Bony Buys a Woman
WANDIRNA, CHIEF of the Orrabunna Nation, alias Canute, ordered a eucalyptus bath. He was feeling unwell, what with the rheumatism and the pounding of Sarah’s feet on his stomach, and felt the need for the cure invented by his ancestors long before the original King Canute played the fool with his nobles.
The lubras had brought back from their temporary exile masses of young gum tips, and with these they lined a shallow grave which had been heated by burning wood. Water was sprinkled on the gum leaves and through to the earth, which at once emitted clouds of steam. Finally, when the temperature had cooled slightly and the heated leaves had become sodden, a lubra escorted King Canute and invited him to step down into the grave.
He lay there at full length; a short, fat, white-haired old man, entirely naked save for the ragged beard covering the upper portion of his chest. Steam laden with eucalyptus oils, strong enough to asphyxiate a steer, rose from the interred, who huffed and grunted and snorted, but stuck it out. The temperature then falling slowly, the victim gave a stifled order, and the lubra placed gum branches over the grave to seal the healing elixir.
Canute, who was now feeling wonderfully soothed, ventured to stretch one leg and then the other, then his arms, and rejoiced that all the nagging pains were no longer tying knots with his muscles. Ah! It was good to be a king. He yelled for the lubras to help him out.
Nothing happened. The lubras were deaf or something. He shouted again. There must be a lubra to remove the top branches and hold in readiness for his hot and rejuvenated body a military overcoat supplied by the Protector of Aborigines. He was not fool enough to stand and meet the chill air of late afternoon.
“Ah!” The branches were being removed, those over his feet first. The outside air told him this. Then, instead of his lubra’s voice, he heard another he had remembered.
“Get out, Canute.”
With the suppleness of youth, the King arose and stepped from the grave… into the military overcoat held ready for him by D. I. Bonaparte. By an arm he was drawn away and urged smartly to the communal camp fire tended by the awed lubras.
“Sit down,” was the next order, and the King subsided on to a tree stump, the heat of the fire scorching his shins and face. Gravely, he was presented with a stick of tobacco and told to chew. He obeyed by halving the tobacco stick with his teeth, and wedging one half into a cheek.
“You tell Murtee come here,” commanded Bony. “And the Old Men.”
Canute moved the lump from one cheek to the other, and shouted orders. Lubras ran from their jobs, then halted like startled rabbits. Children were hushed, save one small baby lying on an old blanket in company with several others. Men appeared, one after another, and squatted about Canute, and lastly, wearing a mud plaster and looking positively savage, came the Medicine Man. A eucalyptus bath twice as hot might possibly have benefited him too.
From the truck nearby, Bony brought a packing-case and a papered parcel. The parcel he placed on the ground before the semi-circle of aborigines, the case he put over the parcel, and on the case seated himself. Then with slow deliberation he rolled a cigarette, licked it, lit it, and stared at the black eyes watching him with the cold impassivity of goannas.
Taking up a stick, he drew a tiny circle on the ground at his feet, as though it had to be perfect. Then to the right of the tiny circle he drew, with exaggerated effort, a much larger circle. Done to his pleasing, he spat once into each circle and watched the spittle sink into the sand.
On his throne stump, King Canute chewed vigorously, his sightless eyes, destroyed by a grass fire, moving slightly as though they could serve the brain behind them. Beside him sat an ancient who looked a thousand years old and probably was not quite ninety. His claw-like hand encircled Canute’s wrist. The anthropologists wouldn’t believe it, but Bony knew that the Old One was passing what he saw to the mind of the blind man. Thus he had proceeded slowly, and continued so to do.
With his stick Bony indicated the larger circle, saying:
“That is Canute-Wandirna, Head Man of the Orrabunna Nation.” There was sudden relaxation of tension. He pointed to the smaller circle. “That is all other blackfellers inside one humpy.” His stick passed over the ground as though expunging the circles, returned to the large circle, saying: “That is big-feller policeman, me. And this small one is Constable Pierce.”
There was silence while he stared into every pair of black eyes, and held his gaze for a long minute on the eyes of the old man holding Canute’s wrist. What the old man saw in his blue eyes, Bony knew Canute was seeing, too. The lubras were silent and still, hunched just beyond the communal fire, and the men and children stood also in packed units. Bony said:
“Long time ago, Sarah promised little baby Meena to Canute. Now Canute is old, and he takes eucalyptus bath and likes tobacco better than young lubras. He likes to sit in the sun and hear happy voices of his people about him, and tell them what the spirits of the Alchuringa would have them do. What do you say, Canute?”
