| Supernatural Fiction posted January 25, 2022 |
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The mysterious island. (600 words)
The Boatman
by LisaMay
“Okay kids. You can play by the river. Keep your wits about you and don’t go in the water. Be back in time for dinner, please,” Mum instructed.
Dad added: “Bring some firewood back with you, too, all right?”
After a rough and dusty journey on our camping trip, we’d arrived at a spot by the Arafura Swamp in Arnhem Land, about 350 miles east of Darwin.
We’d wanted Granddad to come, but he’d said tiredly: “No, not this time, kids. I don’t feel up to it. You all go and have a wonderful experience in the area. I know it well; after all, I worked there for years as a geologist, surveying for a mining company. I was privileged to know several local Aboriginal elders who shared some of their oral narratives with me. I resigned when my conscience got to me about helping to ruin their tribal lands.”
“What’s oral narratives mean?” I asked.
“Aboriginals couldn’t read or write, so they passed knowledge down through the generations by storytelling. They had explanations for all sorts of things, including how the landscapes were made, and how there are spirits in everything.”
Dad reckoned we should learn more about Aboriginal culture. “It’s not right to be ignorant about the people who’ve lived here for more than 40,000 years. We don’t know enough about our neighbours.”
But that’s pretty typical, isn’t it? Hardly anyone does, these days.
At the campsite, Dougie and I went to explore our surroundings. We enjoyed watching the magpie geese, pied cormorants, and whistling ducks. We came to a grove of paperbark trees. “Hey, Janelle, look at this tree. A long shape’s been cut from it. And there, by the riverbank. A canoe!”
I’m always on for adventure. “Mum said don’t go in the water. She didn’t say don’t go on the water. Let’s take it out! We’ll use these sticks for paddles.”
After pushing off from the bank, we noticed a small island. It shimmered in the hazy light.
“Let’s go there,” Dougie said with excitement.
We paddled for a while then noticed the birds had disappeared and everything had become eerily silent.
“This feels freaky, Janelle. Should we keep going?” Dougie didn’t sound so excited anymore, and I couldn’t speak for some reason. My limbs ached, like I was sickening with something.
We heard shouts from the riverbank, so we turned the canoe around. It wasn’t Mum and Dad. A group of old Aboriginal men were beckoning us to return. Dougie was worried we’d be in trouble when we got to the shore, but as we stepped out the Aboriginals vanished into thin air.
We heard something slithering behind us. My hair stood on end. Dougie looked; his eyes went round as dinner plates. The canoe had slid back into the water and was heading for the island again. I swear by the hair on my head there was no-one in it, but we both saw the reflection of a man standing in the canoe.
We ran back to camp, still holding the makeshift paddles.
“Is that all the firewood you’ve collected?” Dad laughed. Dougie and I exchanged glances then went to another patch of trees to find some more sticks.
After our holiday, Dougie and I confided in Granddad about what had happened. “Those must’ve been the spirits of my old blackfella friends keeping you safe. The guy in the boat must’ve been Wuluwait, the ferryman for souls of the dead, trying to take you to Purelko. In their Aboriginal afterlife mythology that’s the island of the dead. You had a lucky escape, kids.”
~Supernatural Story-not horror writing prompt entry
“Okay kids. You can play by the river. Keep your wits about you and don’t go in the water. Be back in time for dinner, please,” Mum instructed.
Dad added: “Bring some firewood back with you, too, all right?”
After a rough and dusty journey on our camping trip, we’d arrived at a spot by the Arafura Swamp in Arnhem Land, about 350 miles east of Darwin.
We’d wanted Granddad to come, but he’d said tiredly: “No, not this time, kids. I don’t feel up to it. You all go and have a wonderful experience in the area. I know it well; after all, I worked there for years as a geologist, surveying for a mining company. I was privileged to know several local Aboriginal elders who shared some of their oral narratives with me. I resigned when my conscience got to me about helping to ruin their tribal lands.”
“What’s oral narratives mean?” I asked.
“Aboriginals couldn’t read or write, so they passed knowledge down through the generations by storytelling. They had explanations for all sorts of things, including how the landscapes were made, and how there are spirits in everything.”
Dad reckoned we should learn more about Aboriginal culture. “It’s not right to be ignorant about the people who’ve lived here for more than 40,000 years. We don’t know enough about our neighbours.”
