I can feel the rush of air, the sensation of weightlessness as I fall off the cliff. It’s a terrifying, exhilarating moment, a leap into the unknown. My stomach churns, my heart races, every sense heightened to an almost unbearable intensity. The water below seems to rush up to meet me, the vast expanse of ocean a blur of colour and motion.
But before I can brace for impact, I’m jolted awake. It’s a sudden, violent awakening, my body lurching upright as if pulled by unseen strings. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my heart pounding against my ribcage. I’m disoriented, the remnants of the nightmare clinging to me like a cold mist.
It’s early morning, the first light of dawn casting a soft glow on the surrounding landscape. The fire has died down to embers, its warmth a fading memory. I’m back in the Outback, the nightmare of the cliff and the monstrous Bunyip fading into the surreal world of dreams.
But a new panic sets in as I quickly realise that Jirra is nowhere to be seen. His sleeping spot is empty, the ground still bearing the imprint of his body. My eyes dart around the campsite, searching for any sign of him, any clue to where he might have gone.
His belongings are still here, just like my dad’s were that morning when I discovered he was gone. My heart sinks, and a wave of desolation washes over me. Did Jirra, too, choose to walk away? Why would he leave without a word, especially after everything we’ve been through together?
My mind races through possibilities, each more disheartening than the last. Did he sense some danger and go to investigate? Or did he simply decide that our paths no longer aligned, leaving me to face the wilderness alone?
I stand up, my body stiff and sore from the restless sleep and the events of the past days. My first instinct is to call out for him, but I restrain myself, aware that any noise might attract unwanted attention – perhaps even from the Bunyip itself.
I start to pace around the campsite, scanning the area for any clues. There are tracks leading away. They’re Jirra’s – I recognize the unique pattern of his footprints. They head off into the bushland, but there’s no clear indication of why he left or where he might be going.
But then, just as the sun fully breaks the horizon, casting long shadows on the red earth, I see a figure approaching. It’s Jirra, his stride confident, carrying something in his hand. A flood of relief washes over me.
As he comes closer, I notice he’s carrying a dead sand goanna, the monitor lizard’s long, slender body limp in his grasp. In his other hand, he holds a collection of wild herbs, freshly gathered.
Jirra lays the items down near the remnants of our campfire. He meets my gaze briefly, a flicker of something akin to an apology in his eyes, before he gets to work.
He carefully extracts the venom from the goanna, his movements precise and skilled. The venom, a potent neurotoxin, is something I’ve read about in my ranger training but never seen handled in person.
With deliberate care, he mixes the venom with the herbs he gathered, grinding them together with a small, flat stone. The mixture becomes a thick, dark paste, its consistency perfect for his purpose. Jirra looks up at me, his eyes communicating a silent warning of the mixture’s lethal nature.
Then, with a steady hand, he applies the paste to the tip of his spear, ensuring an even coating. I watch, captivated by the demonstration of a skill passed down through generations, a skill that has likely saved his life more than once.
He then turns to the Swiss Army knife I had gifted him, applying the same mixture to its blade with deliberate care.
Curious about his actions, I hold up the boomerang he had given me, raising an inquiring eyebrow.
“This too?” I ask.
Jirra nods in confirmation. He carefully applies a thin layer of the venom-herb mixture along its edges, transforming the simple wooden tool into a deadly weapon.
As Jirra completes his meticulous preparation of our weapons, he suddenly gestures towards my notebook. I pick it up and hand it to him, along with the pen.
He flips to a blank page and starts to sketch with a focused intensity. The lines he draws take shape, forming the image of the Bunyip. He portrays it standing on its hind limbs, its menacing form dominating the page.
Then, with precise strokes, Jirra adds two smaller figures next to the creature – one holding a spear, the other with a boomerang. He points to a specific spot on the creature’s underbelly in the drawing, circling it multiple times. It seems he’s identified a vulnerability, a target for us to aim for in our battle against the creature.
Jirra says something in his language, his tone suggesting a question. Though I don’t understand his words, his meaning is clear – he’s asking if I comprehend the plan. I nod, meeting his gaze with grim determination. “I understand,” I reply.
—
As we approach the vicinity of Jirra’ village, the terrain changes subtly. The bushland gives way to a more open landscape. The village is nestled in a secluded valley, surrounded by high ridges that offer both protection and isolation. It’s a hidden gem, an oasis of calm in the harsh Australian wilderness.
