The Deer Twins

The Deer Twins

  By

  Charles Gonda

  Copyright © CHARLES GONDA 2011

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  The author asserts his moral rights.

  The Deer Twins

  The secluded forty-acre deer farm, set in a tranquil valley at the foot of a historic mountain on the eastern seaboard of Australia, captivated all who visited; Patrick and his wife Lorna were no exception and, in stark contrast to their hectic city careers, the offer of a simple pastoral life seduced them into swapping their corporate ambitions for an alternate dream.

  A mud-brick house stood on the property; smooth boles of mountain ash supported a high-pitched roof of corrugated iron; sacks draped beneath provided a grey-brown ceiling, the ship like interior a tribute to the axe of a nineteenth-century shipwright. A deck at each gable end, suspended on a raft of tree trunks, with rough-hewn steps providing access and lit by a small casement window, added space to the primitive one-room home.

  Lorna tackled the drab grey environment with the sophistication of an avid subscriber to, Ideal Home, but her pristine décor succumbed to the utility of the space and lack of conventional amenities. Patrick’s city mindset that equated life with goals, progress with modernization, and style with change, proved, in the old established pastoral community, a barrier to cooperation, delaying efforts to bring power and communication to the farm – it was a year before they had a telephone.

  Their six-year-old son, Michael, took to the life with a zest that had more to do with the lack of restraints than any love for the life on the farm, as the animals testified with retaliatory bites and scratches.

  Lorna swore that at the age of thirty-six only the fecundity of the farm, bellowing stags and their ceaseless rutting, could be responsible for her condition and gave birth to twins, Amy and Alex.

  An extension became a matter of urgency, the upgrade to four bedrooms a necessity. Patrick’s engineering background enabled him to match the external façade, but on the internal walls and ceilings Lorna opted for modern cladding. It was one of the many changes and challenges that over the next six years taxed their resolve to the limit. Unforeseen events became the norm; the idyllic life became a twenty-four hour battle to survive.

  Three days of torrential rain broke the drought. Three days of close confinement with the twins brought the household to breaking point. On the fourth day the rain eased to a steady drizzle, and, with a good deal of apprehension, Patrick set out to assess the property for damage.

  A deep creek meandered through the deer farm, normally a series of tranquil pools joined by a lace work of tiny rivulets, now swollen by the runoff from the mountain, it was a raging torrent of white water, and carrying the debris from the forest, pounded the deer-fences strung across the creek. The danger to their livelihood roared in Patrick’s ears. If the barriers collapsed, the animals at low water could wander into the adjoining State Forest and become hopelessly lost. Isolated from the village, by the floodwaters, he was forced to depend on his own resources. Desperate to stave of disaster, he spent the day repairing the worst of the damage, but some things needed an extra pair of hands.

  Lorna listened to the resignation in Patrick’s voice rather than the words describing the threat of the rampant floodwaters.

  ‘Let’s have tea. Michael can keep an eye on the twins. Then we’ll fix the fences.’ Her words had the brisk tone of the efficient secretary.

  ‘It’s wet heavy dangerous work, perhaps …’

  Lorna laughed at the implied suggestion of, ‘men’s work.’

  ‘I’ve been up to my neck in shi …’ the fascinated stare of the twins switched her tack, ‘So is carrying twins.’ She glared at Patrick daring him to challenge the issue, and with unaccustomed brevity went on to ensure tea was efficiently dispatched.

  Donning her wet weather gear, she turned her attention to the twins, who were clamouring for release. She understood their frustration at her categorical ‘no’ for they spent most of their time on the farm showing visitors how to feed the Fallow deer with grain, at fifty cents a tin, and were as much a tourist attraction, as their father’s Billy Tea with floating gumleaf, or her own Australian damper, with homemade jam and cream.

  The twins did not yield easily, running through their entire repertoire: passionate pleadings, tearful tantrums, clinging cuddles, and sullen sulks, before her final offer, immediate bed or a favourite cookie, gained their tacit acceptance.

  Keen to keep their anxiety from showing and eager to be on their way while they still had light, the parents’ departure was swift.

  ‘See they are in bed by nine, Michael,’ Lorna said.

  Turning to the sulking biscuit munching twins, Patrick added his seal to the deal, ‘Be good and donkey rides tomorrow.’ They left before the contract could be questioned.

  Michael, now a serious, twelve year old, computer-games addict, knew the list of dos and don’ts by heart. Under normal circumstances he enjoyed policing the twins, but over the last three days he too had become frustrated with their constant demands. Happy to retire to his room with the electronic world of the space invaders blasting in his earphones; he left the twins to their own amusement.

  The western attic drew the twins like a magnet, a forbidden fantasyland radiating adventure and enchantment, crammed with cryptically labelled cardboard boxes spilling their contents over diverse household effects, the overflow from a city life that had yet to find a place in their parents dream, it invited the imagination to play.

