Dark Confluence

by Rosemary Fryth

  Still, Emerald Hills did not now seem to be the haven residents had once desired. The town was now an eyesore of footpaths ripped up by diggers and contractors, since the determined push for underground power had gone ahead in Council and Government. The steady din of jackhammers and mechanical diggers drowned out the gentle sounds of birdsong and the bubbling creek. The effort to crack and split concrete and to lay the harshly smelling freshly laid bitumen drove many residents either indoors, or to neighbouring Cromhart to do their shopping. The Council predicted many more weeks of disruption as the alternate power route was constructed.

  However, Alan Turner, owner and proprietor of ‘The Royal Hotel’ was ecstatic. Business was booming, residents stayed longer at the bar to escape the noise and dust in the town, and the imported tradesmen from Brisbane and the Sunshine Coast were now regular visitors. He thought it was a pity that the media had left the town. They had been good customers, hanging about all hours drinking and chatting amongst themselves. He took the keys from his pocket and opened the door to the public bar, switching on the lights as he did so. The lights shimmered, dimmed slightly, and then ever so slowly brightened. He frowned and sniffed, there was some foul residue odour, like stale beer mixed with something else...what was it, ozone? Imperceptibly, the small hairs on the back of his neck and forearms rose and he shuddered. Alan went to go into the room when suddenly he sensed, rather than saw movement at the far end of the bar. Then there was a crash as several bottles hit the ground.

  “What the f...” he growled, turning and taking up a pool cue by the rack near the door. He stalked the length of the bar, noting many more overturned bottles, all spilling expensive spirits onto the tiled floor. Whoever did this was going to pay, he thought his mind turning to which of the local hooligans might have broken in. He swung the cue menacingly in his hands as out of the corner of his eye he saw a small shadow dart away into the greater darkness where the light did not reach.

  “Damn, it must be possums?” he said amazed. “Surely not, must be idiot kids. Just wait ‘till I catch ‘em”

  Then another bottle smashed behind him where he had been only moments ago.

  “Come out of there,” he bellowed, spinning around. “Show me your face otherwise you’ll have this cue around your ears.”

  Whoever, whatever it was, paid no heed, because Alan heard another rustle, this time at the far side of the bar. As he turned, he heard the sound of quick and light footsteps racing down a dead-end corridor to his small wine and beer cellar. Firming his grasp on the pool cue, Alan angrily marched in afterwards. He stopped puzzled at the door to the cellar. It remained firmly locked and bolted from the night before. He shook his head. Surely, the young offender must have doubled back behind him. Alan again heard a noise, this time definitely coming from the cellar. He took out his bundle of keys, selected one and grunting, turned the key in the heavy lock and opened the door. Although darkness enveloped the cellar, Alan could immediately smell the distinctive aroma of spilled alcohol. Dimly, he could hear a strange low and earthy chuckling, followed by a vague splashing, as if the water mains had burst. Seriously alarmed, Alan reached out and flicked on a switch, bathing the entire stairs and cellar in the flickering but fierce light of a naked bulb.

  “Bloody ‘ell!” Alan shouted as he uncomprehendingly saw his cellar awash with what seemed to be the entire contents of all his wine casks and beer barrels. Even to a hardened publican, the stench took his breath away, and his eyes watered painfully. The scale of the vandalism was incalculable, from what he could see every barrel, every bottle, every cask had been broken and the contents left to drain onto the floor.

  Why, he raved to himself. He had no enemies, no feuds. He got on well with all the drinkers. It was beyond understanding. Someone had to pay! Then he heard the chuckle again this time to his right, and more splashing. It seemed that whoever was responsible was still there seemingly bathing in the booze.

