Timeless Land

The Timeless Land was released in 1941 and had a great impact in Australia at the time. Author Eleanor Dark had been annoyed at a reenactment of the First Fleets landing in 1938 in which the local tribe was chased away by the colonists. She wrote this historical fiction in reaction to that event.
Dark makes it abundantly clear in the preface that she wrote this as interpretation of the various writings available to her. Some of the protagonists are historical figures, while others are figments of her imagination. She has used available sources and occasionally quotes from them. This copy is also a long 600 pages and the first of a trilogy. At times this has been on the school curriculum in the various states and territories. I could imagine it may have been a difficult read for some students based on the length and the at times dense prose. This reader had no issues and enjoyed both the narration and the descriptions of both the land and the thoughts of the individuals. There are no heroes or villains, just people from differing tribes that have no understanding of the other and both tribes have their faults and strengths, their idiosyncrasies and the majority a lack of patience in understanding the other tribe.
The title is excellent as the timelessness of the land ended with the first fleet on the continent of Australia and the inhabitants of the previous thousands of years had their lives and land changed forever. It was timeless to them, to the new people it became a place to exploit in a way the ancient tribes could never understand. Though an historical novel the author attempts to understand that loss of its timelessness. That loss is evident today with the dominant tribe now utterly dismissive of the loss suffered to the other tribe.

Bennelong witnessing a hanging.
It was almost dark now. The swinging shape under the tree was all but invisible, and lights were appearing here and there among the tents, and on the ships moored in the Cove. Everything was very quiet. Bennilong was frightened. He had seen many men die, he had slain many himself, but he had never thought of death as a shameful thing before. It was a thing which came to all men, and sometimes in a terrifying guise; to fall in battle was a fitting end for a warrior, but even the stoutest heart might quail with the knowledge that sorcery had been invoked that somewhere for instance, an enemy was working an evil magic upon one's footprint in the sand, or that the pains inflicted vindictively upon an image of oneself would presently pass into one's real body, gnawing at one's vitals; or that the bone was being pointed, and one's death “sung' from afar. Yes, such death was terrible indeed, but here was a different kind of terror. He moved uneasily, glancing over his shoulder, the whites of his eyes showing, the hairs on the back of his neck pricking like a dog's. For this man had gone out of life in a dreadful silence. Where were his family, his women- folk, who should have been about him, beating their breasts and tearing their faces with their nails till the blood ran down? Where was the wailing, the grief which was not so much for the death of one man as for the defeat of mankind by the great enemy? ‘Our brother we shall not see again... Where was the frenzy of the living who have seen a fragment of life annihilated, and who must express, in yells of fury, in fierce threats and savage maledictions, their hatred of the unseen power which can snatch a man from his fellows, and make him no more than the dust upon the ground?

Arabanoo witnessing a flogging.
When it was over Arabanoo went away by himself. He was as much alone as he was ever allowed to be. The guard detailed to attend him stood at a little distance, conversing with another man, glancing only occasionally at his charge – a grotesque figure in his ill-fitting European clothes and his bare feet, wearing a fetter on his ankle, and sitting on a rock by the water's edge wrestling with an overwhelming sense of shame and despair.
These were two emotions so foreign to him, and so agonising, that he wondered if he would, perhaps, die of them. Such a feeling in one's breast must be almost a death. And yet his body lived and moved, his breath came smoothly, he could teel the damp sand cool beneath his feet. He had seen blood and pain. That was nothing at all. His own people in their rites of initiation suffered far greater physical pain, shed far more blood. It was part of the lot of mankind and womankind that such things should be endured stoically, the spirit dominating the quailing flesh.
He squatted on his rock, rubbing his hands backward and forward along the coarse cloth of his trousers, his dark eyes fixed and opaque with the intensity of his thoughts. He had seen pain and blood, but it was not that which had aroused his every nerve to an agony of horror. It was that a man should be helpless while he suffered - that he should be bound, dragged, held up to contempt, humiliated in the eyes of his whole tribe. It was not that pain should be inflicted on him, but that it should be inflicted on him against his will; it was that he should struggle, and beseech, and beg for mercy. Arabanoo lifted his head slowly and looked round at the cove and the settlement, now sinking into dusk. His eyes had a searching, puzzled look. His land had not seen such things before. In his closeness to it he seemed to feel its aloof untouchability, and he made, for the first time in his life, a conscious effort to join its spirit with his own, and share its inviolability. This feeling of death within him. He had been shamed because he was a man and had seen another man suffering indignity. He had protested, he had cried out in horror. What did it matter what they had done? If they had attacked his tribe were not its menfolk warriors who could avenge them- selves? Could not the Dereewolgal see that this was an evil magic which they were spinning about themselves? Could they not see that for one man to shame another destroys them both? Let them release these men let his own people meet them in battle...
But it was no use. They had not seemed to understand. They had stood quite calmly, watching. Could it be that they were...?
Arabanoo jerked his head round like an animal cornered. The whites of his eyes shone in the twilight. For he, who had witnessed this thing only once, had the feeling of death in his heart. Could it be that they, who had witnessed it so often, were indeed not dying, but already dead within? Were they evil spirits - mawn - inhuman beings wearing the guise of humanity? Did this not explain everything their weapons which could slay without touching, their miraculous power over fire, the superhuman skill of their carrahdy, the strange wickedness which one could feel in them?
Ah, but it was not only wickedness. He sighed, tormented by the confusion of his thoughts; for he had felt goodness in them, too. Not only he, but his fellow-countrymen had felt the goodness in the Be-anga, the close firm bond of their common humanity. In many of the others he had felt it also - kindness generosity, even sometimes the blessed spark of gaiety which was so precious to his people. And he had played with the children, fondled them, told them the tales which his ow children loved to hear, joined in their games which his ow children also played...
No, they were men; but men terribly beset by an evil mag of unhappiness. Men without peace, men without serenity, men without law.

