Chapter Four - Yowie Poo
“Shit!” exclaimed Dick Evans as the slam of the outer door echoed down the corridor to his workshop. With a well practised response he quickly disguised the evidence that he had been working on a private job. He then positioned himself in front of a work related project and prepared to look surprised when the visitor walked in. He cocked his head to better hear the approaching tread. The footfalls were brisk, purposeful, solid.
“Shit," he repeated himself as he identified the unmistakable approach of the women he knew as The Buffalo. He had other equally uncomplimentary names as well. Dick was a rotund tradesman in his mid sixties. He could not be described as the happiest camper in the woods. Dick possessed a dour nature and was not disposed to being jolly. Like many men of his age and circumstances he had adopted a cloak of grumpiness as protection from the world around him.
He had been a workshop technician at the university for more than thirty years. It was a pretty undemanding job with a well equipped workshop and minimal supervision, especially so over the latter years. Originally it had been much busier. He had once shared it with three other techs and a constantly changing contingent of mayhem-producing engineering lecturers and students.
Over the last decade the engineering faculty had moved to a new building and, in one of those convenient political but otherwise strange compromises, the workshop and two of the technicians had remained and come under the control of a new faculty. In a move typical of publically funded organisations, where assets are never surrendered and the annual budget must always be spent no matter what, another deal was done and Dick and his workshop had fallen under the humanities clan. His aging co-worker had soon retired and for the last five years Dick had been left pretty much to himself. Things had got quieter in the workshop. He missed the more technically challenging engineering projects that he had been involved in, even if he did not miss the dramas of having engineering students underfoot, messing up his workshop.
What little work came his way from his new masters was not very satisfying. Typically, these projects involved no drawings or specifications, as they had under engineering. Rather there were long-winded meetings with the humanities types. These people could not draw a cork to save their lives and had only the vaguest ideas of what they actually wanted. Not surprisingly, the results satisfied nobody. Dick was annoyed at having to produce projects without any clear instructions and his clients generally got something well removed from the misty visions of what they thought they wanted.
The door flew open and in strode Professor Edith Hamilton-Brown, The Buffalo. Dick worked at suppressing the look of annoyance that was keen to play across his face. As always he marvelled at the tall, brusque woman that barged straight up to him. Edith stood over six feet in her stockings and was a little overweight with a solid, imposing manner. Her head was welded permanently at a slight backwards tilt that added nicely to the condescending and assured look on her face.
'Where does she find those clothes?' Dick quizzed himself as he had done on countless earlier occasions. Dick figured that the tweedy English country look, with accompanying thick fuzzy stockings and heavy, lace-up brown shoes had been virtually extinct when he was a kid. 'Does she secretly raid the museum basement at night, or what?' he added to his self-interrogation.
The Buffalo was, as always, direct. She dispensed with obligatory niceties and, in her style cut straight to the issue. Typically, this excluded any pre-amble that might give some context to where she was coming from, and heading to. She opened with what a casual observer might think was a question, but was really a statement.
“You have a university recognised four wheel driving accreditation.” she said in her powerful, deep voice. “The Dean …” she paused to roll her eyes theatrically and huff before continuing, “The Dean has approved the use of the departmental 4WD for a forthcoming …” again she paused, “ .. trip … on the condition that the driver is 4WD accredited. There is not enough time for my colleagues or I to attend such a course.”
Dick opened his mouth with intention of saying, 'So what has that got to do with me?' but he never got the chance. Sensing his imminent intention to speak, The Buffalo raised her voice a notch and powered on. “There are very few suitable drivers for this … trip, and you are the obvious choice. The trip will be in four week's time from today. That's not negotiable.”
A dark look flitted across Dick’s face and he opened his mouth to protest. Again he did not get a chance to state his many, and varied, objections.
“You will be paid at overtime rates for the week we are away, and apart from some help setting up the camp for my colleagues and I, we will require little else from you. It is a remote spot on the McIntyre River that can only be reached through a series of locked conservation zone gates, for which we have both permission to pass and the necessary keys. You can relax, read, fish – provided you have a license – or do whatever else might interest you while we conduct some … investigations.”
