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The Black Sun The Alchemy and Art of Darkness 1st
Edition Stanton Marlan Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Stanton Marlan
ISBN(s): 9781603440783, 160344078X
Edition: 1st
File Details: PDF, 8.05 MB
Year: 2008
Language: english
 The Black Sun

n u m b er ten
Carolyn and Ernest Fay Series
in Analytical Psychology
David H. Rosen, General Editor
The Black Sun
the alchemy
and art of darkness

Stanton Marlan

Foreword by David H. Rosen

texas a&m university press

c o l l e g e s tat i o n
 Copyright © 2005 by Stanton Marlan
Manufactured in the United States of America
All rights reserved
First edition

The paper used in this book meets the minimum requirements

of the American National Standard for Permanence
of Paper for Printed Library Materials, Z39.48-1984.
Binding materials have been chosen for durability.
o

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Marlan, Stanton.
The black sun : the alchemy and art of darkness / Stanton Marlan ; foreword by
David H. Rosen.—1st ed.
p. cm. — (Carolyn and Ernest Fay series in analytical psychology ; no 10)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 1-58544-425-1 (cloth : alk. paper)
1. Jungian psychology. 2. Alchemy—Psychological aspects.
3. Shadow (Psychoanalysis). 4. Self. I. Title. II. Series.
BF175.M28345 2005
150.19'54—dc22
2004021663
I dedicate this book to my wife, Jan;
my children, Dawn, Tori, and Brandon;
my grandchildren, Malachi and Sasha;
and to my father Jack and my mother Sylvia.

I also dedicate this book to my patients and to

others who have suffered an encounter with the
black sun, and I hope that they may also come
to know something of Sol niger’s shine and the
benevolence of darkness.
 contents

Series Editor’s Foreword, by David H. Rosen ix

Acknowledgments xv
Introduction 3

chap ter 1
The Dark Side of Light 9

chap ter 2
The Descent into Darkness 27

chap ter 3
Analysis and the Art of Darkness 65

chap ter 4
Lumen Naturae: The Light of Darkness Itself 97

chap ter 5
The Black Sun: Archetypal Image of the Non-Self 148

Epilogue 211
Notes 215
Bibliography 237
Index 249
 foreword
David H. Rosen

As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human

existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere
being.
—C. G. Jung

Nearly six months before Stan Marlan’s superb 2003 Fay Lecture se-
ries on the black sun, I had this dream: There was too much light and
brightness everywhere. I gave a talk on the need for darkness and its
healing value. I said I could always leave Star, a town at the periphery.
I realized that I could break off and leave and go to the Texas hill coun-
try and write haiku.
The dream is about enantiodromia and the restorative necessity of
darkness and its nurturing solitude. I became aware that I could leave
Star (a constant source of light) and end up alone in the Texas hill coun-
try writing haiku. This breaking off and leaving is what I call egocide
(symbolic death), which leads to transformation (rebirth) through
creativity.1
The black sun and the alchemy and art of darkness are subjects dear
to my heart and soul.2 When I was in a psychic black hole contemplat-
ing suicide thirty-five years ago, my own darkness went through an al-
chemical process involving art.3 I was able to transcend my despair and
later transform my depression, healing my soul through creativity. Art
is healing, and the shadow of despair is the fuel for creativity. Darkness
is critically needed in our too-well-lighted world. As Stan Marlan out-
lines in this important book, the secret is to engage in the alchemy and
art of darkness, which yields creative endeavors through Jung’s tech-
nique of active imagination. Usually I do this through painting and
writing, most recently by completing a book on The Healing Spirit of
Haiku.4
Given my experience with and affinity for darkness, I eagerly read
Marlan’s Black Sun, which explores darkness in vast and deep ways.
Irvin Yalom states, “Everyone—and that includes therapists as well as
patients—is destined to experience not only the exhilaration of life,
but also its inevitable darkness: disillusionment, aging, illness, isola-
tion, loss, meaninglessness, painful choices, and death.”5 Yalom also
states that there is an “inbuilt despair in the life of every self-conscious
individual.”6

In the deep dark the person alone sees light.

—Chuang Tzu 7

In the introduction, Marlan says that the black sun became a Zen
koan for him. This got me thinking about the time I spent in Japan and
the fact that in the Shinto religion the sun is considered a goddess. In
other words, a black (yin) sun that glows and inspires creative works is
Sol niger (black sun) functioning as a muse. Thus, in the land where
darkness is praised, fear of the dark is overcome, and the black sun is a
creative fire that heals.8 Most striking—and a testament of the truth of
an inner shine of darkness—is that blind people see light in their dark
interior.
In chapter 1 Marlan begins with a focus on the sun as the source of
light and its association with the King (a divine archetype). He gives
several excellent alchemical examples of how the King must die in or-
der to be born again. Closer to home, Elvis Presley, America’s “King,”
illustrates the theme of this book in that he represents a dark King. He
got stuck in the nigredo (darkness) and was poisoned. However, after
Elvis died he continued to live on, reborn as a dark or blue King with
an inner spiritual glow.9
In chapter 2 we descend with Marlan into the darkness and see the
necessity of experiencing one’s own “dark night of the soul.” A case of

(x) Series Editor’s Foreword

a troubled woman is presented, which includes dramatic illustrations
of the black sun. Her image of an “exploding black sun” is associated
with “the madness of her suicidal feelings.” It may also have foretold
an aneurysm in the anterior region of her brain. She survived this
near-death experience but lost sight in one eye. This case underscores
the danger involved in getting close to the black sun. Marlan presents
another case, also of a woman in long-term analysis who creatively
transforms her suicidal feelings based on contact with the black sun.
This patient’s words and drawings are profound, and Marlan links the
deep, dark work to powerful archetypal images from art, religion, and
literature.
Chapter 3 outlines how analysis (breaking apart) is like the alchem-
ical processes of mortificatio and putrefaction. Marlan describes bril-
liantly—and reveals through his alchemical psychological approach—
how analyzing the ego to death opens the psyche to creative transfor-
mations involving the deep art of darkness. In essence, Marlan shows
us how darkness heals by shining through.
In chapter 4 Marlan focuses on Jewish mysticism (primarily the
kabbalah), Taoist alchemy, and illuminating pictures from artists and
patients. Through these it becomes clear that darkness itself glows with
a unique spiritual light. Marlan humbles us before a myriad of glimpses
of Sol niger.
The last chapter concerns the mystery of Self and non-Self as One
or Not-One. I think his position would be acceptable to both Lao Tzu
and Jung, although Jung was more comfortable with the dark side of
the Self rather than non-Self. For Jungian analysts who are Buddhists,
such as Polly Young-Eisendrath, the paradox of Self and non-Self makes
particular sense.10 Jungian analysts who are Taoist in their spiritual
orientation are also content with the irony of opposites: nothingness/
fullness, dark/light, and evil/good.11 Why? Because it is impossible to
know one without the other. Transcendence of these opposites allows
for the possibility of wholeness and emptiness. And, as we often see in
this book, transformation of the opposites allows for creative art and
healing.
In the epilogue, Marlan distills the essence of the journey he has
taken us on from light to darkness and then to the light of darkness it-

Series Editor’s Foreword (xi)

self. I wholeheartedly support Marlan’s maxim of preserving the mys-
tery of Self and non-Self as a paradox. In the end it is both/and. Like
Victor Hugo’s last words, we see “black light”:

Seeing into darkness is clarity.

Knowing how to yield is strength.
Use your own light and return to the source of light.
This is called practicing eternity.
—Lao Tzu12

This volume helps us to understand the source of archetypal dark-

ness and its relationship to a psychic crisis involving the black sun. As
we know from Chinese philosophy, crisis involves both danger and
opportunity. It is noteworthy that dreams of a black sun or an arche-
typal abyss can be both a warning of psychic and/or physical demise as
well as the beginning of a significant renewal.
In alchemy the nigredo is first, and, according to Plato, the begin-
ning is the most important part of the work. I agree with Marlan that
darkness has neither been seen as primary nor valued for its inherent
healing power and creative transformation.13 The opportunity for
healing through the art of darkness is ever present and extremely well
illustrated in the text.
Another example of the alchemy and art of darkness as well as ego-
cide and transformation is William Styron’s eloquent memoir, Dark-
ness Visible.14 It is a book about his fall into a suicidal void and his
struggle to climb out. Most likely he was guided by a healing glow com-
ing from Sol niger.
On May 15, 2003, while I was editing this manuscript, there was a
luna niger, a total eclipse of the moon by the sun’s shadow. Marlan
writes about the shadow of the sun and its darkness, and where is this
more apparent than in a total eclipse of the moon? Perhaps in our time
this represents the patriarchal Sun King and its shadow, which eclipses
the feminine, whereas the black sun has no need to eclipse the moon
because both have a soft glow, one from within and the other from
outer reflection.

(xii) Series Editor’s Foreword

 To conclude, this volume is extraordinary in its breadth and depth
and in its objective and subjective scope. Stan Marlan’s method of il-
lustrating the alchemy and art of darkness with clinical cases, draw-
ings, and paintings is rare and truly phenomenal. Clearly this book will
enrich us all.
I close with the poet Wendell Berry’s words, which seem connected
to Sol niger:

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light. To know the

dark, go dark. Go without sight, and find that the dark, too,
blooms and sings, and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.15

Notes
1. D. H. Rosen, Transforming Depression: Healing the Soul through Creativity
(York Beach, Me.: Nicolas-Hays, 2002), pp. xxi, xxiv, xxv–xxvi, and 61–84.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid., pp. xvii–xxii.
4. The Healing Spirit of Haiku is coauthored with Joel Weishaus and illustrated
by Arthur Okamura.
5. I. Yalom, The Gift of Therapy (New York: HarperCollins, 2002), p. 6.
6. Ibid., p. 7.
7. Chuang Tzu, “Readings from Chuang Tzu,” in T. Merton’s The Way of
Chuang Tzu (Boston: Shambala, 1992), p. 147.
8. J. Tanizaki, In Praise of Shadows (New York: Leete’s Island Books, 1998).
9. D. H. Rosen, The Tao of Elvis (San Diego: Harcourt, 2002).
10. P. Young-Eisendrath and S. Muramoto, eds. Awakening and Insight: Zen
Buddhism and Psychotherapy (New York: Brunner-Routledge, 2003).
11. Rosen, The Tao of Jung: The Way of Integrity (New York: Penguin Arkana,
1997).
12. Laozi, Tao Te Ching, trans. S. Mitchell (New York: HarperCollins, 1988),
p. 52.
13. Rosen, Transforming Depression.
14. W. Styron, Darkness Visible (New York: Random House, 1990).
15. M. Oman, ed., Prayers for Healing: 365 Blessings, Poems, and Meditations
from around the World (Berkeley: Conari Press, 1997), p. 254.

Series Editor’s Foreword (xiii)

 acknowled g ments

I am deeply indebted to David Rosen and Carolyn Fay for choosing me

as a Fay lecturer and for giving me the opportunity to present my ideas
at Texas A&M University. David was a superb guide through the entire
process and an impeccable host during my stay at College Station. In
addition, I am indebted to him for both his astute editorial suggestions
and for his own scholarly work, which became important in my own
reflection. In David I have found a fellow traveler into the depths of
darkness.
In addition, I am indebted to many people who have played an im-
portant role in making and are a living part of the final product. Many
mentors, both living and dead, colleagues, analysands, patients, stu-
dents, friends, analytic and academic organizations, and family mem-
bers have contributed to my writing and research in numerous ways.
The final product is my own, but it would not have been possible with-
out the ongoing engagement and generosity of others.
The work of C. G. Jung has been an essential foundation for these
reflections. His contributions to a psychological approach to alchemy
inform a sustaining passion and continuing impetus for my own work
with the difficult and arcane materials of alchemy.
I am also indebted to Marie-Louise von Franz, Edward Edinger, and
James Hillman, all of whom have made significant contributions to the
continuation and development of Jung’s work and therefore have played
an essential role in the development of my ideas about the black sun.
I give special acknowledgment to Edinger and Hillman, who were
both my analysts. Edinger’s deep reflections on alchemical themes were
essential in my development as an analyst. His early lectures, teach-
ings, and writings, particularly in Anatomy of the Psyche, filled my
heart and soul as I wrote. Likewise, Hillman’s work has been formative
and inspiring. His originality and critique of traditional ways of think-
ing put alchemical psychology on a new trajectory, reversing a ten-
dency to reduce alchemical images to psychological constructs. Over
the years as analyst, teacher, and later as colleague and friend, he has
been a central influence in the formation of my ideas and the develop-
ment of my imaginal life. I also want to thank my former analyst An-
neliese Pontius, whose encouragement and faith in me first set me on
the path to becoming an analyst, and to Harriet Machtiger, who made
it possible to complete my training in Pittsburgh. I owe a debt of grat-
itude to my former analyst and now colleague and friend Thomas Ka-
pacinskas for his years of deep insight, challenge, and support and
whose depth of heart has been an essential ingredient in the develop-
ment of the stamina necessary to engage the darkness of Sol niger.
I have also benefitted from the scholarly work and friendship of
many gifted Jungian colleagues. I cannot mention them all, but I wish
to thank my good friends James Hollis, Lyn Cowan, and Pat Berry, who
have often offered their guidance when I found myself directionless
and kept me in good humor as I descended into darkness. I also owe a
debt of thanks to my good friend and colleague Maurice Krasnow,
whose excellent critique of an early paper on the black sun opened new
avenues for the furthering of my ideas. Thanks also go to my dear
friends and colleagues Vocata George and Dianne Braden for their
long-time support of my work and for the pleasure of our long talks
about darkness and the life of the soul. I also thank Vocata for remind-
ing me of the importance of the work of Anselm Kiefer, whose art res-
onates so strongly with my vision of the black sun.
I am also grateful to my good friends and colleagues Paul Kugler,
David Miller, Wolfgang Giegerich, Robert Romanyshyn, Sonu Sham-
dasani, Ron Schenk, and David Perry, all of whom have inspired my
writing over the years of our valuable friendship.
I would also like to thank Murray Stein, a friend and colleague who
read an earlier paper on Sol niger and has made many supportive ges-
tures over the years. He provided an opportunity for me to publish Fire
in the Stone: The Alchemy of Desire and enabled me to present my work
on Taoist alchemy in China.

