Walkabout - James Vance Marshall [14]
‘Worwora!’ his voice was excited.
Peter came scrambling out of the water. Doubtfully, he looked at the ball; hopefully, he touched it
‘Yeemara?’ he asked.
The bush boy nodded, and together they started to unearth the strange coconut ball. It was one of nature’s paradoxes: a plant growing upside-down: a leaf and flower-bearing liana whose foliage grew entirely under the ground. Close to the surface was the tuber-like yam; spread out around and beneath it were its flowers and leaves, drawing from the soil that sustenance which the air of the desert denied. It was a plant as rare as it was strange, and as tasty as it looked unpalatable.
The bush boy broke off the yam; then, following another skein of underground foliage, he tracked down a second. Fascinated, Peter watched. He got the idea quickly. Soon he too had sought out and pulled up a third worwora. The bush boy grinned in appreciation. The little one was quick to learn. Following the lines of underground foliage, the two boys worked gradually away from the billabong. Soon, side by side, they disappeared into the desert.
When they were out of sight Mary came down to the chain of pools. Soon she too was laughing and splashing under the waterfall. But she listened carefully for sound of the boys’ return. As soon as she heard their voices, she scrambled out of the water, and quickly pulled on her dress.
The boys’ arms were full: full of worworas. They were carrying at least a dozen each; and they were, Mary suddenly noticed, both of them quite naked. She picked up her brother’s shorts from beside the edge of the billabong.
‘Peter,’ she said, ‘come here.’
He came reluctantly across.
‘Gee! I don’t need no clothes, Mary. It’s too hot.’
‘Put them on,’ she said.
He recognized her strict governess’s voice.
A week ago he wouldn’t have dreamt of arguing. But somehow he felt different here in the desert. He looked at his sister defiantly, weighing the odds of revolt.
‘O.K.,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll wear the shorts. But nothing else.’
A week ago the girl wouldn’t have stood for conditions. But somehow, for her too, things were different now. She accepted the compromise without complaint.
They cooked the yam-like plants in the reheated ash of last night’s hearth. They tasted good: sweet and pulpy: a cross between potato, artichoke, and parsnip.
During the meal Mary watched the black boy. They owed him their lives. His behaviour was impeccable. He was healthy and scrupulously clean. All this she admitted. Yet his nakedness still appalled her. She felt guilty every time she looked at him. If only he, like Peter, would wear a pair of shorts ! She told herself it wasn’t his fault that he was naked: told herself that he must be one of those unfortunate people one prayed for in church - ‘the people who knew not Thy word’: the people the missionaries still hadn’t caught. Missionaries, she knew, were people who put black boys into trousers. Her father had said so - ‘trousers for the boys,’ he’d said, ‘and shimmy-shirts for the girls.’ But the missionaries, alas, evidently hadn’t got round to Australia yet. Perhaps that’s why it was called the lost continent. Suddenly an idea came to her. A flash of inspiration. She’d be the first Australian missionary.
Missionaries, she knew, were people who made sacrifices for others. While the boys were scattering ash from the fire, she moved to the far side of the cairn, hitched up her dress, and slipped out of her panties.
Then she walked across to the bush boy, and touched him on the shoulder.
She felt compassionate: charitable: virtuous. Like a dignitary bestowing some supremely precious