The Bamboo Jungle

A recent trip to China generated discussions of giant pandas. It was discovered that far from being cuddly pets, they are of the bear family and can be aggressive and dangerous.

This resulted in the following fictional story from the imagination of Ken Windsor.

The Bamboo Jungle    

         

The stony ground was patterned by the flickering shadows of bamboo leaves as they fluttered in the light of the setting sun. Mist was forming on the valley floor as Jiang tenderly touched Liwu’s cheek and their lips met in a fleeting kiss.

“I must leave!” Liwu broke the embrace and moved towards the path down the slope.

“I will wait a few moments before I follow. We don’t want the elders to find out about us yet.” Jiang sighed with desire as Liwu departed.

Liwu waved as she disappeared into the shadows shrouding the path to the village.

Yuntang grunted and scratched his furry belly as he awoke from his sleep. Weighing two hundred kilograms, he was large for a wild panda. He rolled over onto all fours, raising his head sniffing the air for signs of danger. He shambled a few paces in the crisp mountain air. His limbs were stiff from his sleep. He could sense other creatures moving in the shadows but none exuded the scent of danger.

Many metres above to Yuntang’s left, Liwu carefully picked her way along the path towards her home. She gingerly placed her feet on the track so the sharp rocks didn’t penetrate the thin soles of her sandals. Her hands occasionally pushed aside a bamboo growing across the path. She was thinking of Jiang as she walked. He was a good man. He was better than most of the men in the small, isolated mountain village. His father farmed a small plot of land that sustained his family. His small herd of goats flourished in the harsh land and provided many of his needs, food, milk, clothing and a small bonus when he could barter a young kid for other necessities.

Jiang would take over the small farm when his father was no longer able to work. Liwu was pleased with herself. She had been secretly meeting Jiang and their friendship was developing into a courtship. Soon though, they would have to tell their parents. Her step down the path became lighter as she thought of the prospect.

Yuntang shuffled up the slope looking for fresh bamboo shoots to satisfy his hunger. He stopped at a small stand of bamboo and pushed his snout into the centre. Two young shoots rapidly disappeared between his chomping jaws. Shaking his head from side to side, he withdrew from the plants and grunting with each step, moved further up the slope.

Liwu continued down the path thinking of the formalities ahead. When they declared their courtship, under the ancient Chinese ritual, Jiang’s parents would have to approach her parents with a request for a formal meeting. If the meeting was granted, which it almost always was, there would be bartering from both sides to extract the best possible outcome for both families.

Yuntang found a long, thin clearing bordered by great clumps of bamboo. He ripped off several stems and sat on his haunches, almost human-like as his strong jaws and razor-sharp teeth ground the bamboo to a pulp.

Liwu was light-headed as the path made a detour around a large rock outcrop. She stepped around it with her head full of wedding plans and the twittering of birds, disturbed by her passage. Too late she saw the huge black and white creature within touching distance. She screamed and raised her hands in horror.

Yuntang was just as startled − in a reflex action, generated more by fear than aggression, he lashed out with his huge paw. The rapier-like claws ripped across the girl’s midriff. The twittering of the birds and the bear’s growl of alarm were the last things she heard. Yuntang, panicked by the sudden disturbance and the girl’s scream, turned and blundered through the jungle to escape.

Jiang, a few minutes behind Liwu heard the scream and broke into a run. He rounded the rock outcrop and saw Liwu’s torn body. Comprehension was immediate. He saw Yuntang’s path through the jungle. Sanity was driven out by revenge and he rushed headlong onto the panda’s track.

Yuntang only ran fifty metres or so and his fear was overcome by the instinctive urge to eat. He stopped and sniffed the air, the foul stench of the human was gone; he resumed foraging for food.

Jiang could hear Yuntang moving and grunting as he ripped off bamboo shoots. Without coherent thought, Jiang picked up a fallen branch and rushed towards Yuntang.

Yuntang, once again caught by surprise, raised himself to full height on his rear legs and lunged towards the charging man. As Yuntang came down above him, Jiang pushed the end of the branch into the panda’s open, drooling mouth. The free end of the branch dug into the ground and the force of Yuntang’s charge drove the branch up through his pallet into his brain.

Jiang stood triumphant as the bear rolled in its death throes.

The adrenaline drained from Jiang’s body and reality struck like a huge hammer.

