Chasing the Australian Unicorn
A perspective from the early 2000s
Whoever has seen an Australian unicorn? Does it look like a brumby, or carry a jillaroo? Does it eat gum leaves or appear to a dreaming swaggie? Whoever has seen an Australian unicorn? Distinguished author Patricia Wrightson once said that the traditional creatures of fantasy were out of place in Australia. Creatures like elves and unicorns, she felt, did not belong in the sunburnt country. In reaction against the Europeanisation of Australian fantasy she wrote “The Nargun and the Stars” (1973) and then the Wirrun Cycle, using Dreamtime creatures and spirits as replacement fantasy elements.
Ms Wrightson’s bold move was not the first time indigenous Australian creatures had been used in fantasy. The wish to have a true Australian flavour in fantastic fiction stretches back into the Nineteenth Century. Ethel Pedley’s “Dot and the Kangaroo” (1899) made use of a talking kangaroo as mentor and protector of young Dot, while Norman Lindsay’s “The Magic Pudding” (1918) starred a talking koala named Bunyip Bluegum and gave voice and motivation to a pudding. Magic allowed Dot to understand the kangaroo, and magic kept the pudding whole and animate.
Dorothy Wall’s “Blinky Bill” books, in the 1930s, were not exactly fantasies. They starred dressed, talking animals, but there was no actual magic. The koala hero was a true koala in many ways; in others, he was a mischievous little boy. He didn’t converse with humans, and was treated by them strictly as an animal. May Gibbs’ “Snugglepot and Cuddlepie”, (1918) is similarly difficult to classify as fantasy, but although there was no “magic” as such, the gumnut babies and the big bad Banksia men were invented creatures with a distinctly Australian flavour. Again, the little creatures lived quasi-human lives, which were based on European-type lifestyle. The gumnuts went to a ball rather than to a corroboree.
Bunyips, bless their soggy whiskers and boogly eyes, have cropped up in many an Australian story, and occupy a place unique in Australian fiction. They are very Australian, yet are familiar to most of the readers and writers who meet them. They may not be magic, exactly, but they share the elusive attributes of the Loch Ness Monster and the Yeti.
The difficulty with writing creature fantasy that is strictly Australian is obvious. Dressed animals tend to lose their animal identities and become ciphers or analogues for human characters. Un-dressed animals that can talk and interact with humans work well enough, but with the possible exception of the kangaroo and some species of parrot, most Australian animals do not fit into the mould of animal-companions. Dogs, cats and horses have long, wide histories. They are our friends, are known in many cultures and have gathered their own rich folklore about them. Cats have connotations of witch-magic, cosy cottages or revels by night, while dogs are loyal and loving, with the occasional undertone of menace. Horses are noble yet sometimes timid. Here are the ready-made impressions to guide the author and reader, but where does the indigenous Australian animal fit in? A child whisked off by a talking horse will find its fantasyland accessible, but a talking Tasmanian devil will take a child to an uncomfortable lair in the bush.
Bunyips and the like make good fantasy characters, since they can be reinvented to fit the author’s particular needs. Creations such as the gumnut babies were cute in their time, but would not thrive in the tougher atmosphere of literature today. Patricia Wrightson’s bold move of the 1970s has not been followed by many authors, and I doubt if it ever will be. Her creature characters are developments of Indigenous Australian stories, but they pose a problem to most non-Indigenous authors and to many readers as well. A story about a unicorn, an elf or a talking cat will strike a chord of familiarity with the majority of readers. A story about a nargun or a potkoorok may not. The creation (or adaptation) of an unfamiliar fantasy creature forfeits this chord, and most readers and writers of Australian fiction have non-Indigenous heritage.
To use an Indigenous Australian fantasy creature well, the non-Indigenous author needs to be steeped in the folklore, and even then there is a sense of borrowing another culture’s property.
Patricia Wrightson* is a wonderful Australian author. She has enjoyed a long and successful career. Her books have brought pleasure to many readers and interest to many reviewers and critics. However, I’m not sure that I agree with her premise. Modern Australia is a country of kangaroos and platypus, of droughts and sweeping plains. It is also a country of dogs and cattle, of cities and mobile phones. If we took away these foreign elements and the non-Indigenous Australians such as myself, Australia might revert to its Dreamtime reality. That isn’t going to happen, so perhaps we should stretch a point and allow the unicorns to thrive in our fiction as well. After all, they’re here in spirit already.
