Stories of Hope

by Aussie Speculative Fiction

  Actually, as he looked more closely, he saw that most of the damage to the town seemed superficial. Incinerated gardens, missing fences, twisted, mangled shade structures and black soot everywhere. But the houses themselves seemed largely undamaged. New houses were now fire-resistant bunkers with active and passive fire defence systems. They had to be.

  An exception was the collapsed ruin in front of him. His parent’s house had not been new. Thankfully Mum and Dad had taken shelter in a friend’s house when the Category Six Cyclone Anemoi hit in November. Afterward he had persuaded them to rent a house until their house had been rebuilt to code. Well, they didn’t have any choice really, their caravan had been blown to bits too.

  The charred collapsed ruin was not the result of the cyclone but rather its complete destruction was due to the January fires. Without an intact fire-retardant cladding on the roof and walls, and without functioning auto-coolant and fire suppressant systems, it had no chance against the wall of flame that roared in from the south.

  Nor had the native vegetation had a chance. He turned around and looked to the south. His childhood memories were of a vista of low grey green shrubs and trees stretching from the town across the low hills. Now, in the reserve in front of him, and across the landscape beyond the town, there was just white sand and black stumps. On the western side of the coastal road, behind the dunes, normally the sparse low shrubby vegetation avoided fires. Not this time. The vegetation shattered by the cyclone had been tinder dry and had burnt completely. The southerly wind whipped up the fine white sand from the exposed dunes. During his childhood there had been fires too. But not this intense and then the fire-adapted vegetation had soon re-sprouted fresh foliage once the winter rains fell. Could that stark black and white landscape become green again this winter? It seemed impossible.

  Lost in thought with memories and sorrow for company, he walked along a familiar route. Whenever he visited, he had always walked this route before breakfast. The concrete cycle and walking path had survived both cyclone and fire unscathed. It snaked away from the houses and headed behind the dunes. If he followed it further along, he would overlook a broad open bay. The point had the best left-hand surf break in the world. Well according to the locals anyway and he was happy to accept its renown.

  But that ocean view was not where he stopped. Rather, he stopped at another childhood memory. The place of a tree. It had been just one of the millions of plants growing along the path, but this one had always occupied a place where the trail felt especially peaceful. A place where the trail had been surrounded by stunted ancient melaleucas with thick trunks. A bench seat had been placed there, despite there being no view beyond the old gnarled melaleucas. In his childhood memory, the melaleucas had small olive-green leaves, stout trunks of smoky grey bark, and were slightly taller than his father. Now he just saw leafless blackened stumps. Where he sat in the middle of the grove of melaleuca there had been another tree, a special tree. A special mallee. Again, it wasn’t tall; many might query his calling it a tree. But life was tough for plants here, shrubs were often ankle height. It was getting tougher as the climate dried and well, here, any woody plant that was taller than head height counted as a tree.

  He found the base of the mallee and remembered it having orange grey stippled trunks and small glossy green leaves. An ancient tree with seven hundred stems growing from a woody base over twenty paces wide. The only tree of its type along the trail. Now just a few blackened sticks emerged from the ground.

  The concrete seat was blackened but remained intact. He sat, thinking of the tragedy, mourning losses. As he sat, his heart eased. His parents were safe. Even many of their keepsakes had been collected after the cyclone and saved. Strangely at peace, he dozed in the early morning sun.

  He dreamt of a tree spirit. It was resting and waiting in the massive bulk of the below ground mallee roots. The tree spirit was well and quietly waited for the harsh summer to leave and for winter rains to come again. He felt its peace and dreamt more deeply. He dreamt of a gift of glittering gold and of a blessing. Of reaching down and receiving joy. He woke elated, refreshed and confused.

  Down by his feet, he noticed a small green stem reaching out of the white sand. Two tiny glossy green leaves had barely unfolded. Shaped like the leaves of the mallee, but still soft and delicate. Beside them, where the southerly wind had blown away the sand, tarnished silver glittered faintly in the sunlight.

