The Shearers Last Stand

A Short Story by ARTHUR PATERNOSTER © 2024

The corrugated iron of the old shed thrummed under the relentless Outback sun, a low-pitched echo of the frantic energy within. Inside, the air hung heavy with the tang of sweat, the pungent sweetness of lanolin, and the ceaseless bleating of sheep. This was Danny Whatmore's domain for the last time, and everyone knew it.

You did not become a shearing legend without turning skin to leather and sinew to steel. Danny's hands, gnarled from fifty years of gripping the handpiece, moved with an almost supernatural speed. Each sheep that danced its reluctant way under his shears appeared lighter, flawless – a testament to a lifetime of dedication. Trophies and faded certificates crammed the shelves of his farmhouse, each marking a victory in this world of dust and wool.

Yet, age is an opponent that even the strongest cannot best forever. The once unshakeable strength in Danny's back had begun to waver. The shears, once an extension of his will, felt heavier with each passing season. His Sarah, bless her patient heart, had long pleaded for peace, for rest. And deep down, he knew it was time. Still, the shed, the rhythm, the rough camaraderie… this was where he belonged.

But today, beneath the familiar ache in his bones, something else throbbed – a knot of dread. As he joined the row of shearers, their eyes met his. There was respect, of course, always respect. But something else flickered there too – anticipation, a hint of pity, and if he was not mistaken, a flicker of relief that this final day had finally come.

The morning shift is blurred by muscle memory, taking the reins where consciousness will falter. Yet, an unfamiliar tremor ran along his arms. The shears nicked a ewe, drawing a crimson bead. His famous precision was deserting him. A lifetime of control, crumbling like old sandstone.

Lunch came, and Danny collapsed under the scant shade of a peppercorn tree, his heart pounding a frantic tattoo against his ribs. The other shearers, young, fit, their eyes still alight with ambition, kept their distance. Their silence was somehow louder than the raucous calls of crows circling overhead.

Fear clawed at his gut as the afternoon bell wailed its summons. He could not do this. To go on meant risking injury to the sheep, a legacy tarnished at the final hurdle. Yet to quit... The shame of it seared through him, a wound deeper than any shearer's nick.

"Bill," he rasped, finding the shed boss hunched over the tally board. "I... I gotta stop."

Bill's leathery face was a mask of concern beneath his sweat-stained Akubra. "Ya sure, Danny? Just a rough patch, maybe..."

"No." Danny cut him off, pride as ragged as his breath. "I'm done. It's over."

The shearing shed seemed to inhale sharply, the very air vibrating with the weight of the moment. Bill merely nodded, a touch of sadness in his faded blue gaze. "Fair 'nuff. Sit tight then. Ya've earned a rest."

The news rippled through the ranks of shearers like a grass fire. They paused, mid-shear stares that were a mix of shock, unspoken triumph, and even grudging respect. Danny retreated, dodging their eyes. He could not face their pity, did not know if he could stomach their unspoken relief.

As the sun dipped low, turning the endless paddocks to molten gold, Danny drifted out of the shed. It was over. Half his life, poof, gone with the wind like a dust devil. He kicked at the dirt, boots scuffing up memories along with the red dust. And then he saw it: a mob of ewes and lambs, huddled in a far corner of the paddock, somehow missed in the morning roundup. A familiar tightness gripped his chest.

"Danny, hold up!" Bill jogged towards him, his bellow echoing across the stillness. "Those ewes need doin'. Nothin' fancy, just get 'em shorn. One last job, whaddya say?"

Danny hesitated. It was not right – a desperate coda to a celebrated career. But those bleating ewes... an echo of the young, hungry shearer he had once been tugged at his conscience.

"Alright," he grunted, resolve settling heavy and unfamiliar on his shoulders. "Just the ewes."

The sun was a burning ember on the horizon as Danny stepped back into the shed. The smell of lanolin, always a comfort, now jabbed at his senses like a rebuke. Hefting the shears, he felt their weight, the cold reality of limitations.

As he worked, something shifted. There would be no records with this final effort, no accolades, no roar of the crowd. This was back to basics - man, beast, the simple song of the shears. With each stroke, the weight of expectation eased. Shame peeled away, replaced by the quiet, dogged determination that had carried him through five decades.

The last ewe, a big old matriarch heavy with lamb, twisted and kicked under his hands. Her fleece was thick, matted with burrs. A young shearer would have cursed. But Danny smiled, a wry twist to his mouth. This was a fitting challenge, a last stand worthy of the name.

With sweat stinging his eyes and muscles screaming, he finished. The ewe trotted off, surprisingly light on her feet. Danny collapsed against a wool bale, exhaustion washing over him in blissful waves. Bill materialized at his side, a battered tin mug in hand.

"You did it, ya old bugger," Bill said, his voice thick. "Not a bad way to go out, eh?"

Danny took the mug, tepid beer sloshing inside. "No," he agreed, the word a long exhale, "not bad at all."

Darkness blanketed the land, stars piercing the inky sky. The shearing shed stood in silhouette, a monument to a way of life. Danny Whatmore, the legendary shearer, was walking away, a solitary figure against the vastness. He was not sure what tomorrow would hold. But tonight, under that blazing expanse of stars, he was just a man who had done his best. Wasn't that, at the heart of it all, the biggest victory of all?

