That Deadman Dance (12 page)

Isolated, Dr Keene cursed and walked like an angry duck all the way back to his hut.

Sniffling and sobbing, Bobby scratched his cheeks and struck his forehead so that blood and tears flowed together on his cheeks same as they did on Manit’s. The old woman, a moment ago so self-possessed and assured, fell to the ground with the force of her sobbing. And look at Dr Cross, crying too.

Menak made a space for Dr Cross beside the dead man’s feet. Tears streamed down Cross’s face. Bobby was made to stay with the children and women, a little away from the men, but he could hear them, and some wanted to spear the fat man Keene, or one of the other white men. The fat man was to blame for this death, and since he wasn’t here … A man got up and grabbed his spear, but Menak pointed to Cross, crying among them.

The men carried the body to bury, arguing about who to spear, who to blame for this death. Bobby heard Menak again protecting Dr Cross and his friend. They tried to help, he said.

And then Bobby touched the dead man, and the dead man sat up. He came alive and got to his feet, saying how very tired he was, and went to his woman. Her hair was wet with blood and her face smeared with tears and he took her hands in his.

Menak cried out because where the dead man had been there was a little boy, Bobby Wabalanginy. And now he seemed like the one who was dead. But as Menak and Dr Cross touched him he sat up like a sleepwalker, and the two men lifted the boy as they rose to their feet together, and Bobby Wabalanginy climbed until he was standing on their shoulders with a hand in each of theirs. All the people at the camp moved into two lines and joined their voices together and raised their eyes to Bobby as he went between them.

He was very spirity, Bobby Wabalanginy, even in these years before he reached adolescence.

Spears and Guns

Mr Killam—already he was calling himself Mr, looking to the day when he was out of uniform—lowered his head over the records, making sure everything was in order. He was careful to secrete away only a little of the stores at a time. Some rum had been put aside, of course; his fellow soldiers could never get enough of that. Salted beef, too. Ship’s biscuits, sugar and rice; the blacks like this stuff and he’d seen the good Doctor ingratiate himself with them by such means. It was more than a month now since he’d reported a theft, although of course no culprit had been found. He thought if he arranged it so that a couple of the prisoners escaped he could make it seem like they’d raided the storehouse before they’d scarpered.

Trouble was, the new storehouse, built by that fellow Skelly, was not as easy to get into as the last one. Killam didn’t want to ‘overlook’ locking it and then have his own competence questioned.

Tolja!

He looked up from his books. It was the chief of the blacks, but dressed up like he thought he was one of us.

Bikket.

They’re taking us for granted, Killam thought. As if we are only here to keep them fed with ship’s biscuit, rice and sugar. He shook his head, No, and walking out of the storeroom closed the door behind him. The two men stood very close, face to face. Killam was glad of his height. He smiled, wanting to appear relaxed. The black was smiling right back at him.

Killam looked to the ground; it helped somehow to see those bare feet. He turned around and, chaining the storehouse, stepped away. Friendly like, he motioned to the door. If you can open the door, you can have some biscuit. Some bikket.

It amused him to watch the savage pull the door and have the chain stop it. Next, predictably enough, he tried to reach through the small gap, but to no avail. Mr Killam had his measure. Menak—that was the blackfellow’s name, one of the Doctor’s favourites—stepped back and, after studying the door for a few moments, gripped each side and lifted it clear of its hinges.

Damn. Killam should have realised. He went to pull Menak away, but one or two steps from the door which now rested in the frame, the man placed a hand firmly on Killam’s chest. Well, his orders were to avoid conflict wherever possible … Killam stood back. Let him do what he will.

Since the door was still chained, Menak opened it from the hinge side and the chain itself became a sort of primitive (well, of course it had to be in such hands) hinge. Yes, it was just as well they didn’t all carry weapons because otherwise Killam might’ve shot this rogue in the chest right there and then and blasted him to kingdom come or wherever it was they went. But no, Killam kept his head and since he knew everything was packed away in chests—save for some biscuits that were too weevil-ridden to inflict upon even the prisoners—he offered some of these to Menak. As (still smiling) he opened the box, that boy everyone had once thought dead ran into the settlement with some women, all of them angry and yelling and obviously agitated. In a moment they were gone, and Menak with them.

