Lands of Red and Gold #48: Steps in the Endless Dance
“The Dutch see only two colours: white and wrong.”
- Tjewarra (“strong heart”), Atjuntja activist
* * *
Jingella, it is called, in the language of the Gunnagal. Jingella: the Endless Dance. An eternal competition between the eight factions into which their society is divided. A contest which is ostensibly over the sport which they call football (involving rules complex enough to give the Byzantines headaches), but which in truth dominates their nation’s economy, land use, justice and even the military.
The Dance is an endless struggle, a contest of balance and delicate alliance and counter-alliance. The people of Tjibarr have stepped through the Dance in similar form for centuries, since the fall of the Empire, and the origin of their contest is much more ancient.
Unlike the rules of football, the rules for the greater Dance are not written, but they are equally real. Each faction struggles for advantage, and the members of each faction compete amongst themselves. Everyone vies for gain, but no-one dares to let any one rival become too strong. Alliances are fickle things indeed if the participants think that the other members are growing too prominent.
In short, in a people who were familiar with the concept of balance of power centuries before Europe articulated the concept, the Dance can include some very strange steps...
* * *
Black Cockatoo Day, Cycle of Falling Stars, 8th Year of His Majesty Guneewin the Third [9 April 1640]
Estates of Wemba of the Whites, near Tapiwal [Robinvale, Victoria]
Kingdom of Tjibarr
A chorus of voices, one speaking over another over another. Sounds of tables being thumped, men stamping their feet, or jumping up to look down on their neighbours. Fists being shaken to emphasise points.
In other words, a perfectly normal afternoon’s discussion amongst the members of any faction. On the whole, quieter than usual for the Whites.
More than half of the leading notables of the Whites had come to Wemba’s estates, which he saw as a personal triumph. Ostensibly, they had gathered to discuss the preparation for the coming football season. That topic would indeed be addressed, but it provided a convenient excuse for other debates. Ones with more import, though it would be a chore to get many of the Whites gathered here to admit the existence of anything more important than football.
The discussion continued for a time, the volume waxing and waning. No goblets had been broken yet, a sure sign that things were calm. Yet it could easily continue all afternoon, as debates were prone to do.
Wemba would happily let the notables argue far into the night, but it would be better if he made sure that the decision was reached before the notables had exhausted themselves in argument. He let his gaze wander around the chamber, lingering briefly on each of three other men, who met his eyes in turn. That done, he whispered an apology which went quite unnoticed in the din of emphatic discussion, and left the main chamber.
He made his way to one of his favourite rooms in his manor, a second-storey north-facing room. The shutters were open to let in the afternoon sun, and revealing a view of wealth-trees, yam-fields with dying vines, a few of the treasured kunduri-bushes, and beyond that his private ponds and the thin blue line of the Nyalananga [River Murray]. The room usually gave him ample daylight for reviewing correspondence or writing, or lately reading one or other of the marvellous paper books of the Raw Men. He would scarcely get time to read any of those today, though.
For form’s sake, he picked up the most recent book which his compatriots in Jugara [Victor Harbor, South Australia] had acquired from the Nedlandj: an account by one of their sailors of his visits to the Atjuntja [1]. Nothing could be more valuable for understanding these Raw Men than reading their own accounts of how they perceived what they called the South Land. Today, though, the book merely provided an excuse for him to be here until his three invited guests made their apologies and joined him.
Wemba had time to reread a few lines of the sailor’s account – apparently the Nedlandj found the Atjuntja’s human sacrifice utterly detestable, showing that they were at least partially civilized – before someone clapped outside the door.
“Be welcome,” he said.
Three men came into the room, as he had invited. Nundjalung, who despite his greying hair kept most of the muscular physique and towering height which had made him the best White footballer in the last two generations. Pila Dadi, greatest land controller [2] of the Whites, and the closest thing which their faction had to a first speaker. Kuryal, premier ironsmith and metalworker, whose reputation was recognised beyond the Whites; he was accorded respect even from their bitterest rivals among the factions [3].
“Somewhat quieter here,” Pila Dadi said, with his characteristic half-smirk on his lips. “A better place for you to read, if you find the subject pressing.”
“Knowledge is always valuable,” Wemba said. “And a wise man-”
“Always makes use of time,” Pila Dadi interjected. “So you’ve said before.”
