From shining star to sea: the journey of an unlikely promise

Welcome!

Succulents are perfect for Adelaide summers

We are in the midst of a record-breaking heatwave. I am so grateful to live in the Adelaide Hills where the trees give refreshment even in scorching weather. We have seen koalas a lot more than usual as they move into the suburbs in search of water. The magpies, wattle birds and silvereyes appreciate our birdbath, which has to be topped up frequently. The garden is surviving the heat well – my deep watering approach seems to be working but it requires daily diligence as I use a sprinkler mornings and evenings in different areas of the yard. We used to have it all rigged up with automatic systems, but the garden has changed and the system has aged beyond usefulness.

In recognition of Christmas in one week’s time, here is a Christmas story with a difference. It is based on a rather odd Victorian Christmas card (c. 1880).

From shining star to sea: the journey of an unlikely promise         

Robbi lay back down on a rock near the shore, terrified, yet almost relieved that his fears were being realised. It was a fool’s journey, but what else can a mouse do? He tried to explain it to the lobsters again.

                There was much clacking of claws. It dawned on the mouse that they were laughing. He wished they would kill him and be done with it. His mission made no sense anyway.

                The last of the sunlight was swallowed by the ocean. The mouse, still wet, began to shiver. An order was given to carry him to the beach for a gathering of the clan. Robbi’s tail was pinched in a large claw and he was dragged to the sand, pressed by dozens of hard-shelled bodies.

The biggest lobster spoke at him. ‘There was an ancient promise about a message from the King of the Land. Frankly, it sounds like nonsense. But truth comes in strange packages. You might go to our King, if you’re convincing. Speak up.’

                The mouse trembled; he knew he had no powers of persuasion. His death was imminent.

                He spoke quickly, hastening the inevitable. ‘I was in a forest. A large beast was caught in a hunter’s trap, a net of thick rope binding it. When I realised it a was a lion, I knew I should have listened to my father.

                ‘The lion did not kill me with its huge paws. It asked for help. I chewed through the rope in all the places the lion told me, and expected to be eaten for my troubles.

                ‘I darted away as he wriggled free, but froze with terror as a roar shook the ground. He bellowed, “I, the King of the Land, thank you, little mouse. If you dare, come close again.”

                ‘My legs were stiff with fear, but I went close. After all, even though he’s a lion, he is my King.

                ‘"You are a brave soul,” he said. “I will need you again one day. Will you do what I ask if I call you?”

                ‘Not long afterwards a new star had appeared in the sky. Every creature began rehearsing old stories of a long-forgotten promise. The King called me. He said the time of reconciliation had begun. He sent me to the King of the Sea to say: Peace, Joy, Health and Happiness from the King of the Heavens.

                ‘I warned him I would fail. I had so many reasons why he should entrust the message to someone else, but he would not listen. He asked, “Will you go?”

                ‘What can a mouse do? I said yes. And here I am.’

                A hint of moonrise lit the underside of a cloud, making the lobsters restless. They twitched their antennae, waiting for a signal from the Boss. He was in deep silence.

                ‘Boll! I charge you with taking this mouse to the King.’

                Boll, the mouse’s former guard, stepped forward. ‘But I can’t.’

                ‘You can and you will. Go, and may the favour of the King of the Heavens follow you. Oh, you’d better take this.’ He passed it a white oilskin with some incomprehensible words written on it. Then he dismissed the young lobster with an imperious wave of a claw.

                The rest of the clan fled to the safety of the dark waters as the moon lit the winter night.

                Only Boll and Robbi remained on the beach, shifting uneasily. ‘What do you think it says?’ the mouse asked the lobster, indicating the oilskin in its claw.

                ‘How should I know?’

                ‘Oh.’ Gulping, the mouse said, ‘We’d better just go.’

                ‘Right. Er, how? You can’t swim.’

                ‘I can, if my head is above the water.’

                ‘Right. Ride on my back.’

                Robbi climbed on and slid off the other side.

