by Peter Ness
They were Bull ants, but we called them King ants because it was easier to remember. I shook my backside and zipped my pants up. A few ants crawled onto my shoes. They tried to bite me through my socks. I flicked them off, jumping up and down to stop them biting.
One of the ants appeared different to the others. It had bright pale-blue beady eyes, like the insect that had attacked Pops at the service station. Hungrily, it eyed off the back of my left ankle, developing a cheeky grin. The pendant didn’t see it and neither did I. The robotic artificial intelligence rose on its back legs into the air, dropping its wings. Just then, a group of errant Bull ants picked out the imposter in the crowd and pounced on it, pulling it off of my foot, dragging it back towards the ant hole. Soon the other ants were swarming all over its writhing body. Unaware of the battle taking place at my feet I rapped on the toilet door. Rat-a-tat-tat.
‘Hey Jo, are you still awake?’ I yelled thumping the door. Bang! Bang!
Jo never replied, so I hit the door again, retracting my hand sharply from the pain. Bang! My fist reverberated off the door this time. Bang! Bang! I picked up a stick from on the ground and dragged the stick back and forwards across the corrugated iron, enjoying it with a satisfied grin. Brummmm, brummmm. Still no answer. I made an embarrassing mess of the musical song “three blind mice.” Then, I pulled hard down on the door latch.
‘Darn! I give up!’ Wandering back to the house slowly, stopping every so often to read another line of the comic, I halted at the front door. Then, I leant against the screen door, reading some more. After some time I walked in, and both doors slamming behind, flopped down in a chair.
‘Where’s your sister, Jo Long Legs?’ Dad asked, dropping his newspaper slightly.
‘Oh! Hi Dad. Ah — Jo? She’s still in the dunny. I gave up waiting.’
‘Well. Jo’s scared of the dark. It’ll be dark soon. So go get her,’ he answered with wrinkles of concern gradually forming in his brow. ‘Now!’
A few minutes later, the screen door propped open, I stuck my head back inside.
‘What’s the problem now Heni?’ Dad asked eyeing me off from over the taught pages of a newspaper. I stepped tentatively inside.
‘I think she may have fallen asleep—. Either that or she fell in,’ I said, demonstrating with my hands, a wide grin expanding on my face, ‘Like — splat!’
‘Pudding fell in?’ Mother’s mouth dropped, with an expression of complete, utter shock seeping in.
‘Now, that would be funny,’ Dad laughed, the frown vanishing, his false teeth glinting in the half-light. He couldn’t wait to see this. ‘Where did I put the camera?’
‘What do you mean “fell in”?’ Mother replied sternly. ‘It’s not funny at all.’
‘Don’t believe me, come take look for yourself,’ I answered, heading towards the door, hesitating with my hand wavering above the knob. Dad sat up straight in his chair glanced at the door then thrust himself up.
‘Okay. I will then,’ he answered, with a wry smile. ‘This — I just have to see.’
#
The toilet door was locked from the inside.
‘Gotcha,’ Dad said, dragging the door off its hinges and placing it to one side. Comic in hand and rather bemused by it all, I looked on, maintaining my distance.
Jo lay sleeping on the wooden slat, in a curled-up bundle, with her limp legs dangling off the side of the wooden toilet seat. Her snores echoed off the tinned galvanized iron ribs of the toilet walls. Reams of unmarked and unsoiled toilet paper surrounded her, mostly on the floor. A small, cleverly crafted, painting of a sunflower by a relatively unknown painter named Van Gogh hung on the toilet wall.
‘Even I can do a better than that,’ I thought. ‘Well, maybe not.’ The comic book had fallen down into the long drop. Tired and unable to reach it Jo had closed the lid. Lying down she had fallen asleep.
I sat down on the front tire of the old International tractor. Meanwhile, Mom washed Jo’s hands and face with a bucket of warm water then took her inside while Dad cleaned the toilet. Outside the shadows were getting longer, the light dimmer.
Glorious red-orange colors highlighted the cumulonimbus clouds and a few cirrus like cloud streaks as the pink sun draped down lethargically in the west. Darkness gradually engulfed the farm, surrounding us, closing in on us. Tossing a stick onto the ant nest I turned, and kicked it once or twice in an offhanded way. Taking one last look at the cows in the paddock in the distance walking into the sunset in front of the, now, blood-stained sun I snapped an imaginary photo with my fingers. The kitchen lights flickered as I wandered nonchalantly back towards the house.