(xvi) Acknowledgments
 I also acknowledge my appreciation of my old friend Donald
Kalsched, with whom I began my training when we were students at
the New York Institute. Don’s current work on the defenses of the Self
has been important in the formulation of my thinking about the black
sun.
Thanks likewise go to my colleagues Brian Skea and Roger Brooke
for their support and friendship over the years. Roger made it possible
for me to present my work at Duquesne University. His Jung and Phe-
nomenology has helped to clarify my own ideas.
I owe a debt of gratitude to kabbalistic scholar, philosopher, and
psychologist Sanford Drob, whose wonderful support and critique of
my work opened many new directions. I am also grateful to Bitzalel
Malamid, who selflessly shared an untranslated Chasidic/kabbalistic
text that richly amplified my understanding of black light. He has truly
been a teacher to me though he insists we are simply learning together.
I likewise wish to thank alchemical scholar and my friend Adam
McLean for his guidance and recommendations of research materials
and for introducing me to the wonderful collection of alchemical texts
and manuscripts at Glasgow University during my visit to Scotland.
Thanks also go to alchemical teacher and scholar Dennis Hauck, from
whom I have learned a great deal about the practical aspects of al-
chemy and its importance in the overall work of the alchemical opus.
I want to extend my heartfelt appreciation to those who have con-
tributed materials for my research. Over the years, many people have
generously shared their knowledge, ideas, references, and drawings, all
of which have immeasurably enriched this book. To name all of the
particular contributions would far exceed the format of these acknowl-
edgments, but I wish to extend my sincere gratitude to Harry Wilmer,
Marga Speicher, Michael Adams, Peter Thompson, Anu Kumar, Janice
Markowitz, Suzanne Bailey, Tim Pilgrim, Dennis Charier-Adams,
Thomas Hart, and Tyler Dudley.
Special thanks go to my good friends Lynne Connoy for her im-
pressive artwork and to Keith Knecht, who has been so generous with
his knowledge and talents.
I would like to express my appreciation to artist and friend Janet
Tobin for inviting me to lecture on alchemy to her colleagues and for

Acknowledgments (xvii)
contributing her powerful black painting to this book. My deep ap-
preciation goes out to artist Virginia Moore, who likewise has been
generous in supporting my work and whose impressive art inspired
many discoveries about the black sun.
In addition, I owe a debt of gratitude to my philosophical teachers,
colleagues, and friends at Duquesne University. Thanks go first to
philosopher Monique Roelofs for reading an early draft of my paper
on the black sun. I appreciate her challenges, comments, and the rich
dialogue that flowered into an important friendship. I also wish to ex-
press my thanks to my friend Bettina Bergo, Levinas scholar and trans-
lator, for her spontaneous generosity and astute, on-the-spot editorial
suggestions. Thanks also go to Wilhelm Wurzer, chairperson of the
philosophy department at Duquesne University, who read an early
reflection on the black sun and who entered into many enjoyable dis-
cussions with me of Goethe’s Faust and darkness.
Thanks go to my friend John Schulman—poet, bookseller extraor-
dinaire, and owner of Caliban Books—who has continually gone out
of his way to find and recommend obscure works and references on the
black sun.
I am also grateful to Mark Kelly, librarian at the Pacifica Graduate In-
stitute, for his help with references and to Maureen Porcelli and Patricia
Sohl for locating many dramatic images from the ARAS collection.
I am indebted to both Claudette Kulkarni, friend, colleague, and
feminist Jungian scholar who read my entire manuscript and made
valuable suggestions. In addition, Claudette Kulkarni and Ravi Kul-
karni both worked tirelessly to track down and obtain the many nec-
essary permissions for the illustrations published here. I am deeply in
their debt. Thanks also to Sharon Broll, whose professional editing
helped to put my manuscript in its best possible form.
I give very special thanks to Bill Blais, without whose assistance, pa-
tience, skill, and scholarship I would have never completed the book.
Bill, a graduate student in psychology at Duquesne University, was re-
ferred to me as an assistant and typist with computer skills. In all of
these functions he proved invaluable, and it wasn’t long before he be-
came an intellectual partner and friend. He knows the book as well as
I do and made many suggestions that I have incorporated into the text.

(xviii) Acknowledgments
 I give special thanks to my very closest friends, Susan and Terry Pul-
ver, whose companionship over the years and during the writing of
this book have been sustaining and nourishing. Terry, a Lacanian psy-
chologist and faithful lover of psychoanalysis, has been a consistent in-
tellectual partner and confidante. Our exchanges over the years on
Lacan, Jung, and postmodernism have influenced me greatly. I am
deeply indebted to him for his contributions to my thought.
I want to thank the Inter-Regional Society of Jungian Analysts, the
C. G. Jung Institute Analyst Training Program of Pittsburgh, the Paci-
fica Graduate Institute, Duquesne University, and Texas A&M for their
support of my work and for giving me the opportunity to lecture on
the black sun.
I cannot end these acknowledgments without my heartfelt thanks
and gratitude to my family: my wife, Jan; my daughters, Dawn and
Tori; my son, Brandon; my son-in-law, Jeff Librett; my grandchildren,
Malachi and Sasha; my father, Jack; my late mother, Sylvia; and my
brother, David. I treasure their love, support, and interest far more
than I can express.
My fatherly love and pride are immeasurable, and I am grateful to
my children, who in their own ways have materially contributed to this
book: Thanks go to Dawn for her sensitive support, her astute critique
of what’s left of my Jungian essentialism, and her and Jeff ’s scholarly
responses to my questions about French and German translation.
Thanks go to Tori for her kindness and for her examples of courageous
research, fair mindedness, and editorial excellence. Thanks go to
Brandon for his indomitable spirit, for keeping me in touch with the
soul of music, and for his recommendation of the art of Alex Grey as it
pertains to my work.
I end with my deep gratitude to my wife and Jungian colleague, Jan
DeVeber Marlan, who has been my companion along the way. She has
not only offered her support in innumerable ways but has also been
my best critic, friend, and intellectual partner. Without her this work
would never have seen the light of Sol niger.

Acknowledgments (xix)
The Black Sun
 int ro duc t ion

I first became aware of the image of the black sun while reading Jung’s
alchemical works and later in a more personal way in my analysis of a
woman whose encounter with the black sun was dramatic and life
changing. What I initially thought was a rare and obscure phenome-
non proved to be far more widespread than I had imagined. I have
since found it to be linked to the deepest issues of our mortality and to
both tragic and ecstatic possibilities.
The groundwork of my fascination with the black sun was laid
down long ago—in childhood. I remember thinking about death, re-
alizing that I would die along with everyone and everything I loved and
valued. My thoughts about mortality took on an obsessive quality, and
I wondered why not everyone spent all of their time trying to solve the
problem of dying. Over the years I learned much about the historical
and psychodynamic reasons for my obsessions, and even though the
issue of personal mortality no longer aroused in me the same level of
anxiety, I still struggled to find a stance in regard to this inescapable
and existential truth of life.
I once had a dream of floating on a raft moving toward a waterfall.
I was standing with my back to the direction of the flow but was bent
over in order to see where the raft was going. I could see that it would
at some point fall over a precipice, which would mean certain death. I
heard a voice say, “Yes, you are going to die, but you don’t have to bend
over backward to see it.” While the truth and humor of this dream gave
me some relief from my obsession, I never quite stood up completely
straight again.
My reflective turn toward death marks my melancholic character
and, like the historical alchemist who has a skull on his bench as a me-
mento mori, concern with mortality remains a part of my psychic real-
ity. I now believe that these concerns prepared the way for my engage-
ment with the black sun, a dark and burning ball of fire, an intensity of
darkness and light that became like a Zen koan to me.
The Mumonkan, a classic collection of Zen koans gathered by the
thirteenth-century, Chinese Zen master Mumon, speaks of the in-
escapability of the koan. It is like swallowing a red-hot iron ball that
you cannot actively expel. However, you cannot passively leave it inside
you either, or it will kill you. The Mumonkan describes the situation as
one in which one’s whole being has been plunged into great doubt.
All of one’s emotions are exhausted; one’s intellect has come to extrem-
ity. Rinzai, a well-known, ninth-century Chinese Zen master, once de-
scribed this state as the whole universe plunged into darkness.1 This
description fits my relationship with the black sun. Over the years spent
in writing this book, I have taken in this black sun like a red-hot iron
ball that I have been unable to expel. It has become not only my dark
koan but also an enigmatic and infernal light referred to in alchemy as
Sol niger.
Sol niger is an image that Jung wrote about in his late works on
alchemy, and though it played a relatively marginal role in his reflec-
tions, I have found its implications to merit a far more extensive ex-
ploration. This image has shown itself in relation to the darkest and
most destructive situations, in what the alchemists have called the
blacker-than-black dimensions of the nigredo. The term nigredo is usu-
ally thought of as a beginning process in alchemy, roughly equivalent
to a descent into the unconscious. In the face of this darkness and the
suffering that sometimes accompanies it, there is a natural tendency to
turn away from the psyche. While this defensive process is at times
necessary, it may also inhibit or bypass a hidden potential in the dark-
ness itself. The dark side of psychic life is both dangerous and at times
tragic, but the acceptance of its tragic potential was for Jung a neces-
sity. He noted that the cure for suffering might well be more suffering.
In the Visions Seminar of 1933, a participant, Dr. Baker, commented
on Jung’s ideas and offered the group a passage from Miguel de Una-
muno’s book The Tragic Sense of Life:

(4) Introduction
 The cure for suffering—which is the collision of consciousness
with unconsciousness—is not to be submerged in unconscious-
ness, but to be raised to consciousness and to suffer more. The
evil of suffering is cured by more suffering, by higher suffering.
Do not take opium, but put salt and vinegar in the soul’s wound,
for when you sleep and no longer feel the suffering, you are not.
And to be, that is imperative. Do not then close your eyes to the
agonizing Sphinx, but look her in the face, and let her seize you
in her mouth, and crunch you with her hundred thousand poi-
sonous teeth, and swallow you. And when she has swallowed
you, you will know the sweetness of the taste of suffering.2

There will be little opium and plenty of salt and vinegar as we begin
our descent into darkness. Nevertheless, you may also find some sur-
prises as we follow Sol niger in clinical practice and through myth, lit-
erature, the creative arts, and various traditions at once philosophical,
religious, and mystical. The black sun is a paradox. It is blacker than
black, but it also shines with a dark luminescence that opens the way
to some of the most numinous aspects of psychic life. It proffers a mir-
acle of perception at the heart of what Jung called the mysterium con-
iunctionis. Considering the complexity of Sol niger will give us an op-
portunity to consider Jung’s idea of the Self in a new way—one that
both critiques and preserves its integrity as a central mystery of the
psyche, which for Jung was always fundamental.
In chapter one we set the stage for our exploration by discussing the
primacy of light as a metaphor for consciousness. We then consider the
importance of the alchemical deconstruction of this light, which pre-
pares us for our descent into the unconscious. There is a lot of dark
material, and the descent is difficult and painful. In chapter two we fol-
low a path, not from darkness into light, but from light into darkness
and into the shine of darkness itself. Beginning with Goethe’s Faust, we
look at a series of vignettes—literary and clinical—in which the black
sun appears and becomes important. These illustrations lead to the
blacker-than-black aspects of Sol niger, and these serve as the founda-
tion for our ongoing exploration.

