Maiden of the Waters

This is just something that I had whirling in my head for the last few weeks and I finally was able to sit down and get it out. Please don't be shocked or judgemental. :)

Maiden of the Waters

The colours of a rich outback sunset were just starting to burn the endless blue at the edges. A flock of Sulphur-crested cockatoos winged their way westward towards their nesting tree. My dilapidated set of wheels jerked and bumped along a dirt track, fit only for goats, the fiery mountains in the distance getting closer every moment.

I squinted  my eyes agains the last desperate rays of the sinking sun and struggled to keep my tires in the deep wheel-ruts of the road. It had been a scorcher as far as days go and the rapidly falling temperature outside was a relief to all - man and beast. I whistled a depressing tune, accompanied by the crackly radio that kept dropping out every now and again, and thought over my day. It had been a passable one I thought. Nothing impressive, just another day on the rounds, looking for work. There really wasn't much around for a young bloke like me. True enough, I was young and rather skilled but I was also a proud, strong-willed guy and my idea of a perfect job was to walk into the place and take over. My cocksureness wasn't going down well with any of the old codgers that happened to have a place available. Well at least I hadn't got my face punched in or been shot at today. I could look on the bright side there at least.

Finally. The shade of the wooded mountains blocked the glare of the sun from my aching eyes. Suddenly it was darker and I switched on the lights. Nothing. Oh well, I could only hope that the twilight would last until I made it to the next town.

The track wound in and out among the trees and undulated up and down the valleys and ridges. Suddenly there appeared a bridge in front of me. It was spanning a gorgeous river, it's waters crystal clear. The light funnelled down and sparkled on the waters, making the creek shine like a basket full of diamonds. Rocks lined this paradise on either side, creating a knobbly beach look which was bordered with a thick, luscious, semi-rainforest 'scrub'. The sleepers rattled under my wheels as I crossed and as I ascended the far side, I couldn't help but turn around for one glance back.

Have you ever had such a swift snippet of a peek at something that it seemed you didn't see anything at all and yet, each detail of the scene is firmly and definitely imprinted on your mind forever? This was my experience that evening.

As I glanced back, everything was still as picturesque and as peaceful as I had viewed it before but now a new figure stood out in the picture. A woman stood in the pool above the bridge. Her back was turned to me - she was facing the way I had come from. The evening light dressed her in gold and sparkles of silver, causing her to look like a middle eastern bride. But it was her hair that caught my attention. It ran down her back and over her shoulders in creamy rivulets of rich brown. The water-diamonds seemed to shimmer down it's length to where it disapeared into the darkening water. Her hair must have been far below her waist - possibly it reached past her knees. I could just see the tips streaming out below her, glistening in the light.

By the time I had finished sorting out and recreating this picture in my mind, I had been carried far beyond this fairytale river with it's mystical nymph. As I reflected, I doubted my own sanity but yet, the picture was so clear and vivid in my mind that I was forced to believe it.

Not too far along on my journey I came across a bush pub, it's roof sagged and the veranda posts eaten out by white ants. Indeed, as I came upon it, the whole building seemed to lean precariously. It was a two-story, ramshackle, wooden building with a dunny out the back that looked like it had been made to match. One tree was standing beside the structure but other than that it was surrounded - the bush having been left behind some time ago - by red dust. Around the dust stood fragments of a short picket fence. The little gate stood wide open - the hinge was probably rusted that way - and inviting. Beyond the fence stood the town.

As I entered I barely noticed a small shingle wired onto a post. The wiring had slipped and the board had slipped to an angle that made deciphering difficult. I made it out just as I passed: Kickatinalong. I also noticed that the letters started out large and bold but diminished and faded substantially toward the end of the long name.

Past the sign, on the right, stood two houses: one the police station, the other the local policeman’s house. Opposite was the pub and beyond this - the red dust plains. And… nothing.

I pulled up outside the rusted open gave in a cloud of bull-dust that made me wait a moment before opening the car door. I wandered up the path that was covered in dust, past what had of been a garden bed which still had a few dried-out plants poking out like skeleton trees. My footsteps echoed across the veranda and the door creaked and rattled and wobbled ominously as I pushed it open.
As I entered the room, the assembled coves and codgers stared fixedly at me. They stared at my shiny black shoes. They stared at my shiny black hat. They stared at my french-made suit. As I headed for the bar, a quiet murmur rose behind me.

