Queen of the Dark Things (17 page)

Colby crossed his arms and peered up at Mandu, who still loomed over him from the vantage point of the hunter. “But what does that have to do with magic?” he asked.

“Close your eyes.”

Colby closed his eyes.

“Concentrate on the rock. Can you feel it?”

“Yes,” said Colby, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“No, can you
feel
it? Like you can the dream in the air?”

Colby focused and his indignation fell away. He could feel the tickle of the rock, a slight pulsing vibration. It tasted like love and agony, loss and anger. “Yeah! It's really just a little bit, but it's there.”

“Concentrate harder now. Try to touch that energy with your mind.”

Colby reached out again, his mind wandering through the essence of the stone. “I feel it. It's cold. Permanent. Like ice to water.”

“Yes. Yes,” said Mandu. “That's djang.”

“Djang?”

“How do you think the girl jumped so far?”

“I don't think she really jumped that far. That's just a story.”

“She jumped that far because she used the same dream you did to make your dragon. But when she did, she left a little of that energy behind, in the land—in the rock—and now, if someone wants, they can tap into that rock to leap across to the sky world.”

“Really?” asked Colby.

“Yes, really. That's how we use magic out here. We learn the land, we learn its stories, and we learn to use the spots where magic already exists. The dream, it is all around us, dreaming even as we are awake. Borrow the magic of the land and the land remains magical. Use it up and you end up, well, with the world of the white fella—with a burned-out husk where wonder used to be. You see how powerful your magic is out here?”

Colby nodded. “Yeah. It's really strong.”

“Let's keep it that way. From now on, I teach you the magic of the land. The songs. The history. You will learn how to make the land your ally. And then, it won't matter how little magic there is around you. I'll teach you to use djang. You won't need anything else.”

C
HAPTER
23

O
N
D
JANG

A
N
EXCERPT
BY
D
R
. T
HADDEUS
R
AY
, P
H
.D.,
FROM
HIS
BOOK
D
REAMSPEAKING
, D
REAMWALKING
,
AND
D
REAMTIME
: T
HE
W
ORLD
ON
THE
O
THER
S
IDE
OF
D
OWN
U
NDER

O
nce one has his mind wrapped around the concept of dreamstuff, understanding djang should be no great leap. It is, after all, something akin to the condensed residue of dreamstuff that has been exerted upon an object. If inanimate objects had a soul, it would be djang, which is really the easiest way to think about it, except that it should be stressed that it doesn't lead to sentience.

Throughout history mankind has revered artifacts, places, and the heroes who utilized them in their great feats. Tales have been told of magic swords, holy grails, places of power, even lucky pieces of clothing. These items, the ones used by the heroes in their great deeds, or the places where they performed those deeds, possess djang.

The mechanics of djang aren't quite understood, leading to a number of theories of their creation, two of which seem the most likely. One theory argues that great deeds accomplished through the use of dreamstuff—or that had a profound effect on the dreamstuff of an area—leave an imprint on certain objects, a spiritual fingerprint, if you will.

A dagger is used to sacrifice a virgin before a powerful god, the divinity of that “deity” flowing through the priest. That dagger retains some of the dreamstuff released when the virgin is killed, as it also captures a bit of the essence of the priest delivering a soul. While the portion might be very small, it fundamentally restructures the object and imparts properties that the actor, either consciously or unconsciously, wills it to have. When used by someone who understands how to unlock djang, the dagger above might possess the ability to offer any life snuffed out by it to that god. Or it might stay incredibly sharp, never dulling or rusting. It might also be attracted to the heart of a victim when used in a fight. Or it could serve as a way to communicate with the “deity” to which it was dedicated, no matter where on earth it might be.

The second theory holds that it is not the act that imprints the dreamstuff upon an object, but rather the belief by others in the power of the object or place. People believing a place to be holy, reweave the nature of that place and make it so. The more people who put their faith in the nature of such a place, the stronger that place's connection is to those properties. This theory mirrors the creation of supernatural creatures, which makes it more likely, but as the mechanism of accessing the abilities is different, there is still plenty of reason to believe the former might still be correct. Someone simply believing they can access the powers of a thing or a place does not necessarily allow them to do so, which runs counter to the way supernatural creatures function with belief.

Accessing the djang of a thing takes practice. It usually requires a thorough knowledge of its history, its handlers, and its powers, though some practitioners have mastered the ability to sense and tap into the djang of an object on a purely primal level, able to feel their way through what an object is both capable of and “wants” to do.

The word
djang
comes from the Aboriginal people of Australia, who impart the term purely to places or naturally occurring objects, like trees, rocks, billabongs, or mountains. To the Aborigines, a holy place grants those knowledgeable of the location's history to tap into the energy of the past and use that energy to accomplish similar feats. A rock used as the spot to launch oneself into the sky might become the place Clever Men use to cross over into the land of the dead. A watering hole used to trick another tribe into drowning themselves might become a meditation spot for others to discern how to best outsmart their own enemies. A tree a Clever Man used to travel farther than any Clever Man before him might become a doorway to any other tree in the outback.

All of this can be accomplished by understanding and tapping into the djang.

C
HAPTER
24

F
ISHING

M
ind the trees,” said Mandu, pointing to the canopy above them. “Dangerous things in the dark up there.”

“Snakes?” asked Colby.

“Worse. Snakes'll just eat you. Yara-ma-yha-who will spit you back out. And you don't want that. They'll drop right out of the trees.”

These were the wetlands just south of Arnhem Land; trees were everywhere. There was no avoiding them. Gray trunks like spires, fields of them, growing up and out of the thick morass of brown mud, reaching to the cloud-darkened sky. Mosquitoes as big as a quarter, flies working in mobs, leeches in every puddle.

