Summer2023

The floor was a bloody mess. Literally. I sat on Storm Boy’s lap in front of the burning fire. The humpy was quieter than an endless void, no sound besides the crackling fire could be heard. Once in a while, Storm Boy would unstick my matted feathers, or straighten my broken wing. The bullet wound hurt worse than a hundred fire ants biting you and it only got worse every second. My breath was raspy and shallow and I was not getting enough oxygen through my body.

Breathe in…
Breathe out…

I could feel Storm Boy’s hand on my back, gently rubbing me and telling me to live on, the warmth of the fire was as inviting as the air I once flew in, beckoning me to go higher and higher… but I couldn’t. I couldn’t just leave Storm Boy here, all by himself. I had to keep fighting.

Fighting…

And suddenly I saw it again. I was up in the clouds, on patrol, again. The air was weightless, just like me, and the sea breeze was like a slap on the face, even though it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. But I had a job to do. So, I flew down, down, down.

Down…

My eyes snapped open. I looked around. I wasn’t in the air. I was laying on Storm Boy’s lap, in front of the fire. The humpy was as old as time itself, the wood wet from storms and battered from cyclones. It was home. Storm Boy gently sung lullabies to me and I closed my eyes again and drifted off.

Again…

I was diving down, down, down. The sanctuary was full of ducks and pelicans. I could see Mr Proud and Mr Ponder, diving into the Coorong and coming back up with their bills filled with fish. They saw me and flew away. The ducks scampered away as they caught sight of me, circling the skies and crying for them to run.

Run…

No. I’m not slipping away this time. I willed myself to stay.

‘RUN!’ I needed to save those innocent birds. The clouds parted at my call and the tussocky grasses cover their ears as I cried. The ibises ran like cheetahs, tripping over rocks as they went. The blue cranes took cover in the tussocks. Then I heard a voice. A cruel, mean voice that sent shivers up my spine and made my feathers stand up like the fur on a cat. I looked down and saw him. His ugly face was twisted and contorted in a look of absolute hatred, making his acne and wrinkles ten times worse than they already were. His stench was so strong the sand covered its nose and the sky coughed up stratus clouds. His Carbine was pointed right in front of me, the muzzle’s abyss seeming to swallow everything, a black hole in the world. I knew what was going to happen. But I had a duty. And I was prepared to die for it.

No. Not yet.
Breathe in…
Breathe out…
I couldn’t die now.

I was sitting in front of the fire again. Storm Boy whispered to me. They were the last word I ever heard. “Mr Percival,” he said, “you’re the best, best friend I ever had.” I wanted to respond somehow, just move my beak and nudge him. But my body fell limp, and I closed my eyes, for the last time. I just managed to catch the time. 9 o’clock.

Then, I died…

Death, his gaze as cold as the Arctic winter, was waiting for me. His cloak hid his face, so all I could see were his glowing red eyes. He had a scythe in one hand, and with the other he reached out and pulled off his cowl. It was Storm Boy! He held out his hand and beckoned for me to grab hold. And I did. I wasn’t afraid. Because I knew something only a few people would know.

Birds like me, we don’t really die.

Colossal waves smashed over our small tugboat. The sea was ferocious. I could barely even see the shore through the stinging sprays of water; it was as if the sea god himself was punishing our crew by trying to sink our dinghy. The waves kept raging stronger by the minute and if we didn’t get help soon our boat will sink to the bottom of the briny deep.

As we desperately tried to reach the shore, the sea threw yet another immense wave at our boat which was still recovering from the last one and barely holding up. It was creaking and shaking uncontrollably – at any moment our boat will break. At this point we were desperate, and all my crew plunged into the water, grabbing on for dear life. All hope was lost until out of nowhere a pelican flew through the mist holding a fishing line in its mouth. Strange, I thought. The pelican dropped the line 20m away from the boat and flew back into the fog.

Not even a minute had passed, and the same pelican came back again, fishing line in mouth, and dropped it again. This time it flew closer towards our boat. At first, I couldn’t understand what was going on, but soon I knew what the bird was tying to do. It was trying to rescue us. Again and again he tried, and again and again he missed. Our crew watched every try hopelessly and breathlessly.

