that ghost. The movement of his lips as he lay dying. The mutter. The word. Junpam. He knew what it meant. Song. He had heard it, so soft, and now always in the slightest wind and he hated it so much that he tore strips from his shirt to block his ears. He cursed the nothing wind to have something that was its own.

  He stood and dragged his left leg in a slow circular motion. He could only take small steps for the pain was too much. He made his way and as the sun bore down on his fine skin he scolded himself for not using the night, and then he remembered how monstrous the night had become.

  He drank kneeling on his right knee. The shade and the water cleared his mind. He filled two buckets with water and inched back to the homestead. In the coolness of the kitchen, he lay cups in a row and determined how to ration the water. He put two cups of water in a pot and he gathered a bandage, a sharp knife and a cup of bleach powder and then he rested.

  10

  Smith & Wesson

  Wirritjil peered down the length of the pools towards where the west bank rose into a cliff that curved, taking the river with it. Emily floated on her back, pushing down and kicking occasionally to put herself in the right direction.

  Wirritjil called, pointing to the cliff, ‘Fitteroy little bit.’

  She made her way ahead, close to where the pandanus palms were bunched with their sharp leaves overhead and roots snaking into the river. Emily did not like keeping to the side. She knew the pandanus palm well now; it provided seeds and fibres, but it also harboured file snakes and sometimes lalankarram, the shy freshwater crocodiles who did not like to bite but had sharp teeth and strong jaws. The rough slide of the file snake across her skin made her gasp and she had not overcome her fear of the lalankarram.

  The women rounded the bend in the river. Emily could see Wirritjil close to the bank almost hidden in a thicket of pandanus fronds. There was something about her posture that made Emily stop. She squinted into the sun. Wirritjil pointed to the top of the cliff and sank like a crocodile into the water. Emily did the same and moved back silently with just her eyes and nose above the water. She reached the cover of the pandanus on the opposite side of the river.

  There was a horse on the rise of the cliff. The rider was easily identified with his burning hair and wide shoulders.

  Emily waited and listened. The birds were quiet then began to talk again. Trevor had gone.

  She made her way slowly back across the river, underwater, rolling on her back and coming to the surface so just her nose emerged and she breathed and sank again. Trevor did not come back.

  Wirritjil crawled out of the water and up to the rise, walking quickly until she reached rocks heaped in jagged steps. She found a protective crevice and wriggled herself into it. Emily stood above the black woman’s folded form.

  ‘We go straight to the Crossing and ask for help. There are civilised people there.’

  She started climbing over the rocks. Wirritjil didn’t follow.

  Emily returned to her. ‘Why are you so afraid?’

  Wirritjil didn’t answer.

  ‘We are nearly there. There is a police station there. I’ll tell them that William killed the baby and Jurulu and he hurt Blackgirl.’ Emily bit her lip, then added, ‘I will tell them that he was angry. It was my fault.’ Her voice trailed into nothing. She took a breath. ‘We will be able to sort it all out.’

  She put her hand on Wirritjil’s shoulder. ‘You will be able to go back home, to Charcoal, to Blackgirl, to Minnie.’

  Wirritjil curled so that her head was between her knees and stayed like that. Emily sat by her, waiting. They fell asleep leaning against each other on the rock.

  In the morning they crept up the rise and followed the hoof prints of the horse away from the river into flat land dotted with the waist-high dried mud hills of white ants and the red dirt swirls of black ants that lived underground.

  Wirritjil looked at the sun. The hoof prints continued south in the direction of the Crossing. In the distance was a clump of trees with a bunch of hobbled donkeys grazing. In the centre was a cart loaded high with bags, buckets and pieces of machinery.

  ‘Kardiya,’ said Emily. ‘I will go to them.’

  Wirritjil put her hand on the hoof print. It was a warning.

  Emily was quiet. She sat in the red dust. ‘They might have some clothes.’

