Lands of Red and Gold #20: Worlds In Collision
Continuity note: This post continues from shortly after the second section of the prologue post.
* * *
August 1619
D’Edsels Land / Tiayal [Western coast of Australia]
Commander Frederik de Houtman stood at the summit of a hill in a new land, surrounded by two dozen sailors and three kinds of trees he had never seen before. Scorching heat and waiting had been the features of most of his morning. The sun beat down here, even when it was winter in this hemisphere. At least the air was dry when compared to what he would find when he sailed north to the Indies.
He had to wait, of course. He had decided to keep his men in the shade of this hill until they saw the natives coming out to meet them. He did not want to alarm the natives by coming too close to their town unawares, and he also wanted to keep his ships in sight. This hill was not very high, but it was tall enough to allow him to see the Amsterdam and the Dordrecht waiting at the nearby inlet. The other ships of his expedition were further out to sea, as he had ordered. All to the good.
“Need we wait here all day?” Pieter Stins said.
“If the natives don’t come out by mid-afternoon, we’ll go back to the boats,” said de Houtman.
Not all of the sailors appeared happy at that announcement, but he ignored their discontent. If one of them wanted to say more, he would answer, but he would prefer to stay alert rather than engage in an argument.
De Houtman went back to watching the native town. The distance made fine details impossible to pick out, but he had always had keen eyes, so he could see the broad form of things. The town was small; it probably held no more than five hundred people. Oddly, it had no walls. He wondered whether that meant that these natives had no enemies – which would be strange, if true – or if something more complex underlay that decision.
The town had three small docks jutting out into the river. A few small boats were moored on those docks, and some smaller vessels which looked almost like canoes were pulled up onto the banks. Impossible to be sure from this distance, of course, but he doubted that those boats were very seaworthy. That would explain why all of those docks were here in the shelter of the inlet, rather than out facing the open sea.
While they waited, the sailors started to speculate amongst themselves about the nature of this strange people. De Houtman half-listened while he watched the town, without speaking his own thoughts. No-one knew much of anything about these people, of course, but that just added to the wildness of the speculation. From what they had seen of the natives from a distance, they were dark-skinned, darker than anyone who lived in the Indies. Maybe even as black as Africans.
One of the sailors pointed to the large birds which crowded a couple of the fields nearer the town. “This must be like Africa. It has blacks, and ostriches.”
“Those are no ostriches,” another sailor said. “Wrong colour, not quite the right shape. Besides, we’re too far from the Cape.”
De Houtman did not bother speaking, but of course the second sailor was right. This land had strange crops and trees, and they had seen several kinds of brightly coloured birds flying around. Yet it was not Africa. A few Company ships had touched along this land’s western coast from time to time, even if they had found naught worth the visit. This must be a whole new land. After all, no-one had properly explored all of the Spice Islands yet; this could be just the southernmost and largest.
The sailors kept arguing amongst themselves. Eventually, the conversation shifted to what De Houtman had already considered: whether this was one of the Spice Islands. That led them to wonder whether they would be able to speak with the natives. If this land had some contact with the more northerly Indies, that might be possible. The languages of the Indies were closely-related; de Houtman himself had learned Malay and published a dictionary on their language.
With any luck, there would be a few people here who had learned Malay or a related language from traders. If not, then possibly they had encountered shipwrecked Dutch sailors; there were certainly enough reefs and shoals along this dangerous coast. Failing that, then they would have to use sign language and gestures. Hardly ideal, but it was not as if they would have any other choice.
“Captain, do you know what these trees are?” Pieter Stins’ voice cut through de Houtman’s reverie.
Stins gestured to the trees which the sailors sheltered under. Small as trees go, with grey-green leaves and twisted bark. De Houtman had wondered what these trees were, but the natives had only planted a few at the hilltop and occasional scattered ones lower down. He had been more interested in the two kinds of smaller, more numerous trees planted along the hilltops and at the edges of the fields on flatter ground. Those trees were abundant, and one kind was started to sprout golden flowers. He wondered what kind of fruit it produced.
Stins said, “I knew I’d seen something like this before, but couldn’t remember where. In Pallaicatta [Pulicat, India]. It’s not quite the same, but I’d swear that this is a kind of sandalwood.”
“Sandalwood,” de Houtman repeated, vaguely aware of the silence that had descended over the sailors. Sandalwood. Source of wood, incense and fragrant oil, and one of the most valuable spices in India. “Are you sure?”
“Not completely, but...” Stins reached out and broke off a twig. He had a quiet discussion with another sailor who had a tinderbox, and after a few moments they had the twig alight. Stins sniffed the smoke rising from the twig, grinned, and passed it to de Houtman. “Smell it for yourself.”
