A Superb Lyre-Bird mimicking the call of the Waggafish.
The red wheel barrow out back of Ian the Squid Man’s shop.
The free-styling Waggaists were in a tight, thrashing group. As they reached the centre of the river, a loud moaning filled the air. The sound seemed to be coming from the depths of both the water and the pit of despair of itself. Then the sound became like a raw, broken symphony - a chorus-line, where anger, sadness, futility and pain were dividing and reforming. NARAAAGH, the sound was getting louder. And then it became flesh, that of rising, hungry fish, and that of the stricken Waggaists. Two of the weakest swimmers at the back suddenly fell further behind and went under, as if they’d been pulled away by a swift current. The water around them turned red, and then their arms and legs came flying out of the turbulence and floated away. “Keep swimming!” Alison Croggan urged them on. Then the man beside her was torn asunder. A huge school of Waggafish had surrounded the swimmers. Like killer whales working to isolate whale calves, they came at the Waggaists in quick, violent raids, crashing into their bodies then ripping them away and down, where they were torn apart. A wide, red stain was covering the river. By the time they’d reached the far shore, there were only twenty Waggaists left. The limbs and torsos of the others were being ferried away out to sea. Alison Croggan spoke through her tears. “Away,” she said, and walked off into the scrub. The others followed, numb with cold and grief.
They climbed into the escarpment. It was tough going. Branches scratched at their faces and hands. The hard afternoon light gave their bodies an amber, ethereal glow. They climbed and did not speak. Past the blackened trunks of gums, through scribbles of vine and trembling, dusty ferns. They stumbled and fell. When they reached a high sandstone cave, lit as if from within, they sat together and stared back down over the river. The walls of the cave were honeycombed and crumbling. They huddled together, shivering and holding their arms. Alison spoke through her hair: “Whatever happens, we need to be strong. We should reach Brooklyn in a few hours. Keep together. Try not to think about what just happened.” She was about to say something else, when a loud, piercing sound came through the scrub above them. NARAAAGH, NARAAAGH. The Waggaists started shouting and leapt to their feet. They looked around wildly. Waggas in the bush? This was now completely fucked up. Alison stepped from the cave and peered up through the trees. The sound came again. Her first thought was that the poets had come looking for them, and were taunting them from high in the scrub. “Let’s go,” she said. “If they want a fight, then I’m up for it.”
They climbed higher, moving slowly and keeping low in the undergrowth. As they reached the top of the ridge, Alison Croggan parted a screen of sawgrass and raised her hand. “Don’t move,” she whispered. Carefully, she eased her face and shoulders through the sharp serrations of waving green grass. In a clearing, its tail fan spread wide, a lyre-bird was parading and strutting. NARAAAGH, it called. The perfect mimic, it had picked up the cry of the Waggafish and was giving it back to the late afternoon sky. Alison cursed. “Fuck this,” she said. She waited until the lyre-bird had turned away to face the other side of the clearing, then she got to her feet and sprinted after it. She was fast. The lyre bird never had a chance. She grabbed it by the tail-fan and swung it around over her head. The Waggaists watched in amazement as she turned and danced. The lyre bird was calling out in panic. It was repeating a rapid-fire arrangement of sounds from the bush: whip-birds, kookaburras, even chain-saws and the motor-driven shutter from a camera. As it went around and around over Alison’s head, a car alarm went off in the lyre-bird’s mouth. Soon it fell silent, and it closed its eyes. Alison put the bird down onto the earth it had scraped clear. She stood over it, breathing hard. Then she knelt down and began removing its tail feathers. When she had plucked them all, she took a length of vine and began attaching the feathers. When she stood up, she wrapped the tan and white tasseled skirt around her waist and looked at the other Waggaists who had emerged from the saw grass. “What are we going to wear?” asked one. Alison adjusted her skirt. “Go find your own lyre bird,” she said.
