by Di Morrissey
‘What seems to be the problem, Lilian?’ asked Beth.
She pursed her lips. ‘Ancestor spirits flying all over the place. Bad feelings.’
The elders looked back at the group. ‘Spirits say problem here. They very unhappy. We better go check ’im out,’ said Rusty. The words were delivered with a clear note of fear in his voice.
The group trailed behind Ardjani, flanked by Rusty and Digger. Susan offered a hand to Esme, who shook her head, using her stick to lean on as a climbing prop.
When they reached the shelter, the elders were first to turn into the overhang. Their sudden expressions of shock echoed off the rock face.
‘What is it?’ cried Beth. Then, ‘Oh, my God.’
The others scrambled behind her, staring up at the rock where paintings of waif-like dancing stick figures trailed around the protected shelter to a flat sheet of the cliff face.
A gaping wound, like raw flesh, shone in the centre of the weathered and aged sandstone. It was roughly rectangular in shape, a metre across, the metal wedges driven into the rock to create fissure and pressure lines still in place.
‘It’s been stolen!’ Susan gasped the obvious, as they all tried to comprehend this desecration. She looked to the three old men.
Ardjani was facing Rusty and Digger, tears shining on his face, oblivious to the others’ presence. ‘Who could do this thing?’ he asked of them. The other elders were speechless, their faces creased in pain. This was beyond their comprehension.
The old men sat down and began muttering words brokenly to each other. Jennifer and Lilian moved apart, talking quietly. The group stayed silent until Digger looked at them. ‘This terrible thing, terrible.’
‘Thieves. People come and take it away,’ said Rusty angrily.
‘Who? Why?’ Mick was incredulous.
‘It happen once before,’ said Ardjani. ‘Thieves cut out a rock with fossilised dinosaur tracks near Broome. That rock belong to Goolarabooloo songlines. This guyon guyon rock belong to our songs.’
‘A sample of Australian rock art of this antiquity would be highly prized by collectors,’ said Alan quietly. ‘It’s probably well out of the country by now.’ Michael de Witt and Esme stepped closer to examine the gaping space.
‘They knew what they were doing even if it’s a rough job. They only had to slice a plate a few millimetres thick,’ said Alan. ‘And it looks very, very new.’
‘They’ve tapped in these spikes, split the fissure line and worked around it to lift it off,’ said de Witt. ‘I hope at least they got it off in one piece, without it shattering. And you’re right, Alan, this is usually the work of overseas operators, at least the earlier ones have been.’
‘How dare they? How dare anyone come to our country and steal our art,’ said the old lady, tears forming in her eyes. ‘If this were anywhere else in the world, we would be safeguarded against people plundering our history.’
Her bitter words left everyone speechless. The visitors stood motionless as Lilian and Jennifer joined Ardjani, Digger and Rusty, talking quietly in language, and occasionally pointing at the gaping wound.
Finally, Susan whispered to Veronica, who was taking her tape recorder out of her bag, ‘We don’t even know what it was . . . the image . . .’
Ardjani looked at her, and spoke slowly and sadly. ‘This guyon guyon picture came from the Wandjina, it show the emu dance. It a small picture, and very special.’
‘Who’d take it and where would it go?’ asked Veronica.
‘It’ll probably be in Geneva or Tokyo by now,’ said Alan. ‘That’s where most of these thefts of rare art end up.’
‘Whoever take ’im be in big trouble,’ said Rusty.
‘With the authorities or the spirits?’ asked Barwon. Hunter, standing beside him, looked across at Rowena. Her face had turned stark white.
Anger and authority returned to Ardjani’s voice. ‘They be a dead person. The spirits always punish anyone who does such a thing to sacred place. Bad things happen.’
Rowena was agitated. ‘What if the artefact, whatever, is returned, does the punishment stop?’
‘That person must come back, apologise to the spirits, and take what is their punishment.’ Ardjani looked at Beth. ‘But how you return rock to wall, huh? It like your heart is cut out.’
Andrew whispered to Susan. ‘Do you reckon there’s anything to this? Gives me the creeps. I wouldn’t have thought twice about showing paintings to visitors.’