De Houtman needed only a quick whiff to recognise sandalwood. Maybe not quite the same as Indian sandalwood, but close enough. “I do believe we’ve discovered a reason to come back to this land,” he said.
The sailors went back to talking among themselves, leaving de Houtman to watch the town, and wait. He was now even more willing to wait, even if the delay was frustrating. He had already realised that this town and this new land offered opportunities. Now he wondered what else it contained beside sandalwood.
He hoped he would have time to find out. He had already sent a group of four sailors back to the ships to report on what had happened, and they had come back with word that Jacob d’Edsel approved of waiting. For now. He could change his mind, of course. Always a risk with having a Councillor of the Indies along on your expedition. Still, for now De Houtman had been allowed to act as he wished, so he would.
A few moments later, one of the sailors said, “Men coming out of the town!”
De Houtman followed the sailor’s gaze, and saw a group of people leaving the western edge of the town. Impossible to count exact numbers at this distance, but there looked to be at least thirty of them. More than his group of sailors, but not so many that he was inclined to withdraw back to the ships.
“Down to the base of the hill, then we can wait for them there,” he said.
As it happened, he had the sailors stop a short distance up the slope. Better to watch the natives coming, and the higher ground should give them some advantage if attacked.
After a while, the group of natives appeared in the distance, walking along the shore of the river.
“What do you want us to do, sir?” Stins asked.
“Make sure your muskets are loaded, and that your cutlasses are somewhere you can reach them quickly,” de Houtman said. Wheel-locks were much better muskets to fire than the old matchlocks, and could be kept prepared for firing. Still, if it came to a fight, his men would probably only have time for one shot. After that, it would be steel on steel.
“Best if we don’t fight,” Stins said.
“Indeed. If we must fight, though, best that we win,” de Houtman answered. “Anyway, I hope to persuade a couple of the natives to come with us.” That would be the best way to learn the natives’ language, assuming that none knew Malay. Plus, of course, the natives could tell them much about this new land.
“And if they don’t want to come?” Stins asked.
“We’ll see,” de Houtman said.
When the natives drew close, he saw they were divided into two groups. The leading group, about twenty men, were soldiers. They wore armour of iron scales that ran from their shoulders to their knees. The scales were fixed to some form of cloth that extended slightly past their knees. Their shoulders were covered with two large metal plates that fitted around their necks. The soldiers’ helmets were iron too, shaped to rise to a simple conical peak, with a noseguard attached. They carried large oval wooden shields. All of the soldiers had an axe slung over their backs, and he glimpsed a few with sheathed swords at their sides, too.
The soldiers were all dark-skinned, and to a man had full black beards. Standing just behind the soldiers was a man who was obviously an officer or other high-ranked personage. He had the same dark skin and full beard, but wore clothes made of some blue-purple cloth. His only armour was a helmet, which shone as if with polished steel. Around his neck, he wore some kind of neck ring; it was too far away to make out the details, but the gleam of gold was unmistakeable.
The other group of people looked to be servants, or at least were plainly-dressed. Their clothes were made of light-coloured cloth wrapped around their bodies and arms, which left most of their legs exposed. Where all of the soldiers were men and had black hair, about half of the servants were women, and all but one of them had blonde hair, even though their skins were equally dark. None of the servant men wore a beard, either.
As the natives came near, de Houtman said, “Don’t shoot unless they’re about to attack us, but if it comes to a fight, shoot their leader first.”
The soldiers stopped about twenty paces away from the nearest sailors. The front rank drove their shields into the ground in front of them, almost in unison, forming the shields into a wall.
The neck-ringed leader stood in the middle of the group of soldiers, just behind the first rank. At this distance, de Houtman saw that he had a golden bracelet on his right wrist, and a matching silver one on his left. The leader shouted out a few words in a language which made no sense whatsoever.
“We are Dutchmen,” de Houtman shouted back, in Dutch. The natives showed no signs of recognising the language.
The leader shouted something else. Most of the words were different; the only word he recognised from both times sounded something like “tiajal.”
“We are Dutchmen,” de Houtman shouted, this time in Malay. Again, the natives showed no sign of recognition.
The native leader barked a single word in a commanding tone. The front rank of soldiers pulled their shields up, took two steps forward, then drove them back into the earth. Again, they acted in almost perfect unison.
“Damnation,” de Houtman muttered. He did not like how close these soldiers were coming, not at all. “If they come in closer, shoot them. Aim for the leader.”
