Nemarluk Read online

  “Ma-muck!” laughed Nemarluk. “Farewell! Farewell! When the rains cease I will visit you again and we will hunt together. From now on when I visit your tribe we three shall always hunt together. Ma-muck.”

  “Ma-muck!” they muttered. “Ma-muck!”

  And Nemarluk strode on into the bush, laughing his hunting song. Again and again he turned to “Yakai!” and wave. They shouted back, and waved.

  Presently, he could see them no more. But still, growing fainter and fainter now, they heard his “Yak-ai!” coming ringing through the bush.

  And he smiled as faintly their answer came “Yakai!” “Yak-ai!”

  The early storms came in earnest. Then leaden skies, fierce winds, and rain. Alternate sunshine and rain for a while. Then steady rain. The wet season had come.

  Dry ravines were creeks, creeks were rivers, rivers were raging floods. The swamps overflowed on to the plains, one large area of the Wild Lands became a small inland sea. The wild people huddled in gunyah and cave while the bitter rains were on, to come out with the sunlight and hunt. Then back to their caves again, eager for the wet to be over so that they could swarm out on to the plains and hunt.

  Large areas of the land grew noisy with wet season life. The “Quart pot! Quart pot! Quart pot!” “Croak! Croak! Croak!” of battalions of frogs. The “Gark! Gark! Gark!” of the wild swan. The whistling wings from armies of arriving waterfowl, the honking and trumpeting of geese, the whistling of ducks, the hoarse cackling of the night heron. The moon came peeping out from black clouds and her face was fanned by wings as wild geese honked by. Out on the plains was a flapping and a trumpeting and a loud “Goork! Goork! Goork!” “Gah! Gah! Gah!” as native companions played and danced. A thousand different bird·calls rang out all over the land, happy calls for the good earth was come to fresh life again. Some wild things that had burrowed deep to sleep throughout the wet now came gladly to the surface to greet a new season. After the rains Nemarluk was happy again for these last four months had been secure from the ceaseless pursuit. With his own people around him, he was a king again. Alas, he had found no warriors who could take the place of his Red Band. But he was wild and free and among his own people, and now the wet season was over. All the earth, all living things were bursting with new life under a glorious sun. Nemarluk led his people towards the Moyle.

  And behind them there followed two warriors. Grim men, brave men, for night and day at every moment they carried their lives in their hands. Far from friends they were completely encompassed by enemies. Discovery meant certain death.

  No wonder they were ceaselessly alert, their every movement cautious, prepared for instant action night and day. The flight of a bird, the rustle of a snake in the grass, the thud of a wallaby disturbed in the undergrowth—all held a double meaning for them. The howl of a dingo in the night, the hoot of an owl, the screech of a night hawk might be neither wild dog nor bird. A broken bush, a torn shred of bark, a track that told of a running man or the dawdling footprints of women and children each told a tale of security or danger. The distant sound of a rude axe chopping a tree for sugar-bag or log for bandicoot, a hunting call floating over plain or swamp all held their meaning. The corroboree song from a camp at night, or sudden silence, all held a meaning for these hunters of men. Any sign or sound or movement could mean that they were still safe, or that their enemies were suspicious, or that they were discovered.

  As they walked cautiously on they were continually reading the ground before them, the country ahead to right and left and behind, their ears keyed to receive the slightest sound. As they turned questioning heads not only were they seeing and listening, they were also smelling, smelling for the smoke of some hidden little fire where truant gins might be squatting around a roasted possum, smelling for the taint of a greasecovered tribesman who might be indulging in forty winks, watching carefully lest some ambitious piccaninny might have strayed behind to chase a lizard. Let these two hunters stumble upon stragglers, let but their tracks be seen, and they instantly would be the hunted with a hundred men upon their trail.

  Away out over the plain came a wild, piercing cry. The hunting call of Nemarluk.

  The hunters stood stock-still; then looked at one another, grinning meaningly. Very cautiously they stepped forward.

