When Darkness Falls

Over the years, I have found myself telling stories to children white, black and brindle of all ages and backgrounds. Children in flash bedrooms, children in swags and sleeping-bags in dry sandy creek beds or along the river banks in the Kimberley district of north-west Australia; children camped in the sandhills and beaches of the beautiful Kimberley coastline. I have told stories beside freshwater billabongs, salty mud marsh flats, by fishing holes and bogged vehicles, waterfalls and mountain ranges.

In such settings, children the world over are no different to those who listened to the stories told by their great-great-grandfathers, who would sit in the flickering firelight of a campfire, or the dying embers of an old wood stove, with pipe stoked and child on their lap and others gathered at their feet and recite tales of the wonders of the world around them, of heroes and heroines.

For my children, the black, the white and the brindle, it was mostly as darkness was falling, when the wind died, and the world settled for the night, that I would sit in quiet repose, while my mind unfolded a story from within...

These are some of the stories I have told through all the years.

The area where the story of the blood berry vine takes place is from the Roebuck Plains over a big red sandhill to the plain of Broome's town common, the tidal flats of Roebuck Bay, and north along the coast to Cape Boileau. The tribes were then driven south by a northern tribe back to Buckley's Plain, where they were eventually speared.

Nunjupuni's people were of the coastal tribe that came from near where Thangoo Station is today. They had come to Crab Creek for the man-making ceremony. Danaranni came from the mouth of the Fitzroy River. The man-making ceremony was held up the far reaches of Roebuck Plains, and the main gathering of the tribes was on the creek known today as Deep Creek.

The strip of tidal flats that runs from Crab Creek in the west across to Buckley's Point in the east (that backs on to the sandhills on the northern part of Cable Beach) was known as the Town Common.

In Broome, in the 1940s, it was a good place for hunting wallabies, bungarras, porcipine, honey comb, jibulgrews or wild turkey (Bustard) and it was somewhere to walk, to get back to the bush. As a boy of six, sitting down under the shade of a honey tree (Bauhinia), I showed my grandmother a small bright red seed with a black dot on it and asked where it came from. She told me the story of the blood berry vine. On the walk back to town, she showed me a vine growing up the side of a big old honey tree and told me, “that is where it all happened.”

The dusk was spreading; night was near. The kids had been fed, and the grown-ups sat back with their pannikins of tea in their hands, and relished the coolness of the evening. The smaller children were making their way to the bedding where they would sleep.

“Gum mil in?
Have you got any business to do tonight?”

“No, my Grandson, not tonight. So what is it you want?”

“Please, Grandpa, tell me a story?”

“Well, maybe just a little one ... You know me, when I get to telling them long stories, I go to sleep before I have a chance to finish it.”

“Oh, all right. But don't make it too short. You know me. If it's too short, I stay awake all night, thinking about what could have happened.”

“Well, get yourself comfortable and let me think a minute, so I can find us a good one ... You settled?”

“Yes, Grandad. You know, Grandad, your voice sort of hums and the longer you talk, the drowsier I get.”

“Then I had better make my stories shorter.”

“Oh no, Grandad, they're just fine.”

“But, if you go to sleep, what's the sense in telling a long story? You don't hear the end.”

“Oh yes I do, Grandad. I hear it in my dreams.”

“Well, in that case, Grandson, let me tell you the story of The Bloody Berry Vine.”

“This story belongs to a time many, many years in the past, when we were a people, known only to ourselves. The tribes had settled in areas that gave them food in large enough quantities to sustain them through the seasons. Many tribes dotted the land, and each one took its turn to hold the man-making ceremonies; in this way, each played host to all the others in one year or another. In this way, they kept in contact, and made laws that provided for peace. Now one of these tribes came from the great
river, and another from very near here. This story is about those two tribes. It happened so long ago that only the story remains; the names of the tribes have been forgotten.

“You know the necklace that the women love to make with the little red berries that have a black dot on the end of them?”

“Yes, Grandpa. They come from a vine that clings to trees. There's one down on the edge of the marsh, in the corner of the paddock.”