The sailors started to turn the wheel-shafts of their wheel-locks; a series of clicks announced that they were ready.
The native leader shouted more demands, in the tone of one used to being obeyed. De Houtman held his hands palm upward in what he hoped was a gesture of peace. No way to tell whether they would take as that; these natives looked as if they were keen for a fight.
“Come no closer!” he shouted, in Malay. Again, no sign of understanding from the natives.
The native leader shouted out another command, and his soldiers picked up their shields again. That did it. “Fire!” de Houtman bellowed.
Fire and smoke belched from the muskets in an irregular cacophony. Shots flew through the air toward the ranks of natives. The native leader collapsed to the ground, along with several other soldiers. Some of the standing soldiers turned and ran, but a few pushed aside their shields, pulled out their axes, and charged at the Dutch sailors.
Most of the sailors dropped their muskets, drew their cutlasses, and ran to meet them. De Houtman stayed back, along with half a dozen other sailors who were frantically reloading their muskets. De Houtman had a cutlass himself, but he did not plan on drawing it unless he had no choice.
Fortunately, he did not need to. The native soldiers had the look of veterans, but they probably had never seen guns before, judging from their reactions. Whatever the reason, they had been broken by the first volley of musket fire, and were badly outnumbered. Some died, a few fled. After a few moments, the only natives left alive were four servants who had fallen to the ground rather than flee.
“What should we do now?” Pieter Stins asked. His voice held more than a touch of reproach. Two Dutch sailors were down, moaning and bleeding. One more would never have a chance to moan again; an axe blow had nearly severed his neck.
“Catch those servants, before they flee too,” de Houtman said. No need to tell the sailors to see to their comrades; they were already doing what they could. Whether that would be anything useful was another question entirely, but they would make the effort.
The four servants did not attempt to flee. Instead, they rose and walked hesitantly toward de Houtman, when the sailors gestured for them to do so. There were three men and one woman. Most looked young, except for one man whose receding hair had turned white. The others all had blonde hair, which up close looked even stranger against their dark skins.
De Houtman assigned six sailors to guard the servants, and six more to carry their dead and wounded comrades back to the ships.
“We’ll need to move quickly,” he said. That town was large enough to contain more soldiers, and who could say how many more would be brought in from further afield? “First, though, see what those dead soldiers have that’s worth taking.” A few samples of their weapons and armour, naturally. Their leader’s gold jewellery would become de Houtman’s personal prize, at least for now. And who could say what else these native soldiers would have on them?
* * *
Namai, scion of the noble family of Urdera, second only to the imperial family itself in its prominence [1], had long wondered what he had done to anger the King of Kings. He had never found a reason why; the King of Kings was ineffable in his choices. That had not stopped Namai from pondering the reasons why he had been exiled to the governorship of Archers Nest [2], rather than dwelling in the White City, as was his right of birth.
Now, though, he thought that he might have found the first thing that made it worthwhile to be sent to govern this place so far from the White City.
This field at the edge of the Goanna River [Swan River] did not amount to much in itself. It was next to Sea-Eagle Tree, a minor town that had no virtue other than being near to Archers Nest. Still, standing here in the morning light from the Source, after this strange visitation from the ever-ocean, this field held strange promises. Or was it just strange dangers?
At first, he had thought that this tale of giant ships and raw-skinned men was nothing but the warped hysterics of a Djarwari peasant woman. Surely this was just a misguided report of Islanders who had broken the King of Kings’ edict and sailed around Sunset Point [3] to seek trade with the western shores. It would have made much more sense.
Alas, he had clearly been mistaken. Namai still could not find out exactly what had happened here, but what he could see from his own eyes was clear enough. His brother-cousin-nephew Atjirra had brought twenty good Atjuntja soldiers to this field to investigate the report of strangers. Now Atjirra lay dead, along with the majority of the soldiers and two peasants.
That much was certain. If only he could be sure about anything else.
He had reports, of course, from the four peasants and seven soldiers who had survived the encounter, and who he had brought back here with him. Yet that told him less than he wished. He had been given eleven confused accounts which left him little clearer as to what had happened. He had been given conflicting descriptions of what the strangers looked like, how many they were, and what they wore.
All of the descriptions agreed that the strangers had this striking pink-white raw skin. But then, the tales had told of that even before he arrived here. What he most wanted to know about were the strangers’ weapons, and here, he did not know whether to trust what he heard. If these accounts were true, these strangers had weapons which could chain kuru to drive metal balls to incredible, deadly effect.