                Boll clacked. ‘Better hang on to one set of my feelers. I’ll use the others.’

                They tried again, with more success, and Boll took a few steps. ‘Okay up there? Hold the message.’ It handed the oilskin to the mouse.

                ‘Okay,’ Robbi said, all his senses alert. ‘Let’s go.’

               

The Boss watched from his rock at the water’s edge. It was the strangest sight in all his long years, a mouse on the back of a small lobster, the white oilskin message hanging down from a paw. One mouthful and they’d both be gone. The skin had been in the Boss’s family for generations. But what can a lobster do? It was the King of Heaven’s problem now.

I echo the message of the King of Heaven: may you have Peace, Joy, Health and Happiness this Christmas and in the new year.

See you next time!

Claire Belberg

Julia: a story

Welcome!

Spring delight

The first spring flush is passing now in the Adelaide Hills. I am trying to be diligent to remove spent flowers in the hope of a new flush in a few weeks’ time. I find it a challenge to manage that, weeding, fertilising, mulching and watering all at once! I don’t have a green thumb but I start each growing season full of hope.

The fruit trees are producing mixed results. Lemon – fabulous; one of the apples – very promising; nectarine – nothing at all after a serious infestation of aphids; apricot – a decent crop. Unforeseen disasters may occur, of course – growing things is a risky hobby.

Do you enjoy dreaming? I love it; it’s like reading without the book. Not always as satisfying but often intriguing. Today’s story is a drama that started with a dream I had.

Julia

He was looking directly at me as I stood in the phone booth, about to make a difficult call. He was the archetypal gentleman, from his well-cut suit and his neatly trimmed beard to the way he held his tall body with perfect ease and grace.

I banged the receiver down awkwardly and left the booth.

‘I hate strangers staring at me, ‘ I muttered, forced to walk past him to get to my room. Once I was around the corner, I ran, holding two thoughts at once. The first was to lock myself in my room and stay out of sight until I was sure he had left the premises. The second was his odd reply to my outburst: ‘I know what you mean.’

I knew who he was, though what he was doing in an ordinary London boarding hostel, I had no idea.

The hostel was pleasant enough, and I was one of the lucky two boarders who had ground floor rooms with big windows and a little patch of grass beyond the back door. I was careful to keep those big windows covered with their heavy drapes when there were strangers around, but as I slammed the door behind me and pushed the bolt, I realised that if I was to remain out of sight I had no time to close them again. I had opened them only a short time before to allow the rare sunshine in.

I heard his voice from my hiding place under the bed on the far side of the room.

‘Madam? Are you all right? I meant no disrespect.’

I could just see him as he stood on the little lawn, his handsome face filled with concern. I knew who he was and that he meant well, but I stayed where I was until he left.

Fate kept placing George and me in the same public locations for some months after that, as if London were too small for two strangers to not connect. I pretended not to see him on each occasion and, since I would not look at him after the first recognition of his presence, I could not know if he had seen me. Finally there came a day when we communicated, and for that I will be eternally grateful.

It was not fate that caused Wade to turn up at various junctures of my life. On this day, a brisk spring day with its usual dose of wind and rain, he ran into me as I left Sloane Square station.

‘Julia,’ I heard a voice say behind me. I froze.

He came around to face me, pushing me gently to the edge of the pavement where the eaves of an apartment block gave a little protection and the stream of commuters flowed past us without interruption. I stared at my feet, unable to think straight, which was typical when Wade was around.

‘You didn’t give me an answer after last time,’ he said. Even into the low voice he used to keep our conversation private, he managed to inject poison. I felt it leaking into me from my ears steadily towards my heart. I had no antidote; I just waited for it to take familiar effect.

‘You know my answer,’ I said, forcing the words from my lips.

But he knew my weakness. ‘You say that, but you’ll do what I say. If you don’t add my name to your account by the end of the week, I’ll make sure Alexa knows exactly what you did on the night she was conceived. Every bloody detail.’