“Truth does not stale through repetition,” Wemba said. “But with guests here, I’m sure we can find other things to discuss.”
“Like your other guests downstairs?” Nundjalung asked.
Wemba said, “We could do well to anticipate their conclusions.”
Pila Dadi said, “If they reach any. Beyond the basic truths which any man of vision can see, answers are not so easy to find.”
Wemba said, “Indeed. These Raw Men will change the world. We must struggle to accommodate them.”
“They will replace the Islanders,” Kuryal said. “The Islanders’ strength has always been seafaring; now they are replaced.”
“Now the Islanders have rivals,” Pila Dadi said. “Very strong rivals. Perhaps they will find an accommodation, or perhaps they will fall.”
“Seafaring is only part of the knowledge the Raw Men bring,” Nundjalung said.
“Truth,” Wemba said. “Much knowledge, much strength. We must ensure that the Raw Men do not become too strong.”
Pila Dadi said, “The Islanders dominated too much for too long; these Raw Men could be much worse.”
“Fortunately, the Raw Men have divisions of their own,” Wemba said.
Kuryal said, “We must foster those divisions.”
“Such has begun,” Pila Dadi said. “We trade with the Nedlandj, the Yadji have started to recruit among the Inglidj, and those Pannidj who raided in the west may yet return. All this is good, but we must make sure that these divisions endure, or too much could fall to ruin.”
Nundjalung said, “And give them no reason to combine against us.”
Wemba said, “So, the situation is obvious-”
“But the solution is not,” Pila Dadi finished. “How should we act, now that the Raw Men are part of the dance, wittingly or not?”
“We already asked that downstairs. And got about a hundred opinions offering a thousand answers so far,” Nundjalung said, his lips crinkling.
“True answers are never found easily,” Wemba said. “But we must learn their knowledge and their ways, as quickly as we can.”
“As you have begun,” said Pila Dadi, with a nod to the book at Wemba’s side. “All knowledge of these Raw Men will be useful, but most of all their weapons, those muskets.”
Three pairs of eyes turned to Kuryal. The ironsmith jerked his head up and to the left, as if snapping at an unseen mosquito: the ancient gesture of frustration. “Before I saw these muskets and steel, I thought I knew as much of metalworking as any man living. Now... I am studying them, but even with all the resources of the Whites at my disposal, I can promise nothing.”
“Even with the prisoners to advise?” Nundjalung said.
“They know little, or pretend to know little,” Kuryal said.
“Think you they be truthful?” Pila Dadi said.
Wemba smiled briefly at the archaic phrasing of the question – an allusion to the Tales of Lopitja – then said, “Perhaps. Our captives are soldiers and horse riders, not ironsmiths. I wear mail at need, but could not tell you how it is made.”
“If we cannot learn for ourselves, we must find those who can teach,” Pila Dadi said.
“It’s been tried,” Wemba said. “The Atjuntja have asked repeatedly, as have the Islanders. Their... association [Company] refuses.”
“We can ask harder,” Pila Dadi said. “And their association must realise that their Dance has changed now, too; they have rivals here. Let them fear that if they do not teach us, the Inglidj or Pannidj will.”
“Or we can buy more examples of their craft to study,” Nundjalung said.
“If that will help,” Wemba said. “Many times, craft knowledge is only in the heart of the maker.”
“Or buy their muskets and gunpowder for our soldiers,” Kuryal said.
“That could be done,” Wemba said. “They value much-”
“Much of what is commonplace to us, they greatly desire,” Pila Dadi said. “Much of what they would sell to us is of little value to them, but much worth to us. Such is trade.”
Wemba said, “We would do well to make what they trade commonplace to us, where we can.”
“As they will try with us,” Nundjalung said.
Kuryal said, “Or trade with both Nedlandj and Inglidj, so that they cannot set their own price.”
Pila Dadi laughed. “Truth for our own folk, too. Think you not that the factions will bid against each other?”
“Unless we make a stronger alliance,” Nundjalung said.
“An association together could trade better, truth,” said Wemba. “If it holds together.”
“If trust can be found for us,” Pila Dadi said. “Our capture of the renegade Nedlandj already turns many suspicious eyes on us.”
“Fear for what we might do with those Raw Men, not what we have done,” Nundjalung said. “Only frustration has come from them, so far.”
