Walkabout (13 page)

The children strained their eyes as the swimmers came steadily nearer. They swam in single file; and it seemed to Peter that their heads were black and abnormally large.

‘I reckon they're darkies, Mary. Darkies with big heads!'

The girl nodded; she'd come to the same conclusion herself. She had expected to be terrified at the thought of herself being naked and the strangers being black; yet now that the fact of their blackness had to be faced up to, she realized – unexpectedly – that she wasn't nearly as frightened as if they'd been white!
Holding Peter's hand, she stood at the edge of the water, waiting.

The swimmers came splashing into the shallows. Now that they were nearer, the children could solve the mystery of the size of their heads: they were carrying bundles.

The first swimmer was a full-grown male; and perched athwart his shoulders was a piccaninny, a baby three-year-old, his fingers clutching his father's hair.

The second swimmer was an adult female: a smiling, broad-faced gin. Her bundle was a young
warrigal:
a half-grown dingo pup, its body draped round the back of her neck.

The third and last swimmer was a young lubra, round about Mary's age; strapped to the top of her head was a yam-laden dilly-bag.

The man grounded his feet. He waded out of the water and set the piccaninny down. He was a tall man: straight as a lath: sinuous from head to toe. His hair was straight and jet black, his chest was cicatrized with a V-shaped, shoulder-to-shoulder weal, and he was quite naked. The women followed him, the water glistening on their skin like black pearls. The gin was well-formed, almost buxom; the girl, like Mary, slim, supple, and lithe.

The man's eyes were curious. He addressed himself to Peter.

‘
Worum gala
?'

His voice was deep, yet strangely soft and lilting; like the bush boy's, only several octaves lower.

While Peter floundered into conversation, the women turned their attention to Mary.

Deeds speak louder than words; and the young black girl and the white quickly came to an understanding. The lubra opened up her dilly-bag, and offered Mary a yam. The gift was accepted, and a handful of bauble nuts offered in return. The gin nodded and smiled, and a few moments later understanding turned to something deeper, when the piccaninny – realizing he had missed a share-out of food – started to cry, and Mary picked him up. He stopped instantly, and started to play with her hair: with her long golden hair that hung almost down to her waist.

And as the piccaninny cemented friendship between white girl and black, so the
warrigal
– the dingo pup – served as a link between man and boy. For Peter loved dogs. The
warrigal
reminded him of his basenji way back in Charleston. He listened to the black-fellow man with only half his attention; his eyes were on the dog. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he went scampering off – the sight of the
warrigal
worrying a sycamore branch was too great a temptation. In a moment boy and dog were joined in playful combat, splashing together in clouds of spray through the shallows of the lagoon.

For a moment the black-fellow man blinked in surprise. Then he laughed. He saw that the womenfolk were happily sharing food, and lay down among the rocks.

After a while he saw the children's drawings.

He looked at them casually at first, noting the crude inaccuracies of Peter's koalas and lizards; then his eyes passed to the girl's pictures. He sat up then, intrigued. He squinted at the hair styles, seeking in them some clue as to the strangers' race or tribe. He got up and walked slowly down the line of drawings, peering closely at each. And at last, at the very end, he came to the house: to Mary's dream house: one door; one window; one chimney; one pathway lined with flowers.

‘
Awhee!
Awhee!
'

He sucked in his lips.

The gin came across; quickly; and together they peered at the dream house. After a while Mary, still carrying the piccaninny, joined them. They looked first at her then at the house.

‘
Awhee! Awhee!
'

The gin's voice was filled with curiosity, almost with awe. She spoke quickly, excitedly, pointing first to the dream house then to the hills on the far side of the valley. Quite suddenly Mary got the gist of what she was saying. Hope surged within her. Over the hills was a house. Not just a hut such as natives lived in, but a house like the one she had drawn: a white man's house: a first stepping-stone on the long, long trail that would, one wonderful and longed-for day, lead them back to home.

‘Where? Oh, where?'

Her eagerness was something the Aboriginals could understand.

The black man's eyes were sympathetic. Gently
he took the girl by the hand and led her down to the sand beside the lagoon.

Peter, seeing them talking so earnestly, left the
warrigal
and came and stood beside his sister.

He saw the black man point first to a valley looping aslant the hills like a tired snake. The black man mimed the climb of the valley: his feet rising, his knees sagging. At the top he indicated that the children should sleep. He lay down on the sand and snored. The gin giggled. Then, with the point of a yacca branch, he traced a line heading east, into the rising sun. After a while the line broke, and with a couple of curves the black man indicated a hill. Then, beyond the hill, the line went on. Soon came another, lower hill; and here, the black man indicated, there was water; he drew a circle, pointed to the lagoon, and lapped like a dog. He also indicated food: yams: he drew them beside the hill and champed his teeth. And here too he indicated sleep: again the lying down, again the snoring. The children nodded. Next day the line continued east, towards another, higher hill. And here, at the base of the hill, it stopped. Ended at a house. The black man drew it: one door; one window; one chimney; one pathway lined with flowers.

The children looked at each other. The gill's eyes were like the stars of the Southern Cross.

‘Oh, Pete!'

She burst suddenly into tears.

Peter looked at the
warrigal
and the reeds and the red-gums and the glistening expanse of the lagoon,
and knew in that moment that every detail of what he'd seen in the last two weeks he'd remember for the rest of his life. Then he walked slowly across to the fire and collected the last of their bauble nuts. He stood for a moment looking not at the others but up and down the sun-drenched valley; then he went across to the black-fellow man and held out his hand.

‘Good-bye!' he said very formally.

The black man grinned and he too held out his hand.

Peter turned to the girl.

‘Come on, Mary', he said. ‘
Kurura
.'

He led the way along the shore of the lake.