by Di Morrissey
Rowena wrapped her arms around her body, warding off fear more than the chilled air.
With a jerk of his head, he indicated she should follow him. They climbed up the slope, stepping carefully over stones, supporting themselves by hanging onto shrubs and small tree trunks.
In a clearing surrounded by the massive overhang of the shelter that protected the Wandjina paintings, Ardjani worked swiftly, pulling leaves as he sang. He made a fire, bigger than he’d made before, waving a branch of green leaves over it to increase the smoke. ‘You lie down, on your face, next to the fire.’
Rowena asked no questions, but stretched out, face down. She felt the light touch of Ardjani’s hands as they moved her arms and legs till she was spreadeagled, as if a supplicant to the earth.
She felt his hands touching her head, pushing on her back, running down her arms and legs, pressing on her ankles as he sang, his voice now deep and strong as if challenging unseen forces.
Rowena heard Jennifer’s voice come to her, reminding her of how the body was in tune with the vibrations of the earth. She believed she could feel a faraway rumble beneath her, as if a train was coming, and she trembled.
Then Ardjani was lightly flicking her with the cluster of leaves, and she was enveloped in smoke. As the smoke seeped around her body, streaming into her nostrils, she thought wildly that she was being sacrificed. The smoke smelled nutty sweet as Ardjani flicked the leaves up and down her body, all the time chanting.
When she thought she could bear it no longer, it was over. He commanded her to sit up. She sat, cross-legged, head bowed as the fire died down, thankful at last for the silence.
Eventually Ardjani spoke. ‘You understand what you did was very bad. You have got to bring that skull back. You’re sorry for all this?’
Rowena was struggling to hold back tears, struggling to stop tumbling into another chasm of emotional chaos, a state that had been tearing her apart ever since confessing to Ardjani that she had taken the ancient skull from the pile of bones near the Wandjina paintings that were inside the rock shelter metres from where they now were.
Go back to the source of the nightmares, her psychiatrist had told her. So she had come back, cloaking the return behind her ambition to make the film about these people and her bold business venture for the cultural annexation of the Barradja. She had realised that only Ardjani could help her. The price of his help had been unstated. She knew that she would have to set the fee . . . and she knew, without any hints from Ardjani, what that price would be.
‘Yes, oh yes. I didn’t know it was so wrong to take the skull. I thought if you never came here any more, it wouldn’t matter. But now I really understand . . . and I’m sorry. Please, tell them I’m sorry.’ In a low voice she asked, ‘Will I be punished?’
‘That sickness in you, that is your punishment. But you will get an answer soon enough. You got to feel it, be sorry in your heart. You say you come to help us Barradja. But you take away a sacred thing, you bring men here who steal our ancient art, you say you make film and pictures to save our culture but you sign up a contract to own it all. That’s not right. We want to share our gift with you, but you steal it.’ As Rowena’s head dropped onto her chest he added firmly, ‘You think about these things.’
Ardjani smothered the remnants of the fire, he stood and held up his arms to the cliff face, and called in language. Then he set off back to where he’d left the truck and Rowena scrambled after him. Neither spoke on the drive back into the silent camp, awash in the shades of piccaninny daylight.
Giles Jackson took the phone call from the police officer in Kununurra shortly after breakfast. He got along well with them. By and large, he thought, they had a good record at keeping the Aborigines in line.
‘G’day, Giles. Done any poddy dodging lately?’
‘Ha, ha,’ laughed Jackson a little awkwardly. He didn’t like jokes about cattle rustling, particularly from the law. ‘To what do I owe this early morning pleasure?’
‘Just a routine inquiry, mate. About the Barradja mob. Some of them out your way aren’t they? At Marrenyikka?’
‘Yeah. Not many though, I gather a lot are away, but there’s enough to give me a headache as usual. Trespassing on my place, and Len Steele’s, you know what they’re like. Got a bunch of whites from Sydney with them. Bloody lawyers.’
‘Yeah. I heard about that mob when they landed in town.’
‘Carrying on about everything, if you ask me. Can’t quite make out what they’re really up to. Bit of a worry. They certainly aren’t here just for the good of their health.’
