THE SONG MASTER

by Di Morrissey

  Veronica nodded. ‘I wonder what other surprises this day has in store.’

  ‘None, I hope,’ said Beth. ‘What say we get together again at breakfast and see what the new day offers.’

  Ardjani still showed no reaction. He said goodnight and promised to drop by and share their breakfast. As the three men and Jennifer and Lilian left the campfire, Beth heard Ardjani speak a few words in language to his colleagues. ‘Good start,’ the old man had said.

  ‘Tomorrow, I’ll show you where we can swim.’ Beth put her mug on the pile of washing up that Susan had gathered. ‘There’s one section of the river, that is wunggud energy water, for all of us and it’s lovely. The other part of the river is for women only. It’s the wunggud pool – baby spirit pond.’

  ‘Oops, they’ve turned the generator off. That means no lights in the showers.’

  ‘Take a torch.’

  Alistair emerged from his tent with a towel and wash bag and flicked on his torch to pick his way over to the shower block.

  ‘We’ll help you wash up, Susan,’ said Beth, pouring simmering water into a big plastic bowl.

  ‘That’s what I like to see, sheilas doing the dishes.’ Mick ducked as Beth threw a wet sponge at him and he padded after Alistair.

  ‘Hell, cold water by torchlight. Bracing, eh?’ Alistair stepped out of the cubicle to dry himself as Mick finished brushing his teeth at the washtub. ‘What did you make of the reaction to your suggestion of negotiating with the pastoralists?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ answered the judge.

  ‘Did it occur to you that the old man might be manipulating us? Exploiting our joint legal weight.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Mick. ‘Coincidence, probably.’

  ‘It’s no problem for us to offer a bit of free advice. These people appear to have been badly served all round.’

  ‘I do feel the pastoralists, who won’t let the Barradja bring their friends to visit their paintings, are a bit heavy in their attitude – if Ardjani’s story is correct.’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough, I feel,’ said Alistair, pausing to look up at the stars. ‘At least we’re here. I had my doubts once or twice today.’

  It was pre-dawn. The moments between the dark of sleep and gradual awakening to daylight. The Songmaster settled himself in the coolness, urging more warmth from his fire. He sat, cross-legged, contemplative, watching the frail line of smoke wind upwards and fade into the limestone cliffs of the fossil reef, formed four hundred million years before.

  The oldest rocks in the Kimberley had been created two thousand million years before, then had come the glacier ages and the landscape had changed again. Ancestor beings had created rivers through the sandstone, slicing gorges and carving soaring cliffs.

  Sculpted sandstone towers and domes etched with bands and whorls stood alone, imperious above the greenness of livistona fan palms and low scrubby growth. Bluffs, plateaus, limestone ridges and exposed reefs had emerged as the ice and floodwaters left the land.

  The Songmaster picked up the two clapsticks and tapped them on the ground, then lifting his head he sang, now beating the sticks together, their resonant wooden notes blending with the chant.

  They were newcomers in his country. They were welcome. But he knew there would be others . . . who would carry pain and danger. Whose eyes were dimmed with greed and who did not hear the words spoken by the ancestor beings to the elders. Beware . . . beware . . . he tapped. And the notes he chanted trembled with an edge of warning and fear. Strangers will come . . . beware . . .

  Ardjani stood motionless at the edge of the glassy King Edward River, his body reflected like a slim dark reed at the water’s edge. Pale lavender pre-dawn light filtered through the treetops. He lifted his head, listening. He took in the chant of the Songmaster and turned away, slowly, silently, walking barefoot, hardly disturbing grass or pebble, his faint shadow on the river the only movement in the stillness of the new day.

  Susan stirred and looked out the plastic window at the dove’s egg sky. A bird called, another answered. She wiggled out of her sleeping bag, found her sneakers and, dressed in track pants and cotton T-shirt, reached for the ring of the zipper that had closed her door.

  The ZZZZZZPP echoed round the silent camp. It was a sound she would come to associate forever with this experience.

