The Girl with No Name

  Puffin Books

  The Girl With No Name

  ‘Matthew stood on the top of the rocky ridge and shaded his eyes with his hand. He was suddenly acutely aware of all his senses. He felt the warmth of the sun striking his flesh, and the light wind that dried the sweat on his neck. He heard the distant, isolated sound of a bird calling once. In his stomach he felt the clutching of fear. He was lost.’

  Matthew sets off alone to camp at Goanna Gorge. He is determined to find the Aboriginal rock paintings he knows are hidden there. But his plans fall apart when he realises he cannot find his way back. The strange wild country of the Kimberley, which Matthew thought he knew so well, seems to mock him with its secrets – until he meets the girl with no name …

  Other books by Pat Lowe

  Jilji – Life in the Great Sandy Desert (with Jimmy Pike)

  Yinti – Desert Child (with Jimmy Pike)

  Feeling the Heat

  In the Desert

  The Girl With No Name

  Pat Lowe

  Puffin Books

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (Australia)

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  Penguin Group (NZ)

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Penguin Books Australia, 1994

  Copyright © Pat Lowe, 1994

  Illustrations Copyright © Vivienne Goodman, 1994

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  puffin.com.au

  ISBN: 978-1-74-228401-9

  To Kim and B.J.

  Glossary of Walmajarri Words

  Jampijin – a male subsection or ‘skin’ name

  kartiya – non-Aboriginal person; white person

  Kumunyjayi – no name; used to refer to a person with the same name as someone who has recently died

  Napangarti – a female subsection or ‘skin’ name

  piyirnwarnti – people

  tartaku – gall that grows on some eucalypt trees; sometimes called ‘bush apple’ or ‘bush coconut’

  warawu – exclamation of surprise and pleasure or dismay

  warntu – parcel made of grass, used for storing food

  Author’s note

  There were many languages in the north of Australia before white people settled there, and some of them are still spoken, especially in the more remote communities.

  Walmajarri is one of the languages from the Great Sandy Desert. There are old and even middle-aged people who were born in the desert and still remember traditional desert life. After white occupation of the north, Walmajarri people gradually left the desert and were dispersed to a number of different pastoral stations and settlements. Today the language is spoken, alongside other languages, in widely scattered places, including a coastal community at La Grange, desert communities around Balgo, and in and around the town of Fitzroy Crossing.

  You will notice that the Aboriginal characters in this book have their own way of speaking English, and that the younger people speak it a bit differently from the older people. Perhaps you can work out why this might be so.

  The places described in the book are based on, but are not exactly the same as, real places. The characters are invented, but the things they do are drawn from real life.

  Contents

  one

  Lost

  two

  Found

  three

  No-name

  four

  Home

  five

  No-name Again

  six

  A Mystery Solved

  seven

  Jampijin

  eight

  Back to the Bush

  nine

  Emu in the Sky

  ten

  Surprise Encounter

  eleven

  A Shock

  twelve

  I’ll Come Back!

  one

  Lost

  Matthew Stood on the top of the rocky ridge and shaded his eyes with his hand. He looked out in the direction he thought he had come from, over the endless stretch of red earth and rock and dull green grass, the few short trees and scattered wattle bushes. He strained to make out the dip of the valley, but it had disappeared somewhere in amongst the rocks and strewn boulders. He was suddenly acutely aware of all his senses. He felt the warmth of the sun striking his flesh, and the light wind that dried the sweat on his neck. He heard the distant, isolated sound of a bird calling once. In his stomach he felt the clutching of fear. He was lost.

  Matthew had left his home early that morning, even before his mother was up. He had taken his bicycle with his sleeping-bag tied behind the saddle, and a backpack containing food and a bottle of water, and had ridden south. It was rare in the far north of the country for the weather to be cool enough for cycling long distances, and Matthew had promised himself an expedition during the July school holidays. At this time of year he could count on warm, fine days, cool nights and early mornings. ‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ he had told his mother the previous evening. She had agreed reluctantly.

  Earlier in the holidays, Matthew and his parents had been through the question of whether or not he was old enough to go camping out alone. His father had taken his side. ‘He’s not a kid any more,’ he had said. ‘I left home and got my first job when I was not much older than he is.’

  ‘What if anything happens to him?’

  ‘He’s as safe out there as he is riding to school every day. There’s some risk in everything. You can’t keep an eye on him for ever.’

  ‘The Kimberley’s not like Perth,’ put in Matthew. ‘There’s not much traffic, and the only people likely to be around are locals or tourists. Lots of kids from my class go camping without their parents.’