  For weeks now they had been trailing Nemarluk. But Nemarluk had never left his own people; the warriors of his tribe had always been with him. Except at night. When it grew very dark he had crept away, vanished into the night and always slept alone.

  And they had never been able to find him. For even an aboriginal, unless in moonlight on soft country, cannot see tracks at night.

  On moonlight nights Nemarluk left no tracks, for he disappeared into the blackness of vine jungle or mangrove.

  These two hunters for weeks had been trying to catch Nemarluk alone and sleeping away from his tribesmen. They had crept night after night within sight of his camp fires, but had never seen him vanish. Nor located him afterwards.

  As well as being a matter of life and death, it was an extraordinarily difficult task these hunters had set themselves to do. To track Nemarluk, even when he was alone in the bush, was like tracking a lion to its lair. But these two hunters also had to unerringly judge day by day, night by night, which way the tribe was travelling—or hunting. For they must keep in that direction from the tribe in which it would be almost certain no people would return. If they were in the wrong position the tracks of the hunters would be seen. Often while the tribe was camped for days the two hunters were forced to hide a long way away. For the tribesmen and women day by day would go in all directions from the camp, and return from all directions.

  Although the aboriginal can travel over any country, he naturally prefers to walk over the easiest ground and thus save his feet. Thorn and rock and mud he avoids when possible. This fact sometimes gave the hunters the chance to spy a camp at night; they would creep over the bad ground which occasionally hedged a camp.

  When the tribesmen were camped right on the coast it was easier, for the two hunters would wade along the shore and come up behind the camp with the tide. Now they were following in the tracks of Nemarluk’s tribe as the Cahn-mah happily hunted their way towards the great swamps, and Meewa plain, and the Big Ring Corroboree camps. There was little chance now of any of these people doubling back and finding the avengers’ tracks. But when the Cahn-mah joined in the Meeting of the Tribes there would be four hundred able-bodied warriors, all excited at the approaching ceremonies.

  Then let the hunters beware should they be discovered. Two big men these; powerful, brainy, and certainly brave. Both were heavily cicatrized across shoulders and chest, the marks of full warriors. Each wore a human hair belt, and had a bone dagger stuck in the thick hair just above the ear; was marked in ochre with his totem markings, wore arm bands and head bands and feathers. And each had wommera and heavy spears carried slung to a native belt in such a way that they would not click. One man was more heavily built than the other, with a broad, intelligent face from which gleamed deep-set, savage eyes. The eyes of the other held a cold stare, his leaner face impassive and expressionless. A human bloodhound this one, but the other had the better brain.

  Their courage particularly impressed me. In the weeks and the months to come these men almost certainly would be discovered and then if caught their kidney fat would be hacked out while they were still alive; they would live to see it fought for and rubbed on the bodies of the victors.

  But they pressed on.

  For Nemarluk the next month sped by in the excitement of the Big Corroborees. He was easy in his mind about the police for Deven had sent him word that the patrols were seeking him in the Victoria River country. Nemarluk laughed boisterously. When the patrols got tired and sought him in this direction, he would make for the Victoria. Meanwhile, he was safe.

  But he was not safe.

  One dreamy afternoon he was wading for turtle in a lily lagoon; a beautiful sheet of water hedged by whit
e paper-barks and covered with enormous lily leaves. So large are some of these leaves that a baby piccaninny can be seated upon one and it will not sink. Among these leaves and tall water plants many young ducks were hiding from the waders. Nemarluk was stirring up the bottom with his feet, feeling for tortoise. He was almost alone, for his tribesmen were wading at the distant end of the lagoon. Nemarluk thought he touched a tortoise and swiftly reached down as his ankles were suddenly gripped and he was tugged under. Utter surprise unnerved him until fingers clutched for his throat. He doubled up and plunged to the surface with a splash and snort like a hippopotamus to howl aloud to his tribesmen, who saw him plunging towards them, hoarsely shouting. Before long all were excitedly talking around the mysterious spot.

