Them Sandhill Boys and The Doll Tree

In Kodshollop we named it The Doll Tree and it was best known that you steered well clear of The Doll Tree and the creamy white cottage behind it, specially when the summer bushfires was more than just a warning on the tele about making sure youse got plenty of space between the house and the bush, you mow the grass, keep plenty of water on hand, all that kinda stuff – always have an escape plan. Ol’ Papa Pete Sandhill, the grouchy gray bearded patriarch of them rasculous Sandhill boys, though so far as we all knew he bore no direct relation, ol’ Papa Pete being of this robust onyx complexion, while they was mostly being white and all, except for little Gerys Sandhill who had a bunch of Maori in him and Jayden Sandhill who, well, we didn’t know what heritage was in him. Them Sandhill boys, despite the ‘damn’ that followed em like a stink, particularly when they got to cruisin in their Ford Fiestas about town playing their R’n’Bs so loud youse swore the gentle bass of their factory set sound systems would rattle a tin bin, well despite these rebellious behaviours, them Sandhill Boys were not a nitpicky bunch about such matters of skin and ethnicities. Youse were a Sandhill boy or youse weren’t. Well, as I was about to be sayin, ol’ Papa Pete used to regale with tall tales about The Doll Tree and the witch who lived in the creamy white cottage behind it who would be witchin away at all the hours. And they was tall these tales, tall as the clumsy made brick clock tower down the end of Main that we all thought was shaped like a great big dick – with its narrow body and enormous bulbous top where the clock and all its gears was stashed to keep time – but we felt better than to talk nasty about our own town’s proudest, oldest monuments, and that clock tower had likely seen more years than ol’ Papa Pete himself. So our guffaws was all in muffles when we saw its shadow come the afternoon, when the sun would hit it just right and leave the imprint of a huge black shadowy dick on the grassy hill in Georgia’s Paddock behind, which was damn near as funny as Lloyd Jeffer’s three legged mule, Cap’n Hoppers, lusting after Sheila Bronkowski’s cattle. Such was our respect, we even kinda kept it quiet when Davey Sandhill, who read some and enjoyed goon straight outta the sack, referred to the tower as ‘turgid,’ which we all felt was gross, partly cos it sounded like turd, but mostly cos we couldn’t think of our own dicks as bein so rigorously swollen with blood as to be labelled ‘turgid,’ as inflated and rough to touch as that clock tower. We fancied our dicks as prettier than such a downright perilously ancient structure, which we swore leaned when the winds got up and about a little. Them Sandhill boys in particular was well known for bein confident of the perfect functions and looks of their parts and would be damned if their dicks was ever swayed by the wind. Fuck, they’d boast, to shift our cocks from their course, it’d need to be like one of them westerly gales that blew down Nancy’s farm in ’92, when all of Kodshollop had to keep a low head to escape the foliages bein blown from out of the bush. But, we agreed, ‘turgid’ was kinda funny all the same, we guessed. Davey had his way with words, even if he pissed most of them away in his low drawl when head divin into his goon sacks. It’s one of them good words that mostly sounds like it is: hard as its meaning. Turgid. Hehe. Anyways, ol’ Papa Pete had had a few dealings with The Doll Tree and more than a few run-ins with the witch who used to frequent the tourist gift store, The Kooky Kodshollop Kift Boutique, he ran for years on the corner of Penelope and Kaya, a block off Main, up the north end of town near the Murray. ‘She’d come amble in,’ ol’ Papa Pete would say, ‘cos she never really seemed to walk, her impressive girth made her kinda barrel everywhere and when she wasn’t a barrellin, well, she’d amble, like a kinda heavy sashay, and when she’d come on in, she’d always head straight to the plastic dolls I kept up near the rear of the store cos I couldn’t stand their painted blue and green eyes but they always seemed to sell well when I’d tack on a sticker that said Kodshollop Made or Murray Fresh. Them tourists love the local crafts, though these dolls come from somewhere in Vietnam. Mongolia? Latvia? Damn, I don’t recall such trivias. So this witch, who went by Baba Yaga, though I swear I’d heard some girls about town just call her Madame Becky, would come on in and always be snoopin round me dolls, liftin em up, poking at em, flappin round their clothes – just them kind of inspections. I knew she was a witch cos she’d gone and told me once that her business was spells and potions relatin to matters of “knowing” and “needing,” which don’t make too much sense, but I figured neither does witchin. Bout town we was all used to seein her wanderin, always mutterin sumthin to herself a lil bit cross-eyed. Never really bothered us much cos we all went on, unwitched you could say. Though some nights I swear you’d hear her out there past The Doll Tree screamin her nonsense and cold nights would be afflicted with an extra cold and my balls would go and shrink up inside me body. Boys, you know how I like my balls to dangle. I’m always struck by a hectic discomfort when they go crawl back up inside me.’ If them Sandhill boys took a special kind of pride in their parts, ol’ Papa Pete was OG with that pride, mostly in reference to his famously low dangling balls that would drop all too often unannounced like a pair of fat wrinkly drops of grey-black flesh coloured rain from the navy footy shorts he wore near year round. ‘Like to air em out,’ he’d say, spreadin his legs. We’d all been tricked by ol’ Papa Pete more than we cared to admit into castin our eyes downwards to have these testicles drift suddenly into focus, flopped up against his veiny thighs. He’d giggle like he always does and take a drink from his Earl Grey Tea and say that they were a beautiful thing, lowest dangling balls this side of the Murray he’d say, then his eyes would always lose a lil focus cos he’d be thinkin about his nemesis Mayor Herman up in Brackhurst whose balls fell even lower than ol’ Papa Pete’s. Oh, when the Brackhurst Footy Club was in town, the rivalry between Mayor Herman and ol’ Papa Pete was sumthin to behold. While the game was on, another game of cat and testes was goin on, where the loser was he who fell to unwillingly stare at his opponent’s baby factories. The ladders about the club house the two older men climbed to get their opponent get eye level with their testicles was sumthin of a testament to the two older men’s robustive spunk. We in Kodshollop could only stand on the sidelines, it wasn’t our fight, but we cheered for ol’ Papa Pete all the same, wincin when he’d get an eyeful of Mayor Herman’s fermented fruit. Needless to say, ol’ Papa Pete was protective of his precious pebbles. ‘So Baba Yaga would come amble in and head straight to the dolls,’ ol’ Papa Pete would go on, ‘and she always seemed to git the most pot bellied, skin blemished freak of the lot –they came in little white skirts, sometimes in little colourful nappies, sometimes completely nekid, maybe plastic, maybe fake porcelain – and she’d pay in nuthin but gold coins and leave with the doll. You always knew the darn thing would be strung up in that tree with all the others before the sun had even checked out and gone headed to the other side of the Earth. So, one day she comes in again, now she never said a word, just grabbed whatever doll took her fancy, came to the counter and paid without even a how-ya-doin-cunt’ – the most common exchange between them Sandhill boys – ‘and she would go amblin back off to her cottage behind The Doll Tree, but this one day I have this impulsiveness to ask her what she’s aimin to accomplish with these dolls. See, the night before, I’d heard her weird hollerin noises out there, in her cottage, and my balls had done their disappearing act and I was not a bit myself, short of me proper eight hours and findin some unusual curiosity creepin up on me. So, I ask, what you doin with them dolls? And she says, trying to make life. And I have no idea what she fucken means by that so I ask her what she means by that and she says that maybe she can know life if she can make it and I still have no clue what the fuck is goin on, so I turn a lil crass, cos I’m not only curious that day, but, on account of temporarily losing me balls for the evening, grumpy as Sally-Bob Bufford when Jeremiah Jefferson goes and takes her favourite seat at the Civic Centre on bingo night. So I tells Baba Yaga, well you have to fuck to make life, are you gonna get them dolls to fuck? Now, she looks at me with this slinty eyed stare, like I’ve gone insulted her but also given her some kind of bright light idea – there’s a fucken bulb gone off somewhere in there, like this wet light playin round her peepers. And she says, you’re right – and I fucken already know it, so I don’t rub it in – and she continues, I thought if I got enough of them in the same place, all hanging up in that tree, life would rub off onto them, they’re near the Murray and the Murray is life around here – now this shit is all hippy to me and as a proper Liberal man, I’m startin to get suspicious (and, I’ll tell you what, my good ol’ boy Mister Howard would had her tarred for such soft soap gibberish). She carries on all thoughtful, philosophising and the like, maybe they’re missing the vital ingredient of humanity and, I kid you boys not in the fucken least, she stares down at me glorious nuts and, as they do, as if humming along to the melody of their own fickle fate, they decide there and then to just pop out – my sodden, heavy little bastards maken that wet thwacking sound on me thighs they always do when they’ve been cooped up in sweat and suddenly find their freedom – and her eyes got hungry lads, but not in the ways we usually like em to. She licked her lips and pays in gold coins for her latest plastic doll – a bigger one, beige coloured, with blue eyes, almost the size of small toddler – then ambles on out. And what happened