Dick frowned. As much as he detested the idea of driving The Buffalo and her cronies out into the bush and being their Man Friday for a week, there were some attractions. The overtime would add up to a nice bonus. Then there was the area. Dick knew of it. It had always been a difficult spot to get to, situated in a long, deep and meandering gorge through an extensive state forest. The fishing and deer hunting there had always been reputed to be excellent. Then, about fifteen years ago, the whole vast area had been declared a conservation zone and all recreational access had been banned. It was really just a vote pulling exercise at the time of a tight state election, with the incumbent government seeking to curry some green credentials and votes.
The conservation of the area simply involved erecting barriers and heavy locked gates. It was rugged country and it had been quite easy to block the few vehicle access points. The gates were locked and the conservation effort consisted of doing nothing at all after that. The area had quickly gone feral. Bordering landowners had been complaining ever since about the growing hordes of feral animals that used the park as a breeding zone to raid surrounding farms. Fire and weed control had also become a major issue and the area had, sadly, become severely degraded by the unchecked wild fires and exotic weed species that proliferated as a result of the “conservation”.
Dick managed to get a few words in about access difficulties and over-grown tracks. The Buffalo airily dismissed them. One of the few semi-maintained tracks led directly to a big sweep of river gorge where there had been some desultory test work being conducted by the hydrology people. But that had recently stopped as well. The whole area was off limits to virtually everybody. Even other government departments struggled to get access rights. However, The Buffalo was on close personal terms with the Director of Conservation, who shared a strong interest in the subject of the … trip, and that had opened many gates, so to speak.
Dick quietly nodded to himself. The fact that the Director of Conservation was a chum of The Buffalo put a whole lot into perspective. No wonder the Department of Conservation had such a wide and well deserved reputation for being a band of complete lunatics. He added that titbit to the growing pile of reasons why he detested The Buffalo and the Conservation mob.
So it was that four weeks later Dick found himself driving the departmental Toyota Landcruiser and pulling a trailer full of camping gear. The Buffalo sat in the back with her henchman, a mature age Humanities Masters student who was nearing the completion of her PhD. A sour-faced, women in her mid thirties she radiated a dislike of all men and everything to do with them. Her name was Margaret Croft, but with her severely cropped black hair and black grunge clothing she was to Dick, The Crow.
The two carried on a lengthy but guarded conversation. They were carefully avoiding discussing any details about their mission in Dick's presence. And, clearly they were on a mission. It was all very secretive and reeking of self-importance. The two considered they were o
n the verge of some world changing discovery. They excitedly discussed how The Crow's forthcoming doctoral thesis would support a joint paper on their imminent discovery. After a lengthy discussion the two had agreed on a modification to The Crow's doctoral thesis title. It would now be "Irrefutable Manifestations of Projected Human Gender Prejudices and Inequality Demonstrated in a Primordial Situation Free of the Urban Cultural Influences and Ingrained Subliminal Attitudes and Habits of the Aggressive Male-oriented Western Cultural Matrix."
Dick could not suppress a snort of derision when he heard that. As much as he had been annoyed when working with the Engineering and Science faculties, at least they had some clarity and focussed purpose to their work. Every exposure he had to the Humanities lot just reinforced his strengthening opinion that they swam in an ocean of self-congratulating bullshit. The two in the back were too absorbed in the conversation to notice Dick's involuntary expression of contempt. The front seat passenger heard it though and stole a quick look at Dick from downcast eyes. The girl did not say anything and returned her gaze to the passing scenery.
The front seat passenger was Marjory Hide. A diminutive, elfin Honours undergraduate who was clearly in awe of The Buffalo. The girl was only 20 years old, pale and frail looking. Her huge dark eyes, pixie face and closely cropped hair accentuated her elfin look. She was quiet and timid. She had never spoken in Dick's presence, but he had heard her getting in the occasional squeak when the three were conversing. To Dick, Marjory was the The Mouse.
