On the edge of the vast red desert, a young Aboriginal girl named Yindi watched her older brother, Jarran, prepare for his walkabout. The sacred journey was a rite of passage, a time to connect deeply with the land and ancestors.

Though she was only twelve, Yindi had always been curious and adventurous. She longed to understand the stories the earth whispered to her brother. She yearned for the spiritual connection he would experience.

When Jarran set off, Yindi hesitated for only a moment before slipping into the bush after him. She moved silently, her small feet knowing the paths of her ancestors.

Her mother’s warnings echoed in her mind—this journey was not hers to take. But Yindi’s determination outweighed her fear. The dusty trails, twisted gum trees, and the sound of distant birds singing seemed to urge her forward. She whispered a small prayer to the spirits, asking for their guidance.

By nightfall, she crouched behind a cluster of spinifex grass, watching Jarran make camp. The firelight cast flickering shadows on his face as he sat cross-legged, eyes closed, whispering a song to the stars.

Yindi’s heart raced. She was part of this story now, even if he didn’t know it.

A sudden gust of wind made her gasp, and she quickly clapped her hands over her mouth. Did he hear her?

Her brother’s head turned slightly, but he returned to his chant. Yindi’s curiosity swelled. She had followed him this far; there was no turning back now.

Jarran walked confidently through the scrub, his spear tapping against his leg in rhythm with his steps. At eighteen, this journey was his chance to prove he could listen to the land and honor his ancestors’ wisdom.

His father had told him to trust the spirits and to follow the signs. He carried a small pouch of ochre pigment from the earth and carefully painted symbols on his arms as he walked, invoking the blessings of the ancestors.

He paused beneath a towering ghost gum tree, its white bark gleaming in the midday sun. The sounds of the bush surrounded him: cicadas buzzing, a kookaburra’s laughter echoing nearby. Jarran felt at peace, yet something unsettled him. The feeling of being watched crept into his mind.

“Just the spirits,” he murmured to himself, gripping his spear tightly.

The elders’ stories often warned of the unseen—good spirits and tricksters alike. Jarran knew better than to doubt them.

That night, he built a small fire and began singing the songs passed down by his grandfather. The flames danced, casting long shadows across the barren ground. Suddenly, a soft rustle broke the stillness. Jarran froze, his eyes darting to the darkness beyond the firelight.

“Who’s there?” he called, his voice steady but firm.

The shadows seemed to shift, and he gripped his spear tighter. A shiver ran down his spine. Was it a bunyip? A wandering spirit? The thought quickened his pulse. Still, he held his ground, determined to face whatever—or whoever—dared disturb his sacred journey.

Yindi’s heart pounded as Jarran’s voice cut through the night. She hadn’t meant to make a sound, but her foot had crunched against a dry branch. Hidden behind a bush, she weighed her options. If she revealed herself, would he be angry? But if she stayed silent, would he think she was something worse?

She took a deep breath and stepped forward. “It’s me,” she said, her voice small but steady.

Jarran spun around with his spear poised. The firelight caught her face, and for a moment, confusion clouded his expression. Then his eyes widened.

“Yindi?” he asked, though his voice carried doubt. “Is that really you, or…”

Yindi tilted her head. “Or what?”

Jarran’s voice dropped to a whisper. “A spirit. A bunyip. Something playing tricks on me.”

Laughter bubbled up in Yindi’s chest, but she stifled it. Instead, she stepped closer, holding her hands out in the firelight. “It’s just me, Jarran. I wanted to come with you.”

He lowered his spear slowly, his expression softening into a mix of relief and exasperation. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, but there was no anger in his voice. Instead, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Yindi grinned back, feeling the tension dissolve. The bush around them seemed to sigh, as if even the spirits approved of their reunion. She told him about her small prayer earlier, and they shared a quiet moment of mutual respect for the unseen forces guiding them.

The siblings sat by the fire, the initial shock giving way to shared laughter.

Jarran shook his head, still amazed. “I thought you were a bunyip! Can you imagine the elders’ faces if I’d gone back with that story?”

Yindi giggled. “I’d make a good bunyip. I scared you, didn’t I?”

“Only for a second,” Jarran admitted, poking the fire with a stick. “But you can’t stay. This journey is important.”

“I know,” Yindi said, her voice serious. “But I wanted to understand. The land… it calls to me too.”

Jarran studied her for a moment, then nodded. “The land calls to all of us. But it’s not just about listening. It’s about responsibility.”

Yindi nodded, understanding his words even as she felt a pang of disappointment. Still, she was glad she had come.

They shared stories late into the night. Jarran taught her some of the songs and Yindi shared the small treasures she’d collected on her way. They both added small offerings to the fire, thanking the spirits for their guidance.

By morning, they both felt the bond between them had deepened. Jarran promised to tell her everything he learned on his journey when he returned.

As he walked away, Yindi stayed behind, her heart full of pride for her brother and herself. She had followed her curiosity and found a connection—not just with Jarran, but with the land and its stories.