Barangaroo on religion and taboos.
They were quite kind people the Bereewolgal, and her docile and affectionate nature had taught her to obey them. Was it possible that one so great as Mr Dyon-ton, before whom even the Be-anga sometimes bowed his head, whose dignified gait and solemn mien marked him as spart from his fellows, who was obviously the chief sorcerer whole tribe, the leader of their weekly corroboree and the of the plunder of their Law, should speak other than truth? She could not believe it possible. She listened attentively when he spoke, stored his words in her retentive memory, repeated them glibly when so instructed. At first, learning to understand them tongue, she had been astonished and delighted to find their new words may clothe an old, familiar story. For she found that these people were trying to teach her of the Maker. of-all, though they called him by a different name, and they pointed, as her own people did, to the Heavens as his dwelling-place. Eagerly she had nodded her comprehension when Mrs Johnson was instructing her. The Law of the white tribe, she had thought cheerfully, was evidently very much the same as her own Law, so she would get along very well with them. But no. It was the same, and yet not the same. There were incredible things in it. She repeated them dutifully, and tried to understand them, but could not. This heavenly Being of theirs, it seemed, expected that one should love one's enemies, which was, obviously, nonsense. The white people themselves considered it nonsense, for they were always quarrelling. Booron had never seen so much hatred and vindictiveness as she saw in their camp. Immanuel said that if someone stole one's coat one should give him one's cloak also - another absurd saying which the white men never thought of heeding, for if any member of their tribe stole so much as a handkerchief, let alone a coat, he was promptly flogged or put to death. Immanuel said that if a man smote you upon one cheek you should turn the other so that he might smite you again, and this was surely a shameful saying which would enrage any warrior worthy of the name. She could understand why the white people ignored these ridiculous commands, but she could not understand why they went on repeating them. A Law, if it was anything at all, was surely something to live by, something to which one might anchor one's spiritual life.
Among her own people it was exactly that. It made hard, but not impossible demands upon their courage and their self-control. It was so intricately interwoven not only with their own physical and spiritual needs, but with the peculiarities of the land itself, that all three became one, a mystical trinity functioning in harmony the Law, the Land, the People.
But among these Bereewolgal what division! What conflict! A Law endlessly repeated and endlessly disobeyed! Booron grew quite melancholy in her bewilderment. They were kind to her; they were clever beyond words; surely, they must also be good? And yet, being clever, why were they so afraid? For they were afraid. Life itself seemed to terrify them. There were, for instance, certain simple matters the very mention of which seemed to throw them into a panic. There had been that extraordinary incident of the mirror. Mrs Johnson had a mirror magical, shining, silvery thing in which one might see the image of oneself as one did in a still pool, only much more clearly, and it had been to Booron, once she got over her first vague uneasiness, a perpetual delight. When she had been brought to the settlement she was just ceasing to be a child, just becoming aware of her body and her gently swelling breasts. Alone in the room with the mirror she had dragged off her frock and strutted delightedly, turning this way and that, practising those movements in which she had already received some instruction from the old women of her tribe, and which where some day, to enhance her desirableness in the eyes of her husband. When Mrs Johnson entered she had turned happily, proudly confident that this mature and experienced woman would commend and encourage her. But she saw only a stare of blank horror and disgust. What was the matter? With a chill of fear she turned back to the mirror. Was there some blemish - some deformity? Had she, in her still imperfect knowledge, done something amiss, offended against some mysterious taboo? She never discovered. She only knew that Mrs Johnson was terrified. ended. Her face was as red as sunset, her hand trembled, her voice trembled. She hustled Baroon into her dress again. She scolded violently in a voice which sounded shrill and unnatural. It was wicked, wicked, this thing that Booron had done! It was immodest and disgraceful! Weeree! weeree she kept on saying, that being, at the time, almost the only native word she knew.

