THE SONG MASTER

by Di Morrissey

  Susan watched, fascinated, recalling tales of legendary blacktrackers who could ‘read’ a footprint and describe the physical appearance of the person who’d made it, know when they’d made it, and even tell their mental or emotional state from it.

  If anyone had noticed Andrew’s exit from Susan’s tent, no one gave any indication as she walked back from the Barradja camp. There was a huddled group around the fire eating breakfast. The art theft and Rowena’s part in it, now revealed, was the only subject of discussion.

  Mick poured milk on his cereal. ‘Ardjani will have to get the talking stick out today, that’s for sure. Rowena’s been holding something back all along, I reckon. She came out here to exploit their culture and now she’s looking to them for help.’

  ‘Ardjani is very wise in these matters, he’s the best one to help her,’ said Beth. ‘When Rowena tried to tell him about some European count behind the theft last night, she was too hysterical to talk properly. Ardjani got Jennifer to put her to bed and said he’d listen to her story today when she was calmer. Now she’s gone from her room. Nobody’s seen her anywhere this morning.’

  Shareen turned away tight lipped. She couldn’t imagine how these white people could air their problems before a bunch of elderly Aborigines, thinking that talking to Ardjani could solve everything. Still, it was nothing to do with her. She’d always battled on her own – before her miserable marriage, and after her divorce. No one had helped her, she reminded her two sons every time they’d asked for money.

  ‘You look far away, what are you thinking about?’ asked Susan.

  ‘I was just thinking about my kids,’ said Shareen.

  ‘Miss them?’

  ‘Not really. I mean, yes . . . that’s why I was thinking about them . . .’ Her face twisted and Susan dropped the subject.

  By mid-morning there was still no sign of Rowena. Susan and Andrew had been roped into a game with the youngsters, racing to the river bank and back, with Rusty acting as starter and judge.

  Billy set out the plates and cutlery as the rest of the group and the elders gathered for lunch. Andrew and Susan joined them, making room for Luke and Joshua to sit beside them. Shareen hung back, waiting to find a place at the table that suited her, as she always did. She caught Luke gazing at her with wide, serious eyes. She gave him a brief smile, then, seeing scars on his legs, asked conversationally, ‘What happened to your legs?’

  ‘Gadia fellas set their dogs on me goin’ t’school. I was just a little kid.’

  Shareen recoiled, wishing she hadn’t asked. Beth, overhearing the exchange, said quietly. ‘Yeah, four white blokes set their dogs onto the kids, to “show the black bastards” was how they put it. Pretty pathetic to sool big mongrel dogs onto a couple of small kiddies on their way to school. For no reason other than racial hatred. The whites were drunk, but that’s no excuse.’

  ‘Drink brings out the worst in people,’ said Shareen lamely. ‘My father drank.’

  Lilian surprised Shareen with her sympathetic response. ‘I know how it be. Grog send the men crazy.’ She tapped Shareen on the shoulder. ‘That why we don’ allow no grog in here.’ The two women’s eyes met. For a rare second, they shared an experience. Then Shareen stood and formally excused herself, saying she had to fetch something from her tent.

  Barwon and Rusty walked over and Digger, carrying the rifle, followed them.

  ‘What’s with the gun?’ asked Veronica.

  ‘Going huntin’, need tucker,’ he explained. He patted the old but well-cared-for .22.

  ‘Where’d you learn to handle a gun?’ asked Billy.

  ‘In the army. That’s where I get me name – Digger.’

  ‘You enlisted?’ asked Alistair.

  ‘You bet. Big mob of us sign up, do army training and go to New Guinea. Not good place.’ He grinned. ‘Better here. But we win the war, eh?’

  As the men walked off towards their truck, Susan caught sight of Jennifer heading towards the river.

  ‘What’s with the dilly bag? You going food gathering?’ she called out.

  Jennifer adjusted the string bag on her shoulder. ‘No. I’m worried about Rowena. She hasn’t come back from her walk. I’m going after her. This is my clever bag, my medicine bag. Just in case.’

  ‘Can I come with you?’