We approach the village with a growing sense of dread, the signs of devastation becoming increasingly apparent. The once vibrant community, as depicted in Jirra’s drawing, is now a scene of utter desolation. The air is thick with the acrid scent of smoke and something else, something far more sinister.
Entering the perimeter of the village, the full extent of the tragedy unfolds before us. The huts are reduced to smouldering ruins. The communal areas are destroyed, their sacred grounds desecrated.
The most disturbing sight, however, is the bodies. The men of the village, warriors and hunters, lie scattered across the landscape. Their final moments seem to tell a story of a fierce, desperate battle against an unimaginable foe. The marks on their bodies, deep gashes and wounds, match the fearsome characteristics of the Bunyip we encountered.
Jirra moves through the village with a hollow, haunted look in his eyes. Each body he passes, he stops, his hands gently closing their eyes in a final act of respect and farewell. His grief is palpable, a silent scream of pain and loss that echoes through the empty village.
I stand there, feeling utterly helpless, my heart heavy with sorrow for Jirra and his people. I want to offer comfort, but words seem meaningless in the face of such devastation.
Jirra’s steps grow heavier, laden with an unspeakable pain. He finally falls to his knees amidst the ruins, his entire frame shaking with silent sobs. It’s a heart-wrenching sight – a proud and strong man, brought to the brink by the loss of everything he held dear.
His anguished prayers, spoken in his native tongue, fill the air – a haunting melody of sorrow and despair. His grief is a tangible force, a raw, open wound that transcends language and culture.
I recall the day I lost my dad, the confusion and heartache that followed. But Jirra’s loss is on a scale I can’t even begin to comprehend. He’s not just mourning a single person; he’s grieving for his entire world, a community and way of life that has been torn away from him in the most brutal manner.
Gently, I kneel beside him, offering my presence as a silent source of support. I place a tentative hand on his shoulder, unsure if my touch is welcome but feeling the need to bridge the gap of isolation that surrounds him.
I wrap my arms around him in a comforting embrace. He leans into me, his cries muffled against my shoulder.
“I’m here for you, Jirra,” I whisper softly, my voice barely above the whisper of the wind through the charred remains of his home. “You’re not alone in this.” The words feel inadequate, but they’re all I have to offer in the face of such overwhelming sorrow.
Jirra’s sobs subside abruptly as his attention shifts to something in the distance. Following his gaze, I notice a series of footprints amidst the devastated village. Unlike the chaotic scuffles and heavy tracks from the battle, these are smaller, more measured – possibly those of women and children.
Jirra stands up, his body language changing from one of defeat to determination. He gestures for me to follow and starts tracking the footprints with a renewed sense of purpose.
As we follow the trail, it becomes clear that these are not random or aimless tracks. They are purposeful, leading away from the carnage, deeper into the wilderness. The possibility that some of his people might have escaped the Bunyip’s wrath instils a new urgency in our steps.
—
Jirra and I venture deeper into the wilderness, the terrain becoming increasingly treacherous and unfamiliar. The tracks lead us through dense bushland, across rocky gorges, and along the banks of a serpentine river. The sun is high, casting sharp shadows that play tricks on our eyes, but we press on, driven by the hope of finding survivors.
As the hours pass, a heavy silence settles over the land. It’s as if nature itself is holding its breath, aware of the dark presence lurking nearby.
The tracks lead us to the entrance of a vast cave network, hidden beneath an overhang of twisted roots and ancient stone. The mouth of the cave is wide and dark, an abyss that swallows the morning sunlight. Stalagmites and stalactites jut out like jagged teeth, giving the cave entrance the appearance of a massive, petrified beast.
Jirra pauses at the entrance, his eyes scanning the shadows within. There’s an unspoken understanding between us that we might be walking into the very heart of danger. He places a reassuring hand on my shoulder, his gaze firm and resolute.
Taking a deep breath, we both smear a final layer of the ochre paste over our faces to conceal our scent. Jirra leads the way into the cave, his steps silent and cautious. I follow, every sense heightened, my heart pounding in my chest.
