The Stranger

Bang!

The gunshot reverberates throughout the bushland, echoing around the trees before fading into the melody of birdsong and rustling leaves. The sound of a large mass colliding against the ground up ahead signifies that I have hit my target. Lowering my shotgun, I trudge towards the source of my next meal, a kangaroo laying limp with a blank expression on its face. I watch as the life gradually seeps out of its beady black eyes, a carpet of rippling crimson liquid unfurling beneath my feet. I kneel beside the body and place my hand on its side. It’s still warm from when a heart was beating inside its chest mere seconds ago, circulating blood through its veins. When it was still breathing, living, and doing whatever it is that kangaroos do. Despite this, I find it difficult to feel any remorse for its life. It’s almost thrilling, in a sense, that I have the power to end everything by pressing just one finger to a trigger. Reaching inside my coat pocket, I draw out a knife. Its handle fits perfectly inside the palm of my hand. I raise the blade above my head, ready to carve the meat.

“What an unnecessary death.”

Within a matter of seconds, I am on my feet with my gun drawn. I aim in the direction of the disembodied voice. My heart thumps in my ears. It beats so hard I feel it ricochet against my ribcage like a tennis ball. I relax and lower my gun once I can confirm that it’s just an old man. He stands like a statue, completely still and placid and not at all alarmed. His back is hunched into a capital C and in a wrinkled hand he clutches a wooden cane. A thick black jacket hangs loosely off his wiry frame, and his hair is white and balding. Set on the grass next to him is a canvas carry bag. But there is something unsettling about his appearance. His eyes. They’re an unnatural shade of blue, as if someone captured the sky and injected it into his eyeballs. The stranger’s piercing gaze travels from my face down towards the blood smeared onto the hem of my coat, still damp from when I shot the kangaroo. He takes in my dirty jeans and mud-caked boots, and the dried blood clinging to my face and hands, cracks appearing on the surface like a dessert ground amid a drought. I cannot help but shift my weight awkwardly from one foot to the other as he continues to study me with his judging eyes. They eventually meet mine, and it’s like I can feel him tunnelling his was into the very depths of my soul.

“You must be Mister Taylor, am I correct?” The man rasps. He sounds as if his voice box is made from sandpaper.

“Uh. Yeah. Do I know you?”

“You’re quite well-known around these parts, y’know. The infamous Fence Jumper. People have been complaining about missing livestock, and I just assumed it was some homeless bastard,” his thin lips twist into a grin, “But it appears you’re just a child.” Who does this guy think he is, waltzing up to me and interrupting my meal, just to spit nonsense? I can feel my stomach begging me for food, and my patience is running thin.

“What do you want, old man?” I snarl. He chuckles to himself at my response.

“That’s no way to greet your elders, is it? But I suppose you don’t enjoy small talk. Would you like to join me for lunch, instead? I have a picnic rug-”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I dismiss him. I’ve just met him, and the last thing I want to do is sit with some creepy old guy out in the middle of nowhere.

“That wasn’t a question, Mr Taylor. As you are aware, I’m not the one with a criminal record here. And this is my property. I could easily get you arrested for trespassing,” I glare at him loathingly, “So, I suggest you join me.” I watch as the man uses his cane to awkwardly lower himself down to the ground, his frail body contorting painfully into a cross-legged position. He pats the empty patch of grass next to him with his hand, beckoning for me to sit. As much as I want to resist, I am hypnotised by those eyes of his. Hesitantly, I join him, finally surrendering despite my stubborn nature. He removes a platter from within the canvas bag beside him. Piled onto the plate is an assortment of meats and vegetables pressed between two slices of fluffy white bread. A sandwich has never looked better in my life.

“Help yourself,” He gestures towards the platter. Without hesitation, I greedily inhale the food, not caring how much of a mess I create. The man and I sit in silence as we eat, admiring the view before us. I gaze past the shrub-lined cliff edge at the vast ocean below. It’s an ebbing and flowing mirror, reflecting the endless sky above that is the same dazzling blue as the eyes of the man beside me.

“I used to know your father,” He breaks the silence between us. I look at up him in shock.

“How?”

“I was his teacher,” the old man says, a nostalgic expression knitted into his face, “We were always very close. I think he looked up to me as a father figure.

He was a good man, a very smart one, too. Lots of potential. But that potential was wasted. He met the wrong people and ended up with a bullet through his head.” My heart plummets faster than a brick dropped off a twelve-storey building.

“Don’t tell me he’s…” My voice trails off. He nods and gives me a mournful smile that is so genuine I begin to tear up. Internally, I am appalled by my reaction to the news. I cannot believe I am crying for the man who found the word ‘father’ a foreign concept for fifteen years, yet tears slide freely down my face regardless. I’m not used to feeling so vulnerable, so I angle my face away from the man and his all-seeing eyes.

“The reason I approached you today was because I am worried for you,” He explains. “Your father was involved with some very bad people before he passed, and unfortunately, people these days don’t know how to deal with being wronged. They always seek revenge or compensation.” I dry my eyes on the sleeve of my coat and watch as the tears mingle with the blood stains on the fabric.

“I’m afraid people will come looking for you sooner or later in search of one or the other.” He reaches between us and cradles my closed hand in his, an intimate gesture that I cannot remember ever being offered. I can feel every callous, wrinkle and vein on his skin, and it’s comforting. It makes me feel human. At that moment I realise how lonely I’ve been for all these years, blending into society. I was surrounded by people yet still isolated. He peels my fingers away from my palm and places a small card into the centre of it.

“My address and contact details. Come find me if you ever need help,” He releases my hand from his grasp, and I swear that winter has come early. Excruciatingly slowly, the man attempts to stand on legs that are so slim and fragile they could pass for twigs. I offer him my hand, eager to feel the same warmth I felt just moments ago. He mutters a thank you, brushing himself off before standing up as straight as his back allows him to. And with that, he turns and begins shuffling off.

“Wait!” I call out, desperate to know more about this mysterious stranger, “I never got your name.” The man turns towards me once more, his brilliant blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he beams at me, the warmth from his smile like a gentle caress to my cheek.

“You will find out soon enough. Good day, Mister Taylor.”

By Amber Lynch (Year 8)