Tears of the Moon (45 page)

Maya had developed a walking sense as she’d grown. Previously she’d playfully pattered along with the women until she felt weary and then sat on the ground until someone scooped her up and carried her. Now she was older, walking was a life experience. The elders showed her things, the women pointed out animal tracks and edible plants. Other times in her head Maya imagined she was a bird or an emu or even a big fish and she swayed and danced along as she walked, imitating the animal’s movements. Sometimes strange images and memories came to her and she let them drift through and out of her mind without curiosity or fear.

The women watched her with pride. She had grown into a beautiful girl, her svelte frame strong and healthy, and her skin, fairer than the rest of them, had tanned to a deep gold. Her long dark hair fell straight down her back with streaks of auburn gold glinting through it.

Maya loved and accepted this tribal family life, but sometimes she felt different to the others. She let a handful of sand dribble through her fingers.
Opening her hand she closely studied the remaining grains clinging to her fingertips. Each one was different. Not quite the same size or shape. She blew on them gently and they fell back on to the beach to be indistinguishable from all the other grains of sand. Maya tilted her head. This meant something she thought, but couldn’t decide what. She jumped up and ran to play with the little ones who were digging a hole with large shells.

Soon after camp was made on a creek behind the dunes, a group of women and children, including Maya, set out to get ‘white fella tucker’. It had become their custom over the years to visit the nearby mission where the friendly Brother gave them sugar and flour. There was a ritual attached to these visits. They had to sit and listen to him talk about ‘God’ before getting the rations. In their eyes he was an unusual and likeable man, quite different from most of the pearlers, stockmen and policemen who crossed their paths. Brother Frederick had learned the rudiments of their language, enough to make his stories about ‘God’ understood. He helped heal their ailments and gave the elders advice, when they sought it, on dealing with the law of the white man, which they found violent and confusing.

The women and children trailed into the sprawling mission, shouting greetings to resident Aborigines, some of whom were relatives who spoke the white man’s language, even sang songs in the language and went to a sacred place, the big white building where the Brother talked to ‘God’.

There was a lot of talk and laughter as the visitors and mission blacks settled in the shade of spreading
mango trees to exchange gossip. Soon Brother Frederick appeared in the doorway of the white church. Waving both arms in exuberant welcome, he strode briskly across the sward of grass shouting more greetings in their language and reaching out for the hands of a swarm of children who ran to him, giggling and jostling.

He sat among them in the shade and methodically acknowledged each woman in the group, needing little help in remembering names and family connections. When he came to Maya, he paused and thought for a few seconds. ‘Now who have we here?’ he asked. After Maya was introduced to him, he asked for her mother and looked around the group. They explained that ‘aunties’ now looked after Maya, her mother had been taken across the sea. Brother Frederick interpreted this as meaning the mother was dead. He studied the smiling girl, concluding her father had been a white man, but he did not pursue the matter, knowing in all probability he would not get an adequate answer.

The courtesies of greeting over, he then began telling them a story from the scriptures, parts of which were embellished and explained by relatives. Then he led them in a song about his God, enthusiastically backed up by resident Christian converts. The bush people understood nothing of this hymn but joined in rhythmic clapping and burst into a chorus of appreciative noises and laughter when it ended. They knew these expressions of joy pleased the white man enormously.

While the rations were handed out and the talk
under the trees continued, the children ran off to explore and play.

From the moment she walked into the mission, Maya had been fascinated by the big white building with the little tower and bell. It brought back images of another time, another place, images that were vague but which she knew. were related to her past. She slipped away from the other children and made her way to the open door and peeped inside. It was dimly lit and cool. Cautiously, she stepped inside, and as her eyes adjusted she saw that much of the interior was decorated with mother-of-pearl shell. The sight of it made her gasp with astonishment and excitement.

‘So pretty,’ she said aloud, in English.

‘Yes, very pretty,’ echoed a soft voice in the shadows to her left.

Maya jumped with surprise and turned to run.

‘Please, don’t be frightened. Stay. Have a good look,’ urged Brother Frederick with warmth, holding out his hand to her.

Maya paused, then tentatively took the outstretched hand.

Together, they walked slowly around the church, Maya sometimes running her fingers over the shells, the priest occasionally asking a question, sometimes pointing out a religious feature of the decorations. He suppressed his surprise at her knowledge of English, even though she often had to think hard before finding the right words. But there was no doubt in his mind that God had delivered this child to him for salvation.

