Chapter 9

Despite an excessive amount of food, we did get underway before 15:00. I decided to go a bit south of the route we’d come west on, and turned south on the Leichhardt at Roma.

“I’m taking a slight detour through some of rural Queensland,” I said.

“OK. This doesn’t feel like an abduction.”

“That’s part of my plot: you’re not even aware of my nefarious activities.”

“Are these nefarious activities dangerous?”

“That, my sweet, is for you to find out. We’re coming to Surat in a moment. We’ll turn east there.”

“How big is it?”

“Not sure. 200, maybe 300 on a busy day. We cross the Balonne here.”

“And?”

“And we progress to the metropolis of Glenmorgan, with a population of well under a hundred and then to Meandarra, with a few hundred folks.”

“Not a lot of people.”

“No. Roma, with over 5000 people is the largest. St. George and Charleville and Longreach are each half that or less. If you go north and west 1500 kilometers to Mt. Isa, in the mining country, you’ll find a town of near 20,000. Brisbane’s got near a million and a half. There’s crowded areas, but lots of space.”

“It might be nice for a few days, but no more.”

“I’ve always enjoyed Australia: the shore, the desert, the cities, the towns. I’ve not been to the Never-Never, but it’d be interesting.”

“The Never-Never? You mean like Peter Pan?”

I laughed. “No, I meant the Never-Never of Barcroft Boake, or of Rosa Praed.”

“I’ve never heard of Boake, though Praed’s name seems familiar.”

“Boake was a late 19^th century poet. I was thinking of

Out on the wastes of the Never Never - That’s where the dead men lie! There where the heat-waves dance forever - That’s where the dead men lie!

The Never-Never was the top end of the Northern Territory. Praed was an important novelist. One of her books was about someone in the Never-Never.”

“And that Katie something?”

“Katie Parker. She lived on a station along the Narran, in New South Wales. She was friendly with the local blacks and put together several books of stories.”

“Can you tell me one?”

“Sure. We’ve several hours. Are you hungry?”

“No. I’m fine. That was a big meal.”

“Well, here’s a tale about Dinewan, the emu, and his two wives, the crows.

Dinewan and his wives, the Wahn, were out camping. They saw rain clouds gathering, so they made a bark humpy. When the rain began, they all took shelter in it. While the Wahn weren’t paying attention, Dinewan kicked a piece of bark on one side and knocked it down. He then told his wives to go out in the rain and put it up again. While they were outside he kicked down a piece on the other side. So no sooner were they back inside, when they had to go out. He did this repeatedly and the crows suspected him. So they decided that one of them would watch. The one who was watching saw Dinewan laugh and knock down the piece they had just put up. He was chuckling because his wives were out in the wet and cold while he was warm and dry. The watcher told her sister wife what she had seen. They decided to teach Dinewan a lesson. They took two pieces of bark filled with hot coals and threw them onto Dinewan, who was lying down, laughing.

“Now,” they said, “You feel as hot as we felt cold.”

Dinewan jumped up, crying aloud from the pain, because he was badly burnt. He rolled over and over and ran out into the cold rain.

But his wives stayed inside and laughed at him aloud.

“That’s really interesting. Emu plays tricks on his wives, so they harm him both physically and psychologically.”

“Exactly. No respectful wife would laugh aloud at her husband. It also explains why the emu is grey.”

“But why is he an emu and they are crows?”

“Exogamy. Like many peoples, the Australian tribes have learned not to marry kin. And two crows would always be chatting to one another.” I paused. “Moreover, men are physically larger than women.”

“True. But the important teachings are those of exogamy and that behaving inappropriately to others will result in their losing respect for you.”

“Exactly. And losing respect may well be painful.”

“All that in a brief story.”

“None of Kipling’s Just-so-stories is long.”

“Nor any of Aesop’s fables,” Laura countered. “They’re all under a page long. Where are we now?”

“Just at Meandarra, where the road forks north to Condamine. We’ll keep eastward towards Tara.”

“Can you recall another story?”

“Of course.

Oolah the lizard was tired of just lying in the sun and took up his boomerangs to play and amuse himself. While he was doing this a Galah came up, watching what he was doing. Watching the boomerangs go out and come back, for the kind of boomerangs Oolah was throwing were bubberahs, smaller and more curved so that they return to the thrower, as other kinds do not.

Oolah was happy to have the colourful Galah observe his skill. In his pride he gave the bubberah an extra twist and threw it with all his might. Whiz, whiz it came back and as it did, it hit the Galah on the top of her head, shearing off feathers and skin...

“Stop. I already get it. This is why the galah has a sort of bald spot!” Laura was quite proud of herself.

“Absolutely, but you missed one aspect of these Noongar tales: reciprocity.

Oolah saw what he had done and tried to slither away and hide under a bindeah bush [probably Bursaria spinosa], but the Galah saw him. She continued her horrible shrieking noise. When she reached the bush, she seized Oolah with her beak and rolled him on the bush until every thorn had pierced his skin. Then the Galah rubbed the skin with her bleeding head.

“Now,” she said, “You, Oolah will bear thorns and the stains from my blood.”

“And you,” responded the Oolah, hissing with pain from the thorns, “Shall be a bald headed bird.”

So some lizards are reddish brown and have prickles like thorns.

Laura laughed. “You were right! The whole story is necessary, otherwise you know why the Galah is bald, but not why the lizard has brown spots and thorns!”