The Kadaitcha Curse Page 11
On the morning after Yuka’s farewell celebration he woke his two sons before the sun had risen.
“It is time to leave, Arunta”, he said with sorrow in his voice. Today is kahlawilhma.” Then to his younger son, “You are Burnum, your name means Strong Warrior. You are a man now. I have chosen you to stay and protect your family until your brother’s return.”
“I will,” Burnum replied with determination. “Even if I have to hunt for many days without sleep to feed them.”
Yuka looked at him. “My son, your father is not always the wise and clever man you might think he is. Many old people are afraid of the white farmers. But our times are changing. The white man’s fear is no less than our own. Yes, hunt for many days without sleep, but if you need to work for the white man to provide for your family then you must do this. And Arunta, when he returns, will do the same if he must.”
Their father’s words were foreboding. Was this really the future he saw for them, or the words of a dying man not fully in control of his thoughts? Despite the practice of some of the tribe to join their ways with those of the settlers, the brothers had never any hopes other than to live as their father and his father had lived – hunting, gathering and fishing. Their games with Clare, the reading lessons, that was all just for enjoyment. Just part of their childhood fun. It was not a preparation for life. It was true that they respected the Taylor family and held them in high esteem. That, however, was very different to being dependent on them for survival.
Mirrin brought some bags of food which Arunta threw over his shoulder. Kira put another bag over Yuka’s shoulder. “It will be cold until the sun rises and again when it sets,” said Kira as she draped a cloak made of neatly stitched possum furs around Yuka’s shoulders.
Yuka ran his fingers over the garment. These days Kira would usually use cotton thread. It was not very strong but it was easy to work with and, with the help of Binda’s uncle, easy enough to come by. But this cloak was stitched using the sinew of kangaroo tail.
“This is good.” He looked at his wife and gently wiped a tear from her cheek.
“Go now,” said grandmother Mirrin, “One foot in front of the other.”
“Wait!” said Burnum suddenly. He disappeared and soon returned with his spear which he handed to Arunta. “Take this. It is swifter and straighter than yours.”
The brothers exchanged spears and with no more said Arunta and Yuka turned and started their journey towards the great mountain. Kalu, started to trot along behind them.
“No,” scolded Arunta. “Stay here and help Burnum.” When the dog persisted Arunta threw a rock at it. Whimpering and confused, Kalu turned back towards camp.
In the early part of the day, Yuka felt strong and walked ahead. He removed his new cloak as the sun grew hotter and stuffed in into his bag. As they steadily made their way over the hot, dry terrain Arunta stared at the initiation scars on his father’s back. No other man in the tribe had anything like it. The marks carved in his flesh made the shape of a tree; a trunk with two branches topped by a canopy of foliage. Above the tree, near Yuka’s shoulder blade, was another scar, a small one that, because of its position above the tree, could easily be seen as a bird in flight. Arunta remembered having once asked his father if the bird was leaving or retuning to its nest. Neither leaving nor returning, Yuka had replied. It is forever circling. Arunta had thought this a rather silly answer, but never asked again. But now he stared, fascinated. With the movement of the bones and muscles in Yuka’s back Arunta imagined that the tree was waving in the wind, and the bird soaring.
As the first ray of sun warmed their backs, they stopped for some food and the first of many rests. While eating some dried fish and damper, Yuka told the story of his early life so that Arunta would fully understand the importance of this journey and his part in it. And this would be the pattern of the days ahead - walk, rest, story, food, then walk some more. As each morning gave way to its afternoon, Yuka would grow very tired and weak until all of his strength was taken with only one thing at a time. As he walked he could not speak, as he spoke he could not eat.
This is the story he told to Arunta:
“My tribe lived on the high mountain. Everything we needed was there in every season. Fish, fruit, berries, possum. Our one constant source of food was the river that held so many fish that we would never be hungry. A short walk from our home was Mura-mura, our dreamtime tree, the Tree of Spirits which grew on the bank of the bombala, the place where two rivers came together. For generations the earth beneath Mura-Mura was enriched with the leaves from the tree and the ashes of our tribal elders. Yes, it was a place to be born and a place to return to our fathers.
