Hooves in New Norcia mud.

Mermaid jam


It should come as no surprise, that a tale involving a character unique to New Norcia may have been told by others over the span of the days, weeks, months, and years preceding this very bland attempt of mine at the retelling of a singular experience of my own. Often it is thought that those that know, well, know, and yet, in this dreary case, that it is in fact not the case at all. More specifically, that those that know, often do not. The greatest lie beyond the devil tricking man into believing he does not exist, is the lie that is told not as a lie, but that of a perceived truth, and it is that truth, the one perceived, that I must re-enact, passing the morose reality of the fact that renders those perceived truths nothing more than opinions trapped within letters to the editor in yesterday’s paper. Such a very sad case indeed, and that all below is a fact, not just a truth told.


Rain should not fall sideways, but it did on this windy grey skied New Norcia morning. The hole I stood in, one of my own design and halfway up a hill in a patch of bush, was slowly filling from the burst water pipe I had unearthed. Both to my annoyance and surprise, the pipe, I had assumed to be black polypipe, turned out to be terracotta. With my boots slowly filling with water, I pondered on what the hell I was going to do, and stepped up out of the hole and trudged further up the hill toward the water’s source, that being a large, roughly twenty thousand gallon concrete water tank. From there I hunted out the correct tap, I had incorrectly isolated a different one prior, found it, turned it off, and headed back down the sodden hill to confirm it to be correct through the cessation of water running from the cracked pipe. Wandering along, and for absolutely no good reason, I gazed some two hundred metres north east of my position in the direction of the local swimming pool, and stopped. Something moved in the light bush directly between myself and the pool. Now, I had known there to be many varied and wild yarns told about beasties and spooks that inhabited the town and its surrounds, none of which I believed, but I enjoyed the tales none the less. Watching now, and still not moving, I saw something vaguely man shaped, wearing what appeared to be a longish sort of a coat, moving away from me. The rain and overcast light of day obscuring clarity of vision. It was highly unusual to see anyone in the scrub where I was, and moreso given the miserable day carrying on around me. Perplexed I called out to him(?), yet he did not stop. Being of less than average intelligence, I began to walk to where he was, and promptly tripped on something unseen underfoot, landing in an untidy wet and swearing heap. Picking myself up, I brushed dirt and leaf matter from myself, replaced my battered broad brimmed hat upon my balding red/blonde head, then looked up to locate the chap I had pursued, only to find him gone. Sooking now, I walked slowly back up to my muddy hole. The first thing I noticed when I got there and looked into my excavation was that happily the water had all but stopped running from the pipe, the second was the set of hoof prints, either a large goats or that of a plus sized sheep, planted firmly in the wet gravely soil. Thinking this highly peculiar, I looked around on the ground for more, and find them I did. One set only, and they were headed away from the hole in the direction I had just come from, back down the hill. Rolling a cigarette as I pondered this anomaly, I realised that there were no tracks leading to my pitiless pit from any direction, just away. Curiouser still was the fact that the tracks were made by two hoofs, not four, AND that there was no livestock anywhere within cooee. Rollie now lit and dangling from my lip, I set off back down the hill following them, and yet within twenty yards beyond where I fell, the tracks vanished. After a bit more of an equally unsuccessful look around, it dawned on me that it was roughly the same place I saw the bloke in the long coat. ’twas then that I recalled the tale of the man that had played cards on a very stormy night in a house located somewhere reasonably near to where I stood, and that a child hiding under the card table had apparently seen hoofs where his feet were meant to be. I don’t know if it was the cold rain running down my neck, or a shiver running up my spine, but either way, it was definitely time to head back to the shed for smoko, and to hell with the pipe.




Here is the story which I refer to above -> https://therebemonstershere.com/2015/11/17/hooves-under-the-card-table/


Click the topmost picture. Something seriously groovy lurks within.












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