Beat Not the Bones Read Free

controlled himself. It wasn’t Nyall’s fault. He was only doing his job. He had to do what he was told. It was the Australian government. They’d ruined the place with their native education and tommy rot. Cultural development was the last straw. Culture was churches and music and ­theatres. Any fool knew that. And they talked about native culture! Dirty coons. Naked too, except for a bit of leaf and string. It was all very well for the Australians. They’d pushed their natives off into the middle of the desert and abandoned them, or killed them off. And now they sit back and tell us what to do. Native culture!
    Nyall was asking for a man called David Warwick. ‘Can you come over straight away?’ he said.
    There was a pause and Jobe heard a faint voice. ‘What’s it about?’
    â€˜I think …’ said Nyall ‘… not over the phone.’
    â€˜Who’s this bloke Warwick?’ said Jobe when Nyall had hung up. Warwick … Warwick … the name rang uncomfortably in his head, but he couldn’t place it.
    â€˜Haven’t you heard of him? He’s an anthropologist.’
    â€˜Oh,’ said Jobe. He might have known. The whole trouble had started with anthropologists.
    Nyall waited and Jobe soothed his outraged feelings.
    About five minutes later the door opened and Warwick came in. He was a broad-shouldered, thick-set man in his forty-ninth year. He had lived in the Territory most of his life and, like many Territorians, did not look his age. The climate agreed with him. He was strong, active and clear-eyed. His name had meant nothing to Jobe, but actually he was one of the island’s aristocrats. He had been born in Marapai, a distinction that not many of the older men could boast of, and here the aristocracy were not those of blue blood or noble occupations but the ones who had lived here longest. This, however, was not the end of his achievements. He had half a dozen books to his credit and a reputation for learning and practical ability. To that minute section of humanity who had any interest in this primitive island, he was a celebrity.
    Even Jobe, who had not known his name, recognised him immediately. His heart sank. What rotten luck. What a piece of filthy, rotten luck.
    Warwick had not looked at him. He moved into the centre of the room and stood looking at Nyall. He seemed rather ill at ease and said uncertainly, ‘Well, Trevor …’
    â€˜This,’ said Nyall, waving a hand vaguely, ‘is Mr Jobe.’
    Jobe came boldly forward with an outstretched hand. It was rotten luck, all right, but there was nothing to do but brazen it out. There was just a chance that this fellow wouldn’t recognise him.
    Warwick looked straight at him but appeared not to see him at all. He looked vague and worried.
    â€˜He’s just come back from Kairipi,’ said Nyall briskly. ‘He’s been up the Bava River – hasn’t told us yet exactly where. And he brought these back with him.’
    Warwick took the two gold moons from his hand. The look of anxiety passed from his face. He turned the moons over and peered at them intently, then said, ‘Most interesting.’
    â€˜Mr Jobe finds them interesting too,’ Nyall said with a faint smile.
    Warwick looked up and focused now on Alfred Jobe.
    Jobe held his breath. He thought he saw for an instant a faint beam of recognition in Warwick’s eyes. ‘I suppose he would,’ he said.
    â€˜Well, come on, Mr Jobe. Let’s have your story. I’m afraid you’ll have to tell us where these things come from.’ Nyall spoke briskly now.
    Jobe had hoped he wouldn’t have to tell them but saw that this would be impossible. He squared his shoulders and went over to the map. His finger followed the coastline west from Marapai and mounted inland up the Bava River.
    â€˜Here’s the river,’ he said. ‘Bava. Here’s