WOO (2025 Edit)

A Dream Time monster starts haunting Glen Hartwell

Mid July 2003

The handsome light-chocolate coloured man and the tall, willowy brunette walked hand-in-hand through the sweet-smelling forest of pines, wattles, and eucalyptus trees. Although they were less than a kilometre from the town of Pettiwood, they seemed to be deep in a tropical rainforest. Red, blue, yellow, and violet Native Australian flowers abounded in a riot of colour amid the more sedate greens and whites of the trees.

“Mmmm smell that sweet, fresh air,” said Geraldine Gleeson, breathing in deeply.

“Yes,” agreed Joseph Garbarla. However, he was more enamoured of the woman who he was with than with Mother Nature.

As they walked along, Garbarla slipped his left hand into his jeans pocket. Feeling the small, red, velveteen box, he wondered if this was the right moment to offer her the diamond ring? Or whether he should wait until they were back at her flat, making love?

Before he had a chance to decide, Geraldine squealed and slipped her hand from his to race ahead of him into the forest.

“What’s the matter?” asked Garbarla, startled.

“Snow!” She stopped by a large mound of white lying beneath a sprawling willow tree.

“Don’t be silly,” said Garbarla. He didn’t know whether to feel pleased or dismayed that the chance to propose was lost. “It never snows in Australia, except in the highest alpine regions.”

“It’s snow!” insisted Geraldine. To prove her point, she grabbed two large handfuls and compressed them tightly into a snowball. Then, squealing again in delight, she spun round and threw the snowball at him.

“What ...?” said Garbarla. Too surprised to duck, he was hit full in the face by the snowball. “My God, you’re right,” he scraped the snow off his face, “it is snow. Yet it can’t be.”

“Come over here, there’s lots more,” cried Geraldine. She pointed toward the long, rectangular mound, half a metre high, beneath the willow tree.

“But it never gets cold enough in Victoria ...” he protested. Yet as he spoke, his cheeks began to blush, and seeing his breath steaming, he realised how inexplicably cold it had suddenly become in that part of the forest.

“Come over here,” repeated Geraldine. But as she spoke, the snow began to fall again. “What’s that then, if it's not snow?” she demanded, turning her face up to let the snow fall on her cheeks. “Dandruff from the trees?”

“It only seems to be falling near that one tree,” pointed out Garbarla. He started across toward Geraldine and the willow at a lope.

Garbarla bent to pick up a handful of snow, but stopped when Geraldine suddenly shrieked.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking up at her.

“Something just stung me on the cheek,” she said. She held up a hand to her cheek, and Garbarla could see a trace of blood on the long, slender fingers. A red welt glowed on her right cheek as though she had been lashed across the face.

“It’s just the willow vines,” said Garbarla. And on cue, the vines lashed across her face again. Garbarla started to laugh until he saw that she was in genuine distress. The second lash had driven the vines deep into the soft tissue of her cheek.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

He started to reach for her to pull her away from the tree. But she suddenly fell forward as though the tree had reached out and pulled her deep into its network of hanging branchlets.

“I’ve fallen into the damn tree,” Geraldine said, stating the obvious.

Garbarla, no longer able to suppress a giggle, raced forward to assist her. But he quickly stopped and stared in horror at the creature lurking within the weeping willow tree.

The squat creature was covered in golden-brown hair. Its round face was dominated by a long, snout-like mouth, with fat, rubbery lips curling round in a perfect circle to show a ring of tiny teeth.

“Garbarla, help me!” shrieked Geraldine. But before he could reach in to pull her clear, the creature’s scalpel-sharp talons lashed down again, sinking deep into the pulp of her brain.

“Garbarla!” Geraldine cried one last time as she died.

Seeing the woman who he loved die before him, Garbarla stepped forward. He knew that he had no chance against the creature, even before its claws raked down across his chest, ripping open his jumper and shirt, shattering three of his ribs.


When Garbarla awakened, he was no longer trapped within the vine-like branches of the willow tree. The squat, lethal-taloned beast was no longer leaning over him. And Geraldine’s mutilated corpse no longer lay at his feet. For a second, he dared to hope that it had all been a nightmare. But he knew that was unlikely since it was daytime. And since he was lying on his back on the bed of pine needles in the sweet-smelling pine and eucalyptus forest. He looked around for some trace of Geraldine, the willow tree, or the mound of snow. But there was nothing.

“Joseph!” he heard a faint voice calling. Garbarla looked up, startled. It was rare that anyone called him Joseph. He had been christened Garbarla Bulilka by his Aboriginal mother, Debbie, in 1957. Then, after being kidnapped in 1962 by his white grandmother, he had lived for twenty years as Joseph Hunt. On his return from Queensland in the early 1980s, he had adopted the name Joseph Garbarla. But most of his friends called him Garbarla.

“Joseph!” the voice called again.

Garbarla clawed his way to his feet and almost fell again as his head swam for a moment. He steadied himself by clinging to a red gum. Then, as his head cleared, he began to look around the forest for the source of the voice calling him.

“Joseph!” called the voice a third time. Looking up, Garbarla saw the tall, lean white man, perhaps eight metres away.

At first, Garbarla hesitated. But, as the man raised a hand to wave, Garbarla sensed that he was a friend. Trying to ignore the throbbing in his head, the half-breed Aborigine set off at a trot toward the waving figure. As he got closer, he saw that the man was standing near a small mound of snow.

“Snow!” said the vaguely familiar man, pointing down at it for emphasis.

Garbarla almost smiled, recalling Geraldine’s childlike delight at finding the snow near the weeping willow tree. Then, he recalled what had been lurking in the willow tree. And he realised that the sight of snow incited only terror in the tall, thin white man.

“We have to get out of here, son,” said the white man. “Snow means death in this place.”

“But what about Geraldine?” asked Garbarla, as the man turned to trot deeper into the forest.

At the question, he stopped and looked back at Garbarla. His blue-grey eyes spoke of great sadness. The man hesitated before finally saying, “Geraldine is dead, son.”

Garbarla began to ask who he was, but then he realised why the man looked so familiar. For a dozen years, he had seen his photos dotting the rooms in his paternal grandmother, Bettina Hunt’s, house in the middle-class suburbs of Brisbane. The man was her son, Edward, who had died in 1962, just before she had abducted Garbarla.

“Come on, son,” called the man, clearly anxious to leave.

“All right,” said Garbarla to the father whom he had never known.

They set off through the forest at an easy lope. As well as the sweet-smelling eucalyptus and pine, the forest had a fresh salt-breeze smell, as well as a scent of animal life: kangaroos, koalas, emus, plus one or two rank animal odours whose origins Garbarla could not even guess at.

They ran for kilometres before Edward Hunt suddenly stopped. He held up a hand to halt Garbarla, then turned back and raised a finger to his mouth.

Ahead, Garbarla could smell the strong, dungy odour of some animal unknown to him. But peer as he might, he could not see any unusual animals in the forest ahead of them. Apart from the trees and leafy shrubs, the only distinguishable objects were three large, greyish granite boulders, almost perfectly spherical and three-quarters the height of the two men.

“What’s wrong?” whispered Garbarla.

Edward turned to shush him again. But at his whisper, the grey boulders suddenly began to move, rolling across the flatlands as though they were hurtling down a mountainside.

“What?” asked Garbarla, startled.

“Dheey!” shrieked one of the boulders, crashing into a young pine, which it felled without slowing. For the first time, Garbarla realised that the “boulders” were living creatures.

“The Aborigines call them the Dheeyabery Tribe,” whispered Edward, his words almost drowned out by the crashing, thundering of the boulders as they flattened everything in their path in their mad escape. “You were lucky that they took to flight.”

“Why?’ asked Garbarla. For just a second, he caught sight of a gnarled caricature of a stone face on one of the boulders. Then they were out of sight.

“You saw what they did to that pine,” Edward said. He pointed to the trail blazed by the three creatures. Three tracks brutally cut through the forest like trails hacked by logging companies. “Imagine the damage that it would have done if it had rolled across you.”

They set off again, trying their best to be silent as they ran.

