Glen (right) is the patriarch, as you might have guessed, Karen is his wife (taking a moment to savour some Sailors Hill sorrel). And that’s Julie, their daughter. Darling, inquisitive little thing. That’s Dennis, also helping himself. He’s from the Musk Vale mob and has taken to hanging around. Glen is prepared to forebear him for now, but is growing increasingly uncomfortable with his presence. He is neither witty, nor in any way informed, so conversation is always either brief or pointless, or both. Glen has growing concerns Dennis may have a certain agenda that at present, he is keeping to himself.
And Dennis has far from a clean slate as far as his mob is concerned. Alleged father to Narelle’s little Greg, he’s definitely been keeping his distance there of late. Narelle however, remains tight lipped about little Greg’s parentage. That sleaze Ian was also about during spring, so we shouldn’t be too quick to scold Dennis until the facts are in. But if you look at Greg’s ears, you know it must have been Dennis.
Karen, meanwhile, is trying to keep a lid on her sister Norma’s potentially damaging information about little Julie’s parenting. It was a full moon, the fence was down on the paddock. God, everyone was at it! And not just the greens. Glen got his oats, sure. Of course. But he wasn’t necessarily the only one Karen celebrated with.
And this is where the treacherous Norma has decided to have her cynical fun.
For now, though, Karen and Norma’s dad Ron, is keeping the situation in hand. His own prestige as a senior within the mob (Sailors Hill) is undermined and possibly threatened by the local rumour mill. Ron’s been around long enough to recognise that where there’s smoke, there’s fire. That Dennis has to go. It’s not the first time Ron has had to make hard decisions. When his nephew Darryl popped his head up to declare that it was out with the old ways and that a new wind was sweeping the marsupial plain and he would be the dauntless spearhead of the coming revolution and so and so on, it was clear that steps needed to be taken.
No one speaks of Darryl these days. Though amongst the young, his legacy quietly burns.
Norma’s own story is far from conventional. As the eldest, she was expected to take on family responsibilities, significant family responsibilities, as was the expectation at the time. Norma struggled in that role. As a free flowing and creative spirit, her thoughts were only for elements of air, water and soil and the fruits there of. She was never so happy as when she was bounding along the trackless plains, skies of blue, and a fair breeze behind her. But Karen’s arrival, followed by Nathan, Brent, Dawn and Joanne, placed a burden on her she struggled to accept.
Her Aunties, Joan in particular, urged her to embrace her role and responsibilities. Which she ultimately attempted to do, but at a cost. The sacrifice of her carefree and wide roaming youth, well before her youth was spent, would ultimately darken her world, nurture cynicism and develop into a hideous, revengeful nature. And who would be the primo target for her unfulfilled existence??
As for Keith (right of frame), in an effort to separate himself from his mob and their parlous reputation, he’s been going by the name ‘Jackson‘, and trying to wangle his way into the Leonards Hill mob. And of course, the haughty contempt that mob (or ‘gathering’ as they prefer to be known), hold for anyone north of the Great Dividing Range, has found an intense focus on this ‘try hard’ from Sailors Hill. They are unspeakably cruel and sarcastic towards ‘Jackson‘, but he seems to bear it quite lightly. Even good humouredly. How? Why? Could it be that the young doe Sharon, first child the of aristocratic Neil and Beverly, has created something of an incentive for Jackson? There’s no doubting that Sharon is aware of his presence, if the regular ‘come hither’ fluttering of her eyelashes is anything to go by.
It’s a perilous, high stakes game he’s playing though, burning bridges behind him as he seeks entry into a new and highly sceptical world via a union with the El Supremo’s eldest and most eligible child. There’s a fine line between courage and stupidity.
If there’s anyone skilled at keeping up appearances, it’s Karen. The breezy elegance. The benign smile. Always ready with a helping paw for a good cause. She has established herself as a bit of a society doyen. But what she sees in Glen, is a quietly murmured topic amongst the idle. Not to say there’s anything particularly wrong with Glen, his dowdy, burr ridden coat notwithstanding, but Karen just swoops into the centre of conversation and arrests them all with her witty analyses and folksy charm. Though in time, the focus will be all about her this, or her that. There is a growing and some find tedious predictability about where Karen’s contributions will end up. Glen meanwhile, has a piece of straw dangling from his mouth as he pronounces that the rains are worst he’s seen and the deer are taking the best of everything. Later at home, Karen casts a gaze up to Leonards Hill. To Neil and Beverly and their mob. Their rich holdings. Their front row seatings at any of the solstices. The guaranteed invitations to calendar highlights. The fawning acolytes. The snivelling wannabes that drape themselves before them. And then there’s Glen. Nose picking, eye rollingly inarticulate and with nary a clue about oral hygiene, not to mention the rest, and that it seems, is her lot. But with little Julie developing as she is, and by developing, well, she is already drawing some long glances, as inappropriate as they certainly are, the facts remain that Karen’s responsibilities in this area will at some point draw to a close. What then? More ‘society dame’? More bustling matriarch, keeping herself busy? More Keith and his dreary repetitions about this grass or that grass? Karen knows there is a Y junction approaching, which she contemplates with a mixture of dread and thrill.
