Contents

1. Title

2. Copyright

3. Acknowledgements

4. The Start. . .

5. Barwon

6. Beth

7. In Court

8. Ardjani

9. Yandoo

10. The Artists

11. The Group

12. The Journey

13. Marrenyikka

14. To The Wandjina

15. Rowena

16. Omens

17. Hunter

18. Guyon Guyon

19. Confessions

20. Confrontation

21. Custody

22. Twelve Months Later. . .

PRAISE FOR THE SONGMASTER

‘A book all Australians who love their country must read . . . much more than an exciting novel . . . You’ll leave The Songmaster and the Kimberley with reluctance, a wiser and better person.’
PHILLIP KNIGHTLEY
Author

‘Right from the start you know you’re in for a great read. The Songmaster is engaging, entertaining, escapist – a richly rewarding story from Australia’s leading popular fiction writer.’
QUENTIN BRYCE AO
Principal
The Women’s College, University of Sydney

‘It’s daring, it’s controversial, it’s a great story and it’s unputdownable . . . what more can I say about The Songmaster other than I wish I’d written it.’
BRYCE COURTENAY
Author

‘The Songmaster makes available in an entertaining and easily accessed cast of characters and events, the profound clash of cultures we all inherit. We would all benefit from the cathartic journey undertaken by Susan Massey. The Songmaster is a tale for our times.’
JACK THOMPSON AM
Actor

‘The Songmaster will make an important contribution to the whole process of reconciliation between the original inhabitants of this land and those of us who have arrived more recently. My prayer is that many a reader will be moved by it.’
THE MOST REVEREND DR PETER CARNLEY
Archbishop of Perth and Metropolitan of Western Australia

‘A rollicking yarn about Aboriginal reconciliation? I’d like to read that! Well, here it is. A racy read, no pun intended. If you’ve been trying to fathom all those headlines about native title . . . do yourself a favour. Enjoy.’
RAY MARTIN
TV presenter

‘A cultural experience which embodies the two laws governing Australia . . . this book is a must read for those of us who call Australia home.’
ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR, MARY ANN BIN-SALLIK
Deputy Dean, Faculty Aboriginal and Islander Studies, University of South Australia

Di Morrissey travelled to the Kimberley in 1996 to research The Songmaster and is indebted to the Ngarinyin people and their advisers for their assistance.

Australia’s most popular woman novelist, Di Morrissey is well known as a TV presenter on the original ‘Good Morning Australia’. She has also been a journalist, screenwriter and advertising copywriter. Di now lives and writes in Byron Bay, NSW, in between travelling to research her books. She is the author of six previous bestsellers, Heart of the Dreaming, The Last Rose of Summer, Follow the Morning Star, The Last Mile Home, Tears of the Moon and When the Singing Stops. Her latest novel is Scatter the Stars.

Di Morrissey can be visited at her website:

http://www.dimorrissey.com

Also by Di Morrissey

Heart of the Dreaming
The Last Rose of Summer
Follow the Morning Star
The Last Mile Home
Tears of the Moon
When the Singing Stops
The Songmaster
Scatter the Stars
Blaze
The Bay
Kimberley Sun
Barra Creek
The Reef

First published 1997 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
First published 1998 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited 1 Market Street, Sydney

Reprinted 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001 (twice), 2003 (twice), 2004, 2005, 2006(twice)

Copyright © Di Morrissey 1997

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

Morrissey, Di.
The songmaster.

ISBN 0 330 36045 0.

I. Title.

A823.3

Typeset in 11/13pt Sabon by Post Pre-press Group
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

These electronic editions published in 2007 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

The Songmaster

Di Morrissey

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Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

The Songmaster is a work of fiction.
While it is inspired by certain events, places
and people, it remains a fictitious work, drawn
from my imagination.
This book is written in the hope it may forge
closer links between indigenous and other
Australians.

D.M.
1997

To a group of extraordinary Australians –

David Mowaljarlai and the Ngarinyin people
of the Kimberley, Western Australia.

Hannah Rachel Bell, for being my friend and
‘cultural interpreter’ and for providing
Jennifer’s words for ‘women’s business’.

Susan Bradley, for being the catalyst and great
camp-fire raconteur.

Jutta Malnic, for her explanation of Dulugun.

Paddy Neowarra, for clarifying the position of
displaced Kimberley Aborigines.

My darling daughter, Gabrielle, who shared
the journey with me, along with –

Alec and Lorraine Shand, Peter Harrison, Jim
and Sandy Macken, Susanna Lobez, and those
of the first Bush University, who were followed
by The Most Reverend Dr Peter Carnley,
Archbishop of Perth, Primate of Australia,
business leader Tony Coote AM, BSc, MBA
and those of the second Bush University.

For my wonderful son, Nick, in the hope that
he too will make this journey.

For my mother and family.

Jim Revitt for his guidance.

Carolyn Beaumont for her sensitive and skilful
editing.

Thanks to all at my publishers, Pan
Macmillan.

To all those kind friends and specialists in their
field who answered a myriad questions.

And especially to my soul mate whose words
of wisdom and love stay in my heart.

For further reading on Aboriginal culture, I
recommend two books that inspired me –

Yorro Yorro by David Mowaljarlai and Jutta
Malnic, Magabala Books, Broome, WA,
Australia.

Voices of the First Day by Robert Lawlor,
Inner Traditions, Rochester, Vermont, USA.

The man was not old, nor young, but of an age that knew wisdom, knew pain, yet still moved forward with bright eyes and a hopeful heart.

He was lithe and taut, like strong stretched twine, the muscles and sinews of his body delineated like an anatomical sketch. Putty-coloured ochre painted on the shining black skin had dried, caked and cracked. He sat in the blood-rust dust, dark eyes ringed in the ceremonial paint, staring into the middle distance . . . and through it into the spirit land of his ancestors.

This was a land formed by Wandjina spirits. In their human form they wore a halo of lightning and clouds, huge watchful eyes, and faces devoid of any mouth. They travelled this country, leaving in their wake the physical attributes of the landscape – the ridges and mountains, the gorges and sacred wunggud waters – until they entered the caves, painting themselves onto the walls, and sinking back into the earth.

These beings, whose ages transcended time, were familiar to the Songmaster. Their knowledge was in the stories, passed through countless generations, in the Dreaming songs of his people and their country.

Stretching his legs before him, he lifted the long didgeridoo, putting the mouthpiece covered in beeswax to his lips, the end of the long wooden pipe resting on the ground. Nature had participated in the creation of this instrument. It came from the soil, the land of his ancestors. The shape, thickness, type of wood, hollowed by termites, gave it life and its own voice.

Cheeks swollen with air, he forced breath down the length of bloodwood. It emerged near his toes, in a resonant note that vibrated into the ground, returning to nature, sinking to the inner heart of the earth, to the origin of the sacred Dreaming.

He sang to the Wandjina, the powerful spirits who watched over this land, who could punish those who disobeyed the laws, who controlled the child spirits who waited in the wunggud waters, who could bring rain and who guided the wisdom of the elders.

And so he sang . . . of the rocks and trees and plants and animals. Of these beings that created all things and of his people, then, and those of now.

‘. . . and there will be a child who will unite the people and make them one.’

The traffic on Beverly Boulevard was thickening as a rosy twilight settled over Los Angeles. Doctor Hal Silverstein stood at the window of his twelfth floor office and stared above the Beverly Hills buildings to a sky streaked with bands of gold and red. It amused him how this city produced such spectacular sunsets, thanks to the layer of smog that contributed to LA’s poor air quality. He glanced down at the line of metallic beetles snaking their way to suburban burrows, taillights glowing, the last light of day reflected in their glossy paintwork.

‘Do you have any idea what it is?’ The woman’s voice was edgy, querulous.

The psychiatrist turned from the window to face his patient. ‘No. To be candid, I don’t.’

‘Surely there’s another test they can take, another blood sample, something . . ?’

‘Rowena, we’ve done every test known to medical science . . . all the doctors can tell us is that it is probably some type of virus, possibly something you’ve picked up in Australia . . .’

Tears welled in the woman’s eyes. ‘But it’s killing me! God, surely they can do something . . .’

The doctor fiddled with his Gucci tie then sat down and faced her. While he was concerned about her mental stability, he was shocked at the sudden decline in her physical health. In a town that idolised thinness, she was stick-like, though the doctors who had examined her had ruled out anorexia. The unexplained loss of weight had made her bones jut sharply against her skin so that it appeared translucent, as if it would rip as easily as tissue paper. Her pallor was an unhealthy pasty shade that washed out her normal skin tones. Crepey skin sagged in folds around her neck – a look that normally sent LA women running to the nearest plastic surgeon.

Stretching out a hand, he laid it on hers. ‘You’ve lost a lot of weight. I know you’re always tired and feel unsettled, but physically we can’t find anything wrong.’

‘What about the headaches, the pains, and the dreams . . . they’re nightmares, not dreams . . . horrible nightmares . . .’ she was almost screaming in desperation.

The doctor adjusted his features into a sympathetic expression as he searched for the appropriate words, when in reality he felt like shaking this patient he knew was just another neurotic spoiled bitch. And a bully in the demanding manner of rich females who’ve never had a grasp on the real world. He studied the tall middle-aged woman with the flame hair and yellowish cast to her brown eyes. It crossed his mind she had something of a wild dog look to her.

‘Tell me about it again,’ he said in placating tones to distract her. She seemed to calm after talking to him about her nightmares. The psychiatrist looked across at the clock on his desk. She was paying by the hour, he reminded himself. He had all the time in the world. He leaned back as she closed her eyes and began . . .

‘I’m walking through grass that brushes my thighs. I grasp a handful to part it and my palms are slashed as if by fine razor blades, blood trickles down my fingers to the ground. Huge dark rocks rise on all sides but they don’t look solid, they seem precariously balanced as if they might fall on me. The sky is bluer than any blue I’ve ever seen and seems to billow like a marquee and I fear it’s going to sink down and smother me.’

‘Are you afraid?’

‘No. I want to go on. I see an opening between the rocks and a cave. I climb up and crouch in the coolness of the overhang. There are these fantastic paintings on the wall, and ancient white handprints. I put my own hand over a white handprint and it leaves a smudge of blood. Then I see them . . . staring at me . . .’

‘What? What is staring at you?’

‘Skulls. Horrible faces, painted red . . . they glare at me. And then the sounds start . . .’

‘What kind of sounds?’ prompted the doctor.

‘Wailing . . . crying . . . weird noises. They seem to be from people but I can’t understand what they’re saying. I know they’re trying to tell me something.’

She dropped her face in her hands and started to shake. ‘The Kimberley is such a beautiful place . . . the people, just amazing. But since I’ve been back, those voices come in the night . . . it’s like they’re in my body, trying to get out.’ She opened her eyes, staring wildly at the man facing her. ‘It’s me or them. It’s a war in me. They’re trying to take me over. They’re trying to kill me.’

The LA doctor, his body sun-parlour tanned, trimmed at the LA Sports Club and dressed in designer labels, was a man whose professional and social radius rarely extended past La Brea to the east or Olympic to the south, and certainly never out of the 310 area code. Vacations for him meant Bermuda or Baja. So he couldn’t comprehend how Rowena Singer, who had lived with her movie mogul father in his Brentwood mansion since her last divorce, would end up roughing it with natives in a desert in Western Australia.

‘Rowena, who told you about this Kimberley place? Why did you go there?’ His voice was gentle. For the first time he spoke with curiosity.

She stared at him then closed her eyes, wrapping her arms across her chest and rocking slightly. ‘Ardjani told me. He’s an Australian Aboriginal elder, a prophet, a wise man. I met him here in LA. He told me about the Songmaster, the man who plays the didgeridoo and sings the songs of the Barradja people. Ardjani says the Songmaster sings the stories of the past, of how the Barradja were the first humankind on this planet. He comes to Ardjani’s people and explains the present and predicts the future.’

‘How did you meet this Ardjani?’

‘At the LA Museum of Contemporary Art. It was a fundraiser. They had an exhibition of Australian Aboriginal art. And when I met Ardjani I knew I had to follow him . . . I had an idea about making a documentary about him and his people. But something went wrong. Something bad has happened to me. I never meant any harm.’

‘What did you do? What happened?’

She didn’t answer, but kept on rocking.

Doctor Silverstein stared out at the fading sky above the city of angels. Finally he spoke. ‘I can do no more for you. I believe you must go back to Australia, back to that place and ask this Ardjani if he can help you.’

The security guard’s head dropped onto his chest as he slipped to sleep. With a jerk he lifted his chin, eyes still closed, but again his head fell forward and this time rested on his collar, the subconscious mind parting from the conscious as he slept deeply.

He didn’t see, and possibly wouldn’t have paid any attention to, the slight figure of the young woman who slipped quietly through the archway leading to the Victorian Art Gallery’s Aboriginal artefacts section.

She was just eighteen, wispy brown hair tied back in a ponytail, a shapeless flower-child dress worn over a long-sleeved cotton knit top. She walked past a display case of samples of weaving and bark and wooden coolamons and pots. Her soft sandals made no noise on the polished parquetry and as she moved, her arms embraced the infant cradled in a cloth sling tied around her neck. She glanced down at the sleeping baby, dark lashes curling on a cheek, a mouth so perfectly formed she couldn’t resist lowering her head to brush her own lips across the pink rosebud that had fitted so neatly and possessively around her nipples.

She walked past the contemporary canvases around the walls, a collection of work from Freddy Timms, Rover Thomas, Queenie McKenzie, Paddy Jaminji. She paused before an ochretoned acrylic sketch of two strange figures on ingres paper. Wandjina Watching, Rosie Kaminyarli 1983 was pencilled in one corner. The primitive faces surrounded by halos, with huge eyes and absent mouths giving them an alien look, stared back at her.

The girl untied the sling from her neck. Although almost a child herself, there was no mistaking the maternal care with which she held the baby who stirred and whimpered. At the slight cry she felt her breasts ache with the letdown of milk. The baby wriggled in its confining wrap and she walked to where a dividing display wall screened part of this small gallery. She sank to the floor, spreading the wrap under and around the baby. For a moment she crouched there, letting the infant suck on one of her knuckles, while one small hand curled around a finger. She looked at the minute fingers tipped with just-formed pink nails, and ran her hand from the top of the baby’s downy head to the small perfect feet in the cotton wrap.

The cloth was crudely hand-screened in a child’s design of plump owls with jutting spiky feathers. Small stick figures in fancy costumes were interspersed with the white hook-beaked birds on the rust-red fabric.

The girl rose to her feet, looking down at the drowsy baby, mentally burning every feature into her heart. Then, with tears running down her face, she turned and moved swiftly behind the decorated burial poles and out of the gallery room into an adjoining section, and from there down the escalator to the main entrance.

A chill wind cut across Swanston Street and the sky dimmed to late-afternoon greyness. In the gallery, the guard jerked wide awake. Startled, he straightened up and guiltily glanced around wondering what had awoken him. Looking at his watch, he saw it was near to closing time. He creaked to his feet and then realised what had stirred him – a plaintive baby’s wail echoed through the cold and empty display rooms. He hurried into the Aboriginal section as the cry, more insistent this time, rang out. He walked around the room and, moving behind the screen near the display case, saw the bundle on the floor and let out an expletive. It wailed again and he crouched down and gingerly picked it up. The baby turned immediately to his breast seeking milk.

Huddled in a corner of a tram seat, the girl hugged herself tightly, her eyes burning, her full breasts seeping and sore. Her belly ached with searing pains, knowing her child was crying and needed her. Silently her lips moved as she repeated over and over in her head, ‘This is for the best . . .’

When the night nurse at the hospital unwrapped the baby’s shawl, she found the note pinned to the tiny singlet.

‘Please care for my baby. This is the only way I can help her. I haven’t any money. My parents kicked me out. I don’t know where my boyfriend is. My baby is part Aboriginal, so I want her to grow up with Aborigines where the kids are all brought up as part of a big family. Please find her Aboriginal family. I think she’ll be better with them. I don’t want my boyfriend to get into trouble, because I really love him. Maybe one day I’ll see my baby again.’

In a truckies’ cafe along the Hume Highway, a TV set hung behind the counter where filling fast food was dished up with a minimum of style but plenty of friendly chatter. The waitress wiped mashed potato from the front of her splattered apron as she watched the story on the TV morning news. A police spokesman pleaded for the young mother to come forward and seek medical attention.

‘Tch, tch, poor little thing. How could a mother do that? I suppose she was just a kid who got pregnant. Funny place to leave it though,’ she mused.

The chunky driver perched at the counter didn’t pause from shovelling fried chops, eggs and mashed potato from his plate to his mouth. ‘Must be a bloody Abo girl who got into trouble, no responsibility, no idea of what’s right.’

Layers of sounds settled over each other, the hiss of the gas cooker, the sizzle of hamburger patties, the spatter of popping grease, the murmur of chatter along the counter and at tables while over it, like cream on top, spewed the tinny hoarseness of the television news.

‘I thought they were big on families and keeping their kids together. I mean, they made such a fuss over them kids stolen all those years back,’ mused the waitress watching an interview grab with the gallery security guard.

‘Only when there’s money in it for them, luv. You don’t hear boo from ’em until they can make some claim for dollars. Billions we throw at ’em, and where’s it got them? They spend it on cars and crash ’em and ask for another one. They’re always off for bloody meetings to get more government money for something or other, or else they get boozed out of their brain and either bash up their women, break a window or flake out in the street. Bloody waste of taxpayers’ money. Send ’em all back to the bush, I say.’ He used the last of the mashed potato to wipe up the gravy that had escaped dribbling down his T-shirt and over the bulge of his belly.

‘So you don’t like them?’

‘Don’t have anything against them personally, never have anything to do with ’em. But hell, I read the newspapers. This whole Aborigine scene is a mess, has been for years. Like I said, waste of our taxes.’

‘Well, we can’t send ’em back, that’s for sure,’ grinned the waitress. ‘It’s our country now, so I s’pose we have to live with it. Like my mother-in-law, I’m stuck with it.’

‘Yeah, but we don’t have to have Sunday lunch with them, either. Best thing they could do for that baby is give it to some decent Aussie family who can’t have kids. That is, if they don’t mind it having dark skin.’

‘They could always say it came from the islands,’ suggested the waitress.

‘Yeah, well it’s not our problem. Good feed, Cheryl. What’s the damage?’

‘Twelve dollars. You be in next week?’

‘Guess so. Unless I get lucky and win the lottery. See ya, luv.’

The truck driver pushed his wallet into the pocket of the Stubbies stretched across his back-side. Yellow and black football socks were bunched above elastic-sided work boots. He crossed the road and opened the door of the cabin on the dust-streaked 60-tonne loaded Kenworth T600. Adjusting his testicles with one hand, he used the other to swing himself into the driver’s seat. He turned on the ignition, listened to the familiar hiss of air rushing from the brakes, shoved a Slim Dusty cassette into the tape deck, pumped the accelerator, put it in first gear and eased onto the highway.

He and Slim had just started on the second chorus when he was aware of movement behind him where a small bunk ran across the back of the front seats, screened by a bit of curtain his missus had rigged up. He shifted his weight and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Shit!’ The truck swerved slightly and he steadied the wheel, his attention back on the road before he shifted in his seat and looked behind him again.

Peering between the parted curtain was the pale and frightened face of a teenage girl. Straight away he thought, ‘Bloody trouble.’ It was an immediate reaction. The men of the highway had an instinct about hitchhikers.

‘Who the hell are you? If you wanted a ride you could bloody well ask. Get out of there.’ He pointed beside him. Meekly she clambered between the seats and slid onto the passenger side, hunched close against the door.

The driver gave her a quick glance and turned back to the road. She looked crook, red-eyed, unkempt. Christ, not a druggie. ‘You’re not going to throw up, are you?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m all right, I’m just hungry.’ Her voice was soft, what his mother had called decent, well spoken. Running away from home, he figured. Or maybe from a boyfriend. She looked about seventeen. They took their love life to heart at that age. ‘There’s some chocolate in the glove box. Help yourself.’

He drove in silence as she gave her attention to fumbling with the wrapper and foil before putting squares of Fruit and Nut in her mouth. She broke off several more but, as her hand reached to her still full mouth, she turned and held out the rest of the chocolate to him.

‘Just had me breakfast. You have it. Looks like you could do with a feed.’

She nodded and concentrated on eating her way through the block of chocolate.

She screwed up the paper and foil. ‘Thanks.’

‘So what’s the story? What’s with hiding out back there? Why not hitch a ride in the open? Where do you think you’re going?’

‘Sydney. How far you going?’

‘This is your lucky day. We’re not supposed to give rides. My company is getting hot on it. Too many problems.’

‘I won’t give you any trouble.’

The driver grinned at the idea of this wisp of a girl hassling him. But seeing the tears start, he spoke firmly. ‘Now don’t start blubbering. I don’t mind you sitting there, but I don’t want any crying, smoking or whingeing about your life story.’

She nodded. She appeared submissive, grateful, relieved of the need for small talk.

They drove in the vacuum of the engine noise, overrun by Slim Dusty strumming through his Golden Guitar-winning album of folksy country hits. The driver glanced at the girl once or twice. She rested her head against the window, her eyes closed, an expression of infinite sadness and pain creasing her delicate features. Faint beads of sweat shone on her forehead, her brown hair looked damp and limp, pink dots stood out on her cheeks, the only colour in her pale face.

The driver turned the airconditioning on to low, reluctantly closing his window in the hope the manufactured coolness might ease her discomfort.

They drove for several hours, the rural scenery occasionally broken by the highway dross of scattered service stations, small shops, tea rooms and sporadic cheap meccano-set motels. These filtered out to be replaced by a fringe of trees and strips of deep State forest. It was a curtain, an invitation to tourists to turn off the narrow belt of bitumen, to detour, to savour and explore. Unheeding, the oncoming traffic streamed south, noses aimed at towns and cities, while to either side stretched reaches of country that reminded and warned, there’s still untamed land out there.

The girl shifted and he wondered if she were asleep. Whatever dream trance she was in, it began to overwhelm her; tears that had silently trickled suddenly flowed, unstoppable, as heaving sobs began to rack her thin frame.

‘You all right? What’s the matter, luv?’

She couldn’t get any words out for a moment . . . then, ‘I’ve changed my mind. I . . . have . . . to go back.’

‘Christ! I’m not turning around. Go back where?’

She wrung her hands then balled a fist, pushing it into her mouth, biting her knuckles. Her pallid skin looked translucent, drained of blood, of energy, of life.

‘Look, we’re only a few ks from the border. I’ll get you a feed at Corryong and you can decide what you want to do. I can’t hang about, I have a schedule y’know.’

For the first time she stared directly at him, dropping her hand into her lap while the other gripped the door handle. ‘I have to get out . . . now. I have to go back.’

‘Jeez, luv, steady on. I can’t let you out here. Middle of bloody nowhere.’

‘I must.’ Strength returned to her voice. ‘Now. Please.’ She fiddled with the door handle.

‘Watch it. Listen, hang on.’ Cursing under his breath the driver looked for a width of shoulder, long and safe enough to pull over. With protesting gears and a squeal of brakes, the rig lumbered to a halt and, almost before the engine had quietened, the girl was wrenching open the passenger door.

‘This isn’t a safe place. What are you doing?’ he called as she slid to the ground. She carried nothing more than a small handbag slung diagonally over her chest, her denim jacket over the light flowered hippy dress her only protection.

The pinched face appeared at the bottom of the driver’s door, peering up at him, but there was resolution in her manner. ‘Thanks. Thanks very much. I know what I have to do. It was a mistake.’

She went to the other side of the road and stood, her arms crossed around her chest, hugging herself and looking determined.

The driver shouted to her. ‘You sure?’

She gave a brief wave and he started the engine, signalled, and moved out into the road. Traffic was light now and he hoped she wouldn’t have to wait too long for a ride.

In the far north-west, in a place called Bungarra – named for the great goanna – possibly one of the most miserable, sun-baked, spartan, desolate dots on the map of Australia, an old woman lay down her paintbrush and eased her creaking weight to her feet. She looked at the canvas, smeared in sweeps of brilliant acrylic, that lay on the red dirt. This was her last story.

Her time had come. She’d defied statistics and outlived her contemporaries by decades.

Grey hair in thinning clumps was pushed behind her ears, her face was deeply etched with lines of life, her body plump, fattened by starchy foods, sugar and carbonated drinks. Florrie was tired. The creative powerhouse of artistic expression that had fuelled the Florence Namurra art industry and earned her a reputation and income from aficionados around the world, had run out in that moment she’d put down her brush.

She’d taken it up a mere nine years ago. A white welfare lady had first brought the paints, wax, dyes, cloth and canvas to the women in the 1970s, but Florrie had kept in the background, seemingly disinterested, huddled around a campfire, surrounded by scattered possessions, mangy dogs and grandchildren. Then early one crisp morning, after downing her mug of sweet tea, she’d thrown back the old grey blanket she wore as a cape and announced she was ready to ‘do dat paintin’ work’. She heeded no advice or suggestion but turned her back and worked alone, developing her own technique of stabbing and plumping paint in bold, vivid strokes, singing her stories onto canvas after canvas.

The explosion had happened within two years. The old woman of the outback was hailed as a major art find and dealers scrambled, galleries demanded, and money poured into the camp.

But just as fast it was dispersed, in the Aboriginal way of sharing what’s mine is yours. The demands of the clan had kept her painting most of every day. Another car, more cash, more, more. The talent, the reputation, the money, the recognition brought with it a spectrum of art dealers, unscrupulous, sensitive, shrewd, clawing and trawling for Florrie’s work. Tourists trekked to the blazing scruffy camp pleading for her to ‘do a quick little Florrie for us’. She obliged, it was the Aboriginal way. But now Florrie was sucked dry. Used up like an old piece of fruit.

She walked away from the fire, past the tin humpy shelter where she slept, spurning a bed. She drifted towards a spindly cluster of coolibah trees and she lay on her Mother Earth. Clutching her now trademark blanket tightly to her, Florrie rested. And slept. And died.

Her spirit, now released, slipped from the frame that held it and rose and began its journey to rejoin her ancestors, her children lost in childbirth, their fathers and her friends.

Within days the art vultures circled and descended.

Susan Massey towelled her body dry and dressed to the ABC radio morning news. Her mind was filled with the brief she would take to court this morning. She opened her closet and stared longingly at her favourite bush-look gear but chose the navy suit and neat white silk shirt. In a small gesture of defiance she pinned a marquesite lizard brooch to her lapel, turning towards the radio as her attention was caught by the newsreader.

One of Australia’s most successful Aboriginal painters has died at the Bungarra art colony in the Kimberley region of Western Australia. Believed to be more than eighty years of age, the artist had become internationally renowned for two of her acrylic masterpieces which recently sold for more than half a million dollars in Europe. The family of the dead woman has asked that she not be named, according to Aboriginal custom.

‘And I bet the dealers are heading north as fast as they can, with greedy art-grabbing hands outstretched,’ mused Susan, as she switched off the radio, grabbed her car keys and walked out the door.

Putting the leather satchel she used as a briefcase on the passenger seat, she turned the car radio to the FM station that played her favourite music and listened to the eight o’clock news. No compunction about observing Aboriginal lore here.

In the Kimberley . . . famous Aboriginal artist Florence Namurra . . . better known as Florrie, the old lady of the outback . . . has died. Florrie left a fortune in unsold artworks. Major overseas galleries have already begun bidding for the paintings expected to sell for up to $300,000.

Susan turned the radio down to concentrate on her presentation to the Family Court judge. She had a positive feeling about the outcome of this case: her argument was sound, she’d assembled the facts meticulously and schooled her client on how to present himself. Besides, she thought, his wife was a drunk and a tart; he deserved custody of his kids.

The nurses had named the abandoned baby girl Sunny, short for Sunshine. Everyone who saw her smiled. The woman from the Aboriginal Child Care Agency who had come to collect the baby shrugged at the word written on the identification card above the hospital bassinette. She knew the child would eventually be named with the appropriate ceremony when she was united with her people and her country. Whether the father or mother was Aboriginal was irrelevant, she would still be able to claim her heritage, Joyce Guwarri thought. In the Aboriginal community there would be no doubt the baby was one of them. And there was no doubt the father was Aboriginal. Joyce knew that no Aboriginal mother would leave her child.

The baby was warmly dressed and had been bottle fed every four hours by the nursing staff. The cloth that had been wrapped around her was washed and folded over the end of the cot. Joyce lifted the cloth and shook it out, gazing at the owl figures she knew must represent an Aboriginal Dreaming story. But whose Dreaming?

Alan Carmichael turned off the lights in his gallery, set the alarm and locks. The street was wet, pools of light shining on the pavements, wisps of sloping rain misting from streetlights. Passers-by hunched intently homeward, slop-ping through the late dusk. He shrugged his tweed jacket closer around his chest and ran his fingers through his dark hair that prematurely showed flashes of silver in the streetlight. He hesitated, then turned down Exhibition Street, hailing a taxi. ‘Preston. Chambers Street.’

The driver gave him a second glance as they pulled up outside a rambling house with the flying yellow, black and red flag and a printed sign announcing, Aboriginal Child Care.

Inside he felt immediately welcome. No formality here. A mug of tea, a chatty Koori receptionist, then a beaming welfare worker.

‘What can we do for you?’ Joyce’s gaze was frank. This elegant white man, forty something, kind of arty looking, wasn’t their usual visitor.

‘I wanted to make a few inquiries about the baby that was left in the art gallery.’

‘Look, if you’re thinking of adoption, forget it, love. It’s not a baby for white folk. She’s Koori. She’ll go to relatives.’

He gave a smile. ‘I was contacted by a friend in the police department. An Aboriginal sergeant, he asked me to see if I could help.’

‘You a detective or something?’ Her manner cooled slightly.

‘No, not at all. I run an Aboriginal art gallery. He thought I might be able to identify the designs on the wrap that was around the baby.’

Joyce’s suspicions faded. ‘Oh, that would be a big help. It’s got us stumped. No clue at all about the family. Poor mother, it must have been hard for her to give up such a sweet thing.’

They walked past a communal dining room where black teenagers and old men were eating. In a community room, two boys played billiards and several girls watched TV. A wall between two rooms had been knocked down to make a sick bay where beds were lined in a neat row. A window looked out to a suburban backyard. An old iron cot stood by the window, a bundle wrapped in yellow in its centre. It looked no bigger than a family-sized serving of fish and chips. Wrapped, ready to go. Alan watched as Joyce’s finger pulled down the edge of the blanket. The baby didn’t stir, and Alan felt the sudden pull of the sight of a sweetly sleeping, vulnerable and dependent creature. Memories of the smell of milk and talcum powder, a head nuzzled into his neck, the dawning recognition of love in wide new eyes, came to him. He touched the soft dark hair of the baby’s head. ‘She’s a cutie.’

‘I’ll get the box with her stuff in it.’ Joyce fossicked through a plastic crate full of nappies, clothes and a bottle. At the bottom was the washed and folded hand-screened cloth. She handed it to him and he opened it out, studying the pictures and symbols.

‘I’ve seen them before. But I’d have to go through my reference material to identify them properly. Can I take this with me?’

‘I suppose so. Where do you think it comes from?’

‘I spend a lot of time with artists in the Kimberley and I’ve seen this owl figure there. There’s a white woman who works with the Aboriginal people. She’s coming to see me and I’d like to show it to her.’

Alan re-folded the cloth and placed it in a plastic shopping bag the woman handed him. ‘I’m wondering if the mother could have come to Melbourne from the Kimberley,’ said Alan. ‘Or maybe she’d grown up in the city and knew about the owl story, but didn’t know who her people were.’

‘Or maybe she doesn’t know because she’s white and got no knowledge. Maybe it’s the baby’s father who’s Aboriginal. That could be true, too.’ The woman watched Alan’s reaction. ‘Listen, you take that wrap. But first you show me some ID, and write your phone number and address, and a note to say you’ve borrowed it and will return it within a week.’ She reached for a memo pad headed Aboriginal Child Care Agency and handed it to him with a pen. ‘I hope you can help. For the baby’s sake, I hope so.’

The black woman and the white man glanced down at the dusky infant, unclaimed, unnamed . . . unaware that one day she would be responsible for the intertwining of many lives.

Shirley Bisson stirred and glanced at the bed-side clock where green glowing numbers told her it was four minutes past 2 a.m.

She kicked a leg out of the white damask sheets and wondered what had woken her. Then she heard it. Water running in the kitchen. Then turned off. Ice being clinked into a glass from the icemaker on the fridge door. She was alone in the apartment. Her mind raced. If someone had broken in … how did they get into her secured building, let alone her apartment? Did they think it was empty, or was the intruder so brazen he held no fear? She looked at the phone, knowing if she dialled it would be heard on the kitchen extension. Did she hear footsteps on the carpet? Should she just hide and let them ransack the place and leave?

Screaming would be useless in the soundproofed luxury in which she lived. Her body was rigid and she felt incapable of moving, and then the shape of a man came through the bedroom door. His movements looked shadowy and sinister. As she held the sheet tightly over her bare breasts, the scream that rose in her throat was reduced to a strangled gasp as he spoke.

‘Hey, Shirley. Miss me?’

‘Get out of here. I told you never to come back. I’ll call the police. How dare you break in.’

‘What break-in . . .’ He spun a key ring on his little finger. ‘I still have my key. Why didn’t you change the locks?’

‘You gave me your word you’d never come back here again. It’s been long over.’

He sat on the end of the bed and flashed her a wide grin. ‘Six months isn’t such a long time. Come on, tell me you’re pleased to see me. I’ve missed you.’

She glared at the handsome young man, so sure of himself, knowing the effect of his sexuality and charm. ‘Barwon, it’s over. I can’t afford you any more. I’ve come to my senses. The whole thing was madness.’

‘You loved every minute of it, admit it. I see your bed’s still empty.’ He moved closer to her.

In a swift move she scrambled to the other side of the bed and he gave a whistle at the flash of her nude body, ripe and soft and full. At fifty, she had reached that sensuous and luscious peak that can be attractive to a man of any age.

He flung himself across the bed and pinned her down. She beat his back and head with her fists but with one hand he grabbed her wrists and began nuzzling his face into her neck as he held her. The familiar smell of his hair, the muskiness of his skin flooded her nostrils, reviving memories of passion she knew she couldn’t control.

‘Damn you, Barwon . . . don’t do this to me. It’s over. Please just go or . . .’

‘Or what . . .’ He began licking her ear and pressed his mouth on hers.

Inside her head she was shrieking. ‘No!’ Anger and a sense of outrage that he could take control of her again so easily fought with the involuntary response of her tongue probing his teeth apart and the rush of dampness between her legs.

Sensing her arousal, his hand pressed down on her mound of Venus, fingers parting the soft-haired flesh to enter warm wet territory they knew well. Her knees fell apart, her back began to arch and, as he lifted his face from hers, a soft moan escaped her.

‘You always want me, huh, babe . . .’ He began to strip off his shirt, trousers and shoes. ‘Just for old times’ sake, eh . . .’

The movement, as his attention was diverted to his belt and zipper, gave her the moment of breathing space to gather herself.

‘NO! GET OUT!’

In an instant, as he was pulling off his shoes, she leapt from the bed, rushing down the hall. Standing naked in the kitchen, she looked around wildly, unsure of what she was doing there. He’d turned on a kitchen bench light and the sight of the glass of iced water, so cheekily fetched as if he still lived there, outraged her. Seeing the broad cutting knife she’d used earlier in the evening, she grabbed it. And stood there, aware of her nakedness, her vulnerability, her confusion over her feelings for this man she’d thought she loved.

He padded into the kitchen, wearing just his socks.

‘Hey, Shirl, don’t be like that. Come on, you know no one makes you feel like I do. I bet you’ve missed it.’ His voice was gentle and wheedling, a voice that had once made her melt. He moved towards her with arms outstretched. ‘I’ve missed my sweet wild honey baby . . .’

Memories of him dribbling dark honey over her breasts, belly and thighs and slowly licking it off came back to her and she shuddered with involuntary pleasure. She spoke through gritted teeth. ‘I swear I’ll cut your dick off, Barwon, if you take one more step. Get your clothes and get out. NOW.’

A silly smile creased his face as he held out his arms in a helpless gesture. ‘After what we had. You said I’d always mean something to you . . .’

‘You mean trouble, Barwon. You bled me dry, you slept with young girls . . . you used me.’

‘And you loved it. You liked having a handsome black stud on your arm to show to your girlfriends . . . someone who not only looked good . . . who was good . . . the best in the sack you’ve ever had or will have, Lady Muck.’

‘I bought you and I bought you off for $10,000 worth of credit card bills. There’s no more. I’ll live without sex forever rather than be used by you again.’

‘Rash words. But you might have to go without it, sweetheart, those tits are starting to sag.’ He reached out to grab her breast and she swiped at him with the knife, leaving a cut down one arm that started to ooze blood onto the kitchen floor.

‘What the fuck!’ He stared in shock at his arm and then lashed out, making a grab for the knife. ‘Don’t be stupid, Shirley!’

‘Don’t you call me stupid!’ Sobbing, she began waving the knife in wild sweeps, hurt, humiliation, loneliness engulfing her.

She had missed him, she knew she’d never have sex like that with the men who moved in her social sphere. A crazy affair with an Aborigine had caused the shock value she’d intended. And then had come her growing attachment to him. But eventually, knowing she could never hold him, that he was restless and possibly bored with her, she had sent him into a spending frenzy through Versace and Armani to entice him to stay.

When her spending power had run out and signs of her whimpering dependence had begun to irritate him, she’d come to her senses and they’d called it quits. He had moved out his clothes, the jewellery, the knick-knacks – his electronic diary, mobile phone and CD player – and he had given most of it away to the friends who’d offered him a bed and no hassles in Redfern.

For a middle-aged white woman, divorced, lonely and bored, it was painful. She felt like a voodoo doll someone had stuck pins into to deflate her self-esteem. Pins labelled vulnerable, rejected, annoyed, ashamed. Flattened by self-loathing, she had sought help.

She had struggled through healing sessions, therapy workshops, body work and seminars that had exposed her soul and emptied the cupboard of personal experience until, lost and frightened, she’d turned back to the Catholic Church of her youth. That was brief solace until she’d realised she’d lived through too much to find salvation in platitudes and condescending sermons.

So she’d walked into the office of the most expensive psychiatrist in ‘the street of doctors’ and gazing at the beauty of Sydney Harbour from ten floors above Macquarie Street, she’d poured out her feelings about her mother, her three husbands, her ungrateful family and her lovers. Then she’d paid the account and left.

Shopping in Double Bay, lunches with girlfriends and a trip overseas helped most of all. Now, six months later, she was just starting to feel good about herself – and he walks back in as if nothing had happened.

The pent-up anger overwhelmed her as she wildly swung the knife, wanting to hurt him, to pay him back.

Bewildered, afraid and yet concerned for her at this display of madness, he tried to grab her, but the knife dug at his shoulder and he leapt back, clutching the top of his arm, and staggered towards the bedroom, grabbing at his trousers and underpants.

She dropped the bloodied knife and now stood limply, her hands hanging by her sides as silently the near-naked man struggled to pull on his pants with one hand, the other almost useless from the pain in his shoulder. ‘I forgive you for this, Shirley. I didn’t know I’d hurt you that much.’ He stumbled slightly as he pulled the door open.

As it swung shut behind him, Shirley dropped the knife on the bench and walked back into the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and began to cry. The hurt gradually turned to anger, and then bitterness. Taking a breath, she lifted the white telephone. ‘Police? Can you send someone round. I’ve just been attacked by an Aborigine . . .’

He was picked up by two uniformed officers a short time later sitting on a bench by a deserted cab rank, faint from loss of blood and in a state of shock.

Susan brushed her burnished brown hair into a shiny bob that reached her shoulders and framed her wide face and high cheekbones. She added chunky rose-gold jewellery, slung a cream cashmere sweater over her shirt and picked up a bottle of Hunter Valley Scarborough Pinot Noir.

Music and conversation drifted out into the street from the open door of the Paddington terrace as she paid the taxi. Shadowy shapes drifted behind filmy curtains. It looked and sounded inviting. She admired, as she always did, the wrought-iron ‘lace’ trim on the exterior of the building and framing the upper balcony. Like the many other houses in the street, its tiny front garden was awash with flowers and shaded by a large tree that was cleverly spotlit.

As she walked up the garden path, she heard the wrought-iron gate scrape open, and hurried footsteps.

‘Hold on, I’m right behind you,’ a cheerful male voice called.

Before she could turn to see who it was, she was enveloped in a hug from Veronica. ‘So, you two arrived together. Very good. Andrew, this is Susan Massey.’

In the hallway with its leadlight inset above an arch, he loomed as a strapping, cheerful man in his early thirties. There was no mistaking the outdoor aura about him; hot sun, gum-scented breezes and a man you thought of as able to survive wild bulls and long droughts. He shook her hand. ‘Andrew Frazer.’

Susan and Andrew followed Veronica and, as they approached the kitchen, she beckoned them to enter. ‘Darling, two new arrivals.’

Veronica’s husband, Boris, a cuddly Yugoslav bear, put down the spatula he was wielding over a skillet. ‘Susan, lovely to see you.’ He kissed her cheek through his full beard. He shook hands with Andrew who’d put his bottle next to Susan’s on the bench. ‘Bravo, a good pinot and a classic white – mmm, Margaret River, you’re loyal to your State, eh, Andrew? As Susan is also. How about sharing a drop of New Zealand Cloudy Bay with me to remain on neutral territory?’ He poured the crisp dry white wine and they clinked glasses.

After a few minutes of general small talk, Veronica touched Andrew’s arm. ‘Can I borrow you for a moment, there’re two gentlemen I’d like you to meet. Come and join us when you’re ready, Susan.’

‘Have you been slaving in the kitchen all afternoon, Boris? It smells wonderful,’ remarked Susan.

Boris tasted the sauce. ‘Ah, not all. I am being Veronica’s slave this week. Dig this hole, move that rock, plant that there.’

‘Ah, gardening again,’ said Susan. She marvelled at the relationship between these two. It seemed an ideal marriage. Her friend Veronica was a broadcaster whose morning radio program had graduated from ‘women’s subjects’ at station management’s request, to thoughtful and provocative general interest issues by her persistence and talent. Veronica was forty, formerly a print journalist, who had suffered a brief stint in TV. Hating the superficiality and insufferable attitude of male middle management, she had quit before they started counting her wrinkles.

She’d stayed home and gardened for a year, devoting herself to her Boris in a last-ditch hope they might conceive a child, at the same time writing a column for the Australian newspaper. This became so popular that the radio job on the ABC had been offered.

In five years she had become a star of the airwaves. And, while she didn’t pocket a million dollars like the schlock jocks who rated high but talked lowest common denominator, Veronica had a substantial, devoted and intelligent audience.

She had interviewed Susan for a program segment on the law and, despite the ten-year age gap, the two had struck a mutual chord of humour and admiration and had become friends.

Veronica worked crazy hours and came home to magnificent meals. But no one could accuse Boris of being a wuss. Robust and solid, ham fists looking more suited to swinging an axe than an art brush, his physicality disguised a soft and gentle nature. He was an artist who hibernated for long stretches in the garage that backed onto the rear lane and had been converted into his studio. When he did his disappearing act, as Veronica called it, he would emerge weeks later with unfathomable but critically acclaimed gouaches, large sprawling canvases or intricate abstracts.

The one thing lacking in their lives was a child. Susan knew Veronica was working on a radio piece about parenting, mothering, postnatal depression and child abandonment, inspired by the recent case of the baby found in the Victorian Art Gallery. It seemed so unfair to Susan that out there was a young mother who chose to give up her child while Veronica and Boris were trying so hard to conceive. She wondered what Veronica’s audience would think if they knew their independent, strong and outspoken host held a fragile and vulnerable core.

‘So how are things with you?’ asked Boris.

‘Professionally good. Socially mediocre. Overall, I have no right to complain.’

‘Which really means?’

‘I haven’t had a date for over six months. Partly because I’m too busy to get out and socialise and meet people. And frankly, I think the average Australian male gets uncomfortable with women who have opinions and want to contribute to the law of the land.’

‘They seem threatened, you think?’

‘I don’t like to say so, Boris, but . . .’ Susan sipped her wine and changed the subject. ‘How is the IVF program coming on? I don’t like to ask Veronica too much for fear of upsetting her,’ she asked gently.

‘Time is running out. It’s been several years and her age . . .’ he shrugged. ‘She wants a child very badly. I hope she will be able to cope and adjust with the possibility it might not be. Still, we perform the ritual with hope.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘And it’s quite a ritual. Injecting herself with hormones – from healthy Belgian nuns’ urine, or so the doctors tell us! It’s to make her super ovulate, tricking the body. The eggs are harvested, sucked out of her ovaries, fertilised with my sperm in a jar and then they’re frozen and we wait to see how many “take”. Two days later they’re graded and the strong little ones are implanted in her fallopian tubes. Under the microscope the specks look like little soccer balls bouncing around.’ He sighed. ‘But it’s the waiting . . . the wondering. Each month takes its emotional as well as physical toll. The drugs are very expensive, too. I think our time on the program is limited. Her age, and the fact it’s been a couple of years with no luck.’ He stopped, glad to have unburdened himself to a friend. ‘But, Susan, tonight is to enjoy ourselves. Salute . . . go and join the others.’ He turned his attention to the makings of a Greek salad.

It was Veronica’s usual eclectic gathering. She was famed for her dinner parties with politicians, corporate leaders, lawyers, artists and actors as guests. Veronica had once laughingly confided in Susan that the secret to a successful dinner party was to select guests on a scale of merit – something to say, an ability to listen, wit, and a caring attitude. This wasn’t to say that there wasn’t conflict, dissension or spirited debate, but tempers were held in control, bad language avoided, and opinions were rarely too far out in left field.

Susan came to the table and pulled out her chair. Andrew Frazer’s hand fell on hers. ‘Uh, uh. That’s my job.’ He smiled as she sat and he pushed in her chair before sitting opposite her.

Susan was introduced to the men on either side of her, the eminent Queen’s Counsel, Alistair MacKenzie, and a retired Supreme Court judge, the former Justice Michael Francis Duffy. Mick Duffy, as the judge was known to his peers, was admiring the label on the Margaret River Cullens Chardonnay ’95 Boris had placed on the table.

‘The west is getting quite stylish,’ he said, raising an eyebrow in the direction of Andrew. ‘Bit different when I was there. Spent a couple of years as a jackeroo before law school.’

‘Whereabouts, Judge?’

‘It was near Geraldton. Always said I’d go back and work in the courts up that way. Never did. Pity. I would have enjoyed the challenge. I thought I’d have a go at bending some of that straight-up-and-down, small-minded thinking of the west. So where you from? On the land or are you one of those Perth entrepreneurs?’ He raised the other eyebrow.

‘I thought they were all in jail or had absconded,’ murmured Alistair MacKenzie on Susan’s left.

Andrew grinned. ‘On the land. Our place is Yandoo, in the Kimberley.’

‘Ah, a king in a grass castle,’ quipped Susan.

‘Only a prince at this stage,’ interjected Veronica.

‘A good read, that book by Mary Durack,’ chimed in MacKenzie, recalling the patriotic pleasure he’d had reading the Durack family saga, Kings in Grass Castles, while holidaying many years ago. ‘Captured the essence of pioneering in the outback like nothing else I’ve read. Do you know the Duracks?’

‘My father and grandfather knew them well. They’re such a legend in the north-west we all feel we know them,’ said Andrew.

Judge Duffy sipped his wine then caught Andrew’s eye. ‘The Duracks had an interesting relationship with the Aborigines over the years. Very paternalistic as I remember. What’s the story with your station?’

Andrew felt a little uncomfortable, surprised at the direction of the conversation. He recovered quickly. ‘Like everywhere else, I suppose,’ he said with a non-committal shrug. ‘Quite different from the old days.’

‘Indeed it is,’ said the judge, not letting the subject slide off the table. ‘The local Aborigines put in a land claim for your spread?’

‘We’re on a pastoral lease,’ said Andrew, wishing someone would change the subject.

‘Sacred sites, then?’

‘Everything seems sacred in their philosophy these days,’ said Andrew with a barely controlled edge in his voice.

‘So it seems,’ said MacKenzie. ‘Tell me, how long has your family been up there?’

‘My great grandfather settled Yandoo. We were in the wave of settlers that followed the Duracks,’ explained Andrew. ‘We run cattle, but have diversified in recent years thanks to the Ord River irrigation and new markets for new crops. Pastoralists have to move with the times or go under.’

Veronica cleared away the antipasto plates. ‘How’s your brother?’

‘Julian has built up quite an established vet practice in Kununurra and he uses a chopper to get around much of the country. That really appeals to him. He comes home as much as possible and does his bit for Yandoo. Vets cost a packet, so it’s handy to have one in the family. He dreams of getting his own plane one day. Been flying ours for a couple of years anyway.’

‘And how big is your plane?’ asked Susan.

‘Nothing flash, just a single-engine two-seater. We use it for bore runs, going to the coast, up to Darwin or Katherine occasionally. Little things like that.’

‘Flying qualifications are as important as sitting well in the saddle these days. You fly, of course?’ said the judge. Andrew nodded.

Susan was impressed and was about to tell him so when Boris made a grand entry announcing the presentation of his paella flanked by Greek salad and hot herb bread. The food was served and more wine poured amid noisy exchanges that quietened as Alistair MacKenzie brought up the subject of bush tucker.

‘I went to a brasserie in Melbourne the other day with a couple of colleagues and had some of this Australian nouvelle cuisine. Sort of up-market bush tucker.’

‘Ah, witchetty grubs and wattle-seed cake,’ said Judge Duffy with a hoot of derision. ‘Really, Alistair, I can’t imagine you tucking into roo kebabs.’

‘Rubbish, Mick. You’re becoming too conservative in your old age. Yabbies are magnificent as is crocodile, even if it takes a little effort to acquire the taste, at least it’s a cut above McDonald’s hamburgers.’

‘And Australian,’ added Susan. ‘I rather fancy bush tucker will be a huge hit with overseas people at the Olympic Games.’ She turned to Andrew. ‘Do you like kangaroo?’

‘I don’t eat it. We kill our own cattle for meat. Catch our own fish. Only feed the dogs on roo meat. I’m more into hunting through the freezer. Leave the rest for the Abos.’

As soon as he said it, he knew he had goofed. In this company ‘Abos’ was probably high on the list of politically incorrect words. The abbreviation for Aborigines was in everyday use at the station, amongst his friends and other white people of the region. Here in Paddington in Sydney, it would be almost certainly taboo, but it was out, and he couldn’t take it back from instant analysis around the table. The judge flashed a raised eyebrow, MacKenzie stole a quick look at the young man, Veronica closed both eyes briefly, Boris ignored it, and Susan stiffened.

‘And do the Abos, as you put it, have a chance to hunt through the freezer as well?’ asked Susan.

Veronica shot a glance down the table to Boris, who acknowledged it silently. This is what she loved about dinner parties. At some stage there would be fireworks, or a signal of a battle just over the conversational horizon.

The two legal men reached for the wine as if the movement had been choreographed. The field was cleared for Andrew and Susan. Their eyes met across the table.

Andrew was able to stay calm, even a little amused at her bold thrust. How could he get angry with such an attractive woman. He was painfully aware that the other guests were waiting with ill-concealed expectation.

‘As a matter of fact, they do, to some extent. There’s hardly a major community around now that doesn’t have some power, houses with fridges, or at least a store with several.’ He picked up his fork to return to the paella, signalling the end of his reaction, then as an afterthought he added, ‘Have you been into an Aboriginal community by the way?’

‘Well . . . er, . . . no . . . I rather . . .’

But before she could continue, Andrew interrupted, fussing for awhile with his food. ‘That’s the problem with what I call experts who’ve graduated with diplomas from television news and current affairs viewing. They get all fired up on the strength of biased viewpoints, of carefully selected pictures, of stories out of total context.’ He caught her eye again, ‘Though I particularly exempt you from that judgement.’

‘Oh,’ exclaimed Veronica with relish. ‘Why does Susan get off the hook so easily?’

‘Because she’s so attractive.’ He smiled at Susan and lifted his glass to her in a toast. The judge and the QC smiled benignly. Veronica closed her eyes again, waiting for the rocket to ignite.

Susan spoke firmly, without heat, but there was no mistaking the fact he’d touched a nerve. ‘Thank you for the compliment, but frankly, I’ve worked hard to get where I am in this world and I’ve done it on my merits, not my looks.’

Andrew recoiled, realising this time he’d made a sexist comment. Mick Duffy and Alistair MacKenzie exchanged a swift look acknowledging they were out of touch with Generation X attitudes.

Susan had no regrets at speaking her mind. Andrew obviously didn’t have a lot of contact with modern professional women, she sur-mised. So, over the tropical fruit salad and minted lemon yoghurt, she tried to build a bridge over the gulf she felt existed between the two of them. ‘Tell me, Andrew, what tribes or communities, as I believe many prefer to be called, are there on Yandoo?’

‘There’s a mob down by the river, a few stockmen we employ, and their families. They’re a mixed lot.’

‘So what are the traditional tribes around that area?’ asked Mick Duffy.

‘Mostly Wurumbul.’

The judge leaned forward and tried to repeat the name of the tribe that rolled off Andrew’s tongue with what appeared to be the fluency of natural language. ‘Lovely sound to those Aboriginal words don’t you agree?’ he said to the table at large. ‘You speak much of their language?’

‘I’m afraid not. Just a few words, mainly about stock and work about the station. The main mob of them keep very much to themselves. They got together a few years back, broke away from the Kimberley Land Council and formed their own group. Lodged some land claim but nothing seems to have come of it.’

‘You don’t seem worried about it, presumably it didn’t affect your land then?’ commented Susan.

Andrew looked straight at her, enjoying her gorgeous green eyes. ‘Not at the moment. But who knows where they’ll stop. We’re talking about a big area here, or one with a lot of important sites – pastoral leases, mines, rivers. Everybody out there, black and white, is affected by these claims.’

‘You sound like you think they’re spurious. Whose land was it in the first place?’

‘And what about our continuous use and ownership?’ demanded Andrew. ‘We’ve improved the land, developed industries, brought money into the place, given them jobs and opportunities. Trouble is, most of them don’t want to do anything about any chance they’ve been given. The grog is still a bloody problem.’

‘Hard when they also want to be treated the same as whitefellas. Why can’t they get drunk and be obnoxious too, isn’t that the thinking?’ said Mick Duffy. ‘When they wake up to themselves and get off the grog, you see some individuals really get ahead. They’ve had a lot of role models in different fields, not just sports. Look at Pat O’Shane, not only a black magistrate but a woman.’

Susan waggled her finger at the retired judge. ‘How very politically correct. Now don’t you tell me in the next breath that some of your best friends are Aborigines.’

‘Wish I could. Where does an old bugger like me get to mingle with real people? I only met the activists and so-called troublemakers or blokes up before the court.’

‘Maybe that’s what we all need to do, meet a few more Aborigines for just ordinary exchanges, like you would with any new friend. But how do we do that?’ asked Susan.

‘Go to Redfern. Lots down there,’ said Judge Duffy helpfully.

Over coffee, served informally as the dinner party split into groups, Alistair MacKenzie asked Susan what sort of cases she liked to handle. They were in the back garden, discreetly lit by garden lights behind shrubs.

‘I get what I’m given, which tends to be soft female-type cases,’ she lamented. ‘Frankly I’d like to get more involved in jurisprudence. I’d like to see the law demystified for the general public who have to wrestle with it. For example, I’ve seen instances where people have become tangled in legal proceedings simply because they understood barely a word of a letter a solicitor had sent them.’

He gave her a charming smile. The suave QC, impeccably groomed, spoke with a soft, modulated voice that suggested private school and a privileged upbringing. ‘If the general populace understood the law, we’d be out of a job. But seriously, you want the law to be like mercury, ever on the move. It can take a hundred years or so for a law to come into being, and another hundred to get rid of it. Change is a slow and careful process.’

‘But if the law doesn’t hear the voices of the people and adapt, what good is it? Surely it’s better to be one of the sheep than in the care of wolves?’

Judge Duffy and Andrew joined them as the QC lobbed her shot smoothly back. ‘I agree. Like a beautiful old clock, the law needs servicing, rewinding and setting to true time on occasion. The law is our master and we in this noble profession must bear in mind we are its ser-vants. At its best it should be the application of common sense.’

‘Of course. But why should it be cloaked in incomprehensible language and ritual? It’s allowing the legal profession to hold the key to the box of clarity, while lawyers mumble gobbledygook.’

MacKenzie gave a good-natured laugh. ‘Such heresy, young lady. What do your senior partners have to say about your views?’

Before she could answer, Andrew interjected, ‘No offence, but the law drives me nuts. Why can’t legal advice be spelled out in a straightforward simple letter for example.’

‘So why call on a solicitor’s services if you can solve your own problems with a direct conversation?’ asked the QC.

‘Depends who you’re talking to,’ said Andrew. ‘Dealing with a government bureaucrat is different from dealing with a couple of Aborigines, for example. Though I have to admit that’s getting harder. Not like it used to be in my dad’s day – sit under a tree and have a bit of a yarn and sort things out. Now you have to deal with a whole Aboriginal industry; Land Council and legal service blokes behind every second tree. Money, everyone wants money, that’s the bottom line that screws things up.’

‘You mean sitting under a tree and laying down the law doesn’t cost you anything,’ said Susan, her eyes sparking. ‘Indigenous people are entitled to their rights under law, bureaucratic or otherwise.’

Andrew readjusted his opinion of this girl. She was a fighter, and possibly a bit of a leftie. And she’d obviously come by her opinions in the city and not the bush. The warmth disappeared from Andrew’s manner. ‘Listen, you’re a city lawyer, probably an idealist. I’m not taking away any rights from my Yandoo mob, but you try dealing with a bloke who goes into town, gets boozed out of his skull, gets back, bashes his wife, and tries to rape a three-year-old kid. Happens a lot. You don’t deal with that by talking human rights and reconciliation with screaming women and all hell breaking loose around you.’

‘How do you deal with it?’ asked Alistair MacKenzie quietly.

‘Lock him up in the washhouse. Then call in the old men when he’s sober. No point in trying to send the women away till they’ve come to their senses. Or tell them to leave the bloke. They come back and end up with another bashing later down the track. It’s a way of life. They’re good when they’re working but come sit-down time every couple of months there’s trouble. We ban the booze on Yandoo, but they get it. There are some white bastards who sell it down by one of the boundaries. Dad says he’ll shoot them if he ever catches who it is. Disrupts the station every time it happens.’ Andrew shook his head. ‘It’s the bloody booze. They can’t handle it. Letting them drink was the worst thing that ever happened to them.’

‘And vote too? I guess white society has to take some of the blame for that,’ said Susan, adding, ‘You referred to them, as “your people”. That sounds a bit paternalistic. Is that how it is on Yandoo? You’re the whitefella boss dealing with the troublesome blacks down by the billabong?’ Her tone was pleasant but Andrew’s head jerked at the barb.

‘I’m not buying into the guilt trip . . . that we have to take the blame for everything that’s happened to Aborigines in the past two hundred plus years. I’m just dealing with facts and issues that come up day by day,’ he answered, giving her a challenging stare.

The judge quickly jumped in. ‘Steady on. You’re missing the point. We’ve all been treading water for bloody years . . . looking for someone to blame, sticking bandaids on a bleeding sore that is becoming gangrenous.’ The judge’s broad accent, its rising nasal twang speaking of his days as a waterfront labourer where he earned money to put himself through law school, cut through the more diplomatic approach of Alistair MacKenzie. ‘Strike a light. It’s time, as the old comrade has been known to say. It’s time we rethink how we deal with our relationship with native Australians.’

‘They’re doing pretty well thinking for themselves,’ said Andrew. ‘Land claims, demands for more money, royalties from mines and development, more bureaucracies, you name it. You urban people don’t appreciate what’s happening outside the cities. It’s getting way out of control. None of it’s doing us, them or the country any good.’

Veronica arrived just in time to take the sting out of the discussion and detached the two legal men and led them inside. Andrew and Susan found themselves feeling a little awkward, alone under the old backyard loquat tree that had somehow survived inner-city living for a great many years.

Andrew spoke first. ‘Listen, I just want to apologise. I wasn’t attacking you personally, or your profession. But it’s another world out in the west. The Aborigine problem is a hard one. I guarantee whatever views you have about these issues would change if you could spend time out there. Most white Australians haven’t got a clue what the real problems are. Especially the politicians and the media.’

‘Maybe I should.’ The words were out of Susan’s mouth before she realised she’d spoken them.

Andrew gave her a puzzled look. ‘Should what?’

‘Spend time out there. Could I visit Yandoo some time?’

A delighted grin spread over Andrew’s face, but he spoke with caution. ‘Of course. I hope you realise how remote it is, we’re deep in the Kimberley near the Territory border. But I don’t know what you expect to find.’

‘I don’t either. But it’s true, I do mouth off about standing up for underdog issues and causes – you know, single parents, gay rights, harassment and abuse cases, the rights of children and the elderly, Aborigines – and tonight I realised I’ve never known or observed anything close to what these people might experience.’ She gave a smile. ‘Perhaps I should.’

He looked a little bewildered but returned her smile anyway as Alistair MacKenzie sought her out. ‘Susan, could we have a small professional chat?’

‘Oh dear, am I getting a lecture from my better and wiser?’ She grinned disarmingly and gave Andrew a wink as she followed the handsome QC into the sitting room. He put a liqueur glass and his coffee on a side table as she settled into the chintz armchair. ‘Can I get you something? I have a brandy.’

Susan shook her head. ‘I might get a glass of wine later . . . or something stronger. Depends on what you have to say to me.’

He allowed himself a small smile. ‘Relax. This is a social occasion. I spoke to Veronica who’s told me about your work.’

‘What did my good friend have to say?’ she asked.

‘That you are bright, thorough, ambitious, but wildly indiscriminating in your choice of men. She suggested I introduce you to my elder son.’

Susan raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh thanks, Veronica,’ she said to the ceiling.

‘You are, I believe, just the sort of person in fact, who’d take on a case against odds of winning because of a personal belief or commitment.’

‘I’m not always that wild.’

‘Would you be interested in taking on a case that has come to my attention?’

‘What sort of case and why would you pass it on? Messy? Small potatoes? Too easy? Too hard?’

‘Hear me out, my learned friend. The defendant is a friend of a friend of mine, Beth Van Horton. I said I’d recommend a solicitor for him. He can pay for good representation. The man is urbane, intelligent, educated and a bit of a charmer.’

‘What’s he charged with?’

‘Break and enter with intent. But he’s a bit of a celebrity, I believe.’

‘Quite a charmer.’

‘There are several factors that make it an interesting case. I think you might find it stimulating and of value.’ He stretched his legs and crossed his ankles, revealing silk socks and Bally leather moccasins. ‘I have to confess I only thought of this scenario an hour or so ago. Since meeting you.’

‘It’s one of those nights.’

‘Oh?’

She gave the older law man an open and honest look. ‘I’ve made some sort of decision tonight while standing under Veronica’s loquat tree. I’ve decided to take leave and go west. To the Kimberley.’

‘Just like that?’

She snapped her fingers. ‘Bingo. Just like that.’

‘Wouldn’t have anything to do with the handsome cattleman across the salad?’

‘Not really. I’m just using him. A pit stop shall we say. I have no idea why I have this sudden urge to go there.’ She couldn’t help a small grin. ‘So tell me more about my possible client.’

‘I don’t know him. But I trust my instincts and Beth’s judgement even though I haven’t known her very long.’

There was something about the way this conservative man made reference to trusting his instincts that caught her attention. ‘Let’s back up a bit. Who is Beth, seeing she seems to be an important facilitator in the scenario?’

‘Beth’s story is a long and intriguing one. Professionally she is a white adviser to the Barradja people of the Kimberley. This stems from her work teaching cultural awareness and her involvement with these people.’

‘Who does she teach cultural awareness to?’ asked Susan.

‘The police, the mining industry, universities, and this was back in the mid to late eighties. She’s a consultant and adviser but she’s no bureaucrat. She’s a special woman, a white woman with an Aboriginal soul and spirit. That’s why they trust and respect her. She’s one of them.’

‘Where did you meet her?’

He grinned. ‘At a dinner party. And from then my life changed. Beth has a mission and I’ve been swept up in it. Though it happened innocently enough.’

He looked thoughtful and Susan kept quiet, waiting for him to elaborate. He began slowly. ‘She was asking me about my “illustrious” career and I suddenly found I was blurting out a truth I’d been aware of but hadn’t voiced till that moment.’

‘And that was . . .?’ Susan probed gently.

‘As I told her, I have been very successful, I’m sixty years old and I’m at the pinnacle of my career. Yet I have a feeling of frustration and sadness that I haven’t done anything that I can be truly proud of.’

This simple, honest statement shocked Susan. She almost had to stifle the desire to look over her shoulder to check that no one had heard him.

He continued without embarrassment, ‘I’ve won cases for big corporations, saved them money, made money myself, but I’m now asking, why?’

‘And what did Beth say?’

He chuckled. ‘She said I’ll show you how you can do something and feel proud.’

Susan raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘I’m going with Beth to meet the Barradja.’ He shifted in the chair and Susan realised this subject was closed.

‘So tell me more about my possible client.’

‘My friend Beth says he is being unjustly accused.’

‘She would say that.’

‘So, it’s a case with a challenge, a fight to right an unjust claim, and with possible media coverage. Grist to an up-and-coming career,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

‘Sir, I’m shocked! I fight for a client to get justice. Personal gain or promotion is not a consideration,’ she said in mock horror and they both laughed.

Veronica appeared in the doorway. ‘As always, a stimulating evening, my dear,’ said MacKenzie, rising slightly from his seat as their hostess settled in the sofa opposite the two deep chairs. ‘Illustrious and beautiful company, great food and wine and an ambience conducive to a memorable evening.’

‘Oh, Alistair, put a sock in it. Just say you’re having a good time,’ she laughed.

‘I am, dear Veronica. I am. I’m sorry my wife is away and couldn’t join us. But thank you for inviting me and giving me the chance to make the acquaintance of this new bright light of the legal firmament.’ He nodded at Susan.

Susan turned to Veronica. ‘Mr MacKenzie has suggested I take on a certain case, if my senior partners are agreeable.’

Veronica looked pleased. While she invited guests to her house for their company, it was a bonus if a little networking took place.

‘Are you also aware your friend here is planning to travel into the heart of the Kimberley?’ remarked Alistair.

Veronica stared at Susan. ‘This is news. What brought this on? Surely . . .’

‘Nothing to do with the man on the land. It’s a bit complicated, or confusing, even to me at this point. Let’s talk about it over lunch next week.’ She smiled and stood up. ‘It’s late, I have an early start. Veronica, thank you. An amazing night – as usual.’ She held out her hand as Alistair MacKenzie pushed himself out of the armchair. ‘Don’t get up. It’s been lovely talking to you. By the way, what’s the defendant’s name?’

‘Barwon. Nigel Barwon. I’ll arrange for Beth to contact you, and you take it from there. And good luck with your journey to the mystic Kimberley.’

‘What makes you think it’s that? Mystic?’

‘I’m envious. I’ve always wanted to get into the heart of the Kimberley. And a wise man once told me a journey that begins beneath a tree will flower in the sunrise – an auspicious time.’

‘You made that up,’ she accused him.

He grinned. ‘Perhaps I did. But I hope whatever path you choose that good things come your way, young lady.’

‘Thank you, learned friend.’ Impulsively Susan kissed his cheek.

‘Good luck. I hope we see each other again.’

‘I’ll get you a cab.’ Veronica took her hand and led her from the room.

‘What a lovely man.’

‘He is. But I always have a sense he’s hiding something sad,’ remarked Veronica. ‘You do the rounds and say your farewell to Boris and I’ll phone for a cab.’

Andrew Frazer was deep in conversation with Judge Mick Duffy as Susan came to bid them good night. Andrew handed her his card. ‘You’re welcome at Yandoo any time, as long as you want. But I’m in town for a while, perhaps you’d like lunch . . . or something?’

‘Thanks, Veronica has my number. I’m afraid I didn’t bring cards.’ She shook the judge’s hand. ‘Been an honour to meet you, Judge. I studied you at law school.’

Mick Duffy clutched his head. The left-wing socialist who had become one of the bench’s most colourful characters looked embarrassed and pleased. ‘So, off to the Kimberley, eh? Half your luck.’

‘You’re welcome too, Judge,’ interjected Andrew. ‘Not often we get visitors dropping in at Yandoo. It would be an honour . . . so to speak.’ As they laughed, Andrew wondered what his conservative blue-ribbon National Party father would make of the ‘red judge’, named for his politics as well as his hair.

‘I’m leaving too. I’ll see you to the gate,’ said the judge taking Susan by the arm. She gave a brief wave to Andrew and, as they met Veronica at the door, gave her a hug. ‘Your cab’s on the way now.’

‘Thanks, Veronica.’

‘I’ll see she gets it. Can’t have young sheilas hanging round the street late at night,’ offered the judge. He thanked Veronica, bid her good night and steered Susan outside.

The judge was short and stocky, and from what she’d heard he was a bit of a male chauvinist. But, as he clasped his hands behind his back and gazed up at the faint stars trying to shine in the murky city sky, she was glad he was there.

‘Bet you can see the stars better out in the Kimberley,’ he mused.

‘Why don’t you go back to Western Australia? I’m going, I just decided.’

‘Hmmm. Could, I suppose. Don’t have many obligations these days. Bit of a change from when I was sitting. And working my way up.’

‘You must be very proud of what you’ve achieved.’

‘I know my views aren’t everyone’s cup of tea. And I don’t have the grace and charm of Alistair MacKenzie, but I battled on for what I thought was right. Strange thing is, though, at this point in my life I’m asking why I even bothered.’

‘You can’t mean that!’

‘I do. I fought for the working man, the unions and a political movement I thought would change this country for the better. Now the divide between the classes is bigger than ever. I believed that this land would be owned and run by those who lived in it and loved it. Instead it’s run by powerbrokers out for themselves. It’s difficult to come near to the end of one’s lifetime and wonder if the dreams and hopes were worth the effort. A sense of futility is a frustrating state in which to dwell.’

Susan was struck and moved by the old man’s words. ‘So find a new dream. Come to the Kimberley.’ It strengthened her resolve to go on this impulsive trip and not reach her sixties always wishing she’d followed a dream.

The taxi slid slowly into the street looking for house numbers.

The judge flagged the cab and opened the rear door for her. ‘I might do that, girl. Take care.’ He slammed the door and gave her a thumbs-up before walking to his parked car.

Dark doors, gold lettering and a brass doorknob heavily pushed revealed the offices of Angel and Hart, Solicitors. No first impression of quietly carpeted space, gilt-framed art or subdued lighting. Nor steel and neon, glass and cubism. But conservative comfort. Traditional and solid.

Facing the door, like the lion at the citadel, sat Miss Eileen Thompson. Clipped grey hair, powdered thin straight nose, firm lipstick, cat’s eyes glasses. A Hermes scarf rested on a suit of flecked timidity in a style that had shifted only marginally from the fifties to the nineties. Miss Thompson’s proudest possession was a diamond bumblebee lapel pin, a gift from the senior partners to mark her first twenty years of service with the firm.

She’d seen them arrive – the deprived, the tragic, the vindictive – to face their first test, her scrutiny and interrogation. Sons and daughters of long-dead clients, and their sons and daughters, had passed through the heavy doors. There was little human emotion she hadn’t witnessed in the private offices set aside for lawyer-client story letting. Now in her late sixties, she remained an unacknowledged shadow. With pencil poised and notebook open, she had recorded the sagas that were to be resolved through due legal process. Her opinions and solutions she kept tightly buttoned, but she held them just the same.

Miss Thompson had a rule of thumb – first impressions said it all. The entry through the door, where some hesitated while others surged to her desk. The eye contact, the tone of voice, the invisible vibration that ricocheted in the quiet reception room would be condemned or sympathetically judged by Eileen Thompson in seconds. She was seldom wrong.

The woman who opened the door and met Miss Thompson’s inscrutable eyes moved firmly and quietly to the desk, returning a frank unwavering look. The smile was friendly but not supplicant, the manner assertive but not aggressive. There was strength of purpose and decisive movement that told Miss Thompson this woman would not easily be swayed from whatever course she’d chosen. She removed her glasses and returned a professional smile. ‘You have an appointment?’

‘Indeed. I am Bethany Van Horton. I believe I’m meeting Miss Massey.’

‘Of course. If you’ll step into the meeting room, I’ll take some notes and then call Miss Susan.’

‘Notes? I’d prefer to get straight down to tintacks. There’s a man suffering while we fiddle with bits of paper.’ Her demeanour was still pleasant, but she was saying ‘red-tape nonsense’ with her eyes.

Eileen Thompson was as gently firm. ‘That is the policy of Angel and Hart, I’m afraid. Before you divulge personal information it’s best we follow a few tried and true guidelines.’

‘I don’t know that I’m going to divulge anything personal. I’m not a prospective client. Just an intermediary.’

Miss Thompson’s hand stilled on the paperwork and her voice was equally pleasant, but her message was radiating, ‘Then don’t waste my time.’ She graciously capitulated. ‘Very well, I’ll call Miss Massey.’ She edited out an offer of tea or coffee.

At her desk, Susan swiftly swallowed the last of her mineral water and grabbed her notepad. Bethany Van Horton’s telephone call two days earlier had intrigued her.

‘Alistair MacKenzie suggested I call you. I believe he mentioned an incident involving a friend of mine and that he was looking for representation.’

‘I met Alistair at a social occasion, it was nothing formal. And I have to point out I don’t often represent this sort of case.’

‘Aboriginal clients, you mean?’

‘That would be discrimination. The charge, I believe, is break and enter with intent. Who will be covering his fees?’

The terseness in Bethany Van Horton’s voice had crackled down the line. ‘He has financial assets. Perhaps MacKenzie misjudged you. If you’re not willing . . .’

‘Miss Van Horton, I am perfectly willing, indeed keen, to discuss your friend’s case. I just wanted to make it clear this won’t be an easy one, for many reasons. But if you’d like to come into my office and talk about it . . .’

They’d made the appointment. Susan had researched the newspapers on the Internet but nothing of the incident had been reported so far.

Beth Van Horton scanned the young woman who burst into the meeting room. She looked too young, too energetic and too intense. This was a young woman with dedication, earnest-ness and idealism jumping from every pore. Someone anxious to make her mark, who knew more than people expected, qualified beyond her apparently youthful age, and not prepared to listen with much humility.

Susan felt the wave of judgement and faint hostility the moment she entered the room. Mentally she smoothed her hackles, took a deep breath and deliberately slowed down. Bethany Van Horton was a challenge. This case wouldn’t be easy with a defensive, protective patron like her in the wings.

They shook hands and sat down. Susan moved immediately to the basics. ‘Miss? Mrs? Van Horton, can I ask what your relationship is with the, er, defendant?’

‘It’s Ms. But I hate the term. I’m not married, never was, except to the Church – briefly. Call me Beth. I’m a friend of Nigel Barwon.’

She was being conciliatory and Susan relaxed a little. However, Bethany’s line about the Church intrigued her. ‘Married to the Church . . . does that mean what I think?’

‘Yes. But that’s another story,’ she remarked briskly. ‘Let’s talk about Barwon.’

‘Very well. I feel I have to ask this question. I hope you don’t think it impertinent, but what is your involvement with Mr Barwon?’

Beth was relieved at this sudden sensitivity in the young lawyer. She gave a half smile. ‘He’s not my lover. I also knew Shirley Bisson. But all that is for you to discover. I am involved in the Aboriginal community and it distresses me to see them misrepresented. These people are very special to me.’

‘May I ask why?’

Beth Van Horton imperceptibly squared her shoulders, her chin lifted and she flicked strands of grey-streaked blonde hair behind an ear. Her powerful personality gave Susan the sense of being fragile and slightly unfocused. Not a familiar sensation.

Beth’s clear blue eyes pinned those of Susan. ‘I have been working with the Barradja people in the Kimberley in the capacity of adviser, friend, teacher and community liaison officer with the WA Government and the Land Councils for the past twenty years. But I come to Sydney and Melbourne quite frequently.’

‘And Canberra too, I imagine,’ said Susan with a smile.

Beth waved her hand in a dismissive flick. ‘Gave up lobbying ages ago. It’s too hard to do anything with politicians. Better to work on organisations and individuals with some influence and come up with solutions and suggestions that help solve problems, then get the issues onto the main stage, if we can. They can’t possibly know in Canberra what’s really going on in the Kimberley. The politicians fly in and out of a community and never get a true picture.’

‘So what’s your role?’ asked Susan quietly, trying to get her back on track to the immediate issue.

‘Personal, professional or in this particular case?’

Why is she making it hard for me? thought Susan. Why can’t she just answer my questions? It was like a test. If this woman was any indication, difficult times lay ahead – if she took the case. ‘Tell me what you think I should know then,’ she said, not disguising her annoyance.

Beth seemed to realise she might have sidetracked. ‘Barwon was born in a little outpost in the Kimberley to mixed blood parents. When he was five years old, his father took a construction job on the Ord River irrigation project and his Aboriginal mother stayed behind with the nuns at the convent, where she worked in the laundry. The nuns had persuaded her to put Nigel in their school where he proved to be a bright little kid.’

‘Isn’t that an unusual name for an Aboriginal child?’ asked Susan.

‘In those days, the nuns never liked children to come to school with Aboriginal names. Anyway, several months later, his father was killed and his mother travelled to the construction company to ask that his body be sent back to their town for burial. She’d left Nigel in the care of the nuns while she was away. All he can remember is those nuns telling him that his father had died and his mother had run away. Typical . . . I was a nun, you see.’ She smiled at Susan’s expression.

‘Are you still in the Church?’

‘No way. It was not an amicable parting. Ask in the north about the jezebel witch of St Francis’s.’ She gave a throaty chuckle. ‘But that’s my story, perhaps I’ll tell you one day. Anyway, as soon as his mother was gone, the nuns turned Barwon over to a Brother who was looking for Aboriginal boys to study to be of service to God, and become missionaries. By fourteen, he had been sexually molested by one of these so-called men of God, and he grew up an angry, bitter and confused young man. Eventually he fled, getting odd jobs on properties, and three years later he’d found me, feeling somewhat the same about the Church, disillusioned, though for different reasons. I was teaching at a remote learning centre in Derby where he’d enrolled to finish his schooling. We forged a bond. I am his friend.’

‘I understand how such experiences would bring you together.’ Susan studied the strongboned, lanky-framed woman and figured that beneath the tough exterior she was soft-hearted.

‘Barwon turned his back on everyone for awhile. He was understandably bitter. He wanted to get far away and start afresh. So he came to Sydney. On the train crossing the Nullarbor Plain he got to know a Koori woman who worked in welfare in Redfern and Kings Cross. She helped him find a place to live, introduced him to the Koori community and he started working at the Wayside Chapel as a volunteer.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Went round the streets picking up drunks, addicts, kids in trouble and he would find them a bed and a feed. As I’m sure you know, the Wayside Chapel was started by the Reverend Ted Noffs and Barwon saw Ted’s work as the kind of role that churches should play. Practical, generous and simple. Different to the ritual, the pressure and the elitism of the Catholic Church.’

