The Fethafoot Chronicles: Pale n Hora Nigrum: Pale Death At the Black Line

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Prologue

Uluru, Central Australia

An eerie burst of luminous radiance lit up the desert night sky around the red-rock monolith near to the center of our great southern land: a large exacting continent celebrated by its resilient inhabitants as the great rock’s namesake. This ancient stalwart was a natural monument of such majesty and size that the great expanse of land surrounding it was known to its native people and northern trade neighbors, simply as: Heart-rock Land.

The extraordinary light show above the massive landform transformed rock, sand and stunted trees around it into a weird silvery-blue hue that had warriors, women; young and old alike transfixed, as they gazed uneasily at the eerie light that flickered across their bodies and over the alien-like landscape; that only yesterday had been their familiar comfortable homeland.

Before the people there could react at all, an awful turbulent wind rose up – a live thing, overflowing with dry whispering ancient voices, deep rumblings and unfamiliar shrieking animal calls. It blew hard over the Heart-rock and surrounding lands. It blustered and roared with a wretched might on and on through that night, forcing curious heads under cover and out of the biting blinding sand-dust that accompanied it.

It was not until morning that their ancient land reverted to the accustomed sounds and colors – although, the eerie night had set off the first sightings of quiet solemn warriors appearing across their sacred lands. How they came to be there was unknown, and this in itself caused rumor fear excitement and speculation among the local clans and tribes. Several of the usually level-headed locals, alleged that the strange warriors had arrived flying on totem animal spirits; on that same night that the Heart-rock lit up, while others swore that a sizzling-blue flame had announced their individual arrivals since that night: for these affected Clans-people of the Heart-rock and surrounds, used to routine and consistency, life slowed to crawl as their dry dusty ordered life disappeared daily with the mysterious and placid arrivals.

When the elders’ were asked, their thoughts went to that night of the unnatural light show, and the awful moaning wind that had kept everyone inside – and prevented anyone from seeing anything. They knew only that something had changed that night – and for better or worse was yet to be decided. The one thing both elders and all rumor and gossip agreed on was that there were several warrior strangers on their land; and none of these mysterious men and women warriors had arrived by conventional means. The surrounding tribes had not noticed strangers or visitors moving across their lands, but since that night, reports of the enigmatic warrior numbers grew daily…

The ghosts are coming

Currently, there was a sense of anxious anticipation in the air, as though the wind from that strange night had brought with it a portent of misfortune, blown deep into every conscious mind it touched, throughout the whole of the dry Anangu and Pitjantjatjara desert people’s lands. Many of the aged, well-travelled and thoughtful minds had reasoned that the silent dignified warriors were indeed, warriors of the dreaded and little known Fethafoot. These well-respected white-hairs also said they believed now that for the first time in known history, the mysterious Clan - including several of their ancient elders - had come together at the sacred beating heart of their land – to work out a plan of defense against the Ghost-people invasion that was occurring everywhere around their huge Heart-rock coastline.

Recent travellers and storytellers – those with permissions to cross over all the various parts of the Dreaming stories and lands of Heart-rock – had been carrying tales of Ghost-people sightings and landings for several seasons now. Although it was still quiet at the center of this, their land, awareness of anything unique or out of the ordinary seemed to blow around their country: ‘almost as fast as the great winds that blew from north to south and from east to west’, it was said. The wily Anangu and Pitjantjatjara desert people already known that there were violent and powerful Ghost-people invading their coastal lands. Now, one of the new arrivals – an elder, white-hair Fethafoot, had explained to the local elders that this gathering was for all their people’s continuing survival: as even these arid lands would be no impediment to the land and water-hungry hordes of the arrogant Ghost-people from far across the seas.

The same elder explained that the throngs of sea-faring Ghost-people - whose irrepressible arrival and subsequent spread had been foretold since ancient times - had finally arrived on their shores. He said various renowned Fethafoot, along with several unknown and unnamed bony wizened elders, had begun arriving at the sacred heart of their country, to do what they did best: ensure the survival of language, custom and law that in turn, ensured the survival of the Heart-rock people. This information was quickly spread near and wide and suddenly, the former mild fear of the unknown transformed into the much more solid tangible fear of the coming invader.

Over the next few days, those very same Heart-rock winds that blew in sand from every direction during a season, began to play their small part it seemed. Nightmarish stories of awful pale-skinned beings that took what they wished and gave no quarter in return - for any who stood in their way - blew in from the east and from southern Dreaming lands. Many full Tribes had already been decimated: men women and children sent violently to their Dreaming without custom or respect; bodies left to rot where they fell around the seasonal camp. This nightmare, the wind messages sighed mournfully, visited wherever the Ghost-ships landed and settled and, it was whispered: whether the local Heart-rock people fought against them or not.

