The Clay Dreaming

by Ed Hillyer

  Simeon Lord, born 1770, had been sentenced to seven years’ transportation for stealing tenpence-worth of cloth – almost exactly as Druce had been. Similarly, on arrival in New South Wales, some time in the 1790s, he was assigned in servitude to a military officer. Once emancipated, having the advantage of a few years and no doubt greater business sense, he became an employer himself, and, in a few years, local magistrate. His entrepreneurial venture in a cheap goods factory was encouraged by none other than Governor Macquarie, who ‘favoured him greatly’. It was Simeon Lord who chartered the Boyd, the unfortunate ship calling in at the Bay of Islands for spars – where it met with a massacre.

  By all accounts a man of unimpeachable integrity, Lachlan Macquarie’s personal antipathy towards Bruce, ‘alias Dreuse’, spiralled out of proportion. Convict, bushranger, deserter – the governor quite possibly resented Druce more for the roundabout ways in which details of his shady past emerged than for the crimes themselves, since obviously, as an associate of Lord, he was sometimes willing to overlook a dark past. Druce’s accusing of Riley and Lord, with whom Macquarie was in public partnership, might have been enough to make the man deaf to his pleas, but there was more. From the very beginnings of colonisation the authorities’ greatest fear had been that settlers might degenerate, or ‘go native’. Further, Macquarie was said to distrust enthusiastic proponents of religion. With his tattooed face and extempore sermonising, Druce couldn’t have picked a less sympathetic person to pray to.

  Lachlan Macquarie was in business with ‘the concern’.

  And how stupid! How stupid of ‘George Bruce’ to petition as a Scotsman, to a truer Scot if ever there was one, and one already suspicious of his dishonesty. It was surely the end of his hopes of ever seeing the coasts of Australasia again.

  Colonial life was harsh and unforgiving, said by many to shrivel the faith, just when it should have been inspired to greater heights. The same might hold true of any life if filled with enough disappointment. But that was the remarkable thing about Druce. All of the heartache, the hardship and disaster, had diminished his faith not a jot.

  As was clear from his prayers and his constant petitioning, Joseph Druce put as much credence in officialdom as he did in God. He believed in the benevolence of higher authority, consistently so. And yet by their actions, unwittingly or no, two successive governors – Bligh and Macquarie – had frustrated his chances and confounded his hopes.

  Sharpening up her pencil with a small blade, Sarah added both names to that growing list: the hated men against whom, according to the savage custom of his adopted nation, Druce might pronounce all vengeance – if not in this life, then the next.

  CHAPTER XLVIII

  Thursday the 18th of June, 1868

  SUPERSTITION?

  ‘Look, how the world’s poor people are amaz’d

  At apparitions, signs, and prodigies,

  Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gaz’d,

  Infusing them with dreadful prophecies.’

  ~ William Shakespeare, Venus and Adonis

  ‘What is “superstition”? Dictionary Johnson, who was no dialectician and, moreover, superstitious, gives eight different definitions of the word…which is equivalent to confessing of an inability to define it at all.’

  Gentle laughter shivered through the audience. Sarah was gratified to find Sir John Lubbock a good, clear, and so far sensible speaker. The Royal Institute’s public lectures were delivered in a large amphitheatre generously lit by an enormous skylight, in Albemarle-street, a quarter-hour’s brisk walk from her house.

  This was already the fifth of Lubbock’s lecture series On Savages (a follow-up to his 1865 bestseller, Prehistoric Times). The first half of the afternoon’s talk had dwelt on ‘Animal Husbandry’, Sarah missing most of it. The latter part – copiously illustrated by use of the electric lamp, diagrams and the display of specimens – happily devoted itself to ‘The Superstition of Savages’.

  ‘Let us, then,’ said Sir John, ‘look a little further back. The original Greek for superstition is deisdaimonia, meaning fear of the deity. God-fearing, if you will.’

