Queen of the Dark Things (26 page)

At the same time, a tribe might find itself in a place overabundant with one type of provision, but short of another. For example one might find oneself in the woods filled with fowl and game, but short on fruit and ocher. The solution was of course to trade. But since all of the tribes were nomadic, knowing where resources were located or abundant was tricky. So trade routes emerged. The Aborigines imagined them as lines, and they learned them and passed information about them along in the form of song.

These songs described the route to a location, as well as contained the history of those locations. Through these songlines tribes would pass information, news, goods, even trinkets in a way to be connected with other peoples around the continent. But what began as a song describing the rock formation one was looking for to find a billabong became a story about a group of men who fought and died there. Later would come a verse about the couple who fell in love there and the hero who would be born of that love. Later still the song would tell the tale of mythic creatures said to haunt it. Over the course of generations a simple method of learning how to get from one place to another became the medium that contained the history of an entire continent.

Soon the songs became so long, so involved, so intricate that no one man could ever learn all of them. Few could memorize every bit of a single line. From this evolved the practice of passing down portions of the song. It is both an honor and a burden, a gift with strings attached. And every so often, a tribe will gather to sing the whole of its line, requiring all of the owners of a piece of the song to perform, in order, their portion.

It is in these recitations that we begin to see the more powerful, religious applications of the songlines. Aborigines believe that if you sing a songline out of order, you can undo the line itself, singing the elements out of existence. While the exact repercussions vary from tribe to tribe, the end result is always cataclysmic, ranging from the restructuring of reality, the redrawing of maps, to the complete annihilation of creation itself. While there appears to be no real basis for this, the belief in these events is dangerous enough. In a land as rich with dreamstuff as Australia, a large gathering of powerful believers singing ancient magicks, all believing something has gone wrong at once, could be the explanation of any number of their history's natural disasters.

This, of course, covers the more mundane aspects of the history. Enter the Clever Men, also known as the Men of High Degree. These medicine men learn the more esoteric meaning to the songs. In short, the magic of them. Through song, these Clever Men can reweave their own surroundings, ward off supernatural creatures, and even travel more quickly via a songline.

It is believed by many that singing a songline while traveling will actually conjure up the location more quickly. And while this is clearly untrue, it is based primarily upon the Clever Men's ability to “hop” from location to location. In truth, Clever Men memorize not only the physical locations and histories, but their hidden, supernatural ones as well. They learn about the spaces between the spaces and memorize their properties within the elements of the song.

There are a number of different theories and explanations as to the nature of the universe, none of which seems to be wholly accurate. I prefer to look at reality as having begun as a balled-up sheet of paper. Over time, it has slowly unfolded, leaving creases and crinkles where portions of it are actually a bit closer than they appear to be when viewed from overhead. People with the ability to perceive beyond the veil can sense these crinkles and creases, and use them to slip from one part of the universe to another without having to cross all of the physical space. This allows someone to travel faster than normal and, when viewed by an outsider, appears as if the person is “hopping.”

Clever Men make extensive use of this, traveling between places much faster than the ordinary person, or evading pursuers by simply disappearing and reappearing hundreds of feet away. To the casual observer this appears to happen as if the Clever Man sings it into being. In truth, he is singing to guide himself to the right spot to pass through.

One of the most important secrets to the magical nature of the songs is that the power is not in the words. Like all true magick, the secret is in the belief and execution. Here, in the case of songlines, the magick is from the music. The belief in the tune is the crux of it. While the many tribes of Australia share a common mythology and belief system, they do not share the same language. Even though songlines belong to people of a specific
dreaming
(an extended form of tribe tied into the belief of a people's origin), those people do not necessarily all speak the same language. They do, however, sing the same song. Thus it is not the words that matter, simply the land they describe and the tune by which they do it.

Their belief in the power of their song affects the song itself, weaving in subtle alterations to the way the tune exists and ultimately the way it can fundamentally shape the reality around it. In other words, as long as someone knows the tune, the landmarks and the stories that go along with them, they can sing a song without knowing the specific words and still utilize the knowledge and power of that songline.

C
HAPTER
35

T
HE
S
WAMPS
J
UST
S
OUTH OF
A
RNHEM

W
here are we headed?” asked the pretty little girl in the purple pajamas.

“Not much farther. Few more hours. A billabong near my home. Great power. Very holy. Delicious fish. You'll like it.”

It was afternoon. They had run all night and seen nary a crow. Now that the sun was up, they ran still. There was no time to stop, to rest. But there was time for a lesson as they hoofed it due north.

Colby stopped, looking around at the tree above him, then, confident he was safe, closed his eyes. He put his hand on one of the thin gray trunks, his hand disappearing into it. Though the tree was many times smaller than Colby, he squeezed himself in, emerging from another tree fifty feet ahead.

Mandu nodded, jogging with a proud smile. “Good. Good! You've got it.” Colby waved as he stepped completely out. “Now feel out again. See if you can find one with a sister tree farther out.”

“Okay!” Colby yelled, turning around and trying again.

“This is stupid,” said the girl, just loud enough for Mandu to hear her.

“For you, yes. Which is why I'm not having you do it.”

“Then why him?”

“You and he are very similar. Both clever. Both headstrong. Both very good with your heads. But Colby was given too much too soon. He can wipe a being out of existence with a thought or summon terrible nightmares from the dream. So he thinks big. He thinks like a bully. Brute force. We must break him of that or he will do something very, very terrible.”

“Like what?” she asked.

“Like something else that cannot be undone.”

“Why don't I have to do it, then?”

Mandu smiled. “Because you started with nothing. You think clever, only limited by your age and power. If you get
too
clever, you too will do things that cannot be undone. What you need is to think more like Colby, just as he needs to think more like you.”

