Mad Boy I was back from my boarding school on the coast, with my family again. On country. Our country. Grandad was teaching me the land, so I wouldn’t forget where I belonged. He taught my dad, but my dad died. Now he taught me. He didn’t want me to just be a city boy. He wanted me to know. To remember. To sing. We’d go bush, and he’d show me how to survive. How to see and hear it. How to love it. What we could eat. Where water was. Where the sacred places were. Why they were sacred. Who could touch that sacred. Who could sing it. Who could not. The trip I’m talking about, we’d been out for about a week. I was tired. I was missing my phone. But I was starting to understand. At least I thought I was. Grandad never said more than was needed, but I could tell when he was pleased with me, because he’d put his hand on my hand. He’d say, “You feeling it?” Then he’d smile his secret smile and say, “You’re feeling it.” And at night he’d tell the stories and sing until I slept. I don’t know if he ever slept. He’d be cooking damper when I woke. Boiling the billy. Whispering. Grandad was deep like a bore hole that reached down to sweet water. He never pushed. He knew how to wait. He was like an old tree, stronger than fire and impervious to drought. He had his roots planted in millennia. I tell my kids about him now. One day I will take them back to learn what he taught me. One day soon. And he will be there. With me. With them. Still singing. With us. That day, the day we saw him, Grandad was showing me the gorge. He’d told me it had permanent water at the bottom, and a wild acoustic that – if you were in the rocky alcove he led me to – allowed you to hear a whisper spoken at the bottom of the gorge as clear as if the speaker was leaning into your ear. 25
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