Power of Pinjarra Page 4

  The battle ebbed. Calm prevailed. All animosities had been dealt with, all wrongs expunged. Finally the trading could begin, with pure, unsullied amity and good faith.

  Again the sides lined up, each man with his trade goods at his feet. A very old man in the aunt’s moiety stood amid several lethal-looking clubs and non-returning boomerangs. Indirri’s people offered cunningly made spear throwers, piti bowls, and dilly bags in exchange. The Storyteller clustered little bags of pituri around his feet; he was known far and wide for the high quality of his medicine. Mungkala’s great-uncle had pearl shell from up north; the other group did not. Ah, but the other side brought out several big round cakes of ground red ocher. Indirri’s mother had been complaining bitterly that the last of her ocher was gone.

  “I wish, please, a bag of pituri,” called one of the other men. Storyteller threw his choicest bag across to the fellow. Because he had given, Storyteller now had the right of request. “I wish, please, that fine kanilpya there.” It was thrown to him.

  The former owner of the kanilpya bowl now had the right of request. And so it went, back and forth, as the summer sun climbed higher and ever hotter. Goods seemed to fly from side to side willy-nilly; sometimes the same item returned to its original owner more than once as the other side bartered for a better exchange. And yet there was a grand order to it all. By the time trading was over, hardly any man possessed anything with which he had begun.

  And, courtesy of Uncle, Mother had her red ocher.

  The excitement was over. The two clans would drift apart now, the aunt’s moiety to the northwest on the next leg of its trading expedition, and Indirri’s clan…

  …to war. He still couldn’t believe it.

  ****

  Through the next full moon the clan moved along an unfamiliar route as the women and children stayed within sight of each other, and the men and young men kept watch on the periphery. The men did less hunting now, more patrolling. A man’s most pressing responsibility is to protect the women, and they were entering dangerous territory.

  Indirri had never seen this country before, although he did his best to memorize the subtle changes in this nearly faceless plain that would show him the way next time he passed. The lines the Storyteller had drawn in the dirt that morning came to life in this land, which had features uniquely its own.

  They passed within sight of a whitefeller’s camp, its tin roofs glowing like the sun. They passed within a mile of a flock of sheep. Indirri knew better than to go near them, let alone to spear them; whitefellers were extremely possessive about their animals. The clan crossed a strange see-through wall made out of a mesh of thin, stiff metal cord. It stretched for miles in both directions; Storyteller called it by its whitefeller name, “fence.” Indirri could not imagine how many lubras it would take to weave all those miles of metal mesh.

  By the second new moon they were deep within Iningai territory, but it looked deserted. Indirri saw plenty signs of whitefeller, and plenty of sheep, horse and cattle tracks. On one occasion he encountered the trace of huge padded feet with ungainly toes. Camels. More whitefeller animals. But where were the blackfellers?

  Again the men clustered around a late-night fire, heads together. Indirri and Mungkala, along with the two boys of ten wets, patrolled the perimeters of camp, for they could take no chances. Iningai were a mighty people—wherever they were. Indirri was very good at smelling danger—better than Mungkala, though not as perceptive as his uncle. Neither he nor his uncle sensed fear or danger in this territory. All he could smell was nothing. Emptiness.

  The next morning Indirri’s uncle made a general announcement. “Our enemies are gone, and their women with them. No sign, no tracks—very bad. Some have said go back to the land we know. Others have said we must not quit. They want to continue to seek out our enemies, to persist. They say if these people are as few as it seems, we might all consent to join together, their young and our young. No raiding. No warfare.

  “And some have said stay here. This land has better hunting than ours; the grass is rich. Look at how much our women and children gather without roaming widely. The signs of seasons are true here just as they are back home. We can use everything we already know, but we will eat better.”

  Three options from only four initiated men. Indirri got a strong feeling that no one had any clear notion of what to do next. What was the big thing about young women anyway? True, the clan would not survive without children. But surely child-bearing women were not so scarce but that with a little concerted effort they could raise the birth rate. Either the initiated men were so impatient for the excitement of a raid that they would not be put off, or there was something about this situation Indirri was not aware of.

