Epilogue

The old cassette tape looked no different from the hundreds of others Hannah was sorting through, deep in the bowels of the Anthropology Department of Adelaide University. The only feature that gave it individuality was the scribbled title on the front sticker: Frank Tjamatiri of the Pitjantjatjara, Central Arrernte People, March 1971.

This was Hannah’s third week listening to old and creaky tapes and deciding which of the two boxes to put them in before they were either trashed or transferred onto disk for safekeeping, and she had hardly made a dent. She sighed and peered into the boxes. The one on her right, labelled ‘Trash’ was half full, while the other on her left with the label ‘To State Archives’ held only a few chosen cassettes.

It was a summer job advertised on the university website and, as a third-year anthropology undergraduate, she thought it could be the perfect way to make some much-needed extra money while keeping up her studies. However, three weeks of listening to hardly discernible voices from the past, in broken and pidgin English, sometimes with a translator, was pushing her to the limits of her patience.

Hannah looked around and, against all the rules, lit another cigarette and thought about her relationship with Oliver as she shoved the cassette into the machine. The familiar voice of the long-forgotten researcher completed his usual introduction and then the repeated clicks of the tape being switched off and on again. Hannah inhaled deeply and smiled to herself as she imagined the researcher over forty years ago, positioning his naive Aboriginal subject for the recording. Another couple of clicks and then, surprisingly, a clear, strong voice filled the room.

‘My name is Frank Tjamatiri of the Pitjantjatjara. All of us fellas are Arrernte. We have always lived in these places. I was …’

‘Maybe explain why you speak English so well, Frank,’ interrupted the researcher, patronisingly.

‘I was taught to speak the whitefella language when I was at Finke River Mission when I was a boy. I dunno the year, but about 1909. I always worked with the whitefellas. We worked on Stuart Station …’

‘Can you tell me about your traditional customs, Frank?’ said the researcher, who clearly had heard enough working stories.

Hannah was tempted to stop the tape and bin it. However, Frank’s strong voice held her in. ‘Our people have always lived here. We are now what we were then and what we will be. We are Arrernte. I am the storyteller, my father was the storyteller, his father and his father’s father were the storytellers. We are the storytellers from the Dreamtime.’

‘Can you tell me a story, Frank?’

There was a long silence. Enough for Hannah to look and make sure the tape was still turning.

‘After the spirits had departed, Amangu lifted the gift from the ground. The spirits had covered the gift with spirit skin to keep the gift warm. Kangaroo said not to touch it as the gift was for the Noongar. However, Amangu was curious to touch the gift that the spirits had left. It was not a boomerang or a hunting stick. Kookaburra said to return the gift to the hole under his tree but Amangu wanted to show his family and friends. So he carried the gift carefully for many days to his family. He never let it go. He was afraid to put it down in case Emu or Wallaby took it from him and returned it to the place of the spirits.’

Hannah could tell that Frank was in a sort of trance as he recited the story that had been handed down the generations. His voice had a melodious rhythm to it. Hannah could imagine his people listening, enchanted, when he recited in his own language.

‘Amangu showed his family the gift the spirits had left. The people laughed because when they removed the spirit skin they saw that the gift had a mouth they could open and close. Inside the mouth was spirit bark. Kookaburra who had flown with Amangu said this was a bad omen, as the spirits would need their bark. The people agreed with Kookaburra and chased Amangu away with the gift. He walked for many days into the morning sun. One day he saw Kalaamaya who was hunting. He gave the gift to Kalaamaya. Kalaamaya walked with the gift but Kookaburra told him the story so he gave the gift to Nyanga. Nyanga walked for many days with the gift. Kookaburra told him the story so he gave the gift to Nakako who was Arrernte. Kookaburra told Nakako the story of the spirits and Nakako told his people. The people told Nakako to take the gift and to put it where the spirits could find it and return it to the hole under the tree. Nakako took the gift and walked for many days until he came to the sacred mountain. I can go no further, said Kookaburra, for this is the sacred mountain. Nakako climbed Uluru until he reached the summit. He told the spirits that he had buried the gift on the sacred mountain and not to be angry with people. He said people are children and they do not understand the way of spirits. When he returned to his people, they told him that Kookaburra had gone back to his home.’

‘Okay, thank you Frank, that’s very interesting.’

The tape clicked off. Hannah stared at the machine and took another deep drag on her cigarette. She pressed the eject button and pulled the tape from the machine. She placed it back in the plastic cassette cover with the identification label, ‘Frank Tjamatiri of the Pitjantjatjara, Central Arrernte People March 1971.’

This job is such a downer, she thought. I might see if Julia wants to take it on. I’ve had enough.

She held the cassette in her hand and looked at the two boxes. Trash or State Archives? As she tried to decide, her mind turned again to the question of whether her relationship with Oliver was over. It had all seemed a bit ‘Dreamtime’ recently. Nothing solid about it.

She stared at the cassette.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said, and on a whim, threw it into the box on her left.