The Songmaster (55 page)

The group trailed from the campsite through flat scrubland dotted with spinifex. In the distance, the ridges of an ancient coral reef jutted into the ocean blue sky, the limestone faces etched by centuries of weather. ‘How old are those hills?’ asked Susan pointing to the skyline.

‘Three, four hundred million years,’ said de Witt. ‘Pushed up from the sea floor by some great force. Makes one feel pretty insignificant, eh? That’s one thing about my job, time tends to have a different meaning.’

‘What he means is, he’s always late!’ teased Esme.

‘There it is.’ De Witt pointed to a massive boulder, the size of a large round house, dropped onto open country, smaller rocks around it, the spidery shadow of a spindly tree tracing lines on its rusty orange face. Ropes on steel posts sectioned off areas of the excavation site, while to one side the overhanging rock formed a small shelter over sandy soil. It looked very ordinary, and Mick spoke for the group when he commented, ‘Well, I would’ve walked right past this. Doesn’t look like an archaeological milestone.’

‘Come closer, dear friends.’ Esme hitched up her skirt and took them to the overhang and pointed at its surface. ‘There, see the circles gouged and dimpled into the rock. Cupules. There may be older art in India but it hasn’t been securely dated and is not as widespread. That’s what first alerted us. They’re symbolic of something.’

‘What do you think they mean, Ardjani?’ asked Susan.

‘Maybe animal, food and water maps, messages, ceremonies. Some old people tell me in ceremony you bang rock on the rock to make dust. The rock dust is part of the energy of the ancestor totem inside the rock. That way you increase the power of the food source, like fertilisation.’ He ran his hand over the cupules. ‘They’re here for a special reason. Not an accident.’

Susan held up two fingers to a cupule, the size of a golf ball, closed her eyes and tried to imagine the human being who had patiently gouged it or banged stone on stone so long ago. ‘Andrew, just think about it. The whole concept, it’s fantastic’

Andrew studied the cupules. He’d poked around the sacred sites on Yandoo ever since he was a kid, but the feelings he got from this site were new and different, and impossible to deny.

‘Who’d have guessed something as insignificant looking could be so important? I’m wondering what we have on Yandoo. No one’s ever bothered to check it out.’

‘Although it’s not as spectacular as the rock art paintings, a site like this would be a definite tourist attraction because of its significance,’ said Mick.

‘So how far away is the mine?’ asked Alistair.

‘Just a few kilometres away,’ said Esme. ‘Needless to say, if the exploration turns up a
jackpot, they’ll be wanting to mine on a large scale, probably open cut. The threat to the site is obvious.’

‘Maybe you should publicise your hypothesis now, put them on the back foot,’ suggested Mick.

‘It could make the mine people work faster, stake out more territory closer to here if they’re alert to what’s going on,’ said Esme.

‘You can bet Giles Jackson has already been on the blower to the mining company,’ said Beth.

‘I think telling the media of the possible implications of this site would be valuable. It’s another warning flag for those who want to totally extinguish native title claims and rights,’ said Alistair.

‘We’ve made a video as we’ve gone along, as well as photographing and cataloguing each step and find,’ said de Witt enthusiastically.

Alan made a couple of points that he felt were of major importance. ‘This is on traditional Barradja land, whatever Giles Jackson thinks his lease says. And where does this sit with Rowena and her copyright contract on Barradja culture?’

‘Absolute nonsense!’ declared Esme dismissively. ‘That woman doesn’t have all her paddles in the water, if you ask me. Definitely off course.’

Alistair enjoyed Esme’s turn of phrase but urged caution. ‘It’s not quite so simple. The
piece of paper still exists, signed by Ardjani and the elders.’ He turned to Ardjani.

Ardjani was calm. ‘No worries. I already speak with her.’

His enigmatic reply raised a few questioning eyebrows.

‘My goodness, if there’s a potential legal threat here it better be sorted out quickly.’ Esme looked annoyed. ‘There’s a lot at stake – museum and government funding, academic prestige, national rights. We don’t want foreigners making claims on this find. Absolutely absurd.’