Maybe this was so, but the contradictory accounts of sounds of thunder, swirling dust, and belches of flame left him unconvinced. No soldiers ever liked to admit that they had been defeated. Maybe they had just invented an explanation about strangers who could reach across the great water’s eternity and drag kuru into the mortal lands to serve them. Perhaps.
The strangers did use metal balls in some form, yes. That much, he had seen with his own eyes, for a few of them had been left behind. Unfortunately, nothing else had been. The strangers had collected everything, including their own dead and wounded, however many they had been. They had taken all of poor dead Atjirra’s ornaments, including the sun-kin, and weapons and armour from the other fallen soldiers, too.
Whatever else these strangers might be, they were definitely looters of the dead. Extremely abhorrent. But then the Islanders were distasteful in their way, and the King of Kings had agreed to tolerate them. Would he decide the same thing was true here, if the strangers wished peace?
That went to the heart of the most serious question of all, even more than that of what weapons these strangers used. What had caused this meeting to turn into a skirmish? Were the strangers hostile, or was Atjirra a hothead, as he so often could be? Was this bloodshed the workings of some malevolent kuru or worse yet, some twist of the Lord’s will?
After a moment, Namai nodded to the most senior surviving soldier. “Are you sure that these men attacked first?”
The soldier hesitated, then said, “These are not men, but kuru. No mortal men could strike as they did.”
“Do not give me stories about these raw-skinned men being kuru. No kuru are visible to mortal eyes,” Namai said, his tone harsh enough to make the other man step back.
The soldier doubtless thought that only kuru could bind lesser kuru into weapons, and so concluded that these strange-looking men must be kuru. Still, he should have known better. Few people could ever glimpse kuru, or even hear them, and not without consuming special substances. In any case, he refused to believe that any of these confused soldiers and peasants possessed the Sight.
“Ah, these... men shouted challenges. When our noble leader told us to move closer to show we were uncowed, they released the thunder from their bound kuru.”
A couple of the other soldiers started to speak, most likely to contradict the senior soldier. They stopped when Namai held up a hand. He needed to think. Even before he came here, he knew that these strangers had stood for many hours at the top of the nearby hill, in the shade of the sandalwood trees. They had only come down when the soldiers approached. Perhaps they had needed the shade. Not for themselves, but if their weapons did chain kuru somehow, the shade would be necessary. No kuru liked to be in the direct light of the Source, and lesser kuru such as those that might be bound into weapons would soon be consumed by the light.
If so, that would explain part of the strangers’ actions. A small part. For the rest, though, he could not decide it himself. And that, after a moment, let him realise what he needed to do next.
Namai ran his gaze over the gathered soldiers, peasants and assorted functionaries, then clenched his left hand into a fist and smacked it against the open palm of his right hand. That ancient gesture meant: I will brook no further argument.
“The families of each of the two dead peasants are to be exempt from all tributes and labour drafts for the next, hmm, four years. So let it be shown on the nearest land-stone to their homes.”
After some more thought, he continued, “The priests in Archers Nest will sacrifice to appease the Lord and to honour the Lady. We will wait to see if they receive any messages or if the kuru-listeners hear any omens.”
He beckoned to the two nearest scribes. When they came forward, he pointed to one. “You will prepare a letter to Star Hill. Tell them what has happened here, and ask what omens the heavens reveal.” That scribe bowed and withdrew.
To the other scribe, Namai said, “Record what I say.” The scribe nodded, and produced two wax-covered tablets and a stylus. “To his exalted majesty the King of Kings, from your servant Namai Urdera, governor of your garrison-city of Archers Nest: May the Lady continue to honour you and bring you good health and fortune. May the earth continue to yield its bounty, that you may receive your due.”
He paused. Choosing which of the ritual formulas of greeting to use was easy enough. Deciding what he actually wanted to say was harder. “Strangers have come across the great storm road from the west in great ships. They are not Islanders. They have killed your servant Atjirra Urdera and thirteen of your soldiers, then fled in their ships. It is not yet sure whether they meant to kill or whether the Lord’s will brought the deaths. More will be said once more is known.”
He gestured to show he had finished dictating, then said, “Set that to parchment and seal it. Let the post-runners carry these letters to Star Hill and the White City.”
With that done, he decided, he could only wait, to see what word came back. And he would watch, to see if these strangers sought to come back to the Middle Country.
* * *
[1] In the opinion of the Urdera family, anyway.
[2] Archers Nest is historical Redcliffe, a suburb of modern Perth.
[3] Sunset Point is historical Cape Leeuwin, the south-westernmost point on the Australian mainland. The Atjuntja Emperor has an edict preventing the Islanders from sailing past that point, so that they cannot disrupt the internal trade between the Atjuntja western and southern coasts.
