THE VALLEY OF LAGOONS

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 57, Issue 110, 19 February 1937, Page 7

THE VALLEY OF LAGOONS

By A. E. YARRA. Copyright

SERIAL STORY

CHAPTER! XIII. PLUTO IN SEARCH OF PROSERPINE. When the silver pencil of dawn was sweeping across the horizon, lettee, tL L.gl.ing One, child of romances started his string of pack horses and spare mounts- down the faint track o the last stage of his journey from the Valley of Lagoons to Green Mountain. With ringing cracks of his heavy stockwhip he sent them scampering and pigrooting on their way. Then he pulled in Conrad’s big horse and to light his pipe, while lie watched the hand of the Emu god of the Milky M ay draw aside the curtains of the world and let the light of day pour over the eastern range. He stared into the east. His brown . eyes burned with a, strange passion. Aloud, in his soit musical voice, he mused: “Aurora,’ goddess of the dawn, mother of the stars that guide us m the dark and of the winds that bring us the rain clouds and the sweet scent of the pines and cedars; Riding m a rosecoloured chariot with its white horses; opening with rosy-fingers the gates o the morning; pouring the new ot the white man’s heaven upon the sweet earth; maiding the flowers spring up amongst the grasses; chasing away the terrors of the darkness and heralding the appearance of Sol, the golden go of beauty and light! Little lluto. salutes thee! Hail and farewell! Woe to the vanquished! Pluto took Proserpine from her field of flowers and made her the Queen of Hell, but in these times, as M. Briand would have said, it is a la Anglaise. Little Pluto, foreman of the blacks on Green Mountain, might take Aurora Kramm as Pluto took Proserpine, and ride across the Great Plateau to a place where she would be Queen of Hell, but Little Pluto is a coloured gentleman, and Pluto was only a nigger after all. Little Pluto must find another Proserpine—a chocolate coloured one. “Gid-dap, Pegasus! 'Como on. Cerberus. With a reckless yell Yettee threw his dead jnpe away, and spurred the chestnut down the mountain side, while the cattle dog, Cerberus, hounded along in the rear. At the top of the green hill that looked down on the hoinstead, Yettee pulled up his mount and waited while the other horses scampered down to the yards. A woman’s figure emerged from the kitchen; stood, outlined against the white wall, gazing up the hill in search of the rider.

Yettee made a sign with his arms. Back came the signal: “I see a man.” Yettee said, in the sign language: “I see a woman —a good woman.”

“I have a lot of wild honey,” came back from Black Mary’s nimble arms and hands. Yettee gave a yell of delight and spurred madly down the grassy slope. Black Mary did not enfold her son in her arms, as a white mother does, and kiss him. She stood before him, patting his chest and laughing with her big, handsome brown and white eyes and gleaming teeth; and Yettee patted his mother’s chest and laughed back at her as a child does. She took him by the hand and like two proud and happy children they went into the kitchen, where Ah Butt, the ancient Chinaman cook, smiled at them with the beauty of a sunrise. Reachiing under a table, he brought out a kerosene tin filled with wild honey in the comb.

While Yettee told the story of his journey into the west, the three comrades sat under a big shady tree, outside the kitchen door, and ate their fill of “blackfellow’s delight.” Eric Strong rode in from an outstation on a thoroughbred horse. Yettee, greeting him as a prince greets his king, went in to the little office off the verandah of the big wooden bungalow and told his story in detail. Eric Strong had grown a little stouter, and a great deal quieter at 45. Always in his eyes there was the shadow of a memory—the memory of the “Grey Dove”—with a smashed spine, lying in the big white bed of Mrs Kramm, smiling up at him bravely as she set out on her journey into the land of ghosts. For sixteen years he had lived at Green Mountain, climbing up the path of his ambition to be a cattle king, and the crest was in sight. “Strong of Green Mountain” was a name that held magic for white men and black, up and down Silver River. Just and kind, fair and aboveboard, and a friend to every man who was a man, his motto might have been expressed in the lines:

“"Without an honest manly heart, No man is worth a farthing.”