“The vine clings to the Bauhinia tree, with its winged leaves and red flowers that have plenty of honey in them. The birds love them, and so do kids. My story is about that very same tree, and that very same vine. Now, settle down and don't disturb me, for this is a very old story, and I have to think all the time to remember how it goes...”

Picture in your mind that very tree. When you look closely, you will see that its trunk is twisted, like a man turning in great agony. The branches stand like a man with his arms raised in the air, and just before the storms, its leaves fall as tears fall from your eyes. In the time of our story, this tree was young, like the man in the story.

The tribe that belonged to this area lived over there, on that red ridge close by the creek we call Crab Creek. They lived there through wet time and dry time. When the rains fell, they huddled in their humpies, and waited for the storm to pass, then the water would drain from the land, and they were free to carry on with their lives. The water didn't stay long up on the ridge, but drained quickly, to gather in the swamps on the edge of the plains. Here it stayed, drying slowly, and this was where the tribe got their water.

They lived an easy life. They speared fish, caught crabs, and ate shellfish. During the time of the Dry, when the cold
winds blew and the salmon ran, they would catch plenty of these blue-finned fish, dry them, and salt them, and stack them away in a cave. They used the salted fish for barter and trade. Very seldom did they hunt for game, though when the great billabongs were full of wild fowl and the wallabies grew in great numbers, they would go walkabout, and live by the fresh water; then they would hunt, and eat the sweet bulbs of the waterlily, gorge themselves on mussels and eat all the freshwater turtles they could, before once more returning to live in their homes by the sea.

Way over that way, from where we come, lived the other tribe. They too lived close to the salt water, where the great river flows into the sea. These people also loved their crabs, but the fish they hunted were many times bigger than the blue-fin salmon; they hunted the great barramundi, the sawfishes, the river stingray, and occasionally the big saltwater crocodiles. They too had a change of diet; for to live too long in one place invited boredom and with boredom came problems, so they would spend some time on the plains out from the river, towards the hills, where they hunted the big grey roos, the sand goannas and emus, and when they tired of the rich living, they too retired to their customary home.

Man-making time had come, and this tribe had walked and hunted its way to the gathering place. It was on a flat coastal plain with permanent springs, plenty of sugarbag, vine fruit, loocha vines, coongaberries, big mobs of wallabies, where the fishing was good. With this tribe came Danaranni, a young man already made, but still learning the skills of the hunter, the ways of men and the laws of the land. His job was to hunt for food to supply the camp, to feed not only the initiates but the families of the boys as well. Each tribe supplied two such men.

As the days grew into weeks, the hunters had to roam
further and further from the camp, sometimes staying out overnight and returning next day with their kill. It was on such a trip that Dani's friend Bundjadjill speared a big Plains Red Kangaroo. By the amount of blood it left in its wake, it was almost dead. They decided Dani would go after it. He was the better tracker, the better hunter, the fastest runner in the tribe. Bundjadjill would return to the camp with the food they had already gathered.

Dani grabbed his spears and his flint pouch and ran. The roo was big and strong, and when he saw the man on his trail, he lit out straight and true for the great grass plains, the home of his birth. As evening shadows lengthened, Dani was very near to his quarry; he would have it before the sun settled for the night, for the roo had begun to weave drunkenly, crashing through thickets and clumps of grass, and scrub ... he would gut it, camp overnight, and carry it home in the cool of the morning. A worthy kill.

He sat by the fire and cooked some of the fresh-killed meat for his evening meal. As the sea breeze blew in and cooled the night air, he gazed at the crackling coals late into the night. The fire died slowly, and as the flickering of the flames died, he curled up beside the fire, and closed his eyes in sleep.

Unknown to Danaranni, he had stumbled into the tribal grounds of that tribe that lived on the sandy ridge of Crab Creek facing the sea. Dani's hunt had ended on the edge of the great grass plain; there wasn't much likelihood of making any direct contact with the other tribespeople. Except for a girl who could not sleep that night...

