We Are Where the Nightmares Go and Other Stories

by C. Robert Cargill

  The shadow ahead of him loomed larger as Koorong gained ground; then it stopped dead in its tracks, turning to face Koorong. Koorong waved his hand and pointed the stick at the ground, stopping immediately. He looked around him for a trap; finding none, he scrutinized the figure.

  “Ey, Koorong,” said the stranger.

  “Do I know you, fella?” asked Koorong.

  The stranger shook his head. “You knew my friend. Your son made a pointing stick out of his leg bone.”

  “Tragic.”

  “Too right.”

  “So you came here to kill me?”

  “No,” said the stranger with a broad grin, “I’m here to distract you.”

  “Distract me from . . .” Koorong’s eyes grew wide and his vision went white with rage. Without a thought he turned and ran, using every trick he knew to get back to camp. The bush flew past at a blazing speed. But he was too late. As he approached, he saw two men dart off into the darkness.

  He didn’t bother to give chase; he cared about only one thing. Warra.

  His son lay on his back, coughing. Koorong knelt beside him, cradling his head, looking into his eyes. He was breathing and he was conscious. They must have gotten scared off before—

  Then Koorong noticed the small cut beneath his son’s heart.

  The men hadn’t come to kill his son—at least not outright. They came to steal his soul.

  They could have killed him. That would have been the decent thing to do. Koorong had stolen the other man’s soul, not Warra. Koorong had handed down the death sentence, not his son. All Warra had done was kill him, mercifully, before the three days of sickness set in and he died a miserable, painful death. This wasn’t justice, it was cold-blooded revenge—something with which Koorong was far too familiar.

  He picked up his son in both arms.

  “Dad,” Warra whispered weakly, “I don’t feel good.”

  “I know. Dad is goin’ to get help. It’ll be okay, eh?”

  Koorong took off into the night. He wasn’t fond of singing the songlines, but tonight he did. Tonight he needed to respect the spirits, needed their attention and aid. And this would be the worst possible time to offend them.

  “Spirits!” he called. “Spirits, hear me!”

  But no answer came. Sure he was clever, and yes, he had the strongest eye in Arnhem Land. But Koorong was the Soul Thief. He subsisted purely on the spirits of others to stay alive. And there was no spirit in dreamtime that wanted anything to do with him.

  Except for one.

  The dingo slunk out from the shadow of a rock barely lit by the coming dawn. “What’s all the racket?” he asked in a yip.

  “Spirit! Are you the dingo?” asked Koorong.

  “I am a spirit,” he replied.

  “But are you the dingo?”

  “What is it to you?”

  “I have business.”

  “And what could you possibly have to offer me, dingo or not?”

  “I . . .” Koorong stopped. He hadn’t thought this through. He was already negotiating with a spirit without knowing the spirit, what it wanted, or coming to the table with anything to bargain with. He was up against the wall, rooted but good. And yet he had no choice. “Spirit, my son.”

  “I don’t want your son. That boy has no soul.”

  “No, spirit. I know he has no soul.”

  “And he’s far too stringy to eat.”

  “I’m not offering my son.”

  “Good, because that would be a terrible deal,” said the spirit.

  “I have nothing to offer but my service.”

  “You’re the Soul Thief, right?”

  “Too right.”

  “And you have a strong eye?”

  “The strongest in Arnhem Land.”

  “Three services.”

  “Spirit, I can’t promise you—”

  “This is not a negotiation.”

  “This is a negotiation. If it be proper business, then it is always a negotiation.”

  “Okay, then,” said the spirit, “two services.”

  “No, I—”

  “Your son is dying and you want to negotiate further?”

  “Spirit.” He paused. “I would do anything for my son. I was not thinking. Two services.”

  “Oh, then three services it is.”

  “Spirit, we’ve already agreed!”

  The spirit smiled, nodding his head. “Too right. Two services of my choosing at my behest. In exchange, I will help your son. Do you agree?”

