The Mud Bath
The Australian sun beats down on the billabong, baking the red earth until it cracks. Heat shimmers in waves off the eucalyptus trees. But down here, under the water, it is cool and dark.
Burying itself deep in the river mud, the Bunyip finds sanctuary in the silt. Only its eyes—large, bulbous, and set wide apart—protrude above the surface like smooth stones. A creature of ambiguity, descriptions vary wildly. Ask five witnesses what the Bunyip looks like, and you will get five different answers. A giant starfish? A dog with flippers? A horse with a duck's bill?
They are all correct. The Bunyip is a fluid thing, a master of biological mimicry. A spirit of the Dreamtime taken physical form, today it has chosen the shape of a sleek, seal-like beast with tusks. Resting, it lets yabbies and small fish dart around its flanks. Not hungry, it is simply existing, a part of the ancient landscape that refuses to be tamed.
The Evening Stir
As the sun sets, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and violet, the bush comes alive. Kookaburras laugh in the trees. Kangaroos hop down to the water's edge to drink, ears twitching nervously.
The Bunyip shifts. Bubbles rise to the surface. Enjoying the solitude of its lagoon, it does not like intruders.
On the far bank, a group of campers has set up tents. Loud music plays, and beer cans splash into the water. This displeases the Guardian of the Swamp. The water is sacred. The water is life. To pollute it is an insult.
Swimming toward them, it creates a wake that ripples across the glassy surface. Staying just below the waterline, it does not breach—a dark shape moving against the current.
The Midnight Boom
The moon rises, casting a pale, ghostly light on the gum trees. Campers settle down to sleep.
Raising its head from the water, the Bunyip inhales, filling its massive lungs with the night air.
BOOM.
The sound is impossible to describe. Part roar, part boom, it seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Vibrating in the chest, it sounds like a cannon firing underwater or a giant drum beaten by a god. It is the voice of the swamp itself.
Campers scramble out of their tents, flashlights panning frantically across the water.
"It's thunder!" one yells. "No clouds!" screams another. "It's the Bunyip!"
Chuckling—a wet, gurgling sound—the creature splashes its tail, sending a spray of water high into the air. Diving back down, it is satisfied. The noise has reasserted its dominance. This is its territory. Fear of the unknown makes for a powerful fence.
The Shapeshifter
Bored now, it crawls onto a mudbank to dry off. As the air hits its skin, the change begins. Fur recedes, replaced by scales. Tusks shorten. It becomes something more reptilian, better suited for basking on the warm rocks.
Looking at the moon, it remembers a time before fences, before cities, when the land was wild and the people knew its name not as a monster, but as a spirit to be respected. It remembers the songs sung to it by the elders.
Lonely, perhaps. Few of its kind are left. But it is strong. It is the memory of the land, and memories have a way of surviving.
The Return to the Deep
Campers have packed up and fled, their car taillights disappearing down the dirt track. Silence returns to the billabong.
Sliding back into the deep water, the Bunyip sinks down to its bed of weeds and mud. The water closes over its head. Closing its eyes, it listens to the heartbeat of the land, waiting for the next drought or the next flood. It will be here long after the campers are gone. It is the Bunyip, and the swamp is its kingdom.
