One Place

by Cara Shaw

  When he emerged she looked at him curiously, “You were laughing in your sleep!” she exclaimed. “What was so funny?”

  “I had a very strange dream” he replied, “it made me laugh.”

  After breakfast Weena left for the women’s camp, and Balin thought for a while. When he made his decision he stood outside the women’s camp and called for Weena. She came over to him with a questioning look.

  “I’m going away. The spirits have told me that it’s time for me to make a walk,” he told her.

  She nodded and embraced him then returned to the other women.

  Balin walked off, heading north as that was the direction he felt he must go. It was a mild day in the third season and Balin looked around his country appreciatively. The Duradjuri were in the midst of a seven-year cycle where there had been regular rains and the undulating plains around him were healthy and green. Groves of gums nestled sporadically on the land, encouraged to grow tall in certain areas by centuries of burn-off that were performed by the Duradjuri. Balin walked along in a constant state of observation, remembering everything about his country that served to sustain him and his people, keeping in mind land care-taking matters that would need to be attended to later.

  Today small flocks of yirribin swung around the blue sky in strict formation which indicated to Balin the state of the day’s weather – and the weather to come. He scanned the ground as he went, stooping or pausing to pick up or pluck bush foods from small trees and dropped them into his dilly bag. He saw an opportunity and casually he gripped his hunting boomerang and flung it, stunning a fat bush hen. He clubbed it with his nulla nulla as he strolled past and hung its carcass from his hair belt. He would eat it later. The sun sat high as noon hit, and he stopped at a water hole near a tree. He drank and ate the bush foods he had collected and dozed, dreaming aimlessly about his mob, the men dancing and the women gossiping. When he awoke it was late afternoon, so he recommenced his walk to a distant outcrop of rocks. He felt a thrumming in the earth beneath his feet, and knew that he was travelling along a song line, the spiritual path that ran throughout the entire country and connected all the tribes. He felt the age-old rhythm beating along with his heart and eventually scraps of sacred songs came to mind, and he practised each one carefully as he drew closer and closer to the place where the ancient rock paintings of his tribe were located.

  When he reached the sacred spot the sun was low and he set down his weapons and belt near a bush. He broke off a fresh branch from an acacia tree and swept around the flat area that sat along the jagged rocks, singing and repeating his tribe’s portion of the spiritual songline that had been assigned to them especially by the great sky spirit. He already knew some of the song, as it had been taught to him by the initiated men before his bora, the rest was imparted to him by another spirit, the one that always resided in the essence of the paintings and stones in this sacred area. He sang over and over again as he swept, preparing the spirit for his entry into the Duradjuri’s special place, considered to be the very spot where a sky spirit had come to rest in the Dreamtime during the whole creation of gowanda – the entire land. Here the sky spirit had lain, spreading out his long spidery feet, weary and very lonely. A small nharrung had ambled along and saw the spirit, and concerned for its well-being, asked if he could help him. The spirit replied that he was thirsty, and the caring lizard led him to a waterhole where the spirit drank deeply. After that they became firm friends, and that is how the nharrung became the Duradjuri totem – their bidyan.

  When he had finished singing and sweeping, Balin made camp before it got too dark and cooked his dinner, and then lay stretched out alongside the fading embers of his fire watching the stars until he fell asleep. When he awoke the next morning he fossicked around looking for the painting equipment left behind by the last person who had touched up the tribal images on the rock wall. He found them under a small pile of granite rocks, a small coolamon, a few painting sticks and a tiny scrape of ochre that had dried to a paste on the bottom of the carved dish. He then went collecting berries and certain chalky textured rocks to make colours using tree glues, spit and water. After he had prepared his palette, he squeezed through the small space between two large triangular shaped stones that pointed skyward, and came to the cool area where hundreds of pictures sat under the protected rock shelf. He had taken his acacia branch with him, and as he checked the paintings carefully he brushed the dust and cobwebs away from them with the soft leaves. He then began the touch-up process, singing as he did so. This time the song was different; a working song, imbued with motivation and intent. He stayed all day carefully completing the work. Then the fresco, which held a record of all the animals that were particular to the Duradjuri lands and depictions of sacred dances and sprits, was finished. He sat down and once again sang the song of his bora initiation and waited for a picture to appear in his mind. As soon as he could see it he copied it onto the wall. Balin was not an accomplished artist like some of the other members of his tribe, although in this case it seemed as if his arm moved of its own volition. He half closed his eyes as he painted and followed the momentum of his hand movements with his mind. When he opened his eyes properly he observed the marks he had made on the wall. It was neither man nor spirit, rather a combination of the two, and it was holding a sheaf of well-made weapons. Satisfied, Balin took this as a symbol of the strength of his tribe, and he tidied up the space before squeezing out through the rocky gap. He returned the painting materials and then decided to continue on to another campsite.

