The Creek

[Stephen Whiteside]

The Creek

© Stephen Whiteside 14.10.2011

Horatio began to follow the bank downstream. At first he stumbled constantly. He could see little in the dark, and found it difficult to anticipate the contours beneath his feet. Sometimes the land was low and flat - almost at the level of the swiftly flowing water - other times he would find himself quite high above the creek, with a steep drop down to the swirling current on his right.

The grass was long and moist, and the ground beneath quite unpredictable. All sorts of hazards were hidden, from pebbles and twigs to large pine cones and gum nuts and other strange tree cast-offs that he could only guess at. In time, though, his eyes seemed to accustom to the darkness. He was not aware of it until after it had happened. Gradually he realised he was stumbling less, a little more sure-footed. And he could make out shapes around him, too.

Everything about him was strange. He had never followed a creek like this before. He had certainly crossed bridges in mouse-drawn carriages, but a creek before had never been anything more than a glimpse of silver streak beneath the furious wheels. Now it was his world.

The creek seemed to take two forms - rapids and pools. And that became the pattern of his night. Rapids and pools. Rapids and pools. He much preferred the rapids. They seemed so much safer. Of course, on the creek itself, the pools would be safer, but from the bank they looked dangerous. Silent. Mysterious. Lonely. What fearsome monsters lurked in their depths?

The rapids, on the other hand, were bright and chatty. They kept him company. They seemed to talk to him. Who are you? Where are you from? You’ll be OK, young fella. Just keep your chin up and battle on. Hard times now, but the future will be bright. That sort of thing. The pools, though, they seemed to be holding back, waiting for him to make some sort of mistake, so they could pounce and engulf him. Malicious. Evil, even.

Poor little Horatio started to become a little delirious. Peanut cows began to march through his imagination. If he had any purpose at all now, other than finding a safe place to rest at sunrise, and even managing to walk that long at all, it was finding a peanut cow. A beautiful golden brown peanut cow with pendulous udders filled with warm peanut milk. Just waiting for Horatio, to churn into delicious peanut butter.

Sometimes a single peanut cow strolled gently across his mindscape. Other times there was a whole herd of them, jostling together, seeming to merge into each other, their limbs poking out at strange angles, with frightened, and frightening expressions on their faces. Peanut cows from a Picasso painting. The cubist phase.

This whole peanut aroma was something quite new to him. Already, it was haunting him. Why had his parents never told him about it? How could such a magnificent secret have been kept from him for so long? And if there was this secret, perhaps there were others still to uncover! The world was clearly an extraordinary place, so much more extraordinary than his own little village, and he was determined to learn more about it.

He became aware that the world around him was full of sounds, all of them unfamiliar, and many of them quite unsettling. There was a breeze that night, although he was protected from much of it, being down by the river. The tree-tops were rustling, though, and the sound became louder every time he climbed to higher ground. But that didn’t worry him so much. There were chirrups. And whoops. And hollers. And cries. All sorts of unseen and unknown animals were living their lives around him. Foraging for food, mostly, he suspected. And having a lot more luck than he was!

Every now and then he would catch two little eyes staring straight at him, reflecting star-light. But what were they? Animals or birds? Friends or foe? Predator or prey? Perhaps some of them were food, if only he knew which ones, and how to hunt them. And how to cook them, too. There was a thought, now. How was he going to cook his food? Don’t tell me I’m going have to eat my food raw, he thought! What a horrible notion! Perhaps I will manage to hook up with some gypsy rats, who will let me share their campfire in exchange for some stories of Rat Town. That was a lovely idea. Some cheerful, rustic, romantic, fatalistic, devil-may-care, musical - must be musical, with fiddles and accordions and eyes filled with mischief and wicked thoughts - gypsy rats. Did gypsy rats even exist? Ah, so much to learn, so much to learn!

Hour after hour he staggered on, rapids and pools, rapids and pools, lower, higher, then lower again.

By now he was just numb, walking - and working - on autopilot. He didn’t know what he was thinking. He didn’t know how he felt. He wasn’t thinking anything. He was just moving. Gradually, he began to become aware of a lightening of the sky. He’d done it! He’d walked all night! Somehow he’d got through, without being scratched to death by a possum, charged by a wombat, swallowed by a bunyip...or gobbled up by a hungry owl! Sure, the pools had been nasty and dangerous, but the rapids had been friendly. The two faces of the creek, benign and malignant, already he had seen them both. Of course, one day he would travel on the water of a creek, and see these roles reversed, but all that lay long, long in the future, and was quite beyond the ken of teary, weary, bedraggled, frightened, exhausted little Horatio right now.

It was time to find a nice little hollow to curl up in and sleep. Somewhere dry and out of the wind. And not too obvious from the outside, so a snake wouldn’t silently slide in and open his dislocating jaws around his sleeping form. But where? Oh, where? Surely all the good spots would have been taken by now. What were his chances of finding a nice warm little burrow that was completely unoccupied?

 For the first time since leaving home, he began to panic. Of course, it was fuelled by exhaustion. And hunger. And cold. And loneliness. Loneliness. That was the real killer. That was what was hitting him harder than anything, though he didn’t know it at the time.

“Good morning. And who might you be, then?” A friendly, squeaky voice sounded a little to his left.

[Maureen K Clifford]

aha.....Horatio has found a friend things are looking up,,,you've got me caught up in this tale Stephen

[Stephen Whiteside]

Well, that's good, Maureen!