Becoming an active player in politics was certainly a steep learning curve, thought Shareen, as she quietly listened to the enthusiastic exchanges and pondered on the significance of the so-called historic find. Not exactly the sort of thing she ever imagined could be part of the political game. Shareen picked up a handful of sieved dirt and ash beside the dig, letting it filter slowly through her fingers. She tried to translate it into votes, but the issues were too complex, too fresh for that sort of assessment. What would Pauline Hanson have made of this, she wondered.

‘This could be a hot potato, politically,’ she interjected. ‘Seems to me that, whichever way you look at it, someone is going to be asking Canberra for a big handout, and it will be seen as more money going into the never-never land of Aboriginal funding. A lot of voters are fed up with that sort of thing.’

‘Oh, for Chrissake, Shareen, stop talking like a politician,’ exclaimed Esme, angry and frustrated. ‘What we have here is a world event that changes the perception of history. You’re talking about destroying the equivalent of the Dead Sea scrolls, the original stone tablets of Moses. This could be the key to the evolution of man.’

‘Maybe some people don’t accept all this. What about all the people who believe that God created the world?’ asked Shareen.

Ardjani was unfazed. ‘Every culture has creation story that is similar. Our land, our laws are Barradja bible, we believe in laws of nature, of ceremony, of creation Dreaming time. We know who we are and how we have to lead our lives. That is how we survive the same way since creation. We know this inside us. Our children learn this every day by listening, watching and by ceremony – singing, dancing, painting.’ He leaned towards Shareen. ‘How your boys living? Where they going in their lives?’

Shareen kept quiet. She privately despaired about her two sons, one was rebellious and ran dangerously close to the law. The other was a procrastinator, he was lazy and looked for the easy way out rather than make any effort himself.

‘They good boys? You proud of them?’ persisted Ardjani.

‘They have their problems, like all kids,’ she muttered.

‘Where their daddy? Where their uncles?’

‘I’m divorced.’

‘All boys need men. They need wise men to guide them.’

‘Well I don’t have any man around to do that.’ Shareen’s voice was terse but beneath it Ardjani heard the wavering note of a mother’s confusion and loneliness at the distance between her and her sons.

‘You want your boys come here? Learn with us?’

Shareen was shocked by the suggestion. She tried to imagine her older son – the rap music fan, king of the video games, fashion stud – and the younger son – pernickety about what he ate, a late-rising couch potato, and always feeling unwell when hard work called – camped with the Barradja. ‘I don’t think they’d fit in up here.’

A slight smile curved at Ardjani’s full lips. ‘Did you ever think you’d be up here, getting sugarbag, digging yams, doing women’s business, eh? And feeling all right? You feel all right here, with us Barradja?’

The question had a deeper meaning and she knew it. Initially she’d come as a face-saving exercise, to silence her critics and give her arguments about Aborigines more authority, by saying she had lived amongst them. Now it seemed impossible to lie to Ardjani. His look was always so penetrating – reaching right into her mind. She gazed back at him, and met those eyes that glowed in dark hollows, giving a softness to the lingering smile.

‘Yes, I feel . . . all right. I’m surprised.’ She’d make no further admission, but she didn’t need to.

Satisfied, Ardjani went and peered down the roped-off shaft.

Susan saw Barwon now sitting apart from everyone and she sat beside him. ‘You okay? I know it must be hard.’

‘It’s not just . . . the baby . . . Lisa . . . it’s everything. I just feel I’ve totally fucked up my life. And I don’t need people like Jackson reminding me.’

‘Barwon, a lot of people care for you. Beth’s been onto the Child Care Agency to tell them we’ve found the baby’s father, and Ardjani’s doing his best to trace your mother’s people . . . we’ll help you all we can.’

‘Thanks, Susan. But I have to sort out my life myself, too.’

She caught Andrew’s eye and he sauntered over to join them. ‘How’s it going, mate?’

Barwon shrugged. ‘So so.’

‘Susan, I’d like to have a quick look around that mine. Suss out a few things. Esme said I could borrow the truck. Barwon, could you find it from here? Would you take us?’

‘Sure, I won’t be that welcome but I can hang back out of the way. Why not?’ He gave another listless shrug.

