The beaks of the Wokala chattered anew.
"We came for shelter," said the old Wokala miserably. "But you say truth, Wildoo: I think the Frost-Spirit has his home down here. Is it any warmer where you are?"
"Very little," said Wildoo—"and the wind is singing through these branches. But I know of a sheltered place, for all that."
"Kwah!" said the Wokala, all together. "A sheltered place! Oh, Wildoo, you are great and—and—and beautiful. Will you not tell us where it is?"
"Great and beautiful, am I?" said Wildoo, with a chuckle. "That is not the sort of thing you have been calling me all these months. However, it is lucky for you that I am also good-natured; I would not willingly see any of my people die of cold, not even the Wokala, who deserve little of anyone."
"Then you will tell us where is the sheltered place?" chattered the Wokala.
"Fly across to the Black Mountain," said Wildoo. "There is an ironstone wurley near the top—I will guide you to it, if you like. It is big enough for you all, and there is a fine heap of sticks on which to perch. The wind will not blow inside it, and the morning sun will shine right into it."
"It sounds too wonderful to be true," said the Wokala. "Is it dry, this ironstone wurley?"
"Dry as old bones," answered Wildoo. "Oh, you would be in luck to get there—you would forget all your troubles."
"One would think that impossible," shivered the old Wokala—he was very sorry for himself. "But if you will really guide us there, then be quick, Wildoo, or none of us will be able to fly at all."
"Very well," Wildoo answered. "I will go slowly, as I suppose you are all stiff. Follow me, and come down when you see me perch."
He spread his great wings and looked down at them for a moment with a little smile; and if they had not been so eager and so cold they might have hesitated at the expression in his yellow eyes. But, as usual, the Wokala thought only of themselves, and as they had learned to believe that Wildoo was afraid of them, they never suspected that he might be leading them into a trap. They cried "Kwah! Kwah!" and rose into the air after him as soon as the flapping of the mighty wings told them that he had left the gum-tree. Even to fly slowly was difficult, so stiff with cold were they: but they all persevered, except one young hen—a pretty young thing, whose weary wings would not do their duty. She made a brave attempt to rise, but before the flight had cleared the big dead gum-tree she had to drop back—thankful to find a secure perch on a jutting limb.
"Ky!" she whimpered. "I can never fly all the way to the Black Mountain. I must die here."
She crept along the limb until she came to the trunk, and there luck awaited her. In the fork was an old 'possum-hole which had not been used for many seasons. It was dry and warm—sheltered from the bitter wind, and soft underfoot with rotting leaves, pleasant to the touch. The young Wokala hopped in thankfully, and it seemed the last touch to her wonderful good fortune that she immediately met a fine fat grub. She promptly ate it for her supper, tucked her head under her wing, nestled into the farthest corner, and went to sleep, remarking drowsily, "This is better than all Wildoo's ironstone wurleys!"
The other Wokala did not notice that the young hen had dropped back—or if they did they did not worry about her. Weary as they were, it took all their strength to keep Wildoo in sight, even though he kept his word and flew slowly. They were thankful when at length he sank lower and came to rest on a big boulder by the mouth of the cave near the mountain-top. The Wokala followed him in a straggling line, and perched on the shelf outside the cave.
"There you are," Wildoo said, nodding towards the yawning hole in the hillside. "That is your ironstone wurley, and I will promise you that you will find it dry and free from draughts."
"There is nothing living there?" asked the old Wokala, looking a little doubtfully at the cave.
"Nothing at all. All you will find there is a heap of dry sticks; you can perch there and keep each other warm. Stay there, if you like it well enough, until your new feather cloaks are ready—you are really scarcely fit for decent society now." Wildoo cast a half-contemptuous glance at the shivering, half-fledged birds, as they clustered on the rocky shelf. Then he flew off again into the gathering darkness.
"Whatever is Wildoo about?" asked Kellelek, the Cockatoo, of his hens. "He seems to be leading all the Wokala round the sky. A funny nurse he looked, and with a funny lot of chickens!"
"No wonder he waited for dusk before he would be seen with them," said one of his wives contemptuously. "I flew by their tree to-day, and really, they were a positive disgrace. And they always think themselves so smart!"
"Oh, they'll be smart enough again," said Kellelek, laughing. "Wait until they have their new feathers on, and you will be just as jealous of them as ever you were. There is no doubt that the Wokala are smart—that is, for people who prefer plain white. I like a good sulphur crest myself—but then, it's all a matter of opinion."
"Well, don't let the Wokala know that you admire them, or they will be worse than ever," said his wives, ruffling their feathers angrily.
Meanwhile, the Wokala had hesitated just for a moment before entering the cave. Then a fresh blast of cold wind swept across the face of the mountain, and they waited no longer, but fluttered in before it, in a hurrying, jostling flock. It was just as Wildoo had told them: warm and dry, and with a big heap of dry sticks in the middle—just the thing for them to perch on. They hopped up eagerly, huddling together for warmth, scrambling and fighting for the best places. Soon they were all comfortably settled, and at last warmth began to steal back into their shivering bodies.
"A good thing we made Wildoo afraid of us," said one sleepily. "Otherwise we should never have known of this splendid wurley." The others uttered drowsy murmurs of "Kwah!" as they drifted into slumber.
But far away on his mountain shelf Wildoo sat and waited, his yellow eyes wide and wakeful. The dusk deepened into night, and far off, from his perch on a tall stringy bark tree, old Wook-ook, the Mopoke, sent out his long cry, "Mo—poke! Mo—poke!" Presently came a dim radiance in the east and Wildoo stirred a little.
"Peera comes," he muttered.
Peera, the Moon, came up slowly, until all the Bush was flooded with her dim light, falling into shadow now and then, when dark clouds drifted across her face. Wildoo waited until she was above the tree-tops, with her beams falling upon the ironstone mountain. Then he took a fire-stick in his talons and flew swiftly away, never pausing until he alighted on the shelf before the cave.
He laid the fire-stick down and went softly to the dark opening, listening. There came only the sound of the breathing of the Wokala, with now and then a muffled caw as one dreamed, perhaps, of cold and hunger. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, Wildoo could see them—a huddled white mass upon the heap of sticks. That was all he wanted, and he went back swiftly for his fire-stick, and with it went into the cave. Very softly he slipped it into the dry heart of the heap of sticks below the sleeping Wokala. He waited until little smoke-wreaths began to curl up, and a faint glow came from within the heap.
"Now you will be warm enough, my friends!" he muttered. He hurried out of the cave, and flew slowly to the nearest tree, on the hill opposite the Black Mountain. There he perched and waited. Very soon all the dark mouth of the cave was filled with glowing radiance, and clouds of smoke came billowing out and rolled down the hill. Then came loud and terrified cawing, and Wildoo thought he could see dark forms fluttering out through the smoke. His yellow eyes gleamed at the sight. And then clouds came suddenly across the face of the Moon, and a fierce wind blew, with driving rain that beat into the mouth of the cave. It blotted out the glow, and the wind carried away the cries. When all was quiet Wildoo flapped off to his nest.
He was back next morning on the boulder outside the cave, and with him all the birds of the Bush, whom he had collected as he came, saying to them, "Come and see what happens to those who insult Wildoo." The black mouth of the ironstone cave looked grim and forbidding, and, peering in, the birds could see the charred ends of the dry sticks, scattered on the floor round a heap of ashes. Then, from the inner recesses of the cave came a strange procession, and at the sight the Kooka burra burst into a peal of laughter. For it was the Wokala.
