Savages: a truth telling: Australia's Black History, #3

By Steve Trotter

Think you know your Australian history? Think again.

Balagaan has defeated Dangan, wed his childhood sweetheart and has two beautiful children; so why does he feel so anxious?

When the Nyangbal people discover the Yirraalii, the Newcomers, on their land, they take no chances and hastily move camp. The Yirraalii have a reputation for being dangerous and brutal.

While the Nyangbal people watch the Yirraalii from the safety of the bush, Dangan's wife stumbles into their camp and recounts a brutal Yirraalii attack on her husband's clan. She pleads for help. Balagaan and his cousins, Yirinyin and Irindilli, are sent to investigate. Unable to find survivors, they quickly discover the Newcomers are using 'Native Police' to murder and capture other Aboriginal people.

Balagaan and the Nyangbal people flee to a secret campsite, deep in the forest. But are they really safe? Balagaan must consult the Clever Man. While he journeys far from home, he is unaware his mortal enemy, Dangan, is leading the Native Police straight to his family's hiding place.

Can Balagaan return in time to save his wife and children, or will his enemy finally get his revenge?

'Savages' is a Truth Telling of the shameful frontier conflict history of Ballina that occurred due to the British colonisation of Australia. It is a story that was duplicated across the country in the 1800s. If you like historical romance, Aboriginal history, and plenty of action, then you'll love this gripping historical novel from Steve Trotter.

'It conveys an important message and ought to be compulsory reading in every Australian High School.'

Length 67,000 words or 300 pages

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Trotter
• Release date: Jun 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9780645178470

Steve Trotter

Steve has taught for over 25 years, is an advocate of Aboriginal education and has worked with Indigenous students to connect them with their stories, both past and present. Before that, he worked in video production, producing the Bundjalung Storm-water Education Project, with Indigenous students from Ballina, Lismore, Casino and Kyogle, and a short film, 'Small Man, Hairy Man', that recreates a Bundjalung man's encounter with a 'hairy man', a small Yeti-like creature. Steve is an advocate for Reconciliation. His novel series, 'Australia's Black History', is a truth telling of our shared past. 'Savages' is Steve's third published novel.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The Clever Man felt uneasy. He had been thinking about that willful dubay, Gawngan, her husband, Balagaan, and Dangan, the man she had been betrothed to. He shook his head. He had not thought of them in years. It unsettled him. He rarely ventured from his aerie at Nimbin since all that mess, long ago. They were good people, good Gurii-mirr, but he did not like to think of them. Something disturbed him when he did. His bones told him they had a bigger role to play in the stories of the Bundjalung people; but this story, this new story, was not a nice one. There could be no happy ending for this story.

The Wiiyang Wiiyang stood on the rocky head of the Goanna looking out over the ocean. He frowned. Blue-black clouds crowded the sky. A storm was coming. He could smell it in the air. The cool wind blew over the water, up the rocky outcrop and over him, rocking him gently. Why was it coming early? He had not yet thrown the sacred stones into the cave. He shook his head. Strange things were happening. More and more. Things were getting out of balance.

Waves crashed against the jaw of the goanna. The vibrations reverberated up through its rocky head, through the soles of his feet and into his body. The sea frothed white foam around the rocks the goanna had unearthed, in the Dreaming, when he burrowed his head into the ground to guard against the serpent.

The Clever Man followed the goanna’s gaze. It stared out across the sea, watching the sleeping serpent he had fought long ago. The serpent was rock now, like the goanna. It lay coiled, just off the coast, waiting for the right moment to come back to land, to test its skill against the goanna once more. The goanna waited for him. The goanna had been lying in wait since the time Gurii-mirr had walked the earth.

The ground rumbled beneath the Wiiyang Wiiyang’s feet as the waves rolled into the rain cave below. The Clever Man stood on the headland, out past the river mouth, watching the storm gathering its clouds, waiting for a sign. He was waiting patiently for Babaraa, the great creator, to send a sign. And that was when he saw it. A tiny fleck of white, like a gull, way off on the horizon. The Clever Man squinted out over the ocean. His good eye could make it out clearly. It was a Yirraalii canoe. A large one, but it was small out there on the big blue blanket of the ocean. He sighed. Was there no end to these newcomers? Their numbers swelled more, every day.