Alexa was my five year old daughter, who lived in the care of my sister in a village in Devon. I didn’t put it past Wade to have worked out where she was, nor to tell a child things no child should know.

I had practised what I should say, but now I could not remember the words or any sense of how I could resist his threat. But before I was forced to respond, a third person joined us. George.

‘Is there a problem here?’ he asked in his fine English that made Wade’s private school accent sound common.

My fuddled brain had had no chance to plan for an event unforeseen. ‘He’s trying to blackmail me,’ I blurted, looking George in the eyes for the first time since our encounter at the phone booth. Then my eyes flew to Wade’s face and I blushed. Wade always made me feel that my actions were wrong.

Only this time it was Wade who did not know how to respond.

Before he could, George spoke again. ‘If anything suspicious happens in this woman’s life, ever, you will feel the full weight of the law.’ He looked directly at Wade for a moment that carried the significance of years, and then turned to me.

Handing me a business card, he said, ‘You can contact me any time if he gives you more trouble.’ Then he touched his right hand to his head in that ageless gesture of the English gentleman, and walked in the direction of all the other morning commuters. It struck me for the first time that George used public transport like the rest of us.

Wade found his words, and his venom. ‘Oh yes, he’s going to solve the sordid dealings of a bitch on the street.’ He had regained his usual place of power between us. ‘Who does he think he is?’

‘George Pennington, QC,’ I said, reading the card.

‘Some fancy lawyer type. He’ll have forgotten you by the time he’s finished reading the Times.’ He seemed to need to convince himself.

‘He’ll remember,’ I said. ‘We have met before. And he’s renowned for his memory of detail.’

Wade’s confidence was shaken, and in like measure mine was increasing.

‘You don’t know who he is, do you, Wade?’ I pressed. ‘He’s literally a QC – counsel to the royal family.’

And then I did what I should have done years earlier. I said, ‘Goodbye, Wade,’ and turned my back on him.

I walked in the direction George had walked, simply because he had; that was all the sense of direction I needed. Of course I did not see him. In fact, we never met again. Nor did I suffer further threats from Wade Chandler.

Have a happy November!

See you next time!

Claire Belberg

Paint Job (Part I)

                         Welcome!

No place like home

How weird was it to return from tropical (dry season) Cambodia to find that our summer Adelaide Hills garden was green and refreshing! Thanks to our friend watering regularly and some cooler weather, home was truly a sight for weary eyes. This week’s cooler weather is a bit of a shock, with temperatures consistently in the low 20s (Celsius)/low 70s (Fahrenheit), but I’m not complaining. The koala pictured here lives in my neighbourhood, another welcome sight for a travel weary Aussie.

My new story will be rolled out over three posts, so enjoy the first instalment!

Paint Job

Part I

'He's an electrician, for gods' sake! What would he know about interior decorating?' Ma pressed her lips together and strode from the dropcloth-covered lounge room.

            Pete and I shrugged and said nothing. What was there to say? We'd known Ma would react that way – nobody knows anything more than Ma – and we also knew she'd vent her superiority on pastry and there'd be a grand supper tonight. We made ourselves scarce till it was time to eat.

            Pete had been boarding at our place for five months and my life had never been more satisfying. When Dad had shot through two years earlier, I'd been left to defend the reputation of the male of the species. It was a full-time job; senior high school was a breeze by comparison. And then Pete had turned up.

            I'd never quite worked out the pieces of his story – where he'd been before and why he was here now – but one thing was clear: he'd won Ma over, or she wouldn't have let him move in.

            Pete was about three years older than me, the brother I'd alternated between longing for and being grateful I didn't have. If I'd had a brother like Joe's, I'd have left home. But Pete more than matched the other side of my scale. As long as he stayed, I'd stay.

            Pete's electrical skills were a boon in the old house, with its dicky lighting that flashed as if it had ambitions to join the lightning it emulated. The switches sparked when we shifted them, and we never knew if the TV would work. Pete fixed all that in his first three weeks and Ma waived the board money.