They came slowly—but where were their white feathers, of which they had been so proud? All were gone, singed off close to their bodies; and their bodies were blackened with smoke. Queer, naked birds they looked, creeping out into the sunshine, and there was no pride left in them. They looked up and saw Wildoo and the laughing birds of all the Bush; and with a loud miserable cawing they fled back into the cave.
No one saw the Wokala again for a time. But after a long while they came out again, this time with all their feathers fully grown. No longer, however, were they white—the whitest of all birds. Their new feathers were a glossy black!
They looked at each other for a moment with a kind of horror. Then they rose into the air with a swift beating of their jet-black wings, and, calling "Kwah! Kwah!" they fled across the sky. And as they flew another cawing was heard, and a white bird rose and flew to meet them—the Wokala hen who had been left behind, and who had taken refuge in the 'possum-hole. She was now the only white Wokala left in all the world. They met in mid-air, and at sight of the strange black birds with the familiar voices the white Wokala uttered a scream and fled away, never to be seen again.
Since then, always the Crows have been black. They found their old impudence again after a while, and became what they had been when they were white—always the nuisances of the Bush, vagabonds and robbers and bullies. But still the terror of the ironstone wurley is upon them, and they never venture into caves, but live in the big trees, where they can see far and wide, and where no creeping enemy can come upon them in the darkness. And Wildoo, the King of the Birds, never finds them near his nest, nor need he ever speak to them. One glance from him is enough for the Wokala: they would fly to the deepest recesses of the Bush rather than face the gleam of his yellow eyes.
CHAPTER I
Kur-bo-roo was a little black boy baby. His father and mother had no other children, and so they were very proud of him, and he always had enough to eat. It is often very different when there are many hungry pickaninnies to be fed—especially in dry seasons, when roots and yams and berries are hard to find, and a black mother's task of filling her dilly-bag becomes more difficult every day. Then it may happen that the children are quite often hungry, and their ribs show plainly through their black skins: and they learn to pick up all kinds of odd food that white children would consider horrible—insects, grubs, and moths, and queer fungi, which may sometimes give them bad pains—although it is not an easy thing to give a black child indigestion.
But Kur-bo-roo had not known any hard times. He was born a cheerful, round baby, quite light in colour at first; and as he darkened he became rounder and jollier. His hair curled in tight little rings all over his head, and his nose was beautifully flat—so flat that his mother did not need to press it down to make him good-looking, as most of the black mothers do to their babies. He was very strong, too, with a straight little back and well-muscled limbs; and when his teeth came they could crunch up bones quite easily, or even the hard nardoo berries. His mother thought he was the most beautiful pickaninny that was ever born, which is an idea all mothers have about their babies. But Kur-bo-roo's motherknewthat she was right.
He had so many good things to eat that he grew fatter and fatter. His father brought home game—wallaby, wombat, iguana, lace-lizards, porcupines, bandicoots, opossums; and though it was polite to give away a good deal to his wife's father, there was always plenty for little Kur-bo-roo. Then delicious bits of snake came his way, and long white tree-grubs, as well as all the native fruits and berries that the black women find; and he had plenty of creek water to drink. So long as you give a wild blackfellow good water he will always manage to forage for food.
Kur-bo-roo did not have to forage. It interested his father and mother tremendously to do all that they could for him, and watch him grow. As soon as he could toddle about, his father made him tiny throwing-sticks and a boomerang, and tried to teach him to throw them; and his mother, squatting in the shade of the wurley, would laugh to see the baby thing struggling with the weapons of a man. And, while she laughed, she was prouder than ever. She used to rub his limbs to make them supple and strong. He did not wear any clothes at all, so that she was never worried about keeping his wardrobe in order. Instead, she was able to give all her time to making him into what she thought to be the best possible kind of boy. And, however that may have been, it is quite certain that there never was a happier pickaninny.
It was when Kur-bo-roo was nearly six years old that the evil spirit of Trouble came to him.
Sickness fell upon the tribe. No one knew how it came, and the medicine-men could not drive it away. First of all, the people had terrible headaches, and the Meki-gar, or doctor, used to treat them in the usual manner—he would dig out a round sod of earth and, making the patient lie down with his head in the hole, would put the sod on his head, and stand on it, or sit on it, to squeeze out the pain. If this were not successful, he would tie a cord tightly round the patient's head, and cut him with a sharp shell or flint, beating his head with a little stick to make the blood flow freely. These excellent measures had in the past cured many severe headaches. But they could not cure the sickness now.
So the Meki-gar had the patient carried out of the camp. The bearers carried him slowly, singing a mournful chant; and behind them came all the sick man's friends, sweeping the ground with boughs, to sweep away the bad power that had caused the disease. This bad power was, the Meki-gar said, the work of a terrible being called Bori. But, whether it was Bori's fault, or whether the tribe had simply brought sickness on themselves by allowing the camp to become very dirty, the Meki-gar could not drive away the sickness. It grew worse and worse, and people died every day.
Kur-bo-roo was only a little lad, but he was unhappy and frightened, although he did not understand at all. The air was always full of the sound of the groaning and crying of those people who were ill, and of lamenting and mourning for the dead. Everybody was terribly afraid. The blacks believed that their bad spirits were angry with them, and that nothing could do them any good; and so, many died from sheer fright, thinking that once they were taken ill they were doomed, and that it was no good to make a fight against the mysterious enemy. That was stupid, but they did not know any better.
Then there came a heavy rain, and after it was over, and the sun had come out to smile upon a fresh, clean world, the sickness began to get better and pass away. But just at the last, it came to the wurley where Kur-bo-roo lived with his father and mother.
Kur-bo-roo could not understand why his parents could not get up and go to find food. They lay in the wurley together, shivering under all the 'possum rugs and talking quickly in queer, high voices that he could not make out at all. They called often for water, and he brought it to them in his little tarnuk, or drinking-vessel, going backwards and forwards to the creek, and up and down its banks, until his little legs were very tired. Long after he was tired he kept on going for water. Then there came a time when they could not lift the tarnuk, and he tried to hold it to their lips, so that they could drink; but he was not very successful, and much of the water was spilt. You see, he was only a very little, afraid boy.
He woke up one morning, cold and hungry. There was no more food in the wurley, and no voices: only a great silence. He crept under the 'possum rug to his father and mother, but they were quite still, and when he called to them, they did not answer. He rubbed their cold faces with a shaking little hand, but no warmth came to them. Then he broke into loud, frightened crying, like any other lonely little boy.
Presently some of the blacks came to the wurley and pointed at the quiet bodies under the 'possum rug, and jabbered very hard, beckoning to others to come. Kur-bo-roo heard them say "tumble-down" a great many times, and he knew that it meant "dead"; but he did not know that his father and mother would never speak to him any more. Only when an old woman picked him up and carried him away he understood that a terrible thing had happened to him, and he cried more bitterly than ever, calling to his mother. She had always run to him when he called. But now she did not come.