‘I’m trying to imagine this man on a charge of break and enter,’ interjected Susan.

‘Well, he changed course. A television producer filmed a segment for some current affairs show on the work of the Wayside Chapel and interviewed him. The rest, as they say in showbiz, is history.’

‘He went into television?’

Beth nodded. ‘He got a traineeship at the ABC. He started to become a damned good reporter and as a result was picked up by one of the commercial networks. He had the looks, the education and the charisma, plus the fact he was Aboriginal made him a highly promotable package.’

‘Did it change him?’

‘It certainly did. Initially for the better. The commercial station had offered him a lot of money. He was constantly in the women’s magazines, everybody’s darling, women falling all over him. And . . . that’s when he met Shirley.’

‘Shirley Bisson? The plaintiff?’

‘His publicist arranged for him to host a charity fashion show Shirley was organising. And she invited him to her home for lunch the next weekend to say thank you . . .’

Susan looked up from her notes. ‘And so it began . . .?’

Beth nodded. ‘After eighteen months with Barwon, the relationship had kind of run its course. And Barwon had this bee in his bonnet about going back to the west and trying to find his mother’s family. Being taken from his mother has left an enormous gap in his life, it’s something that he’s never been able to understand. He needs to know where his family is, where he comes from. His Dreaming as they call it. Anyway he was going back to the west when he was offered an acting part in a TV series in Melbourne. He decided he’d better make the career move and do that. So now that’s over, he’s come to Sydney to get his things and this happens. I’ve told him once he has this out of the way, it would be a prudent move to come with me up to the Kimberley for a time. That’s if he doesn’t go to jail. So . . . what do you think?’

‘I’ll be discussing it with one of the senior partners. But consider me on board.’ Susan held out her hand. ‘Where do I find my new client?’

‘He’s sharing a house with friends at Redfern. He was charged the night of the alleged break-in and has been listed to appear in Waverley Court before the magistrate next Wednesday.’

‘You’re not leaving town are you?’

‘I’m not going back to the west, at least until this is over. However, as he doesn’t have the hearing until next week, I’m going to Melbourne on business. I’ve also been asked to see if I can help identify the Aboriginal design on the cloth that was wrapped around that baby found in the Victorian Art Gallery.’

Susan shook her head wondering at the extraordinary life this woman must lead.

Beth Van Horton hugged her jacket close as the wind cutting along Flinders Lane sliced into her. Spending most of her time in the Kimberley and the north had weakened her resistance to cold weather. And the Melbourne papers were going on about an Indian summer. She turned into the West Australian Aboriginal Art Gallery owned by Alan Carmichael.

He was talking to an expensively dressed couple and he excused himself to greet her warmly. ‘Been some time, Beth. How are you?’

‘Hanging in there. Say, your mob has been productive.’ She looked at the stack of canvases propped against a wall. Then eyed the brilliant contemporary work on exhibition in the ground-floor gallery space. ‘Whose work is this? Powerful stuff.’

‘Yes. This is new work from Digger Manjarrie. He’s coming on nicely. His work grows in strength as he gets older. He’s having a break from painting at the moment. Then he’s going to experiment with new stories and colours. I just give him the materials and let him get on with it.’ Alan checked the pair contemplating the canvases on the wall and Beth put a finger to her nose. ‘I’ll browse.’

He turned to the designer-clad Toorak couple seeking the latest status symbol – Aboriginal art.

Beth moved away, but listened to Alan try to explain the spiritual sense and artistic meaning of the art to people who were only interested in dollars and what cachet it bought.

Beth had great respect for Alan, who she felt was sensitive to Aboriginal culture and who was prepared to spend a lot of time out in the Kimberley with the artists. He was a rarity in the art world – a knowledgeable dealer who respected the work of these painters and gently encouraged and made subtle suggestions of areas to explore without giving them directions. Beth knew some of the painters were doing a lot of ‘rubbish paintings’ as a result of so-called art experts going up to their communities and throwing money at them and telling them what to paint.

Alan gestured at the paintings on the walls around them. One large canvas glowed with the layers of brilliant blendings of brush strokes and intricately placed paint daubs and twirls that exploded in the vibrant awakening of a woman’s spirit and celebration of her country’s Dreaming. He tried to explain this one to the Toorak couple.

‘I suppose Western art would equate these paintings with Impressionism. This contemporary work is different to traditional iconography.’

‘And is the artist a native artist, a bush artist?’ asked the woman, peering through her Paloma Picasso glasses.

‘Yes, Daisy Moorroo was raised in tribal law and she inherited three Dreamings, Fire, River and Wild Hibiscus.’ Alan moved closer to the huge painting. ‘Like abstract Western art, you have to get your eye in. It’s like those magic-eye pictures, you look into them and suddenly see what the real picture inside is. Sometimes you have to be told the story and then you can appreciate the deep spiritual meaning that is in these paintings, rather than the superficial appearance.’

The husband looked at his watch. ‘So what’s the investment value? Short term?’

Alan’s polite expression hardened. ‘Probably not good. Long term you might make a profit. If you’re looking for an investment rather than the aesthetic, I suggest you head back out into Collins Street and look at the Hockney exhibition. Or there’s a Lindsay auction coming up at the Sofitel Hotel.’

The couple glanced at each other. These names sounded more familiar. ‘Perhaps we’ll think about it,’ began the husband.

Alan turned them around and opened the glass door. ‘You do that. My art is more, speculative, shall we say. Thank you for coming in.’

Beth laughed aloud as the ex-customers got into a large BMW outside the gallery. ‘Well, you managed to do yourself out of a large sum of money very swiftly.’

‘I’d rather not sell to people like that. I get enough people and museums that appreciate the quality of what I have. There aren’t enough dis-criminating eyes about. Some galleries buy stuff because it’s Aboriginal without any understanding of how or why they work. It’s causing a lot of dissension in some of the communities. You might have one person whose work is of museum or high-value standard but because they all paint and decorate as part of their culture, the others don’t understand why they can’t just knock off a picture and get money for a new truck, too. I tell you, Beth, there are some unscrupulous operators crawling into this business and it’s the Aboriginal artists who are getting ripped off, spoilt and misled. Not to mention the art-buying public.’

‘You better keep your coterie of artists protected then. But how you do that, short of staying with them, I can’t imagine. That way they won’t be seduced by flash dealers waving bucks.’

In his quiet, understated way, Alan was philosophical. ‘No point in bringing out bits of paper for them to sign or bad-mouthing the sleazy operators. If the artists are offered bucks and they’re being pestered by the family and the rest of their mob for a handout, they’ll knock off a couple of bad pictures and take the cash. It’s a slow process of showing my artists how to approach their art differently. But you’re right, I can’t keep tabs on them long distance. I have to go back regularly, so I’m going up to the Kimberley to meet with the artists at Bungarra next month.’

‘You staying long?’

‘Who knows? At least a couple of weeks. You know how it is. You can’t rush them. There has to be much sitting around the campfire, lots of talking, then they meet amongst themselves, lots of sitting quietly, and then more consultation.’

Beth grinned at the art dealer. ‘And you love it. You have the patience to do things their way – that’s why they trust you and you get results. So tell me more about this work.’

Alan pointed at the nearest painting. ‘You can see how he takes us through his country in each picture, appreciating every level of what it means to him.’

‘I hope people who buy these understand their rich meaning,’ said Beth. ‘It’s what the elders dislike so much, not the fact that their art is being put on tea towels and T-shirts, or copied by commercial white enterprises, but that the soul and spirit of their culture isn’t understood.’

‘They’ve been resigned to that fact for years. It was never meant to be presented to outsiders. Kimberley art is such a diverse and unpredictable style. I’m sure you know painting in the Kimberley is relatively new, like from the 1970s.’

Beth picked up the catalogue and checked the prices. ‘I’d never have thought years ago that Aboriginal art would fetch these prices.’

‘So many artists have been ripped off since the seventies. I take my commission, I pay for materials and keep them supplied with everything they need. And often that means new glasses and boots when they come down here to stay with me. I invest their money and show them their bank books and stuff, but mostly they’re not interested. I send them money when they need a large sum.’

‘It still smacks of white paternalism,’ sighed Beth. ‘But, hey, I know what you’re going to say,’ she lifted a hand, ‘give them money and it’ll go on everyone else in a flash.’

‘Yeah, it’s good I’m down here. They live on their pension and government payouts that go to the community, but if they need extra money they come to me.’

Beth knew other dealers didn’t look after their artists like Alan. He was unique in the field and regarded by other dealers as a bit strange. Most dealers were cutthroat dollar hunters and figured Alan must be independently wealthy by the way he stuck to his principles at the cost of a sale. As world interest in Aboriginal art was growing, it was attracting avaricious fly-by-nighters.

Beth turned back to the canvases on the walls. ‘You’ve obviously invested a lot in Digger, and not just money. It’s paying off, this is highly significant work. Congratulations.’

They walked into the cluttered office behind the gallery space. ‘Iced water? Tea? Instant coffee? That’s it, unless you want to go down the road to Bertoluccis for a cappuccino.’

Beth sank into one of the two spare chairs opposite the low coffee table spread with Aboriginal art books. Many in German. It was here that European collectors and curators came to discuss buying, selling and exhibiting. ‘Now, I want to know about the baby. What have you found out about the wrap?’

Alan didn’t answer immediately. He pulled the wrap from his desk drawer and laid it on the table.

‘The Dhumby,’ said Beth softly.

‘It’s Barradja. Who could have copied this owl image from Kimberley rock art?’

Beth frowned. ‘If that baby is Barradja it belongs with its own people. I’d better talk this over with the woman you met at the welfare agency. I’m on my way to the Kimberley to see Ardjani. Perhaps he can help find this baby’s family.’

She suddenly leaned over the low table. ‘Alan, if you’re going to be in the Kimberley, why don’t you meet us in Marrenyikka in a couple of weeks? Come and stay in the dry season camp with Ardjani. I’m working on a plan that was seeded by Ardjani to bring a group of people – gadia, white people – to the Kimberley to learn about Aboriginal culture.’

‘So they’ve resorted to whitey’s help. I thought they’d gone down that track before and it hadn’t worked. How come things are different now?’ Alan looked sceptical.

‘I had a meeting with the elders a month ago. I’m bringing together something of a mixed bunch of people. The old men said I’m murranburra and so they trust me to find the right people to help them. I think you should be one of them.’

‘How and where are you finding these people? What’s murranburra?’

She grinned. ‘Law woman, high degree. That’s me. They’ve given me the knowledge. They say they’re trusting that my magic will help them gather these people. When I started I didn’t have anyone specific in mind, I was waiting for them to come to me. And they are, it’s wunggud operating.’

‘Your faith in wunggud energy hasn’t let you down, eh?’ smiled Alan, who understood the nature of wunggud which the Barradja people believed to be the energy and form of the pattern of life.

‘So, do I count you in?’ asked Beth.

He shook his head. ‘Are you sure? You know me, I like to go alone and go feral once I hit the Gibb River Road. But I’m surprised you’d consider taking a bunch of city whitefellas out there. The Barradja will hate it, even if they invited them. Though they’ll be too polite to show it.’

‘Normally I’d agree with you.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘The elders think it’s time. Time to share some of their knowledge with the white people. Ardjani says it’s time we do things number two way – the Barradja way.’

Alan shook his head. ‘Well, if you think I can help, I’ll come. I haven’t spent much time at Marrenyikka.’

Beth walked to one of the paintings hanging in the little office. What had once been a hazy plan drifting in the back of her head was becoming clearer and firmer like the sureness of the hand that painted the canvas before her. She was silent as she felt herself drawn into the image. She had a sudden urge to feel the delicate abstract painting. To put her skin against the paint. To melt into its sensuous tones. To be a vague pale dot lost between the myriad daubs of paint would mean feeling safe, surrounded by bright beings flaunting their colours, flashing energy and radiating womanly strength. Oh, to be one of them. The vision of the swirling colours reaching out to her steadied, and she struggled to find her voice, asking, ‘What story is this?’

Alan smiled as he looked at the many hues on the canvas. ‘It’s called Dancing Spirits At First Light. It’s the story of the baby spirits who live in the waters of the wunggud pond, waiting to choose their parents.’

‘I’d like to own this one,’ said Beth softly.

The mansion on Mulholland Drive in the LA hills was floodlit, and a would-be actor acted as valet, parking the stream of expensive Hollywood cars as they arrived.

It was a low-key party by Joseph Singer’s usual standards. But this was a different crowd to the movie people.

Rowena surveyed the eddying mass of wealthy art patrons, charity social set, and the merely moneyed. Slowly she moved down the curved staircase to the foyer and main entertaining area beyond the columns, potted trees and massive art pieces.

The last thing she felt like was being her father’s hostess. She was tired, drained of energy and restless.

The evening dragged. The invitation had been for six to nine, cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, a chance to mingle with some prestigious artists, gallery and museum heavyweights to celebrate the donation by Joseph Singer to the Armand Hammer collection of a series of artefacts and paintings. The curator of the Singer private collection had been ‘culling’ and the accountants had found a tax advantage to the donation which made room for further acquisitions.

It was past ten o’clock and Rowena slipped into her father’s library to escape, hoping that in the absence of the hostess, the guests might take the hint and leave.

She was in the room, closing the door on the laughter and tinkle of music and glasses, before she realised a man was seated in a leather chair. He was elderly and rose stiffly to his feet.

‘Forgive me.’ He gave a slight bow. ‘Your father will be back in a moment, we were sharing a quiet brandy. I believe he is farewelling the other guests.’

Rowena sank into a chair. ‘He’s not farewelling all of them, there’s still a mob out there.’

He gave a slight smile at the phrase. ‘So you have been travelling, I understand.’

His clipped German accent, courtly manners, thinning white hair and moustache set him apart from the rest of the party.

‘I’m Rowena Singer by the way.’

‘Gustav Lubdek. I met your father some years ago.’

Rowena nodded. Count Gustav Lubdek. An industrialist who’d made a fortune post war, invested in films amongst other things. She recalled some reference about him being an art collector. ‘You are here on business for movies, art or . . ?’ She let her question hang in the air.

The count shrugged. ‘I am retired. I confess I collect the occasional piece, but things of rarity are . . . rare.’ His eyes moved across to a shelf where several objects sat by a row of books. ‘I am wondering about that . . .’ He pointed to a skull, stained a deep burnished brown and intricately painted in a dull red pattern. ‘Unusual markings. A little macabre but . . . interesting.’

Rowena paused, then seemed to make up her mind to speak about it. ‘Yes. It’s mine. I brought it back from my trip to outback Australia. It’s Aboriginal.’

‘Ah. I have heard a little of this Aboriginal culture. Is it of interest?’

‘Yes. I understand the rock art is highly significant. It’s very powerful imagery . . . and possibly the world’s oldest. Especially in the Kimberley . . . where they talk about ancient, secret paintings.’

‘Is this so? This interests me greatly.’ He took a sip of brandy. ‘Are you returning to this place?’

‘I’m thinking about it. Why?’

He too came to a decision to be frank with his friend’s daughter. ‘I would be interested in acquiring some of this art. Perhaps we could discuss this further another time?’

‘I don’t see why not. I have some contacts out there with the Aboriginal people. If I can help . . . what did you have in mind? You should go there to see the rock art. It’s painted in sacred caves. There are modern painters there, however, whose art you can buy.’

The door opened and her father and another man came in. The count rose and gave Rowena an intense look and spoke in a low voice. ‘Do come and visit me if you are ever in Munich.’

‘Gustav, don’t tell me my daughter has an invitation to see your collection that you keep so secret?’ Joseph Singer had heard the remark.

‘Secret collection? What’s this? Sounds intriguing.’ The third man, mellowed by champagne, was loud but Gustav Lubdek ignored him, turning to Rowena. ‘A pleasure, dear lady. Good evening.’

He farewelled the two men and had slipped from the room before any more was said.

Rowena had forgotten about the incident until later, when her father had asked about her conversation with the old count, commenting that he was a bit eccentric, supposedly owning one of the world’s great collections that no one he knew had ever seen. ‘It’s for his eyes only, they say. Vaults in a dungeon only he goes in and looks at.’

‘An investment? Or gossip. If no one’s seen it, who knows what he has? Maybe nothing.’

‘Such a cynical child I have. One hears things, Rowena. He collects, of this I have no doubt.’

Susan Massey, satchel in hand, dropped the knocker on the door of the semi-detached Redfern house.

He was dressed in jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and she saw immediately that Nigel Barwon was a man who would appeal to women. Slim build, dark curly hair and deep olive skin. But as they shook hands she saw his dark eyes were troubled.

‘Thanks for coming. I have coffee ready. Or would you prefer tea?’

‘Coffee would be great.’ She saw the cups set out with Danish rolls on a table near where a didgeridoo stood posed against the wall.

As he pressed the plunger in the coffee, she settled herself at the table and put her small tape recorder beside her notepad.

‘Do you play that didgeridoo?’

He gave a disarming grin. ‘Afraid not. The crew at the TV station where I used to work gave it to me as a farewell present when I told them I was thinking of going to the Kimberley to find my family. I guess they figured all we blackfellas can play one.’

‘Okay then. Let’s get down to business. As I’ll be representing you, trust and honesty are tantamount between us.’

He lifted a hand. ‘I understand.’

‘Then tell me what happened that night. Do you mind if I tape our conversation? It’s for my reference only.’

Nigel Barwon put his cup down and ran a hand through his hair. A sudden comparison with Andrew Frazer flew into her head. She pushed the thought away as he began to speak.

‘I met Shirley Bisson a few years ago. She was warm and vulnerable and I liked her a lot. Shirley invited me to lunch and, well, the friendship grew from there.’

‘You became lovers?’

‘Yes. Sure she’s older, she was almost fifty then, but she’s also mature and sensuous and caring. So after a few months she asked me to move in with her. It was great. She spoiled me, she bought me presents and stuff. I never asked for them but it pleased her. She has a bit of money from her divorces. Deep down I think she felt she had to do those things to keep me around. But actually I wouldn’t have cared if she had no money. For the first time in my life I felt loved and looked after and I guess there was a bit of the mothering thing going on.’

‘Isn’t Beth something of a mother influence in your life?’

‘Beth is more of a mentor. She challenges me, tries to make me be better than I am. She’s a good friend.’

‘So back to Shirley. What did you do for her?’

‘The sex was great. She was relaxed and there weren’t any hang-ups and I know I satisfied her. She’s a sexy lady. And she liked to be seen about the place with an okay-looking younger guy on her arm.’

‘So she took you out in public, introduced you to her friends? What was their reaction?’

‘Some asked if I had any mates,’ he laughed. ‘But I was accepted, probably because I’d been on television, I knew how to handle myself socially and my colour seemed to give them a bit of a thrill.’

‘So when did the relationship go sour?’ asked Susan.

‘It didn’t. I started to get restless and talked of going back to the west. Shirley didn’t understand or want to know anything about that. She’d cry and say I’d never come back if I went to the Kimberley. The more upset she got every time I mentioned it, the more she ended up pushing me away even though she was trying to hold me. I started to feel like I was suffocating. So I finally told her I was going.’

‘And after all this time, why did you go back to her apartment?’

‘I still had the key to her apartment. Anyway, one night I had a few drinks and I wanted to see her.’

‘Break in? Why didn’t you phone her?’

‘I figured she wouldn’t want to see me. She probably wouldn’t want to start up anything that wasn’t going to continue. But I figured, a night or two . . . just for old times’ sake. I was feeling horny, I wanted to hold her, all of that stuff. I know it was selfish.’

‘But you broke in and scared the wits out of her and there was a fight. That’s a bit more than being selfish,’ goaded Susan.

‘I didn’t break in. I had a key. So she didn’t know I was coming. She didn’t want the key back, she always said the door would be open for me, any time. I guess she changed her mind when I really did leave.’

‘We’ll go through the events of that night. You let yourself in, it was nearly midnight and she was in bed . . .’ said Susan. Barwon picked up the story exactly as Beth had related it to her. His voice was cool, the reporter’s objective calmness taught to him at the ABC. Until he reached the end.

‘I couldn’t believe she called the cops,’ he said, anger flaring in his voice.

‘It’s an interesting scenario. You could be laying charges against her,’ said Susan.

‘Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to do that. I just want to forget the whole thing. And you know what, I bet she does too. I think she just over-reacted. But now the police are involved it has to go through all the court stuff.’

‘Never underestimate a woman scorned, Nigel. But don’t worry, I think we’ll be all right.’ Susan turned off the tape.

His face cleared and he gave her a smile. ‘Call me Barwon. Nigel isn’t my real name. The nuns gave it to me. I prefer Barwon.’ Susan was struck again by his handsome features and far from being a womaniser, he seemed vulnerable and mixed-up. She could see how Shirley Bisson must have been besotted with him. ‘What is your real first name then?’ she asked.

‘Dunno, I can’t remember,’ he said, almost in a whisper, his manner changing as he looked down and clasped his hands between his knees. It was the gesture of a bewildered little boy and, for a moment, Susan had a sense of the immense sadness that lay behind the man’s facade. After a moment he recovered, and their eyes met. She saw that his were moist. He was close to tears.

‘I’d like to have a real name, one that truly belonged to me.’

‘Yes, it’s certainly a reasonable request,’ said Susan.

He took a deep breath. ‘That’s why I’ve got to go back to the Kimberley. That’s where I’ll get a name.’

Susan said nothing, did nothing, listening to his deep breathing that was close to a sob. Then quietly she began to pack up her notes and tape recorder.

‘Yes,’ he said vacantly, as if she wasn’t there. ‘That’s what I’ve got to do. Go home.’

Susan decided to become better organised. Folders stacked in piles, notes and messages clipped together. A notebook at the ready so she wouldn’t lose important thoughts and notations on scraps of paper. Reference books in reach to one side. But within a week the stiff and regimented piles had all jumped into bed together, rumpling and intercoursing amongst each other under stray sheets and streamers of fax paper. Susan ignored the rebellion on her desk and worked on, happily surrounded by organised chaos.

She read through the police facts detailing events after Shirley Bisson had made her emotional phone call to the police.

Barwon had been taken to St Vincent’s Hospital and remained under police guard while his wound was cleaned and bandaged. At Rose Bay Police Station, his wallet and jacket were temporarily taken from him while he was officially cautioned and interviewed on the ERISP electronic recording system. His version of the evening’s events was recorded on three audio tapes and a video tape. Barwon was given a copy of the audio tape with his personal effects and Susan later viewed the video tape at the station. Barwon had signed across the other sealed audio tapes which were locked away at the police station to be presented at court. He had been formally charged with break and enter with intent to commit an indictable offence, and given a copy of the charge sheet and the police facts sheet from the computer. He was finger-printed and had washed the dark ink from his fingers with Solvol soap.

He’d then been granted conditional bail by the station sergeant and had to enter this agreement by signing his copy of the bail documents. The conditions were that he appear at the Waverley Local Court in two weeks’ time, and that he not approach, contact, harass or otherwise interfere with Mrs Bisson, and that he not go within two hundred metres of her home.

His effects were returned to him, Barwon had walked into the pre-dawn light, heading towards the city, until a cruising taxi had taken him back to Redfern.

Susan stretched to relieve the muscles that had tensed from the prolonged concentration at the desk. She was returning the papers to a folder when the phone rang.

‘Susan? How are you? This is Andrew.’

‘Andrew?’ She was blank for a moment. She didn’t remember putting in a call to any Andrew. Then it hit her. ‘Andrew? Andrew Frazer?’

‘How many Andrews do you know?’ He chuckled, unconcerned at her lapse. ‘We met at Veronica’s last Saturday night.’

‘Of course. Please excuse me, my head’s in the middle of a case. I certainly remember. Where are you?’

‘Sounds uncomfortable. Having your head in a case.’ He paused, waiting for a reaction but Susan simply rolled her eyes and said nothing. ‘I’m still in Sydney. It’s Show time. That’s why I’m calling. I was wondering if you would like to come to the Royal Easter Show with me tomorrow. I’m hoping to buy two stud bulls. How long since you went to the Show?’

Susan rubbed her eyes. ‘I can’t remember. It’s that long ago.’

‘Too long then. This is the last year before it moves to Homebush. Can’t help feeling it won’t be the same if it’s not at the old showground. Come on, this is our last chance. It’ll be fun. Don’t tell me you work on weekends too.’ He almost sounded desperate for her to join him and in a way the idea appealed to her. The Show had not been part of her social agenda since schooldays.

‘Will there be fairy floss, dolls on sticks, ferris-wheel rides and can we watch the wood-chop competition?’

‘You’re a demanding woman,’ replied Andrew with pretend agony in his voice. ‘Yes, I promise you all of that, plus you can watch me buy a prize bull or two.’

‘How could a girl refuse an offer like that?’ said Susan, smiling to herself.

He collected her at her door and grinned as he swept his Akubra hat from his head. ‘Hey, you didn’t have to dress the part. Looks great though.’

‘I always wear casual clothes when I can,’ she said as she slung her sweater over her safari-style shirt. She wore R.M. Williams boots and an A-line moleskin skirt. ‘They’re comfortable. And I didn’t want to look like a city slicker.’ She was going to add no one would take him for one, either. He was all country boy in his wool tie with a small insignia on it, lightweight wool jacket, moleskin pants and highly polished riding boots. But she didn’t know whether such a remark might hurt his feelings. ‘You look pretty smart yourself. So how’s your week been?’

He helped her into the rented sedan and put his hat carefully upside down on the back seat so the brim didn’t go out of shape, then ran his fingers through his thick wavy hair. ‘Pretty good. Getting better though. So, what do you want to do first?’

‘I don’t want to miss your starring performance at the bull ring.’

‘The auction is after lunch. And the bulls are starring, not me.’ He gave her a playful dig in the ribs.

It was the usual mixture of rural showcase, trade fair and fun park. Sydneysiders loved their ‘Show’ at Easter time. It was an almost ritualistic tribute to the people and the land beyond the urban boundaries that the great mass of city people seldom saw and barely understood, but contributed so much to their prosperity, culture and identity. For the people from the bush and country it was a ritual too, a time to parade with pride their achievements, past and contemporary, and to share with one another the sense of being special that comes from participation in such great tribal gatherings.

So bushie, townie and city slicker alike revelled before the high altar of rural worship, the huge and spectacular regional displays of produce, arranged in an artistic interpretation of distinctly country themes.

They meandered through the old exhibition halls, the intricate and imaginative displays of fruit and vegetables piled high in the cavernous buildings that had seen generations come and go, when the men and women on the land epitomised the battlers against the odds of nature and the vagaries of the markets. With post-war prosperity the woolgrowers and graziers had been considered the elite, envied by trapped city suburbanites. Then with further immigration came Alessi coffeemakers and sushi, and Australia’s multicultural cities celebrated while its country folk battled rising interest rates, increasing debt, vacillating markets and a disinterested bureaucracy.

Susan turned to Andrew. ‘I’m glad this is all here. Unchanged. I hope it goes on. Just like this. I can’t pickle or crochet, but I’m glad other women do it. I love home-made things.’

Andrew glanced at her, trying to imagine Susan in an apron chopping up pickle ingredients. The picture didn’t gel. Nor did the vision of her knitting by the fire. ‘You surprise me. I didn’t think this would be your scene. I thought you’d be seaweed, Thai food and gelatos. My mother makes our own sausages, bakes bread. You have to when you’re isolated. And your mother?’

‘She’s more seaweed and bocconcini. She writes crime novels. Thrillers, she calls them. Dad’s an academic, so he finds them a bit of a challenge, but really he gets mad because he never figures out “whodunnit”.’

‘Is that why you went into the law?’

Susan laughed. ‘I’ve never thought of that. No. My mother’s heroines run around the back alleys of Zagreb, following men in trench coats with secrets. I like the detail stuff. The nitty gritty of unravelling, then building a case based on precedents, facts and deductions.’

‘Umm. It doesn’t sound as exciting. I think your mum has the better deal.’

There were animals, demonstrations of products ranging from vegetable peelers to tractors, an art show, fashions, new developments in artificial insemination, equipment and inventions for man, beast and farm.

‘See anything you fancy?’ asked Andrew.

‘I love it all,’ she said with shining eyes. ‘It’s just as I remember when I was a little girl. I’m so glad. It even smells the same – a mix of rotting bananas, sawdust and manure.’

‘Showbags aren’t so good any more. Come on, let’s try the shooting gallery.’

They threw weighted bags at mechanical cruising ducks who refused to budge or buckle. Susan flipped coins into a wishing well but couldn’t land on any prize. Andrew winked and handed her his hat and paid for an air rifle. He fired at wooden birds on a wire flapping past a painted sky. He missed and looked at the sights of the gun, then closed an eye and judged the angle and fired, hitting two in a row. With a feigned smile the boy running the stand handed over a stuffed gingham cloth hen. Susan was delighted. ‘I love it! I’ve always wanted to keep chooks.’

‘Then, let’s get you some Easter eggs to go with that hen.’

‘Solid ones, please. Filled with pink and white marshmallow.’

He shook his head as she headed towards a confectionery stand where a lady in a pink cap was spinning sugar into clouds of fairy floss on long sticks.

‘Now it’s time for business.’ He moved her towards the machinery displays. ‘Got to keep up with the latest,’ he explained, after spending what seemed an inordinate amount of time looking at pumps and tractors. ‘There’s no machinery showroom for thousands of kilometres where I come from.’ He looked at her from the cab of a tractor. ‘I hope you’re not bored.’

‘No. Just starving,’ said Susan clutching her stomach with both hands and grinning.

‘Right,’ said Andrew leaping from the machine. ‘To the members’ dining room and lunch.’

‘You’ve won me.’

He took her hand and smiled. ‘Easiest conquest I’ve ever made. Just on the promise of a lunch.’

She slapped his hand in mock reprimand. ‘Depends on the quality of the lunch.’

In the old-fashioned, formal dining room Andrew introduced her to several hefty cattlemen. Susan smiled to herself as she remembered the parade of dogs where owners really did seem to resemble their pedigree pooches. These cattlemen looked like their stock – solid muscles, heavy shoulders and jowls, ruddy complexions, unfathomable eyes, deep voices, large feet. Andrew gave her a quizzical look as the men exchanged Show talk – whose bull had won, which breeder had been placed where, who had Grand Champion of this and that, what had happened to certain characters and properties since the last Show.

‘Did you understand all that?’ he whispered as they moved away.

‘Not really. It’s another world for me.’

‘I’ve never been in a courtroom, so we’re even.’

‘You’d better hope you never will. Whereas I’d really like to see a property like yours.’

‘As I said, you have an open invitation to Yandoo. But surely you know people with properties closer to you. I’m on the other side of the country.’

‘I really do want to see the Kimberley. I’m quite curious about it for the first time in my life. I have a client now from over that way – and I met an interesting woman from there. Do you think I’m being told something?’

‘I don’t know about that. Who’s your client from the west, maybe I know them?’

She paused before answering, wondering if she should reveal the identity of her new client. ‘He’s an Aboriginal man. Nigel Barwon. I can’t go into any details.’

‘An Aborigine,’ said Andrew with surprise. ‘I thought your firm was one of those posh old-family concerns. Not the legal-aid type of place.’

‘This man is paying his way with his own money.’ She was annoyed.

Andrew heard the irritation in her voice. He recalled their heated exchange at the dinner. He had hoped Susan didn’t have the city-dwellers’ blinkered attitude that all Aborigines were wise storytellers unfairly pushed off their land.

Susan now wished she had kept her mouth shut. She saw a mini race debate looming. There was still unfinished business from the dinner party. ‘Let’s not spoil the day.’

He saw her tight expression and decided he didn’t want to get into an argument either.

Apart from the hiccup of differing opinion, it was a gem of a day. They laughed on rides and cheered on the wood choppers as men in sweat-stained singlets balanced on a timber plank, hacked through a log in seconds, muscles straining, honed axes flashing, chips of wood flying. Susan found the judging of the horses fascinating, if finer points eluded her.

At the main cattle auction, Andrew gave her a nudge as the stud bulls were led around the ring. ‘See that big Brahman . . . I’m going to bid for him and that Droughtmaster bull over there. So don’t scratch your ear and raise the bid.’

Susan was amazed at the almost incomprehensible chant of the auctioneer and the speed of the bidding. Cagey old-timers, lazily slumped, appeared disinterested until partly raising a rolled program or touching their hat to make a last-minute bid. Susan felt her stomach twitch with tension. Andrew stood with arms folded and appeared calm. When he started bidding for the bull he wanted, excitement mingled with the tension and she gripped his elbow. When he won the bidding, she gave him an impulsive kiss on the cheek. Andrew looked pleased, although he said he’d gone a bit over his planned price. ‘They’ll improve the stock no end. Keep our artificial insemination program busy. We use the semen for our cows, too much hard work for one old bull,’ he grinned.

‘I’m sure he loves his work though,’ remarked Susan, but she couldn’t help thinking how technology aided mother nature these days, though so far it hadn’t done much for Veronica and Boris.

At sunset they drove across the Glebe Island Bridge and Susan led him to Balmain – café society, cappuccino land, food of many countries, trendies, yuppies, eccentrics. Yet with the familiarity of a community.

Andrew squeezed Susan’s hand. ‘Hey, this is neat. So what are we eating?’

‘Would Afghani food be a new sensation?’

‘It would. Will I like it?’

‘Won’t promise anything other than you’ll love it,’ she said.

And he did. The companionship was easy, and for Susan it was a nice feeling. He was a gentleman, there was no pressure. But there lingered a sense of unspoken attraction. It would wait. It had been a day of delights and a comfortable evening. She kissed him thanks on the cheek, almost brotherly, an old friend’s kiss, and knew she’d see him again.

The abandoned baby case blew back into the media the following morning. Susan read the details in the newspaper over breakfast.

A retired couple – birdwatchers – backpacks weighted with reference books, note and sketch pads, Thermos of tea and sandwiches, binoculars and camera, had walked into the Lawson State Park off the Hume Highway as the dawn chorus began. Feet sensibly shod, they had diverted from the walking track and made their way into a thicket of trees, hoping for a glimpse of a white-throated treecreeper.

It was Mr Irvingstone who had tripped on what he thought was a log while gazing at the treetops.

Under the grey blanket, covered in branches, was the naked body of a young woman. A mere slip of a girl. She’d been strangled. A gag was tied across her mouth. Mrs Irvingstone had begun to cry. Mr Irvingstone went behind a tree and threw up.

The body was identified as that of Lisa Vorland. It was quickly revealed she had recently given birth and tests linked her with the abandoned baby found in the Victorian Art Gallery.

Susan put down her toast. ‘Poor bloody girl. Some people just cop it,’ she thought.

She couldn’t get the story out of her head. Such a young girl. What had driven her to give up her baby? No matter what the circumstances, that would never be an easy decision. They’d probably never know why. The tragedy kept running through her mind, haunting her.

Susan spent the morning in the Family Court where this time she was representing a mother who wanted full custody of her two children. She returned to the office, grateful she’d won this case as neatly as her last.

Back at her desk, she rang Beth Van Horton. They discussed Barwon’s case. ‘So what did you make of him?’ asked Beth.

Susan considered her answer. ‘Well, between you and me, he is a charming fellow. I can see how Shirley found him attractive. There is fault on both sides, it’s nothing more than a domestic really. An unfortunate misunderstanding. It’s a shame it got this far.’

‘She’s brought humiliation on both of them.’

‘We’ll try to keep it all as low key as possible. But of course, we can’t control the media. They’re going to get stuck into a handsome former celebrity who’s ripped off a rich woman,’ said Susan.

‘Not to mention the black and white issue,’ added Beth. ‘It’s got all the ingredients of a bad soap opera. The sooner he gets to the Kimberley, the better. I’m heading there when I leave here. And I hope he’ll be following me soon.’

‘How long are you staying in the Kimberley?’ asked Susan.

‘I never make plans. I go and then decide. Time and attitude are different once you’re in the Kimberley.’ She gave a small laugh. ‘It’s another world. Being with the Barradja is another world. It’s something everyone should experience.’

‘Why’s that?’ Susan was intrigued.

‘It’s not just the enjoyment of being with these people, it’s how it alters you. It’s changed my life over the years. I look at the world, the people in it, and who I am, quite differently now. And for the better, I might add.’

‘I wish I could experience that.’ The words fell out of her mouth before she’d thought about it.

‘Why don’t you? It’s very simple. Just come.’

‘I’d love to,’ laughed Susan. ‘You know how you get to turning points in your life? Maybe I’m facing one now.’

‘It would be a valuable experience for you, a learning experience if you’re prepared to open yourself to whatever happens.’ Beth’s voice was soft and down the phone line Susan could sense that there was a subtext in Beth’s words, but wasn’t sure what it was.

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘You’re the one with the deadlines, pressures and career. You decide what’s important in your life,’ said Beth. ‘You tell me if you want to come, and I’ll fix things.’

‘Thanks, Beth.’

Over dinner she told Andrew about her idea to go to the Kimberley with Beth. He was pleased and he started telling her places she should see. ‘Bungle Bungles, Broome, any of the Kimberley coast, Yandoo . . .’

‘Wait. I’m not making this a sightseeing holiday. Though I’m still keen to visit your place. I’ve never been to an outback property.’

‘Then what is the reason?’

Susan sipped her wine. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. I guess I’ll let Beth be my guide. You know how sometimes you feel you just want to do something.’

‘I try to avoid those times. They’re dangerous. I like to plan and be in control.’

‘I’m beginning to believe it’s better to leap in the deep end. You can’t be responsible and do the right thing every day of your life.’

‘I guess. I never think about it. I’m working at daybreak most days. Till past dark.’

‘I can say the same thing. I’ve never taken off, been irresponsible . . . maybe that’s not the word. I’ve never just been free with no plans. I’ve studied and worked since I started school.’

Andrew shook his head, a trifle bemused. This girl intrigued him. ‘They call it “smelling the breeze,” the desire to go over the range – The King Leopold Ranges.’

‘It’s not just the physical journey, Andrew. It’s the inner one as well. I don’t understand any of it, but I just have a feeling that time spent over there with these people will be, I don’t know, special.’

Andrew stared at the tablecloth before answering. ‘These people. What makes you think they’re special?’

Susan bristled. ‘I don’t know. That’s why I think I should go. What about you? I bet you just talk business, give orders and be the boss.’

‘Someone has to be the boss. That’s my role. And Dad’s, too. Maybe when you’re there you’ll understand better how tough you sometimes have to be when running a big property. You can’t afford to be soft-hearted.’ He gave her a quick smile, trying to defuse his last words. ‘I mean, we don’t give our cattle names. If an animal is injured, we can’t take it home and nurse it back to health, it’s too far, you can’t hold up men, all those sorts of things.’

‘So you shoot it?’

He nodded and Susan blurted, ‘What about the black population on Yandoo? What happens if an Aboriginal stockman falls off his horse and breaks his leg?’

Andrew didn’t take offence. He laughed. ‘We wouldn’t shoot him, for God’s sake. We’d call in the Flying Doctor.’

Nonetheless, Susan could see the pragmatic attitude that ruled Andrew’s thinking.

Sensing her feeling, Andrew touched her hand. ‘Susan, don’t think I regard Aborigines as second-class citizens. They’re crucial and important men on a station. Great horsemen and good with cattle. They’ve been very important to opening up the west. From way back. And you know, when I was growing up, my closest friendship was with an Aborigine.’ He stopped, looking reflective.

This remark startled Susan. ‘Ah, now you can say some of my best friends are Aborigines, right?’ she said with sarcasm leavened with a smile.

He looked at Susan, unsure whether to take it as a joke or a social comment, and decided to let it pass. ‘It’s something I don’t talk about much.’ He topped up their wine. ‘I was four, my brother had just been born and with all the excitement I wasn’t being watched as closely as normal and I toddled off for a walk, and before anyone noticed I was way down by the blacks’ camp close to the creek. I started exploring, and climbing over some pandanus roots, I tripped and fell in the creek and was out of my depth. I couldn’t swim, but I had the wits to hang onto a branch and yell at the top of my lungs.’

‘Who rescued you?’

‘This black kid. He was only six at the time. A bit of a loner who kept wandering away from the women at the camp.’

‘Like you.’

‘Yeah. Anyway, he jumped in the creek – he was at home in water like a little platypus – and he swam me piggyback to the bank.’

‘He must have been a bit of hero.’

Andrew smiled. ‘Do you know, we never told anyone. I guess we knew I’d get into trouble and be kept under stricter surveillance. So we started playing games, my clothes dried and I wandered home for lunch. The grown-ups were really fussed when they realised I’d gone missing, but I started to make a habit of it and I always turned up, so as I got older, it became accepted. Within a year I was spending most of the day with Hunter. He taught me to fish, catch lizards, throw a spear, all kinds of stuff. We were like brothers. Hunter and I shared everything until puberty, when he got initiated and I wasn’t allowed to share in that. The old men took him off and when he came back with his body cuts, and he’d been circumcised, he said he couldn’t talk about it. And he’d changed. He seemed older, different. And he couldn’t spend time playing with me the way he used to, he had responsibilities and things to learn.’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘Of course. I was always helping with musters and around the stockyards. Hunter and I were still educated together through School of the Air. We’d sit under the pepper tree outside the house with the two-way radio on a table. Julian, my brother, and Hunter and I did our homework together for ages like that.’

‘So what happened?’ asked Susan.

‘Then the day came when I was twelve and I was sent to boarding school. I came home for Christmas holidays and Hunter was gone. He’d been sent to a mission school, so we lost touch.’

‘So you’ve never seen him since?’ When Andrew shook his head, Susan reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘That’s sad.’

‘Anyway, I can still throw a boomerang.’ He laughed. ‘Maybe that’s something you’ll learn while you’re out west. You going to drive over?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Across the Nullarbor Plain? Are you mad?’ laughed Susan.

‘Why not? Be an adventure, it’s mostly bitumen road now.’

‘I’ll think about it. Somehow I can’t see my Saab nosing into the Kimberley. Beth tells me the Barradja will be at their dry season camp a couple of hundred kilometres outside Kununurra.’

Andrew looked serious. ‘Have the people in that community agreed to you going? You could be seen as representing white law and that could be a problem. You’d better make sure Beth has permission to bring you along.’

Susan was surprised. ‘I hadn’t thought about me being allowed to go in or not. I’ve never faced the idea of not being allowed to go somewhere in my own country.’

‘You’ve stormed the portals of the all-male law clubs, I assume?’ He gave a smile.

She pouted at him. She was trying not to take offence at his flippant male remarks. ‘My sisters did that for me a few years back. Mind you, the old boys’ network is alive and well in the legal profession. We’ve just started a women’s legal network which is proving quite effective.’

‘I bet. I wouldn’t tangle with a mob like you.’ Seeing her raised eyebrows he added, ‘Just kidding. So. When are you coming?’ He looked eager.

‘I don’t know. I have to get time off, liaise with Beth.’ Susan was already making plans in her head. ‘We’ll just have to see what the fates work out.’

The kiss goodnight left her breathless.

He promised to call. This pleased her. The more she saw of him here, the easier it would be visiting him in the Kimberley.

Susan met Beth and Barwon outside Waverley Local Court for the hearing of his case. They had already appeared at the List Day, where Susan had entered a plea of not guilty on behalf of her client and had the matter announced as ready for hearing.

‘Nervous?’ asked Susan, glancing across at Barwon. He shrugged slightly, adjusting his tie. He wore a navy blazer, charcoal pants and white shirt. She had complimented him on his outfit. ‘You look like an ad for Country Road.’

‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t apprehensive.’ He gave a brief smile that turned to a grimace as he saw several photographers outside the entrance to the court.

Inside, Barwon sat in a chair behind Susan, who was at a long table with the police prosecutor at the other end. Shirley Bisson was seated in the first row behind the prosecutor. Elegantly dressed in a pale blue suit, she sat with lowered head, looking at her hands in her lap. The clerk checked that the recording apparatus was working and nodded to the prosecutor.

The police officer from Rose Bay, who had attended the scene, gave his evidence, reading his statement onto the court record, followed by the second officer who had corroborated his superior’s statement.

Susan then addressed the magistrate and quickly explained that, because of the superficial nature of the defendant’s wound, she was consenting to the tender of a medical report from the hospital, to save calling the doctor to court. The report was tendered into evidence with the consent of both parties and received by the magistrate.

Shirley Bisson flinched slightly as the court recorder called her as the third witness. The prosecutor, a portly ex-footballer, took her through the evening of the alleged assault after only the briefest questioning of her relationship with Barwon.

‘Why did the relationship fall apart?’ asked the prosecutor.

Shirley’s hands worried her handkerchief into a knotted ball and she looked down before replying. ‘He changed. He didn’t seem as interested as before.’

‘Did you lose interest as well?’

‘Yes.’

‘When he left your home twelve months ago, did you make it clear you did not want to see him again?’

‘Yes.’

‘After he left, did he contact you?’

‘No.’

‘Did you ever expect him back?’

‘No.’

‘So it was a total surprise to find him in the apartment on the night in question?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you frightened?’

Barwon whispered something to Susan and the movement seemed to distract the witness. She stole a glimpse in his direction, then looked down again at her hands twisting the handkerchief. She heard the prosecutor ask the question again.

‘Were you frightened, Mrs Bisson?’

She looked up, a nervous tic at the corner of one eye, her face strained. ‘Yes I was.’

‘And he tried to have intercourse with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you ran into the kitchen and got a knife?’

Susan sprang to her feet. ‘Objection, leading the witness.’

‘The question allowed, please proceed.’

‘Why? Why did you get the knife?’

‘To protect myself.’

‘What were you afraid of at this point?’

‘He might try to rape me. Or hurt me.’

‘Did he come after you?’

‘Yes.’

‘How was he dressed when he entered the kitchen?’

‘He was naked.’ Before the prosecutor could ask the next question, she added a detail that sent a ripple of amusement through the courtroom. ‘Except for his socks. He still had his socks on.’

The prosecuting sergeant took a deep breath. ‘His socks. Good. Then what happened?’

‘He tried to grab me and I swung the knife at him. I wanted to scare him off.’

‘Did you succeed?’

‘Yes. He ran out of the apartment.’

‘Did he say anything before he ran out?’

Again she paused and looked down at her hands. ‘I think he swore.’

‘At you.’

‘Yes . . . I think so.’

She hesitated, then replied softly. ‘I can’t remember.’

The prosecutor raised an eyebrow. ‘What did you do then?’

‘I rang the police and told them what happened.’

Susan worked constantly on her notes of the evidence, at the same time watching the witness as closely as possible, analysing every little movement of body language, every pause in her replies, every expression on her face. It was a relief when she heard the magistrate say, ‘Yes, cross examination of the witness, Miss Massey.’

Now a different kind of concentration was required, and different skills, and she relished this moment. She was convinced Shirley Bisson was not telling the truth, or at best suffering from a very faulty memory. The task was to get her to contradict herself, to make a clearly tense nervous system crack, and in the confusion create sufficient doubt about the quality and credibility of her evidence.

Susan rose and looked at the witness, catching a flash of worry and even a hint of embarrassment in her eyes. Susan smiled at her reassuringly. ‘You must be hating all of this, I imagine.’

The magistrate looked over his glasses. ‘Do you have specific questions for the witness, Miss Massey?’ The rebuke was subtle in the tone of his voice, but that didn’t worry Susan. She had succeeded in throwing the witness off guard.

‘Did you love Nigel Barwon?’ She stressed the word ‘love’. The effect on Shirley Bisson was dramatic. She fumbled for words.

‘Well, did you? Did you deeply love Nigel Barwon?’ pressed Susan with a voice that demanded an immediate answer.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘At one stage. Yes.’

‘Please speak up, Mrs Bisson,’ said the magistrate.

‘And how long did you live together at your apartment in Darling Point Road, Darling Point?’

‘A bit over a year.’

‘And you and Nigel Barwon appeared socially together in public and at private functions during that time?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were lovers?’

‘Yes.’

‘And during the time you lived together, were there any serious domestic disagreements, fights or incidents?’

She thought for a moment. ‘No . Not really.’

‘So you never had cause to feel threatened or in danger from Mr Barwon?’

‘Not at that time.’

‘Even after your amicable parting, you never worried about him causing you harm?’

‘I suppose not . . .’

‘So you were never worried about him harming you. And did you agree to go your separate ways, when he said he wanted to go to Western Australia to find his mother’s family?’

‘Well, sort of . . . I . . .’

‘Just answer the question please.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘That means yes?’

Shirley Bisson nodded and the magistrate, who was making notes, turned to her. ‘Please make an audible reply, Mrs Bisson.’

‘Yes.’

‘And when Nigel Barwon moved out, you allowed him to take all his possessions, including the many presents you’d bought him?’

‘Yes.’

‘In fact, you agreed he could move his things out over several days, using his own door key. Isn’t that so?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did you ever ask for that key back?’

‘I forgot that . . .’

‘Just answer the question, yes or no please,’ Susan cut in quickly.

‘No. I did not ask for the key.’

‘On the night of the incident, were you sleeping naked?’

Once again the witness was embarrassed and hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes.’

‘Once he came into the bedroom, even though there was not much light, you quickly recognised him?’

‘Yes.’

‘If it had not been someone like Barwon, who you recognised, you would have been really terrified?’

‘Yes, I suppose I would have.’

‘So it was a relief in a way to recognise Barwon?’

The witness looked quickly to the prosecutor, almost pleading for help as her words came tumbling out. ‘Yes, but I was still . . . frightened.’

‘Were you angry?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah,’ said Susan with deliberate emphasis. ‘Angry and frightened. Were you more angry than frightened?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied, clearly flustered. ‘I don’t know.’

‘But you did not immediately run to the kitchen, he sat on the bed and you both talked, isn’t that so?’

‘Yes.’

‘Had you got out from under the sheets?’

‘Yes.’

‘So there you were, naked, on the bed, talking with your former lover, right?’

‘I don’t know if you’d call it talking. We were arguing.’

‘Arguing? About what?’

‘He wanted to make love with me.’

‘He asked?’

‘Well . . . sort of.’

‘Sort of . . . asked,’ repeated Susan, bending down to make a note, quite unnecessarily, on her pad.

Then she looked at the witness in silence for a short while until she felt the timing was right. ‘He kissed you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Several times?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did you run immediately to the kitchen?’

‘No. I ran a bit later.’

‘When?’

‘When he started to take off his clothes.’

‘How long before you ran from the bedroom?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘One minute, two minutes, three minutes, five minutes . . . you must have some idea.’

‘No. I lost track of time.’

Again Susan went through the business of writing very deliberately on her pad and repeating the words slowly . . . ‘No , I lost track of time.’

‘Let me put the picture I get to you, Mrs Bisson, and tell me if I have got it right. You both sat on the bed, you naked, kissing until you lost track of time, then when he started to undress you ran off to the kitchen. Is that right?’

The prosecutor jumped to his feet. ‘Objection.’

‘Yes, I won’t allow that question,’ said the magistrate. ‘Anymore questions, Miss Massey?’

‘No, Your Worship.’

‘Any re-examination of the witness, Sergeant?’

‘No, sir, that is the conclusion of the prosecution’s case.’

‘Miss Massey, do you wish to address me on prima facie?’ asked the magistrate.

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, Miss Massey, I hold there is a prima facie case, do you wish to call any evidence?’

‘Yes, sir, I call Nigel Barwon.’

She led him through his story, that he’d had a few drinks, felt lonely and since he was in the neighbourhood and still had the key, decided he would call on his former lover. He knocked on the door before letting himself in. He identified himself to her as soon as he knew she was awake.

‘Did you think she would be frightened?’

‘No, not really. Not when she knew it was me.’

‘Did she scream or shout?’

‘No.’

‘Were you aroused when you saw her naked body?’

Barwon was a little hesitant, from embarrassment at the bluntness of the question delivered so dispassionately by the young woman lawyer. ‘Yeah, of course. It was only natural.’

‘You kissed several times?’

‘Yes.’

‘And when you went into the kitchen, naked, did you expect to be welcomed with open arms?’

‘I wasn’t sure. I knew she still felt good about me.’

‘Did you attack her?’

‘No way. I did not attack her.’

‘Did you swear at her?’

‘I swore, mainly in shock. I didn’t expect her to swing a knife at me. I can’t remember that part too well. I was bleeding.’

‘You were drunk weren’t you?’

‘Well, yes. But not rotten drunk, if you know what I mean. Just drunk.’

Susan suppressed a smile. ‘Thank you, Mr Barwon.’

The prosecutor realised a massive hole had been knocked in his case. His witness had not handled the cross examination well at all, and the defendant was coming across as a reasonable man, reacting quite normally given the odd circumstances of the situation. Despite brief cross examination of the defendant by the prosecutor, the incident was looking like an old-fashioned domestic argument.

After the prosecutor addressed the magistrate on the case for the Crown, Susan rose to make her address.

She closed by saying, ‘Your Worship, as we have heard today, my client has only ever had a fond and caring attitude to the alleged victim. He never intended to frighten or harm her, though he has expressed regret for his actions and in the past months since they separated, he has kept away from her.’

In his summary, the prosecutor had tried hard to portray Barwon as a villain of the first order. But Susan had reduced the incident to something between a fairly ordinary domestic argument and a case of a woman angry at herself for an emotional and physical lapse. The poor man had been led on by her naked embrace on the bed. She lost track of time, Susan had said, with a very pointed reference to her notes. No screaming, just shared passion of sorts for a while, then a reaction in which the violence clearly originated with her, not him.

Susan and the prosecutor stood before the magistrate as he adjusted his glasses and addressed them. ‘For the prosecution to establish this offence in this jurisdiction, I must be satisfied beyond a reasonable doubt. Having heard all the evidence, and having had the opportunity to observe the demeanour of each witness whilst cross examined and their evidence tested, I feel that I have a doubt, and that doubt must therefore go to the defendant, and I dismiss the charge.’

Barwon let out his breath in a soft sigh and smiled at Susan.

They all rose, giving a slight bow to the bench before turning and filing out of the court.

Barwon and Susan were first to leave the building but Barwon paused at the door and waited for Shirley. For a moment they looked at each other and he spoke softly. ‘I never meant to hurt you.’

‘Nor I you.’

‘Good luck, Shirley.’

‘I hope you find your family.’

She turned away as she sighted the photographers and a reporter closing in around Barwon.

Beth was quickly beside him and, ignoring questions from the reporter asking the former TV presenter to make a statement, she linked her arm through Barwon’s and walked him over to Susan. ‘Let’s celebrate. I’m supervising a trip to the nearest coffee shop.’

He sat cross-legged before last night’s fire crumbling soft dry grass onto the faintly glowing embers under the hot ash. They caught and he blew gently, fanning the small blaze before adding more grass and dry twigs.

The smell of the fire brought others to the circle. The day had begun. The smoke rose into the pale sky, chasing the echoes of the dawn chorus. His younger son Luke joined him, sitting beside him in the same fashion, his eyes still sleepy.

Daniel Ardjani held his hands, now finely laced with veins and wrinkles, over the fire to warm them, then reached out and rubbed them across Luke’s belly. He re-warmed his hands and rubbed the boy’s face and head. It was an awakening to the awareness of the coming day, an entreaty to learn from this day. To learn of his belonging, his respect of the law, of nature and of the wisdom from his father and the elders. The boy smiled, nodded, and stretched his own hands towards the warmth of the fire. This was wudu time. As the heat rose, it was time for first lessons. Later would come food gathering with the women, for Luke, just nine years of age, was only allowed to go with the men on certain occasions.

Ardjani showed the young boy the feather of the spotted nightjar. ‘This one belong Wodoi–man country. This owl is from Dhumby story. He is the poor little owl who suffered because of two ignorant children. These two boys were left to play while their parents were away. And they were disrespectful and disobedient. They caught the owl and tore out Dhumby’s feathers and stuck spinifex in him. He tried to fly and fell, boom, down on the earth.’ Ardjani dropped the feather on the ground and the boy stared at it, sadness in his eyes. Ardjani’s voice became deeper. ‘All the tribe men and women were killed in a great flood, punished for what those boys did. Those boys ran away but they got caught and locked in the womb of a boab tree far away where no one can help them. Dhumby’s spirit flew to the sacred cave where he is painted on the wall with the Wandjina. So we old people, we make sure young people know the law and keep it. Otherwise we old people be punished for the mistakes our children make. Boys must respect and be obedient to the laws so the law can go on through the elders and the next generation. Otherwise we all be killed. This story is here, in the land, it is the law.’

The little boy nodded his head emphatically. He, like all the young boys for thousands of years before him, had been told of the importance of law, and of the consequences of lawlessness in Barradja society.

His lesson over, he scampered to the women cooking fish and damper on the big fire. He sat beside his older brother and waited for the food that would be given to him once the old men had eaten.

Ardjani broke off a blackened end of his damper and threw it to his favourite dog, a lean yellowed-eyed hunting dog that was the only one of the dogs allowed to sit close to the old man. He was the favoured one as he was the best hunter. The dogs were good at chasing up game and they worked in tandem with the hunters.

Many years ago, when Ardjani was a young boy like Luke, he remembered how the white men had given the Aborigines flour for damper and many of his people got sick and died. As did other people from drinking at the waterholes that had been poisoned. So many wrongs. White people took their land, their women, and their children. Black people suffered. White people too. Now it was time to fix these matters. Time to heal and to start again. He knew it would not be easy. But the Songmaster had sung that it was time to begin the healing, or soon it would be too late. The government, the leaders, the mining people, all the people on this land must sit down and talk. And start to listen to each other.

Ardjani had a plan for these white people coming. They would help him. Beth said she would find good people. When they came, they would learn and understand why they had come here. He did not question whether they knew why they were coming or what they were being charged with achieving, or whether they even knew of his plans. He knew when they came here, to this special place, their lives would be changed, the ancestor spirits would guide each of them.

The tread of the sedan’s tyres was packed tight with orange-red dirt, spinning a fine spray of powder behind the old Corolla. Travelling at a near-constant eighty kilometres an hour, the wheels rode across the top of the hard dirt corrugations that were as regular as the ripples in a tin roof. Any slower and the car would shake and vibrate even more than it was, any faster and the driver ran the risk of losing control in the patches where loose talcum dirt smothered the surface.

The woman driving was unfazed by the conditions, this car had rocked across country worse than the Kimberley. She couldn’t afford a four-wheel drive and in the remote towns she passed through, she ignored the flash up-market vehicles that tourists cautiously drove. Accessorised with endless accoutrements, with bull-bars, searchlights, waterbags and screen protectors, they sat in upholstered airconditioning and gazed at the passing landscape. In her view, they were missing out on much of the adventure they sought. There was no participation, no real contact with the land they’d come to see.

Beth Van Horton ignored the hot air in her face, breathed in the smell of the desert, the heated engine, the tang of a recently sucked orange. Her arms were tinged with sunburn, her face streaked with dirt, but she sat straight, her blue eyes steady as she held the steering wheel in her firm grip, controlling the car. It was how she approached life, going forward, calm, straight and unwavering.

Beth had travelled this road many times in the past twenty years but no trip had had the impact of that first sight of the Kimberley half her age ago when, as a twenty-year-old nun, she’d made her first journey.

Sitting neatly beside Father Thomas, despite the bouncing in the misson truck, she’d looked at the scenery as if they’d landed on some foreign planet. At first it seemed to her eyes to be a land dominated by hot earth ochres and a cobalt sky. As the hours passed, her eye began to discern the subtleties, silver greens and greys where trees and thin scrubland softened the harshness. A stark ridge of bulky square-edged boulders rose in a narrow line from the surrounding flat country. A large bird hovered, a distant speck, the only sign of life.

Her head was turned so long to the window, the old priest driving the truck wondered if the novice was hiding tears, or second thoughts.

‘Barren eh? No souls to save out there. Hardly a beast or plant. Gets a bit better closer to Marrenjowan.’

She’d nodded but hadn’t looked convinced. She was struggling to identify the emotions beginning to churn deep in some unknown part of her body. She wanted to go out into that country. She didn’t believe it was barren. Father Thomas had made it sound like a barren woman, whose lack of fecundity branded her of little worth.

While motherhood was not in her life’s plan, servitude, giving and caring were driving forces. Ever since a small girl, Beth had been the first to murmur childish words of comfort to anyone she thought needed the loving touch of a hand. Her interested little face and earnest eyes, her open loving heart, gave all about her moments of appreciation that there was goodness in this world.

The Church was part of her daily life and it was a natural progression for her to announce she was entering the convent when she finished school. Protected by the nuns since childhood, Beth saw her womanhood as a gift, and what better use of this prize than to offer it to God.

She understood the beauty and necessity of the love of man for woman. But her passion spurned the idea of a man’s arms, bearing children, and being acquiescent. She would stride forth and advance God’s plan. She dreamed of her marriage to Him, of the beautiful wedding ceremony when the novices cast off their habits and were dressed in the finery of a bride, white lace and silken train beneath the covering veil as they walked down the aisle to prostrate themselves on the floor before the altar of God. Soon Beth would be ready to make her final vows and receive the silver wedding ring, which was the earthly sign that she was one of the chosen brides of Christ.

Rattling along in the old Corolla all these years later, Beth had come to realise that there were many choices in life. And by making those choices we set the pattern of our life’s journey. She sometimes marvelled at how her path had swerved as she retraced her steps or plunged in new directions. Now she was entering her middle years with the beginnings of wisdom. Her maiden years were behind her. When she had started soul searching, questioning the faint disturbances that quivered at the edges of her religious faith, she had gone back to the Kimberley where she’d begun to find answers. She owed much to the wise women of Ardjani’s community and she hoped in return she could now help the Barradja.

She knew the people she was taking to them would also be affected – physically and metaphysically – by the place that the Barradja inhabited. It would be a soulless person who remained unaffected by the beauty and mystery of the Kimberley and its people.

This Kimberley country, once alien to the young woman, was now familiar and loved. Looking at a ridge as she drove, Beth saw it through Barradja eyes, not as escarpments and boulders. This was Crocodile Dreaming, where he entered the earth to escape the giant devil bird and was turned to stone, and this ridge was the spine of the crocodile.

She also knew there was life out there, not just plants and animals and people, but spirits and stories and an energy that was a living connection with the earth, that had made her appreciate what higher consciousness and higher beings were. She had learned that every manifestation of the physical, be it a leaf or a rock, had its own soul, its own innate ‘aliveness’. She no longer subscribed to the arrogance of a faith that only recognised intelligence in man, led by a male God figure, and tried still to rationalise the unfathomable.

Beth didn’t often think about that young girl and the long and eventful journey she’d made. But on the occasions she did, she felt a gratitude for the strength that had changed her life to what it was today.

Before flying into Kununurra, where she had stored her car at a friend’s house, Beth had woven her web of charm, dangling the carrot of adventure before her chosen few. A once-in-a-lifetime trip, as the tourist brochures say. By phone and facsimile she’d threaded the group together – organising flights, juggling logistics and personal itineraries. Then she’d arrived at her friend Esme’s place to collect the car and point it towards her meeting with Ardjani.

Esme Jordan was regarded by the townsfolk in Kununurra as an ‘eccentric old bag’. But Beth knew her story and to her, the still fiery eighty-year-old represented all an old woman should be in her crone years. She had wisdom and wildness and, when not cantankerous and complaining about the government, the United Nations or the lack of her favourite bottled sauce in the supermarket, she cackled with mirth through ill-fitting false teeth. This eminent anthropologist, who still favoured Edwardian dress and still spoke in cultured British tones, had taught Beth much about Aboriginal history.

They’d first met when Beth was working at the mission outside Derby and it was Esme, doing research for Cambridge University, who had sparked her interest in the tribespeople of the Kimberley. Esme had published papers and her groundbreaking studies on Aboriginal lifestyle and beliefs had refuted many of the early suppositions of her male colleagues in the 1930s.

She had been a rebel who didn’t play by the old boys’ rules and so, eventually, funding for most of her university projects had dried up. Undaunted, she’d sold all her possessions, lived out of an early model Ford in the communities of the Kimberley and had continued to record her observations and hypothesise about the origins of Australia’s indigenous people, plants and fauna.

Esme had become notorious in the 1970s for criticising the elders of the Lutheran mission who had been collecting sacred Aboriginal artefacts for many years. Esme had called a press conference and told the media that the local tribespeople wanted the artefacts returned to their rightful places for ceremonial and sacred use. She’d been particularly outraged when she’d discovered that the collection was going to be sold to an overseas art dealer. She’d fought vociferously to stop the sale. Esme had taken a lesson from Emily Pankhurst and a group of women anti-Vietnam protestors. She’d brought women tribal elders to Canberra, to chain themselves to the handrails of one of the public galleries of the old Parliament House, to publicise the ‘theft of native culture’. The sale of the collection had been blocked and it was now housed in a leading Australian university. Esme still hoped that one day the pieces could be safely returned to their sacred sites.

It was Esme who had first given the young nun awareness and knowledge of the deep spirituality and powerful culture of the indigenous people. As she was exposed to Esme’s scientific background and the Aboriginal creation stories she had translated, Beth began to question the rigidity of her Catholic faith. It had come at the same time as her conflicts with the religious system and her personal questioning of the path she had chosen in life. So it was no surprise to Esme that, after a lengthy battle with the parish priest and nuns of her order, Beth had left the Church.

Beth now stayed with Esme, making her home base in the modest cottage in Kununurra, ‘the gateway to the Kimberley’. She felt an obligation to watch out for the old lady who had no family. For Beth, time spent with her wise friend was like dipping into a well of energy, knowledge and power.

This visit was no different from the others, but Beth could see the frailty beginning to weaken the small frame. Esme’s collarbone and shoulder blades jutted through the fine lawn blouse. Her hands trembled more often and she paused in her steps to catch her breath, which Beth had never seen her do before. But she had marched to the front gate as Beth’s taxi arrived. Esme wore the shredding straw boater that she clamped over her knot of thin white hair. Her riding boots, wrinkled with age, shone from energetic polishing.

‘So, you’ve come. And I’m still here,’ she rasped, her face wreathed in smiles. Few people saw this unabridged joy in her stern features.

‘You’ll always be here, Esme. You’re going to haunt this place in your next life, I know it.’

‘I’m coming back as a willy wagtail. Watch out. I’ll be on your fence, checking up on you, wherever you go.’ They embraced and Beth felt the lightness of the woman she’d always thought was made of steel.

They went into the house where scones and tea waited. ‘Figured you’d be here round this time. Wash yourself and tell me what you’re up to.’ She fussed with the mismatched china as Beth washed her hands at the sink in the simple kitchen where a small laminex table spread with a plastic cloth was set for morning tea.

‘The battle goes on. Still helping the Barradja,’ answered Beth. ‘Ardjani and I have done a few lectures for the university and got a bit of cash in the kick. But this time I think we’re getting something practical worked out that will move their land claim along a bit. I’m on my way to meet with the old men.’

Esme poured the tea and, scarcely pausing for breath, brought Beth up to date with the news of not only town identities but the movers and shakers through the Territory and the north-west. Beth had stopped being surprised at the influential network Esme maintained with prolific letter writing, reading, attending local meetings, and generally keeping her ear to the ground. She was not in retreat in her latter years, and was fearless in her views and actions for, as she told Beth, she had little to lose at this stage of her life.

‘There’s a new thorn poking into the thin fabric of local politics. If you ask me, given a chance this woman will get out of control,’ Esme announced.

Beth bit into a scone. ‘Hmmm?’

‘Shareen Beckridge. Used to be from Campbelltown in Sydney. Married Bobby Beckridge who ran the caravan park here. When he dropped off the perch, she sold the place, ran a video store and steak house for a bit. The restaurant got closed down.’

‘No good?’

‘Chuck house it was called. Served rotten meat, including roo and emu, once too often. She’s not known for spending a dollar if it can go into her pocket instead.’

Beth wondered where the conversation was going. It wasn’t like Esme to gossip. She had no time for trivia or idle chit chat. She’d always told Beth that unless she saw it, heard it or was told it from the person involved, she would not give lip service to hearsay.

‘But now she’s got a new career,’ said Esme.

Beth looked up with a knowing smile. She knew it was time for the punchline. ‘Doing what?’

‘Running as an Independent for one of the State seats. Maybe here, against Bingo Robertson.’

‘Politics? Bingo is everyone’s favourite bloke. She wouldn’t have much of a hope. Why is she doing this?’

‘She says she has been inspired by Pauline Hanson, you know that MP in Canberra who’s got the whole country talking about Aborigines and Asians. I’ve heard Shareen talk at council meetings. She’s a bitter and angry woman and lays not only our town’s woes, but the entire country’s problems, at the feet of the Aborigines.’

‘What!’ Beth burst out laughing. ‘What rubbish. How’s she reached that conclusion?’

‘Shareen is no intellectual but she’s clever like a rat. And devious.’

‘What’s her plan?’

‘She has two fellows up here backing her. A councillor and a maverick Labor MP. Probably got some Liberal or National Party right-wingers encouraging her as well. She’s been getting a lot of write-ups in the papers and she’s been on television, so I hear.’ Esme didn’t believe in viewing the world in a box. ‘She says enough to sound reasonable so the radical nonsense slides past under a sliver of sense.’

Things like . . .?’

‘Too much money being wasted on Aboriginal administration services, the money isn’t going where it’s needed.’

‘I agree with that.’

‘The trouble is, she’s started harping on about special treatment and handouts being given to Aborigines that the rest of the country doesn’t get, and about how so many of them aren’t “real” anyway. And how what they do get they waste, trash, and then simply ask the government agencies for more.’

‘At the expense of the hard-done-by, hardworking whitefellas.’ Beth rolled her eyes.

‘So she says. She makes wild accusations, generalisations that are factually incorrect and offers simplistic, improbable solutions. The scary thing is that up here no one corrects her and people are starting to listen.’

‘It’s a load of bigoted crap. No one outside this town is going to take her seriously.’

‘She’s been on national radio and there’s talk of some TV current affairs show coming up here.’

Beth had let her tea go cold. ‘That’s a worry. Tell me more about the politicians that are backing her.’

‘I talked to them after a few meetings. Seems to me the plan is to try to stop all the land claims, so vested interests like real estate developers and mining people can get in and go after dollars without the inconvenience of Aboriginal heritage or rights getting in the way,’ said Esme with thinly disguised disgust.

‘That would make things easier for them. Sounds to me like there could be even bigger fish behind the local political boys. Do you know if there is any hint of mining strikes out there? And why are real estate developers interested in a small town like this?’

‘They’re looking at the Kimberley. Tourist and resort development. Some of the world’s most spectacular scenery – the Bungle Bungles, gorges, rivers. Great potential for big overseas-style ranches and resorts. And everybody hopes there’s more iron ore as well as gold, diamonds, you name it, to be dug up. But while there are questions of Aboriginal ownership of the land, developers can’t just go in and let rip.’

‘Our Barradja situation is all of that in microcosm. All they’re asking for is the right to live on a portion of their own land. Their land claim doesn’t encroach on any pastoral leases, yet the authorities are acting as if they want the moon.’

‘It’s a contentious issue all right. White people came here and took up land they considered vacant. Now having to give bits back is an anathema. We’re dealing with guilt, greed and in some cases with good, hardworking people who just feel threatened that their own backyard will be taken away from them,’ said Esme. ‘The trouble is most don’t understand how the current laws are interpreted and go off ill-informed.’

‘People like this Shareen woman don’t help reconciliation,’ sighed Beth. ‘The ignorance makes me so angry. I bet she knows nothing about true Aboriginal culture or the motives of people like the Barradja.’

‘Why don’t you take her along with you and these other white city folk to that gathering you’re talking about?’ suggested Esme.

‘Ha!’ said Beth waving a hand dismissively. But as Esme carried the teapot back to the hot-water jug to top up their tea, Beth began thinking.

Esme glanced across the room at Beth fiddling with a teaspoon, lost in thought, and knew she’d dropped a pebble in the pond of Beth’s active mind.

On the other side of the continent, Susan was also thinking of Beth. She and Veronica had walked from Veronica’s Paddington terrace to sit on the end of a wharf in Rushcutters Bay. Taking in the moored yachts and cruisers and minimal activity on board, they noted that few were occupied. It was the cocktail hour and genial laughter drifted from the yacht club.

‘Beth asked me why you won’t come out to the Kimberley with us.’ said Susan. ‘I don’t understand why you’re hesitating. Give me three good reasons.’

‘Isn’t one enough?’

‘What is it?’

‘The IVF program. I have to give myself hormone shots every morning until my eggs are ready to harvest. And the hormones have to be kept chilled. And my period is erratic, and it has to be done on the right day, so it’s all very tricky.’

‘But not impossible. Beth told me there will be refrigeration in the van she’s hired. You could bring your shots and you fly back in time to go to the clinic. I think two weeks away from your normal routine might be good. Turn your mind to other things rather than getting pregnant.’

‘Or not getting pregnant,’ sighed Veronica. Susan was touched by the sadness in her voice. She knew this was Veronica’s last chance. The doctors had said so. Boris had said so, mainly because he couldn’t stand to see the pain Veronica suffered as each month she failed to conceive.

‘I might have to console myself with being aunty to your kids,’ she said to Susan with a rueful smile.

‘That’s a long way off for me, I reckon. At least you’ve found the bloke.’

‘A lot of women aren’t bothering to do things in that order any more,’ said Veronica. ‘I meet a lot of young women in the clinic who are being artificially inseminated because they want a baby but can’t find the right man to be the father. Marriage isn’t even much of a consideration.’ They sat in silence for a moment. ‘What’s happened to us all?’ she remarked, knowing there wasn’t an easy answer.

‘Anyway, I’m looking forward to this Kimberley trip.’ Susan realised she was starting to get excited about it now.

‘You going to see Andrew out on his property?’

‘I’m going for a few days before the group meets up. I’ll go from Yandoo on to Kununurra. So you could meet me in Kununurra.’

‘It’s not my usual idea of a break.’ Veronica made an effort to be light.

‘Mine either!’ Susan studied her friend. ‘I’d like to share this experience with you.’ In a sudden flash, a thought hit Susan, which she couldn’t understand. ‘Maybe I’m going because I have to take you with me. Does that make sense?’

Veronica laughed. ‘No.’

‘Think about it.’

‘All right. I’ll have to talk to Boris.’

Beth stopped the dusty car in the town of Marrenjowan – a strip of cracked bitumen lined with a few shops, a general store that served as post office, petrol station and message centre, and community rooms that included the Land Council office. Beth stocked up on tea, sugar, oranges and soft drinks at the store and a carton of cigarettes. Beth occasionally smoked, more often rolling her own. She always bought a gift of filter tips for the men.

A hundred kilometres further on she came to the outskirts of Marrenyikka Reserve, Ardjani’s dry season winter camp. It was marked by rusting fuel drums, rolls of unused fencing wire – dumped, they’d been told, by the authorities for unspecified use – and a broken sofa.

At the sight of the car, children and dogs began running amid a chorus of shouts and barking. As the children, some in shorts, some in track pants, all in bare feet, reached her, she stopped and got out to exchange hugs and then, as many kids as could fit piled into the car to wave from every window. The child next to Beth – there were four crammed in the front seat – pushed across her body to squeal out the driver’s window to a friend.

By the time she had cruised to the main house – a big prefabricated construction of many rooms – smiling women were also coming to welcome her. Two men, both elders of the community, seated in collapsible chairs in the shade of some trees, lifted hands in languid greeting as the overflowing car emptied. There was a bed that served as an outdoor couch on a covered patio, more chairs and mats spread around the remains of a fire. There were four houses here, temporary box-like structures that said government issue. But most families had rejected the internal dining areas, preferring instead to eat around the communal campfire. A table was nearby, covered with cooking pans, sauce bottles, plates and cutlery, creating an instant kitchen. Fifty metres away, near the expanse of the waterhole in the river, was a shed that housed the generator that supplied their power for lights and refrigerators.

Twenty members of the community were staying here before setting off for the Boab Festival in Derby. Part of the year, some of the women had periodic jobs in Marrenjowan and the men drove in every few weeks for ‘business’. When the summer wet came, they all moved to the government housing in town.

In her role as teacher and adviser, Beth trod the intricate steps between moves by the West Australian Government, the Federal Government, the combined Land Councils of the area and the Barradja elders and their advisers from Aboriginal Legal Services. She kept in touch with community problems because the people were always anxious to know if the money was coming in, for despite their wish to be independent and to have their own land and control their future, they had grown up with the white man’s handout system. At least here, traditional culture survived despite the incursion of white society – TV, videos, canned food, soft drinks and too much sugar, too much starch.

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.’

Ardjani nodded. ‘I speak a letter about two-way thinking in education. You type it up.’

‘We have another matter to discuss. The group of white people I’m bringing to visit with you and the community. Here, in the next few weeks.’

Ardjani nodded and looked to the other elders. ‘We talk about this one. Rusty, Digger and Lilian are a little bit worried.’ He lifted an arm and hollered to a nearby child in Barradja language, ‘Get Lilian. Tell Aunty to come here.’

Lilian came in her own time. Not hurrying to Ardjani’s command, for she too was a law woman and elder, but still conscious that Ardjani’s wish was law. Her plump face smoothed away wrinkles, but a crooked nose and missing teeth attested to earlier bashings by a drunken relative, now no longer around. She sat cross-legged on the ground, her faded cotton dress tucked between her knees, and she folded her hands in her lap and faced Ardjani.

‘We talk about this idea, Beth, and Lilian want to know how these people going to help us. Why can’t they meet with us in the town? Or come here for a meeting and go back? Why they come and stay here?’

Ardjani glanced at Lilian who took up the subtle signal and spoke in a soft voice. ‘We don’t want to be unkind, they are welcome. But if they city people, how they stay here with us? We don’t want our place here to be like them caravan park places.’

Beth nodded. ‘They understand that. And we can camp. I’ve found someone to help us so we don’t make it like a picnic park. The idea is that these people come and experience your life, learn from you. And maybe we can get them to help us with our plans. I haven’t spoken to them about this yet. Let us see how they react to being here.’

‘Whitefellas don’t think they have anything to learn from us fellas,’ commented Digger dryly. ‘They say, what them blackfellas living in the desert going to show us people?’

‘We had white law fellas help before, they no good,’ said Rusty.

‘They were young law fellas, haven’t learned everything up good yet,’ said Ardjani. ‘They say they work to help us, but they don’t listen to what we want. They go in court and talk up to the judge and we sit in the back and they don’t say what we tell them.’ And speaking to the others, he went on, ‘Now, we do it number two way, Barradja way. We speak to the judge and white lawyers sit in the back.’

Beth laughed. ‘That sounds good. But you still have to know how to weave through the white courts and legal and bureaucratic process.’

Ardjani smiled as Beth talked, and finally he said to the others, ‘We will work together and we start a new law system, a new wurnan. A new way for all Australian people to share our lives and this land. We find a way to give this gift.’

‘So we start with these people coming. They want to learn about everything,’ said Beth. ‘The art, the music, the medicine, the food, the wunggud spirits, the stories . . .’

‘They gonna need to stay here many years,’ said Rusty with a grin.

‘It’s a start,’ said Beth. ‘It’s a start.’

