Sadie Hazzard Character Analysis

It wasn’t until the last rock was clean and Sadie stood back to survey her work, that she noticed the carvings. The marks were almost blurred into the stone: indistinct, powerful, immeasurably ancient.

But the crow could read the old signs, the old stories. They might be hidden, but they had not vanished. Crow was hidden, too, but he was not gone. Crow was awake. Now it would begin.

“David and I,” Ellie said in a low voice, “well, we used to go out together.” She glanced about, but there was no one within earshot. “Years ago, before I met your father. But it was - difficult.”

“Because he’s black?”

“Yes, partly. Mostly.”

“This is a secret place, a story place.” The crow tilted its head. “Crow’s people came to this place. Now they are gone. The stories are always. Who tells Crow’s stories now? Where are the dreams when the dreamers are gone? Where are the stories when no one remembers?’ […] Country remembers. Crow remembers.”

As Sadie whipped the newspaper off the table, an upside-down headline caught her eye – something about a person called Hitler. Her heart gave a peculiar involuntary skip. The date was printed at the top of the page. Friday June 23, 1933.

[…] Dad had fought the whole town council, when the war memorial was built, to have Jimmy’s name put on it, too. They said it couldn’t be done, because Jimmy hadn’t enlisted in Boort; he’d joined up down in Melbourne. But Dad said he belonged in Boort as much as anyone, and deserved to have his name up there with the rest. After all, Bert Murchison had joined up in Melbourne, too, and no one said he should be left off.

Her legs shook; her whole body was racked with shudders. […] She never should have brought Lachie here; she should have protected the secret. Crow’s place.

“Lachie,” she said, with sudden desperation. “Listen, you can’t tell anyone about this place.”

[…] “Okay, mate. It’s your special place, is it? I won’t tell anyone.”

Not my special place, thought Sadie. It belongs to the crows. But she didn’t say it aloud.

“Life’s not fair.” Jules wrenched Sadie’s cue from her. “Go on, piss off with your abo boyfriend.”

A ripple of nervous laughter ran around the annex. Sadie heard someone mutter something-lover.

“Like her mother,” murmured someone else.

“Well, it is his land, Jimmy,” said Clarry. “Why shouldn’t he build a dam if he wants to?”

[…]

“No!” Jimmy broke away; Sadie could see the fierce light in his eyes. “No. He mustn’t do that.” […] “It’s like - it’d be like me settin’ that church on fire.” Jimmy flung out his arm in the direction of the little weatherboard church. “What would you say if I set the church on fire, hey?”

“Can’t take discipline, though, that’s the trouble,” said Craig. “Brains aren’t wired up that way. Brilliant, quick, amazing skills, but unreliable. Can’t turn up to training week in, week out. No commitment, no discipline.”

“Wah!” The crow reared up angrily, wings outstretched, and Sadie shrank back. “Do you have no Law? When a man is killed, the death must be punished. When precious things are stolen they must be returned. Are you an infant? Do you know nothing? Tell the story; tell Crow what you see!”

“For our people, the land was created long ago, in the time of the Dreaming, when the ancestral spirits moved across the country. They made the hills and the rivers, the swamps and the waterholes. That’s why our spirit ancestors are so important. They make the land, and the land belongs to them, and they make us, too […] round this country, everything belongs to Bunjil the Eaglehawk, or Waa the Crow.”

Craig leaned into David’s face and lowered his voice. “Found something very interesting on my land. Aboriginal artefacts. Wondered if you could tell me what they’d be worth.”

Mr Mortlock’s hand shot out and twisted into Dad’s shirt. “I’ve killed the bugger, Clarry. I’ve gone and killed him.”

“Why are you doing this, Dad? Why?” And then Sadie’s voice had risen to a scream, and Dad grabbed her arm and shook her.

“Be quiet, Sadie, for God’s sake!”

“It’s not right, Dad, you know it!”

“I have to help Gerald; I promised I’d look out for him.”

“And what about Jimmy? Didn’t you promise him, too?” Her voice rose, shrill, hysterical. “Jimmy was murdered! Gerald Mortlock should hang for this!”

Dad slapped her face.