Though determination bleeds and stumbles low, A flicker in the heart cries, "Do not go!" When courage wanes and doubts like raven’s fly, the body, hardened, gives the fear a lie.

Hands, rough and calloused, know the path ahead, Muscle and sinew, where the spirit's tread May falter on the stones of weary days, The body carves a trail through doubt's dark maze.

Each scar a lesson, every ache a guide, from fields and trials where strength forever vied. The body bears the map, in sweat and strain, and whispers to the soul, "Begin again."

So let determination find its feet once more, the body knows the way, its wisdom at the core. With every step, the heart takes up the beat, and doubt retreats before a will that will not retreat.

The Ghosts of the Royal House Hotel

A short story by Arthur Paternoster © 2024.

The faded grandeur of the Royal House Hotel whispered tales older than its Art déco walls. Harry and Sally, their laughter eclipsed by a crackling fireplace, hadn't noticed the shadows coiling beneath the chandeliers. It was a subtle unease at first, a shift in temperature, a flicker of light, the feeling that unseen eyes were watching their every move.

Later, in the oppressive stillness of room 5, the unease festered into something sharper. Harry's camera, laid carelessly on the dresser, snapped a photo unbidden, revealing swirling lights – an anomaly he was sure hadn't been there moments before. Sally swore she felt an unseen presence brush her hair, an icy caress that made her skin crawl.

Their initial amusement had withered, replaced by an icy tendril of dread. When the antique mirror reflected a figure that wasn't there – a flicker of a young girl's face, pale and ephemeral – the air crackled with an almost palpable fear. Sally whimpered, clutching Harry's arm with bruising force.

"Old hotel, old spirits," Harry mumbled, but the conviction in his voice was a paper-thin facade. His pulse thrummed against his temple, a discordant beat echoing the frantic pounding of Sally's heart.

Sleep was a cruel impossibility that night. The once-charming room now felt like a cage, the darkness alive with unseen movement. Sally could hear whispered words, unintelligible and laced with a mournful sadness that seeped into her bones. Harry, usually the stoic one, shivered with fear he couldn't name. They both knew they were no longer alone in room 5, and the presence was far from benevolent.

The night stretched into an eternity of terror. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind, carried malevolent intent. Shadows twisted, taking on grotesque forms that danced in the periphery of their vision. Harry's brave attempts to dispel the fear with logic faltered and died in the face of the mounting horror.

The next morning, they found a hesitant camaraderie with the hotel staff. Their haunted expressions were mirrored in a knowing glance, a shared tale of footsteps in an empty hallway – whispers of the girl with sombre eyes.

"She's harmless," the old bartender had confided, wiping down a glass, "Just lost, I reckon. Seen her a few times, just a fleeting glimpse." But his reassurances fell flat. Harry and Sally were marked, their cheerful vacation tainted by something unfathomably old and hungry.

As they fled the hotel, room 5 seemed to sigh with chilling satisfaction. A small, forgotten doll lay on the pillow, a single tear staining its porcelain cheek – a mocking reminder of their night of terror.

The memories lingered long after they returned to Perth. The photos of swirling lights became a chilling testament to their experience. Sally would swear she heard a soft giggle echoing down the hallway, while Harry would brush a phantom chill from his arm. The sheer horror of their night at the Royal House Hotel could be spelled out in a single, echoing sentence that they had read in the hotel guest book.

"We've had many different people tell us they've seen or felt something."

Tide of Justice

A Short Story by Arthur Paternoster © 2024

Tuesday the 6th of March 1951 was a crisp autumn day. The breeze carried the unmistakable scent of the ocean, weaving its way through the quaint streets of Busselton as Andrew Thompson, the town's ever-reliable postman and customs officer, embarked on his daily routine. The rhythmic whirring of his bicycle tyres against the wooden planks of the jetty harmonised with the gentle lapping of the waves. This soothing symphony, that echoed the unhurried rhythm of life in this picturesque coastal haven.

The sun cast a warm glow over the bustling jetty, where fishermen mended their nets and seagulls squawked overhead, their cries mingling with the cheerful chatter of locals enjoying the idyllic scenery. The SS Orient, an aging steamship, was scheduled to arrive later that day, to load timber, promising a flurry of activity and a welcome influx of news and supplies from distant lands.

Andrew pedalled along the jetty, his leather satchel bulging with letters and parcels, his mind preoccupied with the usual concerns of a postman – ensuring timely deliveries, navigating the occasional curious dog, and exchanging pleasantries with the familiar faces he encountered along his route.

However, the tranquillity of this ordinary day was about to be irrevocably shattered. As Andrew approached the post office, a figure emerged from the shadows, his hurried footsteps echoing in the morning's stillness. It was Billy Chan, Andrew's friend, a market gardener and a respected member of the community, his face etched with an expression of grave concern that instantly sent a shiver down Andrew's spine.

Billy's breathless words, delivered in a hushed tone, pierced the serenity of the morning like a shard of ice. "Andy, the SS Orient is coming in," he whispered urgently, his eyes wide with alarm. "And those fellas are bad news. They're flying the flag of the 333 Triad from Canton."

