Traveller Inceptio
29

29

The sky paled to a dusty pink over the deep violet sea, fading to the lightest blue as the sun-woman, Ngangaru, burning her campfire brightly for all to see, began her daily journey across the sky. The birds joined in a morning chorus, the strident calls of the currawongs from the nearby gully blending with whipbirds, doves, and the raucous cries of cockatoos as they flew or squabbled around the upper branches of the gum trees.

Warrun sat by the smouldering campfire and took note of the signs that heralded the day. The people’s camp was on a rise overlooking the ocean and the water that separated the mainland from the nearby island, a place where game abounded and the bounty of the sea was readily available.

Smoothing the shaft of his new spear, Warrun carefully rubbed the hard root timber with a small piece of particularly fine sandstone. After sighting down the shaft and taking note of the slightest bump or imperfection, he lovingly abraded the offending spot and blew away the resulting wood and stone dust, sighted again, and continued the laborious process.

Like all of his people, he sat quite naked, clad with only a string made from nannam vine bark tied around his waist to serve as a place to hang the odd tool as needed. Warmed by the coals of the nearby fire, he frowned as he spied another rough spot, the end of the long spear held between the toes of his outstretched right leg and the balance resting on his scarred left shoulder. A butcherbird dive-bombed to the opposite side of the smoky campfire to scavenge a forgotten piece of meat from the previous day’s feast. As the finger-sized piece dangled from her pointed beak, the mother bird flew to a nearby tree where her two impatient, noisy chicks cried pitifully until chunks of the cooked meat were torn off and thrust down their insatiable gullets. Warrun grunted with satisfaction as the mother bird cared for her children. That was also the way of the People. With deep-set eyes under a characteristic prominent brow, he pondered the Law and the Dreaming as he watched the world slowly come to life. Behind him, someone stirred in his family humpy. Constructed from an interwoven framework of branches covered with sheets of paperbark, fire at the entrance, ten bodies snuggled warm and dry on kangaroo skin mats. Warrun knew the people always had and always would live this way.

Toora, his chief wife, crawled from the humpy and moved quietly to the campfire, squatting as she added a few more sticks. Not too much, that was wasteful, but enough for the fire to build its strength. She waited until Warrun glanced at her to know she wished to speak. In the night, he’d felt her stir; her sleep troubled. Placing his sanding stone to the ground, he glanced at her again and signalled that he was ready.

Toora was his most trusted advisor, a wise woman who knew the Law, who ran his family and, because of her wisdom, saw that there was no quarrelling or jealousy in his family group. Because of her, his wives didn’t fight and the children had respect. Yes, his family group was happy and productive. So when Toora indicated she had something to discuss, he was ready to listen.

She sighed and began. “In the dark, last night, spirits visited my sleep,” she murmured.

Warrun sucked in his breath at her news. This was very strong. Though he appeared relaxed as he sat cross-legged by the fire, he listened and watched her intently.

Toora gestured as she spoke. “I saw Boobok, the owl, our totem. He was watching us. I saw you walking with Nowra and Marron. Boobok was watching you.”

Warrun frowned. For Toora to receive a dream about men was inappropriate. His chief wife was obviously shaken as she knew she could rightly be killed for her delving into men’s affairs. She struggled to hide her distress, and despite his misgivings, Warrun felt warm pride at her courage.

Her voice quivered. “Spirits gathering to talk with you. Boobok shows me that they will talk to you soon,” Toora whispered. Her hand covered her eyes in fear and confusion.

He thought for a moment and then spoke quietly while he rubbed the spear shaft with the flat of his open hand. “Sometimes the spirits will speak through whom they wish.” He paused and then nodded.

Toora nodded and then, quietly and gratefully, rose and moved away.

Warrun sat, deep in contemplation. To have dreamed of their totem, Boobok the owl, was strong dreaming indeed. As the most spiritually gifted woman in the group and a woman of great authority, Warrun accepted that Toora was most capable at receiving inspiration and messages as the spirits dictated. Boobok was warning them. He and the two young men, Nowra and Marron, needed to follow the spirits who would show what was to be. He pondered on how this was to be done.

