THE SONG MASTER

by Di Morrissey

  And the seed of you will be one with your Mother Earth.

  Heed her.

  At this moment, Rowena jumped up and ran back towards the camp. The women said nothing, as if they didn’t notice. Each was enveloped in her own sense of self. And nobody saw the tears trickle slowly down Veronica’s cheeks.

  Again Jennifer began to speak, cradling her sleeping baby. She scooped a handful of dirt from between her legs. ‘The earth is pregnant. From this place seeds grow, they share their destiny with us. We are the earth that conceives and nourishes life. Our wombs are tied to the Earth Mother’s womb. The changes in our body, as our baby grows in us, are the same within the earth. We must heal ourselves and so we heal the earth.’

  A tiny sob escaped Veronica and she gently laid her hands on her belly. Susan said nothing, but listened as her friend’s breathing subsided to a gentle rhythm.

  Jennifer’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. ‘We are lying in the warm soft mud at the bottom of the wunggud pool. We slowly grasp the stem of the waterlily and pull ourselves gently upwards through the water to where we see the shadow of the lily pad on the surface. Rest a moment, then come up through the water, to the sunlight. Rest in this sacred place. And slowly, slowly, come back from the Dreaming.’

  Gradually the women’s eyes fluttered open, they stretched and began to sit up. No one spoke. The air was thick with the sweet smell of the golden flowers hanging over them on the wunggud bank. They glanced at each other, shyly exchanging smiles in acknowledgment of a shared and special secret.

  As they walked slowly back to the camp, Veronica trailed behind with Lilian and Jennifer.

  ‘You want to get a baby?’ asked Lilian suddenly.

  The three stopped. Veronica looked to Jennifer, back to Lilian and nodded.

  ‘We lead you, only you to the baby spirit pond.’ They took her hands and walked to where the bank sloped gently, an opening framed by two large palms in the dense fringe of trees.

  Jennifer laid the sleeping baby on the bank, tucking the edge of the sling wrap around him. ‘We take you in the water now.’

  Veronica was silent and dropped the sarong she was wearing over her swimsuit. Each taking a hand the mother and daughter led Veronica to the river and waded in to their waists. The water touched Jennifer’s shirt above her shorts, Lilian’s cotton skirt floated around her on the surface. Gently they laid Veronica on her back and, as she floated in the baby spirit pond, the mother and daughter stood by each side, their soft hands barely felt beneath her arms.

  ‘Relax,’ Jennifer whispered. ‘Now you close your eyes, open your legs wide. Feel the water and the spirit of the baby pond come into you.’

  Veronica welcomed the warmth. Vaguely she noticed how her legs looked pale brown under the tannin-coloured water. She lay suspended in this watery womb-like place and gradually her eyes closed. The older woman rested one hand on Veronica across her waist. Jennifer splayed her strong nurse’s fingers below and the hands began rubbing lightly in a circular motion as her mother began to softly chant. Veronica floated, trust and peace drifting within her. Her eyes swirled with colours, patterns of light forming and re-forming beneath her eyelids. She lost sense of time and space. The hushed voice came again. ‘Open your eyes and soon you will see your baby spirit and you will know. Might be a lizard, might be a bird, a bee, a fish, a flower.’ Veronica opened her eyes. She lay in the water blinking, blinded by the flash of sunlight.

  Returning to the bank, as she gained a foothold on the sandy bottom, she looked from the daughter to the mother, who smiled broadly. The two Aboriginal women walked up the bank from the river and Lilian stood wringing her skirt on the sand. Veronica took a step, but her toe lodged beneath a root and she stumbled. Instinctively she reached out to stop herself falling and her hands fell upon a waterlily. Lilian pointed at the lily pads. ‘You follow the stem and find the root, this one very fat. Good for you to eat. You take this one specially for your dinner.’

  Her feet steady now, Veronica grasped the waterlily, pulling its stem. She gazed at the fat pink flower in her palm, and she knew. She wanted to shout with joy. She looked at the mother and daughter instead, and their faces were inscrutable.

  It was the end of a pleasantly warm day. Refreshed from a sunset swim, Susan and Veronica donned sweaters to ward off the fast-gathering chill. Mosquito repellent was slathered on exposed skin as everybody gathered round the campfire.

