English passengers (9 page)

After that I went back to the boat and Ned till the time was right. We couldn’t have a fire, of course, and that night was cold. A while before first light I went off, going quiet, finding my way by the moon till I saw their fire. There must have been thirty of them, all sleeping close to the blaze as they could without getting burned, as if they were scared of what might come out of the dark. That gave me a chuckle. I crept round to the gin I’d seen before, and hauled her up by the arm. Well, she was trouble, that piece, yelling and biting like some raw animal, and getting the others after me, too. I was expecting that, mind, and when they got close I put a bullet through the nearest, which scared the rest nicely,
though it didn’t stop her from squirming and such. Even when Ned and me got her in the boat she was carrying on worse than ever, so I quite worried she might capsize us and spill our stores over the side. I said to Ned, ‘‘We ’ve got ourselves a right warrior here.’’ She was that bad, in fact, that when we finally got back to the island I wouldn’t have her in the cabin but fixed her with a chain outside, and even then she’d bite and scratch when I worked her. Ned wanted his turn but I told him no, as he’d not earned it.

Then I got a surprise. Just a few weeks later I found three barrels of the new flour were spoiled right through. That was trouble. We’d not last just on the rest, I knew, so I had to go back to George Town in the whaleboat to get my redress. Ned said he was feeling crook and stayed behind.

Bill Haskins moaned, which I knew he would, and said I must’ve let the flour get damp and that was why it had spoiled, which was never true. He did give me two barrels in the end, though, which was only part but was better than nothing and would be about enough to last us, I reckoned. What with other things that needed doing, and a night with that Lill at the inn besides—which was taking a risk, but I did it anyway— it was a ten days before I got back to the island.

I guessed something was wrong when I saw there was no smoke coming from the chimney. Sure enough, when I walked up to the cabin carrying one of the barrels of flour, what did I find lying just outside the door but Ned, with his trousers round his ankles and his head stove in like a bust pumpkin, the stone that had done it sat just nearby, all stained. He must have been there a time, as the birds had had themselves a good feed, especially his belly and face. The gin was gone of course and so was the small rowboat.

Well, it was no mystery to me what had happened. She’d tempted him. She’d learned a few words to speak, while I’d seen him watching her, and that silly sod Ned tempted easy as butter. Once she’d got him thirsting for her strong she must’ve witched him into opening up her lock and letting her free, and then, while he was busy getting his rewards, she’d have given him a tap with that stone. When I was putting him in the ground I saw his tackle had been got at nasty, which I reckoned was her rather than the birds.

D’you know I never could find that small rowboat. Three days I spent searching along the coast where she must have landed but there was never so much as a splinter. I reckoned she must’ve stove her in. Well, that did strike me as an unnecessary sort of act, and mean too.

This last seal season since has been a good one, mind, being as fine almost as I’ve known, so I’m hoping I might have enough skins to trade myself a new rowboat down at George Town. If there’s one to be had, that is. I never do feel safe with just the one boat, you see, in case of accident. Who knows, if the wind’s right I might even get myself another gin afterwards. She’d have to be less of the warrior this time, though.

O
NCE WHEN
I was small and always running hither and thither, and all the world was puzzles to confound, I got myself that little surprise. Even now that bugger does stir tenderest feelings deep inside my breast. Other fellows might lose their way after that ruination, never to find it after, but not me. I did endure. Then again, enduring always was my special skill.

That was in long-ago times, many summers past, before everything got changed, so it is hard to perceive that was just the same me as now. Why, I never even knew these words to speak then. But still I can recollect. Day I got my surprise was hot, blowflies were biting and everyone was stopped by a wide pool, shallow as your foot. Bigger children were splashing to be cool and stop the flies, and suddenly all I wanted was to get some of that splashing too. Into the pool I ran, fast like the wind. But below the water it was slippery, so my feet were skidding and down I fell, hard, with a grievous blow. Then, when I pulled myself up, feeling a sore knee, that hateful thing did occur.

Just there in the water, you see, all at once there was a stranger, and this stranger was like a monster. His face was almost ordinary but that just made him worse because his hair was so wrong. This was never the colour of hair at all, no, but pale like grass goes after hot days. His eyes stared at me. When I gave a start, the monster’s face rippled.

For a moment I thought the others might have got monsters too. But when I looked they just had themselves, upside down.

