Robert Runs, page 4
“This girl lost her father when the white men came to their traditional places. Her father first saw the foreign animals, and hunted as usual.” The Elder sighed and continued. “That night, while their family was celebrating together and eating by firelight, the white men came. They pointed their gun at her father. They screamed at him in a foreign language.” He paused and looked at the young woman. She nodded slightly for him to continue.
“Of course, he didn’t understand. They pushed him down, rubbed his face in the dirt, tied a rope around his neck, dragged him to a tree and pulled him by the neck until he died. These white men don’t live by our laws, but by their own. And they expect us to live by their laws, too.”
The young man turned his face away, his hands balled into fists by his sides. The flicker of firelight illuminated the rage in his eyes.
That night, the travellers again went to sleep with the gnawing pit of hunger in their bellies.
The travellers rose early the next morning. They were on the outskirts of a station and they were planning on passing through quietly, yet fear was in the air heavy and thick. The Elder agreed to travel further to the west and to meet up with the travellers of the next tribe. They reassured each other that while they had had bad encounters with white people before, these people may be different. As long as they were peaceful and careful not to break any unknown white laws, they should be fine.
The travellers eventually approached a large shed. They nervously clumped together, eyes darting around, looking for a weapon-wielding white-fellow. Their lips were cracked and mouths as dry as dust. The young man spotted a barrel of water and they each took turns tentatively drinking out of it. They groaned in relief as the cold, fresh water slid down their parched throats. The young man was the first to spot the bag of flour.
“Hey! Look here!” He gestured to the neat canvas bag in the middle of the barn floor. He walked over and sniffed it, touched it, then licked it. “This is food.”
A loud clang echoed in the barn as a white man appeared at the entrance. He leaned against the door and stared at them coolly. He looked at the large group and seemed to assess each one.
“You like flour, eh?” the man asked. He waited for a response, but none was given. “Do you speak English?” Again, no response. The white man called out to someone. Another man appeared at the door with a grin on his face.
“Look, we’ve got friends,” the white man laughed. The men whispered to each other, then the first white man spoke slowly. “We’ve got something for you.”
The second man disappeared, then returned a few minutes later with two big canvas bags. He approached the large group and dumped the bags with two thuds on the ground in front of them.
The travellers looked at each other with worried expressions on their faces. The white man opened one of the bags to display the powdery white substance.
The young man was the first to step forwards. He slowly reached for a bag, maintaining eye contact with the white man. When he was confident the white man meant the bags as gifts, he gestured for another man to carry the other.
“Off ya go now!” the white man yelled.
The travellers smiled with relief and headed further on their journey.
The hunger was overwhelming. When they arrived at a creek, they opened the bags and started feasting on the flour. Some tried to eat it straight, others mixed the flour with water and heated it over the fire. Some of the travellers danced and celebrated their first meal in a long time. The trees encircled them, their long shadows twitching along with the flickering firelight. The air was crisp, but the fire sent out its steady heat.
The young man watched the celebrations until his view became blurry. He suddenly keeled over in pain. His muscles started moving with a twitch, slowly becoming a fierce jerk. Every muscle spasm felt like fire in his joints. He could feel frothy spit building in his mouth and spilling over the edges of his lips. He tried to call out, but his throat was spasming too. With wide, terrified eyes he could see the same happening to the travellers around him. He fell to the dirt, trying to drag in air through his spasming throat. Behind the trees, illuminated with fire-speckled light, he could see the two white men watching. He even thought he saw them smiling. Within minutes, sixty of the travellers were dead.
News spread to neighbouring tribes.
