Flock Page 2

  Bellies filled and pannikins brimful of tea, they sat around yarning, talking of the past, present and future. Bunji, who was about thirty, had been to school and was an inquiring sort of bloke. He’d worked in town and city and was an avid book reader, always in search of fresh knowledge.

  Knughy, on the other hand, was old – how old, no one seemed to know. Some other old men even declared that Knughy was old when they were boys long ago. How old he really was is anybody’s guess. His education came from mustering and droving and Murri camps: his learning from the land. He could read the land like a book. For him it told stories just like printed words and he still signed his name with a cross – yet he could decipher cattle, sheep and horse brands and over the years he had gained much knowledge of his tribal land and its laws, both past and present.

  As the sun sank lower and the trees cast longer shadows, the birds flew in to drink at the billabong, screeching and cackling. Some hovered at its edge, others perched on protruding logs. Then a mob of bleating sheep came cavorting down the bank to drink there too, spreading right along the edge of the billabong and taking over from the birds.

  ‘Bloody stupid animals, thum-bas,’ said Knughy.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Bunji. ‘Only things sillier are people who try to work them without a dog.’ Then an idea came to him. ‘Hey, let’s get one of them!’ he said. ‘Him fill up tuckerbag good and proper.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Knughy, ‘too close to the road here. Might be station owner come along – might be Ghung-a-ble (police) come along. Where you be then, hey?’

  ‘Might be if Ghungie come I jump on horse and gallop away bush. Might be I jump into waterhole and swim away,’ Bunji said.

  ‘Might be you get caught … might be you drown … ’cause this is a funny waterhole, you know,’ Knughy told him.

  ‘Hey, what d’you know about this place?’ Bunji asked.

  And now he recalled that it was called Combo waterhole, and it was supposed to be here the Jolly Swagman had stolen a thum-ba from Dagworth Station as he camped … maybe under this very coolabah tree. He had been surprised by the police, jumped into the waterhole and drowned. Bunji explained this piece of withoo history to Knughy in detail, and told him how it led Banjo Paterson to write the song ‘Waltzing Matilda’.

  ‘There’s real, real history in this place, old man,’ Bunji said.

  ‘Might be this a good place, might be this a bad place,’ the old man replied. His features were like dark, weathered leather. ‘Might be this a real bad place … might be whonboo (ghost) here too.’

  ‘What do you know about this place, old man? Tell me,’ urged Bunji.

  By this time the sheep had gone bleating away, the sun had set, a few frogs croaked in the billabong and from the tree branches came the subdued carkle carkle carkle of the roosting birds.

  ‘You know,’ Bunji said, ‘I’ve been reading and listening to a lot of different stories about that Jolly Swagman and don’t know what to believe or think about him. What d’you reckon, old man?’

  ‘Well, my boy,’ said Knughy, knocking his bent-stemmed pipe against the coolabah tree before filling it with tobacco which he cut from a square, dark plug. ‘Lotta history about here all right. Now you take that so-called Jolly Swagman – how d’you reckon a swaggie would feel jolly after tramping all day with his tuckerbag empty, belly pinching – might be his feet been aching too. Might be he had other problems, like he make ’em big bhudie (fire) in sacred place longa woolshed where they shear them thum-ba …

  ‘I can tell you that long time before all that happen, people still came walking here. This waterhole was proper sit-down place then, with plenty yudie, plenty fish, sugar-bag (honey) too. These people, they all belonga this land and they say – if you want ’em tucker you take ’em yudie. There weren’t no branded or earmarked animals in them days. The laws said you could take ’em yudie if you was hungry. And it might be, like that swagman, after they sitting down a while, they move on to hunt another place.

  ‘By and by other tribes come with horses, cattle, sheep and all the proper yudie become scarce. People don’t belong to land no more, the land belong to people, and the animals too. This mob, they start walkabout looking for proper sit-down place, and if they come to place where others sit down first, those people say, “You fella gotta move on. We here first, this our sit-down place.”