But that’s pretty typical, isn’t it? Hardly anyone does, these days.
At the campsite, Dougie and I went to explore our surroundings. We enjoyed watching the magpie geese, pied cormorants, and whistling ducks. We came to a grove of paperbark trees. “Hey, Janelle, look at this tree. A long shape’s been cut from it. And there, by the riverbank. A canoe!”
I’m always on for adventure. “Mum said don’t go in the water. She didn’t say don’t go on the water. Let’s take it out! We’ll use these sticks for paddles.”
After pushing off from the bank, we noticed a small island. It shimmered in the hazy light.
“Let’s go there,” Dougie said with excitement.
We paddled for a while then noticed the birds had disappeared and everything had become eerily silent.
“This feels freaky, Janelle. Should we keep going?” Dougie didn’t sound so excited anymore, and I couldn’t speak for some reason. My limbs ached, like I was sickening with something.
We heard shouts from the riverbank, so we turned the canoe around. It wasn’t Mum and Dad. A group of old Aboriginal men were beckoning us to return. Dougie was worried we’d be in trouble when we got to the shore, but as we stepped out the Aboriginals vanished into thin air.
We heard something slithering behind us. My hair stood on end. Dougie looked; his eyes went round as dinner plates. The canoe had slid back into the water and was heading for the island again. I swear by the hair on my head there was no-one in it, but we both saw the reflection of a man standing in the canoe.
We ran back to camp, still holding the makeshift paddles.
“Is that all the firewood you’ve collected?” Dad laughed. Dougie and I exchanged glances then went to another patch of trees to find some more sticks.
After our holiday, Dougie and I confided in Granddad about what had happened. “Those must’ve been the spirits of my old blackfella friends keeping you safe. The guy in the boat must’ve been Wuluwait, the ferryman for souls of the dead, trying to take you to Purelko. In their Aboriginal afterlife mythology that’s the island of the dead. You had a lucky escape, kids.”
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Writing Prompt Supernatural Story - not horror fiction. No vulgar words, sexual terms, murder, gory story, or profanity Must be about Humans encountering ghosts/spirits--no animals included Minimum of 550-and maximum of 600 words No writing, animation, or music on the one picture Black font |
 Recognized |
Author note (information from various Internet sites):
The picture is from a painting by Ainslie Roberts, called 'Wuluwait, The Boatman of the Dead', an illustration in The Dreamtime book.
Ainslie Roberts (1911-1993) was an Australian painter, photographer, and commercial artist. He is best known for his interpretations of Aboriginal legends in his Dreamtime books, written in collaboration with ethnologist/anthropologist Charles Mountford.
Wuluwait is a god from northern Arnhem Land (in the Northern Territory of Australia) and is known to work with Bunbulama as a rainmaker. He is also recorded by Charles Mountford and Ainslie Roberts as a boatman who ferries the souls of the dead to Purelko, the island of the dead.
Arnhem Land remains one of the largest parcels of Aboriginal-owned land in Australia and is perhaps best known for its isolation, the art of its people, and the strong continuing traditions of its Aboriginal inhabitants.
Arnhem Land is composed of many different Aboriginal countries and language groups. North-east Arnhem Land is home to the Yolngu people, one of the largest Indigenous groups in Australia.
The Arafura Swamp is renowned for its variety of birdlife and plants.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. The picture is from a painting by Ainslie Roberts, called 'Wuluwait, The Boatman of the Dead', an illustration in The Dreamtime book.
Ainslie Roberts (1911-1993) was an Australian painter, photographer, and commercial artist. He is best known for his interpretations of Aboriginal legends in his Dreamtime books, written in collaboration with ethnologist/anthropologist Charles Mountford.
Wuluwait is a god from northern Arnhem Land (in the Northern Territory of Australia) and is known to work with Bunbulama as a rainmaker. He is also recorded by Charles Mountford and Ainslie Roberts as a boatman who ferries the souls of the dead to Purelko, the island of the dead.
Arnhem Land remains one of the largest parcels of Aboriginal-owned land in Australia and is perhaps best known for its isolation, the art of its people, and the strong continuing traditions of its Aboriginal inhabitants.
Arnhem Land is composed of many different Aboriginal countries and language groups. North-east Arnhem Land is home to the Yolngu people, one of the largest Indigenous groups in Australia.
The Arafura Swamp is renowned for its variety of birdlife and plants.
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