The Songmaster (53 page)

They walked slowly but purposefully, Ardjani leading, Rowena stumbling occasionally, her eyes not as accustomed to the night light.

A shiver went through her as she saw giant boulders of the looming, ancient, fortress-like ridge protecting the spirits and precious Wandjina.

‘You sit down.’ Ardjani pointed to a rock and she sat, her breath frosty in the clear cold air. He began calling, an awakening call that
changed to a chant, an urgent song of explanation, apology, forgiveness and lament. The notes rose and fell, his voice one moment strong, then softly coaxing. Then he stopped and leaned his head to one side, listening.

Rowena wrapped her arms around her body, warding off fear more than the chilled air.

With a jerk of his head, he indicated she should follow him. They climbed up the slope, stepping carefully over stones, supporting themselves by hanging onto shrubs and small tree trunks.

In a clearing surrounded by the massive overhang of the shelter that protected the Wandjina paintings, Ardjani worked swiftly, pulling leaves as he sang. He made a fire, bigger than he’d made before, waving a branch of green leaves over it to increase the smoke. ‘You lie down, on your face, next to the fire.’

Rowena asked no questions, but stretched out, face down. She felt the light touch of Ardjani’s hands as they moved her arms and legs till she was spreadeagled, as if a supplicant to the earth.

She felt his hands touching her head, pushing on her back, running down her arms and legs, pressing on her ankles as he sang, his voice now deep and strong as if challenging unseen forces.

Rowena heard Jennifer’s voice come to her, reminding her of how the body was in tune with the vibrations of the earth. She believed she
could feel a faraway rumble beneath her, as if a train was coming, and she trembled.

Then Ardjani was lightly flicking her with the cluster of leaves, and she was enveloped in smoke. As the smoke seeped around her body, streaming into her nostrils, she thought wildly that she was being sacrificed. The smoke smelled nutty sweet as Ardjani flicked the leaves up and down her body, all the time chanting.

When she thought she could bear it no longer, it was over. He commanded her to sit up. She sat, cross-legged, head bowed as the fire died down, thankful at last for the silence.

Eventually Ardjani spoke. ‘You understand what you did was very bad. You have got to bring that skull back. You’re sorry for all this?’

Rowena was struggling to hold back tears, struggling to stop tumbling into another chasm of emotional chaos, a state that had been tearing her apart ever since confessing to Ardjani that she had taken the ancient skull from the pile of bones near the Wandjina paintings that were inside the rock shelter metres from where they now were.

Go back to the source of the nightmares, her psychiatrist had told her. So she had come back, cloaking the return behind her ambition to make the film about these people and her bold business venture for the cultural annexation of the Barradja. She had realised that only Ardjani
could help her. The price of his help had been unstated. She knew that she would have to set the fee . . . and she knew, without any hints from Ardjani, what that price would be.

‘Yes, oh yes. I didn’t know it was so wrong to take the skull. I thought if you never came here any more, it wouldn’t matter. But now I really understand . . . and I’m sorry. Please, tell them I’m sorry.’ In a low voice she asked, ‘Will I be punished?’

‘That sickness in you, that is your punishment. But you will get an answer soon enough. You got to feel it, be sorry in your heart. You say you come to help us Barradja. But you take away a sacred thing, you bring men here who steal our ancient art, you say you make film and pictures to save our culture but you sign up a contract to own it all. That’s not right. We want to share our gift with you, but you steal it.’ As Rowena’s head dropped onto her chest he added firmly, ‘You think about these things.’

Ardjani smothered the remnants of the fire, he stood and held up his arms to the cliff face, and called in language. Then he set off back to where he’d left the truck and Rowena scrambled after him. Neither spoke on the drive back into the silent camp, awash in the shades of piccaninny daylight.

Giles Jackson took the phone call from the police officer in Kununurra shortly after breakfast. He
got along well with them. By and large, he thought, they had a good record at keeping the Aborigines in line.

‘G’day, Giles. Done any poddy dodging lately?’

