Spirits of the Ghan

by Judy Nunn

  Even Lilian could sense the awkwardness in the pause that followed. No-one seemed sure of what to say next, but the conversation was apparently over so she rose to her feet.

  ‘Well, well, stranger things have been known to happen,’ she declared. ‘Are we ready for ice cream?’

  They were, and the subject came up for no further discussion, the unspoken agreement being there was no need. Jess herself certainly felt that everything she’d wanted to ask had been answered, and the evening continued along more mundane lines as they tucked into their ice cream and Lilian plied them both with questions about the Ghan.

  Despite the momentary awkwardness of that night, Jess enjoyed every moment of a weekend she had originally thought might be daunting. On Sunday evening she and Matt went to the cocktail party and opening of Lilian’s exhibition at the Hill Smith Gallery in Pirie Street.

  After admiring the collection, which was a retrospective of Lilian’s work and highly impressive, they stood with Dave watching as the gallery owners took to the podium and talked about art, congratulating themselves on their personal selection of Lilian Birch masterpieces and discussing the subtle change in her style over the years and what each phase represented.

  Then Dave and Matt and Jess listened to two rather long speeches from dignitaries and finally they basked, all three, in Lilian’s charisma as she enthralled a packed audience of admirers.

  ‘She’s in good form tonight,’ Dave muttered. ‘It’s because you two are here. Usually at this stage of the proceedings she’s so fed up with the “phoney bullshit” as she calls it, she just says “thanks for coming” and gets off.’

  The following day as they said their farewells it was Lilian who broached the reason for Jess’s visit.

  ‘I hope we were of some help, my dear,’ she said after warmly embracing her, ‘at least I hope Dave was. I tend to be more an interference than anything, I always am; it’s a terrible fault of mine.’

  ‘You were both immensely helpful, Lilian,’ Jess assured her.

  ‘Really?’ Lilian seemed both surprised and delighted. ‘You feel you’ve learnt something then?’ Her eagerness was engagingly ingenuous. ‘You’re on the verge of discovery perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Lilian did not push further, contenting herself instead with a raised eyebrow. ‘How very exciting,’ she said. She did so hope this whole business would bring about a bonding between Mattie and Jess: they made such a splendid couple.

  Dave had insisted upon driving them to the airport and Lilian stood on the front verandah waving goodbye, a colourful figure in her favourite alpaca.

  Jess waved back through the car’s open rear window and as Lilian dived inside the house out of the cold, she closed the window and sat back thoughtfully.

  She studied Dave in the rear-vision mirror. As father and son talked, she noted the closeness between the two and how similar they were, in appearance and manner, private men, both. Matt, like his father, was a loner.

  She would tell no-one, not even Matt, what she had discovered. How could she? She wasn’t at all sure herself.

  1880

  The women sit in the clearing between the two rocky outcrops. They have formed a circle and their fingers are tracing patterns in the dusty ground they have brushed clear before them. They are silent as they draw their pictures. The four have been chattering incessantly throughout the long days of their journey south and now, back in the flood-plain territory of their Arunta land, they are relating in the red sand the story of their travels and of recent events.

  Letye’s finger is strangely at odds with those of the other women, but neither her grandmother nor her mother-in-law nor her aunty notice, for although Letye’s finger is white it draws the story as clearly as the black fingers of her family.

  Nearby, young Kwala plays with Letye’s baby. Letye and her husband Nyapi have called their little girl Antethe, the Arunta word for ‘flower’ because she was born in the spring when the desert blossoms were in full bloom. It had been Nangala, the matriarch, who had suggested the name. ‘This is a good name for the child,’ Nangala had said, ‘for she is pale like her mother who was named after the white blossom of the bush orange tree.’