* * *
Thoughts?
Continuity note: This post continues from shortly after the second section of the prologue post.
* * *
August 1619
D’Edsels Land / Tiayal [Western coast of Australia]
Commander Frederik de Houtman stood at the summit of a hill in a new land, surrounded by two dozen sailors and three kinds of trees he had never seen before. Scorching heat and waiting had been the features of most of his morning. The sun beat down here, even when it was winter in this hemisphere. At least the air was dry when compared to what he would find when he sailed north to the Indies.
He had to wait, of course. He had decided to keep his men in the shade of this hill until they saw the natives coming out to meet them. He did not want to alarm the natives by coming too close to their town unawares, and he also wanted to keep his ships in sight. This hill was not very high, but it was tall enough to allow him to see the Amsterdam and the Dordrecht waiting at the nearby inlet. The other ships of his expedition were further out to sea, as he had ordered. All to the good.
“Need we wait here all day?” Pieter Stins said.
“If the natives don’t come out by mid-afternoon, we’ll go back to the boats,” said de Houtman.
Not all of the sailors appeared happy at that announcement, but he ignored their discontent. If one of them wanted to say more, he would answer, but he would prefer to stay alert rather than engage in an argument.
De Houtman went back to watching the native town. The distance made fine details impossible to pick out, but he had always had keen eyes, so he could see the broad form of things. The town was small; it probably held no more than five hundred people. Oddly, it had no walls. He wondered whether that meant that these natives had no enemies – which would be strange, if true – or if something more complex underlay that decision.
The town had three small docks jutting out into the river. A few small boats were moored on those docks, and some smaller vessels which looked almost like canoes were pulled up onto the banks. Impossible to be sure from this distance, of course, but he doubted that those boats were very seaworthy. That would explain why all of those docks were here in the shelter of the inlet, rather than out facing the open sea.
While they waited, the sailors started to speculate amongst themselves about the nature of this strange people. De Houtman half-listened while he watched the town, without speaking his own thoughts. No-one knew much of anything about these people, of course, but that just added to the wildness of the speculation. From what they had seen of the natives from a distance, they were dark-skinned, darker than anyone who lived in the Indies. Maybe even as black as Africans.
One of the sailors pointed to the large birds which crowded a couple of the fields nearer the town. “This must be like Africa. It has blacks, and ostriches.”
“Those are no ostriches,” another sailor said. “Wrong colour, not quite the right shape. Besides, we’re too far from the Cape.”
De Houtman did not bother speaking, but of course the second sailor was right. This land had strange crops and trees, and they had seen several kinds of brightly coloured birds flying around. Yet it was not Africa. A few Company ships had touched along this land’s western coast from time to time, even if they had found naught worth the visit. This must be a whole new land. After all, no-one had properly explored all of the Spice Islands yet; this could be just the southernmost and largest.
The sailors kept arguing amongst themselves. Eventually, the conversation shifted to what De Houtman had already considered: whether this was one of the Spice Islands. That led them to wonder whether they would be able to speak with the natives. If this land had some contact with the more northerly Indies, that might be possible. The languages of the Indies were closely-related; de Houtman himself had learned Malay and published a dictionary on their language.
With any luck, there would be a few people here who had learned Malay or a related language from traders. If not, then possibly they had encountered shipwrecked Dutch sailors; there were certainly enough reefs and shoals along this dangerous coast. Failing that, then they would have to use sign language and gestures. Hardly ideal, but it was not as if they would have any other choice.
“Captain, do you know what these trees are?” Pieter Stins’ voice cut through de Houtman’s reverie.
Stins gestured to the trees which the sailors sheltered under. Small as trees go, with grey-green leaves and twisted bark. De Houtman had wondered what these trees were, but the natives had only planted a few at the hilltop and occasional scattered ones lower down. He had been more interested in the two kinds of smaller, more numerous trees planted along the hilltops and at the edges of the fields on flatter ground. Those trees were abundant, and one kind was started to sprout golden flowers. He wondered what kind of fruit it produced.
Stins said, “I knew I’d seen something like this before, but couldn’t remember where. In Pallaicatta [Pulicat, India]. It’s not quite the same, but I’d swear that this is a kind of sandalwood.”
“Sandalwood,” de Houtman repeated, vaguely aware of the silence that had descended over the sailors. Sandalwood. Source of wood, incense and fragrant oil, and one of the most valuable spices in India. “Are you sure?”
“Not completely, but...” Stins reached out and broke off a twig. He had a quiet discussion with another sailor who had a tinderbox, and after a few moments they had the twig alight. Stins sniffed the smoke rising from the twig, grinned, and passed it to de Houtman. “Smell it for yourself.”