  “Right,” he muttered furiously, his hands gripping the cue so hard that his knuckles whitened. He took a step down the concrete stairs, then another, another until his booted toes were nudging the stinking alcoholic mess. He looked around the corner, nothing. Nothing on the other side of the room either, still he heard the muttering, chuckling and splashing. Then silence. He felt the air move by his legs and he turned, spinning awkwardly to confront the intruder. He yelled then, confronted by a small, blue, grinning, wizened face out of nightmare, a head topped by a green feathered bonnet and attached to a man too tiny to be human, clad in scarlet cloak, shirt and trousers, and wearing black, thigh-high boots.

  “Ah, see me, you does,” the creature shrieked, doubling up in fits of laughter. It bobbed and weaved about him as Alan, choking on the fumes, lashed out with the pool cue.

  “Must be faster, Master Publican,” it jeered, dodging between his brawny legs and nipping him on the thighs with needle sharp teeth. Alan roared in pain and lashed out again, this time managing to hit the creature on one shoulder with the wooden cue. With a pained howl, the little man leapt onto his shoulders and started to pull his thinning grey hair from his head.

  “You’ll pay, you’ll pay stinking human,” it hissed, yanking his ears now for good measure.

  Alan desperately shook his head, abandoning the cue to try to pull the wretch away with his hands. He achieved nothing except earning a nasty bite on his finger for his efforts.

  “Git off me,” he growled, throwing himself at the brick wall, trying to stun the creature.

  The little man hissed and bit again, this time taking a chunk out of the publican’s ear. Alan screamed in pain, and with blood streaming down his neck, tried to run back up the stairs and away to safety. Suddenly, he stumbled as the creature scampered down his back and under his feet, yanking at his ankles. Desperately trying to keep his balance, he reached out to grab the half open door, missed and fell backwards, cracking his skull open on the concrete stairs. The last thing he heard before darkness overwhelmed him was the cackling laugh of the creature as it did a demented dance on his chest. Minutes later, the lifeless body of Alan Turner slid down the blood and brain streaked steps to rest against the gently lapping surface of the pool of alcohol.

  *

  Gary West parked his campervan in the carpark adjacent to the National Park and leant back in his seat and stared out at the heavy rainforest in the distance. He had been driving all night from Northern New South Wales and his body craved sleep. The drive up the range was nerve-racking and he wished his reaction times were better. Still and all, here he was and he should get moving before the families and picnickers came and infested the pristine area with their noise. He was a tall, lanky man and he unfolded himself from the driver’s seat of the campervan with some effort. He had pulled his long greasy grey hair back into an untidy ponytail, and a hand-woven choker encircled his throat. Taking a canvas backpack from the passenger seat, he locked the van and pocketed the keys. Clad in faded jeans, bright orange t-shirt, denim jacket and scuffed leather boots, he walked down across the grass of the picnic grounds and to the tree edge. Taking a creased map out of his pocket, he consulted a compass, took a bearing and without hesitation entered the heavy confines of the rainforest.

  Inside, the air was markedly cooler, heavier and wetter. Since he chose not to follow a path, he slipped often on the rocks and fallen logs, which were all heavily covered with moss and lichen. Occasionally he would stop to consult the map, take another compass bearing and peel off the black leeches from his boots, jeans and socks. He could hear bellbirds in the distance, also at times the sound of water running. Once, he heard a scuttling and bounding, as if an animal or large bird had been startled into movement. Sometimes, there would be a distant crash as a tree or branch fell, striking others on the way down. After about twenty minutes of steady hiking and scrambling, he heard the sound of a waterfall. Taking a breather, he took his canteen out and drank a mouthful of water. Repacking his knapsack, he checked the map, nodded and turned his feet in the direct
ion of the falling water.