  A flight of doves steered them in the direction of a water hole, and a helix of spiraling eagle-hawks told them a dead animal lay to the southeast. The women hefted their dilly bags and digging sticks. Indirri gathered up his spear, spear thrower and boomerang. They were on their way.

  The water was a muddy little billabong in a side channel, which provided enough water for the day, and some to spare. They weren’t so lucky at finding food, however. The dead animal was a whitefeller’s cow, so they gave the carcass a wide berth. No matter how bloated and sun-rotted it might be, any whitefellers catching them near the carcass would assume they had speared it. Blackfellers had been shot for less.

  Indirri lagged behind at the tail end, thinking about his initiation. It would be soon. Although he did not in the least relish the thought of all the scars, or the circumcision, or the pain that was associated with the process, he would submit because he wanted the power that came with it. Power to dream, to help determine the clan’s movements and future. Power and wisdom to absorb the clan’s past and to deliver that past to other generations. The stories he had heard already were only the barest surface of the dreaming, like an echidna burrowed in the dirt—a few of its prickly spines sticking out to be seen and felt, leaving most of the animal still hidden underground. The Storyteller had told him of the few visible spines. But the heart and soul of the dreaming were buried yet; only venturing into manhood would allow him to dig them out, to capture the magnificent whole of it. A thousand generations of wisdom waited for Indirri, waited for him to become fully a man at last.

  The clan paused on the edge of a thicket while the men read the ground ahead carefully. The earth told of plenty of whitefellers and their animals, but no blackfellers at all. Cautiously they moved out into the brilliant vastness of a broad, treeless plain. Indirri would have preferred that they stay near the shelter of the brigalow thickets, but the roots the women wanted grew out in the open. Besides, nobody cared what Indirri preferred. He had no voice yet.

  A whistle, urgently high-pitched, suddenly shook Indirri from his reverie. Danger. Dropping low, he skittered in closer toward the women and children. He knew exactly where they were, though they had disappeared from view, hiding flat in the rough grass and bush. He flattened himself, attuning ears and nose to the faint breeze.

  Horses approached at a rapid clip; Indirri could feel the vibrations and hear the hooves. A male whitefeller voice in the distance called thairthayahr. A gunshot made every nerve and muscle in Indirri’s body leap. Another. His mother screamed and he recklessly raised his head.

  One of the whitefellers had Mungkala’s sister by the hair. He raised a weapon in his hand and struck her head. She melted, hung lifeless, and he dropped her. At the far rear, Mungkala came running forward shrieking. He paused and arched, his spear poised beside his ear.

  Foolish Mungkala! He was much too far away, his quarry well beyond spear range. But the whitefellers did not know that—and did not care. From the horse nearest Indirri, a whitefeller swung his gun weapon toward Mungkala; it roared and spit smoke. Mungkala jerked, his body lifted into the air before it slammed backward into the grass. His spear and spear thrower dropped out of sight, useless, beside him.

  One of the whitefeller horsemen had found Indirri’s moth
er. He pointed his weapon at her. It was a short weapon, less than the length of a man’s forearm, but Indirri knew it was as deadly as the longer ones he had seen. Never in his life had Indirri felt so helpless; he should be on his feet now, protecting his mother. But if he stood up, they’d kill him as they had killed Mungkala; he was too far away to hit them with a spear, too close to avoid being hit by their gun weapons. What could he do? He must do something!

  In a flash the Storyteller materialized, popping out of nowhere less than four spear lengths beyond Indirri’s mother. Instantly the Storyteller’s spear drove true and straight through the middle of the whitefeller who would dare shoot a lubra. Not even Indirri’s eye could follow the action, so swift and sure was the old sage.

  The murderous whitefellers cloaked themselves in a blue-gray cloud of deafening noise. Indirri flattened his head against the ground and waited, horrified.

  In a blaze of thunder and smoke, the whitefellers snuffed out a thousand generations of wisdom.