  Balin was now two days’ walk away from his home camp and he absorbed himself into the practicalities of the journey. A long walk as it was referred to by the Duradjuri. He decided that when he reached the next campsite he would plan the walk, so that the days and travelling times would coincide with the land-care obligations that would inevitably emerge along the way. This was the duty of every initiated man from all tribes, and Balin like all the others undertook this role seriously. The Duradjuri did not see themselves as separate from their country but as part of the whole organism that allowed their mother earth to function in a healthy and productive manner. The mortal part of the landscape, the people, functioned as part of a whole like the veins or nervous system of a body. Corporality was a by-product of the peoples’ whole existence within the cosmos, and to overlook certain practices had the same consequence of letting a wound fester, or not eating proper foods to maintain health and vitality. The Duradjuri walked constantly with their ancestors, who helped their mortal counterparts protect and care for their country. Balin never felt lonely, and even when he was alone ancient spirits would often come to sit with him at the camp fire at night, telling stories and singing songs. Sometimes even young warriors who had untimely deaths would visit to complete dances they had begun to create when alive, and show Balin their finished work. Rarely did a female ancestor visit and if so, Balin paid special attention to any message that the spirit wished to pass on.

  This was the custom because men’s and women’s business was kept separate in Duradjuri culture. The relevant energies were unique to each gender, and there was no need for men and women to interfere with each other’s business. Balin was well aware of the special women’s places around his country, and he had been taught the locations and significance by his mother and aunts. This was necessary as all male tribe members were responsible for guarding the sites from intruders or ruin. A male rarely entered the inner sanctums of female ritual, and if they did the circumstances would have to be dire and desperate. Perhaps if a tribe had dwindled in numbers and there were not enough proper initiated women to attend to the care-taking of the site, or if a woman was hurt or injured and needed to be carried out by a male it was allowed. In other circumstances, if a family was travelling together and the wife was ready to give birth, her husband could attend her under a birthing tree if necessary. Normally, a man would never go near any of the fertility billabongs or female initiation circles
for fear of becoming ill, or being cursed by discontent female spirits.

  This delicate awareness of the other kept the Duradjuri peaceful, and allowed the Dreaming to empower both the male and female camps with creative energy. Sometimes an individual would show an interest in the other camp’s activities. In Balin’s tribe for instance, one of the older women was once a fierce and skilled huntress who could use a spear or killing boomerang as well as if not better than some of the men, and there were several dances that were performed to celebrate her prowess. For the Duradjuri, well-being and happiness relied heavily on the concept of all things being equal and fair, proper balance meant everything was well in the world.

  When a Duradjuri killed or used something from the bush, it was replaced or regenerated by another giving action. This was why a tribe always performed a burn or a cleansing ritual after leaving camp. Now Balin felt an imbalance within himself, he needed sweetness and passion in his intimate life to feel complete. Weena had given him her blessing so that he could make the long walk to find what it was that was missing for him, and he suddenly felt grateful to her for being his spouse.

  Eventually his path led him to a sheltered billabong that he had heard of but never visited. The look of country arbitrarily changed in subtle ways around a source of water and Balin had noted this and used the signals to guide him there. He strode down a bush track and came into an area that was ethereally beautiful. He looked around carefully, it was apparent that no person had been there for a long time. Sandy silty dirt lay between rocks that sat next to the still dark water. There were a few tracks amongst the thick grains, lizard, kangaroo, bird; animals that had come to rest in the peaceful place and to drink without disturbance. Balin walked up to the edge of the billabong and looked into the green brown depths. He sighed. The feeling of relief and equanimity was always the same when he came upon one of these life-giving pools. He sensed that there was no end to the source that fed them, and that the base of the pools coiled endlessly into the earth, sucking, drawing and bringing up water to the surface. He didn’t know if he believed in the magical creatures that were said to live in the deepest and darkest of the water holes, but today, with the heat shimmering around him and the cool surface looking benign and inviting he thought he could. He took a deep breath and dived in, relishing in the warmth of the top layer of water that had sat still for long enough to absorb the rays of the sun, then gasping as his feet and legs cut through the deeper parts that would never know it. He skimmed through the wet and then climbed out a little further along, his large feet obliterating all previous animal tracks and replacing them with his own. For a moment he looked curiously at his own footprints as he rarely saw them in his day-to-day life, and admired the strong firm shapes they had made in the billabong sand. His chest expanded as he breathed deeply after his swim. These footprints are mine, he thought, these tracks mark me as a man, a Duradjuri warrior who rested in this place. He made a satisfied whistling sound between his teeth while he set up camp for the night, and felt fortunate when he found a few lizard eggs in a shallow dip in the sand and some tubers for his dinner.

