When Darkness Falls (4 page)

“Did you think that you could get away from me?”

They were too tired to run. Too weak and weary to fight. They stood their ground and heard the old man out.

“You, Danaranni. You will die. There is nothing anyone can do to save you.”

“And you ... you fucken bitch ... you will live. You will live for as long as it will take for me to work you to your death.” He was building his temper, slowly fanning the fires of hate. The hate he had for this young man bordered on the edge of insanity. He was now no more than two spear lengths from them. The
sun was still directly behind him; he stood like a giant, and in his hands he held at least six spears. The sun shone on him and around him, and dazzled them. “Stand aside you woman of dogs and watch and remember how this common woman thief of the night, dies.”

They could see no other, but behind him had gathered the people of the tribes to watch. There was nowhere left to run. They could not even try. This was the end. It was the end that they had both known they would have to face if they were caught. Nunjupuni moved to stand beside her man; wearied, he leant against the tree for support. She reached out and as his hand came into hers, they heard the hiss of the spear. He grunted as it buried itself in his gut, impaling him into the tree.

“Be strong, my Nunjupuni, my little sand-curlew. Think of me. My love for you will never die.”

A second spear pierced his leg and pinned him hard against the bole of the tree.

“Look after our daughter, and one day tell her of me. Tell her that I loved her, that I'm sorry that we couldn't grow together and know one another, and that I wasn't there to see my grandchildren.” His strength was going, his life not long left to him.

He bit back the cry of pain. He had promised himself he would die like a true warrior. He would take his punishment without crying out. He would stand until the last breath left his body and his soul flew free to wander where it would. His breath began to flutter, and blood flecked his mouth.

“Tell Nijilla ... why ... we...”

The next spear took him through the gut. It had missed the tree, and the weight of the shaft, falling towards the earth, dragged at his guts. His head began to hang.

“Ohhyeee. Ohhyeee. Daniii. Daniiii,” Nunjupuni cried.

“I love you, Nunjupuni ... I ... love ... you...”

She reached for his head and held it upright, to let him die
with his head held high. She looked once at the old man, then she turned; taking her time, she lent towards the dying face. She wrapped an arm around him, and for the last time she kissed him long and hard.

The old man became incensed. He screamed in his madness. He stopped within a spear's throw as she held her lover's embrace. And in his madness, he rammed the final spear deep into her. It struck between her shoulder blades straight through her heart and entered Danaranni's body and drove on through his heart. Impaled to the tree, their blood flowed. It ran down the shaft, and while their hearts beat as one, their blood mingled and dripped to the earth below.

“Jees, Grandad. What a story.”

“Yes, Grandson. But it isn't finished yet.”

“Not finished?”

“Not quite.”

Nijilla grew into a beautiful woman, and the time came for her to marry and have her own children. Her uncle asked if there was anything she wanted while she still lived with him, while he could still give her the things she wanted. Nijilla was to marry a young man she had met at one of the ceremonies. He was a good, kind young man; uncle was sure he would love and look after her just as her father had loved her mother.

“When I was a little girl and asked you where my mother and father had gone you told me that one day, when I was old enough, you would take me to them and show me where they stayed. I think I am old enough to go and see them. I would like very much before I marry for you to take me. I
don't want anyone else to come, I don't want anyone else to take me. Will you do that for me?”

Her uncle took her to the plain where those many years ago his beloved sister, Nunjupuni had died. Now he stood before the tree where both the lovers had lost their lives.

There was nothing to see. Days after they were killed he had taken the bodies and the spears and spent a full day digging at the base of the tree a hole large enough to bury both of them together. He had covered them over and had never returned until this moment. The tree was a little larger, yet it looked the same. And there, at the foot of the tree, a creeper had grown; it curled up around the tree into the branches above their heads.

“Look, Uncle. This creeper, it has such strange little seeds, like beads, as bright as blood. Don't you think they look like drops of blood?”

“Yes, Nijilla, they look just like the drops of blood that dripped from the spear that pinned both your parents to this tree.”

Aboriginals are a nomadic people, and have been since the dawn of time. They move from area to area for diverse reasons: the animals in the area might be getting harder to hunt; the seeds they collect might be getting scarce; the supply of wild fruit, yams, lily roots and nuts might be dwindling; the water supply might be drying; cold; rain. They move and camp, move and camp—sometimes a few kilometres, sometimes a trek over long distances to the next big watering hole. They move in a cycle, and each cycle may take a year, or two or even three years, to make. The length of the cycle depends on how long the land needs to rejuvenate itself; the drier the land, the longer the cycle.

Different tribes trekked in different ways. The Fitzroy River is a long, flat, winding river. A tribe starting at the mouth might take forever to trek to the hills of Liveringa (Looma), so they sweep back across the red loam sandhills hunting emu, turkey and the big sand goannas, before once more starting the new cycle from, say, Milli Milli, a pool on the lower reaches of the Fitzroy River.

