Spiders’
Eyes
The
route through the Gippsland Ranges from Narracan to the coast is spectacular. On a clear day, views from the high road reach to Wilson’s
Promontory and the Bass Strait, 70 kilometres to the south. The steep grassy
hills flanking the road are marked by two centuries of sheep and dairy farming.
From dark valley floor to sunlit top, generations of animals have trod tier on
tier of contoured pathways. Countless hooves have etched deep terraces into the
perilous scarps, gaining footholds to graze a landscape that would otherwise be
too steep and hostile for heavy beasts to stand.
In
the passenger seat, Stan Ramsay was not conscious of any of this. It was 11pm
and pitch dark. They had left the main road some minutes before and were
careering along a winding, eucalypt-fringed track that was sorely in need of
surface grading. The abrupt transition from smooth bitumen onto loose, uneven
gravel had unnerved Stan at first. Now that he was braced, with a firm hold on
the grab rail, it was as exhilarating, like a ride on white water rapids.
The
view ahead was a constantly revealing tubular tunnel of trees, grass and dusty
road that whizzed and jerked through the headlight beam of the swaying, bucking
and sliding Toyota. There was neither moon nor any other source of light
outside, only blackness at the sides and to the rear. It felt unreal to Stan,
as if the universe had condensed inward to be enclosed within the perimeter of
the four wheeled drive and its probing lights.
The
driver, his bearded face limned in the glow from the instrument panel, had not
stopped talking since they set off. A man of strong views and firm conviction,
Wayne was a model of uncompromising Australian forthrightness. The one-sided
discussion had so far included immigration, oil exploration, transport policy
and unemployment. While it was without rancour or any specific political
thrust, it was nonetheless forceful. He summarised each topic with a conclusion
that was as consistently confident as it was condemnatory. “Bad - fuckin’ -
idea!” he proclaimed repeatedly, “Bad - fuckin’ - idea!”
Stan
was a recent arrival so even if he had wanted to disagree with Wayne on any of
it, he was factually unequipped to do so. Aside from that, he was feeling only
goodwill toward the blunt Aussie who was so generously and unexpectedly taking
them for a spot of midnight surf fishing.
“Drivin’
through ‘ere at night, yer get ter see lots of animals, Stan,” Wayne drawled
casually as he slewed the utility around another sudden bend. Stan clung on
grimly with both hands. He caught his breath, replying tightly, “Oh really.
Like what? Kangaroos?”
“Kangaroos,
yeah. But all sorts. Wallabies, possums, wombats, bandicoots, etcetera,
etcetera. You name it.” Puzzled, Stan said, “I’ve not seen any animals tonight,
Wayne. D’you mean road kill?” Wayne laughed heartily. “Nah-hh! Live! Live!
There’s road kill sure but they gotta come out at night ter get fuckin’ killed
in the first place, ain’t they?” Stan conceded that and Wayne continued, “Yer
don’t so much see ‘em but. Their eyes reflect at yer from the bush. Like
there!” he yelled excitedly, jabbing a finger in front, to his right. “That wuz
a couple o’ wombats we just passed, Stan,” he confided. “Out fer a bit o’ nooky
prob’ly, this time o’ year! Did yer see?” Stan had not seen but he got the
idea. “You mean you can distinguish species by the eye reflection alone?” he
asked.
“Too
right! When I’m huntin’ in the high country, I’m on foot,” Wayne replied
seriously, “Wildlife’s real close. Eyes open’s essential.” Stan recalled him
talking earlier about his other job, guiding game hunters on outback and bush
safaris. “It’s like when yer drivin’ in traffic an’ see car headlights behind,”
Wayne added helpfully. “Yer get familiar with the shape an’ pattern - enough
ter know it’s a Ford Falcon or a Holden Commodore. Almost instinct.” Stan knew
precisely what he meant from his own driving.
The
section of road they were on was smoother and straighter now, allowing Stan to
release his tense grip on the grab handle. They were still barrelling briskly
along a bright tube of sharply lit, pale-barked gum trees, cocooned incognito
in the anonymous space of the cab.
Wayne
enthusiastically continued his animal recognition theme. “Yeah! Try this, Stan.
Focus fair on the limit o’ the headlights. Yer’ll pick the flash of eyes before
they tek off inter the bush.” Warming to his task, he hunched forward to peer
over the wheel. “Who-ow! See them lot!” he roared, pointing left, “There!” Then
he groaned in disappointment, “Shit! On’y fuckin’ bunnies.”
“I
saw the flash alright, Wayne, but no rabbits,” Stan reported. “They wuz bunnies
fer sure!” Wayne insisted, “’Ad ter be but. The on’y small things yer ever see
in numbers. There’s fuckin’ billions of ‘em! Ancestors wuz imported from fuckin’
pommieland.” He intoned his earlier mantra, “Bad, bad - fuckin’ - idea.”
“There’s
a flash, Wayne! What’s that?” shouted Stan, getting into the spirit of the
game. “Har! Fox! A fuckin’ fox!” Wayne snorted gleefully. “All we need now’s a
bunch o’ guys in red coats, on ‘orseback, some dogs - an’ tally - fuckin’ - ho!
The full pommie scene, Stan,” he mocked, “Bad - fuckin’ - idea!” Stan smiled at
the friendly jibe. “I have to say, Wayne, our Brit fauna seems pretty happy
here,” he teased.