“Found one!” yelled Colby, vanishing into the much larger trunk of a black walnut tree.

The girl ran quietly for a spell, mulling over what Mandu had said. “Clever Man?”

“Yes?”

“Am I really going to die out here?”

Mandu shrugged. “Child, if you survive this, it will only be because they want you to survive this and only if it serves their plans. Odds are, if you live, it won't be a life worth living.”

She deflated, scuffing her foot in frustration. “Oh,” she said, thinking about the last time she saw her body. The pain of waking up to fresh scars and a shattered skull scared her less than dying out here, but never being able to dreamwalk again scared her most of all.

“You know,” he said, “there is a rock, far out in the desert, well off every road and songline. Big one. Just a boulder in the middle of nowhere. Many Clever Men know where it is. Spirits have been known to sleep there from time to time. One day, you might find everything you're looking for under that rock.”

“One day?” she asked, hopeful.

“If you live to see that day, you'll know it when it comes.”

Mandu kept his eyes on the horizon, tracking the sun, doing the math silently in his head. They might not make it in time. But he was afraid of telling the children, afraid that they might spend the last few hours of their lives running.

“Mandu!” Colby shouted from a hundred yards away. “This is awesome!”

I
T WAS NIGHTFALL
and they were quickly approaching the border into Arnhem. Both Colby and Mandu were exhausted, their bodies run well past their breaking points. Though both were accustomed to long runs, neither was prepared for this. It was getting harder to be able to keep a straight thought in their heads. All Mandu could think about was crossing the border.
Get into Arnhem. Then they would be safe.
He repeated it over and over.

The pretty little girl in the purple pajamas, however, wasn't even winded. She was a thing of the dream and could run for as long as she wanted, just not as fast anymore. But she kept pace with the others, as fast as her legs could now carry her, scared of what might happen if she found herself too far behind them.

The sound of the first crow cawing in the dark broke Mandu's heart. This was the moment he was dreading. No future was set in stone, he knew that. But even the best outcomes here were unappealing. Both of these children were about to make some of the most important decisions of their lives, but if he dared tell them, dared hint at the true outcome, they would never choose the right path. Either of them.

While the first caw broke his heart, the second was utterly devastating. It came from ahead of them. And it was followed by a terrifying volley of them.

The kutji were waiting, lined across the forest, standing between them and Arnhem.

“Keep running,” said Mandu. “Don't stop.”

“But they're right ahead of us,” said Colby.

Mandu pointed at the horizon. “You see that ridgeline?”

“Yeah.”

“That's Arnhem Land.”

“So?”

“They can't follow us into Arnhem. They're not allowed.”

“Why not?” asked Colby.

“Because that was the deal I made with them.”

“You what?”

“Our friend here is not the only one who has trafficked with these spirits. My deal with them keeps them out. If we can get to that ridge—”

“We'll be safe!” Colby ran harder than before, getting his second wind. “But how do we get past them?”

Mandu smiled, reaching into his dilly bag. “I have a surprise.” He pulled out his bullroarer, winging it through the air with a
WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP
.

The kutji descended from the trees, feathers molting into shadows, wings changing into arms, running at full speed the moment they touched the ground.

And then the forest came alive.

The mimis crawled out from every crevice imaginable, from under rocks and logs, from cracks in the mud, from between the leaves in trees. Their colors varied from black and white to red and purple, yellow and green. Each looked as if it was finger-painted to life, thin as a rail but vicious, fearless.

They rained stones from slings on the incoming shadows; they hurled boomerangs through the air; lobbed spears tipped with flame. The first wave of shadows toppled to the ground, some merely felled by rocks, others screaming, flaming spears sticking out of their chests, boomerangs lodged in their heads. Then the mimis descended on the fallen with clubs, kicking, beating, scratching.

Jeronimus yelled, realizing he'd once again been lured into a trap. He would not spend another night trapped in a pit, plucking the feathers from birds, waiting for death. He yipped twice, waved his stubby arms around in the air, and called back his shadows to rally with him.

The shadows pulled their fallen behind them, dragging them back, mimis chasing them, casting rocks and spears after them as they did. They crawled into the shadows of trees, hiding from the advancing fairy mob, staying still and silent, hoping not to be spotted. Then Jeronimus yelled again. “To the skies!” And the shadows burst into a flock of birds, flapping wildly, chasing the stars.

Colby, Mandu, and the pretty little girl ran even harder than before. This was their only chance.

The crows, still dozens strong and wounded, raced toward the heavens, the stars crystal clear and beaming, the sky black and cloudless. They powered their way up, fighting against the pull of the earth, tiny wings pushing as hard as they could. Then Jeronimus evaporated, his feathers falling away. His form broke down into mist, the blackness of his sheen swelling into the night, obscuring the night sky.

Jeronimus had become a storm cloud, ever expanding and ominous, his companions dutifully following suit.

The horde of crows dissolved into a storm front all their own; dark, bulbous, rolling clouds surging out across the sky, flashes of lightning belching within. The wind kicked up, fierce and steady, gusts whipping between the trees, a torrent of leaves scattering through the swamp like buckshot. Then the rains came.

The winds tore through the forest, microbursts tearing mimis in half, snapping their brittle limbs, tossing them around like tumbleweeds. The mimis scattered, desperately clawing their way between rocks, back into tree hollows, bracing themselves against the gales. The entire forest shook, balding trees waving, shedding leaves by the pile; branches tearing free, crashing into the mud. Storm raging, loud and unrelenting; earth trembling below with the bellows of thunder. It was a sound like the end of the world.