Introduction (5)
 The third chapter, titled “Analysis and the Art of Darkness,” looks at
the issue of trauma as one response to Sol niger. We examine some of
Jungian analyst Don Kalsched’s contributions to this theme from his
work, The Inner World of Trauma, particularly the idea of the defenses
of the Self as an archetypal process protecting the Self from disinte-
gration. My reflection on the black sun explores a different perspective
with regard to the archetypal functioning of psychological life. If we
can for a moment project human intention onto the dark forces that
attack the psyche, I believe their aim is not always to protect but rather
to mortify the Self and to drive it into the unthinkable, which the idea
of archetypal defense seeks to avoid. In this light we also look at the
contribution of Jungian analyst David Rosen to this theme in his book
Transforming Depression and his idea of egocide and the strange con-
fluence of death and new life. From my perspective, this theme of
renewal does not follow simply from symbolic death but is actually
fundamental and at the core of Sol niger, which expresses itself in the
simultaneity of blackness and luminescence, the central mystery of the
black sun.
We then amplify this imagery by turning to the world of art and
particularly to painters who have spent parts of their careers painting
black suns and/or a kind of luminescent blackness. We look briefly at
the works of Max Ernst, Mark Rothko, Ad Reinhardt, Pierre Soulage,
and Anselm Kiefer and place their discoveries in the alchemical con-
text of the lumen naturae, the dark light of nature. For the alchemists,
the lumen naturae is a different kind of light that shines at the core of
matter and within the ancient idea of the subtle or illuminated body.
Chapter four explores a number of different, subtle body images from
kabbalah, Tantra, Taoist alchemy, and contemporary art. These tradi-
tions serve as a background for looking at a patient’s artwork, which
Jung writes about in his Alchemical Studies, in which a black sun ap-
pears in her solar plexus, an important area in many subtle body tra-
ditions. It is a place to which, according to Jung, the gods have
retreated in our modern era.
Finally we discuss the black sun as an image of the non-Self. This
reflection focuses on a way of understanding the Self not so much as
an ideal union of opposites but rather as paradox and monstrosity.

(6) Introduction
 In writing this book, my childhood concerns about mortality are
not resolved but show themselves in a new dark light that leaves me
with a feeling of compassion and gratitude for each moment of life.
This drives my spiritual and therapeutic sensibilities, and thus my
work ends less with anxiety and more with wonder. I hope that the
readers of this text will likewise discover darkness in a new way. It is not
my goal to lead anyone beyond the darkness but instead to the illumi-
nation of darkness itself, and I hope that this will be a worthwhile ex-
perience in its own right.

Introduction (7)
 chap ter 1

The Dark Side of Light

When you see your matter going black, rejoice, for this
is the beginning of the work.
—Rosarium Philosophorum

Jung considered alchemy in a way that few people, if any, before him
had imagined. Alchemy for the most part had been relegated to the sta-
tus of a historical anachronism or hidden away within the confines of
esoteric occultism. To the contemporary mind, alchemists were viewed
as working in their laboratories, hopelessly trying to change lead into
gold. At best, their practice was seen as a precursor to the modern sci-
ence of chemistry.
Jung began his reflections with a similar attitude, but as his inquiry
grew deeper, he concluded that the alchemists were speaking in sym-
bols about the human soul and were working as much with the imag-
ination as with the literal materials of their art. The gold that they were
trying to produce was not the common or vulgar gold but an aurum
non vulgi or aurum philosophicum—a philosophical gold (Jung 1961).
They were concerned with both the creation of the higher man and the
perfection of nature. In a 1952 interview at the Eranos conference, Jung
stated that “The alchemical operations were real, only this reality was
not physical but psychological. Alchemy represents the projection of a
drama both cosmic and spiritual in laboratory terms. The opus mag-
num had two aims: the rescue of the human soul and the salvation of
the cosmos.”1 This move brought alchemy into the realm of contem-
porary thought and was the beginning of a sustained psychology of
alchemy.
To see alchemy in this way—as a psychological and symbolic art—
was a major breakthrough for Jung and a key to unlocking its mysteries.
The exploration and development of this insight led Jung eventually to
see in alchemy a fundamental source, background, and confirmation
of his psychology of the unconscious. His imagination was captured
by the ideas and metaphors of alchemy, with its dragons, suffering
matter, peacock’s tail, alembics, athanors, red and green lions, kings
and queens, fishes’ eyes, inverted philosophical trees, salamanders and
hermaphrodites, black suns and white earth, metals (lead, silver, and
gold), colors (black, white, yellow, and red), distillations and coagula-
tions, and a rich array of Latin terms. All of these images are, for Jung,
the best possible expression of a psychic mystery that enunciated and
amplified his maturing vision of the parallels between alchemy and his
own psychology of the unconscious. Jung sees all of these as projected
by the alchemists into matter. Their effort was to bring about unity
from the disparate parts of the psyche, creating a “chemical wedding.”
Jung saw as the moral task of alchemy the unification of the disparate
elements of the soul, symbolically represented as the creation of the
lapis, or philosopher’s stone. Likewise, Jung’s psychology works with
the conflicts and dissociation of psychic life and attempts to bring
about the mysterious “unification” he calls Wholeness.
In C. G. Jung Speaking, Jung describes the alchemical process as “dif-
ficult and strewn with obstacles; the alchemical opus is dangerous.
Right at the beginning you meet the ‘dragon,’ the chthonic spirit, the
‘devil’ or, as the alchemists called it, the ‘blackness,’ the nigredo, and
this encounter produces suffering.”2 He goes on to say that in “psycho-
logical terms, the soul finds itself in the throes of melancholy locked
in a struggle with the ‘shadow.’” The black sun, Sol niger, is one of the
most important images representing this phase of the process and this
condition of the soul. Usually this image is seen as phase specific to
the early part of the opus and is said to disappear “when the ‘dawn’
(aurora) emerges.” Typically blackness is said to dissolve, and then
“the ‘devil’ no longer has an autonomous existence but rejoins the pro-

(10) Chapter 1
found unity of the psyche. Then the opus magnum is finished: the hu-
man soul is [said to be] completely integrated.”3
In my experience, this is an idealized goal of alchemy, and there is a
danger in bypassing the autonomous core of darkness that always re-
mains as an earmark of the condition of any humanness. Thus, my ap-
proach to the image of the black sun pauses with the blackness itself
and examines it in its own right, not simply as a stage in the develop-
ment of the soul. As such we see that blackness itself proves to contain
in its own realm the gold we seek in our attempts to transcend it. This
focus contributes to a new appreciation of the darkness within.
Jung’s exploration was influenced by the seventeenth-century al-
chemist Mylius, who refers to the ancient philosophers as the source of
our knowledge about Sol niger. In several places in his collected works,
Jung writes of Sol niger as a powerful and important image of the un-
conscious. To consider the image in the context of the unconscious is
both to recognize its vastness and unknown quality as well as to place it
in the historical context of depth psychology and of the psyche’s at-
tempt to represent the unrepresentable. Imagining Sol niger in this way
is to see it in its most general sense, but Jung has also extracted from the
alchemical literature a rich and complex, if scattered, phenomenology
of the image. The black sun, blackness, putrefactio, mortificatio, the ni-
gredo, poisoning, torture, killing, decomposition, rotting, and death all
form a web of interrelationships that describe a terrifying, if most often
provisional, eclipse of consciousness or of our conscious standpoint.
The nigredo, the initial black stage of the alchemical opus, has been
considered the most negative and difficult operation in alchemy. It is
also one of the most numinous, but few authors other than Jung have
explored the theme in its many facets. In addition to the aspects just
described, Jung also finds in this image of blackness a nonmanifest la-
tency, a shadow of the sun, as well as an Other Sun, linked to both Sat-
urn and Yahweh, the primus anthropos. For the most part, Sol niger is
equated with and understood only in its nigredo aspect, while its more
sublime dimension—its shine, its dark illumination, its Eros and wis-
dom—remains in the unconscious.
I imagine my work on the black sun as an experiment in alchemical
psychology. It is concerned with this difficult and enigmatic image and

The Dark Side of Light (11)

with our understanding of darkness. My contention is that darkness
historically has not been treated hospitably and that it has remained in
the unconscious and become a metaphor for it. It has been seen pri-
marily in its negative aspect and as a secondary phenomenon, itself
constituting a shadow—something to integrate, to move through and
beyond. In so doing, its intrinsic importance is often passed over. This
attitude has also been perpetuated in alchemy, which places darkness
at the beginning of the work and sees it primarily in terms of the ni-
gredo. Yet in its usage of the black sun there is a hint of a darkness that
shines. It is this shine of the paradoxical image that captures my atten-
tion. How is it possible to imagine a darkness filled with light or a shine
that contains the qualities of both light and darkness?
Jung has noted that darkness “has its own peculiar intellect and its
own logic which should be taken very seriously,” and it is my intent to
give darkness its due—not to rush beyond it but to enter its realm to
learn more about its mysteries.4 To turn toward darkness in this way is
an odd reversal of our ordinary propensity. To more fully understand
the turn toward darkness it is first important to pause and consider
how much the historical primacy of light has infused our understand-
ing of consciousness itself.
The image of light and its corresponding metaphor of the sun are
fundamentally intertwined with the history of consciousness. Our
language demonstrates the pervasiveness of these images, and it is dif-
ficult to envision a way of thinking that does not rely on them. In myth,
science, philosophy, religion, and alchemy we find these metaphors
widely disseminated. Our language is filled with metaphors of illumi-
nation: to bring to light, to make clear, to enlighten, and so on, all serve
in these and in many other contexts.
In Memories, Dreams, Reflections Jung seems to have captured
something of the primordial experience that must have been genera-
tive in the development of sun worship. While visiting the Elgonyi tribe
of Africa, Jung writes, “the sunrise in these latitudes was a phenome-
non that overwhelmed me anew every day.”5 He goes on to describe his
observations a little before dawn, when he was in the habit of watching
the sunrise:

(12) Chapter 1
 At first, the contrasts between light and darkness would be ex-
tremely sharp. Then objects would assume contour and emerge
into the light which seemed to fill the valley with a compact
brightness. The horizon above became radiantly white. Gradu-
ally the swelling light seemed to penetrate into the very structure
of objects, which became illuminated from within until at last
they shone translucently, like bits of colored glass. Everything
turned to flaming crystal. The cry of the bell bird rang around
the horizon. At such moments I felt as if I were inside a temple.
It was the most sacred hour of the day. I drank in this glory with
insatiable delight, or rather in a timeless ecstasy.6

Jung goes on to say that “for untold ages men have worshiped the
great god who redeems the world by rising out of darkness as a radiant
light in the heavens. At the time, I understood that within the soul
from its primordial beginnings there has been a desire for light and an
irrepressible urge to rise out of the primal darkness.”7 Against this
background it is evident to Jung why for the Elgonyi “the moment in
which the light comes is God.”8
Jung recognizes the importance of the sun and light in his alchem-
ical writings, where he states that the soul is “an eye destined to behold
the light.”9 Likewise, James Hillman, a Jungian analyst as well as the
founder of archetypal psychology, wonders whether the “human eye
prefers light to darkness” and whether human beings are “heliotropic,
fundamentally adapted to light.”10 The power of this image is also rec-
ognized by the postmodern philosopher Jacques Derrida, who com-
ments, “each time there is a metaphor, there is doubtless a sun some-
where, but each time there is a sun, metaphor has begun.”11
The importance of the sun metaphor is further traced by Mircea Eli-
ade, historian and scholar of religion, who finds a parallel between sun
worship and the spread of civilization and kings. Eliade documents the
predominance of sun religions: “Where history is on the march thanks
to kings, heroes or empires, the sun is supreme.”12 The sun’s majesty lent
its power to the signification of the person and the office of the king.
Both the Sun and the King archetypes are highly complex, archetypal

The Dark Side of Light (13)

images with multiple meanings. This theme has been extensively stud-
ied by Jungian analyst John Perry in his Lord of the Four Quarters: Myth
of the Royal Father; Jungian analyst Robert Moore, and mythologist and
therapist Douglas Gillette in The King Within; and more recently as the
archetype of renewal in Psychological Reflections on the Aging, Death,
and Rebirth of the King by Jungian analyst Stephenson Bond.
The sun has traditionally been associated with masculine attributes
in patriarchal culture, but this attribution has been relativized and
destabilized by studies such as Janet McCritchard’s Eclipse of the Sun,
which demonstrates a wide range of feminine attributes to the sun
across time and culture.13 Still, with regard to the “masculine” psyche,
the sun, particularly in relation to the king, has been considered a rep-
resentation of God on earth. Kings were considered sacred. Figure 1.1
shows an image of King Sol on his throne.
In general, the Sun King reflects a dominant force of historical, cul-
tural, and psychic reality. As an inner figure, he is fundamental to life
and a well-functioning psyche. There is a long tradition of the King and
the Sun reflecting the qualities of rational order, stability, life force, vi-
tality, blessing, joy, and light. The Sun and the King light up the world.
The work of Moore and Gillette argues that the inner King as an ex-
pression of mature masculinity should not be equated with the abuses
of patriarchy and power and with the shadow of the King as Tyrant. As
archetypal principles, the Sun and the King are not in themselves de-
structive or problematic to culture or the psychic life of people. On the
contrary, as noted earlier, they enhance life and are essential to psyche.
The problem begins when these archetypal forces overwhelm a devel-
oping or immature ego, inflating and corrupting it. When the ego iden-
tifies with the transpersonal power of the King and the ego becomes
King, the Tyrant is near, and the King’s energy can be devouring (cf.
figure 1.2). In short, the King and the Tyrant are brothers in the arche-
typal psyche.
The devouring and oppressive shadow side of the King’s energy has
been linked in our time to patriarchy and to the one-sided Apollonian
vision that has laid the groundwork for an angry critique of our psy-
chological and cultural attitudes. If the Sun has led our way into the
present, with all of the advances that have come with it, it has also led

(14) Chapter 1
 Figure 1.1. King Sol on his throne. Fifteenth century. From
Stanislas Klossowski de Rola, Alchemy: The Secret Art, p. 67.

to a massive repression and devaluation of the dark side of psychic life.

