THE WAHINE

Clyde Morrow, a tall barrel-chested man in his mid-fifties, stood looking out the kitchen window of his farmhouse outside Glen Hartwell, in the Victorian Countryside.

"Still raining," he said, without looking around to where his family was eating their breakfast.

"Tell us something we don't know," said Genevieve 'Genny', a tall sixteen-year-old ravenette like her mother.

"Yeah, it's been raining for ten days straight," said Gordon 'Gordo', a fourteen-year-old, barrel-chested and fiercely blond like his father.

"Well, it is the last day of June," said Marne, Clyde's pretty-ish wife: "We're a full month into winter."

"Not till tomorrow, the first of July," insisted eight-year-old Regina 'Reggie', a short, pudgy redhead with wire-rimmed glasses.

"Even so, you've got to expect some rain by the last day of June," persisted Marne.

"Not for ten days straight," refuted Clyde.

"It's good for the growing," insisted Reggie.

"We produce sheep, not veggies," said Clyde: "Sheep don't grow very well in pouring rain. They drown."

"Not poor Buttercup!" cried Reggie almost falling as she climbed to her feet.

Looking around, surprised, Clyde asked: "Who or what is Buttercup?"

"My favourite lamb," said Reggie.

"The white one with a black face, and a white mark shaped like a buttercup over her left eye," explained Marne.

"You do know those sheep are going to be slaughtered and eaten eventually?" he asked his youngest daughter.

"Not my Buttercup!" insisted Reggie: "Mum said we could keep her and raise her as a pet."

Looking even more surprised, Clyde turned toward Marne, who shrugged toward him.

"All right, all except Buttercup will be slaughtered and eaten eventually."

"That's better," said Reggie sitting down again to finish her Fruit Loops -- which would remain the only thing that she would eat for breakfast for the rest of her long life.

"Come back to the table to finish your porridge," said Marne.

"Can't, gotta go look after the sheep," said Clyde, heading toward the back door of the farmhouse.

"But it's pouring rain," reminded Marne.

"Yeah, we can hear it on the corrugated iron," said Genny.

"That's why I'm puttin' on my raincoat and gumboots," said Clyde starting to do just that.

"Well, just remember to take them off again before returning to the house," said Marne; unaware that he would not be returning to the farmhouse.

"Yes, my pretty nag," said Clyde, making the girls titter. Winking at Reggie, he said: "Gotta save Buttercup before she drowns."

"Yes, gotta save Buttercup," agreed the young girl.

"Haven't yet managed to cross-breed sheep with dolphins, so they can survive the flooding."

"Gross!" said Genny at the mention of cross-breeding.

Reggie snickered at the thought of dolphin-lambs.


Over at the Yellow House in Rochester Road, Merridale, they were also having breakfast.

"Lovely flapjacks, Mrs. M.," said Sheila Bennett, a thirty-five-year-old Goth chick, with orange-and-black-striped hair; as she plastered each pancake with a generous helping of margarine, then Vegemite.

"Thank you, dear," said Deidre Morton, the owner of the Yellow House, a short chubby sixty-something brunette, obsessed with the colour yellow, with which the boarding house was painted inside and out.

"Although how you can eat them with vegemite...?" said Natasha Lipzing, a tall thin seventy-year-old lady, the oldest resident of the Yellow House.

"She's right, it's disgusting," said Tommy Turner, a short fat, blond man.

He poured half of his snifter of Jamaican rum on top of each of his margarine and sugar-coated pancakes

"Said the pot calling the kettle black," said Freddy Kingston.

A tall portly retiree, bald apart from a ruff of curly black hair around the sides and back of his head.

"Rum and sugar flapjacks are fab!" protested Tommy.

"Fab is not the word for it," said Terri Scott.

A tall attractive thirty-five-year-old ash blonde, Terri was the top cop in the entire BeauLarkin to Willamby area. She was also engaged to Colin Klein.

"Gross is probably the word he meant," said Colin.

A tall, lean, redheaded man, Colin had been a crime reporter in London for thirty years before retiring to Victoria to take up employment with the Glen Hartwell Police Force.

"Ha-ha," said Tommy, ignoring the snickering of everyone else at the dining table.

"Eat up, Sheils," said Terri: "We've got to get back to studying the police manual for your make-up exam in November."

"It's too wet to go outside today," insisted Sheila.

"Yes, it hasn't stopped raining in ten days," agreed Deidre Morton.

"That's why we brought the police manual home with us last night," explained Colin: "So we won't have to go out into the cold today."

"We can study in the lounge room," added Terri.

"Oh, great!" said Sheila, eating her pancakes as slowly as possible: "What if a crime breaks out."

"That's the beauty of this awful weather," said Colin: "Even the psychos and monsters are staying indoors where it's warm. Your Aussie crims aren't as hardy as our British ones!"

"In fairness, if British crims didn't go out in the rain, you'd have zero crime in England," teased Terri.

"Touché, although a tad sarky, my beloved," said Colin.


Clyde put on his Wellies then stepped off the deal patio and onto the murky ground, almost sliding in the thick mud. Although the farmhouse was built upon a small hill, so it was safe against flooding, the rain had been going on for so long that the Wellies still sunk deep into the sludge.

