Читать книгу The Undying - Mudrooroo - Страница 8

A ceremony often started with a feeling of sadness for those who were no longer with us, and so it was this night. My brother Augustus was almost a visual presence in my mind, and I knew that we all were remembering Wawilak and his didgeridoo whose soaring notes would quickly have lifted us above the realm of grief and sadness and into that of joyful participation. Now memories of those days of exile on the island came to plague us and our present position added to our melancholy. We were strangers in a strange land which was only a way stop in our voyage. We moped on until the sharp crackcrack of Jangamuttuk’s clapsticks sounded out in an effort to push such thoughts away.

The rap-rap, rap-rap of the Master of the Ghost Dreaming’s clapsticks called forth the dancers. Eight of our men took up positions next to the women. The men had discarded their ragged ghost clothing and were naked except for the incised pubic shell with designs which once had signified the strong clans of our people. But many clans were not represented now and of the few remaining most had only one or two members. So many of our clans had become extinct or teetered on the edge of extinction, but Jangamuttuk had carefully kept the emblems of these clans and carried them aboard the schooner. Now they were piled beside him, symbolising that they still existed in the Dreaming state. The women, at Fada’s constant haranguing – ‘You must become civilised; you must keep on your clothing’ – had discovered nakedness and shame. Thus they kept on their long Mother Hubbard mission skirts, but were bare above the waist. Their skins had been painted in a lattice work of white lines, which signified a bodice, and even a necklace had been fashioned around their necks with a pearl between their breasts. Three white rows of dots flowed dripping down to the three cicatrices of womanhood which passed across their cleavages. To complete the costume leafy twigs had been plaited into their hair which had been roughly modelled to resemble ghost female hats.

The men had their hair piled up around a piece of wood or tightly rolled-up cloth to signify the shako of a ghost soldier and their bodies were covered with red and white colours in the fashion of the red army jacket. One had the chevrons of a sergeant painted on his arm and others even had buttons and pockets fashioned on their chests.

Jangamuttuk, Master of the Ghost Dreaming and master of ceremonies, was resplendent in the symbols of the ghost civilian clothing Fada had worn when superintendent of the mission. A crosshatched design of red and white encircled his neck and below this were painted the broad lapels of a frock coat from the vee of which the top of a waistcoat peeped out. His legs, as were the legs of the dancers, were painted white with a circular design at the knee.

Now the Master of the Ghost Dreaming held his clapsticks up to his mouth and whispered to them, then began a rhythm which, in previous versions of the ceremony, had been taken up by Wawilak and the other didgeridoo players giving it volume and substance. Without them, the rhythm was lacking in force. The male and female dancers began a reel as Jangamuttuk began to sing in the ghost language.

They made of me

A ghost down under,

Made for me

A place to plunder,

A place to plunder,

Way down under.

And so the public and truncated version of our ceremony continued. We were performing it as a gift from guests. At our own closed performances, it had eventually wandered into a shamanistic trance in which all participated in the Dreaming. This was not to happen here and it might have been a tame affair if Jangamuttuk had not devised a dramatic ending. He had daubed my body all over with charcoal and whitened my face, hands and feet with pipeclay, then had ordered me to remain hidden at the edge of the clearing in which we were performing. My father now cracked his sticks furiously and began a rushed chant playing on the ghost words:

Under, plunder, thunder;

Way may, nay stay;

Down town under;

Ghost, ghost under;

Slam, clam ram blam.

This was my signal to enter the clearing, high stepping to a rat-a-tat marching beat. I marked time before the central fire, then broke my step as the rhythm increased in tempo. Charging in turn at each of the four corner fires which illuminate the clearing, I shouted, ‘Stay, stay, heathen’. Then I rushed in among the dancers, disrupting their stately pattern. They ran hither and thither to avoid my groping hands. Jangamuttuk slowed the rhythm, and now the dancers began a stamping dance around me, coming closer and closer until they were pressing against me. They moved in and hid me from the sight of the audience. The rhythm changed again and they moved out. There was a mutter from the mainlander mob. I had vanished. Where I had been cowering under the onslaught was nothing but smooth earth. This clever finale my father had planned in advance. Before the dance he had ordered a pit to be dug, which was then roofed with boughs and bark and covered over with earth. A small opening had been left unstrengthened, through which I could wriggle while the dancers hid me from sight, which they then covered up. I stayed within the hole until the ceremony was over and the ground was deserted. I then emerged, filled in the pit so that no sign of it remained and slipped back to our mob.