For hours the airliner had flown over a vast emptiness. Melbourne and Sydney seemed so far away they might as well have been on another planet. Nothing Susan could see below suggested a connection with the two eastern seaboard cities she knew so well. So quickly had the fertile western plains of New South Wales given way to . . . nothingness. As hard to read as an abstract painting. And in a way the stark colours and contours of the empty land below reminded her of a painting. But one she could not read or become involved with, or comprehend. Maybe to understand this landscape you had to be down there, in it and on it.

The barren corner country where three State borders met looked desperate enough, but the big salt pans that bleached great scars from the country further out, and then the horizon-to-horizon parallel red sand dunes of the Simpson Desert, were an assault on the sense of place and distance.

It was like no other trip Susan had made into the Australian countryside and the flight to Darwin in the Northern Territory was like no other flight. Flipping between Sydney and Melbourne on business, holidaying in the Whitsundays, a ski trip to the South Island of New Zealand, all now faded compared with the impact this flight had on her. For the first time since making the commitment to go to the Kimberley country with Beth, and since taking up Andrew Frazer’s invitation to visit Yandoo, Susan had a feeling she was being transported into another world, a world in which she would be a stranger. It occurred to her, had the first settlers to Australia also felt this way?

The thought of being a stranger in her own land bothered her. Because what was below and beyond the horizon in all directions was her country. ‘My Country,’ she mused, recalling the wonderfully evocative poem she, and practically every Australian, had recited throughout their early school years. Yet, for all the poetry recitation and folk songs, the television documentaries that had reflected the great outback, the books, the art and the music that all spoke to her of this ancient sprawling nothingness, it had always felt as distant as another planet. As if it had no connection with her life.

The feeling was worrying and exciting. She recalled a remark Andrew Frazer had made to her at Easter. ‘You’ve got to get the dirt in your skin to know it.’

Andrew Frazer. She smiled to herself. Andrew, the alien from the bush. She closed her eyes and recalled the time she had spent with him at the Royal Easter Show, and how they had found an attraction for each other. Where this embryonic friendship was going, well, that was still a big question mark in Susan’s mind. But she was looking forward to seeing him again. At least in his part of the country there would be a little patch of civilisation, there would not be the same sense of emptiness. His family had been on Yandoo Station for close to a hundred years. There, in less arid country, she would find a comfortable, more familiar Australia.

Susan waited to change planes at Darwin for the short flight to Katherine, the closest airport to Yandoo which was just over the border in WA. In the lounge at Darwin Airport were Japanese in flagled groups, European backpackers, excited senior citizens on package tours escaping the southern winter and Aborigines, some wearing stockmen’s hats, riding boots, jeans and bright shirts, others carrying mobile phones and briefcases looking like they’d come from Land Council meetings down south. There were also teams of beefy men in T-shirts, strained by muscle and beer gut, that identified them with oil rigs or remote mining locations.

The flight to Katherine was short, mainly over cattle properties with their own airstrips and connected by a network of roads that seemed to link with the bitumen highway that ran across the continent from north to south – The Track. Well, it was once a track, Susan had read in the airline magazine. Nothing much more than a pad for camel trains until a war turned it into a key defence artery. But everyone, even officialdom, still called it The Track.

To Susan’s surprise, on the approach to Katherine she glimpsed a huge airbase with a bay of Caribou and Hercules transport aircraft. She had forgotten that Katherine was one of Australia’s most powerful forward defence posts and, as her passenger aircraft flashed past this parade of power, she was struck by the huge contradictions the day was providing. She had a growing sense of anticipation at the prospect of seeing Andrew. But it was a little disconcerting not knowing his family, not knowing what he’d told them, what they expected of her. But it really didn’t matter that much. It was just another interlude, she told herself again, even though some queer feelings were stirred by his affectionate promise only yesterday when he telephoned her to confirm, for the second time, that he would meet her at Katherine airport. ‘I’ll be there with bells and drums.’

‘Wouldn’t a didgeridoo be more appropriate?’ she had quipped.

He’d brought no musical accompaniment, but his big smile, affectionate hug and a warm kiss made the reunion an easy one. ‘Gee, it’s great to see you again,’ he said, taking her cabin bag and heading into the small terminal. ‘I sometimes thought you wouldn’t make it.’

‘Oh,’ she said, making no effort to conceal her surprise at the remark. ‘And why did you think that?’

He was at once embarrassed. ‘Well . . . well . . . it’s such a long way to come, and you have this commitment to do this oddball bush thing with the Aborigines and I just thought that if you’re pressed for time, Yandoo would be the first item on the agenda to get scratched.’

Before she could reply, two men in the rig of cattlemen shouted, ‘G’day, Andrew.’ He gave them a quick wave. ‘Stock and station agents,’ he told Susan by way of explanation. While he was retrieving her bulging bag that doubled as a backpack, an attractive woman stepped forward to get her suitcase and flashed him a big smile.

‘Hi, Andrew. How are things out, at Yandoo?’

Susan stood back as he chatted briefly with her, both exchanging remarks that made them laugh. It was the sort of conversation that Susan sensed went beyond the casual friendship category and she was aware of a flash of emotion that was suspiciously like jealousy. But she thrust it to one side as she realised how more mature and relaxed he seemed compared with the man she first met at Veronica’s dinner party. His casual gear topped by a broad-brimmed, well-worn, sweat-stained Akubra pushed back to reveal an unruly curl of sun-bleached hair, his unhurried gait and broad shoulders made him stand out. His face invited the greetings that he accepted with the ease of one who expected them.

‘Popular boy,’ she smiled.

‘My town, old family,’ he said with an answering smile.

Instead of heading for the parking lot, Susan found herself back on the tarmac to one side of the terminal. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, a little puzzled as she took in a large sprawl of light aircraft.

‘To the chariot.’ He gestured towards a Cessna parked nearby. ‘Only way to travel if you have a choice. Besides, after the long trip you’ve had today, the last thing you need is to be bouncing along dusty roads. We’ll be home in no time this way. Make it nicely for afternoon tea.’

Susan remembered that he had mentioned in Sydney that he flew and the family owned a light aircraft, but it never occurred to her that he used it like a motor car. As he stowed her bags and helped her aboard, she realised this was the first time she had flown in a small plane.

He sensed her apprehension. ‘Big enough. And safer than being on the road. And I know the way home.’

‘I hope so, it looked very lonely out there.’

Andrew threw his hat on top of her luggage, busied himself with pre-flight checks, started the engine, waited for clearance from the control tower and taxied for take-off. Susan watched him with growing reassurance but increasing discomfort. It was becoming unbearably hot in the little cabin and she was starting to perspire. ‘Give us a few more minutes and we’ll be up in the cooler air. Open your window for a bit.’

Soon they were airborne and heading west. The cabin became more comfortable. Andrew did another routine check on the radio and settled back. ‘Want to have a hold of the controls?’ he asked.

‘You must be joking!’

‘I was.’

Because they were up only 3,500 feet, Susan saw a new perspective on the land. There were so many signs of human presence. Fences, tracks leading to gates, tracks to dams, water-mills, well-formed dirt roads, distant glimpses of station buildings, frequent sightings of mobs of cattle resting in the shade of trees, occasional small settlements beside billabongs and streams.

‘What’s that?’ she shouted, pointing to a cluster of galvanised rooftops amid trees by a big waterhole in a near dry creek.

‘Our station mob.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Aborigines. Some families who’ve decided to live in the bush away from the main settlement in the reserve. Lots of them all over the place these days.’

‘Why? Why do they do it? Looks a terribly isolated place to set up home.’

‘It is. Bit too complicated to explain now, but it’s all about getting back to their roots. At least that’s what they say, but I don’t know just how useful it really is in the long run.’ He did a quick instrument check then pointed ahead. ‘See that fence line . . . that straight line going right across the country just above the prop?’

‘Yes. I’ve got it.’

‘Well that’s the eastern boundary of Yandoo.’

‘God, it seems to go from horizon to horizon.’

‘Yep. Big spread.’

‘Bigger than Texas,’ she said with a grin.

‘Not quite. You know in the 1950s there were three cattle stations up this way that were so big that together they were bigger than the whole State of Texas.’

‘Really!’

‘That’s the story anyway.’ His voice dropped a couple of notes and with mock seriousness he intoned, ‘It’s a big country.’

They passed over the boundary fence and he began his descent, swinging the aircraft slightly to line up with the dirt strip that had been cut from the scrub. Susan could see a white Land Cruiser parked by a windsock and a shed that was obviously the hangar. A kilometre or so away was a greener, denser patch of trees, a hint of lawn and several outbuildings around a large galvanised roofed homestead and another group of smaller houses, almost huts, some distance away down by a creek. He reached over and briefly squeezed her hand. ‘Stand by for landing.’

He executed a perfect touchdown and taxied the plane right up to the hangar, did a radio check with flight services, then switched off the motor. ‘Let the dust settle a bit before jumping out,’ he advised, and waved from his window to greet the Aborigine crouched in the shade of the Land Cruiser, smoking a cigarette. ‘G’day, Charley. How’s it going?’

‘Charley one of the faithful retainers?’ she asked quietly.

Andrew wasn’t too sure how to take the remark and it caused him to hesitate briefly with his log book entry. Susan wanted to bite her tongue, realising that it was a remark that could be taken two ways, and she was relieved when he made a joke of it. ‘Yeah, been with us all his life. Putting his name up for the Australia Day honours list. Services to the cattle industry.’

They all helped push the plane into the hangar then piled into the Land Cruiser. Charley got in the back seat. Susan turned and introduced herself. ‘Hi , I’m Susan.’

‘G’day, miss,’ he said, with a little nod of acknowledgment and a big smile of nicotine-stained broken teeth. Susan tried to guess his age. Maybe late fifties she reckoned.

In a few minutes they were on a red gravel driveway that curved through a garden oasis to the porch of the homestead.

It was a low stone building in a U shape around a rear garden, the columns of the wraparound verandah smothered in tangled coils of bougainvillea. The silver of the corrugated-iron roof glinted in the sunlight, its deep eaves shading broad stone steps. As Andrew pulled up, two dogs rushed cheerfully to greet them and a woman came out of the front door and stood waiting.

‘That’s Mum. Her name’s Ellen.’ Andrew led Susan forward.

His mother was in her early sixties, dressed in a simple cool dress with a single strand of good pearls at the V neckline. Her brown hair was cut short following its natural waves. The effect of looking like a senior member of the British royal family at home was relieved by bare legs and flat white sandals. She looked cool, poised and smiled graciously. ‘Welcome to Yandoo, Susan. We’re delighted you decided to come. But you must be hot and tired. Come inside and have a cool drink.’ She turned to her son. ‘Let Charley do the bags, dear.’

Susan followed Ellen into the cool interior. ‘On your way to the Kimberley, Andrew tells me.’

‘Yes,’ said Susan, relieved this was the understanding of her visit and not as a prospective daughter-in-law. Not that there was any reason Andrew might have hinted at this, but it was something of a detour, and she doubted many girls just dropped in to have a drink and watch a video.

Ellen Frazer opened the door of a guest room. ‘I’ve put you in the wattle room. A good choice, you obviously like yellow.’ She complimented Susan on her mustard pants, cream shirt and the sunflower pinned to the straw hat she carried.

‘It’s lovely,’ declared Susan with delight as she looked at the wallpaper sprinkled with faint sprays of wattle blossom; the yellow and white bedspread and white cushions on the armchair embroidered with more wattle. Sheer white curtains hung at the windows.

‘There’s a fan and an airconditioner if it gets unbearable. Most times, if the sun is too hot, Charley lets down the canvas awnings on the verandah outside. That seems to keep the rooms cool. There’s a bathroom right next door. Perhaps you’d like a shower.’

‘Thank you so much. I might just do that. It’s been a long day.’

‘Come and join us in the sitting room back down the hall on the right. My husband is working in the stockyards. He won’t be back until dinner.’

Susan had a quick shower, changed into a light dress and put on fresh lipstick. She examined the family photographs as she made her way back to where she could hear Andrew’s voice and noted the mix of furniture. Some lovely old pieces must have been acquired by Andrew’s grandparents, while in the sitting room newer upholstery did little to disguise the solid fifties lounge chairs.

A silver tray on a sideboard held glasses, a bucket of ice and a jug of fruit juice. Andrew handed her a glass. ‘Thanks. This is just charming.’

‘You wait till you see Mum’s garden. Nearest thing to an English cottage garden in the outback.’

‘I can’t claim the credit. Give anything enough water out here and it will grow,’ said Ellen. ‘And Jilly loves looking after it – now she knows the difference between weeds and flowers.’ She gave a faint smile.

‘Jilly and Charley help around the place,’ said Andrew. ‘Throw your washing in your hamper and Jilly will look after it. Now, how about the tour?’

Susan followed Andrew around the house, the garden and past the laundry, several sheds and a workshop. ‘What’s that over there?’ asked Susan, indicating an area around a brick chimney covered in shade cloth.

‘It was the original cook-out. Mum’s made it a kind of greenhouse. She has a few orchids and treasures in there. I used to love playing in there as a kid.’

Susan pointed to an old wooden billycart outside one of the sheds. ‘That yours too?’

‘My grandfather made it for Dad. I used to push my brother, Julian, around in it once in awhile.’

‘How’s he going?’

‘Great. Going to come home this weekend. He’s taking the chopper out for a few days. Got to do some work up the river.’ Andrew pointed towards a gully. ‘Down there is the creek where we swim. The main stockyards are over here, and there’s another yard and a dam back over that ridge. We’ll ride out there tomorrow and take a picnic. It’s pretty.’

‘So who else helps run the place? Where are the stockmen?’

‘There’s a manager, Tom, and his wife. They’ve been here since I was a boy. And the blacks, of course. The camp is on the far side of that creek. Charley and Jilly and Earl, the head stockman, and his missus live in smaller houses close to the stockyards. Earl is related to Jilly.’

‘Have they been here a long time?’

‘Yeah. Some are extended family or friends who drifted in and stayed, but the main group go back to my grandfather’s day. They’ve been as much a part of Yandoo as our family.’

‘So it was their land in the first place?’

‘Depends what you mean by ownership, I suppose.’ Andrew spoke thoughtfully. ‘It’s all pretty much a hot potato these days when you hear the political boys and radicals talk. When my grandfather settled here it became Frazer land. The Aborigines in the area drifted in and grandfather started using them and so that started the Yandoo mob.’

‘Were they a particular tribe? From this area?’

‘I suppose so. There are various families and relatives. They have such a complicated family system. But anyway, they shared the place, helped build it up, they had tucker and a permanent place to camp, though they still went walkabout in the old days. My grandparents looked after all the families as well. It was a tradition and everyone seemed content with their lot and it continued into my father’s day. But then came Wave Hill and things changed.’

‘How did Wave Hill affect Yandoo?’

‘Well, as you probably know, the Aborigines walked off Wave Hill Station south of Darwin in 1966 demanding better conditions and equal pay with white stockmen. They took it to the United Nations.’

‘But they won, didn’t they?

‘Yes. Anyway, eventually the government passed the Pastoral Award, which meant pastoralists simply couldn’t afford to pay all Aborigines award rates, so many had to go. That’s the trouble with the political activists and some of the Land Council people, they go in and stir up trouble telling Aborigines that they’re being exploited, and that they should be self-sufficient and exercise self-determination.’

‘It was pretty radical stuff in those days,’ commented Susan.

‘Particularly as some old-fashioned Aussie communists were among the whites who helped the Gurindji fight the owners, the British Vesteys. The decision had quite a chain reaction. Station owners everywhere had to lay off Aborigines. They simply couldn’t afford to pay them all. It turned the whole industry upside down.’ He grinned. ‘Some reckoned it was the end of civilisation as we knew it. But it wasn’t, and I reckon we’re all better off in the long run. God, could you imagine today what the world would say if we paid our black workers only a fraction of the white pay simply because they were black?’

‘Not to mention the work for lawyers like us! But seriously, the miracle is that the industry got away with it for so long.’

‘Anyway, on Yandoo we had to toe the line. Pay them right, just like the whitefellas. Like everyone else, we had to cut the workforce, but technology came to our aid. Better vehicles, helicopters, road trains instead of big cattle drives with stacks of stockmen . . . we coped.’

‘It sometimes takes just one event to change history . . .’

‘Dad told me things were going to pot before that big walkout. There’d been some phasing out of Aboriginal workers as properties got better equipped. The shearers’ union stopped Aborigines working as shearers. And once the white women came and settled on the stations, standards changed.’

‘For the better, one assumes.’

Andrew gave a wicked grin. ‘Depends. The boss had to behave himself, no more fraternising with the pretty black girls. No more half-caste yella kids running round the stations.’

‘What happened to them?’

‘The white bureaucrats and churches just took them and put them in institutions, as they’d been doing for years.’

‘That Aboriginal client I just represented, that happened to him.’

‘Anyway, he got a good education out of it. He was on TV, wasn’t he? Made a lot of money? He wouldn’t have managed that if he’d stayed in the bush.’

‘Andrew! You don’t know that! There are opportunities now for talented Aborigines. And how can you say he’s better off? He has no family!’ Susan’s eyes blazed. ‘How would you feel if it had been you, and not your friend Hunter, who was taken off Yandoo when you were a kid?’

Andrew, ever pragmatic, decided to end the conversation. ‘T h e fact of the matter is, that didn’t happen, and so I’m getting on with my life.’

Once again Susan dropped the subject of Barwon and the Stolen Generations.

‘So what happened to the Aborigines when the law changed?’

‘Some pastoralists excised a living area on their land but, because many Aborigines were unemployed, they drifted into town and got on the grog or became fringe dwellers and it all became a bit of a mess.’

By now they were walking towards the creek and Susan saw the camp she’d noted from the air. Small corrugated-iron huts, some larger in a dormitory style, and a big communal kitchen and laundry were clustered together, the heat bouncing back at them off the metal walls. They were on high brick piles surrounded by red dirt. One tree shaded a corner where a child’s tricycle was left and a dog lay in the coolness under a water tank. Untidy, hot, depression era. Susan was surprised at the very basic conditions.

‘This wouldn’t make House and Garden magazine,’ she remarked.

‘They don’t want anything fancy. They live their way and we live ours and we all get on just fine. They’re healthy, well fed, have jobs and live how they want. I reckon the Aborigines here are better off than a lot of white people.’

‘Where is everybody?’

‘Either working around the place, fishing, or swimming in the creek. The kids might be having a lesson. Now they do School of the Air up at a room next to the office. Some of the older kids are allowed to use the computer. Jilly and Mum take turns supervising.’

Behind the kitchen and laundry a teenage girl was pegging out washing on a sagging line. A toddler played on the ground by her feet.

‘How’s it, Francie?’

‘Good, Mr Frazer.’

‘Ticker is growing up.’

‘Yeah. He doin’ good too.’ She smiled shyly at Susan and bent down to the plastic wash basket.

As they turned back to the homestead, Susan asked, ‘Is that her baby, or her little brother?’

‘It’s hers. They get married young. The baby isn’t the result of a night out in the long grass,’ Andrew quickly added. ‘Francie fell in love with one of the stockmen but he was the wrong tribe, wrong skin, they call it. So they found her a suitable husband. He seems a good bloke and they’re happy enough. They have a very complicated system of who they can and can’t marry. Stops in-breeding, weakening the blood lines and so on.’

‘Does that apply to white people out here too?’

Andrew ignored the teasing tone in her voice. ‘It does a bit. Country people tend to marry people off the land, their own kind. Works out better that way. It’s a pretty different kind of life, a city girl would find it hard to adjust.’ He caught himself. ‘Well, some city girls. Depends how tough they are.’

Andrew looked at his watch and spoke briskly. ‘We’d better head back. Mum will have afternoon tea ready.’

Ellen Frazer presided over an afternoon tea laid out like a magazine photo spread – lace doilies, a small vase of flowers, sponge cake and scones and a silver tea service. The tea was served on the verandah by Jilly, who moved slowly and deliberately – years of training and fear of dropping anything had made her cautious. But her smile was so friendly, her eyes so warm and her voice so sweet, Susan liked her immediately.

Later, as Susan stretched out on her bed under the fan, she decided this was a rather civilised way to live.

She fell soundly asleep and was woken by Andrew rubbing her shoulder. ‘Hey, sleepyhead. Cocktail time.’ He kissed her lightly on the tip of her nose. Not fully awake, Susan wound her arms about him, moving over on the bed to make room. It seemed a natural response, an indication of how comfortable she felt with him. He lay beside her, keeping his feet off the bed. ‘If I take my boots off, I won’t go anywhere.’ He nuzzled her throat and kissed her ear. Then sat up and smiled. ‘Lead me not into temptation. We should head down the hall. Dad is due back any minute.’

Ellen handed round a tray of drinks and, as they settled on the verandah once more, a utility driven by an Aborigine pulled up and Ian Frazer got out, slapping his Akubra at the dust mixed with sweat on his checked shirt and jeans, and giving his dusty riding boots a kick on the ground. A leather notebook and glasses case were tucked into the top pocket of his shirt. It’s almost a uniform, thought Susan, but was quite taken by his imposing presence. Grey hairs poked around his open collar and his hands were calloused. His face had caught too much sun over the years. Susan could see traces of him in Andrew, the way he walked and held himself.

‘Welcome to Yandoo. Always nice to meet Andrew’s friends.’ He put his hat on a side table and kissed his wife as she handed him his drink. ‘So, what do you make of the great outback, Susan?’ asked Ian Frazer. ‘A new experience for you, I understand.’

Susan realised that her visit had been discussed by Andrew’s parents in some detail. It was not unexpected. The parents would naturally be interested in knowing as much as possible about any young female their elder son invited home. After all, this was an Australian dynasty and he was the heir. The possibility of matrimony must always be kept in mind, whatever the initial evidence suggested. ‘Yes, it is, and a bit of an extraordinary experience at this stage. I was quite stunned by the desert coming up, I thought it would never end. But it’s nice to be here, at Yandoo. Nothing looks quite so . . . well, overwhelming now.’

‘I’m glad you’re feeling a little more comfortable,’ said Ian. ‘Y o u didn’t stay over in Darwin?’

‘No. Didn’t have time.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I guess that sounds very much like city talk, doesn’t it? Time seems to have a new dimension out here. Everything seems to have new dimensions out here.’

‘I guess out here we have grown up with a different attitude to time,’ agreed Ian. ‘Been here a hundred years or so and we think in seasons rather than days and weeks. We don’t wear watches most of the time.’

‘Almost like an Aboriginal sense of time, then.’ The conversation stopped dead. Ian Frazer’s hand stilled as he went to top up his beer. ‘Now where did you pick up that idea, an Aboriginal sense of time?’

‘Beth Van Horton, a woman who works among Aborigines, told me a few things in Sydney. Partly to get me committed to coming up, I guess. She puts a lot of importance on time. In relation to this country and the Aborigines. After all, it’s been their land for what, at least 40,000 years. That’s a long time.’

‘We don’t see it as their land necessarily,’ he said with stress on ‘their’.

‘Surely we all understand that those old ideas of Aborigines not having any place, being nomads and not using the land or having any claim to it, have been thrown out,’ persisted Susan.

‘You’re talking about early settlement days. In my father’s day we took up this land and have title to it. Many settlers ran the blacks off their places, they killed stock and harassed the homesteads. There was killing on both sides,’ he conceded.

‘Spears against guns. Pretty uneven odds in the long run.’

Andrew shot Susan a glance. He didn’t look happy at the turn of the conversation. His father was determined to make Susan see his point.

‘I think my family acted with consideration. We chose to let them stay on the property. And they turned into pretty good workers. Great trackers and horsemen, too.’

‘I suppose many of the stations couldn’t have survived without the help of the local Aborigines,’ said Susan.

‘That’s exactly right. And let me tell you this, most of them became very loyal to their station family. Often more so than to their own people. There’re many instances of station blacks running down and capturing wild blacks in the neighbourhood who threatened stock or took over a waterhole.’

‘Maybe they’d never had reason to feel threatened by their own people before. As I understand it, they had their own groups and land and didn’t fight over it. I’m sure the station blacks had no idea where their so-called loyalty would end up,’ said Susan, sending home her last barb. ‘So in a way the Aborigines unwittingly contributed to their own demise.’ Then seeing the scowl on Andrew’s father’s face, she added, ‘I’m just playing devil’s advocate. It’s my job.’

‘She’s a solicitor, Dad.’

Ian Frazer put his cup down and continued in a voice that didn’t agree or disagree with her points. ‘I see. If you’re interested in the history of Yandoo you might like to see the photographs in my study.’ He rose and Susan followed him off the verandah into a room filled with books, a gun rack, leather chairs, a desk, paintings and photographs. ‘There’s a photograph of my father taken back in the early days on Yandoo, and a painting of my grandfather.’ He pointed to two large oval-framed pictures on the wall.

Cunning old bugger, thought Susan, fully absorbing the message he intended she get. She walked over to the pictures and took a long look. They were formal studio portraits, the men stiffly posed, immaculately presented. But staring into the faces of these Australian pioneers she thought she could see the determination and strength that had held them in this place, and also the pride in what they had achieved. There was no hint of softness and she wondered if their wives had longed for the gentle touch and sweet murmurings of lesser men.

She became aware Ian was standing behind her. ‘I prefer the informal photographs, this one of my father and his favourite horse especially.’ Susan turned and looked up into his deep blue eyes that were just like Andrew’s. ‘I guess my picture will go up there soon enough, and one day, Andrew’s too. It’s a Yandoo tradition. It’s all a matter of time.’

Time. A commodity that was daily rationed in her city life. Here it represented lineage and belonging. He was looking into her eyes almost confrontationally when Ellen Frazer broke the spell. ‘Enough of that talk, Ian, you’re getting into one of your deadly serious moods again. Susan, perhaps if you can stand up to it, Andrew might show you around a bit more. I’ll organise Jilly and dinner. You no doubt have some paper work to do, dear,’ she said pointedly to her husband.

Dinner was quite formal, served in the old-fashioned dining room, watched over by family portraits, several good if conservative paintings, photos of horses, bulls and the homestead in its early years. Old wood shone in the flattering light of candles placed in heirloom silver. Andrew had told her the family ate together in the dining room most evenings. The routine of a genteel lifestyle hadn’t altered in several generations, Ellen Frazer presiding over the small talk and curbing any hint of dissension.

The next afternoon, on the drive about the immediate property, Andrew told her snippets of family history.

They passed the headstones of family members which dotted one side of a hill. Below it were casually arranged unmarked stones that Andrew explained were itinerant workers or Aborigines. ‘The station blacks won’t come near here, they reckon it’s haunted by trapped spirits or something.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘In the old days, the blacks used to dig up the remains of their own, but Grandad put a stop to that. He said they should have a decent Christian burial and go to meet their maker in a box with their boots on and not wrapped in grass and bark and left in a tree, or whatever the old men wanted to do.’

‘Would it have mattered? The bloke was dead, why not let them do their ceremonial thing?’

Andrew looked thoughtful. ‘I guess the family was trying to do the right thing. The blacks on Yandoo were regarded as part of the place, it was their home too, so they had to fit in with Yandoo’s ways. But listen, Susan, I don’t think you should challenge how we do things so much, when you’ve had no experience out here yet.’

‘Point taken,’ said Susan, easily. ‘So what’s the situation, now?’

Andrew went on. ‘The last fellow I remember dying here, a black fellow that is, wanted to be buried in the town cemetery with a stone with his name on it and have the priest say the right words. Dad said it was a bit of a hassle getting it done, but old Jacko lies in state in Katherine cemetery. I would imagine most of the Yandoo mob now just assume they’ll end up here on the underside of the hill.’

‘But if they wanted to have a traditional burial ceremony in their home country, they could?’

‘I suppose if they wanted to be taken back to their country by their people and they had access, that’s what they’d do.’ Andrew eased out the clutch and moved on. ‘Some of them are here because they can’t get to their traditional land, it’s inaccessible, their people have dispersed, or it’s on a pastoral lease.’

‘But you said Yandoo was their home. Is that because it once belonged to them, the land that is, or because your family just allow them to stay?

He smiled at her, shaking his head. ‘Susan, stop being a lawyer and just enjoy the scenery.’

They drove to machinery sheds and looked at tractors and generators, and on to stables to look at harnesses and saddles, to the stockyards where four Aboriginal ringers and the head stockman were branding cattle and clipping horns. They watched while the stock were herded into a chute with a metal base, their weight registering in digital green on a battered calculator. The weights were carefully recorded in the head stockman’s notebook. Andrew boosted Susan up on the fence so she could watch the weighing process. As the head stockman finished noting the last numbers Andrew called out, ‘Earl, this is my friend, Susan. This is Earl, our head stockman.’

The wiry Aborigine gave a quick nod and a grin. ‘Pleased-t-meet-ya’ came out as one word and he turned back to where a young jackaroo was jabbing the next bull with an electric prodder to hasten it into the chute. After weighing, the jackaroo slammed down a handle, which lifted the heavy metal slide that closed off the chute, and the animal was released into a holding yard.

‘They’re so big,’ exclaimed Susan. ‘So powerful.’

‘What are they running at, Earl?’

‘Round the five-fifty boss.’

‘That’s five hundred and fifty kilos. They’ll lose a bit of that before they get to auction.’

‘It looks like dangerous work.’

‘Not while they’re in the yard. Mustering them in the scrub is the challenge. We sometimes use the chopper but mostly horses and motorbikes. Strike a rogue bull out there and you have to watch out.’ He held up his arms and lifted her down from the top railing. ‘There’s more to Yandoo, come on. See ya, Earl.’

The stockman waved his arm but didn’t take his eyes off the electronic calculator.

They crossed low hills in the four-wheel drive to see views that gave Susan a greater appreciation of the vastness of the Frazer property. It was so much larger when you stared at its limitless horizons compared with the view from the plane. She was conscious of a sense of infinity, that Yandoo just went on for ever and ever, an incalculable distance beyond the horizons. It seemed to Susan that Andrew knew intimately every corner of his beloved country.

‘You love it, don’t you?’ she said softly and took his hand as they stood beside the vehicle on one hill watching the colours soften and shadows lengthen as the sun sank.

He didn’t speak but looked slowly around the country sprawling below him. ‘Yes, I do love it. Ever since I was a kid and started exploring the place with Hunter. He’d learned to track, so we never got lost. Even though we were just youngsters, I knew I was safe with him.’ He fell silent.

‘What do you suppose happened to him?’

‘I dunno. I think about him occasionally. Hope things worked out for him. I always felt bad about him. It was hard coming back from boarding school and finding that he’d just . . . gone.’ He paused again then pointed to a clump of trees near a windmill. ‘See that pump, those trees?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was one of my first camps out with Dad when I was a boy. My first camp with only stockmen. I was seven or eight at the time. There have been a few thousand campfires since then. Great learning experiences. Sometimes I reckon I learned more around those fires than I ever did at school,’ he grinned.

‘What sort of things?’

‘Oh, all about horses, cattle, women . . .’ he laughed. ‘My brother and I used to call it bush school . . . it was the best.’

At dinner that night, as Ian Frazer helped himself to several potatoes, he turned to Susan. ‘Andrew says you’re headed out into the Kimberley desert. Camping with some tribal people?’ He sounded bemused.

‘Yes, it’s a sort of outback cultural exercise. Take a group of city whites and let them live and learn from traditional people.’

‘And what good is that going to do you as a solicitor? Do you work in the field of native title or something?’

‘Oh, no.’ Susan decided against mentioning she’d just represented an Aborigine in court in a civil case. ‘I’m just going to see how Aborigines live, people keeping up traditional ways.’

Ian Frazer poured more gravy on his roast beef. ‘Depends what you mean by traditional Aborigines. Grant you, the drunks you see in town have lost the plot. Katherine’s full of long-grass blacks. Hopeless bloody cases. The blacks here on Yandoo are just as real as any supposedly living traditionally. You can’t tell me those bush fellas don’t live off their government handouts as much as hunt their own food.’

Susan rested her knife and fork on the edge of her plate. ‘What do you mean about your Yandoo people being real? They don’t hunt, go walkabout, do their tribal things do they? Where’s their traditional land?’ Andrew gave Susan a wary look that she pretended not to see.

‘If any of them made a spurious land claim for Yandoo, I’d run ’em off,’ continued Ian. ‘Like I said, my family have been here three generations. We have as much right to be here and they recognise that. We give them work, look after their families and visiting relatives, and we all work this land together. They like it that way. They take off occasionally for ceremonial things, and we can live with that. Always have.’ He paused for breath. ‘I’d much rather have blacks camped on my place than white tourists and pig shooters. The blacks shut the gates, don’t leave fires burning and look after the land and the water.’

‘So you can all get along together? It’s not what some politicians seem to believe.’

‘Bugger the politicians. Excuse my language. Get them out of Canberra and get them talking face to face to blacks and pastoralists. This is my land and I have every right to it. But I will concede the point you made this afternoon. We do have a shared history with the Aborigines. We mightn’t mix outside working hours, but we respect each other.’

‘Do pass the wine, dear.’ Ellen signalled it was time to change the subject.

Susan made small talk with Ellen as Andrew talked over some other business with his father. But while she talked she was thinking about what Andrew’s father had said. She wondered if Beth’s mob, Ardjani and the Barradja elders, agreed with the views of wealthy pastoralists like Ian Frazer.

After dessert, Andrew excused them and took Susan outside for a walk around the garden, ‘to see our Yandoo moon’.

He held her hand as they wandered amongst his mother’s carefully tended flowers. ‘I’m really glad you’re here. I’m beginning to think Dad likes you giving him a run for his money. That doesn’t happen too often.’

‘I didn’t mean to be impolite. I’m just used to speaking my mind.’

‘It’s all right. He wasn’t offended. But, Susan, I think they’d also like to hear about your life and family, rather than just your views on Aborigines, particularly when you’ve hardly met any yet. As you’ve probably realised, there’s a different thinking out here to what city trendies may think back in Balmain.’

‘Is that what I am? A city trendy? I did try to come with an open mind. That’s the whole idea.’ There was an edge to her voice.

Andrew laughed. He didn’t want to spoil the romantic evening. ‘I’ll tell you what you are . . . you’re gorgeous and smart and very special.’ He pulled her to him and they kissed.

Susan hugged him, marvelling at the open affection of this man who played none of the games of the city men she knew. ‘I’m glad I’m here too.’

They pulled apart and he touched her cheek, smiling at her. Then he turned her around so she was leaning against him. ‘I was serious about the moon – look up there.’

Susan tilted her head back against Andrew’s shoulder and caught her breath. ‘Good Lord. It’s unbelievable!’

The full fat moon, yellow and ripe, hung against a curtain packed with glittering stars. The Milky Way was a creamy slash of massed stars. ‘You can’t put a pin between them! I’ve never seen the sky like this.’

‘It’s because there aren’t any city or town lights. But I like to think it’s Yandoo magic. In fact, that reminds me, I should take you out to show you our special moon place. Yep, we’ll put that on the agenda for tomorrow.’

‘What do you mean we’re going to see the moon? It’s blazing hot.’ Susan fanned herself as the four-wheel drive bounced over small rocks and thick clumps of grass stubble. ‘Where exactly are we going?’

‘That outcrop over there.’ He pointed to a low, craggy line of orange-red boulders.

‘I hope we’re not going rock climbing in the middle of the day.’

She was glad they only had to scramble a short way through the soft sandstone rocks and then spied the shady overhangs and what looked like shallow caves.

‘There’s a rock shelter along to the right. I haven’t been up here for years. Hunter first took me here.’

He crouched down and ducked under a ledge then stood in the centre of a shallow cave. The roof arched over them, exposed on one side; the floor was rough sandy soil. Susan turned and looked out the entrance. From the slight rise she saw a view of the surrounding Yandoo land.

‘This is lovely. A secret cubby house.’

‘More than that, look up here.’ He took her hand and pointed to the roof and wall that were covered in faded ochre, white and dark red Aboriginal paintings.

‘My God, these are wonderful. They must be ancient.’ Susan went up to them, loath to touch the faded and crumbling artwork. ‘What do you know about these? How old are they?’

‘Wouldn’t have a clue. Pretty old. Those ones are more recent. I mean, Hunter told me they were done in my grandfather’s day. See, there’s Grandad Frazer.’

He pointed to a stick figure, different from the others. This figure had a hat on, and beside him was the child-like outline of a four-legged creature.

‘And his favourite horse!’ Susan found her mind reeling as she recalled the photographs in Andrew’s father’s study. Family history, version two. Slowly she walked along the rough wall, seeing a panel of recorded events. ‘Some of these must go back hundreds, thousands of years. There’s nothing much after your grandfather’s . . . portrait.’

‘No. I suppose they stopped bothering once we settled in.’ Andrew sat down and pulled the bottle from his belt. ‘Want some water?’

‘But surely it means these people were here, living here, going about their lives. Doesn’t that indicate some sort of belonging? Some ownership?’ Susan couldn’t tear her eyes away from the paintings. ‘Look, this is a picture of the outcrop where we are. And I wonder what this is, all these animals? Hunting, do you think? Andrew? Aren’t you interested?’

‘I’ve seen them.’ He handed her the water and stood up. ‘Look over here, this is the one I wanted you to see.’ He took her to the far end of the shelter and pointed to the roof. Spread across the sandy rock canopy was a painting of the moon wearing a headdress above a small diagrammatic body. Susan twisted her head to each side to get the full effect of this strange and wonderful depiction of the fat, full moon she’d seen outside the night before.

‘It’s fantastic. God, how old must this be? Have you ever had experts come and date or document this work?’

‘What for?’

Susan stopped the protestations that sprang to her lips. She realised he really wasn’t interested. This was just a minor novelty on Yandoo, small in comparison to the new Droughtmaster cattle, the improvements, the heritage which his family had created so recently. Susan reached out to touch the warm grainy surface of the painted wall, trying to imagine what hands had done these paintings, so long ago, recording the times in which they lived, their glories and the symbols of their eventual demise.

Very early on the fourth morning, she braved a horseback ride down to the large dam where Andrew checked and oiled a windmill and a water pump. While there, they heard the thwack-thwack-thwack of a helicopter that suddenly roared across them at treetop height, did a quick circle, then headed for the homestead.

‘Julian,’ shouted Andrew as the chopper banked towards home. ‘Come on. Race you back for breakfast.’

‘Not likely, Andrew. I’m not in that class with a strange horse.’

‘Okay then.’ He reined in beside her.

Julian was already at the table with his parents when Andrew bounded into the informal breakfast room off the kitchen towing Susan by the hand.

‘Hey, Andrew,’ said Julian standing up at the table and giving Susan an appreciative look.

Andrew slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Lovely stage entrance you made over the mill. Impressed us no end. Julian, meet Susan, the lady lawyer from Sydney I told you about.’

‘Several times,’ added Julian with a wink as they shook hands. ‘Always knew he went to Sydney for more than a look at the bulls on offer.’

Andrew gave him another playful punch and in good spirits they all settled down at the table.

‘You were telling us about the new ideas you have for the practice, dear,’ said Ellen getting the conversation back as they all settled down at the table.

‘Started a new technique on horses, massage. Works wonders. I have a girl to help me who knows all about it. Used to be a nurse, became a masseuse, and because she used to be a show jumper, decided to try the technique on horses. Could be onto something here.’

‘Very handy,’ grinned Andrew. ‘So what are we doing?’ He turned to Susan. ‘Julian always has a good idea of how to get into trouble.’

‘Fishing. You fish, Susan?’

‘Ah, not really. But I’d love to see the scenery at least. And I’m game to throw a line in.

‘If we get going we could have the first barra in the boat in an hour. Let’s get the gear,’ said Julian.

Once they’d risen and banked above the homestead, Julian straightened the helicopter and turned north, and Susan forgot her nerves as the panorama of Yandoo spread below. She felt she was in a glass bubble, punctured by the two holes where the doors had been taken off. Andrew sat behind her, occasionally touching her hair or reassuringly squeezing her shoulder. They headed towards the coast where the deep estuary flowed out to the sea. They flew up the river to where they could discern the salt water mingling with the fresh.

‘Where are we going to land? It looks pretty rugged down there,’ she asked Julian in the microphone attached to her earphones.

He pointed out the port side of the chopper to a cleared dirt circle a little distance from the river bank.

They carried fishing gear and a small outboard motor to an upside-down aluminium dinghy tethered to a tree. The brothers picked it up and carried it down to the bank as Susan followed them with the first load of fishing gear.

Soon they were chugging down the river, Andrew at the tiller, Julian trawling a lure behind them. It was a little cramped with three of them on board and Susan didn’t think much of the stability factor. She was happier once they’d found their favourite spot, a large flat rock protruding from the river several metres out. Deep water flowed between them and the bank and, as Julian got on the rock, Andrew handed over his rod and motored back. ‘We’ll work along here. The idea is to cast into the deep water and keep your lure moving.’ He set her rod, tying on a brilliantly coloured plastic lure. ‘We call this lure a Peter Allen. It dances through the water like live bait. The fish won’t be able to resist it.’

Susan watched the two men cast and wind in their lines with expert ease while she struggled with tangles of line, getting it caught in weeds and even an overhanging tree branch. Despite this, she was enjoying herself till Julian called from the rock.

‘Watch for crocs. Don’t get too close to the water.’

‘Oh sure!’ answered Susan. Then did a double take. ‘You’re not serious!’

‘Of course. Keep your eyes peeled. They just mosey up the river looking for something edible.’

‘Like you,’ called Andrew.

‘Ha, ha,’ said Susan, taking a couple of steps further up the bank.

It was Julian whose reel suddenly whizzed and the rod bent as he began to play the strike. ‘It will be a long fight. This one’s a beauty,’ he shouted.

Susan and Andrew wound in their lines and Andrew pushed the boat out to the rock, clear of the battle Julian was having with the game fish.

‘It’s a bloody big one!’ shouted Julian again as the fish leapt from the water, trying to throw the lure. Andrew got the landing net and clambered onto the rock beside Julian. But it was several minutes and two more leaps before the barramundi was in control and could be guided into the big-mouthed net and dumped, flapping and tossing, on the floor of the boat.

There were no more strikes, even though they moved upriver and tried trawling their lines. Susan wondered what might happen should one of them hook a large fish with the three of them in the little tinnie. She was just getting the hang of managing her rod and line when Andrew announced they should head back.

They tied the boat to the tree, shared some cans of beer and a packet of biscuits, and climbed back into the helicopter.

‘Take her on the five-minute scenic tour up the river,’ called Andrew to Julian, who nodded, readjusting his headset.

The helicopter skimmed above the river, its shadow a plump dragonfly on the surface of the thick brown water. ‘What’s that up ahead?’ shouted Julian to Andrew. ‘Christ, look – a croc fight!’

Below, churning the shallow water on a sandbar, were the rolling bodies of two massive crocodiles. Susan gasped, stunned at the enormity of the two crashing beasts. Even from this height she quickly judged their size in comparison to the trees along the bank.

‘Six metres, at least!’ called Andrew. ‘Go down so Susan can take a photo.’

Julian banked, and circled, and came in low above the surface of the water. ‘What if they’d come along when we were in that little boat?’ she gasped.

‘They don’t eat tinnies,’ said Julian with a laconic grin.

‘Yeah, but a flip of their tails would’ve tipped us out. They’re almost three times the size of the boat.’ Susan watched in horrified fascination at the sight of the yellow-tinged belly of one of the crocodiles as it rolled over.

She got herself together enough to quickly take a couple of pictures. ‘A few handbags and boots in one of those,’ Andrew shouted in her ear.

Keeping the chopper hovering, Julian dropped towards the surface. ‘Not too low, Julian!’ cried Susan in alarm.

‘Don’t worry, he knows what he’s doing.’ Andrew’s attention was glued to the fighting crocs.

‘Yeehaaa! Bloody fantastic. This is a to-the-death fight, this one.’

‘Julian, please go up, we’re going to hit them!’ Susan could see the snapping jaws with their incredible rows of teeth.

The crocodiles had been oblivious to the large gnat above them. But now, as one of them sensed victory, it became aware of another hovering beast diving on its prey. So fast that none of them saw it coming, the massive croc leapt upwards and attacked the chopper. The thrust of the animal’s powerful tail had propelled it upwards out of the water and its long jaws had snapped and fastened onto one of the metal landing skids. The chopper lurched at the pull of weight to one side, then steadied, as Julian struggled to lift it higher into the air. Susan bit her lip.

‘Try shaking him off,’ shouted Andrew. ‘Why don’t you just go up, he’ll let go.’

‘Haven’t got enough power.’

Susan hunkered down in her seat seeing only the closeness of the river and knowing what was waiting in that water.

‘The fish, the damned fish, give him the barra!’ shouted Julian as the chopper motor strained and whined.

Susan swung around as Andrew grabbed the giant fish lying on the floor and dangled it out the door hole towards the jaws of the croc grimly embedded around the skid. In a flash it released its hold and the fish and croc slid together through space, both landing in the river within seconds of each other. The chopper jerked upwards at the sudden release of weight and Julian settled it to its normal speed and height, circling one last time above the river. The three of them looked down. All was still. But beneath the surface they knew there’d be nothing of the barra left. ‘Well, there goes dinner,’ said Julian.

‘We were nearly dinner, you mean,’ grinned Andrew. ‘I hope your shots come out. Fantastic, eh?’

Susan didn’t answer. Andrew looked into her pale face. ‘Don’t worry, luv. A cold beer will fix you up.’

On her last morning Susan and Andrew let Julian carry the breakfast conversation with his mother. As soon as they could, they excused themselves.

‘Susan and I want to have another look at the garden before she goes,’ said Andrew, and Ellen smiled with polite understanding.

Julian flashed a wink to his brother. ‘The tulips are looking magnificent,’ he quipped. ‘Don’t miss them.’

‘I didn’t see any tulips,’ said Susan.

‘Hope your love life carks it, Julian,’ retaliated Andrew and everyone laughed.

‘I’m leaving in fifteen,’ said Julian.

‘Okay. We’ll be there. Susan’s bags are already in the chopper. Charley took them out before breakfast.’

They walked hand in hand around the garden, neither wanting to start the inevitable final conversation.

‘I’m going to miss you, Susan. It’s been a great few days.’

‘I’ll miss you too, Andrew.’

‘You mightn’t have time to think of me much once you get out bush with that mob.’

‘Promise I’ll think of you at least once a day.’

‘I guess I should be grateful for that, but it doesn’t make me feel that I’ve made a big impression.’

She turned to him and kissed him firmly on the lips. ‘Oh, you have. You have.’ Then she gave him a dig in the ribs. ‘It’s just that I don’t want it to go to your head.’

She turned to continue the walk but he held her to him. ‘I might get over your way. Drop in on the camp and see if you want to be rescued. Would you like that?’

‘Be lovely to see you again, but you’d need to get in touch with Beth, somehow.’

‘Well, we’ll see what happens. Will you try to get in touch with me?’

‘Sure, couldn’t resist. If I can find a telephone box.’

‘Oh, they’re out there, under every second gum tree.’

He hugged her tightly and they kissed passionately, but then they could hear the first hum of the chopper’s starter motor as Julian began his pre-flight checks and warmed up the engine.

There was a hurried farewell with Ian and Ellen. ‘Thank you both so much for having me. It has been the most wonderful experience.’ Ian beamed at this and Susan gave Ellen a hug that seemed to surprise the older woman.

‘Thank you, Susan. It has been nice to have you here. I do hope the rest of your journey is pleasant.’

It was a remark that Susan thought meant more than its words.

‘Make sure you find your way back to the city after your tribal experience,’ grinned Ian Frazer.

‘I’ll let you know how I fare,’ she said brightly. Then with Andrew holding her elbow, they made a dash for the helicopter. She gave him a quick kiss and climbed on board before he ran to the front and gave his brother the thumbs-up.

Julian checked she was buckled in. ‘Worked out well. I was going into Kununurra. It’ll be a smooth flight. Give you another chance to look at the country.’

Andrew and his parents began to shrink as the helicopter rose above the homestead and turned to the west over red soil and sparse trees, the occasional brown shapes of cattle standing in shade. The water of the dam glittered in the sunlight and then they were above the scattered colours of the Yandoo blacks’ camp.

They didn’t speak any more as Susan watched the unfolding landscape with its spectacular gorges, sprawling bushland and hardening shadows as the sun rose in a sky so clear and blue that it dazzled the mind as well as the eyes.

She wondered what the next stage of her journey would be like.

Alan Carmichael lay in the snug cave of his doona while rain dribbled on louvres. A Melbourne morning: wet swaying shrubbery, grey light, faintly moaning wind.

He had even less inclination to get out of bed as he cradled his four-month-old son. He dozed as the gurgling baby pushed a small hand into any orifice he could explore. Fingers poked up his father’s nose, in the corners of his squeezed-shut eyes, inside ears, pulled at eyebrows and forced their way between smiling lips.

His wife Annie appeared in the doorway. ‘So how long are you going for this trip?’

‘Longer. I’m going to Bungarra then back to Kununurra to meet Beth Van Horton. She wants me to go on to Marrenyikka with a group of people she’s gathered. Daniel Ardjani has apparently agreed to take us to see the Wandjina cave art and sacred sites – if we can get in. It’s been years since any of the custodians of the Barradja art have been there.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘They’re on leasehold properties. The pastoralists don’t like the Aborigines going onto their land.’

Annie nodded understandingly. There always seemed to be a drama associated with her husband’s remote art trips. She wished she had the time to go with him but she was kept busy with the boutique she ran in Collins Street. She glanced at her husband snuggling back down under the doona and making faces at their son. Already the child was a miniature of his father. But Annie knew that similarity would soon be hidden when Alan returned from his expedition, sunburned, bearded and dishevelled. She was always secretly glad when, after a few days, he’d appear looking as he normally did in the gallery.

It was torpid late morning at Kununurra Airport. Passengers off the Ansett flight chatted amiably to each other and with friends meeting them. Susan sat in the relief of the cool lounge. She’d had to fill in the past twenty minutes after farewelling Julian, waiting for the taxis that were now starting to arrive to meet the Melbourne via Broome flight. As she queued with the passengers, she looked over her shoulder to find a man smiling at her. He pointed to the book she’d just closed, Images of Power, Aboriginal Art of the Kimberley, produced by the National Gallery of Victoria.

‘You’re interested in rock art?’ he asked.

‘I am, but I know nothing, so I thought I’d do a little homework before seeing some. Well, I hope I’ll see some. And you?’

He gave a modest shrug. ‘It’s my business. I’m an art dealer. Alan Carmichael.’

‘Susan Massey. So you buy from the artists up here?’

‘It’s a delicate and unpredictable routine. But essentially I have a group whose work I represent exclusively, plus I nurture new talent and pick up paintings which I think worthwhile. I only deal in quality works,’ he grinned. ‘What are you doing up here?’

‘I’m joining a group to go to an Aboriginal reserve.’

‘Are you with Beth Van Horton?’

‘Yes, how did you know?’ asked Susan.

‘It’s not so easy to get permission to stay at a place as remote as Marrenyikka. But Beth works with the Barradja. I’ve only been to the local town, Marrenjowen. Marrenyikka is the Barradja community’s winter dry season camp.’

‘So you know Beth? Are you going out there too?’

‘I am. I came in early to go to Bungarra to see some of my artists first. I don’t think the rest of Beth’s group is coming until tomorrow.’

‘That’s right. I took a detour and I’ve been visiting a friend’s property. And anyway, I thought I’d come early to get a few camping supplies. My local shops in Balmain didn’t have much in the way of outback survival gear. This is my first time out here.’ Susan couldn’t suppress the excitement in her voice.

‘An urban cowgirl, eh?’

‘Urban lawyer. Taking time out. I met Beth when I represented a friend of hers in court recently, and here I am. Do you know her well?’

‘Reasonably. We have a lot of contact because many of the artists I work with are Barradja. She’s come to Melbourne for a few of their exhibitions. Very interesting woman.’

‘She calls herself a cultural interpreter.’

‘I suppose there aren’t too many job descriptions for trying to translate one culture to another. The Barradja trust Beth. They let her speak for them. She says Ardjani has a plan that could help the future of this country and she sees her role as helping him build at least one bridge towards reconciliation.’

‘I’m fascinated to meet this Ardjani.’

‘Is that why you’ve come on this jaunt?’ asked Alan, opening the door to Susan’s cab. ‘Mind if I ride into town since I’m going to be travelling with you?’ Without waiting for an answer, he sprinted around the car and climbed in the other side, giving the driver instructions to her motel. He grinned at her surprise. ‘Beth’s booked the group in there. So, do you know who else is coming?’

‘It’s an interesting collection – a retired judge, a Queen’s Counsel, a girlfriend of mine who’s a radio journalist, and an Aboriginal actor and TV star.’

‘Be sure your friend speaks to Beth about what she can record and what she can’t. The Barradja are very sensitive. They have a formal protocol system, as I’m sure you know.’

‘No, I don’t know. I’m a bit sketchy on the pros and cons of Aboriginal protocol. I thought they were a pretty laid-back bunch of people.’

Alan grinned. ‘There’s a right way to do almost everything, from where you sit, what direction you face, who takes precedence over whom, when to speak, when to listen – it’s a very complex society. I’ve had to learn a lot in order to gain their trust and I’ve had to learn to appreciate their art for its meanings of law and kinship and not just its aesthetic value. It pays to have a patient nature.’

Susan found the quietly spoken art dealer an informed and articulate companion. As they were driven through the town, she asked Alan what his plans were for the rest of the day.

‘I’m going to hire a car to go to Bungarra.’ He paused and added, ‘Would you like to come? You might find it interesting. Different anyway,’ he laughed. ‘There’s a couple who have a big old house where the artists work each day. They’re the art coordinators, Judy and Max Osborne, and they’ll put us up. The place is full of paintings. Judy cooks, mixes paints, helps with any exhibition problems and records the curating details of each work.’

‘Sounds a busy place.’

‘It’s a bit like that.’

‘I’d love to go with you if I won’t be in the way. When did you plan to drive down?’

‘In an hour or so. I’ll check into the motel, get the car and set off. It’s about a six-hour drive, so we can be there before dark, spend tomorrow morning with them and be back at the motel after lunch.’

‘We’re all supposed to meet for dinner tomorrow night.’

‘The big gathering, eh?’ Alan gave a wry grin. ‘Do you suppose we’ll have annual get-togethers, like class reunions?’

‘Who knows, we could end up never wanting to speak to each other again,’ laughed Susan.

‘It won’t be a picnic, comfort-wise. But hopefully the cultural experience will make up for the aching backs.’

‘Will the mosquitoes be bad? What about snakes and spiders?’

‘Now you can’t worry about those kinds of things. You’re here, the decision’s been made, go for it – this is a big adventure, a unique experience. Not many Australians get this opportunity. And anyway, it gets cold at night, you can slap on some repellent and zip up your tent.’

‘Right,’ said Susan, not sounding convinced. ‘I hope we have tents, I’m not sure what the arrangements are. Beth said there was a bloke taking care of things. Do you know anything about our camping conditions?’

Alan shook his head as he went to retrieve his bag. ‘I’m used to a swag on the ground. It’s all experience, right?’

The experience began when they picked up an Aboriginal hitchhiker an hour out of Bungarra. The man threw a sports bag onto the back seat and heaved his youthful bulk into the car, his face glistening with sweat. ‘Man, it’s hot out there, no one’s come past for a couple of hours. AC, man, great.’ He leaned back savouring the gust of airconditioning, while his odour of stale beer and sweat recirculated through the rental car. Susan tried not to wrinkle her nose. She turned in her seat and asked him where he’d come from.

‘Just finished working on a mine site. I drive a cat. Going back in a couple of weeks, if the job’s still on.’

‘What sort of mine?’

‘Diamonds. It’s been a big one. Owned by some overseas mob. Always foreign blokes nosing around.’

Alan glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘What makes you say if the job’s still on?’

‘Nothing to do with me, mate. But I hear there mightn’t be as much work about. More rocks than stones,’ he grinned.

‘You mean the diamonds are running out?’ asked Susan straight out.

‘They say it’s got ten years’ worth of diamonds still on the lease but don’t you believe ’em. I got mates in crushing and sorting. They told me it’s more like two years. Same with lots of places.’

‘That could just be a rumour put out. They’ve made a lot of money out of Jimburra,’ remarked Alan.

‘I didn’t say I worked for Jimburra,’ said the man.

‘Aren’t too many significant mines around,’ winked Alan. ‘I won’t say anything. Not my field of interest.’

‘We’re not supposed to talk about the mine at all,’ said the still-sweating hitchhiker.

‘So who do you know in Bungarra?’ asked Susan to help him change the subject. He seemed nervous at what he’d already divulged.

‘My mum, uncle and aunties. They’ve been there a few years. Rest of my mob are back in Derby.’

They turned into the roadhouse that marked the turn-off to the artists’ colony. This catered to the locals, passers-by and tourists. Petrol, food, videos, souvenirs, a pool table and a few pot plants. Their passenger thanked them for the lift. ‘I’ll walk over to my place from here.’ He didn’t expect the couple, he thought to be tourists, would also be heading into his community. Alan refuelled the car, bought two cold cans of soft drink and they drove back onto the highway and into Bungarra.

Rows of seemingly die-cut houses, their similarity broken by variations of broken cars, kids’ toys, bikes and abandoned furniture. Occasional homes had straggling gardens. It had the air of a community that was meant to be temporary twenty years ago.

A teenage girl nursing a baby at her bursting breast walked slowly towards them. ‘Susan, ask her are Judy and Max around,’ said Alan.

Susan rolled down her window as they pulled alongside. The young mother gave a beatific smile and pointed behind her. ‘They’re at home. On the edge of the hill.’

Alan pulled the car up outside a rambling house built on poles with a spacious area beneath. A barbecue was crackling in the front yard and a woman in a Hawaiian muu-muu and a crocheted wool beanie was waving her arms at a bald solid man in shorts and T-shirt in charge of sizzling chops, sausages and steaks. In the yard, women sat at wooden tables spread with paint pots, while underneath the house several men were gathered in small groups. As they walked in, Susan could see several other men squatting on the sparse grass beneath trees at the back of the house.

Effusive introductions were made as Alan guided Susan from group to group. Judy linked her arm through Susan’s as Alan squatted by a silent old man who was concentrating on carefully re-creating row upon row of the bulbous rocks of the Bungle Bungles. ‘Jack isn’t being rude,’ she explained. ‘You can talk to him later. He doesn’t like being interrupted when he’s painting. Not like some of us. We love an excuse for a chat.’ She laughed. ‘You staying I hope. We’re cooking dinner soon. We like to eat before dark. So you an old friend of Alan’s or what?’ Her frank gaze was full of curiosity.

‘We just met at the airport, a coincidence as we’re both going to Marrenyikka with Beth Van Horton. Do you know her?’

Judy shook her head. ‘Yeah, not well though. So you going to see Ardjani’s mob. What for? What do you do?’

The questions were direct hits and Susan heard the wariness in her voice. She answered just as candidly. ‘There’s no agenda. It’s just a holiday with a difference. I met Beth and she asked if I wanted to join a group the Barradja were inviting here to experience their culture. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss.’

‘What’s Ardjani doing? Going into the tourist business?’ She relaxed and guided Susan to the group of women working in the front garden. They gossiped and laughed as they worked on the canvas before each of them. ‘Ladies, this is Susan. This is Rosie, Queenie, Ignatia, Jeannie.’ They beamed at Susan and moved up so she could perch on the edge of the bench. They were older women, plump in shapeless dresses, hair that was wispy and greying, wide smiles with missing teeth. The warmth in their faces and eyes and the good-natured voices were welcoming.

‘Sit, sit here, girl. You come say hello to the old ladies,’ said Queenie and the others cackled at her.

Rosie waved her hand at Susan. ‘Hey, you Alan boy’s girlfriend?’

‘No, goodness no. I just met him today.’

‘Then you be his girlfriend for today, eh? Hey, Alan, you be a fast worker, eh?’ shouted Queenie and Alan gave a grin.

‘You girls stop gossiping and keep working,’ admonished Judy. ‘Hey, Max, make a pot of tea,’ she called.

Susan watched the worn hands of the women artists deftly applying brush strokes and dots to their paintings as they continued to chatter. The men tended to work individually, sitting apart and concentrating. Occasionally one would call to the others to make a comment. One of the men finished a picture and he rose stiffly, stood back and looked at it, and then went over to Alan. Susan watched Alan study the finished work and she saw that the painter was surreptitiously studying him. Alan turned to the man and nodded. ‘It’s good, Charlie. You want to tell me this one?’

Alan and Charlie sat on the ground with the wet canvas and in great and lengthy detail, the artist pointed to every line, curve and mark, explaining its meaning and significance. Alan made notes as he spoke. Max appeared from the house with a video camera and filmed the painting and its artist.

‘Do you do that with every painting?’ asked Susan, as Judy spread mugs, a jug of milk, tea bags, a jar of coffee and a big bowl of honey on a table near the fire.

‘My oath we do. We’ll get more of the story tomorrow after it’s been mounted. A copy of the tape will go down to Alan with the painting. Max will also take a photo and put that and notes onto the computer file upstairs.’

Susan looked up at the rickety building that seemed the least likely place to house an art collection and a computer system. Judy saw her expression and chuckled. ‘Work done here can end up in top galleries overseas. We have to have its history curated and documented. Too many rip-offs happening. This mob is among the best in the country,’ she said proudly.

‘And Alan represents them?’

‘That’s right. He’s the most honest art dealer in Australia with the greatest understanding of it all. I don’t like them academic blokes and fancy art gallery people. Snobs for one thing and they want the credit instead of these fellas.’ She slapped old Charlie’s hand as he reached for the honey. ‘You drink him straight. You’ve had too much sweet stuff, your diabetes going to start playing up, then where we be, eh?’

Charlie shrugged and grinned at Susan as he bit into a plain biscuit. ‘Watch this old bird, she a tough one.’

‘And you better be glad I am,’ retorted Judy as she began pouring tea into mugs.

A utility truck and a Ford Fairlane pulled up at the gate, disgorging family and friends. Small children galloped to the old women and the young mothers and men joined the group around the fire. Soon the younger women were busy in the upstairs kitchen bringing salad, potatoes and plates of meat down. Alan chatted to the women as they packed up their half-finished work to make space for the evening meal.

It was twilight and Max turned on the outside lights, and chairs were moved to the front yard where Judy was throwing onions and meat onto the barbecue plate. Alan quietly led Susan around the informal art studio. ‘Some of these pieces are very good. Rosie and Charlie are doing wonderful work. As is old Jack.’

‘It all seems so casual; hard to believe these might hang in posh galleries and collections. Do ordinary people buy them?’

‘Judy keeps some on hand. Some people who collect art know to come here, but I get first look. You can get a good painting for a couple of thousand. They like working in a group, it’s cool under the house, Max and Judy look after their supplies, give them lunch and dinner and the environment kicks them along. They’re also quite competitive which is good.’

‘Do they ever copy each others’ ideas?’

‘Don’t need to, every man and woman has their story, their country and their Dreaming. They might do variations on those, but each is very separate from the other.’

‘It’s so different from our style of painting. There’s no perspective, it’s kind of literal, this is what this is and this is that,’ said Susan, who had never seen art like this before. She knew the X-ray style and dot paintings but these were so stylistic and simple, yet they looked sophisticated and modern.

‘Since the people here were introduced to Western painting they’ve developed their own way of storytelling. They don’t try to paint in a Western way as old Albert Namatjira did, they have their way of interpreting what they want to say. It’s like learning a foreign language. You look at the pictures and they seem so naive, so one-dimensional, so childlike almost. Until you have the key, until the artist explains it to you, and then the picture starts to make sense.’

‘It’s wonderful. I’d love to own one,’ sighed Susan.

‘Often people pay a lot of money for art and have no idea what they’ve bought,’ said Alan quietly. ‘They just buy a name or what they believe to be fashionable to have in their homes. Even tourists buying cheaply turned-out mass-produced Aboriginal artefacts have no idea of the basic cultural sense behind them.’

‘I suppose you can appreciate something so much more when the artist explains it,’ said Susan.

‘I think so,’ said Alan.

There was a commotion as another car pulled up and while Judy and Max handed out plates with steak and sausages to the men, Alan smiled and touched Susan’s arm. ‘This is a rare treat. The old man is here. Lucky Dodds, one of Australia’s greatest living painters. He’s a character, you’re fortunate to meet him. He’s getting on and doesn’t get out as much as he used to.’

Judy opened the small gate as two younger women helped the artist from the car. ‘Hey, Lucky. You come for dinner? We can have a party now.’ Judy took his arm and Max shook his hand.

‘How you doing, Lucky? Haven’t seen you for a couple of weeks, what you been up to?’

‘I been out in de long grass with a couple of girls,’ joked the old fellow.

‘I wouldn’t put it past the old bugger,’ chuckled Alan to Susan.

‘What rubbish you talk. You been laid up with that bad leg of yours. How is it?’ Judy supported his arm as his other pressed on a walking cane. ‘You’re doing real good, you come and sit down and get some tucker.’ As he came through into the yard, all attention was on the legendary artist who appeared to be in his eighties. He was short, with a mischievous smile giving him the look of a Cheshire cat, and eyes sparkling like gems in a face creased from years of hard knocks and laughter. He wore a denim cowboy shirt and a red patterned scarf was knotted at his throat. Jeans hung from his skinny hips held up by a belt with a big silver buckle.

They settled him in a chair and everyone clustered around him, pulling in seats, squatting on the ground. Lucky waved his cane in a regal gesture of greeting. As soon as he spotted Susan he waved her forward. Alan introduced her. The old man beamed and spread his arms. ‘I be Lucky Dodds and I had tea with de Queen of England. I be Lucky, eh?’ Everyone joined in his triumphant laughter and Susan glanced at Alan who nodded. ‘He did.’

‘So, dis be your woman, eh, Alan?’ The crowd roared and Susan hid her face in her hands.

‘No, no, Lucky. We’re going to visit Ardjani’s mob. Bunch of whitefellas are going to sit down and learn about the old ways.’

The old man’s jovial expression softened and he gave Susan a long look. ‘Dat be a good thing. Very good thing.’ Then like the master performer he was, he grinned at the crowd, pointing his stick at Susan. ‘Why you no come to Lucky? I show you de old ways. De best way. I be de best teacher for young girls, eh?’ He leered at the audience who roared appreciatively.

‘Lucky’s work is exhibited in many museums and galleries,’ said Alan. ‘He’s included in the significant collections around the world.’

‘Dat be right. Who dat fella from Broome got a big mob of my paintings, took dem back to England. You know de fella . . ?’

‘Oh, Lord . . . Lord . . .’ Alan fumbled to recall the name of Lord Alistair McAlpine, who had turned Broome into a tourist resort in the eighties . . . Lucky jumped in, ‘Dat’s him. Lord Jesus Christ! He got a big mob of my stuff. Big mob,’ he added delightedly, pleased at the burst of laughter from Susan and Alan.

Alan didn’t bother correcting him. ‘Lucky has travelled round the world many times with his work. Big government exhibitions, cultural exchanges and diplomatic functions.’

‘I be Australian ambassador,’ said Lucky. ‘Government bigwigs take me from my reserve and send me over dere to show dem foreigners what Australia all about. They take my paintings and want me to make a speech, but I dance for dem.’

Susan found the old man’s delight and pride somewhat poignant as she visualised him travelling from a shabby hut on a small reserve being trundled out at diplomatic receptions to be feted as a cultural icon, then shuffled back to his home. The foreigners wouldn’t know about that side of his life. ‘Did you like travelling overseas, seeing all those different places?’ she asked.

‘Too many people. Too cold. Sometimes dey make Lucky go places he don’t want to go. Even make me go to Japaaan!’ Here he rolled his eyes, and clutched his head and began to shake causing huge mirth.

‘Tell her the story,’ said Alan, as Judy handed around more plates loaded with meat, potatoes and salad. Susan followed the local etiquette, forks for the salad, fingers for the meat. She smiled encouragingly at Lucky as others egged him on. This was obviously a favourite story.

‘I no want to go to JAPAAAN,’ began Lucky. ‘Dey shoot at Darwin and Broome. I know all bout dat Japaaan place. I know about de war. No good. I no go to Japaaan.’ He shook his head from side to side. ‘But dem government people dey say I gotta go. Dem people want Lucky to dance and tell stories and show the pictures.’

‘It was about ten years ago, a big cultural event,’ whispered Alan to Susan.

‘I say, no. Lucky not going to Japaaan.’ Each time he drew out the name in rolling mock fearful tones. ‘But dey say, it be okay. Australian army and navy will look after Lucky. Government men promise Lucky. So I say, okay. I go. But my mob, dey say, you mad, Lucky. Government not going to send de army and navy look after one blackfella up dere in Japaaan. Ooh dear. I get on dat plane. And dey put me right in the back, up in him tail. And I cry, and I shake, and I shiver, all the way to Japaaan.’

‘He did too, wailed at the top of his voice the whole way. They reckon you could only see the whites of his eyes,’ Alan added.

‘When dey say dat plane going down into Japaaan, I get under de seat and I not going to get off. I wait till dat plane go back home to Australia. And dat lady she get mad at me ’cause I don’t get in de seat and put on de belt. She try to pull me out from under my seat, but I hang on. Tight.’

Here the crowd screamed. Lucky, grinning broadly, went on. ‘Den de captain fella come out and say, you look out de window, Lucky, de navy down there. Australian navy! And so I look and I see dem boats and I know dey is de Australian navy. See, dey tell Lucky dey look after him up dere in Japaaan and dey send de battleship and submarine!’ Some of the crowd clapped. Lucky looked at the audience and lowered his voice. ‘But when dat plane get down on de ground I get under my seat. Navy fellas too far away to help Lucky, I reckon. Den you know what happen?’ He looked around and everyone waited, knowing, but not daring to spoil his story. Susan stopped eating, riveted by the old man’s grand performance. ‘Everybody get off dat plane, ’cept Lucky, ’cause he not stupid. Den de captain fella come along again and say, what’s up? And I tell him I wait for dem navy boys. And DEN . . .’ he paused for effect, ‘and den de captain say, Lucky, de army boys are out dere! Australian army boys. But I don’t believe him. So the captain goes to de door and he say something to dem down there by de plane and the next thing I hear trumpets. And dey start playing “Waltzing Matilda”! And I look out de window . . . and sure enough, dere be dat Australian army! Dey come to look after Lucky! Imagine that!’

Over the burst of applause, Alan explained, ‘It really was the army band. The Minister of Defence was on the plane as part of this whole cultural extravaganza. The captain clued them all in about what was going on.’

Lucky rose to his feet and began jigging on the spot.

‘And so Lucky run down dem plane steps and I dance, man, I do a dance right dere, because I know I be safe. Australian army and Australian navy boys. Dey look after me . . . me, Lucky Dodds! I must be pretty important fella, eh!’ The wonderment of it all hadn’t dimmed and he raised his cane and took a bow.

Susan joined in the applause. ‘What an actor!’

‘First time I heard that story it took several hours to tell,’ said Alan.

It was cooling down and Judy and Max began collecting plates as the pot of tea was handed around once more. The mothers began reaching for cardigans and picking up children. Alan had a quiet word with some of the painters as Susan said goodbye to the women. They wanted to know why she wasn’t married, did she have babies, where was her family, her place? Susan answered, feeling inadequate. Everyone she’d talked to had a lengthy story about their family, their connections with each other, where their home places were.

Finally the visitors were tucked into cars, into the back of the utility, some of the men rode bicycles, and Lucky was put in the back seat of the Fairlane between two young women. He leaned over to speak to Susan at the car window. ‘You want t’come in here with Lucky? Plenty room on my lap,’ he chortled.

‘You’re wicked, Lucky. And it’s been an honour to meet you.’ She reached in and shook his hand.

‘You say hello to Ardjani. Tell him you’re my girlfriend and he’ll look after you real good. And you go to de art gallery and you look at Lucky’s paintings and you tell dem, you know me. You know Lucky Dodds.’

‘I will, Lucky. Take care and good luck.’

The girls waved goodbye to Susan as the old man’s last words floated over the gurgling engine. ‘I don’t need good luck. I am Lucky. Lucky Dodds.’

‘He’s a character, isn’t he,’ remarked Alan. ‘He doesn’t paint much any more, but when he has a good day, he’ll knock off something. And it’s breathtaking.’

They helped Judy and Max carry plates up the steps into the house. ‘His nieces brought round a painting last week. You’d better look at it, Alan,’ said Judy.

The inside of the house was a clutter of art supplies, framed and unframed paintings, a collection of carvings and artefacts, files, the computer corner and an area where Max helped with the framing. Judy turned around a painting that was facing the wall. Alan studied the white circles in the black and brown dunes and tracks. ‘Blue lily waterhole. He’s done it before, somewhat better. Did you see him work on this, or sign it?’ Alan looked at the scrawled ‘Lucky’ in one corner. ‘His signature for sure.’

‘No. That mob over there are keeping him there. He wants to work here with the others. They say it’s too much trouble, so they come and get stuff for him to work on there. It’s only a few minutes’ drive. But they keep saying he’s not up to it. I have my doubts about what’s going on,’ said Judy.

‘I reckon he does the outline and the others are doing the painting and getting him to sign it,’ said Alan. ‘His hands aren’t this steady any more. The work is too firm and sure. Young hands did this, I think.’ He straightened up. ‘I can’t take the risk, Judy. Unless we can document it, we can’t sell it as an authentic Lucky Dodds painting. Tell those women if he is working, Max must go over and watch him and film him. Otherwise they won’t get the proper money.’

‘They’ll siphon it off to people like that bastard who was here the other day,’ sniffed Judy. She turned to Susan. ‘There’s a dealer always hanging round, buys for private collections as well as several galleries who don’t check credentials too closely. Sends a lot to Japaaan as well.’

‘But don’t you look after them exclusively?’ asked Susan.

Alan shrugged. ‘They understand that, but this guy has been buying stuff from them – for peanuts – for twenty years. They think he’s a friend and they don’t like to say no to a friend. Sometimes they give him stuff unsigned, other times they get relatives to do the work, they sign it, and don’t think they’ve done anything wrong by me because they didn’t paint it. Exclusive and copyright are hard concepts to interpret.’

Max took several beers out of the fridge and handed them around as he turned on the computer and showed Susan how each artist had an illustrated biography with photographs of them working on each painting, which was catalogued with the story as told by the artist.

‘I had no idea it was so sophisticated,’ she exclaimed.

‘Aboriginal art is highly sought after by the international art market. I don’t think local institutions realise just how highly regarded it’s becoming,’ said Alan. ‘I have to deal with art bureaucrats here who are so up themselves. They’re protective of their petty power positions and they don’t always recognise the scope and quality of what these people are doing.’

‘That must be frustrating.’

Alan grinned at Susan. ‘I’ve stopped beating my head against a wall. The international heavies either walk in my door in Flinders Lane or I take it straight to Chicago, Paris or New York. But it is a shame some of our most significant work is leaving the country.’

Max yawned and turned off the computer. ‘Business is business. Let’s do the dishes.’

Susan ate one of Max’s special breakfasts of eggs, bacon, tomatoes and toast fried on the barbecue in the fat from last night’s meat. She sat in the garden savouring the smell of the fire and the strong coffee brewing for Alan. He’d risen early and walked the few hundred metres to the house where Lucky had stayed with relatives. He planned to have a quiet chat with the old man about his work to ensure it was done under some sort of protective supervision.

He returned and headed for the coffee pot. ‘It’s not espresso, but it smells good.’

‘Fruitful meeting, or was the old man exhausted this morning?’ asked Judy.

‘He’s still sparking along. I think he’s better than those women let on. We had a chat, so, we’ll see.’ He turned to Susan. ‘Ready to hit the road?’

Six hours later, they pulled into the Kimberley Moon Motel. A tourist coach waited in the driveway and an airport shuttle bus was parked behind it. ‘The first plane gets in at three, another at six, I gather we’re all meeting for dinner.’

‘That’s right. I think I’ll jump in the pool and have a shower and shampoo and walk around town. Alan, thanks again for letting me go with you yesterday. It was fascinating. I wish Veronica had been there.’

‘Yes, a journo would have got something out of it, I reckon. Still, you can tell her about it. And don’t forget, we’re going into the land of some of the oldest art on the planet.’

Rowena Singer stepped from the taxi and gazed at the double-storeyed stone house. It faced the Ludwigstrasse in a quiet section of Munich, cold, formal, impersonal. As was the manservant who ushered her into the small drawing room where she waited to be received by Count Gustav Lubdek.

She sat on the edge of an antique chair and reached for a heavy book on Persian carpets. Turning the pages she saw the brilliant rug beneath her feet was a mid-nineteenth century Kazakh.

The door opened quietly and the count came to take her hand, kissing the air above her fingertips. He sat opposite her.

‘It is good to see you here, my dear. I hoped you would come. I have been doing a little research about the ancient art of Australia since we spoke in Los Angeles.’

‘I’ve been thinking about it also. I’m returning to the Kimberley. Perhaps I can be of assistance to help you acquire a special piece for your collection.’

The collector smoothed his thin white moustache. ‘Yes. A very special piece. I believe I know what I’d like to add to my collection, my dear. I’ve spoken to my dealer in Zurich, but he tells me it will not be easy to obtain. However, he does have an extensive network of, how shall we say, operators.’

The manservant carried in a tray with a silver coffee service and set it down, pouring strong coffee into Dresden cups. When he left the room Gustav asked about her plans, seeking precise details about the relic she’d displayed in the study of her father’s house.

‘I stumbled on this place on a ranch called Eagle Rock, but I don’t know if I could find my way back again. However, I’ve heard one of the local pastoralists runs tours for wealthy Americans and Europeans.’

‘Can you arrange for two of my associates to take such a trip. It’s very important for me to have someone, like you, I can trust. My people prefer to travel in a group of tourists. It saves unnecessary questions. Later I will explain to you what it is I would like to acquire.’

‘I will make the bookings for one of these tours to the Kimberley as soon as possible and fax you the details.’

‘And, Miss Rowena, your fee for helping me?’ He gave a slight smile, raising an eyebrow.

Rowena returned his smile. ‘We discussed in Los Angeles my dream to make a documentary of a Kimberley tribe. I hope, since you are interested in ancient Australian culture, you will help to fund my project.’

A fatherly smile on his lips, the count gently held the shoulders of the woman whose troubled eyes fascinated him, and he pressed a kiss on her forehead.

‘It would be a privilege for me to help you document such an important culture,’ he murmured.

‘And . . .’ she added, ‘I would love to see your collection.’

They rode in a small elevator to cellars below the house that led to a nuclear fallout shelter. The security of this private domain was immediately apparent. She watched Gustav jiggle the combination on the double door lock.

He flicked on spot lighting and she couldn’t help but gasp. Nineteenth and twentieth century fine art filled the gallery. Renaissance paintings and impressionist pictures covered the walls. A gothic altar piece dominated one corner, attracting Rowena who was unaware that these had come from Jewish collections acquired by Nazi chieftains.

An easel draped in black velvet stood as centrepiece of the room and, when Gustav lifted off the cloth with something of a magician’s flourish, Rowena recognised a Picasso. She’d read it had disappeared from a museum in France. She made no comment, but caught Gustav’s amused eye.

She walked away from the old count and began to study a small relief. ‘It’s from the amber room of the Tsar’s summer palace in St Petersburg,’ the voice behind her explained. ‘The walls were panelled in amber, set with little reliefs such as this.’