CHAPTER 9
Two days had passed since Goupong and Jonathan had encountered the mysterious figure. They were simultaneously terrified and enthralled by it. Goupong felt chosen by this figure, like it was the start of his hero story. He envisioned himself as a David facing his Goliath. In the story, he always ended up with the beautiful girl after the victory. He imagined making a beautiful girl smile by picking flowers from Miss Adams’ garden to give her. She would smell the fruity scent and smile into the flowers shyly. Goupong suddenly thought about Miss Adams and her red, blotchy face. Why did she choose to live on the mission? She’d once told the children that she’d come to help the Aboriginal people – her own hero story, Goupong assumed. But his father had told him that his people were getting along just fine without the white people. So Goupong was confused. She’d spoken about the beauty of England, which she’d seen in paintings.
“Oi, Robert, give me some of your bread, would ya?” Jonathan interrupted.
“What happened to yours?” Goupong questioned, gesturing to Jonathan’s empty bowl.
“I ate it,” Jonathan stated.
Goupong shrugged. “How is that my problem?”
“Please,” Jonathan whined, “I’m still so hungry!”
Goupong looked down the long table full of boys eating boisterously, shoulder to shoulder. Their voices crescendoed in the echoing hall. Goupong nodded in sympathy. “I know, so am I. I wish I could go down there and kill one of those sheep!” He remembered his father had a particular dislike of sheep. Something about them destroying important plants. “That’s what we’ll do before we bust out of here! We’ve gotta taste one of those sheep!” Goupong licked his lips and Jonathan felt his mouth get sticky with saliva.
The boys rubbed their bellies in unison.
Silence fell upon the room, punctuated by the clangs of fumbling cutlery.
The Boss Man’s boots slowly thudded across the dining hall. The children looked down, wide eyes glued to their plates. Goupong felt an urge rise inside of him. He felt the Boss Man’s coat brush past him and he had to look up. He caught a glimpse of Boss Man’s gnarled, pock-marked face. His bushy red beard was flaky with dandruff. It would be laughable if he wasn’t such a fierce and formidable character.
Goupong smelt stale alcohol as he passed. There was a glint in the Boss Man’s eye, a flash of red in those beady, grey bulbs. Goupong let out an involuntary gasp. He felt a familiar chill down his spine. Was the Boss Man a shape-shifted Mundagutta? Sometimes when Boss Man yelled it sounded more like a screech. He made a mental note to discuss this with Jonathan later.
Goupong’s gaze followed the Boss Man’s slow, intentional stride across the room. He stopped in front of a small, shaking boy. All the children held their breath. Suddenly, the Boss Man grabbed the little boy by the back of the neck and threw him onto the cold, hard floorboards. The little boy whimpered and curled up in a ball.
“I hear somebody’s been wetting the bed!” the Boss Man screeched, towering over the boy’s shivering frame. Little Simon had been wetting the bed for a week straight. Simon had already received two beatings for it and spent one night sleeping outside in the freezing cold night. He developed a terrible barking cough, and the first night back in the dormitory, he again wet the bed.
“You pathetic little worm,” Boss Man hissed. “Get up!”
Little Simon trembled to his feet. A big tear ran down his round puffy cheek.
The Boss Man pushed little Simon out the door and into the yard. The children hung their heads in silence, knowing what would happen to the little boy.
That night, Goupong and Jonathan did not speak. All the children went to their canvas cots without the normal giggling and chatter. Although today had been particularly upsetting for the children, the sound of gentle sobbing was not unusual in the dormitories. Sometimes Goupong would peek out the dusty window and see the distant tents of Ugarapul people on the mission, families that were permitted to be together. He looked upon them with longing and envy. He wished he could live among them, call them uncles and aunties…But he, along with the other orphans, no longer belonged to their mob, according to Boss Man.
Goupong looked over at Simon’s empty, soiled cot. His body was so small it hardly left a groove in the cot’s weak frame. Little Simon had suffered a vicious beating and his lungs gave way. Jonathan took this loss particularly hard.
The boys stood around the little empty cot. The bed had not been made, but lay with scattered linen and the imprint of a small, frail body that had once huddled for warmth. They hung their heads like wilting lilies. They would never speak the name of the boy who once lay in that bed again.
