The Songmaster (41 page)

‘The hunters’ departure,’ laughed Susan, as she put the lens cover back on her camera. ‘They look like a bunch of cattle being led to the sale yards!’

At a silent signal from Rusty, the three men fanned out, positioning Alan, Mick, Alistair and Barwon in a V shape. ‘We circle round and head him this way. You get ’im now,’ said Digger, in a low voice.

‘What is it? Where is it?’ Mick looked around, having seen and heard nothing.

‘Bush turkey. Big one.’ Digger disappeared into the bush.

Mick was at the apex, holding a .22 rifle. He glanced across at Alistair and gave a grin. Then with a rush, the turkey was flushed towards them, a giant old bird lumbering quite quickly. This was bigger than any table turkey, more like a small emu.

‘Get him, Mick,’ shouted Barwon excitedly, as he awkwardly fitted his spear in the woomera, ran a few steps towards the fleeing turkey and hurled the spear wildly, missing by metres. Mick couldn’t lift the rifle. He was mesmerised by the grand old bird heading towards them.

Barwon bounded to Mick’s side, grabbed the rifle and aimed. The bird stopped and stared at the two men directly in front of him. And Barwon’s trigger finger froze. At the same moment, his eye saw not a bush turkey, but the angry, bloodied face of Giles Jackson in the mining camp. Then he squeezed the trigger.

It was not a good shot. The turkey was winged but still mobile, veering towards Alistair and the nearby long grass. Alan raced in as Alistair ran after the wounded bird.

Alistair instinctively took chase, a blind flight, not sure if he was running after the bird or away from his friends, aware of the panic the wounded bird must feel.

‘Tackle him, Alistair,’ shouted Mick.

As he ran, a strange sensation overcame Alistair. He felt light, fleet, fast. Suddenly at home in this environment, he side-stepped through the grass, avoiding small rocks without hesitating, no pain from his legs, no stumbling or panting.

He was gaining on the bleeding bird, whose long legs trembled, and it staggered forward. Then it seemed to Alistair that events happened in slow motion. The bird turned and just gave up, becoming a willing victim. But Alistair had already thrown himself forward, arms outstretched in a reckless, airborne tackle, heedless of the rough ground beneath him. He fell onto the soft bulk of the turkey, tumbling into the grass, shrill cries coming from beneath him.

He lay there feeling the warmth of the pinned bird on his chest. Then he heard the pounding feet as Barwon and Mick, reaching him, grabbed the struggling bird as Alistair shakily stood up. ‘Let him go,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Let him go.’

‘He’s had it. Shoot the poor bugger, Barwon.’ Mick was holding the bird by the legs, one foot on a wing.

But Barwon was looking at the multicoloured tawny plumage, the glazing eyes and
he shook his head. ‘Can’t, mate. It’s such a magnificent looking thing.’

Mick looked from Barwon to Alistair. ‘Put the poor bugger out of his misery.’

Barwon held out the gun, but Mick didn’t want to let go of the turkey. He knew he couldn’t fire the fatal shot, either, and wondered what the hell had got into him. He’d done his share of wild pig and roo shooting.

The three Aborigines, followed by Alan, hurried forward and Rusty lifted his nulla nulla, clubbing the bird’s head. It slumped, stone dead. Mick stepped away as Digger slung the bird over his shoulder and began walking back to the truck.

Ardjani walked beside Alistair. ‘He give himself up to us, you know? That is how it be, and we respect the animal that dies to give us food. He dies and we live, so we must do ceremony to send thanks so animals come again. It has always been this way.’

In his simple explanation Alistair began to grasp the covenant between these people and the animal world – sacrifice and atonement. His society thanked God for food upon the table, the Aborigine thanked the animal.

While the men were hunting, the women prepared to set out. ‘I think I should go over to the Barradja camp and make sure Rowena feels welcome,’ said Beth. ‘It might be good for her to share this. It’s what women’s business is about . . . sharing.’

Susan and Veronica decided they’d join them there. They’d started walking towards the buildings when they suddenly heard raised voices in the room where Rowena was staying, the LA woman’s sharp accent dominating. Beth marched out looking furious and, ignoring their questions, she headed back towards her tent.

‘What do you suppose that was about?’ said Veronica.

Susan shrugged and a short time later, Lilian, Jennifer and Rowena came out of the house carrying wooden coolamon dishes and digging sticks. ‘We show Rowena how to get bush tucker,’ said Lilian. ‘You two come with us.’

Susan jumped to her feet. ‘You bet.’ Susan took the spare coolamon Lilian offered and called out to Veronica. She came over and Jennifer handed her a digging stick.

‘Okay, I’m ready for women’s business. We’re the gathering women, right?’ Susan looked at Rowena, wondering how the two women had managed to calm her and persuade her to come with them. Rowena must have seen something in it for Rowena, she was sure of that.

They collected sugarbag, cutting into a thick branch, putting the dripping honey in a bark bucket. Berries and seeds were stripped from their hiding places between thick leaves, the mother and daughter explaining how they cooked and prepared the food. They told of how
the women hold the food knowledge, understanding the food chain, the right seasons for gathering, and when to leave food for animals.

‘We have knowledge of plants and animals, when to leave them, and you never eat a plant or animal that is your totem,’ said Jennifer.

‘It be like eating your own flesh,’ added Lilian.

Further into the bush, the older woman spied a thin vine and she squatted down, calling Susan and Rowena to join her. She showed the two women how to use their digging sticks to burrow down along the root. ‘You go deep, yam at the bottom of the root,’ said Lilian.

Jennifer led Veronica down to a small billabong where pink waterlilies opened their flowers to the sun. ‘The rhizomes are delicious when you boil them up.’

