by Jim Haynes
C.W. PECK
THERE WAS ONCE A very great tribal leader who lived somewhere in the belt of basalt country where the waratah does not grow. The hard rocks of this country had once been subjected to terrific heat. In fact, they are born of fire, and this the people knew very well.
For a long time he had been a very good leader, doing all he could for the people he led. He had all the prowess that a chief should have. His spear he could hurl furthest and straightest. His nullah struck hardest, and his boomerang always sailed in its twirling rings and pretty curves out further into the air and returned to sit poised and still twirling above the players and himself before striking the ground at his feet. His killing boomerang never failed to bring down game.
But when he was growing old he developed the whim to roam the bush alone. He lost the desire to remain a leader. All he did for the tribe was search out the best bits of fallen stone so that they might grind them into tomahawk blades, axe heads, or spear points.
One day a thick mist fell amongst the rugged hills and he lost his way. He had travelled over the valley between two rounded peaks, and descended into a ravine on the other side. He went on and ascended other peaks and went down into other gullies until he grew tired and then he tried to return to the camp. But he was not sure that he had negotiated as many ridges and tramped through so many gullies, for they were all so much alike that it was very difficult for anyone to know one from another.
When he realised that he was lost—had failed to remember in what direction he had come—he simply sat down to wait until the mist cleared away. But rain set in and he grew very cold. Then night fell, and, as everything was wet, he could not make a fire.
He remembered quite well the feel of the steep fall of ground on the side of the first peak he had crossed when the fog came and tried to find it again, though it was still dark. He walked as much to make himself warm as to find the way. He crossed over high ground and went into other deep places, and at last he felt that he was going down a steep enough place to be where he had started to climb, and there he rested until the day broke.
The mist lightened and he could see that he was not at the place where he wished to be and where he was when the fog first shut out the scene. There the trees were the white-barked tea-tree and the underscrub was wire grass and small rushes. But here were gums and wattles, and the undergrowth was Macrozamia and Chorizema and Wild Fuschia and Clematis and Sarsaparilla Vine. And it was much deeper. He knew all the plants that grew in his part of the country. He, of course, had his own names for them. The Acacia glaucescens, with its long yellow rolls of pollen he called ‘Karrawan’, and the beautiful little Dillwynia ericifolia he called ‘Wannara’; the white-flowering Bloodwood he called ‘Mannen’, and the pretty Wonga Vine he knew as ‘Telaaraweera’.
What was he to do now? His hand had lost its cunning. His mind was not so alert. Unless he could find the tribe soon, he must die of cold and hunger. So he turned and endeavoured to go back. He climbed again the steep mountainside and on top he was amongst many boulders, and the tussocked grasses and the burrawangs were such as he had never seen before. He blundered on. In his anxiety he became uncertain of foot and often he faltered and almost fell. The rain came on again and the mist—the clouds that fell to earth—rested once more about him.
He coo-eed, but no answering coo-ee came to him. Several days went by and it still rained and was still cold and misty, and it gave no promise of clearing. He had found roots in plenty but he lacked animal food, especially its fat, which was his most nourishing article of diet. He lived, though he grew weaker.
At last he found a track. He knew it to be the well-beaten track of the brush wallaby, and he reckoned that if he waited patiently that night beside the path and hid, he would intercept the animal, and meat and fat would be his. During the night the rain ceased, and a wind sprang up that shook the water from the leaves and blew away the clouds.
He hid beside the wallaby track and he had not long to wait. Thud, thud, crash, crash, thud, thud—the wallaby was coming down from the ledges above to browse on the succulent grasses of the level and clear country.
The man was patience itself. He grasped his nullah more firmly, and with one hand parting the leaves before him he decided just when to strike the blow.
(It is strange that no white man can hunt a wild animal so. Wild things see him or smell him; and, besides, he cannot wait.)
The marsupial hopped unsuspectingly on, stopping every little while to nibble at some young shoots that overhung or infringed upon the track. Then, like lightning, the nullah sprang into being and it shot out straight to the wallaby’s ear. The wallaby made a feeble defence with his clawed feet but he went down and his life went out with the trickle of blood that wandered slowly and brokenly down from the place where it had been struck.
Next day the man ate and was filled, and then he slept—a sounder sleep than he had had since he left his tribe. The wind that had been but a slight breeze sprang into life. It grew stronger and stronger, and increased until it roared through the great gum trees like a mighty torrent of water. The huge branches were tossed, and they swayed and crashed amongst one another and were twisted apart and fell. The small twigs snapped and were whirled about and strewed the ground like thick moss. The huge bark trunks leaned and strained and groaned and split and often cracked and thundered down. Giant masses of cloud swept overhead. A bird now and then attempted flight and was whirled and dashed to death. Wallabies and native rats and dingoes grew afraid, and, leaping from the safety of their sheltered places, they sped off, bounding amongst the roaring trees and being twirled and blown and staggered in the awful gale.
The man slid down a crumbling bank into a bouldered creek. There was safety there unless the creek rose. If a tree fell it could not crush him; and trees did fall, but not one nor yet a broken limb caught him. They fell across the creek and rested on the boulders, and beneath it all he was not only safe, but also warm. Just as suddenly as the gale sprang up so it went and, as is usual, it was followed by another great downpour of rain.