CHAPTER II
After that, hard times came upon little Kur-bo-roo. There were none of his own family left, for the sickness had taken them all. His father and mother had been the last to die, and that made the blacks think that very probably Bori, the Evil Spirit, had been especially angry with Kur-bo-roo's family, because so many of them had died and the last terrible blow of the disease had fallen on their wurley. Indeed, for awhile they argued as to whether it would not be better to kill Kur-bo-roo too, so that so troublesome a family should be quite stamped out, with no further chance of annoying Bori and bringing trouble upon the tribe. They did not spare him out of any idea of pity; but because so many men and boys had died that the tribe had become seriously weakened, and it seemed foolish to kill a strong and healthy fellow like Kur-bo-roo. It was very important for a tribe to keep up its fighting strength, for there was always a chance that another band of blacks might come upon them and want to fight: in which case the weaker tribe might be swallowed up. So boy babies were thought a good deal of, and for that reason the blacks did not make an end of little Kur-bo-roo.
But he had a very bad time, for all that. No one wanted him. He was nobody's boy; and that hurts just the same whether a boy be black or white. Never was there so lonely a little fellow. The other children were half afraid of him, because the fear of Bori's anger yet hung about him; they would not let him join in their games, and took a savage delight in hunting him away from their wurleys. Another black family had taken possession of his father's wurley, and no home was left to him. He used to wander about miserably, often sleeping in the open air, curled up in the shadow of a bush, or in a hollow tree-stump. If it were cold or wet, he would creep noiselessly into a hut when he thought every one would be asleep—and quite often he was kicked out again.
He was always hungry now. His father and mother had taken such care of him, and had loved so much to keep him fed, that he had never learned how to find food for himself. He would wander about in the Bush, looking for such things as his mother had brought him, but he knew so little that often he ate quite the wrong things, which made him very sick. He learned a good deal about food in that way, but the learning was not pleasant work.
It was a bad year for food. Dry weather had come, and game was scarce; it was hard for the fighting-men to bring home enough for their own children, without having to provide for a hungry boy of six who belonged to nobody. Kur-bo-roo used to hang about the cooking-places in the hope of having scraps of food thrown to him, but not many came his way. When so many were hungry the food was quickly eaten up. Sometimes a woman, pitying the shrinking little lad, would hastily toss him a bone or a fragment of meat; and though you would not have cared for the way it was cooked, Kur-bo-roo thought that these morsels were the most delicious he had ever tasted.
You see, a wild blackfellow has not much to think about except food. He has no schools, no daily papers, no market days, or picture shows, or telephones. The wild Bush is his, and all he asks or expects of it is that it shall supply him with food. He knows that it means strength to him, and that strength means happiness, as a rule, when all that he has depends upon his own ability to keep it for himself. He does not reason things that way, for the blackfellow is simple, but he just eats as much as he can whenever he can get it, and that seems to agree with him excellently. That was the principle on which Kur-bo-roo had been brought up, and it had made him the round, black, shiny baby that he had been until his parents died.
He was not nearly so round and shiny now. His little body was thin and hard, and he did not look so strong as before. It was not altogether lack of food that had weakened him—the want of happiness had a great deal to do with it.
He had found out that the tribe did not like him. Not only was he nobody's boy, but he was the object of a kind of distrust that he could feel without at all understanding it; and he had learnt to shrink and cringe from blows and bitter words. Once he had found a lace-lizard asleep on a rock, and, grasping his tiny waddy, had stolen up to it very carefully, all the instinct of the hunter blazing in his dark, sad eyes. The lizard, when it woke, was quick, but Kur-bo-roo was quicker—the stick came down with all the force of his arm, and he carried off his prey in triumph, meaning to ask a woman who had sometimes been kind to him if she would cook it for him. But just outside the camp three big boys had come upon him as he was carrying his prey, and that had been the last that Kur-bo-roo had seen of his lizard. He had fought for it like a little tiger—quite hopelessly, of course, but to fight had been a kind of dismal satisfaction to him, even though he was badly beaten in addition to losing his dinner; and that was specially unfortunate, for blacks think lizard a very great delicacy indeed. The boys ran off with it, jeering at the sobbing little figure on the ground; and they called him names that, even in his angry soreness, made him think. They said something to do with an evil spirit—he pondered over it, creeping into a clump of bushes. Why should they call him that?
Blacks always want a reason for any happening. Sometimes they are satisfied with very foolish reasons; but they must have something to explain occurrences, especially if they are unpleasant ones. The sickness that had fallen on their tribe they put down to Bori, as the medicine-man told them; but when the sickness had gone, it seemed only reasonable to believe that Bori was satisfied and would leave them alone for awhile. So they could not understand why misfortune should still pursue them. Another tribe had stolen part of their country, and they had been too weakened by the sickness to fight for it; and now had come the drought, making food harder than ever to obtain, and causing some of the babies to fall sick and die. They turned to the magic-men or sorcerers for explanation, and these clever people performed a great many extraordinary tricks to make things better. Then, as they were really hard up for some object on which to throw the blame of their failure, it occurred to them to turn suspicion towards little Kur-bo-roo.
Kur-bo-roo went on with his unhappy little life, quite ignorant of the storms gathering round his woolly head. No one was ever kind to him, and he could scarcely distinguish one day from another; although he gathered a vague idea that in some way they were linking his name with the Evil Spirit, he did not understand what that meant. He kept on hunting round for food and water, and dodging blows and angry faces. If he had guessed that the magic-men were busily persuading the people that his family and he were the cause of the terrible year through which they had passed, he might have been more uneasy; but, in any case, he was only a very little boy, and perhaps he would not have understood. He had enough troubles to think of without looking out for more.
CHAPTER III
Then the worst part of the drought happened, for the creek began to run dry.
Day after day it ran a little more slowly, and the deep holes at the bends shrank and dwindled away. The fish disappeared completely, having swum down-stream to where deeper waters awaited them; and so another source of food was lost to the tribe. There only remained the black mud-eels, and soon it was hard to find any of these, try as they might. That was bad, but it was nothing in comparison to the loss of the water supply. Without the creek, the tribe could not exist, for the only other drinking-places in their country were swamps and morasses, and these, too, were dried up and useless. So the magic-men and head-men became very anxious, and many were the black glances cast upon the unconscious Kur-bo-roo as he slunk round the camp or hunted for food in the scrub. Then the head-men issued a command that no one should drink from the creek itself, lest the little water remaining should be stirred up and made muddy, or lest anyone should drink too much. Instead of going to the creek to drink, they were permitted to fill their tarnuks, or drinking-vessels, each morning; and then no one was allowed to approach the creek again that day. So in the mornings a long procession of women went down to the bank, where a head-man watched them fill the tarnuks, remaining until the last had hurried away, very much afraid of his fierce eyes.
But the new law fell very heavily on Kur-bo-roo, for he had now no tarnuk. The little one made for him by his father long ago had disappeared when he lost everything, and since then he had always been accustomed to drink at the creek. Now, however, he could not do so, and no one would give him a tarnuk, or let him drink from theirs. He would have stolen it very readily, for he was now not at all a well-brought-up little boy, but the tarnuks were hung far beyond his reach.
