Mazin Grace

by Dylan Coleman

  ‘I’ll go and get Pastor then?’

  Mumma nods through her tears.

  ‘Okay, Jenna,’ Sister says as Mumma keeps noddin’.

  Then Sister turns, puts her head down and walks out the front door into the windy night.

  When I hear the door shut, I feel relieved. I can disappear into my numbness and pretend none of this is happenin’. I know Sister is goin’ to get Pastor ’cause Papa’s died. There’s no hidin’ from the truth now. Straight away my anger turns to fear. Somewhere in that back room lies Papa’s dead body. Not the Papa that I know, full of life, but his empty shell. I shiver.

  But then Mumma starts to round up us kids. I get real scared. I try to slink back off the bed to hide under it, but Mumma can see me through the door and calls me forward.

  When all the kids are huddled together in the middle of the kitchen like a minya flock of sheep, Mumma clears ’er throat and dabs ’er eyes with the hankie in ’er shakin’ hand. ‘You kids need to show your respect to Papa and kiss ’im goodbye.’

  I can’t say, ‘No, Mumma. I’m not gonna. I’m too scared.’ That will be too disrespectful and I’ll get a floggin’ from Ada and maybe the other aunties. So I real nervous-way move up and stand behind Polly, who is last in the line.

  I give another shudder. Why does Mumma want us to do this? Papa’s dead and in heaven now, that’s what Pastor says when people die, he won’t want us kissin’ his dead body. The line is gettin’ shorter now as it moves towards the bed where Papa’s body lies, covered up to his chest with a neatly smoothed out blanketie. As I get closer I can see Papa’s face is the colour of ashes when the fire burns down in the mornin’. His eyes seem sunken in his head now, not poppin’ out like before. I turn my head away, not wanting to remember my Papa, my dear, dear, Papa, this way. Tears start to roll down my face then, like the wanna over the boulders at Rocky Point when the waves come crashin’ down, they run over my cheeks and I can’t stop them from fallin’.

  ‘Why our Papa? Why him?’ I ask God, this time not in an angry demanding way, but in a sad need-to-know way, a pleadin’, beggin’ kind of way. I look for an answer, but can’t find one to cling on to.

  I’m next in line, now. I feel like I’m drownin’ in my tears. It’s my turn to say goodbye to Papa, to show Mumma that I’m bein’ respectful. I wipe my wet face with the back of my hand and sniff back hard. Fear washes up over me again and I feel sick as I lower my head and push my lips against Papa’s cheek. His skin is hard and cold and sends a shudder through my body. I don’t want to remember Papa like that. I want to remember ’im as the warm, strong, caring man that protects us. I walk away from the bed and his coldness comes with me like it’s sunk into me and stays there, resting.

  Not long after, Sister comes back with Pastor and he calls everyone together again, ’cause some of us have gone back to our bedrooms to cry. Pastor says he is here to pray with us and to offer some words of comfort.

  Comfort? That word doesn’t sound right to me. How can the word ‘comfort’ go together in the same sentence with ‘Papa dyin’? Then he tells us that Papa has gone to heaven. ‘He’s gone to be with Jesus and now he’s safe in God’s care.’

  ‘God’s care? God’s care?’ I shout inside my head in disbelief. ‘If God cared so much how come he let our Papa die?’ I’m so angry all I can do is cry in rage. ‘Stuff God,’ I silently scream. ‘He’s just out to make my life a misery by takin’ Papa away from me. He wants to punish me for the sins of Ada and Old Rod, for makin’ me be born a dirty, little bastard girl from breakin’ his Commandment.’

  In that moment I hate God as much as I hate myself. If God appeared in front of me here and now, I would scream at him.

  Soon after, a truck pulls up out the front and there is a knock at the door. Then two men come in with a stretcher. Sister pulls the blanketie over Papa’s cold campfire face. I want to get as far away from that empty body as I can. ’Cause Papa wasn’t in there any more and Pastor said he’s in heaven. I back away towards our bedroom and once I’m through the door I run back to bed, pullin’ the covers over my face. My sisters follow behind and soon we’re huddlin’ up close.

  Then I hear the truck start up and pull away and I know where they’re takin’ Papa’s body, to that minya room outside the Mission hospital window, right near that bed where I use to lie awake, scared-way, as a little girl. Poor Papa’s spirit, I’m thinkin’, if he’s not in heaven yet or if he’s lost his way, he’ll probably be there in the Mission hospital tonight, as a guldi, breathin’ in the bed next to some poor sick kid, scarin’ them half to death so they’re too ngulu to go to sleep.

  That night, as I sleep squashed between Ada and my five sisters in our bed, I can see Papa Neddy floating through the back door and lookin’ over us. I shake with terror ’cause even here in my dream, death is a fearful thing. But then I start to feel different-way ’cause Papa’s guldi isn’t a mean, cold, scary one like the ones that hang around the Mission hospital, it’s a warm, loving one that has come back to make sure we’re all right, to look after us.

  I sleep real well after that and next mornin’ I feel a bit better until I realise I’ve pissed the bed again. As I lie there, cold, wet and half asleep, I hear a strange sound like we’re at Denial Bay in a storm, with the wind howlin’ and waves crashin’. Am I still dreamin’? I open my eyes and sit up. Then I throw myself down again, rememberin’ everythin’ that happened the night before.

  When I step into the kitchen, it’s like a heavy thunder cloud has drifted into our minya cottage even though it’s clear and sunny outside. A huge wave of misery washes around everyone with the grief-stricken hum of snifflin’, sobbin’ and wailin’. It’s like the shore is risin’ and fallin’, tryin’ to hold something that can’t be held. Ada is already awake and sittin’ next to Mumma at the kitchen table cryin’, my two youngest sisters clingin’ to her. My uncles and aunties all have their heads down too, and some kids are sittin’ quiet-way by their parents, it’s like a big wave of grief is drownin’ everyone. All the feelings of last night start to swirl up in me again. I have to get out of the house, so I run outside where I find Dolly and tell her everythin’ that’s happened then cry into her woolly coat. She’s cryin’ too.

  As the mornin’ wears on, most of the Nyunga mooga who live on the Mission move through our cottage, past the sorrowful faces of our family, shakin’ all their murra mooga as a sign of deep respect for Papa Neddy and us, his mournin’ family. It’s like that small motion of joinin’ the murra mooga together and shakin’ them says more than any amount of words can. It’s always like that with us Nyunga mooga. Shakin’ murra mooga somehow shares the burden or the pain of losin’ a loved one and it’s always appreciated by the family. Some ladies bring food and lay it on the table for our family to eat. Even Hetty Clare brings some damper. As much as she hates our family, as she so often tells us, she still walks in, quiet-way, and places the damper down. She walks up to Mumma, shakes ’er murra, then with ’er gugga down, moves around slowly and shakes every single grown-up’s murra, even Ada’s. There’s nothin’ good about people dyin’ except how the whole community pulls together and supports each other in their grief. Seein’ that makes me feel warm and proud inside.

  That same mornin’ Old Rod and Dave bring Aunty Mim back to the Mission. Superintendent let us use the phone to call them at the farm. When Aunty Mim comes through the door she falls forward and hugs Mumma and cries big sobs. Poor Mumma, she’s so upset her whole body shakin’ in little tremors like a cold wave is washin’ around inside her, splashin’ at the edge.

  Old Rod and Dave give Mumma condolences and shake ’er hand, ’cause they know that Nyunga way, then they offer to give any support that’s needed. After all, Papa had worked on Old Rod’s farm for many years, fixin’ fences, buildin’ sheds, shearin’ sheep, helpin’ with the reapin’, sewin’ and lumpin’ wheat bags, and many other jobs that nee
ded doin’. After Mumma thanks them, they shake everyone’s hand and leave to go back to the farm.

  With the day of the funeral coming closer I think about how Papa was such a special man in our lives. He was like a father to us girls all these years even though he was our grandfather. He was the big boonri of the family. What he said went. He ruled the house with a big whip, but he also made sure nothin’ happened to us. He was our strength. He cared for us in so many ways and always tried to make sure his children and grannies were safe from harm. And now he’s dead. I can hardly believe it still but with the day of his funeral comin’ closer, it starts to sink in.

  The day of Papa Neddy’s funeral the old garnga mooga sit in the big tree near the church and crow loud-way like they’re sayin’ goodbye to Papa, too. It’s a real big funeral with people from all over the district there. I can’t believe how the church is full to overflowin’. Papa’s so well known and respected by Nyunga mooga, and walbiya mooga too. That’s ’cause he was a good man who treated people with respect and ’cause he worked real hard at his jobs on lotsa farms around the place, but mostly Old Rod’s. He built houses, shops and even the Ceduna jail house. There was no hope for those poor fellas in jail if they want to escape, ’cause he built that place real strong-way.

  Standin’ up there, at the front of the church near Papa’s coffin, Pastor again say Papa’s now in heaven, and I wonder if he was on his way there when he visited me in my dream the other night. Pastor always talks about heaven being the place we go when we die but I’ve heard some of our Old People talk about us Nyunga mooga ‘goin’ back to country’ when we jinga. When I hear that, I wonder if that ‘country’ that they talk about and ‘heaven’ are the same place. I reckon they must be.

  Then Pastor asks everyone to stand and pray. All the jinna mooga shuffle as everyone stands up and bows their heads. Mumma Jenna and some of the aunties and uncles and us kids are real sad and cryin’ and inside the church feels real heavy with sadness. It’s like the tide is out now and we’re all washed up and tired.

  ‘Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .’

  After the church service Pastor asks us to make our way to the cemetery and the uncles come forward to take Papa’s coffin to the truck. It’s a couple of miles away from the church. As the slow line of cars and trucks moves towards the cemetery a wurly wurly whips up and races across the paddock ahead of us. There goes Papa, I think, that’s what the Old People say, that spirit travels in the wurly wind.

  As Pastor talks at the cemetery, I hear a strange sound underneath the words of his prayer, growin’ louder. First, I think the noise sounds like Papa’s old car, his moodigee, or gudgud, as we call it. It’s a real old-fashioned car that putts along slow as slow, but after listenin’ careful-way it sounds more like the roar of big motorbikes drivin’ down the road. It’s like they’re gettin’ closer and closer ’til the sound sort of stays the same. I’m thinkin’ them motorbikes should be here by now, and then I’m thinkin’, who’d be drivin’ that many motorbikes out this way? The sound seems like it’ll drown out Pastor’s words altogether, or maybe that’s ’cause I listenin’ so hard, tryin’ to work it out myself.

  I can see the grown-ups shufflin’ on their feet and fidgetin’, some turning to look behind. Then in front of me I see Uncle Murdi whisper to Uncle Jerry. Uncle Jerry closes his guru mooga and nods, then a minya tear trickles down his face. I don’t know what Uncle Murdi said, could be they know that whirring sound. Maybe it somethin’ to do with our Nyunga way, and means that Papa has made it back to country safely. I hope so.

  After Papa’s funeral, night after night, Mumma Jenna lies on her bed cryin’. There isn’t anything anyone can do to make her feel better but we try, anyway. Sometimes I go and curl up next to her, pullin’ the covers up over us. I just lay there quiet-way. At night-time, whichever granny runs and gets in ’er bed first can sleep with her.

  Mumma isn’t the only one who feels real sad about Papa passin’ away. All us mob feel it, we just seem to deal with it in different ways. Most of us cry like Mumma, but some are quiet and say nothin’, and others want to remember all the good times we shared with Papa, so they talk all the time. Ada and us girls just sit quiet-way in our room a lot, sayin’ nothin’, but sometimes we cry too. It’s hard to think that we’ll never, ever see Papa again. He’s everythin’ to all us and now he’s gone for good and we just ’ave to get through the best way we can.

  Uncle Wadu gets real angry and yells a lot. He doesn’t think it was Papa’s time to go and he’s sure somethin’ Nyunga-way happen to Papa. He goes a bit joobardi, runnin’ ’round yellin’. Polly, Sandy and Joshy come and sit in our room for a while. Later Uncle Wadu goes away to have a break from the Mission and takes Aunty Nora and the kids with him.

  When Mumma stops cryin’, I see her careful-way pickin’ up the old tobacco tin that holds Papa’s hair that she collected over the years, which she keeps in the top drawer of her bedroom cupboard, which she used to show us all the time.

  ‘That’s your Papa’s hair there,’ she’d say. ‘I’m keepin’ it in this here tin, safe-way.’

  I’m standin’ to the side of Mumma’s bedroom door lookin’ in at her and I can see her puttin’ the tin in her pocket under her apron. I slip back towards the kitchen before she walks outa her room sayin’ that she has some things to do and will be back later. Where’s she takin’ Papa’s gugga uru, I wonder as I watch her from the window, hurryin’ off down the road.

