Limonella
The Weaver of Moonlight and Waves
(A tale from ancient Wombatshire)
Long ago, before the rivers cut their deep beds and before the eucalypts first kissed the sky, the creatures of Wombatshire lived by the Old Ways. It was a time when magic was as common as morning mist, and every creature knew the language of the wind and the stars.
One year, an unkind drought fell over Wombatshire. The streams shrank into cracked stones, and the silver grasses turned brittle underfoot. The council of elders — wise Wombat Wren, solemn Owl Sage, and bright-hearted Bandicoot Belle — gathered at the Great Hollow to seek an answer.
“There is one who can heal the land,” Owl Sage hooted, his eyes glinting. “The Weaver of Moonlight and Waves. But to summon her, we must complete the Impossible Task.”
The elders murmured: the Impossible Task? It had been whispered in old songs — How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand? How do you keep the wave on the sand?
The council turned to young Kitta, a curious possum with a heart bigger than her tiny paws. Though she was not yet an elder, Kitta had a gift: she listened — to the ground, to the sky, to the quiet truths others missed.
"I will try," she said, her voice steady.
First, Kitta climbed to the high ridge to catch a moonbeam. She leapt and snatched at the silver light, but her paws closed on nothing. The beam slipped through her fingers like laughter. Night after night she tried, but the moon just smiled its secret smile.
Then she turned to the sea at Wombatshire's edge, where foamy waves kissed the sand. She scooped the wave’s edge into a hollow shell, but by the time she carried it back to the elders, the water had trickled away, leaving only salt and memory.
Exhausted and despairing, Kitta sat by the Singing River, head bowed. The moon rose and the tide swelled. In her stillness, she heard a deeper song — the sigh of the earth, the hush of the sky, the whisper of the water.
She realised then: the task was not to capture the moonbeam or the wave.
It was to honour them.
At dawn, Kitta gathered the creatures. She showed them a pool she had dug, reflecting the full moon perfectly. "Here," she said, "the moonbeam rests without being trapped."
Then she drew wide circles on the sand, where each wave left its trace. "Here," she said, "the wave stays — not because we hold it, but because we welcome its mark."
The Great Hollow shivered with ancient magic. A soft, glowing mist rose from the pool and the shore, weaving itself into a luminous figure — the Weaver of Moonlight and Waves. She sang a single note, rich and full, and rain fell over Wombatshire for three blessed days.
The land healed.
And from that day onward, the creatures of Wombatshire remembered:
Some things are not meant to be held — only witnessed, cherished, and set free.