Inside the cave, the atmosphere changes dramatically, as if stepping through a threshold into another realm. The air is cooler, the light dim, filtered through cracks and crevices in the rocky ceiling. The walls are adorned with ancient handprints that glow softly, emitting a spectral light that seems to pulse with a life of its own. I’m reminded of the Aboriginal concept of Dreamtime, where the past, present, and future converge.
The further we venture, the more the cave transforms. Stalactites hang from the ceiling like chandeliers.
The haunting sound of a didgeridoo resonates through the cave, its deep, rhythmic drone vibrating in the air around us. The melody is both mournful and soothing.
We follow the haunting sound of the didgeridoo, its resonance guiding us deeper into the cave. The path narrows, winding through towering stalagmites that rise from the ground like silent sentinels.
The melody grows louder, its rhythmic pulse echoing off the cave walls. We turn a corner, and the cave opens into a large chamber, bathed in a soft, otherworldly light. The source of the light is a natural skylight, a gap in the rock through which the sun streams, casting a warm glow over the space.
In the chamber, illuminated by the sun’s gentle light, we find them – the survivors of Jirra’s village. Women, children, and a few elderly members of the tribe huddle together, their eyes wide. They’re a small group, a mere fraction of the village’s original population, but at least they’re alive.
The didgeridoo player, an elder with a weathered face and wise eyes, sits cross-legged near the group. As we enter, he pauses, his gaze shifting to us. There’s a moment of tension, a silent assessment, before recognition dawns in his eyes.
Jirra rushes forward, his voice breaking as he calls out in his native tongue. The survivors respond with a mixture of shock and joy, their initial fear giving way to tearful reunions. Mothers clutch their children closer, tears streaming down their faces, while the elderly reach out to touch Jirra, as if to assure themselves that he is real.
I stand back, watching the emotional reunion, feeling both an outsider and a witness to something profoundly emotional. The children, curious and resilient despite the horrors they’ve faced, begin to inch closer to me, their eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity and caution.
A young girl, no more than five or six, bravely steps forward and offers me a shy smile.
I kneel down and return her smile, touched by her gesture of friendship. “Hey there, sweetie,” I say.
She reaches out, her small fingers tentatively touching my curly blonde hair, mirroring her own. Her eyes widen in wonder, as if she’s found a connection between us, a common thread in an otherwise unfamiliar world.
I laugh softly, encouraging her curiosity. “It’s just like yours, isn’t it?” I say gently.
The reunion, though heartwarming, is tragically short-lived. Just as the atmosphere begins to settle into one of cautious relief, a chilling sound pierces the air, echoing ominously through the cave. It’s a deep, guttural growl, a sound so menacing and primal that it instantly sends a wave of terror through the chamber.
The survivors freeze, their expressions morphing into ones of pure fear. The children huddle closer to their mothers, their small faces etched with terror.
Jirra’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as he listens intently. The grim look on his face tells me all I need to know – the Bunyip is close, perhaps closer than we dared to think. The sound reverberates through the cave, a relentless echo that seems to come from every direction, disorienting and confusing.
We quickly begin organising the survivors, directing them towards a narrow passageway at the back of the chamber. It’s a tight squeeze, but it offers the only viable escape route.
The Bunyip’s growls grow louder, more insistent. Its presence is like a tangible shadow, creeping closer with each passing second. The air in the cave becomes thick with tension, the fear almost palpable.
Jirra takes the lead, guiding the survivors through the passageway with quiet urgency. I follow at the rear, ensuring that no one is left behind.
We move as quickly as we can, but the passage is narrow and winding, forcing us to proceed in a single file. The walls close in around us, the air thick and heavy. The only sound is the shuffling of feet and the occasional whimper of fear from the children.
As we squirm our way through the confining passage, the sound of the Bunyip’s growls intensifies, a constant, unnerving presence that seems to vibrate through the very walls of the cave. Its growls, low and resonant, echo around us, creating a disorienting cacophony of sound.
The realisation hits me with chilling clarity – the Bunyip is using a form of echolocation, its growls bouncing off the walls and guiding it towards our location. Our group, huddled together and moving en masse, is like a beacon, reflecting the sound waves back to the creature.
Jirra and I exchange glances. We both understand we need to disperse the group, to break the single mass that the Bunyip’s sounds are bouncing off of. Jirra communicates this to the survivors in hushed, urgent tones.
