The Witchdoctor's Curse

By Richard G Tomkies

This novel was originally published under the title “Valley of the Damned” in 2005 and was the second of my books originally published.
Those who read the original book, have all, without exception, given it most favorable reviews. In this New Edition, the title and the cover image have been changed since the original did not exemplify the story to any great degree, thus I felt, did not do the book justice and this reflected in the novel’s sales to some degree. A great deal has also been added to the story as well as illustrations applicable to the yarn. Although the story has a supernatural theme it gives the reader some indication of life in rural Queensland in the nineteenth century as well as a small insight into the beliefs and powers of the traditional Kaidaicha or witch-doctor which the Australian Aborigine is said to believe and understand. It is to this end that I have endeavored to portray some of these traditional beliefs of the early Australian Aborigine in this book.
In the white man’s culture there are many who fervently believe in the supernatural as well, and in this I have attempted to incorporate both beliefs into this story.Set approximately in the north-western part of Queensland in the 1880s, the principal town around which the story revolves, Collinstown, is purely fictitious although its character and style is typical of many rural towns in outback Australia. Many of the characters are based on people whom I have met over the years, thus providing them with more realism.
The story portrays a settler, Bill Conway, his wife and young son who unwittingly build their home on a piece of land on their vast cattle station, but it is on a parcel of land which happens to be sacred to the local Aborigines, thus incurring the wrath of the tribal witchdoctor, or Kaidaicha.
Ignoring the warnings and threats of the Kaidaicha as ignorant superstition, Bill continues farming with disastrous consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard G Tomkies
• Release date: Jan 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310466472

Richard G Tomkies

Former journalist and entrepreneur Richard Tomkies traveled the world and immigrated to Canada and lived briefly in the United States where he has many connections. Now residing in the northern tropical part of Australia where he spends most of his time researching and writing books. His first book, "Cannibals' Gold" first published in 2000 and after being reprinted a number of times was rewritten and added to and is in it's 5th Edition, becoming a best seller. It even came to the attention of a TV producer who has stated that the story would make a great mini series.The fourth,"Aussie Outback Yarns" is a book of short stories, many of which are humorous and mostly factual, although some may have been stretched a little in the telling - but they all make for great reading! More books have since been added, including two non fiction books, - "Captured...The True Story of the Crew of the Ill-Fated Schooner, Nightingale" and "True Stories of Early Australia," both of which are being very well received by their readers. The author is always pleased to hear from his many readers and appreciates their critiques. Simply email him at:- [e-mail] or visit his website www.aussiebooksite.com

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The Witchdoctor’s Curse

By Richard G. Tomkies

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 Richard G. Tomkies

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This e-Book is licensed for your enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this e-Book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Published by Australianabooks at Smashwords.com 2016

Here’s what some readers have said about this book:

In The Witchdoctor’s Curse the author takes us on a most intriguing journey through generations of early outback farmers who have the misfortune of falling foul of Aboriginal witchcraft, and have, somehow, to rid themselves of this mysterious, untouchable, but dangerous power…Brian A., New South Wales, Australia

"The Witchdoctor’s Curse by Richard Tomkies, is definitely worth the read! -It grips you from start to finish – superbly written.…Melissa T., Qld. Australia

"I really enjoyed The Witchdoctor’s Curse – it is a step up again from Cannibals’ Gold. For instance, where John entered the old house – it raised the hairs on my neck!"…Rob T., Wellington, New Zealand

"A great read – I thoroughly enjoyed it, even though it’s a bit spooky in places!"…Jenny W., Cairns, Australia

©Copyright 2016 Richard G. Tomkies

ABOUT THIS BOOK.

This novel was originally published under the title Valley of the Damned in 2005 and was the second of my books originally published.

Those who read the original book, have all, without exception, gave it most favorable reviews. In this Second Edition, the title and the cover image has been changed since the original did not exemplify the story to any great amount, thus I felt, did not do the book justice and this reflected in the novel’s sales to some degree. Much has also been added to the story as well as illustrations applicable to the yarn.

