The Frizzy-Haired Child at the Moonlit Waterhole

It was the dry season of 1987 when my family made the long journey to our ancestral lands in the heart of the desert. I was nine, the eldest of four, and my grandparents had promised to show us the country our people had walked for thousands of years. The red earth stretched endless under a sky so vast it felt like drowning. We passed herds of wild camels, their humps swaying like islands in a dusty sea, and emus dashed across the road, their feathers shimmering in the heat haze. After three days of driving, we reached the only permanent waterhole for hundreds of miles. My grandfather called it ‘Mirri’s Eye,’ a deep, dark pool encircled by ancient paperbarks and red cliffs that glowed like embers at sunset. We camped there, close to the water, beneath a canopy of stars that seemed close enough to touch.

The nights were bitter cold. We children huddled together under thick wool blankets, our breath misting in the moonlight. My cousins and I formed a tight knot of warmth, but the chill crept in, and we would shiver until sleep overtook us. My grandfather, Old Uncle, always kept watch. He was a quiet man with eyes that had seen too much, and he moved among us through the night, pulling up blankets when we kicked them off, tucking us in with gentle hands. But that night, the fourth night at Mirri’s Eye, he was restless. The moon was full, so bright that you could see every pebble, every blade of grass, like a silver day.

I woke to the sound of my own chattering teeth. The fire had died to ash, and the cold had seeped into my bones. I sat up, rubbing my arms, and saw Old Uncle standing at the edge of the camp, staring toward the waterhole. His silhouette was dark against the moonlit water, and he was perfectly still. I crawled out from under the blankets, my bare feet crunching on the frost-hardened earth, and padded over to him. ‘Uncle, what are you looking at?’ I whispered. He didn’t answer, just pointed with his chin. I followed his gaze and saw a small figure standing at the water’s edge. A little girl, no older than six, with dark skin and frizzy, wild hair that stuck out in all directions like a halo of thorns.

None of us children had hair like that. Ours was straight and black, slicked back with oil. This girl was barefoot, wearing nothing but a thin dress that looked like it had been torn from a bush. She didn’t move, didn’t look at us, just stood there with her head tilted, as if listening to something beneath the water. I felt a cold that had nothing to do with the desert night. ‘Who is she?’ I asked, my voice trembling. Old Uncle finally spoke, his voice low and rough. ‘She’s been here every night since we arrived. I didn’t want to frighten you. I hoped she’d leave.’ He clicked his tongue and called out to her in our language, a sharp command. The girl turned slowly, and for the first time, I saw her face. Her eyes were black as the waterhole, and they were fixed on Old Uncle with an ancient, hungry look. Then she smiled, a wide, wrong smile that split her face unnaturally, showing teeth that were filed to points. And she beckoned to us with a thin, crooked finger.

Old Uncle pulled me back forcefully, his hand iron on my shoulder. ‘Don’t look at her,’ he hissed. ‘Don’t let her catch your eye.’ But it was too late for me—I had already locked gazes, and I felt something inside me tear, like a page ripped from a book. The little girl’s smile widened, and she began to hum a melody I’d never heard before—a low, warbling tune that seemed to come from the water itself. The next morning, I woke with a fever that no medicine could break. My mother held cool cloths to my head, but I saw her worry lines deepen as the hours passed. Old Uncle stayed by my side, his face gray. He told my parents that we had to leave the next day. But that night, the girl returned, and this time she walked up to the camp, her feet silent on the earth, and she stood at the edge of the firelight, humming that same tune. I was burning, but I got up and walked toward her as if in a dream. My cousins screamed, but I didn’t hear them. I only heard the hum, and it was pulling me, drawing me to the water.

It was Old Uncle who stopped me. He threw a handful of ash into the air between us, and the girl let out a shriek like a crow’s cry, and then she was gone. The next day, we packed up camp, and I was so weak I had to be carried to the truck. As we drove away, I looked back at Mirri’s Eye, and I saw the little girl standing on the rocks, watching us leave, her frizzy hair whipping in a wind that didn’t touch anything else. She raised her hand and waved, a slow, deliberate wave, like she was saying goodbye.

It’s been thirty years, and I’m still haunted by that wave. I’ve never gone back to that place, and I never will. My grandfather died a year later, and on his deathbed, he whispered to me, ‘She was one of the old ones. She drowned at that waterhole, back when the world was young. She’s been waiting for a child to take for a long, long time.’ I look at my own children now, with their straight black hair, and I thank the spirits that that deep desert water never claimed them. But sometimes, in the cold hours of the night, I hear that hum, far away, like a whisper carried on a star’s wind, and I know she’s still there, waiting.