  But there was nothing to see—just the stirred up water and wisps of floating weed disturbed in the struggle. The tribesmen gazed towards the shore, anxious because of enemies they could not understand. Nemarluk declared it was a man’s hand that had clutched for his throat, and it must have been a man’s hand that had snatched his ankles. He had not stepped on a crocodile, or slipped on a slimy log.

  They separated and waded to the edge of the lagoon, but could find no tracks.

  They whispered together, clutching spears and staring about anxiously. Nemarluk felt sure it was Wadjee the witch doctor who had set enemies upon him. At Wadjee’s name, all shivered. No man there wished to be at enmity with the dreaded witch doctor. To search for the tracks of his agents might well mean death to the man who found them.

  “Again I am a hunted man,” hissed Nemarluk, “and a man without friends. I’ve lost my Red Band; Tiger’s Mob is gone. The jealousy of Wadjee sees its chance. By treachery he will get rid of me—if he can.”

  All returned to the big camp, very uneasy, suspicious and frightened. And the first man Nemarluk saw there was the withered old witch doctor. They glared into one another’s eyes. Long ago, at the height of his popularity, Nemarluk would instantly have accused this snake in the grass. Now he dared not. The dreaded witch doctor had many friends, friends so afraid of him that they would fight to win his favour.

  That night Nemarluk was very careful where he slept

  CHAPTER XIX

  PHANTOM PURSUERS

  A week later Nemarluk again almost met tragedy although he did not know it until long afterwards. While hunting in forest country he spied a sugar-bag in the branch of a tall tree. In a moment he was climbing the tree and soon his tomahawk was ringing through the bush as he cut out the wild bees’ nest. A startled wallaby hopped from cover, sat back on its tail, then seeing some tribesmen grouped around the tree, bounded away. With a loud “Yak-ai!” the tribesmen raced in pursuit cheered on by Nemarluk above. Then he was alone, his tomahawk blows ringing out sharp and clear.

  Two hunters crept from cover and, crouching low, hurried towards the tree. Their eyes held an eager grin, they breathed deeply from suppressed excitement. At last!

  Nemarluk opened the nest and regardless of the angry bees reached in his hand for the honeycomb—the aboriginals’ greatest natural luxury. He ate half, then with the rest began climbing down the tree.

  The hunters crept nearer.

  From among the trees a solemn-faced piccaninny appeared, big-eyed with anticipation. How he loved honey! He toddled closer, gazing up at Nemarluk coming down the tree. He would just stand there and perhaps the big chief would give him a fistful of sugar-bag. He felt sure he would.

  And the big chief did, with a laugh. The two hunters crouching close by ground their teeth in rage as an anxious mother appeared, calling for her child. A young lubra, she came shyly, smiling as she saw the big chief. In the distance came the shouts of the warriors, returning with the wallaby.

  The two hunters crept away.

  Soon afterwards Nemarluk left the Big Ring camp abruptly, with all his people. It happened this way. It was the end of the third big corroboree night, and nearly dawn. Worn out with excitement and dancing Nemarluk glided away to sleep. His sleeping place was always some distance away and he never slept in the same place twice. But to-night, well to-night was almost done, and last night’s camping place was very comfortable and very safe. It was deep within a thicket of pandanus palms. The long, dry leaves were piled thick upon the ground and anything approaching in the night would cause a noise, crackling. Nemarluk could get to his sleeping place quietly by stepping from log to log, but any one not knowing the place could not possibly hope to do so in the night. Nemarluk, heavy-eyed, almost asleep on his legs, decided he would sleep there again this night.

  The night was dark, the palm thicket inky black, Nemarluk was invisible as his sensitive feet felt their way deep into the thicket. Upon a couch of grass he sank to rest—and hands closed upon him. With a startled yell he heaved up and crashed rolling into the darkness as clutching hands snatched at him.

  As well try to hold a buffalo bull. Nemarluk bolted and the noise he made would have put a buffalo to shame.

  Brought to a halt by the palm trunks the hunters panted there in maddened wrath. So sure were they of Nemarluk that they had not waited for him to fall asleep. They had made just that one vital mistake.

