The boy steps into the day like he owns it – like he is, in fact, God and has conjured this up with a sweep of his hand before breakfast: this achingly blue sky, this currawong sending out a ringing call from the verandah post, this water dragon sunning on a warm rock to loosen her scales, cocking her head and blinking a yellow eye in his direction.
He breathes, a fast in-breath, sucking the day into his lungs like nourishment, and considers his kingdom. Today, where and what? Beneath his bare foot the ground is damp and alive, the worms reaching for the surface with its promise of moisture. It stormed in the night, and from everywhere rises the scent of soil opening, of grass reaching down its roots, of frogs waking from enchanted sleep, their dried skins cracking. He smells the formic pinch of the ants’ relief at having survived the deluge, and the sticky sweet of the white flowers.
Another footfall, the ground pushing back up as though it delights in the press of him.
The limitless possibility of the moment shifts focus to something that ripples and dances, hurting his eyes with its intensity, beckoning. He steps out with a calm assurance, and as he approaches, the object of his desire fills his vision, calling him.
The fence rears up in front of him, blocking the way. He wraps his fingers around the bars and shakes. It rattles, but doesn’t yield. He presses his face into the gap, trying to push through. On the other side, the water splits into dazzling prisms. It wants him. He feels it as a sure certainty in his belly, a tug on his navel with a promise of everything he could ever desire. He remembers the feeling of weightlessness, the delight of floating in the universe. The water promises to give it all to him again, putting him at the centre, the floating god of creation with the pulse of moving liquid in his ears.
From beyond the pool, a hissing sound and an acrid stink. He knows that smell and he wants it too.
‘Dadda,’ he calls, reaching up. ‘Dadda!’