The Undying. Mudrooroo
TWO
A ceremony often started with a feeling of sadness for those who were no longer with us, and so it was this night. My brother Augustus was almost a visual presence in my mind, and I knew that we all were remembering Wawilak and his didgeridoo whose soaring notes would quickly have lifted us above the realm of grief and sadness and into that of joyful participation. Now memories of those days of exile on the island came to plague us and our present position added to our melancholy. We were strangers in a strange land which was only a way stop in our voyage. We moped on until the sharp crackcrack of Jangamuttuk’s clapsticks sounded out in an effort to push such thoughts away.
The rap-rap, rap-rap of the Master of the Ghost Dreaming’s clapsticks called forth the dancers. Eight of our men took up positions next to the women. The men had discarded their ragged ghost clothing and were naked except for the incised pubic shell with designs which once had signified the strong clans of our people. But many clans were not represented now and of the few remaining most had only one or two members. So many of our clans had become extinct or teetered on the edge of extinction, but Jangamuttuk had carefully kept the emblems of these clans and carried them aboard the schooner. Now they were piled beside him, symbolising that they still existed in the Dreaming state. The women, at Fada’s constant haranguing – ‘You must become civilised; you must keep on your clothing’ – had discovered nakedness and shame. Thus they kept on their long Mother Hubbard mission skirts, but were bare above the waist. Their skins had been painted in a lattice work of white lines, which signified a bodice, and even a necklace had been fashioned around their necks with a pearl between their breasts. Three white rows of dots flowed dripping down to the three cicatrices of womanhood which passed across their cleavages. To complete the costume leafy twigs had been plaited into their hair which had been roughly modelled to resemble ghost female hats.
The men had their hair piled up around a piece of wood or tightly rolled-up cloth to signify the shako of a ghost soldier and their bodies were covered with red and white colours in the fashion of the red army jacket. One had the chevrons of a sergeant painted on his arm and others even had buttons and pockets fashioned on their chests.
Jangamuttuk, Master of the Ghost Dreaming and master of ceremonies, was resplendent in the symbols of the ghost civilian clothing Fada had worn when superintendent of the mission. A crosshatched design of red and white encircled his neck and below this were painted the broad lapels of a frock coat from the vee of which the top of a waistcoat peeped out. His legs, as were the legs of the dancers, were painted white with a circular design at the knee.
Now the Master of the Ghost Dreaming held his clapsticks up to his mouth and whispered to them, then began a rhythm which, in previous versions of the ceremony, had been taken up by Wawilak and the other didgeridoo players giving it volume and substance. Without them, the rhythm was lacking in force. The male and female dancers began a reel as Jangamuttuk began to sing in the ghost language.
They made of me
A ghost down under,
Made for me
A place to plunder,
A place to plunder,
Way down under.
And so the public and truncated version of our ceremony continued. We were performing it as a gift from guests. At our own closed performances, it had eventually wandered into a shamanistic trance in which all participated in the Dreaming. This was not to happen here and it might have been a tame affair if Jangamuttuk had not devised a dramatic ending. He had daubed my body all over with charcoal and whitened my face, hands and feet with pipeclay, then had ordered me to remain hidden at the edge of the clearing in which we were performing. My father now cracked his sticks furiously and began a rushed chant playing on the ghost words:
Under, plunder, thunder;
Way may, nay stay;
Down town under;
Ghost, ghost under;
Slam, clam ram blam.
This was my signal to enter the clearing, high stepping to a rat-a-tat marching beat. I marked time before the central fire, then broke my step as the rhythm increased in tempo. Charging in turn at each of the four corner fires which illuminate the clearing, I shouted, ‘Stay, stay, heathen’. Then I rushed in among the dancers, disrupting their stately pattern. They ran hither and thither to avoid my groping hands. Jangamuttuk slowed the rhythm, and now the dancers began a stamping dance around me, coming closer and closer until they were pressing against me. They moved in and hid me from the sight of the audience. The rhythm changed again and they moved out. There was a mutter from the mainlander mob. I had vanished. Where I had been cowering under the onslaught was nothing but smooth earth. This clever finale my father had planned in advance. Before the dance he had ordered a pit to be dug, which was then roofed with boughs and bark and covered over with earth. A small opening had been left unstrengthened, through which I could wriggle while the dancers hid me from sight, which they then covered up. I stayed within the hole until the ceremony was over and the ground was deserted. I then emerged, filled in the pit so that no sign of it remained and slipped back to our mob.
The local blackfellows were impressed with our ceremony, though we knew that without didgeridoo players and with our lessened numbers it was but a pallid thing. Still, Waai was much taken with the ghost songs and wanted to give Jangamuttuk others in exchange. He said that as they had enjoyed our ceremony so much, his mob would stage a ceremony for us the next night. ‘It is one which has come down from the north and is for everyone to see. In fact we were told to perform it often as it would help to alleviate what is happening up there,’ he informed Jangamuttuk and then explained its importance. ‘With it came the message that a catastrophe was happening in that the poles which hold up the sky were rotting and needed to be replaced. We were urged to send stone axes so that new poles could be fashioned. We sent these, but since then have heard nothing further and as the sky is still up there and has not fallen to crush us, this must mean that the poles have been replaced. But these are only the northern ones and I have wondered if the same thing is happening to the southern ones. It might be interesting to live under a tilted sky, but perhaps not. Are they still firmly standing?’
‘As firmly as they can be in these times,’ Jangamuttuk replied. ‘I myself conducted some of the last ceremonies to keep them upright and hard as stone. They are like crags and should remain standing for a very long time. Our problem was different. A hole in the sky developed through which came a horde of ghosts. Our ceremony was to repair the damage and prevent more coming through. Still, it may have been too late and the hole may be becoming larger and larger, letting through the ghosts in countless multitudes.’
‘The times are indeed rough,’ Waai agreed, ‘and we shamans must struggle to return it to its original smoothness. At least the poles remain upright down there where it is, I have heard, very cold. They must be frozen solid and as hard as stone, and thus free of rot and insects. It is not like that far to the north where the rain falls all summer long and termites build large camps covering acres of land. But it seems that the poles have been replaced and so this ceremony was very efficacious in driving away the inimical forces which threatened them.’
My father, the ritual master of our mob, was always eager to see and trade old ceremonies for new ones. He had collected in his mind hundreds of songs and rituals, and these songs I sing are from him. He taught them to me. His songlines were sung until he passed over, and it was then that I began to add verses of my own. So it is understandable that he was eager to add this one to his collection. ‘It is right,’ he said to Waai, ‘that I receive this ceremony. When one enters a new land, one needs to be able to sound out its hidden rhythms and sing its melodies.’
‘That is so,’ Waai replied, ‘though this one is not from here but, as I’ve said, comes from the far north where the seasons and vegetation are different and the land is not as it is here. We have our own and these can only be passed on to fellow shamans. There is one which ...’ He broke off, looked at me and asked as if I was not there, ‘And how is this boy? Is he ready yet, for there seems something about him?’
My father stared at me and shrugged. ‘He is one of us, though perhaps too much a dreamer. He might