“My grandson is not making her life easy for her,” Wawiriya commented once Julya had left. “I do my best, but she has it tough.”

“What do you mean?” the magsman asked. His voice was gentle, and Kylara thought he seemed genuine in his concern. Despite his rudeness to her, he seemed like a good listener. He was attentive, charismatic, and remembered the little details. After all, he had recalled the names of Wawiriya’s family after just one mention, which was somewhat impressive. She could see why the others liked him so much.

“Oh, just family drama and small town rumours,” Wawiriya said. “You wouldn’t be interested.”

“Try me,” Multhamurra said.

Wawiriya sighed. “Her husband is cheating on her, and everyone knows it.”

Kylara looked at her in shock. She had known about it of course, but she didn’t expect Wawiriya to be so blunt about it. Especially considering Julya was her own daughter.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Wawiriya said, looking directly at her. Kylara closed her mouth and stood a little straighter. “I know you knew. Pretending doesn’t become you.”

“Sorry,” Kylara said, shuffling awkwardly. She hadn’t meant to come across as spurious, but she supposed that was what it had looked like.

Wawiriya’s lip twitched. “See?” she said, pointing at Kylara. “Even the one girl who isn’t allowed to keep secrets knows. That’s how open it is.”

The magsman said nothing.

“And the worst part,” Wawiriya said, “the worst part is that Julya know everyone knows. They stare at her like something’s wrong with her, and she just stares back. No one will admit what’s going on, least of all her husband.” She sighed. “Not to mention Billy. He’s a wild child, and its getting to the point where he’s too old to be misbehaving.”

“A wild child?” the magsman looked at the dirt stain where just a minute ago Billy had knocked down his grandmother onto the ground. He licked his lips. “He uh–he does that regularly?”

“He doesn’t usually injure me, but yes. Things of that nature are fairly common. People are starting to talk. Oh it started as just silly things, stupid things. Idle gossip. But now it’s morphed into something much more serious, and I’m getting concerned for Julya’s well being. Her reputation is already gone. Half the town is asking questions. What’s wrong with her son? Why is he behaving that way? Where has she gone wrong as a parent?” Wawiriya closed her eyes. “I’m a parent too, but I was always too proud to feel any sense of inadequacy when comparing myself to others. They were human; I wasn’t. Julya doesn’t have that luxury. How do you even deal with that shame?”

“Shame’s a funny thing,” Multhamurra said slowly. “It’s hard to deal with. It’s not like a lot of other emotions. Happiness, anger, sadness–they’re all connected to the outside world. But shame is internal. It’s about your very sense of being–who you believe you are and who you want to be. That makes it hard to fix.” He smiled. “I’ve always found it very human.”

“That doesn’t help,” the Wanderer said.

“Yeah, sorry,” he shrugged.

Kylara eyed him. He found it very human? What an awkward thing to say to one of the only non-humans in Kookaburra Creek, especially one who was clearly feeling vulnerable.

Kylara stepped forward. “Shame doesn’t make someone any more or less human,” she said. She would know.

The magsman looked at her oddly at that, as if he were discerning a troubling mystery. “No,” he said after a while. “You’re right of course. Let me rephrase what I meant. Take happiness.” He picked a knife up from the table. “The feeling can be quick or long, random or earned, tranquil or giddy.” He moved the knife with each word, miming the action as if it were a stag prop. “Right?”

“Right,” Kylara said.

“See, it’s a paradox,” he said. “Happiness as a quality is fluid and erratic.” He moved the knife casually. “It’s temperamental even. But contentedness does not beget change.” He put the knife down. “I think, if happiness was a person, that person would not be happy.

“Shame, on the other hand? It buries itself deep and doesn’t always make itself known. It’s like the very idea of shame is ashamed of itself. I could never imagine happiness as a person. It doesn’t work. But shame, yes. That is how I know her.” He sounded almost sad as he said it.

It was an odd way of thinking about it, Kylara thought, but she did understand the meaning he was getting at. A bit too close to philosophy for her tastes, perhaps. But it was still a nice thought.

