The Hunt For The Bunyip

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The Hunt For The Bunyip - book excerpt

A Dreadful Meeting

Thirty-year-old Pyran Zumstein sat on a large, stringy-bark log and stared into the campfire. Rich orange flames reflected in his green, red-rimmed eyes. His long red hair framed his pale, gaunt face. It was lank and greasy – he hadn’t had a shower for two days.

He smiled absently at the drunken laughter, filthy language and stoned humour that droned around him.

The stars twinkled above on yet another warm, late spring night near the Goldcoast of South-east Queensland. The sun had set only a few moments ago, and so there was still a bright glimmer of light in the west. Not a breeze stirred the surrounding gum trees of the bush.

The site of the camp was a favourite haunt of Pyran’s group. It was a sheltered little clearing beside railway tracks a mere ten-minute drive out of town. Many a Friday and Saturday night had been passed there. Many a fight had taken place in the clearing, and much fornication accomplished under the nearby trees.

There were about fifteen or sixteen there, and they were a mix of white and Murri blood. The sex ratio was even. The girls were aged between fifteen and nineteen, but the boys’ ages varied much more – the youngest was fourteen, the oldest thirty-five.

Pyran had slept with at least half of the scrawny, laughing girls that were there that night. So, had his mates. Whilst the female company varied from party to party, the males were mostly the same.

Pyran sat in dazed reflection. He had marijuana smoke in his lungs and the taste of cheap, bitter beer in his mouth. His head was heavy, and he was uncomfortably close to the fire. His shins were too hot, and his can of beer was nearly empty.

With a final swig, he finished the can. The beer was warm and unpleasant.

“Fuck.” He grumbled and threw the empty can into the fire.

Pyran was normally talkative on nights like these. His ambitions on most occasions were simple: he would play a little acoustic guitar, laugh at jokes, listen to stories and make moves on an easy girl for the night. These were distractions. Pyran didn’t like to think too deeply for too long. However, tonight he couldn’t help himself.

What the fuck am I doing with my life?

He sighed deeply and gazed sadly at his friends. They were doing and saying the usual things. The same sort of fights were brewing, the same sort of debauchery was being planned. Bitter hatred, drunken escape, unrealistic dreams…

Fuck it. This is a party. Snap out of it.

“Man…” He drawled. “I wanna get more drunk without havin’ to drink more of this fuckin’ warm beer, eh?”

Brian sniggered at his side. The smile was a temporary relief from his perpetual snarl. He was thirty-five but looked forty. His once pitch-black hair was now starting to grey. He was well muscled, with a broken nose and a lazy eye.

“You didn’t have to pay for it, so just shut up and drink it, ya ungrateful cunt.” Brian muttered.

Pyran let out a guffaw. “What are ya talkin’ about, bruz? I gave a twenty to Rick before.”

“Well, go an’ fuckin’ get it off him. We five fingered these fuckin’ slabs, la.”

“What? Ya fuckin’ jokin’?”

“Nah, bruz. It’s true. Rick! Rick, ya theivin’ cunt! Give Pyro back his twenny!”

A skinny Murri called Rick smiled broadly from across the fire at Pyran. He was about eighteen with smooth dark skin and wavy, coal black hair.

“I’ll pay ya back next week, bruz.” He promised.

Pyran waved him away. “No worries, bruz. But gimme some of ya smokes, eh?”

“I only got four left, la. I’ll scab some off Brian for ya though, eh?”

“Fuck off.” Brian scoffed.

Pyran laughed drunkenly. “Why do I hang around you fuckin’ povo cunts?”

His companions laughed with him.

“Have anothery, bruz.” Rick smiled and tossed Pyran another can of beer.

“Thanks.”

Rick then realised that the card-board slab box was empty.

“Aw shit, bruuuuuuz!” He wailed comically. “I think we’ve finished the grog, eh?”

“What? Bullshit.” Brian glowered. “You said yous got enough for the night.”

“Someone’s gotta go to a bottle-o, la. We’re cleaned out, bruz!” Rick shrugged.

Brian’s face set cruelly. Violence simmered in him.

Rick’s shoulders sank under the bully’s glare. However, he was spared by a sudden distraction.

