Something in the Water - 2. Part 2

-- Chapter Four --

They sat on low plastic chairs beneath the shade of the verandah. One of the elders disappeared briefly and returned with enamel mugs of tea. No one asked if Tony took sugar. He didn’t anyway.

The children had retreated a little, though he could feel their eyes on him from somewhere beyond the shade of nearby tea-trees.

Aunty Pearl did not begin immediately. She sipped her tea. She watched Tony over the rim.

‘You write about this town,’ she said at last.

‘Yes.’

‘You write about people here.’

‘I try to.’

She nodded once, as though acknowledging the careful phrasing.

‘Why?’ she asked.

The question was simple. Not accusatory. Not welcoming. Just direct. Tony could have answered in a dozen polished ways. About belonging. About community. About inspiration.

Instead, he found himself looking past her, out towards the water.

‘I didn’t grow up here,’ he said.

‘I know that.’

He glanced back at her, surprised. She tapped her temple lightly.

‘I hear things.’

Jack’s mouth twitched. Tony took a slow breath.

‘I grew up in Sydney,’ he said. ‘Old suburb. Cheap houses. Smaller thinking.’

No one interrupted.

‘When I was sixteen, my mother found out I was gay.’

He let the word sit there, unhidden.

‘She told me to leave. Threw my belongings out onto the front lawn of the house we lived in, in fact.’

There it was. Plain. Out there.

One of the elders shifted slightly but did not look away.

‘I had a backpack,’ Tony continued. ‘A few clothes. Not too many dollars. Some books. That was about it.’

Even Jack was still now.

‘I came searching for this place,’ Tony said. ‘A bus brought me here. I came because I had other family here . . . though I wasn’t sure that they’d even want to see me . . . there was some history there, but they were all I had.’

Aunty Pearl’s eyes narrowed slightly – not in disbelief, but in attention.

‘I slept on the beach the first night,’ Tony went on. ‘Thought I’d made a mistake.’

He gave a faint smile.

‘Next day, I found out where Luke lived, then that night I went knocking on his door.’

‘Luke?’ she prompted.

‘Luke Solomon, my cousin. And his partner, Matt. They took me in . . . despite the past.’

Aunty Pearl gave a small nod of recognition. She’d heard the names.

Tony swallowed once, remembering.

‘Their acceptance saved me. A few days turned into a week. Then a month. Then . . . it was home.’

He let the word rest for a moment.

‘They knew my mother, so they accepted my words. They didn’t make me prove anything. They just . . . made space. Let me in.’

The breeze moved through the clearing, stirring dust and the faint scent of salt.

‘So you stayed,’ Aunty Pearl said.

‘Yes.’

‘Because they let you belong.’

‘Yes.’

She studied him for a long moment. Then she gave a nod.

‘You angry at your family?’ she asked.

The question dropped, like a stone into still water.

Tony let it settle.

‘I was,’ he said honestly. ‘For a long time. But only at my mother.’

‘And now?’

He thought of his other family members; his sister and her partner and their son, his brother, the father who he hadn’t seen since he was just a kid, a mother who had spat vitriol from the scriptures at every chance she got.

‘I don’t carry it the same way,’ he said carefully. ‘But it’s still there.’

Aunty Pearl nodded once.

‘Grief don’t disappear,’ she said. ‘It just changes shape.’

Tony felt that somewhere low in his chest. Silence settled again. Then she shifted slightly in her chair.

‘You got yourself someone?’ she asked.

‘Yes. His name is Aaron. We’ve been together since I came back here after some time away. Eight years now.’

Aunty Pearl gave a nod, and then a smile.

‘My brother,’ she said.

The words were not offered lightly.

‘He was bunji-bunji too.’

Tony’s head lifted.

‘Oldest of us,’ she continued. ‘Strong as a bull. Laughed loud. Fought louder.’

One of the elders gave a quiet huff of recognition.

‘He didn’t hide,’ she said. ‘Never saw the point.’

Her gaze drifted towards the town across the water.

‘That didn’t sit well with some people. Not our mob. The town people.’

Tony did not speak.

‘They’d come over sometimes,’ she continued. ‘Police. Council men. Church blokes.’

Her mouth tightened slightly.

‘Always talking about improvement.’

Jack’s jaw had hardened almost imperceptibly.

‘My brother took a beating more than once,’ she said evenly. ‘But he never bent.’

She looked back at Tony.

‘Then one night he didn’t come home.’

The air seemed to thin.

‘They said he’d been drinking. Said he’d fallen off the breakwall.’

Her eyes did not waver.

‘He could swim like a fish.’

No one challenged that. Tony felt the weight of it settle slowly.

‘They wrote it down as an accident,’ she said. ‘That’s how stories get buried.’

The words hung there. Tony’s throat felt tight.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly.

She nodded once, accepting the sentiment without dwelling in it.

