by John Danalis
‘They’re sick, physically and emotionally,’ he pointed to his heart. ‘This is bad business, and some of them just can’t deal with it – it’s too strong. They want to know if it’s going to be visible.’
I must have looked at him with a gormless expression.
‘The remains!’ he whispered loudly. ‘Are you taking them out of the case, are we going to see the skull?’
‘Oh no. Of course not!’ I assured Craig that Mary wouldn’t be making an appearance; he’d be staying in the case and we wouldn’t even be seeing that. ‘Your flag will be draped over the whole thing.’
Craig’s body relaxed a little. ‘I’m sorry, Victor’s left me in charge and if anything goes wrong I’ll be getting my arse kicked till this time next year.’
‘You know, Craig, it’s weird, but it’s almost as if Mary’s chosen us,’ I explained in a rare moment of lucidity. ‘Victor’s away, Gary couldn’t make it, my dad won’t personally hand the remains back; instead it’s you, Jason and me – a younger generation has been asked to step up. And we can do this, it’ll be fine.’
I don’t know where the words came from, but they made Craig and me feel a little calmer.
I returned to the office, where Bob and Jason were sitting silently. It was well past eleven o’clock now. The three of us sat together for a few minutes; hardly a word was exchanged. Finally, Jason got to his feet and announced, ‘Fellas, I need to paint up and get myself ready.’
We left the Yorta Yorta songman and Mary and headed through the office towards the courtyard. It was difficult to walk more than a few steps without someone asking a question, wanting to know what was happening, wanting to know what the plan was. Out in the courtyard people were gathering at the perimeter of a circle half made up of chairs, half imagined; in the centre stood a lone table. An area had been set for the media contingent, who busied themselves unfolding tripods, unwinding cables and checking over camera equipment. A blur of Indigenous faces – people who introduced themselves, touched me, and asked if I was okay. I was taken aback; I was the representative of a family that had violated the dead, yet everyone I spoke to was genuinely concerned for my wellbeing!
Usually it is the coloured faces that stand out in a crowd. Today it was the turn of the white ones; my lecturers and fellow students all floated in stark relief amid the sea of brown skin and dark curls.
My parents – I’d forgotten them! Big Rob was easy to find, he towered above the other guests; I asked him if he could take my family under his wing when they arrived.
‘They got here ages ago, some of the ladies are looking after them in the lunchroom,’ he said, pointing to a set of glass doors at the far end of the courtyard. I poked my head in to make sure they were okay. A blur, a swirling blur, so many people. Bob Weatherall looked serene, as if this was what he had been born to do. He patted me on the shoulder and gestured to the trees that lined the narrow courtyard. ‘Paperbarks,’ he smiled, ‘good ones too.’ He took his bark coolamon to a nearby tap and let water run over it, massaging the moisture into the layers of pulpy fibre so that it wouldn’t catch fire.
A newspaper reporter cruised up to my side like a shark. ‘You’re John, right? Listen, I’ve only allowed half an hour for this job and you’re running late, so what I’d like to do is set up a quick photo of you and thatAboriginal fella holding the skull – with maybe the fire and the flag in the background.’
‘No. We can’t do that,’ I replied, not quite believing what I’d just heard. My mind leapt back 20 years; I’d just left school and wasn’t sure what to do with my life and Dad had gone berserk when I mentioned that I might like to be a journalist. Now I understood why.
‘Well, can we just snap a few photographs of the skull, it’ll take thirty seconds?’
I opened my mouth to explain that no one would be seeing the remains, but I didn’t have the energy, I just walked away. Later I saw him where the rest of the media had gathered; he waited like everybody else.
Suddenly my family was in front of me; Stella encouraging me with her smile, my two daughters, Bianca and Lydia, in pretty dresses and eyes full of wonder. My beautiful mother and father – how small they looked, how nervous; how brave they were to come, to walk through this sea of Indigenous eyes and into this circle. My brother too, in his fine lawyer’s suit; I’d invited him but hadn’t expected him to show up – he was the practical, rational son, I was the dreamer. But Mary had been a big part of his life too, and now here he was, stepping into the unknown when he was supposed to be in court. Big Rob ushered my family to their places and made sure they were comfortable. I invited some of the ladies from the Oodgeroo Unit to sit with my family but they shook their heads. ‘This business is between your family and the Wamba Wamba, darling,’ one of them explained. ‘Our proper place is on the outside of the circle, behind the men.’
