WULGARU: THE WOODEN DEVIL (2025 Edit)

Wulgaru, the Wooden Devil from the Dreaming Time, is killing people around Glen Hartwell

Early October 2005

Joseph Garbarla squatted on his heels at the front of the circle of wailing mourners. Old Weari-Wyingga had been the leader of the tribe since the other male Elders had been killed in December 1984. Now the tribe was without a leader. In the circle, Suzie Wanjimari, the old man’s cousin, lovingly washed his naked corpse. Although sixty-nine, Suzie was a very sensual woman. Watching her perform the ritual topless, as she always did in warmer weather, Garbarla felt himself aroused by the sight of her opulent breasts and large, erect nipples.

Seeing the silver-haired lubra glance at him, Garbarla blushed, thinking, ‘She must have read my mind!’ ESP was a power that Suzie claimed to have. And which Garbarla -- despite his Western education -- at least half believed that she really possessed.

Suzie risked giving Garbarla a teasing wink -- obviously knowing the effect that she had on the forty-eight-year-old man -- then returned her attentions to old Weari-Wyingga.


Neil Ulverstone stepped almost daintily through the strawberry patch. Despite being a hulking giant of a man -- built like the proverbial brick shithouse -- Neil was a gentle man and took great pains not to clomp all over the as yet unripened fruit. He had been weeding the field for hours when he stopped for a much-needed break. Straightening, he grabbed at a crick in his back with one hand and stared in amazement at the grinning, ghoul-faced scarecrow at the other end of the small patch.

“Now, where the hell did you come from?” he said.

Neil started slowly down the strawberry patch toward the scarecrow, whose trunk and limbs were made from large red-gum boughs, held together by tree gum. The head seemed carven from the same great log as the torso. Crude eye sockets and a gaping mouth had been carven. The eyes were large, blue opals; the teeth were triangular, rough-cut stones.

“My God, someone’s gone to a lot of trouble making you, haven’t they?” said Neil as he got within a few metres of the object. Despite its ugliness, Neil had to admire the ingenuity of the construction. “Jesus, the teeth have been filed to perfectly fit into the sockets!” he said. “It’s even got ....”

He paused, staring at the long, black strands of what looked like human hair stuck to the head by tree gum. “It’s even got hair on its head,” he finally said.

“Jesus, you’re ugly!” he said to the scarecrow. Then, looking from the sickle-sharp teeth to the long, jagged claws, which seemed carven from expensive lead crystal, Neil shuddered. ‘Christ, I wouldn’t like those things going for my throat!’ he thought.

As though in response to his thought, the scarecrow suddenly lurched at Neil.

“What the hell?” said Neil. He leapt aside, thinking that the gargoyle-like creature had fallen from its post. But instead of falling face-first onto the ground, the wooden devil spun around to glare at the farmer with its blue-opal eyes. It’s diamond-hard teeth clanged together like the jaws of a great bear-trap ....

And it started advancing toward Neil Ulverstone!

“Holy shit!” cried Neil.

Turning, he fled into the forest of sweet-smelling eucalyptus and wattle trees. Behind him as he ran, he heard the slow, but steady stomp-stomp-stomp of the wooden demon’s heavy footsteps.

Neil had run for more than a kilometre before realising that he was going in the wrong direction. ‘Deeper into the forest!’ he thought. ‘I should have run back to the house. There’s a shotgun, and cans of petrol at the farmhouse.’ But it was too late for him to reverse direction now.

“Oh ... my ... God!” gasped Neil, panting after he had been running for hours.

His knees felt as though they had been smashed by a sledgehammer, his calves throbbed, threatening to cramp and his heart felt as though it was about to burst.

“Can’t ... go ... much further!” he panted.

He tried not to stop, but as his left calf began to spasm, it was all that he could do not to fall to the ground, writhing from the lancing pain.

“Holy shit!” he cried.

Forced to stop to rub at the cramp, he looked back expecting to see the wooden demon just behind him.

“Where ... the ... Hell ...?” he gasped, staring at the vacant forestland.

He rubbed at his left calf furiously, hoping that the golf ball-sized lump would go down soon and allow him to at least walk away.

It was nearly five minutes before the cramping receded enough for Neil to even hobble, let alone think of running again.

“Jesus!” he cried, stepping gingerly on his left leg, unable to put much weight upon it.

“Thank God ... looks like ... I’ve outrun that ... damn thing!” said Neil, looking around the rapidly darkening forest.

Careful not to head straight back the way that he had come, Neil began to circle around, heading back toward his cattle station.

‘It’ll be well after dark by the time I get home,’ he thought. Then, as his left calf began to spasm again, he leant up against a large blue gum to rest while massaging the swelling again.

“Thank God, it’s about ... ” he said as it started to ease.

Then he stopped, hearing movement behind him.

Turning round quickly, Neil saw the wooden devil less than a metre away. He tried to jump away, but the devil slashed down with its right “arm”, lashing its crystal talons deep through the farmer’s face.

“Oh God, Irene, I’ll be with you soon!” cried Neil.

A moment later, the claws penetrated the pulp of his brain, and Neil died of shock and pain.


Garbarla tried hard to keep his eyes away from Suzie’s luscious brown body, tried to pay attention to the old man’s funeral. But ever since returning to his tribal people in the early 1980s, Garbarla had been attracted to the silver-haired beauty. As a “white-man” the half-breed often helped the women with the cooking -- something no full-blood male would do -- and so he had often spent hours beside the full-breasted lubra, wanting to strike up casual conversation with her, but never quite knowing how. Although Suzie had sometimes flirted with him -- as she did with many young full-blood men also -- Garbarla had never known whether he could take her flirtations seriously.

“Garbarla!” he heard his name called. Waking from his daydream, he realised that he was being called forward to perform his part of the funeral ritual. Seeing all eyes turned his way, the half-breed blushed, wondering how long Suzie had been calling his name.

While Suzie continued to prepare old Weari-Wyingga, Garbarla went across to the ceremonial fire. Trying his best not to cough, he breathed in deeply, inhaling a lungful of the thick, blue-gum smoke. Then, leaning down, he blew the smoke into the dull brown eyes of the corpse.

“Now Weari-Wyingga’s spirit cannot see to find its way back to the village,” chanted Suzie.

She carefully sealed the corpse’s ears with paper bark plugs, saying, “Now Weari-Wyingga’s spirit cannot hear to find its way back to the village.”

Garbarla inhaled a second lungful of pungent smoke, which he blew up the old man’s nostrils. “Now Weari-Wyingga can’t smell us to follow us back to the village,” intoned Suzie. As Garbarla glanced toward her, the attractive sexagenarian dropped him a cheeky wink and shook her large breasts tauntingly toward him. The half-cast flushed from embarrassment, thankful that the funeral ritual was almost completed.


