THE SONG MASTER

by Di Morrissey

  ‘There is a place . . . a special place, which holds the most sacred art of all creation. It is the Holy Grail of Aboriginal art. In one image there is all that tells the story, holds the key, and resonates with such power that all who see it, believe. One image holds the key to the core of this culture.’

  The Europeans were spellbound. ‘How old is it? Have you seen it?’ asked the French Canadian photographer. The question caught Frank’s attention as this was the first he’d heard of such a place.

  Rowena shook her head. ‘Sadly, no. The Barradja elder, Ardjani, told me about this place. It is so sacred and secret only certain very senior law men can go there. It’s incredibly ancient, but well preserved because it’s very sheltered and hidden.’

  ‘Where is it, who does it belong to?’ asked the Swiss, nonchalantly reaching into his bag for a camera lens.

  ‘It belongs to the Barradja but as I understand it, this is the seed of what all Aboriginal spirituality is about.’

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be speaking of these things.’ Hunter’s voice was accusing, warning.

  ‘What would you know, Hunter? You’re not initiated, you’re a town guy.’ She spoke lightly, not offended by his barbed remark.

  ‘I’m not initiated because I was taken away from my tribal family and put in a mission. Even though I grew up on a white man’s property, I learned enough to know you can’t go into sacred sites without the elders’ permission.’ He glanced at Len Steele, who remarked patiently that he’d given permission for Rowena to bring the visitors here. Hunter continued, ‘Over the years I’ve heard stories in the Kimberley about what you call the Holy Grail. It’s a secret place and no one has ever been able to find it.’

  ‘Who’s looking? I’m just telling a story. A true story.’ Rowena closed the subject. As the group set off to see the rock art in the first shelter on the day’s itinerary, Len Steele and Frank Ward stayed behind. ‘We’ve seen it all before. We’ll wait here.’

  Rowena led the group straggling up the rock-strewn rise to view the same Wandjina art gallery she’d discovered on her earlier wanderings in this area. ‘Please don’t touch the paintings, but feel free to take photos,’ she announced. After studying the imposing portraits of the Wandjina in the centuries-old ochre blurred into the cave wall, and the tinier drawings which included the Dhumby story, though Rowena knew nothing of it, the group clambered back down. Supporting themselves on individual rocks, they were unaware that these were tjuringas, totemic ancestors turned into secret sacred stones. Nor did they realise they had broken several taboos.

  Unheeding, the group moved on, followed by Len and Frank, Rowena’s voice floating above the ancient topography.

  ‘Len has agreed we can drive to an utterly intriguing site – one of the so-called Bradshaw galleries. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive. Still part of Eagle Rock,’ she added, knowing how huge these massive stations must seem to the Europeans.

  ‘And what is this Bradshaw?’

  ‘Pretty significant stuff.’ Rowena was in her element with an attentive audience and no one to challenge her. ‘They were found by an explorer, Joseph Bradshaw, late last century. But these figures are old, I mean like we’re talking seventeen to twenty thousand years, maybe older. It’s like no other Aboriginal art – very delicate, fine lines, dancing spirits and such. Quite small compared to the big Wandjinas we just saw. The Barradja call the Bradshaws, guyon guyon pictures.’

  ‘There’s a bit of controversy about these things isn’t there?’ remarked Frank Ward.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Len Steele. ‘Some people claim they weren’t done by the local Aborigines, but by some earlier race that was here before.’ Then, struck by a sudden thought, his eyes lit up. ‘You know, if that’s the case, it’d put the Barradja’s claims of original land ownership right out the window, wouldn’t it?’

  Frank frowned, wishing Len hadn’t spoken out in front of their guests, who had returned from the rock paintings eager for the next adventure. It was time to drop the subject. ‘I reckon you might have a point there. Something to discuss at our meeting in the next day or so, eh?’

  ‘Please, can we go on to see these special paintings?’ asked one of the Germans.

  ‘We can take photographs, yes?’ asked one of the women.

  Rowena gestured casually. ‘I don’t see why not. They’ve been documented in a book.’

