by Adam France
‘So you’re trying to tell me there is a monster on my golf course?’ Mr Ridgeman, counting the golf balls, chuckled at what he just heard.
‘Well, I wouldn’t call it a monster,’ I corrected, trying to find the right words.
‘It’s like an anaconda,’ Marty offered.
Mr Ridgeman looked up from the balls.
‘Boys,’ he said, eyeing us both off, ‘does this look like the Amazon rainforest?’
His furrowed eyebrows and tight-lipped scowl suggested he wasn’t amused anymore.
It was no use.
‘You got us,’ I lied. ‘We were just trying to trick you.’
Marty looked over at me and motioned towards the backpack. I returned a quick shake of the head.
Marty looked back at Mr Ridgeman and nodded in agreement.
‘April Fool!’ he called out.
Mr Ridgeman rolled his eyes and continued to count the balls.
‘That’s twenty-four.’ He reached into his top drawer and pulled out a pile of loose change and counted it on the desk. ‘And here’s twelve dollars.’
‘Thanks, Mr Ridgeman.’ I said as I pocketed the money.
‘No problem, boys,’ he said. But his eyes were stern. ‘And let’s not forget it’s November, not April, gentlemen. So it’s probably best to keep your fantasy stories about mythical creatures to yourselves.’
Marty gulped.
‘Yes, Mr Ridgeman,’ we said together.
We didn’t wait for a goodbye. We turned and made our way out of the golf club.
‘Wow.’ Marty looked at the ground as he walked. ‘Mr Ridgeman is a real jerk.’
The sun broke from behind the clouds and I realised I had left my hat in Mr Ridgeman’s office.
‘Wait here, I won’t be a second.’ I jogged back towards the clubhouse.
Walking up the hallway towards Mr Ridgeman’s office, I noticed his door was closed. I leaned in to knock, but I heard him speaking aggressively and waited.
‘Yes, two boys!’ he said. ‘The pond behind the eighth green.’
He was talking about us. He was probably on the phone to my parents, telling them that I was a liar.
‘They found the serpent. And now we know where it is.’
My heart stopped. I couldn’t believe it: Mr Ridgeman knew about the creature. And he’d spoken to us like we were talking nonsense.
‘Round up the team, George,’ he continued from behind the door. ‘Tomorrow morning we’re going hunting.’
I gasped out loud. I tried to push it back in by covering my mouth, but it was too late.
‘Hang on a second, George.’
There was no time. I ran and ducked behind two golf bags. Mr Ridgeman’s head appeared in his doorway. He looked left and right before closing the door again.
I jumped up and ran as fast as I could out of the clubhouse. Marty hadn’t moved. I ran straight past and motioned for him to follow.
‘What’s happening?’ Marty asked as he caught up.
I stopped at the front entrance to the golf course. Marty and I dropped to the ground trying to catch our breath.
‘Was the serpent in the clubhouse?’ Marty asked, trying to make sense of my panicked run.
‘No,’ I replied between breaths. ‘But as of tomorrow there won’t be a serpent.’
Marty looked at me, confused.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mr Ridgeman and some others are going to kill it.’ I stood and looked at the clubhouse. ‘And I can’t let that happen.’
Marty stood beside me, following my stare towards Top Hill Golf Club. I could sense he felt the same.
It was time the rescued became the rescuer.
‘How are we going to do it?’ Marty asked.
I stood there for a moment before looking at the backpack.
‘I have a plan.’
The sun had barely broken the horizon as I stood on the bank of Jackpot Pond.
‘You think this will work?’ Marty asked, staring at the swampy water from his dad’s office chair.
‘We’ll soon find out.’
I gave Marty a nod and started frantically thrashing the water with my hands. Marty remained silent in the office chair that was roped to my bike on the grass nearby.
‘Help! Help!’ I screamed. I kicked and slapped the surface of the pond, the sound echoing across the golf course. ‘I’m stuck! Help!’