  After a short walk through the increasingly damp and heavy atmosphere, the thick foliage opened up to reveal a small waterfall crashing water into a deep pool littered with large mossy rocks, cycads and ferns. A faint mist veiled the pool and a rainbow arched overhead. It was as mystical a place as Gary had ever seen. Over the years, he had travelled far searching out the places where the dreaming fungi grew. This was one such place, and Gary did not need the map to confirm what he innately knew from years of exploring and searching. Turning over the map, he looked for the tightly written instructions of where to find the hidden, secret plants. He looked up and his gaze narrowed – look for the fallen log and the rock half cloven in two on the edge just where water and rock meet. Hoisting his knapsack on his back, he started to skirt the edge of the pool. Within moments, his clothes were clinging damply to him from the spray. There, just out of the corner of his eye he saw the broken rock, and there was the fallen log, half hidden by a clump of ferns. Walking carefully he knelt down and saw the growth of small fungus that he had travelled so far to collect. He placed his knapsack on the ground and with trembling hands undid the fastenings, taking from the bag a glass jar with a screw-top lid. Carefully, he harvested the mushrooms, dropping them gently into the jar and leaving behind one or two fungus to continue to spore the ground.

  Gary stared at his treasure. Some of the mushrooms he would attempt to grow back home, the rest he would dry and sell. He knew that he would make a good deal of money from these little goldmines. Gary smiled and licked his lips. He would reward himself with just a small taste. After all, he reasoned, he had driven and walked far to find these little beauties and just a little bite would be just what he wanted. A bite, then back to sleep in the van. Gary relished the idea of the walk back since he was used to the effects of these fungi and the primal atmosphere of the rainforest whilst under the influence was something to greatly savour.

  Settling the jar carefully in his pack, he hefted the bag across his shoulder and then knelt to break off a portion from the still growing mushrooms. Sitting down on the cracked rock, he gently placed the fragment of fungus on his tongue, closed his eyes, and swallowed. Usually, he had to wait many minutes for the effects to come into play, however these beauties were very strong and within a minute or two he felt the usual lightness and euphoria bathe his body. He sighed and opened his eyes taking in the enhanced visuals, colours and scents. It was almost as if he had become part of the rainforest, the rainbow from the waterfall was so achingly beautiful that it brought tears of joy to his eyes. He felt, instead of heard movement behind him, and turned to see in the depths of the rainforest a strange, procession of what looked to be trees moving through the deepened darkness. He shook his head, awed at the vibrancy and creativity of the psychedelic trip he was experiencing. He watched amazed as the ancient trees swayed in time to the wind playing through their canopy, whilst below strange twig-like creatures played amongst their roots. This was amazing, beyond anything that he had experienced before. It was no wonder the location of these mushrooms was a closely guarded secret.

  ‘Woah!” he breathed in awe.

  Gary watched as the leafy, twiggy, stately procession moved off deeper into the forest and was finally lost to sight. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling again the earthy, green, wet aroma of the forest.

  ‘Shhh...’ breathed a voice almost at his ear.

  He slowly opened his eyes and beheld a radiantly beautiful young woman with blue-white skin leaning over him. Long, straight, dripping wet black hair hung over her shoulders and halfway down her back, veiling little of her nakedness. Gary’s mouth hung open and he found himself immediately and painfully aroused in her presence. She smiled at him and her eyes were turquoise depths into which he fell.

  ‘Come,’ she breathed, caressing his face with her hands.

  Gary clambered to his feet, the knapsack falling unheeded to the ground. With shaking hands, he tore the denim jacket off and then the t-shirt, heedlessly ripping it from his body. His jeans, boots and socks followed the rest of his clothing, unceremoniously dumped in a pile next to his discarded knapsack. He stepped out of his boxer shorts and stood naked, his desire for her written in every line of his straining body.

  He reached for her, but she darted just out of his reach, stepping back into the pool. She smiled at him and beckoned him to come. Deep in the drug-induced trip, he did not think, did not reason, did not consider the consequences. She alone existed and he was determined to have her. He stepped into the water, relishing the bracing chill upon his now overheated skin.

  ‘Come,’ she mouthed, stepping even further back into the pool, the water sliding like a caress across her skin.