the next morning, well boys, you mightn’t believe it, but it happened, sure as a promise, I woke up and someone had crept into my house and gone taken my fucken scrotum. This was a singular shock, fellas. It was not like it had been cut off neither, there was no stitchin or wounds or nuthin, they was just gone – plucked off clean, not a pubic hair left – and my poor old pretty cock was left all lonely hangin there. Now, in a fair state I looked everywhere about the house in case I’d gone misplaced them in me sleep, but it was hopeless. Poof, they was just gone. So I settled into a few jugs of Early Grey to soothe me nerves – at least three after me morning shit (fortunately not put into jeopardy by the absence of me balls – I thought there not bein there would throw me balance on the can, like they’ve always been me anchors, lads, me counterbalance in the act of specially difficult shits) – and once I’d got over the shock of not having me boys, I realised that this mopin was doin no good, so I bundled into me ’76 Ford Fiesta and got to investigatin.’ Them Sandhill Boys would always whistle when they heard this part, givin each other elbows and nods and you betchas. Partly cos they was all lovers of the Ford Fiesta, lovin nuthin more than lappies about town in their own Fiestas (all hues of colours) and were in awe of ol’ Papa Pete’s original model – all soft curves, baby blue, small functional tires and great mileage, thing could get up to 60 with a proper putter in round 8 seconds. And, of course, they’d always had their own tumultousistic relations with the boss of the Ford Fiesta plant, Boone Bufford, a worm if ever there was, always tryin to get it shut down and shipped off outta town. Man is scum. But also partly cos ol’ Papa Pete’s investigatory work is true to the Sandhill habit of mystery solvin. This is kinda where it all starts for them Sandhill Boys, why they get these urges to get into their Ford Fiestas and get about town makin sure nuthin is left to mystery: the mystery of what happened to Aunty Jemma’s cat’s anus, the mystery of the fallin’ shippin container out the back of Nancy’s farm, and the great who dug that hole mystery on Main – all stories, like the run ins with Boone Bufford, who so often seemed entangled in these mysteries, for another time. Spurred into action, Ol’ Papa Pete said he went out cruisin around Kodshollop, up and down Main with an eye sharp lookin for his absent balls. ‘Boys,’ he’d say, ‘I was at the finality of me wits, no one had seen em and there was not even their sweaty scent anywhere in the air. I asked Constable Ernie, snuck into them sneaky bastards Geoff and Margaret’s Kodshollop Knick Knacks cellar to make sure they hadn’t tried to rob me, went digging round Georgia’s before the shadow fell, and even checked at the Koddy Royal Pub to see if in a stupor of Earl Grey I’d gone and bet them at the pokies. Nuthin. Not a fucken thing. But I decided not be a quitter and headed to the only person besides meself who had seen them the past day. So I got to drivin to Baba Yaga’s. As I pulled up in Kimmy’ – the name of his ’76 Ford Fiesta – ‘I saw The Doll Tree. Fucken ugly.’ We all know The Doll Tree. Still stands today, still in front of Baba Yaga’s creamy white cottage, left alone but for the odd kid who will touch it for a dare, who will brave both the witch – admittedly quieter and more taken to her old ham radio on the back verandah than her hey days of squealing spells – and them doll eyes that follow you round wherever you go. The Doll Tree is a great big eucalpyt, boney bark, sticky leaves, thick trunk, perfect for a koala, though no koala with any sense would stumble near it, not even them moronic Thompson koalas Davey Sandhill told us all about down in Tassie. It was like a postcard tree as it was. Old too. Yet the dolls made it sumthin different. Sumthin ugly. Hauntin, like Madam Herandez’s mansion near the end of Kaya, that one with them dead roses none of us have much trust for, bein all covered in thorns and whatnot. These dolls, they hang off the branches from twine, are tied to the trunk. They’re tacked to leaves and twigs. All danglin and swayin like. The tree had even taken to growin round some of the ones which had been there for a long time. At its base, in all this mildew and compost, there’s like another hundred bits of doll parts that have fallen from the tree, stacked up in this mound of arms, torsos, head and legs. Ol’ Papa Peter, when he drove up on The Doll Tree, was cautious, everyone in Kodshollop was when they was nearby. But sure as the Murray floods, he saw them. His prides and joys. ‘They was sticky taped to that brand new plastic beige doll she’d got from me the other day,’ he told us, ‘me balls danglin between its stubby legs. Actually, they was longer than its legs, like it could bounce around on them if it was alive and could move. I saw em up there where they was pushed round by the breeze and they was all dried up not being enclosed in me shorts and I knew they were moments away from falling to the damp heap below to be lost in all that dirt