THE SONG MASTER

by Di Morrissey

  They laughed, then the judge awkwardly touched her arm, his face serious. ‘Thanks for staying anyway. No one’s done that for me before.’

  The remark puzzled Susan. Then she turned her head slowly and glanced at Mick Duffy walking beside her. And, for just a fleeting second, she saw the wild red larrikin of the quick quip and irreverent humour, looking like a lonely old man.

  Moving at a distance from the campfire, the night air nipped at exposed skin with chilled fingers. And so the campers huddled near the warmth as they discussed ideas for the security of the archaeological site, in view of the theft of the guyon guyon rock paintings.

  Alistair summed up, deferring to the elders. ‘It would appear the most pressing matter is to meet with Giles Jackson and his wife and begin negotiations for permanent access and protection of the area on Boulder Downs where Esme and Professor de Witt’s team is working.’

  ‘Do we play down the importance of the archaeological find?’ Mick turned to Esme.

  The straight-backed lady in her man’s shirt and long skirt was for once without her straw hat. Her wispy grey hair was knotted firmly on top of her head, seeming to pull the papery skin of her face up at the temples. Her blue eyes looked as bright as a noon-day sky.

  ‘No. The scientific world needs to know about this. Everybody should know. Ardjani tells us the rock is part of the time before the flood when everything was destroyed and the creation was begun again.’

  She looked at Ardjani as he elaborated, ‘Those pictures and scratching were done way before ice age mob, very ancient people did them. So we call that place Birrimitji, after the people from In the Beginning.’

  Esme continued, ‘The initial findings are so significant that scholars from anthropologists to theologians are going to want to do research here. After all, as we said, this could rewrite the history of man.’

  ‘All the more reason some guidelines need to be established,’ said Alistair.

  ‘The police and the Land Council should be informed as well,’ said Beth.

  ‘The important thing is that all the people that come here, they must know the proper story, the Barradja story of this place,’ insisted Ardjani.

  Michael de Witt agreed. ‘When we first contacted the Jacksons about working on their lease, they said they were more interested in the mining venture that’s nearby.’

  ‘Now, wait, this raises a delicate and dangerous point,’ said Alistair suddenly. ‘How close is this Birrimitji site to the mining exploration? There could be a conflict there if the mining probe turns up a vein that runs close to the archaeological site.’

  The elders exchanged worried looks. Ardjani repeated the Barradja’s attitude to mining. ‘See, that is the reason we don’t like digging into the earth. It is like digging into our body and makin’ a wound that will never heal up.’

  ‘Looking at it from the gadia point of view, it seems to me the value of this land is in the heritage and culture, not the diamonds or minerals in the soil,’ said Alan.

  ‘Either way, Giles Jackson will try to exploit it. He’s in pretty desperate financial straits,’ said Beth.

  The old judge suddenly spread his arms. ‘Hell then, if he’s that badly off, why don’t the Barradja buy Boulder Downs?’ He grinned. There was a moment of silence as everyone stared at him.

  ‘It’s a great solution,’ said Beth. ‘Except for a small detail or two.’

  Ardjani rubbed his fingers together in front of Mick. ‘Money.’

  ‘Dat be a lot of paintings,’ grinned Digger.

  Alistair looked thoughtful. ‘Ardjani, what would you do with Boulder Downs if you owned it?’ he asked.

  Ardjani gazed into the distance then spoke firmly and clearly. ‘Our people would live there and teach our children, and we could invite people who want to come and share our gift with us. So we can learn each other’s ways. White people, foreign people, they all can come and learn about our culture, our laws, our beliefs to help themselves.’ He spoke as if he’d known this for a long time. ‘This we would call our Bush University. This is the other plan I wanted to speak to you about.’ He looked around the group. ‘If we old people die and there is no way for our culture to live, then for our children it will be the end of our story.’

  ‘Bush University! What a fabulous idea,’ said Susan. ‘And not impossible. Isn’t there some way we could get some sort of private funding to buy the land?’

  Beth looked at Alistair. ‘A foundation of some sort. Is it possible?’

