That Deadman Dance by Kim Scott

it; the bristling rope ladder; the slap of waves on timber, and being perched high above the water while the space between you and land grew and grew … Even paper, he said. Old people never knew what it was.
    And if there were townsfolk among his listeners, as there sometimes were, they might have wondered about that battered and oilskin-covered collection of papers Bobby was rumoured to own.
    Wunyeran was friendly, Bobby told anyone who listened. He charmed people. He was a mabarn man. People loved him—a bit like me when I was young.
    The townsfolk would grin and shake their heads. Ah, that old Bobby. Always playing around.
    Wunyeran hauled himself aboard and the men who’d stranded Menak were brought before him, tied with ropes and barely able to walk. They had stolen a young woman of Wunyeran’s clan, and although she was someone with whom Wunyeran would normally not be allowed to socialise, in these circumstances he nodded to her, trying to appear calm out here on the ship as he thought of what might happen next. Looking at the commander, he pointed to her, tapping his chest to explain she is ours. The woman looked around nervously at all the strange men watching and, after the briefest of hesitations, came and stood beside Wunyeran. They did not embrace or exchange emotions in any way. But even the sailors saw her relief.
    The roped men glared and sulked, curled their lips. Even without the evidence of ropes it was clear that they and the men on the ship were not friends.
    The woman glanced to the shore, spoke softly and Wunyeran turned his back on the roped men and went to the side of the ship and looked down upon the dinghy that had brought him here.
    Soon the woman was ashore, and disappearing among the trees.
    It was some days before Wunyeran returned. He told how he met the man Menak speared, and he was like a friend now. It was hard to explain the food, he said. Some of them had tasted it before on ships, but other tastes too and … all very strange. There were many things … He tried to explain the tube you looked through that brought you close; the scratched markings one of the men made on something like leaves. Book. Journal , they said.
    They gave him a good koitj , he said, and showed his people the smooth axe. He had chipped trees all the way from shore almost to here, and the blade bit deep.
    The man scratching and making marks, Wunyeran told them, has hair like flame but keeps it covered. Cross. It was a difficult word to pronounce. Wunyeran was patient, explaining it. Yes, Dr Cross they call him. I slept in his shelter, he said, and accepted the admiration of his fellows. He is a man who scratches in his book all the time.
    When Bobby Wabalanginy told the story, perhaps more than his own lifetime later, nearly all his listeners knew of books and of the language in them. But not, as we do, that you can dive deep into a book and not know just how deep until you return gasping to the surface, and are surprised at yourself, your new and so very sensitive skin. As if you’re someone else altogether, some new self trying on the words.

A most intelligent curiosity
    Wunyeran has a most intelligent curiosity,
Dr Cross wrote. It was a characteristic they shared.
    Cross and his superior agreed their colonial outpost needed to build strategic relationships. We are outnumbered, they said. It is their home. And we do not know what is planned for us or how long our colonial authorities require us to remain.
    Dr Cross’s conclusion that sealers were responsible for the stranding—and therefore the spearing—was confirmed when he met with a group of young men and boys on one of his regular walks. He stood his ground, couldn’t outrun them and might have got a spear in his back if he tried.
    Wunyeran, he said. The only word of their language he knew.
    They smiled and put their hands upon his shoulders. He thought they might still be angry at their companion being stranded on the island, and at the treatment