You may date this story ten thousand years ago. It may have been more, it may have been less. I can only say that it was after the sinking of Bass Strait separated the island of Tasmania from the mainland of Australia. That much is certain, as Merriwee’s great discovery never reached the continent. Perhaps, on second thoughts, it would be better to date it ‘Once Upon a Time’.
Warm rain had melted the last of the belated winter snow on the Western Tiers and the Lake River was in flood. The water had risen over the flats where Merriwee’s tribe usually camped for a few weeks before climbing the mountains; so they had built their bark breakwinds under the shelter of the tea-trees in a gully of the foothills. The smoke from their fires rose straight into the clear air, and every peak along the range was plainly outlined against the blue sky.
Merriwee was proud of a new chopping tool that he had just fashioned from a piece of chert. It had a nice hollow for the thumb to get a grip of (no genius had yet arisen to show the tribe how to put a handle to their tools), and its crescent edge was chipped beautifully even and sharp. Parts of it were keen enough to shave the hairs from his arms. More by way of giving it a trial than anything else he was searching the treetops for a bee’s nest or hollow limb where a brush…’possum might be sleeping.
Twice he had passed thick trees containing the bulky stick-and-leaf nests of the ring-tails. But the ring-tailed ’possum feeds on gum-leaves and is only fit for women to eat; whereas the brush…’possum comes down and feeds on the succulent grass, wherefore its flesh is food for warriors. There were scratches on a tall cider-gum; and a few minutes’ examination convinced him that the ’possum was at home in a hollow limb fifty feet up. Three feet from the ground he chipped a notch in the white bark. Then he swung his grass rope round the tree, got inside the loop that it formed, placed his big toe in the notch, and stepped up. With the ends of the rope in one hand, he leant back and chopped a notch for his left toe. Then he pulled the rope until he stood close against the trunk of the tree, jerked the loop three feet higher and stepped up again. He continued chopping and climbing until he reached the first limb. Then he took the loose end of the rope, swung it across the fork, caught both ends and pulled himself astride. From that upwards it was easy climbing until he reached the broken hollow limb where the ’possum had his nest. He hammered until a round-eared, brown-eyed creature came out, blinking at the sunlight. Catching it by the bushy tail he dragged it off the limb, swung it round, dashed its head against the tree, and let it drop to the ground. In a few seconds he was beside it.
He felt well pleased with his new chopping tool. Two or three cuts with it made a beautiful climbing notch. He picked it up and idly chipped at the first notch until it was large enough to put his fist into. Yes, he decided; it would be equally good for cutting out bees’ nests.
A piece of honeycomb would be good eating after his ’possum, and he began to look for a hive. The ground was covered with orchids, irises, buttercups and daisies, but there were few bees visiting them. Nearly all had been lured to the tops of the gum-trees, where they were helping the birds rifle the pale yellow flowers. But the tops of the gum-trees were too high for him to be able to see in what direction the bees were going.
In a near-by creek-bed the blackwood and prickly wattle made a patch of gold, and the thick scrub that bordered the creek was covered with lilac blossom. At one of the low bushes he caught a laden bee and stuck a tiny piece of feather fluff to its back with a dab of wattle-gum. Then he released it and followed it as it flew heavily away. Up the hillside it led him, straight as an arrow, to a blue-gum, where the little shiny bees were passing in and out of the knot-holes. To climb up was easy, but the hard, dry wood took a lot of chipping away, in spite of the excellence of his new chopping tool. He had been at work half-an-hour before he was able to put in his hand and draw out three circles of brown comb, oozing golden honey, sweet and aromatic with the scent of gum blossom. Satisfied, he wandered back to the camp-fires in the gully.