Five days later

Garbarla fiddled with his tie nervously, as he attended his second funeral that week. After the informality of life in the Aboriginal village, he felt uncomfortably overdressed in the three-piece suit. But since returning to his tribe in 1983, Garbarla had tried hard to fit into both black and white society. He had gradually built up friendships with many whites in the Glen Hartwell to Pettiwood area, including Neil Ulverstone. So he did his best to look dignified as he saw off his friend into the next world.

As Father Thomas began the eulogy, Garbarla looked around the large circle of mourners. To his left stood Danny “Bear” Ross. Police Chief of Glen Hartwell, Bear, had acquired his nickname because of his great height and barrel-like chest. Directly across from Garbarla stood Ernie Singleton -- a close friend and part-time student at the Aboriginal Studies course that Garbarla taught at the local Technical Institute. Ernie was tall and Celtically dark, as was his mother, Vikkie, who stood on his right. On Ernie’s left, in contrast to her husband, Rowena Singleton was a willowy ash-blonde. As was her cousin Gloria -- Neil Ulverstone’s only surviving relative.

Seeing Gloria’s tear-stained face, Garbarla recalled Holly Ulverstone once telling him that Gloria had almost fainted on top of her mother’s coffin as it was being lowered. For just a second, he thought that she was going to fall on top of Neil’s coffin as her knees started to give out. Then Gloria’s husband grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back to safety.

Watching Gloria, Garbarla thought, ‘Christ, she’s had her fair share of heartache in her time. Mother died of cancer when she was twelve or thirteen, her younger sister, Holly, died in an industrial fire twelve years back, her first husband’s death around the same time, and now her father is dead in mysterious circumstances.’

Sighing deeply, Garbarla continued to look around the circle of mourners. Until his attention was caught by a grotesque, wooden scarecrow planted in one of the graves fifty metres or so behind Gloria. ‘What in the hell would a scarecrow be doing in a graveyard?’ thought Garbarla. He half wondered if it was meant to scare away grave-robbers, but the wooden figure seemed to be planted in the middle of a grave mound itself. ‘Surely Father Thomas would never agree to such desecration?’

Garbarla became entranced, almost mesmerised by the stone-toothed, blue-opal-eyed figure. So that he almost leapt out of his skin as a large hand suddenly landed on his left shoulder.

“What ...?” cried Garbarla, jumping forward.

“You’re jumpy today, mate,” said Bear Ross, helping to steady the half-breed Aborigine. “I just wanted to ask if you want a lift back to the village?”

Looking back, Garbarla was surprised to see the other mourners a hundred metres away, on the gravel road between the graves, heading back for their cars.

“Er ... no thanks, I’m going back to the Tech. to finish marking exam papers.”

“All right,” said Bear. Turning, he headed after the other mourners.

Garbarla stood watching the big man until he was almost out of sight. Then, careful not to walk on any graves, he started across toward the scarecrow.

“Now what the hell are you doing here?” Garbarla said as he approached the scarecrow. He reached up to touch one of its blue-opal eyes. ‘They’re as big as hens’ eggs!’ he thought. ‘If they’re real opal, they must be worth a fair bit of money.’

When his fingers were only a centimetre or two away, the diamond-like teeth snapped shut, just missing his fingertips.

“What the Hell?” said Garbarla, hurriedly withdrawing his hand.

The wooden devil suddenly stepped off the grave and took a lurching, Frankenstein’s-monster-like step toward him.

“I must be dreaming!” said Garbarla, backing up as the wooden devil lumbered toward him. But as the “scarecrow” reached up and tried to slash open his face with its curved crystal-claws, Garbarla realised that it was no dream. Turning, he began to run back toward the black metal gates of the cemetery, more than a kilometre away.

Behind him, the wooden devil clomp-clomp-clomped along at a slow, steady pace, obviously expecting him to run out of steam. ‘Or trip and fall!’ thought Garbarla. He was careful not to do just that as he raced down the thin gravel road, between the lush groves of pine and wattle trees that gave the Shady Rest Cemetery its name.

Garbarla ran full pelt down Linlithrow Street into Pine Tree Way. And straight into the path of an oncoming Toyota.

The white police car screeched to a halt only centimetres from the running man.

“Jesus! Are you all right?” called Bear Ross. He climbed from the small car with some difficulty.

“Fine,” said Garbarla. Looking back, he saw the scarecrow-like figure of the wooden devil lurking near a grove of pine trees. “I’ve changed my mind, mate. If you don’t mind, I’d like that drive back to the village after all.”

“Yeah, okay, mate, climb in,” invited Bear, clearly puzzled.


Garbarla walked slowly through the village of one-, two-, and three-room corrugated iron huts, pondering what he had seen at the Shady Rest Cemetery. He strolled down the dirt “street” in no particular direction, watching women sitting on grass mats weaving, grinding wheat into flour, carving black char from half-burnt boughs to form them into hunting boomerangs.

After a few minutes, Garbarla stopped outside the three-room hut that had belonged to old Weari-Wyingga. One of the first Aborigines to accept him after his return to the village with a university degree in 1983, old Weari-Wyingga had been like a father to Garbarla. A surrogate for the white father whom he had never known. Whenever Garbarla required advice on spiritual or supernatural matters -- as he had from time to time -- he had always been able to draw on Weari-Wyingga’s almost limitless knowledge of Dream-Time legends and other mythology. ‘But where the hell do I go for help now?’ Garbarla thought.


A few hours later, Garbarla squatted on his heels by the cook fire, helping Suzie Wanjimari and Wendy Tudjudamara -- another elderly lubra -- cook that night’s meat of nail-tail kangaroo. Seeing Suzie winking at him, Garbarla suddenly realised, ‘Suzie is one of the most senior Elders of the village!’

Suzie, Wendy Tudjudamara, and Karen Yunupingu were the three most senior female Elders. Aboriginal custom had always forbidden women from attending or being Elders at male corroborees. ‘But now that will have to change!’ Garbarla thought. With the death of Weari-Wyingga, at forty-two, Garbarla himself was now the oldest male in the village -- due to most of the men being killed in December 1984.

Garbarla breathed in the heady aroma of cooking meat, trying his best to ignore the sight of topless Suzie. Throughout the meal, the beautiful lubra dropped him an occasional lecherous wink or wiggled her opulent breasts at him, laughing if he showed even the tiniest sign of discomfort or arousal.

Garbarla tried his best not to glance at the flirtatious sixty-nine-year-old woman. But he was unable to keep his eyes off her large breasts or beautiful face. ‘My God, you’re incredibly sexy!’ he thought. And Suzie dropped him a wink as though reading his thoughts, and Garbarla wondered, ‘Is she really attracted to me also? Or merely teasing me?’ The way that the silver-haired lubra teased many of the young hunters who were aroused by her.

