Published: 27 May 2024

One further turn of Stringers Creek and Axel will be home and his apprehension is strong as he rounds that final bend.

Will his hut, his home, be destroyed?

Will his garden be trodden down?

If all has been destroyed what would he do?

He now wished his painter friend hadn’t gone away and brings Rosie’s warning to mind, wishing he hadn’t been so positive towards his safety, ‘cocky;’ he thinks and believes it would be the best superlative to describe his attitude, ‘and cocky to the point of stupidity.’

Axel recalls advice given by Sergeant Miller before leaving the colony. Miller’s advice had not been given in concern for Tommy’s wellbeing but more rhetorically with connection to some altercation he had with an associate who held advantage over the recalcitrant sergeant. The warning being, it is those you trust the most who eventually do you the greatest harm, therefore trust no one. Did Axel trust the local natives? It was a fair question and about to be answered.

As Axel broke from the forest into the clearing around his hut and garden he was joyfully surprised, the hut remained standing and at first glance his garden untouched. True, there were many footprints about, native footprints as they lacked footwear and over their hurried scattering were the heavy indentations of horses’ hooves at full gallop. It was obvious that either the military or settlers supporting the military had been active in the area while chasing the blacks but both blacks and adversaries had moved on without interest in his hut or garden.

Axel had been home for less than the time it took to fetch water from the creek to water his seedlings, when he heard gun fire coming from the west. Moments later three horsemen come out of the forest. They were obviously private citizens and not military and appeared most satisfied with their resolve. Two of the three continued on their way towards Stringers track without a glance towards Axel as he stood by his garden with water buckets in hand. The third approaches.

“Hey kid, are you Henry Wilson’s bond-servant?”

“No sir. I am free born and a free man, no bond-servant.”

“Then where is Wilson?”

Axel puts down a bucket and points towards a mound of earth at the far end of the clearing.

“Did the blacks take him?”

“It is believed so. What is your business with the blacks?” Axel asks.

“We have been commissioned by the military to clear the buggers out of this section as they have been destroying crops.”

“The lot around here are peaceful.”

“There isn’t such a thing as a peaceful black, what are you doing here at Wilson’s hut?”

“Seeing Wilson is dead the military said I could keep it.”

“Has the Governor approved your grant?”

“No.”

“Therefore it is crown land.”

“I thought it belonged to the blacks,” Axel acerbically suggests.

“I think the word you are looking for is did.”

“I noticed two dead black men lying in the creek just of the main road,” Axel says.

“Did you now,” the man’s tone is laced with warning.

“They had been mutilated.”

“And if you can’t keep your trap shut, you may end up the same way,” the rider turns his mount and follows after his associates.

Early evening on returning from a day’s hunting, while more than usual keeping his activity well away from those parts known to be favoured by the natives, there is a surprise for Axel. Wilson’s wild dog, Ding, had returned and is laying near the hut’s door apparently waiting for a feed. Axel had often left food out for the dog but hadn’t any luck enticing it inside, or come closer than what the dog considered to be a safe distance.

Axel quietly approaches while moderating his tone not to frighten Ding, “how are you boy, you look as if you could do with a good feed,” he asks.

Ding was skin and bones and Axel wondered why it hadn’t come by for its nightly handout for more than two weeks, possibly it had found the native camp although in doing so could be adverse to such an animal, as the natives had dogs of their own that would kill such a young inexperienced animal.

The dog remains close by the doorway but when Axel approached he moves further from reach. Axel sits while continuing to converse with Ding; it appears to be warming to his tone. Eventually Axel rises and enters inside to find something for the dog to eat. To his surprise Ding enters behind him, immediately flopping down before the fireplace, likely to have been its spot while Wilson was alive. He is winning the dog’s confidence although progress would need to be kept slow.

After giving Ding a meal and attending to his own needs, Axel went about his usual chores and as he readied for his night’s rest he decided not to cage Ding, leaving the hut door slightly ajar to allow the dog to come and go at will.

With the morning he found Ding had gone.

For a number of days after the action against the natives the forest around Axel’s hut was quiet without any sign of hunting or gathering. Axel needed to work on his garden patch, so he took some time out from hunting, besides he had work to do with the hides he had set before travelling to Rosie Craddock, as they were almost through the tanning process.