  Wirritjil crawled to a group of straggly gums. The ground was alive with black and red ants scurrying with pieces of leaf, white eggs of other insects and tiny shreds of dead animals. She took a branch from the biggest tree, brushed the ground and laid down strips of bark. She was careful not to disturb the ants with jade-green abdomens that circled the trunk in a busy haphazard manner and on the ground formed a straight soldierly line, cutting through the other ants and making a groove in the orange soil. They carried leaves, twigs and grains of sand up into the tree where they made small boxes held together by sticky webbing. Wirritjil lay back watching the green ants as they built, readying themselves for the torrential rains. Emily chewed on berries from a string bag on her belt. It was midday and the sun came through the lace of the dappled shade with little mercy. They could hear men splashing and singing at the camp.

  ‘Mining songs,’ said Emily. ‘They must be going to Halls Creek.’

  A flock of grey and pink galahs came to rest on the ground close to the men’s camp and rose again in a screeching wave as a dog barked. ‘Let’s go now,’ said Emily. ‘Don’t want to wake that dog later.’

  She pushed her slingshot into her belt and they crawled towards the camp. The dog growled as they approached. Wirritjil dropped back, gripped Emily’s ankle and raised her spear.

  ‘Don’t hurt the dog,’ Emily hissed.

  Someone threw a bone and the dog’s attention was drawn away from the intruders.

  Emily and Wirritjil lay on the ground about twenty yards from the camp. The men had a washing tub full of water and had thrown their clothes across the top of the loaded cart.

  Wirritjil looked away. Emily handed her the slingshot. ‘Give me your spear. Stay here. Watch.’

  Emily crawled forward.

  The men were laughing.

  ‘Gold bigger ’n’ the King’s crown.’

  ‘Bigger ’n’ the King’s head.’

  ‘Happy for a couple the size of the King’s balls.’

  ‘Nah, he ain’t got big balls.’

  ‘How d’yer know?’

  Emily sidled through the trees to crouch low behind the truck. The dog stared at her for a moment then resumed gnawing at the bone. Emily lifted the spear up over the truck and stuck the point into a pair of pants.

  ‘He might only have one ball.’

  ‘Never heard o’ that.’

  Emily’s sweat was salty in her eyes. Two pairs of pants, one shirt. She needed another shirt, a belt.

  ‘Ain’t right.’

  ‘Yeah, every king should have two balls.’

  Shirt, belt, two hats—what luck. Pity the men had their boots on. Emily crept away.

  ‘What if a king can’t have kids, like?’

  Emily was at the edge of the camp. She stopped at the words.

  ‘If he really draws a blank yer know it’s up to the Queen.’

  ‘The Queen? Yer kiddin’ me.’

  ‘Nah, what do you think? They jes’ gotta find someone who looks the same and don’t draw a blank. It’s history.’

  Emily went around the dog, who peered at her briefly. She reached Wirritjil and they ran, bending low, to the safety of the river. They swam and walked close to the edges and in a couple of hours reached the long sandy stretches near the small settlement of Fitzroy Crossing.

  They
dried their new clothes on a rock in the hot afternoon sun. Emily dressed. She pulled the belt tight and turned the trousers up. She tied soft dark bark close around her feet so with the pants long it might seem she had real shoes on. She stuck the hard digging stick made from the perawuruny tree inside her trousers on her twine belt. She tried on both hats. They were too big. She chose the smaller one. The brim sat around her ears and across her eyebrows, hiding her face in dark shadow.

  ‘I am a man?’

  ‘You a woman.’

  Emily deepened her voice. ‘Get dressed, Wirritjil—we go to the police station.’

  Wirritjil put on a pair of the miners’ pants and tied string around the waist. Emily handed her a shirt. Wirritjil shook her head. She turned and walked into the bush. She went for some distance and sat cross-legged in the dirt.

  Emily found her and sat by her. ‘You don’t need to come. I will make sure your name is clear.’