The apple of Neil and Beverly’s eye, is young Darryl. He has not skerrick of intellectual capacity or any aparent awareness of the individuals within his world, but he does come with a fervid energy and a knack of imposing himself on any situation. Largely brought up by of his snooty relations at Yarra Heights Golf Course in order to receive a ‘rounded education’, he had little motive or opportunity to resist their ‘me first’ attitudes and their officious and condescending manner. His predictability high levels of self regard manifested themselves in an almost evangelical impulsiveness to drive home to others their failings while exhorting them to go forth with all manner of aggravating self improvement pronouncements.
For example, Janine is weary after dealing with the twins all day, so it’s ‘think positive, and positive things will happen’. Reg has a sore foot, so it’s, ‘you didn’t come this far, to only come this far’. Stan is frustrated by Sheila’s indifference towards him, so it’s, ‘You can have results, or you can have excuses, but you can’t have both’.
Irene mentions that she’d like one day to be on the Marsupial Advisory Committee, and it’s ‘limits exist only in the mind’, followed rapidly by ‘if opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door’, and for good measure ‘Be brave, be bold, be you’. It all ended up being a massive turn off for Irene. It’s gotten that he doesn’t even need a context to sprout his irritating corporate blah blah. Scratching yourself could result in a ‘If you don’t see yourself as a winner, you can’t perform as a winner’, or ‘if you’re not living on the edge, you’re just taking up room’. For looking off into the distance, you’d get ‘Do something today that your future self will thank you for’, or defluffing a pouch would draw ,’The only time you should ever look back is to see how far you’ve come’. Few ever attempted to get close to Darryl, his endless motivational sayings were like an irritating shield that could only be seen from an outsiders perspective. It didn’t help that Darryl’s front teeth were far bigger than usual and with a slightly inturned left eye, giving him an unfortunately comical expression, completely at odds with his constant, self important decrees.
But like anyone, no matter how vacuous, Daryl particularly as a vigorous young buck, harboured certain desires. Her name was Elaine. Her parents were significant landholders at Blampied. She had a pleasant personality and Darryl fancied, would be totally malleable to his wisdoms and magnetic personalty. And so the big moment arrived, the fateful juncture where Darryl could impress his credentials and win her heart. Elaine was bounding along, as was her want, but was felled by some errant fencing wire, right near Darryl. Seizing the moment, he declared to the splayed Elaine, ‘Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.’
This somehow did not seem to evoke a romantic response, so he pulled out the big guns, ‘The only time you should ever look back is to see how far you’ve come’. Nothing. Zip. ‘If your dreams don’t scare you, they’re not big enough’. Elaine was by now dusting herself off and looking over yonder to a point perceptible only to herself and about to head there. He was down to the wire now. ‘ Pain is just weakness leaving the body’, he said to the air.
Darryl has a growing suspicion and perhaps even resignation about his impending bachelor hood. But he consoles himself with the thought that, The tallest oak in the forest was once a little nut that held its ground’.
Tracy’s come a long way. That saying, ‘what you hate at 18 months, you love at 28 months’, fit’s with uncanny closeness. You couldn’t have found a more inwardly reticent yet outwardly rambunctious young roo than Tracy. On the one hand, often the outlier to the pack, finding an intense and solitary interest with a thistle or an ants nest, but come the weekend, arched back on her tail, with her never you mind pointing to the sky as she, not for the first time, recounted Aunty Cheryl’s infamous encounter with a clothes line. Yep, Tracy had some fitting in issues.
But if ever the saying, ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’rang true, it was with Tracy.
Not to say these were simple,carefree days tra la laa, tra la lee! Hell no. The difficulties in finding a place, a medium setting, a comfort zone if you will, was a considerable emotional, even existential burden for Tracy.
Sure, she’d be head down and gnawing on the grass like the rest of them, or stock still, upright amongst the trees checking this interloper or that, you wouldn’t have picked her from any of the others. But what you wouldn’t see was the inner turmoil. The relentless whirring of the brain and the tight set jaw as one conundrum after another laboriously cycled and recycled its way through her fevered consciousness. It was barely without let up. One torment placed on the backburner, would soon replaced by another, undoubtedly a more arduous one than the one before. Tracy’s dual existence unsurprisingly took its toll. She needed out.
