When Darkness Falls (8 page)

Only seven aged and crazy women had survived the long walkabout, and when they returned and saw nothing there for their old age, nothing except barrenness and loneliness, they sat down on the banks of the river and cried their lives away.

“It is said that at nights, when the wind blows gently through the leaves of the trees, you can hear their sighs,” Bessi told them. “Poor things, they wait for release to enter their Spirit world. Only people of the tribe can help them. Now sleep, and think on what I say.”

The boys bedded down in comfort, and the old ones kept on talking.

“Alone at last. Listen to my words, Munmurra my sister,” said Nundi-noora.

“Sister? Had I stayed, I would have been your wife. In my youth I didn't know what I was doing. I'm an old grown
woman now, and believe me, I know what my choice would have been if we could live it all again.”

Munni's new-found father smiled. “There is time. But for the present, there are more pressing needs. I think you should go with your sons to the last camp of your people, those seven crazy women. Walk along the river bank, sit in the shade of the trees, talk with your spirit ancestors and set your people free. Let the land live again. If you no longer have any feeling for it, set it free and let others take of its waters and food.”

“Tomorrow we will go. We have been away from our own homes, our families and our people for almost a whole moon. It is time the boys were getting back to their wives and children. Come with us, Nundi-noora, come with me. You have nothing keeping you here.”

“Go, Munmurra. Make peace with your dead first. When you come again, I'll be waiting to see this wonderful place you call home.”

Mother set off with Munni and Datun, and as they journeyed the river began to look familiar, the hills, the trees and the bird life. Wallabies and emus roamed the flood plains. The country, though dry and dusty, held life. They camped and waited for first light. The night seemed strange. There wasn't a breath of air and the dancing shadows from the firelight sent strange sensations along the boys' spines; cold shivers made their sleep short and light. With sun flooding through the trees along the river, Mother led them to the ancient home ground. She stood on the barren, hard-packed earth that had been her home and looked about, then she and Munni walked to where their humpy had once stood. There was nothing, nothing but memories.

“Do you recognise your old home, my son?”

“No, Mother. I see nothing familiar, I feel nothing. Let's go to the river and gather up the bones of the women, then
put them to rest and be on our way. I wonder where they sat and died?” He looked around. “Where's Datun?”

“He went to be by himself. There he is, sitting on the river bank under those shady trees. I don't remember anything like them growing around here before.”

“Aren't they lovely, Mother? The way their branches droop down over the bank and into the water. And see how the leaves sway in the breeze. When it passes, they droop back as if they're drinking.”

“Look at the tree again where Datun is sitting. It looks as if its branches are embracing him.”

Munni counted the weeping trees. “Mother, there are seven of those trees.”

Mother called across to Datun. “Are you all right son?”

“Yes, Mother. It's so peaceful sitting here. It no longer feels frightening. I feel like I'm home.”

“You are home, son. This was the home of our people. Would you like to come back and stay?”

“No. We have our homeland now. This was the homeland of our parents. One day I will bring Kahla and Sharca and the others here for a visit, a small walkabout. But stay? No, there is nothing here for me except perhaps this tree. I think I'll gather some seeds to take home and plant, then I'll have memory of the place of my birth.”

“You are ready to go?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Then there is nothing holding us here. We've done what we came here to do, set our people free. Let's go home.”

“Home, Mother? Your home too? Or will your heart always be here? Is this what you really want?” asked Munni.

“Yes, son. I have all I want. I have my life, my children, and my grandchildren.”

“And what about a man? Isn't that partly why we came?”

“Oh, I have that. Nundi-noora is waiting, and now I will have a companion in my old age. What more can an old woman want?”

“Ahem! Grandson. The day grows late and we have yet to walk back to the camp. What a wasted day's fishing, all for the sake of a lousy catfish, not enough for a good feed.”

“Oh, I don't know, Grandad. I think it's been one of our best fishing days. Do you think Datun went back to that place? And that tree? I have a strange feeling his mother made it.”

They trudged off carrying their catfish. The old man's arm was around the child as they walked towards the setting sun, their ambling gait free and easy. They were at ease with life and their surroundings. They were where they belonged, deep in the heart of the Australian bush.

I'd like to think that the nomadic tribe that “Mother” and “Imagen” belonged to travelled west following the Lennard River until it reached the mudflats of King Sound, then turned south, ambling along, foraging, past Blina Station crossing over the Fitzroy River near where Looma is today (that part of the river dries out during the Dry season), south into the desert past Nerrima, deeper still past Kalyeeda, then swinging in a long swoop northwards to cross the Fitzroy once again near Noonkambah, walking the red loam sandhills east of Calwynyardah, the gravel ridges of Ellendale, down over the black-soil flats past Leopold Downs heading for the lands of Ngala's people, the mountains, Mt Broome, Mt Ord, Mt House—the source of the Lennard River—before once again starting on their westward cycle along the Lennard.

Today the vegetation isn't very big, but I like to imagine that a long time ago this area would have been rich in rainforests and jungles, with tall trees that reached for the sky, blocking out the light, to give those that lived under the canopy the form of shadowy habitation that Ngala and his people might have lived in.

