No one told us to get out. Indeed many people in our street chose to stay. But we knew that our cedar home wouldn’t stand a chance against the ferocity of the fire that was consuming the National Park less than three hundred metres away. We packed the cars (with computer discs, photographs, personal letters and the big Oxford dictionary from the study) and we cruised down to the village.

From there we monitored the wind, listened to the radio and watched the big planes water bomb our precious hill in a desperate attempt to contain the fire. For years the National Park has provided us with exercise, recreation and reflection. Often we would hike the steep slopes from our front door, up the dry western side where the scent of eucalypt lingers on a hot day, to the top of the hill. We would then continue down the eastern slope where the vegetation is moist, the ferns are large and water flows gently under giant mossy tree roots into gullies.

And that’s where we first met Henry, early one morning just near the big mossy tree. We actually heard him before we saw him. He was singing in the way that lyre birds do, switching abruptly from one tune to another, from one key to the next.

We made pathetic attempts to emulate his tones. Suddenly he appeared from the lush undergrowth. He hopped onto a tree and, less than three metres from where we stood, he demonstrated an impressive repertoire. One minute he would sound like a chorus of kookaburra’s, then came the rosellas, a screeching cockatoo, a dog, a magpie and some indistinct human voices.

After twenty minutes it seemed like Henry had no intention of stopping. But we had other commitments so we applauded and then made our way down the hill. Henry ceased his singing and followed. He emitted a sorrowful whimper as trailed behind us almost to the bottom. Then he disappeared.

From that day on we saw Henry (that’s the name the Rangers give him) on a regular basis, usually early in the morning. Other walkers smiled as they passed. They too have experienced Henry’s song, dance and general hospitality.

Just before the fires we carried cameras and a professional tape recorder. Henry didn’t let us down, his repertoire was even more extensive. In mid song he jumped off his perch, onto the ground and danced rhythmically as if performing a corroboree. With his lyre bent over his head he made what can only be described as the sound of a space invaders machine interspersed with drumming. For thirty minutes we recorded his extraordinary music and photographed his dance.

Again we had to leave. And again Henry followed us almost to the bottom. The next morning an eagle perched low on a branch as Henry pranced beneath. That was the morning the fires came.

As the planes continued their sorties and the people in yellow sped past in red trucks, we thought of all our friends who have chosen to live in the peaceful surrounds of the hills. We thought of how we might begin again if the house goes. We joked with other residents about what we packed and what we left behind. We expressed despair at the rumour (later confirmed) that the fires were deliberately lit. And we expressed outrage at the ghoulish hoons who invaded the neighbourhood for a better view. And of course we thought of Henry.

The homes in our street survived. Two days later we walked through the smouldering remains of the western slope. Fallen trees littered the landscape. Not a spec of green was visible. The eerie silence was punctuated by the cacophony cockatoos. They looked even more brilliant in their whiteness as they flew from one blackened tree to the next, screeching with every take off and every landing. Kookaburra’s hovered above the scorched earth maintaining a keen eye for fried worms and lizards. We were looking for Henry so we walked to the other side.

Here things seemed untouched. The green was as it had been. And the water continued its summer trickle. We yelled a cooee, we walked a little further and then we stopped.

Our efforts were met with silence. Could the damage on the other side cause such a stillness? Were we bearing witness to the post traumatic shock of the forest? Again we yelled, self consciously this time because we felt we were disturbing the forest that was trying to heal itself. We stood motionless. The only sound we heard was the comforting gurgle of the underground stream. Then we heard it. Far in the distance was the familiar sound of the space invaders’ machine. Henry was performing somewhere. The east/west divide had assured his safety. We walked on to our usual rendezvous point, and waited. Within moments Henry emerged. He hopped onto a tree and, just as he did before the fires, he played his repertoire.

His imitation of kookaburra’s, cockatoos, magpies and machines was more than just entertaining. It was reassuring. Our laughter and applause seemed to encourage him. With each sound he revealed something of his unique world, something of what he has heard and what he has seen. This performance poet of the forest is nothing if not a diligent chronicler of his times. We wondered whether he sensed our concern about his fate in the fires because his performance on this day was especially earnest. It was as if he was trying to show us that all is well and he has survived.

As we continued to be an attentive audience, we detected something different, the faint strains of a sound we had not previously heard. It was strangely akin to the noise of a low flying aeroplane – perhaps the one that water bombed our hill and helped save our homes.

What else has Henry has seen and heard? Next time he performs we’ll play even closer attention. Maybe he’ll mimic some deranged person striking a match and then beating a hasty retreat on a trail bike. Henry is a key witness and we should all take note.

* Ó Peter Davis

Peter Davis lives in the hills outside Melbourne. He’s a freelance writer/photographer and a senior lecturer in creative non fiction and travel writing at Deakin University.

This article was first published in the Melbourne Age and has since been anthologised in various collection of travel writing