by David Laing
My tongue suddenly felt bigger than normal, incapable of forming words. It’s not often that people give me surprise things. I smiled and nodded my thanks and then hurried after Snook, who had just left the shop.
Chapter 11
* * *
It was 11 o’clock Saturday morning. We’d just arrived at the camping area. Not far from the town, the camp lies about two and a bit kilometres from Cray Bay fishing village, a good run for Shadow who was puffing just a little. Situated at the foot of Ghost Mountain next to the meandering Snaky Creek and Mucky Lagoon, the camping area was a popular spot in the summer months for overnight camping, picnics and sight-seeing. But right now in autumn, I saw that it was deserted, except for one solitary camper, Mr Reginald Blowhard. He’d parked on the other side of a small bridge that spanned the creek. ‘He’s beaten us to it,’ Snook said, as he parked his bicycle under a tree. ‘He didn’t waste much time gettin’ here.’
‘I can’t see any sign of him,’ I commented. ‘He must be inside his camper, doing whatever.’
I looked over the bridge and down to the van and suddenly realised what I was looking at. Shaking my head, I said, ‘Look where he’s gone and set up camp. His van’s practically in the river. He couldn’t have read the warning signs about using the proper sites, about the dam upstream opening its floodgates from time to time. He should’ve camped on the proper site, the one with the ready-made fireplace. What an idiot. We’ll have to warn him in case the river suddenly rises and he gets flooded.’
Nodding absently, as though he were only half listening, Snook said, ‘Ghost Mountain does look a bit scary, don’t it, stickin’ out of the clouds like that? It looks like it’s watchin’
you.’
I looked towards the mountain. A wispy, Scotch mist was still hanging low around its base, and jutting abruptly from the ground, the mountain did seem to be peeking out of the clouds … just like Snook said.
Turning my attention to Shadow, who’d been wandering about the site exploring but who’d now decided to join us again, I said, ‘What do you say, boy? Should we go see Mr Blowhard … if he’s there?’ I pointed to Blowhard’s camp with my chin and then turned to Snook. ‘If Blowhard’s not in his van, he might be out somewhere taking photos. Wherever he is, we’d better find him and tell him about the flooding.’
I suspected that Snook wasn’t too thrilled at the prospect of meeting Mr Blowhard again. Head down, hands in pockets, he wasn’t exactly jumping for joy. My suspicions weren’t far from the mark, I thought, when I heard him say, ‘Do we have ter go? I’m not that fussy about seein’ ’im again. Just listening to ’im brag and carry on like a two-bob watch in Sam’s shop was enough for me.’
‘I’m not too thrilled about seeing him again either,’ I replied, ‘but we’d better. I don’t want images of his van floating down the river haunting me in my dreams. So let’s go and find out whether he’s there or not. If he’s gone somewhere, he’ll have left footprints. They’ll tell us where he’s headed. In the meantime, we might as well leave our backpacks here. Our lunch will be okay for a while. It’ll be in the shade.’
I smiled to myself. Aunt Irene had insisted that we take some food with us. She’d then proceeded to pack a lunch, which consisted of chops, sausages, buttered bread, cake and several pieces of fruit. She’d then put everything into a silver cooler bag with instructions to barbeque the meat when we got there. There was no doubt about it; Snook’s mother was the best. We weren’t going to go hungry, that was for sure.
Cameras dangling from our necks and with Shadow trotting along happily at our heels, we made our way over the bridge and down to Blowhard’s van. I could see straight away that he wasn’t there. Everything looked locked up, including his annex, which was practically overflowing into the river. There was no sound either, but, as I had hoped, there were footprints. I followed them for a short distance and came to a conclusion. They were heading towards the mountain and the gorge.
‘See anything?’ Snook yelled from near the van.
‘Yep, I have,’ I called back. ‘I see plenty o’ things.’ I pointed to the ground. ‘I see a white fella with pockets full up with goodies that went this way a short time ago. He’s a big fella who needs to go on a big fella diet. I’d say it was Mr Blowhard and I’d say he was carrying a camera in one hand and a Polly Waffle in the other.’
‘What’re ya goin’ on about? You’re a Polly Waffle.’
