The Boys from Binjiwunyawunya (5 page)

No matter when it was, every time Murray pulled up at Binjiwunyawunya and the old house built out in the middle of nowhere he never ceased to be amazed at the strange beauty of the place and the sheer incongruity of it all. The white wooden homestead, with a wide verandah running around the front and the two sides, was built right into the red-ochre table-topped mountain that loomed over it. Part of the verandah was shaded by white, wooden lattice work with vines, fruit and different coloured bougainvilleas growing through and around it in a haphazard display of magnificent colours. Pink, gold, blue, crimson, white. More vines and flowers spread across the green, galvanised-iron roof in the middle of which was a large disc-antenna for picking up satellite TV signals. Flower beds, shrubs and small native trees dotted the landscaped clearing in front and to the sides of the house, where a set of sprinklers played jets of water across them and the neat green lawns. There were numerous pebble-edged ponds filled with huge white lilies and hibiscus over which dozens of spindly-legged waterbirds skipped and danced as they pecked at the insects and tiny fish in the crystal-clear shallows.

The gum tree-dotted mountain behind the homestead swarmed with more birds and held a natural mineral spring that bubbled into the chain of ponds to one side of the house before it disappeared into an underground stream. This spring ensured a steady supply of water for the house and gardens
even in the severest drought and the owners often used to joke about how people in the cities paid a dollar for small bottles of Perrier and other spa waters while they used to throw it all over their gardens nonchalantly. Murray smiled and shook his head once more in wonder at the sheer magic of it all before he and Grungle got out of the Land Rover. Just as they did so, a huge swarm of exquisitely coloured butterflies drifted over them and flew on towards the mountain.

Two absolutely gorgeous young Aboriginal girls, no more than twenty and wearing nothing but a pair of brief Spank running shorts that emphasised their ripe full-breasted bodies, stopped what they were doing amongst the ponds and squinted over towards the car, their hands above their eyes. One was holding a hose, the other a small pitchfork. As soon as they recognised Murray and Grungle their lovely dark faces broke into beautiful, shy, pearly grins that only Australian Aborigines seem to manage; huge grins that are totally infectious and look as though they can light up a room or a cloudy day all on their own.

‘Murray,' they chorused excitedly. Both girls dropped what they were doing and giggling happily to each other came running over. ‘How are you, darling? You too, Grungle.' ‘Hello Numidi. Hello Nantjinin. Shit it's good to see you again.' Murray threw his arms around them and hugged them to him and kissed them warmly as they giggled and squealed affectionately. ‘How are you girls?'

‘Terrific, Murray,' replied Numidi happily. ‘Especially now that we've seen you.'

They squeezed and held each other for a few moments more, then Nantjinin looked up into Murray's eyes.

‘What brings you out here anyway?' she asked cheekily. ‘Was it to see one of us, oh great white hunter?'

‘Don't bloody great white hunter me you cheeky little bludger, or you might get a boot right in the bum. I came out to see the boys. Where are they?'

‘In the house,' said Numidi.

Just then a voice sounding like it was trying desperately hard not to laugh called out from the homestead.

‘By the livin' bloody Jesus. Here's trouble.'

Murray turned to see three Aboriginal men, wearing black cotton headbands and running shorts, grinning at him from the top of the stairs running up to the house.

‘Hello fellas,' he chuckled. ‘How're you goin' there?'

With his arms still around the girls' waists and Grungle trotting happily behind, Murray returned the grins and walked over towards the house.

The happy faces on the verandah belonged to the men Murray had travelled over a thousand kilometres to see, through semi-desert, mountain ranges and hidden trails. The owners of the unique homestead at Binjiwunyawunya: Tjalkalieri, Mumbi and Yarrawulla. These were their true native names, but ever since childhood Murray and the rest of the family had called them Chalky, Mumbles and Yarra. And as Aborigines the boys from Binjiwunyawunya were something else. Walking slowly towards them, Murray never ceased to be amazed at the way they never seemed to change in appearance — even in the thirty-odd years he had known them.

