Chapter 9: Cunnamulla

I called Patrick after dinner. After telling him about my trip, I told him that I’d visited CACH and met Wilgar.

“I’ve heard of him. He’s an elder.”

“So he said.”

“You’re aware of the CACH’s role?”

“No, but you’re going to tell me.”

“OK. Back in 1999 the Queensland Department of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Policy and Development reported that Cunnamulla’s indigenous community suffered from a high level of domestic violence stemming from an over reliance by the police and the courts on punishment and detention to deal with Indigenous offenders.

“So the Far West Indigenous Family Violence Service was established in Cunnamulla. Primary health care was only instituted recently. You should talk to a woman named Cheryl, if you can.”

“Perhaps tomorrow.”

“She and her partner both work for the service.”

“I’m meeting Wilgar again in the morning.”

“And?”

“And I was wondering what I might do for them. We’re sort of related, you know.”

“What?”

“Well, Cunnamulla was the rail terminus and your grandfather’s grandfather came to Queensland to work on the railroad. And, of course, the first European in the area was Thomas Mitchell in 1846...”

“ ... and the station was in Mitchell,” he interrupted. “I get it.”

“So, can I offer them something?”

“My guess is no matter what, they’re short of money. Cash is always useful. How much are you thinking?”

“Wasn’t really. A brick [$20] in a jar isn’t appropriate.”

“Got your chequebook?”

“Yes.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Do I sound better?”

“Yes. Your stops since Epsilon have sounded more like my Dad. The one with a PSM and a scar on his left arm.”

“Yes. Hunting kangaroo and monitor for the band was public service, I suppose.”

“Well, then. Give the health service ten thousand in memory of Rowena Scott Hollister.”

“Really?”

“Didn’t mom treat Jimmy? Didn’t mom teach bush medicine? Wasn’t mom nungungi?”

“Right. Thank you. Sometimes you really are nungungi.”

“You took me out to Charleville and to meet my python.”

“True.”

“Call me again in a few days. Wherever you decide to go.”

“Right. Love to Rachel.”

“Of course.”

I left the Billabong quite early and walked over to watch the river. And to think about all the rivers flowing through my arid country. It was the Paroo and the Warrego, the Barcoo and the Wilson, Pike Creek and the Ballonne, and a hundred others. All flowing into the Murray-Darling system.

The Murray-Darling drains about a sixth of Australia, but the area averages under 5% of the rainfall. Currently, 4 major reservoirs, 14 lock and weir structures, and five coastal barrages interject the water flowing down the Murray-Darling, slowing the flow yet further.

When I got to CACH, Wilgar was waiting with a woman he introduced as Cheryl. “My son told me that your partner was here, too.”

She seemed startled. “He’s workin’ somewheres.”

We sat down in a small conference room. “Tea or coffee?” Wilgar asked.

“Coffee, please. I only drink tea from a billie.”

Cheryl went to the door and spoke to someone outside.

He laughed. “You appear better than you were yesterday.”

“Yes. I spoke with my son.”

“The nungungi. Did he take away a burden?”

“He suggested part of a method.” I leaned forward. “Do you know the Dreamtime story of how the kestrels brought back the life of Wildu, the eagle?”

“Yes.”

“And Wildu revenged himself upon Wakala and Kinita.”

“Yes.”

“Some weeks ago, my wife Weena-nungungi was taken. I have been traveling seeking revenge.”

“Revenge is not a good emotion.”

There was a knock on the door and a woman brought in a tray with cups, a coffeepot, a creamer and sugar bowl, and a plate of biscuits. She put them on the table and went out.

“You are right. Revenge is the action of inflicting hurt or harm on someone for an injury or wrong. But I don’t mean retribution nor vengeance. I have a need to do to alleviate the taking.”

“The Lord told us to turn the other cheek. He told Peter to put up his sword.”

I turned to Cheryl. “Do you tell the women who come to your Violence Service to turn the other cheek?”

“No.”

“What do your – uh – victims need?”

“Food and shelter. Clothing. Support.”

“And the Service?”

“Money for the supplies.”

“My son, the Carpet Python, suggests that I give the Service ten thousand dollars in Memory of his mother, Weena-nungungi, Rowena Scott Hollister.”

Cheryl gasped.

“That would be a sweet memorial,” said Wilgar. “Your coffee has become cold.”

“Can CACH use such a donation?”

“It would enable us to reach out to ten in need for a year,” said Cheryl.