Читать книгу The Undying - Mudrooroo - Страница 7

Jangamuttuk, Ludjee, Augustus yale George,

Yenger jarm garana,

Yenger jarm garana.

That’s how we begin this songline. We created it on that boat. Those times, long ago, when from the east, from the southeast where our island lives, we came sailing, sailing into the setting sun. We of the rising sun were driven forth, to sail into the setting sun. That’s what lies behind this, this song verse. Jangamuttuk, Ludjee and me, her son George, with the few remaining blackfellows of our mob, we came close to this land. On our right side, it receded ever westwards, ever westwards towards the setting sun blazing a coiled serpent across our bows as we sailed on and on, until I reached here alone and unwanted.

I, the stranger with strange habits which make me avoid the full light of day, enter into the warm circle of your fire and will exchange my yarn for your company. It is all that I have, all that I, the undying, have left at the end of that western voyage. Hard and long was the sailing, truly terrifying were our adventures as one by one we succumbed to the toil. Often we thought it would never end, and for many it did not. Now across the milky ocean in the sky, they sail on, leaving me alone with my tales, with the discomfort of the end of Jangamuttuk’s vision. He, my father, our shaman, the dreamer of visions which receded as we sailed westwards, ever westwards until we became as ghosts and ghosts became real men and women. My father, Master of the Ghost Dreaming, sang his ghost songs which were to release us from the domain of the ghosts, which were to close the gate leading from the ghostland to our world, but he failed and wherever we hesitated, wherever we stopped to rest, there were they. Worse, far worse, at least for me, an old granny ghost touched me with her teeth and followed after us. She gave me dreams that were not my dreams, and that is part of my story.

We were a small band of blackfellows, twenty in all, fleeing on a schooner from our island exile. Our homeland had been invaded and we were dispossessed of our hunting grounds. We despaired for our very lives, then the ghost Fada came to us and said that he would save us. He took us to a small island where we languished and died. Fada ate at our souls and, when he had finished eating, he abandoned us. It would have been the end of all of us, but then Jangamuttuk recovered his powers and discovered the Ghost Dreaming. Our shaman, my father, strong in his ceremonies, keen in the visions of his songs, sang Wadawaka to us – he who was born on the water and knew the ways of the sea. Wadawaka accepted us and captained our schooner which sailed on and on with the long stretch of land ever hazy on our right. His vision was beyond the stretch of land, far beyond, and he told me that his beginning had been Africa, though what his end would be he refused to say, though he too was a seer of visions.

Wadawaka inenanam modjie modie.

Djurin nana gulara bidin.

Dabor inganj bidin

Djao djao.

He came up from the sea, from the cool, cool sea he rose to hurry us west. He kept us going in that long boat, in that ship hung with shrouds which rattled in the breeze like dead men’s bones, and when the wind howled through the rigging there came from them the shook-shook of giant bat wings. How that sound echoes in my mind, but from another and later time. Then it was but the sound of the sails. Now it seems to be all around me as huge dark wings, lifting and flying me back to when I was not a stranger, but with my own mob.

Now they are gone, and I sit at your campfire and sing and yarn to you. I watch you nod your heads as you listen to my story, to my songs which are akin to your own, though they are in my own language kept alive in my head. Our people, my mob, are gone and there is no one left to talk to in those ancient words. My language falls into the swirls of the prow breaking through that sea, ever westwards until the land ends, as my people, my language, ends. Now I must use the language of the ghosts and let it shape my lips. I must breathe forth their words as I let the power of the Ghost Dreaming move me along. Ah, that long voyage, each part a verse of a song singing us along. The songline ends here with me, the last of my mob. No, I do not want tea. I want your ears so that I can tell you of those days which we thought belonged to us, for we were powerful in song.

And you wish to know my name? Yes, my name. It was given to me by my father, Jangamuttuk, as I sat in the cave with him and he sang out my destiny. Jangamuttuk, father, shaman of our mob. Well, my name is George. I was named after a mad king and my elder brother, Augustus, was named after an insane emperor and also after the ghost Fada who ruled over us on that island, ever imprisoning us in the words he drew on paper. He scribbled and sketched while we died and died, then Jangamuttuk awoke to his visions and entered them to find a path for us to follow. Whether it was the wrong or right way, it does not matter now, for at the time it gave us the strength to sail into the setting sun, coiling and uncoiling a giant serpent that drew us towards its golden land, though Fada took a last victim as we cleared the island.

