of flame: within moments a small campfire lived in the space between them.
What else might she have in her bag?
*
Old Bobby asked the question again and held up a possum-skin bag. What else would she be carrying, ’cept of course her beloved, darling baby son? But you know, he said, I never needed no carrying once I learned to walk! Old Bobby strutted and swaggered, an old man parading a boy’s innocent vanity, and the tourists laughed.
I walked all on my own even when I was the littlest little boy. But seriously, what you think a Noongar woman gunna carry? he asked. Oh yes, she would have her waanna —the digging stick she could also use to bash any stray man, or any women who wanted to steal that beautiful little boy of hers. And, tongue between teeth, Bobby waved his stick and the tourists stepped back.
You wanna (he dragged the word out, suggesting the stick and an American accent all at once), you waanna know what was in her bag? Do you want to know that?
Old Bobby unpacked the bag as he continued his story, thinking of Dr Cross’s journals which his widow had published. Chaine showed him the newspaper that published the extracts, and they’d read it aloud so that Bobby saw with those eyes and oh …
*
There was another banksia cone, a roll of paperbark. Gently, she placed a seashell on the ground in front of Dr Cross. Then a fine piece of what must have been whalebone. The others watched Cross reach for it … The edge of the shell against his thumb was as sharp as any razor. He smiled, raised his eyebrows, picked up the whalebone needle. He held each of the objects that emerged from her bag, returning them to the humble display between them.
Wunyeran gestured, and Mrs Wooral presented even more of the bag’s contents: a tight bundle of cord—woven from possum fur—and some pieces of dry mud. Ochre.
The other three kept their eyes on him. Waiting? Cross ventured into his pockets. Extracting his notebook, he laid it beside the pile Mrs Wooral had made.
She withdrew what must be food: tubers of some kind by the look of them, and nuts and fruit, though not of any variety he recognised; also some frogs, and a lizard. The frogs were still alive, their legs tied with thin cord.
Cross stood up. Mrs Wooral returned the things to her bag, leaving Cross’s notebook on the ground, and built up the fire. Then she and her man moved away across the slope to a separate small clearing. Wunyeran suggested Cross take off his pack and place it beside the fire. When Cross turned back from the sight of Mrs Wooral’s lighting a second fire—the glimmer of its small flame, the glow on the tree nearby, her surprising grace—Wunyeran had gone.
He heard the chop of Wunyeran’s axe cutting footholes in a tree trunk so he might step up to a possum’s lair. Cross fashioned rope and canvas into a windbreak.
Wunyeran returned. Koomal , he said and grinned, tossing a possum beside the fire.
Ah, those paws, said Cross, unconsciously flexing his own hands. Blood caked the side of the possum’s head.
Wunyeran built up the fire. Sparks leapt as he threw the possum onto it; the fire coughed, and Wunyeran rolled the body around to singe the fur and then hauled the disfigured carcass from the flames. The hands were curled tight, eyes seared; the hungry flames made the growing shadows deeper but for the glow of that other fire, and the occasional glimpse of a figure moving before it.
Cross poured himself a tumbler of brandy and offered some to Wunyeran, who declined. Once the fire was rearranged and the possum laid deep in the ashes, Wunyeran grunted with satisfaction and slipped away again into the darkness. His silhouetted figure approached the couple’s campfire, the three of them flickered in its glow.
The moon had long risen and a large pool in the river shone with its light. The trees between the water and Cross were starkly delineated, the grass trees as if drawn with fine inky lines. Cross poured himself another
What else might she have in her bag?
*
Old Bobby asked the question again and held up a possum-skin bag. What else would she be carrying, ’cept of course her beloved, darling baby son? But you know, he said, I never needed no carrying once I learned to walk! Old Bobby strutted and swaggered, an old man parading a boy’s innocent vanity, and the tourists laughed.
I walked all on my own even when I was the littlest little boy. But seriously, what you think a Noongar woman gunna carry? he asked. Oh yes, she would have her waanna —the digging stick she could also use to bash any stray man, or any women who wanted to steal that beautiful little boy of hers. And, tongue between teeth, Bobby waved his stick and the tourists stepped back.
You wanna (he dragged the word out, suggesting the stick and an American accent all at once), you waanna know what was in her bag? Do you want to know that?
Old Bobby unpacked the bag as he continued his story, thinking of Dr Cross’s journals which his widow had published. Chaine showed him the newspaper that published the extracts, and they’d read it aloud so that Bobby saw with those eyes and oh …
*
There was another banksia cone, a roll of paperbark. Gently, she placed a seashell on the ground in front of Dr Cross. Then a fine piece of what must have been whalebone. The others watched Cross reach for it … The edge of the shell against his thumb was as sharp as any razor. He smiled, raised his eyebrows, picked up the whalebone needle. He held each of the objects that emerged from her bag, returning them to the humble display between them.
Wunyeran gestured, and Mrs Wooral presented even more of the bag’s contents: a tight bundle of cord—woven from possum fur—and some pieces of dry mud. Ochre.
The other three kept their eyes on him. Waiting? Cross ventured into his pockets. Extracting his notebook, he laid it beside the pile Mrs Wooral had made.
She withdrew what must be food: tubers of some kind by the look of them, and nuts and fruit, though not of any variety he recognised; also some frogs, and a lizard. The frogs were still alive, their legs tied with thin cord.
Cross stood up. Mrs Wooral returned the things to her bag, leaving Cross’s notebook on the ground, and built up the fire. Then she and her man moved away across the slope to a separate small clearing. Wunyeran suggested Cross take off his pack and place it beside the fire. When Cross turned back from the sight of Mrs Wooral’s lighting a second fire—the glimmer of its small flame, the glow on the tree nearby, her surprising grace—Wunyeran had gone.
He heard the chop of Wunyeran’s axe cutting footholes in a tree trunk so he might step up to a possum’s lair. Cross fashioned rope and canvas into a windbreak.
Wunyeran returned. Koomal , he said and grinned, tossing a possum beside the fire.
Ah, those paws, said Cross, unconsciously flexing his own hands. Blood caked the side of the possum’s head.
Wunyeran built up the fire. Sparks leapt as he threw the possum onto it; the fire coughed, and Wunyeran rolled the body around to singe the fur and then hauled the disfigured carcass from the flames. The hands were curled tight, eyes seared; the hungry flames made the growing shadows deeper but for the glow of that other fire, and the occasional glimpse of a figure moving before it.
Cross poured himself a tumbler of brandy and offered some to Wunyeran, who declined. Once the fire was rearranged and the possum laid deep in the ashes, Wunyeran grunted with satisfaction and slipped away again into the darkness. His silhouetted figure approached the couple’s campfire, the three of them flickered in its glow.
The moon had long risen and a large pool in the river shone with its light. The trees between the water and Cross were starkly delineated, the grass trees as if drawn with fine inky lines. Cross poured himself another
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