The Songmaster (49 page)

Ardjani was facing Rusty and Digger, tears shining on his face, oblivious to the others’ presence. ‘Who could do this thing?’ he asked of them. The other elders were speechless, their faces creased in pain. This was beyond their comprehension.

The old men sat down and began muttering
words brokenly to each other. Jennifer and Lilian moved apart, talking quietly. The group stayed silent until Digger looked at them. ‘This terrible thing, terrible.’

‘Thieves. People come and take it away,’ said Rusty angrily.

‘Who? Why?’ Mick was incredulous.

‘It happen once before,’ said Ardjani. ‘Thieves cut out a rock with fossilised dinosaur tracks near Broome. That rock belong to Goolarabooloo songlines. This guyon guyon rock belong to our songs.’

‘A sample of Australian rock art of this antiquity would be highly prized by collectors,’ said Alan quietly. ‘It’s probably well out of the country by now.’ Michael de Witt and Esme stepped closer to examine the gaping space.

‘They knew what they were doing even if it’s a rough job. They only had to slice a plate a few millimetres thick,’ said Alan. ‘And it looks very, very new.’

‘They’ve tapped in these spikes, split the fissure line and worked around it to lift it off,’ said de Witt. ‘I hope at least they got it off in one piece, without it shattering. And you’re right, Alan, this is usually the work of overseas operators, at least the earlier ones have been.’

‘How dare they? How dare anyone come to our country and steal our art,’ said the old lady, tears forming in her eyes. ‘If this were anywhere else in the world, we would be safeguarded against people plundering our history.’

Her bitter words left everyone speechless. The visitors stood motionless as Lilian and Jennifer joined Ardjani, Digger and Rusty, talking quietly in language, and occasionally pointing at the gaping wound.

Finally, Susan whispered to Veronica, who was taking her tape recorder out of her bag, ‘We don’t even know what it was . . . the image . . .’

Ardjani looked at her, and spoke slowly and sadly. ‘This guyon guyon picture came from the Wandjina, it show the emu dance. It a small picture, and very special.’

‘Who’d take it and where would it go?’ asked Veronica.

‘It’ll probably be in Geneva or Tokyo by now,’ said Alan. ‘That’s where most of these thefts of rare art end up.’

‘Whoever take ’im be in big trouble,’ said Rusty.

‘With the authorities or the spirits?’ asked Barwon. Hunter, standing beside him, looked across at Rowena. Her face had turned stark white.

Anger and authority returned to Ardjani’s voice. ‘They be a dead person. The spirits always punish anyone who does such a thing to sacred place. Bad things happen.’

Rowena was agitated. ‘What if the artefact, whatever, is returned, does the punishment stop?’

‘That person must come back, apologise to the spirits, and take what is their punishment.’
Ardjani looked at Beth. ‘But how you return rock to wall, huh? It like your heart is cut out.’

Andrew whispered to Susan. ‘Do you reckon there’s anything to this? Gives me the creeps. I wouldn’t have thought twice about showing paintings to visitors.’

Susan looked unamused. ‘Would you seriously consider taking something away from your site at Yandoo? Flogging off a bit of the paintings, for example?’ she asked.

Andrew chewed his lip. ‘Not now. No, I wouldn’t.’

There was an unspoken agreement among the group that they move out into the open and leave the elders to conduct their business in privacy. As they settled themselves in a circle on the ground, Mick said, ‘This is Len Steele’s property, we’d better check to see if there’ve been any tourists here lately.’

‘This is the reason why the Barradja should accompany anyone who comes here,’ said Beth quietly. ‘They’d know if there was danger to their sacred sites.’

‘For goodness sake,’ exclaimed Shareen. ‘It is Len’s land, if he wants to show people some artefacts, why should he go through burning ceremonies and all that rigmarole? It’s not as if he’d knowingly let anyone steal from him.’ Seeing the unconvinced faces around her, Shareen turned to Esme. ‘Did your archaeological people have to make ceremonies when you went to study that place you were telling us about?’

‘No, we didn’t,’ said Esme quietly. But before Shareen could make any smug comment, Michael de Witt explained, ‘We have an elder from Marrenyikka on our team. He asked permission from the Barradja for us to work there. And our team leader obtained permission from the lease holder, a fellow called Jackson, who basically told him we were wasting our time. Although he was quick to say he wanted to be informed immediately if we found anything of value.’

Shareen was silent and Beth asked de Witt, ‘Is old Midgerie the Barradja with you?’

The archaeologist smiled. ‘Sure is, he’s a character.’

‘He’s Lilian’s uncle,’ said Beth. ‘He’s the only old family she has left.’

Rowena didn’t join in. Sitting apart from the others, she rested her head on her knees. Hunter finally sat beside her.

‘You blaming yourself? What do you think? I know what I reckon.’

She looked at him. ‘I was set up. I think I’ve figured it out. I’m scared. I had no idea . . .’

‘Let’s see if your scenario fits in with mine. I reckon it was the two guys who came on their own. The Canadian and Swiss guys. Had to be. And they didn’t go with the others to Bungarra. They must have come here on their way back to Kununurra.’

‘But how would they find this place again?’ she wondered.

‘They could have used a global positioning system,’ said Hunter. ‘They’re pretty commonly used to track sites in the bush these days. It’s a hand-held satellite system, about the size of a mobile phone. Geologists, surveyors, aviators, ships at sea use them, and those two certainly had a lot of gear in their van. All they would have had to do is turn it on when you took them to see the rock art and press the store button. When they wanted to go back, they could read off the exact position to within a few metres,’ he explained. ‘The key is, why did they take it, and who did they take it for? Someone with a lot of money, for sure.’