‘Ha, ha,’ laughed Jackson a little awkwardly. He didn’t like jokes about cattle rustling, particularly from the law. ‘To what do I owe this early morning pleasure?’

‘Just a routine inquiry, mate. About the Barradja mob. Some of them out your way aren’t they? At Marrenyikka?’

‘Yeah. Not many though, I gather a lot are away, but there’s enough to give me a headache as usual. Trespassing on my place, and Len Steele’s, you know what they’re like. Got a bunch of whites from Sydney with them. Bloody lawyers.’

‘Yeah. I heard about that mob when they landed in town.’

‘Carrying on about everything, if you ask me. Can’t quite make out what they’re really up to. Bit of a worry. They certainly aren’t here just for the good of their health.’

‘Probably not. Anyone else with them?’

‘Yeah. A strange Yank woman has turned up from California.’

‘Christ, not another one. I heard a crazy new-age Yank sheila on the radio the other day from Darwin. Is this one getting messages from outer space as well? Is she going to write a book about her spiritual journey and flog it for squillions?’

‘Probably. And there’s her driver. A blackfella from Darwin – quite well educated. Called Hunter something-or-other. And there’s another one, a yellafella from Sydney. Worked in TV for awhile. I caught him snooping round my place the other day.’

‘Really!’

‘Yeah. Why you interested?’ asked Jackson cautiously, recalling the incident with Barwon.

‘Ah, just routine inquiries. The TV bloke’s girlfriend was murdered in Victoria. The police down there have only just found out about the connection, though apparently he had nothing to do with it. Let me know if you have any problems. Okay?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

Billy’s Oka set out for Boulder Downs. On board were Beth, Alan, the two senior legal counsels, Susan, Andrew and Shareen. Ardjani, with Barwon beside him, sat behind Billy to show the way.

Following them drove Esme and Michael de Witt, the two scientists returning to the Birrimitji archaeological site to join the rest of the team who were preparing to wrap up the dig and head back in another week to begin laboratory analysis of their samples. One team member would stay camped at the site as ‘protector’.

‘What’s Veronica doing?’ asked Andrew as they headed out of camp.

‘Learning more women’s business. She’s quite fascinated by the whole thing,’ said Susan. ‘The women have agreed to her making a radio documentary on some of their secret business. They feel by telling some of what they can do, they can help people understand it more. By the way, Rowena apparently went out with Ardjani before daylight and they were away for a long time. Jennifer reckons Ardjani was doing some special ceremony stuff concerning the bones and Rowena’s confession. She’s in a mess that one.’

‘Is someone keeping an eye on her?’

‘Hunter’s there, but he’s going fishing with Rusty and Digger. He tried to talk to her but she won’t talk to anyone.’

‘Talking about fishing,’ said Andrew, linking his hand in hers, ‘we’ll have to go on another fishing expedition.’

‘No thanks, I don’t fancy sharing a helicopter with a croc again. How is that crazy brother of yours, by the way?’

‘Julian is great. Full of big plans as usual. No, I was thinking of just the two of us, you and I could take off up north and go camping. I know some beautiful spots where we could fish for barra along the rivers. Very remote, very romantic’ He kissed her temple lightly.

‘Sounds nice. And what do I tell Mr Angel? Ask the judge to reschedule my next case, I’ve gone fishing?’

‘How important is this job of yours?’ asked Andrew carefully.

‘What are you really asking, Andrew? Do I want to stay with Angel and Hart, or move to another law firm, start a new career as adviser to the Barradja, or spend my days fishing with you?’

Andrew was flustered by her bluntness. ‘Hell, Susan, you do shoot from the hip. You don’t give a bloke a chance to kind of creep up on things. What I’m saying is, I’m really fond of you and wish I could see more of you. Couldn’t you get some sort of legal job up this way? Darwin has a lot of opportunities and would be closer. Then I could fly up and see you on weekends.’

Susan looked away from his earnest expression. ‘I don’t know about that. Let’s just leave things be for the moment. The rest of the world, my job, my family and friends, all seem so far away. As you said, I’m really in a different world here. And I want to enjoy it. This whole experience has opened me up . . . it’s hard to explain. I never realised there was so much we could learn from these people . . .’