Several orange and blue lights the size of head lights flittered above the karri trees of the distant National Park, wandering menacingly across the skyline. They bounced like ping pong balls up and down in a dainty play in the twilight. Yet, pre-occupied, I never noticed them. Had I looked up, I would have though. Walking back towards the house I picked up a tennis ball off the ground in the half-light and began bouncing it.
Shadows danced in the trees now. They followed, watching my every step, seemingly creeping up closer behind me each time I turned my back. Hearing a crunching of gravel now I stopped sharply, looking over my shoulder. Cold air rushed up my back. I shivered. The shadows stopped. Turning my head now I walked on, bouncing the ball. The shadows drifted with me. Hearing a loud cracking of sticks, I jerked to a sudden stop, and spun around on the spot sharply. Peering back into the gloomy dusk, I saw nothing. The shadows had stopped moving. White eyes laughed at me from the darkness. I shuddered, shivering as goose bumps rang up and down my spine; you know, as if I had just stepped on the grave of a dozen dead people.
Reaching the door I began to turn the knob. Something rustled in the orange trees as the shadows swished past behind me. Nervously, I swung around peering into the bushes. My heart bounced up into my mouth.
‘No. I’m just imagining things,’ so I turned back towards the door.
Scuff! Snap! A scuffing followed by the sharp snap of twigs panicked me. Frantically turning the knob now, I thrust the doors open and rushed inside. The screen door bounced shut behind me. Bang! Clunk! The shadows made a soft clicking noise, almost giggling, and moved on past the door. I turned and in clear panic hurriedly slammed the wooden door shut. Slam! Safe inside now, I breathed a deep sigh of relief.
‘Heni. Don’t move!’ I froze on Dad’s command, the hairs on my neck rising. Smack!
‘Sorry. I just killed a blue-eyed insect which was climbing up your back. Hmm. I wonder what species that is?’ Dad said, wiping his hand on his handkerchief. The putrid aroma of sulfur wafted through the air. ‘Wow! That smells something horrid! You’d better go and wash up.’
#
An hour or so later, after Jo and I had showered, we all sat down for tea.
‘So, what’s for tea tonight?’ Dad asked off-handedly.
‘I think we’re having Shepard’s pie?’ I lied. Then, I saw Dad’s face drool, so corrected myself. ‘Sorry, I told a white lie — I heard it was meat and mashed potatoes,’ I added apologetically. ‘That was just wishful thinking? Huh?’
‘Yes, Meat — and potatoes,’ Dad repeated, slowly, ‘Meat — and potatoes.’ He licked his chops (lips), as if to emphasize the point — as if, it were good.
He shook his head, smiled, with a delighted, pleased as punch, look.
‘Meat — and potatoes — yes? Well. That’s my favorite, I just can’t wait.’ Dad rubbed his hands in glee. ‘So what’s for desert?’
‘Meat and mashed potatoes with custard on top,’ Jo quipped in laughing.
‘Apple pie and dumplings, Hon.’ Mother walked over to the table holding a tray in her hand.
‘Apple pie,’ Jo’s brown eyes rolled—. @ — @—. ‘Apple pie! How scrumptious!’
‘With custard and home-made ice-cream. I used Aunt Rosa’s formula,’ added Mom, then as if to emphasize the quality of the recipe: ‘She wins prizes at the shows.’
; ‘I like dumplings — but Jodi darling — apple pie? You know—. It’s not on my top favorite of the week list,’ Dad replied.
‘Yes, but the kids love it. And we got those two large boxes of Granny Smith apples from Denny last week. They’re out of season — so I’ll use the rest for jam. You can have the dumplings with custard and the kids can have apple pie, with custard and ice-cream.’ Dad opened his mouth and then, thinking better of it, he bit down on his lip.
In Australia Granny Smith apples usually ripen in late May, but they stayed fresh for many months in the Henton’s cool room. If it wasn’t grown on the farm, then it wasn’t on the menu. It was as simple as that. We all sat down at the table.
‘For what we are about to receive make us truly thankful Lord, Amen,’ Dad said grace, the simple way.
‘Why don’t we ever thank Allah, Dad? Aren’t they just the same god, given different names by different people with the rules and beliefs adjusted for different societies to control the uneducated masses?’ I piped up. ‘You know, like — us.’
‘Shut up and eat up,’ was the abrupt reply. Father glared at me, emitting death rays.