Dick set up his camp about half a kilometre from the coven, as he thought of them. They had elected to camp close up against the steep, heavily timbered ridge, surrounded by dense forest. Dick had chosen a spot over-looking the broad sweep of the river. It was on an outside bend with deep water right up against the bank. His camp was about twenty metres from the edge of the escarpment that fell away to the river’s narrow flood plain. The tent was pitched amidst scattered, large old-growth forest. The big old red gums that grew along the river bank were about as high as the escarpment itself, making for a largely unimpeded view up the river.
The Buffalo had made it clear that Dick should keep himself close to the river and north of the women. They would call him if needed. A hand-held UHF radio was provided for that purpose, which he was required to carry with him. There were some sensitive investigations being conducted and they did not want him inadvertently interfering with those. The only task, other than assisting with the putting up and breaking of camp, was to collect their rubbish each evening just on dusk. The Buffalo was concerned that the presence of food scraps in their camp at night might draw unwanted foraging animals into their camp. The women would prepare their evening meal in the late afternoon and wanted the food scraps removed before dark.
The first few days went smoothly. The women did not call on Dick for anything and kept themselves busy doing whatever it was they were up to. Dick had set a series of yabby traps and done a bit of fishing. There were not many yabbies about. It was probably a bit cold for them, but he had caught a number of nice fish. He had brought more than enough food; his wife had insisted on that and clearly over catered. Dick was quite happy being by himself. He spent his day working his yabby traps and trying different fishing spots. At night it was cool enough to enjoy a camp fire and a few reflective rums.
Apart from the ample provision of food, his wife had also provided him with a bundle of dried, stringy-looking stuff she had acquired from a Chinese herbalist. Dick was under instructions to consume some of this material every evening. So far he had not and was feeling a bit grumpy about having to do so. Dick did not like anything out of the ordinary.
His wife though, under the influence of some of her friends, had recently developed a strong interest in traditional Chinese herbal remedies. These ladies had got it into their heads that administering these various dried bits and pieces to themselves and husbands would cure the various ailments and conditions that beset people in their sixties. Dick thought it was a lot of bloody nonsense and was an unwilling participant. That bundle of black, dried sticks was a good example. It smelt rather weird but was supposedly intended for invigorating and cleansing men of his age, whatever that meant.
It was also a bit unfortunate that in visiting the ancient Chinese apothecary, who spoke limited English, some important caveats and instructions had been lost in the translation. It was also a bit unfortunate that Dick had not paid much heed to the, already, misconstrued instructions that were relayed to him by his wife, along with the mysterious bundle of dried black material.
So it was that, after a substantial evening meal and a couple of rums, Dick was cleaning up and found the bundle in his tucker box. His first reaction was to throw it in the fire and he very nearly did just that. Dour and grumpy he might be, but Dick was a dutiful husband of long standing. He checked his arm in the very action of lobbing the stuff into the camp fire.
It occurred to him that he had promised to consume the funny Chinese stuff. He would eat a little and throw the rest in the fire and report back with a clear conscience. Dick extracted one of the sticks. In the light of the fire it glistened blackly. It appeared to be quite fibrous and tarry, looking like some variety of large leaf that had been rolled up and dried into a wizened stick. He tried to break a bit off, and after quite some bending and flexing, resorted to cutting off a piece with his knife. Dick popped it into his mouth and began chewing. It was hard and dry. As he worked away, chomping lustily, the object began to moisten. It was quite salty and had an unusual, tart flavour with a hint of liquorice. The taste grew on him as he chewed diligently.
Dick poured himself another rum, and took that and the rest of the stick over to the fire. He drew his chair a little closer to the warmth, for the night was getting chilly, and made himself comfortable. It was a bit like eating jerky. The repetitive chewing was quite nice in itself and the flavour slowly evolved as the prolonged mastication released the juices. Even after much chomping there was still a pithy, fibrous wad that seemed impervious to further chewing. Once the flavour began to disappear, Dick washed the pithy residue down with a swallow of rum.
