Brett McBean - Tales of Sin and Madness

“Mmm-hmm,” I muttered.

“So that’s the safety taken care of. Now, I’ll show you how to use this baby.”

Dad spent the next ten minutes teaching me how to get the engine started, about using the primer and the throttle, how to handle the tool properly, the best way to cut down weeds; he even reiterated the warning about not putting my hands into the blades while they were still spinning, and he made damn sure I knew where the on/off switch was located.

“Okay, that about does it. She’s all fuelled up and ready to go. Come and get me when you’ve finished. And be careful.”

I opened my mouth to speak, to protest, but Dad turned and left before I found my voice. I stood watching with my goggle-eyes as Dad vanished behind a tall spruce.

Soon I heard the mower start up. It took Dad three pulls of the cord to get the Victa going, each time the engine farting, then spluttering out, but finally the engine grumbled to life and my heart sank some more.

I felt abandoned, betrayed. How could he do this?

I wanted to be out there mowing the lawn, where it was wide and sunny, not about to set forth into the alley of weeds, which seemed darker, and was probably colder, too.

But I had a job to do. I had to be mature about this, had to be brave and do the job as best I could.

I turned towards the scary place of my childhood.

The area had always been thick with weeds, a jungle in my young eyes. It scared me back then, and as I stood facing the corridor of weeds I realised I still retained some of those childhood fears.

The first and only time I ventured into that forbidding wasteland was three years ago. I made it about a third of the way down, when I felt something slimy brush against my leg, heard something growl. I bolted out of that narrow alcove and didn’t stop until I was in my room, cowering in bed under the covers.

But I was older now, and armed with a formidable weapon, so I had nothing to be afraid of. All I would find down there would be a long forgotten tennis ball, maybe a dead possum or bird. Nothing slimy. And certainly nothing that growled…

I hunkered down, laid the Whipper Snipper on the ground and, just like Dad had demonstrated, pressed the primer button about ten times, then gripped the cord and pulled. The engine kicked into gear on the second go. The blades started spinning, whirring like an angry tabby. I got to my feet, licked my lips and, pushing down on the throttle for extra power, stepped into the forest of weeds.

There wasn’t much room in the narrow alcove. The high wooden fence to my left and the metal garage wall to my right restricted my movements.

I cut the grass as best I could, and as I worked, exhaust fumes spewing out of the engine, the pungent smell of petrol clogging up my nose, I thought of all the stray cats I had seen wander into this grassy area. I used to think that the reason I never saw them again was that they had been gobbled up by the trolls and dragons. Sometimes, when I was feeling particularly imaginative (or was that particularly scared?), I would wonder if the cats were really the trolls in disguise, having magically transformed themselves into seemingly harmless animals in an effort to lure me into their lair.

But that was just silly kid’s stuff. There was nothing in here but weeds and dirt. Only a kid would be scared of make-believe monsters, and I was no kid.

What about real monsters? I wondered.

Spiders and other creepy crawlies never bothered me, but now, as I plunged deeper into the wall of weeds, I had to wonder about redback spiders, wasp nests, even snakes lurking in the grass.

I swallowed, glad I was wearing pants and not shorts, grateful for the Whipper Snipper gripped tightly in my sweaty gloved hands.

I continued to mow down the weeds, giving the Whipper Snipper more gas whenever I hit a particularly think clump. It was tough going, but soon I was a third of the way down the corridor of weeds. I stopped, drew in some deep breaths, the thick blend of petrol and cut grass lingering in the air. I glanced back at the small area I had just cleared. Chopped weeds littered the ground. The ones I had missed stood arrogantly upright, but I would get them on the way back.

I thought of the two-thirds I still had to go, an area I had yet to step foot in. An area, as far as I knew, unexplored by anyone currently living in my house. I was heading into uncharted territory, and the prospect made me just a tad uneasy.

But I continued.

I was beyond the halfway point when I heard something slithering among the weeds.

I froze mid-chop, released my grip on the throttle, then switched off the power.

I heard the slithering again, saw the weeds up ahead shake, like something was moving fast through the undergrowth. I feared I would wet my pants.

It’s a dragon , a small voice said. Or a troll .

Don’t be silly, I thought. Dragons aren’t real. Trolls aren’t real.

It was probably just a cat, or a snake — hopefully a non-venomous one.

Again the small voice spoke: Maybe it’s a troll pretending to be a snake .

I looked beyond the alcove, to safety, only a few metres away.

I was tempted to make a run for it.

No, I told myself. You’re not giving up. You’ve come this far, just keep going and soon it’ll all be over.

I thought of Dad over on the other side of the garage and how disappointed he would be if I came running back, cheeks wet, telling him I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t complete the job because I was too scared.

Dad now thought of me as a young man, had entrusted me to do a man’s job, and I couldn’t let him down.

I couldn’t let myself down.

I eased out my breath and with all the thirteen-year-old courage I could muster, I ploughed on ahead. I wasn’t going to let some unseen monster scare me away.

Not this time.

Still, I made sure to sweep the Whipper Snipper extra low, just in case there was a snake slithering nearby. I moved swiftly, my desire to finish the job at an all-time high, knowing that with every step I took, every weed I chopped, I was getting closer to the end, closer to being able to leave the scary place.

I had almost reached the brick wall when I heard the laughter.

It was a low, mean chuckle.

A cruel, taunting giggle.

“No, you’re not real,” I said, though I was beginning to wonder if that was the case. The sensible part of my brain knew the laughter had to be my imagination, just a product of my fear; the lingering part of my childhood told me there really were trolls hiding somewhere within this forest of weeds.

Instead of turning back, screaming, like I had done that day three years ago, I kept going, slicing through the weeds with purpose. If there were trolls and dragons hiding, laughing at me, I hoped I would lop off their heads with my fearless Whipper Snipper.

“You’re not going to scare me!” I cried, the Whipper Snipper’s throttle on full, the blades spinning wildly.

Chop!

“I’m not a kid any more!”

Slice, whack!

“You can’t frighten me!”

Soon I was face-to-face with the brick wall, panting, sweat pouring down my pale, freckled face. I took my hand off the throttle, then killed the Whipper Snipper’s engine.

I turned around and surveyed my work. Aside from a few missed weeds, I had successfully turned the forest into a bed of lifeless grass.

I nodded. Smiled.

I had done it. Not only had I completed the job, I had conquered my chief childhood fear.

There were no trolls or dragons after all.

I started forward, eager to tell Dad about my accomplishment.

Something on the ground caught my eye.

Something old and plastic, sprinkled with dirt, grass, and a few snails.