Cicada Page 8

  ‘That black girl is trouble.’

  At the other end of the pool the tracker put his finger in the stain of the ash on the rock near the fire. He walked back, turning in small circles or squatting down to examine the ground. He held his hands out to Trevor to show him fragments of dried leaves.

  ‘Big horse ’im bad leg. Back leg.’

  He pointed to the other side of the waterway that they had come up.

  ‘Datta way.’

  Trevor studied the tracker’s face. The black man had a slight smile as always and his eyes gave away nothing.

  ‘How long ago?’

  The black tracker didn’t answer.

  ‘What is your name, blackfella?’

  ‘Billy Gum,’ John shouted from a few feet away. ‘That’s a bloody good name, eh?’

  The black tracker was silent.

  ‘How long ago? Today, yesterday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Trevor shook his head. John laughed.

  ‘Told yer. Trouble for sure. All blackfellas are trouble. That black girl. Might find Lady Emily dead somewhere.’

  Trevor took a couple of leather bags from his horse and crouched by the pool. The water flowed into the narrow mouthpieces of the bags.

  ‘Why would that be?’

  John stood behind Trevor. His thumbs were hooked into his belt and he made small steps back and forth. The sun was high and hot.

  ‘Well. You don’t know women, do ya? Lady Emily been done by this one’s blackfella, this one black woman, eh, she might want to get her back for bein’ with her man. Causin’ his death. Lead her to a deep waterhole where there’s them monsters they so scared of and kill her there. So she never comes back, gets eaten by a big magical snake.’

  Trevor lifted the bags from the water and made sure the lids were tight.

  ‘What are yer talking about?’

  ‘That caste bloke, Jurulu, and this here black woman.’

  ‘They’re Nyawama and Jawandi.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They sister and brother.’

  ‘Oh that shit skin stuff. They ain’t real sister and brother. They don’t follow that stuff anymore. Moola Bulla teacher, she got to that real quick.’

  Trevor put the water bags across the front of the saddle. John stood with his feet planted apart on the sand.

  ‘You know I’m right, don’t ya? We’d have Lady Emily back at Cicada if it wasn’t for that black bitch. She’s leading us on. She’s gonna trap us all. She probably got some fella, big mob family gonna ambush us. I’m gonna shoot that gin as soon as I see her.’

  Trevor walked to his horse and tightened the girth of the saddle. The black tracker was leading his horse down. The stony ground gave away few secrets but the trees with their leaves brushed to the side and the cracked twigs made the path easy for the tracker to see. They had to dismount often. John played with his .303 rifle, pointing it at birds, at imaginary animals and sometimes at the dog. He rode with one hand on the reins and the other on the rifle. Trevor rode behind him. He took out the .22, a light rifle, and laid it across the pommel of his saddle.

  4

  The Drive

  The range that had at its top the pool with the wallaby bone went for many miles in a north–south direction then petered into the plain. Emily and Wirritjil came around its southern limit. Wirritjil knew the drive was coming long before they heard the thunder of the hoofs. She saw the sudden angular flight of the birds in the distance as she tasted the dust in her breath and smelt the sweat of driven animals.

  They climbed a slope, hiding the horses behind a group of boulders that had tumbled on each other in some century past. Bloodwoods grew thin in the soil that was yellow and sandy, the leaves were few and the pale blossoms had fallen, stained with the dirt and turning brown. In between the trees were tussocks of waist-high hummock grass that gave good cover.

  The cattle were mainly shorthorns but there were others with horns wider than their bodies and their chests deep and thick; all mooed and brayed in a great cloud of black dust and flowed like grains of sand in a steady stream around lone gums and stands of bushes. Station stockmen and itinerant drovers rode on the sides and behind the herd, cracking their whips. The cook and swag carts pulled by mules straining with the top-heavy loads followed, shrouded in lingering eddies of dust.

  When the herd was long gone the women made their way down. A great swathe of the ground between the ranges was torn into fine black dust. The marks of the brumby’s and the mare’s hoofs were lost in the thousands of cattle prints. The women and the horses stood still, in awe of the rushing footprints around them.

