Legacy of the Southern Cross

Official 1940's picture of the Southern Cross
Hero of the Empire

My name is Connor Mason, and my story started a long time before I was ever born, on 1 January 1901 to be exact. It is the day that Australia officially declared Federation, but to be more precise it is also the day my Great-Great Grandmother was born. Her name was Matilda Mason, though that was never her real name. My gran's true name was erased from history, like much of her past. When she was only a babe she was taken from her family and her people by the new government. You see, unlike other folks, my great gran was born to the Kurnai tribe, and during those times the Government could just take aboriginal children from their parents without any notice or reason. The government mistakenly believed that they were protecting the children from what they saw as the ignorance and abuse which they would suffer at the hands of their parents and tribe. As a member of the Stolen Generations she was brought to a place called the Ebenezer Mission, where she was given a new name and taught to forget her old ways.

It was in the care of the state-run mission that my great gran grew up. In 1919, she became pregnant with a son. As far as I can tell, no one was ever sure of who was the child's father, but it never mattered. By the end of the year my great grandfather, Matt Mason was born. He was the pride and joy of his mother and she did everything should could to make sure that he was loved and well cared for. Unfortunately, it was not destined to last, because when young Matt Mason was only twelve years old, his mother was assaulted and killed while on her way home from her job as a wool-washer. My great grandfather spent the next several years of his life in and out of government care. By all accounts young Matt Mason was a good kid, but he had a mischievous side with often got him into trouble.

On his eighteenth birthday, Matt Mason was released from care to make his way in the world. He held a variety of jobs, and he failed at all of them. Maybe that was why in 1939, at the age of 20 he enlisted in the Royal Australian Army. War had broken out again in Europe and Britain had called for all of its children to rally to arms. Australia quickly headed the call. Matt Mason saw heavy combat in Africa against Italian and German forces. Despite the prejudice he often faced at the hands of his fellow soldiers and even commanding officers, the Aboriginal born soldier fought with dedication and bravery, but like so many things in Matt Mason's life, his luck was not meant to last. On 21 September 1941, Sergeant Matthew Mason took a bullet to the shoulder while evacuating the fortress of Tobruk, near Egypt. The military doctors stabilized the wound, but the round pierced part of the young man's spine and it was understood that he would be partially paralyzed for the rest of his life. He was shipped back home to military hospital in Victoria.

There is an aboriginal saying: A thousand mile journey begins with a single step, and maybe this was Matt's first step. While in the hospital my great grandfather received a visit from an aboriginal man of the Kurnai tribe. He told the wounded soldier that Matt's grandfather, Gwarran, had been a great warrior and a great chief. The same blood that pumped through his ancestors pumped through Sgt. Matt Mason. He presented my great-grandfather with a marraga, a traditional shield of the Kurnai people. He said it had belonged to Matt's grandfather. According to Kurnai spiritual belief the shield held the essence of any warrior who used it, and bestowed its knowledge and gifts on those who were worthy. The old man, told Matt that his marraga was a special one. It had been passed down for countless generations from father to son among the great chiefs of the Kurnai, and it held the essence of countless generations of great warriors. He explain that it would give its wielder the wisdom and the power of its past possessers to anyone of the chiefdom bloodline.

Over the years the marraga, or shield of the
Southern Cross has changed in appearance, from
s simple Union Jack in the time of the first Cross to
the colorful paintings that adorn the shield to this
day.

Presumably, my great grandfather took in all that the man said with a respectful silence. Having never been raised to even know the name of his ancestral tribe let alone any customs or beliefs, he was understandably skeptical. The old man disappeared as quickly as he had come, leaving behind the simple wooden artifact. Matt kept it close even if he doubted what the old man had said. Somehow it reminded him of his mother. It was only a few days after that that my great grandfather regained his ability to walk again. In fact, not only did he make a full recovery but he realized that the more he kept the shield close to him the stronger he felt. Matt not only passed all the doctor's physical examinations but exceeded them. Some called it a miracle, but it was something else. It was something more, something old. It was like a hand reaching out of the past to touch the present. It was the awakening of something ancient, unfortunately such things do not go unnoticed for long.