  ‘Not on their own,’ said his mother firmly, with a meaningful look at her husband.

  ‘It’s an adventure,’ pleaded Matthew. ‘I’ve always wanted to see what it’s like to sleep by myself in the bush. Goanna Gorge is only about thirty kilometres away – it’s not as if I’m going miles out into the desert or something. It’s just for one night, and you’ll know exactly where I am.’

  ‘He’s a sensible kid,’ his father added, ignoring his wife’s look. ‘We’ve encouraged him to be independent. No good trying to make a sook out of him.’ He looked at his son as if sizing him up. Matthew had his mother’s fair
curly hair and blue eyes, but he was going to be tall like his father, with the same large, capable hands.

  In the end, Matthew’s mother had given in. She may have hoped that, having won the battle in principle, Matthew would forget the idea. But when her son announced his intention of camping out, she did not raise any further objections. Even so, he could read her feelings from her face, and tried to reassure her.

  ‘I’ll ride out as far as Goanna Gorge and camp there. I can drink from the pool, and refill my water-bottle for the ride back.’

  ‘What time will you be home?’ Matthew could tell his mother was making an effort to sound matter-of-fact, as she busied herself with some papers on the table. He put his arm around her small waist and gave her a hug.

  ‘No later than sunset,’ he had promised.

  The ride to Goanna Gorge on his new mountain bike seemed longer than Matthew had expected, and in spite of the chilly morning air he soon began to sweat. He liked this feeling of exertion, the sense of freedom and purpose as he glided down the empty road. The first part was mostly downhill, but every so often the road would rise again, and Matthew had to toil upwards to the crest, then coast thankfully down the other side.

  The sun rose above the hills as he went, and the birds going about their morning business of feeding and pairing were the only other beings Matthew saw. He was half aware, even so, that the long brittle grass by the roadside was seething with the activity of myriads of little creatures – reptiles, insects, spiders and centipedes – that lived within its shelter.

  Later, Matthew passed a couple of cars towing trailers. The drivers waved at him, and he lifted a casual hand in reply. At heart, he despised tourists. He tried to remind himself that they were only out trying to enjoy themselves, but the travelling of tourists always seemed pointless to him – driving from one place to another simply to look at it. When he was old enough to travel, Matthew decided, he would only go to places off the beaten track, and he would always travel with a purpose, and for the sake of real adventure.

  Today’s expedition had a special purpose, besides the bike ride and the adventure of camping out alone. Matthew had heard that there were rock paintings somewhere in Goanna Gorge. His father, who was an officer at the local prison, had been told about them by one of the prisoners. The man had described the place to find them: downstream from the pool and in line with a particular boab tree. Matthew had said nothing to his father at the time, but he made up his mind to find the paintings one day.

  The unmade road to Goanna Gorge left the main highway and wound uphill again for the last two kilometres. The whole stretch was strewn with loose rocks, and the going was hard. Fearing for his tyres, Matthew dismounted a couple of times and pushed his bike. But progress like this was slow and scarcely less strenuous than riding, so he soon mounted again.

  By the time he reached the top of Goanna Gorge, Matthew was thirsty and ready for a rest. He left his bike chained to a tree and slipped the straps of his pack off his shoulders, took out his water-bottle and had a long drink. He stood for a moment at the edge of the cliff, looking down the sheer drop into the valley below. Then he shouldered his pack once more and started to climb down the cliff steps to the rockhole.

  At this dry time of year the waterfall that fell twenty metres into the rockhole was reduced to a trickle, and the level of water in the pool had fallen since he was last there. Dragonflies and other insects darted across the surface. Birds disturbed by Matthew’s arrival called from the safety of their rocky perches. There was a plop! as a large fish broke the surface unseen and fell back again.

  Matthew took off all his clothes and lowered himself into the pool. The first shock of the cold water on his overheated body drove the breath out of him. He gasped aloud and swam fast across the pool to the waterfall. He felt for the smooth rock that provided a seat underneath, and sat chest deep in the pool for a few moments, allowing the little stream to fall on his head and fill his eyes and ears. He cupped his hands in front of his face, directing water into his mouth. It tasted earthy. Then he slid down again into the water and swam back and climbed out onto the rock. He looked around. The sides of the valley rose steeply but brokenly. Here and there the rocks had fallen away, leaving narrow cracks and ledges. In these unlikely places plants clung and flourished.

  On a broader ledge about halfway up the valley wall stood a young boab tree. It seemed to be doing well in spite of its perilous and infertile position. Trees clung to other ledges, too small to hold them. Their exposed roots went down over the rocks to find a soil-filled niche somewhere below.

