THE SONG MASTER

by Di Morrissey

  ‘Do you want me, too?’ asked Susan.

  Beth picked up her torch. ‘Yes, as you’re up. We may need more hands if she has to be restrained.’

  Rowena was curled up on her bunk in the foetal position, hugging her knees and rocking. Between low moans and intermittent sobs, she gasped, ‘Help me, help me. Make them go away.’

  Beth sat beside her and took her arms, forcibly unlocking them, and bent close to her face. ‘It’s all right, Rowena. You’re all right.’

  Rowena flung her arms out of Beth’s grip and swung them wildly, causing Beth to duck her head. She lashed out with a leg and Susan grabbed it and held her down. ‘Steady on, Rowena. Calm down.’

  ‘She’s not hearing you. She seems to be only hearing strange voices,’ said Jennifer.

  Rowena was now tossing and writhing, eyes squeezed shut, her expression fearful as she mumbled over and over, ‘Go away.’

  ‘We’re not going away. We’re here to help you. Rowena, wake up.’ Beth spoke sternly and loudly.

  ‘Make them go away, send them away.’

  ‘There’s some mad scene going on in her head,’ said Susan, quite exasperated, holding down Rowena’s thrashing legs.

  ‘We have to wake her up,’ said Jennifer urgently.

  ‘Cold water?’ suggested Susan.

  ‘Yes. Susan, get her some water to drink.’

  ‘I was thinking of throwing it on her,’ said Susan grimly.

  Jennifer suddenly slapped Rowena’s face, a sharp short stinging blow that made Rowena’s eyes fly open in shock. Then, seeing Beth and Jennifer, she started to sob with a kind of hysterical relief, clinging onto Beth’s hands.

  ‘Thank God, you’re here. They’ve come back. They’re going to get me.’

  ‘Who? Who’s going to get you, Rowena? You’re all right, now. It’s over.’

  Beth took the glass of water from Susan and held it to Rowena’s shaking lips. ‘Here, drink this.’

  Jennifer wiped her hand over Rowena’s perspiring face. ‘Don’t worry. We’re here. It was just a bad dream.’

  ‘No! It’s a nightmare. It’s hell. It’s eating me alive!’ Rowena looked wild-eyed again.

  Jennifer sat on the bed and put her arm around Rowena’s shoulders. ‘What sort of nightmare is it, Rowena? Can you relate it to anything?’

  Rowena was silent for a moment. ‘It’s like these monsters are locked up inside me and are trying to eat their way out of my body and head.’ She was tense, subdued now. ‘My shrink says whatever it is, whatever they are, they’re going to destroy me if I don’t let them go. But I don’t know how to do that. For Chrissake, I don’t enjoy this, you know!’

  ‘Have you any idea what caused them to be there? How long has it been going on?’ Susan spoke as gently as she could, even though she was finding it difficult to muster much sympathy for this screwed-up woman.

  ‘It’s been about eighteen months. Since I first came out here.’ She gulped the last of the water and handed the glass to Beth. ‘I’ll be fine. I have some sleeping pills.’

  ‘Do you want us to stay?’

  ‘No. Once it’s over I’m okay. Till the next time.’

  Jennifer walked with them back to the sleeping camp. ‘She’s very sick. She’s got bad spirits in her.’

  ‘You mean she has to be exorcised or something? What do you think, Beth?’ Susan seriously questioned Rowena’s sanity.

  ‘It might account for her abrasive manner. She can’t control forces within herself so she tries to manipulate everything outside and around her.’

  ‘Thanks for coming over,’ said Jennifer warmly. ‘I was pretty sure at first it was some kind of epileptic fit. This is very like what happens when bad spirits enter an Aborigine who has broken the laws of our people.’

  ‘You mean . . . you mean Rowena could have been possessed by an Aboriginal spirit thing,’ said Susan dubiously.

  ‘That’s what it looks like,’ said Jennifer, then turned towards the visitors’ camp. ‘Come on, I’ll walk back with you.’

  ‘What, if anything, can you do if Rowena’s problem is this . . .’ she paused for a moment looking for better words . . . ‘well, spirit thing?’

