the camp was warm and comfortable, and they loved each other very much.
There were no white men, at that time: the blacks ruled all their
country, which they thought was the whole world. The forests were full
of game, and the rivers of fish: every one had enough, so there was no
fighting. And Dityi thought he was the luckiest man in the world,
because he had won the love of Mitjen.
But a stranger came to the camp: a tall dark-eyed man named Bunjil. He
told stories of far-away forests and wonderful things to be found
there. The other blacks used to listen to him, greatly interested; and
no one listened more attentively than Mitjen, for she had a great
longing to see the wonderful places of which Bunjil spoke. When she
heard him tell stories of these strange lands of the Bush, she burned
to leave her quiet home and go exploring. Dityi could not understand
this feeling at all. It interested him to hear Bunjil's tales, but he
had no wish to do more than hear them. He was very well satisfied with
his life, and thought that his own home was better than any other place
could possibly be.
But Bunjil soon noticed the dark-eyed girl who never lost a word of his
stories. It amused him to see her face light up and her eyes sparkle
at his talk; and so he told more and more stories, and did not always
trouble to make them true, so long as he could make Mitjen look
interested. Sometimes he would meet her wandering alone outside the
camp, and then he would tell her, as if he were sorry for her, that
this quiet camp was no place for her at all. "You are so beautiful,"
he would say, "that you should be far away in my wonderful country,
where you would see many great men and lovely women; but none more
lovely than Mitjen. In this dull hole you are buried alive."
None of this was true, but Bunjil spoke exactly as if it were, and
after a time Mitjen began to be very discontented. The simple happy
life in the Bush pleased her no longer; she only wanted the exciting
things of which Bunjil told. At home, everybody was good to her and
liked her, but she was only a girl who had to obey other people all the
time, and no one but Dityi had ever troubled about telling her that she
was beautiful. Moreover, she could see that Bunjil did not think much
of Dityi. He called him one day to Mitjen, "an ignorant black fellow,"
and though Mitjen could not imagine any people who were not black, it
sounded very uncomplimentary, and she could not forget it. As soon as
he had said it, Bunjil apologized, saying that it was only a slip of
the tongue--but in her heart Mitjen knew this was not true. It made
her look down on Dityi a little, and wonder if he were really worthy of
her.
One day she asked him if he would take her to Bunjil's country, and his
surprise prevented him from speaking for some time. He could only look
at her, with his mouth open.
"Go away from home!" he said at last. "Why? What is there to go for?"
"To see the world," said Mitjen, tossing her head. "I do not want to
stay for ever in this weary place."
"But it is the world--or most of it," returned Dityi. "I do not know
where Bunjil's country is--but the men there cannot be up to much if
they are like him, for he is more useless than anyone I ever saw. He
cannot throw a boomerang better than a girl, and with a spear I could
beat him with my left hand!"
"You are boastful," said Mitjen coldly. "Throwing weapons is not
everything."
"Well, I don't know how things are managed in Bunjil's country, but it
is very important in ours that a man should know how to throw," said
Dityi. "Perhaps Bunjil's game comes close to him to be killed, but
here a man has to hunt it. Did Bunjil mention if it came ready cooked
too? I don't suppose you would want to do any work in that country of
his!"
This made Mitjen very angry, and she quarrelled fiercely with Dityi for
making fun of her; and then Dityi lost his temper and beat her a
little, which was quite a usual thing to happen to a woman among the
blacks. But Mitjen had been told by Bunjil that in his country a man
never raised his hand against a woman. So it made her furious to be
beaten by Dityi, though he cared for her too much really to hurt her,
and she broke away from him and ran to the camp, sobbing that she hated
him and did not want to see him any more.
Near the camp she met Bunjil, who asked her why she was crying; and
when she told him, he was kind to her, patting her gently, and
pretending to be very angry with Dityi. He was safe in doing this, for
Dityi had gone off whistling into the Bush--not sorry that he had
beaten Mitjen, if it should make her sensible again, but sorry that she
was unhappy, and resolved to bring her back a snake or something
equally nice for supper. So Bunjil ran no risk in abusing him, and he
did it heartily. When they had finished talking, Mitjen walked away
from him into the camp with a very determined face. She went straight
to her wurley, and though Dityi brought her home a beautiful young
snake and a lace-lizard, she would eat nothing and refused to come out
of the wurley to speak to him. So Dityi went back to the young men's
huts, angry and offended, and Mitjen lay down, turning her face to the
wall. She was just as determined; but only her own heart knew how much
she was afraid.
When the people of the camp awoke, she was gone. Nowhere was there any
trace of her. And when the blacks went to look for Bunjil, in his
wurley, he was gone, too. Then they fell into a great rage, and the
young men painted themselves in white stripes with pipeclay, and went
forth in pursuit, carrying all their arms, and led by Dityi. But
though they looked for many days, they could never come upon a track;
and so at last the other young men gave up the search, and went back to
the camp. But Dityi did not go back. There was nothing for him at
home now that he had lost Mitjen; and so he went on, hunting through
the dark forests for his lost love.
Bunjil and Mitjen had fled far into the Bush. For a long time they
walked in the creek, so that they would leave no tracks, and if they
came to deep holes, they swam them. They were far away from Mitjen's
country before they dared to leave the water, and already the girl was
tired. But Bunjil would not let her stop to rest, for he knew that
they would be pursued. He hurried her on, forgetting now to be gentle
when he spoke to her.
It was not many days before Mitjen realized the terrible mistake she
had made. They fled deeper and deeper into the Bush, but no wonderful
country came in sight. She was often cold and hungry, and Bunjil made
her work harder than she had ever worked before, doing not only the
woman's work, but a large share of the man's. She found out that he
was almost too lazy to get food, and if she had not hunted for game
herself, she would never have had enough to eat. Bunjil had told her
that he loved her, but very soon she knew that this was not true, and
that all he had wanted was a woman to cook for him and help him procure
food.
At first she used to ask him when they would come to his own country,
and he would put her off, saying, "Presently--pretty soon." But before
long she found that it made him angry to be asked about it; and at
last, if she spoke of it, he beat her cruelly. So Mitjen did not ask
any more.
Then all the memories of Dityi and his love came crowding upon her, and
her heart quite broke. She did not want to live any more. She lay
down under a big log, and when Bunjil spoke to her there was no answer.
So he kicked her, and left her. But after he had slept, he went to see
why she lay so still; and he found that she was dead.
As he looked at her, a great storm came out of the Bush and whirled him
away. It flung him far up in the sky, where you may see him now, if
you look closely: a lonely, wandering star, finding no rest anywhere,
and no mate. Always he must wander on and on, and never stop, no
matter how tired he may be; and the other stars shrink from him,
hurrying away if they cross his path.
The storm took Mitjen also, and carried her gently into the sky; and
there she saw Dityi, who lit it all up, for he had been turned into the
Sun, and was giving light to the earth. But always, the blacks say, he
is seeking Mitjen. Like a great fire, he leaps through the sky,
mourning for his love and going back and forth in ceaseless quest of
her. His wurley is in Nganat, just over the edge of the earth; and the
bright colour of sunset is caused by the spirits of the dead going in
and out of Nganat, while Dityi looks among them for his lost love. But
he never finds her; and so next day he begins to hunt again, and goes
tramping across the sky. Sometimes he shouts her name--"Mitjen!
Mitjen!"--and it is then that we hear Thunder go rolling round the
world. But Mitjen never answers.
She has been made the Moon, and always she mourns far away and alone.
When she sees the glory of the Sun, and hears his trampling feet, she
hides herself, for now she is ashamed to let him find her. She only
comes from her hiding-place when he sleeps; and then she hurries
through the sky, so that she may have the comfort of going in his
footsteps, though she knows now that she can never hope to overtake
him. Sometimes she sighs, and then a soft breeze flutters over the
earth; and the big rain is the tears that relieve her grief.
VII
THE FROG THAT LAUGHED
Before Pund-jel, Maker of Men, peopled the earth with the black tribes,
and very long before the first white man came to Australia, the animals
which inhabited the land fell into a great trouble. And this is how it
happened. Old Conara, the black chief, told it to me while we were
fishing for cod in the Murray one hot night; and he had it from his
father, whose mother had told him about it; while to her the story had
come from her grandfather, who said he was a little boy when his
grandfather had told him, saying he had had the story from Conara, the
magpie, after whom he was named. And the magpies learn everything, so
you see he ought to know.
Conara said that once in the long-ago time, all the animals were living
very cheerfully together, when suddenly all the water disappeared.
They went to sleep with the creeks and swamps full, and the rivers
running; and when they woke up, everything was dry. Of course, this
was the most terrible thing that could happen to the animals, for
though they can manage with very little food in Australia, at a pinch,
they must always have plenty of water. They searched everywhere for
it, through the scrub and over the plains; and the birds flew great
distances, always seeking with their eyes for a gleam of water. But it
had quite gone.
So the animals held a council of war, and Mirran, the Kangaroo, spoke
to them. At a council, some one must always speak first, to tell those
present what they know already; and Mirran did this very thoroughly, so
that little Kur-bo-roo, the Native Bear, went to sleep and began to
climb up the legs of the Emu in his sleep, thinking she was a tree.
This led to a disturbance, and it was some time before Mirran could go
on again with his speech. Then he found he had forgotten the rest of
what he meant to say, so he contented himself by asking them all what
they meant to do about it, and remarking that the matter was now open
for discussion. This is a remark often made at meetings.
Then Mirran sat down thankfully, but in his relief at finishing his
speech he sat on Kowern, the Porcupine; and Kowern is the most
uncomfortable seat in the Bush. Mirran got up more quickly than he had
sat down, and again there was disorder in the meeting, especially as
the Jackass was unfeeling enough to laugh.
When matters were more quiet, Kellelek, the Cockatoo, made a long
speech, but it was hard to understand what he said, because all his
brothers would persist in speaking at the same time. Every one knew
that he wanted water, but as every one was in the same fix, it did not
seem to help along matters to have him say so. Booran, the Pelican,
was even more troubled about it than Kellelek, for of course he lived
on the water, and he wanted fish badly. All the fish had disappeared,
and the eels had buried themselves deep in the soft mud of the beds of
the rivers and creeks, and none of the water-fowl had any food. The
Red Wallaby, Waat, and old Warreen, the bad-tempered Wombat, made
speeches, and so did Meri, the black Dingo, and Tonga, the 'Possum, and
a great many other animals. But not one could suggest any means of
getting water back, or form an idea as to how it had gone away.
They were all talking together, getting rather hot and excited, and
very thirsty, when they heard a sudden whirr of wings overhead, and a
bird came dropping down into their midst. It was Tarook, the Sea Gull,
and though at first they were inclined to be angry at his sudden
appearance, they soon saw that he had news to communicate, and so they
crowded round him and begged him to speak. Tarook was a proud bird,
and did not often leave his beloved sea; so they knew that something
important must have brought him so far inshore.
