Her brown hands wear the lines and furrows of that red earth landscape. Dry, dusty and wrinkled. Red dust swirls about that paper canvas. Smudges of ochre, coal and white paint are pushed and smeared into those linen fibres. Her hands work deftly to create that image. The Dreaming. Her dreaming. Yingarna.
The impression winds itself in a serpentine pattern. “Rainbow” she thinks as her fingers flick earthy colours onto blank white. Ancestral memory streams from cortex to fingers as the image forms itself. Valleys and gorges are created as the serpent winds her scaly form across the land. Ancestors are still only whispers; flecks of mica in the dry wind.
The serpent winds her way to a lonely clearing in the desert. She coils herself tightly and burrows into deep, hot sand. A slight hiss, and flick of her tongue. Millions of muscles, like years, begin to ripple. The sands shift slightly and churn. This serpentine shaman summons the monsoon rain. Tiny droplets fall upon her rainbow scales. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue and violet drops of moisture spatter upon the land.
Rainbow hands smudge colourful moisture onto that fertile backdrop. The serpent’s ancient gift of Life is multicoloured. It is the Essence of her Being. Weathered hands work to shape one ancestor, then the next. A hand, a face, a body, a heart. “Our Creation, Her Rainbow gift” she whispers from moist lips. The serpent sleeps beneath that deep, golden pool. She waits patiently for her Creation. Heartbeats and rhythmic drumming upon the land. This is her Dreaming.