The Bush Undertaker Page #2

"The Bush Undertaker" is a short story by Australian author Henry Lawson, exploring themes of isolation, hardship, and the unique challenges faced by those living in the remote Australian bush. The narrative follows the life of a bush undertaker who grapples with the emotional and practical burdens of his profession in a sparsely populated region. Through vivid imagery and rich characterizations, Lawson captures the stark realities of rural life, highlighting the resilience and fortitude of individuals confronted by death and loss in an unforgiving landscape. The story reflects Lawson's enduring insights into the Australian identity and the human condition.

• Short story

								

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“I can't take any more strips off my shirt,” he said, critically
examining the skirts of the old blue overshirt he wore. “I might get
a strip or two more off, but it's short enough already. Let's see; how
long have I been a-wearin' of that shirt; oh, I remember, I bought it
jist two days afore Five Bob was pupped. I can't afford a new shirt jist
yet; howsomenever, seein' it's Brummy, I'll jist borrow a couple more
strips and sew 'em on agen when I git home.”

He up-ended Brummy, and placing his shoulder against the middle of the
lower sheet of bark, lifted the corpse to a horizontal position; then,
taking the bag of bones in his hand, he started for home.

“I ain't a-spendin' sech a dull Christmas arter all,” he reflected, as
he plodded on; but he had not walked above a hundred yards when he saw a
black goanna sidling into the grass.

“That's another of them theer dang things!” he exclaimed. “That's two
I've seed this mornin'.”

Presently he remarked: “Yer don't smell none too sweet, Brummy. It must
'a' been jist about the middle of shearin' when yer pegged out. I wonder
who got yer last cheque. Shoo! theer's another black goanner--theer must
be a flock of 'em.”

He rested Brummy on the ground while he had another pull at the bottle,
and, before going on, packed the bag of bones on his shoulder under the
body, and he soon stopped again.

“The thunderin' jumpt-up bones is all skew-whift,” he said. “'Ole on,
Brummy, an' I'll fix 'em”--and he leaned the dead man against a tree
while he settled the bones on his shoulder, and took another pull at the
bottle.

About a mile further on he heard a rustling in the grass to the right,
and, looking round, saw another goanna gliding off sideways, with its
long snaky neck turned towards him.

This puzzled the shepherd considerably, the strangest part of it being
that Five Bob wouldn't touch the reptile, but slunk off with his tail
down when ordered to “sick 'em.”

“Theer's sothin' comic about them theer goanners,” said the old man at
last. “I've seed swarms of grasshoppers an' big mobs of kangaroos, but
dang me if ever I seed a flock of black goanners afore!”

On reaching the hut the old man dumped the corpse against the wall,
wrong end up, and stood scratching his head while he endeavoured to
collect his muddled thoughts; but he had not placed Brummy at the
correct angle, and, consequently, that individual fell forward and
struck him a violent blow on the shoulder with the iron toes of his
blucher boots.

The shock sobered him. He sprang a good yard, instinctively hitching up
his moleskins in preparation for flight; but a backward glance revealed
to him the true cause of this supposed attack from the rear. Then he
lifted the body, stood it on its feet against the chimney, and ruminated
as to where he should lodge his mate for the night, not noticing that
the shorter sheet of bark had slipped down on the boots and left the
face exposed.

“I spect I'll have ter put yer into the chimney-trough for the night,
Brummy,” said he, turning round to confront the corpse. “Yer can't
expect me to take yer into the hut, though I did it when yer was in a
worse state than--Lord!”

The shepherd was not prepared for the awful scrutiny that gleamed on him
from those empty sockets; his nerves received a shock, and it was some
time before he recovered himself sufficiently to speak.

“Now, look a-here, Brummy,” said he, shaking his finger severely at the
delinquent, “I don't want to pick a row with yer; I'd do as much for yer
an' more than any other man, an' well yer knows it; but if yer starts
playin' any of yer jumpt-up pranktical jokes on me, and a-scarin' of
me after a-humpin' of yer 'ome, by the 'oly frost I'll kick yer to
jim-rags, so I will.”

This admonition delivered, he hoisted Brummy into the chimney-trough,
and with a last glance towards the sheep-yards, he retired to his bunk
to have, as he said, a snooze.

He had more than a snooze, however, for when he woke, it was dark, and
the bushman's instinct told him it must be nearly nine o'clock.

He lit a slush-lamp and poured the remainder of the rum into a pannikin;
but, just as he was about to lift the draught to his lips, he heard a
peculiar rustling sound overhead, and put the pot down on the table with
a slam that spilled some of the precious liquor.

Five Bob whimpered, and the old shepherd, though used to the weird and
dismal, as one living alone in the bush must necessarily be, felt the
icy breath of fear at his heart.

He reached hastily for his old shot-gun, and went out to investigate. He
walked round the but several times and examined the roof on all sides,
but saw nothing. Brummy appeared to be in the same position.

At last, persuading himself that the noise was caused by possums or the
wind, the old man went inside, boiled his billy, and, after composing
his nerves somewhat with a light supper and a meditative smoke, retired
for the night. He was aroused several times before midnight by the same
mysterious sound overhead, but, though he rose and examined the roof on
each occasion by the light of the rising moon, he discovered nothing.

At last he determined to sit up and watch until daybreak, and for this
purpose took up a position on a log a short distance from the hut, with
his gun laid in readiness across his knee.

After watching for about an hour, he saw a black object coming over the
ridge-pole. He grabbed his gun and fired. The thing disappeared. He ran
round to the other side of the hut, and there was a great black goanna
in violent convulsions on the ground.

Then the old man saw it all. “The thunderin' jumpt-up thing has
been a-havin' o' me,” he exclaimed. “The same cuss-o'-God wretch has
a-follered me 'ome, an' has been a-havin' its Christmas dinner off of
Brummy, an' a-hauntin' o' me into the bargain, the jumpt-up tinker!”

As there was no one by whom he could send a message to the station, and
the old man dared not leave the sheep and go himself, he determined to
bury the body the next afternoon, reflecting that the authorities could
disinter it for inquest if they pleased.

So he brought the sheep home early and made arrangements for the burial
by measuring the outer casing of Brummy and digging a hole according to
those dimensions.

“That 'minds me,” he said. “I never rightly knowed Brummy's religion,
blest if ever I did. Howsomenever, there's one thing sartin--none o'
them theer pianer-fingered parsons is a-goin' ter take the trouble
ter travel out inter this God-forgotten part to hold sarvice over him,
seein' as how his last cheque's blued. But, as I've got the fun'ral
arrangements all in me own hands, I'll do jestice to it, and see that
Brummy has a good comfortable buryin'--and more's unpossible.”

“It's time yer turned in, Brum,” he said, lifting the body down.

He carried it to the grave and dropped it into one corner like a post.
He arranged the bark so as to cover the face, and, by means of a piece
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