Each man had to be at least seventy, but none looked a day over thirty. It was uncanny. Their teeth were all white and perfect, set in faces scarcely lined except for a few wrinkles around the eyes and sides of the mouth, probably caused from laughing too much. Not a grey hair amongst the short, curly crops on their domed heads and not an ounce of fat on their smooth, wiry bodies. Bent slightly over the railing, the folds in their stomach muscles looked like squashed-up piano accordions. Chalky, the shortest, had the makings of a small, straggly beard. But the one oustanding feature of all three men was their bright, almost electric-blue eyes. While nearly all Aboriginal people have brown eyes, these were a piercing blue and even though their faces were creased with laughter Murray could sense the energy behind those eyes and almost feel them boring into him as he ambled towards the homestead.

Even though he had known them all his life, and his father even longer, there was still a bit of mystery about Tjalkalieri, Mumbi and Yarrawulla. Evidently they were the last of a small lost tribe that originally lived in Central Australia, somewhere between Lake Eyre and a remote part of the Flinders Ranges. Whatever happened to this mysterious tribe no one was ever quite sure; the three never discussed it much. But it probably suffered from hostility from the other tribes or was more than likely wiped out by the sheer, stupid brutality of the early white settlers in the area. The three men moved up the channel country sometime in the late 1920s or early 1930s, buying the property at Binjiwunyawunya with money they'd made from the sale of a number of sapphires they'd
brought with them from the Flinders Ranges. Old Joe Norton, Murray's father, had got to know them during the Second World War when he was in the AIF, and they had remained firm friends ever since.

When the money from the sapphires eventually ran out the boys, who were all excellent artists, made a fairly reasonable living selling paintings. It was mainly through the paintings that they managed to maintain the property in an amazing, almost oppulent style. But there was a bit more to Tjalkalieri, Mumbi and Yarrawulla than being three simple Aboriginal bush artists.

You would think having a nice big property way out in the middle of nowhere, it wouldn't take long before the boys would be inundated with hangers on, which is often the case with the Aboriginal people; as soon as one of them kicks on he suddenly finds himself swamped with relatives. Cousins he or she has never heard of seem to turn up unexpectedly from all over Australia for a ride on the gravy train. But any natives who knew of Tjalkalieri, Mumbi and Yarrawulla — especially the ones in that area, except for a few good-looking young lubras the boys often liked to take under their wings — were terrified of the blue-eyed tribesmen from Central Australia and gave the entire area a wide berth. For the boys from Binjiwunyawunya were also Nungari. Powerful black medicine men, possessors of secret knowledge and masters of black mysteries that go back thousands of years. Kurdaitcha men. Assassins. Aboriginal hit men. This was another way the boys from Binjiwunyawunya made quite a few dollars in their spare time; and there were none better throughout the length and breadth of Australia at doing what they did.

The boys were genuinely glad to see Murray. He was the son of an old and valued friend, they'd known him and his brothers and sisters since childhood, so there was plenty of laughing and warm, firm handshakes all round, with quite a bit of pushing and shoving thrown in. The girls stayed in the background giggling musically while they patted Grungle, who sat on his backside panting happily at what was going on around him.

‘Well, Murray old fella,' said Tjalkalieri, who generally did most of the talking. ‘It sure is good to see you.'

‘Yeah,' replied Murray. ‘And it sure is good to see you blokes again too.' Murray let his gaze drift softly across the verandah over the beautiful gardens where a red-kneed dotterel had just speared a tiny green frog in the shallows of
one of the ponds. ‘I'll tell you what,' he said shaking his head in admiration. ‘You've sure got the place lookin' a treat.' ‘Yeah. That's the girls,' agreed Yarrawulla, smiling over at Numidi and Nantjinin. ‘They sure do a good job. We might even have to give 'em a rise.'

‘You can afford it,' said Murray. ‘You blokes have got heaps.'

‘Ah I don't know so much,' said Tjalkalieri, shaking his head. ‘The painting caper's not as good as it used to be. Every Abo that can hold a brush seems to be getting in on the act lately. The buyers in the cities'll take just about anything, too. Half the time they can't tell the difference between good stuff and shit. And it doesn't make it any easier to get your price.'

‘Well then,' drawled Murray slowly. ‘It seems like I might've just come along at the right time.'

‘Yeah?' Tjalkalieri smiled knowingly at the two others, then back at Murray. ‘And just what exactly did you have in mind Murray... old mate.'