  The Institute held as its object the advancement of knowledge in general, of the sciences in particular; and women were welcome to attend. Sitting a few rows from the back, Sarah observed that she was far from alone – nor even, for once, in the minority. Politician, financier, social reformer and also a hugely successful author, Sir John Lubbock enjoyed international fame, his name known to every household: still in his early thirties and a baronet to boot, he could be considered quite the catch.

  ‘The Latin superstitio has more or less the meaning of the English word, said to come from super, above, combined with sto, stand, and to express the feeling of having some being standing over us…’

  Sarah knew that feeling well, although she had never thought of it as superstition exactly; she had never been sure if that oppressive being was God, or simply her father.

  ‘Theoprastus tells us, in his Characters, that superstition is simply “cowardice about the supernatural”. The Reverend Kingsley, standing on this same platform but a year ago, perhaps had this in mind when he defined superstition as “Fear of the unknown”. He argued it a physical affection, as thoroughly material and corporeal as eating and sleeping, remembering…or dreaming.’

  Sir John gave a dramatic pause.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ he said, ‘we will return to it…anon.’

  A worm hooked to his rod, the audience rippled with another minor thrill. Sensing their delight, Sarah determined to resist his charms. Lubbock had a handsome enough face, his features open, if a little soft. His comparative youth was accentuated by that which was intended to disguise it: an extravagant but wispy goatee beard.

  ‘We may see how superstition covers a wide range of mental attitudes and behaviours,’ the man said. ‘For our own purposes, superstition may be defined, overall, as that disposition to see an occult hand in events, and also, any attempt to appease that occult power.

  ‘Turning to the consideration of savages, only the poorest ethnologist, or indeed anthropologist, would attempt pursuit of the noblest study of mankind and leave out consideration of their religions.’

  Sarah felt suddenly certain Lubbock had attended St James’s Hall on Tuesday night.

  ‘According to almost universal testimony,’ he said, ‘that of merchants, philosophers, naval men and missionaries alike, many races of men are altogether destitute of a religion, or anything deserving of the name. While I do not dispute these findings in the least, on their own terms, I defer to Professor Max Muller, and his learned endeavour to explain the profound influence of natural phenomena on the mind of early man.’

  The image of a rather shocking sculpture flashed onto the screen behind him, the chamber in daytime unfortunately too light for it to be very clearly seen. Sir John did his best not to find the poor show distracting, although impatience sounded clear in his voice.

  ‘Among savage nations,’ he said, ‘their beliefs are characterised almost entirely by a fear of the unknown. They are exceedingly superstitious. The names of God, likewise fetishes, and statues, were their first attempts to express the inexpressible. Only when taken away from their original intent does monotheism collapse into pantheism. The eidolon, or likeness, becomes an idol, and the nomen, or name, a numen, or demon. Hence, the very great power of names.

  ‘Religion is characterised by the strength of its appeal to the hopes and fears of mankind. In times of sorrow and sickness, it is of great consolation. If the names of the sun and moon, of thunder and lightning, light and day, night or dawn, cannot yield fit appellatives for the Deity, where are they to be found? Such is Professor Muller’s opinion, as expressed in his Comparative Mythology.’

  Giving up on the screen and the ghosts of ghosts manifest there, Sir John swung around.

  ‘We suppose Christianity to have swept away pantheistic superstitions and the worship of multitudinous gods,’ he said. ‘They w
ere in fact overtaken, and overlaid with a Christian meaning…transformed. Not so much god in everything but God as everything.

  ‘The primary purpose of religion, the reason for its institution, was, and is, that man needs to see himself as more than the animal, the animal that his nature condemns him to realise he is.’

  He only sought to join together the two halves of his afternoon’s discussion, but for Sarah Sir John expressed powerful sentiments. In the midst of sorrow, doubts and sickness, her heart was in her mouth.

  ‘And so, ladies and gentlemen, if the sensation of fear, fear of phenomena more powerful than oneself…if that sensation can be thought of as religion, then religion is indeed universal to the human race. Let us take, as our prime example, modern man in his most primitive form, the native Australian.’

  Drawn to the very edge of her seat, Sarah had to adjust her skirts.

