When The Birds Stop Singing

WHEN THE BIRDS STOP SINGING

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Margaret Stewart

Copyright © 2015 by Margaret Stewart

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

When the Birds Stop Singing / Margaret Stewart

ISBN-13: 9781512167344 

ISBN-10: 1512167347

CONTENTS

Bunjee

The Departure

The Arrival

Stepping into the Unknown

The Treasure Chest

Secrets of the Ghost Gum

The Honeymoon is Over

Cresswell Calling

Jock and the One-Eyed Tractor

Halfway up the Windmill

We Make our Own World

The Mark of Success is upon You

Dust for Dinner

The Power Within You

Picnic at Kooranjee

Do They Eat Stones?

Magic and Mystery

Taking Stock

Heartbreak at Little Sandakan

Lullaby for a Linchpin

The Song is not Lost when the Bird Stops Singing

The Day Breaks

The Shadows Flee Away

Bunjee Joins His Eaglehawk Ancestors

About The Author

Encourage the Author by Reviewing This Book

PROLOGUE

Bunjee

It was mid-afternoon. The clothes draped around the bank formed a strange mosaic of red, black, cream. The four men did not stand still long enough for the mosquitoes and black flies to drill into their skin. They splashed around in the grey waters of Yaruk billabong shouting and boasting of their lustful ravaging of the Aboriginal women the day before.

They’re all the better after they struggle a bit, scoffed the tall one, the water glistening on his shoulders. His companion used the heel of his hand to pummel him with water. Everyone could see that that he’d like the water to deliver a real punch. You gotta cool down you greedy bastard. You’re into them like a dog on heat, there’ll be none left for us.

The ribald laughter echoed in the treetops even though the air was filled with tension. They had been without women for many months and reliving their exploits filled them with excitement. The eucalyptus trees formed a bland backdrop and the caramel coloured water was the stage for these sensual phantoms from some grotesque ballet. Stark white bodies contrasted with sunburnt faces and hands. Little rivulets ran through hair and beards. Screeching white cockatoos raced overhead as the cloudless sky swallowed their mockery.

The grass was long and brown. The trees were spindly but tall, and together they cast uneven patches of lengthening shadows. The merrymakers were too engrossed to notice the silent, stealthy approach of the four strong young men from the Arunta tribe. The predators were careful to avoid the sweet smelling leaves that had fallen from the trees. Only the cleverest tracker of their own kind would recognise their presence. Quietly, patiently, with skills honed from centuries of being totally in tune with the land, they crouched, inching forward, guiding the spears they clenched between their toes. A broad cluster of parallel fur strings held back their hair, heavily greased and laced with red ochre. A waste band of human hair sat low on the hips, giving them freedom of movement as they edged forward through the rushes at the far edge of the billabong. The staccato call of a water bird rippled across the water in unheeded warning. In one swift movement four spears flew straight to their target. With wraith-like grace and skill they were gone, blending into the shadows, moving swiftly towards the flickering fires of the camp. A lone curlew sang its haunting melody three times. Death had come to this loneliest of places in the far outback.

The enticing smell of roasting goanna hastened the footsteps of the black warriors and with just a nod to each other, they separated to take their places around their own family fire, unaware that nothing would ever be the same again.

Yaruk waterhole was far from quiet. The two forward scouts heard the deadly groaning and anguished cries before they saw the red stained mud and pierced bodies. White and trembling, half expecting to hear the whistling sound of more spears, they rushed into the murky water. The tall boasting one lay on his back, the spear pinning him to the mud. His mouth was open as if he was about to speak. His eyes stared, unseeing, at the blue of the sky. The grey haired scout stopped to vomit as he pulled a spear away from his friend’s limp and lifeless body. The flies buzzed and swarmed mercilessly as they began their ancient ritual of cleaning up decay. As he hauled the last lifeless body to the shade of the trees, the younger man called to his mate, Try to cover them with their clothes will yer, Bill? I’ll take a fresh horse and get the troopers.

I’m not stayin’ here. I’m comin’ too! said his companion.

In Cloncurry the scouts stood trembling as the Police Sergeant turned red with rage, rage that was fuelled by memories of his own part in the Myall Creek massacre just a few years before. Fred Johnston was no ordinary sergeant but someone who had been born into a family of hate and greed. Many stories about his unsavoury past circulated around the burgeoning town, but everyone was too afraid to even think of challenging him. Besides, most of the rough and ready miners agreed that the blacks were a pestilence and should be wiped out. Fuelled by fear and saturated with the confidence that he had the law on his side, Fred eagerly formed a plan.