“Grandad! Quick! come with me, I want to show you something.”

“What's the hurry, Grandson? I don't smell smoke, so it can't be a fire.”

“It's birds, Grandad, lots of them, green parrots, and I'm frightened you might miss out on seeing them.”

“Green parrots with bright crimson splotches on their wings when they spread them? Feeding on the wild passionfruit vine?”

The boy stopped in his tracks and stopped to look at his grandfather in amazement. “You've seen them already? How? You haven't moved from the camp.”

“Come, Grandson, let's go down to the river and find a nice shady spot to sit and watch them, and I'll tell you the story of how they came to be, and the reason they love this fruit...”

Countless moons ago when the land was young there lived many people, with different lifestyles. Some came from the desert, some lived by the oceans, others lived along the rivers, and some came from the rainforest and mountains far to the north. This is a story of those people of the mountains and a nomadic tribe that wandered the lands of the desert and the lowlands of the south.

Over the lands where the mountain people roamed, clouds hung low and wreathed the mountain tops; moisture filled the air and mist floated morning and night. The land was filled with jagged rocks and crags and fast-flowing streams and everywhere hung jungle vines. Great trees reached for the heights far above. Beneath them was a damp dark place, cool in the winters of the world, humid, hot and sticky in summer when the air was damp and breathing came short and shallow with movement limited to necessity. Animals, reptiles and insects, birds and flowers thrived.

Ferns covered the ground, and palms grew in abundance.
The flowers were vivid and bright. There were parrots with radiant plumage. There was no want for food; fish swam in multitudes in the rivers and pools, and turtles crawled the floors of the forests and foraged in the damp undergrowth. There were bandicoots and possums, lizards and snakes. Wombat, and dark-furred wallabies lived on the verge of the forests, where the grasslands came to meet the trees.

In this land of mountains, rivers and jungle there lived six tribes. Two inhabited the northern and western coastlines, where the mountains came down to the plateaus, which in turn fell into the sea. Their lives belonged to the ocean, the rivers and estuaries. They rarely ventured inland. They had no need; they kept to themselves.

Where the mountains reached for the clouds, where the jungle and rain was an everyday part of life lived two other tribes. They loved the coolness and the freshness of the high lands. Their lands reached the vastness of the inland, bordered by rivers, protected by great cliffs. These people were the most feared. By day, as well as night, they moved through the shifting shadows of light and dark, their presence unknown until the burning bite of a spear cut you down. They gave no challenges, no warnings.

To the south and west lived the mystery tribe. Spoken of but never seen, feared even by the mountain people. Their lands were separated from the rest by a river, whose waters were fast and deep and full of man-eating creatures. For the river was influenced by the tidal flow that twice a day raced over a distance it would take a man two days to walk. These people learned at first to fear and respect their river, then in time to honour and love it. It was a natural barrier against their foes.

Far to the south, where rains fell only when the seasons changed, lived the tribe of wanderers, people who strayed
here and there, moving at their will from one source of food to the next, never staying long enough to deplete supplies, leaving plenty for the tribe that followed. Their lands encompassed the sands of the desert to the gibber plains of the great inland, from the brilliant white beaches of the ocean to the foothills of the mountain people. The river that flowed there, a slow, lethargic river that twisted and turned along the flats and out through the saltpans into the sea marked their border. Where it came from nobody really knew. The Oobagooma, as they called it, was their home when the cold winds blew. They would follow the slow meandering of the river to the salty sea. As the cold wind began to fade, and the heat built up, they were already moving down through the sandhills along the coast, following the wind south until they came to the mighty river of the plains then, in time, they would return back to where the springs in the hills oozed out their precious supply ... until the journey began again, when they would turn northwards, a never-ending trek of life.

Our story begins with the people of the mountains, the Wa-ror-ras. It was the first season of the year. The rains had been heavy and continuous and life had become unbearable, with fraying nerves and shortening tempers. To escape the venom of their wives and the screams of the children, some hunters decided to take a long walk until the rains moved and the weather changed the moods of people. They went beyond the big trees to the plains below. Here they found the great kangaroos, standing as tall as their tallest warrior, with bulging muscles and haunches. Their hides were short, rough and hairy, their meat tough and stringy, but they provided good strong sinews to hold spear heads in place, and the tightness
and strength of their great hides meant they were good for trading.

Back in the long ago, the Wa-ror-ras had learnt an invaluable lesson for their arrogance. Aggressive and confident, a war party had attacked the tribe of wanderers. Those peaceful people had out-manoeuvred the Wa-ror-ras and shamed them. When the Wa-ror-ras had retreated into their own land, to the cover of the “Tall Trees”, the Lowlanders had stopped at the river and camped. Rested, they then moved on, leaving the Wa-ror-ras with the bitter taste of defeat and waiting for revenge. Year after year it continued: the Wa-ror-ras were shamed again as they were pushed back to the Tall Trees. The Lowlanders would camp, rest, and move on. But year by year, less of the Wa-ror-ras died. The people of the plains had no love for hunting and killing. They felt no pride; for them it was simply necessary. They fought for the land and water that was theirs. They had defeated the intruders and had gone on with their lives, and the Wa-ror-ras never really understood how they had been defeated. So now, when they visited the plains to hunt the big roo, they left as quickly and unobtrusively as they could. They no longer stood to fight, but fled before the mystery as to why they were always defeated by people who were small, skinny, hairy and ugly to behold.

