The Songmaster (43 page)

Hunter shook their hands, congratulating them on their fine timing. ‘My partner is Swiss. He’s always on time,’ grinned the French Canadian.

At the homestead, Rosalie led the group through the front garden to the separate guest quarters screened by brilliant bougainvillea, shady breezeways and palms, the tropical architecture blending with outback simplicity. Each double guest room had an en suite and was decorated in a different theme. The photographers were given the key to the billabong room. A mural of a tranquil pond smothered in lily pads was a theme continued in soft green and pink cushions and bedspread. The two men closed the screened doors, ignored the fan and turned on the airconditioning, giving the mosquito nets above the beds a curious look. They dropped their hand luggage on the wicker chaise and began speaking in intense and rapid French.

Rowena held court in the formal dining room that evening, recounting elaborate tales of living with the Barradja. Later they moved to the large sitting room for coffee and liqueurs but the two men who’d driven in excused themselves, bidding everyone goodnight as the phone rang.

Rosalie took her husband aside. ‘It’s Len Steele, he wants to arrange a meeting with us.’

Frank picked up the phone in the study that also served as his office. ‘G’day, Len. What’s up?’

‘Plenty. Listen we’ve got trouble brewing. Giles Jackson had a run-in with a yellafella the
other day, one of that city mob staying with the Barradja. Jackson reckons he was spying on the mining camp at Boulder Downs. The Barradja are dead against mining as you know.’

‘So what’s that to do with us?’

‘Jackson reckons those city lawyers are up here to help the natives slap a land claim on this area.’

‘I don’t need any trouble right this minute. I’ve got a group of tourists in from Europe, remember. The ones I’m bringing over to Eagle Rock to see your Bradshaw paintings.’

‘I reckon we need a bit of a showdown with the Barradja mob. We’ve got Shareen Beckridge staying with us and I’ve asked her to come over with us to suss out the situation. She’s going to run as an Independent for one of the bush seats in the WA Government, probably the seat of Kimberley. She’s interested in problems connected with pastoral leases. Oh, and Ian Frazer’s son, Andrew, from Yandoo, is coming down and said he’d join the meeting.’

‘He’s coming just to meet this pollie lady?’ Frank held up his hand as Rosalie appeared in the door, signalling him to rejoin their guests.

‘No, he asked if he could land his plane at your place. He’s heading out to Marrenyikka. I thought it a bit odd at first, but he’s got a lady friend in that city group. Mightn’t hurt to have one of our mob out there to keep an ear to the ground.’

‘Yeah. Listen, Len, I have to go. Just let me
know when it’s all on. And tell young Frazer he can land here any time. See you.’

With the Europeans settled in the guest quarters, Hunter and Rowena and the pilot were shown to the family rooms at the rear of the homestead.

Ten minutes later, Rowena tapped at Hunter’s door and he opened it, surprised to see her dressed in just a shirt. ‘What’s up? Change in plans?’

‘You might say that. Can I come in? I want to talk to you.’

Hunter, wearing only his trousers, stifled a yawn and reached to pull a T-shirt over his bare chest. He was glad he was being well paid, she was a demanding employer.

‘Don’t bother with that on my account.’ She took the T-shirt from him and tossed it on a chair.

‘So what’s the change in plan? You’ve changed your mind about going out to the rock art tomorrow?’

‘Sure we are. The change in plan is domestic. Rooms. I was thinking I might take this one.’

‘What the heck for? Same as yours, isn’t it?’

She gave a provocative smile. ‘I’m not asking you to leave.’

He blinked, uncomprehending for a moment. ‘Oh. Shit, Rowena. No offence, but that wouldn’t be too good. I mean, you’ve had a lot of wine, you’ve hired me as your driver, you might regret this . . .’

She cut in, reaching out to run her hands over his smooth, dark-skinned chest. ‘Hired you . . . that’s exactly right. Come on, Hunter . . . I don’t sleep well, I need a little soothing . . .’ Her flirtatious manner suddenly dropped and she became fearful, clinging to him, burying her face in his shoulder. ‘I get these dreams, these awful dreams, they keep me awake. I need you to chase them out, come into me, Hunter, come inside me . . . please, make them go away . . .’