Some days afterwards, passing the cider-tree that he had climbed for the ’possum, Merriwee was attracted by the sight of hundreds of moths and butterflies flitting around the hole he had chopped in the trunk. Half-a-pint of pale golden liquid lay in the hollow, and every insect about seemed to have collected there, drinking. When they had drunk their fill they climbed or flew aimlessly, or sat, half stupid, basking in the sun. The day was hot, Merriwee was thirsty, and the liquid looked tempting. He dipped a finger and sucked it. At first he was hardly sure whether he liked the half-sweet, half-sour taste or not; it was so different from anything he had tasted before. Two fingers dipped in for a second taste decided him. He skimmed away the insects that had fallen in, put his mouth to the hole, and sucked up as much of the liquid as he could reach. It was sharp to his tongue, tingled in his throat, and gave him a warm, comforting sensation in his stomach.
He liked it so much that he plucked a straw and drained the last dregs.
Picking up his spear and club he went up the hillside on the look out for a kangaroo. As he walked he began to experience some new and pleasant sensations. He had never noticed before what a beautiful world he lived in, or what a wonderful adventure it was just to be alive; he felt as though he owned the earth, had a mortgage on the sea, and a reasonable chance of inheriting the sky. He wanted to shout, to jump, to sing. When he saw a kangaroo, instead of stalking, he began to run after it, waving his spear and shouting, confident that he was the faster runner of the two. The ground seemed to rise up in front of him, and he tripped and fell; but he got up satisfied that only for the fall he would have been successful. Not only did he feel that he could run as fast as the kangaroo, but he believed he could fly like a bird if only he could get a start. He climbed on to a log and he saw the trees and bushes circling round him and the earth rising and falling like the waves of the sea. The sight made him giddy and he tumbled to the ground; but nothing seemed to matter. As he lay beside the log he felt that it was necessary to hold on to the earth lest he should fall away into space. But even that did not worry him. The sun was comfortably warm, myriads of insects were singing a lullaby and he was sleepy.
When he woke it was getting dusk, and he was obliged to return to the camp empty-handed and be laughed at by the successful hunters. He recounted his experiences to an incredulous audience. In the Happy Hunting Grounds, he assured them, such nectar was drunk by the Immortals. The young men jocularly hinted that he had only invented an excuse for coming back without any game. The old men gravely listened to his tale of the magic liquid that made a man feel like a god, and solemnly shook their heads over the fact that he, a young man, hardly more than a boy, should have presumed to drink what was, doubtless, intended solely for the elders. Their council immediately decided that this new drink, if Merriwee’s tale were true, should be taboo to all the women and the young men, as were all the choice bits of food.
Next day Merriwee led several of the elders to the tree, expecting to find a fresh supply of nectar. The hole was full of liquid, but when the old men tasted it it was sour, and none of them afterwards felt the magic that Merriwee had boasted about. After scolding him for leading them on a foolish quest they went back to the camp.
But Merriwee was not satisfied. The liquid appeared the same, and yet there was a difference, but a difference he found it impossible to explain to the scoffers. He decided that the hundreds of moths and butterflies that had been rioting around the tree were in some way responsible. Full of hope he chopped the original hole deeper, and another alongside it.
Early in the morning he visited the tree again. Both holes were full of sap, but there were no moths or butterflies, and when he tasted the liquid there was no magic in it, so he went away disappointed. Next day there was a kangaroo hunt, and Merriwee was obliged to take his place in the line of warriors that speared the animals as the women and children drove them past. Had his experience been ordinary he would have forgotten it, but it was not, and on the morning after the hunt he went across and found the tree surrounded by a halo of fluttering insects.
He only waited to assure himself that the magic had been at work once more, and then went back to the camp for the old men. He found them incredulous; but two, less sceptical than the others, followed him. They tried the liquid and found it pleasant, and the magic sensations that came over them afterwards were like nothing they had ever experienced before. The three of them drank deep of the fermenting sap and then started back to the camp with the good news. By the time they came back in sight of the fires their progress was hilarious and their antics, after they arrived, provided the tribe’s dramatist with the material for the most successful corroboree he had ever produced.