  ‘Now I don’t know about that swagman. Might be he come along hopeful and happy, looking for sit-down place, might be he feeling real jolly with his tuckerbag empty, belly pinching and feet aching. Then them thum-bas come down to water while he’s sitting under this coolabah tree with his billy on the boil. Well, he grabs one, butchers it up and has a big feed. He real Jolly Swagman then, belly bulging, tuckerbag full. He sits there singing, no worries – and that’s when them Ghungies come riding silently along. They seen that thum-ba’s fresh skin, no meat in it, in the creekbed. “Hey, that’s strange,” they think. Might be someone been steal thum-ba belonging to big fella boss owns country, owns animals – might be his own Ghungies, too.

  ‘But he don’t own Jolly Swagman. The Ghungies hear this happy singing and ride up, yelling: “We’ve got you red-handed. Where’s your dilly bag with the yudie in it belonging to mar-thar (boss)?” – “I’m the singing swagman. Ya can have the squatter’s meat. Take my bloody swag as well! Prison bars won’t shut me in! I’ll escape across the water!” – Then he jumps into the billabong, swims like a man possessed – until, with the opposite bank and freedom in his sight, suddenly he turns and begins to wave his arms like a band conductor, starts singing out of tune – and sinks.’ Knughy paused. ‘One of them Ghungies, I bin told, remembered that swagman’s song, and that’s how the music came about.’ He refilled his pipe, then went on: ‘Others say the swagman was swearing at the Ghungies as he sank, screaming: “I’ll come back to haunt youse, you hacks of landed gents!” And then he sank beneath the muddy brown water – pulled down with cramps, some say. But others say that other, more knowing eyes were watching from their hiding-place, and the Jolly Swagman was pulled down by the great water spirit, the Munta-gutta.’

  As Knughy paused again to tamp down the tobacco in his pipe, from across the water came a screeching sound like a banshee, followed by loud splashing sounds like a flock of ducks landing. It was so loud it startled the horses feeding close by. Hobble chains clinked and horse bells donged as the animals gave restless jumps.

  ‘What you reckon that is?’ said Bunji nervously.

  ‘Oh, maybe it’s ducks landing – but then they usually sing out. And maybe that screaming sound is curlews.’ Knughy shrugged. ‘But to get back to the history of that swagman. Here’s another version. Might be he came from that big sit-down place over that way’ – he pointed with arm extended in a south-easterly direction. ‘Well, over there they have been having this big bubblie and they bin fighting with the Ghungies. Afterwards this swagman goes walkabout, see, and might be he starts this bhudie (fire) in the mar-thar (boss cockie) sacred site, where them thum-bas are shorn. Then he comes along here, happy and singing, heading back to his proper sit-down place. But soon he begins to feel hungry and tired, so he camps here under this tree. He feels in his dilly bag – nothing there, no yudie, no mhuntha (bread); he got tea and sugar, billycan, swag, butcher knife. That’s all. His belly’s pinching. Soon some thum-bas come down thirsty – they want gummu (water). Well, that Jolly Swagman, he’s real happy now. He grabs one of them thum-bas and soon he’s singing again, no worries. The billycan’s boiling, the dilly bag’s full of yudie and his belly’s bulging. He’s singing so loudly he can’t hear the horses coming … the Ghungies ride up and find him. They don’t know for sure if he stole that thum-ba or set that bhudie in the mar-thar sacred place, but they say, “We got ya now red-handed! Give yerself up, we’re the law!”’

  Once again old Knughy paused to refill his pipe. ‘And that’s when the Jolly singing Swagman made h
is fatal mistake,’ he continued. ‘He decided to go for a swim.’

  ‘But didn’t he make a mistake when he stole that sheep and burnt down the shearing shed?’ Bunji interjected. ‘He might have got away with both those things.’

  ‘No, no,’ Knughy replied. ‘Young fellas like you should learn from this story.’

  ‘What can I learn?’ asked Bunji. ‘Don’t steal sheep, be careful where I light a fire, don’t try to escape from lawful custody – is that all, old man?’

