by David Vernon
You sit there, panting and babbling at each other for about ten seconds, then he starts the engine and you nose around in slow circles, using the car’s headlights to illuminate the surrounding area. Unfortunately it isn’t very effective, the ground slopes away in many directions so much is still lost in shadow. Your torches don’t penetrate far from inside the car and neither of you are keen to use them outside.
What next? No way you can stay here now but the night is still young. He drives right up to the tent, cracks open the car door and tugs the whole lot straight into the car. Pegs trailing, poles still connected, inflated camping mattresses and bags still inside. You’re squashed awkwardly beneath it all for the long drive down the mountain and visibility out of the windscreen is terrible, but you don’t mind at all. Your adrenalin high lasts all the way to the approved campground, with its safe haven of lamplights and an occupied ranger station.
Next morning you get up early, re-pack properly and head back up the mountain. You find the spot and gingerly get out of the car together, listening hard. But in the bright sunny morning it’s clearly now safe. You stand where the tent was, replay the sounds in your mind, find the evidence with your eyes. Scuff marks on the ground, freshly disturbed bark on the tree, a few stray dark hairs embedded at shoulder height. And a damp, fibrous mess of coagulated vomit.
These physical signs chill you. Especially the height of the marks on the tree. But you also both realise, somewhat regretfully, there’s no conclusive proof of identity. You will share the telling of this story many times over the rest of your long and happy marriage, but you’ll forever wonder exactly what went bump that night when you were newlyweds, the scariest thing you never saw.
The facts:
This event happened in 1998, when my husband and I were camping near Prescott, Arizona and our campsite was visited (and vomited in) by a very large animal. On this night, we had disregarded all the well-known guidelines for camping in bear country because we didn’t think Arizona had any bear country. Subsequent research revealed this assumption to be flawed. Black bears are, in fact, found at higher elevations in Arizona. Perversely, observing a wild bear (safely) was the last, outstanding wildlife encounter of the trip we had been hoping for, but we never actually laid eyes on one.
Kerry Cameron lives near Coffs Harbour in northern NSW. She is a marine biologist, public servant, writer and occasional freelance illustrator. This tale about the bear in the night (or was it?) was told many times after it happened, but has gradually dropped off the dinner party playlist over the last few years. It was great to have a reason to resurrect it and finally write it down, thanks Stringybark! Kerry has previously been published in the Stringybark anthologies, A Visit from the Duchess, The Heat Wave of ’76, The Road Home and The Umbrella’s Shade.
The Fight
— Peter Smallwood
Pete’s stomach complained noisily as he stood in the long queue outside the tuckshop, thinking of food. A ham and salad roll sounded good, and maybe a meat pie, or one of those doughnut-things with the jam and cream, or … The line was moving very slowly. He could see the ladies at the counter working away, but it seemed to take forever to serve each boy. He hadn’t eaten since early that morning and he was starving.
At sixteen, he was near the end of his second-last year of high school; he seemed to have been at school forever, but at last the end was in sight. Once he finished, life would hopefully become a lot more liberated and interesting. In the meantime things weren’t so bad; they would be a lot better if he had a girlfriend of course, but going to a boys’ school did nothing to help his chances in that department. Although, there was that pretty girl on the train who …
A powerful shove sent Pete flying sideways, slamming him into a garbage bin. Both he and the bin fell over and he was left stunned, lying on the concrete floor amongst the garbage.
He looked back at the queue. In his place stood a guy he vaguely recognised: then it came to him …
The typical male school bully is big, often overweight, loud-mouthed, piggy-eyed, dumb, nasty, and a coward. Separate him from his gang, stand up to him, and he will back down. This guy was different: tall like Pete, but lean and wiry, with muscles like knotted ropes. He rarely spoke, never smiled, and had very pale, weird eyes. He had no gang, but controlled a loose collection of crawlers, who would fetch and carry for him out of fear.
He had a reputation for sudden, vicious attacks, and his speciality was the king-hit — a powerful, swinging, surprise-punch to the victim’s head, which knocked him to the ground. He was like a human predator: released from the mental asylum and, for some strange reason, let loose in a high school. Feared by all, he had no fear himself, and the best advice was to stay out of his way and hope he didn’t notice you.
Nervous laughter broke out from the boys who had witnessed the event — probably relieved it wasn’t them. At lightning speed, a conversation was going on inside Pete’s head, between Mister Rage and Mister Reason:
Mr Rage: That bloody bastard.
Mr Reason: You got off lightly; he didn’t king-hit you.
Mr Rage: I know how to fight.
Mr Reason: Hah ha. What a joke! You had one boxing lesson three months ago, and you never went back.
Mr Rage: I remember some of it.
Mr Reason: Let’s face it, you’re not a fighter. That bully is scary at the best of times. Do you really want to see what he’s like when he’s pissed off?
Mr Rage: I’m not happy about this. I have a cold, white feeling.
Mr Reason: Be a smart boy, shrug it off and go to the end of the queue. You do NOT want a serious beating from Pyscho Boy.