  A horseman emerged from the shimmering cloud behind the cattle. He paused then cantered towards them through the dust and the haze of heat. Wirritjil turned to gallop away but Emily could see that the mare was avoiding putting weight on her hind foot. If they ran the stockman would outrun them. There was nothing to do. She put up her hand and Wirritjil met her eyes. They swung around to face the oncoming stranger. Emily pulled Wirritjil’s dress lower on her head so that it almost covered her eyes.

  ‘This man might be bad.’

  Wirritjil took the spear from her hair and held it close to her side. They stared ahead at the materialising figure.

  He stopped in front of them. Dust came from behind and settled across his horse and in the creases of his face. His hair stuck out in coarse dirty clumps from under his hat. His eyes were a striking blue, sparkling in the dirt and dust. The leather of his hat was darkened with weather and sweat; his worn boots had an indented design of swirls and flourishes, and iron spur wheels that glinted on the heels. Emily saw he wasn’t a station stockman anchored to any land. He was a drover, travelling forever with cattle and horses.

  He scanned Emily and the brumby slowly as if taking in minute detail, shifting his examination to Wirritjil, the mare and back to Emily. His gaze moved along her legs to her knees, then to her chest, down her arms to her hands on the rope, back to her face and resting on her eyes as if she was someone he might know. Her hands tightened on the rope and she felt the brumby’s back arch, ready to run. She wanted to break the stare and the silence but she didn’t know what to say. He spoke first.

  ‘You hurt?’

  ‘No,’ Emily answered.

  The drover’s horse scuffed at the ground, eyeing the black mare and the brumby.

  ‘Where are you headed?’ The drover looked around at the great expanse.

  Emily tried to think of an answer, but nothing came.

  ‘Where you camped?’

  ‘Not far.’ Emily paused and looked behind her to Wirritjil and realised with a shock that Wirritjil was naked. She looked at her own dress, a loose nightdress with fading bloodstains. Her voice came at first in a stutter but she gathered herself to make her words strong. ‘My dog, my dog was mauled by a dingo. We buried him. This woman, I have just taken her on to train as a servant.’

  Her mouth was dry and she felt her lips cracked and raw.

  The drover handed his water bottle to her. She drank deep then stopped with a cough as she realised that it wouldn’t look right to be thirsty. She handed the water to Wirritjil.

  ‘Hey,’ said the drover.

  Wirritjil held the water close to her lips.

  ‘Drink,’ said Emily.

  ‘Dry, eh. Yeah, drink—drink it all.’ The drover smiled.

  Wirritjil drank a little. She handed it back.

  The drover took the bottle and leant forwards on the pommel of his saddle. ‘You in trouble?’

  Emily made herself sit straight, and squared her shoulders. ‘Our men, they are just behind.’

  ‘Good.’ He nodded and waited.

  Emily felt her lips trembling and she willed her hands not to shake. The three horses jiggled and pawed at the ground. The drover put his hand to his hat as a goodbye, lifted his reins and his horse turned.

  Emily called out, ‘Wait, drover.’

  The drover glanced back with his jewel eyes.


  ‘You haven’t seen us.’

  ‘No. I guessed that.’

  He cantered away and disappeared into the dust of the cattle.

  Emily looked south. If they went that way they would surely be caught, the tracker would pick the horses’ trail going in the opposite direction to the herd.

  ‘Datta way.’ Wirritjil pointed to the disappearing herd.

  ‘He has seen us.’

  Wirritjil didn’t answer. She headed behind the path of the herd, turning after an hour westwards into the low blazing sun, across the plain to the shadow of the stony buttresses of another north–south range.

  In the scrub at the base of a bluff, they curved around piles of stones, some stacked larger upon smaller, others pyramidlike, scattered across sheets of grey shale as though a rain of immense rocks had landed countless years ago and slowly disintegrated. Trees grew from cracks in the shale or in occasional depressions of dirt. Wirritjil checked the bushes and trees, how thick they were, which types were grouped together and what the ground nearby was like. She stuck a long stick down a hole at the base of a flaky dip in the shale and drew it back up again. It was dry. They walked, wandering between the rocks, the horses behind with their heads low as if they were sniffing for water.