He stood in their midst, dainty and handsome, with his snowy feathers
and scarlet legs, and carefully brushed a fragment of grass from his
wing before replying.
"Waga, the Fish-Hawk, came along this morning--in a shocking temper,
too--and told me of your difficulties," he said. "Well, we of the sea
know what has caused them!"
There was an instant hubbub. All the animals and birds cried out at
once, saying, "What is it?" Tarook looked at them all calmly.
"If you make such a clatter, how can I tell you?" he asked crossly. "I
have not much time either, because my mate and I have youngsters to
look after, and it is nearly time I got back to find their dinner."
The animals became silent at once, and looked at him anxiously.
"Three nights ago," said Tarook, "Tat-e-lak, the big Frog, came out of
the sea. Every one knows he lives there, but none of us had ever seen
him--and he is as large as many wurleys. All the sea was troubled at
his coming, and big waves rolled in and beat upon the shore, so that we
could scarcely see the rocks for spray. A hollow booming sound came
from under the sea, and all our young ones were very much alarmed.
Then a wave larger than all the rest put together crashed into the
beach, and when it began to roll back we saw Tat-e-lak waddling up the
shore. Most frogs hop, but he is so huge that he gets along in a kind
of shuffle."
"But where did he go?" cried Kadin, the Inguana-lizard.
"He waddled away into the plains beyond, and when I flew in to look for
him, for awhile I could not find him. Then I heard a strange noise of
water sucking, and I flew to where it came from. There was a hollow in
the creek bank, and Tat-e-lak was sitting there, with his head in the
water, sucking it all up; and as he sucked, he swelled. It was not a
nice sight, and soon I flew away."
"But where is he now? And what did he do?" asked the animals anxiously.
"I did not watch him any more. But the West Wind knows all about him,
and he told me when I was out fishing last night. It seems that
Tat-e-lak lives under the sea, because of his former sins, and that is
why he has grown so huge. But he always wants to come back to land,
and sometimes he breaks away from his prison under the sea and gets up
to the surface--and a great stir his coming makes: it's very annoying
if you're fishing, for it scares all the fish away into the farthest
corners of the rocks. But the salt water he has drunk for so long
makes him terribly thirsty, and unless he can get fresh water to drink
he has to go back to his sea-prison."
"Then that is why he has drunk all of ours!" cried the animals.
Tarook nodded very hard.
"Yes," he said. "It is very seldom that he gets a chance of coming up;
and his last three landings have been made in the desert, where he has
had no water at all, and has been forced to hurry back meekly to the
sea. So he is now more thirsty than he ever was before. The West Wind
says he did not stop drinking until this morning--and now there is no
water anywhere, as you know."
"Then how shall we ever get any more? Are we to die of thirst?"
"Well, that I do not know. I have told you all that I know," said
Tarook. "Tat-e-lak is somewhere on shore, and so far as I can tell,
all the water is inside him. But I do not know where he is, nor if you
can do anything. Now I must go back to my young ones, for they will
certainly be hungry, and my mate will be cross." He bowed to the
Kangaroo, and flew up into the air. Then he went skimming over the
forest to the sea.
When he had gone, the animals talked again, but there was great grief
among them, and they did not know what to do. At last it was agreed
that Malian, the Eaglehawk, should fly to the shore and find out
anything he could about Tat-e-lak. So huge a Frog, they thought, could
not hide himself from the eyes of an Eaglehawk, which can see even a
little shrew-mouse in the grass as he flies. So Mirran, the Kangaroo,
bade Malian be as quick as possible, and he flew off, while all the
people awaited his return as patiently as they could. But they were
too thirsty to be very patient.
It was evening when Malian returned. The day had seemed very long, and
he was tired, for it is not easy to fly for a long while without water.
"Tat-e-lak is the most terrible Frog you could imagine," he said. "He
is squatting on a rise not far from the sea, and he has drunk so much
that he cannot move. His body is swelled up so that he is bigger than
anything that ever existed: bigger than the little hill on which he
sits. Nothing could possibly be so large as he is. He does not speak
at all."
"But what is to be done?" cried the other animals.
"I asked every one I met, but they could not tell me. So at last I
found old Blook, the Bullfrog, for it struck me that he would know more
of the ways of other Frogs than anyone else. I found him with great
difficulty, and for a long time he was too angry to speak, for he has
now no water to remain in, and none to drink. But he knows all about
Tat-e-lak. He says that now he has inside him all the waters that
should cover the waste places of the earth, but that we shall never
have water unless he can be made to laugh!"
"To laugh!" cried the animals. "Who can make a Frog laugh?"
"Blook knows he cannot, so that is why he is angry," answered Malian.
"But that is the only way. If Tat-e-lak laughs, all the water will run
out of his mouth, and there will once more be plenty for every one.
But unless he laughs he will sit there for ever, unable to move; and
soon we shall all die of thirst."
The animals talked over this bad news for a long time, and at last they
agreed that every one who could be at all funny must go and try to make
Tat-e-lak laugh. A great many at once said that they could be funny;
but when they were tried, their performances were so dull that most of
those who looked on were quite annoyed, and refused to let them go near
the Frog, for fear he should lose his temper instead of laughing.
However, every one was too thirsty to wait to try all those willing to
undertake to make him merry: and they set off through the Bush in a
queer company, the animals running, hopping or walking, the snakes and
reptiles crawling, and the birds flying overhead. "The water will run
back to you before we do!" they cried to the wives and young ones they
were leaving behind. But that was just a piece of brave talk, for in
reality they did not feel at all sure about it. They hurried through
the scrub, getting more and more scattered as they went along, for the
swift ones would not wait for those who were slower. In the early
morning the leaders came out of the trees, and found themselves on a
swampy plain leading to the sea. All the water had dried up, and a
creek that had its course through it was also dry. It was a very
dreary-looking place.
Not far from the beach there was a little hill; and, sitting on it,
they saw the monster Frog. He was a terrible creature in appearance,
for he was so immense that the hill was lost under him, just like a
hugely fat man sitting on a button mushroom. He was so swelled up that
it seemed that if anything pricked him he would burst like a balloon;
but when they came near him they saw how thick his skin was, and knew
that no prick would go through it. His beady eyes were bulging out,
and though they tried to attract his attention, he only gazed out to
sea and took no notice of them at all.
"Well, he has certainly had a great drink, but he does not look as if
he had enjoyed it," remarked Mirran, hopping round him.
"I should think he would find himself more comfortable under the sea
than sitting on that poor little hill!" said Merkein, the Jackass.
"He will probably go back to the sea," the Native Companion answered.
"Let us hope he will not take all the water with him."
"How uncomfortable he must be!--why, he is like a mountain!" hissed
Mumung, the Black Snake. "May I not go and bite him?"
"Certainly not!" said Mirran hastily. "It might make him angry; or he
might die, and we do not want the water poisoned. Unless you can make
him laugh, you had better get into your hole!" So Mumung subsided,
muttering angrily to himself.
Then the animals began to try to make the Frog laugh. It was the first
circus that ever was in Australia. They danced and capered and pranced
before him, and the birds sang him the most ridiculous songs they could
think of, and the insects sat on his head and told him the funniest
stories they had gathered in flying round the world: but he did not
take the smallest notice of any of them. His bulging eyes saw them
all, but not a word did he say.
It is very hard to be funny when nobody laughs, and the animals soon
became rather disheartened. But Mirran would not let them stop. He
himself did most wonderful jumps before the Frog, and once hopped right
over the Emu, who looked so comical when she saw the great body sailing
over her that all the animals burst out laughing; but the Frog merely
looked as though he would like to go to sleep. Then Menak, the
Bandicoot, brought his brothers, and performed all kinds of antics; and
the 'Possums climbed up a little tree and hung from its boughs, and
were very funny in their gymnastics; and the Dingo and his tribe held a
coursing match round the hill on which the Frog sat, going so fast that
no one could see where one yellow dog ended and the next began; but
none of these things amused the Frog at all. He stared straight in
front of him, and, if possible, he looked a little more bulgy. But
that was all.
The animals held another council, and tried to think of other funny
things. Mirran remembered how the Jackass had laughed when he had sat
down on Kowern, the Porcupine, and though that had been a most
unpleasant experience for him, he bravely offered to do it again.
Kowern, however, did not like the idea, and scuttled away into a hole,
and they had great difficulty in finding him--and when they did find
him, it was quite another matter to make him come out. At last they
induced him to appear, and to let Mirran sit on him. But it was not a
successful experiment. Perhaps Mirran was nervous, for he knew how it
felt to sit on Kowern's quills; and so he let himself down gently, and
Kowern gave a heavy groan, but no one even smiled. As for the Frog, he
was heard to snore. It was all rather hard on Mirran, for the
experiment hurt him just as much as if it had been quite successful.
So the day went on, and when it was nearly evening, the animals could
do no more: and still Tat-e-lak sat and stared stupidly before him, and
looked more and more huge and bulgy in the gathering darkness; and
Waat, the Red Wallaby, declared that the little hill he sat on was
beginning to flatten under his weight. They were quite hopeless, at
last. All were so tired and thirsty that they could not have attempted
more antics, even had they known any, but, indeed, they had done
everything they knew. They sat in a half-circle round the great Frog
and looked at him sadly; and the Frog sat on his hill and did not look
at anything at all.
Just about this time, Noy-Yang, the great Eel, woke up. He was lying
in a deep crack in the muddy bed of the creek, and when the mud dried
and hardened it pinched him, and he squirmed and woke. To his
surprise, there was no water anywhere. Noy-Yang wriggled out of his
crack, very astonished and indignant.
He found all the creek-bed dry, as you know; so he wriggled across it
and up the bank, and came out on a little mud-flat by the sea. There
he looked about him. On one side the sea rippled, but Noy-Yang knew
that its water was no good for him. On the other was only dry
land--the swampy ground he knew and loved, but now there was no water
in it. It was very puzzling to a sleepy Eel.
He looked a little farther and saw the great Frog sitting on his hill.
But he looked so huge that Noy-Yang thought the hill had simply grown
bigger while he slept; and though that was surprising, it was not
nearly so surprising as finding no water. Then he saw all the animals
sitting about him, but he took no notice of them. All he cared for was
to get away from this hot, dry mud, and find a cool creek running over
its soft bed.
So he wriggled on, making very good time across the flat. Nobody saw
him, for all the animals were looking miserably at the Frog.
Kowern, the Porcupine, had felt very sore and bruised after Mirran had
sat on him for the second time. He was a sulky fellow, and he did not
want to be sat on any more, even if it were for the good of all the
people. "Mirran will be making a habit of this soon," he said crossly;
"I will get out of the way." So he hurried off, and got into the
nearest hole, which happened to be near the edge of the mud-flat.
There he went to sleep.