It had been a pleasant day, he had walked a few kilometres and fished many different locations with good result. The last few days had been very relaxing and Dick was feeling quite mellow. He got up and poured himself another rum and selected a couple of the dried sticks. They actually were quite pleasant to chew on, he had to admit. He made a mental note to ask his wife to get some more of that Chinese stuff. It would be good with a few beers when watched the Saturday afternoon football broadcast.
Over the next couple of hours Dick consumed the entire bundle of material and a few more rums before retiring to bed feeling quite replete. He slept soundly and awoke feeling unusually refreshed. Dick stoked the fire and brewed himself a cup of tea. It was still quite early and he did not feel hungry enough to make breakfast just yet. Low in his stomach there was a slight warning rumble. The need was by no means intense and he figured he could kill two birds with one stone that morning.
He dropped a roll of toilet paper into a bucket and picked up a shovel. Dick hesitated, he had already explored for worms in his recent travels down the river, without much luck. He wanted a handful of the big, fat worms that were to be found in the lower, moister parts of the river bank. The section of bank he had explored so far was fairly high and dry.
Upstream however, about a kilometre or so away, he could see that the escarpment merged down onto an extensive floodplain. It looked like good worming country for sure. The only problem was that in walking up river it would take him closer to the women's’ camp, and the area he was supposed to avoid. Still, it was early and they were unlikely to be up and about. Besides he would stick close to the river bank and that should meet his contractual obligations. It would not take long to walk up there, answer a call of nature, dig a few worms and be back at his own camp for breakfast.
D
ick pulled on his floppy bush hat, picked up the bucket, shouldered the shovel and set off upstream. The sun was just rising and it was crisply cool with a wisp of mist on the river. The birds’ morning chorus was building in volume and a light dew had bejewelled the twigs and spider webs. Dour as he was, it was still an admittedly pleasant walk along the river bank. Five minute's walk saw him about level with the women's’ camp. He could not see it, the camp was a few hundred metres back in the bush, but there was the telltale wisp of campfire smoke hanging in the air. It had hung there through the still of the night and would not clear for an hour or two, once the morning breeze picked up.
As he glanced in the direction of the smoke something caught his eye. About a hundred metres away there was a small pale shape on one of the big tree trunks. He paused, but could not quite make out what it was. Curiosity got the better of him and so he walked over to it. It was a small plastic open-mesh box and was fixed a bit above head height on the tree. There was something inside. Dick stood on tiptoe and peered intently at the object from close up. With his nose nearly touching the cage he suddenly realised, with horror, what he was looking at.
Being of that older generation he had never seen his wife use that sort of thing, but in recent years the television was full of advertisements for feminine hygiene products. “Ee-yew! Faarrk!” he said aloud as he realised he was just about pressing his nose up against a used item of feminie hygiene. He backed off fast. He stood for a second and repeated, “Fark!”
Dick shook his head and wondered what the hell these crazy women were doing, nailing up stuff like that all around the place. He did not have time to give it much more consideration because suddenly his stomach gave a big growl and a rumble vibrated through his abdomen. 'Easy Boy,' he said to himself, 'I’ll let you out real soon.' It was clear that the call of nature was drawing closer apace. He was still on the hard escarpment. A few hundred metres and he would be on the soft soil of the lower flood plain, amongst a thicker forest of river red gums. There it would be easier to dig a hole and a bit more discrete to make use of it.
Dick quickened his pace, heading for the beckoning river flats. Another fifty metres and a veritable earthquake rumbled through his bowels. It suddenly became clear that a change of plans was going to be necessary. Dick was a very controlled individual in all aspects of his life and that included bowel movements. He was very regular and particular about his visits to the toilet and he could “bake it” if he did not feel conditions were right. But not this morning. Another mighty rumble shook his belly and it was clear that an express train was coming.