While early morning watering of his garden Axel notice that the native’s Murnong was ready for harvesting, still none of the women had arrived with their digging sticks. He was of mind to find their camp to understand how they faired but as only Warrin was known to him, even then that association was at best patchy, he considered if he approached the camp of the Bedigal, there was a possibility he would not be accepted after the treatment they received from the vigilantes. If his lot held the belief there was only one good kind of black, that being a dead one, it was more than possible the natives could arrive at the same conclusion about the white aggressor. If so how would his safety fair, he being an easy target alone and surrounded by forest, with the closest military on the Parramatta road an hour’s walk to the north. Like Wilson before, he could lay dead for days before anyone chanced his way – if ever.

It is early morning with the kookaburras and parrots finished their disturbance and the sun well about the forest trees, when Axel believed he heard the sounds of human voices. Going outside he observes a number of woman digging in their Murnong patch and by their chatter obviously not concerned with the previous disturbance by the vigilantes. Therefore it was possible the two deceased natives he discovered at the top of the track were not Bedigal and those being pursued around his hut were also from another clan.

One of the women lifts from her digging, he waves but she ignores him and returns to her work. The chatter stops as they gather what they had collected and make ready to depart. Axel calls to them with a word he understands to be a greeting. Once again he is ignored and soon the native women are back into the forest disappearing from sight like their legendary min-min light. He would not follow the women, as with the traditional warning of the min-min light, if you did, it could lead you into trouble as it was not always the bringer of happy events, more than often it was a warning of pending catastrophe. The min-min’s meaning depended on the mood of the tribe’s oracle.

‘I wonder where they camp.’ Axel thinks as he is almost certain it cannot be far.

‘Possibly I should become more acquainted.’ It is a thought that is far beyond his better judgement.

‘Possibly not but I’ll need to do something as I’m a sitting target here.’

‘I should parley with Warrin.’

During the morning Axel gives much thought to the natives and their consideration towards his presence. He believed he should find their camp, then approach to test his popularity. He had long believed it was the colouring of his hair that kept him safe, putting him apart from his contemporaries. Something akin to the native’s family totems, being an animal that could not be hunted, or possibly someone returned from their spirit world.

During his boyhood while running free with the black children Axel heard many of their stories and beliefs. Part of their dreaming was the dead often returned to give warning or condolence. With the spirits returning they always appeared white of skin but would the native’s dreaming hold firm with so many spirits arriving at the one time in their tall canoes without offering condolence.

Axel recalls his encounter with one of the blacks after he had buried his friend Jock when the young hunter had taken a lock of his hair. Had it been done as proof the hunter had conquered fire? Or had it simply been to make Axel subservient in the eyes of his fellow hunters, as if to declare, he is mine for the taking whenever I wish to do so.

As the sun dipped past its zenith, there was further movement in the adjacent forest as a number of natives made their way towards that part of the creek where there was always a good supply of long neck turtles and fish. There were three natives in total, none of whom is recognised by Axel. He thought of giving greeting, instead he allowed passage remaining at distance without interruption and likewise they ignored him.

Late afternoon with the natives gone from their fishing and the sun commencing its dip into the tall forest trees, Axel’s thoughts return to his previous notion, being to find the Bedigal camp. Common sense should warn him away from such folly but with youth common sense is often the last of the senses to form – if at all and in the male of the species the sense was never common. If he did go looking what would be his manner, simply walk into their camp, or once satisfied return without their knowledge of his presence and if he was discovered, would they believe he was spying for the military?

By evening Axel had made a decision, he would attempt to locate the camp although keep his distance, being for no other reason than to satisfy his curiosity, with his departure decided for early the following morning.

During his evening Ding returned for his meal, this time he didn’t appear to be in a hurry to depart. Axel sat with him for some time and they conversed about what they had done during the day. More in truth, Axel did the talking and Ding did the listening but the dog was a good listener, appearing to lift a brow, give a soft yodel or tongue lolling at the appropriate moment.

“Do you visit the native camp fella’?” he asks.

“Have you a little girlie doggie somewhere?”

“Huh, I’m at it again, next I’ll be hearing voices.”

Ding lifts his head and Axel believes the dog gave a smile.

He smiles back.

‘Tomorrow,’ Axel thinks.

‘Tomorrow I’ll try and find the camp.’