When a man makes an unbelievable recovery from near-fatal injuries, alarms are raised, even in times of war. That was what happened to Matt Mason. Within days he found himself under observation by Australian and British top ranking officials. They studied him, they studied the shield, they ran as many tests as they could think of, but not a single scientist or officer could find an explanation for what had happened. The shield seemed like nothing more than plain old wood, yet it withstood everything from fire to bullets. More importantly, it only offered up its secrets when in the hands of no one, except my great-grandfather. With it Matt Mason was not only faster and stronger, but gave him power. The already veteran soldier was granted a deeper understanding of what it meant to be a warrior and a leader, and as adoriginal warriors used the design and make of the shield to distort the vision of enemies, so could Matt's shield cast great illusions and visions to cloud the mind and confuse the senses of whoever he wished.

The officers understood that they had stumbled upon something. It was still late 1941, and the war was going badly. Even though America had just officially declared war on the side of the allies it was still unclear how much the presence of the Yankees would influence the final outcome. The British were looking for an advantage and many believed they had found it in Matt Mason. Since his powers could not be duplicated Matt was instead used as a symbol. Costumed heroes had been appearing in America since the 1920's and it was rumored that some even served the country's war effort, but neither the British nor the Australian government had lent much thought to the idea, until then.

So it was that Sgt. Matt Mason was given a new uniform emblazoned with the Union Jack and the new codename of The Southern Cross in honor of his homeland's flag. From that point on he lead troops from the front, not only using his powers to fight the enemy but to inspire those that followed. The costume also served a dual purpose in the eyes of the British and Australian officers. The bright red mask effectively hid the face of the man they were holding up as a new national hero. After all, there was no telling what the outcry might be if the man they were billing as "the new hope of the Empire," was found out to be nothing more than a black Aboriginal.

My grandda, the Second
Southern Cross

So it was that The Southern Cross served the British Empire and the Commonwealth of Australia faithfully until the end of the war. With the surrender of Japanese Emperor The Southern Cross was given an honorable discharge and retired quietly. The world wanted to forget about war and there seemed to be no more use for the likes of the costumed warriors like the Cross in the post-war world. As far as my great-grandfather was concerned he was more than happy to lay down the shield and his weary war-torn life. He soon married a French woman named Colette who had worked with the Marquis during the war and they retired to a small house in the suburbs of Melbourne. Within a few years they had a son named Matt Jr, and it seemed like the history of The Southern Cross would be nothing more than a footnote of the Second World War.

At least it would have been so, if it wasn't for my grandfather, Matt Mason Jr. The way he tells the story, he was drawn to the attic and the old war chest of his father, but knowing my grandda it seems more likely that he stumbled across the chest while trying to set up some elaborate prank or joke. Regardless of how he discovered it, buried in that locked chest underneath an old uniform was the shield of his father. It was forgotten along with the dust and memories of the past, but Matt Jr. felt its power almost immediately. Before he could resist the marraga was in his hands and telling him its secrets. It was 1966 and my grandda was only 16 when he discovered the shield, but when he took it in hand his age no longer seemed to matter. When one holds the shield you do not see images or distinct visions, just feelings and impressions. It is hard to describe, but that was the sensation my grandfather experienced when he lifted it from the old leather-bound chest. He knew that no longer was he just Matt Mason Jr. He was meant for something more.

Matt Jr.'s father was not too happy when he discovered what his son had found, but being the understanding type he told him the story of The Southern Cross. My grandfather says it was a story that inspired him for the rest of his life. Much like the expensive and hard to find American comic books he treasured in his youth the story offered him the possibility of excitement and courage. His mind was made up even before the story was ended. His father tried to persuade him from his course, but by 1970 The Southern Cross was a household name on the lips of everyone in Melbourne and soon after that, everyone in the country. His colorful costume and the news reports of his daring adventures captivated the minds and hearts of all Australians. He wore the flag of his country proudly and in a time when Australians were once again trying to forget the woes of war and economical depression he was a beacon of hope. Unlike his father, Matt Jr. wore a half-mask, and even though my grandda was the off spring of a black Australian man and a white French woman, his complexion was light. He was often considered passable for a white person, and no one ever seemed to know that the man they praised was in fact of Aboriginal heritage.

The second Southern Cross had a career that spanned more than 25 years, and even to this day when many people hear the name, Southern Cross, it is my grandda they think of. Yet, Matt Mason Jr. was more than just a hero in a mask, he was also a husband, a father, and a mentor to his own son. My father, Matthew Mason III, was born in 1971 and almost from the first moment his father held him, it was assumed that he would one day take up the mantle of the Southern Cross. Young Matthew was trained almost from the moment he could walk for one purpose and one purpose alone, to be a costumed hero. I have to imagine that the added stress of rigid training schedules, high expectations, and living in the shadow of his own father could not have been easy for the young Matthew. Maybe that is part of the reason why he rebelled as he did. The mischievous streak that so gave my grandda and my great-grandfather their unique humor turned to a mean streak in my father. I am told he was an angry and moody child, often running away or using his training and physical conditioning to intimidate other children. My grandda said he once had to pull his twelve year-old son out of a bar fight. I was also told he was winning.