  ‘Hell, it is,’ said Mick. ‘Find a big mob to throw in five grand each and we can buy it. If Jackson is desperate, how much would he accept? Maybe the churches could come to the party. And an art institution, and corporations who are prepared to do their bit for reconciliation.’

  ‘Barradja people own this place, run this place, though,’ added Ardjani.

  Alistair held up a hand. ‘Hang on, we haven’t got that far yet. But I can see it is a definite possibility. I believe between us, we could get a plan in motion.’

  ‘It’d be quicker and cheaper than waiting for the Native Title claim,’ said Mick.

  ‘What would this place do exactly, Ardjani?’ asked Veronica. ‘I really don’t see what you’re getting at.’

  ‘People come to Bush University for a couple of weeks in the dry season. Live with us, share with us, learn with us. Like you been doin’.’

  ‘Bush University,’ repeated Susan enthusiastically, and she gave Andrew a wide smile. ‘Sign me up for next year.’

  ‘It’s a wonderful idea,’ said Beth, enjoying Susan’s enthusiasm. ‘And one the Barradja have been talking about for some time. But it is impossible to fit it onto Marrenyikka. When all the Barradja are here, there’s hardly room for them.’

  Ardjani spoke with humility and sincerity. ‘We Barradja hope you can help us make Bush University happen. For all the people of Australia.’

  This gave everyone a lot to talk about as they prepared for bed. Alistair, Beth and Andrew stood with their backs to the fire, finishing the last of the tea.

  ‘Andrew, it would be useful if you would come with Esme and de Witt to see the Jacksons tomorrow,’ suggested Alistair. ‘Having a pastoralist with us might help.’

  ‘Surely when they see Birrimitji and learn of its importance, they will rethink the mine,’ said Beth and yawned.

  Andrew threw the dregs of his tea into the fire. ‘Don’t expect an immediate conversion. Men like Jackson can be very set in their views.’

  Seeing Alan sitting with Esme and de Witt, Beth walked over and asked Alan to bring out the photographs from Melbourne of the baby’s wrap. ‘I promised I’d show Esme before she heads back to the site tomorrow. She’s always had a soft spot for the Dhumby story.’

  Beth sat next to the old lady and squeezed her hand. ‘It’s been good to see you tramping round the bush, Esme. Right in your element.’

  ‘Might not have too many years left of doing this sort of caper.’ She gave a wistful smile. ‘Soon be heading for Dulugun, home of the dead, and Dorgei, the fountain of happy spirits.’

  ‘Rubbish. You’ve got years before you make the Dulugun journey.’ For the first time Susan and the others around them saw Beth’s self-control quiver slightly and they realised the depth of love she felt for the old woman who had been her friend, mentor and mother figure for many years.

  ‘So what is Dulugun?’ asked Veronica.

  ‘It is the place where the dead spirits go. It is a special journey.’

  Ardjani described the earthly procedure. ‘Your spirit is locked inside your body till everything rot away. Then we take the white bones and wash them, paint them with red ochre and kangaroo fat. Polish ’em up nice and we have a big corroboree. We sing and dance and tell about this person’s life. Then we cut the death cord. It is made from hair and tied between two poles. There is light on one side, the dark world on the other. This cord is very powerful and when sunset comes, just in those few minutes, we can capture the spirit of the dead person an
d bring him home. Then he is carried back to the Wandjina, the creator, and you remember, we see the bones in the caves. Now his spirit can come and go, he be free to go any place.’

  ‘And that place, Dorgei, is it a beautiful place?’ asked Susan.

  ‘Yeah. Many people are there who die before. Plenty of waterfalls, trees, a happy place. Nice place.’

  Barwon listened with deep interest and was about to ask Ardjani a question about Dorgei when Alan rejoined them, pulling up his chair. ‘Here’re the photos of the Dhumby screen-printed onto the baby’s wrap. I . . .’ He stopped as Barwon interrupted.

  ‘What right have you got to interfere with that?’ Before Alan could explain, Barwon was out of his chair and had stormed away from the group.

  ‘What’s up with him?’ asked Alan.

  Beth sighed. ‘Ardjani, we have to do something about finding his family. It’s eating away at him.’