Killam turned from the vexatious problem of his door and saw the Doctor following the natives’ path.

Curiosity, eh? Well, everyone knows where that leads.

*

Young and still weak, Bobby drifted along behind the others. It sometimes felt as if he moved in water. His heavy limbs, see? Blurred vision and the pulse pounding in his ears, and yet—like coming to the surface, like having come through the membrane between one world and another—there were these startling moments of clarity.

Spears were proper flying. Most of the men had a woman beside them picking up fallen spears, and they had to be just as alert. Bobby loved this sort of thing: the dancing and dodging more than the throwing, and the throwing of insults more than spears. And the women were best at this. He was excited at old Manit’s voice, at what she shrieked from among the kangaroo-skin cloaks her young men had cast off so they could move more freely.

It was that topside mob again, coming south to the coast. Another one of them musta died, and they reckoned it was our fault. Why they gotta come here making trouble? Menak had claimed he knew most of them, and they were almost as bad off as his own family with so many dying from the coughing and scratching that soon there might not be enough left to collect as well as throw the spears.

Spears whispered through the air, cutting to and fro, and voices called their exultation. Another miss; oh the excitement of it all. Wooral seemed almost motionless in the flurry of spears and arms, he swayed slightly to avoid a spear yet scarcely seemed to notice it, and then launched one of his own, and his spear-thrower seemed an organic extension of his arm.

Someone went down with Menak’s spear in their thigh and it was like a storm settling, the wind and sea dying down. Menak’s touch yet again, his power, see? Blame was not to be found here. The wounded man lay while his family snapped the spear off, casting resentful glances at Menak and the people around him. They dawdled away muttering, not quite enemies, the lame one half-carried, half-leaning on his brothers.

They would be back, and if not them then one of the other families surrounding them here, this womb of their home. And Menak wondered again if it was wise to allow these other strangers to remain so long, these pale horizon people. True, they chose to camp where Menak or anyone else would not—beside the water in the coldest winds and yet where the sun does not reach until late morning. The water is deepest there, too, but a poor place for spearing fish. They had been there a long time, with the air in their huts growing stale, their food old, and shit spilling from the ground around them. These men, from the ocean horizon or wherever it is they come, they do not leave even when the rains come and that wind blows across the water right into their camp. Yet they would have our women, Menak knows that. Perhaps when the whales and cold again return, perhaps they will leave. Or offer a little more.

He had retrieved most of his spears. Their guns would be good. A fine skill, shooting. And only the quickest can dodge powder and ball. These pale horizon people will help us. Thinking aloud, he said as much to little Bobby.

Yes.

A name and memory

People talked about Bobby Wabalanginy, and not only his own people. Even Skelly knew of him, if not yet by name, and in truth Bobby did not yet have the name he would come to be known by. And Skelly, who knew his time was almost up and was nearly a ticket-of-leave man, had heard that a new colony had begun this side of the continent, somewhere further up the west coast at a place they were calling Cygnet River. He reckoned he’d go there if this place was abandoned. Not back to Sydney. Not back over the sea. Something must be built here. A village, and I at its centre. He occupied himself with such thoughts most evenings, wearing a mental path toward his dreams.

Skelly was at The Farm some days later, minding sheep. Killam was there as well, and that was alright to Skelly’s mind since Killam was the best of the soldiers, but sheep—and particularly shepherding—was not work he enjoyed or, in his own opinion, where he was most useful. Still, it was time alone. Killam said he’d best keep an eye out for the natives; he’d fired at some a few days previous because it was the only way to keep them clear of the stock and the garden. Fired over their heads like, and shouted to wave them away, as he was within his rights to do so, whatever the Doctor might say.

The sheep had more idea than Skelly where they wanted to graze—he just followed, his main aim to ensure he was back by day’s end. Just before the plain began to slope there was a wide expanse covered with holes. Must be them digging for roots, Skelly realised, and so close to our own vegetables, too. It was alright for Killam saying how he’d taken a shot and all, but what was Skelly to do? He didn’t have a gun. He’d not be going far, you could count on that.

He kept walking, though, since that lulled and stopped his thoughts tying themselves in knots the way they did until he got angry with himself and anyone crossing his path. The sheep did not move fast, there was plenty of grazing, and except for the middle hours of the day when, despite the season, he needed to rest in some shade, he spent the day plodding with them. Trying not to think.

