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I arrived in Cooma on the twenty first of June. My wife and son were with me, but I was working, they were just along for the ride. I’d been asked a favour by some old friends. The town was overflowing with visitors, more so than any ski season I could recall, we were only able to get our room at the Alpine Hotel because of a cancellation.
The Snowy Mountains had been the scene of a recent death. They weren’t so snowy anymore, and the region was seeing unusual growth in visitors, as people fled the coast. There had been some . . . issues in the bigger cities, and the result was an exodus. The global temperatures had been steadily increasing over the last decade, and things were going pear shaped. You just had to watch the animals to know something was wrong.
My friends in America had three sons. Two of them—Trevor and Thomas—were visiting here. One had died in the mountains. The other wasn’t making any sense to anybody. I was here to find out what happened.
My wife and son stayed at the Alpine Hotel, while I headed for my first appointment at the hospital on Bent Street. Jazz would find something to entertain Eli while I was gone. Trevor Polstaff was being held at the hospital under guard, suspected murderer of his brother Thomas. My appointment was a meeting with the hospital registrar overseeing Trevor’s case.
Jenny Walsh met me under the concrete awning near the small car park at the front of the hospital. It was a small building, not like the big hospitals in the city, and I had to wonder how well equipped they were for the increased number of visitors, should anything bad happen.
I offered my hand to shake, but Jenny ignored it, turned, and led me inside.
“Mr Martin,” she said. “We need to make this quick. It’s a busy hospital right now, and distractions like yours are a luxury I can ill afford.”
“Can I speak with Trevor, at least?”
“You can try, but he’s not going to reply. You’d have more luck getting a straight answer out of his dead brother. Frankly you should leave and let the police do their jobs. But if you want to talk to them, this is the officer in charge of the case.”
She handed me a business card with the NSW police logo on it. I stayed quiet as she led me through the hospital which was bustling like a small town facility never does.
“I know there are a lot of visitors in town, but why so many patients?” I asked.
“The snow season only just started, but it’s just a feeble coat of powder, so that means more accidents, and greater damage done. Even experienced skiers are hurting themselves, because they aren’t accommodating for the reduced coverage.”
We had reached a door to a private ward, two police officers standing outside. They nodded to Jenny as we approached. She pushed open the door and waved me through. “This is Trevor. I advise you not to stay too long. I’ll be able to answer a couple of questions, but I only have a few minutes.”
The man on the bed was gaunt, tossing and turning in a slow, macabre horizontal dance, muttering. Every now and then a word passed his lips. “Creature,” “horn,” or “darkness” being repeated several times while I was there. As if in some strange dialogue, there were muffled noises from another room, similar to Trevor’s mutterings.
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“He was in a hiking party of six. They found him alive and four dead. The last one, a woman, is still missing.”
“And what of the four?”
“All dead. Impaled by something. The coroner will have more details, if you need them.”
“And who’s that, making the same noises?”
“That? That’s the coroner’s assistant. He handled the bodies, held the wounds open during the autopsy, and damaged a glove. The wounds were laced with a powerful neurotoxin. Not something we’ve seen before, but we believe the assistant is suffering from the same exposure as Trevor. Nobody knows where Trevor got the toxin or why he may have killed the rest of the hikers.”
“You are that sure he did it?”
“It’s the only answer we have for now. Unless the police uncover another suspect. My job is to treat him, not judge him. Any possible guilt will be assigned by the detectives.”
“Guilty until they find the woman?”
“My guess is she’s dead too, but that’s also a matter for the police. Until a body is found or she comes here for treatment, I can’t say anything about her situation. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other duties.”
“Of course,” I replied. “Thank you for your time.”
Trevor’s muttering, moaning and grunts continued. It was clear I’d never get any answers from that poor soul, but I approached his bedside anyway. He looked through me with deep, troubled eyes.
“What happened to you?” I asked.
His muttering turned to shouting. “Creature! Horn! Darkness! Creature! Horn! Darkness!” he screamed, and a nurse came running in.
“I’m sorry Sir, but you will have to leave. He upsets the other patients when he’s like this, and you are distressing him.”
I took out my phone as I left the room and called Trevor’s parents, as I had promised. It went to voicemail. I guessed the time difference meant they were asleep. I left a message.
