In summer, here in the mouth of his river, juvenile apes in fluorescent costumes would be plunging into the water around him, hurling themselves from rocky ledges. But in this early touch of winter they would not venture into his domain—another thing he knew about them. Their hairless skin would pop and shiver, and what puny strength they had would be shaken from their wobbling limbs. He knew they only swam in the heat, that they spat out saltwater, that they feared the deeper currents and did not know how to navigate them. And he knew that some of them were different; that some grew horns from their temples (horns their fellow apes could not see), some cried tree sap, some licked lips with bladed tongues and some, like the warm-stomached girl, returned after their ash had been scattered into the winds. He even knew why it happened—or at least he thought he did, and to a god thinking is the same as knowing.
He paddled upwards, feeling the current flow over his fur without ever impeding his progress. Soon he was snaking into a great basin that lay in the heart of a high-cliffed gorge. Out in the centre of the water he rolled over, turned his dark back fur to the chalky depths, showing his golden underbelly to the brightening sky. As his body warmed up, a heat that began on his navel and spread out to his extremities, he was reminded of the warm-stomached girl. It pleased him to remember that he had allowed her to live; something about the blaze in her gut told him she needed to be out there, that there was a purpose to her heat, that her blood belonged in her body and not in his mouth. He was accustomed to these instincts and knew them to be trustworthy, because to the Esk God they weren’t instincts at all—they were facts.
Plus: he knew her father. And as powerful as the Esk God was, he didn’t want to pick a fight with him.
A chairlift crawled along an iron rope high above him. Its shadow sprayed over his belly, momentarily shielding the sun’s warmth, which was enough to get him moving again. He flipped over and headed upriver, swimming onwards towards the mountain that the dark apes called turbunna and the pale apes called Ben Lomond. The source of his rivers, the source of his world, the home of his high-living love: the Cloud God.
She was his creator, his meaning, his life. At her whim the clouds wrung water onto the lichen-scarred dolerite of the mountain, water that ran and dripped down into funnelling tongues that grooved into his rivers. Without the Cloud God there would be no Esk rivers, and without the rivers there would be no Esk God. As a result, his love for her was not a love of choice; he loved her infallibly. He went to see her at the rise of every new moon, and the only reason for these visits was love—he could not talk to her; he could not ask anything of her; he could not influence her in any way. He had never even seen her. He had only witnessed the flowing hem of her dress and the misty shape of her ankles as she wandered through the fog up on the heights of Stacks Bluff. As he shivered on the tall rocks, far from anywhere a rakali should ever go, he would imagine what she looked like. He imagined the Cloud God as a wedge-tailed eagle, as a powdery moth, as a floating albatross. And once he left the heights to attend to his river he kept imagining these things, kept wondering what shape his love took.
He imagined on as he kept swimming upriver, until he reached a series of knife-sharp rapids. Here the water was cut up and foamy and dangerous, but not to a rakali, and especially not to the Esk God. He breezed up the rocks, morphing, shimmying, kicking and flying, turning waves into ladders and hard rocks into coiled springs. Soon he reached the grey wall of the Trevallyn Dam, which halted all other up-swimmers; but not him. His diamond claws sunk into the cement wall like it was made of wet clay and he surged upwards, gravity no more an impediment than the currents and rapids, and then he was over the wall and into the placid, hateful dam.
Here he did not stay long. This faux-lake led him to anger, and the river, no matter how damaged, did not need an angry god, for what good would it do for him to take his rage out on his subjects and dominion? What would change if he were to rip down jetties, chew through drainpipes, massacre the Labradors that drank from his shores? He was wise enough to know that his fury would not help the river or stop the apes, so he continued on, soothing his rage in a simple, humble way—by nipping screws out of the hull of an idle jetski.
Out of the dam and through the unsculpted banks he went, and how glorious it felt to snake his way into the green-brown embrace of his true river! How softly his water held him, how gently the reeds caressed him! His journey slowed into a lazy float, and as he bobbed past the waterfront mansions he forgot about the hateful dam. The land around his river let go of the suburbs and flattened into blond fields. The Esk God poked a pink tongue into the water and tasted run-off, lime, nitrogen and many other elements he could notice but not influence. South past the town of Hadspen he went, where he dived underwater to snap the neck of an ape-introduced trout (something he did as often as he could), and then on past more fields, more rusting iron tractors, past Longford, past Perth, past Evandale, and on and on southeast towards the unseen Cloud God. And maybe he would see her, this day; maybe he would finally catch a glimpse of her face.
The grass on the banks he passed shone brown-blond in the light, but where tree and fence shadows fell there were still broad white patches of frozen dew, courtesy of the Frost God, with whom the Esk God feuded over ice thickness every winter. Every now and then he hunted for yabbies underneath the workings of the Shale God. The Gum God’s nuts rolled into the water from every direction, the Fur God’s minions thumped beats through the soil that reverberated into the water’s flesh, and the Bark God’s cast-off hides fell from their trunks and floated along the surface of his river. And in all of these workings the Esk God noticed how diminished their presence was; how in years past everything in the land and water had consisted of a wider grandness; how the blood-tasting tang of iron had filtered into all that he saw and smelt and touched.
As he cruised around a willow-strangled bend his attention was snagged by a flick of colour in the sky. He rolled over to see the curved yellow beak, red eyes and snowy plumage of a goshawk descending towards him, great talons extended. Another rakali would be staring up at sharp death, but the Esk God merely lifted his tail from the water, its white tip mirroring the white feathers of the falling bird. Seconds before impact the goshawk saw this white tail; it saw the too-gold colour of its prey’s belly; it saw the black humour in the blacker eyes; and then it was pulling out of its dive, turning from bulleting doom into an awkward, wide-flapping mess of panic. If it had made contact it would have had to answer to its own master (the Wing God or the Hunt God: the Esk God couldn’t remember)—that is, if the Esk God had let it live after such a transgression. Now it regained its skyward composure and soared away, far and fast, and the Esk God laughed bubbles into his whiskers before remembering that it was the Wing God who the goshawk would be reckoning with, because the Hunt God was dead—harried, tortured and finally killed by the pale apes, its doglike face and black stripes forever gone.
But the Esk God remained, and the Esk God thrived, for who could kill a river? Now, near the farms of Avoca, his domain skirted the edge of a eucalypt forest, where he paused, sniffed and climbed out to sit on a protruding taproot. He was closing in on his destination—at his current speed he would arrive at the South Esk’s source inside an hour, and there was no need to rush. The Cloud God would be waiting for him, high on the peaks and plateaus where she poured her sky water down the slopes and into his rivery veins.
He should have eaten by now—not that he needed to eat, but he should, because central to his duties was keeping life in the river in balance. He was about to dive back into the water when he saw something move on the opposite bank: a yabby, sitting on a pile of reeds, just where the water bumped against the soil. The Esk God was onto it in seconds, his fast feet latching onto the soft shell as his teeth nipped into its head. The yabby’s claws flailed up at him but he was too fast, too strong, and besides, the yabby had no choice—its deity had issued a decree.
As he feasted the Esk God felt something lurch ben
eath him. The soil was moving. He dropped the dead yabby to look around, and saw that he was in the air, standing now on an iron grate that had been submerged in the mud. Iron fences loomed on either side of him, above him hung an iron roof, and carrying the iron contraption was the fleshy hand of a male pale ape. Two brown eyes descended to stare into the trap, and a moronic yellow-toothed smile appeared on the ape’s face. It made a gurgling, floppy noise and hoisted the god into the air.
A deep hiss began forming in the Esk God’s throat. His first instinct was to rip this flimsy cage to pieces and eviscerate the wobbling flesh of his captor, but he was paused by the smugness of the ape’s smile. No, the Esk God thought. He would wait until this fool had opened the door of the trap and then he would leap out, a whir of gold-black death, and he would feel the smile morph into agony as the ape’s muscles melted under his fangs.
The ape turned the cage vertical and opened it from above. The Esk God tensed; he just needed to wait for the face to come closer. A gloved hand descended into his prison and gripped its fumbly fingers around his body. Now the Esk God leaned back on his tendons and sprang, releasing the full and dreadful force of his wrath, but—nothing. He remained wrapped in ape-grip. He sprang again, and again he did not move. Now he was being lifted from the trap, against his will. How was his invincible might not snapping the twiggy bones in this creature’s hand? What foul sorcery was this? Now he was close to the hated face, so close he could feel its foul breath staining his whiskers as the ape turned him over, inspecting every inch of his glorious body with grubby eyes. The ape muttered something, and though the Esk God could detect the tone of wonder and appreciation in the voice he could not understand the words, and he did not want to, either. He wanted to escape and smite and murder. He wriggled and twisted against the caging fingers, eliciting a laugh from his captor, and his rage grew so monstrous he made a vow to himself: once he had shredded this ape into worm meat he would go after every one of his tribe. He would drown them in the gorges. He would open their throats and fling them off their bridges. He would fill his rivers with their bloated bodies.
The ape had pulled a grey blade from his belt and was holding it above the Esk God’s neck. A quick aim; a hard thrust; and suddenly the knife had pierced his immortal hide, and tapped into his vital blood. The Esk God learnt the feeling of iron against muscle. A bright feeling. A cold feeling. He squeaked in pain (a god squeaking!) and through the agony he still didn’t understand what was happening. The blade sawed deeper, and as the strength ebbed out of his limbs the Esk God himself ebbed, in throbbing tides, out of his body. He began floating upwards, not on the current of a river but on the current of a thermal updraft. The Esk God rose, looking down at the ape clutching his body, and as he went higher, as he passed the floury curl of a cloud, his divine rage was shoved aside by a stupendous realisation: he was going to see her. Up here, released from his flesh, he would at last meet the Cloud God.