  Knughy shook his head emphatically. ‘The point is this: under no circumstances should you dive into deep water with a full belly. That’s what killed that Jolly Swagman, my boy – going for a swim on a full belly.’

  Bunji closed his eyes and sat silently for a moment, pondering this new-found information. Then, his eyes still closed, he asked: ‘But what about them sounds, what about the Munta-gutta, what about the whonboo (ghost), what about …’ He rambled on, but soon discovered he was talking to himself. For Knughy had silently slipped away, rolled out his swag, and was soon snoring his head off.

  Bunji got up, looked around warily, then pulled his own swag closer to the old man. His mind was in turmoil. What could he believe? What was fact, what was fiction? What was reality, what was myth? Was history true or false? Suddenly he recollected an image of the past, and recalled the words of wisdom from his mother. She had always insisted: ‘My boy, never but never swim on a full stomach.’

  Could that really have been the cause of the death of the Jolly Swagman, he wondered.

  Shadows on the Wall

  Archie Weller

  Archie Weller was born in 1957. His first novel, The Day of the Dog, was shortlisted for the Vogel Award and won the fiction award in the literature section of the Western Australian Week Literary Awards. Archie has also published Land of the Golden Clouds and Going Home, an acclaimed collection of short stories, plays and poems.

  It started over a cigarette. Such simple things are a big issue when strangers are crammed into small spaces under a great deal of duress.

  ‘Gnummerai-wa, coodah,’ he croaked after being tossed into the cell unceremoniously. The shaven-headed white man ignored him as he had ignored the other youth all evening. The other youth who now made the hand sign for ‘nothing’.

  He did have cigarettes but he wasn’t sharing them with this pugnacious stranger who had been aggressive the moment the constable in charge of this town manhandled him through the door of the police station. In fact the violence that radiated from him like writhing serpents of smoke frightened the placid youth and besides he needed the smokes for tomorrow when he was released and his hangover hit him. So he pretended he had nothing and let the thin Nyoongah pace the small area of the cell in agitation and boiling anger not cured by a calming cigarette. They didn’t even observe the usual Nyoongah courtesy of trading names, working out who someone was and where they fit in.

  In the dark hours of early morning he went to have a quiet smoke then turned, sensing the hot gaze on him.

  ‘Wanker! Shove ya poxy smokes up ya tight kwon. Anyone ud think they was made of solid gold, ya stingy bastard.’ But this was the tiny bit of power he wielded – who can and cannot have a smoke. He smiled at the angry stranger who grumbled then rolled over to go to sleep. But the stranger didn’t let it go forgotten. The person had broken a code of the street – to share whatever anyone had as no-one had much of anything.

  All the next day there had been smouldering silent resentment and the odd barbed comment, the white man observing the hidden violence seething in the youth’s chest, being cynically amused. He looked on the one youth as a little bantam rooster strutting in a filthy barnyard thinking himself king of the world and the other youth as a pathetic drunk. Both were abos, people least deserving of this man’s sympathy – if he had any to give. But it had amused him wondering what interesting developments might occur in this tiny space between the two and was disappointed when there was only stifling resentment and deliberate disregard. A good barney would have livened up the day spent in this boring no-name town.

  As to the two Nyoongahs they ignored the white man, the one because he hated all white people and the other because he was shy of strangers coming into his little world – especially a stranger as big and dangerous as this man appeared to be.

  Pale sunshine crept through the rusty wire mesh on the window as the last light of day sent their shadows dancing blackly on the wall as they paced restlessly up and down. The older youth was darker than the younger one, more thin than slim, with pigeon chest, skinny arms covered in scrawled ink tattoos explaining his love life with various female names, his thoughts – on his left upper arm some sort of flower and ‘Mum foreva’ written by a less than skilful hand – or attempts of art like the spider’s web splaying outwards from his elbow down his right arm.

  His nickname was ‘Spider’ and he carried it with pride. Some, like the white man observing these two, would have said no such emotion resided in his bony body, with his shifty downcast eyes and shuffling feet. They didn’t know his mind that burned like a fiery furnace and the knowledge he carried with him everywhere – the name his father had left him with and who his father was.

