Context and Background: This story is a dramatized retelling of the Tiwi myth of Mudungkala, an important figure in the Dreaming (Palaneri) of the Tiwi people of northern Australia. According to Tiwi tradition, Mudungkala created the Tiwi Islands—Bathurst and Melville—by carving waterways from the mainland with her journey. This story, while staying true to the original myth, dives deeper into the emotional and psychological struggle between Mudungkala’s children as they face the monumental responsibility of caring for the land she created. The narrative is both a tribute to and a reimagining of this ancient tale, exploring themes of sacrifice, leadership, and the consequences of choices.
Summary: Mudungkala, an ancient and weary creator, carves the Tiwi Islands from the earth and water. As she prepares to depart, her three children argue over who should lead and how to tend the land. Despite their fear and ambition, Mudungkala chooses to leave them with a stark warning: the land will only survive if treated with care. Her disappearance forces her children to confront the weight of creation and their choices, setting the stage for a future defined by their decisions.
Mudungkala’s hands sank into the wet earth, fingers pressing against the cool, smooth surface of the riverbank. The smell of damp soil filled her nose as she crawled forward, her old knees digging deep into the sand with every labored movement. The air was thick with the weight of the coming dawn, and the land—her land—trembled faintly beneath her. Each pulse, each quiver of the earth, matched the rhythm of her slowing breath.
She could hear them behind her—her children. Their voices, once low murmurs carried on the breeze, had risen to something sharper, more urgent. The firelight flickered at her back, and though she could not see them, she knew the look in their eyes. Desperation. Fear. She had felt it in the way their hands shook when they had touched her, their fingers clutching her arm as if to tether her to this world.
“You can’t leave us.”
Tumarri’s voice cut through the stillness like a blade, sharp and edged with something dark. He had always been the cautious one, the protector, but there was something different now. A desperation that had grown, unchecked, like the wild vines she had planted across the island.
Mudungkala stopped. Her fingers paused just over the water’s edge, where the tide swelled gently against the sand. She listened to the water whispering secrets she could no longer hear—words lost to her with time. It had been hers once, all of it. The islands, the trees, the tides. She had carved them from nothing, breathed life into the bones of the earth. But she was tired now. The weight of creation had settled into her bones like a deep ache, and she knew the moment had come.
Behind her, the arguing voices grew louder. The tension hummed in the air, thick and suffocating.
“I should be the one to lead,” Nangala spat. Her voice was brimming with hunger, with ambition. “I know how to speak to the land. I’ve been listening to its pulse for longer than any of you. Without her, we need strength. We need someone who—”
“You don’t understand,” Tumarri interrupted, stepping closer to the fire. “This isn’t about power, Nangala. It’s about survival. You think you can control the land, but it will swallow you whole if you try. We need balance, not force.”
“And what would you know of balance?” Nangala’s laughter was bitter, jagged. “You, who trembles at every shadow? Who fears the change that’s coming? If we do nothing, the land will die.”
Mudungkala’s heart twisted at their words. They couldn’t see it yet—the burden they were so eager to carry. Creation was not an act of power. It was an act of sacrifice. And she had sacrificed more than they could ever understand.
The ground shifted beneath her as the tension between her children rippled outward, into the earth itself. She felt the trembling of the trees, the soft murmur of the animals she had brought into being, the gentle stir of the waters. All of it alive, all of it fragile. They were hers, bound to her breath, her will. But now, the time had come for her to let go.
She turned her head slightly, listening to the crackle of the fire behind her. Kapala, the youngest, had said nothing. He sat apart from his siblings, his silence louder than their words. She knew he felt it too—the weight of what was to come. He had always been the quiet one, the gentle one, but his heart was heavy with questions. She could feel the unspoken plea in the way he watched her, his eyes searching for answers she could no longer give.
Mudungkala inhaled slowly, her voice a low rasp when she finally spoke.
“Enough.”
The word settled like a stone, silencing the argument behind her. She felt their eyes on her now, all of them waiting, wanting, needing something. She could hear their breaths, uneven and expectant, as if they, too, were clinging to her last words, to the promise she had once given them.