As the miserable scouts stood before him he gloated. This time he had an excuse. He spat out the words: They’re just bloody animals. They can’t go around killing white men. We’ll teach them a lesson! He went off shouting instructions for thirty armed troopers and whoever else could come to be ready in an hour.

The younger scout pulled out the maps that showed the movements of the tribe they held responsible. He spoke with authority. No-one asked him how he had become so familiar with it all so quickly, not that he would be condemned for his despicable actions. They regard this waterhole as something special. They come there often. They won’t be hard to find.

The next day there was no thought of possible retaliation in the minds of the four young men, relatives of the girls who had been raped. The smoke of the fire curled lazily into the sky as the elders and the avengers spoke of the healing of the women with a nearby clan. They talked of many things, confident that the dreaming tracks stretched before them to lead them to the next place of harvest and gathering. Never stay in one place too long, they said, the water-lillies have to shoot again. The yams have to grow. The goannas have to mate. It was late in the day when the kangaroos left the deep shade to graze, and the young men then went to join the hunting party. They would eat well again tonight before moving on. Even the little children would go to sleep with full bellies and greasy mouths.

Fred Johnston rode his horse slowly to the edge of Yaruk waterhole barely containing his fury. This will go into my report. The poor buggers didn’t stand a chance. Those black bastards will pay for this.

He shouted for the scout. Where will they be now?

The next water-hole is about an hour’s ride. We can follow the dry creek bed, then its over a bit of a hill. We’ll get them easily.

The troopers found them at the next water-hole; the elders were showing the young ones how to replant the edible roots for the following season. The supple women were nearby digging yams and gathering witchetty grubs. One teenage girl tended the fire as it burned low. Angry at having to ride so far, and urged on by their brutal leader, the police thundered through the trees. Babies bounced into the air like rubber dolls. Like many others, a cowering young woman was too startled to defend herself and the rifle butt smashed her to the ground. Young men and old had no time to grab their spears and the shots rang out in quick succession. The men under Fred’s command had been drilled in the awareness that they were dealing with creatures that were less than human. They thought little about what they were doing; for most, it was as if they were shooting a colony of marauding rabbits.

Men, women and children died, eyes wide open, sagging against the saplings that once sheltered them. The trees wept their leaves into the blood and dust and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. Driven by his own contrived rage Fred Johnston was at the centre of the murderous rampage justifying his actions as revenge for four white lives.

A lone kinswoman covered a little boy’s eyes until the last moment, and just as the police sergeant aimed at the bewildered child, Percy Galbraith swooped him on to his saddle. I’ll keep this one, Fred, he called. He’ll be a reminder for the blacks who work for me not to try anything stupid. Someone at the stock camp will know what to do with him.

Fred rode away a little distance and turned to survey the scene. Some perverse, loathsome streak within him had been satiated. He would write a report about the vicious attack by blacks on innocent white men followed by strong resistance to arrest. He held up his hand and said, Leave it, boys. The birds and the dingoes will take care of the rest. Let’s go.

After leaving the troopers to go back to Cloncurry, Percy rode off in the opposite direction. Yaruk waterhole was on the large pastoral lease he and his family claimed for their own. He stopped only to rest and water the horses, and soon arrived back at the primitive homestead. He left the child, shivering with fright, huddled in a corner of the veranda. Before going to bed he put out a dish of water and a thick, clumsy, piece of dry bread. The boy could scarcely have been three or four years old and it seemed as if the wisdom of a thousand lifetimes searched the face of the tired grazier. Percy’s voice became gruff as he said, You’ll be all right. I’ll take you down to the stock camp in the morning. They can look after you.

Piccaninny daylight, the eerie light before the dawn, spread over the horizon at about 4 a.m. as Percy rode south from the homestead. Miles away the stock camp was stirring, awakened as much by the scent of sizzling steak as the restless sound of the horses being gathered for the day ahead. Even before the last strand of wire was strained taut and the last post securely anchored, the ringers began herding the cattle from the tightly packed corral to the newly fenced breeding paddock. Percy rode up, clutching the bewildered orphan on his saddle. He handed the little boy over to the cook and said, Give this one to Jack and Mary. They’ll know what to do with him!

Percy rode off to inspect the fence and supervise the movement of the cattle. Although his body ached, his dream of creating a thriving cattle station on what looked like fertile country, spurred him on.