The bird flew out and back, out and back, until at last, on the tenth try, he managed it. A great gust of wind suddenly lifted him up and flung him sideways. The pelican threw up his big wing and just as he banked sharply over the boat, he dropped the line. I seized it in hand, waiting for the next big wave to roll past, and then I fastened the line to the end of a long coil of thin rope. Gently, very gently, I lowered it into the sea and waved at the men on shore to start pulling.

Before long, the men had hauled the end of the big rope ashore. Then they dragged it quickly up the sand-hills. Meanwhile my crew and I had fastened our end and hitched a rough chair to the rope. One of my men lashed himself in and signalled to the men to start pulling on the thin rope.

The rescue was ready to start.

The sea sprang and snatched at him on that rope like a beast. Sometimes where the rope sagged the lowest, the waves swept him right under. Yet he still managed to snatch a breath between waves and always rose safely again on the rope.

At last we had five men safely on shore and there was only me left to come. Then I, too, left the ship and the men hauled again. I am a big man and I weighed down the rope. I could tell the men were almost exhausted. Suddenly, the rope grew taut, shuddered, and slackened.

“Hurry,” I yelled. “She’s going!”

Crash! SPLASH! A ferocious sea lunged out at the beach, lashing out in frosty, foamy slaps. It was July, and the weather had never been worse. The wind was howling out for its mother, the furious sea lashed at the coastline, and the rain pelted down like erratic machine gun fire. The Coorong had never looked so war-torn. Mr Percival was abruptly awoken one morning; or was it night? The ceiling of thick, dark clouds prevented much light from seeping through, making it quite hard to differentiate day from night. Mr Percival had heard loud shouts from Hideaway Tom. He ignored it and tried to go back to sleep; but then Hideaway yelled again, with much more urgency, “No, it’s a wreck! A shipwreck on the shore! We should go check if there are any survivors!” He heard Storm Boy get up to help, Mr Percival snackered his beak and made his way out of the battered old humpy, the wood practically shrieking out in alarm as it was bent around by the merciless winds.

Mr Percival stood back behind Storm Boy, Fingerbone and Hideaway as they surveyed the thrashing coast. After much squinting, Mr Percival could just see the tugboat, moving violently up and down, like a piston in a        car engine. Fingerbone muttered something and looked down despairingly, shaking his head. The four went back inside, heads bowed, fearing for the possibly gruesome sight the next morning might bring.

The next morning came, and the ship was still there, still being thrown around on the restless waves violently. Hideaway, Storm Boy and Fingerbone were all out on the shore, formulating a plan. Suddenly Hideaway dove back into the humpy and came out with some fishing lines, thin as sheets of paper. He twined three together, attempting to strengthen the line. “We will get this out to the folks on the tugboat,” he shouted, “they could attach it to a life vessel, and we can pull ‘em back in to shore!”

“How are we gonna do that?” retorted Storm Boy.

“We cannot throw it out,” concurred Fingerbone.

At that moment, Mr Percival came out to see what the commotion was about, and then Storm Boy got an idea. “Mr Percival! Mr Percival can fly out to the boat and give them the rope!”.

Hideaway instantaneously sprang into action. He took the rope and swung around to face Mr Percival. “Alright boy, take this out to the men on the boat out there,” he said motioning at the boat out on the water.

Mr Percival snapped up the line and began to fly out in the direction of the storm-tossed ship. He made about half the distance, then dropped the line in the water. He came back, rather proud of himself, then walked up to Storm Boy, expecting his reward for his effort. Storm Boy gave him a snapper and patted his feathers. Hideaway pulled the line back in and gave the far end back to Mr Percival and told him to go again. So, he did. He got even closer the second time, then on the third attempt, he made it out to the boat. The men on the boat looked up in awe as Mr Percival dropped the line and flew back, like a dog playing fetch. Mr Percival had no clue of his valiant efforts, but he was receiving fish, so he was happy enough. The men on the boat began to fasten a heavy rope to the twine, which was attached to a Bosun’s chair. Mr Percival was back with Storm Boy, waddling up lopsidedly, thanks to the wind, but still proudly.

Mr Percival sat content, nibbling away at his fish, as he watched the rescue take place. Hideaway and Fingerbone were tugging on the twine, heaving the man on the Bosun’s Chair to the beach. They had to be careful as the fishing line could snap if they were too rough. Despite the temperature being comparable to sitting in a freezer without any clothes, Hideaway and Fingerbone’s faces were coated in sweat, their arm muscles popping out, creating valleys and mountains that ran up their forearms.