Susan looked unamused. ‘Would you seriously consider taking something away from your site at Yandoo? Flogging off a bit of the paintings, for example?’ she asked.
Andrew chewed his lip. ‘Not now. No, I wouldn’t.’
There was an unspoken agreement among the group that they move out into the open and leave the elders to conduct their business in privacy. As they settled themselves in a circle on the ground, Mick said, ‘This is Len Steele’s property, we’d better check to see if there’ve been any tourists here lately.’
‘This is the reason why the Barradja should accompany anyone who comes here,’ said Beth quietly. ‘They’d know if there was danger to their sacred sites.’
‘For goodness sake,’ exclaimed Shareen. ‘It is Len’s land, if he wants to show people some artefacts, why should he go through burning ceremonies and all that rigmarole? It’s not as if he’d knowingly let anyone steal from him.’ Seeing the unconvinced faces around her, Shareen turned to Esme. ‘Did your archaeological people have to make ceremonies when you went to study that place you were telling us about?’
‘No, we didn’t,’ said Esme quietly. But before Shareen could make any smug comment, Michael de Witt explained, ‘We have an elder from Marrenyikka on our team. He asked permission from the Barradja for us to work there. And our team leader obtained permission from the lease holder, a fellow called Jackson, who basically told him we were wasting our time. Although he was quick to say he wanted to be informed immediately if we found anything of value.’
Shareen was silent and Beth asked de Witt, ‘Is old Midgerie the Barradja with you?’
The archaeologist smiled. ‘Sure is, he’s a character.’
‘He’s Lilian’s uncle,’ said Beth. ‘He’s the only old family she has left.’
Rowena didn’t join in. Sitting apart from the others, she rested her head on her knees. Hunter finally sat beside her.
‘You blaming yourself? What do you think? I know what I reckon.’
She looked at him. ‘I was set up. I think I’ve figured it out. I’m scared. I had no idea . . .’
‘Let’s see if your scenario fits in with mine. I reckon it was the two guys who came on their own. The Canadian and Swiss guys. Had to be. And they didn’t go with the others to Bungarra. They must have come here on their way back to Kununurra.’
‘But how would they find this place again?’ she wondered.
‘They could have used a global positioning system,’ said Hunter. ‘They’re pretty commonly used to track sites in the bush these days. It’s a hand-held satellite system, about the size of a mobile phone. Geologists, surveyors, aviators, ships at sea use them, and those two certainly had a lot of gear in their van. All they would have had to do is turn it on when you took them to see the rock art and press the store button. When they wanted to go back, they could read off the exact position to within a few metres,’ he explained. ‘The key is, why did they take it, and who did they take it for? Someone with a lot of money, for sure.’
Rowena sighed. ‘Gustav. He’s the one. He hired me, he got me to organise that trip. He said he’d be sending his people with my group. And he never did tell me what sort of art he was getting them to acquire. I trusted him because he was a friend of my father’s. Bastard.’ Rowena kicked a small rock.
‘This will have to be reported to the police. You’ll have to tell them what you know.’ Hunter pointed to the group still gathered around Ardjani at the rock site. ‘And you’ll have to tell them. At least there’s a chance it could
be recovered.’
Rowena shook her head. ‘I’ve seen Gustav’s place. They’d never find it and if he has got it he wouldn’t be stupid enough to put it there straight away. It will be hidden in one of those stolen art places they have in Europe.’
‘Rowena, you’re in trouble, anyway.’ Hunter stared at her. ‘I’m still enough of a blackfella to know you’ll be punished. This Gustav might be in deep shit. But you’ve at least got a chance to make your peace with the Barradja.’
Rowena dropped her head on her arms and began sobbing. Hunter saw the others starting to move back from the rock. He felt concerned at Rowena’s deep grief but unsure how to handle it. ‘Speak to Ardjani,’ he advised.
Rowena lifted her head. ‘Yeah. I know. I have to tell him something else, too. It’s been giving me hell for eighteen months. At least now I know why I’m dying.’
‘Christ, Rowena, who said anything about dying?’
