The Redlands [FEATURED]

Chapter 3

Methinks, by most, 'twill be confess'd

That Death is never a welcome guest.

Christopher Marlowe, Doctor Faustus

On the far edge of the Redlands, a colony of frogs was well into their sunset chant. They hid in the reeds and other water plants, throats expanding and vibrating imperceptibly. The billabong was very deep and very old; there were no shallows for wading and no human had come near the water for a long, long time. Lunging from the water, large, pale hands grasped a pair of bullfrogs tightly – the frogs paused. The hands slipped into the dark water, clutching the struggling prey, and the frogs began again.

A moment later the same clawed hands – not animal and not human either – held onto the edge of the lake, digging into the fetid mud, to pull out its body. It was hulking and lanky, with limbs too long for its body. Dark fur covered its face and ran in a matted strip down its spine, continuing into the tail. The rest of its body was sickly, pale and bare; its ribs, hips and bones that did not exist in any other were being pressed against its skin. It had not eaten well for a long, long time. It was hungry, always hungry. It had almost forgotten everything except the constant gnawing, dizzying need to feed. Scars from its own talons decorated its palms from times when the madness and solitude were overwhelming, and it needed something, anything, to distract itself. Yet, underneath relentless pain and loneliness, there was a proud knowledge of self-awareness.

It was Bunyip.

It was the lake and the billabong; it was the marsh and the estuary. It was the mud and the reeds and the frogs. It was eddies and tides. It was ancient and powerful.

It bared its teeth, oversized incisors chipped from use, in a silent growl. It was near mad with starvation, having spent countless days trying to remember the taste of Man. Foggy memories of warm, dark meat and hot – so deliciously hot – blood were fleeting. It was sick with hunger and despair, but the desire for survival was strong.

It had felt the Collector come, felt him test his territory for something hot and living, felt him wait and watch. It had been there long before buzzing field had grown, pressing on it and its territory, buzzing and cawing and calling out to all who could hear – We are here! We are coming!

Bunyip's eyes were strong, even though it didn't use them often, but the field which pressed so close to its home was distorted to its sight. It felt things moving among the grass and trees, heard them rustling about, but they were cold and strange. Flitting about like no natural thing should, moving without moving. They were there and yet not there. Within the living realm and yet also not.

Bunyip did not like red field or its strange creatures, and it liked the Collector even less. The Collector drew the life of things into him, storing them, stealing them. The Collector was strong and Bunyip was afraid he would steal its life. Its hearts banged against his chest rapidly as it crawled away from the lake for the first time since the Dreaming, webbed feet thrusting. It would leave, it would hide. It would survive.

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What do you think of my Bunyip? It's an Indigenous Australian mythological creature, said to live in billabongs, who eats unwary people. But there are no firm descriptions, so I had to make that up.