Up he rose, blue sky and patchwork earth masked more and more by the clouds. She was close; she had never been closer; and in the final moments before he saw her face he remembered the dream he’d had the night before, the dream ushered into his mind by the heat of the warm-stomached girl. He’d been lying on the grassy bank of the great gorge basin near the mouth of his South Esk. A hot sun was warming his belly. He became so warm that he rolled over to heat his back, and then, staring outwards, he saw what this intense heat had done to the water: the far side of the basin was hidden by a towering wall of flames. These flames were spreading across the cliffs and trees of the gorge; ghost-blue flames, playing on the water, licking all they touched into a dance of crumbling ash; and his river had never been more glorious.
FUR
Mr Hough,
Please forgive me for contacting you out of the blue. I was given this address by your editor—as you have no website, phone number or email address, she was kind enough to pass it on after I called your publisher’s office.
First, I want to say how much I admire your book. The Wooden Jacket has been an extremely helpful reference in an endeavour I am currently undertaking. It is this endeavour that has led me to seek you out.
I need a coffin for my sister. I make no exaggeration when I say that it must be perfect. She will be the first woman in our family to be buried (traditionally they have been cremated), and I will spare no expense in making sure that her final resting place fits her as comfortably as her own skin.
I am convinced that you are the only man who will truly understand what I mean and what I require. If you are able to provide me with any assistance, I will happily pay you.
Yours sincerely,
Levi McAllister
Mr Idiot,
You scum. You ill-mothered baboon. You parasitic swine-herding subhuman mongoloid. What has made you believe it appropriate to hound me through the postal service, simply because I am the author of an (admittedly classic) piece of coffee-table literature? How dare you pursue me in such an underhanded fashion! I have built myself a quiet life of monastic contemplation in a place of rare beauty (which you well know, seeing as you have discovered my address) and all I ask of the world is that it leaves me alone. Yet here the world is, and you are its agent, fracturing my peace with your frivolous drivel. I am inclined to visit you myself and teach you a lesson in etiquette with the hairy side of my learned hand.
As for your request: I do not undertake work for unsolicited clients. You mentioned remuneration, but I doubt you will be able to afford my fees—due to my unparalleled expertise in this field, my rates are very high. Judging from the quality of your manners and handwriting I assume you didn’t finish your schooling, and it is my experience that a lack of education generally leads to a penniless life. Do not contact me again.
Thurston Hough
Mr Hough,
I apologise for offending you with my previous letter.
I realise how rude it was, and I am genuinely sorry for upsetting your peace. Under normal circumstances I would never have done it—but I am desperate. I hate to blurt out personal details, but my mother recently died and my sister is struggling to cope with the loss. She is barely clinging to the edge of her sanity and I believe this is due to fears about her own death. For reasons I’d rather not go into, securing her a suitable coffin may put some of these fears to rest. It may be a long shot, but I must do something. I cannot allow her pain to continue.
With regard to your fees: I am willing to pay you up to $5,000 for your advice on this matter. I am also able to pay a larger amount of money if you are in a position to offer help beyond basic tips.
Yours sincerely,
Levi McAllister
Mr Moron,
Congratulations, cretin. You have ignited within me a fury so incandescent it rivals the heat and destructive capability of the sun. I instructed you not to contact me again, yet here I find myself RESPONDING TO ANOTHER ONE OF YOUR MORONIC MISSIVES!
However, you are in luck, thanks to your frankly astounding reserves of capital. Who did you rob? If I discover that this money is ill-gained I will not hesitate to inform the authorities.
But I digress: the joyful thought of you rotting in a dark cell distracted me from the matter at hand. The reason I am reluctantly willing to aid you is because—through no fault of my own—I am currently in a precarious financial position, due to a longstanding difference of opinion with the Tax Department. Scoundrels and thieves, the lot of them. I have been evading their clutches for years, but my evil neighbours—whose ranks are led by a nosy, disgustingly promiscuous old crone named Mavis, who is a prominent member of the local Country Women’s Association (which, I assume you are aware, is actually a terrorist group)—must have alerted them to my whereabouts. So please understand: I care not one jot for the emotions of your mission or for your weepy wuss of a sister. I am purely in need of capital to stave off the malicious malingering of these government bandits.
And your luck extends (as long as your wallet does), for I am more than simpl
y an expert in this field; I have also applied this expertise to the physical craft of building coffins. My hands are as talented as my mind, and my instinct for beauty matches my eye for detail. My woodworking skills have grown to a point that I can confidently claim to be not only the world’s foremost expert in all things sarcophagi; I am also the world’s finest coffin maker.
So—as well as furnishing your feeble mind with knowledge that no other man on earth possesses, for an appropriate fee I can also craft your sister’s final vessel with my own hands. Rest assured that I will only use the finest timber to create this coffin (provided you can afford the cost of the materials), as well as a precious fur inlay to provide her with uncommon comfort as she passes into the next life. I use high-grade wombat pelts sourced from a premium supplier in the far south, ensuring all my coffins are more luxurious than a royal featherbed.
If you wish to proceed with this course of action you must decide swiftly. I am a very busy man and do not have the time nor the patience to accommodate any dilly-dallying. Nor do I wish to engage in a drawn-out exchange of correspondence. If you are willing to engage my services, please respond by sending me your sister’s age, measurements and probable cause of death, i.e. what she is dying from.
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