She moved to a collection of primitive Cambodian Khmer art from Angkor Wat along with large stone figures and heads stripped from Inca sites in South America.

‘I appreciate you showing me this. It’s wonderful. I understand why you would want to add something from ancient Australia,’ she said.

‘I rarely allow visitors in here, my dear. It is the ultimate pleasure of possession, to be able to gaze in solitude at such beauty whenever I so choose. Now you can understand the trust I have placed in you.’

‘Who has bought these for you?’

He answered frankly. ‘I have a German dealer in Zurich. He hears when other collections are quietly sold back onto the market. They’re sold through what we call the grand storehouse.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Not its official name, my dear. The world’s secret riches are housed in a warehouse in Geneva. Swiss banks and private security firms store their valuables there. My dealer has taken me into it. It is quite an experience. I am told one could find in there Mobutu’s fortune, treasures from the Marcos collections, Holocaust gold, all manner of private acquisitions.’

Rowena had noticed his use of the word to cover the illicit hoardings of eccentric, wealthy individuals. As the elevator returned them to the upper level, she felt the task of acquiring a valuable piece of Aboriginal art did not seem so impossible.

‘I will be in touch with details of our Kimberley project,’ she told the old man, as he farewelled her in the hall.

‘I hope you, too, accomplish your mission in that wild land.’

The manservant swung open the solid front door. ‘I hope so too. Goodbye, Gustav.’

The Ord River settlement of Kununurra was a town geared for tourists with a casual way of welcome from its obviously close-knit and cheerful community. Shopkeepers liked to chat, tell stories and offer advice and directions. Susan bought a pair of woven string sneakers made in France, and a canvas fishing hat made in China with an attached fly veil that covered her face and the back of her neck. It even had a drawstring should she want to be sure nothing got near her eyes and mouth. She found the main supermarket and picked up more fly and mosquito repellent, sun block and, on a whim, a couple of packets of Minties.

Going through the checkout, she looked at the soapie stars on the covers of the women’s magazines that suddenly seemed another world away. With a grunt of frustration and derision, the woman in front of her scooped up her few purchases and went to another line. As Susan put hers on the conveyor belt to wait her turn, she saw why the woman had moved away. Holding up the system was an Aboriginal man and his son.

The man was swaying, dropping and fumbling for money. Two cartons of cheap wine in plastic bags were in front of him, while he was trying to pay for a few groceries and a pile of sweets and chocolates. His eyes were red and rheumy, his voice slurred, and he reeked of alcohol. The checkout girl, looking bored and long-suffering, simply waited. Helping the old man, with patience and kindness, was his son. He was about seventeen, well built, nicely dressed in a clean T-shirt with the logo of a football team across it. He wore neat shorts and good running shoes. His dark curly hair was well cut and he looked healthy, bright and handsome.

‘Here, Dad, let me get it out.’ He took the wallet and pulled out the cash and handed it to the girl. The transaction completed, the boy handed the bag of sweets to the man, took the other bags with one hand and put the other under the shaking man’s elbow.

‘Where’s me grog, Pete, don’t leave it, Pete . . .’ he stuttered.

‘I’ve got it, Dad. You’ll be right, come on now.’ He was well spoken and respectful. Susan stared at the pair, a lump in her throat at the tenderness of the boy, ignoring everyone while treating the old drunk that was his father with affection and kindness.

The girl began ringing up Susan’s purchases and she turned back to the cashier. ‘Is that his son?’

‘Yeah, bloody pathetic isn’t it. Pete’s captain of our footy team. He’s real talented. Been on TV shows and everything and his old man’s a pisspot. Like most of them.’

‘Your football star seemed very thoughtful.’

‘Yeah, well he’s got money and gets out of here to travel and stuff. His old man drinks his pension and whatever Pete gives him. Pete’s one of the lucky ones. If he couldn’t play football he’d probably be down the pub too. Anything else?’

Susan shook her head. She felt on overload, with so many different impressions hitting her from the minute she’d met Alan at the airport. She went back to the motel room, turned on the airconditoning and lay on the bed.

A breeze was beginning to cool the twilight. Lights in the motel revealed families watching TV. Susan passed the laundry area, a women’s social centre of whirring machines, romping children and lines of washing. Young people lounged around the outside bar.

Dusty cars and campers, parked nearby, would carry these resting adventurers to faint dots on maps, and what would they see? How far off the thin red line of the road map would they venture? Would they go home having really seen – seen with every sense – this remote chunk of the continent? Would they want to camp in the middle of nowhere with a group of Aborigines?

She walked along the cement path, lined with glowing bougainvilleas rooted in red dirt, up the steps, and through glass doors lettered in gold, Wanderlust Bar.

It was every bar of every large motel resort in holiday Australia. Large counter, tables and stools filled with happy drinkers. Unmemorable decor, loud music, TV in the corner, the smell of Chinese food from Digby’s Restaurant adjoining, photos of crocodiles and boab trees silhouetted against a sunset. She headed into the beer garden where a smaller bar area was less frenetic.

Veronica stood and waved, a beacon rising from a cluster of people at tables that had been pushed together. Susan felt she was walking in slow motion, these last steps protracted, a feeling that once she joined this group she was committed to going forward with them.

Veronica gave her a hug and then Susan saw Beth smilingly hushing the rest. ‘Our lost lady lawyer Susan Massey’s here, everyone. Where’s Alan? What did you do with him?’

‘I have no idea. We got back from Bungarra well before dark.’ She looked round at the blur of faces. This was like the first day at school, but Alistair MacKenzie and Judge Mick Duffy greeted her effusively.

Billy, introduced as their driver, was a stocky, ruddy-faced farmer. Then there were two unfamiliar women. One was a small lady, who must have been close to eighty. The other was around fifty, elegant, with a polite but formal manner. She was dressed in pressed white linen slacks and white silk shirt. Thinking of the devastating red dust she’d seen the day before, Susan wondered what the rest of Rosalie Ward’s Kimberley wardrobe contained. Beth explained, ‘Rosalie is joining us for dinner before flying back to the property she and her husband own a little to the north of here. Rosalie has turned her homestead into a showplace.’

‘Way out there?’ commented Alistair.

‘We have been featured in several quality magazines,’ Rosalie said calmly.

‘A spread in A Country Life obviously justified the effort then,’ said the judge drily.

‘And this is my friend, Esme Jordan,’ said Beth. The older woman firmly gripped Susan’s hand. The sparkle in her eyes made Susan warm to her immediately.

‘Are you coming with us, Esme?’

‘Not this trip. Been some time since I was in Barradja country. My work has kept me in my nest here in Kununurra. I spend most of my days desk-bound. Writing. But I’ll get out soon enough.’

‘Esme is an anthropologist, philosopher, lecturer and all-round wise woman. Taught me heaps.’ Beth squeezed the old woman’s hand. Susan immediately wanted to know more. Esme looked like an adventuress from the turn of the century. A long skirt, embroidered blouse, and a lorgnette hanging on a fine gold chain. Her hair was looped in a high bun with a hairpin stuck through it.

‘Want another of those triple orgasms that you’re drinking?’ asked the judge with a wink.

Esme handed over her glass. ‘A gin and tonic will do nicely thanks, young man.’

The group laughed as the retired judge, now in his seventies, headed obediently to the bar.

‘So what have you been up to, Susan? Scouted out the lay of the land?’ Alistair MacKenzie was dressed in jeans and a designer T-shirt looking like a clean scout on his first day at camp.

‘I’ve had a fascinating time. I met Alan Carmichael, the art man, at the airport and he took me to Bungarra to meet the Barradja artists. It’s an incredible world. I do hope we get to see more of the art, especially the rock art.’ Susan turned to Veronica. ‘You would have loved it.’

As if on cue, Alan appeared. His greying hair, thick and unruly, had been smoothed in place. Freshly showered, he wore a clean white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black jeans with Italian black leather boots. Veronica gave Susan a look across the table. They had some serious catching up to do later.

The QC was impressed Susan had met Lucky Dodds. ‘He’s a national treasure. I have one of his paintings. Bought it years ago, couldn’t afford him now.’

‘You collect a bit of art, do you, Alistair?’ asked the judge.

‘Here and there. What about you?’

‘Nope. I had a collection of barbed wire for a bit. And knots. I’m great at knots.’

‘Barbed wire?’ asked Veronica with raised eyebrows. ‘Knots?’

‘My oath. You’d be amazed at how many types of barbed wire there are. Different styles and patterns. Going back to the old days. My last wife went and chucked it out. So that was the end of that.’

‘I heard you were writing your memoirs, Mick,’ said Alistair. ‘You had a colourful life before coming to the bar.’

‘Yeah. Well we won’t go into that. Gave the memoirs idea away. Too many people could’ve sued. Seemed a bit of an ego trip anyway.’

‘Now, Mick, that’s no excuse. You’ve been part of the legal history of this country, you should tell the behind-the-scenes of some of it. Expose some of those moralising do-gooders for the power-crazed greedy manipulators they really are,’ said Beth.

‘Like I said, defamation suits would’ve rained on me like confetti.’

‘You just need a good lawyer,’ grinned Alistair, who’d won a number of spectacular defamation suits. ‘And think of the publicity for your book.’

Rosalie, the pastoralist’s wife, looked pained. ‘I don’t believe one should wash dirty linen in public. I think you’re quite right to maintain a dignified silence.’

‘I’m not being dignified or silent, I’m just not writing a book,’ said Mick Duffy, downing his beer.

Esme spoke up in a clear, firm voice. ‘If one knows about corruption or misuse of power or any wrongdoing in an area you can expose, I believe one has a moral duty to do so. Staying silent is the cause of the apathy that is ruining this country. I’ve always spoken out.’

‘And always been in strife for it,’ added Beth. ‘Be honest, Esme, would you really put yourself through all of that again, for a principle that cost you at least one career?’

‘I most certainly would. In fact, I’m probably about to dive into another controversy in the coming months. You don’t lose your principles and beliefs along with your eyesight, hearing, hair and teeth, you know.’

‘Bully for you, Esme, you’re my kind of girl,’ exclaimed the judge. ‘Let me buy you another drink.’

‘I’m doing very nicely thank you.’ She took a sip of gin.

Susan added, ‘I hope I’m as strong as you, when I’m your age. I wish you were coming with us, Esme.’

‘I’m too busy,’ said Esme.

‘So, Alan, tell us about the art we might see out . . . where exactly are we going again?’ asked Veronica turning to Beth.

‘The King Edward River. Wandjina country. The country of the Barradja people is a sanctuary protected by the Wandjina spirits.’

‘So what exactly are . . . is . . . a Wandjina?’ asked Veronica.

Beth lit a cigarette and spoke through a plume of smoke, her voice taking on what the group would come to recognise as her interpreter’s tone. ‘They’re the creator spirits . . . but the most powerful. We say “they” but it’s unclear whether it is plural or one all-powerful spirit. The Barradja believe they were once in human form and came from the clouds. They walked the country when it was soft like a jelly, creating the landscape, and then went back into the earth leaving their images on the rocks, in shelters. The halo effect around their heads on the paintings represents the clouds and lightning.’

‘So the Barradja believe that the paintings weren’t done by certain people, they just appeared there?’ asked the QC, clarifying the point. And as Beth nodded and dragged again on her cigarette, he added, ‘It’s a hard concept to grasp.’

‘It’s at the core of their belief system, their law. The spirits of the Wandjina are immortal; they are the creators of this land, and they’re very powerful and must be honoured and treated with respect. Anger them, and you’ll be punished.’

‘Haven’t there been some wild theories about these paintings over the years?’ asked the judge. ‘I’ve read that they inspired Erich von Daniken’s book, Chariots of the Gods.’

‘Who found them?’ asked Susan.

‘The custodians and law men have always known about them. It’s part of their law to observe ceremonies and care for them. But in recent years that’s proved difficult. Ardjani will talk to you about their significance. But, Susan, the Wandjina figure was first recorded by white men when explorer George Grey went looking for an inland sea in 1837. I bet he felt spooked when he found himself being watched by a giant figure on the rock,’ laughed Beth.

‘What did he make of it?’

‘He wrote of it as an ancient figure in clothing wearing a halo with old script on it. He probably saw it as biblical. A hundred years later explorers started photographing and speculating and they came up with everything from aliens to Macassans, Hindus, Asians, all number of cultures they presumed had passed through.’

‘Nobody asked the Aborigines, one assumes?’ commented Judge Duffy.

‘Do modern Barradja Aborigines subscribe to the view of continuity since creation?’ asked Alistair MacKenzie.

‘You’ll find Ardjani interesting on that,’ said Beth. ‘They have never questioned such a theory. Never needed to. It’s their belief in law and culture.’

Susan listened to the two legal men, wondering where their train of questioning was leading. Then Esme jumped in with surprising acerbity. ‘Ivory-tower academics. They go at things from the wrong end of the stick, time and again. It’s the people who get out in the field, the archaeologists, anthropologists, palaeontologists, art historians, the people who go and look at the things with clear eyes, clear heads, talk to the local people and really listen, and haven’t written their paper before they get there, they’re the ones who start to see the true picture. Politicians, bureaucrats . . . psshaw . . . they’re as bad as academics.’

‘I don’t know about you people but I would like to eat,’ announced Rosalie, stopping the conversation dead.

Beth whispered to Veronica beside her. ‘Don’t mind old Esme, she’s somewhat bitter about the tertiary scene. She had a falling out years ago and funds for her research were cut off by the university. Long story. Tell you round the campfire one night.’

‘I’m looking forward to these fireside chats,’ said Veronica as the group began to rise from the table. ‘What are we eating?’

‘Looks like motel Chinese,’ shrugged Alan.

‘Beth, aren’t there any other choices in town?’ asked Mick Duffy.

Beth checked her watch. ‘There are, but by the time we get served and straggle back it will be late and frankly, I don’t think any of the girls should walk without a bloke, it’s a bit dangerous.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Listen to Billy, he’s in charge till we get to Marrenyikka.’

Billy tucked in his shirt and cleared his throat. ‘Reckon we need to get away no later than 5 a.m. Be at the front entrance with your gear between four thirty and quarter to five.’

Veronica, not an early riser, stared at Susan, her jaw dropping. ‘The man is mad.’

‘What are we travelling in? Is it airconditioned?’ asked Susan.

‘You bet. All mod cons. Made in Western Australia. It’s an Oka.’

‘I’m not travelling in an okker,’ hissed Veronica in mock alarm.

‘You’ll be asleep, you won’t notice,’ retorted Susan.

‘No sleeping in the Oka. Too much to see and learn. Best part of the trip,’ declared Beth joining them as they moved towards Digby’s Restaurant. ‘Get some fruit and bread rolls to take with you for an early breakfast, nothing will be open.’

It was still dark as the two legal men stood at the shut and silent entrance to the motel. Mick Duffy sniffed the air. ‘Piccaninny daylight they call it out here. Or at least they used to. You can smell dawn coming. A blind man could tell it’s coming. Feel that breeze? Feels soft, like in some far-off place the sun is starting to warm the sky.’

‘You miss those days in the bush, when you were a youngster, Mick?’

‘Yeah. I also did a stint in a mine at the Isa. Took off to find opals and sapphires. Had a bit of luck, but mostly bad luck. Decided to go back to the city. But some things about the bush never leave you, isn’t that what they say out here?’

‘I don’t know. I never experienced the genuine thing. I’m a city boy from generations of city lawyers. Sleeping on the beach after a surf club party has been about as rugged as I’ve known.’

‘No camping, caravan holidays?’ The judge gave him a pitying look.

‘No. I suppose this will make up for it. I always felt I was deprived of those particular boyhood experiences. We used to spend holidays at our family beach house.’

Beth appeared silently behind them. ‘Morning, gentlemen. You are not the people I had imagined would be ready first.’

‘We can look after ourselves. Those sheilas are the ones that need rounding up,’ grinned Mick.

Alistair glanced at his watch. ‘Ten to five. Deadline approaches.’

The sound of a motor and a set of headlights bore towards them, the brightness bouncing off the glass front doors. It was a rugged-looking vehicle. Capable of seating ten people, it wore a square hat of a railed roof rack and at its tail was a squat van-like trailer.

The Oka stopped and Billy swung down and hurried to Beth, apologetic. ‘Sorry I’m late, had trouble with the trailer. So where’s everybody?’ he mumbled. ‘It’s going to take time loading the gear up top.’

‘Good morning, William,’ said Beth pointedly, but with a smile. ‘Calm down, we’ll get there. Here’s two blokes, there’s their stuff.’ She pointed at the duffle bag and smart suitcase. ‘You blokes get first pick of the seats. Hop on board.’

Billy looked troubled. ‘Not good to start like this. If they can’t get together on time first morning out, it’ll only get worse. When we break camp we should be up and away, breakfast done in an hour. Be hanging round all morning at this rate,’ he grumbled, as he mounted the small iron ladder attached to the side and flung the judge’s duffle bag on top.

‘You want our stuff?’ Susan and Veronica appeared dragging their gear forward. Both carried plastic bags and large carry-alls to keep with them in the Oka.

‘What’s all that?’ asked Beth.

‘Things to keep us occupied in the bus. Food, magazines, bottled water, you said to bring breakfast, so we grabbed stuff from the restaurant last night.’

‘Cold spring rolls. Ugh.’

‘Carry breakfast and water, that’s all you need.’ Beth watched Billy stow her only luggage, a small sports bag, on the roof. ‘Right. Just Alan to come. He was last to leave the restaurant, said he had a phone call to make. It was late, so I left him.’

‘Maybe someone better get him. I bet he’s still sleeping. You should all have arranged to wake each other, or used an alarm clock,’ said Billy, standing by the door looking worried.

Beth stepped out of the Oka. ‘I’ll get him.’ She strode into the dim gardens.

Inside the van, they left the front seat behind Billy for Beth, and Veronica and Susan took one side. Mick headed straight to the back seat. ‘Always sit in the back seat. Always have.’ Alistair sat opposite him. ‘This is first class back here, eh?’ commented the judge. ‘Nice upholstery, individual aircon units, tinted windows, plenty of room. I can camp in here for a bit, no trouble.’

‘Four-wheel drive, of course,’ said Veronica.

‘You bet, with forward control. She’s the best, this baby.’ Billy saw Beth approach alone, and stepped down to meet her.

‘Billy told me last night he thought this trip would be a feather in his cap and he’d be able to promote his tours a lot better after this,’ said Veronica. ‘I got the impression he might want to run his own trips up here.’

Beth appeared in the doorway and held up her hands in despair. ‘He’s not coming.’

‘What!’ Susan was immediately disappointed. ‘We can wait for him, can’t we?’

‘He’s going to join us later today. He’s going to ask Rosalie for a lift in her plane. We’ll pick him up at The Avenue, the Wards’ place. It’s not out of the way.’

‘Has he overslept? Surely we can wait a bit?’

Beth settled herself in the front seat. ‘Business. Some big deal that has to be fixed now. He’s on the phone with a European dealer sorting out a problem with an overseas exhibition. We’ll check in with him in a couple of hours to make sure we get him from the Wards’ place.’

‘How are we going to do that?’

Billy stuck his head in the door and pointed to the long silver aerial on the bonnet. ‘Radio phone. Only communication that works out there.’

Billy swung into the seat and ran through his control check like a pilot. They drove into the hint of dawn light and, as they left the sleeping town of Kununurra behind, a silence fell over the small group.

Forty minutes later they were rolling down the smooth bitumen, past irrigated fields – a legacy of the Ord River Project. ‘It’s taken forty years but the Ord is finally paying its way,’ commented Mick. ‘You wouldn’t have been born when it started in 1958, Susan.’

‘The idea started earlier than that, Mick,’ interrupted Beth. ‘Kimberley Durack started experimenting back in the late thirties. It was a simple idea, throw enough water at the rich clay soil and you could grow anything.’

‘Except they picked the wrong crops, didn’t they?’ asked Veronica.

‘They started with cotton but, by the early 1970s, some caterpillar and the end of government subsidies had killed it off.’

Alistair picked up the story from Beth. ‘They tried rice next. What the magpie geese didn’t eat, economic factors finished.’

‘You know what saved the Ord River Project?’ Mick was emphatic. ‘Cutting out government handouts and making farms pay their own way. Should be more of it in other sectors.’

‘They grow rockmelons, cashews, peanuts, chickpeas, grain, sorghum, bananas today, and there’s a lot of feed being grown to fatten up cattle for export to Asia.’ Beth sighed. ‘There’ve been so many big changes in the cattle industry. Now it’s road trains instead of those long cattle drives on the stock route.’

After watching the first hues of lavender and lemon dribble across the deep violet sky, Beth turned to the group again. ‘This is the night raking up the dawn. Like pulling a curtain, the night rakes away the darkness to reveal the piccaninny light. This is a special time for the Barradja. I will try to explain how they feel.’ She smiled. ‘This is my official cultural interpreting.’ Her voice took on a strong resonance. ‘When the morning star pales beneath the veil of dawning, the Barradja people say that inside them they feel the wudu, the knowledge and the vision, like the first flickering of a fire. Each day is a new beginning, a gift from the Daughter Sun whose Mother Earth reflects her beauty and life in nature’s growth.’

As the first light glowed, Beth told them the story of the snake that bites the sun and causes her to sink down the sky into the embrace of her mother.

Her gentle interpretion of the dawn floated in the confines of the cabin as the Oka skittered across the stony and scrubby landscape.

Billy drove into the brightness of morning, steelrimmed aviator glasses secured to his nose, his attention on the road, alert for kangaroos, emus or giant goannas that might dash from the scrub. The great Ord River farms gave way to Crown land that bordered million-hectare cattle stations, the heavy-duty tyres of the Oka rolling over land created millions of years ago.

‘There are stories out there that we will never know,’ said Beth softly. ‘But certain eyes with knowledge can see into the past and the future and tell us things, if we listen. The Songmaster for one.’

‘Who is the Songmaster?’ asked Veronica. ‘Will we meet him?’

Beth shrugged. ‘If he wishes. This is where we adopt Aboriginal thinking. Maybe we will, maybe we won’t. Whatever happens, that’s the way it is.’ She gave a broad smile. ‘It’s an attitude whitefellas find frustrating. The concept of planning, schedules, organisation, even time, doesn’t exist for the Barradja. They don’t even have a word for time.’

‘How can one live without an awareness of time?’ asked Susan.

‘For the Barradja, time is eternal. A space all around, not a sense of forward or backward.’

‘So how do they keep tabs on where they’re supposed to be?’ asked Veronica.

‘They break what we call time into cycles. Each person can be in ordinary time, social time, Dreaming time, or spiritual time – which means you live and will keep living. You have to learn to time your life by the rhythms of the earth.’

‘Right.’ Veronica took off her watch, grinning. ‘I’m going onto local time, where there is no time. Might as well get into the swing of it.’

The others in the bus followed suit, though Alistair hesitated, looking at his expensive gold watch.

‘You still on Mosman time?’ grinned the judge.

They passed around Billy’s map and tried to imagine what they’d find at the end of this journey – Marrenyikka was not marked on the map. Several hours later, Beth’s announcement of a break for a proper breakfast was greeted with enthusiasm. Billy turned onto a dirt road. The signpost read, El Questro.

‘It’s a camping area the owners have developed in addition to the main homestead, which is very glamorous, very expensive. A dream come to fruition for a young English couple. The jetsetters fly in and stay at the homestead. We’re going to the more down-market travellers’ camping area but it’s still charming,’ explained Beth.

Several log cabin-style buildings housing a restaurant with a verandah and bar, a shop and community facilities were set in lawns and shady trees. Billy parked in the small parking lot and everyone got out, stretching stiff legs and backs. There was a barbecue area where tourists were cooking bacon and chops. From the restaurant came the smell of coffee and toast. The group settled themselves on the verandah, most ordering the bacon, chops and eggs with tomato.

‘This isn’t how I imagined our first meal in the wilderness,’ declared Alistair looking appreciatively at his eggs benedict.

Later they examined the permanent camping sites – family-sized tents, secured in small gardens like play houses, where a man was seated in a canvas director’s chair reading a book.

‘You look like you’re settling in for a long stay,’ said the judge. ‘I’m Mick, from Sydney.’

‘Frank, Melbourne. Bloody wonderful, isn’t it? Spectacular scenery, Emma Gorge is up there. Two kilometres, bit of a hike but worth it. Beautiful swimming hole. My kids are up there already, the wife has gone horse riding, but this suits me. We came for two days and we’ve been here a week.’

‘I’d love to get up that gorge,’ said Alistair wistfully.

‘Sorry about that, Alistair,’ said Billy. ‘No time, I’m afraid. Have to keep moving, I don’t want to try getting into Marrenyikka in the dark. There’s no real road and Beth has pretty flimsy instructions. And we have to pick up Alan yet.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of the schedule – that’s whitefella thinking, right?’ Alistair grinned at Beth, who nodded approvingly. ‘I have old rugby knees. Makes hiking difficult, anyway.’

‘Back on board,’ Beth ordered. ‘Let’s move on. Next stop is for lunch at Avenue Station while we wait for Rosalie’s plane to come in.’

Down the front of the Oka, the young solicitor and the QC chatted easily. Any reserve of age that might have existed between the two lawyers dissolved like morning mist as they shared the magic of their first hours in the Kimberley. Susan recounted details of the Barwon case. Veronica, who’d moved to the back of the bus to talk to the judge, had Mick reminiscing. She chuckled at his rolling routine of anecdotes and suddenly opened her bag.

‘Do you mind if I tape some of this?’ she asked.

The judge shrugged. ‘What the heck for? Who’d be interested in the ramblings of a dotty old codger like me?’

‘Modesty doesn’t suit you, Mick. You’re a famous judge, you tell a fabulous story, and you’ve had a fascinating life. And dotty is not a word I’d use to describe you or what you’ve done,’ she admonished.

‘I’ve done some pretty wild and stupid things in my time. And had a few wins along the way, I suppose,’ he conceded.

Veronica fiddled with her tape recorder, plugging in the small microphone she held between them. ‘Okay, so what was Western Australia like when you first came here as a young bloke?’

Mick began talking, the natural raconteur, comfortable with an audience, pleased with the attention.

Beth shifted in her seat and smiled to herself.

Alistair MacKenzie stared out the wide front windscreen ahead. Susan looked at the QC’s profile. Despite the pudginess around his jaw and the furrows running beside his mouth, he was still a handsome man. She had seen him in action in court. When he was summing up to the jury, he attracted an audience of youthful acolytes, keen to see the master in action. She knew he could be arrogant, intimidating, coolly erudite, reducing powerful men to stammering incoherency. Yet now a sadness shadowed his face, and clouded his eyes.

‘So, my learned friend, tell me why you decided to come on this trip?’ Susan smiled at him.

He was silent, before running his tongue over his lips. He spoke in a soft voice. ‘You get to a point in your life – for I was as enthusiastic as you, my dear – when you ask yourself why.’

She waited, then repeated, ‘Why?’

‘Why am I doing what I’m doing? Am I happy?’

He waited for her prompt. ‘And the answers . . .?’

‘Are not pleasant to contemplate. As a child I believed I wanted to be a scientist. Peering down a microscope at bugs and molecules, finding answers to disease, and what we’re all made of. My parents did not see much of a future for an anonymous cog in a white coat in a laboratory. I was bright and I was designated to fulfil their dreams. And so I did what was expected of me to continue the family tradition, and I won a scholarship to study law. And here I am.’ He gave her a rueful smile.

‘But surely you feel proud of what you have achieved?’ persisted Susan, wondering at her audacity. This man was a god in her world.

‘My emerging dissatisfaction with life has come from assessing what I’ve achieved. My conclusion is, I’ve made a lot of money for already wealthy corporations, individuals and myself. And it occurs to me, as I look at myself in the mirror each morning, that this is not enough. I have begun to worry I will not be admitted through those pearly gates until I have given something back. I’m not sure how, but when Beth suggested I meet these law men under the stars in the Kimberley, I hoped I might be able to learn something from them. I don’t see it as white arrogance meeting black spirituality. But I would like to consider myself humble enough to hope that I can discover a sense of serenity, whatever you want to call it, that will sustain me in my old age. Dispirited is not a state I enjoy.’

Susan was surprised at the QC’s revelation. She opened a packet of sweets and passed them round as Billy announced, ‘Another hour and we’ll be approaching the turn-off to Avenue Station. We’ll pull over when we spot some shade and see if we can raise them on the radio.’

The women sat with their bare feet dipping in a cool creek that danced over round smooth stones. The men wandered behind trees, chatting, while Beth passed around shortbread biscuits and cool bottles of soft drinks out of the portable ice-filled cooler packed in the van. When he had made contact on the radio phone with Frank Ward at The Avenue, Billy signalled Beth over. ‘The plane isn’t in yet. It’s due in about two hours. Frank says to drive in and park down by the airstrip.’

‘Lunch?’ mouthed Beth. Billy shook his head and gave a wry grin, raising the microphone to his mouth. ‘We have passengers on board who are ready for lunch, do you have any objection to us lighting a small fire?’

The pastoralist’s voice crackled tersely back to Billy. ‘Keep it small and water it down when you leave. I trust you are aware of bush etiquette. This is private property, not a campsite.’

‘Message understood, thanks for your hospitality,’ said Billy politely.

‘Hos-bloody-pitality!’ growled the judge beside him. ‘People in the bush have changed since my day. We’d have had the barbie going and half a steer cooking. People on these isolated stations used to love company. How many bloody picnickers would wander through their bloody station?’

‘Too many bloody picknickers, unfortunately,’ countered Beth. ‘It’s not like the old days. People think they can go anywhere, use the properties, and leave their mess all over the place.’

Billy climbed on board and called to everyone, ‘Let’s get going, it’ll be mid-afternoon by the time we arrive, make lunch, and the plane gets in. We can move out straight after that. How does corned beef and salad sandwiches sound?’

‘Bloody humdinger,’ said Mick. ‘Any mustard pickles?’

‘Home-made by my missus,’ replied Billy. ‘Good to have a fellow connoisseur of fine food on board.’

They saw why the station was named The Avenue. The first settlers had planted rows of massive gum trees on either side of the three-kilometre track leading to the homestead. Now stately and creased in old age, their branches provided a curtain of shade along the road that welcomed visitors to Rosalie and Frank Ward’s grand house. But Billy turned the Oka off inside the first gate to park beneath three young trees at the edge of the dirt airstrip. A truck was pulled up to a shed close by, but it appeared deserted.

‘Where are all the cattle, the stockmen galloping, the stuff you see in the movies?’ asked Veronica, as they stepped from the Oka into dazzling midday sun. All around was quiet.

Billy opened one side of the trailer, sliding out a metal chiller on runners. From this he took milk and butter. ‘Last of the fresh milk, be on the Long Life stuff after this. Gather some wood for the fire,’ he asked.

They boiled the billy and had tea and sandwiches sitting under the shade of the trees. Billy offered cushions from the Oka, but the men squatted on the ground and the three women sat along a log. ‘You look like crows on a fence,’ commented Mick.

‘He’s a charmer,’ said Beth.

‘He gives good interviews,’ grinned Veronica.

Beth sipped her mug of tea and put it back on the ground between her feet. ‘You reckon you could get a story out of this trip, Veronica?’ she asked slowly.

The way Beth asked, Veronica didn’t answer instantly. Her professional assessment of a story’s potential had been finely honed over many years and while she had no doubts that here were the ingredients for a radio documentary, she liked to be in charge. She’d recognised straight away that Beth was a forceful woman who would want to take control of any situation. ‘I would say so. But I’d have to do it my way,’ she said, attacking the problem in her forthright way. ‘I haven’t yet decided what kind of story it could be. Personal odyssey, unusual travel, group dynamics in extraordinary situation, Aboriginal politics, art and beliefs, land issues, black and white law.’

‘I’d tick all of those boxes,’ said Alistair.

‘Be a hell of a good story,’ said the judge. ‘Any objections, Beth?’

Beth was cagey. ‘Yes and no. Yes, there are sensitive subjects and possibly events that might be shared with us, which aren’t usually meant for outsiders. Nor do we want to present this as tourism.’ She sipped her tea again and Veronica thought, ha, here it comes, the proviso. ‘But what?’ she prompted.

‘The elders would have to give permission and we’d like some input into your stories.’

‘You can’t dictate how a journalist presents a story. Remember I work for the ABC. Tenuous as its hold on the national psyche might be, it still stands for independence, integrity, and no ties to vested interests.’

‘But if you had the opportunity to present a story that could be instrumental in helping highlight another viewpoint, and help a nation come to some sort of harmony, wouldn’t that be a valid reason for doing the story?’

‘It would, provided I made all the decisions.’

‘Then it’s you making value judgements and exercising influence and control,’ said the judge.

‘What nation are you referring to, Beth? The Aboriginal nation or Australia?’ asked Susan.

‘Aren’t we all supposed to be one people?’ asked Billy, topping up his tea from the blackened billy can.

The sound of a Range Rover driving towards them halted the jousting. Billy threw the dregs of the tea on the fire ash making it hiss, and began packing up as Beth stood to greet the newcomer.

A man, dressed in shorts, blue shirt, scuffed work boots and an expensive but battered hat, came towards them. ‘I’m Frank Ward. The plane is coming and they’ve got your fellow with them.’ He looked around at their makeshift lunch site. ‘Having a picnic, eh. Glad to see you know what to do.’ He nodded at Billy, who was shovelling dirt over the fire with a small spade.

‘Billy is a professional bushman. And we’ve just made ourselves lunch, we’ve had a hard drive since five o’clock,’ said Beth with some tartness to her words.

‘Thanks for letting us pull in,’ said Billy diplomatically.

‘Where you blokes off to? You’re a bit off the sightseeing route, aren’t you?’

Beth ignored the question and did the introductions. ‘This is Alistair MacKenzie, QC, and Judge Mick Duffy.’ She gave a satisfied grin at the surprise that leapt into the man’s eyes. ‘And Veronica Hoffman from the ABC, and Susan Massey, a solicitor from Sydney. We’re grateful to your wife for giving our friend a lift up in the plane.’

Frank Ward was openly curious. ‘If you’d mentioned who was with you, Beth, you could have come to the house.’

‘A shady tree suits us just fine,’ she said, biting her tongue.

‘There’s the plane,’ said Susan, who was starting to feel uncomfortable, and everyone turned to look into the sky.

Rosalie Ward was first to step down after the twin-engine Cessna came to a stop. Dressed in a sleeveless green linen dress with a straw hat and sunglasses, she lifted her face for a short kiss on the cheek from her husband. The pilot pulled Alan’s bag out of the hold and handed it to him.

‘How are you all?’ asked Rosalie, adding with a little laugh, ‘this almost feels like a regional terminal with so many people.’

‘We’re just fine. This has worked very well. Appreciate you doing this, Rosalie,’ said Beth.

‘Indeed yes. I’ve already expressed my thanks on the way up,’ said Alan, joining the group and nodding to everyone. ‘Hope I haven’t held you up.’

‘Seeing we have the plane and our pilot Gordon here, it was no trouble at all.’ Rosalie gave Alan a brilliant smile.

‘He’s a full-time pilot?’ asked Mick. ‘Why don’t you learn to fly it yourself?’

‘Horses for courses,’ cut in Frank, making clear such an idea was beyond Rosalie’s interests. ‘She might have grown up on a farm, but when we moved to Melbourne she learned pretty quick that her time was better spent designing our house. And my background was selling cars, not fiddling around with planes.’

Rosalie’s smile stayed in place and she shook a finger at him. ‘I’ve taught you a thing or two about the land, Frank, one day I might surprise you.’

‘We’d better be hitting the road. Thanks again, Rosalie, Frank.’ Beth shook hands.

The rest of the group muttered their thanks and got back into the Oka. Alan shook hands with Rosalie and Frank, and Beth walked with the Wards to the Range Rover. Frank Ward was in a sombre mood. ‘Beth, I don’t mean to be nosey, but do you know what you’re doing taking people like that out to an Aboriginal reserve? I’m sure your intentions are good but it seems a little misguided if you want my honest opinion. It could be taken by the locals as stirring up a bit of trouble.’

‘In what way, Frank?’

He started the motor and gave her a cynical look. ‘A judge, a QC, a solicitor and a reporter? Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

‘I invited them to meet Ardjani and the Barradja people. It’s a cultural exercise, Frank.’

‘I reckon the neighbours are going to see it as shit stirring.’

‘Frank!’ admonished Rosalie.

He looked at his wife. ‘How else are the leaseholders round here going to take it? You don’t normally get white lawyers out here on a holiday.’

Beth was relaxed. ‘That’s all it is, Frank. Tell anyone you talk to on the air tonight, that’s all it is – a cultural holiday. Their backyards are safe.’

Rosalie waved at Beth. ‘Goodbye, good luck. I thought Alan was very interesting. We’ll have to buy some art from him.’

‘We have better things to do with our money,’ said Frank, driving into the avenue of shady trees.

Beth stretched out in her seat and clutched her head. ‘I feel a migraine coming on.’

‘Could the pastoralists here make trouble, Beth?’ asked Alistair.

‘There is a lot of fear amongst the pastoralists about the tenure of their land, of what might happen with the unsettled state of affairs concerning Aboriginal land rights. Many feel their future is threatened.’

Alistair spoke, the voice of reason. ‘Do you not think we might be pre-judging these people? Take the Wards. If they’ve sunk their life savings into that place, they’d naturally feel concerned at any implied suggestion their rights or leases may be under threat.’

‘Fair comment, Alistair. And not all the pastoralists are like the Wards. Some are bad, some terrific,’ added Beth, ‘but take my word for it, the far right is alive and well, even way out here. Unfortunately, some of these properties are on traditional Barradja land. To them, my bringing you mob up here will spell trouble.’

‘You never mentioned this trip could be possibly misconstrued,’ said Alistair.

‘Oh good, a stoush.’ Mick rubbed his hands together.

‘I’d like to see them take on this group,’ declared Susan looking round. ‘I’d say we have the makings of a pretty good war cabinet.’

Beth laughed. ‘What a group you are, the feisty lady lawyer, the wise judge, the advocate, the journalist and the art dealer. Who’d tangle with us?’

‘And you?’ asked Susan.

‘Me? I’m the ex-nun, remember. I’m the one who had difficulty with obedience and humility.’

They settled into their seats, occasionally passing fruit or sweets, as the late afternoon light changed the contours of the landscape. ‘See, Daughter Sun hangs in the fork of a tree, the signal to hunters and children to return to camp before darkness,’ said Beth.

She turned to the two women. ‘You can see why the Barradja people say the earth is female. The rocks, those small hills, all the country around us, is voluptuous. Like thighs and round hips and swelling bellies. Look at those boab trees . . .’

‘I’d like to take a photo,’ interrupted Veronica.

Billy was glad to stretch his legs and brought the bus to a smooth stop close by a cluster of young boabs, the strange bottle-shaped trees that grew from a bulbous base, spreading stubby arms sparsely fringed with leaves. One large distended tree grew alone, a short distance away.

Susan stood beside this plump beauty for Veronica to take a photo. ‘Are they full of water?’ she asked Beth.

‘They lose their leaves in the dry and store moisture in their spongy bark. They live for several thousand years, and can be as big around the base as sixteen metres. The base is often hollow, softly lined, like a womb. These trees are female in all the stages of development. This group are adolescents – that one, she’s mature, in the full cycle of her womanhood.’

‘Didn’t the cops in the old days lock Aborigines up in the bases of big boabs when they had nowhere to put them?’ asked Mick, recalling a vague image of such an event in a book of early photographs of Aborigines by Baldwin Spencer.

‘Possibly,’ said Beth. ‘Some people say they were just chained to the outside, but if they were put inside the tree then they inflicted a punishment more harsh than they knew. To imprison a warrior in the female womb brought shame on him. When released many died, not from the deprivation of their liberty, but from the loss of dignity.’

Alistair said, ‘That’s an interesting angle on the black deaths in custody issue, Mick.’ Beside him, the judge stooped to pick up the fat brown nuts.

‘The boab nuts, that’s what people carve pictures on,’ declared Billy. ‘I bought one in Alice Springs a few years back.’

‘They’re a popular way of making money from tourists,’ said Alan. ‘The standard of art on them varies enormously, but they make an attractive souvenir. There’s a stockman who works on El Questro who does wonders with a penknife, really fine work. The ones carved with traditional designs are the most popular.’

Susan and Veronica joined Mick, collecting some of the hard, fuzzy-skinned brown nuts.

Beth and Billy conferred over the map, Billy worrying about the falling light and the notion they would be following landmarks as casual as ‘funny shaped trees, and a broken fence line’.

‘We could take a shortcut across here,’ he pointed to an open space on the map. ‘But I don’t like going into unmarked territory. That looks like it’s on a place called Eagle Rock Station.’

‘Can’t we do that?’ asked Alistair.

‘Bugger them, if it’s going to save us time. And how are they going to know anyway? The homestead must be miles away from the track.’ Mick was all for pressing ahead. Billy looked a little dubious but decided to ‘give it a go’.

They made one false turn. And it proved to be a bad one. Twilight had sunk into the soft blanket of early night when Beth thought she recognised the turn-off – a partially marked track that should take them to the boundary of Marrenyikka. However, the track suddenly petered out in soft boggy marsh. Billy began to turn the Oka but a heavy, low branch blocked their way, he swung around in the other direction, only to find the front wheels sinking into fine wet sand. He hit reverse, but even with its powerful four-wheel drive, the vehicle lodged in the muddy quagmire. They piled out to assess the situation.

‘We have two problems here. It’s impossible to go back and too difficult to go forward.’ Billy waded into the mud at the rear and opened a hatch to pull out equipment.

‘I don’t think I like this,’ said Susan to Veronica.

Alan seemed unperturbed. ‘A little excitement, eh?’

‘I could live without this sort of excitement,’ answered Veronica.

Billy handed the chain to Mick. ‘Put this around that tree. And shine the torch over here,’ shouted Billy.

With wavering beams of light from torches held by Beth and Susan, and the headlights shining across the boggy patch to where Mick had wound the chain twice around a solid tree, Billy started the automatic winch.

‘If that’s going to pull us out, what’s on the other side?’ shouted Mick. ‘Let’s have a look.’ Billy took the torch from Beth, and Alan took the other from Susan. Swiftly they pulled off their boots and socks. Billy broke two sticks off a branch and they waded through the bog, testing the ground ahead of them until they reached the firmer ground. The beam from the torchlight wavered through the trees.

‘Doesn’t look like we can drive through there,’ said Alistair.

‘Why don’t we go backwards?’ wondered Veronica.

‘The winch is at the front, bright eyes,’ said Mick.

But Billy solved the problem by pulling out a chainsaw, and he cleared a path by felling small trees. The winch slowly hauled them forward onto firmer ground and Billy drove in a wide circle around the bog and back to the main track, with Beth straining to look for her landmarks in the powerful headlights. This time there was no mistake and two hours later, they rolled along flattened grass tracks into the Barradja camp.

There was nothing to mark the boundary of the three square kilometres of Marrenyikka that had been allocated to the Barradja. Suddenly there was the welcoming glow of a large campfire and weak electric lights in low buildings.

‘What I wouldn’t give for a strong mug of tea . . . or stronger,’ sighed Veronica.

Beth looked over her shoulder. ‘This is a dry camp. No booze. If anyone has any . . ?’ No one spoke up. ‘Then keep it out of sight. Ardjani and the elders are adamant that their people don’t bring the problems that come with grog in here. He says drinking alcohol isn’t right way living.’

‘Where do I go?’ asked Billy driving past a few straggling trees.

‘Head for the fire,’ said Beth.

The commanding figure of Rusty Kinawalli loomed into view in the headlights and he waved them down with his Chicago Bulls baseball cap.

‘G’day, mate. What took you blokes so long?’

‘A few hold-ups along the way. Where do you want me to put this?’

‘Hey, Rusty. Any tucker left?’ called Beth.

‘Nope.’ He gave a broad grin and rubbed his paunch. ‘We ate your dinner. You no here.’ Standing inside the open doorway of the Oka, he guided them to a clearing two hundred metres from the main camp. A ring of paperbark trees and scrubby undergrowth screened the perimeter, making it a perfect campsite. The group straggled out of the vehicle.

Beth did some quick introductions. ‘Everybody, this is Rusty,’ she said loudly. ‘Elder and key player in the local scene.’ As another man appeared, trailing several dogs and children, she added, ‘And here’s Digger Manjarrie. Another of the elders.’

Rusty nodded at them and Digger lifted his hand.

‘Anyone want to go to the toilet. Over there.’

‘Which tree is Digger pointing at?’ whispered Veronica.

‘Not the trees, though you can if you want. Watch out for the rogue bull out there though.’

‘You’re joking! Aren’t you?’

‘Nah, he won’t hurt you. He’s a stray from one of the properties. The kids here ride him. He’s a pussy cat. No, see there to the left, there’s a cement block? That’s the shower block. Two showers, two loos, and tubs if you want to launder stuff. They’ve got the generator going so there’ll be lights over at the showers.’

Billy bustled. Like a fully wound motor toy, he buzzed around the vehicle. The trailer sides were up and propped out like an awning and he lugged a small generator to one side. ‘I’ll bung some lights on and we’ll make camp.’

Alan shook hands with Rusty and Digger who greeted him warmly.

Soon everyone was fumbling with bags, tents and collapsible camp beds. Amid much laughter, the novice campers struggled to emulate the simple demonstration by Billy on how to put up their individual tents. They paired off to help each other. Susan let out a groan as her tent collapsed on top of her. Veronica, holding flaps she assumed were the front doors, sat on the ground helpless with laughter as Susan crawled out.

‘What did you do?’

‘I didn’t do anything, you did it all on your own.’

‘Girls! Can I help?’ Mick was in his macho element.

‘Let the judge do it, Susan.’

As they all struggled with a task that had taken Billy only seven minutes to demonstrate, he got the generator working and lights flared on several poles and over the trailer that was now their kitchen and pantry. He had the portable gas stove going and, with Alan’s help, erected a plastic awning over two trestle tables. Alistair lit the fire – laid out by the Barradja men – and set collapsible chairs around it in a semi circle.

Inside her tent, Susan struggled with the camp bed. She’d been expecting to sleep on the ground in the open bush so a tent, bed, showers and flush toilet were a pleasant surprise. As one side of the bed snapped out of place again, she cursed until Veronica called out from the next tent. ‘Put your foot on the bottom chrome bar, then push!’

Susan stepped triumphantly out of her tent and Veronica joined her, laughing. ‘Crikey, I hadn’t expected to be plunged into girl guide activities the instant we arrived. My tongue’s hanging out for a cup of tea.’

‘There’s hot water on the stove and the billy’s over the fire as an extra,’ said Alistair. ‘It’s all looking quite civilised. Alan has volunteered me to help him prepare dinner.’

‘Hope it’s nothing fancy. It must be close to ten o’clock.’

‘Soup and jaffles.’

Billy had a pot of canned tomato soup on the stove and Alan was showing Alistair how to butter the outside of bread and describing the principle of a jaffle iron, putting the bread in the metal halves. Alistair covered the slices with an assortment of onions, cheese, tomatoes, eggs and baked beans. As they were ready, the irons were handed to Mick who placed them at the edge of the fire.

‘Ingenious invention. One of the post-war gifts to the masses,’ declared Mick, starting to turn them over. ‘Got my first jaffle iron in 1949. Thought it the greatest idea since meat pies.’

Beth disappeared to speak to the Barradja, who had left the group to get settled. Susan and Veronica handed around tomato sauce, paper towels and knives and forks, as they each had a jaffle tipped onto their plate by the triumphant legal team.

When they were all settled back with mugs of tea and sweet biscuits, Beth returned with Rusty, Digger and two women.

Lilian and her daughter, Jennifer, were introduced as custodians of the law. ‘Jennifer is a registered nurse, and now she’s being trained as a Barradja medicine woman,’ Beth explained. Next two boys, smiling shyly, were pushed forward. ‘This is Luke and Joshua.’

The children settled themselves on the ground while a couple of camp chairs were produced by Billy for the women. Rusty and Digger sat on logs they had dragged from the firewood dumped nearby. Mugs of tea were handed around and Tiny Teddy biscuits, offered to the children, caused a fresh flurry of laughter, pushing and shoving, and a rattle of words that the visitors realised was their first close encounter with a different Australian language.

In the hubbub of the friendly curiosity of the children, and the passing of food and mugs of tea, and conversation with Rusty and Digger, none of the visitors noticed the arrival of a man, who stood in the shadows just beyond the campfire light. He took in the scene, studying each of the visitors as well as the light permitted. Apart from Beth and Alan, they were strangers to him, these three lawyers, Alan, Beth, and the radio woman. For a moment he wondered whether they really amounted to the team he’d envisaged, when this whole scheme had first been put by him to the elders. They would all find out soon enough, he mused, and when the conversation fell away, he stepped into the circle of light.

‘Ardjani!’ exclaimed Beth with delight, and all heads swung to take in the new arrival.

The tall, slim man stood straight, the firelight sculpting his strong face. He swept off his big cowboy hat to reveal hair curling almost to his shoulders. A warm smile spread across his features. Susan looked quickly to Veronica.

The QC and the judge stood to shake hands and the others followed their lead. Beth took Ardjani around the group, introducing them. Another chair was found, and everyone settled down again. The children, whose father he was, had quietly disappeared.

‘Tea?’ asked Beth.

‘You got that condensed milk. That sweet one?’ he asked, his eyes wrinkling in a grin at her, anticipating what her answer would be.

‘No . . . we saved the last of the fresh milk for you, Ardjani,’ said Beth, who knew the old man had diabetes.

Billy handed Ardjani an enamelled mug.

‘That’s a good bus you got there, Billy,’ he said.

‘It’s as faithful as my wife,’ said Billy brightly. ‘Never lets me down.’

Ardjani threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘You lucky fella. Got good wife and good bus. Two-time winner, eh!’

Everyone joined in the laughter and as they settled down again, Ardjani caught Beth’s eye. ‘Well, what do you want to do, Beth?’

‘Why not ask them?’

His eye scanned the group and settled on Alistair MacKenzie, who was acutely aware that the old man was branding him as spokesman.

‘Let me say, and I believe I speak for everyone, how deeply honoured and pleased we are to be here. We have, I think, come here to learn, to listen to what you and your people have to tell us, to share with us.’ He gave a small smile. ‘We feel a little like children being admitted to a new school.’

Several of the group nodded in agreement, as did Digger and Rusty. This was as it should be. Pleasantries, polite exchanges, the formalities courteously observed.

‘This is good. This makes my heart glad,’ Ardjani said. ‘It is good you gadia – you white people – come with an open heart. We speak with honesty and we hope what we say will go inside you. Inside your heart. That way we can share our gift with you.’ Ardjani pointed to Susan. ‘And you?’

She licked her lips, feeling she should try to articulate the currents of emotion beginning to swirl inside her. But she voiced the pragmatic. ‘I would like to know how Barradja law works.’

‘I go along with that,’ added Mick Duffy.

Ardjani was still studying Susan. ‘You a law woman?’

She nodded.

‘You got children?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t.’

‘You got husband?’

‘No, no. Not yet.’

‘Ah. So you looking, eh?’ There was a mischievous light in his eyes. ‘Maybe one of these fellas be a good husband for you.’

Susan looked down, wishing she wasn’t the centre of attention, and Beth grinned. ‘Don’t tease her, Ardjani. She’s got a nice boyfriend. A pastoralist fella. One of Yandoo’s mob.’

‘You know that family? They got two boys, I been there. I see them one time when I go there for muster,’ said Ardjani. ‘They long way from here. They over near the Territory border. Different country to here. Better land for cattle there. They still got good cattle?’

‘I think so. The Frazers seemed pleased with them.’

‘Ardjani, Alan has asked if it will be possible to take us to see some of the rock art in your special places?’ asked Beth, changing the subject.

Ardjani spoke briefly to Rusty and Digger. Both men responded with barely perceptible nods of agreement. He turned to Beth. ‘Your mob wanna start learnin’ t’morra?’

‘If your mob says it’s okay, we would love to see some Dreaming rock art,’ said Alan, taking pains to approach the subject with regard to Aboriginal protocol.

‘Yeah, yeah, we do that.’

‘And the Wandjina paintings. Dhumby the owl, we can see that, too?’

Ardjani rubbed his chin. ‘That’s a hard thing for us to do. We are very sad.’

‘Why is that?’ asked Mick, wondering what strange cultural taboo was responsible.

‘Some pastoralists don’t let us take whitefellas to see our paintings and sacred sites.’ Ardjani was quiet for a moment. ‘This land’ – he drew a large circle with his arm – ‘all round here, 200,000 square kilometres. Always been Barradja land, since creation time. But whitefellas and the government come and make cattle properties and chase our people away. Then, when we gather our people together and we want to come back to our land, the whitefellas say no, this a pastoral lease now, this cattle country. They say this all Crown land. That means the Queen and the government own our land. But one old pastoralist say, we give you a little bit. This little bit, Marrenyikka, you can stay there. So they give us this three square kilometres like a matchbox, eh. So we stay here for dry season. In the wet we go into town at Marrenjowan. But we want to bring back the rest of our people from the reserves and the towns. We need more of our land. There’s plenty Crown land that’s not pastoral lease. We want to do our sacred business, and hunt, and live on our land, and teach our children the good ways our fathers taught us.’

‘So who owns the land with your sacred sites on it?’ asked Mick.

‘Lot of people. Different people come, stay a few years and go away. They’re not like the old families who knew the local people and understood the land and our customs. The land is spoiled now. No longer good cattle country. But we hear talk some pastoralists goin’ to try some new thing. Make big money, we hear.’

Alistair smiled to himself. The old chap is really leading us along. If I don’t ask, Mick will. ‘Some new thing, Ardjani. What could that be, if the land is not that good for grazing?’

‘Dunno. They got somethin’ though. Some properties got lots of four-wheel drives goin’ in there since the wet. And planes goin’ round in circles.’

Mick Duffy glanced at Alistair. ‘Wait a minute. You mean you don’t know what happens on land that is historically and culturally yours? Surely you have had legal advice about your rights?’

‘Some legal people say yes, some legal people say no.’

Alistair found it all beyond reason. ‘I understood a pastoral lease only provided rights for grazing, nothing else. It should be a matter of negotiation, of sitting down with these people and working out a procedure. Visiting your sacred sites with friends like us and holding ceremonies is hardly an invasion, is it?’

‘Have you ever met with any of the pastoralists around here?’ Mick asked.

‘We see them on the road or in town. But some of them don’t see us. One time Jennifer get so sick with her coming baby that she not wake up, and she and her husband, Jimmy, were all alone out here. There be no car, and the phone not working, nothing, so Jimmy put her in the wheelbarrow and he push her through the bush down to that road. He wave down the man who owns one property and ask for help. The man tell them to wait and he send one of the workers, ‘cause he busy. Finally, Jimmy start pushing Jennifer into town because he think she and baby gonna die.’

‘It would have taken at least two days to reach Marrenjowen by foot,’ said Beth quietly. ‘The baby asleep, Jennifer?’

Jennifer nodded.

‘What happened?’ asked Susan.

‘They met Digger coming back along the road. So he take them to hospital. Jennifer very sick. But baby okay. She come back here, and baby born in one month, here, in its country.’

Jennifer spoke quietly for the first time. ‘That was the only time we have ever asked help from the pastoralists.’

Veronica had taken a notebook out of her shoulder bag and was making notes.

Alistair looked at Mick Duffy. ‘Well, Mick, do you read the situation as I read it? Perhaps we could help Ardjani and his people start a meaningful dialogue with the owners of the property where these paintings are so we can see them too.’

The judge thought for a moment. ‘Ardjani, it might be useful if we tried to open negotiations on your behalf. We could not argue your cultural rights, since we are not experts in that field, but perhaps our line of legal argument will help.’

Ardjani considered the judge’s offer while he sipped his tea. ‘Yeah, mebbe. It’s important,’ he said quietly.

Alan was enthusiastic. ‘The art at Eagle Rock is significant. I’ve only seen photographs taken in the fifties, and it’s a long time since anyone in the art world saw these works. This could be a good story for you, Veronica.’

Veronica nodded. ‘I wonder what other surprises this day has in store.’

‘None, I hope,’ said Beth. ‘What say we get together again at breakfast and see what the new day offers.’

Ardjani still showed no reaction. He said goodnight and promised to drop by and share their breakfast. As the three men and Jennifer and Lilian left the campfire, Beth heard Ardjani speak a few words in language to his colleagues. ‘Good start,’ the old man had said.

‘Tomorrow, I’ll show you where we can swim.’ Beth put her mug on the pile of washing up that Susan had gathered. ‘There’s one section of the river, that is wunggud energy water, for all of us and it’s lovely. The other part of the river is for women only. It’s the wunggud pool – baby spirit pond.’

‘Oops, they’ve turned the generator off. That means no lights in the showers.’

‘Take a torch.’

Alistair emerged from his tent with a towel and wash bag and flicked on his torch to pick his way over to the shower block.

‘We’ll help you wash up, Susan,’ said Beth, pouring simmering water into a big plastic bowl.

‘That’s what I like to see, sheilas doing the dishes.’ Mick ducked as Beth threw a wet sponge at him and he padded after Alistair.

‘Hell, cold water by torchlight. Bracing, eh?’ Alistair stepped out of the cubicle to dry himself as Mick finished brushing his teeth at the washtub. ‘What did you make of the reaction to your suggestion of negotiating with the pastoralists?’

‘I’m not sure,’ answered the judge.

‘Did it occur to you that the old man might be manipulating us? Exploiting our joint legal weight.’

‘Not really,’ said Mick. ‘Coincidence, probably.’

‘It’s no problem for us to offer a bit of free advice. These people appear to have been badly served all round.’

‘I do feel the pastoralists, who won’t let the Barradja bring their friends to visit their paintings, are a bit heavy in their attitude – if Ardjani’s story is correct.’

‘We’ll find out soon enough, I feel,’ said Alistair, pausing to look up at the stars. ‘At least we’re here. I had my doubts once or twice today.’

It was pre-dawn. The moments between the dark of sleep and gradual awakening to daylight. The Songmaster settled himself in the coolness, urging more warmth from his fire. He sat, cross-legged, contemplative, watching the frail line of smoke wind upwards and fade into the limestone cliffs of the fossil reef, formed four hundred million years before.

The oldest rocks in the Kimberley had been created two thousand million years before, then had come the glacier ages and the landscape had changed again. Ancestor beings had created rivers through the sandstone, slicing gorges and carving soaring cliffs.

Sculpted sandstone towers and domes etched with bands and whorls stood alone, imperious above the greenness of livistona fan palms and low scrubby growth. Bluffs, plateaus, limestone ridges and exposed reefs had emerged as the ice and floodwaters left the land.

The Songmaster picked up the two clapsticks and tapped them on the ground, then lifting his head he sang, now beating the sticks together, their resonant wooden notes blending with the chant.

They were newcomers in his country. They were welcome. But he knew there would be others . . . who would carry pain and danger. Whose eyes were dimmed with greed and who did not hear the words spoken by the ancestor beings to the elders. Beware . . . beware . . . he tapped. And the notes he chanted trembled with an edge of warning and fear. Strangers will come . . . beware . . .

Ardjani stood motionless at the edge of the glassy King Edward River, his body reflected like a slim dark reed at the water’s edge. Pale lavender pre-dawn light filtered through the treetops. He lifted his head, listening. He took in the chant of the Songmaster and turned away, slowly, silently, walking barefoot, hardly disturbing grass or pebble, his faint shadow on the river the only movement in the stillness of the new day.

Susan stirred and looked out the plastic window at the dove’s egg sky. A bird called, another answered. She wiggled out of her sleeping bag, found her sneakers and, dressed in track pants and cotton T-shirt, reached for the ring of the zipper that had closed her door.

The ZZZZZZPP echoed round the silent camp. It was a sound she would come to associate forever with this experience.

She stepped outside and straightened up, arching her back to ease the slight stiffness. Dew glittered on the grass. Shreds of mist hung like limp streamers in the skirts of trees. Each tent was tightly cocooned, closed, quiet. She walked as softly as she could, past the damp plastic chairs ringing the dead fire. Plates and containers of cutlery, sauce bottles, basic condiments in sealed jars and tupperware were lined along the laminated table. She doodled her initials in the wetness of the tabletop. She glanced at the gas stove and kettle thinking of tea. Billy was rolled in his swag, driblets of dew trickling on the outside of the oilskin covering his sleeping bulk.

She was about to go back when she saw Ardjani walking at the edge of the river. He lifted an arm, signalling her to come. She walked across the stubbly ground, past trees, to where large pandanus palms lined the river just fifty metres from the camp.

‘Good morning. You sleep good?’

‘Yes, yes I did. Thank you.’

For a little while they stood silent, listening to the birds, watching the light change, and she enjoyed the solitude and peace. She caught their reflections in the water, so still it showed the stitching on her T-shirt and the stubble of whiskers on the old man’s face. She felt the energy of the man beside her, and she had no idea what to say next. But at that moment, a large fish swirled the surface close by the bank where they were standing.

‘What was that?’ asked Susan, suddenly jolted out of her reverie.

‘Big barramundi. He spirit fella. Mebbe spirit fella saying “good morning” to you,’ he grinned.

Susan laughed softly. ‘What a lovely thought.’ She looked again at the fading ripples. ‘You really believe that? A fish can be a spirit saying good morning?’

Ardjani nodded. ‘Spirits everywhere.’ His tone indicated that it was not a subject for debate. ‘Mebbe you understand more soon. You still got city eyes, city mind.’ He pointed downstream to a group of trees past their camp. ‘You go there. Go quietly. Walk softly. You see the brolgas. Dancing.’

‘Really?’

He nodded. ‘Lilian, Jennifer up there looking for sugarbag.’ He continued walking towards his camp.

Susan spotted the motherly shape of Lilian and the slim figure of her daughter standing near a tree. Lilian put a finger to her lips and beckoned Susan forward. When she reached them, they took her hands and pointed.

In a clearing among the paperbark trees, four tall grey birds pranced an intricate ritual. Bowing, preening, lifting long stick legs, Turning, ignoring, fawning, each male courted a female who reacted with disdain. It ended with a screech, a peck, and running flight.

Jennifer laughed. ‘Something spooked them. They’ll be back tomorrow.’

They’re so graceful. Those wonderful grey, wispy feathers. I’m so glad I saw that.’

‘You get up early.’ Lilian led them back the way they’d come. ‘We look for sugarbag. Wild honey. No luck.’

‘Bees must be hiding it,’ added Jennifer. ‘So, what are you all doing today?’

‘Beth said we’ll have a meeting to discuss our plans. We’d really like to see the rock art that’s on Eagle Rock Station.’

‘That be good. The old men never been there long time. It be near my father’s country.’ Lilian looked sad.

‘Your father is dead?’ asked Susan gently.

‘All gone. Now it be my country. And Jennifer. But we can’t look after it. Too far, and we not have trucks till now.’

Jennifer looked at her mother. ‘We need to go there so my mother can speak with the spirits of her father and grandfather. Our family. To know what is her responsibility, to know they are happy.’

‘How long since you went there, Lilian?’

‘Not since I was a little girl. Five, maybe.’

‘But that’s terrible. Listen, we are going to talk to these people, and ask permission to see the art. You come with us to visit your special place.’

Lilian lightly touched Susan’s arm. ‘That would be good. Very good.’

They were on their way to the camp, when the sound of a car broke the morning peace. ‘Who would that be?’ asked Susan.

Lilian shrugged. ‘People come, people go, always somethin’ goin’ on.’ Mother and daughter continued on their way, and Susan went to fetch her towel, glad to see Billy was up and busying himself round the fire.

‘Why is it food always tastes so much better in the open air?’ Veronica tucked into fried sausages, bacon and eggs.

Susan turned a piece of toast on the metal contraption Billy had sitting over the gas flame of the stove. ‘You only eat al fresco when Boris whips up a little dejeuner mediterranean.’

‘I work long hours, he works at home,’ she said pointedly, but without rancour. ‘I am lucky.’

‘I suppose you don’t buy this new-age stuff with blokes cooking.’ Susan got in first, not waiting for the smart remark from the judge, but he surprised her.

‘I cook Christmas dinner in a camp oven every year. Out in the backyard. And I make a mean damper.’

‘Right, Mick gets to make dinner tonight,’ said Beth.

‘What’s the plan today, Beth?’ Mick pushed his toast over a flame on the end of a stick as he squatted at the edge of the fire. ‘I’m game for anything.’

‘Ardjani, Rusty and Digger are coming over to give us a little talk, just a bit of background, really. I thought it might be useful before we plunge into living here. They want us to understand we are with them, as their guests, not outsiders, not tourists. They are very keen that we appreciate their knowledge, their culture, and what they call their gift for Australia.’

‘Do we have to take notes?’ asked Mick. Beth raised an arm in greeting, as the new arrival appeared. It was Barwon, grinning broadly, who’d just driven into camp.

‘Hey, everyone.’ He went around the group, shaking hands, bear-hugging Beth. ‘So, where have you been in your travels?’ she asked.

‘I’ve been back to the convent, where my mother worked, looking for records. There’s nothing there. The nuns . . . everything’s gone. The people who bought the old convent told me they burnt some files that had been left because nobody seemed to want them.’

‘You on some research project?’ asked Mick.

Barwon shrugged. ‘I’m just hanging loose. Looking for my roots, my family, all that painful Stolen Generations stuff.’ He tried to smile.

‘That’s a hell of a throwaway line.’

Barwon was relieved the subject was changed by the arrival of Ardjani, Rusty and Digger, who settled themselves in the ring of chairs around the fire, the smell of toast still strong and Billy pouring tea for the men the way they liked it.

‘What you want us to do today, Beth? These fellas going to talk to Eagle Rock people?’

‘Yes. Who do you think should go from your mob? Or should just whitefella lawyers go?’

Ardjani looked thoughtful, and turned to Rusty and Digger. ‘Who you say?’

‘Jennifer,’ Rusty answered immediately, and Digger and Ardjani nodded. ‘Better we no go. Then they can talk open about us.’

‘Ardjani’s right. If they go they might have to make compromises. That wouldn’t be wise,’ said Mick.

‘But someone should put the Barradja side. Or else it looks like whitey running things for the Aborigines, just as it’s always been,’ said Alistair.

‘Jennifer is an elder and can speak on the Barradja’s behalf, and we’ll be there for support,’ said Beth.

Susan spoke up. ‘If we go to Eagle Rock Station and talk to those people about seeing the rock art, can we then take Lilian and Jennifer to their sacred sites?’

Everybody looked at her. ‘I was speaking to Lilian this morning. That’s part of her country, her father and grandfather’s country. She hasn’t been back for many years. Nor Jennifer. They’re now guardians of their ancestors’ land, and they want to go and do whatever it is that is part of their custodial responsibility. Isn’t that right, Ardjani?’

He nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘And exactly what legal right have you to take white friends with you?’ Alistair’s mind was instantly questioning.

‘Who has first sovereignty over the land?’ asked Mick.

‘Use defines land, that’s how the government bureaucrats saw it when they designated the Kimberley grazing, pastoral and crown land. Before that we go back to the gadia white man concept of terra nullius – it belonged to no man,’ said Beth.

‘So we just ignore fifty, sixty thousand years of Aboriginal occupation,’ said Mick. ‘How do you feel about that, Ardjani?’

‘We feel empty, white government people try to take away our meaning, our being. But it is still here.’ He touched his head and his heart.

‘There’s no denying there was a powerful, complex culture in this land long before white men – be they Portuguese, Dutch, Asian or English – set foot here,’ declared Beth. ‘Our friends here were mustered up and dispossessed in the 1950s and they’ve been trying to get back to their country ever since. Excisions, Crown land, reserves, pastoral leases, whatever, it’s all still originally Barradja land.’ Beth spoke with some heat.

‘We want to keep doin’ these things our people do, ever since creation time. It is how we keep our culture alive.’

‘I understand that, Ardjani,’ said Alistair. ‘But to these white people it is their land even if only leased, and if you take white people to your paintings and the pastoralists object, they could say you are trespassing, breaking white man’s law.’

‘I guess that’s hard for these fellas to come to terms with,’ said Mick.

‘Now, maybe it’s time things changed,’ added Susan.

There was a general nodding of heads in agreement. ‘Yeah, time the law was changed so you can all see the paintings. To make it more fair.’ Lilian didn’t speak up often, but when she did, she kept her remarks short and pithy.

Billy jumped down from the cabin of the Oka. ‘Excuse me, Beth, I think we’ve got a problem.’

‘You been on the radio phone? What’s up?’ Beth had arranged for messages to be left with Billy’s wife, as they’d check in when conditions were clear.

‘My missus is pretty upset. She got a call from one of the stations, saying I was not to bring tourists onto their land, and I’m going to be sued. For trespassing.’

‘Trespassing!’

‘It came from the Steeles at Eagle Rock. They said they knew we’d crossed over their land to get here yesterday, and they said we’re not to use their land without permission.’

‘What! Now Billy, how the heck did the Steeles get your home number?’ asked Beth.

Billy looked concerned. ‘Off the side of the Oka, I suppose, it’s got the company name on it.’

‘But you haven’t seen the Steeles,’ said Susan, then it dawned on her at the same time as Beth said, ‘The Wards must have told them. I told you the airwaves would be running hot.’

‘What’s the legal position here, Alistair?’ asked Beth.

‘Sounds like we definitely have to talk to these people right away.’

‘I agree, Alistair, but it doesn’t sound like they’re going to be agreeable to us going onto their land.’ Beth looked deflated for the first time on the trip.

Rusty was confused. ‘Now you fellas break white man law, too?’

‘Judge Duffy, surely you’re not going to let them bully us!’ chided Susan. ‘Get them on the blower, Billy, and we’ll tell them we’re coming over for a discussion.’

‘We’re telling . . . not requesting?’ The judge raised his eyebrows at Susan.

‘You bet. Do you law men agree?’ Beth turned to the three Barradja elders.

‘You go and take Jennifer to speak for Barradja,’ said Ardjani. ‘Like Rusty say, better we old men stay back here.’

‘I reckon we need tea. Barwon, how about you put the billy on,’ said Beth.

By the time the morning tea was passed around they were well into the discussion on how to approach Len and Dawn Steele.

‘It’s complicated. The cattle industry in this part of the Kimberley has rarely been viable. Yesterday, we drove for twelve hours through spectacular country, but it’s very poor cattle country, and we saw, what? Fifteen head?’ Beth raised her eyebrows. ‘No wonder station ownership has a high turnover in this area.’

‘Could they sue us for trespass?’ Veronica looked to the QC and the judge.

‘It’s unlikely. Sounds more like they want to scare us off,’ said Alistair. ‘If Eagle Rock, and stations like it, are on pastoral leases and not freehold, surely access to cross the properties for hunting and cultural activities must have been formally granted to the people on this tiny plot of land, here at Marrenyikka.’

‘That’s the trouble, Alistair, no one can actually find any written evidence,’ said Beth.

Billy looked worried again. ‘I should apologise to the Steeles. I should have made a phone call and asked permission to cross their land. I didn’t know they’d be that upset. I’m sure a phone call would have prevented all this.’

Beth spoke firmly. ‘We haven’t done anything wrong. Alistair, will anything be gained by seeing these people?’

‘I don’t see why not. If they’re treated with civility, they might be prepared to grant access for us to see the Barradja sites.’

‘So we say we were invited here to see the Barradja’s wonderful art and we’re sorry they weren’t notified we were crossing their land. And we explain it was getting dark. We’ll test the waters that way,’ summed up Mick.

‘I wonder if we’d just turned up as tourists, and offered to pay to see the sites on their property, would they have let us go in,’ said Alan.

‘That’s exactly the situation,’ agreed Beth. ‘Some of these properties – unlike your friends at Yandoo, Susan – are struggling. They augment their income with selling petrol, or by having a shop, or by showing visitors over their land.’

Ardjani’s eyes blazed. ‘That no good. These people don’t know about our stories, our ceremonies.’

‘I know who I’d rather have show me the art,’ exclaimed Alan.

‘No argument there,’ agreed Mick.

Ardjani continued, ‘Some of these pastoralists say we Aborigines don’t know where the sites are on some stations. So they say we don’t care.’

‘That because it bin long time we away from our country and can’t get there,’ added Digger.

Beth explained, ‘Legally, the Aborigines have every right to go onto their land that is covered by pastoral leases. But in the old days, many pastoralists kept them off by sheer threats and might. Being such a gentle people they went along with it. In the 1980s when the outstation movement began, Aborigines wanted to go back to their land on pastoral properties.’

‘Pushing them into towns didn’t work, that’s for sure,’ said Mick. ‘The drinking started, and town facilities were stretched, and you can’t throw together people who don’t get on and come from different mobs, isn’t that so, Beth?’

‘Is that when they set up their own communities?’ asked Susan. ‘So how did people like the Barradja end up with such a tiny excision?’

‘It was a mutual agreement between leaders of Aboriginal groups who asked some pastoralists if they could go back to their property. Some pastoralists agreed, even wanting to put the square kilometre or so in the Aboriginal family’s name. But a lot of pastoralists wouldn’t agree to excisions, and the government stepped in, and it all became a complicated mess.’

‘So it was an earlier leaseholder of Eagle Rock who agreed to the excision of Marrenyikka,’ said Alistair.

‘You fellas figure out the strategy, eh?’ Ardjani stretched in his chair, and waited.

After much discussion it was agreed that just the QC, the judge, Susan and Beth would go with Jennifer. Billy, acting as mediator, had contacted the Steeles by phone and had explained that the group wanted to meet them. As the driver carrying these unwanted guests over their land, he had suggested they sit and have a talk and explain what they were doing. The Steeles had agreed to meet after lunch at Eagle Rock, forty-five kilometres back down the track.

‘So tell us about the Steeles,’ said Mick from the rear of the Oka.

‘Len Steele. Tough, rough diamond. Ex-croc shooter turned miner. Worked for various mining companies and was in the right place, at the right time, when the iron-ore boom hit. A shrewd man. He used his contacts, played the mineral share market and made a small fortune. Dawn was working as a hairdresser in Darwin.’

‘Full marks so far,’ observed Mick.

‘Then she met Len, married him, and they took up the lease on Eagle Rock. Like the Wards, they see themselves as pastoralists, but it’s still a hard life on the land out here. Like most, they probably aren’t making a fortune.’

‘How do you feel about this meeting, Jennifer?’ asked Susan.

‘I’m nervous. I know they don’t know much about black people, our ways. I don’t know what I’m going to say.’

Susan squeezed her hand. ‘Let’s leave the talking to Alistair and Mick first.’

Husband and wife stood in the front yard garden of their homestead as the party arrived.

‘He looks like he could wrestle a crocodile, no trouble,’ muttered Mick, as Billy parked the Oka. The cattleman’s muscles strained under a black T-shirt. His face was ruddy, a pepper and salt beard smothering a thrusting jaw. He wore a fancy broad-brimmed bush hat.

Dawn was lean, obviously hardworking. She looked nervous, sharp-boned, and ready to spring. Her face was prematurely sun-aged and her hair was cropped short in a practical no-nonsense fashion. She wore jeans and a sleeveless tank top.

Billy went to them first, shaking hands and making the introductions. Dawn Steele made no comment as she nodded at each in turn, Len mumbled a hello as he shook hands all round. He pointed to some chairs in the shade of a tree, in the front yard.

‘Oh, there’s not enough chairs . . .’ He looked at his wife who didn’t move.

Beth cut in quickly. ‘No problem. Jennifer and I will sit here.’ They sat on the ground as the others settled on the seats.

Billy began by apologising, pointing out he was hired to do a job, wasn’t sure where they were going, and he realised he should have asked permission to cross their land to get into Marrenyikka.

‘You should have known better, Beth, you’ve been up here before with those people.’ Steele’s voice was accusing.

‘I didn’t see what was different this time. We come as guests of the Barradja. They’ve been using the track, in and out, for many years. Legally, pastoral leaseholders can’t prevent local Aborigines from travelling back and forth to their land.’

Dawn spoke, her voice shrill, injured. ‘White people just assume there is access on our property, when there is no such thing stated on our lease. We’ve always allowed these Barradja people to go in and out. But when it comes to bringing in tourists, that’s a different matter.’

Alistair felt it time to intervene. He raised a hand and immediately had everyone’s attention. ‘Let me say, that as far as what’s written or not written into leases, it wouldn’t be the first time various lands and local government departments have not got things right. Eventually, the necessary inquiries and searches may have to be conducted. And, as you are aware, tourist activities on pastoral leases would contravene the law, as the leases are just meant for grazing. However, we are not here to debate those rights. We are here to ask your understanding and cooperation in this matter.’ Alistair spoke calmly and gently. ‘We are not tourists, in the sense of paying customers. We are guests as part of a cultural exchange. We are simply a group of interested white people, wanting to learn a little more of the culture of the Aboriginal people by experiencing it first-hand.’

‘What for?’ Dawn was blunt.

Beth glanced at Jennifer. ‘Perhaps Jennifer could explain better than I can.’ Then she added in explanation, ‘Jennifer is a nurse. She is also one of the new young leaders of Aboriginal communities like the Barradja and she has come home to Marrenyikka with her husband and baby to learn the secrets of traditional medicine and healing.’

Len Steele shifted awkwardly in his chair. He was not used to listening to Aborigines talk about anything other than cattle and station operations. Dawn folded her arms tightly.

‘It’s part of the healing process between our two people,’ continued Jennifer. ‘Ardjani, one of our elders, feels that if more Australians could come and listen and share our knowledge and understanding with us, see what we have to give, then we would all find it easier to live together. You are our neighbours, but we do not speak to each other enough. We should help each other, when we need to do so. I am a nurse, if you get sick you should call on me.’

Dawn Steele fidgeted with her hands and remained silent.

Mick changed the subject. ‘Dawn, may I call you, Dawn?’ he said nicely. ‘Is there a specific reason why you and your husband don’t want the Barradja to bring their friends in here?’

‘Look, we don’t mind if these people . . .’ began Dawn.

‘The Barradja people,’ interjected Beth pointedly, and the judge shot her a look that told her to butt out.

‘We don’t mind if the elders come in and do whatever it is they have to do, do their ceremony, and leave. We just don’t want anybody wandering over our land, any time they like . . .’

‘And we don’t want them to think they can start running tourist buses on our land,’ interjected Len.

Jennifer flinched at this, but kept quiet.

‘Look . . . we just don’t want visitors tramping over our land, without our say so,’ said Len. ‘We made it clear, when we came here, this was our lease, we were running it, and there’d be no trespassing.’

‘But you agree that the elders can come onto their traditional land and visit their sacred sites for special ceremonies.’ Susan didn’t pause and pressed on, ‘Seeing as we are here, and we’ve come specifically to see some of this culture, would you allow us to accompany the elders as their guests? We’re not paying tourists, and this is not an official tour.’

‘It’s not our problem that you were misled,’ said Dawn Steele.

‘We aren’t here to make threats legal or otherwise, we are requesting permission from you both, to grant these men and women of the Barradja the right to take us into their country,’ added Alistair.

‘So what is it you want to show the white people?’ Len asked Jennifer, in a quiet voice.