My poor brother Augustus was faint .of heart and body and had listened to Fada overmuch. With the island still in his sight, he fell from the masthead up which he had clambered for one last lingering look. How we mourned, and I can still feel those tears on my cheeks. It was then that the sails began to sound like the rattle of dead men’s bones, my brother’s bones. It was then that Wadawaka saw my distress and became an elder brother to me. He told and showed me things that stood me in good stead in the long days ahead.

You ask how I survived? It was fate first, in the kindness of Wadawaka, then in the shape of a female, that old yet young granny, who followed after us and passed over to me her ghost ways. I cannot bear the sun. Now I seek the quiet coolness of the night and remember her in the shook-shook sound of giant bat wings. Shrouds of our sails, giant bat wings drawing us ever westwards. My father’s vision and her vision have joined, leaving me alone and forsaken. My mob are all gone and I live on. I, the undying, live on, though what life could I have when the voyage finally ended with the death of all those I held dear? Worse, all that remained of those days was her, and she was waiting for me in this land under the sun, though she lived under the moon. Yes, she waited for me with the gift of the eternal wanderer. She followed us during the time of this tale, trudging across the land by night, resting in dark places by day. She followed us while we fled in that schooner with a pensive Wadawaka at the helm and with sails shuddering like the shrouds of corpses and calling out shook-shook to her ... But I get beyond myself. This is not about that at all. It is about my father, Jangamuttuk, and my womb mother, Ludjee. It is about Wadawaka who knew the secrets of walking on water and made us all walk on water as my father sang us along ever westwards, away from our island home. It is also about her, but enough of her. I begin my tale.

Bright with hope was the day. Wadawaka told us to heave the anchor and bright was the western sun coiled glowing in the sky as we sailed from the island. We felt the wind fill our sails and thrust us towards our hope. They did not sound like bats’ wings then, but like the sweet moan of the didgeridoo. Jangamuttuk took up his clapsticks and sang us towards what we hoped would be our new home.

Jun inangan bururu jen;

Dumbar innjan;

Innjan gurwal gun burgalgal.

‘It flies away, flying, away, straight it goes.’ The verse sang us straight towards the sun glowing before us, a great serpent, always writhing, always restless, always filled with the promise of the new home. Such was our hope in those faraway days, those days of flight and adventure. I was young then, without a beard and just past the manhood tests. Yes, just past the manhood business, as was my brother who dived into the sea and found a new home beneath the waves. I covered my anguish at his loss by learning how to propel the vessel through the waves. I pulled on ropes and hoisted and furled sails. Wadawaka taught me how to hold the wheel steady in my hands, to run before the wind and tack across it. Yes, and I was glad that the work was hectic and needed my full concentration. There was no time for moping for the strait through which we fled was an unruly passageway, as unruly as the open ocean beyond. The waters boiled and battered and sought to have their own way with us. My arms grew strong in keeping the vessel pointed westwards, but they were not strong enough when an ice-cold gale hurled in from the southeast to seize the rudder. Helpless before it, we were driven north towards that long hazy length of coast.

My grip weakened as under bare sticks we charged towards that coastline, now hidden in swirling fog and mist. My blood grew cold, then surged in my veins as the fog roiled before the gale, twisting into the shapes of gigantic sea monsters. My terror was not hard to understand, for all that I had ever known until then was an island I could cross in a day. Now, in front of my eyes, was not only the storm-tossed sea but a land suddenly revealed to stretch east and west, seemingly without end. Our little schooner hurtled towards it, towards a jutting point of its mass, and even Jangamuttuk’s chant was swept away in contempt by the blast of the storm. Powerless, he retreated down below, while I remained to strain at the wheel. It spun in my burning fists as the tempest switched its attack from due south. Wadawaka rushed to take the helm. We both clung to it, as our vessel rushed upon the coast. Was our voyage at an end? The waters swirled in a white froth directly in front of our bows. Our schooner shuddered from stem to stern as the gale blasted us from starboard. Our jib flapped for a long moment, then ripped to shreds streaming to port uselessly. The wind howled in triumph, then suddenly moaned in dismay as we came under the lea of the rocky point and it lost its prey. Yet the danger was not over, for now a current seized us to hurl us on towards the land. Wadawaka shouted in vain for the remains of the jib to be cut away, but his crew were sheltering below, perhaps cowering in fear.