Other tribes might start from the Fitzroy River near where Jubilee Station is today, head south towards Old Cherabun Station and continue south past Why Worry Canyon, and on, out into the desert. Sweeping south and east across the ridges of red sandhills, they start turning north for Christmas Creek Station. They cross the dry upper reaches of Margaret River, until they walk the river flats near Fossil Downs, across the rugged rocky ridges and down into the big waterhole and the cooling waters that are Gieki Gorge—just as Mother, Munni, Nelli, Datun, Kahla, and Cuddy might have done those many thousand years past.

“Look at that tree, Grandad. See how its leaves droop down over the water. When the wind blows, the leaves sway, then touch the water again; just as if the tree is drinking.”

“Isn't it strange that the people from lands who have never heard our stories call that tree the weeping willow—a name similar to ours. We call it the mun ill murra tree—the tree of sadness. To us it is a sacred tree.”

“Is there a story about the mun ill murra tree?”

“Yes. Would you like to hear it?”

“You know me, Grandad. I'll listen to a story any time. I just hope the fish don't bite when we get to the good bits.”

“Well, I could do with my crab claw pipe, full mind you, and the remains of the brew in the billy by the fire ought to see me comfortable.

“Now, Grandson. The lines are set, and while we wait for the fish to bite I'll tell you the story. Mind you, it's not a happy story; not many of our stories are.”

Long, long ago, back in the days of our Dreaming, a tribe of our people lived on a great permanent waterhole nestled between two sheer cliffs that belonged to the hills Nerriga and Kallroopta, in that country way over there close to the desert. The water came out of the ground from an ancient crack in the rocks; it gave off a strange smell and had a biting taste, but that didn't worry the people nor the animals and birds who lived by it. The water flowed all the time and kept the waterhole well supplied. When the monsoon rains reached the parched lands, they washed the hardness out of the water, and filled the waterhole with sweet clean water again.

But these people had not always lived by that strange waterhole. It was said they once dwelt on the upper reaches of our great river, close to where it starts its flow. The lands
they came from were abundant in fruit and game and sweet water. They wanted for nothing, and yet they had left: their land to see what other people had that they did not. Their curiosity would very nearly prove their undoing.

So the tribe went on walkabout. They followed the edge of the desert south, moving on the fringes, eating and hunting and enjoying the new country as they passed through. They were a naturally happy people, good hunters and food gatherers, willing to share their food and knowledge with people they met along the way. They had been gone for more than five summers, when at last the people were beginning to long for their homes. They missed the cool waters of their big billabong, the fish and turtle and lily roots it provided, the water goannas and the wallabies that came down there each evening to drink. It was time to go home.

They held a meeting of the whole tribe, but it was the men who had the say. So glad in spirit were the people that they were at last going home, that the decision to go the quickest way, straight across the great inland desert, did not worry them. They saw no danger. They set out across that dry, windblown country of red sand and dust and little black sticky flies, and walked with the evening star on their right, the morning star on their left. Out into the desert they walked, with the half-moon smiling high above them.

For days they plodded through the low scrub and sand. Food was becoming scarce, water ever harder to find. The hunters spread out each morning searching for signs of human habitation, of water and food. They followed animal trails in the hope that these would lead to water. The people were held together by their belief that they could help one another. At a small pool of green slime-covered water, the people knew they should turn back now, while they could,
carrying as much water as possible until they reached that last good-sized waterhole they had left many days to the south.

But the Elders scorned the people. They ridiculed them saying they had grown soft and that some hardship would do the tribe good, make them appreciate the things they had. They pointed out that the tribe was over halfway home. There would be other waterholes; they should carry on. The people grumbled but when the Elders moved off, they followed in their wake. Three days later, their supplies now pitifully low, the people fell back on one of the last resources of survival: their urine was collected and strained through sand; after many strainings there remained only half the original quantity. Mixed with the remaining water, it could be sipped to moisten the lips and mouth, especially the mouths of the children.

With the new moon they placed the first children on the death platform. Others would follow. The people were tiring faster, their bodies drying in the harsh sun, their lips cracked and dry. No longer able to walk in the midday sun, they lay under cover of the low shrubs and whatever rock overhangs they could find. Children cried for water. It was desperation time, and the tribe knew it. The sick and the weak were slowing their rate of travel. It was time to take measures to survive. With the coming of night, they would leave behind those that couldn't walk by themselves and push on.

Darkness closed in, a boy began to cough and dry-reach; the only thing in his guts, acid green bile. His mother sat helplessly, cradling his head. She stuck her dry and withered nipple in his mouth and urged him to suck. At first he was reluctant to take in his mouth that thing he had had no use for over the past twelve years. He was a man. He had been through the rites and ceremonies. He had stood the pain of initiation, he would accept the pain of dying. What sort of
man would suck his mothers tit to save himself from dying? But the biting pangs of hunger overcame his shame, and with the sucking came the first trickling drops of life-saving saliva.