“But I was restless and one day I found myself wandering far from home. I did not know that I had strayed into the land of another tribe. Two of their young hunters challenged me. I turned to run away but I was speared in the shoulder. My father had been looking for me and arrived just as that happened, he pulled out the spear. Then in his anger he threw it back. It went through the heart of one of the hunters. The other picked his brother up and went. My father carried me home. He knew there would now be trouble.
“The next day the hunter’s family arrived, demanding retribution. They wanted to kill both of us but they knew that one death could be repaid by only one death. My father protested that the hunter had been killed by his own spear and therefore his death did not call for retribution. By his own spear, yes, they agreed, but not by his own hand. After much argument it was decided that I must choose between death and leaving the tribe. They knew that our people had lived and died in this place for generations, their ashes buried under the Tree of Spirits within the Ring of Ancestors. They were certain that I would choose death. But I chose to leave. I thought that as long as I was alive then my father’s grief might not be so great. This made the aggrieved tribe angrier but my father reminded them that they had given us a choice.
“As I left, their kadaitcha man pointed his magic stick at me and cast a spell that he thought would make me stay and face death. His magic was known across the land. It was very powerful. He said that I will die while I am still a young man and unless I am buried beneath Mura-mura with my ancestors my spirit would not rest, and neither me nor my sons, nor the sons of my sons for all generations would live to happy old men.
“I was very afraid of these words and his chanting seemed to follow me as I ran from the mountain. I still hear it in my night time dreams. Although I have wandered far from the mountain it is a mighty magic, and now after many years I am afraid that it is working. Each day I am growing weaker. I know I must return to the place of my birth to die and be buried beneath the Tree of Spirits with my ancestors. Only in this way will I break the magic. I will not be saved, but I will know that you and Burnum and your sons will live long.”
Yuka’s voice trailed off as he tired of talking. Arunta stood to help his father to his feet. “No, just a little while longer,” said Yuka. Arunta turned to sit back down on the rock that had been his seat. As he did he looked back from where they had walked on this hot day. He couldn’t be sure, but in the far distance he thought he could discern the shape of an animal - the only moving thing in the big, flat desert that they were gradually putting behind them.
“Kalu! I think Kalu is following us!” Arunta sounded annoyed.
Yuka looked up. “That walaku of yours is a good one. You worry for me. She worries for you. There will be no chasing her off this time. She is too far from home. She will catch up with us soon.” He drank some water and struggled to his feet. “I am ready now. Let us continue.”
On the evening of the fourth day, as his father slept, Arunta thought over all he had been told and understood fully for the first time the purpose of this journey. Yuka hoped that his first family would still live on the great mountain but he did not know this for sure. Word had been passed along through other tribes that a big fire had scattered those who lived there and they had never returned.
Another story was that some seasons after Yuka had left his tribe a war broke out during which all the men on both sides were killed leaving the women and children to wander off the mountain and into the desert to seek refuge with other tribes.
Given these stories it seemed right to Yuka that he prepare for the worst. And it would be Arunta’s task to make sure that his father was buried according to the rituals of his birth tribe. This involved, his father explained, staying with him until his death which, Yuka was sure, would happen soon after arriving at the Tree of Spirits. It involved following the tribal custom of marking both his and Yuka’s bodies with paint made from the clay ochres that Yuka carried in the bag given to him by Kira. It involved dancing and chanting as his father’s body burned to the ash that he would then bury beneath Mura-mura, the Dreamtime Tree.
And Arunta was possessed by one horrible fear – what if he was unable to complete the task given him by his father. What if they both died on the way to the mountain? If it were to come about that Arunta failed then Yuka’s spirit would be trapped for all time in that miserable and hopeless place between the sky and the earth, and then Arunta himself, and Burnum, and their sons that followed would all grow sick like Yuka and die before they reached a good age. And their spirits, too, would be forever trapped in the middle-world never to join the ancestors.
Arunta swallowed hard to choke back tears. He shouted at himself in his mind. No! I will not let my father down! A rustling noise not very off distracted him from his thoughts. Kalu?
Then out loud, “Kalu! Come here! I will not chase you off this time. Come, Kalu!” But the bush fell silent and Arunta heard nothing more. Sleep soon overcame him.