‘I might have a nice little earn for you Chalky. That's if you and the boys are interested. It's one of your specialities, too.'

‘A little earn eh?' said Yarrawulla. ‘That sounds all right.'

‘Yeah. And it's an easy one. I reckon you'll like it.'

‘Well, why don't we go inside and talk about it over a couple of drinks,' said Tjalkalieri.

Murray took off his hat and banged the dust out against the leg of his moleskins. ‘Now you're talkin' my language. After twelve hours in that bloody Land Rover I'm fangin' for a cold beer.'

‘I don't know about a cold beer.' Mumbi winked at his two mates. ‘But we might have a flagon of brown muscat we can pass around.'

Murray threw back his head and roared laughing. ‘That'd be the bloody day,' he chortled. He swatted Mumbi across the head with his hat and followed the laughing Aborigines into the house.

The place had hardly changed since the last time Murray was out there, except for a few more paintings hung in the teak-lined corridor that ran past the bedrooms into the lounge. The three owners moved into the lounge towards a monstrous black leather ottoman which faced a colonial brick fireplace. A beaten-copper funnel was built into the fireplace and above
the hearth a gun rack, holding a number of military and sporting rifles and several pistols, was built into the wall. More paintings and indoor plants were spread around the lounge room while a remote-control stereo TV with a VCR on top and an almost state-of-the-art Marantz stereo system took up nearly an entire wall.

‘Oh Murray,' said Tjalkalieri, as he motioned him towards one of matching padded-leather lounge chairs, ‘that's Mammanduru and Koodja.'

Murray turned to the spacious kitchen across from the lounge, where another two beautiful Aboriginal girls, about twenty, wearing tight T-shirts and skimpy running shorts were fussing around the sink and some copper pots of food cooking on the large porta-gas range. Zephyrs billowed the curtains in the bay window above the sink while behind the girls the huge cedar table was set with correctly placed plates and cutlery and crisp red table napkins in shiny silver napkin rings. An exquisite flower arrangement was positioned in the middle of the table and it was obvious the table had been set for some time.

‘Hello girls,' smiled Murray. ‘Pleased to meet you.'

The girls smiled shyly back, then giggled at each other and continued with what they were doing where they were soon joined by the other two girls.

Murray noticed the table had already been set for eight people. ‘Hey?' he said curiously. ‘You've... ah... already set the table for eight.'

Tjalkalieri smiled and the Aboriginal men had a bit of a chuckle amongst themselves. ‘We knew you were coming about four hours ago. Good thing you didn't shoot that old black dingo, he's a mate of ours.' Tjalkalieri ignored the look on Murray's face. ‘Come on,' he said. ‘Grab a seat.'

Murray sat down opposite the others and next thing Numidi placed a tray of icy cold beers down on the coffee table. Fourex for Murray and three bottles of Stag Lager for the others.

‘Cheers anyway, fellas,' said Murray, raising his bottle.

‘Yeah. Cheers Murray. Good to see you again.'

They all took a healthy pull on their bottles and started talking amicably amongst themselves while the girls fussed around in the kitchen to a Warumpi Band tape playing softly on a large ghetto blaster.

About a dozen or so beers between them later, the light, fairly breezy conversation began to drift off and there was
a noticeable silence; within a few seconds Murray could feel three pairs of electric-blue eyes studying him closely. Tjalkalieri shifted his gaze to the kitchen and the girls turned the cassette off and disappeared into another room, leaving the food simmering. Murray looked down the neck of his beer bottle, and as the eyes continued to stare at him intently he sucked in a deep breath and stared back at them for a moment before speaking.

‘Well,' he said, easing back a little further into his chair. ‘These beers are okay, but I suppose it's about time we got down to business.'

‘Yeah,' replied Yarrawulla. ‘Why don't we?'

‘Yes Murray. Tell us why you've travelled all this way out here — almost surprising us. And what this little earn is you may have for us.' Tjalkalieri settled back a little further on the lounge next to Mumbi who still didn't say anything.

‘I was nearly gonna ring you up before I left,' chuckled Murray, ‘but I half-pie tipped you'd know I was coming.' He paused and studied his bottle of beer absently once more. ‘Anyway, I'll try and get straight to the point. It's Les's idea. He rang me about it yesterday morning.'