The meal had finished and they were gathering up the scraps for reheating the next day, when it occurred to Garbarla, ‘Maybe Suzie has the knowledge to tell me what the walking scarecrow could be?’ Seeing him looking at her again, Suzie dropped him another sly wink. ‘But do I have the nerve to approach her for help?’


It was after darkfall and the others had gone to bed, when Garbarla finally summoned the courage to rap on Suzie’s door. He winced as the iron seemed to boom loud enough to wake the entire village.

After a second knock went unanswered, Garbarla thought, ‘What am I really doing here?’ He turned to sneak away down the rows of corrugated iron when, with a loud rrrrrrrrrrup, the door suddenly opened wide.

“Well, looky, looky here,” teased Suzie, “a young man come calling on Old Suzie in the dead of night when no one can see what we get up to.”

Garbarla blushed, knowing that everyone in range was probably standing at their windows behind the curtains, watching the two of them.

“I just ... ” stammered Garbarla.

“Come on in, handsome young man,” said Suzie. Grabbing him by one arm, she dragged him in through the doorway and slammed the door behind them. “Don’t worry, young man, Old Suzie try her best to be gentle with you.” She laughed then added, “But can make no promises!”

In the front room of the three-room hut, Suzie pushed him down to sit on one of the woven grass mats on the hard earth floor. Suzie sat on Garbarla’s lap, facing him, thrusting her large breasts within centimetres of his face, and asked, “Now what can Old Suzie do for you at this time of night, young man?”

Although tempted to bury his face in those desirable breasts, Garbarla forced himself to tell Suzie what he had seen at the Shady Rest Cemetery that day.

“A wooden devil, look like a scarecrow?” said Suzie. Becoming serious, she eased off his lap, to Garbarla’s regret, and sat on a grass mat beside him.

“I know it sounds impossible ...” he said, expecting her to laugh at him.

Instead, she said, “The legends of the Dreaming-Time tell of such a wooden devil, Wulgaru, the Devil-Devil. Wulgaru was created by Djarapa, a powerful wizard, who carved him from a felled tree and four branches; tied arms and legs on his body with cords of his wife’s hair, hollowed out sockets and fitted them with water-worn stones for joints, and stuck his wife’s hair onto its head one strand at a time. When Wulgaru refused to animate, Djarapa kicked it in anger, then went on his way. Soon he heard a thud-thud-thud of heavy footsteps, a grating sound like wood and stone rubbing together, a ringing clash like the teeth of a crocodile when it misses its prey, a breaking of branches and rustling of leaves behind him. He whirled round and saw Wulgaru striding toward him. The wooden devil was snapping its jaws and crashing through the overhanging branches. There began a long chase in which Djarapa was hunted by his own creation. Djarapa knew Wulgaru would kill and devour him if it caught him. Finally, Djarapa tricked the wooden devil into falling into the waters of the Yannan River.

“Djarapa thought that was the end of the devil-devil as he saw it floating down the waters of the Yannan. But he forgot that wood cannot sink, so the wooden devil could not drown. Instead, it managed to climb ashore ten miles downriver. That night, Djarapa and his wife were making love --” she slipped Garbarla a wink, making him blush -- “when they heard heavy crunching footsteps approaching. Although a powerful magician, Djarapa had no time to grab up his bag of potions and magic herbs and had to run naked out into the desert with the wooden man not far behind. Some say wooden devil-devil still prowls the deserts around Australia, hoping to catch and kill its creator.”

“All this is supposed to have happened centuries ago, isn’t it?” asked Garbarla.

“In the time of the Dreaming,” Suzie agreed.

“Then why would this wooden devil suddenly go on the rampage again and kill Neil Ulverstone?”

Suzie could only shrug.

Garbarla knew that he should return to the hut that he shared with his mother, Debbie Bulilka. However, he could not forget the pleasure of Suzie sitting on his lap earlier, her soft thighs on his, her wonderful breasts centimetres from his face. He wanted to blurt out how he felt about her, but his shyness held him back.

“Is there anything else Old Suzie can do for you, young man?” teased the beautiful sexagenarian woman. She slithered almost snakelike on the mat before him, making her luscious breasts do a sensual hula.

“Damn it, you know bloody well there is!” shouted Garbarla. Startling himself as much as Suzie, Garbarla reached out to grab her and pull the silver-haired woman back up onto his lap.

Squealing from surprise rather than protest, Suzie struggled against Garbarla for a moment. Then she relaxed into his arms, allowing him to kiss her deeply on the mouth. But when he started to push her over onto her back on the dirt floor of the hut, she said, “No, no, not here.”

Climbing to her feet, she led him to her bedroom at the rear of the hut. They rapidly undressed and climbed into Suzie’s bed -- a mattress upon the floor.

“Oh God!” cried Garbarla in delight as he settled down into the wonderful, soft abundance of the full-bodied woman. ‘Why aren’t young women built like this anymore?’ he thought as they began to make love at a frenetic pace.


The next morning, Garbarla lay naked, gazing down with love and lust at the beautiful sixty-nine-year-old woman lying beside him.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, with just a hint of her usual teasing.

“I’m thinking that this is too good to happen just once,” he said.

“Feeling horny again already, young man?” She climbed up to sit on top of his loins.

Blushing from embarrassment, Garbarla finally committed himself to saying, “Suzie ... I love you ... And I want us to move in together.”

Suzie crouched, staring down at the young man in wide-eyed shock for a moment. Finally, she said, “Then go and get your things. While I help cook this morning’s breakfast.”

“In a little while,” said Garbarla. He pulled her down to the mattress again.


Guido Lipari stopped his tractor to stare across at the beautiful raven-haired woman standing outside their weatherboard farmhouse a hundred metres away, sweeping down the porch. “You’re a lucky old wog to have such a juicy young wife!” he said to himself. Although at forty-eight, Guido was only nine years older than Barbara Lipari.

Guido stared at her till Barbara suddenly turned round. He waved at her, then started the tractor again to head for his back paddock. Half an hour later, the Italian-born farmer had reached his half-ploughed field and stared in amazement.

“Who’s been playing silly buggers with me?” he said. Leaving the tractor where it was, Guido headed across toward the scarecrow, half a kilometre away.

“Ugly looking bastard, aren’t you?” he said.

He half wondered if the scarecrow was meant to be some kind of message. Thirty years earlier, when he had emigrated to Australia, Guido had copped a lot of racial abuse in Melbourne before moving to the countryside. Even in Glen Hartwell, then Pettiwood, there had been a few who had taunted him as a “wog”, “dago” or “greaser”. But Guido had merely shrugged off the taunts. Now, three decades later, he was a widely regarded member of the Pettiwood community.

‘Or at least that’s what I always thought,’ he said to himself. “Are you some kind of racist taunt?” he asked the grinning, skeletal face of the wooden man.