Jo grinned, and then stared blankly down at the meat and potatoes on the plate in front of her. She grimaced distastefully at the peas and carrots etched in a thick gravy topping. Meat and mashed potatoes were the main meal, supplemented with a healthy supply of milk, peas and carrots covered with gravy and a good smothering dose of tomato sauce.
‘But Mom, you know I don’t like peas and carrots,’ groaned Jo, ‘or pumpkin.’
Dad then gave us the same lecture as Mom, explaining that what wasn’t eaten today would be served up over the next few days, just in a different format.
‘The pork chops are a bit tough though,’ I added, changing the subject. ‘It looks like Uncle Ashton cut the meat off of a wild boar as it ran past!’ I wondered how the wild boar reacted. Maybe it ran him down and trod all over him? Rhinoceros apparently do that in response to seeing a fire. It was easy to imagine, so I did. The pendant flashed green below my shirt and clutched hard at my chest.
‘Ouch!’ Dad said, as if he had just imagined the exact same thing. Maybe he did. ‘That’s not a nice thing to say Heni. Plus—, it’s beef not pork—. So you can blame me.’
‘Well. The meat’s tough. I can’t cut it properly,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps my knife’s just blunt?’ I looked down at the coarse stringy meat.
Jo grumbled something under her breath about her hatred of peas.
‘No complaining Jo! Eat up,’ was Mother’s curt reply. ‘In some places of the world people are starving from lack of food. You should be thankful that you’re getting anything. Here, use this meat knife Hen; it has a serrated blade.’
Father looked at Mom, then at Jo.
‘It’ll help you grow hair on your chest, Jo Long Legs,’ he said with a broad grin. Jo snapped a glare back at him and screwed up her eyes in disgust.
‘Are you stupid or what?’ I read her mind. So did Dad. He winced.
‘But, I don’t wanna grow hair on my chest. Dad! You know I don’t like peas and carrots,’ Jo grizzled. ‘Anyways, I’m a girl — like Mom.’
‘Is she?’ he looked shocked, ‘Okay then Jo, let’s share. I’ll eat some of your peas and carrots —and you can have some of my apple pie. Carrots are good for your eyesight. Well, that’s an old wives’ tale — but they contain lots of vitamins and minerals — and I need to get rid of these reading glasses.’ Dad folded them up and placed them on the table.
‘Yes, let’s swap then—,’ Jo skeptically agreed.
Father winked at Mother. Taking Jo’s plate he brushed a few peas and carrots from it onto his own plate, leaving most behind for her to eat. Then he screwed up his face as if he had taken too many. So, he slid a few back. Actually, he put most back thinking that Jo wouldn’t notice. Jo was ten years old, but she didn’t miss much.
‘Do you want me to count them for you Pumpkin?’ Dad sensed her disbelief. And then he countered mockingly, ‘would I lie to you Jo Long Legs?’
‘Huh? When don’t you?’ I mumbled to myself. Mom elbowed me gently, with raised eyebrows.
‘No, I believe you Daddy. It’s okay,’ Jo said, not fully convinced that the plate contained fewer peas now. But she played his game. Reluctantly sinking her fork into two or three green peas she covered them with mashed potato smothered with tomato sauce, and then began to eat.
‘I think I’ll make a coleslaw salad tomorrow night,’ Mother said.
‘Salad—, that’s for the rabbits,’ Dad squirmed, teasing her.
‘Yes, but I like salad,’ I replied, eyes twinkling in the light.
‘Then, you must be a rabbit,’ said Jo and she made a rabbit face, ‘Or a monkey,’ and scratched her armpit whilst making a noise like a gorilla.
‘That’s a gorilla sound, not a monkey!’ I replied. Jo poked her tongue out at me.
‘Children, Jo! Pipe down and eat up now — please,’ Mother implored. Crack! Gurgle! All eyes shot up, focused on the door. ‘What was that?’ She jumped in fright at further loud cracking and gurgling just outside the door, followed by clanking and dragging of chains. ‘Jesse?’ she whispered nervously.
We all froze. Silence splashed across the room like a flash of lightening. The hair on the back of our necks stood on end. In the background the water dripped from the kitchen tap, into a glass. Splat! Splat! Splat! Ignoring it, Father nodded silently at me as I looked up.
‘Did you tie up the dog?’ he whispered, playing with his hands.
‘Yep, I think so,’ I whispered back biting my nails.
‘Shush! Quiet.’ Mother looked at us in turn, flicking a quick look at the dripping tap. The lines appearing in her forehead and her darting eyes spoke for themselves. Drip! Drip! The sounds echoed in the silence.