Of course, the magic-men knew how the new law would affect the little fellow. They knew that now it would be impossible for Kur-bo-roo to drink, and after a little he would "tumble-down" and be dead; and then, perhaps, the Evil Spirit would be satisfied, and go away from the tribe. They watched him carefully, and were glad that he became weak and wretched. They had uttered such savage penalties against drinking from the creek that it never occurred to them that he would dare to disobey. But sometimes in the darkness Kur-bo-roo used to creep down for a drink, being, indeed, as desperate as a boy can be, and quite sure that unless he went he must die; and he had become so stealthy in his movements that he was never caught. It did not satisfy his thirst, of course, for it was the hottest part of the summer, and all the blacks were accustomed to drinking a great deal: still, it was something. At least, it kept him alive.
Then, one morning, came news of a number of kangaroo feeding two miles away by the creek, and all the camp fell into a state of tremendous excitement at the very idea of such a chance of food. All the men and big boys dashed off at once, and presently the women made up their minds that they would follow them, as it was not at all unlikely that if the men had good luck in their hunt they might immediately sit down and eat a great portion of the game they had killed—in which case there was only a poor look-out for those left in camp. So they gathered up their dilly-bags and sticks, slung the babies on their backs, and ran off into the Bush after the men, leaving the camp deserted.
Now, it chanced that Kur-bo-roo knew nothing of all this. He had not spent the night in camp, because, on the evening before, he had been savagely beaten by two big boys, who had caught him alone in the scrub, and when they had finished with him he was too sick and sore to crawl back to the wurleys. He had crept under a bush, and slept there uneasily, for the pain of his bruises kept waking him up. The sun was quite high in the sky before he made up his mind to go back to the camp, in the faint hope that some one would give him food. So he limped slowly through the Bush, wincing when the harsh boughs rubbed against his sore limbs.
He stopped at the edge of the camp and rubbed his fists into his eyes, blinking in surprise. No one was in sight; instead of the hum and bustle of the camp, the men sitting about carving their spears and throwing-sticks, the women chattering round the wurleys, the babies rolling on the ground and playing with the dogs, there was only desolation and silence. He approached one hut after another, and poked in a timid head, but he saw no one, and the stillness seemed almost terrible to him. Then, in a corner of one wurley he saw a rush-basket, and from it came a smell that would have been disgusting to anyone but a black, but was pure delight to Kur-bo-roo. His fear vanished as he seized upon the food and ate it ravenously.
He came out presently, his thin little body not nearly so hollow as before, and looked about him. The food had made him feel better, but he was terribly thirsty. And then he saw, with a little glad shout, that all about the camp were drinking-vessels, brimming with water—put down wherever their owners had happened to be when they had rushed away to the hunt. Kur-bo-roo did not know anything about that, of course; he only knew that here was water enough to make him forget that he had ever been thirsty. He ran eagerly to the nearest tarnuk and drank and drank until he could drink no more.
And with that drink, so the blacks say, a great change came upon little Kur-bo-roo.
Kur-bo-roo put down the tarnuk and stood upright, throwing his head back in sheer bodily happiness at once more having had enough to eat and drink. All his bruises and soreness had suddenly gone; he was no longer tired and lonely and unhappy, but strong and well and glad. How wonderfully strong he felt! A new feeling ran through all his body.
"I am stronger than anybody ever was before!" he said aloud. And he believed that it was true.
He glanced round the deserted camp. It was quiet now, but he felt sure that soon the blacks would come hurrying back. Perhaps they would be there in a moment: Kur-bo-roo listened, half dreading to hear the quick pad-pad of bare feet over the hard, baked ground. No sound came. But he knew that they would return: and then, what would await him?
His new strength seemed to burn him. He stretched his arms out, wondering at their hard muscles, although he felt that the drink had been Magic, and so he need not wonder at anything at all. Some good Spirit, perhaps sorry for lonely little boys, had evidently come to help him. Fear suddenly left him altogether, and with its going came a mighty desire for revenge. He did not know what he was going to do, but the new power that was in him urged him on.
A little tree grew in front of him. He began to gather up all the drinking-vessels, and, one by one, to hang them upon the boughs. There were very many, and it took a long time, but at last the task was completed, and not a tarnuk was left in the camp. He looked in the wurleys, and found many empty vessels, and these also he hung up in the tree. Then he took the biggest tarnuk of all, and a little tarnuk, and went down to the creek: and with the little tarnuk he filled the big one, dipping up all the water from the creek, until there was none left. There was much water, yet still the big tarnuk held it all, and only the mud of the creek-bed remained where the stream had been rippling past. Even as he looked, that grew dry and hard. Then Kur-bo-roo turned and carried his burden up the bank to his tree, and from the big tarnuk he filled all the empty ones. They held a great deal, and yet the big tarnuk remained quite full. For now there was Magic in everything that Kur-bo-roo touched.
He climbed up into the little tree and seated himself comfortably in a fork, where he could see everything, and yet lean back comfortably. A quiver ran through the tree, as if something far underground had shaken it; and suddenly it began to grow. It grew and grew, spreading wide arms to the sky, until it was as large as very many big trees all put together: and its trunk was tall and straight and very smooth. All the time, Kur-bo-roo sat in the fork and smiled.
When the tree had finished growing, he heard a sound of voices far below him, and, looking down, he saw the tribe hurrying back through the scrub to their camp. Their hunt had been unsuccessful, for all the kangaroo had got away into the country of another tribe, where they dared not follow: so they were returning, hungry and thirsty, and in a very bad temper, for they had not found any water in the places where they had been. They came angrily back to the camp, and from his seat in the fork of the great tree Kur-bo-roo looked down at them and smiled.
The blacks were far too thirsty to look up at any tree. They hurried to the wurleys. Then the first said, "Where is my tarnuk?" and another said, "Wah! my tarnuk has gone!" and a third, "Who has taken all our tarnuks?" They became very angry, and beat their wives because they could find no drinking-vessels and no water: then, becoming desperate because of their thirst, they hurried to the creek. And lo! the creek was dry! They came back from the creek, jabbering and afraid, believing that the Evil Spirits had done this wonderful thing. Presently one saw the big tree, and cried out in astonishment.
"Ky! What tree is that?" he exclaimed.
They gathered round, staring in amazement at the huge tree: and so they saw all their tarnuks hanging in its branches, and little Kur-bo-roo sitting smiling in the fork.
"Wah! is that you?" they called. "Have you any water?"
"Yes, here am I, and I have plenty of water," said Kur-bo-roo. "But I will not give you one drop, because you would give me none, although I died of thirst."
Some threatened him, and some begged of him, and the women and children wailed round the base of the tree. But Kur-bo-roo smiled down at them, and took no heed of all their anger and their crying. Then a couple of young men took their tomahawks of stone and began to climb the tree, although they were afraid, because it was so big. Still, thirst drove them, and so they came up the tree, cutting notches for their fingers and toes in the smooth trunk, and coming wonderfully quickly. But Kur-bo-roo laughed, and let fall a little water on them from a tarnuk; and as soon as the water touched them, they fell to the ground and were killed.
Again and again other men tried to climb the tree, becoming desperate with their own thirst and the crying of the women and children; but always they met the same fate. Always Kur-bo-roo smiled, and splashed a few drops of water upon them: only a drop on each of them, but as the drops touched them their hold loosened, the grip of their toes relaxed, and they fell from the great height, to meet their death on the ground below. So it went on until nearly all the men of the tribe were gone: and Kur-bo-roo sat in the fork of the tree and smiled.