After a while, the fresh salt breeze became stronger as though it were about to rain. And the forest began to thin out, and then give way to grasslands, covered in waist-height Australian Native grasses, with the pines and eucalypts steadily reducing in number.

For hours, they travelled across the grasslands, without meeting another soul. Garbarla had begun to wonder where they were. At first, he had assumed that they had started outside Pettiwood, where he had last seen Geraldine. But in that case, they should have reached the town of Pettiwood by now, or the Aboriginal village where Garbarla lived, if they were travelling away from Pettiwood. ‘Or if we passed the village without seeing it, we should have reached the desert beyond it by now!’ thought Garbarla. Yet although the trees had given way to grassland, there was no sign of the grassland in turn giving way to brown-dirt desert.

After their encounter with the Dheeyabery Tribe, Garbarla was on the lookout for any other strange animals -- or objects, which might be strange animals. But, although they heard the sounds of parrots and kookaburras from time to time and saw kangaroos or emus near the horizon, nothing dangerous or unusual materialised. Until they had travelled many kilometres. Then, inexplicably, Edward Hunt stopped and held up a hand to halt Garbarla. The white man turned and held a finger to his mouth to alert his son to be extra quiet.

‘What now?’ wondered Garbarla.

Taking pains to be quiet, he peered ahead into the grasslands, looking for any strange animals or potential animal-objects lurking in the tall Native Australian grasses. For a time, he could see nothing. But then he detected four or five dark chocolate shapes moving through the tall grass. Initially, he could not make out what they were. But as they neared, Garbarla saw what looked like two Aboriginal men and three topless Aboriginal women. All three women were very beautiful, and Garbarla felt excited by the sight of their large, naked breasts.

Hearing the excitement in his breathing, Edward turned round and whispered to his son, “Dinnabarrada People.”

At first, Garbarla thought that that was the name of an Aboriginal tribe. But suddenly, one of the women turned and saw the two men. She let out a raucous “Koa-kaw-kaw-kaw-kaw!” cry, and her four companions turned to stare at Garbarla and Edward.

“Dinnabarrada People aren’t known to attack,” Edward said quietly, “but it pays to be wary of them.”

At his words, the eldest of the males repeated the “Koa-kaw-kaw-kaw-kaw!” cry, and all five Dinnabarrada took off as though jet-propelled.

“God, look at them go!” said Garbarla. He was amazed at their speed, and even more so at their strange, jerky running motion -- in which they kept their arms crossed over their chests as they ran.

“Look!” said Edward. He pointed to a break in the grass, which the Dinnabarrada were running toward. At first, Garbarla didn’t understand what he was seeing as the Dinnabarradas entered the clearing. Their feet and legs were blue-grey bands of what looked like coiled steel.

Then Garbarla realised that their feet and legs were those of an emu, not a human being.

“Some legends say that the emus are an offshoot of the Dinnabarrada people,” Edward explained. “Others believe that they are a cross-mating between humans and emus.”

“That’s impossible,” said Garbarla. “Only animals with the same chromosome count can produce offspring.”

“In the real world, perhaps. But this is the Dream-Time world, we’re in now, son. The mythical land of your mother, Debbie’s people.”

He paused to allow Garbarla to take that in, and then added, “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The main thing is to know that, like many Dream-Time entities, the Dinnabarrada People can be controlled by the didgeridoo. Playing it correctly, you can either call them toward you or send them running, shrieking for cover.”

“I don’t have a didgeridoo with me, though,” pointed out Garbarla.

“No, but you must remember it when you return to the real world. But for now, we must keep travelling. We cannot afford to stand still for too long in this place.”

“But ...?” began Garbarla. But Edward Hunt had already started off at a trot again.

They ran for what seemed hours. Yet Garbarla realised that the sun seemed fixed in the same part of the sky, as though it were perpetually mid-afternoon.

After a while, Edward stopped again. So suddenly that Garbarla almost ran into the back of him.

“What’s wrong?” asked Garbarla. When he received no reply, he began looking around. But this time, there were no squat objects, which could be strange animals, or animal-people, anywhere in sight. “What’s wrong?” he repeated.

“Listen!” instructed Edward. He held a finger to his lips for silence.

For a while, Garbarla could hear nothing. Then in the distance, he heard the faint “Woo-oo-ooo!” of the wind.

“Do you hear it?” asked Edward quietly.

“No,” said Garbarla, “only the wind.”

“What wind? Have you felt any wind since coming to this place?”

“Well ...?” began Garbarla. He realised that Edward was right. Although it was winter and quite cold – ‘Cold enough for snow to have formed!’ he recalled -- he had not felt any breeze since first meeting his father.

“That isn’t the wind!” insisted Edward.

“Then what is it?”

“What I’ve brought you all this way to show you. But take care. From now on, we must be as stealthy as possible. Put to use all of the stalking skills that you have been taught by Roger Gardigardi and Alex Jalburgul Gul since returning to your mother’s people. Otherwise, it can kill you.”

“What can kill me?” asked Garbarla as Edward Hunt started again at a steady trot through the grasslands.

“Woo!” said Edward, without stopping or looking back.

“Woo-oo-oo!” came a reply from the “wind”. Louder than before, as though it was hurrying toward them.

‘Here we go again!’ thought Garbarla. He wondered how long that they would have to run this time. But they had hardly started when Edward called him to a stop again.

“What is it?” asked Garbarla. Although the question had been whispered, Edward turned and glared at him, tapping his finger to his lips again for silence.

Garbarla mimicked “sorry,” then followed after Edward as he started forward cautiously.

“Woo-oo-oo!” cried the “wind” again. This time from close at hand. ‘Yet, still I can’t feel any breeze!’ Garbarla thought.

In the distance could just be seen the golden-brown figure of a hopping kangaroo. ‘At last, some form of life that I can recognise in this place!’ Garbarla thought. But the more that he watched the hopping creature, the less that it looked like a kangaroo. Its hopping style exactly matched that of a kangaroo’s, as did its colour, but its head seemed over-large, almost human in shape. Although the creature was too short for a man, barely a metre and a half high when erect, less than a metre when crouching.

“What is it?” Garbarla almost asked. But as though sensing the question, Edward spun round before he could speak and raised a finger to his lips for silence.

“Just watch!” Edward mimed. So Garbarla watched the creature, which continued to hop, travelling diagonally across their path, in their direction.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrilled the creature as it advanced. And for some reason, Garbarla shuddered, realising that this was what he had mistaken for the wind earlier.

Seeing steam rising from his breath, Garbarla realised that it had suddenly dropped at least ten Degrees Celsius. He rubbed his hands together to try to remove the icy sting and blew on them quietly, taking pains not to be heard by his father or the advancing creature.

Soon, there could be no mistaking the creature for a kangaroo. It was squat and covered in golden-brown hair. Its face was heart-shaped and had two perfectly round, yellow eyes, the size of tennis balls. Its mouth protruded like a long, thin snout, with fat, rubbery lips curling round to show a ring of tiny, diamond-sharp teeth, making the rubbery mouth look vaguely like the suckers on a giant squid’s tentacles. The creature stood on one giant leg, like one of Pliny’s monopods and had one enormous muscular arm, extending from the centre of its chest. From the arm’s hand projected twenty-centimetre-long, grey-white talons, like lethal stalactites of crystal.

“The creature that killed Geraldine!” cried Garbarla, forgetting the edict of silence.

“Yes,” agreed Edward Hunt in a whisper.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrilled the creature, seeing the two men. It did a 90 Degree turn in mid-hop and bounded across the grassy terrain toward them.

“We must leave now!” cried Edward in terror. “But remember, my son, you must use the didgeridoo to call Woo to you.”

“Call it to me?” demanded Garbarla. “Why the hell would I want to do that?”

Without replying, Edward Hunt turned his back on Garbarla, took one step forward, and vanished. Leaving Garbarla to face the approaching demon alone.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrilled Woo again. This time from glee at the half-breed Aboriginal trapped alone and defenceless. An almost human shit-eater grin crossed its pig-like snout, and its rubbery lips slobbered obscenely as it raised its sabre-taloned claws to slash down across Garbarla’s face.