  The elder agreed. ‘That man has a lot of pain. He won’t be a whole man till he find his family, find where he belongs. Jennifer says Jimmy is still talking to people in Derby. We must have patience. We wait.’

  Ardjani stood up and the other elders followed.

  In the shadows by the water tank at the back of the Barradja camp, Ardjani splashed his face and straightened up, aware he was being watched. Barwon stepped into the light from the bulb that hung on the corner of the building.

  ‘Ardjani, I must talk to you. It’s important, I can’t . . .’

  His voice ran out, emotion constricting his throat. Ardjani unhurriedly wiped his hands on the towel hanging by the tap. ‘Come.’ He led Barwon to several damp plastic chairs by the dead embers of the Barradja’s campfire. He watched the younger man and waited.

  Barwon sat forward, his hands clenched, arms hanging between his knees. He looked down and began speaking in a low rush.

  ‘The photo of the shawl that was wrapped around the baby in the art gallery . . . I know that shawl. Very well. I saw her make it.’

  ‘The mummy of the baby? How come she put this Dhumby story on this shawl? You know her good?’

  ‘Yes. I knew her. We lived together for a month or so. She was studying art and she loved the Aboriginal stories I told her. Most of them I got out of books, but the owl story . . . that was mine.’ He bent over and began doodling the shape of the bird in the dark soil. ‘The clearest memory I have of my mother is her telling me a story about a little owl and drawing it in dirt dirt. I sketched that owl for Lisa. And she screen-printed it on that cloth. To make a wall hanging, she said.’

  ‘Barwon, Dhumby is a Barradja story. This girl, this baby . . .?’ Ardjani turned to Barwon, who raised his head and looked him in the eye for the first time.

  ‘Yes, it’s mine. My baby. She was just a young girl, just seventeen. And she came from strict religious parents. She said they’d never accept me. But worse, I just couldn’t hack the idea of the responsibility of it all. I was frightened.’

  ‘You run away?’

  ‘Yes. I always meant to go back to her. I really liked her. But how could I give this baby a name and bring it up?’ It was an anguished cry that followed. ‘I don’t even have a name.’

  Ardjani sat upright, unmoved. ‘Every man has responsibility for his seed. You left this girl before the baby come?’

  ‘Yes, I went back to Sydney. I always meant to go back and sort it out . . . but I never did . . . and then I saw on TV about the baby being left . . . and I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘This girl then, she want this baby to find its people. Your people. She remember your mother’s story. And she leave a good clue.’

  ‘Ardjani, I wanted to find Lisa and get the baby back . . . and then she was killed . . .’ He turned away, putting a fist to his mouth. ‘It’s all my fault.’

  ‘Why you not go get your baby girl, then?’

  ‘I figured they wouldn’t let me have her. I thought they might think I killed Lisa. I was already in trouble with the police because I’d got drunk one night.’ He sat up. ‘What should I do, Ardjani?’

  The old man covered the tiredness in his voice and spoke sternly. ‘What you did was bad, very bad. You must make it right for this baby. Your baby.’ Ardjani continued. ‘We speak to the gadia law people. You tell them this. Beth too.’

  Beth was hanging the wet tea towels across the line strung between trees when she saw Ardjani and Barwon walk over. She could tell immediately something was up.

  ‘Beth, you get them law people. Barwon got to speak a confession.’

  Alistair had been asleep. Mick, dressed in a track suit, emerged from his tent as Susan, in her socks, hurried after them.

  They listened in amazement as Barwon haltingly repeated his story. Beth’s heart went out to him, knowing he’d been carrying this burden inside for so long. ‘Why didn’t you tell us . . . we’re your friends . . . we’d understand . . .’

  He shrugged and his pain touched each of them.

  ‘The police will have to be informed. Soon as possible I’d say,’ said Alistair.

  ‘Get Billy out of his swag and call Melbourne now,’ said Beth. ‘I’ll call Joyce Guwarri in the morning.’

  ‘They’re not going to hand this baby over until its parentage is established, and a check on its new guardians has taken place,’ said Mick.

  Alistair went to wake Billy to get on the radio phone.