And it still went on, all through the moonlit night. But in the dawn two men came back from hunting: Ta-jerr and Tarrn-nin, the sons of Pund-jel, Maker of Men. They were very cunning, as well as being very brave, and after they had taken counsel together, they began to climb the tree. But they did not climb as the other men had done, straight up the long line of the smooth trunk. Instead, they climbed round and round, as the clematis creeps when it throws its tendrils about a branch.
Kur-bo-rop laughed, just as he had laughed at the others, and waited until they had ascended to a great height. Then he took water, and let it fall—but the men were no longer in the same place, but on the other side, climbing round and round, and he missed them. Again and again he ran to get more, and poured it down; they were very quick, circling about the trunk, and always managed to escape the falling drops. They came to the place where the trunk forked, and swung themselves into the high boughs.
Then little Kur-bo-roo began to cry in a terrified voice. But they seized him, not heeding, and beat him until all his bones were broken, and then threw him down. The other blacks uttered a great shout of triumph, and ran to kill him.
But the Magic that had helped him came to the aid of little Kur-bo-roo once more, and so he did not die. Suddenly, just as the angry blacks were upon him, with uplifted waddies and threatening faces, he changed under their gaze; and where there had been a little black boy there lay for a moment a Native Bear, his grey fur bristling, and fear filling his soft eyes. Then, very swiftly, he gathered himself up and ran up a tree, until he was out of sight among the branches.
Just then the blacks were too thirsty to pursue him. Overhead, Ta-jerr and Tarrn-nin were cutting at the branches of the great tree that held the tarnuks; and all the water came out and flowed back to the creek, and again the creek became wide and clear, running swiftly in its bed so that there was drink for all. Then Ta-jerr and Tarrn-nin came down to the ground, and the tribe hailed them as heroes. But when they looked for little Kur-bo-roo, the Native Bear, he had fled into another tree, and had disappeared.
From that time, the Native Bears became food for the black people. But it is law that they must not break their bones when they kill them, nor must they take off their skin before they cook them. So they take them carefully, hitting them on the head; and they cook them by roasting them whole in an oven of stones, sunk in the ground. If the law were broken, Kur-bo-roo would again become powerful, the magic-men say; and the first thing he would do would be to dry up all the creeks.
Now, Kur-bo-roo lives near the creeks and water holes, so that if the people broke the law he might at once carry away the water. He is not very wise, because he was only quite a little boy before he became a Native Bear, and so had not much time to gain wisdom: but he is soft, and fat, and gentle, unless you interfere with him when he wants to climb a tree, and then he can scratch very hard with his sharp claws. All he can do is to climb, and he does not see very well in the daytime: therefore, he thinks that whatever he meets is a tree, and at once he tries to climb it. If the blacks throw things at him when he is sitting in the fork of a tree, he blinks down at them, and sometimes you might think he smiles. But if they climb his tree and come near to knock him down, he cries always, very terribly—just as he cried long ago, when he was Magic and Ta-jerr and Tarrn-nin climbed his great tree and threw him to the people far below.
CHAPTER I
Once there was a time when the blacks had no fire. They had not learned the way to make it by rubbing two sticks together; or if they had once known the way, they had forgotten it. And they were very miserable, for it was often cold and wintry, and they had no fire to warm them, nor any way of cooking food.
Fire had been theirs once. But there came two women upon the Earth; strange women, speaking in unknown tongues, with great eyes in which there was no fear. They did not love the blacks. They lived in their camps for a time, and built for themselves a wurley, coming and going as they pleased; but always there was hatred in their wild eyes, and the blacks feared them exceedingly. Because they feared them, although they hated them, they gave them food, and the women cooked it for themselves, for at that time the fire blossomed at the door of every hut.
But one day, the blacks awoke to find the women gone. They had gone in the night, silently, and with them they took all the fire that the blacks had. There was not even a coal left to start the hearth-blaze for the shivering people.
The fighting-men made haste to arm themselves, and started in pursuit of the women. They travelled through swamps and morasses, across boggy lands and creeks fringed with reeds and sedges; all the time seeing nothing of the women, but knowing that they were on the right track, by the faint smell of fire that still hung in the air. "They have gone this way, carrying Fire!" they said. "Soon we shall overtake them." And they pressed on, going faster and faster as the smell of burning wood became stronger and stronger.
At last they came out upon a little open space, and, looking across it, they saw a new wurley made of bushes interlaced with reeds. In front of it smoke curled up lazily, and they caught the gleam of red coals, and yellow flame. The two women sat by the fire, motionless. The fighting-men broke into a run, shouting: "Now we will make an end of these women!" they cried fiercely to each other, as they ran, gripping their spears and throwing-sticks.
The women sat by the fire taking no heed. So little did they seem to notice the running warriors that it seemed that they did not see them; or, if they did see them, they cared no more than for a line of black swans flying westward into the sunset. One stirred the fire gently, and laid across the red embers a dried stick of she-oak. The other weaved a mat of rushes in a curious device of green and white; and as she twisted them in and out, she smiled. Even when the long shout of the fighting-men sent its echoes rolling round the sky, they did not look up. The glow of the flames shone reflected deep in their eyes.
So the fighting-men came on, grim and relentless, burning with the anger of all their long chase and the hot desire for revenge. They tightened their grip on their waddies, since there was nothing to be gained by risking a throwing-stick or a spear when the enemy to be slain was only two women, weak and unarmed. For such defenceless creatures, a blow with a waddy would be sufficient. But, half a spear's cast from the wurley, something they could not see brought them to a sudden, gasping halt. It was as though a wall were there, soft and invisible, but yet a wall. They could not touch it to climb over it, neither could they force their way through. They struck at it, and it was as if their sticks struck the empty air. There was nothing to see but the wurley, and the fire, and the quiet women, and the air was clear and bright. But no step farther could they advance.
They circled about the camp, trying at every step to get nearer to the wurley. It was all to no purpose: always the wall met them, though they could not see it. So they came back to the point whence they had started, breathless, angry, and a little afraid. They were brave men, and used to battle, but it is easier to fight a visible enemy than one that lurks, unseen, in the air. It was Magic, and they knew it. Still, their anger burned furiously within them, and one lifted a spear tipped with poisoned bone, and flung it at the women. To see him lift his hand was enough for the band. A storm of spears went hurtling through the air.
For a few yards the spears flew straight and true. But then they stopped suddenly in mid-flight, as though an unseen wall had met them. For a moment they seemed to hang in the air, then they fell in a jangling heap among the tussocks. And beyond them, while the terrified warriors shrank together, gesticulating and trembling, the women laid more sticks upon the fire, and smiled.
The fighting-men were cunning, and they did not give in easily. Not only were they smarting with the fury of defeat, but the tale was not one they wished to carry back to the tribe, lest they should become a laughing-stock even to the women and young boys. So they drew off, thinking under cover of night to renew the attack in the hope that when the women slept their Magic would also sleep. So, when darkness had fallen, they crept up again, on noiseless feet. But the invisible wall was there, and they could find no gap in its circle; while, all the time, the fire burned redly before the wurley, and the women sat by it, feeding it, and weaving their mats of white and green.
At length the warriors became weak for want of food, and weary of the useless struggle; and so they gave up the fight and slowly made their way back, across swamp-land and morass, to the tribe that waited for them, shivering and fireless, in the shadow of the hills.
