The Hard Light of Day

by Rod Moss

  ‘Not much on town side, you know. But that mob been spread all over desert line,’ quipped Arranye.

  The neighbour’s Siamese cat also liked the birds and stealthily passed us, keeping to the fence line. Arranye had never seen a Siamese cat. But he recounted how he had once found and befriended a camel-coloured cat in a cave. It had beheaded a king brown snake and left it on his pillow. The white stockman he was working with had insisted on killing the snake but Arranye pointed to its missing head.

  His reference to snakes made me think of Ronja’s snake Dreaming, the pattern of her birthmark. And then I recalled that my father, too, had a similar birthmark on his leg.

  ‘Arranye, did you know that snake pattern on Ronja’s neck is the same as my father’s?’

  ‘Of course. That where you been get your snake line, my boy.’

  Since schooldays I had been called ‘Snake’. I was said to have moved like a snake across the field during football matches. My stature was long, thin and agile. Arranye too had dubbed me ‘Snake’ within a few months of knowing me. My nickname had travelled across the cultures.

  ‘Snakes never worry old Arranye. Grandfather protect me from snake, any kind, when I only boy, little bit walkin’.’

  He said his grandfather had caught one once and boiled off its fat. When the fat cooled, it was pasted all over his body.

  ‘One time king brown been crawl inside me swag and sleep whole night with me. Not know it ’til morning time. He crawl back out and slip away. Never been worry me, that cheeky one, because of that fat. Nother time too. Oh, plenty time, poison snake been close up, but never tangle with old Arranye.’

  I glanced at his callused feet and offered to trim his nails. They had worn holes through his sneakers. He reckoned it was a good time for cutting them.

  Later we went to the Eastside shop to get the usual chops, bread and tobacco. He produced a thin wad of notes from his pension envelope and held them close to his right eye.

  ‘This one enough?’ he asked, pressing a twenty into my palm.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You might be hold this other ones. Card game today. My happy day. But don’t want to lose whole lot.’

  We then stopped at Kmart to get him a new pair of sneakers. We passed by Jenny Green’s on the way to Whitegate and picked up project money for the healing songs at St Anthonys Rockhole.

  ‘My money tongue been working for me all right,’ said Arranye.

  When we got to camp I helped him to his feet.

  ‘You looking proper solid again, my son. You ready for new woman. Man gotta be have it woman, you know. Good one. Look after each other. You been too much anturrknge [sad] in your guts.’

  I left him dunking Weet-Bix in his tea at Myra’s.

  AT MID-YEAR ELAINE AND RONJA returned to Alice Springs and stayed in a rental property. Elaine said she worried that she would lose Raffi to me. After a few months, she seemed confident about Raffi’s situation with me and returned to New South Wales with Ronja. She reassured Raffi that he would be all right and that she would see him at Christmas.

  ‘Going too soon,’ five-year-old Raffi cried.

  He didn’t want her to go. He stayed with me in the family home, unable to cope with the unpredictability in New South Wales, while Ronja thrived in her mother’s shifting scene.

  By early evenings my darling was buoyant enough to hop to the bathroom, a little quirk I loved. We’d lie in bed together. He’d be asleep within minutes and I’d be left to scan the patterns of knotted ply on the ceiling, as he so often did. I worried over the kids’ growth and the toll of their respective loss of a parent figure. The young citrus Elaine had planted scratched against the masonry, mocking my pain. Me. Dumb as a beetle. Anxious as an ant.

  ARRANYE HAD MENTIONED OORAMINNA ROCKHOLE, 45 kilometres south of town, many times. He said it was an important watering place on the stock and camel routes to Arltunga and Alice Springs. The traditional owner of the rockhole was Silas Turner. Arranye had his permission to guide Raffi and me, but not to elaborate. The spring sun was warm, the most athletic of days. You could stretch out, and glare back at it.

  We left the main dirt track and drove on a scrubby route over creek beds in the general direction of the sandstone ridge. The old man was confident we’d find a passage. We revved through a phalanx of white rocks, which Arranye called the ‘butterfly women’. But Arranye’s sight was too weak to sort one ridge from the other. Just as we’d decided to retreat, we bogged on a subterranean redgum root in a creek. I considered walking to Santa Teresa track for a lift or to Ooraminna Homestead. Both prospects were unappealing.