Jiang fell to his knees, his head in his hands.

He emitted a drawn-out, soulful wail.

“Oh Liwu!” His tears ran between his fingers and dropped onto the stony ground.

Super Sleuth Stu

Another win in the Aspiring Writers group competition.
"Super Sleuth Stu" will be published in the 2015 Anthology early in 2016.

At 9.15 a.m. the strident tone of my cell phone disturbs my reverie. I pick it up.

‘Hello, Super Sleuth Stu, how can I help you?’ The lady sounds frantic.

‘Francis is gone and the auction is at two. You have to help me!’

‘Okay, lady, calm down. Who is Francis and what has he got to do with an auction?’

‘It’s Francis of Assisi!’

‘But lady, he’s been gone for several hundred years!’

‘No, no! It’s the painting of Saint Francis of Assisi! It’s worth thousands and it’s gone – and the auction is at two and I have to find it!

‘Lady, slow down! What’s your name and where are you?’

‘I’m Celia at the Gaston Gallery. We came in this morning and the painting was gone. Please help me!’

‘Okay, Celia, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Don’t let anyone near the scene.’

Gaston Gallery is a door on Main Street plastered with posters announcing ‘Auction Today - Modern and classical artworks.’ I press the button and wait, looking up and down the grey streetscape. The door opens and I look down on a middle-aged lady, wringing her hands in obvious distress. I guess it is Celia.

‘Hi Celia, I’m Stu. Tell me what happened!’ She directs me into the gallery where there is a blank space among the displayed artworks.

‘Francis was there last night and this morning, he was gone!’ Tears fill her eyes.

‘He is the draw-card for today’s auction – I have to find him or Peter will never forgive me!’

‘Let’s start at the beginning! Who is Peter?’

‘He owns the gallery.’

‘Does he have any enemies?’

‘Not really, his brother, Merv would like to see him crash. Merv has some shady connections and Peter’s ex-girlfriend, Suzie still has a chip on her shoulder – she’d like to see him fail.’

‘Who had access to the premises last night?’

‘Oh, they all did.’

‘Are there any signs of a break-in?’

‘No, everything is locked, but Merv and Suzie both have keys.’

‘Where does this go? I indicate a door at the end of the room.

‘It goes downstairs to the store and workshop.’ As she turns the light on I see a glittering object on the stairs. I stoop and pick up a diamond ear ring.

‘That looks like the one Peter wears, he must have dropped it!’

The workshop is a mess with paintings propped against the walls.

‘Does Suzy wear blue socks?’

‘No, why do you ask?’

‘There’s one on the floor at the end of the bench.’

‘I’ll have to speak to those cleaners! They were supposed to clean everything last night, ready for the auction.’

The sounds of footsteps boom on the floor above.

‘The auction is about to start!’ Celia raises her hands to her cheeks in horror.

‘What’s under this sheet?’ Celia turns to look.

“They are paintings to be checked.’ I flick through them. Celia squeals.

‘That’s Francis! That last one you turned. Let’s get it up to the gallery!’

We rush the painting up the stairs and I place it on the vacant hook.

A man comes mincing across the room. The name-tag identifies him as Peter.

‘Where did you find that? Peter’s eyes narrow as he looks at me.

‘It was in the workshop, where you concealed it. I also found an ear ring on the stairs that looks like yours.’

Pretty Pete flicks a wayward curl from over his right eye and slides it behind his ear. A disdainful sneer slithers across his face.

‘You can’t accuse me just on that ear ring! Anybody with two thousand dollars can buy one at Sears.’

‘Oh, it’s not just the ear ring! There was a raw hide dog bone on the floor between the paintings.’ Peter laughs.

‘They’re all over the place!’

‘That may be so but you are the only person here who has a prissy little poodle that chews boutique raw hide dog bones and wears blue socks! − Was the insurance payout your target?’

The Civil War Box

Another win in The Aspiring Writers USA competition.
It will eventually appear in the 2015 anthology which will be available through Amazon.


