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men and women were dressed identically, while in the third and fourth panel, the dead Aborigines wore nothing but a loincloth and the painted symbols of their tribes.
    “Equality and law rise from the English viewpoint,” the bones of the Aborigine said quietly, the tone laced with anger and resentment.
    “That’s hardly a unique experience,” Twain replied, the confidence he feigned earlier finding a foothold in his consciousness.
    “I am aware of this,” he said. “The Oceans of the Earth speak to me, and tell me of the English, and their Empire. And they tell me how it crumbles with revolutions, but that does not happen here, in Sydney. Other things happen here.”
    Behind the Aborigine, the painting twisted and became alive: the white man stepped from his noose and shook hands with the officers, and they passed him a flask of rum. (Twain did not know how he knew that it was rum, but it was a dream and he knew not to question the logic of a dream.) In the top panel, the black man was beaten by the white man, and attacked by the dogs, while the black baby in the Aboriginal woman’s arms disappeared, and was replaced by a baby of mixed colour and heritage which began to fade until the baby was as white as the baby next to it.
    “That’s a nice trick.” Twain’s foothold slipped into a vocal tremor as the scenes played themselves out in an endless loop. He cleared his throat loudly and asked, “What’s your name, then?”
    “Once,” the Aborigine’s bones replied quietly, “I was called Cadi.”
1788.
    Perched once again on a eucalyptus branch, Pemulwy, three weeks later, watched the skyline turn red and grey with flames and smoke. The cries of the dead pierced the night as they rushed from their tents to the wooden dwelling that held their food.
    Pemulwy’s decision to fight the dead was not popular among the Eora. Elders from other tribes sent messages and warned him that the Spirits would be furious, and many warned that his own spirit, strong now, would not survive.
    Last night, an Elder had sat in front of him and told him that he would die nine years from now if he followed this path, and that he would be struck down by divisions that he, Pemulwy, created in his kin. The words had rung disconcertingly true, as splits throughout the Eora were already beginning to show.
    But he had no other choice. He was a warrior, and as such, he would fight the dead like any other invader into his land: he would strike their weakest targets: the houses where they kept food, and crops they were trying to grow. He would burn them, and then he would burn the men and women, and, finally, the land itself if required. Whatever the white beeàna [2] decided in response, he would also deal with.
    He drew strength from the fact that a dozen other warriors, stretched throughout the bony trees and in the bush around him, also watched the fires. He knew, gazing out at their shadowed figures, that more would come after the night. Perhaps from the dead themselves.
    He did not believe that any of the dead were kin, but around the Harbour there were black skinned men that he felt a faint kinship for. It was not unreasonable, he believed, to think that they might join him—and it would certainly assure some of the worries from the Elders if he could bring one back as a friend.
    He would have such a chance now:
    In front of him a black figure emerged from the fire lit horizon, the harsh crack of leaves, twigs, and scrubs alerting the warrior to his presence long before he came into sight. With a cautioning wave to his warriors, Pemulwy dropped from his perch, leaving his spear balanced along the branches.
    The dead was a huge figure, twice the size of Pemulwy. His face, craggy and scarred, was a pitted black stone, with wet pebbles lodged deep within, suggesting in the dark that the dead had no eyes; but he did, and they blinked rapidly, scanning the trees and path around him, before settling upon the Eora. His clothing, covered in