The council of the old men considered this strange thing and decided that, as Merriwee had become possessed of a powerful magic, he should be admitted to their circle, although he was only a youth. Dire penalties were promised the other young men and the women if they dared to drink so much as a drop.
For two weeks the tribe stayed in their camp and Merriwee regularly extracted nectar that was fit for drinking every second day: and the old men saw that none of it was wasted. But as summer drew nearer, and the weather grew hotter and drier, the supply of sap diminished, and nothing but a sticky gum would ooze into the holes that Merriwee chopped.
The time came for them to gather up their belongings and follow the spring to the mountains. They camped on the plateau by the shores of the Great Lake, where there were other groves of cider-gum. For several weeks Merriwee was able to produce a regular supply of nectar. Then these trees, too, dried up, or, as the old men affirmed, Merriwee lost his magic.
The matter was long debated round the council fire. Merriwee had a powerful magic and now he had lost it; what was lost must have been stolen; the thief must be one of the Big River tribe. Such logic was irrefutable.
The summer was passed pleasantly on the top of the Tiers, and when autumn came the tribe migrated to the coast. If it had not been that the corroboree of Merriwee’s magic was regularly performed most of the tribe would have forgotten the Nectar of the Gods. But not Merriwee: he still went about chopping holes in the trees—in blue-gum, peppermint, myrtle and sassafras trees; in trees on the hills and trees in the gullies—but none yielded anything.
Camped behind the sandbanks on the seashore, the men had an easy time. Prizing limpets and oysters off the rocks, diving for crayfish down amongst the strands of the giant kelp, and digging for edible roots was all women’s work. The men took their pick of the food when it was brought to the camp, and threw what they did not care for over their shoulders to the women who had done the collecting. Occasionally, for sport, the men speared stingrays in the shallow hollows of the beach, or for a change of food organised a kangaroo hunt.
While the black swans were moulting they were easily speared, and when they built their nests in the shallow waters of the lagoon the tribe feasted on their eggs. Then it was time to follow the spring towards the mountains. On their way two of the young warriors speared one of the men belonging to the Big River tribe, who was trespassing on their territory. Trespassing was punishable by death; but this doubtless was also the thief of Merriwee’s magic. They arrived back at the camp at the foot of the Tiers, and Merriwee chopped a number of holes in the clump of cider-gums where he had first discovered his magic. Next morning the holes were filled with sap, and the day after a halo of winged creatures testified that his magic had again been successful. Great was the rejoicing of the old men; and Merriwee was once more admitted to their council.
Some days later it was the Spring full moon and a great corroboree was held to celebrate the re-discovery of the Nectar of the Gods. What had been merely an impromptu farce when first performed was expanded into a full night’s entertainment. A piece of level ground was cleared and ringed round with fires. The women and children took up positions on one side, the men on the other, the old men in a group slightly apart. The performers, a picked band of the younger men, as naked as they were born, had been well coached by the tribe’s dramatist. The orchestral accompaniment was provided by the women hammering sticks together and beating with their hands on rolled-up kangaroo skins.
Merriwee’s discovery of the magic liquid was acted; his taking the old men to be disappointed; then his taking of the two old men and their return to the camp after finding that the magic had worked; the young man of the Big River tribe stealing Merriwee’s magic while he slept; the spearing of the thief; finally, Merriwee’s magic again successful. The intoxicating rhythm grew faster and faster, and the performers leapt higher and higher until their sweat-covered bodies gleamed like polished bronze in the light of the fires. It was midnight when the performance ended with the exhaustion of the last dancer.
Year after year the corroboree of Merriwee’s magic was performed at the same place and season. As time passed, what was originally intended as celebration was believed to influence the sap rising and fermenting in the hollows cut in the cider-trees. It became a symbol, a myth, part of the religious ritual of the tribe, the omission of which would in some way prejudice the return of Spring.