The Civil War Box by Ken Windsor

‘Patsy! Look at this! It looks like a relic from the Civil War! The ring is engraved with a heart and the letters AVM and CAK. There’s also a note.’
‘What does the note say?’
‘It says “My dearest Amelia, We are crossing the Rappahannock River at first light to finish off the Confederates. Here is a ring to celebrate our engagement. We may cross the Pony Express route in the next few days. If we do, I will send it to you. Whatever way, my dear, I will see you in two weeks. All my love, Al.”
Patsy took the box I had found in the mud on a field-trip to research water fowl habitats and reread the note. She looked at the beautiful ring.
‘Too fussy for today’s fashion but I guess it would have become an heirloom in the 1860’s. I wonder what stories it could tell?’
Chet and Patsy completed their project for Professor Ogle and received a pass for their efforts. At the end of the semester, they went their different ways, Patsy into medical studies to become a doctor and Chet to Physics and engineering.
The ‘85 Class reunion was in full swing. Chet Stevens and his wife Emily were standing at the corner of the buffet, watching the crowd.
‘Wasn’t it 1985 that you found that ring?’ Emily asked.
‘It sure was! I was on a bird-watching project with – Patsy McLune, yes that was her name. I wonder if she’s here? Let’s go and ask Mike.
Mike pointed Patsy out to Chet.
Emily followed Chet across to where Patsy and her husband, Tom stood, talking together.
‘Hi, Patsy! Remember me?’ Patsy spun around.
‘I’d recognise that voice anywhere; you’re Chet from Ogle’s ornithology group, aren’t you?’
‘The very same, and this is my wife Emily.’ Introductions were made and they moved to a small table in a quiet corner to talk. Chet started.
‘How did you medical degree go?’
‘To be honest, it didn’t. I got almost to the end and changed direction. It was your Civil War box that did it. Do you remember it?’
‘I certainly do. It changed my direction a bit too! But, you first. What happened?’
‘I remembered those initials from the note and started doing some research. It was intriguing and I was totally absorbed by it. I met Tom at the library when I was digging through the Civil War records. He was the Assistant Manager and gave me a lot of help in areas where I was really lost.’ Patsy looked across at Tom like only a devoted wife can. We did find out a lot about the people, we also got married and I changed career path from medicine to history. I am now the historian at the State Library! What did you do? Are you designing turbines?’ Patsy raised her eyebrows expectantly. Emily smiled.
“Detective Superintendent Stevens is a long way from designing turbines!’ I took over.
‘I also had a change of direction, mainly driven by the Civil War box! I did some digging into the owner of the ring. I found that it belonged to Major Cholmondeley Aloysius Kent, a member of the British aristocracy. He came to America when the family fell on hard times and joined the army. The love of his life was Amelia Victoria Merewether, of the Missouri Merewethers. They never did marry as the Major died in the conflict. It is assumed that the box fell from his pocket in the river crossing, ending up in the mud, where I found it. So, the Civil War box as you called it changed me as well. I enjoyed the search and the data analysis so much, I changed my studies to law and joined the police force.’
Tom, hugging Patsy’s shoulder asked, ‘What happened to the ring?’
‘My research went further on Amelia’s family. She eventually married and I traced a great great granddaughter, also named Amelia. I gave her the ring, with a copy of my research papers. She was ecstatic to learn about the mysterious Englishman, “Al” who was mentioned in her family history. – What a powerful box − changing lives after more than 150 years!’

Crocodyllus

"Crocodyllus" won a highly commended certificate in this year's Rolfe Boldrewood Literary Awards.
As there is now only a First Prize, this is equal to Second.

The judge enjoyed the change of point of view from the farmer to the crocodile.

CROCODYLLUS                                                     

 

The Buffalo Creek, the only pub in town, known to the locals as ‘The Wallow’, has the usual Friday after-work crowd. Four farmers and farm-hands are at the door-end of the bar, two council workers and the parks ranger are on stools, mid bar and two older men are at the far end, eyes glued to the Keno screen. Young Mickey with his tattooed arms and an ear-ring is playing a noisy game of pool with his mates and a couple of females are visible through the door to the lounge.

Bert leans on the door-end of the bar. The worry-lines on his weather beaten brow are accentuated by the sunlight streaming through the window. His face is drawn and tired.

“I lost another of my top heifers yesterday! The crocs are getting really bad.”

“It’s always the same just before the wet! They’re feeding up before the breeding season starts.” John finishes his drink and signals the barman for another.

“Pour one for Bert too! He needs it. He’s lost more stock to the crocs!”

Bert takes his fresh drink and raises his glass towards John; a tired smile on his face. Mickey looks up from the pool table, ears not missing much of the conversations around the bar.

