The Songmaster (29 page)

‘So who owns the land with your sacred sites on it?’ asked Mick.

‘Lot of people. Different people come, stay a few years and go away. They’re not like the old families who knew the local people and understood the land and our customs. The land is spoiled now. No longer good cattle country. But we hear talk some pastoralists goin’ to try some new thing. Make big money, we hear.’

Alistair smiled to himself. The old chap is really leading us along. If I don’t ask, Mick will.
‘Some new thing, Ardjani. What could that be, if the land is not that good for grazing?’

‘Dunno. They got somethin’ though. Some properties got lots of four-wheel drives goin’ in there since the wet. And planes goin’ round in circles.’

Mick Duffy glanced at Alistair. ‘Wait a minute. You mean you don’t know what happens on land that is historically and culturally yours? Surely you have had legal advice about your rights?’

‘Some legal people say yes, some legal people say no.’

Alistair found it all beyond reason. ‘I understood a pastoral lease only provided rights for grazing, nothing else. It should be a matter of negotiation, of sitting down with these people and working out a procedure. Visiting your sacred sites with friends like us and holding ceremonies is hardly an invasion, is it?’

‘Have you ever met with any of the pastoralists around here?’ Mick asked.

‘We see them on the road or in town. But some of them don’t see us. One time Jennifer get so sick with her coming baby that she not wake up, and she and her husband, Jimmy, were all alone out here. There be no car, and the phone not working, nothing, so Jimmy put her in the wheelbarrow and he push her through the bush down to that road. He wave down the man who owns one property and ask for help. The man tell them to wait and he send one of the workers,
‘cause he busy. Finally, Jimmy start pushing Jennifer into town because he think she and baby gonna die.’

‘It would have taken at least two days to reach Marrenjowen by foot,’ said Beth quietly. ‘The baby asleep, Jennifer?’

Jennifer nodded.

‘What happened?’ asked Susan.

‘They met Digger coming back along the road. So he take them to hospital. Jennifer very sick. But baby okay. She come back here, and baby born in one month, here, in its country.’

Jennifer spoke quietly for the first time. ‘That was the only time we have ever asked help from the pastoralists.’

Veronica had taken a notebook out of her shoulder bag and was making notes.

Alistair looked at Mick Duffy. ‘Well, Mick, do you read the situation as I read it? Perhaps we could help Ardjani and his people start a meaningful dialogue with the owners of the property where these paintings are so we can see them too.’

The judge thought for a moment. ‘Ardjani, it might be useful if we tried to open negotiations on your behalf. We could not argue your cultural rights, since we are not experts in that field, but perhaps our line of legal argument will help.’

Ardjani considered the judge’s offer while he sipped his tea. ‘Yeah, mebbe. It’s important,’ he said quietly.

Alan was enthusiastic. ‘The art at Eagle Rock is significant. I’ve only seen photographs taken in the fifties, and it’s a long time since anyone in the art world saw these works. This could be a good story for you, Veronica.’

Veronica nodded. ‘I wonder what other surprises this day has in store.’

‘None, I hope,’ said Beth. ‘What say we get together again at breakfast and see what the new day offers.’

Ardjani still showed no reaction. He said goodnight and promised to drop by and share their breakfast. As the three men and Jennifer and Lilian left the campfire, Beth heard Ardjani speak a few words in language to his colleagues. ‘Good start,’ the old man had said.

‘Tomorrow, I’ll show you where we can swim.’ Beth put her mug on the pile of washing up that Susan had gathered. ‘There’s one section of the river, that is wunggud energy water, for all of us and it’s lovely. The other part of the river is for women only. It’s the wunggud pool – baby spirit pond.’

‘Oops, they’ve turned the generator off. That means no lights in the showers.’

‘Take a torch.’

Alistair emerged from his tent with a towel and wash bag and flicked on his torch to pick his way over to the shower block.

‘We’ll help you wash up, Susan,’ said Beth, pouring simmering water into a big plastic bowl.

‘That’s what I like to see, sheilas doing the dishes.’ Mick ducked as Beth threw a wet sponge at him and he padded after Alistair.

‘Hell, cold water by torchlight. Bracing, eh?’ Alistair stepped out of the cubicle to dry himself as Mick finished brushing his teeth at the washtub. ‘What did you make of the reaction to your suggestion of negotiating with the pastoralists?’

‘I’m not sure,’ answered the judge.

‘Did it occur to you that the old man might be manipulating us? Exploiting our joint legal weight.’

‘Not really,’ said Mick. ‘Coincidence, probably.’

‘It’s no problem for us to offer a bit of free advice. These people appear to have been badly served all round.’

‘I do feel the pastoralists, who won’t let the Barradja bring their friends to visit their paintings, are a bit heavy in their attitude – if Ardjani’s story is correct.’

‘We’ll find out soon enough, I feel,’ said Alistair, pausing to look up at the stars. ‘At least we’re here. I had my doubts once or twice today.’

I
t was pre-dawn. The moments between the dark of sleep and gradual awakening to daylight. The Songmaster settled himself in the coolness, urging more warmth from his fire. He sat, cross-legged, contemplative, watching the frail line of smoke wind upwards and fade into the limestone cliffs of the fossil reef, formed four hundred million years before.

The oldest rocks in the Kimberley had been created two thousand million years before, then had come the glacier ages and the landscape had changed again. Ancestor beings had created rivers through the sandstone, slicing gorges and carving soaring cliffs.