Colby looked suspiciously toward the treetops. “What are they? What am I looking for?”

“Bright red, can't miss 'em. Just keep your eye out and don't stand too close to low branches.”

Colby looked around, horrified. Mandu secretly smiled.

They came upon a large stone plateau, rising like a giant mushroom out of the sea of mangrove trees, its faces sheer, wider at the top than the middle, reds and browns dripping down the sides, jagged rocks climbing the western face like chiseled stone steps. It was like an abandoned Aztec temple, overgrown and swallowed by time, overlooking a wide billabong. Hammer Rock.

As they got closer, Colby spied ten-thousand-year-old rock art, ancient but bright, unmolested by time. Reds, ochers, blues, blacks. Smears and stains, depictions of stick men covering it from top to bottom, colors often inverted with negative space, detailing the magic aura of dreamtime with pigments, leaving the stick men colored by the rock, dotted with little dabs of paint.

The billabong was a dark, murky brown, reeds rising up and out of it, the ripples of fish sweeping bugs off the surface lapping gentle waves along the bank. It was a picturesque place woven wholly of magic, kept out of the hands of anyone who couldn't appreciate it.

“Good a place as any,” said Mandu, pulling a hatchet from his dilly bag. “Come here.”

Colby rushed to his side. “Yeah?”

“Time you learned how to fish, proper.”

“I know how to fish,” he said with a sigh.

“With a hatchet?” asked Mandu, holding up a battered, weathered, sharpened hunk of metal, slightly rusted around the edges.

Colby's eyes grew wide. “No!” he said excitedly.

“Today you will.” He swung the hatchet, peeling a layer of bark off a nearby emu apple tree. Then he did it again. And again, repeating the process until he'd stripped the tree raw, oozing from a dozen wide gashes. “Follow me.”

He walked Colby to the billabong with an armload of sticky bark, then dropped it in a pile by the bank, sitting down, inviting Colby to do the same. Then he began to pound the bark mercilessly with the blunt end of the hatchet. “That's an emu apple tree,” he said. “Its sap is found deep inside its bark. You have to pound it free.”

“What do we need the sap for?”

“Fishing.”

“Is it bait?”

Mandu shook his head. “No, it's not bait.”

“What does it do?”

“You'll see.”

“Why don't we just make a rod? Or a spear?”

Mandu smiled as if Colby had walked into his trap. “You white fellas always think about the land as if it is something to fight against. To struggle with. You would rather try to lure in a fish and fight with it. But here is a tree by the water that will do all the work for you. The land isn't your enemy, Colby. It is your ally. Learn from it. Use it. We have many friends out here in the bush. Start thinking of it that way, and the land will keep you alive. Even when all else is trying to kill you. Now,” he said, filling Colby's hands with a molasses of chewed-up wood. “Sprinkle this in the water. Enjoy the swim. We'll be cooking up fish soon enough.”

“Mandu?” asked Colby, hesitantly.

“Yeah?”

“Why are we fishing?”

“Because I'm hungry. And we're having company. It's always polite to feed company.”

Colby felt silly, dog-paddling through the water, tossing clumps of gooey bark into the bottom of the billabong. But within moments the fish started floating to the top. The first were merely disoriented, gasping for air at the waterline, puckered mouths desperate, gills flapping furiously. They ducked and dodged as best they could, wriggling out of Colby's grip as he tried to catch them barehanded, but he made easy work of them, tossing them to Mandu like footballs.

The next batch, however, floated up on their sides, some even belly up. Colby scooped them up by the armful, throwing them to shore, each time giving Mandu an inquisitive look, as if to ask, “
Do we have enough yet?
” before Mandu responded with a stiff arm and stern finger pointing him back into the water.

“The sap of the emu apple tree absorbs lots of oxygen when it gets wet. Sucks it all up, eh? Soon after, the fish get light-headed and pass out. Either that or they swim to the surface looking for air. They float to the top, we take the fish. Very easy.”

“Mandu,” asked Colby, tossing two more fish onshore. “You know a lot about spirits, right?”

“I get by.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Why do spirits always keep their promises, even if it means dying?”

Mandu smiled, nodding knowingly. “Ah, the spirits, they cannot tell you why, can they?”

Colby shook his head, wading back deep into the billabong.

“Because they themselves do not understand. Look around you. What do you see?”

“Trees, mostly. A big rock.”

“Do you see any laws?”

“What? No. You can't see laws.”

“Nah. Because they don't really exist, eh? We make them up, convince ourselves they're real. They're only enforced when someone believes they should be. Whole world put together by rules other people believe should exist.”

“What does that have to do with spirits though?”

“The spirits only exist because we believe they do. We dream them and they become real.”

“No,” said Colby. “That's not right. You don't have to believe in a spirit for it to exist.”

“Not once it believes in itself. Once it believes in its own existence, it doesn't need anyone else. But that which is made up of belief is bound by it. Act against the nature that holds you together, violate the things that you believe make you exist, and you are unmade as that belief evaporates.”

Colby scooped a few more fish off the surface. “So if they believe they have to keep a promise, they have to, or they cease to exist?”

“Yes.”

“Oh!”

“The power of man over spirits is that he is a physical thing. Only the self and the society around him exist entirely because he believes it does. But when he stops believing in those things, he can just remake them. He doesn't have to keep his word, doesn't have to find a loophole to cheat. He just can. Thus man can never be trusted. But if he's smart, he can always get more out of the spirits than the spirits get out of him.”

“Is that what a Clever Man does?”

“That's exactly what a Clever Man does.”

“How many fish do we need, Mandu?” he finally asked, exasperated.