I bent and picked up the Polly Waffle wrapper that had obviously been thrown to the side by Blowhard. Holding it in the air for Snook to see, I said, ‘He likes sweet things by the look of it, and you were right; all the signs I’m reading say he’s heading for the gorge.’
‘Well,’ Snook said to me when I got back to him, ‘I hope he knows what he’s doing. Like Dad told us, the gorge can be a really scary place, especially when it suddenly goes dark in the middle of the afternoon.’
I thought about that for a moment and then asked, ‘Did your dad say why it goes dark?’
‘I asked him just before we left. He said somethin’ about the gorge bein’ real narrow and how when the sun disappears behind the mountain about three o’clock, its rays can’t get through to the bottom of the gorge. Somethin’ like that.’ Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, he said in a half-joking way, ‘At any rate, he shouldn’t have any problems; he did say he was a terrific bushman.’
‘He will have problems … if Mamu comes after him.’
‘Let’s go and have some lunch,’ Snook suggested, ‘and when Blowhard comes back, we can just tell him about the danger of flooding and leave him to it. Then he can go and do his own thing.’
‘Okay,’ I agreed, ‘lunch it is and we’ll let Mr Blowhard go his own way.’
‘Too right. I don’t want ’im hangin’ around ’ere pushin’ ’is weight around. And I don’t wanna listen to ’is braggin’ any more than I have to. I just wanna have lunch; then go somewhere to take some photos.’
‘Don’t worry, Snook, we’ll get your photos – one way or the other.’
‘I hope so, but let’s get back to our camp. I’m gettin’ hungry.’
Chapter 12
* * *
As soon as we got back to camp I took our lunch out of the cooler bag. Wow, I thought to myself when I saw exactly what Snook’s mother had packed for us. I knew that she’d given us plenty, but seeing it all laid out, I could see that it was more than enough.
Smiling to myself at my aunt’s motherly nature, I found myself watching Shadow. He’d made himself comfortable in the shade of the eucalypt tree where we’d left our bicycles. He obviously reckoned he deserved the rest. I was also watching Snook as he went about lighting a fire in the camp’s fireplace. It was a good setup; the fire came with a hotplate and plenty of wood.
We’d just got organised when Reginald Blowhard, still wearing a bushman’s hat, khaki shirt and hiking boots, walked unannounced into our camp. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, showing more gum than teeth, reminding me of a gummy shark. ‘I believe we met earlier this afternoon whilst I was making a booking with that Sam fellow.’
That’s strange, I thought. I couldn’t remember his teeth and gums being like that earlier this afternoon in the shop, although he was spitting a lot. ‘Hello, Mr Blowhard,’ I said, trying not to look at his glistening gums. I also held up my hand, telling Shadow to stay. He’d woken up, and realising that something new was going on, had popped his head up to investigate. I reckoned he’d be better off staying where he was. I figured Mr Blowhard wouldn’t appreciate Shadow’s doggy way of greeting strangers – lots and lots of sniffs, and the occa-sional leg lift. I turned to call out to Snook, to involve him in the new turn of events, but I could see that he wasn’t interested. He had his back to us … cooking.
In the meantime, with his hands behind his back and rocking to and fro on his feet as though he was trying to make up his mind about something, Blowhard eventually said, ‘I must say, your lunch smells delicious.’
No
t knowing how to reply, I just smiled and nodded.
‘Well, it was nice seeing you again,’ Blowhard said, turning to leave. ‘I’d better be off. I need to get back to Rex and see what’s in the larder. No doubt there’ll be some cheese and dry biscuits somewhere … if I can find any. I really should have stocked up with supplies when I was in town, but your shop-keeper confused me. He was acting in a most peculiar way. He appeared to be very nervous indeed. Is he always like that?’
Raising his eyebrows and tilting his head to the side, Snook signalled for me to join him out of Blowhard’s hearing. ‘We’re not gonna fall for that old trick, are we?’ he whispered. ‘Pretendin’ to be out of food. Ha! I bet he’s got plenty of tucker in that van of his. Polly Waffles for a start.’
I was barely listening. Something else was happening. There were more visitors arriving; it was Gloria and Quenton Quigley … on their bicycles. ‘Hi, Jars,’ Gloria said, joining us. ‘We thought you’d be here. You mentioned Ghost Mountain last night.’ She looked over my shoulder at Snook who was busying himself with the sausages. I could see she was waiting for some sort of response from him. She wasn’t getting it. I glared at my cousin. Say something, you idiot. But he wasn’t going to. He was playing the poor put upon soul. He could be so infuriating at times.
Shaking my head at Snook’s silly stubbornness, I said to Gloria, ‘You’re just in time for lunch.’
‘Terrific,’ she said, making her way over to her bicycle that she’d left next to ours. ‘I’ll go fetch what we have.’ Returning with two Tupperware lunch boxes, she looked around for a place to put them. I smiled to myself when she chose a tree stump close to Snook. No harm in trying, I supposed.
Besides noticing the ongoing saga between Snook and Gloria, I saw that Blowhard’s demeanour had changed; he was looking kind of sad at being left out. I felt a pang of guilt. ‘Er, would you care to join us for lunch, Mr Blowhard? We have enough.’
Balancing paper plates on our laps, we were all sitting around the fire perched on makeshift seats – tree stumps that someone had fashioned with a chain-saw – eating and listening to Blowhard prattling on about his outing this morning. ‘Yes,’ he was saying, ‘I’ve decided that the gorge meets with my approval. I shall explore it further this afternoon at which stage, I intend to capture on my super-duper SLR telephoto camera, the wildlife of the area, plus anything else I find interesting. And with my expertise, I’m bound to win the competition.’
Snook groaned and pulled a face, a sort of half snarl. He wasn’t happy and I could see why. Mt Blowhard was stealing his photography idea and Quenton was trying to steal his girl. Then there was the kid and the huge dinosaur with the long neck that was showing the movie of its life. They were pretty upsetting – to Snook and to me. I was getting a bit tired of Blowhard too; he was certainly laying it on a bit thick. ‘Yes,’ he was saying now, ‘with my excellent equipment and my bushman’s expertise I should do very well in the competition, very well indeed.’ Not content with leaving his self-praise there, he went on to tell us – between sloppy bites of sausage – of his various travels and heroic exploits around the countryside in Tasmania and on the mainland. If what he was telling us was true – and I didn’t think that was the case – then he had indeed been everywhere and done everything. Thankfully, his tales came to an end, and after rubbing his stomach and burping loudly, he leaned over and placed his empty plate on the ground next to him.
I asked Gloria whether she’d like something else to eat or drink. She was about to answer when Blowhard, letting out a shriek that would scare your pants off, exploded from his seat. The plate he had placed on the ground alongside him was moving … on its own.
‘Wh-what’s going on?’ he said, dancing around the self-propelling plate. ‘Is-is this a joke?’
‘Nah,’ Snook said with a grin on his face. ‘It’s no joke. The plate’s movin’ on its own all right. Who knows, maybe it’s Mamu payin’ us a visit.’
‘Wh-who’s Mamu?’
‘Oh, he’s the spirit monster,’ Snook said in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘He lives on Ghost Mountain, but sometimes he gets lonely and likes to visit us humans.’
‘Is this Mamu d-dangerous?’ Blowhard asked, his voice no longer blustering.
‘He can be,’ Snook said, grinning that crooked grin of his. ‘If you upset him, then there’s no telling what he’ll do.’
I couldn’t help smiling. I’d seen the reason for the mysteriously moving plate but considering Blowhard’s earlier loutish behaviour I reckoned it wouldn’t hurt for Mr Blowhard to wonder for a while. Although, seeing the growing look of terror that had now come over him, I quickly changed my mind. His face had gone a deep purple colour and his breath was coming in short, gasping spurts. It looked like his eyes might pop at any second, too. I figured I’d better tell him what was going on before he had a heart attack. Trying to be serious, I said, ‘You put your plate on the back of an echidna, Mr Blowhard. He was in the middle of burrowing under-ground at the time; echidnas do that. He must have decided to take your plate for a ride.’ To prove my point, I walked over and extracted the paper plate from the echidna’s prickly spikes that were just jutting above the ground. That got him moving. The little fellow, legs working like pistons, came to the surface and then, as though wondering what all the fuss was about, waddled off towards the trees and the long tufts of grass at the edge of our camp. Shadow, head on his outstretched paws, and probably wondering what the fuss was about too, watched as the echidna disappeared.