  ‘Juwerlenywerleny.’ Wirritjil waved her hands at the shale and the rocks. ‘Find ’im kurrngam dis place.’

  ‘English, please,’ said Emily. ‘It is water we are searching for: water.’

  At a second rock hole the stick came up wet. They took it in turn to suck the end. Wirritjil lowered the stick into the hole again. Emily’s tongue became raw; she tore a strip from her nightdress, tied it to the end of the stick and let it soak. They squeezed the water from the strip of material, drinking from each other’s hands and letting the horses snuffle water from their palms. Wirritjil grinned at Emily’s invention but Emily did not smile; she was thinking of the drover and what he might be doing, who he might be telling.

  Near the rock hole were trees with thick brown tessellated bark and lime-green leaves. The ground below was scattered with brown decaying nuts. Wirritjil found a handful with green skin and demonstrated to Emily how to suck on the sour rind and spit the nut.

  They camped but Wirritjil didn’t want to light a fire. She waved her hand northwards. ‘Dem kardiya there.’

  She opened a packet of drying wallaby meat. It had hardened into leathery lumps. Emily held a piece in her hand, staring at it as the day grew dark and her hunger became overwhelming. She nibbled at the edge, at first ignoring the taste then savouring it. She took a big bite and chewed noisily along with Wirritjil.

  ‘Wadul.’ Wirritjil pointed to a group of stars, a cross that hung low on the horizon.

  Emily wriggled in the dirt so her hip sat comfortably into the earth. ‘Wadul. Is that special?’

  ‘He big man, look two fire eyes.’

  ‘Eyes?’

  ‘He find ’em, rai, ’em children, in ’em trees, river. He bin make ’em born, take ’em back.’

  ‘What about him?’ The arc of the moon rose glowing over the tops of the trees.

  ‘Dem’s womans.’ Wirritjil pointed to a constellation of seven stars higher in the sky. ‘Karnkiny love little one. Get big fat.’

  ‘The moon loves a star?’

  ‘He can’t have dat little woman.’

  Emily gave a small laugh and Wirritjil continued, ‘Womens in dem campfires—’ she waved her hand at the stars ‘—they bin hit him.’

  ‘Hit him?’

  ‘Bite him. He get skinny fella again.’

  ‘No, Wirritjil, it is something to do with the moon going around the earth.’

  Wirritjil straightened up. Listening. Behind them the brumby let out a low fluttery neigh. A cattle dog ran into the camp and came to a stop in front of the women. Wirritjil leapt to her feet with her spear in her hand. Emily tore a branch from a tree.

  ‘He wants the meat.’ Emily shooed the dog.

  The drover came out of the darkness into the moonlight of their small clearing, leading his horse. Wirritjil’s arm went back and she pointed her spear. Emily held the branch in front of her and with her other hand pulled her smock in folds close to her body.

  ‘Hey, hey. It’s okay. I won’t hurt.’ He took his hat off. ‘Evening, ladies.’

  The drover crouched down and gathered some sticks and struck a match, making a fire without asking. He took a billy from his saddle, filled it with water and set it in the middle of the flames. He rolled two cigarettes and gave one to Wirritjil. She tucked it quickly behind her ear. Emily let the branch drop. She watched the drover, his sure hands around the fire. She could make out the rifle on the side of his saddle and wondered how difficult it would be to unfasten it and whether it was loaded.

  ‘Sir, we do not need company.’

  ‘Ain’t no-one in miles. I rode south lookin’ for your men.’

  He threw tea leaves in the billy and took three enamel cups from his saddlebag.

  ‘Tea?’

  Emily sat in the shadow and drank the tea slowly. It tasted of campfire and kangaroo fat but it was hot and it was tea. She decided it was the best drink she had ever had. She stared at the drover; he was young and strong. He saw her gaze and returned it.

  ‘Looks like yer planning was a bit short.’

  ‘We had to move quickly.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Tribal problems.’ Emily looked over the top of her cup.

  He pushed at the edge of the fire with the tip of his boot. ‘Why you?’

  ‘I am helping.’

  ‘You been educated well with that voice and all.’

  ‘Yes. England. At home.’