Though he did not discuss religion, and was known to race a horse and bet on it, if he thought it worth while; to drink a glass with a friend; smite his enemy on the chin when it seemed expedient; the Bishop of Silver River knew that there was no stronger pillar of St. Margaret’s parish and none more generous to the church funds. The finest altar in the diocese was at St. Margaret’s, given in memory of Margaret Strong, by the widower who rode regularly over ilO miles of husli roads to cover the altar with flowers from the garden of the ancient Ah Butt down by the creek.

And “Heriek” was to the blacks of Green Mountain the greatest and best of all white men.

The dwindling remnant of that big clan which Blake, the cedar-cutter, had induced to strip hark for huts when the “Blackboy” tide up at the hank on Silver River for the first time; the tribe whose chief elder, the laughingeyed young Irishman, Denis O’Hegarty, had named: Absolam, the Father of Peace, knew Strong of Green Mountain for their protector against the evil whites, who had wrought havoc with other tribes, making drunkards of their men and worse of their women.

To white meii and black, “Strong of Green Mountain” was immaculate, liv-

ing like a feudal baron in liis comfortable bachelor quarters; surrounded by a picked half dozen married white men and the loyal tribe he regarded as his pensioners. The chief of all these m his affections were his splendid son Conrad, the black Yettee, who had saved Conrad’s life in the wreck, and Black Mary, formerly Lena, who had been the gallant bodyguard ot the “Grey Dove.” The memory of one other man was there, a man with a mighty heart, who had made for himself a place in ie life of Eric Strong. But lie was an outlaw, a killer, an escapee from Devil’s Island, and all that was left of linn was a square of cardboard bearing the word “Resurgam.” Strong greeted Yettee in the white man’s fashion, with a hearty handshake and a warm smile, and gave him the easy chair and a cigar. “And you saw no Myalls on the way in?” asked the squatter, when lie had heard Yettee’s story. “Plenty,” said Yettee. “But I rode round ’em, and camped away from ’em. They weren’t hunting for trouble —neith was I.” “Jerry Stone has been here,” said Erie. “He thinks you drove his horses off in the night and brought them hack a week later, so that he could not get into Silver River in time to apply for a block beside the lagoon.” “Did he see me?” grinned Yettee. “No, and he failed to find any tracks. He says you used the shadow shoes.” . “Ho called me a fancy nigger, and said that for an eyeful of mud he’d chastise me. Well, he’s had the eyeful of mud. Boss, that’s a had man. I lie selects alongside you there’s going to he trouble, and tRe tribes may be bad. Why don’t you get some good neighbours to take up all the blocks next to you and crowd Jerry out? You owe him one for trying to jump you.” “We owe him one for trying to jump us Yettee, you mean. It’s your block.” “No, boss. You know I’d l never stand 5 the strain of running it—and I haven’t got the money or the stock. I’d have to borrow from you or the bank—and the bank wouldn’t lend money to a nigger. You know that.” “I would, though, Yettee.” “And lose it in the end because a coloured gentleman can’t stick to business like a white man. It’s your block, boss. i wouldn’t have it on my mind.”

“Right,” agreed Eric. “You are a wise man, Yettee, and I’ll see that you don’t lose. Now what are you hatching? Captain Dick and Jack Blair and a score of other good men are crazy to go west. We could have all the good neighbours we want.” “Conrad will be back from town tonight, with an idea of what Dick Gailoway and Blair intend to do. J3lair s thinking of resigning and talcing his sheep west to those big dry plains you saw. ITe finds the mountains breed foot-rot. Too moist for sheep. We’ll talk it over then.”