  Kwala, fours year old and robust, is boisterous with little Antethe, who is barely twelve months of age. He plays with her as he does the dingo pups. When she rises shakily to her feet and totters a step or two he pushes her in the chest and laughs as she promptly falls on her backside. But Antethe does not mind in the least. She just sits there and gurgles with pleasure. Even when Kwala cuddles her roughly to him as he would a dingo pup, she continues to gurgle. Kwala and Antethe have become brother and sister. They love each other very much.

  Atanum lolls beside the hillock of rock some distance away chewing on his bush tobacco – he always carries a wad behind his ear – and as he watches the children at play he feels content. He is a great-grandfather now, which is something of an achievement. He would rather Letye had given birth to a boy certainly, but his keen eyes detect the slightest swelling of her belly and he suspects she may once again be with child. He makes no enquiry, not even of his wife Nangala, for that is women’s business, but he secretly knows he is right: he has an instinct for such things. He looks forward to the arrival of a great-grandson. Even a pale-skinned one like Antethe, he thinks, watching the bare bodies of the children entwined in play. A great-grandson would indeed be something to boast of.

  Letye’s fertility pleases Atanum. He had been deeply critical of the match between Nyapi and the white girl, but Nangala had insisted and he is now forced to agree that Nangala has been proved right. Letye is not only fertile, she is pleasant-natured and, a great deal stronger than she looks, she is a hard worker. Lazy, ill-tempered wives are of no use to a man, Atanum thinks. Besides, Nyapi loves her. It is good for a man to have a wife he loves.

  Atanum lounges back comfortably against a flat rock that still holds the heat of the day. He enjoys the indulgence his age and seniority afford him. He is still fit but, without the speed and endurance of his younger days, the hunting of heavier game is left to his son Tjumuru and young Nyapi. Life is good, Atanum thinks contentedly, and looking about at his family he starts to sing.

  The sound is pleasant to the others: it is a song they know well for Atanum often sings, either in the late afternoon while the meal is cooking as is now the case, or at night when they have eaten and are preparing to sleep.

  The women look up from the pictures they are drawing in the sand. They smile at one another. Tjumura too acknowledges the song as he looks up from the emu he is cutting into sections for the cooking fire. The animal has already been plucked and gutted, the carcass singed in the fire and the fat removed. Now one by one Tjumura places the slabs of meat he has butchered directly onto the hot coals. Ankerre is a favourite food of all Arunta and the smell is appetising.

  Nyapi does not look up from where he sits cross-legged on the ground, his focus remaining on the wooden bowl before him. The bowl contains the spinifex resin he has collected through much grinding and sifting and panning. In one hand he holds a flaming piece of bark over the resin while with the other he twirls a small stick, gathering up the gum as it melts. When the gum has formed a ball around the stick he will remove it from the heat and it will harden. Then he will carry the stick of gum tucked into his string waistband, portions of it to be melted when required for the making and repair of weapons and utensils. Gum is an all-important commodity of daily life.

  But although remaining focused upon his task, Nyapi also acknowledges his grandfather’s song, nodding in time to the rhythmic chant of Atanum’s voice. This time of day before dusk sets in is a peaceful time, a time when the chores have been done; when the firewood has been collected and the sand cleared of vegetation and brushed smooth for sleeping; when, in the absence of surface water, a hole has been dug to one of the many underground sources known to them; when, dependent upon the weather, windbreaks or lean-tos have been erected; when, in p
reparation for the chill winter night, extra fires have been built to surround the family as they sleep, fires that will burn on until morning. There is often much work required in setting up camp.

  Today, however, none of these duties have been necessary. They have built their cooking fire, certainly, and they have prepared their food, the meat now roasting on the coals and the pencil yams and bush potatoes baking in the hot soil, but no further labour has been required. There is a creek nearby which, at this time of year, invariably provides water and the women have gathered an ample supply; the spring weather is moderate and the night will not be unduly cold; the clearing nestled between the two hillocks of rock is sandy and comfortable, and the rocky outcrops themselves, one large and one smaller, form a natural windbreak. The family knows this place well for this is a favourite campsite and they are glad to be relaxing in such familiar territory after their trek north to meet with their Anmatyerre cousins.

