The Vision

By H.L. Smyth

When Warram's mother dies he is forced to begin training to become a Keeper, a role passed down from father to son, but Warram is more interested in becoming a warrior. When Alison is brought back from the future by Warram's father to explain the meaning of a vision that haunted his deceased wife, Warram's dream might  come true, but his world is about to change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H. Smyth
• Release date: Sep 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201012366

H.L. Smyth

Born in Burnie, Tasmania. After leaving school, Helen worked at the mill until she saved enough to leave Tasmania in order to explore the mainland, and the world. She worked in a variety of menial jobs until entering university as a  mature age student, eventually becoming a teacher. Although now living in Queensland, she returns to Tasmania once or twice a year to visit family.

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Chapter 1

On the wild, west coast of Awalap where days without wind were few, and mighty seas constantly pounded against the kelp clinging tenaciously to the rocky shore, a low keening sound permeated the air. The sound, unlike that of any sea bird, rose from a clearing behind the dunes where the remains of a great fire blackened the earth. A child coated in grey ash sat alongside the scarred ground gently rocking back and forth in time with his lament. His dark eyes, swollen with tears overflowed onto his cheeks carving black rivers as they rolled through the ash before dropping from his chin onto the earth. The chanting of the spirit songs that echoed through the night were gone, along with the singers, leaving only the boy and his father to their grief. Atook, Keeper of the wind clan and the boy’s father moved slowly through the ashes collecting handfuls, gently sifting them through his fingers, searching for the few bones that survived the flames. Later, he would thread them onto a cord of sinew to wear around his neck in remembrance of his wife and the girl child, both lost to him. Along with his memories they would be all that remained to him, for even their names would not be spoken again in his lifetime. Like the ashes from the funeral pyre that he and his son would wear for many days, even beyond the time of mourning, their names would disappear into the realm of time past, a time never to be reclaimed. 

Come. Atook signalled to the boy with a sharp jerk of his head.

Warram looked up at the sound of his father’s voice, and ceased his keening. He stood, and followed his father. They travelled for the remainder of that day, moving silently along paths unfamiliar to the boy until they reached a bark shelter standing on the brow of a hill and overlooking the sea. It was not a place known to the boy. His days were spent with his mother and the other women and children of the clan, foraging for roots and berries in the forest or searching along the shore for shellfish. The shelter was the domain of his father, a distant outline sometimes visible from the beach. A place from where, when the wind was in the right direction, aromatic smoke and the sound of distant chanting drifted across the land.

When very young and Warram first heard the chants he asked his mother. What are these strange words that my father speaks?

They are the words of his calling. His mother would say. Your father, as Keeper of our clan maintains a position of great honour. One that you too will follow when the time is right.

Since his birth Warram’s mother often spoke to him of the high standing inherent in his father’s position, and how his bloodline also determined his future. However, the wisdom of his five winters did not allow Warram to either fully comprehend his mother’s words or desire his birthright. As he watched the other boys throwing stones and sticks, practising the skills that prepared them for their future as hunters, Warram thought that would be a much more exciting life than his father’s. But the death of his mother signalled the beginning of his new life; the boy must put away his childhood dreams and commence the training that would enable him to follow in his father’s footsteps. 

MANY YEARS PASSED AND once his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light inside his father’s hut, and he began to untangle the maze of ochre images covering its walls he accepted that this was to be his world, his destiny was preordained. Many nights and days were spent learning the ways of his forefathers and the secrets of the Knowing, the words of Truganon, passed down over the ages from father to son. Warram listened to the chanting of the old stories and studied their symbols recognising the meaning contained within their patterns. Of all the lessons he learned the one that remained strongest in his mind was the secret of the symbols, and whenever his father drew them in the sand his understanding grew. Warram’s fingers could recreate them at will, and therein lay his greatest strength as the symbols were for conversing with the spirits and on most days he was content.

However, Warram’s mind would sometimes grow restless and turn to other things, especially after long sessions of learning and chanting, and on those days when his father led him into the forests and the swamps to collect herbs and roots, a chore Warram thought more rightly belonged to women and girls. It was at those times that he dreamed of hunting with the other boys, of tracking the elusive grey hoppers and the climbing mussops that hid in the tree tops. His father, aware of Warram’s childhood dream always sensed when his son’s mind drifted away from his teachings, and would murmur these words of wisdom. You cannot escape your destiny. 

Usually Warram would merely smile at his father and return to his task, remembering his mother’s words, reminding him that it was a son’s duty to learn from his father, but one day when weary of learning he said, Father, did you never dream of another way? Do you not tire of this solitary life, and the continuous chanting by the fire?

Atook, surprised by his son’s comments was about to reply as usual with the oft repeated words, you cannot escape your destiny, but seeing the discontent on Warram’s face he relented.

Yes, he admitted. When young, like you I dreamed of the hunt. Then seeing the curiosity dawn on his son’s face he continued. Your mother was a woman wise beyond her years. She was the daughter of a Keeper from the oyster clan. Their lands are far from here, where mother sun is first welcomed each day, but we were promised to one another at a gathering of clans when still too young to wander from our shelter. Many seasons passed before we walked around the fire together in the mating ceremony but an immediate and fierce bond was forged between us. It was she who persuaded me to be content with my destiny as a Keeper, convincing me that it was the life I must lead.

Warram considered his father’s words for some time before responding, I did not know that mother was the daughter of a Keeper or the name of her clan.

Atook smiled and gazed fondly upon his son. The time of his initiation was growing near. He had learned much over the seasons but until now they had not spoken of his lineage. Memories of his wife still evoked sadness in him and he was reluctant to talk about her, but the boy should know of his mother. Without thinking his hand reached for the well-worn bones hanging from his neck, caressing them as he continued his story. As you know, a female cannot be a Keeper, but the blood of a Keeper ran through your mother’s veins and sometimes the wisdom of the ancestors came to her in dreams, and the dream she spoke of most often was that of a dark vision, a coming that foretold the end of our world. Atook’s eyes closed for a moment, remembering the despair reflected in her eyes whenever she mentioned the vision and his mind became swamped with images of