"A sludging we will go, a sludging we will go..." sang Clyde as he headed down toward the flooded back paddock where the sheep were doing their best not to drown.

"Topper! Ladybug!" called Clyde to his two Blue Heelers as he entered the yard.

Normally the two dogs would run to answer his command. But today, dry and warm in the corrugated iron shed that they shared with a tractor and other farm implements, the two animals ignored their lord and master.

Sighing in frustration, Clyde entered the shed, where he saw Topper sleeping on the floor of the tractor's cabin and Ladybug (both dogs named by the kids) sleeping on the driver's seat.

"Oy, you know you're not allowed on the tractor!" called Clyde.

Both dogs jumped down at his words and crept across to him.

Before they could run away again, Clyde clipped leashes to their collars to start dragging them outside. Despite their best efforts to stay seated on the straw-covered dirt, Clyde managed to drag the two, now whining, dogs out into the cold and rain.

"Bad dogs!" called Clyde, just grateful that the dogs had no traction in the mire so that he could pull them easily enough across the boggy yard.

Halfway to the now flooded back paddock, the dogs conceded defeat and started trotting then swimming through the paddock to where a hundred or so baaing Merino sheep were almost neck-high in muddy water. Three young lambs lay on their sides, drowned in the murky water -- some from the pouring rain, the rest overflowing from the nearby Yannan River.

"Oh no," said Clyde checking the dead lambs.

He was relieved to see that none of them had a black face with a white buttercup-shaped mark over the left eye. He hunted around until he discovered Buttercup.

Picking her up he said: "Carn, girl."

Unclipping Topper and Ladybug's leashes, Clyde said: "Round 'em up and take 'em up to the farmhouse."

Instead, the two blue heelers span around and raced as fast as they could swim, then run back to the warmth of the corrugated iron shed a kilometre away.

"Come back here, you verminous fleabags!" shouted Clyde.

Ignoring their master, the two dogs swam, ran, and slid their way through the water and then thick sludge until they were safely back inside the shed. Racing each other to the tractor, this time Topper managed to jump up onto the driver's seat, forcing Ladybug to sleep on the cabin floor.


"You worthless curs!" called Clyde after the two dogs' retreating forms.

"Chill out, Dude," said a voice from behind him: "They're just dogs!"

Turning, Clyde was shocked to see an Asian-looking surfer babe on an ancient solid-wood surfboard three metres long, surfing upon the flood waters.

The dark-skinned, dark-haired woman looked over two metres tall. However, Clyde assumed that that was an illusion caused by him being almost knee-deep in sludge, while she was standing on her board on top of the sewerage-brown waters.

"Isn't it a bit late, or a bit early in the season for surfing?" asked the farmer.

"It's never the wrong time for surfing, Dude," said the Wahine: "If the waves are there, a true surfer will surf day or night, summer, autumn, winter, or spring, anywhere in the world. Hey, most would surf through the stars if they could."

"Fascinating," said Clyde: "But I've got sheep to save from drowning."

He noticed for the first time that she carried a net in her left hand and a spear in her right.

"You out fishing as well as surfing?" asked Clyde.

He didn't know enough about surfing to know whether people could fish from surfboards.

"For a special kind of prey," said the Wahine.

"You won't find much to fish for in these murky waters."

"You'd be surprised," she said.

The Wahine suddenly threw the heavily weighted net over Clyde's head.

"Hey, you stupid bitch! What're you doing?" demanded the farmer.

He tried to stay on his feet. However, the weights soon dragged him facedown beneath the murky waters.

"Drown, Dude, drown!" called the Wahine cheerfully as Clyde struggled desperately against the weight of the net pulling him down.

"You fuckin'...!" cried Clyde.

His words were suddenly cut off as sewerage-brown water flooded his mouth and windpipe helping to drag him under the water, guaranteeing that he drowned in record time.

"Cowabunga, Dude!" cried the Wahine excitedly.

Kneeling, she reached under the murky water and easily removed the net from over Clyde Morrow's head.

"Cowabunga!" she cried again.

Effortlessly she spun the heavy solid-wooden surfboard around and, despite there being no waves at first, started surfing back toward the flooded pine and eucalyptus forest behind the farm.

Gradually, waves began to form under her board, as though the surfer chick could somehow generate her own waves.

"Cowabunga!" she cried one last time before vanishing into the densely wooded forest.


"All right, kids, up to the lounge room to do your schoolwork," said Marne as the children finished their breakfast.

"Not quite finished," insisted Reggie, holding the cereal bowl up to her mouth to drink the last of the Fruit-Loop-flavoured milk.

"Now scoot," insisted Marne: "Unless you'd like to help me with the dishes first."

With a threat like that hanging over them, the three children ran down the brown-lino-covered corridor to the lounge room at the other end of the farmhouse.

"Thought that'd get them moving," said Marne with a grin.


An hour or so later, Marne went up to the lounge room to check that the children were doing their school work -- Genny and Gordo by computer, Reggie by hand.

"Yes, mien furry one, we're doing our school work," said Reggie -- quoting from a cartoon movie in which the cats were all Nazis and the mice the Holocaust victims.

