The Songmaster (16 page)

These days Beth tried to limit her involvement in day-to-day issues of late supplies, broken cars, and town meetings in Derby and Kununurra.

Her visits to the elders at Marrenyikka were primarily concerned with plans for their future. Her destiny had become linked with these people; saving souls was not so much a priority as seeing them lead a dignified, healthy life, taking their rightful place in the tapestry – politically and culturally – of Australia. The wheels of bureaucracy and change moved slowly and reluctantly and sometimes she despaired of seeing things improve and white attitudes change. It worried her that the elders were ageing before the young ones had learned enough to be handed the mantle of traditional as well as modern responsibility.

The elders strolled forward. Some wore shorts and singlets, some jeans or baggy track pants. Boots, sneakers or sandals were favoured footwear, straw stetsons or baseball caps the preferred headwear. Most of the men were bony and thin, their clothes draped on angular frames, while others showed unhealthy paunches stretching out T-shirts. The two women elders, trailing behind the men, walked barefoot in a rolling, flat-footed, unhurried gait. Jennifer Wollangi, at thirty, was slim in jeans and cotton blouse. Her mother, Lilian, was
plump hipped, her full bosom unchecked and unsupported in the bodice of her faded dress. The men softly shook Beth’s hand, Jennifer gave her a hug. ‘Good to see you, Beth.’

The group soon settled in chairs around the ashes of last night’s campfire. Tea was made indoors and carried out with a packet of shortbread biscuits. Beth listened to the news of friends, relations and the latest machinations of the Land Council bureaucrats. ‘For a mob that’s s’posed to be on our side, they give us plenty of headaches!’ said Lilian.

The women drifted back indoors. Then at a look from Rusty Kinawalli, the larger of the two men, the children who’d been hanging close and climbing on their visitor quietened and moved away.

Beth studied these men she’d known for the past seven years. Rusty was what Beth called an abundant build – broad, solid, tall. He’d played football and boxed for a stint in his youth in country towns, and she imagined he’d been a formidable opponent. Despite his bulk, he had a light voice and ready smile.

The artist Digger Manjarrie was also tall, but skinny and angular. His toehold on the earth was anchored in size fourteen boots, but when hunting he went barefoot and was still an agile and swift runner.

The men gazed at this white woman Ardjani had brought to them those seven years ago. Their initial apathy, even mistrust, of a white
lady who said she wanted to help them but who had no proper job or authority, no money or apparent reason, had changed eventually. It grew to a mutual trust and acknowledgment that she was sincere and dedicated in her willingness to stand beside them and fight for them. Before they’d met her, they knew she and Ardjani had shared a friendship spanning ten years, since they’d met in Derby. It was soon after Beth had renounced her vows.

Ardjani had been invited to speak as a ‘cultural ambassador’ at the remote learning centre in Derby. Beth went along, mainly out of curiosity, to the exhibition of Barradja art as part of the ‘cultural awareness’ evening. She had been introduced to Ardjani who’d done little more than stand around and pose for photographs beside the paintings.

The art historian, who had arranged for the inclusion of Aboriginal culture in this exhibition, had appreciated Beth’s genuine interest and had encouraged her to meet with them over the following days before Ardjani returned to Marrenyikka. Beth had swiftly recognised that while the art was a vital interpretation of Aboriginal culture and law, there was far more wisdom and knowledge to be tapped. After a short time in Ardjani’s charismatic presence, she had been overwhelmed by the soul of the man. He made an impact on all who met him, but it was Beth who had seen in him a gentle prophet and visionary.

As a young man, Ardjani had worked on cattle stations. But he’d always harboured a desire to reunite with his country and his mob. ‘One day, one day, we all go home. We will go back, we stay forever where our spirit people live, in our Wandjina country.’

And with those simple words repeated by Ardjani to Beth years later, she’d seen what her role in life must be – to help bring about that day.

