The Girl with No Name Page 8

  Then Matthew had a dreadful thought. ‘You’re not going to kill them, are you?’ No-name laughed and shook her head.

  ‘People used to eat dingo, before. But today we don’t kill them. Poorfellers; we let them walk round. Some people eat them all right, but not us mob.’

  ‘That’s good. I wouldn’t like to eat this little fellow – girl, I mean.’

  ‘You want to take ’im home? You can make ’im quiet.’

  But Matthew shook his head. He was very tempted, but he had heard stories about people trying to make pets of dingoes. They were all right while they were little, but when they started to grow up they had a mind of their own and couldn’t be tamed. Lots of people had tried, but no one he knew had succeeded in keeping a dingo as a pet for long. They killed chooks and caused all sorts of damage. In the end they usually had to be shot. Besides that, he knew it was against the law to keep them, and he could imagine his parents’ reaction if he turned up with a dingo pup.

  ‘No, leave them here where they belong,’ he said.

  They put the pups down and watched them disappear into their hole.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon wandering slowly back, looking for tracks. Nothing caught No-name’s interest, and they eventually stopped to sit on a fallen log near the camp. They watched a hawk being chased away from a tree by a fierce little bird a fraction of its size.

  The other members of the family returned one by one. No-name’s mother threw a pile of dry leaves on the embers of the fire, added more wood, and set the bucket to boil for the last time that day. The sun went down over the horizon, stars appeared, and Matthew watched the silhouettes of the trees gradually blur.

  After a snack of leftover meat and the last pannikins of tea, swags were unrolled and before long everyone was getting ready for sleep. No-name lay near her mother and grandmother at one side of the fire. Matthew noticed that Peter and his uncle had made a separate sleeping place in the shadows. He pulled his sleeping-bag off the bed-frame where No-name had left it in the morning.

  ‘You can sleep on the bed,’ her mother said, but everyone else was lying on the ground, and Matthew didn’t want to be different.

  ‘It’s okay, I like sleeping on the ground.’

  ‘Well, grab that swag.’ The woman jerked her head towards a canvas bed-roll that didn’t seem to have an owner.

  Matthew dragged the swag into the shadows away from the embers of the fire, not far from Peter and his uncle, unrolled it and lay down.

  Unused to going to bed so early – he thought it could be no later than eight o’clock when they had all settled down – and still rested from the sleep he had had in the afternoon, Matthew lay awake for a long time. He watched the sky, and picked out different constellations that he knew. The millions of stars in the Milky Way stretched across the sky as they had stretched for ever. He thought of all the generations of human beings that had lain on the ground at night and wondered at the stars, as he did now. The artists of Goanna Gorge had done the same. They too had listened to the unceasing rhythm of cicadas hidden in the dark trees.

  After a while, Matthew got up and walked some distance from the camp to relieve his bladder of all the tea he had drunk. He turned to go back to his swag, but after a few moments of walking in the darkness he realised he had lost his bearings. He stood still, looking for the glow from the embers of the fire, but could see nothing but blackness. He moved to one side, and looked again. Nothing.

  ‘Damn! I should have used my torch,’ he told himself, filled with embarrassment at the thought of having to call out and admit he had lost his way again. He stared hard into the darkness ahead, and to each side, not wanting to risk moving further away from the camp. Shapes of trees seemed to form in front of him as he looked. Then there was the stirring of a breeze, and he saw a flicker of flame. It died at once, but now he knew the way. As he got closer, he felt rather than heard another figure moving about. Then No-name’s voice: ‘Matthew?’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Matthew, coming closer to the voice. ‘I can’t sleep.’

  No-name’s hand brushed his arm. ‘Yeah.’

  By now they were standing close to the embers of the fire. No-name tossed a piece of wood on it, and sat down on the ground. Matthew sat beside her. For a while they didn’t speak. Matthew felt utterly at peace. He shielded his eyes from the glow of the fire and gazed upwards.

  ‘Look at all those stars,’ he said at last.

  ‘You know that emu?’ asked No-name.

  ‘Emu?’ said Matthew, not sure what she meant.

