But one day, a day no less happy than the last, there came a giant, mechanical roar, way off in the distance. The animals of the mountain huddled together in fear. What could the noise be?
From her perch high in a gum tree, Cockatoo squawked: “It’s people! They are coming for our trees! Come! We must join together and surround the mountain!”
“What if they run over us with their machines?” Kangaroo said to Emu as they moved into place.
“Don’t worry,” Emu said to Kangaroo. “Cockatoo will speak to them. She’s smart and good with words.”
The animals all scurried out of their trees and their burrows and from under their rocks. Big and small, brave and timid, clever and simple alike, they formed a line all around the base of the mountain. They stretched out claw, paw and wing and held onto each other tight as the machines kicked up the dust of the plain. Emu and Kangaroo remembered the legends and found strength in them.
Cockatoo leapt into the air and flew toward the machines. Kangaroo and Emu peered into the distance and soon Cockatoo could no longer be seen.
“I wonder what she will say,” Kangaroo said to Emu.
“I suppose she will open the discussion by telling the people that these are our trees and it is all we have left,” Emu said to Kangaroo. “She might remind them of their foolishness. She might remind them that the fire is their doing, and that they have been careless with the land.”
“Do you think the people will listen to Cockatoo?” Kangaroo said to Emu as his paw held Emu’s tiny wing.
“I don’t know,” Emu said to Kangaroo as they held the line strong. “Cockatoo knows many things and can speak them clearly, but for more than two hundred years the people with their machines have not listened.”
“That’s a long time,” Kangaroo said to Emu. “Why would they listen now?”
“Because, Kangaroo,” Emu said, looking out beyond the machines to the red dirt and the black stumps, “they have foolishly squandered all they have.”
Kangaroo nodded. “Yes, they have,” he said to Emu. “Too hot, too dry.”
“Yes,” Emu said to Kangaroo. “If they cut down the trees of the rain-making mountain, there will be nothing left for anyone.”
Suddenly, the rumbling line of machines ground to a halt. A silence descended on the mountain and the plain and the animals whispered to each other. Had Cockatoo saved their trees and their rain?
Then out of the dust Cockatoo came flying back. She landed on Emu’s back and waited for all the animals to break the line and gather round.
“They have not come for our trees, good animals of the mountain!” Cockatoo squawked.
There was a whisper of great confusion.
“What have they come for?” Kangaroo said to Cockatoo. “Why have they brought their machines?”
“Because the machines are all the people have left,” Cockatoo said.
“Why have they come, then, if not for our trees?” Emu said to Cockatoo.
The other animals said: “Yes! Why? Tell us, Cockatoo!”
“They came to tell us that they have heard the legend of Wombat!” Cockatoo squawked to the animals of the rain-making mountain, her wings held high. “They heard that Wombat was too slow to escape the fires they themselves caused with their foolishness. They have come to tell us that they are sorry for Wombat and they ask us for our help.”
The animals turned to each other and there was excited chatter.
“But what help can we give them?” Emu said to Cockatoo sitting on her back, and the chatter stopped. “We have only one mountain and what grows upon it.”
“We will give them saplings,” Cockatoo said to Emu. Then she turned to the gathered animals of the mountain. “They will plant them in the ashes of the fires they lit and they will watch the saplings grow. They will see their water return and their soil turn black and rich. Come, animals of the rain-making mountain! Let us give the people one hundred saplings so they might repair the land!”
After the animals had dug up the saplings and carried them by ones, twos and even threes to the line of machines, Emu and Kangaroo returned for the last young eucalypt.
“Let us take this one last sapling and collect some water,” Kangaroo said to Emu.
“What for, Kangaroo?”
“Let us go and plant it on Wombat’s grave,” Kangaroo said to Emu. “So that when it grows, birds might perch on it, lizards might seek its shade, and Wombat will be remembered.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: VICTORIA is a rural high school science teacher. The kids taught her how to tell stories.
The Hope of Cobblescreek by DJ Elton
IN LATE AFTERNOON TANNER reached the outback town of Cobblescreek where a great battle had been fought several hundred years ago. There was still enough time to meander through the main street as the hot summer sun set before looking for a hotel in which to spend another restless night. Why wasn’t he sleeping? A darned good question for which he couldn’t provide an immediate answer.
The buildings of Cobblescreek were in need of a good clean, Tanner decided, as he walked past another grimy window. The corner establishment, however, had a spotless window with a black and beige sign, with six dancing ladies and six black swans painted on its background:
“Cobblescreek Library, welcome, please enter.”
Tanner was enchanted, he loved both cleanliness and oddity. He went directly into the library. Inside, well-lit rows of precious books stood staunchly, awaiting inspection.
“Are you lost, then?” A loud male voice spoke and Tanner’s mouth dropped open.
“Fine, thanks.”
“Do ye want some help, then?” A large man spoke behind him, perhaps an Irish cowboy? Tanner’s mouth dropped open wide. He stared too long at the other man.
This guy is surely part of the local rockabilly band. No-one here could look like that. Tanner wasn’t impressed, although tried to be polite and engage, which wasn’t proving to be easy for an unknown reason.
