When Darkness Falls (12 page)

“A great deal ... answers to the questions that kept me awake for many, many nights. Imagen, you can't go on having babies. This last lot must have nearly killed you.”

“This last lot, as you put it, very nearly did,” Mother told him. “But it also overcame the problem of ever having children again. The fact is, son that she can't have any more, even if she wanted to. I barely saved her life.”

“Then I have more than my own life to thank you for. And there is no way to repay you.”

“Yes there is, my son. Season by season I grow weaker. I am slowing down, soon I will have to stop, and one day I will have to take the walk of the aged.”

“I see ... the time has come for me to take my rightful place within the family. We will talk it over later. Now is the time for reunion, a time for joy and happiness and for getting to know my children again. Like this one before me ... who are you, little bright eyes?”

“We have not had a naming ceremony for them yet, we did not know whether you might like a special name for one of them.”

“I have. It is Imagen.”

“And confuse me and my daughter?” Imagen protested. “That is why we all have separate names in this tribe.”

“Is that why it is your custom when someone dies, that you never mention that person by his earthly name again?”

“It frees the name for someone else to use, but only in this tribe.”

“Let us decide the names later. Come.” He turned to Mother. “Give me your hand so I can help you to your feet. We have some walking to do before the sun goes down. I have set up a camp at Oobagooma.”

“Ngala ... A word.” Imagen took him aside. “I think Mitti is feeling a little left out of your welcome.”

“With good reason wife, as you will soon see. It is to start his education.”

“But ... he is still a child, he is only six summers old.”

“A man is never too young to start to learn good and bad ... Right now he knows hurt. Let's see how he reacts to a little pleasure, and how he handles pride ... pride is the easiest and also the hardest lesson he will have to learn.” He turned to his eldest son. “Mitticarla, come. Walk with me, away from these women.”

“Yes, father.”

Imagen watched the towering, powerful figure of her man, and the boy who was her son as they strolled side by side, hand in hand, away through the spinifex. She watched as the tall figure suddenly knelt in the sand and the son followed his action. Then she saw the small, slim figure jump to his feet and bound off through the scrub. The father watched the boy for a moment, then rose and retraced his footsteps. Imagen made ready for the trek. What was Ngala's surprise?

As they came over the low sandy rise, Imagen saw her eldest
son standing out there in the open, waiting for them. He balanced on one leg, his other foot rested on his knee, and he leaned nonchalantly against his father's upright hunting spears for support. There was pride on his face and in his posture, on display for the world to see. He looked at his father as Ngala approached.

“Lead on, son, take us to the river. Take us home.”

The boy chose a spear to carry at his side, then hefted the bundle up onto his shoulders. He looked once more at his father, saw his wink of confidence, then started off in the direction his father had shown him by drawing in the sand. He walked easily without a backward glance, his eye searching for the shapes out in the distance, looking for the slit between the hills, the Tall Trees, looking for the signs his father had drawn, the images he had committed to his memory. He never doubted they would be there.

As each shape materialised just as his father had said they would Mitticarla's pride in his ability to lead them to their destination grew. In the evening shadows he led them through the Tall Trees on the banks of the Oobagooma and down to the sands of the river-bed. His mother called for him to take a rest.

“No, mother ... We are nearly there.”

“Nearly where, my son?”

“Nearly home.”

The boy cut across the wide sandy bed of the river angling downstream towards the trees on the opposite bank. The water of the billabong shimmered in the gathering gloom as the boy walked its edges; he glanced back at his father and saw the imperceptible nod he gave towards the bank, then moved in its direction and with pride saw the pre-made wurleys, the fireplace with a load of wood ready for use, the shelters for his aunt and uncle and cousins and the bags of
water hanging by each shelter. With pride etched in his small childish features he turned to his mother.

“There! Didn't I tell you? We're home, Mother.”

“So we are Mitti, I'm proud of you, I would never have believed you could do it, but your father had faith in you. One day, I can see you will be a man like your father.”

Ngala spoke. “Don't stop now, son. Stand those spears against that tree and gather some of the dry tinder grass on the bank, then give me a hand to get the fire going...”

Mother and Ngala had their promised talk.

“So ... it is agreed, then. I go back to the tribe for the last time and make some sort of an arrangement with Goodji. A settlement. Something that will keep her happy, and release me from my bonds.”

“If this woman is as you have described, she will demand the world from you in payment ... I say kill her and be done with it.”

“Mother, such harsh words. She has never harmed me. She has threatened me, but as I told you, I gave her a promise that her life would be in forfeit should she try to harm just one of my family. Surely that is enough. She has never raised the subject again.”

“Ahhh ... good people are always the most gullible. There is too much goodness in your heart for the safety of yourself and your family. I have known others such as Goodji, men and women; they are dogs that you should never turn your back on. People such as she who have such power learn to hate early, and they are capable of anything. Anything.”

“I see. Then, Mother, I give you this promise. If her demands become too much, if she leaves no room for compromise, then she will surely die. I too have a limit.”

“Then I am satisfied and can let you go, knowing that you are forewarned.”

“Ngala?”

“Yes, wife?”

“Why should we not leave the tribe and journey to those lands towards where the sun rises? From what you have said it sounds a wonderful land, a land of promise.”

“Why not? But let's not make plans. Our plans depend on the whim and humour of Goodji. Also, I know that the children would enjoy a new land, but I'm not so sure about Mother ... Let's only dream about the future. Maybe we could just remain here. Have you thought of that, Imagen?”

“Oh, that would be so good. That's one dream that I will surely enjoy. Now we have a growing family, I dread the thought of loading up and carrying everything, day after day.”

“Then it is agreed. One more season until you come again, then we can be the family we should have been.”

