Chapter 1

The University of New England “was founded in 1938, at first as a college of the University of Sydney, but then in its own right in 1954. The UNE contributes to Armidale’s position as a city of culture and diversity, with a vibrant artistic and cultural element. The university has strong links to the rural community, and undertakes a lot of agricultural research. There is also a high-technology presence, as well as notable humanities teaching.” - Wikipedia

“Did you get in trouble in Australian history again?” Tessa asked.

“Of course.”

“Did you make a gratuitous comment?”

“No. I asked a pertinent question.”

“Which was?”

“Why there was no mention in the assigned readings of the history of white massacres of native Australians.”

“And... ?”

“He said it wasn’t relevant and I said that the work of Lyndall Ryan and her colleagues seemed to indicate otherwise. I mentioned the Myall Creek Massacre in 1838, as that was here in NSW. He tried to brush Ryan off and I pointed out that not only was she well-known, but that she’s been elected to the Australian Academy of the Humanities. So he ended class early.”

“Why don’t you take a good book with you? Just sit and read.”

“I find it tough.”

“And how am I supposed to feel? The woman in beginning sociology the other day went on a tangent over ‘the inveterate alcoholism of the aborigine.’ And I just sat there.”

“I could bomb her car or slash her tires.”

“No. That’s exactly the wrong thing. Anyway, I’m supposed to be drunk and violent, you’re one of the masters.”

“Well, come and kiss your master.”

“OK.”

“I’m going to the Women’s Meeting at the Keeping Place next week.”

“Not at Oorala?”

“No, I’d rather not be limited to fellow students.”

“I’d like to go to at least one of the Men’s Meetings.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I’m not an aborigine.”

“I’d noticed. But you might ask. You might be admitted. Patrick is ‘known’ by several bands. You are ‘known’ by at least three or four. Go and ask.”

“Perhaps. There seem to be two women teaching interesting stuff. Anyway, I read another raven and eagle story,” Sam said. “But it’s labelled ‘crow’ and ‘hawk.’”

“Not unusual. I came across some stuff in which ‘hawk’ ‘eagle’ and ‘osprey’ were mixed up. If they’d call ‘osprey’ ‘fish hawk,’ it’d make more sense.”

“Anthropologists and folklorists are rarely into zoological taxonomy.”

“No,” Tessa said. “That’s why Levi-Strauss’ binaries work so well: raw and cooked, naked and clothed, honey and ashes. Anyway, what’s the story?”

One day, a crow and a hawk hunted together in the bush. After travelling together for some time, they decided to hunt in opposite directions, and, at the close of the day, to share whatever game they had caught. The crow travelled against the sun, and at noonday arrived at a broad lagoon which was the haunt of the wild ducks. The crow hid in the tall green reeds fringing the lagoon, and prepared to trap the ducks. First, he got some white clay, and, having softened it with water, placed two pieces in his nostrils. He then took a long piece of hollow reed through which he could breathe under water, and finally tied a net bag around his waist in which to place the ducks.

On the still surface of the lagoon, the tall gum trees were reflected like a miniature forest. The ducks, with their bronze plumage glistening in the sun, were swimming among the clumps of reeds, and only paused to dive for a tasty morsel hidden deep in the water weeds. The crow placed the reed in his mouth, and, without making any sound, waded into the water. He quickly submerged himself, and the only indication of his presence in the lagoon, was a piece of dry reed which projected above the surface of the water, and through which the crow was breathing. When he reached the centre of the water hole he remained perfectly still. He did not have to wait long for the ducks to swim above his head. Then, without making any sound or movement, he seized one by the leg, quickly pulled it beneath the water, killed it, and placed it in the net bag. By doing this, he did not frighten the other ducks, and, in a short time he had trapped a number of them. He then left the lagoon and continued on his way until he came to a river.

The crow was so pleased with his success at the waterhole, that he determined to spear some fish before he returned to his camp. He left the bag of ducks on the bank of the river, and, taking his fish spear, he waded into the river until the water reached his waist. Then he stood very still, with the spear poised for throwing. A short distance from the spot where he was standing, a slight ripple disturbed the calm surface of the water. With the keen eye of the hunter, he saw the presence of fish, and, with a swift movement of his arm, he hurled the spear, and his unerring aim was rewarded with a big fish. The water was soon agitated by many fish, and the crow took advantage of this to spear many more. With this heavy load of game, he turned his face towards home.

The hawk was very unfortunate in his hunting. He stalked a kangaroo many miles, and then lost sight of it in the thickly wooded hills. He then decided to try the river for some fish, but the crow had made the water muddy and frightened the fish, so again he was unsuccessful. At last the hawk decided to return to his gunyah with the hope that the crow would secure some food, which they had previously agreed to share. When the hawk arrived, he found that the crow had been there before him and had prepared and eaten his evening meal. He at once noticed that the crow had failed to leave a share for him. This annoyed the hawk, so he approached the crow and said: “I see you have had a good hunt to-day. I walked many miles but could not catch even a lizard. I am tired and would be glad to have my share of food, as we agreed this morning.”

“You are too lazy,” the crow replied. “You must have slept in the sun instead of hunting for food. Anyhow, I’ve eaten mine and cannot give you any.” This made the hawk very angry, and he attacked the crow. For a long time they struggled around the dying embers of the camp fire, until the hawk seized the crow and rolled him in the black ashes. When the crow recovered from the fight, he found that he could not wash the ashes off, and, since that time, crows have always been black. The crow was also punished for hiding the food which he could not eat by being condemned to live on putrid flesh. From: W. J. Thomas (1870 –1959), Some Myths and Legends of the Australian Aborigines [1923]

“That’s a good story,” Tessa remarked. “It tells us that promises must be kept. It explains why crows are black. It tells us not to be greedy. And it explains why crows eat carrion. Really good.”

“It’s also a version of the Good Samaritan.”

“I suppose so. In Luke, the neighbour figure in the parable is the man who shows mercy to the injured man. Here, the crow is like the priest or the Levite who reject him.”

“Do they talk about structuralism in sociology? It’s barely alluded to in my anthro.”

“No. It’s passe. Those guys are all dead. They don’t count.”