  Nemarluk was mad with himself. Never again would he sleep in the same place twice. An hour later, Nemarluk, with the Cahn-mah at his heels, was silently leaving the sleeping camp. They travelled fast. In Nemarluk’s footsteps there stepped in turn half the tribe, blotting out his tracks.

  Back at Indee and An-de-mallee camp and the coast, Nemarluk with his tribesmen felt safe from the intrigues of the witch doctor. He was certain the jealous old plotter had set killers upon his tracks, totembrothers probably of that .five who had never returned. But these new killers would hardly dare pursue him here. They would wait their chance until the tribe resumed their nomadic life, until some day when Nemarluk strayed from camp or hunting party.

  “What I have done to .five,” thought Nemarluk grimly, “I’ll do to these others also—when the time comes.”

  Meanwhile he planned to enjoy a joke at the expense of the white police. So he led his people on walkabout up along the coast to the Daly River. Here, they gazed out on the broad river with its crocodiles sunning themselves on the muddy banks. There was good .fishing here in river and sea, and on the level country were plentiful yams for the women to dig.

  Nemarluk kept to the Lower Daly. There were no white men here, the little settlement and police station were miles higher up river.

  To smoke signals men of the Mulluk-Mulluk and Brinken and Dilik-Dilik came visiting with the news. The Daly River policeman with his trackers, so they said, was still at the police camp; there was no sign of movement on this edge of the Wild Lands.

  Nemarluk grinned as he pictured the white police searching for him along the distant Victoria. When they tired of the search there and returned inland he would take to the coast, slip past them and go on to the Victoria.

  Happy days passed as they hunted the wide river mouth by foot and canoe.

  Then there came a night when Nemarluk could not sleep. He felt terribly uneasy, he could not understand why. He was in a secure place, in pitch blackness in a tangle of vine and scrub a considerable distance from his sleeping people. But he could not sleep. Some deep, primitive instinct was warning him of danger.

  Next morning he took his people straight back to An-de-mallee camp. With long strides he led the way, a frown upon his brow, his favourite dog at his heels. After a few days at An-de-mallee, he led the horde into the sand-dunes and they roamed for days hunting and fishing along the fringe of the coast.

  Then there came another night when Nemarluk could not sleep. To his straining ears it seemed the spirits of his fathers were urgently whispering to him. He was crouched beside a bar of rock covered with creepers and trailing vines. Here grew that coastal jungle which hedges many a salt-water creek along this coast. His rocky mound was perched above the creek bank, crocodiles could not crawl to him in among these vine-entangled rocks. Neither could enemies creep upon h
im from behind unless they braved the terrors of the crocodile-infested creek in black night. Even so the splash would betray them for they would speed desperately across that creek. The creek however offered a getaway to Nemarluk. If instant danger threatened he would leap into the creek and chance it.

  But there appeared no sign of danger. And yet he could not sleep. Something was warning him.

  Inch by inch he began to leave the shelter of the rocks, to crawl back to the creek edge and then along the high bank. There was a deathly silence, a pitch blackness in which fire-flies glowed. Then he heard a furious splash from unseen water, hoarse angry grunts. The crocodiles were fighting; pity help any living thing that fell down there. Slowly Nemarluk crawled along the edge of the bank. He paused, listening for any sound from his sleeping place. There was none; but he felt sure something was crawling there.

  He crept farther and farther away.

  Next morning he left the tribe, determined to “lose himself” from these invisible pursuers. He took to the sea edge, allowing the tide to wash out his tracks. Across the mud flats he found plentiful shell-fish as he walked along, and fish in the shallows upon the sandy beaches.

  Beside him the shore was densely hedged with mangroves; to his right was the blue sea, a canoe like a dot bobbing upon the horizon. He walked leisurely, knowing he was losing his tracks and that no one could follow him now.

  But they were following—within the mangroves a mile behind. Now and again a savage face would peer at the big warrior walking the beach away ahead. Then the two hunters would hurry on through the mangroves, a tiring job amongst those countless roots. Again and again they were forced to cross a salt-water creek, choosing the shallows where possible. Any crocodile lurking there they could see.