“What yer lost, Bert?”

“Another one of my heifers went yesterday. I found the drag-marks on the bank where Two Mile Creek runs into the river.”

“It’s got to be a big croc to take a heifer down and you’ve lost three this month! I reckon you’ve got a killer croc there!” Mickey waves his pool cue in the air, and then grips it like a shot-gun as he runs across to the bar.

“Hey, guys, Bert’s got a killer croc! Let’s have a croc hunt this weekend!”

“Not so fast, young Mickey!” Josh, the National Parks and Wildlife Ranger slides off his stool and grips Mickey’s pretend shot-gun.

“First of all, the saltwater crocodile is a protected animal and secondly, we can’t have you and your mates ripping up the river bank with motorbikes and four wheel drives, while you’re waving loaded rifles and shot-guns around. That’s a sure recipe for a hospital-case, if not worse!” Josh gives Mickey a friendly push back towards the pool table.

The attention of the bar is centred on Josh. He looks along the bar to Bert.

“Bert, if you’re free tomorrow I’ll come out to your place and have a look at the river bank and creek. If it’s what it sounds like, I’ll see about setting a trap.”

 

***

I feel a comfortable warmth on my back as I lie on the bank at the edge of the river. My eyes almost shut in a lethargic half-slumber. The sun is low in the sky. I sense a movement. I open one eye and flare my nostrils to catch the scent. Cattle move towards the river. Four legged, plodding beasts, invading my territory!

I slither silently into the water.

The warmth on my back dissipates in the coolness. I am in my element. Without a ripple, I submerge and swim away from the bank. In the deeper water I rise slowly to the surface. My nostrils break first followed by my eyes. The small protrusions on the stippled surface are barely visible to an unsuspecting eye.

I can chase these creatures from my patch of river. All I have to do is swim ashore and rush up the bank. I am afraid of nothing! Deep inside me I feel the primal urge to hunt and eat. I drift, submerged, back towards the bank. I cautiously break the surface again and watch the cattle moving towards the water. A reflex flick of my tail keeps me in position against the slow movement of the river. There is no need to rush. The cattle will drink and graze on the river bank until the sun drops below the horizon.

There’s my mark! A sturdy young heifer; standing in the middle of the group at the water’s edge. Not too big but she’ll put up a bold fight when she feels my teeth. I am close to the bank. The late afternoon breeze makes swirling patterns on the river surface, aiding my stealthy approach. My front legs rest on the muddy bottom. I allow my rear to sink slowly until I have traction on the river bed with my back legs and tail.

I release all my pent-up energy in one violent burst. I leap forward with the water cascading from my head and shoulders. Cattle on either side roll their eyes in terror and bellow in fright as they buck away from me. My target stands mesmerised. She bellows and shakes her head as my jaws close over her upper foreleg. She attempts to back away and shake me free. I roll to the side and twist. She loses purchase as her body moves sideways and she rolls onto her back. I’ve done this before. Instinct takes over and I roll and drag my trophy into the water.

The river bank is clear. The other cattle have galloped into the bush and retreated from my territory. The river does not show the struggle for long. The turbulence like small whirlpools drifts down-stream and the surface returns quickly to its serene self.

 

***

The early morning sun sparkles on the dew clinging to the grass as Bert guides Josh to the mouth of the creek. The temperature and humidity are already rising, a sure sign of the approaching wet season. Josh stops the four wheel drive several metres from where the creek joins the river. Josh slings his camera around his neck as he leaves the vehicle and the two men walk to the river bank where Bert points out the drag-marks.

“It looks like you really have a big one here, Bert. No crocodile under four metres could drag a heifer like that! Look at the depth of those gouges in the mud.” Josh takes several pictures of the marks on the bank and then slowly walks along until he sees another sign.

“Here’s what I’m looking for. This is the spot where he lay in the sun before he took to the water.” Josh takes several more pictures. As he crouches down to get a close-up of the scratch marks, there is a swirling disturbance in the water less than a metre behind him. It goes unnoticed by the men as they concentrate on the signs on the ground.

“I’ll revise my estimate on the size of this fellow, Bert. There are the marks of his legs as he lay sunbathing. If you take away the scratch marks when he moved, the distance between those resting marks puts him close to six metres long!”