It wasn’t difficult for an early rise as usual the birds were in full voice with the first ray of sunlight. Wakening his senses with a quick dip in the icy water of the creek, Axel put together in a back-sack some of the cheese he obtained during his last visit to Rosie Craddock, along with a portion of damper bread from the previous night’s meal then commenced his journey along the native path that lead deep into the western forest.

As Axel moves out he gives a loud whistle but there isn’t any sign of Ding. Since the dog’s return Axel had habit of leaving the hut door partly open. During the night he had heard the dog scratching then as the last embers of the fire rendered the hut to darkness Ding released a low disapproving yodelling sound and departed. With the morning he hadn’t returned.

Axel gives a second whistle, this time louder, again without response. “Oh well,” he sighs, “obviously you have better things to do,” he suggests and moves out, although he would feel much better with the dog running at his side. ‘It would have been preferred to have him around to warn if anyone was about,’ he silently considers.

It is a cool day for the time of the year, with a chill coming from the high mountains. There had been snow at the Katoomba crossing during the winter which had held to the peaks for a longer period than usual. This day the sky is dull and overcast, making the forest even darker, although to the east there is a patch of blue that appeared to be slowly expanding.

Axel hadn’t gone far when overcome with the sensation he is being followed. At first he believed it could be Ding returning but after halting his progress and scrutinising every tree, shadow and rise he couldn’t see anything, although the sensation remained. He had loaded his gun with shot before departing and held the weapon ready as he searched the path for any evidence of recent use. It appeared free of disturbance even being a known native song-line from the mountains to the sea.

Finding nothing Axel continued while bringing to mind the many song-lines of the natives. He had learned the line from the hut to the Parramatta road from Warrin, it was short and easy but how could the natives remember those of distance without any written language. He had heard from others who had settled beyond the mountains that some native groups could travel for days using nothing but their song-lines for guidance, although doing so was becoming more difficult with settlers removing forest and many of the natural landmarks or placing restrictions on access. Axel had attempted to create his own song-lines but as soon as his words had been spoken they became lost from memory, deciding to rely on what old Jock had taught him and the tracking skills gleaned from the natives.

Axel had been travelling for some time when the track forked, one path leading to the north with the second more worn continuing west. Axel decides on the western divide and advances but he still holds the sensation he is being followed. After a short distance he stops and instead of progressing, he returns back to the track’s divide, in doing so possible he would encounter any adversary who may be following. At the track’s conjunction he again pauses and calls. “Hoy,” he waits for a moment but only the crows answer.

“Who’s there?”

‘As if anyone would answer,’ he thinks and laughs at his folly. He continues on. Axel had travelled many tracks during his hunting and never felt threatened, why so this day, was it because he was heading towards where he believed he would find the native camp, or was fear building from the previous attack on the natives.

‘You do realise what you’re doing is dumb.’ Axel silently scalds.

Yet he continues.

Axel is remembering his mentor Jock and what he would do. Firstly he wouldn’t put himself in such a position. Jock would say live and let live, leave the black to theirs and tread softly on the land. Axel had taken the old Scots advice as second nature but day by day it was becoming more difficult to do so. The British government called New South Wales a prison, those in Sydney called it Settlement while the natives called it invasion and like a wound that would not heal it was spreading across the land, and soon there would be no room for the black man along the coast. No room for a young white hunter such as Axel, who belonged to neither tribe, white or black.

There were other influences in Axel’s life, firstly those in the women’s prison, who in their rough and boisterous way showed him love, followed by the Reverend and his religion with his brimstone and prayer. There is only one path to the kingdom of god the Reverend would say, that is through hard work and prayer. Neither had helped Tommy No-One, it only gave him sore knees, blisters, an empty heart towards the preacher’s god and mistrust towards his own.

With the Reverend gone from Axel’s life there had been his Sergeant and if Marsden offered god, Sergeant Miller offered the devil. Miller had fort in too many European wars, seen too many deaths, too much destruction to retained even the slightest spark of humanity. Axel recalls the abuse and with it comes the smell of Miller on his person. He gives a shudder with a wish that he could meet someone with tender hands who would take him to their breast with warmth.

“Stop it!” he cries out and forces away the past with an angry growl as the feeling of not being alone returns.

‘Concentrate on the now – the past is gone.’

‘Yes it is only the now that counts.’