He was going to have to find somewhere suitable real quick. He headed straight for the escarpment edge, hoping there might be access down to the river’s edge where he could find a sheltered spot to meet his urgent need. Dick was veritably trotting as he approached the edge. The escarpment was steep and there was nothing obvious in the way of a track down to river's edge.
Dick had heard the expression “shit now or die”, and chuckled at the concept, but this was the first time he had ever experienced anything like this himself. He clenched his cheeks together and looked about desperately. He was in quite open forest with mainly scattered large trees and very little undergrowth or bushes. There was no time.
He suddenly felt chilled, clammy and a little light headed. It was clear that this was unstoppable. He ripped his pants down and quickly squatted, grasping onto a spindly sapling for support. It felt like he was trying pass a watermelon and the urge to push was irresistible. His body shook and he could feel goose bumps all over. Suddenly he could feel it coming out. He felt quite faint and hung onto the sapling with all his might. After an initial resistance there was a prolonged rushing sensation. He felt quite numb from the waist down.
For a moment or two the world spun and it was all he could do to hang on to the bush and not topple over. It took a little while for the sensation to pass and for his composure to return. He cautiously released one hand and wiped his sweaty forehead. His hand was still trembling. “Whoee!” he said, with the distinct, but dizzy feeling that something momentous had just occurred.
It was the smell that helped jolt his composure back into place. “Phew!” he exclaimed with disgust as a truly pungent, sharp odour jolted his sinuses. It was so bad his eyes began to water. “Phew!” he repeated, and felt obliged to investigate. Over the years had done a few stinkers, usually after a big night out. But, hell, this was a champion effort. He felt an urgent, morbid need to see just what manner of beast had produced such a terrible smell. Dick, still squatting, twisted slightly and glanced behind him.
What he saw made him start involuntarily and he would have leapt up if not hindered by the trousers around his ankles. And he had not even seen all of it. He quickly pulled his pants up above his knees and arose. What he saw stunned him. It was the biggest poo he had ever seen. It was gigantic, massively larger than his normal line of product. The diameter was well over two inches and it was nearly two feet long, a bendy but almost uniform cylindrical shape except for the briefly tapered ends. His ass was still feeling numb and he carefully reached behind him to explore for damage. He half expected to find a gaping hole and gushing blood. Luckily there was none. He felt a sense of wonder that somehow his body had passed this dreadful object without tearing itself apart.
The thing was gleaming with a bright green sheen, but streaked through with black whirls. It was fascinating in its gruesome dreadfulness. Dick could not take his eyes off it.
Standing up had momentarily lifted him above the spreading miasma, but not for long. Standing, holding his still unfastened pants at thigh level, his contemplation of the dreadful thing was broken by the renewed assault on his nostrils. The smell was insidious and appalling. Something bumped off his leg, then another, and another. For a split second he thought it was big drops of rain.
It was no rain however, but huge blowflies that were being drawn in by the spreading aroma. Clearly, the thing was abundantly attractive to blowflies. They were flying straight in, almost drunkenly, making full speed to the thing. Like little magnetic particles the blowflies zoomed past him to impact onto the green shining surface. Bzzzzz! Thud! They hit it at full speed and stuck immediately, making a delirious, happy buzzing as they trampled about on the spot where they landed.
The spectacle was gross in the extreme, but no less fascinating than everything else about the entity. It was enthralling in its sheer awfulness and Dick was engrossed, until he heard a voice. “Fark!” he muttered and hastily pulled his trousers up and fastened them. He had heard the unmistakable sound of the The Buffalo’s voice. Christ! What was he to do? He looked across in the direction of the women’s camp. Faintly, he heard the women talking as well. Shit! They were obviously coming to check on the other dreadful think fixed to the tree. He could not yet see them, but any second they would emerge from the heavier forest into the more open area and he would be spotted.
There was no time, or opportunity, to hide or bury the giant turd. The ground was pretty much bare and too hard to dig with just a shovel. There was little in the way of fallen leaves that could be raked over the thing.
