town.
The men that will kill you
.
The bullets that sounded around him were organized, and worked in series, punching through the air and into the bodies of his warriors. Across the street, he watched a tall Eora warrior hit by a volley of bullets, his body lifted from the ground. It was the sign, the moment that Pemulwy’s attack was truly broken, the moment he should have fled; but instead, he began running across the street to help the fallen, a bullet sinking into the calf of his right leg before he was half way across, and spinning him to the ground, into the mud.
Don’t die face down.
Pemulwy pushed himself up, using the rifle for the leverage. The wave of Redcoats had become a flow of individuals, and he was aware, dimly, that some of his warriors had fled. Around him, six others were caught on the same street, firing into the red tide that worked itself to them like the lines of a whirlpool working into the centre. His warriors dropped slowly, as if an invisible finger, a spirit’s finger, was reaching out and knocking them down, taking their life away as children did with toys in a game.
A third bullet punched into Pemulwy’s chest.
Die fighting!
Roaring, Pemulwy raised the English rifle, levelling it at a red-coated figure in front of him. He took no recognition of the figure’s details, of who he was, or what made him; he was English and it did not matter; he squeezed the trigger, and the soldier pitched backwards—
Four bullets smashed into Pemulwy in response.
The Spirit World.
To Mark Twain, the spiralling staircase was endless. The rickety, wooden panels sliced through the inky black world around him, dropping until his perspective refused to believe that he was still seeing a staircase, and his body trembled from fright.
There was no way to measure time. His body did not grow weak, or strong, and, more than once, Twain believed that he was stepping on the same two steps. When he mentioned this to Cadi, the Aborigine laughed, a warm, smooth, calming sound.
“Would you believe,” he said, “that I am walking along the beach of my past? The sand is pure white, the water blue, and the horizon beautiful.”
Unhappily, Twain muttered, “So this is for us tourists, huh?”
“In the Spirit World, you see what you expect to see.”
Twain stopped and turned to face the Aborigine. The bones that had been so prominent on his skin were now sunken, having turned into a smooth white paste that covered his muscular body. His skin was no longer scarred, and his eyes, once closed, were open.
“What happened to you?” Twain asked, not surprised by the change.
“This is my world,” Cadi replied. “Why would I look dead here?”
Twain began to respond, then shrugged, and said, “I don’t suppose you’ve got a smoke?”
Cadi shook his head. “No. It’s not a habit I’ve ever seen anything good rise from.”
“Right then,” Twain said, and continued his repetitious walk down the spiralling stairs.
Eventually, a light blinked into life in the inky black. Twain wondered, upon seeing it, what Cadi saw, but refrained from asking. He had not liked the Aborigine’s previous response—it had made him feel young and foolish, that latter an emotion he worked hard to avoid. He continued down the steps, drawing closer to the dot, which in response, grew brighter, turning from yellow to gold.
Finally, Twain reached a position on the staircase where he could make out the features of the dot. It was a small, brown bird, the kind that Twain had seen many times. As he drew closer, he discovered that it was caught in mid-flight, unable to move, to rise or fall.
“I’m not the only one seeing this, right?” he asked, unable to conceal his irritation. “Or is this a private showing?”
“I see it,” Cadi responded quietly.
“What is it?”
“A bird.”
“Thanks,” Twain muttered dryly. “What does it mean?”
Cadi smiled, but it was a small, sad smile. “This is the last Aboriginal myth,
The men that will kill you
.
The bullets that sounded around him were organized, and worked in series, punching through the air and into the bodies of his warriors. Across the street, he watched a tall Eora warrior hit by a volley of bullets, his body lifted from the ground. It was the sign, the moment that Pemulwy’s attack was truly broken, the moment he should have fled; but instead, he began running across the street to help the fallen, a bullet sinking into the calf of his right leg before he was half way across, and spinning him to the ground, into the mud.
Don’t die face down.
Pemulwy pushed himself up, using the rifle for the leverage. The wave of Redcoats had become a flow of individuals, and he was aware, dimly, that some of his warriors had fled. Around him, six others were caught on the same street, firing into the red tide that worked itself to them like the lines of a whirlpool working into the centre. His warriors dropped slowly, as if an invisible finger, a spirit’s finger, was reaching out and knocking them down, taking their life away as children did with toys in a game.
A third bullet punched into Pemulwy’s chest.
Die fighting!
Roaring, Pemulwy raised the English rifle, levelling it at a red-coated figure in front of him. He took no recognition of the figure’s details, of who he was, or what made him; he was English and it did not matter; he squeezed the trigger, and the soldier pitched backwards—
Four bullets smashed into Pemulwy in response.
The Spirit World.
To Mark Twain, the spiralling staircase was endless. The rickety, wooden panels sliced through the inky black world around him, dropping until his perspective refused to believe that he was still seeing a staircase, and his body trembled from fright.
There was no way to measure time. His body did not grow weak, or strong, and, more than once, Twain believed that he was stepping on the same two steps. When he mentioned this to Cadi, the Aborigine laughed, a warm, smooth, calming sound.
“Would you believe,” he said, “that I am walking along the beach of my past? The sand is pure white, the water blue, and the horizon beautiful.”
Unhappily, Twain muttered, “So this is for us tourists, huh?”
“In the Spirit World, you see what you expect to see.”
Twain stopped and turned to face the Aborigine. The bones that had been so prominent on his skin were now sunken, having turned into a smooth white paste that covered his muscular body. His skin was no longer scarred, and his eyes, once closed, were open.
“What happened to you?” Twain asked, not surprised by the change.
“This is my world,” Cadi replied. “Why would I look dead here?”
Twain began to respond, then shrugged, and said, “I don’t suppose you’ve got a smoke?”
Cadi shook his head. “No. It’s not a habit I’ve ever seen anything good rise from.”
“Right then,” Twain said, and continued his repetitious walk down the spiralling stairs.
Eventually, a light blinked into life in the inky black. Twain wondered, upon seeing it, what Cadi saw, but refrained from asking. He had not liked the Aborigine’s previous response—it had made him feel young and foolish, that latter an emotion he worked hard to avoid. He continued down the steps, drawing closer to the dot, which in response, grew brighter, turning from yellow to gold.
Finally, Twain reached a position on the staircase where he could make out the features of the dot. It was a small, brown bird, the kind that Twain had seen many times. As he drew closer, he discovered that it was caught in mid-flight, unable to move, to rise or fall.
“I’m not the only one seeing this, right?” he asked, unable to conceal his irritation. “Or is this a private showing?”
“I see it,” Cadi responded quietly.
“What is it?”
“A bird.”
“Thanks,” Twain muttered dryly. “What does it mean?”
Cadi smiled, but it was a small, sad smile. “This is the last Aboriginal myth,
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