The weight of Billy's revelation hung heavy in the air, casting a pall over the once-bright morning. The 333 Triad, a notorious criminal organisation from China, was infamous for its ruthless tactics and involvement in smuggling and other illicit activities. Their flag, a stark symbol of their dark influence, was a chilling omen, signalling that trouble was brewing on the horizon.

Andrew's heart pounded in his chest as he absorbed the implications of Billy's words. The idyllic peace of Busselton was about to be tested, and he, the unassuming postman, found himself thrust into the centre of a brewing storm.

A wave of resolve washed over Andrew, a sense of duty stirring within him like a call to arms. A newfound urgency, a determination to protect his beloved town from the looming threat replaced the tranquil rhythm of his morning routine. Billy, his loyalty to his friend and community unwavering, fell into step beside him, their shared purpose forging an unbreakable bond.

With each stride, the SS Orient grew larger, its imposing silhouette dominating the horizon like a dark cloud on the edge of a storm. The ship's arrival, once a source of excitement and anticipation, now carried an undercurrent of dread. Its presence felt like an intrusion, a disruption of the peaceful equilibrium that had long defined Busselton.

As they reached the jetty, the scene that unfolded before them was a stark contrast to the cheerful bustle of earlier that morning. The Chinese crew members, their faces expressionless and their eyes cold, lined the ship's deck, their silence adding to the growing sense of unease. They watched with an air of detached curiosity as Andrew, his voice amplified by the salty breeze, announced the impending customs inspection.

Billy, his Cantonese flowing effortlessly, relayed Andrew's words to the crew, his tone firm yet respectful. Despite the language barrier, the tension in the air was palpable. The crew's passive compliance masked an undercurrent of defiance, a silent challenge to the authority of these two ordinary men.

Andrew and Billy stood their ground, their resolve unwavering. Once a place of leisurely strolls and joyful reunions, the jetty had transformed into a battleground of wills. The fate of Busselton hung in the balance, and these two unlikely heroes were determined to protect their home from the encroaching darkness.

Andy's face as he cautiously made his way towards the mast, his boots echoing on the weathered deck. Suddenly, a strange whizzing sound sliced through the air, followed by a sharp thunk. A chill ran down his spine as he turned to find a gleaming knife embedded deep in the wood, mere inches from where his head had been. The ship creaked ominously, the vastness of the open ocean seeming to close in around him.

A wave of primal fear washed over Andy, his heart pounding in his chest. He frantically scanned the deck, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. Just as quickly as it had appeared, a fleeting figure vanished through an open hatch, leaving behind an unsettling silence. Andy stood frozen, the knife in the mast a stark reminder of his brush with death. A cold knot of dread settled in his stomach, the realisation that someone, or something, was hunting him.

He carefully looked at the crew, which one was it that tried to kill him with the knife. Andy called to some dock workers on the jetty. “Will you blokes please come on to the boat” Soon six of them were on the deck. He told them that they would be acting as Customs Watchmen to ensure that the crew did not leave the vessel, and he had Billy explain to the crew that these six men were now appointed customs watchmen to ensure that the crew did not leave the vessel.

The ensuing search was a meticulous affair, with Andrew and Billy leaving no stone unturned. They scoured every nook and cranny of the ship, their flashlights casting long, dancing shadows across the cargo holds, cabins, and engine rooms. The air crackled with tension as the crew members, their faces carefully blank, observed the proceedings with an air of feigned innocence.

Hours passed, and the sun began its descent towards the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and gold. Despite their exhaustive efforts, no contraband had been found. Frustration gnawed at Andrew, his initial confidence waning with each passing minute. He was tempted to give up, to chalk it up to a false alarm and let the ship continue its journey.

But Billy, his keen eyes narrowed in suspicion, refused to concede defeat. He had seen enough in his lifetime to know that appearances could be deceiving, especially when dealing with the Triad. A subtle shift in the captain's demeanour, a flicker of unease in the eyes of a crew member – these were telltale signs that something was amiss.

"Andy," Billy whispered, his voice barely audible above the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull, "these Triad fellas are sly. They have a trick – they move the contraband around, hiding it in places they know we've already searched."

A surge of adrenaline coursed through Andrew's veins, rekindling the fire in his belly. The initial disappointment and frustration evaporated, replaced by a steely determination. Billy's revelation had served as a wake-up call, a stark reminder that they were dealing with a formidable foe. The Triad's cunning was not to be underestimated, and any lapse in vigilance could prove disastrous.

Andrew's mind raced, strategizing their next move. They couldn't afford to repeat the same mistakes, to fall into the trap the Triad had so cleverly laid. They had to adapt, to think like their adversaries, to expect their every move. The game had shifted, and they needed to change their tactics accordingly.

A sense of urgency gripped him. The sun was sinking lower in the sky, casting long, ominous shadows across the deck of the vessel. Time was running out, and the stakes were higher than ever. The thought of the smuggled opium reaching the streets of Busselton wreaking havoc on its innocent inhabitants was unbearable.

Andrew turned to Billy, his eyes ablaze with newfound resolve. "We're not giving up, Billy," he declared, his voice firm. "We're going to search this ship again, and this time, we're going to find what they're hiding."

Billy nodded, a grim smile spreading across his face. "That's the spirit, Andy. Let's show these Triad fellas that we're not so easily fooled."

The game was far from over, but Andrew and Billy were ready. They were no longer the unassuming postman and market gardener; they were warriors, fighting for the safety and well-being of their community. And they would not rest until they had emerged victorious.