“Big-feller policeman speaks true,” agreed Canute, adding: “There’s blackfeller law and whitefeller law.”
“Canute speaks true,” agreed Bony. “But whitefeller law more strong than blackfeller law. Still, we palaver now about blackfeller law. Bimeby we palaver about whitefeller law. We talk about Sarah and her Meena she promised to Canute long time ago. Long time ago Meena belong to Canute. All right! Okee! I am sitting on forty plugs of black tobacco, as many as your fingers on both hands make five times. I trade all that tobacco for Meena.”
Silence followed this proposition until Murtee said:
“Meena Orrabunna lubra. You are Worcair man. No can do.”
“I am whitefeller policeman,” countered Bony. “I say for you to go to jail, you go to jail in Loaders Springs quick and good. I see you Murtee; I can see you. You tell Canute smoke for wildfeller to come play hell on Mount Eden. You break whitefeller law. I big whitefeller policeman. You, Canute feller, forty plugs of tobacco for your Meena, eh?”
The tendons along the skeleton arm of the aborigine, acting as Canute’s eyes, tightened when urging acceptance without argument, and Canute said:
“You sit on tobacco?”
“I sit on forty tobacco plugs.”
“I trade okee, all right.”
With his stick, Bony now erased the two circles. Then he drew two very large circles slightly overlapping. He called Meena, and the girl emerged from the car parked just off the track and came to him through the gathered aborigines. She was wearing white shorts, and nothing else save the pad of linen on her head.
She stood inside one of the circles, and into the other circle Bony emptied the plugs of tobacco. The old man urged Canute to rise, and brought him forward to stand chest to chest with Bony where the circles overlapped. Behind Bony was the tobacco; behind Canute stood Meena, Canute’s left wrist still grasped by the Counsellor.
Murtee now came forward and gave to Canute a flint, and the King explored Bony’s chest with his free hand and nicked the flesh. He passed the flint to Bony, and Bony nicked his chest. Each wetted a fingertip with the other’s blood and pressed the finger to the blood on his own chest.
The deal was accomplished. Canute fell on his knees and pawed the tobacco like a miser counting his gold, and Bony caught Meena by a forearm and marched her over to the car, pushed her in, closed the door and returned to the communal fire.
The tobacco had vanished. Everyone, men and women and the older children, were chewing tobacco. Canute was back on his throne. It was some time before King, Grand Vizier and Counsellors regained their pre-business gravity.
“There is another trade,” Bony told them, “Blackfeller law for whitefeller law. What for you all go crook when I send up smoke telling Worcair feller I am okee, all right? What for you catch Sarah and Meena? What for you all fight in camp? You tell me, eh?”
Faces like gargoyles. Eyes blank like shuttered shop windows in a riot. Bony slowly rolled a cigarette, actually making what looked like a cigarette.
“I tell you, eh? You tell Charlie track along big-feller policeman. I catch-um Charlie. Then I catch-um Meena. They don’t tell me but I know why you tell Charlie to track me, see what I do. You tell Charlie to do all that because you scared I find Yorky and Linda. All right! Whitefeller law say you all go to jail. You track white policeman. You try to lame Meena and bash up Charlie. Then you smoke for wildfeller-blackfeller come along to catch up Charlie, kill Charlie, hide his body in sand dune, no whitefeller policeman then know where Charlie is. You say Charlie gone long way away. No good to whitefeller policeman. You all go jail okee, all right.”
The sun was westering and bars of light gold lay athwart the scene and illumined the faces of Canute and his Counsellors. All were distinctly uneasy, obviously recalling the tales of jail existence told them by Pierce in previous conferences.
“Blackfeller live blackfeller law,” observed Murtee, spitting tobacco juice towards Bony.
“You live blackfeller law, eh?” Bony said. “I trade. You all live whitefeller jail pretty quick. You tell me where Yorky is, and you no live whitefeller jail. You all trade, eh?”