“I’m interested in the historical battle at Cobblescreek,” Tanner breathed out. I may as well respond to his assistance.
“Ah.” Cowboy smirked. “What ye want to know?”
Tanner tensed. His neck felt prickly and his palms were clammy. It seemed too intimate to discuss the battle with this stranger.
“It were over a woman, ye know,” the cowboy added. “And there were a great fire.”
“Two big landowners and a lady. She were a witch.”
Tanner kept walking, declining further communication. He looked at the books. Finding a thick volume of poetry, he opened it. A subtle tinkling of bells sent music into the air as the page letters stood out like neon lights. “The witch who broke my heart.” He began to read:
The maiden fair, with copper hair,
Cries tears of sad remorse.
‘Tis years now gone, the song is sung,
Untouched by nature’s curse.
There was deep quiet in the air. He looked up at the clock next to a life-sized cupid that seemed to be aiming his arrow at Tanner. The cowboy had retreated, no longer tailing him, having done what was needed.
I feel like a character in some kind of game. Tanner shifted on his feet, holding the poetry book called “Odes to Battle and Fire Storms.” The piece continued, describing the casting of a curse. He started to feel lethargic. It was time to find his rooms for the night ahead. He felt the exhaustion of his trip taking over. Why had he ended up here, anyway?
A soft voice spoke close to his ear.
“We close soon. Did you wish to borrow a book?”
It was a young woman, standing with her arms folded comfortably. Her hair was long, loose and deep red. Like a fire siren. Her keen green eyes were twinkling, fixed on Tanner. He could just sit there, vaguely aware of her presence, unsure of what was unfolding. His feet were tapping restlessly on the carpet.
“What are you after?” she said.
A voice came from Tanner’s mouth. “I came back to break the spell.”
> Where on earth did that come from?
She laughed, delighted. Tanner’s body was doing strange things. It was sticking to the seat and his legs felt numb from the knees up. The only part of him that felt curiously alive—albeit fading fast—was his mind.
“It’s been ages,” he managed to say. A muffled plea. He felt so foolish, but she seemed to know what was happening. A flash of red and the girl disappeared behind a bookshelf, reappearing within seconds wearing a long green cloak and a black cap.
“We need to talk,” she said. “It’s time.” Grabbing Tanner’s hand, she pulled him out into the soft dusk light. “You’re my hope,” she breathed delightedly. “You break the spell.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: DJ Elton is a writer living in Melbourne’s west. As a child she came from England to Australia, on the last boat down the Suez Canal, where she underwent a sacrificial dunking ritual in the court of King Neptune, and has never looked back. She likes creating speculative micro fiction and short stories, as well as random essays. Her work has been published in several anthologies, and she has written a historical fantasy novella, “The Merlin Girl.” When not playing with a pen, she likes most of all to go to the green country.
Human Nature by Emilie Morscheck
OF ALL THE RESIDENTS of the home I cared for Mistress Harper was the loneliest of them all. She saw no guests except for a single woman and kept to herself despite invitations to various events and activities.
During my first time caring for her she had no shame as she removed her robe. I held her elbow to steady her entry into the shower. My attention was captured by the number of scars, wounds and burns laced across her translucent skin. None of the marks were of concern. Medically speaking.
She sat on the shower stool. As I turned on the water, I wondered how a woman so sweet and kindly had seen so much violence.
“How is the temperature?” I said.
“Fine, fine,” she said, waving her hand.
I helped her with the soap and water, directing it where arthritic limbs couldn’t reach. Fingertips massaged skin. Her hair was thin between my fingers and I gently washed away the dandruff. Mistress Harper tended to her more private regions while I rinsed her hair. My eyes couldn’t pull away from the large burn that wrapped around her shoulder.
She noticed my gaze.
“You would not believe how the nature of people can change so quickly,” Mistress Harper said.
A stream of soapy water rolled down my arm, soaking into my cardigan. Her words were not the observations of other senile residents but drawn from personal experience. Why else would she bring it up when I was so obviously concerned about the burn?
I rinsed soap away from papery skin, not sure how to respond.
“I’m sorry,” I said. Talking about pets or long-gone holidays was far more comfortable than personal pain. My job was to care and smile, to remind the residents that they’re still living.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five,” I said.
“Too young to have seen such a change. I was younger than you when I got that burn. Freak accident. Forest fire.”
My hands took hers and I cleaned under her nails.
“That must have been painful,” I said. The words were like putty in my throat, thick and unpleasant.
“It was unavoidable, but people looked after me. They helped me heal. When you get older they stop helping. This however,” a long silvery scar traced by delicate fingers, “this was the work of my husband. He sliced me open. The man I thought I married was an illusion. I’d known him since he was young. We were the best of friends. A year after we married I saw the other side of his personality. His greed. He was an angry man when it was just the two of us. Three months after the cut he hurt me again.” Her hand rested on a mark on her stomach. “He thought the child I was bearing was not his.”
Stories of abuse were not uncommon in Mistress Harper’s generation, or even mine. It was still a brutal fate to suffer. For a man to take advantage of this woman was simply wrong.