As I continued to flail, I looked back at Marty, his face anxiously searching the water for a sign. Nothing.
‘Come on!’ I screamed at the pond. ‘I know you’re here!’
My arms and legs began to get tired. And with one final slap at the surface, I overbalanced and fell in.
‘It’s no use,’ I called back to Marty. ‘It doesn’t care.’
‘Paddy,’ Marty replied.
‘This was a silly idea,’ I continued, ignoring him. ‘There’s no way we—’
‘Paddy!’ Marty interrupted loudly.
I sat up in the water and followed Marty’s horrified gaze to the pond behind me. And there it was, rising high above the water with its slick scales shimmering against the rising sun. Its head tilted. Its bright yellow eyes locked on my submerged body.
I was spotted. I didn’t have much time. I only had one chance.
I slowly rose to my feet and backed out of the water, my eyes never leaving those of the serpent. Once back on the grass, I blindly reached down and found my bike.
‘Okay, Marty,’ I whispered. ‘On the count of three.’
From the corner of my eye, I could see Marty give a slow nod.
‘One.’ I gently lifted the bike by the handlebars, my eyes still on the serpent’s.
‘Two.’ I slowly backed the bike away from the pond’s edge.
The serpent’s green tongue began to flicker. Its bright yellow eyes blinked.
‘Three!’ I screamed as I jumped on the bike.
I looked across at Marty just in time to see him hold the serpent egg high above his head.
‘C-come get it!’ he spluttered, his body visibly trembling with fear.
I started pedalling as fast as I could down the fairway before feeling the rope pull tight. As I raced forward, I heard an ear-piercing scream. I turned to see Marty holding desperately onto the speeding office chair at the end of the rope. The bright green egg sat firmly between his legs.
And then I saw the serpent. Its body slithering with intent towards Marty. Its tail whipping against the grass. Its eyes narrowed on the egg.
‘Faster, Paddy!’ Marty yelled from behind.
I pushed harder and faster along the fairway. My legs burning. My heart racing. My eyes set on my destination: Two Trees Creek. It was now only a couple of hundred metres ahead. When we reached it, Marty would throw the egg in the water. And the serpent would follow. And it would be free to live in peace.
That was, of course, if it didn’t tear us into pieces first.
‘Paddy!’ Marty screamed.
I turned my head to see the serpent continuing to chase the office chair as it bumped along the golf course. But that wasn’t what caught my attention.
Beyond the snake I saw the glimmer of sunlight on iron golf clubs as a buggy came tearing down the fairway. Behind the wheel was Mr Ridgeman, his face a menacing twist and his eyes set on the serpent. Five other people clung to the side of the cart waving their clubs.
We needed to get it to the creek before it was too late.
I lifted my bottom off the seat and pushed as hard as I could. My legs felt like they were about to catch alight. My knuckles were white as I gripped the handlebars.
The creek was no more than thirty metres ahead.
I glanced back to see the serpent still thrashing towards Marty in the office chair. The golf buggy still tearing up the fairway behind the serpent.
I turned and saw a giant bunker right in front of me. A rise in the turf had hidden it from view until now. I squeezed the brakes as hard as I could, but fell into the pit of sand a
nd came to a sudden stop. I looked up, hearing Marty’s scream grow louder, and watched as the office chair flew off the rise and over the top of the bunker. In mid-air, the rope pulled tight.
I watched in horror as Marty shot out from his chair at the speed of a bullet. He splashed into the creek and out of sight. A moment later, the serpent slithered past me and into the water.
‘Marty!’ I ran as fast as I could towards the bank.
I could hear the screeching brakes of the buggy behind me. The golfers’ faces were now painted with fear.
‘HELP!’ I pleaded, pointing towards the water. ‘My friend, Marty. Help!’ I couldn’t get the words out.
I was about to dive in after Marty but a hand grabbed my shoulder. It was Mr Ridgeman.