            'Why don't you take up a trade, do something useful with your life?' she took to asking whenever I claimed schoolwork as my excuse for copping out of the dishes. Like going to university to study engineering wouldn't be useful.

            In all the time Pete had been with us, Ma had never spoken directly to him. Pete was always 'he', never 'you'. It was kind of freaky, but Pete didn't seem to mind. Pete didn't mind anything much, really, except hunger and police officers. He was adept at steering clear of both.

This particular weekend was the long one in June, the Queen's birthday. The weather was lousy: wet and windy. I was sick of all my computer games, and our internet connection didn't like rain.

            'You up for a bit of useful, Mattie?' Pete asked when we'd been doing nothing for a couple of hours.

            'What kind of useful?' I asked, thinking of the assignments I was avoiding and wishing he'd offered fun instead.

            'How about we fix up this room while Rhoda's busy with the oldies at the nursing home?'

            'Whaddya mean, 'fix it up'? It's okay as it is. Been like this as long as I remember.'

            'That's my point,' he said, slapping my back. 'Don't you reckon your ma would like a fresh coat of paint on it? Look,' he added, pointing at the bare patches around the light switch, 'there's hardly any paint left. What colour was it, d'ya reckon?'

            I looked, probably for the first time in the ten years since I'd scratched my name in the paint behind the sofa. 'Dunno. Can't remember. Maybe cream?'

            'Well, I figure we've got four hours. We can do one coat before she gets back, if we're fast. You in it?'

            Pete was already walking out to the shed as I muttered a half-hearted, 'S'pose so.' He came back with a couple of new tins of paint.

            'Corn chip. It's the latest fashion colour. I saw it in this house I was working on last week, and the woman there showed me one of those home decorator magazines. This colour was the hot favourite.'

            What did I know? I started packing up Ma's knick knacks and photos while Pete shoved the movable furniture into the corridor. We covered the heavy stuff with old sheets, brought in buckets of water and scrubbed the walls with sugar soap. There wasn't much paint anywhere on the wall when we'd finished.

            The time raced as we slapped on paint while the CD player thumped fast music to set our pace. Pete was up on the ladder painting the cornice a tomato-and-milk colour which he reckoned the magazine showed too, and I was tidying the edges and removing drips when we heard the slam of the back door. I turned the CD off and looked up as Ma stood in the doorway from the kitchen.

            'Whose idea?' she said hoarsely. I looked at Pete, who stood on the ladder grinning, his brush poised over the paint tin hanging from its wire handle.

            'Looks like a different place, huh, Rhoda? D'ya like it? We'll finish it off properly, like professionals. It'll be done by the end of the weekend.'

            I groaned – he hadn't told me that part.

            Ma made her comment and left. We cleaned up and spent the time before supper washing out paint-soaked brushes and wiping up all the drips and smudges that seemed to have spread themselves around.

            We sat down at the kitchen table at the usual time for supper, our hands raw from an hour in cold water and turps. There was something in the oven, but no sign of Ma. We waited a few minutes, but then Pete opened the oven.

            'Get the plates, Matt,' he grunted as he pulled out a baking dish. 'Oh-oh,' he added, 'we've got trouble.' He dumped the dish on the stovetop and stood looking at it, absently slapping the worn oven glove from hand to hand.

            I looked too. Corn chips floating in tomato soup. 'I guess she didn't like the colour scheme.'

            'Yeah.'

            Pete went to the fridge to find something more palatable.

            'There's a note,' I said, pulling a sticky note off the fridge door.

            Maybe he knows about cooking too. He's welcome to it.

Ooh, Ma is really riled. I wonder why? Read the second instalment next time.

See you then...

Claire Belberg

City Lights

Welcome!

summer plenty

Adelaide is famous for its summer heatwaves, days on end of temperatures over 35 degrees Celsius (95^o Fahrenheit). Just yesterday the mercury hit 44^oC (111F), a real scorcher. Our forecast was looking seriously hot for the next week, and I’m not sorry it’s been downgraded a little.