‘He didn’t get his chance for eight years,’ she added softly.

Tony’s mind flickered briefly to the boat ride. To what might be coming. The stories.

‘You see,’ she said, leaning forward slightly now, elbows resting on her knees, ‘when you say you were thrown out . . . when you say someone made space for you . . .’

Her gaze sharpened.

‘I understand that.’

It was not sentimental. It was recognition.

‘You know what it’s like,’ she said, ‘to have your own people decide you don’t fit.’

Tony nodded once.

‘Yes.’

A long breath passed between them. Then Aunty Pearl sat back.

‘Alright,’ she said.

The shift was subtle, but clear.

‘You told me something true.’

She held his gaze.

‘Now I’ll tell you something true.’

Jack glanced up, just slightly. The elders grew still.

And somewhere beyond the verandah, the wind shifted direction.

*     *     *     *     *

-- Chapter Five --

Aunty Pearl sat very still when she began.

The wind that had been moving lazily across the water seemed to quiet, as though even it wished to listen.

‘In the first days,’ she said, her voice low and steady, ‘when the land was still soft and the rivers had not yet chosen their paths, our people came to this place by the sea.’

She gestured towards the water below the island, towards the headland, towards the distant rise of the mountains.

‘It was different then. The earth breathed. The trees walked. The rocks listened.’

Tony did not move.

‘There were two young men among the Woombara – the people – in those days,’ she continued. ‘One was called Marwingee. He was a strong hunter, a brave warrior. When he ran, the dust rose to follow him. When he stood, even the wind slowed.’

A faint smile crossed her face.

‘The other was Woorabull. He did not hunt so much. He walked with the women and the children, gathering roots, finding water, learning the language of the small things. He listened more than he spoke.’

Her eyes lifted and met Tony’s.

‘They were bunji-bunji. Same-same. Their spirits walked side by side.’

She let the words settle.

‘But in those early days, the laws of the people were not yet settled. Some hearts were still hard. Some minds still small. And there were those who said such love was wrong.’

She did not hurry.

‘The elders spoke long into the night. They argued. They worried. In the end they chose exile, not death. Marwingee and Woorabull were sent away from the fires of their people.’

Jack’s gaze was fixed on the ground now.

‘But there was one warrior,’ Aunty Pearl continued, her tone sharpening slightly, ‘he was called Garranji. He was proud. He was fierce. And he believed the elders were weak.’

She lifted one hand and curled it into a fist.

‘He said exile was not enough. He said shame must be washed away with blood.’

She paused.

‘And so Garranji followed them. With him went Dhurambee, a younger man who mistook cruelty for strength.’

The breeze stirred again.

‘They found Marwingee and Woorabull beside a small river – a narrow thing then, no wider than a fallen tree. They had made a little camp. They were not hiding. They were not ashamed. They were living their life.’

Her voice softened.

‘When Garranji’s spear flew, Marwingee did not run. He stood before Woorabull, protecting him. He fought. He struck back. But two spears are stronger than one.’

She drew in a breath.

‘Marwingee fell.’

The silence that followed seemed to stretch across the water.

‘He told Woorabull to run. And he did . . . up into the mountains. Through scrub and stone and shadow. He ran until his lungs burned and his feet bled. He ran until the river beneath him thinned to a trickle and the sea became only a memory.’

Tony listened to the rest of the story in silence. There, high among the peaks, Woorabull wept. He wept for the man who had stood before him. He wept for the tribe that had cast them out. He wept for the laws that had not yet learned to allow mercy.

His tears fell into the earth. They sank into the stone. They carved paths no one had walked before.

For many days he grieved. And as he grieved, the grief changed him. One dawn, when the sky was the colour of ash and fire together, Woorabull knelt beside a pool fed by his own tears.

He leaned forward. He expected to see his own face reflected back at him. Instead, he saw scales. He saw colour like stormlight. He saw eyes older than the mountains.

The Rainbow Serpent looked back at him.

And in that moment he understood. The land had heard him. The land had taken his sorrow into itself. The land had transformed him. Given him power.

His body lengthened. His spine curved. His skin shimmered. He became both man and more-than-man; spirit and serpent.

With a single movement he turned towards the river below.

He did not slither quietly. He carved. He tore. He gouged the earth with his body as he descended, widening the narrow stream into a river that would never again be small.

Trees fell before him. Stones split. The ground trembled.

By the time he reached the lowlands, the Woombara were camped near where the river met the sea.

Garranji and Dhurambee slept in the shade. The women worked. The children played.

Woorabull rose from the reeds like a storm breaking.

He circled the two sleeping warriors, carving a deep trench in the earth around them. The ground split open. The air thickened with salt and fear.

But before he struck, he lifted his head and called out to the people.

‘Leave,’ he warned them. ‘Go to higher ground.’

Those who had shown kindness fled. Those who had turned their faces away in silence fled. Even the elders fled.

