The Mystical Swagman. Gary Blinco
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was pleased enough, however, and took comfort in the presence of the small boy who was now about four years old and her only companion. Her husband had told her little of the child’s history, only that he had a secret and wonderful past, that he would inherit strange and mystical powers as he grew, and that these powers would begin to emerge when his age reached double figures. He did not tell her of the journal, and she was unclear over what she might share with the boy in the future.
The cheerful presence of the bright child and the love they shared eventually enabled her to overcome her grief at the loss of her husband. The comfortable cottage and the small income from her husband’s estate gave her confidence and hope as she watched the child grow. She would smile as she tucked Brennan into his little bed while he stared up at her with his bright blue eyes; then, settling down beside him, she would take up the storybook and begin to read to him. The boy would watch her wrinkled finger as she pointed while she read, following the words on the page until his eyes became heavy and at last he fell asleep.
Chapter
1
Brennan followed Aunt Ede reluctantly, hanging back a little as they pressed through the sea of people that crowded the wide bare earth of the street. A procession of heavily-laden wagons, sulkies and bright four-wheeled cabs jockeyed for space on the road with dozens of riders on horseback. People on pushbikes were forced to the safety of the footpath, drawing loud cries of protest from the pedestrians.
As smoke billowed from a thousand chimneys, the heavy aroma mingled with the smell of horse manure and the stench of rotting vegetable matter and other garbage piled on every street corner. Shopkeepers and hawkers plied their wares from dingy doorways, and hungry-looking barrow boys fought to out-spiel one another as they called out their bargains to the passing tide of humanity. This was a raw, new land, one that attracted people who were good, bad, and all shades in between. Some were running to a new life and opportunity, others were running away from shady pasts: all had hopes of making a fortune by means fair or foul.
This was Brennan’s first day of school and he did not want to go. After all, he could read and write better than anyone else he knew, and surely he could therefore learn all he needed to know from books.
He was not sure if Aunt Ede was aware of his reading skills, though. She was a complex old lady who often drifted off into a world of her own, living in her mind in another place and time. He had learned to read from Ede, perhaps without her even knowing it. For as long as he could remember, Ede had read to him as she put him to bed each night, following the words on the page with her gnarled old finger. Once he was put to bed and she began to read, he would snuggle against her breast until he had tucked himself protectively under her arm. His heart and body were warmed by the closeness of the old lady, his nostrils savoring the mustiness of fresh-baked bread on her apron and the sweet, clean smell of soap on her hands.
Ede was barely educated, and she read slowly enough that his eyes could focus on the letters under her finger. By listening carefully to the words she read, Brennan had quickly learned to read, until in a short period of time, he could glance at a page of print and record the words in his mind within a matter of seconds. Soon he was reading well ahead of Ede in the books, often spoiling the story for himself as a result.
After a while he realised that if he shut his eyes and settled back to rest his head on old Ede’s shoulder while she read, he was able to enjoy the story much more. He liked to listen to her voice as she read; she would often even act out the story a little, adopting different voices for some of the characters. As she read to him, he would imagine her sharp green eyes peering at the pages over her long hawk-like nose. Her wiry grey hair, of course, would always be drawn back in a severe, tight bun at the nape of her neck. Some people might have thought her ugly, with her gangly bird-like limbs and features; but to Brennan she was beautiful, because he could see past the old and jaded physical being to the wonderful vibrant person within.
She would read him the classic works of the old English Masters, as well as the raw and exciting new books and poems from local writers. He particularly loved the bush poets of the day. Their poems painted images of the Australian bush that burned clearly in his mind, until he longed to leave the city and see the bush for himself. Ede herself seemed to enjoy the nightly readings as much as her audience of one, watching the love of her life drift off in his mind until at last his eyes grew heavy with sleep. Then she would tuck him snugly under the covers and kiss his forehead, leaving him to his dreams; where he would embellish and extend the tales he had just heard until his small bed became a magic machine that transported him to wonderful far-off places and events. In time sleep too would come, reality somehow losing its grasp as he went from waking dreams to deep dreams in sleep.
Of his uncle, John Greenway, Brennan had only the vaguest recollections; though he’d been told that he had been killed in an accident when Brennan was still very small. Likewise, he had no memories of his parents. He did not know if they had died or just disappeared, or even if they’d ever existed at all. Aunt Ede was the one who cared for him, feeding, clothing and showering him with love and attention, the only real parent he’d ever known. She’d promised, though, that she would reveal all she knew of his origins when he was old enough to understand and accept his mysterious past.
But she’d also said that he would have to be patient until the time was right. She appeared to be waiting for some kind of signal, but he could not fathom what it might be. All he knew was that before his death, his uncle had told her that Brennan could only be told of his past when he began to display strange skills; and that this would probably not happen before he reached his early teens. “You have a strange and wonderful past, Brennan,” she often said, always filling him with wonder over his beginnings. “And one day I will tell you all I know about it, but not until you are a bit older.” He sometimes thought of her words when he found himself comparing himself to others, but in a land that held such a diverse range of inhabitants, it was difficult to know what normal really was.
However, even so young, he’d quickly become sure that he saw the world from a different perspective than others. Most of the people he knew seemed so focused on their own personal needs and ambitions that they failed to see the wonders of the world about them. The animals and birds, trees and flowers seemed to somehow be able to speak to him, and at times he felt he could actually hear their silent voices in his head. At the same time, he related to the people around him in a deep and intense way as well, sharing their emotions and sensing their pains, often understanding more about them than they did themselves.
This was a beautiful new land, a clean canvas waiting to be painted, a blank page to record the future. He knew that the land itself already had a long history, but one that, unlike so many others, was not cluttered with the evolution of hundreds of civilizations, of wars and conflict, of diverse cultures. In many ways it was also a harsh and unforgiving land. The climate here was uncertain and the ways of nature were new to the settlers; they could no longer depend on the relentless succession of the four seasons, or the regularity of crop and harvest. Consequently, many of them suffered when they attempted to relate to this new world in the same way they had related to the old country of England.
He often saw those who had failed to be able to eke a living from the land return to the city, only to be forced to beg in the streets. There they were joined by others who had recklessly charged headlong into the bush in search of gold without appropriate preparation or knowledge, only to return, beaten and dejected, to join the growing tide of the homeless, penniless and unemployed who idled away their days in the increasingly crowded city, dreaming of England or some other homeland far away. Most were too poor or too afraid to return. Many had fled their own countries to escape punishment for some black deed they had committed, while others had been sent to this far-off colony in chains as punishment for their crimes. For these, to return to the relative ‘comfort’ of captivity would mean to be flogged, or hanged, or both. It mattered little that many had been innocent victims of a cruel justice system, or that the crimes themselves had often been petty. Now they had either served their time or escaped from their jailers, only to find that the land was a prison in itself.
The only option remaining to these sorry souls was to exist as best they could, and city life was the only form of existence they understood. The boy often fell in with these people. His heart and mind