He had to climb out of his shelter, and he found a hollowed stump, which served to keep him dry. With the remnant of the wallaby he felt that he could be comfortable until the storm ceased altogether.
After two days the sun came out warm and the vapour steamed off the earth and sailed up through the treetops and into the sky from which it came. He left his shelter and pushed on to the top of a ridge. Shading his eyes with his hand, he peered away over the gum trees, searching the lines of ridges as shown by the colouring of foliage, looking for smoke.
Ah! There was smoke! It was a long way off, but he would make towards it. He knew he would have to walk all day and he set off.
Towards evening he ascended another hilltop and found no vantage point, so he climbed a tree, and from there he saw the smoke again but it was not in the same place, therefore the tribe must be moving, and moving fast.
He decided to camp there for the night, and be fresh to push on in the morning. Now he realised his old age, for each evening, for many evenings, he looked for the smoke and always it seemed as far off as ever. Several times he came across the fires. Once he disturbed the dogs that stayed behind to gather up the remnants of the food. There were often some dry roots or partially eaten meat or bones that had pickings lying about, and upon that scanty fare he did well enough.
He made signal fires but they were unanswered.
The country changed. The basalt rocks—the sharp, brittle, ringing stone—disappeared, and the ridges were ridges of sandstone. The vegetation was different, too, and one day there, just in front of him, was a plant and a flower the like of which he had never seen before. It did not grow in his basalt region.
He plucked it and smelt it and parted its pistils and found it to be full of rich moisture. ‘Meewah,’ he whispered—‘sweet’!
‘Waratah,’ he said, meaning the most beautiful thing he had ever seen!
Now he grew afraid. What
tribe was he following? This was, he knew, far from his country, and he, perhaps, was only travelling into great danger and distress.
So, gathering a bunch of this wonderful flower, he turned about, intending to try to reach his own tribe in another direction.
But he was too late. A couple of men of the travelling people had returned for something, and they spied him and called to him to stop. He did not quite understand their language, but he sensed their intentions. He dropped the waratahs and faced them.
All they did, however, was pick up the flowers and, by pointing, order him off. They did not harm him.
In a few more days he saw other smoke and then he found his own people. He had a great tale to tell. Away in the direction which he showed, a wonderful flower grew. Its bush was beautiful, its form was unique, its colour was gorgeous and it had a sweet juice that he had sipped. It was ‘meewah’ and ‘waratah’—sweet and beautiful.
A few of the daring ones agreed to go in search of it. Selecting the best of their weapons, and, with the old chief to guide them, they sallied out.
It proved to be only about six days’ march to the place where the wonderful flowers were growing. The country there was an upheaval and outheaval of sandstone. The rocks were plainly thrown there by static pressure, and they were not caused by fire, but by successive layers of sand washed by running water. And the soil was scanty and poor and full of gravel. It was rich, however, in just what this pretty flower needed, and the roots of the stunted gums kept the soil friable and gave the underground stem of the waratah its proper food.
The party plucked many plants. They destroyed many, too, for they did not understand its habits. They broke the stem from the brittle root and carried it away. Shortly afterwards they went again. By this time the owners of the grounds had found traces of the marauders and they lay in wait.
The men made a great outcry when the intruders came. There was a great hurling of spears and some death cries. The fighting was brief and savage and was soon over.
Not one of the trespassers ever returned to his people.
Now amongst them there was a great sorcerer. He knew more of the mystic signs and the daubing of pipeclay and the sending up of smoke through a hollow trunk than any other of his folk. Often he had saved the tribe. When food was scarce he could find it. When rain was needed he made it with his magic and his smoke magic. And now he was killed.
The people knew what the non-return of the medicine man and the continued absence of the chief meant and the events were rightly interpreted. The chief’s son was made leader with all due ceremony. A corroboree was held and every lad who was anywhere near the fighting age was initiated and tried out. At this corroboree the young chief worked himself up into a state of great frenzy and this communicated itself to all those present. He grew passionate with no attempt to check himself. In this way he increased his daring and when he felt himself fit and had engendered sufficient boasting on the part of the young men, he gave the order to go to war. Their medicine man and their chief were to be avenged, or brought back if alive, though none believed them to be alive.
They were only three days following in the wake of their missing people when they found all the evidence of their fate. They went on. The waratahs were in bloom and they marvelled at the glorious sight. But they were bent on retaliation, and they wasted no time.
The scouts of the rearguard of the tribe here were not slow to learn of their coming. They sighted the formidable spears and the huge bark shields. They sighted, too, the determined attitude of this band of fighting men. They reported to their chief, and orders were given for the women and children to go down into a walled-in gully with but one avenue of approach.
The women went down—all but two young ones who trembled for the safety of their lovers, and who ran the risk of defying the old women so that they could watch the battle.
The little band of defenders yelled and rushed upon their enemies and the spears flew. Those from the intruding tribe fell harmlessly but the little band of men who were protecting their country reserved their spears until they were only a few yards from the foremost of the attacking men, and then together, as one man, they hurled theirs. Every one found the intended billet. The great mob of invaders wavered and then turned and fled.