  She stepped outside and straightened up, arching her back to ease the slight stiffness. Dew glittered on the grass. Shreds of mist hung like limp streamers in the skirts of trees. Each tent was tightly cocooned, closed, quiet. She walked as softly as she could, past the damp plastic chairs ringing the dead fire. Plates and containers of cutlery, sauce bottles, basic condiments in sealed jars and tupperware were lined along the laminated table. She doodled her initials in the wetness of the tabletop. She glanced at the gas stove and kettle thinking of tea. Billy was rolled in his swag, driblets of dew trickling on the outside of the oilskin covering his sleeping bulk.

  She was about to go back when she saw Ardjani walking at the edge of the river. He lifted an arm, signalling her to come. She walked across the stubbly ground, past trees, to where large pandanus palms lined the river just fifty metres from the camp.

  ‘Good morning. You sleep good?’

  ‘Yes, yes I did. Thank you.’

  For a little while they stood silent, listening to the birds, watching the light change, and she enjoyed the solitude and peace. She caught their reflections in the water, so still it showed the stitching on her T-shirt and the stubble of whiskers on the old man’s face. She felt the energy of the man beside her, and she had no idea what to say next. But at that moment, a large fish swirled the surface close by the bank where they were standing.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Susan, suddenly jolted out of her reverie.

  ‘Big barramundi. He spirit fella. Mebbe spirit fella saying “good morning” to you,’ he grinned.

  Susan laughed softly. ‘What a lovely thought.’ She looked again at the fading ripples. ‘You really believe that? A fish can be a spirit saying good morning?’

  Ardjani nodded. ‘Spirits everywhere.’ His tone indicated that it was not a subject for debate. ‘Mebbe you understand more soon. You still got city eyes, city mind.’ He pointed downstream to a group of trees past their camp. ‘You go there. Go quietly. Walk softly. You see the brolgas. Dancing.’

  ‘Really?’

  He nodded. ‘Lilian, Jennifer up there looking for sugarbag.’ He continued walking towards his camp.

  Susan spotted the motherly shape of Lilian and the slim figure of her daughter standing near a tree. Lilian put a finger to her lips and beckoned Susan forward. When she reached them, they took her hands and pointed.

  In a clearing among the paperbark trees, four tall grey birds pranced an intricate ritual. Bowing, preening, lifting long stick legs, Turning, ignoring, fawning, each male courted a female who reacted with disdain. It ended with a screech, a peck, and running flight.

  Jennifer laughed. ‘Something spooked them. They’ll be back tomorrow.’

  They’re so graceful. Those wonderful grey, wispy feathers. I’m so glad I saw that.’

  ‘You get up early.’ Lilian led them back the way they’d come. ‘We look for sugarbag. Wild honey. No luck.’

  ‘Bees must be hiding it,’ added Jennifer. ‘So, what are you all doing today?’

  ‘Beth said we’ll have a meeting to discuss our plans. We’d really like to see the rock art that’s on Eagle Rock Station.’

  ‘That be good. The old men never been there long time. It be near my father’s country.’ Lilian looked sad.

  ‘Your father is dead?’ asked Susan gently.

  ‘All gone. Now it be my country. And Jennifer. But we can’t look after it. Too far, and we not have trucks till now.’

  Jennifer looked at her mother. ‘We need to go there so my mother can speak with the spirits of her father and grandfather. Our family. To know what is her responsibility, to know they are happy.’

  ‘How
long since you went there, Lilian?’

  ‘Not since I was a little girl. Five, maybe.’

  ‘But that’s terrible. Listen, we are going to talk to these people, and ask permission to see the art. You come with us to visit your special place.’

  Lilian lightly touched Susan’s arm. ‘That would be good. Very good.’

  They were on their way to the camp, when the sound of a car broke the morning peace. ‘Who would that be?’ asked Susan.

  Lilian shrugged. ‘People come, people go, always somethin’ goin’ on.’ Mother and daughter continued on their way, and Susan went to fetch her towel, glad to see Billy was up and busying himself round the fire.

  ‘Why is it food always tastes so much better in the open air?’ Veronica tucked into fried sausages, bacon and eggs.

  Susan turned a piece of toast on the metal contraption Billy had sitting over the gas flame of the stove. ‘You only eat al fresco when Boris whips up a little dejeuner mediterranean.’

  ‘I work long hours, he works at home,’ she said pointedly, but without rancour. ‘I am lucky.’

