Something In The Water
by Mark Peters
Act Five - The Dreaming of Woorabull and Marwingee V1
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. 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 . . . 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.
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