  Emily straightened her shirt. She began to walk away but came back. ‘Are you going to go back Cicada Springs way?’

  Wirritjil raised her hand palm upwards and shook it. Maybe.

  Emily took her hat off. She had tied her ragged hair into a bun. ‘Will you wait for me? I want to say goodbye properly. Give you some things. Lots of things. Food, clothes.’

  Wirritjil looked up from drawing circles in the dirt with a stick and nodded.

  Emily stood there for a moment. ‘When we get back to Cicada Springs, we can go riding, go fishing, get those berries, piriyalji.’

  Wirritjil drew more circles and seemed to be placing dots randomly.

  ‘And we can go camp in that place where the Gidja Walangkernany is. He knows us now.’

  Wirritjil didn’t look up.

  ‘Wait for me.’

  Emily walked along the sand to where the east–west road cut through the river bed. There were several groups of Aborigines sitting, cooking, making tea in tin cans and damper on the rocks. A few men were asleep in the sun, flies buzzing around their heads. Some wore trousers crusted with dried mud; others were naked apart from nagam made from string and animal fur.

  Emily left the river and headed through the bush. She felt nervous and reassured herself that she was indeed an acceptable person, a white person of heritage. Ahead she could see the Crossing Inn. It was on a rise above a bend in the river. The surrounding land had been cleared and there were tracks crisscrossing among buildings made of mud bricks and stone, or more often, corrugated iron and wood. Horses flicking flies with their tails were tied to railings and in front of one building was a motorcar.

  Even in the town most of the people about were Aboriginal. They looked dulled and hardly lifted their heads. On the veranda of a small tin building sat a plump man wearing a blue shirt, writing on a clipboard. He looked up at Emily as she passed by. He regarded her for a moment, chewing the end of his pen. Emily pulled her hat lower and tucked in a few strands of hair.

  She reached a building with bars in the windows and police written on a piece of wood above the door. Emily knocked. No-one answered. She waited and knocked again. She walked around the side and peered through a window into a space that was dark and she saw only the whites of eyes. Emily drew back at the smell of excrement and the sudden swirling murmuring of different languages.

  She turned the corner of the building and there on a long chain were eight Aboriginal men, all full-blood, all nearly naked, some with twine around their waists from which hung nagam made of matted string or jarguli, the pearl shell traded with the coastal tribes. She stopped still. They looked at her with an almost idle curiosity, as though nothing would surprise them anymore. They were long and lean with ceremonial scars across their chests as well as their faces, where the skin was tight and scarred over high cheekbones. Their beards were long to their chests, bunched in sections with twine, and their hair was drawn back with strips of animal hide across prominent foreheads. Some had bones through their noses or in their earlobes.

  Although they seemed relaxed, either leaning against the side of the building or standing resting on one foot, it was clear they either all stood or all sat for a chain with large metal links ran in short lengths from neck to neck and their hands were tied with rope behind their backs. They were in the full sun next to a half-drum of water, which they would have to kneel at and lick or suck in order to drink. They shared the water with two dogs that had dirt-stained coats of white, flecked with a midnight blue. At first, the dogs only gave Emily a cursory glance.

  Emily stared, transfixed by the stature of the men; they seemed of a certain discipline, foreign, from a different world. She wondered what they had done wrong. Did they know what they had done wrong? They did not seem remorseful nor did they seem like criminals.

  She saw in their eyes the same expression that Jurulu had had. She took a step towards them. A dog leapt at her, snarling against his chain. Emily stepped back. She sensed the presence of other people, the muffled cry of a child. She turned and saw several women sitting under the low branches of the scrub. They were naked, littered with dust and leaves and branches, some young and round, but a few thin and old with sagging breasts. One had a set of laanturre on her head in a nest of spinifex grass and feathers. There were two or three children sitting on one woman’s lap, their noses and eyes full of flies.