“Oh Jesus!” cried Garbarla as the talons descended toward him.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrilled Woo in glee. However, its glee soon turned to a shriek of dismay as Garbarla popped out of existence a second before the talons would have slashed through his face.


“I think he’s coming round,” Garbarla heard a sweet voice say. Smelling violet-scented perfume, for a second, he thought that it was Geraldine. But as his vision began to clear, he saw the starched blue uniform of a young blonde nurse and realised that he was in a ward at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital.

The young nurse flitted out into the hallway. And for a few seconds, Garbarla was alone in the half-lit room. But by the time that his vision cleared, a small crowd of people swarmed around his bed.

“How are you feeling?” asked a tall, willowy brunette, leaning across the bed. For a second, Garbarla thought it was Geraldine and smiled at her. Then, as he remembered that Geraldine was dead, he realised that the brunette was Gina Foley, the administrator and chief surgeon at the hospital.

Looking past Gina, Garbarla saw Danny Ross, the police chief of Glen Hartwell. A barrel-chested giant of a man, Danny was nicknamed “Bear” by his friends and colleagues.

“How are you doing?” asked Bear, bending over his friend. Seeing the sadness in Bear’s pale blue eyes, Garbarla knew that Bear had bad news for him.

“Hello,” muttered Garbarla weakly. He watched Gina and Bear exchange a troubled look; obviously, both hoped that the other would take the initiative.

Finally, it was Bear who muttered, “We have bad news for you ... About Geraldine ...” He stopped and looked at Gina again, then said, “Geraldine is dead.”

“Yes, I know,” said Garbarla.

“You know?” asked Bear, obviously wondering if he had heard correctly.

“I ... I could tell by the look on your face,” lied Garbarla.


Liz Hutchinson looked down at the running, squealing children with a mixture of pleasure and heartache. Although it felt good to be “back among the living”, it was painful to see the kids. Painful because it reminded her of her own Leon, brutally murdered in late 1992. At forty-eight, Liz was not old, but she knew that she would never conceive again.

Two years ago, after the death of her husband, Des, Liz had thought that her life was over. With her teenage son and husband both taken from her in the space of a few years, it had seemed that she had nothing more to live for. She had been little more than a zombie for more than eighteen months; she had hardly noticed when her widowed sister Margaret had sold up her farm in East Merridale and dragged her up to Sydney with her.

“Mrs. Huppington! Mrs. Huppington!” cried a small voice. Looking down, Liz saw a redheaded girl calling for her attention.

“What’s wrong, Suzie?” asked Liz. Reaching down, she picked up the three-year-old and carried her into the playroom of the crèche.

‘Yes, Sydney!’ thought Liz, recalling her eighteen months under the “watchful care” of her domineering sister.

‘Just to be free of that!’ she thought wistfully. And in a way, she was grateful for what Maggie had done; her domineering had forced Liz to come out of her near catatonia or go under completely.

“Pinkie tail! Pinkie tail!” called the freckle-faced girl, waking Liz from her reverie again. Looking down, she saw the little girl tugging at a red lock from which a yellow ribbon dangled loosely. Sitting at a yellow-plastic table with the girl on her lap, Liz began untying then retying the pigtail.


An hour later, Liz walked through the sweet-smelling forest of wattles, pines, and eerie grey-white ghost gums. Although she now lived in Pettiwood, only two streets from Betty Marrick’s Crèche and Day-Care Centre, where she worked, Liz liked to walk to the crest of Mt. Drynan occasionally to gaze down at the white weatherboard farmhouse that had been her home for more than twenty years.

After half an hour, as dark began to fall, Liz turned and started back down. She was almost at the base of the mount when she noticed an overgrown weeping willow tree among the wattles and eucalypts. Recalling little Suzie’s “pinkie tails”, she thought of her own youth swinging from the vines of a willow, playing Tarzan and Jane. And instinctively, she walked across toward the tree.

She was still half a metre away when something lashed across her face. “The wind must be blowing up,” said Liz, thinking that a willow vine had lashed her.

“So ... so cold!” she said as she suddenly began to shiver. Seeing a white mound beneath the willow tree, she realised, ‘Snow! My God, it’s been snowing! But it never snows in Victoria!’

As her cheeks began to flush and her teeth chattered, she tried to turn back toward Pettiwood. But she was unable to move, as though frozen solid. “C ... can’t be that cold!” she said, steam rising from her mouth as she spoke.

“Got to move before I ...” she began. But then she saw the squat, hairy creature lurking in the tree. Its long, stem-like lips were pursed as though to give her a wet, sloppy kiss, but instead it swung the one long arm in the centre of its chest toward her.

The shear-like talons of the Dream-Time monster buried into her red-flushed face, stinging against the cold like a bee. One curved claw buried through the ball of her left eye, bursting the eye to sink deep into her brain beyond.

‘I should have stayed in Sydney!’ thought Liz crazily as she died.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrilled the demon in glee.


Over the next four days, Garbarla was subjected to every form of torture known to modern medicine. He was poked, prodded, probed, and pumped full of more chemicals than he had thought existed in the periodic table. On the fourth day, he received a visit from the headman of his tribe, Weari-Wyingga. A close friend of Garbarla, Weari-Wyingga had been one of the first Aborigines to accept Garbarla after his return to the tribe twenty years ago. Nonetheless, Garbarla hesitated, afraid to feel silly, before finally telling the old man what had happened the day that he and Geraldine had been attacked.

“Snow?’ asked the frail, white-haired old man, who was thin enough to pass for a circus human skeleton.

“That’s right,” agreed Garbarla. After a deep, nervous sigh, he went on to relate his meeting with his father, Edward Hunt. And of their encounter with the boulder-like Dheeyabery tribe, the emu-legged Dinnabarrada People, and the monopedal, hopping creature called Woo, which had killed Geraldine.

Weari-Wyingga nodded gravely. “Yes, yes, I have heard of the demon Woo, who imitates the wind to fool his victims.”

They talked for another fifteen minutes or so before Garbarla remembered what his father had told him before vanishing, “You must use the didgeridoo to call Woo to you.”

“Call Woo to you?” repeated the Elder, clearly puzzled. “The didgeridoo has many functions at sacred corroborees. One of which is a Sending Tune, which Dream-Time legend says can be used to repel Woo and drive him away. But I have never heard of it being used to call Woo to you.”


Five days later, Garbarla was released from the hospital. He headed straight for the morgue in Baltimore Drive to see Geraldine one last time. Then, wishing that it were him lying dead, not her, he set off for the Aboriginal village three kilometres past Pettiwood.


He stood at the edge of the sweet-smelling pine and eucalypt forest for a moment, staring across at the one-, two-, and three-room corrugated-iron huts that made up the village. Garbarla recalled the village as it had been in the early 1960s -- made up mainly of bark lean-toes and humpies. “That’s progress for you,” he said with a sigh of frustration.

Garbarla had already started through the unpaved village when he began to feel uneasy, wondering what was out of place. Looking around the corrugated-iron huts, he saw women of all ages grinding grain into flour, weaving straw mats, and producing bark paintings, or designs onto toy boomerangs and other artefacts to be sold through tourist shops in Melbourne, Sydney, and Singapore. Around them played naked toddlers and jeans-clad older children.

‘So what’s missing?’ Garbarla wondered.

It was only as he approached Weari-Wyingga’s three-room hut in the middle of the village, that Garbarla realised, ‘The men!’ So far, he had not seen a single male over fourteen. However, as he approached the hut, two hunters in their early thirties, Roger Gardigardi and Alex Jalburgul Gul, emerged from the hut with the old man.

Seeing Garbarla, Alex gave a broad buck-toothed grin and waved him over to them.

“Where is everyone?” asked Garbarla.

“All deputised as Gagawars,” said Weari-Wyingga. Then, noting Garbarla’s puzzled look, “Sent round to other tribes in Victoria and interstate to try to find someone who knows how to play the calling tune on the didgeridoo, to call Woo to us. And also how to deal with the demon when he gets here.”

They talked for half an hour, and then Garbarla returned to the three-room hut that he sometimes shared with his mother, Debbie Bulilka, at the far end of the village.