By way of answer, it reached out and grabbed him in its tree trunk arms, which sounded like splitting wood as they moved.

“What ...?” said Guido, gagging on the mouldy-wood smell of the “creature”. That was all he got to say before its rough-cut stone teeth descended to tear out his throat.


Late October

With his TAFE classes over till next March, Garbarla had more time for his tribal duties in the village. He hated to leave Suzie so soon -- barely ten days since he had moved in with her. However, she insisted, “Time you went on hunting expeditions again.”

“Couldn’t I just stay in bed with you for the next three months?” he asked, only half-joking.

Suzie laughed, then said, “Now, young man dares to tease Old Suzie, eh?”

“I’ll give you ‘Old Suzie’!” he said. Pushing her onto her back, he climbed upon her and began making love to her, for what seemed like the ten-thousandth time in the last ten days.

“You’ll have me in my grave in three months, young man,” teased Suzie, when they had finished. “Better you go on hunting trips.”


So, reluctantly, after breakfast, Garbarla set out with three other hunters: Alex Jalburgul Gul, whose buck-toothed countenance seemed perpetually smiling, as though he had learnt to see the funny side of everything; Tom “Tubby” Budjiwa, one of the tribe’s most experienced hunters despite his great pot-belly, and young Terry Yudbunji. At sixteen, Terry had only been going on hunting trips for a few months, but was named after his grandfather, one of the tribe’s greatest ever hunters and long-time Elder until he died in 1984.

“How much further?” demanded Tubby Budjiwa, when they had barely set out into the brown-dirt desert beyond the village.

“Only gone three metres so far,” chided Alex, giving Tubby a broad, cheesy grin. In truth, it was about half a kilometre.

“Feels more like ten Kays,” insisted Tubby. Panting as though about to die from a shortage of breath, he trotted a few paces to catch up with the others.

Seeing him trotting, Terry teased, “Good idea, let’s all jog the next few Kays to get there faster.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Garbarla. He threw the teenager a sly wink.

“I’m game,” said Alex. He furiously jogged on the spot for a few seconds.

“Go ahead then,” said Tubby, refusing to be baited. “I’ll meet you again on your way back.”

“What do you do with a bloke too lazy even to be teased?” asked Garbarla. He looked at Alex Jalburgul Gul, whose mouth had burst into a wide buck-toothed grin.

“Keep up, old man!” called back Terry as Tubby began to fall behind again.

“It’s all right for you young blokes,” complained Tubby. He broke into a jog to catch up again.

Garbarla couldn’t help laughing at Tubby’s ungainly half-run, half-waddle. Even Alex broke into another broad grin.

“What ... are you ... grinning at ... you bastard?” demanded Tubby between panting breaths.

“Just thought of a joke,” said Alex tactfully. However, when Garbarla and Terry both broke up into laughter, Alex eventually joined in.


It was mid-afternoon, and the sun seemed to be melting them, when finally they spotted game: a small herd of emus.

‘Here we go!’ thought Garbarla, wondering how they would ever run down any of the blue-grey, flightless birds.

“Rub dirt to hide the man smells,” said Tubby. The stocky native picked up a handful of brown dirt and began rubbing down his chest as he spoke.

“Phew, good idea,” teased Garbarla, “we’re all a bit rank after that march in the hot sun.” Almost gagging on his own B.O., he thought, ‘If I smell this bad to me, an emu would pick me up a kilometre off.’ Bending, he picked up a handful of dirt and began rubbing it over himself as the others were doing.

Five minutes later, they were ready to begin the hunt.

Tubby Budjiwa and Garbarla waited in the long, Native Australian grass as Alex and Terry slowly crept around behind the flock of emus. The two hunters took a few steps, then stopped statue-still for seconds, even minutes, before they dared take the next step. They took a wide arc of nearly two kilometres in more than an hour to circle behind the emus.

Garbarla had initially crouched to watch the creeping natives. But as his knees began to ache, he followed Budjiwa’s example and sat down on a patch of native grass -- cooler on the behind than the sun-heated dirt.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Alex and Terry reached their objective.

“Time to move,” said Tubby, sounding reluctant. He slowly pulled himself to his feet.

Crouching in a bid to keep their heads below the tops of the native Australian grass, Tubby and Garbarla started slowly forward.

The normal procedure for a hunt meant that Alex and Terry would make some sound to frighten the emus into flight toward Tubby and Garbarla, then run after them. Instead, to Garbarla’s astonishment, Terry and Alex both leapt to their feet screaming, scattering the emus in all directions -- while they were still too far off for Garbarla and Tubby to spear. Then the two native hunters came running lightning-fast toward them.

“What the Hell?” said Garbarla, staring as the two hunters rapidly approached.

“Tassie tiger on their tails,” said Tubby, equally perplexed.

“What’s going on?” demanded Garbarla as the two young hunters ran up to them.

“Wood ... wooden demon coming!” said Alex Jalburgul Gul. The broad grin was long gone from his features.

“Wooden demon?” asked Tubby Budjiwa, sceptically.

Garbarla felt the short hairs prickle on the nape of his neck. Having seen the wooden demon himself, he knew what they meant. But he also knew that -- as old Weari-Wyingga had often complained -- most of the young men of the tribe had a greater knowledge of Hallowe’en and other Western legends than of their own Dream-Time heritage. So he wasn’t surprised when Tubby sneered.

“Wooden demon? Sound like they bin sniffin’ glue again,” said the portly warrior. He stood watching the retreating natives for a moment, then turned back to where they had run from.

“Maybe we’d better go too?’ suggested Garbarla. Although his mouth was dry from fear, he stood his ground, not wanting to abandon his colleague.

“Because Yudbunji and Jalburgul Gul are having day-mare? No way, we got hunting to do.”

Garbarla looked at the chubby hunter in surprise. He had expected Tubby to be only too glad of an excuse to return to the village. ‘Maybe he thinks that there’s less work involved in following the emus than in returning to the village?’ Garbarla thought.

Turning to look after the flightless birds, he thought, ‘Not that there’s any real hope of catching them now.’ The emus were already only specks on the shimmering horizon.

“Come on,” insisted Tubby. He set off across the brown-dirt desert at a leisurely pace.

Garbarla hesitated for a second, then started after Budjiwa.

They had only gone a few metres, however, when they heard heavy, lumbering footsteps behind them.

“Alex and Terry come back,” said Tubby. “And making enough noise to startle the dead.”

They turned back slowly and saw not the two hunters, but Wulgaru the wooden devil lumbering Frankenstein-monster-like after them. Its tree trunk arms swinging sci-fi robot-like beside it.

Seeing them watching it, the demon’s bear-trap-like stone jaws began snap-snap-snapping like a crocodile as it advanced upon them.

