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