Riding the Black Cockatoo (15 page)

A blur. Bob nodded to me, it was time. I took my elder daughter by the hand. ‘Bianca, how would you like to be a flower girl, except with feathers?’

‘A
feather
girl – can I, Mummy!?’

Stella nodded her approval. ‘Just do as Daddy says.’

Bianca and I made our way to Victor’s office, and I asked my daughter to wait outside while I checked on Jason. The Yorta Yorta songman had transformed himself; fully painted and chanting, he transcended the ages – he
was
past, present and future. Without saying a word I draped the Aboriginal flag over the case, placed the headdress on top, and took them quietly from the room.

The ceremony had been due to start 30 minutes earlier, but no one seemed to mind; everyone waited silently. I stood in the wings, out of sight with Mary and Bianca. Craig, still on tenterhooks, rushed over. ‘We can’t start yet, there are some more Brisbane elders coming; we can’t start without them.’

And then, as if on cue, they came; slowly, with dignity, the men in twill jackets and hats, the women in their Sunday best and smelling of lavender. Shoe leather shone and brooches sparkled. It was only then that I realised just how significant, just how important Mary’s return was. People moved aside to make sure the elders had the best vantage points, the best seats. A match lit the gum leaves and herbs that had been arranged on the coolamon; smoke curled up, up past Bob’s beard, up between the grey, four-storey walls that made the courtyard feel like a cool, deep gorge. Amid the crackling leaves, the smell of eucalyptus oil, the flames dancing, time dissolved – and 100 pairs of eyes became one.

‘When Jason comes out, we’re going to follow,’ I whispered to Bianca. ‘I want you to walk in front of me and to hold the feathers out in front of you, like this.’

I demonstrated and then placed the headdress in her hands. She could barely see over it and giggled as the feathers tickled her nose.

We waited.

‘KAR-AAK!’

Bianca and I jumped. There was a clack-clack of clapping sticks, and then another ‘KAR-AAK!’

Jason was out of sight, around a far bend in the concrete and block canyon. His black cockatoo cries cascaded down stairwells, echoed off overhead walkway escarpments, and bounced through the air-conditioning ducts.

‘Don’t be scared,’ I whispered in Bianca’s ear; but there was no need to reassure her, she was electrified.

At last the Yorta Yorta songman emerged behind us, wrapped in a possum-skin cloak, never taking more than three or four steps before unleashing another cry or incantation to his ancestors, to Mother Earth. I could see glimpses of the gathered guests, heads down or fixed on the centre of the circle, on the fire, on the curling smoke. Jason entered the courtyard, chanting, cracking those thunderclap sticks, splitting open the atmosphere with his 60 000-year-old song. Then we followed, a few paces behind.

People parted to allow us entry into the circle, a circle now made sacred by the smoke. As we entered, a barrage of flashes and the noise of variable-speed shutters reminded us of the outside world, of what century we were in. Bianca followed Jason, and I walked behind her. ‘Hold your head up high, sweetheart,’ I whispered. If only I’d thought things through a little better; imagine Ebony and Bianca – black and white – walking together. And then I noticed that Bianca was wearing the bracelet Ebony had given her, and that symbol, however private, had a potency all its own. I placed the case that held Mary on the small table. With the flag hanging low over each side and obscuring the legs, the case seemed to float amid the grey smoke and the lightning storm of camera flashes. Jason continued to dance and sing, working the circle, purifying the space. And then, silence. Again I whispered in Bianca’s ear, ‘Hold the headdress high, over your head so everyone can see the beautiful feathers.’ I placed my hands around her waist and lifted her into the air. We turned to the north, we turned to the east and my family, we turned to the south. I lowered Bianca and together we turned to the west, to Mary, and placed the headdress – wreath-like – in front of the case. I walked Bianca back to her mother before rejoining Bob and Jason in the circle.

Mother Nature had primacy now; we mortal players merely fumbled in the gaps between the smoke’s heavenly dance, our utterances sounded feeble compared to the fire’s holy crackle. Bob offered formal words of welcome, Jason Wamba Wamba words of gratitude and forgiveness. Words. Words carried skyward by the smoke and cinders then scattered by hot, dry wind. Tears from the women fell like plops of rain. Jason glistened under his cloak of 30 skins while I sweated rivers in my polyester shirt and white skin. I took my unfinished speech from my pocket; droplets of sweat slipped from my brow and fell with slow motion splats onto the page. Ink ran and the words dissolved into each other. I placed the pages on the fire. This was a time for simple words: Sorry, Return, Earth. I laced these three gemstones together with short strands of sentence that I will never remember. Jason stepped forward. I handed him his ancestor and for a moment Mary lay cradled in both black and white hands. Then Jason stepped back with Mary and placed the case under the loving shade of a tree. He put his didgeridoo to his lips; it was time for a new dance now, a happier song. The breeze danced too, taking the smoke in all directions, making sure that everyone felt its healing caress. It danced ghost-like over my family, over me.