  Hunter stayed in the shade of a small tree, perched on a rock. ‘I’ll stay here if you don’t mind. Len can take you in.’ He didn’t add that he had grave doubts about the propriety of what Rowena was doing. He knew there were ceremonies to appease the ancestor spirits that should be observed in places like this.

  Idly he watched one of the photographers take something from his backpack and hand it to the other as they walked at a distance behind the group. He thought of the pilot sitting by the pool back at the homestead, and wished he’d done the same.

  Rowena stood back in triumph as exclamations of surprised admiration filled the rock shelter, the tourists closely examining the little drawings of the Bradshaws that were like nothing they had ever seen.

  The silhouetted outlines of the figures danced across the rock wall, faint with age yet wonderfully energetic. The stick-like characters wore elaborate headdresses and strange little aprons and tassels hung from their elbows. Some carried spears and a throwing weapon similar to a boomerang.

  ‘Art as old as the ice age, pretty terrific, huh?’ said Rowena. She lightly tossed off the remark, trying to cover the enormous effect the pictures were having on her, too. These little paintings were so alive, so affecting, and they touched something in her, this ancient tribe of little rock art figures that claimed to be one of the oldest signs of man on the planet. They were gay and spritely, and they’d been here in their happiness for all those years. They touched her in a way nothing else had in the Kimberley. And she felt her fears all the more painfully.

  The visitors studied the paintings, discussing what they possibly depicted. The photographers seemed fascinated, snapping off many shots. When they were reluctantly drawn away for the return trip, the Europeans were more excited than they had been so far, Rowena thought. As they drove away she turned her head towards the shelter where the ancient figures danced on their rocks, and for a few seconds she stared at the ragged terrain that held so many secrets.

  Two days later, the Europeans set out for a day excursion to Bungarra. The art hub of painters, like Freddy Timms, Hector Jandary and Jack Britten that was managed by Max and Judy, was a huge hit with the tourists. Alan, who’d borrowed Rusty’s truck and driven over from Marrenyikka, greeted Rowena with some formality. While they had a business arrangement, he wasn’t thrilled with the way she’d tried to snare the artists into her contract web. By doing a deal with her, at least he could ensure the right prices were paid, and he and Judy and Max would get their normal commission. He stood in the background listening to Rowena talk to the visitors.

  ‘This is where the famous Florence Namurra worked, the old lady of the outback. Her art is now highly sought after.’ Rowena turned to Judy anticipating her visitors’ next question. ‘Are there any of Florrie’s pieces tucked away?’

  Judy shook her head, distressed at the breaking of protocol by Rowena mentioning the name of the recent dead. ‘Not here. We don’t know what’s going on down at her camp. The clan claimed her work when the poor old darling passed away.’

  ‘Perhaps we should visit these people . . ?’ one of the Germans suggested.

  ‘Please yourself, for sure the family will try to sell you a painting, but it’s doubtful it would be genuine. Some of the women are painting in her style . . . isn’t that so, Alan?’

  ‘What about Lucky Dodds . . . where is he?’ Rowena changed the subject.

  ‘He’s not well, he has good days and bad days. He’s old. But we do have some of his work. Alan asked us to get them for you. They’re upstairs. With all the curated documentation and so on.’

  ‘Judy, Max, my
friends would really like to meet him.’ Rowena’s voice was very insistent and the look in her eye was saying that, in Lucky’s presence, sales would be more forthcoming. Seeing their hesitation, she appealed to Alan.

  ‘Take Rowena’s friends upstairs, Max. Judy and I will go and see if he’s up to it,’ said Alan.

  Rowena was into the front seat of Judy’s old car before the other two had even opened their doors.

  The old man was lying on a couch outside his small fibro house. His face was covered in grey stubble, his clothes had the creased comfort of several days of wearing. He sat up as they got out of the car, reaching for the stick beside him to ease himself to his feet. His eyes brightened and he managed a cheerful smile as he saw Judy get out of the driver’s seat. ‘I be glad to have visitors. You come to see Lucky, who you got dere?’ His smile faded as he saw Rowena step around the old car.

  ‘Hi, Lucky. I’m Rowena. We met before, remember?’