Furthermore, Darryl had been hanging around. She recognised his social awkwardness, but since he possessed not a teaspoons worth of self reflection or wit, made herself scarce if he was approaching. Like the others. He did do one valuable thing however. While big noting himself about his relations at the Yarra Heights Golf Club, he planted a seed. A kernel of a thought. A shoot of an idea. What relations do I have in Melbourne, she thought? Turned out, a few. Not at Yarra Heights or anywhere lah de dah like that, but at the Northcote Public Golf Course. Aunty Lorraine was there, (Uncle Jeff had recently passed). There was also her cousins Deirdre and Mark.
The saying goodbyes and the journey to Northcote is an entire story on its own, but suffice to say, Tracy made it there. And what a world, what a phenomenal world she found. To start with, electric lighting blew her mind. And talk about easy street, away from the putting greens, the grasses were plentiful with a touch of chilli and vegetable oil adding a certain piquancy.
Lorraine was an absolute gem. As you would think a kangaroo Aunt called Lorraine would be. Dierdre and Mark were initially out of circulation, drawn to the high jinks along Darebin Ck in the summer festival season.
But for Tracy, this was a powerful, coming of age. Her blunders were out of the sight of the Sailors Hill mob, who typically ignored her unless she fucked something up, and then boy, would they let her know about it, especially the congenitally nasty Nathan and his pathetic little minions Ed and Cryril. Her aspirations were tested only on herself with nary a single sad case Eastern Grey wanting to drag her down for her exuberance or intemperate desires. They were free and exciting times. Gravelly and reckless times. Untrammelled and opportunistic times. Good times. Must all good things come to an end? Only insofar as nothing lasts forever.
And so we find Tracy once again in home country, unbroken and unbridled. Solid, but not stolid. Heartened, not heart weary. Wise and not wizened. Have a look and you’ll spot her. There’ll be bouncy joey’s all around her, but there’ll be a couple keeping their distance as well. And they’re the ones Tracy has a real feel for.
Call it a cultural exchange. Deidre and Mark were becoming quite a handful for Lorraine. Staying out late. Getting into the rye grass and soursob. Thistle heads and paspalum. Even Apple of Sodom (solanum linnaeanum) for God’s sake! Whatever they could get their hands on really. And if they couldn’t find any, lowlifes like Ian and Shane always seemed to have something on hand. It was rumoured that they would extract certain favours from the siblings if supplies were down and they happen to be holding. Lorraine always felt that it was they who were responsible for the dire changes that were becoming concerningly evident in the brother and sister. She of all kangaroos should have known that it takes two to tango however, considering her fearsome reputation for downing considerable amounts of fennel. This of course was explained away as just a temporary form of self medication for muscular soreness and tail sprain. Yeah, right.
At least she knew not to lecture or pontificate. And no doubt mindful of her own excesses, plus with the tragedy of Irene’s wayward youngster Colin, fresh in her mind, some kind of evacuation from the emerging train wreck of their urban lives seemed like the best, if not the only solution. Given the heat the wayward pair were receiving from Ian and Shane for goods received on credit, and predictably not paid, they didn’t need a lot of convincing about a move to the country.
So it was off to Sailors Hill for Deidre and Mark, and a new headache for destination Karen. You can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your family, they say. Case in point, the Northcote mob. With her life in flux and still attempting to ‘keep up appearances’, she could not anticipate the chaos her neice and nephew would visit upon her.
Bad news travels fast. To get to Sailors Hill from Northcote requires a journey through Leonards Hill. Neil and Beverly’s country. So there is Deidre, leaning against a tree chundering her guts out as the self appointed royalty of Leonards Hill happen along. Not a, ‘oh you poor dear’, or a ‘goodness me, you are in a state, aren’t you’, but a sustained and pointed ‘Tch, tch, tch, tch , tch…. Kangaroos are not renowned for their facial expressions, but you could have read Neil and Beverly’s scorn from Korweinguboora. And of course Dennis has to get in on the act with a golden opportunity for sneering, ‘You’re so inbred you might as well be a sandwich’. Followed smartly (for him) by, ‘It was called a jumpoline before your mum jumped on it’, for no logical reason, and perhaps revealing a few of own insecurities.
If ever there was family that didn’t need any more fuel for their bonfire of vanity, it was the Leonards Hill mob, or should that be ‘gathering’.
Weary and strung out, Deirdre and Mark flopped their way down the northern slopes of The Great Dividing Range, at approximately one tenth of the speed with which their reputation was preceding them.