  As Atanum continues to sing and as the smell of roasting meat continues to waft ever more tantalisingly in the air, the women complete their pictures and break their silence, comparing drawings and admiring each other’s work. Letye feeds Antethe, the child sucking hungrily at her breast while they examine the patterns and symbols each has drawn in the sand. Their drawings are all accounts of the same story, but told from different viewpoints.

  The adventure they are reliving is the betrothal of Nyapi’s younger sister, Tama. The family has returned from their journey to the land of the Anmatyerre, where twelve-year-old Tama has been delivered to her husband. His name is Luratjira and he is a fine young man sixteen years of age. Tama was promised to Luratjira at the age of eight when their respective families met at a ceremonial gathering of many clans.

  For nearly two years now the women have been preparing Tama for this time when she must leave the family and embrace her new life with the family of her husband. The incisions in her flesh were made with infinite care, the lines and the placement of each cut needing to be precise in order to form the correct pattern. Following the cutting of the flesh, coal dust from the fire had been repeatedly rubbed into the wounds to irritate and prolong the healing process, resulting in prominent raised welts on Tama’s shoulders and chest, scars that would remain with her for the rest of her life.

  The preparation of young Tama had proved the final, and possibly the most intense, lesson in Letye’s education. Letye had by then been with the family for well over two years and had recently married Nyapi. She was one of them now, an Arunta woman. But it had been through Emily’s eyes that she had watched with horror the mutilation of the little girl who had become her sister. She had said nothing. She had not dared, but she had found the torture barbarous and she had wondered why Tama had not cried out at the pain inflicted upon her. But throughout the process, Tama had never once cried out. She had borne her pain with pride. And as the wounds had slowly healed to form fibrous patterns on her shoulders and between her budding breasts, Tama’s pride had grown proportionately. Her scars were the badge of her womanhood and would be attractive to her husband.

  It was then that the remnant of Emily remaining in Letye had recognised something beyond the comprehension of her previous self. Pain was tolerated with ease by these people who were now her family, she realised, for the pain borne and the symbols of that pain were a measure of status, gaining them respect in the eyes of others. The thought had not once occurred to Letye. In adapting to her new life, she had never questioned the scars her family members bore, male and female alike, nor had she pondered the missing front teeth of the men, an initiation into manhood: there had been far too many other lessons to be learnt. As the months had passed and as she had watched Tama caress her new scars with pride, Letye had realised that here was yet another lesson, and one of vast importance.

  This is the picture Letye has drawn in the sand, a picture of Tama and the scars upon her upper body, and beside her a picture of her husband, Luratjira, and the scars upon his upper body also. The patterns of both are flawless, Letye has remembered them well, and in her drawing the scars symbolise perfectly the image of two young adults now bonded in marriage.

  Beside her Tama’s mother, Ngita, looks at the picture and smiles in recognition. Her own drawing is simply a picture of Tama for she can think of nothing else. She will miss her little girl who has now become a woman, but she is happy for Tama: the match is a good one. The other women, Nangala and Macanti, have drawn far bigger pictures, the meetings of the families and a map of the journey, but Ngita likes Letye’s drawing best.

  Soon it is time to eat. Antethe is now fast asleep and Letye beds her down in a cushion of emu feathers nestled in a soft hollow of sand she prepares while the women dig the vegetables out of the hot soil. Tjumuru lifts a slab of meat from the fire onto a flat stone and starts cutting it into chunks with the sharp shard of quartz that is his favourite knife. They will feast well tonight.

  Tomorrow they will set off on their travels through this familiar land of theirs to another favourite campsite. But before they leave they will cover Letye with mud from the creek, for they are not far from the singing string. The white man’s house that links the singing string across the desert is barely a day’s walk from here and they do not wish her to be seen.

