Walkabout (5 page)

‘Larana,'
he said.

‘I get it!' Peter was jubilant. ‘Fire. You're gonna light a fire.'

‘Larana,'
the bush boy insisted.

‘O.K., darkie.
Larana
then. You're gonna light a
larana.
I'll help.'

He buckled to; pouncing on bits of debris like a hungry chicken pecking at scattered corn. The bush boy clicked his teeth in approval.

From the edge of the pool Mary watched them. Again she felt a stab of jealousy, mingled this time with envy. She tried to fight it: told herself it was wrong to feel this way. But the jealousy wouldn't altogether die. She sensed the magnetic call of boy to boy: felt left-out, alone. If only she too had been a boy! She lay quietly, face-downward on the rocks, chin in hands, watching.

Peter followed the bush boy slavishly, copying his every move. Together, with sharp flints, they scooped a hollow out of the sandstone: about three feet square and nine inches deep. Then they started to forage for wood. They found it in plenty along the fringe of the desert. Yacca-yaccas: their tall, eight-foot poles, spear-straight, rising out of the middle of every tuffet of grass. The bush boy wrenched out the older poles: those that were dry, brittle with the saplessness of age. Then, amongst the roots, he fossicked for resin; the exuded sap that had overflowed from and run down the yacca-yaccas' stems in the days of their prime. This resin was dry and wax-like: easily combustible; nature's ready-made firelighter.

Following the bush boy's example, Peter snapped
off the smaller poles, and hunted assiduously for resin.

Then came the snapping of the wood into burnable fragments, and the grinding of the resin into a gritty powder; then the collecting of stones (not the moisture-impregnated rock from around the billa-bongs – which was liable to explode when heated – but the flat, flinty, saucer-shaped stones of the desert). And at last the preparations were finished: the fire was ready to be lit.

The bush boy selected a large, smooth-surfaced chip, cut a groove along its centre, then placed it in the hollow in the sandstone. Next he took a slender stem of yacca, and settled the end of it into the groove of the chip. The chip was then covered with wood splinters and sprinkled with powdered resin. Placing an open palm on either side of the yacca stem, the bush boy rubbed his hands together. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, the stem revolved in the groove, creating first friction then heat.

As the sun sank under the rim of the desert, a lazy spiral of wood-smoke rose into the evening air.

The bush boy's hands twisted faster. This was the skill that raised him above the level of the beasts. Bird can call to bird, and animal to animal; mother dingoes can sacrifice themselves for their young; termites can live in highly-organized communal towns. But they can't make fire. Man alone can harness the elements.

A blood-red glow suffused the resin. The glow
spread; brightened; burst into flame. The boys piled on the sticks of yacca. The fire was made.

The bush boy collected the wallaby; held it by tail-tip over the flames; scorched it down to the bare skin. Then he laid it in the hollow. After a while he picked up a stick and started to lever the fire-heated stones on top of the carcass. Then he banked up the hollow with earth and ash. The rock wallaby baked gently.

An hour later they were eating it, watched by a single dingo and a thin crescent moon. It skinned easily; the flesh was succulent and tender; and there was enough for all.

Before they settled down to sleep the bush boy scattered the fire; stamped out every spark, smoothed out every heap of ash. Then, like a blackstone sentinel, he stood for a while beside the loop of the billabongs, gazing into the desert, interpreting sounds that the children couldn't even hear. Eventually, satisfied that all was well, he lay down close to the others on the slab of sandstone rock.

A veil of cumulus drifted over the moon.

After a while the dingo crept out of the bush and on to the ledge of sandstone; warily he nosed through the ashes for bones; but he found none. A pair of flying foxes flip-flapped down to the billabong. Little folds of mist moved softly round the hill-that-had-fallen-out-of-the-moon. And the children slept.

T
HE
girl woke early: in the whiteness and stillness of the false dawn: in the hour before sunrise when the light is very clear and the earth peculiarly still. She lay on her back, watching the stars die and the sky pale. Was heaven there, she wondered; somewhere beyond the stars and sky? If it hadn't been for the bush boy she'd probably know by now. She rolled on to her side and looked at the naked Aboriginal, then looked quickly away. If only she, too, had been a boy!

She tried to think calmly, logically. One thing she was certain of: the bush boy had saved their lives. He was used to living in the desert. That was obvious. So long as they stayed with him they'd probably keep alive. But they'd still be lost. Could they, she wondered, persuade him to take them all the way to Adelaide? But perhaps he didn't know where Adelaide was… She wondered what he was doing, wandering the desert alone, far from family or tribe. It was all very puzzling.

A few weeks ago she'd have known what to do; known what was best. But here in the desert most of the old rules and the old values seemed strangely meaningless. Uncertain, unsure, she fell back on a
woman's oldest line-of-action: passivity. She'd simply wait and see.

The decision brought immediate relief. Now she'd relinquished her leadership and all its implied responsibility, much of her keyed-up tension ebbed away. Rolling on to her back she closed her eyes and fell almost at once into a deep refreshing sleep.

She woke, a couple of hours later, to the sound of laughter and splashing water. Sitting up, she saw her brother and the black boy bathing in the billabong. They were ducking each other beneath a miniature waterfall that cascaded down from the rock.

‘Come on, Mary,' her brother shouted. ‘In with us.'

‘Come on, Mary,' the rocks re-echoed. ‘In with us. In with us.'

