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of the house, where a set of sprinklers played jets of water across them and the neat green lawns. There were numerous pebble-edged ponds filled with huge white lilies and hibiscus over which dozens of spindly-legged waterbirds skipped and danced as they pecked at the insects and tiny fish in the crystal-clear shallows.
    The gum tree-dotted mountain behind the homestead swarmed with more birds and held a natural mineral spring that bubbled into the chain of ponds to one side of the house before it disappeared into an underground stream. This spring ensured a steady supply of water for the house and gardenseven in the severest drought and the owners often used to joke about how people in the cities paid a dollar for small bottles of Perrier and other spa waters while they used to throw it all over their gardens nonchalantly. Murray smiled and shook his head once more in wonder at the sheer magic of it all before he and Grungle got out of the Land Rover. Just as they did so, a huge swarm of exquisitely coloured butterflies drifted over them and flew on towards the mountain.
    Two absolutely gorgeous young Aboriginal girls, no more than twenty and wearing nothing but a pair of brief Spank running shorts that emphasised their ripe full-breasted bodies, stopped what they were doing amongst the ponds and squinted over towards the car, their hands above their eyes. One was holding a hose, the other a small pitchfork. As soon as they recognised Murray and Grungle their lovely dark faces broke into beautiful, shy, pearly grins that only Australian Aborigines seem to manage; huge grins that are totally infectious and look as though they can light up a room or a cloudy day all on their own.
    â€˜Murray,’ they chorused excitedly. Both girls dropped what they were doing and giggling happily to each other came running over. ‘How are you, darling? You too, Grungle.’ ‘Hello Numidi. Hello Nantjinin. Shit it’s good to see you again.’ Murray threw his arms around them and hugged them to him and kissed them warmly as they giggled and squealed affectionately. ‘How are you girls?’
    â€˜Terrific, Murray,’ replied Numidi happily. ‘Especially now that we’ve seen you.’
    They squeezed and held each other for a few moments more, then Nantjinin looked up into Murray’s eyes.
    â€˜What brings you out here anyway?’ she asked cheekily. ‘Was it to see one of us, oh great white hunter?’
    â€˜Don’t bloody great white hunter me you cheeky little bludger, or you might get a boot right in the bum. I came out to see the boys. Where are they?’
    â€˜In the house,’ said Numidi.
    Just then a voice sounding like it was trying desperately hard not to laugh called out from the homestead.
    â€˜By the livin’ bloody Jesus. Here’s trouble.’
    Murray turned to see three Aboriginal men, wearing black cotton headbands and running shorts, grinning at him from the top of the stairs running up to the house.
    â€˜Hello fellas,’ he chuckled. ‘How’re you goin’ there?’
    With his arms still around the girls’ waists and Grungle trotting happily behind, Murray returned the grins and walked over towards the house.
    The happy faces on the verandah belonged to the men Murray had travelled over a thousand kilometres to see, through semi-desert, mountain ranges and hidden trails. The owners of the unique homestead at Binjiwunyawunya: Tjalkalieri, Mumbi and Yarrawulla. These were their true native names, but ever since childhood Murray and the rest of the family had called them Chalky, Mumbles and Yarra. And as Aborigines the boys from Binjiwunyawunya were something else. Walking slowly towards them, Murray never ceased to be amazed at the way they never seemed to change in appearance — even in the thirty-odd years he had known them.
    Each man had to be at least seventy, but none looked a day over thirty. It was uncanny. Their teeth were all