Wyndham Prison Boab

• Elisia Killick, Grade 8, Strathcona Baptist Girls Grammar School
• Short Story
• 2010

2nd in the 'Word Express 2010' competition

His young strong fingers touch the inside of my ripped core. Cold, wet and smooth they glide down my rough self. Many dark outlaws had wrenched open my flesh engraving symbols leaving their burdens written on me, but he was different. He kept running his fingers over a certain scar tracing it gently, letting his agony and tears run down his bony cheek. The clouds race over the deathly sky and I am swayed ruthlessly in the wind. The Wet didn’t play games, so no brumbies would be here tonight to take him away.

Scarlet dust swirls in wily wilies across the scorching, barren land. Spinifex cuts at his scrawny legs as he tries to catch small lizards and other grubs. The sun glares down pitilessly and the hard earth ripples and cracks under her. Luck vanished; he comes and cools himself under my shadow. In the setting sun, the silhouette of a boy leaning against an ancient, spirited boab stretches out for miles along the horizon and crimson ochre.

The unsteady flicker of embers and the ceaseless glow of vermilion flame against my raw trunk bring his rock art to life. Sitting at the fire he shaves the fur off last year’s fruit revealing dry firm flesh in bistre. Wondrously using a flint he gently removes a little of the hard shell leaving engravings and drawings inscribed on the fruit. Passionately he finishes the scraping until the whole fruit is perfected with his story and handiwork. In satisfaction he places it on several withered gum leaves and he himself lies down on the hard, arid yet silken carnelian dust.

The remote familiar sound of hooves is coming too soon for me. It will only be moments before they appear on the distant plain, cracking their whips. He hasn’t heard them yet and is blissfully digging for breakfast among my roots. The witchettygrub tries to dive deeper for cover, but is too slow. Standing up He inspects his achievement before biting off it’s head and chewing it. A massive sangria dust cloud, being blown across the dessert with glints of metal, harnesses and boots is enough to make any person start running for their life. The country police were on the watch out for black outlaws and some how the news of this young one had gotten to town. He scrambled up and ran inside me, holding his breath he waited. His deep breathing alongside me is intense and panicky. The brumbies have stopped outside me and he daren’t look out at them. We hold our breath and wait.

The wind wails and shrieks in the sky blowing the cold coals from the entrance of me towards the plains. My year old, decaying fruit is tossed in the rage and his stories are battered against me. The wet didn’t play games so no brumbies would be here tonight to lock another up. The wind tears and gales and I am swayed ruthlessly in the wind.