De Houtman needed only a quick whiff to recognise sandalwood. Maybe not quite the same as Indian sandalwood, but close enough. “I do believe we’ve discovered a reason to come back to this land,” he said.
The sailors went back to talking among themselves, leaving de Houtman to watch the town, and wait. He was now even more willing to wait, even if the delay was frustrating. He had already realised that this town and this new land offered opportunities. Now he wondered what else it contained beside sandalwood.
He hoped he would have time to find out. He had already sent a group of four sailors back to the ships to report on what had happened, and they had come back with word that Jacob d’Edsel approved of waiting. For now. He could change his mind, of course. Always a risk with having a Councillor of the Indies along on your expedition. Still, for now De Houtman had been allowed to act as he wished, so he would.
A few moments later, one of the sailors said, “Men coming out of the town!”
De Houtman followed the sailor’s gaze, and saw a group of people leaving the western edge of the town. Impossible to count exact numbers at this distance, but there looked to be at least thirty of them. More than his group of sailors, but not so many that he was inclined to withdraw back to the ships.
“Down to the base of the hill, then we can wait for them there,” he said.
As it happened, he had the sailors stop a short distance up the slope. Better to watch the natives coming, and the higher ground should give them some advantage if attacked.
After a while, the group of natives appeared in the distance, walking along the shore of the river.
“What do you want us to do, sir?” Stins asked.
“Make sure your muskets are loaded, and that your cutlasses are somewhere you can reach them quickly,” de Houtman said. Wheel-locks were much better muskets to fire than the old matchlocks, and could be kept prepared for firing. Still, if it came to a fight, his men would probably only have time for one shot. After that, it would be steel on steel.
“Best if we don’t fight,” Stins said.
“Indeed. If we must fight, though, best that we win,” de Houtman answered. “Anyway, I hope to persuade a couple of the natives to come with us.” That would be the best way to learn the natives’ language, assuming that none knew Malay. Plus, of course, the natives could tell them much about this new land.
“And if they don’t want to come?” Stins asked.
“We’ll see,” de Houtman said.
When the natives drew close, he saw they were divided into two groups. The leading group, about twenty men, were soldiers. They wore armour of iron scales that ran from their shoulders to their knees. The scales were fixed to some form of cloth that extended slightly past their knees. Their shoulders were covered with two large metal plates that fitted around their necks. The soldiers’ helmets were iron too, shaped to rise to a simple conical peak, with a noseguard attached. They carried large oval wooden shields. All of the soldiers had an axe slung over their backs, and he glimpsed a few with sheathed swords at their sides, too.
The soldiers were all dark-skinned, and to a man had full black beards. Standing just behind the soldiers was a man who was obviously an officer or other high-ranked personage. He had the same dark skin and full beard, but wore clothes made of some blue-purple cloth. His only armour was a helmet, which shone as if with polished steel. Around his neck, he wore some kind of neck ring; it was too far away to make out the details, but the gleam of gold was unmistakeable.
The other group of people looked to be servants, or at least were plainly-dressed. Their clothes were made of light-coloured cloth wrapped around their bodies and arms, which left most of their legs exposed. Where all of the soldiers were men and had black hair, about half of the servants were women, and all but one of them had blonde hair, even though their skins were equally dark. None of the servant men wore a beard, either.
As the natives came near, de Houtman said, “Don’t shoot unless they’re about to attack us, but if it comes to a fight, shoot their leader first.”
The soldiers stopped about twenty paces away from the nearest sailors. The front rank drove their shields into the ground in front of them, almost in unison, forming the shields into a wall.
The neck-ringed leader stood in the middle of the group of soldiers, just behind the first rank. At this distance, de Houtman saw that he had a golden bracelet on his right wrist, and a matching silver one on his left. The leader shouted out a few words in a language which made no sense whatsoever.
“We are Dutchmen,” de Houtman shouted back, in Dutch. The natives showed no signs of recognising the language.
The leader shouted something else. Most of the words were different; the only word he recognised from both times sounded something like “tiajal.”
“We are Dutchmen,” de Houtman shouted, this time in Malay. Again, the natives showed no sign of recognition.
The native leader barked a single word in a commanding tone. The front rank of soldiers pulled their shields up, took two steps forward, then drove them back into the earth. Again, they acted in almost perfect unison.
“Damnation,” de Houtman muttered. He did not like how close these soldiers were coming, not at all. “If they come in closer, shoot them. Aim for the leader.”
The sailors started to turn the wheel-shafts of their wheel-locks; a series of clicks announced that they were ready.
