By | 1 December 2009

We lived and farmed, my convict father and I, on the last
clear patch by the Cudgegong River, our hut right beneath
the enveloping hills. On each flat-top there crouched a beast

of stone, these animals glared like sphinxes through a wreath
of trees, guards for the far, black mountains, set to keep
us from their gates. And this land of the valley had a breath:

the tribe. They swam through the bush as an eel in the green deep
of the river, weaving through the dimness. Two peoples, one place
with water, and where the land was fat for game or sheep.

More settlers arrived, and after drink men threatened to chase
that mob of blacks away. From his old scars, so aware
was dad of persecution, behind whatever face,

that he warned me away from the boy. We'd met by the river last year
on the hunt for one quarry, and had fallen in together.
To see me, he'd lean on our gum out the back, standing there

till I'd slip away from my jobs, then we'd go fishing or slither
through the reeds to hunt. I even learnt a few words of their talk,
though never thought to teach him ours, and ignored my father,

happy to see the boy beneath our tree, and walk
after him through the bush. When agate faced, with no laugh
or sign as usual, he grabbed my wrists, then turned to stalk

between the wattles. One heart beat's halt and I headed off
to follow, sticking close behind, though he took a track
far from the valley, among steep hills where the going was tough.

My doubts were surrendered to his sure stride and his lack
of hesitation among the sandstone walls, till I
was lost beyond my own returning, no going back

before the dusk. The last of twilight had left the sky
when we stopped by a creek, merely a skim of water on sand,
here the boy mixed ochre, red and white, to apply

in streaks on our chests, and on our cheeks with prints of his hand.
We'd come to a secret place, a ground for ceremony:
one tree, and in a ring, thousands of prints in the sand

treading, re-treading round the white trunk like the many
long years spun on this axis. All ages seemed to twine
together, so that turning about and about in the honey

of thickened history, could concentrate, in this time,
some thing of the past to be touched. Ritual performed we sealed
the tree with our palms in blood-red ochre as a sign,

ending our dive through ages, and slept till dawn revealed,
among gullies scraped out by claws of darkness, our track
to home. Where at midday we washed and I hid behind a shield

of wattles to watch my father. He was sitting, his back
to the door, when I'd stepped out and said, trying to be bold,
‘I got bushed the other side of the river.' ‘Not with that black,'

he retorted. ‘No, alone' I said. ‘That's what I told
the neighbours, that you were missing, taken away by him.'
I was led inside to eat. My old man didn't scold

or ask another question, but stared over the rim
of his cup at me as I worried the cold meat and damper.
That's when the shooting started, bangs that by the whim

of the wind echoed round the hut. A party of campers
perhaps, but the sound had built and built. I'd tried to shut
tight my ears to the rolling climax and, like a dog, scampered

by instinct to the door. My father held it closed, ‘stay put!'
was all he said. I curled on the mattress, each shot a pound
in the guts, though I'd no grip on the happenings a mile from the hut.

But I'd seen hunts: when startled by dogs a grey would bound
big-eyed through the trees, and then the shot and then the ‘roo
would collapse in a rolling tumble, to kick and thrash on the ground.

Then the dogs would pile in. If you wanted to keep the meat, they'd shoo
them away, but if it was near the end of the hunt, with enough
in the bag, to keep them keen, the pack would be let go.

And the men would stand and watch. There was firing on and off
into the night and later, with father asleep, I stared
at the moonlight splayed, shot on the dirt floor, silver and soft.

Of course some got away, to the pathless country, and speared
a sheep when they could. I was part of that people, by rite
and by guilt, and when in town with those men I never dared

to look up, knowing I was an excuse for that night,
and I chucked my guts when I saw blood on our gum at first light

This entry was posted in 37: EPIC and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work: