Bobby Wabalanginy never learned fear; not until he was pretty well a grown man did he ever even know it. Sure, he grew up doing the Dead Man Dance—those stiff movements, those jerking limbs—as if he’d learned it from their very own selves; but with him it was a dance of life…

This year’s Miles Franklin Award winner is hard to describe. Simply, it re-imagines the early contact between European settlers and the Noongar people of the Albany coast—Australia’s 'friendly frontier'. But the novel is not simple. That Deadman Dance contains many threads, facets, and reflections. I feel as though I only skimmed the story’s surface. It deserves rereading, not because it is difficult, but because it is beautiful and complicated and requires the reader to think (and perhaps change how they think) about history.

That Deadman Dance revolves around Bobby Wabalanginy, whose name means 'all of us playing together'. And they do for a time: the Noongar and the settlers of King George Town. They have, as Bobby recounts, a good beginning. But their initial co-existence is troubled, and the narrative is punctuated by conflict and by premonitions of betrayal. It is not, however, doom-laden. We see the meeting and transforming of cultures, expressed most evocatively in the Noongar’s songs and dances. We see exchange, and potential. We see Bobby most often, his exuberance, and his fascination with all he learns. These features bring joy to the novel.

The narrative itself slides and loops through time. The story overlaps: characters are introduced and then reseen from another’s perspective, in another year. Scott reveals them to us in increments that can change how we view them entirely. They alter and deepen: among them Geordie Chaine, who works with the Noongar and then turns on them; William Skelly, the convict whose forgiveness allowed a peace; and Menak, Bobby’s uncle, who meets the Europeans in anger, makes a friend among them, and later rages against the injustices dealt to his people. The characters all have flaws, dreams, and failings. Their narratives entwine rather than unite, making the story seem bigger, more powerful and real.

That Deadman Dance is also gorgeously written. Its images are dream-like and sensual, especially those involving the sea: “a smooth, rich brew brimming with bubbles”, dark purple after a whale hunt, grey in the rain and scribbled with foam, or turquoise and gleaming “like a laughing eye”. Scott’s descriptions pile up in each sentence. They are dense, vivid sometimes to the point of strangeness, and breath-taking as a result.

Perhaps oddly, I feel that That Deadman Dance is more about story-telling than history. There are so many stories: the author’s of course, the Noongar’s, and those of the pioneers. Scott writes of Bobby writing, and of how “you can dive deep into a book and not know just how deep until you return gasping to the surface, and are surprised…” Bobby tells his own tales, as a child and then as an old man who intrudes on his own narrative (“Me! Me again!”), performing for an audience that is no longer listening. The reader is, though.

I dived deep into this novel and surfaced awestruck. It deserves all the praise that it has received.

- Amy Stevenson