Mr Rage: You’re right of course.
This debate took about two seconds, and by that time Pete had walked back to Mr Bully and jabbed his left fist into his nose.
Mild surprise showed on Bully’s face; he had probably never been hit before. Pete knew not to stop and followed up with the routine he had learned from the gym instructor: left, left, right, left. Remarkably, the jabs were landing; this guy was so used to handing out the punishment that he didn’t have much of a defence. The problem was, neither did Pete. A powerful punch crashed into his left temple.
The blow knocked him sideways; brightly coloured stars crowded his vision — a cartoon of shock. Pete shook his head and bored back in with his jabs. He was pleased to see that Bully’s pale face was now pink, and there was a trickle of blood above his eye. Another swinging punch crashed into Pete’s right temple and shook him to the core: more stars, and a buzzing blackness threatened to envelope him. The pain was incredible, but he knew he must stay up. Very bad things would happen if he went down.
Out of nowhere, another piece of information from the instructor came back to Pete. “Add a left hook and a right jab to the stomach; this adds variety and can be unexpected.”
A third swinging punch exploded into his left temple. Pete’s legs were giving way now, and he knew he couldn’t take anymore. In desperation he threw out his left and then jabbed a right with all his remaining strength into Bully’s stomach. It was a lucky, solid punch, sinking in just under the ribs. Bully bowed forward in surprise.
That was Pete’s last conscious action: he wasn’t thinking any more. His primordial, reptilian brain took over his body, and fought for survival. There are no rules in Reptile-land, so as Bully bent forward, Pete’s right knee came up hard and made perfect contact with his nose. The nose broke in a shower of blood and the force of the impact straightened Bully back up. Pete hit him twice more, splattering even more blood around. This time he went down, and stayed down.
A deafening cheer now reached Pete’s ears, and it slowly dawned on him that a ring of several hundred boys had formed around the fight as it progressed. He then saw, to his dismay, the shocked faces of several mothers looking out of the tuckshop.
Suddenly the crowd quietened and the much-dreaded headmaster, Mr Cooper, stormed in. He was furious, but was quickly surrounded by the mothers, who
seemed to be telling him something. The deputy-headmaster dragged Pete away and tried to interrogate him, but he was still in shock. He was put on detention, but Pete just wandered away and phoned his dad to come and drive him home.
Next day, Pete woke with a headache and feeling low. He phoned his friend Huey to say that he wouldn’t be going to school. The headmaster, a strict disciplinarian, would almost certainly expel him.
“Are you kidding? That was the best fight the school has seen in years,” said Huey, “and don’t worry about Cooper: the mothers gave him the whole story and eventually he calmed down.” Pete felt better after that, and the following day he went back to school. He kept a low profile, and no action was taken against him.
Bully came back a week later sporting a black eye and a large plaster cast on his nose. His humiliation was complete and very public. His power was gone; the predator was back in his box.
Pete was glad he had stood up to him; it had been worth the pain. The headmaster clearly didn’t approve of the fight, but one of the boys overheard him say to his deputy, “He had it coming.”
The facts:
This is a true story of a nasty event that happened to me when I was at high school in Sydney in the sixties. Bullying was a scourge then as it is now. It's an example of the surprises life can spring on you, good and bad. You never know when they are coming or how you will react to them.
Peter Smallwood is a recently retired medical technologist living in Queensland who now has time to write. Looking back on his otherwise tedious and unremarkable life, he became conscious that it was interspersed with several extraordinary episodes of such vividness and intensity that he needed to write them down. He is now feeling the lure of fiction. Other interests are making and drinking red wine, reading, trying to keep fit, and playing golf badly.
A Proper Job
— Pippa Kay
Mr Collins sweated beneath his black coat as he waited on the gallows platform. Periodically, by jutting out his jaw and puffing to the right and left, he’d dislodge a swarm of thirsty bush flies seeking moisture and shelter under his hat. On the horizon storm clouds gathered while overhead the sky was searing blue.
The gallows had been erected on the outskirts of Sydney town in a paddock near the brick pits. A crowd was gathering so Mr Collins got busy with his preparations. He checked the rope because the quality of hemp was poor and untrustworthy. He ran his fingers along the twists to be sure there were no knots or burrs that might prevent the slip.
“How much do these villains weigh?” he asked the convict-constable who was standing in the shade behind the structure.
The man shrugged his shoulders. He wasn’t even a proper constable, but one of Governor Hunter’s protégés; a criminal.
Mr Collins created the loop, and flung the tail loosely over the beam.
“Well, are they fat or are they thin?”
“Thin, I guess.”
There were not many fat people in the colony, especially among the convicts. “I don’t know how I’m expected to carry out my duties when I have so little information. Are they short or are they tall?”
“Medium, I guess.”
“Get up here, will you?” he commanded.