  Referred to by Patrick as the bridge, a large wooden desk overlooked the void. Amy exercising her birthright, being the elder by one hour, led the way. She claimed the swivel chair in front of the desk and kneeling on the seat, began rearranging the contents of the desktop, at the same time issuing a stream of play directions that Alex wove with ease into his own fantasy. Among the many fascinating things that came to hand was an ink stamp, that when impressed on the bits of paper that littered the desk, lent authority to the orders she was issuing. However, Amy soon realised that her presence was permanently imprinted on the contents of the desk, and, with the natural guile of the female, decided the best way to forestall parental retribution was to make a card. Selecting a suitable bill, she wrote on the back:

  I Love you DADdy anb MUMmy LOVe Amy.

  She added flowers, hearts and kisses, using every different coloured biro and pencil she could find. Though well practised in this type of card, Amy still needed much lip biting and deep concentration. Turning to show her masterpiece of salvation to Alex. She was startled to see he had opened the casement window and, balancing precariously on top of a pile of boxes, was leaning out almost at full length.

  ‘Al-lex! Get down. Nowwwww.’ The words and inflection mimicked her mother, and Amy screamed them with just a little less volume.

  The effect on Alex was as if his mother had spoken: he simply continued shouting into the wind and rain. Infected by his excitement, Amy jumped down from the chair, ran across the room and with the agility of a cat reached the top of the boxes. She leant out of the window, half on her side and half on her brother, increasing the danger, she had been decrying, tenfold.

  ‘BAMBI!’ Alex screamed.

  Following his pointing finger, Amy, took up the cry, the fear and agony in their voices a deep felt plea to a heavenly saviour.

  The object of their passion, a small fawn, a living embodiment of the classic Disney character, hand raised as a tourist attraction, their friend and playmate. It should have been safely corralled in a small paddock next to the donkeys. Instead, it appeared to be trying to find a place to ford the swiftly flowing stream and gain the co
ver of the forest.

  Each time Bambi approached the creek, the twins held their breath. The gushing torrent that snaked around the base of the dragon mountain like a thrashing tail threatened to sweep their friend away. The mountain did not look like a dragon, unless you were five going on six, and had seen the fire and smoke billowing forth in its summer mood. Or watched, when in winter humour with thunder growling around the summit, it sent thick sea mists rolling over the peak and down the slopes to swallow up the trees.

  Amy grabbed Alex by the shoulder. He turned. The shared glance intuitive, the action immediate. As one, they slid backwards into the room, tumbling from the boxes in a tangle of arms and legs. Without pause, they gained their feet, skipping, jumping, and plunging down the stairs in such a reckless manner – their mother would have had a heart attack.

  On the veranda, they pulled on their Wellington boots. This brought Shep to the scene. With the intelligence of a well-bred German shepherd, Shep realised an expedition was on the agenda. Twice as old as the twins and standing just as tall, she was the twins’ self-appointed guardian angel, having fulfilled that duty since they could crawl and hang on to her ears.

  Shep started down the track towards the farm. In bright yellow oilskins with southwesters rammed on their heads, the twins prepared to follow. Alex retrieved his Star Wars sword from the firewood box, left there after his last battle with the forces of evil. Amy not to be outdone fetched her skipping rope. A weapon that brought nothing but scorn from Alex, who wanted to know how anyone could tie up dragons with a bit of old string. Amy was equally vehement that a funny old sword with flat batteries could not kill a dragon. In the end they agreed that if they could find its soft spot, like the one Aunt Kath had shown them on baby Robert's head, the dragon could be killed.

  The conversation was a constant flow of words dominated by Amy, with occasional reinforcement from Alex, but at no stage did it impede their helter-skelter run down the hill. The loss of the high ground eventually hid the creek from view, but the twins never faltered. Selecting one of the many faint trails that skirted the farm, they ploughed on over undulating paddocks towards their goal.

  Shep took exception to the new course and ran in front of the children, jumping and barking, trying to divert them towards the farm.

  Topping the last rise, the roar of the torrent became a majestic visual reality and they lapsed into an awe-inspired silence. Not for long. With Bambi in view, they both snatched up handfuls of grass and with arms extended advanced towards the fawn cooing, ‘Here, Bambi, good, Bambi.’

  The fawn turned to face them. The children were almost within reach, when the fawn moved: a reflex action, a half step, backwards, its hindquarters disappeared beneath the turbulent waters. Scrambling to stay on the bank, the front legs buckled and, by a stroke of fortune, hooked on a thin exposed root. Without adequate purchase for the thrashing hind legs and little leverage for the front, the fawn hovered on the brink of disaster.

  Oblivious to their danger, the twins did not hesitate, and with complete faith in their own abilities to effect a rescue, they slid to the fawn's side. Amy wrapped her skipping rope around the fawn’s neck, pushing the wooden handle through the loop. Together they pulled on the loose end of the rope, the handle wedged forming a halter around the deer’s neck.