Looking down at the small cot bed in the back room of the dirt-floored hut, Garbarla thought of the cosy double bed that he had slept in only ten days ago at Geraldine’s flat in Glen Hartwell.

Over the next few days, Garbarla spent most of his time sleeping and recovering his strength. From time to time, a Gagawar -- sacred messenger -- returned to the village. But each time the message was the same: no one had ever heard of using the didgeridoo to call the demon Woo toward you.

On the fifth day since his return to the village, the recent spell of fine weather ended. Torrential rain fell all day. By evening, thunder and lightning began to crash -- seemingly just outside the village perimeter.

Hearing a gale wind blowing, Garbarla shuddered. Its “Woo-oo-oo!” reminded him of the creature which had killed Geraldine. Lying on his back on the cot, Garbarla stared up at the corrugated iron ceiling, shuddering each time that he heard the wind’s howl.

“Woo-oo-oo!” came the howl louder than before. And for the first time, Garbarla heard the sound of men and women screaming at the other end of the village.

In the front room of the hut, he found his mother, a tall, lithe, attractive woman in her mid-sixties, standing by the door, staring out into the iron village. Rain pounded down, making a machine-gun ratta-tat-tat against the corrugated iron roofs, and the village was awash in an ocean of mud. Lightning was striking repeatedly, seemingly at the edge of the village. The air was filled with the electric-fire aroma of ozone from the multiple lightning strikes.

Above the noise of the rain and lightning, though, could clearly be heard the sound of men and women screaming. And the loud “Woo-oo-oo!” which previously Garbarla had taken for the wind.

“Woo!” said Garbarla. He squinted in a bid to see through the village.

“What?” asked Debbie Bulilka, staring at her son. But Garbarla had already waded out into the brown ocean paddle-walking toward the other end of the village. ‘Got to try to help them!’ Garbarla thought. But he wondered if he were only hastening his own death.

Two-thirds of the way through the village, Garbarla met up with Roger Gardigardi and Alex Jalburgul Gul. Two of the tribes most experienced hunters and warriors, Roger and Alex, were armed to the teeth. They each carried three three-metre long spears, hunting boomerangs, axes and knives.

“Going to war?” asked Garbarla.

“Could be,” agreed Alex, giving him a broad, buck-toothed grin. Then, not waiting for him, the warriors took off at a jog.

Caught by surprise, Garbarla set off after them. When he finally caught up, they were standing outside a two-room iron hut by the extreme edge of the village. Along with seemingly most of the inhabitants of the Aboriginal village.

In the mud could be seen the bloody remnants of two or three people. Garbarla couldn’t tell for certain, any more than he could tell their sex or age. The corpses looked like they had been attacked with a chainsaw. Arms, legs, parts of torsos, fleshless bones and dripping innards swam in the mud like a mini charnel house.

Hearing screaming, Garbarla was shocked to realise that at least one of the bodies was still alive. Although he couldn’t see anything that looked large enough to constitute a living person.

A fine mist began to fall, and Garbarla realised that it was snow. He recalled his father telling him, “Snow means death in this place”. And as lightning flashed, Garbarla saw the one-legged, sabre-clawed demon, Woo, and realised that the creature was still committing his carnage.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrilled the demon. It raised its one long arm to slash down with its talons, slitting open to the bone the face of a young mother.

Screaming, she dropped her baby son into the ocean of mud. For a second, it looked as though he would drown. But, as his mother fell to her knees, shrieking through her ruined face, another woman leapt forward and snatched up her baby boy. Then she quickly retreated out of range as Woo shrieked “Woo-oo-oo!” and slashed downward toward her with his needle-sharp talons.

Having to clench as his bowels threatened to unleash, Garbarla smelt an overpowering aroma of shit and realised that some of the others had already shat themselves in terror.

Woo slowly moved forward, bending low till he almost sat on his heel each time that he kangaroo-hopped. And the crowd of Aborigines backed away, matching the advancing demon step for hop.

‘Run, dammit, run!’ thought Garbarla. However, the wide-eyed men and women continued to back away slowly, as though afraid to turn their backs on the hopping monster. But as Woo let out a louder “Woo-oo-oo!” and leapt almost up to them, the crowd finally came to their senses. Shrieking even louder than the demon, the Aborigines turned and raced past Garbarla, Roger Gardigardi and Alex Jalburgul Gul, heading toward the opposite end of the village.

As Alex sneezed, Garbarla realised that it was still pouring rain. Looking down, he saw his arms covered in goose bumps and realised that his arms were almost numb from the cold. He knew that his feet must be frozen almost solid in the mud; however, he had no feeling in his legs at all. ‘Probably just as well!’ he thought.

The demon halted its mad rush and stared at them. Its long snout-like mouth quivered as though sniffing the air, its thick rubbery lips pursed into a very human look of astonishment. As though wondering why they hadn’t fled with the others.

‘He’s not the only one!’ thought Garbarla, looking toward Alex and Roger.

“Woo-oo-oo!” the demon shrilled. But this time the creature sounded terrified.

‘What the Hell?’ Garbarla thought. ‘Surely it can’t be frightened of us?’ But as the thunder abated a little, Garbarla faintly heard the deep monotonous bass “Ooom-oom-ooom” of a didgeridoo being played.

At first, the noise was only distant, and Woo held its ground. But as the bass sound became almost a boom, the “Woo-oo-oo!” took on an almost whipped-puppy whimpering quality. And finally, the demon spun around and hopped away toward the nearby forest.

The three men stood watching the demon until its “Woo-oo-oo!” faded into the distant. Then, hearing footsteps behind them, they turned and saw Weari-Wyingga playing the didgeridoo, while Wally Wuyaindjimadjinji, a young hunter, carried it for him.

Although Woo seemed long gone, Weari-Wyingga continued playing the didgeridoo for almost another hour. As Wally, Roger, Alex, and Garbarla took turns helping to carry it for the old man.

When at last Weari-Wyingga stopped, Roger and Alex were all smiles.

“Now we know how to drive that thing away, everything all right,” said Alex. He beamed a broad, buck-toothed grin.

“How we drive it away?” asked Weari-Wyingga. “Can’t protect everyone in village with didgeridoos twenty-four hours day and night.

“Not every man in village owns didgeridoo,” said Roger, looking crestfallen.

“Or knows how to play it,” added Weari-Wyingga. “And only men allowed to play didgeridoo. Women would have to never be out of sight of a man twenty-four hours a day. Even if we could provide every man in tribe with a didgeridoo and teach him to play it.”

“Besides,” said Garbarla, “this is only driving away Woo, not killing him. As long as he is alive and free, he will be killing someone. If not us, then someone else.”

The others stared at Garbarla for a moment, as though not understanding. But finally Alex Jalburgul Gul said, “If we only drive Woo away with didgeridoo, he go kill elsewhere, kill other people. Then we are responsible for killing them.”

“No, only saving ourselves,” insisted Roger Gardigardi.

“Alex is right,” agreed Garbarla. “We have no right to kill others to save ourselves.”

“We have to use the didgeridoo to call Woo to us, and destroy Woo as Garbarla was told by his father,” said Weari-Wyingga. The old man related to Roger, Alex, and Wally what Garbarla had told him about his time in the Dream-Time landscape.

“But how we destroy Woo?” asked Alex.

Weari-Wyingga shrugged. “First, we call him to blue gum grove, then we destroy him somehow.”

The old man stopped and stared across at the charnel ocean of mud and severed limbs at the edge of the village. “But first we have to take care of Nancy and Susan.”

For the first time, Garbarla realised that the bloody offal was all that remained of Nancy Girigibali and Susan Gurtima. Neither quite thirty, the two women had been two of Garbarla’s star pupils since he had taken over unofficial duties as English teacher of the entire tribe. When he returned from white society in 1983, none of the tribe could speak more than crude pidgin English. Twenty years later, most of the younger Aborigines spoke good, if not grammatically perfect English.


The next day, Garbarla sat watching the tribe prepare the remains of Nancy and Susan for burial in two years after the flesh had decayed from their bodies. Garbarla felt like joining in the loud wailing of the women of the tribe as the funeral proceeded.

