The Songmaster (35 page)

‘I’d like to see this piece of paper,’ said Alistair donning his QC’s hat. ‘There are lots of unanswered questions.’

Alan looked terse. ‘Indeed, there are. Did you know she was coming to Bungarra?’

Lucky held up his hands in surrender, shielding himself from Alan’s growing anger. ‘Boss. I do proper thing. I say, wait, we go talk to Ardjani and Alan and mob here.’

‘I know she coming. I know these things.’ Ardjani tapped his head and looked mysterious.

Beth straightened up. ‘This calls for a serious
meeting tomorrow morning. Have you got a copy of the paper she wants you to sign, Lucky? Ardjani, have you got a copy of the paper you signed with her?’ Beth looked frustrated. ‘With papers like this, law people should look at them.’

‘We are law men, Beth.’

‘Ardjani, whitefella law can be tricky, it’s not always good for Barradja and Aboriginal people.’ Beth threw a quick look at Mick and Alistair. ‘No offence to you blokes, but . . .’

Ardjani held up his hand. ‘We will have a meeting. Tomorrow.’ He rose, and Digger and Rusty followed. But Lucky stretched out his legs and turned to Veronica. ‘What radio you talk on? You talk on de ABC? You going to talk to Lucky on de ABC radio?’

For the next hour Lucky entertained everyone with stories of his people, his art, his trips and his views of the white people for whom he felt genuinely sorry. ‘They sure got it all wrong. Too greedy. Want everything right now. House too big, work too hard, walk too fast, see nothin’.’

When he and Barwon departed to join Ardjani’s camp, Mick said, ‘I think Ardjani and Co have a problem with this American woman. She’s already signed up the Barradja for film rights, and goodness knows what else, and now she presumably wants to buy all the work produced by the Bungarra artists. Have I read it right?’ Mick looked around the group.

‘That about sums it up, Mick,’ said Alistair.

‘Look at it from their point of view,’ urged Beth. ‘Apart from whites wanting their art, there aren’t many others banging on their door offering to help with cultural salvation. I met this woman briefly, when she first came here, and I thought she was a bit wacky, but harmless. She certainly didn’t drop a hint to me of what she must have been planning to negotiate with the elders.’

‘Hopefully we’ll get across this whole matter in a general meeting of minds in chambers . . . under a tree tomorrow,’ said Mick. ‘I recommend first thing after breakfast, Beth, if that is suitable to our clients.’

Beth suppressed a smile at the judge’s use of the term ‘our clients’. That would please Ardjani.

In her tent, Susan lay in her sleeping bag staring out her little window. It was a lovely way to go to sleep, watching the sparkling coverlet of stars, so close, so watchful, hanging above her.

She closed her eyes, and the images of the Wandjina figures floated before her, reminding her of the age, the mystery and the power of the landscape around her.

She was woken in the early hours of the morning. Sitting up in bed Susan groped for her
torch. The cry came again, a long mournful howl. And another. Two voices crying to the moon. It sent shivers up her spine and she heard Veronica’s startled exclamation from her tent next door. ‘Jesus, what’s that?’

Susan unzipped the flyscreen, crawled out of her tent and peered around it to the fire, where the crying seemed to come from.

There, in the middle of the deserted camp, sat two dingoes, the moonlight shining on their rusty coats. Their noses lifted to the night sky, they cried and howled in long rolling sessions.

‘It’s all right, it’s dingoes,’ whispered Susan. ‘Two of them. They’re right here, in our camp.’

‘What are they doing, for God’s sake?’

‘They’re just . . . sort of singing.’ Then Susan remembered. ‘Lilian . . . she told me her father and grandfather were dingo totem. She said if they were here, they’d come to her.’

‘Susan, get back in your tent,’ ordered Veronica.

Susan lay back down. No one else had stirred. But everyone must have been woken by the visit of the dingoes. She was not afraid. In fact, she felt strangely comforted. As she fell back into sleep, she wondered what message the family spirits were giving to Lilian.

S
usan walked from the sleeping camp through the casuarina trees and papery grass, her footfalls silently crushing the frosted dew. There was no breeze, nothing rustled, no leaves stirred.

Before her, as if carved in stone, stood an old bull in a dark coat with a white streak down his wide forehead. Horns, yellowed and dull, curved up from the square head and wide brown eyes, faintly curious, watched her.

She stopped, her heart beating rapidly. The beast stood stoically, a stolid shape. A micky bull. A stray. A loner. As she stood, immobilised, he ambled towards her with a calm if clumsy gait and stood, to her surprise, within touching distance. Tentatively, Susan reached out and patted the rough hair between his horns. The bull dropped his head slightly, and
Susan couldn’t help but smile. He wanted to be scratched. She rubbed and tickled behind his ears, grinning all the while. ‘So, mate, bit lonely out here on your own!’ She realised this must be the tame bull Beth had told them had been fed by the Barradja for years. ‘Only the kids to play with, eh?’

She fondled the soppy old beast a few minutes longer then the sound of a vehicle starting broke the silence. A truck swung away from the Barradja camp. As it passed, Digger, Rusty and Barwon, squeezed into the front seat, gave her a wave. Susan headed through the trees towards the river. The bull trotted behind like a faithful dog and she wished she had her camera.

She found a break in the pandanus at the water’s edge, sat down and marvelled at the beauty of the river. The lily pads glowed like pewter, the surface of the water looked solid enough to walk upon. Along the bank it was lush and tropical, but behind this veneer was thin scrubland, long dry grass, slim trees. In the distance, she knew, were the red ridges of sandstone, ancient and mystical.

