Walkabout by James Vance Marshall Page A

he would be tender, and plump enough to satisfy the hunger of three. Slowly, imperceptibly, the bush boy dropped behind; edging ever closer to the foolish birds. Suddenly – as if it had been thrown – his hand flew out. His fingers closed round the baby bustard’s neck; cut off its life in a single twisting jerk.
    Swinging his victim carelessly, the bush boy went up to the girl. Before she realized quite what was happening, he had thrust the bustard, wings and body still a-twitch, into her arms. For wasn’t she a lubra: a carrier of burdens ?
    A drop of blood from the broken neck splashed darkly on to the girl’s dress. But she didn’t drop the bustard. She held on to it: tightly: though her face puckered in nausea with every twitch of its wings.
    Peter saw her distress.
    â€˜Say, Mary! He should’a given it to me. I’ll hump it for you.’
    He tried to take hold of the bird, but the girl turned away.
    â€˜It’s heavy,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll take it.’
    In single file they pushed on, over the rim of the plateau; ebony silhouettes against a sunset sky.
    That night they camped in a fault, a broad slab-sided rift that split the plateau like a crack in sun-dried mud. There was no water; but the rocks retained the warmth of the sun, and the twilight wind passed high over their heads.
    The bush boy again made fire, though this time there was little yacca wood, and it proved more difficult to light. But by the time the sun had set flames were flickering cheerfully, their shadows duplicated on the firelit rocks of the fault; and by the time the Southern Cross had tilted up, low on the horizon, the bustard was cooking in the fire-heated ash. They would eat it, the bush boy indicated, in the morning.
    As they lay down to sleep, all the day’s constraint – which had ebbed somewhat away during the lighting of the fire – came flooding back. The girl kept moving about, keeping the fire between herself and the bush boy. Peter, worn out by the day’s exertions, quite lost patience with her.
    â€˜Stop fidgeting, Mary!’ His voice was peevish. ‘I can’t get to sleep.’
    â€˜Sorry, Pete.’
    For a while there was silence. The bush boy movedquietly about the camp, banking down the fire, brushing aside random splinters of wood. Watching him, the girl tossed and turned. At last she could bear it no longer.
    â€˜Peter!’ Her voice was low, and somewhat different from usual. Pleading: almost frightened.
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Come and lie close to me. Please.’
    â€˜What for?’
    â€˜I’m cold.’
    Reluctantly he crawled across, and the two children snuggled closely together.
    The girl insisted on lying with her face to the fire. From where she lay she could see the bush boy, silhouetted against the firelight; he was standing on one foot, staring into the moonlit valley. She wondered what he was thinking: wondered if he was waiting for her to fall asleep. But I won’t sleep, she promised herself. Not till he does. She said it over and over again. Not till he does. Not till he does. But at last her eyes started to droop, her breathing to deepen; and a little before midnight, in spite of her resolutions, she slept the sleep of the utterly exhausted.
    But the bush boy didn’t sleep. Hour after hour he stood there: silent: motionless: a shadow carved in ebony and moonlight.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    P HYSICALLY the Australian Aboriginal is tough. He can stand any amount of heat, exposure, or cold; and his incidence to pain is remarkably low. But he has his Achilles Heel. Mental euthanasia. A propensity for dying purely of autosuggestion.
    Experiments have proved this: experiments carried out by Australia’s leading doctors. On the one hand a group of Aboriginals – voluntarily of course – have spent a day in the desert at a temperature of roughly 95°-100° Fahrenheit, and have spent the night in a sealed-off