The Wiiyang Wiiyang heard the shriek of an eagle cut through the wind. He glanced up and saw its huge brown body, its massive wings beating fiercely, as it tried to outfly the storm. The thunder boomed and Babaraa’s sparks lit up the ocean. The Clever Man felt a flush wash over his skin. He felt strange, as if he had taken some of the sacred medicine. His clear eye fluttered, as if he had something in it, and was blinded while his dull eye opened wide and saw. A vision flashed before him. It was like the one at Nimbin, when he saw the Nyangbal boy, Balagaan, and the Gudjin girl, Gawngan, when he sat beneath the rocky crag over-looking the vast Gondwana rainforest. Why here? Why now? Nothing was prepared. The Wiiyang Wiiyang had no cave, no paint and no time. He had no choice. The images appeared before him as if someone was drawing them there; like when you pulled a stick from the fire and drew pictures in the air with its glowing ember. The lines and shapes were blazed in the air before him. They were as clear as the ones he’d painted on the hard surface of the cave wall years ago.

The Wiiyang Wiiyang saw a pictogram of a Bundjalung village with fishing nets and a small pile of fish. Yirraalii camps surrounded the Gurii people on all sides, crowding them into one tiny place. Gurii-mirr littered the ground like dead fish on a beach. He saw a fierce battle between the Nyangbal mob and the Yirraalii mob on a huge headland. Dangan was there. He wore a Yirraalii head covering and fought beside the Yirraalii. And there was that magpie man, Balagaan, again. And his dubay, Gawngan. Balagaan raced towards her, as she teetered on the edge of the cliff.

A boom cracked through the air, snapping the Wiiyang Wiiyang out of his trance. The Clever Man gasped and staggered back. The lightning flashed in the distance and a smaller boom, like the sound of the Yirraalii thunder stick, echoed through the air. Clever Man gazed over the horizon. The huge dark clouds were already drifting up the coast towards Bullinaa. He spied the Yirraalii canoe with wings again. Two more sailed beside it. The Wiiyang Wiiyang swallowed. Hard.

The storm moves away, thought Nyimbiny, but its passing opens the way for more Yirraalii canoes.

Babaraa grumbled a heartbeat later. As the storm moved on, the sky god grew calmer, but Nyimbiny grew more agitated.

ONE

‘Do you think we’ve lost them?’

‘Yaway, yes, Jamaalgan,’ said Dangan tiredly. ‘They can’t track us through the bush on their big kangaroos.’ Jamaalgan may have been huge, but he was as dumb as a wombat. Jamaalgan was Dangan’s best friend. He did not mean to be cruel to him. He was just angry and exhausted. He, and the handful of stragglers with him, had barely escaped the Yirraalii with their lives when the Newcomers ran them off their ancestral lands. The Yirraalii stole their kangaroo grounds first, senselessly killing the guruuman first, building big wooden huts there. Then they put up hard nets around the field and put their white, woolly wombats there. Dangan did not want to go near the Yirraalii, but it was his mobs’ land and his people were hungry.

So, they climbed over the hard nets and speared a couple of the Yirraalii beasts. They had hundreds of them and Dangan and his warriors only speared two males. What was the big issue? Dangan had watched the herd of woolly wombats closely before selecting the beasts they would kill. The males would not leave the females alone to tend their young. They were constantly mating with the females and fighting one another. From Dangan’s point of view, he had done them a favour, if anything. Besides, if someone was hungry, you had to feed them, it was the Lore; but, the Yirraalii did not stick to the rules. They would not allow Dangan’s mob to hunt their own lands, would not share their food and had actually fired their deadly thunder sticks at them! What was their problem? If anyone had a right to be upset, it was Dangan’s mob. It was their land!

Every Gurii mob across the land had three simple rules that everyone lived by, so there would be no conflict: do not steal, do not be greedy and do not kill. The Yirraalii had broken all three. Every Gurii mob across the country would have punished this outrageous behaviour. These newcomers were thieving, greedy, murderous savages. The Yirraalii treated Dangan’s people like vermin and slaughtered them for what? For spearing two woolly wombats!