Wayne’s
reply was unexpectedly fierce. “Too right!” he snapped, “Too fuckin’ ‘appy,
Stan! Fauna an’ flora both. An’ too many
species!” Voice cracking with emotion, he scolded, “In the bush an’ outback,
there’s foxes, feral cats, wild dogs, pigs an’ bunnies. In rivers an’ lakes,
European carp an’ trout. Meadows an’ forests got willows, ragwort an’ fuckin’
brambles!” He sounded sad now, adding glumly, “Fuckin’ list goes on. Indigenous
don’t stand a fuckin’ chance. I know I’m pushin’ shit uphill but when I see
ferals in the bush, I kill the bastards straight off. No fuckin’ worries!” He
sighed forlornly.
They
continued along the by now fairly even bush road. The cab had gone quiet and
Stan knew he had touched a raw nerve. He tried to lighten the mood with Wayne’s
eye-spotting game but with limited success. Wayne, still peeved, responded only
in monosyllables.
“There’s
something!” said Stan, pointing to the trees. “Possum!” snapped Wayne.
“And
that?” asked Stan, indicating the grass verge, “Wombat!” Wayne grunted.
The
question and answer session went on, with Stan pointing each time he saw a
flash.
“That?”
“Wallaby.”
“Those?”
“Bunnies.”
“And
those?” “Rats.”
“Out
there?”
“Bandicoot.”
There
was a briefer flash.
“What’s
that then, Wayne?” “Spider.”
“Spider?” “Spider!”
“Spider?
Bloody spider? Are you winding me up, Wayne?” Stan yelped indignantly, “Spider,
for Christ sake!”
His
reaction lifted Wayne’s mood and he laughed, protesting, “No, I ain’t windin’
yer up, Stan. No way known! It wuz a spider! Fair dinkum!” He added, “It wuz
you saw the flash. I on’y called it.” It was a telling point.
“‘Wanna
know ‘ow it works, Stan?” Wayne asked rhetorically. “If yer do, pin yer ears
back,” he ordered, preparing to launch an exposition. “Okay. I’m listening,”
Stan muttered, relieved that the Aussie was back to his previous form.
Wayne
continued. “First up, tell me this. ‘Ow do spiders see? What with?” Stan
remembered biology lessons long gone, “They have simple eyes, Wayne. But hell,
they’re bloody tiny. Nothing like the size of possum or wallaby eyes,” he
argued.
“Bonzer!
‘Old that thought, Stan, ‘cuz ‘ere’s the logic.” Buoyant once more, Wayne
pressed home. “Point one – spiders got simple eyes – like ours. Point two -
they reflect - just the same. Point three - yer can see pinpoints o’ light from
a long way in the dark.”
Stan
tried to interject but Wayne was unstoppable. “No ‘ifs or buts’, Stan. Just
listen! Point four - at Gallipoli, Anzacs, poor bastards, wuz gettin’ picked
off in the trenches at night. Turkish snipers aimed at the glow o’ their ciggies.”
Stan
was now following Wayne’s argument with interest. “Yes. That makes some sense,
Wayne,” he said thoughtfully, “In London air raids, total blackout included no
lights on the ground, not even cigarettes. Same reason.” Vindicated, Wayne
replied, “I din’t know that. The scale’s roughly the same but.” Stan frowned.
“I’m not sure it works with spiders, Wayne.” he said reluctantly, “But I’ll pay
it, in principle.”
“I
already proved it ter me shootin’ mates in the bush,” Wayne insisted. “I wuz
scoutin’ ahead, wearin’ me ‘ead torch an’ I see a flash in the
undergrowth.....15 metres, mebbe. I walk straight to it. What d’yer think’s
there? A fuckin’ great Huntsman spider! I done that a few times since. Bear in
mind, Stan, them Huntsmans get big across as saucers.”
Stan
knew the species well. They are fearsome looking creatures, big but timid, fragile
and harmless. At least one Huntsman cohabited usefully with him, living on the
nuisance insects that strayed in past the fly-screens. “Sounds feasible, Wayne”,
he opined, cautiously, “I’ll have to think about it.” They suddenly slowed and
turned off the road. Wayne drove the ute onto loose sand, stopping behind high
dunes. “Righty ho! ‘Ere we are,” he announced triumphantly. He switched off the
engine and lights with a flourish.
Stan
opened his window. A soft breeze loaded with the iodine perfume of drying
seaweed entered the cab and caressed his face. The engine noise and staccato
thumps and squeaks of travel were replaced by the peaceful rhythmic rumble and
hiss of big surf on distant sand. The moonless night pressed into the cab,
fragrant warm and dense dark as thick black velvet. “Lovely! Really lovely!”
Stan exclaimed, “Where are we exactly, Wayne?”
“90
Mile Beach – near Woodside. Just gone midnight. Tide goin’ out,” Wayne replied
happily, “Ace! I’m goin’ ter tackle up.” He leapt out of the cab and
disappeared from view behind the tray of the Toyota. Stan shouted after him,
“Be there in a sec!”
Still
buzzing from the journey, Stan waited in the cab for his vision to adjust to
the dark. As he sat, he went over Wayne’s spider story again. “Well then,
spiders’ eyes. Spiders’ eyes... hmm...mm!” he murmured, trying to convince
himself. “Spiders looking at headlights from the bush might be creepy to some
people,” he mused, “But I like it. Makes ‘em acceptable, friendly even. The
reflection links us as mutual observers.”
Later,
as they returned to Narracan, the sky was blushing apricot dawn. They barely
needed headlights but now Stan could sense spiders looking back at him. He did
not know whether Wayne’s story was true or if it was a just a clever
fabrication but it had enchanted him. He yearned so much for it to be correct
that he could put aside the scepticism born from long experience of
yarn-spinning Aussies. Wherever Stan drove at night from then on, he would seek
out slight reflections on his way, wishing for them to be spiders’ eyes.
Derek Pickard 2009