‘Not even a song now to bring us to safety,’ he shouted at me, exulting in the danger. He stared at the water, judging the current. ‘Gently to starboard,’ he called. I gave the wheel a half turn and the vessel was guided towards where the point met the long curve of a bay. ‘Right, now steady as she goes.’ Wadawaka ran to the bow, unsecured the anchor, then released the chock on the capstan. The anchor rattled down to the bottom and held. We swung to a rest close to a land which seemed to be brooding over accepting our presence.

My father returned to the deck, glanced ashore, gave a loud cooee and sang a verse of welcome. It was then that the heavy swell subsided as the wind turned to blow as a breeze from the land. It brought with it the scents of animals and plants, some of which were familiar to me.

Jangamuttuk inenanan modje

Indedenan wadejan

Injele laib wamberanj

Laibe yan wamberanj imbegandanan;

Reb wambe gadjan yonennolenan.

‘Jangamuttuk comes to the north. He sees good people there. These he keeps. The bad ones he throws away.’ So sang Jangamuttuk, carefully securing us from harm with his magic as we went ashore. The land sighed as it accepted his song, as it perhaps accepted us. My fears fell away, for we were strong in our faith in his vision and songs. I watched as my father and mother seated themselves on the sand at the base of the steep cliff which barred our way inland. I stared as they entered a trance and left us. Their bodies remained as still as corpses, as if waiting to receive the purifying flame. Wadawaka glanced at them and shook his locks, which in our tribal fashion were daubed with red ochre, then, always practical, began setting up a camp. He was constantly active, always doing things. His heavy physique moved with an economy of skill which came from experience. The rest of us pitched in, using everyday actions to push away any disquiet in our minds. There was enough driftwood at the base of the cliff to provide fuel. Flint struck against steel and soon we had a fire going. Wadawaka deftly rolled johnny cakes from flour and placed them on a flat piece of iron to cook. I looked up as a shiver passed over Father’s and Mother’s bodies. Their eyes brightened and Jangamuttuk exclaimed at the sight of the damper, ‘Had enough of those burnt dust things. I’ve been out over the land and soon we’ll have some better tucker. I’ve seen wallabies on a hillside, kangaroos on the plains, possums in the trees and not too far away either – that way.’ And he pursed the left side of his mouth to show the direction.

‘But as I flew, I hesitated at a tree and from it came the sound of laughter. A long and fierce cackling. It is best that we remain on our guard, for this land is strange to us, it is not our land,’ Ludjee cautioned.

‘And I saw giant birds roaming about in huge flocks,’ Jangamuttuk said, then added, ‘But beyond there was a slight smell of ghosts, though no sign of them. There were old camps of blackfellows, but I saw never a one.’

‘But they must be here,’ I broke in, pointing at a midden. ‘Look at that pile of shells. They were not heaped up like that by sea birds.’

‘Oh, we will meet them in time and they will welcome us as a long lost mob,’ Jangamuttuk informed us. ‘This land is not so unknown to us. Is there not the story about how we came from a vast land to the north, then there came a mighty flood and our country became separated and we marooned? We are not like this Wadawaka, we were made in the land and not on the sea.’ He smiled and glanced slyly at the man squatting beside the fire, who lifted his eyes from his cooking.

‘I was born on the waters, but Africa is the land of my mother’s birth,’ Wadawaka retorted. ‘It is far far away and the animals are not as these, though I too have heard of a giant bird which cannot fly. My mother told me that Hyena, the dog-faced one, tricked him into eating stones and he became so heavy that he could not fly.’

I listened to them and decided that one day I would ask Wadawaka about this Africa of his mother’s birth, for all I knew was an island and now this short length of beach. What other wonders, I thought, rested beyond the horizon? Why, I thought, there might even be fish that flew through the air or walked on land. Yes, then I was still young and green. I did not even know that when my mother and father entered a trance they rode their dreaming animals to fly through the air. Dreaming animals, you ask? These too are part of my story and they will enter my yarn at the proper place. All that you need know now is that my parents had psychically scouted out the land, looking for any dangers which might threaten us. They had even found a track leading off the beach.

The solid feel of the earth beneath our feet had revived our spirits. After our days on the schooner, our stomachs rumbled for fresh meat and it was quickly decided that we would go on a hunt for some of those animals my father had seen. Wadawaka rowed out to the schooner and came back with the few ghost weapons we had. Jangamuttuk had gone with him and came back with an armful of spears. While Wadawaka checked the priming of the guns and loaded them, Jangamuttuk ran his hands over the wooden shafts which had come from our previous home. The sea air had warped some of them and these he discarded. The others he handed out, one to each of the twelve men, telling them what needed to be repaired. Most of the wooden points were blunt and needed to be sharpened. In some cases the barb also had become loose and had to be tightened. He grumbled to us that in the old days the barb had been placed in a notch made for it, then bound with wet kangaroo sinew which dried to hold it securely in place. This was not possible to do now and so a thin leather thong was used instead. Wadawaka shouldered a musket and handed me a pistol. I got to my feet and waited for my father to lead the way off the beach.