Do they look like brumbies? Possibly they do. I’d lay you a bet that more Australian children have seen a picture of a unicorn than have ever had the chance to see a brumby...
*brumby - a feral Australian horse.
** jillaroo - a female station hand.
*** swaggie - A swagman or Australian tramp.
**** Dreamtime - the myth-time
*****Patricia Wrightson 1921 - 2010
Ms Wrightson’s bold move was not the first time indigenous Australian creatures had been used in fantasy. The wish to have a true Australian flavour in fantastic fiction stretches back into the Nineteenth Century. Ethel Pedley’s “Dot and the Kangaroo” (1899) made use of a talking kangaroo as mentor and protector of young Dot, while Norman Lindsay’s “The Magic Pudding” (1918) starred a talking koala named Bunyip Bluegum and gave voice and motivation to a pudding. Magic allowed Dot to understand the kangaroo, and magic kept the pudding whole and animate.
Dorothy Wall’s “Blinky Bill” books, in the 1930s, were not exactly fantasies. They starred dressed, talking animals, but there was no actual magic. The koala hero was a true koala in many ways; in others, he was a mischievous little boy. He didn’t converse with humans, and was treated by them strictly as an animal. May Gibbs’ “Snugglepot and Cuddlepie”, (1918) is similarly difficult to classify as fantasy, but although there was no “magic” as such, the gumnut babies and the big bad Banksia men were invented creatures with a distinctly Australian flavour. Again, the little creatures lived quasi-human lives, which were based on European-type lifestyle. The gumnuts went to a ball rather than to a corroboree.
Bunyips, bless their soggy whiskers and boogly eyes, have cropped up in many an Australian story, and occupy a place unique in Australian fiction. They are very Australian, yet are familiar to most of the readers and writers who meet them. They may not be magic, exactly, but they share the elusive attributes of the Loch Ness Monster and the Yeti.
The difficulty with writing creature fantasy that is strictly Australian is obvious. Dressed animals tend to lose their animal identities and become ciphers or analogues for human characters. Un-dressed animals that can talk and interact with humans work well enough, but with the possible exception of the kangaroo and some species of parrot, most Australian animals do not fit into the mould of animal-companions. Dogs, cats and horses have long, wide histories. They are our friends, are known in many cultures and have gathered their own rich folklore about them. Cats have connotations of witch-magic, cosy cottages or revels by night, while dogs are loyal and loving, with the occasional undertone of menace. Horses are noble yet sometimes timid. Here are the ready-made impressions to guide the author and reader, but where does the indigenous Australian animal fit in? A child whisked off by a talking horse will find its fantasyland accessible, but a talking Tasmanian devil will take a child to an uncomfortable lair in the bush.
Bunyips and the like make good fantasy characters, since they can be reinvented to fit the author’s particular needs. Creations such as the gumnut babies were cute in their time, but would not thrive in the tougher atmosphere of literature today. Patricia Wrightson’s bold move of the 1970s has not been followed by many authors, and I doubt if it ever will be. Her creature characters are developments of Indigenous Australian stories, but they pose a problem to most non-Indigenous authors and to many readers as well. A story about a unicorn, an elf or a talking cat will strike a chord of familiarity with the majority of readers. A story about a nargun or a potkoorok may not. The creation (or adaptation) of an unfamiliar fantasy creature forfeits this chord, and most readers and writers of Australian fiction have non-Indigenous heritage.
To use an Indigenous Australian fantasy creature well, the non-Indigenous author needs to be steeped in the folklore, and even then there is a sense of borrowing another culture’s property.
Patricia Wrightson* is a wonderful Australian author. She has enjoyed a long and successful career. Her books have brought pleasure to many readers and interest to many reviewers and critics. However, I’m not sure that I agree with her premise. Modern Australia is a country of kangaroos and platypus, of droughts and sweeping plains. It is also a country of dogs and cattle, of cities and mobile phones. If we took away these foreign elements and the non-Indigenous Australians such as myself, Australia might revert to its Dreamtime reality. That isn’t going to happen, so perhaps we should stretch a point and allow the unicorns to thrive in our fiction as well. After all, they’re here in spirit already.
Do they look like brumbies? Possibly they do. I’d lay you a bet that more Australian children have seen a picture of a unicorn than have ever had the chance to see a brumby...
*brumby - a feral Australian horse.
** jillaroo - a female station hand.
*** swaggie - A swagman or Australian tramp.
**** Dreamtime - the myth-time
*****Patricia Wrightson 1921 - 2010
