It was a quiet day in the garden. The wind had dropped and there was a silence that was almost deafening. The soil was void of footprints. There was no rustling in the undergrowth. The lack of human hands witnessed the overflowing of the flowers across the formal boundaries of the pathways. This block, located in the village they called The Patch, clung to the side of the creek. At its lowest point, the faint tumbles of water over rocks could be heard. This creek was all but hidden beneath an evergreen canopy of ferns. These ferns were a characteristic of a bygone era, the modern descendant of a Jurassic staple in this temperate rainforest landscape.
The kookaburra landed on the bough of a towering eucalypt and surveyed his dominion. He had been coming to this garden his whole life, and he came here most days. The lack of human interlopers meant this garden was his everyday buffet table. He was just about to fly down to the rich soil below when a movement caught his eye. Someone was coming through the archway on the far side of the garden. This archway almost leaned in towards the old ramshackle hut that stood on the terrace opposite. He paused, his feet reconnecting with the branch beneath him. Takeoff curtailed. No humans lived in the hut. Who was this person? This person with their hands that could cause so much damage to this garden?
He watched the woman enter the garden. Her boots crunched on the gravel as she made her way down through the levels. Who was she? In his experience, these interlopers meant change. Their hands programmed to clear away plants and trees. This woman was an intrusion in an otherwise pristine place of age-old solitude. The kookaburra flew to a higher branch to get a better view. She walked down to the old rusty iron bench, where the tendrils of the wonga vine had woven themselves around its legs. The garden was almost claiming the bench as part of the itself, pulling it away from the world of men. But now the woman sat, placing her bag down beside her. The kookaburra felt disturbed. Disturbed by her intrusion. Perhaps more disturbed by the potential change she represented. Did she not realise this was the garden of the kookaburra? Not to mention the possums who scampered across the tin roof above. Nor the fat wombat who burrowed deep below.
But now his gaze was diverted once more by the worm. It was edging its way across the flowerbed below. Too fat and juicy to ignore, and so he swooped down to score the morsel. This was why he liked this garden so much. Its yield always so plentiful. It had been that way since he was a hatchling, watching his parents swoop from the nest. The woman has seen the movement and her eyes had focused in on him, and he had seen the smile spread across her face. It was a look of wonder. Why was she so enchanted to see him? He was just another kookaburra. He was nothing special. One of many in these parts. One of many who made up the dawn chorus. He flew back up to the relative safety of the eucalypt canopy and studied her once more.
Her clothes were strange, as though she had come from far away. She wore not the long flowing skirts of her contemporaries, but strange breech-like trousers. She had stood up now, and had collected a handful of gumnuts from the ground. He watched as she turned them over in her hands. Her expression was one of marvel. That strange expression of wonder etched on her features. Again he thought that she must be from afar. He was confused. It was as though she was seeing things for the first time. Maybe she was. He flew above her and settled on a different branch, getting a different view of the garden. He tried to take in her view, from his branch above the bench. She was wandering around the gravel paths. A flâneur perhaps, but one of her own agenda, rather than a casual ambler.
The dahlias were a riot of colour, their shaggy heads offering pinks, burgundy and a pristine cream. But she was not at all interested in those Queens of Autumn. She had no interest in their bright colours that filled so many of the garden terraces. Further away, the delicate white daisies commanded attention, their sweet faces beckoning you closer. But she walked on by. Even the majestic rose bush was ignored, in spite of the golden yellow blooms and their sweet heady scent.
The kookaburra flew back to his favourite branch. He failed to see her viewpoint, or rather, not understanding it. It seemed she was more focused on ordinary things. The gumnuts. The wonga vine. Even himself. Yes, he surmised, she must be a stranger in these lands. Many people had come here before her. No longer was it just the land of the Wurundjeri, now there were others, many others.
She had stood up now, retracing her steps. She was following the pathways laid out by the one they call Edna Walling, until she reached the bench once more. Was she a friend or foe to this garden? He contemplated this fear of change. A deep rooted fear. On the one hand because this was one of his favourite gardens. And on the other, his alternative favourite had already been destroyed. Some soil guzzling machine, flattening, reclaiming, a landscape lost.
Please don’t take my garden, he thought with an undertone of worried desperation. He watched the woman rub her hands through the lemon verbena, its scent rising in the air. She wrapped her hands around her nose and breathed deeply. And there it was again, that look of utter enchantment. A childlike quality not often seen in a grown up. He watched her reclaim her seat and take a book from her bag. She began to sketch and this simple act of putting pencil to paper made his heart soar. He felt lighter, liberated from the worried trappings of his mind.
This was not a human here to change and destroy. This one would revel in the garden’s delights, as she sought to capture this image on her page. He watched her, as she looked up and saw him. She smiled. He relaxed. This was no interloper. This was someone who would stay a while. Someone who would, one day, belong.
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