NetNews Usenet Archive 1992 #27/NN_1992_27.iso/spool/alt/callahan/14005

Text File | 1992-11-22 | 17.0 KB | 305 lines

Newsgroups: alt.callahans
Path: sparky!uunet!munnari.oz.au!metro!news
From: [e-mail] (David Mar)
Subject: Re: A Little Light
Message-ID: <[e-mail]>
Sender: [e-mail]
Nntp-Posting-Host: physics.su.oz.au
Organization: School of Physics, University of Sydney, Australia
References: <[e-mail]>
Date: Mon, 23 Nov 1992 01:05:20 GMT
Lines: 292

> [Liralen:]
>Quietly she says, "Hey, DM.  Can you tell me about what the Australian
>summer is like now?  I could use a little of it... the days here are now so
>short that I wake up when it's dark and don't get home from work until it's
>dark, again.  And it's rained for about four days straight... It's only
>going to get worse, in a while."

Danger Mouse smiles at Liralen. "Well, it's a few days early, but I
suppose I can make a special effort just for you."

He stares into the fireplace and somewhere south of the equator a real
person looks out of his office window as he types. Probably the first
thing you'd notice if you were next to him is the birdsong.

The eucalypts outside contain several currawongs - large, magpie-like
birds, who sing in chorus with what can probably best be described as
very loud, somewhat melodic squawks. The sound is not harsh - in fact it
is quite beautiful, but it is rather loud, and quite incessant.

The birds themselves flit around and scrabble through the leaf litter
around the base of the trees, causing a rustling undertone to the song.
The sky outside is a bright, pale blue, sprinkled with a few tiny puffs
of gleaming cloud with whispy tendrils. The air is warm, about 26 C (79F)
and the barest whisper of a breeze blows.

The yellow flowers of a patch of dandelions wave gently, as do the varied
olive and green leaves of the eucalypts towering above them. Nobody
plays on the tennis court, although it is a perfect day for doing so. A
wattle tree rustles slightly, its tiny grey leaves catching the breeze.

A rather nice, warm, lazy day. The person turns back to his terminal as
a small bug of some sort climbs the outside of the window.

"That's what it's like here today. Now, let's see if I can't dig out
that X-window I did last year." DM rummages through a backpack which
suddenly seems to have appeared. He pulls out a VHS tape, wanders over
to the X-window controls and inserts it in a slot. "I feel okay
replaying this, since it was almost a year ago that it was last played.
And, so as not to offend the other Aussies, I should point out that this
shows summer in Sydney. Other parts of Australia may be quite different."

With a grin he takes a seat beside Liralen and gives her hand a squeeze
as they watch....

**************************************************************************
Danger Mouse looks out of the window. He doesn't see the frigid winds of
winter, the drifting snows or bone-chilling rains that many of the other
patrons see. In his eyes are reflected the rich cerulean blue of the sky,
the wispy white streaks of the fair-weather cirrus clouds, and the pale
straw-gold beams of the steadily shining sun.

"It's summer where I am, of course," he explains. "Maybe some of you would
like to come with me and take a look at the season here."

He rises and walks slowly to the door, beckoning any who wish to join him
to do so. He smiles as a few of the patrons reach for their heavy coats.
Realising their mistake, they give slightly embarrassed grins and leave
their things behind. Danger Mouse opens the door, and holds it as the
patrons exit.

"Don't worry, Mike," he winks to the big Irish bartender, "they should all
be thirsty when I bring them back." He flashes a grin and follows the last
of the participating patrons outside, closing the door behind him. Mike
shakes his head good-naturedly and settles back to watch the show on the
Xwindow as he polishes some glasses.

The patrons are standing on a beach. Looking around them, they can see no
trace of the Place. Instead, there is a multitude of people, lying, sitting,
standing, running, playing on the brightly shining wheat-coloured sand. The
sun is beating down from high over the water, trying to pierce the brightly
coloured rows of beach umbrellas that shade many of the people. A few of
the patrons remove some of their outer garments as Danger Mouse passes
around tubes of sunscreen. Some of the hot-tubbers cannot resist, and strip
down to bathing costumes before dashing off toward the line of breakers
curling their way towards the shore in resounding crashes of foam and spray.
The joyful shouts of children carry over the crashing, lapping and sighing
sounds of the ocean. Groups of people are darting across the hot sand,
playing games with volleyballs and frisbees. A large contingent are engaged
in a game of beach cricket - where the best position is fielding thigh deep
in the Pacific Ocean. The squawking of seagulls adds to the general hubbub
and the colourful skullcaps of the patrolling surf life-savers add to the
colour and spectacle. Further out to sea there are surfers riding the
incoming curls of waves that began their trans-oceanic journey halfway to
the coast of Chile. Beyond them are the harlequin colours of sailboards
and a scattering of yachts.

Turning around, the skyline of Sydney's tall office buildings can be seen
on the north-western horizon. Danger Mouse hands towels to the returning
swimmers as everyone follows his gaze inland.

"Bondi Beach," he says, "It's usually a lot more crowded than this on such
a hot day. I guess we were a little lucky. Come on, let's see what else we
can find."

DM heads up the sand towards the road which flanks the beach. Some of the
following patrons have removed their shoes while on the sand, to let the
gritty surface of the Earth touch and feel their bare feet. Now, they dash
across the scorching bitumen of the road, seeking solace in the fringes of
cool grass that lie on the other side.

The group stand in the dark shade of an enormous Norfolk Island pine tree.
The tree's thick trunk soars directly skyward, supporting thin horizontal
branches covered with long, flexible shoots, each sheathed in a cylindrical
casing of short, spiky leaves. These spiky cylinders coat the ground in a
thick carpet of green and brown. The top of the tree, and all of the others
in the rows that line the beach-front street, wave gently in the breeze
that does not extend down to the still, thickly hot air at ground level.

A blue and white bus pulls up, and DM boards it, whipping out a stack of
tickets, which he cancels one at a time in the device just inside the door
as the other patrons climb aboard. They take seats, leaving the aisle to
the young teenagers holding surfboards. The bus takes them a short distance,
to the suburb of Bondi Junction, where they disembark by a picturesque
shopping centre.

Eucalyptus trees line the plaza, each one resplendent in its dusting of
tiny, pale yellow flowers. The brick red bark of the previous year's growth
is peeling away from the trunks in long strips to reveal the bright green
of the new bark underneath. DM leads the way to a railway station, past a
group of bottlebrushes - short shrubby trees with long, thin, almond-shaped
leaves of deep-sea green and brilliant scarlet flowers of exactly the size
and shape of the utensil after which they are named. Bees meander lazily
from one bloom to the next, gathering the sweet nectar economically in the
strength-sapping heat of the day.

In the station, the patrons board a train, which rattles smoothly along the
tracks toward the city centre. The windows of the train are wide open,
allowing a refreshing breeze to cool the faces of the patrons. After a few
stops, the train heads into a tunnel and comes to a stop at an underground
station. Danger Mouse leads the way out and up into the heart of the city
of Sydney.

They emerge in a large pedestrian plaza, with roads running across each end.
Men, outrageously overdressed for the weather in dark business suits,
scuttle to and fro, emerging from and entering the many surrounding office
buildings. Women, dressed more sensibly, do likewise. There are also many
people casually dressed, threading their way from shop to shop, around the
large sculptures scattered across the plaza. An impressive fountain of
interwoven sprays of water promises relief from the heat, and indeed many
people have taken it. A few children are splashing joyfully in the water,
others are sitting around the edge, chatting and eating food with their
feet in the water, and at least one of the businessmen has rolled his pants
to the knees and is wading his way to his lunch break.

DM smiles, wondering how many of the patrons have ever cooled themselves
off in a public inner city fountain. "Well," he says, "Let's take a look
at the suburbs." He makes a sweeping gesture around the group of patrons,
and they suddenly find themselves standing in a very different location.

It is a quiet suburban street, with homes lining both sides behind
intermittent walls of roadside trees. The closest home has a front garden
hedged with rose bushes, upon which exquisitely perfect examples of blood
red, canary yellow, flamingo pink and virginal white blossoms dot the deep
green foliage. The heady scent fills the air, and Danger Mouse notes the
subconscious smiles that appear on the faces of many of the patrons,
proving once again the power of the sense of smell.

He leads the way along the street. A few houses down, the patrons begin to
notice the annoying presence of flies, seemingly buzzing around always on
the edge of vision, and impossible to ward off except by constant waving of
the hand across the face.

The next house has a large, open lawn, currently being watered by a garden
sprinkler. The sprays of water reach out of the yard, forming a large
semi-circle of wet ground beyond the low picket fence. DM smiles as he
thinks about this particular joy of summer and leads the patrons straight
through the wonderfully cooling and refreshing spray from the sprinkler.

Beyond the sprinkler, the air is filled with a thick, sweetly pungent aroma.
DM indicates the plant in the next garden, with its spectacular white
trumpets of flowers, lined with yellow streaks along the petal edges. The
waxy blooms of the frangipani emit copious quantities of perfume - enough
to be able to smell the plant from tens of metres away.

A sound of chirping causes the patrons to look up into the branches of a
nearby eucalypt. Perched on a branch are a pair of crimson rosellas -
medium sized parrots with beautiful deep red plumage, intricately patterned
with stripes of black and bright blue on the face, wing edges and underside.
A raucous squawk from the sky sends them timidly flying away. Turning to
see the source of the disturbance, the patrons see the magnificent shape
of a sulphur-crested cockatoo swoop down and land in the tree. The parrot -
as big as a large owl - is pure white, except for the sulphur yellow plumes
atop its head.

Danger Mouse speaks softly as the other patrons examine the majestic bird,
"We're quite lucky to have such beautiful examples of our native wildlife
actually living and quite common within our cities. Shall we go see what
we can find out in the bush?" He gestures sweepingly again, and the scenery
changes once more.