The waves were slapping the seaman on the chair with walls of frosty, salty, foamy sea water. The man would go under the seething waves periodically, before resurfacing gasping for air. By the time Mr Percival had finished his fish, the first man had been pulled to shore, where he was rushed up to the humpy by Storm Boy. Mr Percival was then told to take the line back to the ship once more, so he did. This process repeated as the boat sunk deeper into the unforgiving black abyss below.

At the final man, the captain, who was a burley bloke, the ship was basically completely under. Hideaway and Fingerbone were as red as beetroots with the sheer effort. The rope would tighten and slacken suddenly, greatly frightening the men as they thought the captain had gone under, or the rope had snapped. With one last great heave from Hideaway and Fingerbone, the captain collapsed onto the sludgy sand. Once he had come round, he began talking very quickly, pointing to Mr Percival, his eyes wide and an awestruck look on his face. Mr Percival did not know it, but he had just saved six men from the cold reaches of the ferocious ocean.

It was a Monday at lunch time and the wind was pushing the waves around the Coorong. I started to hear very quiet footsteps coming towards our nest. A few pelicans flew up to see what the noise was, then before I knew it, there stood a tall, skinny man with a heavy piece of metal. He pointed at my mum and angrily muttered to himself. There was a loud “bang” that echoed down the Ninety Mile Beach and then the high pitched scream of a young boy. The cruel shooter ran away and the boy with long rugged hair ran up to me and my brothers.

His soft gentle hands scooped us up and he placed us in his oversized jacket. Our heads were bubbling all the way home to his small, rusty humpy. The boy ran through the door. I could hear the wind rustling through the cracks and even though it was cold inside, it somehow felt warm. There was a man standing there and as soon as he saw us, he crossed his arms. “What have you brought home this time, Storm Boy?’’

“Dad, the shooters killed their mum!”

I could sense that Storm Boy’s dad was hesitant to let us stay. Then he spoke in a loud voice. “They will stay for one week and then we will let them go.” I scanned the room and noticed the old rusty metal clutter scattered throughout the humpy. You could hear the whistling of the wind through the house.

Storm Boy took us outside as we ran along the cold sand. The cold wind was icy on my beak. Storm Boy smiled and talked to us. There were tiny dots of green tussocks in the distance down the beach. We watched the big waves roll for hours. I looked down the beach and saw Storm Boy’s dad fishing until the sun sank into the horizon. We hobbled inside and had some dinner of fish. Storm Boy made a small bed for us.

As I lay down, I realised that this boy had saved our lives.

The scorching sun shimmered in the minuscule scales of the rose pink, glistening snapper wriggling in the slimy pail. The orange ball of raging fire peeked through the gleeful clouds over the endless horizon stretching over the vast, barren, dark blue seas. My back was seared against the Bosun’s chair, drenched in my own smelly, sticky sweat. Strapped right above the rusty deck of my own masterpiece, the battered fishing machine I called home. It had battled marlin, many thunderstorms, and more sizeable waves than your wildest dreams. The Coorong is nothing but a dot on one of Finger Bone Bill’s gorgeous dot paintings. The graceful flight of 1000 pelicans reminded me of Storm Boy, the infamous pelican and Hideaway Tom, the most mysterious man I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.

Darkness filled the air, dark grey engulfed the stark skies, the combination of the furious roars of thunder and the rumble of 100 lions. Moody clouds clustered overhead instantaneously. The skies were the essence of death, terror and solemnness. My crew shuddered. Some prayed, some hoped, some accepted it might be the end. Abruptly a strike of powder blue illuminated the horrid skies.

Days like these reminded me and my simple life of how insignificant we were in this humongous world, but with that it brought me great pleasure that I had this life and what this beautiful earth was gifted. Walls of black water towered past our ancient fishing vessel. The bubbling, bleached, pearl froth crashed against the aged aluminium hull with no mercy. The waves played with our pummelled vessel like a Great Dane with a tennis ball. Six legs dashed across the deck to pull the anchor out of the rocky ledges of the rigid South Australian coast. These waves toyed with us, rapidly driving us towards the jagged Coorong coastline. From the bosun’s chair, I could see the huge Murray River snaking along, littered with tussocks and spiky spinifex. The margin between our boat and the unforgiving rock formation shrunk at alarming rate until it was non-existent. “Crack!” The whole shadow scattered with huge holes, the massive collapse causing me to hurtle down into the deck. It all went black.

