"No," she said. "It's wrong. There's something wrong with me and I know it. I shouldn't be like this and I shouldn't want these things and I try not t.... I try not to think about them because I know they're wrong." "No," I said. I grabbed her head and made her look at me. "It's not wrong. It's not wrong at all. You read my stories, They're real Emma. Maybe not what happened in there, but the feelings are real. Like poetry. Is there something wrong with me too, then? Is there something wrong. "My mama's father tells stories like that." Yes, I'm sure." Charlie, Maddy and Weena had been listening."You know many?" Maddy asked."Some. I heard them as a kid in Queensland and when I did fieldwork, I met many bands. Sometimes, the old men would let me listen. They're the stories that tell about the land and the people." He told some when we went to Uluru," said Charlie. "They were a lot like Comanche tales." Well," I said, "Let's go on to the bore."We were just in sight of the windmill when. More

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