“Not bad.” Wurragarr glanced at the wallabies and kookaburras. “Show ‘em, mates.”
The birds essayed a few experimental trills. Then the one in the middle nodded and the nearest wallaby began rhythmically clapping the sticks together.
“Whacksticks,” Wurragarr explained for the benefit of the interested travelers.
“What’s whacksticks?” Buncan wanted to know.
Wurragarr grinned. “If the magic doesn’t work, you can always whack your enemy over the head with ‘em.”
The other wallaby put his mouth to the top of the painted tube and began to blow. A low throbbing tone not unlike that made by the booming paperbark trees emerged, only deeper and with variations. It sounded not unlike Snaugeahutt after an especially bad night.
“That’s a didgereedon’t,”(fae roo informed them as the three kookaburras began to harmonize. Their song had the quality of ancient chanting.
“Deep within the earth moves The great spirit Oolongoo. The great worm of legend. Vast is his power Irresistible his strength Powerful his crushing jaws that—”
“I could use a worm about now,” blurted the bird on the end, putting a crack in the refrain. Immediately, his companions stopped singing and began to giggle.
Wurragarr made a face. “Put a cork in that, Windja.”
The kookaburra wiped its beak with a wingtip, its breast still heaving. “Sorry, Wurragarr.” He nodded to the wallabies.
They resumed their playing. Buncan sensed the slightest of vibrations in the air.
“Oolongoo we call
And Nerrima of the sky
Who drops down upon our enemies
Slays them in their sleep
Rips them to shreds . . .”
“And pees in their beds,” added the second singer, folding his wings across his chest and collapsing in hysterics. His companions held on to then- dignity for approximately another half second before joining him. The two wallabies ceased their playing and looked helplessly at the big roo.
Burned by that overbearing marsupial glare, the spell-singers tried a third time. This time their laughter was sufficiently infectious to spread to the motley assemblage behind them, with the result that the entire band threatened to dissolve in uncontrolled mirth.
A disgusted Wurragarr watched as tears tumbled down the kookaburras’ cheeks. Two of them fell off the dead log on which they’d perched and rolled about on the grass, holding their sides. The third lay prone, pounding desperately on the log with both wingtips as his guffaws grew steadily weaker. The vibration which had so briefly disturbed the plenum vanished.
“Dag.” Wurragarr noticed Buncan watching him. “That’s the trouble with kookaburras. This lot really can spellsing, but they also can’t take anything seriously. Not sorcery, not our present desperate situation, nothing. They’d laugh all the way to their own funerals. But they’re the best we’ve got. Somehow they’re going to have to counteract the necromancy of the monks of Kilagurri.” He glared at the embarrassed but still-giggling trio, who were slowly picking themselves off the ground.
“As for you lot,” he said, turning back to face Buncan, “you don’t strike me as the type who’d ally themselves with the likes of Kilagurri.” He stepped out of Snaugenhutt’s path. “Go on your way.” The thylacine made as if to protest, but the roo waved him down. “No, Bedarra. Despite their strangeness, I’m convinced these travelers know nothing of our problems here. We’ve no right to involve them and ought t’let them pass in peace. If they run into trouble near Kilagurri they’ll have to deal with it themselves.” He stared evenly at Buncan.
“You’ve been warned. I and my friends are absolved. We can’t worry about you. Our own sorrows are too great.”
“Now hold on a minute,” Buncan began. Squill leaned forward to jab him in the ribs.
“Wot minute, mate? You ‘eard ‘im. Let’s get movin’.”
Buncan turned in his seat. “I just want to find out what we may be getting into.”
“We ain’t gettin’ into nothin’. We’re gettin’ past it.”
Ignoring the otter’s protests, Buncan dismounted and walked up to Wurragarr. “What is this Kilagurri, anyway?”
The thylacine’s jaws parted, showing sharp teeth. “I don’t think you should tell them anything. What if you’re wrong and they are in league with the Dark Ones?”
“I’m convinced they’re not, Bedarra. For one thing, they could ride to safety now yet this one chooses to stay and ask questions. Minions of the monks would grab the first opportunity to flee. For another, can you imagine the Dark Ones recruiting anything like those two to their cause?” He indicated Squill and Neena, who were bickering vociferously atop Snaugenhutt’s spine.
Viz left his iron perch to settle on Buncan’s shoulder. “My friend and I are well-traveled, but I’ve never heard of this Kilaguni either.”
“Maybe you’re not as indifferent as you make out.” Wurragarr regarded human and tickbird thoitghtfully. “I accept that you’re sorcerers, even if so far you’ve only proven that you’re sorcerers of the flowers.” Behind him, Quibo and several others chuckled. The brooding Bedarra didn’t crack a smile.
“We can do more man conjure flowers,” Buncan told hun. “A lot more.”
“I won’t deny that we need all the help we can get.” The roo indicated the trio of kookaburras, who were still recovering from their bout of hysterics. “I’d hate to have to depend on that lot in a critical moment.” Those of his companions-inarms within earshot murmured their agreement.
“Even if pretty flowers represent the apex of your wizardry, we could use whatever kind of help you could provide. It’s clear from the armor worn by your great friend and the ready bows of your water rats that you travel prepared to fight. I won’t say that your presence among us would turn the tide.”
“Hold on,” said Buncan. “I just asked to know what’s going on. I haven’t said anything about helping.”
“Fair dinkum, stranger.” Wurragarr encompassed the mob with a sweep of his free hand. “We’re all dwellers in this same land, in these hills and mountains. We and our ancestors have lived here in peace and harmony, more or less, since before memory.
“Most of us are farmers or simple townies, or craftsfolk like myself. We ask only to be left alone to live our lives in peace. We’ve never had any trouble with the monks . . . until a little more than a year ago.
“The monastery of Kilagurri sits in a small, steep-sided basin high above the valley of Millijiddee. It’s not a place for those who’d contemplate the goodness of the world. Prior to a year ago we had little or no contact with those who dwell within. Then something changed. Kilagurri has become home to those who thrive on evil machinations. Bad doings, stranger.
“Travelers who pass close tell of frightful noises issuing from within. Tormented screams and unnatural voices. Though curious as to the source of these sounds, they hurry on. One can’t blame them.
“From time to time several of the monks will descend to shop in Millijiddee Towne, or have something fixed they cannot repair themselves. Nowadays all good folk shun them as well as their business.” The roo was leaning on his thick tail as he spoke.
“Not that we haven’t had trouble with ‘em before.” The wombat wagged a thick finger at Buncan. “Used to be little things. A blight on some greengrocer they thought had cheated ‘em. A sprained leg that took too long to heal. Consumptive farm animals. Nothing like what’s been happening recently. Nothing like it.”
Wurragarr took up the refrain. “Just over a year ago, unnatural clouds were seen to gather above the monastery. Bolts of lightning struck within, yet there were no fires, no sign of damage. The Dark Ones began to play with great forces. What little we’ve been able to learn of their doings fills us with fear. It’s clear that the monks are intent on some vast evil.