She wiped her face, sounding calmer. ‘The shrink in LA was right. I had to come back.’
‘What’s up with Rowena? She seems upset.’ Shareen peered at the hunched figure of the American woman and the tall young Aborigine who reached out and briefly touched her shoulder before walking back towards them.
Barwon was standing next to Shareen. ‘Not half as upset as Ardjani and the other elders.’ He shook his head. ‘This is what happens when our people don’t have sovereignty over their sacred sites and the bloody pastoralists can come and go as they please.’
Shareen looked at the handsome former TV presenter. ‘You don’t seem to like them. What have you got against the pastoralists? You’re half white and live and work with white people. Where do you fit into all this?’
‘I wish I knew, Shareen, I wish I knew. You might find this hard to understand, but I don’t even know what my bloody name is. I came up here to find some answers and all I’ve found are a lot more questions.’
Questions. Everyone in this group seemed to have too many questions, thought Shareen. And who the hell has any answers. She followed Beth and Susan back down to the track that led to the Oka and realised that she too had unbidden questions forming deep within herself.
Behind them, the three elders lit the leaves and chanted a lament, an anguished wail that brought tears to Beth’s eyes and struck despair into Rowena’s heart.
Alistair paused, rubbing his aching knees, and Mick caught his breath beside him. ‘So, the plot thickens, my friend,’ said Alistair.
‘Bloody incredible stuff. I thought hearing about Esme’s findings was sensational enough. This takes the cake, I reckon.’
‘It certainly adds some colour to the Barradja’s claim for their rights of access.’
Mick moved ahead of Alistair, picking his way through the grass. ‘So we’re going for this are we? An informal pro bono partnership to help their cause? Young Susan is dead keen.’
‘She’d be a great asset. I’m convinced they have a worthwhile and just cause to ask for access to their sites and land.’ Mick grinned at Alistair. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound, count me in. That Jackson bloke is going to be a problem. Len Steele and Frank Ward seem reasonable blokes, I reckon we start with them . . .’
‘There’s someone closer to home we should start working on first,’ said Alistair quietly.
‘Not that dragon of a wannabe politician, Shareen. Why doesn’t she just go home and bake biscuits or something?’
The QC smiled at the judge’s cheerful chauvinism. ‘Times have moved on, Mick. Lincoln has freed the slaves, women are out of the kitchen. No, I’m thinking of Susan’s pal, Andrew. That’s the generation we have to convince. Just as the old Barradja men know their children have to adapt to two worlds so do our kids.’
‘You’re right. If we can win over Andrew and Shareen we’re on the road to some sort of success.’
The two senior legal men rested in the shade as Esme held forth in outraged tones about cultural theft, with Alan explaining it was a worldwide phenomenon. ‘You’d better protect your archaeological site. When word gets out, there’ll be plenty of people wanting to chip off a chunk of rock of the origin of man,’ declared Alan.
‘We’re in more danger from the academics. They’ll be flooding out of every hole in every university around the world,’ she predicted.
‘No, your biggest danger will be the politicians,’ said Beth with a sideways glance at Shareen. ‘The State government hasn’t wanted to know about all the headaches out here. Now, the Kimberley is going to be such an important area, they’ll probably want to own the lot and make it all national heritage or something.’
‘That’ll solve everyone’s problems then, you all lose,’ said Mick pessimistically. ‘Wouldn’t put it past the bastards, either.’
‘Not all governments and politicians wear black hats you know,’ protested Shareen. ‘You legal people want to control everything yourselves.’
‘The war is just beginning.’ Mick rubbed his hands together. ‘And here comes the first casualty, I’d say.’
Rowena’s pale, tear-stained face silenced them as she walked shakily, holding onto Hunter’s arm.
The events had disturbed everyone. Susan, feeling overwhelmed and strangely vulnerable, rested her head on Andrew’s shoulder. In the back of the Oka, Mick leaned his head against the window and slept. Beth had gone in the truck with Ardjani. Rusty found a seat in the Oka, squeezing beside Shareen, who turned her head to the window and watched the shadows of the trees and hills lengthen in the late afternoon.
