Master of the Ghost Dreaming by Mudrooroo

Author:Mudrooroo [Mudrooroo]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ISBN: 9780648096382
ISBN: 9780648096382
Publisher: ETT Imprint
Published: 2017-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

The sugarcane juice was his tears. Sweet tears that made a strong bitter drink which turned strong men into unconscious infants sheltering in the womb. Unable to feel, unable to think, unable to walk, only to totter, to crawl; unable to sing, unable to talk, unable to stutter, shout, cry – bubbling helplessness of the womb being, which he was. Safe at home in the womb. Feeling the warm walls constricting; feeling all the hurt receding; feeling, feeling, sadness sweeping, bitter the taste, bitter the womb, pressing walls pressing, pushing, pushing into a world of of of ... his father’s arms about him. Arms he had never known. Holding him firmly and seeking to protect him from all hurt; but hurting still. Hurting, hurt, the pain inside at the loss of his father. No slaves had fathers, or mothers, or sisters or brothers. Draught animals kept for their work. No, not human beings at all, and the devils can go to wherever they live and the souls must be given warmth, warmth, love and forgiveness to all, allowed to flow through to all the planes. The ways must be opened. Bitterness and hatred block the way through to the empowerment of a doctor. Bitterness is a pain to be excised; hatred is a pain to be excised; slavery is a pain to be excised; the son replaces the father and waits for. fatherhood. The ancestors seek to come and participate. The way down is blocked. The present generation is cut off and must make its own decisions. Judge that the time is ripe as the candidate is ripe and naked as the hard steel point of the assegai stabbing down and down as death lies in wait and smiles and snarls at the pale forms eager for the kill, while behind them other souls shudder at the kill. There are the gates to open, the passages to be burst through. Pressure strains and the cold souls shudder. The seals hold and there is no more waiting for the kill.

Obeah Man drops from the stone ceiling and moves him along a sea lane filled with the decayed shipping of a thousand nations, all seaweed covered and breathing out sighs as the tropic warmth floods away the cold, and pale bodies bake a living brown in this far colony, far in the future when his body has long since been lacerated and ripped apart. Now he is the particles of dust being tossed to and fro by warm water on a sunny beach as ...

An abeng sounded a long blast which stretched far over the ocean, carpeting it with flowers and his mother’s seldom laughter. Drums clicked into the chirps of prison craziness and then rolled away the walls with the snigger of despair. Sudden despair stretched his body out as crucified as the ocean, dead fish tugging at his massacred hands and feet. His crown of thorns slipped and his forehead healed as a line of song came from his lips. He repeated it, then another and another.

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