His mother rocked him back and forth and began to sing their death song. She would not beg the spirits for mercy and a quick death. When the people left in the darkness, she would stay with her son and help him in his passing. She understood. She knew the tribe was being punished for not being satisfied with the lot that the Spirits had given them: the large, cool billabong, the easy living, their carefree ways. Now they were suffering; only the strong would make it back. Their lesson would be learned, and those that would follow them would understand they should never take for granted what the Spirits had given them.

The light of the new moon filtered down from above. Before the weak could realise what was happening, those who were strong enough moved out without a backward glance, without a word of goodbye, without leaving so much as a drop of water. They simply walked off into the night. The mother lifted the limp head from her lap and searched for her bowl; she had been saving her water all day, and now her bladder was tight and painful. She squatted over her largest earthenware bowl and wasted her urine, careful not to spill so much as a drop.

She was about to rise when she heard the first of the mewling sounds. Cautiously she looked about. Slowly she rose to her feet and stared at the scene before her. Under cover of darkness, the tribe had risen and left behind the sleeping, the weak and the dying. She walked among them and counted sixteen children, from crawling babies to youths. She looked among them to find any who would be able to care for them, and ease them on their way to the spirit world. There were only two: the girl Nellajidi and the youth Boodjang. Both
were about the same age as her son, but they would need to regain strength before they could begin to help her.

Surely one of the ancients could have stayed with them there were many old women in the tribe far beyond the age for producing children who could have remained. Anger boiled within her. Had they expected her to stay here with the children until the last had gone on his way to death? Was she to die with them? Her anger was laced with a tinge of bitter resentment for those that would leave their duties to another.

She heated the urine in the bowl on the coals of a fire, adding herbs and leaves. They gave off a heavy fragrance. While she watched the brew simmer, a large scorpion attracted by the light crept towards the fire. Deftly she struck it, ripped off its poisonous tail and threw it into the stew.

She searched for other nocturnal scavengers. To the brew she added dead skinks, a small desert sand mouse and her babies, a couple of crickets, a legless lizard, another scorpion and more of the fragrant leaves, slowly rendering the mixture down to a mushie pulp. It would either succour them or help them to a quicker death. She tasted the brew and nearly threw up it was so bitter.

When it had cooled, she placed a small stone under her tongue then took a couple of leaves and chewed them, filling her mouth with saliva. At the same time she rolled a small amount of the gruel into a ball. Then forcing her sons mouth wide, she spat in some of the juice of the leaf and popped in the ball of gruel. Chewing more leaves, she moved on to the next child, then the next, until all the gruel had been scraped from the bowl. Then she sat and watched. When a child whimpered, she would comfort him, soothing his fears. Slowly the children settled; the three youngest fell into a sleep
that frightened her. She placed her hand on their chest, and was relieved to feel the soft rise of their breathing.

She didn't remember going to sleep. But the dream had been very real. She had been there, she had seen it all at first-hand, and yet she knew she had never left this place. She saw her people camped for the day-light hours, as they had done here. She saw their departure, and there was not a child among them. They had abandoned the future of the tribe. Somewhere not far from here, more children lay unaware of their fate. Left to fend for themselves, they would be as good as dead before the next day's sun rose. She looked about her. Something caught her attention; a sound or movement, and urgently she peered into the night.

She wasn't sure whether she had returned to the world of dreams, but the form she followed was that of a woman. A spirit, a vision, a dream, she didn't care; when she faltered, the figure waited and beckoned her on. If it was a dream, then she could feel the rocks hard and sharp, and the scrub around her looked real enough. She stopped to gather her breath, and the form motioned for her to continue, then it disappeared. She slid between two great rocks, desperately searching for the figure she had been following. Suddenly she spotted it, a woman on her knees, digging in the sand at the base of a big rock.

Looking around, she checked her final bearings. When she looked back, the figure had gone. She moved quickly to the spot where the figure had been digging. Kneeling, she felt moisture on her knees. She began to dig, turning the sand back behind her. She hit the hard moist clay of the hillside and followed it down.

She reached into the hole and was surprised to find a small amount of water already gathering in the sand. She got down on her belly and lay with her head deep in the sandy hole;
gently she sucked up the first water she had tasted in two days. This was no dream. She got back to the task of making the hole larger and deeper, then waited patiently in the starlit darkness for the seepage. Unable to control her patience, she dipped her hand into the hole again. The water was slowly gathering.

She slid on to her stomach and drank long and deep, then filled her mouth with all she was able to hold and made her way back. She bent over her son, lying so still, then put her ear to his mouth and nostrils and felt the small puff of expelled air. She forced his mouth open and let the smallest trickle of water to escape into the parched interior. The boy coughed into wakefulness. She went to force his mouth open again, but found it a waiting receptacle. Slowly she let the water trickle down, waiting while he swallowed, then again, until he had taken it all.