‘I’ll tell Beth we’ll be back in time to leave.’
Susan rested her hand on Andrew’s shoulder, glad of his support.

Barwon drove to the mining exploration site, deep in thought. He was still smarting about Jackson’s comments, his resistance to the Barradja and his one-eyed attitude to their culture. The man irritated him. Giles Jackson was not unlike the blustering, bullying Brother he’d first encountered at the mission when he’d been taken from his mother’s home.

Beside him, Susan and Andrew were discussing the implications of the Birrimitji findings. ‘There must be some kind of law relating to sites of significant cultural heritage so the scientists can slap a protection order on it,’ said Andrew. ‘That would stop the mining close to it.’

‘Jackson won’t like that,’ said Barwon, coming out of his reverie.

Andrew looked at him, thinking how the very name Giles Jackson provoked Barwon. ‘It’s a tough one, all right. I can sympathise. He can see his cattle business going down the tube, then comes a chance to get a stake in what might be a profitable mining venture on the place. Then some little holes in a bloody rock blow the whole thing apart!’

‘Andrew!’ exclaimed Susan. ‘That’s a crude way of putting it.’

‘It’s how Giles Jackson would see it.’

‘And what about people like your father? What would he do?’

Andrew skirted the issue. ‘He’d stick to his cattle. He’s a real cattleman, not an amateur like Giles Jackson.’

‘Well for what it’s worth, you know what I think?’ Barwon concentrated on weaving the vehicle through the grassy, stone-strewn country before answering his own question. ‘I think Mick’s idea to buy Boulder Downs lock, stock and barrel is the way to go. Forget all the legal Native Title claims, waiting for government departments to approve things. Piss Giles Jackson off. All he wants is money and a way to save face.’

‘Bush University is a revolutionary idea,’ agreed Susan. ‘I bet Alistair and Mick can find a way to raise the capital.’

‘There’s the matter of persuading the Jacksons to sell at a fair price,’ said Andrew. ‘I wouldn’t leave my land. But they’re newcomers. Maybe Alan can get some museum or art gallery involved because of the Birrimitji site.’

‘We’ll have to get Alan to look into that. Mick had a great idea I must say.’

‘Better than coming north with me?’ said Andrew.

‘That’s still negotiable.’ Susan nudged him affectionately. Barwon felt a pang at the obvious affection between them.

‘Hey, is that it?’ Susan shaded her eyes in the glare of the sun and took in the cluster of tents
and vehicles. Kev Perkins flagged them down. Barwon stopped and they got out.

Kev did an angry double take as he saw Barwon. ‘Christ! What are you doing here? Didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to turn up again after the thrashing you got.’ He shifted his attention to Susan and Andrew.

‘He knows Jackson,’ said Barwon curtly. ‘He’s another cattleman, I’m just his chauffeur.’ He climbed back into the driver’s seat of the truck as the others introduced themselves.

‘I’m Kev Perkins.’ He looked at Andrew, his voice more welcoming.

‘Andrew Frazer, from Yandoo. And this is Susan.’ Andrew stuck out his hand. The miner shook hands briefly and nodded at Susan. ‘Nice to meet you, Missus Frazer.’

‘Er, hello.’ Susan decided against correcting him.

‘How come you’re out here?’

Andrew reacted quickly to Kev’s question. ‘Been visiting the Jacksons this morning. I have an exploration outfit due on my place in a month or so, just wanted to see what’s involved. You drilling much?’ asked Andrew smoothly.

‘Yeah. Put down a bloody lot of holes so far.’

‘Can’t stay long as it’s getting late, but could I have a look around. How deep do you go? They’re planning on working pretty close to some of my ground-water sources. I’d like to get a look at the kind of layout involved.’ Andrew started walking up the track towards the campsite.

The three of them moved away from Barwon, Andrew skilfully manoeuvring his way towards the camp where the miners were enjoying a few beers before dinner.

The mining men, initially suspicious, warmed to the easy-going pastoralist and his ‘missus’. They were happy to explain how an exploration site was set up and curious to know who was staking a claim on his property. In the secretive world of prospecting all information had a value. They peppered Andrew with questions as they headed along the kilometre walk to the current drilling location.