“There are as many ways to be lost in the light as in the dark,” says story-
teller and poet Madronna Holden, who recognizes the peril that oc-
curs when light loses touch with the principle of darkness.14 On the
cultural level we all too often have become lost in our spiritual, Apol-
lonian, patriarchal, male perspective. Our roots in European languages
and a Cartesian worldview have led to a personal and cultural elitism
that have fueled charges of racism and colonialism. To the extent that
these judgments have validity, they reflect a collective, cultural, and
philosophical shadow. Has the light the eye was “destined to behold”
displayed a blind spot with regard to vision itself?
Moore and Gillette have observed that, when the King sits on his

The Dark Side of Light (15)

 Figure 1.2. The king devouring his subject, 1625. From Johannes Fabricius,
Alchemy: The Medieval Alchemists and Their Royal Art, p. 75.

throne and is the center of the world, “world” becomes defined as that
part of reality that is organized and ordered by the King.” What is out-
side the boundaries of his influence is noncreation, chaos, the de-
monic and non-world.15 This situation sets the stage for a massive
repression and devaluation of the “dark side” of psychic life. It creates
a totality that rejects interruption and refuses the other from within its
narcissistic enclosure.
For a number of philosophers—Heidegger, Foucault, Derrida, and
others—there is a dangerous tendency in modernity toward closure
and tautological reductionism: “totalization, normalization and dom-
ination.”16 Levin has noted that behind our Western visionary tradi-
tion lies the shadow of phallocentrism, logocentrism, and a “helio-
politics” driven by the violence of Light. To put it more simply, the
concern about modernity is that it is governed by male desire and
power and by an egocentric rationality that serves political agendas

(16) Chapter 1
that conceal intrinsic violence. In his work Writing and Difference,
Derrida speaks of the violence of Light and the imperialism of theory
associated with it. He notes that this kind of violence also troubled the
philosopher Emmanuel Levinas, whose work was aimed at developing
an ethical theory freed as much as possible from the violence implicit
in Western metaphysical thinking.17 If one agrees with the philoso-
phers and critics of our tradition, one might imagine our time as one
locked into the tyrannical shadow of a Sun King who bears within
himself the seeds of his own destruction.
Is it possible to imagine this situation as rooted in an unconscious
identification with the King and the Light? If so, such unconscious
identification colors the psyche and has important personal and cul-
tural consequences.
On the most personal level, analysts have approached such con-
cerns not so much philosophically but as they manifest themselves in
clinical situations. In The Anatomy of the Psyche, Jungian analyst Ed-
ward Edinger, for instance, cites the expressions of unconscious kingly
inflations in “outbursts of affect, resentment, pleasure or power de-
mands.”18 The refinement of these affects is difficult. As an inner figure,
the primitive King/ego must undergo a transformation not only in
our culture but also in the lives of people. Alchemy recognizes this
fact when it sees that the King is at the beginning—the raw matter of
the philosopher’s stone—and that he must be purified and refined by
undergoing a series of alchemical processes, eventually dying and be-
ing reborn.
In alchemy, the process of dying, killing, and blackening is part of the
operation of mortificatio. This operation is a necessary component of
the transformative process of the King and other images of the prima
materia such as the Sun, the Dragon, the Toad, and the condition of in-
nocence. Edinger devotes a chapter of The Anatomy of the Psyche to this
process. The mortificatio process was often thought of as tortuous and
as the “most negative operation in alchemy.”19 “It has to do with dark-
ness, defeat, torture, mutilation, death and rotting. The process of rot-
ting is called putrefactio, the decomposition that breaks down organic
bodies.”20
Edinger has schematized and charted this operation reproduced in

The Dark Side of Light (17)

 Figure 1.3. A map of alchemical processes. From Edward Edinger,
Anatomy of the Psyche: Alchemical Symbolism in Psychotherapy, p. 146.
Courtesy Open Court Books.

figure 1.3, an example of what he calls “cluster thinking”—thinking

that is concerned with elaborating a network of expanded meanings
derived from a central image. The process “goes back and forth, re-
turning to the central image again and again, building up a rich asso-
ciative cluster of interconnected images, something like a spider web.
The result of such thinking is a rich tapestry of elaboration around a
central image.”21 Figure 1.3 shows the structural placement of related
images (e.g., the slaying of the King, the Dragon, the Toad, poison,
defeat, humiliation, torture, mutilation, the slaying of the innocent,

(18) Chapter 1
corpses, and rotting, as well as the placement of this operation in rela-
tion to other alchemical processes).
Alchemical engravings also help us to visualize the process. The ul-
timate goal of the king’s mortification is purification, death, and trans-
formation. This process is signified by a series of alchemical images
that have been reproduced by Jung, Edinger, Von Franz, and others.
These powerful and complex images lend themselves to multiple
interpretations but generally seem to reflect the many aspects of the
mortification process necessary for alchemical transformation. The
subjects to be transformed are often represented by an old king, a
dragon, a toad, or the sun in the process of being wounded or killed by
club, sword, or poison; drowned; or devoured. The phenomenology of
this process aims to displace or alter the old dominant function of the
conscious ego or the underdeveloped, instinctual state of the uncon-
scious psyche. It is a wounding or death that prepares the primitive self
for fundamental change.
In the “Death of the King” from Stolcius, we see the king sitting on
his throne.22 Ten figures are uniformly lined up behind him preparing
to club him to death. In another graphic titled “Sol and Luna Kill the
Dragon,” Sol and Luna likewise are about to club a dragon.23 As noted,
this creature is often a “personification of the instinctual psyche.”24
The struggle with the unconscious is also portrayed in the Book of
Lambspring, where a warrior with sword in hand encounters a dragon
whose head he must cut off. A verse describing this image states:

Here you straightaway behold

A black beast in the forest,
Whose skin is of blackest dye, if any
Man cuts off his head. His blackness
Will disappear.25

Dealing with the dragon requires both a slaying of and an incisive en-
gagement with the instinctual ground of the psyche.
Figure 1.4 is from the Dance of Death by Hans Holbein. The image
shows Death pouring a drink for the king.
The theme of poisoning is also linked to the alchemical image of the

The Dark Side of Light (19)

 Figure 1.4. The Dance of Death (1538), woodcut by Hans Holbein.
Death pours a drink for the king. From Edward Edinger, Anatomy of the Psyche:
Alchemical Symbolism in Psychotherapy, p. 152

Toad, which is a symbolic variation of the “poisonous dragon” and

represents the outcome of unrestrained, unstructured life. “The toad
as prima materia drowns in its own greed and hunger. It dies, turns
black, putrefies, and is filled with poison.”26 The alchemist heats the re-
mains of the toad, and its color changes “from black to many colors to
white to red,” indicating the transformative process.27 The poison it
contains is then transformed to a pharmakon, an elixir that can lead to
death and/or regeneration.
Another well-known image of the king’s mortification (figure 1.5)
can be found in the alchemical work Splendor Solis. The king in the
background is drowning and undergoing a solutio process. He rep-
resents the inflated ego dissolving in his own excessive waters. This
process is said to make it possible for the king to rejuvenate. Other al-

(20) Chapter 1
Figure 1.5. The old father king drowning in the sea is reborn in his son
and successor. From Solomon Trismosin, Splendor Solis, 1582.
“Crowned figure with scepter and ball,” Harley 3469 f16v.
By permission of The British Library.
chemical images such as the illustrations of seventeenth-century en-
graver Balthazar Schwan of the wounding of Sol by Luna depict the
penetration of the unconscious into the body of the conscious ego. In
a well-known graphic (color plate 1), Sol is wounded by the bite of the
green lion, his blood flowing to the Earth as he is slowly devoured.
There have been many alchemical commentaries on color plate 1.
The devouring aspect of the lion is represented in this emblem, which
was first attached to a sixteenth-century manuscript of the Rosarium
Philosophorum.28 It shows the lion devouring the sun, with the blood
of the lion issuing from its mouth. Abraham equates the sun with the
alchemists’ raw stuff, “‘gold,’ which is devoured and dissolved in order
to obtain the ‘sperm’ of gold, the living seed from which pure gold can
be grown.”29
The idea is that the raw solar energy must darken and undergo a
mortificatio process that reduces it to its prime matter. Only then can
the creative energies produce a purified product. In this image the
sperm of gold refers not to the ordinary seminal fluid of man but
rather to “a semi-material principle,” or aura seminales, the fertile po-
tentiality that prepares the Sun for the sacred marriage with his coun-
terpart, darkness, which is thought to produce a philosophical child
or stone and is nourished by the mercurial blood that flows from the
wounding encounter of the Lion and the Sun.30 The blood—called red
mercury—is considered a great solvent.
Psychologically, there is nourishment in wounding. When psycho-
logical blood flows, it can dissolve hardened defenses. This then can be
the beginning of true productivity. In dreams the imagery of blood of-
ten connotes moments when real feeling and change are possible. The
theme of the wound can also suggest a hidden innocence, which is also
a subject of mortification. The green color of the lion, which is referred
to as “green gold,” suggests something that is immature, unripe, or in-
nocent, as well as growth and fertility.
The alchemist imagined this innocence, sometimes called virgin’s
milk, as a primary condition, something without Earth and not yet
blackened. Typical virgin-milk fantasies are often maintained emotion-
ally in otherwise intellectually sophisticated and developed people. Un-
consciously held ideas might include sentiments such as “Life should be

(22) Chapter 1
fair,” “God will protect and care for me like a good parent,” “Bad things
won’t happen to me because I have lived according to this or that prin-
ciple,” “I have been good or faithful, eat healthy foods, and exercise,”
and so on. When life does not confirm such ideas, the innocent, weak,
or immature ego is wounded and often overcome with feelings of hurt,
self-pity, oppression, assault, and/or victimization.
The injured ego can carry this wounding in many ways. The dark-
ening process can lead to a kind of blindness and dangerous stasis of
the soul that then becomes locked in a wound, in hurt or rage, frozen
in stone or ice, or fixed in fire. From the alchemical point of view, these
innocent attitudes must undergo this mortificatio process—and in-
nocent attitudes await the necessary work of alchemy. Hillman notes
that the blackening begins in “scorching, hurting, cursing, rotting the
innocence of soul and corrupting and depressing it into the nigredo,
which we recognize by its stench [a mind lost in introspection about]
its materialistic causes for what went wrong.”31
Looking for what went wrong is often looking in the wrong place.
What is not seen by the wounded soul is that what is happening under
the surface and in the blackening process is a dying of immature inno-
cence—a nigredo that holds a transformative possibility and an expe-
rience that opens the dark eye of the soul. As Edinger puts it, the soul
“enters the gate of blackness.”32 Jung refers to the descent into darkness
as nekyia. In Psychology and Alchemy, Jung uses this Greek word to des-
ignate a “‘journey to Hades,’ a descent into the land of the dead.”33
Mythically, as is the case throughout Jungian literature, there are many
examples of such journeys. Jung mentions Dante’s Divine Comedy,
which Dante starts with a statement of the nigredo experience. He
writes:

Midway upon the journey of our life

I found that I was in a dusky wood;
For the right path, whence I had strayed, was lost.
Ah me! How hard a thing it is to tell
The wildness of that rough and savage place,
The very thought of which brings back my fear!
So bitter was it, death is little more so.34

The Dark Side of Light (23)

 Figure 1.6. Leaden depression of a Benedictine suffering death in a valley of fading
stars. From Johannes Fabricius, Alchemy: The Medieval Alchemists and
Their Art, p. 105.

Jung also notes the classic Walpurgisnacht in Goethe’s Faust and

apocryphal accounts of Christ’s descent into hell. Edinger gives further
examples of the nekyia, citing descriptions from the book of Job, Bun-
yan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, and T. S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland.” His own con-
tributions to this theme are in his study of Melville’s Moby Dick, which
he subtitles An American Nekyia and which he refers to as an Amer-
ican Faust.35 Additional parallels are cited by Sylvia Perera, who notes
the Japanese Izanami, the Greek Kore-Persephone, the Roman Psyche,
and the fairy tale heroines who go to Mother Hulda or Baba Yaga. In
Descent to the Goddess, her own work, she studies the theme from the
perspective of the initiation of women and takes up the Sumerian story
of Inanna and Ereshkigal, the Dark Goddess. One could go on citing
numerous examples throughout history and across cultures. As Edinger
notes, “the theme has no national or racial boundaries. It is found
everywhere because it refers to an innate, necessary psychic movement

(24) Chapter 1
 Figure 1.7. The nigredo. From Edward Edinger, Anatomy of the Psyche:
Alchemical Symbolism in Psychotherapy, p. 165.

which must take place sooner or later when the conscious ego has ex-
hausted the resources and energies of a given life attitude.”36
The nekyia ultimately leads to the fading of the ego’s light and a
death that is captured in “The Hollow Men” by Eliot:

This is the dead land

This is the cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.37

The image of Eliot’s fading star or loss of light is given graphic rep-
resentation in figure 1.6, which depicts a man in a “leaden depression”
suffering death in a valley of fading stars.