Veronica waded in and, following Jennifer’s example, reached down each rubbery stem, feeling in the soft mud for the small bulbous root. Jennifer leaned over and Veronica noticed a strange pendant swinging around her neck. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

Jennifer lifted the string and showed her the small parcel of paperbark. ‘My baby’s umbilical cord is in here. When my baby starts to crawl, we bury it. We believe when the baby feels or touches this, he will feel safe and he won’t cry.’

‘How does that fit with your nurse’s training?’ asked Veronica.

‘The more I learn of my Barradja culture, as
well as white medicine, the more I find they can work together.’

Veronica watched Rowena, who had dug down half a metre before finding a fat, brittle yam. She was surprised at the concentration Rowena brought to the task, the vestiges of Hollywood trappings still apparent in the Rodeo Drive T-shirt and sunglasses, the diamond studs in her ears. She scratched in the dirt with a nervous energy, causing Lilian to touch her arm. ‘Yam not goin’ to run away.’

Veronica and Jennifer returned to the bank, dumping the lily roots beside the other food. Veronica sat on the remains of a rotting hollow log to rest but immediately leapt to her feet with a scream as a large goanna dashed from under her. ‘Quick, catch ’im,’ cried Lilian and there was a mad scramble accompanied by a chorus of shrieks and laughter.

Jennifer and Susan cornered the lizard by a pile of rocks. Susan stamped on its tail and Jennifer grabbed it behind the head, but with an energetic twist it sprang free and scurried away. Susan thought it looked amusing, as if running in high heels. Even Rowena seemed cheerful.

After depositing the yams and roots back at the camp, the women trailed along the bank, following Lilian and Jennifer and talking quietly. Rowena carried a small fold-up chair.

‘What are we going to do now?’ asked Veronica.

Lilian paused and pointed at a flower. Then,
lifting her head, she indicated a bird shrilling above them. ‘You look, listen, smell, feel. They are the signs, look and hear.’ She walked slowly forward, treading with delicacy, and the women following her understood they must respect their immediate surroundings.

Lilian stopped. ‘We sit here. This place.’ The ground was showered in a recent fall of a kapok tree’s yellow blooms and buds. The middle-aged woman sat effortlessly, folding her legs beneath her, sinking onto the ground. Following her lead, they each settled on the earth in the shadows of tall pandanus trees, the river with its freckles of waterlily leaves barely visible through the trees lining the bank. The ground was soft, cleared of pebbles, sticks or prickly grass. Apart from scattered flower heads and orange pandanus seeds, it was cushioned and comfortable. Rowena, who’d changed from her wet clothes into another designer outfit, snapped open her chair and sat back, crossing her legs. As the women chatted, Jennifer touched Rowena on the ankle.

‘Put away the chair. Sit on the earth. You need to make contact with our mother.’

Rowena shook her head. ‘I’d rather sit here. I’m fine, thank you.’ The stiff reply surprised Susan, who thought Rowena would have been into anything that hinted of new-age spirituality.

At a glance from her mother, Jennifer began to speak. ‘Feel the earth, this is our mother. Rub her against your skin. Lie back, be comfortable.’ The women, apart from Rowena, settled on
their backs staring up at the sky between the spiky pandanus leaves.

‘We focus on this sacred place, and we feel our surroundings. We focus on every tree, every leaf, every blade of grass, every grain of earth beneath our bodies. Listen to the cockatoos, the honeyeaters. We open wide our legs. We let the wind run through us. We feel Mother Earth breathing. We match our breathing to hers.’ Jennifer paused and the women closed their eyes and drew deep slow breaths.

Jennifer then spoke in a slow, quiet voice. ‘Recognise that everything is yorro yorro, standing up alive. Filled by the same life force as we are made from. Breathe in the earth, the wind, the song of the wunggud. Bring every single thing into focus as a recognition of our shared life and space. We are here together. Receive the welcome, the sense of belonging in this place.’ She paused and let her words sink in as the women lay there, spreadeagled on the ground.

Susan felt vaguely uncomfortable. It was too strange – she couldn’t imagine any of her law colleagues doing this. But gradually she sensed her body relax, melt and become limp, and in a moment of revelation she realised she was letting go of the rigid disciplines of self-control that had always guided her life. For a few seconds she was fearful but, as she concentrated on her breathing, she relaxed again.

Jennifer’s voice was slowing, in harmony with her quieter breathing. ‘We are now in rhythm
with the earth. We can now feel the vibrations of the earth. Listen to her speak. This is a great power for us. If you have some sight, some vision, some sense of knowledge, accept this.’

Veronica was trying to analyse what was happening and the effects of Jennifer’s words. This was a sophisticated mind-relaxation technique she was familiar with but used to a much higher level in conjunction with the Aboriginal relationship to the land and creation. And although she was surprised at the Aboriginal use and awareness of it, the gentleness of the young woman’s voice and the soft air brushing her body made her relax. Gradually her objective reporter’s mind switched off and she let her own subjective feelings take over. She felt her spine soften as though the ground beneath her had become a mattress.

Jennifer’s voice barely carried on the breeze. ‘Everything that is in the moon and the stars and the planets goes into the earth and comes back to us, through nature, into our bodies.’ She was silent. Rowena’s head sank to her chest. She was now slumped comfortably in the chair. All was still.

Then, like a whisper, the brush of an unseen feather, a song drifted, floating into the heart of each woman.

I am in a distant place, but I am as close as your breathing, as close as your heart that beats as one with Mother Earth.

Listen to my song, and know it is truth.

It is in a dream, it is the same that is in the earth and leaves and trees, water and rocks around you.

It is part of you and gives you knowledge and feeling.