  His father had murdered two innocent lovers down on an isolated beach one balmy summer’s night. He had come across them while they hugged in passionate embrace and after tying them up had robbed them then raped the woman then murdered them both. He got life for murder and had even been on death row before it was abolished and committed suicide when he could no longer take a life forever behind bars. Yes, Spider found out all about Benjy Cockles when he was just twelve years old from a woman in the park who said she was Benjy’s cousin. He kept that name like a warrior would keep a medal for it made him who he was.

  Bleak eyes look out of a sullen face while he thinks up some comment to annoy the other Nyoongah in the cell – Mr Tight-arse who couldn’t even share a single poxy smoke. He was angry with himself for becoming trapped like a dingo in this useless dusty town; caught like a novice as this dirty smelly youth must be instead of the professional he was. He had given a false name but it should not take the constable long to figure out who he really was with his tattoos on show. So he paced angrily like a caged lion, wishing himself far away from this place.

  The other youth, a local lad, had been in here countless times. He wasn’t bad, just stupid, his peers and elders said. He enjoyed a drop, others said kindly. The truth – at twenty-three he had given up on life, a hopeless drunk, never doing anything violent or vicious, letting the warm red port or cool amber beer soak through his body. He would sing songs, crack jokes and be the clown. Except sometimes he sang too loudly or his jokes weren’t funny to some people or his clownish antics only annoyed and did not amuse his audience. Then he ended up here.

  He paced because he was hanging out for a drink. Usually he was let out to tend the garden the constable’s wife had going, getting up a bit of a sweat, finding his own way back to the cell left open for him. Where would he run to if he did decide to escape? The next town was over a hundred kilometres away. He was good old Gary, a harmless drunk who had started drinking young and would die young of a ruined liver and no one would miss him at all.

  But overnight two strangers came into the little town’s world. Spider, slipping like a ghost through the darkening streets, had just his shadow for company as always. Thinking himself safe in this outback hamlet he had done what came natural to him: break into a residence for food, drink, perhaps a blanket or coat to keep warm as he went his transitional way; but was caught climbing out the window like a first-timer.

  Meanwhile the large white man was being transferred to Perth when the prison van broke down – these private companies who ran prisons now were noticeably incompetent – forcing them to stay over in Gary’s town and Gary’s home. It was what the constable had chuckled at as he let the beefy shaven-headed man with his cold blue eyes into the ce
ll.

  ‘You’ve got a guest tonight, Gaz, so be the good host and show him the ropes,’ he grinned and Gary sensed with a growing despondency he would be staying inside his whole term this time. He tried a smile but the big white man turned his back ignoring him scornfully to stare out the barbed and meshed window. No escape there either, he thought. He hunched down angrily in the corner.

  I could have made it, he thinks. Be in Thailand, Vietnam or any Asian country, sipping ice-cold drinks with a couple of young Asian beauties sitting naked beside me.

  But that jealous bitch in Darwin …

  ‘I’ll just get a pizza, Donny, darling. I’ll bet they don’t have pizzas in Indonesia,’ she had said, knowing full well she hadn’t been invited.

  He should have realised – the smartest bank robber in the country who had done over fifteen banks in three years. Not just small amounts either but thousands, organising the jobs carefully; doing it by himself or with his brother – with clever disguises and meticulous planning. They had had enough stashed away for a rich and peaceful life among the jungles of a poor but safe foreign land. They would be kings …

  He smells the salt air of the port. Tonight his brother has paid a cargo ship captain to sail them over to Jakarta. He can taste freedom on his lips that curl upwards in a cynical superior smile. He can hear muted laughter of golden-skinned girls with sloe-black eyes and exquisitely formed lips and hips. He can see the mansion he and his brother will buy with walls so white they hurt the eyes, a swimming pool so blue it hurts the senses, his own personal bar like he has seen on movies. He … and his brother … will be richer than any movie star.

  Quick furtive shadowy figures against the window. Before he can grab the gun beside him or make his escape, the door bursts in and shouting screaming men pour in to hurl him from out of the bed and out of his dreams.