Tears of the Moon (8 page)

‘Bless you, young lady. Look around before you go.’ He grinned. ‘The ghosts are benevolent.’

She took his advice and drove around the sprawling mission, looking at the scattered remnants of its distant better days—deserted buildings, the shell of a well, broken drays and farm equipment, though the stockyards were repaired and a shed held gear and feed. But then she walked into the community store and time leapt forward to a world of frozen food, magazines, junk food, a video game machine and city-style homewares. Lily restocked with bottled water and a couple of chocolate bars for the drive back.

As she passed by the white church again she noticed a small graveyard a little distance away. She stopped to look through it. Once it must have been hidden by bush, a remote repose for a French
Trappist brother, several Pallottine priests, two sisters, some infants and many adult Aborigines. The blacks rested under Christian headstones and Lily wondered if the converts would have preferred to have been put to rest in a traditional tree grave. She was about to leave when an unusual headstone caught her eye. It was a simple bush rock with an inset of mother-of-pearl shell glinting in the sun. What made Lily catch her breath as she studied the shells was the delicate pattern carved into the biggest shell.

Trembling, she crouched down and traced over the design with her fingertips. The lines and small circles within a large circle were entwined just as they were on the circular pendant that hung from her mother’s pearl necklace. Lily went back to the car, got her camera and took a photo of the headstone and a close-up of the shell. It was some kind of tribal marking she decided.

Who was buried there?

She walked back over to the church looking for Brother William to ask what he knew of the strange old grave that she felt might be linked to her own family’s past. But the Brother had retreated to his room and the lady who had cooked them breakfast and was now sweeping around the church steps said he was praying and didn’t like to be disturbed for at least an hour.

Lily was disappointed for a moment, then remembered the book in which the Brothers had told the story of the mission. She felt sure she’d find some answers in it. A twinge of excitement and
anticipation gnawed in the pit of her stomach as she drove away.

It was afternoon when Lily, dusty, tired, hot and thirty-six hours late, strode up to the reception desk and announced brightly, ‘I’m back!’

A strange girl stared at her blankly. ‘You been somewhere?’

‘Where’s the girl who’s normally here, with the short dark curls?’

‘Oh, Bridget. She took a couple of flexi days. Can I help you?’

‘Never mind, thanks anyway,’ muttered Lily, heading for her room.

Lily showered and lay on her bed to siesta and think about the old mission. While she admired the early missionaries’ fortitude and dedication, she found their original aims misguided. What had they achieved? A handful of converts, an education for a few who managed some modest success in the world of the whites. At the most, a sanctuary from the onslaught of white settlement that probably would have totally exterminated them in time. But, Lily suspected, the price had been high. So much culture had been lost, for most of the Christian sanctuaries had not been tolerant of native language and customs, which, in ignorance, were deemed primitive and heathen.

She opened her eyes and felt herself become half-hypnotised by the slowly turning ceiling fan and began reflecting on her own attitudes to the Aborigines. Over many a candlelit dinner with friends in Sydney she had argued intensely in support of
government-sponsored moves towards reconciliation with the Aborigines, supported the general concept of land rights, and was quite passionate about the need to lift their health and housing standards. But until she had come to Broome she had never met an Aborigine, let alone discovered or experienced firsthand something even remotely related to their ancient culture.

A politically correct urban trendy, that’s what I am, she thought. Biddy—the old black woman fishing on the sand spit—was the first Aborigine she’d met. Funny, it hadn’t struck Lily at the time that she was the first. It seemed no big deal, they’d simply accepted each other. But in retrospect it had been a significant event. She’d had a yarn with someone with links to probably forty thousand years of culture. God, forty thousand years of fishing. And those stockmen … they came out of the land as if they were organic to it, and disappeared back into it just as naturally. And she realised she’d felt so comfortable with them … and the old woman. Yet they had nothing in common.

Her eyes fluttered shut and the imagined melodic throbbing hum of a distant didgeridoo began to impose itself on her consciousness. She felt herself drifting into another world … the world of the mind … then the phone rang.