Jackson had been bouyed by Sharons less and less subtle responses to his less and less subtle overtures. Munching innocently on some grass in each others vicinity and oh, woops, their tail tips briefly touch. ‘Well excuse me Sharon, that was a little reckless of me’, said Jackson going the full Gent’. Sharon issued a delicate giggle. If she had a fan to flutter below her eyes and do a prim little curtsie, the picture would have been complete. The temperature has definitely risen. And what’s going on with Sharon’s urine? Normally redolent of a caramal /cinnamon aroma, it has gone full on floral. My god, those ears too! The way Sharon flicked them hither and thither, in a seemingly careless but totally mesmerising way. Jackson was becoming transfixed. His mind was suddenly racing. ‘Is this what I think it is’?, he asked himself anxiously. Sharon batted her eyelashes, and there was only one roo who was getting the benefits. Jackson had been here once before though, with Fiona, who may have been related. It was pointless from the start. Fiona, first concubine of alpha male Brian who was by any standards a big unit, not too smart but with a possessive and highly aggressive nature, he was not one to messed with by a slim youngster. Jackson credited himself with pulling the pin on that one, though with great reluctance. It took several instances of passionate indiscretion to relieve his pent up desires.
But there was no Brian about to discourage Jackson now. And Neil, her dad, was well off in the distance with Beverly, the potential other gooseberry. It was just about time to hang the thong on the bedroom doorhandle. But just to be certain, he initiated the ‘flehmen’ manoeuvre. With lip curled in an increasingly aroused fashion, he made an entirely unsubtle investigation into Sharon’s cloacal region. He had to be sure, and hey, it’s just a dream world down there anyway. Sharon responded with a golden shower, a lengthy stream of the most pungent ‘come fuck me’ collection of pheromones in the entire marsupial world. Jackson had gone from being somewhat hopeful, to having his tiny mind blown. Sharon, somehow, was playing it cool. What happened next involved very little thought for either of them. It was as though this moment had been pre ordained by universal forces and they could do little else but be vessels for a much grander scheme. In no time, Jackson was behind Sharon, arms around her chest nibbling on those god damned sexy ears. His bizarre two headed penis was soldier erect as Sharon backed up to him, her equally extraordinary vagina, wet and pulsing. As union was made, they say that a kind of silence enveloped the land. Everything went quiet. And still. The sun in fact, stalled in its trajectory and the wind went to ground. For Jackson, every moment was just stupendous, with a phantasmagorical burst of stars and colours upon completion. For Sharon, the whole affair seemed to take too long. Initially, kind of fun but her interest waned after the first twenty minutes. There were some tasty shoots nearby, so she availed herself. By the time she was through them, she found Jackson a quivering mess, lying on his back in the dust with involuntary spasms coursing through his body, and the most stupid expression on his face. Tongue out, cross eyed, drooling and mumbling incomprehensibly.
She turned to suggest that they should catch up some time, but Jackson was beyond conversation. In fact, had they been on a boat and Sharon decided to roll him over the side, there was nothing Jackson could have done to stop her. He was that wasted. Fortunately, that was the furthest thing from Sharon’s mind.
Would this be a beginning for Jackson and Sharon, or an end? Had doors oped, or closed? Where to from here? Only time would tell.
They say that greater the performance of superiority and authority, the greater the hypocrite. And that could not be more true than for Neil and Beverly. They swan about with their tails in the air, Tch, tch tching everything they see. Scowling at all and sundry and putting on their airs and graces as if their scats don’t stink. But scratch the surface, have a peek at what’s below the fur line, and an interesting picture emerges. Not that that’s easy to do, as Brian, when he’s not lording it over the does and jills, is a regular menacing presence in close proximity to the ‘Lord and Lady’ of Leonards Hill. As if there is something to hide. Something for which anything resembling scrutiny is most unwelcome. And if the rumours are true, there certainly is.
You see, the Leonards Hill mob, yes, lets stick with ‘mob’ for the telling of this, was once a much larger and diverse mob. Amongst them were a number of, shall we call them, ‘free thinkers’. Initially small in number and centred around a charismatic doe called Lorraine. Lorraine had somevery interesting and quite new ideas about the distribution of grass amongst the mob. Who got what was tightly controlled by the heirachy, which at the time was a power couple called Ken and Elaine with Neil and Beverly presenting as a sort of snickering, sycophantic second in command duo. Ken and Elaine were very much old school. Yes, age and seniority were key to your position in the mob and the priveleges which that afforded, but there was still room for some compassion and understanding, in their approach. Even an implicit recognition of alternative ways of seeing things. Hence their tolerance and perhaps even acceptance of Lorraine and friends unorthodox views.