“It’s me. Yes, I saw him. He’s alive, but I’m sorry, I’ll say it straight—there’s nothing of the Trevor you know. Yes, I’ll keep looking. They don’t seem to know much. There’s another victim the same. It’s a neurotoxin. I’ll find out more and call again. Don’t worry, I’ll get you more answers.”
I put the phone in my pocket and closed my eyes for a moment. I opened them to a crazed face; a man in his sixties, broad grin and wide eyes, about three inches from my nose. His sun-dried skin was that of a man of the land. He had mischief in his gap-toothed smile.
“I know what happened to the boy,” he hissed. “None of this lot will listen to me though. But I know what did it. I know what killed the other ones, too.”
“So it wasn’t him?”
“Ha! No. That boy didn’t do it. But I can show you what did. You interested?”
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Bill Murphy. Mad Bill Murphy they call me ‘round here.”
“Roy,” I replied. “Roy Martin. How is it you know what happened?”
“I live up the mountain. I know what it was. I’ve been tracking it for a long time. The cops were chattering about this on the scanner, so I came down to see if I could get heard. I knew as soon as they said that one was mad and the others stabbed with a thick something, like a branch. It’s the madness gives it away.”
“You said what, not who did it . . .” I said, stepping around him to walk down the corridor, the two police officers chuckling at some joke.
“They wasn’t no who, that’s why.” He followed me, casting the police officers a scowl.
“Then what? What did this?”
“A brumbiethorn. It did the stabbing, and the maddening.”
“What the hell is a brumbiethorn?” I said, stopping to look at him.
“Come on, we have time. I’ll take you up the mountain, you’ll be back to your hotel by dinner.” Now it was his turn to walk ahead, as he made for the exit.
“Oh, the hotel. I left my wife and son there . . .” I rushed after him.
“Best fetch them. If the brumbiethorns are coming down the mountain, you’ll be better off together than apart.”
“What the hell is a brumbiethorn?” I asked again, louder this time, feeling many eyes on me in the crowded lobby.
“It’ll be easier to show you.” He left the building, not waiting for me.
I followed him out to the car park. He walked to a beat-up old ute, while I jumped in my SUV.
“Get your family, then I’ll lead the way,” he yelled.
I’m still not sure why I thought dragging them to a strange place with this weird old man was a good idea, but I took out my phone and rang Jazz. She said they were at the bakery next door to the hotel. I rushed around and collected them.
“What’s going on?” Jazz asked as she climbed in, glancing with distrust at the old man in the ute that pulled up alongside, blocking traffic.
“This is Bill,” I replied as Eli buckled himself into the child seat in the back. “He knows about what happened to the boys. He’s got something to show us up the mountain.”
“With all due respect to Bill,” Jazz said, nodding at the old man through the lowered windows of our vehicles. “Taking our son somewhere up the mountain with a strange old man we don’t know seems a bit irresponsible.”
“Even if there is something bigger going on, something more dangerous than just five hikers getting killed and another going nuts?” I replied.
“How big?”
“Real big!” Bill said. “That one lost his marbles, they got another bloke who lost it just from handling the bodies. Oh and yeah, bodies. They found five so far. One hiker missing, who knows if the creatures have got anybody else?”
“Creatures?” The distrust was clear in Jazz’s tone. “What creatures?”
“That’s what I’m going to show you. The clowns down here don’t want to believe it, but I can show you the proof. Besides, it’s a nice drive into the mountains, you’ll be back for dinner, and if you think I’m dangerous, ask a local.”
“Hey,” Jazz called out, with no hesitation, to a passing woman. “Is this guy in the ute dangerous?”
“Mad Bill Murphy?” the woman said. “No, he’s harmless. Mad as a cut snake, but harmless. Just don’t go falling for his crazy stories.”
“Ya see?” Bill said. “Harmless. You’ll be safe if you stick close to me, but these others got no idea what’s coming.”
“Fine,” Jazz said. “Let’s get this over with.”
We followed Bill for nearly an hour, until we drove through the village at Braemar Bay. He pulled into the driveway of an old farmhouse to the west of the town, and we followed. As we piled out of the car, Bill waved us around to a shed and ushered us inside.
“It’s here somewhere, just a minute.” He swept a bunch of old cans and tools to the side of a weathered workbench, then rummaged through a cupboard.
