Eucalyptus in the rain

Unexpectedly, the rain seemed to have stopped. For reals, stopped. Louie couldn’t remember a time when it wasn’t raining. For the entirety of his admittedly short life, some form of precipitation had fallen from the sky. Once upon a time it had snowed here, but that was before the nuclearish war had changed the world and the creatures upon it. Now it rained, but not now, exactly. Not this minute. The High Country, they called it, because it was a bit higher than everything else around it. As far as mountain ranges go, the Australian one was never going to break any world records, but it still counted as “high”. Not as high as it used used to be: rising sea levels paradoxically lower elevations, so technically even Mount Everest isn’t as big as it once was, but, you know, high.

Louie should have been comfortable, or at least resigned, to standing in the rain but, as it happened, he was the one swamp wallaby that did not enjoy being wet. This is why he had moved into the barn. If he had had opposable thumbs, he would have happily moved into one of the human dwellings on the farm but with only tiny front legs and pretty useless claws, the barn was the only dry space he was able to break into.

He waited. Surely the rain would start again. Wouldn’t it? This is so unusual, so desired that the possibility of it being true became suddenly terrifying. Tentatively, he hopped over to the swollen timber doors. The barn was old. Older than the incessant rain, even a bit older than the time before the war. He nudged the door open and peered out. Holy crap, the rain had actually stopped! Louie pushed the door a bit further, then blinked and recoiled. “What the hell is that!”

He closed his eyes tight, waiting for the searing spots to clear, and tried again. His nose first: smells of wet earth, steamy forest, damp possums, eucalyptus, the usual. Then: warmth and…something else. Eyes now. Light. So much light! He started gently, looking at the ground. OK, the colours were brighter, eyes don’t hurt. Trees next: they seemed clearer, glistening and dripping. Sky.

“Argghh!”. The pain was back.

“Argghhhhhh!”. His scream was returned, with interest.

“What the bloody hell..!”. Louie stumbled back into the barn, startled more than afraid. Gathering himself, he called out. “What are you?”

“What am I? What the hell are you!? Who are you?”

“I’m….”. Louie struggled to remember. What was he? “I’m a kangar…no, too short. I’m a wallaby. A… mountain… wallaby”. He wasn’t, but he hated the word “swamp” with a passion - the rain thing again.

“Bullshit you are. Come on out.”

“Why?”

“Why?! Because I haven’t spoken to another living being in about three years, and the bloody sun is out and I want to talk about it! You ask me why..” The voice muttered, trailing off. “I’m not going to eat you, if that’s what you’re concerned about. It’s a bit hard to kill things that can discuss a good novel, if you know what I mean”.

Louie did know what thet meant, and agreed. While as a marsupial he was inherently a vegetarian, the prospect of discussing a good novel was indeed appealing and a good enough reason to emerge from is now unappealing and decidedly unpopulated by talkers, barn.

There was a man standing in the mud. A human man. Clothed in wool (was that the wet possum smell?) and faded jeans. He was staring at the sky with a wondrous expression. “There you are. I knew there was no such thing as a mountain wallaby. But I can see now why you’d want to change your designation. I’m Quentin.”

Louie snorted.

“Yeah, I know. And you are..?”

Introductions made, Louie agreed that Quentin was indeed an absurd name for a mountain man, and Quentin agreed that “swamp wallaby” was not the kindest of labels. And that the sun was out and that it was glorious.

The two creatures contemplated each other, and each were met with approval. Louie was invited into the coveted warm and dry house and it was good. The weather stayed dry for a few days, and that was better. More bedraggled animals emerged from the bush, both human and otherwise. The most surprising was a family of goannas who were less squeamish about eating other talkers and had to forcefully persuaded to move along, and the most delightful were a small group of mountain pygmy possums who turned out to be excellent at harmonies. The dingo had a pretty good voice, too.

It still rained a lot, but not always, and the sun made semi regular, weak appearances. Louie even met more swamp wallabies, who may or may not be family. While they refused to move into the barn with him, he was able to meet up regularly with them, when the rain stopped. They weren’t keen readers, however, so Quentin soon became Louie’s pseudo family, or at least his best friend. The world had been broken, like, really broken by the human. The animals had been changed forever, and the earth seemed to be healing itself. The humans were now few, far too few to fuck up the place quite so categorically again, that that too, was good.