Rowena sighed. ‘Gustav. He’s the one. He hired me, he got me to organise that trip. He said he’d be sending his people with my group. And he never did tell me what sort of art he was getting them to acquire. I trusted him because he was a friend of my father’s. Bastard.’ Rowena kicked a small rock.

‘This will have to be reported to the police. You’ll have to tell them what you know.’ Hunter pointed to the group still gathered around Ardjani at the rock site. ‘And you’ll have to tell them. At least there’s a chance it could be recovered.’

Rowena shook her head. ‘I’ve seen Gustav’s place. They’d never find it and if he has got it he wouldn’t be stupid enough to put it there
straight away. It will be hidden in one of those stolen art places they have in Europe.’

‘Rowena, you’re in trouble, anyway.’ Hunter stared at her. ‘I’m still enough of a blackfella to know you’ll be punished. This Gustav might be in deep shit. But you’ve at least got a chance to make your peace with the Barradja.’

Rowena dropped her head on her arms and began sobbing. Hunter saw the others starting to move back from the rock. He felt concerned at Rowena’s deep grief but unsure how to handle it. ‘Speak to Ardjani,’ he advised.

Rowena lifted her head. ‘Yeah. I know. I have to tell him something else, too. It’s been giving me hell for eighteen months. At least now I know why I’m dying.’

‘Christ, Rowena, who said anything about dying?’

She wiped her face, sounding calmer. ‘The shrink in LA was right. I had to come back.’

‘What’s up with Rowena? She seems upset.’ Shareen peered at the hunched figure of the American woman and the tall young Aborigine who reached out and briefly touched her shoulder before walking back towards them.

Barwon was standing next to Shareen. ‘Not half as upset as Ardjani and the other elders.’ He shook his head. ‘This is what happens when our people don’t have sovereignty over their
sacred sites and the bloody pastoralists can come and go as they please.’

Shareen looked at the handsome former TV presenter. ‘You don’t seem to like them. What have you got against the pastoralists? You’re half white and live and work with white people. Where do you fit into all this?’

‘I wish I knew, Shareen, I wish I knew. You might find this hard to understand, but I don’t even know what my bloody name is. I came up here to find some answers and all I’ve found are a lot more questions.’

Questions. Everyone in this group seemed to have too many questions, thought Shareen. And who the hell has any answers. She followed Beth and Susan back down to the track that led to the Oka and realised that she too had unbidden questions forming deep within herself.

Behind them, the three elders lit the leaves and chanted a lament, an anguished wail that brought tears to Beth’s eyes and struck despair into Rowena’s heart.

Alistair paused, rubbing his aching knees, and Mick caught his breath beside him. ‘So, the plot thickens, my friend,’ said Alistair.

‘Bloody incredible stuff. I thought hearing about Esme’s findings was sensational enough. This takes the cake, I reckon.’

‘It certainly adds some colour to the Barradja’s claim for their rights of access.’

Mick moved ahead of Alistair, picking his way through the grass. ‘So we’re going for this are we? An informal pro bono partnership to help their cause? Young Susan is dead keen.’

‘She’d be a great asset. I’m convinced they have a worthwhile and just cause to ask for access to their sites and land.’ Mick grinned at Alistair. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound, count me in. That Jackson bloke is going to be a problem. Len Steele and Frank Ward seem reasonable blokes, I reckon we start with them . . .’

‘There’s someone closer to home we should start working on first,’ said Alistair quietly.

‘Not that dragon of a wannabe politician, Shareen. Why doesn’t she just go home and bake biscuits or something?’

The QC smiled at the judge’s cheerful chauvinism. ‘Times have moved on, Mick. Lincoln has freed the slaves, women are out of the kitchen. No, I’m thinking of Susan’s pal, Andrew. That’s the generation we have to convince. Just as the old Barradja men know their children have to adapt to two worlds so do our kids.’

‘You’re right. If we can win over Andrew and Shareen we’re on the road to some sort of success.’

The two senior legal men rested in the shade as Esme held forth in outraged tones about cultural theft, with Alan explaining it was a worldwide phenomenon. ‘You’d better protect your archaeological site. When word gets out, there’ll
be plenty of people wanting to chip off a chunk of rock of the origin of man,’ declared Alan.

‘We’re in more danger from the academics. They’ll be flooding out of every hole in every university around the world,’ she predicted.

‘No, your biggest danger will be the politicians,’ said Beth with a sideways glance at Shareen. ‘The State government hasn’t wanted to know about all the headaches out here. Now, the Kimberley is going to be such an important area, they’ll probably want to own the lot and make it all national heritage or something.’

‘That’ll solve everyone’s problems then, you all lose,’ said Mick pessimistically. ‘Wouldn’t put it past the bastards, either.’

‘Not all governments and politicians wear black hats you know,’ protested Shareen. ‘You legal people want to control everything yourselves.’

‘The war is just beginning.’ Mick rubbed his hands together. ‘And here comes the first casualty, I’d say.’

Rowena’s pale, tear-stained face silenced them as she walked shakily, holding onto Hunter’s arm.

The events had disturbed everyone. Susan, feeling overwhelmed and strangely vulnerable, rested her head on Andrew’s shoulder. In the back of the Oka, Mick leaned his head against the window and slept. Beth had gone in the
truck with Ardjani. Rusty found a seat in the Oka, squeezing beside Shareen, who turned her head to the window and watched the shadows of the trees and hills lengthen in the late afternoon.

‘Spirits out and about, eh?’ commented Rusty.

Shareen didn’t move or answer.

I
n the early dawn hours, Andrew crept into Susan’s tent. ‘I can’t sleep. Want to come for a walk?’

‘I’ve been awake too.’ She lifted up the edge of her sleeping bag. ‘Hop in. It’s freezing.’