The young men, on consent from the elders, had made camp a short walk away. The camp included his son, who had just become a man in the ceremony of kippa and had only recently healed from his ordeal. A couple of others were also in the camp, including a young man who was not a tribal brother but whom Warrun knew was interested in his daughter, Tallara.

Tallara, named after the light and refreshing rain, was a joy to her mothers and a firm favourite of Warrun, not that he would ever admit nor show such a thing. Tallara, who would run and sing and bring him special titbits to eat, had just completed her journey into womanhood, a process that was the domain of the women. Toora had overseen this sacred process. Now that Tallara was a young woman, like the stingless bees that hover about the nectar-laden flowers, the young men began to buzz around her in interest. Warrun had not noticed this development until his family group attended the recent kippa ceremonies near the great mountains to the south. As he looked to the south, the mountains could be seen as they rose in golden majesty and caught the early morning sunlight.

The kippa ceremonies were a man’s event where a boy ceased to be a child and became a man. Elders selected a boy when his fine beard began to grow. Tribal groups gathered to participate in this most important event, where the tribal elders taught the ways of being a man. Nights in corroboree, dancing to the eerie tones of the didgeridoo, clapping sticks and singing, were a time when spirits gathered closely, when the fires cast odd shadows and dancers became dreamtime animals.

One evening the women were told to hide in the humpies with the children. The older women knew what was coming and promptly fled. As darkness gathered, painted figures jumped out of the gloom and gathered the terrified boys as they screamed and struggled. The very spirits they had been taught to fear since they were born carried them off while the women lamented, their sons no more. Warrun and other men deep in the knowledge practiced ceremonies that had the boys terrified. Daubed with precious red ochre and white clay, the boys were circumcised. They were held down as a relative grasped their foreskin with his teeth and pulled it to the limit. The skin was then sawn off with a piece of sharp flint. They had one of their strong front teeth removed by a special stick that was placed on the tooth and struck sharply with a rock. It took only one practiced blow.

The boys wailed in their pain and terror, eyes wide as they were cut on their chests and shoulders with sharp stones to form the patterns of their tribal group. Fine ash was rubbed in to infect the cuts so they would heal in boldly raised scars. The new men were renamed, their child’s name discarded and never again uttered when their real name was revealed for the first time. Their male relations then presented the new man with a spear of their own. Warrun gave his son, now known as Marron, a beautifully crafted nulla-nulla club that had taken months of secretive work to complete.

Nothing in a man’s life would ever be quite as terrifying as his kippa. That is what made the man a man, the knowledge that he could handle any fear and any pain. Now his son was accompanied by Nowra, a strong, good-looking warrior from the rivers to the north. Nowra had shown himself to be deeply respectful of the laws and had demonstrated no lack of skill in killing prey and in finding the honey which Warrun so adored.

Warrun emerged from his thoughts while the camp slowly came to life. The sun peeked above the watery horizon as an abnormally large flock of lorikeets burst from the gum trees and milled above the camp in a noisy ball of colour and sound. They landed in nearby bottlebrush, quarrelling and scrapping amongst themselves in an ear-splitting cacophony while they dipped their combed tongues to sip the nectar from the laden flowers. Warrun shook his head in amusement. With their bright green bodies daubed with blues and scarlet, the lorikeet mob really knew how to wake the young children, the pikaninis. They again burst into a querulous cloud of colour as a sleepy child emerged from a humpy close to the flock’s feeding place.

Warrun sat in contemplation and made his decision. Gathering up his new spear, his usual spear, his nulla-nulla, woomera used to launch his spears, and a kangaroo scrotum in which his sharp flints and small lumps of white clay were carried, he crouched by the fire. Removing one lump, he placed it into the palm of his hand, crushed the fragile material and then mixed it with saliva. Dipping his index finger into the paste, he carefully painted white designs onto his face, arms, chest and legs. The bold strokes stood out against his dark skin. His activity wasn’t lost on some of the men of the group, who looked over in surprise, while any woman made a point to look away. His careful preparation took some time, but once satisfied he gathered his weapons and walked to the young men’s camp.