“Any threat is best faced early,” Kuryal said.
“He who cannot plan for tomorrow will fall the day after,” Pila Dadi said.
“So let us share some of the knowledge... with chosen factions,” Wemba said.
“Share what we do not have?” Nundjalung said.
“We have horses,” Wemba said.
That comment produced a long moment of silence, so rare amongst a meeting of Gunnagal. The guests thought through the implications quickly enough, and as usual, spoke even before they finished thinking.
“Horses which have already bred-” Kuryal said.
“And carry a man faster than he can run,” Pila Dadi said.
“Or news,” Nundjalung added.
“Horses which any man of sense can see will change the world,” Wemba said.
“Which for now we control,” Pila Dadi said.
“Though others might trade for,” Kuryal said.
“Truth,” Pila Dadi said. “No monopoly will hold.”
“So best to choose to end it on our own terms,” Wemba said.
“Offer some new-bred horses to other factions-” Kuryal said.
“And secure cooperation over trade with the Raw Men in exchange,” Pila Dadi said.
“Provided we are not too obvious, naturally,” Wemba said.
“Quite,” said Kuryal, with a shake of his head.
“How many other factions?” Nundjalung said.
“Two: Blues and Greens,” Wemba said.
Pila Dadi laughed at once, catching the meaning instantly. It took Kuryal’s face a moment longer to show he understood. Nundjalung didn’t, though.
Wemba said, “If ever Blues and Greens stand together...”
Belatedly, Nundjalung grasped the meaning, and finished the old aphorism, “Then the king will tremble.”
All factions were rivals, and some had longstanding hatreds, but the mistrust between Blue and Greens had always been the bitterest. Rare indeed had been times when they cooperated without all the factions uniting. Which made them perfect partners for quiet cooperation over trade, if offers of horses could secure their support.
“Very good, if it works,” Pila Dadi said. “Other options exist, though, as our friends downstairs will be sure to tell us.”
That provoked rather more heated discussion about which factions should be sought for cooperation. Wemba had expected nothing less, and settled in for a long, animated discussion of how best to secure the future of the Whites.
Hours later, with the discussion carried as far as it could be with only four speakers present, they adjourned. The task of convincing the rest of the faction leaders would have to remain until the next day.
After his guests were safely retired to the many rooms where they could sleep, Wemba returned to his favoured room on the second floor. A tinkling of the brass bell brought a servant hurrying to answer his bidding. “Have Nuyts brought to me, along with... two guards.”
Waiting took some time, since the servant would need to find his way through the night, out of the main manor house and over the hill to the smaller complex of rooms where Nuyts and his fellow Nedlandj renegades were housed.
While he waited, the flickering lamplight was not the brightest, but still enough for Wemba to read more of the Nedlandj account of visiting the Atjuntja. He laughed to himself a couple of times, and nodded in disbelief. Stins, it appeared, expected that every proper-thinking person should think like a Raw Man, in their beliefs and in everything else.
“Fool,” he muttered. Men thought differently from each other. Understanding how other people thought, why they acted as they did, was an integral part of the Eternal Dance. Surely not all Raw Men were stupid enough to believe the same as Stins? Not all of them could be fools; their knowledge alone proved that.
Nuyts entered the room, looking about as unhappy as he always did, with two guards following him.
Wemba rosed and bowed in the Nedlandj style. The greeting, though, while in the Dutch language, was of the Gunnagalic form. “Be welcome, my guest.”
Nuyts frowned; it was an expression his long Raw Man face seemed built for. “Your prisoner, you mean.”
“My guest,” Wemba said mildly.
“A guest held at swordpoint,” Nuyts said.
“The guards are for the protection of me and mine, not your imprisonment,” Wemba said. They had had similar conversations before, but Nuyts refused to believe. “You Dutchmen can be dangerous.”
“So they would just let me leave?” Nuyts said, sarcasm dripping from every word.
“If you like, provided that you leave alone – no way to be sure what you Dutchmen will do as a group – and do not try to take any of your horses or other goods with you,” Wemba said.
“I don’t believe you,” Nuyts said.
“Believe it,” Wemba said calmly. “If you wish to leave, under those conditions, the guards will not stop you.”
“Then, first thing tomorrow, I will-”
“But where will you go?” Wemba said.
“Anywhere but here,” Nuyts said.
