Robert Runs, page 2
Goupong nodded slowly.
His father mumbled softly, “I can’t lose you, too.”
Goupong studied his father’s face. The man had aged rapidly in the past couple of years. Lines of worry and anger creased his dark skin.
“And, my Goupong,” his father said. “Make sure you take care of baby Dot.”
Goupong had obeyed his father. But the stories had fallen heavy in his heart like a boulder sinking to the bottom of the river, and it muddied the waters on its way down.
The Elder watched the monochromatic trees slowly catch the colour of the rising sun. A smile flickered on his lips when a drop of dew fell and splashed his forehead. The droplet traced the silver scar that lined his temple and raced down his cheek like a teardrop. He glanced up and saw on the branch above his head a small green tree frog.
“Hello again,” the old man smiled.
The green tree frog cocked its head in silent question.
“They’re gone, little friend,” the Elder sighed.
Green tree frog moved its feet slightly, shuffling over to the left.
“What does it all mean?” the Elder asked.
Green tree frog stared at the Elder, his black eyes holding the reflection of the trees.
The Elder looked in his lap. “What does it all mean…”
He gazed over at the sleeping bodies spread out like scattered tree branches. While their original numbers had dwindled, they had gained more along the way. He collected broken, starving and diseased people like he had collected smooth pebbles as a child.
He looked at the children curled around their mother for warmth. He felt an ache spreading in his chest. These people had been displaced from their sacred lands. They had been pushed and pushed and pushed out of their lands even though they held on as tightly, and for as long, as they possibly could. Now, although their spirits were strong, their bodies were weak. The Elder watched the children’s frail bodies rise and fall with each breath. Would they ever learn the secret ways of the ancestors? Would they even see their traditional lands again? The rustling trees hushed his racing thoughts, and he allowed his body to melt against the tree.
The Elder hung his head and closed his eyes. He smelt the crushed eucalyptus around him. He smelt the musty scent of damp bark and soil. He had lent his strength to his fellow travellers, but he felt like his own was slipping away. He would do as much as he could, for as long as he could, until he returned to the dust of the earth again.
CHAPTER 2
Goupong rustled in his scratchy canvas bedsheets. The bed creaked as he tossed from side to side. The air was icy and the itchy bed sheets did little to protect him from it. He could hear quiet whispers from some of the other boys in the far corner of the dormitory. Or was it the sound of a rat scratching on the wooden floors? He looked at the lump of rat poison beside his bed. Bloody rats must be smart, they seemed to eat everything except for lures and traps. Last week little Simon had woken up to a rat nibbling on his pinky toe. Goupong shuddered at the thought.
Goupong had been having trouble sleeping lately. Perhaps it was the smell of urine from the frequent bedwetters, or perhaps it was the soft whimpering coming from the new arrivals in the corner of the dormitory. Little Michael was the worst. Either way, his eyes were wide open. He reached out to poke Jonathan in the shoulder.
“Oi, Jonathan! Are you awake?” Goupong whispered hoarsely. He prodded Jonathan’s bony shoulder harder. “Jonathan! Are you awake?”
In the dark Goupong could see Jonathan’s silhouette begin to move.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m awake,” Jonathan responded.
The dorm was cavernous and musty, stale and dusty, with bedsheets smelling like old urine and crusty chunks of vomit hanging on the linen. Goupong sniffled.
“Are you cold?” Goupong asked through chattering teeth. The land of the Coodjirar, where the nights were either steaming hot or icy cold.
“Yes, Robert. It’s bloody freezing,” Jonathan responded. They both listened to the sounds of teeth chattering from the other children.
“I can’t sleep. It’s so cold!” Goupong shivered. “I bet you Boss Man has fifteen blankets stacked on top of his bed.” Goupong wrapped his blanket tighter around himself at the thought.
Jonathan chuckled. “I bet you he has so many blankets, he’s sweating underneath.”
