The Kadaitcha Curse Page 9
The smell of the cooking food was good. Arunta helped his father to his feet and they joined the others around the glowing coals. Young cousin, Jannali, was sitting near the fire staring at the glowing coals. Her friend, Binda, was tearing some coloured pieces of cloth into strips.
“That is pretty,” observed Clare who was seated beside them on a log. “Where did you get it?”
“Thank you, Kaburra. My uncle traded some skins for it at the white fellas’ town,” she said, nodding eastwards.
Apart from the Taylor’s own homestead, there was nothing but plainlands in that direction for two days, but Binda’s uncle would make regular trips to the white settlement to trade for medicine and anything interesting that he thought the tribe might find useful. He usually bargained with kangaroo furs and rabbit meat.
More recently, however, the farmers’ wives had taken a liking to emu feathers. Binda’s uncle made out that these were extremely difficult to come by and for this reason he expected a very agreeable exchange. He would tell the gullible white women that the emus had to be put to sleep with some magic smoke. The magic smoke could only be made by burning the leaves of the very rare lay-lah bush, which, in reality, did not exist. He would also explain that care had to be taken to make sure the emu did not hurt itself by falling too heavily to the ground when the smoke took effect.
All in all, he would tell his audience, it took three highly-skilled men to collect the feathers – one with the ability to identify the bush that bore the magic leaves, one with the strength to catch the emu as it fell and then lower it carefully to the ground, and one with the skill to selectively pluck the feathers in such a way that the bird, once awake, would not realise that any were missing.
Well, this was, at least, what Binda’s uncle tried to say to the farmers. Binda herself believed that the white people would not have the slightest idea what this wild native man was saying to them. They would take his feathers, give him some medicine and trinkets and shoo him off, both parties believing they had been on the receiving end of a very good trade.
Upon returning from one trip, Binda’s uncle brought with him a concoction of medicines that the white folk swore would fix whatever ailment caused Yuka such pain. Yuka was reluctant to take the medicine.
“If Mirrin’s medicine does not heal me, what hope is there that white fella potions will be any better? That kadaitcha man’s magic is more powerful than all of it together.”
But he took it anyway. At least, he hoped, it might give him a little more time. Taylor knew that many people in town had very little time or respect for the aborigines so when he found out about all the medicine that had arrived at the camp he rode down and demanded to see what it was.
By that time Yuka had already consumed much of it and was in severe pain.
“Some of this is poison and the rest of it is rubbish!” exclaimed Taylor as he inspected the various bottles of so-called remedies and pills. And with that he threw what was left into the fire.
Yuka cursed himself for thinking even for a moment that he could change his fate and for two days the ache in his belly was so great that he wished to die then and there. But the thought of the kadaitcha man’s curse working with the help of the white people was enough to make him fight for his life.
Yuka also grudgingly accepted that some of Taylor’s good medicine may also have helped his recovery. But recovery, for Yuka, only meant a return to his usual state of weakness and sickness.
Now the two men sat side by side at the fire. Taylor stuffed his pipe with tobacco, put a burning stick to the bowl and offered it to Yuka. He refused.
“Belly too bad,” he said.
The fire flared as Kira threw on some more logs. The kangaroo would need plenty of hot coals.
“Come sit here, Jannali,” said Binda pointing to the ground between her feet, “and I will make you look even prettier than you already are.”
Jannali moved and sat cross-legged on the ground in front of Binda and let herself be decorated.
“Jannali,” Burnum called from the opposite side of the fire, “We collected many eggs today. Would you like to get them from my bag?”
Clare answered for her, “She is busy being made beautiful. Your father has asked her to dance for him tonight.”
“But you like eggs, cousin,” persisted Burnum. “Quickly, fetch them before they hatch and fly away.”
“Leave her alone!” admonished Clare. “If she moves now her beautiful hair will be spoiled. I will fetch your eggs,” she said.
Burnum’s eyes opened wide with horror. The trick was a good one to play on a young cousin, but not such a good trick to play on Miss Clare. He wanted to impress her, not give her a fright. But before he could stop her, Clare had reached for Burnum’s bag and put her hand inside.
Her squeal made all at the camp stop what they were doing and look in her direction. She threw the bag at Burnum and the slimy eel fell out onto his lap. Arunta rolled on the ground laughing and the old men chuckled.
“Silly boy!” scolded his mother. “You frightened Kaburra. Leave the poor girl alone.”
“I am sorry,” said Burnum genuinely. “The trick was intended for Jannali.”
“Well, that is no better,” grandma joined in. “If the girls are afraid…”
“I am not afraid, aunty,” interrupted Clare, “but I was expecting eggs not a big, slippery eel.” Her annoyance did not last very long nor did the interest of the rest of the tribe. After a few moments she looked across at Burnum. “Tell me, Burnum” she said, “how did you catch it?”