Andy, his voice firm and authoritative, instructed the six watchmen to ensure that no crew member left the deck or followed them. His words, carrying the weight of his responsibility, echoed through the tense air.

Andrew, galvanised by Billy's insight and fuelled by a renewed sense of purpose, wasted no time in putting their plan into action. He barked orders at the crew, his voice echoing through the ship's corridors, summoning them back onto the deck for a second inspection. The crew, their faces etched with a mixture of confusion and apprehension, reluctantly complied, their movements sluggish and hesitant.

The atmosphere on the deck was thick with tension, a palpable unease that hung in the salty air. The sun, a fiery orb that had earlier commanded the sky, had now dipped below the horizon, leaving the ship shrouded in an eerie twilight. The once gentle lapping of the waves against the hull now seemed to mock their earlier, fruitless efforts, a constant reminder of their failure.

But Andrew and Billy, two figures silhouetted against the darkening sky, were undeterred. The soft glow of their flashlights illuminated their faces, etched with determination. They moved with a newfound focus, their eyes scanning every inch of the ship with a laser-like intensity, leaving no shadow unchecked.

The mood on the ship had changed. It was no longer the carefree camaraderie of a voyage at sea; it was now charged with suspicion and fear. The crew members, sensing the shift in momentum, grew increasingly agitated. Their facade of innocence, carefully maintained until now, was crumbling under the pressure of the relentless search. Their nervous glances, their hushed whispers, their restless movements, all betrayed their growing anxiety. The ship, once a symbol of freedom and adventure, was now a prison of their own making, and the hunters were closing in.

Together, they embarked on a renewed search, their senses heightened, their minds sharp. They moved with a newfound purpose, their flashlights probing every corner, their hands checking every crevice. The atmosphere on the ship had changed. The crew members, sensing the shift in momentum, grew increasingly agitated, their facade of innocence crumbling under the pressure.

They revisited the cargo holds, their flashlights piercing the darkness, searching for any sign of irregularity. They meticulously examined crates and barrels, their hands probing for hidden compartments or false bottoms. The crew members, their initial bravado replaced by a nervous unease, watched their every move, their eyes darting back and forth.

And then, in a previously inspected cargo hold, Billy's sharp eyes caught a subtle discrepancy. A floorboard, innocuous, appeared slightly out of alignment. With a surge of adrenaline, he signalled to Andrew, who hurried over to investigate.

Together, they pried up the loose board, revealing a hidden compartment beneath. A wave of pungent odour, a mixture of sweetness and decay, wafted up from the darkness, confirming their suspicions. They had found it - the smuggled opium, concealed in a place they had already searched.

The triumph was bittersweet. The discovery of the opium confirmed the Triad's deceit and the danger they posed to Busselton. But it also filled Andrew and Billy with a sense of profound satisfaction. They had outsmarted their adversaries, proving that even ordinary citizens could stand up to organized crime and emerge victorious.

The dramatic twist sent shockwaves through the quiet town of Busselton. The police were called, and the captain and crew were promptly arrested. The attempted smuggling had been thwarted, thanks to the vigilance of an unlikely duo: a postman and a market gardener. The 333 Triad's flag, once a symbol of menace, now lay crumpled on the deck, a testament to their failed gambit.

The revelation that a notorious Triad operation had been unfolding right under their noses sent shockwaves through the community, shattering their sense of peace and security. The once-familiar jetty, a symbol of idyllic coastal life, was now tainted by the spectre of organised crime.

The local police, alerted by Andrew, arrived in force, their sirens wailing, breaking the hushed stillness of the evening. The sight of uniformed officers swarming the SS Orient, their flashlights cutting through the darkness, was a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation. The captain and crew, their faces pale and their defiance extinguished, were swiftly apprehended, their wrists bound in cold steel.

The atmosphere on the jetty was charged with a mixture of relief and disbelief. The townspeople, drawn by the commotion, gathered in hushed groups, their eyes fixed on the unfolding drama. The once-proud 333 Triad flag, now a crumpled heap on the deck, served as a poignant reminder of the thwarted smuggling attempt and the triumph of good over evil.

Andrew and Billy, their faces etched with exhaustion, but their spirits buoyed by their success, stood side-by-side, basking in the gratitude and admiration of their fellow citizens. Their unlikely partnership, forged in the crucible of crisis, had saved Busselton from a potentially devastating influx of illegal drugs.

The postman customs officer and the market gardener, two ordinary men driven by an extraordinary sense of duty, had become heroes, their names forever etched in the annals of local lore. Their vigilance and courage had not only prevented a crime but had also restored a sense of security and hope to their community. The 333 Triad's failed gambit served as a powerful reminder that even in the face of darkness, the light of justice could prevail, thanks to the unwavering spirit of ordinary individuals willing to stand up for what is right.

Notes

This story is entirely fictional, however, the character Andrew Thompson born in 1883 was indeed an employee of the Postmaster General and was the Postmaster and Customs Officer in Busselton between the 1940’s and the 1950’s. His duties included delivering and collecting mail as he cycled up and down the jetty, to the various ships that tied up to the Busselton Jetty He was based in Busselton in the 40’s and 50’s.