  When the turkey stew was pronounced nearly ready, Beth rose reluctantly. ‘Before the others come over to eat, I have to go and meet Rowena and Ardjani. They’re waiting for me to do sorry time. I have to apologise to madam over there for making her upset and humiliating the elders.’

  ‘Cripes, Beth, what did you do? Stuff her.’ Mick was irritated.

  ‘Raised voices and heated words were exchanged earlier today when Rowena told Ardjani I had disputed their contract. She was a sight to behold. Rent her hair, sobbed, wrung her hands, begged Ardjani to save her and the film from me and those white law men.’

  ‘What a bitch! She’s mad,’ said Veronica.

  ‘She seemed perfectly okay when we went hunting for tucker, then later she disappeared.’ Susan wondered at the American girl’s mercurial personality.

  ‘She’s legally out of line, what a stunt. So why apologise? You’re quite right, Mick.’ said Alistair.

  ‘It’s a ritual. This has to be done,’ sighed Beth. ‘And I was out of line. It’s not the Barradja way to attack a visitor the way I did. So I have to apologise for upsetting Rowena. It’s a tribal thing, not a justice issue. But the good thing about Aboriginal apology is you do it, you’re punished on the spot, and it’s over. Done with.’

  ‘So, what happens?’ asked Susan.

  ‘You have to grovel a bit, even though it was a disagreement. I will just sit quietly with head bowed and say nothing or try to defend myself while the men growl me up. And it will be a pretty ferocious growling up. Then I’ll say I’m sorry for talking too strong and upsetting Rowena and then I’ll wait. They’ll probably make me sit there, curled in shame, for fifteen minutes or so.’

  ‘And what’s your punishment?’ asked Susan.

  ‘They’ll ignore me until they’ve decided enough time has passed and then I’ll be validated as a murranburra woman again. Rowena, as the person I offended, will be told by the law men that I’ve been growled up, I’ve apologised and that’s the end of it. It’s very important to the Barradja that no grudges are held.’

  Later, as the group gathered for the dinner, Beth returned and, without saying anything, busied herself at the fire.

  The Barradja joined them, discussing the hunt and food gathering, ignoring Beth.

  Mick was the first to pass judgement on their turkey feast. ‘Not the tenderest bird I’ve sunk my teeth into, but a very interesting flavour . . .’ He made a flamboyant gesture of picking his teeth.

  Rowena, followed by Hunter, helped herself to the turkey stew. Hunter waited, then served himself, sitting beside Barwon to eat.

  Susan studied him in the firelight trying to analyse his relationship with Rowena. Hunter walked a fine line between supplicant, employee and friend.

  After the meal was finished, Rowena was first to excuse herself. Saying a brief good night, she turned to Alan. ‘We need to discuss our arrangement.’

  She walked alone back to her room at the Barradja camp. Susan was first to confront Alan. ‘You’ve gone into partnership with the vampire?’

  ‘It’s not quite the way she put it.’ He explained his side of the deal, offering unnecessary detail as if to justify his involvement, and how he saw this as a means of safeguarding the sale of the Bungarra art to the European tourists.

  ‘If you can’t beat ’em, eh,’ said Mick.

  ‘You coming with us then, Alan?’ asked Hunter to cover the awkward pause.

  ‘Just to Bungarra.’

  ‘Good. I have a funny feeling about this mob she’s bringing in. Different to the usual crowd I fe
rry around.’

  ‘Everything about Rowena is different,’ said Veronica.

  That night the old men danced. Sorry behaviour to Beth was complete and, in a spontaneous gesture, the group had been called to the Barradja campfire after dinner. Ardjani, Rusty and Digger sat in their track pants, bare foot and bare-chested, white ochre smeared on bodies and faces. The women sang, keeping time with clapsticks, dictating the rhythm of the dance. The children leapt around the fringes of the entertainment, excited faces and voices, the firelight flickering in their wide dark eyes as the men re-enacted the whitefellas hunting the bush turkey. Their mimicry, the extroverted mannerisms, caused much laughter and the young boys were quick to join in, following the rhythm and mannerisms of the old men.