Goupong imagined the fat man’s red, sweaty face peeking out from the mountain of fluffy blankets, and giggled.
“That’s probably why he smells like a rotting sheep carcass whenever he walks by,” he remarked.
All the children fell into a hushed silence as they heard the rhythmic steps of an adult walking the length of the veranda.
Goupong buried his head in his flat pillow in an attempt to feign sleep. He could feel Jonathan doing the same beside him.
The footsteps receded and Goupong let out a breath, which quickly turned into another snorting giggle. “Boss Man needs all the blankets because he’s so tired from beating up kids all day.”
A child gasped in the dark. “That’s not funny,” an anonymous voice whined.
Goupong pretended to punch Jonathan beside him, and Jonathan responded with some exaggerated whimpers.
“And from all his drinking,” Goupong’s tone turned sad. Boss Man’s breath was horrific. Only the children unlucky enough to get a beating from him had the privilege of catching a whiff. Goupong pictured Boss Man’s disgusting mouth as he lay in bed. His ginger beard was flaked with white, powdery dandruff. And when he yelled, the smell of hot and stale alcohol would stream out along with sprinklings of spit. The smell was so rancid he’d been able to taste it.
“To be serious though, I have had the most beatings out of everyone in this room,” Jonathan added.
A child groaned a few beds away from them. Goupong could almost feel Jonathan’s head and chest expanding with ego in the bed beside him. The children had heard Jonathan’s boasting many times before. He had a strange proclivity for finding a way to brag about everything, whether it was being the fastest at finishing his food, doing the biggest poo, being the best at spelling, or, in this case, getting the most beatings.
“Oh, quit groaning, you’re jealous of my manliness!” Jonathan sat up in his bed. “I got the most beatings out of everyone. I got the scars to prove it.”
Goupong grinned in the dark. For as long as Goupong had known him, Jonathan had always had to one-up everyone, mostly with exaggerated stories. Goupong sometimes envied his best friend’s boldness and courage, especially when he found himself crippled with fear. His father had instilled in him a healthy fear of their captors, but sometimes it melted into bubbly, boiling terror. Goupong was ashamed of that. He could feel Jonathan rustling in the bed beside his and presumed he was excitedly gesturing to the scars on his back. He could clearly remember every time Jonathan earned each scar. Each whip and blow to the skin. Goupong shuddered.
“You’re very brave Jonathan,” he whispered.
“Yes,” Jonathan agreed. “That’s because I’m—”
“Related to the great Multuggerah…” Goupong interrupted.
Eavesdropping children chuckled into their pillows. While Goupong joked about Jonathan’s obsession with his heritage, he was sometimes envious of Jonathan’s knowledge and connection. Jonathan actually remembered life before the mission; Goupong would give his right leg to have those memories to hold on to. He still remembered the day Jonathan arrived on the mission, newly orphaned and naked. They had become immediate friends.
“Exactly, Robert. You’ve been paying attention,” Jonathan said, mimicking their teachers’ expressions.
Robert laughed and Jonathan continued his oration.
“I’m related to the great Multuggerah, so I am very brave and strong. One day, I’m going to spear Boss Man, the enemy.”
“But he’s protected by a pile of blankets, how will the spear get through?” Goupong teased.
“We’ll have to ambush him at another time…” Jonathan pondered, drawing out imaginary battles with his finger in the air.
“When he goes to the loo!” a little boy chimed in, cackling at his own joke.
“That’s a great idea!” Goupong affirmed in the dark.
The children lay in the cold dormitory, each fantasising about defeating the enemy and earning their freedom. In Goupong’s dreams, he would run past the barbed wire and never stop running and running and running.
Jonathan lay beside him thinking about his past. Thinking about how he wasn’t fast enough.
CHAPTER 3
The young boy sat by the fire, gazing up at his grandmother.
“Why is the fire hot?” he asked.
“Because it needs to be,” she answered.
“Why?” he asked.