“You should be pleased! Look at all these people, experiencing a bit of Aboriginal culture!” He waved his arm at the men sprawled against the rocks, their boots resting on the carvings, their cans tossed into the centre of the circle.

“The story goes on, as it always goes on. The Law is broken and there is punishment. The dead cannot live again, but what was taken from the clever man must be returned. When the Law is broken the world is broken. The circle must be joined again.”

“We can’t leave him here!” Sadie was weeping. “If we leave him here, he will die!” She tried to lift Lachie’s head. He moaned, his face drained of colour.

The story tells itself again...

The three of them were in the grip of Crow’s story, just as Gerald and Clarry and Jimmy had been. But Crow couldn’t see, Crow couldn’t help them. Sadie was the only one who knew; it was all up to her.

Sadie edged closer to the bed. She pulled out the battered cigarette tin - heavy, so much heavier than it should be - and held it out. “I found it. His special things, the secret things. They’re in there.”

[…]

“Good girl.” [Auntie Lily] let out a deep sigh. “Go on, you go. I look after this now.”

Sadie knew that she was gazing down at ancient campfires, lit by the people of Crow and Eaglehawk, night after night, generation after generation, millennium upon millennium; that the time of electric lights was only a blink in the long dream of this land’s story. The secret magic of this country lay hidden, buried under buildings and blood; but it had never gone away, and it would never disappear.

“Bethany reckons he killed himself. Our great-grandpa,” said Lachie. “Because of the war. Posttraumatic stress or whatever. It was years after he came back. The family made out it was an accident. But Bethany thinks it was because of what he’d seen. What he’d been through.”

What he’d done, thought Sadie.

Together they planted [Jimmy Raven’s] marker in the ground at the place the crow had shown them.

“I should have brought some flowers or something,” said Sadie.

“Next time,” Walter said.

“Give us a hand?” Lachie called.

The three of them moved around the tiny graveyard, straightening the fallen crosses, digging them more firmly into the ground.

“That’s better,” said Lachie at last, and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “Maybe we should build a fence round it or something.”

“We’d help you,” said Sadie.

“Make a real headstone for Jimmy, too,” said Walter.

“Yeah,” said Lachie.

It wasn’t until the last rock was clean and Sadie stood back to survey her work, that she noticed the carvings. The marks were almost blurred into the stone: indistinct, powerful, immeasurably ancient.

But the crow could read the old signs, the old stories. They might be hidden, but they had not vanished. Crow was hidden, too, but he was not gone. Crow was awake. Now it would begin.

“David and I,” Ellie said in a low voice, “well, we used to go out together.” She glanced about, but there was no one within earshot. “Years ago, before I met your father. But it was - difficult.”

“Because he’s black?”

“Yes, partly. Mostly.”

“This is a secret place, a story place.” The crow tilted its head. “Crow’s people came to this place. Now they are gone. The stories are always. Who tells Crow’s stories now? Where are the dreams when the dreamers are gone? Where are the stories when no one remembers?’ […] Country remembers. Crow remembers.”

As Sadie whipped the newspaper off the table, an upside-down headline caught her eye – something about a person called Hitler. Her heart gave a peculiar involuntary skip. The date was printed at the top of the page. Friday June 23, 1933.

[…] Dad had fought the whole town council, when the war memorial was built, to have Jimmy’s name put on it, too. They said it couldn’t be done, because Jimmy hadn’t enlisted in Boort; he’d joined up down in Melbourne. But Dad said he belonged in Boort as much as anyone, and deserved to have his name up there with the rest. After all, Bert Murchison had joined up in Melbourne, too, and no one said he should be left off.

Her legs shook; her whole body was racked with shudders. […] She never should have brought Lachie here; she should have protected the secret. Crow’s place.

“Lachie,” she said, with sudden desperation. “Listen, you can’t tell anyone about this place.”

[…] “Okay, mate. It’s your special place, is it? I won’t tell anyone.”

Not my special place, thought Sadie. It belongs to the crows. But she didn’t say it aloud.

“Life’s not fair.” Jules wrenched Sadie’s cue from her. “Go on, piss off with your abo boyfriend.”

A ripple of nervous laughter ran around the annex. Sadie heard someone mutter something-lover.

“Like her mother,” murmured someone else.

