The Rainbow Serpent’s Choice

This is the story of how justice came to the red earth, and this is the story told true: Of a young girl named Yindi who walked the Dreamtime path, and learned what the Rainbow Serpent knew.

In the time when stories were new and the world was still being dreamed, there lived a girl of the Yolngu people in the land they call Arnhem. Her name was Yindi, which means “sun,” for she was born at dawn when the first rays touched the billabong’s face. She lived with her people by the waterhole where the paperbark trees grew tall, where the magpie geese called at evening, where the rock paintings told the stories of the ancestors.

Yindi’s grandmother was a keeper of law, one who settled disputes and kept the old ways strong. From her, Yindi learned the stories of justice and balance, of how every action ripples outward like circles in water, of how what you give to the world comes back to you again.

“Little sun,” her grandmother would say, sitting in the shade of the coolibah tree, “justice is not what feels good in the moment. Justice is what keeps the land, the people, and the spirits in balance. Sometimes the right thing is the hardest thing. Sometimes the fair thing asks much of us. But we must do it anyway, or the world tips sideways, and nobody walks straight.”

Yindi listened to these teachings with attention and care. But she had not yet been tested. She had not yet faced the moment when the easy path and the right path split apart, when one runs smooth as the river and the other climbs steep as the escarpment.

That test came in the Dry Season, when the sun burned fierce and the waterholes began to shrink.

In Yindi’s community lived two families: the family of Kudji, who had always been generous and kind, who shared their food when others went hungry, who helped the elders and looked after the children. And the family of Warran, who kept to themselves and sometimes spoke harsh words, who didn’t always follow the old rules, who were difficult and proud.

Now, it happened that both families had sacred digging sticks, passed down through generations, used for finding yams and roots in the hard ground. These digging sticks were precious, carved with the family’s totem marks, blessed by the ancestors, essential for survival when food grew scarce.

One day, Yindi found a digging stick lying by the path. It was a fine stick, strong and well-made, with elaborate carvings. She recognized it as belonging to one of the families, but she couldn’t tell which one. The totem marks were worn smooth by time and use.

She brought the stick to her grandmother. “I found this by the path,” she said. “But I don’t know who owns it.”

Her grandmother examined it carefully. “Both Kudji’s family and Warran’s family are searching for lost digging sticks,” she said gravely. “Both claim it is theirs. You must decide, little sun. You must choose who receives it.”

“But how can I choose if I don’t know the truth?” Yindi asked.

“That is the test,” her grandmother replied. “Justice is easy when the facts are clear. But sometimes, we must act when the way is uncertain. Sometimes, we must do what is fair even when we are not sure, even when it costs us comfort.”

Yindi thought hard about this. The easy choice would be to give the stick to Kudji’s family. They were kind, they were liked, they were good to everyone. If Yindi gave it to them, everyone would be pleased. Kudji’s family would thank her warmly, the community would nod approvingly, and Yindi would be praised for helping good people.

But something troubled Yindi’s spirit. She remembered her grandmother’s words: “Justice is not what feels good in the moment. Justice is what keeps balance.”

She went to both families and asked them questions. “Tell me about your digging stick,” she said to each.

Kudji’s family told her a beautiful story about how their stick had been carved by a great-grandfather, how it had found food during a terrible drought, how it was blessed at a ceremony near Uluru.

Warran’s family told a simpler story: their stick had belonged to Warran’s mother, who had died just last season. It had simple carvings, practical and worn. They had no grand tales, only need.

Yindi looked closely at the stick she had found. The carvings were indeed worn smooth, as if from long, hard use. There was a small crack near the handle, carefully bound with grass twine. It was a working stick, a practical stick, not a ceremonial one.

The more Yindi examined it, the more she believed it belonged to Warran’s family. But this was the hard choice. If she gave it to them, some in the community would grumble. They would say, “Why help Warran’s family? They’re not friendly like Kudji’s family. They don’t deserve kindness.”

Yindi sat under the coolibah tree, watching the sun paint the rocks red and gold. She thought about her grandmother’s teachings. Justice isn’t about who we like. Justice is about what is right.

That evening, she called both families together. The whole community gathered to hear her decision, for such matters affected everyone.

