Free The Songmaster by Di Morrissey

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. Ithought 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 lookedthoughtful. ‘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