The Songmaster (52 page)

‘Barradja people own this place, run this place, though,’ added Ardjani.

Alistair held up a hand. ‘Hang on, we haven’t got that far yet. But I can see it is a definite possibility. I believe between us, we could get a plan in motion.’

‘It’d be quicker and cheaper than waiting for the Native Title claim,’ said Mick.

‘What would this place do exactly, Ardjani?’ asked Veronica. ‘I really don’t see what you’re getting at.’

‘People come to Bush University for a couple
of weeks in the dry season. Live with us, share with us, learn with us. Like you been doin’.’

‘Bush University,’ repeated Susan enthusiastically, and she gave Andrew a wide smile. ‘Sign me up for next year.’

‘It’s a wonderful idea,’ said Beth, enjoying Susan’s enthusiasm. ‘And one the Barradja have been talking about for some time. But it is impossible to fit it onto Marrenyikka. When all the Barradja are here, there’s hardly room for them.’

Ardjani spoke with humility and sincerity. ‘We Barradja hope you can help us make Bush University happen. For all the people of Australia.’

This gave everyone a lot to talk about as they prepared for bed. Alistair, Beth and Andrew stood with their backs to the fire, finishing the last of the tea.

‘Andrew, it would be useful if you would come with Esme and de Witt to see the Jacksons tomorrow,’ suggested Alistair. ‘Having a pastoralist with us might help.’

‘Surely when they see Birrimitji and learn of its importance, they will rethink the mine,’ said Beth and yawned.

Andrew threw the dregs of his tea into the fire. ‘Don’t expect an immediate conversion. Men like Jackson can be very set in their views.’

Seeing Alan sitting with Esme and de Witt,
Beth walked over and asked Alan to bring out the photographs from Melbourne of the baby’s wrap. ‘I promised I’d show Esme before she heads back to the site tomorrow. She’s always had a soft spot for the Dhumby story.’

Beth sat next to the old lady and squeezed her hand. ‘It’s been good to see you tramping round the bush, Esme. Right in your element.’

‘Might not have too many years left of doing this sort of caper.’ She gave a wistful smile. ‘Soon be heading for Dulugun, home of the dead, and Dorgei, the fountain of happy spirits.’

‘Rubbish. You’ve got years before you make the Dulugun journey.’ For the first time Susan and the others around them saw Beth’s self-control quiver slightly and they realised the depth of love she felt for the old woman who had been her friend, mentor and mother figure for many years.

‘So what is Dulugun?’ asked Veronica.

‘It is the place where the dead spirits go. It is a special journey.’

Ardjani described the earthly procedure. ‘Your spirit is locked inside your body till everything rot away. Then we take the white bones and wash them, paint them with red ochre and kangaroo fat. Polish ’em up nice and we have a big corroboree. We sing and dance and tell about this person’s life. Then we cut the death cord. It is made from hair and tied between two poles. There is light on one side,
the dark world on the other. This cord is very powerful and when sunset comes, just in those few minutes, we can capture the spirit of the dead person and bring him home. Then he is carried back to the Wandjina, the creator, and you remember, we see the bones in the caves. Now his spirit can come and go, he be free to go any place.’

‘And that place, Dorgei, is it a beautiful place?’ asked Susan.

‘Yeah. Many people are there who die before. Plenty of waterfalls, trees, a happy place. Nice place.’

Barwon listened with deep interest and was about to ask Ardjani a question about Dorgei when Alan rejoined them, pulling up his chair. ‘Here’re the photos of the Dhumby screen-printed onto the baby’s wrap. I . . .’ He stopped as Barwon interrupted.

‘What right have you got to interfere with that?’ Before Alan could explain, Barwon was out of his chair and had stormed away from the group.

‘What’s up with him?’ asked Alan.

Beth sighed. ‘Ardjani, we have to do something about finding his family. It’s eating away at him.’

The elder agreed. ‘That man has a lot of pain. He won’t be a whole man till he find his family, find where he belongs. Jennifer says Jimmy is still talking to people in Derby. We must have patience. We wait.’

Ardjani stood up and the other elders followed.

In the shadows by the water tank at the back of the Barradja camp, Ardjani splashed his face and straightened up, aware he was being watched. Barwon stepped into the light from the bulb that hung on the corner of the building.

‘Ardjani, I must talk to you. It’s important, I can’t . . .’

His voice ran out, emotion constricting his throat. Ardjani unhurriedly wiped his hands on the towel hanging by the tap. ‘Come.’ He led Barwon to several damp plastic chairs by the dead embers of the Barradja’s campfire. He watched the younger man and waited.

Barwon sat forward, his hands clenched, arms hanging between his knees. He looked down and began speaking in a low rush.

‘The photo of the shawl that was wrapped around the baby in the art gallery . . . I know that shawl. Very well. I saw her make it.’

‘The mummy of the baby? How come she put this Dhumby story on this shawl? You know her good?’

‘Yes. I knew her. We lived together for a month or so. She was studying art and she loved the Aboriginal stories I told her. Most of them I got out of books, but the owl story . . . that was mine.’ He bent over and began doodling the shape of the bird in the dark soil. ‘The clearest memory
I have of my mother is her telling me a story about a little owl and drawing it in dirt dirt. I sketched that owl for Lisa. And she screen-printed it on that cloth. To make a wall hanging, she said.’

‘Barwon, Dhumby is a Barradja story. This girl, this baby . . .?’ Ardjani turned to Barwon, who raised his head and looked him in the eye for the first time.

‘Yes, it’s mine. My baby. She was just a young girl, just seventeen. And she came from strict religious parents. She said they’d never accept me. But worse, I just couldn’t hack the idea of the responsibility of it all. I was frightened.’