Although the story is a work of fiction, many of the characters in the book have been based various people I have met in my travels throughout rural Australia, although names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect anonymity.

Set approximately in the north-western part of Queensland in the 1880s, the principal town around which the story revolves, Collinstown, is purely fictitious although its character and style is typical of many rural towns in outback Australia.

The story portrays a settler, Bill Conway, his wife and young son who unwittingly build their home on a piece of land on their vast cattle station, but it is on a parcel of land which happens to be sacred to the local Aborigines, thus incurring the wrath of the tribal witchdoctor, or Kaidaicha.

Ignoring the warnings and threats of the Kaidaicha as ignorant superstition, Bill continues farming with disastrous consequences.

As the title indicates, the story has a supernatural theme and gives the reader some indication of life in rural Queensland in the nineteenth century as well as a small insight into the beliefs and powers of the traditional Kaidaicha or witch-doctor which the Australian Aborigine is said to believe and understand. Even today, the Kaidaicha – sometimes referred to a Featherfoot on account of the traditional footwear, which are constructed of feathers in order to prevent leaving foot prints – is held in fear and immense superstition by a great many Aborigines especially those living in rural communities.

The Kaidaicha, especially in the early days, was believed by the Aborigine, to hold great powers not readily understood or even appreciated by many white people even today. For example, a Kaidaicha who pointed a bone at another Aborigine would surely invoke the recipient’s death – despite modern white man’s medical intervention – such was the immense power of this medicine man. That a traditional Kaidaicha could, at will, turn into a crow is scoffed by white man, but the Aborigines of earlier times believed in this and many other of his mysterious powers, which to most white folk was simply superstitious nonsense.

It is to this end that I have endeavored to portray some of these traditional beliefs of the early Australian Aborigine in this book.

In the white man’s culture there are many who fervently believe in the supernatural as well, and in this I have attempted to incorporate both beliefs into this story.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Richard G. Tomkies is a former journalist whose passion is reading and writing books, particularly with an Australasian theme. Although having lived in Canada, where he immigrated as a young man and has close ties to the United States, he now lives in tropical North Queensland, Australia, where he finally immigrated in the early 70s‘ with his wife and four children. To date he has published some seven books in print with a several more to follow.

CHAPTER ONE

KARGARU…THE WITCH DOCTOR

High on the side of a mountain, outside a small cave, Kargaru the Kadaicha, or Aboriginal witchdoctor, sat in his customary cross-legged position under a large overhanging rock. This was his home for a greater part of the year. From here he could look across the sacred valley of the Dreamtime, the ancestral home of the Wollumbimbi tribe. The hot Australian summer sun beat mercilessly down from a cloudless blue sky. High above, a wedge-tailed eagle soared, its sharp eyes ever on the lookout for its next meal. A small lizard, its tail flicking languidly, took refuge from the intense heat in the shade of a large rock.

At the sloping base of the high hill stood old and gnarled gum trees, their grey branches reaching tall. Their leaves, which normally provided shelter to myriads of birds, now strangely absent, drooped in the fierce heat.

Nothing stirred; even the cicadas had ceased their constant trilling as though in anticipation of something untoward.

Had he wished, Kargaru could have looked out over the distant plain of tall brown grass, sparsely dotted with eucalypt trees, the land scorched now by the relentless sun. But today his concentration was centered on a small fire that burned at his feet. The usual summer rains had been late and the parched land was beginning to suffer from the effects of the prolonged drought. However, all of this was secondary to the scrawny and nearly naked man crouched by the fire.

The dark, fathomless eyes of the witchdoctor glittered under hooded lids, his creased black face intense as he chanted in a high-pitched monotone. From time to time he sprinkled into the dancing orange flames something from a small animal-skin pouch – immediately the flickering flames changed color accompanied by a small puff of white smoke. Squatting cross-legged on the sun-heated ground, Kargaru was old for an Aborigine, his almost black, leathery skin reflecting his actual age which nobody knew for sure. Beside him on the ground was a woven grass bag which held his ‘magic’ shoes – footwear made from human hair and emu feathers all woven together and held in place with human blood. This footwear, when he wore them, would leave no visible tracks on the ground. Also in his bag among other prized and secret possessions, was a long, thin bone of human origin, almost six inches long, pointed at one end, and the other end had a hole drilled through it and held a tuft of emu feathers. It was ‘this instrument of death’ that could cause the demise of any individual who he deemed must die, along with a particular chant, used when the Kadaicha kneeled down on one knee, the death bone held on out-stretched arm and pointed towards the victim, who always died an agonizing and mysterious death soon after.