Mongana saw. ‘‘Freak,’’ he screamed. Mongana was my worst of all foes in those long-ago days. Mongana means blowfly and it was just so, as his best pleasure was stinging and biting. The little scut was two summers older and hated me ever since I could recollect, so his hatred was an always thing like wind in the trees. Often he would follow me, trying to trick me unawares with some kick or grievous blow, so I never went anywhere without a waddy stick to be ready. ‘‘D’you like what you see, freak?’’ he shouted. Then he splashed, and his splashing was as hating as his shout, and when the others splashed too I went away.

Later, when they’d left, I returned to the pool, just in case the monster was gone now. But when I walked into the water there he was still, staring up at me with those frightened eyes.

Of course the great mystery of those long-ago days was what in fuck happened to Mother and Father. Other children had theirs, unless they died, yet I had neither, nor even any distant recollection. When I asked I never got answers, but just angry looks and sometimes a grievous blow.

‘‘Never you mind,’’ Grandmother would say with eyes like cuts. Grandmother often was angry with me. She was my friend, my protector, my family, but though she was kindly, her kindness was always a little hating. It was just her way. It was she who gave me meat as we sat by the fire, popping it into my mouth with her long, bony fingers, but when she gave it she would scowl. ‘‘I don’t know why I bother feed you. You ’re nothing but trouble.’’ Likewise if we were all walking to some new place and I was crook, she was the one who kindly picked me up and carried me on her shoulders, but then she’d pinch my leg hard so it hurt. Sometimes I got so angry I hated her right back and would go off and sleep just by myself on the other side of the fire. But she was my family, so in the end I always did return. When I came back she wouldn’t say a word but gave me food just like before.

Of course now, all these years later, I know why Grandmother was hating in her kindness. I don’t blame her none, either. Why in scut not,
Grandmother? I might ponder. But when you’re just small you never question the why of things. You just swallow them like air.

‘‘Forget Mother,’’ she said, when I provoked her with my asking, which I did often, as I never was one to give up a thing when I had begun. ‘‘She’s gone and that’s all.’’ This was everything I ever could get from her.

But of course I wouldn’t forget. I asked Tartoyen.

Now, Tartoyen was almost more my friend than Grandmother, though he was not my family. He had no sons, just daughters, and I did divine that was why even then. Tartoyen was a little fat and had lazy eyes, but he was clever and hardly got wrathful at all except when he was feeling crook, so everyone listened to what he said, and did it too, usually. He never grumbled that I was some little scut and just trouble, like Grandmother did. Sometimes he taught me new things, which was tidings of joy. Best of all, if he caught Mongana and other enemies trying to wound me with some grievous blow he would strike them down. But even Tartoyen got strange when I asked about Mother. His face would change, like he saw black rain clouds coming.

‘‘She went away across the sea,’’ was all he’d say, and he wouldn’t look me in my face like usual but turned his head away. It was even worse if I asked about Father. Then his eyes would go narrow. ‘‘You don’t have any father. You never did. Now stop bothering me with these things. Your mother’s dead. If she was alive she’d come back.’’

Still I never did believe him quite. I did and I didn’t, both at the same time. When we were stopped by the shore I would look out at the big noisy waves and dream Mother walking out of them. She was tall and fine and better than any mother those others had. In her hand she’d carry a rush basket filled with strange food from wherever she’d been across the sea—muttonfish big like stones, but sweet like honey, and roots blue as the sea—and she’d give these all to me, smiling in some tenderest way like Grandmother never did. Sometimes she’d bring Father with her but I never could see him well. That’s a thing with dreaming. Sometimes your dreams are confounding and won’t do what you want, even though they’re yours. I did try hard but I could never make Father have arms or legs, so he just seemed to hang above the water, like a kind of cloud with a face.

If there was one enemy of my dreamings it was that little scut Mon-gana and his mother, whose name was Pagerly, as they would do anything to give me hardship. Pagerly would try and turn others against me by telling piss-poor falsehoods, saying I struck their babies with grievous blows when they weren’t watching, or that I cursed them secretly and this was why they got crook. If I heard her saying such heinous stuff then I’d shout, loud as I could, that she was just some lying scut and they shouldn’t listen. Mostly they knew I was right, but only mostly, and I could see they never believed me all the way through into their deepest breasts. Sometimes I could feel their eyes on me, wondering.

