SURVIVAL
Alan was worried. He, being the owner of the garage and general store in the tiny town of Erica, along with his brothers in the nearby even smaller tourist ‘ghost town’ of Walhalla, and a few other sensible folk, had put in so much effort to keep their little bush towns going and safe during this damned pandemic, and now he feared that all of their efforts might well have been wasted. He was beginning to form a real understanding of the exact nature of their situation, and what had brought about this particular crisis was, he thought, just plain silly. People just wanted to party, to have fun holidays after a year of desperate worry and so much bad news and sheer weirdness; to visit friends and relatives and just let their hair down and enjoy life for a bit in among all the grimness. But the situation was looking worse rather than better.
The last official announcement before the ABC had abandoned regular programmes and the news, and had been reduced to occasional emergency broadcasts, bulletins about new lockdowns and urgent warnings about the movements of ‘trolls’, ‘beasts’ and ‘giants’, had been a plea to people to stay near home, not to leave their communities; to support and look after one another as they could, and not to carelessly spread this deadly ‘Rash Disease’. All very well, but now Alan was left dealing with a town full of people who were really restless and angry, especially the young men who would in a normal year have been already making plans to go down the mountain to the Latrobe Valley townships, or even to travel as far west as Melbourne, and spend at least a weekend and preferably the whole Christmas/New Year week simply enjoying themselves.
Even his wife was furious that she and her friends could not go down to Melbourne on the train, or even drive down to Moe in the Valley to buy Christmas gifts for their kids and grandkids. But as things were that was impossible. So before any of the young fools could do something stupid that endangered everyone he needed to think of some way that he could arrange for them to have a good time right here without going anywhere too dangerous.
Alan consulted with his older brother Jack, and with Jack’s strange little mining partner, and they went to Coppermines to talk to Old Bill the hermit there. Despite his own recent strange experiences on a hunting trip, Alan knew that all three of them had travelled widely in their lives, and had more experience of both weirdness and hardship than he did, having spent his life in the same tiny bush town which he never wanted to leave, so between them all they might think of something.
And so they did. Alan noticed that his brother had brought along his own young quoll, a female somewhat older than the one that had come to him last winter when he had first learned that he had magic. Both of them hissed at Bill’s water dragon, but settled down soon enough and left the humans to talk.
“Dunno what we can do about the young blokes. Normally I wouldn’t worry too much about them going on the tear, so long as nobody gets hurt. But this isn’t a safe time to go drinking among people you don’t know, or to get into a friendly pub brawl with strangers who might be carrying this Rash. I wouldn’t even want to go down to the coast for a bit of rock fishing these days - the marngits down at Tyers reckon that some of those odd disappearances down by the coast lately have been because some of the whales and dolphins have caught the Rash and have become …..I don’t know how to explain it…… twisted into weird shapes and sort of rabid? Attacking people? Certainly not friendly or just ignoring humans like they used to do. Maybe the same sort of thing that was wrong with that ……..dog-thing that tried to kill me last winter?
Anyway, I don’t want to take any chances. Even for New Year, I don’t reckon we should risk going too far from home. We can throw a good enough party here - and I suppose Basil can still fire his precious cannon, like he does every year. We still have plenty of fuel and enough food to be going on with, though we could do with more of both if we can get it. I have no idea how long this lockdown is going to last, but I can’t say I feel optimistic about any of this. And the worst part is, we don’t have all that much booze on hand. Sure, the pubs got resupplied ahead of the Christmas and tourist season rush, but most of us would have done a trip down to the Valley to stock up, and now not even the big supermarkets are doing deliveries to any of the towns up here…..maybe to the work camp at Rawson, but maybe not. And New Year just won’t feel like New Year without a drink.”
Bill finally broke his usual silence. “I can put in a bit of my home brew for a party if that helps. I have a few gallons of bitter beer, and about the same of milk stout if that is any use. But I will need to save a bit as starters for next year’s brew. Can’t see any of us getting down to the Valley to buy brewing kits this summer. And I think Jimmy up the track has some homebrew as well. Worth a try. And there might……just might….be something worth salvaging in the cellars of the old pub at Cooper Creek.”
Jack added “I can put in a bit of beer myself, and who knows…..I just might know where there is a bit of white wine, for those who like the stuff. It’s pretty old though, maybe it’s stale by now, or whatever happens to old wine.”
His mining partner gave a resigned sigh. “You know perfectly well that most wines improve with ageing, Jack! Even old whites like the Windsor House brew. And maybe I can do something else toward next year with any that hasn’t aged so well?”
“Yeah, you do a good mulled wine. And I’m sure you and old Bill can use a still. Let’s go with that. That will set us up for next year.”
That was the first acknowledgement that perhaps this might not all be over soon.
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So it was that they determined to raid the cellars of the old ruined pub.
It turned out to be well worth the trouble. There were still a few unopened kegs of beer, which was useful, but the prize of the expedition was the old publican’s own homebrew. He had kept bees, and had amused himself by making mead. Some of his still-sealed casks were now several decades old, and the mead had acquired a rich and syrupy texture with a surprisingly high alcohol content. There were still some old bottles of wine as well. And as might be expected in the kitchen and storerooms of what had once been a very busy pub catering to travellers, there was still a quantity of crockery, cutlery and table linen.
But to Jack’s mind the treasure of the old kitchen was the knife sharpening machine, an ancient Kent model from well over a century ago. It still worked well, and indeed as the small towns lost touch with the outside world, and the dangers around them multiplied, it did prove to be a life saving find.
Soon a convoy of utes was busy removing these treasures to the Walhalla Lodge Hotel where the seasonal festivities would be centred. And when Basil fired his ancient cannon from the top of the old cricket ground on New Year’s Eve the townsfolk did not discover until the next day that the ball had veered slightly from its course and had thoroughly crushed the head of the giant which had been dragging its bloated body up Stringer’s Creek toward the light and noise of the celebration.
Kitty Kane’s ghost smiled to herself over the resilience of the little town she loved and protected in death as she had in life. But that is another story.