My father, the third
Southern Cross

When Matthew Mason was sixteen he got very heavily involved in Aboriginal culture and ideals, specifically the story of his own grandfather and the shame he was forced to endure even while he was held up as a hero. Matthew was only a quarter Kurnai, but he quickly embraced his lost heritage. It was a sore point between him and his father, as Matthew often chided my grandda for selling out by wearing the flag of a nation that had so long repressed their people. He often accused my grandfather of dishonoring the memory of his own father by wearing a mask and the colors of the corrupted Australian government. He said that the original Southern Cross was forced to wear a mask and the colors of his oppressors, but that my grandda did so willingly.

Despite all the harsh words, fights, and arguments my grandda never stopped loving his son, and in 1992, the second Southern Cross retired his mask and officially handed the hero's mantle to his own son, Despite all my father's protests he willingly accepted the responsibility given to him, but he did so on his own terms.

The third Southern Cross was very unlike those that had come before him. Where his grandfather was a war hero, and his father had been a national icon, my father chose to become a hero of the shadows. He covered his face in a full mask in honor of the first Southern Cross and from that moment on he struck terror into the hearts of all criminals. People quickly realized that no longer was the Southern Cross a colorful hero of the people. No longer did he walk among them, pose for pictures with the police, or even stop to rescue a lost kitten from a tree. No, the new Cross was an avenger who cloaked himself in darkness. By the time his enemies realized he was among them it was too late, and as quickly as he appeared he was gone. In the 90's the Southern Cross was a creature of the night. It was a name whispered with equal terror and awe among anyone who walked a dark alley or caught the glimpse of a rooftop shadow. Unfortunately, my father's career was not to be long lived.

I was born in 1992, only a few months after my father took the mantle of the Cross. Breaking tradition he named me, Connor Mason. My mother disappeared when I was still very young. My father never said so, but I can imagine it must have been a strain for him to be a single parent. Of what I remember of those early years, I spent a lot of nights with my grandparents. They often watched me while my father was off risking his life, but every morning he would pick me up and bring me happily home. Then came one morning when he never arrived. I was only seven, but it is a day I will never forget. One of my grandfather's old nemsis' The Bushranger had come looking for revenge. He found it in the form of my father.

For the costume of the fourth Southern Cross,
I returned to a more classical look, but updated
for the modern time.

I never had any illusions about the dangers of the family business, but somehow you never expect it to happen. Maybe the media and all those American movies teach us that the hero always wins and that the good guy will find a way to survive, but its not always true. I suppose when it comes right down to it, my family has chosen to live by the sword and sometimes that means you have to die by it as well.

My grandparents received custody of me and raised me as their own. I was never without love or kindness in my life, but I missed my father. I could tell that my grandfather did too. I think it was when I was 10 years old when I started asking if I could become the Southern Cross. Grandda often ignored the question and changed the subject. He seemed more content to let the legacy of the Southern Cross die with my father, but I was a persistent kid. I do not even know how I ever got it in my head that I wanted my grandda to train me to be the Southern Cross. Maybe I felt like I had a responsibility to honor my father, or maybe I just had that same curious mischievous streak as my grandda, but for whatever reason I kept on asking. When I was 16 I stole the shield from my grandda's safe and practiced with it in secret. A few months later, while wearing a paper bag on my head I used it to stop a mugging a few blocks away from our house. My grandda was furious when he found out, but I think it was the final straw. After that he agreed to train me.

Two year later my grandda passed away. The doctors said they caught the cancer too late. It was the night after his funeral that I first put on my costume. The world has been without a Southern Cross for over ten years now, but even though I am still inexperienced I made a promise to my grandda, to my father, and to myself that I will not turn my back on anyone who needs help. I will always try to honor the past and my ancestors even as I look toward forging a new future for everyone, despite color, race, or culture. After all, this power was passed down from ancient times for a purpose. It was not given to win a war but to forge an understanding. Much like me, Australia is still young, but it is also strong. As long as there is one who wears the five stars of the Cross than it will be a country of justice. That is my story and that is my promise.