  ‘Course Lucky know you. Why you here? Lucky not signing no papers.’ He looked worried and turned to Alan. Judy quickly went to the old man, soothing him and holding his arm, furious at Rowena for upsetting him when he seemed so frail.

  ‘Rowena has brought some people who’ve flown over from Europe in their aeroplane to see you. They want to meet the famous Lucky Dodds.’

  He didn’t trust or like Rowena, but his frown relaxed. After all, a sale was a sale.

  ‘Dey gonna buy paintings? Lucky pictures?’ He turned to Alan.

  ‘I’m going to be there, so we can make a sale, just as normal, Lucky,’ he said.

  The old man relaxed. ‘If Alan say it okay and dey pay proper price, okay den.’

  ‘Of course they’ll pay the proper price,’ interjected Rowena with a smile, ‘but they want to meet you first.’

  ‘Now listen, Lucky, how’re you feeling? You don’t look good,’ Judy stepped in. ‘You don’t have to come over to the house.’

  ‘No, no. I come. You got cake? Dese people come a long way. Dey gonna meet Lucky Dodds. I meet de Queen of England, you know dat? Judy, you get me a good shirt.’

  With shaking hands he reknotted the red polka dot scarf around his throat. ‘Find me cowboy hat please, girl.’

  By the time morning tea with Lucky was over, a hundred and forty thousand dollars had changed hands for a series of rolled canvases.

  Hunter packed the pictures carefully in the safari vehicle. There was extra room as the photographers had chosen to stay at the homestead. They had politely expressed no interest in buying high-priced indigenous art.

  The following morning, the Chieftain took off with Rowena waving from the edge of the airstrip, Frank and Rosalie Ward waving from beside their vehicles. Hunter lounged against the drums of aviation fuel.

  ‘A successful trip all round, I’d say,’ said Frank with satisfaction as Rowena rejoined them.

  ‘They’re happy. They got some very collectible pieces, thanks to Alan Carmichael allowing several major works to be sold. You guys have done a superb job. They thought The Avenue very gracious and comfortable.’

  ‘Let’s hope it opens the door for more international people to come here,’ said Frank.

  ‘And you, Rowena?’ asked Rosalie.

  ‘Hey, I fulfilled a deal I’d made to bring these people here, and now I can get on with my documentary. We’re heading back to Marrenyikka.’

  ‘Rowena, do stay for lunch, we’re expecting several guests. Personal acquaintances. In fact the Yandoo plane should be flying in soon,’ added Rosalie.

  ‘Why sure. Thanks, it’s nice to have a bit of social life out here.’

  Frank turned to Hunter. ‘This strip’s busier today than Kingsford Smith Airport!’

  Hunter heard a light aircraft come in as he sat on the verandah steps of The Avenue homestead smoking a cigarette, watching Rowena with some amusement. She was in a shady section of the front garden, swaying and making jerky dance movements, like an undisciplined puppet, to the abstract music coming through her earphones from the small tape recorder she held in one hand. Having finished this ritual with arms akimbo, head flung back, and an abandoned cry, she sat down and crossed her legs in her lap, yoga fashion. Her fingers became closed buds which she rested upright on each knee, and she closed her eyes. Occasionally she hummed, a deep throaty sound that drifted across the lawn.

  The screen door opened and Rosalie came out. ‘Lunch is nearly ready. Goodness, what is Rowena doing?’

  ‘Meditating. She does some funny things. Got some funny ideas too. She’s a strange person.’

  ‘Have you known her long?’ Rosalie was curious. This was the first time she’d entertained an Aborigine in her home and Hunter’s relaxed, pleasant manner and ease in a white social setting had impressed her. His fine features and physique made him a striking individual. Several times during the last few days Rosalie had caught herself thinking Hunter wasn’t like an Aborigine at all. Just an attractive young man.

  Hunter stood up. ‘No. This is just a business arrangement. She found me in Darwin through the Tourist Bureau. My business is still pretty new. I’m just a gun for hire.’ He grinned. ‘So to speak. I keep a rifle out of sight, but I can still throw a spear if I have to. Impresses the tourists.’

  ‘But you grew up in the city, you said?’

  ‘Yes. I was fostered from the mission to a family in Perth.’

