by Di Morrissey
It was a small picture, child-like in its simplicity, of a tiny white owl. In place of feathers, were dots.
Ardjani turned to the wall talking softly in language, then faced the people who’d made it possible for him to come back to this sacred place. The group looked at him expectantly.
Alan squatted beside Beth and she returned his look. ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘The baby’s shawl.’
Alan felt the excitement of the adrenalin running and was about to speak, but Beth put her fingers to her lips.
Ardjani had begun the story of Dhumby, the tragic owl. ‘This little bird was teased by disobedient boys. They pull out his feathers and stick spinifex in him so he can’t fly. For this, the boys’ parents are punished. They put to death.’
‘But it wasn’t the parents’ fault.’ Susan was shocked at the harshness of the law.
‘That’s white culture talking,’ said Rusty. ‘Barradja way of bringing up the young men is very different.’
‘Those boys who were cruel to the little owl, they were thirteen, fourteen therebouts. That is their taboo time when they’re not allowed to mix with girls, look at certain sacred places, or see some ceremonies. They must begin their initiation. They know they must obey our law,’ said Ardjani. ‘At this age we take the boys away from the family to be taught by the old men till they be ready for initiation to become men too. Barradja boys are navigated into adulthood by the elders.’
‘They still see the family,’ Digger elaborated, ‘but they also belong to we elders, to be taught the laws. And also, they must pass the tests of courage and strength.’
Ardjani said, ‘I give you an example. You know how hot a kangaroo be when it cooked. The boy has to take that baked kangaroo from out of the oven in the ground, and put the hot skin on his shoulder, and run with that kangaroo with all the boiling juices going down his back.’
Alistair leaned towards Mick, ‘And I thought boys’ boarding schools were tough.’
‘If they were growing up in a town, this mob’s kids would probably watch TV, play football, and give the local cops hell. Odd business, isn’t it?’
Beth caught the judge’s comment and pointed at the elders who were to one side, listening. ‘These old men are watchful and very strict with the young boys, and the boys respect what they say. We’ve mostly lost that in our culture. A lot of fathers are afraid to interact with their teenage sons these days, because looming behind our children today is the State. If children want to complain that their parents have shouted at them, or refused to let them go to particular places with their friends, the government workers can say, if you’re not happy at home, you can leave. We have the young homeless allowance for you.’
‘So the kids are saying, get out of my face, Dad, the government will look after me.’ The judge shook his head. ‘You know, it makes you really wonder where our so-called sophisticated society has taken the whole business of parenting and family responsibility, in the name of progress.’
Beth agreed. ‘Like the Dhumby story says . . . In the Barradja community, the parents are punished for the misdemeanours of their children. But when our kids show lack of respect, abuse animals, people and the land, society is reluctant to punish parents for the misbehaviour of their children. Instead, we punish the child,’ said Beth. ‘The State has eroded the responsibility of parents for their children.’
Alistair was quick to take issue. ‘That may be so, Beth, but admirable though these rites of passage are for the young boys of the Barradja, it’s not the answer for our society.’
Beth raised her eyebrows. ‘Isn’t it, Alistair? I wonder whether there isn’t something we can learn from them. I’ll bet a lot of street kids, who are drug-addicted and working as prostitutes to pay for their habit, could see some relevance.’
‘Point taken,’ said Alistair and he turned to Ardjani. ‘Sorry about that, my friend, but your story about Dhumby has impressed us in more ways than perhaps you expected. I rather feel Dhumby has inspired a discussion that will continue for quite some time. Your people accept parental roles easily. In our culture, we’re still arguing about them.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ardjani smiling, ‘we notice whitefellas like arguments.’ He gestured towards Digger to take over the lecture. Being an artist, he liked to talk about traditional paintings.
Beth signalled to Ardjani and Alan, and they moved away from the shadowy shelter to sit on a boulder, under a spindly tree.
‘Ardjani, you remember I told you about that Aboriginal baby left in the art gallery in Melbourne? Her mother was murdered.’
‘Yeah. You heard any more about that baby?’
