AustLit
After a lovely big family dinner, my Uncle Pete would move from dinner to yarning with the following words, “All this food, it makes me want to sit down and have a cup of tea and tell a story. I’m up for a yarn, who’s interested?” Sure enough, a few of us young ones would get up from the table ready to be entertained by a master storyteller—when Uncle told stories, you didn’t want to miss a thing, not one gory, bloody, horrible detail. He had a range of stories to choose from, gleaned from his own life experiences as well as conversations with others. He was an easy-going, very likeable person who could talk to just about anyone, so people shared their stories, and he embellished them. When Uncle told stories, you just knew that you’d be entertained, that you’d laugh by yourself and along with others.
Once Uncle had spoken these words, a few of us would get up to follow him into the lounge-room. “Where do you kids think you’re going?” one of the adults would say, loudly. “Before you go, why don’t you clean up first?” Reluctantly, I’d join my sisters and cousins. We’d clear the table of dinner plates and leftover food, and wash and wipe up the dishes. Sometimes, Mum would yell out orders like a drill sergeant: “Put the leftovers in a container and put them in the fridge. No, not the clear container, the bigger one. Stop mucking around and hurry up. The sooner you do your work, the sooner you can go and listen to your Uncle.” We’d zip in and around the small kitchen, finishing our chores, and downing our tea towels, looking forward to the night’s entertainment. Would it be a comedy or horror? Would it be one that we hadn’t heard before, or an old favourite come to life again? My favourites were his ghost yarns—they were nothing like anything I’d heard before. And it was an era when you had the time to talk about ghosts and legends, time which is now perhaps missing as a result of urban living. In any case, as soon as the work was done, we’d dash into the lounge room and gather around Uncle.
Grandad and Uncle would be sitting next to each other in deep discussion, but as soon as they saw they had an audience, they’d change the subject. My sisters, cousins and I would sit on chairs, on the arms of chairs, or babuk (cross-legged on the floor). We’d all be quiet, patiently waiting for the opening sentence: “So have I told you all the story about …?” Uncle would often start with the tale of the Puntiana woman: a ghost lady who lives in a large, old Moreton Bay fig tree near one of the pubs on Thursday Island (in the Torres Strait). The Puntiana ghost story is a tale that my Uncle and Grandad would have been told as boys. Not much is known about the story itself, but it’s believed to have been brought to Thursday Island by men from Indonesia or Malaysia who came to dive for pearl shell.
I’d take a deep breath as Uncle began, “You never stay out late at night, or by yourself, because that’s when she comes for you. One time a man I knew left the local pub very late, after he’d had a few drinks. He walked past the tree and stopped, thinking he’d heard a noise. He looked around, slowly: a lady was standing there, but he hadn’t seen anyone on the street. She wore white and had long black hair, she didn’t say anything, but she moved towards him. He discovered that he couldn’t move or breathe. He was paralysed. He looked closely at her and realised he couldn’t see her feet—she was floating towards him! Suddenly he found strength, so he ran. He ran, and ran, and ran. When he turned around, she was still following him, so he sped up and ran all the way home. The poor fella didn’t sleep that night. In fact, he woke up his missus and made sure she stayed awake too, just in case the Puntiana woman had followed him home. And that’s why you never go out after sunset and never by yourself, just in case she’s looking for a friend.”
“What do you think of that kids?” Uncle would ask, knowing full well that all eyes were on him, waiting for another tale. “Oh yeah, that’s horrible all right. The poor guy. I’d hate to be him” we’d all chip in.
Growing up, I heard different versions of the Puntiana story and, with the help of my sisters and cousins, remembered them all. In the other versions, she’d have red eyes, or she’d fly down from the tree chasing after the man, or she’d have blood dripping from her mouth, and long sharp pointy nails, like a vampire. Tweaks like this would change the story, making it completely new. As we grew older, we’d often compare versions: which one was the scariest? Which one did we like the best? We retold them to each other to scare ourselves silly again, but we’d laugh too. And I’d go to sleep with one eye open, terrified of seeing the Puntiana woman. I’d pull up the sheet just a bit higher on those storytelling nights, and every little noise would spook me. The next morning, Mum would try, in vain, to wake us. In frustration, she’d complain that too many ghost stories were keeping us from sleeping at night.
Even now I look at that fig tree twice… and I always make sure to never go there at night.
Samantha Faulkner is a Torres Strait Islander and Aboriginal woman from the Wuthuthi/Yadhaigana peoples, Cape York Peninsula and Badu and Moa Islands, Torres Strait.
She is the author of Life B'long Ali Drummond : A Life in the Torres Strait , published in 2007 by Aboriginal Studies Press. As a member of Us Mob Writing Group she has performed at a number of festivals including Noted (2015-2017) and the AIATSIS Conference (2014 & 2016).
Samantha has represented women and Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander interests on local, state and national boards. She is currently Chairperson, ACT Torres Strait Islanders Corporation.
She has had poetry and prose published in Australia and internationally.
(2013 - By Close of Business, Us Mob Writing Group, Canberra, 2016 - A Pocketful of Leadership in the ACT);
(2010 - Etchings Indigenous: Treaty, Ilura Press); and
(2014 - Ora Nui: A Collection of Maori and Aboriginal Literature, 2016 – Narrative Witness: International Writing Program, University of Iowa)
This story is a part of the Growing Up Indigenous in Australia collection, published by AustLit in 2018.