Shelby woke with a start and looked around. He was at the back of a bus in the dark, the aisle strip-lighting like an aircraft runway at night. Seidel was beside him, breathing loudly, his head on the window glass. They were heading back to Sydney, where they were going to meet with Merle Haggard then catch a water-taxi to Brooklyn. Merle and Seidel were old friends. Seidel had helped resurrect Merle’s flagging career by injecting large amounts of cash and time into promoting his work. As a gesture of thanks and goodwill, Merle had written a new song for Frederick: The Sod-Buster’s Dream, which he’d sung to Seidel over the phone. Frederick told Merle he thought the song was a masterpiece, where in all honesty he thought it was a piece of shit. A few weeks later, when Haggard found out that Emmylou Harris had not invited him to the festival in Brooklyn, he flew into a violent rage. He called Seidel and said he was going to come anyway, and he was bringing trouble. Seidel didn’t doubt it. When Merle was angry, storm clouds gathered, animals and birds went for cover. When Seidel told Merle how he’d been treated by the poets, Merle completely flipped. Seidel heard stomping, breaking glass, a door slam and then slam again. A bird shrieked and fell silent. A dog yelped. A cat started yowling then made a sound like an electronic blip. When Merle picked up the phone again, he said “You tell those freaks in Brooklyn that Merle Haggard has poets and poetry in his sights, and that his magazine is loaded.”
The Sons of Zebedee dragged the giant Waggafish from the bow of the boat and loaded it into a wheelbarrow, then they went off to Ian the Squid Man’s live-bait shop. Ian had the best filleting knives in town, but he also had a secret sideline in Waggafish blood. He sold small bottles of it out back of the shop. It was so intense in texture and scent, that only a few drops were needed when fishing. The blood infiltrated the water column, attracting fish from miles around. The old locals used it in their burley, and some were said to have developed an addiction to it. You could see them walking around with a red smear on their lips, their eyes glazed over.
Ezra Pound hopped and skipped along behind the wheelbarrow, stroking his beard nervously and whistling like a wattlebird. “Where are you taking that Wagga? I am very fond of the meat in the pouch below the gill-rakers, though I’m also quite partial to the liver. Can you spare an old man a small fillet of delirium?” The Sons just laughed and wheeled the Wagga away into the crowd.
When they got to Ian’s Live-Bait shop, Ian wasn’t there. The Sons went around the side and climbed in through a back window. Ezra remained out front of the shop, cupping his hands at the glass and moving from foot to foot. “Please!” he cried out. “Just a taste!”. Bill Wisely was crossing the street, heading down to the festival stage with an arm-load of planks when he saw Pound outside the shop. “What are you doing you old codger?” Bill shouted. Ezra tried to run away, but Bill went after him and hauled him up by the collar of his coat. “What are you up to, Pound?” Ezra pointed back to the live-bait shop. “They have a Wagga, and they won’t give me any meat.” Bill’s eyes narrowed. “Who has a Wagga?” “The Sons of Zebedee,” Ezra said. “They have a red wheelbarrow glazed with Wagga blood beside the white fridges.” “Stay here,” Bill said, and strode off towards the bait shop. He went to the window and looked in. When he saw what was happening, he took his plank and smashed the lock on the door, then went in swinging. The Sons had removed the Wagga from the wheelbarrow and were just about to start cutting it up when they were floored with a plank. As they tried to get up they were planked again. “This,” Bill panted, “is,” he swung the plank again, “what,” he shouted, “you,” he took aim at a retreating arse, “get,” he gave the arse a whack, “for,” he planked the shield of a hand, “bringing,” the plank came back over his shoulder, “Waggas,” the plank fell, “into,” a Son screamed for mercy, “town!” The Sons of Zebedee had ben laid-out cold on the floor of the bait-shop. Bill Wisely looked down at his handiwork, then put flakes and broken bits of plank into the wheelbarrow. He went to the Wagga, took a filleting knife and cut a sliver of meat from its side. He wrapped it in a square of carpet, then took it out to Ezra Pound.
Led Zeppelin were now passing over the many islands surrounding Fiji. They were flying low, speared along by a potent tail-wind, and were making good time. They were going to be in Brooklyn by mid afternoon on the first day of the festival.
Jimmy Page was looking down, watching the ocean’s surface glitter pour through and over the long rollers of a velvet swell when he noticed a disturbance. Many sea birds had gathered and were diving into and around what appeared to be a dark blue shadow. It was a cloudless day. Then he saw how large fish were patrolling the edge of the shadow. He called to John Bonham. “Are you seeing this?” “Yes,” Bonham replied. “It’s a huge bait-ball.” They watched as the birds and fish swept into and over the dark mass. They had to move down the airship, looking through each window as the airship passed over this foam-flecked, travelling feast. From the last window, they saw a new disturbance - a red cloud was circling the dark blue one like an ocean-borne corona. “Waggas!” Bonham cried. He ran up and down the aisle of the airship, rubbing his hands together and laughing. “Waggas!” he said again. “Fuck the festival, I’m going fishing.”