You see, distribution and varieties of grass were traditionally apportioned according to a heirachical ranking system, especially the aptly named Kangaroo grass, which retained its greenness and moisture throughout summer and crucially, drought. Prioritised access to this was of course a great advantage. What about sneaking a bit if times were tough? Because Brian, or his fascistic predecesssor Stan would belt the living daylights out of you. That’s why.
For Lorraine, this was inherently unfair and had to be challenged. She herself was a near victim of what she saw as a clearly corrupt system as her own mother Valma, struggled and suffered during Lorraine’s gestation as the previous dry summers dragged on. Valma duly brought the baby Lorraine into the world and cared for her as a mother would, but she never recovered from the privations of that dreadful period and passed away exhausted, spent, well before her time. All the while, Ken and Elaine and Neil and Beverly and their clique munched away on the good stuff, retaining condition and their shiny coats. This would burn in Lorraine’s psyche, and inspire a personal manifesto based on sharing and equality. ‘To each according to their need, from each according to their ability’. Lorraine was one of the first marsupial socialists.
It didn’t take her long to find she was not alone in her anger and frustration. Bernadette was one of the first to come on board. Then Pauline, Dale and Muriel. They formed a tight and very effective nucleous. Pauline and Dale were quite effective orators, and before long, numbers had increased further. The genie of justice was out of the bottle, and the authorities were paying attention. Brian also was aware of a change in the mood. A singular foray into his masters preserved good gear he could easily handle. He relished the opportunity to throw his weight around and get in some good old fashioned bullying. But a dozen or more, all at the same time and seemingly unafraid or unconcerned by threats or violence, this was a worrying new development. As much as authority figures are inevitably hypocrites, so are bully’s internally just cowards. The socialists were getting their fill. And not only that, but were openly discussing changing the very order of their society. Not just who would be boss, but, and Bernadette was very firm on this, why have a boss at all? The Leonards Hill Anarcho-Socialist movement was really gaining momentum.
Neil and Beverly were of course also across the new and rather concerning social developments. Their cosy little world was under threat. But in disaster, there is also opportunity, they say. Reading the winds, they proposed a meeting of all the major players concerned. Lorraine and co had anticipated that a meeting was at some stage inevitable, desirable even. And as Anarcho – Socialists were well versed in meetings. They didn’t have a completely bad relationship with Ken and Elaine, though Brian remained an uncomfortable and compelling symbol of their authority. Perhaps they too were really just victims of a system? They were destined to fill those roles by the family and social structures that went before them. They were conditioned to be who they were, but is that who they really wanted to be?
With the insights of the Leonards Hill Anarcho-Socialists, keen too reach out and becoming a transformative force for the good of this mob, and who knows, in time all of their brothers and sisters, they approached the meeting with nervous optimism.
Neil and Beverly had selected a spot in a paddock near the road for the meeting. There were a couple of utes uncomfortably close by, but utes were a common enough sight in the Leonards Hill farmland. So there they all were at the appointed hour, Ken and Elaine and Neil and Beverly as well as Lorraine, Bernadette, Pauline, Dale and Muriel and a number of their colleagues. As discussions were about to get going, Ken and Elaine were suddenly called away. Dennis, apparently, was becoming deeply distressed by burrs in his tail and required parental support.
Moments after they had left the group, blam, blam, crack, blam! Gunshots rang out across the paddock. In an instant, they were all dead. Clean shot through the head. Dead and very soon disappeared. The utes drove out into the paddock, loaded up the cream of Leonards Hill royalty and intelligentsia and drove off. Just like that. No one actually saw it happen, but the sound show, the blood stained grass and the tyre tracks told the story. One witness reported seeing a cartoon type image on the ute’s doors of a tail wagging dog enjoying the contents of a dog bowl. Of course the writing was indecipherable to a kangaroo, but the image on it’s own seemed to say enough. It was a macabre and tragic day for the mob.
This tragedy, incredibly, left Neil and Beverly as the remaining seniors in the mob and therefore, entitled to assume the leadership. The miracle which saw them exit the meeting at just that critical moment was emphasised by them as clear proof that were in fact ordained for their roles. Brian, who had somehow not been invited to the meeting, remained at their right hand, more puffed up and arrogant than ever.
It is said that you can fool some of the kangaroos for some of the time, but you can’t fool all of the kangaroos for all of the time. Leonards Hill watchers are keeping a careful eye on developments. Meanwhile, rumours persist.
Glen and Karen’s betrothal is a story in itself. There was never much doubt that it was a mismatch. Karen, the dutiful and in fact beautiful daughter of Sailors Hill ‘Head Honcho’ Ron, was always the brightest thing in the paddock. Vivacious, charming and witty, she was regarded as the ‘doe most likely too’, by mob watchers. Of which there were many. In fact, given the general lack of variety in the average kangaroos day, sticking their noses into other kangaroos business was a dedicated past time. They were all into it, to help make up for the general tedium of their daily livess. Let’s face it, for the majority, the space between the ears is a pretty much an imagination free zone.