Mongana was almost worse. He would say any poisoning thing just to cause me woe and spoil my dreamings. ‘‘Where’s your mother, freak? Don’t you know? I’ll tell you. When she saw how ugly you were she tried to kill you and then she ran away to die.’’

‘‘That’s not true. She went away across the sea. Tartoyen said so.’’

But Mongana was hateful and his favourite game was to drop words in your ear like poison ants’ eggs. ‘‘Tartoyen just says that so you won’t cry.’’

Afterwards I tried to drown those words, like pissing on fire, but they would hatch and I felt their bites. When I sat by the sea and tried to dream Mother and Father it would go all wrong. Yes, she would step from the waves all tall and fine like before, but then she wouldn’t smile at me at all, but would walk right past with a face like stone, as if she didn’t want to know me now. That was hateful.

But time passed, and I did endure. As I told, enduring always was my special skill. I endured Mongana and on lucky days I even got the scut with some grievous blow. Why, with time I even thought less often about that mystery of what happened to Mother and Father.

Sometimes we stayed in some place and sometimes we walked again, hither and thither. In hot days we were in the bush and Tartoyen and the others hunted game, which we cooked on the fire. When cool winds came and bush was getting just ice and snow and so we went by the sea with its huge waves and noise, and we built huts lined with tea tree bark, where we’d stay warm, and we’d eat muttonfish or sometimes seal if we got one.

Little by little I began to recollect places where we went, till I knew those hills and mountains and even where the world stopped. Slowly slowly I could solve some of those puzzles to confound. Tartoyen took us to that valley in the hills where red ochre was and he showed me how he put it in his hair to make it so beautiful. He taught me how to know what weather was coming next, just from that hazy ring round the moon, or from the shape of clouds, and his ways were so clever he hardly ever was wrong. He showed me how to make spears sharp with fire and my teeth—so sharp they’d almost catch in rock—and how to throw them too, though I was still too small to throw them far. I learned how to follow animals from the marks they left, and to know which tree possum climbed by the scratch he left on the bark with his claws. And I learned about KANUNNAH, who was ugly and heinous with his long hanging head and stripes on his back, and who was our hated foe. Kanunnah would kill you if you did not spear him first and most of all he liked to eat children. Quite often we saw kanunnah though he ran away when he saw we were so many.

Also I learned of WRAGGEOWRAPPER, who was ugly and tall and came in the darkness sometimes, fast like the wind, and shrieked like trees creaking. Wraggeowrapper would stare at us when we slept and was a most grievous foe because you never could see him. He would make men go mad if he caught them at night away from the fire, but we were too clever and stayed near. When we sat so in the dark, after our eating, Tartoyen told us stories—secret stories that I will not say even now—about the moon and sun, and how everyone got made, from men and wallaby to seal and kangaroo rat and so. Also he told who was in those rocks and mountains and stars, and how they went there. Until, by and by, I could hear stories as we walked across the world, and divine how it got so, till I knew world as if he was some family fellow of mine.

Sometimes we met TARKINER, who were southwards of the world. Tarkiner were almost friends, and three women of ours came from them, though some words they spoke were strange, and they did things that were just piss-poor foolish, like getting fearful if we put mut-tonfish in the fire to cook, as they said this would make the rains come, which it never would. If we met them at the edge of the world we would
stop sometimes and tell any news, and in the night we would camp together and stay awake late to see who was best at dances, Tarkiner or us, though it was always us.

Also there were ROINGIN, who were northwards and were our foes. They always were this ever since anyone could remember, being heinous scuts who couldn’t be trusted if you turned your back just to piss against a tree. Tartoyen told us stories of old wars with Roingin and how they never did win except by low cheating. Even lately there was some battle, where Gonar’s uncle got speared in his leg, one of theirs too, and some others speared too, though I was too small to recollect this. Mostly we kept away from that end of the world and when we went near we spoke little and went carefully. We never were scared of Roingin, of course, as they were only cowards, but they were more than us, as Roingin were famous for being many. Once when we were at the edge of the world I saw them, that whole mob, plenty of them, sitting by the sea eating muttonfish, which was interesting. They saw us too, of course, but they pretended they never did, while Tartoyen made everybody stay quiet and so we went away without any war that time. Afterwards Gonar said we were foolish not to fight Roingin and spear them dead, as Gonar did love fighting better than everything, being angry like some fight got inside him and wouldn’t let him rest. But others knew Tartoyen was right, as Roingin were so many.