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He turned his gaze south and west. To the great, hollowed heart. To the place where the Tjurrma —the cold, dry silence of the desert night—would crack the very stones. His other hand tightened. The sand trickled out.
He sighed, and a hot, northerly wind—a genuine Bradfield —scoured the plains below, lifting a million tons of topsoil into a rust-colored haze. “I am not two things. I am a single, violent act of balance.”
He looked north, towards the Top End. There, his monsoon hand pulsed. For four months, he would open his fist and unleash the Gudjewg —the violent, electric storms that made the air thick as soup. Waterfalls would form on cliffs that had been dry for ten months. Crocodiles would swim across highways. The earth would drink and drink, and for a moment, the arroyos and billabongs would sing. He loved that sound. The mad, brief, glorious chorus of life exploding from dormancy. climate of australia
He left behind only the cliff, the crack, and the faint, fading echo of a land that refuses to be anything other than exactly what it is: the oldest, flattest, driest, wettest, hottest, coldest, most maddeningly beautiful weather machine on Earth.
“They want predictability,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “I am not a clock. I am a drum. Sometimes I beat slow. Sometimes I beat fast. Sometimes I stop, and the silence is the most terrifying sound of all.” He turned his gaze south and west
The old man called himself the Climate of Australia, and he was tired.
Then he would close his fist. And the Wet would become a memory. His other hand tightened
He stood up, cracking his spine like a fault line. Far to the east, a low-pressure trough was forming over the Coral Sea. It would become a cyclone. It would have a gentle name, like Tiffany , and it would tear the roofs off a town called Innisfail.