Black And White Dreaming
Newcastle Herald
Tuesday January 1, 2002
Black Feather White Feather Paul F Walsh Elephant Press 158 pages rrp $20 (incl GST)
MY new novel Black Feather White Feather is dedicated to Uncle Bob Smith, Aboriginal Elder, custodian of stories. Uncle Bob has recently left this world to join the spirit world. This is not to suggest that the two worlds do not coexist. It is said of one of the characters in the novel: `It gave him pleasure to read aloud to the currawongs and kookaburras in the surrounding bush. And he reckoned the old people were still there listening as well.'
A large group of volunteer tree planters recently stood for a minute's silence in memory of Uncle Bob Smith. We stood at the Serpent's Head within the Yallarwah Memorial in the bushland at John Hunter Hospital. We stood to welcome the spirit of Uncle Bob Smith into a site of black and white dreaming. And just as we stood, a gust of wind swirled around the Serpent's Head and caused the leaves in the canopy above to chatter. It was a special moment for a special man.
Uncle Bob Smith walked and talked unity everywhere he went. Perhaps the leaves above us were chattering a reminder. Uncle Bob was a unifying bridge within the Aboriginal community and a unifying bridge between the Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal communities. He still is.
Uncle Bob harboured a dream for many years that a Relatives Accommodation Centre for Aboriginal people would be founded in close proximity to John Hunter Hospital. When his black dreaming met my white Novocastrian Tales dreaming Yallarwah Place became a reality. But not before thousands of Novocastrians embraced this black and white dreaming by purchasing the book. The proceeds from Novocastrian Tales were the catalyst that funded the Yallarwah Memorial, inclusive of the Accommodation Centre and the surrounding bushland. Yallarwah is believed to be the first united indigenous/non-indigenous memorial in Australia. In keeping with black and white dreaming, non-Aboriginal people are welcomed at Yallarwah Place in time of need.
Uncle Bob Smith was the first person to walk onto the boomerang-shaped concrete slab that now forms the floor of the Accommodation Centre. I can still see the joy in his eyes at his dream transforming into reality. The Hunter community is called upon to honour this dream. Hunter Health in particular is called upon to honour this dream. Perhaps honour is a bridge between the spirit world and the world as we know it.
I created Black Feather White Feather to honour the black and white dreaming that created Yallarwah Place. There is a black and white dream that the bushland memorial at Yallarwah will become a communal rest area for all users of John Hunter Hospital; a special place to escape the stress and heartbreak that may accompany the illness of a loved one. Proceeds from sales of the limited first edition of Black Feather White Feather are being put towards the realisation of this black and white dream.
Black Feather White Feather is an adventurous tale of soldiers and warriors; of peacemakers and warmongers; of tolerance and racism. It is perhaps what Uncle Bob Smith would have called a good yarn.
Spirit of Christmas I KNOW not what sign caused Paganninny to veer off the footpad and onto the bank of the watercourse. These savages have ways of knowing things in the bush that no white man can comprehend. Alec and I followed him nevertheless and our faith was not misplaced. Presently we arrived at the spot we sought, four gruelling upward miles from our hut by my rough reckoning. There was a circular clearing within a circle of trees. I lit a firebrand to survey the area. The trees along the circle were decorated with carved animals as indeed were other trees along our approach. I asked Paganninny what manner of paganism took place here for it was obvious that evil lurked in the darkness. He simply pointed once more to his empty tooth socket. I could get no sense from him. And then I spied the largest of the trees on the rim of the circle.
It was a cedar and the notches were cut just as Paganninny had described for the supposed passage of an evil spirit. I shivered not from the cold wind. I ordered Alec and our sable companion to prepare a fine Christmas tree for the blacks of the Coal River. Within two hours this unlikely pair of navvies had built a bonfire around the base of the cedar by piling bark and dead wood. I had ordered Alec to join me in taking an axe to strip the bark from those idolatrous trees that made gods of beasts, for so the carved figures seemed to me. These beasts could burn in eternal fire along with the greatest beast of all.
I had Alec deepen the lower notches on the cedar with more than a few stout blows of his axe. And then we seeded this staircase of the evil spirit with gunpowder and more than a little spirit of another kind. We also poured spirit on the bonfire for good measure. Two elements hastened our workmanship. It would not do if the light of dawn should spoil the view for our black brethren near the harbour. This flaming tree would best be seen in the very darkness of which they were so afeared. And then they would most admirably learn of the consequence of burning the flag that brings majesty to us all.
The second element that spurred our efforts was the weather. Lightning flickered in the sky and the rumble of thunder threatened my resolve. I feared the coming gale would prevent us from lighting the pyre that would honour the memory of Martin Luther, may God rest his Germanic soul. But my fears evaporated as I threw the firebrand from a distance and consigned the cedar to an immediate whoosh of spirit-fuelled flames. Such was my joy that I ordered Alec to keep watch while I succumbed to the ways of the savage. I performed my own kangaroo dance in mighty fine style holding my musket in the manner of the beast's tail.
Alec was a failure in all things. I am reminded now of how our Lord and Saviour beseeched the apostles to keep watch in the Garden of his torment with similar results. I doubt that Alec fell asleep in the bright glare of the flames but he was most certainly inattentive to his duties as a soldier on picket. The first spear took him in the throat. It pinned him to a tree that had recently displayed the graven image of a wombat. The second spear transfixed his ample stomach with deadly result. I have no doubt that he met his maker in that moment but at the time it was all I could do to save myself. I could do nothing for him.
I twisted my kangaroo crouch into that of a hunter and my tail became a musket once more. I spied the attacker attempting to place a third spear into his woomera. He was standing in the deeper shadows on the edge of the fire-lit circle. I brought my musket to bear upon him. And then I spied a curious sight out of the corner of my eye. Paganninny was holding his spyglass in one hand attempting to reflect the light of the fire into the attacker's eyes. He may have succeeded for the warrior glanced in his direction. And at that moment Paganninny threw his boomerang. Its wild shadowy passage caused all three of us to duck low, more afraid of its madness than of each other. It disappeared into the bush without drawing blood. The warrior ignored Paganninny, perhaps sensing that I was the greater danger. He drew back his woomera to hurl the third spear. It was a desperate moment. I aimed my musket for a kill shot to the head.
Copyright Paul F Walsh 2001 by courtesy of Tusk Productions. ?cf,hen,9,9.5 Tomorrow: Taken to another place and time. A second extract from Black Feather White Feather available nationally through ABC Shops and regionally through ABC Shop Charlestown Square, Pepperina Books Newcastle and MacLEAN'S Booksellers Hamilton.
© 2002 Newcastle Herald