The local blackfellows were impressed with our ceremony, though we knew that without didgeridoo players and with our lessened numbers it was but a pallid thing. Still, Waai was much taken with the ghost songs and wanted to give Jangamuttuk others in exchange. He said that as they had enjoyed our ceremony so much, his mob would stage a ceremony for us the next night. ‘It is one which has come down from the north and is for everyone to see. In fact we were told to perform it often as it would help to alleviate what is happening up there,’ he informed Jangamuttuk and then explained its importance. ‘With it came the message that a catastrophe was happening in that the poles which hold up the sky were rotting and needed to be replaced. We were urged to send stone axes so that new poles could be fashioned. We sent these, but since then have heard nothing further and as the sky is still up there and has not fallen to crush us, this must mean that the poles have been replaced. But these are only the northern ones and I have wondered if the same thing is happening to the southern ones. It might be interesting to live under a tilted sky, but perhaps not. Are they still firmly standing?’

‘As firmly as they can be in these times,’ Jangamuttuk replied. ‘I myself conducted some of the last ceremonies to keep them upright and hard as stone. They are like crags and should remain standing for a very long time. Our problem was different. A hole in the sky developed through which came a horde of ghosts. Our ceremony was to repair the damage and prevent more coming through. Still, it may have been too late and the hole may be becoming larger and larger, letting through the ghosts in countless multitudes.’

‘The times are indeed rough,’ Waai agreed, ‘and we shamans must struggle to return it to its original smoothness. At least the poles remain upright down there where it is, I have heard, very cold. They must be frozen solid and as hard as stone, and thus free of rot and insects. It is not like that far to the north where the rain falls all summer long and termites build large camps covering acres of land. But it seems that the poles have been replaced and so this ceremony was very efficacious in driving away the inimical forces which threatened them.’

My father, the ritual master of our mob, was always eager to see and trade old ceremonies for new ones. He had collected in his mind hundreds of songs and rituals, and these songs I sing are from him. He taught them to me. His songlines were sung until he passed over, and it was then that I began to add verses of my own. So it is understandable that he was eager to add this one to his collection. ‘It is right,’ he said to Waai, ‘that I receive this ceremony. When one enters a new land, one needs to be able to sound out its hidden rhythms and sing its melodies.’

‘That is so,’ Waai replied, ‘though this one is not from here but, as I’ve said, comes from the far north where the seasons and vegetation are different and the land is not as it is here. We have our own and these can only be passed on to fellow shamans. There is one which ...’ He broke off, looked at me and asked as if I was not there, ‘And how is this boy? Is he ready yet, for there seems something about him?’

My father stared at me and shrugged. ‘He is one of us, though perhaps too much a dreamer. He might lose himself if he is not careful. Still, he must make his own way and I can only lead him so far.’

‘He may be ready to move on to these things.’

‘Well, he tasted the blood of his first life today and it caused a fever. The spirit of an animal awakened in him, one that likes the taste of blood,’ he replied, then shrugged again, dismissing me from his mind.

They sat in silence for a time, then Waai got up, gestured and went off into the darkness beyond the camp. Jangamuttuk ignored his departure for a while, before he too got to his feet. ‘That Crowman needs an Eagleman with sharp eyes to lead him back to camp. Without me, he’ll be lost in the darkness,’ he said, and followed after Waai.

They had not returned by the time sleep claimed us, nor had they returned when I rose with the sun. The others went off to hunt with the local men while I decided to go to the beach and see how Wadawaka was doing. Over the few days on the land, our hunting had been very successful. We enjoyed ranging far and wide after the confines of the vessel and any fears we might have had of being in a strange place had been lessened by our connecting with the local mob who joined us in the hunt. We had supplied Wadawaka with a plentiful supply of meat to salt and pack away in barrels.

I found him hard at work, hammering on the lid of a cask. He finished this before acknowledging my presence. I looked away from his glance, for he had been left alone to do most of the necessary work, but this did not seem to perturb him overmuch as he merely commented, ‘Ceremonies and dances might be all right when we have time, but to go on this is as important. There will come a time when we can’t land and replenish our supplies. Ahead of us, there is this long stretch of coastline; it extends on and on with few landing places. The cliffs fall sheer into the ocean and beyond the land is bare and dry. No rivers flow into the sea and at one place where we shall land, we shall find sand dunes. Beyond them, within the bowels of the earth, is water, but that place is dangerous and we may be able to avoid it. If not, so be it, for on voyages there are many perils which must be overcome. There are many stories of Sinbad, Ulysses and others who did as we do.’

‘Tell me some of these stories,’ I demanded, thinking that he might know some of these voyagers, and also I was curious about how he could know what lay ahead. Had he voyaged along this coast before, perhaps with that Sinbad? He merely grunted as he returned to his work. I handed him the lid to another cask.