  Sir John’s political instincts had led him to cast the popular vote, but his choice was more selfish than that: a useful left-handed batsman and fast underhand bowler, the Liberal Party’s parliamentary candidate for West Kent was also associated with its Cricket Club, and played on occasion for the House of Commons team.

  ‘Among the scattered tribes of the Australian Aborigine,’ he said, ‘in Victoria, in Queensland, in New South Wales, there exists a belief in an All-Father deity. He goes by a great many names… Bunjil, Baiame, Boyl or Baal…’

  They were not without God! Sarah knew it! She’d known it couldn’t be true.

  ‘But,’ said Sir John, ‘if questions are asked concerning him, the natives are very shy of giving information. In consequence of their rapid decrease in number, such reticence makes it altogether possible that our knowledge of this subject, slight as it is, will never be greater. I am therefore indebted to the observations of my esteemed colleague Augustus Oldfield, for his time spent among an Aboriginal clan calling themselves, of all things, the Watch-an-dies…

  ‘Boyl or Baal is a supernatural being held in great dread. The notion of a beneficent spirit, it seems, never enters their heads. Their very ideal of divinity is, rather, that of malevolent force.

  ‘Whereas we regard God as good, they look upon Him as essentially evil…a “God-Devil”, or “God-evil”. While we submit, they struggle to obtain the control of Him. We count our blessings. They think the blessings come of themselves, and it is evil that occurs as the result of malign interference.’

  Sarah took copious notes on small scraps of paper, her stub of pencil working furiously. Their ideal of divinity might be evil; the clear implication, then, was that the Aborigines saw the world, their natural world, as essentially good, an Eden indeed. They performed that reversal Lambert insisted Darwin could not. Brippoki need not subscribe to any higher power for his salvation – quite the opposite.

  Truth went naked, without the shame of Original Sin.

  ‘Insofar as this is true, Baal is but one of many,’ said Sir John, at once disallowing their god the same status as the Christian God. ‘They fully believe in the existence of a host of evil demons. The whole face of the country swarms with them…all meaning harm and committing every mischief imaginable. Death and disease, ill success in hunting, the loss of personal property, every circumstance whose cause they cannot appreciate, in fact most every misfortune which it is possible can befall a man, is the work of spiritual agency, the power possessed of hostile tribes.

  ‘On the Loddon River tribes live in dread of Mindy, a huge serpent. Duly invoked via incantation, he produces gales and hurricanes by the lashings of his enormous tail. Among the Arunta, or Aranda, a hollow tree is entrance to the Underworld. One lives in danger of sliding down the roots!’

  God, the Devil, and Hell – just what part of ‘no religion’ did James Dredge and all of those others not understand?

  ‘The yumburbar, a bunyip, Mim-mie…the list is endless. These malign spirits are encapsulated under one common classification…’ Lubbock bared and snacked his teeth. ‘In-gna.’

  Sarah practised mouthing the unusual word.

  ‘With them, as I say, nearly all diseases and consequent deaths are the result of the enchantments of other tribes. Were it not for the ill will of their enemies, in fact, they think to live forever! If a native should wish death on his enemy, he will do it by means of enchantment. This power of enchantment is called Bool-lia.

  ‘The In-gna is a spiritual agent, effecting the enchanter’s fatal will. He solicits the In-gna according to his intent. Most are of human form, but have long tails and long upright ears. They are of human origin, being the spirits of men from other tribes. That, or else they are the souls of departed blackfellows who have for whatever reason not received the proper rites of burial. Constrained to wander the earth, they are conscripted into this veritable army of ghosts. Their chosen haunts are thickets, caves, all forms of rocky places, springs, etcetera…but most especially, they haunt graves. Such locations are avoided as much as possible.

  ‘Significantly,’ said Sir John, possessed of an imp all his own, ‘none of these phantoms is of the female sex. From this, and other considerations, we may infer the New Hollanders believe women do not have souls.’

  The audience bristled and set to murmuring; the soulless part in particular. Lubbock appeared to relish the reaction.