And the smell. It was getting more horrible by the second. Raking a few leaves over the shocking object would do nothing for that evil, spreading, foul stench. The river! His only hope lay in shovelling it up and chucking it into the river below. It would take a good throw, but he felt he could do it. The turd would probably break up, but he did not have time to spare in cutting into smaller chunks with the shovel. He cast a nervous glance in the direction of the approaching women, and thought he could see movement. There was no time to lose. He hastily slipped the shovel under the middle of the terrible cylindrical object. Both ends extended well beyond the extent of the shovel blade. He reasoned that the ends would most likely break off, but he would just have to deal with that as it came.
He lifted the turd and, while it
drooped, it did not break. In fact it demonstrated a rather rigid plasticity. The weight surprised him as well. The thing was damn heavy! Dick swept the shovel back, took a couple of steps toward the edge of the embankment and gave the shovel a lusty sweep. There was an angry buzz as the hundred or so blowies were disturbed and took off.
He probably tried too hard and under-estimated the incredible cohesion in the object. That, the smell, the explosion of angry blowflies and the imminent arrival of the women all contributed to the mis-timing of the attempted throw it into the river.
The thing did not break up. Its sheer rigidity was as disgustingly appalling as everything else about it. It did not sail out to land safely in the river either. Alarmingly, it detached itself from the shovel and shot pretty much straight up in the air.
“Fark!” an alarmed Dick instinctively ducked and held up his arm protectively, fearing that the horrible thing was about to descend on him. The blowflies swarmed angrily about Dick, buzzing and cannoning off him like hard rain. The thing was making a tumbling ascent into the heavens. With great relief he sensed that it was heading toward the river and, while it was clearly not going to reach the water, the much worse probability that it was going land on his head had, somehow, been narrowly avoided.
Still tumbling, it reached its apex then began the descent. It plunged down, spinning wildly, but still stubbornly resisting the centrifugal and gravitational forces it maintained its dreadful integrity. It thundered through the canopy of a big river red gum that grew from the river bank below. Dick stood, shovel in hand, and fixated by the ever more appalling episode in which he was starring.
It its passage the turd disturbed a veritable flock of birds that had hitherto been quietly feeding on the blossoms of the river gum. The canopy exploded with parrots, honeyeaters and other small nectar eating birds. Slowed a little by its trajectory through the leaves, and showing no sign at all of breaking up, the huge glistening turd smacked squarely onto a great horizontal branch with a sticky thud. It stuck and gleamed in unobstructed and plain view, not five metres from where Dick stood.
The birds shrieked in unison. The surprise attacker was now visible. It was clearly some sort of python and there it was stretched out on the branch. The cries of alarm alerted other nearby birds and they too flew in to join the whirlpool of birds that was rapidly forming above the tree. A flock of passing cockatoos and a few crows joined the parrots, willy wagtails, kookaburras and other birds that were circling and screaming in alarm. A few of the braver birds began to dart at the snake on the branch.
It had all happened in a few seconds and it was appalling. The ever-growing, whirling cloud of birds had materialised as if from nowhere and the noise was incredible. And he was standing right next to it. He cast another glance over his shoulder and there, not a hundred metres away, the three women were emerging from the bush and looking in his direction.
The trio strode purposefully toward him. Seeking desperately to generate as big a safety margin as possible, Dick set off to meet them. As they neared each other the Buffalo bellowed, “What are you doing here Mr Evans. I thought I made it clear that you were to stay down river from here!” Again, in her style, it was not really a question, more an accusation. The Crow looked daggers at him in support of the Buffalo, but did not say anything. They generally let the Buffalo do the talking, bellowing rather. The Mouse never said anything anyway, not that he had ever been present to witness anyway. As always, she looked timid and kept the protective bulk of the Buffalo between them.
Dick managed to get out a couple of lame words about worms, but they went unnoticed as the Buffalo wound herself up into speech mode. She never heard a word he said. The Crow squinted in disapproval at Dick and gave a little, pecking, head movement to accentuate that point. The Mouse, who considered herself a bit of a bird watcher, had now become aware of the avian whirlwind that had developed above the tree. You would have to be deaf, or completely absorbed by your own self importance, not to notice it.