Slime Mould's Big Busselton Adventure

A short children's story by Arthur Paternoster © 2024

Slime Mould was a curious old tomcat. He had lived with the Thomas family in Bunbury his whole life, watching the world from windowsills and exploring the backyard. He was a bit grumpy and quite set in his ways, but everyone loved him.

One day, the Thomas family—Mum, Dad, Peter, and Paul—decided to take a drive to Busselton. Slime Mould, smelling the delicious tuna sandwiches packed for lunch, decided to sneak into the boot when no one was looking. He couldn't get to the sandwiches, which were packed securely in the esky

The car ride was long and a bit bumpy, but Slime Mould was asleep before they even left Bunbury. When the car finally stopped, and the boot popped open, the old cat was startled awake. This didn't smell like home! With a flash of fur, Slime Mould bolted out, disappearing into the crowds near the long, beautiful Busselton Jetty. The Thomas family saw this and started to run after him.

Slime Mould had the time of his life! He strutted down the jetty like he owned it, his tail held high in the air, causing quite a stir among the tourists. A few brave seagulls dared to swoop down for a discarded chip, but Slime Mould, with a flash of claws and a grumpy hiss, sent them squawking in retreat. He even managed to snatch a bite of someone's fish and chips - a particularly crispy bit of batter that was simply irresistible. The humans were too busy laughing at his antics to notice.

Feeling a bit peckish, he decided to take a nap under a bright beach umbrella. It was the perfect spot - shady and with a good view of the passing parade of beachgoers. He was just drifting off to sleep when a big, slobbery dog bounded by, barking like a maniac. Slime Mould's eyes flew open, and with a yowl of surprise, he shot out from under the umbrella like a furry cannonball. The dog, startled by the sudden explosion of cat, yelped and took off after him.

Slime Mould, heart pounding, zigzagged through the crowd, leaving a trail of overturned picnic baskets and spilled ice cream cones in his wake. He finally managed to lose the dog by squeezing behind the ice cream kiosk, his fur standing on end. He peeked out cautiously, his heart still racing. The dog was nowhere to be seen, but the ice cream vendor was giving him a very stern look.

As the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, Slime Mould's tummy rumbled. He suddenly remembered those sardine sandwiches Mum had packed. His nose twitched at the memory. He was starting to miss the familiar smells of home and the soft cushions on his favourite chair. The beach was beautiful, but it was getting dark, and scary shadows filled the streets. He felt a pang of loneliness and wished he hadn't been so impulsive.

Meanwhile, the Thomas family had searched every nook and cranny of Busselton. They were heartbroken. "Poor Slime Mould," sniffled Peter, wiping his tears on his sleeve, "What if we never find him?"

Just as they were sadly climbing back into the car, a loud "MEEEEOWWW!" echoed through the parking lot. Was that their cat? They scrambled out, calling his name, their voices filled with hope. Peter peered under the car and there, two eyes shining like emeralds in the dim light, was Slime Mould!

The old tomcat, looking a bit dishevelled but otherwise unharmed, leapt into Peter's arms, purring like a motorboat. The family laughed and hugged him tightly, their worries melting away. Slime Mould had never been so glad to go home. As the car bumped along the highway, safe and warm with his family, Slime Mould decided that maybe home adventures weren't so bad after all. He snuggled into Peter's lap, purring contentedly, and dreamed of sardine sandwiches and soft cushions.

The Whispering Trees

A short story for children written by ARTHUR PATERNOSTER © 2024

Chapter 1: Ellie and the Storm Clouds

Ellie wasn't just a curious girl, she was a collector of secrets. She knew where the best wild strawberries grew, hidden in a sunny patch behind the compost heap. She knew the fattest worms lived under the big rock near the creek. And, most importantly, she knew the old oak tree was the perfect place to think about mysteries no grown-up could ever understand.

Her fingers were sticky with sap as she climbed, her sneakers finding familiar footholds on the rough bark. Up high, the world was just Ellie and the wind rustling the leaves. Homework and chores and her mum's nagging voice disappeared down below. Sometimes, if she was lucky, she'd spot a deer grazing in the meadow, or a hawk circling lazily in the sky.

Today though, there were no hawks, just clouds. Thick, grey ones, blotting out the sun, making the air feel heavy and still. Ellie squinted at them, a feeling like a pebble dropped in her stomach. These clouds weren't friendly.

A fat raindrop smacked her on the nose. "Bother," she grumbled, reluctantly starting to climb back down. It wasn't worth getting soaked for the sake of being stubborn. Her sneakers squished in the damp grass. Mum wouldn't just be upset about her being late, she'd worry. And even though Ellie pretended not to care, the tightness in her chest when her mum was worried wasn't exactly fun.

It wouldn't take that long to run home if she cut across the field…but then her eyes caught on the line of twisted trees that marked the edge of the woods. Those woods were a mystery. No one ever went in them. Dad said there were old wells from back when there used to be a farm there, hidden by weeds and fallen trees. Mum just said the trees were odd, not right somehow. And Ellie… well, Ellie was drawn to things that were 'not right'.

With a sigh and a glance at those grumpy clouds, she changed direction. Just a peek at the edge of the woods, that was all. It would beat a lecture, any day.

