Jirra and I sit in silence for a while, each lost in our own thoughts. The revelation of the Bunyip, a creature of Aboriginal legend, now terrifyingly real, hangs heavy between us. The urgency in Jirra’s eyes tells me that we can’t delay; his village might be in danger.
As I test my strength, I find the sharp pains have dulled to a manageable ache. My head still throbs, but the world no longer spins uncontrollably. I nod to Jirra, signalling that I’m ready to move. He offers me a hand, pulling me to my feet.
We set out at a steady pace, Jirra leading the way. He moves with a quiet confidence, each step purposeful. I follow closely, relying on my ranger training to keep up.
Our journey is mostly silent, the only sounds being our footsteps and the distant calls of birds and insects. Every so often, Jirra pauses to examine the ground or the brush, ensuring we’re not walking into danger. His vigilance is both reassuring and a reminder of the perils we face.
We travel throughout the day, the sun charting its relentless course across the sky. Our only respite comes in brief, stolen moments of rest under the shade of sparse trees or rocky outcrops. Each time we stop, it’s for no more than a few minutes – just long enough to catch our breath and sip sparingly from our dwindling water supply.
The terrain varies as we move, from flat, open plains to rocky ridges and shallow valleys. The landscape is harsh but breathtaking in its raw beauty.
As dusk approaches, the sky transforms into a canvas of deep oranges and purples, the sun dipping below the horizon. The beauty of the sunset is a contrast to the exhaustion that clings to us like a second skin.
My body aches with every step. It’s been over 24 hours since I’ve slept, the events of the day blurring into a relentless, adrenaline-fueled ordeal. My eyes sting from fatigue, my movements slower, less precise.
I glance over at Jirra. His endurance is remarkable, but the signs of fatigue are there, subtle but unmistakable. The slight droop in his shoulders, the brief moments where his pace slows, the faint lines of strain around his eyes – all indicators that he too is pushing his limits.
I gesture to him, miming sleep with my hands clasped together and resting my cheek against them. “We should rest,” I say, my voice a hoarse whisper in the growing twilight.
His response is immediate and firm – a shake of the head, a determined look in his eyes. He’s set on continuing, driven by the urgency to protect his village.
I understand his concern, but I know too well the dangers of pushing our bodies beyond their limits. “We need to sleep, even for just a little while,” I insist, hoping my tone gets my meaning across. “We’ll be no good to anyone if we collapse from exhaustion.”
Jirra hesitates, clearly torn between the need to press on and the reality of our physical limits. His eyes betray a moment of vulnerability, a silent acknowledgement of my words. Yet, he nods curtly, signalling his decision to continue regardless.
Navigating under the starlit sky, Jirra often pauses, tilting his head upwards. In these moments, I notice him aligning our path with the Southern Cross, using the constellation as a guide through the dark.
As the darkness deepens, our journey becomes increasingly perilous. The lack of light turns every shadow into a potential threat, every rustle in the bush a cause for alarm.
I keep a close eye on him, aware that in this state, even a seasoned tracker like Jirra is susceptible to the dangers of the wilderness.
It happens suddenly. Jirra steps onto a loose stone on a narrow ridge, his foot sliding out from under him. He stumbles, his arms flailing for balance, but fatigue has robbed him of his usual grace. For a heart-stopping moment, he teeters on the edge of a steep drop.
Without thinking, I lunge forward, grabbing his arm and pulling him back with all my strength. The sudden motion sends a jolt of pain through my injured wrist, but I barely register it. We both tumble to the ground, a tangle of limbs just centimetres from the precipice.
For a moment, we lie there, panting heavily, the realisation of what almost happened settling in.
Jirra sits up slowly, his gaze lingering on the edge of the ridge, then turns to me. There’s a newfound respect in his eyes, an acknowledgment of our mutual reliance. He nods slowly, conceding to the necessity of rest.
We find a small, sheltered area nestled between two large boulders, providing some protection from the elements and any roaming wildlife. Jirra sets to work immediately, gathering dry twigs and leaves while I use my lighter to start a fire. The flames catch quickly, casting a warm, reassuring glow in the encroaching darkness.
As the fire crackles and pops, Jirra reaches into his pouch and brings out something wrapped in leaves. He unwraps it carefully, revealing a small portion of smoked meat and some native berries. He hands me a portion with a nod.
I humbly accept his offering. The food, though simple, tastes delicious to my empty stomach.