"Am I supposed to know what that means?" asked Marne as she backed out into the corridor.

"Nope," said the three children as one.


Half an hour later, Marne was growing concerned that she had not yet heard the return of Clyde. Even if he had managed to learn how to move quietly -- Some chance! thought Marne -- the sheep had not. She would have heard their bleating long before seeing them.

Putting on her raincoat and Wellington boots, she walked across to the corrugated iron shed, calling, "Clyde!" as she walked.

Swinging open the iron door, she was surprised to see the two Blue Heeler dogs, but no sign of her husband, or any rain-soaked sheep.

"What are you two dogs doing in the tractor?" demanded Marne.

The two dogs looked up bleary-eyed and wagged their tails, but gave no sign of moving. Marne's chastisement carried less weight than did her husband's.

"Did you hear me?" she demanded.

The two dogs wagged their tails again, yawned widely, then went back to sleep.

So much for that! thought Marne as she went back out into the rain.


"So," asked Terri, seated on the long yellow sofa in the lounge room of Yellow House: "What do you do if approached by a mother who has lost her children?"

"Take some vegemite scones from Mrs. M., and say 'Thank you'," said Sheila.

"Sheils, you're not taking this seriously," complained Colin.

"Yes, she is," said Deidre Morton startling Colin and Terri who had not noticed her enter the lounge room: "It's just gone 9:30, so I thought you might like some elevenses."

"How does that even work?" asked Terri: "Elevenses at 9:30?"

"Who cares?" asked Sheila.

She took two scones from the plate and thanked Deidre.

"Teas up," said Natasha Lipzing, carrying a silver tray with tea and coffee accoutrements into the lounge room: "And coffee, of course, for Colin."

"Thanks, Natasha," said Colin as the old lady placed the tray upon the coffee table in front of the sofa.

"You've been working like Trojans for two hours now," said Natasha.

"That's why we're a little horse," said Sheila, as she poured tea for herself and Terri.

"Very good," said Natasha, as Terri's mobile phone suddenly began chirping.

"Hello?" asked Terri into the phone. She listened for a moment then disconnected and explained: "That was Marne Morrow. It seems Clyde went out to save his sheep from drowning two hours ago and hasn't returned yet."

"Oh no!" said Deidre.

"Why do they always ring while we're eating?" demanded Sheila.

"Sheils!" said Terri.

The three police officers hurriedly scoffed a couple of scones each and a gulp of tea or coffee, before standing to start outside.

Running through the pounding rain to reach Terri's blue Lexus, Sheila said: "You really need to get chains on your wheels."

"Chains?" asked Terri climbing into the rear of the car.

"Like the Yanks use in snowy weather," explained Sheila: "This thing isn't designed for driving in muddy conditions."

"Or else you could trade it in on a Land Rover," suggested Colin.

"How dare you!" said Terri: "I love my Lexus."

"Yeah, don't you remember how pissed she was when I crashed her last Lexus?" said Sheila. [See my story, 'The Drifter'.]

"Don't remind me!" said Terri: "Head over to Stanlee Dempsey's first. While he's ill we can borrow his Land Rover."


It was after 10:30 by the time that they reached the Morrow Sheep Station outside Glen Hartwell. Fortunately, the rain had started to abate a little. Colin, Terri, and Sheila were all draped out in yellow plastic Macs, and black Wellies when they alighted to talk to Marne Morrow.

After talking to the farmer's wife for a few minutes, they returned to the Land Rover and started down the slushy mud paddock to where they found the wet and bleating sheep.

And the drowned remains of Clyde Morrow. Still holding poor Buttercup, the lamb, which had drowned with him.

"Shit!" said Terri.

"Oh no, not Buttercup!" said Sheila.

Taking out her mobile phone, Terri rang through to the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital, where the local ambulances were based.


Over at the Mawson Cattle Station outside LePage, Mortimer 'Morty' Mawson had been more forward-thinking than Clyde Morrow. He had moved his Jersey cattle to the upper paddock a full week ago; so although they were wet and lowed a lot, there was no danger of them drowning.

The farmhouse where they were eating lunch was also upon a small hill, protecting them from flooding; although the constant ratta-tat-tat of rain upon the corrugated iron roof was irritating at best.

"Rain seems to be getting harder, Father," said his wife, Melody, a tall, stockily built brunette of fifty; two years older than Morty.

"Good thing I took plenty of hay up to the Jerseys earlier, Mother," said Morty, a tall, lean redheaded man.

"So what're we 'spose to do all day, if it keeps'a rainin', Pa?" asked their eldest son, Morty Jr., or Junior, a tall slightly balding redheaded man, nearly two metres tall, just turned twenty-five.

"In a coupla hours you can take more feed up to the Jerseys. But take the Rover, not the tractor."

"Ah, Pa, you still don't trust us with the tractor," complained Riley; a tall auburn-haired man of twenty-three.

"You almost rolled it the one time I did trust you with it!"

"Tyres slid in the slimy mud!" protested Sylvester 'Syl' their youngest son. Just turned twenty, he was fiercely blonde like Melody's mother.

"Just like there is outside now," pointed out their father.

Knowing that they had lost the argument, the three men lowered their heads to concentrate on their beef stew and homemade bread and commenced eating.