We reach a wider chamber within the cave, a natural crossroads with two tunnels leading in different directions.
Jirra quickly assesses the situation and instructs the survivors to head down one tunnel, speaking with a quiet authority that spurs them into action.
He then turns to me, his expression resolute. He points down the tunnel the survivors are taking, signalling for me to follow them.
I nod in understanding, ready to follow the survivors to ensure their safety. But as I turn to leave, I notice Jirra isn’t joining us. Instead, he heads down the other tunnel, banging his spear loudly against the walls.
The understanding of what he’s doing hits me instantly. He’s acting as a decoy, drawing the Bunyip’s attention away from the group to give them a chance to escape.
I hesitate for a moment, torn between the instinct to survive and the knowledge that Jirra is knowingly walking into grave danger. But as he disappears into the darkness of the tunnel, I can’t bring myself to leave him behind. After everything we’ve endured together, the idea of abandoning him to face the Bunyip alone is unthinkable.
I quickly turn back, following Jirra’s path. As I catch up to him, he whirls around, his expression one of frustration.
He shakes his head, gesturing emphatically for me to go with the others. But I stand firm, meeting his gaze.
“I’m not leaving you,” I say, my voice steady despite the fear coursing through me. “We face this together.”
Jirra starts to protest, but he sees the resolve in my eyes. He reluctantly nods, understanding that I won’t be swayed.
The path twists and turns, leading us deeper into the heart of the cave. As we move, the ceiling gradually rises, opening into a larger chamber with high, vaulted ceilings. Stalagmites jut out from the ground, creating a natural labyrinth.
The growls of the Bunyip grow louder, more frenzied. It’s as if the creature is closing in on us from all sides, its presence felt but not yet seen. The anticipation is almost as terrifying as the creature itself, a life or death game of cat and mouse.
As we move forward, the air in the cave grows colder, a chill that seems to seep into my bones. Jirra and I exchange tense glances, our hands gripping our weapons tightly, ready for the confrontation we know is coming.
Suddenly, without warning, the ground in front of us explodes in a shower of rocks and dust. The Bunyip bursts forth from the earth. Its mottled green skin glistens in the faint light, and its malevolent red eyes fixate on us with chilling intensity. The creature is larger and more terrifying than I remembered, its presence dominating the chamber.
The Bunyip circles us, its movements deceptively agile for its size. It’s toying with us, enjoying the game of predator and prey. Jirra and I, despite our determination, are painfully aware of our disadvantage. We’re fighting a creature of legend, a being that embodies the very essence of the wilderness’s unforgiving nature.
We dash through the maze of stalagmites, our breaths coming in ragged gasps. Our strategy is simple yet fraught with risk: keep moving, stay unpredictable, and look for an opening to strike. The stalagmites provide temporary cover, but they also hinder our movement, forcing us to weave and dodge through the tight spaces.
I glance back, catching a glimpse of the Bunyip closing in. Its massive body scrapes against the stone, its claws leaving deep gashes in the earth.
We take a sharp turn, hoping to lose the creature in the twisted pathways. But as we round a bend, the Bunyip appears before us, blocking our path.
Jirra lunges forward, his spear aimed at the creature’s underbelly, the spot he had marked in his drawing.
But the creature dodges Jirra’s thrusts, its movements eerily agile. It counters with a swipe of its massive claw, narrowly missing Jirra, who jumps out of the way at the last second.
I rush forward, swinging the boomerang gifted me with all my might. The creature turns its attention to me, its eyes glowing with a malevolent intelligence. I strike, the boomerang connecting with a sickening thud against its thick hide. But it’s like hitting a wall of stone – the creature barely flinches.
The Bunyip launches at me, its massive jaws open wide, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. I roll to the side, narrowly avoiding its bite. The creature’s tail whips around, catching me off-guard and sending me sprawling to the ground.
Jirra, seeing me in danger, rushes to my aid. He swings his spear with precision. The Bunyip, sensing the threat, pivots swiftly, disarming Jirra with a powerful flick of its paw. The spear clatters to the ground, just out of his reach.
The creature turns its full wrath on Jirra, pinning him to the ground with its massive form.