After a few minutes, with us inspecting our surroundings in a nervous agitation, worrying about the kind of things anybody who’s seen Wolf’s Creek might, he grunted and lifted something wrapped in cloth, and carried it to the bench.
“This is what it was killed them hikers,” he said, as he removed the cloth. “The old man gave me this when he told me the stories.”
It was a skull, a large one at that. By the shape, I would have said it belonged to a horse, except for the massive horn protruding from the forehead. The horn was thick, and around two and a half times the length of the skull itself. I reached to touch it as Jazz held Eli close, her expression one of concern for our safety.
“Don’t touch it!” Bill shouted. “It’s fragile now. But when it was still fresh, or the creature was alive, that horn had a secretion which coats it. It’s a powerful poison, will send you mad, like that poor lad in the hospital. I couldn’t tell you how long it’s effects last when it’s dry.”
Bill picked up the skull and brought it closer.
“I can touch it because I’ve spent the last fifty years building up an immunity.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Jazz muttered.
“What is it?” Eli asked, wide eyed and curious.
“It’s a skull, boy!” Bill snapped. “Haven’t you seen a skull before?”
“What’s it from?” Jazz asked, holding Eli tighter than before.
“A brumbiethorn.”
“A what?” Jazz asked.
“A brumbiethorn. It had a traditional name, before the settlers came, but I don’t know, that’s one of those secrets of traditional knowledge lost to time. The old man, that’s what we called him, he wasn’t my father though, he was my step-grandfather, he told me about them.”
“So it’s like a horse, with a horn?” I asked.
“It’s a unicorn kind of thing, yes. But it’s not one of your fairy-tale things of glitter and rainbows, son. This one is dangerous. Beautiful, majestic, and deadly. It’ll kill you faster than you can whip out your phone for help.”
“Are they aggressive?” Jazz asked.
“They tend to be reclusive, and avoid being seen. I’ve never seen a live one, just this skull. But there is a story, a kind of prophecy the old man told me as a boy. He said that when the people fail in their duty to look after this land, then the brumbiethorns will come down the mountain, and retribution will be taken.”
“A creature like this,” I said. “It’d be top of the food chain I guess.”
“Not exactly,” Bill said. “They eat grass, not animals, but they’re territorial. Though they have their enemies in the mountains.”
“What would hunt something like that?” Jazz asked.
“Drop bears are their greatest threat. The bastards drop on the neck of the brumbiethorn, so they can’t defend themselves with the horn. Then they swarm it. They eat everything but the skull, and a few bones.”
“Drop bears are make believe!” Eli snapped with all the confidence of his ten years.
“So is Santa Claus!” Bill growled. “What’s your point, boy?”
Eli cowered behind Jazz, looking up at her in confusion.
Bill covered the skull, then continued. “Up on these mountains, everything is real. It’s that kind of place. Imagination, storytelling, reality, it all blurs. There is no such thing as fiction on this land. Especially when the fog rolls in.”
“So you are telling us there is a brumbiethorn, out there, killing people?” I asked.
“Not just one,” Bill said. “If they’re getting ready to come down the mountain, like the story says, there may be hundreds, perhaps thousands, up there in the fog.”
Bill walked to the door, waving us through. The old man closed the shed and locked it, then leaned on it, almost nonchalant. “I know where that hiking party was attacked, if you want me to show you. It’s another half hour up, if you want to go. Or we can have a coffee and talk in the house. Up to you.”
“I wouldn’t mind a coffee, but I came here for answers. I’d like to see that place.”
“We’ll take your car then,” Bill said, walking towards it. “It should be able to make the track.”
We got in, Jazz in the back with Eli, Bill in the front, and I drove. He leaned forward, pointing directions. One question nagged at me.
“Where did they come from? The brumbiethorns? I mean, horses only came with the first fleet, right?”
“They aren’t horses, son.” Bill replied. “The old man told me they were here before the first people. They been here tens of thousands of years, maybe came over that land bridge thing way back when. Or maybe they were already here. Maybe those unicorns in Europe were from here to start with. I dunno, but they’re ancient.”
Jazz reached forward, her seatbelt off, and turned up the radio. We took the hint. Bill continued pointing the way, and the road became a track, then was barely even that, but the trusty SUV took it all. After around forty minutes of this, we entered a clearing. It was a well-used camp site, but nobody was there. A dark shape lurked in the trees opposite, and then moved, into the open. Bill fumbled with his seatbelt buckle in his excitement, determined to get out of the car for a closer look.