Over at the Morrow Sheep Station, Elvis Green, Jesus Costello, and Leo Laxman were examining the corpse of Clyde Morrow, while Terri and Co. watched on.

"Offhand, I'd say he just slipped in the water and drowned," said Jesus (pronounced 'Hee-Zeus') the administrator and chief surgeon at the Glen Hartwell Hospital.

"If it weren't for this," said Jerry 'Elvis' Green, the local coroner, and lifelong Elvis Presley fan. He pointed to a large round-ish black mark on Clyde's forehead.

"It's like someone whacked him on the bonce with a small circular stone," said Leo Laxman, a tall, wiry Jamaican-born male nurse.

"Too deep for a small stone," corrected Jesus: "Something much heavier than stone; perhaps a lead weight of some kind."

"Like a fishing weight?" guessed Leo correctly.

"Yes ... perhaps," suggested Elvis: "Though God help the killer if they're eating anything they catch from these sludgy waters."

"So, it's definitely murder?" asked Terri Scott.

"Yes," said Elvis, Jesus, and Leo as one.


Over at the Mawson Cattle Station, on the dot of 1:30 PM, now wearing yellow Macs and knee-length black Wellington boots, Morty Jr., Riley, and Syl Mawson started loading up the trailer with hay, then started the ancient khaki Land Rover and headed first down into the murky water-logged lower paddock, then up into the highlands. Like most of Victoria, LePage was a complex mixture of hills and valleys.

Seeing the approaching vehicle, the Jersey cows started lowing in pleasure, knowing that they were about to be fed.

"Hold your cows!" said Syl, who wrongly thought that he was the funny one of the three brothers.

"Shouldn't that be 'hold your horses'?" asked Junior, not getting the joke.

"I was being funny," said Syl.

"Coulda fooled me," said Riley, getting snickers of agreement from Junior.

"Very funny ... I don't think," said Syl as they started out of the vehicle.

"Right on both counts," said Riley, drawing more snickers from Junior, and a glare from Syl.

In silence, the three farm workers started shovelling the hay out to the appreciative cows.

They were almost finished, when they heard a female voice shout: "Cowabunga, Dudes!"

Looking around, they saw the Wahine surfing upon a huge wave that rose upward without explanation from the bottom of the hill.

"Cows can't play bongos," insisted Riley.

"'Bunga' not bongos, you Barney," said the Wahine.

"The name's Riley, not Barney," he said, making the Asian Amazon sigh in frustration.

Deciding that the three men weren't worth wasting time talking to, the Wahine began surfing round and round the small hill. Gradually as she surfed the wave she was riding began swirling, whirling, foaming, growing until it was a small tsunami.

"How's she doin' that?" asked Junior.

The small tsunami built and grew, seethed and writhed until it was a medium-large tsunami, splashing white foam over the now lowing, frightened cattle and the equally frightened Mawson brothers.

"Never seen waves go round in circles before," said Riley.

Although none of the brothers had ever been to a beach, or seen a wave; let alone surfers before.

Ignoring the three men, the Wahine surfed around and around the hill until her tsunami had increased in size and ferocity until she was surfing more than ten metres above the hilltop.

Alarmed now, the three men looked around for a way to escape the hilltop. However, there was no escape route without passing straight through the sewerage-brown tsunami waters.

"Cowabunga, Dudes!" cried the Wahine, revelling in the mounting terror of the men and also the Jersey cattle.

"Whatcha doin', you crazy bitch?" cried Syl.

"Preparing for the kill!" shouted down the woman honestly.

When the Wahine was surfing twenty metres above the hill, she suddenly surfed down toward the three terrified men, taking the tsunami with her.

"Watch out!" cried Junior.

He turned to run only to find that there was nowhere to run to.

"Cowabunga, Dudes!" cried the Wahine again.

The tsunami swept down over the three men and sixty-odd cows, sweeping them all down the hillside, into the sunken valley, which was now five metres deep in murky brown Yannan River water.

Ignoring the lowing cattle, the Wahine surfed across to the three already half-drowned farm workers.

She expertly hurled her weighted net, landing it over the heads of Syl and Riley, dragging both men down to their deaths. Although they splashed and struggled for a minute or two, they soon drowned.

Then surfing across to Morty Jr. who still had his head above water, struggling to swim, the Wahine stabbed him in the neck with her spear.

"Cowabunga, Dude!" she said, surfing across to retrieve her net from the carcases of Riley and Syl.

Then, ignoring the drowning cattle, the Wahine turned her board effortlessly with her feet and surfed away into the forest beyond the farm.

"Cowabunga, Dudes!" she cried one last time before vanishing.


Up at the farmhouse, Morty Sr. and Melody waited for nearly an hour for the return of their three sons. Finally, Morty said:

"Think I'd better go look for them, Mother."

"Yes, Father, they've probably got themselves lost. None of them is very good with direction."

"Yes, although they've been up to the high paddock plenty of times by now," grizzled Morty as he put on his Mac and Wellies: "You'd think they'd know the way by now."

With the Land Rover taken by the 'boys', Morty climbed upon the ancient red and yellow tractor, then started off through the sludge, then water, till reaching the base of the hill. Where he immediately saw twenty or so drowned Jersey cattle...