There is another swirl in the water behind them as the two men walk back towards the ranger’s vehicle. Josh stops and turns back. He takes a tape measure from his camera bag and lays it alongside the leg-marks on the bank.

“Nearly forgot that! I need something to show the size of this guy.” He flashes off two more shots before rolling up the tape and putting it back in the camera bag, along with the camera.

“Now we can go. I’ll send these shots of to head office with a request to trap this one and relocate him further away from a populated area.”

 

***

 

I like it when the sun comes up. I can go back to my spot on the bank and lie in the warm until it’s time to hunt and eat again. That cow was good last night. If I don’t catch anything else, it will keep me going for a while. What’s left is down there hooked under the rock shelf.

What’s that! I feel a vibration coming from the bank. That’s not normal! I cautiously break the surface. I see the source. It’s one of those steel vehicles.

The vibration has stopped. There’s movement. There are two men. They are coming into my territory! What are they doing? I submerge and wait.

I remember back to another time in another place. I reacted to the sounds of a fish in distress. When I got close I saw that the fish was being reeled in by a man at the water’s edge. He stepped into the water to reach the fish. It was too easy. I struck. There wasn’t much fight. I rolled under water until the man’s movements ceased. This was followed by a huge invasion of my territory. Vehicles were driving along the river bank and many boats with noisy propellers, ripping through the water. I moved downstream, staying well below the surface. When I reached the ocean I drifted with the current until I tasted the brackish flow from another river – This one.

I’ll have another look. My eyes just break the surface. One of the men is kneeling down, back towards me, an easy target. My eyes are assailed by a blinding, white flash. I can’t see! Submerge and cool my eyes. Go back to deeper water. My eyes slowly get better, I can see again. Swim back to the bank. Go slowly. Have another cautious look. They are walking away, back to the vehicle.

I’ll wait til the vibrations have gone before I get onto the bank.

The sun is warmer now. My nose is almost in the water. No intruders. The world is mine.

 

***

 

“They’re sending a trap down from the nature reserve. I’ll have it on Monday. I’ll come out in the afternoon and set it up.”

“That’s great news, Josh. This is one resident I won’t be sorry to see going somewhere else. See you on Monday.” The telephone goes dead and Bert hangs it back on the cradle.

“Trish, the Wildlife guys are coming on Monday to trap that croc!” Trish walks out of the laundry, throws her arms around Bert’s neck and gives him a loving kiss.

“That will take some of your stress away. I don’t like to see you like this. I hope they catch it quickly so we can get back to normal.” Bert disentangles himself from Trish’s embrace. “Come-on Trish, I’ve got work to do. I can’t stand here cuddling you all day!”

*

Josh and Bert watch Karl, the ‘crocodile expert’ from the reserve, as he paces the riverbank and the creek looking for signs. He walks back to where they are standing beside the truck.

“I’m going to tell you what you already know. This is a big one, could be six metres, but this trap will handle him, if we can get him inside. This bank and a few metres up the creek is where he has marked his territory. He’s taken at least two cows from that dip over there where they come to drink. There is no place on the bank or in the dip that we could conceal the trap effectively, so I’m going to set it up in the creek, where there is a bit of cover.”

The trap is pulled from the truck and man-handled down to the creek. Josh and the Wildlife team drag it into the creek where a small stand of mangroves is overhanging the water.

“That should hold him!” Josh clambers up the creek bank with mud up to waist level on his waders. Some other members of the team have even more mud.

“It’s a good job he didn’t come for a visit, some of you may not be here now!” Bert laughs uneasily.

Karl looks up as he peels off his waders.

“Oh! He’s been watching us. I saw several swirls just off the mouth of the creek. I was ready to call us out of the water if he got any closer.”

“Okay, what’s next?” Bert starts throwing the waders into the back of the truck.

“In the back of my ute I’ve got a young goat. I’ll tether him on the bank, just outside the trap. The trap appears to the croc to be a clear tunnel through the mangroves to the goat. When the croc is in the centre of the trap, both ends are triggered and he’s sealed inside. That’s the theory anyway.” Karl fetches the goat and tethers it on a short running lead, between two mangrove roots.

“With all this activity, he may not come in tonight, but you never know with saltwater crocodiles. They think they’re invincible! We’ll be back in the morning to check the trap.” The Wildlife team get into the truck and Josh and Bert climb into the ute with Karl.

