Once upon a time…

We are the people of the reed flats, where smoke lies low and rivers forget their banks. Each year we keep the Night of the Stone Breath. We hold a grey pebble to our lips and blow. If the stone grows warm, we say the land still hears us.

This year the pebble was cold.

Boats from far shores slid past, their oars quiet, their faces hungry. Fields failed, and bronze blades bent like grass. Men spoke of breaking and ash. Yirra, a young woman with quick hands, would not sit and watch. She said, “If the stone will not warm, we must carry our breath to the old ridge, where the sky once touched the earth.”

We walked with her, taking baskets and babies. The ridge held wind like a knife. There stood the Whistling Tree, a trunk pierced by lightning long ago. It sang when storms came.

Yirra climbed and tied our reed flutes to its hollow scars. When the first wind rose, the tree sang with us. Boats turned from our coast. Clouds gathered and fell sweet. Our pebble warmed in every mouth.

We gave thanks. We keep the flutes there now. When hard years come, we walk and listen, and the land answers.