After the two women’s remains were wrapped in paperbark and stringybark, Garbarla, Alex Jalburgul Gul, Roger Gardigardi and three other tribal males carried the “corpses” to the sacred resting place to await their decomposition.

It was late afternoon by the time that they returned to the village, and the six young men were ravenous. But due to the funeral service, no hunters had gone out looking for game. So they had to make do with warmed-up leftovers that night.

Alex Jalburgul Gul smiled half-heartedly at Garbarla as they sat around the cook fire at the edge of the village. Garbarla tried to respond, but his lip stuck in a half grimace, half sneer. The memory of what had happened to Geraldine, Susan and Nancy prevented him from smiling, although Alex was one of his closest friends in the corrugated iron village.

Garbarla had almost finished his meal of reheated nail-tail kangaroo when he saw old Weari-Wyingga walk across to Roger Gardigardi and Alex. The old man leant down to whisper to the two hunters. After Weari-Wyingga turned away from them, Alex and Roger in turn began going around whispering in turn to each of the men sitting around the cook fire. Finally, Roger Gardigardi reached Garbarla and whispered to him, “Weari-Wyingga call all-male corroboree for straight after dinner.”

Garbarla almost asked “What for?” but realised that the old man had called the meeting because of the murder of the two young lubras the night before. ‘Either a council of war to discuss ways of combating Woo or ...?’ thought Garbarla. ‘Or have the Gagawars returned with the knowledge of how to use the didgeridoo to call Woo to us?’ He knew that the ritual messengers had started to return already, but had assumed that they had had no success.

‘And if we can call Woo to us, what then?’ He recalled the massacre of Susan and Nancy the night before and wondered, ‘Will we only be calling down mayhem upon ourselves? What’s to stop Woo from slaughtering us all if we call him here?’


Half an hour later, they were all assembled in the corroboree ground: a circular clearing ringed by a dense blue gum grove, a hundred metres or so from the village. A large ceremonial fire roared in the centre of the grove, sending out an almost incense-like aroma of sweet eucalyptus from the red and blue gum boughs burning.

It had not rained again since the previous night. However, the village was still awash in mud. And glancing up at the angry black clouds, Garbarla hoped that they would not be drenched. He knew that by tribal law, once a corroboree had commenced, it could not be stopped for something as trivial as rain. ‘Even torrential rains!’ he thought, hoping that the blue gum grove would not be reduced to a mire around them over the next few hours as lightning began to flash in the distance.

Suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling that the whole circle of squatting men was staring at him, Garbarla looked up. And for the first time, he realised that Weari-Wyingga was talking to the men, telling them his “solution” to the problem of Woo.

“In his visit to the Land of Dreaming, Garbarla met his father, who told him we must use the didgeridoo to call the demon Woo to us. If played correctly, the melody can be irresistible to the demon. The magic lore of our tribe tells how didgeridoos can be used to drive Woo from our village. As was done last night. But until now, we have had no legend of calling Woo to us with the didgeridoo. Now we have received word back from the nearby Itowro tribe ...” The old man stood slightly to one side, and for the first time, Garbarla saw the young man seated near him.

“Thomas Jabir,” Weari-Wyingga introduced the young man.

Grinning broadly, Thomas stepped toward the front of the circle of men, facing them. He seated himself cross-legged before a didgeridoo and began playing. He played in a strange, soulful manner, which Garbarla had never heard the didgeridoo played in before. He made the didgeridoo sing in a strangely high, almost alto style, in defiance of its usual deep bass moan. At times, the hollowed-out log sounded like a saxophone, then a trumpet, or a cornet, or all three at once.

‘What wouldn’t the Melbourne or Sydney Symphony Orchestras give to have this maestro playing for them?’ thought Garbarla. He wondered how a man who looked barely thirty could be such a virtuoso.


Over the next three days, Thomas Jabir played the didgeridoo almost non-stop. While Garbarla’s tribe’s best players droned along, trying at first feebly, then with varying degrees of success, to imitate the Itowro man’s wondrous music.

From time to time, messengers returned from other tribes. Each time, Weari-Wyingga and Garbarla hoped that they would have news of what to do with Woo, when finally they managed to call the demon to the corroboree ground. But each time, they were disappointed. More than one of the messengers brought back instructions on how to play the didgeridoo to call Woo to them, or sent a didgeridooist from their own tribe. But it seemed that no one knew how to destroy the demon, or at least send him back to the Dream-Time land.

After three days without success, Garbarla didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed. Although his father had told him that they had to call Woo to the village, Garbarla couldn’t help fearing what would happen when and if the demon arrived. ‘Without knowing what to do, how can we control him?’ wondered Garbarla. ‘What if he runs amok and slaughters everyone here?’

The grove of blue gums encircling the corroboree ground not only protected their secrets from prying eyes but also walled them in. ‘Like being in a prison!’ he thought, looking round the grove. The blue gums grew tightly packed together, with perhaps enough space between for a man to squeeze through to get from one side to the other, if he had plenty of time. But recalling how rapidly Woo had slaughtered Geraldine, he knew that there would be no time to squeeze through the trees to escape. That left the one traditional exit-entrance route, through a two-metre-wide gap at one end of the grove. The end that is furthest from the village. ‘And furthest from where I’m sitting!’ thought Garbarla. He looked past Thomas Jabir and the other didgeridooists (who sat with their backs to the eucalyptus fire), past the fire to the tiny-looking gateway across the corroboree ground. ‘So much for my chances of making a break for it if we call down the fury of Woo onto ourselves.’

Looking around, Garbarla saw Alex Jalburgul Gul sitting not far from him. The buck-toothed warrior gave him a nervous smile, and Garbarla realised that he wasn’t the only one worried about what they were attempting to do. He returned the nervous smile, and Alex gave him a little nod of encouragement.

Over the last few days, they had been lucky concerning the weather. After the torrential rains the night Woo had slaughtered Susan Gurtima and Nancy Girigibali, the wet weather had held off. However, there was an almost overpowering salt breeze, suggesting that more rain was on the way.

Recalling the state of the village after the storm, Garbarla wondered how the women were getting along clearing it up. He knew that he couldn’t be the only one who felt guilty at not lending them a hand. A guilt, which increased when, after three days, it finally started to rain again. ‘Here comes the real test of our resolve!’ thought Garbarla. Seeing one or two of the younger warriors glancing up at the sky, he realised that no one looked forward to the thought of sitting in the pouring rain for two or three days on end. ‘If Woo doesn’t kill us, flu will!’ thought Garbarla. He almost smiled at the joke, but stopped himself in time, knowing that it would be in bad taste.

Fortunately, however, the light sprinkle, although a nuisance, did not turn into a downpour. But after half an hour in the drizzle, they were all drenched to the skin. Garbarla’s teeth began to chatter. His arms and legs all ached from the cold. Welts seemingly much too large for mere goose-bumps covered the flesh on his arms, legs, and chest. ‘They’re more like vulture-bumps!’ he thought, unable to resist smiling this time.

But then the sight of his own body covered in goose-bumps reminded him of the slaughter of Susan and Nancy three nights earlier. He recalled the icy cold that night, raising goose-bumps, before the terrible sight of the carnage had a chance to.

Noticing one or two warriors looking up over the blue-gum grove ahead of them, Garbarla looked up also and saw a faint whitish mist. And even before the snowflakes began to fall over the trees, he realised what the mist meant.

Then, as though thinking of the demon Woo was enough to call it to the village, a loud “Woo-oo-oo!” rang out just outside the corroboree ground.

“Just the wind,” said young Wally Wuyaindjimadjinji, beside Garbarla. But hearing rustling amid the blue gums and seeing snow falling over the gum trees, Garbarla knew otherwise.

“Woo-oo-oo!” The chanting voice became louder and clearer, as the rustling continued.

“It’s coming through the trees!” called Wally, as though no one else had realised it yet.

