Chapter 12 Goggle Eye Sung “Deadfellow”

“Missus!” a thin, cracked old voice whispered close to me as I

sat sewing one evening. I looked up to see an old, old grey-haired

blackfellow standing beside me.

“What name?” I said, feeling rather startled, and then something in his

face made me look more closely at him, and I saw that it was Goggle

Eye; but oh, such a worn old scarecrow! There was hardly a trace of the

merry, laughing rogue, who had gone off, a few weeks before, with his

bag of sugar tied round his neck.

“Poor old Goggle Eye!” I said, “whatever has happened?”

“Blackfellow bin sing me deadfellow longa bush,” he croaked in a hoarse

whisper. “Flour-bag bin come on quickfellow longa me cobra,” he added,

pointing to his grey old head, with its thickly-sprinkled “flour-bag,”

as he called the white hairs.

I knew what this singing meant. He had been cursed —as completely as the

little thieving “Jackdaw of Rheims”—by the magic men of the tribe. They

had bewitched him by singing magic, and pointing death-bones at him, and

he would die. Nothing that I could do would save him.

He looked so weak and worn that I gave him some brandy, and he lay

down under the verandah. As he lay there, he told me that Tommy Dod, a

blackfellow, had carried him thirty miles on his back to bring him in

to me and the homestead. Tommy Dod was his younger blood-brother, and it

was his duty to help the poor old fellow.

I called Tommy, and told him to make a bark humpy at the camp. He did

this, and then carried Goggle Eye up to it, and lit his fire. Then we

rolled him up in a blanket and gave him some food, and very soon the

poor tired old King was asleep.

In the morning I took him up some arrowroot, and persuaded him to eat it

all, telling him that it often killed blackfellow’s magic. I knew that

if only I could make him believe this, I might cure him. After he had

finished, I sat down in the camp, and Billy Muck, Jimmy, Tommy Dod and

Goggle Eye told me all sorts of wonderful tales about “singing magic”

and “bone-pointing.”

There are many ways of killing by magic, and if a blackfellow wants to

get rid of an enemy, it is a much safer way than spearing, because he

will not run any chance of being hurt himself, unless some one finds out

who did the bone-pointing; when, of course, he would be “sung” in turn

by way of revenge.

The way of killing by bone-pointing is this:—the blackfellow takes a

sharp-pointed bone—the Roper blacks prefer a kangaroo’s, but some tribes

say that a dead man’s bone is best; this bone is stuck in the ground,

and the would-be murderer bends over it, and “sings magic” into it.

Supposing that he was going to make Goggle Eye die by magic, this is

what he would sing: —

Kill Goggle Eye, kill Goggle Eye, make him deadfellow; Pull away his

fat, make him bone fellow; Shut him up throat, shut him up throat;

Break him out heart, break him out heart; Kill him deadfellow, kill him

deadfellow; Spose him eat fish, poison him with it; Spose him eat bird,

poison him with it.

And he would keep on singing, till he had sung or cursed everything he

could think of; but he would not try to “sing water,” for nobody can do

that.

Any one can “sing magic,” even lubras, but of course the wise old magic

men do it best. It never fails with them, particularly if they “sing”

and point one of the “Special Death-bones,” or “Sacred Stones” of the

tribe. Generally a blackfellow goes away quite by himself when he is

“singing magic,” but very occasionally a few men join together, as they

did in the case of Goggle Eye.

When enough magic has been “sung” into the bone, it is taken away to

the camp, and very secretly pointed at the unconscious victim. The magic

spirit of the bone runs into the man who is pointed at, and gradually

kills him.

Everything must be done very secretly, for if the man’s relatives had

any idea who had done the bone-pointing, they would go and “sing” him

in revenge. You must be particularly careful that there are no

Willy-Waggle-tails or “Jenning-gherries” about, for these little

mischief-makers would go and tell the cockatoos, who in their turn would

make a dream about it, and carry it to the bewitched man when he was

asleep, to let him know who had “sung” him.

Cockatoos make all the dreams, and carry them to the sleepers in the

night. If you are lying awake, you may often hear them moving in the

dark, for they are very restless birds. The best time to point bones is

at night, for then all “Jenning-gherries” are asleep.

Of course the man who has been “sung” must be told somehow, or he will

not get a fright and die. There are many ways of managing this; one very

good way is to put the bone where he will be sure to find it, in his

dilly-bag, or near his fire, or through the handle of his spear. There

are many ways of telling him, without letting him know who has “sung”

him; but the man who leaves the bone about must, of course, be very

careful to destroy his own tracks.

Have you ever heard of faith-healing? well, dying from bone-pointing is

faith-dying! Goggle Eye, after he had found the bones lying about, knew

exactly what was going to happen to him—and of course it did. His throat

got very sore, and he grew so thin and weak that he could barely stand.

A man can be cured by magic men charming the “bone” away again; but

Goggle Eye was old, and what was worse, he was getting very cross, and

too fond of ordering people about, so the blackfellows thought that it

would be the best plan not to cure him, and a few more sneaked away into

the bush and “sang” some more “bones” and pointed them at him, to make

quite sure about his dying.