Then came a wonderful and inexplicable thing. It was a great bright light, burning blue, and travelling at an enormous rate. It came down out of heaven and no one knew who had caused it, but all believed that it must have been some sorcerer greater than any ever known.
The earth trembled because of the speed of the visitation. The air was filled with hissing sound. The glare dazzled, and in a fraction of time the thing had struck the earth. The ground heaved and was rent. Stones went up, masses of earth flew, a terrific explosion roared. The noise of the burst was deafening, and it reverberated around and amongst the hills and through the bush until all the world was just a great full noise. The fighting men fell flat, and there they remained until the young women who had stayed to watch the battle came to them, for they were the first to recover their senses.
The girls were full of consternation seeing no men standing up, but all lying as if killed, and each ran to her lover. There was really nothing wrong with the men. They were only stricken with a terror they had never before experienced. They looked up expecting to find, no one knows what, and seeing the girls their spent courage in some measure returned.
But what of the others? There was no trace. The terrible thing had wiped them right out, and of them there remained not a vestige. And just beyond them the waratahs stood serenely, for not one was hurt.
During the ensuing night more heavenly fires darted hither and thither. The frightened people grew somewhat accustomed to them and they watched them. They believed that the fires fell because the waratahs were being taken by those who had no right to them.
In those parts of Australia where the waratah is unknown, shooting stars are said to be souls returning, and often men may be seen searching for them. But, in country where the waratah grows, the coming of a meteor or the shooting of stars is held to be a sign that the bright red blooms were being stolen.
Waratahs were, and still are, quite immune from the effects of such fire. That is why the Aborigines brought the waratah stems to the early blacksmiths, when white people came. They thought that the sparks from the anvil were the same fire as that that came from the sky that day.
MARKS’S CUTTER
E.O. SCHLUNKE
IT WAS A GREAT day when Marks’s chaff-cutting outfit came to cut up the hay stooked in our long, 200-acre paddock. It looked like a train, but a magical train that ran without rails along the roads and through our paddocks. It came so slowly that we couldn’t believe it would ever arrive.
First the great steam traction engine with its wheels twice as high as a man, puffing out smoke and leaking little jets of steam all over it, reeking of oil and steam and wood-fire and hot metal; then the cutter, not as big or impressive, running on its four small wheels, with a curved iron roof built over it, and a noticeable lean to the left; then the ‘travelling kitchen’ made of galvanised iron, and mounted on a low platform wagon. Next came the long steam-box with two wheels at the back end and the front attached to the cook’s galley.
Last of the train was Marks’s old T-model Ford car full of his piratical-looking crew, being towed because there was no point in rushing on ahead. And, following so far behind that we were not quite sure if it belonged to the outfit, was a fat, waddling horse pulling a Furphy water cart, with the wood-and-water-Joey sitting unhappily on the shaft.
Next day we went to see them working, having got ourselves into a fine state of excitement from hearing the steam whistle. Our father said it tooted too often; they must be having trouble if they were starting and stopping so much. He walked so fast across the stubble that we had a job keeping up with him—he always got upset if anything wasn’t going properly on his farm.
As we drew near we could smell all the hot eng
ine smells again with a new one added, the sweet, damp smell of steamed hay. Despite the steaming there was a lot of dust about. It came streaming down the wind from the cutter, a million glittering and gleaming particles from the lacquered wheat stalks, looking like the stuff our mother sprinkled over the Christmas tree. We knew, however, from unhappy experience, that it would make our skins itch intolerably, so we began to bear away to the right to avoid it. But father kept straight on ahead.
‘You don’t want the men to think you’re softies?’ he said. And we had to follow him, holding our shirt collars tightly round our necks, and rushing through as fast as we could run.
Marks came to speak to our father. He was a tall man with sagging shoulders, his face mottled red all over, looking very strange to us because we had been brought up among sober people. He wore a grin that looked most villainous, showing a few teeth here and there, grown grotesquely long because there were none opposite to keep them worn down. His hands and clothes were black with grease.
Father said gruffly, ‘Having a bit of trouble?’ And he stared at Marks as if he didn’t approve of his light-hearted grin under the circumstances.
‘Elevator train broke in the middle of the steamer and we had trouble getting it out.’ Then he turned a roving, rolling and roguish eye at us boys and said, ‘Pity one of youse wasn’t here to crawl up the steamer.’
We looked with popping eyes at the steamer—a long tube made of galvanised iron, with a procession of sheaves of hay running up through it to the cutter, and steam spurting from all its crevices. We moved over close behind our father for protection.
Marks began to talk of less terrifying matters, so we had a good look at how his outfit worked. Where the hay came out of the steamer a fearful, whiskery old fellow, perched on a high, rocking platform, took charge of it and pushed it into the mouth of the cutter. He battled with the hay and the cutter as with mortal enemies, his face contorted with rage. Every now and then he looked up at the skies and cursed the cutter in venomous tones and with a noticeably foreign accent, but all the time his hands flew dexterously.
