2011 - Theses - Flinders University

Life Writing Chapter SevenAdnyamathanha CountryTilcha creek, 1926Facing backwards in the wagon, Becky watches the sand-hills recede inch by inch in theirwake, until the ridges become a solid ocean of sand behind them. It was as if their fragilewheel tracks had never been, and their past was closing its eyes on them.Jack sees his wife’s face. ‘It’s a good place to come,’ he says.Becky nods, but does not shift her gaze.‘Yarta vandatha,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell you the land.’ 1 As the cart rocks its way west,the twosmall boys sometimes sit in the rocking cart, sometimes lie with their dark heads on theirmother’s lap, sometimes walk beside the cart with their tall kangaroo dogs or dart off into thesandy scrub after lizards or birds: but all the time listening to their father introduce them tothe country.‘That one!’ Jack points enthusiastically, catching the boys’ attention. ‘See the little bird?Willy Wagtail. We call him Indhidindhidi here. And that little turkey in that bush? That’sWalha. I’m going to catch him for tea in my nets. But that little black bird made that otherone sick: used a bone. 2 That’s true, too. Old Uncle Fred, he boned that white man washanging around his camp that time, back over there. Put it in the water and he drank it and gotsick. 3 ’ Jack looks meaningfully at Becky, who is watching as well as listening now. ‘But thatone here: you say his name?’‘Indi-din-did-ee!’ sing the boys, giggling at each other.‘You’re better than me,’ grimaces Becky, trying to get her tongue around it. ‘Indi, indi,di?’Then they all laugh at her.3