  ‘One of the most melancholy things in savage life is the low estimation in which women are held,’ he said, speaking more freely. ‘Female children are betrothed from early infancy. Relatives nearer than cousins may not marry, but very little fruit is forbidden…and very early plucked. The girls generally go to live with their husbands at about the age of twelve, and sometimes even before that.

  ‘Amongst such peoples, where a wife frequently changes, the relationship between father and son is weakened. Aboriginal Australian society is matrilineal, traced through its females. Out of various good causes exogamy, marriage outside the tribe, is endorsed. This leads to the regular practice of capturing one’s wife by stealing her away from a neighbouring tribe…a practice readily acquiesced to by the women.’

  He smiled, wickedly.

  ‘Thus we may trace every step through the differing degrees of civilisation, from the treatment of woman as a mere chattel to the hallowed ideal of matrimony as it exists among ourselves.’

  Sir John had deviated pretty far off course from his prepared notes. He sought to bring himself smoothly back into line.

  ‘I spoke of dreams… The native Australians profess to foretell the future in their dreams,’ he said. ‘To them, their dreams are real life. This may be one reason behind its being almost impossible to waken them once they are asleep. Their sleep is so sound, so fast, that they are often injured rolling into their own campfires at night, suffering their burns without waking. These occasions, when their guard is most assuredly down, invite the hand of an assassin. Murders, whether for reasons of jealousy, revenge, or a whole network of other feasible wrongs, are most often committed in their sleep. And, you can be sure, there are always In-gna aplenty ready and willing to execute the task. Coming up behind the victim, most often in his sleep, the In-gna strikes a sharp blow to the back of the neck. Unless they can somehow be arrested, the effects of this blow will eventually result in death.

  ‘At the first sign of sickness, the inflicted seeks to ascertain whether the Boollia of his own tribe is potent enough to repel that of his foes.

  ‘The fountainhead of Bool-lia,’ said Sir John, ‘is the human body. Some procure it from the left arm, others the stomach…delicacy forbids me from identifying the most commonplace source. Suffice to say, the departed natives of Tasmania used to imagine that Europeans drew the fire, noise and smoke which they put into their muskets from that very same region, when they were only reaching for cartridges…’ Sir John performed a helpful, roundabout sort of gesture – nothing too explicit – to illustrate his point ‘…by means of enchantment, of course.’

  His anecdote produced the driest rustle of amusement. Sir John launched back into his spe
ech.

  ‘The spirit of the first man ever slain by an Aboriginal warrior in open combat enters the victor’s body by the same route. It makes itself a new home, and thereafter becomes his woorie, or guardian angel if you like… When danger threatens the new host, his guardian spirit informs him of it by a kind of scratching or tickling sensation in those regions. In pre-colonial days, I should add, tribal conflict among the native Australians was almost continuous in expectation of this standard, many a murder doubtless incited purely to achieve this protection.

  ‘In this fashion only might good ever be said returned for evil.’

  The speaker then held up a finger-length object of some sort. Sarah sat too distant from the stage to make out what it was.

  ‘Some attribute life to mere implements. They tend to respect weapons once they have seen them used to deadly effect. So they should. For many it is a lesson learned only the once.’

  He brandished the mystery item in the air. It was long, and thin, and sharpened to a point at one end.

  ‘Like the rifle’s bullet…as invisible, and therefore magical, as it is deadly, there is also the death curse of the ancient pointing-bone. Simply in fear of this spell a native becomes ill almost instantly, and many perish from it.’

  Replacing the object on the table, Sir John Lubbock leant further forward, balancing his weight on both sets of knuckles.

  ‘We might easily dismiss their ghost stories, of invisible forces seizing them in the night…for us, nothing more than the after effects of a too-heavy meal, the nightmare visions of disturbed sleep. Yet it is,’ he said, ‘what they believe that counts.

  ‘An individual who thinks himself cursed will seek out the protection of his own enchanter. He applies to that individual in whose Bool-lia he has the greatest faith. This person, in consideration of a certain reward, undertakes his cure.’

  Sarah found herself overtaken by an unpleasant, creeping sensation: she pictured Brippoki and his golden guinea.