‘Probably not. Anyone else with them?’
‘Yeah. A strange Yank woman has turned up from California.’
‘Christ, not another one. I heard a crazy new-age Yank sheila on the radio the other day from Darwin. Is this one getting messages from outer space as well? Is she going to write a book about her spiritual journey and flog it for squillions?’
‘Probably. And there’s her driver. A blackfella from Darwin – quite well educated. Called Hunter something-or-other. And there’s another one, a yellafella from Sydney. Worked in TV for awhile. I caught him snooping round my place the other day.’
‘Really!’
‘Yeah. Why you interested?’ asked Jackson cautiously, recalling the incident with Barwon.
‘Ah, just routine inquiries. The TV bloke’s girlfriend was murdered in Victoria. The police down there have only just found out about the connection, though apparently he had nothing to do with it. Let me know if you have any problems. Okay?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
Billy’s Oka set out for Boulder Downs. On board were Beth, Alan, the two senior legal counsels, Susan, Andrew and Shareen. Ardjani, with Barwon beside him, sat behind Billy to show the way.
Following them drove Esme and Michael de Witt, the two scientists returning to the Birrimitji archaeological site to join the rest of the team who were preparing to wrap up the dig and head back in another week to begin laboratory analysis of their samples. One team member would stay camped at the site as ‘protector’.
‘What’s Veronica doing?’ asked Andrew as they headed out of camp.
‘Learning more women’s business. She’s quite fascinated by the whole thing,’ said Susan. ‘The women have agreed to her making a radio documentary on some of their secret business. They feel by telling some of what they can do, they can help people understand it more. By the way, Rowena apparently went out with Ardjani before daylight and they were away for a long time. Jennifer reckons Ardjani was doing some special ceremony stuff concerning the bones and Rowena’s confession. She’s in a mess that one.’
‘Is someone keeping an eye on her?’
‘Hunter’s there, but he’s going fishing with Rusty and Digger. He tried to talk to her but she won’t talk to anyone.’
‘Talking about fishing,’ said Andrew, linking his hand in hers, ‘we’ll have to go on another fishing expedition.’
‘No thanks, I don’t fancy sharing a helicopter with a croc again. How is that crazy brother of yours, by the way?’
‘Julian is great. Full of big plans as usual. No, I was thinking of just the two of us, you and I could take off up north and go camping. I know some beautiful spots where we could fish for barra along the rivers. Very remote, very romantic’ He kissed her temple lightly.
‘Sounds nice. And what do I tell Mr Angel? Ask the judge to reschedule my next case, I’ve gone fishing?’
‘How important is this job of yours?’ asked Andrew carefully.
‘What are you really asking, Andrew? Do I want to stay with Angel and Hart, or move to another law firm, start a new career as adviser to the Barradja, or spend my days fishing with you?’
Andrew was flustered by her bluntness. ‘Hell, Susan, you do shoot from the hip. You don’t give a bloke a chance to kind of creep up on things. What I’m saying is, I’m really fond of you and wish I could see more of you. Couldn’t you get some sort of legal job up this way? D
arwin has a lot of opportunities and would be closer. Then I could fly up and see you on weekends.’
Susan looked away from his earnest expression. ‘I don’t know about that. Let’s just leave things be for the moment. The rest of the world, my job, my family and friends, all seem so far away. As you said, I’m really in a different world here. And I want to enjoy it. This whole experience has opened me up . . . it’s hard to explain. I never realised there was so much we could learn from these people . . .’
Andrew pinched her arm. ‘Reality check. I’ll just check in every so often. Okay?’
She laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to drop out. I’m not going to become a crystalgazing new-ager. Or go native. Veronica and I were talking the other day about all these women in America who take off seeking spiritual fulfilment, trying to find their warrior women guides from a past life, who sit in tepees in Arizona or New Mexico looking for some kind of tribal enlightenment. We’re not that bad. This is so different to all of that stuff.’
‘What a load of codswallop. Why don’t they just find a good bloke . . . like me?’ he grinned.