She waved cheerfully.

‘Later,' she shouted. ‘When it's warmer.'

Peter opened his mouth to remonstrate; but his mouth filled suddenly with water; the bush boy had ducked him again. Peter flailed his arms. Like a miniature waterspout he rushed his assailant. The bush boy feigned defeat; in mock terror he fled across the billabong; splashing through the shallows, still pursued by Peter, he clambered on to the farther bank. There he paused. Even in play, part of his attention had been subconsciously focused on the ever-present problem of survival, the never satisfied search for food. Now, close to the billabong, he started to probe at a cluster of bulb-shaped protuberances in the sand. With his long prehensile toes he scratched
away the top soil, uncovering a soft, brown-skinned ball, about the size of a coconut.

‘Worwora!'
his voice was excited.

Peter came scrambling out of the water. Doubtfully, he looked at the ball; hopefully, he touched it

‘Yeemara?
' he asked.

The bush boy nodded, and together they started to unearth the strange coconut ball. It was one of nature's paradoxes: a plant growing upside-down: a leaf and flower-bearing liana whose foliage grew entirely under the ground. Close to the surface was the tuber-like yam; spread out around and beneath it were its flowers and leaves, drawing from the soil that sustenance which the air of the desert denied. It was a plant as rare as it was strange, and as tasty as it looked unpalatable.

The bush boy broke off the yam; then, following another skein of underground foliage, he tracked down a second. Fascinated, Peter watched. He got the idea quickly. Soon he too had sought out and pulled up a third
worwora.
The bush boy grinned in appreciation. The little one was quick to learn. Following the lines of underground foliage, the two boys worked gradually away from the billabong. Soon, side by side, they disappeared into the desert.

When they were out of sight Mary came down to the chain of pools. Soon she too was laughing and splashing under the waterfall. But she listened carefully for sound of the boys' return. As soon as she heard their voices, she scrambled out of the water, and quickly pulled on her dress.

The boys' arms were full: full of
worworas.
They were carrying at least a dozen each; and they were, Mary suddenly noticed, both of them quite naked. She picked up her brother's shorts from beside the edge of the billabong.

‘Peter,' she said, ‘come here.'

He came reluctantly across.

‘Gee! I don't need no clothes, Mary. It's too hot.'

‘Put them on,' she said.

He recognized her strict governess's voice.

A week ago he wouldn't have dreamt of arguing. But somehow he felt different here in the desert. He looked at his sister defiantly, weighing the odds of revolt.

‘O.K.,' he said at last. ‘I'll wear the shorts. But nothing else.'

A week ago the girl wouldn't have stood for conditions. But somehow, for her too, things were different now. She accepted the compromise without complaint.

They cooked the yam-like plants in the reheated ash of last night's hearth. They tasted good: sweet and pulpy: a cross between potato, artichoke, and parsnip.

During the meal Mary watched the black boy. They owed him their lives. His behaviour was impeccable. He was healthy and scrupulously clean. All this she admitted. Yet his nakedness still appalled her. She felt guilty every time she looked at him. If only he, like Peter, would wear a pair of shorts !
She told herself
it wasn't his fault that he was naked: told herself that he must be one of those unfortunate people one prayed for in church - ‘the people who knew not Thy word': the people the missionaries still hadn't caught. Missionaries, she knew, were people who put black boys into trousers. Her father had said so - ‘trousers for the boys,' he'd said, ‘and shimmy-shirts for the girls.' But the missionaries, alas, evidently hadn't got round to Australia yet. Perhaps that's why it was called the lost continent. Suddenly an idea came to her. A flash of inspiration. She'd be the first Australian missionary.

Missionaries, she knew, were people who made sacrifices for others. While the boys were scattering ash from the fire, she moved to the far side of the cairn, hitched up her dress, and slipped out of her panties.

Then she walked across to the bush boy, and touched him on the shoulder.

She felt compassionate: charitable: virtuous. Like a dignitary bestowing some supremely precious gift, she handed her panties to the naked Aboriginal.

He took them shyly: wonderingly: not knowing what they were for. He put the worwora down, and examined the gift more closely. His fingers explored the elastic top. Its flick-back was something he didn't understand. (Bark thread and liana vine didn't behave like this.) He stretched the elastic taut; tested it; experimented with it, was trying to unravel it when Peter came to his aid.

‘Hey, don't undo 'em, darkie! Put 'em on. One foot in here, one foot in there. Then pull 'em up.'

The words were meaningless to the bush boy, but the small one's miming was clear enough. He was cautious at first: suspicious of letting himself be hobbled. Yet his instinct told him that the strangers meant him no harm; that their soft, bark-like offering was a gift, a token of gratitude. It would be impolite to refuse. Helped by Peter, he climbed carefully into the panties.

Mary sighed with relief. Decency had been restored. Her missionary zeal had been blessed with its just reward.

But Peter looked at the bush boy critically. There was something wrong: something incongruous. He couldn't spot the trouble at first. Then, quite suddenly, he saw it: the lace-edge to the panties. He tried his hardest not to laugh – his sister, he knew, wouldn't approve of his laughing. He clapped a hand to his mouth; but it was no good; it had to come. Like a baby kookaburra he suddenly exploded into a shrill and unmelodious cackle. Then, giving way to uninhibited delight, he started to caper round and round the bush boy. His finger shot out.