Butterflies and Demons. Eva Chapman

as he writhed in agony from the wound. Hungering for her own children, she cradled him tenderly until death released him. At night while her captors snored, she walked down to the sea and sluiced out her insides, to rid her body of the fluids spilled so carelessly into her precious place – a place prepared for love and motherhood by the secrets of the women in her clan, especially by her kammammi, her maternal grandmother. She held that dear face in her mind’s eye, as she bathed in the cleansing sea.

      Kakirra, the moon, had risen full and cast her shimmering light over Kirrila’s body, helping her to feel beautiful again. Kirrila’s name meant ‘the shine of the full moon’. She had been given this name because she was born when the moon was fully pregnant. Kirrila grew up with a special affinity to Kakirra, and her knowledge of all her cycles was passed down to her from her kammammi. Men preparing to hunt would consult her about weather patterns the moon augured; a big ring around a ripe moon meant big rains – a small ring, light rains. Right now, this moon, the ring slipping a little to the side, suggested an occasionally blustery south wind. A tiny reflection of the silver orb glistened in the tears that welled in her eyes. Here, in the land of the dead, ruled by ignorant boorish white-skins, this special knowledge entrusted to her was useless.

      Jeanette, sitting at her front window, watched the trio walk along Commercial Road. Just the oddest people she had ever seen. The man, an old-fashioned suit draping his thin frame, peered at her gate trying to discern a number. He heaved a cumbersome suitcase in front of him, the faded brown leather plastered with labels. The woman, strikingly pretty, stumbled behind with another suitcase. It was the little girl Jeanette was drawn to, even though she looked strange too. Instead of a normal dress, she wore long pants and lace-up boots. Her fair hair was braided in plaits just like Heidi on the front cover of the book Jeanette was reading. Jeanette was struck by the irresistible happiness that radiated from the girl’s face. She wanted to be her friend. She stared ruefully down at the leg irons which rendered her an unwilling prisoner at her own window, and watched the family pass by. Jeanette knew where they were going. Miss Bressler next door needed someone to look after her frail, elderly mother, and had applied for Displaced Persons’ help.

      ‘There’s lots of them coming over – refugees, or ‘reffos’, as they’re called,’ her father had explained at the dinner table. ‘They are from Eastern Europe. Their homes and lives have been destroyed by the war. So they’ve nowhere else to go, poor bastards!’ Jeanette’s father, a veteran of the mammoth struggle against Rommel in the North African desert, was no stranger to the misery of war. He never could bring himself to talk about it. Although he managed to miraculously escape the bullets that killed his mates, he felt helpless in the face of the cruel polio virus that crippled his only child.

      Jeanette wondered if Eastern Europe was anywhere near Switzerland, where her storybook heroine Heidi lived. She was intrigued that Heidi’s real name was Adelheid, which became Adelaide in English. What could this foreign girl’s name be?

      Kua Murlawirra spied a sailing ship from a rocky outcrop up near Yurrebilla, the ears of the giant ancestor Ngano, who lay sleeping above the wide Tandanya plain. Many seasons had passed since that fateful day when his pangkarra was torn apart. He continuously berated himself for not spotting the boat that stole Kirrila. Why, he could see the tiniest movement of prey in the far distance, and spear it with deadly accuracy. He also berated himself for not protecting the tract of land, the pangkarra, passed down to him. Other male members of the clan had been hunting in the wirra that fateful day, while he recuperated from his circumcision, wearing his yudna for the first time. Since then he had undertaken three more initiations. He proudly fingered the tattoos, received during wilyaru, the final ceremony. These marked him as a fully-fledged warrior of the Tandanya, the Red Kangaroo people, or Kaurna as they would one day be called. As a fully initiated warrior, he hoped he could live up to the many secret lessons imparted to him. He officiated at the banbabanbalya, where he and neighbouring clans, particularly the Ngarrindjeri in the south and Ngadjuri and Narungga in the north and west, gathered to discuss important business. The current all-consuming topic was the encroachment of the white-skins, and what should be done about them.

      A central meeting place was at the Tandanya Rock, sacred site of the Red Kangaroo Dreaming, down by the Karrawirraparri. In view of the black swans, the banbabanbalya were volatile affairs and, interspersed with dancing and singing, often went on for weeks. Some men, especially the Ngarrindjeri, wanted to spear every white man they saw. The white-skins from Karta had stolen their women; ‘kringal kop’, ‘nose first’, they called them disparagingly – who with their protruding white snouts sniffed after their women. The Ngarrindjeri were more warlike than the Tandanya people, who traditionally had the role of educators and advisors. Having undergone hunting initiation and proudly bearing the scars, Kua Murlawirra could wield a spear as skilfully as any Ngarrindjeri, but knew spearing white men was not the answer. The banbabanbalya also focussed on the terrible diseases that appeared at the same time as the whites. Smallpox, as the whites called it, and other alien scourges were decimating their numbers. There were so many new influences and big changes that had to be absorbed.

      The ship Kua Murlawirra was watching anchored at the mouth of the Ngankaparinga, the women’s river. Three white men came ashore and camped on a sandbank. The leader of the party was a kind looking man who seemed to carry no weapons, except perhaps for a strange round implement which flashed in the autumn sun. He kept looking at it and making marks on something that looked like a dried, pale piece of bark. Kua, spear in hand, approached cautiously. The white man surprised him by coming forward, smiling broadly and shaking his hand. He pointed to the river, indicating he wanted to know the name. Kua hesitated. He knew the women would be furious if he disclosed it. Its secret crevices had been their hiding place from unwelcome men, for generations.

      ‘Burka-Paringa.’ He improvised quickly. This meant ‘Wise Man River’.

      ‘Pooke-Parringa,’ repeated the white man as he made marks on the pale piece of bark. Kua pointed at it quizzically.

      ‘Paper,’ he was informed.

      ‘Pepa,’ repeated the black man, marvelling at its smooth finish and wondering how white man could construct fibres so thin.

      There were so many things he wanted to know. Why were they here? Where did they come from? How were the pelts they wore so fine? After exploring the foothills, the party packed up camp and went back to the ship. It seemed a harmless encounter.

      Kua Murlawirra was puzzled. Others berated him, especially his young friend Ityamai-itpina, who grumbled, ‘we should have speared the lot!’ But discussions with elders confirmed the rightness of a peaceful way forward.

      Stan Berwick walked home along Commercial Road from his job as hardware assistant on Unley Road. He lingered at number 48, peering over the high front hedge. He had heard unsettling news at the shop; Mrs Bressler’s spinster daughter was engaging some foreign people to help her.

      ‘Reffos!’ he announced ominously to his wife and two children. ‘Reffos have moved into the road. Can you believe it? I thought this a respectable neighbourhood.’ He banged the table. Forks clattered. Each evening, as soon as he closed his front door, the mealy-mouthed shop assistant metamorphosed into a bullying thug. His first task was to mete out punishment to Billy, his eight-year-old, who was always in trouble.

      ‘You wait till your father gets home!’ Molly Berwick constantly admonished. Tonight, to Billy’s relief, it was the reffos down the road who incurred his father’s pent up wrath, not his beleaguered backside.

      ‘If I had my way, I’d shoot the bastards!’ growled Stan darkly.

      After tea Billy and his sister went outside and approached her friends playing hopscotch on the pavement.

      ‘Do you know there are some reffos at number 48?’