Danny Allen Was Here

by Phil Cummings

  Danny flew over a stump. Twigs, leaves and bark crackled beneath his pounding feet like distant fireworks. ‘Sam, waaait! Slow down a bit!’ he puffed. ‘Wait up!’

  Sam kept running. ‘No, Danny!’ he called back. ‘If you can’t keep up, go home.’

  Danny gritted his teeth. ‘I’m not going home!’

  ‘Well, keep up then.’

  Danny glanced down into the creek. There were huge trees, dead and grey, lying like the skeletons of dinosaurs. Danny didn’t fancy falling on them. He felt dizzy and nearly lost his footing. Stones from under his feet tumbled in a mini avalanche over the edge and bounced down the cliff face. Danny headed away from the edge. ‘Don’t look down,’ he muttered.

  Up ahead, Sam stopped at a narrow sheep track that cut down the steep bank. He stood for a moment and looked back through the jigsaw-shadows of the overhanging trees. ‘Hurry up!’ he called again. Then he looked down to the rocky bed. ‘I’ve found the sheep track. I’m going down.’ He squatted and began to slide on his heels.

  Danny watched a cloud of red dust rise from his brother’s skating feet. Sam’s bobbing and shuddering head disappeared into the dust and below the horizon of the creek’s bank. Although Danny couldn’t see him any more it was obvious from the anguished cry that echoed to the treetops that the momentum of the downhill slide had made Sam go faster than he’d intended.

  ‘Whooooaaa!’

  A thicker cloud of powdery red dust rose to the air.

  Danny’s attention was taken away from his brother when he heard, ‘Coooooeeeee!’

  Danny lifted his eyes to the call from across the creek. Mark Thompson was on the far side, standing on a high cliff with his arms folded and tapping his right foot impatiently. He lived across the road from Danny and Sam, just down from the Mundowie Hall. This expedition was his idea.

  He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, ‘Get a move on, you guys!’ Startled galahs squawked from the trees. Mark was very loud.

  Danny was puffing hard when he reached the sheep track. He hesitated at the top of the bank. He had a bird’s-eye view of Sam running, out of control, arms waving wildly, onto the rocky creek bed. He was screaming and laughing at the same time. ‘Aghahahaaaa.’

  Amazingly, he didn’t fall. Danny smiled thinly and looked down through the veil of his brother’s scuffed-up dust. It was a long way down. Rocks jutted from the path and there were tree roots, crooked and claw-like, reaching in from the sides ready to scratch, cut and tear.

  Breathing hard, with his toes hanging over the edge of the bank, Danny appraised the sheep track, steeling himself for the descent. He hadn’t been this way before. This was Mark’s way.

  ‘Come on, Danny!’ Mark bellowed impatiently. ‘What are you waiting for? The stupid sheep can do it!’

  Danny didn’t want to be left behind and he didn’t want anyone to think he was sillier than the sheep, so he bobbed down, took a deep breath, said, ‘Here goes,’ and started sliding.

  The powdery dust offered no grip. Danny was immediately out of control. He tried to slow himself. He dug his heels in, but the soles of his shoes were well worn. His bum scraped the ground and the sharpest rocks bit into his pudgy flesh. ‘Ow! Ow!’ He rolled onto his hip. That didn’t help. It hurt more. He thought he heard his pants rip. Gritty grains of dirt and muck flew up from his kicking feet and into his gaping mouth. When he closed his mouth he bit down on something soft, round and squashy like a pea. It tasted like sh . . . sheep dung. Yuck! Danny spat furiously.

  He reached out desperately and clutched at a tuft of thick grass, but it was prickly. ‘Yeow!’ He quickly let it go. Next he snatched at a small bush, but it came right out of the ground – roots and all. Dirt rained down into his hair and eyes. On he skidded with no way to stop, faster and faster, scraping knees and elbows, chewing on dirt and . . . all sorts of things.

  Nearing the bottom Danny suddenly thought about the boulders in the creek bed. They made boulder-sized lumps if you head butted them. The creek bed was looming, but he had a plan. Danny always had a plan and this one was simple, well it sounded simple – stand up and run very fast. Danny’s face was stretched with horrid anticipation. His eyebrows were so high they’d disappeared under his flapping fringe. He prepared himself. Wait for it . . . ready . . . set . . . now!