  The two young women walked through the bush, comfortable in each other’s company, as if they’d been friends for years, until Susan said, ‘I’m going to miss this . . . being able to walk out in the bush, it’s so peaceful. It’s solitary, but you don’t feel alone. I thought I’d be scared being out here in the middle of nowhere. I’ve never felt so safe, as I do here.’

  Jennifer laughed softly. ‘I don’t like the city. Darwin’s all right, but I feel strange in Perth and Adelaide, so big and busy.’

  ‘You don’t miss that side of your job? The nursing? Medicine? Will you go back to work in a big hospital?’

  Jennifer looked at her in surprise. ‘No, not at all. This is my job now, learning our medicine, our healing. With my white medicine and the old ways, I feel I can help my people. It’s great to have the Flying Doctor as a back-up, but unless we train our people, we won’t ever improve the Aboriginal health problem. It’s a big problem. You know how bad it is. Our life expectancy is half that of white people, too many of our babies die, and illnesses like diabetes and glaucoma are out of control in some areas.’

  Susan gave her a shrewd look. ‘You ever thought of going into politics, Jennifer?’

  She gave a half smile. ‘This is politics. I have to gently introduce outside ideas – like hygiene practices – that don’t conflict with the laws, and that don’t step on the old men’s toes. I talk to the senior women and when appropriate, they quietly tell the elders. Then the elders bring it up and it gets discussed and they don’t lose face.’ Her smile broadened. ‘Aboriginal women wield a lot of power, but softly softly.’

  They walked on for a few minutes then Susan asked, ‘My friend Veronica . . . she told me about the baby spirit pond. Will she . . . do you think . . . will she get pregnant?’ Susan rushed on, ‘I get the feeling she is setting so much hope by the whole thing . . . I just worry for her. She’s been disappointed so many times. And she had this dream the other night . . .’

  Jennifer stopped and turned to Susan. ‘What dream?’

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t tell you, she should. But she keeps thinking she’s drowning, she sinks down in the lily pond and all the waterlilies are flowering under the water. It’s bothering her.’

  Jennifer touched her arm. ‘No, this is wonderful. This is the lily dream, it means the totem has entered her egg and when she goes back her husband will give her the baby spirit from the lily pond. The baby spirit is waiting for her.’

  Susan was about to argue that this didn’t sit comfortably with modern medical knowledge, but she caught herself. ‘So the baby’s totem is a waterlily?’

  ‘Yes. She is going to come back here.’ Jennifer clapped her hands. ‘In one year, you and Veronica, everyone, will come back and we will smoke Veronica’s baby girl. Yes, we’ll have a good ceremony, then.’

  Susan laughed it off. ‘Oh, it’s a girl. She’d better call her Lily, eh?’ But she decided not to mention the conversation to Veronica. Just in case nothing happened.

  They’d walked for about twenty minutes. ‘Where do you think Rowena went? She could be anywhere.’

  Jennifer pointed at the ground. ‘I’m following her tracks. She isn’t far away.’

  Susan thought back to the young boys and their tracking lesson with Ardjani around the fire that morning. ‘Are girls taught how to track?’

  ‘Not normally. But when I was young and we all played together, I used to watch the boys tracking animals. We girls were shown symbols and what they mean. My mother and aunties drew images in the sand to teach me. And they taught me about love rituals and things like that.’

  ‘Sounds like more fun than playing with dolls!’

  ‘We were neve
r brought up to think, like white women have been, that all we women have to contribute is to be mothers and have babies. Much of the mothering work is shared, so we can learn other things – art and spiritual knowledge, for example. That’s important for us, too.’

  ‘Look!’ interrupted Susan.

  They saw Rowena in the distance. She sat hunched against a large rock. Her body was now so thin she looked like a shadow puppet, thought Susan.

  ‘Rowena!’

  Even from a distance her body language was fearful. Susan had the feeling that even if they’d been beside her when she shouted, Rowena would have been oblivious to their presence.

  Jennifer held her clever bag to her side and hurried forward, Susan in her wake. Rowena stirred and rose shakily to her feet, looking vaguely around her. She started walking away from them. Susan was about to call out again when Jennifer stopped in front of her, holding out an arm to halt their progress. ‘What? What is it?’ asked Susan in a low voice, sensing the warning in Jennifer’s gesture.