She slid past the trio and headed for the river bank. Dick was aware of her doing so, but with the verbal storm and glowering disapproval he was weathering he was in no position to counteract the Mouse’s intentions.
It only took the Mouse a few moments to take in the situation. With a squeak of surprised delight she went scampering back to try and get the attention of her colleagues. It required a concerted effort on her part to do that. She hopped excitedly about and tugged at the sleeve of the Buffalo. Repeated tugging and hopping was needed to get her attention. The Buffalo broke off her broadside on Dick and bellowed, “Marjory, What on earth is wrong with you!” Not a question, of course.
The Mouse could not manage to squeak out a word but did drag her towering companion toward the river’s edge. The Crow and Dick followed along behind. Dick was in silent agony. How could he possibly explain the turd? But he did not need to worry about that. The trio had forgotten his very existence in their excitement.
“Look there!” commanded the Buffalo. The trio gazed intently at the glistening entity that was draped along the smooth white horizontal branch. “Phew!” exhaled the Crow, “it doesn't half stink.” A delirious swarm of blowflies were seeking to envelope the wonderful prize they had found. The birds were still going nuts, in the belief that they had found a python out and about in their patch.
Dick stood back taking in the surreal scene being played out before him. The Buffalo continued her sonorous dialogue, “Clearly, the creature has been drawn to the bait, thank you Marjory,” at which the Mouse went bright red and looked about ready to die of embarrassment. This of course, was lost on the Buffalo who continued, “Only a creature of outstanding strength and agility could have leapt the distance from this bank to that branch. The immense size of the fece is indicative of a primate but it's clearly way too big to be human in origin. The dreadful smell is exactly as described by other investigators. We must obtain that specimen for scientific study!” she boomed.
Dick had been slowly regaining his rattled composure, but when the Buffalo declared she wanted to capture the specimen for science, it was like a blow to the stomach. The last thing he wanted was some boffin dissecting his poop and declaring, through means vague and mysterious, that it was human in origin. Dick felt quite alarmed. That turd must not fall into the wrong hands.
The thought had no sooner occurred to him than he was further alarmed to hear the Buffalo quickly organising a recovery effort. She sent the Crow and the Mouse off to find their way down to the river bank and commanded Dick to gather some sticks to throw at the object.
“Marjory, take your shirt off. Don’t be silly dear, Mr Evans will keep back from the edge and can’t see you. Besides you have a t shirt on underneath. You and Margaret can stretch the shirt out and catch the sample when it falls. We have to make minor sacrifices Marjory. It is too important to let it be lost.”
Dick was instructed to throw sticks at the poo until it dislodged and fell down to the waiting catchers. He did so in a lack lustre fashion, but this drew the ire of the Buffalo. “What is wrong with you man. Surely you played sport in your time. Put some heave ho into it.”
While Dick went to gather some more sticks, the Buffalo was inspired enough to attempt a shot herself. It was an awkward throw that flew awkwardly up into the air and fell short of its mark. The Buffalo called out to her waiting colleagues below. This made them both look up, just in time for the stick to hit the Mouse square on the nose. With a yelp of pain she dropped her grip on the shirt and clamped her hands over her nose, letting out a longer wail as she sat down.
The Crow attempted to help, as a trickle of blood ran down the mouse's arm. The Crow was yelling at the Mouse, “Let me see Marjory, let me see, I want to help you,” while the Mouse maintained her grip on her nose and continued to howl. The Buffalo continued to bellow commands non-stop from her vantage point above. Dick arrived back with an armful of sticks just in time fo
r the finale.