‘Stop!’ he yelled, his eyes on the creek. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
I halted and looked out at the water. It was calm. Silent. There was no sign of Marty. No sign of the serpent. Not a ripple on the surface. Marty had disappeared. My friend was gone.
‘Marty!’ I screamed.
I turned towards Mr Ridgeman, who was looking at his fellow golfers in sadness. Then one of the men looked up, his face filled with shock as he pointed. One by one they all followed his gaze.
I turned around. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Rising high out of the water was the serpent. Its shimmering steel-blue body standing strong. Its bright yellow eyes on mine. Its mouth open wide.
And inside its mouth lay Marty. His eyes closed. His body limp.
The serpent moved towards the creek edge. Mr Ridgeman and his golfers took a step backwards. I stood my ground and watched as the serpent slowly lowered Marty to the shore.
Marty didn’t move. His eyes didn’t open.
I watched in shock as the serpent lifted its head above Marty’s. With a flick of its tongue, it licked his face from chin to forehead, leaving a trail of fluorescent green slime.
Almost instantly, Marty started to move. His eyes opened. Marty stared into the serpent’s eyes, but he wasn’t scared. He wasn’t shocked. He smiled.
The rest of us watched as the serpent smiled back, before turning and submerging itself in the creek without leaving a single ripple.
We looked out at the water in awe for what felt like minutes before Marty stood up.
‘Hey, Mr Ridgeman.’ Marty gestured at the creek. ‘You owe my dad a new office chair.’
‘A-one, a-two, a-one, two, three, go!’
Marty smashed the skins of the drums and hit the cymbals like a monkey on a sugar high. I strummed the strings so hard and fast my guitar sounded like Dad’s whipper snipper. We were out of tune. We were out of time. But we didn’t care. We were finally a band playing our first show at Top Hill Golf Club in front of twenty elderly patrons who had already flicked their hearing aids off. I guess they couldn’t handle the rocking sounds of The Serpent Riders.
The Letterbox
‘It’s too early!’ I mumbled from underneath my pillow.
‘Too early?’ I could hear Dad pulling open my curtains. ‘Well, the birds are chirping and that’s good enough for me!’
But I couldn’t hear any birds. All I could hear was Mum’s wind chimes smashing against each other. Which meant one thing: the winter winds had kicked in. It was going to be freezing outside.
Dad pulled the pillow away from my head. ‘C’mon, get up.’
‘Argh!’ I pulled myself out of bed and squinted at my watch: 5.11 a.m. The floorboards felt like ice under my toes.
I looked enviously at Troy, who continued to sleep with his pinky finger jammed into his nostril.
Dad gave me one of his signature nudges as I rubbed my arms to warm them up.
‘The papers don’t deliver themselves. Go on.’
I struggled to pedal and brake down Hellman’s Hill, the steepest hill in Top Hill. My face and fingers were numb as the gale-force winds pounded them. My nose rhythmically sniffled in time with the squeeze of the brakes. I had to work hard to keep my balance and not go over the handlebars as the back wheel struggled to stick to the steep slope.
It’s not unusual for Top Hill to be windy. It’s what you get when you live on one of the tallest hills in Australia. But cold weather is not something we’re used to. And when you combine the two, it’s what our local weather reporter calls an ‘unpredictable weather event’.
I’d call it an ‘unfair weather event’. As in, it was unfair that in my first few weeks as a paperboy I was forced to be out in it at five o’clock in the morning. Do people even read newspapers anymore?
Every time I started to gain momentum on the bike, I had to force myself to a stop and slip another newspaper into a letterbox. The next letterbox was one of the worst. It has a star-shaped tube that is designed to fit a newspaper for an ant. I have yet to squeeze a newspaper in there successfully without tearing the first few pages.
Most houses on my paper run look the same. Same red brick.
Same concrete driveway. Same red bottlebrush tree in the small front yard. The only thing that changes from house to house is the letterbox. And there are many types of letterboxes out there. I already have a name for them all.
