Tales of Sin and Madness (31 page)

I nodded, pretending to listen, but in truth my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of trolls and dragons.

“If something gets caught in the blades, always turn off the power first, wait until the blades have stopped spinning, and then, with gloves on, pull out whatever it is that’s obstructing the blades.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I muttered.

“So that’s the safety taken care of. Now, I’ll show you how to use this baby.”

Dad spent the next ten minutes teaching me how to get the engine started, about using the primer and the throttle, how to handle the tool properly, the best way to cut down weeds; he even reiterated the warning about not putting my hands into the blades while they were still spinning, and he made damn sure I knew where the on/off switch was located.

“Okay, that about does it. She’s all fuelled up and ready to go. Come and get me when you’ve finished. And be careful.”

I opened my mouth to speak, to protest, but Dad turned and left before I found my voice. I stood watching with my goggle-eyes as Dad vanished behind a tall spruce.

Soon I heard the mower start up. It took Dad three pulls of the cord to get the Victa going, each time the engine farting, then spluttering out, but finally the engine grumbled to life and my heart sank some more.

I felt abandoned, betrayed. How could he do this?

I wanted to be out there mowing the lawn, where it was wide and sunny, not about to set forth into the alley of weeds, which seemed darker, and was probably colder, too.

But I had a job to do. I had to be mature about this, had to be brave and do the job as best I could.

I turned towards the scary place of my childhood.

The area had always been thick with weeds, a jungle in my young eyes. It scared me back then, and as I stood facing the corridor of weeds I realised I still retained some of those childhood fears.

The first and only time I ventured into that forbidding wasteland was three years ago. I made it about a third of the way down, when I felt something slimy brush against my leg, heard something growl. I bolted out of that narrow alcove and didn’t stop until I was in my room, cowering in bed under the covers.

But I was older now, and armed with a formidable weapon, so I had nothing to be afraid of. All I would find down there would be a long forgotten tennis ball, maybe a dead possum or bird. Nothing slimy. And certainly nothing that growled…

I hunkered down, laid the Whipper Snipper on the ground and, just like Dad had demonstrated, pressed the primer button about ten times, then gripped the cord and pulled. The engine kicked into gear on the second go. The blades started spinning, whirring like an angry tabby. I got to my feet, licked my lips and, pushing down on the throttle for extra power, stepped into the forest of weeds.

There wasn’t much room in the narrow alcove. The high wooden fence to my left and the metal garage wall to my right restricted my movements.

I cut the grass as best I could, and as I worked, exhaust fumes spewing out of the engine, the pungent smell of petrol clogging up my nose, I thought of all the stray cats I had seen wander into this grassy area. I used to think that the reason I never saw them again was that they had been gobbled up by the trolls and dragons. Sometimes, when I was feeling particularly imaginative (or was that particularly scared?), I would wonder if the cats were really the trolls in disguise, having magically transformed themselves into seemingly harmless animals in an effort to lure me into their lair.

But that was just silly kid’s stuff. There was nothing in here but weeds and dirt. Only a kid would be scared of make-believe monsters, and I was no kid.

What about real monsters? I wondered.

Spiders and other creepy crawlies never bothered me, but now, as I plunged deeper into the wall of weeds, I had to wonder about redback spiders, wasp nests, even snakes lurking in the grass.

I swallowed, glad I was wearing pants and not shorts, grateful for the Whipper Snipper gripped tightly in my sweaty gloved hands.

I continued to mow down the weeds, giving the Whipper Snipper more gas whenever I hit a particularly think clump. It was tough going, but soon I was a third of the way down the corridor of weeds. I stopped, drew in some deep breaths, the thick blend of petrol and cut grass lingering in the air. I glanced back at the small area I had just cleared. Chopped weeds littered the ground. The ones I had missed stood arrogantly upright, but I would get them on the way back.

I thought of the two-thirds I still had to go, an area I had yet to step foot in. An area, as far as I knew, unexplored by anyone currently living in my house. I was heading into uncharted territory, and the prospect made me just a tad uneasy.

But I continued.

I was beyond the halfway point when I heard something slithering among the weeds.

I froze mid-chop, released my grip on the throttle, then switched off the power.

I heard the slithering again, saw the weeds up ahead shake, like something was moving fast through the undergrowth. I feared I would wet my pants.

It’s a dragon
, a small voice said.
Or a troll
.

Don’t be silly, I thought. Dragons aren’t real. Trolls aren’t real.

It was probably just a cat, or a snake – hopefully a non-venomous one.

Again the small voice spoke:
Maybe it’s a troll
pretending
to be a snake
.

I looked beyond the alcove, to safety, only a few metres away.

I was tempted to make a run for it.

No, I told myself. You’re not giving up. You’ve come this far, just keep going and soon it’ll all be over.

I thought of Dad over on the other side of the garage and how disappointed he would be if I came running back, cheeks wet, telling him I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t complete the job because I was too scared.

Dad now thought of me as a young man, had entrusted me to do a man’s job, and I couldn’t let him down.

I couldn’t let myself down.

I eased out my breath and with all the thirteen-year-old courage I could muster, I ploughed on ahead. I wasn’t going to let some unseen monster scare me away.

Not this time.

Still, I made sure to sweep the Whipper Snipper extra low, just in case there
was
a snake slithering nearby. I moved swiftly, my desire to finish the job at an all-time high, knowing that with every step I took, every weed I chopped, I was getting closer to the end, closer to being able to leave the scary place.

I had almost reached the brick wall when I heard the laughter.