The boys scattered, one by one returning to their beds until only Goupong remained. He touched the sheets of the empty bed gently. He stood staring at the wall until the smudges became distorted blurs in his vision. The moonlight cast a pale glow in the room. Goupong felt a restlessness rising inside him. He felt jitters in his toes rising up to his torso, his arms and fingers, his hand. He clenched his fists to stop the restlessness, to no avail.
He crept beside some sleeping boys to reach a nearby window. He stopped at the sound of a snore. He stood, hunched and frozen, until the snore subsided. He reached the window and looked outside the dormitory. He used his sleeve to rub the fog from the window so that he could see more clearly. He looked out to the black trees in the distance, encircling the dormitories. Were the trees friends or foes? Goupong wondered. Some days he felt like they were sending their energy to him through underground roots, up through the soles of his feet. Other times he felt like they were trapping him and his friends. He would love to have the chance to ask them himself.
He watched one of the trees slowly become illuminated with an orange glow. He saw that a bonfire had been lit. He watched the flames. It looked like an upside-down waterfall with streams of orange, luminescent silk. Goupong watched the embers twinkle like stars as they rose up to the heavens to join their siblings. He wished he could float up to the stars like the embers, too. He squinted to see the commotion around the fire. He heard some bellowing voices before silhouettes encircled the flames. He counted them. It seemed like the adults were all there.
His heart started galloping and his palms sweating. This meant no one would be patrolling the dormitories tonight.
He listened to the sounds of the night. Nothing. He didn’t hear any squeaky footsteps patrolling the perimeter of the timber veranda. His heart felt like it was in pain from beating so fast. He wished he’d had time to plan. If only he’d known they wouldn’t be monitored tonight.
If he was going to act, it had to be immediately. He took a deep breath and crept nearer and nearer to the doorway. He didn’t want to risk any one of the boys waking up and asking to come with him. He reached the doorway and turned back to see Jonathan asleep in his bed. His chest was slowly rising and falling, the telltale signs of a deep sleep. Goupong huffed, then turned to exit the dorm. His foot hovered over the threshold of the room, feeling hot and heavy with the forbidden action. He closed his eyes and crossed the barrier. He felt light-headed with both relief and fear. The mixture of emotion made his stomach slightly ill, but it propelled him forwards. His bare feet felt icy against the wooden veranda. He looked at the wood beneath his feet and could see the patchy grass through the floorboards. He felt a gust of wind snake in through the gaps. He clutched his body for warmth. Even though his cot was uncomfortable, this icy wind was a reminder that he was not safe.
He grimaced and took a step forwards, flinching at the creak it made. He readjusted his footing and crept along, slower still.
Muffled voices echoed in the distance. He lowered his head to see the bonfire behind some trees. He counted the silhouettes. He was still safe. He just wanted to see the stars, to say goodbye to Simon.
He hung his head as he opened the door. He cringed at the loud creak. He was overwhelmed by the stale smell in the room. He reasoned that this was the smell of confinement – the opposite smell of freedom. He fumbled in the dark towards his bed, where he quickly rustled in his sheets to get comfortable. He saw the mould patch on the ceiling and remembered that lump of rat poison under his bed. Everything felt so unnatural and claustrophobic. He closed his eyes and imagined the sounds of the gently flowing river and the breeze. Goupong pushed his face into his scratchy pillow and let his tears soak the canvas. He prayed to the God he learnt about in school. He prayed for Jonathan, he prayed for Dot and he prayed for freedom for all his friends. He remembered the flash he saw in Boss Man’s eyes; cruelty and evil personified. He made fists with his hands and squeezed so tight he left crescent cuts on the palms of his hands. He missed his father, he missed his tribe, he missed his language and he missed his identity.
Red tree sap was bubbling, thick and sticky, trickling down, down, down. The bark was trying to heal. The tree was drying and dying until it hardened as a warning of the danger that came before: red blood, bubbling thick and sticking, trickling down, down, down, seeping into the ground. The dead tree and the bloody earth scream Run.