Making his way back, not yet able to see The Farm but knowing he was close by the lay of the land, a spear landed in the ground beside him. He stopped. The spear swayed a little, but stayed upright. A dark wood, he noted, oiled and well handled. His heart leapt and raced. They don’t need to land no spear in me, my heart will just stop if any spear comes closer than that besides which I’ve had my quota of spearing. He thought to run. Glanced over his shoulder. A group of natives, all with spears at the ready, were some distance behind him. Not so far as he’d like. He looked ahead at the sheep, kept walking. His limp was worse.

A few steps later the black men were in his peripheral vision, on either side and no doubt behind him, too, but he was not turning to look. What was the point? He had no weapon to fight with and maybe they were the kind that didn’t take to spearing a man in his back. Those were very long spears. Not that he wanted to see them. He could hear the men talking to one another, hear their bubbling laughter. He stopped walking. Spears pointed at him from either side. Skelly faced ahead, not moving, only his eyeballs going rapidly side to side.

Then—it must’ve been the veering sheep that alerted him—there was the boy, the boy that came in with Wunyeran. He walked up to Skelly, talking, and took him by the hand, still talking. Skelly could make nothing of it. Did he hear names? Menak? Wunyeran. Swore he heard ‘Cross’. The boy led him away by the hand.

Dr Cross’s boy, he said, tapping a hand on his chest. We spear you, already,
kaya? Nitja baalapin waam.

But Skelly could not understand, could not speak. The sheep scattered again, suddenly startled. He saw a sheep fall slowly to the ground, its legs folding beneath and a spear waving from it like a mast in a stormy sea. He squeezed the boy’s hand. They kept walking.

Spear you already. Spear
ed
, Skelly realised. The boy knew he had been speared. Skelly saw the clearing and buildings of The Farm. Was it only he and the boy now? Yes? Skelly was striding out, trying not to run as the sheep scattered before him, but he did not let go of the boy’s hand; he held tight to that hand.

Why the boy had been in the vicinity and come to Skelly’s assistance was a constant source of conversation among the settlement’s population. Not that there was a shortage of subjects attracting attention. This business of Cygnet River, for instance.

Yes, Cross answered Sergeant Killam, who had interrupted Skelly’s account of how he’d been saved by the boy, Wabalanginy. Yes, Cross said, colonial headquarters for this side of the continent will be Cygnet River, not here. They are sending a party overland from Cygnet River, we should expect them in some days. No, he did not know what was to become of this place. He believed that people would be granted land here as at Cygnet River according to their capital. Investment is a measure of commitment, he said, why, at Cygnet River Mr Peel plans to …

Even Killam, so long away from the mother country, had heard of this name. He who has created law and order in London? he asked. Peel’s Bobbies?

No, not he, not him. But yes, Peel is the name behind those men of law and order. Those Bobbies.

The three men glanced at Bobby Wabalanginy, sitting by the fireplace.

Nevertheless, you are well informed, Sergeant Killam. But we have our own Bobby here, do we not?

Wabalanginy was the centre of their attention, then. He returned their look, wanted to know, Who these Bobbies over the ocean?

The name stuck from then. Bobby.

*

Menak suggested the boy Bobby stay with Cross for a time. Learn things from him and his friends. The one that died, he said, brother for me, he Uncle for this boy. You Uncle-friend too?
Babin
, we say.

Dr Cross had not seen his children since they were babies, but had his own ideas of what a youngster needed. The boy was quick to learn, fed himself and kept himself clean. Bobby Wabalanginy surprised Cross with how quickly he mastered things, not least the alphabet. They began with slate and chalk, and although Bobby soon proved himself adequate to quill pen, ink and parchment, Cross kept him to the slateboard. There was a shortage of paper so far from home. They sat outside his hut, usually in the morning sun. At other times they worked by the fire, although Cross’s eyes were not always good enough for such light.

Within a few months Wabalanginy spoke English better than Wunyeran ever had, and of course it was English he was learning to read and write, even though very early in their consideration of phonetics and letter patterns they tried to reproduce some of the sounds of his own language. But that is no easy task.

Even his name:

Wabarlungiyn?

Warbarlung-in-y?

Bobby.

