Read an extract from A Piece of Red Cloth by Leonie Norrington, Merrkiyawuy Ganambarr-Stubbs, Djawa Burarrwanga and Djawundil Maymuru.
It’s Gawatha time, early wet season. The sky is heavy and low, and the sea is grey and turbulent, when Yolŋu people return to their encampment at Bolartji Bay. Batjani and her sister-wives refresh their rain houses, clear the debris from the sand, and call out to greet their neighbours. As the day fades, Batjani slips out of the encampment alone and climbs to the top of Wayli’roy sand dune. A cool breeze ruffles her white hair as she builds a small fire and prepares to cook. She presses her legs into the sand to make full contact with the earth and recites the songs and kinship lines that make her this Country, make her Bolartji Bay. As she leans forward to turn a fish wrapped in paperbark, a flock of crested terns sweeps into the bay. She smiles and looks up to greet them. The birds lift as one. Then with a karrak, karrak, they dive towards her.
‘Wah!’ She ducks. ‘What?’ she yells at their backs, her skin tingling.
The birds lift again, circle above her, then they head out to sea like a volley of three-pronged spears.
What is wrong? Batjani thinks. They say the Foreigners are coming. But we know the Foreigners are coming. We meet them here every Gawatha time. Why be so menacing? What are they trying to tell me?
A sudden shadow appears beside her and she jerks around.
It’s her brother-in-law, Waditju, standing a little distance away, waiting for her to acknowledge him. His beard is stained red and cut to a point in the Foreigner’s style.
She turns her face away. You think that ochre beard makes you look exotic, you vain, arrogant, stupid man. He is responsible for her and her co-wives at the moment while her husband is away on business. But by Law, he should only speak to her through his wife, not in person, so she ignores him.
He moves closer, his shadow stiff with impatience, insisting. She’d like to defy him, but he is a brutal man and, if her husband dies, Batjani and her co-wives will become Waditju’s wives. Any slight he feels now will be punished with vengeance when he gets the chance, so she forces herself to lift her gaze and let him enter.
He walks in, his handsome face averted slightly in deference to the Law. ‘Your granddaughter Garritji will marry soon,’ he says.
Rage rears up inside Batjani. How dare you speak to me as if I am your wife? My husband is not dead. But she answers evenly. ‘Garritji is not yet bleeding,’ she says.
‘Women can marry before they bleed,’ he says. ‘Djapalitjarri is expecting it.’
He’s spoken to Djapalitjarri? Her anger spikes again. But then a prickle of fear. Why is he interested in Garritji’s marriage? He can’t gain from it. It was finalised years ago.
‘Your husband will not be back,’ Waditju says, encouraged by her silence. ‘He may be gone still many moons, so I will officiate.’
‘I expect my husband tomorrow,’ Batjani lies, her voice confident, wishing it was true.
Waditju starts, ‘He came to you?’ he asks, trying to catch Batjani’s eyes, to see if she is telling the truth. She will not break the Law and meet his gaze, but she turns a composed honest face in his direction. Sweat glistens on Waditju’s forehead and cheeks, his movements are quick and uncertain. Batjani can smell his fear, but before she can inquire, he says, ‘We will start marriage proceedings when the Foreigners arrive,’ and walks away without ending the conversation in the formal way.
Probably too ignorant to know the proper protocol, Batjani scoffs, but she shivers and a shroud of unease settles over her.
Extracted from A Piece of Red Cloth by Leonie Norrington,
Merrkiyawuy Ganambarr-Stubbs, Djawa Burarrwanga and Djawundil Maymuru.
A Piece of Red Cloth
by Leonie Norrington, Merrkiyawuy Ganambarr-Stubbs, Djawa Burarrwanga and Djawundil Maymuru
A powerful, unique novel based on the oral history of the Yolŋu people from north-east Arnhem Land that tells the story of a grandmother who stops at nothing to protect her granddaughter.
Comments