ISBN: 978-1-4835514-2-5
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1: September 1842, Darkinjung Land (Hunter Valley, NSW)
Chapter 2: A fortuitous meeting
Chapter 3: Six Years Later:
Chapter 4: The great expedition begins
Chapter 5: Shadows
Chapter 6: Night terrors
Chapter 7: Shattered
Chapter 8: The ‘Doc’ cracks
Chapter 9: Not entirely alone
Chapter 10: No waste for Desert dwellers
Chapter 11: An offer from the Dreamtime
Chapter 12: Refreshed
Chapter 13: A world of their own
Chapter 14: A new advocate of the Dreaming laws
Prologue
Australia – the Land down under
The disappearance of explorer Ludwig Leichardt and his expedition has remained unsolved for more than 170 years. On his second exploration of Australia’s inland in April of 1848, in the company of five white men, two Aboriginal guides, seven horses, 20 mules and 50 bullocks, he left the Darling Downs area of southern Queensland bound for Western Australia – 4000 kilometers directly west as the crow flies. Shortly afterward, the entire party vanished without trace. Conjecture is all that is known of the disappearance to this day.
From out of those terrifying and harsh times for our people: Australia’s first people – the Heart-rock people – the following Fethafoot chronicle reveals that same journey from their side of history.
It too speaks of the man known as Ludwig Leichardt - and of the only Ghost ever to walk the Silver Dreaming path and dance with Heart-rock’s most common and arcane mythological legend – the intriguing Rainbow Serpent…
Chapter 1
September 1842, Darkinjung Land (Hunter Valley, NSW)
The tall, slim, stern white fellow - German by birth - walked slowly and reverently through the Australian bush land, as he’d done through the wild bush lands in many different parts of the known world. He understood from his careful research, which preceded every studious excursion he undertook, that he now walked through lands that had been Darkinjung Aboriginal land for thousands of years previously.
In this period of history however, the Darkinjung, Eora and other great tribes around coastal New South Wales – as the invading Ghost-people had renamed it – were slowly succumbing to the conqueror’s worst traits, while unfamiliar diseases that killed randomly and fast tore tribal and clan law, status and custom to tiny spent shreds. The few warriors remaining quickly took up the white man’s penchant for intolerant violence rather than negotiation, and many were hunted down and killed for their defiance. Half starved fringe dwellers, barely existing on the outskirts of rapidly expanding townships, were also taking on the least demanding and many negative attributes that the Ghost’s sullen poor brought with them. Leaf smoking, formerly a ceremonial peculiarity for the aged, became extensive and humiliated warriors now fought over the stinking prize and any other available Ghost drugs.
The poorer Ghost’s swill of homemade rotgut rum became the number one trade item between the races, and formerly peaceful clans-people became terrifying thugs, abusing and even killing any who stood between them and the powerful drug, which could take them away from the shame and humiliation they had to live under daily. The great warrior and clever-man Pemulwuy, who had fought and beaten the invaders for 12 long years when they first arrived on his shores was long gone and his memory fading, at least among the invaders…
A well-travelled man
The white man now walking Darkinjung lands had seen this clash of cultures before. He’d tried his best to help soften the blow on many of the unique cultures that he’d encountered in other lands as his race expanded across the face of the earth, but mostly to no avail. His people’s hunger for land and raw materials always won out in the end, no matter how many races and wonders they destroyed in the process. He’d been affected so deeply by the sense of anomie that his people created in the vanquished, as they brushed aside or trampled generations of strong spiritual beliefs, that he’d even given up on his family’s dream of him becoming a medical doctor. Now he travelled the new world to record everything he could about the new lands, cultures and impossible newly discovered creatures, before it was too late and they too settled to the floorboards with history’s ages-dry, unknown dust.
He scribbled notes and drawings of the plants and animals he saw as he moved slowly and purposefully across the land, scarcely giving thought to natural snares that lay out before him. This wild virgin landscape had never been cleared for cattle, sheep or farming and the raw terrain was rough going, with fallen trees and dead branches in every direction. He was so absorbed in his attention to detail that he stumbled often and an observer could be forgiven to think him physically handicapped in some manner. The Doc cared little for ignorant opinion though and forged on, at times even laughing at his own inelegant lack of coordination.
When he came to a particular plant he’d never seen before, he would stop and squat down close, before breaking of a leaf and sniffing its odor. Then he’d pull out a set of time-worn spectacles from his pocket, set them on his nose and either draw the plant and its leaves on his thick, leather bound notebook, or if it was in flower he’d place some of its seeds or flowers into a small carry bag he had for that purpose. The man carried several bags like this, the largest being for his obsessive rock collection.
It was unusual for a lone white man to walk alone in this part of the country and especially at this time in colonial Australia’s short, often violent history. Although he carried a short sword across his back, which he used mainly to cut through brush, the man of science had never had to use it on a kindred human as yet and he hoped that it would never come to that. Now, as he crouched down beside an unknown fern while trying to get the proper scale of the drawing onto his special new graph paper, he tilted his head to one side and listened intently…
Chapter 2
A fortuitous meeting
He stopped what he was doing and raised his head to discern the distant sound that he recognised as out of place in the natural order of things here. He stood abruptly, replaced his precious tools in their routine places around his body and again turned his head toward the noise. Then, while stiffly holding the various packs and assorted bags steady against him with one arm and using the other to balance, he began a weird loping run toward the dreaded, half-familiar sound.