Jennifer spoke for the next few minutes explaining the significance of the country of her ancestors, how guardianship and responsibility were handed down through her mother’s grandfather and father, and how now it was the responsibility of her mother to look after the place where the spirits of her family are. ‘My mother, and others like her, are getting old. If they die without doing these things, they will be punished. It makes my heart sad that my mother hasn’t been here since she was a child. She must keep up the old culture.’

The simplicity and passion of her words touched everyone. Dawn stared at the young woman. ‘You speak very well. Where did you say you went to school?’

‘I went to Bachelor College south of Darwin. I met my husband Jimmy there. We’ve come back here to work with my people, to learn the old ways from the elders. Jimmy is a motor mechanic. I studied white nursing. Now I am learning the Barradja medicine and healing ways.’

The air had thawed. Dawn got up and looked at her husband. ‘Maybe I should put the kettle on. Would you people like tea?’

‘That would be very nice. Thank you,’ said Beth.

‘Er, I’ll go and help her.’ Len followed his wife.

‘Wonderful what a quiet yarn can achieve,’ observed the judge.

Back at Marrenyikka it was Alistair, holding another mug of tea, who recounted the events of the afternoon, prompted here and there by Mick and Beth, to a gathering of everyone in the Barradja camp.

‘Initially, we got off to a rocky start. But they were prepared to listen to us explain our situation, and they explained theirs, and we were invited in for tea and bikkies.’ He smiled at Mick Duffy. ‘Possibly, all those years of persuasive argument have not been wasted.’

‘So whose move next?’ asked Alan.

‘Yes, do we get to see the art or not?’ Veronica was impatient.

‘We do,’ said Beth. ‘Thanks to you all. The Steeles will allow us to go onto Eagle Rock with the Barradja elders. They are agreeable to the holding of ceremonies – but definitely no more outsiders, like us!’

‘Why not? It doesn’t seem at all reasonable.’ Veronica was puzzled.

‘They don’t want the elders taking visitors onto their land. End of story,’ said Beth.

‘Why not?’

‘They could be thinking of doing what a lot of pastoralists are starting to do to supplement their incomes – take visitors over their land to show them the cave paintings. They’d have to get official permission if they did it in a formal way, though.’

Barwon reacted angrily. ‘The Barradja own the paintings and know them better than the pastoralists, right, Ardjani?’

‘Only we really know the whole story of the paintings. The Wandjina and ancestor spirits tell us. You explain to them, Beth.’

She drew a breath. ‘It’s not just relating a fable attached to an illustration. There are spiritual and custodial obligations and laws attached to them. Only the Barradja understand the full details. No outsider, just looking at them, can possibly begin to understand the depth of meaning. And the stories aren’t in writing. They’re part of one of the oldest oral traditions on earth.’

Ardjani stood. ‘We Barradja people say thank you. Today was a good day.’ A slow smile spread across his face and he tipped the edge of his hat in appreciation.

Drifting amongst the floating lily pads in the clear river, as the young boys noisily jumped from the top of a dead tree, Susan filled Veronica in on the details of the afternoon.

Veronica had found it hard to agree to Alistair’s diplomatic remark that an ABC journalist might frighten the Steeles, and harm their chances of reaching an agreement. After Susan had described the events, the two young women let themselves drift until Luke called them back, warning about the wunggud pool. ‘We just swim here, this part.’ He held his nose, tucked up his legs and did a ‘bomb’ from a tree branch, hanging out from the bank, into the olive-hued warm water.

As they sat on a log drying off and the sun sank behind the fringe of trees, Jennifer and Beth joined them. ‘Feel your hair, it’ll never feel this soft again. This wunggud water is magic for hair,’ Jennifer said.

‘So, Jennifer, have the old men agreed to take us to Eagle Rock tomorrow?’ asked Susan, rubbing her hair with her towel.

‘I think so. They’ll come to your fire later.’

Veronica was silent, looking at the dark mirrored surface of the river touched by silken lilac twilight. ‘I love this time of day,’ said Veronica, softly.

‘This is called gala light, it’s my favourite time, too,’ Jennifer said, sitting on the bank beside Veronica.

The four women were quiet, each wrapped in their thoughts. Veronica spoke first. ‘Beth, what did Luke mean by that section of the river, up there, being the baby spirit pond?’

‘Just that. Tell her, Jennifer.’

Jennifer gave them a gentle smile and, with raised eyebrow, asked, ‘Would you like me to tell you the baby story?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘The Barradja believe there can be several ways a woman gets a baby. First, the father dreams the spirit baby. Maybe he sees it when hunting, or it calls to him when he is walking. Sometimes the spirit baby goes into the animal that allows itself to be caught, so the man takes it back for his wife to eat. It is a gift from the animal spirit power. And when he knows a baby is ready to be born he’ll have intercourse and then say, “I put the baby inside you now”. The mother is only the bearer of the baby, and it is not her only job in the tribe. She is responsible for the harmony between the people and the earth. We believe a baby is a continuing of the Dreaming, and we welcome every baby, male or female.’

‘So the man and woman play equal roles, women aren’t regarded as inferior, child-bearing machines?’ said Susan. ‘I like that idea.’

Jennifer nodded. ‘Sometimes the woman can decide if the baby will develop, or sometimes the spirit baby comes from a place before the father dreams it. There are fertility places, like Uluru or special caves, rocks and waterholes.’

Veronica looked thoughtful. ‘I wonder if that might explain why some people never feel attached to their biological parents? I know people who are always searching for their true spiritual identity. Maybe they’d be happier if they could understand the concept of belonging to the earth.’

‘It’s a great excuse for denying lousy parentage,’ agreed Susan.

‘What happens if a woman miscarries, or has an abortion?’ asked Veronica.

‘We know about medicines, herbs that stop conception, and the old women know ways to end pregnancies. We need to move to food sources, and babies, too close together, would stop a woman from walking with the tribe. Aborigines love children and we don’t think that a baby belongs to just the parents, it is a result of nature and the spirit world. Everyone in the tribe is its family, and we all come from the same source – the creation power and Mother Earth.’ Jennifer rose to her feet. ‘We women have a lot of knowledge. We can share that with you, if you want to know these things. Maybe for your radio program.’

Veronica gathered up her towel, sandals and sarong. ‘Yes, I’d like that. I really would.’

At the back of her tent, Veronica sat on a chair and dipped into the small styrofoam container, bringing out a needle and a phial in a sealed packet that she ripped open. She inserted the needle into the liquid, pulling up the plunger. After a test squirt, she squeezed her thigh and injected the fluid into her body. The used needle, phial and packet went into a plastic trash bag and she jammed it all back into the mini box that had been stowed in the Oka’s refrigerated chiller.

No one noticed the incident, except Lilian, moving silently from the trees back to her camp after another fruitless morning hunting for sugarbag.

Veronica walked to the river and sat quietly in her favourite spot. She was deep in thought when Jennifer came and sat down beside her. ‘Nice place, eh?’

‘Yes. So peaceful.’ Veronica’s usual effervescent demeanour was subdued.

‘You all right?’ asked Jennifer. ‘My mother is worried about you.’

‘She is? Why?’

‘She thinks you have a drug problem. Maybe I shouldn’t speak about this.’

‘I’m not a drug addict! I’m on the IVF program – trying to have a baby!’ Veronica burst out laughing, as the smile spread across Jennifer’s relieved face.

‘It’s not an area I’ve studied. But I’ve heard it’s a very difficult way to have a baby. Why did the doctors suggest you try it?’

‘Because of my age, I don’t make enough eggs, or at least strong enough eggs. So the in-vitro fertilisation program is run by a hospital I attend and the doctor gives me these hormone injections. I use them for a couple of weeks to make me produce lots of eggs. Then, when I go back to the hospital, the eggs are harvested – sucked out of me – and an hour later they’re mixed with my husband’s sperm in a jar. A few days later, they see if the eggs have fertilised, and then they put two or three of the embryos into my womb. And they freeze the rest that appear to be healthy. Maybe there are half a dozen or so. And we hope that one inside me grows into a baby.’

‘The modern way to make babies, eh?’ Jennifer looked bemused.

‘Fingers crossed. I’ve been trying for years to have a baby on IVF. They didn’t like me coming so far away, so I have a puffer thing to stop me ovulating early. When I go back, they will harvest my eggs and try again.’

‘You really want a baby this badly?’

‘Yes, I’ll keep trying for as long as it takes or as long as it’s feasible. It costs a lot of money, but I won’t give up. I’m taking Chinese herbs and I’m willing to try just about anything. I know I can get pregnant.’

‘Why did you wait so long?’

‘I’ve always been involved with fellows I didn’t think suitable father material. And I wasn’t ready to settle down, I was a dedicated career woman. But now I have Boris, and he would be a wonderful father. I sometimes get very depressed about it. I feel I’m not fulfilling my destiny till I have a baby.’

Jennifer studied Veronica for a moment. ‘Would you like us to help you?’ she asked tentatively. ‘Barradja way.’

Veronica didn’t answer. Back in the city, this might have seemed an odd offer. But she realised that in her heart, she’d been hoping she might find help from these people. She was beginning to see that they had a knowledge beyond what she’d experienced. ‘Jennifer, I’ll do anything, anything.’ She paused. ‘What’s involved?’

Jennifer gave a little smile. ‘Baby-making isn’t sex. We take you in the wunggud water and do women’s business. I’ll talk to my mother.’ She touched Veronica’s arm. ‘You come with us, and trust your baby spirit finds you. I’ll tell you when.’

Breakfast was over and Billy had issued instructions on tent sweeping, and a roster for doing dishes and meal preparation. Mick had volunteered to make damper to go with the last of their meat – steaks that would be barbecued with potatoes in their jackets, and served with salad. ‘It will be coming out of cans soon enough,’ said Billy.

‘Ardjani says the men can go hunting with him. Then we’ll have fresh meat,’ said Barwon.

‘Fresh what, though? I don’t know that I fancy baked local fauna.’ Veronica drained the last of the tea from the teapot.

‘You blokes are going hunting in a day or so. We’ll be staying here to do women’s business,’ said Beth. ‘Let’s deal with today’s plans first. Now, as soon as everyone is ready, we’ll assemble. The elders, including Lilian and Jennifer, are coming over to take us to Eagle Rock Station.’ She turned to Susan, ‘They’re getting quite excited about it.’

‘It’ll be lunchtime before this mob is ready to go.’ Billy looked over to see Alan strolling back from the river, his towel around his neck. ‘He hasn’t had his breakfast yet.’

‘Give him a coffee and make him wait till smoko. If they’re not here when brekky is dished up, tough. That’s a rule.’ Beth grinned. ‘I just made it up.’

‘You’re a hard woman, Beth. But coffee will do fine.’ Alan paused at his tent. ‘No espresso, I suppose?’

Beth laughed, Billy scowled. Until his domain was shipshape, his sense of humour deserted him.

They were grouped about the Oka as Ardjani, Rusty and Digger drove up in a flat-bed truck. Lilian, with Jennifer holding her baby, and the two boys were in the back.

‘Jennifer, you and the baby and Lilian come in the Oka with us. It’s cooler, more comfortable.’ Beth reached over and took the baby as the women jumped out.

To Billy’s obvious pleasure, everyone settled quickly into the van and they were soon on their way to Eagle Rock. Veronica asked Jennifer where Jimmy was.

‘He’s gone to Derby with the rest of the mob,’ Beth answered first. ‘Besides, he couldn’t come with Lilian here. He cannot look directly on his mother-in-law. It’s the law that sons-in-law don’t look on the mothers-in-law.’

‘Sounds like a good law to me,’ said Mick.

‘Hear, hear,’ added Alistair.

Jennifer smiled. ‘It means look on as face to face.’

‘How do you learn all these laws? Seems like it would be pretty easy to put a foot wrong,’ said Mick.

‘We’re taught from babies. Already, I’m teaching my little fella here. I tell him who are his skin mothers and sisters and uncles and brothers, and I show a little hand signal so, when he gets big, he can acknowledge what is his relationship with another person by that signal.’

‘What’s a skin relative?’ asked Susan, fascinated by the amazing complexity of Barradja relationships.

‘I am my baby’s blood mother, but my sisters and other mothers are his skin mothers. And then all their skin sisters are part of his kinship. It’s a system of relationships, where different people can be many things – mother, father, uncle, aunty. There are no strangers to our children, everyone has a connection with each other by family kinship, or even by friendship.’

‘Imagine how secure these children feel,’ said Beth. ‘They’re told of their connection with everyone and everything around them, plants, trees, rocks. They are taught their relationships to those, as well as people. It’s all part of developing their sense of self. Self-esteem, as we call it, is in-built.’

‘I imagine then that these people don’t need confidence building, consciousness raising, self-help, spiritual growth, find-yourself workshops,’ mused Alistair.

‘It comes to us as a birthright,’ said Lilian quietly.

‘It’s something that puzzles most white people, who generally perceive Aboriginal culture as dead,’ explained Jennifer. ‘My children will be told how they must behave to other kin, the work they must do, the laws they must observe. They’re taught about their surroundings, physically, spiritually and artistically. They learn the stories, songs and dances connected to all these things. They get these instructions almost every day of their lives.’

‘Even that young?’ Veronica peeped at the chubby baby boy lying in Jennifer’s lap.

‘Yes, I talk to him every day. Even from the sound of my voice, he’s learning. We believe you take in knowledge not just from words. Knowledge flows between people, like feelings.’

‘It’s like reading to little kids. My young son loves that, even though he doesn’t understand any of the reading. It’s the story, and having me close to him, I suppose,’ said Alan.

‘Do you read him art books?’ Mick was teasing, but could imagine Alan showing his son art publications with magnificent colour plates.

They were now quite used to Veronica producing a microphone at any time of the day or night. She was pleased she’d recorded Jennifer’s explanation of kinship and was beginning to see material for a series of radio programs. ‘So, Alan, you’re the art expert, tell us about the Wandjina gallery we’re going to see.’

‘That’s the business of the elders to tell. I want to hear their stories about this site. White documentation is pretty sketchy. There are the records from when George Grey found the Wandjina rock paintings, but then it was more than a hundred years before they were re-discovered in 1947. Some photographs were published in the 1950s and there are all sorts of garbled versions of what the Wandjina paintings mean and who painted them.’

‘Thanks to the white law men here,’ added Beth. ‘Where we’re going is the Wandjina spiritual sanctuary. It’s a unique place on this earth as it holds the history of ancient human culture embodied in the Wandjina. And that is a philosophy, a spirituality and a symbol which evokes extraordinary power over whoever is in its space. The Barradja is one of three Wandjina tribes whose continuous culture dates back 60,000 years.’

‘Makes our colonisation of two hundred years seem a drop in the bucket,’ said Mick.

‘Around here it’s not even two hundred years,’ laughed Beth. ‘Colonisation of some parts of Western Australia didn’t happen till the latter part of the twentieth century. There were still Aboriginal people coming into Wyndham from the bush forty years ago. There are photos in the Wyndham pub. That’s in my lifetime. And the community of Balgo, in the desert south of Halls Creek, wasn’t established until 1964, which was when many of the locals made their first contact with Europeans. And in 1984, north of Warburton in the same area, Aborigines were still arriving from the bush, having never seen a white person.’

‘That’s pretty contemporary history,’ agreed Mick.

Barwon, next to Beth, was quiet and thoughtful.

Susan, sitting behind him, asked, ‘Ever thought of making a documentary about all this?’

‘TV was my other life. Now, I’ve got a lot to learn about this part of my life. I don’t know much about it. My personal stuff, anyway.’ He looked rueful.

Beth spoke softly. ‘We’re working on that. Ardjani has asked Jimmy to talk to the old women in Derby about your family . . . and about the abandoned baby . . . our two lost souls, eh?’

Susan touched Barwon’s shoulder. He stared out the window, but he wasn’t seeing the passing landscape.

The grass was high around the wheels of the Oka, the trees clustered in shady clumps, and through open spaces they saw a pile of boulders and rocks ahead. Dotted between them were patches of pink feathery mulla mulla flowers. They’d been driving for an hour, when the truck in front stopped and Rusty waved to Billy to pull over. He parked the Oka and they got out, joined by the three old men. It was a relief to be out of the van, but it meant stepping over rocks, weaving between prickly bushes and wading through patches of tall grass.

‘Do you think we’re on Eagle Rock Station?’ asked Alistair.

‘I didn’t see any boundaries or fences,’ said Mick. ‘Could be, though.’

Ardjani stopped and he signalled to Lilian, who walked forward. He spoke to her in language, while she listened silently, nodding occasionally.

‘What’s he saying?’ whispered Susan to Rusty.

‘He tell her this her father, grandfather country. Now she got to take care of this place.’

Ardjani set off with Lilian one step behind him. She glanced back at Jennifer, who hurried to catch up, the baby balanced on her hip.

The others fell silent and watched as Ardjani led the women to a rocky outcrop.

‘This very important for Lilian to be in her right country,’ said Rusty.

Ardjani stopped. He lifted up his face and began chanting, a call that rang out with power and authority. Digger turned to the group. ‘He be tellin’ the ancestor spirits who is comin’. That he bring Lilian to see her father, grandfather country. That he bring Lilian’s daughter, Jennifer, and her baby to their country. And that he bring friends, who are good people.’

Ardjani’s chant stopped and he paused, head cocked as if listening for a reply. Then he turned to the two women and made a little gesture towards the rocks in the grass. He stood back while they both walked forward.

The rocks were sharp edged, less than a metre high, with faint scratch marks on them. They didn’t look much different to other rocks they’d seen that day. But then the mother and daughter dropped to their knees beside the rocks and began pulling away the grass that partially obscured the site.

Ardjani walked back to join the group. ‘Lilian find the stones of her daddy and grandfather. This is mahmah stone. It is everything in creation, in nature, inside the earth, and what grows. It holds their spirits.’

Barwon stood apart from the group. Ardjani’s words had carved into him, and he reached out and rested his hand against a tree, not yet knowing that, to the Barradja, this was a gesture of seeking and longing.

After a few minutes, Ardjani started walking back to the vehicles and everyone followed quietly, leaving the two women at this sacred place.

Back at the van, Beth passed around drinking water and mugs, this practical act defusing the emotive silence that had fallen over the group.

‘We’ll come back for the women later,’ explained Ardjani.

‘We have to keep going, if they’re to show us the Wandjina,’ said Beth. ‘They don’t like staying in spirit places after the sun goes down.’

It was a hot climb, clambering between giant red sandstone boulders. Alistair took frequent rests, sitting on a rock, rubbing his knees. Susan trod carefully, steadying herself. Mick, his face wet with sweat, handed her a stout branch he’d been using as a walking stick. ‘Use this, I’ll get another one.’

Shortly they were in a small amphitheatre formed by large rocks, some as high as a two-storey building, and in the confusion of blocks they could see shallow overhangs and curving canopies of ledges that looked cool and inviting.

They moved closer and Ardjani stopped, again holding up his hand to signal those behind to wait. This time his chanting sounded more of a song than a call, the musical notes echoing against the cliff face. He sang to his ancestors. And he told them about the people he brought here, who wanted to understand and learn their stories, their power and knowledge.

Ardjani paused for a moment. He turned back to the group crowded behind him. ‘The ancestors say it’s okay. We can go in.’

Everyone forgot their sweating, aching bodies. The excitement and expectation was palpable. This was what they had come to see. At the base of the main shelter, Ardjani turned to his sons and spoke sternly, ‘Josh, Luke, you stay here. Till you initiated, this place, these images are taboo.’ The boys, their exuberance dampened, squatted under a shady overhang watching their father and hugging their knees. They knew this was a powerful place, and they sat close.

The group straggled behind Ardjani. They followed around boulders and into the rock shelter. The Wandjina, larger than life, silent, mouthless figures with their halos of clouds and lightning, stared down at the group of black and white Australians who peered back.

As they moved closer, the sense of power that radiated from this place seemed to become more intense, and the figures gradually lost the appearance of paintings and became part of the texture of the rock.

Susan whispered to Alan, ‘I can see what is meant by the concept of these spirits being pressed into the rock face.’

‘It’s to do with the pigment “fossilising” into the rock, so it becomes like a varnish. Much of the ancient art has disappeared, but that’s not to say it wasn’t there. Archaeologists are finding ochres and fragments of painted rock that are 60,000 years old.’

‘Is that white ochre in the background of these paintings?’ asked Veronica.

‘They sometimes used a white clay among other things – calcite, burnt selenite, gypsum – and a rare mineral found up here, huntite.’

‘I wouldn’t want to upset any of these spirits,’ said Mick in an aside to Alistair. ‘You feel you’d be struck dead by lightning if you laid a hand on any of this.’

‘The energy that radiates from them is tangible. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.’ Alistair sat down on a small boulder smoothed and almost polished by thousands of years of being used as a seat. The others found similar rocks, or squatted on the dirt floor of the rock shelter.

Ardjani stood by some of the largest paintings. The staging, thought Alistair, was magnificent, great theatre, the space-like figures of incredible antiquity providing a backdrop that gave Ardjani the enhanced charisma of a thespian holding centre stage.

Beth settled cross-legged on a little ledge close by Ardjani, almost as if sharing the stage, but clearly in a minor role. Alan, with his artist’s eye for composition and content, relished the moment.

Veronica sat down with the tape recorder in her lap, the microphone pointed towards Ardjani. Barwon hung back, unsure of which group he belonged to – Aboriginal or European. He edged apart from the others, squeezing himself into a seat in a crevice between two rocks.

Ardjani, with his fine sense of timing, ended the long silence. ‘The Wandjina spirits lay down here.’ Shaking his index finger emphatically at the rock paintings, he began to tell the story of the creation of the earth by the Wandjina. ‘The creator spirits came as Wandjina in human form, and they walked, walked,’ he repeated, ‘making the land as they travelled.’

Pointing to the halo-like shape around the heads of the painted figures he explained, ‘This lightning and cloud . . . this coming down him like a coat, is rain. The Wandjina is rain god. He has no mouth because it is hidden in mist, and he knows much that is beyond our knowledge and understanding. He speaks to our minds. This mist, here in the painting, separates us from the Wandjina, they have high understanding above us.’

Ardjani brushed a hand across his face, drew a breath and, with a stronger voice, he told of how the Wandjina had created the rivers, mountains, trees, landscape and, when their main work was done, they merged themselves into the rock wall to stay forever and watch over the people of their land. ‘This place is like our Garden of Eden, where everything begin, all land, all people, all animals, all plants, in the Barradja country. When the Wandjina come, everything is yorro yorro – standing up new, alive. Here is the seed of our culture, all this is wunggud – earth power place. This is where the wurnan law comes from. Wurnan is the sharing system that links all the Barradja people together, no matter where they gone to. We keep the law in the songs that have been passed down to us, and we hold them, learn from them and trade them on. This is our way.’

Like an oracle, Ardjani spread his arms, gesturing to one of the figures that was fading in parts. ‘He look sad, this one. No one look after him for long time.’

‘We have to fix him,’ said Rusty.

‘Okay. We the custodians. We got to come back here and do ceremonies, fix up the paint to make the Wandjina strong, so they can work and look after our country. It is the job of each generation. We need the Wandjina make rain, make everything grow.’

He moved along the gallery and pointed to a painting. ‘This one is freshwater turtle, he sings of the heart, he is love. And this one is sugarbag, he is the sweetness of life. And all these, they are thunder, rain, and the lightning brothers.’ He swept out his arms again as if to embrace all the paintings. ‘These in our country hold our stories.’

Ardjani moved to stage right, stepping across the ledge to a cluster of smaller drawings nestling into a niche in the curve of the rock face. ‘I now tell you the story of this one . . . Dhumby.’

It was a small picture, child-like in its simplicity, of a tiny white owl. In place of feathers, were dots.

Ardjani turned to the wall talking softly in language, then faced the people who’d made it possible for him to come back to this sacred place. The group looked at him expectantly.

Alan squatted beside Beth and she returned his look. ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘The baby’s shawl.’

Alan felt the excitement of the adrenalin running and was about to speak, but Beth put her fingers to her lips.

Ardjani had begun the story of Dhumby, the tragic owl. ‘This little bird was teased by disobedient boys. They pull out his feathers and stick spinifex in him so he can’t fly. For this, the boys’ parents are punished. They put to death.’

‘But it wasn’t the parents’ fault.’ Susan was shocked at the harshness of the law.

‘That’s white culture talking,’ said Rusty. ‘Barradja way of bringing up the young men is very different.’

‘Those boys who were cruel to the little owl, they were thirteen, fourteen therebouts. That is their taboo time when they’re not allowed to mix with girls, look at certain sacred places, or see some ceremonies. They must begin their initiation. They know they must obey our law,’ said Ardjani. ‘At this age we take the boys away from the family to be taught by the old men till they be ready for initiation to become men too. Barradja boys are navigated into adulthood by the elders.’

‘They still see the family,’ Digger elaborated, ‘but they also belong to we elders, to be taught the laws. And also, they must pass the tests of courage and strength.’

Ardjani said, ‘I give you an example. You know how hot a kangaroo be when it cooked. The boy has to take that baked kangaroo from out of the oven in the ground, and put the hot skin on his shoulder, and run with that kangaroo with all the boiling juices going down his back.’

Alistair leaned towards Mick, ‘And I thought boys’ boarding schools were tough.’

‘If they were growing up in a town, this mob’s kids would probably watch TV, play football, and give the local cops hell. Odd business, isn’t it?’

Beth caught the judge’s comment and pointed at the elders who were to one side, listening. ‘These old men are watchful and very strict with the young boys, and the boys respect what they say. We’ve mostly lost that in our culture. A lot of fathers are afraid to interact with their teenage sons these days, because looming behind our children today is the State. If children want to complain that their parents have shouted at them, or refused to let them go to particular places with their friends, the government workers can say, if you’re not happy at home, you can leave. We have the young homeless allowance for you.’

‘So the kids are saying, get out of my face, Dad, the government will look after me.’ The judge shook his head. ‘You know, it makes you really wonder where our so-called sophisticated society has taken the whole business of parenting and family responsibility, in the name of progress.’

Beth agreed. ‘Like the Dhumby story says . . . In the Barradja community, the parents are punished for the misdemeanours of their children. But when our kids show lack of respect, abuse animals, people and the land, society is reluctant to punish parents for the misbehaviour of their children. Instead, we punish the child,’ said Beth. ‘The State has eroded the responsibility of parents for their children.’

Alistair was quick to take issue. ‘That may be so, Beth, but admirable though these rites of passage are for the young boys of the Barradja, it’s not the answer for our society.’

Beth raised her eyebrows. ‘Isn’t it, Alistair? I wonder whether there isn’t something we can learn from them. I’ll bet a lot of street kids, who are drug-addicted and working as prostitutes to pay for their habit, could see some relevance.’

‘Point taken,’ said Alistair and he turned to Ardjani. ‘Sorry about that, my friend, but your story about Dhumby has impressed us in more ways than perhaps you expected. I rather feel Dhumby has inspired a discussion that will continue for quite some time. Your people accept parental roles easily. In our culture, we’re still arguing about them.’

‘Yeah,’ said Ardjani smiling, ‘we notice whitefellas like arguments.’ He gestured towards Digger to take over the lecture. Being an artist, he liked to talk about traditional paintings.

Beth signalled to Ardjani and Alan, and they moved away from the shadowy shelter to sit on a boulder, under a spindly tree.

‘Ardjani, you remember I told you about that Aboriginal baby left in the art gallery in Melbourne? Her mother was murdered.’

‘Yeah. You heard any more about that baby?’

‘Joyce Guwarri at welfare is still looking after her. Joyce spent ten minutes on the radio phone the other day telling me what a perfect child she is. She smiles a lot and gurgles. I suspect Joyce’s getting quite attached to her. She said they’ve had no luck at all finding the baby’s father, and it doesn’t look like the girl’s parents want anything to do with their granddaughter. Apparently they’re religious nuts, they belong to some sort of church that doesn’t allow young girls to mix outside the congregation. This girl, Lisa, had run away. The parents also made it clear that their so-called religion does not allow intermixing of races.’

Ardjani rolled his eyes. ‘Baby better off not with these crazy people.’

Alan spoke quietly. ‘Ardjani, I’m confident the picture up there of Dhumby is the same that’s on the shawl left with the baby. Someone must have told her about Dhumby, and most probably it was the Aboriginal father.’

Ardjani tipped his hat forward and scratched the back of his neck. ‘Dhumby is a Barradja story. That baby belongs to Barradja family. We just have to find that father, eh?’ He gave a reassuring smile. ‘I think this is a special baby, she find her way home. You see.’

Beth contented herself with these remarks. Ardjani turned and gestured to the rock shelter. ‘The spirits are pleased you bring us to them. Mebbe give us good news, eh?’

‘I wish they could help us find that baby’s father,’ said Beth.

‘Why would the father go away from baby’s mother?’

Beth sighed. ‘Well, if we knew that, we’d have a few more answers.’

Ardjani looked back to the gallery where Digger was still explaining the paintings to their visitors. Outside and well away from the entrance, Rusty and Barwon were in deep discussion.

‘Reckon that Barwon fella learnin’ a lot about huntin’. But he not seem interested in our rock paintings. What you think, Beth?’

‘I think he’s very sad, Ardjani, he seems so lost, so confused. I get the feeling that he’s beginning to think his search is hopeless. He’s changed since he’s been here. And he won’t talk to me about what’s wrong. Have you noticed how quiet he is? It’s not like him.’

‘He got to get more feelin’ for country. I get Digger ’n’ Rusty take him see some Barradja country.’

‘He’s worth helping, Ardjani. So’s that little baby.’ Ardjani scratched an ear. ‘Busy time for you and me, eh?’

‘Important time,’ affirmed Beth.

‘Too right.’

Rusty-had started poking about the small ledges in a shelter adjoining the Wandjina paintings and he called to Ardjani in language. Ardjani and Digger climbed to where he was, and the three crouched down on a ledge above where the group was assembled.

Ardjani stepped forward and, in his outstretched hand, he held a skull. It was brown-stained, streaked with bright red.

Veronica recoiled and clutched Susan’s hand. ‘Jesus. How spooky!’

‘This fellow, this old man. His bones be taken. Other old man, his head be gone. Bad, very bad.’

‘Bad for the dead bloke, or bad for the bloke that stole it?’ Mick asked.

‘Who’d take a skull?’ Veronica shuddered.

‘I’d say it’s bad news for whoever took it,’ suggested Alistair.

Digger gave a shout, and held up small bones. The men conferred again, and the bones were put back in the burial shelf.

‘We think birds scatter these little bones, but the skull, he gone. No good.’ Ardjani climbed back down.

‘Why is the skull red?’ Susan asked Beth.

‘It’s an ochre they use to preserve and decorate them for ceremonial reasons.’

‘Why would someone steal such a thing? Gives me the creeps.’

‘I’ve stopped being surprised at what people steal or collect,’ said Beth. ‘Collectors can be very weird, obsessive people.’

As the group waited around the van watching, Ardjani lit a small fire near the rock paintings, collected a handful of green leaves and put them on the flames, fanning the fire with his hat. The smoke rose as his voice sailed beyond and above the sacred gallery. His song rose past the orange and red outcrops into an impossibly blue sky, and the chanting of the old man, almost Gregorian in impact, became an indelible image.

Rusty, realising that everyone was curious, offered a brief explanation. ‘Ardjani do this smoking so that the spirits don’t follow us. If you don’t do the proper thing, there may be trouble.’

‘Primitive stuff, isn’t it?’ said Veronica to Susan, as they waved handkerchiefs to ward off the increasing number of flies annoying them. ‘I mean, it’s nearly the end of the millennium and we’re walking in space, poking around Mars, and this old bloke is chanting away at spirits he thinks are living in a pile of rock. As for these bloody flies, it’s about time Tim Fischer and the National Party did something about them.’

Susan laughed. The outburst was typical of Veronica, a blunt combination of humour, absurdity, scepticism. ‘Careful,’ warned Susan with mock seriousness. ‘You don’t know who’s listening out here.’

Ardjani settled into the Oka in the space left by Lilian and Jennifer’s absence. The sun was already well down. ‘Gala light time soon. We leave before shadows come,’ he told Billy.

‘What does gala mean?’ asked Veronica.

‘Look out there, see that pretty light, after the sun goes. It’s soft-time light. Look out, maybe you catch the Rai dancing.’ Seeing Veronica about to open her mouth, he answered her question. ‘The Rai be little spirits, mischief spirits, magic spirits. Sometimes Wandjina send them to us in dreams.’

‘Like Mimi spirits? I’ve heard of those.’ Mick was glad he could contribute to the conversation.

Ardjani turned and gave a cheeky leer to the crowd. ‘Mimi spirits be sexy ones. They teach sexy things to Aborigines.’ He gave a wink and a big grin.

Veronica was delighted. ‘Now they’re the sort of spirits I can relate to . . . the sexy ones.’

‘You’re the limit, Veronica,’ said Susan. ‘But at least it’s a step forward in accepting their culture.’

‘Not quite accepting yet, darling. Just sort of relating.’

Billy drove through the lavender light to where they’d arranged to meet Jennifer and Lilian. The women had been waiting patiently beneath a tree. As the van pulled up, Veronica walked to the door to help Jennifer with the baby. Lilian sat next to Susan, who gave her a tentative smile.

The baby lay across Jennifer’s lap on its stomach, sleeping peacefully, its head to one side, legs dangling over her knees. Susan saw Veronica reach out and tenderly smooth the baby’s head.

Lilian noticed it too and moved closer to talk softly to Susan. ‘Your friend, Jennifer, tell me she trying to get a baby from a needle. That seem a stoopid way to get a baby.’

‘Well, her husband is helping.’ Susan struggled to explain that because she couldn’t conceive a baby naturally, the doctors were using science and technology to help.

Lilian still looked bemused. ‘You don’t have wunggud? We take her to baby spirit pond. We do women’s business.’

‘Will she grow a baby?’

Lilian nodded. ‘First her husband must dream the baby and then it come to her.’

Susan decided to leave the discussion of Aboriginal conception till a time when Beth could help translate. She touched Lilian’s hand. ‘Today, when you went to your father and grandfather’s country, how did you feel?’

‘I feel sad.’

‘Were they there? The spirits of your father and grandfather?’

Lilian didn’t answer for a moment. ‘I don’t know. I know tonight. If they there, they come and I dream them tonight. They will tell me.’ She spoke simply with resigned conviction.

‘Did you know them?’

‘I be little girl when my father die and my mother take me away from this country for many years, so I don’t learn from my father’s stories. But we be close, you know. We share same totem, dingo. Same songs, same law.’

Lilian fell silent, so Susan changed the subject. ‘Where do you get your food over there, at your camp? Do you buy things in Marrenjowan?’

‘Yeah, we go to shops when we get the pension. But when we here, we like to get our traditional food. It more healthy, Jennifer tell us. The men hunt and we get women’s food.’ She smiled. ‘But we still like tomato sauce on bush tucker.’

The truck rolled ahead of them and into the camp at twilight with Rusty tooting the horn. From the Oka’s window, Ardjani saw a battered four-wheel drive parked close to the buildings.

‘You got visitors, Ardjani,’ called Beth.

‘Bungarra mob. Old Lucky come and visit.’

‘Great,’ Susan nudged Veronica. ‘The old artist. You’ll love him. Get him to tell you stories about his travels.’

As they climbed out of the van, Beth asked Ardjani to bring the Bungarra visitors over to their campfire later in the evening. ‘I’ll arrange with Billy to have some extra tucker.’

The Aboriginal groups merged and walked off to their camp as Billy issued a series of short commands that had the whites hopping, in good humour, to help prepare the evening meal. Mick threw together the dough for the promised damper, with the speed and aplomb of a seasoned bushman, while the others gathered firewood and set the table.

During the meal, Beth returned from Ardjani’s camp and dropped into a chair and gasped, ‘You won’t believe the story I’ve just heard.’ But before she had time to explain, Billy was urging her to get the last steak or it would turn into a cinder.

‘The damper is quite magnificent, Mick,’ said Alistair. ‘Beats me how flour and water can taste so good. Makes the baps at the patisserie up the road near my place pale in comparison. So, Beth, what was the meeting all about?’

‘Here they come. Better let them tell you.’

Ardjani, Rusty and Digger approached, their presence now dominated by the smaller, effervescent Lucky, who walked ahead of them.

He went around the group shaking hands announcing, ‘I be Lucky Dodds and I met de Queen of England!’ Coming to Susan, he pumped her arm. ‘You doing good here? Treat you good, eh?’

‘Yes, Lucky. It’s great to see you again. This is my friend, Veronica, she makes radio programs.’

Lucky pulled up a chair. ‘I sit with de pretty ladies,’ he chuckled.

‘You blokes want some meat? There’s one sausage left,’ said Beth holding up a sausage on a fork.

‘No, thanks, we eaten,’ said Digger.

‘Any biscuits?’ asked Lucky.

Beth dumped the sausage on her plate. ‘Biscuits with tea, later. Now, Lucky, tell Alan what you’ve been telling Ardjani.’

Lucky rubbed his hands together. He had an audience and a story to tell and he relished every moment. After a long preamble, it emerged there had been a visitor to Bungarra. ‘An American lady. Maybe Ardjani’s girlfriend.’ Then Lucky quipped, ‘Smart lady, but . . .’ he held up a finger, ‘skinny, bad eyes, dingo eyes. Lucky no like her, not like dese pretty ladies, here.’ Veronica and Susan were given a nudge. ‘Dis lady visit here before. Now she back. And she say she gonna buy all our paintings and take dem back to America. She got paper to pay us lots of money and she say she want Bungarra mob to sign paper, like Ardjani and elders sign paper with her.’

Alan put down his knife and fork. ‘Hang on, Lucky. Just what are you saying?’

Lucky slapped his knee. ‘See, I tell Queenie, Alan gonna be mad. He gonna be mad when he know about dis lady. Queenie over dere with Lilian and de other women. She tell dem de story. Den we have meeting and decide if we sign dis paper.’

Beth looked at Ardjani, whose face was impassive, and who hadn’t smiled. ‘Maybe you should tell Alan what Rowena is saying.’

‘Who’s Rowena?’ asked Mick.

‘She’s an American woman who went to an exhibition Ardjani was hosting in Los Angeles eighteen months ago. She met him, got swept up in the charisma of the Aborigines, the art, the mystical stuff.’ Beth gave a sidelong glance to Ardjani. ‘She was charmed by Ardjani’s stories, stories she kind of exaggerated in her head to believe the new age, or something similar, had come to the Kimberley. Next thing she’d jumped on a plane and come out here.’

‘She rich lady, her father big Hollywood man. Make films. She going to make a film about Barradja. Tell our stories,’ said Ardjani, in explanation.

‘Oh, Christ.’ Alan rolled his eyes.

‘She hung around following Ardjani until the wet was due and the Barradja moved to Marrenjowan,’ said Beth. ‘Then she went back to LA. End of her adventure, or so we thought. And now she’s come out here again, and she’s at Bungarra.’

‘What has she told you, Lucky?’ asked Alistair.

‘She say Ardjani and the elders already sign papers, so it all right we sign papers too.’ Lucky shook his head from side to side in an exaggerated gesture. ‘I say, no. No way. Not till we talk to Ardjani.’

‘Signing some papers sounds a worry,’ said Mick. ‘What did you sign, Ardjani?’

‘When she come here before, we talk. These boys come,’ he pointed to Rusty and Digger. ‘And she say she going to make film about us. Take film of ceremonies and many things, so we can keep them to teach the young people. She say one day mebbe some dances, some songs, they forgotten if the old people don’t pass them on. She say they get too old to travel to teach Barradja who are far away. We make this film to teach young boys and girls. And then she make other film about us Barradja to tell the world how we have a gift. She say we should share our knowledge with white people. This film be a good way to show our country, our people, our culture.’

‘That’s not a silly idea,’ said Mick. ‘But, Ardjani, there are plenty of Australian filmmakers who could do that, and probably better.’

‘I’d like to see this piece of paper,’ said Alistair donning his QC’s hat. ‘There are lots of unanswered questions.’

Alan looked terse. ‘Indeed, there are. Did you know she was coming to Bungarra?’

Lucky held up his hands in surrender, shielding himself from Alan’s growing anger. ‘Boss. I do proper thing. I say, wait, we go talk to Ardjani and Alan and mob here.’

‘I know she coming. I know these things.’ Ardjani tapped his head and looked mysterious.

Beth straightened up. ‘This calls for a serious meeting tomorrow morning. Have you got a copy of the paper she wants you to sign, Lucky? Ardjani, have you got a copy of the paper you signed with her?’ Beth looked frustrated. ‘With papers like this, law people should look at them.’

‘We are law men, Beth.’

‘Ardjani, whitefella law can be tricky, it’s not always good for Barradja and Aboriginal people.’ Beth threw a quick look at Mick and Alistair. ‘No offence to you blokes, but . . .’

Ardjani held up his hand. ‘We will have a meeting. Tomorrow.’ He rose, and Digger and Rusty followed. But Lucky stretched out his legs and turned to Veronica. ‘What radio you talk on? You talk on de ABC? You going to talk to Lucky on de ABC radio?’

For the next hour Lucky entertained everyone with stories of his people, his art, his trips and his views of the white people for whom he felt genuinely sorry. ‘They sure got it all wrong. Too greedy. Want everything right now. House too big, work too hard, walk too fast, see nothin’.’

When he and Barwon departed to join Ardjani’s camp, Mick said, ‘I think Ardjani and Co have a problem with this American woman. She’s already signed up the Barradja for film rights, and goodness knows what else, and now she presumably wants to buy all the work produced by the Bungarra artists. Have I read it right?’ Mick looked around the group.

‘That about sums it up, Mick,’ said Alistair.

‘Look at it from their point of view,’ urged Beth. ‘Apart from whites wanting their art, there aren’t many others banging on their door offering to help with cultural salvation. I met this woman briefly, when she first came here, and I thought she was a bit wacky, but harmless. She certainly didn’t drop a hint to me of what she must have been planning to negotiate with the elders.’

‘Hopefully we’ll get across this whole matter in a general meeting of minds in chambers . . . under a tree tomorrow,’ said Mick. ‘I recommend first thing after breakfast, Beth, if that is suitable to our clients.’

Beth suppressed a smile at the judge’s use of the term ‘our clients’. That would please Ardjani.

In her tent, Susan lay in her sleeping bag staring out her little window. It was a lovely way to go to sleep, watching the sparkling coverlet of stars, so close, so watchful, hanging above her.

She closed her eyes, and the images of the Wandjina figures floated before her, reminding her of the age, the mystery and the power of the landscape around her.

She was woken in the early hours of the morning. Sitting up in bed Susan groped for her torch. The cry came again, a long mournful howl. And another. Two voices crying to the moon. It sent shivers up her spine and she heard Veronica’s startled exclamation from her tent next door. ‘Jesus, what’s that?’

Susan unzipped the flyscreen, crawled out of her tent and peered around it to the fire, where the crying seemed to come from.

There, in the middle of the deserted camp, sat two dingoes, the moonlight shining on their rusty coats. Their noses lifted to the night sky, they cried and howled in long rolling sessions.

‘It’s all right, it’s dingoes,’ whispered Susan. ‘Two of them. They’re right here, in our camp.’

‘What are they doing, for God’s sake?’

‘They’re just . . . sort of singing.’ Then Susan remembered. ‘Lilian . . . she told me her father and grandfather were dingo totem. She said if they were here, they’d come to her.’

‘Susan, get back in your tent,’ ordered Veronica.

Susan lay back down. No one else had stirred. But everyone must have been woken by the visit of the dingoes. She was not afraid. In fact, she felt strangely comforted. As she fell back into sleep, she wondered what message the family spirits were giving to Lilian.

Susan walked from the sleeping camp through the casuarina trees and papery grass, her footfalls silently crushing the frosted dew. There was no breeze, nothing rustled, no leaves stirred.

Before her, as if carved in stone, stood an old bull in a dark coat with a white streak down his wide forehead. Horns, yellowed and dull, curved up from the square head and wide brown eyes, faintly curious, watched her.

She stopped, her heart beating rapidly. The beast stood stoically, a stolid shape. A micky bull. A stray. A loner. As she stood, immobilised, he ambled towards her with a calm if clumsy gait and stood, to her surprise, within touching distance. Tentatively, Susan reached out and patted the rough hair between his horns. The bull dropped his head slightly, and Susan couldn’t help but smile. He wanted to be scratched. She rubbed and tickled behind his ears, grinning all the while. ‘So, mate, bit lonely out here on your own!’ She realised this must be the tame bull Beth had told them had been fed by the Barradja for years. ‘Only the kids to play with, eh?’

She fondled the soppy old beast a few minutes longer then the sound of a vehicle starting broke the silence. A truck swung away from the Barradja camp. As it passed, Digger, Rusty and Barwon, squeezed into the front seat, gave her a wave. Susan headed through the trees towards the river. The bull trotted behind like a faithful dog and she wished she had her camera.

She found a break in the pandanus at the water’s edge, sat down and marvelled at the beauty of the river. The lily pads glowed like pewter, the surface of the water looked solid enough to walk upon. Along the bank it was lush and tropical, but behind this veneer was thin scrubland, long dry grass, slim trees. In the distance, she knew, were the red ridges of sandstone, ancient and mystical.

Susan felt the magic of the country more than at any time since arriving in the Kimberley. It was not much more than a week, though it seemed much longer, that she’d been sipping cafe latte in Balmain, unaware of the beauty and power of such a remote part of the world, and incapable of imagining the impact it would have on her. Even now she was not sure just how deeply the land was affecting her, but she did know that it would change her.

A twig cracked and Susan turned to see what the bull was doing, but it was gone. Instead, she saw Lilian walking in the misty light, carrying a wooden dish.

The memory of the dingoes in the night rushed back, sending shivers down her spine. But Lilian gave her a cheerful wave and, with a large smile, sat down beside her.

‘What’s that, Lilian?’ asked Susan looking into the coolamon.

‘Sugarbag. Wild honey. In my dream, my father and grandfather come and I ask them where is the sugarbag.’

‘The wild honey you couldn’t find yesterday?’

‘They tell me where.’

‘So they did come. In your dream, as you hoped. The two dingoes . . ?’

Lilian ignored the reference to the dingoes, as if it was a non-question.

‘My father and my grandfather. They tell me many things. My responsibilities, how I look after my country, they tell me many things. It make me very happy.’

She looked out at the water and changed the subject. ‘This barella time, dawn time, before the birds, before the colour comes. When your eyes begin to see,’ she tapped her head, ‘this eye and these eyes,’ then touched her eyelids. And Susan understood what she meant by ‘seeing’.

Lilian broke off a piece of honeycomb and gave it to Susan, and another piece for herself, and they sucked the sweetness. ‘Mm, it’s fantastic,’ enthused Susan.

‘Number one bush tucker,’ endorsed Lilian.

In the next few moments, as if nature had turned on a record, a bird call rang out, then another, and then others answered, joining in the dawn chorus. It was an enchanting performance that ceased as suddenly as if someone had flicked a switch. Now there was only an occasional distant call. The birds were about their business of the day.

‘Now come the colour.’ Lilian pointed to the faint mauve and pink glow in the east. ‘Milky Way covers the sky, he is called Ngadjar, the one above, master of the sky. He make the light for barella, the dawn, for the day. And then he lie down – we call this njallara – and he camp. He bring sleep. We follow him when we sleep. Do you turn over when you sleeping? That means you following Milky Way cross the sky. We call this wollai. Look, now come the new day.’

‘I love this time of day. Not that I see it very often.’ Susan thought of her bedroom in Balmain, where she slept with her windows and curtains closed against possible intruders. Maybe she should walk down to the harbour and watch the sunrise occasionally.

‘This wudu time. When the old men and women teach all the young people. Learning time.’

‘Can I learn some of this too?’

Lilian gave her a smile. ‘When we do women’s business. We take you and your friend.’ She rose and picked up the coolamon of honey. ‘I go make campfire.’

Susan walked back to find Billy and Beth preparing breakfast.

‘Been listening to the dawn chorus?’ asked Beth.

‘And hobnobbing with the old bull. I also saw Lilian. She said her grandfather and father visited her during the night. Did you hear the dingoes?’

‘I was in my swag by the Oka, and they were only a couple of metres from me,’ said Billy, a little uncertain how to interpret the visitation. ‘Spooky,’ he concluded.

‘Maybe, maybe not,’ observed Beth. ‘Depends on how you look at it.’ She picked up her towel and toilet bag. ‘I’m going for a cold shower to wake me up. We’ve organised the big meeting after breakfast over at the Barradja camp.’

The group straggled over to a shade area under trees, where Ardjani and Lucky sat on the ground, legs folded. Behind them sat Queenie, Lilian and Jennifer, who had the baby lying across her lap.

Beth guided Mick, Alistair, Susan and Alan to sit in a semi circle facing Ardjani, with Veronica and Billy behind them. Beth then sat next to Mick at the end. A square of plastic sheeting was spread before them. Ardjani pushed a carved stick into the ground. He held a batch of papers and sat impassively, his big hat firmly in place.

Despite the casualness of sitting on the hard ground under a tree, there was an air of formality. When the visitors had made themselves as comfortable as was possible, Ardjani looked around the circle. ‘It makes us Barradja very happy you people come to help us. To help Barradja people get back our culture, our land.’

Alistair exchanged a swift, surprised sideways glance with Mick Duffy.

Beth moved swiftly to clarify Ardjani’s reference to the land rights issue, the first the lawyers had heard of it. She spoke formally in her interpreter’s voice. ‘Ardjani is saying that your assistance, in negotiating with the Steeles for Barradja elders to go to their sacred sites for special ceremonies, is much appreciated. He is keen to talk about how this concession can be further developed, perhaps giving the Barradja more permanent access to their traditional country.’

She turned to Ardjani, who continued addressing the gathering. ‘But first we talk about the American woman, Rowena, and the papers she wants Lucky and Bungarra mob to sign.’

Lucky and Ardjani exchanged looks. If there was a message from the elder, it was not obvious to Susan, who was becoming increasingly conscious of how much the Barradja people communicated without needing words. Lucky began, ‘This Rowena lady, she want everything belong our culture. She hard lady to talk to. She got some magic dat one. Bit strange, too. Little bit strange.’

‘What exactly is she after?’ asked Alistair. ‘Have you brought this document you were talking about last night? And, Ardjani, have you got the papers you signed for the Barradja?’

Ardjani held out several sheafs of papers clipped together. Alistair quickly perused the two contracts.

‘From my quick scan of yours, Ardjani, it looks to me like this American woman has a signed contract giving her copyright ownership of the Barradja culture.’

‘That’s preposterous. You can’t copyright a culture.’ Mick reached for the documents.

Beth trod delicately around the next statement. ‘Ardjani had a meeting with her when he was in Los Angeles. An agreement was drawn up by her lawyers and apparently, when she came to Australia, the elders signed it.’

Ardjani was defensive. ‘The contract is not for our culture, it is for film, to make film of Barradja ways, dances and songs. We do a big corroboree before the old fellas die, and we keep it on the film to show the young people. Show people everywhere. This is good.’

Lucky pointed to the papers the two senior lawyers were quickly scanning. ‘This Rowena say now, she want sign up us artists. She say Americans pay us more money dan Australian art buyers, and she say we be in dat film, too. She say she got a fella goin’ bring in money people from America on jet plane here to buy our paintings. I say no way. We belong Alan’s business.’ Lucky shot a look at Queenie, who nodded emphatically.

‘That’s exactly right,’ said Alan firmly.

‘Do you have a contract, some agreement in writing with the artists?’ asked Alistair.

Alan shook his head. ‘Not much point. If there isn’t trust, it won’t work.’

‘We shake hands, and agree Barradja way,’ said Lucky.

‘Cripes. This is a frightening piece of paper,’ declared Mick. ‘Even from a cursory look, this American woman has got the Barradja to sign away all rights to any art form, whether it be written, in any physical form, dances, music, you name it. Ardjani, this is a lot more complicated than just making a film. I’m afraid she’s misled you.’

‘If physical includes painted or carved,’ asked Veronica, ‘why does she need to sign up the artists?’

‘They own the copyright to each of their works, she probably wants that signed over to her,’ said Mick.

‘That’s my reading of it,’ added Alistair.

‘It’s outrageous,’ exclaimed Susan. ‘Surely we can bust Ardjani’s contract to smithereens. And certainly Lucky’s right not to sign anything more.’

‘This Rowena woman bad one, she mad woman.’ Digger folded his arms after this pronouncement.

‘I call her the vampire woman,’ said Beth.

‘Vampire woman?’ echoed Veronica. ‘She’s certainly trying to bleed them dry.’

Alistair had carefully read through the four typed pages under the elaborate letterhead of a Californian law firm. ‘She’s no sucker, that’s for sure. This is a sweeping contract that gives her everything. Ardjani, I think we should meet this woman.’ He folded the contract. ‘She’s at Bungarra now, Lucky?’

‘Yeah. She already talkin’ to everybody. Max and Judy trying to stop her, while Lucky come here for help. We know Ardjani have big lawyer mob here. You fix her up, yeah?’ Lucky was pleased at the idea of returning with so many lawyers in tow.

Billy was flustered at this sudden shift in plans. ‘Bungarra is a big drive, that’s going to make it a long day. We’d better hit the road if you want to be back by tonight.’

‘Everybody bring a swag just in case. And some grub,’ said Mick.

‘Swag?’ Veronica looked at Susan who shrugged.

‘Sleeping bag, loo paper and mossie repellent, I suppose.’

Beth raised her voice to get everyone’s attention. ‘Bring your own water container, Billy and I will work out the food. Just dry stuff, the rest of Mick’s damper, cheese, tea, biscuits.’

‘Max and Judy will feed us,’ said Alan. ‘They can always manage to throw an extra spud in the pot.’

As the Barradja returned to their camp, Beth shook her head anxiously. ‘I hope we can straighten this out.’

‘You don’t sound too positive,’ said Alistair.

‘What’s Rowena really like?’ asked Susan.

‘Difficult . . . irrational,’ answered Beth soberly.

‘Struth,’ said Mick.

For once, Billy didn’t have to complain about the slowness of the group getting their gear into the van and jumping on board. Ardjani and Queenie went in Lucky’s four-wheel drive, while Lucky set himself up behind Billy in the Oka to guide the way.

Down the back of the van, Beth quietly outlined what she knew about Rowena to the three lawyers.

‘Mega-rich father, a movie mogul. She got infatuated with Ardjani, and “Aboriginal spirituality” as she called it. She’s screwed up her own life. She’s been in one of those trendy clinics to recover from drug and alcohol abuse. She told me how, when she met Ardjani, she felt . . . how did she describe it . . . a calling to come to Australia and be with “pure people”. She said her trip had given her life new meaning, and one day she would come back to help them as her way of saying thank you.’

‘Hallelujah, amen,’ said Mick. ‘Maybe stealing their culture is her way of saying thank you.’

‘She told Ardjani that what she calls her guides had told her she had to tap into the power of his people, that she had some task to do and that she’d only find the answers here.’

Susan groaned. ‘Just another pyschobabbler. I don’t know where these American women get their ideas from. They come out here running motivational, inspirational, empowering workshops for two hundred dollars a pop. Sell their tapes and books and programmed crystals, and go back home to their ranches in Big Sur.’

‘I thought you women all burned your bras, and didn’t need any help any more.’ Mick looked surprised.

‘I think they’ve moved into a new era. It’s now we chaps who are supposed to raise our consciousness and relate to our feminine energy. Or something like that,’ grinned Alistair.

‘Rowena is a bit flaky,’ said Beth with a shrug. ‘But underneath the southern Californian new-age baloney is a mind like a steel trap. I don’t know how much is real, and what’s not. She’s moody and you won’t be surprised to know she doesn’t like me at all.’

Lucky, enjoying the airconditioned comfort of the van, was discussing matters related to gears and the relative merits of four-wheel drive vehicles which, Billy had decided long ago, was the greatest gift white society had come up with, in Aboriginal eyes. Four-wheel drives and cowboy films, Billy told himself. The thought led him to ask, ‘You ever been in movies, the films, Lucky? Lots of blackfellas get parts in films nowadays.’

Lucky’s eyes shone and he sat tall. ‘Yep. Me movie star all right.’ It was a line the others couldn’t ignore and all attention shifted to the old man. With an actor’s appreciation of the moment, he turned to face his audience. ‘Yep, Lucky in movies long time ago. With Mr Chips Rafferty.’

‘Chips Rafferty,’ gasped Mick. ‘The man’s a legend. Knew him back in the early days. He had a house near mine, I gave him some legal advice once. Well, Lucky, you were certainly among the stars then. What part did you play?’

‘Stockman. Me muster cattle, go on long cattle drive,’ he said with pride.

‘You do anything important in the film, Lucky?’

‘Nah. All important things done by white fellas. They paint whitefellas black for important stuff. Dat very funny, ‘cause whitefellas pretendin’ be blackfellas do funny things.’

‘Did you tell Chips?’

‘Yeah. He try to fix up, but they still keep paintin’ dem black.’

‘Oh, how things have changed,’ said Susan. ‘Have you been in any other films, Lucky?’

‘Nah. Savin’ meself for Hollywood,’ he said, grinning broadly.

As the Oka headed towards Bungarra, Digger, Rusty and Barwon drove off in the opposite direction to finish the hunting that they’d interrupted to return for the meeting. As the old truck rumbled over the bush track, Digger hung out the passenger side, peering at the ground. Suddenly he banged on the side, and Rusty slowed down.

Digger pointed ahead. ‘New track come up.’

Rusty hit the brake and stopped where the track they were following had been crossed by an obviously heavy vehicle. They sat still, letting the dust settle.

‘What is it?’ asked Barwon. Since they had set out, he had been unable to get much out of his travelling companions, except that they were going to cross a property called Boulder Downs. The truck moved on.

Barwon had enjoyed the early start and the experience of seeing the country come alive as the sun rose. He found the landscape more appealing the further they went. He began to relax in a way he had forgotten lately, as if a strong sense of security and tranquillity was protecting him from the turmoil that seemed to constantly tear at his insides. The country was seeping into him . . . the colours, the shapes of the trees and the rocks and hills, the sandy dry beds of creeks, the sounds of the birds. In the beginning he had been swept up by the broad spectacle of what he was seeing. Now he was increasingly noticing the detail, and delighting in each new discovery of something small, but beautiful.

He felt a sadness that the Barradja people no longer owned the lands they had roamed for so many thousands of years. Obviously it wasn’t good cattle country, they hadn’t seen one head today, but at least the land still looked the same. Not like the coastal developments, heavily stocked farms and chemically polluted crops.

He was jerked from his thoughts as the truck stopped. Indeed, it was a little disappointing to find his companions had discovered only another set of vehicle tracks.

‘Where does it go?’ he asked, as they got out. He received no reply so he stayed silent as Rusty and Digger squatted down and carefully examined the dust, chatting to each other in the language Barwon didn’t understand, and wished he did. They pointed at things that Barwon couldn’t see.

‘This Boulder Downs?’ he asked, and both men nodded in confirmation.

‘We take a look,’ said Digger, and Rusty climbed on the tray of the truck and stood with his hands on a steel frame that ran over the cab. ‘See better,’ he explained to Barwon, who decided to join him.

Digger had driven slowly along the new track for about half an hour when Rusty banged on the roof. Barwon had seen it too, up ahead, a spiral of dust suddenly rising from the bush close by the line of hills that the truck was now following. It was clearly a vehicle on the move.

They got out and climbed up the ridge a little, and soon, in the distance, they could see it. They could hear it too, the steady throb of generators and drilling equipment. A row of tents and huts lined the clearing and a rough airstrip had been carved from the bush. ‘Jeez,’ exclaimed Barwon. ‘A bloody mining camp. What would they be looking for?’

Digger and Rusty squatted under a tree and Barwon sat down with them. ‘Gold. Diamonds. Minerals. We gotta take close look, Barwon,’ said Digger. ‘We not supposed to be here, off the track. But we got sacred paintings in this area, like the ones you saw yesterday.’

They walked back to the truck and as they reached it Barwon suggested an idea. ‘Look this could turn nasty if the miners get mad at your sudden appearance. But if I turn up, saying I’m from Sydney and I’m lost, they mightn’t be so upset. And I can probably find out what they’re up to from talking to them. So why don’t you both wait here and I’ll go in alone, and when I come back, then we can decide what to do next.’

‘Good idea, Barwon,’ agreed Rusty, and Digger nodded. Barwon climbed behind the wheel and headed the truck towards the mining camp.

Three men worked at a lightweight drill rig on the back of a Land Cruiser. They paused in their task to squint into the glaring heat at the track that had suddenly disappeared under a cloud of dust. Over at the camp kitchen, a man in a cook’s apron, with a tea towel hanging from his trouser pocket, watched the truck approach. None expected an Aborigine, but the man who stepped from the truck sure looked like one, though certainly not a local. He was too slick, too tidy, his clothes too citified, thought the head driller, Kevin Perkins, in silent assessment. Only the truck looked authentic – dirty and battered. ‘Who the fuck is this?’ he hissed to his workmates.

‘G’day? How yer goin’?’ called Barwon affably.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Perkins growled.

‘Nigel Barwon. Just travelling through. Heard the racket. What’s going on?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Hey, no need to be nasty, mate. I’m just a tourist. And I’m a bit lost. Sorry if I’ve upset you or something.’

The mining boss gave Barwon a curious look. The Aborigine’s clear voice, good manners and groomed, handsome looks really set him apart.

‘Er, we just need to check a few things. We thought for a minute you might be one of the locals. They’re not allowed around here. We’ve brewed a pot, want a cuppa tea?’

‘Thanks. That’d be great. Terrific country out here.’

‘Where you from?’

‘Sydney . . . last stop. I’m just looking around. What about you people? You local?’

‘Nah, we go where the work is.’

‘And that is . . ?’

‘Mining exploration.’

‘Gold? Diamonds? Minerals?’

The men looked at each other. This articulate Aborigine was asking too many questions.

They had barely finished their tea, with Barwon still asking questions they didn’t want to answer, when another vehicle arrived. A short man, with a large beer gut that looked cement solid, jumped out bristling immediate animosity.

‘Who the hell are you? What’s going on?’ he shouted as he stormed up to the men.

Barwon put down his mug and rose, offering his hand, which the man ignored. ‘Nigel Barwon. Just travelling round the place. Taking a bit of a look-see at this part of the country.’

‘Well, you can take yourself right off my property. I’m Giles Jackson and you’re on Boulder Downs, which I own and I say who comes onto.’ He walked over to Rusty’s truck. ‘Travelling round you say? Bullshit. Where’s your gear? Who sent you up here?’ He moved close to Barwon, looking menacing.

‘Hey, man, you don’t have to be so threatening.’

‘I’m not threatening. I’m telling you.’ Jackson turned back to the open door of his vehicle and brought out a rifle. ‘You’re with those fucking Barradja people. You’re a fuckin’ city Abo, here with those lawyers everyone’s talkin’ about. I heard Steele let you lot take the local Abos onto his land. But you’re not coming on my bloody land. So you can stop snooping around. You go back and tell them to mind their own bloody business.’ He took a step forward, poking his finger in Barwon’s shoulder.

‘Listen, mate, there’s no need to carry on like this.’

‘Don’t call me mate, yer fuckin’ Abo. Yer not even the real thing. Yer trespassin’. Now fuck off.’ With his free hand he shoved Barwon backwards. Barwon swung wildly, his right fist connecting with Jackson’s ribs, causing him to drop the gun. In seconds, the two men were exchanging blows. Jackson’s huge fat fists jabbed at Barwon’s eyes and belly. He ducked, holding his arms in front of his face defensively until his shock was replaced by seething anger and he flung his fists in turn at the heavily panting Jackson.

The mining men stood by unsure of what to do, until Barwon landed a sharp jab to Jackson’s jaw and as he staggered the men leapt in, separating them. As they held Barwon, Giles Jackson lunged forward, flinging two heavy blows at Barwon’s head.

‘Hey, the man can’t defend himself,’ protested one of the miners.

‘Then let him.’ Jackson half grinned, his fists raised.

Kevin Perkins stood between Jackson and Barwon. ‘Get in your truck and get out fast, lad. Bloody fast.’

The two men holding him marched him to the truck and watched as he climbed in. Barwon said nothing and put his foot down in anger.

He drove fast, dangerously fast given the narrow, winding, dusty track. He was blind with fury at Jackson’s insults that jabbed at him worse than the assault and the way he’d been bundled out of the mining camp. ‘Bastard,’ he kept muttering. ‘Bloody bastard.’

A near collision with a kangaroo slowed him down, but the anger didn’t abate until he started to look for Rusty and Digger. Then it dawned on him that the two old men would have been putting up with behaviour like that all their lives. In the city he had been protected, remote from the worst aspects of white-black relationships, secure in his well-paid TV jobs. Even his looks, which this bastard said stopped him from being a real Aborigine, had made it easy for him to be respected by his professional peers and the social circles he’d mixed in. He wiped a film of sweat from his lips, then spat out the window, trying to get rid of his anger in the dirt and blood that mixed where his teeth had bitten into his tongue.

Billy pulled up to Max and Judy’s house as the artists were having lunch. Ardjani was already in the yard, greeting friends, as Judy pulled out a chair for him in the shade and sent a teenage girl off for a plate of sandwiches. Queenie joined the other women to report about the trip and its consequences.

Beth embraced Judy and Max, Susan got a big hello from them both, and quick introductions were made for the first-time visitors to Bungarra.

‘So where is she?’ asked Beth.

‘Out looking for what she calls locations, with her guide,’ said Judy. ‘Art sites, places where the artists set some of the paintings. Checking things out. She doesn’t miss a trick, that one.’

Beth made more introductions around the table of women artists.

‘Sit down. Cup of tea, soft drink? Have you had lunch?’ asked Max.

‘We have tucker we brought with us. But I wouldn’t say no to a cold drink,’ said Beth, as they settled around two tables. The Bungarra men were seated on the grass in the shade of trees in the front yard eating their lunch in their laps.

As Max took cold drinks from the refrigerator, standing under the house, Alan fired questions at Judy about Rowena.

‘Well, we’d never heard of her,’ answered Judy. ‘But she said she was a friend of Ardjani’s, met him in LA. She had been to Marrenyikka before and was on her way over there next to finalise arrangements about some film she’s making. It all sounded reasonable till she went a bit funny one night and . . .’

‘What do you mean, funny?’ interrupted Susan.

‘She got up in the middle of the night and was walking around outside, talking, almost crying, to herself, holding her head and carrying on. Max kept an eye on her until she went back to bed.’

Max continued, ‘Next morning she got up as if nothing had happened. Started talking to the artists about filming their work, taking them out to the places they’re painting. To the Bungle Bungles and so on.’

‘Did you express some concern at this?’ asked Alistair.

‘Of course,’ said Judy firmly. ‘We stepped in then and started asking her for a few more details. We explained we’re the art coordinators here and we’re responsible for the production of the work and what happens to it.’

‘How did that go down?’ asked Mick.

Before Judy or Max could answer, Beth gestured to the legal team. ‘Alistair, Mick and Susan are lawyers. We figured under the circumstances we might take advantage of their kindly offered expertise.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Max exchanged a frown with Judy before she answered. ‘Well, Rowena didn’t like us butting in.’

‘Did she show you any documents, say she had rights or anything?’ asked Alistair.

‘She told the artists if they signed a contract like Ardjani had, they’d get lots more money for their paintings. That’s when they had a meeting and decided to send Lucky and Queenie to talk to Ardjani.’

‘Rowena sounds devious and dangerous,’ said Alan. ‘We want to know exactly what she’s after.’

‘So ask her,’ said Judy. ‘I want her out of here, she’s pretty disruptive. We let her stay when she said she was a friend of Ardjani’s. And she played up to Lucky no end, but he’s a canny old bugger and he figured she was up to something.’

‘We just want to piss her off,’ said Max with a shrug.

‘I don’t believe it’s that simple,’ said Alistair.

Judy gave a questioning glance at Alistair and the others and turned to Alan. ‘So who’s this mob? These the people you said were going to stay at Marrenyikka?’

‘Yeah. A sort of cultural experience under Beth and Ardjani’s tutelage,’ said Alan.

‘Hang around Rowena for a bit, that’s what I call a cultural experience.’ Max rolled his eyes.

‘Well, until she returns, can we look at some of the work?’ asked Alistair, eyeing the canvases.

While lunch was laid out under Billy’s supervision, the others went under the house for a look at the finished paintings. Alan selected the works he felt were worthy of extended comment, keeping to issues of artistic merit and technique.

Over lunch the group settled down to a vigorous discussion about the art when a late-model four-wheel drive wagon pulled up beside the Oka. A handsome Aboriginal man in his thirties jumped down from the driver’s seat, tucked his designer safari shirt into his moleskin pants, adjusted the large shark tooth on the leather thong around his neck and strode round the vehicle. As he held the open passenger door, a woman stepped out in impractical black, the stretch jeans too loose for her slim frame. A T-shirt with gold writing on the front read, Chanel. A black baseball cap was pulled low, but strands of red hair fluttered around her face. She was wearing sunglasses, studded with coloured stones. A hand, festooned with scarlet nails, swept off her glasses with a flourish, and she gave a wide smile. ‘Well, hellooo, we have company.’ She walked briskly into the front yard and seeing Beth, her smile tightened. ‘Ah, ha. Beth.’

‘Ah, ha. Rowena. We heard you were here, we’re visiting from Marrenyikka. Come and meet our friends.’

Beth did a round of introductions and Rowena introduced her flashily dressed Aboriginal driver. ‘Hunter Watson. Found him in Darwin and what a gem of a man,’ she gushed. ‘Guide, adviser, tour organiser, very bush savvy, and all round Mr Cool. Especially with that shark tooth I bought him. Very Crocodile Dundee, don’t you think?’

‘G’day. I’m very pleased to meet you all,’ said Hunter in acknowledgment, clearly a little embarrassed by the effusive testimonial.

‘Ardjani you know, of course,’ said Beth, as he came down the path from the shelter of the house.

Rowena spun around and walked towards him slowly with arms outspread. ‘Ardjani, dear friend,’ she said with great passion. ‘How lovely to see you here, and what a wonderful, wonderful surprise.’ She grasped his extended hand lightly in both of hers, lifting it up to almost chin level. ‘I’m here, I told you I would come. I’m on my way to Marrenyikka . . . to be with you. We have so much to do, Ardjani. So much.’

The white spectators watched it all in amazement. Bizarre was the word that sprang to Susan’s mind. Alan barely disguised his disgust. Mick and Alistair grinned with delight at the first appearance of the vampire lady. Ardjani extracted himself from her grasp, tipped back his hat and scratched his forehead. ‘Rowena, we gotta talk about your film . . . and other things.’

‘Absolutely, but we have to show the world, Ardjani. Tell everybody. Otherwise how’re we going to make money? We are going to save Barradja songs and dances and ceremonies for generations to come.’ She spread her arms wide. ‘Your culture will circle the earth, embrace the world.’

Ardjani turned his attention to a plate of sandwiches. ‘Mebbe.’

It was the trigger for everyone to move, breaking up the tableau that had been almost hypnotised by Rowena’s arrival performance.

Alan walked over to Rowena and held out his hand. ‘Alan Carmichael. I represent most of the artists here. I understand you’ve been talking to them about using their work in some way . . .’ Before he could finish, she had wrapped her arms about him. ‘Oh, this is fantastic. Fortuitous. What they’re doing is glorious, amazing, so prophetic. They have to be in the film. It’ll be a great promotion for their work. Everyone that sees my film will want to own a Bungarra picture!’

Alistair strolled over and shook her hand. ‘How do you do. Alistair MacKenzie. Come and join us, tea and sandwiches. We’d all love to hear more about your film.’

‘Of course, of course you shall.’ Rowena took a piece of cake from the plate Billy held out to her. Then she paced around, talking rapidly, with the intenseness of a TV evangelist. At last Susan was the one to interrupt the American’s monologue about how fantastic it was that the world would get to learn about ‘the great spirituality of the Aboriginal people’.

‘So tell us how you met Ardjani. What’s your story, Rowena?’

Rowena paused and focused on Susan. ‘Excuse me?’

‘We’d like to know how this all came about. Seeing as we’re all going to be together over at Marrenyikka. Give us the drum.’

Rowena studied Susan, trying to assess the mood behind the bright words. ‘You’re all staying at Marrenyikka?’ she said slowly.

‘You bet. We’re doing what the rest of the world wants to do,’ said Mick cheerfully. ‘Experiencing Aboriginal spirituality.’

‘I see.’ For a moment Rowena’s high-octane energy faltered, but she quickly revved up again. ‘I had a vision, I had a dream . . .’

Veronica kicked Susan under the table.

‘. . . and in that dream I saw a snake . . . and amazing red cliffs and the face of a man singing . . . calling to me. It kept haunting me for months. Then I saw a colour spread in the LA Times magazine about an Australian art show, and there was the man and the place of my dreams. Ardjani and the Kimberley. I knew then I was meeting my destiny. I found him and I came out here. And while I was here . . . I had an experience . . .’ Here she closed her eyes as if in pain, then continued, ‘I knew I had to go back to America and take this knowledge with me. But I got sick, and then it came to me that I would be cured if I came back here . . . and I must capture the essence of this man, these people and share it with the world.’

‘That’s very interesting. I’d say there are possibly a few sensitive areas to be worked out.’ Beth gave a tight smile. ‘A lot of the Barradja culture is secret, only for initiated men and women, secret business. Those sorts of things can’t be recorded. But a film about the Barradja lifestyle, their general beliefs, their art and history might be useful for them.’

Rowena looked like she had been slapped. She recoiled and her eyes narrowed to hard points. ‘You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do. My guides lead me. The elders have signed a contract. I have the sole right to bring the culture of these people to the world.’

‘So it would appear,’ said Alistair disarmingly. ‘I have some legal expertise and as I read the contract, which Ardjani was kind enough to show me, you have extensive publication copyright over many aspects of the Barradja culture. They can appear on film and video only with your agreement, and this may apply to recordings of music, even the reproduction of paintings . . . all these things seem to require your involvement, approval, ownership somehow. Have I got it right?’

Rowena frowned. ‘If you put it like that, I guess so. The Barradja have agreed. They have put their destiny in my hands.’

Beth choked slightly as she took a sip of her drink. In the stunned silence, Billy calmly pointed to the untouched piece of cake she held. ‘You going to eat that cake? Or do you want a cheese sandwich?’

She didn’t indicate that she had heard him.

‘You don’t think such a contract is a bit over the top?’ asked Mick, casually.

Veronica marvelled at the nonchalance of the legal men, when it was obvious everyone else was seething with indignation.

‘Frankly, I don’t believe this is any of your business.’ Rowena looked to Ardjani. ‘It’s what they want.’

‘So that also excludes you from having any input,’ snapped Beth quickly.

Rowena gave a crocodile smile. ‘There’s one way I’d give this up. I could sell it to someone else for a million dollars. Then you could negotiate with them.’

She’s a Venus flytrap, thought Mick. That’s what she reminds me of.

Susan was cheerful, wide-eyed, breaking the electricity that was sparking between Beth and Rowena. ‘I guess we’ll be hearing a lot more about your plans, seeing as we’ll all be at Marrenyikka together.’

Hunter had been standing on the fringe of the group and Rowena spun around. ‘Hunter? We’re moving to Marrenyikka. Pack the gear.’

The gathering broke up with Veronica hardly able to get to Rowena fast enough to lay claim to a radio interview. There had been an immediate understanding in the group that they needed Rowena at Marrenyikka while the legal team was there. Beth had been worried she might delay her visit to Ardjani until they had left.

Billy gave her a cheerful smile. ‘We have plenty of room, even have a spare tent.’

‘I’ll be staying at Ardjani’s. Where I stayed before. I’ll get my things together.’

The others eased themselves back to their paintings while Lucky sauntered over to the judge, well removed from Rowena.

‘You gonna fix her up?’ asked Lucky.

Mick patted him on the shoulder. ‘I think so, friend. Slowly, though.’

Lucky grinned at him. ‘Yeah, like huntin’ roo. Gotta creep up slowly, eh?’

‘What do you reckon she’s on?’ asked Susan, twirling a finger near her forehead.

Alistair stroked his chin. ‘She’s a complex woman, and dangerous, I’d say.’

‘I smell trouble,’ sighed Beth. ‘Big trouble.’

‘She’s a fruitcake,’ announced Billy. ‘A bloody fruitcake.’

Hunter loaded the four-wheel drive, lit a cigarette and waited for Rowena. ‘Nice vehicle,’ commented Mick. ‘Expensive.’

‘It’s not mine. She hired it.’

‘So you’ll be coming out to Marrenyikka with us. Know this area?’

‘Not really. I’m from over near the border originally. Went to a mission school for awhile, ended up in Darwin.’

‘Mission school, eh? Not a voluntary choice I take it.’

‘Yeah, I’m another one. Lost my family. But I’ve done all right.’

‘Yeah. Looks like it,’ said Mick, as Rowena swept down the steps from the house and went to Ardjani. ‘I’ll see you there. Hunter is driving me. He can camp with the others, okay?’

Ardjani grinned at her. ‘Good lookin’ fella.’

‘He works for me. He’s not my boyfriend.’

Susan walked up wearing a disarming smile. ‘We’ll be ready to move in a short time. Would you like to come in the Oka with us? I’d love to talk to you about the film.’

‘I’ll stay with Hunter, thanks. You’re welcome to join us if you want. Please yourself.’

Susan had a quick word with Alistair, telling him she would travel back with Rowena and Hunter. He appreciated the strategic opportunity this provided and quickly gave her some advice.

‘Queen’s Counsel instructing his junior?’ Mick raised an eyebrow.

‘Get in the van, Mick. Let’s hit the road.’ Beth began her round of goodbyes, handing Ardjani a bag of chilled steaks and chops, a present from Judy and Max.

Even on the rough track, Hunter drove with one hand resting against his knee, a study in macho nonchalance. Rowena beside him adjusted the airconditioning vent so it blew directly at her. Susan sat in the middle behind them, leaning her elbows on the two front seats.

She got the story of how Rowena had hired Hunter in Darwin, where he ran a fledgling tour guide service. She explained she was planning on bringing in a junket of overseas tourists for a brief look at the outback. But the more Susan asked about the proposed film, the more evasive Rowena became.

‘It must be an expensive project. Is it financed by a TV network or arts foundation or something?’

‘It’s privately funded. A philanthropist.’

‘Yeah, I wish there were more of that in Australia. Patrons of the arts are thin on the ground here.’

‘Nothing need be difficult if you believe that the spirits of the universe will provide. Or you make it happen yourself.’

All very well when you have a millionaire father, thought Susan. ‘What do you mean, make it happen yourself?’

‘I was a druidic priestess in a past life, I’ve retained great mental skills. Combined with another life as a great warrior in China, I feel able to manifest anything I want,’ said Rowena calmly.

Susan wanted to laugh out loud, but ran along with her line of thinking for a bit, until Rowena got into more and more detail of her daily life in these other incarnations, and Susan began to tune out. She realised Rowena could only stay rational for a short time. It was hard to keep her talking about the present. An interesting ploy for avoiding the current subject, thought Susan. Was it deliberate? Alistair had given her a few ideas to draw Rowena out, but none seemed to be working. Susan wondered what Hunter was thinking, but the man’s handsome face gave nothing away.