Midway through his dance, Jason could stand the heat no more. He pulled the possum-skin cloak from his shoulders and threw it into the air like a giant pizza dough. It turned in the smoke and landed fur-side down, its smooth inside revealed to us for the first time. Each of its 30 panels was decorated with a story told in a constellation of symbols. I couldn’t read the panels, but I understood them; they were a map of the Wamba Wamba universe. The cloak drew me in as a telescope draws in the night sky. I felt dizzy. Jason danced over to Ashley, a songman who had come to represent the local clans. He beckoned to his fully painted northern brother with the words, ‘Let’s jam,’ and the two didgeridoos weaved together like birds wheeling on high. A crowd of Asian students, drawn by the music, had found a vantage point on an upper balcony. Security tried to hold them back, but there were too many. They held their mobile phones high, blindly snatching photos. It didn’t matter. I looked to the faces around the circle; many eyes were downcast or shut, many more were wet with tears, hankies dabbed at cheeks. I needed the smoke. I moved close to the fire and closed my eyes; the smoke coiled around me, through me. I inhaled its magic deeply, right down into the insides of my toes. Wamba Wamba words caressed my ear; I felt a hand on my shoulder, my eyes opened and met Jason’s. ‘It’s all right, brother,’ he promised, ‘it’s all right.’

As Bob gently patted out the fire, the old people began to drift into the circle. I watched the elders as they approached my mother and father with open hearts, wrapping my parents’ nervous hands in theirs.

‘Thank you. Thank you,’ they repeated, their words emanating from dry lips and moist eyes in equal measure. These were the people of my parents’ generation, fellow countrymen and good people all, kept apart from each other by cruel circumstance. That day I witnessed a life-long racial divide transcended by tears, smiles and handshakes. My brave father and mother had faced the music, and what sweet song of forgiveness it was.

Jason, Bob and I were taken aside for interviews while a small crowd gathered to marvel at the possum-skin cloak, which still lay open on the ground. Craig and his staff ushered people into the lunchroom, where a generous feast had been laid out. The tension had largely dissipated now, but solemnity hung in the air. There was an awkwardness, as if people weren’t sure what to do; celebrate or mourn. And then the most beautiful thing happened – one of the Aboriginal girls laughed. It was a short, beautiful laugh that just escaped. The room fell silent and every eye fell upon her. With her hand over her mouth she looked around sheepishly. Then slowly, her hand dropped away to reveal her smile – and what a smile it was! That laugh was like the first bird to greet the sun after a storm has passed; within moments we were all twittering and laughing too.

Jason was the centre of attention. He was the perfect pin-up boy for Aboriginal aunties and grandmothers everywhere – manly and kind, proud yet humble too. I couldn’t help notice that many of the younger Indigenous girls were watching him from afar with puppy-dog eyes. Dad was disappointed that Gary hadn’t been able to attend, but luckily Jason was a football nut too, and the two talked deep football in the way that only true aficionados can. In another corner of the room, my daughters were plied with cakes, pikelets and scones by a group of Aboriginal aunties.

The students from my class stood around in a bunch with their backs turned to the festive atmosphere. They looked as though they wanted to join in but just couldn’t seem to move their feet; this was a feeling I’d known for over 30 years! It reminded me of old-time Western movies where the white folk set their wagons in a circle at night to fend off Indian attack. I poked my head into the perimeter and with a gentle nudge suggested, ‘If you guys want to meet some Indigenous people, now might be a good time.’

Craig wandered over with a thank-god-that’s-over smile.

‘Is Mary okay just sitting out there?’ he asked, tilting his head in Mary’s direction. Jason had left the case in the courtyard under the headdress and flag. A few people gave it a wide berth as they walked past. But just as I was about to suggest to Jason that we move Mary to somewhere more private I noticed how much warmth and goodwill was pouring out through the lunchroom doors – it was like human sunshine.

‘It’s his party,’ I replied, ‘let’s leave him there to enjoy it for a few more minutes.’

There was little talk on the way back to Bob’s house, we were all too emotionally drained; even Bob’s imaginary brake pedal got a rest.

‘Nice place you got here, brother,’ said Jason as we pulled into the driveway.

‘It’s just a bed,’ said Bob, implying that his real home was his country.

I walked Bob to his front steps and thanked him for all he’d done.

‘Bob, I want to keep going,’ I said, ‘I want to stay with this, I want to help.’ For the past two weeks I’d ridden an extraordinary wave, and now its energy was ebbing. I lay on the sand amid sea foam as the wave returned once more to the sea.

‘You have helped,’ Bob replied a little wearily, not just from the day’s events, but in a way that suggested he’d been confronted with over-enthusiastic white converts-to-the-cause before. ‘You need to understand that there’s a feeling in our community that
we
need to help ourselves.’

He left me with a smile and turned away. I was feeling like that jellyfish again, high and dry.

I drove Jason to his hotel in town. I’d invited him home for dinner, but he wanted a quiet night. He asked if I knew of any good Thai restaurants. ‘Brother, I am addicted to Thai food, I could eat it three times a day.’

Again I was caught off guard. I chuckled to myself; what was I expecting the man to eat, witchetty grubs?

We pulled into the driveway of the hotel. It was a five-storey mock Georgian affair, the sort of place you’d expect to be called the Dorchester or Winchester.

‘Wow, nice place!’ I said, genuinely impressed.

Jason got out with his didgeridoo, dufflebag full of possum-skin magic, and Mary.

‘Mate, it’s
real
flash all right. When I checked in they told me there was a problem and I thought, oh no here we go.’ Jason rolled his eyes for effect, suggesting he’d expected to be turned away due to a no-Afro, no-didgeridoo door policy. ‘But it wasn’t what I’d thought, they’d double-booked my room, and guess what, they upgraded me to a bigger suite!’

I laughed, once again marvelling at Jason’s ability to draw out the best in people.

‘There was one condition, though; they made me promise to put on a little concert on the didge later.’

As he walked towards the polished brass and spotless glass of the revolving door, he turned. ‘John, it’s as if there’s been someone watching over me on this trip. Every single person I’ve met has been just beautiful.’