Noy-Yang came wriggling along, hating the hard ground, and only wanting
to get to a decent creek. He was in such a hurry that he did not see
Kowern, and he wiggled right across him--and it seemed to him that each
of Kowern's spines found a different place in his soft body.
Noy-Yang cried out very loudly and threw himself backwards to get off
those dreadful spikes. He was too sore to creep at all: the only part
of him that was not hurt was the very point of his tail, and he stood
up on that and danced about in his wrath and pain, with his body
wriggling in the air, and his mouth wide open. And when the monster
Frog caught sight of the Eel dancing on his tail on the mud-flat, he
opened his mouth and let out such a great shout of laughter as had
never been heard before in the world or will ever be heard again.
Then all the waters came rushing out of the Frog's mouth, and in a
moment the dry swamp was filled with it, and a sheet of water rushed
over the mud-flat where Noy-Yang was dancing, and carried him
away--which was exactly what Noy-Yang liked, and made him forget all
his sores. It was not so nice for Kowern, the Porcupine, for he was
swept away, too, and as he could not swim, he was drowned. But he was
so bad-tempered that nobody cared very much.
Tat-e-lak went on laughing, and the water kept pouring out of his open
mouth; and as he laughed he shrank and shrank, and his skin became
flabby and hung in folds about him. He shrank until he was only as
large as a few ordinary frogs put together: and then he gave a loud
croak, and dived off into the water. He swam away, and none of the
animals ever saw him again.
At that moment the animals were much too busy with their own affairs to
think much about Tat-e-lak. When the water first appeared they rushed
at it eagerly, and each drank as much as he could. Then they felt
better, and looked about them. Mirran, the Kangaroo, was the first to
make a discovery.
"Ky! It will be a flood!" said he.
"A flood--nonsense!" said Warreen, the Wombat. "Why, ten minutes ago
it was a drought!"
"Yes, and now it will be a flood," said Mirran, watching keenly.
"Look!"
The water had run all over the plain, filling up the swamp, and already
the creek showed like a line of silver where but a few moments ago
there had been only dry mud. But it was plain that the water could not
get away quickly enough. All the plain was like a sea, and there were
big waves washing round the little hills.
"Save yourselves!" cried Mirran, to the people. "Soon there will be no
dry land at all!"
He set off with great bounds, thinking of his mate and the little ones
he had left in the forest. Behind him came all the people, running,
jumping and crawling; and behind them came the water, in one great
wave. Some reached the high ground of the forest first, and found
safety, and others took refuge on hills, while those that could climb
fled up trees. But many could not get away quickly, and the waters
caught them, and they were drowned.
Next morning the animals who were saved gathered at the edge of the
forest and looked over the flood. It stretched quite across the plain,
and between it and the sea was only the yellow line of the
sand-hummocks. Nearer to the forest were a few little hills, and on
these could be seen forlorn figures, huddling together for warmth--for
the air had become very cold.
"There are some of our people!" cried Mirran in a loud voice. "How are
we to rescue them?"
No one could answer this question. None of the animals could swim, and
if they had been able to do so, they had still no way of getting the
castaways to dry land. They could only look at them and weep because
they were so helpless.
After awhile, Booran, the Pelican, came flying up, in a state of great
excitement.
"Have you seen them?" he cried. "Waat is there, and little Tonga, the
'Possum, and old Warreen, and a lot of others; and soon they will die
of cold and hunger if they are not saved. So I must save them."
"You!" said all the animals.
"There's no need to say it in that tone!" said Booran angrily. "I can
make a canoe and sail over quite easily. It will please me very much
to save the poor things."
So Booran cut a big bark canoe, which he called Gre. He was very proud
of it, and would not let anyone touch it or help him at all; and when
it was finished he got in and paddled over to the little islands where
the animals shivered and shook, with soaked fur and heavy hearts. They
grew excited when they saw Booran coming, and when he arrived, with his
canoe, they nearly tipped it over by all trying to get in at once.
This was repeated at each island, and at last Booran lost his temper
altogether and threatened to leave them all where they were. This
dreadful idea made them very meek, and they were quite silent as Booran
paddled them towards the shore.
Now, Booran had not a pleasant nature. It did not suit him to find
people meek, for it at once made him conceited and inclined to be a
bully. He felt very important, to be taking so many animals back in
his boat; and so he began to say rude things to them, and in every way
to be unpleasant. The animals bore this quietly for a time, for they
were too cold to want to dispute with him, and besides, they were
really very grateful for being saved. But after a while, he became so
overbearing that Waat, the Red Wallaby, answered him back sharply, and
others joined in. Before they got to shore, they were all quarrelling
violently, and when they had only a few yards to go Booran suddenly
stopped paddling, and jumped out so quickly that he upset the canoe,
and threw all the animals into the water. He swam off, chuckling, and
saying, "That will help to cool your bad tempers!"
The water was not deep, and the animals escaped with only a ducking.
They struggled to the dry land, very wet and miserable.
"That was a mean trick to play on us," said little Tonga, his teeth
chattering. "I would like to fight Booran, if only he would come
ashore. But he will keep out of our way now."
"Ky! Look at him!" said Waat.
They looked, and they saw Booran coming in rapidly, as though he were
floating on the water, and had no power to stop himself. His eyes were
fixed and glassy, and his great beak wide open. A wave brought him
right up on the shore, and blew over him in a cloud of spray. When the
spray had gone, Booran had gone, too; and where he had lain on the bank
was a big rock, shaped something like a pelican.
That was the story old Conara told me, as we fished for Murray cod
together. He said that all his people knew the rock, and called it the
Pelican Rock; and it stood on the plain long after Booran and his
children's children's children were almost forgotten. To-day the plain
is dry, and no water ever lodges there; but when the blacks see the
Pelican Rock they think of the time when it was all in flood, when
Tat-e-lak, the great Frog, nearly caused all the animals to die of
thirst, and when Noy-Yang, the Eel, saved them by dancing on his tail
on a mud-flat by the sea.
VIII
THE MAIDEN WHO FOUND THE MOON
CHAPTER I
Very long ago, before the white man came to conquer the land, a tribe
of black people lived in a great forest. Beyond their country was a
range of mountains which separated them from another tribe of fierce
and warlike blacks, and on one side they were bounded by the sea. They
were a prosperous tribe, for not only was there plenty of game in the
forest, to give them food and rugs of skins for clothing, but the sea
gave them fish: and fish were useful both to eat and for their bones.
The blacks made many things out of fish-bones, and found them very
useful for tipping spears and other weapons.
Being so powerful a tribe, they were not much molested by other blacks.
The mountains to the north were their chief protection. No wandering
parties of fighting men were likely to cross them and surprise the
tribe, for they were steep and rugged and full of ravines and deep
gullies that were difficult to cross, unless you knew the right tracks.
The nearest tribe had come over more than once, and great battles had
taken place; but the sea-tribe was always prepared, for the noise of
their coming was too great to be hidden. There had been great fights,
but the sea-tribe had always won. Now they were too strong to fear any
attack. So strong were they, indeed, that they did not trouble about
fighting, but only wished to be peaceful. Their life was a very simple
and happy one, and they did not want anything better.
The tribe was called the Baringa tribe, and the name of its chief was
Wadaro. He was a tall, silent man, very proud of his people and their
country, and of his six big sons--all strong fighting-men, like
himself--but most of all, he was proud of his daughter, Miraga.
Miraga was just of woman's age, and no girl in all the tribe was so
beautiful. She was straight and supple as a young sapling, lissom as
the tendrils of the clematis, and beautiful as the dawn striking on the
face of the waters. Her deep eyes were full of light, and she was
always merry. The little children loved her, and used to bring her
blossoms of the red native fuchsia, to twine in her glossy black hair.
Most blacks, men and women, look on everything they meet with one
thought. They ask, "Is it good to eat?" But Miraga was different.
She had made friends with many of the little animals of the Bush, and
they were her playmates: bandicoots, shrew-mice, pouch-mice,
kangaroo-rats, and other tiny things. They were quite easy to tame, if
anyone tried; even snappy little Yikaura, the native cat, with its
spotted body and fierce sharp head, became quite gentle with Miraga,
and did not try to touch her other pets. She begged the tribe not to
eat the animals she loved, and they consented. Of course, in many
tribes it would have been necessary to go on using them for food, and
any woman who tried to save them would only have been laughed at. But
the Baringa folk had so much food that they could easily afford to
spare these little furry things. Besides, it was Miraga who asked, and
was she not the chief's daughter?
However, it was not only because she was the chief's daughter that the
people loved Miraga and did what she asked them. She was always kind
and merry, and went about the camp singing happily, generally with a
cluster of children running after her. If anyone were sick she was
very good, bringing food and medicines. Being the daughter of Wadaro,
the chief, she might have escaped all work; but instead, she did her
share, and used to go out digging for yams and other roots with the
other girls of the tribe, the happiest of them all.
The tribe beyond the northern hills was called the Burrin. They were
very fierce and had many fighting-men; but their country was not so
good as that of the Baringa, and they were very jealous of the happy
sea-tribe. One time they came to the conclusion that it was long since
they had had a fight--and that it would be a very good thing to try and
win the Baringa country. They did not want to go over the mountains
unprepared. So they sent a picked band of young men, telling them to
cross into the land of the Baringas and find out if they were very
strong, and if there were still much game in the forest. They were not
to fight, but only to prowl in the forest and watch the sea-tribe
stealthily. Then they were to return over the mountains with their
report, so that the head-men of the Burrin could decide whether it were
wise to send all their fighting-men over to try and conquer the Baringa.
The little band of Burrin men set off with great pride. Their leader
was the chief's son, Yurong, who was stronger than any man of his
tribe, and of a very fierce and cruel nature. He was not yet married,
although that was only due to an accident. Once he had been about to
take a wife, and had gone to her camp and hit her on the head with a
waddy, which was one of the blacks' customs in some tribes, before
carrying her to his own wurley. But he hit too hard, and the poor girl
died--which caused Yurong a great deal of inconvenience, because her
parents wanted to kill him too. It was only because he was the chief's
son that he escaped with his life. Now he was still unmarried, because
no girl would look at him. It made Yurong more bad-tempered than he
was naturally, and that is saying a good deal. He had great hopes from
the expedition into the Baringa country. If he came back successful,
and won a name for himself as a fighter, he thought that all the
maidens of his tribe would admire him, and forget that he had been so
ready with his stick when he was betrothed first.
Yurong and his band left the plain where the Burrin tribe roamed, and
journeyed over the mountains. They did not find any great
difficulties, for they had been told where to find the best tracks, and
they had scarcely any loads to hamper them. It was summer-time, and
the lightest of rugs served them for covering at night, even in the
keener air of the hills. There was no difficulty in finding food or
water, and the stars were their guides.