It was Deidre reminding her about the art exhibition at the Cable Beach Club and offering her a lift if she needed one. Lily accepted with gratitude and they arranged to meet at the Mangrove Hotel.

Perched on the cliff top, the renovated Mangrove Hotel had a choice view over mangroves, the sweeping rush of tide across Roebuck Bay and the annual staircase to the moon. Cable Beach held the novelty —for an easterner—of watching the sun set into the sea.

Lily sat in the hotel garden sipping a glass of wine with her back to the crush of jovial tourists, locals and a Perth convention group in the bar and on the verandah terrace. When she’d finished her wine she walked to the edge of the garden to peer at the skeleton of a boat in the mangroves, its hollow ribs filling with the tide.

‘Can I offer you another glass of wine?’

Lily turned at the friendly voice to see an attractive man smiling at her.

‘Ken Fitzgerald. I’m the manager. You staying with us? Haven’t seen you around.’

They chatted briefly and it didn’t surprise Lily to discover he was a former grazier. He had an open and affable country manner.

‘Bit of a change coming from the land to the hospitality industry,’ remarked Lily.

‘Not really, people or cattle, they all have to be fed and watered,’ he chuckled. ‘Was hard to leave our property but this is a big challenge; my wife, Lola, is in the office side of things. But Broome is going to go through the roof with tourism in the next few years.’

He told her of his own plans and those of the town. Lily listened with some sadness.

‘I hope the town hangs on to its heritage as much as it can,’ she said.

‘Don’t worry about that. Broome is still a bit wild and woolly, the past is close on your heels here.’

Lily arrived at the Cable Beach Club with Deidre and her handsome young husband. There, she found little that recalled the old days. Walking through the lush landscaped grounds and over tiny bridges they passed oriental-inspired bungalows containing suites decorated with fine antiques and
objets d’art
. The main building maintained a tasteful style despite its brilliant lacquer red and gold trimmings. Soft lights, citronella flame torches, candles and a caressing breeze that carried the sweetness of flowers followed her echoing steps along the wide wooden verandah to the reception room and art show.

Early arrivals from Broome’s eclectic social set milled about the spacious room, sipping champagne and talking to each other. While Deidre saw to selling catalogues and introducing invited hotel guests to local identities, Lily strolled about the room. Spectacular framed prints, painted canvases, cloth and bark hangings of contemporary Aboriginal art were well displayed. Lily thought the work wonderful, full of energy and mystery.

Deidre was suddenly beside her, tapping her arm and saying, ‘Lily, meet our artist, Rosie Wallangou.’

Lily reluctantly dragged her gaze away from the paintings to congratulate the artist, expecting to meet some wise old lady, but was taken aback to see an attractive Aboriginal woman about her own age. She was dressed in a dramatic Aboriginal print silk long dress and wore unusual wood and stone
jewellery. Her wild curly hair tumbled about her shoulders, and was caught to one side by a shell comb. The impact of her looks, her wide smile, deep eyes and charismatic presence was stunning.

‘I really love your work, I don’t know what to say. It’s just magic,’ said Lily, trying to find the right words to convey the impact the pictures had on her.

‘Magic,’ repeated Rosie thoughtfully, looking Lily in the eye, then added softly, ‘Yes, there’s magic in them all right.’

‘They’re not easily understood, even after reading the notes you’ve put with each painting,’ said Lily. ‘But there’s something about them that keeps me looking, even if I’m not sure what they mean.’

Rosie chuckled. ‘Well, maybe that’s part of the magic. You’ve got to study them a bit … sort of discover things for yourself. They’re not all Dreamtime stories you know.’

‘Rosie has just had a big show in New York. They’re wild about her work over there,’ broke in Deidre.

‘That’s wonderful,’ said Lily, who was impressed but not surprised. The work was powerful and she knew how collectible high quality Aboriginal art had become.