‘Arrh, this earth is strong,’ he exclaimed, stamping his feet. ‘It does not move as that boat did and, best of all, I have one of these in my hands again.’

He chuckled as he weighed the spear in his hand, testing the balance, then poised it before making his cast. Although old, his arm was still strong and the shaft sped along the beach for about fifty metres then skidded along for another twenty. He gestured at a spear which lay at his feet and ordered me to throw it. On the island, we had had little use for spears. In fact, Fada had forbidden their possession and one night had collected those which were not hidden and burnt them. I had only thrown a spear about twice before so my stance was ungainly and my throw worse. A flush of blood came over my face, but who needed one of these unwieldy lengths of wood when I had a pistol? During the calm days on the ocean Wadawaka had taught me how to aim and fire it until I could hit a small fragment of wood tossed from the bow and bobbing past the schooner’s side.

But my father clung to the old ways and weapons and did not understand such things as pistols and muskets. He growled, ‘Good time and place for this young one to learn how to use a spear, instead of that noisy ghost pistol which will scare away any animal within a cooee of us.’ He indicated with. a toss of his beard the spear I had thrown, then said with a chuckle, ‘His skill is such that he’d have to get right up to an old man kangaroo whose ears have been blocked up with age and even then he’d have to use his spear as· a waddy and club him.’ But then his words left him and his face clouded over with sadness. I realised that he was thinking of his other son whom he could never teach. He looked from woman to woman and I felt his sadness. I was the only young one there and none of the women were in the family way. He tugged at his grey beard to fend off his tears. I was the only one he could teach and pass his knowledge to. He turned his eyes back to me and to cheer him up I declared, ‘I can use this!’ I waved my pistol, cocked it and, aiming at a shell, pulled the trigger. There was a flash in the pan. To my dismay the pistol had misfired.

‘So much for that thing,’ Jangamuttuk growled, recovering his spirits at the mishap. He watched as I reprimed the weapon and said, ‘And beware of using it in the hunt, for the noise is like thunder. Remember, we are in a strange land where huge birds run instead of fly and spirits laugh at us from trees. Tread lightly and leave few tracks. Speak more with your body than your mouth. Time enough for noise when we are made welcome. Now, learn to use this.’ He thrust his spear into my hands.

‘And while you men play with your spears and hopefully get us some rich red meat, we women will scour the sand for pippies and clams. That rocky point should have mussels too. So off to your hunt and we’ll go to our gathering.’ Mother broke in to move Father’s thoughts further away from his grief. She was not a dreamer or singer of songs and was able to put things quickly behind her and get on with life. And this seemed to be the case now, for even though only a short time ago Augustus had died and the mourning period was still in effect – her hair was just beginning to grow back after she had shaved her head as was the custom – she had resumed her cheery no-nonsense self. Though perhaps she was only hiding her feelings, for she exchanged a long look of commiseration with her husband before leading the group of women off along the beach. As if to show that he had recovered his spirits, he called after her, ‘Perhaps you should take him along with you. He is more like a daughter than a son.’

My mother did not reply or even look back. Determinedly, she led the group of women along the beach. They kept their eyes on the ground and every now and again stopped to dig with their toes, unveiling a pippy which they threw into the sack they carried with them. While the women moved towards where the rocky point entered the sea, Jangamuttuk now led us towards its base. He stopped to check the contents of the sack and tried one of the pippies. He pronounced it ‘delicious’, then continued on to where we could scramble onto a steeply angled rock face that rose up to the top of the point. He moved slowly as his joints had stiffened with age, and we kept behind him out of respect. Also, he was our strength and able to face whatever might be at the cliff top.

The backbone of the point gradually bent up to the level of the land and then merged with it. We came up onto a wide plain, grey and hard, that stretched away from our eyes to the far horizon. It lacked the serrated appearance of our own island and seemed, at least to me, an infinitude of flatness with nothing much to describe about it. I was relieved at last to find some distinctions to rest my gaze on, a few smooth hillocks which broke the monotony on the northwest horizon. Jangamuttuk wended his way through tussocks of low grass which grew scattered over the featureless grey and tugged and scratched our legs as we followed in his footsteps. He moved even more slowly now, not because he was treading carefully to avoid the sharp grass blades, but because he insisted on explaining the techniques of spear throwing to me, stopping every now and again to demonstrate the proper stance and cast so that we moved together rather than in single file.

