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I roasted my marshmallows on the fire until the outsides were blackened and picked up on the earlier conversation to stem the awkward silence hovering over the group. “It's hard to believe the colour of the dirt is for real.”
“The dirt wasn’t always red,” Yindi responded. “Us black fellas tell the story of Wyju the Traveller. It’s how the ochre came to be.”
Jono tilted his head, as if thinking about a long-lost memory. “I haven’t heard that story, Yindi. What's it about?”
She looked to Craig and me. “These boys probably don’t want to hear our stories.”
“I’d love to,” I answered quickly. “I don’t know much about Aboriginal history, but I’d like to find out.”
Yindi smiled and Waru nodded at me. Whatever I’d said, it’d made them happy. I just wanted to know the story of how the land came to have such a spectacular colour. No, it was more than want. It was as if I needed to know. I couldn’t explain why but I needed to learn about this place. To know everything I could.
Yindi started speaking, her voice scratchy and melodic at the same time. The light from the flames danced on her dark skin and I watched, hypnotized as she passed her marshmallow stick to Waru and began speaking. “Wyju was a lone traveller. He moved from camp to camp, never staying in one place very long. On his travels, he came across a group who was in mourning. When he questioned them, asking if he could help in some way, they explained, ‘The Great Snake came into our camp and swallowed our child.’ Wyju asked, ‘Why don’t you hunt the serpent down and kill it?’ and the man responded, ‘Because this serpent is magical. It controls the water. If we kill it, we will all die of thirst.’” Yindi stretched out her arms wide, and I imagined the lands running dry. Parched from drought. The animals dying one by one. The grasses tinder dry. Lightning and fire ravaging the bush. “Wyju knew of this being and others like it. He said, ‘But even magical snakes may be killed. Do you know how to kill it without invoking the serpent’s magic?’ This time the child’s mother responded, ‘Yes. If the snake is stretched out in a straight line, it may be killed. But if it is coiled up, the rivers will stop flowing and the land will dry.’”
Yindi paused, looking around the campfire, building suspense as she let the meaning of her words sink in. A drought had taken my parents’ land. We'd respected it, but maybe not enough. We'd taken from the land, not always sustainably. Was the drought nature's way of resetting the balance? Of weeding out those of us who didn't adapt? Had we taken too much, leaving none for the future? I’d one day hoped to be able to work at a station that held sustainability as a core value, but given that survival was sometimes the only goal, I’d seen first-hand how sustainability could become a pie in the sky ideal. An impossible dream.
“Wyju promised that he would help and that the child would be returned,” she explained, her voice taking on a reverence for the traveller. “He set out, tracking the snake until he found it coiled up, sleeping under a tree. He was not a devious man, but a plan formed in his mind. He plucked the roots of a mallee shrub. Carefully, he climbed, making sure his movements were light and silent. Slowly he went higher and higher, until he found a sturdy branch above the Great Snake that he could perch on. He tipped the root, letting the water drip from it—”
“Dripping water from the root? Is it different to a normal root?” I asked, wondering why I’d asked a question of the root and not the existence of a magical serpent. Then again, it wasn’t the first magical serpent I’d heard of. The brothers in the private school we’d attended as kids had harped on and on about the original sin and how we must atone for ours.
“The mallee root is like a straw; they hold water. If you cut the root, you can drink from it,” Waru explained, toasting another marshmallow on the fire.
Yindi continued, satisfied I wouldn't interrupt again. “Wyju let the water drip from the root. Drip. Drip. Drip. Onto the serpent’s head. Woken, the snake reached upward, seeking out the water to quench its thirst after feeding. Up, up, up it stretched, uncoiling itself as it balanced on the tip of its tail, its tongue flicking in and out to taste the water. Wyju reached out, gripping the snake below its head and slashing its throat with the knife he carried. He jumped from the high branch, running it down the length of the serpent’s outstretched body. The child tumbled out, dazed but well, and Wyju helped the child, dodging the snake's falling body. They returned to the camp. The child's parents were overjoyed.”
“It’s a Red Riding Hood story.” The amazement in Craig’s voice was clear. “Imagine that. Cultures from opposite ends of the world tell the same story. Different animals, different interpretations, different centuries, but at its heart, it’s a tale of caution. Be careful of the malevolent spirit—you don’t know who is good or evil by looking at them. The snake is magical, it's a provider, but it's evil too.”
“Yes, but that’s not the end of the story.” Yindi smiled patiently. “Wyju returned a hero. Men came from far and wide offering their thanks and asking if he would consent to becoming the husband of their nieces. Each time he turned them down. He was a wanderer, and it wouldn’t be fair to a good woman for her husband to always be gone. Each time they responded with ‘We will speak with Kirkin then.’ Wyju wondered who this Kirkin was and he asked one of the men of the camp. The man explained that Kirkin was the handsomest of men with long golden hair that would glint like a halo in the morning sunshine when he combed it, but he was still unmarried. No woman had accepted their uncles’ suggestions that they marry him. You see, Kirkin knew that he was handsome. He was very vain, always wanting to look his best, and each of the women knew he spoke of nothing but himself.” Yindi paused as Waru handed her a stick with freshly roasted marshmallows on it and she bit down, the snowy white of the treat contrasting against its toasted surface.