“So that we can have food to eat and warmth at night and we can look after the land.”
“Where does fire come from?” the boy asked.
“It comes from a mixture of earth and air,” she answered.
“Where does the earth and air come from?” he questioned again.
“All things come from the Creator Spirit,” she smiled.
“Where is the Creator Spirit? I want to see!”
His grandmother stretched out her arms high above her head. She pointed her face to the heavens to let the light illuminate her face.
“The Creator Spirit is all around. You can feel him in the breeze, and you can see him in the twinkling stars at night.”
“Okay, but—” the boy began.
“That’s enough. You’ve been with me all afternoon,” his grandmother interrupted. “Go and ask your mother if she needs help.”
The little boy sighed and walked away, dragging his feet. He wanted to be out with the men on their trips, but instead he was stuck with the little children and women.
“Ma,” the little boy called when he found her.
“Yes?” she responded.
“Why can’t I go out with the men?” he asked.
She knelt down beside him. “Because you have not been initiated.”
He groaned. “When do I get to do that?”
His mother laughed. “When your body tells you it’s time.”
He held up his arm and compared it to hers. While her arm was the colour of dark bark, his skin was like the tree trunk that had been stripped of its outer layer.
“When are my uncles coming back?” the little boy asked.
“They’ll come back when they’ve found what they need,” his mother answered.
The little boy groaned again. “I want to see them!”
“Why don’t you help me by getting some water from the creek. That would be very helpful.” His mother pointed over to where the water was. The little boy’s eyes followed the direction of her arm.
“Is it a very important job?” he asked.
His mother smiled warmly. “Yes, son. It is a very important job.”
The little boy ran towards the creek until he was gasping for breath. He looked back and saw that his mother was only small in the distance. He smiled in satisfaction. He put his feet in the cool creek and muddied the waters. He was still panting from the exertion of the running, so he decided to put his whole body into the creek as well. He sighed in relief at the cool water over his body. He dunked his head underneath until the sounds of the world became distorted. He held his breath for as long as he could.
He burst through the water’s surface as he gasped for breath. He tipped his head to the side to unclog his ear of water.
He snapped to attention. Was his name being called? Was that screaming?
He looked to the horizon and saw plumes of dust like swarms of locusts coming closer to their home. The swarms grew bigger and bigger.
He heard screams again. He got out of the water and ran back towards his home, racing the dust clouds as the screams continued.
He ran as fast as he could until he heard the voice of his mother and grandmother, screaming. He ran towards them, trying to understand, wanting to help them.
Their voices crystallised in his ears. “Turn back. Stay away. Run.”
He paused, confused. Turn back?
He looked at his mother and grandmother, now close enough to see them clearly. They were waving with their arms high above their heads. They were gesturing for him to go away. He noticed, too late. He saw the horses, which had now stopped at his home. They had swallowed up the dust that had been following them. He turned to run back to the creek.
Desperation swallowed his heart. He didn’t know why, but his mother and grandmother wanted him to hide.
His hands pumped by his side and he ran for the creek. He heard a crackling behind him of hooves on dirt. He kept running even when he smelt the dust stirred up.
He reached the creek and finally turned around. A man on a horse was trailing him slowly, then stopped. The man had pale skin. He yelled in a language that the little boy hadn’t heard before. He froze. The man continued yelling, more aggressively this time. He pointed at the ground beneath his feet. The little boy was confused. The man yelled and pointed again to the ground. The little boy guessed he meant ‘come here’.
He walked gingerly towards the man. Even though the man was covered head to toe in material, the little boy could see that his skin was pale like the moon. The boy started shaking, taking one slow step in front of the other.
When the little boy reached the man he bowed his head. The man whistled sharply. When the boy did not respond, the man reached down and grabbed under his shoulder, lifting him up onto the horse. The little boy sat on the horse’s neck, swallowed by the man’s large frame.