When they came to the country of the Baringas they went very
cautiously, for they did not wish to encounter any of Wadaro's men. In
the daytime they hid themselves in gullies or in bends of the creek,
only coming out when their scouts knew that no enemies were near; but
at night they travelled fast, and before long they climbed up a great
hill that lay across their path, and from its topmost peak they saw the
gleaming line of the sea. Then, watching, they saw camp-fire smoke
drifting over the trees; and they knew they had found Wadaro's camp.
They became more careful than ever, knowing that now was their greatest
danger. Sometimes they hid in trees, or in caves in the rocks, all the
time watching, and noting in their memories the number of the men they
saw and the signs of abundance of game. There was no doubt that this
was a far better country than their own, and they thirsted to possess
it. At the same time they could see how strong the Baringas were.
Even their womenfolk were tall and straight and strong, and would help
to fight for their land and their freedom. The Burrin men used to see
them when they went out to dig in the Bush, a merry, laughing band.
Always with them was a beautiful girl with red flowers in her hair.
Yurong would watch her closely from his hiding-place, and he made up
his mind that when the fighting was over this girl should be the chief
part of his share of the spoils. He was so conceited that he never
dreamed that his tribe would not win.
But misfortune fell upon Yurong and his little band. They were
prowling round the outskirts of Wadaro's camp one night when a woman,
hushing her crying baby to sleep, caught a glimpse of the black forms
flitting among the trees. She gave the alarm silently, and silently
the fighting-men of the Baringas hurled themselves upon the intruders.
There was no time to flee: the Burrin men fought fiercely, knowing that
escape was hopeless. One by one, they were killed.
Yurong was the last left alive. He turned and ran, when the last of
his comrades fell, a dozen Baringas at his heels. The first he slew,
turning on him and striking him down; then he ran on wildly, hearing
behind him the hard breathing of the pursuing warriors.
Suddenly the ground under his feet gave way. He fell, down, down, into
blackness, shouting as he went; then he struck icy water with a great
splash. When he came to the surface he could see the moonlight far
above him, and hear the voices of the Baringa men, loud and excited.
Then he went under once more.
On the river-bank, steep and lofty, the Baringas watched the black pool
where Yurong had disappeared. There was no sign of life there.
"He is gone," they said at last. "No man ever came alive out of that
place. Well, it is a good thing." They watched awhile longer, and
then turned back to the camp, where songs of victory were ringing out
among the trees.
CHAPTER II
But Yurong did not die.
When he sank for the second time, he did it on purpose. The fall had
not hurt him, and his mind worked quickly, for he knew that only
cunning could save him. He swam under water for a few moments, letting
himself go with the current. But presently a kind of eddy dragged him
down, and he found himself against a wall of rock, which blocked the
way, so that there seemed to be no escape. But even in his agony he
remembered that so long as the current ran there must be some way out;
and he dived deeply into the eddy. It took him through a hole in the
rock, far under the water, scraping him cruelly against the edges; but
still, he was through, and on the other side he rose, gasping. Here
the river was wider and shallower, and not so swift. Yurong let it
carry him for awhile; then he scrambled out on one side, and found a
hiding-place under a great boulder. He rubbed himself down with
rushes, shivering. Then, crouching in his hole, he slept.
When he awoke, he knew that now he should not lose a moment in getting
back to his tribe. He had learned the fighting strength of the
Baringas, with all else that he had come to find out; but, besides
that, he had now the deaths of his comrades to avenge. And yet, three
days later, Yurong was still in hiding near the enemy's camp. He had
made up his wicked mind that when he went away he would take with him
the beautiful girl he had so often seen in the forest with her
companions.
Quite unconscious of her danger, Miraga went about her daily work. The
sight of her, and the beauty of her, burned into Yurong's brain; often
in the forest he dogged her footsteps, but the other girls were always
near her, and he dared not try to carry her away. He knew now she was
the chief's daughter, and he smiled to think that through her he could
deal the cruellest blow to Wadaro, besides gaining for himself the
loveliest wife in all the Bush.
But out in the scrub the girls clustered about Miraga, and in the camp
the young men were never far from her. There was not one of them who
would not have gladly taken her as his bride, but she told her father
that she was too young to think of being married, and Wadaro was glad
enough to keep her by his side. But Yurong, fiercely jealous, could
see that there was one man on whom Miraga's eyes would often turn when
he was not looking in her direction--a tall fellow named Konawarr--the
Swan--who loved her so dearly that indeed he scarcely gave her a chance
to look at him, since he so rarely took his gaze from her! He was the
leader of the young fighting-men, and a great hunter; and Yurong
thirsted to kill him, as the kangaroos thirst for the creeks in summer,
when Drought has laid his withering hand upon the waters.
So five days went by. In the forest Yurong hid, living on very little
food--for he dared not often go hunting--and always watching the camp;
and Miraga, never dreaming of the danger near her, lived her simple,
happy life. The children always thronged round her when she moved
about the camp, and she would pause to fondle the little naked black
babies that tumbled round the wurleys, tossing them in the air until
they shouted with laughter. Yurong saw with amazement how the little
animals came to her and played at her feet, and it impressed him
greatly with a sense of the wealth of the Baringa tribe. "Ky!" he said
to himself, "they are able to use food for playthings!" Never before
had he dreamed of such a thing.
One evening the girls went out into the scrub, yam-digging, each
carrying her yam-stick and dilly-bag--the netted bag into which the
black women put everything, from food to nose-ornaments. Miraga's was
woven of red and white rushes, with a quaint pattern on one side, and
she was very proud of it, for it had been Konawarr's gift. She was
thinking of his kind eyes as she walked through the trees, brushing
aside tendrils of starry clematis and wild convolvulus, and finding a
way through musk and hazel thickets. He had looked at her very gently
when he gave her the bag, and she knew that she could trust him. She
was very happy as she wandered on--so happy that she did not notice for
a while that she had strayed some distance from the other girls, and
that already the shadows were creeping about the forest to make the
darkness.
"I am too far from camp," she said aloud. "I must hurry back, or my
father will be angry."
She turned to retrace her steps, pausing a moment to make sure of her
direction. Then, from the gloom of a tall clump of dogwood, something
sprang upon her and seized her. She struggled, sending a stifled cry
into the forest--but it died as a heavy blow from a waddy took away her
senses. Yurong carried her swiftly away.
Day came, and found them still fleeing, Miraga a helpless burden in her
captor's arms. Days and nights passed, and still they travelled
northwards, across the rivers, the forest, and the mountains. They
went slowly, for at length Yurong could carry the girl no farther, and
at first she was too weak to walk much. Even when she grew stronger
she still pretended to be weak, doing all in her power to delay their
flight--always straining her ears in the wild hope that behind her she
might hear the feet of the men coming to save her--led by Wadaro and by
Konawarr. Somewhere, she knew, they were searching for her. But as
the days went by, and no help came, her heart began to sink hopelessly.
Yurong was not unkind to her. He treated her gently enough, telling
her she was to be his wife, but she hated him more and more deeply each
hour. Thinking her very weak, he let her travel slowly, and helped her
over the rough places, though she shrank from his touch. But he took
no risks with her. He kept his weapons carefully out of her reach, and
at night, when they slept, he bound her feet and hands with strips of
kangaroo-hide, so that she might not try to escape.
Then they came to the topmost crest of the mountains, and below them
Yurong could see the country of his people. At that, Miraga gave up
all hope. They camped on the ridge that night; and for the first time
she sobbed herself to sleep.
She woke up a while later, with a sound of little whispers in her ears.
It was quite dark inside the wurley; but she heard a patter of tiny,
scurrying feet, and a few faint squeaks. Miraga lay very still,
trembling. Then a shrill little voice came, very close to her.
"Mistress--oh, mistress!"
"Who is it?" she whispered.
"We are your Little People," came the faint voice. "Lie very still,
and we will set you free!"
On her hand, Miraga felt a patter of tiny feet, like snowflakes
falling. They ran all over her body; she felt them down at her bare
ankles, and near her face. She knew them now, though it was
dark--little Padi-padi, the pouch-mouse, and Punta, the shrew-mouse,
and Kanungo, the kangaroo-rat, with the bandicoot, Talka. They were
all her friends--her Little People. Dozens of them seemed to be there
in the dark, nibbling furiously at the strips of hide on her wrists and
ankles.
How long the time seemed as she lay, trembling, in great fear lest
Yurong should awaken! The very sound of her own breathing was loud in
her ears, and the faint rustlings of the Little People seemed a noise
that must surely wake the sleeping warrior. But Yurong was tired, and
he slept soundly: and the Little People worked hard. At last the bonds
fell apart and she was free.
Gliding like a snake, she crept out of the wurley, and ran swiftly into
the forest that clothed the mountains. But scarcely had she gone when
Yurong woke and found she was not there.
He sprang to his feet with a shout, grasping his weapons, and rushed
outside. There was no sign of Miraga--but his quick ear caught the
sound of a breaking twig in the forest, and he raced in pursuit. Again
he heard it, this time so close that he knew she could not be more than
a few yards away. Then he found himself suddenly on the edge of a
great wall of rock, and there was no time to stop. He shouted again,
in despair, as he fell--down, down. Then no more sounds came.
But just on the edge of the precipice three bandicoots came out of a
heap of dry sticks, laughing.
"That was easily done," said one. "It was only necessary to jump up
and down among the sticks and break a few, and the silly fellow made
sure it was Miraga."
"Well, he will not make any more foolish mistakes," said his brother.
"But is it not surprising to find how simple these humans are!"
"All but our mistress," the first said. "Come--we must make haste to
follow her, or else we shall have another long hunt. And nobody knows
what mischief she may fall into, if we are not there to look after her!"
CHAPTER III
Miraga ran swiftly into the heart of the forest, glancing back in
terror, lest at any moment she should see Yurong. She heard him shout,
and the crash of his feet in pursuit as he plunged out of the wurley;
and for a moment she gave herself up for lost. He was so swift and so
strong: she knew that she could never escape him, once he was on her
track.
Another cry reached her presently, not so close. It gave her her first
throb of hope that Yurong had taken the wrong turning among the trees.
Still she was far too terrified to slacken speed. She fled on, not
knowing where she was going.
A great mountain peak loomed before her, and she fled up it. It was
hard climbing, but it seemed to her safer than the dark forest, where
at any moment Yurong's black face might appear. Here, at least, she
might be safe; at least, he would not think of looking for her in this
wild and rugged place. Perhaps, if she hid on the mountain for a few
days he would grow tired of looking for her, and go away, back to his
own people; and then she could try to find her way home. At the very
thought of home, poor Miraga sobbed as she ran: it seemed so long since
the happy days in the camp by the sea.
The way was strange. She climbed up, among great boulders and jagged
crags of rock. Above her the peaks seemed to pierce the sky. Deep
ravines were here and there, and she started away from their edges:
somewhere, water fell swiftly, racing down some narrow bed among the
rocks. So she went on, and the moonlight grew stronger and stronger,
until it flooded all the mountain. She fought her way, step by step,
up the last great peak. And, suddenly, in the midnight, she came out
upon a great and shining tableland: then she knew that in her
journeyings she had found the Moon!