  They are unaware that they are too late. Letye has already been seen.

  In the nearby scrubland barely fifty yards away, the linesman crouches, watching the family as they prepare to eat. He has encountered groups of blacks before, but unless they are damaging the telegraph line, which it is his job to protect and maintain, he has no truck with them. It is a different matter altogether if they are desecrating the line as many of these heathens do, stealing the insulators for the making of spearheads. If he catches them in the act, he will most certainly shoot them, but this lot appear a peaceable enough bunch.

  He is about to creep away and return to his partner. He had only left their camp in order to relieve his bowels, but having done so, he’d been drawn by the aroma of roasting meat to investigate its source and had come upon the blacks as he’d expected he would. They are doing no harm, he decides. Then as he turns to go, he sees her.

  He is astounded. A white woman! There is a white woman with the blacks! He gazes at her in amazement, her fair hair and pale skin clearly visible in the gathering dusk. She is a young woman, he guesses her to be no more than twenty, and she is naked. A naked white woman and black men? The thought disgusts him.

  He turns from the sight and creeps stealthily back through the scrub to his fellow linesman and their camp. The woman must be rescued. They must make a plan.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘I been having lots of visits from Ken and Archie lately,’ May said as they sat at the kitchen table, the pot of tea before them. ‘Mum and Dad as well. And Rose of course,’ she added with a smile, ‘little Rosie’s always with me. And the ancestors, they been around a fair bit too, I can feel ’em, you know?’

  It appeared Aunty May was being constantly visited by dead people, her husband, her family and ancestors, but Jess wasn’t quite sure who was visiting who. She had a feeling Aunty May might be conjuring up images from the past and ancestral spirits in her eagerness to join those who had gone before her. Not that she seemed in any way maudlin, just a little tired of life, which rather worried Jess.

  ‘Have you been taking your medication?’ she asked.

  ‘Course I have. Take the pills every morning and every night, just like the doctor says, but they don’t work anymore. I get these dizzy spells, see, and I’m tired all the time.’

  Jess felt guilty that she hadn’t visited Hermannsburg more regularly. She should have been keeping an eye on Aunty May.

  ‘You need to go to the hospital,’ she said, ‘you need to see the doctor and get different prescriptions. We’ll make an appointment and I’ll take you into town.’

  ‘Oh, done all that,’ May replied breezily, ‘seen the doctor, done tests at the hospital, got new pills from
the chemist, I been into town any number of times these past few months. Millie takes me.’ May drained her tea and as she replaced the mug on the table her smile couldn’t have been prouder. ‘Millie’s the light of my life, Jess, and that’s the truth. She’s the light of everyone’s life, she’s changing this place for the better, she is. More kids going to school, more kids learning …’

  Twenty-four-year-old Millie had returned to Hermannsburg and had been teaching at the school for quite some time now.

  ‘… And that’s all because of you.’ May stabbed a forefinger at Jess in triumphant accusation. ‘It all started that day you first come here. From then on Millie wanted to be just like you.’

  May had been saying the same thing for years, in fact every single time Jess paid her a visit, but the compliment did not alleviate her niece’s current sense of guilt.

  ‘So what did the tests show? What did the doctor say?’

  Again the response was breezy. ‘Oh, they say it’s the diabetes kickin’ in, they reckon I’ll have to swap to insulin injections. I don’t like the idea of that, stickin’ needles in myself,’ May scowled, ‘I don’t like the idea of that at all.’ She stood. ‘Want another cuppa? I’ll freshen up the pot.’

  The question was rhetorical so Jess didn’t bother replying, but watched while May topped the teapot up with hot water from the full kettle that sat simmering on the stove.

  ‘These are good biccies.’ Having returned the kettle to the stove and turned off the heat, May tipped another half dozen or so biscuits from the packet Jess had brought into the bowl on the table.

  ‘I like these,’ she said as she sat, ‘good for dunkin’. Chocolate chips are my favourite.’