Garbarla and most of the other seated men jumped to their feet as the rustling increased behind them. However, a stern look from old Weari-Wyingga stopped them from even thinking of making a break for the exit. Instead, they circled round behind the didgeridooists, to put them between themselves and Woo, as with a final rustling of gum leaves, the demon crept from the trees, into the circular corroboree ground.

At the sight of the one-legged demon, the young men backed away to the other end of the grove. However, Woo was only interested in young Thomas Jabir and the other didgeridooists. “Woo-oo-oo!” shrilled the demon through its long, snout-like mouth. It began to kangaroo-hop across the brown dirt toward where they played before the ceremonial fire.

“Now!” shouted Weari-Wyingga. For a second, the music stopped altogether. Then the didgeridooists began to play again. But not the sweet sounds which had lured Woo to the village. Instead, they played the harsh “Oompha, oompha, oompha,” which Weari-Wyingga had played three nights earlier to drive away the demon.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrieked Woo in a mixture of terror and anger. For a moment, the mono-limbed creature stood its ground, its single-knee bent, poised to hop the last metre or two across the enclosure toward the musicians. Seeing the needle-like talons that had sliced apart Geraldine, Nancy, and Susan, Garbarla feared that the demon would somehow resist the music to cross that last metre to slaughter them all.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrilled the creature again, as though in defiance of the “sending” tune. But finally it turned and hopped back toward the start of the blue-gum grove. Twisting its long, thin body like a corkscrew, the demon slithered almost snakelike through the trees, using the long-armed hand protruding from its chest to grasp overhead boughs to help steady itself and pull itself through the grove as it fled the hated sound of the sending tune.

“Now what?” asked Wally Wuyaindjimadjinji as the demon’s rustling became more distant as it neared the outside of the grove.

“Now keep quiet and watch!” Weari-Wyingga instructed the young hunter, turning to glare in his direction.

The elderly man waited until the rustling had ceased altogether, indicating that the demon was outside the trees. Then, waving an arm like a conductor waving out a train, he ordered, “Now!”

The didgeridooists stopped for a second. Then once more, they began to play the sweet-sounding calling tune. After a few seconds, the rustling could be heard once more, as Woo began to force his way back through the blue gums to enter the corroboree ground again.

“Woo-oo-oo!” howled Woo, obviously displeased at being called back into the clearing against its will.

‘What now?’ wondered Garbarla as the Dream-Time demon was dragged back into the corroboree ground. ‘They can’t keep calling it into the corroboree circle, then repelling it back out indefinitely.’

For a second that seemed like æons, the musicians kept playing as Woo kangaroo-hopped toward them. Then Weari-Wyingga waved an arm and shouted, “Now!” And again the players stopped for a second, and then began the thrumming tuba-like sending song to repel the demon again.

“Woo-oo-oo!” Woo shrilled in obvious anger. For a moment, the demon held its ground against the music. And Garbarla feared that the sending music might be wearing off for some reason. He glanced at Thomas Jabir and could tell from the sag of his shoulders that the young man was tiring.

‘After nearly seventy-two hours without rest, it’s no wonder!’ thought Garbarla. ‘If they can only just stop it advancing now, how much longer before they can’t even do that? And how many seconds would it take Woo to slaughter everyone in this corroboree ground?’ Looking toward the small exit behind them, he doubted that a single one of them would get to it, let alone escape the corroboree ground, before the demon had slaughtered every one of them.

Then finally, to Garbarla’s relief, the demon turned and raced back to the start of the blue-gum grove. Hearing old Weari-Wyingga heave a deep sigh of relief, Garbarla realised that he wasn’t the only one in the circle who had feared that the musicians were starting to flag.

This time the rustling of the demon forcing its way out through the narrow gaps between the eucalyptus trees seemed to go on for minutes. Instead of the seconds that it had taken before.

Garbarla hoped that that wasn’t proof that the demon was able to fight back against the sending music more. ‘Maybe the first couple of times it was caught unawares?’ wondered Garbarla. ‘In which case, the sending music might not be as powerful magic as we all believed!’

Then the rustling stopped. And Garbarla and the others knew that the demon was back outside the eucalyptus grove.

The rain began to fall harder, along with the snow, over the blue gum grove. A thin line of white capped the eucalypts beneath where the Dream-Time demon had travelled -- like snow capping a mountain peak.

“Now!” cried Weari-Wyingga. The musicians began the calling tune again.

‘How long can we keep calling it to us then repelling it again?’ wondered Garbarla. And for a moment, it seemed that his question had been answered. Despite the sweet-sounding calling song, there was no sound this time from the blue gum grove.

“The village!” shrieked Wally Wuyaindjimadjinji.

Old Weari-Wyingga turned back to face the hunters bunched behind him. But instead of glaring at the young warrior, the old man looked worried. ‘He’s concerned about the women and children back at the village, too!’ thought Garbarla. If the demon managed to resist the calling music, it would be free to devastate the village.

Weari-Wyingga was reluctant to ever allow men to depart the corroboree ground during a ritual. However, for a second, Garbarla thought that the old man was going to instruct them to run to the aid of the village women. ‘Or die with them!’ thought Garbarla. Since there was nothing that they could do against the Dream-Time creature if it had broken the hold of the didgeridoo music.

Even as Weari-Wyingga started to signal them, though, there came a rustling from the blue gum grove at last.

“Whew!” said Garbarla aloud, along with a dozen other warriors. He knew that the demon had started back through the trees again toward the ceremonial circle.

“Now it’s us he’ll slaughter if the music don’t control him,” whispered Wally. This time, when Weari-Wyingga turned round, he did glare at the young hunter.

Once more, the sound of rustling seemed to go on longer than before. As though the creature’s increased resistance to the calling music allowed it to slow its rate of movement forward. But not quite break free from the strange pull of the didgeridoo.

‘Well, that’s something anyway!’ thought Garbarla. ‘In a way, the weakening pull of the music is helping us!’ But he knew that if the demon’s resistance grew too quickly, it could be a matter of hours before it broke free entirely to annihilate them all, or exterminate the women and children back at the Aboriginal settlement a hundred metres from the blue gum grove.

For now, though, the calling music had worked. But whereas the first time the creature had entered the gum grove it had seemed to race down upon the didgeridooists, this time it seemed caught in a slo-mo video as it oozed across the fifty metres from the blue gums to the musicians, who sat with their backs to the ceremonial fire.

Garbarla’s teeth began to chatter. Either from fear, or from cold, or a mixture of the two. The rain was now falling quite heavily, and the warriors and musicians were soaked. Garbarla longed to creep forward toward the ceremonial fire between them and the musicians. However, he was afraid of distracting them. But even more afraid of moving closer to the Dream-Time demon, as it continued its slow-mo advance toward the squatting didgeridooists.

“Now!” ordered Weari-Wyingga, leaving the instruction later than before. As though he had become mesmerised by Woo’s slow-motion “moon-leaping”.

For a second, the music stopped completely. And Woo was released from slow motion. The demon leapt forward, swinging the crystal-keen talons on its one great hand toward the face of young Thomas Jabir.

“Holy Christ!” cried Garbarla, starting forward. But a hand in the crowd grabbed his shoulder to pull him back.

Thomas Jabir leant back quickly, as though rapidly adjusting a recliner chair. The demon’s sabre-like talons missed the black man’s face by millimetres. But they lashed across his chest, ripping deep grooves down to the bone along the young man’s ribcage.

Then the didgeridooists started up again.

“Woo-oo-oo!” howled the demon in protest. But once more, it was unable to fight the repulsive power of the music and began to leap in slow motion back across the clearing toward the blue gum grove.

Blood spurted and then ran in bitter-smelling rivulets down Thomas Jabir’s chest as he continued to play the didgeridoo. Continued to lead the rendition of the sending tune for the better part of five minutes this time as the demon moon leapt toward the blue gum grove.

Only when the demon was well within the grove did Garbarla look round. He saw that it was Alex Jalburgul Gul who had grabbed him to prevent him from racing to Thomas Jabir’s aid.

“Best not to interfere,” suggested Alex. He gave Garbarla a broad, toothy grin and finally released him.