After the tenth time he had done this, he tossed me the heavy spear and, as I went along, I practised my stance and cast. The wooden point had become blunt and the barb loose by the time we reached the base of one of the hillocks. From a distance, it had appeared smooth and round, but now I saw that it was a heap of boulders on the featureless plain.

‘Good for rock wallaby,’ Jangamuttuk grunted, then gestured for me to fix my spear. I scraped the point on a surface of a boulder until it was somewhat sharper, then sought to tighten the barb by twisting a stick in the cord until it felt secure. Jangamuttuk took a look and laughed. ‘Haven’t you heard about Crow and Eagle? In the old days they went hunting and Eagle, he the sly one, had his barb slanting back shaftwards and Crow, the silly one, had his slanting pointwards. Well, when Eagle flung his spear, it entered an animal and stuck there, but when Crow cast his, it came out easily and the animal got away. So be clever Eagle and not stupid Crow, if you can.’

I fixed the barb until it pointed towards my hand while Jangamuttuk stared at the pile of boulders and softly sang a verse to bring us luck. ‘Now,’ he said to me, ‘in the hunt you don’t talk, you use the language of signs. Those wallaby don’t have big ears for nothing and they’re always inquisitive about the language of men. Once, it is said, they were the only ones that had language and we stole it from them. They still remember it, though they can no longer speak, and they listen in an attempt to get it back, so we must use gestures to confuse them. They see us making these signs and try to make out their meaning. They forget themselves as they watch us, then whammo, those wallabies learn something else.’

He showed me the signs. ‘Wallaby’ was denoted by both hands held open to the sides of the head, denoting the big ears of the animal. Slight movements of the hands showed that the animal was suspicious, still hands that he was not. The flat of the hand held over the mouth indicated silence. ‘Stay, be still’ was a gesture at the person and the fall of the arm. ‘Spearing’ was simply the clutching of an imaginary spear and a slight forward motion of the hand.

He gave me other signs such as go that way or this way and so on, then said, ‘These are but the rudiments of sign language. They will be enough for this hunt, but with all that time to fill in on that boat I'll teach you the whole grammar by and by. Body language is as complicated as mouth language. What you speak, I can gesture,’ he said, acting out a mime to illustrate. Then, grinning at my smile, he added, ‘If you could hear that, you would not be amused. Now, let us go and kill our meat, though I think that I would like these better than those.’ And he spoke again in a flutter of gestures, then laughed at my perplexed face.

Jangamuttuk turned and made his way up the hill. As he climbed he began to speak with his body. His signs directed our advance into and up the hillock. I crept through the rocks and boulders, feeling the coolness of the stone under the soles of my feet for the day was cloudy and the rocks still damp from the rains of the squall which had driven us into the shelter of the headland. A gesture told me to stop. Hands to the head indicated a rock wallaby. Motionless ears informed me that he was unaware of our presence. An arm told me to raise my spear and get ready for the cast. I did so very slowly and carefully, anxious to please my father as well as to not make a sound as my eyes searched for the animal. There he was, between those two boulders falling to the left and right to form a cleft in which a few tufts of grass grew. His ears pointed towards me. I flung my spear just as the wallaby bounded to the left – and into the flashing shaft of Jangamuttuk.

‘Watch them ears, boy. They’ll tell you which way he’s going to jump, and that’ll be into your spear as long as you’re aware and quick.’

His advice flowed over me throughout the day and by the time the sun, a glowing patch through the clouds, was halfway down the sky I had speared my first wallaby. Overall our tally was six. We piled them on the flat surface of a boulder, then Jangamuttuk gestured for us to continue up to the summit. There we gazed over the plain which went on and on until it fell over the horizon. It was so vast and flat that it caused in me (and the others) a vertigo of the spirit which made me long for my small and contained island home. I felt as tiny and as powerless as an ant. This land was much too much for me. To quell my dizziness, I turned my eyes to the familiar sea which, under Wadawaka’s tutelage, I was beginning to know. There, anchored beside the headland, was my friend the schooner. My fingers clenched around an imaginary wheel as I felt her surge and move beneath me. Home and security. There was Wadawaka hard at work at the bow, and from the beach rose the smoke of our fire blending into the cloudy sky so that it did not call attention to itself. The women were clustered about the fire and there ...