When the Yirraalii saw what Dangan’s mob had done, their response was swift. There was no civilised diplomatic meeting, like the Gurii people would have had, it was just murder. The newcomers rode to Dangan’s people’s camp on their huge kangaroos, and they slaughtered men, women, and children. Somehow, Dangan and these remaining survivors had escaped into the bush and were running for their lives. Now, they were homeless and creeping like thieves across someone else’s land. They had crossed over two mobs’ lands and were now in Nyangbal country. Dangan gritted his teeth. It was Balagaan’s country. How he hated him for making him lose face all those years ago, first when he shamed Dangan and his father at the bumaalii, the big fight, and then later when he stole his first wife, Gawngan, from him. A magpie coordled its warning in the trees.

Dangan stopped and listened. The magpie was Balagaan’s totem. Dangan glared up at it. It glared back at him with its orange, beady eyes. Were the Nyangbal spying on them? He glanced furtively around him. Or maybe the bird had seen the newcomers? Dangan’s heart skipped a beat. He thought he had probably lost the Yirraalii, but he could not be sure. The Yirraalii might still be tracking them.

An old man groaned as he limped past Dangan. Dangan looked at the old man and then at the people trailing behind him. The old people and children could not continue at this pace. ‘Keep moving,’ he said, wishing his father was here to lead his people.

Dangan thought of his baba. His father was dead. The Yirraalii had killed him with one of their thunder sticks. Dangan did not know what to do. He knew he was not a good thinker. Or a good leader. He just was not that smart. He could crush a man’s head with his nulla nulla, his club; he could spear a guruuman from 100 paces and he could make a bark canoe that was the envy of the other warriors, but he could not lead his people. He did not know how to keep them safe from these Yirraalii. They were relentless. The responsibility was too great for him and the handful of baygal-mirr, the men, who still lived. He wished his baba were here or one of the wise elders or anyone else with half a brain who could lead them or, at least, advise him.

‘Dangan. What are we going to do?’

‘We’re going to keep walking, Jamaalgan. Now stop asking stupid questions,’ he snapped.

Dangan sensed the huge man slink back amongst the stragglers. Dangan glanced over his shoulder at the baygal-mirr. The men had formed up on either side of the women, children and old people to create a human shield around them. His mob were all but naked and looked very vulnerable. They wore little in the way of coverings. They did not need to wear anything in this climate. The men had a vine belt which held their axes, boomerangs and nulla nullas. The adults’ faces were haggard, their eyes bleary, their feet heavy. The older jaadjam-mirr, the older children, walked with the toddlers. The jaadjam-mirr held hands as they stumbled beside each other. Some were orphaned now. Some were brotherless. Some were sisterless. Some were all three.

Dangan did not understand the way the Yirraalii thought. Or fought. How could they murder dubay-mirr, the women, and the jaadjam-mirr? How did their Lore allow it? Dangan shook his head.

He studied the warriors around him. The men, the baygal- mirr, marched along carrying their bagaas, their shields, in one hand while using their spears in the other as a staff to help them walk. All of them had some kind of cut, abrasion or wound from the battle. They were once a great mob, one of the biggest and proudest in the land, but now... there were no more than six hands of them left. So many dead in such a short time. There were so few women, children and old people. Their mob could never rebuild in their country. Their lands were lost.

What were they going to do? Dangan felt his throat grow tight. He choked back a sob. He was an initiated man. He would not disgrace himself and weep like some dubay. He was a warrior.

‘We need to rest. The jaadjam-mirr and old people are tired,’ said Jamaalgan.

Dangan looked at the young children. They would not complain, but Dangan could see they were exhausted. They had all been walking for days, winding their way through the rainforest, eating only what they could hunt or gather and drinking from their skin canteens. The adults could walk like this for weeks but the children and old people, even with their leathery feet and incredible stamina, needed to rest occasionally.

‘Over there,’ said Dangan, motioning ahead to a large grassy clearing. Dangan recognised it immediately. It was the bumaalii ground, the fighting place, where his father had led the warriors against Balagaan’s clan all those years ago.