  ‘I’ll talk to my mother and Ardjani but we might have to get a banman.’

  ‘A what? Who?’

  ‘A sort of magic man,’ said Beth. ‘A traditional healer, amongst other things.’

  Beth spread a piece of canvas on the ground outside her tent and the three women, now wide awake, sat cross-legged under the stars talking softly.

  Jennifer explained a little more about the banman’s role in Aboriginal life. ‘There are still a few around today. Important men with special sight, special powers. A little like shamans.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like something the Australian Medical Association would be endorsing,’ joked Susan. ‘What do they do?’

  ‘It’s pretty much secret stuff but you won’t find any Aborigine, certainly not among those with strong traditional ties, ignoring the banman.’

  Susan was aware of the implied admonishment and became serious. ‘You mean they effect cures by psychological means as well as medicine?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you might call it psychological to some extent. But it’s done by application of a special knowledge they have. Don’t ask how they acquire it. You might say it’s a gift. Anyway, it works.’

  ‘If you believe,’ added Beth. ‘You see, it might seem odd to us, coming from a modern industrial and scientific society where almost everything can be explained logically. The old Aborigines reckon that’s one area where we’ve gone wrong. Knowledge that can’t be explained has been lost by modern Western societies over the centuries. They say they’ve still got it.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Susan leaned back on her hands and looked up at the stars and for a moment no one spoke. ‘A bit like faith healing with the laying on of hands . . . the old-time fundamental Christian healing. That’s still big in America.’

  ‘Maybe a little like that, but it’s a lot more than that,’ said Jennifer. ‘The banman may have powers of clairvoyance, may be able to see inside your body, just like an X-ray, may even be able to practise astral travel.’

  It was the belief in Jennifer’s voice that puzzled Susan. She could picture her in a crisp uniform doing the rounds of the wards in a modern teaching hospital. Talk of banmen and spirits contradicted that. She didn’t know how to respond without appearing to doubt or insult.

  Beth came to the rescue. ‘Jennifer is straddling two worlds . . . theirs, and ours, which is also hers.’ She swung an arm in a wide arc. ‘For two centuries, the largely white population of our world has regarded these people as primitives in the cruellest sense of the word. Now we’re waking up, well some of us are, that these survivors are custodians of a very rich, very complex, very wise, old culture. It’s more than just quaint stories of the powers of the banman. It’s about the strength of family, of community, the respect for ancestors, belonging to the land . . . and much more.’

  ‘Not enough people want to listen to our gift, though,’ said Jennifer sadly. ‘They don’t realise there are parts of our civilisation, our culture, that could help us all manage our lives, our families, and this country, a little better.’

  ‘Surely that’s changing,’ said Susan. ‘Look at the high profile of Aboriginal issues, look at all the arts, look at the tourism industry in Aboriginal culture. Surely that’s a start.’

  ‘It’s a start,’ said Beth, with resignation.

  They fell silent and, for awhile, Susan looked again at the great cavalcade of stars.

  ‘Time for bed,’ said Jennifer standing. ‘I’ve enjoyed our talk and once again, thanks for the help.’

  ‘Good night. Sleep well.’

  When she had gone, Susan asked Beth if she really thought that a banman was the solution to Rowena’s problem. ‘She mentioned a shrink. She’s probably been getting the best professional help money can buy in LA.’

  ‘Who knows? Only the banman know
s, I suppose. But I don’t lightly dismiss what, on the surface, looks like hocus pocus. These people say their powers come from the earth, are contained in certain objects, like mahmah stones. They can talk to ancestor spirits and receive messages by thought transference, they can punish and even kill without the victim knowing how it happens. You’ve heard of bone pointing.’ She gave Susan a friendly pat on the back. ‘Now that’s something for you to think about if you’re not ready for shut-eye.’

  ‘Miracle workers, eh? Sounds just what Rowena needs. Good night.’

  In the morning, Hunter announced he would be going into the Wards’ airstrip in two days’ time to pick up a private plane load of tourists from Europe arranged by Rowena. ‘She’s been on the phone getting things set up. Telephone reception is good today.’

  This casual remark was greeted by a barrage of shocked questions.