Drowned in just two or three centimetres of water, which was all that remained at the base of the hill.

"What the Hell!" said Morty, slipping in the sludge as he climbed down from the tractor.

Cursing, he climbed to his feet and half walked, half slid across to the dead cattle, which were sodden in water and plastered in mud and cow dung.

"My valuable Jerseys! What happened to you, Ladies?" he said.

After a moment, Morty started slowly around the hill, where he found the remainder of his cattle, all drowned...

Plus the corpses of Morty Jr., Riley, and Sylvester.

For the first time in his life, the big man burst into uncontrollable tears.


Over at the Morrow Sheep Station, they had finished with the corpse of Clyde Morrow, which had been taken away to the morgue in the basement of the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital. Along with Marne, Genny, Gordo, and Reggie, all of whom had been tranquilised before being transported to the hospital.

"Thank God, that's over," said Sheila Bennett, not realising how wrong she was: "There's nothing worse than grief-stricken women and children."

"Wouldn't you be grief-stricken if you'd just lost your husband or father?" asked Terri, more harshly than she had intended.

"Yes ... that's what I meant," said Sheila contritely.

They were halfway to the Glen Hartwell Hospital when they received an almost incomprehensible call from a grief-stricken Mortimer Mawson.

"Head to LePage," instructed Terri: "The Mawson Cattle Station."


An hour or so later they were at the rear of the Mawson Cattle Station, watching as Jesus Costello, Tilly Lombstrom, Topaz Moseley a gorgeous thirty-something platinum blonde nurse, and Annie Colfax examined the corpses of the Mawson brothers. Nearby were half a dozen paramedics, plus three ambulances waiting to collect the three men to take to the morgue at the Glen Hartwell Hospital. Mortimer and Melody Mawson had already been sedated and taken to the hospital.

"Derek, Chezza," said Sheila stopping to talk to the two most senior paramedics: Cheryl Prichard, a tall muscular sixty-four-year-old, and Derek 'Strong Arm' Armstrong, a bodybuilder like Cheryl and Sheila, and Sheila's boyfriend.

"So what's the verdict?" asked Terri Scott after the medics had finished examining the three corpses.

"Same as before for two of them," said Jesus: "Drowned after being knocked unconscious by some kind of heavy weight."

"Except for Morty Jr.," said Tilly, a tall attractive fifty-something brunette, Jesus's second in command: "He's been speared in the throat. So definitely murder again."

"Except we still don't know how," said Colin Klein.

"Nope, your guess is as good as ours," said Annie Colfax, a short ash blonde, the Nurse in Charge at the hospital.


Ronnie and Ernie MacLaren were two preteen boys, who had decided to test out the stupidest birthday presents they had ever received: junior surfboards.

"I'm telling you there's nowhere to surf in Glen Hartwell," insisted eleven-year-old Ernie; the smarter of the two boys.

"What about the flooding Yannan River," demanded twelve-year-old Ronnie as they crunched along the damp pine needles and gum leaves that carpeted the forest floor.

"Also known as the local sewerage farm," insisted Ernie: "I'm sure they still pump sewer waste straight into the Yannan."

"Ah, they haven't done that in months," teased Ronnie, who thought he was a wit - but was only half right: "Besides, it would be downright ungrateful of us not to try out Uncle Lupe's presents."

"Uncle Loopy, more like it. Besides he comes from Acapulco, where they have wonderful surfing beaches."

"We have wonderful surfing beaches around Australia too."

"Around the coastline of Australia ... Not here in the outback."

"Trust me, would you rather be surfing the Yannan River; or stuck indoors watching TV?"

"If we were smart we'd be at home watching TV."

"What's there to watch on TV except 'The World's Stupidest Stuntman Down Under'?" demanded Ronnie.

"I like, 'The World's Stupidest Stuntman'?" insisted Ernie.

"So do I, but we'll like it even more after surfing the Yannan for an hour or so. I told Mum to record it on the new smart TV."

"Does Mum know how to record on the smart TV? It's pretty complicated and Mum's a true techno-feeb, like Dad, and Uncle Lupe."

They were still arguing the point when they reached the edge of the overflowing Yannan River. A notoriously polluted waterway, the recent heavy rains, and flooding had washed away much of the muck, which now resided throughout the neighbouring forestland.

Taking a sniff, Ronnie said: "See, it's nowhere near as pongy as it used to be."

"That ain't saying much, considering how pongy it used to be," said Ernie, surprised to see there were waves up to a metre high on the Yannan River: "Since when has the Yannan had waves."

"It starts all the way down at Port Phillip Bay, so it must have waves sometimes," insisted Ronnie.

He attentively placed his red and blue junior board upon the waters and just managed to step onto it before the board could swirl away.

"See, easy peasy," said Ronnie.

He stopped to stare as an attractive Amazonian woman over two metres high and built like a bodybuilder appeared from seemingly nowhere upon a gigantic heavy wooden 1960's-style surfboard.

"Where the Hell did she come from?" asked Ernie.

Tentatively he placed his board upon the water, managing to hold onto it until climbing on. And almost fell straight into the murky waters of the Yannan River.