“Where, exactly?” Wemba said.
“I-”
“Any other men of Tjibarr would return you to us rather than give you shelter; the king and council have agreed that you are our guest. If you flee beyond our borders, the Yadji have sworn to kill you. Gutjanal and Yigutji [the other kingdoms along the *Murray] are too weak; they would hand you over to the Yadji rather than risk angering them.”
“If I reach the sea-”
“You will do what? Your own Company has declared you a traitor. The Inglidj have promised to return your and your folk to the Yadji, if they find you. The Islanders would find you a valuable prize to trade; their only concern would be whether the Nedlandj or Yadji would offer more for you.”
“I could go-”
“Where? Into the desert? I suppose you could find shelter there, if the savages who live there don’t kill you. They won’t feed you, though. Do you know how to survive in the red heart?”
Nuyts shook his head.
“I thought not. You could try to go east, and cross the mountains. If the half-civilized savages on the other side don’t kill you on sight, they might show you to a Maori ship to take you to Aotearoa. Perhaps you will be fortunate, and not have the Maori eat you. Then you could live among people who know less than we do, with no iron, no physicians, no kunduri, no spices worth naming, and almost as easy to anger as a Yadji. Would you prefer that?”
Nuyts looked down.
“No, the truth is that only among the Gunnagal is your life safe. And you must help us as much as you can, to stop the Yadji learning from the Inglidj, and invading us to force your return.”
* * *
Pieter Nuyts’s ill-fated attempt to conquer the Yadji (1636-1638) dealt a disastrous blow to the Dutch East India Company’s (VOC) ambition to maintain a monopoly on trade with the South Land. The English East India Company (EIC) had already despatched William Baffin on an exploration mission to this new land; now their English rivals had been given a vital opening to exploit.
The defeat of Nuyts’s adventurism led the new Yadji Regent, Gunya, to declare the Dutch anathema within his Empire, to be killed on sight. The VOC made a determined effort to persuade Gunya Yadji to change his mind. Their governor at Fort Nassau [Fremantle] sent emissaries to the Yadji realm to try to convince them that Nuyts had acted independently and without authority.
En route, some of the friendlier Nangu tried to warn the emissaries not to bother, that as far as the Yadji were concerned, the actions of the subjects were the actions of the ruler. Perhaps unwisely, perhaps out of a sense of duty, the emissaries pressed on.
Gunya Yadji is reported to have told the emissaries, “Tjibarr has tried to tell us such things before, striking against us and then denying that they had done so. We will not believe them, nor do I believe you. Your words are lies because your adventure failed, nothing more.”
Gunya had all but one of the emissaries executed, with the last sent back to deliver the message to the VOC. He also extended official hospitality to the EIC, giving them permission to set up two trading outposts on Yadji territory. One could be established in the existing harbour of Gurndjit [Portland, Victoria], while the other was to be built somewhere in the wide harbour which the Yadji called the Little Sea [Port Phillip Bay, Victoria].
On 5 May 1642, the VOC responded with a raid on Gurndjit, targeting the half-built English fortifications there. The raid caused some minor damage, but due to a stroke of ill luck for the VOC, most English ships were further east in the Little Sea establishing a new fort there, so those ships survived unscathed.
The undeclared war between the VOC and the EIC had begun...
* * *
[1] This is an account by Pieter Stins, called ““My Life in the South-Land”. It is an account of his experiences being in de Houtman’s first two voyages to Aururia.
[2] In Tjibarr, all rural land is notionally under the ownership of the monarch; what is granted to each person – usually noble – is the right to use that land. In practice, land ownership is one of the great prizes in the Dance, with intra- and inter-factional intrigues over its use being rife, as people try to outmanoeuvre each other for control of the most productive lands.
[3] Blacksmiths in Aururia have semi-sacred status and immense popular respect. This is a legacy of how the craft first developed in the Atjuntja, where the first blacksmiths developed a reputation for great skill and for being touched by the kuru (spirits). It has continued when blacksmiths were first recruited to travel east by the Nangu. Among the Atjuntja, even the greatest of nobles make requests of master blacksmiths, rather than orders to attend. Their social status is not quite as high in Tjibarr, but even there, a reputation as a master smith can transcend factional lines.
* * *
Thoughts?
) to distinguish from the New York Colony vs City thing?