“I cannot stay.” Mudungkala’s voice cracked under the weight of the truth. “This land, these waters—they were never meant to be mine forever. I shaped them for you. But now, you must shape them for yourselves.”
Silence. The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks into the dark sky, but no one spoke. The land seemed to still, waiting.
“But we’re not ready,” Kapala finally whispered, his voice trembling, small. “How can we survive without you? Without your guidance?”
Mudungkala’s chest ached at the sound of his voice. She wanted to hold him, to pull him close like she had when he was still a babe clinging to her breast. But those days were long past. The time for nurturing had ended. Now, there was only the path forward.
“You must,” she replied softly, her fingers brushing the water’s surface. “The land will give you what you need. But only if you care for it as I have. You cannot take from it without giving in return.”
Behind her, Nangala scoffed, her ambition still simmering beneath the surface. “And what if we fail? What if this land withers and dies without your touch?”
Mudungkala’s lips curved into a faint, tired smile. She could hear the pride in Nangala’s voice, the challenge. But she also knew what lay beneath it. Fear. Fear of what she didn’t understand, of what she couldn’t control.
“If you treat the land as a thing to be controlled,” Mudungkala warned, her voice sharper now, “it will devour you.”
The silence that followed was heavy, the weight of her words pressing down on her children. She could feel it—the moment of reckoning, the moment when they would have to decide what kind of world they would build without her.
Nangala shifted behind her, and Mudungkala heard her step closer, her voice low and dangerous. “And if we choose wrong?”
Mudungkala’s breath caught in her throat. She had asked herself the same question so many times. Could she truly trust them to care for the world she had created? Could she let go, knowing they might destroy it all?
Her fingers trembled as she traced the surface of the water, feeling the pull of the tide beneath her skin. It was almost time.
“Then it will be your choice,” she whispered. “And your burden to carry.”
The earth shuddered beneath her as if acknowledging the truth. The islands, the trees, the waters—they were no longer hers to protect. She could feel the weight lifting from her shoulders, leaving behind a hollow ache.
Mudungkala straightened, pushing herself to her knees. The water lapped at her fingers, warm and inviting. Her time had come.
“I leave the earth to you now,” she said, her voice steady, though her heart ached with every word. “Tend to it, or let it perish. The choice is yours.”
For a moment, no one spoke. The air was thick with unspoken words, with the tension of what lay ahead. Mudungkala felt the pull of the tide against her hand, and she knew she could not wait any longer.
She began to crawl forward, her body heavy with the weight of ages. The water rose around her, cool and soothing against her aching limbs. She could feel the earth loosening its grip on her, the connection that had once bound her to the islands fading away.
As the water closed over her, she heard Kapala’s voice, trembling with fear and desperation.
“Mother, please—don’t leave us in this chaos.”
Mudungkala hesitated, her heart clenching. For a brief moment, she considered turning back, holding on just a little longer. But she couldn’t. This was not her path anymore. It was theirs.
With a final breath, she sank into the water, the world fading into silence around her. The last thing she heard was the distant sound of her children’s voices—arguing, pleading, hoping. Then, there was only the water, warm and dark, pulling her away.
And Mudungkala was gone.
The siblings stood at the edge of the shore, the water calm and still before them. Tumarri, Nangala, and Kapala—all staring at the place where their mother had disappeared, their faces drawn with the weight of what had just happened.
The fire crackled behind them, but no one moved. The tension between them still lingered, unspoken but palpable. The land around them was quiet now, waiting for the choice they would make.
Kapala glanced at his siblings, his eyes filled with uncertainty. “What do we do now?”
Tumarri stared at the water, his jaw clenched. “We survive. We tend to the land, as she told us.”
Nangala shook her head, her lips curling into a bitter smile. “And what if it’s not enough?”
No one answered. The islands stretched out before them, vast and untamed, full of promise and danger. They were alone now, and the burden of creation rested on their shoulders.
The choice was theirs.