‘Look!’ Jangamuttuk exclaimed, bringing me back to him and the land. He raised an arm, indicating a thin column of smoke rising on the horizon. It could just be discerned against the cloudy sky. ‘People there, two, no, three walks away at the most. They’ll see our smoke too if their eyes are as good as mine. Perhaps they’ll come for a visit, see who we are. Perhaps I’ll go and visit them on Goanna. Blackfellow’s fire at least,’ he growled at me. ‘Mark out how the smoke rises, thin and straight as one of our women’s legs. If they were nam, ghosts, their smoke would billow up like a cloud or fog hugging the ground. They do it like that because their skins can’t take the full light of the sun, but no ghosts walk or sit close by. Could smell them on the wind if there were.’ And he sniffed in all four directions, testing the air.

But, and I could not escape the thought, what would we have done if he had smelt the nam, those ghosts who had dispossessed us of our land, hunting and killing us until they had reduced our numbers so that we could all fit onto one small schooner? Twenty souls in all, twelve men and eight women and, after the death of my brother, I was the only young one left. Tears came into my eyes as I thought over how pitifully few we were. A few survivors fleeing westwards on a stolen schooner, riding the waves and the songs of Jangamuttuk’s vision which was supposed to bring us to our promised land under the coils of the setting sun. But what would we really find there, if we ever arrived?

Doubts as these began when we arose one morning to find that our didgeridoo player, Wawilak, was missing from our vessel. He had vanished in the night. The women wailed and pounded their heads on the deck at this catastrophe. Wadawaka tacked the schooner back over his course. He even took his abeng, his ram’s horn trumpet, and blew loud blasts over the sea. Jangamuttuk and Ludjee entered their trance state but even then could not find him. They returned to say that he was not to be seen, that behind us a fog clung to the sea and a huge crag of frozen water floated like a ghost fortress there. Worse, far worse, they reported that ahead, in the west, they had seen six large ghost ships coming towards us. My father’s ceremonies had been performed to close the gates between our land and the ghostland, but if there were six large ghost ships ahead, coming towards us, this must mean that they were still open. Sadly, we performed the burial ceremony for Wawilak, covering our bodies with ashes and seeking to send his soul to rest. Jangamuttuk sang his death song, then broke into the ghost song as those musicians who had learnt their instrument from him cast them into the sea. The wooden tubes floated away from us, a visible loss of culture as we sailed away towards the west where the old would be reformed in a new land.

These thoughts of mine circled about a core of emotion which hardened and changed during the voyage and the journey became more real to me than its phantasised end. Perhaps my father too came to realise this, that the end did not matter as much as the verses of the songline which extended out and beyond this plane of being. In other and older songlines the ancestor came down to this earth, travelled across it, had his adventures, then departed back into the sky from whence he had come, leaving only the songs of his adventures behind. Perhaps my father operated like these ancestors on a different plane of seeing, for never did we escape the influence of the ghosts. His ceremonies, though they gave us hope, seemed on reflection to have had the opposite effect to that intended. Instead of closing the entrance to the ghostworld, they seemed to have widened it. Ghosts, released from their world, flooded forth on great wooden ships to drift along the coastlines. They landed and made their homes, as they had on our island. Our island, which had felt the brunt of their invasion. And perhaps, now that they had made it their own, they were following us to make this whole vast land theirs. Eventually this is what happened, but back then did I think such thoughts, or did I merely feel them, as I felt the soft fur of the two wallabies I was carrying through the holes in my ragged ghost shirt? Yes, I think that is how it was. The feelings really began with the death of my brother Augustus, and grew with the disappearance of Wawilak. They flowed forth from the two furry corpses I was carrying on my shoulders, one of which I had slain. I felt their heat departing and the coldness which comes at the loss of the spirit stiffened their bodies. The warm blood from where the spear had ripped through fur into the soft flesh beneath cooled, pooled and congealed. Soon it would freeze solid, but as yet it dripped forth, spreading over my shoulder like the red of the sun spreads over the clouds at sunset. My hand was soon covered with the rich redness of life. I shifted my load and grip so that I could sip at the warm blood as I walked along, tasting in it my future, the salt of the sea and the sweet ashes of the land. It caused me to flow with a desire that I could not give a name to, which replaced the apprehension I had been feeling since we had reached the summit of that rock pile.

I was hot and flushed from a fever by the time I came to the camp where the women were sitting and snacking on the shellfish. Ludjee, my mother, glanced at me and her eyes filled with concern. She came to me and took the two corpses from my back. ‘This boy has a fever,’ she declared.