Multhamurra’s eyes strayed back to Wawiriya. “You said you have another grandson. Joontah, wasn’t it? What does he think?”

Had Wawiriya not told him about Janeyca? Kylara thought back to the conversation and realised she hadn’t. Interesting. She wondered if there was something behind that.

Wawiriya raised her head as if contemplating the question. Once again, Kylara wondered at how old she looked now. Her eyes were still bright, but you could see them beginning to cloud.

“Joontah helps of course,” she said. “He’s a good kid, but the stress of it is wearing him out. All he talks about these days is running away to the University with his girl. Mind you she’s sweet, but she’s a bit of a dreamer.”

The magsman smiled. “Aren’t we all?”

Wawiriya sighed. “As her mother, I wish I could help more, but–”

“Some problems aren’t yours to solve.”

“Oh, damn well I’d solve it if I could. I am still her mother.” Wawiriya closed her eyes. “I just don’t know how. It’s the way they look at her that bothers me–I’ve been here a long, long time. I know the look on a stranger’s face when they notice I’m a Wanderer. Its the same look of disapproval they give my daughter. I just wish people would stop looking at her as if she was one second away from snapping. She’s tough,” Wawiriya said. “She deserves more credit.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

The magsman’s smile switched off. It looked like it had been snapped in two. It was so sudden, it was almost unsettling to watch.

“That’s what they say now, isn’t it?” he snarled. “She should take a break before she snaps. Before she goes mad, before she breaks down. It used to be an important word. Now it means nothing.” He grit his teeth together. His knuckles were taunt.

Kylara back away slightly.

His demeanour had completely changed, and she was not sure what triggered it. Something about the way women raised children? That they were prone to collapsing under pressure?

No, she realised. It was the word itself. Snap.

“Did it used to mean something else?” Kylara ventured. “Saying ‘snapped’?”

Both adults turned to her suddenly as if they had forgotten she was there. Wawiriya grew more tense, while the magsman seemed to relax somewhat.

“Oh, it was always one of those words that meant many things,” Multhamurra said. He had deflated slightly, although still looked angry. “Snap. It means a breaking, a crack, a loss of connection, a sudden movement… even the less obvious ones: a snap is a kind of biscuit, a snap is the jinx you use when you say the same thing as someone else…” his voice turned hard, “but until ten years ago, a snap never meant a loss of sanity.”

“The Wanderers,” Kylara suddenly realised, “they called it the Snap.”

“They called it many things,” the magsman said, “although the Snap is a more accurate term than most.” He turned to Wawiriya. “Why use that specific word? Does it not bother you, the nonchalantness of it?”

“Of course it bothers me,” she said, then pressed her mouth together in a thin line that was not so much a frown as a look of concentration. “I just… I had forgotten.” She looked genuinely taken aback at the statement. “How could I forget?” she muttered. She held her hands together, as though worried that if she didn't they might shake. Her fingers were thin and wrinkled, skin stretched thinly over knobby bones.

The image reminded Kylara of her own grandmother before she had passed. She had suffered from memory loss, her mind foggy and her thoughts jumbled. Often she would realise she had forgotten something important, but couldn’t recall what it was. She’d become frustrated and confused as she tried to remember what she’d lost, but couldn’t. It was horrible to watch.

That look in her eyes as though her own mind had just betrayed her was the same look Wawiriya was wearing now.

“I’m sorry,” the magsman said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No,” Wawiriya said. “I’m old, Multhamurra. Quite old. By the common year, I’m nearly six hundred. I’ve lived a good life. Don’t you dare feel bad for me.”

“Six hundred isn’t old for someone of your kind,” he said gravely.

Kylara frowned. That was an odd thing to say. Wanderer lifespans were notoriously mysterious, even more so than the other aspects of their lives. There were records of Wanderers living, growing old, and dying within a single year. There were also accounts of Wanderers living through entire millennium. Most seemed to live normal lives… but no one seemed to be sure.

“Six hundred is old these days.”

“These days?” Kylara asked. She felt like she was intruding on a private conversation, but neither of them had asked her to leave. “Do you mean after the Snap?”

