Climate of Change (58 page)

The place is the vicinity of Alice Springs, January 1, 1901. On that day Australia achieved independence from England. That freedom, ironically, did not extend to the natives.

Rebel returned from her gathering of tubers and berries to find the family grim. “What happened?” she asked Craft as she set the roots to bake in the hot ashes of the fire he had made, fearing his answer.

“A white family has been killed. We got the news from a child sent by a neighbor clan.”

Rebel felt an ugly thrill of dread. “And they'll blame us. They always do.”

“And it will be a pretext to go on a rampage and wipe us all out,” he agreed grimly. “That's what they want. It could even be that one of them did it, to frame us.”

“We've got to act, fast,” she said. “We'll have to travel tonight, before they get organized.”

“Hero says they've already got men with guns guarding the road. We're trapped.”

“Then I'll have to go to George. You know what that means. I don't even know whether he'll be able to do anything. It has been only spot favors, before.”

“It's our only chance,” Craft said. “You'll have to beg.” All the Family knew about George and what he expected of Rebel. They let it be, because they needed what she garnered in that manner. It was really another kind of foraging. They lived far from the shore, but via the white man they sometimes obtained seafood like crabs, clams, and fish.

“It's not that he won't,” she said. “It's that I fear he can't. This may be too big.”

“Go now. Try. Our lives depend on it.”

“Tell Haven to take Harbinger tonight.”

“I already have.”

She looked sharply at her brother, but he wasn't smiling. He had known this was the only course. They all knew it. “Then I'm on my way.”

She paused only long enough to put on her clean skirt and blouse, clothing the whites required of any natives who entered their domains, and to brush her hair neat. Then she kissed Craft quickly and hurried away. She hadn't eaten, but that didn't matter, because George would feed her. She also did not take her sleeping blanket, because George lived in a house that had a bed, and she would share it with him. She preferred the ground by the fire, as they traveled from place to place within their range, but could accommodate.

She had first encountered George two years before. He was then a stripling of twenty, a decade younger than she and impressionable. She had been gathering in the field, and he had been painting a picture of it. He had asked her to pose for a picture, offering a precious bag of sugar
in exchange, and she, flattered, had agreed. She had kept her figure, but knew that age would inevitably make her fade, so this was a chance to be immortalized in her late prime. She was nude, as she normally was in summer, and saw that this aroused him, though he was too shy to make any advance. It was an effect she was pleased to have on him; it meant she still had her sex appeal.

The painting made her dynamic and beautiful, more so than she really was. George was a skilled artist who had fathomed her independent spirit and somehow captured it in paint. In the picture her hips were wider, her breasts firmer, and her eyes more piercing. She loved it. So she kissed him, and departed with the sugar, leaving him stunned.

Back with the Family, she related her encounter while they ate the baked opossum Keeper had speared. She learned that George was the son of an important person, the local governor. He was out of favor because all he wanted to do was paint pictures, instead of anything more productive. Because his family was wealthy he could get away with it, but he remained an embarrassment. They wanted him to get a trade, marry, and become a solid white citizen.

Several days later she had seen him again, painting a handsome tree. Rebel had not realized the tree was handsome until she saw his painting. He could fathom the inner spirit of a tree as he did that of a person, and render it on parchment. She smiled at him, and saw him melt. He was already smitten with her. She delighted again in having that effect on a young man. He was a White Settler, while she was just a tawny native girl, but in this respect she had power over him.

This time she proffered another kind of deal: language. She knew how to talk English, but also knew she was clumsy, with a strong “barbaric” accent. That made her an object of tacit ridicule when she had to interact with the white settlers. She wanted to do something about that.

She broached the matter directly. “Teach me to talk like an English Lady,” she said. “I will give you this.” She took his hand and set it on her bare breast.

George almost fainted, but soon enough the deal was made. She let
him feel her all over as he drilled her on correct British pronunciation. She was an apt student, and within a year she could talk his language as well as anyone could, and he knew her body as well as any stranger could. He never tired of refreshing his awareness of it, however.

When hands were no longer enough, she let him use his mouth, kissing her lips, breasts, and buttocks. His stiff desire was almost painful for her to witness, but she pretended not to notice. They had come to know each other about as well as a white and a native could, considering that any such association was frowned on by both sides. They were, in their fashion, friends. And of course he was in love with her, though he knew she was older, and married, as well as being native. Hopeless in three ways.

But she no longer needed his lessons, so the deal was over. George was desperate. She was, it seemed, the only woman he had this sort of relationship with, or even wanted it with, and he didn't want to give it up. He knew she didn't love him, but that she would honor any deal she made. “What do you want?” he asked. “Anything! Please!”

She considered. This was not a contact or an offer to be lightly dismissed, and she did like him personally. Thus it was that their relationship advanced to the next level. In exchange for useful tools and supplies, she gave him sex, guiding him gently through his initial nervous clumsiness. She realized that this was a significant part of his attraction to her: she never misunderstood him, made fun of him, or denied him. He could do anything with her, and she accepted and encouraged it with grace in a manner she knew a white woman would not. She was not at all wary of an erect penis, or dismissive of one that was less turgid following orgasm. She did not protest when he buried his face in her cleft, sucked on her nipples, or poked his finger into her rectum. None of her orifices were forbidden to his exploration or possession.