‘Joyce Guwarri at welfare is still looking after her. Joyce spent ten minutes on the radio phone the other day telling me what a perfect child she is. She smiles a lot and gurgles. I suspect Joyce’s getting quite attached to her. She said they’ve had no luck at all finding the baby’s father, and it doesn’t look like the girl’s parents want anything to do with their granddaughter. Apparently they’re religious nuts, they belong to some sort of church that doesn’t allow young girls to mix outside the congregation. This girl, Lisa, had run away. The parents also made it clear that their so-called religion does not allow intermixing of races.’
Ardjani rolled his eyes. ‘Baby better off not with these crazy people.’
Alan spoke quietly. ‘Ardjani, I’m confident the picture up there of Dhumby is the same that’s on the shawl left with the baby. Someone must have told her about Dhumby, and most probably it was the Aboriginal father.’
Ardjani tipped his hat forward and scratched the back of his neck. ‘Dhumby is a Barradja story. That baby belongs to Barradja family. We just have to find that father, eh?’ He gave a reassuring smile. ‘I think this is a special baby, she find her way home. You see.’
Beth contented herself with these remarks. Ardjani turned and gestured to the rock shelter. ‘The spirits are pleased you bring us to them. Mebbe give us good news, eh?’
‘I wish they could help us find that baby’s father,’ said Beth.
‘Why would the father go away from baby’s mother?’
Beth sighed. ‘Well, if we knew that, we’d have a few more answers.’
Ardjani looked back to the gallery where Digger was still explaining the paintings to their visitors. Outside and well away from the entrance, Rusty and Barwon were in deep discussion.
‘Reckon that Barwon fella learnin’ a lot about huntin’. But he not seem interested in our rock paintings. What you think, Beth?’
‘I think he’s very sad, Ardjani, he seems so lost, so confused. I get the feeling that he’s beginning to think his search is hopeless. He’s changed since he’s been here. And he won’t talk to me about what’s wrong. Have you noticed how quiet he is? It’s not like him.’
‘He got to get more feelin’ for country. I get Digger ’n’ Rusty take him see some Barradja country.’
‘He’s worth helping, Ardjani. So’s that little baby.’ Ardjani scratched an ear. ‘Busy time for you and me, eh?’
‘Important time,’ affirmed Beth.
‘Too right.’
Rusty-had started poking about the small ledges in a shelter adjoining the Wandjina paintings and he called to Ardjani in language. Ardjani and Digger climbed to where he was, and the three crouched down on a ledge above where the group was assembled.
Ardjani stepped forward and, in his outstretched hand, he held a skull. It was brown-stained, streaked with bright red.
Veronica recoiled and clutched Susan’s hand. ‘Jesus. How spooky!’
‘This fellow, this old man. His bones be taken. Other old man, his head be gone. Bad, very bad.’
‘Bad for the dead bloke, or bad for the bloke that stole it?’ Mick asked.
‘Who’d take a skull?’ Veronica shuddered.
‘I’d say it’s bad news for whoever took it,’ suggested Alistair.
Digger gave a shout, and held up small bones. The men conferred again, and the bones were put back
in the burial shelf.
‘We think birds scatter these little bones, but the skull, he gone. No good.’ Ardjani climbed back down.
‘Why is the skull red?’ Susan asked Beth.
‘It’s an ochre they use to preserve and decorate them for ceremonial reasons.’
‘Why would someone steal such a thing? Gives me the creeps.’
‘I’ve stopped being surprised at what people steal or collect,’ said Beth. ‘Collectors can be very weird, obsessive people.’
As the group waited around the van watching, Ardjani lit a small fire near the rock paintings, collected a handful of green leaves and put them on the flames, fanning the fire with his hat. The smoke rose as his voice sailed beyond and above the sacred gallery. His song rose past the orange and red outcrops into an impossibly blue sky, and the chanting of the old man, almost Gregorian in impact, became an indelible image.
Rusty, realising that everyone was curious, offered a brief explanation. ‘Ardjani do this smoking so that the spirits don’t follow us. If you don’t do the proper thing, there may be trouble.’
‘Primitive stuff, isn’t it?’ said Veronica to Susan, as they waved handkerchiefs to ward off the increasing number of flies annoying them. ‘I mean, it’s nearly the end of the millennium and we’re walking in space, poking around Mars, and this old bloke is chanting away at spirits he thinks are living in a pile of rock. As for these bloody flies, it’s about time Tim Fischer and the National Party did something about them.’