  Matthew unzipped his backpack and pulled out a sandwich, devouring it hungrily. An ant, big as a beetle, discovered the crumbs he let fall, and raced off with one of them held up triumphantly between its mandibles.

  Matthew knelt by the pool and scooped a few handfuls of water to his mouth. As he straightened up, his mind suddenly relaxed, free of thought, allowing his senses to be filled by the nature around him until, momentarily, he became part of it. Then his self-awareness returned, and with it his feeling of purpose. It was time to start looking for the rock paintings.

  First, he stowed his pack and sleeping-bag in the crevice between two rocks, where they were hidden from sight by long grass and wattle bushes. He clipped his water-bottle onto his belt, stuffed an apple in one pocket and a packet of dried fruit and nuts in the other, and started off.

  The valley was dry, but Matthew headed downstream from the pool, where water flowed during the rainy season. As he picked his way over the boulders he kept his eye on the western wall of the valley, looking for likely caves or galleries where the paintings might be. From time to time he glanced over towards the eastern wall, hoping to recognise the boab tree that would give him his bearings.

  When Matthew had listened to his father’s description of the place as the prisoner had given it to him, he had pictured so clearly in his mind’s eye the flat valley wall and the lone boab tree standing opposite that he felt sure he would recognise it as soon as he saw it. Now that he was down in the valley itself the scene was quite different. Not only could he pick out no obvious caves or sheer stretch of rock wall, but there were boab trees scattered here and there all through the valley. How could he possibly know which was the right one? His confidence began to fade.

  After perhaps an hour of walking and scrambling, Matthew noticed that he was coming to the end of the valley. He must have missed the place he was looking for. He sat on a rock and looked back up the gorge in the direction of the now out-of-sight pool.

  If I wanted to make a rock painting, he said to himself, where would I do it?

  This thought brought home to him how little he knew about Aboriginal people.

  I wonder if they’d have gone for the easiest place? What were they painting for, anyway? They might have wanted their paintings to be hidden, not out in the open where everyone could see them. Matthew remembered hearing about secret places, where only the initiated were allowed to go. He had seen photos of paintings in caves. But his father hadn’t said anything about a cave. He began to feel disheartened.

  Suddenly he felt sure that he could see the answer. Some way back and across the valley, behind a fall of boulders that had screened it from him when he had walked past, was a slight overhang. Beneath it the rock face was sheer.

  It’s a natural gallery! thought Matthew, holding back his excitement, only half-believing himself. He picked his way over the boulders in the valley floor, then climbed fallen rock until he was standing almost under the overhang. It was higher than it had appeared from the distance, and the gallery wall underneath was less smooth, with many uneven breaks in the rock face. Even so, this presented the only likely surface for painting he had seen so far. He turned and looked across the valley to the other side. There, prominent against the skyline, was a tall young boab tree.

  A little more clambering upwards over loose rocks, and Matthew reached a ledge at the foot of the sandstone gallery. At first he saw nothing b
ut the natural weathering of the rock; then, suddenly and unmistakably, there appeared in front of him, in colours that blended with the rock itself, the distinct outlines of paintings.

  ‘I’ve found them!’ murmured Matthew, with the thrill of discovery. Although he knew that other white people must have been there before him, in that lonely, unchanging spot he could imagine himself the first explorer ever to have stood there.

  The red ochre paintings were outlined in white, which picked them out against the lighter red of the rock. Side by side, they covered most of the area beneath the overhang. Matthew made out the shapes of individual figures, including several haloed beings similar to the Wandjina he knew from books. There was a pair of reptiles that might have been crocodiles, or perhaps lizards, legs splayed out. A series of smaller figures formed a frieze, and here and there were stencils that had been produced by spraying ochre over a hand held flat against the rock, like the artist’s signature.

  When he was sure he had seen all the paintings there were to be seen, Matthew sat for a while, savouring his lone achievement, and thought about them. How old were the paintings? He tried to imagine who the artists were, and what their lives might have been like. They had been right here, where he was sitting now. He could almost feel their presence. Matthew pictured the artists as young men wearing headbands, such as he had seen in books, who left their spears leaning nearby against the rock while they worked. He could imagine older, grey-bearded men watching them with a critical eye.

  Or maybe the old men were the painters, Matthew thought now. They could have been using the rock like a blackboard, to teach important stories to the younger people. He knew that much about Aboriginal society: the elders were the ones with the wisdom and knowledge, which they passed on in stages to the next generation.