“He was wrong, of course. Two weeks after my daughter was born he died of the Spanish flu. I remember standing by him at his death bed. All he wanted was to see my daughter. My pure, innocent child. I told him to go to hell.” She grinned.
I gave a weak smile. The sound of running water reminded me where I was, and I shut off the tap. Mistress Harper stood up with the aid of my arm. Her stories shook me more than they should have.
“Mistress Harper, may I ask why you are sharing this with me? I’m a complete stranger,” I said, face turned away to grab a towel.
“I take no disrespect dear. We’re all strangers deep down. Many people have tried to use me or neglect me. You have been kind and are inherently so. I wanted to thank you for helping me today. Also, I have been silent too long. Unless people know the demons within them, they cannot be found or tamed. Why suffer hardships when others have already learnt the mistakes and suffered?” I let her take the towel and dry herself off, standing back.
“I’m not a religious woman,” I said. Images of the one great sacrifice for humanity flashed through my mind.
“No but you are a moral one.”
The super soft robe slid from chipped fingernails onto a fragile frame. Knot tied loosely around her waist.
“This is my job Mistress Harper. How about I make you some tea? Are you okay to walk by yourself?”
A nod.
I didn’t like to be praised. Life was about getting on and living. Not stopping to measure how far you can go against someone else.
Before I could get to the tea I opened my bag on the table and sorted through the small parcels and envelopes. One of them had Mistress Harper’s name written across the plastic in black marker. I placed it down and then pulled out a small plastic tub filled with pills. I refilled her medication containers, laid out ready for my visit, carefully counting out each dosage. The plastic tub snapped shut in my hands.
The kitchen was small, a single gas burner under a hood, a small sink and an electric kettle. I filled the kettle and pushed it onto its base, the switch flicked on with a satisfying click. Pressurised squeals of pain. While it boiled I found the teabags in an old biscuit tin. The kettle clicked again after reaching its climax and I poured steaming water into china, the tea bags floating up from the depths, staining the water brown. Milk. Sugar. Teaspoon.
My usually sturdy hands quivered. Mistress Harper was dressed, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. She wore a grey cardigan and thick wool stockings in a way that reminded me of my own grandmother. It was the pride in the tidiness that I recognised most. Under all her layers there was no hint of the old wounds that spread across her skin like some sort of patchwork quilt.
She took the mug from me and sat down in her armchair, resting the saucer on her lap.
“Thank you,” she said.
“No problem.” I dragged one of the heavy wooden chairs so I could face Mistress Harper and collected my own cup of tea.
She sipped the beverage, raising an eyebrow.
“Is it okay?” I said, feeling like a parrot. “I should have brought some fresh tea with me.”
Every sentence was to seek reassurance that I was helping. I didn’t want to infantilise my patients, but I couldn’t help but ask.
“No, it’s fine. Try some. My daughter bought it for me on her last trip.”
I tasted the tea. Perfectly fine. The aroma had the right balance of sweetness.
“Does she visit you often?” I said. For a woman who only had her daughter I assumed they must have been close.
“Avani does not come as often as she should. There is too much world out there for her to explore. I get postcards more than visits. But she pays for me to live here. I am not sure if it is out of love or guilt . . .” Her voice trailed off as if she was captured by an image of her daughter.
The warmth of the tea propagated through my fingers.
“She never had an easy life, my Avani. An absent father. A
mother who cared more deeply than she could afford. Some of these scars are because of her.” Mistress Harper gripped the tea cup.
“My father was in the military and always away at war,” I said. “That was too much for me. Even if your husband was a cruel man it must have been hard to explain that to your daughter.”
“She understood, but there was never anyone to replace him. It was just the two of us. On her eighteenth birthday she proclaimed she was leaving. We had a fight, Avani and I. I begged her to stay. She said she needed freedom. For a moment I saw a hint of her father’s anger flare. That is when she hurt me. I do not think Avani knew how strong she was. She knocked me against the cupboard, hard. After I fell she ran away. I didn’t see her for fifteen years.”
There was no resentment in her voice, not like when Mistress Harper had described the death of her husband. She took a long draught of her tea.
“You’ve obviously forgiven her then.” I fought against the instinct to let my jaw slide open. My own heart was pounding. I didn’t need to look at my watch to know that our time together was slipping away.
Mistress Harper caught my eye. “Blood can be redeemed. Avani worked out that a mother’s love can heal deep wounds. All children come back to a good mother. She does her best to ensure I’m happy and cared for.”
“Are you happy?”
She just smiled.
I drained my teacup and pulled my work log out of my bag. It felt wrong to be so clinical at this moment, but I felt we had reached the end of Mistress Harper’s story.
“Let me take your teacup,” she said, standing with the aid of the armrest.
“I can do that,” I said.
“Nonsense. You are too busy to be washing old ladies’ teacups.”
She took the cups and saucers into her tiny kitchen. I heard the water running while I noted down a few things in my notebook. I filled out the patient log, checking the required boxes. There was a strange error on the document and I pressed my lips together. I would have to sort it out before I left. China chinked in the stainless-steel sink.
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