‘Andrew, it’s no joke. Half the single women in America would leap at the chance of meeting the right bloke. I don’t know why it is, but my girlfriends in Sydney don’t seem to meet any single blokes. And then my male friends tell me they can’t meet any single girls they like. Yet nobody seems to get together.’
‘I’d better muster some of the blokes out in the scrub and ship ’em down. Now there’s a business opportunity, round up a mob of brumby blokes and auction ’em off to desperate females in the big smoke.’
They laughed and Susan was glad that the subject of their relationship had been shelved again, at least for now.
Giles Jackson stood in his shorts and workboots on the front step watching the two vehicles roll down the road to his homestead gate.
His wife appeared behind him. ‘Will we take them into the garden to talk?’
‘Oh, yeah, right. We can sit over there. By the way, don’t mention that phone call from the cops.’ Jackson led the way to a tree-shaded cluster of chairs and a card table spread with a cloth, a jug of lemonade and glasses, presuming the visitors would follow.
Beth recapped the introductions, ‘You know Esme Jordan, and Professor de Witt?’ Jackson shook hands with de Witt and tipped his hand to his hat as he looked at Esme.
‘Yeah. You find anything of interest?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. He nodded at Ardjani and Beth, and looked around the group, including them all in a tight ‘G’day.’ He gave Barwon a brief cold look and turned to Beth. ‘So who’s doing the talking?’
Beth looked at Ardjani who pointed to Alistair.
‘I appear to be appointed,’ said Alistair, with a slight smile. ‘Mr and Mrs Jackson, thank you for being so prompt in agreeing to see us. We feel there are certain things you should be made aware of.’ He paused while they sat down.
Giles Jackson put a foot up on his knee, resting his hat on his leg. He put on his sunglasses that had hung on a cord around his neck and his set mouth locked up any further expression. Norma Jackson smiled politely as she passed around glasses of cool drinks and Alistair began stating the facts of the art theft. Jackson was immediately aggressive. ‘Hey, I never knew about those particular paintings till that tour group went there. You’ll have to take that up with Len Steele. If you ask me, letting in foreigners and tourists to tramp over your place is asking for trouble. Bet one of them had something to do with it.’
‘That’s an assumption, but one we also think highly likely,’ said Alistair.
‘So what’re you doing about it? The police been told yet?’ He was genuinely outraged, observed Susan, but more likely on principle rather than on cultural grounds.
‘Yes, they have and so have the Steeles. This is cultural theft. One of the most ancient pieces of art in the world has been professionally removed.’ Beth looked at Alan. ‘Our art expert here says they knew what they were doing and were probably working for a major international collector.’
‘How much is it worth?’ Jackson suddenly asked.
‘Whatever an unscrupulous collector wants to pay,’ answered Alan.
‘You’re not comparing this with . . . like someone taking a . . .’ he searched for an example, ‘a Van Gogh or the Mona Lisa?’
‘This guyon guyon rock art is far older, which makes it more valuable in one sense. It’s worth a lot, be assured of that. And that’s why we wanted to mention it in relation to the Birrimitji site on your place,’ said Alistair.
‘What’s my place got to do with anything?’ he asked suspiciously and Barwon knew he was thinking of his mine potential.
Beth answered smoothly, ‘We have to make sure this doesn’t happen again; the sites here have to be protected because of their cultural value for Australia, as well as the Barradja.’
‘What am I supposed to do? I can’t watch over every rock on this place. It’s not my responsibility.’ He sounded irritable, talk of cultural heritage disturbed him.
‘So you’d have no objection to the sites being watched over, maintained, by their traditional custodians?’ Mick leapt in quickly.
‘I didn’t say that. I certainly wouldn’t want to see tourists brought in for someone else to make a dollar out of my land.’
Barwon couldn’t resist firing a barb. ‘Without getting into the debate over whose land it is, you don’t seem too unhappy about a mining company poking around.’
‘I’ve no control over that! And it’s none of your damn business anyway. Mining companies can dig wherever they want, as long as they’ve got the proper papers from the government.’