  ‘Are they going to look at the rock art? Have they got permission?’

  ‘Where are they staying?’

  ‘What sort of tourists are they?’

  Hunter held up his hands, shielding his face. ‘Heck, I don’t know, I was just hired for this jaunt. I understood they’re art collectors from Europe going to The Avenue.’

  ‘That’s exactly what the Barradja don’t want,’ exclaimed Susan.

  Alan’s face flushed with anger. ‘I don’t know where she plans to buy good art from, I have Bungarra tied up.’

  ‘How is she?’ asked Susan, surprised to hear Rowena was on top of business matters.

  Hunter shrugged. ‘Same as always.’

  Rowena appeared for breakfast, bright, efficient and full of plans. She ate a bowl of muesli and avoided looking Beth and Susan in the eye. There would obviously be no acknowledgment of the scene of the night before.

  Beth was first to broach the subject under discussion.

  ‘We’ve heard about this plan of yours. So what have you lined up for these flying moneybags?’

  ‘There are five VIPs flying in from Kununurra, arriving at the Wards’. Two others are driving in on their own. They’ll be the guests of Rosalie and Frank Ward at The Avenue. You know Rosalie runs private accommodation for select visitors in a guest wing attached to the homestead. Very plush.’

  ‘How long has this been up and running?’ asked Beth in some surprise. ‘I know the Wards had been thinking of it, but I didn’t know this was actually happening. Rosalie didn’t say a word about it.’

  Rowena couldn’t keep the slightly supercilious tone from her voice. ‘It’s scarcely your sort of thing, Beth. The Wards won’t be advertising. This is their first group and I’ve organised this one for them. They’ll only be accepting the best people from overseas.’

  Mick and Veronica moved from the cooking area to where everyone was eating breakfast.

  ‘So what kind of a bang do these people get for their bucks?’ asked Veronica.

  ‘The Wards’ tours are designed for movie stars, minor royalty, mega-rich businessmen. They want to try life on an Aussie cattle station, have a taste of the Crocodile Dundee experience, catch a record barramundi, buy some of the native art and fly back to civilisation,’ said Rowena. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. My group is just a one-off trip I arranged for a friend in Germany.’

  ‘So this art buying is the deal you’ve tried to set up with Max and Judy at Bungarra,’ said Alan tightly.

  ‘It’s a free world, buddy. It’s up to the artists who they want to sell their paintings to. These people have a lot of money to spend.’

  ‘Do these visitors know what they’re buying? Know anything about Kimberley art?’ asked Alan.

  ‘Does it matter? They’re willing to pay for a unique experience and pieces that are collectible. This is business, investment buying. They’ll hang it somewhere as a trophy of their latest little exotic jaunt. It’s how these people are. It’s different to what you people are on about. Art’s not really my scene, Alan. I’m more concerned with my film, and Ardjani.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The film you are going to give to the Barradja people,’ said Susan quietly.

  ‘It is for the Barradja. But it has to be held by someone like me or an institution.’

  Susan continued her line of thought. ‘Surely that ownership would be with the investors. Who is backing your project?’

  Rowena was getting annoyed. ‘They have asked to remain anonymous.’ She added, ‘They wanted to be sure I held total copyright as protection of their investment. It was always my intention to include the Barradja as stakeholders in the film project.’

  Mick took up the next point, treading warily. ‘But as we understand the agreement you have with the Barradja elders, they are not included, and you retain the exclusive creative copyright to all their culture. Does that mean, for example, we can’t take photographs without breaching your copyright ownership?’

  Rowena airily flicked a hand. ‘Sure you can take photos.’ She gave a brief smile. ‘You just can’t sell them! Without paying me, that is.’

  Beth frowned. ‘No one takes photos without permission from the elders. And frankly, Rowena, I find the idea that you believe you hold the legal jurisdiction over what Barradja culture can be shown, written, spoken, used or exploited beyond belief.’

  ‘Hey, don’t start attacking me, Beth. They signed the contract. It’s all in writing.’

  ‘But they didn’t know what they were signing,’ snapped Beth.

