WRITING GALLERY - NOVEMBER 2024

THE DRUID'S DAUGHTER by Ron D

Paralysing and dislocating terror approached, an unseen and unheralded guest.

The small village of Bucaidh nestled in a quiet valley in northern ancient Scotland, called Pictland by the locals. Well cared for crops surrounded the circular wooden huts, and fat, healthy highland cattle grazed on long grass. All was serene in the warm late spring afternoon. The sounds of children playing in sand or chasing one another around the huts was carried on the soft breeze.

Fergus giggled when his hiding place was discovered by the child who was ‘seeker’.

Women stood talking as they cooked at the communal fire pit in the centre of the ring of huts or watched the bairns playing.

Some men tended the crops. Others moved the cattle to new pastures. A young woman fed a pen of chickens with food scraps. Her shrill voice encouraged them to lay more eggs.

Nothing suggested the coming tempest.

‘I can taste the meat of those cattle now,’ said the lead scout as he peered from his hiding place at the top of a nearby hill. A broad smile crossed his craggy, battle-scarred face as he licked his lips in anticipation. He had been on many similar raids to snatch cattle and women from unprotected villages.

‘Should be an easy attack,’ said his companion who had crept up to observe the target.  ‘Best tell the king the good news.’

The scouts slithered backwards from their observation post.

‘Quiet village, Sire,’ said the lead scout to his King. ‘No protecting troops. Many fat cattle to fill our bellies and women to warm our beds.’

‘How many huts, Girik?’ asked the king abruptly.

‘No more than a handful or two.’

‘Any defences?’

‘None, Sire.’

‘Buchan Mar has been tardy in protecting his villages,’ the king said, referring to the king of his neighbouring chiefdom. ‘Bad luck for them, good luck for us.’

Fidach, King of Moray, stood tall in his chariot. He was king of a Celtic chiefdom in the Highlands of the country called Caledonia by the Romans. The golden Celtic torc, symbolising leadership, that he wore around his neck caught the afternoon sun, lighting his face so that it glowed in the reflected light. To the troops he was somewhat beyond an ordinary mortal, almost approaching a God.

He paused, rekindling the thoughts that had been passing through his mind. His men had no way of knowing that his mind was not on the coming attack. He had, of late, been concerned with succession. He had several bastard children, but no legitimate heir.

I must send a message to Mawenna’s father, the Druid, he thought. She is a feisty one. She has the strength and drive to produce suitable heirs, and she is the woman I must bond with. I will tell him to bring Mawenna to my castle in time for Beltaine. We will celebrate the coming of summer and the time of fertility by tying the knot and walking between the bonfires.

THE OUTSTATION by Valda R

The outstation on this remote island two degrees from the equator, was nestled into the hillside overlooking the blue Pacific. A large lagoon sheltered by the outer reef provided perfect sea going, for the large canoes travelling between outer islands.

The iron roofs of the renovated quonset huts left by the Americans after the war, now occupied by Government employees, glinted in the sunlight. The only sign of the small villages was the smoke from cooking fires lazily drifting over the tree tops. Other huts which hugged the waterfront, housed the Post Office, Court house, Police station, Health Centre, and Administration building.

The early morning ‘wake up’ reveille was played each morning on the bugle, while the Australian flag was raised on the parade ground. At sunset the flag was lowered to the sounds of the Last Post.

A dazzling white road made up of crushed coral linked the small community with a grass airstrip, another asset built by the Americans. The DC3 aircraft arriving every Wednesday was keenly awaited; bringing mail, southern newspapers, items ordered from the mainland and the occasional visitor. The small trading ship arriving every ten weeks carrying supplies for residents, plantations, local shops and Government supplies drew everyone to the waterfront, as cargo unloaded onto long boats was brought ashore and distributed to eager recipients.

The small contingent of Europeans were mostly employed by the Australian Government. A Chinese tradestore provided a range of exotic goods, while Edgill and Whitely stocked groceries, baked white bread twice a week, for the locals and outer island plantations.

The settlement’s generator was turned off at 9 pm each night, shutting down all power for the fans until 6 am the following morning. Kerosine refrigerators were the mainstay of the semi detached kitchens, furnished with fuel stoves.

