Tears of the Moon (13 page)

They hailed Tyndall as the dinghy came to rest on the beach. Speaking in Malay and a local pidgin Aboriginal language, he greeted his friends.

After stumbling upon this place two years before, Tyndall had returned annually and learned much from the visitors and local tribespeople. It had also proved a valuable bartering situation. He brought fresh food, rice, flour, sugar, jams, fishing gear, kerosene and small boat gear which he exchanged for dried turtle and shell along with some trepang that he sold to the Chinese in the towns along the coast and in Fremantle on trading trips.

Tyndall realised that the present peaceful co-existence of these two disparate communities and their trade alliance had developed through patient understanding of each others’ customs and etiquette.
He had heard stories of occasional hostilities resulting from the theft of coveted items, disagreements over women or some breach of custom that warranted reprisal. But for centuries it had been largely a peaceful and mutually beneficial arrangement, ritualised with obligation and traditional behavioural patterns understood and reciprocated.

Once, on a trip inland with a group, Tyndall had been shown ancient rock paintings of these encounters on the coast which had passed into Dreaming stories and the fabric of their oral history in song and dance.

Tyndall joined the men at the fire and they swapped news. Later would come the exchange of gifts and that evening ‘good food’ would be prepared and possibly some of the Macassans’ liquor shared.

They talked, too, of barter and one of the Aboriginal elders asked Tyndall if he had brought a much desired new long-handled axe. Tyndall told the old man that he had indeed brought the axe and, what’s more, a special stone for keeping it sharp. There was a nod of gratification from the old man who immediately launched into a long discussion with other Aborigines that Tyndall had trouble following, but it was connected with some future walkabout into the back country. Tyndall waited until he had nearly finished a mug of tea before turning the conversation back to the axe and payment.

To his surprise the Aboriginal elder pointed to Tyndall’s pearl earring, gestured with cupped hands and pointed south. From his adequate grasp of the language, Tyndall was quickly able to gather that
payment was to be the opportunity to harvest some mother-of-pearl and perhaps find a pearl or two at a spot only known to the tribe. The offer pleased Tyndall as much as it surprised him. The roll of the dice, he thought, might just be going my way.

Tyndall went back to the beach where his dinghy was anchored and without having called for him, Ahmed was suddenly at his side. Without a word they pushed the boat into the moonlit water and Ahmed took the oars. Ahmed had been in the camp of the Bugis men to hear news from the area he once called home. He had not been back since he was rescued by Tyndall two years ago from an uninhabited island in the Timor Sea. A cyclone had sunk the Broome pearling lugger Ahmed was working on and he had been the sole survivor. Ahmed believed Allah had sent Tyndall as his saviour and ever since had been his devoted and loyal offsider.

Good as their word, the following day several Aborigines set out with Tyndall and Ahmed in dugout canoes to travel down the coast to the place of the pearls. Ahmed and Tyndall were not as proficient paddling the canoe as the Aborigines were and they struggled to keep up. The bulky and crude dugouts slid down the coast, weaving between reefs and over sand bars until they came to where a swampy river emptied into the sea and mangroves shrouded the shoreline. They pulled into shore and the men settled themselves on the narrow strip of grey sand amidst the sprouting tips of roots and mangrove shoots. They explained the water had to leave and so they waited.

When at last the tide ebbed, the men took long sticks and began prodding and wiggling for shell with their feet.

Soon, amid whoops of laughter, they picked up fat shells, sealed tight and crusted with a covering of slimy growth and miniature crustaceans. Ahmed and Tyndall prised the shell halves apart to reveal the meat and muscle lying in the iridescent shell. Before long three shells had yielded small gleaming round pearls which Tyndall slipped into his pocket with great satisfaction. They worked through the day, piling the dugouts with unopened shells. Finally, as the tide rose, they pushed out and with the canoes low in the water paddled in the twilight back to the trepang island.

Tyndall was elated. Now he knew where the beds were he could make dry shell pearling a profitable sideline. What’s more, the Aborigines had told him there were other pearl beds further south and out to sea.

An idea began to form in Tyndall’s mind. Over the past twenty years pearling had become a highly lucrative activity despite periodic slumps in the world market for mother-of-pearl and disasters such as the cyclone that wiped out forty luggers and several hundred men. It was an industry pursued by wild risk takers who were fiercely competitive and secretive about the pearls they found. But if he had access to a rich source, aided by his friends’ local knowledge, and a partner with capital he could expand to make this a serious operation and challenge the existing pearling masters.

That night as he sat by the fire with Ahmed he couldn’t resist opening more shells while the trepangers went about their work, the fascination of mother–of–pearl and the lure of possible pearl finds had him hooked. He rolled the shining mooncoloured globules in his palm and said at last to Ahmed, ‘Friend, I’m thinking of becoming a pearler. We’ll start off dry shelling with the schooner but hopefully we’ll soon be able to get a new boat.’

Unfazed, Ahmed merely nodded. ‘We build a number one lugger, tuan.’

‘We’ll work out of Cossack to start with, but no one must know about this place. Soon enough we’ll make our way and head for Broome … I think this is the break that I’ve been looking for.’

