David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
‘The Monsters of Mullockgoolie’
David Weaver ©
Sitting in the bar of ‘The Drover’s Dog’ with Fatso McGinty, is one of life’s pleasures. His collection of anecdotes about the ‘Monsters of Mullockgoolie’, are legendary. After all, he swears he stumbled across one near Misery Creek.
Fatso, the proud mortgagee of the ‘The Drover’s Dog’, was as usual spruiking about the monsters, supposedly haunting the nearby bushland since the Second World War.
‘It was huge,’ he said, opening his arms like a fisherman whose imagination had already moved into the realms of fantasy, ‘with wicked yellow eyes.’
‘Black Panther.’ I suggested helpfully, my voice full of sarcasm.
‘That’s it, a Black Panther! Those American airmen released their mascots when the war ended.’
I watched his face for the slightest sign of guilt. ‘Something always puzzles me haven’t you noticed?’ I asked.
He looked nervous. ‘Noticed what?’ he said, furiously polishing an empty glass.
I continued, ‘Isn’t it a coincidence that the sightings are always at the quietest time of the tourist season. Strange that. People flock into town by the thousands and it’s always a prominent businessperson, who sees them, with much to be gained from the increased tourist trade.’
He looked miserable, so I turned the screws a little tighter. ‘In 1997 Cyril the Newsagent saw one, a year later it was you. In 99 Henry from the Motel saw no less than four and then in 2000 Muriel from the pony club saw one killing a cow. Last year one supposedly bounded up Main Street, just as Freddie Watson from ‘Exciting Bus Tours’, staggered out of this very bar, blind drunk. If I remember correctly, even you didn’t believe that one as Freddie roared up Main Street in his crowded bus full of terrified Japanese tourists.’
‘Pure coincidence,’ he muttered quietly. ‘But promise me something anyway?’
‘Promise what?’
‘Keep your cynicism to yourself it would set our tourist industry back twenty years, believe me.’
I slapped the bar counter triumphantly, ‘So you did make it up you bunch of crooks, scared witless in case I blow the whistle.’
‘It’s all true about the Americans,’ said Fatso defensively. ‘I heard it off a farmer, who’d been told by the mate of the American keeper’s brother.’
‘Sure, and after fifty years of inbreeding what do you reckon is out there?’
He looked serious. ‘Giant Black Panthers. It’s a known fact; only the biggest and strongest would have survived.’
Continuing, I said, ‘If you really want to make a killing out of those tourists, why don’t you do the job properly, I have an idea that would be the talk of Australia for years to come.’
He studied me suspiciously. The bait was carefully laid; all I had to do was make sure he swallowed it.
‘I don’t admit the stories aren’t true,’ he said cautiously, ‘but The Mullockgoolie Tourist Bureau would be interested in anything that would boost the town’s trade.’
Grinning at his pathetic attempts to con me I smiled, but after all it is my town too so why leave the professional planning to a bunch of incompetent amateurs.
I continued, ‘After the next sighting you will advise the newspapers, television and radio stations, and we’ll organise the biggest search party ever seen in these parts. I’ll be the coordinator providing you promise to leave all the details to me; that way I can guarantee you one a hundred per cent success. My meagre expenses can be cut out here in the bar, over the next two or three years.’
He listened with one ear, his own greed missing my expense's trap, ‘I don’t expect it will ever happen.’ he said, ‘but if there’s another panther report I’ll remember your offer.’
By a strange coincidence, the evening’s TV news reported two monsters pulling down a full-grown bullock. Councillor Mabel Bellingham from the continental bakery; was walking along the river when it happened. She was so terrified by the ferocity of the attack; she had to be revived with a bottle of brandy, kindly donated by Fatso at cost.
. I watched the news with great interest, my busy mind already making plans. Plans that would make our isolated town the centre of the universe, and my bar credit safe in the years to come.
Sorting through my video film collection I came across an old MGM classic, the one with the roaring lion at the introduction. I let the tape run awhile then recorded the lion, thirty times at various noise levels, until I had fifteen minutes of a pride of big cats in a feeding frenzy.
Satisfied with the preparations, I picked up the recorder and wandered off to ‘The Drover’s Dog’, to wait for the gullible tourists to arrive. There are those who would think me a rogue, but rogues give nothing in return whereas I hand out fresh-air and the promise of excitement, with the added bonus of prosperity to a group of honest, hard working local citizens.
The tourists came in droves: Buses, cars, motorcycles, even backpackers staggered into town, and local business did a roaring trade.
That evening we started our search, and it must have been around nightfall when we came to my carefully selected open area of bush, on the banks of the river: The sky was clear and a full moon cast dark shadows amongst the surrounding trees.
We made camp and those who were hungry, ate hot dogs and sipped rum. Sold at inflated prices, from a portable bar and barbecue that appeared from nowhere, courtesy of Fatso. Dry wood was collected from under a nearby cliff and soon the crowd sat around a roaring fire. To get the night off to a good start, I related the ghost story of Wild Jack Murphy, who haunted this particular clearing. I pretended it was just a story grown out of lies, with as much doubt in my voice to make their imagination’s take off on a journey of no return.
Wild Jack, according to legend, had been run over by a careering bullock cart over a hundred years back, and been sliced up into various bits and pieces. Now the poor man’s restless ghost, hopped amongst these very trees, clutching a severed leg, while his decapitated head watched the proceedings from the foot of an old tree stump nearby, calling out in a ghostly wail, ‘Help me find my other foot.’
It was at this time I wandered off into the bush with my hidden tape recorder. I placed it on a flat rock, switched it on, full volume then rejoined the search party with ten minutes talking time to fill in before the recording started.
We yarned and I steered the conversation around to the panthers. Even suggesting that yesterday’s sightings were caused by an over active imagination, coupled with too much grog, but they would have none of my cynicism. I was accused of being a vindictive fool, trying to damage the reputation of one of Mullockgoolie’s most upright citizens.
As the argument was getting heated, the nearby bush suddenly burst out into a deafening roar, as if all the lions in Africa had surrounded us. The affect was instantaneous. I’ve heard of blind panic driven by terror, but never could I have imagined such a wonderful reaction. One old man, who’d not walked for ten years without the aid of a stick, sprinted past a young newspaper reporter on a mountain bike. The walking stick remained where it had fallen, and his discarded shoes lay next to it. Fatso took off like a hyper active blowfly, leaving behind the evenings bar takings as well as all the hard liquor. He hadn’t moved so fast since his wife caught him giving Mavis Cunningham, mouth to mouth resuscitation on the snooker table, after she’d had one of her fainting spasms.
Pandemonium broke out as bodies crashed through the undergrowth in their bid to escape. By the time the last roar had passed into the night, I was alone in my own world of silence. Satisfied with the night’s work, I rolled out my swag and drifted off into the sleep of a man who had accomplished his goal.
Daylight found me greeting the dawn chorus, still lying near the dying embers of the campfire. I threw another log onto it, had a swagman’s breakfast, a .... a smoke and a good look round, and casually wandered off into the bush to retrieve my equipment. When I reached the recorder it was no longer sitting where I’d left it the night before, but was lying in the mud. That’s when I realised I was not alone. I quickly turned towards the strainer post half expecting the head of Wild Jack Murphy to be scowling at me. But not ten paces away, two black panthers as big as full-grown lions were staring at me, with the wickedest yellow eyes I have ever seen.
End