Hunter unhooked her arms and in a swift move swept her up, kicked the door wide open with his bare foot and carried Rowena to her room, dumping her on the bed where she curled up facing the wall, shaking with silent sobs.

‘Take a pill or something. Sorry I can’t help you.’ Hunter strode from the room, quietly but firmly closing the door behind him.

The following morning as they trudged through the stringy-bark and salmon gums on Eagle Rock Station, Hunter avoided Rowena, paying attention to the questions of the two German wives. The American seemed not to notice, cheerfully giving the other visitors a potted version of the story of the Wandjina creation. Len Steele and Frank Ward trailed at the rear, deep in discussion over the imminent meeting with the pastoralists and Shareen Beckridge.

The tourists rested before the climb up to the rock shelter, and in answer to a question
from one of the photographers, Rowena began to speak in a hushed voice.

‘There is a place . . . a special place, which holds the most sacred art of all creation. It is the Holy Grail of Aboriginal art. In one image there is all that tells the story, holds the key, and resonates with such power that all who see it, believe. One image holds the key to the core of this culture.’

The Europeans were spellbound. ‘How old is it? Have you seen it?’ asked the French Canadian photographer. The question caught Frank’s attention as this was the first he’d heard of such a place.

Rowena shook her head. ‘Sadly, no. The Barradja elder, Ardjani, told me about this place. It is so sacred and secret only certain very senior law men can go there. It’s incredibly ancient, but well preserved because it’s very sheltered and hidden.’

‘Where is it, who does it belong to?’ asked the Swiss, nonchalantly reaching into his bag for a camera lens.

‘It belongs to the Barradja but as I understand it, this is the seed of what all Aboriginal spirituality is about.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t be speaking of these things.’ Hunter’s voice was accusing, warning.

‘What would you know, Hunter? You’re not initiated, you’re a town guy.’ She spoke lightly, not offended by his barbed remark.

‘I’m not initiated because I was taken away
from my tribal family and put in a mission. Even though I grew up on a white man’s property, I learned enough to know you can’t go into sacred sites without the elders’ permission.’ He glanced at Len Steele, who remarked patiently that he’d given permission for Rowena to bring the visitors here. Hunter continued, ‘Over the years I’ve heard stories in the Kimberley about what you call the Holy Grail. It’s a secret place and no one has ever been able to find it.’

‘Who’s looking? I’m just telling a story. A true story.’ Rowena closed the subject. As the group set off to see the rock art in the first shelter on the day’s itinerary, Len Steele and Frank Ward stayed behind. ‘We’ve seen it all before. We’ll wait here.’

Rowena led the group straggling up the rock-strewn rise to view the same Wandjina art gallery she’d discovered on her earlier wanderings in this area. ‘Please don’t touch the paintings, but feel free to take photos,’ she announced. After studying the imposing portraits of the Wandjina in the centuries-old ochre blurred into the cave wall, and the tinier drawings which included the Dhumby story, though Rowena knew nothing of it, the group clambered back down. Supporting themselves on individual rocks, they were unaware that these were tjuringas, totemic ancestors turned into secret sacred stones. Nor did they realise they had broken several taboos.

Unheeding, the group moved on, followed by Len and Frank, Rowena’s voice floating above the ancient topography.

‘Len has agreed we can drive to an utterly intriguing site – one of the so-called Bradshaw galleries. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive. Still part of Eagle Rock,’ she added, knowing how huge these massive stations must seem to the Europeans.

‘And what is this Bradshaw?’

‘Pretty significant stuff.’ Rowena was in her element with an attentive audience and no one to challenge her. ‘They were found by an explorer, Joseph Bradshaw, late last century. But these figures are old, I mean like we’re talking seventeen to twenty thousand years, maybe older. It’s like no other Aboriginal art – very delicate, fine lines, dancing spirits and such. Quite small compared to the big Wandjinas we just saw. The Barradja call the Bradshaws, guyon guyon pictures.’

‘There’s a bit of controversy about these things isn’t there?’ remarked Frank Ward.