With the demon safely back inside the grove, Weari-Wyingga signalled to Johnny Galarrwuy. At thirty-eight Johnny had been senior medicine-man at the tribe for nearly nineteen years, since his father had been killed in the massacre that had claimed most of the adult males in the tribe in December 1984.

Johnny carried a kangaroo hide dilly-bag of herbs and ointments. Garbarla realised that old Weari-Wyingga had been astute enough to know that they might need to have someone patched up before the end of the corroboree. Although not taboo, tribal lore frowned on anyone leaving the ritual area while a corroboree was in progress.

‘And why take any risks when dealing with a monster like that?’ thought Garbarla. Then, realising that something was wrong, he looked round the group of tightly bunched Aborigines.

“What ...?” he began. Then, noticing they were staring toward where Woo had vanished into the blue-gum grove, he looked across too.

“There’s nothing ...” he started to say, seeing nothing. But then he realised that he could hear nothing either. The rustling of Woo through the eucalypts had ceased. ‘But he can’t be outside again yet!’

Then the rustling started again. But instead of reducing, the rustling slowly increased in volume. ‘He’s heading back inside again!’ realised Garbarla. ‘But the musicians are still playing the sending music! How could he break free of its power so fully?’

Looking around, Garbarla saw that Thomas Jabir had temporarily stopped playing while having his wounds tended by the medicine man. ‘And the other didgeridooists aren’t good enough to control Woo without Thomas’s lead!’ thought Garbarla. ‘They’ve only had a few days’ practice at the tune, while Thomas has been playing it for years!’

As though to confirm Garbarla’s suspicions, Woo re-emerged from the blue gum grove.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrilled the demon. This time, almost from glee, as though looking forward to making them pay for the indignity that it had suffered by being forced in and out through the eucalyptus trees.

“Not yet!” cautioned Johnny Galarrwuy, still tending his wounds. However, Thomas Jabir brushed aside the medicine man. Grabbing up his didgeridoo, he began once more to play the sending music.

“Woo-oo-oo!” howled the demon in rage at this renewed assault. And for a second, he struggled against the sending tune. But finally, the demon turned and leapt back toward the blue gum grove. Which now had a blanket of snow over it, like a white bridge spanning it, where the demon squeezed its way between the tightly growing trees.


For another two days, Thomas Jabir and half a dozen others continued to use the sending and calling tunes to keep Woo transversing the grove of sweet-smelling eucalyptus trees.

‘But for how much longer?’ wondered Garbarla. For the umpteenth time, late on the second day after Woo’s appearance at the corroboree ground.

The night had already begun to draw in on the fifth day of the sending/calling, when finally a messenger returned with the knowledge of how the didgeridoo was used in Dream-Time legend to trap and enslave Woo.

“You must use the calling tune to draw Woo right up into the body of the didgeridoo itself,” explained the young messenger sheepishly, as the corroboree continued. He seemed distracted by the sound of Woo rustling through the blue gum circle.

‘Don’t worry, he’s on the way outside, not back in!’ thought Garbarla. And as though hearing him, the teenage hunter grinned toothily and continued:

“You must call Woo deep up into the body of the didgeridoo and trap him in there.”

“How?” asked Weari-Wyingga.

“With the calling tune,” replied the teenager, looking perplexed.

“No. How do we trap Woo inside the didgeridoo?” asked the grey-haired old man.

The young black man shrugged and grinned idiotically.

‘Oh great!’ thought Garbarla. ‘So all we have to do is call Woo up into an open-ended wooden pipe, and somehow trap him inside it!’

“Must be some way to seal ends of didgeridoo, once Woo inside,” said Alex Jalburgul Gul. Old Weari-Wyingga looked across at the buck-toothed hunter, his brow creased in thought.

“But with what?” asked Roger Gardigardi.

The six didgeridooists stopped playing as they turned to join in the conversation.

“Even if you seal both ends of the didgeridoo, what’s to stop Woo using his claws to cut through the wooden sides of the didgeridoo?” asked Thomas Jabir.

“Woo is in essence a spirit, a Dream-Time entity,” suggested Weari-Wyingga, partly using his 90-plus years of wisdom and partly guessing. “In our world, he has physical form, which he needs to exterminate his victims ....”

He paused for a few seconds before adding, “Perhaps if you can call him right up into the tube of the didgeridoo itself, you can force him to return to his spirit state. In which he has no claws and is no more than lethal smoke.”

“But how we force him to return to spirit state against his will, if he don’t want to?” asked Alex.

Weari-Wyingga considered for a moment before suggesting, “Maybe we don’t have to? Maybe if he cannot resist the call of the didgeridoo, his need to enter the tube will be so great that he will transform into smoke-state, so he can enter the tube.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Roger Gardigardi, sounding sceptical.

Weari-Wyingga started to reply to Roger, then stopped. He swivelled round toward the blue gum grove again, just as Woo came bounding back into the circular clearing, shrieking, “Woo-oo-oo!” in demented rage at the way that he had been treated by the tribe over the last few days.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrilled the demon again as it whooshed like an angry wind across the clearing, kangaroo-hopping.

All of the tribe, except the musicians, turned and fled toward the opposite side of the corroboree ground. One or two of the younger braves even turned and fled out through the small gap in the blue gum grove. Abandoning the corroboree before completion, in violation of Aboriginal custom.

“Now, dammit, now!” ordered Weari-Wyingga. And on the command, the six didgeridooists lifted their instruments and began to play. But in their excitement, two musicians played the calling tune, while Thomas Jabir and the others played the sending music.

“Woo-oo-oo!” boomed Woo, almost as loud as thunder. He leapt across to the two musicians, who were calling him.

“No, you’re playing the wrong ...!” Weari-Wyingga shouted in warning.

But too late. Before the two men had time to realise their mistake, Woo reached them. Swinging his crystal-sheer talons, the demon slashed across the throat of one young musician, neatly decapitating him. His severed head flew across the clearing for a few seconds, bouncing like a basketball.

Garbarla had to gulp to fight down the rising bile as he watched the head bouncing.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrieked the demon in glee. Leaping across to the second musician, it slashed its claws deep into the young man’s face, one claw sinking right through the pulp of his left eyeball. All five claws sank through to the grey matter of the man’s brain.

“Oh Jesus!” cried Garbarla from shock and dismay. But no one corrected him for calling on the god of his white father, instead of Gurugadji, the god of his tribe -- as they usually did.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrieked the demon again. Obviously delighted at the terror that it had caused, it puckered its tube-like lips up into a very human shit-eater grin.

Before it could advance on the rest of the tribe, though, the power of the sending tune began to control it again.

The music was weakened by the loss of two of the six didgeridooists. But Thomas Jabir’s masterly playing as leader of the small group was sufficient to send the demon slow-motion hopping back toward the blue gum grove.

‘But how much longer can we keep doing this?’ wondered Garbarla. ‘Eventually that monster will break free of the grip of the music, unless we find some way to seal it into the didgeridoo! But how?’

So lost was Garbarla in thought that he didn’t realise at first that he was being called.

“Garbarla! Garbarla!” the soft voice finally broke through his thoughts. Looking round, he saw Weari-Wyingga wagging a finger to call him over.

Garbarla ran across to where Roger Gardigardi and buck-toothed Alex Jalburgul Gul were already deep in whispered discussion with old Weari-Wyingga.

“Go with Alex and Roger,” instructed the old man.

“Outside the corroboree?” asked Garbarla, astonished. Although a few young men had run away during Woo’s recent attack, Garbarla knew that it was frowned upon to leave the blue gum grove midway through a corroboree. “Won’t it anger ...” He almost said “The Gods,” but changed it in time to “Gurugadji, if we leave midway through the ceremony?”

Weari-Wyingga shrugged almost diffidently. “Can’t be helped. Go with Alex and Roger to Mount Russell.”

“Mount Russell?” repeated Garbarla. However, Weari-Wyingga did not explain further. So, puzzled, Garbarla turned and started toward the entrance/exit with Roger and Alex.

At their departure, most of the other men turned to watch them. Garbarla sensed that most of them longed to go after them. But he knew that having resisted the temptation to join the panicked flight earlier, they would not now risk being accused of cowardice.