“Holy shit, wooden demon!” cried Tubby Budjiwa.

“Wulgaru,” explained Garbarla. But Tubby was too terrified to hear him, staring glassy-eyed toward the lumbering man-made monster.

“Come on!” called Garbarla, taking the portly hunter by one arm. “We’ve got to run.”

The wooden devil was still many metres behind them. However, it was trudging slowly, steadily toward them across the sun-hardened brown earth.

“Come on!” repeated Garbarla.

Slowly, Tubby Budjiwa came to his senses and began half-running, half-waddling ahead of the pursuing demon. But now with the wooden devil on his trail, the hunter’s “pregnant duck” waddle was no longer humorous.

They ran for kilometres across the brown desert, heading back toward the forest. But not directly toward the Aboriginal village for fear of Wulgaru wreaking havoc and killing the natives.

They had almost reached the start of the sweet-smelling eucalyptus and pine forest when Garbarla heard a shrill scream. Looking round, he saw Tubby Budjiwa held in the crystal talons of the wooden demon.

“Holy Jesus!” cried Garbarla. He launched his hunting boomerang toward the head of the demon, less afraid of hitting Tom with that than with one of his three spears.

The boomerang belted into Wulgaru with a sound of rending wood.

The wooden devil dropped Tubby Budjiwa and threw back its head as though to scream. But no sound emerged.

From behind it, a voice called, “Get out of the way!”

Looking back, Garbarla saw young Terry Yudbunji and the buck-toothed Alex Jalburgul Gul, who he thought had fled back to the village. Both hunters had three-metre spears in their woomeras and had their arms cocked, ready to launch the spears.

“Jesus!” shouted Garbarla, leaping to the ground. He had seen Alex throw a spear through a thin pine tree with the added impetus of the woomera, and thought, ‘At this range it’ll do as much damage as a cannon-shot!’

“Now!” cried Alex. Both hunters launched their spears.

Hurled from less than fifteen metres away, the spears crunched into and through the back of the wooden devil. They continued through its log torso a quarter of a metre, to protrude from its chest like oversized nipples.

“Holy shit! You’ve killed it!” said Garbarla. The wooden devil flailed about like an out-of-control robot in an old sci-fi TV series.

“Don’t be too sure!” warned Alex. He raced across within a few metres of the flailing demon to check on Tom “Tubby” Budjiwa.

“Well?” asked Garbarla. But he read the truth from the sadness within Alex’s usually laughing brown eyes.

“Let’s get back to the village before that thing recovers,” said Alex.

Garbarla stared down at the mangled wreck of his chubby friend, then reluctantly started after Alex and Terry.


Hours later, the three hunters returned to the village at a run. Seeing Suzie Wanjimari tending the cook fire with Wendy Tudjudamara and Karen Yunupingu, Garbarla signalled Suzie over to him.

“We have to go to your hut for a while,” he whispered, hoping to tell her in private what had happened in the desert.

“No time to get frisky now,” she teased. Then, seeing the deadly serious look on his face, she followed after him.


Rather tentatively, Alex and Terry followed Garbarla and Suzie into the front room of their hut. Sitting themselves on small red-gum stools in a semi-circle around Suzie, the three men quickly related what had happened to Tom Budjiwa.

Alex and Terry stared at Suzie’s silver-haired face, but Garbarla was unable to lift his gaze from her full, large-nippled breasts. Recalling the delights those breasts gave him at night, he felt his penis rising to a firm erection.

“Poor Tubby,” said Suzie. She sat in silence so long that the three men all started to think that she had nothing more to say. Finally, Suzie spoke. She related the legend of Wulgaru the Wooden Devil again for the benefit of Alex and Terry. Then she added, “Most versions of the legend have no ending. No way to destroy Wulgaru ....”

The three men groaned in dismay. But she continued, “But one version tells how in a special all-male corroboree, Wulgaru can be called to the village ....”

“Why would we want to do that?” asked young Terry. Garbarla saw that the teenager’s eyes were fixed on Suzie’s large breasts and thought, ‘Down boy, she’s mine!’

“So we can destroy him.”

“But how?”

“By fire. Wulgaru may be a demon, but he is made out of wood.”

“And wood burns,” Garbarla finished for her.

“But who can teach us to dance the story that calls Wulgaru?” asked Alex.

“Only Wendy Tudjudamara, Karen Yunupingu and me know the dance to call Wulgaru,” said Suzie.

‘Well, here’s the quiet before the storm!’ thought Garbarla as Alex and Terry exchanged a shocked look. Although none of the three men opposed the idea of female Elders at male-corroborees, Garbarla knew that the idea would not be popular with a lot of men in the tribe. When Weari-Wyingga had been alive, the old man had once threatened to go walkabout for good, abandoning the tribe, if female Elders were appointed. Although the old man was now dead, Garbarla feared other men might carry out his threat.


The next three days passed in a haze for Garbarla. The men sat in almost continuous corroboree -- sixteen to eighteen hours per day -- arguing the merits and demerits of allowing women into all-male corroborees.

“How do we stop them telling our secrets to other women once they know them?” demanded twenty-eight-year-old Wally Wuyaindjimadjinji. The grandson of one of the greatest Elders whom the tribe had ever had.

“We have to take their word that they won’t,” said Garbarla. He looked up at the ring of young black men seated around the ceremonial fire within the corroboree ground, which was encircled by a grove of sweet-smelling gum trees.

“Trust them?” asked Wally, as though the notion was strange to him. He turned to stare into the fire where blue gum boughs burnt brightly, giving off their sweet eucalyptus scent. Garbarla half expected him to say, “It’s in women’s nature to talk about everything.”

“Maybe we can say that they cannot be Elders at female-corroborees anymore if they become our Elders,” suggested Alex Jalburgul Gul.

He gave Garbarla a broad buck-toothed grin, so Garbarla took up the point: “They’d still have contact with other women around the village. But if they were no longer their Elders, only ours, they’d be less likely to tell our secrets.”

“As honorary men, they would have to be banned from even attending female corroborees,” insisted Wally Wuyaindjimadjinji.

‘Ouch!’ thought Garbarla. ‘Suzie will scream when I tell her that.’


Frank Warner was returning to collect his small herd of Jersey cattle from Lake Cooper, not far outside Harpertown, in the late afternoon. Despite the protests of the locals, who claimed that he was poisoning the water of the lake where local kids swam in summer, Frank had been watering his herd at the lake for more than twenty years. For most of that time, he’d had to battle the “Pure Water Society”, whose sole aim had been to force him to pay to have a waterhole dug on his cattle station. But with the recent death of their founder and long-time chairman, Bob Montgomery, the Pure Water Society had disbanded.

Frank chuckled at the memory of Bob Montgomery’s death. “Serves you right, you old Rabble-Rouser!” he said aloud. “I outlived you, you old bugger, and I outlived your stinkin’ gang of shit-stirrin’ ....”