and toy parts. Likely, a neat lil teste tree would grow, and I thought such a thing may be purty, but they was mine and I wanted em back. I got to screamin, Baba Yaga, youse get to amblin out here right away, I want me scrotum back. Come on! Now, woman! All I heard was her witch’s cackle from that creamy white cottage and then it happened. The doll with me balls looked down at me and its already smilin face took to smilin even more and it lifted its arm as if to say, come get em. All them dolls got to movin then and it wasn’t no wind or nuthin – they was squirmin in their twine, twitchin round, all stiff like, knees and elbows flexin. The one with me balls was particularly animated, usin the significant weight of me boys to get some momentum as it swung back and forth. Thanks Petey! I heard Baba Yaga yell out. Your balls are all the magic I needed! Now see the life they bring! She wasn’t tellin me much, cos I already knew me testes were magic, but I didn’t know they was magic enough to give plastic dolls life. Boys, I was kinda impressed, but mostly shit scared. Then, there was this big ol gust of wind and the one with me boys suddenly flung itself loose of its noose and fell with a loud wet slap in the leaves below. It rose up out of that muddy mess and worked up into a gallop as it charged directly at me, my balls scrappin behind. And they was all startin to drop now, ploppin into the leaves and runnin straight at me. Now, you all know that I am a man of vitalities, and shouldn’t have had any problems dealin with sum stiff plastic dolls, but I was outnumbered and they was deceptive quick and fierce. Quiet too. Not a sound as they rammed into me. The one with me balls got me first, took the wind right out of me, as another darker little bugger took out me left arm. I caught one with a right foot and it flew off past The Doll Tree, over the cottage’ – ol’ Papa Pete, back in his youth, when he played for the Kodshollop Gators, was well known for havin the biggest kick in the region, could kick the leather off a footy it was said – ‘but another three got tangled up in round me left leg and they took me down, continually sockin me in all me parts. Fellas, I put up quite a fight against them lil monstrosities, even gettin up durin the tussle and kickin em off into the distance left and right. Then I feel this solid whack catch me in the jaw and I see that they’ve started to throw all them broken doll parts at me, and these dolls had some fine arms – I’m gettin well bruised and me clavicle in particular has taken a fair poundin. I figured, as I was gettin pelted by plastic, that my balls had surely gone and given em all this strength and I was right might proud through me confusion and, yeah, I’ll admit to it, fear. Then the one with me boys still danglin and draggin tween its legs hit me a solid one-two, and in this barrage of doll parts and things punchin at me shins I went down in a heap. And I hear Baba Yaga off laughin and clappin. They all came and surrounded me then, glarin with their dollish malice, castin tiny lil shadows, all menace and meanness and glass eyes. I see the beige one with me testes come up to me. He stared for a minute, then kicks me in the face, spits at me (and I’ll never know where that moisture came from), rips off me testes and flops em down on me forehead, turnin round and raisin its arms, and all them dolls raised their arms back. Then they turned back round, wander to the old eucalypt and began to string themselves up in The Doll Tree again. You men and your balls are all the same, I hear Baba Yaga start rattlin off. Good for a burst, a spurt of life and not much else. Ya your all just wet sacks of flesh. Now you watch your mouth, Mister Sandhill, and show some respect, or we’ll be back for your scrotum, and we won’t just off and leave with only that next time. Your penis would be a fine addition to my doll menagerie, don’t you think? And I heard her screen door slam and I scurried outta there fast as me bruised legs would carry me, my balls danglin from me fist. Dear Kimmy was pushed to her limits that arvo, but I got over to Docs righteous quick, findin him thankfully to not yet have indulged in his afternoon’s nang and whiskey repast. Anyways, after a moment’s confusion and Doc’s unbearable laughter at the predicament I found meself in, he stitched me boys back on and I felt whole again.’ At which point, to calls of proof, ol’ Papa Pete would always stand, perch his leg on a chair and let his balls drop wetly out his shorts, and he’d start pointin to the faint scar he had on his scrotum near his gooch. ‘There she is boys, all the evidence you’d ever need.’ Them Sandhill Boys would all call bullshit then, and say it was all a trick to get them eye level with his damn testes again. But then they’d all reach down to check there’s was intact and they all steered well clear of The Doll Tree, specially when the summer bushfires was just round the corner and Baba Yaga’s ham radio would go quiet and all you could hear was them dolls rustlin in the trees and her occasional cackle in the cottage.