Hearing the two boys talking, the Wahine looked book. But seeing they were only boys, she decided: Not worth my time bothering with! I need the life force of big strong men. Not children.

Unaware of what they were doing, as both boys took out their mobile phones and started recording her, the Wahine turned around and started effortlessly surfing away from them. Surfing the Yannan away from Glen Hartwell, past Harpertown, and on toward Merridale East.


Xavier 'Old Man' Hudson was walking slowly through his apple orchard examining the trees. Although rain was good for the apple trees, he just hoped that the nonstop deluge over the last week and a half wouldn't damage or weaken the roots of any of his trees.

Although only sixty-two, with a long, flowing showy white beard and grey hair, he looked a good twenty years older.


As they continued to follow the Wahine, Ronnie, and Ernie MacLaren continued filming her from behind, occasionally emailing the film to themselves. To new email addresses that they had set up, which their mother did not know about, after she had caught them a while back with pictures of nude women swimming in the Yannan River. (See my story, 'The Brumbies'.)

"Where the Hell is she leading us?" asked Ernie as the Wahine effortlessly surfed the overflowing Yannan River, finally abandoning the river to surf the flood waters. Waters that did not seem deep enough to surf.

"How is she doing that?" asked Ronnie as the Wahine managed to easily surf the shallow waters with her giant wooden board, while the two brothers struggled with their junior fibreglass boards.

"Don't ask me?" said Ernie.

The two boys followed the Wahine onto Xavier Hudson's apple Orchard.

"Look out," whispered Ernie, pointing to where the old man was examining the base of one of his trees.

"Relax, he ain't seen us," insisted Ronnie: "'Sides he's more likely to notice the Amazon; she's hot!"

"Isn't he too old to notice hot chicks?"

"No living man is too old to notice hot chicks," insisted Ronnie.

The two boys held back a little, however, still filming the Wahine as she effortlessly surfed the calm waters, only a few centimetres deep.

"How is she able to do that?" wondered Ernie, not for the first time.

Ronnie just shrugged, watching as the Wahine surfed across to where Xavier Hudson was still examining the roots of his apple trees. Occasionally he dug at the roots a little with a gardening trowel which he carried in his left hand.

"Cowabunga, Dude!" shouted the Wahine as she approached the farmer.

Startled, Xavier would have fallen over in the mud, if he hadn't fallen forward against the apple tree that he had been examining. Looking around he demanded:

"Where the Hell did you come from?"

"Originally from Hawaii," said the Wahine, pronouncing it 'Ha-Wah-Who': "More recently from the Yannan Swamp.'

"Officially it's called a river; although you're probably right about it being a swamp."

Staring at the good-looking Asian woman, Xavier decided he liked what he saw. I wouldn't mind climbing up to her, he thought as the front of his dungarees began to tent outwards.

"Easy, Dude," teased the Wahine, seeing his erect state: "You wouldn't survive the ride; and I've got fishing to do today. Already made a couple of heavy catches earlier."

Fishing? thought Xavier: "You won't find nothing safe to eat in these murky flood waters."

"Oh I never eat my catches, Dude," explained the Wahine: "I fish solely for the thrill of the kill."

That's a bit cruel, thought Ernie as he and Ronnie stood half behind an apple tree, still filming, while trying not to be seen: It's one thing fishing to eat them, but just to kill them!

"I doubt there's anything alive in these grotty waters," said Xavier.

"You'd be surprised, Dude!" said the Wahine.

She suddenly hurled the weighted fishing net over the old man's head.

"What?" said Xavier, as the weight of the lead sinkers dragged him down toward the shallow water flooding his orchard.

"Only take a centimetre of water to drown in, Dude!" said the Wahine.

She smiled broadly as the old man fell face down into the murky water.

"We've gotta help him!" cried Ernie, forgetting about stealth.

Then the Wahine stabbed the fallen farmer in the neck with her spear, crying: "Cowabunga, Dude!"

"Hold up," said Ronnie grabbing his younger brother by the arm: "We can't help him now."

Instead, the two boys kept filming the Wahine as she checked that the old man was dead then retrieved her net. She looked around briefly at the two boys filming her ... But not knowing what they were doing, she turned and surfed away still deciding that they were not worth her attention, wrongly assuming that they were just ogling her curvacious form.


Over at the Yellow House in Rochester Road Merridale, at 7:30 PM, they were enjoying a meal of Duck a L'Orange, Sheila Bennett's favourite dinner, soon to be followed by Cherries Jubilee, again Sheila's favourite.

"Excelente, Mrs. M," said Sheila.

"Superb," agreed Terri Scott.

"Divine," agreed Colin Klein, followed by murmurs of agreement from Natasha Lipzing, Freddy Kingston, and Tommy Turner.

"It's the plum brandy that sets off the whole meal," said Tommy.

"Only you are Philistine enough to add brandy to Duck a L'Orange," said Natasha

"Don't bring religion into it!" protested Tommy.

They were still arguing the point when the knocking came on the front door.

"Oh no!" said Sheila.

She started wolfing down her Cherries Jubilee, almost choking on it.

"Calm down, Sheils," said Colin, as Deidre Morton went to answer the door.