“Now Kirkin,” she continued, “was frustrated. He wanted a wife of his own and yet none were interested in him. Kirkin’s friends taunted him saying, ‘Too bad no one wants you. They want Wyju.’ He wondered who the man was, especially because he’d heard that Wyju had turned down every offer of marriage he’d received. Kirkin grew jealous of the attention that Wyju had been receiving and went to the camp in search of him, demanding to know why Wyju hadn’t been to see him. Wyju replied with ‘I have heard of your hair, but I didn’t think I needed to visit you. The men here have told me so many good things about you.’ Kirkin didn’t know whether to take Wyju’s comment as a compliment, but in his insecurity, he chose to believe he was being insulted. Kirkin was not a good man and he planned revenge against Wyju. He knew that the perfect way to exact that revenge was a hunting trip. So, he invited Wyju to hunt with him the next day, and after the traveller had agreed, Kirkin stole into the bush to dig a trap. He filled the bottom of the deep hole with stakes with their ends whittled into sharp spikes. Then he covered the trap with branches and leaves, hiding the hole.”
I closed my eyes and the light of the flames danced behind my closed eyelids, the warmth against my skin warm compared to the cold air at my back. I could imagine the scene unfolding. The heat of the day and the dry air. The blue sky. The sticks, the cover, laying leaves and dirt over the top to hide the hole. But the dirt wasn’t red in my imagination. Even in my head, I could see what it was like before the ochre was made.
Yindi continued, her voice hypnotizing, “Wyju met Kirkin the next morning and they went hunting for walliow together. They came to the trap Kirkin had set, and he instructed Wyju on how to hunt for them. It was impossible to catch the large rat with a spear or boomerang. To catch a walliow, the men would pounce on it as it exited its burrow. Kirkin tricked Wyju into believing there was an animal near the trap and encouraged him to lie in wait for it. Movement in the grass had Wyju pouncing. He fell into the hole, the stakes spearing his feet and legs, his blood staining the dirt red. In pain, and bleeding, Wyju begged Kirkin for help, not seeing at first that Kirkin had betrayed his trust. Kirkin laughed and walked away, but not before telling Wyju that he would be crippled from his injuries and no one would want to marry him anymore. That he would die alone.
“When Kirkin left, Wyju began to cry and he begged the great spirit, Baiame, the creator of the world, to help him. He pleaded for aid, like he had given to many whose paths had crossed his. Baiame heard Wyju’s pleas and sent the Winjarning Brothers to his rescue. The Brothers lifted Wyju from the trap, but his blood had run deep into the dirt, staining it red, creating the place where we gather ochre.”
“Did Wyju die?” Jono asked.
“No, the Brothers had Baiame’s healing ability. They sealed his wounds and he lived.”
We sat silently for a moment, listening to the crackling of the fire. Scottie had returned sometime during Yindi’s story. I hadn’t noticed him sit down, too absorbed in her words. Craig’s question made me jump. “What happened to Kirkin?”
“After the Winjarning Brothers healed Wyju, he set off to Kirkin’s camp, desperate for revenge. At first light, when Kirkin emerged to brush his golden hair in the morning sun, Wyju threw his boomerang, slicing Kirkin’s throat. He built a pyre and heaped his body on top, burning it. Soon, all that remained of Kirkin was a small bird that fluttered out of the fire, eating the insects that were attracted to the flames.”
“Do you see birds doing that?” My question surprised even me. Yindi’s people believed that the dirt was red because of the blood of an innocent man. But in today's terms, he wouldn't be innocent. He’d be just as wrong for exacting revenge as Kirkin was. But that was today's justice. Today's world. Dreamtime stories had been passed down for thousands of years from generation to generation. The systems of justice were suited to the circumstances. Justice was swift and decisive. Commit a wrong against a person and you would face punishment.
“We do, but not always.”
“I'd love it if one day you could share the stories of the other colours,” Craig asked. “But not tonight. I'm wrecked.” He yawned, his jaw cracking as he did and I followed suit, weariness washing over me like the incoming tide.
“Thanks for the welcome, Scottie.” Words didn’t seem enough. A simple thank you insufficient to communicate just how grateful I was for giving us a chance. For opening up the possibility that Craig and I could one day plant our roots again. “I appreciate everything you’ve done. And thank you, Yindi, for your story. I could picture everything you were saying. It’s as if this place—”
“Is past and present combined,” Craig finished my thoughts, putting words to something I couldn’t quite express. “I closed my eyes, and I was watching Wyju kill the serpent and then be betrayed by Kirkin.”
“Time seemed to disappear,” I added. “The stories of the past came to life in front of me. It was uncanny.”
Waru and Yindi traded a look. Their silent communication seemed loaded, and I didn’t dare ask what it meant. But when they turned to Scottie and Yindi spoke, the weight I’d been carrying on my shoulders—the loss of the place I’d called home for over half my life—lessened. It was as if I could take a breath for the first time in a decade, and I knew my healing could begin.
“They’re of this land, Scottie. They understand.” Waru stood and held his hand out for Yindi before clapping his boss on the shoulder. Hand in hand, they nodded, bade us goodnight and wandered off in the opposite direction to the cabins.