Chapter 2: The Woods Beyond

The trees were so tall they seemed to scrape the stormy sky. Ellie could barely see where the sun should have been, just a dim grey glow filtering through the tangled branches above. Underfoot, the ground wasn't grassy anymore. Instead, it was a tangle of roots and dead leaves that crackled ominously under her sneakers.

The air smelled damp and old, like the pages of a forgotten book. There was no birdsong, no rustling of squirrels, just a silence that pressed against her ears.

And then, the whispers began. At first, just threads of sound weaving through the heavy air.

"Turn around, little one, turn around," they hissed faintly like the trees themselves were breathing the words.

Ellie froze. Her heart thumped like a startled rabbit. She spun in a circle, but it was impossible to tell where the sound came from. Part of her wanted to run back towards the meadow, the rain, anything normal. But the stubborn part, the part that hated being told what to do, made her take a step deeper into the shadows.

The whispers grew louder, less like words, more like a rustling, angry wind. A bolt of lightning ripped the sky open, blinding for a moment. When she could see again, it seemed as if a path had shimmered into existence between the gnarled tree trunks. It gleamed with a faint green light, beckoning her forward.

Ellie's mouth was dry. The woods should have been scary, but they were also...well...enticing. Like there was a secret they were desperate to tell, a secret just for her. With a mix of nervous excitement and dread, she stepped onto the glowing path.

Chapter 3: The Heart of the Whispering Trees

The glowing path twisted and coiled between the towering trees, each step taking Ellie deeper into the heart of the woods. The whispers changed too, no longer just rustling threats, but words taking shape.

"Lost one...weak one...alone one..." they taunted.

The words stung. Ellie wasn't lost, and she wasn't weak! A flare of anger burned away some of her fear, and she stepped more confidently.

Finally, the trees thinned out, ending abruptly in a wide clearing. The rain hadn't reached this place, the ground bare and cracked like old leather. Right in the centre, dominating the whole space, was the largest tree Ellie had ever imagined. Its branches weren't branches, more like gnarled arms reaching desperately upwards. It seemed to throb with a sickly green light, and from deep within came the swirling heart of the whispers.

"Lost one...weak one..." the voices now mocked in chorus, bouncing off the ancient bark.

Tears pricked Ellie's eyes. Was it true? Why were the stupid trees so mean? But something else prickled under the hurt, a stubborn fire in her belly.

"I'm not weak!" she yelled back, voice shaking but defiant. "I'm strong!"

The whispers faltered, then surged into a whirlwind of furious sound. "Prove it...prove it...prove it..."

Then, that whirlwind of noise and green light peeled away from the tree. It swirled and twisted until it formed the shape of a monstrous wolf right in front of Ellie! Yellow eyes blazed, teeth like daggers, and its fur seemed to drip with shadows. Ellie stumbled back, a whimper escaping her throat. But her stubborn spark wouldn't be snuffed out. This wasn't real, it couldn't be! It was all a trick, a scary woods trick. And she wouldn't fall for it.

Chapter 4: The Test

Ellie's legs trembled, not just with fear, but with the need to run. Yet, something held her in place. All those times she'd been called a daydreamer, told to pay attention, to follow the rules – was this her payback? An impossible test to prove she wasn't just a silly girl.

The wolf snarled a low rumble that shook the ground. It took a menacing step forward, hot breath washing over Ellie's face like a blast from an oven. She could smell something rotten and wild underneath the green glow. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure the creature must hear it.

Instinct screamed at her to turn and flee, but the defiant part of Ellie, the part that hated giving in, whispered a different idea. With shaking hands, she fumbled on the ground until she found a hefty branch, rough and heavy in her grip.

"Bring it!" Ellie yelled, surprising herself with the force of her voice. The wolf crouched, ready to spring. Ellie raised the branch, feeling ridiculously brave and impossibly small at the same time. It was a stick against a monster, but it was her stick.

The wolf lunged. Ellie screamed and swung wildly; eyes squeezed shut. There was a whoosh of air, a strange shriek, and then...silence. Slowly, she opened her eyes. The clearing was empty, the monstrous wolf replaced by a swirling vortex of green light fading back into the tree.

The whispers beat against her ears, swirling like angry bats. "Stay with us...you could be powerful...learn our secrets..."

The words were tempting, a promise against all those days of feeling like she didn't quite fit in. Was this her chance to be someone different, someone strong no one would dare to underestimate? But something about the whispering voices, a slithering coldness underneath the promise, made her stomach churn.

She didn't want to be like those dark trees, mean and shadowed. She wanted to be like sunlight. "No," she whispered, surprised by the firmness of her voice.

With a final hiss of frustration, the whispers faded. Ellie turned and ran.

Chapter 5: Ellie's Choice

Ellie ran blindly, branches whipping her face, tears joining the raindrops on her cheeks. She didn't care. She had to get out of those woods, back to the world of homework and chores and her mum's voice – even her mum's worried, disappointed voice.

The strange green path seemed to vanish, leaving her stumbling over roots and skidding in the mud. She burst from the trees, gasping for breath, just as the full force of the storm slammed down. Rain soaked her in seconds, plastering her hair to her face, but it felt good, clean, and real.

She was so late, incredibly late. Her clothes were ruined, she was covered in scratches, and whatever story she sputtered out wouldn't make any sense. There'd be questions, maybe even a little yelling. But strangely, it didn't seem so scary anymore.