  ‘That big emu in the sky?’

  ‘No, where?’

  ‘See that dark place, near the Cross?’

  ‘Near the Southern Cross? Yes. We call that the Coal Sack.’

  ‘Coal sack?’ said No-name, not understanding. ‘Well, that’s ’is head.’

  ‘The emu’s head?’ said Matthew, not seeing. ‘Where’s its body?’

  ‘Right along there.’ No-name gave a sweep of her hand that seemed to take in half the night. Matthew searched the sky. He thought at first that he was supposed to be looking for stars in a constellation shaped like an emu, and couldn’t see them. No-name showed him again. ‘ ’E’s all dark,’ she said.

  Matthew looked again, starting at the Southern Cross. Suddenly, there it was – a huge, shadowy emu spread right across the Milky Way.

  ‘I can see it!’ he said. ‘I can see it! A giant emu!’ He etched out its shape with his hand.

  Just then, someone stirred in the darkness, and spoke. No-name answered, and then there was silence again. Matthew and No-name got up shortly afterwards, and went back to their own swags.

  ‘See you in the morning,’ said Matthew before they separated. For a long time he lay in his swag tracing with his eyes the shape of the giant emu that had until this night been hidden from him.

  The next morning, after a breakfast of damper, tinned meat and tea, everyone packed up the car again. Matthew was surprised they were leaving so early.

  ‘We’re going hunting halfway,’ No-name explained. This time Matthew climbed onto the back with No-name and Peter, and the two women squeezed into the front seat.

  The car bumped through the bush, back along the way they had come the previous day. As they came to a turn they stopped and No-name’s uncle sounded his horn. A few moments later, the people who had got off there yesterday reappeared from the bush, laden with all their belongings.

  ‘They got their own camp in there,’ No-name explained to Matthew.

  The children ran to the car, all talking at once, and climbed up on the back. There was a more sedate exchange of news between the adults, then instructions flew, and Peter jumped down to help the women load their things, while Alfie lifted up the smaller children. They too had some cooked meat left over from a successful hunting expedition. The rear of the ute seemed to sag as the last passengers climbed aboard.

  They headed north for only the first few kilometres. At Omega Creek they turned off west again, down a rough track that followed the dry creek bed. The family seemed to know every square metre of the countryside, and wherever they stopped there was no hesitation about heading off into the bush on foot to look for game.

  As was becoming his habit, Matthew followed No-name, who carried her wooden hunting stick. She stopped every now and then to point out to him something new. An almost invisible mark in the sand drew her attention.

  ‘Look,’ she said, and Matthew wondered what it was he was supposed to see. No-name touched the sand with her toe, and up flew a grasshopper. She laughed at Matthew’s surprise, and did the same thing again a little further on.

  She pointed to a shallow, circular depression, no bigger than a five-cent coin, and then squatted down beside it. With the tips of her fingers she carefully lifted from the sand the edge of a hinged lid, beneath which was a tiny, perfectly round hole leading straight down.

  ‘You can see anything?’ she said. Matthew peered into the hole, and could just make out the f
orelegs and head of a spider, crouched inside the entrance. The lid seemed to be made of densely woven spider’s web. No-name carefully replaced it over the hole, and they went on.

  ‘Snake!’ she said suddenly, looking at the ground near a clump of grass. Matthew looked too. All he could see was a slight shine to the sand, where it had been lightly flattened in one spot, but No-name was already following the track while he still stood there. He ran to catch up. ‘How do you know which way it’s going?’ he asked, but she just laughed.

  ‘You can see which way,’ she said by way of explanation.

  ‘What if it’s poisonous?’ Matthew wanted to know.

  His companion shook her head. ‘No, ’e not poison; ’e quiet one,’ she said.

  Again Matthew was mystified. The track ran over a patch of bare sand, and at last Matthew could see it clearly: a heavy, almost straight track flattening the sand, going slightly downhill.