Life ran slowly due to the oppressive heat and the two hour siesta in the middle of the day was a welcome relief.

For some, the isolation became too much and they packed up and left to return to Australia. Some wives found the husbands of others more exciting than theirs and marriages broke down. Others from cooler climates couldn’t handle the unforgiving heat.

Stories of the old drunken plantation manager on a remote outer island where he kept threatening to kill himself as well as his labour line, filtered through and were ignored.

Mostly this disparate group who worked and socialized together accepted and enjoyed their different lifestyle.

Many enjoyed this exciting lifestyle with domestic help, access to beautiful waters and remote small islands, regretting when their time would come to move to another posting in this amazing primitive country, administered by Australia until independence twenty years later. There were those who refused to leave, married and produced many mixed race children and whose families became important heads in Government, and money makers.

BLAME MURPHY by Trevor S

THE BURNING BUSH by Malcolm W

As the firemen clambered into their vehicles I observed the looks of sadness on their faces, the resigned shrugs of their shoulders as they turned from the smouldering landscape. The fire had been ferocious, and despite their valiant efforts the landscape was one of scorched earth, charred shrubs and smouldering black tree trunks, some with hollows full of glowing embers. The ground beneath my feet was still warm on the soles of my shoes, the air was filled with wisps of acrid black smoke that filled my nostrils and stung my eyes.

The fire chief called out to me “Don’t hang around too long on your own; and watch out for falling trees. As you can see, many of them are still smouldering inside.”

The man had been reluctant to let me into the area, until he heard why I was there, and I assured him that I would soon be following them out. He wished me luck and waved goodbye as the four fire engines moved slowly away.

I looked around at the desolate landscape, shuddered at the ominous silence of the place. This was an area that was normally alive to the sounds of native birds. It had been home to myriad animals such as goannas, koalas, and many more native species. Only a few days ago I had seen a mob of kangaroos here, grazing on the lush grass or watching me warily as I took photos. They would have fled from the inferno, but my heart was heavy for those that could not.

This was a valley that my bush regeneration team had been hired to restore; to remove the weed species and coax back the native species. It was only five years ago that I had eagerly signed up at TAFE to become a bush regenerator after seeing how the Blue Mountains sprang back to life after such devastation, and now it was happening to my beloved Hawkesbury countryside. I had no doubt many of the resilient native plants here would one day burst into life once more, but once again I feared for the animals that were not so resilient.

As I pondered the consequences of this sad event I heard a menacing sound, and a nearby eucalypt crashed to the ground, sending black smoke and sparks flying. It was probably time I heeded the fireman’s words and made my way back to the highway. Another fallen tree trunk barred my way out, and I stepped carefully over it. What I had taken to be a blackened branch from the tree suddenly moved, and I froze to the spot as an obviously frightened, Red-bellied Black Snake slithered away in search of safer ground. As soon as it was out of my way I lost no time in doing the same; heading for my car and seeking the safety of the road.

As I drove out of the blackened fire zone, and back into the lush green area that had escaped the inferno, I was filled with mixed emotions; it was devastating to witness such widespread destruction; but what a great case study to show others the amazing resilience of our stunning native flora, and right on my doorstep. If only I had remembered to bring my camera to record the day’s event.

THE CAVE by Cindi B

 Thursday’s furious argument had brought it all back and she woke anxious, having spent several sleepless hours trying to plan a simple way to find out if Ben was really back there. His email had not mentioned their secret, but the very fact that he had talked about climbing the hill in the heat was a message to her.

Just remembering the long rough dangerous scramble up the hill behind the house made her throat tighten, and brought an ache to her eyes that could mean tears.

The new owners possibly didn’t know that you could see the sea from the top. They didn’t look fit enough to climb a rocky hill for fun. Theoretically, the mountain was squarely between the hill and the sea, but the hilltop gave a view just south of the mountain, and there it always was, suddenly and excitingly, blue sky and darker, bluer sea. Depending on the weather and the time of day, the sea sparkled or frowned. The view was worth all the ankle-risking rocks hidden in the long grass, the old goldmine holes, some still abandoned and open to the elements, others covered, planked over and cushioned thickly with the debris of a hundred years. Those were waiting too, termite riddled, for the weight of an unwary foot to open them up again. Dodging the sentinel grasstrees and squeezing between the wattle trees, catkins sometimes marking their clothes and faces with dots of pollen, respecting the deeply ridged ironbark trees and understanding that the cave entrance was unnoticeable to strangers, invisible. Below adult eye level, the landscape shadows and foliage smudging craggy rock outlines, there it was, unseen in the past, but never again.