  The beating thump of the bare feet to the rhythm of the sticks reminded Susan of the pattern of vibrations she’d experienced while lying on the earth that morning.

  Then she saw the totemic patterns, drawn in the dust, that blurred beneath the dancers’ feet, becoming part of the action, the symbolism, and the stage for this ceremony.

  All had come from the earth. It was also a homage to past stories, dancing them into the present, each dancer becoming a living embodiment of the Dreaming that had gone before and would, through their performance, continue.

  Hunter tore off his jumper and in his jeans, T-shirt and bare feet, joined in, attempting to follow the steps of the men’s dance. This brought a round of cheers from the audience who were keeping time to the sticks. The firelight danced on his fit body and, although he was unfamiliar with the dance, he moved with agility and grace. Susan watched Barwon, expecting him to also join in, but he sat hunched at the outer edge of the circle watching the ritual.

  ‘The young boys are enjoying this but it’s part of the learning process for the subtle, intricate sacred dances to come,’ said Beth. ‘One night when all the others in the community come back, they’ll have a proper corroboree.’

  ‘Dance, movement, the body painting and decoration, it’s a collective ritual that fascinates me,’ said Alan. ‘Digger started to sing a story today, because we crossed a Dreaming track where a story of his ancestors took place. So it was his responsibility to celebrate the dead.’

  ‘We followed what Ardjani called the nature path of the earth. The old paths,’ said Alistair.

  ‘How do they work again?’ asked Mick.

  Beth gestured to Jennifer, who explained, ‘The country is crossed by a trail of overlapping stories. Each cycle of song is sung in the place where it occurs. Each group of people belongs to certain sections of these song pathways, so that it becomes a network of communicating and contact over great distances. By following the songlines, they follow the trading and ceremonial movements set down from creation time. It’s a mythic dimension that springs from the centre of the earth where Dreamtime creation begins. They have to be sung by the custodian of that place, in that place.’

  The singing over, the group thanked the Barradja. Ardjani stopped Alistair and spoke quietly. ‘Today, you were a hunter. You learn something your people have forgotten. Keep this to remind you.’ He handed him a smooth large quill from the turkey’s wing. Alistair bowed his head, but didn’t reply. Ardjani grinned. ‘Make him into a pen, write up them fancy law papers, eh?’

  The following morning, Hunter lit a cigarette and tried not to smile as he watched the Vuitton and Gucci luggage being pulled out of the Chieftain light aircraft and slung into the back of a utility truck, under Frank Ward’s supervision. Rosalie Ward was handing out hats, sun block, answering questions and urging the Europeans – three men and two women – into the safari vehicle. But they stood listening to Rowena who was in full flight about the mysticism of this spirit land, the Kimberley. The tourists took photographs of the bush landing strip on Avenue Station where Aboriginal stockmen on horseback watched, not realising that to these visitors they were a living tourist attraction.

  Rowena waved at her group, and they followed her over to the safari vehicle where Hunter slipped behind the wheel. Rosalie sat near the front with Rowena, and the Australian pilot got into Frank’s truck.

  ‘Follow Frank, Hunter. The homestead is only a kilometre or so.’ Rosalie gave Hunter a charming smile.

  When they arrived, two other guests were waiting. A French Canadian and a Swiss, both photographers. They’d chosen to hire a four-wheel drive in Kununurra rather than travel with the others, who’d transferred from their G4 to the smaller Chieftain that could land on the station.

  Hunter shook their hands, congratulating them on their fine timing. ‘My partner is Swiss. He’s always on time,’ grinned the French Canadian.

  At the homestead, Rosalie led the group through the front garden to the separate guest quarters screened by brilliant bougainvillea, shady breezeways and palms, the tropical architecture blending with outback simplicity. Each double guest room had an en suite and was decorated in a different theme. The photographers were given the key to the billabong room. A mural of a tranquil pond smothered in lily pads was a theme continued in soft green and pink cushions and bedspread. The two men closed the screened doors, ignored the fan and turned on the airconditioning, giving the mosquito nets above the beds a curious look. They dropped their hand luggage on the wicker chaise and began speaking in intense and rapid French.

  Rowena held court in the formal dining room that evening, recounting elaborate tales of living with the Barradja. Later they moved to the large sitting room for coffee and liqueurs but the two men who’d driven in excused themselves, bidding everyone goodnight as the phone rang.