  Jennifer pointed. Out of nowhere there appeared a tall column of red dust. ‘Willy-willy.’ It was behind Rowena and moving towards her with increasing speed.

  ‘Rowena! Run!’ shouted Jennifer. Susan stood transfixed by the mini tornado of spinning red dirt.

  Rowena seemed confused, weaving, dropping her face in her hands and rushing with no apparent sense of direction.

  Helplessly they watched as the swirling column, reaching twenty metres into the sky, hurtled into Rowena, spinning its gritty web around her. For a few seconds she was lost in the dust cloud that screamed through her hair and clothes. Then, just as swiftly as it had come, it spun away.

  ‘What the hell . . . what’s going on?’

  ‘It’s a warning . . . she’s being warned,’ gasped Jennifer.

  As the willy-willy twirled into the distance, Jennifer and Susan rushed to Rowena.

  She was on her hands and knees, sobbing, her fingers clawing the dirt. Jennifer knelt beside her. ‘It’s all right, Rowena, it’s gone.’ Jennifer murmured more soothing words, as she helped Rowena sit up. The American was gulping at air, trying to regain her composure.

  Susan was shocked at her wild-eyed expression. ‘That was quite something . . . I’ve heard of willy-willies . . .’ her voice trailed off as Rowena clutched at Jennifer.

  ‘I’m being punished, aren’t I? It’s all my fault. What’s going to happen to me?’

  ‘Rowena, here, drink this.’ Jennifer handed her a small bottle filled with water. ‘Come on, we’ll take you back. Ardjani is waiting to talk to you.’

  Rowena spluttered, choking on the water. ‘No, no. He mustn’t know . . . then I will be in trouble.’

  ‘Rowena, what are you talking about?’ asked Susan. ‘You’ve already told him, last night, about the people you think stole the rock. Is there something else bothering you?’

  The American glowered at Susan, fear, anger and distrust in her eyes.

  Jennifer helped Rowena to her feet. ‘Come back. It’s best. Maybe it’s all over now. The spirits have gone.’

  This seemed to calm her and Susan kept silent as Jennifer continued to speak gently to Rowena as they slowly made their way back to the camp.

  Two hours had passed and Susan guessed it must have been close to 4 p.m.

  Ardjani sat in his favourite chair by his campfire, his chin on his chest, his legs stretched out, deep in thought. He looked up as Rowena approached.

  The American woman was in a bad way, he thought. She looked like a stick insect, all sharp angles, thin arms and legs, and bulging eyes.

  She sat down in the chair beside the old man and stared into the crackling fire as he threw a small branch with pungent leaves onto the flames.

  Rowena looked at the ground, the words of her preamble tripping over each other. ‘I have bad dreams and I know you are the only one who can fix me.’ She waited then turned to him. ‘Ardjani, I’ve done terrible things. I know I’m being punished for these things . . . and I need you to help me.’ She reached out a hand to touch his arm but he stood, imperious, arms folded over his bare chest, ribbed with the thick scars of his initiation rites. ‘Be still.’ He waited several beats, staring down at her. ‘Tell me your story.’

  She started speaking, her voice high and strained. ‘The German man I told you about last night . . . I met him at my father’s house, he wanted to collect art and he asked me to arrange a trip out here to see the rock art, to buy paintings, but I swear . . . I promise you, Ardjani, that I didn’t know they’d steal the rock. I thought he was sending one of his people to buy paintings from Bungarra. I don’t know how . . .’

  ‘You know this man? You know for sure he be the one?’ Ardjani’s eyes were hard and bright, like glass. ‘Maybe we get the rock back . . . when the police come, you tell them his name, and where he lives.’

  ‘Ardjani, this man lives in a fortress, he hides the things he gets. He is clever. The police . . . no one will get to the guyon guyon. No one can get into this place. Like you said, not even Wandjina spirits.’

  Ardjani’s expression didn’t change.

  ‘What can I do, Ardjani? I’m being punished and I didn’t know what they were going to do. I know I’m responsible for bringing them here but . . .’