The Dark Side of Light (25)

Exploring the Variety of Random
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 Every available hose was already at work. The hiss of the water,
falling on the flames, sounded like snakes angry at being disturbed.
Beneath the office window, flames were licking at the wall; the
woodwork at one side was blazing and crackling. David Linton
hesitated, one hand on the sill—it was hot, and his load made him
awkward.
From the garden came Jim’s shout.
“Half a minute, Dad! Don’t try to get out yet!”
The stream of water from his hose played suddenly upon the
burning woodwork, splashing on the sill, and sprinkling the man who
stood waiting. Above him the flames died out sullenly. Jim played on
the hot bricks of the wall for a moment, in fear less already the fire
in the house should be finding its way into the office—then he
shouted again, deflecting the stream, and Mr. Linton climbed out,
bringing his bundle carefully after him. He carried it across the
garden, nodding at his son.
Behind the house, Murty O’Toole and Brownie had organized a
bucket brigade.
“I can’t carry buckets up to much,” Brownie observed, “but I can
pump a treat!” She worked the force-pump manfully, never ceasing,
though the heat from the burning house made the metal portions of
the pump too hot to touch, and her plump old face was crimson, and
her breathing pitifully distressed. Sarah and Mary were in the line,
passing the brimming buckets to the men with the easy swing of
young bush-trained muscles. Mr. Linton, arriving at a run, shook his
head.
“There’s not a hope of saving this part,” he cried. “We’d better
concentrate on the front. Brownie, you’re not to work like that—go
over to the pepper trees and look after Norah. No—I’d rather you did
——” as Brownie hesitated, unwillingly. “It would really be a relief to
me to know you were with her—she said she had no burns, but I
don’t see how she can have escaped without any.” Even at that
moment a twinkle came to his eye, for at the hint Brownie uttered a
dismayed exclamation, and fled away across the yard to her
nursling. With Norah needing her, the house might burn, indeed!
 “We’ll save what we can from the front rooms, Murty,” the
squatter went on, leading the way with rapid strides. “Some of you
get to work with the buckets—there are four of them hosing. It’s a
mercy the water pressure’s good.”
They flung open the French windows in the front of the house.
Already every room was filled with smoke; the men dashed in and
out, holding their breath—bringing out silver and pictures and books
first—the things that no insurance money could replace. Jim, from
his post near the tap, smiled a trifle to see his father’s first load—his
own silver cups, trophies of his years at school. Stopping at the edge
of the lawn, Mr. Linton bowled them down the sloping grass, and
hastened back for more.
From the window of the drawing-room came Dave Boone and
Black Billy, staggering under the piano. At the edge of the verandah
Billy’s end slipped and jarred heavily upon the kerb, the strings
setting up a demoniacal jangle. Billy uttered a yell of terror, and
bolted down the lawn, being recalled with great difficulty by Mr.
Boone, who expressed a harassed wish to “break his useless black
neck.” But the dusky one firmly refused to touch the piano again.
“That pfeller debbil-debbil!” he said. “Baal me hump him any
more.” He rescued the drawing-room fire-irons with heroic
determination, while Mr. Linton came to the assistance of the bereft
Mr. Boone, whose wrath was tending towards apoplexy.
Lee Wing held the nozzle of one hose firmly directed upon a
dangerous point. He was a peculiar spectacle. The prudence
characteristic of the gentle Chinaman had induced him to put on as
many clothes as possible before leaving his hut, and he was attired
in at least three suits. They were uncomfortable, but he had the
consolation of knowing where they were; and a spark might send his
hut up in smoke at any moment. Upon his bullet head were four
hats, each pulled down firmly. His pockets bulged with miscellaneous
possessions, his pigtail floated behind him. If the worst should come
to the worst, Lee Wing was clearly prepared to start back to China.
His hereditary enemy, Hogg, worked not far off. As a rule the
feud between the gardeners did not slumber, but just now they were
as brothers. Hogg’s mind was too full of woe over the destruction of
his garden to be troubled by what he was wont to call
contemptuously the Yaller Peril, and Lee Wing, his trim expanse of
vegetables well out of harm’s way, felt something resembling pity for
his competitor, whose flower beds were mere highways for trampling
feet. Even as they looked, Billy dashed out of the house carrying a
heavy carved box—Jim’s handiwork—and dropped it upon a delicate
rose bush with a loud, satisfied grunt. At the spectacle of slaughter
Hogg gave a heavy groan and a sudden involuntary movement of
the hand that held the nozzle of his hose. It turned the stream of
water from its course—a matter of which Hogg, gazing open-
mouthed at the destruction of his hopes, was quite unconscious,
until a wrathful shout brought him back to earth with a start. Then
he realized that he was hosing Jim vigorously, deaf to his very
justifiable remarks.
“What on earth are you up to?” sang out the dripping Jim. He
burst out laughing at the Scotchman’s dismayed face. “I’m not sorry
for the bath, Hogg, but the house needs it more!”
“Losh!” gasped Hogg, gazing at his handiwork—paralysed past
any possibility of apologizing. He swung the stream of water again to
the fire, muttering horrified ejaculations in broad Scotch.
The stable had almost burned itself out. A dull, red glow came
from the smoking bed of coals that smouldered angrily between the
broken and blackened brick walls. One of these had fallen, with a
crash that echoed round the hills; the others still stood, black holes
gaping in them where windows had been, like staring eyes that
watched the ruin of the pride of Billabong—for there had been no
such stables in the district. Harvey’s little plan had hit even harder
than that ingenious gentleman had anticipated.
Beyond the fences the cattle stood in interested groups,
fascinated by the fire; further off were the horses, thrilled with more
fear than the stolid bullocks, but unable to tear themselves from the
mysterious glow. But Monarch and Garryowen and Bosun were away
at the farthest corner of the homestead paddock, quivering and
starting yet, their hearts still pounding at the memory of the terrible
moments in the burning stable; and on Garryowen’s quarter were
round, burnt patches, while half of his tail was singed off. Yet pain
was not so dreadful to the big thoroughbred as Fear—fear that he
could not understand, that had come to him in the darkness, and
was yet knocking at his heart.
At the house the fire was slackening. Billabong was built of solid
brick, so that there was not a great deal of inflammable material for
the flames to fasten upon; and they had been discovered soon—not
allowed, as in the stables, to obtain a firm hold. The defence had
been prompt and thorough. David Linton blessed the forethought,
coupled with the love of his garden, that had made him equip the
homestead with water laid on from the river as well as with many
tanks. They had needed it all.
He was at the hose now, having relieved Jim, to whom the
business of standing still and holding a nozzle had been no light
penance, despite the necessity of the proceeding. One of the men
had taken Wally’s place, and the boys had dashed off on a tour of
the homestead, to look for any possibility of a further outbreak.
David Linton looked at what remained of his house, his mouth stern
—going back in memory to the time of its building, and the old,
perfect companionship that had been by his side. Now the rooms
that he and his wife had planned were black, smoking ruins, and the
roses she had planted were shrivelled masses on the wall. There was
no part of the house that did not have its memories of her, so vivid
that often it seemed to him that he saw her yet, flitting about its
wide corridors and the rooms that even until now had borne the
magic of her touch. All the years the home had helped him to fight
his loneliness and his longing. Now——. He stared at it with eyes
suddenly grown old.
Then across the grass came a little odd figure—Norah, still grimy
with smoke, and very shaky, with Brownie’s arm near her to help,
and Jean not far off. Norah, her coat open over her blue pyjamas,
and her hair, in her own phrase, “all anyhow,” about her, and her
grey eyes swimming as she looked from the house to her father’s
face. David Linton put down the hose and held out his hand to her
silently, and Norah clung to him.
“Oh, Daddy, poor old Daddy!” she whispered.
 Jim came round the corner with long strides; even odder than
Norah, for he had not waited to put any overcoat over his pyjamas,
and he had been drenched and dried, and blackened and torn, until
he resembled a scarecrow in an advanced stage of disrepair. He
gripped his father’s free hand.
“It’s not so bad, Dad!” he said, cheerily. “Lots of the old place
left. We’ll all build it up again, Dad!”
David Linton smiled at his children, suddenly.
“Right, mates!” he said. “We’ll build it up again!”
 CHAPTER XII
BURNT OUT
And the creek of life goes wandering on,
Wandering by;
And bears for ever its course upon
A song and a sigh.
—Henry Lawson.

