‘So
what’s the story of this place, old man?’
Alan
gazed into the fire without twitching a muscle. The skin stretched taut over
his cheekbones and shone. Then, almost imperceptibly, he tilted his head
towards the man in blue, who got to his feet and began to mime (with words in
pidgin thrown in) the travels of the Lizard Ancestor.
It
was a song of how the lizard and his lovely young wife had walked from northern
Australia to the Southern Sea, and of how a southerner had seduced his wife and
sent him home with a substitute.
I
don’t know what species of lizard he was supposed to be: whether he was a
‘jew-lizard’ or a ‘road-runner or one of those rumpled, angry-looking lizards
with ruffs around their necks. All I do know is that the man in blue made the
most lifelike lizard you could ever hope to imagine.
He
was male and female, seducer and seduced. He was glutton, he was cuckold, he
was weary traveller. He would claw his lizard-feet sideways, then freeze and
cock his head.
He
would lift his lower lid to cover his iris, and flick out his lizard-tongue. He
puffed his neck into goiters of rage; and at last, when it was time for him to
die, he writhed a giggled, his movements growing fainter and fainter like the
Dying Swan’s.
Then
his jaw locked, and that was the end.
The
man in blue waved towards the hill and, with the triumphant cadence of someone
who has told the best of all possible stories, shouted: ‘That . . .that is
where he is!’
Arkady
and I lit a hurricane lamp and sat on a couple of camping chairs, away from the
fire. What we had witnessed, he said, was not of course the real Lizard song, but a ‘false front’,
or sketch performed for strangers.
The real song would have named each waterhole the Lizard Man drank from,
each tree he cut a spear from, each cave he slept in, covering the whole long
distance of the way.
We
sat mulling over this story of an antipodean Helen. The distance from here to
Port Augusta, as the crow flew, was roughly 1,100 miles, about twice the
distance, -so we calculated- from Troy to Ithaca. We tried to imagine an
Odyssey with a verse for every twist and turn of the hero’s ten-year voyage.
I
looked at the Milky Way and said ‘You might as well count the stars.’
Most
tribes, Arkady went on, spoke the language of their immediate neighbor, so the
difficulties of communication across a frontier did not exist. The mystery was
how of a man of Tribe A, living up one end of a Songline, could hear a few bars
sung by Tribe Q and, without knowing a word of Q’s language, would know exactly
what land was being sung.
‘Christ!’
I said. ‘Are you telling me that Old Alan here would know the songs for a
country a thousand miles away?’
‘Most
likely.’
‘Without
ever having been there?’
‘Yes.’
One
or two ethnomusicologists, he said, had been working on the problem. In the
meantime, the best thing was to imagine a little experiment of our own.
Supposing
we found, somewhere near Port Augusta a song-man who knew the Lizard song?
Suppose we got him to sing his verses into a tape-recorder and the played the
tape to Alan in Kaititj country?
The chances were he’d recognize the melody at once – just as we would
the ‘Moonlight Sonata’ – but the meaning of the words would escape him. All the same he’d listen very
attentively to the melodic structure. He’d perhaps even ask us to replay a few
bars. Then, suddenly, he’d find himself in sync and be able to sing his own
words over the ‘nonsense.’
“His
own words for country round Port Augusta?’
‘Yes,’
said Arkady.
‘Is
that what really happens?’
‘It
is.’
‘How
the hell’s it done?’
No
one, he said, could be sure. There were people who argued for telepathy.
Aboriginals themselves told stories of their song-men whizzing up and down the
line in trance. But there is another, more astonishing possibility.
Regardless
of the words, it seems the melodic contour of the song describes the nature of
the land over which the song passes. So, if the Lizard man were dragging his
heels across the salt-pans of Lake Eyre, you could expect a succession of long
flats, like Chopin’s ‘Funeral March’. If he were skipping up and down the
MacDonnell escarpments you’d have a series of arpeggios and glissandos, like
Liszt’s ‘Hungarian Rhapsodies’.
Certain phrases, certain combinations of
musical notes, are thought to describe the action of the Ancestor’s feet. , One phrase would say,
‘Salt-pan’; another ‘Creek-bed’, ‘Spinifex’, ‘Sand-hill’, ‘Mulga-scrub’,
‘Rock-face’ and so forth. An expert song-man, by listening to their order of
succession, would count how many times his hero crossed a river, or scaled a
ridge – and be able to calculate where, and how far along a Songline he was.
‘He’d be able’, said Arkady ‘to hear few bars and say, “This is Middle Bore”
or “That is Oodnadatta” – where
the Ancestor did X or Y or Z.
‘So
a musical phrase, I said, ‘is a map reference?’
‘Music’,
said Arkady, ‘is the memory bank for finding one’s way around the world.’
‘I
shall need some time to digest that.
‘You’ve
got all night,’ he smiled. ‘With the snakes!’
The
fire was still blazing in the other camp and we heard a burble of women’s
laughter.
‘Sleep
well,’ he said.
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