There was always a subtle, and at times not so subtle pressure to conform to expectations.
Of course as a young joey without anything in the way of worldly experience, there is an assumption that the elders are correct. That their outlooks and guidance are based on sound and honoured principals. Not prejudices, insecurities, superstitions or power structures which are there preserve their priveleges. Nope, just good old fashioned wisdom.
And then you had Glen. Stolid, bit of a plodder, seemingly old before his time and about as sharp as a sackful of wet possums. Just yesterday, someone referred to their lazy Joey as a ‘pouch potato’. He stood there for some time with an expression like pre flatulance. Nup.. Straight through to the keeper, but at least he tried. You couldn’t really bag Glen. He was still smarter than Dennis. He was nice enough, and would have made a dependable sort of partner for someone at some stage. But that stage arrived sooner than either he or Karen had figured on.
It was first moon after first frost. Always a biggie on the calendar. The rye grass was up, and with the unseasonal precipitation, was not only fulsomely tasty, but also a touch fermented. Reports differ, but Karen, young and inexperienced and being of a more slender build, the rye grass soon began to have an intoxicating effect.
No one’s first time is very pretty. We’ve all been there. First sign were the playful little cuffs on Norma’s ears. Utterly humourless, Norma gave her a not too subtle whack with her tail. The message was not received. Like a two pot screamer, she then lurched over to Narelle andlayed a sloppy hug and kiss on her. The elders looked on disapprovingly and ‘tch, tch, tch’ amongst themselves. But no real harm done as yet.
But unlike Norma and her sisterly disdain, Narelle, also partaking freely of the rye grass,was clearly warming to the svelte young Karens’ attention. Across the paddock, up at the farm, a bit of techno is spilling out of the shed, as bunch of young farmers gather to let off some steam.
No one understands the impact of techno on kangaroos, other than kangaroos. It’s the beat, it’s the funk, it’s the cadence, it’s the primeaval drive of it all. It can really send them. In no time Karen and Narelle were bumping and grinding. Staring wildly into each others eyes, they took turns to stroke each others ears, which just seemed to accelerate their feverish, swirling dancing. It is apparent to all by now, that they have lost it. Lost it big time. They fell to the ground heaving and pounding in wild gyrations. Latching on to each other, frenetically intertwined in a shape that could be described as the conjoining of two pairs of scissors. Oblivious to the gape jawed mob. A flock of cockatoos took to the sky in a screeching cacophany.
Too much!, cried the elders. Joan was incensed, outraged by this unprecedented breach of accepted decorum. What the hell was this ribald, shameless Bachanalian performance??
She thrummed her tail on the ground, along with number one sticky beak Marlene and her rather quite close brother, Eric. The combined effect, along with the audible gnashing of teeth, was enough to break the spell. Panting, shaking, eye’s darting as if emerging from the far side of a delerium, Karen and Narelle slowly became aware of the staring, glaring mob which surrounded them. Tote’s Awk’ Sitch’ alright. They begin to feel exposed and then chillingly vulnerable. The imperious expressions of Joan and company, not to mention the various other somewhat stunned bystanders, begin to bore into their hearts. Heads bowed in silence, their naked vulnerability morphed into feelings of embarassment. Then dread. And then shame. They looked at each other, as if looking at a stranger, and abruptly separated.
Some days later, though she had done her best to avoid her, Joan came harrumphing along.
The self appointed high priestess and matriach of Sailors Hill had but a simple message with profound consequences. Essentially it was this; there’s Glen over there. You go over to him now, and solomnly pledge yourself to him. This is only way to put your disgrace behind you. And may we never speak of this incident again. And with that, hustled away. The tacit approval of Ron, added further to the pain.
And so it was done. Glen must have gotten the surprise of his life, but having little in the way of an emotional pulse, there is a bit of guesswork in that. Maybe it could have been worse. It got Joan of her back, but the sense of disaproval was always there. For Karen, the difficult and treacherous roleplay of maintaining appearances, was unfortunately, getting underway.
Narelle though, being a bit older and already having, lets say, a colourful history, was not so easily intimidated. Though she felt no strong desire to repeat that particular experience.
In her quiet moments, Karen relives her encounter that night. It makes a shiver, then is gone.
