Robert Runs, page 10
He searched for flat ground and leaves to soften the earth’s surface. He squatted down and felt some scratchy, short greenery sticking out of the ground. He sighed deeply and fumbled around with the foliage in his hand. It was clear that white men had brought their cattle on this land. They came through like a storm, letting the animals eat the precious plants. The sheep and cattle would eat the plants down to the roots, leaving no room for regeneration. Did the white men know this? Perhaps, but they surely didn’t care.
He rested on the ground under the sun-dappled shade of a gum tree. The dirt felt cool against his skin. He watched the sky turn from a bright blue to orange, to pink and finally black. The stars emerged from their sleepy state. They glittered vibrantly and instructed the young man where to go. The moon and the stars illuminated the path before him.
He had only one decision: to return to the safety of the travellers or to push forwards to warn more tribes. The arid land had shocked him. Once fertile, brimming with creatures and living plants, it was now stripped bare. Plants were dying and the animals were refugees like him. He looked up at the stars once more and he made his decision. He would warn as many tribes as he could.
He felt pangs in his stomach, but ignored them and started his journey. One foot in front of the other he walked. He saw the path before him illuminated. He would walk until he found the next tribe, and then he would rest with them. He relished the sounds of the night and the feeling of the cool breeze on his bare back. The sun had sucked the energy out of him on his journey during the day, and he felt like the stars were replenishing him with their gentle, guiding light.
Travelling at night gave him the chance to rest, even though he was walking. The cool night breeze was refreshing. He did not have to squint against the sun, either. He recited the stories of his people as he crossed the land. He saw an old familiar tree in the distance. As he approached he saw the markings, and he knew he was about to cross the territory of the custodians. He yelled out his greeting, introducing himself to the land. He crossed with respect and hung his head low. The land was quiet in response. He looked up at the sky and saw that the stars had started to fade. The sky was slowly illuminating the land around him. He continued his journey until he could smell an old fire burning.
He again yelled out his introduction and greeting. Silence responded.
Fear gripped his heart, and he took a moment to steady himself before venturing towards the smell of the smoke. He walked through the branches until he found the clearing with shelters scattered around the dying fire. He choked and took a step back.
He saw the tribal people around the fire. They appeared to be sleeping. He approached them cautiously. Women and children were leaning on each other. Their faces were peaceful, but the young man knew they were not sleeping. Dark red covered their bodies like war paint. He looked away out of respect. He did not want to witness their suffering.
He walked a distance away and cried. He sat in the dirt and wept for the lives of the women and children. He yelled at the trees for not protecting them.
When he had regained his strength, he walked the perimeter of the campsite to identify the other bodies. The men were on the outside, immortalised as their tribe’s protectors.
The young man asked the land’s permission to honour those who had died.
He honoured the people and he continued travelling further.
For the rest of his journey he continued to find evidence of theft. Resources had been stolen, plants eaten to the roots, animals misplaced and no regeneration. Images of the slain tribe bore into the back of his eyes; their blood was a caution to him. He climbed up the top of a high hill to survey the land. He turned a slow 360 degrees, taking in his surroundings. His heart sank with what he saw.
The land was changing. Fences had been erected. Sheep and cattle now ruled. He climbed back down the hill and changed the direction of his path. He was no longer going further to warn other tribes. He had seen what there was to see, and it had scarred him. He would carry the memories with him. With a heavy heart he made the call. He stopped and smelt the dying embers from the flame beside him. He would make the slow journey back. He would find the only place that was offering food and safety: Deebing Creek Mission.
CHAPTER 19
When the speckled light spilled into the room, the children were already awake. Goupong was shaking with nervous excitement. This was the day he would be a hero, and he would set everyone free. The first thing he would do when he got out would be to find Dot, just like his father would want. The plan was to break away from the group on the way to breakfast. Since he was the fastest runner, he had volunteered. He would break into the pen and find a sheep that was displaying Mundagutta-like qualities. He would then report back to the group. Then they would wait until they were doing their garden chores in the afternoon to sneak away and poison the evil, possessed sheep. The children were very proud of themselves and their elaborate plan.
On the way to breakfast, after the children had made their beds and cleaned for the day, Goupong was itching to enact the plan. He walked at the back of the line, eyes darting from side to side. When he saw that no adults were watching, he broke out of formation and dashed behind a bush. He peered through the leaves and saw his teacher leading his peers with eyes fixed ahead of her. The coast was clear. He followed the dirt track over to the sheep pen. He crouched down low when he approached the gate. With two quick glances from side to side, he leapt over, clearing the wood with ease. His heart thudded in his chest. Right, you’ve got one job to do. Easy. Find the evil sheep.
