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  Now you can say that you don’t believe me if you like. But I tell you this – I don’t tell lies. Well, that’s not quite true. I did tell one once. A real big one. Did I do the right thing? I don’t know. You be the judge.

  1

  It began the day Dad and I moved to the end of the world.

  There we were. In the middle of the desert. The proud new owners of the Blue Singlet Motel. There was no school. There was no post office. There was no pub. There were no other kids. There was nothing except us and our little cafe with its petrol pumps. And two rooms out the back for rent.

  The red desert stretched off in every direction.

  And it was hot. Boy was it hot. The heat shimmered up off the sand. When you walked outside you could feel the soles of your shoes cooking.

  ‘Paradise,’ said Dad. ‘Don’t you reckon?’

  ‘Ten million flies can’t be wrong,’ I said, waving a couple of hundred of them away from my face.

  ‘Don’t be so gloomy,’ said Dad. ‘You’ll love it. The trucks all stop here on their way to Perth. It’s a little goldmine.’

  Just then I noticed the dust stirring in the distance. ‘Our first customer,’ said Dad. A huge truck was buzzing towards us at great speed. Dad picked up the nozzle of the petrol pump. ‘He’ll probably want about a hundred litres,’ he said with a grin.

  The truck roared down the road. And kept roaring. Straight past. It vanished into the lonely desert.

  Poor old Dad’s face fell. He put the nozzle back on the pump. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘There’ll be plenty of others.’

  But he was wrong. For some reason hardly any of the trucks pulled up. They just tore on by. There were a few tourists. They stopped and bought maps and filled up their water-bottles and topped up with petrol. Some even stayed the night. It was a living. But it wasn’t a goldmine.

  But to be honest it wasn’t too bad. And Dad had a plan. A plan to attract customers.

  2

  ‘It’s called a Wobby Gurgle’, Dad said, waving an old faded book at me. ‘There’s a legend that the Wobby Gurgle lives around here in the desert.’

  ‘What’s it look like?’ I said.

  Dad looked a bit embarrassed. ‘No one’s ever seen one,’ he said.

  ‘Well, how do you know there’s any such thing?’

  ‘Stories,’ said Dad. ‘There are stories.’

  ‘Well, what does a Wobby Gurgle do?’ I asked.

  ‘Drink.’

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Yes,’ he went on. ‘It, ah, likes to drink water.’

  I scoffed. ‘There isn’t any water around here. Only what we bring in by truck. There isn’t a waterhole for hundreds of miles.’

  Dad wasn’t going to give up. ‘Well, maybe it sort of saves water up. Like a camel.’

  ‘It would have to be big. It hasn’t rained here for twelve years,’ I told him.

  Dad tried to shush me up. He was getting all excited. ‘Imagine if it was true,’ he said.‘People would come from everywhere to see it. We could sell films and souvenirs. Lots of petrol. We could open a museum. Or a pub.’

  Dad was getting excited. His face was one big happy grin.

  ‘Like the Loch Ness Monster,’ he yelped. ‘No one’s ever really seen it. But people go to Loch Ness from all over the world – just hoping to catch a glimpse.’

  ‘So?’ I said.

  ‘So we let people know about the Wobby Gurgle. They’ll come for miles to see it.’

  ‘But what if there isn’t one?’ I said. ‘Then you would be telling a lie.’

  Dad’s face fell. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But we’ll keep our eyes open. If we see one it will be like hitting the jackpot.’

  3

  Well, we didn’t see anything. Not for a long time anyway. Time passed and I started to enjoy living at the Blue Singlet Motel. We didn’t make a lot of money. But we got by.

  I liked the evenings the best. After the sun went down and the desert started to cool. Sometimes a gentle breeze would blow in the window. I would sit there staring into the silent desert, wondering if anything was out there.

  ‘Never go anywhere without a water-bottle,’ Dad used to say. ‘You never know what can happen out here in the desert.’

  Anyway, this is about the time that things started to get weird. One night I filled my water-bottle to the brim and put it on the windowsill as usual. I fell off to sleep quickly. But something was wrong. I had bad dreams. About waterfalls. And tidal waves. And flooding rivers.