‘You run away?’

‘Yes. I always meant to go back to her. I really liked her. But how could I give this baby a name and bring it up?’ It was an anguished cry that followed. ‘I don’t even have a name.’

Ardjani sat upright, unmoved. ‘Every man has responsibility for his seed. You left this girl before the baby come?’

‘Yes, I went back to Sydney. I always meant to go back and sort it out . . . but I never did . . . and then I saw on TV about the baby being left . . . and I didn’t know what to do.’

‘This girl then, she want this baby to find its people. Your people. She remember your mother’s story. And she leave a good clue.’

‘Ardjani, I wanted to find Lisa and get the baby back . . . and then she was killed . . .’ He turned away, putting a fist to his mouth. ‘It’s all my fault.’

‘Why you not go get your baby girl, then?’

‘I figured they wouldn’t let me have her. I thought they might think I killed Lisa. I was already in trouble with the police because I’d got drunk one night.’ He sat up. ‘What should I do, Ardjani?’

The old man covered the tiredness in his voice and spoke sternly. ‘What you did was bad, very bad. You must make it right for this baby. Your baby.’ Ardjani continued. ‘We speak to the gadia law people. You tell them this. Beth too.’

Beth was hanging the wet tea towels across the line strung between trees when she saw Ardjani and Barwon walk over. She could tell immediately something was up.

‘Beth, you get them law people. Barwon got to speak a confession.’

Alistair had been asleep. Mick, dressed in a track suit, emerged from his tent as Susan, in her socks, hurried after them.

They listened in amazement as Barwon haltingly repeated his story. Beth’s heart went out to him, knowing he’d been carrying this burden inside for so long. ‘Why didn’t you tell us . . . we’re your friends . . . we’d understand . . .’

He shrugged and his pain touched each of them.

‘The police will have to be informed. Soon as possible I’d say,’ said Alistair.

‘Get Billy out of his swag and call
Melbourne now,’ said Beth. ‘I’ll call Joyce Guwarri in the morning.’

‘They’re not going to hand this baby over until its parentage is established, and a check on its new guardians has taken place,’ said Mick.

Alistair went to wake Billy to get on the radio phone.

‘What about Barwon’s family? This doesn’t help find them,’ asked Susan.

‘His mother must be Barradja. You tell me everything you remember,’ Ardjani instructed Barwon. ‘Jennifer then telephone Jimmy in Derby and he tell the old women what you tell us now. They figure this out.’

They poked up the fire as Barwon, calmer now, sat on the ground, and staring into the sparks he talked of the fragments of memories he’d clutched at over the years. He talked of the story of the little owl, of his mother’s face, and of what he’d been told by the Brother who took him to the mission. He talked of the story Beth had discovered, how his father had been killed in a mine accident, and how his mother had left Barwon at the convent with the sisters while she went to try to retrieve his body. And how, when she’d come back, the sisters said her boy had been sent to the mission for his own good, and how she’d died of a broken heart when they broke their promise to return him.

‘The Brother told me it was because I had pale skin. I had to become a white boy. And they called me Nigel like the nuns did, but they
said I had to have a new name, so they called me Barwon, after the river.’ He lifted his head, and he spoke with a voice like a small boy’s. ‘I can’t remember my real names, the names my mother and father gave me.’

Ardjani looked at Beth who put her arm around Barwon and softly hugged his head to her chest.

‘Do you think the fact that his mother told him about Dhumby is enough of a link to the Barradja?’ asked Mick.

‘When Barwon born, Barradja people still all over the Kimberley. That time was when we just starting to come back here to Marrenyikka. But the old women will know this story about a white fella, killed at the Ord River, who had a Barradja wife. We find all this out. We wait,’ said Ardjani calmly.

Alistair returned with Billy. ‘That’s done. Got on to a helpful sergeant. They’ll want a statement from you, Barwon. A law enforcement officer will be dispatched from Kununurra.’

‘What was their reaction?’ Mick asked.

‘The Victorian police gave me the time the girl was killed. It was the night you got drunk, Barwon, the night that landed you in court. I explained to them that you couldn’t have been responsible. They seemed quite relieved because they’d given up looking for you anyway. They said they’d been able to clear the truckie who
gave your girl a lift. Now they’ve put all their resources into the search for a serial killer who was in the vicinity of the Lawson State Park where the poor girl died. Two other girls’ bodies have turned up. Both hitchhikers.’

Barwon shuddered and Beth took his hand. ‘Let’s sleep on all of this. We can’t do any more for the time being.’ She gave Barwon a wan smile. ‘I know those old women, they know everyone’s history, they’ll unravel your mother’s story for sure.’

Ardjani took Barwon to one side. ‘You do wrong, now you make it right. It be done. That baby has to come home to its people. As must you.’

He turned and walked back to his camp with slow firm steps, leaving Barwon staring after him.

Susan and Alistair looked at Barwon’s disconsolate figure as Beth walked him back to the Barradja camp behind Ardjani.

‘Alan said he saw the baby, said she was a pretty little thing,’ said Susan softly.

‘Barwon’ll probably need to establish a family connection to one of his female relatives before he’s allowed to have the baby,’ the judge said.

‘That’s a very unstable young man,’ said Alistair. ‘Let’s hope Ardjani can help him sort his life out. If he doesn’t find a rock to hang onto soon, I don’t like to think where he’ll end up.’

I
t was melting dark, the night sky dissolving into the arms of first light. ‘Daughter Sun come home to her sky soon,’ said Ardjani, ignoring his tiredness and looking up into the stars that were fading in the first hint of light after burning brittle bright in the black velvet of night.