  “I agree. Now, please, give him his soul back.”

  “Oh, I can’t do that,” said the spirit. “Your son’s soul is already gone. Those Clever Men knew you would want it back. They’re long gone now. And they’ve released your son’s soul. He’s dying.”

  “But you said you could help him.”

  “I can. You already know what needs to be done to save him.”

  Koorong looked down with sorrow upon his son, then again at the spirit. “He has to become like me.”

  “Like father, like son.”

  “He needs to drink the soul of a Clever Man.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I’ve killed every Clever Man along the shoreline, and every one that I know of in Arnhem Land save one—and he is far too far away for me to get to in time.”

  “I told you I would help your son, and I will.” The spirit smiled. “You spoke of a Clever Man too far to reach.”

  “Yes.”

  “But he is here. Close. On walkabout. And he has with him another, younger Clever Man—strong eye, powerful spirit. Enough power between the two of them to reforge your son’s soul so he might live. I will tell you where they are. You and your son need but to claim their souls as yours.”

  Koorong nodded. “And the services I owe?”

  “You will continue to owe. I will ask for them later.”

  “I am at your service.”

  5

  Koorong huddled with Warra in a bush, their breaths short and shallow, bodies low and well hidden, waiting for the sign. They could see the campfire, an eleven-year-old whitefella and a Clever Man relaxing around it, completely unaware. It had taken all day to travel to this spot, and true to the spirit’s word, they were there.

  Koorong steadied himself. Though he was a soulless man without real fear, this Clever Man was Mandu Merijedi. His eye was strong and he was as clever a fella as Koorong knew. He would have liked to kill him in a way he could have savored, taken his time and made him suffer. Instead, it needed to be quick and brutal. There were two of them, and there was no way to catch them both unaware without Warra. Looking around, Koorong tried to think of any number of clever ways to divide them and kill them separately. But there were none—none at least that Mandu wouldn’t see through right away.

  Warra turned to his father, his eyes warm with the glaze of childhood, but his visage growing sicker by the minute. While he didn’t look any older, his skin was growing pale and beginning to sag. “Can I, Dad?” he asked very quietly.

  “Can you what?” Koorong whispered back.

  “Put my pointing stick in the whitefella? I can do it.”

  “We have no other choice. You’ll have to do it. But first, tell me now, and tell me the truth: do you remember how to steal a soul?”

  Warra nodded confidently.

  “This is no time for pride. You’ll only get sicker if we don’t get you these souls. Can you do it?”

  “I can do it.”

  Koorong looked down at his son and put a firm hand on his shoulder. “This isn’t like a dingo,” he said. “Stick him quick. Don’t give him a chance to react.”

  Warra nodded. “Okay.”

  “When I say.”

  “We go.”

  Each held his breath. “Go.”

  Koorong and Warra tore off together, each clutching his bone wand.

  Ahead of them Mandu and his young pupil stared lazily into the fire.

  The campfire flickered out, then flash
ed, relighting with a puff of bright light.

  What was he up to? Koorong wondered. Though he knew he had the drop on them, he also knew better than to underestimate another Clever Man, no matter how dim or ignorant of the law he might be.

  They bolted without a sound over the desert ground, slipping through the dark, coming in at an angle at which they would not be seen until they struck. The two jumped, diving into the camp, weapons raised.

  Warra’s wand sunk into Colby’s back, Koorong’s pointing stick passing right through Mandu’s head.

  Shit, thought Koorong. They’d been had. Rooted for certain.

  The fire winked out, the illusions evaporating, leaving the two exposed in the moonlight.

  Warra looked up at his father. “What now?” he asked, both terrified and confused.

  Koorong narrowed his eyes, grinning wickedly, digging his bullroarer out of his dilly bag. “We let them know Hell is coming for them.” Then he waved at the air, whipping his arm around and letting the bullroarer loose.