  I was drowning in a huge river. I gave a scream and woke up with a start. I was thirsty. My throat was parched and dry. I went over to my water-bottle and opened it.

  Half the water was gone.

  I examined it for holes. None.

  Who would do such a thing? Dad was the only other person around and I could hear him snoring away in his bedroom. He would never pinch my water. He was the one always giving me a lecture about never leaving the property without it.

  I looked at the ground outside. My heart stopped. There, on the still-warm sand, was a wet footprint.

  I opened my mouth to call out for Dad. But something made me stop. I just had the feeling that I should handle this myself. It was a strange sensation. I was scared but I didn’t tell Dad.

  I jumped out of the window and bent over the footprint. I touched it gently with one finger.

  Pow. A little zap ran up my arm. It didn’t hurt but it gave me a fright. It was like the feeling you get when lemonade bubbles fizz up your nose. Like that but all over.

  I jumped back and looked around nervously. The night was dark. The moon had not yet risen. All around me the endless desert spread itself to the edges of the world.

  The warm sand seemed to call me. I took a few steps and discovered another footprint. And another. A line of wet footprints led off into the blackness.

  I wanted to go home. Turn and run back to safety. But I followed the trail, still clutching the half-empty water-bottle in my hand.

  4

  How could someone have wet feet in the desert? There was no pond. No spring. No creek. Just the endless red sand.

  The footprints followed the easiest way to walk. They avoided rocks and sharp grasses. On they went. And on.

  I was frightened. My legs were shaking. But I had to know who or what had made these prints. I was sure that a Wobby Gurgle had gone this way.

  I could run and get Dad, but the trail would have vanished by then. The tracks behind me were evaporating. In a few minutes there would be no trail to follow.

  If I could find a Wobby Gurgle we would be set. Visitors would come by the thousands.

  A cricket chirped as I hurried on. A night mouse scampered out of my way. Soon the cafe was only a dark shadow in the distance. Should I go on? Or should I go back?

  I knew the answer.

  I had to go back. It was the sensible thing to do. Otherwise I might be gobbled up by the desert. I was of water. That wouldn’t last long. Not once the sun came up.

  The footprints were fading fast. I looked back at the cafe. Then I headed off in the opposite direction, following the tracks into the wilderness.

  I had never been one to do the sensible thing. And anyway, if I could spot a Wobby Gurgle we would make a fortune. Tourists would come from everywhere to look for it. That’s what kept me going.

  On I went and on. The moon rose high in the sky and turned the sand to silver. The Blue Singlet Motel vanished behind me. I was alone with the wet footprints. And an unknown creature of the night.

  The moon started to lower itself into the inky distance. Soon the sun would bleach the black sky. And dry the footprints as quickly as they were made. I had to hurry.

  My eyes scoured the distance. Was that a silvery figure ahead? Or just the moon playing tricks?

  It was a tree. A gnarled old tree, barely clinging to life on the arid plains. I was disappointed but also a little relieved. I wasn’t really sure that I wanted to find anything.

  I decide
d to climb the tree. I would be able to see far ahead. If there was nothing there I would turn around and go home. I grabbed the lowest branch of the tree.

  5

  I can’t quite remember who saw what first.

  The creature or me.

  I couldn’t make sense of it. My mind wouldn’t take it in. At first I thought it was a man made of jelly. It seemed to walk with wobbly steps. It was silvery and had no clothes on.

  It let out a scream. No, not a scream. A gurgle. Well, not a gurgle either. I guess you could call it a scurgle. A terrifying glugging noise. Like someone had pulled out a bath plug in its throat.

  It was me that let out a scream. Boy, did I yell. Then I turned and raced off into the night. I didn’t know where I was running. What I was doing. I stumbled and jumped and ran. I felt as if any moment a silvery hand was going to reach out and drag me back. Eat me up.

  But it didn’t. Finally I fell to the ground, panting. I couldn’t have moved another step, even if I’d wanted to. I looked fearfully behind me. But there was nothing. Only the first rays of the new day in the morning sky.