He tried to gain speed but the sword bouncing around on his back and the cumbersome bags and packs transformed his frantic dash into an ungainly crabbing scuttle that ended at the top of a small hillock. He slid to a stop there, his thick-soled boots raising a cloud of dust as he threw his hands out and used a small tree trunk to slow his unstable momentum. He knelt warily beside a small shrub and peered carefully around it to determine if his eyes would confirm what his ears had told him earlier…
Battle scene
The scene before him was a shock for the learned and semi-trained medical gentleman. There had obviously been a battle of some ferocity and violence here. Three men lay wounded and close to death - without quick and knowledgeable medical aid. The wounded all had the pale skin that accompanied severe blood loss and were obviously in great pain – If the various feeble moans and inability to move were anything to go by, he thought to himself.
Ludwig was nervous and unsure if his presence and abilities would be welcome here, but overcoming that he quickly put aside everything that he wouldn’t need and stepped out from his cover, emanating a confidence he didn’t actually feel as he walked down the small hillock and across the clearing toward the wounded, prostrate men. He hoped that the fighting was over, although
he’d heard nothing further from any other accomplices since the first faint sound of screaming and gunshots. His innate sense of decency and empathy for all living things would not see any man die before his time, if his knowledge and skills could help. Moreover, the normal sounds of the various birds and animals around the area informed him that whoever else had been involved in the clash had either gone to get help or were running away; using common-sense, Leichardt preferred to believe, rather than cowardice as such.
He walked to each of the men, took stock of their wounds, and decided to tend to the most serious first. Two of the men had bullet wounds and lay close together where they’d fallen, while the other man had two thin spears – killing spears, with small sharp barbs on the heads – sticking through his flesh, though the bleeding from his wounds seemed to have already slowed…
Some medical skill
Ludwig pulled his meager soap-block out – carried for this exact purpose - and used clean water from his water bag to wash his hands first, and then the wounds. Mid-wives back in England had begun using home-made ‘soap’ with great success, though he’d heard the medical professionals had yet to catch up with this new treatment to stop infection. That done, he began to work slowly and methodically on the gunshot wounds. He and then cut of parts of his own clothing to clean around them and to stem any further blood loss.
Because the men still lay in full sunlight where they’d fallen, Ludwig was sweating profusely from the fast run and the awful impact of the violence itself. He wiped his face continuously as he searched around the various wounds with fingers and eyes to decide on the best course of action. He also had to take off his thick glasses repeatedly and wipe them with the cleaning cloth that he carried to enable him to see anything at all properly.
Finally cleaned, he saw that there was only one bullet to extract, as the other bullet had gone right through the other fellow’s flesh without striking bone: he’d been extremely lucky. Promptly, Ludwig cut out the bullet and began to clean out the wounds. Without painkillers to lessen the discomfort of his attentions, the wounded men gasped out their pain as he cleaned each wound, but his knowledge of infection far outweighed any immediate sympathy and he showed no leniency as he scrubbed deep and cleaned each of their awful wounds…
An unhappy patient
He moved on to the speared man, and demonstrating an experience gained from his travels and not from the European hospices where he’d trained in his youth, Ludwig deftly snapped the spear shafts and pushed the barbed heads through the man’s flesh and out of his body before the surprised victim even knew what was happening, though the man fainted dead away from the pain and shock.
Frightened, vulnerable faces looked up at him as he finished off his work on the two with bullet wounds. The men were weak from the wounds and blood loss and unable to move as every tiny movement was agonizing now that the shock had worn off. After treating the injuries to the best of his abilities, Ludwig offered water to each man, as they lay stupefied, grateful for the timely arrival of this capable quiet stranger. The men were especially amazed that after his attentions, they might now live, when moments before all three had accepted their deaths as inevitable.
Ludwig knelt beside the men and spoke quietly and sincerely to each of them. He explained the nature of each man’s wounds as best he could and explained how they could look after themselves most ably, if they wanted to heal quickly and live. Two of the wounded picked up on his advice through the signing hand language that he used continuously, almost unconsciously, and from his eyes and tone of voice as he spoke, and they two acknowledged his efforts weakly in a like manner.
The other patient, known as an uncouth, unwilling and unhappy illiterate in his society, had been drafted into the local militia in lieu of prison for his various criminal acts and, to help rid the land of the local blacks. He was livid and not so humble, nor grateful. Having regained enough strength to speak, now that the bearded stranger had stopped his blood flowing into the earth, he began to curse and swear at Ludwig.
“Ere then! Wot the fuck yas’ mean boi tendin’ tae these ere fuckin boongs then, Guv eh?” He rasped, breathing shallowly through his pain, though still angry enough to spit bloodied phlegm toward the other prostrate men as he flicked his head toward them.