the beginning of cooking

In the beginning there were two chefs, beatific Mithaecus and grumpy Apicius, and the world was their kitchen.

They grilled over volcanoes. They roasted, baked and braised in deep caves. They sous vide in the warm currents of the open sea. They steamed in the rainforest. They dehydrated in the dessert. They cured in the clean cool air of the mountains. They began great wildfires in the great forests to smoke their produce. In the running rivers they cleaned, and in the snow and artic fridge they kept their ingredients fresh.

Nothing ever fouled for they cooked everything and loved everything they cooked. They cherished all fruits and vegetables, from the abundant potato they used in many dishes, to the rare and unusual kiwano they could only use for complicated desserts. They adored seafood and cooked all manner of fish, cephalopods, crustaceans, shellfish and whales. Apicius was an accomplished sushi chef whose viperfish sashimi was a spectacle of knife skills and wasabi. They revered meat. It mattered not if was white or red, chicken, cow, pig, marsupial, or predator, if they could grill, braise, bake, tartare, or fry it they would cook it. Mithaecus was so fond of unicorn—whose horn was the perfect spice for slow roasting its succulent belly—that he mistakenly farmed them from existence.

When humans were baked accidentally into existence from blood stock, turnip and thyme in the caves of Afghanistan, they were in awe of the two chefs, whom they believed to be gods. The humans begged to dine at the chefs’ magnificent table of oak and steel. The two chefs agreed they were gods, but they were reluctant to feed the humans, fearing that their secrets and sacred recipes may be stolen or, worse, tampered with.

The humans were not so easily turned away and with enormous intent proceeded to flatter and stroke the egos of Mithaecus and Apicius, telling them that they were the greatest chefs who had ever lived and that their seasoning was always perfect. After fifteen minutes, perhaps less, the two chefs, whose already gargantuan egos had grown universe sized, agreed to host the humans to a feast.