In a desperate move, Jirra reaches for the Swiss Army knife I gave him. With all his strength, he plunges the knife into the creature’s side. The Bunyip recoils with a deafening roar, releasing Jirra from its grasp. Dark blood oozes from the wound, a clear sign that Jirra’s attack has found its mark.
But it’s not enough. The creature, though wounded, is still a formidable force, its eyes burning with rage.
Holding the boomerang in my hands, I feel its weight and balance in my hands. It’s nothing like the toy boomerangs I’ve thrown before; this is a weapon honed for survival.
The Bunyip doesn’t notice me regaining my footing.
My eyes dart around, desperately seeking an advantage. Then I see it – a massive, jagged stalactite hanging precariously above where the Bunyip stands. It’s a long shot, but it’s all we have.
In that moment, time seems to slow down. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, the sound of my breath ragged and quick. I think of my father, of the lessons he taught me about facing fear head-on. Channelling every ounce of strength and focus I possess, I hurl the boomerang with all my might.
The boomerang cuts through the air, whistling as it arcs towards its target. My heart races as it nears its target, the moment stretching out, each second a lifetime.
With a resounding crack, the boomerang strikes the stalactite. The impact sends a shudder through the cavern, a vibration that resonates through the very bones of the earth. The stone, already teetering on the edge of stability, begins to break free from the ceiling.
The Bunyip, sensing the danger, looks up just as the massive formation detaches, plummeting towards it with the force of gravity. There’s no time for it to react, no time to escape. The stalactite crashes down upon the creature with a thunderous roar, engulfing it in a cloud of dust and debris.
The jagged shards of stone pierce through the Bunyip’s tough, scaly skin. The creature lets out an earth-shattering roar, a sound filled with pain and fury. It writhes violently, its massive body struggling under the weight of the stone protruding from it, exposing its soft underbelly in a desperate attempt to free itself.
Jirra, seizing the moment, retrieves his spear from where it had fallen. He sets it in a spear thrower, a simple but effective tool that amplifies the force and distance of his throw.
In a fluid, almost poetic motion, Jirra draws back his arm and launches the spear. The spear flies through the air with deadly accuracy, its trajectory unerring. The silence of the cavern is pierced by the sound of the projectile cutting through the air, a whistle that seems to reverberate with the weight of the moment.
The spear strikes true, burying itself deep into the Bunyip’s heart.
The Bunyip lets out a final, ear-splitting roar of pain and fury, its body convulsing as the life drains from it. For a few tense moments, the creature thrashes wildly, but each movement grows weaker. Dark, viscous blood pools around it, seeping into the earth.
The Bunyip’s convulsions slowly subside, its massive form collapsing under the weight of its injuries.In a haunting transformation, the monster’s grotesque visage morphs, revealing a face I know all too well – my father’s. He looks at me with eyes filled with sorrow and pain, his voice echoing through the cavern. “Willow, my Little Wren, help me,” he pleads, his voice a perfect imitation of my dad’s.
The illusion is so convincing, so heartbreakingly real, that for a moment, I’m frozen, my heart torn between reality and the desperate longing to see my father again.
Tears well up in my eyes, a mix of grief and anger. This creature, this abomination, dares to use my father’s voice, to prey on my deepest sorrows and fears.
“You’re not him,” I say. “He’s gone. You can’t use his memory against me.”
The creature, sensing my wavering, continues in my father’s voice. “Willow, it’s me. I’m here. I’ve always been here for you.”
“Dad,” I say, my voice trembling but resolute, “you left me. You chose to leave. And I’ve accepted that you’re gone forever. You killed yourself, and nothing can change that.”
Jirra, sensing my pain and seeing through the Bunyip’s deceit, steps forward with a resolute expression. He pulls out his spear from the creature’s chest and, without hesitation, plunges it into its throat.
As the spear pierces its throat, the Bunyip’s illusion shatters. The image of my father fades away, leaving behind the true form of the creature - a monstrous amalgamation of nightmares. Its body shudders violently before finally going still, the light fading from its malevolent red eyes.
The cavern falls silent, save for the echoes of our laboured breaths and the distant drip of water from the stalactites.
I stand there, breathing heavily, my emotions a tumultuous storm. Yet, there’s a sense of closure, a finality that brings with it a bitter form of peace.
Jirra places a comforting hand on my shoulder, his touch grounding me in the present. He looks into my eyes, his own reflecting a deep understanding of loss and the resilience required to overcome it.
