Extract from Spoils of the Moon - Mark Shearman

1970 Adelaide Australia

South Australia natural history museum was home to the world's largest collection of Australian aboriginal cultural material, with thousands of artefacts on display. Founded in 1856, it occupied an impressive complex of buildings on North Terrace in the cultural precinct of the Adelaide parklands and across from Government house.

Monday morning, relatively quiet business as usual on the inside. Outside, a few blocks away, the angry shouts of protesters could be heard from groups of Aborigines expostulating over recognised Aboriginal land rights.

Voices echoed through the marble halls as people shuffled in through the main doors. A group of tourists hustled behind a blue-suited tour guide. She wore a pale blue hat over her tied back red hair, and a silk scarf worn as a cravat. Looking more like an air stewardess, she hurried to usher people on with her fast talk and brisk walking. She stopped in mid spiel and glanced up. Through a stained-glass window, the sun blasted beams of multi-coloured sunlight. The air suddenly thinned, now absent of her banter, it was stone-cold quiet.

In and out of the sunbeams, a bird swooped and squawked, clearly stressed. The tour guide focused, winced, and changed her plummy English, "What the fuck," she shouted, "it's a magpie," followed by various high-decibel screams. The redhead dived to the floor with the skill and reservation of a rugby player, her heavy breasts cushioned the impact. People scattered with hysterical shouts. Two more aggravated magpies swooped down, menacing the terrified patrons as they cowered down and sprawled on the shiny floor. And then...

Smoke canisters spun, hissed, and choked the marbled hall as the red haze cleared–

Three fierce, flat-nosed Aboriginal men with lusty violence in their clouded eyes, stood rigid. Dot painted brown overalls, wild hair, red head scarves, and dark-brown faces, stencilled with white crescent moons. They towered over a twitching security guard slumped on the floor. His head wound seeped crimson blood, still holding a half-eaten bacon sandwich.

A strapping, lumber of a man rubbed his grey patchy beard, slowly eyeing the room exuding the air of a tribal leader. He wheeled a bulbous nulla nulla weapon, a decorated, thick wooden baton with a bulbous end. It spoke a unique dialogue as he spun it around in some ritualistic movements.

More people scattered and dove for the floor– sheer panic – hell – what are they capable of next?