Beeron had wept. She did not know why it was weeree, and she could not find out. Mrs Johnson had taken the tears a sign of repentance, and the incident had closed, but in Booron's mind it remained as a symbol of the inexplicable fear which haunted these people. It was a fear which affected her very nearly, for in those eighteen months she had changed from a child to a young woman, and she had had to do it quite alone. Things were not managed thus among her own people. When a girl neared marriageable age she was carefully watched and instructed. There were rites and ceremonies. Womanhood did not creep upon her silently and shamefully, shaking her with wild desires which must not be mentioned, strange ecstasies which must not be betrayed. It was welcomed, discussed, suitably dealt with, and made an occasion for pride, rejoicing, and congratulation.

Some may never return to their homeland.
Looking at the man's drab and earth-stained figure, Tench felt his imagination stirred. He remembered the shock with which he had realised, on that first day of their arrival, nearly three years ago, that there were some among them who would never see their native land again. Here was one. Already his roots, so rudely torn up from Cornish soil, were establishing themselves in the new land; already he was drawing sustenance from it. Already he had found himself a wife, and from the chimney of the tiny hut nearby the smoke of his hearth rose and faded into the clear air. To his children this land would be home, and England a name which their parents spoke sometimes when they had finished their long day's work, and sat wearily on their doorstep to watch the stars come out. For a moment Tench saw the truth which Phillip had also seen, though with the difference that, being Tench he saw it consciously, and, shaping it into epigram, lost some of its substance. ‘We don't build the future after all, he thought wryly; ‘we only beget and bear it.'

Tench considers theft.
He found himself worrying at the same question which had puzzled Patrick Mannion not long before. Would he himself, Watkin Tench, starve rather than steal? Steal? In such a community as this, words challenged one to examination and analysis. He found himself thinking of the black people and their system in a land which gave them enough, but only just enough, for survival. Here, they said, was the land, and no man had a greater claim than his neighbour upon what it offered in the way of subsistence. A shield, a spear, a canoe these were things which one fashioned out of one's own skill, and which became, therefore, immutably one's own personal property. But food - no! Food was the right of every man. One took it. The word ‘steal' had no meaning here
Captain Tench shook his head impatiently. Impossible to compare the life and the laws of savages, he thought, with the life and the laws of civilised men. Property must remain sacred or the whole elaborate structure of the white man's world, its complicated social and economic system, its highly adaptable code of ethics, ins triumphant culture, must collapse; and though he was capable of compassion he was far from conceiving that as anything but an appalling calamity. He went on writing the fire gone out of him, his pen and his thoughts returning soberly to a recitation of gloomy facts: ‘Hence arose a repetition of petty delinquencies which no vigilance could detect, no justice reach. Gardens were plundered: provisions pilfered; and the Indian corm stolen from the fields where it grew for public use.'
It was inevitable. Life was so strangely precious that even those to whom it had become a burden refused to lie down tamely and die. Theft was the inevitable consequence of hunger: punishment was the inevitable consequence of theft: rebellion was the inevitable consequence of punishment; and so the vicious circle swung round to theft again. In it the inhabitants of Sydney Cove, from the Governor to the lowest of the convicts, moved as in a treadmill, captive, desperately, physically and spiritually exhausted, but still grimly alive.

Rain and Floods.
Prentice thought of the natives he had seen last night. These people knew; they had means of knowing. They talked mysteriously to other tribes over long distances, making signals with the smoke of their fires. They had said that it would be a big water. They had pointed high up into the branches of the trees. Prentice felt a pang of uneasiness thinking of his cattle, but he stilled it with reassurance. They would get up into the hills. Milbooroo was there; he would not let any harm befall them. Nor did it matter now, if his fields were inundated, or even if his hut were swept away. All the better, indeed! He had no further use for it, and it must be destroyed by fire if not by flood. Cunnembeillee would be safe enough. These natives knew how to look after themselves.
Reason told him that there was no need for him to go. But he knew in his heart that nothing would have made him move from this spot while a chance still remained that he might see discomfiture overtake one of ‘them.' Lying there in the rain watching avidly, he almost prayed.

When reading this I was reminded of a story that I was told in my late teens. In 1974 there was huge flooding in Queensland and NSW with other areas seeing flooding downriver even if they had received no rain. Brisbane where I live was inundated in low-lying areas and on the flood plains. I talked to a man who was working for the state Department of Primary Industries. He told me he was in outback Qld in mid-January 1974 and was driving an Aboriginal tracker they had hired. He said that the tracker was a very quiet man who said little unless asked. As they drove along a dry and dusty road the tracker said big rains coming. How do you know asked the driver. He pointed to pelicans up in a few trees. The man told me that he laughed at him and said how could he think that a few pelicans in trees could make him say there were big rains coming. The tracker just shrugged and said no more. Tropical Cyclone Wanda crossed the Queensland coast a few days later on January 24, 1974, and brought five days of torrential rain. Brisbane was flooded, 16 people died, 300 were injured, and 8,000 homes were destroyed. The damage bill was estimated at a then $980 million.

Highly recommended.