That Deadman Dance by Kim Scott Page A

they’d received at the hands of the sealers, but no, the spearing of the carpenter had appeased them. They did not seem to mind him or the camp upon the beach and—not at all frightened—were friendly and curious. The colour of his hair intrigued them, as did the nature of his clothing.
    Womany? they asked.
    He showed them otherwise, that it was only clothing, then stood, smiling, arms open, as they touched his hair, felt his buttons. He sat at their fire and took off his hat and boots. Then, standing and re-dressing himself, he turned and returned the way he had come.
    Wunyeran was not the only one who knew some English and French. Nor was he the only one who’d been on ships, but it was Wunyeran who began to visit Dr Cross and accompany him on his walks. His English improved at an astonishing rate. Dr Cross was an enthusiastic tutor, Wunyeran a capable guide.
    Like other learned men sailing the southern hemisphere, Cross had read the journals of Flinders and Vancouver, and references to friendly encounters here. Apparently, there had even been rudimentary trade. Sealers, too, were obviously familiar with the benefits of the place; in addition to the seals which sometimes made the rocks seem a thing of rippling fur, there was fresh water and sheltered anchorages. And it was sealers who’d stranded the man on the island some days before their own arrival, and stolen the women. When their man was speared, Cross and his Commander discussed whether to retaliate and agreed they must continue to demonstrate the difference between the sealers and themselves.
    Cross guessed Wunyeran was in his early twenties. He wore a fine bone through his nose, a cloak of kangaroo skin across his shoulders and the belt of woven hair around his waist usually held a small axe or club. Sometimes he wore feathers in his hair or in a band at his upper arm, and he was inevitably coated in grease or oil. It must, surmised Cross, protect him from insects and cold weather.
    Cross showed Wunyeran his books and journals, his samples of flora and fauna and his surgical tools, and Wunyeran and some of the other young men began to sleep in the crude hut Cross had constructed with the help of the prisoners. He enjoyed their stumbling conversations and Wunyeran’s playful spirit drew him out of himself.
    The natives, who give themselves the name Noongar, are particularly delighted by music , he wrote in his journal, surprised that he was using his violin more than he had for many a year.
    Cross formed the habit of a morning stroll to the hilltops above the camp to take in the view: he looked south over the harbour and, turning slowly to his left, saw the harbour enclosed in the east by an isthmus which ran toward him from a rugged ridge extending eastwards into the open ocean and ending at a granite domed headland. He continued moving his gaze left: two islands at the wide mouth of the huge bay, then again a rocky coastline. His eyes followed that coastline back westwards to another harbour, with an equally narrow entrance only three or so hours walking from where he now stood—the Shellfeast Harbour referred to in the basic charts. He could see the two rivers draining into it and a very small island near its centre. Beyond it stretched dreary grey-green scrub until, in quite startling contrast, a mountain range rose. Perhaps it was two, one behind the other.
    Dr Cross imagined their military outpost as a dot on a map; although indeed any map of this part of the world was still most vague. Their settlement—its tiny population, its handful of huts, its barracks of mud and twigs, its canvas shelter for the shackled prisoners—nestled between two hills beside this very sheltered anchorage. At this time of the year, the sun rose between the two islands like a golden coin.
    They were surrounded by … how many natives? Cross couldn’t answer his own question. And they themselves were what? Barely fifty-odd people, almost half of them soldiers, and an almost