Mithaecus and Apicius devised a menu of their finest dishes, a dégustation of nine courses that traversed the globe. There were oysters served direct from the sea, with condiments of pearl tapioca, black cod roe and orange peels marinated in oil freshly squeezed from the plumpest of all olives. A soup of iguana and leek, served chilled with Antarctic ice chipped off its largest, purest glacier. A dish Mithaecus simply called The Salad: a lettuce leaf plucked directly from, and garnished with, the darkly silty dirt it was grown in. Red Rose potato fondant topped delicately with black truffles and the crispy skins of the pigs who dug them up. Foie gras from geese trained to be willingly fed the rich corn, Mongolian peppercorns and red wine that marinated their livers, served on a bed of deconstructed sour dough made from a centuries old starter yeast. Confit penguin egg resting in a nest of dehydrated noodles enrichened with a dollop Apicius’s homemade patisserie butter and lightened with a leaf of sparingly braised cavalo nero. A medley of sautéed deep sea fish—lanternfish, bristlemouth, cookiecutter shark and eelpout—presented on a steel grate above a bowl of smouldering sequoia chips, which imparted a rich smoky flavour to the robust seafood. The masterful elecowpigturduken en croute: a chicken stuffed into a duck stuffed into a turkey stuffed into a suckling pig stuffed into a cow stuffed into an elephant wrapped in pastry, served with sliced radish. For dessert, a pavlova so light that it levitated an inch above the plate, shedding its perfectly desiccated coconut and sugar as any breeze or breath would make it quiver. And to finish, a selection of semi-hard cheeses made from antelope and mountain goat milk, with an aphrodisiac charged quince paste on the side.

The two chefs slaved over their feast, day through night, summer through winter. Their creativity flowed like the carefully crafted sauces they left to gently simmer and thicken above hot springs. Their masterpiece was coming together. And from the ranks of the humans Mithaecus and Apicius recruited only the smartest and most nimble to serve their food and pair it with fine wine and spirits. They named them Waiters, for they waited so patiently on the chefs to cook, and they were prophets to the other humans, standard bearers of all food and beverage knowledge.

Finally, the feast was ready. The table was set with golden cutlery, crystal glassware and stone plates. Perfectly shaped baguettes rested in linen lined wire baskets, scattered between ramekins of hand crafted olive oil and butter. And the humans arrived and were sat with their aperitif of Campari mixed with naturally carbonated soda water, fresh from the Himalayas. Shortly afterwards the first course was sent. The applause was rapturous, but for one human whose face was contorted.

‘Pray tell,’ he shouted above the din of oyster forks and clattering glassware, ‘is there an alternative for those amongst us who do not partake in the consumption of animals or animal derived products?’

And Apicius, enraged, emerged from his celestial kitchen and bellowed, ‘begone!’ and the first vegan was banished and all those who believed themselves gluten free held their tongues.

The feast continued. All the courses were met with sighs and cries and pure enjoyment. It was a spectacle of savouring and devouring, of nursing each mouthful, letting every bite and chew coat their palates. Tears of happiness and delight streamed down the faces of the humans for they knew nothing so delicious as what they were served by the two chefs. The Waiters poured many fine beverages and the diners revelled in the matches, growing intoxicated with alcohol and wonder. The applause echoed long into the night, the sound of which bounced off empty plates, walls and full bellies. And this is what happiness sounds like.

At the conclusion of the feast, Mithaecus and Apicius emerged and bowed before the humans who rose to their feet to honour their gods, clapping and cheering with great gusto. The faces of the chefs betrayed the exhaustion the grandeur of the service had left them, but pride played all too clearly in the lines of their faces and burnt eyebrows.

From the loud crowd, a voice yelled, ‘show us! Show us how you did it!’ and more voices joined until it became a chorus begging the chefs.

Apicius, always the more distrustful and arrogant of the chefs, shook his head, telling the humans that this was his and Mithaecus’s skill and it could not be trusted with mortals, particularly as some among their number showed inclinations of not eating certain foods. He scowled at the memory of the vegan. All food is good and must be eaten, he preached, otherwise we wilfully absent our tastebuds to wonders and such a thing is an atrocity.

Mithaecus, always the more forgiving of the two chefs, who had also taken on a Waiter as his mistress, disputed Apicius and wondered why not share his gifts. Of course, all food is good and must be eaten, but should we not give over our knowledge to these poor selective mortals so that they may make the best of their horribly chosen situation? If we teach them to cook, perchance something tasty will come of their limitations.