Mount Russell was less than three kilometres from the blue gum grove. Alex, Roger, and Garbarla were all young and fit, so they should have been able to make the journey in less than half an hour. However, seeing Alex and Roger take off like whippets from the starting gate, Garbarla knew that they were taking no chances.

Despite the haste, Garbarla could not resist looking around to the right, toward the native village, less than a hundred metres from the corroboree ground. And he was shocked to see the squat figure of Woo standing glaring after them. Although the calling music had started again, the demon stood its ground, refusing to start back into the grove.

Then the calling music suddenly increased in volume. Shrilling “Woo-oo-oo!” in rage, the demon finally started back into the corroboree ground.

“Whew!” sighed Garbarla in relief. Turning, he started after the sound of Alex and Roger, who had already vanished from sight into the surrounding forest of wattles, pines, blue-, red-, lemon-scented-, and grey-white ghost gums.


Mount Russell is sacred to the Aborigines of Garbarla’s tribe for two reasons. Firstly, for a great gaping black hole on one side, a hundred metres up from the base. Aboriginal legend told of how Gurugadji, the Emu-Man, had once exacted vengeance upon white miners desecrating the mountain, by taking a great bite out of the mount, swallowing the earth and miners alike. Gurugadji’s Bite was on the western side of the mountain, furthest from the village. The second reason for Mount Russell’s importance to the tribe was a deep clay mine on the eastern side.


“Here,” said Alex, smiling a buck-toothed smile at him.

Garbarla reached out for the proffered gift and received a large handful of cold, slimy, yellow clay.

“Find something to carry it in,” suggested Roger Gardigardi, as the rain began to fall again. This time, a little more heavily than over the last few days.

“Okay,” said Garbarla. Turning, he ran back out onto the mountain and hunted through the forest till finding some large, flat stones. The stones were partly caked in dried clay, suggesting that they had been used previously to dig the ochre.

“All right, let’s go,” said Roger less than five minutes later. Holding the clay-covered stones sloping toward themselves for fear of dropping the precious ochre, the three men started back toward the village at a run.


As they ran, the rain steadily increased. Until they had to use their bodies to shield the clay for fear of it becoming too soggy. By the time that they reached the sweet-smelling eucalyptus grove that ringed the corroboree ground, all three Aborigines were frozen to the bone, shivering, their teeth chattering loudly.

Inside the blue gum grove, they were astonished to see Weari-Wyingga seated beside the other musicians playing one of the didgeridoos. ‘That’s how they managed to pull Woo back into the groove after he almost broke free earlier!’ realised Garbarla. ‘Weari-Wyingga gave the musicians added pull to drag the demon into the grove!’

With the return of Garbarla, Alex, and Roger, Weari-Wyingga explained what he intended: “To call Woo up into a didgeridoo, then seal both ends with ochre.”

“Will ochre hold it?” asked Garbarla.

Weari-Wyingga shrugged. “No way to know till we try,” he pointed out. “But ochre has been used by Aborigines in sacred rituals for many millennia because it is one of the purest, least polluted substances known. If anything on this Earth can hold that demon in a didgeridoo, maybe ochre can.”

The next problem was who would risk sacrificing himself to try calling the demon right up into the didgeridoo.

“Me,” said Weari-Wyingga emphatically, unused to having his word questioned. “At ninety-three years of age, I have the least to lose.”

“But you aren’t as skilled at playing the calling tune as me,” protested Thomas Jabir.

The argument continued for another ten minutes. But finally it was agreed that Thomas Jabir would make the attempt to call Woo up into his didgeridoo.

‘Well, here goes nothing!’ thought Garbarla as Thomas Jabir and the others began to play the calling tune for -- they all hoped -- one final time.

Fortunately, the rain had died down to a trickle, so that the misery of the watching men was not increased.

While Thomas Jabir played, Alex Jalburgul Gul and Roger Gardigardi knelt nervously beside him. Each warrior clasped two large handfuls of rich ochre clay to attempt to plug the ends of the didgeridoo to seal the demon inside the wooden pipe.

‘Assuming that Woo will even enter the didgeridoo!’ thought Garbarla. ‘And assuming that he doesn’t instantly zoom down the tube to disappear down Thomas Jabir’s throat, before the clay can be used to seal the didgeridoo,’ he realised, hesitant even to think it. ‘Also, assuming that the pure clay is the right substance to use to seal Woo into the instrument!’

For a moment, it seemed that the plan would fail simply because Woo ignored the calling tune this time.

‘Where can he be?’ wondered Garbarla. Listening, he realised that there was no sound of rustling from the blue gum grove -- either coming or going -- and wondered, ‘Has he finally managed to break free from the pull of the calling music to massacre the women and children back at the village?’

Then, finally, Woo re-emerged from the eucalyptus grove. But not from in front of Thomas Jabir and the didgeridooists as before. This time, Woo broke through behind the musicians. And also behind Garbarla and the other warriors, many of whom took off for the exit, despite shouted warnings from Weari-Wyingga.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrilled the demon as it leapt from the trees toward them.

Even Garbarla instinctively ran to one side to escape the shrieking demon. Although, like most of the others, he did not give in to his natural instincts to flee the grove in mid-corroboree.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrieked Woo louder than ever before, as though determined to terrify away the Aborigines this time.

As he had over the last two days, Woo managed to partly resist the calling tune, pulling back against it even as inexorably he moved toward it -- hopping in slo-mo as through bounding through a great pool of maple syrup.

Obviously, having difficulty resisting the temptation to spin round, the musicians kept playing the soulful music. And despite his howling “Woo-oo-oo!” in protest, the demon continued slowly round the ceremonial fire until he stood before the five didgeridooists.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrieked the demon in protest as it continued toward the five men.

‘It has to be drawn slowly toward Thomas Jabir!’ thought Garbarla. And as he thought it, the other musicians stopped playing to allow Thomas to capture the creature.

Instantly, the demon broke free from the pull of the calling music. For a second, it propped as though to leap toward Thomas Jabir to bury its claws deep within his brain. Then, instead, howling in glee, it span round and kangaroo-hopped back toward the blue gum grove, scattering the watching Aborigines every which way.

“Start playing! Start playing!” ordered Weari-Wyingga. He and the other musicians began playing the calling tune again.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrilled the demon in anger, stopped by the call of the music less than a metre from the eucalyptus trees. For a second, the demon struggled like a falling man desperately trying to claw across to a passing balcony just outside his reach. But finally, howling its rage, he turned and bounded back toward the musicians.

Seeing what Weari-Wyingga had in mind, Garbarla, Alex Jalburgul Gul, Roger Gardigardi and a few other young men raced across to help.

While the musicians continued to play, Roger helped Thomas Jabir move his didgeridoo a few metres forward, closer to Woo. Then Garbarla and the other warriors helped Weari-Wyingga and the other musicians to line up as close behind Thomas as possible. So that, although all five didgeridooists would be playing, there would only be one instrument that Woo could head toward.

“Now, where’s the clay?” asked Garbarla.

Looking startled, having obviously forgotten the ochre, Alex and Roger furiously looked around. Sighting the round stones with the clay on them, they raced over to collect them. Then, not a second too soon, they returned as Woo got within a metre of Thomas Jabir’s didgeridoo.

‘Here goes nothing!’ thought Garbarla as Woo bounded toward Thomas Jabir.

For a second, it seemed that the demon would manage to resist the allure of the music. Then, shrieking “Woo-oo-oo!” again, it began to smoke and transform from its physical form into a yellowy mist, like a genie returning to its bottle in Arabian legends.

“Woo-oo-oo!” shrieked the demon one final time. Then the mist began to swirl up the tip of the didgeridoo, like cigarette smoke in reverse, heading slowly up toward the Aboriginal musician.

‘Now comes the tricky part!’ thought Garbarla, as Alex and Roger poised, ready to seal the ends with the yellow ochre clay.

Garbarla half-expected Woo to materialise out of the top of the didgeridoo to slaughter Thomas Jabir or disappear down his throat. But, moving like two halves of one being, Alex and Roger leapt forward and rammed the clay into place, securely sealing Woo inside the didgeridoo.

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