Ardjani and Beth had kept in contact. Beth had arranged with the community college for Ardjani to come regularly to talk to classes. Funding was always a problem, but by various means Beth had extracted money to pay for Ardjani’s travel. Ardjani had been mission educated, yet he had retained the knowledge of his traditional culture. Through the years he had balanced these two worlds, until the time came when he’d left the station and returned with the old people to learn more about the heritage of his country. Certain laws, knowledge and ceremonies were only handed on when the time was right and the designated elder, ready.

Later, when Ardjani had worked with the anthropologists, including Esme Jordan, he’d shared much of his knowledge which they recorded in books and papers. Occasionally events and places were photographed, but Ardjani knew the complete story – so vast, so
complex, so special – was never told. When he’d met Esme, whom he called ‘the white lady who listens’, he’d told her she was different from the other archaeologists and academics. She’d asked him questions and struggled to comprehend the answers. The other people, he’d told her, didn’t ask proper questions, or if he tried to tell them of the gifts of the Wandjina ancestors, they saw it as myth and legend. Lore, not law. Ardjani had told Esme he did not understand why these white people kept digging and searching for answers. To him it was simple, he knew what they would find, just more old signs. As he had explained, ‘We have always been here. Since this land was like jelly, before the Wandjina make this land. We are reflected in the land. It owns us.’

Over the years, as more people sought him out, Ardjani – the wise man – had become a public identity. An author, lecturer and respected national leader. He had been filmed for documentaries, he and his country photographed in books. Beth told the story of how Ardjani had been awarded an Order of Australia Merit. However, he was never invited to Government House in the usual way to receive it. Plans were made to present the medal to him later in Perth, then in Derby. But nothing eventuated. Beth had fought for him to receive the medal and finally a bureaucrat had put it in an envelope and mailed it to him.

These white men had not understood the
message of the Wandjina people. And over the years he had seen that these outsiders were empty, people who’d had to search for meaning in their lives, for they had no identity in the land. He knew that when one is part of the proper world that is the earth, then one is happy. Somehow this knowledge must be shared. ‘We have a gift, we can share with the white society, but they do not listen,’ he’d said to Esme. And then he had met Beth and he’d waited for her. He’d waited and tested this strong white woman, slowly ‘learning her up’ in their ways.

The friendship of seventeen years was a unique bond. Ardjani looked to Beth as his practical friend and cultural translator. Now that she understood so much of Barradja ways, she could explain white society to these people, and she could explain their ways to white people. When she had first come to Marrenyikka to meet the community, the old men had never heard anyone ask questions like Beth. She had the curiosity of a child, the eagerness of a young dog and an intellect that accepted answers that were alien to her thinking. Ardjani answered her questions as he could, for still some things had to remain secret, some things weren’t for the ears of women.

Over the years, they had taught Beth many of their stories, so she’d come to an understanding of how they saw the creation of the earth that was mirrored in the land and the stars, that
everything comes as two, with a witness in the sky and one on earth. The awareness of the physical form of the landscape was not merely by external observation but by way of listening and receiving messages through nature. In time, Ardjani and Beth expounded their idea of two-way thinking where each learned from the other’s culture.

When Ardjani first took her to the reserve at Marrenyikka on the fringes of Barradja country, she knew she had been accepted. It had taken these past seven years to become a woman of high degree.

‘So, how’re things with you?’ asked Rusty.

‘Good. How’s the hunting?’ asked Beth.

‘It’s good. Digger here caught a big bungarra.’

Digger nodded and grinned. ‘A sweet fella goanna he was. We took little Luke and show him hunting.’ Digger was very attached to Ardjani’s younger son.

From the corner of her eye, Beth was aware someone was walking towards them. She turned to see Ardjani.

Now in his early seventies, he still walked with the lithe grace of the dancer he was. Medium height, slim build, black jeans, red shirt with the sleeves rolled to just below the elbow, a black stetson shading his face. He was barefoot and he gave a wide smile, lifting a hand in greeting. He and Beth clasped hands and he touched her shoulder briefly in a familiar gesture.

‘So. What’s new?’ asked Beth settling back in the plastic chair.