The man pulled on the reins and the horse took off. At the sound of wailing, the boy turned to see his mother and grandmother, clutching each other with mouths agape in despair. He heard their wailing fade as they disappeared into the distance. He looked back at them until they could no longer be seen.
Shaking, the little boy remained silent. He stared straight ahead. He could feel the man’s breath on his neck. The little boy resolved to remain strong, like his uncles. He stared straight ahead until his eyelids grew heavy and he fell asleep to the rocking of the horse’s movement.
He awoke when the horse stopped moving. Opening his bleary eyes, he sluggishly tried to take in the surroundings. He was pushed off the horse and tumbled to the ground. He heard a droning laugh.
He quickly dusted off his knees and stood up tall. An unfamiliar man approached him. As he came closer, the little boy smelt an undeniably repulsive smell. The man was holding a folder and he consulted it sporadically. He leaned down close so the little boy could smell his putrid breath. The man spoke slowly, and although the little boy could not understand the meaning, he could understand the syllables.
The man poked a finger into the little boy’s chest and said, “Jonathan.”
CHAPTER 4
On a previous night of conspiring in the dormitory, the children had collectively agreed to only kill the Boss Man, but spare the lives of Miss Adams and Mr McRae, because they were mostly nice to the children.
“Oi, Robert, imagine how impressed Miss Adams would be. Think of her face if you speared Boss Man,” Jonathan probed.
Goupong was thankful for the dark as he felt the heat spread in his cheeks. He wrung his hands in embarrassment.
“Why do you reckon all the white people keep talking to us about spears when we’ve never even seen one before? They’re always acting like we’ll somehow make them out of twigs,” Goupong stated.
“Aw boys, he’s getting embarrassed! Hear that children?” Jonathan interrupted. “He’s tryin’ to change the subject!” he giggled. Goupong could hear the springs in Jonathan’s bed as he sat up on his knees.
“I am not! Don’t be stupid!” Goupong retaliated with a square hit to Jonathan’s face in the dark. “I got beat by her – as if I love her!” Goupong argued.
“Woah!” Jonathan exclaimed. “Nobody said anything about love.”
Goupong felt Jonathan poke him with his finger hard in the ribs.
“Whatever,” was all Goupong could think to reply.
Jonathan started to speak but stifled it quickly as they heard footsteps on the veranda. All the children fell silent. They listened out for the thumps and squeaks of the footsteps on the wooden boards to recede. Surprisingly, none of the children spoke up. They each lay in their own reverie, longing for a life different to the one they were living.
Goupong froze. Did he hear correctly? It was a scratching sound that ended in a hiss. A rat? No, much too big. A snake? Snakes don’t have claws.
“Jonathan,” Goupong prodded Jonathan again. “Jonathan, do you hear that?”
Goupong was gripped by an icy fear, he wanted to scream but he felt paralysed in his canvas cot. A low growl echoed through the dormitory. He heard the scratching coming towards him, until he could almost feel the hot breath that accompanied the rumbling growl.
His eyes darted to the side to see Jonathan lying in his own cot. Goupong could see the whites of his eyes reflecting the moonlight and his mouth agape with horror. Goupong knew then that Jonathan was also aware of the sickening presence. They were not the only ones to hear the sound; from outside the window they heard the wild bleating of the mission sheep.
That night Goupong did not sleep, not even for a second.
Like whispers in the trees, the rumours came. First a trickle, then a flood. Trustworthy sources, terrified witnesses. White men had arrived on the shores of Eora Country then spread to Gubbi Gubbi Country, slowly extending their territory. They were insatiable, needing precious resources, building up and across.
“Have they stopped?” the Elder asked.
The traveller hung his head. “My family were slaughtered by fire bullets.”
The men stood in silence, hanging their heads in despair.
“You may stay with us, son,” the Elder said, touching the young man on his shoulder. “You have travelled far. You need rest.”
The young man clenched his fists at his sides, “No, Elder. I must continue my journey. I must warn the tribes that they are coming.”