  Lying still as a stone on the ground, Indirri struggled to keep his wits about him. He must not leap up too fast—not yet. With his head pressed against the ground, his ear told him precisely where each of the five horses was. These enemies were not yet close enough—he and his spear were as one, and he knew his weapon’s range and limitations.

  At the cost of his own life—there were too many gun weapons to defeat—Indirri would rise up and destroy the leader of these murderers. Obviously it was the big man who wore a vivid chest cover that seemed to glow in the sun. In Indirri’s mind’s eye, he planned every detail of his revenge. That bright chest cover might hold magical properties to protect him, so Indirri must drive his spear home just below it.

  Death hovered very close, yet he did not fear it. He was ready. Rage had driven all fear away.

  Four spear lengths was the farthest he could throw with enough strength and accuracy to ensure his revenge. He waited. The leader’s horse danced about, not ten spear lengths ahead. Nine. Seven. Soon. Six. Ready…Five…

  “Heeze blee dnbahd!” cried the leader. “Bahkdih thistyshin!” The horses were bolting, churning. They were leaving!

  Indirri lifted his head that his eyes might confirm what his ear had already told him. They were all in rapid retreat. One horse ran free and another carried two men—the man the Storyteller had speared and another who supported him. Ten spear lengths, then twenty, then more—and they were gone, far beyond range.

  Indirri called. Silence was his only answer. His mind as cold and black and numb as a winter night, he moved from here to there among the tufts of grass and the sun-dried weeds, to the places where his clansmen had hidden. First he found his mother. Dead. Uncle. Both boys. Mungkala’s sister. All gone.

  And then Indirri’s worst fears were confirmed. The Storyteller, his unseeing eyes still open, lay twisted on the ground where he had fallen. All his knowledge and love and humor gone back to where it had come from. No need now for Indirri to undertake the rites of manhood—the old man had taken his lore with him, and with him, Indirri’s future as an elder and sage.

  His clan had done nothing to whitefellers to deserve this. They had purposely avoided the whitefellers and their animals. In return, the whitefellers had stolen his birthright and stripped him of his future. And now they had destroyed everyone he loved.

  But wait…where was Mungkala? Like a kangaroo speared in the belly, Indirri plodded listlessly to where his friend had fallen. Mungkala was still alive, but his right arm was mutilated, his right side torn and bleeding. His blood, so much blood, soaked the ground. Probably Mungkala would die soon, like the others.

  Heavily he sat down at Mungkala’s side and drew his knees up. He crossed his arms over his knees to rest his churning head and stunned heart.

  In a few senseless moments, whitefellers had robbed him of everything, including the spiritual power he might have gained when he reached manhood. Now they had earned his undying hatred. Hatred has a power all its own.

  Chapter Four

  A Pack of Dingoes

  Ask city slickers what they think of when they hear the words outback, backblock, and squatter. They’ll probably say: crude, wild colonial boys, ruffians, unpolished. They’ll tell you how unrefined anyone is who lives out back of beyond.

  But they’ll be wrong.

  There stood Marty’s mum, glowing just a little bit pink, mildly embarrassed but pleased by all the attention. She looked elegant in the latest wasp-waist style from Melbourne, her hair done up softly. And Pop! In his perfectly pressed wool serge suit and tie, he looked as grand as any Sydney banker. He stood beside his lady with a regal air—proud, quiet, gentle.

  Ross Sheldon was wearing that brocade waistcoat with the gold thread embroidery, so you knew he considered the occasion momentous. He raised his glass. “To the newlyweds of a quarter century. Frobel, twenty-five years with one woman says something for you. Says even more for her. Our congratulations.”

  A pubful of celebrants hoisted glasses and cheered boisterously. Acknowledging the toast, Pop raised his glass. “I spent the best quarter century of my life right here between the Barcoo and the Creek. Here’s to the lady who made it the best.”

  Mum’s cheeks blushed scarlet. She glanced nervously across the crowded room to Marty. From his perch on the upstairs bannister he grinned and waved.

  They were all right, these backblock people; Marty felt proud of them as they toasted his parents.