Speaking of Narelle, her little Greg, not so little now, has been getting into mischief. Small ‘m’ mischief at first, you know, putting down scratchings to send you in the wrong direction, that sort of thing. But increasingly, what seemed like adolescent hi jinks began taking on a darker and more devious tone, like scats in the last of the dam water and skulls from related road kill victims ending up in tree forks at popular courtship locations. You didn’t have to be Rooenstien to figure it was him. The arrogant slouch, the noisy chewing, the burrs on the chest that plainly announced ‘I don’t care’. Yep, our Glen was going through something. It was called adolescence, and it had caught the attention of Ron, Karen and Norma’s dad. And Ron had a bit of a ‘no nonsense’ attitude towards upstarts and young bucks. Just ask Darryl, if you should ever see him.
But unlike the revolution inclined Darryl, he had seen numerous garden variety testosterone driven Glens and their shenanigans. ‘Greg‘, said Ron gravely, ‘it is time for you to learn the ways of your ancestors’. He had been told.
To prepare the way, Ron carefully selected a range of very special natural ingredients. Just like that renowned wombat, he eats roots and leaves. The concoction though, would not be complete until, it had passed through the digestive tract of a mature doe. Joan had been here before and was happy to put her shoulder to the wheel. After ingesting the sacred compound, she delivered a dark and foul smelling scat at Glen’s feet. With the solemn figure of Ron towering over him, and Joan’s ‘well, you know what to do’ expression and folded arms, Greg felt he had no choice. He gulped it down. It tasted like shit.
Ron and Joan nodded sagely to each other. ‘Greg, this gift, this herbal harbinger from our heritage, will help you see your great and glorious ancestors and learn their ways, lest you become a lost soul’, they intoned. On your journey, you must observe them and speak with them, the world will seem strange, your voice may not sound like your own. and when the time is right, you will return to us’. And off they hopped.
Well thanks a fucking lot, he muttered as they left. Now what..?? Not much, it seemed for a while, and then Greg’s jaw began to tighten somewhat. He started blinking. Blinking and then gnashing his teeth. A head shake seemed like a natural response to these ticks, but that only seemed to accelerate the sensations and plus, what was going on with the colouring in the peripheral vision? The colours seemed to have drained away and it was blurry. No wait, the colours are back. They were back alright, luminous and vibrant, especially the purples, and there was suddenly a lot of purple. And tangerine. And, oh shit, I need to lie down. Looking up at the tree tops, drooling and mostly numb, the canopy began to turn, turn faster and then full on spin. Greg thought he might spew.
He closed his eyes for what seemed quite a long time, and then opened them. Everything had changed. There were volcano’s everywhere and enormous tropical trees. The air was full of sulphur and and you could hardly see over the grass. ‘Don’t know about this’, said Greg a tad anxiously. ‘What the fuck am I here for again? Oh that’s right, my ancestors. Great’. At least the teeth gnashing had stopped.
Next thing, The biggest roo he had ever seen, megafauna, a giant at over three metres and 250kg plus appeared in front of him. It bowed down above him and thrust it’s gargantuan nose right into Greg’s face and said in an unexpectedly high pitched voice, ‘G’day, I’m Terry’. At about this point, a bat the size of a Wedgie flew by. He was a long way from Sailors Hill.
Although Terry’s nose was outlandishly large, Greg was having some issues with own. There were moments when it appeared to stretch out endlessly and then with a throbbing pulse, snap back to where it should be. Terry appeared to have a halo, and then there were two more Terrys. ‘G’day, I’m Nathan‘, said one. I’m Bernard but you can call me Bernie‘. said the other. ‘We’re taking you to Her Highness Kath‘, they said in a phasing in and phasing out kind of unison. Greg was hardly in a position to protest, so he meekly made his way with them. ‘Chroist!’ said Bernie, raising an alarm minutes later. ‘It’s Dale, the Tasmanian Tiger, and I reckon we’re in the gun, fella’s’. Dale was the most frightening creature Glen had ever seen. It’s funny how terror can brush away all the distractions. Greg instantly knew he would be a snack for Dale, but at that moment, Terry, Nathan and Bernie surrounded him, linking arms and enclosing him in a fetid, sweaty wall of prehistoric super roo’s. Dale made his move, lunging with lightning speed, fangs pointed and glistening with primeval intent. But the trio of big roos poised at once on their tails, threshing their massive feet about, with slicer toes drawn in a veritable windmill of defence. Dale was not to be denied by this technique and darted and dashed into the troop, hoping to destabilise them and gain a shot at the juicy newcomer, but no go. They held firm. Not only that, but they got a couple of shots in, a glancing blow here and there, a smarting nick on the rump there. Then Nathan got him a beauty with a boot to the nuts, and then it was all over for Dale. Wincing and with his tail supporting his rapidly swelling purple appendages, he slunk away. ‘Youse are my fucking hero’s’, cried a profoundly grateful Greg. ‘Weren’t hardly nothin’, mate’, they modestly mumbled. A wombat the size of a van ambled by.