“Hey, who’s that?” Pyran frowned.

The group turned their attention to the railway tracks.

A stooping figure in a trench-coat and floppy hat was balancing his way along one of the rails on the railway line. His arms were stretched out to his sides to help him balance, yet he seemed very unsteady. With the last of the dying light in the west behind him, he was a perfect silhouette.

“Haw! I reckon that cunt’s more pissed than we are.” Rick muttered with a drunken grin.

Chuckles followed as the figure got and more unsteady. His arms were making rapid circles and he swayed erratically.

“Fuck, even I can walk along the rail when I’m pissed. This cunt’s got somethin’ wrong with him. Look at his legs.” Brian drawled.

A feeling of dread accosted Pyran.

As the figure got closer, they could see that one leg bent at an unnatural angle.

“Hey look – he’s only got one boot, man! His other one bare foot, la!” Rick laughed.

“Man, I gotta bad feelin’ about this.” Pyran murmured.

There was something familiar and disconcerting about the figure that was now just a few metres from their camp.

“What are ya talkin’ about, bruz?” Brian asked.

“Dunno. I just got a bad feelin’, eh? Do ya know him, Bri?”

“Nup. He’s just an old man, eh? Shit, here he comes. Stop grippin’, bruz. He can’t fuck with all us brothers, eh?”

As the figure left the track and shuffled towards them, Pyran noticed that one of the girls was whispering urgently to the others. Within a minute all the girls and four of the boys had began to move away towards their cars.

“Oi!” Brian shouted. “Where the fuck are yous goin’?!”

He did not receive an answer.

Now, only Pyran, Rick, Brian and a twenty-four-year-old called Brett remained by the fire.

“Man, this is not good.” Pyran muttered.

Suddenly the figure was only a few feet away. They could see that he was an old aboriginal man. His left leg was encased in a knee-high leather boot, his right foot was bare and heavily calloused.

“What’s up, my niggers?!” The old man suddenly shouted, then burst into a rattling cackle.

“Who are you?” Brian asked flatly.

“I’m just a lost old coot, eh?” The old man drawled. He lifted his head up so that the light from the fire flickered upon his face. Orange eyes gleamed at them with amusement.

“Fuck…” Rick murmured. “He’s got trippy eyes, la.”

The old man let out a bark of laughter.

“It runs in my family, unna?” He burbled. “What’s the matter? Ya grippin’, bruz? Ya freakin’ out? Can’t help da eyes ya born with, unna?”

“Sorry.” Rick blushed. “Didn’t mean no offense.”

“Oi…where ya mates goin’?” The old man asked with playful disappointment. “One da girls gimme filthy look, unna? Look, she’s got em all grippin’.”

They heard car doors slam, and then the engines started and two car-loads of people drove away.

“Hmm.” The old man mused. “Maybe they’ll be back directly.”

“Fuckin’ cunts.” Brian muttered.

The old man suddenly reached into his pockets. He pulled out three fifty-dollar notes.

Rick and Brett’s eyes lit up.

“I know what’ll bring em back, boys. Don’t worry. I heard one of ya say that ya all out o’ grog.” The old man smiled. His teeth were small, yellow and sharp. “Got a remedy, la. Whose gonna go get it then?”

“You serious?” Brian asked, his attitude to their visitor now much more amiable.

“Yeah, bruz. Gotta look after ya own, unna? Here ya are. One fiddy each. Come back with plenty, eh?” The old man beamed.

“Shit! That’s deli, man!” Rick clapped.

Brian stood up and shook the old man’s hand. “You’re alright, eh?”

“I do what I can, unna?” The old man grinned. “Now, why don’t you three fellas bugger off and get the grog, then come back directly. Let the others know I’m alright, eh?”

“Fuck, yeah!” Brett clapped.

The three Murris were on their feet.

“Oi, ya cunts, what about me?” Pyran objected petulantly.

“Stay here with me. You’ll be right.” The old man smiled wolfishly. “Unless ya think I’m gonna rape ya or somethin’.”

The lads laughed heartily.

“We’ll be back in less than half an hour, bruz.” Brian smiled. “Just stay here, eh?”