  Rosalie took her husband aside. ‘It’s Len Steele, he wants to arrange a meeting with us.’

  Frank picked up the phone in the study that also served as his office. ‘G’day, Len. What’s up?’

  ‘Plenty. Listen we’ve got trouble brewing. Giles Jackson had a run-in with a yellafella the other day, one of that city mob staying with the Barradja. Jackson reckons he was spying on the mining camp at Boulder Downs. The Barradja are dead against mining as you know.’

  ‘So what’s that to do with us?’

  ‘Jackson reckons those city lawyers are up here to help the natives slap a land claim on this area.’

  ‘I don’t need any trouble right this minute. I’ve got a group of tourists in from Europe, remember. The ones I’m bringing over to Eagle Rock to see your Bradshaw paintings.’

  ‘I reckon we need a bit of a showdown with the Barradja mob. We’ve got Shareen Beckridge staying with us and I’ve asked her to come over with us to suss out the situation. She’s going to run as an Independent for one of the bush seats in the WA Government, probably the seat of Kimberley. She’s interested in problems connected with pastoral leases. Oh, and Ian Frazer’s son, Andrew, from Yandoo, is coming down and said he’d join the meeting.’

  ‘He’s coming just to meet this pollie lady?’ Frank held up his hand as Rosalie appeared in the door, signalling him to rejoin their guests.

  ‘No, he asked if he could land his plane at your place. He’s heading out to Marrenyikka. I thought it a bit odd at first, but he’s got a lady friend in that city group. Mightn’t hurt to have one of our mob out there to keep an ear to the ground.’

  ‘Yeah. Listen, Len, I have to go. Just let me know when it’s all on. And tell young Frazer he can land here any time. See you.’

  With the Europeans settled in the guest quarters, Hunter and Rowena and the pilot were shown to the family rooms at the rear of the homestead.

  Ten minutes later, Rowena tapped at Hunter’s door and he opened it, surprised to see her dressed in just a shirt. ‘What’s up? Change in plans?’

  ‘You might say that. Can I come in? I want to talk to you.’

  Hunter, wearing only his trousers, stifled a yawn and reached to pull a T-shirt over his bare chest. He was glad he was being well paid, she was a demanding employer.

  ‘Don’t bother with that on my account.’ She took the T-shirt from him and tossed it on a chair.

>   ‘So what’s the change in plan? You’ve changed your mind about going out to the rock art tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure we are. The change in plan is domestic. Rooms. I was thinking I might take this one.’

  ‘What the heck for? Same as yours, isn’t it?’

  She gave a provocative smile. ‘I’m not asking you to leave.’

  He blinked, uncomprehending for a moment. ‘Oh. Shit, Rowena. No offence, but that wouldn’t be too good. I mean, you’ve had a lot of wine, you’ve hired me as your driver, you might regret this . . .’

  She cut in, reaching out to run her hands over his smooth, dark-skinned chest. ‘Hired you . . . that’s exactly right. Come on, Hunter . . . I don’t sleep well, I need a little soothing . . .’ Her flirtatious manner suddenly dropped and she became fearful, clinging to him, burying her face in his shoulder. ‘I get these dreams, these awful dreams, they keep me awake. I need you to chase them out, come into me, Hunter, come inside me . . . please, make them go away . . .’

  Hunter unhooked her arms and in a swift move swept her up, kicked the door wide open with his bare foot and carried Rowena to her room, dumping her on the bed where she curled up facing the wall, shaking with silent sobs.

  ‘Take a pill or something. Sorry I can’t help you.’ Hunter strode from the room, quietly but firmly closing the door behind him.

  The following morning as they trudged through the stringy-bark and salmon gums on Eagle Rock Station, Hunter avoided Rowena, paying attention to the questions of the two German wives. The American seemed not to notice, cheerfully giving the other visitors a potted version of the story of the Wandjina creation. Len Steele and Frank Ward trailed at the rear, deep in discussion over the imminent meeting with the pastoralists and Shareen Beckridge.

  The tourists rested before the climb up to the rock shelter, and in answer to a question from one of the photographers, Rowena began to speak in a hushed voice.