To my beautiful son, Jaxon,
thank you for helping me to reach my dreams.

In loving memory of Nglarlami Carolynhana Johnson,
whose generosity and knowledge of Adnyamathanha
culture will never be forgotten, and my great great
grandmother, Gwendoline Newchurch (nee Sansbury),
and her legacy among the Point Pearce community
where the Forest of Dreaming is set.

CHAPTER 1

It all began in a burrow

Did you ever hear the story of Wurrtoo, the wombat who fell in love with the sky? Well, I’m warning you now: if you’re here for a love story, you’ll surely be disappointed …

It’s not that this book is not a love story, but it’s also a tale of sheer survival. Yes, a perilous plot of bravery, action and adventure.

It all began in a burrow – the fifty-fifth burrow of Bushland Avenue, Kangaroo Island, to be exact. There, in that wonderful space in the wilderness where the arching gum trees kiss, is Wurrtoo’s home – the one at the end, with the big red trapdoor and the large golden doorknob. Can you see it? That’s where our friend lives.

Now, Wurrtoo wasn’t any old common wombat. No, he was a hairy-nosed wombat, a most beautiful species. It wasn’t just his nose that was hairy – his whole body was covered in silky grey fur! From the tips of his ears down to his furry toes and all the way back to his voluptuous rump, which he squeezed into a pair of high-waisted shorts dotted in red, yellow and black.

On this particular day, a day like any other, while all the other nocturnal animals were fast asleep, Wurrtoo was in one of his many chambers, tinkering away and making expansions.

The early summer sun was warming the burrow, and at just about half-past noon, Wurrtoo stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow.

‘That’s enough work for one day,’ he said to himself. ‘And I don’t want to be late. But first, I think a cool drink is in order.’

He trotted over the polished floors of the kitchen to pour himself a nice cold glass of freshly brewed lemon-myrtle-ade. Sitting down at the table with his drink, Wurrtoo produced a notepad from his back pocket and began scribbling, being mindful not to spill any drops of lemon-myrtle-ade onto the paper.

‘Another love letter finished!’ he said, tearing out the page and sliding it carefully into his pocket. ‘Just the thing for our romantic picnic. She will be so excited to hear it.’

With that, he corked the bottle of lemon-myrtle-ade, tucked it safely next to the wattleseed damper and muntrie jam he’d packed in a basket that morning, and headed towards the front door with his picnic. This took him rather a long time. As I’ve already mentioned, Wurrtoo was constantly making expansions to his burrow.

As he made his way up the steep, winding hallway, Wurrtoo passed his library, where four books sat perched on a single shelf. He cherished these books. The first contained fairytales and had taught him everything he knew about love (which really wasn’t much). The next, a plant encyclopedia, told him where to find muntrie berries and wattleseeds, and the third book, a cookbook, helped him turn his gathered bounty into something delicious.

But it was the fourth book that Wurrtoo loved the most. The tattered brown hardcover held stories of places as old as time. He loved to flip through its worn and yellowing pages, always turning to the very back to pore over the map that lay there. It was a map to a most sacred place: the Forest of Dreaming. Wurrtoo’s mother had read him the stories of this forest when he was just a joey.

‘The Forest of Dreaming is a place of miracles, with gum trees taller than you can imagine,’ she’d read after tucking him in at night. ‘And the ancient tree is the tallest of all. Its trunk holds the knowledge of everything and everywhen.’

Back then, all the places in the book had fascinated Wurrtoo, but now he was interested in one thing only – how, one day, he would follow the map across the island and over the water to the mainland, then climb that ancient tree to the heavens and have all his dreams come true!

That is, if only he could find the courage.

Wurrtoo could barely leave his burrow without nerves getting the better of him. The poor wombat had hidden underground for so long, with only his books for company, that the very thought of other animals terrified him. Why had he hidden in the first place, you ask? We’ll get to that later. For now, you just need to know that, despite being nocturnal, Wurrtoo stayed awake during the day so he could leave his burrow unnoticed.

When he finally reached the end of that long hallway, Wurrtoo took his Akubra off its hook, put it on his head and slowly opened the door. He peered around it nervously, checking that there were no neighbours about, before climbing out into the fresh air.