  6

  The night erupted with the sounds of anguished torment, braying, cackling, setting the whole desert on edge. Mandu’s run slowed to a walk, his jaw hanging open in shock, his eyes wide with terror. That was the sound of three screaming souls; he knew it well. Koorong, he mouthed silently. At once Mandu knew what was at stake. The spirit that had come to him in his dreams was right. They had somehow attracted the attention of the most fearsome sorcerer in Arnhem Land. And whatever it was he wanted, it was important enough to bring him out of the marshes and into the deep desert. These were not Koorong’s songlines; he was trespassing. All of which meant he was after something worth killing for, and knowing of his reputation as he did, Mandu assumed it probably involved harvesting a soul. Maybe even his. But most likely, Colby’s.

  Mandu resumed running even harder than before, the sound of Koorong’s bullroarer driving his feet faster than he had ever run.

  Colby was right on his heels, pushing himself as hard as he could.

  Colby and Mandu exchanged glances.

  Mandu pointed a wild, excited finger at a nearby tree. “Colby,” he yelled, “the tree!”

  “Why are we running and not fighting?”

  Mandu looked back over his shoulder into the night. “You don’t want to fight him. Powerful sorcerer. Strong eye. No soul.”

  “No soul? That’s malarkey! Everything has a soul.”

  “Everything you’ve seen, all of the impossible worlds, and you still question what is true? It can all be true. Why not this?”

  “Why would he want us?”

  “There are a number of reasons. Because you don’t belong here. Because I shouldn’t be sharing these secrets with a whitefella. Because we both are powerful enough to keep him alive for quite some time.”

  “Wait. Did you say that this is because I’m white?”

  Mandu shook his head. “Because you’re an outsider. You’re not Aboriginal.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to teach me.”

  “It was worth the trade. But you turned out to be very clever. You could be a great Clever Man or sorcerer. If you survive.”

  “So who is he?”

  “Koorong.”

  “Koorong?”

  “Yeah.”

  The two darted into the tree, sinking into the wood, letting it wash over them and carry them miles away.

  They emerged in a crowded oasis, two trees to choose from. Mandu pointed at one halfway into the thicket and they leapt into that, vanishing again.

  This time they emerged in the desert, no other trees visible for a hundred meters. So they ran, hoping if Koorong could walk through the trees, he wouldn’t choose the right ones for a good while.

  After an hour of tree hopping, the two found themselves deep in the bush of Arnhem Land, panting, worn out.

  “If he finds us,” said Colby, clutching his side, “I hope he kills us quick.” Despite being in good physical shape, he had never sprinted so hard for so long in all his life, and the exertion was taking its toll.

  Mandu smiled, catching his breath. Colby’s sense of humor was very much in line with his own. “If they do, I’ll let them kill you first,” he said.

  “Good. I don’t like the sight of blood.” Colby took a deep breath, trying to control his breathing. “Who is Koorong?”

  Mandu nodded. “Once,” he said, “there was a young sorcerer hunting along a river who spied a beautiful girl gathering fruit from a tree. He had never seen a girl her equal. And since he didn’t know her, he knew she must be from another tribe. Knowing that many nearby tribes didn’t care much for his people, he thought it best to hide in the bush and follow her home to see if her tribe was friendly or not before approaching her.

  “He followed her the whole path home, over open ground with little bush, without being seen. As he suspected, she belonged to a rival tribe. Worse still, she had a young suitor with whom he had quarreled in the past. The love he felt for this girl was strong, but he knew that very first day that she would never consent to love him back. He needed to get her another way.

  “So he went out to the same spot by the river the next day and waited for her to come back. Sure enough, she did. This time, though, the Clever Man disguised himself as the girl’s suitor and approached her, pretending to be him. There he tried to seduce her, but she was chaste and would not sleep with him. Then the sorcerer, much larger and stronger than the girl, took her anyway.”