He stopped and stared at the sight before him. A huge, half-man, half-tree thing stood on the opposite side of the lake, waving its arms about like the Robot in “Lost in Space.”

“Holy shit, it’s a yowie!” said Frank. He stared in shock at the wood-man. From its back still protruded Alex Jalburgul Gul and Terry Yudbunji’s spears.

“A yowie with two long tails!” said Frank, recalling local legends of the manlike yowies, reported to roam the area.

“Jacko! Donna!” he called to the two red Kelpies who had been guarding the cattle while Frank spent the afternoon with some drinking mates in town. “Get ’em on home.”

The two dogs ignored him for a moment, both transfixed, in pointer position, staring across the lake at the wooden devil.

“Get ’em on home!” repeated Frank.

Reluctantly, the two dogs turned and started to round up the herd of Jerseys.

‘Jesus, I just hope they’re all headed for home before that thing decides to swim across the fuckin’ lake!’ thought Frank.


After three days of furious debating, the vote was finally taken on whether to allow the three women to take over the role of Elders at the male-corroborees. Enjoying the sweet-smelling eucalyptus in the blue-gum grove, Garbarla sat watching as Alex Jalburgul Gul counted the raised hands.

“Thirty-two for, thirty-two against,” said Alex, “a tie.”

“Can’t be thirty-two for, thirty-two against,” protested Roger Gardigardi. One of the tribe’s most experienced hunters. “Sixty-six men of voting age in the tribe, and none away from the village at the moment.”

“You’ve forgotten Tub ... Tom Budjiwa,” said Alex, reminding them of the chubby hunter’s recent death.

“Still leaves sixty-five!” insisted Roger.

They all turned toward Garbarla, who gulped and thought, ‘Here comes the moment of truth!’ Because of his relationship with Suzie, he had abstained from voting.

Alex smiled his cheery, buck-toothed grin and said, “You get the deciding vote.”

Garbarla gulped again; his Adam’s apple felt like a ball of hot lead in his parched throat. He cleared his throat loudly, trying to dredge up some saliva, and in a squeaky voice said, “I vote to let them become Elders at our corroborees.”

Alex smiled broadly at him again, and Garbarla knew that the hunter supported his decision. But looking round the circle of black faces, he saw many glaring eyes of those who did not. He could almost hear them thinking, “White man breaking down our traditional values again!”


Garbarla met the three women alone in the front room of the corrugated iron hut that he shared with Suzie Wanjimari. Suzie, Karen Yunupingu, and Wendy Tudjudamara sat together, topless on woven mats on the dirt floor, holding hands for moral support while awaiting the decision of the tribal males.

“Well?” demanded Karen. At sixty-five, the youngest and least patient of the three women.

“The vote was narrowly cast ... in your favour ... ” said Garbarla. The three women shrieked in delight. But quickly came back to earth when he added, “But you can’t remain Elders at female corroborees as well.”

“Why not?” demanded Karen.

“To be our Elders, you would be regarded as honorary men,” explained Garbarla. “Therefore, unable to even attend female corroborees.”

“But that’s not fair!” protested Karen.

“No one else can attend both male and female corroborees,” said Garbarla, repeating Wally Wuyaindjimadjinji’s words.

“But ...!”

“No use protesting if the vote has passed,” said Suzie, cutting off Karen’s protests. “Just be grateful we won.”

“But we didn’t win anything if we have to give up our rights as female Elders to become male Elders,” insisted Karen.

To Garbarla’s surprise, in the end, it was Suzie who convinced Karen and, more easily, Wendy Tudjudamara.

Later, as they settled down in each other’s arms to make love, Suzie explained, “Later, we have time to debate Women’s Lib. Now, more important we kill Wulgaru, before Wulgaru kills the entire tribe.”


The next day, the body of Tom Budjiwa -- which had been recovered by Roger Gardigardi and Alex Jalburgul Gul -- was prepared for burial, before the three women could be sworn in as male Elders.

It was late afternoon before they finally gathered in the blue-gum grove outside the village. All three women were stark naked as they went through the initiation ceremony. To the embarrassment of Garbarla, who at forty-two was now the eldest male at the tribe, and therefore had to perform the initiation ceremony.

Seeing the glares that he received from some of the tribal males, he realised that many of them resented a half-breed performing the ceremony. After twenty-two years back in the tribe, many still regarded him as a “white man” because of his white father and Western education.

Although all in their late sixties, Garbarla couldn’t help thinking that they were all very desirable women. Seeing a slight gleam in Suzie’s eyes, he knew that she had guessed what he was thinking. But she was too tense from expectation to tease him as she usually did.

Feeling himself aroused by the sight of the three full-breasted naked women, Garbarla knew that the other males were also sexually aroused. He had to fight down his feelings of jealousy, knowing that many of the men lusted after his lover, Suzie.

Forcing himself to concentrate on the ritual in hand, Garbarla asked each of the women in turn, “Do you pledge to protect any man’s secrets you learn as an Elder? And give up your right to attend women’s corroborees?” The last was added at the insistence of Wally Wuyaindjimadjinji.

As Garbarla asked each woman in turn, he waited for the affirmative answer -- given very grudgingly in the case of Karen Yunupingu -- then handed them each one of the ceremonial relics handed down since ancient times for them to swear upon.

Then the three women were handed their skirts and blouses to put on. Although, to Garbarla’s embarrassment, Suzie chose to remain topless.

“Now we can summon Wulgaru?” said Alex Jalburgul Gul.

“No, first we must have a plan to deal with him,” pointed out Suzie.

“Burn him up,” said Wally Wuyaindjimadjinji, contemptuously pointing toward the ceremonial fire. He looked as though he wanted to add, “Stupid woman, can’t even work that much out.”

Karen Yunupingu started forward, as though to attack the young hunter. Though Garbarla knew that she probably only intended to give him one of the verbal beatings that she was famous for. But Suzie placed a restraining hand on Karen’s shoulder and said:

“What if Wulgaru refuses to conveniently step into the fire for us?”

“Then we force him in!”

“How? He’s made of wood and many times stronger than us.”

“Spears went right through him, didn’t even stop him,” Alex Jalburgul Gul added.

“Then how do we deal with him?” demanded Wally.

“Chase him to Gurugadji’s Valley,” suggested Suzie. “Chase him in, then fill the valley with burning logs.”

‘Yes,’ thought Garbarla, ‘that might work!’

The “valley” was a great black “bite” in the side of one of the local mountains. Aboriginal legend told of the valley being chewed deep into the side of the mount by Gurugadji, the Emu-Man, creator-destroyer god-devil of Garbarla’s tribe.