Goupong saw the sheep huddled around the food trough. One sheep glanced up at him, chewing slowly. Goupong squinted to see if he saw evil in its black eyes. No. Just another mindless sheep. A noise from the shed startled him. The clanging reverberated down the metal fence. He ducked, but too slow. He peeked up and saw two big, muddy boots. Terror rippled through his body.
Boss Man pulled Goupong to his feet so violently, he felt like his arm would be pulled out of its socket. Boss Man dragged Goupong outside the pen. His feet lagged behind him, making two trails in the dirt. Goupong closed his eyes, determined not to make a sound of pain. He heard gasps and realised he was passing the children on their way to breakfast. His eyes darted up to see their distraught faces. He was determined to be brave. Boss Man began to lead him in the direction of the old tree. Although expected, Goupong’s heart sank.
Boss Man pushed him to the base of the tree.
“What were you doing?” he screamed. Goupong could see an ugly red vein pulsing in Boss Man’s temple.
“Answer me!” Boss Man screamed again.
“I…got lost,” Goupong stammered.
Boss Man let out a nasty laugh before striking Goupong hard across the face. The force of the hit knocked Goupong into the dirt.
“Filthy liar!” Boss Man spat. He abruptly grabbed Goupong’s hands and tied a rope around them. He then tied the other side of the rope to the branch of the tree so Goupong’s feet were barely touching the ground. He felt pain lick his back in a flash. He heard the crack of the whip against his back. His shirt stuck to his back with thick, sticky blood. Don’t pass out, don’t pass out, Goupong commanded himself. He endured five more cracks of the whip, and his torment was over. He heard the Boss Man panting and finally heard his loud, heavy boots trudge away.
Goupong stood with his hands stretched high above his head. The rope around his wrists bit into his skin. He bit his lip to distract himself from the pain. He took turns leaning on different legs, trying to outwit the cramps blooming up his calves. Hours passed as he watched the leaves change colour with the afternoon light. His little green tree frog kept him company, never taking his eyes off young Goupong. He watched the stony frog perched on the mountain top.
Terror raced up Goupong’s spine as he heard an enraged roar. Fear is in a moment. Ferocious flame flicking up skin, from toes to scalp, leaving a trail of goosebumps. Fear in the vibrations through the soles of his feet, reverberating through his bones. Every heartbeat screamed run.
The roar could only be coming from the Boss Man. Sweat raced down Goupong’s cheeks – Boss Man must be back again. He heard the piercing squeals of children. He spun around to see the children racing from the classroom. Boss Man was hot on their heels. He saw eight children running, wind whipping their hair behind them. They each wore a mouth like a gaping cave, letting out screams of terror. What was happening? He watched the children disappear into some of the tall trees. He noticed Jonathan’s brown shirt and unruly, curly hair among the children.
“Who the bloody hell killed my sheep?” Boss Man’s voice roared.
Goupong strained to see where Boss Man was. Was he chasing after the children? He finally spotted the tall man walking into his shed. Miss Adams was standing outside the classroom door, biting her nails and whimpering quietly. Boss Man clanged around in the shed and emerged with…no.
Goupong screamed like a wild animal. “Run!” he squealed. “Get away!”
His screams were joined with Miss Adams’ as she lurched forwards.
Boss Man was calmly loading a gun.
“What are you doing?” she screamed, lunging towards him. She started scratching him and biting him like a feral dog.
“Get out of my way, you cow.” Boss Man pushed her small frame aside like a wilting tree. Goupong watched as she clawed her way up again and chased feebly after the man.
Boss Man was too fast. He ran into the trees like a prowling dingo. Miss Adams didn’t give up, she limped behind him with all her might.
Goupong realised he was still screaming when he tasted the salt from his tears in his mouth. He strained against the rope to watch the silhouettes disappear into the cover of the trees. His eyes darted from tree to tree, searching desperately for his friends.
A gunshot cracked like a whip. With a shatter, swarms of birds fled the treetops.
Bang. Bang.
Bang.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Bang.
Silence fell like a hangover. Goupong felt suffocated. His throat was raw from screaming. He didn’t blink, but kept his eyes fixed on the tall trees standing like soldiers, waiting for someone to emerge.
One white man emerged. He walked slowly back to the shed and returned to the trees with a shovel.
Goupong heard a chorus of mournful croaks from the frogs. The echo of the gunshots reverberated across the mission. The silence lingered like a stale smell. The earth remembered.
EPILOGUE
A cloud of dust rose as the men sprinted forwards. Goupong was nudged on both sides, but he powered on. He felt the hot earth beneath his pounding feet. Pebbles dug into his toes, his heels and the soles of his feet as he ran, but he loved it. They pushed him forwards and encouraged him to go faster. His arms pumped at his sides, faster, faster, faster.
