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lizard puffed out its chest, imitating the arrogant frog, but Tiddalik
was not amused. Finally, Nabunum the eel, whose skin was so cracked
and dry, shrivelled to his curving spine, danced the traditional
Gaxabara dance. And Tiddalik began to smirk. Water dribbled out
of his mouth, filling creeks and small streams, and as the emaciated
Nabunum’s spirit continued to dance, Tiddalik burst into laughter,
and the rest of the water rushed into the rivers and waterholes. And
the drought was broken.’
‘Then what happened? To Tiddalik?’
‘I don’t know, Nerida. I’m beginning to lose the story.’
‘Silly Kirra! It will never be lost.’ Nerida’s ringing laugh echoes
across the empty plain, slicing the stifling air.
But it is starting to become lost.While theWhiteMan grows,Nerida
and I shrink, like an eel shrivelling under the hot sun. They take more
water, our throats get drier. They explore more – we run further. More
farmland – less sacred ground. Striving – barely surviving.
My eyes close with guilt and regret at my fading memory. But
Nerida’s laugh almost projects onto the back of my eyelids. I can see
colour of the bright crimson of the red water lily after which she was
named, the colour of white crest of the cockatoo that soars the sky
at dusk, the colour of young yellowed Eucalyptus buds. Colours of
the native land. Of the land that may soon be lost. Her giggle brings
a smile to my lips, despite the hot sweat that now drips onto my neck
and the sharp pang in my lower back. My head tilts back. I breathe
in the cool, heavy smell of the spirits that shift through the changing
air. And as I lower my head, a single drop of rain falls from above in
front of my feet. Then so does another. And another.
‘
A Single Drop
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