His gray hair, with small bird feathers inserted into the greasy locks, matched the color of his straggly beard which grew down to his initiated scarred chest. Kargaru’s knowledge and his use of his magic powers were immense. He and his supernatural abilities were held in high esteem by members of his tribe as they had traditionally been observed for nigh on 40,000 years.

Picking up a long stick, the old medicine man threw it onto the rocky ground and suddenly the stick was transformed into a venomous snake, its body slithering quickly into the shade of some nearby rocks, to pause momentarily, its beady eyes unblinking as its forked tongue, flicking, tested the air. With a deft movement, the witchdoctor grabbed the snake behind its head, briefly holding the writhing creature at arm’s length above the fire. He shook it, and instantly the reptile became a stick once more. The man then pointed towards the blue sky above, his chanting increasing in intensity, while the bone and feather amulet around his thin, wrinkled arm rattled as he shook the stick. Suddenly, high above, black thunderhead clouds began to form as if by magic, roiling up quickly and growing larger, the ominous grey masses intensifying by the minute. Almost immediately, vivid bolts of lightning began to flicker from the base of the dark clouds.

The valley below had been sacred to the Aborigines of the area for hundreds of years and was their special hunting ground. Kargaru was considered the guardian of the Dreamtime and this particular sacred valley below. Kargaru’s powers were proof enough to the nomadic Aboriginal people. Sitting watching the developing storm, Kargaru was remembering a particular vision he had had of white ghost-like people violating his sacred valley. His memory covered aeons of time but nothing like this had occurred before. His rage knew no bounds; he would repel those who dared to trespass on the ancient and forbidden land of the Wollumbimbi people’s ancestors…

A sharp crack from a jagged bolt of lightning preceded an immense clap of thunder, reverberating around the mountain. A sudden gust of wind picked up leaves and dirt from the sunburnt ground and scattered hot ash and sparks from the fire across the rocky terrain, heavy drops of rain beginning to beat down, heralding an imminent and violent downpour. Suddenly, a black crow flew up from beside the hissing fire, its discordant cawing accompanied by another clap of thunder … Kargaru had mysteriously disappeared.

CHAPTER TWO

BILL CONWAY, GRAZIER

The heat from the early morning sun burned relentlessly from the cloudless blue sky, but although it did not have quite the ferocity of the recent tropical North Queensland summer heat, it was sufficient to cause the sweat to run down Bill Conway’s back. Reining up his brown mare, Tuscany, under the scant shade of an ironbark tree, the big, bearded grazier removed his wide-brimmed felt hat and wiped beads of sweat from his face with a sleeved arm. Bluey, his faithful cattle dog, flopped down in the welcome shade, his tongue lolling to one side, panting heavily in an effort to keep cool.

Leaning over, Bill unclipped a waterbag from his saddle and drank deeply of the cool water before dismounting to pour some into his up-turned hat, offering it to the mare who nuzzled his hand in anticipation before sucking the last available mouthfuls of the precious liquid. He did the same for Bluey who lapped thirstily. Refilling the hat Bill offered it once more to Tuscany – it wasn’t much, but enough until they reached their destination.

The rider and his mount had been traveling some three hours from the Mountain Valley Station homestead. They had another two to go. Looking about him, the tall, well-built grazier swung back into the saddle. He and Tuscany were atop a tree-covered ridge, which towered several hundred feet above the open grassland below. Surveying a small part of his two-hundred-square-mile property, Bill Conway was filled with a sense of pride, for he and his wife Elizabeth had worked hard and suffered many hardships over the last decade to develop this property with its fertile land. The excellent grazing it provided carried a fine but relatively small herd of Hereford cattle.

