Patrick White - The Fringe of Leaves

Later in the morning a halt had evidently been made, for those at the rear of the file were suddenly squeezed concertina-fashion against those in front. In consequence the slave dropped most of her load, but was rewarded by improved vision. What she saw was a group of men standing round a vast grey tree, at an elbow of which a flock of pied birds repeatedly swooped, squawking in anger.

One of the blacks procured a length of vine, and by looping this round the trunk and pressing on the latter with the soles of his feet, was soon hauling himself in an aerial squatting position towards the bough at which the birds were directing their displeasure. Upon arrival he thrust his arm inside a hollow, and pulled out a small furred animal, and dashed it from high to his companions on the ground; where the beast was clubbed to instantaneous quivering death.

From engravings in the library at ‘Dulcet’ Mrs Roxburgh believed the little creature to have been what is called an ‘opossum’. Exhausted as she was by the journey, and chafed raw by her load of bark, she felt no more than a slight tremor of sympathy, brushing it aside with her filthy hands as though it had been the folds of an actual, and as proved by experience, superfluous veil or fichu, before returning to the state of detached assent with which she received almost every occurrence in this present life. The opossum, moreover, was food, to be stored in one of the netted ‘dillis’, though whether she herself would benefit by it was doubtful.

The women again loaded themselves. Not long after the march had been resumed there was a repetition of the foregoing scene, with incensed birds revealing the whereabouts of an intruder in their elective tree. But the men were conferring longer than before, and with exaggerated laughter in which the women and capering children finally joined. Until the slave realized she had become the object of their attention and mirth. She was dragged forward, the vine was produced, and a grinning giant of a man indicated that they expected her to climb the tree in the manner already demonstrated.

Mrs Roxburgh immediately became faint with terror. If she could have but conjured up her hardy girlhood; instead it was as though her spirit had taken refuge in stays, petticoats, a straitening bodice, the great velvet bell of a skirt, in fact all the impedimenta of refinement bequeathed to her by her mother-in-law. Her actual blackened skin, her nakedness beyond the fringe of leaves, were of no help to her; she was again white and useless, a civilized lady standing surrounded by this tribe of scornful blacks.

When one fellow more scornful than the rest, and more vindictive, thrust a firestick into her buttocks, and again, and yet again, she cried out in pain and fright, ‘No, no! I expect I’ll do it. Only don’t hurt me.’

In imitation of the man she had watched climb the tree farther back, she looped the vine and felt for a hold with the soles of her feet, and began this fearful climb. If her strength or courage threatened to desert her, a firestick was held beneath her person, and the fear of burning drove her higher — or else it was the spirit of Ellen Gluyas coming to Mrs Roxburgh’s rescue.

Indeed, she found herself close enough to the bough to thrust her arm inside the hollow and feel around for animal fur, which was there, warm and springy, on the tightly curled, slightly shivering muscular body. Compunction made her falter, but only for an instant. She dug in her own desperate claws, and hauled, and brought the creature well outside its nest before the pink little snout opened and the teeth were sunk in the back of her hand. Then she did scream with pain, and the blacks below roared and cheered, and clubbed to death the animal she let fall.

Somehow slithering she began her worse descent. As she was tossed from branch to branch, her greatest fear was for her precious girdle. If she clutched, it was at air, by handfuls, fistfuls of perfumed leaves, everything either evasive, or stubborn like the tree itself, but after a last long agonizing embrace with the abrasive trunk, she landed on earth in a state of pins and needles, torn skin, broken nails, and a throbbing hand.

She was scarcely more alive than the dead opossum, but her girdle had held and she was comforted to see amongst the leaves, her ring.

When she had adjusted her dress the other women did her the kindness of helping her load, and the file moved on.

The site chosen by the elders of the tribe for their next camp was a stretch of flat sandy ground separated from a sound or river estuary by a mangrove thicket. The grey, deformed trees, the grey water and sandy soil depressed the captive, shaken and exhausted besides by her experience earlier that day. Her companions had immediately set to work re-erecting the bark huts. She too, was expected to work, digging with a flat pearl-shell and her hands the shallow trenches she had noticed surrounding the huts at their previous camps. She imagined them to be a practical device for draining off the water in the event of a tropical downpour, but in her present frame of mind would not have cared had she and all of them been inundated and drowned like ants.

Needing to relieve herself, she went a little way apart from the others, into the mangroves, and when she had finished squatting, took the opportunity to stray farther and investigate the lie of the land. By the view she had from the water’s edge she was persuaded that they were living on an island, separated from the mainland only by this narrow strip of water. In her dispiritment and acceptance of her fate, she was glad that her discovery absolved her from making an attempt to escape by following the coast to Moreton Bay. She was immured, not only in the blacks’ island stronghold, but in that female passivity wished upon her at birth and reinforced by marriage with her poor dear Mr Roxburgh.

She was standing stubbing her toes on the moist grey sand and reconsidering whether Mr Roxburgh had in truth been poor or dear (of course he was! her dead husband of glossy whiskers and exquisite hands) when two children appointed as spies arrived full of frowns caught from their elders, to lead her back to camp, and she went as was expected of her.

This present camp differed in no way from the last, except that it was free (at first) of fleas, she was not plagued by the ailing child, and food became less plentiful. As the blacks grew emaciated they were more inclined to glower and sulk, and to beat or pinch their servant, whom they may have blamed for the dearth which had been visited upon them. There was the occasional opossum, snake or lizard, and once or twice the huntsmen brought in a species of small kangaroo. Otherwise the tribe subsisted on fern-roots and yams. Fish, it seemed, had migrated to other waters. On a memorable evening Mrs Roxburgh snapped up from under her masters’ noses a segment of roasted snake, which produced in her an ecstasy such as she had never experienced before.

There had been occasions in the past of course when a happy conjunction of light with nature had roused tender sentiments in her, or even more deeply felt emotions, although to be honest, they were more than likely the response her husband and his mother would have expected of any individual with pretensions to sensibility. By the same code, she listened to Mr Roxburgh reading Latin verses, in hopes of his esteem rather than her own distraction. If she attempted to convey that his exercise had given her pleasure, her drooping shoulders and hands dutifully folded in her lap must have told him more, had he observed them; perhaps the poor man had. The ecstasy of physical passion she had experienced with her husband scarcely ever, and with her one regrettable lover it had been not so much passion as a wrestling match against lust. Now reduced to an animal condition she could at least truthfully confess that ecstasy had flickered up from the pit of her stomach provoked by a fragment of snakeflesh.