a new year
juju n. A charm, amulet, fetish or idol of some W. African peoples; the supernatural or magical power believed to be associated with such an object
On Friday morning, as the coffee was newly steaming in the glasses and an unfamiliar, but somehow welcome autumn chill wafted in the back door, the Cygnet (yes, finally, he’s relented – but that’s another bulletin) and I were fiddling with our dream team in the office. Yes, in the absence of spreadsheets and inspired by Coach Ian, we are coaching our own dream team this year (but that’s another bulletin).
As we began the long teetering that is the process of selecting our weekly captain (the captain doubles his points!), we heard a significantly louder than usual ‘chirp’. ‘That’s a happy birdie,’ I said. A second cheep had us turning inward towards the dining room until we saw fluttering on the light fitting. ‘It’s inside,’ we all called, in unison.
The three of us approached it, our faces tuned upwards towards the light. How extraordinary to see three humans activated so thoroughly by a small bird inside. It flew into the living room and round and round and round and round. Patrick followed its progress, towel in hand, flapping - a hopeless spectator to its ineffectiveness at getting itself out of such a predicament. Omar watched from the hallway. I returned to my coffee. What could I do? Having dealt with a bull-bull in the back verandah only a month or two ago, the Willy Wagtail belonged to the boys.
After some more swirling and flapping and the odd shower of fine, black down, Patrick had the bright idea to release the living room fly screens and the bird had the sense to flee.
We closed the open doors around the house, mildly titillated by the event. Until I remembered the story. A story. It was hazy. An Aboriginal woman telling me of the foretold death of a kinswoman thanks to a Willy Wagtail. Had it been the blessed Ruby? The woman and her sister had each seen a Willy Wagtail, separately, on the same day and that night their other sister died. It was a story I’m sure I had heard somewhere. ‘Wasn’t it you who told me?’ I asked Patrick who looked pale and sculled his coffee. I’m sure it was a wagtail.
The house resumed its rhythm and once more took up the silence of the daily start-up. Cereal was poured, toast buttered, fruit diced, goldfish fed.
‘Are you still online?’ Patrick asked, after a while. ‘Can you just check the Willy Wagtail thing? Stick in ‘Willy Wagtail’ and ‘Aboriginal’. I stuck in ‘Willy Wagtail’ and ‘Aboriginal’. From Wikipedia:
The Willie Wagtail was a feature in Australian aboriginal folklore. Aboriginal tribes in parts of south eastern Australia, such as the Ngarrindjeri of the Lower Murray River (Ruby was Ngarrindjeri) and the Narrunga People of the Yorke Peninsula (Mick O’Loughlin is from the Yorke Peninsula), regard the Willie Wagtail as the bearer of bad news. It was thought that the Willie Wagtail could steal a person’s secrets while lingering around camps eavesdropping, so women would be tight-lipped in the presence of the Willie Wagtail …
Patrick, I should add, is deeply superstitious, and was still recovering from news he received from an apparently good friend after his 44th birthday on Tuesday. Said friend had accompanied his ‘Happy Birthday’ message with the news that 44 was very bad luck in China, 44 being linguistically close to ‘death death’. He didn’t say much after I read him the above. It was simply a steady progression towards a shower and dressing and a peak hour bike trip to work.
The Cygnet and I resumed our work. Riewoldt, O’Keefe or Goddard for captain?
‘Goddard is reliable,’ I suggested.
‘But we’ve already had him,’ chirped the Cygnet, always one for change.
‘What about O’Keefe then? He’s got a 127.50 average?’
‘So does Riewoldt,’ added the Cygnet. He’s right. Of course. And he loves Riewoldt.
‘Ok, so Riewoldt or Ryan?’
And we decided on Nick.
* * *
That night Patrick got home late. He walked into the dining room, socks pulled up over his jeans, perspiring, still strapped into his bike helmet, a white light flashing on the crown of his head.
‘Oh, you got a new light?’ the Cygnet admired.
‘Well I figured that with daylight savings … and the dark … and I’ll be riding in the dark … so I thought … ‘ He removed his helmet and held it before us. ‘It’s got three functions … front and back both flashing, front flashing and back still, back flashing and front steady … it’s just, with the dark … riding in the dark now … I thought …’
The Willy Wagtail.
Portent weaves its way through all of our lives. Anything could be a sign. Any trivial something that floats its way across our days could end up being the arrow that we missed. Or the arrow that we recognise as it is launches from the bow. Or the arrow that we remember, in hindsight, and wish we’d paid some attention to.
The siren blew on Friday night football and I listened sporadically for our captain’s feats and the steady accumulation of our most reliable players’ stats – we have Goddard and Gram in our dream team too.
There was alarm as Riewoldt left the field in the first quarter to have a hip flexor/groin looked at. There was concern as he limped down into the rooms to have a rolled ankle strapped, but relief as he returned. And resumed. By half time, Riewoldt had suffered a possible ‘ham from the bone’. There was plain disconsolation. All our bonus points would add up to precious nothing!
‘Jesus,’ I called to Patrick, ‘It’s the Willy Wagtail. Black and white, bird and all.’
I remembered the story now. It was a friend’s neighbour. A remarkable 91 year old Aboriginal woman who had brought up and schooled 6 children as a single mother in Laperouse. The day she died, both her sisters had seen Willy Wagtails and had known she would die that night.
‘It was for the Saints,’ I cried as Fisher was stretchered off with a facial blow and Hayes had a busted nose strapped up. Patrick put his head over the sink. I could see the relief wash over him. It had been meant for someone else.
It was bad news for the Saints. With one on the bench to rotate, a midfield dragging the job of two absent tall forwards and the lingering loss of the captain (and second premiership chance), the Saints looked beyond hope. Noble warriors or not, surely the Pies would put them away. The black and white bird had come to sing for a black and white victory.
But sometimes you don’t know which side of the portentous fence you’re on. The Saints piled on four last quarter goals. The black and white had their chance to reply. 7 minutes and 58 seconds into the last quarter, Cloke sprayed a kick out of bounds on the full. With 10 minutes 28 gone, John McCarthy missed a set shot on goal out to the left. They flapped and flapped, round and round but couldn’t get out of their predicament and were without the luxury of fleeing. The bird was playing for the other team. The Pies ended the match having kicked 4.17. That must be Collingwood for ‘death death’.
Collywobbles. Collytails. Willywood. 2 and 20 black and white birds were baked in a Pie. I’m just glad there’s no red and white juju birds round here.
But … that’s right. Oh no. It’s the Year of the Tiger.