Still puffing and blowing in harsh, wet gasps, Blowhard, bent over, retreated to the other edge of the camp. After several minutes and regaining his breath, Blowhard straightened and brushed some imaginary crumbs from his shirt. He called back to us, ‘Of course, I knew what it was all along. There’s no fooling Reginald Blowhard, you know.’ Tossing his head in the air, he added, ‘Thank you very much for lunch, but I must go and make preparations for my expedition this afternoon to Mount … What was it called again?’
‘Ghost Mountain,’ I called back.
‘Yeah,’ Snook yelled out. ‘Where Mamu lives. You’d better keep a look out for him; he could be anywhere.’
‘What do you reckon?’ Snook asked me after Blowhard had left. ‘Do you still want to go to the gorge?’
I told Snook that we’d better. Something was telling me that Blowhard could very well run into trouble where he was going. I also had the feeling that all the self-confidence oozing out of him was nothing but hot air.
Snook, putting on his best posh accent and with rounded lips, replied, ‘Surely you’re not suggesting that Mr Reginald Blowhard, the famous bushman extraordinaire, will get himself into a spot of bother, are you?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so, but there’s something else.’
‘Oh?’
‘We forgot to tell him about the dam.’
Chapter 13
* * *
Reginald Blowhard sat at his table finalising plans for that afternoon. Whilst listening to his second favourite song, It’s Just An Itsy Bitsy, Teeny Weeny, Yellow Polka Dot Bikini, he thought of his options. ‘ Yes, I believe that would be best,’ he said aloud above the music. ‘I don’t believe in any of that hoo-hah those children were on about anyway. I’m certainly not going to be intimidated by their tales of ghost mountains and spirit monsters. I’ll go for a leisurely walk in the gorge.’ Pushing up from the table, he patted the van wall and asked Rex, ‘You don’t believe in those childish stories about monsters, do you, Rex?’ Answering his own question, he said, ‘No, of course you don’t.’
With his mind made up and with visions of competition-winning photos swirling around in his head, he turned off the music, grabbed his camera from the top of the bed, filled his pockets with goodies from the fridge, opened the van door and then stepped out into the autumn sunshine. ‘Here I come!’ he called across the button-grass plains that paved the way to the gorge; ‘Reginald Blowhard, bushman extraordinaire, is ready for action.’
C
amera grasped firmly in one hand and pockets bulging with treats, he walked across the bridge, skirted past the children’s camp, and then made his way towards the mountain and the gorge.
The entrance to the gorge was narrow. It was enclosed by tall granite cliffs dotted with black rocks, and between the cliffs was the fast flowing river which, as soon as it had gushed out of the gorge and onto the button grass plain, would turn into the slow, meandering, Snaky Creek.
On the lookout for likely photo opportunities and skirting any rocks that had broken loose from the cliff face, he continued to walk along the narrow bush track. But after about another kilometre, he stopped. His legs felt heavy and he was wheezing. He looked at his watch; it was 2.45pm. Time for a rest.
A large, smooth-looking boulder that lay just ahead would do nicely. From where he stood he could see that it had a nice flat surface. Dragging his feet a little, he walked over and climbed onto the boulder. He then lay back and closed his eyes. It wasn’t long before the warmth of the sun and the rhythmic rush of the river lulled him to sleep.
After lunch, Snook and I, plus Shadow, made our way to the gorge. We were following in Blowhard’s tracks – to warn him about the dam upstream and how it could cause flooding. Snook hadn’t been entirely happy about that and even now he was letting me know about it. ‘Strewth,’ he said, ‘it’s not fair. We could tell him about the dam when he gets back. It’s gettin’ past a joke. I’m here for a reason, you know – to win that competition. I’m not here to worry about Blowhard!’
‘I hear what you’re saying,’ I said, ‘and I agree. So let’s just catch up with him, tell him about the dam, and then hurry on to somewhere else to get the photos; somewhere where he’s not. Okay?’