Bobby could soon make out words even in Cross’s journal, but put them differently in his own hand. From trying to write his own language he used phonics.

A most intelajint kuriositee.

We haf taked ther land.

Deseez and depredashen make them few.

Not then quite fully understanding the meaning of the words he wrote.

No, laughing and loved, Bobby Wabalanginy never learned fear, least not until he was pretty well a grown man. He never really had no sense of a single self, because … Well, he was young and he was like a spear, thrown and quivering in the air and only the pointed tip, that very spirit of a spear, remains still.

Bobby never knew himself then as do we, rapidly moving backwards away from one another, falling back into ourselves from that moment when we were together, inseparable in our story and strong.

He was born, reborn, took on new shapes around the one spirit that need never fear an ending. Then that one name stuck.

As a much older man on the harbour shore, Bobby Wabalanginy sometimes wore a policeman’s hat—a bobby’s hat. It took him some time to get hold of such a thing; not until the first steam ship slunk into the harbour in the dark of early morning and moved across the still water, clunking and groaning enough to terrify people. Bobby made a trade with a retired policeman onboard: a boomerang for his hat.

Tourists smiled at the hat perched above Bobby’s white-ochred face as they disembarked, and in his performances he would sometimes bend at the knees so that the returning boomerang knocked the hat clean off his head. Oops, he’d say, grinning.
Kerl kaart baaminy.
And then stand there twitching and looking around as if another flaming boomerang might come out of nowhere. Like a fool, perhaps, but all eyes were on him, and he was in command.

And although he was a clown—perhaps
because
he was such a light-hearted, laughing fellow—he could sometimes take his audience and turn their mouths down, furrow their brows and squeeze their hearts until tears welled. But it was never good business to stray too far from laughter.

He talked with the tourists, grateful for their ears. Staring down their smiles, he told of himself and other pioneers of those who were once his friends and though at the time he did not understand them or know their thoughts, he does now. He understands them now.

I was raised to be proud and to be friendly, he says. My family thought we could be friends and share what we had.

After the tourists, after the ships—some with sails, some driven by steam and almost spouting like a whale—old Bobby goes to his little humpy on the hill to the west of the valley in which the town sits. His women and children have gone away, and he has no real friend or family in the white man’s camp beside the sea to welcome him. Only tourists. He can only talk. On a bad day he grabs people, insisting they understand what he is saying, but they look at him and do not.

Once upon a time he danced and sang for people, but that was no good, and talk is less. He sits in camp and talks in his head (since no one understands him anyway) of long ago when he first saw the big boats up close, and had hardly seen such a boat before … But now there are too many of them … He looks all around. So many things have gone.

Women no longer see an old man like him.

He has a language for the real story inside him, but it is as if a strong wind whips those words away as soon as they leave his mouth. People say he twists words, but really it is the wind twisting and taking his words away to who knows who will hear them.

Too many people in this camp and this town should not be here.

Once he was a whale and men from all points of the ocean horizon lured him close and chased and speared and would not let him rest until (blood clotting his heart) Bobby led them to the ones he loved, and soon he was the only one swimming.

After a time of darkness with only heartbeat and humming in his ears, there came light and bubbles, and then he walked across beach sand and among wattle and peppermint trees. Barefoot, he breathed the air and opened his eyes properly. There were no more of his people and no more kangaroo and emu and no more vegetable. After the white man’s big fires and guns and greed there was nothing.

Old Bobby sits and shivers; he and summer wait for one another.

One day, flesh and bones folded in dark wool and warming in the sunshine, old Bobby looks up to see he has visitors. Has to blink, blink, look again. White folk come to see him? Oh, the grown daughter and son of Jak Tar and Binyan! Sent by their mother.

They ask is he well? Looking around at this place where he lives they say, How might we help you?

Bobby finds himself telling of when he was a young boy on lookout, scribbling not what had happened but what will. Why, he still has the old oilskin-covered journal in his hut. He and the grandchildren of Binyan and Jak Tar turn the yellowed pages and study the faint lines of ink. There is nothing of how he sang and danced on a whale’s back as the inside of the sea spilled all around him. Nothing of the people he had known, nothing of what they were seeing, thinking. And although their children are here with him, Binyan and Jak Tar are not the only ones he is remembering.