The Mini-burger

FanFic in the Birmoverse

Why – by NoWhereBob

The old man said nothing, as was his way. With a flick of the wrist he threw the last of his tea into the smoking embers of last nights fire, stood with popping joints and creaking tendons and walked towards the stock horses. He took no joy from what he had started, perhaps a grim sliver of satisfaction, knowing that a terrible wrong was to be righted. Last night in a special place he had sung the songs to summon his ancestors, he had sought their counsel and with their help he had sung the death of America.

Through his ancestors’ eyes he saw forty thousand years, two thousand generations. He saw oceans rising and falling like the tide. He saw rivers swish back and forth in their beds like a snake pinned with a forked stick. He saw the great inland sea in the centre of Australia recede ’till all that was left was the tear drops of Koolingal, called Lake Eyre by the white fellas. He also saw the lives of his ancestors. The everyday pain and troubles caused by jealousy, greed, fear and desperation. They were as the ticking of a great clock, so common in the existence of men that they would only be noticeable in their absence. The sins of the Americans however were so new and terrible they could not be tolerated. His duty required a great vengeance to be rained down on them. Like in the stories the mad old German told in his little bush church, a great and terrible smiting was in order.

 

His people had been rounded up like a mob of sheep and moved to a mission on strangers’ country. They could wait, they knew that time was on their side they could out-wait anyone. They were told they could not return to their country, it was like telling a cloud to stop moving. Of course some young fellas went back; they had duty to their country. They had to sing the ceremony of the seasons, they had to burn in patches, and they had been part of the country for millennia. One of the young men died, some were taken away and two got back to tell of what had happened.

 

First they told of the track that cut through everything, two trucks wide and so artificially straight it was a like scar on the land. The Becoming Men place, where uncountable thousands of boys had said goodbye to childhood, foreskins and front teeth, was destroyed. The young men told of how the straight track went through the place, the mighty River Gum lay dead and the water hole bunged up. This violation alone was unpardonable, but the story the young men told got worse.

 

Beside the straight track was a 4-strand barbed wire fence, like the type you’d keep sheep in with, hung every hundred paces with little white signs. The young men told how they had walked on and found a fence two men tall. The top of this fence hummed and crackled. The first man to climb the fence died and hung there still smoking. So the young men had passed through the fence as smoke. They walked until they crested the hill to look down into the dry season place.

 

Since the dreaming, the old mans people had spent the dry months here. There were more lives lived in this gentle and fertile valley than sand grains in the dry creek bed. There were sacred places all across this place; thousands of children had been born in the Mothers Business place near an outcrop of rock on the southern side. Fifty, sixty or seventy years later most of those children had returned to the land in a little patch of trees away to the north. Like the Becoming Men place these were all destroyed. Utterly, entirely, and irreparably destroyed. The burial place was levelled, cemented and painted with the arcane symbols of a basketball court. The Mothers Place was under a parking area for trucks. Three giant white domes looking like weird metal mushrooms dominated the site. Scattered around them were twenty little grey buildings. There was an open square area covered in gravel and picked out in white painted rocks. In the centre of this stood a white pole and limp in the baking still heat, hung an American Flag.

 

So with his ancestors the old man had sung the death of America. In a few years time Noorin the Box Jellyfish would come. This time Noorin would be big enough to take out an entire country she would be a thousand miles long, her tentacles would hang from the sky and burn away everyone they touched. Noorin would stay a full year until the start of the following wet season as she had in the top end of Australia for ever.

Advertisements

14 March, 2009 - Posted by | Without Warning

2 Comments »

  1. I knew this was somewhere.

    Comment by miniburger | 14 March, 2009 | Reply

  2. I like thatn its very well thought out. NBOB, good job

    Comment by havock21 | 14 March, 2009 | Reply


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: