CREATION MYTH
Nik Morton
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Sydney harbour, 1870 - Wikipedia commons
Sydney, Australia,
1840
Twirling her parasol, Harriet Brady crossed the dusty
street, trying not to look over to her left where the town came to an end. Her
face reddened but it had nothing to do with the scorching sun. Against her
will, she remembered the first time that she had glanced in that direction, at
the ramshackle dwellings. Why couldn’t Mama send one of the shop staff to Mrs
Haltwhistle’s to pick up the embroidery, for heaven’s sake! Every Thursday,
Harriet had to walk the length of Sydney on this particular errand. Of course,
Mama had no reason to alter the routine since Harriet would rather die than
explain her confused emotions. Yet she had to admit to feeling quite the lady
strolling down the street. It was just this particular end of town that sent
uncontrollable shivers through her delicate frame.
Mrs
Haltwhistle ran a busy sweatshop, turning out embroidered table-cloths,
handkerchiefs and antimacassars which Mama sold at a tidy profit from her shop,
though of course she didn’t call it that, she preferred the much grander name
of emporium – Brady’s Emporium. ‘One day, my dear,’ she told Harriet often, ‘I
will have a string of emporia all over Australia!’
Standing in
the shade of the balcony above, Harriet furled her parasol and tugged on the
bell-pull to the right of the front door, next to the wooden plaque engraved
with MRS EMILY HALTWHISTLE, SEAMSTRESS.
A metal
bell clanged inside and in a moment Daisy the maid, wearing a dark grey shift,
answered the door.
Daisy curtseyed and said, ‘Mrs
Haltwhistle is expecting you, Miss Brady.’ Every week, that was all that she
ever said.
At each
visit Harriet deliberately had to drag her eyes away from Daisy’s pockmarked
cheeks and her lazy left eye. Poor mite, she thought, and followed Daisy along
the cool dark passage, her shoes clattering on the wooden boards; Daisy made no
sound, as she was bare-foot.
The
building was two-storey, with a balcony running all round the second floor and
this was where Mrs Haltwhistle welcomed Harriet. The small wicker table was set
for two, the porcelain plates and cups glinting in the shade of the overhanging
roof. A plate of sponge cakes was in the middle, beside a silver teapot.
Those cakes were scrumptious but
after tasting one at their first meeting, Harriet had refrained at each
subsequent visit because she felt sure her bodice had become far too tight as a
result. Indeed, she feared that her clothes must shrink in the wash. It was
just too awful. Mama couldn’t afford to buy new garments as she sank all her
earnings into more merchandise.
Mrs
Haltwhistle was a stout woman, fashionably wearing a voluminous dress, jacket
bodice and leg-of-mutton sleeves, and quite filled the wicker armchair. ‘So
nice to see you again, my dear,’ she said, gesturing at the empty chair beside
her. Washed-out blue eyes hid behind spectacles. ‘Please sit down and partake
of tea with me, why don’t you?’ Her odd phrasing never changed, either.
This was so
tedious, Harriet thought. ‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘You are too kind.’
The chair
creaked as Mrs Haltwhistle leaned forward to help herself to another sponge
cake. ‘You look the picture of health,’ she said, which was a surprising
departure for her.
‘I do?’
Harriet daintily lowered her cup. ‘I must admit that I feel just fine.’
Fingering
her spectacles, Mrs Haltwhistle persisted, ‘The heat isn’t bothering you,
then?’
‘No, of
course not, Mrs Haltwhistle.’ Harriet smiled. ‘After all, I am quite
acclimated. I have been here four years.’
Nodding,
Mrs Haltwhistle glanced over the balcony baluster. ‘So you have.’
Despite
herself, Harriet followed her hostess’s gaze.
Sprawling
on the edge of town stood thirty or so dwellings made from discarded wood and
brick. On a really hot day, if the wind was in the wrong direction, the open
sewerage sent a noisome stink into the town. Amidst this squalor sat and lazed
around black women and men. A few men were stumbling around, hands clutching
rum bottles to their chests. Many of the women shamelessly bared their breasts
or brazenly suckled their infants. All of them here tended to wear hand-me-down
English clothes that didn’t suit them.
According to Johnny-can-do, their
brethren in the outback only wore pigments of paint or scar-tissue and no
clothing, information which sent Harriet’s pulse fluttering.
They were
not the popular image of a noble savage, Harriet had thought on first
encountering an aborigine when she landed here with her mother in 1826. Yet,
she had since revised her opinion and indeed she considered that many of them
were handsome, some ruggedly so. Several, she found, were more intelligent than
the convict settlers who frequented Mama’s shop. That was where she had first
met Johnny-can-do.
Harriet’s
heart trembled now and unwelcome shame washed over her. She felt faint. She
almost toppled her teacup as she awkwardly set it down in the saucer. She
lifted a hand to her forehead. ‘I am so sorry,’ she whispered, ‘perhaps the
heat is affecting me, after all.’
Mrs
Haltwhistle’s small eyes peered over her pince-nez. ‘It isn’t the heat, my
dear...’
*
‘A long way back in time,’ Johnny-can-do had said some weeks
ago, ‘all the spirits of the earth except one were asleep. The great Father of
All Spirits was awake. You always have someone to keep an eye out, don’t you?’
