The White Earth

by Andrew McGahan

  ‘…so let me tell you about terra nullius. Part of the theory is that the Aborigines didn’t work the land, they just left it as they found it, and so therefore they had no rights of ownership. But that isn’t quite true. They did what they could, with very limited resources. Australia was no paradise. It didn’t have any native plants suitable for large-scale farming — no wheat or barley or cotton or any of the rest. It didn’t have the right sort of animals for domestication either, no sheep or cows. It wasn’t until Europeans brought those plants and animals that you could farm the way we do now, with paddocks and fences. In the meantime the Aborigines farmed the only way that was viable…’

  William glanced at his mother. Normally she would have switched something like this off. But she only stared at the screen, glassy-eyed and far away.

  ‘…then the High Court led the way with the Mabo judgment. It recognised finally that terra nullius was always a lie, and now the government is responding to historical reality with the Native Title legislation. This country was Aboriginal land and it was stolen from them without compensation. That was unfair. For a century and a half Aboriginal people have been herded into missions or deserts or urban ghettos and forgotten about. That’s unfair too. They’ve had no proper access to education or health services or employment — many of them couldn’t even vote until the ’60s. All of that’s unfair, and the effects will last for generations, but Native Title is at least the first step in righting the wrong…’

  William watched attentively. It was strange. He had listened to the radio for hours with his uncle, and heard all sorts of discussions about the new laws and how bad they would be. This was the first time he had heard anyone who seemed to think they were a good thing.

  ‘…but if your land is freehold, Native Title won’t touch it. It shouldn’t even touch pastoral leases. In fact, the whole point of the legislation is to protect pastoral leases. Okay, a very few of them might still be open to claim, but only if there has been an ongoing Aboriginal presence on the land — and that’s going to be hard to prove. And even if a claim is successful, all the lease-holder will have to do is share some access with the traditional owners, and consult with them about any major works which might affect cultural sites on the property. It’s hardly stealing farms away... ’

  Strange and puzzling. It didn’t even sound like the same law that made his uncle so angry. William looked at his mother again. Was she listening? He had never asked her what she thought about his uncle’s business. Or even about the rally.

  ‘Mum?’

  She blinked at him, her eyes slowly focusing.‘What?’

  ‘You know what the rally is for, don’t you?’

  ‘Your uncle is spending a lot of money, that’s all I know.’

  ‘But those new laws. Do you think they’re a good thing or a bad thing?’

  She rubbed her forehead.‘Christ, Will, it isn’t up to me.’

  ‘Uncle John says…’

  ‘William, not now! Whatever your uncle says, that’s fine with me. Just keep on his good side. All right?’

  William let it go. But the next day he told his uncle what he had heard on television.

  His uncle raised an eyebrow. ‘You saw that, did you? Well, I always told you, some people are for these new laws. Not that they really understand. Or did you think he was right?’

  ‘I don’t know … no. But…’

  ‘Hmm.’ The old man considered his nephew for a long moment. Then he rose from his desk. ‘Tell you what — I was about to go and check on progress out at the campground. Why don’t you come along?

  William agreed, happy for the chance of a drive, and they climbed into the utility. It was a fine blue day. Spring was well advanced now, and the sun was warm again. But his uncle’s mood grew serious as they wound their way along the track into the hills. Dust hung in the air. No rain had fallen and fields looked parched. If it stayed this dry, the old man noted grimly, then desperate measures might need to be taken, like selling off even more of the cattle. The creek was empty, and the Condamine River, he’d heard, had stopped flowing. What about the water hole? William asked. Wouldn’t there still be water there? His uncle nodded. The pool would be sunken, but yes, the spring in the cave meant there was always water, in that one place at least. Perhaps when the rally was over and they had some time to spare, they would even go swimming.