  Alistair stepped in as the two women confronted each other. ‘Perhaps that is a matter we should discuss. It seems to us inappropriate that you believe you have copyrighted an entire culture.’

  ‘Listen, you take it up with my lawyer. I hold the contract. I have a film crew coming here within the month. Ardjani told me he’d be getting all the old men and women in to perform sacred dances, so we can record them before they die.’

  ‘That’s a terrific plan, Rowena. But what are you going to do with the film – hand it over to the Barradja as a gift? Sell it? These sorts of corroborees and ceremonies can’t be seen by just anyone. And the Barradja can’t pay for it.’ Beth was getting angrier, the frustration showing in her voice.

  ‘I have a business arrangement with the Barradja. Business is business, baby. But don’t write me off as an exploiter. I have some sense of where to draw the line. That’s why I’m here.’ Rowena stormed off towards the Barradja camp.

  ‘Well, she’s a smart Hollywood babe,’ said Susan.

  ‘I’d really like to know what her plans are for this film she’s making,’ said Veronica. ‘It’s a heck of a good opportunity to record this stuff. And if the people are getting old and the way things are changing, perhaps some of this culture might die out. Why can’t some philanthropic Australian outfit fund the thing for the national archives or something?’

  ‘A Barradja museum and cultural centre! That’s what we need,’ said Mick.

  ‘Can you see Rowena handing over the chance to go back to the US with all this brilliant, unique film footage and setting herself up as the new Margaret Mead? I don’t care what she says. She’s out to make a quid at the expense of these innocent people. She’s a vampire.’ Beth was furious and it suddenly struck Susan that Beth was as protective of her rights and involvement with the Barradja as Rowena.

  Beth headed to the river for a calming swim and Veronica gave a soft chuckle of surprise. ‘That’s the first time I’ve seen Beth lose her cool.’

  ‘Rowena is probably the only person who can rattle Beth and get a negative reaction like that. Interesting,’ mused Susan.

  Mick handed Alistair a mug of fresh tea and they settled themselves in chairs away from everyone else.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I reckon this little cultural exercise of ours is turning into a drama with more sub plots than War and Peace. How innocent do you think the elders really are?’

  Alistair sipped his tea. ‘Ardjani and Rusty are smart and wily fellows if you ask me. I don’t think they were legally aware of what they were doing, and who knows how she put the deal t
o them. But I bet they see it differently to Rowena. They agreed to the film project in the belief it was helping their people.’

  ‘Agreed. But the fact they got into such negotiations concerns me. One minute they are sitting in the Kimberley being wise tribal elders, the next they’re trading contracts with big-city wheeler dealers.’

  ‘And now they want us to sort it out, without losing face, or offending Rowena. A tricky, even delicate, line to walk.’

  ‘We may be in the scrub, but I can see this developing into a major scrap.’

  The two legal men were quiet, each chewing over the ramifications of a potential case, each enjoying the mental challenge.

  ‘You’d have to make the decision to wear your heart on your sleeve if you took this on,’ ventured Mick.

  Alistair paused before speaking, measuring his words. ‘I do believe I am willing to make a public commitment to help these people and what they espouse. I’ve never become emotionally involved in a case, you know. I learnt not to do that very early in my career. But here, I find I’m questioning where I stand on a number of matters.’

  ‘Join the club,’ said Mick. ‘Do you suppose it’s because we’re here, in the thick of it? Rather than having that protective desk between the client and us.’

  ‘Possibly. These aren’t normal circumstances,’ agreed Alistair. ‘I keep wishing I was younger, something I never usually worry about.’

  ‘Me either. Though the old men around here have proved age doesn’t beat you. Much fitter than thee and me, well me anyway.’

  Alistair touched his right knee which had been giving him trouble since the walk to the rock paintings. ‘On bad days, these damn knees make me feel like I’m ninety.’

  Mick was quiet for a moment. ‘I reckon you should speak to Jennifer. Wouldn’t surprise me if she came up with something that might help.’

  Billy jumped down from the Oka. ‘Hey, it’s good phone reception. Beth is talking to the welfare lady to see how the baby in Melbourne is doing. Anyone else want to make a call?’