The group in the Oka arrived back at Marrenyikka at twilight. Pulling up at the Barradja campfire to let Ardjani out, they saw Barwon having his face swabbed by Jennifer.

‘Having a facial?’ called Billy. Then taking a second look, he spoke for everyone. ‘What happened to you?’

Rusty and Digger, seated in chairs by the campfire, shouted a potted rundown. ‘He get roughed up by that old bloke, Jackson, from Boulder Downs Station.’

‘Barwon get in a couple of good ones, but,’ added Digger.

‘What!’ Beth jumped down, followed by the others.

‘Thanks, Jennifer. That feels a lot better now.’ Barwon tried to dismiss the incident. ‘There was a bit of a blue. He threatened me with a rifle. He called me names and told me to get off his land. And he said to tell you lot to keep off his land, too. I didn’t take kindly to his approach.’

‘What were you doing on Boulder Downs?’ Beth was annoyed that Barwon had got himself into strife again.

‘Doing a bit of investigating with Rusty and Digger . . . There’s a mining exploration camp there.’

‘A mining camp certainly puts a new light on the definition of a pastoral lease,’ said Mick, as he went over to Ardjani. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could perhaps join us later tonight.’

‘Yeah,’ said Ardjani. ‘Might be good idea, eh?’

Rowena settled herself in one of the Barradja’s box-like houses. Billy handed over a spare tent for Hunter, who expertly put it up while dinner preparations got under way.

Later, settled round the campfire, Ardjani, Rusty and Digger joined them. Hunter drew his chair into the circle.

‘The immediate problem is Barwon getting involved with Jackson,’ said Beth. ‘He could stir up the other neighbours.’

Alistair was unconcerned. ‘I doubt there’ll be a problem. Jackson is just as much at fault for threatening with a firearm, as Barwon is for trespassing. So what do you think is going on, Barwon?’

‘I would say they’re looking for gold or diamonds. It’s a pretty big and efficient exploration camp. Lots of samples on racks and some packed to be sent off.’

‘Did you know this was happening?’ Mick asked Ardjani.

‘No, we never go on Boulder Downs except across our track. Jackson always come with gun and threaten to shoot us. This mining be bad. Could destroy our paintings and sacred sites. What we do, Beth?’

‘I’d better just fill the others in.’ She turned to the group. ‘The Barradja are philosophically opposed to mining; it’s their law and spiritual belief that the earth should not be penetrated.’

Ardjani shook his head. ‘Our law says no. Other Aboriginal people, they can say yes, if mining doesn’t touch sacred sites, they make different interpretation of their law. Some other Aboriginal people like to make their own mining business. And they do good. But here, Wandjina creation place is sacred. The spirits live inside the earth. We can’t hurt them by diggin’ them up. No way.’

‘What if your people got royalties, Ardjani?’ Mick asked. ‘Would that make a difference?’

‘No, we don’t want diamonds. They belong in Mother Earth. Look at how our traditional people live,’ answered Ardjani. ‘They have no agriculture. They don’t reap or sow. Nature provides the food and so we must care for the land in order to continue her cycle.’

Susan tried to get it all in perspective. ‘Well, the Jacksons certainly have another reason for keeping the Aboriginal people off Boulder Downs, but from what Mick says he might be shooting himself in the foot.’

Alistair explained, ‘Mining companies now have to get permission from the traditional owners of land before beginning exploration. Obviously Giles Jackson hasn’t done that.’

Mick continued, ‘He could have figured he was too far away and to go for it anyway. But if they do find something and apply for a mining lease, it won’t be granted until they go through the land titles procedure and get the site clearances and so on.’

‘They’re possibly thinking they can buy off the Barradja if, and when, they have a successful strike,’ suggested Alistair.

‘They never buy me,’ exclaimed Ardjani, in a rare burst of anger. ‘This is our land. We are not concerned with gold or diamonds or money. This land is our life. When people cut our Mother Earth, that cuts into our heart, our body.’

The outburst stirred Barwon and the rage that he had suppressed earlier in the day rose in his throat, almost choking him. ‘For Christ sake, there must be something we can do to get some justice in this situation. How can Ardjani and his people be so damned powerless? How can they be pushed around like this? By people like Jackson?’ He stood up and stamped a few paces around the fire and punched the air with his fist. ‘You city lawyers are supposed to be the smart ones. What can you do about it?’

It was not so much a challenge by Barwon as a condemnation of the white ruling class and its failure for two hundred years to recognise the rights of the original inhabitants of the land. And it was a condemnation of the white ruling class’s failure to listen to the pleas of his mother. ‘So,’ he shouted, ‘what are you going to do about it?’ He looked each of the lawyers in the eye. ‘Well?’

The judge gave a little cough, then spoke quietly. ‘Perhaps we should discuss the full legal ramifications of the situation more deeply and offer some advice.’

Alistair quickly supported him. ‘Of course, Ardjani, if you and the other elders would like us to represent you, I believe I can speak for my two colleagues in saying that we will. On a pro bono basis, naturally, no charge. But I must warn that there are no easy solutions, no quick fixes for situations like these. As we know all too well, Native Title and all its ramifications are interpreted differently by various parties. Even the High Court and the Federal Government have trouble agreeing on it. That makes it very difficult for the rest of us to grasp it.’

Veronica had been following it all with increasing fascination. ‘You guys are in legal nirvana. Two extraordinary cases in the door in one day . . . and in the middle of nowhere.’

‘And you have the makings of one heck of a story, right?’ responded Susan.

Ardjani turned to Beth. ‘Perhaps we should discuss the idea we Barradja have to make a claim for some of our land. We want to bring our people back, away from the towns, the grog, where there is no work, no ceremony. To teach our people the old ways.’

Alistair realised this was not a new plan. ‘You realise that a Barradja land claim would open many other issues, not just the problem of the mining operation. Everything is intertwined, nothing is simple out here.’

‘Ardjani and the elders have made a stab at this before,’ said Beth, ‘but lawyers, bureaucrats, politicians and even disputes among Aboriginal groups have all muddied the water.’

‘So what else is new?’ sighed Mick.

‘May I suggest we adjourn until tomorrow as I think we’re all a little weary to take in the full details of this,’ said Alistair.

‘It has been a long day,’ agreed Mick.

Veronica yawned. ‘So, Beth, what’s on tomorrow’s agenda? Sounds like we’ll be staying here for the day and sightseeing is out.’

‘We’ll get the white and black law people to have a bit of a meeting. And Lilian has invited us to join the women for women’s business. Ardjani and the others have offered to take the men hunting.’

‘Do we count you in, Hunter?’ asked Mick.

‘I’ll have to see what the boss wants.’

‘Tell her tomorrow.’ Ardjani nodded to them all and strode into the shadows.

Rusty and Digger gave Alistair and Mick big smiles. ‘We hunt ’em up big dinner tomorrow, eh!’

‘And then we can have a feast, a sing-song and tell stories,’ declared Beth looking pleased.

As the group broke up Jennifer arrived with a jar of ointment for Barwon. ‘This might help your face,’ she said.

‘Thanks a lot.’ He rolled the jar around in his hand. ‘Funny, isn’t it? In TV over in the east, I had people fussing about with cream for my face, too.’

Jennifer laughed. ‘Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour.’

‘Went bloody close to it, I can tell you.’

‘It hurt, eh?’ She pointed to his heart.

Barwon swallowed, surprised by the sudden surge of emotion and her understanding of his inner feeling. ‘Yeah, it all hurts,’ he whispered.

It was the urgency of the whispered voices that had roused Susan in the middle of the night. Jennifer was outside Beth’s tent, asking her to come quickly and help with Rowena.

Susan arrived at the tent as Beth came out to join Jennifer, who was showing the way with a torch.

‘What’s up?’

‘Rowena. She’s had an attack of something I can’t recognise,’ said Jennifer over her shoulder. ‘I need Beth’s help to hold her in case it repeats. Whatever it is, it’s nasty, almost like epilepsy.’

‘Do you want me, too?’ asked Susan.

Beth picked up her torch. ‘Yes, as you’re up. We may need more hands if she has to be restrained.’

Rowena was curled up on her bunk in the foetal position, hugging her knees and rocking. Between low moans and intermittent sobs, she gasped, ‘Help me, help me. Make them go away.’

Beth sat beside her and took her arms, forcibly unlocking them, and bent close to her face. ‘It’s all right, Rowena. You’re all right.’

Rowena flung her arms out of Beth’s grip and swung them wildly, causing Beth to duck her head. She lashed out with a leg and Susan grabbed it and held her down. ‘Steady on, Rowena. Calm down.’

‘She’s not hearing you. She seems to be only hearing strange voices,’ said Jennifer.

Rowena was now tossing and writhing, eyes squeezed shut, her expression fearful as she mumbled over and over, ‘Go away.’

‘We’re not going away. We’re here to help you. Rowena, wake up.’ Beth spoke sternly and loudly.

‘Make them go away, send them away.’

‘There’s some mad scene going on in her head,’ said Susan, quite exasperated, holding down Rowena’s thrashing legs.

‘We have to wake her up,’ said Jennifer urgently.

‘Cold water?’ suggested Susan.

‘Yes. Susan, get her some water to drink.’

‘I was thinking of throwing it on her,’ said Susan grimly.

Jennifer suddenly slapped Rowena’s face, a sharp short stinging blow that made Rowena’s eyes fly open in shock. Then, seeing Beth and Jennifer, she started to sob with a kind of hysterical relief, clinging onto Beth’s hands.

‘Thank God, you’re here. They’ve come back. They’re going to get me.’

‘Who? Who’s going to get you, Rowena? You’re all right, now. It’s over.’

Beth took the glass of water from Susan and held it to Rowena’s shaking lips. ‘Here, drink this.’

Jennifer wiped her hand over Rowena’s perspiring face. ‘Don’t worry. We’re here. It was just a bad dream.’

‘No! It’s a nightmare. It’s hell. It’s eating me alive!’ Rowena looked wild-eyed again.

Jennifer sat on the bed and put her arm around Rowena’s shoulders. ‘What sort of nightmare is it, Rowena? Can you relate it to anything?’

Rowena was silent for a moment. ‘It’s like these monsters are locked up inside me and are trying to eat their way out of my body and head.’ She was tense, subdued now. ‘My shrink says whatever it is, whatever they are, they’re going to destroy me if I don’t let them go. But I don’t know how to do that. For Chrissake, I don’t enjoy this, you know!’

‘Have you any idea what caused them to be there? How long has it been going on?’ Susan spoke as gently as she could, even though she was finding it difficult to muster much sympathy for this screwed-up woman.

‘It’s been about eighteen months. Since I first came out here.’ She gulped the last of the water and handed the glass to Beth. ‘I’ll be fine. I have some sleeping pills.’

‘Do you want us to stay?’

‘No. Once it’s over I’m okay. Till the next time.’

Jennifer walked with them back to the sleeping camp. ‘She’s very sick. She’s got bad spirits in her.’

‘You mean she has to be exorcised or something? What do you think, Beth?’ Susan seriously questioned Rowena’s sanity.

‘It might account for her abrasive manner. She can’t control forces within herself so she tries to manipulate everything outside and around her.’

‘Thanks for coming over,’ said Jennifer warmly. ‘I was pretty sure at first it was some kind of epileptic fit. This is very like what happens when bad spirits enter an Aborigine who has broken the laws of our people.’

‘You mean . . . you mean Rowena could have been possessed by an Aboriginal spirit thing,’ said Susan dubiously.

‘That’s what it looks like,’ said Jennifer, then turned towards the visitors’ camp. ‘Come on, I’ll walk back with you.’

‘What, if anything, can you do if Rowena’s problem is this . . .’ she paused for a moment looking for better words . . . ‘well, spirit thing?’

‘I’ll talk to my mother and Ardjani but we might have to get a banman.’

‘A what? Who?’

‘A sort of magic man,’ said Beth. ‘A traditional healer, amongst other things.’

Beth spread a piece of canvas on the ground outside her tent and the three women, now wide awake, sat cross-legged under the stars talking softly.

Jennifer explained a little more about the banman’s role in Aboriginal life. ‘There are still a few around today. Important men with special sight, special powers. A little like shamans.’

‘Doesn’t sound like something the Australian Medical Association would be endorsing,’ joked Susan. ‘What do they do?’

‘It’s pretty much secret stuff but you won’t find any Aborigine, certainly not among those with strong traditional ties, ignoring the banman.’

Susan was aware of the implied admonishment and became serious. ‘You mean they effect cures by psychological means as well as medicine?’

‘Yes, I suppose you might call it psychological to some extent. But it’s done by application of a special knowledge they have. Don’t ask how they acquire it. You might say it’s a gift. Anyway, it works.’

‘If you believe,’ added Beth. ‘You see, it might seem odd to us, coming from a modern industrial and scientific society where almost everything can be explained logically. The old Aborigines reckon that’s one area where we’ve gone wrong. Knowledge that can’t be explained has been lost by modern Western societies over the centuries. They say they’ve still got it.’

‘Hmm.’ Susan leaned back on her hands and looked up at the stars and for a moment no one spoke. ‘A bit like faith healing with the laying on of hands . . . the old-time fundamental Christian healing. That’s still big in America.’

‘Maybe a little like that, but it’s a lot more than that,’ said Jennifer. ‘The banman may have powers of clairvoyance, may be able to see inside your body, just like an X-ray, may even be able to practise astral travel.’

It was the belief in Jennifer’s voice that puzzled Susan. She could picture her in a crisp uniform doing the rounds of the wards in a modern teaching hospital. Talk of banmen and spirits contradicted that. She didn’t know how to respond without appearing to doubt or insult.

Beth came to the rescue. ‘Jennifer is straddling two worlds . . . theirs, and ours, which is also hers.’ She swung an arm in a wide arc. ‘For two centuries, the largely white population of our world has regarded these people as primitives in the cruellest sense of the word. Now we’re waking up, well some of us are, that these survivors are custodians of a very rich, very complex, very wise, old culture. It’s more than just quaint stories of the powers of the banman. It’s about the strength of family, of community, the respect for ancestors, belonging to the land . . . and much more.’

‘Not enough people want to listen to our gift, though,’ said Jennifer sadly. ‘They don’t realise there are parts of our civilisation, our culture, that could help us all manage our lives, our families, and this country, a little better.’

‘Surely that’s changing,’ said Susan. ‘Look at the high profile of Aboriginal issues, look at all the arts, look at the tourism industry in Aboriginal culture. Surely that’s a start.’

‘It’s a start,’ said Beth, with resignation.

They fell silent and, for awhile, Susan looked again at the great cavalcade of stars.

‘Time for bed,’ said Jennifer standing. ‘I’ve enjoyed our talk and once again, thanks for the help.’

‘Good night. Sleep well.’

When she had gone, Susan asked Beth if she really thought that a banman was the solution to Rowena’s problem. ‘She mentioned a shrink. She’s probably been getting the best professional help money can buy in LA.’

‘Who knows? Only the banman knows, I suppose. But I don’t lightly dismiss what, on the surface, looks like hocus pocus. These people say their powers come from the earth, are contained in certain objects, like mahmah stones. They can talk to ancestor spirits and receive messages by thought transference, they can punish and even kill without the victim knowing how it happens. You’ve heard of bone pointing.’ She gave Susan a friendly pat on the back. ‘Now that’s something for you to think about if you’re not ready for shut-eye.’

‘Miracle workers, eh? Sounds just what Rowena needs. Good night.’

In the morning, Hunter announced he would be going into the Wards’ airstrip in two days’ time to pick up a private plane load of tourists from Europe arranged by Rowena. ‘She’s been on the phone getting things set up. Telephone reception is good today.’

This casual remark was greeted by a barrage of shocked questions.

‘Are they going to look at the rock art? Have they got permission?’

‘Where are they staying?’

‘What sort of tourists are they?’

Hunter held up his hands, shielding his face. ‘Heck, I don’t know, I was just hired for this jaunt. I understood they’re art collectors from Europe going to The Avenue.’

‘That’s exactly what the Barradja don’t want,’ exclaimed Susan.

Alan’s face flushed with anger. ‘I don’t know where she plans to buy good art from, I have Bungarra tied up.’

‘How is she?’ asked Susan, surprised to hear Rowena was on top of business matters.

Hunter shrugged. ‘Same as always.’

Rowena appeared for breakfast, bright, efficient and full of plans. She ate a bowl of muesli and avoided looking Beth and Susan in the eye. There would obviously be no acknowledgment of the scene of the night before.

Beth was first to broach the subject under discussion.

‘We’ve heard about this plan of yours. So what have you lined up for these flying moneybags?’

‘There are five VIPs flying in from Kununurra, arriving at the Wards’. Two others are driving in on their own. They’ll be the guests of Rosalie and Frank Ward at The Avenue. You know Rosalie runs private accommodation for select visitors in a guest wing attached to the homestead. Very plush.’

‘How long has this been up and running?’ asked Beth in some surprise. ‘I know the Wards had been thinking of it, but I didn’t know this was actually happening. Rosalie didn’t say a word about it.’

Rowena couldn’t keep the slightly supercilious tone from her voice. ‘It’s scarcely your sort of thing, Beth. The Wards won’t be advertising. This is their first group and I’ve organised this one for them. They’ll only be accepting the best people from overseas.’

Mick and Veronica moved from the cooking area to where everyone was eating breakfast.

‘So what kind of a bang do these people get for their bucks?’ asked Veronica.

‘The Wards’ tours are designed for movie stars, minor royalty, mega-rich businessmen. They want to try life on an Aussie cattle station, have a taste of the Crocodile Dundee experience, catch a record barramundi, buy some of the native art and fly back to civilisation,’ said Rowena. ‘It’s nothing to do with me. My group is just a one-off trip I arranged for a friend in Germany.’

‘So this art buying is the deal you’ve tried to set up with Max and Judy at Bungarra,’ said Alan tightly.

‘It’s a free world, buddy. It’s up to the artists who they want to sell their paintings to. These people have a lot of money to spend.’

‘Do these visitors know what they’re buying? Know anything about Kimberley art?’ asked Alan.

‘Does it matter? They’re willing to pay for a unique experience and pieces that are collectible. This is business, investment buying. They’ll hang it somewhere as a trophy of their latest little exotic jaunt. It’s how these people are. It’s different to what you people are on about. Art’s not really my scene, Alan. I’m more concerned with my film, and Ardjani.’

‘Ah, yes. The film you are going to give to the Barradja people,’ said Susan quietly.

‘It is for the Barradja. But it has to be held by someone like me or an institution.’

Susan continued her line of thought. ‘Surely that ownership would be with the investors. Who is backing your project?’

Rowena was getting annoyed. ‘They have asked to remain anonymous.’ She added, ‘They wanted to be sure I held total copyright as protection of their investment. It was always my intention to include the Barradja as stakeholders in the film project.’

Mick took up the next point, treading warily. ‘But as we understand the agreement you have with the Barradja elders, they are not included, and you retain the exclusive creative copyright to all their culture. Does that mean, for example, we can’t take photographs without breaching your copyright ownership?’

Rowena airily flicked a hand. ‘Sure you can take photos.’ She gave a brief smile. ‘You just can’t sell them! Without paying me, that is.’

Beth frowned. ‘No one takes photos without permission from the elders. And frankly, Rowena, I find the idea that you believe you hold the legal jurisdiction over what Barradja culture can be shown, written, spoken, used or exploited beyond belief.’

‘Hey, don’t start attacking me, Beth. They signed the contract. It’s all in writing.’

‘But they didn’t know what they were signing,’ snapped Beth.

Alistair stepped in as the two women confronted each other. ‘Perhaps that is a matter we should discuss. It seems to us inappropriate that you believe you have copyrighted an entire culture.’

‘Listen, you take it up with my lawyer. I hold the contract. I have a film crew coming here within the month. Ardjani told me he’d be getting all the old men and women in to perform sacred dances, so we can record them before they die.’

‘That’s a terrific plan, Rowena. But what are you going to do with the film – hand it over to the Barradja as a gift? Sell it? These sorts of corroborees and ceremonies can’t be seen by just anyone. And the Barradja can’t pay for it.’ Beth was getting angrier, the frustration showing in her voice.

‘I have a business arrangement with the Barradja. Business is business, baby. But don’t write me off as an exploiter. I have some sense of where to draw the line. That’s why I’m here.’ Rowena stormed off towards the Barradja camp.

‘Well, she’s a smart Hollywood babe,’ said Susan.

‘I’d really like to know what her plans are for this film she’s making,’ said Veronica. ‘It’s a heck of a good opportunity to record this stuff. And if the people are getting old and the way things are changing, perhaps some of this culture might die out. Why can’t some philanthropic Australian outfit fund the thing for the national archives or something?’

‘A Barradja museum and cultural centre! That’s what we need,’ said Mick.

‘Can you see Rowena handing over the chance to go back to the US with all this brilliant, unique film footage and setting herself up as the new Margaret Mead? I don’t care what she says. She’s out to make a quid at the expense of these innocent people. She’s a vampire.’ Beth was furious and it suddenly struck Susan that Beth was as protective of her rights and involvement with the Barradja as Rowena.

Beth headed to the river for a calming swim and Veronica gave a soft chuckle of surprise. ‘That’s the first time I’ve seen Beth lose her cool.’

‘Rowena is probably the only person who can rattle Beth and get a negative reaction like that. Interesting,’ mused Susan.

Mick handed Alistair a mug of fresh tea and they settled themselves in chairs away from everyone else.

‘I don’t know about you, but I reckon this little cultural exercise of ours is turning into a drama with more sub plots than War and Peace. How innocent do you think the elders really are?’

Alistair sipped his tea. ‘Ardjani and Rusty are smart and wily fellows if you ask me. I don’t think they were legally aware of what they were doing, and who knows how she put the deal to them. But I bet they see it differently to Rowena. They agreed to the film project in the belief it was helping their people.’

‘Agreed. But the fact they got into such negotiations concerns me. One minute they are sitting in the Kimberley being wise tribal elders, the next they’re trading contracts with big-city wheeler dealers.’

‘And now they want us to sort it out, without losing face, or offending Rowena. A tricky, even delicate, line to walk.’

‘We may be in the scrub, but I can see this developing into a major scrap.’

The two legal men were quiet, each chewing over the ramifications of a potential case, each enjoying the mental challenge.

‘You’d have to make the decision to wear your heart on your sleeve if you took this on,’ ventured Mick.

Alistair paused before speaking, measuring his words. ‘I do believe I am willing to make a public commitment to help these people and what they espouse. I’ve never become emotionally involved in a case, you know. I learnt not to do that very early in my career. But here, I find I’m questioning where I stand on a number of matters.’

‘Join the club,’ said Mick. ‘Do you suppose it’s because we’re here, in the thick of it? Rather than having that protective desk between the client and us.’

‘Possibly. These aren’t normal circumstances,’ agreed Alistair. ‘I keep wishing I was younger, something I never usually worry about.’

‘Me either. Though the old men around here have proved age doesn’t beat you. Much fitter than thee and me, well me anyway.’

Alistair touched his right knee which had been giving him trouble since the walk to the rock paintings. ‘On bad days, these damn knees make me feel like I’m ninety.’

Mick was quiet for a moment. ‘I reckon you should speak to Jennifer. Wouldn’t surprise me if she came up with something that might help.’

Billy jumped down from the Oka. ‘Hey, it’s good phone reception. Beth is talking to the welfare lady to see how the baby in Melbourne is doing. Anyone else want to make a call?’

Veronica spoke to Boris, closing the door of the Oka for privacy as she tried to explain to her man back in the city that the Aboriginal women were going to show her how to make a baby, thousands of miles away from its father. He was bemused but, as usual, he was supportive of anything she wanted to do.

Susan was next. ‘Billy, can I make a quick call? To my friend, Andrew, at Yandoo Station?’

‘Righto. At least that’s closer,’ said Billy as Susan dialled the number.

‘Hello . . . Ian, how are you? It’s Susan Massey, can I speak to Andrew, please? Over.’

‘We’re fine, thank you. He’s right here. How’re those people treating you? Sick of witchetty grubs and mosquitoes? Over.’

‘This is even more fascinating than I imagined. I wish you were all here, Ian. We’ve met some of the pastoralists, they’re fairly new to the land. They don’t seem to have the same understanding of it as your family. Over.’

‘If you’re new to the game, you either make a go of it or get out. But they’re in poor country out there. And I don’t envy them their problems with the tribes. Anyway, here’s Andrew. Good luck. It was nice meeting you. Over.’

‘Susan, how’s the little princess of the never-never doing? I’ve been thinking about you. Over.’

‘Andrew, it’s incredible. So much is going on. It’d take hours to tell you. How’re things with you? Over.’

‘Pretty quiet. I’ve been wondering how you were doing. How about I come over? I’ve done a bit of homework. I could fly into a nearby property, The Avenue, if they say okay. Find out if it’s all right for me to join you all? I mean, I’d love to see you. Over.’

‘I’d love you to come out here. I’ll have to check with the Barradja and the others. You’ll love it. I’ll get back to you. Over.’

‘It’s you I want to see. But whatever. I’ll stay around the house. Call me as soon as you can. Over and out.’

It was quickly agreed to and Susan was surprised at how excited she was at the prospect of seeing Andrew again. She wanted him to share this experience. To see and learn how the Barradja lived, so different from what she’d briefly seen of the ‘Yandoo mob’.

They had finished tidying camp when Ardjani, Digger and Rusty came over, trailed by Josh and Luke. The men held a discussion with Beth who then clapped her hands and announced. ‘Okay. Plan for the day. You blokes are going hunting. We expect a magnificent feast tonight.’

‘And what are you sheilas going to gather?’ Mick gave her an inquiring look.

‘Never you mind, Judge Duffy. We’re doing women’s business.’

‘What’s this involve?’ asked Susan. ‘Anything physically or mentally challenging? No Oprah soul baring, or stuff like that?’

‘It can be whatever we want. Lilian and Jennifer will guide us. However, we might do some gathering as well, just in case the hunters return empty-handed.’

‘But the Barradja are pros at hunting, we’ll be right,’ said Mick.

‘Maybe they won’t be so successful when accompanied by a bunch of rank amateurs,’ declared Veronica.

‘Let’s wait and see what’s on the menu tonight, shall we?’ Mick went off to join the other men.

Alan had wandered over to the Barradja camp and sought out Rowena. ‘I was wondering if I could talk to you about this art junket.’

‘I figured you might.’

‘It’s certainly not my preferred way of selling art. It’s important that people of this calibre, who can afford it, get the very best.’

‘And why wouldn’t they? The top artists are at Bungarra.’

‘Yes, but all their major works go to my gallery. The works they sell outside are relatively insignificant pieces, they’re painted quickly and they don’t contain meaningful stories.’

‘These guys won’t know the difference.’

‘Not now. But if they’re investment pieces they will one day.’

Rowena was silent for a moment, considering this, and Alan continued, ‘Look, I know you’re probably going to say what the heck. If this is a one-off deal and you’re not planning to make a habit of it. But Mick and Alistair are right. There’s going to be a lot more of this. So why don’t you and I come to an arrangement where I agree your buyers can purchase quality, collectible pieces from my gallery collection and I get the usual commission as do the artists and Max and Judy? That way you can sleep easy, you’ve done the right thing, the reputation of Bungarra art isn’t damaged, and the buyers get the best on offer.’

Rowena gave a shrug. ‘It really doesn’t matter that much to me. But there is someone in the group buying for an important collector and it would be bad news, I guess, if he felt he hadn’t received the best quality for his money.’ She stuck out her hand. ‘Sure. We have a deal. Why not.’

As Alan shook hands, he couldn’t help feeling he was selling a little of his soul to the devil. But if he didn’t make a stand now, word would get out and there’d be others, not so scrupulous, who would be quick to take his place. And, as Rowena was fond of saying, ‘business is business’.

The departure of the hunters was duly recorded. Rusty, Digger and Ardjani posed cheerfully beside Barwon, Mick and Alistair. Hunter and Billy had chosen to stay behind and work on their vehicles. Veronica and Susan snapped photographs, noting that the white hunters looked distinctly uncomfortable. Barwon also looked uneasy, holding a spear he had no idea how to use, the whites with rifles they secretly hoped would not have to be fired.

‘The hunters’ departure,’ laughed Susan, as she put the lens cover back on her camera. ‘They look like a bunch of cattle being led to the sale yards!’

At a silent signal from Rusty, the three men fanned out, positioning Alan, Mick, Alistair and Barwon in a V shape. ‘We circle round and head him this way. You get ’im now,’ said Digger, in a low voice.

‘What is it? Where is it?’ Mick looked around, having seen and heard nothing.

‘Bush turkey. Big one.’ Digger disappeared into the bush.

Mick was at the apex, holding a .22 rifle. He glanced across at Alistair and gave a grin. Then with a rush, the turkey was flushed towards them, a giant old bird lumbering quite quickly. This was bigger than any table turkey, more like a small emu.

‘Get him, Mick,’ shouted Barwon excitedly, as he awkwardly fitted his spear in the woomera, ran a few steps towards the fleeing turkey and hurled the spear wildly, missing by metres. Mick couldn’t lift the rifle. He was mesmerised by the grand old bird heading towards them.

Barwon bounded to Mick’s side, grabbed the rifle and aimed. The bird stopped and stared at the two men directly in front of him. And Barwon’s trigger finger froze. At the same moment, his eye saw not a bush turkey, but the angry, bloodied face of Giles Jackson in the mining camp. Then he squeezed the trigger.

It was not a good shot. The turkey was winged but still mobile, veering towards Alistair and the nearby long grass. Alan raced in as Alistair ran after the wounded bird.

Alistair instinctively took chase, a blind flight, not sure if he was running after the bird or away from his friends, aware of the panic the wounded bird must feel.

‘Tackle him, Alistair,’ shouted Mick.

As he ran, a strange sensation overcame Alistair. He felt light, fleet, fast. Suddenly at home in this environment, he side-stepped through the grass, avoiding small rocks without hesitating, no pain from his legs, no stumbling or panting.

He was gaining on the bleeding bird, whose long legs trembled, and it staggered forward. Then it seemed to Alistair that events happened in slow motion. The bird turned and just gave up, becoming a willing victim. But Alistair had already thrown himself forward, arms outstretched in a reckless, airborne tackle, heedless of the rough ground beneath him. He fell onto the soft bulk of the turkey, tumbling into the grass, shrill cries coming from beneath him.

He lay there feeling the warmth of the pinned bird on his chest. Then he heard the pounding feet as Barwon and Mick, reaching him, grabbed the struggling bird as Alistair shakily stood up. ‘Let him go,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Let him go.’

‘He’s had it. Shoot the poor bugger, Barwon.’ Mick was holding the bird by the legs, one foot on a wing.

But Barwon was looking at the multicoloured tawny plumage, the glazing eyes and he shook his head. ‘Can’t, mate. It’s such a magnificent looking thing.’

Mick looked from Barwon to Alistair. ‘Put the poor bugger out of his misery.’

Barwon held out the gun, but Mick didn’t want to let go of the turkey. He knew he couldn’t fire the fatal shot, either, and wondered what the hell had got into him. He’d done his share of wild pig and roo shooting.

The three Aborigines, followed by Alan, hurried forward and Rusty lifted his nulla nulla, clubbing the bird’s head. It slumped, stone dead. Mick stepped away as Digger slung the bird over his shoulder and began walking back to the truck.

Ardjani walked beside Alistair. ‘He give himself up to us, you know? That is how it be, and we respect the animal that dies to give us food. He dies and we live, so we must do ceremony to send thanks so animals come again. It has always been this way.’

In his simple explanation Alistair began to grasp the covenant between these people and the animal world – sacrifice and atonement. His society thanked God for food upon the table, the Aborigine thanked the animal.

While the men were hunting, the women prepared to set out. ‘I think I should go over to the Barradja camp and make sure Rowena feels welcome,’ said Beth. ‘It might be good for her to share this. It’s what women’s business is about . . . sharing.’

Susan and Veronica decided they’d join them there. They’d started walking towards the buildings when they suddenly heard raised voices in the room where Rowena was staying, the LA woman’s sharp accent dominating. Beth marched out looking furious and, ignoring their questions, she headed back towards her tent.

‘What do you suppose that was about?’ said Veronica.

Susan shrugged and a short time later, Lilian, Jennifer and Rowena came out of the house carrying wooden coolamon dishes and digging sticks. ‘We show Rowena how to get bush tucker,’ said Lilian. ‘You two come with us.’

Susan jumped to her feet. ‘You bet.’ Susan took the spare coolamon Lilian offered and called out to Veronica. She came over and Jennifer handed her a digging stick.

‘Okay, I’m ready for women’s business. We’re the gathering women, right?’ Susan looked at Rowena, wondering how the two women had managed to calm her and persuade her to come with them. Rowena must have seen something in it for Rowena, she was sure of that.

They collected sugarbag, cutting into a thick branch, putting the dripping honey in a bark bucket. Berries and seeds were stripped from their hiding places between thick leaves, the mother and daughter explaining how they cooked and prepared the food. They told of how the women hold the food knowledge, understanding the food chain, the right seasons for gathering, and when to leave food for animals.

‘We have knowledge of plants and animals, when to leave them, and you never eat a plant or animal that is your totem,’ said Jennifer.

‘It be like eating your own flesh,’ added Lilian.

Further into the bush, the older woman spied a thin vine and she squatted down, calling Susan and Rowena to join her. She showed the two women how to use their digging sticks to burrow down along the root. ‘You go deep, yam at the bottom of the root,’ said Lilian.

Jennifer led Veronica down to a small billabong where pink waterlilies opened their flowers to the sun. ‘The rhizomes are delicious when you boil them up.’

Veronica waded in and, following Jennifer’s example, reached down each rubbery stem, feeling in the soft mud for the small bulbous root. Jennifer leaned over and Veronica noticed a strange pendant swinging around her neck. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

Jennifer lifted the string and showed her the small parcel of paperbark. ‘My baby’s umbilical cord is in here. When my baby starts to crawl, we bury it. We believe when the baby feels or touches this, he will feel safe and he won’t cry.’

‘How does that fit with your nurse’s training?’ asked Veronica.

‘The more I learn of my Barradja culture, as well as white medicine, the more I find they can work together.’

Veronica watched Rowena, who had dug down half a metre before finding a fat, brittle yam. She was surprised at the concentration Rowena brought to the task, the vestiges of Hollywood trappings still apparent in the Rodeo Drive T-shirt and sunglasses, the diamond studs in her ears. She scratched in the dirt with a nervous energy, causing Lilian to touch her arm. ‘Yam not goin’ to run away.’

Veronica and Jennifer returned to the bank, dumping the lily roots beside the other food. Veronica sat on the remains of a rotting hollow log to rest but immediately leapt to her feet with a scream as a large goanna dashed from under her. ‘Quick, catch ’im,’ cried Lilian and there was a mad scramble accompanied by a chorus of shrieks and laughter.

Jennifer and Susan cornered the lizard by a pile of rocks. Susan stamped on its tail and Jennifer grabbed it behind the head, but with an energetic twist it sprang free and scurried away. Susan thought it looked amusing, as if running in high heels. Even Rowena seemed cheerful.

After depositing the yams and roots back at the camp, the women trailed along the bank, following Lilian and Jennifer and talking quietly. Rowena carried a small fold-up chair.

‘What are we going to do now?’ asked Veronica.

Lilian paused and pointed at a flower. Then, lifting her head, she indicated a bird shrilling above them. ‘You look, listen, smell, feel. They are the signs, look and hear.’ She walked slowly forward, treading with delicacy, and the women following her understood they must respect their immediate surroundings.

Lilian stopped. ‘We sit here. This place.’ The ground was showered in a recent fall of a kapok tree’s yellow blooms and buds. The middle-aged woman sat effortlessly, folding her legs beneath her, sinking onto the ground. Following her lead, they each settled on the earth in the shadows of tall pandanus trees, the river with its freckles of waterlily leaves barely visible through the trees lining the bank. The ground was soft, cleared of pebbles, sticks or prickly grass. Apart from scattered flower heads and orange pandanus seeds, it was cushioned and comfortable. Rowena, who’d changed from her wet clothes into another designer outfit, snapped open her chair and sat back, crossing her legs. As the women chatted, Jennifer touched Rowena on the ankle.

‘Put away the chair. Sit on the earth. You need to make contact with our mother.’

Rowena shook her head. ‘I’d rather sit here. I’m fine, thank you.’ The stiff reply surprised Susan, who thought Rowena would have been into anything that hinted of new-age spirituality.

At a glance from her mother, Jennifer began to speak. ‘Feel the earth, this is our mother. Rub her against your skin. Lie back, be comfortable.’ The women, apart from Rowena, settled on their backs staring up at the sky between the spiky pandanus leaves.

‘We focus on this sacred place, and we feel our surroundings. We focus on every tree, every leaf, every blade of grass, every grain of earth beneath our bodies. Listen to the cockatoos, the honeyeaters. We open wide our legs. We let the wind run through us. We feel Mother Earth breathing. We match our breathing to hers.’ Jennifer paused and the women closed their eyes and drew deep slow breaths.

Jennifer then spoke in a slow, quiet voice. ‘Recognise that everything is yorro yorro, standing up alive. Filled by the same life force as we are made from. Breathe in the earth, the wind, the song of the wunggud. Bring every single thing into focus as a recognition of our shared life and space. We are here together. Receive the welcome, the sense of belonging in this place.’ She paused and let her words sink in as the women lay there, spreadeagled on the ground.

Susan felt vaguely uncomfortable. It was too strange – she couldn’t imagine any of her law colleagues doing this. But gradually she sensed her body relax, melt and become limp, and in a moment of revelation she realised she was letting go of the rigid disciplines of self-control that had always guided her life. For a few seconds she was fearful but, as she concentrated on her breathing, she relaxed again.

Jennifer’s voice was slowing, in harmony with her quieter breathing. ‘We are now in rhythm with the earth. We can now feel the vibrations of the earth. Listen to her speak. This is a great power for us. If you have some sight, some vision, some sense of knowledge, accept this.’

Veronica was trying to analyse what was happening and the effects of Jennifer’s words. This was a sophisticated mind-relaxation technique she was familiar with but used to a much higher level in conjunction with the Aboriginal relationship to the land and creation. And although she was surprised at the Aboriginal use and awareness of it, the gentleness of the young woman’s voice and the soft air brushing her body made her relax. Gradually her objective reporter’s mind switched off and she let her own subjective feelings take over. She felt her spine soften as though the ground beneath her had become a mattress.

Jennifer’s voice barely carried on the breeze. ‘Everything that is in the moon and the stars and the planets goes into the earth and comes back to us, through nature, into our bodies.’ She was silent. Rowena’s head sank to her chest. She was now slumped comfortably in the chair. All was still.

Then, like a whisper, the brush of an unseen feather, a song drifted, floating into the heart of each woman.

I am in a distant place, but I am as close as your breathing, as close as your heart that beats as one with Mother Earth.

Listen to my song, and know it is truth.

It is in a dream, it is the same that is in the earth and leaves and trees, water and rocks around you.

It is part of you and gives you knowledge and feeling.

And the seed of you will be one with your Mother Earth.

Heed her.

At this moment, Rowena jumped up and ran back towards the camp. The women said nothing, as if they didn’t notice. Each was enveloped in her own sense of self. And nobody saw the tears trickle slowly down Veronica’s cheeks.

Again Jennifer began to speak, cradling her sleeping baby. She scooped a handful of dirt from between her legs. ‘The earth is pregnant. From this place seeds grow, they share their destiny with us. We are the earth that conceives and nourishes life. Our wombs are tied to the Earth Mother’s womb. The changes in our body, as our baby grows in us, are the same within the earth. We must heal ourselves and so we heal the earth.’

A tiny sob escaped Veronica and she gently laid her hands on her belly. Susan said nothing, but listened as her friend’s breathing subsided to a gentle rhythm.

Jennifer’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. ‘We are lying in the warm soft mud at the bottom of the wunggud pool. We slowly grasp the stem of the waterlily and pull ourselves gently upwards through the water to where we see the shadow of the lily pad on the surface. Rest a moment, then come up through the water, to the sunlight. Rest in this sacred place. And slowly, slowly, come back from the Dreaming.’

Gradually the women’s eyes fluttered open, they stretched and began to sit up. No one spoke. The air was thick with the sweet smell of the golden flowers hanging over them on the wunggud bank. They glanced at each other, shyly exchanging smiles in acknowledgment of a shared and special secret.

As they walked slowly back to the camp, Veronica trailed behind with Lilian and Jennifer.

‘You want to get a baby?’ asked Lilian suddenly.

The three stopped. Veronica looked to Jennifer, back to Lilian and nodded.

‘We lead you, only you to the baby spirit pond.’ They took her hands and walked to where the bank sloped gently, an opening framed by two large palms in the dense fringe of trees.

Jennifer laid the sleeping baby on the bank, tucking the edge of the sling wrap around him. ‘We take you in the water now.’

Veronica was silent and dropped the sarong she was wearing over her swimsuit. Each taking a hand the mother and daughter led Veronica to the river and waded in to their waists. The water touched Jennifer’s shirt above her shorts, Lilian’s cotton skirt floated around her on the surface. Gently they laid Veronica on her back and, as she floated in the baby spirit pond, the mother and daughter stood by each side, their soft hands barely felt beneath her arms.

‘Relax,’ Jennifer whispered. ‘Now you close your eyes, open your legs wide. Feel the water and the spirit of the baby pond come into you.’

Veronica welcomed the warmth. Vaguely she noticed how her legs looked pale brown under the tannin-coloured water. She lay suspended in this watery womb-like place and gradually her eyes closed. The older woman rested one hand on Veronica across her waist. Jennifer splayed her strong nurse’s fingers below and the hands began rubbing lightly in a circular motion as her mother began to softly chant. Veronica floated, trust and peace drifting within her. Her eyes swirled with colours, patterns of light forming and re-forming beneath her eyelids. She lost sense of time and space. The hushed voice came again. ‘Open your eyes and soon you will see your baby spirit and you will know. Might be a lizard, might be a bird, a bee, a fish, a flower.’ Veronica opened her eyes. She lay in the water blinking, blinded by the flash of sunlight.

Returning to the bank, as she gained a foothold on the sandy bottom, she looked from the daughter to the mother, who smiled broadly. The two Aboriginal women walked up the bank from the river and Lilian stood wringing her skirt on the sand. Veronica took a step, but her toe lodged beneath a root and she stumbled. Instinctively she reached out to stop herself falling and her hands fell upon a waterlily. Lilian pointed at the lily pads. ‘You follow the stem and find the root, this one very fat. Good for you to eat. You take this one specially for your dinner.’

Her feet steady now, Veronica grasped the waterlily, pulling its stem. She gazed at the fat pink flower in her palm, and she knew. She wanted to shout with joy. She looked at the mother and daughter instead, and their faces were inscrutable.

It was the end of a pleasantly warm day. Refreshed from a sunset swim, Susan and Veronica donned sweaters to ward off the fast-gathering chill. Mosquito repellent was slathered on exposed skin as everybody gathered round the campfire.

When the turkey stew was pronounced nearly ready, Beth rose reluctantly. ‘Before the others come over to eat, I have to go and meet Rowena and Ardjani. They’re waiting for me to do sorry time. I have to apologise to madam over there for making her upset and humiliating the elders.’

‘Cripes, Beth, what did you do? Stuff her.’ Mick was irritated.

‘Raised voices and heated words were exchanged earlier today when Rowena told Ardjani I had disputed their contract. She was a sight to behold. Rent her hair, sobbed, wrung her hands, begged Ardjani to save her and the film from me and those white law men.’

‘What a bitch! She’s mad,’ said Veronica.

‘She seemed perfectly okay when we went hunting for tucker, then later she disappeared.’ Susan wondered at the American girl’s mercurial personality.

‘She’s legally out of line, what a stunt. So why apologise? You’re quite right, Mick.’ said Alistair.

‘It’s a ritual. This has to be done,’ sighed Beth. ‘And I was out of line. It’s not the Barradja way to attack a visitor the way I did. So I have to apologise for upsetting Rowena. It’s a tribal thing, not a justice issue. But the good thing about Aboriginal apology is you do it, you’re punished on the spot, and it’s over. Done with.’

‘So, what happens?’ asked Susan.

‘You have to grovel a bit, even though it was a disagreement. I will just sit quietly with head bowed and say nothing or try to defend myself while the men growl me up. And it will be a pretty ferocious growling up. Then I’ll say I’m sorry for talking too strong and upsetting Rowena and then I’ll wait. They’ll probably make me sit there, curled in shame, for fifteen minutes or so.’

‘And what’s your punishment?’ asked Susan.

‘They’ll ignore me until they’ve decided enough time has passed and then I’ll be validated as a murranburra woman again. Rowena, as the person I offended, will be told by the law men that I’ve been growled up, I’ve apologised and that’s the end of it. It’s very important to the Barradja that no grudges are held.’

Later, as the group gathered for the dinner, Beth returned and, without saying anything, busied herself at the fire.

The Barradja joined them, discussing the hunt and food gathering, ignoring Beth.

Mick was the first to pass judgement on their turkey feast. ‘Not the tenderest bird I’ve sunk my teeth into, but a very interesting flavour . . .’ He made a flamboyant gesture of picking his teeth.

Rowena, followed by Hunter, helped herself to the turkey stew. Hunter waited, then served himself, sitting beside Barwon to eat.

Susan studied him in the firelight trying to analyse his relationship with Rowena. Hunter walked a fine line between supplicant, employee and friend.

After the meal was finished, Rowena was first to excuse herself. Saying a brief good night, she turned to Alan. ‘We need to discuss our arrangement.’

She walked alone back to her room at the Barradja camp. Susan was first to confront Alan. ‘You’ve gone into partnership with the vampire?’

‘It’s not quite the way she put it.’ He explained his side of the deal, offering unnecessary detail as if to justify his involvement, and how he saw this as a means of safeguarding the sale of the Bungarra art to the European tourists.

‘If you can’t beat ’em, eh,’ said Mick.

‘You coming with us then, Alan?’ asked Hunter to cover the awkward pause.

‘Just to Bungarra.’

‘Good. I have a funny feeling about this mob she’s bringing in. Different to the usual crowd I ferry around.’

‘Everything about Rowena is different,’ said Veronica.

That night the old men danced. Sorry behaviour to Beth was complete and, in a spontaneous gesture, the group had been called to the Barradja campfire after dinner. Ardjani, Rusty and Digger sat in their track pants, bare foot and bare-chested, white ochre smeared on bodies and faces. The women sang, keeping time with clapsticks, dictating the rhythm of the dance. The children leapt around the fringes of the entertainment, excited faces and voices, the firelight flickering in their wide dark eyes as the men re-enacted the whitefellas hunting the bush turkey. Their mimicry, the extroverted mannerisms, caused much laughter and the young boys were quick to join in, following the rhythm and mannerisms of the old men.

The beating thump of the bare feet to the rhythm of the sticks reminded Susan of the pattern of vibrations she’d experienced while lying on the earth that morning.

Then she saw the totemic patterns, drawn in the dust, that blurred beneath the dancers’ feet, becoming part of the action, the symbolism, and the stage for this ceremony.

All had come from the earth. It was also a homage to past stories, dancing them into the present, each dancer becoming a living embodiment of the Dreaming that had gone before and would, through their performance, continue.

Hunter tore off his jumper and in his jeans, T-shirt and bare feet, joined in, attempting to follow the steps of the men’s dance. This brought a round of cheers from the audience who were keeping time to the sticks. The firelight danced on his fit body and, although he was unfamiliar with the dance, he moved with agility and grace. Susan watched Barwon, expecting him to also join in, but he sat hunched at the outer edge of the circle watching the ritual.

‘The young boys are enjoying this but it’s part of the learning process for the subtle, intricate sacred dances to come,’ said Beth. ‘One night when all the others in the community come back, they’ll have a proper corroboree.’

‘Dance, movement, the body painting and decoration, it’s a collective ritual that fascinates me,’ said Alan. ‘Digger started to sing a story today, because we crossed a Dreaming track where a story of his ancestors took place. So it was his responsibility to celebrate the dead.’

‘We followed what Ardjani called the nature path of the earth. The old paths,’ said Alistair.

‘How do they work again?’ asked Mick.

Beth gestured to Jennifer, who explained, ‘The country is crossed by a trail of overlapping stories. Each cycle of song is sung in the place where it occurs. Each group of people belongs to certain sections of these song pathways, so that it becomes a network of communicating and contact over great distances. By following the songlines, they follow the trading and ceremonial movements set down from creation time. It’s a mythic dimension that springs from the centre of the earth where Dreamtime creation begins. They have to be sung by the custodian of that place, in that place.’

The singing over, the group thanked the Barradja. Ardjani stopped Alistair and spoke quietly. ‘Today, you were a hunter. You learn something your people have forgotten. Keep this to remind you.’ He handed him a smooth large quill from the turkey’s wing. Alistair bowed his head, but didn’t reply. Ardjani grinned. ‘Make him into a pen, write up them fancy law papers, eh?’

The following morning, Hunter lit a cigarette and tried not to smile as he watched the Vuitton and Gucci luggage being pulled out of the Chieftain light aircraft and slung into the back of a utility truck, under Frank Ward’s supervision. Rosalie Ward was handing out hats, sun block, answering questions and urging the Europeans – three men and two women – into the safari vehicle. But they stood listening to Rowena who was in full flight about the mysticism of this spirit land, the Kimberley. The tourists took photographs of the bush landing strip on Avenue Station where Aboriginal stockmen on horseback watched, not realising that to these visitors they were a living tourist attraction.

Rowena waved at her group, and they followed her over to the safari vehicle where Hunter slipped behind the wheel. Rosalie sat near the front with Rowena, and the Australian pilot got into Frank’s truck.

‘Follow Frank, Hunter. The homestead is only a kilometre or so.’ Rosalie gave Hunter a charming smile.

When they arrived, two other guests were waiting. A French Canadian and a Swiss, both photographers. They’d chosen to hire a four-wheel drive in Kununurra rather than travel with the others, who’d transferred from their G4 to the smaller Chieftain that could land on the station.

Hunter shook their hands, congratulating them on their fine timing. ‘My partner is Swiss. He’s always on time,’ grinned the French Canadian.

At the homestead, Rosalie led the group through the front garden to the separate guest quarters screened by brilliant bougainvillea, shady breezeways and palms, the tropical architecture blending with outback simplicity. Each double guest room had an en suite and was decorated in a different theme. The photographers were given the key to the billabong room. A mural of a tranquil pond smothered in lily pads was a theme continued in soft green and pink cushions and bedspread. The two men closed the screened doors, ignored the fan and turned on the airconditioning, giving the mosquito nets above the beds a curious look. They dropped their hand luggage on the wicker chaise and began speaking in intense and rapid French.

Rowena held court in the formal dining room that evening, recounting elaborate tales of living with the Barradja. Later they moved to the large sitting room for coffee and liqueurs but the two men who’d driven in excused themselves, bidding everyone goodnight as the phone rang.

Rosalie took her husband aside. ‘It’s Len Steele, he wants to arrange a meeting with us.’

Frank picked up the phone in the study that also served as his office. ‘G’day, Len. What’s up?’

‘Plenty. Listen we’ve got trouble brewing. Giles Jackson had a run-in with a yellafella the other day, one of that city mob staying with the Barradja. Jackson reckons he was spying on the mining camp at Boulder Downs. The Barradja are dead against mining as you know.’

‘So what’s that to do with us?’

‘Jackson reckons those city lawyers are up here to help the natives slap a land claim on this area.’

‘I don’t need any trouble right this minute. I’ve got a group of tourists in from Europe, remember. The ones I’m bringing over to Eagle Rock to see your Bradshaw paintings.’

‘I reckon we need a bit of a showdown with the Barradja mob. We’ve got Shareen Beckridge staying with us and I’ve asked her to come over with us to suss out the situation. She’s going to run as an Independent for one of the bush seats in the WA Government, probably the seat of Kimberley. She’s interested in problems connected with pastoral leases. Oh, and Ian Frazer’s son, Andrew, from Yandoo, is coming down and said he’d join the meeting.’

‘He’s coming just to meet this pollie lady?’ Frank held up his hand as Rosalie appeared in the door, signalling him to rejoin their guests.

‘No, he asked if he could land his plane at your place. He’s heading out to Marrenyikka. I thought it a bit odd at first, but he’s got a lady friend in that city group. Mightn’t hurt to have one of our mob out there to keep an ear to the ground.’

‘Yeah. Listen, Len, I have to go. Just let me know when it’s all on. And tell young Frazer he can land here any time. See you.’

With the Europeans settled in the guest quarters, Hunter and Rowena and the pilot were shown to the family rooms at the rear of the homestead.

Ten minutes later, Rowena tapped at Hunter’s door and he opened it, surprised to see her dressed in just a shirt. ‘What’s up? Change in plans?’

‘You might say that. Can I come in? I want to talk to you.’

Hunter, wearing only his trousers, stifled a yawn and reached to pull a T-shirt over his bare chest. He was glad he was being well paid, she was a demanding employer.

‘Don’t bother with that on my account.’ She took the T-shirt from him and tossed it on a chair.

‘So what’s the change in plan? You’ve changed your mind about going out to the rock art tomorrow?’

‘Sure we are. The change in plan is domestic. Rooms. I was thinking I might take this one.’

‘What the heck for? Same as yours, isn’t it?’

She gave a provocative smile. ‘I’m not asking you to leave.’

He blinked, uncomprehending for a moment. ‘Oh. Shit, Rowena. No offence, but that wouldn’t be too good. I mean, you’ve had a lot of wine, you’ve hired me as your driver, you might regret this . . .’

She cut in, reaching out to run her hands over his smooth, dark-skinned chest. ‘Hired you . . . that’s exactly right. Come on, Hunter . . . I don’t sleep well, I need a little soothing . . .’ Her flirtatious manner suddenly dropped and she became fearful, clinging to him, burying her face in his shoulder. ‘I get these dreams, these awful dreams, they keep me awake. I need you to chase them out, come into me, Hunter, come inside me . . . please, make them go away . . .’

Hunter unhooked her arms and in a swift move swept her up, kicked the door wide open with his bare foot and carried Rowena to her room, dumping her on the bed where she curled up facing the wall, shaking with silent sobs.

‘Take a pill or something. Sorry I can’t help you.’ Hunter strode from the room, quietly but firmly closing the door behind him.

The following morning as they trudged through the stringy-bark and salmon gums on Eagle Rock Station, Hunter avoided Rowena, paying attention to the questions of the two German wives. The American seemed not to notice, cheerfully giving the other visitors a potted version of the story of the Wandjina creation. Len Steele and Frank Ward trailed at the rear, deep in discussion over the imminent meeting with the pastoralists and Shareen Beckridge.

The tourists rested before the climb up to the rock shelter, and in answer to a question from one of the photographers, Rowena began to speak in a hushed voice.

‘There is a place . . . a special place, which holds the most sacred art of all creation. It is the Holy Grail of Aboriginal art. In one image there is all that tells the story, holds the key, and resonates with such power that all who see it, believe. One image holds the key to the core of this culture.’

The Europeans were spellbound. ‘How old is it? Have you seen it?’ asked the French Canadian photographer. The question caught Frank’s attention as this was the first he’d heard of such a place.

Rowena shook her head. ‘Sadly, no. The Barradja elder, Ardjani, told me about this place. It is so sacred and secret only certain very senior law men can go there. It’s incredibly ancient, but well preserved because it’s very sheltered and hidden.’

‘Where is it, who does it belong to?’ asked the Swiss, nonchalantly reaching into his bag for a camera lens.

‘It belongs to the Barradja but as I understand it, this is the seed of what all Aboriginal spirituality is about.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t be speaking of these things.’ Hunter’s voice was accusing, warning.

‘What would you know, Hunter? You’re not initiated, you’re a town guy.’ She spoke lightly, not offended by his barbed remark.

‘I’m not initiated because I was taken away from my tribal family and put in a mission. Even though I grew up on a white man’s property, I learned enough to know you can’t go into sacred sites without the elders’ permission.’ He glanced at Len Steele, who remarked patiently that he’d given permission for Rowena to bring the visitors here. Hunter continued, ‘Over the years I’ve heard stories in the Kimberley about what you call the Holy Grail. It’s a secret place and no one has ever been able to find it.’

‘Who’s looking? I’m just telling a story. A true story.’ Rowena closed the subject. As the group set off to see the rock art in the first shelter on the day’s itinerary, Len Steele and Frank Ward stayed behind. ‘We’ve seen it all before. We’ll wait here.’

Rowena led the group straggling up the rock-strewn rise to view the same Wandjina art gallery she’d discovered on her earlier wanderings in this area. ‘Please don’t touch the paintings, but feel free to take photos,’ she announced. After studying the imposing portraits of the Wandjina in the centuries-old ochre blurred into the cave wall, and the tinier drawings which included the Dhumby story, though Rowena knew nothing of it, the group clambered back down. Supporting themselves on individual rocks, they were unaware that these were tjuringas, totemic ancestors turned into secret sacred stones. Nor did they realise they had broken several taboos.

Unheeding, the group moved on, followed by Len and Frank, Rowena’s voice floating above the ancient topography.

‘Len has agreed we can drive to an utterly intriguing site – one of the so-called Bradshaw galleries. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive. Still part of Eagle Rock,’ she added, knowing how huge these massive stations must seem to the Europeans.

‘And what is this Bradshaw?’

‘Pretty significant stuff.’ Rowena was in her element with an attentive audience and no one to challenge her. ‘They were found by an explorer, Joseph Bradshaw, late last century. But these figures are old, I mean like we’re talking seventeen to twenty thousand years, maybe older. It’s like no other Aboriginal art – very delicate, fine lines, dancing spirits and such. Quite small compared to the big Wandjinas we just saw. The Barradja call the Bradshaws, guyon guyon pictures.’

‘There’s a bit of controversy about these things isn’t there?’ remarked Frank Ward.

‘Yeah,’ said Len Steele. ‘Some people claim they weren’t done by the local Aborigines, but by some earlier race that was here before.’ Then, struck by a sudden thought, his eyes lit up. ‘You know, if that’s the case, it’d put the Barradja’s claims of original land ownership right out the window, wouldn’t it?’

Frank frowned, wishing Len hadn’t spoken out in front of their guests, who had returned from the rock paintings eager for the next adventure. It was time to drop the subject. ‘I reckon you might have a point there. Something to discuss at our meeting in the next day or so, eh?’

‘Please, can we go on to see these special paintings?’ asked one of the Germans.

‘We can take photographs, yes?’ asked one of the women.

Rowena gestured casually. ‘I don’t see why not. They’ve been documented in a book.’

Hunter stayed in the shade of a small tree, perched on a rock. ‘I’ll stay here if you don’t mind. Len can take you in.’ He didn’t add that he had grave doubts about the propriety of what Rowena was doing. He knew there were ceremonies to appease the ancestor spirits that should be observed in places like this.

Idly he watched one of the photographers take something from his backpack and hand it to the other as they walked at a distance behind the group. He thought of the pilot sitting by the pool back at the homestead, and wished he’d done the same.

Rowena stood back in triumph as exclamations of surprised admiration filled the rock shelter, the tourists closely examining the little drawings of the Bradshaws that were like nothing they had ever seen.

The silhouetted outlines of the figures danced across the rock wall, faint with age yet wonderfully energetic. The stick-like characters wore elaborate headdresses and strange little aprons and tassels hung from their elbows. Some carried spears and a throwing weapon similar to a boomerang.

‘Art as old as the ice age, pretty terrific, huh?’ said Rowena. She lightly tossed off the remark, trying to cover the enormous effect the pictures were having on her, too. These little paintings were so alive, so affecting, and they touched something in her, this ancient tribe of little rock art figures that claimed to be one of the oldest signs of man on the planet. They were gay and spritely, and they’d been here in their happiness for all those years. They touched her in a way nothing else had in the Kimberley. And she felt her fears all the more painfully.

The visitors studied the paintings, discussing what they possibly depicted. The photographers seemed fascinated, snapping off many shots. When they were reluctantly drawn away for the return trip, the Europeans were more excited than they had been so far, Rowena thought. As they drove away she turned her head towards the shelter where the ancient figures danced on their rocks, and for a few seconds she stared at the ragged terrain that held so many secrets.

Two days later, the Europeans set out for a day excursion to Bungarra. The art hub of painters, like Freddy Timms, Hector Jandary and Jack Britten that was managed by Max and Judy, was a huge hit with the tourists. Alan, who’d borrowed Rusty’s truck and driven over from Marrenyikka, greeted Rowena with some formality. While they had a business arrangement, he wasn’t thrilled with the way she’d tried to snare the artists into her contract web. By doing a deal with her, at least he could ensure the right prices were paid, and he and Judy and Max would get their normal commission. He stood in the background listening to Rowena talk to the visitors.

‘This is where the famous Florence Namurra worked, the old lady of the outback. Her art is now highly sought after.’ Rowena turned to Judy anticipating her visitors’ next question. ‘Are there any of Florrie’s pieces tucked away?’

Judy shook her head, distressed at the breaking of protocol by Rowena mentioning the name of the recent dead. ‘Not here. We don’t know what’s going on down at her camp. The clan claimed her work when the poor old darling passed away.’

‘Perhaps we should visit these people . . ?’ one of the Germans suggested.

‘Please yourself, for sure the family will try to sell you a painting, but it’s doubtful it would be genuine. Some of the women are painting in her style . . . isn’t that so, Alan?’

‘What about Lucky Dodds . . . where is he?’ Rowena changed the subject.

‘He’s not well, he has good days and bad days. He’s old. But we do have some of his work. Alan asked us to get them for you. They’re upstairs. With all the curated documentation and so on.’

‘Judy, Max, my friends would really like to meet him.’ Rowena’s voice was very insistent and the look in her eye was saying that, in Lucky’s presence, sales would be more forthcoming. Seeing their hesitation, she appealed to Alan.

‘Take Rowena’s friends upstairs, Max. Judy and I will go and see if he’s up to it,’ said Alan.

Rowena was into the front seat of Judy’s old car before the other two had even opened their doors.

The old man was lying on a couch outside his small fibro house. His face was covered in grey stubble, his clothes had the creased comfort of several days of wearing. He sat up as they got out of the car, reaching for the stick beside him to ease himself to his feet. His eyes brightened and he managed a cheerful smile as he saw Judy get out of the driver’s seat. ‘I be glad to have visitors. You come to see Lucky, who you got dere?’ His smile faded as he saw Rowena step around the old car.

‘Hi, Lucky. I’m Rowena. We met before, remember?’

‘Course Lucky know you. Why you here? Lucky not signing no papers.’ He looked worried and turned to Alan. Judy quickly went to the old man, soothing him and holding his arm, furious at Rowena for upsetting him when he seemed so frail.

‘Rowena has brought some people who’ve flown over from Europe in their aeroplane to see you. They want to meet the famous Lucky Dodds.’

He didn’t trust or like Rowena, but his frown relaxed. After all, a sale was a sale.

‘Dey gonna buy paintings? Lucky pictures?’ He turned to Alan.

‘I’m going to be there, so we can make a sale, just as normal, Lucky,’ he said.

The old man relaxed. ‘If Alan say it okay and dey pay proper price, okay den.’

‘Of course they’ll pay the proper price,’ interjected Rowena with a smile, ‘but they want to meet you first.’

‘Now listen, Lucky, how’re you feeling? You don’t look good,’ Judy stepped in. ‘You don’t have to come over to the house.’

‘No, no. I come. You got cake? Dese people come a long way. Dey gonna meet Lucky Dodds. I meet de Queen of England, you know dat? Judy, you get me a good shirt.’

With shaking hands he reknotted the red polka dot scarf around his throat. ‘Find me cowboy hat please, girl.’

By the time morning tea with Lucky was over, a hundred and forty thousand dollars had changed hands for a series of rolled canvases.

Hunter packed the pictures carefully in the safari vehicle. There was extra room as the photographers had chosen to stay at the homestead. They had politely expressed no interest in buying high-priced indigenous art.

The following morning, the Chieftain took off with Rowena waving from the edge of the airstrip, Frank and Rosalie Ward waving from beside their vehicles. Hunter lounged against the drums of aviation fuel.

‘A successful trip all round, I’d say,’ said Frank with satisfaction as Rowena rejoined them.

‘They’re happy. They got some very collectible pieces, thanks to Alan Carmichael allowing several major works to be sold. You guys have done a superb job. They thought The Avenue very gracious and comfortable.’

‘Let’s hope it opens the door for more international people to come here,’ said Frank.

‘And you, Rowena?’ asked Rosalie.

‘Hey, I fulfilled a deal I’d made to bring these people here, and now I can get on with my documentary. We’re heading back to Marrenyikka.’

‘Rowena, do stay for lunch, we’re expecting several guests. Personal acquaintances. In fact the Yandoo plane should be flying in soon,’ added Rosalie.

‘Why sure. Thanks, it’s nice to have a bit of social life out here.’

Frank turned to Hunter. ‘This strip’s busier today than Kingsford Smith Airport!’

Hunter heard a light aircraft come in as he sat on the verandah steps of The Avenue homestead smoking a cigarette, watching Rowena with some amusement. She was in a shady section of the front garden, swaying and making jerky dance movements, like an undisciplined puppet, to the abstract music coming through her earphones from the small tape recorder she held in one hand. Having finished this ritual with arms akimbo, head flung back, and an abandoned cry, she sat down and crossed her legs in her lap, yoga fashion. Her fingers became closed buds which she rested upright on each knee, and she closed her eyes. Occasionally she hummed, a deep throaty sound that drifted across the lawn.

The screen door opened and Rosalie came out. ‘Lunch is nearly ready. Goodness, what is Rowena doing?’

‘Meditating. She does some funny things. Got some funny ideas too. She’s a strange person.’

‘Have you known her long?’ Rosalie was curious. This was the first time she’d entertained an Aborigine in her home and Hunter’s relaxed, pleasant manner and ease in a white social setting had impressed her. His fine features and physique made him a striking individual. Several times during the last few days Rosalie had caught herself thinking Hunter wasn’t like an Aborigine at all. Just an attractive young man.

Hunter stood up. ‘No. This is just a business arrangement. She found me in Darwin through the Tourist Bureau. My business is still pretty new. I’m just a gun for hire.’ He grinned. ‘So to speak. I keep a rifle out of sight, but I can still throw a spear if I have to. Impresses the tourists.’

‘But you grew up in the city, you said?’

‘Yes. I was fostered from the mission to a family in Perth.’

‘What happened to your family? Don’t you miss them?’

‘Yeah. They got moved off the station same as me, the priest told me. So I couldn’t go back. Haven’t talked about them much for years, till Rowena started asking me about them. You know how you talk on a long drive. Said she’d lost her family too though in a different sort of way. Her mother killed herself when Rowena was young. Her father is a survivor of the Holocaust. She thinks that’s why he’s spent his whole life driven to make money, to make sure he was never vulnerable again. She reckons she’s only got to know him in the past few years.’

‘And the white people who raised you?’

‘They’re nice people, they put me in a good school. I worked in Perth in various jobs, but I always wanted to come back north. Figured there’d be more opportunities for a black bloke to strike out on his own.’

‘You have a good business in Darwin?’

‘I do all right. I have bigger plans, though. There’s so much interest in the “real” Australia. Visitors want a different sort of cultural tourist experience. Four-star hotels are the same everywhere.’ He looked down the driveway to where Frank Ward’s Range Rover was approaching. ‘Maybe I should talk to your husband about my plans, maybe we could combine what I do and your scene here.’

‘Yes, maybe we should have a chat some time. Leave me your phone number.’ Rosalie was beginning to think Hunter might be an asset in their small tourism venture. A handsome, acceptable Aborigine who could sit at the dinner table and converse about all manner of subjects as well as having traditional bush skills. There were definite possibilities here.

Rowena rejoined the world, stretched and called to Rosalie, ‘Mind if I have a swim?’

‘Go ahead. Someone has just arrived. Lunch in about an hour.’

Rowena disappeared as the Range Rover stopped. Frank Ward and his passenger got out and came to the front steps. Rosalie stepped forward and held out her hand, smiling at the tall young man.

‘This is my wife, Rosalie. Andrew Frazer, he and his family run Yandoo.’

‘I’ve heard of your place. Your family has been there a long time, I gather.’ Rosalie shook his hand, then looked over her shoulder as Andrew raised an eyebrow.

Rosalie was about to introduce Hunter but she paused when she saw the expression on his face. Hunter and Andrew were staring at each other. Andrew looked confused, there was something about the man facing him.

Initial expressions of shock and pain were replaced as a strained smile broke out on Hunter’s face. ‘Well, well. Andrew Frazer. It’s me. Hunter Watson.’ He stepped forward as Andrew’s jaw dropped.

‘Hunter? My God!’ They pumped hands and slapped each other on the back as Rosalie and Frank looked at each other in surprise.

‘How . . . What are you doing here?’ Andrew was having trouble reconciling the well-dressed Aborigine, obviously at home in the white homestead, with the barefoot bush kid who’d shared his childhood days.

For Hunter, his former playmate had turned out exactly as he’d expected . . . the well-to-do pastoralist’s senior son ready to inherit the station. But there was great warmth in both their greetings.

‘I take it you two know each other?’ Frank gave a querying look.

‘Grew up together. Lost touch when I was sent to boarding school.’ Andrew turned to Hunter, his face grim, faintly embarrassed. ‘I never knew what happened to you. And no one would tell me much. Just said you’d been sent away to a good mission school.’

‘Yeah. Well, I got a good education anyway.’ There was a touch of bitterness in Hunter’s voice. ‘What hurt most was losing my family.’

‘Why didn’t you ever come back?’

As Hunter paused before answering, Rosalie touched Andrew on the arm. ‘Would you two like a beer on the verandah? Sounds like you have a bit of catching up to do.’

‘Good idea. Er, I have a few things to do before the others arrive. See you round.’ Frank excused himself and went to his office.

As the midday sun burned across the garden, the two childhood friends struggled to find adult common ground. Hunter unburdened the pain he’d concealed beneath a cheerful front for so many years. ‘The priest told me my parents had been moved on, I wasn’t wanted back there and I had to look to my own future. Make something of myself.’

‘Christ, mate. Of course you were wanted. I missed you terribly. Every time I went home for holidays, it was never the same. Listen, I don’t think my parents had anything to do with this. You know how the church and government people worked in those days.’

‘Yeah, I do. No I never blamed your old man. But it was too painful. I was just a kid. Anyway, the last few years I’ve been working in the Territory and the west, and now I’ve set up my own business in Darwin.’

‘Good on you. I was always knew you were special, different.’

Hunter gazed at Andrew and said evenly, ‘No, I’m not. I’m not any different to other Aborigines. It all depends what breaks you get. Inside, I still feel the same as I did running barefoot round Yandoo.’

Andrew reached out and rested his hand on Hunter’s arm. ‘Hunter, you must come back. It’s not true that your family left . . . they’re still there. Except . . . I’m sorry, Hunter . . . your dad died a few years ago. But your mother and sister, the rest of the mob. They’re still there. And Yandoo’s just the same as it always was.’

Hunter couldn’t speak for a moment, and was saved by Rosalie quietly setting down two tall glasses of beer and the bottle. When he did manage to speak, his voice was hoarse. ‘That priest told me . . . he took me into his office and told me . . . he said never go back in life . . . the bastard . . .’ His voice trailed away.

When he regained his composure, he asked about his family left at Yandoo. Andrew knew only bare details, but did the best he could, finishing . . . ‘Come to Yandoo as soon as you can. In the meantime, we’ll call and get your mother to the phone.’

He handed a beer to Hunter and took several sips from his own glass. Finally Hunter asked, ‘So, tell me about your life. Married?’

‘Nope. But I’ve met a girl I’m interested in, although I don’t know if she could or would hack the country life. I’m here to meet up with her. What about you?’

‘Fancy free. There’re a lot of opportunities ferrying sheilas round the bush, playing macho tour guide.’ Andrew laughed and Hunter added more seriously. ‘There is a girl at Darwin hospital I kinda like. Part Worora. I might look her up again.’

The men topped up their beers and slowly began to grope their way back to their childhood memories and, by the time the Steeles and Jacksons had arrived, they were deep in discussion.

Rowena, informed of the reunion by Rosalie, now appeared with her wet hair neatly combed and wearing a belted khaki military-style cotton dress.

‘Hi, Andrew. I’m Rowena Singer. I hired Hunter in Darwin, so I feel fortunate that I was the cause of this get-together. Quite something, eh? That you two knew each other. So what’s the story?’

Andrew found himself taking a step back from Rowena who had moved in close to him, never breaking her intense eye contact. ‘Well, yes. It’s great. Quite a coincidence.’

To his relief, new arrivals appeared, and the threesome moved off the verandah. Len and Dawn Steele were introducing a short, dark-haired woman to the Wards. The Steeles nodded at Hunter, shook hands with Andrew and Rowena, and Len indicated the woman beside them. ‘Shareen Beckridge. She’s running for office in the next State election and she’s interested in finding out what’s going on out here.’

‘How do you do.’ Shareen gave Andrew a firm handshake and briefly shook hands with Hunter and Rowena. The two women exchanged candid looks, sizing each other up. Rowena towered over the other, who didn’t seem at all intimidated. It struck Andrew she had the assertive confidence of a pugnacious small dog. Shareen was wearing white sandals, a knee-length skirt revealing thin, straight, shapeless legs, and a black-and-white polka dot loose blouse that didn’t disguise a full-breasted round body. As if to add height, she had her black hair teased into a beehive and she wore large sunflower earrings. Her voice was deep with a thick nasal accent that comedians loved to imitate when speaking ‘Orstralian’.

‘So, Mr Frazer, you’re on Yandoo? Nice place I hear. How are things over there?’

‘Can always do with some rain,’ said Andrew easily, as they all went towards the house.

While they sipped pre-lunch drinks, a dusty Land Rover came to a halt in the driveway, spraying gravel against the steps.

Giles Jackson and his wife Norma were introduced as neighbours on Boulder Downs Station. They shook hands with everyone, Giles taking the lead with a brusque greeting and a single, powerful shake of his hand to each. He didn’t look Hunter in the eye and moved on as his wife, Norma, murmured barely audible greetings and gave tentative handshakes. It was immediately apparent that Giles Jackson wore the boots in this family.

Lunch was a simple affair by Rosalie’s standards. A buffet of salad, cold beef and chicken and home-baked bread. Rowena noticed Shareen casting sideways glances at Hunter as he chatted to Andrew, Giles Jackson and Frank Ward. At one point, Shareen caught Giles Jackson’s eye and a message passed between them that Rowena couldn’t translate. She addressed Shareen. ‘Tell me, what will be the platform for your campaign?’

Shareen waited a beat or two. ‘I haven’t finally decided yet.’

Rowena raised an eyebrow. ‘No strong passions? No definitive stand on a particular issue? Why are you out here? Is this a social visit, or fact finding?’

‘My, you’re a curious person.’ Shareen was unruffled. ‘As a matter of fact, I am gathering information, talking to people, listening to what the real Australians have to say. At the grassroots level.’

‘The real Australians? Who are they? And what are they telling you?’

Frank Ward spoke soothingly, ‘I think that Shareen is entitled to keep her views private. She’s here as our guest.’

‘She a politician, for God’s sake. Surely this country isn’t any different to the US? Politicians get on a soap box at the drop of a hat.’

Hunter spoke up with a pleasant smile. ‘She isn’t a politician yet.’

Giles Jackson looked directly at him for the first time. ‘If we have our way she will be. She has a lot of support in country towns. And here in the bush we’re keen to see some sense talked down there in Canberra. Keep Australia for the Aussies and stop selling off the farm and . . . giving away rights.’

Hunter shrugged. The pastoralist’s aggressiveness and obvious stand against land rights issues made it clear an argument would only ensue. He turned his attention to Shareen again. ‘Maybe we’ll hear what your views are closer to election time.’

For the first time, Shareen looked annoyed. ‘I’m not afraid to say what I think. I stand for old-fashioned values, morals and ethics. Family first. Maintaining the standards we grew up with, as Giles says, keeping Australia for Australians. I particularly support the farmers. And if they’re struggling, we should look to support them in other initiatives.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Len Steele. ‘Like tourism. But we’re not going to be successful in that unless all these native title claims are wiped out. Excuse me for speaking frankly, Hunter.’

‘Extinguish native title and send the foreigners home, eh?’ Rowena grinned. ‘Does that include us Yanks? And if the country is just for Australians, does that mean all the white folk have to go too?’ She winked at Hunter.

Shareen didn’t crack a smile. ‘I’m not saying we have to send people away, just don’t let any more in. I’m not the only one who thinks we’re getting overrun with . . . foreigners.’

‘I don’t see the place overrun.’ Rowena shaded her eyes and pretended to peer into the distance. ‘Not even with Aborigines.’

‘I don’t think this is the time or place for such a discussion.’ Rosalie passed around the platter of chicken.

‘Yeah, we’ll get to that later,’ said Giles Jackson and his wife nudged him to be quiet.

‘So what are you doing in Australia?’ Shareen asked Rowena. The others kept eating, letting the two women battle it out.

‘I’m just here making a film.’

‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, Rowena, are you related to Joseph Singer, the famous Hollywood producer?’ Rosalie hoped this might sidetrack the discussion.

‘You might say so. He’s my father. I’m making a series of special films, documenting and preserving Barradja culture.’ She waited for Shareen’s reaction.

‘I can think of better films to make. The so-called culture is nearly dead and who’d be interested? Excuse me, Mr Hunter, but I’m sure you’d agree, not being a traditional person yourself.’

‘Can’t say I do agree, Shareen.’ He used her first name with studied casualness. ‘I’m a pretty traditional person. Just because I can manage a knife and fork doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned my heritage.’

‘I didn’t mean that exactly,’ began Shareen, but Len Steele jumped in.

‘You all for land rights and native title too, eh, Hunter? You should learn a bit about our side of things, seeing as you’re in the tourism game too.’

‘Yeah, Hunter, it’s funny how your lot can certainly jump on a bandwagon if there’s a dollar in it,’ said Jackson with a cold smile. Frank and Rosalie Ward exchanged unhappy looks.

‘The whole land rights and development issue is a sensitive area,’ Andrew spoke up. ‘We have to find a fair and just way through all this.’

‘That’s exactly right,’ said Shareen. ‘I think we should try keeping the lawyers out of it and we might get somewhere.’

‘Why not sit down and talk to everyone concerned? And that means the Barradja too,’ suggested Andrew. ‘It’d be a start.’

‘Yes, how many local Aborigines have you talked to about the future?’ asked Hunter.

‘Why would we bother? That’s not going to get us anywhere,’ snapped back Jackson.

Hunter turned away. He could see he’d never get into any sensible discussion with the likes of Giles Jackson, but Andrew was quick to take up his point. ‘My dad was always one for sitting down and having a yarn over a cup of tea. He reckons he gets more results sitting under a tree having a chat, than anything formal meetings can achieve.’

‘It’s all about communication,’ joined in Rowena and turned to Shareen. ‘Why don’t you go talk to them, Shareen? To the local Aborigines. Hunter and I are on our way back to Marrenyikka. So is Andrew, I believe.’

‘Yeah, I could drive you over, and bring you back here in a couple of days when I’m flying out. I’m interested to talk to these people. I was told to go with an open mind, so what the heck,’ offered Andrew.