  He picked it up. A silver bracelet. On the back was engraved a name, C. Cuthford. Not quite the joy or gold he expected, but perhaps he could return it and bring joy to someone else.

  He later showed the bracelet to his Mother. She asked friends but none of them had heard of anyone named Cuthford. It must have been a tourist passing through.

  Over the next four months, his parent’s house was rebuilt.

  He returned to Perth, then moved on to Brisbane and then up to Darwin over the next couple of years. When he visited his parent’s home at Christmas three years later, their new garden was blooming, while the natural bushland recovered patchily and slowly.

  The bracelet was forgotten until later that year, at a safety workshop in Darwin, across on one of the group discussion tables, he saw a nametag, Cynthia Cuthford.

  At lunch he chatted to her and later mentioned the bracelet. He wanted to bring it to show her. She smiled sceptically, but agreed to meet later for drinks. In the bar that evening, he showed it to Cynthia and showed her the engraved name.

  She examined it and returned it. “No.” She smiled. “It is not mine. And actually, I have never been to Kalbarri.”

  Anticipated pleasure that the mystery was solved turned to disappointment. “Oh, I was so sure this mystery was solved.”

  Cynthia said, “Sorry about that. Would you like to have to dinner?”

  His disappointment was assuaged by a long discussion of strange coincidences.

  A WEEK LATER HE GOT a phone call from Cynthia. She requested that he send a photo of the bracelet but would say no more.

  Then she phoned back again. “My mother’s name is Cheryl Cuthford. She raised me as a single mother so we both have the same surname. That bracelet is one she lost when she fell off her bike in Kalbarri. I did not know she had been there as it was before I was born. She said that she was riding down a path, swerved to miss a rabbit and fell in some bushes. She and a friend searched for it for ages but could not find it.”

  THEIR LIAISON CONTINUED. A couple of years later they went for their honeymoon in Kalbarri. They strolled along the walking path and they sat on the seat by the ancient mallee. Now it was lush and green again, with a new set of seven hundred stems. Above the seat, a single stem was flowering, the conical green caps of dozens of flowers falling to reveal the delicate white stamens. He sat with Cynthia among the young melaleuca shrubs, their arms around each other. In this special peaceful place, the melaleuca was lusher than anywhere else along the trail. Powerful ocean waves pounded a dull rhythm against the coastal rocks in the background, the warm sun made them lethargic and eucalyptus scent perfumed the air. The mallee spirit brought peace to all.

  While they sat there, a tiny diamond dove flew down and landed in the sand by the path, followed by its shy mate. With soft grey feathers and eyes outlined in pink, the tiny doves were pretty birds.

  As the male dove cooed Cynthia commented, “It has been a long time since I have seen a diamond dove. Mum said that those tiny birds were my grandmother’s special birds. She had a connection to the wildlife and plants here too. But that is another story.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: SEAN Bellairs grew up living on science fiction and fantasy stories in a little coastal town in Western Australia. He loved creating fantasy stories associated with the rugged natural landscape that surrounding him. For the last few years, rather than just keeping his science fiction and fantasy stories in his imagination, he has been enjoying writing them. Some are publicly available in the Notes section on his Facebook page.

  Muddy n Mill
i by Cage Dunn

  FIRES PASSED THROUGH the other day, the white-bearded old man said. He stood next to the ancient River Red Gum and gazed across the lake. They’ll be back tomorrow.

  Milli shuffled her feet.

  I have to find her before the wind turns it back this way. She’s alone and I’m the only one who knows what she needs, where she hides.

  The Muldewangk are not your friend, the old man said, his face stern.

  Oh, I know. The fishies say she’s so ugly they’d rather run into the fire-front than face her. They’re idiots. Muldewangk are shy, they’re quiet. Live in a sucking mud-hole. Milli smiled. And slimy and venomous and they make horrible noises worse than fart-games with the boys. She crossed her arms over her chest and blew her contempt for such tales through pursed lips.

  They are all that and more. The old man brushed away the ash that littered the air and settled on his skin. Don’t you think you should be afraid of a creature so large, so dangerous, so ugly? If men fear her, why don’t you?