  Gary groaned and moved after her, first ankle deep, then knee, then thigh, until at last, he was swimming out to where she waited for him in the middle of the deep pool.

  She smiled at him then, gliding through the water she caressed him, kissing him deeply, winding her arms about him, imprisoning him in her slender, yet iron hard embrace. Gary groaned and writhed against her, frantically trying to embrace her in return, yet at the same time desperately trying to keep his head above water.

  ‘You want me?’ she breathed.

  “God yes,” he coughed, swallowing water.

  ‘Then take me,’ she smiled, kissing him again, her body now sinking, like a lead weight. Gary thrashed about in her grasp as he felt the cold waters close above his head. He took a desperate breath, but ended up swallowing water. His chest constricted and he struggled for air, but the woman dragged him even further down. Frantically and silently, he pleaded with her, his lungs aching, his eyes bulging. She smiled and shook her head and even as he stared, her face and form changed to something monstrous, something fish-like, something that robbed all desire and all life from him. He opened his mouth to scream and his lungs filled with water, drowning him instantly. The creature that was not a woman smiled an inscrutable smile and relinquishing its hold, darted away to vanish into the depths. Gary’s body drifted for a minute or two and then slowly and quietly settled to the bottom of the pool.

  *

  Miss Amelia Crane pushed her stick-like legs into her rubber gumboots and with her old cedar cane to support her, took her small woven basket from the laundry to collect the morning eggs from the hens in the fowl run. Outside, the morning was strangely quiet. The wind, such as it was, blew fretfully from the north-west, promising a warm day. Already, the humidity was high and perspiration formed on her brow. Clucking to herself, she walked over to the run and unlocking it, let herself in. Peering into the darkness of each of the nesting boxes, Amelia saw each bird pressed as far back into the corner as they could, feathers ruffled and eyes wide with terror. She called to each of them, yet none moved, they seemed frozen in fear. As she searched each box, she found not a single egg, despite the fact that she owned two dozen birds. Puzzled, she looked around for the rooster. Normally, he had her up at dawn with his crowing, yet even he had gone quiet. Frowning, Amelia Crane suspected a fox, yet she had seen foxes before, and the hens, although frightened had not reacted like this. Peering down at the still soft ground around the hen run, she searched for tracks but found none. Straightening, she locked the gate on the run and went to find the rooster.

  Slowly, she circled the house, clucking and calling his name, but she heard nothing. Stopping to rest, she noticed a patch of white and grey snagged in the barbed wire of the fence. Walking over, she discovered a bloody mess of feathers adhered to it. Removing the feathers from the wire, her fingers were stained red with fresh blood. Her face creased in worry. She reasoned that whatever had taken the rooster had only done so recently, as the blood had not yet congealed and dried. As Amelia stood pondering what had happened, she felt some heavy drips of rain upon her head. Puzzled, she looked up the sky was brilliantly blue. Lifting her hand she felt her hair which had been tied back in a tight grey bun, her fingers came away sticky. Appalled, she examined her hand; it was
covered with fresh blood. Gasping with horror, she stumbled back, her eyes scanning the branches of the trees above her. Immediately, she spotted the ghastly remains of the rooster and then in the upper branches of the tree she glimpsed a shadowy movement. For a split-second, she saw an inhuman shape that seemed comprised of fur, scale and teeth, before it too scuttled away deeper into the trees. For Amelia Crane that one brief glimpse was enough to send her limping back into the house, her egg basket fallen and forgotten on the grass.

  With trembling fingers, she picked up the phone, dialled a number and waited anxiously for someone to answer.

  “Lynn Black speaking.”

  “Lynn, Amelia here. We need to urgently contact the other ladies.” Miss Crane’s voice was trembling.

  “Amelia, whatever is the matter?”

  “It’s started again, Lynn...I saw one of them... in my trees! Took my rooster...oh my God, it disembowelled it. I swear upon my Mother’s grave, Lynn,” Amelia was almost stuttering with reaction.