Mooregoo the Mopoke, and Bahloo the Moon

Mooregoo the Mopoke, and Bahloo the Moon

Mooregoo lived far from the other camps. He enjoyed working alone and knew how to make many useful things. His hands were hardly ever still.

By day, Mooregoo carved and polished boomerangs and other wooden tools. In the evenings he mended old things. When the air grew cool, he sat beside the fire, admiring his patterned cloaks.

His belongings had piled up in heaps.

“What a craftsman I am,” Mooregoo said with satisfaction. “I have more than enough of everything, and I made it all myself.”

He took great pride in his work. But he had one habit: he disliked sharing, even when he had far more than he could use.

One clear night, Bahloo, the Moon, rose above the earth. His light fell on the trees, on the grass, and on Mooregoo’s camp. The night was beautiful, but cold.

Bahloo saw some warm cloaks by the fire and said to Mooregoo:

“It’s cold tonight. Will you lend me a cloak until morning?”

Mooregoo did not even think twice.

“No. I do not lend my things.”

Bahloo looked calmly at the pile of cloaks.

“You have many of them. Perhaps you will give me one then?”

“No,” Mooregoo repeated. “I made them myself. What’s mine stays mine.”

Bahloo looked at the beautifully carved wooden things.

“And can you give me one of these for my journey?”

Mooregoo shook his head.

“Never. I do not give away what I have made with my own hands.”

Bahloo asked again for the cloak:

“Only for this night. Until morning.”

But Mooregoo turned his face to the fire.

"I told you."

Bahloo did not argue any further. He went a little farther, found large pieces of bark, and made himself a simple shelter. It was not as pretty as Mooregoo's things, but it was strong and dry.

Soon the sky darkened. First a few drops fell. Then the leaves rustled, and the rain came harder.

“Never mind,” said Mooregoo. “I’ll wait it out.”

But the rain did not let up.

It drummed on the ground, ran down from the trees, and gathered in rivulets. The rivulets grew wider, the water coming closer and closer to the camp.

Mooregoo rushed to save his things.

First he grabbed his best cloaks.

"These must be taken first!"

Then he remembered the carved boomerangs.

"No, those first!"

As he rushed from one pile to another, the water was already splashing under his feet.

Mooregoo tried to carry everything at once. He clutched his belongings to his chest, picked up the ones that fell, and returned for the others. But the water was faster.

One cloak floated away.

Then another.

The wooden things were picked up by the current and carried in different directions.

“Stop! This is mine!” Mooregoo shouted, as if the water could hear him.

But the river, which had suddenly sprung up in the middle of the plain, paid no attention to his pleas or his angry words.

Mooregoo finally realized that if he continued to hold on to his possessions, he would be in danger himself.

He let go of the last heavy bundle and ran to a high rocky place. The water was already almost up to his waist, but he stubbornly climbed up, clinging to bushes and stones.

At last, Mooregoo reached dry ground high above the water.

There he sat down, breathing heavily, and for the first time all night he stopped thinking about his things.

Water roared all around him. In the distance stood Bahloo’s little shelter, sturdily built from bark.

Mooregoo looked at it and remembered the simple request:

"Will you lend me one cloak until morning?"

Mooregoo had many. Now he had almost none left.

The rain had been falling for a long time. But by morning the clouds had parted, and Bahloo's light had appeared again over the wet ground.

When the water began to fall, Mooregoo came down from the high ground. He found a few belongings caught in branches, but most of his stores were gone or ruined by the flood.

Bahloo came up to him.

Mooregoo was silent.

Then he said quietly:

“Yesterday you asked me for one thing out of many. I could have easily helped, but I didn’t want to.”

Bahloo did not reproach him.

“The things we know how to make are valuable,” he replied. “But kindness does not make them less valuable. Sometimes what we share stays with us longest.”

Mooregoo looked at the wet ground and nodded.

Mooregoo remained a craftsman. He worked just as carefully as before, carving, mending, and making new cloaks.

But now, when someone came shivering to his fire or needed something they did not have, Mooregoo no longer hid his stores.

“Take this,” he would say. “Return it when you can.”

And sometimes he would add:

“And you can keep this one for yourself. I have hands. I will make more.”

Whenever Bahloo rose above the earth and the night grew cool, Mooregoo looked up and remembered the great downpour.

Not because he was afraid of losing things.

He remembered because he had learned that true abundance means being willing to share what you have.

May this story leave a little light in your heart ✨