Eyes lifted from the ground. Men looked at men, and the lubras frowned, scowled, muttered. Finally all eyes were directed to the blind Chief. Even Murtee waited on his decision. The minutes passed, and tension increased so that when Canute stood and the greatcoat, unbuttoned, opened to reveal his enormous paunch and spindle-stick legs, still there was proof that the aura of authority can crown an aborigine.
“Yorky is a whitefeller-blackfeller. Blackfeller not trade.”
He sat down on his stump, and instantly Bony said:
“Bimeby blackfeller trade. Bimeby blackfeller trade in whitefeller jail. You forget about Sarah, about that fight. Anything you do to Sarah, you all look out. Anything you do to Charlie, you all look out. You tell wild-blackfeller go back to camp, clear off your country, stay off your country, pretty quick. Palaver finish. Trade finish. Meena my woman. Tobacco your chew. Okee, all right!”
“Okee all right! Meena your woman,” agreed Canute cheerfully, obviously happy that the conference was ended.
Bony stepped forward to prove the proven. He stood before the King of the Orrabunna Nation and held out his hand. The blind man detached his hand from that of the Counsellor and reached forward. They shook hands.
Gravely Bony walked back to the car. Without speaking, he went backward into the seat behind the wheel and drove on towards Loaders Springs. Meena was puzzled, waiting for him to speak. For fifteen minutes Bony drove and then stopped.
He made two cigarettes, one of which he gave to the girl and then he said:
“You belong to me. I bought you with five pounds of tobacco. What Marie, my wife, is going to say doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“Don’t tell her.”
“You don’t know why I bought you, do you?”
“Of course I do. You bought me because you desire me.”
“Don’t be silly,” Bony said, severely.
“Silly! What’s silly about it? A man doesn’t buy a lubra unless he wants her.”
“Or something else from her, Meena. You are my woman, remember. So you will tell me what I want to know. The other night I asked you a question. I asked you if you knew where Yorky is holing up, and you said you didn’t know. Do you know?”
“No, I don’t,” replied Meena angrily.
“I asked also if Canute knew where Yorky is, and you would not say. I ask you now if Canute knows. Tell me.”
Meena tossed the cigarette end beyond the open window, tossed her hair without regard to the pad, and sulked. Bony partially turned and slowly rubbed the palms of his hands together.
“These can hurt more than a waddy,” he said. “You are my woman, as I have told you more than once. What you tell me is no longer any business of Canute, so leave your side of the gulf and meet me.”
“Gulf! Whatd’you mean, gulf?”
“Never mind. Answer my questions. First, does Canute know where Yorky is?”
“Yes, he does. So does Murtee.”
“Does Charlie know?”
Quickly the girl shook her head.
“But Charlie knows that Canute knows?”
The head nodded.
“What else does Canute know?”
Reluctantly the girl turned to meet his eyes, tears in her own.
“We been trying to find out, Sarah and me. Ole Fren Yorky was always kind to Sarah and me. What for he went and killed Mrs Bell we can’t find out. Sarah and me are glad he wasn’t caught by Mr Pierce, and if we knew where he was we wouldn’t tell you.”
“I’d make you tell me,” snapped Bony.
“No, you wouldn’t. Nor make me blackfeller way, either.”
“But what of little Linda Bell? A white child, frightened, perhaps hungry, living like a dingo with Yorky.”
“She’ll be all right with Yorky. I know. Yorky is my father. There’s no white man good like Yorky.”
Bony sighed.
“There are times when I am a very poor policeman, Meena. I should take you from this car and beat you, and no one could interfere because you are my woman. It is said that your father, for a reason we don’t yet know, murdered an inoffensive woman and abducted her small child, and you are in sympathy with him. You don’t believe, do you, that Yorky didn’t shoot Mrs Bell?”
“I don’t know, Inspector, I don’t know,” she wailed. “He must have been mad or something. And now you make me want to help you catch him, and have him sent away and killed. Go on, beat me. I want you to beat me. I’m your woman. You bought me.”
She twisted farther round to bury her face in her arms, and gently Bony twisted his fingers in her short black hair.
The hell fired by the meeting of two races and ever open to receive him, he knew was open to take her, too.
“Would you like me to tell you why I bought you, Meena?”
Abruptly her face lifted, and she was looking at him with tear-washed and grey-flecked eyes.
“I bought you from Canute for Charlie.”