  Arranye sat in the shade, told me never to walk away, and coached us out. Could I see any ironwood, the one with thick bark, close to us? Yes. I quarried and placed lengths of the stuff exactly where he pointed.

  ‘Build ’em road like bitumen. Pack it sand. Now put it bark. Not that side, my son. Back wheel first.’

  My back and the muscle in his head, as he put it, got us out within an hour.

  Nothing really compared to bogs he had experienced as a young man when working for Kurt Johannsen. In 1915 Johannsen had been born at Deep Well Station, now occupied by whitefella Hayes. He was owner-driver of self-converted, steam-driven trucks, all called the ‘Mulga Express’. Numerous breakdowns and bogs were recounted in Kurt’s autobiography, Son of the Red Centre, which I had read aloud to Arranye in camp. He delighted in the passages where he recognised the events.

  Moving again, Arranye told more stories of the native cat running through the region. He spoke of the brew made from the nectar of the corkwood flower. Phonetically, the ‘Oora’ had been corrupted from ure/fire, and ‘minna’, from merne/seed.

  ‘Good drink that one. Only for men.’

  Mostly, the crusty corkwoods gave no hint of productivity. Sparse needled foliage, burled bark and skewed stances, they were the archetypal dark veterans of mean seasons. The silverish seed pods glinted like ancient helmetry. In a generous spring they sprouted a fabulous pale cream fluorescence. These cob-sized constellations of buds were rich in nectar and fussed over by bees. Soaking them in warm water made a mildly intoxicating drink.

  When we arrived at the site, Arranye directed Raffi and me to the paintings on the rock overhang but was unable, given his unsteady feet, to accompany us.

  ‘Only men see that painting,’ he reminded us as he swung into the front seat, laying his two-headed ‘walkin’ snake’ stick along the door. As we rocked back over the track, I wondered if I could smell a wire shorting under the dash. Arranye had wet himself. The scent of his tobacco thronged with his urinous pants.

  Clouds had sprouted.

  ‘This not blow away cloud. That cloud bag might be open up. Could be rain time. Can’t speak it too much or might be chase it off.’

  I pointed out a red sandstone eminence, standing free of the nearby range. From its kangaroo shape I assumed it would be ascribed with a kangaroo Dreaming story. Did Arranye know anything about that rock?

  ‘No. That not kangaroo! That achilpe. Native cat stand up there like man and walk north. Walk north and spread out from this place. All the way to salt water country, he been travel.’

  Thunder groaned in the distance as we rolled through town. Raffi thought he could smell rain. The Whitegate mob was quick to suss out his innate qualities. Not a water-loving baby like Ronja, they reckoned.

  ‘Him rainbow boy, that one. He know rain,’ said the old man.

  Fifteen minutes of sudden thrashing wind followed, dispensing a few huge drops. Then it burst forth. Hot wires of lightning quaked high-voltage sparks across the silhouetted trees and buildings. The hydrophobic soil initially repelled the rain, pooling it in small beads, until the earth softened with replenishing seepage.

  I HAD A CROOK GUT, spasms of jabbing pain and vile flatulence, which I believed to be giardia. Me
als rushed through me. I tried the standard treatments from a variety of doctors in town. Nothing worked. Arranye suggested stewing up a bath of leaves from the native fuchsia and I immersed in this for half an hour. Later that day he sang his healing song over me. Out came the tobacco tin of fat. He then told me about the little birds that sucked the moisture from insects they caught. This medicine would make my guts less moist. Arranye puffed over the fat then handed it to me.

  ‘Gotta be do it more homework on that, my son.’

  There were no dramatic improvements. The cycle persisted. I complained to David of a terrific stomach cramp that had overcome me. He told me he could fix it.

  ‘It’s probably from infected water, David. Giardia, I reckon.’

  He asked if I had been out in the season’s first hot north wind.

  ‘Yes.’

  The north wind had rattled the pale pink gums, splitting their skin. Their bark had burst and buckled over the ground, a battalion of arched corpses. They stood glistening in their white shafts. The wind also caused the redgum leaves to drizzle their annual white, sugary flakes. Raffi had spent some of the morning harvesting handfuls of this aperaltye, padding the dandruff into balls of chewing gum.