“I have examined the stick carefully,” Yindi said, her voice steady though her heart beat like a wallaby’s leap. “I have listened to both stories. And I believe this stick belongs to Warran’s family.”

A murmur ran through the gathered people. Some frowned. Kudji’s family looked disappointed but nodded respectfully. Warran’s family stepped forward, and when they held the stick, their relief was clear.

“See here,” Warran said quietly, pointing to the grass binding on the crack. “My mother broke this stick last year, and I repaired it for her. This is her handiwork. This is our stick, truly.”

The truth was confirmed, but still some people were unhappy. That night, one of Kudji’s cousins came to Yindi. “You should have given the stick to Kudji’s family,” she said. “They are good people. Warran’s family doesn’t appreciate kindness.”

But Yindi stood firm, remembering the Rainbow Serpent’s teaching, the one her grandmother had told her: “The Rainbow Serpent does not ask if you are likeable before sending rain. The rain falls on the just and the unjust alike, because that is what is fair. The land does not choose favorites. Justice must be the same.”

“I did not give the stick to Warran’s family because I like them,” Yindi explained. “I gave it to them because it is theirs. Justice means returning things to their rightful owner, even when the rightful owner is difficult, even when it would be easier to choose differently.”

The cousin went away shaking her head, but Yindi felt a strange peace, like the cool wind that comes before the rain.

Three days later, something remarkable happened. A terrible fire swept across the grassland, moving fast as thought, hot as anger. Everyone ran to fight it, beating the flames with branches, but it spread too quickly.

Warran’s family lived at the edge of the grassland, directly in the fire’s path. Some people hesitated. “Let them save themselves,” someone muttered. “They’ve never helped us when we needed it.”

But Yindi ran forward, calling behind her: “Are we the fire, which destroys without thinking? Or are we the rain, which gives to all without judging? We must be what we want the world to be!”

Her words stirred something in the people’s hearts. One by one, they followed her. Even Kudji’s family came, working alongside everyone else to dig a firebreak and save Warran’s home.

When the fire was finally stopped and the danger passed, Warran stood before the community with tears on his face. “I have been proud and difficult,” he said. “I have not been a good neighbor. But you saved my family anyway. You did what was right, not what was easy. This is true justice, and I am ashamed that I did not practice it myself.”

From that day forward, Warran’s family changed. They helped others, they joined in ceremonies, they became part of the community in a new way. And all because Yindi had done what was right instead of what was easy, had practiced justice even when it cost her approval.

Her grandmother held her close that evening as the stars came out like campfires in the sky. “You have learned the hardest lesson, little sun,” she said. “You have learned that justice must be blind to our feelings and our friendships. It must see only what is true and what is fair. You walked the difficult path, and look what grew from it: Warran’s family has changed, the community is stronger, and you have become a keeper of law in your own right.”

Yindi looked up at the stars, at the great river of light that flows across the sky, the Milky Way that her people call the river of the ancestors. She thought of the Rainbow Serpent, that great spirit of justice and balance, and she knew she had walked in its footsteps.

“It was hard, Grandmother,” she admitted. “I wanted to give the stick to Kudji’s family. I wanted everyone to like me.”

“Of course you did,” her grandmother said. “That is what makes your choice noble. Anyone can do the right thing when it’s easy. But doing the right thing when it’s hard, when it costs you something, when it makes others unhappy: that is true justice. That is the choice the Rainbow Serpent makes every day, keeping the world in balance even when the balance is difficult to maintain.”

And so Yindi grew up to be a keeper of law like her grandmother, known throughout the land for her fairness and her wisdom. When disputes arose, people came to her, knowing she would see through to what was true, not just what was comfortable or popular.

She always taught the young ones this lesson: “Justice is a path that sometimes climbs uphill, a path that sometimes goes against the crowd, a path that sometimes costs you approval and friendship. But it is the only path that leads to a world where everyone can walk with dignity, where everyone can trust that they will be treated fairly, where everyone can sleep knowing that right matters more than might, and truth matters more than popularity.”

This is the story of how justice came to the red earth, and this is the story told true: Of a young girl named Yindi who walked the Dreamtime path, and learned what the Rainbow Serpent knew.

Do what is right, not what is easy: this is the law of the land, this is the way of the Rainbow Serpent, this is the teaching that keeps the world from tipping sideways.

And that, dear children, is the end of the tale.