In return, I open my backpack and take out some of my emergency rations – a couple of energy bars and a packet of dried fruit and nuts. I offer them to Jirra, watching as he examines them with curiosity before tentatively tasting them. He seems pleasantly surprised by the flavours, nodding his approval.
After we finish our meal, a comfortable silence settles between us, broken only by the crackling of the fire. I watch the flames dance, their warmth soothing my aching body. As I sit there, I’m struck by a deep sense of gratitude towards Jirra for saving me from the Bunyip. I feel a compelling need to express my thanks in a tangible way.
I dig through my backpack, my fingers brushing past various items until they find what I’m looking for – my Swiss Army knife.
Holding it out to Jirra, I say, “I want you to have this.” My voice is firm, underscored with sincerity. “As a thank you, for saving my life.”
I take a moment to demonstrate its various tools – the knife, the screwdriver, the tiny scissors, and the can opener.
Jirra looks at the knife, his eyes tracing its contours. He takes it, turning it over in his hands, examining its various functions. He seems to understand its value, not just as a tool but as a gesture of gratitude and respect.
In response, Jirra reaches for something tied to his belt. It’s his boomerang, its surface smooth and worn from use. The wood is dark, rich in colour, and adorned with intricate carvings that tell a story I can’t decipher. He offers it to me with solemn dignity.
I accept the weapon with a sense of awe and reverence, my fingers gently tracing the intricate carvings etched into its surface.
“Thanks, mate,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “I promise to cherish this.”
Jirra nods, a faint smile touching his lips, his eyes reflecting the fire’s glow.
Jirra sits close to the fire, his posture rigid, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the flickering flames. As the night deepens, his eyelids droop occasionally, and his head nods forward before he snaps back to alertness.
I notice his struggle. Through a series of gestures, I suggest taking turns sleeping, ensuring one of us is always on the lookout. I tap my chest and then point to the surrounding darkness, indicating that I’ll take the first watch while he rests.
At first, Jirra resists, but after a few more insistent gestures from me, he gives in. He arranges himself on the ground, using his pouch as a makeshift pillow. His eyes linger on me for a moment, an unspoken thanks, before he finally closes them.
As I keep watch, I take out my notebook and begin jotting down the events of the day. I pause occasionally, glancing at Jirra to ensure he’s still sleeping peacefully, and then at the surrounding darkness, half-expecting the nightmarish creature to reappear.
—
I don’t know when I fell asleep, but my exhaustion must have overtaken me. In the silence of the Outback night, with Jirra resting beside me, I drift into a dream. It’s vivid, filled with the sharp clarity of memories that have long been etched in my heart.
I’m 15 again, back in Cape Range National Park, under the vast expanse of the starlit sky. The air is crisp, filled with the scent of eucalyptus and the distant sound of the ocean. Dad and I are sitting by the campfire, just like we’ve done countless times before. He’s telling me about one of his adventures.
It’s during one of these stories that I find the courage to break the news to him. “Dad,” I start hesitantly, my voice barely above a whisper, “Mum’s getting remarried.” The words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of change they carry.
He doesn’t react immediately, his expression unreadable. Then, he sighs, a sound that seems to carry a weight of unspoken thoughts. “I see,” he finally says. “I’m happy for her.” His voice is steady, but I can hear the faintest trace of something else in it, maybe sadness, maybe resignation.
He looks at me, his eyes reflecting the flickering flames, a mix of emotions playing across his features. “I hope he makes her happy,” he adds, his voice tinged with a bittersweet edge. His heart is so torn that it breaks mine.
I rush in, the words tumbling out in a torrent. “I can’t stand him! Mark, he’s a fucking arsehole!” I struggle to find the right words to express how much I loathe my future step-father, but they all fall short. “He’s just… He’s not you,” I finish lamely, feeling a profound sadness.
“You know, Wren,” he says, “sometimes people come into our lives, and we don’t get to choose. What matters is how we respond to them.”
I feel a surge of frustration, mixed with a desperate longing for an escape. “I could run away. It’ll be just you and me. We can live out here, away from everything.”
He chuckles softly, a sound that seems both sad and fond. “You’re my wild spirit,” he says. “But life… life isn’t about running away. It’s about facing what comes and finding your path through it.”
He sees the tears brimming in my eyes, a mix of frustration and youthful defiance.
“Hey, I got you something for your birthday,” he says, gently changing the subject, reaching into his backpack. He pulls out the leather-bound notebook, the same one I’ve been carrying during my ordeal. “For all your adventures, big and small,” he adds with a smile.
I wipe away my tears and take the notebook, tracing my fingers over its cover.