‘Must get water aboard next, though we soon shall have another chance to replenish our supply,’ he said. ‘There is coming towards us a ship that will prove both dangerous and profitable to us. It is loaded with supplies which we need. There may be other ships coming this way too and it is best that we leave this place before they arrive. They see this schooner here and they come to find out who we are, for they claim all this land as theirs now. And it will not go well for us when they find black folk in command of a vessel. They feel that only they have the right to sail the seas and not us blackfellows. It will go hard with us too when they find out that the schooner is stolen. It will not be a flogging matter, but a hanging one.’

‘You have been with them a long time and know their ways, but how do you know them now and in the future?’ I demanded again. ‘These local blackfellows could not have told you. They know nothing about the ghosts sailing along their shores. You have not seen the ghosts either, for we have not seen another ship since we sailed, and even though Father mentioned something he saw he often sees things that are not there. It’s all gammon,’ I ended querulously. I did not like the fact that my father and mother and now my friend Wadawaka had secrets I was not privy to.

Again he did not answer. Instead he busied himself with carrying a cask to the dinghy. I picked one up and helped him; I even rowed the laden boat to the schooner. As I leant on the oars, he suddenly asked me, ‘What three exists where three are not?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied gruffly, for I was in a huff and annoyed at him.

‘Well, I’ll give you an answer to the riddle. It’s like this,’ he replied, ignoring my petulance. ‘Ceremonies exist where there are workers; but ceremonies cannot exist when there is no one to prepare the ground. That’s the first one, and from my land too. The second one is that grass exists where there are no animals to eat the grass; but there are no animals where there is no grass. And the last one is,’ he concluded, ‘water exists where there is no thing to drink it; but no thing can exist where no water is.’

‘And what does this mean?’ I asked, somewhat exasperated at his way of talking which was similar to how my father answered when he did not want to give a straight reply to one of my questions.

‘Well, it means that if you get down and do your bit, you’ll end up with something,’ he replied with a shrug, as if to say anyone with a little common sense could see this.

I shipped my oars deftly and swung the dinghy against the side of the vessel. Wadawaka caught a trailing rope and made her fast. He passed the casks up to me on deck, then came aboard to stow them carefully below. As he did so, he seemed to hesitate and suddenly made a sign. ‘There, that should fix them,’ he muttered, then went on, ‘Flowing water and darkness, the smell of earth and the creaking of timbers – what does it mean?’ He said this to himself and I did not bother to answer him. I had had enough of riddles. We came up on deck and he secured the hatch covering, then loaded the dinghy with the empty water kegs. ‘Far too few, but on the way we can pick up some more from that vessel travelling with a mist of doom about her.’

When the half-dozen water kegs were unloaded, we rested and Wadawaka, deeply troubled about something, again went on in riddles. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘once, in my mother’s country, there lived in a cave a woman who knew the future and could control the weather. She dressed all in blue cloth and lived only on castor oil from a plant with spiky fruit, one which I have not found down here. It is a medicine for the stomach when it is blocked up. Well, the women in the village took care of her, collected the seeds, pounded them, cooked them and took them to her cave. She was married – at least this is what was told to me by my mother – married to a big snake, a python, who lived in the forest and slithered to her cave at night. That snake entered into her and spoke to her in the dream state. That’s how that woman knew everything and could bring the rain or stop it if she desired. She was what is called a witch, a mangu, but one night a flame appeared on the hilltop above her cave. It was a leopard with some powers of his own. He waited until that snake entered that woman and, when he did so, Leopard bounded down and swallowed them both up. Now Leopard, he had that woman in his belly and she had that snake in her belly. He was one in three. There were those two in him. Now he could dream the future from that snake and control the rain from that woman. That’s how my mother told me it was, though I don’t know about Leopard controlling the rain, but he can dream the future when he puts his mind to it and lets that snake come through to him.’

I nodded as if I understood and Wadawaka smiled sardonically. ‘Come on, enough of stories, there are those kegs to fill.’

The spring was up from the beach and a short distance from the head of the track. We lugged the kegs up. It was a hard scramble in parts and we were tuckered out by the time we had them there. As we rested before filling them, I told Wadawaka about the previous night’s ceremony and proudly described my part in it. ‘And you know what,’ I told him excitedly, ‘that mob of blackfellows are going to put on one of theirs over the next few nights. Father’s very excited and last night he went off with that Crow and hasn’t returned yet. I wanted to go with them, but it’s secret business they’re about. I hope that I get to take part in it.’

‘Yes, it will prove helpful to us during our voyage. Your father is the singer of songs and the performer of ceremonies. He knows much that is valuable, but not at this moment for there is the material as well as the spiritual and so let us finish off these barrels, eh? When the job is done, the singing and dancing begins in good heart, eh?’

We exchanged smiles and put our backs into our work. I tried to think over what Wadawaka had said, but felt too puzzled to continue. It was easier to do the work and get it over with so that we could corroboree.