He smiled, exhibiting big white teeth. He was proud of his mastery of English,
learned painstakingly in Miss Bellow’s school.
Harriet was
enraptured by this strange creature who resembled a young man yet was something
else entirely, something quite magical. She wasn’t in the least embarrassed by
his bare chest which glistened with sweat. Now, after four years here, she
wasn’t even bothered by seeing half-naked aborigine women. Indeed, it seemed
quite natural.
They were
sitting cross-legged near the little creek that ran past the town and into the
harbour. Mama was busy, as usual, in her emporium.
‘What did
the Father of All Spirits do?’ Harriet asked.
‘He gently
woke the Sun Mother and as she opened her eyes a warm ray of light spread out
over the sleeping earth. The Father told her he had work for her. She was to go
down to the Earth and wake up the sleeping spirits and give them solid form.’
Harriet had
always loved fairy tales and this sounded like one too. ‘He seems to be a
typical man, bossing the woman around,’ she observed.
‘That is
the natural way of things, Harriet,’ Johnny said.
‘I wouldn’t
let you order me about,’ she vowed.
‘What, not
just a little bit?’ he wheedled playfully.
‘Well,
perhaps just a little, if I liked it.’ She leaned back, her elbows supporting
her on the grass. A thought struck her. ‘There aren’t any snakes here, are
there?’
Johnny
shrugged and wrinkled his flat nose. ‘Could be. I caught one here last week.’
Harriet
sidled closer to him. ‘You caught a snake?’
‘My family,
it has to eat.’
Harriet
pulled a face but didn’t move away. He seemed fearless and brave. She shook her
head, golden tresses flying free over her shoulders, and dismissed her fanciful
thoughts. ‘You were talking about the Sun Mother. She was sent down to the
Earth.’
‘Before I
was interrupted,’ he added.
She pulled
a face at him then settled down to listen, determined not to ask any more
questions as she didn’t want to break the thread Johnny was spinning.
Johnny
gestured with both hands, as if encompassing the sky and their surroundings.
‘The Sun Mother glided down and wherever she walked plants grew in her wake and
after all her travels she rested in a field, pleased with herself. But there
was no rest for her, it seems, as the Father told her to go into the caves and
wake the spirits there. She did as he bid and insects fled from the caves to
populate the earth, many mingling with her flowers in the field. She told all
her creatures to enjoy the wealth of the earth and to live peacefully with one
another. Satisfied, she rose into the sky and became the sun.
‘When the
Sun Mother departed in the west, the living creatures were afraid, fearing that
the end of time had come, but eventually she appeared from the east and they
got used to the regularity of her coming and going. The creatures lived
together peacefully until, sadly, envy crept into their hearts and they began
to argue.
‘Distressed,
the Sun Mother came down again to make the peace. Then she gave each creature
the power to change their form to whatever they liked. This was not a good
decision; she was not pleased. Rats changed into bats and there were giant
lizards and fish with blue tongues and feet. And hares that carried their young
in pouches and hopped great distances - you call them kangaroo.) The oddest
creature had the bill of a duck, teeth for chewing and a tail like a beaver’s.’
‘That’s the platypus!’ she
exclaimed, unable to resist interrupting.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Sorry, go on...’
‘I will,’ he said mock-sternly.
‘The Sun Mother decided she must create new creatures and gave birth to two
children, the Morning Star and the Moon, who gave birth in turn to two children
who were sent to Earth.
‘They
became our ancestors,’ Johnny said, smiling. ‘The Sun Mother made us superior
to the animals because we have a part of her mind and will never want to change
our shape.’
*
Changing shape - that was the problem, Harriet now
knew as she left Mrs Haltwhistle’s in a daze. Under her arm was a brown paper
bundle of embroidered material.
My shape is changing, she told
herself again.
Mrs Haltwhistle had tried to be
delicate about it.
While Johnny-can-do talked of his
people’s creation myths, they had lain together and procreation had occurred.
As she felt her tight waistline
she knew it was no myth.
I am
ruined, she thought, and carried the parcel down into the shantytown where
Johnny-can-do lived.
This must be her life now because
she would not consider Mrs Haltwhistle’s option: ‘I know someone who can get
rid of the little blighter for you.’
God help
me, Harriet thought, but my child will not live in this godforsaken shanty
town! But it will live.
Her heart tumbled as she saw
Johnny-can-do. He had seen her too and he waved, his face lighting up with a
huge grin.
Harriet
walked up to him and grabbed his hand. ‘Come with me, Johnny,’ she urged.
‘We’re leaving. Going inland. I’m setting up my own shop and we will live as
man and wife.’
***
Previously published
in The New Coastal Press, 2010.
Note: The original
didn’t begin with the place and date explained, as that becomes evident in the
story’s telling, but I thought it was appropriate here!
If
you liked this story, you might like my collection of crime tales, Spanish Eye, published by Crooked Cat, which
features 22 cases from Leon Cazador, private eye, ‘in his own words’. He is also featured in the story
‘Processionary Penitents’ in the Crooked Cat Collection of twenty tales, Crooked Cats’ Tales.
Spanish Eye, released by Crooked Cat Publishing is available as a paperback and as
an e-book.
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