Members of the infamous clan began to gather at the base of the Heart-rock, directly under the gigantic warrior head that the local stories told: had been carved into the rock by the Rainbow Serpent, to remind the people to always maintain the links between the Dreaming and The Mother. Countrywide representatives of the furtive clan now met openly for the first time in their known history.

One of the warriors, a Murri Fethafoot called Gyor-bun, from the eastern coast of Heart-rock land, had been sent to this unique meeting by his elder mentor, old Nyulang of the Goreng-Goreng Gooris, who had told him that his talents would be needed, and to follow the elder leader of the clan’s instructions implicitly.

As Gyor-bun looked around, he saw that his powerful secretive clan had sent representatives here to this rare meeting, from every Dreaming region in his large country. There were other Murris from his own large area of custodianship on the east coast. There were Kooris from the south, Nyoongar and Yorta Yorta mob. There were desert Anangu, together with Bama warriors from the rainforests at the far northern region of his own beloved lands. He saw Wangai, Yolngu, even islander warrior magicians from the Mer’ Islands here, each representing their clan area…

Meeting of minds

A short number of suns after the amazing light and sound show that had heralded the ‘Ghost’ warning and the powerful clan’s arrival – and, as soon as the first gathering proper began in earnest at sundown - Gyor-bun understood this gathering was not to be a discussion; as were many of the Clan’s gatherings. He had used the time to speak to other warriors of his ilk from around his country, quickly finding that each one carried similar stories to his own. The Ghosts had started to arrive all over their great land, and the Clan were hastily moving those who would listen from their path. They were also learning their common language - as was he - to understand and defend more ably against the arrogant invaders. And currently, so he’d heard here: everywhere across Heart-rock, Fethafoot’ had begun to teach the alien language to their brightest children.

Gyor-bun mused on the fact that his clan had not yet advised attack anywhere as yet. The same message had been given to Fethafoot everywhere: learn their language, protect and guide those families and children who would bridge the imminent time of change. The ‘word’ was, that the ever-vigilant Fethafoot elders had seen the future from the Dreaming paths and wisely cautioned an adaptive shifting defense and practical knowledge of the innumerable invaders, as the only positive way forward for their bludgeoned coastal kin - already in the midst of the calamitous invasion.

Gyor-bun fervently supported such shrewd actions from his own Dreaming visits to such horrific scenes, having seen himself the multitudes of Ghosts, whose numbers alone overtook every land and society that they met. Like the many other clan-trained warriors here now, Gyor-bun looked to his clan leaders for direction, opening his spirit and mind to trust of the ancient leader here as he had been directed.

At the front of the gathering an ancient Fethafoot elder, Booburra-Dandjii of the Waka-waka clan and another elder, who Gyor-bun vaguely recognized, climbed up the raised stone platform together. Local clan leaders had given out proclamations and judgments for generations from this rock platform, directly underneath the huge deeply scored bearded warrior’s image, etched divinely, permanently into the rock towering above them.

The old warrior standing before them was a legend, even among Fethafoot circles. Although Gyor-bun had only heard stories of this man’s prowess and wisdom from his teachers, when the elder lifted his skinny wrinkled old arms skyward, he recognized the old man’s vibrant Fethafoot power as it rippled out from him. There was instant silence among those gathered as their total attention focused on him.

In the silence, the old man gazed out at the assembled warriors and began to make sweeping motions with his bony hands, in front of his head and shoulders. Every Fethafoot warrior’s chest and shoulder initiation scarring lit up, pushing back the natural darkness as the old one brought his hands together and joined his secret clan’s-people together as one, enabling him to speak in the spirit of their common dreaming to each of the warriors gathered.

Actions for long-term survival have been decided, Gyor-bun heard him say as if the man was standing next to him, and speaking only to him. Let it also be known that these strange Ghost-people, or Demons as they have been called, are also our pale skinned ancient relatives, his voice said, causing a minor shockwave to pass through the assembled at this revelation. They arrive at all parts of our lands right now, the elder said, waving his hands in lithe magical gestures. Gyor-bun saw faint blue lines of power shoot out from him and connect with the scarification marks on the gathered clan members. He felt the vibrant calming power course through him, and realized that until then, he had missed noticing at least one whole tribal group was not represented.