[Illustration: "Then she knew that in her journeyings she had found the
Moon!"]
She wandered on, in doubt and fear--fear, not of this strange new land,
but of the men she dreaded to find there. But for a long time she saw
no people. Only in the dim hours, when the earth-world glowed like a
star, but all the moon-country was dark, there came about her the
Little People that she knew and loved--Padi-padi, and Punta, Talka and
Kanungo. And because she was very lonely, and a lonely woman loves the
touch of something small and soft, she took some of them up and carried
them with her in her dilly-bag.
"How did you know I was lost?" she asked them.
"How did we know?" they said, laughing at her. "Why, all the forest
sang of it! The magpie chattered it in the dewy mornings, and
Moko-Moko, the Bell-Bird, told all about it to the creeks in the
gullies. Moko-Moko would not leave his quiet places to tell the other
animals, but he knew the creeks would carry the story. Soon there was
no animal in all the Bush that did not know where you had gone. Only
we could not tell your own stupid people, for they would not
understand."
"And are they looking for me?" Miraga asked.
"They seek for you night and day. Your father has led a party of
fighting-men to the east, and Konawarr has gone north with all his
friends. They never rest--all the time they seek you. And the women
are wailing in the camp, and the little children crying, because you
are gone."
That made Miraga cry, too.
"Can you not take me back?" she begged. "I can go if you will show me
the way."
But the Little People shook their heads.
"No, we cannot do that," they said. "We can help you, and we can talk
to you, but we may not take you back. You must find the way yourself."
So Miraga wandered on through the Moon-Country. It was very desolate
and bare, strewn with rocks and craggy boulders, and to walk long upon
it was hard for naked feet. There were no rivers, and no creeks, but a
range of mountains rose in one place, and were so grim and terrible
that Miraga would not try to climb them. She found stunted trees,
bearing berries, which she ate, for she was very hungry.
"Perhaps they are poisonous, and will kill me," she said. "I do not
think that greatly matters, for I begin to feel that I shall never get
home."
But the berries were not poisonous. Indeed, Miraga felt better when
she had eaten them. Her strength came back to her, and her limbs grew
less weary. She put some of the berries into her dilly-bag for the
Little People. Then she set off on her wanderings again.
She did not know how long she had been in the Moon-Country, after a
while. It seemed that she had never done anything but find her way
across its rugged plains, seeking ever for the track back to the green
Earth-World. So silent and strange was it that she began to think
there was no living being upon it but herself and the Little People she
carried with her.
One day, wandering along a rocky edge, she quite suddenly came upon the
camp of the Man-Who-Dwells-In-The-Moon. She cried out in fear, and
fled. But he was awake, and when he saw this beautiful girl, he rose
and gave chase.
But Miraga was fleet of foot; and the Man-Who-Dwells-In-The-Moon was a
fat man, and heavy: for, as the blacks know, he never goes hunting, as
men do, but always sits down in the shadow of his mountains.
Presently, he saw that the girl was escaping; she drew farther and
farther ahead, running like a dingo, and already he was puffing and
panting. So he stamped his foot and called to his dogs, and they came
out of the holes of the hills--great savage brutes, lean and
hungry-looking, of a dark colour. They came, running and growling, and
sniffing angrily at the air. Their master waved his hand, and they
uttered a long howl and followed swiftly after Miraga.
Now, indeed, she thought that her end had come. Mists swam before her
eyes, and her feet stumbled: she, whose limbs were so lithe and strong,
tottered like a weary old woman. Behind her, the long howls of the
dogs woke terror in her heart. They drew nearer; almost she could feel
their hot panting breath. But just as she was about to sink down,
exhausted, the Little People in the dilly-bag chattered and called to
her. "Mistress! Oh, Mistress!" they cried. "Let us out, that we may
save you!"
She heard them, and fumbled with shaking fingers at the fastening of
the bag. It slipped from her shoulders, and fell to the ground; and as
it fell, the animals burst out and fled in many directions, some here
and some there, squeaking and chattering. And when the fierce Dogs of
the Moon saw them, they forgot to pursue Miraga, but turned and coursed
swiftly after the animals.
Behind them the Man-Who-Dwells-In-The-Moon shouted vainly to them.
There are no animals in the Moon-Country, and so the Dogs have no
chance of hunting; but the sight of the scampering Little People woke
their instincts, and they dashed after them wildly. They caught some,
and swiftly slew them; others dodged, and leaped, and twisted, escaping
into little rockholes, where the dogs could not follow them. The noise
of the hunting and the deep baying of the Dogs echoed round the Moon
and made thunder boom among the Stars.
But Miraga ran on, stumbling for weariness. She knew that the Dogs
were no longer close upon her, but she dreaded to hear them again at
any moment, for she did not see how such feeble Little People could
keep them off for long. So she ran, and as she went, her tears fell
for the little friends who had given their lives for her. At last, too
tired to see where her stumbling feet had led her, she came to the
brink of a great precipice, and fell down and down, until her senses
left her.
But when she opened her eyes again, it was to meet those of Konawarr;
and he was holding her in his arms and calling her name over and over,
with his voice full of pity and love; and behind him were his
friends--all the band who had been seeking her with him. They were all
smiling to her, with welcome and joy on each friendly face. For in her
fall she had come back to the dear Earth-World once more, and her
sorrows were at an end.
So, when the tribes look up to the sky on moonlit nights and see the
great shape that looms across the brightness, they say it is the mighty
Man-Who-Dwells-In-The-Moon; who, like themselves, is black, but grown
heavy and slothful with much idleness and sitting-down. The parents
scare idle children with his name, saying that if they do not bestir
themselves they, too, will become fat and useless like him. But Miraga
used to tell her children another story, and when she told it her eyes
would brim with tears. It was the story of the Little People she
loved, who followed her to the Moon-Country, and there gave up their
lives for her, saving her first from Yurong, and then from the teeth of
the Dogs of the Moon. And the children would shiver a little,
clustering more closely--all save little Konawarr, who would grasp his
tiny boomerang and declare that he would kill anything that dared to
hurt his mother.
The great dogs still crouch around the Man-Who-Dwells-In-The-Moon,
waiting to do his bidding. You can see them, if you look closely--dark
spots, near the huge figure in the midst of the brightness. They are
the fierce Dogs that guard the lonely country in the sky: the Dogs that
long ago hunted, howling, after Miraga the Beautiful, across the
shining spaces of the Moon.
IX
MIRRAN AND WARREEN
Mirran, the Kangaroo, and Warreen, the Wombat, were once men. They did
not belong to any tribe, but they lived together, and were quite happy.
Nobody wanted them, and they did not want anybody. So _that_ was quite
satisfactory.
Warreen was the first. All his tribe had been drowned in a flood,
leaving him quite alone. So he found a good camping-place, where there
were both shelter and water, and he made himself a camp of bark, which
he called, in the language of his tribe, a willum. He was not in a
hurry when he was making it, so he did it well, and no rain could
possibly come through it. One side of it was a big rock, which made it
very strong, so that no wind was likely to blow it away. Overhead a
beautiful clump of yellow rock-lilies drooped gracefully. Not that
Warreen cared for lilies; and this particular clump annoyed him, for
the rock was too steep for him to climb up and eat the lily-roots.
He had been living there for some time, very lazy and contented, when
one day Mirran appeared. At first Warreen thought he meant to fight,
and that also annoyed him, because he hated fighting. But Mirran soon
showed him that he only wanted to be friends; and then Warreen
discovered that he was very glad to have some one with whom he could
talk. So after the manner of men, they sat down and yarned all day.
Several times during the day Mirran said, "I must be going." But
Warreen always answered, "Oh, don't go yet"; and they went on talking
harder than ever. Night came, and Mirran said, "It is really time I
made a move." Warreen said, "Why not stay the night? I can put you
up." They talked it over for a while, and then it was quite too late
for Mirran to go. So he stayed all night, and in the morning Warreen
said, "Why not spare me a few days, now that you are here?" Mirran
willingly agreed to this, for he had nothing to do, and he thought it
very nice of Warreen to put the invitation that way.
They became great friends. Mirran was tall and thin and sinewy, while
Warreen was very short and dumpy, and exceedingly fat. Also, he was
lazy, and he liked having some one to help him get food, at which
Mirran was very quick and clever.
Mirran also was the last of his tribe. The others had been killed by
warlike blacks, and Mirran would have been killed also, but that he
managed to swim across a river and get away into the scrub. He was
very active and fleet of foot, and delighted in running, which was an
exercise that bored Warreen very badly. Soon they made an arrangement
by which Mirran did all the hunting, while Warreen dug for yams and
other roots, and prepared the food, just as a woman does. It suited
them both very well.
Mirran had one peculiarity that Warreen at first thought exceedingly
foolish. He did not like to sleep indoors. It was summer time when he
came, and he would not build himself a willum, but slept upon a soft
bed of grass under the stars. If a cold night came, or even a rainy
one, he rolled himself in his 'possum rug and slept just as happily.
Warreen began by thinking he was mad. But as time went on he often
slept outside with Mirran, himself, especially on those nights when
they were talking very hard and did not want to leave off. Warreen
used to grumble at the hardness of the ground, but he was really very
much better for staying outside, in the fresh night-air. His little
willum was a very stuffy place.
Sometimes he would think about the Winter, and say to Mirran:
"When are you going to build your willum?"
"Oh, there is plenty of time," Mirran would say.
"The cold weather will be here, and then what will you do?"
"Oh, I expect I shall have my camp ready in time. It will not take me
long to build it, when the time comes."
"If you are not very careful, you will find yourself caught by the
Winter, and you will not like that," said Warreen. But Mirran only
laughed and talked about something else. He hated building, and was
anxious to put it off as long as possible.
Warreen had a very suspicious mind, and it often made him believe very
stupid things. He was the kind of man who was best living alone,
because so often he got foolish ideas into his head about other people,
and imagined he had cause for offence when there was really none at
all. So he began to wonder why Mirran would not build a camp, and the
thought came to him that perhaps he did not intend to build at all, but
meant to take possession of his own willum. Of course, that was
ridiculous, for Mirran was only lazy, and kept saying to himself,
"To-morrow I will build"; and when to-morrow came, he would say, "Oh,
it is beautiful weather; I need not worry about building for a few days
yet." So he went on putting it off, and Warreen went on being
suspicious, until sometimes he felt sorry he had ever asked Mirran to
live with him. But Mirran sang and joked, and hunted, and had no idea
that Warreen was making himself uneasy by such stupid thoughts.
One night, clouds came drifting over the sky, after a hot day, and
Warreen said, "I am not going to sleep outside to-night."
"I don't think it will rain," said Mirran. "It is much cooler out
here."