‘It is fate, the time is right, tuan.’

Tyndall grinned at Ahmed’s devout Muslim belief that fate ruled their lives and that there was little either of them could do to alter what was preordained. His calm acceptance of the good and the bad that life threw at them sometimes irked Tyndall, but right now he, too, felt the gods were on his side.

CHAPTER SIX

C
onrad Hennessy did not think of himself as a brave man. To him bold and brave men tackled feats he could only marvel at from the safety of his hearthside armchair. They were reckless, even fool-hardy in their quest to conquer and achieve. Yet in his modest way he knew he had courage of heart and, while not flamboyant, was steadfast and diligent. He had never imagined that he would win a bride as sweet and plucky as Olivia. And now here he was, crashing through wild terrain in a strange and inhospitable country, in charge of two large horses dragging a small wagon through bush where only a wild animal track existed.

Many times he had had to stop and, with the axe, hack a path for the small wagon he had acquired in Cossack after two days of searching and negotiation. His natural caution was cast aside in his desperation to reach Olivia, who would have been expecting
him days ago. He tried not to think about the return journey with a pregnant wife and kept urging the horses forward, glad that he had bought bushwise and hardy animals. The journey on foot had been much further and rougher than it appeared on the basic map. From the brief conversations he had had in Cossack, he realised the north-west was very much more untamed than he’d imagined from afar. This might well offer opportunities to adventurers, the risk takers and brave men and women prepared to soldier through the hardships to establish a profitable new life, but he had hoped for a softer land, a little more order and more amenities. He hoped the land he had bought lived up to expectations and the favourable government report that had persuaded him to take this chance.

Deep in thought and trying to control the horses in the rough terrain, he didn’t notice the log and boulder which lay across their path. The vague track fell away into a small dip, screened by the undergrowth and thick scrub. One horse stumbled and rolled onto its side bringing down the other horse and wagon.

Conrad was thrown clear and lay momentarily stunned as a frantic horse, pinned by the wagon, tried to get to its feet. Conrad rescued one horse but had to shoot the other. The wagon was damaged but the wheels functioned and after unharnessing the dead horse, he used the other to drag the wagon upright. Feeling shaky and dispirited he travelled on more slowly after checking his compass.

For Olivia the time passed slowly but she was not lonely or dispirited. The Aboriginal women, usually with their children, came to see her several times a day. They ensured she had food and water and in return seemed more than happy simply to be able to share the delights of the baby whom they fussed over with lots of chatter and laughter.

Olivia was surprised at how fast her strength returned and one morning took the baby with a group of women working the tidal fish trap. She sat on the sand as they hunted the trapped fish, watching the sandpipers dancing on the wet sand and the gannets diving for fish. She found herself pondering the unity of the whole scene—every one, every thing getting food, a natural harmony that was so enchanting and yet she was also conscious that she, a white woman from another world, really wasn’t a meaningful part of it. She felt alien, but at the same time was aware of a yearning to belong. Nothing in her past experience had evoked such thoughts, and she mused on them while absently stroking her baby’s head.

The next day when the tide was low, Olivia left camp for the fish trap before the Aborigines arrived, leaving the baby asleep in a little canvas shelter. As she approached a large flock of gannets and several pelicans arrived and began noisily feasting on the trapped fish. Waving her hat wildly and shouting at the birds, Olivia began to run towards the trap, and several Aborigines burst out of the scrub and chased after her, laughing and shouting with delight.

At this moment, Conrad crested the rise of a sand
dune, and the spectacle of his beloved wife being pursued by natives waving their arms and spears and shouting was unbearably shocking. Surely he hadn’t arrived at this last moment to witness his wife’s murder! He lifted his rifle and fired.

However, the horse, slithering down the dune on its hindquarters, sent Conrad’s shot astray. As he saw ‘the black devils’ bolt for cover, Conrad was amazed to see Olivia turn and run towards him now waving her arms.

He heard her voice echoing faintly across the beach, ‘No! No, Conrad!’

Leaping from the wagon he ran to her, gathering her in his arms as she sobbed, ‘They are friends, Conrad—they have helped me.’

‘My dear, dear Olivia.’ He held her tightly, overcome with relief. When he stepped back from her, he realised she was wearing only her undergarments, camisole and petticoat, her feet were bare, her hair loose about her shoulders, and then it hit him, the bulge of her belly was gone. He reached out and soundlessly touched her, feeling the loose softness of her flesh, no tightness of skin over a body stretched wildly out of shape.

Olivia smiled tenderly, and took his hand. ‘It’s all right, Conrad, come with me.’

Excitedly she led him to her shelter as he mumbled at the nightmare the trip had been, how he’d feared for her safety, trying to grapple with the idea she had given birth. She pulled him down to his knees and, reaching inside the little tent, drew out the bark dish–like cradle in which the baby was
sleeping. She lifted the torn petticoat covering the infant.

‘We have a son, Conrad,’ she said gently.

He touched the baby’s cheek, loathe to disturb him. ‘But how did you manage my dear? Alone, here … oh it must have been dreadful.’