  ‘I’m doctor for wind sickness,’ David said. ‘Already I mend it three people from Charles Creek since morning time.’

  He asked me to remove my shirt.

  ‘ Kwemen agwerke [Raffi],’ he said and motioned to him. ‘Bring glass from kitchen.’

  He placed both hands firmly on my gut and wrenched anti-clockwise several times, and spat blood into the glass, perhaps half a dozen times while making a clicking noise in his mouth. He wiped his hands on his stomach and repeated the process.

  I got up feeling completely comfortable. The sweating and shits didn’t bother me again for several months. Next time, David couldn’t be found so I went for a barberry and wormwood concoction from a herbalist that re-lined the cocoon of my timid stomach.

  I’m not suggesting that I’d surrendered standard medicine. The clientele at the hospital demonstrated that Arrernte resorted to it also. Debilitating illnesses, diseases, wounds and breakages were best dealt with by hospital staff. And there was the bonus of no kin to blame when the efficacy of the local man didn’t yield promising results.

  WITH THE END OF THE SCHOOL YEAR we were ready for our annual vacation. Raffi and I stood mid-morning, watching tawny kites that parried and thrust in the still air. Behind migrating black thunderheads, distant lightning glowed mutely. We would join that parade and fly to Sydney where we’d part for him to be with Elaine and Ronja. I would continue on to Melbourne where both kids would later join me for a couple of weeks, then go back to Elaine for one term, before returning to Alice Springs.

  A dark vertebrae of cloud dissipated in a downpour before our plane journey. Leaves were shredded. Acacia blossoms were dashed on the driveway. Ice piled against the house. Raffi rollicked with a dozen mates in the gutters, first floating themselves and, as the water retreated, racing bark vessels. The national newspapers gave front page to the Rock. Forty degrees plus and fortuitous tourists were kodaking Uluru. It looked like festive fruitcake replete with almond icing.

  At Easter, Elaine came back with Raffi and Ronja. They looked so big, so full. They stormed me at the airport, Raffi almost battering me to the ground with his hug. Phone calls were no substitute for this affection. I was so rapt to have them back. Elaine rented a house a few streets away and we commenced sharing the kids equally again.

  IT MAY SURPRISE MANY NON-INDIGENOUS inhabitants of Alice Springs that ceremonial life remains a pivotal feature of Arrernte lives. I don’t know any mature-aged man who has not been initiated and, that is to add, circumcised. Sub-incision I am less sure about, though most men of my age have submitted to it.

  The onset of the summer business camp often dragged on interminably, factoring in the appropriate candidates, initiators, relatives, weather and competing interests. Local teenagers might be whisked to the bush camp, some kilometres from Whitegate, and wait for other initiates. Xavier urged me to join the business camp as an initiate.

  ‘Rod, you be go through. Then we can look after you. We can show you things. Make you belong country.’

  He and Petrina taxied food for the boys in the bush camp from town to my front door. I then ferried the carry bags behind Whitegate, leaving them by the track where the camp attendants would walk them in.

  Ronja and Raffi joined in the ‘pow wow’ that night, the welcoming of the newly made men. Ronja danced hesitantly as Raffi fed sticks into the fires at either side of the younger men. There were three more nights of this.

  The final night, Arranye, charged with Coolabah, was hoisted into the arena on the shoulders of two sturdy younger men, to assume his responsibilities. He sang throughout: a royal sight in only his red football shorts and headband! Lawrence Hayes told me he had new razor blades and that Xavier mentioned I might want to be cut.

  ‘Oh. Has he now?’

  ‘Round cut might take three weeks, but finish ’im up cut take less time. Like falling off a log. Like writing on paper. New blades better than broken bottle, Rod.’

  ‘Good to know that, Lawrence.’

  Ronja, now nine, and Raffi, six, were impressed by the men chanting, dressed in law mud of red ochre mixed in fat. The ‘whoo, whoo, whoo’ drumming the night ushered in their sleep. One elderly woman got up to dance at every fresh outbreak of song, staggering tipsily to join the other women and girls. Each time she finished on her back, which drew the disapproval of her sisters and sniggering from the kids.