He looks at me, his eyes softening. “You know that I love you, right?” he asks. “That I’d do everything in my power to make sure you’re not hurt?”
I lean into him, wrapping my arms around his sturdy frame. “Of course, I know, Dad,” I say, my voice muffled against his jacket. “I love you too.”
“You’re going to be alright, Willow,” he says softly. “No matter what life throws your way, remember you’re stronger than you think.”
The dream shifts, the warmth of the campfire replaced by the chilling cold of dawn. I wake to find my father gone, his sleeping bag empty, his boots still by the fire. Panic grips me, a tight knot in my stomach. I call out for him, my voice breaking the morning stillness, but there’s no response.
I scramble to my feet, my heart racing. The notebook falls from my lap, landing open on the ground. The memories of our last night together swirl in my mind, a mix of love and foreboding.
The campsite is undisturbed, his belongings left as if he intended to return. But there’s an eerie silence, a sense of absence that’s palpable. I grab a flashlight and start searching the surrounding area, the beam of light cutting through the predawn darkness.
I call his name over and over, my voice growing hoarse. The landscape is unyielding, offering no clues, no signs of his passage.
I stumble upon a small clearing, and there, in the dirt, are footprints. They’re his, I’m sure of it. My heart leaps with a mixture of hope and dread.
As I follow the tracks, the terrain becomes more rugged, the earth giving way to limestone. The footprints lead directly to a cliff face, the ground ending abruptly in a sheer drop to the ocean below.
There, at the edge, the footprints come to an abrupt halt. No signs of return, no further path to follow.
My breath catches in my throat, a silent sob trapped in the cage of my ribs. The implications hang in the air, heavy and unspoken. The cold, grey light of dawn casts long shadows across the ground, shadows that seem to stretch into the void below.
I inch closer, peering over the edge with a mix of fear and desperation. But there’s nothing to see – just the endless expanse of water meeting sky, a horizon that offers no answers, only questions.
A deep, hollow feeling settles in my chest, a void where hope used to reside. I fall to my knees, the damp earth clinging to my pyjama pants. My father, my mentor and guide, chose to walk away from everything, from me.
Suddenly, amidst the oppressive silence, a familiar voice calls out from behind me. “Willow!”
I whirl around, my heart leaping into my throat. There, against all logic, stands my dad. He looks the same, the early morning light casting familiar shadows across his face.
Disbelief, relief, and scepticism war within me. “Dad?” My voice is a whisper, tinged with a hope I’m afraid to fully embrace.
He steps forward, his presence undeniably real. “I’m here, Little Wren,” he says, his voice carrying the warmth I remember so well.
I step forward, each movement filled with a mix of fear and longing. “How is this possible?” I ask, my voice trembling.
He opens his arms, a gesture of reassurance and comfort. “I’ve always been here. You just had to find me.”
I step towards him, drawn by the familiarity and warmth of his presence. Yet, as I move closer, a sense of unease creeps into my heart. Something about his appearance, his aura, feels off.
“What happened to you?” I ask, my voice laced with doubt.
“You’ve grown strong, Willow,” he smiles, but it’s a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “But are you strong enough to face the truth?”
“Dad, you’re scaring me,” I whisper, my heart pounding.
His smile widens, but it’s not the warm, comforting expression I remember. Instead, it twists into something mocking, a grin that sends shivers down my spine. Suddenly, he erupts into laughter, a sound so jarring and inhuman that it freezes me in place.
The laughter echoes around us, bouncing off the cliffs and filling the air with a sinister resonance. As I watch in horror, my dad’s form begins to shift, to contort in ways that defy reality. His skin ripples and bulges, his features distorting grotesquely.
I take a step back, my breath caught in my throat. The man who was my father is transforming, his body expanding and twisting into a monstrous shape. The familiar features melt away, revealing the scaly, mottled skin of the Bunyip.
Its eyes, glowing a deep, malevolent red, fix on me with a terrifying intensity.
Desperation and fear grip me, but they also bring a lucid clarity. This isn’t real. I’m having a nightmare. I need to wake up.
Just as the ghoulish creature prepares to lunge at me, a primal, instinctive part of my mind screams at me to take drastic steps to jolt myself awake.
I glance over the edge of the cliff, the drop seeming like an endless chasm into the abyss. It’s a terrifying choice, but it’s the only way I can think of to break free from this horrific dream.
Taking a deep breath, I step back, gathering every ounce of courage and resolve within me.
With a final, defiant glance at the monster, I sprint off the cliff’s edge…