Jangamuttuk laughed a harsh laugh as he said, ‘And so he should, for today he has been blooded. He has taken his first life, and with a spear, not with that stick which goes crack-crack like my clapsticks and scares everything away. He shall eat of his skill this day and his fever will leave him, for it comes from the blood he has taken -and sampled,’ he added, noticing the red on my lips.

‘Well, let him eat of the fruits of my gathering first,’ she said. ‘The sea gives up its food easily here and the mussels are succulent. They will make the boy as strong as any land meat and keep away any evil here.’

I managed to gulp one down, but the taste for sea things had left me. I could hardly wait to rip into the flesh of my prey. Indeed I had become a man with my first kill, and I knew it would not be my last.

I was not alone in my desire for fresh meat. All of us were hungry for it after the salt tack we had been eating on the schooner. I felt saliva rise into my mouth as I watched Jangamuttuk and the other men scoop out a hollow in the sand and line it with stones. They were about to lay two of the wallabies in it when Wadawaka intervened and said, ‘You fellows might cook them like that, but it will be better if we skin them first. I could then tan the skins and make jackets out of them. Who knows what the weather will be like further along, and even in the worst of it someone has to be on deck and at the helm.’

Without waiting for a reply, he deftly cut around the throat and legs, slashed down the front and· pulled at the skin. The others watched. I bent and held the carcase for him. The skin slipped off easily, as did the other. He was about to go further and gut the wallabies when Jangamuttuk stopped him. ‘We like the insides just as much as the red meat,’ he said. ‘Stomach contents are our vegetables. We can digest the grass after they have done the first bit. Old man’s tucker, you know.’

The carcases were laid in the pit and hot coals placed over them, then more firewood heaped on to keep the heat going. After an hour or so, when the fire had died down, the coals were scraped aside and the carcases pulled out. They were placed on a piece of canvas and Jangamuttuk, because of his seniority, took charge. He propped the carcases on their backs, hacked open the chests and spread them so that the insides were showing. The men scooped up the curdled blood and ate it, then Jangamuttuk drank the gravy of the stomach contents. After this, he hacked up the meat and gave each person a piece or two. I received the end of a tail and then, best of all, the heart. The animal had been young and the muscle was tender enough for my teeth to rip into. It was barely cooked and succulent with blood. I chewed away. The sweet juices dripped from the corners of my mouth. Indeed, as I ate I could feel my fever leaving me.

‘We’ll get possum tomorrow, easier for old ones like me to digest. This wallaby is a bit tough for worn-down teeth to chew,’ Jangamuttuk declared from around the rib bone he was gnawing on.

Wadawaka used a knife to pare meat off a thigh bone and, while chewing it, stared at the other carcases. He swallowed, then said, ‘We can get more of these and salt them for the voyage ahead. We need to use these ghost methods if we are to have meat to eat along our way. Simple job. I’ve salt enough and a few spare casks. Maybe I could start with one of these while there is still light.’ He glanced at the sun where it glowered through the clouds, then suddenly stared hard along the beach. I followed the direction of his gaze. A mob of strange blackfellows were coming towards us. I looked the other way and there was another lot coming along there too. Their spears were raised in their right hands and they held short flat wooden boards in front of them with their left. Between them, we were trapped.

Trapped! Was this to be the end of our voyage? What could we do? The stone points of their spears moved to cover each of us, including the women. I felt for my pistol which I had tucked in the band of my ragged trousers. I raised it and sighted on the leader of the nearest mob, but Jangamuttuk made a gesture for me to put down my weapon. Slowly he got to his feet and walked over to the nearest mob. It was led by a gnarled old fellow with a long grey beard and long hair tied up in a topknot like the tufts of grass which had scratched our legs. The group stopped, but kept their weapons ready. My father stopped a few feet away from them. We looked up at him, not daring to get to our feet. We were vastly outnumbered and now surrounded, for the other mob had drifted around to hem us in. Would they, I wondered, take us for blackfellows? We still were clad in our ghost clothing, somewhat worse for wear, but they were naked and covered in white ash without a trace of red ochre anywhere. So unlike our old traditions of smearing our bodies with a mixture of fat and red ochre. At the mission Fada had forbidden us to do this, and had even tried to get us to keep our hair short, but now that he was gone our locks had grown and we still used the red ointment to colour and shape them.