“He found it floating upside down in the water,” teased Arunta. Burnum threw his brother a disapproving glare.
The gangurru meat was a delicious accompaniment to the story of the emu ride, the fight with the dingo, the lucky goanna and the unlucky eel, which, everybody agreed, was the tastiest part of the meal.
They were all delighted with Jannali’s dance. Her hair twirled with colour as she mimicked perfectly with her arms and hands the movement of the emu through the bush.
They all watched, intrigued, as Grandmother Mirrin took her turn. As a young woman, Mirrin, for reasons that she had never put to words, had left the tribe for many years. Now, dressed in a skirt of feathers and with dancing board in hand, she told with her face, her movement and her song the story of a girl who had been stolen under cover of a moonless night and spent a long time away from home; a girl who had lived amongst strangers, black and white, until, with a child of her own, she found her way back to her loved ones. Everyone present knew they were being given a rare and special gift; a glimpse into Mirrin’s secret time.
They were all entranced as Clare produced a small music box that had belonged to her mother. She carefully wound it up and proceeded to sing her own song to the melancholy tune.
When sun burns your skin
And you're far far from home
When the wells offer nothing but mud
When sand stings your eyes
When you're lying alone
Remember, remember our love
As Clare’s song continued her face shone orange with the glowing coals. All were captivated by the sweet voice that filled the silence. Even the fellas there that didn’t know much of her language knew it was a song of separation and sadness and love.
Although Arunta did not take well to the reading that Mr Taylor and Clare had tried so hard to teach him, as he listened now to the beautiful songstress he promised himself that he would remember every word and take them with him on the long journey.
It was left to Burnum to lift their spirits with a dance that captured the excitement of what he considered to be the most special event of the day, the capture of the slimy noyang. It was not until he had nearly speared his foot several times that Kira called a stop to it.
It was late when the stories, the food, the dancing and the singing were finished. Edward Taylor and Clare bade a final farewell to Yuka.
“I will do what I can for yo
ur family, my friend,” said Taylor reassuringly. He then offered a gesture that would bind their families for generations. “Although you are known to us as Yuka your name is Arunta, which means white bird. That is your son’s name as well. From now on this property will be known as White Bird Station.”
Yuka nodded slightly and accepted his words in silence.
After the festivities of the evening Burnum felt that this was too sombre a note upon which to finish. “Goodnight, Kaburra,” he called as the farmer and his daughter climbed into their dray. “Be careful not to bump your head as you go through your door!”
This made them all laugh; even Clare at whose expense the joke was made. When she was a young child and quite used to the name that Mirrin had given her, it had occurred to Clare to ask about its origin. Being cared for much of the time by Mirrin, Kira and other women in the tribe, Clare was developing a good grasp of their language. During her absent time, Mirrin had learned several other aboriginal languages and a useful amount of English. So it turned out that Mirrin and Clare could hold conversations that most others had difficulty in following. Mirrin would try to converse in English and when she was lost for a word would use the local dialect. Clare did the opposite.
“Aunty, is it true that when an aboriginal baby is born, the parents will sometimes give it a name that means something special at the time?”
“That is true, Kaburra. My name, Mirrin, means storm cloud. I was born on a very hot and dry day. There had been no rain for a long time. At the moment of my first cry a single dark cloud appeared in the far sky. This was a sign of hope, an omen that it might soon rain and our creeks would again be full. And so it happened. As soon as I was old enough to walk my parents named me Mirrin.”
“Is that how it was with me, Aunty? I know I was born beside the river, so what does kaburra mean? What did you see? Water? Willow? Or lilies? Or did you feel a cool breeze?”
“Oh, they would be very pretty names. But kaburra does not mean any of them. The first thing I saw when you were born was kaburra, your big head!”
Over the years the boys had often tried to tease Clare by retelling this story. But every time, much to their annoyance, she laughed as well.
As she disappeared with her father into the darkness, Arunta stared after them. Clare and he had grown up together and, with Burnum, had shared many adventures. He had always thought of Clare more as mullala, younger sister, than friend. But something was changing and he found himself wondering how long it would be before he again saw her beautiful smile.
A slap on the shoulder broke his reverie. “Brother,” said Burnum, “Maybe it was you who should have been gathering eggs.”
Although all in the tribe could be accommodated in their huts for sleeping, they often chose to spend the nights in the open under the stars and use the shelter only if resting in the heat of the day or during inclement weather. They would look up at the seven sisters and know when the time was approaching to move to a new hunting ground.
At least that is how it was in the earlier days when their camp was somewhat more basic; a few humpies, little more than branches and leaves. The whole tribe would move from one hunting ground to another, following the food. But these days the older people, most of the women and all of the children would stay in this place while the men went out for short periods of time to hunt. They would always return to their camp.
As Arunta pressed his back against Kalu’s warm fur and closed his eyes to sleep that night, the last wisps of smoke floated up to the stars.