Another U3A Penrith Eisteddfod Win<

Margaret Skiller last year entered the Creative Writing section of the Penrith Eisteddfod and surprised nobody who knows her by winning. Nor did she surprise anybody by taking second and third places as well with her other entries. The story has already been told on this web page and you can read it HERE.

This year she again entered two sections of the Eisteddfod and once again was unsurprisingly the winner of both. She was also runner up in both.

You could be forgiven for thinking there might have been no other entries, but this is not the case. The quality of her writing is such that anybody who enters knows that she has set the bench mark. In a TV series on Dawn Fraser, many years ago, the scriptwriter put these words into Dawn's mouth. "If anybody else wants to win this race they have to do three things. They have to swim a personal best, they have to do it in less than sixty seconds, and they have to beat Dawn Fraser. I only have to swim." It's beginning to look as though anybody entering the Penrith Eisteddfod has to beat Margaret Skiller.

One of her winning entries, published immediately below this report, is indicative of her style, and is typical of the kind of stories she writes week-after-week for her Creative Writing Class.

The competition's judge was in no doubt about the quality of this piece and had the following to say:

Here is one of Margaret's winning entries, the beautiful story, The Long Walk Home.

The Long Walk Home

Mal jumped just as the iron-ore carrying train eased up the slight incline leading to the station. He hit the dirt and gravel and felt his skin peeling off beneath his dirty jeans and flannelette shirt. He thought he had escaped relatively lightly until at the last moment he pitched over onto his face and felt the sharp edge of the gravel rake down his right cheek like razor wire. Then his head hit the end of a half submerged plank protruding from the bright-red earth and his swag went wheeling into the grey morning light.

He woke to the hot sun on his blood-stiffened face. The buzzing of flies immediately filled him with dread and he quickly scrubbed his hands over the blood and stubble on his face fearful of what he might find on his hands. He knew what flies could do out here in the bush.

Mal pushed his body upright feeling his bruises, surprised that all his parts appeared to be in working order. The heavy steel-tipped boots had protected his feet, and the denim and flannelette, though torn, had afforded some protection for his body. Only his face had really 'hit the dirt'.

He found the swag and had a drink from the still intact plastic water bottle. He looked at the sun judging time and direction, then set out, limping slightly, along the stock fence on which a faded sign read KELSO. Knowing he was home once again on the land of his birth, the land from which he had been taken those long years ago, he felt great peace sweep through his bruised body.

He knew it would take at least three days on foot to reach the homestead and he hoped he might pass some Kooris on the long walk in. He also knew he would be dead if he followed the road as there were no waterholes along its route. Instead he would have to follow the track shown him, long ago, by his initiation Uncle. There was water aplenty along it if only you knew where to look.

The end of the first day found him 30km along the track. He camped where the galahs showed him the tiny water spring in a depression between three trees and two large rocks. He shared the water with the galahs, some budgerigars and a family of frilled necked lizards. He tried to sleep covered by branches from the trees, feeling the warmth of his mother earth beneath him, but time and again he found his mind drifting back to Port Hedland.

He and Jimmy had been pals all through school. People rarely spoke of them separately. Together they were such an institution that the name MalandJimmy had come into common usage. They had gone straight from school to the mining camp each knowing without words that was right for them. They had planned to make money out of the mineral boom as it soaked up all the available labour with mechanical skills. They had been lucky. They had learnt how to drive, and most importantly keep vehicles on the go when the 'real' mechanics had long abandoned hope. So their know-how was used to keep the run-abouts going for the VIP's at the mines until skilled mechanics and/or parts were available.

When Jimmy had said he wanted to go to Broome to see his people, Mal again felt the long subdued urge to return to his homeland. So they had made the few plans necessary for their departure, finding out when the mine trains ran in the right directions for both of them. Now here he lay looking at the stars, missing Jimmy but eager for home. With this last lingering thought he sank back into the friendly earth and went to sleep.

Mal woke early in the morning to the wind. A hot wind loaded with red dust and malevolent promise of a scorching day ahead. Filling his water bottle he headed for the fence that ran directly to the homestead. He knew if the dust thickened he would need the fence to guide him in. He set off through the shimmering heat, through the brittle grass spiked with spite, heading eastward, to where the sun baked The Great Sandy and Gibson Deserts. Where the only living things were likely to be centipedes and snakes that appeared in the cool of the night. He put his head down and leaned into the dusty wind.

He reached Python Pool around 4 o'clock. Remembering that this water belonged to the Rainbow Serpent he drank sparingly, only enough to slake his thirst. Remembering also that no one must disturb the great serpent, for he guarded the underground springs from which all the tribes received their water, he drank and filled his water bottle from the little rivulet that ran from the pool to disappear into the thirsty, red soil before continuing on his solitary trek.

By 7.30 that evening he knew he had covered 90 kilometres since his jump from the train. When he finally reached the Bora ground home of Corroboree from antiquity he knew he was within 20 kilometres of home. He camped well outside of the sacred Bora circle. Happy to be nearly home and not concerned that tonight he could have no drink or food in keeping with those ancient laws which he now only dimly remembered. He slept undisturbed as though in his mother's house.

Mal woke at dawn as the galahs screeched to frighten away the night spirits. He saw the budgerigars do their day-awakening dance, swirling in hundreds in fine-tuned turns and sweeping whirls. He heard the crows' caarking their litany of names of the long lost tribes. Names too precious to fall from lips of men so only the crows said them. He knew he would be home by mid-day—and he felt glad.

They met him 5km from the camp. The news of his coming had preceded him. It had been passed along by the birds as they rose in the air at his coming. His people knew that only a black man initiated in their ways could survive in that country. And so they had prepared a welcome, a welcome befitting someone who could walk 110 kilometres through the rugged country bordering the Great Deserts in that Pilbara region. Someone fit to lead his tribe. And so they prepared Corroboree.