‘The heck is, young fella, that we believe these people are hatching some scheme to make trouble.’ Andrew could see Jackson’s anger building.

‘And you guys aren’t?’ countered Rowena. ‘What about the mining people on your place and what about bringing in your pet political candidate?’ Giles Jackson glared at her. He hated being contradicted by a woman. And this bird was a typical pushy Yank. But before he could answer Rosalie stepped in.

‘I think face-to-face talking is a very good suggestion, Shareen,’ she said to everyone’s surprise. ‘Then no one can accuse you of being biased.’

The group looked expectantly at the would-be politician. This was an interesting turn of events.

Shareen was flustered. ‘This was just a social trip, I didn’t bring my adviser with me,’ she said. Then, realising this sounded a cop-out, she rose to the challenge. ‘Right then, I’ll see these people. Where do I stay? I mean what are the conditions like?’

‘You’ll see what living conditions are really like, first-hand,’ said Hunter. ‘Then you’ll be better informed.’

‘No, thanks very much, I’ve seen enough on TV current affairs shows. If Andrew is going, I’ll go along with him.’

‘I’m told it’s comfortable enough. And very interesting, culturally,’ said Andrew, now wondering why he’d invited Shareen so impulsively. He’d only agreed to meet with the Wards, Steeles and the Jacksons as a courtesy because he was using the Wards’ airstrip. His parents knew the Wards but he’d had no contact with any of these people before. All he wanted was to see Susan. He had no interest in Shareen’s political motives for self-aggrandisement.

‘We’ll fix you up with some gear. Tent and so on,’ offered Frank Ward.

Jackson decided this was a good idea. It was working out better than he’d expected. Shareen would come back and get mileage out of this in the media. And perhaps they’d find out more what Ardjani and the lawyers were up to.

‘Maybe you can take back an Aboriginal painting for your office,’ said Rowena.

Shareen glared at her with disdain. ‘I don’t have your American sense of humour, I suppose.’

‘So long as you have one, honey. It’s the only way to get through life.’ Rowena stood and helped Rosalie collect the plates. Hunter watched Rowena go indoors. The woman was confusing. He’d never met anyone who suffered so much depression as Rowena, but she’d certainly been gutsy and opened up with both barrels at Shareen. He suddenly thought of Beth, Rowena and Shareen together and gave a small shudder.

Hunter and Rowena made themselves scarce as they packed the vehicle with their gear, along with what the Wards provided for Shareen, and waited for Andrew to finish his meeting with the pastoralists.

‘I wonder if we’re cramping their style, being here? Walk up and down in front of the windows, Hunter. Remind them there are black people out here, on their territory,’ she goaded.

‘You’re becoming a bit of a rebel. I feel like the ham in the sandwich here,’ he confessed. ‘What’s the big hassle? What are they all on about?’

‘From what I overheard Beth and Ardjani discussing, it’s about the Aborigines wanting rights to use their land and sacred sites. Both sides have a valid interest, I gather. But apparently Giles Jackson doesn’t see things quite as equably as Len Steele and Frank.’

‘I get the feeling we’re heading for some sort of a showdown.’

‘It will be if Shareen holds forth out there. Though I have the sneaking suspicion she’s a bit of a puppet. She sounds like a typical politician, manipulated by the people who are backing her. She’s just not passionate enough in her own beliefs. Interesting times, eh, Hunter. Aren’t you glad I brought you along on this little jaunt?’

‘Yes. I have to say, of all the trips I’ve done this has been the closest to home, so to speak. Finding Andrew has been a surprise, a nice one.’

Rowena looked pensive. ‘Hunter, I have a special reason for coming here apart from bringing in those tourists to buy art, and apart from making the documentary. I have a problem and I’m hoping I can find the solution out here. With Ardjani.’

‘You think he can help you?’

‘Yep. Got it in one.’

It was a flippant remark, but Hunter looked at this gaunt woman with the dark hollows beneath her eyes, which were filled with a fierce energy, and in them he saw her deep-seated fear.

Two hours later the group reappeared. Andrew came over to where Hunter and Rowena were relaxing in the garden. ‘We’re ready to hit the road.’

‘How did it go?’ asked Hunter.

Andrew shrugged. ‘There needs to be a lot more talk. Shareen is coming with me, we’ll follow you.’

Farewells and thanks to the Wards were brief. The two four-wheel drives headed down the avenue of trees, the pastoralists and their wives watching them leave.

Hunter looked in the rear-view mirror. ‘Hundred to one they’ll open a bottle of grog and rip into us.’

‘Who cares? Not my problem.’ Rowena yawned and pulled out an inflatable pillow, wedged it against the window and prepared to sleep. Hunter kept quiet. One of her moods had descended. He glanced behind at Andrew in the vehicle he’d borrowed from Frank Ward. He didn’t envy him Shareen’s company. Hunter smiled to himself. His mother was still at Yandoo. He sank into a reverie of childhood memories, then briefly he felt a sadness thinking of Barwon, still searching. He decided to play down his own joy.

Hunter gave a blast on the horn to announce their arrival. Two campfires burned, the generator lights threw the movement of figures into shadow puppet relief. A boy rolled in the dust with a puppy, everybody moved about with a purpose while an elderly man and woman, two newcomers, sat by the fire talking with Beth, Alan, Ardjani and Rusty.

Beth rose, clapped her hands for attention. ‘Hey, Hunter’s back. Who have you brought to visit?’

‘Shareen Beckridge and Andrew Frazer. I’ll let Rowena do the talking.’ He took a step back, looking for Barwon.

‘Andrew Frazer! Where’s Susan? Luke, go and get Susan. Quick.’

Clutching the puppy the boy ran off towards the river.

Beth turned her attention to Shareen. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’ve just placed the name. You’re getting into the political arena, I believe. What brings you out here? Whatever, I’m sure the Barradja will be pleased to welcome you. I’ll introduce you to Ardjani in a minute. But first, we also have visitors. In fact,’ Beth stopped, ‘this is the woman who told me about you, Shareen. Let me introduce Esme Jordan, eminent anthropologist among other attributes, and Professor Michael de Witt, leading art archaeologist.’

Shareen shook hands, looking a little overwhelmed at the company and the setting. As Rowena also greeted the two academics, Beth led Shareen forward to where Ardjani and Digger were seated. There was a brief hesitation in the woman’s reaction to being confronted by the two old men, lost in the shadows, the firelight reflected in their dark, non-committal eyes.

Shareen shook hands briefly, murmured that she appreciated the opportunity to be there, and retreated.

‘Where will I be staying?’ she whispered to Rowena.

‘Hunter will set your gear up. Talk to Beth. She’s in charge.’ Rowena headed towards her room in the Barradja camp. Beth looked at the short dark woman, who appeared most uncomfortable. ‘This is a surprise. Didn’t know this area was part of your electorate-to-be.’

‘The electorate I stand for hasn’t been decided yet,’ she said, glaring at Beth. ‘It was suggested I come here to balance the story, so to speak.’

‘I didn’t mean out of your area in the physical sense,’ said Beth. ‘You’re not known for your support of Aboriginal issues. In fact, if anything, I’m told you are a bit against such things.’ Before Shareen could protest, Beth continued, ‘Which makes us especially pleased you’re here. Now, come and meet Billy. He and Hunter will get you set up in no time.’

‘I’m not a camper person, you understand . . .’

‘Shareen, don’t worry. You’re not alone in that.’ Beth led her over to where Billy, helped by Mick and Veronica, was preparing extra food in the cooking area now the intimate group had swollen to such interesting proportions.

Andrew slipped away, following the track the boy had taken towards the river. And in the moonlight, he saw him leading Susan back. He let out a shrill whistle and called, ‘Catch anything?’

Susan stopped, the whistle, so abhorred by city women, not even noticed. She shoved her fishing reel and tin of bait at young Luke and made a dash at Andrew, who swung her up in his arms. ‘Hey, there!’

‘Well, you might have told us when you were arriving. Look, dinner!’ She waved a fish at him. He took it and gave it to the grinning boy as he hugged her tightly once more.

‘So you’ve become a fisherwoman.’

‘I’ve learned a lot of things.’ She linked her arm through his and Andrew sensed a change from the girl he’d shown around Yandoo. There was a different confidence about her. He hadn’t imagined she’d be fishing in the dark along the banks of a river where crocodiles – even if freshies – swam. He leaned down and kissed her warmly.

Young Luke watched this with some concern. He was approaching the age when women and girls were taboo and this was an unfamiliar ritual to him. His face looked reassured as they broke apart and Susan took his hand, her other clasped in Andrew’s, and they headed for the highly active group about the campfire.

The smell of toast and campfire smoke drew the group from their tents for the first morning cup of tea from Billy’s vast iron kettle hanging over the fire. Beth tilted the kettle, pouring hot tea into a mug, and handed it to Shareen. ‘How did you sleep?’

‘Off and on. I kept hearing small noises and wondering about animals and such. I’m used to road noises. The silence out here is a bit scary.’

‘Safer out here than anywhere else in the country, I reckon. Pull up a chair, it’s the blokes’ turn to do breakfast.’

Susan and Veronica joined them. Veronica took the lead. ‘So, tell us about yourself, Shareen. Do you have a family?’

‘Divorced. Two kids. But they’re starting to do their own thing, so I’m a free agent.’

‘So you have no commitments. Is that why you went into politics?’

Susan studied the would-be politician, noting her stiff body language, her constant formal manner, her careful answers as if anything she said would be quoted in the press the next day. She’d obviously been schooled in putting forward a professional front. Even the beehive hairdo was in place. Did she sleep with it like that, she wondered.

‘I was working in a small business, feeling very frustrated at the way the country is being run, how the politicians don’t listen to us ordinary people. And when that Pauline Hanson got herself elected saying just what I thought, too, I figured it’s time I stood up and tried to do something about making things better for the little people.’

‘So what, you cashed in the business? Must cost a bit to set up a campaign office and so on,’ said Susan.

‘Yeah, who’s bankrolling you?’ asked Beth, and Veronica and Susan could have kicked her, knowing Shareen wouldn’t respond to such bluntness.

‘I have the support of a lot of ordinary Australians.’

‘What’s that mean, though? So they give you a couple of dollars, what are you going to give them? I mean, how are you and others like you, if you get elected, going to change things? What do you think needs to be changed?’ persisted Beth.

Shareen gave a tight smile. ‘Well, for a start the country has to get out of debt, that’s the cause of all evil. You know the top people in governments round the world are all controlled by the money cartels, IMF, World Bank and the financial families. This new world order is going to bring us down.’

‘I don’t quarrel with debt being a political factor in the country’s economy,’ began Susan, ‘but you’re painting a pretty big picture. How would you go about changing these things?’

‘I want the farmers and rural workers onside. Control the food supply and you control the economy, get rid of free-market ideologies. Look at the grain cartels, they’re all part of the grand alliance to manipulate us.’

Beth and Susan exchanged a glance. ‘So you subscribe to a conspiracy theory then? Where do you lay the blame?’ asked Beth knowing what the answer would be.

‘The banks, the Fabians, the Jews, the FBI, the CIA, the communists, the environmentalists, they’re all partly to blame. We have to set a new agenda and listen to what ordinary Australians want.’

This speech rolled out of Shareen like a set piece she’d recited many times over. Realising she had a less than sympathetic audience, she closed the subject. ‘I don’t think this is the place to run through my manifesto. I do have people to back me up and I’m still forming my ideas, based on what I see and hear.’

‘That’s fair enough,’ said Beth. ‘Look and listen while you’re here with the Barradja. You might learn something.’

Alistair had drifted quietly into the group by the fire and stood warming his hands on his tea mug. ‘Good morning, ladies. Beth, I’m sure Shareen would be interested in joining us with the elders this morning to decide if we lawyers are going to become involved in helping the Barradja people.’

‘Now wait a minute, just what do you mean, you’re helping these people? That puts me in an awkward position.’ Shareen was defensive, felt trapped and wished Andrew was there. ‘I came here with an open mind. I had a very informative meeting with the pastoralists yesterday. I don’t want to appear to be taking any sides here.’

‘An open mind, Shareen, that’s all we ask.’ Beth stood up. ‘Let’s get breakfast. Mick, Alan and Hunter seem to have the grub ready.’

Rowena joined them and peered at the thick porridge with some distaste. ‘It looks like something you’d use to build a house with.’ She sat next to Shareen. ‘Listen, we have to get you to Bungarra to meet the artists. Their paintings are sold for thousands of dollars in galleries all over the world.’

‘Why would people pay so much for it? And if they earn so much, why do they need taxpayers’ money in welfare handouts? If I work hard and earn money, then I believe I’m entitled to keep that money and not hand it around to a lot of bludgers who will waste it, or gamble and drink it.’ Shareen’s lips settled into a thin line.

‘Bludgers? What’s that mean?’

While Shareen explained the Australian expression to Rowena, Beth took Alistair, Mick and Susan aside. ‘God help Australia if that woman ever gets into politics. She’s a sure bet for any right-wing front that wants a voice in parliament.’

Alistair nodded. ‘In the meantime, it’s time for our meeting with Ardjani.’

‘Are we fair dinkum going to find out what they really want?’ asked Mick.

Beth didn’t waver. ‘It’s true the Barradja elders have many plans. And their plans could be realised if you were prepared to help on a practical level with advice and guidance.’

‘We’d certainly like to hear what the elders have to say before making any commitment,’ said Alistair.

Susan gave Beth a good-natured nudge in the arm. ‘I swear, if I were a more cynical person than the sweet naive girl I am, I’d think that you and the old men got us all up here for just that reason.’

Beth threw up her hands in mock horror. ‘Who me? Never.’ But her light-heartedness was immediately replaced by a more serious tone, tinged with tiredness. ‘I’ve devoted twenty-plus years to helping these people and I’ve never taken a penny for it. The leaders like Ardjani are in their seventies and they fear, unless things are settled quickly, they won’t see their culture secured before they die. And I want that for them. More than anything.’

It struck Susan that Beth’s devotion to the Barradja outweighed everything else in her life.

The meeting was set beneath a tree. Ardjani stuck the simple, carved law stick in the ground, setting the air of formality to the proceedings.

Lilian, Jennifer and Beth quietly directed the newcomers where to sit, so that protocol, seniority and law were observed. Some sat on small stools, upturned drums, canvas chairs or on the ground. Ardjani held a long cardboard tube in front of him. When everyone was settled and at a nod from Rusty, he began.

‘We are the Barradja people, we live in our law and this mob here, this Barradja mob,’ he pointed at Digger, Rusty, Lilian and Jennifer with her baby, ‘we just a little mob. Most of our people be away just now. But we speak for all our people.’

He took a rolled map from the paper tube. ‘Our land gives us our identity. We lived here when we were young fellas as our people always done. Then around fifty years ago, other people came here and these white families were given pastoral leases for cattle. Maybe twelve big places. Nobody asked us if that was okay. We were just rubbish people under the authority of the Crown. Then we get moved to other places and we cannot come back.’

He spread the map on the ground and signalled to the outsiders of the circle to reach for small rocks to anchor its corners. He knelt down and pointed. ‘All this 200,000 square kilometres, this is Barradja country, since creation time.’ Susan and Alistair knelt beside him to study the map. ‘Since the 1950s, we been asking that our people can come back here.’

‘So how come you can stay here on this little piece of your land?’ asked Rowena.

‘When the Pastoral Award came in, saying the white bosses got to pay Aboriginal workers the same as white men, they can’t afford this so they had to let the black workers go.’

‘Which meant all their families had to go, too?’ Mick asked.

‘Yeah, they all drift into towns, get on the grog. Things no good when they go off the stations,’ agreed Ardjani. ‘So some people ask their pastoralists to give them just a little bit, an excision, maybe three square kilometres like this one, so they can camp there and not in town.’

‘Did they agree?’

‘Not all. But some station owners are good people. Then the government got into it and made the pastoralists responsible for roads and all that stuff, so most didn’t want to do it. People who owned Eagle Rock long time back agreed. So that’s how we got to stay here on Marrenyikka. It just be a matchbox, eh?’ Ardjani gave a rueful smile.

‘With few legal rights obviously,’ said Mick.

Ardjani circled their immediate surroundings with his arm. ‘So we make a claim for just a small bit of our land, 50,000 square kilometres, so we can live here in our country.’

‘Excuse me, Ardjani, are there pastoral leases on this land you’re claiming?’ Susan spoke up, not shy of breaking the hypnotic spell Ardjani’s voice was weaving.

‘No. It Crown land.’

‘But we want to go to our sites and take our friends. They on whitefella leases,’ interjected Rusty.

‘So you’ve already lodged a Native Title claim for this Crown land? What’s happened?’ asked Alistair.

‘More better to say land rights. The Land Council don’t like that we represent ourselves. Lawyers from Aboriginal Legal Service don’t listen to us, so now we want to do things our way, and we ask for whitefella legal help.’

There was a slight sniff from Shareen, and Andrew looked at Susan before asking, ‘Are you asking that the pastoral families give up their land to you?’ He kept his voice neutral.

‘No. But we want the right to go onto our land and visit our sacred sites and take our friends there.’

‘For money?’ asked Shareen. ‘You’re talking about tourism.’

‘No, just people who come as friends of Barradja people.’

‘That’s splitting hairs, isn’t it?’ Shareen had an aggressive edge to her voice.

Andrew continued in a steady voice. ‘These rights of access are often legislated. But pastoralists have to have rights, too. What about families who have worked and loved the land for generations?’

‘We respect that. And we can take in cattle grazing on our land provided they don’t damage sacred places. We want the right to go onto the land, but we don’t want mining on our land.’

‘But you can’t control that. Anyone can take out a lease for a right to prospect on these properties,’ protested Andrew.

‘They’re already on Boulder Downs,’ said Mick.

Ardjani pointed at Alistair. ‘You stop them disturbing the ground. We can make big Native Title claim and sit in court and stop them mining.’

‘Typical,’ muttered Shareen.

‘Waste of everyone’s time and money. You can’t beat the mines,’ said Mick.

‘What sort of compromise would you consider?’ asked Alistair.

‘We think it might happen that after we old fellows gone, new Barradja elders might decide to agree to mining. So we want to write into land contract now that Barradja must be included in all meetings and have a vote to decide where mines go.’

‘And money, you’d want money?’ put in Shareen.

‘No money. We want to make sure they not dig on the songlines or sacred ground.’

Everyone stared at Ardjani. ‘No royalties? No compensation?’ asked Alistair gently.

‘We don’t need money,’ said Rusty.

‘But what about your young people?’ asked Susan.

Stubbornly Ardjani shook his head. ‘This is our law. If we take money we are saying our culture, our copyright,’ he looked at Rowena, ‘can be bought.’

Digger spoke, a dissenting voice that brought a frown from Ardjani. ‘Maybe when we gone, our young people read the law in different way. Maybe they say it’s all right to get money for mining.’

‘We still got to obey our laws, ’cause it is our land that names us,’ said Rusty.

Beth explained to Shareen who was looking increasingly puzzled. ‘The Barradja’s right to hunt and gather, perform rituals, visit the rock paintings, are all enactments of their link to this land. They say the copyright lies in their very identity, and it’s reflected in their laws, kinship system, pattern of life. And that’s reflected in the land and that must not be extinguished.’

Shareen was unimpressed. ‘That’s all very well and good, but when you look around and see the . . . poverty . . . in which they live, surely these people owe it to their children to take money from the mines, and make a better life for them. That way they wouldn’t be taking it from the taxpayer.’

Andrew nudged Susan. ‘She’s got a point,’ he whispered.

‘They don’t think they live in poverty. They’re healthy, they’re rich in their culture,’ she hissed back.

The Barradja stared at Shareen, and Ardjani spoke slowly. ‘Our people are dying from despair and alcohol, far away from their country and what gives their lives the meaning. Nothing can grow good without the nourishment from the culture.’

He looked at Rusty, nodding at him to speak.

‘When we got taken off our land, we tried to live in whitefella culture, see what it all about. We work as stockmen, give it a go, and all the time we believe one day we come back and live in our country. We believe that. We innocent people then. We try lotsa ways to get back our country, but now we got to do it whitefella way,’ said Rusty slowly and deliberately.

‘If you excuse me for saying so, to my way of thinking, that’s just handing the lawyers buckets of money and wasting more time.’ Shareen lifted her chin defiantly at Alistair, Mick and Susan, noticing Andrew nodding in agreement. ‘The rest of us ordinary Australians feel like we’re spectators on the sidelines and have no say. The legal people are running this country, not the governments, and we resent that.’

Veronica caught her breath, expecting Susan to jump in and defend her profession. But Susan deferred to Alistair who sat back on his heels, rubbing his knees. ‘I can understand that feeling, Shareen. Sometimes, those of us who wear silly wigs and silks feel a bit the same way. But our intention is always to find a just solution.’

Beth looked at Alistair. ‘We asked these white legal people here to experience and see what Barradja culture is all about, and to listen to the elders’ views, which I believe are reasonable, and to try to negotiate a solution that suits all sides.’

‘That’s not how your neighbours see it,’ said Andrew. ‘They think you’re hatching a plan using city legal advisers to grab their pastoral leases because of the potential for tourism.’

‘Tourism!’ exclaimed Shareen. ‘You’re not going to get hordes of Japanese or even Australians up here, surely.’

‘I didn’t think you were for Asians rushing into the country,’ said Beth.

‘If they come as tourists and spend money, that’s all right.’

‘Just so long as they don’t stay, eh,’ said Mick.

‘Rowena, you explain to Shareen the interest there is in this region from overseas tourists and Alan, you tell her the value they put on the Barradja art. And, Shareen, when you’ve also heard what Esme and Michael have to say . . .’ Beth nodded at the two academics who had been sitting on the periphery of the group, listening with interest, ‘you’ll understand more about the potential up here.’

‘People believe there’s great treasure in the Kimberley, like diamonds,’ said Alan. ‘But the real treasure waiting to be mined here is the art.’

‘The Barradja feel it is wrong for the farmers to take tourists to Barradja cultural sites. It should be the Barradja doing this and explaining the significance of their rock paintings,’ said Beth.

Ardjani took up the theme, speaking to Shareen. ‘By doing this we could make jobs here for our young people and develop a proper knowledge among white Australians and overseas visitors of what our paintings and culture are about.’

Hunter was nodding in agreement. ‘I’ve seen the way it used to happen all over the Territory where they get a lot of tourists. White tour guides would learn a bit from the local Aborigines and then spew it out to the coach tours when the tourists could have heard the real story from the Aborigines. Thankfully, that’s changing, and that’s how I got going. These days it’s an advantage to be an Aborigine in the tourist business. There are some terrific Aboriginal blokes working for National Parks and so on, who are really educated in both cultures.’

‘So why wouldn’t that work up here?’ asked Susan.

‘You try selling that to Giles Jackson.’ Barwon, who had sat quietly listening to the discussion, couldn’t resist the dig.

‘Len Steele and Frank Ward are reasonable men,’ Alistair reminded them.

The group looked around at each other, this seemed an obvious path for the Barradja to follow into the future.

‘It comes down to negotiation, discussion and compromise. We need to go into this further and talk with the pastoralists,’ said Alistair.

‘We got other plans we want to talk to you about . . .’ said Ardjani. But Beth broke in giving him a smile to smooth over her interruption. ‘I think we should head out to see the guyon guyon paintings we promised to show everyone. Maybe we’ll stop for a smoko along the way.’

‘Sounds good to me. That okay with you, Ardjani?’ asked Mick, showing respect to the elder.

Ardjani rolled up the map. ‘Yeah. We show you special place. We Barradja not been there either for very long time. Now you fellas fix up with Len Steele, we can go back again. And another day we tell you our other plans.’ He pulled the law stick from the ground.

Digger, Rusty and Barwon led the convoy in a truck, with Ardjani joining Lilian, Jennifer and the main group in the Oka, while Hunter drove behind with Shareen and Rowena as passengers. In the Oka, Andrew was comfortably staring out the window when Susan squeezed his hand. ‘So? What’re you thinking about?’

‘This whole Barradja deal. You seem to be getting in pretty deep. You’re not really going to represent these people are you? Leave it to the two men, it won’t do your reputation any good, I reckon.’

Susan stiffened, glad their low voices were drowned by the engine and general chatter of the others. ‘Why should my reputation suffer? I can handle this. Alistair and Mick are two of the best legal minds in the country, and I want to be involved.’

‘What for, Susan? It’s not your normal sort of case, at least as I understood what you did for your firm. And frankly, you don’t want to become known for taking on Aboriginal causes. Stamps you as a bit of a radical, know what I mean?’

She withdrew her hand. ‘No, I don’t agree. Andrew, we’ve been down this track and I thought that’s why you came out here, to get a different viewpoint of Aboriginal culture.’

‘Susan, I only came here to see you. I’d have gone to the North Pole if you’d been camped with Eskimos. It’s you I’m interested in, not what happens to these people.’

‘That’s just the point, Andrew. If you want to get to know me, you have to respect the things that I care about. I came here knowing nothing about Aboriginal life or culture. Now I’m beginning to see there is a lot that Aborigines and whites can learn from each other. Aboriginal people like the Barradja can offer us ways that might improve our lives and we can help them in return. You of all people should care that we work out a way for indigenous and white Australians to get along together.’

‘There are no problems at Yandoo. I think Shareen, for all her superficial judgements, has a point – you legal bods bloody complicate things more than help most of the time.’

Susan was indignant, but she also sensed hurt in her anger. She was fond of Andrew and had hoped their friendship might develop, despite their different lives and the distance between them. But unless they could agree on fundamental issues like this, there’d be constant friction.

‘Listen, Andrew, we are coming from opposite sides of the fence. I hoped you might be able to share some of the magical experiences I’ve had out here. And I don’t just mean being in the bush, I know that’s not a novelty to you. But I would have thought finding Hunter might have made you think about things differently.’

‘Hunter has turned into a white society businessman. Hooking up with that American woman, flogging bark paintings to a bunch of billionaires . . . that’s not too tribal.’

‘Andrew, I’m not going to argue with you. What I do with my career has to be determined by me, okay?’ Susan sighed, glad that the little convoy was pulling over by a stand of shady trees.

Billy and Hunter quickly had a small fire going. They produced a damper made at breakfast and corned beef and pickles while they boiled water for tea.

Esme settled herself on one of Billy’s fold-up chairs with Michael de Witt beside her. Beth, always the team leader, clapped her hands. ‘Gather round, folks. As you know, Esme and Michael have been part of a team studying rock art sites with permission of the Barradja’ – she indicated the three elders – ‘and they will be announcing their preliminary findings to the international scientific community in the near future.’

‘It’s of international interest?’ murmured Mick. ‘It must be pretty significant.’

‘It is,’ said Esme firmly. ‘And it’s going to have an impact not only on Australia but the world, which of course will affect our friends here. Ardjani and the elders know about this, which is another reason they need to secure their land.’

At Beth’s words, Rowena’s head shot up, she stiffened and flashed a look at Ardjani who ignored it.

Esme looked at de Witt who deferred to her. ‘You sketch the background.’ The wiry old lady rose to her feet, her straw boater festooned with a fly veil shading her face, a commanding presence in her long cotton skirt, man’s shirt and stout boots.

‘Some of the art you are about to see today represents our ancestors’ efforts to communicate, express themselves and record their existence as far back as 50,000 years ago. I take the liberty of saying “our ancestors” because I believe that, as Australians, each of us has the right to claim a sense of attachment to the heritage of this country.’

‘Not if you’re not born here,’ muttered Shareen. ‘And are you saying we whites want to claim black ancestors? I don’t think so.’

‘I like the idea,’ said Susan and Andrew winced.

Esme was unfazed. ‘We could learn mythic awareness. Most of us in white society have lost the ability to experience by intuition. But we still find comfort in returning to the place where we came from, the place of our roots. Now,’ she waved a fly away from the corners of her mouth, ‘the important news. Our team has been excavating an archaeological site on Barradja land. And the cupules – they’re the hand-pecked indentations in the rock art we’re examining – have produced indications that they are extremely ancient.’ The old lady paused for dramatic effect, enjoying her moment on centre stage. ‘The team members have dug trenches and taken samples and, as they’ve dug deeper and deeper to the levels representing tens of thousands of years ago, they’ve continued to find indications of human endeavour, including ochres used in painting and the remains of stone implements.’

‘How many thousands of years? What’s the bottom line here?’ broke in Rowena impatiently. Her eyes had a feverish brightness to them.

Esme turned to the archaeologist, de Witt. He stood, as if delivering a dry lecture to an academic audience. ‘Bear in mind final dating with thermoluminescence is yet to be completed. But based on the lab work already done, we believe this site, and possibly others across the north of the continent, range in age anywhere from 80,000 to 170,000 years.’

There was a stunned silence. Rowena wiped a hand over her forehead. Hunter watched Ardjani, who remained impassive.

Mick found his voice first. ‘If that’s the case . . . it really throws the theory of the origin of man evolving out of Africa out the window.’

‘Does that mean that all races originated from Aboriginal man?’ asked Veronica.

‘Are you saying Homo sapiens walked on earth here, on this continent first? Since creation time, eh, Ardjani?’ Susan was elated. ‘It’s staggering.’

‘Are you ready to announce it publicly?’ Veronica knew this was a story to snare world headlines.

‘We’ve written an academic paper on it for Nature magazine, they’ll withhold publication until further results are in . . . in several months.’

‘Veronica, you realise this is privileged information, off the record,’ said Beth.

‘That’s a shame. But I respect that. I would like to talk to you about the ABC having the first rights to broadcast this very important story for Australia, Professor.’

‘It’s possible. If the team is agreeable.’

‘And how does this testing work?’ asked Alistair.

‘Similar to counting rings on a tree, but instead of rings we’re looking at electrons in grains of sand and quartz. Buried grains collect electrons, the older they are the more they have.’

‘Can we see this place?’ asked Rowena. Nobody answered the question.

‘Without wishing to be disparaging in any way, how certain are you of your findings?’ asked Alistair, ever cautious.

‘Certain enough to be telling you lot,’ said Esme tartly.

‘There’s going to be a lot more people wanting to get in here when this gets out,’ noted Hunter.

‘So what does this mean to your land claim?’ asked Andrew. ‘It will give you ammunition against any mining being done.’

‘Yes, if it’s a place of significant cultural heritage, especially of World Heritage status. It makes it more valuable than diamonds in my view,’ said Beth.

‘Puts the French and Spanish in their place,’ observed Mick, with some relish. ‘They reckon they have the oldest cave art.’

Alan was thoughtful. ‘There’s an opportunity here for either a step forward in the reconciliation process or massive exploitation. It will have to be handled with great delicacy.’

‘So what do these things you found look like?’ asked Shareen.

‘They’re simple geometric shapes and circles,’ said de Witt.

‘It’s something we all can see, you know when you push on your eyeballs and you see stars?’ said Esme. ‘Like that. It’s been described as similar to a transcendental experience, or how young children see the world and draw similar patterns.’

While the rest of the group chattered excitedly about the consequences of such a find for Australia, Shareen looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t think that this should be made into such a big deal. What if the results show you’re wrong?’

‘Over 50,000 years is definite and that’s pretty significant in human history,’ said Mick.

Ardjani spoke for the first time. ‘We’ve been here since creation. This always been our country.’ He looked directly at Shareen. ‘Why you don’t like us?’

Shareen recoiled at the blunt question that caught her unawares. ‘I’ve never said that.’

Ardjani addressed her. ‘You listen, you learn. Open your mind, your heart.’

Esme sat down. ‘I think we should go on to see the guyon guyon. They’re special too.’

In the Oka, Alan explained the guyon guyon were known in white Australia as the Bradshaws and he tried to describe these guyon guyon – the whimsical art treasures that had been painted in caves across this land – realising that he had only ever seen photographs of them and cameras could never do justice to the beauty of these stick-like dancers. The so-called Bradshaws they were going to see were in an overhang on Eagle Rock Station, again a sacred site the Barradja had not been able to visit for years. But that had changed now thanks to the meeting Len and Dawn Steele had held with Jennifer and the lawyers.

‘The Bradshaws have become something of a contentious art form in recent years,’ explained Alan. ‘Certain people have made their own claims and assessments as to who did them, what they mean.’

‘As the judge said, it’s like Von Daniken writing in Chariots of the Gods, saying the Wandjinas were done by aliens,’ said Veronica.

‘Yes. Some people claim these have been done by another culture, people who came here when there was only a small gap of water between Asia and Australia. They base their argument on the fact that the art style of the Bradshaws is different from the other Aboriginal art in the region. At some sites they are painted behind the Wandjina figures. So these people argue that there was an earlier race here. The Barradja don’t subscribe to these ideas. Nor do knowledgeable academics.’

‘I bet not. Wouldn’t that mess up the native title claim of continuous relationship with their land?’ said Shareen.

‘How far back are they supposed to prove?’ exclaimed Susan.

Ardjani lifted a hand directing Beth to speak. ‘As Ardjani explained when we visited the last art site, the Wandjina are the messengers of the wunggud power, and after forming the land the Wandjina incarnated themselves in the rock. So it was the guyon guyon bird that pecked at the Wandjina’s rocks and brought the image from inside the sandstone to the surface. Like the negative printing the positive, which is why the Wandjina painting sits over the guyon guyon painting. They are all still part of Barradja culture.’

‘We bin here from the beginning,’ repeated Digger simply.

‘I seem to recall that in Latin,’ said Mick unexpectedly, ‘Ab origine. It means from the beginning.’

Shareen stared out the window. Although she lived in a rural city, she rarely ‘went bush.’ She was feeling an outsider here, trapped in an alien landscape as events spiralled past her in a confusing swirl. She had always prided herself on being a no-nonsense woman. And it was this image she had of herself being able to make contact with the common man and woman in the street that had made her feel she could succeed as a politician.

She was a product of dinner table discussions where her father thundered at the family about bureaucrats running the country and her mother reduced everything that was unallowable or unaffordable in their lives to being the fault of ‘the rich’.

Shareen was imbued with the mantra ‘if you want something done, do it yourself’. So when she had been approached to stand as a WA Independent by a right-wing farmers’ group from far north Queensland, she’d agreed. Now, here in this uncivilised place she was finding the issues, previously cut and dried, were beginning to curl around the edges. All this talk, these theories and especially the attitudes of these white people were very unsettling. She wished she already had the new adviser the farmers were appointing for her, to help her put all this back into perspective.

The Oka rolled through country that was classic Kimberley . . . a sub tropical kingdom ‘over the ranges’. . . rusty whorls of orange sandstone escarpments against azure sky, palm-fringed pools, flashes of brilliant budgerigars, majestic black cockatoos, and between stands of open spinifex country, the eerie bulbous tough-skinned boabs, their knotted arms and spiky fingers grasping for the sky like old hobgoblins.

Shareen stared at the patterns etched by wets and wind into the cliffs. She shivered, knowing they sheltered mysterious paintings and a power and belief system unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She looked across to Jennifer and Lilian. Her only contact with female Aborigines had been a brief orchestrated visit to a health-care centre where the women were either too shy to speak, or suspicious. The only Aboriginal men in the political arena that she’d crossed swords with were activists whom her colleagues regarded as troublemakers.

As soon as she’d put up her hand in the wake of controversial politician Pauline Hanson, she’d been branded. But that was all right. She was pretty clear on black-and-white issues like too much money being thrown at them, and most of that being wasted. They’d always been a nomadic people, so how dare they now turn around and claim land ‘ownership’. They were already getting special privileges and advantages over the rest of the population.

While the old Barradja men at Marrenyikka looked as scruffy, if cleaner, than the blacks she saw hanging around the pubs in Kununurra, she was unnerved by their dignity and their passionate arguments. At first she’d thought it ridiculous that Jennifer, a trained nurse, would choose to come back here to learn from the elders. Of what use would any of that traditional stuff be in the real world? Shareen’s view had always been that Aborigines should stop trying to hang onto the threads of a dying culture and get on with joining white society, the quicker the better. But after this brief encounter with the Barradja, the black-and-white picture in Shareen’s head was becoming grey and fuzzy.

She disliked not being in charge, and had been secretly pleased when her political supporters had publicly described her as ‘a woman of substance, a potential leader with strong independent views’. But the more she stayed out here, in this company of lawyers, Aborigines and opinionated white women, the more she felt her ordered life being undermined.

They reached a small rise and the truck ahead stopped. Rusty trudged back and rapped on Billy’s window. The electronic window hummed down, letting hot air into the airconditioned vehicle. ‘Down that rise, cross the creek and along a little bit,’ instructed Rusty. Then looking concerned, he asked Billy, ‘You got brakes?’

Billy kept a straight face. ‘Yeah, Rusty, we got brakes.’

‘Good. You follow, okay?’

Further on, having skittered down the hill and forged the little creek, Rusty waved an arm at them, pointing to a place to pull over.

They stretched their legs, gasping at the thick air. Rowena gazed about her, saying nothing about the Europeans she’d guided here a few days before, and hoping they’d left no tell-tale signs.

They stopped at the base of the rock shelter and Ardjani and Rusty went to gather leaves for the smoking ceremony to appease the ancestral spirits.

Hunter looked at Rowena. She watched them, pale and concerned, knowing there’d been none of this observance of ritual when she’d brought the Europeans here.

Ardjani lit the small pile of leaves and he walked forward, singing a chant in a strong clear voice. Then waited, head cocked. Then he called again, with a different note in his voice that caused Rusty and Digger to pause. Ardjani signalled them to join him. There was a murmured exchange and Ardjani began to chant again.

‘What seems to be the problem, Lilian?’ asked Beth.

She pursed her lips. ‘Ancestor spirits flying all over the place. Bad feelings.’

The elders looked back at the group. ‘Spirits say problem here. They very unhappy. We better go check ’im out,’ said Rusty. The words were delivered with a clear note of fear in his voice.

The group trailed behind Ardjani, flanked by Rusty and Digger. Susan offered a hand to Esme, who shook her head, using her stick to lean on as a climbing prop.

When they reached the shelter, the elders were first to turn into the overhang. Their sudden expressions of shock echoed off the rock face.

‘What is it?’ cried Beth. Then, ‘Oh, my God.’

The others scrambled behind her, staring up at the rock where paintings of waif-like dancing stick figures trailed around the protected shelter to a flat sheet of the cliff face.

A gaping wound, like raw flesh, shone in the centre of the weathered and aged sandstone. It was roughly rectangular in shape, a metre across, the metal wedges driven into the rock to create fissure and pressure lines still in place.

‘It’s been stolen!’ Susan gasped the obvious, as they all tried to comprehend this desecration. She looked to the three old men.

Ardjani was facing Rusty and Digger, tears shining on his face, oblivious to the others’ presence. ‘Who could do this thing?’ he asked of them. The other elders were speechless, their faces creased in pain. This was beyond their comprehension.

The old men sat down and began muttering words brokenly to each other. Jennifer and Lilian moved apart, talking quietly. The group stayed silent until Digger looked at them. ‘This terrible thing, terrible.’

‘Thieves. People come and take it away,’ said Rusty angrily.

‘Who? Why?’ Mick was incredulous.

‘It happen once before,’ said Ardjani. ‘Thieves cut out a rock with fossilised dinosaur tracks near Broome. That rock belong to Goolarabooloo songlines. This guyon guyon rock belong to our songs.’

‘A sample of Australian rock art of this antiquity would be highly prized by collectors,’ said Alan quietly. ‘It’s probably well out of the country by now.’ Michael de Witt and Esme stepped closer to examine the gaping space.

‘They knew what they were doing even if it’s a rough job. They only had to slice a plate a few millimetres thick,’ said Alan. ‘And it looks very, very new.’

‘They’ve tapped in these spikes, split the fissure line and worked around it to lift it off,’ said de Witt. ‘I hope at least they got it off in one piece, without it shattering. And you’re right, Alan, this is usually the work of overseas operators, at least the earlier ones have been.’

‘How dare they? How dare anyone come to our country and steal our art,’ said the old lady, tears forming in her eyes. ‘If this were anywhere else in the world, we would be safeguarded against people plundering our history.’

Her bitter words left everyone speechless. The visitors stood motionless as Lilian and Jennifer joined Ardjani, Digger and Rusty, talking quietly in language, and occasionally pointing at the gaping wound.

Finally, Susan whispered to Veronica, who was taking her tape recorder out of her bag, ‘We don’t even know what it was . . . the image . . .’

Ardjani looked at her, and spoke slowly and sadly. ‘This guyon guyon picture came from the Wandjina, it show the emu dance. It a small picture, and very special.’

‘Who’d take it and where would it go?’ asked Veronica.

‘It’ll probably be in Geneva or Tokyo by now,’ said Alan. ‘That’s where most of these thefts of rare art end up.’

‘Whoever take ’im be in big trouble,’ said Rusty.

‘With the authorities or the spirits?’ asked Barwon. Hunter, standing beside him, looked across at Rowena. Her face had turned stark white.

Anger and authority returned to Ardjani’s voice. ‘They be a dead person. The spirits always punish anyone who does such a thing to sacred place. Bad things happen.’

Rowena was agitated. ‘What if the artefact, whatever, is returned, does the punishment stop?’

‘That person must come back, apologise to the spirits, and take what is their punishment.’ Ardjani looked at Beth. ‘But how you return rock to wall, huh? It like your heart is cut out.’

Andrew whispered to Susan. ‘Do you reckon there’s anything to this? Gives me the creeps. I wouldn’t have thought twice about showing paintings to visitors.’

Susan looked unamused. ‘Would you seriously consider taking something away from your site at Yandoo? Flogging off a bit of the paintings, for example?’ she asked.

Andrew chewed his lip. ‘Not now. No, I wouldn’t.’

There was an unspoken agreement among the group that they move out into the open and leave the elders to conduct their business in privacy. As they settled themselves in a circle on the ground, Mick said, ‘This is Len Steele’s property, we’d better check to see if there’ve been any tourists here lately.’

‘This is the reason why the Barradja should accompany anyone who comes here,’ said Beth quietly. ‘They’d know if there was danger to their sacred sites.’

‘For goodness sake,’ exclaimed Shareen. ‘It is Len’s land, if he wants to show people some artefacts, why should he go through burning ceremonies and all that rigmarole? It’s not as if he’d knowingly let anyone steal from him.’ Seeing the unconvinced faces around her, Shareen turned to Esme. ‘Did your archaeological people have to make ceremonies when you went to study that place you were telling us about?’

‘No, we didn’t,’ said Esme quietly. But before Shareen could make any smug comment, Michael de Witt explained, ‘We have an elder from Marrenyikka on our team. He asked permission from the Barradja for us to work there. And our team leader obtained permission from the lease holder, a fellow called Jackson, who basically told him we were wasting our time. Although he was quick to say he wanted to be informed immediately if we found anything of value.’

Shareen was silent and Beth asked de Witt, ‘Is old Midgerie the Barradja with you?’

The archaeologist smiled. ‘Sure is, he’s a character.’

‘He’s Lilian’s uncle,’ said Beth. ‘He’s the only old family she has left.’

Rowena didn’t join in. Sitting apart from the others, she rested her head on her knees. Hunter finally sat beside her.

‘You blaming yourself? What do you think? I know what I reckon.’

She looked at him. ‘I was set up. I think I’ve figured it out. I’m scared. I had no idea . . .’

‘Let’s see if your scenario fits in with mine. I reckon it was the two guys who came on their own. The Canadian and Swiss guys. Had to be. And they didn’t go with the others to Bungarra. They must have come here on their way back to Kununurra.’

‘But how would they find this place again?’ she wondered.

‘They could have used a global positioning system,’ said Hunter. ‘They’re pretty commonly used to track sites in the bush these days. It’s a hand-held satellite system, about the size of a mobile phone. Geologists, surveyors, aviators, ships at sea use them, and those two certainly had a lot of gear in their van. All they would have had to do is turn it on when you took them to see the rock art and press the store button. When they wanted to go back, they could read off the exact position to within a few metres,’ he explained. ‘The key is, why did they take it, and who did they take it for? Someone with a lot of money, for sure.’

Rowena sighed. ‘Gustav. He’s the one. He hired me, he got me to organise that trip. He said he’d be sending his people with my group. And he never did tell me what sort of art he was getting them to acquire. I trusted him because he was a friend of my father’s. Bastard.’ Rowena kicked a small rock.

‘This will have to be reported to the police. You’ll have to tell them what you know.’ Hunter pointed to the group still gathered around Ardjani at the rock site. ‘And you’ll have to tell them. At least there’s a chance it could be recovered.’

Rowena shook her head. ‘I’ve seen Gustav’s place. They’d never find it and if he has got it he wouldn’t be stupid enough to put it there straight away. It will be hidden in one of those stolen art places they have in Europe.’

‘Rowena, you’re in trouble, anyway.’ Hunter stared at her. ‘I’m still enough of a blackfella to know you’ll be punished. This Gustav might be in deep shit. But you’ve at least got a chance to make your peace with the Barradja.’

Rowena dropped her head on her arms and began sobbing. Hunter saw the others starting to move back from the rock. He felt concerned at Rowena’s deep grief but unsure how to handle it. ‘Speak to Ardjani,’ he advised.

Rowena lifted her head. ‘Yeah. I know. I have to tell him something else, too. It’s been giving me hell for eighteen months. At least now I know why I’m dying.’

‘Christ, Rowena, who said anything about dying?’

She wiped her face, sounding calmer. ‘The shrink in LA was right. I had to come back.’

‘What’s up with Rowena? She seems upset.’ Shareen peered at the hunched figure of the American woman and the tall young Aborigine who reached out and briefly touched her shoulder before walking back towards them.

Barwon was standing next to Shareen. ‘Not half as upset as Ardjani and the other elders.’ He shook his head. ‘This is what happens when our people don’t have sovereignty over their sacred sites and the bloody pastoralists can come and go as they please.’

Shareen looked at the handsome former TV presenter. ‘You don’t seem to like them. What have you got against the pastoralists? You’re half white and live and work with white people. Where do you fit into all this?’

‘I wish I knew, Shareen, I wish I knew. You might find this hard to understand, but I don’t even know what my bloody name is. I came up here to find some answers and all I’ve found are a lot more questions.’

Questions. Everyone in this group seemed to have too many questions, thought Shareen. And who the hell has any answers. She followed Beth and Susan back down to the track that led to the Oka and realised that she too had unbidden questions forming deep within herself.

Behind them, the three elders lit the leaves and chanted a lament, an anguished wail that brought tears to Beth’s eyes and struck despair into Rowena’s heart.

Alistair paused, rubbing his aching knees, and Mick caught his breath beside him. ‘So, the plot thickens, my friend,’ said Alistair.

‘Bloody incredible stuff. I thought hearing about Esme’s findings was sensational enough. This takes the cake, I reckon.’

‘It certainly adds some colour to the Barradja’s claim for their rights of access.’

Mick moved ahead of Alistair, picking his way through the grass. ‘So we’re going for this are we? An informal pro bono partnership to help their cause? Young Susan is dead keen.’

‘She’d be a great asset. I’m convinced they have a worthwhile and just cause to ask for access to their sites and land.’ Mick grinned at Alistair. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound, count me in. That Jackson bloke is going to be a problem. Len Steele and Frank Ward seem reasonable blokes, I reckon we start with them . . .’

‘There’s someone closer to home we should start working on first,’ said Alistair quietly.

‘Not that dragon of a wannabe politician, Shareen. Why doesn’t she just go home and bake biscuits or something?’

The QC smiled at the judge’s cheerful chauvinism. ‘Times have moved on, Mick. Lincoln has freed the slaves, women are out of the kitchen. No, I’m thinking of Susan’s pal, Andrew. That’s the generation we have to convince. Just as the old Barradja men know their children have to adapt to two worlds so do our kids.’

‘You’re right. If we can win over Andrew and Shareen we’re on the road to some sort of success.’

The two senior legal men rested in the shade as Esme held forth in outraged tones about cultural theft, with Alan explaining it was a worldwide phenomenon. ‘You’d better protect your archaeological site. When word gets out, there’ll be plenty of people wanting to chip off a chunk of rock of the origin of man,’ declared Alan.

‘We’re in more danger from the academics. They’ll be flooding out of every hole in every university around the world,’ she predicted.

‘No, your biggest danger will be the politicians,’ said Beth with a sideways glance at Shareen. ‘The State government hasn’t wanted to know about all the headaches out here. Now, the Kimberley is going to be such an important area, they’ll probably want to own the lot and make it all national heritage or something.’

‘That’ll solve everyone’s problems then, you all lose,’ said Mick pessimistically. ‘Wouldn’t put it past the bastards, either.’

‘Not all governments and politicians wear black hats you know,’ protested Shareen. ‘You legal people want to control everything yourselves.’

‘The war is just beginning.’ Mick rubbed his hands together. ‘And here comes the first casualty, I’d say.’

Rowena’s pale, tear-stained face silenced them as she walked shakily, holding onto Hunter’s arm.

The events had disturbed everyone. Susan, feeling overwhelmed and strangely vulnerable, rested her head on Andrew’s shoulder. In the back of the Oka, Mick leaned his head against the window and slept. Beth had gone in the truck with Ardjani. Rusty found a seat in the Oka, squeezing beside Shareen, who turned her head to the window and watched the shadows of the trees and hills lengthen in the late afternoon.

‘Spirits out and about, eh?’ commented Rusty.

Shareen didn’t move or answer.

In the early dawn hours, Andrew crept into Susan’s tent. ‘I can’t sleep. Want to come for a walk?’

‘I’ve been awake too.’ She lifted up the edge of her sleeping bag. ‘Hop in. It’s freezing.’

‘That’s an invitation I won’t refuse.’ He settled himself and Susan cuddled close, resting her head on his chest. ‘So why have you been awake?’

‘Just thinking,’ she murmured. ‘So much happened yesterday. As it seems to every day out here. I feel like my life is running at fast forward.’

Andrew stroked her hair. ‘Is that good or bad? You’re certainly cramming a lot into this outback experience, eh?’

‘Andrew, it’s more than that.’ She paused; this was the one person she wanted to describe her spinning feelings to, and yet she wondered if he would really understand.

‘Go on.’ He sensed the hesitation in her.

‘I don’t know what I was thinking. It was just an impetuous decision to come here. Now I’m wondering if I want to be the best lawyer in Sydney. I’ve listened to Alistair and Mick, seen how they’re questioning their lives.’

‘So what would you do instead?’

‘I don’t want to give up the law, but I feel something changing in me. Maybe I could use my legal training to help people like the Barradja . . .’

His arms tightened around her. ‘It’s natural you’d feel that way when you’re here, so far removed from your normal life. And the Barradja have obviously made a huge impact. You need to go back to the city first and then reassess.’

As she snuggled against him, he began to think that there could possibly be a life for someone like Susan up here, that she could find a niche for herself. The idea warmed him and stirred deeper feelings.

He kissed the top of her head, wondering whether she had become too infatuated with this whole Barradja experience. Selfishly, he hoped the Kimberley had instilled in her an attachment to the land that he’d always loved. He hoped this might mean there was a future for their relationship. Andrew held her, and she was comforted by the security of his arms.

The closeness of her body, the sweet smell of her skin and hair, aroused his desire. He began kissing her throat and lips, moving his hands around her breasts. Susan responded to his gently insistent foreplay and in minutes they were pressed together, naked, beneath the cover of the feather-light sleeping bag. They made love, whispering together, their bodies warming each other as dew trickled down the skin of the tent and in the bush nearby, small night creatures began returning to their shelters, knowing that day was due.

Susan was first up, leaving Andrew asleep. Streamers of early morning mist floated between the tents. It was a mournful light, reflecting the pall of sadness that clung to the little camp from the memories of the previous day and the night’s discussion of the stolen art that had lasted until the fire burned out.

Alistair had phoned Len Steele from the Oka and described the theft, saying that he’d already informed the Kununurra police. Len had been shocked this could happen on his property, and he admitted to Alistair that he’d had no idea this rock art could be so valuable that it would attract professional art thieves.

But while the white Australians had been outraged by the theft, they knew their feelings counted little compared to the devastation it had wrought on the Barradja.

Seeing a thin plume of smoke rising from the Barradja camp, Susan wandered over carrying her mug and a tea bag, hoping the billy had boiled.

She was relieved to see the Barradja going about their morning routine. Rusty, Digger and Barwon had been on an early morning hunt – a gutted, fat goanna sizzled over hot coals. Ardjani sat on the other side of the fire, cross-legged, facing his two sons.

Rusty and Digger made room for Susan, pouring hot water into her mug and offering the tin of condensed milk.

Ardjani had tried to explain to the boys the loss of the guyon guyon, the effect it would have on their lives, their children’s lives, and their descendants. The boys listened intently, then the three sat in silence for a little while before Ardjani announced it was time to continue the morning’s business.

It was wudu time and the lesson today was tracking. Using his knuckles and the heel of his right palm, Ardjani deftly created paw prints in the soft earth and talked of how the Barradja men knew when animals had been through their country by grass crushed, small pebbles over-turned, droppings left in different sizes and smells. Ardjani stood, pressed his foot in the soft dirt, and bid Luke and Joshua do the same. Then he showed them how to examine the multitude of clues contained in a footprint.

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 never 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.’

They laughed, then the judge awkwardly touched her arm, his face serious. ‘Thanks for staying anyway. No one’s done that for me before.’

The remark puzzled Susan. Then she turned her head slowly and glanced at Mick Duffy walking beside her. And, for just a fleeting second, she saw the wild red larrikin of the quick quip and irreverent humour, looking like a lonely old man.

Moving at a distance from the campfire, the night air nipped at exposed skin with chilled fingers. And so the campers huddled near the warmth as they discussed ideas for the security of the archaeological site, in view of the theft of the guyon guyon rock paintings.

Alistair summed up, deferring to the elders. ‘It would appear the most pressing matter is to meet with Giles Jackson and his wife and begin negotiations for permanent access and protection of the area on Boulder Downs where Esme and Professor de Witt’s team is working.’

‘Do we play down the importance of the archaeological find?’ Mick turned to Esme.

The straight-backed lady in her man’s shirt and long skirt was for once without her straw hat. Her wispy grey hair was knotted firmly on top of her head, seeming to pull the papery skin of her face up at the temples. Her blue eyes looked as bright as a noon-day sky.

‘No. The scientific world needs to know about this. Everybody should know. Ardjani tells us the rock is part of the time before the flood when everything was destroyed and the creation was begun again.’

She looked at Ardjani as he elaborated, ‘Those pictures and scratching were done way before ice age mob, very ancient people did them. So we call that place Birrimitji, after the people from In the Beginning.’

Esme continued, ‘The initial findings are so significant that scholars from anthropologists to theologians are going to want to do research here. After all, as we said, this could rewrite the history of man.’

‘All the more reason some guidelines need to be established,’ said Alistair.

‘The police and the Land Council should be informed as well,’ said Beth.

‘The important thing is that all the people that come here, they must know the proper story, the Barradja story of this place,’ insisted Ardjani.

Michael de Witt agreed. ‘When we first contacted the Jacksons about working on their lease, they said they were more interested in the mining venture that’s nearby.’

‘Now, wait, this raises a delicate and dangerous point,’ said Alistair suddenly. ‘How close is this Birrimitji site to the mining exploration? There could be a conflict there if the mining probe turns up a vein that runs close to the archaeological site.’

The elders exchanged worried looks. Ardjani repeated the Barradja’s attitude to mining. ‘See, that is the reason we don’t like digging into the earth. It is like digging into our body and makin’ a wound that will never heal up.’

‘Looking at it from the gadia point of view, it seems to me the value of this land is in the heritage and culture, not the diamonds or minerals in the soil,’ said Alan.

‘Either way, Giles Jackson will try to exploit it. He’s in pretty desperate financial straits,’ said Beth.

The old judge suddenly spread his arms. ‘Hell then, if he’s that badly off, why don’t the Barradja buy Boulder Downs?’ He grinned. There was a moment of silence as everyone stared at him.

‘It’s a great solution,’ said Beth. ‘Except for a small detail or two.’

Ardjani rubbed his fingers together in front of Mick. ‘Money.’

‘Dat be a lot of paintings,’ grinned Digger.

Alistair looked thoughtful. ‘Ardjani, what would you do with Boulder Downs if you owned it?’ he asked.

Ardjani gazed into the distance then spoke firmly and clearly. ‘Our people would live there and teach our children, and we could invite people who want to come and share our gift with us. So we can learn each other’s ways. White people, foreign people, they all can come and learn about our culture, our laws, our beliefs to help themselves.’ He spoke as if he’d known this for a long time. ‘This we would call our Bush University. This is the other plan I wanted to speak to you about.’ He looked around the group. ‘If we old people die and there is no way for our culture to live, then for our children it will be the end of our story.’

‘Bush University! What a fabulous idea,’ said Susan. ‘And not impossible. Isn’t there some way we could get some sort of private funding to buy the land?’

Beth looked at Alistair. ‘A foundation of some sort. Is it possible?’

‘Hell, it is,’ said Mick. ‘Find a big mob to throw in five grand each and we can buy it. If Jackson is desperate, how much would he accept? Maybe the churches could come to the party. And an art institution, and corporations who are prepared to do their bit for reconciliation.’

‘Barradja people own this place, run this place, though,’ added Ardjani.

Alistair held up a hand. ‘Hang on, we haven’t got that far yet. But I can see it is a definite possibility. I believe between us, we could get a plan in motion.’

‘It’d be quicker and cheaper than waiting for the Native Title claim,’ said Mick.

‘What would this place do exactly, Ardjani?’ asked Veronica. ‘I really don’t see what you’re getting at.’

‘People come to Bush University for a couple of weeks in the dry season. Live with us, share with us, learn with us. Like you been doin’.’

‘Bush University,’ repeated Susan enthusiastically, and she gave Andrew a wide smile. ‘Sign me up for next year.’

‘It’s a wonderful idea,’ said Beth, enjoying Susan’s enthusiasm. ‘And one the Barradja have been talking about for some time. But it is impossible to fit it onto Marrenyikka. When all the Barradja are here, there’s hardly room for them.’

Ardjani spoke with humility and sincerity. ‘We Barradja hope you can help us make Bush University happen. For all the people of Australia.’

This gave everyone a lot to talk about as they prepared for bed. Alistair, Beth and Andrew stood with their backs to the fire, finishing the last of the tea.

‘Andrew, it would be useful if you would come with Esme and de Witt to see the Jacksons tomorrow,’ suggested Alistair. ‘Having a pastoralist with us might help.’

‘Surely when they see Birrimitji and learn of its importance, they will rethink the mine,’ said Beth and yawned.

Andrew threw the dregs of his tea into the fire. ‘Don’t expect an immediate conversion. Men like Jackson can be very set in their views.’

Seeing Alan sitting with Esme and de Witt, Beth walked over and asked Alan to bring out the photographs from Melbourne of the baby’s wrap. ‘I promised I’d show Esme before she heads back to the site tomorrow. She’s always had a soft spot for the Dhumby story.’

Beth sat next to the old lady and squeezed her hand. ‘It’s been good to see you tramping round the bush, Esme. Right in your element.’

‘Might not have too many years left of doing this sort of caper.’ She gave a wistful smile. ‘Soon be heading for Dulugun, home of the dead, and Dorgei, the fountain of happy spirits.’

‘Rubbish. You’ve got years before you make the Dulugun journey.’ For the first time Susan and the others around them saw Beth’s self-control quiver slightly and they realised the depth of love she felt for the old woman who had been her friend, mentor and mother figure for many years.

‘So what is Dulugun?’ asked Veronica.

‘It is the place where the dead spirits go. It is a special journey.’

Ardjani described the earthly procedure. ‘Your spirit is locked inside your body till everything rot away. Then we take the white bones and wash them, paint them with red ochre and kangaroo fat. Polish ’em up nice and we have a big corroboree. We sing and dance and tell about this person’s life. Then we cut the death cord. It is made from hair and tied between two poles. There is light on one side, the dark world on the other. This cord is very powerful and when sunset comes, just in those few minutes, we can capture the spirit of the dead person and bring him home. Then he is carried back to the Wandjina, the creator, and you remember, we see the bones in the caves. Now his spirit can come and go, he be free to go any place.’

‘And that place, Dorgei, is it a beautiful place?’ asked Susan.

‘Yeah. Many people are there who die before. Plenty of waterfalls, trees, a happy place. Nice place.’

Barwon listened with deep interest and was about to ask Ardjani a question about Dorgei when Alan rejoined them, pulling up his chair. ‘Here’re the photos of the Dhumby screen-printed onto the baby’s wrap. I . . .’ He stopped as Barwon interrupted.

‘What right have you got to interfere with that?’ Before Alan could explain, Barwon was out of his chair and had stormed away from the group.

‘What’s up with him?’ asked Alan.

Beth sighed. ‘Ardjani, we have to do something about finding his family. It’s eating away at him.’

The elder agreed. ‘That man has a lot of pain. He won’t be a whole man till he find his family, find where he belongs. Jennifer says Jimmy is still talking to people in Derby. We must have patience. We wait.’

Ardjani stood up and the other elders followed.

In the shadows by the water tank at the back of the Barradja camp, Ardjani splashed his face and straightened up, aware he was being watched. Barwon stepped into the light from the bulb that hung on the corner of the building.

‘Ardjani, I must talk to you. It’s important, I can’t . . .’

His voice ran out, emotion constricting his throat. Ardjani unhurriedly wiped his hands on the towel hanging by the tap. ‘Come.’ He led Barwon to several damp plastic chairs by the dead embers of the Barradja’s campfire. He watched the younger man and waited.

Barwon sat forward, his hands clenched, arms hanging between his knees. He looked down and began speaking in a low rush.

‘The photo of the shawl that was wrapped around the baby in the art gallery . . . I know that shawl. Very well. I saw her make it.’

‘The mummy of the baby? How come she put this Dhumby story on this shawl? You know her good?’

‘Yes. I knew her. We lived together for a month or so. She was studying art and she loved the Aboriginal stories I told her. Most of them I got out of books, but the owl story . . . that was mine.’ He bent over and began doodling the shape of the bird in the dark soil. ‘The clearest memory I have of my mother is her telling me a story about a little owl and drawing it in dirt dirt. I sketched that owl for Lisa. And she screen-printed it on that cloth. To make a wall hanging, she said.’

‘Barwon, Dhumby is a Barradja story. This girl, this baby . . .?’ Ardjani turned to Barwon, who raised his head and looked him in the eye for the first time.

‘Yes, it’s mine. My baby. She was just a young girl, just seventeen. And she came from strict religious parents. She said they’d never accept me. But worse, I just couldn’t hack the idea of the responsibility of it all. I was frightened.’

‘You run away?’

‘Yes. I always meant to go back to her. I really liked her. But how could I give this baby a name and bring it up?’ It was an anguished cry that followed. ‘I don’t even have a name.’

Ardjani sat upright, unmoved. ‘Every man has responsibility for his seed. You left this girl before the baby come?’

‘Yes, I went back to Sydney. I always meant to go back and sort it out . . . but I never did . . . and then I saw on TV about the baby being left . . . and I didn’t know what to do.’

‘This girl then, she want this baby to find its people. Your people. She remember your mother’s story. And she leave a good clue.’

‘Ardjani, I wanted to find Lisa and get the baby back . . . and then she was killed . . .’ He turned away, putting a fist to his mouth. ‘It’s all my fault.’

‘Why you not go get your baby girl, then?’

‘I figured they wouldn’t let me have her. I thought they might think I killed Lisa. I was already in trouble with the police because I’d got drunk one night.’ He sat up. ‘What should I do, Ardjani?’

The old man covered the tiredness in his voice and spoke sternly. ‘What you did was bad, very bad. You must make it right for this baby. Your baby.’ Ardjani continued. ‘We speak to the gadia law people. You tell them this. Beth too.’

Beth was hanging the wet tea towels across the line strung between trees when she saw Ardjani and Barwon walk over. She could tell immediately something was up.

‘Beth, you get them law people. Barwon got to speak a confession.’

Alistair had been asleep. Mick, dressed in a track suit, emerged from his tent as Susan, in her socks, hurried after them.

They listened in amazement as Barwon haltingly repeated his story. Beth’s heart went out to him, knowing he’d been carrying this burden inside for so long. ‘Why didn’t you tell us . . . we’re your friends . . . we’d understand . . .’

He shrugged and his pain touched each of them.

‘The police will have to be informed. Soon as possible I’d say,’ said Alistair.

‘Get Billy out of his swag and call Melbourne now,’ said Beth. ‘I’ll call Joyce Guwarri in the morning.’

‘They’re not going to hand this baby over until its parentage is established, and a check on its new guardians has taken place,’ said Mick.

Alistair went to wake Billy to get on the radio phone.

‘What about Barwon’s family? This doesn’t help find them,’ asked Susan.

‘His mother must be Barradja. You tell me everything you remember,’ Ardjani instructed Barwon. ‘Jennifer then telephone Jimmy in Derby and he tell the old women what you tell us now. They figure this out.’

They poked up the fire as Barwon, calmer now, sat on the ground, and staring into the sparks he talked of the fragments of memories he’d clutched at over the years. He talked of the story of the little owl, of his mother’s face, and of what he’d been told by the Brother who took him to the mission. He talked of the story Beth had discovered, how his father had been killed in a mine accident, and how his mother had left Barwon at the convent with the sisters while she went to try to retrieve his body. And how, when she’d come back, the sisters said her boy had been sent to the mission for his own good, and how she’d died of a broken heart when they broke their promise to return him.

‘The Brother told me it was because I had pale skin. I had to become a white boy. And they called me Nigel like the nuns did, but they said I had to have a new name, so they called me Barwon, after the river.’ He lifted his head, and he spoke with a voice like a small boy’s. ‘I can’t remember my real names, the names my mother and father gave me.’

Ardjani looked at Beth who put her arm around Barwon and softly hugged his head to her chest.

‘Do you think the fact that his mother told him about Dhumby is enough of a link to the Barradja?’ asked Mick.

‘When Barwon born, Barradja people still all over the Kimberley. That time was when we just starting to come back here to Marrenyikka. But the old women will know this story about a white fella, killed at the Ord River, who had a Barradja wife. We find all this out. We wait,’ said Ardjani calmly.

Alistair returned with Billy. ‘That’s done. Got on to a helpful sergeant. They’ll want a statement from you, Barwon. A law enforcement officer will be dispatched from Kununurra.’

‘What was their reaction?’ Mick asked.

‘The Victorian police gave me the time the girl was killed. It was the night you got drunk, Barwon, the night that landed you in court. I explained to them that you couldn’t have been responsible. They seemed quite relieved because they’d given up looking for you anyway. They said they’d been able to clear the truckie who gave your girl a lift. Now they’ve put all their resources into the search for a serial killer who was in the vicinity of the Lawson State Park where the poor girl died. Two other girls’ bodies have turned up. Both hitchhikers.’

Barwon shuddered and Beth took his hand. ‘Let’s sleep on all of this. We can’t do any more for the time being.’ She gave Barwon a wan smile. ‘I know those old women, they know everyone’s history, they’ll unravel your mother’s story for sure.’

Ardjani took Barwon to one side. ‘You do wrong, now you make it right. It be done. That baby has to come home to its people. As must you.’

He turned and walked back to his camp with slow firm steps, leaving Barwon staring after him.

Susan and Alistair looked at Barwon’s disconsolate figure as Beth walked him back to the Barradja camp behind Ardjani.

‘Alan said he saw the baby, said she was a pretty little thing,’ said Susan softly.

‘Barwon’ll probably need to establish a family connection to one of his female relatives before he’s allowed to have the baby,’ the judge said.

‘That’s a very unstable young man,’ said Alistair. ‘Let’s hope Ardjani can help him sort his life out. If he doesn’t find a rock to hang onto soon, I don’t like to think where he’ll end up.’

It was melting dark, the night sky dissolving into the arms of first light. ‘Daughter Sun come home to her sky soon,’ said Ardjani, ignoring his tiredness and looking up into the stars that were fading in the first hint of light after burning brittle bright in the black velvet of night.

They walked slowly but purposefully, Ardjani leading, Rowena stumbling occasionally, her eyes not as accustomed to the night light.

A shiver went through her as she saw giant boulders of the looming, ancient, fortress-like ridge protecting the spirits and precious Wandjina.

‘You sit down.’ Ardjani pointed to a rock and she sat, her breath frosty in the clear cold air. He began calling, an awakening call that changed to a chant, an urgent song of explanation, apology, forgiveness and lament. The notes rose and fell, his voice one moment strong, then softly coaxing. Then he stopped and leaned his head to one side, listening.

Rowena wrapped her arms around her body, warding off fear more than the chilled air.

With a jerk of his head, he indicated she should follow him. They climbed up the slope, stepping carefully over stones, supporting themselves by hanging onto shrubs and small tree trunks.

In a clearing surrounded by the massive overhang of the shelter that protected the Wandjina paintings, Ardjani worked swiftly, pulling leaves as he sang. He made a fire, bigger than he’d made before, waving a branch of green leaves over it to increase the smoke. ‘You lie down, on your face, next to the fire.’

Rowena asked no questions, but stretched out, face down. She felt the light touch of Ardjani’s hands as they moved her arms and legs till she was spreadeagled, as if a supplicant to the earth.

She felt his hands touching her head, pushing on her back, running down her arms and legs, pressing on her ankles as he sang, his voice now deep and strong as if challenging unseen forces.

Rowena heard Jennifer’s voice come to her, reminding her of how the body was in tune with the vibrations of the earth. She believed she could feel a faraway rumble beneath her, as if a train was coming, and she trembled.

Then Ardjani was lightly flicking her with the cluster of leaves, and she was enveloped in smoke. As the smoke seeped around her body, streaming into her nostrils, she thought wildly that she was being sacrificed. The smoke smelled nutty sweet as Ardjani flicked the leaves up and down her body, all the time chanting.

When she thought she could bear it no longer, it was over. He commanded her to sit up. She sat, cross-legged, head bowed as the fire died down, thankful at last for the silence.

Eventually Ardjani spoke. ‘You understand what you did was very bad. You have got to bring that skull back. You’re sorry for all this?’

Rowena was struggling to hold back tears, struggling to stop tumbling into another chasm of emotional chaos, a state that had been tearing her apart ever since confessing to Ardjani that she had taken the ancient skull from the pile of bones near the Wandjina paintings that were inside the rock shelter metres from where they now were.

Go back to the source of the nightmares, her psychiatrist had told her. So she had come back, cloaking the return behind her ambition to make the film about these people and her bold business venture for the cultural annexation of the Barradja. She had realised that only Ardjani could help her. The price of his help had been unstated. She knew that she would have to set the fee . . . and she knew, without any hints from Ardjani, what that price would be.

‘Yes, oh yes. I didn’t know it was so wrong to take the skull. I thought if you never came here any more, it wouldn’t matter. But now I really understand . . . and I’m sorry. Please, tell them I’m sorry.’ In a low voice she asked, ‘Will I be punished?’

‘That sickness in you, that is your punishment. But you will get an answer soon enough. You got to feel it, be sorry in your heart. You say you come to help us Barradja. But you take away a sacred thing, you bring men here who steal our ancient art, you say you make film and pictures to save our culture but you sign up a contract to own it all. That’s not right. We want to share our gift with you, but you steal it.’ As Rowena’s head dropped onto her chest he added firmly, ‘You think about these things.’

Ardjani smothered the remnants of the fire, he stood and held up his arms to the cliff face, and called in language. Then he set off back to where he’d left the truck and Rowena scrambled after him. Neither spoke on the drive back into the silent camp, awash in the shades of piccaninny daylight.

Giles Jackson took the phone call from the police officer in Kununurra shortly after breakfast. He got along well with them. By and large, he thought, they had a good record at keeping the Aborigines in line.

‘G’day, Giles. Done any poddy dodging lately?’

‘Ha, ha,’ laughed Jackson a little awkwardly. He didn’t like jokes about cattle rustling, particularly from the law. ‘To what do I owe this early morning pleasure?’

‘Just a routine inquiry, mate. About the Barradja mob. Some of them out your way aren’t they? At Marrenyikka?’

‘Yeah. Not many though, I gather a lot are away, but there’s enough to give me a headache as usual. Trespassing on my place, and Len Steele’s, you know what they’re like. Got a bunch of whites from Sydney with them. Bloody lawyers.’

‘Yeah. I heard about that mob when they landed in town.’

‘Carrying on about everything, if you ask me. Can’t quite make out what they’re really up to. Bit of a worry. They certainly aren’t here just for the good of their health.’

‘Probably not. Anyone else with them?’

‘Yeah. A strange Yank woman has turned up from California.’

‘Christ, not another one. I heard a crazy new-age Yank sheila on the radio the other day from Darwin. Is this one getting messages from outer space as well? Is she going to write a book about her spiritual journey and flog it for squillions?’

‘Probably. And there’s her driver. A blackfella from Darwin – quite well educated. Called Hunter something-or-other. And there’s another one, a yellafella from Sydney. Worked in TV for awhile. I caught him snooping round my place the other day.’

‘Really!’

‘Yeah. Why you interested?’ asked Jackson cautiously, recalling the incident with Barwon.

‘Ah, just routine inquiries. The TV bloke’s girlfriend was murdered in Victoria. The police down there have only just found out about the connection, though apparently he had nothing to do with it. Let me know if you have any problems. Okay?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

Billy’s Oka set out for Boulder Downs. On board were Beth, Alan, the two senior legal counsels, Susan, Andrew and Shareen. Ardjani, with Barwon beside him, sat behind Billy to show the way.

Following them drove Esme and Michael de Witt, the two scientists returning to the Birrimitji archaeological site to join the rest of the team who were preparing to wrap up the dig and head back in another week to begin laboratory analysis of their samples. One team member would stay camped at the site as ‘protector’.

‘What’s Veronica doing?’ asked Andrew as they headed out of camp.

‘Learning more women’s business. She’s quite fascinated by the whole thing,’ said Susan. ‘The women have agreed to her making a radio documentary on some of their secret business. They feel by telling some of what they can do, they can help people understand it more. By the way, Rowena apparently went out with Ardjani before daylight and they were away for a long time. Jennifer reckons Ardjani was doing some special ceremony stuff concerning the bones and Rowena’s confession. She’s in a mess that one.’

‘Is someone keeping an eye on her?’

‘Hunter’s there, but he’s going fishing with Rusty and Digger. He tried to talk to her but she won’t talk to anyone.’

‘Talking about fishing,’ said Andrew, linking his hand in hers, ‘we’ll have to go on another fishing expedition.’

‘No thanks, I don’t fancy sharing a helicopter with a croc again. How is that crazy brother of yours, by the way?’

‘Julian is great. Full of big plans as usual. No, I was thinking of just the two of us, you and I could take off up north and go camping. I know some beautiful spots where we could fish for barra along the rivers. Very remote, very romantic’ He kissed her temple lightly.

‘Sounds nice. And what do I tell Mr Angel? Ask the judge to reschedule my next case, I’ve gone fishing?’

‘How important is this job of yours?’ asked Andrew carefully.

‘What are you really asking, Andrew? Do I want to stay with Angel and Hart, or move to another law firm, start a new career as adviser to the Barradja, or spend my days fishing with you?’

Andrew was flustered by her bluntness. ‘Hell, Susan, you do shoot from the hip. You don’t give a bloke a chance to kind of creep up on things. What I’m saying is, I’m really fond of you and wish I could see more of you. Couldn’t you get some sort of legal job up this way? Darwin has a lot of opportunities and would be closer. Then I could fly up and see you on weekends.’

Susan looked away from his earnest expression. ‘I don’t know about that. Let’s just leave things be for the moment. The rest of the world, my job, my family and friends, all seem so far away. As you said, I’m really in a different world here. And I want to enjoy it. This whole experience has opened me up . . . it’s hard to explain. I never realised there was so much we could learn from these people . . .’

Andrew pinched her arm. ‘Reality check. I’ll just check in every so often. Okay?’

She laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to drop out. I’m not going to become a crystalgazing new-ager. Or go native. Veronica and I were talking the other day about all these women in America who take off seeking spiritual fulfilment, trying to find their warrior women guides from a past life, who sit in tepees in Arizona or New Mexico looking for some kind of tribal enlightenment. We’re not that bad. This is so different to all of that stuff.’

‘What a load of codswallop. Why don’t they just find a good bloke . . . like me?’ he grinned.

‘Andrew, it’s no joke. Half the single women in America would leap at the chance of meeting the right bloke. I don’t know why it is, but my girlfriends in Sydney don’t seem to meet any single blokes. And then my male friends tell me they can’t meet any single girls they like. Yet nobody seems to get together.’

‘I’d better muster some of the blokes out in the scrub and ship ’em down. Now there’s a business opportunity, round up a mob of brumby blokes and auction ’em off to desperate females in the big smoke.’

They laughed and Susan was glad that the subject of their relationship had been shelved again, at least for now.

Giles Jackson stood in his shorts and workboots on the front step watching the two vehicles roll down the road to his homestead gate.

His wife appeared behind him. ‘Will we take them into the garden to talk?’

‘Oh, yeah, right. We can sit over there. By the way, don’t mention that phone call from the cops.’ Jackson led the way to a tree-shaded cluster of chairs and a card table spread with a cloth, a jug of lemonade and glasses, presuming the visitors would follow.

Beth recapped the introductions, ‘You know Esme Jordan, and Professor de Witt?’ Jackson shook hands with de Witt and tipped his hand to his hat as he looked at Esme.

‘Yeah. You find anything of interest?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. He nodded at Ardjani and Beth, and looked around the group, including them all in a tight ‘G’day.’ He gave Barwon a brief cold look and turned to Beth. ‘So who’s doing the talking?’

Beth looked at Ardjani who pointed to Alistair.

‘I appear to be appointed,’ said Alistair, with a slight smile. ‘Mr and Mrs Jackson, thank you for being so prompt in agreeing to see us. We feel there are certain things you should be made aware of.’ He paused while they sat down.

Giles Jackson put a foot up on his knee, resting his hat on his leg. He put on his sunglasses that had hung on a cord around his neck and his set mouth locked up any further expression. Norma Jackson smiled politely as she passed around glasses of cool drinks and Alistair began stating the facts of the art theft. Jackson was immediately aggressive. ‘Hey, I never knew about those particular paintings till that tour group went there. You’ll have to take that up with Len Steele. If you ask me, letting in foreigners and tourists to tramp over your place is asking for trouble. Bet one of them had something to do with it.’

‘That’s an assumption, but one we also think highly likely,’ said Alistair.

‘So what’re you doing about it? The police been told yet?’ He was genuinely outraged, observed Susan, but more likely on principle rather than on cultural grounds.

‘Yes, they have and so have the Steeles. This is cultural theft. One of the most ancient pieces of art in the world has been professionally removed.’ Beth looked at Alan. ‘Our art expert here says they knew what they were doing and were probably working for a major international collector.’

‘How much is it worth?’ Jackson suddenly asked.

‘Whatever an unscrupulous collector wants to pay,’ answered Alan.

‘You’re not comparing this with . . . like someone taking a . . .’ he searched for an example, ‘a Van Gogh or the Mona Lisa?’

‘This guyon guyon rock art is far older, which makes it more valuable in one sense. It’s worth a lot, be assured of that. And that’s why we wanted to mention it in relation to the Birrimitji site on your place,’ said Alistair.

‘What’s my place got to do with anything?’ he asked suspiciously and Barwon knew he was thinking of his mine potential.