  They drove on to the campground, a cleared space at the foot of a broad hill. William remembered the windmill that stood there, with a water tank beside it, and a trough. A cardboard sign directed visitors towards a large parking area marked off with orange plastic tape. Beyond that, on the lower slopes of the hill, and shaded by widely spaced gum trees, was the camp itself. There were stacks of firewood here and there, and fire pits carefully marked out with stones. Still higher up the slope were several mounds of folded canvas, and a mess of ropes and pegs. It was here too that makeshift lampposts had been erected, and already light bulbs were hanging from wires that stretched between them. And finally, up above it all, on the crown of the hill, William could glimpse, as he had once before, a circle of standing stones, dark amidst the trees.

  The whole site looked thrilling. It was a circus before the crowds arrived, but even better, it was William’s own circus, away off in the hills and bush, which only a secret few knew about. His uncle drove directly through the camping area, up onto the shoulder of the hill, and parked by the folded tents. They climbed out and took in the view — the brown hills rolling away to distant wheat fields out on the plains, and the mountains marching along the eastern horizon. The sun was bright, a gentle breeze blew and the air smelled of eucalyptus and cattle.

  ‘Well?’ his uncle asked.‘You think it’ll do?’

  William nodded fervently.

  The old man indicated the piles of canvas. ‘We’ll get the marquee set up a day or two before the weekend. If by any chance it rains, we’ll want somewhere under cover to set up the PA and hold the sessions.’

  ‘What about our tent?’ said William.

  ‘We might not need one. Just sleep out under the stars.’ He smiled at William’s disappointment. ‘No — we can set it up wherever we like. We’ll have first choice, which is lucky. Believe me, the whole ground will be full, by the time everyone arrives and gets unpacked.’

  They stood there for a time, listening to the deep quiet of the hills. Two crows glided between the trees below, calling out their strangled laments.

  The old man stirred. ‘We could have held the rally near the House, you know. It would have been simpler. But there’s a reason I chose to have it here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Come on. This is what I want you to see.’

  He turned and led William up the slope. At the top of the hill there was a wide belt of trees that formed a ring around the crown, tall gums with reaching limbs and smooth white bark. Deep shade fell between them, but beyond, upon the actual hilltop, there was a wide empty circle of sunlight. And here were the standing stones that were half-visible from below — although up close William could see that the rocks were not really free-standing. The brow of the hill was weathered away, and a jumble of boulders and rocky protrusions had emerged from deep in the soil, like broken teeth. The larger ones formed a roughly ovoid pattern about a central grassy space.

  William’s uncle strode to the very centre of the oval, and spread his arms to the rocks. ‘As long as it doesn’t rain,’ he said, ‘this is where we’ll set up the PA and hold the meetings.’

  William looked around, dubious. The hilltop felt claustrophobic somehow. The sky was blue above, and yet the air felt stuffy, with the grey trees leaning inwards all around and the stones looming. It was difficult to imagine lights and people here, let alone loudspeakers.

  ‘You’d almost think someone built this, wouldn’t you?’ said his uncle.‘In fact, it’s a natural formation. But even so, this is a special place. A meeting place. I think people have held meetings here for centuries.’

  ‘W
hat people?’

  ‘You know what people.’ The old man selected a boulder to sit on, waved William over to a place by his side. ‘Now, you’re going to hear a lot of things talked about at this rally, just like you did on TV last night. There are going to be some angry people, and some hard opinions. A lot of the discussion is going to be about Native Title, and that means a lot of it is going to be about Aborigines. You’ll hear some pretty nasty things said. But there are a few points I want you to understand.’

  William waited.

  ‘The first thing,’ his uncle said finally, ‘is that I don’t hate Aborigines. Some of the people who are coming to the rally do … but not many, and I certainly don’t agree with them. That isn’t what the League is all about. Personally, I have a great deal of respect for Aborigines and the way they used to live. They were here before us, after all, and they survived for thousands of years. They understood a lot of things. Like this circle. I don’t have any proof, but I’m sure that they used to gather right here.’

  William studied the stones. ‘What for?’