In that intuitive way of aboriginal dreaming, Mary already knew what had happened to the little boy. Her spirit eyes had seen the disaster. She had not slept well for two nights and her eyes probed the heavens for hawks. With Jack close behind, she came running back and dropped the pile of wood near the cooking fire. The boy was sitting outside the cook’s tent. His back was straight but his eyes gazed into the far distance trying to summon back the familiar figures he loved.   Where were his Aunties and grandmothers? Where were his cousins who taught him how to dance like a kangaroo? Where were his uncles who taught him how to track? Where was his mother who stroked him gently when he was frightened? Mary knelt beside him, and touched his shoulder with the back of her hand. For a moment he thought he had wakened from a bad dream. But no, this was not his birth mother. Slowly he turned to look into those deep black eyes so like his own.

They are not here, she whispered. His lips parted, his eyes lost their glazed look, he reached for her hand and whispered, Bilyana. (Eaglehawk).

Mary sat down and pulled him on to her lap, she felt him relaxing. There was a familiar smell like his mother and his aunties and he nestled into the waiting arms. A tide of ancient love enfolded them. The jumbled events of the past few days were swallowed up in a mystical sense of order. Somehow the boy knew he would be looked after. He could read the unspoken signs between Jack and Mary. Slowly, the paralysing fear and confusion left him and he was very quiet. When the memories tried to come back, he blinked quickly to shut out the wrath of the khaki clad horsemen and the broken bodies of those he loved.

Jack looked on with compassion. At the last gathering of the clan he could still hear the voice of the elder who said, "The great snake whose task it is to uphold the law is angry. Maybe the women are not gathering and sharing the food as they should. Perhaps the men have become lazy. Watch your family. Let us avoid this trouble."

He shook his head and brought his thoughts back to the small boy in front of him. Mary was whispering softly, I shall call you Bunjee, (little darling) and you will carry the stories of your people. They will not be forgotten.

For many nights Bunjee lay sleepless in the rough bark shelter and watched the flickering fire and glowing embers. Somehow the fire brought him comfort. There was always fire in the stories living within him. It was fire that connected him to Mary, and fire in the crow stories that made him honour Jack.

Without knowing it Bunjee was learning the skills that would make him a leader. On the day of the big rain Mary took Bunjee by the hand. Together, they silently skirted the billabong until they came to the grass trees. Dig here, Bunjee, she said. Bunjee laughed as the fat, squirming luscious grubs tried to slither away. As he ate, the juice trickled from the corner of his mouth and dribbled on to his chest. He helped Mary tie the others tightly in the dilly bag.

One day Jack and Mary took him on a long walk. Soon there were others with young people like himself. Some he remembered from long ago. Come and play, they said. It was his favourite game of stalking the kangaroo. His heart beat loudly in his chest. His eyes shone. His lips trembled. These were people from his larger family. At night he lay very close to Mary and did not mind at all that he could not see the fire. Too soon, the feasting was over, the games finished, and the men gathered their families. They returned by the tracks their ancestor spirits had created when time began.

On the way back, while Mary was gathering ripe berries, Jack put up his hand to stop Bunjee following her. Stay Bunjee, he said. What followed was not to be spoken about, but on that day Bunjee became Jack’s son.

You will always be Eaglehawk, Bunjee, but you need to know my story. I am Hakea. I will teach you all the trees. Some of my kin are crow people and they nest in the highest trees. You will know them all. The Rainbow Serpent teaches us through everything. When the birds stop singing you must listen with your heart.

As time passed Bunjee learned quickly. Jack worked as a horseman for the boss but he was one with the land and its rhythm. He woke very early at first light but his little charge woke even earlier. Together they explored the bush. In Bunjee’s mind, the best day was when he found a bean tree. Uncle, come quickly, I have found the bark for a coolamon. (carrying basket). In the way of wise men Jack said little, but Bunjee knew from the deep look and the square shoulders that Jack was very proud of him. So from then on, whenever he could, Bunjee followed his hero.

Sitting in the fork of a tree, Bunjee marvelled at the way Jack rode a horse and knew what to do with the cattle. The boss noticed it too, looking over his shoulder he nodded towards the black ringer and said to the white man riding beside him, They’re lazy bastards y’know. Just as well he’s here today, He was missing for ten days last month. Y’ can’t rely on them. If he wasn’t such a good horseman I wouldn’t even give him his tucker and clothes. Useless buggers. With that he spat the dust out of his mouth and rode ahead.