‘Maybe we should not worry overmuch,’ Ludjee muttered in a whisper. ‘Since women are here, they will know that we are not a raiding party. Then, there is another sign. In the old days when our men fought, in the excitement their penises rose along with their spears. It was such a sight that no wonder they didn’t want the womenfolk along. Now look at theirs – not much of a weapon, are they? Limp as our men’s are, but not from fear. Probably from curiosity. Anyway, my husband will smooth the way. He has a way about him. Remember him and Fada? That was a sight to see. He was the only one that could get through to that ghost.’

Her words cheered us up, but our eyes remained glued on Jangamuttuk as he stood there facing the old man who now began chewing his beard as if in anger. At the same time his head bobbed up and down so that he looked like some sort of scrawny bird engaged in a mating dance. My father, our shaman, now made his move, taking off his clothing to reveal the scarring across his chest and also the painted design of his totemic animal which he always wore for protection. The old man glared at him as he stripped. He stared at his markings, then clapped his shield against his spear like an exclamation. Still not a word had been spoken. We were the focus of their eyes. We huddled in a group and stared up at them. At least, as Ludjee had pointed out, their pricks were limp, but not their spears which were in full erection and directed at us.

It was then that Jangamuttuk began to use body language in an effort to communicate with the strangers. He dragged his foot through the sand, making a line which went to the schooner. He cupped his hands many times, then inclined his head into the palm of his hand while rocking his body from side to side. He clutched his beard, spread his fingers across his scarred chest, then pointed at Ludjee and fashioned heavy breasts on his chest. He pointed at me, then at the imaginary breasts. He mimed the action of a musket firing, then got into a spear stance and threw an imaginary spear many times. He dropped to the ground and lay still as if in death. He rose to his feet, went to the fire and picked up some ashes. His hand came up to his face as if miming a snout and then came away. His face was covered with ash and he mimed the firing of a musket again. He sank to his knees as if in terror, got up, ran a few steps, then rocked on his heels while gesturing at the others. His face assumed the lines of an ancient sorrow as his hands mimed movements which seemed to indicate men, women and children. He sank down upon the ground in an attitude of death, then arose and extended a hand flat out, turning it down to show that it was empty. Finally, he gave a shrug, then stood and waited for a response. He even risked glancing back at us, his eyes meeting mine as if to say, ‘That’s how you use body language, boy’.

Whether this strange mob had understood or not was a moot point. It did cause them to relax their aggressive stance. Many of the men smiled and the old man scowled as if to hide his amusement. His spear came down and the other men, observing this, also lowered their weapons. A few of them even exchanged glances, shrugged and grinned.

‘Munno ngo munguni maro pityuri ngo jungi eno uta,’ the old man growled, which in one of our dialects meant, ‘This old man is silly in the head’.

Jangamuttuk replied, ‘Tuari ena moolka ena yatea impa,’ which meant, ‘You are climbing up a tall gumtree’, that is, barking up the wrong tree.

It was a mild insult and the old fellow gestured with his spear, chewed his beard furiously and shouted for us to ‘begone’. This resulted in a furious clashing of spears against shields, but it was mere play-acting for even while they were doing this the men were narrowing their circle closer to us, their eyes on the remaining wallabies. Jangamuttuk’s reply in their language had broken the tension. In a matter of minutes, they had accepted us as weird blackfellows, a mob who might have come from a far distance, but were related to them at least by language. Soon they were sitting down with us around the fire while the remaining wallabies were prepared for cooking. Waai, for such was the old man’s name, took over the cooking, hopping about and bobbing his tuft as he cut open the wallabies and placed the stones within their body cavities. This he told us would hasten the cooking, but Waai meant Crow and we remembered our stories about the stupidity of crows and smiled as he did so. After all, we as members of the Eagle sections belonged to the Eaglehawk ancestor who had invented the shaftward-facing barb, while Crow had the point-facing barb. Eaglehawk had even given Crow his black colour and condemned him to eat carrion, so we did not take umbrage when they laughed long and loudly over my father’s body language, though Jangamuttuk did become sullen at this, then angry. He tugged at his locks and got to his feet, his heavy spear in hand. Waai quickly apologised for them, saying that it was only natural to be amused at our strange ways and dialect. This was true, for their language was similar but not quite identical to ours, and as for sign language, they lacked the rudiments of it. Their language in our ears was just as ill-sounding with a mixture of strange words and turns of phrases that sometimes kept us guessing at the meaning, especially as some of their words had meanings the opposite of ours. Still, all in all, we were accepted as guests who spoke a quaint dialect and had equally quaint ways, and as they accepted us we accepted them.