  ‘I don’t know. Corroborees, maybe. Initiations. Important rituals. It doesn’t really matter what they came here for … what’s important is that this is where they came. Look around. Can’t you feel something?’

  William could. It was faint and hard to catch, like something from the corner of his eye, but it was there. A circle of stone within a circle of trees.

  ‘They wouldn’t have missed a spot like this,’ his uncle insisted. ‘There’s something powerful here. They would have sniffed it out and used it.’ He tilted his head to look at William. ‘Have you ever heard of bora rings?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The Aborigines used to mark out rings, away in the bush, in places that were special to them. Powerful places. They were sacred. And I think this is one of them. You wait until you’re up here at night, with a big fire burning. You’ll see what I mean. I’ve had a few smaller meetings up here before. And something is present on this hill. Something comes alive.’

  Fire…a fire burning amidst the stones. A memory chilled William, from months ago. He had been sitting on the back verandah of his old house, on the night before he and his mother left it forever. He had seen a point of light out in the darkness, up in the hills. Recalling it now, William turned and gazed through the trees to the plains below. His old farm was down there somewhere, and from there he might have been looking up to this very spot. So had he witnessed some earlier meeting of his uncle’s? But no … the mysterious light had flickered in and out of view. It hadn’t been stationary like a campfire, William was sure. It had been moving.

  ‘Now there are some people who would find it stupid to meet in an Aboriginal place. They don’t think the blacks ever did anything worthwhile. But I don’t want you to think that, no matter what you hear. The Aborigines may not have made this place, but they recognised it, and it’s partly out of respect for them that I chose it for the rally.’ The old man straightened sternly.‘But the ironic thing is that because of laws like Native Title, I have to keep this place secret. And it is a secret, Will.’

  ‘Like the water hole?’

  ‘Exactly like the water hole.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘It’s dangerous information in these times, that’s why. This is my land now, I know you understand that. Whoever might have lived here once, they’re gone. But the people who support Native Title, they don’t accept that. They think that the Aborigines can be brought back somehow, given back their old land. I think that’s madness. It’s far too late to undo the things that were done, not without making an even bigger mess than we already have. But take this bora ring. If the government or some Aboriginal land council knew it was here, they’d be swarming up this hill in no time. They’d say these stones were proof that the blacks lived here, that they used this land for their rituals, and that therefore I should give it back to them. Obviously I don’t want that to happen, so I don’t tell anybody that the ring is here. And that’s what these new laws will make people like me do. Keep all sorts of secrets we wouldn’t have to otherwise.’

  ‘But lots of people will be here next week.’

  His uncle laughed.‘We don’t have to worry about them. They won’t tell. But I wanted you to think about it. You see, I chose this place partly out of respect, but partly as a protest too.’

  ‘A protest?’

  The old man nodded, sombre again. ‘There are folk out there who believe that the Aborigines are the only ones who understand the land, that only the blacks could have a found a place like this and appreciated what it was. They think that the blacks have some magical connection that whites can never have, that we’re just stumbling around here without any idea, that we don’t understand the country, that we just want to exploit it. But that’s not true. We can have connections with the land too, our own kind of magic. This land talks to me. It doesn’t care what colour I am, all that matters is that I’m here. And I understand what it says, just as well as anyone before me, black or white. I found this ring, didn’t I? So I deserve respect too.’

  He fell silent. William pondered the stone circle. Here was another secret he had learnt about the station. And that was a good thing. The more time he spent with his uncle, the more was revealed to him. He was getting closer all the time to knowing the land in the way the old man knew it. A magical connection, his uncle had called it — knowing about places like the stone ring and the water hole, or the story of the explorer who lay buried under the House.

  Knowledge, William decided, that was the issue. Knowledge was the essence of ownership. The black men, it seemed, had held the knowledge when they had owned the land. His uncle held it now. And when William had the knowledge, when he knew everything about the station there was to know, he too would be ready to be own it in his turn.