A blur. Bob nodded to me, it was time. I took my elder daughter by the hand. ‘Bianca, how would you like to be a flower girl, except with feathers?’
‘A feather girl – can I, Mummy!?’
Stella nodded her approval. ‘Just do as Daddy says.’
Bianca and I made our way to Victor’s office, and I asked my daughter to wait outside while I checked on Jason. The Yorta Yorta songman had transformed himself; fully painted and chanting, he transcended the ages – he was past, present and future. Without saying a word I draped the Aboriginal flag over the case, placed the headdress on top, and took them quietly from the room.
The ceremony had been due to start 30 minutes earlier, but no one seemed to mind; everyone waited silently. I stood in the wings, out of sight with Mary and Bianca. Craig, still on tenterhooks, rushed over. ‘We can’t start yet, there are some more Brisbane elders coming; we can’t start without them.’
And then, as if on cue, they came; slowly, with dignity, the men in twill jackets and hats, the women in their Sunday best and smelling of lavender. Shoe leather shone and brooches sparkled. It was only then that I realised just how significant, just how important Mary’s return was. People moved aside to make sure the elders had the best vantage points, the best seats. A match lit the gum leaves and herbs that had been arranged on the coolamon; smoke curled up, up past Bob’s beard, up between the grey, four-storey walls that made the courtyard feel like a cool, deep gorge. Amid the crackling leaves, the smell of eucalyptus oil, the flames dancing, time dissolved – and 100 pairs of eyes became one.
‘When Jason comes out, we’re going to follow,’ I whispered to Bianca. ‘I want you to walk in front of me and to hold the feathers out in front of you, like this.’
I demonstrated and then placed the headdress in her hands. She could barely see over it and giggled as the feathers tickled her nose.
We waited.
‘KAR-AAK!’
Bianca and I jumped. There was a clack-clack of clapping sticks, and then another ‘KAR-AAK!’
Jason was out of sight, around a far bend in the concrete and block canyon. His black cockatoo cries cascaded down stairwells, echoed off overhead walkway escarpments, and bounced through the air-conditioning ducts.
‘Don’t be scared,’ I whispered in Bianca’s ear; but there was no need to reassure her, she was electrified.
At last the Yorta Yorta songman emerged behind us, wrapped in a possum-skin cloak, never taking more than three or four steps before unleashing another cry or incantation to his ancestors, to Mother Earth. I could see glimpses of the gathered guests, heads down or fixed on the centre of the circle, on the fire, on the curling smoke. Jason entered the courtyard, chanting, cracking those thunderclap sticks, splitting open the atmosphere with his 60 000-year-old song. Then we followed, a few paces behind.
People parted to allow us entry into the circle, a circle now made sacred by the smoke. As we entered, a barrage of flashes and the noise of variable-speed shutters reminded us of the outside world, of what century we were in. Bianca followed Jason, and I walked behind her. ‘Hold your head up high, sweetheart,’ I whispered. If
only I’d thought things through a little better; imagine Ebony and Bianca – black and white – walking together. And then I noticed that Bianca was wearing the bracelet Ebony had given her, and that symbol, however private, had a potency all its own. I placed the case that held Mary on the small table. With the flag hanging low over each side and obscuring the legs, the case seemed to float amid the grey smoke and the lightning storm of camera flashes. Jason continued to dance and sing, working the circle, purifying the space. And then, silence. Again I whispered in Bianca’s ear, ‘Hold the headdress high, over your head so everyone can see the beautiful feathers.’ I placed my hands around her waist and lifted her into the air. We turned to the north, we turned to the east and my family, we turned to the south. I lowered Bianca and together we turned to the west, to Mary, and placed the headdress – wreath-like – in front of the case. I walked Bianca back to her mother before rejoining Bob and Jason in the circle.