On this day the newly made men of the tribe, their welts swollen but healing, were enjoying the chase. A group following a wounded roo spread out, excited; the skin would be rewarded to the man that brought it down. Suddenly they heard the call of alarm. The feared Lowlanders were somewhere close. The hunters stopped in their tracks and fled for the safety of the Tall Trees.

A youth of twelve summers, inexperienced and overexcited, his speed carrying him far out to the front, found
himself alone, and a long way from cover. Heart beating wildly, blood pounding in his brain, breath wheezing from his lungs, he raced to his limit. A misplaced foot, an unseen hole and he lay sprawled in the high tufted grass, leg askew and broken. He screamed as pain shot through his body. Fright, the will to live, and a great shame that he, a man, should scream like a child, threatened to overcome him, and he whimpered like the child still in his being. Two days passed. His leg was now grotesquely swollen. The pain and the shame he had been holding back broke from his parched lips. His young body had begun to burn with fever.

“Mother? Mother?” he whispered.

But no one came. He was alone. No one would be coming for him. He had been sacrificed for the good of the tribe and left to die alone in whatever way the Spirits decreed: thirst, starvation, or by the hand of the dreaded enemy.

“Mother ... Mother.”

A girl called Nwunta heard the whimpering and groans of pain as she passed nearby. She thought the earth was speaking to her. Alarmed, she made her way back to her mother.

“Mother? You are wise. Have you ever heard the earth speak before?”

“Not speaking. Sometimes, when the Spirits get angry with the stupidity of the people, they make the land rumble and shake. If they are really angry, the land trembles, trees shake and sway, rocks fall and tumble down hillsides. And if their rage overcomes them entirely, the land splits and opens, swallowing good and bad alike. Sometimes they push the ground to the skies, at other times, it falls away, leaving great cliffs, and dust hangs in the air for a moon at least. We bow before their might, take warning from their wrath. But I have never heard the earth speaking.”

“I heard it speaking to itself.”

“There have been no rumblings deep in the ground, no trembling of the land. Are you sure?”

“Yes, Mother. I wasn't imagining things.”

“Wait, Nwunta. A couple of days past the men came across an Old Man Red, badly wounded. You know we don't hunt him unless we have needs, and then we have ceremonies, to ask his forgiveness for the life we take. He is our tribal totem, our guide to our dreamings. We would never hunt and leave one to die from wounds. He must have been speared by the people from the Tall Trees, and left. It is strange, for we have not seen these people for many, many moons. These sounds ... can you take me to them?”

“Oh, Mother ... why not leave well enough alone.”

“I am a healer, Nwunta. It is my place in the tribe. If somebody is hurt, whether it is ours or theirs, it is for me to try to help that person. Daughter, show me.”

So Nwunta took her mother to the place where she had heard the sounds.

“This is where I stood ... See my footprints? The sounds came from over there, I'm sure of it, though I don't hear them now.”

Her mother went forward into the high grass. “By the Spirits of our Ancestors!”

“What is it?”

“A boy ... a very sick boy. Nwunta, go for my medicine bag, quickly. And get Imagen to bring water.”

She cast an experienced eye over the boy as he lay there comatose. She saw the swollen leg and knew it was broken. He was in a bad way. It was lucky the boy was young. He should be able to fight his way back to life. Her most urgent need was to get him to water to bathe his body and douse the fever that raged in him.

She stood and looked around her, watching for any sign
that someone was out there watching. She saw nothing. The slight heat haze blurred the landscape; nothing moved. She looked to the river, still half a day's walk away. It would be the best place to take him. They could lay him in the shallows to cool him when the fires blazed in his body then cover him when the chills racked his body, for the moment you doused the fire the body reacted, and then you fought the cold as well.

But first, before Nwunta returned, she would have to straighten his leg. There was no gentle way. She straightened his body as much as she could, then sat and placed a leg on either side of the broken one. Then taking a good hold of the bent foot, she jerked backwards twisting at the same time. A scream rent the air, then the boy fell back in a deep coma.

Nwunta and Imagen came at a run, frightened for their mother. They saw her slowly rising to her feet and noticed no dust rising, no signs of a struggle and their panic subsided.

“Just setting the leg in place,” their mother said: “Now we have to move him to the river to get rid of his fever.” She turned to her daughter, “Nwunta, run back to the camp and get our tools for cutting saplings. Bring that old skin—we will use it to carry him to the river. Imagen, shade his face, and keep sponging him. I won't be long.”

“What if he wakes while you're gone?”

“He won't wake, not for some time yet, and I'll be back long before he does.”

“But? What if he does?”

“Then do what all good healers do ... The very first lesson, remember?”

“Smile?”