The cold wet island of Trowena and the Palawa people who lived there had no representatives here. Then, as if knowledge of that lack of representation were some signal, Gyor-bun abruptly found himself spirited away from the Heart-rock into a shadowy eerie Dreaming place of half-heard half-sensed, keening susurration…

Chapter 1

The mission

He was startled as his surroundings coalesced, abruptly finding himself sitting high up in a tall old tree, in a moist green forest canopy. Buryldandji! I’m in Trowena! Gyor-bun surmised from the great green dripping forest tree he sat in; one among many other, even taller trees: there were no places quite like this, anywhere around Heart-rock, the well-travelled warrior knew well. Having come directly from the Desert, Gyor-bun could literally taste ‘lakes’ of fresh-water in the very air here. This was a part of Heart-rock Dreaming-land, and a people he’d only ever heard of, Gyor-bun mused as he glanced around and below; he felt his pulse-rate rise in delight at this entirely new mission; in an environment opposite to any he’d ever known previously.

Just then, he spotted movement at ground level and he focused down on the area until he caught the slight movement again. Far below, deep in the green thickness of this ancient forest, he saw a small family group moving about as they went about their daily lives, blissfully unaware of the terrible rapid changes that were driving inexorably toward them. Yet more alien movement gained his attention and he stood, holding onto another branch for balance. The Fethafoot turned toward the flashing movement at the coastline he could just make out through the forest edges.

Now he could guess why he was here, at this time and place specifically. The Ghosts had arrived at Trowena. They were here now. He could see the big wooden Ghost boats as they folded up their expansive flapping wings and anchored close to the shoreline of this family’s lands. Gyor-bun turned back to the family he’d seen. Obviously word of the invaders had not reached this inland part of the forest yet, as he could see the family doing their routine tasks for this time of day. There was no rush or hurry. They were carrying on at the same familiar pace of life as they had done for generations. He turned back toward the coast and already, the Ghosts had begun moving out from the rocky shoreline where they had landed, spreading rapidly onto Palawa lands and progressing directly toward the small family group. Sit down warrior, the forgotten voice of the ancient elder at Uluru said, breaking into his reveries. He sat and listened.

These innocents are your responsibility, Gyor-bun, honorable and brave warrior of our clan, the old man voiced in his head, as his now enchanted eyes lowered toward the thick undergrowth below. Now he could easily make out the separate features on each family member and he looked hard, memorizing the faces that he would likely meet face to face shortly. But then Gyor-bun gasped; gripping tightly to the branch he sat on, as the semi-transparent facial features of the male warrior - unlike the solid forms of his wife and two very similar smaller children - began to change rapidly. Instead of the strong bearded warrior’s face, Gyor-bun saw a young boy demon’s smooth pale face, transposed over the black-skinned Trowenian man’s bearded face. It was an ugly alien image that gradually took over the man’s dark-skinned face – and worse yet he sensed: part of his role in this family. Gyor-bun shook his head in disbelief, but instead of satisfying his shocked curiosity immediately, he listened intently for the rest of the information needed, which experience had taught him would come with the task.

The twins that you saw are an integral part of this clan’s survival Gyor-bun. They, together with the young Ghost-boy whose image you saw, will bridge the ignorant yawning gap between their people and the Ghosts in the coming trials, the steady old-man’s voice said, and somehow imparted some of his calm strength and still peace to an anxious, grateful Gyor-bun. The old teacher’s next words across time and space bestowed a much more practical support for his mission however.

You will not face such trials alone in Trowena, warrior, the voice said clearly, as the demon-boy’s image appeared and the boy’s features became clearer, more easily recognizable. This Ghost-boy you see here – one of their own – will help you. More importantly, he will help the family, especially the twins, to adapt quickly! the elder’s voice proclaimed. He and the twins must be marked to be, and to stay protected, Booburra-Dandjii’s ephemeral spirit-voice told him. Gyor-bun nodded mentally in acquiescence. He took in the surroundings, the faces and the various landmarks that he would need to find the family when he arrived here in the flesh…

‘Native’ collaborators

His attention strayed from the family unit to the forest near them, as he heard a grunting animal sound, then a coughing bark and whine unlike anything he had ever heard in his life. He scrutinized the bushes close to where the sounds had issued. Moving warily, a powerful striped Lagunta emerged out of the undergrowth. It was one of the large striped carnivores that had almost disappeared from his people’s Heart-rock lands. Gyor-bun had never seen one before and he wondered what this strange shy animal had to do with his mission. However, before he could direct his question to the elder who guided him, he noticed that the rare animal was staring straight at his invisible spirit-form. It was quite obvious the big intelligent dog could see him. The old man’s calm clear voice answered his unasked questions. The Lagunta will meet you on your arrival at his end of the Silver Dreaming path you use – and he will stay with the clan and the twins, until he is no longer needed, the elder clever-man told him.