  ‘That man, who have the guyon guyon, he will die for this. The spirits will find him. But the spirits cannot bring back our guyon guyon rock. The hole you saw in that rock, that is like the hole in our hearts.’ He folded his arms and studied her. ‘What else?’

  She hesitated. Ardjani continued staring at her, his eyes boring into her. ‘There is something else in your eyes. You tell me.’

  She took a shuddering breath, closed her eyes for a moment and talked in a rapid low voice. ‘When I came here to see you the first time, I went driving and walking one day. And I found the Wandjina spirits on the rock. I saw the paintings that looked like space aliens. And then I saw a skull. It was very old. I thought it wouldn’t matter to anyone, so I took it. After all, nobody ever went there any more. It wasn’t used as a sacred site because your people weren’t allowed to go there.’ Rowena stared into the fire, unable to look at Ardjani’s face.

  The old man caught his breath and imperceptibly shook his head as if too quick a movement would cause him intense physical pain. ‘Rowena, where is this skull now?’

  ‘In my father’s house. In Los Angeles. I can send it back to you, Ardjani. I will ring today and get it sent back here straight away, by air courier.’

  ‘Yes. You must do that. Now! He must come back to be with his bones. You are in trouble, Rowena. Ancestor spirits are very angry with you, that is why you are so sick.’

  Tears spilled from Rowena’s eyes and she began to shake. ‘What can I do? Please help me, Ardjani.’

  ‘I’ll try. You must be open in your heart. Tomorrow, I will take you to the Wandjina paintings where the rest of the bones are. We make ceremony to the spirits and I will smoke you, we tell the spirits you didn’t mean to hurt them.’ And as Rowena clutched his hand gratefully, he added pointedly, ‘You hurt Barradja people, very bad, and you hurt yourself. You understand this?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Please, don’t say anything, Ardjani. We go alone, just us. Please, Ardjani. We’ll fix things. Just you and me.’

  Ardjani slowly withdrew his hand from the shaking, weeping woman. ‘Piccanniny light tomorrow. We go.’ He turned and left her, walking slowly, his shoulders slumped.

  Susan decided this was her favourite time of day. Streaky sunset reds and golds, the precursor to delicate gala light that warmed the surface of the river. It was the hour when they bathed and then, refreshed, put on camp-fire night clothes and gathered for talk and predinner preparations.

  Andrew and Susan glided through the water, close together, touching, teasing and laughing. They were joined by Mick and Alan, who climbed the old tree branch hanging over the river and jumped in. Mick ploughed through the waterlily pads, defying leeches, and swam strongly across the river, doing a U
turn to lap his way into the setting sun.

  Susan bobbed along as Alan and Andrew headed for the bank. ‘What’s for dinner, apart from Mick’s magnificent damper?’ asked Andrew.

  ‘I believe it’s pasta. We’re onto dry stores. You coming, Susan?’

  She floated dreamily on her back. ‘I’ll catch you up in a minute.’

  She climbed out and towelled her body in the cool air, watching Andrew walk slowly back through the grassy track that led to the tents, past the tin shed where the generator suddenly clicked and began chugging away.

  Mick clambered up the bank, his barrel chest matted with grey hair heaving with exertion. Susan threw him a towel. ‘You’ve earned some jam on your damper tonight.’

  ‘Jeez, I’d better check that. Didn’t think we’d be hanging about in the water so long. Where’s that young man of yours, eh? Giving you a chance to think about your future with him? You could do worse, you know.’ They started walking back and Mick suddenly realised why she was still there.

  ‘Did you wait for me?’ He sounded quite shocked.

  ‘Well, kind of. Just taking in the sunset. Didn’t want to see a croc get you.’

  ‘You worried I was going to have a heart attack or something. The crocs are harmless, but I bet you wouldn’t have jumped in and rescued an old bloke.’

  ‘No. But I could have thrown a shoe at his snout or something.’

  ‘Listen, if anything happens to me out here, just leave me. Can’t think of a better place to cark it.’

  ‘Mick! You’re not serious.’

  ‘Why not? I’ll be dead, what do I care where I am. I’d be just as happy to have my head painted red and people come and visit me every hundred years or so. I might ask Ardjani if they’d bury my old bones around here. He’ll probably think I’m mad.’