The Kwinkan Read online

  Mudrooroo was born in Narrogin in Western Australia in 1938. He has travelled extensively throughout Australia and the world and is now living in Brisbane. Mudrooroo has been active in Aboriginal cultural affairs, was a Member of the Aboriginal Arts Unit committee of the Australia Council, and a co-founder with Jack Davis of the Aboriginal Writers, Oral Literature and Dramatists Association. He piloted Aboriginal literature courses at Murdoch University, the University of Queensland, the University of the Northern Territory and Bond University. Mudrooroo is a prolific writer of poetry and prose and is best known for his novel, Wildcat Falling, and his critical work, Writing from the Fringe. Old Fellow Poems and Wildcat Falling are both available with his audio presentation. He has completed a new novel Balga Boy Jackson to be released in 2017.

  Also by Mudrooroo and available in ETT Imprint

  Wildcat Falling (ebook)

  Doin. Wildcat

  Wildcat Screaming

  Dalwarra

  The Indigenous Literature of Australia

  The Garden of Gethsemane

  Writing from the Fringe

  The Indigenous Literature of Australia

  Pacific Highway Blues

  The Song Cycle of Jacky

  An Indecent Obsession (ebook)

  The Master of the Ghost Dreaming

  The Undying

  Underground

  The Promised Land

  Old Fellow Poems

  This edition published by ETT Imprint, Exile Bay 2017

  First published by Angus & Robertson 1993

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be addressed to the publishers:

  ETT IMPRINT

  PO Box R1906

  Royal Exchange NSW 1225

  Australia

  Copyright © Mudrooroo 1993, 2017

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-1-925706-22-2 (ebook)

  Cover illustration by Greta Kool

  I respectfully dedicate this book to the linguist, Mari Rhydwen, who helped me with obscure points of Australian / English usage.

  Any mistakes are mine.

  Thanks Mari for your kind and considerate help.

  TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

  This volume contains the transcripts of thirteen curious recording sessions conducted over the month of July 1992 in the old federal capital of Canberra. They have been edited to delete many hesitations, as well as extraneous and libellous matter, though in the interests of veracity, the oral style of the material has been retained as much as possible. The object of the editing process was to put together a clear, readable manuscript which might go towards elucidating the life and career of the famous Dr Watson Holmes Jackamara. I stress here, as I must, that the name of the subject who subsequently suffered a nervous breakdown and disappeared shortly after the conclusion of the recording sessions, is not to be found in my text. This was at his own request and to preserve his privacy. The manuscript was vetted by both the governments of Australia and of the island nation. Any matters which might directly or indirectly contravene the respective secrecy Acts of both countries have been removed. The unedited tapes are to become part of the Jackamara papers which when collated will be deposited in the Petersen Library of Caine University, Brisbane. There they shall be available for limited perusal by scholars after a period of total restriction as yet to be determined.

  SESSION ONE

  ‘Yes, well I did know, or should that be, I do know Detective Inspector Watson Holmes Jackamara, and I have read, or let us say glanced through the volume of his exploits, or perhaps I should say cases. And you are the, the chronicler of his life? I find it very interesting, most interesting; but what has it got to do with me? You see, as I did know the Inspector I was ready to peruse the book and did, but, to be precise, I thought that you fictionalised the cases too much, not as to the sensational aspects, but as to appearing to get into the minds of the participants in the tragedies. I see by your raised eyebrows that you are querying my use of the word “tragedy”? Well, sir, I do prefer the formality, I have no wish to extend this brief meeting into friendship, I regard all police cases as tragedies, the result of individual strivings and aspirations colliding with the social mores which may be seen as fate. Social collapse averted by individual collapse and so it goes on. I find little of this in your fictionalised working over of the participants. Well, it is only what must be expected, for after all, and for that matter how could you really begin to delve into and understand the inner workings of not fictional characters, but real people engaged in the tragedy of life often to such a degree that they put their all on the line. Perhaps only the policeman, the avenging fury, might begin to understand and love aspects of the criminal; but not all, sir, no, not all for after all he is no psychoanalyst; but then what has psychology got to do with the understanding of a human nature enmeshed in tragedy? Ah, so you interview people? Interesting, and the details of the cases? ... from the Inspector himself . I remember, even now, that he was an excellent raconteur. In fact, I feel that I am ready to cooperate in your, well, in your project of literary realisation.