His breathing fell into a rhythm. Every breath was sweet and cool. He smiled, pumping harder and harder. His skinny legs carried him further and further down the track. He heard the grunts of his competitors as he passed them. His own heavy breathing was loud in his ears. He spotted The Crimson Flash two men ahead of him. He smiled, feeling a stir of energy rumbling in his chest. He pressed on, pounding one bare foot in front of the other. He overtook one man, then another. He was running side by side with Arthur Postle now. He could hear Arthur’s rhythmic breathing. Goupong pushed ahead, overtaking him. He heard the gasps from the onlookers. They were a blur of colour in his peripheral vision as he sped by. He pushed harder, extending the gap between himself and Arthur.
He ran for the finish line, crossing it to the sounds of gasps and cheers.
He had beaten the fastest man in the world.
He didn’t have a swarm of people surrounding him like Arthur had. The townspeople were too stunned. They curiously watched Arthur’s reaction as he kneeled down to catch his breath just beyond the finish line.
The fat man was frantic. He waddled over in what looked like an attempt at a run. He wiped the sweat off his red face with his handkerchief.
“Robert, my boy!” he gasped. “You’ve won the race!”
He patted Goupong vigorously on the back.
“You’ve put our town on the map! The home of athletes!”
Goupong smirked. There wasn’t a chance he would be considered an athlete.
A photographer approached Goupong with his large camera. He ushered over Arthur Postle.
“A picture for this moment in history,” the photographer said, hiding his head beneath the sheet.
Goupong stood straight next to Arthur, both men staring into the camera.
With a flash of light and a puff of smoke, they were cemented in history.
Robert Goupong Anderson – the fastest man alive.
Why does freedom come softly, slowly?
Where are the storming troops?
Where is the signed letter saying,
‘You’re free’?
We’re not
We won’t be
For generations
Because freedom comes slowly
Freedom comes softly
But it will arrive
If we keep
Running
AFTERWORD
Goupong grew up to be a strong man. He became a leader of his community and a tribal Elder. He never forgot his father’s wisdom, and he never forgot the family he made at the mission. He treasured their memories and carried their mantles in his heart.
The pain and heartbreak gave the tragedy weight. They were horrible things that happened.
He was a patriarch of his family and he experienced success with his athleticism.
He started his own family, and his descendants are the custodians of the land today. His descendants carry his mantle and bloodline. They honour the sacrifice and hardships of their ancestors, and seek harmony and peace for the future.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Over my life I’ve spent a lot of time wrestling with the injustice of what happened to the Ugarapul people, along with many other people groups on the missions and reserves.
As a way of processing my feelings and understanding the history, I wrote a fictional retelling of what Goupong’s life might have been like growing up on a mission, struggling with the balance between what he was told by his Elders, and what he was told by the white missionaries.
While this is an imaginative retelling, it is based on my ancestor, Robert ‘Goupong’ Anderson. I gleaned information where I could, but many practices were hidden on the mission. This story was a way for me to understand the lasting impacts of policies that forced First Nations peoples onto missions and reserves. This book was a healing way for me to imagine what it could have been like for children to experience life on the mission, learning from white people while trying to maintain culture, language and traditions.
There are many people that helped me on my journey of discovery and creativity.
I would like to acknowledge my Uncle Nug, a Ugarapul Elder. Thank you for giving me your time and sharing resources and stories with me.
Thank you to Amanda Dodds for being an example to me and being an advocate for our family.
Thank you to my new Magabala family for giving me this opportunity to publish. The Daisy Utemorrah Award was life-changing.
Thank you to Mum and my Hardy family for your ongoing love and support.
Thank you to my Sweetman family for your constant encouragement and kindness.
Zac, my husband, thank you for championing me at every step of the way. You believe in me more than I believe in myself, and somewhere along the line your confidence in me has become my own. Thank you.
Most of all, thank you to my dad, James Dodds. Thank you for sharing stories with me, thank you for art, your words and your encouragement. Thank you for teaching me about forgiveness and seeking God’s thoughts above our own.
THE AUTHOR
Mariah Sweetman is a proud descendant of Ugarapul people and lives and works on Gubbi Gubbi Country with her husband and her golden retriever. She is passionate about First Nations histories and engaging young people with stories.
Mariah is a teacher with a Bachelor of Education and Arts and a Master of Education, specialising in Indigenous Education. She loves to write – often poetry – and paint in her free time.
This is Mariah’s first novel, for which she won the Daisy Utemorrah Award for an unpublished manuscript of junior or YA fiction by a First Nations author (2022).
Previous Daisy Utemorrah Award Winners
Mariah Sweetman, Robert Runs
