Wirreenun the Rainmaker (Campfire Story)

Once there was a terrible drought on the Narran River. The rivers were dry, except for a few deep holes. The grass was dead. Even the trees were dying. The kangaroos were dying, and the emus and the ducks and the swans had all flown away to far countries.

And the young men of the tribe began to grumble. GRUMBLE! At first quietly, and then out loud.

'Didn't our fathers always say that the Wirreenun could make rain, whenever we needed it? Look at our country! We'll have no food soon. We'll all die. So why doesn't the Wirreenun make it rain?' GRUMBLE!

The old Wirreenun, the clever man, heard them. And he said nothing at all.

But the young men noticed that for three days in a row, he went down to the waterhole in the creek, and stood a long stick in the water, with white cockatoo feathers tied to the top. And next to it, he put two big clear stones that he always kept hidden on him.

And at the end of the third day, the Wirreenun said to the young men, 'Go and cut bark. Enough to build bark huts for the whole camp.'

The young men looked at each other. Bark huts were for wet weather. But they did it.

'Now build the floors of the huts up high, a foot off the ground, out of hard-packed earth from the ant hills. And make a high place for the fire too.' And they did that too.

And when the huts were finished, with high floors and good tight roofs, the Wirreenun said, 'Now everybody, come with me. Men, women and children. Everyone.' And he led them all down to the waterhole, and jumped in, and told them all to jump in too. So they did. And they splashed and played in the water.

And the old man went around to each of them, one by one, and seemed to draw something out of the back of their heads, like little lumps of charcoal, and spat them into the water.

When he climbed out, a young man grabbed him and threw him back in, as a joke. And again. And again. Until the old man was shivering. And that was the signal for everyone to get out.

Then the Wirreenun sent the young people into a big shelter, and told them to sleep. And he and two old men and two old women stayed outside, with all their belongings piled on their backs, walking around and around the shelter, as if they were waiting to go somewhere.

And a black cloud came up over the edge of the sky. One cloud. Then another, and another, from every direction, until they all met right overhead, in one great black heavy mass.

And the old people woke the young ones. 'Quick! Get your things! Into the bark huts! Now!'

And they'd barely gotten inside when the thunder came. THUNDER! And lightning, and more thunder. THUNDER! THUNDER! A flash hit a tree right near the camp. The children cried. The dogs hid. 'We'll be killed!' cried the women. And the men said nothing, but they looked just as frightened.

Only the Wirreenun wasn't afraid. 'I'll go out,' he said, 'and stop the storm from hurting us.' And out he went, and stood in front of the huts in the storm, and sang his chant up at the sky. 'Gurreemooray, mooray, durreemooray, mooray, mooray...'

And the thunder grew quieter. A breeze stirred the trees. Then silence.

And then the rain came. RAIN! Real rain. Steady, soaking rain. RAIN! RAIN! And it rained for days.

And everyone was dry in their bark huts, on their high floors, just the way the old man had told them to build them.

And when the rain stopped, and the country was green again, the people held a great dance, and sang about the old Wirreenun, the rainmaker.

And the old man sat quietly through all their praise. Just as quietly as he'd sat through all their grumbling.