The constable jumped onto the platform. If this had been a proper gallows he’d have had steps to climb, but this one didn’t even have a trap door. Instead, the villains would be executed from the back of a dray. He could see it in the distance, coming from the barracks in a cloud of dust, and more and more spectators walked towards the gallows; a rough lot compared to the well-dressed crowd that would gather in London where Mr Collins had worked before. No doubt the Reverend would be riding with them, seeking a confession and trying to cleanse their souls.
“Stand just there, on the edge, while I slip this over your head.”
The constable backed away. “Oh no you don’t.”
“Don’t be a fool. I need to measure the rope. I can’t tie it to the beam until I get some sort of measure. Now, do you think they are shorter or taller than you?”
The constable stood tall. “Shorter.” To keep the rough hemp from his neck he put his hands on the noose as it was slipped over his head. Mr Collins took up the slack and, standing on a stool, looped it many times around the beam.
“Thank you. That should do it.” The constable gladly removed the noose.
They stood side-by-side, swatting flies and watching the encroaching dust cloud.
“Are you really going to hang both of ʼem?” asked the constable.
“I’m assuming so.”
“But it ain’t fair. You can’t execute two men for the one crime. Only one of ʼem killed Constable Wiley … stabbed him just the once, right ʼere, in the chest.” He pushed an imaginary knife into the soft space between his ribs, and mimicked the jerking movements of the victim. When the charade was over he declared: “Both of ʼem can’t have done it.”
“And they each blame the other, which is a pity,” said Mr Collins, who generally was not keen to know the details of the crime. “It is not my duty to judge any man. My duty is to escort them to their death with as much dignity and as little pain as possible.”
Two young men sat on their own coffins, back to back, hands and feet tied. The Reverend sat up front beside the drayman, deep in prayer. He’d spoken to each of these two lads this morning, seeking a confession from one or the other, but both still maintained their innocence.
Samuel, the fair-headed man, admitted he and Joshua were both in the laneway.
“What were you doing, my son?” asked the Reverend.
He shrugged. “Nothin’… just goin’ home. Then Constable Wiley, he comes up to me and pokes his finger in me chest, and he tells me that I’ve been drinking and loitering, and he would arrest me if I didn’t move on.”
“And what did you say to that?”
“I told him that I was goin’ home to my good wife and he left me alone. Next thing, he’s on the ground and Joshua’s standin’ over him with a knife in his hand.”
Joshua’s story was similar.
“Samuel went west and I went east after we left the Arms. I saw Constable Wiley talking to Samuel but I didn’t hear what he said, so I just continued on my way. I had no cause to turn around, and I did not see Samuel stab Constable Wiley, but he must have done, because I didn’t.”
The Reverend closed his eyes against the dust and prayed that justice would be done, though he often felt that God had abandoned these wretches in the colony.
“Here they are,” said the constable, jumping down from the platform to help lead the horses through the crowd, and turn the cart around so that the rear faced the gallows. Half a dozen redcoats took up positions on either side.
The Reverend dismounted, dusted himself down and climbed up on the platform for a quick word with Mr Collins.
“A dreadful business this,” he whispered, “but the law must be upheld. I have not secured a confession from either man. Who do you want to do first?”
At Mr Collins’ signal, the constable untied the feet of the dark-haired man, helped him off the dray, while the redcoats surrounded him to prevent his escape.
The fair-headed villain stood, muttering to himself while Mr Collins placed a fabric bag over his head, and then the noose. Mr Collins assured him that he would do a proper job; it would be swift and he should not be afraid, because he would soon be in a better place.
At a signal the dray moved forward, the man was pulled off the back, hanged, about a foot above the ground. His body twitched for a full minute, a dark stain appeared at the crotch of his trousers, the crowd held its breath, and then the body was still.
If this had been a proper gallows Mr Collins would merely have cut the rope to let the body fall, but rope was too precious, and it was a good knot, so the noose was removed and used again. He was aware of a grumbling from the crowd, who like the constable were unhappy to see both men hanged for this. Crowds, he knew, could be difficult so he focussed on the noose, tested the
knot and avoided facing them.
The second man now stood on the back of the dray. As the sky changed colour and the sun disappeared behind rolling clouds, Mr Collins noticed that this was a tall man, much taller than the constable.
It was Mr Collins’ first failure. After the dray rolled forward the tall man toppled off it and then stood on his feet with the noose slack around his neck.
“Justice has been done,” the tall man shouted, ducking his head under the loop so he was free, “for I did not kill Constable Wiley.”
The sky rumbled with thunder.
The crowd applauded, and the convict-constable reiterated his belief that only one man should die. Mr Collins and the Reverend jumped down from the gallows, just as a fork of lightning struck the beam above them.
The Reverend sank to his knees knowing his prayer had been answered.
The facts:
The story is very loosely based on the story of Joseph Samuel, who was to be hanged in 1803 at the Parramatta gallows. The executioner tried three times — the first time the rope snapped, the second time the rope slipped off, and the third time the rope snapped again. It was a common practice especially with makeshift gallows for hangings to be performed from the back of a cart or bullock dray. The Governor and others believed it was a sign from God and Joseph Samuel was spared.