‘Yeah,’ said Len Steele. ‘Some people claim they weren’t done by the local Aborigines, but by some earlier race that was here before.’ Then, struck by a sudden thought, his eyes lit up. ‘You know, if that’s the case, it’d put the Barradja’s claims of original land ownership right out the window, wouldn’t it?’

Frank frowned, wishing Len hadn’t spoken out in front of their guests, who had returned
from the rock paintings eager for the next adventure. It was time to drop the subject. ‘I reckon you might have a point there. Something to discuss at our meeting in the next day or so, eh?’

‘Please, can we go on to see these special paintings?’ asked one of the Germans.

‘We can take photographs, yes?’ asked one of the women.

Rowena gestured casually. ‘I don’t see why not. They’ve been documented in a book.’

Hunter stayed in the shade of a small tree, perched on a rock. ‘I’ll stay here if you don’t mind. Len can take you in.’ He didn’t add that he had grave doubts about the propriety of what Rowena was doing. He knew there were ceremonies to appease the ancestor spirits that should be observed in places like this.

Idly he watched one of the photographers take something from his backpack and hand it to the other as they walked at a distance behind the group. He thought of the pilot sitting by the pool back at the homestead, and wished he’d done the same.

Rowena stood back in triumph as exclamations of surprised admiration filled the rock shelter, the tourists closely examining the little drawings of the Bradshaws that were like nothing they had ever seen.

The silhouetted outlines of the figures
danced across the rock wall, faint with age yet wonderfully energetic. The stick-like characters wore elaborate headdresses and strange little aprons and tassels hung from their elbows. Some carried spears and a throwing weapon similar to a boomerang.

‘Art as old as the ice age, pretty terrific, huh?’ said Rowena. She lightly tossed off the remark, trying to cover the enormous effect the pictures were having on her, too. These little paintings were so alive, so affecting, and they touched something in her, this ancient tribe of little rock art figures that claimed to be one of the oldest signs of man on the planet. They were gay and spritely, and they’d been here in their happiness for all those years. They touched her in a way nothing else had in the Kimberley. And she felt her fears all the more painfully.

The visitors studied the paintings, discussing what they possibly depicted. The photographers seemed fascinated, snapping off many shots. When they were reluctantly drawn away for the return trip, the Europeans were more excited than they had been so far, Rowena thought. As they drove away she turned her head towards the shelter where the ancient figures danced on their rocks, and for a few seconds she stared at the ragged terrain that held so many secrets.

Two days later, the Europeans set out for a day excursion to Bungarra. The art hub of painters, like Freddy Timms, Hector Jandary and Jack Britten that was managed by Max and Judy, was a huge hit with the tourists. Alan, who’d borrowed Rusty’s truck and driven over from Marrenyikka, greeted Rowena with some formality. While they had a business arrangement, he wasn’t thrilled with the way she’d tried to snare the artists into her contract web. By doing a deal with her, at least he could ensure the right prices were paid, and he and Judy and Max would get their normal commission. He stood in the background listening to Rowena talk to the visitors.

‘This is where the famous Florence Namurra worked, the old lady of the outback. Her art is now highly sought after.’ Rowena turned to Judy anticipating her visitors’ next question. ‘Are there any of Florrie’s pieces tucked away?’

Judy shook her head, distressed at the breaking of protocol by Rowena mentioning the name of the recent dead. ‘Not here. We don’t know what’s going on down at her camp. The clan claimed her work when the poor old darling passed away.’

‘Perhaps we should visit these people . . ?’ one of the Germans suggested.

‘Please yourself, for sure the family will try to sell you a painting, but it’s doubtful it would be genuine. Some of the women are painting in her style . . . isn’t that so, Alan?’

‘What about Lucky Dodds . . . where is he?’ Rowena changed the subject.

‘He’s not well, he has good days and bad days. He’s old. But we do have some of his work. Alan asked us to get them for you. They’re upstairs. With all the curated documentation and so on.’

‘Judy, Max, my friends would really like to meet him.’ Rowena’s voice was very insistent and the look in her eye was saying that, in Lucky’s presence, sales would be more forthcoming. Seeing their hesitation, she appealed to Alan.