He reveled in it, and she liked it well enough. He was so eager, so enthusiastic, so teachable. He soon learned how to arouse her, to make her climax by using his tongue, which was something her husband Harbinger seldom did. George was thrilled to make her react in this
manner, knowing she was not pretending; it shifted some of the interactive power to him and simulated the love he truly desired from her. As affairs went, this was very good.

What, then, of Harbinger? That was another aspect of a more complicated situation. Rebel was sterile, and could not give him children. She felt guilty. At first it had not bothered him; affected as men were by her appearance, he had insisted on marrying her anyway, though her sister Haven was really a better match for him. But as time passed it bothered him more. She knew she would have to leave him, to free him to marry Haven and have a family. But he refused to hear of it.

Thus, slowly, had developed the tacit compromise. Rebel went shopping for things the Family really needed, paying for it in the way she had. When she did, Haven went to him, giving him what Rebel was taking elsewhere. He knew it, and was not entirely easy with it, but they did need the items, especially the tools and food, as drought and restriction to the worst lands made them hungry. It was not as if Haven was a bad exchange. She was full-fleshed and accommodating, and she genuinely liked him and would have married him had he not preferred Rebel. He had always liked her too, and this gave him access to both of them. He never would have done it, had they not been desperate, but it had its compensations.

There was nothing like going chronically hungry to adjust attitudes, even those relating to sex and marriage. Both women were skilled foragers, using their digging sticks to get many kinds of tubers, and picking many nuts, fruits and collecting seeds. But the drought made the pickings increasingly slim, and they had to compromise.

Now Rebel reached George's house. She checked to be sure no one was in the area, then knocked lightly at the rear door. Surely by this time George's family had caught on that he had a woman, but this was permissible providing he was discreet. It was the way of British men, and to this extent George was conforming to the pattern expected of him.

He heard her and opened the door immediately. She stepped into his glad embrace. “Oh, Rebel! I missed you so!”

“It has been only three days,” she reminded him.

“I miss you when it's only three hours!” He kissed her hungrily.
“But why are you here? I wasn't expecting you until next week. I have no food.” For normally she came to him once a fortnight, giving him a good evening.

“I'll explain in a moment,” she said. She had decided that it would be better to handle the sex first, then discuss the problem when his mind was less distracted.

Soon she was naked and on his raised bed. The shorter time since their last connection did not seem to dampen his ardor at all. He licked her breasts and plunged into her, not trying to make her climax with him. It was a pattern they had discovered: his first exuberant effort warmed her up while taking off his desperate edge, and then the second or the third brought her to her own orgasm without stress. He loved all of it.

After he spent, and relaxed, and fetched her some of the white's bread and jam she liked, she broached it. “A white family has been killed. We didn't do it, but know we will be blamed. We'll be wiped out. Can you help?”

He was silent a moment, pondering. She knew why: if the Family got killed, she would be dead too, and he would have no lover anymore. He had strong personal motive to do something, if anything could be done.

“I must ask Father,” he said. “I must tell him of you. He can act, if he chooses to.”

“But does your father want to know about your connection to me?” she asked, sipping the ale he provided. It was strong stuff, making her dizzy, which was why she took it cautiously. She had to conduct business with a clear head. “I mean, surely he does know, but he wouldn't want it to be openly recognized. I'm native.” As if he didn't know. It was simply a reminder that there were cautions about letting this personal association be more widely known.

“It's not that, exactly. Lots of men have native mistresses. The–the girls don't make demands.”

And that was an advantage for a man, as well she understood. The native girls were compliant and obliging, knowing their place. Having no choice. “Unlike me,” she said with irony.

He choked. “I didn't mean it like that! I love you!”

“I'm teasing,” she said gently. “We have always understood the basis for our relationship.”

“No we haven't.”

She rained an eyebrow in the British manner she had learned. “Haven't?”

“I understand your basis,” he said doggedly. “You need things. You pay for them. I love the way you pay for them. You'll do anything I ask, and some things I wouldn't dare ask, and some things I wouldn't even know to ask. You seem to exist to give me pleasure. Which is why I'm so thrilled when I somehow manage to give
you
pleasure. That gives me more joy than anything else. But you don't understand my basis.”

He was evidently talking about something other than sex. This could be mischief. “And what is yours?”

“I want to marry you.”

Mischief indeed. “George—”

“I know, I know! You're older, you're married, you're native. I don't care about any of that. You're the only woman I can relate to with comfort. I love you and I want to marry you.”

“There is one more thing,” she reminded him gently. “I'm barren.”

“Yes. So you can be with me with no risk. I bless your barrenness.”

This was new. She had assumed that he never thought about pregnancy or babies. Most men didn't, with mistresses. “So even if I were British and single and your age, I would not be suitable for you in that manner. Your family would never let you marry me.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“I am not sure I understand.”

“It's political. We just got our independence. Australia is now a Commonwealth nation, instead of a Territory. We'll be running our own affairs.”

“Affairs,” she agreed, smiling.

“I mean politically. It's not the same.”

She kissed him. “I was teasing again. I know the language, thanks to you. But how does that relate to you and me? We remain in opposite camps.”