  ‘I suppose you don’t buy this new-age stuff with blokes cooking.’ Susan got in first, not waiting for the smart remark from the judge, but he surprised her.

  ‘I cook Christmas dinner in a camp oven every year. Out in the backyard. And I make a mean damper.’

  ‘Right, Mick gets to make dinner tonight,’ said Beth.

  ‘What’s the plan today, Beth?’ Mick pushed his toast over a flame on the end of a stick as he squatted at the edge of the fire. ‘I’m game for anything.’

  ‘Ardjani, Rusty and Digger are coming over to give us a little talk, just a bit of background, really. I thought it might be useful before we plunge into living here. They want us to understand we are with them, as their guests, not outsiders, not tourists. They are very keen that we appreciate their knowledge, their culture, and what they call their gift for Australia.’

  ‘Do we have to take notes?’ asked Mick. Beth raised an arm in greeting, as the new arrival appeared. It was Barwon, grinning broadly, who’d just driven into camp.

  ‘Hey, everyone.’ He went around the group, shaking hands, bear-hugging Beth. ‘So, where have you been in your travels?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve been back to the convent, where my mother worked, looking for records. There’s nothing there. The nuns . . . everything’s gone. The people who bought the old convent told me they burnt some files that had been left because nobody seemed to want them.’

  ‘You on some research project?’ asked Mick.

  Barwon shrugged. ‘I’m just hanging loose. Looking for my roots, my family, all that painful Stolen Generations stuff.’ He tried to smile.

  ‘That’s a hell of a throwaway line.’

  Barwon was relieved the subject was changed by the arrival of Ardjani, Rusty and Digger, who settled themselves in the ring of chairs around the fire, the smell of toast still strong and Billy pouring tea for the men the way they liked it.

  ‘What you want us to do today, Beth? These fellas going to talk to Eagle Rock people?’

  ‘Yes. Who do you think should go from your mob? Or should just whitefella lawyers go?’

  Ardjani looked thoughtful, and turned to Rusty and Digger. ‘Who you say?’

  ‘Jennifer,’ Rusty answered immediately, and Digger and Ardjani nodded. ‘Better we no go. Then they can talk open about us.’

  ‘Ardjani’s right. If they go they might have to make compromises. That wouldn’t be wise,’ said Mick.

  ‘But someone should put the Barradja side. Or else it looks like whitey running things for the Aborigines, just as it’s always been,’ said Alistair.

  ‘Jennifer is an elder and can speak on the Barradja’s behalf, and we’ll be there for support,’ said Beth.

  Susan spoke up. ‘If we go to Eagle Rock Station and talk to those people about seeing the rock art, can we then take Lilian and Jennifer to their sacred sites?’

  Everybody looked at her. ‘I was speaking to Lilian this morning. That’s part of her country, her father and grandfather’s country. She hasn’t been back for many years. Nor Jennifer. They’re now guardians of their ancestors’ land, and they want to go and do whatever it is that is part of their custodial responsibility. Isn’t that right, Ardjani?’

  He nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And exactly what legal right have you to take white friends with you?’ Alistair’s mind was instantly questioning.

  ‘Who has first sovereignty over the land?’ asked Mick.

  ‘Use defines land, that’s how the government bureaucrats saw it when they designated the Kimberley grazing, pastoral and crown land. Before that we go back to the gadia white man concept of terra nullius – it belonged to no man,’ said Beth.

  ‘So we just ignore fifty, sixty thousand years of Aboriginal occupation,’ said Mick. ‘How do you feel about that, Ardjani?’

  ‘We feel empty, white government people try to take away our meaning, our being. But it is still here.’ He touched his head and his heart.

  ‘There’s no denying there was a powerful, complex culture in this land long before white men – be they Portuguese, Dutch, Asian or English – set foot here,’ declared Beth. ‘Our friends here were mustered up and dispossessed in the 1950s and they’ve been trying to get back to their country ever since. Excisions, Crown land, reserves, pastoral leases, whatever, it’s all still originally Barradja land.’ Beth spoke with some heat.

  ‘We want to keep doin’ these things our people do, ever since creation time. It is how we keep our culture alive.’

