Legend and story-telling

Bunyip of the Blackwood – C.S Capewell

Preface.

On a granite rock at the edge of the Southern Ocean is a footprint. Here is where it rose from the depths and came onto the land, when that land was soft, new and still warm to the touch, and when the sun had just begun to rise for the first time. This is where she began.

She wandered further north, but not too far, for the land was new and forming and this was simply a part of a much larger destination, but as it grew warmer in the sun, and colder on the ground, she realised she had to go down below the surface, and wait.

She has been waiting for a very long time.

One morning, when the sun was rising and sending the first colour into the darkness of the morning sky, just as it was beginning to head into a cooler season, the mud on the edge of the swamp shifted. It did not shift too much, just enough to cause a shiver up someone’s spine if anyone were watching.

No one was.

Off in the distance, the whine of what might have once been mistaken for a very large mosquito came closer, and the mud on the edge of the dried-up swamp shivered again. The old paperbarks leaned over it protectively, and the sticks and branches of older dead trees further into the vast, desolate landscape created small ripple-like waves. Bird song stilled. The land became silent. All the creatures of the dried-up lake seemed to hold a breath, all … Except the sound of that distant buzzing, coming ever closer.

Ever so gradually, what seemed like a hole formed in the wetness of the earth under the tree. Wider, and wider again, but it did not completely open. It was not quite a fissure, not quite a shaft. In actual fact, it seemed to have no depth at all.

It blinked.

... If you are interested in what happens next, please be forewarned this story is only available through accessing the paid part of this website. It is not based on historical fact, or dreamtime stories. It is a complete work of fiction in which no character represents any person or thing. Any resemblance to any movie, book or previous publication is sheer chance, and not at all related. Please do not continue this story if you have any existing beliefs which may cause you distress, or unintentionally frighten your children. Please do not continue this story if you find any resemblance to factual events or people, as they are not, and you might need to take a pill. Please do not continue this story if you are under the age of fifteen, are prone to behaving inappropriately at the drop of a hat, are criminally inclined, and do not have the ability to translate English to another language without messing it up entirely. This story is not for you if you believe in monsters under the bed, strange creatures in your living room, or dreamlike ghosties wandering about in the dark.

C.S. Capewell

“Let Me Show You Something” — from the back of the red stallion.

Let’s go back, before this all began. Let’s go back to where we were, where I was, when I rode the red stallion, not you. Can you hear my horse? Hear him snort as I curve his sweating neck so he circles, see the wetness on his coat. You are the one down there on the ground, not me. You are. I stare down at the man below me, and he stares back up, the sun glinting from his eyes. Behind him, watching in horrified silence, stands a woman with a small child. They are both terrified.

I don’t want to go back.

He doesn’t say this with humour or words. He is simply stating a fact. This man is not afraid because I have shown him it’s okay, but I need to remind him.

‘Stay where you are.’ I glare at him, and for a moment I see fear in his eyes. This is my sword, not yours. This is my spear, not yours. This does not mark me as American. I am Australian. I will let you stand there and watch me circling you, and I do not need to draw on any of them at all. This is mine. It is not yours. ‘Must I remind you again.’ I say this with immense calm in my voice.

I am also saying this politely, this time. Last time I refused, and this time I refused as well, but I am doing it politely. I’m not swearing at you, while you stand there on the sand. I watch your eyes get all big, and I can see you remember this well. I do not think I will dismount, not yet, because back here, I remember how to ride, and I think I might have been particularly good at it, even if he believes I am not well-trained.

Now, see, watch my mount change in colour. This horse becomes the colour of clouds. I have indeed done this before, in this life, and you’ll remember I had to jump off him as he took off down a road with the bit in his teeth, with his tail in the air. Do you remember me showing you that? We laughed about this at one point, my friend, and that is possibly where this understanding began. The fact I could dismount as the Anglo-Arab ran for his friends without injuring myself was simply fortunate, and that is all. Perhaps I whispered this story to another rider and he understood its worth.

This man is not afraid, he whispers in this one on one conversation. I remember it too. I wasn’t there. You did show me. I remember it too. He stares up at this golden helm I wear, and he remembers.

‘Well then.’ I have stopped circling my mount, who was red in this past life. His hooves skitter in the dust, but he knows his place. I can slow this down once again then, can’t I. I am just reminding you, after all. I’m not getting down, because I’m not on a “high horse”, I am not on a clothes horse, and I am not on a horse with no name. This is exactly who I am, not you.

‘You are still not quite ready,’ admonishes the one in the distance, but he is completely, and utterly wrong, because I have been more than ready for a very long time, and you do not mean anything to me at all.

So. I look at this man standing on the ground below me. He is not better than I am, and he is not worse than I am. He is equal, this man, and it would serve him well to remember that. He opens his mouth. A sly grin forms on his face.

‘No, you don’t talk. I am talking now.’ I look at this man with a warning in my eyes. He blinks once. He remembers this as well. This is my time, and it has been my time for a very long time, down here, so you will listen. ‘Stop screeching.’ I say this to an arrogant woman with a small child. She does not appear so arrogant now, cowering within my circle of hoof prints. You sound like a little bird with no wings. Unfortunately for you, I have wings, and they are very large, but I’m not wearing them right now. ‘I guess you’re lucky. Sit down, right there, all three of you, and I will consider getting down from this horse.’

If he runs again, I think to myself as I stare at the woman and make this promise for she who has finally sat down on the sand, I will plant this spear in the sand in front of him, so he probably shouldn’t.

If she starts being daft, I look at the woman as she cradles the small child, I will turn her into a little frog again, and she can bury her head in the sand as well. He hears this from me, and his eyes begin to smile.

As for you, I curl a lip at this man. I am going to get down from this horse. I pat the red stallion’s neck, and he snorts. His eyes do not roll like a mad beast. He is my animal and it will serve them well to remember it.

He is beautiful, isn’t he, this one made of clouds. You are quite lucky this one is made of clouds, because that one I had, the one in the last life, he was not made of clouds at all, and I hope you remember him as well as I do.

You’re welcome.

P.S. You can get the children to draw the red stallion, if you like. I rode him in this past life, yes, by moving into his body and helping him be, and he remembers it well. That one, him standing lost with the woman and the child in the circle I made with the hooves of my horse, he remembers it too. Ask him what it looks like, he can tell you. He knows who I am.