  Soon it would be hot. Unbearably hot. I stood up and staggered on towards where I thought the Blue Singlet Motel should be.

  I wandered on and on. The sun rose in the sky and glared down on me. As I went a change came over me. My fear of the Wobby Gurgle started to fade. And be replaced by another terror. Death in the desert. I was hopelessly lost.

  The water-bottle was warm in my hand. I raised it to my lips and took a sip. I had to make it last.

  By now my face was burning. Flies buzzed in my eyes. My mouth felt as if I had eaten sand for breakfast. My slippered feet were like coals of fire. My breath was as dry as a dragon’s dinner.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. To leave home in the middle of the night. With only a little water. And no hat. Dressed in pyjamas. The heat was sending me crazy.

  How long I walked for I couldn’t say. Maybe hours. Maybe days. My throat screamed for water. In the end I guzzled the lot in one go. I was going mad with thirst.

  I laughed crazily. ‘Wobby Gurgle,’ I shouted. ‘Come and get me. See if I care.’

  Finally I stumbled upon a small burrow under a rock. There was just enough room for me to curl up in its shade. I knew that without help I would never leave that spot.

  6

  Night fell. I dozed. And dreamed. And swallowed with a tongue that was cracked and dry. I dreamed of water. Sweet water. I was in a cool, cool place. A wet hand was stroking my face. A lovely damp hand, fresh from a mountain stream.

  I opened my eyes.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  Or a nightmare.

  It was the Wobby Gurgle.

  Normally I would have screamed and run. But in my near-dead state I only smiled. Smiled as if it was perfectly normal to see a man made of water.

  He had no bones. No blood. No muscles. His skin was like clear plastic. The nearest image I can think of is a balloon filled with water. But a balloon shaped like a man. With arms and legs and fingers. All made of water.

  For a silly second I wondered what would happen if I stuck a pin in him. Would he collapse in a shower and seep away into the sand?

  His water lips smiled sadly. His hand on my cheek tingled like fizzing snow. Cool, cool, so cool.

  Inside his chest a tiny, dark red fish circled lazily. I knew that I must be losing my mind. There is no such thing as a man made of water. With a fish swimming inside him.

  It was then that he did the weirdest thing of all. He placed the end of one finger in my mouth. It was cold and fresh and filled me with sparkling freshness. A little electric shock ran all over me.

  I felt a trickle of pure water on my tongue. The clearest, coolest, freshest water in the world. I sucked like a calf at a teat. The Wobby Gurgle was feeding me. With himself.

  The freshness was so good. I was greedy. I swallowed until I could take no more.

  ‘Thanks,’ I managed to croak.

  He didn’t answer. Well, not in speaking. He just gave a gentle gurgle. Like a mountain stream trickling over a rock.

  He stood up and started to move off. ‘Don’t leave me,’ I said. ‘Don’t go.’

  The Wobby Gurgle looked up at the sky. The sun was already rising. I had to get home that night. Another day in the desert would finish me.

  And him? Would it finish him too? Where did he live? In a cool burrow somewhere? I didn’t know. But I remembered Dad’s words. Maybe he stored up water like a camel. Maybe he was carrying twelve years supply.

  I staggered after him, somehow realising that he was leading me in the right direction. Every now and then he would give a low gurgle, as if to encourage me.

  The sun beat down mercilessly. I wondered how he could stand it. My throat was dry. I wanted water. But I didn’t like to ask. I knew I would never make it without regular drinks.

  7

  So did Wobby Gurgle. He seemed to know when I couldn’t go on. Every fifteen minutes or so he would come and put his cool finger into my mouth. And I would feel the trickle of fizzing liquid flowing across my tongue.

  He was so gentle. So generous. Waiting. Leading me on. Giving me a drink. Pure, pure water.

  After several hours I felt much stronger. But the Wobby Gurgle seemed to be moving more slowly. His steps were shorter. And was it my imagination or had he shrunk?

  On we went. On and on. With the cruel sun beating down. We stopped more often for a drink and after each one the Wobby Gurgle walked more slowly.