 

***

They’ve gone. The vibration of the vehicles disappeared long ago. No signs of men anywhere along the bank. There’s a goat in the creek and the cattle are up on the hill. I wonder what they were doing in the creek. I’ll have a closer look. I swim carefully into the creek mouth. I surface for a look around. Nothing. There’s only the goat in the mangroves. It’s very tempting. I leave the creek and swim parallel to the bank, up the river. The cattle are still up on the hill. I’ll go back and see if the goat is still there. It is! Instinct takes over. I swim towards the goat. My legs are among the mangrove roots. I get ready for the lunge at the goat. Tail and back legs explode; my forward motion is stopped by a steel grid. I struggle to go backwards. I am stopped again. What has happened? I thrash around but I am securely held. I cannot escape! Eventually, I quieten down and lie still.

Men are coming. My trap is dragged from the creek. A rope is put over my muzzle. I thrash and roll. The rope gets tighter. A wet sack is put over my head. There is movement. I don’t know where I am.

Men are close to me again. The sack is removed and the rope on my muzzle is cut off. I open and close my jaws a few times. The front of the trap opens. I see water. I take a tentative step. I’m not attacked. I take another step. I rush for the water and dive down until I settle on a hard bottom. I stay there for a long time.

The sun is filtering down through the water. I surface. There is a grassed area. I climb slowly out of the water. There is a rock wall past the grass. A man appears. He has some meat hanging on a stick. He thrusts it towards me. I lunge at him. He steps quickly back. There are faces on top of the wall. They are making noises. The more I lunge, the louder the noise. I snap my jaws and grab the meat. I retreat into the water – my territory!

Maybe one day I’ll catch the man!

My new life in the zoo has its benefits.

Lake Illusion

I entered a short story competition run by "Aspiring Writers". USA.
Here is the message I received:

September 2014 Short Story Competition Winners

Ronnie DauberDirector at Paradigm Seed Publishers, Inc.Top Contributor

This month brought in some amazing imagination, and while all the stories were interesting there is one that caught the attention of all the judges right away. Two others followed not too far behind, and so this month we have three winners…….and they are:

First place winner: Lake Illusion by Ken Windsor
Second place winner: Grandpa Joe by L. H. Davis
Third place winner: The Souped Up Wildcat by William Pipes

LAKE ILLUSION                               Ken Windsor              

 “Hey Mitch, bring the tackle box in from the truck.” I bend to check that the old kerosene fridge is cooling down properly before I start to put our week’s supply of food in it. I had fired it up as soon as we arrived an hour earlier. It was a good run. The usual Saturday morning traffic out of town but it thinned out as we got into the hills.

“There you go, Bobby! What do you want it for? You checked it three times last week!” The box slides along the kitchen bench towards me.

“I want to retie a couple of those Red Butcher flies before we go out tomorrow. Did you check the boatshed when you went down to the jetty?”

“Sure did! I took the cover off the punt and the kayaks are still on the rack where we put them last season. I can’t wait to get out on the lake again!”

“We’ll have to check the outboard this afternoon and then we can get out and see if we can find that legendary ‘big one’ eh?”

“Your imagination runs away with you, Bobby. There’s plenty of fish out there but there ain’t no ‘big one’!”

“Yes there is! Remember the one Chuck lost two years ago. The one that nearly pulled his kayak under before it broke his line?”

“I reckon Chuck was just off balance and caught a snag that threw him. You know how he exaggerates!”

I return to stacking the food in the fridge. Mitch goes out to the truck, returns with the bedrolls and throws them onto the bunks.

“It looks like there’s a storm brewing to the west. There’s a thick line of black clouds coming up real fast and the wind is strengthening!”

“You go and make sure the boatshed is closed up properly, Mitch and I’ll check the window shutters on the cottage.”

As I walk around the west side of the cottage I am met by a window shutter slamming back at me with tremendous force. I turn my head and put my hands up to protect my face. The shutter slams into the side of my head and I drop to the ground.

I roll over onto my side and rub the side of my head. My hand is slick with blood. I sense someone approaching.

“Hi Bobby Winter, what are you doing? Getting yourself into trouble again?” I look up.

“Chuck! What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be away training with the army!”

“Looks like you need me here little brother – like always – I can’t turn my back on you, can I?”

