A host of small children had already gathered by his car, inspecting every nook. A tall, old man, with a wizened face, and mysterious eyes approached, before he could speak, Sam launched into his much practiced speech;
“Sam Blake, of Blake and Associate.” He says gruffly.
“Welcome to Lunpona mate,” said the Aboriginal, “what business brings ya here Sam?”
“Very important business, business that could make a village like yours quite rich. Providing you don’t mind a bit of change.”
“Yeah? That so is it bud?” The old mans eyes gaze over Sam, probing him, seeing into him. The chief turns and says something in his native tongue, the crowd parts and goes back to their business.
Sam is led into a humpy (shack like building) at the head of the village. As they pass through the village, they walk over a rickety old wooden bridge. Bright roughly drawn, markings adorn it, it seems steeped in spiritual history.
Sam is offered a seat, they sit down to talk, an open fire to their right blazes away, some form of native coffee or some such drink is brought by a good looking aboriginal girl, tall and slender, deep black eyes, full lips, and a mat of thick, black, long hair. Blackness forms a harmony of beauty. They talk solidly for a couple of hours, until Basra (the chief) rose.
“Wait here.” He said as he turned and walked out.
Soon he returned, the look on his face said it all.
“I’m sorry Mr. Blake, my people, they do not see sense in your deal.”
“What! You must be kidding me you stupid old black prick! You go and tell them again. This will go ahead whether they like it or not. You idiotic wogs should learn some sense”
“How dare you? Get out of my bloody village now, you ignorant bastard!”
With this Sam pulled out his gun, he always brought it with him when he came to places like this, he never did trust these types of people. Before he could think in his enraged state, he pointed the gun straight to the man’s chest and loosed a bullet.
With a deafening noise the bullet left the gun, and hit the man in the right side of his chest, he was knocked to the ground. As he struggled for breath, he spoke these words that cut through Sam like a razor blade;
“You do not realize the full impact of your actions, ignorant white men such as you are careless and have no regard. A curse upon you and your operations after my death. Be gone with you.” With this his eyes closed and he drew his terminal breath.
Sam’s rage turned to perfect fear. By now people were arriving from all over the village, he ran. He ran faster then he had ever before, he could feel something pursuing him, not human, not physical. He ran to his car, and fled. On his way back he was shaken, scared, and tired. He stopped off at a hotel, and booked in for the night. Too tired to go for a drink he went straight to bed.
All night he tossed and turned, his dreams were plagued by visions of woodarchis. Visions of his own death. He didn’t get much sleep that night, tossing, turning, waking every hour or so. In the morning he woke up, washed, and decided to go for his breakfast. As he slipped on his shoe, the mud was still there, clinging, a reminder of the brutality. He took his other shoe in his hands, n tried in vein to brush off the mud. It was useless, something told him he wasn’t going to forget this. Just as he was about to put his shoe on he heard the last words of Basra, the curse.
All of a sudden he felt a pang on pain in his foot, he’d been bitten, he looked down, it was a black widow spider, she crawled from his shoe and up his trouser leg, twice more inflicting her deadly poison. He knew that a bite from such a spider was fatal, but three in quick succession would have you dead inside 20 minutes.
Thoughts rushed through his head, where was he? The nearest hospital was 60km away at best, unless the hotel had any antidotes he was in trouble. After get over the initial pain he tried to get up and walk. But he couldn’t his leg was swelling and the pain immense. He reached for his phone, and as he dialed the battery failed on him. He could hear the curse again, as if carried on the wind. He cried out for help in desperation. But nobody came.
He was slipping in and out of consciousness. He looked at his watch, it was 45 minutes since he’d been bitten. He slipped out of consciousness for the last time. As if by some supernatural force the old mans voice echoed through his head;
“Samuel Blake,” it said, “you are suffering, not vengeance for my death alone, oh no, but for all the of the wrongs white man has done black man. Your corporate enterprises, and your money-making schemes don’t belong in the bush. Keep them to your cities. Have your suburbia and be happy. You keep your ‘civilized’ lives, and we’ll keep out ancestral traditions. May you learn a lesson with your life.”
With this he passed. A lesson indeed learnt. And financed by his own life.
Anthony Whymark. 11T. Set 1. Miss Cannon
