As I’m pulled through the cascading waterfall, the cool water envelopes me, sending shockwaves through my already exhausted body. The sensation is disorienting, like being caught in a relentless storm. I can hardly see or breathe, but the strong grip on my arms guides me steadily through the torrent.
We emerge into a narrow, cramped crevice, hidden behind the waterfall. The space is barely large enough for two people, and I’m pressed close to the stranger in the confined area. The sound of the fall roars just outside, muffling any other noise.
The stranger, still gripping my arms, finally releases me and spins me around to face him. I find myself face-to-face with a young Aboriginal man. His features are strong, weathered by the elements. His eyes are alert, his expression serious but not unkind.
He’s dressed like a traditional hunter-gatherer, reminiscent of the figures I’ve seen in history textbooks. His skin is painted with intricate designs, symbols that speak of a deep connection to the land and its lore.
He’s armed with traditional weapons, including a spear and a boomerang, hanging from a belt made of woven plant fibres. He seems like a man out of time.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, both catching our breath. He gestures to me to stay silent, his finger to his lips.
The young man, his movements swift and deliberate, reaches into a small leather pouch at his side. He pulls out a handful of fine, ochre-coloured powder. Without a word, he spits into the powder, mixing it with practised ease.
He starts smearing the gritty paste over my face, hair, and clothes. His hands are gentle yet efficient, covering every exposed bit of skin. The paste smells like a blend of native plants and herbs, an earthy and almost comforting aroma.
As he works, he pauses ever so slightly over my face. There’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes, a brief but unmistakable reaction to my fair complexion, so different from his own. But he quickly regains his composure and continues his task.
The stranger finishes applying the paste just as the heavy footfalls of the creature grow dangerously close. He draws his spear, his body tensing, ready for the confrontation. His eyes flicker to mine, a silent message to stay quiet and still.
Then, piercing through the cacophony, I hear it – a voice so familiar it sends shivers down my spine. “My Little Wren, are you there?” it calls, using the secret nickname only my father ever used. The voice is warm, comforting, yet utterly impossible.
Every instinct in me wants to rush towards the sound, towards the memory of safety and love that voice represents. I take a step forward, my heart aching with a mixture of hope and disbelief.
But the stranger’s hand grips my arm firmly, holding me back. His eyes, intense and fearful, meet mine. In them, I see a warning, a plea not to give in to the illusion.
The voice outside, rich and familiar, continues to beckon. “It’s me, Big Eagle. Don’t be afraid.”
The use of my father’s nickname for himself sends a wave of nostalgia and confusion over me. It’s as though the past and the present are colliding in this surreal moment.
The voice grows more insistent, pleading now. “Willow, please come out. I’ve missed you, love.” It’s almost too much to bear, hearing these words from a man I believed was gone forever from my life.
The voice outside shifts, no longer just my father’s, but now intertwined with the soft tones of a woman and the playful chatter of a child. They speak in a language unfamiliar to me, their words flowing like a gentle stream, melodic and haunting. The voices, though soothing, carry an undercurrent of something sinister, an attempt to lure us from our hiding.
My companion clenches his jaw, his hand tightens around the shaft of his spear. I can see the conflict raging within him, a desperate fight against the urge to respond to these ghostly calls.
The creature’s snout, a grotesque mix of scales and sinew, pushes through the narrow opening of our hiding place. Its breath is hot and foetid, filling the confined space with an oppressive stench. It sniffs around, probing closer and closer to where we crouch in silent terror.
I hold my breath, trying to make myself as small as possible. The creature’s snout comes mere centimetres from my face, its nostrils flaring as it searches for a scent. My heart pounds so loudly in my chest, I’m afraid it’ll give us away.
But the paste smeared all over me seems to mask my scent, disguising my foreign smell with the earthy tones of the Australian bush. The creature hesitates, sniffing the air with confusion. It’s as if it senses our presence but can’t quite pinpoint where we are.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the creature withdraws its snout from the crevice. Its frustrated growls and heavy footsteps recede as it continues its search elsewhere.