The native leader shouted more demands, in the tone of one used to being obeyed. De Houtman held his hands palm upward in what he hoped was a gesture of peace. No way to tell whether they would take as that; these natives looked as if they were keen for a fight.
“Come no closer!” he shouted, in Malay. Again, no sign of understanding from the natives.
The native leader shouted out another command, and his soldiers picked up their shields again. That did it. “Fire!” de Houtman bellowed.
Fire and smoke belched from the muskets in an irregular cacophony. Shots flew through the air toward the ranks of natives. The native leader collapsed to the ground, along with several other soldiers. Some of the standing soldiers turned and ran, but a few pushed aside their shields, pulled out their axes, and charged at the Dutch sailors.
Most of the sailors dropped their muskets, drew their cutlasses, and ran to meet them. De Houtman stayed back, along with half a dozen other sailors who were frantically reloading their muskets. De Houtman had a cutlass himself, but he did not plan on drawing it unless he had no choice.
Fortunately, he did not need to. The native soldiers had the look of veterans, but they probably had never seen guns before, judging from their reactions. Whatever the reason, they had been broken by the first volley of musket fire, and were badly outnumbered. Some died, a few fled. After a few moments, the only natives left alive were four servants who had fallen to the ground rather than flee.
“What should we do now?” Pieter Stins asked. His voice held more than a touch of reproach. Two Dutch sailors were down, moaning and bleeding. One more would never have a chance to moan again; an axe blow had nearly severed his neck.
“Catch those servants, before they flee too,” de Houtman said. No need to tell the sailors to see to their comrades; they were already doing what they could. Whether that would be anything useful was another question entirely, but they would make the effort.
The four servants did not attempt to flee. Instead, they rose and walked hesitantly toward de Houtman, when the sailors gestured for them to do so. There were three men and one woman. Most looked young, except for one man whose receding hair had turned white. The others all had blonde hair, which up close looked even stranger against their dark skins.
De Houtman assigned six sailors to guard the servants, and six more to carry their dead and wounded comrades back to the ships.
“We’ll need to move quickly,” he said. That town was large enough to contain more soldiers, and who could say how many more would be brought in from further afield? “First, though, see what those dead soldiers have that’s worth taking.” A few samples of their weapons and armour, naturally. Their leader’s gold jewellery would become de Houtman’s personal prize, at least for now. And who could say what else these native soldiers would have on them?
* * *
Namai, scion of the noble family of Urdera, second only to the imperial family itself in its prominence [1], had long wondered what he had done to anger the King of Kings. He had never found a reason why; the King of Kings was ineffable in his choices. That had not stopped Namai from pondering the reasons why he had been exiled to the governorship of Archers Nest [2], rather than dwelling in the White City, as was his right of birth.
Now, though, he thought that he might have found the first thing that made it worthwhile to be sent to govern this place so far from the White City.
This field at the edge of the Goanna River [Swan River] did not amount to much in itself. It was next to Sea-Eagle Tree, a minor town that had no virtue other than being near to Archers Nest. Still, standing here in the morning light from the Source, after this strange visitation from the ever-ocean, this field held strange promises. Or was it just strange dangers?
At first, he had thought that this tale of giant ships and raw-skinned men was nothing but the warped hysterics of a Djarwari peasant woman. Surely this was just a misguided report of Islanders who had broken the King of Kings’ edict and sailed around Sunset Point [3] to seek trade with the western shores. It would have made much more sense.
Alas, he had clearly been mistaken. Namai still could not find out exactly what had happened here, but what he could see from his own eyes was clear enough. His brother-cousin-nephew Atjirra had brought twenty good Atjuntja soldiers to this field to investigate the report of strangers. Now Atjirra lay dead, along with the majority of the soldiers and two peasants.
That much was certain. If only he could be sure about anything else.
He had reports, of course, from the four peasants and seven soldiers who had survived the encounter, and who he had brought back here with him. Yet that told him less than he wished. He had been given eleven confused accounts which left him little clearer as to what had happened. He had been given conflicting descriptions of what the strangers looked like, how many they were, and what they wore.
All of the descriptions agreed that the strangers had this striking pink-white raw skin. But then, the tales had told of that even before he arrived here. What he most wanted to know about were the strangers’ weapons, and here, he did not know whether to trust what he heard. If these accounts were true, these strangers had weapons which could chain kuru to drive metal balls to incredible, deadly effect.
Maybe this was so, but the contradictory accounts of sounds of thunder, swirling dust, and belches of flame left him unconvinced. No soldiers ever liked to admit that they had been defeated. Maybe they had just invented an explanation about strangers who could reach across the great water’s eternity and drag kuru into the mortal lands to serve them. Perhaps.