  ‘See – ’e going that way,’ said No-name. Further on, the track went up a slight hump, and here it was no longer straight, but zig-zagged from side to side. Matthew stopped and looked at it carefully. Of course, he thought: going downhill the snake would be helped by gravity, but going uphill it had to wriggle, and so the tracks it made were different. He felt pleased with himself; he was beginning to understand the sort of clues No-name must be reading all the time as she walked along fast just ahead of him.

  The tracks disappeared into another patch of dense spinifex, and No-name walked in a loop all around it, carefully inspecting the ground to see if the snake had come out anywhere. Apparently it hadn’t, and she started pushing the spiky clumps of grass to this side and that. At length she revealed a hole tucked well underneath a particularly dense clump. Breaking off a long thin dry stick from a nearby wattle bush, she started probing the hole carefully.

  ‘ ’im here,’ she said, now stabbing the stick into the ground all around the hole, until she had located the tunnel.

  Matthew, who was watching the mouth of the burrow, saw a dark coil slide up and then back on itself. ‘Here it is!’ he shouted excitedly. ‘It’s coming out!’

  No-name probed again, and the coil slid faster. Then a shiny black head appeared at the burrow’s entrance, tongue flicking. Matthew jumped back. No-name, on her knees only inches from the snake’s head, gave it a few more jabs and sat back on her heels. The snake, agitated, slid quickly out of the hole and through the grass.

  ‘Give me that stick,’ No-name said, dropping the dry one she had used for probing, and holding out her hand while keeping her eyes fixed on the snake. Matthew looked around, and saw the hunting stick resting against a tussock of grass where she had left it. He grabbed it and handed it to No-name. On her feet now, she poised the stick for a moment, then with a swift movement brought it down firmly on the snake, just behind its head, pinning it to the ground. Its body convulsed. Then, to Matthew’s alarm she stepped on the snake’s head, holding it down with her bare foot. The snake’s body coiled and thrashed. The girl bent down, carefully grasped the snake by its neck, then took her foot away and straightened up. The snake hung writhing from her hand. She held it out for Matthew to look at. ‘Black-head,’ she told him.

  ‘A black-headed python?’ Matthew had seen them pictured in books and knew they were not dangerous, but this was the first one he had seen alive and at close quarters. He reached out and touched it, feeling the strong, muscular body moving under his hand, the warm back, the silky-smooth yellow scales on its belly. He took the snake from No-name’s hand, holding it firmly just behind its head, as she had done. He looked into its black, shiny eyes, and wondered what it was feeling. It hung heavy in his hand. He lifted the tail in his other hand, and placed a loop of the snake over his neck. He felt it slide around and squeeze him with its strong coils. He thought of boa constrictors.

  ‘Kill ’im now,’ No-name told him, but Matthew shook his head. He liked the feel of the harmless reptile, and was already beginning to sympathise with it.

  ‘Can’t we let it go?’ he said, sounding a bit foolish even to himself, and knowing what the answer would be.

  ‘ ’E’s good to eat,’ No-name assured him, lifting the snake from his neck. She held it up so that it hung straight, and ran her free hand down its belly, which made a gurgling sound. Matthew winced. ‘Fatfeller,’ she said. Then, taking the tail in one hand, she raised the snake in the air, at the same time letting go of its head, and in one lightning movement she whipped it against the ground. She did this twice more, then threw it down. The snake continued to writhe.

  ‘It’s still alive!’ said Matthew, slightly shocked at the sudden brutal act, but No-name shook her head. She picked the snake up again, and showed Matthew that its head hung limply: its neck was broken. Yet its body went on moving as if it were still alive. Matthew told himself, if this was hunting, he’d have to get used to it.

  No-name handed Matthew the dead snake. He looked at it with a twinge of pity. Then he slung it around his neck to carry it back to the car. The reptile went on contracting, and he repeatedly had to adjust it to stop it sliding off. Several times he looked at the dangling head to remind himself that the python really was dead.

  The others were already waiting, but apart from No-name only her uncle had caught anything. He had killed two goannas, both in the same burrow, he told them. No-name described killing the snake. When she came to the part about Matthew wanting to let it go, everyone laughed.

  ‘Good meat, that one!’ said her mother.