“What are you going to do to-day, bleep?” asked the cattleman, as Yettee rose to depart. The black man looked at him enigmatically. “Look out for a mate, for the hack track,” he said, and slipped through the doorway. The huts on the station side of the creek were deserted, all hands being away at the bangtail muster, so Yettee crossed the little suspension bridge of poles and green-hide ropes to the camp of the Black Snakes, the adopted tribe of Ills father. In the middle of the fraiL bridge he paused to watch Rosie, the aboriginal girl, erect and graceful in her neat print frock, who was gathering firewood, and at the same time playing with a naked little black hoy, about the age of Yettee when lie became the protege of Eric Strong, sixteen years ago. With one hand she caught and tossed hack to the child a ball of opossum fur, while she balanced on her head a bundle of wood. With her toes she picked up sticks from the ground, and while the child was chasing the ball she lifted them to the level of her disengaged hand, grasping them with her big toes as a monkey would. Yettee studied her at leisure, leaning on the guard-rope of the bridge. He knew that Rosie was aware of his presence, and that she was poising before him, pretending ignorance. He decided that she was handsome—beautiful, as lubras go. 'She walked like a young horse, graceful, swift, confident. Her head was more erect than that of Auiora Kramm. She had not an inch of superfluous fat on her body. Her face was bright with laughter. Black and white eyes gleamed add danced. Her hair, no longer matted with animal fat and decorated in the native way with gum nuts, was washed and brushed, and held hack by a forehand-band ot pink ribbon, such as Aurora Ivramm used on lier flaxen tresses. It hung in curls to her shoulder. “Ai! Ai! Ai! Budgery you teller! Rosie cried m<?rrily to the child as she caught and tossed the hall. Yettee passed the lubra. without -a sign of recognition and proceeded to the camp, where only the old men and the women and children had been left behind by the nuisterers. “Absolam,” the patriarch, crowned “king” by the whites, sat on the ground, cross-legged, near a little fire of gidyea sticks, presiding over a game of hazards. Around a piece of cloth spread on the red sand sat M idgel, Yambi, Banya and Wirri, four aged and wrinkled men, pensioners of “Herrick” Strong. A fifth man, Yellow Jack, from down the river, shearer, musterer, dingo trapper, gambler, a “flash” half-caste of shady repute, squatted at the end of the cloth, opposite Absolam. Yettee nodded respectfully to the elders, gave a sidelong glance of contempt to Yellow Jack, and smiled at Absolam’s old wile, who was cooking a ’possum at a fire outside her wurley of hushes. He sat on his heels and watched the dice throwers in silence. Absolam was on one of his gambling sprees. He had been losing heavily. In a loose pile on the red sand beside Yellow . Jack were Absolam’s money, his spurs, leggings, elastic-sided riding hoots, stockwhip, hat and blue shirt. Also the brass plate on a chain which proclaimed him King of Green Mountain. The patriarch was clad in an old overcoat of Erie Strong’s, and a pair of Bedford-cord riding pants. _ From a similar pile it was evident that the others had been losing also, though their sartorial possessions were still intact. They were not so reckless.

“The four, the four, the little four, chanted Yellow Jack, in a meaty voice, as he rattled a greenhide dice box and held it aloft. “Hennybuddy bet against the little four?”

