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When Jarra arrived back at the Coroner's building a crowd of Aboriginal people were waiting; several police cars were parked directly in front. Art Carmichael stepped from his car and waved for Barry to stop. Barry rolled the window down.
'What's up Art?'
Art looked past Barry to Jarra.
'I'm afraid I've got some bad news.'
'What is it... what's happened?' Barry asked, before turning the car engine off and getting out of the wagon.
The policeman fixed his gaze on Jarra as he walked up close.
Stepping from the car Jarra spoke slowly, 'What is it?'
He stood uneasy, his heart draining the blood from his head.
'It's your wife Jarra,' the tall man started and his chin fell to his chest. '... there's been a fire at your house... she's been killed mate.'
Jarra's legs weakened and his knees gave way; he collapsed sideways from severe shock. They rushed him to hospital immediately.
––––––––
Three days later Jarra was assisted from the hospital by friends so he could attend Millie's funeral. It was a traditional ceremony.
His wider clan, relations and friends had come from miles around, people Jarra hadn't seen for years. The day Millie died the old men of her tribe began with the clapping of the sticks at the clan burial site calling up the spirits. Then the women sang for the next two days, setting the tone of mourning. They sang about her being pregnant at her death and of her unknown killers - including angry, unfounded accusations as to who they might be - as was normal. When the main group solemnly placed small gifts near the ancient clan waterhole, Jarra left by himself to lay a small wildflower at the nearby burial site. Standing there alone he spoke softly to the mound of earth. He left soon after, still shaking and aided by friends. The weeping and laments of the women continued for a further day but their tone and lyric had changed, it had become more personal and sad beyond mourning.
As in tradition, a long period of mortuary rites followed Millie's funeral. During this time Millie's body would release its spirit and wait to be allocated a spirit centre. Millie's death and the manner in which she had died, devastated Jarra. He could not function, nor think - he would drop out, go walkabout.
Jarra rolled from his bed before sunrise and was on the road as the star-filled night sky hinted at turning blue. He had stayed overnight at his sister's house, she knew he planned to leave in the early morning. He asked her not to bother getting up early to see him off, he needed to experience the waking earth alone.
Jarra pulled the old Holden he had borrowed from his sister off the road at the forty-mile rock as they had arranged - she would get a ride out to pick it up later in the day. Striding to the line of scrubby trees, he stripped most of the buttons from his shirt as he ripped it open at the front. He pulled his arms free and without breaking stride or looking back threw it high over his shoulder. He walked another hundred paces before stopping to remove the rest of his clothing.
Jarra closed his eyes and raised his head, the air from the western desert traced through his hair, refreshing his ordered city mind with the cultured reasoning of his ancestors. He reached down and took some earth in his hands and rubbed it under his armpits. It was cold on his skin. He took up more, rubbing it between the cheeks of his buttocks into his anus and around his genitals, then he lightly dusted himself all over - his face, neck, legs, arms - and rubbed some into his hair and scalp. He did this to mask his man-scent from the bush creatures. Out here he was both hunter and prey once more, as men of his clan had been for thousands of years before him. He was a fiercely determined man. He would survive.
He picked up a short, wooden stick and scraped at its surface with a stone, clearing away all the dead stems, creating a bundi, a club for use as a weapon. Without looking up he took a reading from the sun and began to measure his step as he walked a zig-zag route south west, toward his father's country.
He walked for miles, his mind lost in reflection, asking questions he found impossible to broach in the city.
Dense grass and thick clusters of trees assured Jarra water was near; then he saw a river ahead, cutting a shallow notch across the rutted ravine. Before he reached the water he climbed a tree, selected a branch and snapped it skilfully from the trunk. With push and pulling motions he peeled away the strong fibre from within the bark to make twine. Next he found two straight sticks and began to fashion himself a long and a short spear. Though fully engaged in this tribal craft, he could not control his thoughts which drifted incessantly back to Millie.
He worked faster, feverishly.
He imagined Millie lying asleep in bed, flames engulfing their bedroom. He hoped she had been asleep and became asphyxiated by smoke, or the roof collapsed and knocked her unconscious so she felt no pain and didn't experience the dreaded fear of imminent death.
