LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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