‘It does look like a big bite!’ thought Garbarla as they stood looking at the great black hole extending deep into the side of Mount Russell near the town of Wilhelmina. The rest of the mount was lush with verdure: pine and gum trees, wattles and coolabahs, and a great array of sweet-smelling small purple, yellow, or pink native Australian flowers. But Gurugadji’s Valley was a deep pit, like a cave with the top removed; black and sterile, where nothing grew, not even weeds.

“Okay,” agreed Wally, obviously seeing sense in the plan.

“Then let’s get back to the corroboree ground,” said Suzie. Except for Roger Gardigardi and Terry Yudbunji, whom she instructed to stay behind. “Need to gather up hundreds of dry tree boughs to stack by the valley to throw into the fire,” she instructed them.

Seeing her lean down to whisper something to Roger, Garbarla thought, ‘What is she up to now?’ But so far her reasoning had been sound, so he didn’t question her.


Back in the blue gum grove, they began to perform the calling dance. Alex Jalburgul Gul played the part of Wulgaru -- with blue-gum bark tied to his arms and torso. And, to his embarrassment, Garbarla had to play the part of Djarapa the wizard first. While Suzie -- in her usual flirtatious manner -- played the wizard’s buxom wife.

‘I’m just glad none of my TAFE students can see me now!’ thought Garbarla as he began running round the ceremonial fire with the grinning buck-toothed Alex doing his best to imitate Boris Karloff as the Frankenstein Monster lumbering after the half-breed.

Garbarla did his best to fight the urge to laugh at Alex’s pantomime-like portrayal of the wooden devil. Stealing a glance at the three female Elders, he saw that they all had broad grins on their faces.

Alex and Garbarla had to dance non-stop for more than six hours before being replaced by two other warriors. Every six or seven hours the dancers changed, so that no one became too fatigued.

After seventy hours without sleep, all of the Aborigines were on the brink of collapse.

Looking at the three women, Garbarla thought, ‘It must be worse for them, they’ve had so much more to do than us.’ Although the wife of Djarapa had the least to do in the calling dance, with only three women to take turns, they had less chance to rest than any of the men.

Watching two warriors piling red-gum boughs onto the ceremonial fire, Garbarla thought, ‘It’s not going to work! Three days without food or sleep, and it’s all been a waste of time.’

As though in answer to his doubts, there was the sound of crashing outside the corroboree ground.

“He’s here! Wulgaru’s here!” called Wendy Tudjudamara.

All the Aborigines turned to stare toward the two-metre wide gap at one point in the grove. All were expecting the wooden devil to enter through the only entrance. Instead, they heard a wooden rending, the sound of trees being uprooted and tossed aside.

“He’s coming through the trees themselves!” called Wally Wuyaindjimadjinji. He pointed to an area not far from where Garbarla and Suzie were resting.

“What the Hell?” said Garbarla. He turned round just in time as a great blue gum behind him began to rock on its foundations.

“Look out!” cried Suzie. Grabbing Garbarla’s right hand, she pulled him aside in the nick of time as the eucalyptus tree came crashing down toward them.

“Watch out!” shouted Alex Jalburgul Gul. And the hunters fled to the other side of the corroboree ground to avoid the rolling tree.

“No, wait ...!” called Garbarla.

Too late, they realised that the tree was rolling toward the ceremonial fire. From which they had planned to light their torches to chase Wulgaru toward Gurugadji’s Valley.

“Stop! Damn you!” called Suzie.

As though hoping to will the great tree to stop short of the fire, which they had carefully tended for the last seventy hours. But the tree kept rolling, right across the fire, which was scattered every which way.

“Get kindling, dry grass, before the embers die out!” instructed Suzie.

Before the fire-tenders could do as ordered, Wulgaru the wooden devil lurched, Frankenstein’s-Monster-like, into the corroboree ground from the path that it had torn through the blue gums.

The demon threw back its wooden, stone-toothed head as though to roar at them. But no sound came from its lungless torso.

At the monster’s appearance, some of the younger hunters fled toward the original entrance. Seeing them racing back toward the village, Suzie called, “Not toward the village! Toward Gurugadji’s Valley! Lead it toward Gurugadji’s Valley!”

“But we have no fire now!” called back a young hunter.

“Run on ahead. Tell Yudbunji and Gardigardi what has happened, and help them to make fire there!” ordered Suzie.

The young hunter hesitated, looking toward the village a hundred metres away. Then, to the relief of Garbarla and Suzie, he and most of the others fled away from the village, toward where the two hunters were waiting at Mount Russell.

“Shouldn’t we get the hell out of here?” asked Karen Yunupingu, as Wulgaru lurched across the corroboree ground toward them.

“Yes, but not too fast,” cautioned Suzie. “We want it to follow us, not lose interest and head toward the village.”

“Whatever you say,” said Karen.

The remaining men and the three women headed toward the valley. Doing their best to keep just ahead of the lumbering demon -- despite their natural inclination to flee like Hell.

Despite the urgings of Suzie and Garbarla, some of the younger hunters gave in to their panic and fled through the sweet-smelling eucalypt forest toward Mount Russell -- nearly three kilometres from the corroboree ground. However, most of them -- perhaps afraid to show less courage than the three women -- forced themselves to slow down. Enough to keep Wulgaru’s interest, yet not enough to be captured by the wooden devil.

“Look out!” called Garbarla to Wally Wuyaindjimadjinji.

The young hunter turned and saw the wooden devil less than a metre behind him. As he turned, Wally tripped over his own feet and began to stumble.

“Oh no!” cried Suzie.

Like Garbarla, she thought at first that the young hunter was going to fall into Wulgaru’s grasp. But by twisting his body as he fell, Wally managed to fall to the side. He landed on his back less than two metres from the lumbering demon. However, the young hunter quickly sprang to his feet and took off at full pelt until he was a good twenty metres from Wulgaru.

From time to time, as it pursued them through the forest, the wooden devil threw back its head in an attempt to roar its rage at them. But lacking lungs, tonsils a larynx, or a tongue, each time its roar was silent.

“Not long now,” said Wendy Tudjudamara.

Looking where she was pointing, Garbarla saw rising smoke from the fire that Terry Yudbunji and Roger Gardigardi had laid on Suzie’s instruction.

“Let’s hope so,” Garbarla said.

When they arrived at Mount Russell, they found Terry and Roger hurriedly handing out flaming torches to the warriors. The men looked relieved to finally have torches, but Garbarla thought, ‘I just hope that they don’t get overconfident now!’

As though reading her lover’s thoughts, Suzie said, “Don’t take any unnecessary risks. Flaming torches won’t make you invulnerable to Wulgaru’s hug of death. Stay well clear of his arms.”

As Wulgaru appeared at the base of the mountain, Suzie called, “Circle round behind him. Drive him toward Gurugadji’s Valley. Don’t let him run away at first sight of torches.”