Some days later a small party of Aborigines from the mission came down to the bush camp. The women in the group sought out women in Maya’s family and there were long discussions, all conducted away from the men. It was ‘women’s business’, and it concerned Maya. The next day the women trooped back to the mission for more talk, then a meeting with the priest.

Weeks passed, idyllic days for Maya, who romped in the sand and the sea with the other children, fished and gathered mussels and crabs. At night she would fall asleep around campfires against a background of singing and dancing.

Soon it was time for the clan to move on. One morning Maya had to go with some of her aunties to the mission. She was disappointed that no other children came along but she planned to try and get some of the hard sweet lollies from the man in robes to take back to her friends.

When they had settled under the trees at the mission with relatives and friends, the women explained to Maya that she was not going back to the camp. They told her she was going to stay at the mission for awhile. The white man was going to look after her, give her special food and clothes and teach her important things.

Maya was stunned. Her lip trembled, then she began to cry softly.

As the women gathered up the sacks of flour and sugar, they waved to Maya, who was now standing forlornly outside the church, her hand held by
Brother Frederick. Maya half-lifted her free hand in response and fought back more tears as her family disappeared down the track.

The man squeezed her hand and she looked up at him. He smiled and reached into his cassock and pulled out a brightly wrapped sweet. ‘Here, Maya, have a lollie. I know you like them,’ he added brightly.

She took the rock-hard gift and slowly unwrapped it. Popping the multicoloured ball in her mouth, she savoured the sweetness for awhile before pushing it to one side, making her cheek bulge.

Brother Frederick smiled again and took her hand. ‘Come. Let’s go and get you some decent clothes from the store.’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T
yndall stirred and lifted his head as light rain washed over his red raw skin. His mouth came unstuck, his swollen tongue feeling relief as the water ran over his parched and split lips. He’d lost track of time but had a vague memory of night seas pounding the damaged dinghy As the rainwater trickled down his face, he slowly became aware he was lying on his back, his legs across the smashed seat of the little boat. Chest-deep water sloshed in the splintered hull. He tried to lift himself out of it but had no strength. Sinking back into the watery bed, he closed his eyes once more.

A shudder and a crunch dragged him back to reality. The dinghy was scraping over an ironstone reef and the next wave rammed it into a crevice, splitting the hull apart. He was swept out of the boat, and over the reef and into deep water. The dowsing shocked him into full consciousness and he began to swim.
His blurred vision made out the shape of two low islands in the distance. He realised he was in the channel between them. Under normal circumstances it would have been an easy swim for him, but his clothes weighed him down and his limbs felt like lead weights. The days adrift in the dinghy had drained him and, just as he thought he couldn’t lift an arm or kick a leg a moment longer, he was nudged by a great shape that glided beside him. Tyndall lunged out. Flinging his arms across the barnacle-encrusted shell of an old green turtle, he held on. It was swimming just below the surface and Tyndall was just able to keep his head above water as the turtle stroked its way towards the larger of the two islands.

The shoreline was reef and rocks, but the rurtle swam through a narrow split between them and Tyndall felt its undershell scrape the bottom as the turtle launched itself up the beach. He rolled off and lay there for a moment before dragging himself up. Dozens of turtles were making their way to a thin stretch of sand, where, come sunset, they would begin busying themselves digging holes in which to lay their many eggs. Unable to hold himself up any longer, Tyndall collapsed on the shore.

In the coolness of evening he awoke and crawled to one of the sand-covered nests. Digging with his hands, he pulled out an egg and bit into it. Reviving a little, he slowly and painfully made his way to some shelter and curled up and slept, planning on looking for more food and water at first light.

Amy decided to wear the dress made from the red kimono silk that Gunther had admired. The bodice, edged in black lace, sat at the very edge of her shoulders, the low
décolletage
showing the swell of her ample white breasts. The silk clung to her figure, stopping in a scalloped hem above her ankles. She slipped her dusty-pink stockinged feet into black shoes with rhinestone buckles, and carried black gloves, a fan and sheer black chiffon wrap to cover her exposed skin from insect bites as she travelled to the Cable Palace.

By Broome standards the house could have passed for a palace. It was large, set up on high pillars with a broad flight of steps leading to the colonnaded verandah with sets of French doors along its length. But if one looked closely, it was a flimsy construction, with peeling paint and a temporary air. Soft lights glittered through expensive curtains—a rarity in a town where homes relied on shutters and lattice for privacy. The house was very secluded, set behind a high brush fence and heavily screened by palms, frangipani, banana trees and rampant climbing bougainvillea. Amy thought it strange that such an apparently imposing place was located in such an isolated area.