Great and bitter were the lamentations at the news of their defeat. They had been eagerly watched for; and when they came slowly back to the camp, trailing their spears, a long cry of angry disappointment rent the air. It was difficult to believe their story. Who could imagine a wall, strong enough to stop warriors, yet that could not be seen? So they found themselves coldly looked upon, and their wives said unpleasant things to them in their wurleys that night. Quite a number of wives had sore heads next morning—since it was easier to deal with a talkative wife by means of a waddy than by argument. But the wives had the last word, for all that, and the small boys of the tribe used to call jeering words at the disgraced warriors, from the safe concealment of a clump of dogwood, or fern. Meanwhile, there was no cooked food. The tribe was very far from being happy.
Then a band of young men, who were not picked warriors, but were anxious to distinguish themselves, made up their minds that they would go forth to find the Fire-Women and slay them, and bring back Fire to the tribe. They were very young men, and so they were confident that they could succeed where the warriors had failed; and for at least a week before they started they went about the camp telling every one how they meant to do it. When they were not doing this, or singing songs about the great deeds they meant to perform—and very queer songs they were—they were polishing their weapons and making new ones, and talking together, at a great rate, of their secret plans. When they were ready, at last, they painted themselves with as much pipe-clay as they were allowed to use, and gathered together to start.
"When we have killed the Fire-Women," they said to the tribe, "some of us will turn homewards and wait here and there along the way. Then the others will run with the fire-stick, and as they grow tired those that have gone ahead will take it and run very swiftly back to you. In three days the tribe will be cooking food with the fire which we shall bring. Then we shall get married and have wurleys and fires of our own."
All the blacks listened gravely, except the fighting-men who had not brought back anything at all. These men laughed a little, but no one took any notice of their laughter, because they had failed, and it is the way of the world not to think well of failures. The girls thought the band of young warriors wonderfully noble, and smiled upon them a great deal as they marched out of the camp. Of course, the boys were much too proud to smile back again—but then, the girls did not expect them to, and were quite content to do all the smiling. So the little band marched off with a great flourish, and the Bush swallowed them up.
"May they come back soon!" said one girl, as she and her companions dug for yams next day.
"Ay!" said the others. "We are weary of eating things which are not cooked."
"I am weary of being cold," said one. "There is but one 'possum rug in our wurley, and my father takes it always."
"There will be great feasting and joy when they bring Fire back," said another. "Perhaps some of us will be married, too." And they laughed and made fun of each other, after the fashion of girls of any colour.
But the three days had not past when the young men returned: and when they came, they sneaked back quietly into the camp and tried to look as if they had not gone at all. They had washed the pipe-clay from their bodies, and were all quite anxious to work very hard and make themselves exceedingly useful to the older men; nor were they at all anxious to talk. They gave severe blows to the young boys who clustered round them, clamouring for news, and told them to go and play. But when they were summoned before the leaders, they hung their heads and told the same story as the warriors. They had seen the Fire-Women, they said, and they still sat before their wurley and fed the fire; but the young men could not come near them, nor could any of their weapons reach them. And when they were wearied with much throwing, and their arms had grown stiff and sore, a great fear came suddenly upon them, and they turned and fled homeward through the scrub, never stopping until they came upon the huts they knew. Now they were very much ashamed, and the girls mocked at them, but the warriors shook their heads understandingly.
"To fight is no good," they said. "Unless the magic-men can tell us how to beat down the magic wall and conquer the Fire-Women, the tribe will go for ever without Fire. We are wonderfully brave, but we cannot fight witchcraft. Let the magic-men undertake the task, for indeed it is a thing beyond the power of simple men. But is it not for such matters that we keep the magic-men?"
Then all the tribe said, "Yes, that is what we have been thinking all along." And they looked expectantly at the magic-men, demanding that they should at once accomplish the business, without any further trouble. Every one became quite pleased and hopeful, except the magic-men themselves—andtheywere in a very bad temper, because they did not like the task.
Still they held their heads high, and made little of the matter, because to do anything else would have been imprudent: and they looked as wise as possible—a thing they had trained themselves to do, whether they knew anything about a matter or not. All kinds of wise men can do this, and it is a very handy habit, because it makes people think them even wiser than they are. They went away by themselves, with dreadful threats of what might happen if the people came near them—not that there was any need for them to take such precautions, for the blacks were much too terrified by them to venture near when they were working any kind of Magic.
A great deal of what the blacks called Magic would seem very stupid to you if you watched it now; but they all believed in it firmly, and even those who knew that they deceived others still thought that Magic was a real thing, and that it could be practised upon them. The magic-men shut themselves up for a time; and then they told the men that they had made themselves into crows, and had flown over to watch what the Fire-Women were doing. As all the tribe believed that, they could turn themselves into any animal they chose, and be invisible, nobody thought of doubting this. The magic-men then began to weave spells. They chopped the branches from a young she-oak tree, and cleared away grass and sticks in a circle round it. Then they sharpened the end of the trunk, and drew on the ground the figure of a woman, with the lopped tree growing out of her chest. Afterwards they rubbed themselves all over with charcoal and grease, and danced and sang songs round the tree for some days, expecting the Fire-Women to feel their Magic, so that they would have to rise from their camp and walk, as if in a sleep, to the place of the dance. But the women did not come, and so the magic-men told themselves that they were not yet strong enough. Meanwhile, the tribe clustered some distance off, very frightened and respectful, and also very cold.
"They rubbed themselves all over with charcoal and grease, and danced and sang songs round the tree.""They rubbed themselves all over with charcoal and grease,and danced and sang songs round the tree."
The magic-men tried other plans, although they were much hampered because many of their spells needed the use of Fire, and there was none to be had. They tried to kill the women by pointing magic things in the direction of their camp, such as bones, and pieces of quartz-crystal, which were believed to be very deadly; and, going to their old wurley, they put sharp fragments of bone in any footprints they could find, thinking that the women would fall ill and become very lame, and so lose their power. But nothing happened. So they sent one of their number secretly through the Bush, and he returned to tell them that the women were well and unharmed, and that the invisible wall about their camp was just as strong as ever.
Then the magic-men knew that they could do no more. They told the people that the only spells that would conquer the Fire-Women were spells in which Fire formed a part; and until they could bring them Fire, they must not expect to be freed from the power of the women. The tribe did not like this, and much lamentation went up; but they were much too afraid of the magic-men to object openly to anything they did.
CHAPTER II
At this time there lived in the tribe a man called Wurip.
He was not a lucky man. Once, in a big tribal fight, most of his relations had been killed; and when he was still quite a young man, his wife died of a mysterious sickness, before they had been married very long. Then, one night, he tripped and fell into a big fire, burning himself terribly. He got better, but his left arm and hand were quite twisted and withered, and were of very little use to him.
Had he been a different kind of man, it is not unlikely that he would have been killed by the tribe, for the blacks had no use for maimed or deformed persons. But Wurip was strong, apart from his twisted arm; and also he had a way of muttering to himself that rather frightened people. It was only a habit, but the blacks were always afraid of what they could not understand. So they left him alone.