One of the delights of living in the Adelaide Hills is the gully breezes most hot summer nights, giving us overnight temperatures more comfortable than on the plains. But although our nights are mostly cool enough at the moment, I am puzzled by the winds – changing direction frequently, and very gusty all day and night, as if we were spinning around a gyrating compass. Unpredictability in unpredictable ways; all out of kilter. No matter how good we are at forecasting and explaining, the elements play with us and we just have to take it as it comes!

This post’s creative piece is a drama written to an ending quoted from DH Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers. Not having read the novel, I have no idea if my story has anything in common with the original! Sometimes it’s freeing not to know (but maybe now I’ll take a peek at Wikipedia!)

City Lights

           'Come on, Sven,' Lana called impatiently.

            Sven concentrated on following the clattering of Lana's ridiculous heels down the rough steps. He hadn't yet worked out how she managed to wander up and down the back streets and outskirts of the city without ever turning an ankle.

            She entered the poorly lit bar without waiting for him. Sven stood in the doorway, adjusting his eyes to the darkness and trying to assess the situation. He felt a familiar twinge of resentment at the role of bodyguard that seemed to define his relationship with her these days.

            Lana lit the darkness, her white blonde hair and long white satin evening dress drawing what little light the flickering lamps emitted, giving her an aura. As he drew closer to her, weaving his way between the patrons who deferred to his height and Western visage, he was reminded of a moth. No matter what crazy places she insisted on taking them, Sven found her achingly irresistable. He took up his place at her side, where she put a hand of ownership on his arm. Her slender white fingers showed no sign of the tension he could sense in her, the thrill of anticipation, the drive to extract every ounce of juice out of her unorthodox adventures, to ride the wave of risk that threatened to carry her too far only to be brought short at the last moment, leaving her satisfied and him weary. So weary.

            'Ah, Miss Raffen, you honour us with visit.' An old Chinese man bowed obsequiously to her. He turned to a young man – a boy, really – behind the bar, and snapped, 'Give her a drink.'

            Sven coughed slightly and addressed the boy. 'And I'll have a brandy on the rocks.'

Another evening spent as a spectator to Lana's escapades left Sven wondering what had happened to the beautiful and talented woman he'd fallen in love with. Now she stretched the boundaries in all directions as if the wealth and status of her life as a senior diplomat's daughter was a cage she sought to escape. Sven's ambitious dreams for his promising education consultancy firm were dwindling as rapidly as Lana's reputation.

Lana was sure she knew the way to a friend's house nearby. After all, she'd lived in Hong Kong most of her life. After several dead ends,  Sven was starting to feel nervous. He was sure he'd heard footsteps behind them.

Lana was complaining. 'You're no fun any more, Sven.You used to join in but now you just watch me with disapproval. You're getting as dull and boring as the rest of the pack. But Sandy will know how to live it up tonight. She's a fun girl, that one.'

            Oh my god, thought Sven. Sandy, of all people. Yes, of course she'd want to stay with that freak. It was probably Sandy who'd put Lana onto the old man. He'd plyed her with drink, set up the poker game that used every last dollar Sven had had on him, and given her a stamp-sized piece of paper. Lana's ticket to fun for the rest of the night.

            At that moment Sven's fears were realised. Three men, the old man's muscle men, pushed Sven to one side,  and surrounded Lana,.

            'Sven, do something, for god's sake,' Lana said, laughing nervously. She looked like a queen whose courtiers had suddenly turned hostile and even now she couldn't quite believe it. A smile, a look of camaraderie, but the muscle men paid no attention. They were deliberately steering her, without touching her, to a darker corner.