Alistair broke in quickly as the two men glared at each other. ‘Well, now, that mining is another problem, or at least has become one. It may have to be stopped.’
Jackson looked at the lawyer in amazement. ‘Why would I want to do that?’ he said slowly.
‘Perhaps Esme could fill you in on just what seems to be emerging at Birrimitji – that’s what the Barradja call the site Professor de Witt’s team has been working on.’
Jackson leaned forward, took off his sunglasses and gave Esme a piercing look. ‘Do tell.’
The old lady drew herself up and eyeballed him right back. ‘While you dismissed our work as poking about in the past, and while you said that no one would be interested in what a bunch of blacks had for breakfast a few centuries back – if I recall your words exactly,’ she gave a hint of a smile, knowing fully well she’d quoted him precisely, ‘many people around the world are going to be very interested in Michael’s initial findings on this property.’
‘Which are?’ His gaze hadn’t wavered. Norma Jackson, who had been pouring more drinks, stopped and listened.
‘We believe there is evidence that suggests, possibly proves, Aborigines lived here more than 150,000 years ago, possibly 170,000 years. Which naturally makes a significant impact on the writing of the history of man. It also makes this a site of huge scientific interest.’
‘I don’t want mobs of academic wankers trooping in here,’ blustered Jackson. His mind, however, was trying to compute the numbers being thrown around and settle on whether this could somehow benefit Boulder Downs. At the moment he only foresaw trouble. Unconsciously he clenched his fists.
‘I doubt you’ll be able to stop them if the heritage laws are enforced,’ said Mick. ‘This is potentially a place of massive importance to international scientists.’
‘Bloody hell! I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to you lot digging around.’ Jackson’s anger flared and he turned on his wife. ‘I told you I didn’t want them in here!’
‘Giles, listen to them, please. Maybe this will make the place more valuable . . .’
‘Crap. We’re not going to get a cent out of some pile of rocks and old stone tools or whatever. Scientists don’t have money. If there’s any wealth here, it’s in the ground all right, in diamonds!’
It was the first time he’d made an outrig
ht admission that he saw the future of Boulder Downs being linked to mining. Ardjani made a subtle signal to Alistair.
‘The mining situation could be threatened as the Birrimitji site is rather close to where the mining exploration is located. The conflict is obvious,’ said Alistair.
‘Not to me. There’s no conflict at all. They have a lease to explore and I have an agreement with them should they find anything.’
A ripple of reaction ran around the group. ‘You might not have any say in what happens if the findings at Birrimitji are substantiated,’ said Mick.
Susan had seen the avaricious glint in Jackson’s eye earlier. ‘There’s probably more wealth in the site as a cultural icon than in the mining anyway. We all know how chancy mining exploration can be.’
‘I’ll stick to diamonds, thanks.’
‘Well, we felt it correct to tell you the news about Birrimitji before you heard it on the radio or television news,’ said Beth evenly. ‘There will also be a police investigation into the art theft.’
Ardjani unnecessarily tapped the crown of his hat but the movement got Jackson’s attention. The Aboriginal elder stood up and addressed the red-faced pastoralist. He spoke with quiet authority. ‘Our culture is in this land, from creation time. It is in the hills, the rivers, the trees, the rocks. It is in the earth and in the animals and plants. It is watched over by the spirits of our ancestors who are in the paintings up there where our bones rest in sacred places. This land has always been our land, will always be our land, and must never be disturbed. Those who dig it up, or take it away, will be punished by the spirits who watch over our land. Those people will die.’
The words were simply put but, given the emotionally charged atmosphere, they had an impact on Jackson like a punch in the guts. He jumped to his feet and waved a fist at Ardjani. ‘Don’t threaten me, you old bastard. Don’t kid yourself you’re going to frighten me off my land with your bloody stupid bones and sacred sites crap.’ He turned to take in the whole group. ‘Jesus, just what do you people think you’re up to? For Chrissake, pack your bloody bags and get back down south where you can carry on all you like. Up here, the reality is that this land belongs to us. We lease it, we work it, we own it. End of story. Goodbye.’
