Chapter 17
The wild dog was on top of Arunta, his vicious jaws squeezing the life from the boy’s body.
Resigned to his fate, Arunta had stopped fighting when, through half-shut eyes, he saw a white blur and felt the weight of the ngurakin fall from his body. It seemed that from out of nowhere Kalu, his loyal albino dingo, had appeared and had thrown herself at the wild dog. Arunta gasped for air and shook his head. Struggling to his feet he could see Kalu and the ngurakin pitched in a brutal fight to the death.
“Father!” he gasped, stumbling over to where Yuka lay, still no sign of life. Blood flowed freely from the leg wound made by the dingo. Apart from the fierce sounds of the two dogs, the forest seemed to fall silent; every tree, every creature mesmerized by the events unfolding. Arunta grabbed his father by the shoulders and shook him.
“Father! Come back to me!” Over the sound of the battle, a groan made its way out of Yuka’s mouth. Arunta’s eyes widened with hope. “Father, Kalu has saved us. We must go quickly.”
“No,” groaned Yuka. “Kalu will not win by herself. You must help her.” Arunta knew that his father was right. As brave as she was, Kalu would be no match for the colossal cross-breed. She would give them some time. But not enough. Arunta had to make sure that the ngurakin would be finished for good.
Arunta lay his father down and put the rolled-up cloak under his head. He then took his father’s hand and pressed it against the torn flesh on his leg.
“Hold your hand hard on the wound. It will stop the bleeding,” he instructed. But Yuka was too weak to respond. Arunta turned to see the dogs’ bodies so entwined that they were like one ghastly, two-headed monster. In their vicious frenzy they were oblivious to the cliff edge and their fight moved closer and closer towards a horrifying end. Arunta scoured the ground for a rock and found one the size of his fist. He could not risk throwing it and missing. Or worse, hitting Kalu. His only option was to get close enough to slam it into the ngurakin’s head. With the rock in hand he ran over to the dogs waiting for the right moment to strike a deadly blow.
Then the earth beneath him began to move. The dogs, and Arunta, were at the edge of a sheer drop and the overhanging ground had eroded, worn thin from wind, rain and time. Suddenly Arunta was dropping and with him the ngurakin and Kalu.
Arunta was just able to twist his body and reach for a short clump of grass that was barely strong enough to hold against his weight. He blindly waved his dangling legs hoping to feel something solid that would provide him with a foothold. But there was only space. With all the strength he had left Arunta managed to swing one leg back up onto the ground near his head and slowly and carefully pull himself up.
For a moment he lay flat on the ground afraid to breathe lest more of the earth should fall away. After a short while he moved slowly and carefully towards the edge of the cliff and peered over. There below him, on a ledge of jagged rock, lay the bodies of the two dogs, drained of all life.
“Thank you, Kalu.” Arunta stared at the twisted body of the white dingo that he had raised since it was a pup rejected by its mother. He consoled himself in the belief that Kalu would take the strength and courage of her enemy into the spirit world. “I know you will protect my father forever.”
There was no time for tears. Arunta rolled far enough away from the edge to feel safe then stood and ran back over to Yuka. Putting his lips close to his fathers, Arunta could feel a very slight breath of air.
“We are safe, Father. Kalu has made us safe. We will stay here tonight and continue our journey tomorrow.”
Arunta did what he could for his father’s wound. He packed some grass over it and wrapped it with the cloth he wore around his waist. The bleeding had stopped but Arunta knew that a wound such as this could still take a turn for the worse. The wound could fill with yellow poison and the skin turn a burning red. He would have to watch for this, although he was not at all sure of what he would do should it happen.
Yuka managed to eat a few berries fed to him by Arunta and fell asleep soon after. As he listened to the sounds of the afternoon, Arunta became aware of a sharp pain in his neck. In his concern for his father, Arunta had forgotten about his own injury. The wild dingo’s teeth had left several deep holes in his flesh. His shoulders and chest were smeared with dried blood. Not too serious, he thought. Then hunger took his mind off in another direction. Nuts and berries would not be enough to satisfy him so he returned to the tree where he had been digging before the ngurakin had attacked. There was no sign of the grubs that he found earlier.