  With only a metre to go to the base of the bank Danny rose quickly to his feet. As if pinged from a slingshot, he flew out onto the creek bed. His stamping feet made the bed of smooth stones snap like clicking fingers. His legs were going far too fast, but there was nothing he could do about it. He waved his arms wildly, desperate not to be overtaken by his own momentum.

  Without any real understanding of how it happened, Danny managed to avoid falling flat on his face. He stopped and tried to catch his breath. His legs were like jelly. Stunned, he looked across the creek-bed landscape, past islands of fine creek sand, veins of smooth stones and the grey skeletons of fallen trees. Sam was already scrambling up a dusty slope not as steep as the last toward Mark Thompson.

  The far bank was one of Danny’s favourite parts of the creek. When the rains came the bank was muddy and slippery, perfect for jumping on an inflated tractor tube and sliding, sometimes flying, down the bank. If there was water in the creek then they would skim across the surface. Tsh, tsh, tsh. And then fall in. Splash! Danny was convinced that the muddy tube ride was better than any amusement park – although he’d only ever seen the parks on television.

  Keen to keep up, Danny ignored any stinging grazes and raced off across the uneven creek bed. His ankles twisted, his cheeks wobbled and the world was shuddering. He reached the other side and looked up to see Sam clamber over the top of the bank and disappear.

  Danny started climbing like an ant up a tree trunk. He was out of breath by the time he crawled, grunting and puffing, over the top of the bank and caterpillared into a small forest of tall yellow grasses.

  He stood and brushed himself down. A prickle of pain caught his attention. His left knee was stinging.

  It was an old injury. He had hurt it riding his bike down the slide in the playground a few days before. There was a large scab from which a fine thread of blood was trickling. Danny spat on his hand and smeared the dirt, then the blood. He wanted to pull the scab off, but knew it would hurt.

  A shadow suddenly loomed over Danny. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have brought you two. You’re slowing me down.’

  Danny looked up. Mark Thompson was standing over him.

  Mark was a few months older than Sam. He was taller and much bigger. His hair was the colour of the red dust in the creek. Freckles the same colour as his hair were sprinkled across his nose like the rust speckles spattered across the roof of Danny’s house. Mark always impressed Danny because he seemed to know everything about everything. And he said he could kick a footy right over the Mundowie Hall. Amazing!

  Mark looked down at Danny’s scab. ‘Just pull it off,’ he said gruffly. ‘If you do it quickly it doesn’t hurt.’ He looked Danny in the eye. He shaped his fingers into a claw and crinkled his nose. Some of his freckles disappeared into creases. ‘Just get your fingernail under the crusty edge and pull.’ He looked away quickly. ‘I’ve done it heaps of times.’

  That’s just what Mark had said when he told Danny to ride his bike down the slide in the playground. I’ve done it heaps of times. You can’t hurt yourself. Danny had known it was a stupid thing to do, but he felt as though he had no choice. So he did it. He flew off the end of the slide and went for a spectacular head-over-handlebars tumble. Afterwards, when Mark was laughing at him, he had felt as silly as a sheep. Incredibly, he had only hurt his knee.

  Mark leant over and reached for the scab. ‘I’ll do it for you if you like.’

  Danny glanced down at Mark’s hands. He shook his head and pulled his knee away. ‘No, thanks, I’ll leave it for now.’

  Mark had big hands, chubby fingers and no fingernails because he chewed them. Grease and grime filled the skin creases in
his knuckles. Mark’s dad had the same hands. He’d been a farmer like Danny’s dad, but not any more. He drove an old truck now and called his business Thompson Transport. He was a big man who loved cowboy hats and country music. He always had black oil or grease stains on his hands. He worked on his truck all the time.

  On warm nights Danny and Tippy often sat on the front fence. And when they weren’t looking at the stars or the moon or trying to spot frogmouth owls they would look across to Mark’s place. The shed doors were often wide open. The radio would be crackling and the interesting percussion of chinking tools drifted out into the night. Mark and his dad would be in there working away on the truck. The soft light, crowded with moths on frenzied flight paths, would reach out across the gravel road. For Danny, looking through the velvet darkness of night to the well-lit shed was like watching a 3-D television set.

