Walkabout - James Vance Marshall [21]
Peter, in fact, was starting nothing worse than a common cold – the type that is almost chronic among people who fly long distances and experience sudden changes in temperature – and this cold was now being aggravated by the plateau dust. He sneezed and sneezed and sneezed; he went red in the face; his eyes poured water. The bush boy regarded him with astonishment. Aboriginals know all about fever, but they never have colds and they seldom sneeze. Certainly the black boy had never witnessed such prolonged and noisy paroxysms as Peter’s.
All that afternoon and half the evening the little boy sneezed his way across the dusty plain; he only stopped when they came to the edge of the plateau and the soft redstone gave way to granite; smooth and hard, not to be kicked up by shuffling feet. By the time they stopped for the night Peter was utterly exhausted: too tired to help the bush boy with fire-making : too done-in to eat. He crawled wearily across to his sister, put his head on her lap, and fell instantly asleep.
The bush boy banked down the fire. He was pleased with their progress – that day they had covered seventeen miles. If they kept to this pace, another seven sleeps would see them to the valley-of-waters-under-the-earth. Once they got there, the strangers would be safe.
He didn’t go near the lubra – knowing that for some reason his nearness alarmed her (perhaps because she was ignorant enough to think that the Spirit of Death might pass, in juxtaposition, from him to her). Instead, he lay quietly down, on the opposite side of the fire.
He was just drifting into the dream-time when, quite unexpectedly, he sneezed.
Morning mist refracted the rays of the sun, tumbling them into the valley like a river of molten gold. Bathed in sudden light, the children stirred.
The bush boy was first to wake. He woke completely and instantly, every bit of him together: one second lost to the world, the next completely alert. He rose, flexed his muscles, sniffed the air, and walked quietly down-valley.
Peter woke next. He sat up yawning, rubbing eyes and nose. He’d have liked to blow his nose really (it felt all bunged-up) but having no handkerchief, he sniffed. Loudly.
His sister rolled on to her side and looked at him critically.
‘Peter.’ Her voice was disapproving. ‘Where’s your hanky?’
‘Lost.’
He didn’t wait for recriminations, but got up quickly.
‘I’m going to look for the darkie. Coming?’
She shook her head, and, lay down again. He wondered why she looked suddenly hurt: as though he’d slapped her across the face.
He wandered off; hands in pockets, sniffing loudly. Instinctively he headed down the valley, down the broad granite cleft that ran like an axe-cut from plateau-rim to fringe of plain. He had been too tired the night before to take notice of their camp site – it had been simply a place to go to sleep in; but now, the scenery’s bizarre grandeur caught his imagination. It was, he decided, just like the moon: just like those rocky, fierce-coloured lunar landscapes of the comic strips. He peered at the rocks a little apprehensively, half-expecting some Martian monster to come leaping out; indeed, from the far side of a jagged outcrop of granite, he could, now that he listened carefully, hear something that sounded rather like a Martian feeding: a sort of scrunching-mingled-with-heavy-breathing noise. Fear fought curiosity, and lost. Cautiously he squirmed his way up the wall of rocks, and peered over the edge.
Twenty feet below him was a small pool, rock-ringed, crystal clear, and motionless as glass. And beside it was the bush boy, trundling a small boulder of quartz, about the size of a football (but ten times its weight). He saw Peter and grinned.
‘Yarrawa!’ He pointed to the pool.
Peter glissaded down. He saw the yarrawa at once. Fish. Silver-scaled,