The patrons are standing scattered along a narrow path cleared through a
dense forest of tall, lanky trees. The scent of eucalyptus oil pervades the
air. Tangled scrub fills out the areas beneath and between the trees with
greenery. The soft background noise of multitudinous parrots and chirping
insects is punctuated by the occasional and surprising sound of bells; the
loud, resonant sounds ringing clearly through the air. Danger Mouse points
out a group of somewhat drab birds perched high in the branches of one of
the trees. "Bellbirds," he says, "You wouldn't believe that that sound
comes from a living creature unless you saw them."

"This way," he continues, gesturing for the patrons to follow him along the
path. As they make their way through the bush, enjoying the sights, sounds
and smells of nature, stepping carefully along the track, across bare rocks
and over fallen branches and exposed tree roots, he explains, "This is
something a lot of Australians do for pleasure: bushwalking. Just going out
into the bush and, well, walking around. It can be relaxing, like this, or
you can make it into a major expedition, carrying food and tents and staying
out of reach of civilisation for several days."

The patrons continue the walk, looking at the fascinating scenery around
them. Grass trees, with their balls of long, spiky leaves atop thick,
twisted black trunks up to a metre and a half high. Banksia trees, variously
described as the ugliest and the most beautiful trees in existence, with
their gnarled trunk and branches which would put a wind-blown cypress to
shame, their short, spiky leaves arranged in patchy tufts that give the
impression of sickly half-death, the spectacularly beautiful and breath-
taking bright red flowers consisting of solid, fist-sized cones, surrounded
by whip-like, curling petals, and the hard black seed pods which stick out
like cancerous lumps from the branches. Delicate ferns, sitting shyly just
off the path. Moist rivulets crossing the path as they wind their way down
the adjacent hillside into the valley opposite. Dominating outcrops of bare
rock, hanging poised over the trees from the side of enormous cliff faces
made of layered basalt, granite and sandstone. The light sprinkling of
long, slender eucalyptus leaves on the bush floor, shed by the trees in
their ever-continuing cycle of growth and replacement. The occasional peek
of a bird somewhere among the branches that reach high overhead.

"Unfortunately," says DM, breaking the serene sounds of the bush, "the bush
in summer is not always such a great place to be."

He waves his arm again. This time, the only noticeable difference is that
the temperature has become considerably hotter, even from its previously
sweat-inducing level. After a couple of breaths, it is clear that the
humidity in the air has also dropped substantially. The patrons stop
walking and stand still in the bush.

The sounds of people reach their ears. Men - yelling, shouting orders,
screaming for help. Then the crackling and roaring - a sound to bring
absolute dread and horror into the heart.

The patrons turn, and see the thick clouds of black smoke pouring into the
air, the lines of men, spraying the undergrowth with thick streams of
water from hoses attached to backpacks and beating the smoking bush with
blankets, hessian sacks, whatever can be found, and the rising and ominous
wall of orange flame that approaches slowly, but inevitably.

A shout spins the patrons around once more. Where there was virgin bushland
now stands a row of neat suburban houses. Women and children race relays
into the houses and out to cars, carrying boxes loaded with worldly
possessions. The men are atop the rooves, plugging the downpipes of the
guttering and filling the gutters with as much water as they can hold before
turning to play their garden hoses all over their most precious material
possession. A call goes out: the Dawsons in number 18 have just lost their
home. The tear and soot streaked faces of the volunteer fire-fighters turn
and cast vehement curses at the advancing flames. Paramedics rush in to
retrieve the limp body of a man overcome by smoke and flame. A helicopter
stands by to rush him to a hospital. Other helicopters fly overhead, dumping
loads of water as close to the front as they dare to fly. Television news
crews scamper to and fro, recording the tragedy for millions of viewers,
who will hope just as fervently as the people here for a change in the wind
direction.

"Enough," declares DM, vanquishing the scene with another wave. The patrons
are now sitting in a suburban backyard, peacefully tranquil. The sun has
just set and the stars are beginning to show themselves. The evening is
still very warm, and glasses of cold lemonade are passed around.

The house is near the peak of a hill, on the northern side of Sydney
Harbour, and the view of the city, sparkling silently in the twilight with
its points of urban light, is simply breathtaking. There is a slap as one
of the patrons swats at a militant mosquito. Another yelps in surprise and
holds out a small beetle, about fingernail size and resembling nothing so
much as an Egyptian scarab.

"Yes," smiles Danger Mouse, "We call them Christmas Beetles, since they
are always plentiful at this time of year. They are quite pretty, actually,
and absolutely harmless, although having them get inside your house and
tangled in the carpet is a bit of a nuisance.

"And so, these are the things that come to my mind when I think of summer
in Australia. Not all of them good, but still, it's a season we tend to
like a lot in this country."

He sits silent again. The patrons relax in the balmy warmth of the evening,
sitting under the tropical glow of the stars. The Southern Cross hangs
in the sky to the south, and a gentle and warm breeze blows in from the
direction of the sea. A few of the patrons close their eyes, and then a
few more. When they open them again, they will find themselves back in
Callahan's Place, some of them wondering why the flickering flames in the
fireplace seem just a little too warm.

- Danger Mouse.