            Sven looked around for a weapon. He picked up a rust-ragged steel pipe in one hand and a broken brick in the other. He launched the brick at one head, and swung the pipe at another. The posse broke into fast motion. The brick missed, flying between the aimed-for head and Lana's shoulder, dropping into the third man just as he made a grab for her. It stopped him for a moment. The pipe struck, and one man was down. The others became more frenzied. The man hit by the brick was intent on dragging Lana around the corner, while the one the brick had missed was lunging at Sven.

            He called out Lana's name, and having activated his voice, strings of oaths followed as he dodged and punched his attacker. He received more than he gave and, with the wind knocked out of him, he stopped cursing. Finding himself on the ground, his head feeling split by the fall and a karate fiend launching itself at him, Sven was puzzled to find the world suddenly flooded with light. His attacker twisted away and disappeared into the dark.

            Sven pushed himself up on an elbow, shading his eyes to see where Lana was before making the monumental effort to stand up. He was sure his head weighed three times what it had, pounding like war drums. He staggered, but still he couldn't see Lana. He couldn't see anything, and pondered the irony that more light was less helpful.

            'I'm all right, Sven. Sandy saved the day.' Incredibly, Lana laughed, as if the events of the previous minutes were simply the highlight of an entertaining evening. 'See, I was right. She does live round here. You'd better come in and get cleaned up.'

            Sandy took up the invitation with a brusque, 'You look like someone chewed you good and proper.' Nevertheless she took Sven inside her two-roomed shanty and found some water and a cloth to clean him up with. She pushed him into a chair and gave him a cracked glass. 'Drink it. It will help the headache.' He did as he was told. It tasted foul.

            But it worked. Within half an hour he was ready to go home.

            'You can stay here,' Sandy offered, but Lana answered for him.

            'No, he'll go home, sleep it off and turn up bright and early tomorrow at work with a neat cover story. He's good for that, at any rate. You should have heard some of the whoppers he's told to keep me in the good books.'

            It was her nonchalance that made the penny drop. No recognition that she'd just about got him killed, that she'd given away over one thousand dollars to have her fun without even asking, risking their lives in her search for the perfect high. In privacy she had been honey and passion, but in public she had shamed and belittled him. He'd told himself for the past few weeks that it was just a phase, that she was testing his love, that she was covering up the depths of her feeling for him because she didn't want the gossip that inevitably accompanied romances in this hothouse expatriate community. But he'd been telling whoppers to himself, he now saw. He was possibly the only one he'd fooled.

            'I'm off then, Lana. Thanks, Nurse Sandy.'

            'See you tomorrow, Sven,' Lana called as he walked into the lane that would lead him to the main road and a late night bus.

            'No, Lana. Not tomorrow. Not any day. It's over.' He couldn't believe he was saying it. The words sounded feeble, like a bad movie. Humphrey Bogart might have pulled it off, made it sound manly.

            'Sure, Sven. Bye.'

            The door closed. He heard the giggles behind it. She didn't believe him. She knew he was in her thrall. The very risk-taking that disturbed him about her excited him. She was vivacity, charm and challenge, a siren. His siren.

He stood in the dim glow of a flickering street light, torn between the desire to escape and the anger that wanted to make her believe him.

He stood. Remembered. Ached with desire, with shame. Her image burned bright within, and once again he was blinded. And then the street light stopped flickering, and the darkness was complete. Beyond the shanties he could see now the glow of the city lights. Here was darkness. There was a light by which one might see.

He could stay, remain in the darkness of her light. But no, he would not give in. Turning sharply, he walked towards the city's gold phosphorescence. His fists were shut, his mouth set fast. He would not take that direction again, to the darkness, to follow her. He walked towards the faintly humming, glowing town, quickly.

Until next week…
Claire Belberg

There's life in the old year yet

Welcome!

water in December

The old year draws to an end, dribbling out its final weary days as if all its hope has been transferred to the year about to begin. Isn’t it odd that a day at one point on the calendar should feel like it has less intrinsic value than another?