Mother Nature had primacy now; we mortal players merely fumbled in the gaps between the smoke’s heavenly dance, our utterances sounded feeble compared to the fire’s holy crackle. Bob offered formal words of welcome, Jason Wamba Wamba words of gratitude and forgiveness. Words. Words carried skyward by the smoke and cinders then scattered by hot, dry wind. Tears from the women fell like plops of rain. Jason glistened under his cloak of 30 skins while I sweated rivers in my polyester shirt and white skin. I took my unfinished speech from my pocket; droplets of sweat slipped from my brow and fell with slow motion splats onto the page. Ink ran and the words dissolved into each other. I placed the pages on the fire. This was a time for simple words: Sorry, Return, Earth. I laced these three gemstones together with short strands of sentence that I will never remember. Jason stepped forward. I handed him his ancestor and for a moment Mary lay cradled in both black and white hands. Then Jason stepped back with Mary and placed the case under the loving shade of a tree. He put his didgeridoo to his lips; it was time for a new dance now, a happier song. The breeze danced too, taking the smoke in all directions, making sure that everyone felt its healing caress. It danced ghost-like over my family, over me.
Midway through his dance, Jason could stand the heat no more. He pulled the possum-skin cloak from his shoulders and threw it into the air like a giant pizza dough. It turned in the smoke and landed fur-side down, its smooth inside revealed to us for the first time. Each of its 30 panels was decorated with a story told in a constellation of symbols. I couldn’t read the panels, but I understood them; they were a map of the Wamba Wamba universe. The cloak drew me in as a telescope draws in the night sky. I felt dizzy. Jason danced over to Ashley, a songman who had come to represent the local clans. He beckoned to his fully painted northern brother with the words, ‘Let’s jam,’ and the two didgeridoos weaved together like birds wheeling on high. A crowd of Asian students, drawn by the music, had found a vantage point on an upper balcony. Security tried to hold them back, but there were too many. They held their mobile phones high, blindly snatching photos. It didn’t matter. I looked to the faces around the circle; many eyes were downcast or shut, many more were wet with tears, hankies dabbed at cheeks. I needed the smoke. I moved close to the fire and closed my eyes; the smoke coiled around me, through me. I inhaled its magic deeply, right down into the insides of my toes. Wamba Wamba words caressed my ear; I felt a hand on my shoulder, my eyes opened and met Jason’s. ‘It’s all right, brother,’ he promised, ‘it’s all right.’
As Bob gently patted out the fire, the old people began to drift into the circle. I watched the elders as they approached my mother and father with open hearts, wrapping my parents’ nervous hands in theirs.
‘Thank you. Thank you,’ they repeated, their words emanating from dry lips and moist eyes in equal measure. These were the people of my parents’ generation, fellow countrymen and good people all, kept apart from each other by cruel circumstance. That day I witnessed a life-long racial divide transcended by tears, smiles and handshakes. My brave father and mother had faced the music, and what sweet song of forgiveness it was.
Jason, Bob and I were taken aside for interviews while a small crowd gathered to marvel at the possum-skin cloak, which still lay open on the ground. Craig and his staff ushered people into the lunchroom, where a generous feast had been laid out. The tension had largely dissipated now, but solemnity hung in the air. There was an awkwardness, as if people weren’t sure what to do; celebrate or mourn. And then the most beautiful thing happened – one of the Aboriginal girls laughed. It was a short, beautiful laugh that just escaped. The room fell silent and every eye fell upon her. With her hand over her mouth she looked around sheepishly. Then slowly, her hand dropped away to reveal her smile – and what a smile it was! That laugh was like the first bird to greet the sun after a storm has passed; within moments we were all twittering and laughing too.
Jason was the centre of attention. He was the perfect pin-up boy for Aboriginal aunties and grandmothers everywhere – manly and kind, proud yet humble too. I couldn’t help notice that many of the younger Indigenous girls were watching him from afar with puppy-dog eyes. Dad was disappointed that Gary hadn’t been able to attend, but luckily Jason was a football nut too, and the two talked deep football in the way that only true aficionados can. In another corner of the room, my daughters were plied with cakes, pikelets and scones by a group of Aboriginal aunties.