  Mean fear them because Muldewangk live in mud, Milli said. It doesn’t mean they’re bad. Not all the way bad. Just ugly, is all.

  What do they do with the mud? Do you know, little girl? Do they capture their prey with it? Does this monster like the taste of little girls who go out in the night air? He wasn’t smiling.

  Live in it, is what I said. They don’t eat it, can’t eat fish or water-plants. My brother—his name’s Eddie—told me they eat little girls, but that’s not true. It’s not, or I wouldn’t be here. You’re as big a liar as Eddie is. You don’t know her. She’s my friend. She helps with my pots. Milli jutted her chin at the old man.

  You have many pots in the river? He turned his head toward the rows of fish-funnels stacked against the old shed at the end of the boat-ramp.

  Many, many fish-pots. And she helps me with them, chases the best fish my way. She don’t eat them. Muddy—that’s what I call her—eats flowers and grass and grasshoppers and butterflies. Mostly purple flowers, but any flower about to burst into full bud will do. They use the purple colour to shade their skin.

  That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think? How can I believe you’ve seen a Muldewangk if you say such things? The smile split his face with bright white teeth.

  I saw Muddy do it. She swallows the flowers, and her skin wobbles like a ripple-tide, and the colours swirl like oil on water. It’s beautiful. It’s why I keep coming back. Not because I’m bewitched or anything . . . she lets me see her magic.

  How can such a young girl know if she’s bewitched? Is she grown enough to ask her aunties and uncles to make sure of her mind? The old man leaned against the tree.

  This is my river, my lake. I know all its creatures. And now I’ve helped save the land animals from the flames, I have to find Muddy’s new hole before the fishermen find her. They want to kill her, ‘cos everything ugly must be evil, right? Muddy loves me. She holds me in her arms—or fins if you want to be picky, so I’m real safe—and shows me the way the water changes the banks, how it makes deep water sinks one day that are gone the next.

  It sounds to me like you don’t listen to your elders.

  When the moon comes out, she’ll come up for air, but that will be too late. I need to find her. Can I borrow your boat?

  If I weren’t an ancestor ghost, would you take the boat?

  She’s my friend. The last of her kind. I am her guardian. If you’re my ancestor ghost, you’ll watch over me, won’t you?

  Did I say I was your ancestor? I could be the ancestor for the owner of the boat, and watching it for him.

  Are you?

  No.

  Can I take the boat?

  Do you wish to return to life as a little girl after your search?

  The harsh stink of hot eucalyptus on the air stung Milli’s nose, made her eyes water. The stories were fresh in her mind. The aunties sang the warning songs after the fires passed too close yesterday. The words were a test of her learning. She could say no, and Muddy would have permission to take her to be the new Muldewangk. Muddy would have a child. The legend would continue. Or she might eat Milli. All the stories said the Muldewangk ate little kids.

  But if Milli said yes and returned to her ordinary life, Muddy would be alone forever. Or until someone else gave up their shape to become part of a new life. A new being. Milli smiled at the outline of the ghost. He wasn’t one of her family; she could lie to him.

  Yes, Milli said, and crossed her feet at the ankles and her fingers on both hands behind her back. Yes, I do. Can I borrow the boat now? This was the modern world, no one believed in monsters anymore. The old man was playing with her, seeing if she’d give up. Testing to see if she thought it was a game of imaginary friends, or if the stories were so real that she, a little girl, believed it.

  Silly old muril-man. It was all real. Once she found Muddy and helped her get to the deeper water on the other bank, all would be well. Milli would bring the boat back and put it right up there next to the old tree. No one would know.

  Except the ghost-elder. Who wasn’t even her elder.

  MILLI PULLED THE CANOE into the water, leapt in and picked up the paddle. She wouldn’t use the paddle, only needed it to feel the vibrations in the water. Shallow water. Summer. Think like Muddy. Where was the cool water, the deep mud?

  The boat flowed with the tide, plished against the small wavelets as the bow dipped and cut. Thrums carried across the surface. A fish leapt into the air, splashed heavy on its side as a warning to other fish.