  Not long after, one night I’m sleepin’ cuddled up close-way to Mumma, when I’m woken by a strange whistlin’ noise, real close by. Mumma wakes up too. I can see her outline against the moonlight comin’ in from the minya window on the back wall. When she sits up the whistlin’ noise gets louder. Then, from under her pillow, she picks up somethin’ and unwraps it. It’s a round, dark thing, like a flat disc with a hole in it, that she holds up in the moonlight. The noise is real loud now. It’s comin’ from that thing in ’er hand. Even though it’s dark in the room I can see the round thing vibratin’ by itself in Mumma’s murra. I get real ngulu then. She turns ’round and sits up in bed, pullin’ that thing closer to her chest, she’s lookin’ towards the window.

  ‘What’s that, Mumma?’ I ask in a high shaky voice that doesn’t even sound like mine.

  She looks back down at the thing vibrating, bouncin’ by itself in ’er murra. ‘Shhh,’ she whispers in a rough way. ‘It’s not safe. Someone here. Might be jinardoo.’

  ‘Ahh.’ A gasp comes outa my mouth as I grab Mumma with one murra and pull the covers up over my head with the other. I’m so scared I’m sure I’ll goomboo the bed at any minute even though I’m wide awake. Jinardoo is a special Nyunga man with dangerous powers that can make people very sick or even die, and he could be outside our window. I curl up into a minya ball, my head poundin’ with the sound of my thumpin’ heart.

  By the time I come out from under the covers, some of our mob are in Mumma’s room and the minya round thing has stopped shaking and its whistle sounds like a faint wind blowin’ a long way away. No-one has lit a candle ’cause they know that will allow jinardoo to see us. Whatever it is, bad spirit or jinardoo, we know if we draw light to ourselves it can see us, we know it’s dangerous to us, and we know we need to keep very still and quiet.

  ‘It’s all right now,’ Mumma says in a big sigh. ‘Youse can go back to bed, it’s gone now.’

  She wraps the round thing back up in the material and puts it under her pillow again.

  After everyone shuffles off to bed and a couple more kids who’ve joined us in Mumma’s bed stop wrigglin’, I whisper to her, ‘Mumma, what’s that wada there under your pillow?’

  I know it’s Papa’s hair but I don’t understand why it shakes and whistles by itself the way it did.

  ‘You don’t go worryin’ about things like that girl,’ Mumma says. ‘That’s for us adults to wo
rry about. That wada there protectin’ us and we safe now, that’s the main thing.’

  I know this is another secret but not like that shameful secret. This is a Nyunga secret, one I won’t worry about findin’ clues for ’cause it could make me sick or even make me jinga if I snoop around places that a young girl shouldn’t be snoopin’ in. I know this because Ada, Mumma and Papa taught me. But I also know that like my old Jumoo, who could look at my leg and see walbiya gu minga inside, there are special Nyunga people who can put magic into things too, good magic that can protect and heal, or bad magic, like mumoo, that can hurt.

  Mumma must have taken the tin with Papa’s hair in it from her cupboard that day to one of those special people who made Papa’s spirit strong in that round thing so he could keep us safe even though he’s gone back to country in heaven. Our Nyunga mooga are very clever how we know to do things like that. No walbiya mooga know how this kind of magic works, not even their best detectives could find the clues to solve it, and their most cleverest scientists wouldn’t know how it works. Pastor would say it’s of the devil but we know it’s strong Kokatha ways helping to protect us.

  17

  Goojarb: serves yourself right

  A year later, one weekend, Eva and I’re over at the farm again. We’ve been goin’ over there a lot lately, and it’s startin’ to feel like our second home. We’re spending more time in the farmhouse with Aunty Mim and Mrs Williams, now that she’s decided to come out of her room more often when we’re there. We’re learnin’ lotsa new things, like cookin’ and sewin’ and how to set a table and things like that. Mrs Williams is even real keen to teach me to knit and I’m real proud-way makin’ a pair of baby’s booties. Some of these things we just can’t learn on the Mission, like the way walbiya mooga do things, which are real strange ways sometimes. But after a while I start thinkin’ that livin’ like walbiya mooga might not be such a bad thing after all.