His blue eyes gazed from a strong and sun-tanned face, small creases appearing at the corners as he squinted against the late afternoon sun which disappeared fleetingly behind wisps of straggly cloud…this land had taken ten years out of his thirty-five to get to this established point, he thought. However, he and Elizabeth still had a long way to go and now they had a son and heir, William David Jnr, just six months old and growing fast. His hopes for the future were that young William would one day be able to take over this property and develop it even further.

Clucking softly with his tongue, he gently nudged the mare’s flanks with booted heels to which Tuscany responded willingly, setting off at a fast trot. Bill sat easily in the saddle; accustomed to riding many miles every day, he held the reins loosely in one hand. The mare was as one with her master and reacted quickly to each and every little knee pressure or softly spoken command. At her heels loped Bluey, easily keeping up with his master and horse. They were headed for the wide, slow-flowing river that crossed the southern boundary of Mountain Valley Station. Here Bill would camp the night after checking the boundary fence and a small mob of some of his cattle. They never traveled far from water, as there was plenty of good grazing in that area, the new fence forming the perimeter of an approximate five-hundred-acre paddock helped contain a mob of yearlings to this relatively small area. The recent good season had ensured the yearlings had put on condition. Not that Bill had a close or ready market, but he had heard that beef was fetching a tidy sum further north on the goldfields. However, he’d have to drive his cattle a long way to get them there, and in the early 1880s, that was a dangerous thing to do, since the wild Aborigines who inhabited the region made traveling, alone especially, an extremely hazardous undertaking.

However, he’d had little trouble with the natives in this area. He thought himself lucky that the tribes that dwelt in the land in the region of Mountain Valley had been reasonably friendly. Maybe, he thought, that had to do with the way he treated them. One or two men, like Murrumba and Jacky, had been persuaded to help him on the station, even though he had had to supply their tribe with beef and a few luxuries like tomahawks, salt and even some tobacco on occasion. Unlike a neighbor, old Tom Jenkins, whose homestead was some 150 miles away and who had had trouble with wild blacks spearing and killing his cattle, Bill had not had any problems with the Aborigines on his land over the last few years. However, he always carried a heavy Snider rifle in its saddle scabbard, and Colt revolver at his waist. One never knew when a firearm would be needed in this country, even if it were not for protection from hostile Aborigines.

Later that afternoon, after checking on his cattle while they trooped slowly down to the billabong for their evening drink, Bill prepared to make camp on a flat and grassy site near the water’s edge – just as he had done on many a previous occasion. Here, the river curved in a wide sweeping bend, the banks lined with graceful weeping ti-trees and paperbark gums. The ti-tree fronds trailed in the deep dark water. This was the home to several species of good-eating fish, like the popular yellow-belly, and the shy black bream. A meal of either always made a welcome change to the traditional diet of salted beef.

Bill gathered some dry firewood for his campfire after hobbling Tuscany, who then wandered off to graze on the long grass – lush after several months of summer rains. In no time he had the fire going and, wandering down to the river’s edge just a few feet away, he filled his well-used and blackened billycan to hang over the flames. While he was waiting for the water to boil to make a brew of tea, Bill spent a few minutes throwing a baited hook and line into the nearby deep billabong, or water-hole. It was a good way to spend a few quiet minutes before having a meal, he thought. He usually got lucky with a decent catch of fish, and this time was no exception; within a few minutes he’d caught a number of pan-sized black bream. One or two, he considered, were big enough to take home on the morrow after first salting them well.