ADROVER on the road with store cattle miles away saw the glow in
the sky that night, and reported it next morning to a farmer
driving in to Cunjee; and before noon half the township seemed to
be out at the station.
Little Dr. Anderson, in his motor, was the first to appear. He found
the Billabong inhabitants straying about the ruins to see what
remained to them. The overseer’s cottage and the men’s hut had
given them shelter for the remnant of the night after the fire had
been finally extinguished, except Mr. Linton and Jim, who remained
on guard until morning.
Within, the devastation was only partial. Most of the rooms in
front were practically untouched, though all had been damaged by
water. The back of the house had suffered most; little but the walls
were left. Jim brought a long ladder for further explorations, for the
stairs were unsafe, being burnt through in two places. He found that
the rooms belonging to his father, Norah and himself bore traces of
flood rather than of fire. The walls were cracked with heat, but
otherwise they were intact. But the water had done its worst, and he
groaned over the spectacle of Norah’s pretty room, its red carpet a
vision of discoloured slush, and the white furniture stained and
blistered. All its little adornments were lying in confused heaps,
swept down by the water. It was a gruesome sight.
Within the wardrobe and chest of drawers, however, clothes were
unhurt. Jim took up a rope and lowered bundles down to his father,
so that when Norah and Jean awoke, very late in the morning, it was
to find clean raiment laid out for them by Brownie, and breakfast
waiting for them in Mrs. Evans’s neat little kitchen.
“Isn’t it a mercy?” Jean confided to Norah. “Last night it didn’t
seem to matter at all running round before all Billabong in a nighty
and a coat, but I went to sleep wondering how they’d look in the
daytime!”
Brownie and the maids were the most to be pitied, for they had
lost everything but a few cherished possessions, snatched up as they
ran out of the house. Mary and Sarah were not hard to clothe—but
Mrs. Brown was a different proposition. The united wardrobes of
Mrs. Evans and Mrs. Willis, the men’s cook, contrived something in
the nature of a rig-out by dint of ripping out gathers and tucks and
using innumerable safety pins. “I’m covered, if not clothed!” said
Brownie, “an’ thankful to be anything!”
Mr. Linton had resolutely put away his trouble, and was
inspecting the remains with a keen, businesslike face.
“It’s a matter of restoring rather than rebuilding,” he told Dr.
Anderson, who was spluttering with indignation still, more than an
hour after his arrival. “The insurance should cover the damage, I
fancy; and the back of the house can be built after more modern
notions, which won’t be a disadvantage. The stables? No—they will
go up again precisely as they were. And the place will look the
same, in the main; we don’t want it altered. It will look abominably
new, of course; our old mantle of ivy and virginia creeper is
destroyed, and the walls will be bare for a long while. Poor old Hogg
is mourning over his dead roses and the general havoc in his garden.
“Well, you take it calmly!” said the little doctor, explosively.
David Linton shrugged his shoulders.
“No good doing anything else,” he answered. “And, after all, I
have such immense cause for thankfulness in getting Norah out of
that confounded place unhurt, that nothing else really matters. It’s a
nuisance, of course, and what I’m to do with the youngsters’
holidays I don’t know; it’s pretty rough on them. But—good Lord,
Anderson! I want to go and feel the child whenever I look at her, to
make sure that she’s really all right! It seems incredible—I never saw
so hideously close a shave!”
 “Norah’s absolutely matter of fact over it,” the doctor said. “I
rebuked her in my best professional manner for doing such a mad
thing, and she looked at me in mild surprise, and remarked, ‘Why, if
I hadn’t, Jim would have gone!’ It seemed to finish the argument as
far as she was concerned. Wonder if your fellows have got Harvey?”
“Oh, they’re bound to get him,” the squatter answered. “And I
wouldn’t care to be Harvey when they do.”
Murty O’Toole had commenced detective operations with break of
day. He had not ceased to abuse himself for failing to be at the
stables in time to help.
“A set of useless images,” said he, in profound scorn. “Slapin’ an’
snorin’ like so manny fat pigs—an’ Miss Norah an’ Masther Jim on
the shpot! Bad luck to the heat an’ the races!—ivery man jack of us
was aslape almost before we was in bed, ’twas that tired we was.
But that’s no excuse!” Murty refused to be comforted, and only
derived faint solace from the determination to find out the cause of
the fire.
It did not require sleuth-hound abilities. The little paddock had
burned in patches, for here and there were green expanses of clover
that had checked the fire, and the hawthorn hedge had helped to
stop it at the boundary; but the west wind had taken it straight
across to the stables, and in the morning light the brown, burnt
ground led Murty quickly to the clump of lemon gums. Behind them
a kerosene tin stood, inverted, and the burn began there. When the
stockman picked it up the blackened square of charred grass
beneath it showed out sharply.
“That ain’t the kind of thing that happens wid an accident,” said
Murty between his teeth. He looked further.
Behind the burnt ground, the place where a man had lain was
easily visible in the long grass. There were cigarette butts in plenty,
and a little further away an empty cigarette box. Murty pounced
upon it in triumph.
“Humph!” he said. “Harvey smokes that brand—an’ no wan else
on Billabong.”
Then the whisky bottle, half hidden in the hedge, caught his eye,
and he picked it up. He was sure now. The smell of fresh spirit was
still in it; and he had seen the bottle in Harvey’s room two days
before. And, with that, black rage came over Murty’s honest heart,
and for five minutes his remarks about the absent Harvey might
have withered that individual’s soul, had he indeed possessed such a
thing. Then Murty replaced his evidence, and went for Mr. Linton.
He led the men away from the homestead an hour later, each as
keen and as enraged as himself.
“Mind, boys, you’ve promised not to hurt him,” David Linton said,
“He’ll get all that’s coming to him—but I won’t have the station take
the law into its hands. We can’t be absolutely certain.” The men
were certain: but they had promised, unwillingly enough. They went
down the paddock at a hand-gallop, with set, angry faces.
Wally had ridden into Cunjee, to send telegrams and letters, and
with an amazing list to be telephoned to Melbourne shops, since the
township could not rise to great heights in the way of personal
effects, saddlery, or even groceries. Billabong was, in patches,
blankly destitute. Not a decent saddle was left, save those belonging
to the men: buggies, harness, tools, horse feed—all had gone in the
destruction of the stables. Norah and Jean were completely hatless,
their head gear having been downstairs; and as Jim was wont to
keep most of his every-day possessions in a downstairs bathroom
where he shaved and dressed, he had nothing left but his best
clothes, and a Panama sternly reserved, as a rule, for trips to
Melbourne.
“Nice sort of a Johnny you look, to be wandering round ther—
ruined ancestral hall!” Wally told him derisively. “You might be a
bright young man on the stage. It’s hardly decent and filial for you
to think so much of personal adornment at a time like this!” Further
eloquence was checked by sudden action on the part of his friend,
who was too unhappy over his own grandeur to bear meekly any
jibes on its account. He had headed the telephone list with urgent
messages for riding breeches and leggings, and a felt hat of the kind
his soul desired. There was something little short of appalling to Jim
in finding himself suddenly without any old clothes!
Following Dr. Anderson came riders from other stations,
policemen from two or three scattered townships, and many other
people anxious to help, so that the fences near the homestead were
soon thickly occupied with horses “hung up” in every patch of shade.
There was, of course, nothing to do. Nor could Billabong even
maintain its reputation for hospitality, since it had been left almost
without provisions. The storeroom containing the main quantities of
groceries, as well as the meat house, had been amongst the first
parts of the house to catch. Bags of flour could be seen, burst open,
in the ruins, and thick masses of what looked like very badly-burned
toffee, and had been sugar. The men’s hut had fed the exiles, and
further supplies would be brought out from Cunjee by Evans in his
buggy—the only vehicle, except the station carts and drays, left on
Billabong.
“It’s really rather like being cast on a desert island,” said Jean.
Norah laughed.
“I guess it’s like that to all the people who have come out,” she
said. “Just fancy, Jean, we can’t even give them a cup of tea. There’s
milk, and that’s all there is. Isn’t it awful?”
But the visitors had not come to be fed. They condoled, and
looked round the ruins, and made strong and unavailing comments,
and then, in the Australian fashion, offered all they had, from their
houses to their buggies, to fill in any deficiencies. Invitations to find
shelter at neighbouring places poured in upon Mr. Linton and his
family. The squatter would not leave the homestead, but he
considered the question of sending Jean and Norah to spend a week
in Mrs. Anderson’s friendly care, finally referring the matter to the
girls themselves, and finding them so horrified at the idea that he
promptly withdrew it.
“I don’t want to crowd Evans’s cottage out altogether,” he said,
half apologetically.
“Well, Mrs. Evans has a spare room, and she lets us wash up,
and I’m going to bath the baby to-night!” said Norah. “And she
wants us to stay—and Jim and Wally and you are going to sleep in
the tents, anyhow. Oh, Daddy, don’t send us away. I would hate it
so!”
“All right, all right, you needn’t go!” rejoined her father, laughing.
“But it will be very dull for Jean: you can’t ride or drive, and the
cottage isn’t as comfortable in this heat as Billabong.”
But Jean reassured him, hastily. She had no desire to migrate to
a world of strangers.
“It is hot, though, Daddy, that’s a fact,” said Norah. “I was
thinking——” She broke off, watching him a little doubtfully.
“When you think in that tone, I have generally no chance of
escape,” said he. “What is it this time?”
“Well, there’s another little tent.” Norah hesitated, half laughing.
“Jim would put it up and fix up bunks for us. Couldn’t we come and
join your camp down there?” She pointed towards the lagoon, where
Jim had already taken two small tents and was hunting about for
ridge poles. The bank looked cool and shady, fringed with groves of
wattles and big box trees. “We could keep our things up at Mrs.
Evans’s cottage, and dress there: but it would be lovely to sleep in a
tent. That little room is certainly hot.”
Mr. Linton pondered. The lagoon was only a hundred yards from
the cottage. Certainly, there was no great objection to the plan. And
Norah was still bearing traces of the previous night, in white cheeks
and heavy eyes: it was hard to refuse her anything in reason.
“Well, you may,” he said, “if you can arrange matters with Jim.”
“Oh, can we, Daddy? You are the blessedest——!” said Norah.
Suddenly he was alone. Two strenuous figures in blue frocks
descended upon the hapless Jim.
“Whatever’s the matter?” Jim asked, looking up as they raced
down upon him. “Not another fire? And aren’t you two hot enough
without doing Sheffield handicaps across here?” He had borrowed a
pair of blue dungaree trousers from the wardrobe of Mr. Evans, and
was, in consequence, much happier.
“Want you to put us up a tent,” Norah said, cheerfully. “You don’t
mind, do you, Jimmy?”
Jim whistled. “What does Dad say?”
“Says we can if you’ll fix it. You will, Jimmy, won’t you? We’ll help
you ever so. It would be so lovelier than sleeping in a hot little
room!”
“Oh, all right,” said her easy-going brother. “You’ll have to make
yourselves scarce in the mornings, you know—this is our bathing
place.”
“Yes, we know. We’ll do whatever you say,” said Norah, with
amazing meekness. “You’re a brick, Jimmy. Shall we carry down the
tent? I know where it is.”
“No, you won’t,” said Jim, severely. “You can’t try to commit
suicide over-night and then make yourself a beast of burden in the
morning. Wal. and I can bring it when he comes out; he ought to be
back soon. Just you sit down in the shade and think of your sins.”
“That won’t keep me busy,” Norah retorted. But she did as she
was told, and they sat peacefully under a big weeping willow until
Mrs. Evans summoned them to dinner.
After lunch there was nothing to be done at the homestead. Mr.
Linton had gone to Cunjee in Dr. Anderson’s motor to transact much
business and talk on the telephone to Melbourne insurance people
and building contractors. Wally appeared about three o’clock, hot
and dusty, and reported the condition of the township.
“Every one’s talking fire,” he said. “The police and half the men
are out after Harvey. I’ve never seen Cunjee so excited—it seems
quite appropriate that they’ve still got the Christmas decorations in
the streets! They’re considerably withered, of course, but it seems to
indicate that something’s in the air. I guess Harvey will have a lively
time when they catch him.”
“Wish I could be in at the death,” said Jim, grimly. His father’s
wish had kept him from joining the pursuit, but he had stayed
unwillingly.
“Yes, it wouldn’t be bad fun, would it? Wonder is they haven’t got
him already. He must be pretty well planted,” Wally said. “He’s
certainly the man you’ve got to thank: if he’d a clear conscience he’d
be in Cunjee now, instead of nobody knows where. Whew—w, it is
hot! Come and have a swim, Jim.”
“No swim for you yet awhile,” Jim told him, grimly. “You’ve got to
come and fix camp.”
“Me?” asked Wally, blankly. “Of all the unsympathetic, slave-
driving wretches——”
“Yes, that’s so,” grinned his chum. “All the same, you’ve got to
come.”
 “I felt there was something in the wind,” said Wally, lugubriously.
“I left you as beautiful as a tailor’s block, and looking very like one,
only woodener, in your best suit; and I find you in dungarees and a
shirt, and hideously happy. It isn’t fair, and me so hot. Isn’t he a
brute, Norah?”
“Not this time,” laughed Norah. “You see, it’s our tent you’ve got
to fix. Go on, and we’ll get a billy from Mrs. Evans and brew
afternoon tea for you down by the lagoon.”
So they spent the hot hours in the shade, while the boys made
the little camp ship-shape, their tent and that of Mr. Linton close
together near the bank, and the girls’ a little way off in a clump of
young wattles. Jim fixed up bunks in bushman fashion, with saplings
run through bags endways, and supported on crossed sticks.
“You won’t want any mattresses on those,” he said: “they’re fit
for anyone. What about blankets, Norah?”
“Brownie’s been drying the ones you amateur firemen soaked last
night,” said his sister, unkindly. “They’re all water-marked, of course,
but they’re quite good enough for camping.”
“First rate,” Jim agreed. “We’ll get ’em. Come along, Wally.”
“More toil!” groaned that gentleman, who had been working with
the cheerful keenness he put into all his doings. “Why did I come
here?”
“Poor dear, then!” said a cheerful, fat voice. The creaking of a
wheelbarrow accompanied it, and preceded Mrs. Brown, who came
into view wheeling a load of bedclothes.
“Brownie, you shouldn’t, you bad young thing!” exclaimed Wally.
He dashed to take the barrow, and was routed ignominiously.
“Never you mind—I can manage me own little lot,” said Brownie,
cheerfully. She pulled up, panting a little. “Lucky for me it was all
down hill; I don’t know as I could have managed to get it up a rise.”
“You oughtn’t to have wheeled that load at all,” Jim said, with an
excellent attempt at sternness. It appeared to afford Brownie great
amusement, and she chuckled audibly.
“Bless you, it pulled me here!” she answered. “I come down at
no end of a pace. Now haven’t you got it all just as nice as it can be.
Makes me nearly envious!”
 “We’ll fix up a tent for you, if you like,” Jim told her. “Just say the
word.”
“Not for me, thank you,” said Brownie, hastily. “This open-air
sleeping notion is all very well for them as likes it—but I’m used to
four walls an’ a winder. I like something you can lock—an’ where can
you lock a tent, Master Jim?—tell me that!” She propounded this
unanswerable query with an air of triumph. “Besides, it wouldn’t be
fair to any bunk to put me into it, bunks not bein’ built on my lines.
I’d hate to come down in the night, like that there Philistine idol in
the Bible.”
“Why, you wouldn’t have far to fall!” said Jim, laughing.
“Thank you, but any distance is far enough when you’re my
weight,” Brownie responded, with dignity. “Now, Miss Norah an’ Miss
Jean, seein’ as how I’ve got my breath again, I think we’d better
start bedmaking.”
“Don’t you bother, Brownie; we can fix up our own,” Jim said,
politely—and greatly hoping that his politeness would have no effect.
It had none.
“Humph!” said Mrs. Brown. “Handy you may be with tools an’
horses, Master Jim, but I never yet did see the man or boy that was
handy with bedmaking. I’ve noticed that bedclothes seem to
paralyse a man’s common sense when he starts to make a bed; he
don’t seem to be able to realize what relation they have to the
mattress. Generally he fights with them quite desperate, and gets
them nearly tied in knots before the job’s done. So just you two lie
there peaceful, an’ me an’ the young ladies will do it in two twos.”
The boys’ bedmaking ambition was of no soaring nature, and
they were very content to “lie peaceful,” watching the sun dip behind
the trees that fringed the lagoon. Then came Mr. Linton, who
nodded approval of the workmanlike camp.
“First rate!” he said, warmly. “For destitute and burnt-out people,
we shan’t fare too badly.”
“Rather not!” Jim answered. “How did you get on, Dad?”
“Oh, all right. Telephone was as indistinct as usual, but I
managed to say a good deal of what I wanted through it. There will
be an insurance man down to-morrow.” Mr. Linton smiled at the
bedmakers, who came out of the last tent and settled down under
the trees thankfully. “They’ve found Harvey,” he concluded.
“Found the brute, have they?” Jim exclaimed. “What did he have
to say, Dad? Did they hurt him?”
“Harvey had had luck,” said Mr. Linton, slowly. “He’d hurt himself
first.”
“How? Tell us, Dad.”
“Well, they hunted most of the day before they got him. They
had every road searched before noon, the police were in
communication with all the townships in the district, and there was
no sign of him. Then the men left the roads and went across
country, hunting up the river and along any creek, and through
scrub. But I don’t think Mr. Harvey would have trusted himself in
scrub without a horse.”
“Not he!” Jim agreed.
“Murty found him. He was riding across the Duncans’ big plain,
and thought he heard a coo-ee; but there was no cover anywhere,
and he couldn’t see a man wherever he looked. But he rode about,
and found him at last in a little bit of a hollow. Murty said you might
have ridden past it a hundred times and never have seen anyone.
Harvey had shouted once, but when he saw that it was Murty he
was afraid to call again, and tried to lie low.”
“Couldn’t he walk?”
“He broke his leg last night,” Mr. Linton answered. “The poor
wretch has had a pretty bad time. He was jumping over a log, he
says, and came down with one leg in a crab-hole, and it twisted, and
threw him down. He didn’t know it was broken at first, but he found
he couldn’t use it. So he crawled away from the log, being afraid of
snakes, and got a couple of hundred yards into the paddock. Since
then he’s kept still.”
“What—out in the open?” Jim asked.
“Yes; not a scrap of cover. And think of the day it’s been—it was
112° in the shade in Cunjee—and Harvey wasn’t in the shade. He
told Murty he was badly thirsty before he got hurt, and had been
looking for water. His leg is in a bad state, and he must have had a
terrible day. Murty came in for the doctor, and we went for him in
the car—of course, Murty could do nothing on horseback. Harvey
was a bit delirious by the time we got to him. Anderson says he’ll be
three months in hospital.”
“Whew-w!” whistled Wally. “Three months!”
“Then he’ll have three munce to reflect on the error of his ways!”
said Brownie, implacably. “Oh, I know me feelings aren’t Christian,
an’ I don’t set a good example to the young; but what did he want
to go and do it for?”
“Break his leg? But did he want to?” Jim grinned.
“You know very well I don’t mean his wretched little leg,”
Brownie said, testily. “He never had no call to burn us all out. Now
he’s broke his leg, an’ you’ll think he’s an object of sympathy an’
compassion, an’ nex’ thing Miss Norah’ll be visitin’ him in the ’Ospital
an’ holdin’ his hand an’ givin’ him jelly!”
“By gad, she won’t!” uttered Norah’s father, with satisfying
emphasis. “There are limits, Brownie. But it’s all very well for you to
talk—if you’d seen the poor little weed you’d have been sorry for
him.”
“Not me!” Brownie answered, truculently. “I only got to think of
Miss Norah in that horrid stable, an’ every soft feelin’ leaves me, like
a moulting hen.” Brownie’s similes were apt to be mixed, and nobody
marked them. “Does he say why he did it? He’s got nerve enough to
stick out that he never lit it at all!”
“Oh, no, he hasn’t—not now,” said Mr. Linton. “He admitted it to
Murty meekly enough, and Murty says he was awfully taken aback at
hearing the amount of the damage; he said he only thought of
burning the grass. Whether his concern is for my loss or the possible
results to himself, I’m not clear. I don’t regard him as exactly a
philanthropist.”
Brownie snorted wrathfully as they rose to go up to the cottage.
The sun had set, and Mrs. Evans was calling from the hill.
“I don’t give him credit for no decent motives at all,” she said.
“He’s bad right through—an’ don’t you ask me to be sorry for him—
he’ll have three munce takin’ it easy in ’Ospital, livin’ on the fat of
the land an’ doin’ no work—an’ that’ll just suit Harvey! I got no
patience with that sort of worm in sheep’s clothing!” She subsided,
muttering darkly, and Wally offered her his arm up the hill, while Jim
wheeled the barrow.
Brownie dropped her voice as they neared the cottage.
“Ah, well,” she said—and paused. “I don’t suppose them gaol
’Ospitals is exackly dens of luxury. If you an’ Master Jim, Master
Wally, think as how a little strong soup or meat jelly might go in to
that poor, wicked, depraved little wretch——?”
“Fattening him for the slaughter, eh, Brownie?” asked Wally,
gravely.
“Yes, that’s it,” said the fierce Mrs. Brown, accepting the
suggestion with ardour. “P’r’aps he mightn’t get what he deserves if
he looked pale an’ thin at his trile!” She mused over the matter.
“Wonder if they feed ’em on skilly when they’re in ’Ospital,” she
pondered. “An’ a leg like that. Well, well, we’re all ’uman, after all,
an’ likely his mother never did much by him—he looks as if he had
growed up casual! You find out about that soup, Master Wally.” And
Wally nodded, his eyes kindly as he smiled at the broad, motherly
face.
“Makes you feel a bit small, though,” he confided to Jim later on.
“Because I’m not in the least sorry for Harvey. I think he deserved all
he got, and more, and these beggars don’t mind gaol. Suppose I’m
a hard-hearted brute!”
“Well, I’m another,” Jim responded. “When I think of young
Norah—and the horses! I guess my poor old Garryowen had about
as bad a time as Harvey. Says he never thought of the house! Well,
he lit the grass three hundred yards from it, with a west wind
blowing—that’s all! When I can work up any sorrow for Harvey I’ll let
you know!” And the stern and unmoved pair sought the lagoon for a
final swim before “turning in.”
“ ‘Brownie, you shouldn’t, you bad young thing!’ ”
 CHAPTER XIII
BEN ATHOL
There are stars of gold on the Wallaby Track,
And silver the moonbeams glisten,
The great Bush sings to us, out and back.
And we lie in her arms and listen.
—W. H. Ogilvie.