‘Spirits out and about, eh?’ commented Rusty.
Shareen didn’t move or answer.
In the early dawn hours, Andrew crept into Susan’s tent. ‘I can’t sleep. Want to come for a walk?’
‘I’ve been awake too.’ She lifted up the edge of her sleeping bag. ‘Hop in. It’s freezing.’
‘That’s an invitation I won’t refuse.’ He settled himself and Susan cuddled close, resting her head on his chest. ‘So why have you been awake?’
‘Just thinking,’ she murmured. ‘So much happened yesterday. As it seems to every day out here. I feel like my life is running at fast forward.’
Andrew stroked her hair. ‘Is that good or bad? You’re certainly cramming a lot into this outback experience, eh?’
‘Andrew, it’s more than that.’ She paused; this was the one person she wanted to describe her spinning feelings to, and yet she wondered if he would really understand.
‘Go on.’ He sensed the hesitation in her.
‘I don’t know what I was thinking. It was just an impetuous decision to come here. Now I’m wondering if I want to be the best lawyer in Sydney. I’ve listened to Alistair and Mick, seen how they’re questioning their lives.’
‘So what would you do instead?’
‘I don’t want to give up the law, but I feel something changing in me. Maybe I could use my legal training to help people like the Barradja . . .’
His arms tightened around her. ‘It’s natural you’d feel that way when you’re here, so far removed from your normal life. And the Barradja have obviously made a huge impact. You need to go back to the city first and then reassess.’
As she snuggled against him, he began to think that there could possibly be a life for someone like Susan up here, that she could find a niche for herself. The idea warmed him and stirred deeper feelings.
He kissed the top of her head, wondering whether she had become too infatuated with this whole Barradja experience. Selfishly, he hoped the Kimberley had instilled in her an attachment to the land that he’d always loved. He hoped this might mean there was a future for their relationship. Andrew held her, and she was comforted by the security of his arms.
The closeness of her body, the sweet smell of her skin and hair, aroused his desire. He began kissing her throat and lips, moving his hands around her breasts. Susan responded to his gently insistent foreplay and in minutes they were pressed together, naked, beneath the cover of the feather-light sleeping bag. They made love, whisp
ering together, their bodies warming each other as dew trickled down the skin of the tent and in the bush nearby, small night creatures began returning to their shelters, knowing that day was due.
Susan was first up, leaving Andrew asleep. Streamers of early morning mist floated between the tents. It was a mournful light, reflecting the pall of sadness that clung to the little camp from the memories of the previous day and the night’s discussion of the stolen art that had lasted until the fire burned out.
Alistair had phoned Len Steele from the Oka and described the theft, saying that he’d already informed the Kununurra police. Len had been shocked this could happen on his property, and he admitted to Alistair that he’d had no idea this rock art could be so valuable that it would attract professional art thieves.
But while the white Australians had been outraged by the theft, they knew their feelings counted little compared to the devastation it had wrought on the Barradja.
Seeing a thin plume of smoke rising from the Barradja camp, Susan wandered over carrying her mug and a tea bag, hoping the billy had boiled.
She was relieved to see the Barradja going about their morning routine. Rusty, Digger and Barwon had been on an early morning hunt – a gutted, fat goanna sizzled over hot coals. Ardjani sat on the other side of the fire, cross-legged, facing his two sons.
Rusty and Digger made room for Susan, pouring hot water into her mug and offering the tin of condensed milk.
Ardjani had tried to explain to the boys the loss of the guyon guyon, the effect it would have on their lives, their children’s lives, and their descendants. The boys listened intently, then the three sat in silence for a little while before Ardjani announced it was time to continue the morning’s business.
It was wudu time and the lesson today was tracking. Using his knuckles and the heel of his right palm, Ardjani deftly created paw prints in the soft earth and talked of how the Barradja men knew when animals had been through their country by grass crushed, small pebbles over-turned, droppings left in different sizes and smells. Ardjani stood, pressed his foot in the soft dirt, and bid Luke and Joshua do the same. Then he showed them how to examine the multitude of clues contained in a footprint.