"Why do they always come when we're still eating?" demanded Sheila.

"It might not even be police business," said Terri.

"Would you bet your life savings on that?" asked Sheila.

"Well ... no," admitted Terri, as Deidre returned followed by Ernie and Ronnie MacLaren.

"We've got something to show you," said Ronnie.

Starting one of the videos he had recorded, he handed his phone to Terri Scott, with Sheila and Colin leaning across to watch also.

When they had finished watching the videos, Terri sighed, then said: "Looks like I'm gonna have to get shouted at by the Assistant Chief Commissioner again, by ringing through to Melbourne for help."

"I thought he was getting used to our goofy cases by now?" asked Colin.

"Afraid not," said Terri as she started to ring.


The next morning at a few minutes after 9:00, Terri, Colin, and Sheila were waiting at the Railway Station in Theobald Street, Glen Hartwell.

"So who'll take my bet that the train is less than thirty minutes late?" asked Sheila.

"Wow, you're one Hell of a gambler," said Terri.

Moments later they heard the tooting of the steam train's whistle.

"Lucky guess, mad Goth chick," teased Colin.

"Actually, I could just make out a thin line of smoke in the distance," admitted Sheila.

"Sheils, you cheat," teased Terri.

"So who is this so-called expert we're waiting for?" asked Sheila.

"All I know is that he's a Hawaiian by birth, named Keanu Alohi," said Terri.

Ten minutes later they we greeting the Hawaiian-born detective, showing him some of the MacLaren boys' videos, which they had already emailed to Russell Street, Melbourne.

"So, what, if anything, can you tell us about the Amazonian surfer babe?" asked Sheila, not wasting time with pleasantries.

"We call her the Wahine," said Keanu, a tall darkly handsome man in his early fifties, with Eurasia features. As they climbed into the police Land Rover, he said: "The Hawaiian islands were settled between 1,000 and 1,200 AD, with people from Polynesia. Legend says that the Wahine turned up soon afterward."

"So how do you destroy this Surfer Bitch?" asked Sheila.

She started the car to head around to the Mitchell Street Police Station in Glen Hartwell.

"As far as I know, you can't," said Keanu: "However, you can make her leave in embarrassment if you can out-surf her in a contest. She will not refuse a challenge ... so legend says anyway!"

"You've done some surfing, haven't you, Sheils?" asked Terri.

"Yeah, and I was pretty good, but that was twenty years ago in my mid-teens."

"Where the Hell did you surf around here?" asked Colin.

"I didn't. Every Christmas and school semester breaks, we'd go visit with cousins in Melbourne, and I'd surf the beaches there."

"I am a retired champion surfer," said Keanu: "Don't worry, I will challenge the Wahine and out-surf her!" Fingers crossed! he thought, knowing that it was six years since he had done any surfing.

"So how do we locate her?" asked Colin: "Without waiting for her to kill again?"

"The MacLaren boys followed her from the Yannan River," pointed out Keanu: "So we have to stake out the river with as many cops as possible. Then when one of them sees her, he or she must challenge her on my behalf."

"Sounds easy," said Terri, sounding sceptical.


Four days later they had not yet seen the Wahine, but on the plus side, she had not killed again.

"If you ask me," said Drew Braidwood, a tall lanky blond constable in his early fifties, who had been a constable in the region for decades: "We're wasting our time here."

"Did I ask you?" teased Greta Goddard.

A tall, shapely silver-blonde, sixty-nine in 2024, Greta was still fit and worked pro rata when needed. She looked around the murky waters of the Yannan River, coated with gum leaves, pine needles, and various other detritus, and said:

"Although, I'm starting to think you're right."

She stopped as they heard a sound like roaring water, before being flooded by a minor tsunami of murky water and foul-smelling flotsam, knocking over and swamping the two officers.

Spitting out a mouthful of foul-tasting material, Greta said: "I stand ... or rather lie in the mud corrected."

The two police officers climbed to their feet with difficulty and faced the tall Amazonian Wahine, who was already raising her weighted net in her left hand to throw over them.

Holding up his right hand in salutation Drew cried out: "I wish to offer you a surfing challenge."

"You think that you can out-surf me, Dude?" asked the Wahine, unable to keep the scepticism out of her voice.

"No, I challenge on behalf of a friend of mine, Keanu Alohi," said Drew, taking a mobile phone from his breast pocket: "With this I can contact him and he will arrive here in half an hour or so."

The Wahine considered for a while, then said: "Very well, you may call this Keanu Alohi. But do not try any tricks Dude!"

It was a little over twenty minutes later when the khaki-coloured Land-Rover arrived carrying a large modern-style red, white, and blue surfboard with a Union Jack upon it on the roof rack.

"Hey, what's with the Union Jack?" asked Drew as Terri and co. alighted from the vehicle: "Isn't Hawaii a U.S. state?"

"Hawaii was a British protectorate for centuries, and we have had the Union Jack on our national flag since 1793; even though we have been a U.S. state since 1959," explained Keanu Alohi as they walked across to where the Wahine waited impatiently for them.

Staring at Keanu, the Wahine asked in disbelief: "This old man thinks that he can out-surf me?"