“I’ve searched my whole life for you, you beautiful creature,” he mumbled as he opened the door, then demanded, “Get your phone out, start filming! We might never see it again! And for God’s sake, stay in the car!”
Bill slammed the door and walked across the open clearing. Jazz, leaning between the front seats, got it all on her phone’s camera. The creature stepped forward and looked up, straight at the mad fool. Its body, shiny black, glistened in the late afternoon sun speckled through the trees. The horn, majestic and deadly, rose from its head into the light. The horn was stained a dull brown from the dried blood of its victims, yet wet looking, from the coating of venom.
The thing was huge, bigger than a regular horse, though not as big as a good draft horse. I never got the hang of the measurement in hands, but this thing, this was big. It snorted, stamped its feet, and lowered its head. Bill stopped, turned, and ran. Jazz, stricken with terror, never stopped filming. Another, then a third brumbiethorn entered the clearing. Then came a fourth, a fifth, in many varied colours, but all as terrifying as each other.
Running towards us, Bill screamed, his eyes wide in sheer terror. A moment later, the horn of the first beast erupted from his chest as he was lifted off the ground, then tossed to the side. There was no hope for him. Slamming the car into reverse, I floored the accelerator and turned the wheel, churning the ground as the tyres spun. The engine roared as I thumped it into drive and headed out of the clearing. The beast smashed hard against the side of the car, making a guttural noise from my nightmares.
Jazz never dropped the phone. We sped down the trail with the creature behind us, catching flashes of more of them, in the dappled light between the trees. A glance in the review mirrors showed destruction. The mob stormed down the mountain, flattening everything in their path.
Even once we reached the open road, they followed close behind. I didn’t lose sight of the creatures until we were passing Bill’s house.
We flew through Braemar Bay at high speed leaning on the horn and shouting out the windows.
“Run or get inside! Brumbiethorns! Get to safety!”
We didn’t wait to see if anybody heeded our words. We had lost site of the creatures, but I wasn’t about to stop. I rummaged in my pocket for the card the hospital registrar had given me, and passed it to Jazz.
“Send the police the video, tell them this is what killed the hikers, that Trevor is innocent.”
“On it,” she said, taking the card in shaking hands. “I’ve already sent it to the news channels. Everybody's got to get off the mountain. Those things are indiscriminant. They’ll kill everything.”
Scenery flashed by, and I ignored it, racing down the mountains as fast as possible. There was nothing else for it, we had to get out of the area. There was no way of knowing how far those things would follow, but I was heading home. At least we had some warning, and I could strengthen the fences in preparation. And Trevor and Thomas’ parent’s, how could I tell them? They’d see the video on the TV news before I could stop and call them.
We flew through Cooma without stopping. I couldn’t have gotten Trevor out of the hospital, not while he will still be suffering the effects of the venom. He’d be safer behind those walls than with us. The radio station crackled, so I turned the radio to the local ABC station.
“. . . which have stormed through Braemar Bay,” the presenter was saying. “They are heading towards Cooma. These things are dangerous, we urge our listeners to stay indoors. We’ll keep you informed as news comes to hand. An eyewitness caller, as you just heard, called them Brumbiethorns, as did the vehicle which flew through town moments before the herd. Their warning saved our caller’s life, but she hasn’t yet found her three children, and our hearts go out to all the families wondering about loved ones in this developing situation. Several eyewitnesses in Braemar Bay have sent in videos, you can find those on our website.”
There was silence for a moment, just the engine and the crackle of the radio as we passed under high tension power lines, before the radio presenter continued.
“Beware the brumbiethorn.”
About the Author:
M R Mortimer is a NSW based SFF writer, former teacher and anthropologist, currently living and working on
Wiradjuri land
.
His available works include his Fantasy trilogy The Cinder Chronicles, several stand alone Science Fiction novels, and a short story collection. More information can be found on his website at suspendedearth.com.
The Royal National Park, just south of Sydney, is characterised by secluded beaches, cliffs and eucalyptus rich bushland. Covering over 150 square kilometres, this park is home to more than just kookaburras, lyre birds and echidnas.
