Chapter 7: Nockatunga Waterhole – 2

The next morning I was asked about more stories. I responded that I knew many, but that I needed to ask Joshua as to what was appropriate. The boys nodded. I sought Joshua, who was sunning himself.

“May I sit with you?”

“Of course.”

“I have been asked to tell more stories.”

“And... ?”

“It is your place.”

“No. I am leader, not nungungi.”

“Which stories are permissible?”

“All stories of the Dreamtime are appropriate.”

I nodded. Clearly tales of bird migration or of crabs would not mean much. Tales of kangaroos and fish and frogs would make sense. We sat for a while. As I walked towards my Rover an group of galahs whizzed by. I thought about them.

Later, the boys approached again. I asked them whether they knew why birds were of different colours. They shook their heads.

“Get your friends and sit. I will tell you.” Within a few minutes, I had my audience.

“In the Dreamtime,” I began, “All the birds were the same colour, and that was black. One day a peaceful Dove caught his foot on a sharp prong of wood on a broken off tree branch. The Dove called out for help. All the other birds heard his cry and came to the place where he laid. The Dove was in great pain and his foot had swollen up, and the other birds gathered and provided shelter for him with their wings. Some brought water for him to drink and some bathed his foot with water. Except for Crow, who was in a bad mood and was angered by the attention the other birds were giving to Dove.

“Crow told the birds that they were wasting their time, the Dove was done for. The Dove’s foot was festering and swelling more all the time. But the other birds didn’t care what Crow thought, they decided they had enough of him and chased him away. Then the Galah had an idea, she rushed over and bit the Dove’s swollen foot with her sharp, hooked beak. The Dove cried out in pain and all the colours in nature flowed out of the Dove’s foot and splashed all over every bird gathered around. Some got only a little colour, some got one or two colours, but the Rainbow Lorikeet was splashed with so much colour he looked like the rainbow itself.

“The Galah was splashed with rosy pink and grey, and the little Dove was almost drained of colour till he was a light mottled grey-brown. And so it was that all the bird tribes got their beautiful colours, except for the selfish bad tempered Crow who remains in his original black to this day.”

“Thank you,” said the oldest boy. And they all echoed him.

“Another good explanation,” Cook’s voice said.

“That’s what the stories are for they tell why the world is as it is.”

I settled down with Upfield’s Bone is Pointed. I was at the beginning of Chapter 8, and Bony admires a cabbage-tree. But that’s weird. Cabbage-trees don’t grow in south-west Queensland, it’s too hot for them. Upfield doesn’t usually make that sort of blooper. I read on, though I was getting a bit drowsy in the sun.

Of course, I dropped off. I must have dozed for an hour. Cook was casting a shadow on me.

“Hunt perentie today?”

“Sure. When would be good?”

“Two, three hours. Still light. Not so hot. We go downstream a bit.”

“Fine.” I hesitated. “You know the story of Ngintaka?”

“Yes. But we very far from Pitjantjatjara. Not fear the ancestor here.”

I nodded. (The Ngintaka is one of the Dreamtime ancestors. It is one of the two giant reptiles of Uluru – Ayer’s Rock – and the centre of Australia, Pitjantjatjara, is full of signs of them.) I put two magazines in my pocket and checked my pistol. Had I realized I’d be hunting, I’d have packed a rifle. But...

Cook was waiting with a man I didn’t know (“Alf,” he said) and a woman (“Meena, good skinner.”). I nodded to both. I wasn’t sure whether I was permitted to shake hands with a woman.

We walked downstream for about 15 minutes. I could see Cook, Alf and Meena eying the gravelly bank to our right. At one point Meena pointed to a cleft – more like a chink – and I could see about a centimetre or two of nostril.

“Too small,” said Alf.

We walked further. Cook grasped my arm. At the top of the bank I could see the silhouette of a head. I took a shot and the perentie fell over.

“We stay here. Mebbe only hurt. Then tail dangerous.” Meena took a 10 cm knife from her leg and climbed the bank. I could see her pick up a small stone and throw it.

“Him still movin’,” she said. “Mebbe Gordy come an’ shoot again.”

So I climbed up, saw where a medium-sized monitor thrashed, and shot it behind its left eye. Meena walked over and stretched it out. About 160 cm, all-in-all. She severed the head, flipped the carcass over and slit it down the belly, letting the viscera droop. She discarded the innards with a few cuts, grasped the tail and handed it to Alf.

“You take back. Too small. We get more.”

Alf nodded and started upstream. We went further.

Meena pointed. “Big ‘un.”

I looked, but saw nothing.

“Top of head.”

I looked again. The lizard’s scales were nearly a perfect match to the pebbles on the slope.