I was woken by the shrieks and cries of a pelican overhead; something thin and translucent was hanging out of its enormous beak. After three attempts it aligned a line successfully and dropped in at my timid feet. My dilated pupils darted across the vast plains of my eyeballs. My first crew mate of three made eye contact with the two small silhouettes on the roaring shoreline. He attached a rope to the fishing line along with the Bosun’s chair lying on the bashed deck. Waves rolled over the insignificant walls of the boat, and he strapped into the chair and was tugged away. Soon the pelican came back with the contraption ready for me to use. I felt like my gut was on a bungee jump. The waves carried me to the sand-scattered shores. Land. I sprawled out on the crunchy sand, sputtering out salty seawater. The stinky seaweed hit my nose like a stern slap to the face. There were four fishermen drenched on the merciless shores of the Coorong. I thanked Hideaway Tom and Storm Boy profusely for saving us.

“Crash!” I stumbled through the rusty door of the humpy. The makeshift fireplace was an orange light of hope. I assured Hideaway Tom that we would provide the funds for the finest boarding school, the most prestigious school in all of Adelaide as a reward for the pelican saving our lives. They were unsure; The Coorong was all that Storm Boy had ever known. I shoved the ages-old door open to hear the creak of 1000 rusty gates.

And just like that, six months later on that emotional day Storm Boy was ferried away from Goolwa Station to Adelaide, to begin a whole new life.

Finally, after about ten tries, the pelican dropped the small fishing line right on target. I threw my exhausted arms out, desperately groping for the line. I caught it. My fingers began moving so fast my brain couldn’t keep up. Waves continued to ram and slam into our boat, causing more water to pour in. The ferocious winds slammed into me relentlessly. Finally, the knot was tied. I waved my hand around vigorously to let the people on the beach know that we were ready. We were going to survive.

The first streaks of dawn stained the Eastern sky, illuminating Max, sitting upright in his bed.   Apprehension flowed through his body as adrenaline surged within him.  A cool draught whistled through the open window, adding to his uneasiness.  Max didn’t know why had had woken up.  Something just out of his perception had changed.

Lying on his back, he struggled to grasp the gut instinct that was telling him to investigate.  “What is going on?” he muttered, staring at the ceiling.  In his mind, he knew what he had to do. He grabbed a flashlight and headed outside.

The scene surrounding him was shrouded in silence.  The only noises audible to him were the sounds of himself.  He blinked; the scene before him began to change, piece by piece, the cobbled streets, the dirty bricks, and the peeling paint – all was dissolving.  Max blinked again, nothing happened.  Now all that was left of the street was the door.

Looking around himself he realised he was floating, one of the two things that were still standing.  In front of him, the door yawned open.  There was only one thing left to do and through the door all he could see was a brilliant light.

Tim woke up in an uneasy way, as you do on the hay and leaves bed which was comfy as ever.  “Breakfast!” shouted Tim’s dad Phil.  Tim slowly strode ten paces into the other room.  “Aagh,” screamed Tim upon seeing his dad’s changing monster’s face.  Tim blinked and everything went back to normal ….
“What was that?” asked Phil.
“Oh, nothing” replied Tim, “Just a daydream nightmare.”  He gobbled down his breakfast and walked out of his hut.  Suddenly, again Tim saw the strange monster, but this time it was different, the monster was opening a door and telling him to go in the door…

Tim put his hand on the golden knob, a shiver came down his spine and after a gulp he went in … “Huh!” as a flinch came all the way through his body.  How the heck was he back in bed!?  Tim thought about this ‘nightmare’ all day.  It felt so real …  The next day Tim woke up slowly and carefully, and walked outside – the door was there, the monster was there, again…

This time he walked through the door and there was the same.  He was in the same spot, the same old town, the SAME YEAR …. As soon as he finished thinking, he saw things disappearing, his wooden hut, the river running through the outskirts of the town. Soon enough it was all gone, vanished into thin air ….

He was frozen still for about ten seconds, eyes open so wide that it felt like they were the size of his body.  Everything started reappearing, but in a different way, the buildings were twice as high and made out of a weird, hard 3D rectangle vines crawling up the buildings each with a door.