The Sixteenth Brolga

Kath rests one finger on the alarm button on the walkie talkie clipped to her belt. The gallery means different things to different kinds of folks — sometimes people just need a safe space to be and catch their breath. Kath studies the person. Grief in the creases of their eyes, too deep for someone so young. The inward curl of their shoulders. An apology in their spine for their existence. They look, she realises, as broken as Riley had that awful night when Kath had stormed out.

As Josephine leads her group to the brolgas painting, the young person startles and jumps from their seat, only to find themselves caught up in the tour group. ‘And this,’ Josephine says with reverence, ‘is my favourite painting in the gallery.’ Someone asks why. Keeping her finger on the alarm, Kath continues to watch the young person hovering on the edge of the group.

‘Look at the colour of the sky,’ Josephine answers, gesturing to the painting. ‘It’s dusk, the time we call “the magic hour”. The sun hangs low and glowing between the pink trunks of giant gums, which beckon from the shadows. And here in the foreground, in these golden fields, the only figures in the painting: sixteen brolgas, dancing gracefully towards a girl at their helm, playing her song on a pipe.’

Kath watches. The young person’s eyes have locked onto the painting. Their hands have stilled.

‘See how her legs are indistinguishable from the brolga’s body?’ Josephine continues. ‘They’re in an eternal dance, changing from one to the other. This painting is my favourite because it reminds us that change is always happening. It tells us, even in the most unexpected places and even when no-one else can see it, our transformation is always possible.’

The tour group moves on.

The young person stays in front of the painting, their full focus on the brolgas. They frown, as if deciding something. Kath exhales the breath she doesn’t realise she’s been holding.

An hour passes. When the person leaves, Kath notices they’re steadier on their feet.

A week later, Kath’s doing a lap of the gallery when she glances across the room. Her heart leaps.

The young person has returned. They smile tentatively at Kath, before sitting on the bench, their gaze fixed on the painting of the brolgas.

There’s a slightly stronger set to their shoulders.

At the same time each week Kath watches the young person return to sit with the brolgas. Often, they run their fingertips lightly over the shirt sleeve covering their upper arm. Kath thinks it’s a foible.

Until one week the person comes to the gallery wearing a sleeveless shirt.

There, wrapping around their upper arm, continuing onto their back, is a tattooed outline of the painting: brolgas dancing behind the pipe-playing girl, the gum trees and glowing sun guiding them. The blur of the girl’s legs with the brolga’s body. It’s all there, the story of the painting, tattooed into their skin.

Kath realises. Right in front of her eyes, the young person is changing.

As months pass Kath watches the tattooed painting develop on the young person’s skin like a slow photograph, as gradually the outline of the brolgas is coloured in, blue, violet, grey. A shell-pink sky appears over the crowns of green gums.

Kath’s head pounds with an unmet yearning to talk to them.

On the young person’s next visit, Kath is agitated by nerves; wanting to talk but fearing that this day will be no different.

The person stands in front of the painting. Still. Calm. Strong. An hour passes. They gather their things.

Kath’s out of time. Again.

As the person leaves, they hesitate. Stop.

‘How many brolgas are there in the painting?’ they ask Kath, their eyes clear, their voice soft.

Kath blanks. The memory of Riley’s voice catches at the back of her throat. ‘Sixteen,’ Kath croaks. Coughs. ‘Have you got a Gallery Guide, love?’

They shake their head slightly.

What happened to you before you started coming here? You look so much stronger now; you look so well. I love your tattoo. I’ve been watching it change you, change your body. Change how you are. You make me want to believe I can change too.

Kath’s tongue swells with unspoken words. Offers the young person a guide from her pocket. ‘Says so in there,’ she rasps.

The person takes the guide.

Kath holds their gaze. There’s a strange look on their face, as if they want to say something but decides against it. After a moment they walk away.

‘See you next week,’ Kath calls after them.

The following week, Kath waits. The young person doesn’t appear. Kath stays on after her shifts finish. They don’t show.

They don’t come the next week. Or the one after.

Weeks later, Kath stands in front of the painting during a morning lull when the gallery is empty. Leans in close enough to see brush strokes. Counts.

Fifteen.

Counts again.

Fifteen.

Kath straightens her blazer. Consults a Gallery Guide.

Sixteen brolgas dance towards a grove of gum trees . . .

Kath slaps the guide shut. Leans towards the painting.

She counts again.

Fifteen. There are fifteen brolgas.

The rest of the day feels wild. Absurd. Possible.

Kath keeps returning to the painting.

Counting.

Fifteen.

At the end of her shift, she does a lap, checking everything else is in order.

When she comes back to the painting, the hairs on the back of her neck rise. In her peripheral vision, there’s a quick movement, a fluttering, a vanishing whisp of blue smoke.

That night, on the bus ride home, Kath scrolls to Riley’s name on her phone. Her finger quivers over the green button.

She taps it.

Closes her eyes. Listens to the call ring.

The sound of heartbeats. The sound of wings.