"Yes, but one soon forgets that when one is asleep. I hate getting
wet," said Warreen.
"Well, just as you like," Mirran answered. "For my part, I am too fond
of the stars to leave them." So he spread his 'possum rug in a soft
place, and lay down. In a few minutes he was fast asleep, and Warreen
went off to bed feeling rather bad-tempered, though he could not have
told why.
In the night, heavy rain came, and the air grew rapidly very cold.
Mirran woke up, grumbled a little at the weather, rolled himself in his
'possum rug and crept into the most sheltered corner he could find by
the rock, not liking to disturb Warreen by going into the willum. It
was too cold to sleep, so he soon uncovered the ashes of their camp
fire, and put sticks on it; and there he crouched, shivering, and
wishing Warreen would wake up and invite him to sleep in the shelter.
But the rain came more and more heavily and a keen wind arose; and a
sudden squall put out Mirran's fire. Soon, little channels of water
were finding their way in every direction over the hard ground, so that
Mirran became very wet and half-frozen. Then he noticed a red glow
inside the willum.
"That is good," he said, joyfully, "Warreen is awake, and has made
himself a fire. Now he will ask me to go and lie down in his hut."
He crouched close by the rock for a long time, thinking each moment
that Warreen would ask him in. But no sound came, and after a while he
came to the conclusion that Warreen could not know he was awake. So he
got up and went over to the door of the willum and looked in. The
little fire was burning redly, and all looked very cosy and inviting to
poor, frozen Mirran. Warreen lay near the fire, and looked at him
suspiciously.
"Ky! what a night!" said Mirran, his teeth chattering. "You were right
about the weather, Warreen, and I was wrong. I have been very sorry
for the last hour that my camp is not built. May I come in and sit in
that corner?"
There was not much vacant space in Warreen's little willum, but it was
quite big enough for two at a pinch. In the corner to which Mirran
pointed there was nothing. But Warreen looked at him suspiciously, and
grunted under his breath.
"I want that corner for my head," he said, at last. And he turned over
and laid his head there.
Mirran looked rather surprised.
"Never mind; this place will do," he said, pointing to another corner.
"I want that place for my feet," Warreen said. And he moved over and
laid his feet there.
Still Mirran could not understand that his friend meant to be so
churlish.
"Well, this place will suit me famously," he said, pointing to where
Warreen's feet had been.
But that did not please Warreen either.
"You can't have that place--I may want it later on," he said, with a
snarl. And he turned and lay down between the fire and Mirran, and
shut his eyes.
Then Mirran realized that Warreen did not mean him to have any warmth
or shelter, and he lost his temper. He rushed outside into the wet
darkness, and stumbled over a big stone. That was not a lucky stumble
for Warreen, for all that Mirran wanted at the moment was a weapon.
He picked up the stone and ran back into the willum. Warreen lay by
the fire and he flung the stone at him as hard as he could. It hit
Warreen on the forehead, and immediately his forehead went quite flat.
"That's something for you to remember me by!" said Mirran angrily.
"You can keep your dark little hole of a willum and live in it always,
just as you can keep your flat forehead. I have done with you!"
He turned and ran out of the hut, for he was afraid that if he stayed
he would kill Warreen. Behind him, Warreen staggered to his feet and
caught hold of his spear, which leaned against the wall near the
doorway. He did not make any reply, but he drove the spear into the
darkness after Mirran, and it hit him in the back and hung there.
Mirran fell down without a word. The light from the fire shone on him
as he lay there in the rain, with the spear behind him.
Warreen laughed a little, holding by his door-post.
"I shall have a flat forehead, shall I?" he said. "Well, you will have
more than that. Where that spear sticks, there shall it stick always,
and it will be a tail for you. You will never run or jump without it
again--and never shall you have a willum." Then he had no more
strength left, so he crept back and lay beside his fire, while Mirran
lay in the pouring rain.
No one saw Warreen and Mirran again as men. But from that time two new
animals came into the Bush, and the Magpie and the Minah, those two
inquisitive birds who know everything, soon found out their story and
told it to all the black people. So everybody knows that Warreen, the
Wombat, and Mirran, the Kangaroo, were once men and lived together.
They do not live together now, nor do they like each other. The Wombat
is fat and surly and lazy, and he lives in a dark, ill-smelling hole in
the ground. His forehead is flat, and he does not go far from his
hole; and he is no more fond of working for his living than he was when
he lived in a willum as a man. The Kangaroo lives in the free open
places, and races through the Bush as swiftly as Mirran used to race
long ago. But always behind him he carries Moo-ee-boo, as the blacks
call his tail, and it has grown so that he has to use it in running and
jumping, and now he could not get on without it. He is just as quick
and gentle as ever, but when he is angry he can fight with his
forepaws, just as a man fights with his hands.
Other animals of the Bush have holes and hiding-places, but the
Kangaroo has none. He does not look for shelter, but sleeps in the
open air. It is difficult to see him, for when he is eating young
leaves and grass his skin looks just the same colour as the trees, and
you are sometimes quite close to him before his bright eyes are seen
watching you eagerly. Then he turns and hops away, faster than a horse
can gallop, in great bounds that carry him yards at every stride, with
Moo-ee-boo, his long tail, thumping the ground behind him. He has
learned to use it--to balance on it and make it help him in those
immense leaps that no animal in the Bush can equal. So Warreen did not
do him so bad a turn as he hoped when he threw his spear at him that
rainy night long ago.
X
THE DAUGHTERS OF WONKAWALA
The Chief Wonkawala was a powerful man, who ruled over a big tribe.
They were a fierce and warlike people, always ready to go out against
other tribes; and by fighting they had gained a great quantity of
property, and roamed unmolested through a wide tract of country--which
meant that all the tribe was well-fed.
Wonkawala had not always been a chief. He had been an ordinary
warrior, but he was fiercer and stronger than most men, and he had
gradually worked his way up to power and leadership. There were many
jealous of him, who would have been glad to see his downfall; but
Wonkawala was wary, as well as brave, and once he had gained his
position, he kept it, and made himself stronger and stronger. He had
several wives, and in his wurleys were fine furs and splendid weapons
and abundance of grass mats. Every one feared him, and he had all that
the heart of a black chief could desire, except for one thing. He had
no son.
Five daughters had Wonkawala, tall and beautiful girls, skilled in all
women's work, and full of high courage, as befits the daughters of a
chief. Yillin was the eldest, and she was also the bravest and wisest,
so that her sisters all looked up to her and obeyed her. Many young
warriors had wished to marry her, but she had refused them all. "Time
enough," she said to her father. "At present it is enough for me to be
the daughter of Wonkawala."
Her father was rather inclined to agree with her. He knew that her
position as the eldest daughter of the chief--without brothers--was a
fine thing, and that once she married she would live in a wurley much
like any other woman's and do much the same hard work, and have much
the same hard time. The life of the black women was not a very
pleasant one--it was no wonder that they so soon became withered and
bent and hideous. Hard work, the care of many babies, little food, and
many blows: these were the portion of most women, and might well be
that even of the daughter of a chief, when once she left her father's
wurley for that of a young warrior. So Wonkawala, who was unlike many
blacks in being very fond of his daughters, did not urge that Yillin
should get married, and the suitors had to go disconsolately away.
But there came a time when Wonkawala fell ill, and for many weeks he
lay in his wurley, shivering under his fur rugs, and becoming weaker
and weaker. The medicine-men tried all kinds of treatment for him, but
nothing seemed to do him any good. They painted him in strange
designs, and cut him with shell knives to make him bleed: and when he
complained of pain in the back they turned him on his face and stood on
his back. So Wonkawala complained no more; but the back was no better.
After the sorcerers had tried these and many other methods of healing,
they declared that some one had bewitched Wonkawala. This was a
favourite device of puzzled sorcerers. They had made the tribes
believe that if a man's enemy got possession of anything that had
belonged to him--even such things as the bones of an animal he had
eaten, broken weapons, scraps of furs he had worn, or, in fact,
anything he had touched--it could be employed as a charm against him,
especially to produce illness. This made the blacks careful to burn up
all rubbish before leaving a camping-place; and they were very keen in
finding odd scraps of property that had belonged to an unfriendly
tribe. Anything of this kind that they found was given to the chief,
to be carefully kept as a means of injuring the enemy. A fragment of
this description was called a wuulon, and was thought to have great
power as a charm for evil. Should one of the tribe wish to be revenged
upon an enemy, he borrowed his wuulon from the chief, rubbed it with a
mixture of red clay and emu fat, and tied it to the end of a
spear-thrower, which he stuck upright in the ground before the
camp-fire. Then all the blacks sat round, watching it, but at some
distance away, so that their shadows should not fall upon it, and
solemnly chanted imprecations until the spear-thrower fell to the
ground. They believed that it would fall in the direction of the enemy
to whom the wuulon belonged, and immediately they all threw hot ashes
in the same direction, with hissing and curses, and prayers that
ill-fortune and disease might fall upon the owner.
The sorcerers tried this practice with every wuulon in Wonkawala's
possession; but whatever effect might have been produced on the owners
of the wuulons, Wonkawala himself was not helped at all. He grew
weaker and weaker, and it became plain that he must die.
The knowledge that they were to lose their chief threw all the blacks
into mourning and weeping, so that the noise of their cries was heard
in the wurley where Wonkawala lay. But besides those who mourned,
there were others who plotted, even though they seemed to be crying as
loudly as the rest. For, since Wonkawala had no son, some other man
must be chosen to succeed him as chief, and there were at least half a
dozen who thought they had every right to the position. So they all
gathered their followings together, collecting as many supporters as
each could muster, and there seemed every chance of a very pretty fight
as soon as Wonkawala should breathe his last.
The dying chief was well aware of what was going on. He knew that they
must fight it out between themselves, and that the strongest would win;
but what he was most concerned about was the safety of his daughters.
Their fate would probably be anything but pleasant. Once left without
him, they would be no longer the leading girls of the tribe, and much
petty spite and jealousy would probably be visited upon them by the
other women. Or they might be made tools in the fight for the
succession to his position, and mixed up in the feuds and disputes
which would ensue: indeed, it might easily happen that they would be
killed before the fighting settled down. In any case it seemed to
Wonkawala that hardship and danger were ahead of them.
He called them to him one evening, and made them kneel down, so close
that they could hear him when he spoke in a whisper.
"Listen," he said. "I am dying. No, do not begin wailing now--there
will be time enough for that afterwards. My day is done, and it has
been a good day: I have been a strong man and my name will be
remembered as a chief. What can a man want more? But you are women,
and my heart is uneasy about you."
"Nothing will matter to us, if you die!" said Yillin.
"You may think so now," said the chief, looking at her with affection
in his fierce eyes. "But my death may well be the least of the bad
things that may happen to you. You will be as slaves where you have
been as princesses. Even if I am in the sky with Pund-jel, Maker of
Men, I shall be unhappy to see that. Therefore, it seems to me that
you must leave the tribe."