  The two dogs abruptly threw themselves at Emily as though she had suddenly become the enemy. She stepped back from the frantic barking and snapping teeth. The men and the women turned their faces to her and she saw their helplessness.

  She heard a low whistle and followed it through the scrub to Wirritjil, sitting with her back against a stringybark tree, covered in leaves and dust. Emily crouched down. ‘You followed me. You saw them too.’

  Wirritjil put both hands on her head.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ whispered Emily.

  She looked back to where the trees thinned and the town was. She stared down at her trousers and back at Wirritjil. They couldn’t be together in this town.

  ‘Come.’ She dusted the leaves away, afraid to look into Wirritjil’s eyes. ‘Let’s find a camp.’

  They found a large warlarri tree, back from the river. Its great white trunk and heavy branches gave good shade. It had been a camp before and the ground around was bare of prickly shrubs. Wirritjil took her shirt off and wrapped it around her head as she scraped the area free of sticks.

  Emily tried to concentrate. ‘We need money.’

  ‘Dis one?’ Wirritjil pulled from a bark pouch the money the drover had left in the trouser pocket.

  Emily sat down and smoothed out the pound note, feeling it suddenly familiar, and with it came her other life, her father, trips to London buying fine dresses, like her wedding dress. She could smell the jasmine flowers that covered the arch they had walked under and the taste of the rich cake and its almond icing. It all seemed so far away, so strange now.

  In the late afternoon, Emily crept back, stopping at the edge of the bush. A long cart harnessed to sixteen mules and packed high with mighty bales of wool filled the road. A policeman in knee-high boots and a man dressed in the sweaty cotton of the stations stood at the back of the cart. Both carried rifles. A second policeman, large with light hair, led the Aboriginal men towards the cart. The dogs growled and snapped at the feet of the chained men. One threw himself hard and his teeth tore into a prisoner’s leg. The Aboriginal man didn’t look at the dog or the raw bleeding wound, just straight ahead.

  ‘Get back, yer mongrels.’ The policeman with the pale hair kicked at the dogs and they shrank back, snarling.

  The Aboriginal men climbed into the cart, moving so as not to pull each other with the chain. They stood then all squatted as one behind the wool bales. The policeman at the front ran the tip of his rifle along their backs or poked the chests of those facing him.

  ‘If you try and get away we have to shoot yer. Understand?’

  The pale-haired policeman handed them buckets of water and hunks of bread. He disappeared briefly and
came back with a flour bag and handed out lumps of cooked meat, bones and potatoes.

  The women in the scrub began to wail. The first policeman and the station man climbed into the front of the cart. They shook the reins and the mules shuffled and strained against their harness and the cart lurched with its heavy load. The red pindan dust hung in clouds behind them. The women followed, dark apparitions with their souls and hearts stolen, slipping through the bush.

  When the cart turned westwards on to the main track, the light-haired policeman headed up the rise towards the Crossing Inn. Emily hurried after him.

  John had taken to praying every day, but the painted dog came to him in between the Hail Marys so he took some rum to chase him away. He was praying and drinking, sitting in front of the open U-shaped bar on cleared ground that sloped a few hundred yards to the banks of the Fitzroy River, pointing his .303 at the tree tops, when Trevor came back.

  He glanced at Trevor, then set the butt of the rifle in his shoulder and shot at the rising moon, a translucent halfcircle in the noonday sun. The bullet whistled across the river, through the tops of the trees and far into the bush.

  ‘Missed. Now it’s gonna hang around all day and night.’

  He laughed and his knees knocked against his mug of tea and tipped the bottle of rum. He saw Trevor’s frown and his laughter trickled away.

  A few men were already on their way up the hill, and behind John the shutters were being lifted. The yardman sluiced the concrete floor of the hotel with buckets of water.

  ‘You been talking to everyone, anyone, about the women.’

  ‘Boss, might get some clues, some help.’

  ‘You been telling everyone they done wrong.’

  ‘Nah, just that the gin—she’s a murderer.’