  ‘I remember Jackamara, I’m sorry, Detective Inspector Watson Holmes Jackamara. It was like this. At that time, I was standing for election to the federal Parliament and he was detailed not only to be my minder, but to pull the black vote onto my side. You see, well, I can admit it now, I was very much the city slicker. Still am for that matter, but, well, you may ask, what has this got to do with my connection with the Detective Inspector? What, you say that he is now a Doctor of Criminology! Well, well! It appears in this world only I remain constant and on the down turn ... Well, when I met the good Doctor, the black vote was substantial, very substantial in that electorate. It was decided by those in power that I go around to the various settlements and missions to present a sympathetic ear to their grievances. Naturally, I was to promise nothing; but in those days in Queensland the mere presence of a parliamentary candidate amongst the blacks was like the visit of royalty. Still, I needed an “in” and so the Inspector was provided for that “in”. We got on splendidly, well, we did to a certain extent, as much as it was possible for a white and black man to get on. He was a great one for the stories, and as our enforced companionship wore away his reserve, he gave me much enjoyment on the road to some of those missions which are so remote that to say out of sight is out of mind is quite correct. Why, he even took me to his old mission home.

  ‘By that time, I was used to these clusters of abandoned humanity lurking on the very brink of my vision. To enter into one of these clusters was a trial. The blacks were stand-offish, preferring to gaze away rather than towards, and the white persons in charge were little better. They on the whole were suspicious of politicians. Some, I saw, had identified almost wholly with their charges; others lorded it over them, and the rest, the majority, suffered their isolation and were ready to fling their petty grievances towards me. Naturally, I ducked them.

  ‘Jackamara’s home was typical of these abandoned missions. The better ones had been ordered by the State Government to become municipalities; others like his, a few dilapidated houses squared about a church and a rambling bungalow, the once home of the missionary, were placed under the control of a government agent and forgotten. When I arrived, I found that the agent had taken leave of absence. His headquarters, the bungalow, lay silent behind a mesh fence topped by barbed wire. A light-skinned lad pulled forlornly at the hasp of a heavy padlock securing the gate.

  ‘We alighted from our vehicle in the dusty square. Not a soul in sight except that kid pulling on the lock. Then, then there erupted from between two
houses a group of men beating the ground with sticks and yelling, “Snake, snake!” I stared at them nervously, then with a slight grin of derision as I saw the serpent they were after slithering towards us. I could recognise a harmless grass snake when I saw one. I stood there as they approached. Then one of them quickly stooped, grabbed the snake by its tail and flung it at me. I caught what I considered a harmless serpent and held it up. They came forward warily. I looked down at my catch, then gave a start. My God, it was a deadly brown snake. I flung it from me with a gasp of horror. The men watched it disappear under a house—then turned to us.

  ‘Jackamara was amongst his mob and went from man to man explaining my mission. It seemed that handling the snake had been a test of some sort and one which I had passed. We, or rather I, was allowed to camp on the porch of the deserted church for the night. Jackamara got the camp set up while I sat on the camp chair. Individual men approached to sound me out. I hummed and hawed in my usual fashion as I blathered my way through the usual requests; I stated strongly that I was in the running for Minister of Aboriginal Affairs, and agreed to carefully consider each and every problem when I was elected and entered the Ministry. I even made a show of taking notes.

  ‘Finally, and as the sun disappeared beneath the dust and the darkness flickered with the flames of our fire, I left my chair and sat on the porch steps to watch Jackamara preparing supper. A huge billy of tea hung above the flames. By the time it was bubbling, men had appeared from the darkness and settled about the fire. Soft voices murmured and tired with, with keeping up the pretence of wishing to help these people who were as alien to me as I was, I am sure, to them, I fell into a doze ... I came out of it and into a story being narrated by Jackamara.