  ‘Come on,’ Mark whined. ‘Let’s go. We’ll never get to the old Miller place at this rate.’

  Mark led the expedition away from the creek. ‘You’ve got to keep up now,’ he grumbled. ‘I’m not waiting for you again. I’m not your mother.’

  From the shade of the trees by the creek the path went across an open field and up a hill to where a few sheep were gathering. They all stopped eating grass, lifted their heads and stared at their visitors.

  At the top of the hill the boys stood and looked back toward the creek and Mundowie nestled in a gentle hollow in the distance. So did the sheep.

  Mark leant on Danny and frowned curiously. ‘So why isn’t Tippy with you?’ he asked.

  Danny squinted up at him. ‘He’s at the funeral with Vicki.’

  ‘Funeral!’ gasped Mark. ‘Who died?’

  ‘Snot.’

  ‘Snot! Who’s Snot?’

  ‘You know, her frog. He’s called Snot because he’s all blotchy and slimy. She’s had him since we caught him as a tadpole in the creek. She caught tadpoles for Sam and me as well, but ours didn’t last long enough to become frogs. She was looking after Snot pretty well, but then she forgot about him for a couple of days and didn’t put water in his drum, so he got fried. Mum made cakes with her and they’re going to bury him near the tractor shed. Tippy stayed, not because he loves Snot but because he loves cakes and knew he’d get some.’

  Mark paused thoughtfully then nodded and said, ‘Yeah, he’s a wise little dog. I know where he’s coming from. Your mum’s cakes are almost as good as old Mrs. Wallace’s Anzac biscuits.’

  Danny nodded and cast a glance toward the Wallace house. Old Mrs. Wallace did make pretty good Anzac biscuits. ‘We won’t miss out on the cakes. Mum will save us some.’

  Mark hit Danny on the arm. ‘If not we’ll go see Mrs. Wallace,’ he said. ‘She’s always got a tin full of those biscuits.’

  Danny smiled. ‘Good idea.’

  The roar of a car on the gravel road caught everyone’s attention. They saw a familiar white station wagon rumble out of Mundowie. There was a lot of rattling and squeaking. Dust billowed from behind it like smoke from the nostrils of a brooding dragon.

  The car roared into the shadows as the road cut down into the creek. The horn sounded a musical signal. Bah, dah, dah, dah.

  A hand lifted from the window and waved. Danny waved back. So did Sam.

  Mark nudged Sam. ‘Where’s your dad going?’

  ‘To see the guy at the bank.’

  Mark shook his head. The spike of hair that always stuck up between his eyes quivered.

  ‘Huh, my dad hates the bank.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sam. ‘So does ours.’

  Danny frowned thoughtfully. He didn’t know why his dad hated the bank because the bank gave them money.

  ‘He’s just going to get some money,’ said Danny. ‘The bank guy came to visit him the other day about it.’

  Mark leant forward. ‘A guy from the bank came to your house?’ he asked eagerly.

  Danny nodded. ‘Yeah, he was a nice guy.’

  Mark rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah right!’ he sneered sarcastically. He turned his back, mumbled something and walked away.

  Danny scooted to catch up. Sam and Mark started talking about the old Miller place. It was a tumble-down homestead a couple of kilometres outside of Mundowie. Every kid for miles around said it was haunted. There were stories of two little toddler ghosts wandering around in old-fashioned clothes calling for their mother.

  The story was that she had disappeared one day to go walking in the bush and had never come back. Her body was never found. The father was away on farm business. And the kids, home alone, had both been bitten by snakes and died.

  Mark Thompson seemed to know more about it than most.

  ‘I’ve slept out here a couple of times,’ he said.

  Danny was impressed. ‘What, by yourself ?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mark shrugged, ‘why not?’

  ‘Weren’t you scared?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see anything?’

  ‘Yeah, I saw the kids and the mum.’

  Danny screwed up his face. ‘Jeez, what did they look like?’

  Mark stopped and turned. He had a very round face and could make his eyes pop like ping-pong balls. He leant over Danny.

  Danny wished he hadn’t asked. He hated stories about ghosts and snakes.