Apicius was furious. Mithaecus suggested betraying their culinary talents, but he could see the human crowd swooning and knew the fight was lost. The humans would eventually, one way or the other, have access to their skills whether he wanted it or not. Dismayed, he retreated to his celestial kitchen from which, to this day, he still prepares and serves beautiful feasts to those willing to eat all before them. No dietary requirements allowed.

To all chefs, Apicius he gave his fury.

Mithaecus became the world’s first celebrity chef and took to wearing suspenders.

To all chefs, Mithaecus gave the desire to cook in a television studio and sleep with the wait staff.

the flight of the koala

A family of koalas sat huddled and fearful at the top of a lone eucalyptus tree in the middle of a paddock. Circling its base, braying with horrific menace, was a herd of territorial cattle - grass fed Black Angus whose moos were murderous profanity laced taunts: ‘our hooves ain’t ground no teddy down to dust recently and I’ll be damned if our hooves don’t be itchin youse lil clap infested runts!’ The Black Angus spat and trampled the ground, leering as far upwards as their necks would allow their massive heads to tilt. Their tongues rolled out around their luscious cheeks and their tails flicked flies.

            The family of koalas shivered and held for life to their bone white coloured branches. They had been trapped atop the eucalyptus for near two whole days and their supply of preciously succulent eucalypt leaves was running short. Brave Uncle Achilles and the clever clan matriarch, Mother Sally, had been trampled when they had fled their last tree. Neither stood a chance as they tried to deflect and distract the advance of the furious herd. Their fragile koala bodies had been squashed terribly to the sounds of victorious moos. Poor little Jeremiah, barely out of the pouch, had hardly ceased to weep terrified tears between mouthfuls of green leaves. He didn’t even nap.

            ‘Whatever are we to do Papa?’ asked little Jeremiah. ‘They will not quit us. There are no more eucalyptus trees.’

            Papa Elgin chewed thoughtfully and spat a little. His veneer of calm, sleepy koala was coming slowly unhinged and he desperately held to whatever control was left to him. There was not much. The moos were becoming too much. His family was disappearing.

            ‘They will tire of us soon, my son. We will find another tree. We must hold onto hope.’

            Young dream Scarlett Dove, the greenest eucalypt leaf of her father’s eye, woke up on her branch to roll her eyes, then drifted back to sleep.

Aunt Ethel, whose body was wracked with the chlamydia, cackled and snorted. ‘Hopelessly hoping with sacks of meat at our door! Oh, what a day!’ She spat at the cows below her. ‘All I see is angry steaks! Angry steaks with angry hooves determined to crush frightened koalas!’ Her voice was sing song. The chlamydia had deteriorated her mind.

            Jeremiah looked down into the black eyes of the Black Angus below. ‘Cry bear!’ they bellowed at him. ‘Ca-ca-crrryyyyyy beeeeaaaarrrrrr!’

            ‘Why do they hate us so?’ asked little Jeremiah.

            Papa Elgin could only shrug. ‘They believe we don’t belong in their paddock, my son.’

            ‘Scaredy steaks worried we’ll be in stews instead,’ nattered Aunt Ethel, whose body was wracked with the chlamydia. ‘And for sure we’d be a tastier morsel too! Hey, steaks! Threatened much?’ she screamed at the cattle, who were unnerved by her chlamydia soaked rantings, shuffling awkwardly, their moos and taunts dumbed down to ‘youse fucks!’ Aunt Ethel, whose body was wracked with the chlamydia, just chortled at them. ‘Surely you have better roasts than that, steaks!’

            Little Jeremiah looked to his father. ‘Can’t we share?’

            Young dream Scarlett Dove woke again to roll her eyes and chew for a moment, then went back to sleep.

            ‘They don’t seem to think so,’ responded Papa Elgin, despondency and bits of leaf flicking from out his mouth.