In Australia, these are the lazy days of summer when many people are on holidays, recovering from the frenzied build-up to Christmas and planning the far more casual New Year’s celebrations – beach, barbecue, all night parties and public firework shows. Some of us have more prosaic concerns, like keeping the garden alive as the moisture level of the soil shrinks and the rain is rare.

One of my motifs in living here in the Adelaide Hills is the creek which runs through our neighbourhood. When the creek is stagnant or dry, which is typical in summer, I languish. When the creek is bounding with white-crested enthusiasm after rain in winter, I feel the energy flow through me like laughter. Late December and a creek still flowing, albeit reluctantly, says to me that this year’s life is not over yet. Make every day count.

The poem for this week is a sonnet about another body of water: the Coorong in the south-east of South Australia. (See my blog called Grandy's House for more info.)

What is this grey and silent place, o'ercast

And windswept, lonely, featureless, yet held

In high esteem as nature unsurpassed?

The Coorong, where the sky and water meld.

Our island sails on through the monotone

As subtleties, the myst'ries of the grey

Emerge to fascinate, our senses hone,

And eerie bird calls cease to cause dismay.

See traces of the people who once stayed

In this secluded waterheld domain;

The mess of fishers' gear is being unmade,

While crushed-shell middens ancient dunes retain.

These lonely lands to creatures wild belong.

We leave, but ever hear its siren song.

The Coorong is not always grey but on a cloudy winter's day, as in the poem, its glory is muted.

Until next week…

Claire Belberg

A Month On: the final poem of a trilogy

                         Welcome!

Absent - one rosella

Others may disagree, but I think this spring in the Adelaide Hills has performed a rare show of warming up gradually. This is a pleasant and wondrous phenomenon. Typically, Adelaide’s weather seems to know little moderation; it’s hot as, or it’s cold (by comparison). One can never adapt because the range varies so much, often changing the maximum temperature by 10 degrees Celsius from one day to the next, in either direction. Thank you, Spring, for a gentle introduction to the heat and dryness of a Mediterranean summer downunder.

The final poem of the trilogy 'The futility of attempting capture' is here unveiled. I have added the first two poems (in grey) before it so that you can easily read the whole set. Scroll down to the new one if it all seems too familiar!

Calling card

This morning I communed with a rosella

through the dusty glass of my window.

He perched on a swaying twig of bottlebrush,

seeking a companion

with the ringing call of his kind,

glowing red and orange in the sunshine.

Then he turned an eye towards me

and began bobbing and chucking like a budgie,

inquiring.

With gentle movement, talking and singing,

I sent him on his search with a blessing.

My friend rosella was, vividly tangible,

God’s calling card,

for I, too, had been looking for company,

responding to the song of the creator

and listening, heart open, to his words

as he blessed me on my way.

‘Oh Bobby’

I called him Bobby after that first visit

when he’d warmed my heart

and charmed my imagination with his antics of bird curiosity.

He returned to that lichened twig by my window

several times a day

and I determined to capture it,

to celebrate our friendship

with a photograph, framed

neatly by the window (now washed).

Friendship, huh.

‘Oh Bobby’ became the wail of my longing

as all that remained of every attempt –

me creeping close with the camera poised

while he watched with one eye,

twitched and flew before the shutter closed.

The best I managed was a blurry shot, claimed

in triumph

and accidentally erased the same day –

all that remained was the flash of colour as he retreated,

to return another time with

his luring call and practised nonchalance.

A month on

I imagined he was alone

because he was seeking, waiting

for the right one in this season

of mating and ritual.

Daily I heard the ringing ‘pip, pip’ of the mate-call,

daily I caught up the camera

to frame him in his rosella glory

arrayed just out of reach.

The calls sounded

and I stopped whatever I was doing:

‘This time…’

I have become the lover

at the end of your siren song,

You, wild and free, calling

Me, captive to the intent of a perfect picture, answering.

But your only reply

is that lichened twig where we first met,

quivering with your absence.

I'd love to read your stories of communing with wild creatures, so why not post a comment with your own story here?