  ‘She be too drunk,’ laughed young Sebastian.

  A week later, Dominic arrived at my house with Georgina, his new wife. Both were still smeared with ochre. Georgina wanted a bath before returning to Amoonguna. Dominic headed straight for the guitar and tweaked some country and western. Georgina said she loved me and flirtatiously winked behind Dominic’s back. He ignored her. When Georgina was in the bathroom, Dominic paused.

  ‘She cheeky ’cos I got white woman friend.’

  ‘Rod, you got towel for me?’ Georgina called from the bathroom.

  She lay in a red sea of mud as I threw one through the open door, attempting to ignore a second huge wink. The room looked like a charnel house, mud running down the white ceramic tiles as if there had been a shootout. She cleaned it on my request. And then she cleaned the kitchen, which didn’t need cleaning. All the way to Amoonguna she reminded me of her generosities. Dominic stalked off to his house while she lingered at the car window and surprised me by slapping her lips on mine.

  ‘Rod, I slack. Anytime I be kiss you.’ She winked and sallied off.

  ARRANYE WAS SITTING WITH SIMON AND MYRA when I visited one afternoon. I wanted to show him photos I intended to use for a painting. Simon had fallen during the ceremony and bruised his ribs and shoulder, and upset his stomach, so Arranye suggested we gather medicine plants along the Ross River Highway near Amoonguna. Myra scrummaged around her shelves for plastic bags. Julie and Mareena Hayes accompanied us. We stuffed two bags with branches and returned to camp. Myra put them into an iron cauldron and boiled up an infusion.

  Myra told me about the recent scuffle between Benedict and Robbie. Benedict, on the rum, had belted Robbie, who had retaliated with a metal chair. Myra had called an ambulance on her one-way radio that she’d acquired from the Aboriginal Night Patrol to alert them when trouble erupted. She was sick of the vicissitudes of grog and was off the following day to a women’s summit on the subject at Yuendumu. Her talk switched to the roosters I had recently given her. She said their rowdy morning calls were retribution for the sleeplessness caused by noisy drunks. And their down could be used at ceremony time when the men painted up. No need to bother the eagles these days.

  Myra had been a tremendous force for improving conditions at Whitegate. I was astonished over and ove
r again as she carried various initiatives and lobbied Tangentyere – such as for the bough shelters, the better tin sheds. And water was now hooked up with PVC piping, albeit unofficially, to the town supply via the rival camp over the hills at Ilpeye Ilpeye. She was aptly dubbed the Queen of Whitegate. The recent shower block and laundry were her ideas. So too were the two solar-powered lights and the radio to Night Patrol. Her own quarters were impeccable. She planted trees and kept a large poultry pen.

  The existence of the Ilpeye Ilpeye town camp was a contentious point for the Hayes. Myra insisted Ilpeye Ilpeye was located 3 kilometres east, towards Emily Gap. She thought the Campbells and Golders had no right to be dwelling in a place that had a nomenclature they seemed ignorant about – the tar vine soakage, ayepe kwatje. As far as she was concerned, they had made claim to the estate and weren’t the real traditional owners. The ramifications caused continued rivalry between the two camps.

  As I got into the Commodore that day, another sedan pulled alongside. Aubrey Johnson, one of its many passengers, alighted so bleary-eyed from grog that I was surprised he recognised me. He stumbled across to Simon who was sitting in a plastic chair. Aubrey stooped over the older man, placed both hands on his sturdy paunch and muttered some healing words. Never mind that Aubrey seemed more in need of steadying himself on Simon’s stomach than ministering to digestive woes. I closed my door and imagined how my confidence in my own doctor would be impaired if he greeted me on wobbly feet. Aubrey was done before I’d turned the key and had already squeezed back into the sedan to be chaperoned back to his camp.

  LATE MAY AND SNAKES were shedding their skins in the tall buffel grass around camp. Bernard, Kemarre’s brother and Xavier’s uncle, did a burn-off just before sunset when the breeze slackened, to make the place safer for the kids.

  ‘Look, Rod,’ he said, pointing to the dust at my feet. ‘That long grub or short grub you see crawlin’ along the ground there? Old people say if it long one, that first one you see, then it be a long winter follow up.’