Rosie shrugged. ‘New York is a faddy place. What’s hot today can be cold tomorrow.’ She gave a hearty laugh and Lily couldn’t tell if Rosie wasn’t bothered about being a big deal in New York or was confident she’d remain ‘hot’. There was no doubt her work—drawn from her own roots and knowledge and interpreted with artistic skill—would last.

Deidre excused herself to greet the former premier and Rosie took Lily by the arm. ‘Come and I’ll give you a conducted tour of my favourite pieces in this show.’

Lily was absorbed and fascinated as she listened to Rosie explain the inspiration behind each painting. Slowly, as if a curtain had lifted, she began to see something of the story and message in each painting. She tried to explain this awakening to Rosie but ended up by saying shyly, ‘I feel so clumsy trying to express myself.’

‘No, you’re just starting to learn the language,’ laughed Rosie. ‘The more you look at them, you either start to “read” them and go into them or they just stay pictures on a wall.’

Deidre plucked Rosie away for official introductions and Lily thanked her for taking the time to talk to her.

Rosie gave her a friendly smile. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again. By the way, there’s a couple of works over there you might be interested in,’ she said, nodding towards the far corner of the room.

Lily lifted a fresh glass of champagne off a tray and wandered over to the last few pictures she hadn’t seen. But as she approached, the largest one caught her eye and her legs began to tremble. In a beautiful, subtle rendering of the burning colours of the earth around the north-west, Rosie had painted in traditional style a pattern that Lily instantly recognised—small white circles within a large white circle surrounded by the parallel lines and large X. She spun around, her hand shaking so much she spilled
her champagne. But the official launch of the art show was now in progress. Lily edged around the back of the crowd to the small table where a girl was selling catalogues and taking sales orders.

Lily leaned down and whispered, ‘Please put a red sticker on number nineteen, I must have it.’

The girl checked the catalogue and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, that’s not for sale.’

Lily swallowed, mumbled her thanks and waited impatiently for the speeches to end.

There was no opportunity to speak to Rosie alone, so she excused herself and intruded on the small group clustered around the artist. ‘Rosie, I so wanted to buy one of your paintings, but the one I want isn’t for sale. I was hoping I could change your mind.’

Rosie heard the note of urgency in Lily’s voice and the group fell silent. ‘Which one do you want?’

Lily pointed and saw the swift expression pass across Rosie’s face before she said,’ I include that picture in every exhibition. I will never part with it. It’s special.’

‘What does it mean?’ Lily persisted. ‘It’s very important to me to know.’

Rosie looked directly at Lily for a few seconds without speaking. ‘Well, it’s one of those paintings where you must discover its meaning for yourself.’ The cluster of people looked at Lily expectantly. To soften her words Rosie added kindly, ‘Perhaps one day you’ll come to read its true meaning. Here’s my card.’

As Lily turned away feeling close to tears,
fumbling to put the small white card in her handbag, Rosie called after her, ‘I can tell you this much—remember that the picture is called “Tears of the Moon”.’

At ten the next morning Lily stepped into the air-conditioned Historical Society building. A bustling lady, casually dressed in slacks and a blouse, her permed brown hair in perfect order, glasses hanging on a beaded gold chain, was carrying a pile of labelled binders of photos, letters and newspaper cuttings, which she placed in order on a shelf beside the others she’d completed. She spotted Lily and went to the little reception desk to take her entrance fee.

‘Just looking in general are you, dear?’ She put her glasses on her nose.

‘Yes and no,’ began Lily.

The lady gave her a quizzical look.

‘Yes I’m here to look at everything, and I also want to do some research. My name is Lily Barton. Oh, and by the way, I visited Beagle Bay and Brother William suggested you might like to keep this here for safekeeping.’ She took the old journal from her bag. ‘However, I would like to read it first if that’s all right.’

‘Goodness, yes. Well that was nice of him. I’d heard about this.’ She thumbed through it and handed it back to Lily. ‘I’m Muriel McGrath. How can I help?’