Beth answered smoothly, ‘We have to make sure this doesn’t happen again; the sites here have to be protected because of their cultural value for Australia, as well as the Barradja.’

‘What am I supposed to do? I can’t watch over every rock on this place. It’s not my responsibility.’ He sounded irritable, talk of cultural heritage disturbed him.

‘So you’d have no objection to the sites being watched over, maintained, by their traditional custodians?’ Mick leapt in quickly.

‘I didn’t say that. I certainly wouldn’t want to see tourists brought in for someone else to make a dollar out of my land.’

Barwon couldn’t resist firing a barb. ‘Without getting into the debate over whose land it is, you don’t seem too unhappy about a mining company poking around.’

‘I’ve no control over that! And it’s none of your damn business anyway. Mining companies can dig wherever they want, as long as they’ve got the proper papers from the government.’

Alistair broke in quickly as the two men glared at each other. ‘Well, now, that mining is another problem, or at least has become one. It may have to be stopped.’

Jackson looked at the lawyer in amazement. ‘Why would I want to do that?’ he said slowly.

‘Perhaps Esme could fill you in on just what seems to be emerging at Birrimitji – that’s what the Barradja call the site Professor de Witt’s team has been working on.’

Jackson leaned forward, took off his sunglasses and gave Esme a piercing look. ‘Do tell.’

The old lady drew herself up and eyeballed him right back. ‘While you dismissed our work as poking about in the past, and while you said that no one would be interested in what a bunch of blacks had for breakfast a few centuries back – if I recall your words exactly,’ she gave a hint of a smile, knowing fully well she’d quoted him precisely, ‘many people around the world are going to be very interested in Michael’s initial findings on this property.’

‘Which are?’ His gaze hadn’t wavered. Norma Jackson, who had been pouring more drinks, stopped and listened.

‘We believe there is evidence that suggests, possibly proves, Aborigines lived here more than 150,000 years ago, possibly 170,000 years. Which naturally makes a significant impact on the writing of the history of man. It also makes this a site of huge scientific interest.’

‘I don’t want mobs of academic wankers trooping in here,’ blustered Jackson. His mind, however, was trying to compute the numbers being thrown around and settle on whether this could somehow benefit Boulder Downs. At the moment he only foresaw trouble. Unconsciously he clenched his fists.

‘I doubt you’ll be able to stop them if the heritage laws are enforced,’ said Mick. ‘This is potentially a place of massive importance to international scientists.’

‘Bloody hell! I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to you lot digging around.’ Jackson’s anger flared and he turned on his wife. ‘I told you I didn’t want them in here!’

‘Giles, listen to them, please. Maybe this will make the place more valuable . . .’

‘Crap. We’re not going to get a cent out of some pile of rocks and old stone tools or whatever. Scientists don’t have money. If there’s any wealth here, it’s in the ground all right, in diamonds!’

It was the first time he’d made an outright admission that he saw the future of Boulder Downs being linked to mining. Ardjani made a subtle signal to Alistair.

‘The mining situation could be threatened as the Birrimitji site is rather close to where the mining exploration is located. The conflict is obvious,’ said Alistair.

‘Not to me. There’s no conflict at all. They have a lease to explore and I have an agreement with them should they find anything.’

A ripple of reaction ran around the group. ‘You might not have any say in what happens if the findings at Birrimitji are substantiated,’ said Mick.

Susan had seen the avaricious glint in Jackson’s eye earlier. ‘There’s probably more wealth in the site as a cultural icon than in the mining anyway. We all know how chancy mining exploration can be.’

‘I’ll stick to diamonds, thanks.’

‘Well, we felt it correct to tell you the news about Birrimitji before you heard it on the radio or television news,’ said Beth evenly. ‘There will also be a police investigation into the art theft.’

Ardjani unnecessarily tapped the crown of his hat but the movement got Jackson’s attention. The Aboriginal elder stood up and addressed the red-faced pastoralist. He spoke with quiet authority. ‘Our culture is in this land, from creation time. It is in the hills, the rivers, the trees, the rocks. It is in the earth and in the animals and plants. It is watched over by the spirits of our ancestors who are in the paintings up there where our bones rest in sacred places. This land has always been our land, will always be our land, and must never be disturbed. Those who dig it up, or take it away, will be punished by the spirits who watch over our land. Those people will die.’

The words were simply put but, given the emotionally charged atmosphere, they had an impact on Jackson like a punch in the guts. He jumped to his feet and waved a fist at Ardjani. ‘Don’t threaten me, you old bastard. Don’t kid yourself you’re going to frighten me off my land with your bloody stupid bones and sacred sites crap.’ He turned to take in the whole group. ‘Jesus, just what do you people think you’re up to? For Chrissake, pack your bloody bags and get back down south where you can carry on all you like. Up here, the reality is that this land belongs to us. We lease it, we work it, we own it. End of story. Goodbye.’

He turned and strode off towards the house.

‘You’re going off half cocked, Jackson,’ shouted Barwon angrily to his back.

‘Leave it, Barwon,’ warned Mick.

Norma Jackson was embarrassed. She took a couple of steps after her husband, then returned to the group. ‘I’m sorry. Giles is under a lot of strain. You know things haven’t been going too well financially, and all this land claim stuff, extinguishment, sacred sites and so on, hasn’t made it any easier for him.’

‘It must be a hard life for you, too,’ said Susan sympathetically, and joined her to put glasses and the jug on the tray as the others moved towards the van. She knew instinctively that Norma would have been dominated all her married life by her husband, but now, maybe for the first time, she felt this woman was getting the courage to disagree with him.

‘Don’t blame him, that’s just how he is. We’ve had to put up with a lot. Getting this place was his dream and it’s been nothing but a nightmare at times. The thought we could lose this place either financially or worse still, to the natives, keeps him awake at night.’ She was torn between loyalty to her husband, and embarrassment at his rudeness and anger, and she could sense what he was not prepared to see, that there could be another path open to them. ‘I’d like to hear more about what this ancient site really means. Perhaps later, when you know more.’

‘Of course,’ said Susan. ‘We’ll get Esme to keep you up to date. There will be a lot of people wanting to come here now, so perhaps if you could talk to your husband, explain . . .’

‘NORMA . . .’ Jackson shouted to his wife and she hastily rose.

‘Good luck,’ she said as she hurried back to the house.

‘Poor woman, fancy being married to that redneck,’ said Veronica.

‘Just because he doesn’t want to lose his property, and doesn’t fully appreciate all this cultural stuff, doesn’t make him a redneck,’ said Shareen.

‘You going after his vote, eh?’ said Barwon, and Susan put a restraining hand on his arm.

Shareen looked at the modest, slightly rundown homestead as she settled back in the van. It was a battler’s homestead, no doubt about it. But a birthplace of hopes, just like so many other properties had been over the decades. Some succeeded, some failed, but they all made a contribution to what she saw as the greatness of Australia, its character as well as its wealth. There were qualities of the old pioneers about Giles Jackson and others like him. They had to be tough. Something these city trendies wouldn’t recognise. One thing that was worrying her, though, was something that she had never really been conscious of before. The sincerity of Ardjani and the other elders could not be denied. She still didn’t agree with everything he was saying. The fact that he was there at all, continuing to fight for his people, and custodian of so much, that he had survived with all this intact right into the 1990s, was nagging at her previous convictions.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ shouted Giles Jackson when his wife came in carrying a tray of glasses.

‘Whatever are you talking about?’

‘Staying behind making small talk with that bloody lot. The glasses could have waited. You’re on my side, remember. My side.’

Norma put the tray down on the sink and began to rinse the glasses.

‘They’re threatening our future. You know that, don’t you? Bastards. Fuck sacred sites and extinguishment forever,’ he shouted and stomped up and down the kitchen.

‘Maybe they have a point, Giles, about the value of the sites, the World Heritage values and so on. Look at Kakadu, Uluru . . . they’re billion-dollar tourist places now. God, Giles, we seem to have a cultural museum in our backyard.’

Jackson stamped over to the sink, grabbed his wife by the shoulders and spun her around. ‘Listen, and don’t miss a word. Don’t side with the blacks . . . on anything, right? Give them nothing, right? This is not their land. It’s ours, right? What’s on it is ours, right? The banks don’t lend money with sacred sites as security. It’s the lease and our ownership that matters. We’ve all got to stick together on this.’ He shook her vigorously. ‘Stick together, right? Now I’ve got to make a phone call.’

The archaeological camp was little more than half a dozen tents and a big blue tarpaulin shelter over a cooking area with a scatter of chairs and a table on trestles.

Under a bough shelter covered by another tarpaulin were two tables piled with clipboards, artefacts, rocks, small boxes and plastic bags filled with samples – soil, ochre, ashes. The three researchers, two men and a woman, left their work to greet the new arrivals. While lunch was being organised, Michael de Witt laid out a selection of small stones, quartz and sandstone fragments – the biggest the size of a teaspoon – bits of charcoal and ochre, a sharpened bone. ‘These are samples that show evidence of human manufacture and are taken from various depths at the excavation site, which are linked to corresponding dates at different levels. This one,’ he pointed to a small stone, ‘is a fragment of engraved sandstone which was found at a level that thermoluninescence dates at 118,000 years. And a stone tool and red ochre has been dated from 58,000 to 75,000 years.’

Susan peered closely at the array of very ordinary looking flakes and pebbles on the table. ‘That sounds incredible. Are you sure? How can you prove this?’

Esme chuckled. ‘That’s the 64,000 dollar question, Susan dear. Until we get back into the laboratory and more tests are done, we can’t make conclusive claims. But the indications are very encouraging.’

‘How is the scientific community going to react?’ asked Mick.

Professor de Witt shrugged. ‘Some with enthusiasm, some with doubt, others will be jealous and some will try to discredit us. There’ll be blood on the lab floor before the day is done. Though actually we could be talking a year or more. Even longer if one wants to get into disproving the evolutionary out-of-Africa theory. How could Homo sapiens be in Australia 175,000 years ago, if they weren’t supposed to have left Africa until 100,000 years ago?’

‘I’ve always leaned towards the theory human evolution happened everywhere, in various regions, as part of a whole,’ said Alistair.

The group stared in silence at the tiny remnants that possibly held the key to this mind-boggling assumption.

Susan noticed that Ardjani had taken little interest in the proceedings. ‘What do you think, Ardjani?’

The scientists, academics and visitors waited as he slowly tilted his hat to the back of his head, scratched a forelock and gave a slow broad smile. ‘This not news to me. Like I keep saying, we been here since creation time.’

The group trailed from the campsite through flat scrubland dotted with spinifex. In the distance, the ridges of an ancient coral reef jutted into the ocean blue sky, the limestone faces etched by centuries of weather. ‘How old are those hills?’ asked Susan pointing to the skyline.

‘Three, four hundred million years,’ said de Witt. ‘Pushed up from the sea floor by some great force. Makes one feel pretty insignificant, eh? That’s one thing about my job, time tends to have a different meaning.’

‘What he means is, he’s always late!’ teased Esme.

‘There it is.’ De Witt pointed to a massive boulder, the size of a large round house, dropped onto open country, smaller rocks around it, the spidery shadow of a spindly tree tracing lines on its rusty orange face. Ropes on steel posts sectioned off areas of the excavation site, while to one side the overhanging rock formed a small shelter over sandy soil. It looked very ordinary, and Mick spoke for the group when he commented, ‘Well, I would’ve walked right past this. Doesn’t look like an archaeological milestone.’

‘Come closer, dear friends.’ Esme hitched up her skirt and took them to the overhang and pointed at its surface. ‘There, see the circles gouged and dimpled into the rock. Cupules. There may be older art in India but it hasn’t been securely dated and is not as widespread. That’s what first alerted us. They’re symbolic of something.’

‘What do you think they mean, Ardjani?’ asked Susan.

‘Maybe animal, food and water maps, messages, ceremonies. Some old people tell me in ceremony you bang rock on the rock to make dust. The rock dust is part of the energy of the ancestor totem inside the rock. That way you increase the power of the food source, like fertilisation.’ He ran his hand over the cupules. ‘They’re here for a special reason. Not an accident.’

Susan held up two fingers to a cupule, the size of a golf ball, closed her eyes and tried to imagine the human being who had patiently gouged it or banged stone on stone so long ago. ‘Andrew, just think about it. The whole concept, it’s fantastic’

Andrew studied the cupules. He’d poked around the sacred sites on Yandoo ever since he was a kid, but the feelings he got from this site were new and different, and impossible to deny.

‘Who’d have guessed something as insignificant looking could be so important? I’m wondering what we have on Yandoo. No one’s ever bothered to check it out.’

‘Although it’s not as spectacular as the rock art paintings, a site like this would be a definite tourist attraction because of its significance,’ said Mick.

‘So how far away is the mine?’ asked Alistair.

‘Just a few kilometres away,’ said Esme. ‘Needless to say, if the exploration turns up a jackpot, they’ll be wanting to mine on a large scale, probably open cut. The threat to the site is obvious.’

‘Maybe you should publicise your hypothesis now, put them on the back foot,’ suggested Mick.

‘It could make the mine people work faster, stake out more territory closer to here if they’re alert to what’s going on,’ said Esme.

‘You can bet Giles Jackson has already been on the blower to the mining company,’ said Beth.

‘I think telling the media of the possible implications of this site would be valuable. It’s another warning flag for those who want to totally extinguish native title claims and rights,’ said Alistair.

‘We’ve made a video as we’ve gone along, as well as photographing and cataloguing each step and find,’ said de Witt enthusiastically.

Alan made a couple of points that he felt were of major importance. ‘This is on traditional Barradja land, whatever Giles Jackson thinks his lease says. And where does this sit with Rowena and her copyright contract on Barradja culture?’

‘Absolute nonsense!’ declared Esme dismissively. ‘That woman doesn’t have all her paddles in the water, if you ask me. Definitely off course.’

Alistair enjoyed Esme’s turn of phrase but urged caution. ‘It’s not quite so simple. The piece of paper still exists, signed by Ardjani and the elders.’ He turned to Ardjani.

Ardjani was calm. ‘No worries. I already speak with her.’

His enigmatic reply raised a few questioning eyebrows.

‘My goodness, if there’s a potential legal threat here it better be sorted out quickly.’ Esme looked annoyed. ‘There’s a lot at stake – museum and government funding, academic prestige, national rights. We don’t want foreigners making claims on this find. Absolutely absurd.’

Becoming an active player in politics was certainly a steep learning curve, thought Shareen, as she quietly listened to the enthusiastic exchanges and pondered on the significance of the so-called historic find. Not exactly the sort of thing she ever imagined could be part of the political game. Shareen picked up a handful of sieved dirt and ash beside the dig, letting it filter slowly through her fingers. She tried to translate it into votes, but the issues were too complex, too fresh for that sort of assessment. What would Pauline Hanson have made of this, she wondered.

‘This could be a hot potato, politically,’ she interjected. ‘Seems to me that, whichever way you look at it, someone is going to be asking Canberra for a big handout, and it will be seen as more money going into the never-never land of Aboriginal funding. A lot of voters are fed up with that sort of thing.’

‘Oh, for Chrissake, Shareen, stop talking like a politician,’ exclaimed Esme, angry and frustrated. ‘What we have here is a world event that changes the perception of history. You’re talking about destroying the equivalent of the Dead Sea scrolls, the original stone tablets of Moses. This could be the key to the evolution of man.’

‘Maybe some people don’t accept all this. What about all the people who believe that God created the world?’ asked Shareen.

Ardjani was unfazed. ‘Every culture has creation story that is similar. Our land, our laws are Barradja bible, we believe in laws of nature, of ceremony, of creation Dreaming time. We know who we are and how we have to lead our lives. That is how we survive the same way since creation. We know this inside us. Our children learn this every day by listening, watching and by ceremony – singing, dancing, painting.’ He leaned towards Shareen. ‘How your boys living? Where they going in their lives?’

Shareen kept quiet. She privately despaired about her two sons, one was rebellious and ran dangerously close to the law. The other was a procrastinator, he was lazy and looked for the easy way out rather than make any effort himself.

‘They good boys? You proud of them?’ persisted Ardjani.

‘They have their problems, like all kids,’ she muttered.

‘Where their daddy? Where their uncles?’

‘I’m divorced.’

‘All boys need men. They need wise men to guide them.’

‘Well I don’t have any man around to do that.’ Shareen’s voice was terse but beneath it Ardjani heard the wavering note of a mother’s confusion and loneliness at the distance between her and her sons.

‘You want your boys come here? Learn with us?’

Shareen was shocked by the suggestion. She tried to imagine her older son – the rap music fan, king of the video games, fashion stud – and the younger son – pernickety about what he ate, a late-rising couch potato, and always feeling unwell when hard work called – camped with the Barradja. ‘I don’t think they’d fit in up here.’

A slight smile curved at Ardjani’s full lips. ‘Did you ever think you’d be up here, getting sugarbag, digging yams, doing women’s business, eh? And feeling all right? You feel all right here, with us Barradja?’

The question had a deeper meaning and she knew it. Initially she’d come as a face-saving exercise, to silence her critics and give her arguments about Aborigines more authority, by saying she had lived amongst them. Now it seemed impossible to lie to Ardjani. His look was always so penetrating – reaching right into her mind. She gazed back at him, and met those eyes that glowed in dark hollows, giving a softness to the lingering smile.

‘Yes, I feel . . . all right. I’m surprised.’ She’d make no further admission, but she didn’t need to.

Satisfied, Ardjani went and peered down the roped-off shaft.

Susan saw Barwon now sitting apart from everyone and she sat beside him. ‘You okay? I know it must be hard.’

‘It’s not just . . . the baby . . . Lisa . . . it’s everything. I just feel I’ve totally fucked up my life. And I don’t need people like Jackson reminding me.’

‘Barwon, a lot of people care for you. Beth’s been onto the Child Care Agency to tell them we’ve found the baby’s father, and Ardjani’s doing his best to trace your mother’s people . . . we’ll help you all we can.’

‘Thanks, Susan. But I have to sort out my life myself, too.’

She caught Andrew’s eye and he sauntered over to join them. ‘How’s it going, mate?’

Barwon shrugged. ‘So so.’

‘Susan, I’d like to have a quick look around that mine. Suss out a few things. Esme said I could borrow the truck. Barwon, could you find it from here? Would you take us?’

‘Sure, I won’t be that welcome but I can hang back out of the way. Why not?’ He gave another listless shrug.

‘I’ll tell Beth we’ll be back in time to leave.’ Susan rested her hand on Andrew’s shoulder, glad of his support.

Barwon drove to the mining exploration site, deep in thought. He was still smarting about Jackson’s comments, his resistance to the Barradja and his one-eyed attitude to their culture. The man irritated him. Giles Jackson was not unlike the blustering, bullying Brother he’d first encountered at the mission when he’d been taken from his mother’s home.

Beside him, Susan and Andrew were discussing the implications of the Birrimitji findings. ‘There must be some kind of law relating to sites of significant cultural heritage so the scientists can slap a protection order on it,’ said Andrew. ‘That would stop the mining close to it.’

‘Jackson won’t like that,’ said Barwon, coming out of his reverie.

Andrew looked at him, thinking how the very name Giles Jackson provoked Barwon. ‘It’s a tough one, all right. I can sympathise. He can see his cattle business going down the tube, then comes a chance to get a stake in what might be a profitable mining venture on the place. Then some little holes in a bloody rock blow the whole thing apart!’

‘Andrew!’ exclaimed Susan. ‘That’s a crude way of putting it.’

‘It’s how Giles Jackson would see it.’

‘And what about people like your father? What would he do?’

Andrew skirted the issue. ‘He’d stick to his cattle. He’s a real cattleman, not an amateur like Giles Jackson.’

‘Well for what it’s worth, you know what I think?’ Barwon concentrated on weaving the vehicle through the grassy, stone-strewn country before answering his own question. ‘I think Mick’s idea to buy Boulder Downs lock, stock and barrel is the way to go. Forget all the legal Native Title claims, waiting for government departments to approve things. Piss Giles Jackson off. All he wants is money and a way to save face.’

‘Bush University is a revolutionary idea,’ agreed Susan. ‘I bet Alistair and Mick can find a way to raise the capital.’

‘There’s the matter of persuading the Jacksons to sell at a fair price,’ said Andrew. ‘I wouldn’t leave my land. But they’re newcomers. Maybe Alan can get some museum or art gallery involved because of the Birrimitji site.’

‘We’ll have to get Alan to look into that. Mick had a great idea I must say.’

‘Better than coming north with me?’ said Andrew.

‘That’s still negotiable.’ Susan nudged him affectionately. Barwon felt a pang at the obvious affection between them.

‘Hey, is that it?’ Susan shaded her eyes in the glare of the sun and took in the cluster of tents and vehicles. Kev Perkins flagged them down. Barwon stopped and they got out.

Kev did an angry double take as he saw Barwon. ‘Christ! What are you doing here? Didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to turn up again after the thrashing you got.’ He shifted his attention to Susan and Andrew.

‘He knows Jackson,’ said Barwon curtly. ‘He’s another cattleman, I’m just his chauffeur.’ He climbed back into the driver’s seat of the truck as the others introduced themselves.

‘I’m Kev Perkins.’ He looked at Andrew, his voice more welcoming.

‘Andrew Frazer, from Yandoo. And this is Susan.’ Andrew stuck out his hand. The miner shook hands briefly and nodded at Susan. ‘Nice to meet you, Missus Frazer.’

‘Er, hello.’ Susan decided against correcting him.

‘How come you’re out here?’

Andrew reacted quickly to Kev’s question. ‘Been visiting the Jacksons this morning. I have an exploration outfit due on my place in a month or so, just wanted to see what’s involved. You drilling much?’ asked Andrew smoothly.

‘Yeah. Put down a bloody lot of holes so far.’

‘Can’t stay long as it’s getting late, but could I have a look around. How deep do you go? They’re planning on working pretty close to some of my ground-water sources. I’d like to get a look at the kind of layout involved.’ Andrew started walking up the track towards the campsite.

The three of them moved away from Barwon, Andrew skilfully manoeuvring his way towards the camp where the miners were enjoying a few beers before dinner.

The mining men, initially suspicious, warmed to the easy-going pastoralist and his ‘missus’. They were happy to explain how an exploration site was set up and curious to know who was staking a claim on his property. In the secretive world of prospecting all information had a value. They peppered Andrew with questions as they headed along the kilometre walk to the current drilling location.

Barwon sat back in the truck, the door open, his head resting against the seat, his eyes closed. The far-off sound of a power generator and vehicles faded from his consciousness. Images of Lisa came to him, her laughter and gaiety, her love of art, the way she’d made him watch as she screened the little owl design onto the cloth. It had been a brief fling before he’d set off back to Sydney. He hadn’t loved her deeply, but he’d made a baby with her and the sadness and regrets were burned into his heart forever. He thought again, as he had so many times, of the TV news grabs of the police carrying the covered remains of a body out of the State park. And he tried to imagine his baby, what did she look like, would she want someone like him for a father? The mere thought of a child that was his responsibility stabbed at him. How could he deal with this? How could he support her? How could he raise her when he didn’t even know who he was? The deep-seated pain he’d run from all his life was now a constant that ached to the marrow of his bones. He cursed the authorities, the protection board, the Church that’d marched him away from his family, and the Brothers who’d abused him, physically and emotionally. Maddening snatches of childhood memories came to him, but with not enough clues to lead him where he needed to be. The frustration of his powerlessness bit into him.

‘Wake up, dreamboat.’ Something sharp prodded Barwon’s ribs and he jerked back to reality. A horrible reality that centred on Giles Jackson stepping back from the vehicle, holding the rifle he’d just jabbed into Barwon. The farmer’s face was flushed, his eyes red-rimmed slits, his mouth a tight thin line. ‘Get down from there, you bastard. I told you never to come near here again. Figured you’d learned a lesson. But being such a thick-headed black bastard, you can’t take a hint.’

Barwon climbed out of the truck and slouched against the mudguard. ‘I’m waiting for Andrew Frazer, go and whinge at him. He’s with the miners somewhere. I just drove him out here. Anyway, you don’t own this mine, Jackson, it’s a lease and you don’t control access. So piss off.’

Jackson almost had apoplexy. ‘Don’t give me cheek, you black shit,’ he exploded. ‘Who do you bloody well think you are? I’m sick of the lot of you with your bloody claims and handouts and stirring and bringing in bloody do-gooders who cause trouble. Fuck the lot of you.’ He waved the rifle as he came close to hysteria.

‘Just who the hell do you think you are, messing up my life!’ Suddenly the languid pose of Barwon, the handsome half-caste Aborigine thinking himself as good as a white man, blew Jackson’s rage to exploding point. These blacks were the cause of all his problems – financial, his uncertain future, his relationship with his wife. How dare she suggest he cooperate with these black morons. ‘You should all go back to the trees!’ he yelled. ‘Just get the fuck off my place. I’d bloody well put a bullet up your arse if it wasn’t wasting a decent shot.’ As he was screaming invective, he unlatched the safety catch. ‘Go on, get away from that fancy vehicle and walk. Go walkabout, you, piss off, get off my land.’

Barwon tensed. ‘Listen, you redneck bastard, it’s not going to be your land much longer. You’re never going to make a go of it out here. This country doesn’t want your kind. The problem with you is, you just don’t get the message, do you?’

‘It doesn’t belong to you, that’s for sure. You might think you’re as good as white people but you’ll never be as good as us, mate. You’re a blackfella.’ Jackson raised the rifle pointing it at Barwon’s waist. ‘Go on, you son of a bitch, get back to the desert, before I drive you there myself. Get back where you belong.’

Barwon barely saw the rifle. Jackson’s words had summed up exactly what Barwon wished he could do – go back where he belonged. And they blew a fuse. It was as if a short circuit had closed down part of his reasoning processes – and his emotions ran out of any control he had left. This red-faced oaf of a man was suddenly every white man who’d jeered at him, challenged him, discriminated against him and failed him. In what seemed like slow motion, Barwon tried to grab the rifle from the other man’s hands. Jackson was enveloped in fury as the two men fell to the ground still clutching the rifle. How dare this black bastard . . . It was his last thought. The bullet blew through the top of his head. Barwon watched him, sprawled in the dirt, seeming to shrink, shiny red blood spurting into the dry red earth.

Susan’s scream dragged his eyes from the enemy on the ground and he smiled. Now he could start afresh. All his problems had disappeared with Jackson’s last breath. He was still smiling as Andrew rushed at him, grabbing the rifle.

Susan knelt beside Jackson. ‘Oh my God, I can’t tell if he’s breathing. I can’t find a pulse, what do I do, Andrew. Quick.’

‘Here, hold this.’ He shoved the rifle at her and crouched down. Jackson’s eyes were unfocused, the expression on his face one of astonishment.

‘He’s dead. Christ, Barwon, what happened . . .?’

The miners were running down the track, shouting, two of them waving guns. Susan went to Barwon and took his arm, feeling the quivering shakes still running through his body.

‘Be careful, Barwon. Don’t say or do anything. Just try to stay calm.’

There was mad confusion for a few minutes as Kev Perkins tried to help Jackson. With the realisation he was past help, frightened shouts and accusations were hurled at Barwon till Andrew stepped in, speaking with a cool firm voice. ‘Someone has to call the police, the Flying Doctor. Did anyone see what happened?’

‘We heard a shot,’ said one of the men. ‘What did you do that for, you stupid boong?’

‘Barwon, don’t say anything. Wait.’ Susan turned to the three mining men, ‘I’m a lawyer. I’ll deal with this.’

‘Jesus, what a mess. You’re in deep shit, mate.’ Kev Perkins looked at Barwon. ‘Who’s going to tell his missus? Someone better watch that bastard. Never figured that blue they had would come to this.’

‘Jackson went for me first,’ said Barwon quietly.

‘Barwon, don’t say any more,’ snapped Susan. ‘Andrew, we’d better go to the homestead. Mr Perkins, nobody is to talk to Barwon about this. If they do, then I’ll see them in court . . . Is that clear?’

‘Okay, let’s call the police right now.’ Perkins moved away, leaving Barwon with the miners.

Andrew touched Susan’s arm. ‘I’ll tell Norma when we get there. And we’ll have to contact the others on the radio phone in the Oka and tell them what’s happened.’ He gave her arm a small squeeze and helped her into the truck, trying to frame the words he had to tell Norma Jackson.

Kev Perkins grabbed Barwon’s arm and yanked him to his feet, the miner nearly stumbling as there was not the expected resistance from Barwon who stood subdued, his shoulders slumped, his eyes vacant. The drill operator took Barwon’s other arm and started issuing instructions.

‘The gear shed, we’ll lock him in there. Clear it out. The cops will be here at first light, they said.’

Perkins, empowered by his talk to the police, took control. ‘The cops have told me to apprehend him and keep him out of trouble.’

‘He doesn’t look like he’s going to cause any trouble,’ said one of the miners.

‘Yeah, what’s that then?’ One of the other men jerked his head towards the body of Giles Jackson, now covered by a blanket. ‘Can’t trust these yellafellas.’

‘Listen, mate, we’ll sort things out in the morning. You’re probably safer under lock and key till the authorities get here in the morning,’ said Perkins to Barwon, as two of the miners began heaving equipment out of a galvanised iron shed.

Perkins handed him a water bottle and a rolled-up ground sheet and nudged Barwon towards the shed, now almost empty of gear. Barwon moved into the dark little hut, still stifling hot from the heat of the day. He turned and gave an ambivalent shrug before the door was slammed shut, the bolt jammed in place and a padlock clicked.

‘What are we doing about . . . him?’ asked one of the miners pointing at the body.

‘Cops said not to touch anything. But we’ll have to camp here tonight to make sure that stupid bastard doesn’t get out.’

Twilight became night light in a tide that washed away shadows, swallowed sky and clouds. Stars that had glowed timidly were now, in the blackness of the Kimberley night sky, growing bolder, glittering hard and shiny close. Shooting stars and satellites made trajectories across the jewelled blanket.

Perkins and the three miners sat in their camp, angrily discussing the day’s events, bottles of rum and beer circulating in an increasingly sloppy manner. Glasses sloshed to the top, voices slurred, resentment and righteousness part of the brew.

At Marrenyikka, the circle round the campfire was tight-knit, the conversation subdued. No stargazing this evening. They’d travelled back without Andrew and Susan, horrified at Susan’s call from the Jackson homestead, where she and Andrew had decided they needed to stay the night with Norma.

Now the group had problems of their own. Rowena was lost. Refusing to talk to Lilian or Jennifer when they returned from food gathering earlier in the day, she’d disappeared.

It was dark when the group from Birrimitji on Boulder Downs had returned. They found Rusty and Digger walking into camp. They had tracked Rowena’s footprints until the last rays of light made any more searching impossible.

‘Did she say anything, Veronica? What sort of a mood was she in?’ asked Beth.

‘I never saw her. She was in her room. We went out for lily roots and stayed at the wunggud water . . .’ She looked over at the two Aboriginal women.

Jennifer shook her head. ‘She wouldn’t come with us.’

Ardjani threw a couple of sticks into the fire. ‘I took her to the Wandjina spirit place this morning. She might have tried to find her way back there.’

‘Surely she knows by now not to go to a spirit place without a custodian, Ardjani. Do you think she might be there?’

‘No, Beth. She couldn’t find that place again, too far, on foot anyway. We’ll find her tracks when first light come.’ He looked at Rusty and Digger on the other side of the fire and they nodded confidently.

‘No worries,’ added Rusty.

The sliver of moon was well on its way across the midnight sky when the miners finished the last cans of beer. One of the men, drunk and angry, began hurling them at the tin shed in which Barwon had been locked. ‘Take that, you boong bastard. None of your white mates can get you out of this one. You’re done for, you great big bloody dickhead.’

He was joined by the other two; whooping and shouting obscenities, they bombarded the shed with cans and bottles. ‘Poor bloody Jackson. He was a hot-headed bloke but that’s no reason to shoot the bugger.’

‘See, once they got black blood in ’em, they go violent. Can’t trust any of them.’

‘Pleasant dreams, you fuckwit,’ yelled the man next to him, hurling another beer can at the shed.

‘I know what’ll wake up the bastard real good.’ One of the men went over to Perkins’ truck and returned with a rifle. The others chuckled as he cocked it and then fired a shot through the roof, the blast ripping the tin, the sound reverberating in the still night and echoing off the nearby ridges.

‘Jees, mate,’ exclaimed Perkins. ‘You’d better go easy. You’ll be on the cop plane tomorrow too if you shoot him.’ He took the man by the arm. ‘Let’s crash, mate. Big day comin’ up.’

They staggered to their beds. Perkins, stepping into the shadows to relieve himself, cursed as he tripped over Jackson’s body.

During the barrage of abuse and hurled missiles, Barwon sat with his head on his knees, arms folded over his head to cover his ears and try to block out the noise, the hatred in the voices. How had he come to this?

Pangs of hunger were ignored as the pain in his head swelled. A pain caused by the pressure of a million anguished thoughts.

One by one he saw the procession of faces that had dictated his life, his mother with her gentle eyes, the Brothers at the mission, Shirley with her warmth, her good times and her voluptuous body. And there was Lisa with her trusting eyes and child-like ways. The pregnancy had frightened him. Who was he to look after a child? He’d told her of being taken from his mother after his father died in a mine accident, of his need to go back to the Kimberley and find his roots. She’d tried to understand but he’d seen the tears in her eyes.

Once he’d left, it had become easier to push thoughts of her to one side. The phone calls had become fewer, briefer, cooler. He knew he was hurting her. He’d promised, when the baby was due, he’d come back. But he hadn’t even rung to find out if it was a boy or a girl. Then he’d seen the stories on the news and his world had collapsed.

He should have talked to someone earlier. Ardjani’s words – ‘each man has responsibility for his seed’ – came back to him. He must also take responsibility for the death of the mother of his child and now the death of a man.

Susan had said something about self-defence, but he knew no matter what had caused the spill-over of his pent-up pain, he would pay for killing another human being. A man with a family. He began to sob.

In the landscape of mind and memory, whose geography is mapped by the heart, by whispers and fragments of vision, there sometimes arrives a knowing visitor. The visitor carries knowledge that bathes the shadowy land in bright light. There are no longer dim corners, unseen horizons, dangerous peaks or feared valleys. It is a knowing that gives clarity and peace, that gives answers, that reveals the paths that lead to tranquil waters. The Wandjina cannot pass through walls and bars into small dark places, but the music of the Songmaster can travel here.

And so, in the confines of the small dark box where Barwon now lay curled on the floor, he listened to the knowledge the Songmaster brought, and was comforted.

In the still, dark early hours of the morning Susan awoke in the spare bedroom at the Jacksons’ homestead where she and Andrew had stayed to comfort Norma. She sat up, shivering. Andrew sleepily reached for her. ‘What’s up?’

‘I don’t know. I thought I heard something.’

‘Do you think Norma is up? Christ, she drank enough whisky to knock out a prize fighter.’

‘No . . . I can’t explain it. I know it sounds weird, I thought it was a deep, agonised cry, maybe a bird’s cry . . . such a sad crying sound. Not quite a wail . . . Oh, Andrew, I feel so sad . . . about Barwon and poor Norma, she has no idea what she’s going to do.’

‘She said she doesn’t want to leave Boulder Downs. But she Could hardly run it alone. It’s not a going concern anyway. She has children down south. Maybe she’ll go there.’

‘The way she was talking last night, though, they had such hopes the mine would come good, get them out of trouble financially. She said she could see the value in the Aboriginal culture, too, even if poor Giles couldn’t. She really seemed to want to stay out here, that she liked the Kimberley . . .’

‘Listen, women like that who aren’t born to this life, never really adjust.’

‘I don’t agree. I can’t see her being happy back in some dreary suburb after this. And does that mean I could never live out here?’

‘God, no. I didn’t mean that.’ Andrew hugged her. ‘You’re strong, you can look after yourself, maddening though you can be at times. But Norma needs someone to tell her what to do.’

‘A lot of women are like that because they’ve never had a chance to try on their own.’

‘Many don’t want to do so, my love. Maybe you should try letting someone look after you a bit.’

Susan ignored the remark and gently pushed his mouth away from hers. ‘Andrew, I’ve just thought of what Mick said. About Boulder Downs and Bush University . . . about buying the place. Maybe that’s the way to go, buy this place. Maybe Norma could stay on, run the homestead as accommodation and . . .’

‘Susan, it’s too early to front Norma.’

‘Oh, Andrew, you’re right,’ she sighed, ‘but maybe some good will come out of this whole nightmare.’

She rolled into his arms and he stroked her hair, holding her tight as arrows of pale morning light cracked the dark sky.

At first light, the Police Air Support Services’ Cessna 310 took off from Derby with the chief pilot, Detective Sergeant Tony Spinoza, General Duties Constable Alec Buchan and Aboriginal Police Liaison officer Paul Wangerri, whose role it was to represent the rights of Aboriginal offenders.

‘You got all the forensic gear, Sarge?’ asked Paul Wangerri. ‘You going to video the interview with the suspect up there?’

‘Nah, has to be done back at the station. I’ve got camera gear to record everything at the scene, though. Wonder what happened?’

‘Probably drunk, an argument, someone grabbed a gun. Happened before this. At least there’s no other Aborigines involved so there’s no payback problem this time.’

Spinoza nodded. Payback, between Aborigines, where justice and punishment were administered by tribal law men and generally by spearing in the leg, was acknowledged by white law and, in some cases, condoned.

‘There’s a case recently they reckon was payback, but no one’s talking,’ said Paul Wangerri. ‘Young Aboriginal girl was promised to an old full-blood fella. The elders reckoned there was too much intermarrying, the colour was dying out. But she had a young boyfriend and didn’t want to stay with the old man. So the two young ones ran away. The law men went after them and the story is that the payback was a bit hard and the two of them were killed by mistake. They just disappeared. Missing persons file.’

‘It’s scary when the law men come through,’ agreed Spinoza. ‘I saw them go through Halls Creek once. The young fellows who knew they were in for a punishment took off or tried to get themselves locked up. The old men got them though. They were painted up in full gear, feathers and grass, carrying spears. They just travel around to do payback law. The women and kids hide days before, going round wringing their hands, “de lor men comin’!”’

‘One way of dealing with crime, I guess,’ said Buchan. The men fell silent as they watched colour warm the sky and bring the land to life.

Down below, somewhere amid the rocks, in patches of palms, spinifex and waterlily lagoons, four men walked slowly abreast, heads down, following the meandering tracks of a woman. They only occasionally exchanged a comment, pointing at the tell-tale signs of Rowena’s path. Hunter, inexperienced in tracking, watched carefully and appreciated it when Ardjani pointed out the more obvious marks of her journey.

‘She not far away,’ said Rusty.

Digger pointed to the north-west. ‘Reckon she in the rocks. Over there.’

They scrambled for awhile between the rocky outcrops, her tracks hard to pick up, but Ardjani soon confirmed from almost invisible markings on rocks that they were on the right track. ‘She’s climbed up there.’

The three Barradja men exchanged knowing looks and felt the same sensation – a deep concern, that spirits had passed this way.

In moments they found her. She was wedged face down between rocks at the base of a high outcrop, an arm and a leg jutting like awkward stick-insect limbs. Ardjani bent down knowing what he’d find.

The men spoke in language. ‘She’s been dead since yesterday, abouts.’

‘Fall off that rock?’

‘Yeah.’

Hunter, deeply shocked, broke in. ‘What are you saying? How come she fell down?’

Rusty pointed to the redness on her leg and the two small punctures. ‘Snake bite.’

They turned her over and Hunter knelt beside the American who’d hired him, a prickly, highly strung, unpredictable boss. But behind her brash and forceful personality, they’d all seen a confused, unhappy, sick woman. While she had brought him out here as the hired hand, he felt that he’d failed her, that somehow this death could have been avoided had he been more assertive in looking after her.

Gazing at her face, he suddenly thought she looked at peace for the first time since he’d met her, as if she belonged here among red rocks and vivid sky.

They moved her to flat ground and cut bark from a tree to use as a stretcher and began the slow walk back to camp.

During her time in Australia, the sun had tanned Rowena’s skin so that she looked sucked dry, her juices gone, leaving it rice-paper thin. The intense energy that had driven Rowena had now been replaced by a calm, contemplative stillness.

Her death would be accepted as an accident. But Ardjani knew that retribution had come, not from one of the many dangerous snakes of the area, but from the fangs of the Rainbow Serpent, the guardian of the land bound by its coils that stretched from the Dreamtime to the present.

Veronica and Lilian first saw the men carrying the bark bier.

‘God, they’ve found Rowena. She must be hurt!’ Veronica went to rush forward, but Lilian laid a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Go over to your camp – tell everyone to come here.’

The tone of Lilian’s voice sent a shiver through her. Then she saw Rowena’s arm dangling, fingers dragging on the ground. ‘Oh Christ, she’s not . . . dead? Is she?’

Lilian pushed her gently and Veronica sprinted across the open ground to the camp where the group was finishing a late breakfast.

Beth crossed herself – a ritual she rarely observed. ‘Justice,’ she murmured.

‘She might only be hurt, we can call in the Flying Doctor.’ Billy made a move but Alan told him to wait.

Ardjani was coming towards them. The group, seeing the look on Ardjani’s face, knew the news was not good.

‘What in God’s name happened?’ asked Mick.

Ardjani gave them details, declining to include a judgement as to exactly how she died. The snake bite was mentioned without exceptional emphasis. ‘Hunter’s over there with her,’ he gestured towards the camp. ‘Must call the police people, eh?’

Arrangements were quickly made using the Oka’s facilities to contact the police in Kununurra.

Shareen broke the silence that she had maintained since seeing the corpse being carried into the camp. ‘Please ask the police if I can return with them. They’ll come by plane and I would like to leave then if they can fit me on board.’

The sight of the corpse being carried into the camp had shaken her. The drama over the stolen art, the tense discussions on political and cultural issues, the constant cultural differences she’d felt had made the past few days utterly exhausting.

The strange death of Rowena was the last straw. It was time to get back on more familiar ground. She listened to the other whites speculating on the American woman’s breaching of the traditional taboos and she longed for a straightforward, simple explanation . . . like – ‘She was bitten by a deadly snake and died trying to get help.’ She was pleased no one said anything about her decision to leave the camp.

She looked up as Hunter walked towards Ardjani and handed him a large envelope.

‘I found this in Rowena’s room. And here’s a note that she’d started to write that was lying on top of it. It had been covered up by a towel or we’d have seen it earlier.’

Ardjani pulled a file of torn legal papers out of the envelope. He scanned it quickly and handed everything without comment to Alistair, who flicked through the papers. ‘It’s the copyright contract she signed with the Barradja,’ he explained to everyone. ‘She’s torn it up. It looks like she could have been writing this note when she must have decided to go for a walk. It says . . .

‘I had no right to do this. I’m sorry I let you down, Ardjani. I’ll get it right next time around.’

In the early dawn at Boulder Downs homestead, Andrew had prepared coffee and toast while Susan woke Norma Jackson from a sleep that had been punctuated by tears and too much whisky. The two women talked quietly and Susan helped her find clothes for the trip to the mine site, and pack a bag so Norma could travel with her husband’s body back to Derby where she’d stay with friends.

Norma responded well to Susan’s company, the younger woman’s warmth and genuine sympathy giving her the support she needed to face up to the horror of what was to come. No matter how she accepted the fact of her husband’s death, she dreaded the moment when she would have to be there with him, looking down at his body on the red earth, made redder still by his blood. But she was determined that she had to go to him one last time.

The night rolled its swag and slipped away with sunrise close on its heels as the three of them drove away from the homestead. As features of the landscape became clearer, Norma Jackson began to talk. It seemed to Susan that by talking she was stopping her nerve from completely snapping. Sometimes she was talking to herself, at other times she was including them. It was a broken and rambling discourse on her marriage, her dreams, her differences with Giles Jackson. And it was about her sense of loss, not only of her husband, but also of what she suspected was inevitable, the loss of her home at Boulder Downs.

‘I don’t want to leave here, you know,’ she said to her silent companions. ‘I love this place, even though it’s been a terrible struggle. I never really shared Giles’ faith in diamonds or gold pulling us through. It just seemed so unlikely.’

For a time she watched the stirring bird life and early grazing kangaroos, then spotted some of the station’s poorly conditioned cattle. ‘Don’t look much, do they?’ she observed sadly.

She was silent again for a few minutes, then looked at Susan intensely. ‘You know, one of the last things we did was have a fight. He was furious that I thought we might be able to get ahead by capitalising on that wonderful heritage stuff that was on our property, by working with the Aborigines. Now one of them has killed him.’

Susan expected her to break down again, but she briefly dabbed her eyes and concentrated on the landscape, outwardly looking in control, but immensely sad.

Andrew pulled up at the mining exploration site where the men were around the table, sleepily nursing hangovers and mugs of tea. They rose unsteadily to their feet, mumbling condolences as Norma hung back behind Andrew and Susan. Then, seeing the blanket-covered shape on the ground near the parked vehicles, Norma gave a gasp and turned away.

‘Why don’t you wait in the truck, Norma? The plane should be in any minute.’ Susan led her back to the vehicle they’d borrowed from Esme to come here.

‘Any trouble?’ Andrew inclined his head towards the tin shed.

‘Na. He was quiet. Er, we made a bit of a racket though. Got stuck into the piss, I’m afraid,’ said Kev Perkins, gingerly.

‘You’ve let him out for a pee, though?’

‘Cops said to keep him under lock and key.’

‘Let’s at least take the poor bugger a cup of tea.’ Andrew went to the table and filled a mug.

Susan joined him as they watched Perkins undo the padlock and slide the bolt back. ‘Your friends are here,’ he announced gruffly and stood to one side as Andrew stepped inside the dim interior.

‘Barwon, cuppa brew, mate. How’d . . . oh shit!’ Andrew recoiled, dropping the mug, staggering backwards through the door in horror.

‘What the fuck . . ?’ Perkins stepped into the doorway as Andrew’s stricken face turned to Susan.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked urgently.

‘Fucking hell . . .’ Perkins slammed the door shut, leaning against it, his face ashen. Andrew reached for Susan, as Perkins yelled to the men who leapt from the table, knocking over chairs in their rush to the shed. ‘Bugger’s hung himself.’

‘Andrew, no . . . oh, no!’ Susan clutched at him.

‘He’s hanged himself, Susan. Oh God, I never thought for a moment . . .’

Susan felt a heaving in her stomach, a retching in her throat, and she rushed to lean on a nearby tree, vomiting in a spasm of agony, guilt and rage.

Norma stepped out of the truck looking confused and, as shouts from the men brought home to her what had happened, she threw a swift look back at her husband. She lowered her head and leaned against the back of the vehicle and wept . . . for Giles, for herself, and this final act that did nothing to assuage her pain.

Andrew couldn’t control his anger. ‘Listen, you bastards. He was a good man, he was pushed by Jackson, and you were supposed to be looking after him. Why didn’t you check on him?’ Andrew’s voice rose to a shout. ‘You utter bastards.’

The men glanced at each other, remembering the insults they’d hurled at the hapless Barwon and regretting they hadn’t been more careful about moving all the gear that had been stored in the shed. ‘Christ, we weren’t to know he’d do a stupid thing like this,’ retaliated Perkins defensively.

Grimly holding hands, Susan and Andrew watched the Cessna take off with Norma, the body of Giles Jackson and the unexpected corpse of Barwon. The police had brought their own tragic news, the third in a series of events that seemed weirdly linked – the death of Rowena had been radioed to the plane by the Kununurra police who were sending officers to land at the Wards’ and drive over to Marrenyikka.

On the drive back to Marrenyikka, Andrew and Susan tried to find answers to questions that could never be answered. What had finally driven Barwon to take his life would forever be a mystery to them.

Andrew took her hand. ‘Why don’t you come back to Yandoo with me? Just for a few days, to get over all this. Time for a change.’ He couldn’t keep the note of hope out of his voice.

‘I don’t know, Andrew. I do have a new way of looking at things, though, that’s for sure.’

Andrew was silent a moment or two. ‘You mean because of the Barradja?’

‘Yes. And this. Haven’t you learned something? Hasn’t it changed your views or ideas just a little?’

‘Not about everything . . . but it’s given me a wider understanding, that’s for sure. But, Susan, these are real Aborigines; the city ones, the drunks in the towns, they’re different.’

‘But, Andrew, that’s just the point! I believe that all Aboriginal people are “real”. They’ve all got somewhere deep inside them, that core of kinship that links them to a culture that has survived through Aboriginal families no matter where they are. Like Ardjani said, the drunks, the rebellious young people, the Aborigines accused of selling out, they’ve just lost their bond, their connection with their people and their country. If they could find it, they would have something to hold on to, so that they could go forward, and become part of white society if that’s what they want.’

‘Okay, get off the soap box. What’s most impressed me is what Beth yabbers on about – that Aborigines like the Barradja have something to offer us. But how do I convince my parents that Aboriginal culture could teach them things they could apply to their own lives?’

‘Send them to Bush University!’

‘How would I convince them to go? They’d say, what for? Why do we need to spend time with a bunch of Aborigines in the bush? To learn how to throw a boomerang? Forget it.’

‘Do you think being with Aborigines has had any effect on Shareen?’

‘She has an ambition of her own. I wouldn’t pin my hopes on her altering her campaign to support reconciliation and giving the Aborigines back their land. Not with the right-wing wackos she has behind her.’

‘But you agree, this has been valuable? Rewarding?’

‘Yeah . . . I got to be with you.’ He squeezed her hand but before she could speak, added, ‘And yes, I can appreciate that we have to share our country. But, Susan, there has to be fairness. My family has earned the right to stay on our land. I can see Aborigines have a right to land too. But we have to find a way to share it fairly.’

‘Bush University might be a start. Reducing the ignorance, learning from each other.’ She sighed. ‘Why did Barwon give up? He could have contributed a lot to Bush University.’

‘Like you said, people have to know their place in the world. Security is a vital ingredient to happiness. Personal security and self-esteem, security of tenure and ownership, security of peace of mind. They’re all important,’ agreed Andrew adding, ‘Maybe Hunter will be one of the new generation to make a difference.’

‘He’ll help, that’s for sure,’ said Susan. ‘But it will still take generations. The future lies with the children like Ardjani’s young boys, Luke and Josh. Beth told me she spoke to the head of Camfield Grammar . . . in Perth . . . the principal has agreed to take the boys as boarders and the school has suggested setting up a cultural exchange program with the Barradja. Ardjani will give lectures to the teachers and students. The Barradja have invited groups of boys from the school to visit Marrenyikka in the dry season holiday break. And now Beth is working on a school for the girls as well.’

‘Hey, that’s fantastic news.’ Andrew reached over and brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. ‘Being with you is kind of remarkable. My life was so pedestrian before I met you.’

She smiled at him, and reached for his hand.

It was a sombre group that greeted Susan and Andrew. In the afternoon Frank and Rosalie Ward drove Detective Constable Thomas Blandford and Flight Nurse Sally Barnes from Kununurra over to Marrenyikka after they’d flown into The Avenue. They were met by Ardjani and Jennifer and, after leaving the two officials with the elders, the Wards joined the group for tea and damper.

‘Bloody incredible. Three deaths at one time. Very bad scene,’ commented Frank.

‘Let’s not pass any judgements, dear. The law will look after that,’ said Rosalie, sensing Frank was ready to wade through the pros and cons of the circumstances.

‘Well, poor Norma Jackson is going to find it hard going. Most likely have to sell up. Never manage the place on her own and we all know it’s not much of a cattle run these days.’

‘She was very upset about that possibility. I was surprised at how strong her attachment was to Boulder Downs,’ said Susan. ‘It’s not as though it had been in her or Giles’ family.’

‘You wouldn’t consider buying it?’ Alistair asked in a neutral voice.

‘Christ, no. Can’t afford it, don’t need it.’

Shareen excused herself. ‘I’m getting a ride back in the police plane. Do you mind if I come back to The Avenue with you?’

‘Suit yourself.’ And as Shareen headed to the Barradja camp, Frank added, ‘I hope she knows we’ll be travelling with Rowena.’

Beth twirled her tea mug. ‘Frank, Rosalie, we’ve been discussing an idea with the Barradja, and we’d like to run it past you both. With the assistance of Mick, Alistair and Alan, we’ve made a few phone calls this morning and we have decided we would like to help Ardjani and the Barradja buy Boulder Downs.’

‘What! And settle all their people on the place?’ exclaimed Frank. ‘Where’s the money coming from? I thought they were going ahead with some land claim.’

‘Wait, dear, let’s hear their plan,’ said Rosalie quietly.

Beth outlined the idea of Bush University, that it was a cultural plan to bring selected groups to see the sacred rock art sites under the guidance of the Barradja custodians. ‘When we feel Norma’s ready, we’ll offer her a fair price. And we have also discussed asking her if she would stay on so she could run the homestead as accommodation for the people who would come to Bush University. We’d also have camping here at Marrenyikka, like this.’

‘I must say you’re very well set up here,’ commented Rosalie, looking around at Billy’s organised camp.

‘It’s nowhere near the sort of standard of The Avenue, but this would attract a different sort of clientele.’ Beth added, ‘And there’s no reason some cooperative learning experience can’t be worked out between your guests and Bush University.’

‘I’d have to think about this. It could solve a lot of problems. But where would the Barradja get the money? It doesn’t sound like it would be funded by the Aboriginal Land Councils or ATSIC.’

‘You’re right. And Ardjani doesn’t want the Barradja to receive public funding. Alistair came up with the idea of a Barradja Foundation, raising money from philanthropic, corporate and cultural heavyweights. Alan has been on the phone with his contacts and has had a very enthusiastic response from a museum in Melbourne. Naturally the plan has to be run past boards and committees.’

‘You haven’t wasted any time,’ said Rosalie.

‘We were tossing the idea around before . . . this tragedy,’ said Beth.

Seeing Ardjani approaching with the constable, Frank stood. ‘I’ll need to know more. I’d like to talk to the elders about it. You know where to reach us.’ He and Rosalie shook hands with the group.

Constable Blandford accepted a mug of tea and asked general questions, making notes as they talked. Satisfied, he put down his pen. ‘Unfortunate incident. Snake must have startled her. I know what this country is like. Rock climbing can be dangerous. It can be as dangerous around here as climbing Ayers Rock . . . Uluru, I mean.’

‘You’re not going out to where she was found?’ asked Mick.

‘Seems pretty cut and dried. If it was a suicide, different matter.’ He finished his tea. ‘We want to leave before the light goes. Seems we have a passenger keen to get back to civilisation.’ He grinned. ‘Didn’t expect to see Shareen Beckridge out here. Well, not for more than a drop-in visit. How’d you find her?’

‘Typical,’ said Beth. ‘Hopefully she’s got a different slant on Aborigines after being here.’

‘I’ll watch the TV with interest. Right, we’re ready when you are, Mr and Mrs Ward.’

Without a formal announcement, it was understood the group would be disbanding. While everyone had regrets the visit had come to a premature close, there was enthusiasm and a buzz of energy as they discussed the future plans for Bush University.

‘It could be a kind of legacy for Barwon,’ Susan suggested. ‘It should represent a new era and an end to the injuries suffered by the Stolen Generations. Bush University could take an active part in making sure anything like this blot on our past never happens again.’

Veronica finished taping a conversation with Ardjani and they rejoined the group as Jennifer came over.

‘Ardjani, I’ve been speaking with Jimmy. He says he’s talked to an old woman in Derby.’

‘Has your husband found out anything?’ asked Veronica.

‘The old Barradja women have,’ she smiled.

‘I knew they would! What’ve they found out?’ exclaimed Beth.

‘One of the old women knows the story of the Aboriginal woman whose white miner husband was killed and whose boy was taken from her. She knows because a nun from that convent told her years ago in Derby. She said when the mother came back and found he was gone, she made so much fuss, wailing and going around town, that the nuns promised to see if they could get him back. But they never did, and she died a few years later, a pathetic case.’

There was not a sound as Jennifer continued. ‘Barwon’s poor mother had also been stolen when she was a child, and she had grown up with the nuns who had put her to work in the convent.’

‘She might have been Barwon’s mother but that doesn’t prove she’s Barradja,’ said Mick. ‘And you’ll have to prove that, if you want to adopt the baby.’

‘The old woman said Barwon’s father’s name was Tom O’Brien . . .’ Jennifer paused and looked at her mother ‘. . . and . . . Barwon’s mother was called Ruby Djoobalong.’

Lilian reached out for a chair and sat down, her eyes clouding over and her shoulders slumped. ‘That Djoobalong . . . that my name. That Ruby, she my sister. She my sister stolen with my sisters and brothers before I born.’

‘This is starting to look like proof, Mick,’ said Alistair quietly.

Jennifer moved to stand behind her mother. ‘Jimmy has found the old nun at the convent in Derby, and he’s told her about Barwon and the baby. She said Barwon had been called Djoobalong O’Brien by his parents. She’s willing to sign a paper if it helps to bring his baby home to his people.’

‘This is very good news,’ said Beth. ‘Lilian, your sister will be reunited with her family through her baby granddaughter. The welfare in Melbourne will check it out, and then we can bring her home to her aunties.’

Lilian looked up at her daughter. ‘Jennifer, you be her first skin mother, you look after my sister’s granddaughter.’

Jennifer gave a calm smile. ‘We’ll all look after Barwon’s daughter.’

The poignancy of the situation touched them all and Susan decided to bring up the question that still remained unanswered. ‘Ardjani, why do you think Barwon did this thing?’

‘We don’t condone suicide. But our people suffer when they are confined and taken away from their family.’

‘Barwon didn’t know who his family was,’ said Susan sadly.

‘He died in his own country,’ said Ardjani, in a simple answer to Susan’s question. ‘I believe this. The Songmaster tell him.’

He looked around and held out his arms, palms up. ‘My friends. Good friends.’ They settled themselves in their chairs around the campfire. Ardjani pointed at the ground. ‘No, this time we sit on the earth.’

They sat and Ardjani talked of his appreciation of their friendship and support. ‘We need to discuss matters when all our mob here, but we think this Bush University a good thing. For us to teach our ways and give our gift and for white people to share.’

There was general assent. ‘We’ve all decided to come back in twelve months, Ardjani. If you will have us. For a big reunion,’ said Susan.

‘Good. First Bush University, eh? You people learn more Barradja ways, eh?’ And when they agreed, he grew more serious. ‘We Aboriginal people been waiting a long time, two hundred years, for things to change in this country. We are very patient people. We listen and we wait. We touch this ground and we listen to what it tells us. Now you whitefellas touch the ground and listen to what is inside you.’

They sat in silence, the stillness washing over them. Ardjani stood and contemplated the group for a moment. ‘Tomorrow some of the mob come back. We going to get stuck into Bush University.’

Striking camp the next morning was like a military drill with Billy in command. Tents were folded with far more ease than when they had been erected, and suddenly the ground was bare save for the deep ash and charred wood of their campfires.

Veronica found Lilian by the water tank and gave her a hug goodbye. ‘I’ll be back next year.’

Lilian gave her a broad smile. ‘Course you will. You got t’bring back your baby for smokin’ ceremony. We do naming ceremony with that baby you got in you.’

Veronica felt a rush of hope and affection and couldn’t speak. She hugged the old woman again. ‘I’ll bring my Boris next time. You’ll like him.’

‘Good, good.’

Jennifer sought out Mick and she handed him a delicately carved emu egg. ‘This is for you as the senior law man. It has precious markings on it.’

Mick cradled the delicate egg, and gave a wry grin. ‘I appreciate this gesture, Jennifer. But I have to let you in on a secret. I’m not the senior law man. Since I retired as a judge, I’ve become a mere barrister. Alistair is a Queen’s Counsel. So in chambers, I have to stand back and let him get in the lift first.’

He chuckled, but Jennifer nodded sagely and closed his hand over the egg. ‘You have it. You are a special law man,’ she said, understanding that protocol must be observed.

Later she found Alistair, and handed him a second egg. ‘Keep it safe, it will bring you back to Bush University.’

‘Oh, I’m definitely coming back. I feel I have a real purpose in life now. Got the bit between my teeth, as they say. I’m going to go out on this case, Jennifer. Helping get Bush University happening will perhaps be my professional monument.’

Mick went to Ardjani and sat beside him at the river. ‘It’s been bloody special being here, you know.’

Ardjani didn’t answer but gazed at him, not asking any questions, just waiting. Mick thought how to frame the words. ‘Ardjani, I’m an old bloke, though I’ve still got a bit of engine power left in me. But I know my time is coming. We have a writer bloke I admire, Morris West . . . he wrote, when he was in his eighties, about making it to the high ridge and looking back over claimed ground with all its varied features, while ahead lies a dark valley.’

Ardjani understood. ‘We old men know our time is coming – my knees no good, I can’t climb trees good, soon I’ll have to make my last ceremonies with the old women.’

‘I haven’t done much to prepare for this momentous journey, I’m afraid.’ Mick paused then went on, ‘But when my time comes, I want to come back here. I don’t want to be stuffed in a box in a row in some cemetery on land I don’t know or like. I want my bones sent back here, to your people. Will they look after me?’

Ardjani didn’t rush to answer. He quietly digested the request and when he spoke, it was with respect and reassurance. ‘I will tell our people. You are one of us now, you can share Barradja land. We will do special ceremony for you, Judge Mick.’ A twinkle came into his eyes. ‘Maybe not Ardjani sing your ceremony, maybe Ardjani go to the ancestor spirits before you. We meet there, that’s for sure. But you going to come to Bush University many times before then.’

Mick pushed out his hand and shook Ardjani’s long, loose fingers. Words weren’t necessary.

One by one they all managed to make their private farewells. Beth was last. Sitting on the bank of the river, in the place of the women’s business, she rested her palms flat against the earth, and closed her eyes, speaking aloud. ‘I have done all I can. Now let the future begin.’

Beth made her own parting with the Barradja elders, who were preparing lunch. She then walked back to the campsite and lit a fire of fresh leaves to smoke their now deserted camping ground. ‘This has been a special time, we leave behind goodwill and the hope we will be welcomed back again.’

They all watched the simple farewell smoking ceremony and it was Veronica who asked, ‘Aren’t they going to come over and say goodbye?’

‘Haven’t you all made your private goodbyes?’ And when no one answered, Beth continued, ‘It’s another Barradja custom for you to learn. They don’t have goodbyes. They assume you will come back. One day you will come back, there’s no need to say goodbye. That is our custom, not theirs. By observing their custom and feeling it’s not necessary to come over to do white man’s goodbye ritual, they’re paying us a big compliment.’

Satisfied with this explanation, everyone began gathering up their hand luggage. Susan and Andrew were driving back to Andrew’s plane at the Wards’. She couldn’t stop the tears as she embraced the others boarding Billy’s van.

They’d said their goodbyes to Hunter who was driving back to Kununurra with plans to visit Yandoo as soon as he could. ‘Tell my mother I am coming,’ he said to Andrew as they clasped hands.

Veronica was last to hug Susan. ‘See you back in the big smoke. It’s been an incredible time, Susan. It could change my life. I hope Boris understands what’s happened to me.’

‘Oh, I think he will.’

‘And you?’

‘Who knows?’ She gave her familiar shrug and grin and, with shoulders back and chin up, climbed into the vehicle beside Andrew for the ride back to The Avenue where the Cessna waited to fly them out.

They pulled out behind Hunter, and Susan hung from the window waving at the Oka as it, too, began to leave the camp.

After two days at Yandoo with hot showers, crisp sheets and relaxing glasses of wine at dinner, Susan still couldn’t shake off the sensations and memories of her time at Marrenyikka. The images kept flashing at her . . . the mist rising over the glassy early morning river studded with fat pink lilies . . . the brooding but benign red rocks . . . the dancing eyes and infectious laughter of the youngsters playing round the camp . . . the slow broad smiles of Lilian, Rusty and Digger . . . the sounds of the dawn chorus as the birds called to each other. And her friends . . . Jennifer’s gentle wise voice . . . times of hilarity hunting with the women . . . Mick’s delicious damper and laconic dry wit . . . Billy and his beloved Oka . . . the kids waggling a goanna at Shareen . . . the pungent smell of campfires . . . trees in blossom. And the magical moments . . . of tasting sugarbag . . . the corroboree dancing . . . the magnificence of the Wandjina and the guyon guyon paintings . . . the sense of spirituality . . .

The Frazers were pleased to see Susan return with Andrew, if a little curious about the turn in their relationship, but good manners kept them from making any comment.

Ian listened to Andrew’s news that they could have additional wealth on their property in the form of Aboriginal cultural sites. But he dismissed such a notion. ‘We’re pastoralists, son, pure and simple. We run cattle as my grandparents did here. And we’re going to stay here come hell or high water. Or any Native Title land claim.’

Susan was surprised at her calmness, the brusqueness of her previous encounter with Andrew’s father tempered by a new tolerance. ‘Ian, all that the Barradja are asking is recognition of their cultural claim to the land, not necessarily taking it over and throwing the pastoralists out.’ She recalled Ardjani’s words, and tried to listen rather than debate with the older pastoralist. And she was surprised by the softening of his argument. In the face of her milder comments, he was recognising her opinions on the subject and he, too, listened. While he hadn’t conceded, she could see he would consider her views.

The reunion with Hunter was also an important factor in the Frazers’ acknowledgment of the dislocation and pain foisted on the children of mixed-blood parentage. ‘You know, at the time, when old Father Monaghan told us it was best for the lad to go away to school because he was obviously very bright, we thought we were doing the right thing.’

Ellen, who had sat in silence as Andrew told the story of his boyhood friend, made no attempt to hide the dampness of her eyes. ‘We did what we thought was right for the people here. Listening to what you’ve both had to say, maybe we didn’t know as much as we should have, but who was there to tell us? I’m not sure the Yandoo mob know that much about their original culture these days, either.’

‘We’re hoping Bush University will help change all that,’ said Susan kindly.

‘It sounds a fine enough idea. But what about other Aboriginal groups who haven’t got people like your lot helping them? This land rights thing could drag through the courts for decades. Governments can’t please everyone,’ Ian argued.

‘Talking and listening together, Dad, it’s the only way to go. New times, things have to change,’ replied Andrew. ‘But don’t worry, we can work it out. If anything, I’m more convinced than ever that following in your footsteps is the right way. But there has to be more awareness of what our land means to all of us. Them and us. Sharing, I suppose, is the only way of looking at it.’

‘I never thought I’d hear a son of mine say that.’ He spoke without rancour, but there was confusion in his voice.

Susan turned to Andrew. ‘You should suggest Julian go to the first Bush University.’

‘Yeah, he’d enjoy that. He’d get a lot out of it.’

Two nights later, Susan stood gazing at the portraits of the Frazer family when Ian came alongside her. ‘The family history. Seems pretty tenuous compared to your mates. You reckon they’ve been here a hundred thousand years? Makes our two hundred years seem paltry, eh?’

‘It’s what we do with our time while we’re here that counts, I think, Ian.’

‘What are you going to do with your time, Susan? What’re your plans now?’

‘To be honest, I’m not sure.’

‘Andrew fit into those plans at all?’

‘I just don’t know. I need to go home and clear my head.’

‘It’s not my business, I know. But I like you, young lady. You’ll always be a welcome guest at Yandoo.’

He only knew how to be formal, but she heard the sincerity in his voice and she lightly touched his arm.

‘Thank you. That’s a lovely thing to say.’

The imminent issue facing Susan was the future of her relationship with Andrew. And then came the time, as it had to, when it had to be addressed. They were on a picnic, back at their favourite place on the top of the hill overlooking Yandoo, when he put the question to her. ‘So where do we go from here?’

‘I have a job to go back to . . . I think. I can’t say at the moment other than you are special to me, as is the Kimberley now.’

‘You’ll go through a culture shock when you hit Sydney. Be prepared for that. I won’t hassle you . . . for a few weeks, anyway. I’ll miss you, Susan.’

‘Me too. It’s been a strange sort of journey I’ve been on.’

‘I set out to court you and ended up travelling with you. And I don’t regret it,’ he added quickly. ‘I’ve learned a lot. But I still haven’t given up on you. Give me a chance . . . please?’

She reached over and kissed him. ‘I’ll be back. That’s for sure.’

And in the quiet reaches and chasms of red earth and sienna rocks, Ardjani sat by the cave that held the skull, restored to his ancestors, which had been sent across the sea from far away.

This land, his people’s country, was watched over by the fading images of the Wandjina. He smiled to himself as, head tilted slightly, he contemplated the echo of the Songmaster’s song cycle . . . a change was coming to this land.

There was a new airstrip at Boulder Downs. A slash of welcoming red dirt carpet leading to the road that led to the homestead. A freshly painted sign that hung above the small shed that served as office, fuel store, spare parts and garage for two four-wheel drives read, ‘Welcome to Boulder Downs, home of Bush University.’

They tumbled from the plane, shading their eyes in the glare. This was the last of the arrivals for the inaugural session at Bush University. Norma Jackson, clipboard in hand, checked off names and pointed to the waiting safari bus. The last two off the plane were young men, apprehensive and looking not too keen to be part of this.

Norma gave the teenagers a big smile. ‘Tom and Sean Beckridge? Shareen’s sons, right? Hop in the van. Okay, Hunter.’

‘Righto. Hey, guys, throw the backpacks in there.’ They looked slightly relieved to see someone younger, who seemed to speak as they did, even if he was an Aborigine.

Norma addressed the five people in the vehicle as Hunter headed up the track. ‘First night, you’ll be here in the homestead with the other six guests. Tomorrow morning, Beth Van Horton and Daniel Ardjani will meet you after breakfast for a brief orientation and take you to a sacred site for the welcoming ceremony. Then Hunter will drive you over to the Barradja camp at Marrenyikka.’ She gave Hunter a smile. ‘There’s a small contingent already there. They’re the people who helped get Bush University established. This is something of a reunion for them.’

It was more a party than a mere reunion. Familiar faces smiled around the campfire and, being passed from arm to lap was tiny Lily, the daughter of Veronica and Boris, a serious baby who contemplated the world with a deep and meaningful expression of three-month wisdom. Boris and Rusty were deep in conversation about cooking kangaroos. Lilian held her grandson, while his mother Jennifer cuddled Djoobalong, known as Sunny, the laughing-eyed daughter of Barwon. Now trying to walk and starting to say single words, she had been adopted into the Barradja family since Beth had brought her home to her people, after tearful goodbyes from Joyce and the welfare carers in Victoria.

Tomorrow she would join the official smoking of Lily, returning to be dipped in the wunggud waters from whence her spirit had come.

Around the campfire there was much news to share. Alan Carmichael told them of the exhibition of the Bungarra cooperative being mounted in Chicago and then in Paris to follow the hugely successful UNESCO rock art symposium. Ardjani, Digger and Lucky Dodds would be going with Daisy Moorroo, just returned from New York where her delicate paintings of the Kimberley country were hailed as the new art find.

And there were plans afoot for a film project to record the songs, dances, art and stories of the Barradja under the auspices of Bush University, the Barradja Foundation and the National Cultural and Heritage Centre. Alistair explained how the Barradja Foundation was a cultural exercise that could serve as a beacon for future exchanges between Australians and the rest of the world.

‘I believe we are reaching a moment in our history when we can accept that the indigenous peoples and the multicultural – who include we Celts, Poms, Europeans and Asians who have settled here in the past two centuries – can all be called Australian. Thanks to small but significant enterprises like Bush University, these faltering first steps will lead us into the next thousand years as a nation that celebrates all its people and the land we share.’

Veronica nudged Susan. ‘Do you lawyers talk like that at breakfast too? Why can’t you just say, pass the salt?’

Susan grinned. ‘Heck no. We get paid by the word, don’t you know! The more obtuse the better!’

‘Good girl, Susan, you’ve learned the ropes,’ chuckled Mick on the other side of her.

‘I shall not make another speech. Pass the billy.’ Alistair attempted to look miffed.

‘Is Andrew coming?’ asked Billy.

‘He said so. He’s bringing his brother, Julian.’

‘Do we ask about the Susan and Andrew association?’ asked Beth with arched eyebrow.

‘You can ask, but there’s nothing much to say. It’s been a busy year.’ Susan looked around. ‘Well, you might as well know . . . I’ve quit my job.’

‘And . . .?’

‘Beth, you’re the one who’s always saying see what tomorrow brings.’

‘Give us a clue, Susan . . . are you looking at your tomorrows in Sydney . . . the Kimberley . . . New York . . . Yandoo . . .?’

‘Give me a break, Mick! You sound like Mr Angel, who was pretty disappointed I was leaving Angel and Hart. No, I have no plans. I’m taking a break first. I’m hoping I might be able to offer my services to Bush University, or the Barradja, in some legal capacity.’

‘Bully for you.’ Mick was instantly supportive.

‘You’re a brave girl. You have my admiration and will have my full attention any time you wish to bounce an idea off this greying noggin,’ offered Alistair, but beneath his attempt at flippancy, Susan was pleased to see the fond warmth in his eyes.

‘I’ve been studying law or working as a solicitor since I left school. I think I’ve earned time out,’ said Susan. ‘As for Andrew, he’s given up proposing . . . for the time being, anyway.’

First light drifted quietly into the camp in the early morning. Damp, motionless leaves were touched with a pearly sheen. Stars faded, shreds of mist trailed above the rocky outcrops, no footprints had yet imprinted on the dewy ground. Birds began to call.

Susan unzipped her tent, enjoying the sound that would always herald a new day to her. Stepping into the dawn she thought she was first up, but the distant breaking of twigs told her Billy was out getting fire kindling. Slipping into her shoes, she walked past the ring of tents into the scrubby bush and to her delight found the brolgas, dancing, bowing, gently courting as the pale gold light crept through the trees.

She found Billy. ‘Want a hand?’ she whispered. He handed her a sack. ‘Great. You get the small kindling stuff, I’ll get a couple of those bigger branches.’

‘It’s great to be back here, isn’t it? I thought about mornings like this when I was stuck on Victoria Road trying to get to the city to work.’

‘You bet. I’ve done a few interesting trips in the past year, but nothing like coming here.’

‘Did you ever think Bush University would happen?’

‘I see plenty of groups form friendships while travelling in the bush and then everyone goes their own way. I thought our mob last year would be the same. But then I thought about the people . . . you, the old lawyers, Veronica, Alan and Beth, you’re a pretty impressive bunch.’ He snapped a large dead branch in half. ‘Of course, Rowena and Barwon made a difference.’

‘Is it the place or the people you remember best, Billy? Ardjani, Jennifer, Lilian, and the old men . . . they’re pretty special.’

‘The people and the place are the same in my book.’

‘So you’ll be organising trips for every Bush University, eh, Billy?’ They headed back to camp.

‘Beth reckons there’ll be three or four sessions lasting two weeks each winter. I’ll organise transport from Kununurra and logistics here at Marrenyikka. Hunter and Norma are running the other end at Boulder Downs. We’re starting to get inquiries from people overseas now. That radio program Veronica did was played in England and America.’

‘She says she might write a book next. But I think baby Lily is her main focus for the moment.’

‘Yeah. Boris seems a nice bloke. Said he was a bit sceptical about this baby business when she got back. But even after two days here, he reckons he can see how anything’s possible!’

‘I’m looking forward to seeing Hunter,’ said Susan. ‘Andrew said the reunion with his mother and family was wonderful.’

‘His business in Darwin is going good, he’s got a nice girlfriend there. A nurse, I think she is.’

‘Andrew is flying into Boulder Downs and coming out with Hunter and the first Bush Uni mob, I can’t wait to see him.’

The camp fire crackled, Alan unzipped his tent and the stubble-chinned and sleepy-eyed art expert headed for the fire. A baby’s cry came from Boris and Veronica’s tent. Mick was at the fire making toast and Billy had bacon and sausages sizzling, the breakfast smells attracting a gaggle of kids from the Barradja camp.

And so, in the bright light of a shining mid morning, a procession headed to the river.

Close to the wunggud pond, two mothers waded into the water carrying their naked babies. The Barradja and their guests settled on the bank as Lilian began singing, tapping her clapsticks together, and the elders joined in.

Veronica followed Jennifer’s gentle swirling motion as they dipped the babies through the water. Sunny wiggled her arms and legs in the warm water and gurgled in delight while Lily kept her attention trustingly on her mother’s face.

The song ended and the women carried the babies from the water, as they had been told to do beforehand. Ardjani had a fire burning and all the women now sat in a circle around the flames.

Lilian fanned the fire, dropping green leaves into it, which exuded a cloud of pungent smoke. Jennifer and Veronica knelt by the flames and, holding the baby girls over the warmth of the swirling smoke, they rocked them in a gentle rhythm.

Lilian called on the spirits to protect and guide these girl babies, born from this place of their ancestors, where one day their spirits would return after death.

‘This is your home place, your country. Your people which will always be part of you.’

Tears sprang to Susan’s eyes as she watched the joy on Veronica’s face. She saw Boris, smiling through his curly beard, his eyes glowing with pride.

As Jennifer laughed at the mischievous little girl who thought this was a new game her skin mother and grandmother were playing with her, Susan felt a stab of sadness. As she watched the confident child giggling in the arms of Jennifer, she prayed Barwon was here in spirit, in this land of his ancestors and his people who had been lost and now were found.

Ardjani rose and lifted his arms to the sky and began to chant. He, too, called upon the spirits to touch these two babies with their magic, to give them power and knowledge, for both would go forward in different worlds, but be always bound by this ceremony.

He laid his hand lightly on the crown of Lily’s head, then sat and took the mischievous Sunny onto his lap. He looked deep into the child’s eyes and, as if aware of the importance of the moment, Sunny suddenly lay still and locked her eyes to his.

‘You are Barradja. This is your country, your people. You are home. Your mummy, like many white people, she start to run away from our people. But your mummy wise enough to stop running. She turned to the Barradja. She gave you the story of Dhumby, the owl. That is your father’s totem, and now it is your totem.’ He tickled the child under the chin and she erupted in giggles again. ‘Your white mummy knew it is time for black and white people to stop running away from each other.’

The babies were placed on a woven mat on the ground, Sunny sitting like a little Buddha. Beside her Lily lay on her back, small fists and legs waving and kicking. The delicate blue-eyed child with wisps of pale brown hair and the chubby, olive-skinned, dark-eyed laughing Sunny.

‘Mother Earth, embrace your daughters, for they are the future of our land, we are bound as one people. Let the children of the present be the caretakers of tomorrow.’ Ardjani sang and the girls were handed around the circle, each woman caressing and whispering her words of advice into the ears of the squirming babies until, as the last notes of Ardjani’s song faded, each baby was returned to loving arms.

The Songmaster looked into the years to come, and sang . . . of two young men, graduates of a fine white school, who would use their traditional knowledge to navigate through wild country.

And when they reached the chosen place of their people, they would walk upon the land, slowly scattering the payment of handfuls of diamonds back into the earth from where they had come. And to where, one day, we all return.

And as the Songmaster looked into these years to come, he sang . . . of two girl children who would become leaders, women of different worlds, of different ancestors. But each would know the spirit of the land . . . the spirit born in them in the Kimberley . . .

He sang of a nation that would see old laws in a new light, that would learn to love the beauty and strength of its ancient heritage, and would embrace cultures that were new to this land . . .

He sang of a people that would share the spirit of the land.

And he sang of a country called Australia that was, at last, at peace with its past . . .