Susan laughed. The outburst was typical of Veronica, a blunt combination of humour, absurdity, scepticism. ‘Careful,’ warned Susan with mock seriousness. ‘You don’t know who’s listening out here.’
Ardjani settled into the Oka in the space left by Lilian and Jennifer’s absence. The sun was already well down. ‘Gala light time soon. We leave before shadows come,’ he told Billy.
‘What does gala mean?’ asked Veronica.
‘Look out there, see that pretty light, after the sun goes. It’s soft-time light. Look out, maybe you catch the Rai dancing.’ Seeing Veronica about to open her mouth, he answered her question. ‘The Rai be little spirits, mischief spirits, magic spirits. Sometimes Wandjina send them to us in dreams.’
‘Like Mimi spirits? I’ve heard of those.’ Mick was glad he could contribute to the conversation.
Ardjani turned and gave a cheeky leer to the crowd. ‘Mimi spirits be sexy ones. They teach sexy things to Aborigines.’ He gave a wink and a big grin.
Veronica was delighted. ‘Now they’re the sort of spirits I can relate to . . . the sexy ones.’
‘You’re the limit, Veronica,’ said Susan. ‘But at least it’s a step forward in accepting their culture.’
‘Not quite accepting yet, darling. Just sort of relating.’
Billy drove through the lavender light to where they’d arranged to meet Jennifer and Lilian. The women had been waiting patiently beneath a tree. As the van pulled up, Veronica walked to the door to help Jennifer with the baby. Lilian sat next to Susan, who gave her a tentative smile.
The baby lay across Jennifer’s lap on its stomach, sleeping peacefully, its head to one side, legs dangling over her knees. Susan saw Veronica reach out and tenderly smooth the baby’s head.
Lilian noticed it too and moved closer to talk softly to Susan. ‘Your friend, Jennifer, tell me she trying to get a baby from a needle. That seem a stoopid way to get a baby.’
‘Well, her husband is helping.’ Susan struggled to explain that because she couldn’t conceive a baby naturally, the doctors were using science and technology to help.
Lilian still looked bemused. ‘You don’t have wunggud? We take her to baby spirit pond. We do women’s business.’
‘Will she grow a baby?’
Lilian nodded. ‘First her husband must dream the baby and then it come to her.’
Susan decided to leave the discussion of Aboriginal conception till a time when Beth could help translate. She touched Lilian’s hand. ‘Today, when you went to your father and grandfather’s country, how did you feel?’
‘I feel sad.’
‘Were they there? The spirits of your father and grandfather?’
Lilian didn’t answer for a moment. ‘I don’t know. I know tonight. If they there, they come and I dream them tonight. They will tell me.’ She spoke simply with resigned conviction.
‘Did you know them?’
‘I be little girl when my father die and my mother take me away from this country for many years, so I don’t learn from my father’s stories. But we be close, you know. We share same totem, dingo. Same songs, same law.’
Lilian fell silent, so Susan changed the subject. ‘Where do you get your food over there, at your camp? Do you buy things in Marrenjowan?’
‘Yeah, we go to shops when we get the pension. But when we here, we like to get our traditional food. It more healthy, Jennifer tell us. The men hunt and we get women’s food.’ She smiled. ‘But we still like tomato sauce on bush tucker.’
The truck rolled ahead of them and into the camp at twilight with Rusty tooting the horn. From the Oka’s window, Ardjani saw a battered four-wheel drive parked close to the buildings.
‘You got visitors, Ardjani,’ called Beth.
‘Bungarra mob. Old Lucky come and visit.’
‘Great,’ Susan nudged Veronica. ‘The old artist. You’ll love him. Get him to tell you stories about his travels.’
As they climbed out of the van, Beth asked Ardjani to bring the Bungarra visitors over to their campfire later in the evening. ‘I’ll arrange with Billy to have some extra tucker.’
The Aboriginal groups merged and walked off to their camp as Billy issued a series of short commands that had the whites hopping, in good humour, to help prepare the evening meal. Mick threw together the dough for the promised damper, with the speed and aplomb of a seasoned bushman, while the others gathered firewood and set the table.
