“He will die,” Cadi said flatly.
Twain did not respond. He felt sick and wanted to vomit, but knew that he would not, knew that there was more to be shown to him. In response to his silent acceptance of continuing, Cadi led him to a green door in the side of a building.
Pemulwy had begun, after the battle of Burramatta, to think of the land around the Harbour as Sydney Cove.
It pained him to think of the Eora land in such as manner, but as he made his way through the darkness, he realized that it was not incorrect of him to think that way. The land no longer resembled anything from his youth: the stingrays were dwindling, the bush had been cut away, trees were replaced with crude buildings of wood and other, more sturdy buildings made from yellow sandstone. Nothing about the land he made his way through resembled the Eora land, with the exception of the Harbour itself, somehow retaining its purity, its strength that cut a dark mark through the English land.
Pausing at the top of a hill, the Eora warrior dropped into a crouch and gazed at the ragged ugliness of Sydney Cove.
According to the English, it had been named after a man who had never seen it, and who would never do so. One young Eora had told him that Sydney was a genteel man—though he had been unable to explain to him just what made such a man—a friend of the white beeàna, but that he was a man who held the land, and everything upon it, in contempt. It was not an uncommon opinion, and after so many years of fighting the English, Pemulwy had grudgingly accepted that the only native born Englishmen who did not hold the land in contempt were the Rum Corps
[7]
, who he hated with a passion. He had learned, too late it appeared, that there were divisions as wide as the Harbour between the English here and those in England, and despite his animosity towards them, he believed that if he had known this years before, he would have exploited it.
But of course, he had not.
I
have
lost my taste for the war
, Pemulwy whispered, rising from his crouch, his muscles complaining.
I don’t want it anymore. I have watched my friends and family die and walk into the towns, yet the English living here no longer appears as the crime I once thought it was.
Time had, he realized, defeated him. And yet, as he gazed down at the town, he realized that he would not be able to turn away from his current actions: he would still kill King. But it was not for hatred that he would do it, or for the Eora way of life, or even the land. In truth, he did not know why he would do it.
He felt no anger or fear as he made his way quietly down the hill. His hard feet left only the barest hint of a track in their wake, and when he skirted around a pair of Redcoats in the street, he did not attack them. They were young men, and ugly like all the English were to him, but that was not why he stayed his hand. Part of him wanted to believe that he did so because he did not want to alert others to his presence, and in a small way that was true; but mainly, his refusal to step into the street with his spear was the physical manifestation of his unwillingness to continue the war.
He wondered, briefly, if a new Spirit had settled upon him. When the land had belonged to the Eora, the Elders had told Pemulwy that the Spirit of the land demanded protection, that it was angry if he allowed any tribe to take the land, and it was this that had fuelled him in the first years of his war. But he did not feel it anymore, and indeed, admitted that there was a different feel to the land now. Was it possible that it rose out of the quiet houses of the English that he passed, dark with sleep, and with dogs chained to the back doors for protection? Pemulwy did not know, but it was entirely possible.
King lived in a two-story sandstone building in the middle of Sydney Cove. It was where all the Governors had lived, and was surrounded by large lawns, and vegetable gardens that were beginning to show produce. Pemulwy had seen similar gardens around the houses throughout the settlement, but their vegetables had showed sagging green tops, while at King’s dwelling there was more life, the promise of things to come.
Pemulwy slipped over the surrounding fence, and made his way quietly and silently to the back of the sandstone building. Coldness was seeping into his fingers, and he flexed them as he scanned the garden slowly. Once, he had been able to scan the surrounding ground quickly, but now, even with the aid of moonlight, he needed more time. Time to distinguish the shapes, such as the fence palings to the left, and the firewood next to it.
When he was sure that the yard was empty, Pemulwy continued to the back of the house. There were no lights coming from the house, but on the second floor the Eora could make out the hint of something, either movement or a candle. The windows that the English had placed in the building were too thick for him to see through properly.