  ‘A remarkable story, quite remarkable. It stays in my mind, stays in my mind as much as she stays there. No, she has little to do with this, has little bearing ... Is that tape-recorder running? Remarkable things, tape-recorders. You could say that they tap the stream of consciousness; but, sir, remember, keep it clearly in mind that I retain the right to vet all material and, and nothing must allude to my identity. Remember the laws of libel. You see I still have enemies. Yes, even now when I am at a low level in my, in my career, and that is why I ... Well, why should I record my, my downfall, when you are only interested in that black policeman? ... But, remember, once, then, I could have become the Minister of Aboriginal Affairs and have had him at my beck and call. Alas, it was never to be.

  ‘Jacky, as I called him, was still a simple detective then. Perhaps not so simple as you depict in your case histories; but in those days few appeared ready to acknowledge his uniqueness. It is still hard for me to believe that you have not made up most of those so-called cases, though, no, in hindsight ... Well, now he has a reputation second to none in the history of the Queensland Police Force. He well deserves that honorary doctorate, and perhaps in one of your future volumes you will detail what must have been a very impressive ceremony ... Sorry, sorry, I know that I digress. I am forever digressing. My life is one long digression; but, sir, over the years things have not gone right with me. The story? Yes, the story. It seems but last night. There sits Jacky at the fireside. How mysteriously his dark face and the dark faces of his mob glow in the flickering flames as he begins to relate an anecdote which I then took as rank superstition.

  ‘He declared that it had happened when he was a young kid and that his Uncle Willy could vouch for every word. He looked across the fire at a stolid bloke whose eyes reflected red and mysterious from the flames. This man, I knew must be Uncle Willy, and he nodded his shaggy head in verification. As Jackamara flicked his glance towards me, I too found myself nodding, then he went on addressing his words to me, his gaze flickering at times to Uncle Willy at salient points ... And the story? Well, it is as good a beginning as any for this tape. It seems that once as Uncle Willy and his maternal grandfather, I forget his name if I ever knew it, were walking through the bush in the early evening, a min min light came floating towards them. The old man ignored it and kept on walking, but the uncle, he slowed down a bit. He hung back as the old man strode on. In fact, Uncle Willy, it seems, was not one to put his best foot forward and hung back so far that he was at a safe distance when the light flared into a beautiful woman with long flowing hair. He watched from a distance as she spoke to the old man. He saw him go off with her towards a low hill which was a pile of boulders and rock slabs. “It’s what you fellows call The Devil’s Marbles,” Jackamara informed me, and I recalled that he had pointed the hill out to me when we passed it on the way in.

  ‘Uncle Willy didn’t have to be told that it was what the local Aborigines call a Gyinggi woman, I see you nod at this, and that she had sung, you know what that is, the old man and forced him to follow her to her home in the rocks. In fact, the hill, which the Inspector offered to stop at on the morrow, had a bad reputation and was taboo to the local blacks. They said it was the haunt of spirits, of spirits called Kwinkan. Except they are not spirits, for that Gyinggi woman when she enchanted men drained the very flesh from their bones until they became stick-like beings. Uncle Willy didn’t want this to happen to the old man, so he rushed off back to the mission for help. Half-a-dozen men reluctantly came back with him, urged on by an old bloke who believed that he had the necessary, I suppose you might call it, medicine to force a passage through to the Gyinggi woman and her prey. By the time they reached the foot of the hill, it was almost pitch black. They saw a light glowing half way up the slope and carefully they climbed to it. Hard work it was, for it was no joke making your way across those piled-up rocks in the dark. Finally, they reached a huge tree emerging from the slabs of rock. It had pushed aside the slabs and the light came from underneath one of the tilted slabs. The old fellow mumbled a chant of some sort and came creeping towards the light waving a bunch of feathers, which, it seemed, dislodged any spirit which might be lurking in the branches of the tree ready to spring down on them. They reached that slab and peered beneath. The old man lay there stretched out seemingly asleep. No one else was in the place, then the strange glow began fading. They dragged the old man out. They shook him to bring him to his senses. He came to snarling and snapping like some wild animal. They had to hold him down. One of them who worked for the medical clinic at the mission, thrust a stick between his teeth and then tied his hands and feet. Well, they carried him back to the mission and kept him locked up in a room. Then one time they go to that room, and you know what? Well, that old grandfather had dug his way out through the floor. A concrete floor mind you. It was the last they saw of him. He had returned to that Gyinggi woman and was lost to the men. That was the end of him as a man. Well, at least this is what Jacky told me that night. He went on further and said that such a man taken or lured by those women is sucked dry. He becomes a Kwinkan, thin and elongated, living in the rocks and crevasses, afraid to face the light of day and other men. He loses his nerve, just as I’ve lost my nerve. It can happen to the best and worst of us, mate, the best and worst of us. You better believe it!