“I do,” Wawiriya said. “The Snap was the beginning of the end for my kind. I doubt we will survive the century.”

Kylara nodded gravely.

Everyone knew that the Wanderers were dying. It was obvious. There had been no new Wanderers since the Snap, and the existing ones would eventually die. The population couldn’t sustain itself. But a hundred years? That was the first time she’d heard a number put to it.

She had been nine when the Snap happened. She barely remembered it. It had happened during Gallundal Duwirren, the weeklong gathering that began when the first honeyeater ate from the spikes of the grass tree flower.

Gallundal Duwirren was when people from Kookaburra Creek and the neighbouring towns met to discussed disputes, strengthen bonds, exchange music, and propose marriages. Things were going well. Her own father had been introduced to his second wife that same day, and they had eventually had three children together. Everything had been nice.

Then, just after sunset on the second day, every Wanderer present had started screaming.

All over the world, in every country, Desert, and place in-between, the Wanderers had screamed.

They screamed for seven minutes.

Then they collapsed. Half of them never spoke again, dead in all but name. Another third fell into madness. Only a select few like Wawiriya had come out unscathed.

No one knew why.

The Wanderers had always been mysterious and secretive, but even they did not know what happened. Or if they did, they didn’t say.

As far as anyone knew, whatever had killed them had been the most powerful single act of magic ever performed–the only magic that had ever crossed the borders between lands so completely.

They had called it the Snap.

Kylara stiffened. “What was it like–the Snap?” Kylara asked. “Did anyone,” Kylara swallowed “–know anything? Beforehand? Did you feel it coming?”

“No,” Wawiriya said, “no one knew.” She looked to Multhamurra, as if for clarification. He simply looked away.

“Some did,” he said. “Not many, but some realised a minute or two beforehand and fled. Others anticipated something was coming, but they were not sure when.”

“Why are you asking?” Wawiriya said.

“I–” best not say anything, I don’t want to worry the old woman. “I’m sorry for bringing it up,” Kylara said, “I know it must be a hard memory.”

“Do you want me to…” Multhamurra said.

“No, no, no,” Wawiriya said, putting her hand on his chest. “It’s alright. You were young, and the consequences of that day have effected your whole life. I understand if you’re curious.”

“People started using the word snap to mean go mad a few years ago,” the magsman said. “Perhaps they thought it was funny, using the worst day in many Wanderer’s lives to tell them how crazy they were now. Or perhaps they just thought it fitting.” He shrugged.

“I hadn’t realised,” Kylara said. She tried thinking if Yalmay had ever mentioned anything, as word origin was something she was interested in, but she didn’t think she had. Yalmay probably had not known.

“It’s fine,” Wawiriya said, “I used it myself after all; it’s just what people say these days. It’s almost nice to have a reminder.” She laughed–a short derisive laugh with no happiness in it.

“Half my people were lost that day,” she said. “Many of the rest are shells of their former selves. But still, the Snap barely gets a mention anymore.” Her voice was oddly calm. Her eyes stared into the distance. “When it happened everyone said that was the day the world changed. Humans, Wanderers, everyone. But it didn’t. Not for most. The one thing I learned was that it doesn’t take long for humans to decide whatever horrible thing happened was normal. The food had to be grown, the shops had to run, the children needed to be cared for. After the Snap, life went on as it always had.”

“Not for all,” Multhamurra said. “The fallout of that day ruined your life.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “I already told you I don’t want your pity, Tal. I have a good life here. People that respect me. Things I enjoy. I have family. A child. Not all is lost. It’s a simple life, but one I enjoy.”

A thought occurred to her. That feeling she had had before–the one when she had been on the porch looking for Billy–the way it had felt was very similar to what people described happened in the Snap.

Kylara swallowed and curled her finger of her right hand up. She could almost imagine that phantom dread. She had one more question to ask.

“What did it feel like?” she said. “The Snap? Was it a sinking feeling, like the world was about to crash?”

Kylara looked at the magsman. His eyes darkened. “I wouldn’t know,” he said.

“Wawiriya?”

“No,” she finally said, “it wasn’t dread. It was pain.”