It was a low, mean chuckle.

A cruel, taunting giggle.

“No, you’re not real,” I said, though I was beginning to wonder if that was the case. The sensible part of my brain knew the laughter had to be my imagination, just a product of my fear; the lingering part of my childhood told me there really were trolls hiding somewhere within this forest of weeds.

Instead of turning back, screaming, like I had done that day three years ago, I kept going, slicing through the weeds with purpose. If there were trolls and dragons hiding, laughing at me, I hoped I would lop off their heads with my fearless Whipper Snipper.

“You’re not going to scare me!” I cried, the Whipper Snipper’s throttle on full, the blades spinning wildly.

Chop!

“I’m not a kid any more!”

Slice, whack!

“You can’t frighten me!”

Soon I was face-to-face with the brick wall, panting, sweat pouring down my pale, freckled face. I took my hand off the throttle, then killed the Whipper Snipper’s engine.

I turned around and surveyed my work. Aside from a few missed weeds, I had successfully turned the forest into a bed of lifeless grass.

I nodded. Smiled.

I had done it. Not only had I completed the job, I had conquered my chief childhood fear.

There were no trolls or dragons after all.

I started forward, eager to tell Dad about my accomplishment.

Something on the ground caught my eye.

Something old and plastic, sprinkled with dirt, grass, and a few snails.

I set the Whipper Snipper on the ground, crouched, tossed away clumps of weeds and gazed upon what I had unearthed.

My smile broadened, my heart twinged with a nostalgic ache – part joy, part sadness.

“What are you doing here?” I said, feeling foolish talking to a toy, but there was no one around to hear me. Dad was still busy mowing and there lived a deaf old lady next door. “I thought Dad gave you away to charity?”

Apparently not. I guess he couldn’t be bothered driving to the charity bin that day, instead deciding to toss my toy lawnmower down the narrow stretch of untamed wilderness between the fence and the garage.

My once prized possession now lay half buried under the bottom of the garage. Only its orange handle and some of its blue plastic blades were visible.

I pulled off my right glove, reached down and gripped the grimy plastic handle. I didn’t know what I hoped to do with the toy once I had it out: clean it up and keep it for my son when (if) I had one? Give it a proper send off, one I felt it deserved? Whatever the reason, I started working the toy out of the tight spot that it had called home for the past seven or eight years. Centipedes scurried away at my rude intrusion.

It was harder than I expected; the damn thing wouldn’t budge. I dropped to my knees, whipped off the second glove and, with my other hand, took hold of the plastic blades and tried again.

I pulled hard at the toy lawnmower, my arms straining. I wondered how on earth the toy could be so tightly wedged under. It was like somebody had deliberately tried to hide the thing. I was about to give up trying to pull the toy out and begin digging in the dirt, hoping that would do the trick, when I heard a hissing sound and suddenly the handle began curling around my wrist, like a plastic orange snake.

“What the…” I gasped, at first not believing what I was seeing.

But when I felt the cold, dirt-encrusted handle start to tighten, I knew my eyes weren’t playing tricks.

I screamed, terror and pain gripping me in equal measures.

“Dad!” I cried. “Dad, help!”

I clawed desperately at the handle, tried prying the plastic off my wrist, but the handle was wound too tightly. I felt around for the Whipper Snipper, but my hand touched only dirt and chopped weeds.

The ground began to fall away around the toy.

“Dad,” I cried again, only this time the cry was more like a squeak.

Where is he? I wondered. Why isn’t he coming to the rescue? Isn’t that what dads were supposed to do?

He’s not going to save you; nobody’s going to save
you, the small voice said.

I started weeping then, as the soil continued to be sucked down into an ever-widening hole. The toy lawnmower started pulling me forward as it, too, was drawn into the black void.

I fought uselessly against it, hot tears streaming down my face making small mud puddles in the dirt. I was only thirteen years old and didn’t have the strength.

I was dragged head-first towards the gaping hole under the garage, my right arm disappearing into the darkness. I was smacked in the face by the smell of wet dirt, old grass, petrol fumes and something else, something foul like a million gassy farts that had been trapped inside the hole for a thousand years.

I heard a noise within the darkness; a deep swishing, like something slicing the air, over and over again.

It sounded horribly similar to the whirring of mower blades.

Or a dragon gnashing its teeth.

I tried stopping myself from being pulled into the hole by gripping the bottom of the garage with my one free hand. But the force dragging me forward was too powerful.

I let go before my left arm was snapped in half.

My arm was plunged into the darkness and I groped around, hoping for something, anything, to grab onto.

My hand touched something slimy. I yanked back my arm, not realising until my arm was out that I had something in my grasp.

I stared in horror at the souvenir I had brought back from the inky depths, at the Collingwood Magpies football hat clenched in my tiny hand.

“Daaaa-dddeee!” I cried one last time, as my toy lawnmower vanished into the blackness, followed by my head.

The rotten stench of bad eggs and petrol grew more pungent, the blackness was as deep and thick as a night-time desert sky. The whirring noise grew louder and I felt wind whooshing against my face.

I heard dirt pattering on metal, like rain against the garage roof, and rocks being carved up and turned into a thousand tiny pebbles.

Then a voice, ancient, cold, full of dirt and grit said: “I told you to be careful. I told you not to stick your hands into the blades. The lawnmower’s not a toy, you know.”

“We’ve missed you,” said another voice, this one higher-pitched and giggly. “You thought you were too old to play with us. But we tricked you. You’re still just a kid. You’ll see, you’re never too old to play with us…”