TheMurmuranayis known in our culture as a meeting place. A place that straddles two times, the before and the after. It is where births are celebrated, and deaths are mourned. A grove located in the city centre, its sacred ground is filled with the hopes and tears of our people. Those who set foot on it are invited into connection with land and blood, time and memory. Centuries of stories are carved in the growth of the trees and laid in the fertile soil.
It is there that thefulquernahwill take place. Where we will sit under the open skies and be shaded by the trees, and feed the fire as we discuss our stories and map our songs.
“Nearly.” I check my reflection one last time. The formal uniform sits perfectly, medals aligned with precision born of military habit. But it’s the warrior marks painted on my face thatdraw my attention—subtle lines in deep blue that mark me as a son of the northern tribes.
Last night’s promise to sing weighs heavy. Rangi and I haven’t practiced, we haven’t even discussed which song would be appropriate. But I remember every note of every song we shared on deployment, his voice blending with mine under desert stars and mountain forests.
“Your Highness?” Victoria prompts gently. “We should go.”
I nod, squaring my shoulders. Outside, the first rays of sun streak across the gardens, turning the morning dew to diamonds. Our people believe dawn ceremonies carry special power—the perfect balance of night and day, when the veil between past and present grows thin.
At the edge of the sacred grove, I pause. Charlotte and Roy are already there, my sister’s excitement barely contained despite the early hour. Kit stands at the entwined trees—the ancient eucalypt gums having been joined together generations upon generations ago. Jonathan hovers protectively nearby, his gaze watchful. The tribal elders form a loose circle, their ownperipunicatching the morning light.
And there’s Rangi, tall and proud in his ceremonial dress. The warrior marks on his face emphasize his cheekbones, make his dark eyes seem deeper. More intense. When he turns and sees me, something flashes across his expression too quickly to read.
Focus. This isn’t about him. This is about our people, our heritage.
Kit hands a basket to Kiri, as the oldest member of thefulquernah, it is her duty to connect with the ancestors and invite their wisdom to our circle.
Elder Kiri moves to the centre of our circle, her weathered hands scattering herbs into the fire which is promptly swept up by the morning air. The smoke curls up, fragrant and sweet, carrying our prayers to the ancestors.
“We gather in the time between night and day,” she intones in our native tongue. “When the veil is thin, and wisdom flows like water between the worlds.”
She dips her gnarled hand into the basket, pulling out another handful of herbs to scatter in the fire. “We call to the blood in our veins and the spirit in our heart to lead our souls and open our mouths with courage and conviction.”
She gathers another handful of herbs, this time sprinkling them over the gathered circle. “So say we.”
The traditional response rises from our gathered throats, my voice blending with the others.
“So say we.”
Rangi’s rumbled response draws my attention, his voice making my skin prickle with awareness. He stands opposite me in the circle, his bearing perfect, his presence commanding even in stillness.
Kiri returns to her spot in the circle and turns to Kit, awaiting the official opening.
Kit speaks next, her words careful and measured. As Queen, it is her duty to open the sacred space.
“Today is about learning. It is for continuity, for us to be a part of the past as it flows into future. Our decisions here today, our stories, our agreements, these are part of all the generations thatcame before us, and they will be a part of all the generations that are yet to come.”
Her hand rests on her swollen belly as she speaks.
“Let us be guided by our duty to those who come so far in the future that they are but a wish of our hearts. Let us think of them as we make truth today.”
She gestures for us to sit, taking her own cushion on the solid ground.
Settled, she looked to Kiri. “Speak your stories, share your truth.”
Thisfulquernahrequires each tribal representative to tell the stories of their sacred places, marking them on the great map spread before us. But it’s more than simple geography—each location comes with a story, a song, a piece of who we are as a people.
While the circle is closed to those who aren’t part of the tribal delegations or aren’t the Prime Minister, around the circle sit politicians and policy advisors, each taking notes and remaining silent as they observe.
It’s an unusual meeting, but one which I’ve fought for years to bring to fruition. As progress moves forward, our sacred places are at risk of damage or destruction. I hope this will be the first of many meetings that will bring about change in our laws.
Elder Kiri begins.
“I speak of theKahratribe who come from theKaiemountains where my people’s songs were first formed.” She selects a coloured paint from the pots beside the map to draw the mountains upon the canvas. “Deep in the heights are thetoaeriacaves, the warrior caves.” She selects another colour, inking the blue with dots of red. “These are where our people made camp. Homes. Family. They are where our warriors once trained. Our stories are inked on the walls, our songs whispered by the winds that flow through their caverns.”
She continues, creating a picture on the canvas of the movements of the tribe and their places. She speaks for a long time, telling us of their stories of creation, of healing, of birth. When she’s done, she passes the canvas and paints to the next Elder.