  ‘Well, stories are stories and Jacky had a fund of them, and most of them just as meaningless, that’s what I thought then, smiling before wondering why he had directed that particular story at me, a soon-to-be-elected member of Parliament, a minister too, and thus on his last visit to this godforsaken mission, for let me assure you that it was that. It was a place made for superstition and I remember clearly that I darted a glance at the stern face of the detective while I asked within: “How come an officer of the Queensland Police Force could believe such rubbish?” ... but then the answer was real easy; he was an Abo, no offence meant, and that settled the matter for me.

  ‘Well, the tape-recorder is still running and, I’ve made a start. Why there? No matter, I’ll just keep on. You’ll have to listen if you want to hear about the time, or the times that Jacky, well to give him his due, Detective Inspector Dr Watson Holmes Jackamara figured in my life. You’re the one who gets inside the minds of real people, so you have
to listen and get inside mine. Now, don’t worry, don’t worry, Jackamara is the hero of this tape, and I’ll get to him, but well, well, what about my life? You have to pass through some of it to get to him, so you better, better listen, take me along with the good Doctor and then cut and shape it; but, but, I have a veto on the material, on my life as it were. It is my life, I want to keep it mine ...

  ‘Life, you seem to question. Well, we all develop some sort of philosophy of life. That is if we live long enough. Life, I thought once it was what might be called, other-directed, a force rushing into the future loaded with all things nice for me and you, but especially for me. Well, that was then. The old experience eventually gangs up on you and you get some degree of reality, the reality factor going for you. Well, first of all, if you ask me what is life, I must answer, but from what position do you expect me to answer? As the head of a computer section, a minor bureaucrat to be precise, I might answer that it does not compute; or if you wish I shall refer the matter to my division head. So you see I cannot answer it from my official position; but as a man, a human being talking from experience I may. Oh fuck it, what was the question? What is Life? What is it after all but just bits and pieces of memory caked with some sort of emotional slime? Some are tedious, some exciting, and some, I must admit are even terrifying. Well your friend, Jackamara, played a part in my life and thus created some pieces of my memory. It is these which you expect me to open like a computer file and reveal to you the contents in all their pristine accuracy. Well, mate, it doesn’t work like that. I’m not a computer and I expect some, well, let me call it remunerative cash—no cheques please—for my ability to open these files to you.

  ‘What, you say that they have an importance only to you? Well, they are mine by the law of privacy. Intellectual property! I own them, mate. Admit that they are important to me through right of ownership ... but what about others? The laws of libel protect them. I am not a monad existing only in and for and by myself. So my memories are important not only to you in your function as an eventual narrator, but to me and others as well. I am the archive of such memories; and because they are an archive they have an importance towards forming the public view of contemporary history. You see, mate, then I was standing for a seat in Parliament and on the verge of becoming a minister and more important than that friend of yours. Yes, more important, and so if you want to learn about him, you’ll have to pay as you go and learn about me as well ... And don’t smirk, don’t even wonder why I am so thin now. So much, so much a Kwinkan, a thin stick of a body attached to a thick, misshapen penis. Well, she did for me, mate. It happens to the best and the worst of us, and so it happened to me and it all started from that story of Jacky’s. I don’t know about you people, you Abos, there’s something not quite right about you mob, something different. Underneath the old suit and tie of assimilation there beats the heart of an Abo, but no offence, mate, no offence. Just one of those things which are part of the reality factor, then I am pissed off about everything. There’s been little contentment in my life over the last years. But, no worries, eh? Or as my esteemed leader used to say, “Don’t you worry about that”; but I do, I do. Might have some kind of health and some kind of job, but everything’s not apples, mate. Still, it wasn’t always like that, like this. No, it wasn’t. No, not at all, and one of these days, when I get myself together, things’ll change, will change, you'll see; you’ll all see. I’ll be on top again!