  Mark made his voice soft and throaty when he said, ‘I wasn’t scared until I heard . . . the clunk.’

  Danny was mesmerised. ‘What clunk?’

  Mark leant closer, his nose almost touching Danny’s. His glaring right eye was twitching. ‘The falling head!’ he shouted, as he grabbed Danny by the shoulders suddenly.

  Danny jumped back. ‘Agggh!’ His face was twisted with fear when he asked, ‘W . . . w . . . what falling head?’

  Mark rolled his eyes. His voice softened again. His right eyebrow arched. ‘The mum’s head just fell right off when she walked toward me.’ Mark clutched at his own neck. ‘Aw, it was awful!’ He jerked as if pulling his head from his shoulders. ‘Then the head was on the floor talking to me asking me if I’d seen her kids. There was blood and bits of skin and veins hanging down from the neck.’

  Danny wished Tippy were with him. He looked to Sam. ‘We’ll be home before dark, won’t we?’

  Mark chortled. ‘You’re not scared are you, Danny?’

  Danny shook his head hard and straightened himself stiffly. ‘No, no I’m not scared. I didn’t say I was scared.’

  He marched off, leading the way just to prove it. All the while he was wishing he would grow and become brave like Mark Thompson.

  There were huge moss rocks on the hill overlooking the Miller homestead. Danny was the first to climb onto them.

  A breeze brushed his cheeks. When he dabbed more spit on his scabby knee the coolness made it stop stinging.

  To Danny the old homestead was like a castle ruin.

  Half the roof was missing. Most of the walls were crumbling; there was no glass in the windows. The rainwater tank was seeping water through rusty veins. There was a windmill that creaked when it turned.

  Danny jumped from the rocks. He spied something. He froze and stared hard at a crevice at the base of the boulders. Yes! It was just as he’d thought. There was a freshly shed snakeskin lying there just waiting for him.

  Danny loved to hold snakeskins up to his eyes. It was like looking through the cellophane that Vicki used in the eyes of her cardboard glasses. The world looked all soft and dreamy. His dad had shown him one day under the pepper trees down by the tractor shed. Standing at the back fence they had looked across the fields to where the lumpy hills rose to the sky.

  Danny dropped to his knees and pushed his arm into the darkness. Mark was curious, so he peered in and saw the skin. He nudged Danny with his knee, unbalancing him.

  ‘He’s probably watching you, Danny Allen,’ he said.

  Danny looked up at Mark’s round face, red with the exertion of walking.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The snake.’

  Danny’s eyes
rolled to the darkness where his hand was fingering the dried skin.

  Mark suddenly lunged at him. ‘SSStttt!’ he hissed, digging three fingers into Danny’s shoulder.

  Danny flew backwards.

  Mark and Sam laughed and ran off toward the homestead.

  Danny grabbed the snakeskin and ran to catch up without looking back.

  At the old house the stone walls were crumbling.

  There were rooms with huge holes in the walls, no doorways and no ceiling. The floorboards were gone and prickly bushes grew in their place.

  The boys wandered through, kicking at piles of stones and looking at the carvings on the walls. Danny found one he’d done the last time they’d visited.

  Danny Allen was here.

  At the back of the house there was only one sheet of rusty iron left on the bull-nose verandah. When a breath of wind came, it would flap.

  The backyard was crowded with round prickle bushes. There was one gum tree and two almond trees. The cockatoos loved the almonds. Beyond that there were three huge red sand dunes. An old car wreck and a collection of boulders tangled in large prickle bushes sat in a small valley at the foot of the dunes.

  Of the three windswept dunes the middle one was the biggest. The boys called it the Everest Dune. It was much higher than the creek banks. The red sand of the Everest Dune was smooth except for the crinkle of waves made by the wind that brushed its back. Most times, when the boys came to the homestead, they rolled down the steep dunes like tumbleweeds.

  But this time, Mark had another idea. He lifted, from beneath some stones, a sheet of iron that had fallen from the verandah. He liked the way it curved at one end. He ignored the cancer of rusty holes.

  ‘Look!’ he said, standing the sheet up next to him. ‘This is just like a big tin toboggan.’

  He lifted his eyes to the top of the Everest Dune. ‘I think we should take it and go to the top of the Everest Dune.’