  Getting close.

  The next change in the water was deeper, a throaty growl that reverberated through the boat and her body.

  Not a dog. The growl wasn’t above ground, it came from beneath the water. A voice, calling to Milli.

  I’m coming, Muddy, she whispered.

  Bubbles floated on the air, popped as they touched the water, released a hard, pearl-green shape with tail and fins. Not fish, not anything Milli had seen before. She leaned over the side to sniff a bubble as it burst. Hot, smoky air whooshed from the broken globe.

  Milli, girl, you came. Muddy’s head rose from the high bank cut deep from the last flood. Sparkles rose from the water, bubbles in colours as ethereal as abalone-shell seen by moonlight that hid behind tearaway clouds.

  Babies? Milli gazed at the hundreds of bubbles, some blue, some green, some purple. One or two a deep dark red, as hot to look at as the heart of a fire.

  My children need care, Muddy said. I have borne my eggs from the ravages of fire. I have raised them to this point, the eggs have hatched in the flame of new life.

  You can stay here, Muddy. I’ll put up markers so no one comes. I can live here, protect you.

  Ah, that is not the way it is. I am one, and I can be only one until my work is done. I send my eggs along all the tributaries, I send them near and far: from lake to river to stream to waterhole; from coastal tributaries to the deep artesian to the plunging cliffs of the deepest seas, I give them the life that was mine.

  Why can’t you stay? What did she mean? Milli wondered if it was like a spider. No. They weren’t eating her.

  The tiny scales along Muddy’s body erupted in rows, floated away. The bubble-babies glowed in the water like sprites, spun in circles that sang of joy and freedom.

  But Muddy dulled with each loss of a scale, each bubble that burst.

  You give them your life? Milli’s eyes burned, but she wouldn’t cry. It wasn’t grown-up to cry. Or maybe it was.

  It is what must be. I make way for my children. They are the ones who go forth to continue the story. You will go forth into your life and make the world right for your children.

  Milli’s throat clammed shut. She didn’t want to lie to Muddy.

  You will, girl. We all do. It is the way of our mothers, of all mothers. Only through our children can we know our stories continue.

  A boat gurgled across the widest part of the lake towards Milli. The water split into bow-waves.

  You hav
e to go, Muddy, she said. The fishermen want to eat you.

  Not this one, not this time. Muddy rose out of the water, her body taller than the old red-gum, thicker than its trunk. Not glossy now, grey and white with swatches of blooded mud and scratches of blackened coal.

  The old man swung his tinny close to Milli.

  Is it time? he asked.

  Muddy opened her mouth, showed her double rows of fangs, oozed viscous, oyster-grey goo from her eyes and ears and nose. A sound rumbled through the air, throbbed on the surface of the brown water, rattled the sand on the bank.

  It is time, Muddy said. Air rushed from her body, shrank the skin, released all the colour and spirit and life.

  The bubble-babies floated in the air, joined themselves at tail and fin, swung up and down until their sound was an afternoon wind over dunes, a soft dirge that rose into a song of rapture.

  Muddy sank down, slid under the surface, gleamed for a moment as silver-grey in the dark water. Then she was gone.

  Time for us to go, the ghost-ancestor said.

  Did you know her, too? Milli asked, still watching the mud-hole.

  I knew her mother.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: CAGE Dunn writes Australian stories, rural and outback: Suspense, contemporary, Urban/Dark fantasy/horror. Twisted tales, stories about fearful things, about dreams and horrors — your dreams, your fears, your horrors.

  A Fibber, Fabricator, Teller of Tall Tales, aka Storyteller, dreamer, imaginer.

  Cage was born in the wide-open landscape of inland Western Australia; lived all over the startling country of Australia — now in Adelaide, worked at everything from sewage collection to computing, and somewhere in there graduated with a BA Comm (Prof. Writing) and Grad Dip Computing.

  Still learning, still writing, still scaring the pants off those willing to listen to the stories ... find Cage at: https://cagedunn.wordpress.com/