“You can hide but I will soon find you again,” Arunta said. He squatted on the ground and patiently started digging again.
As the forest fell dark he covered his father with the possum fur cloak and lay down beside him. But there would be no sleep for Arunta that night. He thought of Kalu and wondered what it was that made an animal fight to the death in a battle that was not of its own making. He hoped for just a little of Kalu’s loyalty. He thought of his brother who, despite his weak arm, had earned the respect of all in the tribe. Arunta was sure that Burnum would become the warrior that his father had named him for and quietly hoped for a small share of his brother’s strength. He thought of his father, lying beside him, breathing so slightly that his chest barely moved. Those in the tribe who were legendary hunters in their own right, looked up to this man who had come to them as an outsider from the distant mountain. Now this stranger was a legend among legends. Arunta hoped that some of his father’s bravery and skill had been passed on to him. Just enough, he wished, to get them both to Mura-mura, the great Tree of Spirits which grows in the place where two rivers come together.
At first light, Arunta leaned over to his father and gently shook him.
“It is time,” he said. Yuka made a moaning noise that was barely audible. But even this small sign of life was heartening. Arunta broke off some straight branches from the nearby fig tree. He unravelled his dillybag and used the twine to tie the branches together making a frame roughly the size of a man. From the face of the cliff he pulled some thin, strong vines and wrapped them around and around the frame. Onto this bed he gently laid his father. Then picking up one end of the frame he began dragging Yuka toward the place of his birth.
Progress on the final day of the journey to the Tree of Spirits was slow and painful.
“Soon, Father,” said Arunta gently. “They will be here soon. I am looking forward to meeting my grandfather and grandmother for the first time. There will be a big celebration tonight. We will have such wonderful stories to tell of our life on the flatlands and our family. Even the story of our journey up this mountain will amaze them. You will be a hero in two tribes, not just one.”
Arunta’s neck felt swollen and swallowing became difficult that he could not drink. Eventually, pain, exhaustion and thirst began to play games with his mind. Sometimes he would see movement ahead on the track and would call out expecting to find members of Yuka’s family coming to greet them and welcome home their lost son. And when the movement turned out to be caused by a bush rat or a scrub turkey Arunta would curse it and accuse the innocent creature of doing the work of the devil.
Then, tired of the tricks that the forest was playing, he walked with his head down, not wanting to look ahead and risk such painful disappointment. And he continued like this until his blistered hands could drag the sled no farther. But even then he did not stop. Lifting his father in his arms he remembered Grandmother Mirrin’s final words to him on the morning they had left their home: One foot in front of the other. Arunta realised that his grandmother must have known how difficult this journey would be. And as he walked he turned her words into a chant, the rhythm helping to push him past the limit of normal human endurance. He could feel the arms of his brother, his mother, his grandmother, indeed the whole tribe, lifting him, pushing him forward and upward until, even with all their help, he could not take another step.
Falling to his knees Arunta lay Yuka carefully beside the track
on some grass before collapsing face first on the track.
Arunta did not know how long he lay like that. But he did know that if it were not for the white bird landing close to his head and screeching loudly into his ear that he may well have died there on that spot. He moved his head to look at the source of the noise but as he did the bird took flight. Arunta followed it with his eyes and watched as the bird landed only a short distance off in the branches of a tree.
Arunta’s eyes widened. The tree was the largest and most magnificent he had ever seen. Could this be the one? Had he found it? Was this at last the end of their journey?
“Father, Father! It is Mura-mura.” With renewed strength Arunta knelt up and bent excitedly over his father. Yuka opened his eyes and looked at the great tree. His mouth formed the slightest smile.
“Mura-mura,” he whispered. “I am home.” And with that, Yuka drew his final breath.