Through the sheeting rain, she saw her house, a warm golden square of light against the grey. Instead of dread, a wave of relief so strong it almost buckled her knees and flowed through her. Her mum, always quick to worry, was framed in the doorway, a silhouette of anxious energy.

Ellie wanted to run to her, to let her mum fuss and wrap her in towels and scold her gently, but something made her hesitate. The woods were in her still, the whispers, the wolf, that feeling of standing on the edge of a secret too big to grasp.

Taking a deep breath, like diving into cold water, Ellie started walking. "I won't listen to bad whispers," she mumbled, the words more for herself than anyone else. "Not ever again."

The look of relief that washed over her mum's face when Ellie finally stepped onto the porch was the best reward she could have imagined. The storm might rage, and her punishment might be severe, but one thing had changed forever: Ellie was stronger than she'd ever known.

Chapter 6: Home in the Rain

Her mum's familiar scolding washed over Ellie like the warm rain. It wasn't the words that mattered, it was the undercurrent of relief, the hug that was a little too tight, and the cup of hot chocolate shoved into her hands. Even when she was in trouble, Ellie felt safe and loved, and that was a kind of strength she'd never understood before.

The world was different the next morning. The storm had passed, leaving behind a sky so bright it almost hurt to look at. Birdsong filled the air, loud and cheerful. Ellie pulled on her boots and went outside, everything feeling crisper, and more vivid. The old oak felt comforting, not just a place to escape.

In school, when Mrs. Peterson's voice droned on, Ellie didn't doodle in the margins of her notebook like she usually did. Instead, she thought of the wolf in the woods, and a flash of unexpected defiance sparked inside her. She sat a bit taller, and even raised her hand a few times.

When Ben Miller, who was the biggest and meanest kid in fourth grade, made fun of her at recess, Ellie felt the familiar hot sting of anger. But instead of yelling back or running away, something new happened. She looked him right in the eye, and said, calmly but firmly, "That's not very nice."

Ben sputtered, surprised, and backed away a step. Ellie's heart pounded, but she stood her ground.

Walking home that afternoon, Ellie didn't head for the woods. They still beckoned a little, their mysteries whispering at the edge of her thoughts. But they'd lost their hold on her. She knew there were different kinds of secrets. Some were dark and heavy, and some were bright with possibility, waiting to be discovered in math problems and the pages of library books and in the way her mum smiled when Ellie did something right.

The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls of the family home. Ellie sat curled up in her favourite armchair, a steaming mug of cocoa clutched in her hands. Outside, the wind howled a melancholic tune, but inside, a sense of peace and newfound clarity filled the air.

Taking a sip of her cocoa, Ellie glanced at the leather-bound journal lying open on her lap. Its pages were filled with the trials and tribulations she had faced, the lessons learned, and the wisdom gleaned from her experiences. A gentle smile graced her lips as she realized how far she had come.

These experiences, though often fraught with difficulty and uncertainty, had ultimately served her well. Ellie decided to take this quiet evening to reflect on the most valuable lessons she had learned:

Resilience: The challenges she had overcome had instilled in her an unwavering sense of resilience. She had learned that even when faced with seemingly insurmountable obstacles, she possessed the strength to persevere. Now, when confronted with difficulties, she no longer saw them as roadblocks, but as opportunities to build her inner strength.

Adaptability: Life, she had discovered, rarely unfolded predictably. Her experiences honed her ability to adapt to changing circumstances. She no longer clung rigidly to plans, but embraced flexibility, allowing her to navigate the unexpected twists and turns life threw her way.

Self-reliance: Throughout her journey, Ellie often found herself alone, forced to rely on her resourcefulness and ingenuity. This fostered a deep sense of self-reliance. Now, she approached challenges with confidence, knowing she possessed the skills and determination to overcome them.

Empathy: The hardships she had faced had allowed her to develop a profound sense of empathy for others. She understood the universality of struggle, and this newfound understanding allowed her to connect with others on a deeper level, offering support and understanding.

Gratitude: Through hardship, Ellie had learned to appreciate the simple joys in life. The warmth of the fire, the comfort of a warm beverage, the beauty of the natural world surrounding her – all these previously overlooked details now filled her with a sense of gratitude.

As Ellie pondered these transformative lessons, a sense of calm contentment settled over her. These experiences, once painful and challenging, had ultimately shaped her into a stronger, more capable, and more compassionate version of herself. She understood that life would continue to present its fair share of challenges, but now she faced them with a newfound confidence and wisdom.

Closing her journal with a sigh of satisfaction, Ellie looked out the window at the star-dusted night sky. The future stretched before her, an uncharted map. But with the lessons etched into her heart, she felt ready to embrace all that lay ahead.

There were still days when Ellie felt lost or small or like the world was pushing her in a direction she didn't want to go. But she held onto the memory of the storm, the woods, and the wolf made of shadows. And she reminded herself: she was more than the whispers, stronger than she thought, and brave enough to find her path.

Jungle Shadows

A short story for children by Arthur Paternoster © 2024

Gerald kicked at a stray root, scuffing the jungle floor with his worn sneakers. "I told you we were too far, Peter. We will never make it back before Mum flips her lid," he grumbled.

Peter shoved back a curtain of thick vines, a determined glint in his eyes. "Quit whining. Think of the caves! Dad said they were like something out of an Indiana Jones movie."