Having finished his meal of fried fish and damper, Bill settled back on his bed-roll to enjoy the freshly brewed black billy tea from his favorite, battered enamel mug. He reached into a pocket pulling out a well-worn tobacco pouch into which he placed the bowl of his beloved briar pipe. Filling it with the dark and aromatic contents, he tamped down the shredded tobacco dexterously with a work-callused index finger before lighting it with a burning twig from the fire. Giving it a couple of good puffs, he glanced at the pipe, and, satisfied it was burning properly, gave a contented grunt and settled back. He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back against a paperbark tree to watch the last of the setting sun’s rays set fire to the western sky, filling it with streaks of red, gold and yellow, promising another fine March day, while his thoughts turned towards his home and his wife and young son. There was much he could do to improve their living conditions, he thought to himself…perhaps he might be able to persuade, Murrumba, one of the men of the local tribe to help him with enlarging their vegetable garden or improving their slab and bark hut. The man always seemed keen to help and Bill had noticed that Murrumba’s pidgin English was quickly improving. It crossed Bill’s mind that the local Wollumbimbi tribe should be encouraged to become more westernized.

A frown creased Bill’s brow as he recalled how one of his neighbors had related to him the methods of dealing with Aborigines who were considered ‘troublesome.’ Many graziers in this new country were actively engaged in ‘dispersing’ the original inhabitants – it was an euphemism currently in vogue to describe the wholesale slaughter of Aboriginal tribes being helped in no small way by the so-called ‘Native Police’ or Aboriginal Troopers under the command of a white officer, originating from New South Wales. Bill was determined that he would use more friendly tactics to gain the local tribes’ confidence and co-operation. However, it concerned Bill somewhat that the tribal witch-doctor, whom they referred to as a Kadaicha, appeared to have more sway over them than he would have liked. The man was definitely hostile towards the Conways, more especially since Bill had built their hut on the selection of ground close to a nearby stream.

CHAPTER THREE

LIZ CONWAY, WIFE AND MOTHER

Elizabeth Conway bustled about the two-roomed slab-and-bark hut that she and her husband had built and made their home, and which stood not far from the edge of a small tree-lined creek filled with excellent and permanent water. She had just finished feeding young William Jnr; although he’d only just begun to have some solid food, she intended to breastfeed the baby for quite some time yet. Elizabeth sat him in his handmade cot while she prepared herself a meal.

Brushing a strand of blonde hair away from her face, Elizabeth bent down to light a fire in the fireplace at one end of the room serving as kitchen and living quarters. Young William’s cot was placed against a wall to the side, there being insufficient space in their bedroom, which had been added to the original, one-roomed rustic bush hut.

The floor of the small hut was made from ant-bed, the honeycombed and clay-like dirt that the termites made into their so-called anthills. Packed hard, it was swept clean with a straw broom every day. A heavy wooden table and three chairs occupied the center of the room, the table also serving as a kitchen workbench. Top-hung wooden shutters pushed up from the bottom and held open with a stick did duty as windows, and allowed for any cool breeze to flow through the small building.

Elizabeth stood up, smoothing her hands across her apron, glancing as she did so in a small mirror leaning against the crude mantelpiece above the mud-brick fireplace. Despite the harsh conditions of the Queensland outback, her face remained unlined and although well-tanned, her skin belied her twenty-eight years. Her blue eyes were clear and direct. Taking some hairpins from her hair, she picked up a tortoiseshell-backed brush that lay beside the mirror. The brush had been a present to her from her late mother when she had married Bill. Clasping the pins in her mouth, she proceeded to brush her shoulder-length hair, tying it back with the aid of a length of blue ribbon, before replacing the hairpins.

After satisfying herself that William was contented, she picked up a wooden water pail with which she collected fresh water each evening from the stream behind the hut and marched purposefully down to the water. A worn path ran down to the stream that had been dammed to form a deep pool, shaded by large trees, some fifty yards away. To one side of the path was a well-tended garden, which supplied most of the vegetable needs of the family, especially during the cooler months of the year. Bill had built a sturdy picket fence around the garden to keep out marauding wallabies, kangaroos and other pests. An old water barrel in the nearest corner was kept filled to supply the garden needs, and beyond the garden was a hen house, large enough to accommodate a dozen laying chickens. These were lorded over by Angus, a magnificent black rooster who jealously guarded his flock from any intruders and that included his human keepers.

Hefting the full pail of fresh water back to the hut, Elizabeth stopped to check the new seedlings that were beginning to emerge from the freshly dug soil in her garden. The setting sun was allowing the last light of the day to cool a little. Idly