The Pythagoras Curse Part XVII

In Search Of Gerung Brandt

Surrounded by menace Long Feather and I eased ourselves to the ground and sat. We made no sudden moments fearing these warriors would pierce our bodies with their lances.

The silence, broken by occasional crackling of the fire and high pitched trills of Black Kites pressed heavily upon us.

Two warriors stepped aside and through this opening walked an ancient looking gentleman, his body smeared with white wash as the others.

His stark white hair cascaded against his shoulders and his long beard swayed back and forth as he approached and knelt between us.

He gazed at the pistol and sword then gestured at me.

“You not fight to kill Woiwurrung white man?”

I shook my head and remained silent. The old man turned his head and gazed intently at Long Feather.

“You not Woiwurrung. What brings you here wadja?”

“I am Long Feather of the Choctaw Indian Nation.”

“You travel with white man against your will?”

“No, he is a great Shaman. I travel freely with him. He only seeks to help.”

“I know not this word chamun.”

“He is a great healer.”

“He is white man. Bring death to Woiwurrung. Once we were many. Now white man’s curse has brought many years of sickness and death. Long ago we joined in Tanderrum with white man. Gave them safe passage across the land. Instead they took land.”

“It is the same in my country.”

“Then why you travel with white man wadja?”

Long Feather nodded and said, “It is because he came into the spirit world to find me. He brought me back. I live because of him.”

The old man nodded and stroked his beard. Slowly he turned his head and gazed at me.

“Ah, it is the dreaming. We know of another who does this.”

I raised my head and stared at the man. His eyes, mahogany and dark continued to study me. Then he nodded. As if to say he knew what was inside of me, knew the very thoughts running wild in my head.

Slowly I raised my hand and pointed to the saddlebags resting beside my saddle.

The old man continued to gaze at me as he uttered a sharp series of commands. One of the warriors broke from the circle, snatched the saddlebags and threw them on the ground between us.

“May I?”

When the elderly warrior nodded I picked up my saddlebags and rummaged through them until I found the robe of my order.

As I held it up warriors in the tiny circle began to murmur, low guttural communications rippling around us as they all spoke at the same time.

The elderly man, I now thought to be the leader of this clan of warriors raised his hand instantly halting all conversation.

“White man wearing same healed many of us. For this we allowed him to walk across our lands, drink from our waters, eat of our food. Wadja speak real? You healer?”

“Yes.”

The old man struggled to his feet then turned full circle as he spoke to his companions. I understood not what he said, but as he spoke each of the warriors seemed to relax. One by one they rested the butt of their lances against the ground and lowered their clubs.

The old man turned to me and smiled.

“You seek this white healer?”

“Yes. We have traveled many miles to find him.”

“You will travel many more. He no here. You come. This bik nyilum bik. We no yabber here. Come. We go to the Dandenong then we yabber. Come.”

As I hastily saddled my horse, several of the warriors doused our fire with sand, plunging us into darkness save for sheets of silvery moon light. Then they split into two groups, one ahead of us, one behind.

The Woiwurrung moved in silence, passing between the tall stalks grass on the plain instead of trampling through them. Though we had benefit of a full moon, they were hardly seen, their ghost like motions fluid, amazingly quiet and stealthy.

Even though they were on foot and we on horseback there were times Long Feather and I were forced to urge our horses into a trot in order to keep up.

In the far distance I saw irregular shaped mounds of shadow rising up. A mountain range which grew larger as we grew near.

To the Dandenong the old man had said. We go to the Dandenong and there I will hear of the dreaming and the white healer.

When we reached the base of a mountain range it became obvious we were to travel to places our beasts could not.

I thought it best to unsaddle and hobble the horses at a nearby stream where they could water and feed on the grasses along the river.

After gaining assurances someone would watch over the animals we took our leave, following the old man and the rest of the warriors along narrow trails of pulverized stone and rock.

We reached a plateau and were met with a handful of bare chested women and children. It was apparent from their surprised expressions they were shocked to see a white man such as I stepping across the plateau.

What was interesting about this meeting was very few paid much attention to Long Feather. It was as though just by virtue of his skin he’d been quickly accepted.

We gathered around the largest of several fires places dotting the darkness of the plateau. It was blazing just outside the mouth of a large cave and ringed by most of the villagers.

The old man spoke to them, at times pointing to Long Feather then at me. We sat for hours, as cooked meat and something which tasted like yams was passed around for all to enjoy.

Sometimes laughter filled the night, and sometimes some of the people stared at me as the old man continued to share his story, eyeing me with expressions of wonder and surprise.

As the hours wore on most of the villagers crept away into the darkness leaving Long Feather, myself and the old man and a couple of warriors.

I watched as the warriors from time to time disappeared into the darkness returning with firewood to ensure the fire continued to burn.

One of them returned with a long piece of wood I assumed he would toss into the fire, but he didn’t.

Instead he sat cross-legged resting one end of the log on the ground. He placed his lips against the end he held and an instant later a melodic bass sound began to fill the air around us.

As I stared into the fire the blended harmonics wrapped around me, soothing me as one would rock a child in a cradle.

I lay upon my side, staring at the tendrils of fire, allowing myself to float along with the melody.

For the first time in over six hundred years I found peace.

I let go the urgency of my situation which haunted me. That night I chose to let the mysterious music wash over me until I neither saw the fire nor heard the sounds.

READ ON — THE PYTHAGORAS CURSE PART XVIII

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX, Part X, Part XI, Part XII, Part XIII, Part XIV, Part XV, Part XVI, Part XVII, Part XVIII, Part XIX, Part XX, Part XXI, Part XXII Part XXIII, Conclusion

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