Adrian Hyland - Diamond Dove

Firstpublished in Great Britain in 2007 by

Quercus

21Bloomsbury Square

London

WCIA 2NS

Copyright 2006 by Adrian Hyland

The moralright of Adrian Hyland to be identified as the

author ofthis work has been asserted in accordance with the

Copyright,Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rightsreserved. No part of this publication may be

reproducedor transmitted in any form or by any means,

electronicor mechanical, including photocopy, recording,

or anyinformation storage and retrieval system, without

permissionin writing from the publisher.

A CIPcatalogue record for this book is

availablefrom the British Library

ISBN 1 84724178 6

(978 1 84724178 8)

This book isa work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,

organizations,places and events are either the product of the

author'simagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance

to actualpersons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely

coincidental.

10 987654321

Printed andbound in Great Britain by Clay's Ltd, St Ives pic.

Table of Contents

Readers familiar with the NorthernTerritory will recognise that I've taken liberties with time, geography, evenpolitics - if nothing else, the rednecks are no longer in office! While myportrayal of the Warlpuju is based upon insights gained during my years ofworking with a number of Central Australian communities, they do not exist: thepeople, the dreamings and the places described are inventions. The Warlpujulanguage is also mostly fabricated; it does, however, include some terms thatare common to the languages spoken across a wide area to the north of AliceSprings.

Aboriginal society is traditionallyorganised into 'sub-sections' denoted by 'skin names'. A person's skindetermines many important aspects of their relationships with others - from howthey should be addressed to whether they are eligible for marriage. In CentralAustralia's Indigenous communities this framework is still fundamental toeveryday life

Budju - attractiveyoung person

Jangala - skinname

Japanangka - skin name

Juntaka bird

kalu! - anexclamation

kantiya! - stop!

Karlujurru - diamond dove

Kirta owner

Kurlupartu cop

Kuminjayi - taboo name

Mamu devil

Manti - spiritfamiliar

Mtjiji - whitewoman

Nangali - skinname

Ngampartu father

Nungarayi - skin name

Papalurtu whitefeller

Parnparr - poorbugger

two-pella - two people

warriya crazy

warlakunjumana! - come here!

Wartuju fire

Wartujutu - fire-like crystal

Yuwayi - yes

I parked my little white ute on theoutskirts of the camp and sat there, looking out at the scatter of corrugatediron hovels.

There's enough people here, Ithought. Boys brawling over a flaccid football, girls bouncing a basketball ina cloud of dust, young men working on a car, pensioners chewing on the cud. Abare-arsed tacker raced past pushing a pram wheel with a length of wire.

Fifty, maybe sixty people all up. TheMoonlight Downs community.

They stopped what they were doing andstared at me. Every one of them.

I climbed out of my seat, stood bythe door.

'Er, hello' I called. My voicetrailed away unanswered.

The only up-front individual in theplace was a dog - a mangy leather jacket with weeping eyes and a snout like astubbed cigar which slunk up and sniffed my wheels.

A minute or two crept glacially by.

I took a look around. To the southwas a row of rust-red hills, to the north the scorched yellow spinifex plainsthat would eventually crumble and fade into the Plenty Desert. The camp wasnestled in between, its standout features a sidling windmill, a silver caravan,a long-drop dunny and a horse-yard made from lancewood posts. The amenitiesseemed to consist of a leaky tap and a solar-powered radio mounted on a pole.

Dust devils whirled, lifted scraps ofrubbish into the air.

Somewhere a child cried, somewhere acrow called. A trio of hungry-looking kite-hawks eyed me from the windmill.

We waited and watched. Maybe theyknew what we were waiting for, but I sure as hell didn't. We were miles fromnowhere. The nearest town, Bluebush, was four hours of rough roads away, AliceSprings another five beyond that. Even so, there was a nagging voice inside myhead telling me to turn around and go back the way I'd come.

Fat flies came hounding out of thegreen water at the base of the tap. A toddler sat in the puddle and picked atthe number eleven under his nose. A woman took out her teeth and inspectedthem, possibly for stress fractures or white ants. A burly, middle- aged blokewith an eye-patch, a fur hat and a T-shirt with a picture of a frog in a bunabove the caption 'Cane-toad Burger' sat on the bonnet of a wrecked car andtapped two boomerangs together. The effect was more menacing than musical.

Then I realised who we were waitingfor. He came crawling out of one of the rabbit-hutch humpies, scratched hispants and stretched his thin frame out to its full six feet. He shaded his eyesagainst the late-morning sun, squinted in my direction, then began to walk thesame way. He was bow-legged and barefoot, wearing, as he'd always worn, achecked shirt, a white beard and a look of bemused anticipation.

Lincoln Flinders.

I scooped my blanket up from theseat, threw it around my shoulders, kicked away a couple of dogs and took astep forward.

When he was ten feet away he paused,examined me more closely.

What would he have seen? A shortwoman in a blue denim dress with a mass of wiry black hair, a tawny complexion,a pair of apprehensive eyes. Anyone he recognised? I should be so lucky.

A stubbly smile crinkled his beard.

'Why, ello h'Em'ly!' he croaked, hisbrown eyes beaming.

A wave of relief swept through me.The years had taken a toll on his teeth but not his powers of observation. Ihadn't seen him for over a decade, and he sounded like I'd just stepped out fora smoke.

'Hello, Lincoln.'

He shook my hand, put an arm aroundmy shoulders and said, 'I shoulda knowed you straightaway from that ol redblanket.'

When I was growing up, the blanket Iwas wearing had gone everywhere with me: in winter it was my coat, in summer myshade.

'I've been out the Jenny, Lincoln.Visiting Dad. He's been keeping it clean for me.'

'Mmmm,' he nodded. 'I see. YourMoonlight blanket, look like.'

He turned around and yelled at themilling masses: 'Hey you mob o' lazy myalls, come say ello to li'l h'Emily.' Ismiled at the heavily aspirated pronunciation of my name. 'H'Emily Tempest!That Nangali belong ol Motor Jack. Get over an make 'er welcome! She comehome!'

Which they did; and which, for a dayor two, I almost thought I had.