That Deadman Dance by Kim Scott

Cross), led him around soggy ground surrounding some rocks on the riverbank, and away from a spring that fed into where the river was divided by rocks to form what appeared to be a lock such as characterised the rivers of home. Perhaps another fish trap like those they had earlier seen.
    The river diminished quickly, and after an hour or two of walking they came to a distinct rocky section, with boulders arranged on each bank, where thin streams ran from water hole to water hole, stepping down a steep slope. At the bottom, beside the largest pool, a tree held an eagle’s nest which, despite the height of the tree, seemed surprisingly low to the ground. Not far beyond that a small tributary branched east.
    Later in the afternoon, they emerged from shade through shafts of sunlight and into a clearing. Cross saw a Noongar on the gradual slope leading from one bank, surrounded by small and fresh green shoots springing from fire-blackened earth.
    The two men embraced, each putting his arms around the other’s waist and lifting him clear off the ground. Turning in a small circle, locked together, their voices were a melody of goodwill.
    The newcomer, younger than Wunyeran and probably not long out of adolescence, looked at Cross curiously. Their speech reminded him of the sounds of the river from earlier in their journey.
    Wooral, Wunyeran said by way of introduction.
    Their new companion turned away from Cross, and a woman emerged from the trees and shrubbery.
    Birtang, added Wunyeran.
    Mrs Wooral—as Cross named her in his journal—was older than her husband, and seemed a jumble of animal fur with human head, arms and legs. An unusually long cloak hung from her shoulders. Standing apart from their mother, two very young children, a boy and a girl, studied Cross with undisguised curiosity.
    *
    Me! Me again! Old Bobby Wabalanginy told his listeners. My sister and myself. Not that Wooral was my father, no. And my poor mother passed away soon after like so many of us did then, from all the sickness. True, Wooral was very young and lucky to have a woman like my mother. But read the histories; I am the only Noongar alive today who is mentioned in Dr Cross’s papers, published in your own mother country. Your mother country, he said to the tourists, not mine because my country is here, and belonged to my father, and his father, and his father before him, too. But to look at me now you wouldn’t think that, not with all these people in their fine houses and noses in their rum who got no time to thank me or share what they have … They don’t know me. They look and think they do, but no. But I know them, and all those pioneers they love and thank, I know them, too. Knew them. They were my friends.
    Me and my people … My people and I (he winked) are not so good traders as we thought. We thought making friends was the best thing, and never knew that when we took your flour and sugar and tea and blankets that we’d lose everything of ours. We learned your words and songs and stories, and never knew you didn’t want to hear ours …
    But yes, of course, you’re right, you’re right; my life is good, and I am happy to talk to everyone, and welcome you as friends. The same God and the same good King looks over us all, does he not, my fellow subjects?
    *
    Bobby Wabalanginy’s sister, Binyan, was a bit older than him and already promised to an old man.
    Cross was flattered to meet the mother of Bobby and Binyan. He’d never been allowed so close to any other than very elderly women. Mrs Wooral, though senior to her man, was not elderly.
    And what was in the other bag she carried? Wunyeran put Cross’s question to Wooral rather than the woman. They stopped and she withdrew a banksia cone from somewhere within her cloak and bags.
    She was, Cross saw, quite naked beneath the soft fur draped across her. She was, Cross confirmed, not long past the prime of life.
    The banksia cone glowed red as she blew upon it. A little smoke, tongues