  A flame licked along the length of a stick. Above, a quoll with moist black eyes and a grey coat dotted with white peered from a tree branch just beyond the light of the fire. Wirritjil gazed up at him and he scampered down, scurrying over the ground with only the soft crack of a twig and the flutter of a leaf to tell on him. In the bush, curlews hunting for moths called in long high-pitched screams that faded and began again.

  The drover’s eyes gleamed in the firelight. ‘Where yer riding to?’

  Emily put her cup down slowly, smoothing a spot for it on the ground. ‘We want to get to that river, the big one. There are men riding from there now to meet us.’

  ‘Fitzroy.’

  ‘Yes. That is correct.’

  ‘You’re going the wrong way.’

  ‘Wrong way?’ Emily tried to make her question sound as if she thought he was crazy. He hardly seemed to notice.

  ‘Yep, the fastest way to the Fitzroy is south-west.’

  ‘We are not necessarily considering the fastest way.’

  ‘It is the easiest way.’ He nodded towards Wirritjil. ‘She might be out of her country now.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Emily thought hard. Why hadn’t she worked this out, the details of where they were going?

  ‘We go slowly to Fitzroy Crossing, our party will join us, maybe tonight, tomorrow.’ Her voice was thin and high; she cleared her throat. ‘From there we will travel to Broome.’

  ‘Long way.’

  ‘Yes. Then all the legal and administrative requirements will be sorted out.’

  ‘Administrative requirements?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The drover stood up and put his hat on. He stepped back from the fire and looked into it and then intently at Wirritjil, at Emily and at the horses shadowy behind them.

  ‘Well, some story.’ He went to his horse, towards his saddle and his rifle. Emily crouched and gripped a rock, ready to spring.

  The drover reached into his saddlebags and came back with two pairs of trousers and a shirt. ‘This ain’t much. Stole ’em from the cook’s wagon.’

  Emily let the rock fall. The drover handed her a billy and a leather bag for water. ‘Maybe you can’t carry too much more.’ He gave them a handful of thick dried beef strips, a blanket and a light rope. He looked at Emily’s feet. ‘Pret
ty fine feet, there. This is all I could scrounge.’ He put two squares of leather and some string next to the other supplies.

  Emily felt tears rising. She didn’t want to cry. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Okay. Well thanks for the conversation. I wish you goodnight.’

  Emily rose.

  ‘Please, don’t . . .’

  ‘I know.’ He hesitated. ‘I won’t tell. This one’ll look after you if you don’t do her wrong.’

  He felt around in his pocket and drew out a pouch of tobacco. He gave it to Wirritjil. ‘Good for trading—’ he whistled to the dog ‘—and smokin’.’

  ‘Wait. Mr Drover.’

  The stockman came back into the firelight. Emily felt his sudden stare from her face down to her hips and back to her breasts. He took a step towards her. Emily moved into the shadows. Wirritjil gripped her spear.

  ‘Name’s Jim.’

  There was silence. The fire crackled as a flame found a forgotten stick. Emily took a step forwards, her arms clasping her shoulders as if she were cold.

  ‘Mister Jim, do you have a quill and paper?’

  The drover shook his head. ‘I jes’ remember things.’

  Emily picked up the rock-hole stick and unwound the fabric from the end and straightened it out across one of the leather squares. With her eyes on the drover she came close to the light of the fire and crouched to balance the leather on her knee.

  ‘When you get somewhere, can you send a telegraph to my sister in England?’ She etched out Kathryn’s name and address with a burnt stick. ‘Tell her to meet us in Broome.’

  Jim Drover took the piece of torn dress smudged with blood and writing scrawled in charcoal. He stared at it. ‘Yer wanna come with me? I can protect yer to Wyndham. Be there in a week. The men, but, they ain’t seen women for a long while.’

  Emily glanced at Wirritjil, her hand was tight on her spear. The firelight showed the contours of her body, her smooth skin to her dappled shoulders. The drover followed Emily’s gaze.

  ‘I won’t do you no harm. I can say you are mine, but for her, no, I can’t say that.’

  He kept his eyes on Wirritjil and she curled herself almost into a ball with her head on her knees and her long fingers laced into her hair at the back of her neck.