Time seems to stretch on endlessly. For a moment, neither of us moves, still reeling from the close encounter. Every sound, every shift in the air sets my nerves on edge. But gradually, the oppressive sense of danger begins to fade. The creature’s growls and footsteps, once so menacingly close, are now distant echoes.
Finally, after what feels like hours, the young man relaxes his posture slightly. His sharp gaze softens as he turns to me, nodding slightly. It’s a silent signal that it might be safe to leave our hiding place.
We emerge cautiously from behind the waterfall, stepping out into the cool, misty air. The sun rising is just a sliver on the horizon, casting a soft, golden glow on the rugged landscape. The immediate area is quiet, the only sound being the water cascading down the rocks.
The stranger gestures for me to follow him, moving with a stealth and grace that speaks of his deep familiarity with this land. We tread lightly, every step measured and deliberate, alert for any sign of the creature.
As we move away from the waterfall, the young man suddenly stops and crouches down. He examines the ground closely, tracing a set of tracks with his fingers. They’re large and deep, unmistakably those of the creature.
Taking a hesitant step forward, I clear my throat softly. “Thank you,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, mindful of the lingering danger. “You saved my life.” I pause, waiting for any sign of acknowledgment, but he continues his examination, unfazed.
I try again, a bit louder this time. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Do you know what was that thing we just saw?” My questions hang in the air, unanswered.
He looks up at me with a perplexed expression, his brow furrowing slightly. In a low, cautious tone, he mutters something in a language I don’t recognise. The words are fluid, rich with inflections that are unfamiliar to my ears.
Garnering nothing but a blank stare from me, he returns to the tracks his eyes widen as he picks up a piece of tattered fabric from one of the creature’s paw prints. It’s a small scrap, but clearly part of a garment, frayed and stained with what looks like dried blood. He holds it up, examining it closely, his expression one of concern.
Suddenly, he turns to me and becomes animated, speaking rapidly in his native tongue. His words are a torrent of sounds and syllables that dance around me, completely foreign and incomprehensible. He points emphatically at the scraps, then to the tracks, and finally towards the dense bushland.
I watch him, trying to decipher his meaning through his gestures and the urgency in his voice. It’s clear he’s trying to convey something crucial, something about the creature and perhaps its recent activities.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I say, my voice tinged with frustration. “Can you please just speak to me in English?”
It doesn’t even occur to me at the time that he might not know English.
He stares at me, his expression hard to read. For a moment, he seems to be weighing his options, his gaze shifting from me to the wilderness around us.
Then, without another word, he turns and storms off into the bushland. His departure is swift, a clear sign of his annoyance or perhaps his need to act quickly.
For a moment, I’m stunned, left standing in the early morning light, the sounds of the wilderness enveloping me. The sense of isolation is palpable, and the memory of the creature’s terrifying presence is still fresh in my mind.
Shaking off my hesitation, I start to follow him. My injuries protest with each step, but the danger of being alone in this environment, especially with that creature out there, overrides my discomfort.
“Wait!” I call out, my voice echoing slightly in the open space.
Catching up to him, I try to keep pace, my breathing heavy from the exertion and pain. “We should stick together,” I say, more to myself than to him.
He doesn’t stop, but I notice he’s not moving as fast as he could. It seems like he’s consciously slowing down his pace, allowing me to follow close behind despite my injured state.
He continues forward, muttering something under his breath in his language. It’s a stream of words I can’t understand, but the tone suggests distress.
We trek through the rugged wilderness, the landscape a blur of reds and greens through my increasingly hazy vision. The throbbing in my head, a dull ache at first, grows into an insistent, pulsating pain. It feels like a drumbeat, relentless and overpowering. My steps become unsteady, each movement sending waves of nausea and dizziness through me.
As we navigate the dense underbrush, my vision starts to double, the world around me splitting and merging in a disorienting dance. I blink rapidly, trying to clear my sight, but it only seems to worsen. The edges of my vision darken, the encroaching shadows narrowing my field of view.