A dozen or more hunters ran to do as ordered. “Come on let’s get out of sight,” instructed Suzie. They ran deeper into the forest surrounding the only entrance to Gurugadji’s Valley, so as not to be seen too soon by Wulgaru. “Can’t risk scaring him away again,” explained Suzie.

For a couple of minutes, Garbarla saw no sign of movement. Then Suzie whispered, “Torches coming.” And as she spoke, Garbarla detected the bobbing yellow-red flames through the tree tops below them.

‘But where’s Wulgaru?’ he wondered. He almost voiced the question aloud. Then moments later, the wooden devil lurched into sight -- the torch-bearing warriors not far behind it.

“Chase him into Gurugadji’s Valley!” called Suzie as the circle of Aborigines began to slowly close around the wooden devil. “Not too quickly! Don’t get within his reach!”

At her call, the torch-bearers started forward slowly.

‘It’s going to work. I can’t believe it, it’s going to work!’ thought Garbarla.

Wulgaru was still shrieking his silent, lungless shriek, still flailing his arms like an out-of-control sci-fi robot. But the wooden devil continued forward, obviously terrified of the torches.

“Drive him into the valley,” instructed Suzie as the circle slowly closed in.

“Look out!” called Wendy Tudjudamara as Wulgaru suddenly spun around.

For a moment, it looked as though the wooden devil was going to try to run through the ring of torch bearers. Then, to the relief of Garbarla and the others, the demon turned again and started down the slight incline into the black, lifeless valley.

“Follow him, it’s not finished yet!” called Suzie.

“Why ...?” began Garbarla, puzzled. But Suzie and the others left him behind as they began running toward the entrance, waving their flaming torches before them to drive Wulgaru deeper into the valley.

“Close in around him ... Carefully!” called Suzie, as they entered the lifeless brown-walled canyon.

‘This is a fitting place to destroy this monster!’ thought Garbarla. He stared around the brown walls where nothing grew, in contrast to the abundant foliage on the rest of the mount. ‘This is a place of death, if ever I saw one.’

“Drive him toward the pit!” shouted Suzie. And for the first time, Garbarla saw the real reason that Roger Gardigardi and Terry Yudbunji had not taken part in the corroboree: they had been digging a pit three metres deep by perhaps fifteen metres square, twenty metres or so into the valley.

“Drive him toward the pit!” repeated Suzie. And the circle of torch-bearers began to close around the wooden devil.

Although it had its back toward the pit, Wulgaru lurched forward as though sensing danger. But Wally Wuyaindjimadjinji and two other young hunters leapt forward and thrust flaming torches toward the wooden devil.

Flailing its tree trunk arms wildly, the demon staggered backwards and fell to the bottom of the pit.

A dozen or so warriors threw their flaming torches into the pit. And Suzie called to Roger Gardigardi, “Where is the rest of the firewood?”

“Just inside the valley,” said Roger. He pointed to a great stack of logs back near the valley entrance.

“Quickly!” called Suzie. “Everyone throw firewood down onto wooden devil-devil!”

At her order, all of the braves, plus Karen Yunupingu and Wendy Tudjudamara, raced across to grab as much firewood as they could carry, to begin throwing it down onto Wulgaru.

Until soon, Suzie was calling out, “Stop! Stop! Stop! Don’t pile it too high, or the wooden devil can climb out on burning wood.”

Even as she spoke, they heard a rustling from the bottom of the pit. Which was now stacked to within half a metre of ground level.

“It’s still ... alive!” cried Garbarla, wondering if “alive” was the right word.

The rustling increased, and the wood began to push up, then drop down again as though settling.

“It’s rising, the wood’s rising!” called Wally Wuyaindjimadjinji, pointing toward the centre of the pyre.

“It’s only the wood settling in the fire,” said, hoped Wendy Tudjudamara. But as she spoke, the top of the pyre burst upward in a miniature explosion. And up thrust the burning, wooden head of Wulgaru.

“Beat him down! Get something to beat him back down!” shouted Suzie, trying to rouse the young men who seemed mesmerised by the unexpected reappearance of the wooden devil.

Wulgaru twisted and shook himself about slowly, like a man desperately trying to paddle instead of drowning in a pool of water or quicksand.

“He’s trying to find a footing,” called Garbarla. As he spoke, Wulgaru’s head thrust up higher to reveal his neck and one of his tree-branch arms.

“Get something to beat him back down!” repeated Suzie.

Wally and two other young hunters ran to do as instructed.

Wulgaru continued twisting and turning, throwing back his head to silently scream from time to time. He struggled against the woodpile, like a corpse struggling to break free from the grip of a grave.

“Don’t get too close!” warned Suzie, as the three hunters returned from the woodpile with long boughs.

At her call, Wally Wuyaindjimadjinji stopped well short of the pit. But a young hunter, Johnny Wururbiddie, ran too far and almost dived headfirst into the pyre.

“Look out!” called Garbarla. He leapt forward to grab the youth.

Too late, as Wulgaru reached up as though to dive out of the mound of logs like a porpoise at a sea-park, and grabbed hold of the end of the blue-gum log that the youth held.

“Let go!” shrieked Suzie. The sixty-nine-year-old woman ran like a teenager as she tried to reach Johnny in time.

Both Suzie and Garbarla reached the edge of the pit a bare second too late ... as the teenager fell screaming into the pyre pit.

“Oh Jesus!” said Garbarla, shocked.

Wulgaru almost seemed to smile with his sharp, granite teeth as the youth fell right into his arms.

“Oh no!” cried Wendy Tudjudamara as the wooden devil began to squeeze the life out of the teenage hunter.

“Guuuuuuuuur ... ruuuu ... gadji help me!” the youth shrieked to the Emu-Man, the god of the tribe. There was a loud snapping of bone as his spine broke, then in seconds, the youth was dead.

“Oh Jesus!” repeated Garbarla. He stared in shock at the lifeless remains of the teenager, which the wooden devil dropped contemptuously into the pyre as it began to flail around again.

“Look out, it’s climbing out of the pit!” warned Wally Wuyaindjimadjinji.

They all backed away from the edge of the pit, their brown eyes glazed with terror. However, the time that Wulgaru had taken to crush Johnny Wururbiddie to death had allowed the wood below it to burn down. Wulgaru started to step up onto the hard, brown earth. But there was a loud rumbling of collapsing wood below him, and the wooden devil suddenly plummeted out of sight to the bottom of the pyre.

“Thank Christ!” said Garbarla.

“Thank Gurugadji,” Suzie teased her young lover.

They waited by the edge of the pit for hours, until the pyre had burnt itself out, to make certain that Wulgaru was reduced to ashes. Then the month of October 2005 ended as it had begun for the tribe. This time, with the funeral of young Johnny Wururbiddie.

THE END
© Copyright 2025 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia