Metaworld Chronicles

Looking out at the wide blue yonder of the Tasman Sea, Gwen masticated her doubt like a hesitant calf working through a mouthful of stubborn cud.

In her mind, a significant amount of time had passed since her last visit to Almudj. After a year, even a mythical hellion like Helena would have thawed.

But could Helena be compared to Almudj?

The more Gwen thought about it, the more she wondered if she was taking to Almudj with the wrong perspective. As a matter of reflex, she had the problem of seeing everything from an anthropomorphic viewpoint, a habit from her old world where Humanity sat atop the food chain uncontested. As a result, she had indulged in Al's benevolence since the beginning, treating the Land God as a psychic double, like a Studio Ghibli mascot.

Even as she sat through dinner with Gunther and a fired-up Alesia asking for details of Caliban's Merman carnage, her mind worked non-stop to re-evaluate the Almudj-Stranger Hypothesis, a cousin of the reality-bending powers of the Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis, where validity was at the mercy of an imperfect medium of expression.

Outside of linguistic exams, she hadn't paid much attention to the theory as a college socialite. However, through her growth as a Mage-Magus-Magister, the notion of Spellcraft as a linguistic means to draw out mana from the Elemental Planes was a fact of life.

Additionally, the Elves and the Dragons were living proof that Sapir-Whorf could be applied to the fabric of the Planes. From what she had seen, Dragons could "literally" alter the laws of the elements with their arcane syntax and grammar, compelling obedience from reality and making delusions real. The Elves, through their Sigil-scripts, could encourage growth and regeneration, life and death, from the smallest fungi to the tallest oak, and speak to both trees and magical beasts.

Thus, to fully communicate with Almudj, she needed a means of communication that was in sync with a mind that lived in Tjukurpa katutja ngarantja, the Unformed Land. The Dreaming.

But where was she going to learn such a skill?

Even Old Goolagong had said that her people lacked the means, that their communication was expressionism through ritual, and that they performed Almudj's whims without asking why.

She was Almudj's kin.

But realistically, she was more like Almudj's cat, a selfish Sphinx that had been bopped on the nose and was now back for more.

Nonetheless—she had to inform Almudj of the changes to her plans to prevent unforeseen catastrophes.

First and foremost, there was Sufina.

The possibility of retrieving the Scale rested solely with Sufi, for whom she had two choices. The first was to enlist Almudj's cooperation, preserve Sufina's mind in the state her Master had left the Dryad, and then take the offer to make herself a Safe Zone for her Tower—a triple-winner chicken dinner deluxe.

The alternative...

"Gwen?" Alesia's face phased into view, her brows furrowed with concern. "Are you not well? You're not eating."

"She's on her second serving," Gunther gently reminded his wife.

"And there's thirds and fourths." Alesia pointed to the spacious kitchen.

"Gwen has Caliban under control these days," Gunther reminded them. "But I suppose Allie's right. Are you okay, is jerk chicken not to your liking?"

On the farther end of the table, she caught Lulan watching the three of them like a cafe patron finding herself seated beside Hollywood A-listers. Comparatively, Richard was his usual easeful self, helping himself to the salad and refilling Lulan's cup whenever hers emptied.

"I was just thinking about Almudj again…" Gwen confessed. "Al and Sufi, to be exact."

"Are you realllllly—?" Alesia glanced at Gwen's companions.

Gwen affirmed Richard and Lulan's trustworthiness with a casual nod in their direction. Richard had known about Gwen's various dealings since the beginning. As for Lulan, her knowledge was a pastiche of impressions from Gwen, Ryxi, and the very talkative Golos, who boasted of Gwen's deeds at every opportunity to the White Serpent. If Gwen should wish for Op-Sec in the future, her Wyvern must be told nothing.

"I am going to try and impress upon Almudj Sufi's proposal," Gwen spoke with vagueness because she had no idea if such a clear line of communication was even possible. "Considering what happened with the Yinglong's Essence loan, I don't think it's a good idea to work with Sufina without Al's explicit knowledge."

"That's a good idea," Alesia concurred. "I mean, it isn't as though either of you could just take Almudj's Scale, the one Sufi holds dearer than her life."

"We could test that." Gunther's expression grimly contested his wife. "By his own arrangements, Master should have been interred under St Mary's."

To Gwen's recollection, her Master had organised a resting place for his remains in the warded catacombs of Sydney's most Faith-laced place of worship. That was something all of his students understood as Henry's wish. It was a matter of prestige and respect, and, importantly, it prevented anything untoward from happening to his remains, such as Necromancy. The same Necromancy that was now keeping Henry's husk hale and eternal.

"No. I don't want to do that to Sufi," Alesia's reply had more emotion than logic, but it was final.

"I know," Gunther placed down his fork. Seeing that neither of the girls was still interested in more, he pulled back from the table. "So… dessert?"

"Yes, please," Gwen was also glad not to consider such an outcome.

The alternative option was to Purge Sufina. Gunther could ask for permission to cleanse Sufina's island. The three of them would go and demand Henry's body back from the Dryad and, in the worst-case scenario, rid the world of a dangerously sentimental, possibly deranged Demi-human possessing most of her Master's knowledge and a "Scale" from which it leeched Mythic Essence.

Certainly, leaving Sufina completely alone was no option at all. If Gwen, Gunther and Alesia perished one day, Sufina would likely become a disaster—a danger the likes of which only Ryxin, with all the mustered powers of Nagaland, could match. Without deploying Singapore's Tower, the Dryad "infestation" would rule every island chain of Micronesia. There would be no fertile men left within a hundred kilometres of Sufi's wooden seraglio.

Gunther returned from the kitchen with plates of honeyed poached pear. "Why don't we talk about another snake? Lulan—you said that Huangshan has a snake as well? The White Serpent, if I recall? The Yinglong's third or second scion? Why don't you tell us about him or her?"

"Me-me?" Lulan pointed a chopstick at herself and then looked at Gwen for help.

"Good idea," Gwen gave the girl some encouragement. "Tell us about Ryxi! Tell us what it's like to train and live with a fabled Land God?"

"Umm…" Lulan appeared in a mild panic. "Master Ryxi… er… he likes…umm… calligraphy?"

“O—o—o— my cute Cucu Perempuan!” Surya Huang, Enchanter and now regional administrator of the Hunter's Region, hugged Gwen so tight he lifted her from the floor despite his tiny frame.

"Opa! Manners!" Gwen grew instantly flustered, for Richard was laughing, and Lulu's eyes looked like they were about to pop from their sockets. "Of course, I've missed you as well. Please hug me like a normal relative."

Surya did not.

Much to Gwen's delight, her gramps was hale and strong. A cynical part of her believed that five years away from a daughter like Helena could reverse-age any father, but deep down, she knew Evee was to blame.

Or rather, Sen-sen's tendrils combined with distilled Maotai, produced in limited amounts by Elvia's occasional pruning of her ginseng, was why her Opa's white hair had turned grey and his sunken cheeks now looked filled. Perhaps lacing Sen-sen sauce with Almudj's juice allowed her Opa to benefit from living on Almudj's land? Certainly, whenever she came back to Australia, her Astral Soul felt so at home that she sometimes wanted to fly into the curved horizon until nothing but a vague distance was left in every direction.

While she complained, her Opa's sculpture-moulding hands worked their way up her waist and onto her shoulders, then cupped her chin, stopping finally at her forehead.

"Good—good!" Surya couldn't stop smiling. "I'll transmute a grand statue in your honour! Ten—no—twenty meters tall! The Devourer will be the first thing anyone sees as soon as they enter the Hunter Valley!"

In horror, Gwen glanced at the Caliban-inspired erotic sculptures in the estate that had made Lulan yelp, cover her eyes, and turn into molten slag. "A normal sculpture, I hope."

"Nonsense!" Her Opa stepped back to examine her with a twinkle in his eye. "You're perfect, my Cucu Perempuan. There is nothing in this world more beautiful, nothing greater than my granddaughter! Ha! A War Mage! The Saviour of everything, everywhere! Ahahaha—"

"… thanks, Opa." Gwen hugged her Opa again, finding that only physical intimacy could shut her Opa up for more than a minute. As soon as she left him alone, he would start to loudly talk of her achievements like a foreman with a loudhailer. On the way in, he had stopped Tess in her tracks to regale something Gwen had done in the last few years. Then later, while showing Lulan the workshop, he had halted Melissa mid-enchant to inform her of something else Gwen had done in London.

In only half a day, Gwen began to long for her workplace.

Her Opa's affection was food for the soul.

But it was far too rich even for an affection-starved cynic.

Once the day waned, she and her family sat in front of the infinity water feature that was once more filled, regaling the tales of her time in Shanghai, London, and other parts of the world she had visited during the IIUC. The summation of her experiences had taken so long that bottles lined the table when she finished, and the sun had set.

"Ee—ee!" Ariel yawned from boredom.

Somewhere in the churning water feature, Caliban's faceless head emerged with the likeness of a Lovecraftian beluga without a face. "Shaa—?"

Surya tossed them each a raw chunk of HDM crystal.

"Let's call it a day," her grandfather gestured to the guest rooms. "And don't worry. I had those renovated after all the refugees had left."

"Thank you, Magus Huang." Lulan stood and bowed.

"Cheers, gramps." Richard gave him two thumbs up.

"Mel, Tess, show them where the bathrooms are." Surya was tired as well. Gwen could see that keeping up so much excitement at his age was a taxing affair, especially when booze was involved. "We'll talk tomorrow. I'll need Caliban to do some modelling. My sculptor's hands are tingling!"

Gwen could only agree, though she did not agree with Surya's collection of Caliban-inspired erotica, which the old artist proclaimed to have a commission list in the hundreds.

Once Lulan and Richard settled in, Gwen sat on her bed, unsettled by the familiar room. Here was a place where she had originally slept half a decade ago. She had experienced her first adventure with Yue and Elvia in this house.

Here, she and Debora…

Thankfully, nothing had happened.

Thankfully, because Debs had been a faceless Void-stomach hell-bent on wearing her skin.

With a surge of will, she banished the gut-clenching recollection, focusing instead on her closest crisis.

Almudj.

Sufina.

And stranger danger.

Her plan thus far was to stop at her Opa's until he was satisfied, then move out to see Old Goolagong. There, she would ask for the means to enter the trance once more and "remotely" access Almudj before deciding if she could introduce her cousins as kin of Kin.

Maybe Al would demand his Scale.

Maybe the snake would scold her for her procrastination.

Or maybe the Rainbow Serpent would entertain her proposal.

Or merely asking could fry her brains like an omelette.

The last part was rather unlikely, considering her patron's benevolence. Cheeky, yes, but never malicious. Whatever happens in the future, she had no doubt there would be no Tower without the serpent's aide, just as she would have gone the way of Sobel's Void Element should Al withdraw the support of his snake oil.

And should the world turn to shit because of Spectre, making an Eden of her own was critical.

As for how—Sufina had already told her the answer.

There is always a woman.

There is always a snake.

And there is always a tree.

That was the ingredient for pacifying a region's elemental instability, the key to the lock, the lock itself, and the door on which the lock and key existed.

She needed a way to communicate with Almudj.

But how?

Is it impossible to say what she means?

Her Prufrockian ordeal, Gwen acknowledged as she allowed the darkness to devour her consciousness, was only beginning.

A day later, Gwen decided she would test the waters first rather than risking an encounter with stranger danger. Richard had been fine with the decision, while Lulan's only desire was to stay as her bodyguard. And as she could not fight Almudj, the Sword Mage relented.

At daybreak, Gwen flew alone across the tablelands, using her Omni-orb as her autopilot, craning the necks of farmers and fruit pickers with her silvery streak of wasteful Elemental Lightning, leaving wide wakes of rolling thunder.

Before leaving the Huang estate, she had mediated at her Opa's to see what her Wyvern and duck wished. Golos had expressed that he wouldn't want to hang with the Old One without assurances, and Dede emphatically intimated that it was training with "brother" Gogo.

Once past the winery region, New South Wale's tablelands were a whole other hog compared to the farms north of Wellington. Firstly, the size of the land was obscene, with cultivated fields of barley and wheat so extensive that she would fly for an hour without seeing its end. After two hours north, she made a hard left for Dharug, the source of Sydney's major waterways, following the Hawkesbury River and aggravating the Merfolk encamped on the many sandbanks of its estuaries. When she crossed into Yengo, all signs of human habitation ceased, leaving nought but endless ranges of eucalyptus dispensing mid-morning mist in darkening hues of pastel blue.

Should she choose to land here and intrude the canopy, she would find the "native" Elementals of the Wildlands, with Snots and Goblins at the very bottom of the food chain, followed by loose tribes of Bush Orcs, and nearer the apex, the Drop Bears that ruled rising mounds of weathered outcroppings.

Along the way, she had visitors. The curious ones were the local Wedge-tailed Wyverns, some as large as cars, who ventured close to see what the fuss had bought. Later, an Ebony Marauder Eagle kept pace with her for ten minutes before choosing the wiser option of leaving. When she neared the flatlands, a Lowland Craig Roc ambushed her.

Its slightly mangled carcass, Gwen decided after Ariel and Caliban double-teamed it into submission, would make a good gift for her Tjukurpa's mob.

At midday, she arrived.

Considering the nomadic nature of Goolagong's people, she entertained the suspicion that Ruxin knew what he was doing in gifting her a magical Sat-Nav.

"Oi! Migloo girl!" an old feller with skin as tanned as dark leather hailed her as she landed. "You are here, again!"

"I am indeed here, again," Gwen recalled the old feller's name as Jura. "How are you, Mister Jura?"

"Pah! Old Jurangi is no ‘Mister!’” the bearded swagman doubled over with chuckles. "Alright, you wait here, Migloo girl. I go get me old woman."

While she waited, the other members of Goolagong's tribe wandered over. When they saw that it was her, they relaxed. Ten minutes later, she was knee-deep in young ones, begging her for puk Koman sweets from the city.

"I don't have any sweets," Gwen confessed to her unfortunate oversight. "But I have something better!"

She had a dead Roc.

And SPAM, several pallets of SPAM still left over from Auckland.

She also had flour and rice but lacked the thick skin to give cute children bags of raw grain.

"Missus Boss." One of the girls hugged the cans, while others poked the Roc, her luminous brown eyes studying the SPAM's packaging with more questions than answers. "Why does this one have your face on it? Is this your meat?"

"It's not my meat!" Gwen wanted to say she was the face of SPAM but wasn't sure how to break down the complex economic relationship with a tribe largely removed from the city. "The face is because I… got paid."

Before she could finish, the children ran away, howling that they had cans of the Migloo's meat. Gwen studied the heavens, hoping that strange rumour would not spread due to her failed bluff check.

"Gwen! You back!" came a familiar holler from the main encampment, closing the distance with the ease of a siren. "You've grown, Migloo girl!"

Old Goolagong looked as old as the day they met five years ago. This time, it seems their meeting wasn't expected. Unlike the other times they had met, the Tjukurpa wore an old hand-stitched shirt, and true to form, she came running in flip-flops.

"Thanks for coming to see me on such short notice," Gwen bowed toward Goolagong. "I'll get right to the point. I've been around since our last meeting, and I need to talk to Almudj."

"You have the cheeky 'Scale' of our cheeky snake?" Old Goolagong planted her hands on her heavy hips.

"No—"

"—Ooo."

"—No, wait!" Gwen flapped her arms, stopping the old woman from further misunderstanding. "I've found it. And technically, I can retrieve it whenever I wish. HOWEVER—there's a complication that needs Almudj's wisdom to resolve."

"Not good enough—! No Scale is no Scale! How cheeky!"

"Cheeky is as cheeky does," Gwen retorted. "Goolagong, I seriously need to talk to Almudj. There are dangers afoot the likes of which you cannot imagine. For both my people and yours, neither of us will be ready for the coming changes."

"Changes?" the old woman cocked her head. "Old Goolagong lived a long time, cheeky girl. What do you mean she cannot imagine? Do you take me for stupid?"

"No, no, not at all," Gwen walked back her unintended insult. "I mean, okay—globalisation, we're looking at the perils of globalisation. We're looking at food shortages, trade deficits, increased cost of living, supply chain disruptions, and that's just the start."

"The what and what?" Old Goolagong's eyes narrowed. "You trying ta yabba gammon, migloo girl? Globalisation? Frightening your old tidda with Yowie stories nowadays?"

Gwen pondered if a PowerPoint presentation would send her message across without her warning being lost in translation.

"Ha— okay!" Goolagong winked at her. "Old Goolagong can be cheeky too, yes? Us mob don't do globalisation, but I understand why you are worried. You want to sing to Almudj?"

"I do." Gwen relaxed. "Can you arrange it?"

"I can." Goolagong gave her a sly look. "No Scale?"

"Is that going to be a problem?" Gwen refused to admit she was shaking in her booties because she would be meeting Almudj barefooted. "It's been a while, after all. What would Almudj be expecting?"

"Nothing? Something? Everything?" Goolagong shrugged. "Maybe a long time has passed for Almudj. Maybe no time for Almudj. In the place where all water began, there are no calendars. Where the seasons are one, no gumtree dies, and no gumtree grows, understand? Migloo girl?"

Gwen suspected she understood Goolagong's wisdom as much as a hermit might understand globalisation.

"Goolagong," she paused to ponder the implications before making her request. "Is there any way I could communicate with Almudj… like you and I are conversing?"

As expected, the old Tjukurpa looked at her as though she had suddenly metamorphosed into a pale, crunchy witjuti grub.

"Migloo girl," the woman sighed. "You and I speak the Queen's English, and we can barely understand each other. We have known each other for many years now, yes? We have shared tucker. I painted your skin with the pigment of the bush. We sang the songs of the Dreamtime. Yet, do you know me? Know my mob? The story of the red earth under my feet? Our love of the land, like the touch of a child's fingers to her mother's lips?"

The Tjukurpa looked at the cans of SPAM her people were roasting over the flaming charcoal. "Can your people, who see the Prime Material as the nesting place of your ambitions and wealth, ever understand?"

Gwen lowered her eyes.

"No, no, do not be sad, Migloo girl," old Goolagong's matronly expression remained unchanged. "That is why many yearn for the Unformed Land, no? There is no loneliness there, no separation. No good, no evil, no nasty giving eye. To know the mind of the Unformed Land, to return to that womb of the world without separation, where all the world's waters began, would allow you to speak to Almudj—but where would you be then?"

"Where would I be?" Gwen cocked her head. I would be in the Unformed Land, wouldn't I?

"No! Migloo girl!" The old Walker laughed. "To enter the long dream of the bearded snake would be like this—"

Old Goolagong drew a semi-circle in the air, leaving behind traces of vibrant mana.

"Even a rainbow has a beginning and an end, but in the Unformed Land—"

The woman drew the second half of the circle and then kept tracing until her mana dried up, completing something like a helix.

"Would take away meaning itself. You would not be the Migloo Gwen. You would not even care about your Migloo friends or family because to leave a world where death has died is beyond your ken, even if you dabble in Necromancy."

Gwen had no words to express Goolagong's claim, for the Tjukurpa's imperfect analogy gave her too much food for thought.

"Confused? Good. Come!" the Spirit Walker arrested her fingers with a firm grasp. "Why hesitate? Unless you have decided to retrieve the Scale. For now, sing to Almudj. Maybe you get an answer? Maybe you get a Barbanginy."

As though in a trance, Gwen walked with her guide to a more secluded part of the camp, where the old woman readied the ritual, placing rocks as if by chance, then stamped out something akin to a Mandala with her feet.

"This should help," the Spirit Walker threw a fistful of leaves onto the embers, leaving a burst of low-lying haze. "Pituri—it will help your sanity."

When the fragrant smoke filled her lungs, Gwen began to feel weightless.

On cue, the sound of didgeridoos filled the silence of the sunlit outback, so deep and resonant that the red earth felt as though alive beneath her feet. As the garbs of civilisation fell from her shoulders, Gwen did not feel the autumn cold. Instead, the sun's heat seemed to soak into her skin, vivifying her Astral Body with the rich residual mana of the Prime Material.

Kapi—

Kapi—

Kapi—

The bimla joined the didgeridoos as Old Goolagong carved her body with pigments formed of white ash, bone, sulfur and red earth.

Gwen breathed in the hot air, her mind diving into the unformed thoughts of the endless music, becoming a warm, lush hum of rich, clean energy. Her breaths, which first came as pants, grew long and strange, becoming circular, her lungs the instruments and playthings of an unhurried timeless Om.

Water.

Her eyes misted over.

The sun became a mere speck in the uncertain distance, its light flickering against a vast blue forever.

Gwen's body grew hunched, her painted buttocks comfortably nestled against the ochre earth. Around her, ancient ghost gums, each larger than skyscrapers, danced with their white bodies like mangled fingers. As she passed through the veil of places without names, she felt the hardness of their iron-like trunks, so rigid and indestructible. Yet, her fingers found homes as they nestled in the soft, paper-like bark, so pliant under her touch.

Next, she walked on water. Not on the surface, as she had first suspected, for her white feet kissed the pink sand. No. Not sand, but salt. The pink salt of Hai, the same Salt of her brother, Percy, who she sorely missed.

She enjoyed the sensation of each grain slipping through the gap between her toes. High above, the radiance felt like a pair of warm hands, first on her shoulders, then on her bosoms. The sensation ended at her waist, atop her hips, a heat with grips like fingers entwined, wringing the water from the young singing reeds, crushing out the fresh water to nourish her thirst.

Her eyes fluttered open.

A Rainbow Snake stared back a dozen meters away, its slitted pupils rich with every colour, its scales more scintillating than the wings of the rarest butterfly.

"Almudj," she breathed out.

A long tongue, forked at the tip, as thick as her thighs and pink like salmon, patted her head.

Kin.

"I've been faithful." Gwen indicated to her belly button. "No strange Essences, this time."

The affirmation from the snake was the hot gold hush of lush afternoons.

"I need to tell you something, Almudj." Gwen tried her best to imagine the scene as she explained the offer from Sufina.

A woman.

A snake.

A tree.

The way of the world, or at least, the one she presently inhabited. She recalled her memories of Tryfan—of the World Tree there and the unity she had sensed between Solana and her home grot, the verdant crown atop Tryfan.

Almudj stared back unblinkingly.

Just as Gwen began to wonder whether a Barbanginy was about to be her answer, her serpent opened its mouth and flared its fangs, each ivory stalk the size of her trembling body.

If the interior of the Rainbow Snake's mouth had been a fairyland, she would not be so nearly as alarmed. Unfortunately, Al's mouth showed her exactly what she would expect—the gullet of a giant snake.

"Umm…" Gwen felt like she knew the answer. "Do I er.. walk inside? Shimmy in?"

Don't do it! Almudj isn't Geppetto's whale! The sane and logical part of her mind was ringing her Divination Sigil like a monkey with a gong.

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, her indecision was interrupted by Almudj's advance, scooping her onto its lower jaw as its whole mouth unhinged, gnashing her suddenly supine figure against the slippery flesh, turning noon to midnight.

Gwen tried to open her eyes.

But there was no need, for an unknowable amount of time later, her eyelids had dissolved.

Her present self stood in the shade of a great tree, one greater than any tree she had yet to witness, greater than even the World Tree of Tryfan. Around her swirled the cold breeze of wetness and fecundity, shrouding her with an explicable sense of familiarity.

Where is this? Gwen made her mind wander, hoping she could control the vision as though in a dream.

She could not.

"Kalinda!" A familiar voice cried out, the voice of old Tjupurrula. "We should leave now. The way of the world is just that. There is no need to mourn."

Kalinda? Gwen recalled the first vision she had shared with Almundj, that of the girl Walker with the same name. The present girl, she recognised by sight, was not that Kalinda.

For one, this Kalinda had elongated ears like chefs' knives.

And the markings tattooed onto her olive skin looked suspiciously like the ones from Tryfan.

And her eyes were those golden orbs from which the Hvítálfar looked down upon the world.

And her limbs were elongated, her body more insectile than the Elves she knew.

Perhaps, Gwen felt the strange spark of an alarming epiphany. She was a Kalinda as well.

But her thoughts did not have time to bud and bloom, for in the next moment, the Great Tree was ablaze with all the garish glory of a cyclonic twister, snaking its way from the tree's mountainous trunk toward its simmering crown.

"No!" The girl in old Tjupurrula's arms fought. To Gwen's surprise, the man affected a token resistance and then allowed her to go.

"Almudj! Stop! Please— We just wanted to go home! Return to the woods that wend! For a thousand thousand years, we—"

Gwen barely heard the histrionics from the olive-skinned Kalinda-Álfar, not even when the Elf plunged into the flames while hysterically howling about home and hearth, diving into the blazing ember like a moth to its happy demise.

"Beautiful, is it not?" Old Tjupurrula spoke. It took Gwen a moment to realise he was talking to her Force Ghost. "Great Almudj is cheeky. The bearded one giveth and taketh. Who are we, the scions of morality and time, to impose upon its home?"

Her gaze was drawn upward by his pointing finger.

Up there, somewhere, was Almudj. She could feel her patron's presence coiled around the tree, ending what it had once begun.

She wasn't sure how to feel about the destruction—but the scenery was beautiful.

Almudj's ire possessed a peculiar sort of aesthetic, unique perhaps, to the Australian continent, to the Rainbow Snake's domain. The flames were summer red as they swallowed the greenery, turning the emerald to char. Now a great serpent of flame and not water, rainbow-coloured fires swam across its scales of matt jet. Somewhere in Gwen's Astral Body, she felt her Essence ignite and burn, refracting the present cycle of Almudj's being. As the burning continued, songs of crackling timber and exploding eucalyptus erupted, making a strange symphony of blasted bark and burning wood. The sky, which had been cool, was now bushfire bright. The stars were gone, replaced with a million-million flying embers, hungry fireflies of death and destruction, raining down forever and forever, from horizon to horizon.

Fire Sprites of all shapes and sizes, common and exotic species, burst from the great gash in the Prime Material, willed into being by Almudj. With bell-like laughter, Efreeti maidens, flaming phoenixes, coiling newts, and swarming salamanders rolled down from the tree's pinnacle, an endless orgy in every colour from cobalt to rose to retina-searing white.

After a thousand years of burning, Gwen wondered. What would remain of the tree?

Is that what Uluru was?

A relic of a bygone epoch?

A gargantuan stump, a bookmark leftover from another cycle of Almudj's Dreaming?

"You wish for a new tree?" Old Tjupurrula addressed her whereabouts. "Almudj does not mind. There had been many trees, many times, many years ago. But are you prepared to change the currents of your world? Do you fear change?"

"Change? Do you mean…" Gwen plucked out her next words with care. "Consequence?"

"Ha!" Old Tjupurrula howled with laughter, which wasn't helped by the falling ash and embers. "Not consequence! But consequences for whom! Almudj, O child of lost time, has no changes or consequences. Even if your world blooms and burns, what does it matter to one who was born together with the heart of the Spiritus Mundi?"

"I think…" Gwen's mouth grew parched, realising the old Walker's meaning, that her world might not continue to exist, but a world will always continue to exist, and within all those potential worlds, Almudj would be Almudj. "I think I understand."

"Yes. Almudj will always be," Old Tjupurrula nodded with approval, seemingly reading her mind with the ease of flipping a picture book. "Go now, my wandering Kalinda. Fret over nothing. You are not special. Before you and after you, innumerable cheeky lost girls had dreamt of being Almudj's bride!"

The flames descended.

Her lungs ignited as she inhaled.

The answer of whether or not Almudj would accept Sufina had never been about affirmation or rejection. Rather, it was about what Gwen Song was willing to pay. To change the Prime Material or to let it continue its evolution was of no consequence to a serpent whose age was linked to the Prime Material itself.

But for a meagre girl to disturb her only universe, what would be her penance?

"MIGLOO GIRL! WAKE UP!"

Large, calloused palms slapped her cheeks hard enough to engender a Barbanginy in her head.

Groggily, Gwen rose on her elbows.

"Drink," came the command from the old Spirit Walker. "By Almudj's beard, you came close to the rainbow's end."

When the water bowl touched her lips, Gwen suddenly realised how dehydrated she had become. When she tried to lift her limb, it was as though all the energy from Almudj's blessing had gone from her flesh.

"Mmmmufgh—" she made an obscene noise as the water went down like liquid ambrosia.

She was in a pool of dirt and red mud, made from the sweat beading across every inch of her body. When she moved her hand across her thighs, she saw it come away with all the body paint Old Goolagong had prepared for her trance. Overall, she felt baked into the mud.

"You've been dreaming for three days. Any longer, and I fear your magical Tower Ring might trigger. Then, we'll lose you for real." Goolagong conjured another bowl of water for her. "Imagine that? Your body in your fancy Migloo Tower, your mind, still in the Unformed Land! Don't move—Drink slowly, and drink long. Don't talk."

