Chapter 3
Mopoke Of Iron Fist

The noise of the fight woke him up; it was louder than the cicadas shrilling in the trees. The sun pushed through the vine outside the window, making a net of shadows round him. Mopoke lay back and watched the light play on the leaves. Daylight was nothing special. He had been outside lots of times, dared by the other kids at Iron Fist. It was bright, that’s all.

‘Look, you bastard, if you think I’m taking that from you …’ It was Silverpoint’s voice, one of the men.

‘I’m the metal-master here. You’ll do as I say or …’ That was a growl from Quartz. Quartz was his father, the ablest of the metalworkers in the valley.

Something crashed. Mopoke rolled onto his side and tried to ignore the noise. Another crash. Silverpoint’s mother screamed.

Mopoke’s mother had screamed like that three years ago. The noise had shivered through the house, making him cringe. By morning she was gone. She was sick of fighting, she said. She was sick of the sound of hammers and fists and the smell of charcoal from the furnace. She’d gone to live at Feather House.

She had begged Mopoke to come too. He’d said no. Feather House was mostly women, making jewellery, pens and quilts from the wildfowl in the swamps on Lower Creek. He missed her. But who’d live in Feather House when you could be at Iron Fist, learning how to hammer red-hot metal into tough new shapes? He couldn’t wait to be a metalworker then; maybe even become metal-master, like his father.

That was three years ago. Casting spear-heads or knives, beating hinges or cooking-pots was still fun then, when he was first allowed near the smelting pots. You had a sense of power as you made the metal bend to you. But it was boring now, making the same old things day after day, the endless smell of charcoal glowing at the forges, the fights over who made what.

‘You dirty thieving bastard! You wait till I get my hands on you …’ A chair splintered. Someone yelled as others tried to break the fighters up.

Mopoke had new dreams now. They’d started that time he’d broken his arm and ankle, and could not walk or work. His mother had decided it was time he learnt to read. Some of the mob at Iron Fist had laughed at his first attempts, but what else could he do just lying there in bed?

Once he could read, it was hard to stop. His mother had bought armfuls of old books up from the Trading Hall every day. They smelt of mice and were so fragile they seemed to be made of pressed dust. There was magic in those ancient books! Metal carriages that ran along roads, metal boats that sailed on rivers or the sea, and metal machines that flew high in the sky. Surely, those couldn’t be true?—like some of Prickleberry’s wildest tales. How could something as heavy as metal float up in the sky?

In the olden days there was plenty of metal. Now there was almost none. No apprentice would be given metal just to experiment with—not even if his father were metal-master.

Mopoke’s work-bench was over against the wall. It was covered in thick wads of coarse reed-paper, filled with diagrams, all of tools and machines. He’d make them—one day. There were models too, in wood and bone, glued or tied together. Most of them didn’t work: they needed metal. Metal was strong, and rigid, and could be welded together in one firm piece.

His latest model was a tiny steam generator. He’d found the idea in an old book. You heated water in a boiler, and the boiler blew out steam, along a narrow tube that turned a wheel. You could use the turning wheel to turn all sorts of other things: to carry water, to turn a potter’s wheel so you didn’t have to use your feet, perhaps even to turn the wheels on a cart. But the boiler had to be made of metal. He only needed a small piece of metal to make his model.

More yells from next door, muffled by the thick earth walls. A shelf of iron pots crashed to the floor. It sounded like the whole of Iron Fist had joined the argument. Mopoke had an idea. If he went down to the forge now, in daylight, no-one would notice. There’d be no-one to see if he stoked the forge up hot, and took some metal and hammered it into shape … just enough metal to make the boiler on his model steam engine … just a bit …

He shoved off the bedclothes. The stone floor was cool on his feet. He thrust on his clothes, grabbed his model engine, and slipped outside, down to the forges by the creek.

The heat hit him hard after the cool indoors. The sunlight floated through the shimmering air … like Banksia’s spire floating in the hot air above the sea. It was a strange story—Banksia’s mystery music. It held you as though it didn’t want to let you go. Yet it wasn’t so much the idea of the music that had grabbed him. It was the thought of the spire, the metal spire, shining in the sun.

On an island cut off from the mainland. That meant no Collector would have gone there. That meant no dust from the desert to cover up what was there. There might be masses of old metal waiting to be collected on that island …

The fire under the main forge was nearly out. Mopoke blew off the blanket of ash with the bellows till the coals were bright and glowing. He looked around. No sign of anyone. It was still an hour till sunset. There’d be no-one down at the forge for ages.