AWEEK went by—a week of blinding heat, ending in a cool change,

accompanied by a gale of wind that almost blew the tents and
their occupants into the lagoon. Then the weather settled to glorious
conditions, neither hot nor cold—long days of sunshine, and nights
chilly enough to make the campers enjoy a fire by the water’s edge
while they fished for their breakfast.
But, on the whole, it was dull. The new saddles had not arrived
from Melbourne, so that riding was out of the question. In any case
it was deemed wiser not to ride Monarch and Garryowen and Bosun
too soon. Norah and Jim had them yarded each day, and they
caught and handled them, dressing Garryowen’s burns, and petting
all three—talking to them and leading them about while they hunted
for the milk-thistles horses love. Gradually the quivering nerves
steadied down, and the memory of their terror faded. But
Garryowen would never face fire again; a tiny blaze was too much
for him, and even smoke sent him into a panic. Even kindness could
not make him forget the moments when he had been a rat in a
burning trap.
They fished and walked—moderately; walking was not a
Billabong characteristic; and helped Mrs. Evans and Brownie, and
worshipped the Evans baby—that is to say, Jean and Norah did, and
Jim and Wally pretended not to; and they watched Hogg glowering
as he worked in his ruined garden, and wished business did not
detain Mr. Linton during nearly every hour of the day. It was hard to
settle to anything. Possibly they were feeling a natural reaction after
the strain of the night of the fire. But as none of the four would have
known what reaction meant, no one suggested it.
They were all in the boat one exquisite evening, floating lazily
among the water lilies on the lagoon, and pretending to fish—a
transparent pretence, since frequent snagging on the lily stems had
made every angler disgusted, and had brought all the lines out of
the water. Then Mr. Linton appeared on the bank and they pulled in
and took him on board, giving him the place of honour in the stern.
“This is the most peaceful thing I’ve done since we became a
burnt-offering,” he said, as they drifted away from the shore. He lit
his pipe and leaned back contentedly. “Well—business is done!”
“Thank goodness!” from Norah.
“I quite agree with you,” said her father. “To be burnt out is bad
enough, but it’s an added penance to be forced to put in time as I’ve
been doing. I’m sick of the sight of insurance people, and policemen,
and architects, and contractors!”
“Have you made all arrangements, Dad?” Jim asked.
“So far as I can. But the men I want to employ can’t begin
rebuilding for three weeks at least, possibly a month; and then the
job will be a long one.”
“Then I won’t see it before I go back to school!” came from
Norah, disgustedly. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”
“No; and I’m sorry, too,” said her father. “But it can’t be helped.
The fire has done unpleasant things to your holidays, my girl.”
“Just you wait until I begin growling!” Norah said, laughing. “I’m
having lovely holidays, truly, only I’m disappointed that I can’t see
the house.”
“Well, I’ve a plan,” said David Linton, slowly.
Norah sat up so briskly that the boat rocked violently.
“Have a little sense, Nor.!” came from Jim. “Sit still, or you’ll be
smacked and turned out!”
“Get out yourself!” said his sister, inelegantly. “When Dad has a
plan in that voice it is time to sit up! Tell us, Dad.”
Mr. Linton laughed.
“How about Ben Athol?” he asked.
“Ben Athol!” Jim whistled. “By Jove, Dad, that’s an idea!”
 “Oh!” said Norah. “Didn’t I tell you it was time to sit up!”
Ben Athol towered from the low ranges to the north of Billabong,
beyond the stations and out to the wild country that was No Man’s
Land because of its steepness and inaccessibility. “Old hands” told
stories of well grassed valleys in the ranges, where stock might be
pastured; of a mountain river, flowing clear as crystal all the year
round, in a way very unlike the usual habit of Australian rivers. But
comparatively few white men knew anything about the country
between the hills. Blacks were reputed to camp there—some
miserable, scattered families, who came into the townships as winter
approached to beg for food and blankets, sometimes to hang about
all through the cold months, a thievish, filthy pest.
Snow lay for the winter months upon the brow of Ben Athol. In
spring, when the warm sun melted the great white cap, it slid away
gradually, and the big peak stood out, dark blue among the lesser
hills. Always it seemed to Norah like a friend.
For two years they had talked of climbing it. But the expedition
required some organizing, for it was three days’ ride even to the last
township that nestled at the foot of the hills. Then came a day’s stiff
climbing for horses, after which it was only possible to proceed on
foot, if one wanted to reach the peak. Few were adventurous
enough to want to do so.
“Well, I think we may as well go,” said Mr. Linton, when his
excited family calmed down. “I have been turning over various plans
in my mind for the last few days, for we can’t stop here; it’s too
dismal to look at the old place. We’re all in good form, fit for such a
ride. I don’t quite know about Jean.”
“Oh, please,” said Jean, in a small shriek. “I can, quite easily.
Truly, Mr. Linton.”
“I’m sure she’s all right, Dad,” Norah put in. “She wasn’t a bit stiff
after that long day we had in the Far Plain.”
“Well, that was a pretty fair test,” Mr. Linton remarked. “Anyhow,
we can’t start for a few days, so you had better ride a good deal, to
get into form. The saddles will be out to-day. But we shan’t use
them for the trip—new saddles aren’t advisable for a journey like
that—we’d probably have the horses with sore backs.”
 “Rather,” Jim said. “I’m never really friends with a saddle until it
has been re-stuffed.”
“Oh, they are like new boots—they must get accustomed to a
horse,” Mr. Linton answered. “We’ll have to exchange with the men.
Murty will see that the new ones are looked after. We’ll use the old
ones from to-day, so that you girls can find out which are the most
comfortable for you.”
“All right,” nodded Norah. “When do you think we’ll start, Dad?”
“This is Thursday—we’ll get away on Monday morning,” her
father replied. “We’ll take Billy, to lead a packhorse and make
himself generally useful. It will not be necessary to carry a great
amount of provisions, because we can lay in a stock of food at the
various townships as we go. Atholton is the last one, at the foot of
the ranges, and I’ve sent a note to the storekeeper there, telling him
to have various things ready for us. Until then we need only have a
day’s rations. We’ll take a tent for you girls——”
“Oh, need you, Dad? Can’t we put up a wurley?” Norah begged.
“No,” said Mr. Linton, firmly. “We don’t know if we’ll always be in
timber to make wurleys, and it’s as well to be prepared for bad
weather. That little tent is no trouble to take, and, as it’s waterproof,
it will make an excellent covering for the pack. We’ll take some
fishing tackle. They say the fishing in that mountain stream is very
good. For the rest, Norah, you and I will have a heart-to-heart talk
with Brownie. I believe it will make the old soul quite happy to have
to cook for an expedition again.”
The time until Monday seemed all a cheerful bustle of
preparation. Jean and Norah rode each day, generally with Wally in
attendance, since Jim and his father had much to do together. There
were jobs of moving cattle from one paddock to another; of riding
round the Queensland bullocks, now settling down contentedly in
the Bush Paddock, and only becoming excited when the three riders
tried to count them; of inspecting the fences, with sharp eyes alert
for a broken panel or a sagging wire. No one at Billabong need ever
ride aimlessly; there was always work of this kind—work that the
three regarded as the best possible fun. And always they talked of
next week’s expedition, and made quite a hundred thousand plans in
connection with it. Jean had never been camping out in her life, and,
considering how calm a person she was ordinarily, it became almost
alarming to behold her state of simmering excitement.
Mr. Linton sternly hunted his flock to bed early on Sunday
evening, and dawn, had scarcely broken next morning when they
were astir, Norah and Jean running hurriedly to the Cottage to dress,
while Murty dismantled their little tent, and had it, with the bags that
formed their bunks, neatly packed and made ready for transport.
Breakfast was despatched hastily by all but Mr. Linton, who declined
altogether to bestir himself unduly, and demanded of his excited
charges if they had visions of catching a train? Finally, they were all
in the saddle, the horses fidgeting and dancing with excitement—
save the packhorse, who looked upon the world with an embittered
gaze, and Black Billy’s scrawny piebald, old Bung Eye, who was
supposed to be proof against any kind of excitement whatever.
“Now do come back safe an’ sound, all of you!” Brownie begged.
“Me nerves have had enough to bear lately; I don’t want any broken
heads or cracked legs. An’ if you find a gold mine out there, then I’ll
give notice, if you please, sir, an’ take out a miner’s right, an’ go off
makin’ me fortune!”
“Anybody in this party finding a gold mine is hereby ejected
summarily!” said Mr. Linton, promptly. “The penalty would be too
heavy to make the find worth while.”
“We’ll live and die poor, but we’ll keep you, Brownie!” Jim told
her.
“Me own prospects don’t seem to matter much to you, do they?”
retorted Brownie, enjoying herself hugely. Occasionally it gave her
immense delight to toy with the fiction of leaving Billabong—
knowing very well indeed, as did they all, that a team of bullocks
would scarcely have been strong enough to tear her away. “Often I
says to meself that I might end me days as a prospector—there’s no
knowin’ how much gold is lyin’ about in them ranges for the pickin’
up.”
“If it’s there, Brownie, I will bring you a necklace of nuggets with
my own fair hands,” said Wally. “Steady, you brute!”
Brownie beamed over the portion of the speech addressed to her.
 “Thank you—an’ take care of that horse, dearie, for I know he
ain’t safe,” she said anxiously—to the great delight of Jim, and
Wally’s no small embarrassment. The men grinned widely.
“The halters is in the pack, sir, an’ likewise the hobbles,” said
Murty. “If y’ don’t be watchin’ that black image of a haythen on Bung
Eye, he’ll put the wrong hobbles on Bosun—there’s a small, little pair
I made special for the pony. He’ll get his feet out of nearly anny
other hobbles on the place.”
“Thank you, Murty!” from Norah. Murty beamed.
“A good ride to ye all,” he said, “an’ don’t be afther breakin’ your
neck on thim ridges, Miss Norah. ’Tis the only neck like it on
Billabong, an’ we can’t spare it, at all.”
“We’ll take care of her, Murty,” said her father.
“Bedad,” said Murty, “I have not forgotten that wan time ’twas
y’rsilf did not take care of y’rsilf in that very same place! How am I
to be thinkin’ anny of ye safe afther that misfortunate time?”
David Linton laughed.
“Ah, Monarch and I have learned sense now,” he said. “He won’t
get rid of me in the same way again.”
“Divil a wan of me knows!” said Murty, darkly. “Well—that ye may
come home wid whole bones, annyhow! Is it gettin’ up a search
party we’ll be if ye’re not back this day week, sir?”
“Certainly not!” said the squatter. “If we find Brownie’s gold mine,
there’s no prophesying when I shall get my party away from it!”
“Then ye’ll find hersilf an’ me joggin’ out in the old dray to meet
ye,” Murty averred. He took his hand from Bosun’s bridle, and
stepped back. Good-byes floated to the little group by the cottage as
the riders cantered down the track.
 CHAPTER XIV
ON THE TRACK
A homely-looking folk they are, these people of my kin—
Their hands are hard as horse shoes, but their hearts come through the skin.
—V. J. Daley.