Dangan had never truly forgiven Balagaan. Balagaan, as a young boy, had disgraced both Dangan and his baba and he had stolen Dangan’s first wife, Gawngan. Well, sort of. Gawngan was more trouble than she was worth. He was glad to be rid of her, but the memory of her asking for a divorce still burnt shame into his cheeks. ‘Rest in the shadows at the edge of the clearing,’ said Dangan. ‘We’ll move again soon.’

Dangan’s mob sprawled on the spongy grass. The shade was cool. Dangan looked out at the clearing. The sunlight flooded it with bright white light. The cicadas hummed loudly around them. They sounded like pipi shells tumbling over one another. The humidity hung heavily in the forest, like a big cloud of steam from a camp oven. Dangan’s skin was damp from it.

Jamaalgan walked over and held up a possum skin canteen. He shook it. ‘Is there a well close, Dangan? Our water is getting low.’

Dangan remembered there was a well nearby. And ponds with fish in them. His baba had shown him when he was a janang, a boy. His father had sung him a songline to find them. The Nyangbal mob had taught the song to his father, as a courtesy, should anyone need food or water at the bumaalii, the big fight.

Every mob shared certain knowledge about the food on their lands. It was common decency. Everyone had an obligation to feed people if they were hungry.

Dangan frowned. He had not followed protocol and let Balagaan’s mob know he was trespassing on their land. He should send a messenger but... times had changed. The old ways were dying. The Yirraalii had done that. Right now, his people needed food. He turned to Jamaalgan. ‘You stay and guard the dubay-mirr and jaadjam-mirr. You lot,’ he said, pointing at some young men, lolling in the shade. ‘Get the canteens and coolamons and come with me.’

The young baygal-mirr looked at each other.

‘Why us? Why not them over there,’ said one of the young men.

Dangan strode over to him and stood over him, glowering. ‘Because I told YOU to do it.’ He pointed over his shoulder at the men the young man had pointed to. ‘They’re old and need to rest. You’re young and can get off your bandang and do what you’re told!’

The young man grizzled but stood and walked past Dangan, into the forest. The other young men followed.

Dangan shook his head and plunged into the coolness of the sprawling rainforest behind them.

The massive trees stood so far apart that it was easy to walk through the forest. Balagaan and his ancestors had nurtured it wonderfully.

Dangan could see fresh mulch piled up. The Nyangbal mob was still slashing and burning the new growth to stop bushfires. A snarl curved its way across Dangan’s lips. Lucky them.

There was no way that Dangan and his mob could tend their forests anymore. The Yirraalii were everywhere. Like termites. They cut down the big trees and wiped-out whole forests to make more fields. They would hasten the big flood’s arrival and there would be no roots to drink it up. Even worse, they did not manage the forests that reared up and because they did not fire stick farm, highly flammable trees and plants thrived. It would not happen under Gurii care. These Yirraalii had no idea. They would either drown their animals and themselves or they would all burn to death. Idiots.

Balagaan and his mob were always luckier than other mobs. Well, not for long. The Yirraalii would take their land from them and make them suffer, like he was.

‘Which way?’ asked a warrior.

Dangan closed his eyes and sung the songline in his head. He visualised the landmarks from the song map until he caught up to where he was in the song. He opened his eyes, stood, scanned the bush and found the landmark he was seeking. ‘That way.’

Dangan sung quietly, following the landmarks until he came to a flat rock. He smiled. Maybe he was not as stupid as he thought. Rocks that hugged the ground like this were hard to spot. But the underbrush had been cleared around this one. Dangan could see that this rock was not from this area. This rock had been carried here. Foreign rocks acted like signs. They worked in the song lines to point you to a site or to show you where there was food or water. He hoped this one would point him towards the well. Dangan hefted the rock up, turned it over and read the markings on the bottom. Just as the song said. He was on the right path to the well. He lay the rock down, making sure to leave it as he found it. ‘This way,’ he said, moving off.

Fifty paces later and Dangan and his men found a bunch of large smooth rocks. These rocks were native to the forest, but there would be a foreign rock amongst them; and that was the one he was