Only Garranji and Dhurambee remained within the circle of torn earth. And when they woke, it was too late.

With a lash of his great tail, Woorabull struck the edge of the land upon which they were stranded, then struck the wedge of land where river met the sea.

The earth broke. Salt water rushed in. The sea poured through the wound he had made.

It filled the trench. It swallowed the warriors. It drowned their anger.

It cooled the rage that had burned in Woorabull’s chest.

Where they had slept, a great basin remained – deep and wide and fed forever by the river he had carved with his grief.

A lake was born.

When the waters settled, Woorabull did not return to his people. He turned back towards the mountains.

‘And there he remains,’ Aunty Pearl said, her voice now little more than breath.

‘When the rain falls heavy and the river swells, it is his sorrow still moving towards the sea. When the lake lies calm and silver at dusk, it is his memory.

‘And from that day to this, the Woombara have never raised a hand against a bunji-bunji soul, unless in anger . . . or in revenge. Because the land remembers. The river remembers. And should the old cruelty ever return, so too will Woorabull.’

Aunty Pearl fell silent.

The only sound was the gentle slap of water against the rocks below the island.

And somewhere, far upriver, a bird cried out.

*     *     *     *     *

-- Chapter Six --

For a long moment after Aunty Pearl finished speaking, no one moved.

The breeze had returned, soft and uncertain, stirring the hem of her cotton dress. Somewhere down near the jetty a child laughed, then was quickly hushed. The world, which had seemed to hold its breath, began again.

Tony realised he had been sitting very still.

His hands were clasped loosely between his knees. He had not noticed when he had leaned forward during the telling, but his back now ached faintly. He straightened slowly, conscious of the weight of what he had just heard.

He looked past Aunty Pearl, past the elders standing like quiet sentinels, towards the water glinting between the huts. The river mouth lay just beyond, calm and deceptively ordinary.

A lake was born.

He had spent his teen years swimming there. He had fished there with his adopted family, Luke and Matt. He had walked its banks with Aaron, laughing at nothing in particular, sunlight breaking in silver shards across the surface.

And all this time . . .

He swallowed.

It was absurd, he told himself – a story, a beautiful one, shaped by generations of telling. And yet the absurdity did not take hold. Instead, something else did.

Recognition.

Not of scales and serpents and carved earth – but of exile. Of standing before the spears. Of loving and being told that love was wrong.

He had never been banished from Thompsonville. Not in the way Marwingee and Woorabull had been banished from their fires. When he had left it had been on his own terms, for his own journey. But there had been times when he had felt it, the rejection; moments when he had felt the shift in a room, the hesitation in a handshake, the way certain conversations dried up when he entered the room.

He had learned to write through those moments. He had built a life anyway. But it was always there in the back of his mind.

He glanced at Jack.

The young man stood a little apart now, gaze lowered, as though he too were still walking beside the river in that first dawn light. There was no triumph in his expression. No smugness at having shared something secret.

Only steadiness.

Tony turned back to Aunty Pearl.

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly.

The words felt insufficient. Paper-thin against the weight of what she had given him.

She studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowed not in suspicion now, but in assessment.

‘You felt it,’ she said.

It was not a question.

Tony hesitated, then nodded once. ‘Yes.’

The old woman inclined her head, satisfied.

‘Good. Most don’t.’

One of the elders shifted his weight, clearing his throat softly, as though signalling that the telling was done. The spell, if that was what it had been, loosened.

Tony let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

‘Is it . . . is it alright,’ he began carefully, ‘if I carry that story with me?’

Aunty Pearl’s mouth curved slightly.

‘You already are.’

He felt that land somewhere deep in his chest.

‘But carrying isn’t the same as telling,’ she added. ‘Some stories aren’t for books.’

The reminder was gentle. Firm.

‘But the message of the story . . . maybe that can be for the books.’

Tony nodded again. ‘I understand.’

And he did. For once, he did not feel the familiar itch to shape what he had heard into paragraphs and plot. The story did not belong to him. It belonged to the river, to the lake, to the people standing before him.

To Woorabull, still weeping in the mountains.

He rose slowly to his feet.

‘Thank you for trusting me with it.’

Aunty Pearl’s gaze softened, just slightly.

‘Trust is earned, writer-man,’ she said. ‘You’ve taken the first step. Don’t make it the last.’

A faint ripple of amusement moved through the elders.

Tony smiled – not the polished smile he wore at book launches, but something smaller, more private.

‘I won’t.’

As he turned towards the path that led back down the hill, the wind lifted again, brushing across his face, carrying the scent of salt and warm earth.

For the first time in his life, the river below did not feel like water. It felt like memory.

And a short time later, as he walked beside Jack towards the waiting boat, Tony knew that whatever else he might write in the years ahead, he would never again look at Thompsonville; at its lake, its harbour, its people, in quite the same way.

- FIN -