Sculpted sandstone towers and domes etched with bands and whorls stood alone, imperious above the greenness of livistona fan palms and low scrubby growth. Bluffs, plateaus, limestone
ridges and exposed reefs had emerged as the ice and floodwaters left the land.

The Songmaster picked up the two clapsticks and tapped them on the ground, then lifting his head he sang, now beating the sticks together, their resonant wooden notes blending with the chant.

They were newcomers in his country. They were welcome. But he knew there would be others . . . who would carry pain and danger. Whose eyes were dimmed with greed and who did not hear the words spoken by the ancestor beings to the elders. Beware . . . beware . . . he tapped. And the notes he chanted trembled with an edge of warning and fear. Strangers will come . . . beware . . .

Ardjani stood motionless at the edge of the glassy King Edward River, his body reflected like a slim dark reed at the water’s edge. Pale lavender pre-dawn light filtered through the treetops. He lifted his head, listening. He took in the chant of the Songmaster and turned away, slowly, silently, walking barefoot, hardly disturbing grass or pebble, his faint shadow on the river the only movement in the stillness of the new day.

Susan stirred and looked out the plastic window at the dove’s egg sky. A bird called, another
answered. She wiggled out of her sleeping bag, found her sneakers and, dressed in track pants and cotton T-shirt, reached for the ring of the zipper that had closed her door.

The ZZZZZZPP echoed round the silent camp. It was a sound she would come to associate forever with this experience.

She stepped outside and straightened up, arching her back to ease the slight stiffness. Dew glittered on the grass. Shreds of mist hung like limp streamers in the skirts of trees. Each tent was tightly cocooned, closed, quiet. She walked as softly as she could, past the damp plastic chairs ringing the dead fire. Plates and containers of cutlery, sauce bottles, basic condiments in sealed jars and tupperware were lined along the laminated table. She doodled her initials in the wetness of the tabletop. She glanced at the gas stove and kettle thinking of tea. Billy was rolled in his swag, driblets of dew trickling on the outside of the oilskin covering his sleeping bulk.

She was about to go back when she saw Ardjani walking at the edge of the river. He lifted an arm, signalling her to come. She walked across the stubbly ground, past trees, to where large pandanus palms lined the river just fifty metres from the camp.

‘Good morning. You sleep good?’

‘Yes, yes I did. Thank you.’

For a little while they stood silent, listening to the birds, watching the light change, and she enjoyed the solitude and peace. She caught their
reflections in the water, so still it showed the stitching on her T-shirt and the stubble of whiskers on the old man’s face. She felt the energy of the man beside her, and she had no idea what to say next. But at that moment, a large fish swirled the surface close by the bank where they were standing.

‘What was that?’ asked Susan, suddenly jolted out of her reverie.

‘Big barramundi. He spirit fella. Mebbe spirit fella saying “good morning” to you,’ he grinned.

Susan laughed softly. ‘What a lovely thought.’ She looked again at the fading ripples. ‘You really believe that? A fish can be a spirit saying good morning?’

Ardjani nodded. ‘Spirits everywhere.’ His tone indicated that it was not a subject for debate. ‘Mebbe you understand more soon. You still got city eyes, city mind.’ He pointed downstream to a group of trees past their camp. ‘You go there. Go quietly. Walk softly. You see the brolgas. Dancing.’

‘Really?’

He nodded. ‘Lilian, Jennifer up there looking for sugarbag.’ He continued walking towards his camp.

Susan spotted the motherly shape of Lilian and the slim figure of her daughter standing near a tree. Lilian put a finger to her lips and beckoned Susan forward. When she reached them, they took her hands and pointed.

In a clearing among the paperbark trees, four tall grey birds pranced an intricate ritual. Bowing, preening, lifting long stick legs, Turning, ignoring, fawning, each male courted a female who reacted with disdain. It ended with a screech, a peck, and running flight.

Jennifer laughed. ‘Something spooked them. They’ll be back tomorrow.’

They’re so graceful. Those wonderful grey, wispy feathers. I’m so glad I saw that.’

‘You get up early.’ Lilian led them back the way they’d come. ‘We look for sugarbag. Wild honey. No luck.’

‘Bees must be hiding it,’ added Jennifer. ‘So, what are you all doing today?’

‘Beth said we’ll have a meeting to discuss our plans. We’d really like to see the rock art that’s on Eagle Rock Station.’

‘That be good. The old men never been there long time. It be near my father’s country.’ Lilian looked sad.

‘Your father is dead?’ asked Susan gently.

‘All gone. Now it be my country. And Jennifer. But we can’t look after it. Too far, and we not have trucks till now.’

Jennifer looked at her mother. ‘We need to go there so my mother can speak with the spirits of her father and grandfather. Our family. To know what is her responsibility, to know they are happy.’

‘How long since you went there, Lilian?’

‘Not since I was a little girl. Five, maybe.’

‘But that’s terrible. Listen, we are going to talk to these people, and ask permission to see the art. You come with us to visit your special place.’

Lilian lightly touched Susan’s arm. ‘That would be good. Very good.’

They were on their way to the camp, when the sound of a car broke the morning peace. ‘Who would that be?’ asked Susan.

Lilian shrugged. ‘People come, people go, always somethin’ goin’ on.’ Mother and daughter continued on their way, and Susan went to fetch her towel, glad to see Billy was up and busying himself round the fire.

‘Why is it food always tastes so much better in the open air?’ Veronica tucked into fried sausages, bacon and eggs.

Susan turned a piece of toast on the metal contraption Billy had sitting over the gas flame of the stove. ‘You only eat al fresco when Boris whips up a little dejeuner mediterranean.’