  The old man was standing again. He reached down and ruffled the army cap upon William’s head. ‘Just don’t let anyone tell you that the League is racist.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  TWO DAYS BEFORE THE RALLY BEGAN, FOUR MEMBERS OF THE League’s central committee arrived to help with final preparations. William was posted as guard on the front steps. His job was to greet the guests and direct them to his uncle’s office.

  The first to arrive was none other than Dr Moffat. He pulled up in his old car and climbed out, as round and red-faced as ever. He waved an airy greeting, then proceeded to unload two cartons of wine from the boot, toting them breathlessly up the stairs into the entrance hall.

  ‘And how’s that glandular fever of yours?’ he wheezed.

  It was a moment before William even remembered.‘Okay.’

  A wink.‘’Course it is. Back at school next year, hey?’

  William nodded uncertainly. With the doctor right there in front of him, he almost said something about his ear. But what if he was sent to bed and told to stay there? And he remembered how agonising it had been when Dr Moffat examined him the last time. So he said nothing, and in any case, the doctor was already heading for the office.

  The next guest drove up in a big, silvery four-wheel drive, and the man who climbed out was just as big and broad. He wasn’t young — he had thinning hair, a creased, sunburnt face, and a huge belly bulging through his shirt — but he seemed hale and fit all the same, smartly dressed in jeans and boots. He stomped up the stairs, eyeing William cheerfully. ‘Standing sentry are we?’ The man raised a hand to his forehead, saluting.‘What are you under that hat? Captain? Major? General?’

  William was caught off guard. ‘It’s not really an army hat,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a police hat.’

  ‘Bullshit. Used to be a copper m’self. Never saw a police hat like that, not in my whole career. You’d be this nephew I’ve been hearing about?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Good lad. So where’s your uncle?’

  The man’s name was Terry Butterworth, and it turned out he really had been a policeman once, although he was some years retir
ed. He ran a business of his own now, in Toowoomba. Something to do with installing locks and burglar alarms. He was large and loud and rough, but William liked him, and was impressed enough to practise saluting for a while, when he returned to his station on the porch.

  Another four-wheel drive appeared, this one painted with safari stripes. It was all dented and covered in dust, and sported a huge bull bar and spotlights. The driver, however, was small and wiry and old. He was dressed in a faded khaki uniform,his skin was tanned a leathery brown and his face was lost in a wild tangle of beard, from which dangled a smouldering cigarette. Coming up the front steps, he was as bow-legged as a crab. Emboldened, William tried out his salute. The old man reared back momentarily, the cigarette stiffening in astonishment.

  ‘I’ll be buggered,’ he said. He returned the salute with a single finger to his brow, then headed off towards the office without another word.

  Abashed, William was left to study the vehicle. On the side were emblazoned the words ‘Lost Reef Outback Tours — Proprietor Henry Lasseter’.

  This meant nothing to William, but later his uncle explained all about the legend of the prospector Harold Lasseter, and the giant deposit of gold he claimed to have found, but then lost again, out in the desert. Henry Lasseter meanwhile, tour guide, was no relation to the original. What was more, his tours operated only in western Queensland,nowhere near the region in which the reef supposedly existed. But Henry hadn’t let such minor details stand in his way. William got the impression that his uncle didn’t think much of the old tour guide, or the tourists who hired him, or indeed the whole Lasseter legend in general.‘But if people want to be fooled by old stories,’ his uncle said,‘then one fraud deserves another.’

  The last committee member arrived around sunset, rolling up the driveway in a sleek red sedan. Attached to the rear bumper of the car was a bicycle, the sort that was built for racing, and the driver was much younger than the other guests. He had neat dark hair and a clean-shaven face and, most startling of all, he was wearing a suit and a tie. For a disturbing instant, William was reminded of the undertakers who had buried his father. He forgot to salute. The newcomer pulled a briefcase from his car and stared up doubtfully at the crumbling walls, the clinging ivy, and the sagging verandah of the upper floor.