‘It always changes.’

‘You know what I mean.’

Flinty nodded, staring across her valley. ‘Yes. Things are different.’ She glanced back at Nancy. ‘I grew up with everyone’s memories of the Federation drought. The old-timers like your Gran and Sandy’s parents told me which springs had dried up then and which kept going, where the snow eddies fell. I’ve lived through six droughts now. No drought is ever quite like another — you might get no rain in a year except a thunderstorm that delivers five inches, or two points of drizzle twice a week so the grass is green but the dams and creeks are dry and the tanks empty and the trees start dropping first leaves and then limbs.’ She grinned. ‘And you know this as well as I do.’

‘But there’s been too much change,’ said Nancy forthrightly.

‘Yes,’ said Flinty quietly. ‘The weather bureau blokes say it’s natural variation. They’re wrong.’

‘It’s not just the weather,’ said Nancy slowly. ‘It’s the way it moves. Highs and lows don’t come as far or bring as much moisture. They sit still for longer. It’s hotter and it’s colder and there’s less water. Even when it’s wet, there’s less. Somehow the soil isn’t holding the water as long or as well.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe water’s moving too fast now to soak in, with so much land cleared, so much less leaf litter. All the fires are making the ground hard too. The trees come back, but not the smaller plants that used to grow with them. There are orchids I haven’t seen for forty years . . .’

‘The trees are changing here,’ said Flinty, staring out at them. ‘Snow gums aren’t growing as far down the mountains as they used to.’

‘The trees around Overflow are growing too tall, too thin. Trees up north do this so the leaves don’t get as much sunlight. Maybe the trees down here are beginning to do that too,’ said Nancy. ‘They’re still acting as if another drought is just around the corner, except they’re setting seed as if it’s going to rain. The wombats say there’ll be good rain next year too. And it’s been years since I saw a pool of waterlilies. Where have they all gone?’

She shut her eyes for a moment, visualising the pool above the Overflow homestead. There’d been waterlilies there before she left during the war. When had they vanished? Why? They’d never had stock up there, never used herbicides near the creek. Even the small streams that began high on Overflow’s hill and ended in the river were thinner than they used to be, like year-old black snakes and not fat pythons twisting through the land.