Until next week…

Claire Belberg

His Xanadu

                             Welcome!

my first rose of the season

The Adelaide Hills growing season is typically about six weeks behind the Plains, or at least mine is when compared with a friend’s garden in the northeastern suburbs.  Yellow-flowering plants have a tough time in my garden because they normally prefer full sun and my garden is mostly semi-shade. I really enjoy the yellow roses that add floral sunshine to my view.

The short story this week centres on a garden, a far more planned and perfected one than mine. Nevertheless, all is not as it seems in paradise…

His Xanadu

The air is warm and sweet with the subtle scents of pine and citrus mingled with just the right amount of frangipani. Michael breathes it in slowly, each step of his sojourn in the garden of his dreams bringing a new and exquisite cocktail of fragrance. Living perfume, he says to himself. As glorious, as perfect as the forms of the plants which offered these delectable aromas, as the fluorescence of the flashing wings of parrots fluttering among the delicate marble turrets above him, as the melodious thrummings of the harp strings hidden within those spires.

            How he had laboured to build his dream, the palace to surpass the fabled pleasure-dome of Kublai Khan himself. He had planned, he had sought craftsmen inculcated in the mastery of their trade, sourced the matchless materials, he had watched and inspected, corrected, even demanded parts rebuilt until the dream was satisfied. Now all that remained to be done was to revel in the feast to his senses that unfolded each waking day within his paradise, his Xanadu.

            Scanning again the indescribable beauty all around him, his senses heightened, Michael notices movement on the path ahead of him. Looking more closely, he sees a Rottweiler nosing something on the ground, something small and living. He steps closer, still more conscious of the mellifluous tumble of the crystal stream than the rumble of the dog's response to its toy.

            The dog plays with a mouse. Michael watches absently, his well-ordered paradise still joyful. Suddenly the dog jumps, pouncing almost catlike on the small creature, and Michael is roused from his reverie. The worrying of the great black beast at the defenseless mouse stirs a gust of passion within the man.

            'Leave it alone, Shadow,' he commands. The dog pays no attention.

            The contempt of the dog goads Michael to unpremeditated action. He picks up a stone from the gravel bed next to the path, an angular weight of pink marble which fits comfortably into the crook of his fingers, and throws it at the black dog.

            Now the dog heeds him. An initial yelp, a savage bite, and then its tail between its legs and its nose dripping, it looks at Michael. Waiting.

            Michael's sight is fixed on the spreading drops of bright blood splashing onto the pristine white of the paved path. Worse is the sporadic thrashing of a piece of grey fur at the dog's feet. Michael's stomach clenches.

            He strokes the dog's head. 'Poor Shadow, your snout is hurt.' The dog's tail thumps once, twice. 'Go,' Michael commands. The dog obeys, trotting off in the direction the man points, its nails clipping the stone with a faint 'tick, tick' and a thin trail of blood marking the way.

            There by the misplaced stone lies the mouse, broken by the bite of the surprised dog, neither dead nor alive. It cannot stay, this blot, this insult to beauty, this illogic in the perfectly logical. Michael wipes a suddenly sweaty brow. He is alone. He would have to finish it off. His stomach lurches, the stench of flesh strong in his nostrils, the ugliness of death taking place in the heart of beauty's realm a travesty which offends him to the core. He will not allow himself to be sullied by this act. He tears at a nearby tree, ripping a broad leaf from the bough, splintering the soft timber. He nudges the leaf under the twitching rodent and stands. With carefully controlled steps, avoiding the spattered trail, he walks to the water and throws the malodorous bundle into the singing stream which carries it away, out of sight.

            Michael sighs, a deep breath as of a man recovering from a blow to the chest. It is gone. He takes another path. Yet he feels disturbed. How had his paradise been invaded by such ugliness? What force is at work to disrupt and destroy the glory he has created?

            He paces his paradise, oblivious to its charms as he wrestles with foreboding.

Until next week…

Claire Belberg