With Chuck’s help, I stagger to my feet and we make our way, leaning into the wind, around to the cottage door. Once inside, Chuck slams the door shut as I drop into a chair at the table. Chuck takes a towel from a pile on the floor where Mitch has dropped them. At the sink, Chuck soaks it with water and dabs at the side of my head, washing away the blood.

“Don’t look too bad Bobby, you’ve got a cut on your cheek and you’ll have a black eye in the morning. Hold this towel on it ‘til the blood stops!”

“Can you see Mitch? He went to check the boatshed.”

“Mitch is okay. It’s you I came to see. I wanted to make sure you were all right and let you know I’m going away.”

The door opens and a blast of wind enters, pushing Mitch with it.

“The boatshed is all closed up – what the devil have you been doing, Bobby?”

“I got caught by a window shutter but Chuck helped me in here and washed it for me.”

“Chuck? He’s away with the army, you must have been hallucinating. Let me look at your face.” Mitch lifts the towel and examines the cut on my cheek.

“It looks pretty clean. You’ve done a good job.”

“But it was Chuck, he’s here!” I look around the room. There’s no-one here but Mitch and me.

The radio crackles: ‘Breaking news. Another soldier has been lost in the Middle East. Corporal Chuck Winter died today when his truck was hit by a road-side bomb.’

 

Transom Tales was commended in the 2012 Eyre Writers' Awards. In part, the judge said 'This was an entertaining read..... appealed because of its humour and personal touch.'

TRANSOM TALES

The afternoon race was over. The sailing club bar was seething with a mass of assorted shorts and shirts plus a selection of footwear that would make thongs look respectable, when he shambled in.

            The conversations were full of sailing terms like down-wind, the top mark, broaches and starboards. One lady sailor, wearing a mid-riff tee shirt and micro shorts, was complaining she was almost knocked overboard by the boom when the boat jibed at the wing mark.

He didn’t cause a ripple as he elbowed his way to the bar. He promptly called for double rum, in a voice, more suited to the deck of an eighteen ninety’s windjammer, than the club bar.

            It wasn’t his clothes that made him stand out, although his dark blue calico shirt, frayed around the collar and old style grey flannels, disintegrating at the bottom, did not exactly blend with the smooth, tanned limbs of the Saturday yachties. It was his face! The word hirsute could have originated just to describe this hairy, shaggy, untrimmed visage. The small amount of skin that did show on his forehead and below his eyes was like gnarled bark. On each side of his head, cauliflower ears pushed out, to be just visible through the unkempt hair. The most prominent feature was the nose. It started, as in most people, centrally between the eyebrows but then executed a twist and flattened, terminating an inch below his left eye! There is a story to each lump and bump on this nose – but not today. The mouth was less easy to define until the contents of the glass disappeared through the mass of hair of indeterminate colour.

            He bellowed for another drink and it was not hard to imagine the person who coined the phrase ‘Your shout’ must have spent some time drinking with this man! He took his fresh drink to a bench-seat near the window and wedged himself between the Club Commodore and his wife.

‘Hello’ said the Commodore, ‘Did you have a good run today?’

‘That I did Skipper! And I had fun watching the antics of some of your chaps!’

‘Oh come on! Be tolerant! You know we’ve got a few novices who only started with us this year!’

‘Aye, I can understand them not knowing the race rules, but some of them shouldn’t be out in a boat without some basic sailing training!’

‘Yes I know, but we have to make allowances for them.’

‘Allowances? They need more than that! I was two minutes behind the fleet when that clown in the blue boat went round the bottom mark. He speared diagonally across the course, out of control, with a spinnaker half set and nearly took my mast out!’

My youngest crew-member had been watching him intently since his arrival, ‘Who is he?’

‘That’s Transom!’

‘How did he get a name like that?’ He asked with incredulity.

‘It’s a nickname he’s had since he first started sailing with the club. His boat is old and heavy compared to today’s fibreglass ones and is so spartanly rigged, the only view he gets of the rest of the fleet after the start, is the sight of their transoms sailing away from him!’

‘He’s almost like an obstacle on the course! He’s still on the downwind leg when we’re beating to windward and have to navigate around him! Why does he keep racing?’ asked my interrogator.

‘It’s not so much the racing he enjoys; it’s going round the marks in company. He’s there, in the thick of it, at the start every Saturday. Even before our club was formed, he was sailing this area with the old Clipper Club!’