‘Things’ve been quiet. Might change soon. That American lady is coming back. Rowena. The film lady.’

‘The one who took you to Disneyland?’

Ardjani lifted his hand and waved his wrist at her to show a brightly coloured Mickey Mouse watch. ‘Disneyland. Good place. But too many people.’

Beth was immediately alert, recalling the American woman who had fallen under Ardjani’s spell on his trip to America eighteen months ago and who had followed him to Marrenjowan and then to Marrenyikka. She’d been too intense, too hyper, too full of LA psycho-babble, too full of wild schemes. ‘Did she say why she is coming back here?’

‘Movie business! Her daddy big fella in Hollywood. We go to her house. It was like a castle.’

‘Yeah, well, we’ll see.’ Beth dismissed his comment. ‘You going to be a movie star?’ asked Rusty.

‘Mebbe.’ Ardjani smoothed his hair in a suave gesture, making the others laugh.

‘You’ve been in enough films.’ Beth changed the subject. ‘Ardjani, I told you on the telephone about the baby that was left in the art gallery in Melbourne. The baby’s part Aboriginal. There was a shawl wrapped around her, hand-screened with little owls . . . the Dhumby story. What do you make of that?’

‘Mmm. Dhumby is our story. How it get down in the Melbourne art gallery?’

‘I’ve no idea. I saw the baby, I talked to the lady in charge of the centre. We know the mother is white, poor thing was killed.’

‘So where’s the father of this baby? He’s Aborigine man?’

‘Apparently. But no one knows who he is. We thought the Dhumby shawl might be a clue.’

‘If he a Barradja man, that baby belongs here.’

‘But who would look after her if the father isn’t here? The police have said the mother’s family aren’t interested in it.’

‘Don’t they want a black baby?’

‘I don’t know the reason yet.’

‘You bring this baby to Barradja people, we’re all one family.’

‘The authorities won’t let the baby come to any group of people, we have to prove she’s Barradja, and someone will have to be her official mother.’

Ardjani held out his arms. ‘Then we’ll have to find the daddy so we know who is the new family. They look after this baby.’

Beth sighed. ‘I hope we can track him down. The baby is well cared for at the welfare agency but she needs her real family to love and teach her.’

‘It’s good for this baby to grow up here. We start teaching our children our ways from very young so they know where they come from and their place in the world. This is important for
children. We teach them this so they become good people. Our Barradja children don’t get lost like many white kids.’

‘That’s true. Our white society and many white parents seem to be losing the strong way to bring up children.’ They were silent for a moment and Beth asked, ‘How are your boys?’

Ardjani smiled proudly. ‘Soon be time for Joshua to be finishing his initiation. And Luke needs to learn more white ways. Beth, I want them to go to a white-boy school.’

Beth nodded, her face betraying no surprise. These were Ardjani’s youngest sons by his second wife who had died two years ago. Josh was fifteen and Luke nine and Ardjani saw in them the future. They would take over from him and he spent teaching time with them every day.

‘Why do you want them to go to a white boys’ school, Ardjani?’ asked Beth gently.

‘I been thinking. I got a white schooling . . . it makes me okay to the white law men. I learn about God and the Queen of England and how to use proper knife and fork.’

‘That was at a mission school. Times are changing, that sort of education won’t help Josh and Luke.’

Ardjani shook his head. ‘I know. That’s why I want a big school for them. Posh one. Number one boarding school. They must get a white education as well as learn to be Barradja men and help our people to be part of both worlds. You fix it, Beth.’

He turned away, the subject closed. She knew there would have been much discussion and meetings about this idea. Then came the next step. Get Beth to fix it. It was part of her role as their adviser and friend.

‘Ardjani, it will take a little time. We have to write to the headmaster of the best school. I think Camfield Grammar in Perth would be the one. We need to explain why you want the boys to go there. It’s very expensive, and there will have to be some special care taken with the boys until they settle in. And also, we need to explain why you think it might benefit the school as well as Josh and Luke.’