His hard feet lead him quietly to the back door, which, when he pushed upon, swung open with a faint creak.
Warmth still had its fading grip on the house, and emanated from the sandstone bricks of the narrow hallway that Pemulwy made his way along. Doors were to his left and right, and when he gazed into them, he found a small kitchen, followed by even smaller rooms that were packed like an overflowing parcel with couches and tables, and in the case of one, a piano.
Pemulwy had seen a piano once, pushed into a ravine, and almost on its side, the wood cracked and broken. The dirty keys had still produced a sound when he tapped them, however, and, despite himself, he had straightened the broken instrument and tapped sounds out of it in the midday sun.
Afterwards, he had been angry with himself for indulging in such an English thing. The Eora had instruments of their own, traditional ones that he enjoyed, and ones that he
should
use. But seeing the piano brought back the memory, and as he made his way quietly up the steps, he felt a faint twinge that he could not go and tap on it to produce sounds again.
On the second floor he was presented with two doors. In the first, he found a large, spacious room with two occupants: a white English baby, lying in its crib, and a large, meaty woman, asleep on the couch that lay next to the crib. Around them were thick curtains, and drawers, and plush toys. Pemulwy, easing the door shut, knew the two to be King’s wife and child.
He truly had lost the taste for the war. Years ago, he would have thought nothing of killing the woman and child, just as the English thought nothing of killing Eora women and children. It would not have been difficult to turn around and kill them still, Pemulwy knew, even as he made his way to the second door that emitted a hint of light, but even thinking of the women he had known and who had died at English hands, he could not find the anger or will to do it.
He would kill King, and that was all. After King, he would find a different way to battle the English.
But why not now?
With a faint sigh, Pemulwy realized that he could not return to the tribe and face James, and the other young Eora, without having accomplished what he said he would. Besides, didn’t King deserve it? Wouldn’t it be a fine warning for the future governors that they sent in his place?
His fingers tightening against his spear, Pemulwy pushed open the door.
In the room, holding a long muzzled rifle, was King. The aging, tall, grey haired man regarded Pemulwy with his bright blue eyes, and then said, quietly, “You’re a disease upon this land.”
Before Pemulwy could react, King fired.
The lead tore into his chest, punching him out of the door, throwing him to the floor. His hands searched for his spear, but he could not find it, and his breath came in harsh gasps. His mind spun, and, in the darkness above him, a figure emerged. But it was not King. Instead, it was the young, smooth featured black face of James.
“If only you had learned to ride a horse,” the young Eora said coldly and levelled a pistol at him. “But no, not the great Pemulwy. It was beneath you.”
Hatred flared in Pemulwy, and he roared. In response, James’ pistol bucked, and the world exploded in blood and pain that he would not walk away from.
The Cross (once known as Queens Cross and briefly as Kings Cross before common vernacular was made permanent) in Twain’s day was no different to the Cross of today. As Vella said in his history, it was, is, and always will be ‘a centre-point for low gunmen, violent pimps, prostitution of all kinds, drugs, artists, musicians, crusaders, bent cops, and the best dressed transvestites the world has ever known.’
Twain’s theory was that the Cross was undeniably linked to the English authority that landed in Sydney. ‘It does not matter who you are,’ he said in one lecture, ‘but no one in the streets of [the] Cross is an Australian. Instead, you are nothing more than the pawns of a decaying Empire.’ It was a harsh statement, and as Vella explains, untrue, especially in the light of the fact that the Cross has not changed one iota since Twain made that proclamation.
But there is no denying the influence Twain’s words had. It can be linked directly to the rise of the Democratic Party and Arthur Butler, and, from them, the Republic that we live in now. Through Twain’s words, Butler took control of the voting power of the blue collar working man and organized rallies, demonstrations, and, in the historical protest of 1901, a strike that shut down Sydney entirely.