Shivering from his experience and a resurgent burst of Joan’s intoxicating turd, he soon found himself before Her Highness Kath. Talk about the new buck in town. The appetite Dale had had for him, seemed to be shared by her Highness Kath, though with something else in mind. She circled him slowly. Tch, tch, tch ….tch, she intoned in a come hither sort of a way. Far from feeling uncomfortable by the attentions of an older and thoroughly regal doe, Greg began to sense a certain frisson building between the two. Chemistry even. The erotic aromas emanating from her certainly suggested there could be something happening on that front. And then, without so much as a ‘by your leave’, Her Highness Kath leant over towards him with her ears protruding, and in her smoky, sensual way commanded ‘suck my tips‘. For the young bucks, there are certain stimuli and certain phrases which entirely bypass the rational or cognitive portions of the brain and register directly in the instinctive cortex’s, coming from such a big, voluptuous, mature spunk, he got right onto it. ‘Grrrnnh. No you idiot, do it properly’, shrieked Her Highness Kath.
Greg ‘s inexperience had immediately come to the fore. The ears are a delicate and erogenous part of the female kangaroo anatomy. Royalty may consider theirs to be even more so. He quickly performed a reset, and things soon became a great deal more convivial. Her pleasure was his pleasure. Her satisfaction was his satisfaction.
When the sun rose, Dave was there. ‘How’d you get on’?, he said. There was a pause. ‘With Her Highness Kath‘? he said, with an audible eye roll. ‘Ohh yeah, yeah great’ he said. ‘She’s right into me. It’s love mate. We’re going to the chapel and we’re going to get married. We’re just islands in the stream. Now there’s two less lonely people in the world. She’s the wind beneath my wings and we’ll take a chance on a new dance..’ Dave shut him down straight away. ‘You have no idea, have you? About a relationship. About you and her and what it would take. When have you ever really listened to what someone is saying? Not thinking about your answer or your agenda before they’ve finished, but actually putting your self interested impulses aside, shutting out the other noises and just hearing what they have to say? You wouldn’t know what that was. You know, a conversation is not just about waiting for your turn to talk. It’s a two way thing. I don’t suppose you’ve seen it done, so you wouldn’t have much of a grounding in it’. Greg inhaled. There was a lot he wanted to unpack about Dave’s assertions. And who the hell did he think he was anyway?. Greg‘s bluster levels were about eleven on the scale. Dave saw him winding up, and said, ‘Stop and think before you talk. Get this right, and you are on the road to finding contentment. It’s the highest of all ideals, Greg. Higher than success, higher than happiness even. It won’t happen overnight. But if you hadn’t heard of it, you couldn’t think of it. But now, you can, and you must’. And with that, Dave took his three metres plus and 240kg frame thumping off down the slope towards some kookaburras the size of pelicans.
The spinning sensation became more than a sensation. There was a migraine in his guts and gastro in his head. He flopped to the ground, moaning. What the hell was Dave going on about?? Untangling the meanings and implications was a distant concern as consciousness itself seemed to seep away. Thoughts of Karen, on a grassy green cloud with her loving gaze drifted in and out as he prepared to float away to oblivion.
‘Well, what’d they tell you’? harrumphed Greg, with his pungent, stinky breath inches from Greg’s face. ‘What’d you find out?’ Groggily, Greg came to the realisation that he was not dead, as death would not be as bad as this. The impatient crank began prodding Greg and poking him in the ribs. The searing light began to penetrate the partly opened eyelids and a chunder seemed imminent.
Like an arthritic rhino, Glen rolled onto his side and eventually rose. I now know what to do if I’m attacked by a Tasmanian Tiger, how to pleasure a Royal Queen and that if I just listen and think before I talk, I will find contentment.
Ron turned to Joan and shook his head. Joan, paws on hips glared at Ron and said, ‘I knew you’d overdone it with the Soursob’. ‘No way, you overcooked it on the way through, don’t blame me’, he replied. What a bloody waste of time, they agreed in their binary worlds, how is any of that going to be of any use to this little sprog?
Greg asked himself the same question.
Meanwhile, over at Wombat Hill, a sparky young doe called Eirrin was orphaned in a terrible double fatality on Hepburn road. At the same time, a day dreaming young buck called Brendan was bothered by a stick, wedged between his toes. How were they to know that their lives were to become intertwined from that day on.
Meanwhile, over at Wombat Hill, a sparky young doe called Eirrin was orphaned in a terrible double fatality on Hepburn road. At the same time, a day dreaming young buck called Brendan was bothered by a stick, wedged between his toes. How were they to know that their lives were to become intertwined from that day on.
To be continued