The strangers did use metal balls in some form, yes. That much, he had seen with his own eyes, for a few of them had been left behind. Unfortunately, nothing else had been. The strangers had collected everything, including their own dead and wounded, however many they had been. They had taken all of poor dead Atjirra’s ornaments, including the sun-kin, and weapons and armour from the other fallen soldiers, too.
Whatever else these strangers might be, they were definitely looters of the dead. Extremely abhorrent. But then the Islanders were distasteful in their way, and the King of Kings had agreed to tolerate them. Would he decide the same thing was true here, if the strangers wished peace?
That went to the heart of the most serious question of all, even more than that of what weapons these strangers used. What had caused this meeting to turn into a skirmish? Were the strangers hostile, or was Atjirra a hothead, as he so often could be? Was this bloodshed the workings of some malevolent kuru or worse yet, some twist of the Lord’s will?
After a moment, Namai nodded to the most senior surviving soldier. “Are you sure that these men attacked first?”
The soldier hesitated, then said, “These are not men, but kuru. No mortal men could strike as they did.”
“Do not give me stories about these raw-skinned men being kuru. No kuru are visible to mortal eyes,” Namai said, his tone harsh enough to make the other man step back.
The soldier doubtless thought that only kuru could bind lesser kuru into weapons, and so concluded that these strange-looking men must be kuru. Still, he should have known better. Few people could ever glimpse kuru, or even hear them, and not without consuming special substances. In any case, he refused to believe that any of these confused soldiers and peasants possessed the Sight.
“Ah, these... men shouted challenges. When our noble leader told us to move closer to show we were uncowed, they released the thunder from their bound kuru.”
A couple of the other soldiers started to speak, most likely to contradict the senior soldier. They stopped when Namai held up a hand. He needed to think. Even before he came here, he knew that these strangers had stood for many hours at the top of the nearby hill, in the shade of the sandalwood trees. They had only come down when the soldiers approached. Perhaps they had needed the shade. Not for themselves, but if their weapons did chain kuru somehow, the shade would be necessary. No kuru liked to be in the direct light of the Source, and lesser kuru such as those that might be bound into weapons would soon be consumed by the light.
If so, that would explain part of the strangers’ actions. A small part. For the rest, though, he could not decide it himself. And that, after a moment, let him realise what he needed to do next.
Namai ran his gaze over the gathered soldiers, peasants and assorted functionaries, then clenched his left hand into a fist and smacked it against the open palm of his right hand. That ancient gesture meant: I will brook no further argument.
“The families of each of the two dead peasants are to be exempt from all tributes and labour drafts for the next, hmm, four years. So let it be shown on the nearest land-stone to their homes.”
After some more thought, he continued, “The priests in Archers Nest will sacrifice to appease the Lord and to honour the Lady. We will wait to see if they receive any messages or if the kuru-listeners hear any omens.”
He beckoned to the two nearest scribes. When they came forward, he pointed to one. “You will prepare a letter to Star Hill. Tell them what has happened here, and ask what omens the heavens reveal.” That scribe bowed and withdrew.
To the other scribe, Namai said, “Record what I say.” The scribe nodded, and produced two wax-covered tablets and a stylus. “To his exalted majesty the King of Kings, from your servant Namai Urdera, governor of your garrison-city of Archers Nest: May the Lady continue to honour you and bring you good health and fortune. May the earth continue to yield its bounty, that you may receive your due.”
He paused. Choosing which of the ritual formulas of greeting to use was easy enough. Deciding what he actually wanted to say was harder. “Strangers have come across the great storm road from the west in great ships. They are not Islanders. They have killed your servant Atjirra Urdera and thirteen of your soldiers, then fled in their ships. It is not yet sure whether they meant to kill or whether the Lord’s will brought the deaths. More will be said once more is known.”
He gestured to show he had finished dictating, then said, “Set that to parchment and seal it. Let the post-runners carry these letters to Star Hill and the White City.”
With that done, he decided, he could only wait, to see what word came back. And he would watch, to see if these strangers sought to come back to the Middle Country.
* * *
[1] In the opinion of the Urdera family, anyway.
[2] Archers Nest is historical Redcliffe, a suburb of modern Perth.
[3] Sunset Point is historical Cape Leeuwin, the south-westernmost point on the Australian mainland. The Atjuntja Emperor has an edict preventing the Islanders from sailing past that point, so that they cannot disrupt the internal trade between the Atjuntja western and southern coasts.
* * *
Thoughts?