"Leave the tribe!" breathed Yillin, who always spoke for her sisters.
"But where should we go?"
"I have dreamed that you shall go to the east," said her father. "What
is to happen to you I do not know, but you must go. You may fall into
the power of another tribe, but I believe they would be kinder to you
than your own would be, for there will be much fighting here after I
have gone to Pund-jel. I think any other tribe would take you in with
the honour that is due to a chief's daughters. In any case, it is
better to be slaves among strangers than in the place where you have
been rulers."
"I would rather die than be a slave here!" said Yillin proudly.
"Spoken like a son!" said the old chief, nodding approval. "Get
weapons and food ready secretly, all that you can carry: and when the
men are away burying me, make your escape. They will be so busy in
quarrelling that they will not notice soon that you have gone; and then
they will be afraid to go after you, lest any should get the upper hand
during their absence. Go to the east, and Pund-jel will decide your
fate. Now I am weary, and I wish to sleep."
So Yillin and her sisters obeyed, and during the next few days they hid
weapons in a secret place outside the camp, and crammed their
dilly-bags with food, fire-sticks, charms, and all the things they
could carry. Already they could see that there was wisdom in their
father's advice. There was much talk that ceased suddenly when they
came near, and the women used to whisper together, looking at them, and
bursting into rude laughter. Yillin and her sisters held their heads
high, but there was fierce anger in their hearts, for but a week back
no one would have dared to show them any disrespect.
At last, one evening, Wonkawala died, and the whole tribe mourned for
him. For days there was weeping and wailing, and all the time the
chief's daughters remained within their wurley, seeing no one but the
women who brought them food. As the time went on, the manner of these
women became more and more curt, and the food they brought less
excellent, until, on the last day of mourning, Yillin and her sisters
were given worse meals than they had ever eaten before.
"Our father spoke truth," said Yillin. "It is time we fled."
"Time, indeed," said Peeka, the youngest sister. "Did you see
Tar-nar's sneering face as she threw this evil food in to us?"
"I would that Wonkawala, our father, could have come to life again to
see it," said Yillin with an angry sob. "He would have withered her
with his fury. But our day, like his, is done--in our own tribe.
Never mind--we shall find luck elsewhere."
After noon of that day the men of the tribe bore the body of Wonkawala
away, to bury it with honour. The women stayed behind, wailing loudly
as long as the men were in sight; but as soon as the trees hid them
from view they ceased to cry out, and began to laugh and eat and enjoy
themselves. They fell silent, presently, as the five daughters of
Wonkawala came out of their wurley and walked slowly across the camp.
They were muffled in their 'possum-rugs, scarcely showing their faces.
For a moment there was silence, and then one of the women said
something to another at which both burst into a cackle of laughter.
Then another called to the five sisters, in a familiar and insolent
manner.
"Where do you go, girls?"
"We go to mourn for our father in a quiet place," answered Yillin
haughtily.
"Oh--then the camp is not good enough for you to mourn in?" cried the
woman with a sneer "But do not be away too long--there will be plenty
of work to do, for you, now. Remember, you are no longer our
mistresses."
"No--it is your turn to serve us, now," cried another. "Bring me back
some yams when you come--then perhaps there will not be so many
beatings for you!" There was a yell of laughter from all the women,
amidst which Yillin and her sisters marched out of the camp, with
disdainful glances.
When they drew near their hiding-place they kept careful watch, in case
anyone had followed them. As a matter of fact, all the women were by
that time busily engaged in ransacking their wurley, and dividing among
them the possessions the sisters had not been able to carry away; so
that they were quite safe. They collected their weapons and hurried
off into the forest.
They had obeyed their father and gone east, and the burial-place was
west of the camp, so they met nobody, and their flight was not
discovered that night. The men came back to the camp in the evening,
hungry and full of eagerness about the fight for the leadership of the
tribe, and the women were kept busy in looking after them. The first
fight took place that very evening, and though it was not a very big
one, it left no time for anyone to wonder what had become of the five
sisters. Not until next day did the tribe realize that they had run
away; and then, as Wonkawala had foreseen, no one wanted to run after
them. Certain young warriors who had thought of marrying them were
annoyed, but they could only promise themselves to pursue and capture
them when the tribe should again have settled down under new leadership.
The five sisters were very sad when they started on their journey, for
the Bush is a wide and lonely place for women, and there seemed nothing
ahead of them but difficulty and danger. They wept as they hurried
through the forest, nor did they dare to sleep for a long time. Only
when they were so weary that they could scarcely drag themselves along,
did they fling themselves down in a grassy hollow, where tall ferns
made a screen from any prying eyes, and a stream of water gave them
refreshment. They slept soundly, and dreamed gentle dreams; and when
they awoke in the morning it seemed that a great weight had been lifted
from their hearts.
"I feel so happy, sisters," said Yillin, sitting up and rubbing her
eyes. "Our father came to me in my sleep, and told me to be of good
courage and to smile instead of weeping."
"He came to me, also," said Peeka, "and told me there was good luck
ahead."
"After all," said another of the girls, "what have we to fret about?
It is a fine thing to go out and see the world. I am certain that we
are going to enjoy ourselves."
"It will be interesting, at any rate," said Yillin. "But we must hurry
onward, for we are not yet safe from pursuit--though I do not think it
will come."
They made as much haste as possible for the next few days, until it
seemed certain that no one was tracking them down; and with each dawn
they felt happier and more free from care. They were lucky in finding
game, so that they were well-fed; and on the fifth day they came upon
trees loaded with mulga apples, which gave them a great feast. They
roasted many of the apples and carried them with them in their
food-bowls. Sometimes they came to little creeks, fringed with
maidenhair fern, where they bathed; sometimes they passed over great,
rolling plains, where they could see for miles, and where kangaroos
were feeding in little mobs, dotted here and there on the
kangaroo-grass they loved. Flocks of white cockatoos, sulphur-crested,
flew screaming overhead, and sometimes they saw the beautiful pink and
grey galahs, wheeling aloft, the sunlight gleaming on their grey backs
and rose-pink crests. Then they went across a little range of
thickly-wooded hills, where the trees were covered with flocks of
many-coloured parrots, and the purple-crowned lorikeets flew,
screeching--sometimes alighting, like a flock of great butterflies, on
a gum-tree, to hang head downwards among the leaves, licking the sweet
eucalyptus honey from the flowers with their brush-like tongues.
Sometimes, when they had lain very quietly through a hot noon-tide
hour, they saw the lyre bird, the shyest bird of all the Bush, dancing
on the great mound--twenty or thirty feet high--which it builds for its
dome-shaped nest; mocking, as it danced, the cries of half the birds in
the country, and waving its beautiful lyre-shaped tail. The magpie
woke them in the dawn with its rich gurgling notes; the beautiful
blue-wren hopped near them, proud of his exquisite plumage of black and
bright blue, chirping his happy little song. They passed swamps, where
cranes and herons fished, stalking in the shallows, or flew lazily away
with dangling legs; and sometimes they heard the booming of the
bittern, which made them very much afraid. At evening they would hear
a harsh, clanging cry, and, looking up, they would see a long line of
black swans, flying into the sunset. There were other birds too, more
than any white boy or girl will ever know about: for these were the old
days of Australia, long before the white men had come to settle the
country and destroy the Bush with their axes. But there were no
rabbits, and no thistles, for Australia was free from them until the
white men came.
Gradually the daughters of Wonkawala lost all fear. They were
perfectly happy, and the Bush no longer seemed lonely to them; they had
enough to eat, they were warm at night, and so strong and active, and
so skilled in the use of weapons, had their woodland life made them,
that they did not seem to mind whether they met enemies or not. They
often danced as they went on their way, and made all the echoes of the
forest ring with their songs.
At last, one day, they found their way barred by a wide river which
flowed from north to south. They could, of course, all swim; but it
was not easy to see how to get their furs across. They were talking
about it, wondering whether they could make a canoe or a raft, when
they heard a friendly hail, and, looking across, they saw five girls
standing on the opposite bank.
"Who are you?" shouted the strangers.
"We are the daughters of Wonkawala," they cried. "Who are you?"
"We are girls of the Wapiya tribe, out looking for adventures."
"Why, so are we, and we have found many." They shouted questions and
answers backwards and forwards, until they began to feel acquainted.
"What do you eat?" "What furs have you?" "What songs do you sing?"
That led to singing, and they sang all their favourite songs to each
other, beating two boomerangs together as an accompaniment. When they
had finished they felt a great desire to travel together.
"It is really a great pity that the river flows between us," cried the
daughters of Wonkawala. "How can we join you?"
The Wapiya girls laughed.
"That is quite easy," they answered. "This is a magic river, and when
once your feet have touched it you will be Magic too. Dance straight
across!"
"You are making fun of us," cried Yillin.
"No, indeed, we are not. We cannot cross to you, for on your side
there is no Magic. But if you will trust us, and dance across, you
will find that you will not sink."
This was hard to believe, and the sisters looked at each other
doubtfully. Then Yillin took off her rug and handed it to Peeka.
"It will be easy enough to try, and at the worst I can only get a
wetting," she said. "Follow me if I do not sink."
She went down to the water and danced out upon its surface. It did not
yield beneath her; the surface seemed to swing and heave as though it
were elastic, but it supported her and she danced across with long,
sliding steps. Behind her came her sisters; and so delightful was it
to dance on the swinging river-top that they burst into singing, and so
came, with music and laughter, to the other side. The Wapiya girls met
them with open arms.
"Ky! You are brave enough to join us!" they cried. "Now we can all go
in quest of adventure together, and who knows what wonderful things may
befall us!"
So they told each other all their histories, and they held a feast; and
after they had all eaten, they danced off to the east together, for
they were all so happy that their feet refused to walk sedately.
Presently they came to an open space where were many tiny hillocks.
"This is Paridi-Kadi, the place of ants," said the Wapiya girls. "Here
we have often come before, to gather ants' eggs."
"Dearly do we love ants' eggs," said little Peeka, licking her lips.
"And these are very good eggs," said the eldest of the Wapiya girls,
whose name was Nullor. "But the ants defend them well, and those who
take them must make up their minds to be bitten."
"Ants' eggs are worth a few bites."
"Certainly they are. Now let us see if you are really as brave as you
say."
They attacked the hillocks with their digging-sticks, and unearthed
great stores of plump eggs, which they eagerly gathered. But they also
unearthed numbers of huge ants of a glossy dark green colour, and these
defended their eggs bravely, springing at the girls and biting them
whenever they could.
"Ky!" said Yillin, shaking one off her arm. "It is as well that these
eggs are so very good, for the bites are certainly very bad. We have
no ants like these in our country."
"Have you had enough?" asked Nullor, laughing.