  ‘What about Barwon’s family? This doesn’t help find them,’ asked Susan.

  ‘His mother must be Barradja. You tell me everything you remember,’ Ardjani instructed Barwon. ‘Jennifer then telephone Jimmy in Derby and he tell the old women what you tell us now. They figure this out.’

  They poked up the fire as Barwon, calmer now, sat on the ground, and staring into the sparks he talked of the fragments of memories he’d clutched at over the years. He talked of the story of the little owl, of his mother’s face, and of what he’d been told by the Brother who took him to the mission. He talked of the story Beth had discovered, how his father had been killed in a mine accident, and how his mother had left Barwon at the convent with the sisters while she went to try to retrieve his body. And how, when she’d come back, the sisters said her boy had been sent to the mission for his own good, and how she’d died of a broken heart when they broke their promise to return him.

  ‘The Brother told me it was because I had pale skin. I had to become a white boy. And they called me Nigel like the nuns did, but they said I had to have a new name, so they called me Barwon, after the river.’ He lifted his head, and he spoke with a voice like a small boy’s. ‘I can’t remember my real names, the names my mother and father gave me.’

  Ardjani looked at Beth who put her arm around Barwon and softly hugged his head to her chest.

  ‘Do you think the fact that his mother told him about Dhumby is enough of a link to the Barradja?’ asked Mick.

  ‘When Barwon born, Barradja people still all over the Kimberley. That time was when we just starting to come back here to Marrenyikka. But the old women will know this story about a white fella, killed at the Ord River, who had a Barradja wife. We find all this out. We wait,’ said Ardjani calmly.

  Alistair returned with Billy. ‘That’s done. Got on to a helpful sergeant. They’ll want a statement from you, Barwon. A law enforcement officer will be dispatched from Kununurra.’

  ‘What was their reaction?’ Mick asked.

  ‘The Victorian police gave me the time the girl was killed. It was the night you got drunk, Barwon, the night that landed you in court. I explained to them that you couldn’t have been responsible. They seemed quite relieved because they’d given up looking for you anyway. They said they’d been able to clear the truckie who gave your girl a lift. Now they’ve put all their resources into the search for a serial killer who was in the vicinity of the Lawson State Park where the poor girl died. Two other girls’ bodies have turned up. Both hitchhikers.’

  Barwon shuddered and Beth took his hand. ‘Let’s sleep on all of this. We can’t do
any more for the time being.’ She gave Barwon a wan smile. ‘I know those old women, they know everyone’s history, they’ll unravel your mother’s story for sure.’

  Ardjani took Barwon to one side. ‘You do wrong, now you make it right. It be done. That baby has to come home to its people. As must you.’

  He turned and walked back to his camp with slow firm steps, leaving Barwon staring after him.

  Susan and Alistair looked at Barwon’s disconsolate figure as Beth walked him back to the Barradja camp behind Ardjani.

  ‘Alan said he saw the baby, said she was a pretty little thing,’ said Susan softly.

  ‘Barwon’ll probably need to establish a family connection to one of his female relatives before he’s allowed to have the baby,’ the judge said.

  ‘That’s a very unstable young man,’ said Alistair. ‘Let’s hope Ardjani can help him sort his life out. If he doesn’t find a rock to hang onto soon, I don’t like to think where he’ll end up.’

  It was melting dark, the night sky dissolving into the arms of first light. ‘Daughter Sun come home to her sky soon,’ said Ardjani, ignoring his tiredness and looking up into the stars that were fading in the first hint of light after burning brittle bright in the black velvet of night.

  They walked slowly but purposefully, Ardjani leading, Rowena stumbling occasionally, her eyes not as accustomed to the night light.

  A shiver went through her as she saw giant boulders of the looming, ancient, fortress-like ridge protecting the spirits and precious Wandjina.

  ‘You sit down.’ Ardjani pointed to a rock and she sat, her breath frosty in the clear cold air. He began calling, an awakening call that changed to a chant, an urgent song of explanation, apology, forgiveness and lament. The notes rose and fell, his voice one moment strong, then softly coaxing. Then he stopped and leaned his head to one side, listening.