IVidgel, Yambi, Banya and Wirri shook their aged and bearded heads in silence. They were broke. “What about ol’ King Absolam? You ain’t gonne to bet any more, ain’t it? I betcher that pile agen you gotta make Rosie marry me. Whattamethinkso, Absolam? That’s a good bet, ain’t it, ol’ fellers?” Yellow Jack appealed to the foui elders, who sat with dark eyes gleaming, fingering their grey beards. Ihey made no reply. , . , But Absolam was not yet bankrupt, or beaten. He rose to his six feet- one, unfolding from the ground almost like a carpenter’s rule, and from beneath and folds of the overcoat he stripped the Bedford-cords from his long legs, tie drew the overcoat closer with a trreenhide belt-, rolled the Bedford-cords into a bundle, and laid them on the head of his losings. “Ben’ me fi’ tchillin on these, lie said, and his black claw reached out for the five shillings which Yellow jack promptly counted out in small silver, coppers, and one ot lvarl Kramm’s credit notes, called in those days “shin plasters,” and issued instead of change by storekeepers, when metal money was scarce. The elders were galvanised into interest. Children gathered near, diffident, fearful of approaching too close, yet thrilled with the knowledge that the royal trousers had been staked on th Theo e id “queen,” small and wiry, and dgo oils in spite of her fifty summers, Sd He ashes of her cooking fire over the hind-quarters of the ’possum and wiped the grease from her hands oi the rear of her royal red iobe ot calico Absolam’s latest gift, purchased that day from the Hindu hawker, Agai Khan who was camped across the creek’ The queen was agitated, toi he knew that if the .royal trousers went tl« way of the tong. otto, possessions, her daughter might he he stowed in marriage, on Yellow Jac . Tribal law still held with the' Black Snakes, and marriage was by gilt, puichase, theft, or exchange. _ The, queen had other ideas for the princess. So four members of the king s council a queen and a score of children, chiefly naked, held their hrcatli and fixed their eyes on Yellow Jack as he rattled the “bones,” and Absolam chanted a magic incantation as las royal trousers swung in the balance. Alas, when three white cubes, each with small black dots, rolled out of the greenhide box on to the dirty cloth at the king’s knees, the king of Green Mountain had gambled away his only remaining pair of pants. The old queen’s 'eyes dulled. bne sucked in her breath through yellow teeth, for she loved Rosie, and she knew her daughter’s fate was as good as sealed. Back to her cooking she went, in silence, for a word out of place would earn her a whack or two over the head with a nulla nulla from Absolam, who still had surprising vigour in his good right arm. “What about bettin’ you the lot agen you make Rosie marry me?” asked Yellow Jack, sweeping together the whole of his winnings from Absolam and the elders, and building of them one glittering, tempting heap of riches. At this moment Rosie herself came up. She dropped the bundle of firewood from her head at her mothoi s wurley, and joined the children, watching the drama from a little distance. Absolam was clearly torn between Ida desire for wealth and his love for Ids daughter. For a moment his dark old eyes glistened beneath his matted hair as he fought temptation. Mammon

U °“l betcher!” the king shouted, and slapped his thigh. ... .. n “That the stuff,” chuckled Yellow Jack, and: gathered up the dice. “Ai! Ai! Ai!” came the queens lament, from her fire in front of h£i little round wurley. “Huh!” grunted Rosie, as she clung to a slender sapling with both hands and watched with angry eyes. There was a noisy and prolonged agitation of the dice in their greenhide box. Out flashed three sixes, to roll on the cloth before Yellow Jack. “Guh!” grunted the four elders. At best the king could tie. Absolam fingered his heard! for a moment in silence. Then he took up the dice. While he shook them vigorously he promised his gods in his own tongue that if they would aid him to win such wealth as he saw heaped tip there before him, he would seive them loyally. In English (which the hlackfellow’s gods do not understand) he vowed that if he won this time he would gamble no more; he would drink no rum; he would do all that the missionary from Silver River said was necessary for him to enter the. white man’s heaven. In short, lio ofleied as a prize his allegiance to the victors, and he left the black emu god in the Milky Way and the white missionary in Silver River to fight it out for the prize. The missionary lost. Absolam threw two fours and a six.

“Guh!” grunted the four elders, in unison. Rosie and the children crept away in sorrow, for Yellow Jack was neither a white man nor a black man. He was an outcast from both races, and his ways were not the ways of the clan of the Strongs and the Blairs, the Kramms and the Galloways, who had managed to keep Green Mountain from the curse of half-caste bloocl. llosie of the dancing eyes, the laughing mouth and the kind heart, was to be given to Yellow Jack in marriage, and she would go from them, and would play with them no more— Yettee rose from his squatting position. Without a word to anyone, lie flitted away and crossed the bridge of poles and greenhide, like a. shadow, to the big van of the Hindu hawker, Agar Khan, with whom lie had im-

portant and immediate business (To lie continued.)