Have you ever felt a chill run right through your spine, taper from neck to shoulder blades, pull your stomach tight? Something’s happened here before, the trees can tell the story, not quite right in paradise, the trees still tell the story. There’s blood on the wattle, indelible pain, Death on the sand dunes, barbaric campaign, Slaughter Myora. revenge is the game, Blood on the wattle, colonial shame. It’s an age old story repeated again and again, of retribution ten-fold by monsters who thought themselves men. The lore of this country, no longer law of the land, this story we tell is hard to track down, no bloodstains are left in the sand. And the list just gets longer, our ancestors degenerate, Moreton Bay 1833, Slaughterhouse Creek 1838. Atherton killed for a bullock, Gunditjamara life gone for a whale, Beford Downs dead for spearing a cow, the stories are there if you follow the trail. Have you ever felt a chill run right through your spine, sea spray Noogee tea trees, whispering the pain. Muskets indiscriminate, reprisals in their sights, something’s happened here before, the trees can tell the story.