"I'm only fifty-two," said Keanu as he started to remove his outer clothing to remain in swimming trunks: "Many centuries younger than you, foul creature."

Sneering at the Hawaiian man, the Wahine said: "Very well, old man, prepare for your demise."

"So, what, is this a surfing contest to the death?" asked Sheila.

"Yes!" said Keanu and the Wahine as one.

"Whenever you're ready, old Dude!" said the Wahine impatiently as Keanu continued to prepare for the surf contest of his life.

Finally, the Hawaiian man climbed onto his surfboard and said: "Ready whenever you are."

"At last," said the Wahine.

She began to swirl her arm above her head and from nowhere the murky waters of the Yannan River began swirling too, forming small waves; which soon turned into medium-sized, then large waves suitable for surfing upon.

"Cowabunga, Dude!" cried the Wahine as she started surfing the roiling wave, seconds ahead of Keanu.

"Cowabunga, Bra!" corrected Keanu.

He followed after the Amazonian surfer, doing his best to keep up with her.

For more than half an hour the surf contest continued, with the Wahine producing larger and larger waves, until she and Keanu were surfing mini tsunamis.

"Cowabunga, Dude!" shouted the Wahine.

"Cowabunga, Bra!" Keanu shouted back at her.

As the surf contest continued, Keanu started to fatigue, unlike the tireless Wahine who had been surfing for hundreds of years without ever aging.

"Cowabunga, Dude!" shouted the Wahine.

She suddenly spun around and threw the weighted net over Keanu's head, startling the fifty-two-year-old who fell off his surfboard with a Hell of a splash, dousing Terri Scott and the others.

"A surf contest to the death!" reminded the Wahine.

She was readying to throw her spear at the Hawaiian man, who was already drowning as Terry, Colin, Drew, and Greta raced toward his sodden form which was lying face down in the murky water of the Yannan River.

"Hold on!" shouted Sheila leaping onto Keanu's still floating surfboard: "I challenge you to a surf off! If I win, you leave the Southern Hemisphere and never return. If you win, you may do whatever you like with me!"

"Sheils, no!" shouted Terri, as they managed to drag Keanu's seemingly lifeless form out of the water.

"I have no choice!" shouted back the Goth chick.

"Very well," agreed the Wahine.

She turned to face her new opponent, only to see Sheila already surfing full pelt directly toward her.

The Wahine narrowly avoided the collision and the new contest started, this time under Sheila Bennett's new rules. Instead of following the Wahine, Sheila continued to attack, trying to collide with the surfing demon.

"You dare to attack me, Bra!" shouted the Wahine.

"You got it, Bra!" shouted back Sheila, as she aimed her surfboard directly at the Wahine again.

"Very well, Bra!" cried the Wahine.

Instead of surfing away this time, the Wahini aimed her oversized 1960s-style board straight at the Goth chick.

"Watch out, Sheils, that hard board will smash your skull in!" shouted Terri.

However, Sheila effortlessly avoided being mown down by the surf demon, even taunting her: "I guess I'm not as rusty as I thought!"

Spinning her board around effortlessly, the Goth chick started surfing straight at the Wahine again.

"How dare you, Bra!" demanded the Amazonian woman.

She had had hundreds of surf contests down the centuries but had never had anyone dare attack her while surfing before in her long life..

"What'sa matter," taunted Sheila: "Don't like it when I take the offensive?"

"Don't try spooking me, Bra!" shouted the Wahine.

However, she was starting to act a little spooked

"Watch out, Bra!" shouted Sheila, aiming her board straight at the Wahine

"You'll never..." started the Wahine, startled as the two surfboards finally collided.

As predicted, the Wahine's heavy wooden board reduced Sheila's fibreglass board to minutiae; however, just in time, Sheila leapt across to the Wahine's board and gave her a hard shove in the back.

"Aaaaaaaah!" shrieked the Wahine as she fell face-first into the mirey Yannan River.

"Cowabunga, Bra!" shouted Sheila, unable to resist taunting her fallen opponent.

Crawling to the nearby sodden shore, the Wahine complained: "You cheated, Bra!"

"No more than you did by using a weighted net and spear, while Keanu and I were unarmed."

Glaring at her defeater, the Wahine said surlily: "Very well, you have won, Bra. I'll leave this gnarly continent and never return."

Climbing off the heavy surfboard, Sheila asked: "Does gnarly mean good?"

"No it means awful," explained Terri.

"Oh, I was never really into surfer-speak when I surfed."

Sheila raced, slid, and slipped across to where they were still working on Keanu, trying to revive the Hawaiian-born man:

"How's he doing?"

"I think he's dead, said Terri: "But we've phoned for the air ambulance."

From the distance, they heard the sound of rotors as an air ambulance helicopter approached.

"The sooner the better," said Drew Braidwood.

He looked around to where the Wahine had been moments ago and started:

"Hey, where the Hell did psycho surfer bitch get to?"

Sheila looked around, also puzzled that the Wahine had vanished so quickly: "Well, she did promise to leave Aus and never return."

"Stand back," warned Colin, as the air-ambulance chopper came in for a landing, sending up a spray of murky water and detritus.

THE END
© Copyright 2024 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia