THE MAGIC GUN

THE MAGIC GUN

“BARAK TELLING THE STORY OF THE MAGIC GUN.”

The Magic Gun.

It was September, the wattle blossom month, and many people were in and around beautiful Healesville, where the wattle is to be seen at its best. Old King Barak, the last King of the Yarra tribe, sat outside his hut at Coranderrk, surrounded by white people.

“You all too greedy,” he grumbled, “you come to see black man, black man make native fire, black man throw boomerang, black man throw spear; white man give him black brother pennies, pah, white man greedy, no give black man baccy, only pennies.” A few of the white people gave the dirty old chief a silver coin, then they went off to another hut to buy native baskets, and to see the funny black babies. One small boy stayed behind.

“I am not greedy, Barak; see, I have brought you a shilling.”

Barak greedily snatched the shilling.

“Last time,” said the boy, “you told me the story of the Yarra Yarra, and you promised to tell me the story of the Magic Gun to-day if I brought you another shilling. Do be quick and tell me, because the others will want to go back to the township as soon as they have bought some baskets and things.”

Charmed by the gift of the shilling, the old man told the small white boy the story of the Magic Gun in quavering voice, sometimes scarcely to be heard, for he was very frail; indeed, though little Tom Jones did not know it, this was the last time he, or any one else, was to hear the story of the Magic Gun from poor old King Barak of Coranderrk Station.

Tom drew a deep breath as the old man finished his story.

“Let me look at the gun, Barak,” he pleaded.

The old black took him into his hut, and proudly showed him an old-fashioned gun.

“And that is the gun that Buckly, the white man who was lost and lived among the blacks, really used?”

“Course it is, didn’t I tell you,” said King Barak.

“And he really used nails instead of bullets?”

“Course he did with this gun, it’s a Magic Gun,” answered the old man.

“And he put his knife into its——”

“Tom, Tom, we are going, come along,” called the voice of authority, so Tom could not finish his questioning, but had to drive away with the others.

That night, when the others were fast asleep in bed, Tom dressed himself very quietly—there was no need to get a candle, for there was a bright moon by whose light he could see quite well. He hurried, for he meant to go to Coranderrk Station, two miles away, sneak Barak’s Magic Gun, and just see for himself what its powers were like.

Fortune favoured Tom. Barak had somehow or other got some beer, although no one was allowed to sell beer to black men. Barak was in a drunken sleep and had not locked his door. Tom tiptoed in, took the Magic Gun from its place on the wall, and went out on his search for game. Tom walked steadily on until he was some miles from home. By this time the sun was rising, the whole country was bathed in a golden and purple light, but Tom had no thoughts for beauty or scenery. The Magic Gun filled his thoughts. He walked until, from very weariness, he sat down to rest against a log; not a thing had he seen upon which to try the Magic Gun, which had to be primed with nails instead of powder.

He enjoyed the bread and butter he had brought with him, and after he had finished it he felt rather sleepy—indeed, he closed his eyes for a moment—only for a moment, however, for just as he was pinching himself to keep awake, he saw a big old man kangaroo standing erect, looking at him, not many feet away. Stealthily Tom took his Magic Gun from the ground, raised himself and prepared to fire. With a bound the kangaroo was off, Tom following at a hot pace.

“Sure luck with the Magic Gun,” said Tom to himself, for though the kangaroo went like the wind, Tom kept up with it. On and on they went, for miles and miles it seemed to Tom, until at last the kangaroo seemed to be winded, for he suddenly stopped and backed up against a tree facing Tom. With a shaky hand Tom put in six nails, raised the gun to his shoulder and fired.

Bang went the gun; the air was so full of smoke that for some minutes nothing could be seen for it, but as it cleared away Tom shouted for joy, for the old man kangaroo was nailed to the tree as securely as if he had been held by several pairs of hands, while the nails were driven in.

“Gour-gour-gah-gah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!”

A shout of laughter came from the tree-top. Tom, looking up, saw an old kookooburra (or laughing jackass) with head bent back, laughing and chuckling; soon he was joined by two young birds. The old one flew down, looked first at the dead kangaroo, then at Tom, after which he flew back to the branch on which he had been sitting and indulged in another burst of laughter; in this he was joined by the two young birds.

It seemed to Tom to be a personal insult. They must be laughing at him, because he knew no better than to shoot a kangaroo. He remembered now, the kangaroo was always hunted with dogs, never shot.

“Cheeky things,” said Tom, “I’ll teach them a lesson. They know I dare not shoot a kookooburra, so they think they can laugh at me as much as they like. I know what I’ll do, with this Magic Gun I can split the branch on which they are standing, then they won’t laugh so loud and long. One nail will be enough to do it.”

No sooner thought of than it was done. Bang went the gun once more, and before those rude kookooburras could fly away, the branch had opened, in slipped their little toes, and there they were caught nicely in a trap.

“Gour-gour-gah-gah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!” laughed the three trapped birds, but this time they were laughing at their own silliness in being caught so easily.

“They shall just stay there until I have been down the river and back again; but to go down the river I must have something to sail or row in. King Barak said that a knife was the thing to use instead of powder for that work. Now for making a canoe with the Magic Gun,” said Tom, at the same time placing an open penknife in the gun. Once more he raised it to his shoulder, but this time he fired at a great gum tree. The knife shot forth, struck the tree, and, as if guided by an invisible hand, cut the bark to the exact size and shape of a canoe. Tom gave a strong tug and pulled the bark clean away from the tree. There it lay, a very strong canoe, and in a short time Tom had dragged it across to the river, launched it, sprang in, and using the gun as a paddle, sailed gaily down the river.

It was so jolly! Of course it would have been better fun if some one had been with him, but then, none of the others really believed in the power of the Magic Gun, and King Barak said that if an unbeliever were present when he tried to use it, nothing could come of it.

Down the river went the canoe, nearing the dreadful place where the undercurrents met, the undercurrents which no one would face, not even the blacks, except in a magic canoe. Tom could now see the bridge which was just the other side of the dreaded part, where anything that was thrown in got sucked down. As he looked his blood froze in his veins, and his heart seemed to stop beating with fear of what he saw. From under the bridge came an awful shapeless mass, the only distinct part about it being a head with glaring eyes and big horns.

“The Bunyip,” wailed Tom, trying now to paddle to the shore and so escape the horrid thing coming towards him. Suddenly, a happy thought struck him. Why, of course, the Magic Gun could kill even a “Bunyip.”

With trembling hands he placed his knife in the muzzle of the gun, fired, and saw the knife describe a circle over the Bunyip’s head and fall into the water. Hurriedly he took some nails from his pocket and charged the gun with them, fired, and was horrified to see that when the nails struck the Bunyip, fire and smoke came from every hole made by them. Nearer and nearer came the horrid flame-belching creature until it touched the boat, and at the same instant Tom sprang overboard, swam to the shore, and fled, followed by the awful Bunyip.

Faster and faster went Tom, until at last he dropped to the ground because his legs refused to carry him any further. Then he felt the creature catch hold of him, and he sprang up wildly to fight it. But instead of the awful Bunyip, he saw his father, who gazed at his small son in surprise, and wanted to know why he had gone off alone so early in the morning, why he had borrowed Barak’s silly old gun, and what he meant by sleeping in the sun at that time of day.

Tom denied that he had been asleep. He looked at the Magic Gun. It was certainly rusty, as if it had been in the water, and he determined to get his father to go with him up the banks of the Yarra until they should come to the tree where he knew they would find the kangaroo skin nailed with the nails from the Magic Gun, and the three kookooburras caught in the split branch of the same tree; then he would be compelled to believe in its power.