Jirra and I make our way back towards the survivors. The ochre handprints on the walls seem to guide us, their ancient glow a comforting presence in the dim light.
As we approach the chamber where we had left the survivors, the sound of their anxious murmurs reaches our ears. The moment we step in, all eyes turn to us.
Jirra speaks to his people in a calm, steady voice, explaining what transpired. I watch as a collective sense of relief washes over them.
We lead the survivors out of the cave, their faces reflecting a mix of exhaustion, relief, and lingering fear.
Emerging from the cavern’s mouth, we are greeted by the blinding light of day. The sun, high in the sky, bathes us in its warm glow, a welcome reprieve from the cold shadows of the cave.
We set up a temporary camp near the cave entrance, using the remains of our supplies to provide some comfort. Jirra, with his intimate knowledge of the land, gathers additional resources, ensuring that everyone is hydrated and fed.
Then, in the late afternoon, a distant sound catches my attention. It’s faint, barely audible over the wind, but unmistakable – the chop of helicopter blades. My heart leaps with hope. I shield my eyes with my hand, searching the sky.
There, on the horizon, a speck appears, growing larger as it approaches. It’s a search and rescue helicopter, its rotors slicing through the air with a steady rhythm. Relief washes over me, a wave of emotions that’s hard to contain.
As the helicopter draws closer, its presence sends a wave of panic through the survivors. They huddle closer together, their eyes wide with fear. This modern machine, so alien to their isolated existence, seems to them like another monster, perhaps more terrifying than the one we’ve just defeated.
“It’s okay,” I say softly, speaking more with my eyes than my words. “They’re here to help.”
Jirra, sensing their unease, speaks to them in his native tongue, his tone gentle yet firm.
Realising that the helicopter might not easily spot us amidst the rugged terrain, I rummage through my backpack for a signal mirror. Finding it, I step into a clearing, angling the mirror towards the sun. The reflection catches the light, sending a bright, flashing signal towards the helicopter.
The helicopter banks slightly, its course adjusting as it homes in on our location. It hovers above us, the downdraft from its rotors sending dust swirling around our makeshift camp.
—
In the days and weeks following the dramatic rescue, the world I knew and the world Jirra and his people knew collided in a whirlwind of change, discovery, and inevitable challenges.
The survivors, having lived in isolation, were suddenly thrust into a reality far removed from the only life they had known. The bright lights, the noise, the constant barrage of new faces and languages – it was overwhelming, to say the least. For Jirra and his people, every aspect of modern life was a novel, often intimidating experience.
The government and various cultural preservation organisations stepped in, offering support and resources to facilitate their integration.
Researchers worked closely with Jirra and his people to learn more about their culture and background.
It was later discovered that this group belongs to a previously unknown Aboriginal clan, which call themselves the Kaelani.
Jirra, who had shown such strength and resilience in the face of the Bunyip, now found himself in a position he could never have prepared for.
Despite the overwhelming challenges, Jirra faced this new world with the same bravery he had shown in the wilderness. He took charge, helping his people to navigate the complexities of this new life with a quiet dignity.
I did everything in my power to bridge the gap between his world and ours. I worked with the support teams. I spent hours with Jirra and the others, listening to their concerns, their fears, and their hopes.
In the aftermath of the incident, Karijini National Park became the centre of a highly clandestine operation. A task force from the Australian Defence Force was deployed, and the park was promptly locked down. Their mission was shrouded in secrecy, and the park remained off-limits to the public for an extended period.
During this time, I was subjected to a series of extensive interviews. The authorities were particularly interested in every detail of my encounter with the Bunyip, how Jirra and I managed to survive, and ultimately how we defeated it.
I wasn’t privy to the details of their operation or what they discovered in the depths of the park. There were whispers and rumours, of course – talk of strange findings, mysterious artefacts, and entities other than the Bunyip. But nothing was confirmed publicly.
Eventually, the park was deemed safe, and the restrictions were lifted.
—
Returning to my duties as a park ranger after the events that transpired is like stepping into a familiar painting that has had its colours subtly altered.
There’s an unspoken understanding among the rangers. We tread more carefully, speak more softly, and listen more intently to the whispers of the Outback. There’s a respect, a reverence almost, for what may still lie hidden in its depths.