Blood for blood. You kill one of our tribe, we kill you.
A violent white man had been killing tribal men for sport. He shed blood and he dishonoured the women of the land. This only affirmed that white men couldn’t be trusted.
It had been a breezy summer night, when out of the silence of the evening loud gunshots echoed. Multuggerah, a young tribal man, ducked behind some trees when he noticed where the gunshot had come from. Another unprovoked attack from this crazed, drunk white man. He looked beside him to where his best friend had been. To his horror, he saw his friend had fallen to the ground, leaving a bloody smear on the tree trunk as he fell. He rushed to his loyal friend’s side. Blood was bubbling out of his mouth and his lifeless eyes indicated that he was already dead. Multuggerah shrieked in anguished pain. The gunshots continued echoing around him. This white man was relentless.
He lifted his spear and launched it in the direction of the white man. He heard a thud as the spear buried into flesh. The white man grunted and fell to his side stiffly.
Blood for blood.
The young man panted hard. He knelt beside his friend and heaved him onto his shoulder. He carried the burden to his tribe. As he approached, the people started wailing. They had heard the gunshots and feared the worst. It was time to honour his friend.
The tribe was in mourning for this young man’s life cut short. They cried throughout the night. At the break of dawn, some of the warriors left to hunt.
Frogs croaked in the early morning light as mist and dew sparkled. The mood was sombre and the people were quiet. A child was the first to hear the galloping hooves. He rustled next to his mother and tugged at her hair. The tribe listened carefully, as the chorus of rushing hooves encircled them. Clearly, there were many horses approaching. Fear gripped the tribe as realisation settled in. The white men wanted revenge.
Like a hurricane, the white men appeared on their horses, guns drawn, swarming and circling the tribe. Bullets sprayed the grieving people. They huddled in by the dying fire with no protection. Some men went to retrieve their spears, but they were shot down before they could reach them. The horses circled the tribe, allowing the swarm of white men easy targets. When sufficient carnage was done, the horses left in a canter.
The tribe was left, still and quiet, covered in thick, red blood.
CHAPTER 10
It was again Goupong’s favourite part of the week – a sweet release from the horrors of recent days. He took his place behind the line drawn in the powdery red dirt with a stick. His bare feet were covered in dust and he could feel the cool pebbles between his toes.
A bossy kid yelled at the racers to take their positions. Small children lined the makeshift racetrack, excitedly waving their hands and cheering. Goupong stole a glance at the spectators to see if Dot was among them. She wasn’t. His heart dropped in disappointment, but he fixed his eyes on the finish line. His father’s voice echoed in his head. “You’re in a race that wasn’t designed for our people to win. The race isn’t fair, but you always give it your best shot – always.”
Goupong dug his feet into the earth.
“Three…two…one…Go!” a child called.
The racers leapt from their positions, hurtling towards the finish line. Goupong could hear the panting beside him as he drew in ragged breaths himself. He could feel the wind whipping his hair into his face. Each breath he took was like a thirsty man tasting water for the first time in weeks. A smile spread across his face as his hands and feet pumped, lurching him forwards and further ahead of his competitors. He could hear the other children screaming his name. He crossed the finish line to shouts of joy and congratulations. He turned to watch the other racers finish. Jonathan crossed the finish line and collapsed beside him. He curled up and panted dramatically.
“One day,” he said between gasps, “I’ll…beat you…” Jonathan rolled onto his back and clutched his chest.
Goupong laughed and offered his hand to help him up. “Sure you will,” he laughed.
Goupong saw Dot emerge from the crowd of children, and his heart started racing harder than it had during the race. She approached him slowly, with a group of other children.
“Good race, Robert,” she said with a lisp.
He beamed at her, leaning down to match her height. “Aw, thank you. I really like running.”
Dot returned his smile with her own chubby-faced, dimpled smile. “I’m going now.” She turned and waddled away. He caught eyes with Jonathan, who was beaming.