He looks about – nothing.

The sun is now throwing post-noon shadows, long ghostly shadows and within those shadows there could be danger. You could be looking directly at a concealed native and see nothing as they are the masters of disguise. He again questions his reasoning and what he will do when or if he finds the native camp. Would he simply enter with a smile and expect those about to mill around with open arms. The only reason he can contemplate is satisfaction they escaped the military and being whole may leave him to his simple existence. A part of his brain is shouting at him; return to your little hut and garden and leave the black to theirs but that part of common sense is weak and Axel continues.

The native path skirts a rising of sandstone, its peak above the forest. It is bare to the elements and a simple climb.

Soon Axel is beyond the tree line.

Training his sight to the west he spies a column of smoke lazily lifting into the now clear sky. ‘The camp,’ he thinks but the day is progressing and by reaching the camp he would not have enough daylight to return home.

He looks about. It is obvious by the many markings he is trespassing on the native’s dreaming. The rocks are deeply etched, worn down by hundreds of years being open to the weather, still easily depicted to represent the animals the natives hunted. There were others unrecognized, with Axel believing they could be mythical spirits, or creatures hunted from existence long before the white man arrived.

‘Night time will be best,’ Axel thinks and settles down as the sun dipped into the rich greenness of the western forest.

‘The natives don’t like the dark as it is infested with too many spirits.’

“Humm,” he softly growls.

‘I hope;’ he thinks but knows such thoughts to be untrue, as he remembers his first encounter with Warrin. On that evening it was obvious Warrin wasn’t afraid of the dark. Axel is well adapted to darkness as much of the time since leaving Miller was either spent alone or with Jock. Even while he was with his Scottish mentor much of the night hours were in darkness and like a cat, Axel had almost night vision. He settles into a secluded spot beneath a rocky overhanging and enjoys his light meal of cheese and damper bread to wait for total darkness.

At this time of year twilight is short and soon the mountains form a dark jagged line along the western horizon with a rich orange and red dust glow behind. With darkness the position of the native camp is obvious from their fire but this night there are two fires. The closer fire appears smaller set in a clearing of some magnitude.

Axel climbs down through the darkness as the moon began it slow rise in the northern sky, giving enough light as he advances the short distance towards the first campfire.

His mind is now racing. It would be a simple matter to forget his folly and turn about.

He continues, his legs are in a forward motion, his head is screaming don’t do this silly thing but now the campfire is visible through the trees and the sound of singing voices is mingled with the breeze as it gently rustles in the treetops. They are women’s voices.

He diverts from the path into the undergrowth.

Moving forward and keeping a low profile Axel is soon at the edge of a clearing but well camouflaged.

Settling behind a bush he can clearly see the performance.

Seated in the dust are a number of naked native women, others are dancing as the seated women chant to the sound of rhythm sticks, their chanting is hypnotic. Two of the seated women Axel recognises as having their likeness drawn by Joshua, while another he knows as the cheeky one from the Murnong patch. She is dancing in a group their feet bringing up dust in the firelight as they perform what appeared to be the brolga crane dance. Their movement captures the brolga’s dance with perfection as Axel had often seen brolgas performing along the riverside, their wings wide as they strutted about attempting to outperform each other and impress fellow native companions.

Axel had often witnessed native men in dance but never the women and as they danced he became mesmerised, failing to hear the snap of a twig from behind as he considers it is time to be gone.

What happens next is too sudden for the lad to respond.

He can hear heavy breathing.

There is movement off to one side.

There is the flash of a hand in the dull light.

A grab to Axel’s long red hair.

Axel holds tightly to his gun but cannot bring it into action.

He releases a fearful gulping sound.

He is physically lifted from his feet and carried away.

Twenty paces and Axel is thrown roughly to the ground.

Moonlight catches the face of his assailant. It is shrouded in anger.

It is Warrin.

“Women’s business,” Warrin growls loudly in language.

“What?” is all Axel can release in response.

The native breaks into broken English, “Saal no see woman business. Saal go away.”

“Sorry,” Axel whispers.

His hand remains holding the gun but he is reluctant to use it as he realises Warren must have been following him.

“Saal go now; or big trouble.”

“I only -.”

“Go now.”

“Saal must go!

“Go now!”

Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Conder 333 at Hotmail dot Com

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