  ‘I understand that, Ardjani,’ said Alistair. ‘But to these white people it is their land even if only leased, and if you take white people to your paintings and the pastoralists object, they could say you are trespassing, breaking white man’s law.’

  ‘I guess that’s hard for these fellas to come to terms with,’ said Mick.

  ‘Now, maybe it’s time things changed,’ added Susan.

  There was a general nodding of heads in agreement. ‘Yeah, time the law was changed so you can all see the paintings. To make it more fair.’ Lilian didn’t speak up often, but when she did, she kept her remarks short and pithy.

  Billy jumped down from the cabin of the Oka. ‘Excuse me, Beth, I think we’ve got a problem.’

  ‘You been on the radio phone? What’s up?’ Beth had arranged for messages to be left with Billy’s wife, as they’d check in when conditions were clear.

  ‘My missus is pretty upset. She got a call from one of the stations, saying I was not to bring tourists onto their land, and I’m going to be sued. For trespassing.’

  ‘Trespassing!’

  ‘It came from the Steeles at Eagle Rock. They said they knew we’d crossed over their land to get here yesterday, and they said we’re not to use their land without permission.’

  ‘What! Now Billy, how the heck did the Steeles get your home number?’ asked Beth.

  Billy looked concerned. ‘Off the side of the Oka, I suppose, it’s got the company name on it.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen the Steeles,’ said Susan, then it dawned on her at the same time as Beth said, ‘The Wards must have told them. I told you the airwaves would be running hot.’

  ‘What’s the legal position here, Alistair?’ asked Beth.

  ‘Sounds like we definitely have to talk to these people right away.’

  ‘I agree, Alistair, but it doesn’t sound like they’re going to be agreeable to us going onto their land.’ Beth looked deflated for the first time on the trip.

  Rusty was confused. ‘Now you fellas break white man law, too?’

  ‘Judge Duffy, surely you’re not going to let them bully us!’ chided Susan. ‘Get them on the blower, Billy, and we’ll tell them we’re coming over for a discussion.’

  ‘We’re telling . . . not requesting?’ The judge raised his eyebrows at Susan.

  ‘You bet. Do you law men agree?’ Beth turned to the three Barradja
elders.

  ‘You go and take Jennifer to speak for Barradja,’ said Ardjani. ‘Like Rusty say, better we old men stay back here.’

  ‘I reckon we need tea. Barwon, how about you put the billy on,’ said Beth.

  By the time the morning tea was passed around they were well into the discussion on how to approach Len and Dawn Steele.

  ‘It’s complicated. The cattle industry in this part of the Kimberley has rarely been viable. Yesterday, we drove for twelve hours through spectacular country, but it’s very poor cattle country, and we saw, what? Fifteen head?’ Beth raised her eyebrows. ‘No wonder station ownership has a high turnover in this area.’

  ‘Could they sue us for trespass?’ Veronica looked to the QC and the judge.

  ‘It’s unlikely. Sounds more like they want to scare us off,’ said Alistair. ‘If Eagle Rock, and stations like it, are on pastoral leases and not freehold, surely access to cross the properties for hunting and cultural activities must have been formally granted to the people on this tiny plot of land, here at Marrenyikka.’

  ‘That’s the trouble, Alistair, no one can actually find any written evidence,’ said Beth.

  Billy looked worried again. ‘I should apologise to the Steeles. I should have made a phone call and asked permission to cross their land. I didn’t know they’d be that upset. I’m sure a phone call would have prevented all this.’

  Beth spoke firmly. ‘We haven’t done anything wrong. Alistair, will anything be gained by seeing these people?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. If they’re treated with civility, they might be prepared to grant access for us to see the Barradja sites.’

  ‘So we say we were invited here to see the Barradja’s wonderful art and we’re sorry they weren’t notified we were crossing their land. And we explain it was getting dark. We’ll test the waters that way,’ summed up Mick.

  ‘I wonder if we’d just turned up as tourists, and offered to pay to see the sites on their property, would they have let us go in,’ said Alan.

  ‘That’s exactly the situation,’ agreed Beth. ‘Some of these properties – unlike your friends at Yandoo, Susan – are struggling. They augment their income with selling petrol, or by having a shop, or by showing visitors over their land.’