  Over the next few weeks Balin headed north and walked across his country. In time after he had detoured to the west, he began to see signs that he was nearing a camp. He knew that these people would be Duradjuri as he was still near the heart of the region. The country in general began to look more manicured, and different varieties of low growing grasses quivered in vibrant greens. These indications meant that the people had been conducting regular burns for generations. Large hardy gums dotted the region at intervals, and horseshoe shaped groves had been purposely left to make hunting easier when hungry animals migrated in to graze on the tender shoots of grass. Balin saw wumbuwunay and emu everywhere and chose not to hunt them as he was only one person, and to kill a large animal just for him to consume was considered wasteful. He had trapped a possum only a few days ago, and stayed at his camp for the time it took to cook and consume it. As with everything the Duradjuri did, nothing about the animal was discarded thoughtlessly. He scraped back and stretched out the hide to tuck into his dilly bag for future use. He also collected the sinew and rolled it around a thick twig for thread and kept the slender toe bones to carve into needles. He buried the head and the innards near a tree, so that it would draw the goodness of the leavings into its trunk and left a pile of clean bones in a midden for others to add to should they make camp.

  He slowed down his pace a little when he saw smoke rising from the strangers’ fires. It would be rude for him to walk straight in to their camp, so he wandered on until he was sure they could see him and hunkered down next to a tree to wait until he was noticed. Eventually a man around his own age approached him, holding his spear loosely by his side.

  “Hello friend,” he said genially. “Where are you from?”

  Balin explained he was on a long walk, and that his people lived much farther south.

  The man listened quietly and then said, “You’ve come a long way. My name is Warraway. Welcome to country.”

  Balin followed him into the camp, and made sure to smile and nod as he passed by the small family groups who sat working and cooking around the campfires. Warraway had him wait while he went to speak to the older men who looked his way and nodded politely. As Balin walked through, he noticed that everything about this camp was slightly different to his own. He did recognise some of the tribe members from the last Duradjuri corroboree which had been held about five seasons ago, but he wasn’t familiar with this overall group. The men here favoured beards and he wondered if they were just lazy or if they preferred to wear their facial hair like that. The older initiated men carried extremely heavy scarification that, as he examined it covertly, appeared as if it had been conducted in the same bodily areas over and over again. He scrutinised the men’s camp. It was well established and it appeared that a few of the men lived there permanently rather than keeping to a family gunyah where there were relatives and wives. He was slightly alarmed to see that all the men, without exception, kept their eyes averted from the women and the women’s camp. This situation did not occur at all in Balin’s tribe. The men and women took care to respect each other’s area, and generally rounds of good-natured bantering could be heard throughout the day between the camps which inevitably included risque teasing between husbands and wives. Here men and women ignored each other completely which caused Balin to feel uncomfortable.

  Warraway sat him down with the other men at the main campfire who were cooking the day’s game in the flames. Balin was curious; cooking was generally a communal activity at his home, so here he was careful not to comment. They chatted and told some jokes, asking Balin about his walk and where he thought his journey would take him. He answered happily enough and then another two men began discussing story dances with him, and they agreed to learn each other’s more popular ones later in the night. When the meal was cooked, one of the men broke off pieces of meat and set them aside in some coolamons. When the men had finished consuming their dinner, the same man rose and called a woman over from her camp then handed her the meat which she took away.

  Warraway was licking his fingers when Balin couldn’t resist any longer and asked, “Why do you cook and eat separately from your tribeswomen?”

  Warraway folded his arms and stared into the fire, “There have been bad spirits dwelling amongst the women. The men keep well away and are very careful not to bring any sorcery back into our camp.”

  Balin found this difficult to believe. His experience of ancestor spirits was that they came to the people to assist or to give messages. He was aware they often hung about looking for company, or the mischievous mimi spirits caused silly mayhem for no other reason than to make people laugh. He continued to observe the tribe and its inhabitants, trying to make sense of the unusual rules. The sky darkened and a ripe moon emerged. The men built up the campfires and one of the elders mixed together some white clay paint. The dancers we
re invited one by one to have a basic mark drawn along their noses and chests to please the spirits, and so that the observers could see the men as they moved around in the dark. Balin was invited to be painted up and afterwards he consulted with the other performers to decide which stories they would tell. After agreeing, Balin sat down with the men and the women sat away from the group in a semi-circle. Balin still found this separation disconcerting, but he concentrated on the tale that was being enacted around the fire. The singing had already begun and the dancers kept in perfect time with the rhythm of the clapping sticks.

  Balin was impressed. The story they told was long and complicated, a hunting story about the theft of hard won meat by an aggressive and hungry neighbouring tribe. The repercussions were violent, and the first tribe killed all except one member of the marauding party. They brought him back to the camp to be remonstrated with and then killed by the head man. The fellow they brought back happened to be charming and good-looking. He plead his case with the head man and offered to work hard for tribe if they let him live. The head man, who was very taken with the newcomer agreed. After a while, the head man’s daughter fell in love with the outsider and they both went to her father to ask his permission to marry. It was granted, and the next day the couple went to camp at a billabong nearby to celebrate and make love. While the girl was sleeping, the young man strangled and killed her, thereby avenging the deaths of his relatives, the very ones the girl’s father’s tribe had murdered.