Andrew pinched her arm. ‘Reality check. I’ll just check in every so often. Okay?’

She laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to drop out. I’m not going to become a crystalgazing new-ager. Or go native. Veronica and I were talking the other day about all these women in America who take off seeking spiritual fulfilment, trying to find their warrior women guides from a past life, who sit in tepees in Arizona or New Mexico looking for some
kind of tribal enlightenment. We’re not that bad. This is so different to all of that stuff.’

‘What a load of codswallop. Why don’t they just find a good bloke . . . like me?’ he grinned.

‘Andrew, it’s no joke. Half the single women in America would leap at the chance of meeting the right bloke. I don’t know why it is, but my girlfriends in Sydney don’t seem to meet any single blokes. And then my male friends tell me they can’t meet any single girls they like. Yet nobody seems to get together.’

‘I’d better muster some of the blokes out in the scrub and ship ’em down. Now there’s a business opportunity, round up a mob of brumby blokes and auction ’em off to desperate females in the big smoke.’

They laughed and Susan was glad that the subject of their relationship had been shelved again, at least for now.

Giles Jackson stood in his shorts and workboots on the front step watching the two vehicles roll down the road to his homestead gate.

His wife appeared behind him. ‘Will we take them into the garden to talk?’

‘Oh, yeah, right. We can sit over there. By the way, don’t mention that phone call from the cops.’ Jackson led the way to a tree-shaded cluster of chairs and a card table spread with a cloth, a jug of lemonade and glasses, presuming the visitors would follow.

Beth recapped the introductions, ‘You know Esme Jordan, and Professor de Witt?’ Jackson shook hands with de Witt and tipped his hand to his hat as he looked at Esme.

‘Yeah. You find anything of interest?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. He nodded at Ardjani and Beth, and looked around the group, including them all in a tight ‘G’day.’ He gave Barwon a brief cold look and turned to Beth. ‘So who’s doing the talking?’

Beth looked at Ardjani who pointed to Alistair.

‘I appear to be appointed,’ said Alistair, with a slight smile. ‘Mr and Mrs Jackson, thank you for being so prompt in agreeing to see us. We feel there are certain things you should be made aware of.’ He paused while they sat down.

Giles Jackson put a foot up on his knee, resting his hat on his leg. He put on his sunglasses that had hung on a cord around his neck and his set mouth locked up any further expression. Norma Jackson smiled politely as she passed around glasses of cool drinks and Alistair began stating the facts of the art theft. Jackson was immediately aggressive. ‘Hey, I never knew about those particular paintings till that tour group went there. You’ll have to take that up with Len Steele. If you ask me, letting in foreigners and tourists to tramp over your place is asking for trouble. Bet one of them had something to do with it.’

‘That’s an assumption, but one we also think highly likely,’ said Alistair.

‘So what’re you doing about it? The police been told yet?’ He was genuinely outraged, observed Susan, but more likely on principle rather than on cultural grounds.

‘Yes, they have and so have the Steeles. This is cultural theft. One of the most ancient pieces of art in the world has been professionally removed.’ Beth looked at Alan. ‘Our art expert here says they knew what they were doing and were probably working for a major international collector.’

‘How much is it worth?’ Jackson suddenly asked.

‘Whatever an unscrupulous collector wants to pay,’ answered Alan.

‘You’re not comparing this with . . . like someone taking a . . .’ he searched for an example, ‘a Van Gogh or the Mona Lisa?’

‘This guyon guyon rock art is far older, which makes it more valuable in one sense. It’s worth a lot, be assured of that. And that’s why we wanted to mention it in relation to the Birrimitji site on your place,’ said Alistair.

‘What’s my place got to do with anything?’ he asked suspiciously and Barwon knew he was thinking of his mine potential.

Beth answered smoothly, ‘We have to make sure this doesn’t happen again; the sites here have to be protected because of their cultural value for Australia, as well as the Barradja.’