So many good things happen quite by accident, bad things too, of course, but the cave had always been wonderful, the central special focus of their childhood. It was beautiful, but hard to find, to navigate to without marking a pathway. They always kept it secret, wandering up different ways, never wanting a track to be noticed. They took adventurous friends up there, but always just to see the sea. They loved the hill with an unrequited passion and it repaid them with grazes, bloody bruises, cuts and grass stained and ripped clothing but they were always aware that it could easily have killed them, so they felt it cared, or at least, had accepted their 

presence.

Since becoming adults, they had all had mixed feelings about keeping silent. Silence had always seemed the greatest form of respect for the cave dwellers. Those who came and went and those who stayed, all needed sanctuary. 

The harsh argument with Becky and the enigmatic email from Ben, which had sparked it, what should she do? Go check that the cave was still safe. Easier said than done when the land belonged now to total strangers.

She’d take her bike and a backpack, ride as far as she could, hide the bike in the bush and walk in from the west with the mountain behind her. Simple, but they had always ridden horses before and she had never approached the hill from the west. Wondering fearfully where the pack of dingoes that circumnavigated the area occasionally would be in their wanderings, she realised just how spooked this simple idea was making her. Also, how excited and how she ached to see the hill again, remembering also that she would be able to see the volcanic plugs from there, and maybe, if she slept there overnight, there would be mist in the morning. Mist turned the

plugs into magic islands in a sea of soft white Tomorrow she would be an early weekend cyclist and then a bushwalker. Easy peasy … but somehow uneasy too.

MEN MAY COME by Sallie H

Rank grass has taken over a once well used path which leads deep into the bush. On either side grow blackberry bushes, now laden with plump juicy fruit, a feast for the birdlife, made obvious with plum coloured bird droppings on the leaves and scattered indiscriminately on the ground.

A fallen tree lies across the path, its rough bark, black from the lightening strike which felled it, has emerald green velvety moss growing in patches on the underside and the pool of water underneath waits for spring when frogs will lay their spawn. The roots of this tree radiate outwards, vines entangled in them like a messy web which is hiding a spider waiting to catch the unwary.

The tree top with branches cracked and broken by the fall cling in desperation to the main trunk as if in letting go they would lose their identity. They lie down hill, hidden in the undergrowth making a home for an old grizzled wombat and various bush creatures. White ants have made a home in some of the branches, their continuous munching leaving unseen patterns in the wood.

Overhead a lone crow glides on raven wings making a mournful sound as it flies away in search of food.

Small animals rustle about in the undergrowth, a snake glides along making no noise, the only sign of its presence is the rippling grass as it slithers along.

An enormous gum tree, 200 years old or possibly more stands tall, imposing. Majestic, it surveys the bush. Branches reaching up to the sky, long grey green leaves which dangle from twigs dance in the slight wind which whispers around the tree tops. A birds nest sits untidily high up in a fork in the branches.

Smaller trees of many varieties cram together, moving steadily year by year closer to the now disused path creating a dense bush. Wattles being the most prolific, some straggling, holding onto life with a tenuous grip whilst others grow strongly, waiting for the spring so they can burst forth in fluffy yellow blossoms.

The odd wildflower peeps out of the long grass and a couple of banksias support their orange spiky flowers, food for the many honeyeaters which abound in the area.

Further along is a small creek, fuelled by a recent rainfall, it rushes over rocks, making a gurgling sound as it splashes its way towards a superior body of water, a might river which will take it on to the sea. A leaf is thrown onto a rock, but only for a moment as the water reclaims it and tosses it about in its hurry to move on. The sound of a waterfall just down stream can be heard. It is not huge but impressive as the water cascades down the jagged rock face forming many small streams as it drops to the pool below. The dappled sunlight plays on the water, forming fleeting rainbows as it rushes on towards the river.

And men may come and men may go but I go on forever – Alfred Lord Tennyson.

SETTING THE SCENE by Julie S