“When do you leave to return to your homelands?”

“The sooner the better; your people are already two suns away from you on their way to the coast. My people also begin to gather their goods to return to the trees.”

“How do you know of this? Are your people so close? Have they made contact with you?”

“Yes and no ... yes, they are close, only an echo away, and no, they have not made contact with me. They have no need.”

“How so, my son?”

“In the evening, when the world stands still, in that moment before the night winds come, when the stars twinkle brighter, before the night birds fly, sounds and voices carry clearly on the evening air. We know this and use this gift to send our messages over distances, to save our runners. The last few nights, the windless air has carried a great many such messages, urging the laggers and stragglers to hurry and get
to the meeting place so none will be left to fend for themselves. The rains come soon. There is time enough yet to return to our lodges and the protection of the trees before the coming storms make passage difficult and dangerous.”

“But you haven't even begun to hunt.”

“My hunting is already done, my hunting gear stashed away ready for me to pick up. I don't travel the same paths as the others, I go the flatter way. My route is easier and faster. But enough of this talk, let us spend our little time together in talk and laughter, and when the children are asleep, we will take our pleasure.”

She was not aware of his leaving. When she woke with the morning sun illuminating the western sky, his side of the bedding was long cold. She stretched, sat up and looked about her in the early light. A shadow caught her attention. She shook herself awake and peered hard across the sand, the fine mist of morning dew distorting the image. It was the stork-like figure of the child, standing straight and still; propped beside him was a hunting spear. The boy was staring hard into the darkness of the Tall Trees. She got to her feet and walked quietly to stand at his back, wrapping a loving motherly arm around her cold, dew-drenched son.

“Come back to bed and get warm.”

“He just disappeared, Mother. He walked to the trees and vanished.”

“I know. I was stunned the first time it happened to me.”

“Is he out there somewhere? In the trees?”

“No, Mitti, he is long gone. By now, he would have covered the distance it takes us to cover in two days.”

“So far? So fast?”

“Yes, son. Did he wake you in his leaving?”

“Yes. He gave me a present. Look. My first spear. He told me to look after Grandmother, and to help you. He told me
I am the man of the family until he returns ... Then he walked to the trees and disappeared.”

“Don't cry, son. Come, wipe those tears, the passing will go quickly if you don't try to think too much about him. You will see. Will you give me a hand to kick the fire into life, then you can take your grandmother her first brew of the morning? We have much to do if we are to catch up with our people.”

“Ngala! You never cease to amaze me. One morning your wurley is bare and the next, it is as if you have never left the place.”

“What is it that gets you from your bed so early, Goodji? It is unlike you to be up and about so early. Oh ... Now I understand.”

A young man had emerged from the skin-covered donga, bare of all adornments, his half-engorged manhood proudly displayed for all to see.

Goodji whirled round to see what had caught Ngala's attention, strode across the intervening space and slapped the youth's face with all the force she could muster. The youthful arrogance evaporated instantly; her lashing diatribe reducing his pride. She pushed the youth back into the seclusion of the covering, moments later moans and groans coupled with the furious grunts of abandoned sex could be heard.

Ngala smiled to himself. From pain and humiliation had sprung wild, wanton pleasure. He shook his head; how like the woman to turn any situation to her own use.

“Poor child,” he thought, “he doesn't know half what he's let himself in for and if he doesn't have the strength to escape her clutches. He is doomed as her personal slave.”

Taking a container, Ngala walked to the creek. He stopped
a little way upstream, squatted down at the water's edge, drank his fill, then cupped his hands and played the water over himself. Then he saw an old man coming to collect water.

“Lazy, cheeky, good for nothing woman,” the old man muttered furiously. “A man gets old and there is no more respect. Man may as well walk off amongst the trees and never return.”

Ngala moved to show his presence.

“Oh, I didn't see you there. I was just letting out my frustration to the water Spirits. Marrying a young lubra is good for a while—until the novelty wears off.”

“Bit drastic though, walking off through the trees to the land of our Spirits.”

“Oh, it's you, Ngala. When did you get back?”

“Late in the night.”

“Well, I know it's none of my business, but Goodji has taken another husband.”

“Husband? That youth?”

“So you have seen him?”

“Yes. And I can see why she chose him.”

“Yeah ... heh heh heh, it's a joke amongst the men.”

The two men had a good laugh. It was the first time Ngala had felt so relaxed in the company of another man of the tribe he had been forced to join. Ludo, the new-found friend, opened his mouth and told of all that had happened since his leaving. Then he surprised Ngala with a request.

“Could we meet again? I would enjoy your company at another time.”

“My fire is your fire. When you have a need for companionship, just come by.”

“I can't. My debt to Goodji is too great. I have spoken too much already for my good. If she finds out it was me who
gave you all this enlightenment, she will make my life a misery”

“I see ... Then walk by and drop a twig, a leaf, and we will hunt together. There will be no danger for you in that, I will make sure that no one is on our trail before I join you.”

“Thank you, Ngala. There are many in this tribe that would be your friend, but Goodji is too powerful. I will come by later today.”

Ngala returned to his gunya and set out his prizes. Those he would give to his wife, those he would use for trade, and the leftovers for his own needs—lacings, footwear, even a narga made from the soft belly leather. He saw a shadow glide through the trees and glanced up as Goodji walked into his camp.

“Hunting has been good?”

It was.

“The new lands? They show promise?”

“Ah, Goodji, that is for me to know and for you to find out.”

“But I'm your wife!”

“And I am just one of your discarded husbands. You can have this lot.”

“Why not that pile?”

“Goodji, I don't have to bargain. If you want that pile, take it. As far as I can see there is very little difference between the two.”