THEY camped that night half a mile off the road, in a paddock
belonging to a station Mr. Linton knew well.
“Henderson would give me leave if I asked him—so I won’t,” he
said. “It’s a short stage, but that’s advisable, seeing that it’s our first
day out, and that it has been uncommonly warm. And we’re sure of
good water in the creek over yonder.”
So they found some slip-rails and rode into the paddock and
across the long grass to the creek, a fairly large stream for that time
of the year, fringed with a thick dark green belt of wattles. The
horses were short-hobbled and allowed to graze, and the camp was
pitched quickly.
The tent for the girls was put up in a little grove of trees, near
which the bank of the creek sloped down to an excellent place for
bathing—a deep hole with a little stretch of clean grass growing over
a sunken log at the water’s edge—a place, as Norah said, simply
planned to stand on while you were drying. Most Australian creeks
are unkind in this respect—either the bank is inaccessibly steep, or
the few available places are so muddy that the difficulty after a
bathe is to keep clean.
“We’ll fish there before you bathe,” Jim told Norah, regarding the
hole hopefully. “If there aren’t blackfish there I’m very much
mistaken.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Norah told him, unkindly. “Don’t
leave any fish-hooks in our pool, that’s all.”
“You’ll get no fish for tea if you don’t practise civility!” Jim
grinned. “I’m worn to a shred putting up your blessed tent, and
there’s really no reason why I should allow you to be impolite. Why
don’t you take pattern by Jean? Her manners are lovely!”
“I wish my family heard you say so!” said the lady referred to,
longingly.
“Don’t they appreciate you? I’m like that!” Wally said. “I often
think I’ll die without any one finding out my true worth.”
“Jolly good job for you if they don’t, old man!” quoth Jim,
retreating hastily, and cannoning with violence into his father as he
dodged round a gum tree. Explanations ensued, and the party
settled down to fish, soon catching enough to make tea a
memorable meal. Then they lay about on the grass and talked until
it was bedtime—a period which came early, though no one would
admit any sense of fatigue.
It was a still, hot night—so hot that the girls slept with the tent
flap tied back, and were openly envious of the men of the party, who
disdained to erect a “wurley,” and slept bushman fashion out in the
open, with their blankets spread in a soft spot, and their saddles for
pillows. Black Billy disappeared along the creek, camping in some
select nook after his blackfellow heart. Then silence fell upon the
camp, and all that could be heard was a mopoke, steadily calling in a
dead tree, throughout the night.
Norah was the first to awaken. It was daylight, but only faintly;
looking through the opening of the tent she could see the sun
coming slowly over the edge of the horizon, flushing all the eastern
sky with gleams of pink and gold. A little breeze blew gently. She
slipped quietly from her bunk, put on a light overcoat and went out
barefooted into the sweetness of the morning.
There was an old moss-grown log near the tent, and she sat
down upon it. Just beyond the belt of trees that marked the creek,
the yellow paddock stretched away, unbroken by any fence, so far as
her eye could reach. She could see grazing cattle here and there,
and a few half-grown steers were standing in a little knot and staring
towards the camp with curious, half-frightened eyes. From further
down the bank came the chink of hobbles, and the chime of the bell
on old Bung Eye’s neck. Near the tent her father lay sleeping; a few
yards away were Jim and Wally, far off in the land of dreams. The
clean bush scent lay over everything; the scent of tree and leaf and
rich black earth, where the night-dew still lingers. Just below her the
creek rippled softly, and the splash of a leaping fish sent a swirl
across the wide pool. Norah sighed from very joy of the place, and
the beauty of the morning, and the certainty of a happy day ahead.
Then she became aware that some one was awake—in the
curious way in which we become conscious that the thoughts of
another have entered into our solitary places. She looked round, and
beheld one intent eye regarding her from the end of the roll of
blankets that represented Wally. For a moment the eye and Norah
continued to watch each other; at which point Norah suddenly
realized that it was faintly possible that Wally might feel a shade of
embarrassment, and modestly withdrew her gaze. She did Mr.
Meadows great injustice. He yawned widely, sat up, and wriggled
out of his blankets. Then, discovering that Jim’s mouth was slightly
open, he proceeded to place within it three dandelions, which
accomplished, he fled while his unconscious victim was waking up
and spluttering. Wally sat down on the log beside Norah, with a face
like an unusually lean cherub.
“You’re a horrid boy!” said that damsel, laughing. “Dandelions
taste abominably—at least that milky stuff in them does.”
“Never tried it,” said Wally. “What funny things you seem to have
lived on!”
“Poor old Jimmy!” said Norah, disregarding this insinuation, and
bending a glance of pity on Jim, who was coughing violently, and
evidently prepared for battle. Mr. Linton had wakened, and was
regarding his son with curiosity.
“It’s a pneumonia cough, I should say, sir,” explained Wally,
considerately, from the log. “Nasty lungy sound, hasn’t it. Shall I get
you some water, my poor dear?” At this point the outraged Jim arose
and hurled himself upon his tormentor, who dodged him round a
bush until Jim managed to pick up a thorn with his foot, when he
retired to a log for purposes of investigation.
“Wait till I get you in the creek, young Wally!” he growled.
“Not too many larks,” commanded Mr. Linton, who had also cast
off his blankets. “We’ve got to get away as early as we can, so as to
have a long spell in the hottest part of the day.” He shook himself
vigorously. “I think I’m too old for sleeping without a mattress.”
“So am I,” said Wally, who was sitting cross-legged on Norah’s
log. “That bit of ground looked the softest I could see, but it found
out every bone I have before I’d been there an hour. It would be a
tremendous advantage to be fat! I was afraid at last that my hip
bone would come right through, so I got up and scraped a little hole
for it. Then I was much more comfortable, except when I wriggled in
my sleep and failed to hit the hole.”
“Well, I’ve had a lovely night!” Norah averred.
“I should think so—sleeping in the lap of gilded luxury—at least
in a beautiful sacking bunk!” said Wally, indignantly. “Then you get
up at your elegant leisure and jeer at those whose lodging was on
the cold, cold ground! Women were ever thus!” He choked,
dramatically, and rose. “James, if you’ve finished operating, are you
ready to come and bathe?”
“I must wake Jean,” said Norah, disappearing within the tent.
Then they scattered up and down the creek for their swim—not a
matter to be dawdled over, for even in the summer morning the
water was very cold. Jim returned, fresh and glowing, before the
girls were ready to vacate the tent, and proceeded to loosen its
fastenings in a way that caused them great anguish of mind, since it
threatened to collapse bodily upon them. The last stages of their
toilet were performed hastily, and without dignity.
“Can’t be helped,” said Jim, imperturbably, as they emerged,
wrathful. “Got to strike camp, and this is my job.” He brought the
tent to earth with a quick movement. “Help me to fold this up, Nor.”
“Where’s Wally?” Norah asked, complying.
“I left him diving for the soap,” Jim grinned. “He was pretty cold,
and didn’t seem exactly happy; but I couldn’t wait. Here he comes.
Did you get it, Wal.?”
“I did—no thanks to you!” said Wally, whose teeth were still
inclined to chatter, while his complexion was a fine shade of blue.
“He’s just the champion mean exhibit of the party, Jean. I was nearly
dry, out on the bank, and threw the soap at him in pure friendliness;
and the brute actually dodged! Dodged! And then he wouldn’t dive
for it: fact is, I believe he’s forgotten how to dive. So I had to go in
again after it!”
“Any mud at the bottom?” asked Jim, grinning.
“About a foot of soft slush. I loathe you!” said Wally. He
proceeded to roll up blankets vigorously, still slightly azure of hue.
Billy had the horses already saddled, and when breakfast was
over the pack was quickly adjusted and a start made. They travelled
through country that became rapidly wilder and more rugged. A wire
fence bounded each side of the road, which was a track scarcely fit
for wheeled traffic. The paddocks on both sides were part of big
station properties, on which the homesteads were far back; so that
they scarcely saw a house throughout the day, except when now
and then they passed through sleepy little townships, where dogs
barked furiously at them and children ran out to stare at the riders.
They were typical bush children, who scarcely ever saw a stranger—
lean, sun-dried youngsters, as wild and shy as hares, and quite
incapable of giving an answer when addressed. They paused in one
township to buy stores, and Norah dashed to the post office to send
a postcard to Brownie, assuring her that so far they were safe.
The post office was a quaint erection, especially when considered
in the light of a Government building. Had it not been for this mark
of distinction, it would probably have been termed a shed. It was a
little, ramshackle lean-to, against the side of a shop that was equally
falling to decay. There was no door—only a slit barely two feet wide,
through which Norah entered, wondering, as she did so, if the
township contained any inhabitants as fat as Brownie, and if so, how
they contrived to transact their postal business. It was very certain
that Brownie could not have entered through the slit unless hydraulic
pressure had been applied to her.
Within was emptiness. The sole furnishing of the office was a
small shelf against the wall; above it, a trap-door. This artistic
simplicity was complicated by the appearance of a head in the trap-
doorway, after Norah had tapped vigorously five or six times.
“I clean forgot the office,” said the owner of the head—a tall,
freckled damsel, with innumerable curling pins bristling in her
“fringe.” She favoured Norah with a wide and cheerful smile. “Fact is,
I was out in the garden lookin’ at your lot. Ain’t your horses just
corkin’!”
“They’re . . . not bad.” Norah hesitated. “I want a postcard,
please.”
“Not bad!” said the Government official, disregarding her request.
She propped her elbows on the ledge within, evidently ready for
conversation, and put her face as far through the trap-doorway as
nature or its designer would permit. “Well, I reckon they’re fair
ringers! That big black ’ud take a lot of beatin’, I’ll bet. Is it your Pa
ridin’ him?”
“Yes,” Norah answered. “Can I——”
“Goin’ far?” asked the postmistress. “You all look pretty
workmanlike, don’t y’ now? Where d’ y’ come from, if it’s a fair
question?”
“From this side of Cunjee. And we’re going up Ben Athol. I want
——”
“Up Ben Athol! You’re never!”
“Well, we’re going to try. Can I have——”
“I never heard of any one but drovers an’ blackfellers goin’ up
there,” said the postmistress, gaping. “You two kids’ll never do it, will
y’, do y’ think? I wonder at your Pa lettin’ you. Rummy, ain’t it, what
people ’ll do for fun!”
“They’ll be calling me in a moment,” said poor Norah. “Let me
have a postcard, please.” She held out her penny firmly.
“Oh, all right,” said the postmistress, unwillingly. Without
removing her face from the little window she fished in an unseen
receptacle and extracted a card, which she poked through to Norah.
“There’s no pen here,” said that harassed person investigating.
“Can I have one—and some ink?”
“Right-oh!” said, the official. “This chap’s a bit scratchy, but the
office is clean out of nibs. There is another—but it’s worse. This
one’ll write all right when you get used to it. I say, is them divided
skirts comf’table to ride in?”
Norah assented, stretching out her hand for the ink.
“I read in the paper that ladies was riding astride,” said the
postmistress, apparently soul-hungry for companionship. “But me