The Bunyip of the Billabong

There were three of us camped between Byrock and Bailey's Crossing that night - Jack Granger and myself, and with us a young city fellow.  He had come to Byrock on the train, on his way to visit his sister who lived with her husband on their selection near Bailey's Crossing, and had discovered to his surprise that the train line didn't go that far.  Bailey's Crossing, you must understand, is barely a town at all, being no more than a few selections grouped together and given a name out of arrogance.  There are many such places up-country, but this fellow had never been so far from the city before, so he wasn't to know.  He was paying us to be his guides, a job Jack considered more trouble than it was worth, but we needed the graft, as I told him.
  There was a fourth member of our party, one I have neglected to mention, a big bay mare with a fair bit of Clydesdale in her, as quiet and gentle as you could ask for.  The city fellow had bought her in Byrock as a present for his sister, who had often mourned in her letters the distances she had to travel to visit her neighbours.  He had ridden the mare all the way from town, and her pace suited us well for she ambled along at much the same speed as we were accustomed to, but we were both hoping all the way for a chance to ride her or at least load her with our swags.  He never even thought to offer, which didn't leave us (Jack in particular) feeling too friendly towards him.
  We were camping in a small patch of bush around a fair-sized billabong, the only place that wasn't flat and treeless as far as the eye could see.  The horizons are usually a very long way away, out back.  We had lit a campfire and set up the billy while our guest tethered his horse to one of the stunted stringybarks.  After that we arranged ourselves around the fire, Jack and I lounging on one side, the city fellow sitting on the other looking uncomfortable.  You can tell a true swagman by the way he lounges, as Jack has told me more than once.
  The moon was nearly full, but it was still early in the evening, and the moon was low down behind treetops.  Jack looked through the fire at the city fellow, very solemn, and I guessed he was going to try some trick on him.  He could be a fair spieler when the mood took him, fair enough to fool most people; but he only ever fooled me once.
  'I s'pose you know not to go near the billabong after dark?' said Jack in a tone as solemn as his face.
  The city fellow didn't know.
  'Billabong this size, there's sure to be a bunyip or two in it.'
  'A what?'
  'You don't know?  Why, bunyips are a big problem out here.  They eat fish and wallabies and so on for the most part, but sometimes a big old bunyip gets a taste for something diff rent.  Not to worry, though, they mostly stay in the billabongs and they only get hungry at night - pass the matches.'
  This was to me, because I was trying hard not to laugh, so I hid my face and hunted out the matches while Jack got out his pipe and the city fellow said that he didn't believe any such nonsense.
  'Believe what yer like, but if you go poking around the billabong tonight, I won't be taking any blame for what happens to yer.'
  The city fellow looked at me, and I nodded very solemnly because I wouldn't trust myself to speak.  He laughed and said we were having him on, but he didn't look too sure of himself any more, and I guessed Jack had successfully put the wind up him.


  We turned in a little while after that, but about midnight Jack and I were woken by a terrible racket coming from the billabong.  The moon was hiding away somewhere, but we rushed down through the darkness to see what was happening.  We reached the billabong just as the moon came out, and there we saw a very strange scene.  The billabong was only half full, and the city fellow was lying in the mud by the bank, thrashing around and yelling as if he had gone mad.  Standing quietly over him and looking down in mild puzzlement was the bay mare, as calm as you like.
  It seems the city fellow woke up in the night and wandered away from the camp, but in the dark he got so turned about that instead of heading back to camp after he had finished his business, he ended up at the billabong.  He only realised what had happened after he was up to his ankles in the sticky, muddy half-water that gathers at the edge of a billabong when it isn't completely full, but isn't completely empty either.
  The bay mare must've worked her way loose (which just goes to show that city people don't know much about horses and knots) and ambled down to the billabong for a drink; but all the city fellow knew about it was that as he found himself in the billabong, he saw a huge shape looming out of the darkness at him and panicked.  When he tried to run, the mud held on to his feet and he fell flat on his face, sure that he was about to be eaten.
  We pulled the city fellow out, laughing so hard we couldn't even think to talk, and the next day we delivered him to his sister, billabong mud, bay mare and all, him cursing us all the way as rogues and larrikins.  From what I heard, that fellow stayed in Bailey's Crossing with his sister a good couple of years, until the place got big enough for the 'guverment' to build a train line through it.

(c) Copyright Hespa.
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