He bent over the metal stockpile: aluminium—no use at all; thin rusty nails—to be reforged. He selected a piece of iron already cleaned and ready for use. Perhaps it had been carried hundreds of kilometres in a Collector’s pack. Now it would live again as a bright new machine.

‘Hey! What do you think you’re doing?’

Mopoke jumped. It was his father. He looked triumphant—as if he’d won a fight. There was a bruise coming up on one side of his face, and his nose was bloody.

‘Nothing,’ stammered Mopoke.

Quartz grabbed the metal from his hand. ‘Then what’s this? That’s a good bit of metal. Not for kids to play around with.’

Mopoke decided to take a chance. He pulled the model out of his pocket. ‘It only needs a bit of metal,’ he begged. ‘Then if it works we could make a bigger one. It could drive the potters’ wheels and push the carts …’

Quartz examined the model, fingering the carving and the strip of leather round the thin bone wheel. He looked at Mopoke. Then he burst out laughing. He clapped Mopoke on the shoulder. ‘Just like I was at your age,’ he grinned. ‘I used to have ideas like this too. I used to pretend I’d build a flying ship and sail over the world.’

‘This isn’t pretend,’ urged Mopoke. ‘This would work.’

‘It doesn’t matter if it works or not,’ said Quartz. ‘Potters have got feet to work their wheels and people have got arms to push their carts. We don’t collect metal for fun and games. We don’t need things like this.’ He turned serious now: ‘And if I ever catch you at the metal stores again, I’ll have your hide. You understand?’

‘But, Dad, it would work!’ cried Mopoke.

Quartz gave him a shove. ‘Get out of it,’ he said, ‘before I lose my temper. You’re lucky I let you off this time. If you want to play games with metal, you find some yourself. Otherwise you do what you’re told. Understand?’

Mopoke looked at him. His father’s cheek was swelling. Mopoke thought again of the story last night, of the metal spire piercing the bright sky. He grinned.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I will find my own metal.’

Mopoke left his father staring, and crossed the creek, up to the track that led to Reed and Willow.

Reed and Willow was one of the oldest of the valley houses, set high above a bend in the creek. Its grassy roof hung like an untidy fringe over the eves, keeping the sun from the cool rooms below. Its thick rammed-earth walls were patched from hundreds of replasterings with buckets of mud after wild-wind rains had thinned them. A flute played among the rocks on the hill behind. Someone was singing in the gardens by the creek.

Mopoke knocked at the thick weathered door. A young man opened it. Mopoke tried to remember his name. Blast it, you couldn’t remember everyone in the valley, though some people seemed to think you could. Mopoke hesitated, wondering what to say.

‘Um, I wondered if I could see Banksia, if she’s not busy or anything?’

The man looked surprised, then grinned. ‘Sure you can see her. She’s popular this morning. Come on in.’

It was cool inside the house. The shutters were still closed against the heat of the day; the methane lights still hadn’t been lit. They crossed the stone-flagged hall. Old instruments hung from wooden beams embedded in the earth walls: strange shapes that Mopoke hadn’t seen before, couldn’t remember hearing anyone play. On tables and benches were the lutes and flutes and pluckadills played at every valley feast.

‘She’s down in the workroom. There’s no-one else there yet—just Banksia and her visitors.’

What visitors? Mopoke wanted to say. Who’d be out this early?

The workroom was dim. Mopoke bumped into a table, laden with pots of glue and wood-shavings, a set of carving tools so small and intricate he longed to stop and examine them. He saw Banksia, down at the other end of the room. He wondered how she could work in the dimness, then realised: light or darkness made no difference to her now.

There were two people with her. Mopoke grimaced. Wombatshit! One was that awful girl from Three Jasmines—Possum, wasn’t it? The stuck-up one who’d told him off last night. He’d only been trying to be friendly to her. What was she doing here, anyway?

The other person in the gloom was a Collector, vaguely familiar. Desert Wind—yes, that was her name. Now he was closer he could see the scars, strikingly white in the pale brown of her face, and against her faded eyes. There were scars on her arms, too, and a long deep scar, as red as native cherries, down one leg. Mopoke dragged his eyes away. It was hard not to stare.

Banksia had heard the footsteps. She turned her head inquiringly.

Mopoke stepped forward. ‘I’m Mopoke. From Iron Fist. I heard your story last night.’

Banksia smiled. It was strange to see her smile without quite looking at him.