Nunjupuni tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable in her bed of skins; sleep was hard to come by. Giving up, she crawled out of her humpy, and walked away from the camp
down to the plain to waste her water, and get some fresh air; if she tired herself, she hoped, sleep would welcome her. She stood for a moment to let the sea breeze blow through her hair, then strode out. It was a beautiful night, and as she turned to retrace her steps, a flicker of light caught her eye from somewhere along the edge of the plain. She stopped and stared into the night; sure enough, she caught the flicker of light once more ... the light of a small fire.

She stood uncertain, not knowing what she should do. Her brothers had left camp to attend the man-making ceremonies, and the old man she had been promised to as a wife with the coming of the rains had also gone. Who would have lit that small fire she wondered. Finally curiosity got the better of her; she followed the track that led along the edge of the plain; the path her people used when they went in search of sugarbag. She crept quietly towards the dying glow of the embers, and stood leaning against a small tree, wondering about the strange dark shape she saw there.

Then the wind changed, and filled her nose with the smells of cooked meat and fur wet with blood. She crept nearer and nearer to discover just what that lump lying there might be. She stood no further away from it than a spear's length. The dark thing, the hump, was a man, and he had used the fire to cook meat.

Suddenly the figure moved and stretched. Nunjupini looked to where his face lay hidden in the shadows, and was startled to find that he was lying there looking at her. By starlight, she saw his white teeth and the light reflected in his eyes. She stood as still and as timid as a baby roo balanced on the verge of flight. The smallest move and she would be off and running as fast as her legs could carry her, back towards the camp. She knew that she was in screaming distance of her tribe, but she also knew it was unlikely anyone would come
to seek the source of her screams. Unlike her, they feared the dark, and what it might hold.

“Wandjind?”

The single word made Nunjupini jump, but the sound of his voice made her tingle; she felt excitement and pleasure.

“You
Wandjina?”
he asked again.

“Am I Wandjina [a spiritual being]?” She laughed at his question.

“Course not. But who are you? Where are you from? Why are you here?”

He rose from the ground and sat with his legs crossed, relaxed and comfortable; by sitting thus, he showed that he was in no position to jump up and catch her. Sitting with crossed legs was the sign of trust, fellowship and peace.

Nunjupini had never seen anyone move as lithely and gracefully as he had done in changing his position. He had risen from the sandy ground to a sitting position in one flowing motion. He had no intention of trying to catch her. Had he wanted to, he could have caught her before she opened her mouth to scream. Yet something inside her told her she had already been caught.

“My name is Danaranni, [though my friends call me Dani]. I come from the tribe that lives on the lower reaches of the Big River. And why am I here? It's a long story about a hunter who had to chase a wounded roo for his meal...”

“All the way from the Big River?”

“Not exactly. This roo and I had a big fight, and neither of us looked like winning, so the roo gave me a proposition ... If I would let him travel all the way to his home grounds, he would willingly die for me; he needed to see the land of his birth before he died. And in return for the favour, he would take me to a place where the world's most
beautiful girl lived. So, here we are ... he's dead, and the world's most beautiful girl just walked into my camp. But how is it you re out here walking the bush in the dark? Are you lost?”

She lowered her head; the words he spoke made the heat of her blood run through her body. She glowed with his praise, but felt he was teasing her. She would have to put him in his place.

“No, I am not lost. My home is at the top of this ridge, no more than ten spear-lengths away. If I called, my brothers would soon be at my side. And you should know that I am a woman promised to an elder; our union will take place with the coming of the rains. I left to waste my water. Then I saw the flicker of a flame from your fire, such a small fire that I thought it would be a waste of breath to call my brothers out, so I came to look for myself.”

“I'm glad you did. You certainly don't look old enough to be a woman.”

“You are making fun of me. I wish you would stop. I am indeed a woman. I am nearly thirteen summers old, and I should be carrying the old man's child before the rains have finished. As for beauty, what need is there to be beautiful? The old man may think it his good fortune, but will that give me children? I don't think so.”