Susan felt the magic of the country more than at any time since arriving in the Kimberley. It was not much more than a week, though it seemed much longer, that she’d been sipping cafe latte in Balmain, unaware of the beauty and power of such a remote part of the world, and incapable of imagining the impact it would have on her. Even now she was not sure just how
deeply the land was affecting her, but she did know that it would change her.

A twig cracked and Susan turned to see what the bull was doing, but it was gone. Instead, she saw Lilian walking in the misty light, carrying a wooden dish.

The memory of the dingoes in the night rushed back, sending shivers down her spine. But Lilian gave her a cheerful wave and, with a large smile, sat down beside her.

‘What’s that, Lilian?’ asked Susan looking into the coolamon.

‘Sugarbag. Wild honey. In my dream, my father and grandfather come and I ask them where is the sugarbag.’

‘The wild honey you couldn’t find yesterday?’

‘They tell me where.’

‘So they did come. In your dream, as you hoped. The two dingoes . . ?’

Lilian ignored the reference to the dingoes, as if it was a non-question.

‘My father and my grandfather. They tell me many things. My responsibilities, how I look after my country, they tell me many things. It make me very happy.’

She looked out at the water and changed the subject. ‘This barella time, dawn time, before the birds, before the colour comes. When your eyes begin to see,’ she tapped her head, ‘this eye and these eyes,’ then touched her eyelids. And Susan understood what she meant by ‘seeing’.

Lilian broke off a piece of honeycomb and
gave it to Susan, and another piece for herself, and they sucked the sweetness. ‘Mm, it’s fantastic,’ enthused Susan.

‘Number one bush tucker,’ endorsed Lilian.

In the next few moments, as if nature had turned on a record, a bird call rang out, then another, and then others answered, joining in the dawn chorus. It was an enchanting performance that ceased as suddenly as if someone had flicked a switch. Now there was only an occasional distant call. The birds were about their business of the day.

‘Now come the colour.’ Lilian pointed to the faint mauve and pink glow in the east. ‘Milky Way covers the sky, he is called Ngadjar, the one above, master of the sky. He make the light for barella, the dawn, for the day. And then he lie down – we call this njallara – and he camp. He bring sleep. We follow him when we sleep. Do you turn over when you sleeping? That means you following Milky Way cross the sky. We call this wollai. Look, now come the new day.’

‘I love this time of day. Not that I see it very often.’ Susan thought of her bedroom in Balmain, where she slept with her windows and curtains closed against possible intruders. Maybe she should walk down to the harbour and watch the sunrise occasionally.

‘This wudu time. When the old men and women teach all the young people. Learning time.’

‘Can I learn some of this too?’

Lilian gave her a smile. ‘When we do women’s business. We take you and your friend.’ She rose and picked up the coolamon of honey. ‘I go make campfire.’

Susan walked back to find Billy and Beth preparing breakfast.

‘Been listening to the dawn chorus?’ asked Beth.

‘And hobnobbing with the old bull. I also saw Lilian. She said her grandfather and father visited her during the night. Did you hear the dingoes?’

‘I was in my swag by the Oka, and they were only a couple of metres from me,’ said Billy, a little uncertain how to interpret the visitation. ‘Spooky,’ he concluded.

‘Maybe, maybe not,’ observed Beth. ‘Depends on how you look at it.’ She picked up her towel and toilet bag. ‘I’m going for a cold shower to wake me up. We’ve organised the big meeting after breakfast over at the Barradja camp.’

The group straggled over to a shade area under trees, where Ardjani and Lucky sat on the ground, legs folded. Behind them sat Queenie, Lilian and Jennifer, who had the baby lying across her lap.

Beth guided Mick, Alistair, Susan and Alan
to sit in a semi circle facing Ardjani, with Veronica and Billy behind them. Beth then sat next to Mick at the end. A square of plastic sheeting was spread before them. Ardjani pushed a carved stick into the ground. He held a batch of papers and sat impassively, his big hat firmly in place.

Despite the casualness of sitting on the hard ground under a tree, there was an air of formality. When the visitors had made themselves as comfortable as was possible, Ardjani looked around the circle. ‘It makes us Barradja very happy you people come to help us. To help Barradja people get back our culture, our land.’

Alistair exchanged a swift, surprised sideways glance with Mick Duffy.

Beth moved swiftly to clarify Ardjani’s reference to the land rights issue, the first the lawyers had heard of it. She spoke formally in her interpreter’s voice. ‘Ardjani is saying that your assistance, in negotiating with the Steeles for Barradja elders to go to their sacred sites for special ceremonies, is much appreciated. He is keen to talk about how this concession can be further developed, perhaps giving the Barradja more permanent access to their traditional country.’

She turned to Ardjani, who continued addressing the gathering. ‘But first we talk about the American woman, Rowena, and the papers she wants Lucky and Bungarra mob to sign.’

Lucky and Ardjani exchanged looks. If there was a message from the elder, it was not obvious to Susan, who was becoming increasingly conscious of how much the Barradja people communicated without needing words. Lucky began, ‘This Rowena lady, she want everything belong our culture. She hard lady to talk to. She got some magic dat one. Bit strange, too. Little bit strange.’

‘What exactly is she after?’ asked Alistair. ‘Have you brought this document you were talking about last night? And, Ardjani, have you got the papers you signed for the Barradja?’

Ardjani held out several sheafs of papers clipped together. Alistair quickly perused the two contracts.

‘From my quick scan of yours, Ardjani, it looks to me like this American woman has a signed contract giving her copyright ownership of the Barradja culture.’

‘That’s preposterous. You can’t copyright a culture.’ Mick reached for the documents.

Beth trod delicately around the next statement. ‘Ardjani had a meeting with her when he was in Los Angeles. An agreement was drawn up by her lawyers and apparently, when she came to Australia, the elders signed it.’