 ‘Come on lad; move closer and we will broaden your education!’

            By the time we had moved within hearing, Transom was vociferously holding court on the race post mortem.

‘Course I saw it! They were handling the spinnaker like a bunch of wimps hanging out their smalls in a force eight gale. They don’t even know they hit the marker buoy! They could have dragged it to the other end of the course and still not know!’

‘But they got a third on handicap Transom! Can’t we protest to the Race Committee?’

‘Not now you can’t matey! What do you think they gave you a little red flag for? It’s not for wiping the wine stains off the teak-work you know! C’mon, what’s the rule book say about fouling a mark?’

‘Well’ Said a fresh faced young chap, ‘If one accidentally hits a mark of the course, one should return and go around it again, before continuing to race!’

‘Correct!’ roared Transom, ‘That’s about the same as doing a seven hundred and twenty degree penalty. And if he doesn’t, you fly your red flag and yell at him and let him know why! And if he still ignores it, you put your official protest to the Race Committee! If he’d come in last, you wouldn’t have worried – but he got third on handicap, so it’s become a problem!’ He settled back on the seat and took another mouthful of drink.

‘I remember one race with the old Clipper Club, back in the fifties. Same sort of situation! The race leader cut the turn too fine and just nudged the marker buoy as she went round. The second boat saw it and called for him to go around again. The skipper of the offending yacht shouted, “Where’s your protest flag?” They didn’t have one! It probably got used for polishing the binnacle! Then one chap said he was wearing red undies! Well! You should have seen the scramble. He was sent below and told to “Get ‘em off!” Within seconds, they were tied onto the backstay – and the boat in front got penalised two places by the Race Committee!’

‘Hey Transom! Did you see the guy who fell off the red and white boat?’

‘Couldn’t miss it! I was working to windward when she went round the top mark. She was in the lead. Up went the kite, a really nice set and then the bowman slipped and went over the side. What a circus! There they were, one crew short, with a spinnaker up and the rest of the fleet hammering on their transom.’

‘Did they get him back?’ Asked one of the members who was standing close to Transom.

‘Well, there were only three left on the boat. They dropped the spinnaker straight onto the foredeck. As soon as it was down, the skipper put her about, straight into the oncoming boats. It caused a bit of mayhem for a few minutes – boats ducking and weaving to avoid him.’

Transom took another mouthful of drink, wiping his moustache dry with the back of his hand.

‘He did handle it pretty well. Just sailing on his main, he tacked around his man in the water. Then came up alongside him and one of the other crew grabbed his arm and pulled him up over the transom and into the cockpit! I kept an eye on them. As soon as he was on board, the recovered chap ran forward and set the spinnaker straight off the deck! It was a really nice piece of boat work!’

‘I’m pleased to hear you say that!’ Said Mick, as he stepped forward through the crowd surrounding Transom.

‘That was my boat! Now let me tell you what really happened! My wife came down to the club last weekend and started complaining it was costing a lot to race – too many things broken or lost overboard! A winch handle last week, a spinnaker sheet the week before! She gave us all a lecture before she got into a conversation with the Commodore’s wife. My crew really took it to heart! So this week when Tony set the spinnaker, the wind caught the spinnaker bag and it went over the side. He couldn’t get it with the boat hook, so he dived over the side and grabbed it!’

There were a few laughs and some gasps of surprise from the crowd, ‘Just for a spinnaker bag?’

Mick continued. ‘We got Tony back on board and he ran forward and launched the spinnaker. Once it was set and we were back on course, Tony came aft. He had cut his finger. When he reached the cockpit he went into diabetic shock. One of the guys got him below and wrapped him up. We sailed the rest of the race, keeping a watch on him. As we crossed the finishing line, Tony appeared in the companionway asking if we had won!’

 ‘The real story is much better than the bit I saw!’ said Transom.

As he stood up, the last of his drink disappeared through the matted facial fungus.

‘Gotta go fellas, early start tomorrow!’

With that remark, he hitched up his baggy flannels and headed for the door.

Hi All, I have tried my hand at short play writing. The first one is being performed in the Dubbo Short+Sweet festival on Sept 20, 21 & 22. I was also coerced into directing and acting. I will let you know how it goes after the 22nd.