Of course, Twain couldn’t have known that Butler would make the same mistakes America did in search of the national identity to go along with the new Republic. (At any rate, Twain was busy with other political concerns. Having returned to America, he was accused of lacking patriotism as he publicly questioned the American policy regarding the Philippines.) In his search, Butler and the Republic of Australia were responsible for evil acts, many of which ignored what Twain spoke out on. It is therefore nothing short of a tragedy that we witnessed the Australian Government steal an entire generation of Aboriginal children from their parents and give them to white ‘Australian’ families to raise; we witnessed the Asian immigration made illegal, and a mob mentality encouraged that saw established Asian families beaten and driven out of Sydney; and, perhaps most pedantically xenophobic, we saw schools begin teaching the ‘Australian’ language.
The result led to decades of confused culture, where men and women who did not fit into Butler’s description of an Australian (‘standing by your mates, working a hard day, enjoying a cold beer, and a swim in the ocean’) were culturally shunned and often targeted by hard line ‘patriots’. All of this began to change around the sixties, with the influx of American drug culture that was brought into prominence by American movies and cinema, but it left its scars deeply within the nation, and especially, Sydney.
To walk down Sydney today is to walk in the shadows of the political past (it is in the buildings, the street signs, and the statues that link our cultural understanding together) and to watch a Government, whose history is responsible for the near genocide of the Aboriginal race and culture, refuse to make amends. It cannot but force one to question what Mark Twain brought to Sydney. A few have labeled him the man who broke Sydney, but I think that is an ignorant suggestion. Twain is not responsible for the actions of our politicians, just as the transported English before him were not. Rather, he was responsible for bringing to our attention the idea that we were in control of what we made of our city, and indeed our country.
‘Sydney is the heart of Australia, and it is from here that everything flows,’ Mark Twain said in his final performance, and he was correct. It is a heart we control, that we, with our presence, force the beat of, and which, like a mirror, reveals the best and worse that we, as Australians, bring.
Darrell Barton
Kings Cross,
Sydney.
Beyond the green door was a cool, dark room. As Twain’s eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he was able to make out the shapes of shelves, filled with books, and a large oak desk, with a high-backed chair behind it. In the middle of the table, in a large glass jar, was the head of an Aborigine, his mouth and eyes stitched shut, his head floating gently in light brown alcohol.
“The poor devil,” Twain said quietly, approaching the desk. “What’d he do to deserve this?”
“This is my first revolutionary,” Cadi whispered from the darkness around him. “The Eora warrior you saw earlier.”
“Where are you?” Twain said, scanning the room.
“I am here.” Cadi stood behind the desk, the darkness making his bones more prominent, as if there was no skin at all behind them. With his bony hands, the Aborigine stroked the glass jar of the head, as if it were a child that he could pick up and hold close to his chest. “After he had been killed, King had his head removed, to make sure that he would not rise again. He did it that very night, in his backyard.”
Twain shuddered. “Where are we?”
“We are in London, in Joseph Banks study. King had the head sent here afterwards, to study, to learn what it was that made him hate them so much. In doing so, he took everything I had given the warrior, and isolated it from the Aboriginal people, destroying the last remains of his power.”
“Surely something could have been done?” Twain asked, approaching the desk.
“No,” Cadi replied coldly. “The warrior himself was the symbol. I realized the mistake afterwards, and rectified it with my Irishman, but in this case, the Eora’s skin, his entire body, was the symbol that could unite them.”
Twain stared at the floating head. After everything he had seen, everything he had been forced through, he wanted the head to leave an impression on him, to suggest to him the quality of the Aboriginal people who lived in Sydney and the white men and women that lived in the city too. But mostly, he wanted the head to explain the figure that had taken him along this journey with intensity that bordered on fanaticism. But the longer he stared, the more it resembled but a simple head.
“Do you understand why Sydney needs a new heart?” Cadi asked, passing through the table to stand before him. The head of the Eora warrior appeared to float in his stomach, part of the spirit.