‘Why are we whispering?’ Jo asked, breaking a long silence with a giggle. The breeze outside slowly increased its intensity, to a roar. Then it died down, silent again. Rattle — Bang! A second rattling noise came from further away.
‘Are you sure?’ Father whispered back, eyeballing me.
I nodded back, whispering ‘Yes, I’m sure. Why can’t you just believe me?’
‘Heni did too,’ Jo agreed. She wondered why Blackie couldn’t just sleep on the end of her bed, like all the dogs do in the cities and in the movies. After all, he stunk way less than Charlie and Frankie Henton. ‘Yes. He did Dad,’ she repeated softly, nodding at me. As if in answer, Blackie barked from outside the door. His chain rolled across metal, the cold air dancing on the bristles on the back of my neck which rose higher.
A louder banging noise came from just outside the kitchen window, and then as if in sympathy metal and glass clashing and a loud banging came from the direction of the barn. Bang! Bang! Grind! Crash! Bang — bang — bang.
‘What the heck?’ Dad looked at Mom, and gripped his fork tightly. She raised her eyebrows back at him as if asking some question, and then nodded her head and wiggled her right hand towards the door. Placing placed her knife and fork on her plate gently she sat upright. Copying Mom, Jo wiggled her nose towards the door and giggled, putting her knife and fork down as well.
‘Shush up. Quiet everyone,’ Mother whispered solemnly. ‘Did anyone lock the door?’ she added, looking towards it now.
‘Jodi darling, you know full well that we never lock the door. This isn’t the city,’ Father replied in a soft voice, his hands tightening ever so slightly on his knife and fork. ‘There are no serial killers around here.’ Mother pointed to the front page of the newspaper folded on the table beside him. ‘Well, I mean here,’ he added. ‘Like, right now.’
I stood up, legs trembling and slowly edged over to the door. My eyes focused on the slowly rotating door knob. I froze in my tracks. The hair on the back of my head stood on end. Bracing myself, I pounced forward. I grabbed at and forcefully thrust down on the door knob handle to stop it turning. Leaning hard up against the door, I slammed the dead-lock shut with a
clunk. Stepping back now, I breathed a sigh of relief. A loud scuttling noise rushed past, after which the night was ghostly silent.
Ashton’s dogs suddenly begun barking and yapping in the distance. The intensity increased. Barks merged with whines, slowly building up in a high pitched crescendo. Jo placed her hands over her ears, blocking out the frightened yelping yap, yap, yap, — Yelp! Yelp!
The entire din abruptly ceased. The wind died down. A deathly quiet hit us, as though all noise had disappeared from the face of the earth in a flash. I crept back and silently sat down at the table, my finger tapping the prongs of my fork. It flicked up into the air and smashed down on the table, landing on the plate and cutlery with a loud clanging sound. We all jumped in the air in sheer fright, and then sighed collectively in relief.
Jo giggled. Dad and Mom exchanged looks. Dad took another bite of meat. Jo forced some mashed potato, heavily laden with tomato sauce, into her mouth. Mom took a nervous sip of tea. My hand trembling, I picked the fork up.
A few minutes later the cows in the paddock started to move about restlessly, making listless noises and mooing uncomfortably. The pigs then began to create a ruckus, banging in their pens, squealing and making a real din. The sheep started bleating. The noise died down again. Then, all of a sudden the hens in the chicken coop started to flutter about, squawking loudly in panic.
Father cleaned off his plate, munching on the last mouthful.
‘That does it! It must be a fox. I’ll go outside and check it out,’ he said definitively. Dropping his knife and fork he grated his chair backwards and stood upright.
‘Can a fox turn a door knob—?’ I asked with a pale face. Mom glanced across at Dad rather apprehensively, nodding for him to sit back down.
‘Are you sure it’s safe Jesse? Why not leave it until tomorrow Dear?’ She gripped the table cloth tightly with both hands.
‘No! If it’s a fox then my presence will scare it off. I’m sure,’ he replied with some confidence. He loped across the room in several large strides, snatched the flashlight off its hook from behind the door and glanced back at us with a broad grin. ‘Anyway, I don’t think it’s the boogey monster — because—,’ Dad shone the light on his face from below, ‘because, I’m right here,’ he chuckled. Jo squealed in delight and then we all laughed with him — but rather nervously, I must add. ‘I’m going to let the fox know who the boss is around here,’ Dad added, defiantly.