“Well, it is his land, Jimmy,” said Clarry. “Why shouldn’t he build a dam if he wants to?”

[…]

“No!” Jimmy broke away; Sadie could see the fierce light in his eyes. “No. He mustn’t do that.” […] “It’s like - it’d be like me settin’ that church on fire.” Jimmy flung out his arm in the direction of the little weatherboard church. “What would you say if I set the church on fire, hey?”

“Can’t take discipline, though, that’s the trouble,” said Craig. “Brains aren’t wired up that way. Brilliant, quick, amazing skills, but unreliable. Can’t turn up to training week in, week out. No commitment, no discipline.”

“Wah!” The crow reared up angrily, wings outstretched, and Sadie shrank back. “Do you have no Law? When a man is killed, the death must be punished. When precious things are stolen they must be returned. Are you an infant? Do you know nothing? Tell the story; tell Crow what you see!”

“For our people, the land was created long ago, in the time of the Dreaming, when the ancestral spirits moved across the country. They made the hills and the rivers, the swamps and the waterholes. That’s why our spirit ancestors are so important. They make the land, and the land belongs to them, and they make us, too […] round this country, everything belongs to Bunjil the Eaglehawk, or Waa the Crow.”

Craig leaned into David’s face and lowered his voice. “Found something very interesting on my land. Aboriginal artefacts. Wondered if you could tell me what they’d be worth.”

Mr Mortlock’s hand shot out and twisted into Dad’s shirt. “I’ve killed the bugger, Clarry. I’ve gone and killed him.”

“Why are you doing this, Dad? Why?” And then Sadie’s voice had risen to a scream, and Dad grabbed her arm and shook her.

“Be quiet, Sadie, for God’s sake!”

“It’s not right, Dad, you know it!”

“I have to help Gerald; I promised I’d look out for him.”

“And what about Jimmy? Didn’t you promise him, too?” Her voice rose, shrill, hysterical. “Jimmy was murdered! Gerald Mortlock should hang for this!”

Dad slapped her face.

“You should be pleased! Look at all these people, experiencing a bit of Aboriginal culture!” He waved his arm at the men sprawled against the rocks, their boots resting on the carvings, their cans tossed into the centre of the circle.

“The story goes on, as it always goes on. The Law is broken and there is punishment. The dead cannot live again, but what was taken from the clever man must be returned. When the Law is broken the world is broken. The circle must be joined again.”

“We can’t leave him here!” Sadie was weeping. “If we leave him here, he will die!” She tried to lift Lachie’s head. He moaned, his face drained of colour.

The story tells itself again...

The three of them were in the grip of Crow’s story, just as Gerald and Clarry and Jimmy had been. But Crow couldn’t see, Crow couldn’t help them. Sadie was the only one who knew; it was all up to her.

Sadie edged closer to the bed. She pulled out the battered cigarette tin - heavy, so much heavier than it should be - and held it out. “I found it. His special things, the secret things. They’re in there.”

[…]

“Good girl.” [Auntie Lily] let out a deep sigh. “Go on, you go. I look after this now.”

Sadie knew that she was gazing down at ancient campfires, lit by the people of Crow and Eaglehawk, night after night, generation after generation, millennium upon millennium; that the time of electric lights was only a blink in the long dream of this land’s story. The secret magic of this country lay hidden, buried under buildings and blood; but it had never gone away, and it would never disappear.

“Bethany reckons he killed himself. Our great-grandpa,” said Lachie. “Because of the war. Posttraumatic stress or whatever. It was years after he came back. The family made out it was an accident. But Bethany thinks it was because of what he’d seen. What he’d been through.”

What he’d done, thought Sadie.

Together they planted [Jimmy Raven’s] marker in the ground at the place the crow had shown them.

“I should have brought some flowers or something,” said Sadie.

“Next time,” Walter said.

“Give us a hand?” Lachie called.

The three of them moved around the tiny graveyard, straightening the fallen crosses, digging them more firmly into the ground.

“That’s better,” said Lachie at last, and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “Maybe we should build a fence round it or something.”

“We’d help you,” said Sadie.

“Make a real headstone for Jimmy, too,” said Walter.

“Yeah,” said Lachie.