Although Bunjee didn’t understand all the words, he sensed the tension and dislike. He pressed himself into the leaves until he became invisible. He stayed in the tree for a long time and watched the fat baby goanna waddle down towards the dry river bed. The dust cloud from the riders was far away when he and Mary tracked the goanna and hauled it back to the camp.

That night Mary spoke to Jack, This boy is a good tracker, he found the goanna, tracked the blanket lizard, and uncovered the water in the creek bed. He will be a great man.

Five years later Percy Galbraith wrote to his wife: "There’s a black lad here who has uncanny skills. The stock camp use him to find the horses who slip their tether. He knows where the brumbies are running without any visible clues, and he is the first to find where the dingoes are getting into the house paddock. I’ll have to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t go running off with any of the wandering blacks that pass through.

It was the first time there were any cattle ready for the market. Percy shouted at his team boss, Get your blokes together and take that thirty head to Cloncurry. If you race them you’ll all be sacked. Get that tall fella from the camp to look after the horses and make sure your men come back with you! Be off with you now.

As they passed through Dajarra Jack was the first of his kind to see cattle being loaded on to railway trucks. He stayed at the very back of the herd, breathing heavily. Although he had gathered a little knowledge about trains, he was terrified of the engine as it hissed steamed and groaned, grinding its way backwards and forwards. His team headed overland to Cloncurry and he was pleased to be out of sight of the monster. The sale business was finished quickly and the team boss allowed no time for loitering..

Striding back to the camp Jack was disturbed to find the big boss there. He was shouting at Bunjee, You’ve gotta earn your keep around here. Tomorrow you get up to the kitchen and keep that wood box filled or you’ll get no tucker.

There seemed to be no satisfying the huge AGA cooker that dominated the kitchen. It was kept alight day and night. Bunjee piled the wood in the recess beside it, and returned to the gum tree where he swung the axe with a steady rhythm. His shoulders ached but he told himself, "This is just like carrying home a wallaby after a long hunt." That night Mary crushed some leaves and rubbed his arms and shoulders and he went to sleep without eating.

As the months went by Percy called Bunjee away from the wood-chopping more often. Bunjee, you come and find these cattle! Bunjee, show me where the dingoes live! Bunjee, where are the brumbies? Bunjee was a grown man when Percy Galbraith and his family went away.

As he walked back to his humpy one evening he paused and looked at the many flickering fires that showed him how the camp had grown. He sat in silence as he ate the food his woman had prepared. It was only later as they lay looking out at the stars that he spoke, They have wiped out our dreaming tracks. Not enough young people know their stories. Our cousins live on the edge of town and do not obey the laws. I must listen to eaglehawk dreaming. He got up to put some dung on the fire. Brushing away the mosquitoes he continued. I must keep the stories alive or the order of the rainbow serpent will be lost.

Back at the homestead the lights flickered as the generator lost its rhythm for a few minutes. Murdo McLean looked at his wife across the table and said, I don’t know what the hell that previous manager did. This place needs a damn good shake-up to get it going again.

It was into this raw and edgy environment that Louise was arriving.

CHAPTER ONE

The Departure

It was 1949 and Louise met Lilla on the first day at her new job in the Repatriation Department. They were thrown into the fray of matching war records with medical histories and appeasing their boss who would much rather be still giving commands in the field of war. Lilla was taller, older, with a ready smile that never quite hid the deep sadness in her eyes. Within two weeks they formed a bond of friendship, humour and the woundedness of loss in the aftermath of war. Within four weeks they were looking for a flat to share.

It did not take long. They found a sparsely furnished, part of a house with a brooding air, as if it held some deep dark secret. It had but four steps at the front and twenty five at the back leading to a bizarre bathroom. After that the stairs trailed off into a tangled mass of golden nasturtiums that trailed over everything in the deep gully. Louise breathed in their peppery perfume floating in the air. Neighbouring houses had huge open verandas, but not this one. Two large bedrooms opened on to the closed in section which provided a sort of apology for a kitchen, dining room and sitting room. No-one knew what it had been in the beginning, but now the owners rambled around in seven large rooms gloating over the rent obtained from the rest of the place.

Louise stood at the squeaky wooden gate looking back at the place that had been home for the last two years. Lilla had christened their living quarters The Nunnery and it still seemed to ring with the pent up laughter they had bestowed upon it. The smooth paint beneath her hand was a tactile memory that drew her back into past. The day she held fast to the gate when her father’s pre-embarkation leave was over. So this was yet another farewell.

Although they had already spent the morning confirming their friendship and making endless promises, Lilla almost leapt down the stairs to give her a final hug.

Oh, I will miss you Louise,