I can feel the heat of the sun on my back, the sweat trickling down my spine, but it’s as if I’m moving through a thick fog. My ears ring, the sounds of the bush muted and distant.
I try to focus on the young man leading the way, his figure now a nondescript silhouette in front of me. I want to call out, to tell him that something is wrong, but my tongue feels heavy, my throat dry.
With each step, the pain in my head spikes, a sharp contrast to the numbness that starts to creep into my limbs. I stumble, my feet tangling in the underbrush, and my hand reaches out, grasping for support. But there’s nothing to hold onto.
My knees buckle, and I feel myself falling. The ground rushes up to meet me, a collision that seems both imminent and surreal. In that moment, a wave of helplessness washes over me, a sense of impending doom.
But the impact never comes. Instead, there’s a sudden, jarring halt as strong arms catch me, preventing me from crashing to the earth. I barely register the sensation of being lifted, my body too heavy, too disconnected from my mind.
The last thing I remember is the sensation of being carried, the steady rhythm of footsteps, a faint echo in the growing darkness of my mind.
—
As I slowly regain consciousness, the world comes back into focus with a soft blur. The gentle sway of leaves above me creates a kaleidoscope of light and shadow. I’m lying on a bed of green foliage under a sprawling eucalyptus tree, its distinct, aromatic scent filling the air around me.
I try to sit up, but a sharp pain in my head forces me back down. That’s when I notice the stranger sitting beside me, his watchful eyes fixed on my face. He holds out a container, crafted from the bark of a tree, filled with clear, cool water.
With his help, I manage to take a few sips, the water bringing a much-needed relief to my parched throat. He then gently examines my head, his fingers probing with a careful, practised touch. There’s a tenderness in his actions.
He’s collected various plants and herbs, some of which I recognize as native remedies. With skilled hands, he starts to apply a poultice to my head wound. The cool mixture stings at first, but soon a soothing sensation replaces the pain.
Once he’s done, he sits back, giving me space. His gaze wanders to the horizon, lost in thoughts I can’t begin to comprehend.
I take the opportunity to observe him more closely. His face, etched with lines of experience, tells a story of a life lived in harmony with nature. His eyes, dark and deep, reflect a world that is both beautiful and brutal.
Gathering my strength, I make another attempt to communicate with the stranger. “Thanks again. My name’s Willow, by the way,” I say, hand outstretched. His expression remains stoic, his eyes revealing nothing.
“Do you understand me?” I ask tentatively, my voice weak but hopeful.
He watches me, his face unreadable. He doesn’t respond, and it becomes increasingly clear that he might not understand English. This realisation strikes me as odd. Even the most isolated Aboriginal communities have some exposure to English.
As I lie there, pondering our communication barrier, I observe him more closely. His attire, his tools, the way he interacts with the environment – it all seems… different. Not just traditional, but ancient, untouched by the modern world.
A thought begins to form in my mind, a possibility so incredible that it borders on the fantastical. Could he be from an uncontacted people?
I sit up, contemplating the possibility, my mind racing. I’ve heard stories about the Pintupi Nine, the group of indigenous Australians who walked out of the desert in 1984, having lived in isolation from the outside world. But that was nearly 40 years earlier, and the idea of stumbling upon an uncontacted tribe in Australia in 2023 seems almost as unbelievable as the monstrous creature we’d just encountered.
Yet, as I watch him methodically tend to the surrounding area – arranging stones, checking the wind direction, and occasionally glancing at the sky – I can’t help but wonder.
He notices my scrutiny and meets my gaze. There’s a brief moment where our eyes lock, a silent exchange.
Humouring the possiblity, I point to myself, using slow, deliberate gestures. “Willow,” I repeat, tapping my chest. He watches, his expression thoughtful. Then, mimicking my action, he taps his own chest and says, “Jirra.” My companion has a name, and it’s Jirra.