It was fearfully cruel. Poor old Goggle Eye suffered so dreadfully, and

the only friend he had—excepting the Missus—was Tommy Dod! Nobody else

would do anything for him, because they were afraid of the curse coming

to them. It couldn’t touch Tommy, because he was his blood-brother, and

had to do all he could to help.

Old Jimmy and Billy Muck said they would like to help, but that if they

made Goggle Eye’s fire for him, their own would never burn again. Nobody

could even carry his food to him. To make matters worse, Tommy Dod had

to go “bush” on some private business—perhaps he was singing some of his

own enemies dead—and then I had to do everything myself.

Day after day I took his food to him, and made his fire, but I soon saw

that it was too late. He ate anything that I brought him, and ordered me

about generally, and growled at me for not putting enough sugar in his

tea— he didn’t want sugar in his tea, what he preferred was a little tea

in his sugar!

Sometimes a glimpse of the merry old rogue would peep out from the gaunt

old skeleton. One day I was on my hands and knees at his fire, blowing

hard at it.

“My word, Missus,” he laughed merrily, “you close up blow him all away,”

and he showed me the proper way to blow, and chuckled to himself at my

clumsy attempts; for a blackfellow can make a fire better than any one

else.

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It sounds very grand being a Lady-in-waiting to a King, but it really

was very smelly and disagreeable. His humpy was in fact only a sheet of

bark leaning against a fallen tree, and I had to crawl about on my hands

and knees, and everything was dreadfully close and stuffy. But I had

plenty of Eue de Cologne, and used it freely. One day when Bett-Bett

smelt it, as I was sprinkling it over my dress, she screwed up her

little black nose, and after half-a-dozen very audible sniffs, said—

“My word, Missus! That one goodfellow stink all right!”

I said I was glad she liked it, and as Goggle Eye also remarked on it, I

always used plenty of this “good-fellow stink” before I visited him.

At last Tommy Dod came back, and I had not so much to do. One evening,

when I went up with some arrowroot, all the blacks in the camp were

sitting round in a circle, looking at Goggle Eye. They had taken away

the sheet of bark, so as to see him better, and were talking about him,

and wondering when he would die, and if Debbil-debbils would take him

away.

“I think him die to-night, Missus,” said Billy Muck cheerfully as I came

up. “I think him die fowl sing out.”

Goggle Eye gave a little glad cry when he saw me. “Missus,” he called

weakly, and I went to him and gave him a little brandy and arrowroot.

“Be quiet!” I said angrily, as the old men began talking about him

again. They looked surprised, but obeyed, wondering, I think, why I

objected to such an interesting topic of conversation.

Soon the poor old fellow asked me if I would tell my “Big-Fellow God” to

chase away the Debbil-debbils. I was very touched, and did exactly as

he wished, in queer pidgin English. Then Goggle Eye was happy and

contented, and the strange prayer was answered, for he was no longer

afraid of his fearsome Debbil-debbils.

Soon after supper he fell asleep, and I left him, and never saw my

strange old friend again. Billy Muck was right, and at “fowl sing out”

or cock-crow, Ebimel Wooloomool, King of Dullinarrinarr, died, and with

him died many strange, weird old legends, and a good big slice of the

history of the Blacks of the Never-Never.

Billy Muck, the Rainmaker, was now King, and I suppose that Bett-Bett

was Queen Consort. But the tribe will never be afraid of the new King,

for he is neither cute nor clever, and I don’t think the wise men will

take much notice of him. He is head man, of course, and knows all his

Corrobborees, but he is only a kind, simple-hearted old blackfellow, and

will never be the absolute monarch that Goggle Eye was.

They buried the poor old King in a very shallow grave, just where he had

died. They laid his spears, and his pipe, and all that belonged to him

on the top of his grave, covering them over with a sheet of paper-bark,

which was kept in place with a few large stones. After that they built

his bark humpy over him again, and then went away, leaving him all alone

in the deserted camp; for a camp is always deserted after a death. Their

new camp was two or three hundred yards away, and never again would any

one willingly enter the old one.

South of the Roper River dead men are always put away in the branches

of a tree for a long time before burial, but I never heard of this being

done at the Roper. I know Goggle Eye was buried at once, and there was

a big “cry-cry” in the camp. Every one ran about and pretended to cut

themselves with knives, but I noticed that it was nearly all pretence. I

don’t believe that any one of them cared as much as I did.

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Next day Tommy Dod started on a journey to try and find out, by

different magic signs, who had “sung” his brother, so that he could

“sing” them in revenge. That was his duty, you know. As far as I could

find out, somebody was always looking for somebody else, in order to

“sing” him. If Tommy found the murderer he would “sing” him, and if the

murderer died his relatives would all “sing” Tommy, and then Tommy’s

relatives would “sing” the murderer’s relatives, and that is how it goes

on, till the wonder is that anybody is left alive.

Nobody ever mentioned Goggle Eye’s name again. It really didn’t matter,

but it was just as well not to do so, because if he heard his name he

might think some one was calling him, and come to see.

When they needed to speak of him, they gave his name in the sign

language. To do this, they crooked up all their fingers till their hand

looked like a bird’s claw, and then suddenly jerked it forward, and that

meant—

“Ebimel Wooloomool Neckberrie,” or “Goggle Eye the Deadfellow!”