Pyran wanted to flee. Yet he could think of no excuse to leave, so he sighed and said. “Hurry back. I’m gettin’ sober, eh?”

With a whoop of joy, Brett ran to the last remaining car. Laughing, Brian and Rick ran after him.

When the sound of the car engine had faded, the old man came and sat on the log beside Pyran. He was just a little too close for comfort.

Pyran raised his eyebrows, then let out a long sigh.

“So… how’s it goin’?” He asked wearily, staring at the campfire.

The old man turned to face him. He waited for Pyran to make eye contact before he spoke.

“They say that it takes all sorts to make a world.” The old man suddenly announced. The brim of his floppy hat shadowed his eyes, yet they gleamed.

Pyran grunted. “So they say.”

“I’ve met so many people, ya know, over the years. All sorts. Yet – many of them the same sort. Know what I mean?”

“Yep. Sure.”

The old man grinned impishly.

“So, be honest. What sort do you reckon you are?” He asked.

“Eh? What sort am I? I dunno.” Pyran grinned sheepishly.

“Ya dunno, eh?”

Pyran shrugged. “Yeah. Look…I’m just an easy-going sort of guy, eh?”

“An easy-going sort of guy? And what does a guy like that want to do with his life?”

Pyran frowned thoughtfully. “Funny you should ask that.”

“Nah, mate. When ya as old as I am, ya know what’s brewin’ in a young fella’s head when he stares a long time into da fire, with the chatter of his brothers swirlin’ round him…” The old man answered, his voice becoming musical as he spoke. “It’s usually one of the da big questions, unna? Whether he should stand up an’ do somethin’, or he misses someone, or he doesn’t know what to do with himself. But for all da big questions, one thing come first, unna? And dat’s what sort ya are. See?”

Pyran nodded his appreciation for the philosophical pearl.

“I’m an artistic sort, eh? I want to be an actor.”

“Yeah?” The old man beamed. “What sorta actor?”

“Oh…well, you know – the tragic hero type.” Pyran grinned amiably.

The old man returned the smile. “Oh yeah? Is that all? I see a guitar there, is it yours?”

“Yeah.” Pyran nodded softly. “I also wanted to be a musician.”

“A musician?”

“Yeah…” Pyran chuckled gently at his admission.

The old man smiled at him fondly. He reached into his trench-coat and pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette. He held it out to him. “I’ll swap ya, kordah.”

Pyran tilted his head politely. “Swap me for what?”

“The beer. I’m thirsty as, unna?”

Pyran shrugged, then gave him the can. He accepted the cigarette.

“Cheers, eh?” Pyran smiled, as he lit it.

The old man watched him take a drag.

Pyran nodded thoughtfully at the smoke. “This is different. Fruity.”

Crow’s feet tightened about the old man’s eyes. “Yeah. I’ve heard a few people describe it that way. Ya should roll yer own, brother. Better for ya, unna?”

“Yeah…yeah, I reckon you’re right there.” Pyran agreed.

Suddenly the old man’s eyes sparkled cheekily.

“Oi, I gotta question for ya.” He said.

“Yeah?”

“Do you know why we don’t generally fuck our mothers and our sisters?”

Pyran sputtered in surprise and then laughed. “Aside from the obvious, you mean?”

The old man grinned. “Yeah, aside from the obvious.”

“I dunno. I s’pose most of us aren’t attracted to our mums and sisters that way.” Pyran answered.

“It’s the smell.” The old man rejoined.

“Eh? Their smell?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh yeah. Like pheromones or somethin’?”

“Yeah. Somethin’ like that. Point is, they give off a certain smell that turns ya off em. Most people don’t even realise that they are reactin’ to a smell. But they are. The closer the bloodline, the more attractive they are unless it is too close – like a sister or a mother.” The old man explained. He took a sip of beer.

Pyran gave a bemused frown. “So why are you telling me this?”

“Hmpf.” The old man grunted with amusement. His eyelids drooped languidly. “Because, I can smell the bloodlines, you know.”

“Eh?” Pyran asked. A shudder went through him.

The old man turned to stare into Pyran. Suddenly he spoke in a clear, bell-like voice with a sophisticated English accent.