Ludwig didn’t have time or energy to respond to his arrogant idiocy. And, even as the ungrateful whining voice faded out, he noticed a slight movement close to where he’d dumped his own gear…
A strange visitor
As he watched, an old wrinkle-faced, white-haired native man stepped out from the tree line. Smiling serenely at Ludwig as if they knew each other, he began to walk toward the group, shutting down further argument and holding every eye there with the sheer force of his unexpected and commanding presence.
It was crystal clear to every man in the clearing - that although he was aged, as seen by his worn, wrinkled skinny frame and pure white hair – each man could immediately sense that this was clearly not a man to trifle with: to any slightly aware spirit, this dignified old fellow carried power like others wore clothes.
As he crossed the clearing and walked up to Ludwig, his steady smooth gait seemed to generate small vibrations that shivered up through the earth and created a tiny answering quiver from each body that touched the ground. From out of the corner of his eye, Ludwig noticed that as the dignified elder moved past them, the gunshot natives he’d tended became abruptly statuesque, staring at the wizened old gentleman as if they were entranced, though the old man himself took no notice of them at all.
The elder smiled warmly at Ludwig as he stopped in front of him. He spoke in a deep resonant voice that gave off that same thrilling vibration that Ludwig had felt through his feet as the old man moved across the clearing.
“You have heeded no difference, nor given favor here, man of medicine,” he said. There was a touch of grateful curiosity evident in his own eyes as his gaze flicked over the bloodied implements and clothes that Ludwig had not yet cleaned up.
The elder continued as if the others were not there with them.
“I have come to take my children to their camp to recover,” he said, chin-lip pointing to the dark-skinned men, still lying on the ground where Ludwig had treated them. “And,” the soothing voice continued, “to allow them to follow the directions for healing you so kindly gave, as well of course.” The old man smiled at Ludwig, crinkling his old eyes and revealing a warmth and depth of understanding that Ludwig had never imagined, much less perceived in any human acquaintance previously.
“Our paths will cross again, Ludwig Leichardt,” he said, thrilling Ludwig with the mastery of timbre and quality in his voice as he turned and walked gracefully and without haste toward the men – his children – that he had come to help…
A slightly different view
As he passed by the pale-skinned wounded man, the old man turned slightly and gazed for a moment into the man’s proud pale face and blood-shot eyes that had been glaring at the old black-skinned man since his arrival.
Ludwig ignored the ungrateful man’s puerile arrogance. He was still mesmerized by the mysterious old man who moved so lightly across the ground. He again felt that strange deep vibration that followed the old man’s movements. His curiosity piqued, Ludwig watched with interest at how this seemingly frail elder would get these weak men up and back to their camp without help.
But suddenly, a terrified wail issued from deep down out of the guts of the spiteful wounded creature still lying on the ground. The man had forgotten his former angry diatribe and suddenly began writhing and rolling around on the ground, heedless of the wounds that had given him so much pain moments before. Then he began to cry out like one of the lunatics that Leichardt had been obliged to work with in his youthful medical training.
“Ahhhr! – Shiite on tae cross! Ohh my fuckin’ good god – lord Jesus firkin save us!” he shouted, as spittle and blood ran out his mouth and down his chin. The petrified fool had bitten through his ton
gue in his fright. He seemed thoroughly horrified at something - that only he could see. “It – firkin – walks – among – us!” he garbled out through bloody lips.
‘The fellow is speaking more succinctly than ever before in his wretched life, I’ll wager’ Leichardt thought wryly, still wondering what in God’s name was happening with the stupid fellow.
The wounded man continued ranting and writhing. “Ohhh-nahhh-noooo!” He tried desperately to roll away from whatever it was that he believed he could see. “Please-please-oh-pul-ease-help me-eee,” he stuttered.
Leichardt ran over to him to stop the man’s thrashing movements from re-opening his wounds.
“Someone! Pleeeese – any fuckin’ one – fuckin’ help meeeeeeee!” His voice was raw and garbled.
Leichardt reached him and held the man down. “It’s ere! It’s firkin alive! Can’t any other bastard see it?” he cried. Then his whole manner changed instantly as though someone with the authority had remonstrated him. “I’m tru - I’m truly - fuckin’ sorry,” he blubbered as he screwed his eyes shut. He crushed his hands into his face and moved his head from side to side, trying hard not to look at whatever specter was scaring him so profoundly, while yet again ignoring his wounds and pain.
“I yam so very very truly sorry!” he shrieked. His neck muscles stretched to tearing in his agony, as his awful story was dragged from somewhere deep within the man.
“I was there! Ok – I was there,” he gasped, “an I ‘elped tae round up those blacks – like, them women and children – but I left ‘em there to chase the bucks – an’ I never killed a-one – I bloody swear it on me mother’s grave,” he blurted, his eyes brimming over with tears. Mucus sprayed from his nose and across his face as he supported his next words with vigorous shakes of his head, in agreement with the terrible vision.
“I’ll never come back onto your lands,” he promised. “Ever again in my whole stupid wasted life – I dinna know! I dinna know,” he concluded with almost a whisper, sincerity written across his features as he collapsed into unconsciousness once more.
The Fethafoot Chronicles Page 1