Dead Americans by Ben Peek

too thick for him to see through properly.
    His hard feet lead him quietly to the back door, which, when he pushed upon, swung open with a faint creak.
    Warmth still had its fading grip on the house, and emanated from the sandstone bricks of the narrow hallway that Pemulwy made his way along. Doors were to his left and right, and when he gazed into them, he found a small kitchen, followed by even smaller rooms that were packed like an overflowing parcel with couches and tables, and in the case of one, a piano.
    Pemulwy had seen a piano once, pushed into a ravine, and almost on its side, the wood cracked and broken. The dirty keys had still produced a sound when he tapped them, however, and, despite himself, he had straightened the broken instrument and tapped sounds out of it in the midday sun.
    Afterwards, he had been angry with himself for indulging in such an English thing. The Eora had instruments of their own, traditional ones that he enjoyed, and ones that he
should
use. But seeing the piano brought back the memory, and as he made his way quietly up the steps, he felt a faint twinge that he could not go and tap on it to produce sounds again.
    On the second floor he was presented with two doors. In the first, he found a large, spacious room with two occupants: a white English baby, lying in its crib, and a large, meaty woman, asleep on the couch that lay next to the crib. Around them were thick curtains, and drawers, and plush toys. Pemulwy, easing the door shut, knew the two to be King’s wife and child.
    He truly had lost the taste for the war. Years ago, he would have thought nothing of killing the woman and child, just as the English thought nothing of killing Eora women and children. It would not have been difficult to turn around and kill them still, Pemulwy knew, even as he made his way to the second door that emitted a hint of light, but even thinking of the women he had known and who had died at English hands, he could not find the anger or will to do it.
    He would kill King, and that was all. After King, he would find a different way to battle the English.
    But why not now?
    With a faint sigh, Pemulwy realized that he could not return to the tribe and face James, and the other young Eora, without having accomplished what he said he would. Besides, didn’t King deserve it? Wouldn’t it be a fine warning for the future governors that they sent in his place?
    His fingers tightening against his spear, Pemulwy pushed open the door.
    In the room, holding a long muzzled rifle, was King. The aging, tall, grey haired man regarded Pemulwy with his bright blue eyes, and then said, quietly, “You’re a disease upon this land.”
    Before Pemulwy could react, King fired.
    The lead tore into his chest, punching him out of the door, throwing him to the floor. His hands searched for his spear, but he could not find it, and his breath came in harsh gasps. His mind spun, and, in the darkness above him, a figure emerged. But it was not King. Instead, it was the young, smooth featured black face of James.
    “If only you had learned to ride a horse,” the young Eora said coldly and levelled a pistol at him. “But no, not the great Pemulwy. It was beneath you.”
    Hatred flared in Pemulwy, and he roared. In response, James’ pistol bucked, and the world exploded in blood and pain that he would not walk away from.
Introduction to
A Walking Tour Through the Dreaming City.
    The Cross (once known as Queens Cross and briefly as Kings Cross before common vernacular was made permanent) in Twain’s day was no different to the Cross of today. As Vella said in his history, it was, is, and always will be ‘a centre-point for low gunmen, violent pimps, prostitution of all kinds, drugs, artists, musicians, crusaders, bent cops, and the best dressed transvestites the world has ever known.’
    Twain’s theory was that the Cross was undeniably linked to the English authority that landed in Sydney. ‘It does not matter who you are,’ he