The students from my class stood around in a bunch with their backs turned to the festive atmosphere. They looked as though they wanted to join in but just couldn’t seem to move their feet; this was a feeling I’d known for over 30 years! It reminded me of old-time Western movies where the white folk set their wagons in a circle at night to fend off Indian attack. I poked my head into the perimeter and with a gentle nudge suggested, ‘If you guys want to meet some Indigenous people, now might be a good time.’
Craig wandered over with a thank-god-that’s-over smile.
‘Is Mary okay just sitting out there?’ he asked, tilting his head in Mary’s direction. Jason had left the case in the courtyard under the headdress and flag. A few people gave it a wide berth as they walked past. But just as I was about to suggest to Jason that we move Mary to somewhere more private I noticed how much warmth and goodwill was pouring out through the lunchroom doors – it was like human sunshine.
‘It’s his party,’ I replied, ‘let’s leave him there to enjoy it for a few more minutes.’
There was little talk on the way back to Bob’s house, we were all too emotionally drained; even Bob’s imaginary brake pedal got a rest.
‘Nice place you got here, brother,’ said Jason as we pulled into the driveway.
‘It’s just a bed,’ said Bob, implying that his real home was his country.
I walked Bob to his front steps and thanked him for all he’d done.
‘Bob, I want to keep going,’ I said, ‘I want to stay with this, I want to help.’ For the past two weeks I’d ridden an extraordinary wave, and now its energy was ebbing. I lay on the sand amid sea foam as the wave returned once more to the sea.
‘You have helped,’ Bob replied a little wearily, not just from the day’s events, but in a way that suggested he’d been confronted with over-enthusiastic white converts-to-the-cause before. ‘You need to understand that there’s a feeling in our community that we need to help ourselves.’
He left me with a smile and turned away. I was feeling like that jellyfish again, high and dry.
I drove Jason to his hotel in town. I’d invited him home for dinner, but he wanted a quiet night. He asked if I knew of any good Thai restaurants. ‘Brother, I am addicted to Thai food, I could eat it three times a day.’
Again I was caught off guard. I chuckled to myself; what was I expecting the man to eat, witchetty grubs?
We pulled into the driveway of the hotel. It was a five-storey mock Georgian affair, the sort of place you’d expect to be called the Dorchester or Winchester.
‘Wow, nice place!’ I said, genuinely impressed.
&nb
sp; Jason got out with his didgeridoo, dufflebag full of possum-skin magic, and Mary.
‘Mate, it’s real flash all right. When I checked in they told me there was a problem and I thought, oh no here we go.’ Jason rolled his eyes for effect, suggesting he’d expected to be turned away due to a no-Afro, no-didgeridoo door policy. ‘But it wasn’t what I’d thought, they’d double-booked my room, and guess what, they upgraded me to a bigger suite!’
I laughed, once again marvelling at Jason’s ability to draw out the best in people.
‘There was one condition, though; they made me promise to put on a little concert on the didge later.’
As he walked towards the polished brass and spotless glass of the revolving door, he turned. ‘John, it’s as if there’s been someone watching over me on this trip. Every single person I’ve met has been just beautiful.’
I couldn’t have agreed more.
© Craig Abraham/Fairfaxphotos
Dja Dja Wurrung and Wamba Wamba Elder, Gary Murray, dressed in the Wamba Wamba ceremonial cloak with a Dja Dja Wurrung Bark etching.
© Newspix/Patrick Hamilton
Yorta Yorta songman Jason Tamiru presides over Mary’s 2005 handover ceremony.
Kamilaroi Elder and repatriation specialist Bob Weatherall.
Jason Tamiru receives the Wamba Wamba Ancestor.
© Newspix/Patrick Hamilton
©Courier-Mail.
© Rosalba Nattero
Jida Murray-Gulpilil, dancer, musician and cultural man. “No one can touch him.”
© Jida Gulpilil
Aboriginal Australia.
© Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies
Photo by Jida Gulpilil © John Danalis
John Danalis watches the Murray River slide by from Wamba Wamba country.