He walked quickly along the avenue’s cobblestone path in the shade of the gum trees, whistling a quiet tune. With its creamy buds and waxy olive-green leaves, the canopy was a wondrous sight. Kangaroo Island is home to many rare, beautiful and endemic species, one of them being these narrow-leaved gum trees. What’s that? You don’t know what ‘endemic’ means? Well, ask your adults. (I’m a narrator, not a teacher!)

As Wurrtoo passed the colourful front doors of the neighbouring burrows, wurlies and tree cottages, he spotted clusters of glistening gold Christmas beetles clinging to the avenue’s streetlamps. He wanted to inspect them more closely, but he dared not stop in case he bumped into a neighbour.

As he left the protective shade of the bushland, pools of sweat trickled down Wurrtoo’s burly back. He paused at the base of a shrubby hill and gulped. It was a steep climb for a wombat – especially one of his size – but the prize at the top was worth the hike.

The building was a joy to see; it was pristine white, like most other lighthouses, but instead of being round, it was rectangular with sharp corners, like a house. The balcony, so high up, was his favourite spot for a picnic with his beloved.

Wurrtoo gripped his basket and trudged up the incline. Behind the lighthouse, the hill dropped off to a sharp cliff which met the rocky shoreline of Investigator Strait. With wild winds and waves the size of mountains, the sheer sight of the strait always made Wurrtoo gulp extra hard – it was a reminder of just how much courage he’d need if he ever wanted his dreams to come true.

Halfway up the hill, Wurrtoo decided to sit down to quickly catch his breath. The dry grass and hot soil soon became so unbearable beneath him that he was just about to stand up when a faint billow of smoke caught his attention. It was coming from the avenue below! He looked a little harder, then leaped up in horror.

‘FIRE!’ Wurrtoo shouted as he bounded towards the smoke. ‘FIRE!’ he called again, working himself into such a frenzy that the clumsy wombat tripped over his own paws and rolled down the hill, sending his picnic basket flying.

THUD! He hit the ground hard and continued rolling like a wrecking ball until, at last, a big boulder finally brought him to a halt – right next to his bottle of lemon-myrtle-ade, thankfully intact.

Once the world stopped spinning, Wurrtoo crawled over to the closest house and raised his paw to knock. But fear took over and he froze, stepped back and bit down hard on his knuckle.

‘No, there has to be another way!’ He thought hard, bopping the bottle of lemon-myrtle-ade against his head as he did. ‘Oh, think Wurrtoo! Come on, think!’

Bop! Bop! BOP!

He stopped, staring down at the bottle between his paws as a lightbulb-sized bump formed upon his throbbing head. ‘An idea!’

He turned back to the smoke and launched into action without a moment’s pause, running at full speed. With legs aching and lungs ready to burst, he reached the fire that was creeping towards the trunk of Treehouse Number Four. He quickly popped the bottle’s cork and threw its contents into the heart of the little fire.

The fire hissed and sizzled, and went out. Wurrtoo cheered. Then, to his horror, the flames reignited with a whoosh. The sight triggered something deep inside the wombat’s brain, and the forest shrank around him. Memories flooded his mind, cocooning him with fear. This was not Wurrtoo’s first time dealing with fire.

Suddenly, he snapped out of his waking nightmare, leaped as high as he could towards the fire, pulled his knees to his chest and slammed his huge rump down right on top of it!

‘YEE-OUCH!’ he screamed, jumping to his feet and patting his pants furiously.

He looked around, panting. The fire was now completely extinguished and the small patch of earth leading up to the base of the gum was blackened with ash. However, any celebrations would have to wait – the doorknob of a nearby burrow began to jiggle, sending a shockwave of shivers down his spine.

‘Oh no, not now!’ he cried, bounding for home. ‘Oh no, oh no!’

Wurrtoo reached his front door in record time. He opened it up and jumped inside, then slid all the way down the hallway before melting into a singed and sweaty puddle at the bottom. He lay there breathless for what seemed an eternity, trembling at the thought that he had almost been seen.

Upon finally regaining his strength, the exhausted wombat wobbled to his feet, climbed back up to the door, placed his eye to the peephole and sighed.

‘Oh, my love, I think our little date will have to wait until morning.’