“You smell very much like someone I once met. A cousin, perhaps.”

“Is that right?” Pyran breathed.

“Oh yes. He would be about your age by now. Though he has more English blood, and you have more German…and Italian.”

Pyran sat and stared into the old man. “I know who you are.”

The old man smiled like the Cheshire cat. “Indeed?”

Pyran swallowed nervously. “I wasn’t sure at first, but you’re him, aren’t you? You’re…Dinewan?”

The old man’s eyes sparkled dangerously. “Yes, I am. And you are?”

Pyran did not answer.

“Well?” Prodded Dinewan mockingly.

Pyran steeled his nerves and spoke very carefully. “Please. I don’t want any trouble with you. And I don’t want to disrespect you, but I am not going to tell you my name.”

Dinewan shrugged. “Have it your way, Pyran.”

“Oh shit.” Pyran groaned.

Dinewan chuckled merrily. “Hmm. I like you already.”

“OK. What do you want with me?” Pyran asked warily.

Dinewan looked to the stars and sighed. “I want you to tell me a story.”

Pyran frowned. “A story? What do you mean?”

“Tell me a story…about the opal, the boy…and the monster.” Dinewan continued, his eyes gleaming in the fire-light.

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.” Pyran answered flatly.

“Hmm.” Dinewan drawled. “According to the story I heard, a little boy named Tristram and his cousin Pyran, went down to a water-hole in a gully deep in the High Country of Victoria. There, they met a monster – a bunyip. According to the story, their lives were spared by the bunyip because Tristram gave it a magic opal.”

“You’re nuts.” Pyran rejoined.

“Come, come, Pyran. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I know that Tristram once had a very special opal. I know that you have seen it. I know that he believes that he has lost it. I also know, that he and you saw a bunyip.”

“Man, that’s just a story that Tristram tells based on what we imagined when we were kids.” Pyran waved dismissively. “Look, what do you want with me? You already tried to take the opal from Tristram all those years ago, and he told you then that he doesn’t have it any more. So why are you talking to me?”

“I no longer care about the opal. It is lost. I want to know where to find the bunyip.” Dinewan announced.

“There is no such thing as a bunyip!” Pyran shouted. “We were just wound up by the stories that a koori elder told us!”

Orange eyes rolled in thought. “The watchdog. The man you called Fred Morris.”

“Yeah…how the fuck do you know about him?”

“I heard that he died two days ago. Pity.” Dinewan’s eyes betrayed a dreadful glee.

Understanding dawned on Pyran. “Fred Morris knew about you.” He breathed. “He told us that you could never come into East Gippsland.”

“Nonsense, Pyran.” Dinewan laughed. “I would have visited Tristram a long time ago if only I knew where he lived. But I don’t really need to now. I just need you to tell me where you saw the bunyip.”

“I don’t know! No one knows where to look!”

“Tristram does.”

“He won’t help you.”

“Yes, he will. You are going to talk to him for me.”

“Like hell!”

“You are, Pyran. You are going to deliver this to him personally.” Dinewan rejoined sternly. He pulled out a small, yellow padded envelope.

“What’s that?”

“It is a message. The time is coming for Tristram and I to meet again. The tide for magic is rising.”

“Magic? Tristram told me about your plastic skulls and your…” Pyran suddenly realised something. He looked at his cigarette and then violently threw it into the fire. “You fuckin’ cunt!”

“Settle down, Pyran. There is no need to be uncivil.” Dinewan chuckled.

“Listen, you are not going to fool me. I know that you aren’t really magic. There is no such fucking thing!” Pyran growled hotly.

His pulse was now racing, and he had to fight a growing panic within him.

Dinewan held Pyran’s eyes coldly. He shook his head mockingly at the frightened young man. Then he slowly reached down and pulled the long leather boot from his left leg.

Pyran nearly fainted at what he saw.

Instead of a human leg, it was an emu’s leg…complete with a three-toed foot.

Dinewan lifted the leg up for Pyran’s inspection. The flames reflected in the grey scales, and the toes wiggled grotesquely.

“Magic is a fact of life, like murder, sex and monsters.” Dinewan crooned. “Now, just sit there and relax, Pyran. We have lots to talk about.”