  Now their guardian angel took a hand. Shep knew this game. Taking the trailing wooden handle between her teeth, she dropped on her haunches and began to crawl backwards up the bank, growling with mock fierceness, to make the twins give up their hold on the rope. The extra traction was enough, with a squelching sound and a spray of water, Bambi popped onto the bank. The twins stumbled, and Alex stepped into a muddy hole that refused to let go of his left boot. With the motley caravan underway he did not bother to recover it.

  On reaching the shelter of the veranda, they were beginning to feel the strain. There was a brief battle of wills until Shep gave up the rope. More confrontation until they had Bambi at the bottom of the stairs. A final prod from Alex's sword in a tender area of the anatomy and Bambi, with the trailing wooden handle bouncing a tattoo on the steps, shot up the stairs like a mountain goat.

  The twins followed at a weary pace. After arranging an array of boxes and household articles to form a barrier against the possibility of Bambi falling downstairs, they returned to the veranda. The light was fading as they stripped off the last of their outer clothes and a few of their nether ones, which were just as wet and muddy.

  Michael, having blasted the aliens on all levels, returned from the outer regions of electronic space ready for a short spell of earthly duties, but not ready for the eruption that had spewed mud and debris all over the living room. Attack being his form of defence; he hurled dire threats at the twins.

  ‘Mom, will kill you, if you are still up when she gets back.’

  To his bewilderment it produced a response. The twins gulped down milk and biscuits and, after a lick and a promise in the bathroom, were in bed with no more than token resistance.

  Michael surveyed the damage. The mud would have to dry before he could do anything. He tried tidying up, but his heart was not in it. Making sure he had shut the gate at the bottom of the stairs, he spent the next hour running through his script for the enquiry his parents would conduct on their return. In the end he decided to take his own advice and go to bed, at least it would delay things until morning, and with the twins being early risers, who knew what might happen to get him off the hook.

  Patrick and Lorna secured the final fence. The rain had stopped. The moon rising in a cloudless sky spread a soft glow, turning wet paddocks into shimmering silver mirrors. Aware of the breakout at the farm, Patrick felt confident the donkeys and horses would not go far, and would be easier to corral in daylight. His concern was for Bambi. Attuned to human company, he was unsure of the herd’s reaction if she tried to join them. He proposed they return home via the creek and then cut across the top paddock to the house.

  They scanned both banks, and where trees and shrubs crowded together to shut out the moonlight, they used powerful torches. Often walking single file, bent almost double, they negotiated the more restricted areas of the path. Just keeping their footing became a dangerous game of chance. Realising how hazardous the banks had become, they were about to give up and turn away from the creek, when the torch picked out a small Wellington boot stuck in the middle of a churned up patch of mud.

  Patrick bent to recover it. Lorna sank to her knees beside him.

  ‘It’s blue,’ Lorna whispered as if denying the colour. She continued to repeat the phrase and with each reiteration her voice became louder and shriller. Patrick pulled the boot free of the sucking mud.

  Lorna threw her arms around his legs, almost throwing him off balance, screaming. ‘It’s blue! Alex’s, it’s Alex’s.’

  Patrick dropped down and took her in his arms. He had taken a little longer to come to grips with the possibilities.

  ‘Maybe he lost it some time ago, ’ he ventured.

  Still sobbing, she shook her head. Rising, he dragged her to her feet.

  ‘God! We're wasting time. Get up to the house, check.’ He pushed her towards the path that led up to the house. ‘If they are okay, wave the torch else ring everyone you can.’ He wasn’t sure if she had heard, or what he was going to do.

  Mechanically, he continued along the bank of the stream, hoping to read an answer in the complex surface revealed by his torch.

  A thought froze his stride, if one or both twins had fallen in, they would be hard against the first deer fence: downstream. He cursed softly. What the hell was he doing going upstream? Turning, he started to run. A faint cry reached him from across the valley; remembering the house, he scrambled to the top of the first rise. The dancing light of a frantic waving torch demanded a reply; he responded with his own.

  “Cooee H-o-m-e.” The cry, from the house, echoed across the valley, galvanizing his legs into action, long bounding strides, as if gravity and the incline no
longer existed.

  With emotions running wild, it took all their self control to refrain from snatching the twins from their beds, hugging, kissing, and demanding explanations, but they accepted the shadow had passed and reluctantly left the interrogation until morning.

  The adrenalin-induced high of the past few hours kept sleep at bay. A string of conjectures spawned images that made Lorna tremble, at what could have been. Eventually sheer fatigue took hold, and they drifted off into a troubled sleep.

  Pounding hoofs jolted everyone to an immediate state of awareness. The subsequent thuds, smashes and crashes, tore them from their beds and sent them running to the bottom of the stairs.

  The twins, aware of the cause, remained apprehensively at the bottom. Michael, who knew nothing, but feared the worst, slipped back to his own room. Patrick raced to the top of the stairs closely followed by Lorna. The sight of Bambi, tethered to a dressmaker’s dummy by the skipping rope, bucking and kicking in a desperate attempt to break free, sent them into hysterical laughter.

  Later as they hugged one another and listened to the garbled explanation given by their dear twins. The tears mixed with laughter and the tensions of the night faded.

  The End