Yabbies - a novel

At the Cannon

It's early on an autumn Friday evening at the Cannon. It's a pub that's popular with the younger set: it offers a mixture of loud music, serious drinking and quiet spaces to talk. The band are setting up for the evening's music.

As Steve enters the door, he meets Robyn and Miros from the foundry-crew coming out. Steve is unusually well-dressed, in clean slacks, open shirt and light jacket, with the now-inevitable armband. He looks slightly embarrassed to see them.

"Oh... hi", he says.

Robyn nudges him playfully in the ribs. "G'day, Steve! Bit dressed up, hey? 'Specting someone, are ya?"

Steve winces – her 'playfulness' is a lot rougher than she thinks it is. "Uh... Jenny, from the lifter crew."

"That one? Got a strange taste in women, 's'all I can say." She grins. "'Ave fun – go for your life!"

"Uh... right..."

To Steve's relief, they leave. His confidence visibly collapsing, he heads into the quieter middle bar. He picks up a beer from the counter, nods a greeting to the bar-keep, sits down at a table, his expression a mixture of slightly worried and slightly hopeful. His face is towards that doorway when Jeni appears through the other doorway behind him, accompanied by an Aboriginal man in his mid-30s. He's medium-framed, but with a presence that makes him seem larger than he actually is. His appearance suggests he spends most of his time outdoors, yet his movement and stance imply a university education. A strange mix.

"Hi Steve", says Jeni. "Thanks for coming." Steve spins round to see them. "Thought you two should meet. Brian – sorry – the Wirinun, this is Steve, the vizzie I told you about."

"Pleased to meet you", says the newcomer. He glances to Jeni. "Drink?"

"Something simple? – lemon lime and bitters? – thanks."

As the man moves off to the bar, it's bitters for Steve as well, it seems. He's visibly disappointed: this isn't the way he'd hoped his evening would go. He leans toward Jeni.

"Who's the black guy? Your boyfriend?"

"Huh? Good god no! – I've a lot more respect for him than that. No, an elder with the Land Council. Important."

From the bar-keep's shaking of the head, Jeni's 'simple' drink will take a little longer than expected. The Wirinun looks back at them with a wry shrug. Steve disappointment shifts to barely-concealed sarcasm.

"Important. Is that why the fuss about the name, huh? Why not call him Brian like you started, hey?"

"Can't. Death in the family. Same name. Shouldn't say name till the mourning's over, so for now we use the work-title."

Embarrassment sets in immediately. "Oh. Uh... sorry." Quick change of subject, then. "So what does 'Wirinun' mean, anyway?"

The man returns to the table with the drinks, and smiles at Steve's question. "In English, it means 'sorcerer'."

"Huh??"

The Wirinun grins. "Yep. Almost on a par with 'the Dreamtime' as the world's worst translation. Don't worry, not what you Anglos think of as sorcery – though I might try that if you mess up Jeni here!" A glance passes between them, a flicker of a smile that betrays a deep connection – yet one that is more professional than personal, the love of mentor and student. A glance that's all too easy for others to misinterpret, though.

Jeni leans forward, hands open, explaining. "We're on the lands of the Djadjawurrung, the long-time people. The Wirinun represents the people to the land. That includes the knannugeetch, the step-brothers, and step-sisters – the whites here, like you and me."