Nhompo, your own Eagle-spirit totem, will meet you and assist you in keeping this family safe also – and when it is time, he and the Lagunta will inscribe their protection by the Mother and the Dreaming, into the three young future-holders, the voice explained.

The bright-eyed aware Lagunta seemed to smile wickedly at Gyor-bun, before chin-lipping like a human would, at a tall rocky mountain ledge nearby. Gyor-bun swept his eyes that way, following the yellow-eyed animal’s gesture instinctively. He saw a huge black feathered Eagle, perched proudly on the rocky ridge. He was awed at its size as it swept its huge wingspan out wide to either side of its body, and then raised its hooked beak to the sky. But instead of screeching, it called out both guardians’ names: Gyor-bun! Nyarla! it called clearly to both animal and warrior-spirit, as if there were no distinction between flesh and spirit, or time and space to its merciless black and gold rimmed eye.

The shrill, piercing call to arms had barely faded - along with the image of the big Lagunta Nyarla, opening its long jaws impossibly wide, like a big Dyuh-miinyuh before it swallows its crushed prey - when the one-armed warrior found himself in a deep black void; akin to the initial stages of death that he had visited far too many times in his short violent life as a Fethafoot. Although he wanted to scream in fear of being caught between realms, as the powerful elder back at Heart-rock worked his magic on so many at once, Gyor-bun calmed himself, trusting to his clan elder and allowing his fluid mind-training to over-take his sudden cold doubt and fears.

He consciously emptied his mind of that awful fear of going astray here, then instantly: accept, respect the innocent demon boy flashed largely across his enhanced eyes and instinctively Gyor-bun reached deep, found and threw the selfishness and pride regarding the ghost boy out, away into the dark susurration surrounding him, feeling instantly purified and stronger. At that moment, from the direction that he had cast off the weaknesses, he saw diffused light forming in the dark, then sudden blinding light as he found himself back at the gathering - the echoes of the Eagle’s call still reverberating through his mind, as he rejoined his fellow clan members in the flesh – and abruptly feeling totally exhausted from the astonishing sojourn…

Ancient authority on time and space

Around him, dazed brother and sister warriors stumbled and slumped down, as they too returned to their physical bodies from the sharp, magical revelation of their immediate futures. Gyor-bun saw that the telltale blue light of Fethafoot power was still vibrant on each body around him; joining each glowing scar together in lines and curves that revealed the outlined image of each warrior’s animal totem across their upper bodies. Gyor-bun knew that he had not consciously called on his inner power; it had been gently coerced from him in a feat that gave him real hope for the coming times – all accomplished by this one wizened old man. He must be incredibly powerful; proper-gifted even!’ Gyor-bun thought, awed at the frail looking elder that he could see with one knee up against his chest, and his bony arms wrapped around it while the other leg lay flat at a right angle. Gyor-bun saw a wrinkled wizened old white-hair. But the glowing power that flowed constantly around him came from a strong trained and powerful adept, who held the holistic consciousness of a full clan of eager trained warriors in his hands. Gyor-bun could feel his peers’ energy around him begin to crackle and pop in harmonic rhythm with his own sparking energies, as visions of past calamities were paraded past their collective mind’s eye.

The elder’s calming voice accompanied the flashing events as they passed: Ahh Porun – it is well! he said, using the common greeting that elders gave at ceremonial gatherings across the land. We adapted to all these changes here, his smoky old voice said, as images of their land covered by ice, floods, raging bush fires and smoke-filled scenes of exploding mountaintops raced past them. We have learned to live with, even kill and eat such strange and terrible beasts like these that our Mother’s salty waters have held in the past, he boasted, as a scene from a kill-or-be-killed hunt slowed long enough for them to watch…

Chapter 2

Beware the soft-foot language creature

In this vision, an animal-skin covered hunter stood on ice and thick snow at the edge of a body of deep green-black ngama. He held out a long flexible stick with some type of small bleeding animal attached to the end and dangling over the water’s edge. Bait for something – above the water? Gyor-bun pondered, as the small waves of the ngama in front of the warrior stirred, then boiled as something that looked like a cross between a giant centipede and a scorpion emerged, ignoring the tiny dangling bait and heading straight for the warrior behind it.

The warrior back stepped, but slowly carefully; bravely drawing the creature on and as soon as half its dark-brown body was out of the ngama in chase, his brother