  ‘What happened to your family? Don’t you miss them?’

  ‘Yeah. They got moved off the station same as me, the priest told me. So I couldn’t go back. Haven’t talked about them much for years, till Rowena started asking me about them. You know how you talk on a long drive. Said she’d lost her family too though in a different sort of way. Her mother killed herself when Rowena was young. Her father is a survivor of the Holocaust. She thinks that’s why he’s spent his whole life driven to make money, to make sure he was never vulnerable again. She reckons she’s only got to know him in the past few years.’

  ‘And the white people who raised you?’

  ‘They’re nice people, they put me in a good school. I worked in Perth in various jobs, but I always wanted to come back north. Figured there’d be more opportunities for a black bloke to strike out on his own.’

  ‘You have a good business in Darwin?’

  ‘I do all right. I have bigger plans, though. There’s so much interest in the “real” Australia. Visitors want a different sort of cultural tourist experience. Four-star hotels are the same everywhere.’ He looked down the driveway to where Frank Ward’s Range Rover was approaching. ‘Maybe I should talk to your husband about my plans, maybe we could combine what I do and your scene here.’

  ‘Yes, maybe we should have a chat some time. Leave me your phone number.’ Rosalie was beginning to think Hunter might be an asset in their small tourism venture. A handsome, acceptable Aborigine who could sit at the dinner table and converse about all manner of subjects as well as having traditional bush skills. There were definite possibilities here.

  Rowena rejoined the world, stretched and called to Rosalie, ‘Mind if I have a swim?’

  ‘Go ahead. Someone has just arrived. Lunch in about an hour.’

  Rowena disappeared as the Range Rover stopped. Frank Ward and his passenger got out and came to the front steps. Rosalie stepped forward and held out her hand, smiling at the tall young man.

  ‘This is my wife, Rosalie. Andrew Frazer, he and his family run Yandoo.’

  ‘I’ve heard of your place. Your family has been there a long time, I gather.’ Rosalie shook his hand, then looked over her shoulder as Andrew raised an eyebrow.

  Rosalie was about to introduce Hunter but she paused when she saw the expression on his face. Hunter and Andrew were staring at each other. Andrew looked confused, there was something about the man facing him.

  Initial expressions of shock and pain were replaced as a strained smile broke out on Hunter’s face. ‘Well, well. Andrew Frazer. It’s me. Hunter Watson.’ He stepped forward as Andrew’s jaw dropped.
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  ‘Hunter? My God!’ They pumped hands and slapped each other on the back as Rosalie and Frank looked at each other in surprise.

  ‘How . . . What are you doing here?’ Andrew was having trouble reconciling the well-dressed Aborigine, obviously at home in the white homestead, with the barefoot bush kid who’d shared his childhood days.

  For Hunter, his former playmate had turned out exactly as he’d expected . . . the well-to-do pastoralist’s senior son ready to inherit the station. But there was great warmth in both their greetings.

  ‘I take it you two know each other?’ Frank gave a querying look.

  ‘Grew up together. Lost touch when I was sent to boarding school.’ Andrew turned to Hunter, his face grim, faintly embarrassed. ‘I never knew what happened to you. And no one would tell me much. Just said you’d been sent away to a good mission school.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, I got a good education anyway.’ There was a touch of bitterness in Hunter’s voice. ‘What hurt most was losing my family.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ever come back?’

  As Hunter paused before answering, Rosalie touched Andrew on the arm. ‘Would you two like a beer on the verandah? Sounds like you have a bit of catching up to do.’

  ‘Good idea. Er, I have a few things to do before the others arrive. See you round.’ Frank excused himself and went to his office.

  As the midday sun burned across the garden, the two childhood friends struggled to find adult common ground. Hunter unburdened the pain he’d concealed beneath a cheerful front for so many years. ‘The priest told me my parents had been moved on, I wasn’t wanted back there and I had to look to my own future. Make something of myself.’

  ‘Christ, mate. Of course you were wanted. I missed you terribly. Every time I went home for holidays, it was never the same. Listen, I don’t think my parents had anything to do with this. You know how the church and government people worked in those days.’