"Enough bites, yes; but not enough eggs," said Yillin, laughing as
well. "The eggs are worth the pain." She thrust her digging-stick
into a hillock so energetically that she scattered earth and eggs and
ants in all directions, and one ant landed on Nullor's nose and bit it
severely--whereat Nullor uttered a startled yell of pain, and the
daughters of Wonkawala laughed very much.
"Who is brave now?" cried little Peeka.
Nullor rubbed her nose with a lump of wet earth, which, as she was
black, did not have such a curious effect as it would have had on you.
"I was taken by surprise," she said, somewhat shamefacedly. "And
indeed, my nose is not used to such treatment, for I do not usually
poke it into ants' nests!"
They ate all the eggs, and rubbed their bites with chewed leaves, which
soon took away the stings; and then they danced away together. After a
time, Yillin saw an eagle flying low, carrying something in its talons.
She flung a boomerang at it, and so well did she aim that she broke its
neck, and the great bird came fluttering down. It fell into a pool of
water and Yillin jumped in to rescue its prey, for she could see that
it was alive. It turned out to be a half-grown dingo, a fine young
dog, which was too bewildered, between flying and drowning, to make any
objection to being captured. Yillin secured it with a string which she
plaited of her own hair and as much of Peeka's as Peeka was willing to
part with, and fed it with bits of wallaby; and the dog soon became
friendly and licked her hand.
"He is a lovely dog," she said, "and I will always keep him. I will
call him Dulderana."
"I think he will be rather a nuisance," said Nullor. "Anyway, he will
soon leave you and go back into the Bush."
"I do not think he will," Yillin said.
"Well, you cannot teach him to dance or sing," said Nullor, laughing,
"so he will have to run behind us."
"Of course he will; and he will be very useful in hunting," said
Yillin. "We should not have lost that 'possum yesterday if we had had
a dog."
Dulderana very soon made himself at home, and became great friends with
all the girls. It amused him very much when they danced, and though he
could not dance himself, he used to caper wildly round them, uttering
short, sharp barks of delight. But their singing he did not like at
all, and when they began, he used to sit down with his nose pointing
skywards, and howl most dismally, until the girls could not sing for
laughing. Then they would pelt bits of stick at him until he was
sorry. By degrees he learned to endure the singing in silence, but he
never pretended to enjoy it.
One day, as they went along, they saw in the far distance a silvery
gleam.
"What is that?" asked Yillin.
"It looks like the duntyi, or silver bush," said the Wapiya girls,
doubtfully.
"That does not grow in our country," said Yillin. "Let us go and look
at it."
But when they drew near, they saw that it was not a bush at all.
Instead, it was a man, a very old man. He had no hair on his head, but
his great silver beard hung straggling to his knees, and when the
breeze blew it about it was so large that it was no wonder they had
mistaken it for a bush. No word did he speak, but he sat and looked at
them in silence, and when they greeted him respectfully he only nodded.
Something about him made them feel afraid. They clustered together,
looking at him. At last he spoke.
"I have come too soon," he said. "You are not ready for me yet. Go
on."
At that Dulderana howled very dismally indeed, and rushed away with his
tail between his legs. The girls quite understood how he felt, and
they also ran away, never stopping until they were far from the strange
old man.
"Now, who was that?" Yillin said.
Nullor looked uneasy.
"I do not know," she said. "This is a strange country, and there is
much Magic in it. We will hurry on, or he may perhaps come after us."
So they hastened on into the forest, forgetting, for a while, to dance;
but then their fear left them, and again their songs rang through the
Bush. They passed a clump of black wattle, the trunks of which were
covered with gum, in great shining masses, so that they had a splendid
feast; for the gum was both food and drink, and what they could not eat
they mixed with water and drank, enjoying its sweet flavour. With
their bags filled with gum they went on, and one evening they camped
among a grove of banksia trees, near a pool of quiet water. It was not
very good water to drink, but the Wapiya girls showed the five sisters
how to suck it up through banksia cones, which strained out any
impurities and gave it a very pleasant taste. They were tired, and lay
down early.
In the night a great wind sprang up, and with it came a curious booming
noise. It woke the daughters of Wonkawala, and they sat up in alarm.
"Ky! that must be a huge bittern," said Peeka.
"It is not like a bittern," Yillin said. "I have never heard any sound
like it. Perhaps it is the Bunyip, of whom our mother used to tell us
when we were little--a terrible beast who lives in swamps, and whose
voice fills every one with terror."
The Wapiya girls woke up, and they also listened. Then they laughed
among themselves, but they did not let the sisters see that they were
laughing. They seemed to think little of the noise.
"It is only the wind howling," they said. "Lie down and sleep, you
five inlanders!"
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Yillin. But the Wapiya girls only
giggled again, and lay down, declaring that no Bunyip was going to
spoil their sleep. And as they were so cheerful, the sisters came to
the conclusion that they might as well do the same.
When they awoke it was day, and the booming was still going on, and the
wind felt fresh and wet. The Wapiya girls were already up, and they
greeted them with laughter.
"We have a surprise for you," said they. "Shut your eyes, and let us
lead you."
The sisters did so, and felt themselves led forward. Presently the
earth became soft and yielding under their feet, and they cried out in
alarm, but the others laughed again, and said, "Never mind, you are
quite safe."
In a moment more they said, "Now, open your eyes!" The sisters did so,
and lo! they stood before a great sheet of water with high, tumbling
waves. Blue and sparkling was the water, and the big waves came
rolling in, gathering themselves up slowly with their tops a mass of
foam, which slowly rose and curled over until it plunged down, crashing
in a smother of breaking bubbles. The daughters of Wonkawala had never
seen anything like it before, and they gasped in amazement.
"Ky! what a river!" they cried. "Where is the other side?"
The Wapiya girls shouted with laughter.
"The other side!" they gasped, when they could speak. "Why, there is
no other side. This is the Sea, and it is the end of all things. Have
you never heard of it?"
"Is _that_ the Sea?" The five sisters stared. "We have heard stories
of it from the old men and women, but we never imagined that it was
like this. No one could imagine it without seeing it. Have you known
it before?"
"Oh, yes. We have often camped here with our tribe. Come nearer."
They took the sisters down to the edge of the water, and presently a
great wave rolled in, broke in a thunderous roar, and came dashing up
the sand. The sisters stared at it in amazed admiration at first, and
then, as it came nearer, Fear fell upon them, and they screamed and
turned to fly. They ran as fast as they could in the yielding sand,
but the wave came faster and the water caught them, at first round
their ankles and then swiftly mounting to their knees. Then it went
back, and the sisters thought that they were slipping back with it, and
screamed louder than ever. The Wapiya girls, themselves weak with
laughter, caught hold of them.
"The Sea!" screamed the sisters. "The Sea is carrying us away!"
The others led them up on higher sand and laughed at them until they
began to laugh at themselves.
"Never before have I seen water that runs backwards and forwards, as
though a great giant were shaking it in a bowl," said Yillin. "We are
sorry to have been afraid, but it is all very peculiar and unexpected.
Are you sure it is not Magic?"
"I do not think anyone can be sure of that about the Sea," said Nullor.
"It is strange water, and indeed I often think that it is very great
Magic indeed. But if it is, it is a good Magic, and we are not afraid
of it."
"And this queer yellow earth, that slips away under the feet--is that
Magic too?"
"Oh--the sand. Perhaps it is--who knows. But it will not hurt you.
Come on, let us bathe in the Sea, for that is one of the most beautiful
things in the world."
The daughters of Wonkawala hung back at first, for they were very
doubtful of trusting themselves to the magic water. But the others
laughed and persuaded them, and they ventured in, paddling at first,
until they became used to the rushing breakers. But soon they gained
confidence, and before long not even the Wapiya were bolder than they,
and they would dive into a breaker and be carried in on its curling
top, laughing and playing like so many mermaids: so that the Wapiya
girls soon lost any feeling of superiority, and only regained it once,
when Peeka, feeling thirsty, scooped up some of a passing wave in her
cupped hands and took a deep draught. For the next two minutes Peeka
was coughing and spluttering and spitting, while the other girls yelled
with laughter.
"That is certainly very bad Magic," said Peeka angrily, when she could
speak. "What has made the water turn bad?"
That set the Wapiya girls off into fresh peals of mirth, and it was
some time before they could explain that the water was always salt.
Peeka was annoyed, but presently she laughed too.
"Oh, well, if that is the worst of its Magic, there is not much to
grumble at," she said. "Come on, girls, let us dive into this next
one!" And the next moment Peeka's merry black face was half hidden in
the flying spray as the breaker bore her ashore.
They stayed by the Sea for some days, for the inland girls were too
fascinated to leave it, and when they were not bathing in it, they were
wandering along the shore, wildly excited over finding shells and
seaweed and all the other treasures of the sands. Then one day a great
black cloud came up, obscuring all the sky, and instead of being
sparkling blue and silver, the water turned to a dull grey and looked
dead and oily. The other girls were afraid of it, and would not go
into the cold, dark breakers: but Yillin, who loved bathing more than
any of them, would not be persuaded, and plunged in for a swim. She
did not stay long, for the water felt more and more uncomfortable each
moment; so she let a big, sullen breaker carry her in, and, wading out,
ran up the beach to the other girls.
They started back when they saw her, looking at her with amazement and
fear.
"What have you done to yourself?" cried Nullor.
"I? Nothing. What are you looking at?"
Nullor pointed a shaking forefinger at her body, and looking down,
Yillin uttered a bewildered cry. No longer was she smooth-skinned and
black. Her body and legs were thickly covered with shining scales, so
that she gleamed like silver.
[Illustration: "Her body and legs were thickly covered with shining
scales, so that she gleamed like silver."]
"It is the water!" she stammered. "It must be!"
"Does it feel pleasant?" inquired Nullor. "It looks quite beautiful."
"I do not feel anything at all," Yillin answered. "But it certainly
does look well." She gazed at her shining self with interest, and
turned round so that the others might see if her back were similarly
ornamented. It was, and the other girls grew a little jealous.
"Jump in, and see if the Magic will come upon you, too," cried Yillin.
They did not lose a moment. Flinging their fur aprons from them, they
rushed down the beach and plunged into the dark waves. And lo! when
they emerged, they too were covered with silver scales. They stood
together on the sand, a shining company.
"Let us walk along the shore, and see what else will befall us," said
Yillin.
They gathered up their property and set off eastwards again. The shore
curved out after a time, forming a rocky cape. They rounded this, and
found themselves on the coast of a little bay, round which they
hurried, anxious to explore some great rocks at the farther point. But
when they reached them, they found their way barred. The rocks were a
solid wall: a great black cliff that rose sheer from the water, running
far out beyond even the farthest line of the breakers. Nowhere was
there any way of advancing: the bay was ringed with the dark, smooth
cliffs. The little dog Dulderana whimpered as if in fear.
"Let us go back!" said the Wapiya girls. "This is not a good place."