Ecstatic at the breakthrough, my heart leaps. “Jirra,” I repeat, a smile breaking through my pain and exhaustion. It’s a small connection, but it feels monumental, like a bridge across the unfathomable chasm between us.
But then, a grim thought crosses my mind, casting a shadow over my brief moment of joy. Here I am, a modern woman with all the germs and microbes of a world far removed from Jirra’s. The sudden realisation hits me hard – I could be a walking, talking petri dish of pathogens to which he might have no immunity.
Memories of historical accounts where explorers and settlers inadvertently introduced diseases to indigenous populations flash through my mind. The consequences were often catastrophic. A shiver runs down my spine at the thought of being responsible for such a tragedy.
I rummage through my first aid kit. My fingers, still slightly unsteady from my recent ordeal, search for a face mask. Finding one, I quickly put it on, securing it firmly over my nose and mouth. I can’t completely eliminate the risk, but I can minimise it.
Jirra watches me with a mix of curiosity and confusion. He doesn’t understand the reason behind this strange new addition to my face, but he remains silent, his eyes following my every move.
I reach back into my backpack, gingerly pulling out my notebook. It’s a bit damp from our earlier plunge through the waterfall, but the contents are mostly intact. Flipping through the pages, I find what I’m looking for: photos of me in Perth.
I show Jirra the pictures, pointing to the tall buildings, the crowded streets, and the images of me in various urban settings. I tap the photo and then point to myself, trying to convey that this is where I come from.
“Home,” I say slowly. “That’s where I’m from.”
Jirra leans in, his eyes scanning the images with a mix of wonder and perplexity. He touches the photos lightly, tracing the outlines of the skyscrapers and the unfamiliar faces in the pictures. He looks up at me, then back at the photo, a flicker of understanding in his eyes.
Encouraged by Jirra’s reaction, I flip to a blank page in my notebook. Taking out a pen, I demonstrate its use, drawing a simple outline of the terrain we’re in. I then hand the pen to Jirra, gesturing towards the notebook and then at the photos. I want him to draw where he’s from, to share a part of his world as I’ve shared mine.
Jirra takes the pen, examining it with a curious gaze. He tentatively places the tip on the paper and starts to draw. His movements are cautious at first, but they soon become more fluid, revealing a natural talent for expression.
A village emerges on the page. He adds several huts, arranged in a circle, and a larger central structure that seems to be a communal area.
He adds a figure, presumably himself, depicted as walking away from the village. The figure is alone, separate from the other elements of the drawing, imparting a sense of solitude and departure.
I’m no anthropologist, but through my schooling and cultural sensitivity training as a ranger, I’ve learned about various aspects of Aboriginal cultures. One concept that comes to mind is that of the “walkabout,” a rite of passage in which young Aboriginal men embark on a journey into the wilderness, living off the land for a period to transition into manhood and gain spiritual enlightenment.
As I ponder over Jirra’s drawing, the eerie encounter with the creature still looms large in my thoughts. I decide to communicate this experience with Jirra, hoping he might have some insight or knowledge about what we faced.
I start sketching the creature as best as I can recall. The grotesque features, the scaly skin, the malevolent eyes – I try to capture every detail that’s etched into my memory. My hand trembles slightly as I draw, the image stirring renewed terror. Finishing the sketch, I turn the notebook to show Jirra.
“Do you know what this is?” I ask.
His reaction is immediate and intense. His eyes widen, and he recoils slightly, a look of recognition and fear crossing his face. He begins speaking rapidly, his voice urgent.
One word stands out, repeated several times with emphasis: “Bunyip.”
Jirra’s hand shakes as he takes the notebook from me, his eyes locked on the sketch of the Bunyip. With a sense of urgency, he begins drawing a line from the monstrous figure to the village he had depicted earlier. The line he draws is jagged, almost erratic, as if to symbolise the chaotic and unpredictable nature of the Bunyip.
He taps the line repeatedly, his eyes meeting mine with a piercing intensity. It’s clear to me now why he was in such a rush. He fears the Bunyip is heading towards his village, or worse, that it might already be there.