  I looked at him carefully. The tiny fish seemed bigger as it floated effortlessly inside his arm. It wasn’t bigger. He was smaller.

  I was drinking him.

  ‘No,’ I screamed. ‘No. I can’t do it. You’re killing yourself for me. You’ll soon be empty.’

  He seemed to smile. If a water face can smile.

  Once again he placed his finger in my mouth. And like a greedy baby at its mother’s breast I sucked and swallowed.

  The day wore on and the Wobby Gurgle grew smaller and smaller with every drink. I clamped my jaw shut. I refused to open my mouth. I wasn’t going to let him kill himself for me. No way.

  But it was no use. He simply pointed at my mouth and let fly with a jet of water. It ran down my chin and dripped onto the dry sand, wasted. He wasn’t going to stop until I swallowed. I opened my mouth and accepted the gift of life.

  As the afternoon wore away, so did the Wobby Gurgle. By now he was only half my size. A little bag of liquid. His steps were small and slow. Like an exhausted child.

  I tried to stop him feeding me. But it was no good. He simply poured himself onto my face if I refused.

  In the end he was no bigger than my fist. A small figure, wearily leading me on at a snail’s pace. I picked him up in one hand and looked at him. The fish almost totally filled his body. He held no more than a few cupfuls of water.

  ‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘I’m not taking any more. I’d sooner die myself. If you give me any more I’ll run off. You’ll never catch me.’

  He looked up sadly. He knew that he was beaten.

  And so was I.

  The sun set once again. And the far-off moon, unknowing, uncaring, rose in the night sky.

  I thought that I could last until morning. But the tiny Wobby Gurgle, how long could he last?

  We both fell asleep. Me and my little friend – the bag of water.

  Later I woke and with a fright saw that the Wobby Gurgle was lying on his back, not moving. The dark red fish inside him floated upside down.

  ‘Hey,’ I yelled, ‘wake up.’

  There was no movement. He looked like a tiny, clear football that had been emptied of air. I knew he was dying.

  8

  Tears trickled down my cheek. How I had enough moisture to make tears I will never know. I was so filled with sorrow that I didn’t see the watcher. The sad, silent watcher.

  A woman. A water woman. With a gasp I saw her out of the corner of my eye. She seemed to flow across the de
sert sand rather than walk.

  ‘Quick,’ I yelled. ‘Here.’

  I pointed to the tiny, deflated figure on the sand.

  She didn’t look at me but just bent over the still figure and gently kissed him on his water lips.

  It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. Water flowed from her lips into his. She was filling him up. From herself. It was like watching a tyre being inflated. He grew larger and she grew smaller. The fish once more began to swim. The kiss of life went on and on until both Wobby Gurgles were the same size. About my size. Three kids in the desert.

  Well, no. One kid. And two wonderful half-empty Wobby Gurgles.

  They both smiled. So gently. Then the woman held out her water-filled arm and pointed. In the distance I could see a red glow. It was the neon light of the Blue Singlet Motel.

  ‘Thanks,’ I yelled. It seemed such a small thing to say. I could never repay them for what they had done. I turned around to try and tell them how I felt.

  But they had both gone. I was alone in the night.

  I walked towards home. As I got closer I could see the police cars. And the search helicopter. Dad would have lots of customers.

  But not as many as he would have when the word about the Wobby Gurgles got out.

  People made of water.

  Visitors would come from everywhere. Australians. Americans. Japanese. Germans. Clicking their cameras. Buying their films. There would be museums. Hotels. Pizza parlours. Probably even poker machines. We would be famous. And rich.

  Dad came rushing out with tears streaming down his face. He hugged me until I couldn’t breathe.

  ‘How did you stay alive?’ he said. ‘With no water? Did someone help you?’

  I looked at him for a long time. The police were listening – ever yone wanted to know what had happened. I thought about the Wobby Gurgles. Those shy, generous people. Who had given the water of life to a greedy boy. Then I thought about the crowds with the cameras. And the noise and pizza shops that would follow.