The Basic Box is a small box on a thin pole. The more advanced model has the newspaper tube on the side. Nothing fancy, hence the name.
Then you have the Goliath Box. Either cement or brick, it stands almost a metre high with a neat built-in box and tube. These are my favourite as the tube is usually big enough to fit two papers. Sometimes I’m able to slip the paper into the tube without stopping. Speedy service.
Then you have the Artsy Fartsy Boxes. These are usually homemade. Some are models of the actual house. Or magical frozen chains holding an odd-shaped box. Or a mess of scrap metal formed in the shape of an animal. Most of these look terrible. And they rarely have a tube installed.
I have a choice of either attempting to squeeze the thick Saturday paper into the thin mail slot or chucking it on the ground. The ground wins, hands down.
I shouldn’t really complain. We don’t even have a letterbox. Dad just stapled the number of our house to the tree out the front and drew an arrow with black marker to the fork of the lowest branch. But now that the tree has grown, no one can reach the lowest branch. So Dad put out an old broken crate beside it.
Different shapes, colours, sizes. Some numbered. Some unnumbered. Some numbers upside down. Every letterbox gives a little insight into its owners.
Pedal, pedal, brake. I continued to stop and start down the hill. My face was completely numb. My fingers were burning. I was almost at the bottom of the hill.
The best part about this paper route was the fact that all the houses are on one side of the road. The opposite side of the road is bushland. It makes it easier to walk my bike back up to the top of Hellman’s Hill. But Dad reckons it won’t be long until it all becomes new houses.
For now, I enjoyed being able to quickly make my way back to the top. But it didn’t come quick enough after having to deliver the last paper to number 71.
Everyone feared number 71. Rumour had it that the last two paper deliverers quit the route because of number 71. Number 71 was at the very bottom of the hill, tucked away in the bushland on the other side of the road.
The house was small, with cracked fibro walls. Remnants of ancient grey paint flaked off the exterior. Instead of blinds, the windows were roughly painted black, with scratch marks revealing a dim orange glow pulsing inside. But it wasn’t the house that made my spine tingle. It was the letterbox.
The letterbox was once solid timber. That was about a hundred years ago. With the wood rotten and eaten away by various critters, it had been patched up with pieces of scrap metal. These too had been eaten away over time by rust, leaving jagged tooth-like pieces shaped in an angry snarl, warning anyone who came too close of impending danger. I had named it the Beast Box.
There wasn’t a tube on the box. There wasn’t a pole either. No, the worst thing about the Beast Box wasn’t the way it looked. It
was the fact that it was attached to the front door.
Finally, I had reached the bottom of the hill. The wind was blowing stronger than ever. I felt as if I was going to be blown over like piece of paper, or even worse, sucked into the bushland.
Forcing my way across the road, I glanced at number 71. The trees that surrounded it danced angrily, almost warning me to stay away. The chain link fence thrashed against the rusty posts, sending up an ear-piercing shrill. The loosely fixed ‘DO NOT LEAVE PAPER ON THE GROUND’ sign slammed against the fence, sternly ordering me to make my way to the Beast Box.
The driveway, covered in large, jagged stones, was too much for my bike. I’d tried it once before, resulting in a puncture of both my tyres. I rested my bike against the chain link fence, grabbed the last paper from my bag and began the treacherous journey down the rugged driveway.
Every step I took forced the giant rocks under my feet to clap together. Loud enough to pierce the wind and signal to whoever was inside that someone was approaching. There was no way of tiptoeing. Each step I took clicked and clacked, creating tightness in my chest.
A giant wind gust pushed me off balance, making my feet dance over the rocks. As they shifted under me, I lost my balance and fell hard to the ground. I wanted to yell out in pain, but I knew that would alert whoever lurked inside the house.
I took a few deep breaths and struggled back to my feet. I checked my arms and legs. Both were grazed. My left hand had a deep cut from catching the edge of a sharp rock, preventing my face from damage. But there was no time to worry about it now.