‘So did Desert Wind and Possum,’ said Banksia. ‘Sit down. You don’t mind if I keep working, do you? When you can’t see, it’s good to touch things so you feel in contact with the world around.’

Banksia was sanding a round-backed instrument, made of wood with long thick roe-gut strings. It had been smoothed with sand stuck onto paperbark. Now she was rubbing sand-paper fig leaves over it, her thin fingers circling over and over the wood.

No-one spoke. Banksia smiled again. ‘No-one was interested in my island for years. Now suddenly two people want to find it for me.’ She looked more or less in the direction of Mopoke. ‘Or is it three? Do you want to find my island too?’

Mopoke nodded, then, remembering she could not see, quickly said, ‘Yes, yes.’

‘You!’ the Possum girl said, recognising him in the dim light.

She looked like a Possum too, he decided, all round white face and big bright eyes, a real dumb-bum.

‘What would you want to find the music for?’ she asked.

‘Not the music,’ said Mopoke. ‘It’s the metal spire.’

‘Oh, metal,’ Possum said contemptuously.

‘Well, what do you want to get to the island for?’ demanded Mopoke.

Possum glanced at Banksia. ‘I want to hear the music,’ she said softly. She paused. ‘Maybe I can find some trace of my mother, too.’

Desert Wind’s scars twisted in an almost smile. ‘I was one of the Collectors who searched for your mother,’ she said. ‘We didn’t find any trace of her then. You’d never find anything now, after so many years. Besides, she went up the coast to the salt pans, not down the way that Banksia went.’

‘She’s right,’ said Banksia gently. ‘Besides, I’m sure the music wasn’t someone singing. It was a different sound. The island was too small for anyone to live on. You mustn’t get your hopes up, Possum.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Possum. She looked around the others. ‘Don’t you see? Even if I don’t find any trace of my mother, I’ll still be doing what she did. I’ll still be walking through the outside world, just like her.’

Desert Wind shook her head. ‘You’re both too young,’ she said. ‘It’s not safe to go out till you’re older, till you know how to survive in the bush.’ She smiled again, bitterly. ‘Look at me,’ she added. ‘I know how dangerous it is.’

‘Then you take her,’ said Banksia. ‘You show her what to do.’ There was hope in her voice. ‘Maybe you can find my music for me.’

‘Me?’ Desert Wind’s voice shook. ‘You know I can’t go out again. You know what happened to me last time. I can’t carry a pack. I can’t even walk properly. I’d just be a drag on any other Collector who went with me. Besides, I’ve always walked by myself.’

‘Don’t you want to go out again?’ asked Possum shyly.

‘Want to!’ cried Desert Wind. ‘If you only knew what it’s like being shut up in the valley after you’ve walked out beyond the hills …’

‘Then let me come with you! I can carry the packs. You can show me how to catch food and shelter from the sun, and everything a Collector needs to know …’

Desert Wind looked bewildered. ‘A cripple and a young girl? It’s crazy! Even if we did find the island how would we get out there?’ She stretched out her shrunken arm. ‘I can’t swim far … we’d just have to listen on the shore … that’s if the music even sang for us.’

‘As long as we heard it …’ began Possum.

‘You don’t have to swim,’ said Mopoke.

The others looked at him, surprised. ‘What do you mean?’ asked Possum.

‘I’ve thought about it,’ said Mopoke. ‘It’s simple. Why not build a boat?’

‘A what?’ asked Possum.

‘A boat!’ exclaimed Desert Wind. ‘I don’t know how to make a boat. I don’t know anyone who does. It’s been hundreds of years since anyone had a boat. No-one needs a boat in the valley. Anyway, we could never carry a boat that far.’

‘I could make one,’ said Mopoke. ‘Not here—down at the sea.’

‘How?’ demanded Possum. ‘You’re just a kid.’

Mopoke flushed. ‘I’ve read how to—in books,’ he said, ‘and I’ve made things before that I’ve read about.’

‘Huh!’ said Possum. ‘All you know is metal.’

‘I know how things work,’ said Mopoke. ‘I bet I could make a boat that would get to the island.’

Possum snorted. ‘What if it doesn’t float?’ she demanded.

‘No-one’s asking you to get in it,’ said Mopoke. ‘I could carry things for Desert Wind just as well as you. Better. We don’t need you. Please take me, Desert Wind! Please.’

Desert Wind looked at him, and then at Possum. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I just don’t know.’ She touched Banksia’s arm, lightly. ‘I have to think,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you later when I’ve thought about it all.’