            From the base of the tree, the fattest and finest coated of the Black Angus stepped forward of the throng. He called up to the family of koalas: ‘oi, youse furry fucks, come on now git down. We just want youse lot gone is all, plenty of trees elsewhere, in other paddocks, for youse to all chew and spit up and spend all day fucking napping. Lazy bludgers.’

            ‘We belong here as much as you,’ cried back Papa Elgin.

            ‘This here be cow paddock, not koala paddock. Youse can take your filthy chewing and fuck off to where youse came from.’

            Papa Elgin looked around at his family. At his terrified son, little Jeremiah, who need never have seen such atrocities, who should have remained safely ensconced in his mother’s pouch; at his young dream, Scarlett Dove, who still slept like the proudest and strongest koala he had ever known; and at Aunt Ethel, whose body was wracked with the chlamydia, who absently picked off strings of bark to hurl ineffectively at the cattle.

            The leader of the Black Angus stood still, though his tail flowed rhythmically. ‘Listen, we’ll give youse lot free passage. Just git back to where ever it is youse come from. This is cow paddock. Furry fucks.’

            ‘Yeah! Furry fucks!’ echoed the other cattle. ‘Teddy meat. Clap rags. Eucalypt stoned marsupial garbage!’

            ‘You’re all destined for the slaughter house and time is short for you lot of yummy yummy steaks. Get up alongside them frites now! Bit o’ pepper sauce! Mushroom sauce! Dipped in béarnaise medium rare! Lips will smack! Yummy in their tummy!’ screamed Aunt Ethel, whose body was wracked with the chlamydia. The Black Angus backed away. ‘Hahahahahaha! Meat! Lot of ya! Lying, thieving, fibbing, bullshitting meat!’

Even with her mind coming undone by the disease savaging her body, Papa Elgin heard the truth of her rants. The cattle had no intention of letting the koalas leave the paddock safely.

‘Papa,’ begged little Jeremiah, ‘maybe they don’t lie.’

Papa Elgin knew was he had to do, saw the Black Angus for what they were, and he faced the sudden apparition of the truth staunchly through sleepy eyes, around a mouthful of eucalypt he spat to the ground. 

Taking one last leaf into his mouth, chewing with relish, he pontificated: ‘They do. They lie. They always do. It is the only way they can know themselves. It - their hate and fear - gives them purpose in their hopeless lives before arriving at the dinner table. It unites the idiot herd. They have no intention of letting us go. They don’t know how.’

‘Yes,’ exclaimed Aunt Ethel, whose body was wracked with the chlamydia. ‘Elgy gets it. The steaks fib!’

Papa Elgin sucked deeply and felt the air cool around the leaf slowly masticating in his mouth. ‘I’ll lure them away. Be brave my family.’ Young dream Scarlett Dove woke again. She didn’t go back to sleep. ‘Lead them to freedom my Scarlett Dove. Look after your brother and Aunt. I love you all.’

Before the moment of his bravery abandoned him, before his family could beg him to stay, Papa Elgin climbed quickly down the trunk of the tree. The cattle mooed excitedly. ‘He’s fucken suicidal! Little teddy wants to be hoof dust! Fucken brilliant!’ As soon as he reached the ground, Papa Elgin got down to all fours and with great, unexpected agility took off in elegant bounds through the legs of the cattle who in their confusion at the kamikaze rush of the koala rammed into one another, braying: ‘git da cunt!’ He weaved past their hooves, around their tails, dodged falling cow patties and emerged the other side of the milling herd. In the distance he could hear Aunt Ethel, whose body was wracked with the chlamydia, screaming: ‘slow meat best served slow cooked! Run Elgy! Slow cooked meat won’t get no koala! Run!’ The Black Angus finally organized themselves then and turned as one great mass, their heavy rumps and flanks bulging as they prepared to stampede after Papa Elgin and he knew the chase would not be a long as he bounded paw over paw away from the herd.

Taking one last look over his shoulder, he saw his family escaping from the tree and heading in the opposite direction as the cattle committed to their pursuit and Papa Elgin galloped away, feeling the hooves of the cattle reverberate the ground around him. He hoped there were other trees somewhere more welcoming for koalas than here. The Black Angus came impeccably on.