I don’t blame them these days. I was a lair pommy, fresh out of the old country. These battlers had probably heard of me - the bush telegraph or the grape vine this is called - as I’d been going from town to town trying to score a job with some newspaper office. I didn’t tell anyone of course that I had been fired from my position as assistant journalist in a top office in London. That’s how I’d happened out to this God-forsaken country in the first place, looking for an adventure. And now I was stuck here: no money to pay a trip home.

My troubles faded after a few drinks and the old galah sitting in the corner to my right had had enough to loosen his tongue. He looked as though he’d been sitting in that corner for the last thousand years so I decided to ask him a few questions. It was easy to get him talking.

“Oh ev’ryone knows she been up there at Old Man Jacob’s place for yonks. Ran away up there to get away from some chap up Brisbane way. Pulled the dirty on him I say.”
I wanted to hear more but he’d had one glass too many and he started rattling off jibber jabber so I moved on.

“Pretty thing of a sheila. Never see ‘er about. They say she’s run off. Maybe her bloke was the law. I recon something’s shady ‘bout ‘er.”
“Lives out there at ‘er old unc’s place. Ain’t eva seen her and ain’t seen ‘him in weeks either.”
“Keeps pretty close. Pretty lass”

No one seemed to know anything else about her. They all seemed to think she’d done the dirty on some bloke over East. Either that or she was hiding from the law. When I asked the copper he just shrugged. “She ain’t in me files so she don’t matter to me.”
The bareheaded mob was getting rowdy and I didn’t want to participate in their raucousness so I grabbed my bag from the car and asked for a bed. One of the flirty barmaids shadowed me to my room on the pretext of showing me there. Now, most Aussie barmaids, especially after a few sips and tips are pretty stupid and loose-mouthed so I turned to this one and asked her if she knew the girl I had glimpsed at the bridge. 

“Sure I knows ‘er. She sneeks in ‘ere once a week for supplies and I see ‘er sometimes. Never said a word to me though. You know what I say?” And she leaned toward me confidentially. “I say ‘ers hiding something out there. A fella maybe or gold. I don’t recon that uncle of ‘ers been seen coz she’s done murdered ‘im. That’s what I recon.”
Her cheek was getting uncomfortably close to mine so I asked no further questions and dissmissed her.

The next morning I asked the bartender if he could point me the way to Jacob’s place. “Sure. From ‘ere, ‘ed due East until you come to a swamp.  Go ‘round the swamp an folla the river upstream ‘bout a mile, then walk into the bush on the far side of the river from ‘ere and you’ll be there.”
When I told the copper what I was planning to do and asked for an “‘orse”, he was gobsmacked.
“I wouldn’t do it Sonny.” He said with a shake of his head. “Only trouble can come of chasing after women who’s left ye.”
I ignored the direct referral to the new rumor that I was the chap she was hiding from and repeated my request for a horse. Still shaking his head and soon I was off on ‘Dogger’.

Dogger was gentle and reliable but unbearably slow. His hoofbeats on the hard-baked ground soon became torturous and I was thankful when I struck the swamp and softer country. We skirted the swamp as directed but for the life of me I couldn’t see the river.

Finally I halted the plodding creature and used my ears. Still nothing. I raised my eyebrows to myself and speculated. I was certain that I did not want to get lost out here in the crazy Australian wilderness. Why am I even here? I asked myself. I had always been shy of the bush since I came to Australia. Drovers and bushmen have an addiction to frightening new-comers with absurd but often true horror stories. I, with my fancy get up and polished pommy ways had always been a prime target.
Now everything I had heard about yowies and drop-bears, spiders and snakes, devils and dragons came playing back to me. It was high noon and the bush around me was silent. I was an eerie silence - one I did not care to hear. Not a living thing was to be seen or heard. Even Dogger dozed beneath me in the saddle. 

I tried once more to locate the river by sound. I urned in the saddle and contemplated the swamp.

MY brain was muddled by the silent desertedness of the scrub and to my small understanding it seemed that I must explore the swamp in order to be saved. I swung from my perch and tied the still-sleeping equine to a tree and set off - empty handed.