He lived in a little wurley by himself, and though he was lonely, and would have liked to take another wife, he knew that no girl would want a man whose arm and hand were not like those of other men. So he did not try to get married, and gradually he became very solitary. He thought the other men disliked him, and he would go away by himself on hunting expeditions, and wander through the scrub alone. Although he was half a cripple, he soon learned to know the Bush more thoroughly than any man in the tribe, and he trained his shrivelled arm to do a great deal, although at first it had seemed that it must be useless for ever. The other blacks at first gave him nick-names about his arm, but he did not like them, and his eyes were so fierce that they did not let him hear them any more, and to his face only called him by his own name, Wurip, which means "a little bird."
Now, Wurip loved his tribe. He had no special friends in it, which was partly his own fault, for he had grown very unsociable, but he was proud of the tribe itself, because it was brave and owned good country, and had been successful in many fights. It made him sore at heart to see it suffering from the want of Fire, and also it hurt his pride that it should have been beaten by women. So he made up his mind that he would try to recover Fire from the wicked Fire-Women. He thought about it for a long time, and laid his plans very carefully.
One day he left the camp, carrying no weapons, but only a single waddy. The other blacks said to him:
"Where are you going?"
Wurip said, "I go to try to get Fire back."
"You!" they said. "A little man, and crippled! That is very funny." And all the people laughed at him.
Wurip hesitated, and a gleam came into his eyes, so quick and fierce that those who had laughed shrank back. Then he turned on his heel and walked off into the scrub, and the blacks said, "Let him go. He is mad, and he will most likely be killed; and it really does not matter. He is not much use."
Into the wild Bush Wurip went, taking short noiseless strides. He was a little man, but he had the quick movements of many little men, and at all times he could move rapidly through the Bush, scarcely making a sound as he went.
He passed through the scrub, and came to boggy lands and morasses; his light feet carried him over swamps and across creeks fringed with reeds and sedges. Then he saw a light curl of smoke going lazily skywards, and at the sight his heart gave a leap, for it was long since he had seen Fire.
Until then he had travelled very quickly. But now he slackened his speed and went slowly across the plain towards the Fire-Women's camp. As he drew near he could see them, sitting in front of the wurley and weaving their rushes. They did not look up as he came, and he advanced so near them that he began to think that the magic wall could be there no longer. Just as he was wondering if this were indeed true, one of the Fire-Women glanced up and saw him; and almost immediately Wurip felt some invisible object blocking his way, and knew he could go no farther.
He stopped, and burst out laughing, and at the sound of his merriment the other Fire-Woman glanced up sharply from her weaving, and the first one paused, with a stick of she-oak wood in her hand, and looked at him in blank astonishment. So silent was the place that Wurip's shout of laughter echoed like a thunderclap. The Fire-Women looked at the little black figure standing among the harsh tussocks of swamp-grass, and he waved to them with his withered arm. But they took no further notice, going on scornfully with their work.
Wurip had expected nothing else, and he was not discouraged. He began collecting sticks and brushwood for a wurley, singing as he went about his work, in full view of the two women. He made no further attempt to get through the invisible wall. There was not much timber about, and to find suitable material for his wurley was a difficult task. He walked slowly, using his crippled arm very little, because he hoped that the women would be less careful about him if they regarded him as a one-armed man. Sometimes he felt that they were looking at him, and then he would work with particular awkwardness. Always, however, he sang, and went about with a merry countenance, as if he had not a single care in the world.
He built his wurley and went off into the swamp to hunt, returning with some lizards and grubs, and a duck that he had caught just as it settled on a sedgy pool. Standing a little way back from the wall, he called out and threw the duck towards the fire where the women sat. But it fell before it reached them, meeting the unseen obstacle.
"What a pity—it is for you!" called Wurip, slowly, so that they could hear easily. "It is a fat duck." And saying this he laughed again, and went into his wurley, where he ate his supper contentedly—although it was not cooked—and went to sleep.
In the morning, the women were sitting as before. But the duck had gone, and, looking closely across the little space, Wurip saw that there were feathers lying about near their fire. Also there was a pleasant smell of cooking in the air. This gladdened his heart, for it showed that the women did not mind making him useful, and that was exactly what he wanted.
So the days went by, and Wurip lived in his wurley, and the women in theirs. He never saw them away from it. Neither did he try any more to go near it. From time to time he made them friendly signals, or called cheerful greetings to them, but that was all. Each day he went hunting, and good luck always attended him, because it was the time when waterfowl are plentiful, and as no others hunted there, the birds were not afraid. It was quite easy to fill the bag he had made out of rushes. And each evening he put the best of the game on a big stone some distance from his wurley, and in the morning it was always gone.
This went on for fourteen days. When he was not hunting, Wurip lay about his camp, always singing contentedly as he carved himself boomerangs or whittled heads for throwing-spears that he never used. Once he carved a bowl from a root that he found, and this also he put on the stone, for the Fire-Women, and they took it. He gathered bundles of the rushes that women of the tribes use in weaving, and left them too. So that he became very useful to them, although he had never heard their voices.
Then, after fourteen days, Wurip pretended that he had fallen sick. He did not go out hunting any more, neither did he place offerings upon the big stone. In his wurley he had hidden sufficient food for himself to last him for several days, but he did not let the Fire-Women see him eating. Instead, he crawled out, dragging himself along the ground, and cried out, sorrowfully, waving his withered arm to them. He crawled back into his wurley and ate and slept; but they did not come, as he had hoped they would.
Next day he did not go out into the open at all. He kept close within his wurley, and all the exercise he took was to groan very mournfully. He groaned nearly all day, and by the time it was evening he was more tired than if he had hunted for three days. Because he was tired he ate nearly all that remained of his food, after which he felt discouraged, for he realized that it would soon be necessary to go out hunting again, and he wanted to seem ill. So he groaned more loudly than ever, and once or twice cried out as if in pain. Then he fell asleep.
The Fire-Women were fierce creatures, but still they were women. It troubled them that this crippled little blackfellow should be ill, too ill to bring them gifts or to busy himself, singing and laughing about his camp. To sit over a fire and weave mats of white and green may, in time, become dull; and it cheered the women to see Wurip and listen to his songs. When he did not appear they took counsel together, agreeing that so small a fellow, with a withered arm, could not be dangerous.
So, in the morning, Wurip heard steps, and opening his eyes, he saw one of the women entering his wurley. He almost jumped up; then, remembering, he groaned heavily, and looked at her with a stupid stare. She spoke to him, asking what was the matter, but he only moaned in answer. So she picked him up—it was not difficult, for she was very powerful, and Wurip was quite light—and carried him over to where her sister sat. There seemed to be no invisible wall now: the Fire-Woman walked to the fire, and put Wurip down before it. He nearly shouted, it was so long since he had been near a fire: but, luckily, he remembered to turn the shout into a groan.
For some days Wurip pretended to be very ill, and the Fire-Women nursed him—not in the harsh fashion of the medicine-men, but in gentler manner, feeding him, and giving him a comfortable bed to lie on. Wurip was only too glad to lie still and be fed, and it was not hard for him to pretend to be ill, because, being black, he was not required to look pale. Moreover, to taste cooked food once more nearly made him weep with joy. He was very grateful to the Fire-Women, and told them that he was an outcast from the tribe, because of his crippled arm, and he begged that, when he grew better, they would allow him to serve them.