  When the snake had been cooked, rolled up like a tyre, along with the goanna, Matthew had the opportunity to taste it for himself. He tried a little of the meat, pulled in thin strips from the fine, curved bones that reminded him of the bones of fish. His stomach rebelled at the idea, but he forced himself to swallow it, and had to admit it didn’t taste bad. Even so, he felt happier eating the piece of goanna tail he was offered next.

  After a rest, it was time to go home. The old ute bumped its way back to the highway, and in what seemed like no time dusk was falling and they were coming into the town. The lights shone a welcome.

  The ute dropped Matthew at his door, and he stood watching its rear lights disappear down the road before he went inside. He sensed at once that his parents had been talking about him while he was away, and had reached some sort of agreement, because they greeted him quite genially.

  ‘How’s the great white hunter?’ asked his father.

  ‘Good,’ said Matthew, relieved he wasn’t going to have to justify himself all over again. ‘I had a great time!’

  ‘What did you get to eat?’

  ‘Snake, goanna, damper, turkey …’

  ‘Turkey?’ said his mother, surprised.

  ‘Not supermarket turkey – bush turkey. Frances’s uncle shot one.’

  ‘Half his luck,’ said Matthew’s father. ‘I’d be fined if I did that. They’re supposed to be a protected species.’

  ‘Well, you have to realise that Aboriginal people have always been hunters,’ said his mother.

  ‘Not with rifles.’

  Matthew could sense an argument brewing, so he changed the subject.

  ‘They cook everything with hot coals in the ground, then put it on a pile of leaves. No plates, no washing up.’

  ‘That would suit you,’ his mother laughed. ‘I might even get used to it myself.’

  ‘So I can go again?’ Matthew looked from his mother to his father.

  ‘I guessed that was coming,’ said his father.

  ‘We’ve talked about it,’ said his mother. ‘In one way we’re not keen on the idea, but, well, you obviously enjoy it, and you seem to be learning a lot.’

  ‘And in another way, I envy you the opportunity.’ Matthew was surprised to hear his father making such an admission. ‘Just don’t get too friendly with that mob, that’s all.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s all very well to go out with people and learn about their way of life – bush survival and that so
rt of thing – but don’t start thinking you’re one of them. You’ve got your own culture, and you’d better not forget it.’

  ‘How could I forget it?’ asked Matthew, who had been entertaining secret fantasies of giving up school and plans for a regular job later on, and going off to live in the bush instead.

  ‘We don’t want you turning into a blackfeller,’ said his mother. ‘We’re not racist or anything, but, well, people are usually much better off if they stick with their own kind.’

  After that, Matthew often went hunting with No-name’s family. Sometimes it was just for the day, with a quick visit to their bush camp, and home by dark. Other times they camped out again overnight. Occasionally, No-name said they’d take him hunting, and then they failed to turn up. There was never any explanation unless Matthew asked for one. Usually it was that they had had no money, or the car had broken down and needed repairs.

  Now and again he felt uncomfortable to be spending so much time doing something his parents didn’t really approve of, and he tried to understand their reasons. But in his heart he felt strongly that they were wrong. At first, he wished he could persuade them to see No-name as he saw her, and he did his best to explain what it was he found so likeable about her, and about her family. His mother seemed willing to listen, but his father’s attitudes were not to be budged, and in the end Matthew gave up.

  As time went on he started to question a lot of things he had taken for granted before. Why did people like his parents work so hard just to own a lot of things? Their belongings only tied them down. Why did they attach so much importance to their houses, and live such indoor lives? Every time he came home from a trip to the bush, Matthew found it harder to get used to being back within four walls. He was conscious of how they restricted him from seeing the world outside. At home he didn’t even notice the phases of the moon.

  ‘You can bring your little Aboriginal friend home to tea one day, if you like,’ said his mother once. ‘You are always going places with her, don’t you think you should ask her back for a change?’

  Matthew squirmed. He knew she was trying to be kind, and to make him happy, but even the way she said ‘little Aboriginal friend’ embarrassed him. It sounded so patronising. He could just hear her saying something like that to No-name. And he could imagine how his father would behave.