When he imagined her burning body it was as if he were watching a Hollywood movie - he felt detached, at a distance, outside the room, outside reality. His eyes would grow weary, his vision would become blurred, his mind desperate for respite. Then his thoughts reeled back to his own survival: animals would be at this waterhole so he needed to be careful. While he had to hunt his food this day, he respected that crocodiles lived here and that he was their prey.
Several water birds were on the shallow, slow-moving waters, but Jarra knew with certainty that crocs and numerous deadly snakes lurked here. Not far away a mob of short-bodied, brown kangaroos grazed adjacent to a flock of sturdy, upright emu. He planned to take an emu for his food and prepare it in such a way that it might last him for two more days. At the water's edge he pulled some clay from the banks and again rubbed it all over himself to hide his scent. Rippling water to his right told him crocodiles were below its surface. Cautiously, he crossed to the other side and was only a short distance from the river bank when he heard loud, splashing sounds. He turned and saw a waterfowl being taken by a mid-sized croc.
Looking ahead, he walked on determining which emu he would take. He began a whispered chant, a traditional apology to the animal, as he began to stalk it.
In the early evening he made camp on a slight rise that backed onto an outcrop of rocks. He had carried the carcass of the emu for most of the day, grazing on berries and nuts as he moved across the land. He made a fire and prepared the bird for cooking.
As he began eating, he saw smoke from several other fires, some he knew were probably kinsmen. One group signalled an invitation for others to join in their abundance of food, and expressed their need for company.
Jarra's depleted spirit would not allow him to rejoin society, not yet.
Early night: the grey of evening advanced to darkness; large flocks of parakeets screeched loudly as they congregated in trees near the water; Jarra let his fire die and his eyes adjusted to the low level of light; nocturnal ground animals scratched and scurried around him.
After he had eaten, Jarra gathered long-stemmed grasses and arranged the pile into a bed and fell back into it. He stared longingly at the stars. He felt trapped: inside a scientific, European educated mind his traditional metaphysical spirit struggled for freedom.
The light from millions of stars crackled at him through space: lights from a flat, expanding universe. They provided the same stability his ancestors had relied on: knowing nothing of time wrinkles in space, they had ventured forth relying on the star's positions in the night skies to guide them.
The warming head rush he felt when slipping from waking to sleep was always welcomed by Jarra, he waited for it. He was trained to hold his mind at that state between the two, the place from which mystics and geniuses mine their material.
Charismatic men and beautiful women draped in flowing white robes greeted him with open arms, he held back shyly, uncertain.
'He's scared,' one man said to another. 'Let's walk awhile.'
'Come on mate, come with us we won't bite,' one of the men said smiling.
Jarra knew he hadn't seen any of these people before. Almost every time lately it was different, but that didn't deter him from visiting.
'Where will we walk?' he asked.
As he looked about there weren't any paths. Whiteness glowed all around; they were standing on white nothingness.
'Follow them.' A tall woman pointed.
In what appeared to be seconds - but he knew it had taken much longer - they were inside a long, white room with walls lined with shelves. On the shelves were appliances like he had never seen; some flashed coloured lights in the shape of symbols, characters or letters. Everyone spoke at the same time and he marvelled that he understood every word from every person. They took pleasure in telling him about themselves, the future, the past and himself, simultaneously - blissfully bathing him with knowledge.
Then he moved, drifting slowly from this mind place to deep sleep.
Morning birdsong disconnected Jarra from his sleep. It was a fresh, new day with the anticipated warmness of the previous one. He felt more refreshed than he had for months. The low angled light created dark and light sides on everything it touched; the grass, bushes, trees, rocks. He stood, raised both arms high and called out loud.
'Yo, yo, yo...,' he yelled across the plain. 'Yo!'
Confirming to all within earshot, and to himself, that he was part of all this.
Jarra's feet had become soft from wearing shoes but after walking for nine days he felt them becoming tougher. He had travelled slightly more than two hundred kilometres. He looked battered, weary and dishevelled but he felt refreshed, balanced and renewed as he tramped into Mutta's camp.
Mutta had been laying on his back but lifted himself up on one elbow; Akuna sat cross legged as they watched Jarra approaching. Both smiled approvingly at his nakedness, the weapons at his hip and the food carried on his shoulder. It was clear to them he had been on walkabout. They saw he wore a mask of restored self-respect.
They were warmed, their cultural pride reaffirmed by the unexpected sight. Tearful, they bustled to fuss over their cherished young friend.