***

The young men saw him coming and watched fearfully. His body decorated and adorned, Warrun was a vastly different being, now heavy with spirit and power. He looked at the wide-eyed Nowra and Marron and, with a raise of his eyebrows and slight jerk of his head, indicated they were to follow. Each excitedly gathered spears and light boomerangs used to hunt birds. The other young men seated around the campfire tried in vain not to show their envy and merely nodded as Marron waved his weapons in an excited farewell.

With no further ado, Warrun headed up the slope to the heavily wooded men’s area. Marron knew that no women or children were allowed within the sacred domain. In the dense copse they soon came to a gigantic fig tree, where Warrun stopped. He politely addressed the tortured trunk, greeting it as a warrior greets another while the two young warriors watched and waited. The great tree was Yarran, an abode of spirits and of their totem, the Boobok owl. They listened in rapt attention as Warrun described the dream and asked for advice as to where they should direct their travels.

Warrun took a fire-stick and crouched to make a fire. Whipbirds called around them in the close atmosphere and the tinder dry leaves and shreds of gum tree bark soon burst into flame. As the tongues of flame rose, Warrun added sacred leaves, which made a light smoke. He rested back on his heels, eyes closed in meditation, and began to chant with sounds gathered at the back of his throat. Smoke wreathed his head and drifted toward Yarran.

Marron and Nowra dared not move or make a sound, but looked on in awe. They knew that in this place, right now, spirits were close. Warrun was now half spirit and half man. As they were enveloped by the drifting smoke, the scene took on a dreamlike quality. Warrun took his woomera and began to clap it against his new spear in a sharp rhythm to accompany his chanting. Time passed and his chanting eventually ceased. Together they listened, not only with their ears, but with their spirits, their souls.

Warrun gazed intently into the branches of the tree. Birds, including the noisy lorikeets, feasted on the fruit. Suddenly, as if startled by a predator, they all flew off. Warrun noted their direction and then the young men spied a small Boobok high in the branches. It sat quietly and gazed down at the three men, pale yellow eyes staring in interest.

Warrun stood and carefully extinguished the fire before he silently walked in the direction the fleeing birds had taken—to the north.

Without hesitation, the young men followed. After seeking assistance from the world of the spirits, Warrun was not to be communicated with until he addressed them. The men travelled with the sea on their right and walked through tea-tree bushland. While the beach was an easier road to walk, the bush was more likely to yield game such as goannas and wallabies. With Warrun still in the spiritual trance, the younger men meekly followed, watching the older man’s slim figure as he flitted, wraithlike, between the trees.

The sun was almost at its highest when Warrun finally stopped. As if emerging from a dream, he paused at a creek to wash the white clay from his face and chest while he drank thirstily. For the first time he acknowledged the other men with a nod. No words were spoken, but they knew that the wise man had returned from another, ethereal world. They set up camp on the bank of a lake the people called Currimundi, which was a perfect place to spear fish. That night they ate a plump goanna, cooked whole on the glowing coals.

For two more days the warriors travelled slowly north, hunting and gathering as they walked through the rich countryside. Each morning Warrun told them of his dreams of Boobok, that he still watched over them, while a Boobok was spotted each evening.

***

At the end of the third day a storm slowly gathered as Mugara, the thunder man, roared angrily. As dark, angry clouds gathered, the men walked to the top of a nearby headland to watch the ocean. Out to sea, a giant, silvery-grey finger appeared as if by magic. Warrun had seen this terrible sight only once before and to see the actual link to the Skyworld, the place where the dead dwelt, was terrifying. Though calm and windless where they stood, only paces offshore the waterspout roared as it sinuously travelled northwards. Marron and Nowra watched in terror and amazement while Warrun pointed and told them excitedly that the Skyworld was close. They must be particularly careful that night, lest they offend wandering ancestors.

The storm later struck with a roar while lightning flashed whitely across the dark, boiling sky. Rain fell like they were under a waterfall and while the storm raged, hidden in the humpy they had built, Warrun told the frightened young men about Skyworld, the world of the dead.

The new day dawned clear and clean. They walked to the top of the headland to find the sea with a strong swell that propelled large waves to shore with a thump and roar.