With a chill feeling of dread he realised that the poo was starting to slide on the smooth bark of the tree. The sheer mass of the mighty turd was starting to tell and gravity was not to be denied. The inherent tackiness of the apparition slowed its release somewhat. If the coven had not been so engrossed and loud about their business they may well have heard the warning sounds, even above the on-going racket that the birds were making. A sickly, science fiction, horror movie sound. A moist, visceral warbling. The blowflies sensed the potential loss of their prize and rose in an angry protective buzzing swarm. The circling birds too realised the thing was on the move and increased their alarm cries and consternation.
The women did not notice these danger signs and continued their loud and pointless discourse. With a final sticky crackle the turd let go and plummeted down. Dick continued to watch the whole episode in speechless enthrallment. The turd did not just fall. It was like a downward rocket. With its sheer weight and density it plunged to earth. Well, not earth exactly. The Crow was unfortunately dead centre at ground zero. With a wet and heavy thud it hit her. The impact moulded the plastic obscenity across her neck and shoulders. Like a hearty smack from a sodden, rolled-up beach towel, it winded and startled her. She sagged and stumbled from the sheer momentum of the impact.
The Mouse had the unfortunate opportunity to observe this outcome from a distance of less than half a metre. As the Mouse stifled her wail and gasped in shock, the Crow partly recovered from her stumble and turned her head to glance at the thing that had landed on her neck and shoulders. The blow flies had flown straight down the vapour trail at maximum velocity and rained down upon the two women. It was awful. It was terrible. It was utterly disgusting. The smell had been slightly delayed, but it arrived in its full and reeking glory along with the last of the blowflies to completely round out the full experience.
With a surprising harmony and volume the two women shrieked in concert. A drawn-out cry of desperation and horror, it rolled down the river and echoed back from the far bank. It was all way too much for the Mouse. Her eyes rolled back and she flopped over onto the river bank in a dead faint. With a guttural grunt of utter disgust the Crow jerked upright and flailed her arms about. She had never fully recovered her balance after the initial hit and the sudden lurch only served to put her more off balance. With a howl of despair and fear she tumbled into the cold depths of the river. The turd took the opportunity to relinquish its victim and like a big predatory crocodile it simply and silently descended into the dark depths of the river, never to be seen again.
While the Buffalo berated the drenched and bedraggled Crow about what she should have done and on what a momentous loss to knowledge had been allowed to occur, a much relieved Dick went to administer to the fallen Mouse. Dick, despite his gruff ways, was a kindly man. He had administered first aid to his own kids and was a gentle and effective carer. He soon had the ashen faced Mouse sitting up while he tilted her head back and applied pressure to her nose. It was not broken, but just a good solid knock on the hooter like you often get playing sport. Meanwhile, in the background above the Crow and the Buffalo were trading loud and contrary opinions on the whole expedition.
With the bleeding stopped, the Mouse regained her composure. Dick wiped her face clean of the blood that been smeared across it. He asked the Mouse, “How do you feel Marjory?” The Mouse’s pixie-like face briefly hosted a hint of a smile. Her large dark eyes stared back into Dick's. A range of subtle but unexpressed emotions flitted across her face. Her lips parted. She took a breath and leaned forward. She glanced sideways then returned her intense stare onto Dick. “Yowie poo,” she whispered in a conspiratorial sort of way, then leant back looking pleased with herself and said nothing more.
About Don Caswell
Don Caswell spent a lifetime living and working in remote places, pursuing a career in the resource industries. Don has always enjoyed writing and for decades has been a freelance writer for outdoor, fishing and hunting magazines.
In the last few years, having left the resource industry to pursue personal interests, Don has had more time to devote to major writing projects and has devoted himself to novels. When not writing, Don pursues his passions, such as bird watching, wildlife photography, landscaping, gardening, hunting and cooking.
Other books by Don Caswell
The Bruce Johnson Series
Book One - The Harmonics of Evil (published June 2014)
Book Two - The Moon Dust Outrage (target completion in 2015)
Humour Short Stories
Scatology - My Contribution to that Field (published August 2014)
Tales my Parents Told Me (target completion late 2015)
Connect with Don Caswell
Read my blog: https://aussiehunter.org/blog/
Visit my website: https://aussiehunter.org/
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