Gwen took the time to down her second bowl before feeling the strength in her limbs. Almudj's blessing quickly took over the rest.

"So, since you are alive, what did you see?" the Spirit Walker asked as life returned to Gwen.

"Fire," Gwen said, feeling overwhelmed. "A great big bushfire, burning the biggest bush you've ever seen for a thousand years."

"Ah," Old Goolagong mumbled. "Lucky you. Almudj must not be angry with your lack of its Scale. Else you would be Kalinda. Not watching Kalinda."

"What…" Gwen took her third bowl of water with gratitude. "Is Kalinda?"

"No one knows," Old Goolagong shrugged. "Almudj cares not for names, only Kin. Maybe his first Vessel was a Kalinda. Who are we to trivially demand answers from Almudj? And how? Do you ask the air why the wind blows? Or the sky to be kind when there is no rain?"

She pointed to the camp beyond the hill. "We have Kalinda here and there as well. The cheeky snake is fond of the sound."

"There was something about… returning to the Unformed Land," Gwen recalled the fragmented conversation. "I don't know. There was so much fire."

"I think you have a fever," Old Goolagong touched a palm to her forehead. "Do not trust in dreams so literally, Migloo girl. Almudj does not think nor speak as we do, remember? Our cheeky one can only show you what its other Vessels have seen or felt. No more."

"And Tjupurrula!" Gwen suddenly recalled the old man—strangely, she could not recall a single detail about his face or likeness. "Old Tjupurrula. What is he?"

"Ah—" Goolagong scratched her bulbous nose, marring paint she had meticulous dabbed. "Old Tjupurrula is…"

The old Walker's face scrunched. "A very old, very wise Elder, I suppose. He was very cheeky—cheeky enough to cross over into Tjukurpa katutja ngarantja."

"The Unformed Land isn't a utopia?" Gwen felt the shock like a hammer blow. The whole time, she had imagined it to mean the afterlife. Or, in the case of Dragons like the Yinglong, a return to the equally nebulous idea of the Spiritus Mundi, something akin to the Astral Plane but associated with a contented state of oblivion. Even within Elvia's discussions about the quasi-sorcerous Christian afterlife, the celestial "Heaven" manifested as a legend, not fact. "It's a real place?"

"You misunderstand," Goolagong appeared to study her face. "The meaning, I mean. Tjukurpa katutja ngarantja, is not a place. It is the past, the future, and the present. It is a map to tell us where we are and where to go. It is how we relate—to you—to my mob—to your mob—to Almudj. It is the story and the Dreamtime, the foundation of the Dream, the threshold to the Unformed Land."

"A map?" Gwen tried to think. "To where?"

"Not to where. It is the map itself, one with directions which cannot be said or written down. Only when you are there will you know that you have followed it your whole life."

Gwen nodded out of habit.

Unfortunately, her mind felt like thrashed wool. Though she loathed the fact, her present, worldly self was far too removed from the Om necessary to begin absorbing the secret, privileged knowledge of the realm Almudj inhabited. To think otherwise would be sheer arrogance, no different to Helena thinking she could control her wayward daughter.

"Crap. I forgot to ask about strangers," she said after a few moments of recollection. "But… I think I get it. It's not my choice to make, but theirs. We must be responsible for our choices and the change we wish to bring to the world. I'd thought I had learned that lesson with Evee—apparently not—I think all those Mermen from the last month has been getting to my head, making me arrogant."

"You have grown wise, Migloo girl," Old Goolagong showed her a painted pinky white with pigment. "Though just this much. What will you do now?"

"Well," Gwen gave a heartfelt, soul-searched answer. "First, I would like to sleep for another ten hours, and then..."

A portion of her brain finally kicked into gear.

"Did you say three days?" Gwen's eyes focused on the inert Message device she had removed before her trance. "I was out of contact for THREE days?"

"Four, including the day you came," Goolagong shrugged, revealing pearly teeth unmarred by a lack of access to dentistry. "Why have you gone paler, Migloo girl? Do you do big job in your Migloo world? You big-wig missus-boss? Relax—will the world not turn without you?"