Forever opportunists, they wandered to the beach to search for any creatures that were good enough to eat but, after a half-hearted fossick, they found little of interest. As they headed back inland they encountered a mob of small wallabies and it wasn’t long before Warrun speared one with his new spear, striking it deeply in the haunches. The creature fell and kicked and grunted in distress until Warrun used his woomera to strike the killing blow to the back of the creature’s small head. Marron and Nowra praised Warrun on the kill, especially how beautifully the new spear had flown to its target, before they grasped their breakfast by its tail and dragged it back to camp.

As they renewed their journey, creeks of rainwater tumbled eagerly to the sea. The men lapped nectar from flowers and ate handfuls of sweet midyim berries with relish. A willy-wagtail, Jidi-ghindi, the little black gossip with a pert tail, fluttered and chirped defiantly, which had Warrun pause to take notice. Jidi-ghindi carried important news, such as the death of a relative, but on this occasion Warrun was unsure what the messenger wished to share. He shook his head in confusion. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FɪndNøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

It was then that Marron saw the spider web.

Spiders were a natural part of the bush. Sometimes large, their webs could be of silver or gold, but the web Marron saw was but a single strand of thick spider-web that pointed to the nearby beach. Marron squatted to examine the web and gestured the others over as Nowra gingerly touched the web with a finger, finding it not sticky, but strong. It jerked and moved as if a spider was on the end of it. Barely had he touched the web when they heard strange noises like bird people talking. The men stared at each other in alarm as they heard loud, cackling laughter from toward the beach and, looking to the source of the unearthly sound, saw the terrible sight of spirit people who had just arrived from Skyworld. There were four, but what creatures they were! Two men carried enormous shields of power, and everything about them was colour and sound. Their shields were the colour of rainbows and flowers and their bodies were covered in bright paint. The strangers talked like birds chatter, all noise and laughter, making more racket than women, like a flock of lorikeets.

Lorikeets! Warrun realised these must be Lorikeet People from the Skyworld. The flight of the lorikeets that guided them here took on even more significance. Beings from another place could be powerful, but were they hostile or friendly? He looked to the young men and both were plainly terrified though, as men, they struggled to retain their composure.

The warriors were finally seen by the Lorikeet People, who stopped and stared, their big eyes bulging like the wings of beetles that fly before a summer storm. They wore paint on their thin, pointy bird’s-beak noses while one, a woman, wore blood-coloured body paint on her abnormally round breasts and nipples. A fourth spirit man, obviously the one with the greatest power, was white.

It took all of Warrun’s strength not to run.

After a moment of silence, the warrior in the front leaned his terrible shield of power against the bushes. The Lorikeet Man then removed his beetle eyes, waved an open hand, and called out, “Hey!” which made Warrun and the two young men jump in terror. His voice was deep and he was taller than Warrun’s people, his hair the colour of the sun. Behind his beetle eyes were his spirit eyes, pale and terrible, the colour of the grey spirit tree Warrun and the others had seen the day before. They were the eyes of a dead fish. Their three spears, pointed at the Lorikeet Man, trembled.

Warrun looked more closely at the spirit man and there was something about him that he recognised. The eyes, though terrifying, were friendly and somewhat familiar. Lowering his spear, Warrun gestured Marron and Nowra to do the same. The signs and warnings he had been given flitted constantly through Warrun’s mind; the dream, the guidance of Boobok and the lorikeets, the spirit tree to Skyworld, and the warning by Jidi-ghindi the willy-wagtail all coalesced to make more sense. Slowly, comprehension dawned and the normally stoic Warrun knew that as long as he lived, he would never experience a moment of greater significance.

Finally, his grandfather, whom he loved, had returned to speak with him. Warrun’s grandfather had died soon after the great events where Warrun won Toora as his wife. A great man of wisdom and dreaming, he was loved by the people and the rituals and ceremonies after his death had lasted for many days. The man standing before him was the spirit of his grandfather and Warrun was not only overjoyed but was also overwhelmed. Placing his weapons onto the ground, Warrun extended his arms and then walked gladly to embrace his long lost grandfather as he wept loudly and sobbed onto the Lorikeet Man’s neck.

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