"You mean the one where they get eaten by giant beetles?" Gerald retorted, voice high with a mix of awe and fear.

Hours had dwindled since they had left the familiar confines of Batu Cantonment, the rhythmic clack of their bicycle wheels replaced by the symphony of the jungle. It was 1959, and the brothers were sons of a British Army officer stationed at Batu Cantonment in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Adventure coursed through their veins, but the sun was dipping lower, and the playful jungle was starting to take on a sinister edge.

"C'mon, just a little further," Peter urged, his eyes scanning the tangle of greenery. "They got to be close…"

"Gerald, this doesn't feel right anymore," Peter whispered, his voice tight.

"Yeah," Gerald breathed, his voice barely audible, "the trees... they're like walls."

The jungle's playful symphony of chirps and rustles had given way to a menacing hush. The lowering sun cast long, monstrous shadows, twisting the once familiar foliage into grotesque shapes.

"We should turn back," Peter said, his eyes darting anxiously around. "It won't be long before it's too dark to see anything."

"But what about the bikes?" Gerald looked at his brother, a sheen of sweat on his pale forehead.

"The bikes can wait," Peter insisted, his voice cracking slightly. "We need to find our way out – now."

They turned in a frantic circle, but the jungle seemed to close in on them, each step plunging them deeper into its suffocating embrace. The air hung thick with a strange, earthy scent that clung to their nostrils and filled them with a creeping dread.

As darkness descended like a heavy shroud, a symphony of unseen creatures erupted around them – hoots, snarls, and the chilling rustle of something moving in the undergrowth. Panic surged in their veins.

"Peter... I am scared," Gerald whimpered, his voice cracking.

A clearing loomed out of the darkness, a tiny island of respite. With trembling legs, they stumbled towards the open space.

"We'll...we'll have to stay here," Peter stammered, trying to steady his own ragged breath. "We can find our way out in the morning,"

Neither boy believed it. They were hopelessly lost.

Hands shaking, they pulled at pliable branches, breaking them from their moorings. The jungle floor was dank and crawling, a living carpet of unseen insects. They piled the branches into rough mounds, a crude imitation of the beds they yearned for.

Fear was a cold stone settling in their stomachs. Darkness had swallowed them whole.

A single tear trickled down Gerald's dirt-streaked cheek. "We're never going home, are we?" he choked out, his small frame wracked with sobs.

Peter swallowed hard, his own eyes stinging. "Don't say that" he mumbled, but his voice lacked conviction.

Then, a glimmer of light pierced the oppressive darkness, a tiny star winking through the thick undergrowth. They froze, fear and hope twining like angry snakes in their stomachs.

"What is it?" Gerald whispered, clinging to Peter.

"I don't know." Peter's voice trembled.

Another light flickered into view, then another. The lights bobbed and swayed, growing steadily brighter. Voices drifted on the night air; a rhythmic murmur of Malay words interspersed with the occasional sharp exclamation.

Hope, fragile and desperate, bloomed in Peter's chest. "Maybe it's a search party," he breathed, more to himself than his brother.

With Gerald clinging to his hand, they moved hesitantly towards the light, their bodies poised to flee at the first sign of danger.

As they neared, the lights resolved into flickering torches, held high by figures in loose clothing. The men were talking, their laughter cutting through the heavy jungle air. The shadows they cast danced like strange, elongated monsters on the surrounding trees.

Should they yell for help? Would these unknown figures be rescuers or a new source of terror?

A jolt of icy fear shot through Gerald, far more potent than the gnawing dread of being lost. Mohamad's stories echoed in his ears; chilling tales told in the hushed tones of the servants' quarters back at the Cantonment. Hantu Hantu. The spirits of the jungle are hungry and vengeful.

His eyes darted between the flickering lights and the monstrous shadows, trying to make sense of the shapes. Were those twisted branches or bony fingers reaching for them? Did the soft rustles of the night conceal hollow moans and whispers of the dead?

"Peter," he whimpered, his voice barely a squeak, "Mohamad... he told stories..."

Peter's grip on his hand tightened, but his voice was strained with a forced calmness. "Those are just stories, Gerry. These are probably villagers, maybe out hunting."

But even as the words left his lips, Peter could not shake an instinctive unease. The laughter did not sound friendly, the torchlight seemed strangely… predatory. And then, the whispering started. Not a breeze through the leaves, but hushed, guttural sounds that echoed the Malay words they could not understand.

The forest, once a place of dark adventure, felt alive with a malevolent energy. Each step forward filled them with a terror that went beyond getting lost; this was a fear that seeped into their bones, a primal whisper that these shadows held something far worse than wild animals.

The boys returned to their jungle clearing and their exhaustion soon had them sleeping. They both woke at dawn. They stared at each other as their recollections of what they had seen came back. But now the jungle was silent save for the sound of birds.

They both stood and walked to where they had walked the night before. Still, they could not hear anything. They could not see anything. There was no one there The jungle looked as if it had not been disturbed. Had they imagined it? They walked back to the clearing and heard the footsteps of the search party.

A search party! Relief washed over them, chased by a silent vow. They would never speak of the shadows that danced in the torchlight, the whispers that chilled them to the bone. The jungle's secret remained hidden.