  “Ain’t right. Not right atall.” A small, thin, sour-looking man leaned against the staircase and scowled at the proceedings.

  “What’s not right?” Marty thought the fellow might be one of Sheldon’s drovers, but he wasn’t certain.

  “Hosie been dead less’n a week and look at these people. Supposed to be Hosie’s mates, and they’re carrying on like it’s Christmas. Like nothing ever happened.”

  “Hosie. Oh—you mean Mr. Hosteen, the man who got killed when the aborigines attacked Mr. Sheldon’s party.”

  “Worse’n a pack of dingoes, them abos. Less’n animals.” He paused for a swill of grog. “Speared right through the middle, he was. Didn’t die till the next day, all tied up in a proper knot, he hurt so. Hideous way to pass in his marble, and here’s all his mates making merry. A week. Ain’t right.”

  What could he say? So Marty said nothing. He shuddered to think of all the times he rode out across the paddocks alone, never suspecting that there might be the danger of an aboriginal attack. To think that a war party fell upon Mr. Sheldon’s group—in broad daylight! Scary.

  Beside him, Jase leaned on the bannister. “I’m going over to the railway station to see if I can pick up some casual work hauling. Come along?”

  Marty didn’t have to think about it for very long—he could hover on the edge of the crowd in this stuffy pub or make some quick money for himself driving someone’s wagon. “Yair, I guess.” He hopped down off the bannister and began jostling and shoving his way through the mob of pastoralists and drovers.

  Fresh air. Marty always forgot how much he hated crowds until he’d been in one for a short time.

  Jase jabbed his arm. “Over ’cross the street there; that Fowkes girl’s looking at you. What’s her name?”

  “Pearl. At least, that’s what Mr. Sealy says. Knows her father.”

  Jase cackled. “See ’er looking? She’s sweet on you, Cuz.”

  “Right.” Marty feigned indifference, but couldn’t resist a peek anyway. Jase was right. She was looking at him, and it gave him a funny feeling, like getting all queasy or just winning some big, important race.

  She was charming. Her golden hair was pulled back and up, the ends of it clustered in little ringlets beneath her hat. It was April, and the autumn sun was not nearly so intense; but she toyed with an opened parasol anyway, and sometimes even used it to shade her face. She was strolling north on Maple and Jase was kind of shoving Marty out into the intersection, so they all sort of drifted together.

  She dipped her head, very
ladylike. “Mr. Frobel. Mr. James.”

  “Miss Fowkes.” Marty tipped his hat. She continued north, and since Jase and he were going that way, Marty fell in beside her. “How’s your hand doing?”

  “All better, thank you. After all, that was a month ago.”

  “Yair. Time goes fast.”

  A heavy silence fell on the trio. Marty could talk easily with any of the drovers, but how did one make polite conversation—really polite conversation—the way this city girl was used to? Especially with one’s younger cousin tittering along beside you?

  “Getting settled in now, I trust?” There, that sounded cultured. Marty felt just a little smug.

  “Thank you, yes.”

  More silence. It was she who broke it this time. “My father went calling on the strikers’ camps yesterday, and so I went along.”

  “Hope your father told you to never go out there alone.”

  He must have, because she ignored the warning. “What an amazing place,” she said. “Hundreds and hundreds of tents. The union strikers’ tents are all ajumble and hodge-podge. But at the army camp, their tents are so very orderly. I suppose that says something about the men who live in them.”

  “The strikers set up a library in one of their hodge-podge tents. That says something about them, too, I think,” he replied.

  She stopped and studied him. “Your father’s a pastoralist—a stockman and station owner. The union’s his enemy. And here you’re speaking kind words about the shearers and their union.”

  “Not about the union. Just the shearers. Pop says the shearers aren’t a bad sort when you take ’em one by one. It’s when those outsiders talk union and get ’em all together, they’re trash. Look at the mess! Five hundred soldiers and all their officers and medical corps people, and the newspaper reporters from all over the colonies. And when we ought to be out in the paddocks tending to business, all the pastoralists have to be here in town trying to keep a lid on trouble and dealing with the shearers.