  “Oh,” said Colby, “I don’t think I’m old enough for this story.”

  “No one is old enough for this story. It’s not a very happy one.”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “Once he was done, he left, disappearing back into the bush, leaving the girl to run home to tell her father—her village’s Clever Man—what her suitor had done. But her father did not believe her, for he had spent the entire day out hunting with her suitor and knew that he could not have done this. Immediately her father knew what had happened. She had been deceived by a sorcerer, one powerful enough to mask his true identity from her.

  “The Clever Man decided to set a trap for the sorcerer, telling his daughter’s suitor to bring two of his closest friends to help. Then he commanded his daughter to go out to the river the next day and pick fruit again as if nothing had happened. There, he and the three young men hid in the bush, waiting for the sorcerer to reappear.

  “Just as he had suspected, the sorcerer again approached his daughter, disguised as the suitor. He again tried to seduce the girl, and when she rebuked his advances, he again tried to take her. That was when the Clever Man and the three young men sprung their trap. They pounced on him, tying a rope to each arm and each leg. The three men and the daughter each held a rope, holding the sorcerer spread-eagled. Then the father took two things from the Clever Man. First he took his manhood with a knife, sealing the wound with magic to ensure that he could never take another girl again. Then he took his soul, infused it into the manhood, and fed the parts to the river crocodiles. With their vengeance complete, they left the Clever Man by the river to die a slow, agonizing three-day-long death.

  “But this was no ordinary Clever Man. His will to live was great and his eye stronger than any other Clever Man alive. He knew what he had to do to survive. So he waited until nightfall and snuck into the girl’s camp. First he stole the soul of the father in his sleep, mixed it with the river water from the spot where his soul had been taken, and drank it. Then he snuck into the homes of the three other men, one at a time, and stole their souls—all of which he put in his bullroarer.

  “Finally he went to take the soul of the girl, but when he did, he sensed that she was not alone, but with child. His child. So he left her there to grow pregnant. Over the next three days the father and his accomplices all grew sick and died, leaving the village without a Clever Man to protect them. But the sorcerer stayed near, kept a watch on the girl, and once she was close to giving birth, he crept back into her camp at night once again
. He gave her a choice: marry him and raise their child or die. She refused him one last time.

  “Then he killed her, cutting his unborn son out of her belly, never to know the touch of his mother. It was the last piece of him left in the world, the last thing that bore any bit of his soul, so he carried the child away and raised him to be a powerful sorcerer just like him. The two still walk, to this day, hunting for souls to keep the sorcerer alive.”

  “Koorong wants to drink our souls?”

  “To live, yes.”

  “We can’t let him do that.”

  “No, we certainly cannot.”

  “And that baby. Is that his—”

  “His son, Warra.”

  “Is he clever?”

  “Very.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “You get some sleep. There’s something I have to do.”

  7

  Koorong and Warra sat around the fire, warming themselves against the steadily dropping desert temperatures. Despite the scorching heat of the day, it was getting colder by the second, approaching near freezing. The fire Mandu had made was a good and hot one. It would serve well until dawn.

  Warra curled up against a rock, head bobbing on his neck, already passing out, the day’s excitement and his failing health having exhausted him. Koorong, on the other hand, never slept, having lost the ability to do so long before. He simply sat, watching his son drift off to sleep, one of the few remaining pleasures he had left in life. And as Warra finally relaxed, every muscle in his body giving itself over to the sandman, Koorong turned to the spirit peering over his shoulder.

  “What makes you think I won’t kill you where you stand?” he asked, his voice grumbling like the deep bass of the groaning earth.

  “Because you can’t,” said Mandu.

  “I most certainly can.”

  “You can kill my soul, but then you can’t harvest it. And that’s what this is really all about, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve disrespected your dreaming. You’re taking a whitefella into Arnhem Land. Teaching him our secrets. Letting him into degrees of circles you have no right to initiate him into.”