The Fire-Women were not sorry to have a servant. Getting food and firewood was not very entertaining for them, and the gathering of rushes was a long and laborious task, which they hated. There could, they thought, be no risk in taking so harmless a person as Wurip to work for them. Still, they were stern with him. They told him that when he was well he must live in his own wurley and only come near theirs when it was necessary. Also, they assured him that if he were unfaithful to them their Magic would strike him dead immediately. This made Wurip think very hard, for he did not want to meet such an unpleasant fate, although he was quite determined to take Fire back to his tribe.
He showed great horror at the idea of being unfaithful, and when he thought it was prudent to get better he recovered his strength—not too quickly, for it was very pleasant to be nursed—and then began his duties. The Fire-Women found him an excellent servant. He was always at hand when he was wanted, and he did his work well. There was plenty of food at all times, and very long fine rushes that he found when he was hunting far from the camp. Wood he brought also, but the Fire-Women would never allow him to go near the fire. He laid the sticks at a little distance away: and they tended the fire and cooked the food, giving him a share. Altogether, they were very happy and comfortable, and if he had been able to forget the shivering tribe, Wurip would have been content. Although he was only a servant, he was less lonely than he had been in the company of the other blacks. The Fire-Women were stern with him, but they never made him remember that his arm was crippled—and when he had been with the tribe he could not forget for an instant that he was different to the others.
Sometimes in the evenings, as he lay in his wurley, the thought came to him that it would be better to forget the tribe and stay with the Fire-Women. After all, they were good to him in their fierce fashion, and he remembered that he had very little to look forward to, in returning to the big camp. Even if he took back the long-lost Fire, they might be grateful to him for a little while, but he would never be as the other men were.
And then Memory would come to him, bringing back pictures of the tribe, half starved and shivering; of the little children who were dying for want of proper food and warmth, and of the cold hearth-stones of his people. However they might treat him, he could not forget that they were his own people. He knew that he must go back to them.
CHAPTER III
Wurip lay on his back in the shade of a golden wattle and listened idly to the Bush voices talking round him. He heard far more than you would ever hear—voices of whispering leaves and boughs, of rustling grass, and softly-moving bodies. Not a grasshopper could brush through a tussock but Wurip knew that it had passed. Overhead, birds were twittering gaily in the branches. He knew them all—had he been hungry he might have wanted to set snares for some of the little chirping things, but just then he was too well-fed and lazy to trouble about such tiny morsels. He bit long grass-stems lazily, and tried to sleep.
A pair of jays flew into a tree close by, and began to chatter to each other, and suddenly Wurip found that he knew what they were saying. Somehow, it did not seem surprising that he should know. Afterwards he wondered if he had dreamed it, but at the moment nothing was strange to him. The jays, eager and chattering, did not notice the little black figure in the grass. They were too full of their subject.
"The Fire-Women have nearly finished their weaving," said one. "Soon the last mat will be done. They have worked very quickly since Wurip brought them rushes."
"And then they will go away," said the other.
"Yes, then they will go quite away, and there will be no more Fire for ever. He-he! what would the tribe say!"
"And Wurip!"
"Yes, Wurip also. What will he do when they have gone?"
"He will go back to his people, I suppose. He cannot go with the Fire-Women. I think, brother," said the smaller jay, "that they mean to sail away on their mats to another country, taking Fire with them."
"Certainly they mean to go, and to take Fire with them; did we not hear them talking about it while we perched on their wurley?" said the other. "As for sailing away on their mats, I do not see now that can be. Mats are not like wings. You are a foolish young bird."
"Well, why do they make them so strong and large, and how else will they get away?" asked the other, looking down his beak in an abashed way, out still sticking to his point. "You cannot tell me those things."
"I do not care to know," said the big jay; and that was untrue, because jays are very inquisitive. "What does it matter? They are only humans. But wonder what Wurip would say, if he knew."
"Wurip thinks he will take Fire back to the tribe. But I do not think he will ever get it. The Fire-Women watch him too closely—and anyhow, he is only a little cripple."
"He would be excited if he knew what we heard them say—that if they lost any of it now, all the rest would go out, and then their power would leave them, so that they could work no more Magic."
"He-he-he!" chattered the other jay. "But he will never know that. They do not talk when he is near."
"No, they are wise. It is a very foolish thing to talk," said his brother solemnly. Yet they chattered for a little while longer, and then they flew away.
Wurip lay motionless under the wattle-tree, and forgot to bite grass-stems any more. He was not sure whether he was awake or dreaming; and he did not greatly care, because he felt that the warning that had come to him was true, whether he had dreamed it or not.
It fitted in with little things he had noticed. Lately the Fire-Women had been very busy at their weaving, working night and day, so that he could hardly bring them rushes quickly enough. A great pile of mats lay ready in a corner of their wurley, and now they were working together at the largest of all. They had seemed restless and excited, too, and talked earnestly together, although they were careful not to let him hear anything, and never to let him go near the fire. Not that they seemed to fear now that he would try to approach it. Wurip had been very careful, never even glancing towards it as he worked about the camp. He was allowed to place his firewood at a certain spot, and took great pains not to go beyond it. In every way in his power he used to try to make them think that he was afraid of Fire and dreaded to go too close to it since he had burned his arm. By this means he seemed to have put their suspicions to sleep, and they regarded him as a harmless little fellow, of whom they need have no fear.
He made his way back to the camp, slowly, thinking hard. If the Fire-Women were really going away, he must act, and act quickly. At any time they might finish their work; and then they would disappear for ever, and there would be no more Fire to warm the people of the earth. Wurip drew up his thin little body as he walked, and clenched his fist. He made up his mind that he would act that very night.
He found the camp just as usual, with the Fire-Women working at their greatest mat of all, weaving it in and out in a curious device of green and white. One held the white strands, and the other the green; and their black hands worked so quickly that Wurip could scarcely see to which woman they belonged. He looked at it with great admiration, and ventured a timid word of praise. Then he went a little way off and began to skin the native cats and bandicoots that he had brought home.
When he had prepared them for cooking, he laid them carefully on crossed sticks and put them in a shady corner. It was growing dusk, and he hurried off to find firewood. All the time, he was turning many plans over and over in his mind, and rejecting one after another as useless. Well, he thought, he must trust to luck.
He came back to the camp with his bundle of wood, and began to heap it in the accustomed place, keeping a respectful distance from the Fire, and bending down his eyes, lest their burning desire should be seen. Already the sun had gone away over the edge of the world, and darkness was coming fast. The Fire-Women had been forced to stop weaving, for the pattern of the great mat was too fine to weave by firelight. Generally, when they had finished, one carried the work into the wurley while the other remained outside to watch Wurip and begin the cooking. But the great mat was now too heavy for one to lift, and so they rolled it up, and carried it away together.
Wurip, crouching over his heap of firewood, felt his body suddenly stiffened like a steel spring. Under his brows he watched them; and as the wurley hid them, he darted forward, snatched a big fire-stick from the glowing coals, and fled, with great noiseless bounds that carried him in a moment far into the dusk. Behind him he heard a sudden loud anguished cry, and knew that the Fire-Women had found out his theft.
For a moment he feared that the magic wall would spring up to bar his way, and he ran as he had never run before. But it did not come; and into his mind swept the words of the jay, that if Fire were taken from the Women, they would lose their power of Magic. He hardly dared to think that could be so—but as he ran on, finding no unseen obstacle in his way, hope surged over him. Magic was a thing against which no man could fight. But if he had only ordinary women to deal with, he was not afraid.