During the meal, Beth returned from Ardjani’s camp and dropped into a chair and gasped, ‘You won’t believe the story I’ve just heard.’ But before she had time to explain, Billy was urging her to get the last steak or it would turn into a cinder.
‘The damper is quite magnificent, Mick,’ said Alistair. ‘Beats me how flour and water can taste so good. Makes the baps at the patisserie up the road near my place pale in comparison. So, Beth, what was the meeting all about?’
‘Here they come. Better let them tell you.’
Ardjani, Rusty and Digger approached, their presence now dominated by the smaller, effervescent Lucky, who walked ahead of them.
He went around the group shaking hands announcing, ‘I be Lucky Dodds and I met de Queen of England!’ Coming to Susan, he pumped her arm. ‘You doing good here? Treat you good, eh?’
‘Yes, Lucky. It’s great to see you again. This is my friend, Veronica, she makes radio programs.’
Lucky pulled up a chair. ‘I sit with de pretty ladies,’ he chuckled.
‘You blokes want some meat? There’s one sausage left,’ said Beth holding up a sausage on a fork.
‘No, thanks, we eaten,’ said Digger.
‘Any biscuits?’ asked Lucky.
Beth dumped the sausage on her plate. ‘Biscuits with tea, later. Now, Lucky, tell Alan what you’ve been telling Ardjani.’
Lucky rubbed his hands together. He had an audience and a story to tell and he relished every moment. After a long preamble, it emerged there had been a visitor to Bungarra. ‘An American lady. Maybe Ardjani’s girlfriend.’ Then Lucky quipped, ‘Smart lady, but . . .’ he held up a finger, ‘skinny, bad eyes, dingo eyes. Lucky no like her, not like dese pretty ladies, here.’ Veronica and Susan were given a nudge. ‘Dis lady visit here before. Now she back. And she say she gonna buy all our paintings and take dem back to America. She got paper to pay us lots of money and she say she want Bungarra mob to sign paper, like Ardjani and elders sign paper with her.’
Alan put down his knife and fork. ‘Hang on, Lucky. Just what
are you saying?’
Lucky slapped his knee. ‘See, I tell Queenie, Alan gonna be mad. He gonna be mad when he know about dis lady. Queenie over dere with Lilian and de other women. She tell dem de story. Den we have meeting and decide if we sign dis paper.’
Beth looked at Ardjani, whose face was impassive, and who hadn’t smiled. ‘Maybe you should tell Alan what Rowena is saying.’
‘Who’s Rowena?’ asked Mick.
‘She’s an American woman who went to an exhibition Ardjani was hosting in Los Angeles eighteen months ago. She met him, got swept up in the charisma of the Aborigines, the art, the mystical stuff.’ Beth gave a sidelong glance to Ardjani. ‘She was charmed by Ardjani’s stories, stories she kind of exaggerated in her head to believe the new age, or something similar, had come to the Kimberley. Next thing she’d jumped on a plane and come out here.’
‘She rich lady, her father big Hollywood man. Make films. She going to make a film about Barradja. Tell our stories,’ said Ardjani, in explanation.
‘Oh, Christ.’ Alan rolled his eyes.
‘She hung around following Ardjani until the wet was due and the Barradja moved to Marrenjowan,’ said Beth. ‘Then she went back to LA. End of her adventure, or so we thought. And now she’s come out here again, and she’s at Bungarra.’
‘What has she told you, Lucky?’ asked Alistair.
‘She say Ardjani and the elders already sign papers, so it all right we sign papers too.’ Lucky shook his head from side to side in an exaggerated gesture. ‘I say, no. No way. Not till we talk to Ardjani.’
‘Signing some papers sounds a worry,’ said Mick. ‘What did you sign, Ardjani?’
‘When she come here before, we talk. These boys come,’ he pointed to Rusty and Digger. ‘And she say she going to make film about us. Take film of ceremonies and many things, so we can keep them to teach the young people. She say one day mebbe some dances, some songs, they forgotten if the old people don’t pass them on. She say they get too old to travel to teach Barradja who are far away. We make this film to teach young boys and girls. And then she make other film about us Barradja to tell the world how we have a gift. She say we should share our knowledge with white people. This film be a good way to show our country, our people, our culture.’